Sugar on Spit

by dragonscr33ch

Summary:

Modern AU stuff with these two sad little birds in their sad little nest, enmeshed and obsessed, how I like them best.

There are also felonies. Like, an incredible amount of felonies now. 🤷🏼‍♀️ Felonies, family issues, and fucking.

Ran out of room for tags a long time ago, so now I’m just warning you about the mess at the beginning of each chapter 😅

Notes:

This sat around forever because AU makes me anxious AF but here we are; I’m brave today. Or just bullied by my beta whatever it’s me I’m brave (love you boo thing.)

Chapter 1

“Every time you do that, it makes me want to sit on your face,” she grins. Helaena’s on her belly in their bed, chin propped up on her hand watching her brother smoke.

The perfect O’s he’s been blowing, rings like halos rising from his lips, turn into a cloud as he laughs at her. Aemond coughs and passes her his cigarette. “So sit on my face,” he says as she takes a drag, tries and fails to replicate them, blows her smoke from her nose instead.

“I’m bleeding.” She passes it back, lets her crimson-painted fingers linger over his as she does.

He leans up onto his elbow, half-shrugs, blows another flawless circle into the air in her direction. “You know I don’t care. It’s just blood. Tastes like metal; like a knife or something. Doesn’t bother me.”

Aemond likes knives. He’s built like one, lean and sharp, angles everywhere and pale like the light finding an edge. Caught the wrong end of one when he was ten, got his fucking eye cut out by some kid who called their Mama crazy. She was, but you couldn’t tell him that then, and he told the little fucker he’d show him crazy. He did. Seventy-six stitches later and Helaena calls him Eyeball now. Everyone calls him Eyeball now.

He’s got a patch like a pirate and a wicked scar and a bad eye, but he’s got a great mouth. Good hands, too. Taught himself eighteen different ways to kill someone after that, and Helaena wouldn’t want to start shit with him. But she’d lay in bed and watch him blow smoke rings all day. Sit on his pretty face.

Her baby brother likes knives. Doesn’t mind blood in his mouth. Fucks like a bar brawl.

She loves him. He’s all she’s got, but she’d love him even if he wasn’t.

“Take my tampon out with your teeth,” she says, and he laughs and drops his butt into the water glass on the nightstand.

“Only if I can come in you after.”

“After you eat my pussy you can do whatever the fuck you want.” She’s not going to fight with him. She’s on her period; it’s safe enough, and he likes to play in it. Lick it out of her, or hold her apart to watch it drip, or fish for it with his fingers and put it in her mouth. Gets it all over her face on purpose when she blows him, too. In her fucking hair. He’s disgusting, and it’s hot, and thinking about it’s got her wetter than watching his lips wrapped around a cigarette.

“That’s the spirit,” he says, laying back. “Come bleed in my fucking mouth already.” She can hear the smile in his voice and she wants to lick it off of him.

Helaena stands up and pushes her shorts down. Thumbs off her panties. Eyeball’s rolled sideways to watch her do it, acting like he’s never seen this shit before. She swings them around and tosses them at him, black cotton things with no fuss, and he catches them in his fucking teeth. Drops them into his hand. “Should probably gag you with these,” he says, considering the balled-up fabric. “Last time the cunt next door started pounding on the wall. You’re gonna get us thrown outta here, Laney.”

“I’ll shut up.”

“Don’t. It’s fuckin’ worth it.”

She takes out her own tampon. He watches that, too, and she rolls her eyes. “I don’t know where you get this shit from.”

“What shit?” he asks as she wraps it in a tissue and tosses it in the trash.

“The weird shit.” Helaena gets back on the bed, kneels across his narrow hips. He’s hard already; she can see it through his jeans, and she unbuttons them to make him comfortable. Kid goes from zero to a hundred in a blink. Sex and rage.

He palms at himself absently. “You mean like the fucking my sister stuff, or…?”

“Touché.” She takes her fingers and walks them up the line of inky black spiders curving around the side of his navel from his waistband. She’s got a web across the side of her chest. When he fucks her tits, she holds them together and his little babies crawl right in. She grins and bends down to bite one. Sucks the hard flesh of his belly.

“Over a little,” he says, and she laughs. Squeezes his cock through his pants, runs her hand up the stiff line of it.

“Thought you wanted to come in my pussy. Bra off or on?”

“On. I like that one.” It’s black. Lace, with a tiny bow in the middle. Pushes her up and in. She likes it, too.

“10-4, Daddy,” she smirks, and he smacks her ass as she shimmies up over his bare chest.

“You fuckin’ asked. Get up here, ho.”

Helaena laughs, a big one with her head back, and it falls like a white curtain against his skin. She feels his muscles pull a little at the tickle of it. He sticks his tongue out, fucking lewd and delicious, and she settles herself over it. Her laugh dissolves like sugar on spit.

He’s soft, and he’s warm, and he’s wet, and he just lets her ride. Gives her cunt a big sloppy kiss, flat-tongued and relaxed while she does the fucking. Works smart, not hard, her baby boy.

It’s fantastic. Everything is more sensitive, full of blood and slippery as hell, and when he does do something, it’s lean in and nose at her clit when she rocks back, and she gets loud. She likes loud. It makes everything better, gets her ears going like the rest of her, a feedback loop or something. Eyeball likes it, too, squirms his hips and fucks at nothing, and it winds her up tighter. “Oh God,” she says, braces her hands against the wall, grinds against his mouth.

He does this wild shit where he can get his fucking tongue in her like a finger, and she doesn’t know how, since his tongue looks perfectly fucking normal, but it’s not. There’s nothing normal about any of this, and then he’s got his hands under her thighs, holding her up with two thumbs opening her wide and she’s just screaming. It isn’t cute. She can’t even tell where the fucking friction is coming from, his lips or his nose or his teeth or what, she’s just pulling in and in and in on herself, going fuck fuck fuck fuck and more more more more and yes oh my god my pussy yes and the fucking window is open, the screen is ripped, and it sounds like they’re filming a fucking smutshow in here, and she doesn’t care. Not even a little. His mouth fucking unhinges her. Turns her feral.

Then the bitch next door, Rena or Raina or Renata or whatever the fuck her name is, starts banging on the wall. She’s got a broom, it sounds like, and Helaena knows she’s going to catch it from Eyeball when they’re done but she just pounds right fucking back. Slams her fist on the wall a few times, hollers for Eyeball to fuck her harder, and he laughs against her cunt and the vibration makes her come. Hard. And she screams with that, too, and shakes and clamps her thighs over him like earmuffs, everything in her just holding him still and coming all over his stupid face.

Hes still laughing; she’s still coming, and she can tell he’s struggling to breathe, coughing with his laugh, so she leans up and lets him go.

He isn’t as bloody as she thought he’d be when she looks at him, just a little on his lips and around his mouth and across one cheek like rouge, more pink than anything. She’s seen him worse. He’s sweaty, and he’s blurry and shiny through her fucked-out vision, or maybe because he’s covered in her slop, and he’s grinning like a fucking idiot.

“Get over here,” he laughs, tugs at her, and she slides down beside him and he gives her a kiss that tastes like metal and jizz. Tongue and everything. Fucking eats her up. Makeout stuff, like they’re fourteen and just figuring out that it’s all wired together on the same circuit, lips and tongues and cunts and cocks. “You’re a fucking trainwreck,” he says. “I’m gonna fuck the shit outta you.”

She nods, that’s it, because she’s got aftershocks or something, and she kisses him again. Coppery. Wet. Wide-mouthed and sexy, no teeth, just a black hole of soft. It feels fucking fantastic. It feels like she might disappear.

“How do you want it, Laneybug?” he asks her, right at her ear, and she turns to liquid at the nickname. It’s what Daddy used to call her, and what Waffle calls her when he’s sober, and Eyeball only ever uses it when he wants something, but she’s giving him whatever he wants, so he’s just being cute with her now.

“I’m fucking annihilated,” she says, her voice all woozy and weird. “You just do you, baby. But if you touch my clit again I’ll cut your throat.”

Her brother laughs through his nose at her, wipes the back of his hand across his mouth. Down his chin. “Don’t threaten me with a good time.” He taps at her hip, kisses her on the temple. “Get your ass in the air then,” he says. “I don’t wanna fuck you into the mattress if you don’t want it, rub you all up on it or whatever.”

“What a gentleman. Somebody raised you right,” she murmurs, and he snickers again as she rolls onto her belly. Gets her arms under her. Pulls her knees up and gives him her fucking blissed-out cunt to use. “Get in me,” she says, and she doesn’t have to tell this motherfucker twice. He’s already got his cock out.

All business, then. Quick and brutal, like he likes it, pounding her til her head spins. He’s so fucking hard she can barely take it. That’s what she gets for fucking a kid who’s not even old enough to drink, she supposes; all blood and guts and steel. It hurts, but she likes it, and she knows he’ll be able to fucking do it again in twenty minutes if she wants it.

He fucks her raw, holds onto her hair and her hip, bruises her with his desperate skinny fingers, and she hollers for him. Louder than before. Talks. Gives him a you can do better than that just to piss him off, turn his knobs, and he fucks into her so hard after that that he knocks her fucking cervix into her ribs. It is good shit. She rewards him with a just like that Daddy, there you go, her voice quivering with her body, and she can feel his strange, ever-present formless longing in the way one hand draws down her spine. Affectionate, like he’s shushing her, trying to put her to bed.

Rena Raina Renata is probably jacking off to them, Helaena thinks. All quiet through the wall.

She can hear his breathing change, feel him push deeper, somehow; move slower, so she tells him come on honey, says oh God it’s all gonna come out my mouth isn’t it, says I fucking love your big dick and he makes that funny noise she loves, like a startled little kick to his kidneys, and he shoves himself in all the way and comes everywhere.

Helaena grins like the goddamn Cheshire Cat, practically purrs when Eyeball leans over her and licks her neck slow and sloppy, like his tongue is too big for his mouth all the sudden, panting and gasping himself senseless.

“Shit,” he says, gnawing into her shoulder. Bite bite bite. Chewing on her, his hot dragon mouth full of sharp teeth.

“You’re a fucking animal,” she says. “I’m gonna call the cops,” and he can’t even laugh he’s so messed up, but he puts his cheek against her skin and licks her again, all sideways and mangled, and she giggles for the both of them.

“Cunt next door probably already did,” he mumbles. “Nice job, Lane.”

For a minute they just sit like that, slumped together with the air around them pulsing like a sour heart. Everything smells like sex and blood, and his cock keeps jerking around inside her. It tickles. Itches a spot she can’t scratch, even though she wiggles her hips and tries.

Then Eyeball takes a breath and eases himself out. She hates that little beat of separation, when she’s so fucking full then so fucking empty. It just feels like a tired metaphor or something, and it makes her sad.

It’s quick, though, and her dirty bastard brother isn’t finished with her, she knows, so there’s that.

“Turn over,” he says, gentle like he didn’t just rearrange her fucking insides, and he helps her. And true to form, he just wants to look. She looks, too, because why not? It’s their mess.

His cock’s a little bloody, a lot wet, all drippy and shiny and just starting to go soft.

He plays with her a little, pokes his fingers around her pussy and watches his pinkish jizz leak all over, smears it everywhere, paints the inside of her thighs. Dabs it on her belly.

Helaena shakes her head at him. “Why the fuck do you always have to fingerpaint?”

He shrugs. “I dunno. Guess I’m an artist, Laney. You look fucking good like this. All covered in it. And it’s really not that fucking bloody. Not if you’re all wet like you get. It’s mostly just come.” He pauses. “You taste like blood though. It’s hot.” He smiles and puts his finger in his mouth. Looks like a little boy messing with a cupcake or something. Like it’s his birthday.

She looks at him, heavy lids and blown-out pupils, and he draws on the tops of her tits with it, down to the line of her bra. Traces her spiderweb and makes it shine like it’s caught in sunlight. “Christ, what did you do in there?” she asks. “Come a fucking gallon?”

He’s done, though. Just looking now, and she watches him for awhile, amused and grossed out and probably madly in love. Leaking his spooge all over the sheets. All that sister shit.

“What time do you work today?” she asks, finally.

“I don’t,” he says.

“You gonna go see Waffle?” Aegon. Egg. Eggo. Now Waffle, who unfortunately has lived up to his nickname and managed to fucking toast himself, drunk on his gaudy gold motorcycle, and is sitting in some damn nursing rehab across town burnt to shit and busted up. Because their fucking family hasn’t been through enough. Because that’s the type of guy their big brother is. The shit he pulls.

“Was thinking about it,” Eyeball says. “You wanna come?” He reaches over to the nightstand and pulls out a cigarette.

Helaena grabs the matches and lights it for him. Steals it and takes the first drag before handing it back. “I can’t, sweetheart. Gotta pop downstairs in an hour. Working til ten. It’s spooky season, you know.” She rolls her eyes. “Busy as hell in there.”

It’s how she pays the rent for this little box they eat and piss and fuck and sleep in. Does as many hours as Alys wants her to, reading tarot and selling incense and fake fucking crystals and sweeping the cruddy floor.

“I’ll bring you dinner,” Eyeball says, blowing a series of O’s in her face and grinning.

“Stop that shit,” she says, using her own breath to extinguish them. “It’s cool, Alys is gonna be there, too. She always brings me something. She likes to cook.” She narrows her eyes. “Stay away. I don’t like the way she fuckin’ looks at you.”

He smirks and hands Helaena the cigarette with two long fingers. “It’s the patch. Women love that shit. Always wanna know the story, like they’re the first one to ask, and then they think they’re gonna fix me or something.”

Helaena raises an eyebrow. “Nah, she’s too old for that. She knows she’s not gonna fix anything. I think she can tell how fucked up you are, and I think she likes it.” She blows a cloud. “Stay the fuck away from her. You got a thing for MILFs and she’s hot.”

Eyeball takes his cigarette back, takes one last long drag and butts it. Drops it in the water with the others. “The fuck I want with her? Bed’s warm, balls empty, you got a mouth like a fucking vacuum and you always beat my stupid ass at chess. And you’re up to your tits in blood and spunk. You think anything could be better than that? Literally anything?”

She smiles. “Yeah, about that. I gotta shower.”

“I’ll watch from the fridge,” he says, teasing her. “Tell Alys we need a bigger fuckin’ shower. Maybe like in the bathroom. And a bigger fuckin’ bed. My tall ass is tired of squeezing in everywhere.”

“At least you’re skinny,” she says. “Try moving around in here with an ass like mine.”

“Don’t start talking about your ass when you gotta go. You’re gonna get me fuckin’ hard again.” Eyeball pauses. “You really think she’s hot?”

Helaena looks at him and grins, crooked. “Yeah. I dunno, she’s hot in that careful-she-might-eat-you kinda way. Same kinda hot you are. Must be my thing.”

He quirks his eyebrow. “Maybe she wants to come up. Some people are into that shit. Siblings. Cute blonds. There’s porn about it.”

Helaena cuffs his ear. “There’s fuckin’ porn about everything. We’ve got no place to put her anyway,” she laughs. “Listen.” She reaches to unhook her bra, but she’s still wobbly, and Eyeball helps her. Good hands. “You know Mama might be there, right? With Waffle?” She shrugs the bra from her shoulders and tosses it to the floor.

“Nah. They had to escort her out last week. Making some type of scene. I don’t think she’s allowed back.”

“Maybe not. I dunno. Just don’t be surprised, honey. Okay?”

He’s on the edge of the bed, and she’s standing over him, and he just reaches up to play with her nipple, circles it and makes it perk up for him and looks at it serious-like. Studious. “Yeah,” he finally says, and shrugs.

Helaena kisses his forehead. “Last decent thing she did was squeeze you out in the fucking back seat of that broken ass Chevy,” she snorts. “And even that was mostly you. No patience from the jump.” It’s true. There’s a picture of them all, right in the hospital parking lot. Daddy took it. He was only a little sick then, still able to do shit like make babies and watch them be born. Take their pictures.

They all look like they’ve just been through a fucking hostage situation. There’s blood, birth gunk, on Helaena’s tiny bare foot in her car seat. Naked little fresh-from-the-womb-and-purple Aemond with two eyes, clutched to Mama’s chest with a weird lens flare over him like God’s reaching down through the window or something. Crowning his little newborn head. Waffle standing outside the open car door peeking in, hair in a pile of white curls a foot high, sleepy-eyed and shellshocked. Sun rising in the background. It’s Helaena’s favorite photograph ever.

“She tries,” Eyeball says.

“We’re all trying,” Helaena sighs. “Some of us are just balls at it.”

She pads the six fucking feet into the kitchen nude with her brother at her heels. He’s like this some days, stuck to her like a rescued puppy who’s afraid he’s gonna get returned to the shelter. Making sure she still loves him. Still wants him around.

Not that there’s much room in this shithole for personal space, but some mornings, she wakes up and he’s literally inside of her. Two fingers. Three. Crooked into her while he’s passed out, she thinks, or maybe just left from the night before after they’ve fucked rough and slept heavy. Sometimes it’s his cock, if he’s up and hard and doesn’t wanna get out of bed. He’ll just nudge it into her, and if she’s awake she’ll moan and spread for him, and if she’s not, she thinks she probably does the same. Sometimes just the tip, or halfway, or whatever. She doesn’t mind. Morning dick is so good; that slow dreamy stuff before anything shitty has time to happen.

They sleep on top of each other in the ridiculous twin bed, like when they were kids hiding from all the fucking chaos, groping for one another under the covers. His first wet orgasm ended up all over her. Scared them both. They may as well be one body anyway.

Helaena turns on the shower. It’s right next to the kitchen sink, tucked into the corner with a fucking tarp hung up. The water gets lukewarm at best, and she always comes out shivering and has to mop up a puddle on the cracked vinyl floor. Eyeball’s got a hot cup of coffee waiting and a towel he warmed over the radiator for her. He dries the puddle with a dishcloth and his foot.

He’s washed himself up, too; face and hands. Brushed his hair. Knife in his back pocket. Still shirtless in October in this drafty hellhole, he runs so hot. His own cup of coffee, black and thick as fucking motor oil.

At least he made hers right. Cream to cut the bitter.

She loves him. Fierce as anything. She fucking loves him. She wants to wake up with him inside of her tomorrow. Thinks she’ll sleep without a goddamn tampon in, leave room for him. Bleed all over them both. Wreck the sheets.

Helaena puts on lipstick to match her nails, grabs her wallet and stuffs it in her purse. Tells Eyeball not to fucking smoke in bed if she’s not here. Reminds him of the bar that burnt down two towns over because the asshole in the back apartment fell asleep with a cigar in his hand.

“Harren’s?” he says. “Nah, that was arson.” He insists, says he knows a guy who knows a guy, but she tells him it doesn’t matter and he shouldn’t do it regardless. It’s just dumb.

“Oh!” she says, hand on the broken doorknob. “You wanna pull your card for today before I go?”

He nods.

Helaena takes the tarot deck from her bag and rings the little bell to clear the space. Has him close his eye and breathe deep and shuffle.

He sticks his fingers into the center of the deck and pulls the Queen of Cups. Lays her upright on the counter.

“That’s your me card,” she says. “You ever think about anything else?” She winks at him.

“Coffee,” he answers. “Vengeance. Nihilism. But mostly you.” He winks back. His version, anyway. A blink with a twitchy mouth.

Helaena kisses him where the scar tissue meets the cut of his cheekbone. “If you see Waffle, tell him I hate him less than yesterday. But still a lot.” She pauses. “And wait up for me, okay?”

Eyeball nods at her. Lights another cigarette. “I could teach you,” he says, taking a drag and blowing a lovely little ring that hangs itself in the air like a question.

Helaena screws up her nose and says, “I don’t wanna know. Everyone needs a secret, baby. Don’t give away all yours.”

He smiles.

Chapter 2: The Tower

Summary:

when it comes time to
use the knife
I won't flinch and
I won't blame
you

Notes:

this is what i did during the election here (after voting of course) instead of doomscrolling and newscycling for days while the world burned

decided to just go with my little bunnies & take this AU where i imagined it going when i started. basically this chapter was therapy, so hopefully i will eventually arrive at the end I’ve envisioned 🙃 not making any promises. ha

little dark girl with
kind eyes
when it comes time to
use the knife
I won't flinch and
I won't blame
you,
as I drive along the shore alone
as the palms wave,
the ugly heavy palms,
as the living does not arrive
as the dead do not leave,
I won't blame you,
instead
I will remember the kisses
our lips raw with love
and how you gave me
everything you had
and how I
offered you what was left of
me,
and I will remember your small room
the feel of you
the light in the window
your records
your books
our morning coffee
our noons our nights
our bodies spilled together
sleeping
the tiny flowing currents
immediate and forever
your leg my leg
your arm my arm
your smile and the warmth
of you
who made me laugh
again.
little dark girl with kind eyes
you have no
knife. the knife is
mine and I won't use it
yet.

-Raw With Love, Charles Bukowski

 

“Hi, Dreamboat!” Helaena bumps open the back door to the shop with her wrist and her hip and nudges gently at the little black face waiting for her with one foot. Fucking cat’s always trying to jailbreak her way into the hall - she likes the male tabby in the downstairs apartment, sticks her paws under his door looking for a date - but then it’s a bitch to get her back. She’s afraid of the street noise out the front, at least.

Dreamfyre twitters in protest but Helaena gets them both shut safely inside and tosses her bag on the counter. Her coffee sloshes over her hand as she sets it down. Eyeball made her some to go, but he always uses the wrong fucking mug. Forgets how clumsy she is and fills it too high. At least it’s not hot enough to burn anymore.

Alys opened an hour ago, but she’s not there. Must be out on the stoop. She likes the air; doesn’t come inside some days unless there are customers. She sits out there on the concrete with her face tipped up - to the sun, or to the drizzle, or to the torn and faded prayer flags flapping from the awning - smiling her owlish little smile, knowing things.

The shop might be sort of a put-on, but Alys isn’t. She knows things.

She can read the cards, but she likes palms better. Likes to touch people, get in their space and into the ridges of their skin and nails and lives. Likes to be able to smell them, hair and breath; run her fingers through theirs and sift for metal. She’s not a little sprite; some incorporeal fae drifting in and out of the veil. She’s dirt and grime and earth and sex and death.

She comes in after awhile - still no customers; slow even for a Tuesday, and for all her knowing, she was wrong about tonight - and lifts herself onto the counter to sit. Kicks her feet like a girl against the old wood, the heels of her funny velvet flats clicking.

“Tofu with peanut sauce for you in the fridge,” she says. “Not too spicy. Bring whatever you don’t finish to your boy; he’ll like it.”

Alys is vegan, and her food is fucking crazy good.

Eyeball’s got a sour stomach. Everything gives him heartburn. He lives on coffee and antacids and toast, and no matter how many times Helaena tells him that the coffee’s what’s tearing him up, he just tells her to fuck off. He has three fucking pleasures in his life - coffee, cigarettes, and pussy - he says. The Holy Trinity. He’s keeping them all.

You’re a walking cliche, she said to him, eyes rolling. You’re fucking Charles Bukowski, but worse ‘cause you don’t get paid for it. He was an asshole. He hated women.

I don’t hate women.

You don’t like them very much.

I don’t like anyone very much.

He got her there. He doesn’t like anyone very much, but he likes his coffee and his fucking Tums, and he’ll eat what Alys makes, at least six times out of ten.

“Thanks,” Helaena says. Blows her a kiss.

Alys smiles. Then she lifts her perfect, heavy brows and says, “Whatever company you’re having up there…”

Helaena meets her eye, and she knows that Alys knows. How could she not? But she likes the two of them. She has a soft spot for the creatures who build their dens under mossy rocks. Who hide from the sun. Who can lose bits of themselves and regenerate.

“We’ll keep it down.”

“Hate to be a spoilsport. Also hate getting twenty-minute calls about it.”

“Twenty minutes?! Did she give you a fucking play-by-play?”

“She’s lonely.”

“Who isn’t?” Helaena checks her phone. It’s sevenish. Dinner time, and she hasn’t heard anything from Eyeball since three when she asked him if he was going to see Waffle and he told her he was. On the bus, because their big black beast of a fucking car is in the shop again. The one he works at, actually, and you’d think it’d be a priority, but apparently that’s not how it goes, because it’s been sitting there since Friday. So he’s been walking, or taking the bus, and it’s been a pain in the ass.

She asked him if he got there okay, and he didn’t answer her. Then she asked how Waffle was. The last message was just one that said [screaming into the void] and normally he’d at least laugh back, but nothing. Helaena doesn’t like it.

She goes into the bathroom - fancy, of course, with vintage naked babes on the walls and soap that smells like lilac and always extra tampons, God bless Alys fucking Rivers because she used her last one and has a fucking pad on - and drops her pants. Sends him a picture of her hand down the front of her panties, once she gets an angle she likes. Curves a finger so he can use his imagination. They’re her last clean pair; green and gold sequin-y things that he got for her for Christmas and she kinda hates. They’re uncomfortable, and the sequins dig in the little grooves inside her thighs and chafe. Normally he doesn’t get her stupid presents like that, but he said they’re like lizard scales, or a mermaid tail, and something about them spins his wheels. She adds a little note.

still fucking leaking jizz everywhere thanks

Helaena knows the message she’ll get back. Can already see it in his quirky text-script.

put it in yr mouth + show me or maybe just show me

She knows how to wind him up.

She takes a picture of Dreamfyre, too, who’s come in with her and is winding her way around Helaena’s ankles while she tries to look sexy. Making it difficult, but at least she’s sweet about it.

both your fav pussies in one place

Eyeball loves that fucking cat.

But he doesn’t respond half an hour later, and now she’s anxious.

Alys can read the room, and she’s eyeing Helaena sidelong. She’s finally got a customer, two of them actually, pretty college-aged girls who remind Helaena of who she might be if she wasn’t herself, and when Alys is done telling them to dump their useless boyfriends, she asks Helaena if she’s pulled her own cards today.

She hasn’t.

“I think you should,” Alys says. She offers to do it, and re-sages the whole fucking place before she does, like she’s trying to erase something and can’t quite do it, just leaves smudges of crap behind with the strength of her effort. Twirls the stick around and around until it smells like Thanksgiving in Hell. Way overzealous, and Helaena hates that, too. Alys knows something she doesn’t, and she very badly wants to make it disappear.

Helaena rings her bell for good measure. She likes the sound, and it doesn’t stink.

She shuffles and shuffles and shuffles, procrastinating until Alys finally takes the deck from her hands and holds it out.

She pulls the Tower. Lays it straight.

Alys doesn’t comment at first, just asks if she wants to draw more. For clarity.

Helaena does not. One is enough.

Alys raises a brow, then. Sighs. “Something wicked this way comes,” she says, and it somehow has less drama than it ought to, spoken plainly in her girlish tone. “Why don’t you go on home. It’s slow. Drink something hot. Do some laundry. Find your skinny boy and feed him up.”

Helaena nods. Gathers her things. Scratches Dreamy behind her ears, and as she’s heading into the hallway, Alys calls after her.

“You get that car back, sweetheart?”

“Not yet.”

“I’m right downstairs if you need a ride or anything. Don’t be shy.”

Helaena thanks her and shuts the door.

When she gets upstairs, it’s quiet. Dark. She flips the light on and sees that her brother’s been busy. The place is neat as a pin. Laundry bagged near the door; bloody sploogey sheets changed and the bed remade; dishes clean and the floor swept. Cigarette butts emptied from all their various containers. Eyeball’s gross, but he’s clean when he’s not being filthy. Mess stresses him out, and he’s forever coming behind her like Mama on her good days, busy hands silently scolding her for her carelessness. Turning off lights. Wiping up wet rings from the end tables.

Helaena texts him again.

i’m home where are you?

She pops the food into the fridge and smokes one of his cigarettes - he’s got them
stashed everywhere, hates to have them out of reach - while she waits for a response that doesn’t come.

She decides to be useful and do the laundry, like Alys said, and like Eyeball obviously thinks she should. Whatever new disaster awaits, they can face it in clean clothes, she supposes.

By the time she hauls it across the street to the dingy laundromat they both hate, gives it all a wash and a dry - all together, colors and whites and towels and bras; her brother would have a fucking stroke - and hauls it back home semi-folded, it’s after ten and she is still alone. And having trouble holding off the panic, since three more texts - including an are you fucking dead? and a bulletproof i’m bored here alone, gonna fuck myself - have gone unanswered.

Helaena paces. Debates. Paces. Smokes. Makes a cup of coffee she can’t drink. Rifles through the kitchen cabinet and finds a bottle of Tums. Chews on three and smokes more. Paces. Throws up nothing into the toilet. Flushes. Brushes her teeth and smokes again. Sends two texts into the ether. Debates again. Paces. Grabs one of Eyeball’s hoodies at 11:39pm and reaches for the door.

Sees him coming from the window. It’s raining now, she realizes. Wind’s picking up, fat droplets falling against the cracked pane.

She knows instantly that something is terribly wrong.

He’s on foot, coming from the opposite direction from the bus stop. He’s zipped all the way up to his neck, despite the fact that his body is a fucking furnace and he loves the fucking rain. Strings tied tight. All of his hair under the hood and pulled back. Head down. Trying to be invisible. He’s even got his hood fanned forward, like he’s trying to obscure his patch. Block its side view. His gait is strange, hunched and halting, none of his easy grace. One hand is shielding the cigarette in his mouth from the weather.

She might not have even recognized him if she were anyone else; if it were not for the fact that she would know him in any iteration of this life, and if they stumbled across one another in a past one, and if they were reborn into a future one, and if she woke up with different eyes. She knows him.

She has to stop herself from hauling ass outside; figures she’d better let him come to her. Not make a scene. The relief in her knees and in her chest and in her head is like a flood - it carries her along, but it threatens her breath. He’s alive, and he’s here, but nothing will ever be the same again. She can tell just from the way he moves.

This moment - the way he looks coming through the dark to her, coming through the wet and the wind, coming back from what is not-come-back-able, seeking her in it - will rise up again and again, loom over her, own the last flashing, stuttering frames of her life.

She waits through the door. Hears him put in the key and realize it’s unlocked. The knob turns, and the world shifts.

He comes completely unglued the moment he sees her.

His hands are everywhere. Immediately. All over her, frantic and searching, and it makes her skin absolutely crawl. It feels like when she got mugged last year, that fucker’s hands pawing pawing pawing, and she hadn’t known what he was after, her thirty-six fucking dollars in cash or her overdrawn fucking debit card or her fucking cunt or her fucking life or all of it, whatever he could get, just groping at her. Everywhere, fucking groping at her. In the end he’d just taken her wallet, hadn’t even roughed her up, but she still can’t walk that shortcut, even in the daytime, and her body remembers. The way all women’s bodies remember, even if it didn’t happen to them this go-around. Something in them knows the menace of a stranger’s searching hands. It rides the XX chromosome, sits deep in the double-helix of existence.

Only this isn’t a stranger, it’s her brotherprotectorloverbabyeverything. The one she didn’t even tell about what happened to her because she was afraid he’d go out into the dark. Leave her alone to look in futility for retribution when what she needed was the safety of him. The lights on, the coffee hot, his skin against her own. So she’d told him she’d lost the wallet and took her lashing from him and her shelter in him, and she wonders if this might be different now if she had told the truth. If he knew about those hands on her.

But he doesn’t, and these hands are his hands, and the energy beneath them is unstable. Spitting and sparking like a downed wire. Over her neck and her face, reaching under her shirt and into the pockets of her pants, tangling in her hair, cupping frenetically at her elbows and shoulders and hipbones and hands, lit up and looking.

It doesn’t even seem like he can hear her, because she’s saying where were you? and are you ok? and what the fuck is going on baby? and hey hey hey calm down I’m here talk to me but he’s just fucking manhandling her; he’s turned her back to the door and he’s crowding her against it and he can’t find whatever it is he wants and she wants to help but he can’t even hear her. He’s all wet from the rain, and he’s all electric, and he’s going to set the fucking place on fire and kill them both, and he’s going to start with her. That’s what it feels like. Like maybe what he’s looking for is her heart, and he’s going to rip it right out.

So when he doesn’t hear her, when her final fucking STOP just bounces right off of him, she slaps him clear across the face. His hands go around her throat before she even feels them move. Those good hands. Big and strong. Eighteen ways to die.

But then he looks up when her nails dig in. And maybe he doesn’t hear her, but he sees her, and he opens them right up, lets go of her breath that he only held for a tick, and her eyes are wide and terrified, and his eye is wet. Rain or tears or whatever, and he finally speaks and he says “Don’t fucking hit me. Don’t hit me.”

“Then don’t fucking come at me like… what the fuck!” And his hands are back on her, starting that shit again, so she grabs his wrist and yells “Aemond!”

And he finally fucking stops. Takes a pause. One breath that trembles like nothing Helaena’s ever heard. And then he kisses her, leans in slow so he doesn’t scare her. And the wet is tears, she can tell now close up; his lips are salty from it, and her climbing rage and climbing fear and her desire to slam his stupid rapey head into the wall just run down her face, his face, theirs, and they’re just gone.

“Do you remember?” he asks her. His voice is strung like barbed wire, edged, but it’s quiet. She’s not afraid at all anymore. Not for herself.

“Remember what?” She’s searching him now, running her hands all over looking for the wound, but he stops her when she goes for the zipper on his hoodie and she lets him.

“Who we were. Before. Before all of this.”

“I remember everything,” she says, and he tells her to say his name. His real one.

He’s not that guy. Not a talker like that. Not a say-my-name-er, but he’ll say hers. Only when she’s on top, riding him, bouncing with a rhythm, and he’ll say Laney Laney Laney Laney to whatever beat she’s working with. It reminds her of the Hail Marys Mama made them say as kids when they fucked up. It’s endearing.

But she says it. Says “I remember everything about you; I know who you are,” and everything goes quiet. Even his hands.

It’s all quiet. There’s space to remember. Like church. And her little brother looks at her and says, “I want to go home.”

And of course there is no home. Maybe there never was. And he is twenty, not six. And she doesn’t know what the fuck is going on. And he had his hands around her fucking throat, and she pulled the Tower, and here it is, crumbling all over them. Dust on their tongues. And maybe that’s what he’s talking about. Maybe that’s home. Disintegrating walls, people jumping, mouths full of ash.

Or maybe it’s her he’s asking for. So she says “Okay, honey,” and she takes him home.

Undoes the button of his jeans. Strips off her own, one handed while she fists his sweatshirt with the other for balance. He’s so sturdy. Even now. She turns him slow, like she’s walking him to the fucking school bus, and puts his back to the door. She reaches behind him to take the knife from his pocket, but it’s not there. Dread gathers itself like a stone in her belly, sudden and cold, but she just lets her hand ghost over him and says nothing.

She slides them both down. Shhhhh, shhhh, shhhh.

He’s not hard, but bless him, he gets there fast for her. Helaena opens his fly, takes him in her hands, and her touch is all butterflies. All fluttering wings and soft things, and he responds to her. Knows her fingers like his own, and when she pulls her underwear aside to get some friction, get herself wet enough to let him in, he sighs a pretty little sigh and he’s all there when she bumps her clit against him. Once. Twice. Gasps.

Helaena fishes for her stupid tampon string for the second time that day, and it’s caught up somewhere, but he helps her find it. Hooks it for her, and she yanks it out and chucks it onto his nice clean floor.

Her free hand cradles his cheek, strokes the high bone there with a thumb, and she just says ok ok ok. Nothing is ok, and everything is just fine, and she says I’m just gonna hold you, and that’s what she does. Rocks against him til she feels her wet run warm like blood.

So reliable, the both of them. Chorus and verse. The same song. Year after year, always and ever.

She tucks him inside of her body, the slowest she’s ever fucking done it in her life, except maybe the first time, and just sits there in his lap. Nobody moves. They just sit.

He lets her take his hood down, run her hands through his hair. Feel everywhere, find him whole, all of his features in place like a puzzle she’s solved. No blood, no knife. Two ears, one eye, a nose, a scar, two lips and a tongue that she licks at with her own. Just once. A hello, an ok.

“I need to look at you,” she says. She feels him yield. Push up into her a little, deep and lovely, to say yes. She rolls her hips to answer him, and then she unzips.

There’s the secret.

She peels him out of his hoodie, and there’s blood on the t-shirt underneath. Collar and shoulder. Lower. Not soaking him through exactly, but not just a little. Not a busted lip or a bloody nose. Helaena feels again, but she knows the answer already. Nothing is torn. Amiss. His guts are where they should be. All is well.

She doesn’t ask who, doesn’t ask how or why; she doesn’t think she could handle answers right now anyway. She just says “Okay, you’re okay, that’s all I wanted.” She pauses. “I’m yours, and you’re mine, okay? Remember?”

Her brother nods. He holds her at her waist. Puts his nose to her nose, says “I’m gonna make you feel good. I wanna feel you feel good, okay? Just… shh. Just let me, I need to…” and she doesn’t know how the sentence ends. It falls off. But she holds still for him. Let’s him do his penance the only way he knows how.

It takes forever. She’s anxious; can’t relax for him, can’t surrender. Listens for a knock at the door. For his ribs to crack apart. Waits for the roof to collapse or the floor to sink or every window in the place to shatter.

But he’s patient. He focuses; all of his attention at where their bodies meet, where his thumb presses her and circles her, where he coaxes her wider and wetter, and he does not move at all inside of her. When she finally starts to quiver, flush hot, close in, the pleasure is strange. It feels like a protest, but she leans into it, says yes instead of the no that leaps up first. It’s a whisper. A litany of all the things that go on in the dark. yes yes yes

“Come on,” he says. Soft. A command or a plea. Both. “I want to feel you, ok? Come on. Come on.”

His thumb slips at a slant, just right, and the thread snaps and the Tower falls and she comes all over his fucking cock. Right where he wants her. Confession and absolution and Hail Mary, full of grace, she shakes and shakes and shakes. Squeezes hard around him. Lets him feel her feel good. It’s the quietest she’s ever been, maybe, but he feels so big when she does it, and the world feels so small; the world is just them, and she is his, and he is hers, and someone else’s blood is between them, and now it always will be.

She’s not even finished when he says it.

“I fucking killed him, Laney.” Right into the hollow of her throat, where her pulse is singing. “I fucking killed him. I didn’t mean it.” He sucks at her heartbeat.

She shakes her head. She rocks her hips. He holds her. They fuck, and it’s good, and it’s awful, and it’s home.

It’s home.

The two of them go home.

Chapter 3: Deviation

Summary:

i tell my love to wreck it all
cut out all the ropes and let me fall

Notes:

This chapter actually got a proper edit & beta, so cheers 😂

Plot is not my strong suit, so excuse me while I self-indulgently meander through characters and relationships and get absolutely nowhere. Oops 😂

come on skinny love, just last the year
pour a little salt, we were never here
staring at the sink of blood and crushed veneer

i tell my love to wreck it all
cut out all the ropes and let me fall

- from ‘skinny love’ by bon iver (but the version by birdy’s been on loop, so)

 

She likes giving head when she’s high. She doesn’t mind it otherwise, but it’s not her favorite; she’ll do it to wake him up sometimes if she’s feeling feisty and wants to get him going fast, or if they’re playing games and he wants to fucking own her. If Helaena wants to be owned. Sometimes she’ll ask for it rough. Fuck my mouth. He’ll do it. Ring her fucking head like a bell and make her jaw ache with the shape of him for days.

But when she’s fucking blazed she lives for it. Gets loose and silly and drooly, opens wide and sticks out her tongue for his come, says please Daddy and wriggles on her knees like a kid waiting for a damn cookie. Squirms against her own fucking heel. Giggles and bats her eyes at him while he rubs at his own cock through her cheek. Licks, sucks, makes a loud pop on purpose when he pulls himself all the way through her lips.

Fucking moans and gags around him when he puts it in her throat. She can take it way back when she’s relaxed and it makes him fucking crazy.

She’s prettiest when it’s over and she’s got spit and spunk from her chin to her eyebrows, and her face is flushed and her eyes are wet and sparkly, and he can watch her neck move with her swallow. That’s what Eyeball tells her. Uses his thumb to wipe it all over and has her suck that clean, too. Calls her pretty girl, tells her what he sees when he’s looking at her.

Like drops of water in your eyelashes, he said once. Like when we jumped in the creek behind Pop’s house when we were kids and the sun made you fucking glitter like a fish, or a mermaid, or whatever. It’s like that. Fuckin’ pretty.

Or that time he came all over the blurry jut of her collarbones. Made a fucking sloppy yoke of it, his voice tore-through and delicious when he mumbled at her. Jesus. You look like mine.

That’s what it’s about, she thinks; all that mess on her all the time. His.

Fucked-up Helaena is an absolute slut for all of it, and Eyeball likes her like that; eager like a little girl for his attention. For his cock and his come and his hands. Needy. It does make him feel like her Daddy. Like he’s the big brother. Like he’s taking good care of her, getting her all messy and dick-drunk and smiley.

He told her that once, too. Afterwards. They don’t do that often - they just like what they like and fucking do it and that’s enough - but sometimes they smoke and talk philosophy when it’s done. Sometimes they press the bruises.

Not tonight, though. No one’s getting their dick sucked. No one’s talking.

Helaena asked two questions after they unwound themselves from each other. From the floor: Do you wanna talk about it now? and after he said no, Are we safe for tonight?

I think so, he’d said. Probably.

So she told him they would deal with it in the morning, then, because she didn’t know what else to do. Threw their clothes in a garbage bag - hers, too; even the underwear, her tampon, anything he’d touched - but Eyeball rescued the weed from his back pocket with his wallet. The opposite one from where his knife should have been.

Then they’d showered, both of them crammed together under the pathetic spray with the tarp hanging open so they’d fit, making a wet mess of the kitchen. She’d held him, pressed her whole body against the heat of his back, soaped him everywhere, washed his hair and traced his scar with her fingers. Cupped his soft, spent cock in her hands and let the water run cold and told him she loved him. He had blood on his neck. Sticking his shirt to his chest.

She’d rinsed the drain extra good. Dumped bleach. Rinsed again.

Now they’re naked in bed with a joint, wrapped in a blanket and shotgunning it back and forth. Like they always do. Usually it’s foreplay, the recycling of one another’s breath. The deep and steady inhale; the heavy exhale. Mouths and noses. Coughing and smiling. In and out, hazy and soft like that good, slow burn morning sex.

He’ll blow rings for her, she’ll giggle. Helaena sucks him off, then he’ll finger her or pull the fucking vibrator from under the mattress and have at her til she screams, or sometimes both, and then she’ll wash her face if she remembers and sleep.

The weed helps. She has spates of nightmares, days or sometimes two weeks or so of them in a row, and it gets exhausting. She’s in the middle of a run of them now, which is why he stopped to get the shit in the first place, she’s sure.

Which is why - or where or how - whatever happened, happened, she suspects. The devil’s in the deviation. But she can’t think too hard on it now. Not til the morning.

So she cradles their open mouths, holds their smoky kiss between her palms, blows. He takes it from her, his eye closed. Exhales through his nose.

When it’s gone, Helaena stubs the joint against the nightstand and turns off the light. She has a vague thought about Harren’s as she drifts in the uneasy sea before sleep. Thinks maybe she didn’t put it out all the way. Thinks maybe the fire will start here. Maybe it will take them both, naked and blitzed out of their minds and tangled together like the roots of a poisonous vine. Maybe morning won’t come, and she will die not knowing, and he will hold her like this forever. In Heaven, or in Hell, or in nothingness.

She sleeps empty, like she’d planned, and in her fitful rest - she thinks the fucking maryjane was laced, because sleep comes easier than it should, even if it’s spotty - he fills her. Slips a hand between her legs. She feels his fingers in the liminal space, feels him push in and stay, stroking absently in and out for a minute before he stills, three-deep and perfect. It feels so fucking good. Helaena squeezes him like they’re holding hands. Like it’s gonna be okay.

*****

Blood on his knuckles when he opens his eye, just as dawn is approaching. Blood under his nails and in their ridges. Blood on the bedclothes.

He fingers her awake. Slow and dirty, twisting and prodding at her g-spot, thumbing her clit and pressing every fucking button at once. Breathing in her ear, licking at it, pulling it between his teeth and rutting his cock against her thigh. Palming at her tits, biting soft at her nipples. Keysmashing. Like it’s the last time he’s ever gonna do it and he wants to do it all. She jerks her hips and comes for him, slow-blinking and panting into maybe the worst day of her life. It’s tough to say. The noise she makes is scratched-up and heavy.

“Good morning, Laneybug,” he says as she flutters around his fingers in the comedown, her mouth cottony and her eyes gritty and her cunt wet and sore. He’s leaking on her, hard as he’s ever been. “We’re fucked.”

She doesn’t open her eyes. Waits in the dark. Listens to the silence; the white noise of the running fan. Like a child. Nothing bad can happen if she can’t see it. Nothing bad can happen if he’s here. This day can’t start until she acknowledges it.

“I want you,” she whispers, her lips as close together as she can manage and still make the words.

He rolls her onto her back. It’s quick. She wraps around him, and he rocks her and rocks her and rocks her, sways against her, tilts her hips up to him to get an angle they both like, one where he can nudge her clit on the in-stroke, overstimulate her for the gasp-shudder-grab. It tightens her like a fucking vise. Makes her moan. He goes gentle until he tips over the edge and spills. Quiet, his fists in the bloodied sheets.

Eyeball makes the bed, and she makes the coffee. The sun rises, and they do not speak.

They are both red-eyed and bleary and naked at the flimsy card table in the kitchen. She took a piss and wiped herself off, but she’s sitting in jizz, maybe blood, too, and can’t bring herself to care.

Maybe they’ll come and cuff them both just like this. Perp-walk them out so RenaRainaRagingCunt can see and give her a new reason to call Alys. Helaena almost laughs, bitter and black, but can’t open her mouth wide enough to do it.

She’s put too much cream in her coffee; it tastes strangely sour and thick, and her stomach churns. She sets it aside and shares her brother’s, small sips of his fucking tar, and watches his rusty fingers tap. He hasn’t even washed his fucking hands.

He’s a fucking fidgeter. Taps everything, clicks pens, picks threads, swirls spoons, flips coins through his fingers, puts his hair up and down all day and fucks with the elastic. Chews his lips when he’s anxious. Smokes compulsively. He’s chainsmoking now, lighting one with the other. His third since he got out of bed.

Helaena leans across the table and lights her own with his. Takes the drag too deep and coughs it out. Eyeball studies her silently.

She steals the last swallow of his coffee. Finally speaks. “Honey, we gotta talk.”

He exhales, long and slow. “Close the windows.”

They’re always open. The place is the size of a closet, and the two of them are fucking oversexed and oversmoked. It always fucking reeks of both.

Helaena said that to him once. Nobody else fucks like this. It can’t be healthy, can it? She can count on one hand the number of times he’s laughed the way he’d laughed at her then. Big and from his belly, mouth cracked open, fucking raucous. Tears and everything.

When he finally got himself together, he said Laney, we came outta the same pussy. If the number of times we’re fucking is greater than zero, no. It’s not fucking healthy. Horny isn’t the problem. It’s the horny for each other part. That’s the fucking pathology. He’d thought for a second. But yeah, I mean. I guess they’re probably related. How much we fucking do it. Probably not normal either.

Then they’d fucked another time, just for good measure. For the exquisite bleakness and wrongness and sickness of it all. Laughed through the whole shit.

She wonders if she’ll ever hear his laughter again. Or her own.

The last window, the one in the bathroom, fights with her, and she ends up just laying a towel in the gap, all rolled up, and shuts the thin plywood door.

When she comes back, Eyeball’s pulling on a pair of jeans from the clean laundry and nursing another mug.

“Sit,” she tells him, and he obeys. Starts bouncing his sharp knee.

Helaena perches on it to quiet him. Takes his coffee and slugs it. It’s too hot, and she spits it right back out into the cup.

He doesn’t even flinch.

“How do you want to do this?” she asks. “Tell the story? Or answer questions?”

He wraps an arm around her. Fucking nuzzles into her like a kittycat, bumps his forehead against her tit. “Questions.”

She always chose that, too. With the therapist, or the caseworker, or whoever was trying whatever technique to get her to say what they wanted. She liked when they took that tack. Less work for her.

“Okay. Stop me if you want to add to it. I’m starting with the important stuff.”

There’s something on his face that is almost - almost - a smile. He’s sat through the same shit with the same system she has. He knows this game.

She’s trying to do it right. He loves her.

“Did anyone see you? See it happen?”

He presses into her. Talks to her skin. “I don’t know. I don’t think so; I didn’t see anyone around. But you know. Sometimes you don’t, but… they see you. So.” The way he says it makes Helaena feel crawly.

“Okay. Did they find… do you think they found it - them - yet?” The body. The dead person. Man. Boy. Him, he’d said. The person whose blood was between them now. All over everything.

“Probably not. I mean, maybe? But if I had to guess. No.” His whole face is hiding against her boob. Her ribs. Fingers in her spiderweb.

“…. Where is it?”

She can hardly understand the answer, but thinking about having him repeat it makes her want to throw up. So she takes a beat. Sometimes she says a what before she really needs to, so she lets her brain process while his fingers knead her flesh. “The canal. From… from the footpath bridge. It’s deep there. Shit at the bottom. Cars, trash, stuff from that storm a couple weeks ago. All kinds of shit. Easy to get stuck.”

He didn’t just fucking kill someone, she thinks; he dumped a fucking body, and he came home and put his hands on her. She let him put his fucking cock in her. She wants to what the fuck at him, slap him again, shake his stupid fucking skull loose.

But she doesn’t do any of those things. She bagged their clothes. She cleaned the drain. She washed the fucking blood off of him. It ran with the water. Touched her own skin.

She loves him. Fierce as anything.

And it was smart. He was smart. Or maybe lucky, because how the fuck did he do it? Not from the fucking bus. He didn’t carry a fucking bleeding corpse down the footpath over his shoulder like a fucking bag of laundry. What was he even fucking doing there? She has more questions. But they’re not so relevant yet. She needs the important shit first. She takes a breath. Blows it out.

“Where’s the knife? That’s what you used, right?”

“Yeah. I… is it weird that I’m not totally sure?” He sounds like a little boy now. Hesitant. Scared. Like he can’t trust his own recall. And he can’t, probably. Helaena learned that from all the stop-start therapy, too.

She strokes his hair. Rubs his earlobe between two fingers like a meditation. It might come back later. It might not be clear. That’s okay. That’s normal, they said.

“That’s normal,” she says. “It’s normal with shit like this. It might come back later. It might not. If it does, it might not be clear. Do you have any idea at all?”

Eyeball tips his head up. Looks at her. “You could’ve done better than this shit, Laney. You should’ve.”

She traces his eyebrow. He should’ve, too.

Always smart, both of them.

He was a problem. A fighter. Impulsive. Mouthy, with a hair-trigger. Way worse after he lost the eye. He was suspended all the time. Had the sort of casual, self-destructive arrogance that comes with being the baby and having to parent your whole fucking household. The kind of kid teachers shook their head at. Wasted potential.

Helaena was unfocused. Disorganized. Chronically late, dressed wrong for the weather, lazy, apathetic. Doodling instead of taking notes, wandering away at recess, daydreaming. Truant. Fifty shades of undiagnosed, she’s pretty sure. Wasted potential.

But smart, both of them. Good readers, good thinkers, quick on their feet, problem-solvers. The same as much as they were different.

Fucking off from school to sit together somewhere and bitch. Smoke stolen cigarettes, throw rocks in the canal, and feel each other up.

And here they are.

“We’re both doing our fucking best, baby.”
She doesn’t want to think about all the ways this could have gone otherwise. “What do you remember?”

He takes a breath. “I didn’t leave it like… in. Like stuck in. I know that.”

“Okay.” She strokes the back of her hand down his cheek, and he leans into her touch. She’s bleeding, or dripping come onto his leg. She can feel it. “Okay, that’s good.” Good? What the fuck else can she say, she supposes.

“I might have thrown it in the water.”

“Okay.”

“Or… I might have thrown it in a dumpster. Or a garbage can? Laney, I don’t know. I don’t know.” There’s an undertow, a panicked current swirling in his voice now.

“Shhhhh,” she says. “Shhh, it’s okay. Either of those is okay; it is what it is.” Neither of those is okay. Nothing is okay. Obviously. But it is what it is. That much is true. “You can only remember what you can remember.”

She looks for an easier question. One that doesn’t necessarily rely on memory. Rocks her body soft, back and forth, and he goes with her.

“Are there gonna be a lot of people looking for him?” she asks finally. Quiet.

He doesn’t know that either. Someone, he assumes. Everyone has someone.

“I gotta get up,” he says suddenly. Shoves at her a little, drops his cigarette into his mug.

Helaena stands, and he walks right by her and throws up into the sink. Coffee and bile. It takes him a second, standing and heaving and catching his breath, but he rinses it clean. Splashes his face. Swishes and spits water, three times in a row, then chews two Tums. He just stands there at the window, watching the sky.

Helaena stares at him. Comes behind him. Lets her fingers tick up his ribs, climb his spine. “We can be done for a minute,” she says. “Get yourself together. But one more question first, okay?”

He doesn’t look at her, but he nods. Leans over the basin and looks down.

Helaena rests her hand at the center of his back. She feels very naked, and very small, and very sick. There’s a headache stretching around the corners of her eyes. “Who?”

Silence for a beat. Two. Four. Ten. She waits.

“Luke.”

Oh. Oh.

Luke.

Of course.

It would never have been anybody else.

Chapter 4: Weight/Counterweight

Summary:

Once the name comes, the rest of it is easy.

Notes:

We’re just… meandering, guys 😂 if you’re still fucking here you’re a goddamn trooper and I love you 😂

This was initially part of ch 3 but it got broken up in editing because it was hella long. So. It’s 4.

Once the name comes, the rest of it is easy. The story rolls like a snowball down a hill; gathers speed as it goes, and then it’s like he can’t unload it fast enough. Like once it’s out, it’s out, and maybe he can breathe again. Like this is a cancer he’s trying to excise.

But it’s metastasized. Been growing for a
decade, spreading all over his body, spreading into hers every time they touch, spill into one another, share a bed or a straw or a joint. Now it’s come for them both.

Eyeball hadn’t seen that fucking kid since grade school. Since Luke got away with cutting out his eye. A slap on his vicious little boxcutter-wielding wrist, because her fierce, brave, dumb kid brother had come at him first. Broken his nose and cracked his jaw with his ten year-old fist; made an absolute mess of his round-cheeked baby face. The truth was that Luke looked worse at the end of it, even though Aemond lost his whole ass eye. Blood everywhere. Teeth. Dirt. Screaming. Like Lord of the Fucking Flies. Still the nastiest fight Helaena’s ever seen, and she’s seen some shit. That kid’s nose poured like a busted pipe.

He was a bleeder.

She’d wanted to cut the little motherfucker’s neck open herself, watching her baby grip Mama’s bloody shirt and grit his teeth - he still had some fucking milk teeth - while they washed him out and surveyed the mess and stitched him up. He didn’t even fucking cry. Not a goddamn tear. He’d never cry from that side again. They had to take the ducts, too. Most of them. Too much fucking mutilation everywhere.

He can still feel a prickle in some places, if he gets going, he says, but nothing falls. Nothing has anywhere to go. His body just reabsorbs it. All that pain. Not that he cries much, anyway.

Luke’s family had moved after the whole shitshow was over. Helaena has no idea where. He had brothers, though; that she remembers. Two brothers. They were all dark and curly and sweet-looking, and she fucking hated them. Silver-spoon fuckers with a Mama who hugged them more than she slapped them and a Daddy who could work and walk and throw a ball in the yard. They had a yard, too. Lived on a street where everyone had one. Still managed to create a little fucking monster. A fifth-grader who armed himself like a fucking convict.

They’re probably wondering where he is.

He’s dead. At the bottom of the fucking canal. At least, that’s where Helaena hopes he still is.

Eyeball put him there.

How biblical, Helaena thinks, with something almost like amusement. Bitter in her mouth, the irony of it. An eye for an eye, but blown up God-sized. Mama would approve.

She’d been the root of it all, anyway. All her fucking damage. Sin begetting sin and all that shit. The fucking schoolyard spectacle of her. Off her meds and ranting.

Eyeball had loved her too much. Even with two eyes couldn’t see her for what she was.

He saw Luke, though. Saw him coming up the sidewalk as he was leaving Boris’ fucking meth den.

Helaena’s told him a hundred fucking times to stay away from that illiterate, slimy piece of shit. Pot is thirty seconds from legalization and there are a million other, better fucking places to get it. Better people to give his fucking money to. But he’s a creature of habit. And Boris is fucking cheap - because it’s fucking garbage, Eyeball; he cuts in whatever the fuck he scrapes off his shoes she told him - and they’re fucking broke, and what’s done is done now.

So Boris relieved him of the cash he’d gotten from parting out what was left of Waffle’s bike. They’d had it towed to the shop afterwards - the burnt bits, the twisted metal, a few potentially usable parts and some shit they could scrap - and Cris had let Eyeball take it apart on the clock and sell what he could. He hadn’t gotten much from it, but some of what he did, he gave to that lousy son of a bitch. Pocketed his shitty weed, and on his way out the door saw that babyfaced twat coming up the road.

He’d know him anywhere, Eyeball said. Even all grown up. He had the same curls. The same walk. The same crooked, broken nose. It healed poorly. The jaw, too, once he’d seen him close up. It hadn’t set right. Probably chewed all fucked up now.

Her brother had one eye, but his vision’s always been 20/20.

So he’d waited. He couldn’t tell Helaena why, didn’t know why himself; had no fucking idea what his plan was. Put his hood up, stepped off the sidewalk, lit a cigarette. Waited.

Luke walked right by him when he came out and didn’t notice. He’d turned sideways, put his blind side to the wall and leaned so his hand covered the patch and his hood covered the strap. He was tall now; so fucking tall. He’d been a tiny, scrappy thing all those years ago, little fists like fucking hammers. A set of brass knuckle bones.

He’d followed him. Away from the piss stench of the bus stop he’d gotten off at, away from the piss stench of the rehab, away from the piss stench of Boris’ fucking shithole. Luke had gone in and out of there, too, presumably for the same thing. Though it could’ve been other shit. Boris is a fucking entrepreneur, so who knows.

But he’d followed him. He was going towards their apartment, same general direction, though they weren’t close.

Luke never saw him, he says. Not til Eyeball wanted him to.

Helaena believes him.

The sun was going down, clouds coming in fat with rain, and her brother is a fucking cat. Slippery and graceful, light on his feet, quiet.

He used to hide, pop out of shadows and from behind doors and furniture and the broken-down shed and scare the shit out of Helaena. Waffle. Mama, too, until she started beating his ass for it. Had patience and good instincts, knew how to time his body. His motion.

He still does. He’s a goddamn panther, now, though; not a housecat. Skinny frame all muscle, somehow, despite his distinct lack of fucking dietary protein. Another benefit of youth, Helaena supposes.

Good body. Good hands. Short fuse. Dangerous.

Fun in bed, but a fucking menace when he’s mad.

Luke didn’t see him until it was too late. He was already a dead man, but neither of them knew it yet.

“I was just going to… I decided I wanted his fucking eye.”

He finally pauses, here at the fork in the road.

Helaena stares. Both of their cigarettes have burned down to the filters. They’re back at the table now, and she’s thrown on his sweatshirt and a pair of her own leggings. Eyeball’s given up on his coffee and is picking apart a piece of burnt toast. Helaena’s watched him swallow three fingernail-sized bites. She took one of her own, but it didn’t sit right, so she’s just sipping water. The rest of the bread, he’s just tearing up and fidgeting with.

“His eye,” she says.

He nods. Can’t look at her. Slides a finger through the crumbs on his plate. At least they’re clean now. “I dunno, Laney. I wasn’t thinking right. I just kept watching him and getting more and more pissed off. Like, here’s this fucking guy just… just walking back through here like it’s nothing, casual, buying chronic and living his life and dicking around on his phone…”

Helaena’s eyes suddenly go wide. “His phone?”

“Yeah. The whole way.”

“What was he doing?”

“I don’t fucking know. Texting maybe? Playing some stupid game? I didn’t see it. It went into the water with him. First. He dropped it. I remember that.” He lights another cigarette. He’ll be out of his pack soon; will have to start digging through the cabinets.

His hands never shake. All that caffeine, and nicotine, and fear, and rage. They never, ever shake. She wonders if they shook last night. She’d bet they didn’t.

“Baby, I was texting you all night. You were probably fucking pinging all up and down over there. Him, too.” She feels sick. Sicker. She’s seen enough fucking Dateline. If they start digging, they’re gonna find something.

He goes quiet. “You watch too many of those crime shows,” he says. Looks like he doesn’t believe himself. “How much of a fuck do they give about a guy his age dropping off the face of the earth after buying weed? Or pills or coke or whatever that little dickhead was doing?”

He watches too many of those shows, too. They watch them together, curled up in bed on her fucking phone. He humors her, just wants to be close enough to get his hands in her pants, but he pays attention til she starts whining and grinding on his palm and he can’t think straight anymore.

He might be right.

He might be wrong.

Either way, there isn’t anything they can do about it now.

Helaena swallows around the lump in her throat. Eyeball’s tapping and crumb-art is making her fucking nerves rattle, so she takes his hand and starts stroking it slow. Drawing circles in the cup of his palm.

“Maybe,” she says. “Maybe. You’re probably right.” She looks up at him and leans over. Takes her other hand and follows the jagged line past his cheekbone. The tissue is rough. Like he is, still. Long-healed, but still angry. Like he is, still. A lot of it is numb. Like he is, still.

It’s him; this gnarled, deep, old wound. She’d know the press of his cheek from a thousand others in the dark.

“So did you take his eye?” she asks. Whispers. She hopes he did. Hopes he got a little bit of the justice he was denied. Hopes it felt fucking glorious, just for a second, before it didn’t. Hopes Luke had enough time for regret.

It doesn’t feel good, this kind of hope, but it feels a little righteous.

She and her brother have the same blood, after all. There are pieces of him in her. There are pieces of her in him. There’s something strange in their DNA; something in there that twists and twists and twists. Makes a rope. Binds them tight and pretty. Shibari.

Helaena bites her lip.

“No,” he says quietly, and she is the smallest bit annoyed. But she nods, and she listens.

“No. He stopped on the bridge there. Right in the middle, to smoke or something. I dunno. He didn’t get that far. There was nowhere to hide, then. It’s open. So I figured it was as good a time as any.”

He stops. Helaena caresses his palm. Soft fingers. Starts writing her name in the creases. He picks up on it, and his lips turn soft at their corners. The cigarette bounces a little against his teeth.

“I just… walked up to him. He knew who I was right away. The patch, probably. He looked scared for a second, then… not. Probably just startled. Still a fucking short little shit. Five-seven. Five-eight maybe?”

Helaena writes her name again. Draws a heart with her nail while she waits. He closes his eye to feel her better.

“I told him I was gonna take his fucking eye. That’s all. I didn’t want his money or his fucking blow or… whatever. Wasn’t going to kill him. Just… give me your eye, I said.”

He looks at Helaena again. She squeezes his hand. His breathing’s gone funny. When she presses two fingers to his pulse, just because, just to be close to his heart, it’s fast.

“He was still the same, Lane. Still the same nasty little motherfucker. He says What the fuck is wrong with you? Then he laughed. Laughed. Who does that when they get rolled up on in the dark? Then he goes, You turned out just as crazy as she was. And that was it.” He closes his eye. His pulse is all stuttery and wild. Helaena presses it hard, like she’s trying to calm it down.

“Then what?” she asks. They’re holding each other tight, like they’re hanging over someplace high. Like they’re going to save each other or some shit. Like they’ve been trying to do their whole lives.

“Then I stabbed him in the fucking throat and pushed him over. Just… grabbed him by the collar. He looked scared then. I don’t think he realized how strong… I look like a fucking stringbean, right? I pulled him up, and I fucking stabbed him. It was so fast he didn’t even like… I don’t think he realized what was going on. He didn’t fight back at all. It’s not.. it wasn’t as bloody as you think it would be. You saw. That was it. And I heard a splash. When I looked down, I couldn’t see anything, really. The lights there are shitty. But I didn’t hear anything after that. Stood there for a minute, fucking frozen and panicky and… and it was quiet. All quiet. I shoved him really hard. Didn’t like… weigh him down or anything. But there’s so much shit down there, Lane. Underneath.”

He looks at Helaena. She looks at him. Their knuckles are white, and her nails are pressing little moons into his skin, and they are drawn, and exhausted, and ugly, and together.

“Oh, honey,” she says. “Oh, honey.” Then, “No one’s gonna believe that’s an accident.”

Eyeball shakes his head. “It wasn’t. It was. But it wasn’t, not in the way that would matter.” He’s whispering. “There’s probably blood where it happened. Unless the rain washed it off.”

“It rained pretty hard,” she says. She sounds fucking ran-through. Her voice is all gravel.

“I know. I… then I just… came home. Walked home. It took a long time. I don’t remember any of it, really. Still don’t know what I did with the fucking knife.”

She stands up then and walks around the little table. Fits herself into his lap, where his knee is bouncing and his heart is racing and his stomach is swirling and his chest is caving in. Fits in like the beam of a house, sturdy and bracing, keeping the roof from sliding into itself and the walls from tumbling down.

They wind together, the little grasping, ropy tendrils of their peculiar DNA seeking one another, tying the knot. Fingers, and limbs, and the tangles of their undone hair, the same shade of pale. Their tongues. They’re both dry and bitter. They taste like ash. They melt into wet, into heat, into a desperate sweat of a kiss that burns like a bad fever. It does nothing to slow his heart, but it singes the terror from the edges of his nerves. Cauterizes them.

There’s a sound when it breaks, like the air’s torn itself in two. “I wanna eat you up,” she says, mouth against his, eyelashes on his face like spiders’ legs. “They’ll never find you.”

He smiles. He smiles. An uneven, serpentine thing that looks all fucking wrong. But it’s a smile. It moves her lips into its mirror. “Go ahead,” he says. “I wanna die in your fucking mouth.”

She stays there in his lap and wraps around him tight. A bandage for the wound. Uses her tongue to trace the bones in his neck, and the apple in his throat, and the line of his jaw. Fingers the shape of his ear and blows there until his bare arms raise in gooseflesh. Her nails rake it higher, make him shudder.

They kiss until their lips are chapped, and the coffee’s ice cold in the pot, and they are wet and hard and aching and tangled. Until they’ve tied the ropes. Until they’re bound. Until they’re one. The cell before the split.

They don’t tend to the need, just let it fester between them, hot blood like solder. Breath like steam.

When they come up for air, the sun is high enough to force them to acknowledge it, streaming in through the windows and making a prism of Helaena’s water glass. Eyeball pushes his hand flat into its rainbow, lighting his bony knuckles up like Christmas bulbs.

“Tell me what to do, Laneybug. I don’t know what to do.”

She takes a deep breath. She doesn’t either. But they have to start somewhere. “What time do you work?”

“Eleven. Laney, I can’t…”

“I’m gonna call Alys. You’re gonna go in early and get that fucking car running. She’ll drive you. No fucking bus. Whatever… whatever happens next we’re going to want it, I think.”

“Us.”

“What?”

“She’ll drive us. I’m not… I can’t go anywhere alone right now. Okay?”

Helaena’s supposed to go in today at one again. “I’m… I’ll talk to Alys. We’ll figure it out.” She’s not sure she trusts him alone, either. Certainly doesn’t trust herself. The balance of everything is so precarious. Weight and counterweight. “I’ll figure it out. Will you please fucking eat something? There’s rice in the fridge if you can’t do anything more.”

“You haven’t eaten either.”

“I’ll force down some rice. Heat it up. I’ll call Alys.” Helaena gets up to find her phone. Doesn’t even know where the fuck she left it, whether it’s got any fucking charge, nothing.

Eyeball gets up, too. She hears him strike a match as she heads for the bedroom. Swears she can feel the breath he draws. The one he lets go. “Hey, Lane?”

She turns.

He blows a single, perfect O in her direction. “I love you.”

He doesn’t say it the way she says it. Coming and going, fucking and fighting, sprinkled everywhere like salt or sage to keep the bad shit out. The good shit in. A spell.

She says it for them both, but when he says it, it’s just for her.

Chapter 5: The Magician

Summary:

And now it’s time for a smut break.

Or: everyone gets their hood popped

I’ll see myself out.

you covered your soles
and the heels of your hands
hid coins in the lining of your coat

let this not be the last
that I have, you thought
let it not, let it not, let it not

a too-tight lid obstructs
air, traps steam, what breathes
bubbles over or must perish

you did not perish

raised the heels of your hands
to the sky and said I can hold this
to anything that you were given

and for a time you did,
even juggled to make room
for more until your arms grew tired

still you did not perish

raised the heels of your hands
to the sky and said what flows
through me is huge, which is how

what I hold now weighs nothing

— Becoming The Magician
by Sarah Lyn Rogers

 

She’s frustrated, jerking and wriggling against him and panting, whining a little but not that good, satisfied sound that cuts his fucking brain in half. She’s reaching for something that’s not coming, and he’s being so calm. So steady. Trying to help her puzzle it out.

“Fuck. Fuck! You gotta get deeper than that, honey. Fuck. Please. I need you deeper than that.”

They’re in the fucking bathroom at the shop, and it isn’t open yet - Eyeball texted Cris and told him he was gonna work on the car, and Cris told him to grab the spare key and go ahead - so at least it’s clean, but it’s not ideal.

Helaena’s up on the fucking sink, a janky little thing, legs wrapped around his waist, and she can’t get him fucking deep enough. Her goddamn nerves are shot; she’s itchy everywhere, itchy and empty and crawly-feeling, and she needs him up in her fucking throat. Needs him in her, needs him to be her, needs his body to hold her fucking insides in place, and he won’t fucking do it.

He’s trying, biting at her neck and pulling her knees up and up, but it’s not fixing the angle, and she’s getting anxious and twitchy. The sink is knocking, probably chipping the fucking old porcelain against the concrete wall, and it’s dripping, and the sound of it is fraying her even worse.

“Come on!” Her voice is edging towards a sob, and it’s just not fucking working.

“Get up, Laney, get up,” he says, pulling out of her, too abrupt. She actually does sob, then; a wrenched and wretched thing from her chest that makes them both wince. “No, it’s okay, it’s okay, hang on to me,” he mutters into her hair. She wraps around him tight and he pushes out the side door, one hand under her ass, trying to fucking navigate by peering over her shoulder, pants open, holding them up with his fucking cock out.

It opens up to the yard in the back, wide and fenced. Granny’s out there - that’s what Eyeball calls their fucking ancient POS car - along with a bunch of other vehicles in various states of disrepair. He finds one with the hood at the approximate height he needs and tries to wipe off some of the fucking dirt before he sets her bare ass down on it.

“Lay back,” he says. “It’s cold, sorry,” but she doesn’t care. She lays back, and there’s some relief when he pulls her legs up over his shoulders and pushes all the way in, all at once. It’s better. She puts her hands under her a little, support and cushion and height - he’s so fucking tall, she thinks, every time he’s standing over her like this - and it’s better. For a minute. He gets deeper, fits her like he’s meant to.

“Okay?” he asks, giving her a good fucking pounding, hard, an extra lean over her when he shoves his dick in. Slower than usual; quality control.

“Mmhm,” she says, “good, oh Christ,” but it doesn’t last long, and then she’s jerking again. Trying to meet him, twisting, and one of her fists smacks the fucking metal beneath her. “What the fuck,” she says, a gasp and a moan and a chide all mixing together. “Come on. You can do better, I fucking know you can. Deeper. Fucking please!”

“Laney,” he says, his voice riding its own exasperated edge. “I can only go so fucking far in. You’re not a fucking black hole. I’m hitting all your fucking business in there; you can’t feel that?”

But the thing is, she can. He’s knocking her goddamn cervix around; he’s even got her hips tipped up, holding her higher to fuck into the space right under and behind it, trying to get himself as far in as he fucking can, and he’s doing it right. He’s big enough to get there. It’s right but it’s not enough and she wants to cry.

Helaena throws her head back and growls at the gray fucking sky, her nervous system all haphazard, firing at random; her heart rattling her ribs. A fucking lion in a cage. “Fuuuuck!”

It’s not even nine in the morning, and she’s howling for his fucking cock in a goddamn junkyard like a cat in heat. Happy Wednesday. This is her life.

Eyeball puts his hand up, palm to her cheek. She opens her eyes, breathing hard. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

She lifts herself up against him, and she gets easy pressure on her clit when she tenses her belly and leans, but that’s not what she wants. She looks at him, helpless. “It’s not you.”

He strokes her face, soft, tucks his hips forward, up on his toes and angled good. “I’m all the way back,” he says, quiet. “Right up against you in there. What don’t you feel? What’s missing?”

He’s so good sometimes. So fucking good. She still wants to cry. “It’s not… enough? I don’t know.”

But he gets it. She sees the mechanisms of his brain turn and click. “You don’t need it deeper,” he says. Smiles a funny little smile at her. “You need more of it.”

Sometimes her own body can’t fucking organize itself. Her senses go all wonky, tell her stuff but mean something else, and nothing travels the right pathway, and she can’t sort her shit out. It’s worse when she’s fried. Nervous. Underfed and underslept, worked up. In a state where she needs to be railed six times sideways to get straightened out.

Eyeball knows it. “I got you, Laney,” he says, suddenly all patience. All Daddy. “I got you. Relax. I got you.” He strokes down the back of one thigh, sweet as anything, and his other hand, the one at her cheek, spreads wide to get a thumb in her mouth. “Suck,” he says.

Helaena does. Nice and obedient; her fucking pussy throbbing around him. She feels the switch flip, all the circuits in her body connecting. It’s good now. It’s good. He’s gonna take care of her. Figure her out. She’s gonna let him. She closes her eyes again, feels his thumb press down into her tongue, and she makes a pleased little hum around it and sucks. He was right. It’s better, a little. He’s fucking deep, cunt and mouth - pressing back now, towards her throat, and it’s delicious. It’s better.

“Good girl,” he says, soft. Moves a little, in and out of her, both ends, only halfway, feels her whimper and bite and grab at him. His wide fucking thumb and his big fucking dick. “There you go. Better?”

She nods. Sucks harder, follows him when he pulls back. Tugs at the back of his neck with her ankles.

“Good girl,” he says again. He lifts the hand at her thigh up to his mouth. Spits on his fingers. She hears it, doesn’t see it, but she knows what he’s up to. Tenses and growls a little in her throat. “I got you. I’m not gonna hurt you. Okay? One finger, just a little, and you’ll be good everywhere. Okay?”

“Mmmhm.” It’s a whine again, but this one’s the good one. The gimmegimme. The oh Daddy yes, and her whole body goes fucking hot, turns into dripping molten fucking fire for him. He’s got her. He’s solved her mess, and he’s gonna turn her right the fuck out. Right here. Outside on the fucking hood of some asshole stranger’s ugly car, at his fucking job, and she almost laughs. Another day, she would. Loud and raunchy. But today she’s just here for the fucking reset. Just here to be filled up and fucked to baseline.

He’s so slow. So gentle. One finger, like he said, lots of spit, lots of wet, fucking her pussy all slow and sloppy as he goes; his fucking dick all the way out, then all the way in, playing a little with her. With himself. It distracts her but it focuses her, too, and she can’t fucking parse it out but it doesn’t matter. He knows what he’s doing. It’s everything. Everything. She feels slick little circles first; bites down on him when she feels his fingertip, then a little more, then he’s in her fucking ass to his knuckle and he’s got her. He’s got her.

“Oh, Daddy,” she says, mumbling around him, and there’s another finger in her mouth now, too. Helaena has no idea how he’s working it. She can feel one palm braced right under her ass, and the hand by her head is on its side, precarious, her face turned towards it, but that’s it, and the rest is just a fucking prayer, she guesses. So she helps. Starts talking to God.

He’s not listening. He’s got nothing to say to either of them anymore, she’s sure, and He probably can’t understand her around her brother’s big fucking fingers jammed in her mouth anyway, but she talks. Oh my god oh my god oh god, then fuck, then she’s crying again. Tears and a tight ringing high in her mouth, in her palate and behind her cheekbones. But it’s good, and Eyeball knows it; can tell from the pitch and the moan and the clench of her that it’s good, that she’s crying because everywhere else, everywhere but her eyes is just full, so he doesn’t stop. Just stays inside, keeps her whole.

Her cunt and her mouth and her ass, and then her ears are rushing, full of blood and the sound of her own unraveling, and even her nose is full; the smell of cheap bathroom soap on his hands and his shampoo from the hair come undone and falling in her face. He’s everywhere.

When she says more - and she is; maybe still to God, or to him, or to both of them, if they’re different, and right now she doesn’t know if that’s true, if it ever was true - this is what she means. Overwhelm me. End me. Make me disappear.

She wonders which hand he used on Luke. Thinks it’s probably the one in her mouth. He’s a righty. She chokes on the thought of it, gags a little, but he likes that shit. Pushes back a little further, and his hips fucking stutter like he might come, but he doesn’t yet. She sucks his fingers more, then they come forward a little, just grip her bottom teeth while he adjusts himself, and she can taste salt. His skin, her tears, whatever.

He’s fucking her good, getting that fucking cat-tongue-rough spot inside her when he slides in, deep as hell, pushing up with the finger in her ass to give her moremoremore, give her what she couldn’t figure out she needed. It’s perfect. It’s the fucking high school locker combination she could never remember; the one she always had to ask him for. He knew.

Her scared little boy; her angry and lost and maimed and hot-blooded brother; her fucking Magician of a lover; this goddamn chaotic disaster of a man who put a knife in someone’s throat and bled him out in the water. He knows her. Can read her code, write a love letter to her in its language. Is doing it now, despite his own bullshit.

He’s all she’s ever had, and he makes her tremble before him like a child sometimes. Buckles her knees. Makes all the cups of her body run over, desire spilling and spilling and spilling, pooling with the despair that’s always leaking from somewhere.

He can’t make it home at night without losing control, losing his shit, losing an eye or his temper or losing everything, but he can fucking walk her home. Can’t hold his own reins, but he can fucking hold hers. Can find the wailing, desperate need in her and tame it; break it like a wild horse and ride it calm. Can give her what she wants and tell her who she is.

He takes his fingers out of her mouth, leans down on his elbow and tangles them in her hair. “All better now? Are you gonna come for me, pretty girl?” he asks, and of course she is. Of course his voice is all she needs to get her there.

“Yes, Daddy,” she says, tears still stinging. But they’re gonna clear her fucking head, wash off the grime, help her see. “Yes Daddy, yes Daddy, oh fuck yes yes yes,” and then she does. Like a motherfucking freight train. Everything she’s been storing in her fucking body just comes tearing right through it, and out of it, and she takes him with her.

But he pulls out to watch himself. Comes all over her belly. Makes that noise she fucking loves, and it’s enough to make up for the space he leaves inside of her. The lovely, eternally-startled pleasure in his sharp little oh, like a smoke ring.

She wants to fucking eat him. She is starving for his fucking bones.

“Fuck,” she says. Fucked-up and sprawled out and tear-streaked and come-spattered and exhausted. Not much blood at all. Her period’s just about over. It’s like that, a gush to a trickle. She’s glad he didn’t come in her. She’s so exhausted.

He licks it off, slow, like they have all day. Like someone’s not gonna come strolling in early at any fucking time. Like his fingerprints, literal or not, aren’t all over a dead kid in a canal. Tongue in her navel. Teeth nudging and pinching her soft belly. He’s tired, too. She can tell by the way he cleans her up; the lazy nuzzle of his cheek. The way he bows to her, forehead to hipbone, and sucks. Tries to get right under her skin. Back where he belongs. He’s scratchy. He needs a shave. He’s so, so tired.

And there are miles to go before they sleep. Miles and miles and miles to go.

His spit turns cold on her in the autumn morning, fast once her blood’s stopped making rapids like a river and they’re not trapping air between their bodies. He pulls her up to sit, leans against the fender and holds her for a minute.

There’s nothing decent to wipe up with, so she bends down a little, does it with her mouth and puts him back into his jeans while he combs through her hair with his fingers. “Fucking nest,” he says, affectionate, pulling at a knot. She feels it slip apart, turn to silk under his touch. “You good?” he asks when she straightens up. Like he just did her fucking alignment.

It’s like that sometimes. Maintenance.

“Better,” she says. “I dunno about good.”

“Roger that,” he says. Raises a brow.

“Get started on the car, okay? I’ll go find my fucking pants and make coffee.”

When Helaena comes back out, he’s got Granny’s front doors wide open and the hood up. She balances a paper cup on the bumper of another car for him. “It’s only piss-warm but it does the job,” she says. “It’s just the fuckin’ starter right?”

“There’s a fucked up connection with the battery, too, but I can rig that with a nail,” he says, cigarette bobbing in his teeth. “Not gonna fuckin’ worry about that shit right now. Just gonna replace the starter and that should do it. It’s a fucking pain in the ass with a manual, but I should’ve just done it already.”

“Do you need help?”

“I’ll tell you if I need little hands for something.” He smiles at her, a tight thing, but it warms her up. Better than shitty, single-serve shop coffee. Helaena slides into Granny’s backseat and lights her own cigarette, pulling the hood of his sweatshirt around her.

It’s past nine now. All these motherfuckers are late. They always are. Cris gives everyone else shit about their punctuality but he’s the fucking worst, rolling up whenever it suits him. He does too much fucking blow, Eyeball told her. Unreliable. Mean sometimes. Jumpy as fuck, screwball fucking eyes. Too much church, not enough Jesus, like Pop says.

He was Daddy’s friend; spent a bunch of time trying to get into Mama’s pants after he died - Helaena thinks he succeeded; both her brothers disagree - but he gave Eyeball a job, doesn’t pay him too bad, taught him how to pull apart cars and put them back together so they run. They get along okay, even if he gives Helaena the fucking creeps.

She doesn’t really want to see him. Doesn’t really want to see anyone.

Even Alys was almost too much. Alys is a lot of things, but too much usually isn’t one of them. She’s mellow and dark, like a blunt with a whiskey chaser, and Helaena likes her better than most people. Not today. Not now. Alys and her knowing had set Helaena’s teeth on edge. She didn’t like anything about those big, inky pupils and the way she asked if they were okay. That perfect arch in her perfect brow. Definitely didn’t like not knowing how much Alys knew, and definitely wasn’t going to have that conversation.

She did appreciate the ride, though. Didn’t even mind sitting in the back seat, making her long-legged brother take the brunt of Alys’ casual scrutiny. That would usually prickle her, but better him than her today, she thought, however unwise. He’d handled her fine. Polite and quiet.

She’d dropped them off with muffins, some kind of pumpkin-y things, and they’d managed to split one, even keep it down, before Helaena had demanded that Eyeball fuck her stupid.

That’s what she said to him. Swiped a finger over the crumbs on his pretty lower lip and said I need you to fuck me stupid; I can’t even fucking breathe right. My fucking lungs are too dry or something. He knew what she meant. He fucked them nice and loose and wet again.

She can cross her legs now. Can use her fingers right. Swallow her spit. He fucked her back to human. For now.

Twice before nine is a lot even for them, but shit isn’t exactly normal. It suddenly feels dangerous to be separate. For his hands to be anywhere but on her; for the lock of her body to sit empty, its key floating around somewhere out of sight.

Helaena watches her brother through the V of the open door. Watches his clever fingers, his serious eye, the cherry of his cigarette. The outline of the folding knife in his back pocket. The one poking up from his boot. Two now, he’s carrying. Two. He’s gone sharper, not blunted.

She listens to him cuss while he fights with the sticky ratchet.

There’s Daddy in him. All kinds of Daddy. In his sharp features, his laugh, the way he says her name. The way he’s a fixer, and a doer, and a trier.

But there’s Mama, too. That temper of his is all her. The way a grudge can simmer. The way his devotion breathes fire.

That part, Mama gave her, too.

She takes the cards from her bag. Flips through. Turns her Eyeball-card over and over and over through her hands. Tucks the Magician into the back of her leggings, right against her spine.

Helaena closes her eyes; hones in on the sound of his clanking and clacking and working and cursing. Fingers the neat little hickey he left on her neck. Feels all the screws in her body twist and turn and twist and turn and twist.

Chapter 6: Kismet

Summary:

“It’s ours,” he says. “At least half of it. Yours and mine. You know that’s what he was thinking. You know it, Lane.”

Notes:

There’s a destination, I swear. We’re just gonna take our time. What’s the rush? Relax and have some gummy worms. 🤦🏼‍♀️

Helaena startles herself awake, eyes springing open from the jolt of something in her dream that dissipates before she can grab onto it. It’s better that way. There’s been nothing worth keeping in them lately, anyway, and it’s a relief to not remember.

She hadn’t meant to drift, and it takes her a minute to reorient herself. When she does, she’s in Granny’s back seat, curled on her side with the greenish grayish trunk blanket tucked around her. It smells vaguely musty, smells of the dark, and it’s scratchier than the one on their bed. It pricks oddly at her skin, which is why it lives in the trunk. It’s warm, though, and Eyeball’s tucked it carefully, she realizes as she untangles herself. Tried not to lay too much of it against her where she’s bare. It’s under her arms, away from her chin, and the back of his hoodie’s inside her leggings to protect her back. She smiles a little, before the wholeness of consciousness comes for her.

Something edged and plasticky presses into her chest, and when she sits up and feels for it, she pulls the card she’d stuck in her pants. There’s two now, bent together in the strap of her bra. Her Queen of Cups, his Magician, stuck face-to-face over her heart.

She smoothes them out; thinks she’ll have to lay them in a book to take the creases out.

It’s a bit much. He’s kissing up. But if he’s not gonna do it now, when the fuck is he, she supposes. Sometimes he’s just like that, though. Like his whole life’s a fucking apology for something.

The car’s idling, the heat on low, and he’s left her a bag of some kind of generic gummy candy shit on the giant fucking leather console, too.

It’s fixed. Engine even sounds halfway decent; she thinks he must have changed the plugs. Didn’t even wake her up when he turned it over. Good, she thinks. Good. It’ll get them wherever they decide to go. If they decide to go. When.

Helaena sits up and tears the bag along its perforated slit. The first ring she pulls is red, and she stuffs it back in to save for Eyeball. The next one is blue and she pops it between her teeth, sucks it first to get it soft. Sticks her tongue through its center. She likes them to dissolve; to sugar up her mouth and turn her into a muddy rainbow.

The sun is high now, probably noon or one-ish. The longest solid stretch of sleep she’s had in a minute.

The car is too warm, heat on and sun baking through the fucking windows, so she leans over and pops the handle to get some air. Peers out.

“Hey, baby,” she says. He’s not gone far. Has his back to her, rummaging around a toolbox that she can tell doesn’t belong to him. It’s a mess; she can hear his fingers searching and the annoyance in his low mutter. Talking to himself.

Eyeball looks over his shoulder at her. “Hey. You slept.” He stops what he’s doing and just stares.

“Mmhm. You put me to bed. Your turn later, okay?” Her voice is still sticky with waking, the jelly in her mouth making it worse.

He shakes his head at her. “No. I think… I think I’m gonna have to drive, Lane.”

Granny’s a manual, but that’s not the problem. Daddy taught them all how to drive a stick, before they were old enough to learn, even. He was afraid he was gonna drop dead, and he wanted to make sure they could do it. Sat in the passenger seat as soon as they could reach the pedals and walked them through, and Helaena’s no different.

Granny’s particular, though. Has a fondness for Eyeball. Likes to stall and buck and spit under anyone else’s touch, but he’s her man. Gets her going nice and juicy, can ride her as hard or as fast as he needs to, and she obeys him like a sweet little sub.

Helaena’s another story. Helaena brings out the rowdy bitch in her, and it’s always a fight. She can wrangle her if she absolutely has to, but neither of them enjoys it. Eyeball’s tried to show her the tricks, but they only work for him. Him and those good, good hands.

“What are you talking about?” she asks. She’s not fond of the look on his face. Weird and blank, like she’s gonna have to write something on it, and she doesn’t know the language.

He wipes his hands on his jeans and comes towards her. Gestures her over and slides in, pulling the door shut behind him. Cups her knee with his broad palm, and it’s steady, but the touch is too light. Spidery. His version of a tremble. “I dunno. I don’t… I’m no good at this. I can’t fucking think straight, can’t do shit. You know how long it took me to replace the starter and the plugs? I only finished like forty-five fucking minutes ago. I thought Cris was gonna hammer my fucking head in, but he let me finish. Asked me what the fuck was wrong with me today. Why you were here.” His fingers are tapping an anxious rhythm on her knee. His other thumb is flicking at the filter of his cigarette, gentle so he doesn’t ash all over the place.

“It’s only… stuff just happened. Okay? No one… if you were good at it, that’s a problem right? What are you talking about, you gotta drive? Where are you going?” She swallows her mouthful of rubbery goop and looks at him.

“I don’t know. Haven’t gotten that far yet. I just… when he started shit with me I wanted to fuckin’… I felt like… maybe it could happen again.” He’s staring out the window. Won’t look at her.

“It didn’t though.”

“Nope. Not this time.”

“Not ever.” His knee is bouncing. Helaena watches the knife in his boot ride up and down with his heel. “Look at me,” she says, but he doesn’t. Just turns his head farther. She’s on his blind side, can’t see his expression. “Fucking look at me.” She grabs his fucking chin, hard, and he finally turns. His eye is funny. “Not ever. Not ever fucking again.”

“Listen,” he says. “There’s more I gotta tell you. Not here. Later.”

Helaena’s stomach drops, hard; hits her tailbone and spits bile up into her throat. Eyeball sees her face turn pale and sick and panicky, and he grabs at her knee again, fingers wide.

“No no no no no, no. Not… it’s not like that. It’s nothing bad. I meant to tell you before but like… other shit kinda took precedence. I don’t want to say it here. I dunno, fuckin’ ears everywhere or whatever. I’ll tell you later. I gotta go do some fucking work. You need anything?”

The list of what she needs is long. Long and full of shit no one on Earth can fucking give her. Not even him. “No,” she says. “No I’m good.” She hooks a finger into the bag, splits it further, pulls him out a red gummy ring. He opens, and she pops it into his mouth, drags a finger over the cut of his front teeth. “I’m good. You do what you gotta do. What did you tell Cris, by the way? About why I’m here?”

“You’re sick and I didn’t want to leave you alone.”

“You need me to puke? I could probably make that happen.”

He looks at her, mouth twisted into a wry smile, all sad at its corners. “Shut the fuck up, Laney.”

Helaena blows him a kiss, and he shuts the door, leaving it cracked a little for the air.

She doesn’t sleep again, just closes her eyes and drifts in and out of the liminal space. The blur of noise and light and shadow and heat. Of here and not, then and now, who she is and who she was. Who she is with him. Who she might be without.

Gets that weird falling sensation, that hiccup when her body tries to downshift.

Waits for time to pass.

*****

In the end, Cris sends him home early. Says he’s more trouble than he’s worth today, and Eyeball can’t really fucking argue. Blames it on his sister, says he’s worried about her, but Cris doesn’t buy it. Pretends he does.

It doesn’t matter. They go.

He gets Granny going, pops her up into neutral, then first; a slow, easy slide. Pats the dash and says good girl, and she purrs at him and rolls into second, nice and wet.

Helaena watches him work, looks for the sleight of hand, but as always, it eludes her. “You two got a weird fucking vibe,” she says. “If this fucking thing could suck your dick you’d drop me off somewhere and fuckin’ run away together.”

Eyeball smiles a little. “Good thing she can’t then. Nobody wants a fucking rusty blow job anyway, no worries. Fucking dick tetanus or something.”

Helaena laughs. It’s real. A little rattly in her unused throat, but real. She reaches for his thigh, lets her fingers run up the seam there and worry it. His muscles jump, startled, and she smiles. Puts a gummy against his lips. Red again. They’re the only ones he likes. He pulls his cigarette out so he can chew on it.

Helaena lets her fingers wander up and down, knee to groin and back again; one side and then the other. Feels his legs move with the press of the gas. Brake. Clutch. Nothing special, but the fucking car obeys him every time.

She watches his hand on the gearshift, leftover grime in the ridges. He smells like grease and smoke and metal. Soap, too. That cheap bathroom stuff that was all up in her mouth.

“Stop,” he says. Swats at her hand when she gets mischievous, palms between his legs. He’s half hard already from her screwing around; she can feel it bumping her when they turn. “Wait’ll we fucking get home at least. I just fixed this shit; I’m not wrecking it already.”

Helaena grins, half-cocked, and puts her hand back on his thigh. Puts her feet up on the dash. “What do you need to tell me?” she asks.

He takes a drag from his cigarette. Blows it slow, all nose. Doesn’t answer. “Where would you go, if you could go anywhere?”

“Anywhere?”

“Anywhere. Right now.”

Helaena thinks for a minute. “I haven’t seen enough to say, I don’t think,” she finally says. “Couldn’t tell you a name of a place or anything. But. Somewhere gray, and moody, and sexy, I think. Rain. Fog in the morning, but you can see the moon at night. Quiet. Good coffee somewhere close. A bathtub, and a balcony, and a big bed. You gotta take a ferry or something to get there. A beach, the fuckin’ rocky kind that stinks like seaweed. Maybe a castle, or an old mansion, or like, an old graveyard close by. The kind where the graves had bells, in case someone fucking woke up. Something haunted, you know?” She cuts her gaze sideways and sees his smile. Fierce and warm and affectionate. A little awe. Like he’s surprised by her still, sometimes. “No nosy fucking neighbors,” she continues. Pauses. “No fucking cops.”

Eyeball taps his fingers on the steering wheel. Taps and taps and taps. Taps for a mile, at least, through the half-bustling streets, quiet, thinking and smoking and thinking more, til he throws on the blinker. Shifts down, effortless, and reins Granny in to an easy stop. Parks by their building. “I mean. How much is too much?”

“Too much what?” she asks, her eyebrows closing together.

“Too much… wrong, I guess? You do something like… like what I did, right? And maybe you can fix it - well not fix it, but maybe fix it for you - but you gotta fuck something else up first. Does it just keep going from there? Or do you think it could stop, you know, after the second thing? Or… does the interest just keep growing? You keep owing more, and you can’t get out from under. Like those stupid student loans Waffle owes that never go down?”

Helaena narrows her eyes more. “What are you talking about, baby? English.”

He cuts the engine. Butts his cigarette against the old, brown glass tray in the console. “Mama’s got money. A shitload. A shitload, Laney. Waffle told me. Dad’s life insurance, all in cash.”

“What?” That can’t be right, she thinks. Mama is broke as a fucking joke. Always has been. Used Daddy’s insurance to bury him and said that was all they had. Bitched about how he left them fucking high and dry.

Eyeball nods. “She’s real bad again. Real bad. Lying like a fucking rug. Dad left a bunch behind. All in her name, of course, because you know. Dad. She took everything out of the bank from the ATM, little bits every day, Waffle said. There’s a limit and shit. She went around every day to like a fucking hundred ATMs and took cash and like… it’s all in that house. She doesn’t trust the bank. Bad, he says. Paranoid as fuck.”

Helaena looks at him. “Waffle told you that?” He’s been living with Mama. The only one who talks to her.

“Yeah.”

“He’s a fucking idiot. He’s fucking with you. Why would he fucking tell you that?”

“Because he can’t fucking get to it anymore, and he wants me to.”

“Wants you to what?” Helaena’s got her hand over his on the shift, and she’s tapping now. Tick-tocking on his wrist, fidgeting for the pulse there, climbing the bright blue vein that runs up the pale inside of his arm. Presses out with blood. Full of their strange DNA.

“Get it. Laney… he.. it’s ours. It’s fucking ours! You know that’s what Dad left it for. And she fucking knows it! She knows how we’ve been fucking living; she…”

“She doesn’t know shit about us,” Helaena says, her voice rising. Cutting him off. Her chest is suddenly full, and hot, and too big. Uncorked. She feels like a fucking dragon. Like she just fucking woke up on fire. “She doesn’t know anything about you or about me or about how we fucking live or what we fucking do. We fucking fooled around under her nose for fucking years, baby. In her house. In her bed! You fucking got me… no. No. She doesn’t know, and she doesn’t fucking care. She’d give us fuck-all even if she did know.”

Her nails are in his skin, now. Deep, but he doesn’t care.

“You’re right,” he says. “No, you’re right. She doesn’t care. Listen… Waffle. He doesn’t look good, Lane. Could barely hear him, looks like shit. He’s got some kind of infection. Wore his ass out just to talk to me for ten minutes. I’m… I dunno if he’s…” His voice just fades.

Helaena relaxes her grip. “Sorry, honey,” she says, rubbing her hand over the marks like she’s trying to erase them.

Eyeball shakes his head, dismissing her. Squeezes at her fingers. “I think he thinks he’s gonna die. And he’s having a fucking attack of conscience or something. That’s why he told me. He knows it’s ours. All of ours.”

They look at each other, quiet. Breath fogging up the windows. They’re both running hot now.

“How much?” Helaena finally asks.

“I don’t know. He didn’t know. A lot. Fucking wads of cash, he says. Shoved all over. Like some crazy fucking movie, if you believe him.”

Helaena shrugs a little. Tries to talk herself out of her next move. “Could be gone by now, even if it’s true. Fucking crazy bitch could’ve wired it all to the Philippines. Who the fuck knows.”

“Maybe.” He raises his brow at her. Brings her hand to his mouth. Kisses it. Lets his tongue slip down between two knuckles, a little wet press that feels like he’s giving her fucking hand head. Same kinda slow, heady drag. Helaena feels it in her cunt. “Maybe not,” he says.

“Maybe not.” She sounds odd. Thready.

“It’s ours,” he says. “At least half of it. Yours and mine. You know that’s what he was thinking. You know it, Lane.” He’s rubbing at the wet spot on her skin. Circles. Her toes curl.

She nods. He’s right. If it’s true, she knows Daddy. Knows what he wanted for them.

Eyeball draws a heart in the fog on the window, thick and lopsided. It drips a little like blood. “We could get out of here, Laneybug. We could just go. It’s like kismet or something. Right?” His voice is low. Dropped a register; dropped close to a whisper. She wants to lick it out of his throat.

“I wanna talk to Waffle,” she says after a long silence. “I don’t fucking trust him.”

He nods. “Soon, okay? I’m telling you, it’s not good.”

Helaena closes her eyes. “Fucking asshole,” she says. “Stupid motherfucker. I’ll fucking kill him myself.”

She leans her head sideways, and Eyeball leans into her. He closes his eye, too. Their breath comes even, matches up, seeks the other. Lungs to lungs. In and out.

She walks her fingers all over his face. Traces his nose, the soft line of his lips, his furrowed scar. Slips under his patch and fingers it there, too. Tiptoes along his jaw. When she’s done, she finds the sturdy bones of his neck. Follows them to the hollow, where the throb of his body greets her. Searches out his clavicle with its long, graceful arc and drags a nail across. Slides low under his shirt to the familiar flat of his sternum. Taps and taps, gentle like rain.

He sighs.

The window fogs over again, until the heart there is just a shadow, and the blood drops thin out like water.

Chapter 7: Nostalgia

Summary:

Let’s have sex and trauma dump!

Notes:

Another one of those ‘this was too long so I made it into two’ chapters 🤷🏼‍♀️

“In the heat of her hands I thought, this is the campfire that mocks the sun. This place will warm me, feed me and care for me. I will hold on to this pulse against other rhythms. The world will come and go in the tide of a day but here is her hand with my future in its palm.”
— from Written on the Body by Jeannette Winterson

 

There’s enough pot for another night, so after they eat - they split Alys’ tofu, finally; they keep it down; Eyeball chews three Tums but it works - they just get fucking blazed.

He only wants to give it to her tonight, though. Not take it. Sucks it way deep, way slow, and lets it go into her mouth. Over and over. She sits in his lap in the kitchen, lets him lean her down low, takes all his fucking breath. All his smoke. Lets him hold her while her muscles go to liquid.

He’s on some kind of trip; wants to be more her man and less her little brother, probably because of that shit this morning, and she lets him. Even if it’s just because he’s feeling guilty. Or helpless. Or out of control. Especially if that’s it. She lets him. It feels good to give in. She fucking lets him.

They get high and they get naked, and she giggles when he scoops her up and carries her to bed. Wraps her arms around his neck like she’s sixty pounds and seven years old, and he’s strong enough that she feels like she is.

They can’t agree on whose mouth is gonna go where first, so they just do it at the same time.

He comes way too fucking fast that way. It’s a joke. They rarely do it because of that; it’s hardly worth the work to arrange themselves for it. But when he’s high he can go a little longer, so they just do it.

He lays flat and Helaena climbs on top of him, and he’s got his tongue in her fucking cunt before she can even lean forward to take him. She giggles again, kicks out her foot like a dog getting a good fucking scratch, kick kick kick into the wall, and he doesn’t care. Sucks at her. Pulls her clit out of its little hiding spot with his lips and it’s too much, too fast. His tongue pokes at it, and she yelps as she gets down on her hands. She can feel him smiling, his lips wide, opening hers. It’s so good. She pushes back into him, into his perfect wet mouth and just wants to die.

But then she remembers she has work to do, so she licks the head of his fucking cock, gets all that mess that’s already gathered there, and then he’s the loud one. Everything wants to be slow and hazy, but she knows she has about ninety seconds before he’s coming down her fucking throat, so she tries to focus. To enjoy it.

She trails her fingers over his little spiders as she takes him. She named them once - probably more than once, probably ten times - but she can’t remember now, doesn’t care, just ticks along them, rubs, feels the slight raise in his skin from the ink. Barely perceptible, but she perceives.

He’s noisy. Something about it, being up to his fucking ears in her while she sucks him off, just loosens all his fucking bolts. It’s all fucking muffled, sloppy sounding, but he’s a happy boy. Stringing vowels together like a strand of pearls that glides over her, bumpbumpbump, hitting everything as they go and making her moan around his fucking dick. Then that just makes him crazier, hips up, getting way back into her; it gets her gagging on his cock and grinding on his loud fucking face, and it’s a mess. He can’t last. Comes like he’s fifteen.

She doesn’t care. It’s worth it, just to hear him all undone and running at the mouth. Even better when she’s fucked up; it has color and texture and depth, all that sound, and it’s beautiful.

He’s so far in she barely tastes it. Just feels it, warm in her throat, sharp stuttering hips hophophopping up, big open mouth on her fucking pussy. Hears it, fuckfuckfuckfuckFUCK, the fucking slap of his open palm against her ass because he doesn’t know what the hell to do with himself. The sting, the godDAMN. The dig of his fingertips. Her name. Jesus FUCK, Laney.

She could die. She really could.

She giggles instead. Pops off and grins back at him.

“You’re fucking whipped,” she says, and he laughs. He laughs, right against her. All wet. She didn’t think she’d ever hear that again, but here it is.

“Get back on my dick,” he says. “I wanna get soft in you,” and she kisses it. Lets him in again. Licks a little, and he shudders and licks at her, too; back to business.

After a minute, he’s softer, spent and oversensitive and trying to move her off of him and onto her back. She goes, scooting and leaning on the wall to give him room. He curls between her legs, and that’s where he stays.

Licks her with his heavy, lazy tongue, slow. She doesn’t want to come. She just wants to crest and crest and crest, ride the fucking pleasure of his mouth for hours, approaching and descending and approaching and descending, over and over and over. She tells him that. No not yet not yet please, and he listens. Backs off. Circles the entrance to her body with a fingertip, a tongue; traces all the curves of her, nudges her slippery thighs with his nose, kisses her, mouth open, a hot cup over her clit that doesn’t touch it with anything but breath.

She’s gone. Just gone. She doesn’t know how long it goes on like this, but eventually he laughs again. Says his jaw is sore, and does she wanna fucking see God now, and she says yes. And then she does. It’s so big it steals everything from her, even her voice, and she fucking sees God, just like he promised. White light and everything. Flashes behind her eyes like a camera.

The aftershocks go on til morning. He snuggles into her thigh and stays there. Just passes out, curled up as small as his big body gets, with her almost upright at the wall.

Helaena’s too fucked-out and blazed to give a shit about anything, so she pulls a pillow up behind her and kicks the blanket over his lower half with a foot. He’s so hot she doesn’t need one.

She stays wet. Dripping. Three seconds from coming again every time she stirs. His breath is on her, or his cheek, or his nose. Nuzzling right up into her cunt, her thigh. Hair tickling her. It’s the sexiest thing she’s ever fucking felt. She hovers at the edge of it all fucking night, squeezing herself around nothing but her own half-conscious desire, rocking him in the cradle of her hips.

In the morning, early, she is nothing but an ache. A need that’s built itself to madness.

He wakes, bleary, to her nudging him and near panting. He draws one sleepy finger down the length of her, finds her wide open and trembling for him. Rises over her, hard from sleep. Enters her. That’s enough. That’s all it takes, the drag of his body through the rim of blunted nerves there. The sound she makes, the tightness of her as she pulls into herself, pulls him into her, and shatters into a thousand points of light makes him gasp.

Jesus, Laney he says, morning voice scratchy and rough. Jesus. You want it so bad. Puts his forehead to hers, fucks her through it as she comes all around him. You want it so bad, he says again, you’re so wet what the fuck and she makes noises at him. Little affirmative m-sounds, lifting her hips to his, wrapping her legs.

Oh my god oh my god you fucking want it, and somewhere it changes to I want it, and what’s the difference anyway, you or I or us or we, and he gives it to her. Everything in him awake now, fastfastfast as her finish fades away, and he’s chasing his own, mumbling to her, I want it I want you you want it you want it, then it’s do you want it? and yes she does, she wants it, yes.

She feels his muscles ratchet up, twist tight and she says don’t come in me.

I got nothing left, he tells her, deep and hard, gritty rhythm picking up.

You’ll find some, and he does. Pulls out just in time, and there’s just a little, but it ends up on the sheets.

Oh my god, she says.

Oh my god, he says back.

I want you.

You have me.

Okay, she says. Okay, and he wraps around her body like a vine. They doze, sticky breath on sticky skin, for another hour.

*****

Morning comes quietly again. They’re drinking coffee in the kitchen, sharing a cigarette while the ghost of their last conversation flits around them. Circles like a shark. They ignore it.

Helaena has a question.

“Do you ever think about them?”

Eyeball doesn’t ask who. He knows who. They talk through a version of this a few times a year. It seems to come out of nowhere. No trigger. It always starts this way.

Her babies. Their babies.

Helaena was nearly fifteen; he was nearly fourteen, and they’d only been fucking - the cock and cunt and come kind - for less than three months. Stupid assholes, fumbling fucking kids too scared or embarrassed to steal condoms and too inexperienced to make the pull-out shit even half as effective as it is on its best day. Which isn’t much, anyway. He’d been terrible at it at first, missed at least as much as he hit. Got some of it on her thighs, or her belly, or whatever, but the first bit got in her more than it didn’t.

And then he got two fucking babies in her at once. A real overachiever.

She’d suspected it, was late by a lot, but had been trying to ignore it, thinking maybe it’d just take care of itself. Probably some kinda genetic disaster. Probably wouldn’t survive.

If she kept her eyes closed, the day just wouldn’t start.

But then she started puking. Nonstop. All day long. Mama took her to the ER after five days of it, dehydrated and weak, and there’d been two gummy bear looking things on the screen with tiny flickering hearts. Fast. Fast like Eyeball’s when he’s about to lose it all inside of her, or on her belly, or in her mouth. Faster maybe.

Strong little things.

Hyperemesis gravidarum and an IV and an abortion. Diagnosis and treatment.

The nurse did the checklist, had the chat alone with her, followed all the protocol, but there’d never really been a choice. What else was she supposed to do? Add two more people to the fucking shit sandwich that was their family? No.

Mama had hit the fucking roof. Daddy, too. Helaena had been glad that they were in the hospital when she found out, because otherwise Mama might’ve fucking killed her. Solved three problems at once.

Instead, she’d screamed and thrown things and slapped Helaena’s face until her fucking teeth felt loose once they got home.

Eyeball had stood there, steam seeping from his ears, and Helaena had watched the lenses click into place. Watched him finally see her. Watched his head go hot and his heart go cold.

She’d healed all up by the time she went in to have it taken care of. Well. Mostly. Still had a little faded black eye, and they’d gotten one of their annual fucking CPS swing-bys shortly after.

Helaena never told. Sat stoic through all of it. Insisted - insisted - that she was a virgin. Blessed Mary come again. Maybe she sat on a dirty toilet seat or maybe they’d just sucked the next Messiah out of her with a fucking vacuum, who knows. She could outlast any of them with her stubbornness, and she had. A fucking legend.

She’d rattled Mama good, though. Good Catholic Mama who was already trying to commune and confess her way out of baby-killing when it suited her, hearing her good Catholic daughter swear up and down that God must’ve put them there because nobody’s dick had. It would’ve been funny if it was anybody else, but Mama made it everyone’s problem.

She never told. Not Mama, not the matronly nurse at the office who tried to prise it gently from her, not the priest Mama dragged her to see. She and Eyeball have been keeping one another’s secrets their whole lives. Letting everything else fall apart around them because of it.

They’d gone back to giving each other head and jerking each other off for awhile after that. Grinding on each other’s thighs through their clothes. They still do that sometimes. Fucking nostalgia.

She’s pretty sure they all thought it was Waffle who’d knocked her up, which is why they didn’t press her as hard as they could have. She didn’t have boyfriends, and he’d gotten cuffed and questioned and all kinds of shit after getting handsy with a girl a few months before. He and Helaena both denied it, but he was that kind of guy. Handsy and gross. She was that kind of girl. A convenient victim. Of course they could never prove it; would never have wanted to anyway.

Mama looked sideways at Daddy, too. Just for a minute. Helaena saw it in her. He’d fucked Mama too young, married her as soon as she was legal; had Waffle early, they’d said. All nine pounds of him.

But Eyeball was just her little brother. Her protector. The skinny kid with the patch and the bad attitude, and he didn’t whip his dick out at little girls or do weird shit like that, so no one looked at him twice.

She’s looking at him now, though. Holding his hand across the table and rubbing little circles at the base of his thumbnail.

“Yeah,” he says. “Sometimes.”

Helaena thinks of them, too. Especially now. She wonders if maybe he would’ve been at a fucking tee-ball game, or putting dino nuggets in the oven, or trying to force a bath on an unwilling, filthy gremlin. Whatever the fuck you do with six year-olds. Not buying weed and following some dickhead all over the fucking place with a knife in his hand.

But of course, it wouldn’t have gone that way. They wouldn’t have gotten to keep them, she’s sure. That’s not how it works.

“Probably would have fucking had six fingers and a tail or something,” Helaena says, quiet. “That’s why you’re not supposed to do this shit, right? Recessive gene cesspools.”

“Yeah.” He’s stroking her hand back; they’re drawing on each other, shapes and lines and spells. “You’d be a good mom, Laney.”

She laughs through her nose. Dry, only a little amused. “I’d be a terrible fuckin’ mom, Eyeball. But thank you.” She brings his hand to her mouth. Dots a kiss on each knuckle. “We’ll never have any of that shit to worry about. Kids and a picket fence and babysitters and whatever.”

He’s silent. “We’ll never have anything but each other,” he says after a minute. “We never have.”

“No.”

“Now we really never will.” He leans over and puts the cigarette between Helaena’s teeth for her. Her hands are both on his now, too tight to move.

“No,” she says again from the corner of her lips. He’s right. What’s there to have? What’s there for them? What is the best they could hope for?

Maybe more than she’d been imagining, now.

Maybe not.

“I’d fuckin’ marry you, Laneybug. Wife your ass up. I’d make babies with you if they wouldn’t come out like fuckin’ Waffle. Fucking ugly and scrambled.” He chews on his lip. “I’d give you so many babies if you wanted. I’m sorry.” He’s squeezing her now, too hard and two-handed, but she doesn’t care. She wants both of their bones to turn to dust. Indistinguishable from one another. Unremarkable. Overlooked and left alone and sifted together.

She’s got tears, but if they fall they won’t stop, and she doesn’t have time for that shit. She dams them up good. Blinks furiously, looking at the ceiling like Mama taught her to do. If you look up, you won’t cry. It works. She pulls them back from the edge and says “I know it, honey. You’d give me a whole fucking kingdom if I wanted it. I don’t. I don’t want babies. I got enough fuckin’ problems. I don’t want a kingdom or a picket fence or whatever. I don’t want anything. This is it. This is okay. Just this.” She squeezes his hands back. Too fucking hard. Too hard, too much, just like all of it. “Just this.” She takes a breath. “I do think about it, though. If they would’ve had your stupid funny ears, or like... the cute dimple in your ass.” She tilts her mouth up a little. Takes her hand back to ash the cigarette into her empty cup. It’s shaking.

His fucking hands never shake. She wonders if their babies would have been steady like him, crayons and bike handles and sippy cups in their little white fists. Or Tarot. Or knives.

“Nah. Six fingers. A tail. Probably your pretty eyes.”

“Same as yours, you silly shit. So yeah, probably.” Same as Daddy’s. That peculiar shade of blue, bordering on violet, that somehow defies the laws of human husbandry and shows up everywhere. Her. Eyeball. Waffle. Cousins and uncles. It’s the kind of thing that makes you wonder. She rolls hers at him.

“Yours are prettier. Girl eyes.”

Helaena laughs. A real one. Feels the tears prickle again. Tames them. “I’m sorry. I mean, timing’s not great here for this. Sometimes it’s just… there.”

“It’s fine. It’s always fucking there. It’s fine, Laney.”

They sit in the quiet and smoke. She takes the dredges of her kid brother’s coffee, black and cold; swallows them like medicine. The empty mug clacks hard when she sets it down.

“Get dressed,” she says to their roomful of ghosts. “Visiting hours start at eight. We’re already fucking late.”

Eyeball uses his last drag to blow a ring that floats into the ether and dissolves itself. He drops their cigarette into Helaena’s cup to keep her ashes company.

Chapter 8: Spooky Kids

Summary:

Waffle gets a visit.

In a loud voice, he told her that he loved her. O, trembling, was terrified to notice that she answered “I love you,” and that it was true.

— from Story of O by Pauline Réage

 

“I’m gonna go by myself first,” she says as Eyeball parks Granny. Helaena can feel the hesitation, the gentle buck before a stall, but he does his magic and the transmission behaves. “He plays games with you. You two always get into a fucking pissing contest.”

“I’d fuckin’ win that one now,” he says, leaning back in his seat. “He’s pissing with a bag.”

Helaena closes her eyes. “Don’t be an asshole.”

“He did it to himself.”

“Think before you speak,” she says, sharper than she means, and he goes quiet. She puts a hand on his knee. “I’m sorry. I’m fucking spent, and I just wanna get this over with. I hate this place.” It reminds her of Daddy. The smell, the fluorescing lights, the beeping and blinking and chatter everywhere, all of it.

“Me, too. Whatcha got in the glove box?”

“I don’t remember. Something good. I’ve got good taste.” She likes to read in the car, keeps a library in there. Short little bursts; a poem, or half a chapter on the way to the store, whatever. Keeps her from getting bored. Keeps her brain doing something.

Eyeball looks shifty. Uncomfortable. Thumb working the switch for the wipers, clicking it up and down. He hasn’t been alone since Tuesday. Even leaves the fucking bathroom door open.

“I’ll be quick. You said he’s not really up for much anyway, right?”

“Yeah, he’s pretty fucked. Be prepared.”

“Okay honey. See you in a minute.” She presses her lips to his cheek. Holds them for a second, hand at his neck, and he rubs at her wrist a little, the fabric of her sleeve between two fingers.

Waffle is asleep when she gets to his room. He doesn’t look much different from the last time she saw him; hasn’t faded into nothing like Eyeball was making it sound. Doesn’t look good, but she knew that.

He’s a fucking mess. Looks like a fucking Batman villain, half of his face turned to crusty ground meat, from what little she can see at the edges of the dressings, where the burns aren’t as bad; where they ombré into healthy skin. His body’s under the sheet, but she’s seen some of that too, and it’s the same. Almost neatly in half, fucking weird. She wouldn’t have believed it if she didn’t put her eyes on it herself.

Helaena drags the maroon vinyl chair close to his good side and sits. Just stares at him for a minute; watches his breath and thinks it’s too shallow. It can’t possibly be getting everywhere it needs to go. His good hand is all fucked up, too; tape and blown veins all over from the IV, dried blood and bruises. His nails need to be cut.

Face still lovely where it’s whole. Those long, thick lashes so blond that you have to get close to see them clearly. Better than hers, better than Eyeball’s. Could knock you over.

People used to think they were twins when they were small, her and Waffle. The same shock of curls - his, of course, always neater and smoother than hers, which frizz up when the humidity hits ten fucking percent - and the same face, a little fucking Valentine with round cheeks, a round nose, round everything. Just like Mama. His growth spurt came late, and he never cut his fucking hair; got mistaken for a girl sometimes until he was solidly a teenager.

Incredible fucking eyes. Those killer, killer lashes.

Asshole.

The perfect curve of his Cupid mouth is all fucked on one side now, but the right corner still turns up, even in his sleep. That’s the difference. She and Eyeball got Daddy’s frown, the perpetual skeptical downturn, and even though she and Waffle’s lips have the same bow, his are happier. A nice illusion.

She leans in and tucks an errant curl behind his ear. He needs a fucking haircut, too. “Hey,” she says.

No response. She leans in closer and tries again, louder. “Hey, Waffle.” Touches his cheek a little, gives it a pat. He’s a touch warmer than she’d like. Not burning up, though.

He still doesn’t answer her, so she taps him a little rougher; gives it some urgency. “Waffle! Hey, good morning.” His lashes flutter now; he hears her. “Hi!”

He blinks. Again. Again. The eye opens. The smiley mouth goes smilier. “Buggie,” he says, twice, trying to clear his throat in between. His voice is like sandpaper, quiet and rough, and she has to get way down low to hear it.

Helaena smiles back, her mouth almost touching him, she’s so close. “In the flesh. Hey.”

“Hey. You smell,” he says.

“What?”

“Skunk and pussy,” he says. “Making me hungry.”

Helaena sits up. Glares. His eye has that combination of mischief and malice in it that’s his and only his, and she is suddenly a lot less worried that he’s gonna die. “You’re disgusting. What the fuck.”

She didn’t shower. Didn’t want to waste time, figured they were only going here, where everyone fucking looks and smells like shit, but now she’s self-conscious. Her clothes are clean, but her hair always smells like smoke. It holds everything. Eyeball didn’t fucking tell her she stunk.

He says something else, and she has to lean back again to hear him. “The dick still that good, huh?”

She goes to stand up, fucking done already, but he grabs at her, hand floppy, and when she looks back, his face is a soft apology. All little boy. Helaena stays. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” she says. Leans back down close to hear what he fucking has to say for himself.

“You do stink,” he says. “Sex all over you. I don’t care. I stink worse.” He does. The whole place. Piss and rot and astringent. “At least you’re having fun. Spooky kids.”

His hand is still on her arm, his grip loose and clammy and gross and gentle. All those things he can be, turn by turn by turn. She doesn’t shrug him off, just looks down at the ruin of his skin. His hands are like hers, too. Small for his size. Delicate for a man’s. Nothing like Eyeball’s crazy long fingers and knobby knuckles. Pretty, pretty. Her big brother is so pretty. Resting his pretty hand on her.

“Listen, Bug,” he says. She realizes how hard he’s working to talk; hears the struggle now. Hears what Eyeball heard. “I can’t talk too long. It tears me up. What do you want?”

Not just a visit. Always a transaction. She hates that he’s right. She takes a deep breath. “Eyeball said…”

“It’s true. The money shit? Everything I said to him is true.”

She looks him in his face. He’s breathing through his mouth. Funny. “Why?”

“Did I tell him? I’m not getting out of here. Been back and forth to the hospital three times. Keep thinking I’m septic, but they say I’m not and send me back. They can’t figure it out. Even if I live, I’m fucked. So fucked.” He stops. Takes a break. His visible eye closes.

Helaena strokes his hand; finds the naked flesh around all the tape and the needle and the breaks and bruises. Thinks about kissing it, has the impulse, but figures she’d better not put her mouth germs too close.

He starts up again and she leans even closer. Feels his chapped lips almost at her ear; his strange breath moving the air against it. “Get that fucking cash before she does something batshit. If she hasn’t already. I was skimming some all the time. She didn’t notice. But you can’t leave it there. She’s fucking spiraling. Probably going to light it on fire.”

Helaena squeezes him gently, and he tries to give it back. She says nothing. He takes a few breaths, steeling himself. Talks again.

“House key is in my stuff somewhere. Find it.”

“Why didn’t you give it to Eyeball?”

“Waiting for you. He’s a twat. Would’ve gone there himself and fucked it all up.” He’s fading a little, his voice going in and out, but she can work it out. “I knew you’d come if he told you. Listen.” He pauses. Breathes. “Listen.”

“I’m listening.”

“He’s so far up your ass you can’t see him. But he’s a squirrelly fuck. Not right.”

Helaena opens her mouth to defend him, but thinks better of it at the last minute. Just says, quiet, “None of us are fuckin’ right, Waffle.”

He smiles a little, his half-mouth lifting at its happy corner. Laughs, like a cough. “No. But you’re the smartest. And he’s a motherfucker. You got a thing, I know. Always had a thing. Don’t care. Get off his dick a minute and look around. See what you’re dealing with.” Waffle pauses again. They stare at one another, the weird yellow-white light making his eye look swampy. She wonders if hers looks the same. Then she sees the glint come back, just for a second. Sees the sheer force of will that it takes for him to make his eyebrow quirk up. Hears the brat in him when he says, “I taught him everything he knows, you know. That thing you like.”

Helaena narrows her gaze. “Fuck you. And I know exactly what I’m dealing with.”

He smiles, a self-satisfied thing. A job well-done. “Love you, too. Both of you creepy fucking shitbags.”

Waffle takes a breath. Lets it go in a long sort of rattle. Closes his eyes, and that’s it. Helaena sits and watches him drift.

Her phone dings and takes her back to herself after a minute. Eyeball, anxious. almost done? he wants to know.

She lets him sweat. Remembers all of hers that went unanswered. At least she’s not in here fucking pulling anyone’s plug. Not yet anyway, tempted though she might be.

Helaena gets up from the chair and starts to rummage through the particleboard drawers. It’s all medical shit, lotions and mouth swabs and alcohol packets and crap. Nothing of his.

The big closet-type-thing is better. She paws through the clothes, feels the pockets, unrolls the cuffs and pokes inside. Everything still smells like the old him. Like Mama’s detergent, heady and feminine. The smell makes her gag a little. Brings her somewhere she doesn’t wanna go, so she shuts the doors quick. He hasn’t been getting dressed at all; she doesn’t even know why the clothes are there. There’s nothing. Her brow furrows.

Eyeball would find it. He finds all her missing shit.

She keeps looking. Turns over the spare linens in another dresser. Slips her hand under his pillow and into its case. Gently lifts and shakes his blanket. Gives him a cautious pat-down in bed; finds him mostly bare but for his dressings and feels crawly touching him. Thinks he feels too small; smaller than she remembers him, her fingers skimming over his ribs. Closer to the surface than they should be. Maybe he is fading, after all. There’s nowhere to hide anything there.

She’s about to give up, text Eyeball and tell him to get in here and help, when she spots Waffle’s dirty fucking sneakers shoved almost out of view under the bed. They’re near the middle so nobody trips over them. She has no idea what they’re doing out, anyway, but she squats down and manages to hook her fingers through the still-tied laces and pull them out.

Even his shoes are small. She can see the size in there, still printed on the filthy insole. Eight. Helaena laughs a little through her nose. She could probably wear them in a pinch. Eyeball’s are fucking boats; she and Waffle could put their feet end to end in one of his.

But it’s a jackpot.

His wallet’s shoved down into the battered, smelly toe, bent up and old and falling apart. Should’ve used some of Daddy’s money on a new one, she thinks, opening it up. The brown leather is thin and holey; feels like drippy butter. She thinks it’s the same fucking one he had ten years ago. It’s ripping at its seams. The key’s in there, shoved down into one of the credit card folds. Gold. Worn and smooth at the edges. Helaena remembers its shape, and she traces it with the side of a finger. She sticks it into her back pocket.

There’s no cash. Stolen, maybe, or maybe he’d spent all of it on the fucking jack and coke that lit him up before he crashed. Starbucks card. She smirks. He’s always been a princess about his coffee. She leaves that. Fucking trash. Expensive dumpster fodder.

Behind his ID, she finds two others, because of course she does. He’s twenty-three. Doesn’t need help buying cigs or booze or whatever else he wants, but apparently he’s got some reason to be someone else. A couple someone elses.

Helaena examines them. Thinks, in the right light, with someone who wasn’t looking too closely, she could still probably pass for her big brother. No makeup. Hair done right. A good, tight bra and Eyeball’s hoodie over her tits.

She’s softer, sculpted by her estrogen, she supposes, but there’s nothing to be done there.

The eyebrows are wrong; not too blatantly. If she stopped plucking hers they’d be better.

They’re a few inches apart now, but who looks at that, really? It’s not even that much. Five-seven, his license says. She’s five-four. She could get up on her toes and be close enough. They’re built similarly. She can copy his stupid smirk. Has the lips for it. The disdain, too.

She pockets all of them. His actual ID and the two fakes.

Kisses his smooth, sleeping forehead.

Tells him she hates him. Tells him she loves him.

Takes the clippers from the supply drawer and cuts his janky nails. It doesn’t wake him up.

Leaves, and on her way out, asks one of the nurses to please check his temperature. She thinks he might be getting a fever.

Eyeball’s in the lobby, walking in as she’s coming down the hall towards the door. He looks anxious.

“Gimme a fucking cigarette,” she says, and he takes one out of his sleeve and hands it to her. Turns to walk with her and lights it for her in the vestibule between the sets of glass doors.

“You okay?” he asks as they step out into the day.

“Fine. You going in?”

“I dunno,” he shrugs. “How is he?”

“Told me I smelled like a fucked cunt and told me to get off your dick,” she says. “Now he’s sleeping.” She blows smoke and tucks her arms in tight against her. It’s chilly.

“Sounds like Waffle.” He almost laughs.

“Yep.”

“You gonna get off my dick?” He pulls her collar in tighter around her neck and cups his hand to shelter her mouth from the wind. There’s a curl of amusement in his lips that makes him look a little like his brother.

“I’m gonna ride it like a fucking merry-go-round until you fucking shut it off, is what I’m gonna do.” She looks up and rolls her eyes. “Do I fuckin’ stink?”

Eyeball shrugs. “Maybe a little? Only when you’re up close.”

“What the fuck? Why didn’t you tell me? I would’ve fuckin’ showered.”

He shrugs again. “I kinda like it?”

“You would. God, you’re as nasty as he is. Anyway. He’s asleep. He gave me the key to Mama’s house.” Helaena reaches into her back pocket and pulls it out. “That’s what took so long. I had to find it. He didn’t know where it was.”

They both just stare at it for a minute. It’s dull in the cold light. Tarnished and old. It’s uncomfortable in Helaena’s fingers; feels like a cursed object. Something Alys would stop right at the fucking door, shaking her shiny dark head. Helaena can almost hear her cognac voice saying absolutely not.

“Did he tell you what he told me?”

She nods. “You’re right. He thinks he’s gonna die. I sent someone in to look at him; he felt hot.” She plays with the zipper on Eyeball’s hoodie, pulls it up and down and up and down. “Everything about that was shockingly terrible.”

They stand outside and smoke, quiet, until Eyeball crushes the filter and pockets it. “Ready?”

“Depends on for what,” she says.

“What are you ready for?”

“Coffee. A fucking shower.”

“Let’s do it.” He drapes a long arm over her shoulder. Opens the car door for her when they get there.

“Mmm, I do love a gentleman,” she says, sliding in. “Especially one who barebacks me then takes me out in public smelling like the end booth of a sex shop.”

“You smell like mine, is what you smell like. Speaking of sex sh…”

“No.” She rolls her eyes as Eyeball hops in the driver’s seat. There’s one on the way that he likes. She prefers the one uptown - small, run by a cute dyke who flirts with her; makes her feel some kinda way - but whatever. “It’s not even fucking open right now. Home. Water. Soap. We do need condoms though. Done bleeding. Get some when you pick up smokes, okay?” Granny comes to life under his hands, and Helaena looks at him a little sidewise. “You’ve perked up a bit,” she says. It’s a question.

He shrugs. “Comes and goes. Read to me.”

Helaena opens the glove box. “What do you want?”

“Surprise me.”

Helaena digs through. All the way to the bottom. The book is battered and old, coffee-stained and dog-eared. Paperback. A dollar fifty at the cute vintage shop three doors up from Alys.

She wonders how many hands it has passed through before hers. Theirs. How many voices have read these words aloud to one another. Bedrooms and back seats, naked on couches, tangled feet and fingers.

It’s a balm on her heart, the wondering.

She raises an eyebrow. Opens it.

“Her lover one day takes O for a walk in a section of the city where they never go--the Montsouris Park, the Monceau Park.”

In the driver’s seat, her own lover smiles.

Chapter 9: Kitten

Summary:

Situation. Action. Outcome.

They stop on the way home for burnt glass-pot gas station coffee, cigarettes and condoms, and Eyeball fills Granny’s tank.

He has a thing. Hates when it gets below half. Helaena will drive all day with the needle on E. Gives me a rush, she said once, teasing, and he told her she needed to get out more. Told her he’d spank her red hot if he ever had to come rescue her for that shit. Not much of a deterrent, she’d told him. No backshot after, he’d added, and that’d done the trick.

It’s past eleven by the time they get back, but Eyeball’s not working today. Cris is still bent about him fucking off yesterday, and holding weird grudges is basically his entire personality, so he’s got the day.

“You coming downstairs with me later?” she asks, poking her head around the tarp, hair all lathery, spit-and-trickle of lukewarm water dripping onto the floor.

He smiles at it. “Yeah, that okay?”

“Of course. Just don’t let her play with your balls or anything.”

He rolls his eye. “Just palms, I thought.”

“Don’t let her play with those either. She sees shit.” Helaena ducks back in to rinse, and when she steps out, he hands her a warm towel and mops up the floor.

“You’re so spoiled,” he says.

“Mmhm. You’re gonna shave for me too, right?”

“Yeah. In a minute,” he says, holding up his cigarette like it’s so important that he fucking finish it.

“It’s kinda sexy,” she says, rueful, considering his two-day-old stubble as she dries herself. “Rugburn, though. Rubs my fuckin’ shit raw.”

“I know.” He takes a few more drags and finishes. Blows her a pretty O with the last one.

Helaena watches him through the open bathroom door; straight razor and hot soap, like Daddy did. Waffle does it just the same. Old fashioned. It’s the way he taught them both, and they never switched it up. It’s a piece of him they get to keep, she imagines, though she’s never asked.

There’s something to it. Nice and close, and it lasts longer than the plastic disposable shit from the pharmacy, somehow. Tricky, though, so Eyeball will do her if she wants. Use those good hands of his. He’s never nicked her. Armpits and legs and her pussy, too, if she feels like it, but that she has to be in the mood for, because he gets all fucking kinky with it and starts trying to stick all kindsa shit inside her when she’s bare. Blank canvas, he says. He can see everything better. Fun to a point, but she really just likes his fucking cock best and the other shit gets old quick. Even the toys. Not for him, though. He could play all day, watching her stretch; watching the in and out of it all. Different colors and shapes, and whatever fucking noise she makes.

In another life he probably would’ve been some kind of avant garde performance artist or something, smearing everything in jizz and stuffing orifices with liquor bottles or whatever. Getting paid for his weird. Getting banned from various Midwestern states. Instead, he just makes her come with it. Good enough. That’s an art, too, she supposes. Finding the points where their weird intersects. There’s plenty of them.

Spooky kids, Waffle said. Spooky spooky. He doesn’t know the half of it.

Eyeball finishes, nice and smooth, and she comes up behind him to steal his washcloth and wipe him off. She likes that part. Magic.

“Better?” he asks, bending to press their cheeks.

“Better,” she says, rubbing against him like a happy cat. She’s just in her towel. Ratty old thing, but it’s her favorite. Big enough to wrap his narrow body in with hers, and she considers it, but she’s clean now and it’s getting late.

He watches her make her choice and smiles a little. “Get dressed. And fix your toes. They’re all chipped.”

She looks down, and he’s right; the two-week-old pink polish is looking rough. She laughs at him. “No one sees them.”

“I do. I’ll fix them, then, if you won’t.”

He’s serious, she realizes, and raises her eyebrows at him. “Okay, Daddy. You do it.”

She pulls on jeans and Eyeball’s old Skinny Puppy t-shirt while he makes them more coffee and pads back out into the kitchen with the same shade of baby pink. She likes dark on her fingers but girly on her toes.

He looks up at her and laughs. “Why do you even have your own clothes?”

“Because your pants don’t fit me.”

She props her feet up on his lap at the table, steals his cigarette, and drinks her coffee while he repairs her paint job. He’s meticulous and efficient, and he’s blowing gently to dry them before she’s even halfway through her cup. It feels nice.

“Spoiled,” he says again. Blows more. Kisses the top of her foot.

“This was all you. Can’t have your fuckdoll looking cheap.” She grins and hands him back his smoke.

“Shut up. And fix your hair. Or do I need to do that, too?” He raises an eyebrow.

They look at each other, hold eyes for a minute, and she finally has the stones to finish the conversation that neither of them could start. That they’ve been doing everything else to avoid.

“Sunday?” she asks quietly. Mama’s never home on Sundays.

He passes the cigarette back and forth between his fingers. Taps the bottle of polish against the table. Twirls it.

“Sunday,” he says.

They leave it there for now.

Helaena does her hair; lets him choose how and lets him watch.

He wants pigtails. Low ones, with ribbons to match her toes. “You’re really on some shit,” she tells him, surveying her babygirlness in the mirror, but Eyeball just shrugs and tugs at one of them, all bratty little boy to match.

He chews a Tums, grabs a can of tunafish for Dreamy, and they go downstairs.

*****

The shop is busier today than it’s been. Alys isn’t there when they open up, so Helaena handles things, Eyeball acting as her assistant when she needs him.

Mostly it’s for things up a little too high - she makes him do some tidying and dusting on the taller shelves and some rearranging to keep things fresh - and when he’s finished, he sits with the fucking cat on his lap and hand feeds her her stinky fish. She kneads his thighs with her sticky little claws and mews at him, pathetic, and Helaena laughs.

A nervous-looking girl comes in, big brown eyes and tortoiseshell glasses, and she wants Helaena to sort her out, so she takes her behind the velvet curtain in the back to read for her. The whole thing is unsettling; she pulls all swords and won’t tell Helaena what puzzle she’s trying to solve. Overthanks and overtips and shakes her head and walks out the door like she’s on a mission. Maybe she is. She wouldn’t say much of anything.

Eyeball watches her go, fingers curling between Dreamfyre’s cozy ears. “She okay?”

“I don’t think so,” Helaena shrugs. She wants a cigarette. “Not a talker. But she’s about to fuckin’ brawl with someone, I think. You don’t see all one suit too often.”

Alys comes striding in then, black coat and black hair and high black boots, smelling expensive. She breaks into a wide, scarlet smile at the sight of them both. Helaena likes her front teeth, the gentle crookedness of them. Just a little off-kilter. “My birdies,” she says, unbuttoning. “To what do I owe the pleasure of you both?”

Her eyes are always searching; looking for rather than at. A lot like her brother’s, Helaena thinks. That perpetual curiosity. It can make you feel like the only person in the room, but also a bit like a specimen. She’s cast it on the two of them, leaning against the counter with an eyebrow cocked.

“Off today,” Eyeball says, big hand under Dreamfyre’s belly now, getting her motor running. Purring like Granny on a good day. “Thought I’d come keep my girlfriend company.” He chucks Dreamy under her chin, and she gazes up at him adoringly.

Alys lifts the other brow. “Good man,” she says. Eyeball isn’t looking, but Helaena clocks the shift of her gaze. Quick.

“Cute hair,” Alys says to her. Moves on right away. “Pasta in the fridge if either of you are interested. No red sauce. I’ll be in and out. Holler if you need anything.”

Alys is mostly out, and traffic slows a lot by dinnertime, and they’re all alone for good, it’s looking like, by eight. Helaena’s trying to stay busy, behind the counter straightening and alphabetizing the little charms there, when Eyeball comes up behind her. Makes a cage of his arms, leans down hard into her back and sits his chin on top of her head. Starts twirling a pigtail, right at her ear. Brushing it all light there.

Helaena squirms. “Down, boy,” she says. She can feel him stirring against her ass.

“I just wanna talk,” he says. He’s swaying a little now.

“No, you don’t. You want to stick your dick in me and get me fired, or you want to convince me of something.”

“Convincing is talking.”

Helaena turns around, and he pushes in closer. Crowds her hard against the counter. She bites her lip. “Talking is talking; this is manipulation.” She’s only half joking. Only half protesting, too, she guesses.

He ignores all of it. “Sunday,” he says.

“We’re just going to look around,” she answers immediately. “Just see what the fuck is going on. We’re not touching anything.”

“Laney,” he starts, but she shakes her head.

“Waffle hasn’t been home in a minute. What he’s saying might not even be right anymore. I’m not…”

“Laney,” he says again. More urgency now. Hand fiddling with her empty belt loop. “We gotta go. We gotta find enough cash to last us for awhile and we gotta go. Like, yesterday.”

Helaena shakes her head. Lays a palm against his cheek. He’s got a leg going now, bumping in an anxious rhythm against hers. “Not smart, honey. That’s not smart. No one… there’s been nothing yet. Nothing in the news, no one talking even.” She’s trying to keep her voice low, skirt it as much as she can. “We have no plan. We don’t know where…”

“So let’s make one! Right now. Where do you wanna go?”

“Baby,” she says. “Just take a fucking breath and listen to yourself. It’s not fucking smart. We just disappear, people….”

“Who, Lane? Waffle? Alys?” Forehead down to hers now, fingers itchy. All over her, up and down her belly, tugging at her collar, her button, her zip, in and out of the loops at her hips. Familiar and crawly. Making her bells ring.

“Stop,” she hisses at him. “I’m trying to fucking help you. We cannot just fucking rob Mama and run. That’s fucking bananas.” Her teeth are gritted; she’s trying not to be loud, but he’s making her want to crack his skull with one of the fucking geode things on the shelf. See if he’s as shiny and pretty inside as they are.

“We can. We have to. We can’t stay here. It’s making me…”

“Insane! Fucking squirrelly and crazy and paranoid. Yeah, it is.” She shoves at him, but he’s solid. Got a grip on the counter behind her with the hand that’s not roving around her body, and when she pushes, he just leans into his knee. Helaena takes a deep breath. “I am six seconds away from making a fucking scene. Get. Your. Shit. Together.”

“I’m not gonna hurt you, I just…”

She shoves again. “Then. Back. Up.”

He does. He doesn’t want to, doesn’t go far enough to make her really comfortable, but the spell’s broken a little. He leans back. Stops fucking frisking her.

“Listen. We have to be really fucking careful now,” she says. “We’re already making people fucking look sideways at us. Cris. Alys. It’s not fucking good, sweetheart. Who the fuck do you think they’re gonna look at when Mama’s cash turns up missing? Waffle? Come on. And if… if… they’re gonna put two and two together. We have to be fucking normal about this. As normal as we can be, anyway.”

Eyeball’s not convinced. But he’s thinking. “You think anyone knows it’s there? Or would fucking believe her?”

“There’s receipts. She can prove she took it all out of the bank.” Helaena’s run scenarios back and forth and sideways and she doesn’t like any of them. She knows her brother has, too. How he’s landed on whatever this is, she can’t fathom.

“She got her shit together enough to know that?”

“I don’t know! That’s why we have to just fucking look around first. See what kinda shit we’re in. Plus, she’s out there enough, maybe she fuckin’ told someone. I don’t fucking know, honey. I don’t know.”

He leans back into her, lifts her onto the counter like she’s nothing, and she winds her arms around him. His heart’s all wacky. Hers is, too. A matching pair of fucking kookyshoes.

“If we need to go, we’ll go. I swear to fucking God, we’ll go. But we can’t just run. I’m feeling some real fucking Mickey and Mallory vibes here, and we need to take it down a little.” She’s muttering at his ear, rocking a little, eyes closed, and when she opens them, there’s Alys. Must’ve come through the back. Bag slung over one arm.

Nothing about her looks surprised. Helaena doesn’t know how long she’s been there, but it can’t be very long.

Helaena pats his back, all platonic, trying to alert him. He’s got teeth in her neck, shallow, like a kitten not a shark now, and she doesn’t know if Alys can see them. “Hey Alys,” she says over his shoulder, casual as she can manage. “Been quiet for a bit.”

Eyeball opens up some space between them, steps back quick, and she slides off the counter.

“I gathered as much,” says Alys. She sets her bag down on a chair. Tilts her head. “I got some lightbulbs. I was hoping this fine, tall young man might replace a few for me.”

“Yeah, no problem,” Eyeball says. He’s flustered, but he’s doing okay. Steady voice. Steady hands.

Alys directs him to the one in the back room and the one in the hallway, both of which have been dimming steadily for a week or so. Flashing funny sometimes. He steps away to do his chores.

“I’m only a little interested in what I interrupted,” Alys says. “Moreso in what’s prompting you to do it here.” Her tone’s not nasty. Not at all. Her antenna is up.

“We’re just going through it a little,” Helaena says carefully. “Our brother’s not doing great. Not sure if… you know. If he’s going to come out of it.”

“Mmhm.” She buys none of it.

“It’s been a lot.”

“Mmhm.” Alys pauses. She bends and starts fishing through Helaena’s bag, laying next to hers on the chair. Pulls out the cards she’s already packed up. “Your energy is terrible. When your boy gets back in here, I’m going to leave, and you’re going to center yourself, and tune in, and get a little bit of guidance. I’m not your mother, thank all that’s holy, but Goddess above, are you in need of one.”

She hands Helaena her deck, and Eyeball comes in a second or two later. “All good,” he says.

Alys thanks him. Lays a hand gentle on his shoulder. “Sit for a minute. When you’re done, go ahead and go. I’m all set for tonight.”

Helaena nods, and Alys takes her bag and leaves.

Eyeball looks at her, uncertain. “It’s fine,” Helaena says, quiet, after she hears the door click. “She’s just worried. She wants me to read, and I think it’s a good idea.”

He shrugs and follows her behind the curtain. Helaena sages, just a little, and rings her bell. “We’ll do it together. Three cards. Don’t think I have it in me to do a full set.”

He nods. Technically they’re not supposed to do it together, mix it up like that, but she thinks it’s best. They’re riding in the same fucking car with the same bad brakes on the same fucking treacherous slope.

They sit side by side, shoulder to shoulder, knee to knee. Crammed in close. Both chairs on the same side of the little table.

Dreamboat’s in there, too, winding around their hooked ankles.

She shuffles. He shuffles. Back and forth, eyes closed, until it feels good to stop.

“Okay,” she says. “Situation. Action. Outcome.”

Eyeball pulls the first. Three of Swords.

Helaena next. The Moon. Reversed.

Eyeball last. Four of Cups.

Helaena squeezes her brother’s knee. “There’s the shitshow,” she says, pointing to the first card. “No surprises. That,” she continues, pointing at the Moon, “is saying you’d better get out of your own way. Watch out for illusion and self-deception and irrational fear. Shit of your own making. Dark side stuff, shadow stuff, you know. And that,” she points to the last card, “means you and I are going home.” She pecks his cheek. “Literally. Figuratively. Back to childhood. The good parts. You know. Playing Doctor or ransacking Mama’s purse.”

He catches her eye. Smiles.

“Make sense?” Helaena asks.

“Some.”

“Let’s think on it. Okay?” She taps the Moon again. “We gotta be careful. We’re fried as fuck. Not in a good place.”

Eyeball nods. Tugs her pigtail.

Helaena scoops up her cards, and they go.

Alys is waiting in the hall. Goes in as they come out. Blows two kisses.

Chapter 10: The High Priestess

Summary:

“There are no beautiful surfaces without a terrible depth.”
- Friedrich Nietzsche

Notes:

Did someone order a Toppy!Helaena who, in case anyone was confused, 100%, unambiguously gets off on her brother’s violence?

No? Literally no one?

Sorry, no refunds.

This is 3k of choke-y, squirt-y, wet, messy (literally and figuratively?) &potentially unsettling porn; sorry not sorry 😂

“There are no beautiful surfaces without a terrible depth.”
- Friedrich Nietzsche

 

They don’t talk about anything important.

They split Alys’ pasta, and Eyeball picks out the yellow peppers and chain smokes in between bites.

She eats his peppers. Smokes less than he does.

They don’t fuck.

There’s no more weed, and without it, the dark’s taken the wind out of their sails. It should make them want to climb into each other’s skin; get to that messy, wet knot that holds them together and tug, but it doesn’t. It just descends, thick and damp, and it cools everything. Even their hot, filthy blood.

They stay up too late, play a game of chess that they somehow both manage to lose, and then they read to each other in bed, passing a cigarette and the book back and forth until their eyes sting. It’s a house book, not a car book. Burroughs again. She’s a creature of habit; something about Naked Lunch’s filthy fever dream knocks her out. It cracks Eyeball up, but he rolls with it.

“I can’t do anymore, sweetheart,” she says after half an hour. “Everything hurts. Eyes, ears, brain, everything.”

He takes the book, bends the corner, and shuts out the light. Quiet now, but for the fan whirring.

In the black, she finds his face. His hair. Gives him a kiss that feels like it’s a photograph of itself, and settles with his head on her chest. She can feel his mouth, licking like a sleepy puppy at her; peaking her nipples and nestling into the valley between her breasts. Tiny bites. Cheek against her heartbeat; one, then the other, restless. He’s smooth from his shave. It feels nice. Not annoying.

She does the same to him; twirls his hair, strokes it, puts the ends in her mouth and sucks. He tastes like shampoo and smoke. She takes an earlobe between two fingers, rubs at the tiny points of scar tissue inside; piercings healed over with disuse. They roll under her touch like little beads. He’s got a funny spot like that on his tongue, too. The piercing was fun til it wasn’t, got distracting, so he nixed it. She rests her chin against his temple, opens and closes her jaw to clickclickclick against him.

None of it is sexual; there’s no heat behind it, no eros. It’s thumb-sucking kinda shit, the self-soothing that neither of them learned to do properly, so they just worry one another like an old blanket instead. Threadbare flesh. Soft.

The fidgets slow. Him first; his mouth open against her skin, breath humid and even. It’s light. She can feel the coils of tension in him that he can no longer release, hovering close to his skin, but he sleeps. She makes her own white noise; shushing sounds that maybe he can hear in his dreams, that might make their way through his pores, that might relax the springs embedded in him now, and she hums herself to sleep, eventually, as well.

It’s an edgy rest, moves in and out of focus, and at some point she realizes that she’s cold, even with the blanket. That she’s alone. She thinks maybe Eyeball’s gotten up to piss or something, though she doesn’t even feel the echo of him; the residual warmth of his skin against hers. It feels like he’s been gone awhile. She waits but doesn’t hear his footsteps, or the creak of the old floor beneath them. Doesn’t see his silhouette swallow the doorframe.

Anything unusual reads as sinister now, and her stomach doesn’t like it. Starts squirming like a nest of wasps, full of restive venom. She sits up and swings her bare feet over the side of the bed. Takes a breath that does nothing to steel her the way she’d like it to. Gets up.

Helaena finds him in the kitchen, sitting at the table in the dark, staring at the door. Pajama pants, bare chest, hair back. No patch. Cherry of his cigarette burning like a dash warning; an ominous little check engine. Knife on the table.

She’s standing naked in a spill of light from the side window. It makes her feel luminous and spectral. The High Priestess. Divine Feminine.

Moon is full, or nearly, and the past few days’ clouds have finally made room for it. It filters through the small space, casting her brother in a silver half-gloom. A reflection. An offering.

His expression isn’t as clear as she wants, so she waits for him to go first. He doesn’t, not for awhile, and they just watch each other.

“I heard a knock,” he says, finally.

“Heard? Or thought you heard?”

“Thought I heard, I guess,” he says, but he doesn’t sound sure. Sounds very quiet. A strange tenor.

“Did you look?” She moves towards the door, finds it still locked.

Eyeball shakes his head. “No. I came out here and it stopped.”

“Like a… like a cop knock? Or a fuckin’ creep knock?” It’s threeish. Gotta be one or the other. Nothing good comes to the door at this hour. Helaena turns the deadbolt. Doesn’t open it.

“I don’t know. I was asleep. Only heard it once. Don’t…” he starts, but it’s too late.

Helaena turns the handle lock and pulls the door wide. The dingy single bulb in the hallway is on, doing its weird flickery thing, but that’s it. Nothing. It’s so quiet she can hear the electricity buzz. The fucking thing sounds like there’s a short in it.

“Nobody here.” She closes the door and turns, locking it back up. He’s still just sitting. One knee going a little. Lots of thoughts.

Helaena moves toward him, supple on her bare feet. Sees him open his knees a little for her. It’s a reflex she thinks; muscle memory, because he doesn’t look like he wants her there. His body does, though. His body always wants her.

He butts his cigarette.

She slides between his legs, stands and sways a little, hips back and forth. Puts a thumb square in the center of his exposed scar. He doesn’t have it out much, even at home. Even for her. It’s gnarly and strange. No real prosthesis- he didn’t want one; the false, immobile pupil freaked him out - but there’s a placeholder in the socket. Glass. Blue like a sapphire. She likes it. Helaena presses down, strokes firm along its path, and he lets her. Most of the tissue there is numb. “Were you dreaming, maybe?” she asks, turning the heel of her hand into the curve of it now. Gentler. It fits perfectly.

He shrugs. “Maybe. It didn’t feel like one.”

One of his hands wanders. Starts at the round of her breast, the seam where it sits against her ribs. The touch is reticent, a trace that feels like a question. He follows it up. Drags his knuckles across the inky black of her tattoo. Her clavicle. Rests there for a moment, his palm open and wide like a collar. He tilts his head, a shallow angle. Looks.

His hand slides up. Circles her neck. Sits there. Sits and sits. Still.

Helaena swallows hard. He watches it. Feels it. She can tell by the funny catch in his breath. She closes her eyes, the filmy light suddenly too fucking much. She can’t do both. Swallow and see. Breathe and watch.

Her heartbeat swells to the size of the room until even the air moves with it. Throbs heavy. She can feel his gaze, the featherlight pressure of his hand.

The energy is eerie and thin, like there’s a veil over everything. Fucking three-AM in the void.

She has never been so intensely seen in her life, she thinks, suddenly. He is inside of her, mapping the tangle of vessels in her throat. Naming them all. Breaching the delicate cells through the strange osmosis of desire and riding them to the haunt in her chest, its chambers squeezing like a fist.

He is committing her to memory. It is a wholly tangible and terrifying thing to be laid so bare, inside out; the mechanisms of her existence.

His fingers climb, then. Walk up her bones. Back down. Turn to brushes and stroke. Long, short, and lightlightlight. She blinks her eyes open, just halfway. They feel leaden. He's not watching her face, just his own hands. Just his touch against the life in her throat.

She is woozy, suddenly. Braces herself, hands on his knees. Tips her head back for him.

Says, “Show me.”

It’s a whisper. It sits on the heady air like a suspended stone. It stops him cold, two fingers dead center, knuckles curled against her skin.

She swallows again. “Show me where.”

The room pulses. And pulses. And pulses. Moonlight leaking like blood around them.

His hands are so steady. For the first time, maybe ever, Helaena thinks that there is something within them that she doesn’t understand. She wants it.

His hand moves. Up. Up. The web inside his thumb follows her trachea, tight. Feels like an inverse drip. Makes her shudder.

Below her jaw, he searches. One finger. Left side. Tap. Tap. Tap. Side to side. Finds the rush of her heart, fierce and wet and alive. Moves just below it. Rests.

“Here.” His finger is cool and blunt and soft. She can feel it everywhere. Everywhere. She imagines his nail like a blade, shiny clean and menacing.

“Oh.” She swallows, thick; it rolls past his touch, and she sees him close his eye.

Helaena leans in. Puts body to body. Feels him against her nakedness. “Oh,” she says again. Low like church. He’s so fucking hard. Up against his stomach hard.

Whatever this is, this preternatural thing between them, it has his full attention. Hers, too. She takes one hand from him. Feels between her legs. Her knees nearly buckle.

Fucking lit up like Christmas, the two of them, and she feels like an exposed nerve, raw and sharp. Liable to scream.

He takes one of her hands, slow, like he’s moving underwater. Brings it to his neck. Noses at her, cheek to her shoulder, and she knows what he’s asking; can feel it run through her like a current. She noses back, breathes into the softness of his hair, pushes into the column of his throat as her circuitry goes haywire.

They don’t play like this. Did once, and it scared her, left her heaving in his arms, coming and crying and coughing, shaking her head no no no, while her pussy said yes, and that was that. Didn’t like the argument, the incongruence of her own want. It shook her, harder than she was ready for, but oh, she loves him. Fierce as anything. Fierce enough to take him. Fierce enough to be him.

She touches her lips to his forehead. “Take it out,” she mutters, fingers ticking over his ear, tracing the lovely cut of his jawbone. All those angles, so much edge.

He doesn’t take it out, he takes everything off; down, wants to be naked, and she steps into his pants, helps him drag them from his legs and puddle them on the floor. It’s fucking cold in here, windows open, but neither of them feels a thing. White and hot like steam, twining together in the gloom.

They swap, her legs outside his, and she just leans first. Free hand holding herself apart, biting her lip at the mess she’s made. She lets him feel it, slide against her, bottom to top. Bumping against the place where it spills. “See?” she says. The word is made of breath, her lungs to his, right under his nose. “Look what you did.”

“Mine?” he asks, voice thin as hers. One hand takes over for hers, opens her up wider. Holds himself right against her, lets everything pool and drip on him.

Her palm is flat at his neck. Curled around. She gives him a little squeeze, tests the waters, unfocused. “Yours,” she tells him. His. All this wet. All this want. For the strangeness in him, the scattered seeds of chaos in him, the darkness in him that rides her own. Belly to belly.

She left something behind in Mama’s womb. Little shards of herself. They grew into his teeth, sharp and shiny and hungry. Always trying to get back inside.

“Yours,” she says again, and she fucking means it. What’s hers is his. Penance. Surrender. What’s his is hers. Even this power she does not want.

She takes all of him at once. Hot. Hard. Full past comfort, somehow. Fucking huge. Big as God inside her, like the first time. She thought she’d been split in half; that exquisite burn. It’s back. She whines at it; the size, the slide, the split. Knows it’s all in her head, somewhere in those haunted hallways. The place that knocks. He’s been inside her more than her own fingers have. But she whimpers anyway, like she’s gonna come right apart. Noise feels good. “God,” she says. “God, your fucking cock is so big, oh.”

She wonders how far he might let her take things, here in this space that is both real and not.

“You’re so fucking big,” she says again. Right to the high bone in his cheek. “You’re so hard. Oh God. You’re gonna fucking ruin me.” A pause. A big one, deep and dark and round. Then, “Did you like it, baby? Did it feel good to hurt him?”

She expects him to hesitate. To go tight, quiet, something. To do something human. Instead he makes a noise at her ear, low and dirty and good. It’s not yes, but it’s not no; it’s something like more, if more was just something that came from your throat. Not a word. A thing.

Helaena starts to bounce a little then, up and down and up and down, tightening herself on the instroke. He’s even bigger that way. She keeps talking. Moves the hand at his neck, purposeful now, looking for the sweet spot.

“I bled, remember?” she says, the words blurry against his skin. “You didn’t think I would, the way you fucking fingered me then. Little fucking jackhammer hands. You used to hurt me.”

He’s hurting her now; or, she’s hurting herself with him, taking him too hard and too fast, too rough, their thighs cracking like one of Mama’s good slaps every time she seats him deep. He’s helping though. Bucking up and up and up with her, keeping pace.

Helaena finds what she’s looking for, the pulse at each side. It feels juicy. Full as she is. His neck is slender and lovely. She spans it easily, the apple of his throat tucked right in her palm. She can feel every swallow.

“I bled, though. I bled for you. You liked it,” she says, her voice bouncing, too. Still quiet, trying to stay close at his ear, but it’s hard.

She squeezes. Her cunt. Her fingers. A test, again, pressing the little fluttering wings of his heart down, holding them while they try to fly away. Pinning him like a butterfly.

He makes that sound again. The more. His eye is closed. He’s somewhere else. Maybe thirteen, shoving inside, too eager, different than they’d planned; than he’d told her he would be. Starting slow but pushing past her ouch, asshole, past the startled kick of her leg.

Maybe somewhere else. Maybe it’s a blade and not his cock. Maybe it’s not even her anymore.

Maybe.

She doesn’t know.

“I liked it too,” she says. She had. Through the stretch, the feeling like broken glass between her legs, the unbearable press of him everywhere- it all gave way, turned into a dull throb; the outline of pleasure that they learned to fill in. It felt dangerous. And fast. Felt like putting her legs up on the handlebars and hurtling down the hill outside. She bled then, too.

Skinned knees. Bleeding cunt. She liked it all. She was bloody and alive.

She squeezes her fingers harder, just a bit, and she can feel the change. In his body. His blood. Her spine feels like a lightning rod, shivery and slippery with charge, and he feels strange beneath her. Not so sturdy. Not himself. He feels like he could fall apart. All but his fucking dick. It’s perfect.

He’s getting all twitchy. Jumpy. Restless in his skin, and he’s close, and she rides him harder, squeezes harder.

There’s something left in him, though. She can tell by his fingers, dug hard into her. Still power there. He could still win, if he wanted, she thinks. Put those fingers at her neck. Choke her. Reach for his knife and stab her. Kill her. Own her.

But he doesn’t want to win. He wants to come. Or die. Or both.

She thinks he’d better hurry up, or he might.

She slows down. Lets him take himself the rest of the way; do what he needs. She’s getting nervous; nervous at how much he likes it. At how much she does, too. At his fearlessness. At the hunger rising in her like sick, coming from all the wrong places.

“Finish,” she says. Leans close. Right at his pretty fucking mouth. “Fucking come, you crazy fuck, or I’m not gonna let go.” Gives him one hard squeeze, everywhere, bites at his lip, and that’s it. It’s a kick to his fucking balls.

He opens his eye, and it’s just a pit. A fucking black hole, and they are at the event horizon, staring at each other. Unfocused. Too close. She wonders if she looks the same as he does. His mirror.

Wonders if this is what it felt like.

If it is, she understands.

Her stomach pulls, and then he jerks like a fucking marionette. Everywhere. Can’t really make noise, not with his throat, but his whole body howls, and she feels him all up inside of her, coming all over.

No condom. Still in his wallet.

She lets go of his neck so fast she upsets in his twitching, writhing, fucking lap, but he’s still so deep, and she grabs him so hard, like she’s trying to keep him from falling, instead.

His color and his breath are coming back, and he feels loose. Uncoiled. Unsprung and undone and unmade. His cock is all berserk inside her still, and it feels so good, and she wants to come but she wants to just fucking float away, too. Pull the thin dark around her like a blanket and let herself be carried.

He blinks and blinks, and she almost doesn’t want to look at him. But he is hers, and she is his, and here they are, and she looks.

He’s all fucked up and blown wide and disastrous, and maybe she’s never loved him so much in her whole life. Big, mothersisterlovergoddess shit. Blood and guts and bared-teeth shit. Little girl shit. Three AM, breathless, ghostly shit.

Fierce as anything shit.

She leans against him. Finds him more solid than she expects. Heart like a rabbit.

“Come on,” he mumbles at her cheek. Wanders a hand down, strokes her hip. Her thigh. “You fucking incredible slut. Your turn.”

She smiles at his cheek. “I’ll do it,” she says. “Relax.”

She does. He’s still inside. Not so soft yet. Two fingers, fast, bumping against his belly, bangbangbang and it’s over for her, just like that. She swears her fucking face off, fuckfuckFUCK. Clamps down everywhere, feral; fucking bites him. A good one, right at the round of his shoulder. He shudders with it.

There’s a gush of something when his hips rock up again, and he pushes against her hard. Instant pressure, instant release. She doesn’t expect it, can never really predict it, but there it is; he hit something inside her and she hit something outside, and there’s a big fucking mess. She makes a startled, sobbing noise; it fucking feels like crying when it happens. Everything just letting the fuck go. That dam-break feeling, except it’s her fucking pussy not her eyes, and it’s good fucking shit.

“Nice,” Eyeball says. Low. Impressed. He’s always into it. Can never make her do it on purpose, and it drives him nuts. They’ve fucking marathoned trying, done all sorts of weird stuff; bent her like a fucking pretzel, edged her into oblivion, but the headspace has to be right.

She laughs, and there’s a little more, and she laughs again, and she kisses him. He kisses back. They kiss, and kiss, and kiss.

He gets on his knees to clean her up.

He looks fucking good that way, she thinks. She tells him that. Grabs his hair, threads through it, pulls it loose from the elastic and tells him he’s a good boy.

“Nah,” he says, licking come off his fingers. Spreading them wet over her thigh. “Not even close. But I love the fuckin’ shit outta you, Lane.”

Chapter 11: Kill Shot

Summary:

They have different ideas about what’s going to happen next.

“… light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. […] You can always count on a murderer for a fancy prose style. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, exhibit number one is what the seraphs, the misinformed, simple, noble-winged seraphs, envied. Look at this tangle of thorns.”

— from Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov

 

Sundays are slow to start.

Eyeball is physically incapable of sleeping in; has an internal clock that runs with the sun, but sometimes he’ll stay in bed, and when he does it’s usually on Sunday. Neither of them has anything to do, so sometimes he’ll laze there - next to her, wrapped around her, fit inside her keeping himself hard and warm til she wakes up and pushes back. Or he’ll smoke and dick around on his phone, or pull something out of the nightstand and read, or just lay there, arm bent behind his head, thinking whatever thoughts he thinks when it’s quiet.

Sometimes he’ll get up and clean up if it’s been a messy week, or take the laundry across the street and come back with coffee.

Helaena is a sleeper. Always restless, dreaming weird shit, rolling around half the night, so when she can drag it out, get some extra, she does. Awake, asleep, awake, asleep, halfway between most of the time. She knows when he’s up, registers the space, but doesn’t usually care. She’ll fuck him sometimes in the gaps of consciousness, forget until she wakes to do it again and she’s sore or sticky somewhere, or rolls into the wet spot.

When she gets up, he makes pancakes. He eats them dry, folds them like a sandwich or something, but she likes hers sweet. Syrup and fruit. Dessert for breakfast.

Not today, though. Not this Sunday. They’re both up early, before daylight, anxious. No tossing and turning or cleaning or fucking or cooking or reading.

Lots of thinking, though; both of them. Too much, as seems to be the order of things now. Too much thinking and not enough talking about it, because when Helaena empties the coffee pot into her brother’s cup and pulls the cigarette from his pursed lips, they have different ideas about what’s going to happen next.

“Put the bag in the trunk,” Eyeball says. Quiet.

They haven’t talked about the bag at all. Helaena tucked it wordlessly into the back of their tiny linen closet, rolled up into the smallest ball she could make of it and hidden behind the extra towels on the bottom. She’d done it bare-handed and has figured she’ll have to get gloves and take everything out, put its contents into a new one before they do… whatever with it. But that hadn’t been on her agenda for today.

“What?”

“Put it in the trunk,” he says again. “We can’t leave it here.”

Helaena narrows her eyes at him. Takes a short drag and spits it out in a whoosh like a wave. “What are you going to do with it?”

He shrugs. Takes a half-sip of his coffee. “Haven’t figured that out yet exactly, but we can’t leave it.”

“We’re not leaving anything,” she says.

“We are. We’re going to get whatever shit we need from here, and we’re going to put it in the fucking car, and we’re going to get whatever we can get from Mama, and then we’re going to get the fuck out of here, Helaena.”

He’s pulled out the full name.

She leans against the back of his chair. Reaches over him to drop her cigarette into his cup. There’s still a decent swallow left there.

“Aemond,” she says. Both hands on his bony shoulders. “Light of my life. Fire of my loins. Pain in my motherfucking ass. I’m not going to fucking argue this with you, and if you get fucking loud with me, if you turn around and put one goddamn hand on me…”

“You’ll what?” he says. He’s not getting loud with her. He is lethally, lethally quiet. He's not touching her. He’s not looking at her. He is stock, stock still.

The silence blows out wide between them like a balloon, its skin thinning at the edge.

“You’ll what?” he asks again after a minute. “You’ll… turn me in? Bang on the wall til that cunt calls the cops? Call them yourself? Just stay here alone? You’ll what, Helaena?”

She waits, squeezing him a little as her gears turn. As the mechanism of her anger clicks into place. Finally, “Was that a threat?”

“You’re the one making threats. I asked a question. What part of that sounded like a threat to you?”

All of it now, she thinks. The tone, the words, the volume. Her name in his mouth. His uneasy posture, stiff and sharp in his chair like a knife. It doesn’t so much sound like a threat as feel like one, and the words are there - they’re right there: are you gonna knife my fucking neck and throw me in the fucking water, too? - and she almost says them. Almost. She thinks better of it.

“It sounds like you think you’re gonna do whatever you want, is what it sounds like,” she settles on. “It sounds like you’re on some shit.”

He turns then. Pushes the chair out with his long legs and stands. Full, full height. Slow, but deliberate as fuck, standing over her. He’s got almost a foot on her, and he’s using all of it. Looking down the slope of his nose. “What shit? This is my fucking mess.”

“Yeah, until you fucking made it mine. Now it’s our fucking mess, and your fucking head isn’t screwed the fuck on straight, so someone…”

“My head is good enough when it’s between your fuckin’ legs though right? Or when you need to fuckin’ pay a bill, or you break shit, or some pervert asshole talks fuckin’ sideways to you outside. Or something’s fucking beeping at you or won’t start or you can’t fucking find your own ass. Or when you need to be bent over and turned out, right? Then it’s fix it Daddy, then you want me to figure your shit out. Then I know what the fuck I’m doing, don’t I? I can clean up every fuckin’ mess you make, but you can’t trust me to…”

She kicks the fucking chair. Small space, strong legs; it’s a solid hit. Sends it right into the wall next to the door. BANG. Makes a nice dent in the dirty old plaster. Good morning RenaRainaRenata.

And then he flips the fucking table. Doesn’t pause, doesn’t think, doesn’t expend more energy than a forearm’s worth, and the flimsy thing just goes. Tepid coffee, wet cigarette and the pack it came from, Eyeball’s lighter, yesterday’s fucking mail, three of Helaena’s banglyjangly bracelets that she leaves all over the place because she wears them for five minutes then can’t stand how they feel. The mug hits just right and breaks. Coffee spatters, dark like old blood. Wall, floor, the rusty table leg. It knocks the other chair, and it skids a foot or so, and Helaena jumps back like she’s been fucking slapped. The whole mess is between her and the exit, and she’s suddenly pricklyhot and sweating, eyes on those good hands like they’re going to wrap around her throat.

She’s seen this before, plenty. He gets fury like he gets a fucking hard-on, fast and all at once. All his fucking blood goes right to it.

Helaena is usually better, but she has it in her, too. When they used to fucking drink, they’d go at it sometimes. Throw shit, break shit, wake the neighbors. Over stupid shit, too. Shit they wouldn’t even be able to remember after they’d sobered up and fucked it out, just as loud. Without the booze, Helaena’s fuse is long, but it’s been lit and sputtering for a few days now, and here it is.

A nick in the wall and shit all over the floor and a look in his eye that turns her stomach.

“You got balls,” she says. She knows better, but she’s pissed and she’s doing it anyway. “Fucking brass balls. You can find my keys and get my fucking pussy wet, so you’re the fuckin’ boss right? Out here trying to put a motherfucking collar on me when you’re the asshole who needs the fucking leash. Acting like I’m the fucking problem, when all I’ve been doing is trying to save you from your damn stupid self, like I’ve been doing your whole fuckin’ life. I’m fucking done with it, Aemond.”

The cup misses her fucking ear by inches. Smashes into the wall. No satisfying break, just a dull thud from the heavy ceramic. If he’d wanted to hit her with it, he would have, and that’s the only thing that keeps Helaena from fucking swinging at him.

He’s done with it, too. Decides he’s not gonna slit her throat today, she supposes, because he just grabs his wallet and his keys off the counter, stomps barefoot into his dirty boots and goes. No shirt, even, but he does take a hoodie from the back of the door on his way out.

Helaena just stands there in her underwear and his old, holey fucking t-shirt in the kitchen for a minute, staring at the mess. Her heart is in her ears and in her teeth and pressing against the back of her eyes, and the silence just rings. He didn’t even slam the door. Left it hanging open like a mouth, one hinge loose. He’d been planning to tighten it today.

“Fuck!” she yells. To no one in particular. To herself or to God or to all the fucking people who are probably staring out their fucking windows now.

She doesn’t know what else to do, so she does what she’s always done. She follows him. Pulls on the first pair of pants she finds - his; pajamas, stretchy waist, front flap-gap and way too long - and jams her feet into her sneakers, stepping on the backs. Climbs around the mess to the door, holding up her hems. Shuts it behind her.

When she gets downstairs, he’s gone. It’s early enough that the street is still pretty quiet, and their bullshit doesn’t seem to have woken the neighborhood, after all.

He’s at the light at the end of the block, Granny’s unstable engine idling familiarly. It’s red, and Helaena considers trying to catch him, but she’ll never make it. Instead, she drops down onto the stoop and puts her head in her hands.

He's got Waffle’s key. Took it from her and stuck it in his wallet days ago. She shouldn’t have let him, but what’s there to do about it now? When he’s like this, it wouldn’t matter anyway. He’d just break in if he needed to.

Waffle was right. He might be a fuckup, but he knows them both. Knows what they are and sees what they don’t. Or won’t. She suddenly misses him, hot and hard, and wonders if he’s going to die. If she’ll ever see those stupid pretty eyelashes again.

She wants to go sit and hold his wrecked fucking hand. Remind him how much she hates him. Put a bad horror movie on the shitty old TV for him and laugh. Eyeball hates that corny shit, but she and Waffle can go all day on B-rated, batshit gore and guts.

They’ve all managed to make fucking messes of their lives, she thinks. Good ones. Everywhere you look, fucking overturned furniture and dried blood and ashes.

She just cries. Knees up, head down, shoulders shaking, hot tears. The kind that sting. Ugly fucking things, silent; she chokes the sound to death on her own fist, doesn’t want to make a scene. Cries til her belly hurts from the quiet heaving.

Cries til Eyeball pulls up to the curb and gets out, engine going, and grabs her arm.

She doesn’t even see him, she’s so wrapped up in her own shit, but she knows it’s him just from the grip on her. Long fingers, big hand, tight and hot. His. She looks up, and his face is unreadable, but he’s pulling at her. Insistent.

Helaena makes the split-second decision not to argue. Not to draw attention. Not to make this look like a fucking kidnapping or some shit, though she supposes maybe it is because she does not want to get in that fucking car, but she gets up. Walks with him. He opens the fucking back door - a kidnapping if she ever saw one, she thinks dryly, face still full of tears and snot; how fucking trite - and in she goes.

He shuts the door quietly, not a slam, and gets back behind the wheel, and they go.

There’s a cup of coffee for her in the console. Cruddy gas station shit, her favorite. Gummies. A pack of cigarettes. Marlboros. Reds, like he fucking loves her or something. Like it’s her birthday.

Helaena cries harder. Lays flat on her back across the seat.

She can’t get the fucking cigarette lit, her hands are shaking so bad, so he leans back with his lighter and his lanky arm and does it for her, silent, and drives.

She cries and smokes and cries and smokes and finally has nothing left, so she stops crying. Lights another with the dying cherry of her first, chainsmoking like his dumb ass does when he’s stressed, and she’s calm enough now. Gets it lit. Coughs and coughs. Wipes her face with the hem of her shirt. Catches his eye in the rear view when he checks on her. Recognizes him.

They don’t talk at all.

He pulls over on a lonely little side street two blocks from Mama’s house and puts his shit in park. Pulls the e-brake and maneuvers his big body over the bulky console and into the back seat. Helaena sits up, and he slips in next to her. She lays across his lap and he steals her fucking smoke.

Broad thumb down her wet face, over and over. Through her lashes. Salty when he traces her lips and pops it inside, presses the sharp ridges of her teeth like he’s trying to break his own skin open. She sucks on him a little, chews like a kitten. Habit, maybe, but it feels good, and he lets her.

The last time he apologized out loud, really truly - not just a casual sorry, or excuse me, or whatever - he was thirteen, and she was still pregnant, and Mama’s handprints hadn’t quite faded yet. “I’m sorry Laney,” he’d said, his voice still prone to cracking over the tough words. It had. Half little brother, half baby daddy, and it was so apropos that she had even recognized it at fourteen, herself. Almost laughed, but of course she didn’t. Couldn’t. It took a long time for her laugh to come back, and it never sounded quite the same. Got real grown-up, real quick.

He doesn’t say it now. His apologies look like this. Have for the past seven fucking years. Soft hands on her; lighting her cigarette or fixing her clothes or spreading her apart, gentle, looking for the little sigh of forgiveness when he brushes over the good spot. It’s always been enough, been him, but she thinks it would be fucking nice to hear him own this one.

But he doesn’t. Not in the way she wishes he would. He just tells her she’s a mess. Combs through her tangles with his fingers. Helps her sit up and gives her her coffee, gone lukewarm now but still good on her dry, sore throat.

He’s a mess, too. Bare feet in boots, fucking naked under his own pajama bottoms, mismatched hoodie only half-zipped, hair kinked and frizzed in sloppy elastic. She tells him as much. The only words they say for awhile.

You’re a mess.

Have you seen yourself, asshole? Jesus.

He’s seen himself. Seen her. They’ve seen each other. In the end, they always see each other, even if the mirror’s cloudy.

It’s 8:52am when she leans her head down onto his shoulder, weaves their fingers together and says, “What are we doing here, my love?”

He kisses the crown of her head, the mass of white blond curls. Kisses them over and over and over. Gets them in his mouth. Stuck to his cheek.

“You tell me,” he says finally. “We gotta do something, but…”

It’s as close as she’s going to get.

“It’s okay,” she says, soft.

Her eyes are swollen and her nose is still stuffy and her coffee’s gone cold and she’s not wearing a bra and her apartment looks like a crime scene and her baby brother killed a man and fucking abducted her and her big brother might be dead tomorrow and she’s cold because Granny’s heat sucks and there was a frost last night and they’re gonna rob her goddamn mother and her heart is a fucking tombstone but it’s okay. Fine. This is fucking fine.

“Nah,” says Eyeball. “It’s not,” and he kisses her again. Right between her eyes. A kill shot.

Wet and warm and sorry and not good enough.

Helaena closes her eyes, and she twists her mouth into something resembling a smile, and she lets it fucking bleed.

Chapter 12: Sunday

Summary:

It’s been a couple of years but not nearly long enough to erase them. To erase anything.

Notes:

This got way, way too long, so I split it. It’s still too long 🤷🏼‍♀️

They aren’t dressed for it, aren’t prepared for it, nothing. No socks. No jackets. Nothing to hide under. Nothing in which to carry anything. Fucking piss-poor planning, but time is passing and they don’t want to fuck around for too long.

Eyeball’s got a hood. They have four pockets; five if you include his sweatshirt.

They go through the car and find three plastic shopping bags stuck under the passenger’s seat, one with a hole.

Eyeball pulls the knife from the visor strap and stashes it in his sleeve. Takes the folding one from the console and rolls it into his waistband.

There’s a beanie in the trunk that Helaena tries to stuff her hair into with only about seventy percent success. Eyeball gives her his stretched-out elastic, and that helps; she makes a bun and tucks it up. There’s one spare pair of socks, and she takes those, too; she’s freezing, and he burns like a wildfire.

Helaena cuffs her too-long pants and ties her laces tight.

There’s not much to be done about his patch, by far the most conspicuous thing about them, but he does his best and pulls the hood out around his face so you have to look straight-on to see it.

Just like he did before.

His height’s another unsolvable problem, but he hunches and slopes, and it’ll have to do.

They split a cigarette. Eyeball leaves the filter in the car with the matches. They clutch their pale hands together - he’s hot; she’s clammy - and they take the winding shortcut home. Or, what used to be.

The outside looks the same; compact and run-down on its little patch of earth. A box inside a box, the color of a nicotine stain with two hanging shutters and a cracked front step. The crack’s widened in disrepair, and there are wisps of plant life sticking out like hair.

The two of them used to sit shoulder-to-shoulder on the one above it, smoking Daddy’s stolen Camels and dropping them through the slot. Waffle, too, sometimes. There’s probably a rotting pile underneath. Now it looks like you could turn an ankle in the gap.

No car nearby, in the narrow driveway or out front on the street. Lights off, from what they can see, which isn’t a lot. Only the kitchen window is helpful, its curtains sheer, but there’s a cabinet blocking it by half, so it’s limited in its use.

No cameras that they can see. Helaena had been worried about that, with Mama’s paranoia and the cash she supposedly had in there.

“This is fucking creepy,” she says, shifting her eyes around. There’s no one out. All quiet. Not unusual, though; people in the neighborhood generally keep to themselves and don’t hang out outside. Plus it’s earlyish, still. “I hate it.”

“Yep.” His voice is terse. He squeezes her hand and slides the key into the lock and turns.

Just like them, Helaena thinks. The neat fit. The come-apart.

They’ve decided not to worry about the fingerprints, or any of the rest of it, really. Eyeball holds his sleeve over his hand to twist the knob, but they’re all over the place inside, they’re sure.

My fuckin’ jizz is probably still in the fuckin’ rug, he’d said, laughing. Both of ours, she’d said, laughing back. Thinking of the weird bleachy spot on the ugly carpet they’d made worse trying to clean after his pull-out game went awry. It had gotten fucking everywhere. He told Mama he’d spilled milk and tried to clean it with Windex. Helaena had nearly lost it.

And that was that.

It’s been a couple of years but not nearly long enough to erase them. To erase anything.

They step inside, and Eyeball closes the door behind them with the soft, familiar click of a fucking time warp. But it’s a dimension-skip, too. A parallel universe. Everything is the same, and everything is different.

Same weird, vintage wallpaper, peeling away in the same thin, scraped-back places. Behind the doorknob. Along the sills and seams. Behind the outlines of the same, battered furniture. Same carpet. Same stain, faded more from years of feet stepping across it.

Helaena can see them there on the floor, knotted together in just their t-shirts, knees bumping and hips bumping and one of her legs awkward across his back, heel dug in hard like he was going to save her or something. Bodies too small and skinny for everything they were trying to hold. They were so fucking stupid.

They’re still so fucking stupid.

It wasn’t that long ago, really. Just a lifetime. They’re everywhere here. And they’re not.

“Shit,” Eyeball says, and she sees it, her eyes adjusting to the now, filtering back the then.

“Shit,” she echoes. “That’s a lotta Jesus.” Too much Jesus. Any amount is too much for her anymore, but this amount is likely unsettling for just about anyone. There is so much Jesus. Crosses and pictures and rosaries on the walls, and cross-stitched pillows on the couch, and trinkets and statues and stained glass. An ashtray. Etched drinking glasses. Candle holders and decorative plates and handwritten Bible verses on the walls and on the fridge they can see across the little waist-high dividing wall. Most, if not all of it, new.

“What the fuuuuuck,” Eyeball says. He whistles, long and low. “You think Waffle ever brought a girl home to this shit?”

Helaena’s laugh is strangely stunted. Sounds fake. “If he did, it was just once,” she says.

“Holy fucking shit. Lane, this is….” He can’t even finish.

“Yep,” she says. Shakes her head. “Fucking bonkers, baby. Let’s do what we gotta do and get the fuck outta here.”

They split up. He takes the little living room, Helaena the kitchen, and they paw through drawers and couch cushions, sift around shelves, search cabinets and skim across the top of the refrigerator. Eyeball shakes out the books, and Helaena gets on her knees to poke into the file box stuck under the kitchen table. They’re efficient; don’t linger, but try not to toss the fucking place. It’s messier than Helaena remembers. Smells strange. Home, but with a layer of grime on top that never used to be there.

They find nothing.

Bedrooms are next. Eyeball starts in his old room, the one he shared with Waffle, but comes to join her in hers almost right away when she calls for him. “C’mere!”

She’s in the doorway, just standing and looking around. Everything is mostly unchanged, just stripped bare from their leaving. Bed in the same place, chipped old dresser, glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling, closet with the off-track folding door. Helaena’s smiling, sideways and funny.

“What’s up?”

“This place makes me want to do crazy things to you,” she says. Eyebrows up. All mischief.

Eyeball laughs at her. “Like what?”

“Like everything. Like bend you right over.” She grins.

He laughs harder. “That’s gonna take more time and more lube than we got, sorry. Plus you left your dick at home.”

“We did so much dumb shit in here,” she says, shaking her head.

He leans down to kiss the side of her tipped-up mouth. “We did dumb shit all over this fucking house.”

They go through it together, and there’s not much to see. Drawers are almost empty, just random junk she left behind. Hair ties and chapstick tubes and roach clips and shit. The boxes in the closet have nothing but her old school papers, clothes that don’t fit, notes passed in class and referral after referral to the fucking principal that she hid. Truant. Late. Truant. Story of her life. She laughs at those, too.

Nothing under the mattress. Nothing under the bed. Nothing at all.

They shrug at each other. Move on.

Waffle’s room feels strange. Haunted or something; like he was coming back in an hour and untouched by Mama since. He and Eyeball shared it their whole lives, but you’d never know it. The minute he left, Waffle moved all his shit out to make it his; boxed crap up and left it outside the shitty motel room door where they stayed for three weeks before their first apartment opened up.

It had been a thing. A whole ass thing. They’d both squirreled their part-time job money away for months - years actually - and Eyeball graduated by the skin of his fucking teeth, and the next day they were gone. Paid cash, and that fucking place never even asked how old they were.

Not old enough was the answer, but they did it. Slept together in one of the two double beds that first night and didn’t even fuck, just laid there staring at the ceiling, wrapped up like fucking koalas because they could.

The room’s been Waffle’s now for awhile. Looks like his, smells like his. Weed and stale liquor and expensive cologne and fucking unwashed balls. He’s a disaster like Helaena; disorganized and cluttery, prone to ashing everything on the nightstand and leaving laundry on the fucking floor. Empty beer bottles lined on the windowsill, gum wrappers everywhere, single shoes scattered around.

“I’m not touching the cum sock,” Helaena says, surveying the mess. “I find it, that’s you.”

Eyeball salutes her, and she laughs, and they get to work.

There’s not much cash - a little fold of twenties and tens in a shirt pocket that counts up to seventy bucks that Eyeball sticks in his wallet - but there’s plenty of other shit. Plenty.

They lift the mattress and find his weed. The amount is middling; they can’t decide if he’s selling, too, but Helaena guesses yes, and they take it all. She smells it and thinks it’s good shit. Better than Boris’. They take his rolling papers. Leave the bong.

They leave the fucking porn, too, though Eyeball thinks they could probably sell it. Old stuff, magazines. Probably Daddy’s, he says, and Helaena wrinkles her nose. It’s freaky shit; they can tell from the covers. Neither of them wanna touch it.

Helaena’s hauled out the nightstand drawer - it fought with her, packed with crap and sticky - and is gingerly pulling it apart on the bed when she feels her brother’s hands on her. Hard at her hips.

“Eyeball,” she says. A warning, not even looking back at him. “No time for this shit.”

“C’mon,” he says. Plucks at her waistband, fingers poking inside between her pants and her underwear. “You don’t even have to stop.” She can hear the smile on his face. The devil in his voice. “When are we gonna get to do this again?”

She pauses. “I’m not even wet.”

“Bet you seventy bucks you are.” Sticks his whole hand in now, right against her skin and cups her bare ass. She squirms a little as he dips down between her thighs and leans in. Grins at her ear. “Pavlov,” he says, “l fuckin’ knew it,” and she bursts into laughter. He’s right. “You’re doing bad shit under Mama’s nose,” he says. Bites at her neck.

“Fine. Fine,” she says, “but be fuckin’ quick about it. And come in my fuckin’ mouth; don’t make a mess.”

He nods and yanks her bottoms down. “You keep going,” he says, “til you can’t.”

Helaena rolls her eyes and spreads her legs, shuffling through the drawer as he uses two fingers to open her up. She’s sticky, slipperier than she thought, and she runs wet all over him right away, like she was waiting for it. “Condoms in my wallet,” he says, drawing a pretty circle around her clit that closes in on it then backs away. Makes her jerk her hips.

“I’m not taking a fucking used condom with us,” she gasps. “Just use my mouth.”

“‘K.” She can feel him messing with his clothes, pulling himself out the front so he doesn’t have to undress. “You’re good,” he says. Licks behind her ear. Taps his dick against her a couple times and makes her wriggle back into him.

She’s down to one hand for work, barely noticing what she’s doing, gripping the fucking bedsheets with the other.

He tilts her a little. Adjusts. Pushes her downward. She scoots the drawer back so she can still see it, pretend she’s doing something, and then she feels the heavy, blunt weight of his cock against her, and her toes curl up and she lifts her hips to take him.

“Fuck,” she says. He goes all the way in at once, then a few short and steady strokes to get it right, and then the pace is familiar. Fast, fucking goal-oriented, hard enough to shake her hands and her knees and the bed. It creaks and squeaks and moans, and she keeps working her legs out, apart, wider and wider and wider. Deep is good. She wants to tuck him up inside, keep him there. Shallow fucking makes her antsy. She needs him backbackback, needs him in her belly, and she bends further forward to get him there. It’s easy from behind, and soon she’s just talking to him, fuck fuck fuck yes yes yes and given up all fucking pretense of robbery.

He shushes her, tells her focus, but they’re both useless instructions. She can’t shush, and she can’t focus, can’t be anything but back in his old bedroom, staring at the dirty gray-blue walls getting fucked like Mama’s gonna be there any second to find them, and maybe she is. Maybe church is running short, or she’s not feeling well enough for fellowship after, or maybe she’s having an episode and fucking Mrs. Lannister is going to bring her home to relax, and maybe they’re gonna get caught, and something about that makes her arch her back and tell him harder, fuck, please, and that sends him. He’s in the same place she is, she thinks, because he just starts to stutter and stutter and stutter, fingers curling, one hand in her hair yanking what’s sticking out of her stupid hat, and she has to bring him down to earth.

She shakes her head, says no no no, and that wakes him up, snaps him back, and she hears him make a frustrated sound and pull all the way out.

She tries to turn around, fumbles and catches herself in the sheet, pulls it with her as she sinks to her knees. He’s trying to shove his fucking dick in her mouth before she’s even settled, rubbing it against the corner of her lips and her cheek and it pokes right into the pocket there, misses most of her tongue and her throat, knocks into her teeth and scrapes through.

She laughs around it, a moany laugh because her cunt is aching, hates the emptiness of it all. Everything on the bed pulls forward when she finally gets turned right, gets him into her throat where he belongs and relaxes around him, and then he’s smacking at her. Tapping at her face while he fucks it, going come on in that hot, breathless voice he gets when he’s almost there, and she knows what he wants. She told him she wanted to fucking swallow it, but the motherfucker just can’t help himself. Needs to see his own fucking mess. She hollows her cheeks, tries to hold suction, tries to keep him in while she adjusts her heel to grind against the foot she’s worked out of her shoe, but he yanks himself free and tugs up at her shirt.

He catches the sheets with it, pulls her shirt up and the drawer forward, and it all happens at once. He slides out through her rounded lips with a wet pop, the old cigar box on top of the fucking drawer spills over and loses its contents down Helaena’s front, and he jerks himself twice, fast, expert little twist of his wrist, and comes all over her tits. The hiked up hem of her t-shirt. A handful of bedsheet. And a whole bunch of pills that just came rolling out and down.

His fucking aim still sucks sometimes.

“Goddamnit!” she spits, rocking against her own foot, and she can’t decide whether she wants to finish or fight him. The energy is the same. Ferocious and needy and balls-out.

He doesn’t let her think too hard; knows he’s kinda fucked up, so he just drops down in front of her and makes the decision for her, still panting and still dripping a little, getting fucking splooge on her thigh and the jut of her hip. He hauls her body into his, sticky pills dissolving in bits between them, and gets her off with his fingers, curling in and up while his thumb does the rest. She growls into his neck, right around the sink of her teeth, annoyed and desperate, and comes all over his hand. Squeezes him like she’s trying to break his fucking knuckles as she feels the fucking pulse of it get all the way to the top of her fucking head and explode.

She swears at him again, calls him a filthy slut, and he laughs as he holds her through it.

“Sorry, Laney, sorry,” he says, and he’s still laughing, and she can’t help herself now either. She laughs, too. A panting, wild laugh that feels like her guts coming loose.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” she asks him, pulling their tacky skin apart and wiping herself off with her shirt. Picking pills off of her and dropping them into his non-spoogey hand.

“I dunno,” he says. He dumps the pile back into the cigar box and puts his dick back in his pants. Uses her shirt to wipe down his hand and fishes his knives off the goddamn floor. “More importantly, what the fuck are these?”

Helaena adjusts her clothes, pulls her panties and pj’s back up, pops the shoe back on, and helps him find and gather the rest. “Looks like a few different kinds,” she says. “Roxys for sure, some of them, but some of it, I dunno.”

“Me, either.” They decide to take them all. There’s more in the drawer, too. Some loose, some in one of Mama’s old change purses. They’re probably worth something, and Eyeball’s sure he can move them. Come-spattered and all. She tells him that’s fucking disgusting, but he snickers and tells her anyone who’s gonna buy them has crushed and snorted worse than jizz and not to fucking worry about it.

Helaena finds another two IDs in the drawer, too. She still hasn’t told Eyeball about the other ones. Doesn’t really know why, it just feels like she shouldn’t, but she shows him these two and they pocket them, as well.

Then they find the gun.

Closet, top shelf, hidden behind old shoeboxes and Waffle’s fucking empty trumpet case from middle school.

Eyeball reaches up and back with his long arm and pulls it out. He knows what it is before he sees it and lifts it delicately. Lays it on the bed. It’s a handgun. A 22, he tells her. Looks like a cop piece. She doesn’t ask him how he knows this shit. After he lost his fucking eye, he decided he was going to be the most dangerous motherfucker he knew, and now he is.

Between YouTube and Cris, who has guns like Eyeball has knives, he knows shit. Lots of shit. Shit Helaena would rather not know he knows.

For a minute, they just stare. At it. At each other. Back at it.

Go back and forth about what to do with it.

Eyeball looks all through the top shelf for ammo but doesn’t find any.

“What the fuck was he doing?” Helaena says.

“Selling, obviously,” Eyeball answers. “Other shady shit, too, if I had to guess. What, who the hell knows?”

Helaena closes her eyes. Takes a breath.

Time is getting shorter and shorter and all they have is seventy bucks and some fucking narcs to sell, so they just decide to take it, and if they need to ditch it later - decide that it’s too dangerous to hang onto, stolen or whatever - they will. Eyeball checks the chamber to make sure it’s not loaded then stuffs it into his hoodie pocket with his wallet.

None of this shit is sitting right with her, but she didn’t expect it to, so they just keep moving. They find another stash of weed in an old boot, but that’s it, and they shut the bedroom door as they go, leaving it like they found it.

“No cum sock,” Helaena says, trying to find some humor.

“He jerks off in the shower,” Eyeball says. Matter of fact. “That’s the only thing that dickhead’s clean about.” Helaena groans, doesn’t ask how he knows this, and they split up again.

She takes the bathroom, and Eyeball goes to
Mama’s.

It only takes a cursory glance to realize there’s nothing there but more fucking Jesus. Medicine cabinet, under the sink, linen closet: all a big, creepy, holy bust. Less than five minutes.

She’s not sure whether she’s heartbroken or relieved that Waffle’s fucking lied to them, but any guilt she may have had about lifting his fucking shit is gone, at least. They may as well have gotten something for all their fucking trouble.

She’s in the hall outside of Mama’s room, on her way, when she hears Eyeball call for her.

“Lane! Get the fuck in here!”

Chapter 13: Ready to Run

Summary:

“Good girl,” he says to her, quiet and smiling. “You fuckin’ champ.”

Notes:

Here’s part two of the Longest Chapter Ever. Or, chapter 13.

Also, in case you’re wondering, uncle/niece marriage is actually legal in the state of Georgia, USA. It’s also legal in Rhode Island for certain members of the Jewish community. 🤷🏼‍♀️ The more you know! 😂

& in case it’s not super clear, Luke is not Rhaenyra’s son/H&A’s nephew in this weird little world. Just some rando kid 🤷🏼‍♀️

WHAT I DIDN’T KNOW BEFORE
by Ada Limón

was how horses simply give birth to other
horses. Not a baby by any means, not
a creature of liminal spaces, but already
a four-legged beast hellbent on walking,
scrambling after the mother. A horse gives way
to another horse and then suddenly there are
two horses, just like that. That’s how I loved you.
You, off the long train from Red Bank carrying
a coffee as big as your arm, a bag with two
computers swinging in it unwieldily at your
side. I remember we broke into laughter
when we saw each other. What was between
us wasn’t a fragile thing to be coddled, cooed
over. It came out fully formed, ready to run.

 

Eyeball’s standing at Mama’s tall dresser when Helaena comes in, all of her underwear bunched up into a pile on one side of the second drawer down. He’s got a stack of cash - a small one, thin rubber band around it - sitting on top, but that’s not what he’s looking at.

Helaena walks over, feeling watched by all the fucking Jesus-and-Mary eyes on her, peering in judgment from the dingy rose-colored walls. Of course he started with the dresser, she thinks. He’s lived with her long enough to know that’s where she puts stuff that she wants to hide but not hide hide.

“Look,” he says, holding up what looks like a bunch of old envelopes and pictures and shit. He shoves one into her hand, and her brow knits together at it.

“That’s… Rhae?” she says, confused.

It sure is. Their half-sister, from Daddy’s first marriage. Her mother died giving birth to her - bled out in five minutes, he said; hemorrhaged faster than anything that doctor had ever fucking seen - and Daddy raised her alone til he met Mama. Much older than they are. Fourteen when Waffle was born, gone the year Eyeball came along. Didn’t get on at all with Mama, who was too close in age; didn’t want a houseful of fucking babies; pissed off at Daddy, and gone to live with Daddy’s brother and his wife before any of them could make a memory of her, is how the story goes. Hasn’t been back since. A ghost. Invisible, barely in the background of their lives at all, just gone.

Except… “What the fuck?”

“Right?” Eyeball says.

That’s Daddy’s brother with her. Uncle Daemon. They don’t fucking talk about him, either, except every once in awhile when Daddy would tell Eyeball that’s where he got his height. Daemon’s tall like that he’d say, offhanded. Always was. Daddy was taller than Waffle but nowhere near Eyeball.

And there’s tall Uncle Daemon, with his tallish wife - according to the bent, grimy little announcement photo that Helaena’s holding, anyway - who is definitely, definitely their fucking half-sister and not their mysterious Aunt Lana.

Dressed in off-white for her wedding. Cute dress, Helaena thinks. Short and sexy, but not slutty. Big, big smile. Hair just as blond as theirs; eyes that same funny blue-violet shade when Helaena brings the picture close and squints. Daemon, too. Those same eyes. No question at all who’s who here.

Rhae looks a lot like Daddy. More than any of them, even Eyeball. Daemon does too, she thinks. This is the most recent picture she’s seen of him, and he’s aged a lot like his brother. Less sick-looking, though, of course.

“What the fuck,” Helaena says again. Stunned. “They’re married?” Six years married, according to the date on the announcement. It’s sticking out of its envelope, and she turns it over to see the return address. Fancy gold script on the little sticker; probably done up just for this. Georgia. “Georgia?” she says out loud. That’s not what Daddy had said, she’s pretty sure, though she can’t really remember if Daddy ever said anything at all about where they lived.

She looks up at Eyeball and thinks his face probably looks a lot like hers. Wide eye. Confused. Forehead pulled all wrinkly. “Guess they’ll let you do anything there,” he finally says. Shrugs. But he doesn’t look convinced.

Helaena shakes her head. “Won’t let us,” she says. “We’re illegal everywhere. But I guess they’re… not? I mean, why would they send this if it wasn’t… like, why just announce that you’re gross, and play dress up and shit, if you don’t have a permit?”

Eyeball snorts at her, but she’s serious.

“What the fuck?” he says this time. “Wasn’t he married when she went to live with him? She was like.. what, seventeen?”

“Something like that,” Helaena says. She’s still staring at the picture. “And he was married. That’s what Daddy said anyway. Said Rhae always liked Aunt Lana, and she was almost grown anyway, so…”

They look at each other. Helaena hands the picture back, and Eyeball stares at it. Hard. “Looks like it wasn’t Auntie Lana she liked,” he says. Then, “There’s a card, too. After Daddy died.” He holds it up. They hadn’t come to the funeral, which Mama had made a point to have a shitfit about at the time, but apparently they did know and at least pretended to care. Mama hadn’t mentioned that part. “This is some fucking shit. Fucking weird-ass shit.”

“I mean. No weirder than us,” Helaena says. “But we grew up on the fucking trauma train, so…” she shrugs. “This is what happens.”

“I mean. Maybe they did, too? We don’t fucking know. Maybe this shit just runs in the fuckin’ family.” He pauses and sticks the picture back into its envelope. Folds it into his pants pocket. Helaena clocks it but doesn’t ask why. “Anyway, Pornhub says it’s fine as long as your sister has nice tits,” he says, changing the subject. Snorts again.

Helaena laughs. “And if your brother has a big dick. Totally fine.”

“It’s not that big, Lane,” he says. Shuffles absently through the rest of the papers in his hand.

“You only think that because that’s all you watch. You like huge cocks.” He looks up at her, goes to argue, but she shushes him and steps around him to get to the closet. “It’s fine,” she says. “Everyone likes huge cocks. That’s why it’s a thing. But if you fucking searched for something else once in awhile you’d see.”

“You’re just small,” he says, stuffing the rest of the papers back into the drawer and spreading its contents back out.

“I’m not small. I’m normal. Women all start kinda small and then they stretch. Why am I telling you that? You know that, dumbass. I only stay feeling small because it’s big.” She opens the half-ajar closet door all the way and starts to paw through Mama’s clothes, looking for pockets to check. “Anyway it doesn’t matter; why are we talking about this?”

“I dunno.” He opens the next drawer down and rifles through. Finds nothing.

“Because you started in with the Pornhub shit,” she says. Gets to the end of the rack - all shades of green and blue and black and white, all prim, all ironed and neater than anything else in this fucking place - and kneels down to open the chest that’s sitting there. “You and your fucking big dicks and bukkake shit.”

“I don’t… not that there’s anything wrong with that! But I don’t…”

Helaena looks up at him and laughs. “I’m fucking with you. You do like big dicks though. It’s fine. So do I. Shut up and look,” she says, popping the lid of the old wooden trunk. Nothing in there but extra sheets, she determines, feeling around.

Eyeball finds another small stack of cash rolled into the cup of one of Mama’s bras, but that’s it for the dresser. Helaena watches him take half the bills from each, stick them in his wallet, and put the rest back.

She feels along the floor of the closet but finds nothing but some shoes that likely haven’t been worn in a decade. “Come here and check the shelf,” she says, moving out of the way. “I can’t get to the back.”

They swap out, and Helaena starts combing through the jewelry box on the nightstand. “Bullets,” she says right away. Pulls one of the larger drawers all the way out, and it’s full of them. Some boxed, some loose. All the same, it looks like.

Eyeball stops and comes over. Rubs one through his fingers and looks at it. Scans the box. “Forties,” he says. “It’s for this, definitely.” He pats his hoodie pocket. Looks up at her. “So who doesn’t trust who?”

Helaena shrugs. Shifts uncomfortably. “They don’t trust each other,” she says finally. “Gun was better hidden than the ammo. Out of her reach. Gonna guess Waffle took it from her, but who knows?”

Eyeball shrugs back and rolls his eye. “Fuckin’ cowboy. Jesus Christ.” He’s already taken a box and a handful of the loose slugs and stuck them in one of the plastic bags they brought. He spreads what’s left out to cover the drawer and slides it back in. Thinks for a second and wipes the front down a little with the end of the comforter. “That’s a lot of rounds,” he says. He tries to sound casual, but Helaena can tell he doesn’t like it, either.

There’s nothing in the rest of the jewelry box - Mama’s wedding set, some costume shit, her medication, some of their baby teeth and weird little bits and bobs - and Eyeball doesn’t find anything exciting in the closet, either.

In the drawer of the nightstand, Helaena finds a sleeve of condoms on top and recoils. Eyeball sees her and laughs. “Play stupid games, win stupid prizes,” he grins, and Helaena shoves them back in. There’s lube, too. A fucking vibrator. “Jesus fucking Christ,” she says, nodding at the giant crucifix over the bed. “How the fuck does she get off with all this shit around?”

Eyeball tilts his head. “Probably gets off because of it,” he says. “You know her. Wouldn’t be surprised if she uses one of these fucking things, too.” He picks up a freestanding cross-statue-thing with two fingers and drops it just as fast.

Helaena screws up her face and slams the drawer shut. “Could’ve done without that image. Thanks.”

They’re still looking cock-eyed sideways at each other, snickering, when they bend down to pick up the mattress and look under the bed.

“Oh. Shit.” They say it at the same time. Same inflection. Same everything.

Ziplock bags. The expensive ones with the good zippers. All lined up in one of those long, shallow under-the-bed boxes. Clear red plastic. Helaena recognizes it; Mama used to lay the fucking Christmas paper in there when they were kids. There’s still a roll of it, old yellowing plaid-patterned shit, lying against one side.

But the rest is cash.

They look at each other. “Okay,” Helaena says quietly. “He wasn’t lying. What now?”

Eyeball knows what now. Tucks his sleeve over again and slides the box out. There’s not enough room to take it all the way with them sitting there, but he can reach everything inside. “Hold it,” he says, shoving a plastic bag at her. He takes the other two and wraps them over his fucking hands like gloves.

“Don’t fucking take it all,” Helaena says, suddenly anxious. Hot and prickled with sweat that’s crawled over her skin out of thin air. She looks up towards the door, like it just occurred to her that something fucking awful could happen if they get caught.

“I’m not a fucking idiot, Lane,” he says, focused; not looking up at all. “Just fucking hold it.”

They don’t count; don’t even make an attempt. The bills aren’t uniform, like Mama - or Waffle, or whoever - has been taking bits at a time and putting the change back. Some hundreds, twenties, tens, fives, Helaena even sees fucking singles. It doesn’t make any sense; no rhyme or reason. Eyeball goes through, quick and efficient with those good, steady hands, and takes about a quarter to a half from each bag. Sometimes a little more. Leaves the top alone, works from the bottom, sets everything back the way he found it. He scans his work, decides to take one entire bag and rearranges them a little to make it look right. Sticks the whole shit back under the bed.

All of it fits into two of the plastic bags.

He leaves the third over one hand and it’s done. No more fucking around. “Let’s go,” he says. Stands up quick and pulls her with him.

Helaena’s heart is jackrabbit-fast now, armpits sweating, scalp itchy. It feels like fucking hot garbage, and she hates it, but mostly she fucking hopes it’s worth it. She has no idea how much money was there; how much they fucking took, nothing. It doesn’t seem like as much as Waffle thought, but she doesn’t really know. Just wants to get the fuck out.

They get to the front door, and he stops. “I’m gonna go get the car,” he says. “Don’t think we should be fucking walking around with all this shit, even a few blocks. Not here.” He thinks for a second. “Switch with me.”

Eyeball unzips his hoodie, careful not to drop anything. It’s bigger than the shirt of his that Helaena’s got on; roomier, and when he zips her into it, he stuffs the bags underneath.

She doesn’t like the gun. Starts fiddling immediately, pulling at the pocket threads, and Eyeball sees it. Takes the fucking thing and shoves it into the back of his waistband without a word. “I need a fucking cigarette,” he says, teeth clenched, nervous as she is suddenly.

He tells her to wait two full minutes, and if he doesn’t come back in, to come outside. Walk super casual to the corner and lean against the fucking pole. Tuck her arms in, tuck her chin in, hold herself tight and pretend to be fucking cold and don’t look anyone in the fucking face. Wait for him. He’ll be right there.

He fixes her hair for her; puts it under the hat as tight as he can. “Eyes down,” he tells her. Strokes her cheek, all gentle, at odds with how fucking edgy he sounds now. “Okay? Fucking keep your eyes down.”

Helaena licks her lips, dry and nervous, and nods. He kisses her cheek, and he’s dry as fuck, too. His breath feels too hot.

He goes.

She stays.

She waits.

The wall clock ticks in slo-mo. She can’t decide if the second-hand is stuttering; maybe it’s broken, but it seems right, she thinks. Two minutes after eleven. They were pretty quick, all told, she thinks. She stares, her hands clammy, arms crossed tight over her chest, trying to hold her ribs together. Her heart in. The minute hand takes a little jump, so the clock is fine. It’s fine. It’s fine. It’s fine.

She dips her head down and buries her nose in the arm of her hoodie. Smoke and warmth and that smell that’s just him, a little sharpsweethot. Like leather or blood or something in that family. Something corporeal. Home. She closes her eyes. Counts. Opens them after a beat of twenty and takes a deep breath.

Five.
Four.
Three.
Two.
One.

Two minutes. No Eyeball.

She swallows hard and opens the door.

The day is gray-bright. She thought earlier that it might rain, but it doesn’t look like it anymore. The air is cold, slaps at her and wakes her up. Gets her blood up in her face.

Helaena uses the sleeve to cover her own hand, just like he did, and turns the lock before she pulls the door shut.

Everything in her sinks with relief; rolls into a pulsing, hot flood of thanks when she turns her head and sees him already parked at the corner. He’s fast. She can see smoke wisping out the cracked driver’s side window and almost laughs.

It’s all she can do not to run, but she behaves herself. Does as she’s told. Makes herself small and cold-looking, holds tight, doesn’t drop a single thing. Head down. Eyes low. Walkswalkswalks.

Eyeball sees her coming and leans to pop open the door, and when she slides into the passenger seat, she yanks it shut and bursts into tears.

He’s got a cigarette lit for her already. Gives it to her. Shifts into gear, puts a steady hand on her knee and pulls away, slow and smooth as anything.

“Good girl,” he says to her, quiet and smiling. “You fuckin’ champ.”

She smiles. Wipes her eyes and laughs a little. Takes a nice, long drag. “Thank you, Daddy,” she says back, blowing her smoke in his direction. Half joking. Half wishing he’d pull over and stick his tongue in her fucking mouth and give her something to do with herself.

When she looks down, there’s the gun. Eyeball’s stashed it under the floor mat, and she can see the outline poking up through the gritty old vinyl.

She swallows hard and holds his hand in her lap, white-knuckled and shaking.

He thumbs across her palm, over and over and over. Rubs circles. Other hand on the wheel, cigarette between two fingers burning like a fuse.

“Whatcha wanna do?” he asks her. Quirks an eyebrow in her direction.

“Right this second? Read,” she says. Wipes her face again and pushes the plastic bags under her clothes down and around so they’re behind her a little.

He lets go of her and opens the glove box. “Go ahead, Laneybug,” he says, his voice nice and low and even. Measured out and so, so calm for her. “Out loud for me?”

His leg is goinggoinggoing. Bouncebouncebounce. Telling on himself.

She takes whatever’s on top. Smiles. It’s poetry. Easy, short, lovely. Distracting.

“What I didn’t know before

was how horses simply give birth to other
horses…” she starts.

Eyeball’s fingers tap tap tap, and his ashes fall fall fall, and he drives.

Chapter 14: Visitors

Summary:

In which things take a bit of a downhill slide.

Notes:

Setting a record for most consecutive chapters without gratuitous smut. Two, in case you’re curious. Two. 😂

And if you’re thinking this is a setup for super bananas mollysex later, you’re…. Probably absolutely fucking correct 😂

Last but not least, “The City in Which I Love You” is one of the most beautiful poems ever written and if you haven’t read it, go do that.

My tongue remembers your wounded flavor.
The vein in my neck
adores you.
…

The shadows under my arms,
I promise, are tender, the shadows
under my face. Do not calculate,
but come, smooth other, rough sister.

- from The City in Which I Love You by Li-Young Lee

 

They park to the side of the gas station; not close enough to anyone to be looked at and not far enough away to be noticeably out of place. Eyeball runs in, and Helaena sorts out the car.

She sticks the bags she’s carrying under the blanket in the trunk. Takes the cash out of the Ziplock and uses it to stash all the loose pills from their pockets, then shoves that back there, too. Takes off her socks and puts all the weed inside; adds that. Stares and stares and stares at the gun, then gingerly moves it under her seat, tucking the grip into the sliding mechanism underneath to hold it there. She doesn’t want to look at it. Hates touching it even more.

By the time she’s done and trying to fix the mess of her hair in the rearview, he’s back. Coffee and a muffin for her. He’s gotten himself an underripe banana that he’ll probably regret later, she thinks, but doesn’t lecture him. More cigarettes; between the two of them, they’ve almost run through the fucking Marbs and what was left of Eyeball’s shitty Newports already.

It’s been a morning.

They sit and smoke and eat for a minute. Don't talk. Eyeball puts on the radio low and kisses her face and blows her smoke rings. She tries to stick her fingers through them and watches them disappear.

“I’m gonna swing by Boris’,” he says finally. “I don’t want to carry this fuckin’ shit around too long.”

She can tell by his tone that he’s not wild about the idea, and she isn’t either, but she can’t really find an argument against it. He’s the only one who’ll probably buy a bunch of loose fucking pills half-dissolved in titty-spunk, and he’ll also probably be able to tell them if anyone’s been poking around about Luke. Cops or otherwise.

Helaena sighs and nods, and Eyeball looks almost surprised that she’s not fighting him on it. He closes his eye and takes a big, deep breath. Tosses their garbage into the bin outside, and they go.

This is another park-and-walk situation, since Boris doesn’t like the look of cars coming and going all the fucking time, so they leave Granny on a side street and lock her up tight. They switch their clothes back - he wants the hood- and Eyeball sticks the bag of shit in his pocket. Helaena halfheartedly tries to talk him into unloading the fucking gun, too, but he doesn’t wanna hear it. “He doesn’t play with that shit,” Eyeball says, but it’s a lie and she knows it. Boris plays with everything.

Helaena doesn’t really want to go with him - feels disgusting and exposed and cold; braless, short-sleeved and fucking covered in come - but more than that she doesn’t want to sit alone in the car in this fucking neighborhood with a trunk full of cash. They debate it, but she wins.

The walk is a short one, thankfully. Her fucking feet are freezing, arms all goosebumped. She sticks close to the furnace of his body, and it helps some. They cut through an alley that Helaena doesn’t like, even at noon, but she feels safe with Eyeball. He holds her hand and keeps his eye moving, head on a swivel. He tells her to do the same, and she does, and they’re fine. It leads to a straight path to Boris’ back door, and that’s where they go.

He’s a big dude; tall as Eyeball and broader. Linebacker shoulders. Beer-bellied, hooded hazel eyes, fucking bloodshot, with lashes like Waffle but dark. Scruffy beard with God-knows-what in it. Hands like mitts. A mop of brown-black curls that needs a fucking wash. He could be handsome, Helaena thinks. Bedroom eyes, Mama would say.

Not her fucking bedroom. He’s gross. Stinks like BO and bad weed and stands with his hand in his pants like a dirty old man. Which he is, sort of, she supposes. In his 40s, she’d guess. Old enough.

He answers the door after Eyeball knocks right. Fucking claps him on the shoulder with his big old dick-paw and tries to pat her with it, but she slides to the side and pretends to cough. Eyeball smirks at her.

“Haven’t seen your old lady in awhile,” he says to Eyeball, smiling, and Eyeball smiles back. Doesn’t correct him, if it would even be a correction at all, and just tells him she likes to keep her nose clean. Helaena says nothing. Just stands and shifts foot-to-foot. Stares around at the fucking mess. The peeling paint and random graffiti in the hall and what she thinks is a fucking bullet hole in the wall running along the stairs.

Eyeball plays along with Boris’ he-man-woman-haters-club bullshit and tells her to hang out while they talk in the office. The Office. Helaena doesn’t even hide her eye roll. She’s seen the office. It’s a fucking back bedroom with a bare mattress on the floor and a cheap Walmart desk with a broken drawer. Shelves to the ceiling covered by a tacked-up cattle blanket or something. Same shit over the windows. How this dumb motherfucker isn’t sitting in a cell, she doesn’t know.

What she does know is that he doesn’t fucking talk to cops, and that’s at least part of it.

She can’t bring herself to sit down - the fucking couch is sunk almost to the floor in the middle and probably a fucking bedbug habitat - so she just leans against the jamb and smokes. Taps her foot.

No one else is there, but there’s some kind of fucking German thrash-metal or whatever playing at a volume too low for what it is, and she can’t hear anything else. No voices through the cracked door. She just smokes and smokes and smokes.

It feels like the whole thing takes longer than it should, but Eyeball eventually comes out.

Even his big hand is almost lost in Boris’ when they shake their goodbyes. Boris reaches to pat Helaena on the cheek or the head or touch her hair or something, but it’s Eyeball who steps in this time. Doesn’t even make a joke of it, no pretense, nothing. Just straight up catches his wrist, fast as fuck, and Boris laughs but backs off.

“Always nice doing business, man,” he says, and Eyeball nods, and they finally fucking go.

He lays an arm across her shoulder as they walk, and she leans hard into him. Everything is starting to catch up to her, stack itself in her brain, and she doesn’t think she can do this out-in-public shit much longer. Her nervous system is sputtering on fumes.

Eyeball can tell. Takes a lot of her weight as they go, curls his fingers into the fabric of her pants and holds them up on the side that’s come uncuffed. Doesn’t tell her to keep her eyes moving. Gives her his own cigarette, and she can taste him on it. That’s how she really knows she’s almost burnt; her senses get wonky. Feels like she’s walking on bubble wrap, can’t feel the ground, but she can taste her fucking brother on the filter. Coffee and the cleanish, sweet white of his saliva. It’s good. It helps.

She has the sudden urge to tell him to push her up against the fucking dumpster they’re passing; put her on her knees and spit in her fucking mouth. The thought makes her giggle. Makes her woozy and want-y, but he just looks at her funny and keeps walking, and she doesn’t say it out loud.

Maybe later.

“I love you,” she says instead; “I love you so much,” which is what she thinks her scrambled thoughts are trying to convey with all that, and he squeezes her tighter, and then they’re at the car. He opens her door for her and tucks her inside. Checks the trunk. All is well.

He hits himself with hand sanitizer when he gets in, and Helaena snickers at him. “He’s disgusting, but you one hundred percent touched him with your splooge,” she says.

Eyeball laughs. “I fuckin’ wiped it off,” he says, and they leave.

“I got you a present,” he tells her as they pull out from the side street. His lips are a little tight; a little grim, she’s noticing now that they’re sitting, but there’s a quarter-smile there.

He reaches into his hoodie pocket and tries not to fucking set it on fire in the process, fumbles around, and pulls out a tiny bag. Drops it in her open, waiting palm.

“Oh my god,” she says. Squeals, almost, actually. “Ohhhh my god!”

He smiles a little wider. “You deserve it.” He reaches back in and pulls out two lollipops. “Complimentary with purchase,” he says and hands those over, too. One watermelon, one green apple.

“Did you choose the flavors?” she asks.

“Mmhm.”

They catch each other’s eye, matching little grins now. “Thank you, Daddy,” she says, laughing.

Molly. Mollymollymollymollymolly. Enough for them both. Two little rolls or one big one. Her favorite. They don’t fuck around with it too often; they don’t have a ton of cash to burn, and weed is more practical. Utilitarian. But molly is the kinda thing she might throw a kid off a bridge for, she thinks.

She squints at the little sticker on the bag, then presses the happy little tablets between her fingers through the plastic. Boris is a dirtbag, but he and Eyeball are cool enough, and he’s a repeat customer. These look legit.

“He wouldn’t give me cash for that shit,” Eyeball says. “Couldn’t ID some of it, some of it was halfsies or whatever, bad shape.” He coughs a little. “But he traded because the stuff he could ID was good and the rest he can cut with.”

Helaena stuffs the bag into her own pocket. “When do you wanna play?” Her eyes are all wide, and she’s shifting around in the seat like a wired little kid.

Eyeball laughs at her. “Later if you want. Let’s just get this shit home and chill out for a minute. Jesus. Plus…”

She looks at him. She knew something else was coming.

“Plus someone fuckin’ came looking for Luke.”

Helaena’s hands fold in her lap. She squeezes her nails into her skin. “Does he know?”

“No!” Eyeball looks at her like she’s bonkers. “What the fuck, Laney? You think I’d tell that fucker anything? Christ. No. He’s a nosy bastard. Has his ear on everything, you know that. Asked me if I knew anything, because some chick he’d never seen came knocking on his fucking door.”

“What chick?”

“Reina something? Wouldn’t give her last name. Your height, he said. Maybe a little taller. Dark skin, dark eyes, glasses. Light-ish hair? Locs. Real distinctive looking, he said. Nervous. Said she was his girlfriend.”

Helaena narrows her eyes. “What did she say?” Her throat is dry.

“I dunno exactly. Wasn’t trying to look too fucking interested. Boris just said she knocked, said she hadn’t see Luke in a few days and he told her he was picking some shit up there. That’s all. She wanted to know if Boris had seen him. Boris didn’t fuckin’ know her and wanted to know if I did. Or if I’d seen Luke. Three minute conversation, not even.”

“Do you think…”

“I don’t know,” he says. Short. “I don’t think so. I was fuckin’ normal. Said I hadn’t seen him. Didn’t know who the fuckin’ girl was. He said he didn’t think she was from here. Wasn’t sure how she found him.”

Helaena snorts. Everyone knows fuckin’ Boris. All she had to do was ask. “He knows, right? About you two?”

Eyeball shrugs. Lights another cigarette with the one in his mouth and drops that one into the console tray. “He’s never said so but probably. Fuckin’ everyone does, right?” He blows his smoke in a huge cloud through his nose. A fucking dragon.

Helaena closes her eyes and leans back. Her muffin is suddenly sitting very poorly. She reaches over and takes the last dredges of her cold-ass coffee. It doesn’t settle it. She feels around for some Tums in the pocket of the door, but the fucking bottle is empty.

“Anything else?” she says finally.

Eyeball shakes his head. Drums his fingers on the wheel, then downshifts for the light. “No. Just shot the shit for a few minutes and fucking negotiated.”

“No cops?”

“He didn’t say anything about cops. But you know that fucker doesn’t answer the door for them.”

Helaena gives him a cigarette to light for her. Taps it on the dash. Thinks hard.

They’re pulling up outside the apartment when everything clicks into place. “Baby,” she says. “That girl.”

“Luke’s girl?”

“Yeah. I think she was in the shop.”

Eyeball parks. Looks at her and thinks for a second. “The other day? When I was with you?” Helaena can see it start to register on his face.

“Yeah. Do you think that was her? It sounds like her. She didn’t give me a name or say shit to me, really, but…”

They stare. “Could be,” he says, finally. “Did she…”

He doesn’t finish, but Helaena knows what he’s asking. “I don’t think she even looked your way, sweetheart. Wouldn’t bet my life on it, but she was on a fuckin’ mission. In and out, real fuckin’ focused. She barely looked at me. Stared down a lot. Table, cards, whatever. I think I only saw her fuckin’ eyes for ten seconds total. But the rest sounds like her. Dark skin, lighter hair, pretty locs. Glasses. She was cute.” Helaena shrugs. “Pulled all swords,” she says, quietly. “All fuckin’ swords.”

Eyeball’s got his knees going. Teeth going, working on his lip. “What the fuck was she doing in the shop?”

“What anyone else does in the shop. Honey. There’s no way she knows anything. Even if she was fucking looking for you - and she definitely, definitely fucking wasn’t; trust me - there’s no way she’d know to go there. It’s all in Alys’ fuckin’ name. I don’t even officially fucking work there, no paycheck, no fucking paper trail, nothing. We don’t have a fucking lease. I mean, what the hell? We’re not the easiest people in the world to find.” She puts her hand on his leg, which feels like it’s buzzing like a fucking saw, it’s bouncing so fast now.

“I don’t fucking like it,” he says. Grinds his fucking cigarette into the tray. Agitated.

“I don’t fucking like it, either,” she says. “But it doesn’t fucking mean anything. If you’re looking for the shit we do, Alys is pretty much the only game in town. Maybe she’s just a weirdo like us. Talking to the cards. Probably thinks her loser boyfriend ghosted her for his fuckin’ side piece or something, and maybe I fuckin’ confirmed it for her. She’s not out here posting fuckin’ missing fliers or anything. Her man wasn’t exactly squeaky fuckin’ clean, was he? She’s gotta know that.”

“Let’s just get in the fuckin’ house,” Eyeball says. Cuts the engine hard and pulls the key. Closes his eye for a second and knocks himself into the headrest a couple times, like he’s trying to rearrange his brain. Helaena knows the feeling.

They look around when they get out, make sure no one’s paying too much attention, and stuff the bags under Eyeball’s hoodie again. He puts the weed socks under his arms, one each, and gives Helaena the keys for the door.

Alys is waiting for them when they come in through the back, leaning against the rear shop entrance. Black dress to her knees; boots that meet its hem. Hair up today, a neat French twist, and blood-red lips. Helaena is suddenly very conscious of what a fucking nightmare she looks like.

Alys smiles when they come in, but it’s a strange smile. Doesn’t reach her wide, wide eyes.

“Birdies!” she says. A bit of false cheer that doesn’t suit her. “I’ve been hoping I’d see you. You’ve had visitors.”

They both stop cold. They don’t have visitors. Literally never. For myriad, myriad reasons.

Alys can see the confusion on their faces. “Two officers,” she says. “Nice young men. It seems they knocked on your door but you weren’t at home. They met me on their way out and asked after you.”

They’re shoulder to shoulder, and Helaena can feel Eyeball’s body tense like a bow string. Hear the low crinkle-crunch of the plastic bags under his clothes when he pulls himself tight.

“We were out,” she says dully. “Did they say what they wanted?”

“No. Only that they’d like for you to call them. They left a card in your door. They also gave me one.” She pauses. Helaena can see her searching them. Looking for clues. “They asked me if I could be a helper and give you a call, but I told them I didn’t have your number.”

“Who…” Eyeball starts, but his voice is all ashy and dry, and he has to cough to wet it. Loosen it up. “Who were they looking for?”

“They didn’t say,” Alys says carefully. “Asked for you by apartment number. I did try to call you once they’d left, but I’m afraid it just rang and rang. Both of you.”

Both of their phones are in the apartment.

“Thanks,” Helaena says after a silence that goes on for an eon. “We’ll… we’ll call them, thank you. Thanks.”

Beside her, Eyeball is stiff as a corpse.

Alys’ eyes rake over them. Pull back all the layers. Just looking. “You’re welcome. If you need anything, you know where to find me, loves.” She tilts her head and turns to go back into the shop. “Oh!” she says before she does. “I did take the liberty of locking your door after they’d gone. I just… had a feeling that you’d left it, and that perhaps you hadn’t meant to.”

She slips away, graceful, and shuts the door with a near-soundless click.

Chapter 15: Lightning, Wind

Summary:

If only we, too, could be sure again,
in this forest of desire and foreboding,
sure, unerringly sure,
when to go home,
whom to shelter,
what to seek.

Notes:

Did I just write a fade-to-black? Kinda sorta? I’m getting fucking soft, here.

That night, a storm came.

If only we, too, could be sure again,
in this forest of desire and foreboding,
sure, unerringly sure,
when to go home,
whom to shelter,
what to seek.

- from Storm Warning by Robert Grant Burns

 

“Get upstairs. Go.” His voice feels like a blade to her back; a barrel in her ribs. She gets upstairs. She goes.

He’s behind her, so close he steps on the back of her fucking shoes twice and almost trips her and doesn’t even apologize. His legs are longer, his strides wider, and she has to half-jog to stay in front of him because all of his gentle accommodation is gone. He’s so anxious, so fucking intent that it feels like he just wants to fucking sling her over his shoulder, but he has to keep his arms down to hold all their fucking shit in place.

Helaena can’t get the key in the lock. She’s shaking and disorganized, and Eyeball’s breathing down her fucking neck. After he rips the fucking cops’ card out of the door, he takes the keys from her and does it himself, leaning wrist-to-hip and elbowing her out of the way.

As soon as the door shuts behind them, he rounds on her. “You didn’t lock the fucking door?!” He pulls his zipper down and tosses the bags on the counter. “Look at this shit!” Long arms spanned out, gesturing at the fucking mess everywhere. Overturned table. Fucked up chairs. Broken mug. Chaos. “Who saw this, you think? Did the fucking cops open the fucking door? We fucking know Alys did! What do you think they fucking thought? Looks like fucking probable cause to me!”

Helaena sets her jaw. “I didn’t lock the fucking door because I didn’t expect to be fucking dragged off the street by my fucking pimp,” she says. “I was fucking half-dressed, no phone, no money…”

“Whose fault was that, Helaena?!” He’s too close now, using his fucking height again, trapping her against the counter. “Who thought that was a fucking good idea? Not me! Not fucking me!”

“It’s your fault!” she says. Chin up, squared up to him like she’s gonna fucking box. She might. This hair-trigger bullshit is pissing her off. “You can’t talk to me like a fucking human being, up here throwing tables and storming off like a real big man, right? Toss me in the fucking car like a ho. You don’t know how to fucking listen, and look. Look!” She’s throwing her arms around now. One foot braced against the cabinet like she might kick herself off and into him. “I woulda fucking picked this shit up! Made sure we had what we fucking needed, locked the motherfucking door, but…”

“But you didn’t! You left it open! And now the fucking cops roll up, and who the fuck knows what they saw!” He’s leaning over, all in her space, and she can smell his cigarette breath and see the odd-shaped freckle on his collarbone up close like a Rorschach blot. She studies it, and as she does, all of her fucking fight leaks from her like she’s a deflating balloon. Like she used her very last bit of energy on this fizzle fizzle pop shit they keep doing, and all she can manage now is a melted, cross-eyed gaze.

His freckle looks like a cloud, or a kissprint from a pair of smeared-makeup lips. She stares at it; lets it shapeshift. Lets it blur until the mouth of it opens and she can see down its throat; something frightened yelling for its mother.

She lets her eyes go heavy. She lets him lean and crowd. Lets him close one hand around her pliable wrist without resistance. Lets him press them belly-to-belly.

Makes herself so soft that the sharpness in him can find no purchase. No taut skin to slice; no juicy, pulsing vein to open.

It works. The slink-down, the seep-out, the dripdripdrip.

His body bumps and blunts against her; hips, chest, fingers, chin. He sags like Boris’ fucking heinous couch, and when she feels the flare in him burn itself out, she puts her lips to the little mark she’s been watching. Sucks a bruise over it while he rattles and heaves. Dry tears, just his stupid ribcage hiccoughing against her while she bites at him. Nip, nip, nip. Little corrections, like a mama cat.

After a minute he lifts her onto the counter so he can use her shoulder, pushing all the shit there onto the floor. Lays in the cradle of its curve for a long time, hot breath and tickly hair. Closed eye.

Helaena rests her weight into his til they’re balanced like two little fucked up tent poles. Her cheek smushes against him, and she feels like a puddle. She could fall right asleep like this, she thinks. This is all so goddamn exhausting. She closes her own eyes. Breathes. His clothes are all mussed, and it’s just her skin to his, and he’s so fucking warm.

It’s him that breaks the spell. She doesn’t have it in her.

He rights himself and pets the funnel cloud of her hair against his shoulder. Kisses her forehead. She’s not sleeping, but she fucking wants to be. He slides her off the countertop and lets her wrap around him. Carries her to bed.

They sit, thighs pressed, and look at the card. They’re just regular cops - Massey and Caswell; it’s Massey’s card with Caswell’s info handwritten in neat block print on the back - and not detectives, it looks like.

Eyeball doesn’t think they opened the door. Thinks if they had, they would have come in and waited for them, or tried harder to find them. It looks like a fucking crime scene, assault and DV-type shit, or a break-in, and they’d’ve taken that seriously. There would’ve been some kind of to-do. Helaena thinks he’s right. Asks him to go check on the bag in the closet anyway, and when he comes back, he tells her it’s there and doesn’t look like it’s been touched. They nod at each other.

They decide that Alys obviously saw the mess, but that’s moot at this point. She saw that they were fine, and she fucking lied to the police for them, and she’s fucking golden. Helaena feels badly; thinks they ought to give her some kind of explanation, but she doesn’t know what the fuck to say. Eyeball doesn’t either. Maybe they’ll just pretend it never happened. Who knows.

Eyeball brings her some ibuprofen and water - her head’s starting to pound - and after he swallows a handful of his own, he goes to brew a pot of coffee. Picks up the kitchen while it perks. She can hear him in there, the scraping of the chair legs against the floor and the gentle clanking of things while he sweeps up the broken pieces. Hears him wet a towel to clean the coffee splatter.

She curls against the wall until he comes in with her cup, made just right, and sits down again with his own. They split a cigarette, his arm draped over her pulled-up knees so he can reach both their mouths with it and do the work.

“Okay, Laneybug,” he says after twenty minutes or so of silence. Enough time for the meds to just start to take the edge off. “What the fuck are we gonna do now?”

There’s no good answer.

Talk to the cops.
Don’t.
Talk to the cops.
Don’t.

Maybe it’s got nothing to do with Luke at all.
Maybe it does.
Maybe it doesn’t.
Maybe it does.

What else could it be?
They dunno.
What else could it be?
Anything.
What else could it be?
Only one way to find out.

Back and forth until all of it just loses its meaning.

Helaena is so tired. Of everything. Of this day, most of all, and it’s not even evening yet.

Eyeball looks at the clock and sees that it’s just about shift-change. The same cops that came earlier probably won’t be back today. There’s a number on the card they left. It’s possible they’ll send the next shift out, but if it’s not something super serious, it’s not likely.

They decide to take a calculated risk. Have Helaena call a little after, hope she gets a voicemail and leave a message. Look cooperative. Buy some time until they can figure out how much they wanna talk. If they wanna play Go Fish with the fucking cops. If they wanna pull a fuckin’ Boris. It’s a shit plan, but it’s the best they can come up with.

He’s too anxious to listen, so he goes out to the car to get the fucking gun while she calls.

She blocks her number - wonders idly if it still works when you call the police - and dials. She’s too numb to be nervous, really. Doesn’t have much of a plan for if someone answers, but just as Eyeball thought, no one does.

The officer sounds young. Friendly and casual on his voicemail, and Helaena can’t quite hate him. She keeps the message short and polite; tries to sound curious and helpful. Not scared. She has no idea if it’s successful; she’s a terrible judge of her own work, and Eyeball isn’t around for critique. She leaves an old phone number, figures maybe they’ll chase it for a bit and give her time, or maybe not chase it at all and just tell their fucking boss they tried. Best case scenario.

She’s back to leaning on the wall smoking in bed when he comes back in, gun tucked into the front of his pants.

“Fuckin’ cowboy,” she says, blowing a cloud in his direction, and he turns up half his mouth at her.

“Looks better on me than it ever did on him, I’m sure,” he shrugs.

Helaena can’t argue that. It’s sexy, and she hates it. She tries to imagine it in Waffle’s hands, then Mama’s, and she fucking hates that even more.

“Put it away,” she says, and he does. Takes it out of his waist and sets it on the nightstand. That’s only marginally better, but she drops it. Tells Eyeball she left a message for the cop, and when he tries to get her to remember the exact wording, she just sighs and tells him that he should have listened if he cared that much.

He’s soft to her. It’s been too much. All of it.

“Close your eyes, Laney,” he says. Brushes her hair back from her face. Tugs the blanket out and cocoons her in it. “I’m gonna count the fuckin’ money and you’re gonna sleep, okay?”

She looks over at him. “Stay,” she says.

He nods. Goes and gets the stuff off the counter and sinks to the floor next to the bed. Helaena hangs her arm over the side and runs her fingers through his hair. Strokes his cheek with her knuckles and fingers the edges of his scar. Closes her eyes.

She doesn’t realize he’s rolling her a fucking joint until he reaches up and touches it to her lips. It’s already lit, and she smiles around it and takes a hit.

Better than Boris’ trash. She wonders where Waffle got it, and after she smokes half, she doesn’t wonder anything at all, lets Eyeball take it from her mouth, and she sleeps.

*****

When she wakes, it’s dark but not too late. She’s still bleary, a little high - maybe more than a little; that shit was something else - and it takes her a minute to process what she’s seeing. The dresser and tiny bedroom closet are open, and her old backpack and Eyeball’s are out in the middle of the floor wide open.

She can hear him in the kitchen fucking around. Smells the coffee he’s got brewing.

Helaena untangles herself from the bedclothes and has the presence of mind to make sure her fucking E didn’t fall out of her pocket. It did, and she finds it in the blanket and tucks it back in.

She wanders out to see him digging around with a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth, finding the stashes of them he has all over the place and pocketing them. Money is stacked neat on the table in piles. Gun next to it, a box of fucking ammo open on the counter. It’s missing some.

“What are you doing, baby?” she asks.

“Time to go, Laneybug.” His tone is calm.

“What?” Helaena rubs her eyes. The coffee finishes with a final little hiss, and Eyeball grabs the pot before it’s even done spitting its last. He dumps it into a mug he’s got out and grabs one for her. She watches him pull cream from fridge and fix her cup. Swig his own, boiling hot, but he never fucking cares.

Helaena takes it from him, sips, tries to gather herself. Clear her vision and her mind and the path through this conversation.

“They came back. I’m not going to sit here every day from now until who the fuck knows, wondering…”

“Who came back? The cops?” She rubs one bare foot over the top of the other, switches, trying to wake herself the fuck up.

Eyeball nods. “A little after you fell asleep. Parked outside and just fucking sat there for like an hour. I watched them.”

“They didn’t come up?”

He takes another swallow of his coffee. “Nope.”

“Maybe they were having a fuckin’ coffee and a donut,” Helaena says, blinking furiously. Getting her shit together. “There’s that place around the corner they all fuckin’ like. I always see cops in there.”

“Then why weren’t they in there? Why were they sitting outside here?”

“Show me,” she says, walking to the window.

“They’re gone now.”

“Show me where they were.”

He comes up behind her. Points over her shoulder down the block. “Across the street down there, by that fuckin’ shitty pizza place we hate.”

“Cops are there all the time,” Helaena says. “Those two fuckin’ meth heads who live overtop fight like they’re fuckin’ getting paid for it. You know I watched a fuckin’ whole ass dresser drawer come out that window once? And one of those stupid tabletop Christmas trees. Earlier this year, like March.”

Eyeball shakes his head. “Wasn’t them. No lights or anything. Quiet. I’m telling you they just sat.”

“If they were worried about us, why were they over there? And why didn’t they come back?”

“Cops think they’re fucking smart. Think we don’t know what they’re up to. Do shady shit like that all the time.”

Helaena turns around. Lays a hand against his naked chest. Lets it slide down; lets her thumb creep along his little spiders. Slip low into the waist of his pants. “Honey. I love you with my entire heart, and that’s the only reason I’m saying this. You are being crazy. Crazy.”

He starts to argue, but she puts a finger over his lips.

“Listen to me. I know what it’s like to have a fuckin’ brain that does you dirty, okay? You know how I have to fuckin’ use yours sometimes? Use mine for a second. It seems like a lot of shit to be coincidence, right? And maybe it is. Maybe you’re fuckin’ right. But maybe you’re just fuckin’ spooked. The only thing that makes me nervous is the fuckin’ cops coming here. Everything else - that girl, the cop car down the street - that’s normal shit. That’s shit you’d never blink at, right?”

He shrugs.

She leans against the window. Pulls him all the way into her. “Did you smoke the rest of that joint?”

“Nah.”

“Smoke it. Get your dick wet. Lay off the coffee and take a fuckin’ nap. If you still wanna leave in the morning, we’ll go, baby. We’ll go. Anywhere you fuckin’ want. How much money we got?”

She sees him light up a little, and she slides her hand down further. Wraps it around him, and he rocks himself into it.

“Not that much. Enough for whatever. Just under 11k.”

She squeezes him, feels him getting harder under her fingers. “I love that,” she murmurs. His dick. The money. All of it. “Perfect. That’s perfect. So good.” Teeth in his neck. “Against the fucking window. Now. If those fuckin’ cops come back, I want them to see you have me.”

He grins. Reaches behind her to shut the pane all the way. “You’re a mess,” he says.

“Fuck me,” she says back.

“You’re a mess.” Shoves her into the window.

“Get a condom.”

“You’re a fuckin’ mess.” Palm between her legs. Nice and flat, just right against her. She needs a shower, she thinks. Needs to change her fucking underwear. Needs to sober the fuck up.

“Get a fucking condom,” she repeats. Runs her hand over him, up and down. Holds him tight and feels the pulse there thrum for her, fast and hot. “Once you’re in, you’re not getting out unless we break this fucking glass.”

“Mmhm,” he says. Smiles against her mouth. “You’re a mess.”

“Fuck my goddamn pussy. Now.”

“I kinda wanna come on the fuckin’ window.” He laughs.

She laughs back. Kisses his chin. His ear. “Of course you do,” she says. “Of course you fucking do.”

He gets a fucking condom, and the window rattles in its frame, lashed by the unstable storm of them.

All that lightning. All that wind.

That frenzied, whipped-up howl.

Chapter 16: Free

Summary:

It’s a bad movie, but it’s theirs. Direction, production, script, performance. They can do what they want with it.

Notes:

This chapter’s short because the next one’s a motherfucker. 😂 get a good stiff drink, if you’re still here. You may not be later without it 😂

“He’s more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.”
—from Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë

 

Eyeball won’t settle. Helaena gets him off, gets him nice and high, puts some food in his belly and puts him to bed, curled up with his ear against her heart, and she rocks him for awhile.

Thinks about those first nights after he got his fucking eye cut out. He’d start in Mama’s bed - she’d let him; felt guilty - but she’d pick him up, stick him in his own once he was asleep because she liked her space. Blamed it on Daddy, said he was too sick for a crowded bed, but he wasn’t that sick then.

When he woke up in his littleboy terror, in pain in the middle of the night to find that door locked against him, it was Helaena’s that was open. Always open. She’d pad out with him to the bathroom, find him medicine. He knew what to take, knew the dose - three of those fucking chalky purple-grape tablet things if it hurt; the liquid was for infection - but even in all of his mess he taught her how to read the label, count it out, because no one else had. He couldn’t see well enough yet to manage it on his own. Brain hadn’t caught up or something.

She’d take him back to bed. Tuck him next to her. Just like this sometimes, wrapped against her chest with that back-and-forth sway that’s soothed every baby ever birthed.

She loves him snug and tight, holds him til she drifts, too, upright-ish against the wall, head lolling down against him.

It doesn’t matter. He won’t settle. He sleeps, does it fine enough, and he wakes with that black cloud in his head, dropping cold rain into his belly. If anything, it’s worse. Gets up pacing like a lion, chainsmokes all morning, stares out the window. Flicks that folding knife in, out, in, out, in. Shrugs Helaena off when she tries to fuck him again, bring him down a little.

He won’t make the call, though. Not out loud, even though she told him she’d go along. She doesn’t ask; he doesn’t tell, and they just circle around it for hours, getting on each other’s nerves. In each other’s way.

She’d like to just leave. Walk down the street, sit in the fucking coffee shop or poke through the bookstore. Give him a minute to sort his shit out, but he can barely bring himself to hold his own dick to take a piss still, and she barely trusts him to. He’ll seem cool, seem real calm, but gets freaky when she’s not in his sight-line, or he’ll start in with the paranoid shit that makes her skittish. It’s not worth the risk to leave him alone.

It’s starting to get difficult to fucking live like that, though. He’s managed to piss Cris off pretty solid, and she’s wondering how much more of Alys’ good will she wants to test. They’re going to have to figure themselves out real fuckin’ quick if they want to keep their jobs. The apartment.

At least the money makes the prospect of losing things a little less terrifying, though she knows that in the scheme of things, 11k probably doesn’t stretch as far as it feels like it should. Eyeball’s pay always seems to run out before they’d like it to, even without having to cough up rent.

But it’s enough to start over somewhere different, she thinks. Somewhere cheaper. South, Daddy always said. He wanted to retire down south; take that northern pension and live halfway decent somewhere over the Mason-Dixon.

Maybe they could, too. Maybe Eyeball would feel better if nobody knew him. Maybe she would.

Maybe they could even be different. Maybe if they weren’t staring at the same crap every day, the same places, the same bullshit loop of everything that’s ever happened to them, they’d be able to let it go. Let each other go a little. Not all the way. Maybe just the weird shit. Maybe she’d wanna fuck someone else.

Maybe not.

Maybe he just fits her because he’s supposed to, and they can change their names or something and just pretend to be normal fucking people.

Lots of maybes. No plans, though. No plans.

But a nice, clean apartment. Fresh sheets, sparkly dishes, spotless floors. Both of them showered and scrubbed and smelling good. A full fucking coffee mug of butts. All that, trying to keep out of each other’s hair and keep their hands busy.

“I’m gonna do the fuckin’ laundry,” she says when she’s finally run out of shit to do. He can see her from the window, or come if he really wants to, she figures. “Do you think… should I bring the shit from…”

He looks at her. Takes a sip from his three hundredth cup of coffee today. Thinks hard. She can see it, cheeks sucked in, cigarette spinning through his fingers. He looks out the window before he answers. “Wash them,” he says. “Yeah. Wash them. Nobody’s over there. Use the machines in the back; the ones in the lefthand corner aren’t on camera; neither are the last two chairs on that wall.”

Helaena raises her eyebrows at him, and he actually smiles a little.

“I only know that ‘cause the fucking guy who owns it sells blow all fuckin’ day. He always stands right there, I’ve seen it like ten times.”

“Of course you have,” she says. Of course he has. He sees everything. One fucking eye but doesn’t miss a trick.

“Anyway. Use those. Wash them twice, separate. Use bleach both times, extra rinse, then bleach the fucking machine. Okay?”

She nods. This feels like the sort of thing he’d want to do himself, and she’s a little sus, but whatever.

“Dry them separate, too. We’re still gonna throw them out.”

“I know.”

“Okay,” he says. “Okay.” He goes to gather everything, and Helaena puts on some fucking underwear and a bra and shoes.

There’s a spare garbage bag and some dish gloves in with everything, and he tells her to bring back the old bag and use the gloves to handle the new one, and everything in it once it’s all clean. “But make sure you stand back there to do it,” he says, anxious. “Don’t…”

“I know, honey,” she says. “I know. I heard you. Okay?”

He nods. “Okay, I know. Okay.”

She looks at him sideways, still wondering why he’s not tagging along for the fucking evidence cleanup, but she goes.

She follows his instructions.

Some lady comes in and starts her shit and goes, but that’s it; otherwise the place is as dead as it usually is late on a Monday morning.

She’s surprised when she comes out and Eyeball’s there. Parked right out front, arm hanging through the window with his cigarette half-smoked, waiting for her.

Helaena screws her eyebrows together when she sees him.

“Didn’t want you to have to drag all that shit up the stairs,” he says, which is lovely but doesn’t explain why the car’s packed full of shit.

“You could’ve just said it,” she says dully. “You didn’t have to be fucking sneaky. I told you I’d go if you still wanted to.” She’s standing at his door, leaning against Granny, just looking at him. He looks fucking shifty.

“I didn’t make up my mind til you left,” he says.

It’s a lie. An obvious, insulting one, and she calls him on it. He just stares straight ahead and ashes his cigarette over the curb.

“I wasn’t going to fight with you. I’m done fighting with you. You win, Daddy.” She rolls her eyes. Takes the cigarette from between his fingers and steals his last good drag.

“Don't be like that.”

“Like what? I’m agreeing with you. Let’s go.”

“Lane…”

She drops her butt and steps on it. Eyeball hates that shit. Fucking litter. He narrows his eye but doesn’t start in. “I said let’s go. Come on Daddy.”

“Stop.”

“Suck my dick, Eyeball.” She’s already walking around to the passenger side. He looks pissed but opens it for her, because what’s he fuckin’ gonna do? Argue with himself? She throws the bag in the back seat and slides in. “Where are we going?”

He takes a deep breath and lights up again before he answers. Blows smoke, leans back against the headrest and closes his eye for a second. “We got some shit to do before we go anywhere,” he says. Passes her the cigarette and lights himself another. “Loose ends.”

“Well yeah. But after.”

He shrugs. She knows he’s been thinking because she has, and if that’s true, then he’s done it six times more. But he still doesn’t have an answer, and she’s got no good ideas really. South is an idea, she supposes, but lots of shit is south.

“We’ll figure it out, Laney,” he says. “I’ll take you wherever you wanna go. England. The moors. Rain and fog and ghosts. We got money. What do you think? Wuthering Heights shit.”

Something in her softens. Who the fuck else is gonna pull that one out? No one. Asshole.

“I don’t like planes,” she says. She doesn’t fucking know. She’s never been on one. Has no fucking passport.

“I bet you do. You like it when your ears pop.”

She smiles at him. “Take me, then. Let’s go.”

“I’ll take you,” he says. But now he’s just being stupid, waggling his fucking eyebrows at her, so she swats him with her cigarette hand; gets ashes all over.

“You wouldn’t take me earlier,” she says. “Don’t get cute.”

“I’ll take you now. Right here. Come on.”

She rolls her eyes. “You can’t even put the fucking seat back. No room.”

“Don’t need to put it back. Come bounce on it.” He’s grinning at her, patting his stupid lap.

“My fat ass would have the fuckin’ horn screaming at everyone,” she laughs. “And you only wanna fuck because you’re getting your way. Shut the fuck up and drive.”

“Road head?”

“Shut up, Eyeball.”

He drives.

*****

It’s pushing three when they pull in.

The motel is old, one of those stand-alones that got absorbed by a chain at one point, then got sold and resold a few times per decade until it ended up in its current state, which is nothing to be fucking proud of. Not a rent-by-the-hour kinda shithole, but essentially the next step up.

They debated something fancier, something with more than two floors and maybe a chintzy pool, or rooms with balconies or some shit, but it didn’t feel like a good idea. Felt like maybe there’d be someone at the desk who gave a shit about whose face was on the ID, or maybe it was more money than was smart, or maybe they just didn’t deserve it. They didn’t say that part out loud, but it hung out in the back of the conversation like the fucking tweaker outside the room across from theirs when they finally check in.

Helaena does it alone. Uses Waffle’s ID, chooses one with a slightly gender-ambiguous name just in case and pulls one of Eyeball’s giant hoodies around her to obscure as much of her as possible.

None of it matters. The clerk doesn’t look old enough to buy a lotto ticket and barely looks up from his phone. Pushes the paperwork across the counter with a shitty, skipping pen and trades a key for cash. It’s a real key, too. Metal on a plastic ring, not one of those magnetic card things. Old school.

Helaena does good, remembers to put the right name on the line and makes up an address that looks plausible. Uses the crappiness of the pen to help make things muddy. She pays for two nights, thinking tomorrow’s going to suck and they’re going to want to sit and rot for awhile before they figure out what’s next.

They haven’t gone far. Ninety minutes out, far enough to not know anyone but close enough to change their minds if they want to. To backpedal. They still don’t really have a destination or a plan or any kind of end game. The conversations are all circular, full of anxious what-ifs.

All Eyeball can say for sure is that he can’t stay in that fucking apartment. In that fucking town. Can’t relax, can’t do anything but stare at the door, out the window, down the fucking block, waiting.

So they go. Decide to see if space will help. Decide to take it a day or an hour or a breath at a time if they have to. The excuses they gave were temporary - just decided they needed a little break, you know, a change of scenery on a fucking random late-October Monday, when they’ve literally never taken a vacation in their adult lives. Normal shit.

It’s stupid. It’s all stupid, and it all looks fucking sketchy as hell, and they fucking know it, but nothing feels tenable. Nothing feels comfortable.

And neither of them really thinks they’re going back, but they don’t know what forward looks like.

So here they are. Car full of crap, backpack full of cash, phones shut off with a burner in her bag, gun under the seat, like they’re in some bad B-movie that’s gonna end with a shootout on a cliff. All very cliche, Helaena thinks. She’d turn down the fucking screenplay. They can’t even fucking commit.

“All set,” she tells Eyeball when she comes out of the office. Tosses him the key. “Over there, almost all the way to the end.” She points.

“Good,” he says. Gives her a kiss. Taps his fingers on the wheel.

She catches his eye. Smiles a little. He smiles back. Something itchy under the surface; two kids skipping school.

It’s a bad movie, but it’s theirs. Direction, production, script, performance. They can do what they want with it.

They’re free.

Chapter 17: Kaleidoscope

Summary:

Helaena reaches into her pocket and fingers out a pill. They’re little happy-faced things, yellow-greenish. “Open,” she tells him, eyebrows up and lips puckered. “We got a date.”

Notes:

this fucking chapter is eight thousand words of absolute trash smut. it got completely, completely away from me, & i have no business putting it here & making you slog through 😵‍💫 it’s self-indulgent filth, and i apologize deeply for the window I’ve just opened into my damaged psyche 😂

but also, be the porn you want to see in the world, right? 😂😂😂😂

100% considering just making this like… its own stand-alone/add on thing to this universe, because I don’t feel like it fits the (admittedly slowwwwww) pace of this, and it’s just so LONG. I couldn’t find a place to split it, and if I did it’d still be too long so 🤷🏼‍♀️. Idk. For now it’s chapter 17, and it’s a motherfucker.

Using the same quote to start it because it was originally part of chapter 16 🤦🏼‍♀️🤦🏼‍♀️ So at least I split it a little bit.

Hope you like raunchy brosis ecstasy porn. I’ll see myself out.

“He’s more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.”
—from Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë

 

When they get to the room, they park right outside and bring just their backpacks in. Eyeball puts them in the dry tub, and Helaena starfishes herself over the bed, makes a snow angel in the thin, washed-out coverlet, limbs rubbing back and forth and back and forth. It’s scratchy, but she doesn’t give a shit. She’s never laid on a bed this fucking big. Even Mama and Daddy only slept on a queen, and it always felt like her fucking birthday when she and Eyeball would fucking run it through, muss the sheets and the old damask comforter and stick a pillow under her ass to tuck him in tighter. Try not to drip on it. Flip it over when they were done and snicker at themselves. It felt like a playground. This is better. She can’t touch all the corners at once.

“Come on!” she says, giggling and rubbing off her socks, turning her feet bare to stretch her toes out.

He laughs at her. Tells her they need to fucking check for bedbugs first, but she’s too fucking wired for it. Bounces all over while he does it, lifting up the mattress, pulling it from the wall, fucking yelling at her to sit still so he can see what he’s doing. He doesn’t mean it; he’s fucking cracking up at her while he looks, even when she pushes the side down and crunches his finger into the headboard, and he finally shrugs and pronounces it good enough and takes off his boots.

She jumps off the bed, gets a half-running start because the room is fucking small - the king-sized mattress takes up most of it - and fucking tackles him backwards. He catches her easy, doesn’t resist, just lets her take him all the way flat and grins up at her.

“You’re stupid,” he says, and she straddles his hips. Smiles fuckin’ big and wide, teeth and all.

“Hi,” she says. Bats her lashes at him.

Eyeball tells her she’s fucking stupid again. Kisses her square on her nose, all wet and gross, sucks a little and makes her screw up her fucking face at him.

Helaena reaches into her pocket and fingers out a pill. They’re little happy-faced things, yellow-greenish. “Open,” she tells him, eyebrows up and lips puckered. “We got a date.”

He looks at her half-sideways. “Wait,” he says. “First we should…”

Helaena drops it into his running mouth and watches him catch it in his cheek. “First nothing,” she says. Reaches in to get one for herself. “Whatever we gotta do, we can do in the come-up. Come on.”

He swishes around, gathers up his spit and swallows. “Fine,” he says, playing at irritation, but he’s got the right look in his eye. Mischief and affection and a little bit of gimmegimme already. He makes an awful face - shit’s bitter as fuck, grainyish- and swallows again trying to clear the taste.

Helaena hops off his lap and digs through their bag for water. Swallows hers with it then passes it to him to see if it helps. It does, a little, and they drink half the bottle or so between them. Swap troublemaker smirks.

They putter for a little bit. Sit their toothbrushes on the sink and plug in the fucking burner phone; put the fucking condoms by the screwed-in lamp on the nightstand. Eyeball turns the thermostat down. He sweats like a motherfucker with this shit. He sends Helaena to the vending machine to see if they have some fucking Gatorade or something, and he runs to the car because she left her lollies in the door pocket.

There’s no Gatorade, so she settles on Vitamin Water for them both. It’s a flavor neither of them like, plain orange crap that tastes like a shitty cough drop, but in a little while it won’t matter; they’ll be thirsty enough to drink it.

When she gets back in, he’s stripped to just his sweatpants and he’s smoking a cigarette on the sidewalk outside, door stuck open with one of his big old heavy boots. She hands him his water, and he hands her his smoke. By the time she finishes it, she can feel the jitters coming. It always hits her first.

This is the only part that sucks, but he knows what to do. Shuts the door and locks it, sets the deadbolt, then he holds both of her hands while she bounces up and down on her toes. You’re okay; you’re okay; you’re okay to the rhythm of her movement, to the beat of her up-up-upping heart, you’re okay, it’s over soon, you’re okay, and on and on and on, for minutes and minutes and minutes, maybe fiveseventen, and then she is. She’s okay. He’s got her, warm hands that are starting to feel zappy and strange, a good zappy, a nice low current that hits all of her nerves like her fucking vibe on low, and that’s how his mouth is going to feel in a minute, and he’s got her got her got her and she’s okay okay okay.

She’s okay, she’s got the volume up between her ears, white noise; she’s got a good hard pulse she can feel all over, and she can feel his, too, in his thumb against her wrist, and when she looks up from their clutched-tight hands, his expression is blurring at its margins. Going nice and soft for her, lashes like little baby birdwings, flit flit flitting at her and he’s so beautiful. So nice and soft.

“I’m okay,” she says.

“I know,” he says back, and he knows everything. She can tell from his nice, soft face. He knows everything, and he’s got her, and she settles down back onto her heels, sways side to side, swings their arms together, and he just smiles.

He’s right there with her now.

“Hi baby,” she says, like she’s seeing him brand new, and she kind of is, she supposes, because he’s a little different every time. This time he’s sort of bright, sort of outlined like he has a halo, yellowy-white. When she looks down at their hands, she is, too. It’s the same color.

Some people can see auras, and she wonders for a minute if that’s what she’s seeing, but it can’t be. The outline is so light, like they’re fucking angels or something, and she knows it can’t be. They’re so dirty. Both of them, just grimy, all smoke and spunk and steel. Gasoline. Hashish. Loose tobacco and drippy latex and bloody gauze and the over-bloomed lilac-patchouli-cedar floor smell of Alys’ shop. That’s them. It’s not aura she’s seeing. It’s something else; she doesn’t know what, and it doesn’t matter. They’re just lit up, highlighted like the good part of a
poem. The part she reads over and over, the part she remembers.

“Hi baby,” she says again, because he didn’t answer her, just looked at her with his funny purpleblue eye, same as her funny purpleblue eyes.

“Hi,” he says this time, turns up that gone-wobblysoft mouth he’s got, and he lets her drag him over to the bed.

“Hi!” She crawls up on the mussed blanket and just looks at him, her own mouth crooked and warm. His hands suddenly feel heavy and wiggly and rumbly, like she can feel all his blood moving in them, and she pulls him in. Lays them flat against her, over her shirt, and he takes little handfuls like wet sand and rubs them all back and forth. The friction is good. So good. Her shirt is so soft, the skin under softer, his heavy hands softest. She can tell, even with all the in-between, and helps him ruck it up over her ribs so she can feel them.

He draws little pictures, she can see him making stars and feel them turn into bits of light, and she leans in. Big hands, and the gentle muscle of his chest, and there’s just a little hair there. Shallow arcs high on each side, and when she puts her face down against it, his heart is somewhere in between. She can feel it move her bones, jaw and cheek. Purr and hum, and his hands are at the back of her now, stars there, too, over the back set of ribs. Those feel further away, maybe. Through space, but he’s looking and looking and looking, pushing her shirt up and over now.

It tangles, caught on the bends in her elbows, and she hears the air that gusts through his laugh. It tickles her even though it doesn’t touch her, is somewhere in the wrinkles of her shirt - his shirt - that’s gliding over her curls.

It’s a good laugh, low. Has color and shape, and she smiles when his lips find her. When the ball of fabric hits the floor. He cups her chin, fingers rubbing her teeth and her gums through the pliable skin there. Looking for tension. Keeping her loose. She opens wide for a kiss, shows him she can, and she feels that current again along his heavy, holy tongue.

“Good girl,” he says, words lost in her teeth.

The kiss cracks open. One of those fancy chocolates, thin shell and all liquid sugar inside, and it all gushes over the slide of their lips. She’s good. She’s so good.

She gets wicked mollyjaw, locks up like a fucking nun. He’s searching for it, trying to decide when to prop her apart, wants to get inside and map her mouth and lick and suck and divedivedive before he does.

“Good girl. So good,” right into her throat, and sometimes it annoys her when he starts it. Sometimes it feels like Eyeball being mad about being the fuckin’ baby, still trying to be Mama’s favorite or something, but not now. Now it feels like he’s loving her hard, and she wants to be good for him. “Look at you, opening so wide for me,” and then her whole body does. Mouth and throat and legs and cunt and skull and the spaces between her fingers and toes and all those little valves in her stomach and heart and kidneys and everything, just open. Because she’s good, and this is good, and he’s good.

Then she feels her bra open, too. One handed. His other one is still on her cheek, thumb circlingcircling the round of it, and when she shrugs out of her straps, her shoulder bumps the kiss so deep. It’s so nice.

Nice when his palm finds the weight of her breast - they both feel heavy with that zingzap thing - and kneads it, and she feels her nipple stand against his hot palm. She finds one of his, too; rolls it and thumbs it and feels it turn into a smooth little river rock, something round from the bottom. Thinks of the creek behind Pop’s house, dripping water and sun-sparkles and the way the stones would slip through the arches of her feet. He is summer. He is sweating a little, sticking like August sticks to you, and this is the nicest kiss she’s ever had, she thinks.

She’s open and good, and he tastes like cigarettes and when she blinks he’s white like God probably is. Her eyelashes brush the fabric of his patch, and she lets her fingers wander there, thumb under the corner to the tight skin of his scar.

He squeezes her then, pinches her nipple but not too hard. Just right, just enough to pull all those strings that connect her, tug all of her veins taut. She can feel them. Feel all that blood going everywhere, flushing her pink.

She’s thirsty. She’ll drink him. Suck his lip and take his spit and she giggles into his mouth, leans into his pinching grabbing busy fingers. They’re drawing again, hearts. Helaena can feel the shape of the touch, Valentines on her. Breast and belly and right under her armpit. She’s prickly there, needs a shave. He doesn’t care.

“You’re so good,” he says, leaning down. Knees against the bed, coming lowlowlow to bend her back. She’s so bendy now. Wants to twist around him like that ivy on the wall outside, untended and wild and so green it’s black. She thinks green, and that’s what she sees next when her eyes flutter open. The outline’s gone greenish, feels greenish too. Lush or something, a big dark forest, and she reaches for the elastic at his waist.

He’s not so hard. Only a little. It takes him longer to get there when he’s this fucked up, drowning in that seratonin spill, but he will.

“Can I taste it?” she says; asks it to the roof of his mouth, and it feels like she’s peeking around his shoulder, a kid asking for a lick of his fucking ice cream and it makes them both smile.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, you’re still so open,” and he runs a thumb along her bottom teeth. “Don’t fuckin’ bite me okay?”

“Okay,” she says. “I won’t stay long,” like she’s just gonna visit his fucking dick, kiss it hello and goodbye, and she pushes his pants down to his knees, clumsy. He helps, kicks out of them, climbs up over her and slow-presses her back more, hand cradling that space between her shoulder blades.

The angle’s bad, but he’s half-soft. It’s fine. It’s good. She likes the way he gets hard on her tongue, in her cheek. Slow like everything now except her fucking heart. It’s still hopping around in her like a little green frog, hophophop, fast under the shadow of his body when he sits up over her. A cloud, she thinks, backlit and bright.

He tastes like sex. Salt. Sweat. He braces himself with one hand but the other cups her face, finds the outline of his own erection and traces it as it grows and presses her wider, and this is all sort of green, too; sunlight and the feeling of his lovely want blooming or something.

She licks him. Kisses him. Small sucks, swirly things that make his body shudder over hers. “Oh, Laney,” he says, all full of breath like he can’t even stand it. He sounds like a little boy, but he doesn’t feel like one.

He gets too big. Fills her mouth right up, and she has to tilt back. He sticks that thumb in, then, too. Right next to his cock. She’s so full she wants to laugh, but there’s no room. They taste different. His thumb is just the taste of nothing scraping her teeth, and she can feel him working it into her jaw. She tries to open but it’s starting to get a little difficult.

Eyeball feels it. Pulls back and out, murmuring to her. “Good, good,” he says, and she doesn’t know what’s good but probably that she didn’t accidentally bite his dick off.

He’s so hard now, covered in her spit, drags wet over her lips, over her chin. When he lays down next to her, he turns her face up. Puts more kisses inside her mouth, into the narrowing space.

When he pulls up to find her lolly she leans onto an elbow, sits up higher, kneels to see better. Watches him, all the shimmering light around him, feels the heat in her tummy flare like when you blow air onto a campfire. Her hair’s in her face; eyes, nose, a strand of it sticking to her lip. It feels like fingers, a whole hand or something, and then she’s glad when he’s back.

He rolls the green lollipop over her lips, moves that piece of hair away and traces the lines of her eyebrows, stares at them like they’re so interesting. Kisses them both as she opens, feels him slide the sugar back. It tastes good. Her mouth is sour apple and ashes as he wraps around her again, the two of them on their knees.

She’s less tight than sometimes, she thinks; can still open wide-ish if she thinks about it. But it’s not easy to think about, she just wants to press her nose into the bottom of his throat, smell his blood running rustymetalgreencopper there, his pale skin. It’s softer the lower she gets, soft til it bumps into the bones in his chest, and she nuzzles and nudges at his heartbeat, whooshwhooshwhoosh, wind over her lips. He’s hot.

“Lay down,” he says. Strokes her hair. Spins a twisty curl around. His voice is liquid. Slips over her naked shoulders like water, runs down to pool in her navel, and Helaena looks down to watch it. It’s there, silver dripping on the pudge of her belly, and she’s a good girl. Lays back.

His mouth is all electric. Makes all of her hair stand straight up, the little tiny pricks of it all down her arms, down the buzzingwarm valley that runs between her tits, the base of her spine to the cleft of her ass to the backs of her legs, all of it stands up to say hello to him when he kisses her neck, licks stripes on her bones, combs his top teeth over her nipple and sucks.

His hand feels huge, swallows her up, and hers feels so small along his body. Like she’ll never feel everything there is to feel of him - the jut of his hipbones, the way they turn and press her palms when his body twists to reach the dip in her side; the way he’s smooth then rough then smooth when she strokes under his belly button, horizontal through the hair there; the way his lower back tips into her, dimples up. There’s too much, and she’s buzzing too hard.

“You ever touch a baby duck?” he asks her, and she laughs. Laughs right into the flesh of his arm where she’s sucking a toothy bruise.

“A duck?” No, she tells him. But a chick, in school when she was seven or eight or something; they had them in her classroom, watched them hatch, and they felt like little pulsing balls of downy fluff, ticklish in her hands. She tells him that. “A chick though! Remember?” He had the same teacher, a year behind her. They did the same thing.

“You feel like a baby duck. Maybe a chick,” he says. Runs his hand wrongwise up her leg, and she needs a shave there, too. She’s prickly everywhere.

She smiles again. Wonders what she feels like to him, because she’s rough, not at all like a chick or a duck or whatever, she’s just electricity and snappingpopping need, and she rolls her hips against his thigh. Her pants feel too tight.

Helaena looks down, watches his cock slide against the top of her knee. She takes out her lolly and holds it side-by-side, grins. “Yours is bigger,” she says, “no fair,” like they’re arguing in the backseat of Daddy’s car, and he laughs the cutest laugh she’s ever heard. She wants to put it in a box and keep it.

“You can have both,” he says. Cradles the curve of her jawbone again, puts a finger in her mouth. She widens everything, sucks on it.

“Okay,” she says. “Okay, thank you,” and he laughs again.

“I’m… I’m just going to… I want to…” but the sentence just jumbles up in his mouth. It doesn’t matter at all, whatever he wants is whatever she wants, and she just looks at him and watches the light shimmyshake around his silhouette.

Eyeball gets up on his knees over her, then he’s distracted for a minute. Grabs the television remote from the side table. “Music?” he asks, but it’s not really a question, so she doesn’t answer. Just puts both hands on his cock, holds it while he fucks around with the TV, while he fucks absently through her palms, and she traces his veins with her thumbs, slides his foreskin back and forth. She’s glad nobody cut him up.

They cut Waffle and Mama cried for days at the blood from his little body and the way he screamed after they told her he wouldn’t even feel it, and she wouldn’t let anyone touch Eyeball, didn’t trust anyone to even change him for months, and maybe that was too far - maybe Mama shouldn’t have told that story like a hundred times and to anyone who’d listen - but in the end it was fine. Fine, because nobody cut him up and now she gets to watch the lovely slide of him, lean up and prise herself open to put her tongue underneath and hear his noise and see him shake like he’s still a little baby thing.

“Down,” he says, when he finds some channel that’s playing something she doesn’t recognize, but it’s got a steady beat like a heart and it sort of syncs up with her own pulse. No words to distract her. “Down, okay,” and his fingers rake through her hair, tug backwards, and it feels good.

“Oh,” she says, her scalp lighting up like a Christmas tree. “Do it again, I love that,” and he pulls harder. Lights her up brighter, and this time she goes back down where he wants her, flat. “Do it again please,” she says, makes her eyes little-girl round at him, and he settles himself down across her, leans and wraps her hair around his palm, reins. Pulls, and it’s like he’s pulling every nerve in her upup, and she arches and the sound that comes out of her is bananas. Makes them both giggle. “That’s so fucking good, it’s so good,” she says, and he kisses her, lollipop and all, pulls her hair at the same time, and maybe she’ll die. That’s fine. That’s good. Her whole body sweats and rolls like thunderstorm waves or whatever, and he’s looking down at her, everything on his face shinysweaty and soft, his own eye a little round when he watches her turn inside out for him.

“Here,” he says. “Here,” cups a hand over the outside of her tit and pushes in. She does the other one, makes a little squishy plushy yummy sort of space between, and he slides his dick right in. She smiles at him, and he smiles back and he just lights everything up more when he slips against her. He’s hard and he’s soft and she thinks that’s fucking cool as hell.

Everything sort of turns into music, her heartbeat and the rhythm of him fucking her tits, and she tucks the lollipop into her cheek, the big hard bit between her back teeth, and pokes out her tongue. He makes sure to touch it every time he pushes forward, and it makes things just a little bit wet. He wants more, though. Bows his back. Spits down on her, on himself, and it meets her mouth-wet on his cock and the sweat that’s gathering where their bodies meet, and things get super sloppy-slippery-slick. It feels shivery, takes on the same pulse as everything else, turns the nerves in her tits and her belly into strobe lights. Makes her cunt drip and ache; she can feel her own emptiness, suddenly obvious and lonely and almost painful. She likes it a little; the want that creeps all over like crawly bugs.

He spits on her again, makes it even wetter, and she reaches for the back of his neck when he gets low. Curls around it, scrapes her nails until he looks at her. Thinks real hard and opens her mouth. Chucks his chin.

He knows what she wants. He always knows; maybe he can see like Alys can see, or maybe she’s just written out plain like a page of instructions, but he knows. He takes her whole cheek in the span of his palm, leans down, spits right onto her tongue. She smiles; he tastes like home might taste if she had one anymore, and she opens wider, rolls her lollipop around to the other side, and he spits again, shiny and glittery into her mouth and she closes her eyes for a second, sour and sweet and salty from the tip of his leaking cock against her little sparking taste buds, and the world is just stars or something.

When she opens them again he’s still looking at her, head tilted, lips in a little pout like he’s waiting for a kiss she can’t reach to give him. He’s so big. He’s a Tower up there, tall and strong and the color of lightning. Usually in bed he feels smaller than he is, but not like this. Not now. Not up high over her.

“You’re so big,” she says, taking her free hand and splaying it between his belly and his chest. “I’m scared of you sometimes.”

The words don’t hurt him at all. Just make his forehead wrinkle. “I know,” he says, bumping her tongue with his cock, pushing her tit in harder, further; squeezing a little bit. It feels good. Her eyes go back and forth between his pretty face and his little spiders, crawling in and out of her shining, sweat-sparkled web. It looks like morning, like fucking dewdrops or something, coming and going to his slowish, sweetish pace. “I know. Me, too. I’m scared of me sometimes, too.”

“You’re so big,” she says again. “You could hurt me.”

“I love you.”

“I know,” she says. “I like it.”

“That I love you?”

“That you love me. That you’re so fucking big. That sometimes I’m scared of you.” The words fall off of her like she’s shaking her head after a shower; make a halo around them, and he looks at her like he wants to cry, or eat her, or suck all of her vibrating, crazy-blood marrow out. “My pussy’s so wet,” she says. “It hurts. Feel it.”

He does, leans back and slips his hand into the waist of her leggings, under the cotton of her old comfy underwear. She spreads wide for him. Hears the happy hum in his throat when he finds it, dips two fingers down to gather it all up like icing. It makes her moan like fucking crazy, buck up to meet him, clench so tight she’s surprised he can wrench his fucking fingers free.

He puts it in his own mouth, sucks the taste of her off of him while she wriggles underneath. Then it’s like he forgot what he was going to do, so he puts his hand back again for more and all of her, everywhere, the crown of her head and the hard skin at her heels and all of those little pathways that connect them, all of it bubbles right up to the edge. Hovers. Doesn’t tip, doesn’t jump, hovers while he puts two fingers back inside, curls them up to get what he’s looking for, and when he pulls them back out she realizes she was holding her breath. It comes out in a big old puff, and his hand goes right through it when he reaches to put it all over his fucking cock.

“I love you,” he tells her again. “I don’t want to hurt you,” and the words slip her closer. Drag her feet, toes over the cliff of everything, but she sits back. Doesn’t want to fall. Can’t yet anyway; her body’s not gonna do it.

“You could,” she says. Lowers her lids, blurs the image of him, sticks out her tongue. Bump, and he tastes like a gun now. Metal. He just rocks against her, friction on the fuse, bumpbumpbump, hits her teeth a little because she’s narrowing again, and he’s moving faster.

He reaches down with his hand and presses the hinges of her jaw, both sides. Rubs tiny little circles, and she slides the lollipop stick around in her mouth like a key in a lock. It works. “Good girl,” he tells her. “Open,” and “do you like it?”

It’s hard to talk, too much going on where talking should happen, and she doesn’t know what he means anyway. She manages a “Like what?” and when she opens a little to let the words out, he spits again.

A smile cracks her wider. Home. “This,” he says. Lets his hand slide down, lets her jaw go, presses on her neck. Not hard. None of it’s a threat, none of it is looking for her breath, it’s just snug like a collar or a cozy scarf or something. “That I could hurt you. That I won’t. That I love you.”

Helaena nods. When her chin tucks for the down part, he’s there again, stays, lets her lick him. She spits, too. Makes a mess. He’s just dripping all over now, precome everywhere, fingers just pinching her tit and starting tiny fires.

“Take my fucking pants off,” she says, “help me,” and she lifts her ass. They’re too tight. She’s too wet. She thinks she could take his whole fucking big hand. She’d fucking love that, thinks about it while he fights with her clothes, and she does the best she can to make it easy.

It isn’t, but he does it; gets them to her knees, and she does the rest, works them off with her feet.

All the air feels amazing. She spreads her legs widewidewide to let it get everywhere, wiggles, and he stops everything he’s doing to reach back and touch her.

She wants to cry, it’s so nice. Starts with two, just slides them in and keeps them there. She can feel the whole shape of them, blunt fingertips and knobby knuckles; can picture them glowing, feels his heartbeat in them like her heartbeat around them, squeezes, and his other hand, the one on her fucking boob, that squeezes too, right in time. His hips jerk like he’s gonna come, but he’s not. He goes forever on this shit. Rides the edge just like she does.

Then he just lifts up and off of her, tucks himself flat against her side. She lets her legs fall far, far apart; closes her eyes and she can still see everything. The sound is painting a picture on the back of her eyelids, this funny glow in their funny shape, and she hears the crunch of her teeth through the sugar shell in her mouth. It feels like sea glass.

“Water,” Eyeball says, and she’s thirsty but she just wants him, spit and come and sweat, all the wet he makes; wants to just drink him with her cunt. She’s wondering if that’s a thing, if she might be able to absorb him that way when he reaches over her, grabs the water, curves his forearm under her to sit her up.

“Hi,” she says, blurry sticky crunchy mouth. “Fuck me,” and instead he touches the plastic lip of the bottle to her bottom one. Grins at her.

“Drink,” he says, and she listens. Lets him pour a little, then more, and the taste isn’t what she’s expecting. It’s blander, somehow damp-ish in a weird way, not orange but more pink-tasting, and she wants him to keep going but he gives her just the right amount. Marked the spot by ripping the label a little so there’s not too much at once.

He drinks too. They each sip some, and she’s just rocking her hips as they go, pinching the soft flesh of his calf, fussing with his ankle.

“Okay, enough; all done,” he says, screws the top on and drops it onto the bed as she tangles her arms around his sweaty shoulders.

She’s sweaty, too. Her whole chest is a fucking mess of it, sweat and saliva and cock and pussy and then he licks it. The whole span of funk, yuck, wet, and it makes her nipples so hard they throb, makes her muscles close in rings right up the center. “Get inside, please,” she says.

He pushes her back a little, mouth to her ear.
Goes with her. “I like it inside you,” he says, words like a second little undertow to the current running through everything. Something that will drag her right out to sea. “I want to stay.”

“Okay,” she says, “stay. Forever. I don’t care.”

“I do. I will.” Crawls over her, feels weightless but blinding hot, so fucking good. “I want to stay,” Eyeball says. “Hide.”

Helaena nods. The ache is too much. “Come on then, come on,” but it’s just hands that find her. Fingers that span her open while she chews the papery stick of her lollipop, tries to stay open like that everywhere. His hands are so fucking good. He just holds her apart and lets the air brush her like breath, make her whine.

“It’s hard,” he says. A little smile as he just lets one fingertip slip over her clit, glance off, and she moans like someone is paying her for it. “I could probably suck it it’s so hard,” and she feels his skin give under the nails in his back. Maybe she’s opened him, too, maybe there’s blood. He’s not mad about it. He likes blood: hers, his own, other peoples’ too now, Helaena supposes, scratches deeper. Not on purpose, exactly; all of her just tucks in when she thinks about it, hands balling up, nails doing what they do.

“More,” she says. “Please,” and her hips won’t go any further; she’s just a wreck of loosened joints and limbs and when he slides his thumb back over, he’s right, she’s hard. She didn’t realize she got hard like that, that much, and his thumb is something hot through something hotter, and she has to think about how to get her mouth wide enough to let out the noise that’s coming.

He tilts his head to listen, like a puppy, and if she could do two things at once maybe she would laugh at him. But instead she just makes a sound that gets all caught up in the music and the pulse that’s like a light blinking, she can’t really hear herself but Eyeball can hear her. Has his tongue in her ear, talking around the slippery push of it there, telling her she’s beautiful. He never says that. It’s nice.

She wants to cast the words in concrete like their three little palm prints on the back steps at Mama’s.

She thought she could take his whole hand, and she’s close, she realizes; he’s worked four fingers inside, all bent together, and that’s why this sound is happening. These words. “Good girl, look at how much you can take, look,” and he sounds like he’s watching some amazing sci-fi shit, or like he’s staring at a fucking supernova through a telescope, the sound of his voice is wide like she is. All of this is fucking hilarious; he’s seen the stretch of her a thousand times, but if it looks like it feels, then it makes sense, she guesses.

Then there’s his thumb, flickering like a bad bulb, like the one in the hallway of their apartment, sending sparks, and if she wasn’t this fucking high she would be coming all over him. Instead she’s just panting, dry mouth, the muscles in her cunt and her belly and her ass so tight she thinks they could snap and send them both through the wall.

She wants him to fuck her, but she doesn’t want this to be over. Never. Wants to stand and teeter in the strange kaleidoscope of it for the rest of her life.

“All of it,” he’s saying at her ear. The words are melting there, puddling in her brain, his thumb just pressing, leaning one side into the other, back and forth. The rest of his hand isn’t even moving. She’s just full of him. It’s good, the pressure of it. Just right. “All of it; all of me; look at you. So fucking good. God, you’re amazing,” and everything is so good. So warm.

She can feel his other hand fishing at her mouth, turning the stick of her lollipop sideways like a bit. The candy part is gone now, and all of her is clenching tight, especially her teeth, but it helps. The stick is sort of fat, feels like it’s working, but she can’t do much with it there but make stupid, aching, needy little noises.

It’s fine, he likes them, dripping so much on her. Rain, warm and smelling like late spring-ish; she could swallow it if she could open her mouth enough.

She takes her hand and wraps it around him, and he makes a lovely little gasping sound against her temple.

“Oh, Laney,” he says, and she’s suddenly empty. His hand is gone, and it’s fucking awful. She can feel her whole face screw up, but then it’s okay. It’s okay, he’s pressing all of her down, all his bony points like little pins and thumbs and those different colored clips he tried to get her to use to keep her shit straight, papers that piled up on the counter and table and nightstand, but it didn’t work. He took over. Does it all now. But this works.

She’s held down by the weight of him, hips knees elbows hands chin nose, and she’s so wet and ready for him that there’s no stretch when he just slides in, all at once. Bottoms out completely, pushes right into her starrybright and singingsoft belly, and that’s it. That’s why anything at all fucking exists.

That’s probably why Mama prays and Waffle drinks like he does; they’re trying to get here, to this, but they never will. This is just theirs, just for them, and she lifts up, glides herself over his perfect, flat, delicious pubic bone; it’s made her come a zillion times, and he knows how to let her ride it from underneath him, and he does. Lets her figure out the pace and the rhythm and every time he’s in she’s up, and when he tips back it’s there again, two of hers for one of his, and she can feel herself squeezing him like she’s trying to take his fucking soul out through his dick.

Helaena can’t figure out how she went from so wide to so tight, how her body did this little trick, made him feel so fucking big, made all of her cells turn into helixes, winding spinning rainbow things, and she suddenly doesn’t want anything at all but him. Spits the stupid stick out. Feels her jaw pop a little, forces it open.

He puts his forehead to hers; they’re both so fucking sweaty. Hair hanging in her mouth. Cotton candy like, sweet tasting. That’s what their eyes are, she thinks suddenly. That shade. Cotton candy. She’ll tell him that later, later, later….

But now she has to disappear, invert, pull this thread between them and unravel them both.

They go and they go and they go like this, slide along the edge, light glinting off for hours maybe. Days maybe. He hooks his knuckles over her bottom teeth and she bites into them and he tells her she is his, his, his; you’re mine your mouth is mine your neck is mine your tits are mine your ass is mine your cunt is mine, hands all over her, and she nods, shaking him with her head like a dog or a wolf or a dragon or something that wants to take out his heart, and she does but only to look, see if it’s the same as hers, strange and black-blue bleeding and beating in a language nobody else speaks, a dead verse buried in their chests.

When she finally comes it makes her so tight he can barely get back in. She feels him push, feels him inch through her fucking bonkers orgasm, trying to get back to her, and it’s the wildest thing she’s ever ever ever felt. It’s yes and no, mostly yes; it’s see what you did; it’s come here; it’s here, it’s come, it’s stay, it’s yours it’s mine it’s thisthisthis it’s fucking nuclear.

He just lets go a string of fucking curses, right at her ear, and it sounds like fireworks, burns all her nerves like she held one of those fucking sparkler things too long, and she feels every single pulsetwitchthrobheavespill of his fucking cock. It’s magnificent. It lasts forever. It ruins her. Ruins her.

Her brain still wants to gogogo - that’s the molly, stirring the pot and jerking her around - but her body is a plane crash. A fucking bomb site. He’s sunk in her, spunk leaking out all around him as he gets soft, and he’s biting at her ear. Licking. Cleaning up all the filth he spit at her there, and she smiles. Thinks he should leave it. Let it echo.

“Maybe we’ll die,” she murmurs after a minute. “Maybe we can just die now, because what’s the point of anything after that?”

“Nothing,” he says. Quiet. “Nothing. We can die if you want.”

“Okay,” she says. “Right here. Right like this. I don’t want there to be anything else now.”

She feels him reach down, run his finger around where he’s still pushed as deep as he can get. Feels him get all their mess, the sticky seeping slop of it, and he wiggles his fingers into her mouth. “Open,” he says, soft. “Open up. You’ll get all fucking sore like that. Open for me.”

She opens. It’s hard, but she does it. Lets him help her. Sucks his fingers. Both of them smeared all over, and it’s fucking good. Good good good. All of it.

“I love you, Lane. Don’t be scared.”

She bites. Sucks. Bites. Sucks.

It’s bitter, and she loves him. Fierce as anything, she loves him.

“Water,” she says.

Water.

He gropes for the bottle. He pours into her, and she drinks. Just the right amount.

When he reaches to put it on the nightstand, he says, “Oh, condoms. We forgot.”

“Mmhm,” she says; thinks vaguely that they can find a pharmacy later for Plan B, she’ll have to remember, but then her head is just full of marbles; smooth things rolling over each other, making music that sounds like bubbles because he’s back between her legs. Just one finger, one soft knuckle dragging through the center where all of him is dripping. She gasps, says “Oh! I’m still coming,” giggles, surprised.

“No,” he says. He’s looking intently, slow-fingering, curling back inside so so gentle. “No, you’re all done,” fucking her again but not full. One skinny finger, a tease, but he doesn’t mean it that way. He’s just touching. Watching. “Do you want to?”

“What?” Her knee bends up a little, her shoulders arch. She’s pretty sure he’s wrong; that she’s still coming, little tiny waves breaking up and down her back.

“Come. You can come again.” Finger out now, making a wet heart on the inside of her knee. “I’ll give you another one,” he says, like he’s offering a smoke. “I’ll give you twenty more. I’ll give you everything. You’re so pretty. Pink and everything.” Then his whole mouth is on her, wide open, tongue slipping right inside. Licking all that mess out.

She can’t. Can’t. He’s just mouthing at a shattered star, sucking on the shards of it, fucking its brokenness with his lovely wet heat, and she can feel herself trying to get away, or get inside his throat, she can’t figure out which, big hands grabbing her by her hips, holding her down, and she likes it. Likes the wiggle-and-twist and the pinned-still of it, the way she can feel all of his stickyhot leaking out of her like it’s sliding down the slope of her electric spine.

She can’t. Can’t do it again, she’s too used up, not even here anymore, but maybe that helps. Maybe. Because he feels so big, feels everywhere, and he is. Inside her cunt, pushed flat over it, in the sweaty slots of her thighs and down over them, where the skin is white and soft; over her ass and inside there, too; over her hair and she can hear him make a funny sound because it must tickle his nose when he kisses it. Everywhere, and that’s what she likes most about him, she thinks; he goes everywhere, he’s not afraid of anything, he’ll take her dark and her loud and her wet and her filthy and her needy and her sweaty and her heaving aching everything, put it in his mouth, turn it into this.

She can’t, not again, she’s destroyed, but she does, in a bunch of different colors, light through the prism of their strange glass bodies.

“That’s mine,” he says, the words splintering, too, and it is. It’s his. He kisses up the melted shambles of her body, just bleeding color into the peculiar, quivering air, says it again. “That’s mine,” and she smiles.

That little third-born baby, never had anything first, never anything of his very own. Just her. Only her. Helaena just smiles.

His mouth is obscene when it finds hers. He has to pry her open again, and she would fucking eat him if she could move, but she just does her best to let his tongue in through the gap. Tastes everything on him. Finds her own words, somehow; rescues them from the wreckage. “Mine,” she says. Twice. “Mine,” and she feels him smile, too.

“Again,” he says, starts to kiss back down, and she laughs. Laughs and feels more wet coming out of her, smacks him.

“No!”

He pouts for only a second, then the two of them drag themselves up to the pillows. Tangle up. He’s soft when she reaches between his legs to hold him; it’ll take work to get him back and she doesn’t want to work, just snuggle. So they do. Sticky salty nasty wet slick-sweating bleachy-smelling snuggles. Both of their hearts are still fast. Won’t settle down, really, but that’s how it goes.

“I need a fucking cigarette,” she says after a few minutes. “I need ten cigarettes. I need to smoke. I love you.”

“Me, too,” he says. “We can’t smoke in here.”

“No.”

They both purse their lips. Helaena blows hair from her face, annoyed, and he laughs at her. Rolls over on top of her again, smushes her nose. “Come on.”

He hops up, hauls her off the bed, giggling; drags her to the door. She’s stumbling and protesting and tripping on both of their stupid feet. “We’re naked!”

“I don’t care,” he says, and goes to pull the door open, his face full of mischief and mayhem, and Helaena falls to the floor in a heap of hilarity. Wraps her arms around his legs, and they’re fuzzy like a blanket and hot and she sinks her teeth into one knee, and then they’re tangled up again in a mess of limbs and dirty carpet and clothes thrown everywhere.

“Get dressed,” she shrieks, throwing him his pants.

He does, leaning against the door, laugh so so so big, big enough to carry her, and he does. She pulls on his shirt and her own underwear, and he picks her up. Carries her out to the crumbling concrete sidewalk, wrapped around him, a knot of white hair, white skin - too much skin for the weather, for the gray-cold of the day, but they’re warm. They’re warm, and still ringed in pale light when Helaena blinks and blinks into the shifting, darkening sky.

His cigarettes are still in his pocket, a little crushed but fine, and the lighter, too, and they pass it back and forth and back and forth between their stupid grinning mouths. Their silly, greedy, filthy fingers.

And they’re happy.

Chapter 18: Comedown

Summary:

The boys and girls are one tonight.
They unbutton blouses. They unzip flies.
They take off shoes. They turn off the light.
The glimmering creatures are full of lies.
They are eating each other. They are overfed.

 

Or: the comedown fucking sucks

Notes:

So it’s just more filth.

& also, it’s mild dubcon shit at worst, but… it’s definitely not enthusiastic consent, and it’s gross & undernegotiated, and it should feel pretty complicated and icky, if I’ve done it even sort of right. So. Just a warning 🤦🏼‍♀️

The boys and girls are one tonight.
They unbutton blouses. They unzip flies.
They take off shoes. They turn off the light.
The glimmering creatures are full of lies.
They are eating each other. They are overfed.

— from The Ballad of the Lonely Masturbator by the fucking (problematic) queen herself, Anne Sexton

 

The comedown fucking sucks. It always sucks; feels like your fucking dog died and you got fired and you just found out you have to go to summer school all on the same fucking day that you woke up with the flu. Helaena just wants to fucking rot. She understands how somebody could turn into a fucking skittles-head, just to avoid it. She considers taking her second one and rolling again to put it off, but it’s not as much fun alone and Eyeball’s in a mood. Doesn’t want to hear about it. Doesn’t want to hear about anything, really.

She doesn’t blame him, she guesses. He usually swings more shallow the next day, sits in the pit and smokes and watches trash and tries to sleep. She’s the one who cries, or puts shit 50’s ballads on repeat or rereads The Bell Jar til she feels like putting her own head in the fucking oven.

He’s with her today.

They finally got to sleep around three or fourish, after playing six sloppy games of distracted Rummy and making out for what was probably three hours. He couldn’t get hard again, but she practically came from him tongue-fucking her mouth and laughing, and it was good shit.

Despite its size, she still woke up crammed into the corner of the bed, fingers gripping his hipbones like saddle horns with a knee trying to shove his balls back into his belly, and he had one hand wound so tightly through her hair that it pulled some out when she sat up. They managed to stay in til just before noon.

Blackout curtains. Maybe they’ll have to get some wherever they wind up, she thinks.

But now they’re up, and shit is dark. Metaphorically and literally. Eyeball’s fucking smoking in bed - smoke detector’s not working, apparently - and he’s flipping through channels like a toddler playing with a remote. Scowling. Rubbing his eye raw and trying to jerk off every hour or so to make sure his dick still works. Gets paranoid because Waffle told him once that molly broke his fucking cock for a month. Helaena thinks he was probably fucking with roxys, too, but Eyeball got spooked.

It’s still working, but he doesn’t want to play. He just gets himself half-hard - all the way the first time - and then lets it go, which is fine because she doesn’t want to go either. If she thought it’d help, she’d roll over for him and let him do whatever he wanted, but he’s not interested.

By five, they still haven’t eaten and only split the second disgusting Vitamin Water that they’d opened and forgot about. Haven’t spoken more than ten words to each other. Haven’t gotten up except to piss and, in Eyeball’s case, pace for ten minutes and peer out into the parking lot before crawling back into bed looking mad. He’s just been giving her the last quarter of every cigarette he smokes, and it’s been holding her over. She’s been alternating between trying to go back to sleep, watching the light move around on the wall, and helping him check his dick, apathetic hand and apathetic spit.

They should drag themselves into the shower, she thinks. They’re all fucking crusty, stink like jizz and sweat and pussy. She should shave. They should talk about tomorrow.

At six thirty, she finally feels gross enough that she’s gotta do something, and she can tell Eyeball’s perking up a little, too. Sitting up straighter.

He’s put his patch back on, and he’s playing with himself again. Looking a little more invested in it. “You want me to sit on it, baby?” she asks, drawing a finger up his dick and hooking the crook of it through his. He squeezes her back, a little pinky-promise but with the index. “Make sure you can still come?” She’s teasing, but so absolutely blah that it sounds near serious.

He smirks, halfhearted, and uses his free hand to flip the channel again. Weather. Not local. “Maybe,” he says. “Then we should probably go.”

Helaena feels between her legs. When she pokes a finger in and leans, she pulls it out a little sticky. Wipes it on his leg. “Help me,” she says, but he’s still lazy. Doesn’t want to work.

“Up,” he says. Pats his lap.

She moves slow, but she listens. Pulls the covers back and gets on top, straddling his thighs. “Go where?” she asks, wriggling her legs apart for him and sitting up high off her ass. She holds herself open a little.

Eyeball takes his cock and starts rubbing it all over her, absentminded. Watching. Bumping her clit a little, bumping where she’s still leaking when she’s upright. It feels nice, starts her fucking motor at a low idle, and he’s getting hard as fuck doing it. “I dunno.”

“We paid for tonight,” she reminds him, leaning into it and using her fingers to help. Holding him against her and grinding a little til she sees him bite at his lip. “Get a condom.”

“Why? We already gotta get you shit from the pharmacy, don’t we?” He puts his hand over hers. Plays with her fingertips like he fucking loves her or something. Gentle. Traces the rounds of her nails, rubs at the jagged edge of one she caught on the sheet and tore.

“Mmmhhhfffuck, there it is,” she says, and he smiles at her when he feels the sudden slide. Lets himself slip in, just the tiniest bit, and then pull right out. Twice. Three times. A shallow, nudging stroke that drives her crazy. Makes her want to howl. He knows she hates that. It turns her into a mess, and she has to have the fucking energy to beg for it. Has to be in the mood. She’s not.

He is, though. Something grumpy and a little bit mean in his face. “Not gonna fuck you anyway,” he says. “Nothing to worry about.”

She rolls her eyes at him. “I don’t wanna play. Fuck me or don’t. This half-assed shit…”

“This?” he asks her. Does it again, just a little nuzzle at her, just the fucking tip, and she’s in no headspace for it. Tries to catch him, sit fast, but he knows what she’s up to and pulls away. Pushes at her hip and holds her back. “My way or no way.”

“No way, then,” she says. “I’ll fucking do it myself. All fucking worked up now and you wanna…”

“Wanna what? Make you come on my cock?” He’s still pressing at her, resisting her wriggle towards him; her sideways slide to swing her leg off.

“That’s the fuckin’ problem, I’m not on your…”

Again. Fingers in her side with authority, some newfound fucking energy that he’s got because she’s arguing with him; sticking it in just enough to make her shut her fucking mouth for a second and chase him. “God you’re a slut.”

She narrows her eyes at him. “Me? I’m not the one who’s been fucking playing with my dick all day. I’m fuckin’ done with this, I…”

“Shut up, slut.” He slides up, bumps her fucking clit again, puts the fuckin’ whole length of his dick right along it, and everything from her goddamn toes to her scalp curls. The downstroke makes her gasp. He’s holding her like he’s trying to keep his fuckin’ umbrella in a hurricane. “Hold still and shut the fuck up unless I ask you something.”

She’s not in the mood for this. She’s really fuckin’ not, but now he’s using the fucking head of his cock to play with her, like he’s fucking fingering her with it, and it’s making her see fuckin’ stars already. Hard to argue. Hard to do anything but grit her fuckin’ teeth and try not to give him the noise he’s looking for.

It doesn’t work. The whine comes through the set of them anyway, and it only sounds more pathetic for it. It’s a tense and angry and needy thing, when he gives her a whole fucking two inches and then takes it away, and she feels her body try to fucking hold on. Clenched cunt and arched back and that sound.

“Whore,” he says, and she digs her fucking nails in him. Right in his forearm, where she can see his veins sticking out with the effort of holding her still. She thinks she’d like to nick them. Open them right up. The scratches don’t go that deep, but they sit like little red track marks against him, and he doesn’t even flinch. Doesn’t even notice, she thinks. He’s too focused on her.

She didn’t ask for this.

Sometimes she wants to be whore’d and fucking slutted and owned but right now she’d just like to ride it and take a goddamn shower. But his fucking comedown must be vicious, and he’s feeling some type of way, down bad for whatever he’s doing and so hard she wonders if there’s any blood left in his fucking brain.

There is. Enough for him to fucking shit-talk her, anyway.

“Listen to it,” he says, fucking dragging his cock over her again. She bites hard on her mouth, doesn’t whine at him again, but he’s talking about the sound of it. Her sloppy fucking cunt that likes this game more than she does. “Fucking messy whore. You can’t go a fucking day, can you?”

She’s white-knuckling him now, right around one wrist, and she’s stopped trying to get away. Just biting and biting, looking anywhere but at him. She can feel him looking at her. Can hear the expression on his face, and she doesn’t really want to see it. Doesn’t have to. Instead she fixes on his chest. His belly. The little dip in the center, the cage of his ribs, the shallow cup of his navel. He’s so white in the odd-lit dark. Fragile-looking.

And she’s just wide open for him.

“Tell me,” he says, and he puts it in again. Pushes her away at the same time, hard so she can’t wriggle down. He’s gonna fucking bruise her, she can tell. Four little thrusts this time. Short, fast things that make all the nerves there light up and sputter out like fucking candles that won’t take. Her knees shake against him, and she watches him draw a breath that stutters in his chest. Her body’s telling him, even if she doesn’t want to, and his hears it. It’s not enough for him, though. Not now. “Tell me.”

Helaena tips her head back. Tells it to the damp-stained ceiling. Opens her mouth, lets out that sound - the growly, whimpering thing behind her teeth, and it’s a relief honestly - and says it. “I want your fucking cock.”

“What?”

Motherfucker. “Shut up, you fucking heard me,” but the last word is just garbled, just turns into a fucking moan that she can’t catch in time when he smacks himself against her. Hard. She fucking jolts with it. “Goddamnit!”

“What did you say?”

She’s gonna come from him fucking with her like this. And that’s what he wants. To watch her. To make her. She can feel the pressure already, pricking up her spine like fingers. Possessive and ugly.

“I said I want your fucking cock.”

“Louder, whore.”

She takes a fucking swing at him. Connects, too. Left hand, not her best, but she gets him right in the face; is able to lean up and over enough for it. She’s scared for a second after it happens; remembers the last time she took a shot at him, his fucking hands around her throat, but he just laughs. It’s not a nice laugh, but it’s a turned-up-and-on one, and she hates it, and she’s fucking wet for it, and her hips push back against his hand at the sound of it. Something in her wants him badder for it, and something in him knows it, and he says it again. “I said louder, whore,” and it’s threaded with amusement, a black sort of amusement. An affectionate sort. All of it wound together.

“Give me your fucking cock,” she says, louder, and he gives it to her just the same. Just a little. Dripping now, a fucking string of spunk like spit connecting them when he pulls out again, some of it his and some of it probably her mess, too, and her whole fucking body’s mad about it. Wailing and grabbing, and aching, and he’s so hard. So fucking hard she swears she can see his heartbeat right there, rushing at the thinning surface of his skin, all angry-colored now and just as fucking needy as she is. “Whore,” she snaps at him, and it feels good, and he laughs again.

“Come on, Lane,” he says. Fucking taps her clit with his cock, digs so hard into the flesh of her hip that he takes a whole fucking handful. It hurts. “Scream for it,” and she fucking swings at him again but he catches her wrist.

Kisses it.

Slow. Too slow, too soft for this fucking shithead stuff he’s pulling. So soft.

That does it. Those pretty lips at her pulse. The way he holds them there a beat, two, three longer than he should.

She gives it to him, a sobbing sort of scream, some kind of pornstar-caliber wail of a please, so loud that if they were in the apartment RenaRainaRenata would punch the drywall straight through to strangle her, and even that’s not enough.

Not enough.

“Whose cock are you screaming for, slut?”

She’s going to kill him. He has to sleep sometime, and she’s going to kill him when he does. The same shit that’s in him is in her, too, and she’ll cut his fucking throat. She swears it. But right now he’s sliding against her again, veins sticking out all over his arm still, harder, fiercer because she’s back to struggling, and he’s right there, just inside, and her begging only made it worse. She’s trembling like a fucking tweaker. Needs her fix.

“Yours,” and she thinks that’s it, thinks finally he’s going to let go of her, but he doesn’t.

“What am I?” he asks her, and it catches her off guard. She doesn’t know what he wants. What he’s getting at. She finally looks at him, and his face is all fucked up. Unreadable. Something in it like it’s a real question, like he doesn’t know the fucking answer.

She has some ideas. Tries mine, because that’s the easiest. He’s hers. Even like this - twisted up and nasty and fucked and hard for her desperation and playing games she’s not interested in and coming down like a motherfucker with a red blot on his cheek where she hit him - he’s hers. “Mine,” she says. “I’m yours and you’re mine,” her voice all strung out and tottering on the fucking edge of it all.

Eyeball shakes his head. Pushes in just a little more, like he’s gonna find the answer there, and her head tips back. Has just enough weight to take the rest of her with it, maybe, and he asks her again. Sounds different. Little boyish or something, and she makes some sort of hopeless, insane noise at him as her body reaches and reaches and reaches but finds nothing there. “What am I?”

He’s everything, she thinks. Her little brother. Her fucking man. Her protector, provider, problem solver, Daddy, baby, Magician, fucking dope dealer cigarette lighter bed warmer killer savior fixer squirrelly motherfucker crazy bastard sweet boy the one who fills her mouthcuntassheartbrain, all that emptiness, he’s everything, and that’s what she decides on. “Everything,” she says.

Clear and simple and true and correct, she supposes, because his whole face goes slack. Slack like relief, like he might cry. Doesn’t match his words. “Then sit down and fucking come on it, slut.”

She does.

He lets his fingers loosen. Lets her go, keeps the hand at her hip when she grabs him and takes him, and she comes right away. Shoves him so deep she’s bruised on the inside, too, she’s sure; brushes two fingers over herself but she barely needs them, she’s so fucking wound. Squeezes and bounces and fucking screams her brains out because the noise helps, and it’s so good, so much, and she hears his little hum beneath it, just her name over and over and over until he’s babbling, incoherent, the syllables turning to marbles in his mouth.

She sits across his thighs as he goes soft inside her, more sweat and come and mess pooling between them.

It’s hard to be mad after that, melted and sticky, lava bones and shaky breath, but part of her is. Part of her wants to lay her heavy hand across his stupid face again, while it’s all glowy-strange in the TV light, the angles gone gentle and the fucking malice drained like bath water.

“Lane,” he says. Reaches up to hold her hand.

Helaena bats it away. “Chitchat costs extra,” she says. Sour, but only a little. She doesn’t have the energy for acid.

“Laney. Lane. You…”

“Shut up.”

“You’re everything.”

“Shut up.”

“Hold me. Please.”

What else can she do? “That’s extra, too,” she says. But she does. She holds him. Lays down over him like a blanket.

Grips him like a life preserver and cries.

Chapter 19: More Water; More Weird

Summary:

in which bisexual Helaena wants her fucking pussy eaten but can’t make it happen

Or: there’s no smut, I promise, just water and weird and a sprinkle of Alys

Notes:

another long chapter that got broken up

less angst, more cake

Omen
by Hannah Bambach

I feel like my mother when I am in love.
I think it is the strawberries I grow on my windowsill
to have something ripe to feed you in the morning—imagine
you and I on feather beds,
dusting lampshades. Planting
fig trees in the yard. Your feet
press down on wet soil.
I am a life-giver in the garden,
tending to my love.

I read once that we look for our fathers in the partners
we choose. I consider this while you sing in the kitchen
to our old cassettes, elbows everywhere, hands sprinkled
with flaxseed. My mother’s spit coats the bathroom sink.
We laugh and laugh at the breakfast table.

 

For a shitty motel, the fucking shower isn’t bad.

She hops in when Eyeball runs out for coffee; neither of them has had any all day, and it’s not helping the fucking situation. The pot in the room is cracked, and there’s mold or some shit at the bottom, and they just weren’t fucking high enough to make that okay.

The water pressure is decent, and it gets hot. Helaena just stands there in it for a good ten minutes, letting it fucking scald her. She’s missed hot water. Probably the only thing she missed from Mama’s house: good hot water and a tub. She must’ve been a dragon in a past life or something, she thinks; feels like there’s no such thing as too hot. Eyeball’s the same way. A couple of fucking volcano-dwellers.

When he comes back, she still hasn’t washed. She’s just letting it run all over her; burn the tension out of her neck and rinse all the fucking sex-scuzz off her skin.

He pops into the bathroom, and he’s got the shampoo she left in the bag and some generic body wash shit from the gas station where he picked up coffee. Got that coffee, too, and he hands it to her through the curtain. Got his razor and the good shave soap.

“Thank you,” she says, a little clipped, and he just nods. Perches on the closed lid of the toilet.

She hates fucking bar soap; always feels like she’s missing a spot when she uses it. Always leaves something important behind wherever she goes, like her fucking shampoo in the other room. Always needs a good cup of burnt-pot gas station shit.

He’s on his best behavior. Fucking altar boy. Helaena snickers at the thought - the memory - of him and Waffle in those nice church robes. Mama and her good boys. Right up til Waffle punched Father Eustace in the face and broke his little wire-rimmed glasses. Eyeball says it was because he was a fucking kiddie-diddler. Waffle never said shit, not even I’m sorry no matter how much Mama yelled at him or smacked him around - that stubbornness runs in the family, she supposes - but Helaena believes it. He felt like a creep. Always standing a little too close. Putting a hand on some little boy’s shoulder. That was the end of the altar service thing, though Eyeball’s clearly taken its message of penance to heart.

When he’s finished three quarters of his coffee, he strips down and comes in with her. Still isn’t talking - hasn’t said much of anything other than I’m gonna go get us coffee; be right back - but he doesn’t need to. He’s saying his prayers just fine.

She still hasn’t washed herself; has just been standing and sipping and feeling her insides warm up like her skin, so he does it for her. Slow and gentle and thorough. Between her fucking toes, behind her ears, spreads her everywhere and uses the washcloth to get all the fucking come from between her legs and the crack of her ass. Even gets under her nails; uses his own like a file and scrapes them out. Little bits of fucking dried blood from where she scratched him all up.

He washes her hair, little circles into her scalp with his fingers and a nice lather. Tips her head back to rinse and bends his mouth to her temple where the water’s running clear. She can feel it collecting under his bottom lip and spilling over; feel his nose against her forehead. His breath. All calm now.

He lets the conditioner sit while he fucking shaves her. Shuts the water, and the room is thick and heavy with steam while she sits on the rim of the tub. It blurs everything a little, makes it feel like a dream. Helaena stretches long across him while he sits on the floor, and he’s so careful. Meticulous and gentle, short strokes all over, thumb running behind. He rinses with his cupped palms when he’s done and runs his tongue up to test his work, a big stripe all the way from her ankle bone to her knee. Kisses the round of it again and again.

He asks if she wants him to do her pussy, too. She starts to say no, but she changes her mind. She figures she may as well. He’s minding his manners, and they’ve got all the stuff together; they’re here anyway. Maybe it’d be nice to get bare. Take everything off. Start all over.

She nods at him, and he has her stand against the tile and open for him. The space is small and his body is big, but he tucks himself in and makes it work. His hands are tentative. They feel like question marks, hazy as the air, but they’re competent. She takes deep breaths; wills herself not to respond to the way he’s tracing her, dipping in and out of the curves of her body, wiping the soap to look closer. He has to spread her apart. Pull her taut. Pressure and friction and his good, good hands all over her. No funny business, no lingering, but it necessitates the sort of care he’s taking; the slow exploration. Sharp edge and tender skin. Trying so hard not to hurt her.

Her body doesn’t listen. It never does.

It pours like a fucking faucet for him. Knows his touch; knows what it means, and by the time he’s almost done she’s a mess again. Closing her eyes and biting her lips, and when he leans in, exhales a so pretty on her, she wants to grab his head and wrap her leg around his shoulder.

He’s hard. Again. Jesus fucking Christ.

But he behaves. Takes the wash cloth and cleans her up. Washes off her wet, too, without a word; gives her one little nudge with a knuckle first, asking her what she wants. Drags it through the center and watches her flutter. She shakes her head. Just a tiny thing, imperceptible almost, but he sees it and moves on. Kisses his fingerprints at her hip before he does and licks her slick from his own hand.

She swallows. Wonders if it would be such a bad thing to let him press his apology inside her with his tongue. She’s so sore. He’d be so sweet to her; give her another round of tears, better ones, to wash this whole day off of them both. She wonders who she’s punishing, really, and why.

He does her armpits next, slow and easy. Careful not to tickle so she doesn’t jerk around and get cut. No nicks.

He helps her rinse the conditioner and combs his fingers though her hair, pulling everything into shape and playing with the springs. Tugging them out and making them bounce back like a little kid. She lets him. He likes her hair. His is pin-straight, and he gets a fucking kick out of the chaos on her head.

By the time she’s done and Eyeball’s washing himself, the water is still fucking hot. It’s amazing. Helaena sits on the toilet and watches him, sticking her toes through the faded curtain to feel it while she lotions her legs. He smiles at her and plays with them, fingers them and bumps against them with his calves, taps her chipping-again nails and smiles. Says he’ll fix her polish later, but she doesn’t know if he brought the right color, or the polish remover either.

He’s fucked up, too. A little bruise on his cheek. Scratches on his neck and his back and his arm. Hickeys in places she doesn’t even remember putting them. There’s one just beside the hollow of his throat. It’s uneven; one side much lighter. She thinks about fixing it.

He’s still half-hard, naked under her gaze with her taste in his mouth and the air sultry as summer around them.

Mess upon mess upon mess.

She still wants him. More, even. More, for how clean and new and fucking shiny they are. More, for all they’ve left behind on one another. All the blood they’ve drawn.

She watches him shave his own face; clear the shadow that’s started there again. Watches the muscles move in his back and his shoulders. She likes the smell of his aftershave, clean and barely-present. It smells lime-y, carbonated somehow. Like spring.

When he’s done but before he turns, she stands up and wraps her arms around his waist. He’s narrow and damp and sturdy, and they don’t move for a long, long time.

*****

“When’s the last time we had food?” she asks later, cross-legged on the bed in Eyeball’s t-shirt and a pair of underwear she let him pick for her. White. Tiny blue bows at the hips. After the pair they’re going to have to toss, they’re his favorite. He likes to breathe on them; lick them til they go translucent and fucking eat her through them. The fabric is thin and gauzy and shrinks right up in his mouth. She knows where his head is at.

He’s tying her hair up, twisting it into two puffy buns up top, Princess Leia-style. She wanted it off of her neck. He’s got the second elastic in his teeth, trying to make them even.

He can’t remember. Shrugs at her and asks her if she’s hungry as he’s finishing up.

He’d never eat anything but her if she didn’t remind him, she thinks. The constant intake of fucking caffeine and nicotine’s fucked him up so bad he can’t even recognize his own appetite. Molly makes it worse; sometimes it lasts for days after.

“Not that hungry,” she admits, but the last thing she ate was that stupid lollipop, now that she’s thinking about it. “We should find food. Probably tanked our fucking blood sugar with all that fucking and then the hot water and shit.”

He nods. “We got birthday cake, remember?”

“Oh yeah!” That perks her up a little.

Before they’d left, they’d stopped to let Alys know. She hadn’t been surprised at all, just said she was glad they came to say goodbye, because she had a birthday present for them.

They’re eleven days apart. Irish twins. A pair of Scorpios. He’s double; has that fucking arachnid rising, too. All wet intensity and sting. The only thing that lightens him the fuck up is that oddball moon, kicking around in Aquarius and giving him that kinky humor no one else gets. Probably all that other kinky shit, too.

She shouldn’t talk. Her own fucking moon’s in Pisces; more water, more weird. She’s pretty sure that’s where that streak of ruin me, Daddy comes from.

Too much alike in some respects, but it works. The obsession goes both ways. Two sets of hook-and-eye. Lock and key.

And a whole fucking two weeks of cake growing up, which was fun, even if they lived under the curse of the Shared Birthday Party. They at least got their own desserts on the day itself.

And Alys, bless her, had made them each their own, too. Had them ready. Oh, I just felt like you might need them early, she’d said, smiling that just-left-of-center smile. Neither of them said they wouldn’t be back in time. Eyeball’s is still a week away.

But that’s Alys.

She’d presented them with two tiny cakes. Larger than a cupcake, smaller than a regular round; little starburst-shaped things. Nothing like either of them had seen before.

But that’s Alys.

A ladyfinger-type deal for Eyeball; bland vanilla and coffee flavor. Just enough cinnamon to warm it up, she’d said. Good for his fussy belly.

Helaena’s is strawberry shortcake. Bright and juicy, with a wink. A little tug at her hair. It had almost made her blush.

Fuckin’ Alys. Sometimes - just sometimes - she kinda wishes she’d’ve let Eyeball talk her into some threesome shit. Thinks Alys might’ve been down. Thinks she probably eats pussy like a fucking champ. Eyeball’d be cool with just watching, she bets. She’d let him jack off. Maybe even stick his fingers in.

His fucking cock is hers, though.

Maybe if they go back home, she’ll see what he thinks, though it probably really is a bad idea. Scorpios aren’t known for sharing.

“Did you bring them in?” she asks him.

He did. Stuck them on top of each other in the bottom of the itty-bitty fridge.

They go outside and smoke first, and she winds her naked legs around him, lets him balance her against the wall and takes his heat while they do. It’s nice, that little hot-cold of the air and the siding and the press of his body, and she hums into his neck while he blows rings past her ear. She watches them float away; disappear, and wonders if that’s what the two of them will do next.

Float away. Disappear.

There’re no forks, because of course Eyeball thought about everything but food, so they sit together on the floor with a towel and use their fingers. They split his, and he keeps giving her the bites, and she keeps having to push his hand to his own mouth to make sure he gets a couple fucking calories. “Eat, you fucking nerd,” she says, and he kisses her. Icing and crumbs and cinnamon lips, and she can feel the heaviness in her bones lift a little. Dissolve. Sugar on spit.

They’re halfway through when they find it. A little piece of paper baked into the center like a fortune cookie. It’s pink. Folded up on itself a few times.

“What the fuck?” she says.

Eyeball looks at her, puzzled, and pulls it out. Brushes it as clean as he can get it. Helaena watches him unfold it, long fingers working slow and cautious. His forehead furrows. “It’s just an address,” he says, and hands it to her. “You know anything about it?”

She takes the slip of paper from him and squints down at it. Shakes her head. It’s in a town not too far, just a little backtrack from where they are. The one where that fucking bar burnt down. Written in Alys’ flowing, unmistakably angular hand. “Doesn’t mean anything to me.”

It will, though, she’s sure. Fuckin’ Alys.

They decide to pull the other cake out and poke through it - Helaena hates to fuck it up, it’s so pretty; luscious-looking strawberries on top, and the frosting only a little mangled from the foil - and that’s where they find the key. Eyeball pulls it out, his fingers dipping in at different points like he’s fucking ice fishing and letting her lick off the mess.

It’s dulled brass. Older-looking. No tag, no cap, nothing. They don’t need one.

“I guess this means don’t knock on the fucking door,” Eyeball says.

Helaena shrugs.

They take both cakes apart the rest of the way to make sure they haven’t missed anything else of importance, and they haven’t.

An address and a key.

“What the fuck?” Helaena says again.

Eyeball scoops a gob of icing into her mouth and scrapes it off with her bottom teeth. Smiles at what ends up on her chin. “I dunno. Guess we should call and say thank you.”

She thumbs her chin clean and sucks it off. Eyeball smiles again. Whatever’s been in his system today seems to be gone. Cake’s helping whatever’s left in hers.

“Guess so,” she says, looking at the little clock on the TV. “Tomorrow, though. A little late to be bothering anyone now. Even Alys.” She looks down at their picnic. “And I guess now we have to finish both of these.”

He laughs through his nose. “If you say so. Happy birthday, Laneybug.”

“You first.” She pops a strawberry into his mouth, and he sucks her finger way, way back.

“You’ll always be older,” he says, swallowing it.

“And you’ll always be a brat.”

“Probably.”

“Definitely.” She winks at him. “That’s your job, right? You’re the baby.”

“Sometimes I’m Daddy.” He cocks an eyebrow. “If you’re gonna make me eat all this, can I at least do it off your tits?”

Helaena rolls her eyes. Laughs. “Didn’t you just spend a hundred hours washing me off and making me pretty for you?”

“I’ll do it again. I don’t care. You’re prettier all fucked up anyway. You know that.” He puts more icing on her nose.

“Do whatever you want.” She sticks out her tongue at him. Gives him his own nose-smear to match.

“That’s the spirit,” he says, and she grins.

Chapter 20: Hotbox

Summary:

She smiles again. “You’re being a good boy, aren’t you?”

“Never.”

“Just agree with me.”

He smirks at her. “Okay. Yes. I’m fucking stellar, Lane.”

“Good. Perfect. Wanna…”

Notes:

in which the author wants to reestablish trust and does it… well, like this 🤷🏼‍♀️🤦🏼‍♀️

sorry 🤦🏼‍♀️😬

i still smell tobacco on my fingers
my breath reeks of pot and wine and sex
my eyes open up like they haven’t in years
so i don’t miss whatever happens next
you call me a thief, all right i’m a thief
grab your summons, come and ring my bell
i’ll be making love with my baby in the chelsea hotel

[…]

so who knows what tomorrow brings
but i know where i’ll be waking up
let’s just listen to our breath tonight
& the breeze through the window that you opened up
can you feel our hearts beating
which one’s yours, which one’s mine, you can’t tell

-from chelsea hotel by mr loverlover dan bern

 

 

They don’t want to leave the room smelling like weed, so they hotbox Granny. Move the stuff left in the backseat up to the front and flop together over the bench seat, belts tucked into the creases and the engine idling to keep them warm. They don’t really need it, but the hum is soothing and they can keep the radio low without draining the old ass battery.

It’s late, and it’s cold, so the parking lot is pretty empty except for the skittery fuck across the way who smokes like Eyeball on a bad day, coming and going from the sidewalk every nine minutes. They time it. Could set a clock by him. “He’s fuckin’ tweaking hard,” Eyeball says, stretching his gangly arm out and cracking his wrist. “Look at him go.”

Helaena laughs, coughing out the smoke she was saving for him. “Shit,” she says. She inhales again, nice and deep, and he leans down low across her lap to take it from her, chin up and head back. “Mm, you’re pretty,” she mutters after he sucks it all from her lungs, and he smiles around the exhale.

“I get it from my sister.”

“Do you now?” She raises an eyebrow at him, and he laughs.

“Every day. Sometimes twice.”

“She must love you.”

“She just loves my huge cock.”

Helaena laughs again. Sticks the joint down between his teeth. “Did she say it was huge, though? I feel like she didn’t.”

“I feel like she did. At some point anyway. She says all kindsa trash when I get her going.” He takes a drag. Keeps it for himself. “You should hear her when she begs me for it.”

“Mmm. You seem like the type who likes that shit.”

He takes another drag. Tugs her face down to share this time, and she closes her eyes and lets him fill her up. “Is there a type who doesn’t?” he asks her, soft when he lets her go.

“Probably. There’s all sorts of types.”

“What’s your favorite?”

She traces the line of his lips. Takes the joint back and lays her palm across his forehead, like she’s looking for a fever. “This type. The type who knows he’s mine.”

“I was born yours.”

Helaena rocks her head back into the seat and smiles. Pictures his brand new, bloody hand leaving its mess across her tiny baby foot. “I was the first thing you touched, after Mama. You came out looking for me. I wish I could remember.”

“I couldn’t wait to get here.” Mama always huffed at him. Said she didn’t know what he was so eager for. What in the world was worth the rush.

Helaena goes quiet. Takes another drag and bends slow for him. Stays a long time. Turns it into a kiss. She doesn’t want to stop, but she runs out of breath. “Sometimes I think you can’t wait to leave, though.”

“Funny,” he says. Rubs a thumb across the round of her jaw. “Sometimes I think the same thing about you.”

They sit in the quiet haze for awhile, Helaena walking her fingers mindlessly up and down his spider-line, into his waistband and out, over and over.

“Aemond?”

“Hm?” His eye opens right up at the sound of his name.

“What are we gonna do?”

He pauses for a minute. Two. Helaena watches him think; watches him knock his bent knees together, take the joint from between her fingers and roll it through his own. Watches him take a long, slow, lingering drag and blow a stream of perfect circles with it. “Right now? Or tomorrow? Or forever?”

“All of it.”

“Right now we’re going to crack the windows and air this shitbox out. We’re gonna go back inside. I’m gonna make you say my name like that a hundred times in a row if you want me to, and then we’re gonna sleep. You’re gonna dream about where you want to be. Then tomorrow we’re gonna go there, and we’re gonna stay forever, or until you get tired of it. Then we’ll go somewhere else.”

“I’m serious, baby.” She rolls her eyes.

“So am I.”

He is. She looks at him, and she knows it.

*****

Helaena tells him she just wants to fuckin’ sleep. They have to be out by noon tomorrow unless they want to pay for another night, and it’s late, and the day will be long. And weird. And exhausting.

Like this one was.

They strip and climb under the stiff-ish sheets. They spread out at first, take their own sides, twine their fingers together in between, but it doesn’t last. They drift like clouds; come together curled on her side, and cling to the edge. Right where they belong.

He wakes her hours later, in the darkest part of the night. That pause before dawn, when the time ticks slowest and strangest; when, if you are holding on til morning, your fingers start to slip.

His own slip around her. Take her by the curve of her waist as he leans over, breathes into the shallow vessel of her ear. Her sleep isn’t deep, even with the weed, and she rouses easily to the hushed sound of his voice against her cheek. “Shhhhh,” he says. “I got you,” and she isn’t sure what’s happening for a minute, but his touch is so gentle. So sure. She doesn’t resist him.

She’s right at the side of the bed, half on her belly, so the turn is easy. She lets him slide her legs over the edge and feels him settle between them. Feels him rest one knee at his thigh, push the other to his shoulder. Feels him just kiss. And kiss. And kiss. His mouth everywhere, lips slow-pressed like they’re taking the shape of her, dragging over the naked spread of her body so he can draw it from memory later with his tongue.

Helaena wriggles a little, shifts in space like she’s trying to orient herself, and he speaks against her. Into her. “Hold still, hold still, I just…”

She stills. She lays her head across her folded arms on the bed, facedown in the rumpled pile of linens, and it feels like she’s still dreaming, or dreaming again. Like she might never wake up. Like this is the place he was talking about where they were going to go, and stay, and live, and die.

It’s so different from behind. She can’t grab him, not the way she wants to. Can’t pull him into her, can’t take him. She can push back against him, but she doesn’t. Not on purpose. The surrender is better, the open mouth against the bedsheets, the fists that throb like a heart; mark time like the clock’s slowed lurch forward.

The world suspends itself. Narrows.

I just needed you, he says; a mumble etched into the running vein at the notch of her groin. I just needed you, and what’s missing, unspoken as always, is the I’m sorry that comes before, but she feels him write it out, flat and looping script over her body. Inside, his tongue reaching and reaching and reaching. Like he can lick right at her heart, crawl into her ribs. No fingers, nothing but nose and chin and lips to press her apart. Nothing but softness.

She feels him unwind her from his shoulder, splay her careful around his hips. Feels his forehead at her tailbone, down like prayer. Feels him wet her with his spit. Ass, cunt, thighs. Saliva everywhere, dripping more than spitting, just gathering it all and letting it fall over her til she’s running slick with everything.

Fuck fuck fuck, like he’s the one about to come, like he’s not seen water and breath and life for days and here she is. Like she is holy. Spreading it into a mess with his lips and his tongue, riding the arch of her body, letting her take him all the way to the center of the need that’s pooled with his fucking spit inside of her.

He wanted his name. He gets it.

Finds a steady, rocking rhythm against her clit, just to the side, an indirection that makes her growl and bite at herself; that turns her into something just this side of frantic, and he stays there. Slows it down. Has her thrashing and moaning at the intentional swing-and-miss of it, at the way it pushes her in millimeters towards the fringes of sanity, everything crawling at the speed of the dawn that wants to break just outside the window.

This plea is a good one. Pure and real.

Please please please please please volume and pace rising like the sun, up and up and up, please please please, and he says nothing. Asks nothing.

It ends in a high, keening sort of thing; just spilling, ringing vowels. Ends in his name, his real one, there at the end. At the first bit of light that forces itself through the gap in the curtains they’ve left open. That part’s quiet. A whisper, a church sound, the amen at the end. Close enough. Aemond, with her eyes still closed, mouth slack around the shape of it.

He’s pushed her against his flat palm, has his tongue in her ass to finish it, help her slip down the rungs and put her feet to the ground. Licks up the sweat-trail of her spine. Lays over her and sucks her neck.

“I just needed you,” he says at her ear. “Needed to hear you want me,” and she did. She does. She is, sometimes. Just want. “You taste good.”

Helaena smiles, cheek rubbing at the scratchy fabric beneath her. She can taste the salt on her own upper lip, the energy seeping from her skin. She feels like she’s fucking glowing; like if she could get her eyes all the way open, she could use herself for light.

Pleasure is a fucking beast. Love, too. They’ll run you right through. Fucking gore you. Leave you kneeling broken over the bed, giving thanks for your own annihilation.

“You can fuck me if you want,” she says, turning a little to see his face. Squinting into the three-quarter gloom. “Just like this. Fucking pound the hell out of me. I’m so goddamn wet, I can’t..”

He laughs a little. Stops her babble with a kiss. “Do you want something inside?”

“Maybe? I dunno. I can’t come again. But…”

“But what, pretty girl?”

She smiles again. “You’re being a good boy, aren’t you?”

“Never.”

“Just agree with me.”

He smirks at her. “Okay. Yes. I’m fucking stellar, Lane.”

“Good. Perfect. Wanna fuck my ass?”

That sends him; she can feel the laughter rolling right through his belly; hear it vibrate his lovely throat before it makes it out of his mouth. “I mean… yeah. I do. What kinda fuckin’ question is that?”

“I mean, I’m already here.”

He cracks up harder. “The enthusiasm…”

“Sorry,” she grins. “Can’t muster up a fucking rah-rah-rah at the moment, baby. Go slow with that ridiculously huge cock of yours and fucking lube like you mean it. ‘K?” She’s laughing now, too, full-body into the mattress, and he swats her on the ass, just enough to give her a sting.

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Good boy. Did you bring the fucking lube?”

He’s already shuffling around the front pocket of his backpack looking for it. “I brought everything.”

She shakes her head, eyes rolling. “No fucking forks, not a goddamn paper plate to be found, but you’ve got sixteen dildos and a bottle of KY the size of your arm. That’s my boy.”

“Two. Two fucking dildos.”

“That’s two more than the forks you remembered.”

“Priorities.”

It feels good to fucking laugh. Feels like dawn somewhere in her chest, too; like the light’s spilling clean and burning off the fog. Eyeball’s laugh is even better. Makes her feel safe.

He’s good. Careful and slow. Uses three times as much fucking lube as he thinks he needs, starts with his fingers. They haven’t done it in a fucking minute, so he takes his time. She just leans over the fucking bed, knees wide and head down, smiling at life, and lets him play.

It feels weird, good-weird, sexy and dirty and fucking raunchy as hell. She giggles to herself, thinks about how many fucking nope boxes she’s ticking off - brother, check; grimy motel, check; still kinda fucking high, check; running from the fucking cops, check; now getting it in the fucking ass, check - and then the laugh gets bigger, and it helps. Makes everything soft and easy and relaxed, and he doesn’t ask what’s so fucking funny, just kisses her between her shoulder blades, puts his nose in her hair to smell her shampoo, says I think you’re good.

And she is.

He uses half a fucking pound of KY on himself, too, and wraps an arm around to mess with her clit. Gentle, gentle. Enough time’s gone by now that it feels good again, and he lets her do the fucking.

She doesn’t like it too far in; he really is too fucking big to be comfortable, so he holds himself with his other hand and follows her all up and down, jerks himself off with her rhythm, and it works just fine. Gets better than fine after a couple minutes, when she tucks one of her hands under his and sticks two fingers in her cunt. Presses back a little, feels him inside of her, too; feels his skinny wrist bumping hers, all against her bareness, and it’s a bizarre, head-spinny sort of good, like she didn’t even know her body could do that. Then there’s that wide, steady pressure all over, another fucking orgasm starting; warm weight grabbing at the bottom of her spine.

She can’t focus anymore, has to hold still to feel all of it right, and he’s good. Stops, breathing all heavy against the joint of her neck; waits for her to adjust, shove her fingers deeper, whine a little at the way it’s all fucking curling up her belly. Come on she says after a minute, lets him take over, and he stays slow. Shallow until she tells him more, more, more, stop, finds the spot just before too much and stays there.

Oh, shit, I’m gonna fuckin’…, she says, and he tells her do it, and it’s just an easyeasyeasy thing to come right around her own fucking hand, right against the steady press of his fingers and his cock, right into the sound of his voice.

Fuck, Lane, that’s so hot, and it fucking is. It’s so hot.

Her moan is a giggle. A playing-hooky-stealing-Daddy’s-beer-fucking-in-a-public-bathroom-sneaking-the-last-piece-of-cake-jumping-the-turnstile thing, and he likes it just as much. The clench-tight of her body and the loose screws of her laugh; that naughty hitch-wiggle-gasp, that oh God like it’s a joke, like God is wagging His finger at her and she’s just sucking on it.

She doesn’t like it when he comes in her ass, so he slips out slow - she hears the way he grits his teeth, wet gears grinding at her ear when he does it, like it’s taking all his goddamn willpower - and pushes her flatter to do it on her back instead. She feels it hit her sloppy-like, warm, and she shivers, giggles again, listens to his fuck, ohhh little noise. Like he can’t believe his luck.

“You’re so hot,” she snickers, fucked up, facedown in the sheets, and he just laughs.

The sun’s up now, saying hi, peeking in at them like a tricky little voyeur. “Good morning,” Eyeball says, both arms wrapped around her waist, all his weight slung solid into her.

“I think it is,” she answers. “I need a smoke.”

“Me, too.” He peels his skin off of hers and pulls the sheet down to cover her up. Keep her cozy. She’s got zero fucking intention of moving, feeling just a little bit like a fucking pillow princess, and he knows it. Grins when she bats her eyes at him from the floor. He lights her a cigarette and sits on the bed next to her. They share it in silence, one of his fingers twirling the same curl over and over and over.

“We don’t have to leave for a couple hours,” Helaena says, the cigarette down to its filter and her knees starting to ache. They feel fucking rugburnt, too. The fucking carpet sucks, all threadbare and rough. “You wanna lay back down?”

“Can we wake up like that again?”

“Brush your teeth and wash your fucking dick and maybe.”

He snorts and hauls her up onto the fucking bed. Wrestles her down on her back. “I’m all fucking wired now. Feel like I wanna do rails off your fucking ass. I’m gonna go get coffee instead.”

She takes his whole face in her hands. Kisses him through another big, fat, wet smile. “See? Good boy. Making good choices. I want coffee. And get something to eat, Jesus Christ. I’m actually starving. Then we’ll call Alys. And then we’re getting the fuck outta here. I know where I wanna go.”

“Yeah?”

“Mmhm.”

There’s something in his eye like mischief. Kid brother shit. The most like himself he’s looked in awhile. “Don’t tell me yet,” he says, standing up to poke around for some pants.

“Wasn’t gonna.”

“Good.” He pauses. Cocks his head sideways at her as he pulls a pair of jeans off the floor. Wipes his damn mouth with them. “You and me.”

Helaena winks. “Me and you.”

“I’ll be right back.”

“I’ll miss you the whole time, I promise.”

Eyeball rolls his eye and grabs the keys

Chapter 21: Queen of Pentacles

Summary:

“So that was weird,” he says, setting down the phone.

“That was Alys,” she answers.

“Do you buy any of it?”

When Eyeball gets back, she’s cleaned herself up and gotten dressed, and she’s managed to put the room back together halfway decent. She was surprised he’d let it get as chaotic as it did, shit tossed everywhere, but fucking molly-rot’ll do that. Even to him.

He’s got good, hot coffee and an assortment of weird crap: packaged danishes and gas-station fruit cups with sad-looking melon and some kind of off-brand yogurt and fucking pretzels. Gummies. A box of plastic silverware and some paper plates. Lots of cigarettes. A car charger for the phone. Alka-Seltzer chewy things, travel ibuprofen in the little packets, and some nail polish remover pads and a bottle of polish. Cheap shit, littlegirlbubblegum pink. Right up his stupid alley, she thinks, smiling.

“Told you I’d fix them, but I forgot the stuff,” he says. “I’ll take care of it before we go anywhere.”

She smiles at him with a quirked eyebrow and lights a cigarette. Hands it to him. “Thank you, Daddy.”

He rolls his eye a little but he loves it, is fuckin’ feeling himself today, and she knows it. She can tell because he blows her pretty rings and pokes her in her belly until she squeals.

Eyeball has pretzels and Alka-Seltzer for breakfast, and she has yogurt and fruit and a danish, and they eat like humans with plates and a spoon. “My ass is sore,” she says, reaching up and shoveling a weirdly-crunchy piece of honeydew into his mouth. She’s laying on her stomach in bed, kicking her feet back and forth, her coffee balanced between his folded legs next to her.

“Sorry,” he says, but he means that just as much as he meant his fucking eye-roll. “I tried to be nice.”

“You were,” she laughs. “It’s fine. I’m just sayin’.” She grabs her coffee and takes a sip. “If we drive today I’m taking one of these fucking pillows.”

“We’re driving. Where are we going?”

“I dunno. Was thinking maybe it might be time to drop in on our sister.”

Eyeball raises an eyebrow around a swallow of his own coffee. “Rhae?”

“Unless we got another one.” Helaena shrugs. “With Daddy, who knows?”

“You think?”

“That it’s time to meet Rhae, or that Daddy was a slut?”

“Both, I guess, but I was talking about Dad.”

Helaena reaches up to steal his smoke and puffs on it, short and thoughtful. “I dunno. Probably not after Mama, he was too sick most of the time. But before, who knows? She’s worse though.”

“Nah.”

Helaena levels her gaze at him. “She was on Cris’ fucking dick so fast after he died, bitch got a speeding ticket. You really think…”

“I dunno, Lane,” he says, short.

“You still think she’s fuckin’ Saint Alicent.”

“I don’t. I know she’s fuckin’ not. I just don’t…”

“It doesn’t matter, honey. It doesn’t. Point is, yeah. About Rhae. I know you’re fuckin’ curious. You have that card.” She gives him the last of her melon; spoons the little juicy corner piece into his open mouth, then closes the plastic lid til it clicks. Licks her fingers. “I am, too. And like… maybe… maybe she - they - maybe… they don’t care? About this. Us.” She pauses. “Maybe we can be fuckin’ family or something, since this fucking version isn’t working out, right? Is that stupid?”

“Probably,” Eyeball says. Butts his cigarette on a plate. “It’s probably fucking stupid. But I thought about it, too. I mean… but what are we gonna do? Just fuckin’ roll up to some six year-old address and be like What’s up, heard you keep it in the fuckin’ family. Us, too! You guys wanna… what, go to dinner? Let us live in your basement? Have an orgy? Do some fuckin’ niche webcam shit? Lane, that’s weird as fuck.”

She laughs a little through her nose. “You gotta bury the lead on that one I think, baby. So. No. Probably roll up and start with a hi, are we in the right place? and go from there. And when they slam the fuckin’ door on us, figure out the rest.”

He shrugs. “We’re going wherever you wanna go. I mean it.” He starts gathering up their garbage. “They might look for us there, though. With family.”

“No one’s looking for us.”

“Those cops…”

She cuts him off. “We’ll ask Alys if they’ve been back. We gotta call her.”

Eyeball nods and stuffs everything into the tiny trash can in the corner. Goes into the bathroom to wash. Helaena rolls over and hangs upside down off the bed to watch him, and he smiles at her. “What, Lane?”

“There’s a lot we don’t know.”

“Well yeah. But what do you mean?” He shakes the water off his hands at her, but it misses, falls too short, and she smiles at him.

“All kinds of stuff. Family stuff. Like we got a whole ass sister…”

“Half.”

“Half ass sister we’ve never even met. And a whole ass uncle. Like… what do you bet they’ve got a story we’re not supposed to hear?”

“Of course they do. We’d’ve heard it otherwise.” He sticks his toothbrush in his mouth.

“We got one for them, too,” Helaena says. Stares at him as he brushes his teeth, then sticks out his tongue to get that, too. Ever fastidious.

Eyeball spits and takes water from his cupped hands to rinse. Wipes his mouth off. “We got lots,” he says finally. “I just don’t know if they fuckin’ care.”

“Only one way to find out.”

“Only one. Let’s get the fuck outta here.”

Helaena doesn’t move. Lets him pack up all their shit and straighten up while she watches. Smokes. When he comes back in, she wiggles her bare toes at him.

“I didn’t forget,” he tells her. He’s got the shit in his pocket. He tosses her her phone. “I’ll do them while you call Alys.”

“You want to use mine?”

“Yeah, I don’t want to use that other fuckin’ one with anyone we know. And I don’t wanna use mine.”

Helaena nods as he settles onto the bed, and she sits herself up to lean against the headboard. Her phone’s been off for days, and when she turns it on, there’s nothing.

Eyeball’s the only one who texts her. Likes to send her dirty shit; nasty texts and pictures of his fucking dick and sometimes random photos he’s taken of them fucking. Her on her knees, laughing up at him with fucking jizz everywhere, nose all scrunched. Bent over with his cock halfway in. Fucking heart emojis all over, like he’s a ninth grade girl. She has a whole fuckin’ collection of videos of him fucking jacking off in random places, too: at work, in the fuckin’ car, once at the goddamn DMV. Right there in the lobby, jammed into the corner with a book and his sweatshirt over his lap. Bad angle, bad light, but she could tell what he was up to. Could hear him coughing to cover it up. Oh my God, Lane, he said, I was waiting for like 45 minutes; I was so fucking bored and so fucking horny, and she’d laughed so hard she’d cried. He didn’t come. She asked him.

She’s fuckin’ deleted most of them; they’re all the fucking same and he’s an asshole, but there are three or four that she’s kept. The DMV one because it’s so fuckin’ stupid. There’s one where he’s talking to her while he does it. Normally he’s quiet, just wet jerkoff sounds and sometimes his pretty little kicked-choked-surprised noise if he comes for her, but this one, he’s just running his mouth. Quiet and mumbly. She can’t understand some of it, but he’s telling her what he wants to fuckin’ do to her and it’s amazing. That one, she saved.

That one, she’s gotten some fucking use out of.

But they’ve been together nearly 24/7 for a week now, and there’s nothing new when the screen lights up.

Kinda sad, she thinks. She’s got nobody to give a fuck that she’s just disappeared for two days.

The only one who fucking matters to her is here with her, anyway, she tells herself. He’d notice if she was gone for two fucking minutes.

She wonders who else is starting to worry about Luke.

Helaena shakes her head at herself and looks down at Eyeball, to where he’s parting her toes with his fingers, gentle, and using the balled-up end of the blanket to keep them apart. Scrubbing each one with one of those little pads as he goes and rubbing at the residue with his spit and the sheet. He’s focused, isn’t paying attention to the call she’s not making, and she just stares for a moment, head tilted and eyes soft. All the sudden she has a hundred fucking things to say to him, all knotted up into a lump in the middle of her throat. None of them can clear space for each other, and so she just waits for them to dissolve, and then she dials the phone.

Alys answers on the third ring, cheerful and measured as ever. Sounds like she’d just watched Helaena walk out without her keys and was expecting her to stroll back in any second. “How lovely!” she says, pretending surprise. “How is your little getaway going?”

Helaena doesn’t give details, just vague niceties that she can feel Alys noting and storing away on the other end. They chat about nothing for a minute before Helaena gets to the fucking point, which is what Alys has been waiting for.

“So, oh my God, your cake was so good,” she starts. “Amazing. Thank you so much! But what the hell was the stuff inside?”

She can hear Alys’ dodgy grin. “Strawberry preserves. I did make them myself.”

“Alys.”

She laughs, a rich and crackly sound breaking through the line. “Oh, you’re meaning the little note and the key.”

“Yeah, that part.”

Eyeball looks up; can hear Alys’ half of the conversation in the quiet and has been clocking it while he works.

“Just a little spell work, sweetheart,” she says. “For protection. The key is just a spare thing I’ve had knocking around. I found it a few months ago, just laying about, and liked the energy of it. Just felt good in my hand, you know? I thought you two might use it to lock the door behind yourselves. Metaphysically, of course. I’ve given it a little whoseywhatsit of my own. Slip it onto your ring. You do never know.”

Helaena watches the corner of her brother’s mouth turn up. She turns hers up at him to match.

“What about the address?” she asks Alys.

“A dream.”

“A dream?”

“Only a few nights ago, yes. Woke me clean up out of a good sleep. And you know how hard those are to come by! I just knew it was meant for the two of you, so I wrote it down.”

“You don’t know what it is?”

“I’m afraid not. But I did presume you did. Is that not the case?”

“No,” Helaena says carefully. “But we did a little Google Maps thing, and it looks like it’s around the corner from Harren’s. You know, that bar…”

“Oh, yes,” Alys says. “I’m quite familiar.”

“Familiar how?”

“Oh,” she says vaguely. “I’ve lived here quite a long time. I know a bit of something about everything. Arson, wasn’t it?”

Helaena’s brows pull in. “Was it?”

Eyeball’s stilled now, hand hovering over her foot. Listening intently.

“Not officially, of course, but that was the sort of rumor, wasn’t it?” Alys tuts. “I did have a cousin who worked there for a moment.” She says it idly, but nothing Alys says is ever idle. “Anyway,” she says brightly, the topic closed, “I’m afraid that address doesn’t mean a thing.”

“An apartment building, maybe?” Helaena tries. That’s what it had looked like on the map.

“Is that so?”

Eyeball rolls his eye. Helaena rolls hers back. “Well, we don’t know for sure, but…”. She lets the sentence trail off, but Alys doesn’t take the bait. “Why did you stick it in the cake instead of just giving it to us?” she finally asks after a bit of silence, and Eyeball grins at her. Swipes the last bit of polish onto her pinkie toe and brings her foot up to kiss its arch. Gives it tongue that tickles. Helaena smiles at him and wiggles her toes out wide to help them dry.

“Oh, you know that’s not how magic works!” Alys laughs, like that’s the funniest fucking thing she’s ever heard.

Before she hangs up, Helaena asks if they’ve had any more visitors.

“I’ve not seen anyone,” Alys says, “though I’ve been out and about quite a lot. It’s possible I’ve missed someone. If so, they’ve not left a calling card.”

Helaena thanks her again. Puts Eyeball on to do the same, and he gives it a little try of his own - you sure you don’t know the place?, maybe flirting a little, using his best sweetboypuppydog voice - but she brushes him aside and says she’s getting another call, and wasn’t it so nice to hear from them, and please do take care of each other, and goodbye, darling.

Doesn’t ask when they’re coming back.

“So that was weird,” he says, setting down the phone.

“That was Alys,” she answers.

“Do you buy any of it?”

“Not a fucking word. Except maybe that she has a shady fucking cousin. Because everyone has a shady fucking cousin.”

“Did she say shady?”

Helaena shrugs. “May as well have.”

Eyeball snickers at her. Waves his hand around to move the air at her feet and blows a little. “So what do we do with all that fucking non-information?”

“The fucking key is something. The address is something. They showed up together; they go together. I mean, what else can we fucking do, Eyeball? We gotta go.”

He stops for a minute, resting a big old hand around her ankle. “What do you think she knows? Is this like… a fucking trap or something? Why now with this shit? Why is she being so fucking shifty?”

“She’s always shifty,” she says, unconvinced.

“Yeah but this is fucking extra. I think we just need to get the fuck out of here. Honestly I don’t give a fuck what this is.”

Helaena sits up straighter. “What if it’s important? What if she’s trying to help? I don’t think it’s a fucking setup. Alys isn’t like that…”

“Yeah but she said she doesn’t fucking know what that place is.”

“She fucking knows. Of course she fucking knows.”

“Then why won’t she just say it?”

Helaena swings her feet over the bed. “When has Alys ever just said anything? She thinks she’s some fucking cosmic… tour guide or some shit. Just fucking leading people around and showing them the fucking view. Letting them take their own pictures.”

Eyeball stands up. Pulls her in against his chest. She leans, all muscle memory. Doesn’t even think about it, just snuggles right down. He smells good; hand soap and toothpaste and smoke and acetone. “I dunno, Laneybug. I don’t fucking like it.”

“Let’s just drive by. See the fucking place at least. See how sketchy it feels and go from there.”

He thinks for a minute, then nods, chin brushing through her hair. “That’s fair.”

They go through the room and make sure they didn’t forget anything.

Before they close it up tight, Helaena stops. Fishes around in her purse, bumping around over her hip, and takes out her deck. “Pull a card before we go,” she says, and he nods.

The two of them sit back down on the bed and close their eyes. She rings her tinkly little bell and lets him shuffle til it feels good to stop.

“Ready.”

She holds the deck out flat for him.

He pulls the Queen of Pentacles and lays it straight, and she all but laughs. “God you’re always so literal,” she says. “It’s Alys.”

Eyeball shrugs. “Does that mean…?”

“It’s honestly not very helpful. But we definitely have a stop to make.”

“Roger that,” he says, and they go.

Helaena returns the key; plods barefoot to the drop-box outside the office door and hears it plink against the metal inside. When she slides back in, she adjusts the half-flat pillow they stole underneath her ass and props her feet on the dash. She’s still sore, but it’s that sweet sort of sore, and the pillow helps a little. She kinda likes it.

Better than that fucking 22 that Eyeball’s stuck back under the mat on her side, anyway. She tries not to fucking stare at it. Tries to pretend it’s not there.

She takes the cigarette he’s offering. He did a nice job on her feet, she thinks, waggling her toes at the windshield and taking a drag. He always does. Not a smear, a smudge, a streak. Even with that fucking cheap, janky shit, they’re perfect.

He redid her hair before they left, too. Just a ponytail, long down her back in a mess of spirals. Easy enough to do herself, but he wanted to. It’s frizzing up already.

Feels like rain is coming.

She watches him as he shifts; works Granny over until she behaves for him and takes that big old first gear he’s offering. Opens wide, rebellious little tongue flat out and waiting.

“There it is, babygirl,” he says, patting the wheel. “I love it when you talk to me like that,” and Helaena tips her head back and laughs.

“Man, she loves you,” she says.

He raises an eyebrow in her direction and steals her cigarette as they pull out. “Crazy bitches usually do,” he says, tucking it between his teeth.

“Takes one to tame one,” she offers, and his crooked smile feels like the only home she’ll ever need.

Chapter 22: Haunted

Summary:

“Haunted as fuck,” she says. “All of it.” She stops for a second to take a good drag, long and deep. Blows the smoke at Eyeball. “All of us.”

He nods. “Every fuckin’ one.”

Notes:

Alicent got the villain edit, and Otto’s getting a (tiny - he’s still yucky) cleanup 😬

Smut-free, can you believe it? 😂

Also, you ever wish things would just spiral into control?

“I was bred for war, darling
be it love
or chaos
everything I do is to the death.”

-Dave Wise

 

The drive is a bit of a backtrack.

Before they go anywhere, they use the burner to find a pharmacy. It’s a dinky little place; a cute mom-and-pop with an old-timey sign calling it an apothecary and faded stripes on the awning. She sends Eyeball in because she doesn’t feel like putting on shoes, and when he comes out with fucking AfterPill, she tries to send him back to swap it out.

“This shit makes me sick,” Helaena says. “I need the real stuff.” She’s sensitive to hormonal crap. Can’t take the pill because of it, hates having to do the morning-after shit, and Plan B is the only brand she can fucking tolerate. The fucking nurse at Planned Parenthood told her there’s no difference, but her body says there is. If she swallows this trash, she’ll be cramping and puking and bleeding and miserable in four hours, and it’ll last a fucking day and a half.

“It’s all they had,” Eyeball says. He’s got gloves, too. A box of latex ones. For the bag, he says. And whatever else. Just in case.

She taps the stuff against her knee, thinking. Decides to just take it and deal with it instead of the hassle of fucking returning it and going all over looking for the other shit, but she tells Eyeball she’ll take it when they’re done and on their way out. That way she can just flop on a bed somewhere for a little bit. He asks if she’s sure, and she supposes she is, so they just fucking go.

He’ll bring her ibuprofen and rub her belly and hold her hair if she fucking barfs, and it’ll be fine.

She tucks it in the console for later. She won’t forget. She’s still leaking his fucking spooge on herself sometimes if she coughs or laughs or moves just right.

She closes her eyes and leans her seat back a little. Thinks of how it feels when he’s all the way inside, as far as he’ll fucking go, and they’re just one person. One body, all the fucking pieces where they belong. His cock in her cunt and his tongue in her mouth, everything sealed up tight against the weather.

She wants him again, face-to-face, but she just lets him fucking drive. He puts a hand on her thigh when he’s not shifting gears, runs his thumb up to where the fabric folds on itself inside her hip, and it’s good enough for now.

They stay off of the highway, mainly for poor Granny’s sake. She doesn’t like speed, and they only push her when they have to. The back roads up here are pretty. Windy, with lots of trees and old farm houses and people selling honey and eggs from their fucking porches.

They pass Pop’s turn-off just inside the county line. Eyeball slows down to look. They haven’t seen him for longer than Mama.

“Fuckin’ Otto,” he says.

“Fuckin’ Otto,” she agrees, but it’s a fond sort of fuck-you.

He worked with Daddy for years; Daddy was his boss. Introduced him and Mama way back when. The two of them had some kind of falling-out - business-related, Daddy said, but would never elaborate, and Mama just set her mouth in a line and glared - and he stopped coming around for awhile, but when they were little, summertime meant Pop’s house. The creek in the back and lemonade on the sun porch and some of that good ol’ country childhood shit.

Mama would strip them all naked so she didn’t have to hand-wash the freshwater stink out of their bathing suits and send them in to swim. They’d come out goose-bumped and blue-lipped and shivering and shrieking, and they’d get popsicles and thin bath towels and hotdogs and chips. Trash, Mama would say, but Daddy and Pop just laughed at her.

Short-lived, really, but not the worst part of growing up.

It’d all stopped after the shit with Daddy. Pop had tried to come around again after he died, but by then everything was different, and it had been too long. He was old, and grouchy, and hardened-up by years without kids running around his fucking house, and it just never really took.

“You think he’s still there?” Helaena asks. He’s a fuckin’ snowbird now. Heads down to Florida before the weather turns. Seems like it gets earlier and earlier every year. Mama always says he’s going to just move there; has nothing tethering him north anymore but that old fucking house and that big, lonely property. No neighbors for miles, just woods. Not great for an aging man with a distant family. Liable to drop dead and not be found for days.

“Doubt it,” says Eyeball. “It’s almost Halloween. He doesn’t like the fuckin’ ghosts up here.” He catches her eye sidelong, and they smile.

Helaena reaches over and slides two knuckles up his cheek. Tweaks his nose and steals his cigarette. “Haunted as fuck,” she says. “All of it.” She stops for a second to take a good drag, long and deep. Blows the smoke at Eyeball. “All of us.”

He nods. “Every fuckin’ one.”

*****

When they get into the city - it’s technically the city, anyway, even though it’s basically just on the busier side of a village; the maps are all a little self-important - Helaena has to pee.

They pull into the parking lot of a grocery store, slow at this hour, and she runs in to use the bathroom. She comes back out to Eyeball with Granny’s hood popped, cigarette bobbing around in his mouth. She can see him from the sidewalk just outside, and she stops there, leaning against the bus shelter, and just watches for a minute. He’s got the trunk kit open at his feet, not really messing with it, just poking around under the hood. Fluids and belts and hoses and shit. He’s been fretting about that fucking battery connection, says he shoulda just fucking fixed it right, but the nail he stuck in it has been fine.

She’s not made for long distances, he says. A true old lady. Built like a tank but liable to shit the bed. He’s done his best with her, though, and he thinks she’ll make it to Georgia if they baby her.

Helaena walks up behind him, and he doesn’t even turn around. “What’ve you been staring at?” he asks, screwing the dipstick back down into the oil.

He doesn’t miss a goddamn trick.

“My asshole brother.”

“The fuck is Waffle doing here?” he says, and she smiles. Sidles up beside him and bumps him with her hip.

“No, the tall one. Funny eye. Kinda hot.”

“Oh, that one. Yeah, he is an asshole.” He laughs and gives her the last quarter of his smoke. “Good in bed, though, is what I’ve heard.”

“Oh, yeah. He’ll break your fuckin’ back,” she says, serious as anything. “Fuckin’ animal. His mother never taught him any goddamn manners.”

Eyeball grins at her as he puts the shit back in the trunk.

“Everything good?” she wants to know.

“Yeah, just wanted to take a look before we get outta here. Don’t want surprises.” He rests against the fender and wipes his hands on his pants. “You sure you don’t just wanna go?”

“We came this far,” she says.

“We did. But we’re fuckin’ going a lot farther. It doesn’t really matter, Lane.”

“We’re here.” She leans back next to him and butts her cigarette on the rusty trunk. Hands it to him so he can pocket it. “You’re not even a little curious?”

“I still don’t fuckin’ trust it.”

Eyeball doesn’t trust anything. Not on a good day, ever, and definitely not now. Helaena rests her head sideways on his arm and looks up at the sky. “Let’s go. Before the rain starts.”

She feels his deep breath. The rise of his shoulder and his chest, and the air that moves the errant strands of her hair that have come loose from leaning in her seat. His hand is warm when he slides it under her shirt and spreads his fingers wide. Takes up her whole back, his thumb wriggling underneath the hooks of her bra. “Let’s do it.”

Another fiveish minutes and they’re at the address Alys gave them. They drive by three times, circle the block slow, before they decide they’re being sketchballs and should probably fucking park.

There’s a small lot in the back, nearly empty, and they take the spot closest to the door. Eyeball’s got his eye all over the fucking place looking for cameras; doesn’t see any but doesn’t like it anyhow. Says they’re always on camera, everywhere. He wants to leave before they even get out of the car.

It just looks like a regular fucking residential shithole. A little box of an apartment building, all straight lines and rectangular brick; shabby and nondescript. Loose gutters. Benign graffiti. More than one fucking door. More than one fucking key.

This doesn’t look like anywhere Alys belongs. Anywhere she’d even dip a perfectly-manicured toe. The energy is all wrong. Not like their building, which is old and rundown and weird but has a soul. Something warm to it. This place just feels bleak.

Helaena hates it instantly. Gets a grubby feeling in her stomach. She’s learned that she shouldn’t ignore it, but she’s also learned how to ignore it, and she does her best, curiosity just edging out dread. “Come on,” she says to Eyeball after a minute.

He agrees, some part of him just as curious as she is. More, probably; that’s who he is, even when he knows better, too. He sticks the fucking gun in his waist, under his sweatshirt. One knife in his boot; one in his back pocket. Puts his hood up and locks Granny up tight.

Both of them put gloves on. Just in case.

He holds Helaena’s elbow like he’s afraid she might run, or fall, or slip through the cracks of the old-ass cement walkway. It’s a nervous grip, all projection. No shaking. Never shaking.

They don’t need a key for the door, just stroll right in.

Coming through the back is a little disorienting. The layout isn’t obvious; they have to navigate around the stairs to find the main hallway. It’s dim, one tiny window for the square footage. Quiet. No one around on a Wednesday midday.

As soon as they round the corner and Helaena sees the mailboxes, she knows what the key is for. It’s small. Probably too small to be a door key, which she hadn’t realized until now. She knocks Eyeball in the fuckin’ ribs and points.

He’s clocked it all already, his fingers tightening on her at almost the same exact time. They don’t say anything, don’t need to, just move together in the same direction.

Helaena’s got the key stuck in her pocket. She fishes it out, the fucking latex pulling and bunching against everything because the XL glove they needed for him is way too big for her, and gives it over it to Eyeball and his steady hands and steady breath. He keeps his grip on her while he tries it.

Fifth time’s the charm - almost to the end - and the key slides right into the mailbox for apartment 5A. It’s the only one, aside from 5B, with a letter attached. No name on it. The key turns; the lock clicks, and the little metal door swings open.

Inside there is a single, white, legal-sized envelope. It’s soft at its creases from being opened and closed over and over, all of its crispness long rubbed away. On the front, in the upper left hand corner, there is a name written in small, close, institutionally-neat block print.

ALICENT

The envelope is empty.

There is only one Alicent.

Helaena looks at Eyeball. Eyeball looks back.

“What the fuck?” he says.

“What. The. Fuck.” Helaena replies. She turns it over in her hands a few times before giving it to her brother to do the same. Neither of them comes up with any ideas; they just stand there in uneasy silence, and in the end, Eyeball just slips the fucking thing back into the mailbox. He lays it as they found it, and he closes the door. Checks the lock. Pockets the key.

Now that Mama’s name is in someone’s mouth, Eyeball’s invested. “Let’s find the fucking apartment,” he says. Helaena doesn’t know what else to do, so she nods at him despite the unsettled prickling in her spine. Lets him guide her towards the stairs.

They realize pretty quickly that the units are numbered ass-backwards. The upstairs ones are one and two, so they head back down before they check the third. Helaena lags behind him a little, even though he’s being conscious of her shorter steps. His fuckin’ arm keeps pulling straight back to stay on her. He’s not annoyed. She can tell by the way he’s carrying himself that he doesn’t like this fucking place anymore than she does. That he’s on the fucking edge.

Helaena keeps staring at the gun; its soft outline through his clothes. The way it shifts against him as he moves. Fits right against the pretty curve of his back, like it was designed for the space.

Five -A and -B are at the end of the downstairs hallway, side-by-side. Eyeball presses an ear to both doors and doesn’t hear anything inside. No movement, no television, no one yapping on the fucking phone or rattling the dishes.

He tries the door for 5A, but of course it’s locked. And of course that doesn’t fucking stop him.

“C’mere, Laney,” he says, turning towards her. She’s already here, but he’s talking to her hair. Pokes around carefully and pulls out one of the bobby pins holding the mess on top in place. He smooths everything down - absently, habitually, a tender little thing that makes her chest tighten - and slides a gloved thumb inside to prise the pin apart.

“You sure you wanna do this?” she asks, shifting her weight back and forth, swaying her hips. She doesn’t really see an alternative, if they want any fucking answers, but it still feels icky. Dangerous. Everything about this fucking place does, even without the B&E.

“We’re here,” he says, glancing over his shoulder. “We may as well fuckin’ see what’s what. Watch, okay?”

His hands are more interesting - those good fucking hands, quick and precise and reliable; he should’ve been a goddamn surgeon but instead he’s a lockpick, can hotwire a car in sixty seconds, can make her scream her fucking brains out in fewer if he wants to - but she nods at him and swivels her gaze, keeping watch.

The mechanism clicks apart almost before she’s made a full sweep. Fast as fuck. Cheap shit, she thinks.

Eyeball’s with her. “Good security,” he says, handing Helaena back her pin. She sticks it in her pocket, and he opens the door. “Fuckin’ top notch.”

As soon as they step inside, it’s obvious no one is living here. It’s a studio - that’s being generous - that kind of reminds her of theirs, but even fucking worse. One big room, a little corner sectioned off with a portable divider. Toilet and sink behind it, she presumes, though she can’t see them from here. Tiny stove with tiny burners and a counter next to it that’s more like an end table, with a set of plastic drawers underneath for storage. They look empty, or almost. A dorm-sized fridge. No shower that she can see, so it’s probably not even fucking legal to rent as an apartment.

No furniture save for a battered old desk against the far wall and an office chair by it. Clean top. Lamp.

There are shades on the windows, though. Up now to let in the light.

Nothing about it feels even slightly like Mama, she thinks; but then, nothing about it feels like Alys, either, and here they are.

Eyeball pulls the door shut behind them right away and locks it back up. There’s a deadbolt, but he doesn’t engage it. Everything as they found it.

“Not much to search, at least,” she says, and he nods at her tersely. All business now. Muscles all elastic pulled tight.

When she looks down, her own hands are buzzing like little bird wings. Vibrating to stay in place. She makes a fist in the pocket of his hoodie, trying to still them, and he closes his fingers over hers and squeezes. She hates the latex between them. Always fucking does, if she’s honest. “It’s okay, Lane. We’re gonna be so fast.”

She sticks close, presses to his side as he finds his way to the desk, her fingers worrying his clothes, her own, themselves. She wants a fucking cigarette. Eyeball, too. He’s working his mouth like it’s itchy, tongue back and forth, poking the downturned corners of his lips.

The first drawer he opens is the correct one. Top right side. The only things in it are a vinyl-bound ledger and a ballpoint pen, capped and neat.

Helaena’s got a hand at his back, snaked under his shirt, scratching her nails mindlessly over his skin. Light. It feels good, soothing even with the gloves, and she’s trying to be careful not to tear them. Trying to focus. She can feel herself starting to slip, her senses starting to misfire, and she really needs this to be over soon.

She watches him open the fucking thing, turn a page, and she just catches Mama’s name up top, a bunch of numbers in a column, when she hears it.

The fucking door.

For once - just this once - she’s a split second ahead of Eyeball, her hearing all keyed up sharp. He’s right behind her, his body turning at the sound, but she’s faster, and she panics.

The man who comes in walks - or, more accurately, limps - right into the barrel of the fucking 22, shaking like a little steel-plated leaf in Helaena’s unsure, wrong-handed grip.

Chapter 23: Reptile

Summary:

“I got this, Laney. I got this. It’s gonna be fine.”

She almost laughs.

Almost.

Notes:

split this one in two, again. this is part ii. maybe i should just make the chapters longer? lol idk

still no smut 🙃

anyway.

Alexa, play ‘off to the races’ by lana delray 😂😂

“The lizard brain is hungry, scared, angry, and horny. The lizard brain only wants to eat and be safe. The lizard brain will fight (to the death) if it has to, but would rather run away. It likes a vendetta and has no trouble getting angry… The lizard brain is the reason you're afraid… The lizard brain is the source of the resistance.”

- from Linchpin: Are You Indispensable? by Seth Godin

 

Eyeball’s been straightening her shit out, keeping her steady for almost as long as he’s been alive, and she nearly cries in relief when she feels his hand close over hers. Prop her up. Even through the gloves, he’s warm. Calm as anything, just for her.

If he was alone, this motherfucker might already be dead, she thinks fleetingly, but there’s no time to set up camp there.

“Good girl,” he says, nice and soft. Right against her ear. So close she feels his lips move. “Good girl. Nice work.”

His tone makes her stomach lurch. Triggers in her that same shit, those twin fucking monsters of dread and desire that rise up through her guts when he says get on your knees; I’m gonna fuck you up, grinning and ready to give her exactly what she’s asked for.

wreck me wreck me fucking wreck me please Daddy please, knowing that it’s gonna fucking hurt, bruise her throat and stretch her jaw wide til she cries, and wanting it so fucking bad that the spit starts to pool in her mouth and her clit starts to throb untouched in her fucking pants.

It’s all she can do not to arch her back at him. Squirm.

It’s terrifying.

To the guy whose day just took a fucking shitty turn, he says “Close the fucking door. Now.”

Helaena’s watched the dude’s face go from startled, to confused, to scared, to its current blank but vaguely inquisitive state, shuffling quick as a fucking deck of cards. The expression he’s wearing now is carefully curated, she thinks. Looks practiced. A survival skill. She can almost see him putting sentences together, testing their mettle, behind his odd little close-set eyes.

He’s unusual looking. Shorter than Eyeball, taller than Waffle. Thin, bent crooked and heavy to one side on a sharp-looking cane. Looks like it cost more than the fucking rent in this shithole, shiny-silver tipped and glossy black. One foot’s turned in funny. He doesn’t move the way he looks like he should, though. No clunking and heaving, no weighty step. It’s why they didn’t hear him coming.

He turns to comply, and it’s graceful. Light, like the cane’s a magic wand. Like he’s going to pull a line of fucking silky scarves right out of the bottom. The door shuts soundlessly.

“Lock it,” Eyeball says, his hand still on hers. He hasn’t moved to take the gun; he’s just stroking her wrenched knuckles, reassuring, like he’s scuffing Dreamy’s chin. She can feel his breath, though, close to her face. It’s fast. Smells like copper and smoke.

The man complies again. Locks the door. He’s moving deliberately, betraying nothing.

“He’s fucking strapped,” Eyeball mutters. “Side pocket; his good side.”

Helaena sees it now, the bulge low at his outer thigh. She wouldn’t have known, but Eyeball’s right, she’s sure. Guy hasn’t made a move for it. He must think they’re fucking unhinged enough to put one in him.

“Give it here, pretty girl,” Eyeball says, still right at her ear. Helaena unclenches her fingers; tries to pry them off the metal. It’s like her whole body’s seized up in horror, though, and it’s more difficult than it ought to be. Nothing wants to cooperate. She needs to sit down. Needs a smoke.

Eyeball manages to get a finger under hers and pops them off, and he takes the gun. She leans back into the desk with relief and tries not to collapse. Her fucking heart is firing rounds all through her chest, sending them bouncing bonkers around her ribs.

Eyeball walks up on the guy quick, gun out front, and he just stands there, even when the barrel comes to rest right on his creased forehead. Helaena flinches, bites her lip hard. Thinks Eyeball’s gonna fucking point-blank him, but he doesn’t. He just reaches down and flips open the side pocket. Takes out the gun.

It’s a little thing. Smaller than the one they’ve been carrying, matte black and stout. Eyeball sticks it in his hoodie pocket, careful. “This it?” he asks the guy, free hand roaming all over him. The gesture’s familiar. She’s been on its receiving end lately.

“Yes,” he says, nothing but cool and collected, like he’s trying to talk down a fucking wild dog. He’s got a nice voice, Helaena thinks strangely. Gentle and unassuming. It reminds her of Pop’s.

“If you’re lying I’ll fucking kill you.”

“I believe you. I’m not.”

Eyeball walks backwards and puts the dude’s gun on the desk. Helaena scoots sideways away from it, like it might fucking bite her.

“Aemond,” the man says. Soft and civil. “And you must be Helaena.” He nods to her, polite. Manages to twist his thin mouth into a pained smile, even. “Your mother does fret about the two of you.”

“What the fuck do you know about my mother?” Eyeball says, voice suddenly a register higher, a belt notch tighter, and Helaena sees him at ten, fuse lit, spitting rage like sparks at a kid half-a-head taller than him, little fists cocked and hot. Sees him, shoulders hunched against the rain, hood up, sliding through a shaft of muted streetlight outside of their apartment. Sees him with his hands around her neck.

She knows how this ends.

This guy must, too, she thinks. He leans back on his cane. Lifts his brows, just a millimeter. Just enough to register the wisp of fear curling through the room like smoke.

“I’m… acquainted with her,” he says, choosing his words carefully.

“Don’t play with me,” Eyeball says. Lifts his fucking gun-hand higher, like this dude forgot it was there.

Helaena presses her thigh against his. Trying to love him, or calm him, or who the fuck knows. Just remind him she’s real, and he presses back. Looks at her for a quarter-second.

The guy at the wrong end of the barrel narrows his eyes just a shade. Watching them. “What would you like to know?” he says.

“Who the fuck are you?”

“My name is Lar…” He coughs. “Larry. Strong.”

“Okay, Larry. What the fuck is going on here?”

Larry takes a deep breath. Leans hard on his cane. “Respectfully,” he says quietly, “would it be all right if I sat down?”

“Respectfully, answer the fucking question,” Eyeball says. He’s strung out good, and Helaena thinks fuckin’ Larry is in more danger than he realizes. She swallows hard. Tries to breathe her heartbeat down to something manageable, but it’s not working.

“This is my office,” Larry says. “I came by to collect some things, and - “ he coughs again, gently. “Was surprised to find you here.”

“What’s my fuckin’ mother’s name doing in your office?” Eyeball wants to know.

The two of them look at each other for a moment. Sizing one another up. Larry wets his lips a little. Fucker’s nervous as shit but trying real hard not to look it. “We’ve done some business together,” he says. “I’ve recorded the transactions for accuracy.”

“What’s your fuckin’ business?” Eyeball advances on him again. Gets within fucking choking distance; the length of his lovely, long arm. Gun to the motherfucker’s head. Helaena leans hard into the desk. Feels like she’s going to fucking pass out.

“Your mother - Alicent - is ensuring payment of a debt incurred by your father,” he says. He shrinks back a little. Doesn’t mean to, Helaena thinks. “She makes regular payments, and I collect them. That’s the… extent of our business.”

“My father is fucking dead,” Eyeball says, shaking his head. Shaking the gun. Helaena flinches. “No. That’s not the fucking extent.” He pauses.

Somewhere in all of this, Larry’s backed himself up against the door. He’s leaning, looking like he’s having a hard time doing it. His fingers are tapping a little. He cannot possibly be thinking of trying to fucking run. His fingers touch the knob, Eyeball’s gonna fucking blow them off.

“Don’t!” Helaena says, before she can stop herself. “You wanna fucking die?” It’s more of a genuine question, a warning; not so much of a threat, but it doesn’t sound that way, she realizes once it’s out.

Eyeball looks sideways at her. One corner of his mouth turns up, just a little. He’s got a look like he wants to fucking eat her. “You heard my sister,” he says. “Don’t be an asshole. And don’t fucking treat me like one. Dead men don’t have fucking debts, Larry. What’s my fucking mother paying you for?”

“I… I’m afraid I do need to sit down.” He’s leaning harder. Faking it, Helaena’s almost positive. Something about this shithead feels all fucking wrong.

Eyeball looks at him. Looks at Helaena. Back and forth, forth and back, looking all fucking screwball. Panicky.

Helaena feels hot. Shaky-knees, dry throat, lungs all fucking skittery. The floor is wavy or something.

“Okay, then you can sit in the fucking car.”

Larry’s shit’s backfired, and he knows it now. He tries to backtrack, starts babbling; Helaena can’t hear him. Her brain’s not right. She can’t hear anything right, just Eyeball’s fuckin’ voice. Just his fucking instructions, like she’s right down to her goddamn lizard brain and even that knows him. Needs him. Hears him. That little primordial thing between them, reaching for itself.

“Check the hallway, Lane,” he’s saying to her. Gives her directions, nice and slow and clear; she could get lost in her own fucking underwear drawer. “Out, left, go to the mailboxes, loop around the stairs. Come back. Fast.”

She nods. Tries to steady herself.

Eyeball’s got his brows together, can see she’s not fucking doing good. She can see him planning. Figuring out what he’s gonna do if she loses her fucking shit, fucks this up, and she doesn’t want to know the answer. She takes a hard swallow and pushes herself off the edge of the desk.

Eyeball yanks Larry by his collar, not too hard. Doesn’t want to fucking knock him over, just clear the door, and he does. The guy doesn’t fucking stumble. Doesn’t look like someone about to fucking hit the deck.

Helaena takes a breath. Her hand shakes on the lock, and it takes longer than it should, but she turns it and goes and doesn’t look back.

The hallway is clear til she gets to the mailboxes. Some lady’s standing there, rifling through a fucking stack of shit, and Helaena freezes. Sticks her hands into her pockets and just stands stock still, staring at her. She’s not paying any fucking attention, just wrapped up in her own crap, but Helaena doesn’t want to pass her twice, draw her eye. That much, at least, she can fucking process.

She decides to just turn on her heel. Go back.

She runs right into Larry at the fucking door, nearly stumbles right over the guy, who’s got Eyeball’s fucking gun jammed into his back. He’s not looking too sharp, either, she thinks. Looks like a dead man walking.

“Fuck,” she says, and Eyeball’s right there. Grabs her arm. Calm body, crazy eye.

“Shut up,” he says, teeth together, then he goes softer. Knows better. “You’re doing good, Lane. So good. Is it clear?”

She shakes her head. “Some lady,” she says, real low. She thinks it’s low, at least; everything fucking sounds like it’s underwater still. “Mailboxes.”

He thinks for a second, pauses, then gives Larry a fucking shove. “Make noise and I’ll kill you. I got no fucks, man. Walk. No bullshit.”

Larry walks.

It’s agonizing. Too fucking slow. She still thinks he’s fucking with them, moving slower than he has to, and she can see Eyeball getting antsy. He looks like he wants to put the guy over his fucking shoulder. Chewing himself, tight-jawed, gun tapping this asshole’s spine like a finger.

He’s got Helaena by her hand, his grip like a vise, but his thumb is moving back and forth over her. An anchor. He knows what she needs. She looks down at its steady rhythm, tries to focus on it, tick-tocking like a clock. Tries to sync herself up with it; breathing, heart, fucking brain waves. Lets her brother be her eyes, just tries not to fucking trip, and they make it.

Fucking lady’s gone, wandered off with her fucking cable bill or whatever, and they get to the back door.

“Open it, Lane.” She does. It’s clear.

Outside, it’s misting. Dreary. The kind of weather that sits on your bones like cold fingers.

They both like the rain, spooky kids that they are, but today it just feels like God’s fucking spitting on them.

Eyeball shoves Larry into the fucking passenger seat and has her sit on the driver’s side while he moves shit around in the back to make room. Helaena closes her eyes. She’s sweating through her fucking clothes. Feels terrified and disgusting and all fucking backwards. Needs a cigarette and some dick and a fucking nap to straighten her out. Wants to puke.

She doesn’t know what the fuck Eyeball is doing. It occurs to her that they’re fucking kidnapping this motherfucker. That they don’t know anything about him. That they’re going to have to do something with him, and that whatever that turns out to be, it won’t be fucking good.

That he knows Mama.

That he knows them, at least a little.

She starts fumbling blind through the door pocket, looking for Eyeball’s fucking smokes, and when he walks around to the trunk to do whatever he’s doing, Larry tries to fucking talk to her.

“Are you all right?” he asks her, like they’re fucking friends. Like he gives a shit. Like she didn’t have his shady ass at gunpoint ten minutes ago.

She can’t make her mouth work, even if she wanted to answer. It feels like it’s full of sandpaper. She rolls her eyes, though - she’s not playing this fucking game - and keeps pawing around til she finds what she needs.

She can’t get the fucking thing lit, between the gloves and the shaking, but by now Eyeball’s back and he does it for her when he comes around. Drops a dry kiss on her temple while she inhales. Gets right at her ear and tells her she’s fucking perfect, so good, just relax, okay? I got you. I got this.

He doesn’t have shit, she thinks, but she just shuts her eyes. Leans back.

Eyeball moves their fucking hostage to the back seat. It’s clear now; he did some fucking Tetris shit in the trunk, stuffed everything back there so this asshole can’t get cute and start messing with anything. “Lay down,” he says. “All the way. Go.”

Helaena’s still got her eyes closed; doesn’t even want to fucking know if there’s anyone around, doesn’t want to do anything but fucking disappear. Go back to the fucking motel, to her toes in his lap and the phone at her ear. Wants to laugh at Alys’ bullshit and tell Eyeball nevermind, you’re right, let’s just get out of here. Wants to put her feet on the dash and her hand on his leg and the radio up and drive.

Too late now.

Now they’ve got Larry.

Two guns.

Lots of problems.

“Get up, Lane,” he says, after he’s gotten shit all squared away. “Come on.” His voice is gentle, but he’s tense as fuck. His hand on her shoulder feels like it could bounce right off, it’s so goddamn tight.

Her whole body feels like lead, but she uses the frame to pull herself up, and she lets herself lean hard against him when he walks her around the car. She slides into the passenger seat, and Eyeball shuts the door.

By the time he gets back in, he’s smoking his own cigarette. He gives his door a big, satisfying tug-and-slam, and starts Granny right up.

She purrs for him, all approval and obedience, and they pull out of the lot and into the easy flow of afternoon traffic.

Eyeball takes both guns, one at a time, from his hoodie pocket. Hands her the little one. “Glove box,” he says.

She hesitates, and he tells her it’s not loaded. Don’t worry. He took the shit out.

Helaena pops the compartment open. There’s not a lot of room; she has to take a couple books out, shuffle things around, but she makes it fit. Drops the books on the floor. Normally Eyeball’d give her shit for it. Not now.

He tucks the Glock into the console; moves the old ashtray and hands that to her, too. Tells her to hang onto it. Doesn’t want ashes and butts all over the fucking car. Helaena pulls her legs up and criss-cross-applesauces herself, the pillow still under her ass, and sits the ashtray in between.

She’s still fucking sore.

They hit the lights on the way out of town, green all the way like the universe is ushering them along. Telling them to get the fuck out.

Larry’s quiet. She can hear him adjusting himself a little, small back-and-forths; fabric on fabric.

“Honey,” she says, quiet and low, hands still shaking when she takes the cigarette from between her lips. “Where are we going?”

“I don’t wanna talk in front of him,” Eyeball says. “You’ll see.”

He checks the rearview; makes sure their fucking human cargo is still kosher. Helaena doesn’t look, just lays her forehead down in the span of her hand, cigarette smoking between her fingers like a bomb.

Eyeball pulls off one glove with his teeth and puts his bare palm flat on her bent knee. Squeezes her. It feels good. Feels like an apology. “I got this, Laney. I got this. It’s gonna be fine.”

She almost laughs.

Almost.

Chapter 24: Empty Space

Summary:

We are made of mostly empty space. We are mostly nothing at all.

Notes:

this chapter gutted me. helaena & i had chat after chat after chat about how this was gonna go. it got restarted twice, half rewritten, and it still sort of feels like a mess. but i think this is as good as it’s gonna get 🤷🏼‍♀️

aemond is still a mama’s boy. family is complicated. larry’s day is as bad as it gets.

the violence isn’t really graphic, as it’s offscreen so to speak but… it’s violence, so be warned

if you’re missing the smut, don’t worry. the next chapter’s like 75% done because i needed a break from this one and it’s just filth 🤷🏼‍♀️😂

When
you asked your mother Was he a womanizer? A cheat? Just bad?

she said no, but you have both wrapped
your legs around disasters and called them gods.

- from A Tendency toward Violence by Destiny O. Birdsong

 

The images remind her of snuff film shit; those fucking creepy ass videos Waffle used to show her on his crusty old laptop. Not the content, exactly; it’s not fuckin’ rotten.com shit. More like hostage porn. It’s something in the lighting. The composition. The just-this-side-of-pixelated quality. The expression on Mama’s face, when her face is visible.

Sometimes it’s not. Often, actually. It’s her ass, or the dip-and-twist of her waist, or her slender legs, sometimes in stockings. Her delicate ribcage, tied in a bow or a bra. Her fucking feet. But when it’s her face, that’s what makes Helaena’s skin crawl. She’s some combination of vacant and hunted, death or near-just. Something that shouldn’t be consumable, but there she is. Consumed.

Her mother. Fucking Saint Alicent. Looking every inch the martyr.

She can’t tell where they were taken. It’s nowhere that she recognizes; the background generic and out of focus mostly.

Helaena tries to keep her face blank as she looks. Eyeball’s gonna hit the fuckin’ roof; pull Granny over and put a bullet between this motherfucker’s eyes right on the side of the road once he sees it, she thinks. Larry’s fucking done. Even if Eyeball doesn’t shoot him, he’s gonna cut his throat or fuckin’ pistol whip him til his head looks like meatloaf. She knows his fuckin’ buttons, and this one is nuclear. Only thing worse would be if it were her fuckin’ laid out like this.

Best she can do is try not to have him do it in full view of traffic.

She swallows hard. Scrolls and scrolls.

The pictures go way back. Years, in small batches here and there. Right up til about a month after Daddy died. Nothing since.

“Anything good?” Eyeball wants to know.

Helaena looks up for the first time since she unlocked Larry’s fucking phone. He didn’t want to give up the password. Needed a gun in his face to do it - courtesy of Eyeball, one hand on the wheel and the other reaching back between the seats - and even then he hesitated. Probably deciding whether he wanted to die now or later, and chose later. Or maybe he still thinks he can reason with them. Knows they don’t see Mama, and thinks maybe this isn’t a big enough deal.

It’s a big deal.

Whatever the fuck this is, it’s a big deal.

Helaena glances at the road and immediately knows where Eyeball’s going. They’re almost there. It’s probably safe to talk.

“You’re gonna wanna see for yourself, baby,” she says, calm as she can. “Wait til we get there.”

He looks at her sharply, and she feels the cut. The blade of it runs clean down the front of her, cold. Opens her guts up.

The rest of the phone has nothing. Text messages all deleted. Contacts empty. Browser history gone. Not even a fucking extraneous app. Near factory-clean but for the fucking pictures. Typical dude, she thinks. Will wipe the whole shit in case something like this happens, but carry his goddamn spank bank around. Can’t help himself.

Pervert.

She wants to fucking hit him.

His wallet’s empty, too. Eyeball gave that to her with the phone, and there was nothing but a little over fifty bucks in cash and two keys. Mailbox and door, she assumes. No car key.

As they make the turnoff towards Pop’s road, Eyeball coaxing Granny into a smooth downshift, Helaena reaches into the console and picks up the gun.

“What are you doing, Lane?” Eyeball asks. Calm voice, but just a tick higher than normal. His eye flicks towards her. Back. Towards. Back. She likes his expression, some mix of curiosity and surprise and mild alarm. Sometimes, she can still set him off balance. He watches her as she turns in her seat.

What she’s doing is trying to give him a fucking minute. Put a little time and space between him and this fucking thing, like maybe he won’t be so quick to grab for it if it’s in her hands already.

Like maybe she could fucking rein him in with it, though she’s not entirely sure she wants to. Not after what she saw.

Larry’s face is inscrutable. A practiced mask. She can see his wheels turning, though, behind his oddball eyes. Something in their shade reminds her of…

“Alys,” she says to him. “How do you know her?”

Eyeball’s looking at her. Watching the road and her hands, splitting his gaze. He doesn’t say anything, but she feels him put one hand over hers when they hit the straightaway, and she lets him adjust her grip. Move her finger a little, twist her wrist. She doesn’t know if he’s making her more or less dangerous, and she doesn’t really care.

“Alys…” that dumb fuck says, and Helaena rolls her eyes.

“Don’t be a smartass,” she says. “A-L-Y-S Alys. Rivers.”

Larry coughs a little. “Oh, yes. A cousin,” he says. “You must know her?”

“Thought so,” she answers, ignoring his question. “You guys close?” Her hand is shaking. She rests an elbow on the big old console trying to steady it. Eyeball nudges her with his arm. Gentle. Just a little I’m right here, and it’s nice. It helps. His body’s relaxed some now that they’re out of the city.

“Not particularly,” Larry says, slow. “Why?”

“She know what a slimeball you are?”

He doesn’t argue with the assessment. “She knows a lot of things. As I’m sure you’re aware.”

“She know who burnt down that bar?”

Helaena watches him swallow. She’s close to something. Leaning on a nerve; one wrapped right around the heart of whatever the fuck is going on here. Her own heart is double-tapping in her ribs, off-rhythm, making her feel lightheaded.

“You’d have to ask her, I’m afraid,” he says.

Eyeball’s turning up Pop’s long, long driveway now. Granny stutters a little, protests; doesn’t like sharing his attention. He corrects her, thumb sliding just right, just how she likes it, and she shuts the fuck up and behaves for him. Helaena watches him pet the gearshift, mindless habit, and her chest loosens just a little. Just a smidge.

“Are you?” she asks. “Afraid, I mean?”

In the driver’s seat, Eyeball’s brows quirk up. His eye finds her, just for a second, and he looks like he wants to put her over his fucking knee. Smack her hot and wet. Slip that fucking long-ass middle finger inside her in between slaps and jiggle her goddamn g-spot til the next crack makes her come.

She knows that fucking face. It makes her stomach flip now; ratchet itself up somewhere between puking and fucking moaning. Like one would turn into the other, either way.

Larry doesn’t answer her. Looks away, up a little, towards the windshield. Like he recognizes the place.

Helaena reaches back and pats the seat with the barrel, just in front of his chest. Tries to keep her grip still, just like Eyeball’s arranged it. Her throat’s so fucking dry she feels like if she fucking coughed to clear it, she wouldn’t be able to stop. She tries a swallow instead, and she has Larry’s attention back when it reaches the bottom of her neck.

“Was Mama afraid?” she asks.

That gets Eyeball’s attention, too, and she feels Granny drift a little in the narrow, muddy drive. It’s raining in earnest now, a little slippery. Everything turning to sludge out there. The little slide of the tires brings him back to the road, but he’s all hers now.

Larry just looks at her. He’s trying to decide how to save his own skin, but nothing’s gonna do it now. The longer she looks at him, the harder she thinks about it, the more she feels like she might handle him if Eyeball won’t.

But he will.

“We’re all afraid, aren’t we?” he offers, and Helaena supposes he’s right, but they’re not at Pop’s to talk philosophy.

Eyeball was right; Pop’s gone. Car under the carport, tarp over it like he leaves it for the winter. Blinds down. Dark and cold and lonely; a big ghost of a house

Eyeball parks to the right, near the tree line. Granny sighs to a stop; shakes a little like she’s trying to wake herself up. Like she thinks this is some kinda fucking nightmare, too.

Eyeball pulls the e-brake and lays his hand between Helaena’s shoulder blades, fingers spread wide, thumb working a tight little circle. Her breathing matches it, reaches right back through her skin for him.

“What’s this fuckin’ guy’s deal, Laney?” he says, but he’s looking at Larry. Looking at the gun in her hands.

“I don’t know,” she says, soft. Tenuous. Presses hard backwards, leans into his touch to remind herself she’s fucking real. To Larry, she says, “You want me to show my brother and let him guess, or do you want to tell me what this shit’s about?”

Larry closes his eyes. Takes a deep breath. “Your father accrued some debts in the course of business. There was an arrangement to satisfy those debts. After his unfortunate passing, Alicent wished to… alter the terms of that arrangement.”

“What business?” Helaena asks. The gun feels incredibly heavy all the sudden, like she’s gonna drop it. Eyeball rubs his circles harder. Deeper. She can feel them all up her spine, like they’re bubbling through the fluid there. He’s nice and close, leaning up over her, backwards in his seat now. A big old Tower. Close enough to catch it if she drops it. She doesn’t want to fucking drop it; doesn’t want to make him take it from her. Doesn’t really want to hold it, either.

Everything is too slow. Larry. Her. The fucking stilted conversation and the way time’s passing. Eyeball’s over it.

He grabs the phone with his free hand and unlocks it, and it opens right up to the fucking pictures where Helaena left it. “What the fuck?!” he says. “What the fuck is this?”

His hand stops dead center on her back. Sinister and still.

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” Helaena says.

“I’ll fucking figure it out. Give it to me,” he says. Takes the gun from her trembling grip and flings open the fucking door. The rain’s in sheets now; starts fucking pouring in sideways at them as Eyeball gets out.

Helaena’s not thinking right, starts crawling over the fucking seats to his door instead of using her own, hollering. “Wait! Fucking wait!”

She’s quick, hops out as he’s yanking at the back door and manages to kick it back shut. He turns to her, annoyed. “What the fuck, Lane? This dude…”

“I know! I know. Don’t… are you gonna fucking shoot him?”

“I don’t fucking know! First I’m gonna fucking talk to him. I don’t know.”

They stare at each other, rain pouring down their faces, into their collars; hair stuck like plaster. She grabs his hand, cold and wet, and just holds it. “Don’t… don’t use this fucking gun,” she says. Has to shout a little over the torrent. Squeezes her eyes shut, like it hurts to say. “It’ll… it’ll come back to Waffle, or Mama, or…”

He nods. When he looks back through the window, his eye goes wide. “Shit! Lane!”

She looks, and there’s fuckin’ Larry, clambering over the seat. Eyeball pulls open the back door and collars him; yanks him back hard, and Helaena runs to the passenger’s side, almost falls in the fuckin’ mud but manages to grab Granny and right herself. Eyeball throws the motherfucker back into the seat, and Helaena takes his gun from the glove box. Fumbles with it.

Eyeball’s got the bullets in his pocket. “Load this fuckin’ thing,” he says to her. “Get the shit out of my pocket. I’ll talk you through. I only got one fuckin’ glove on.”

Helaena’s shaking, cold and numb and fucked up, and it feels like it takes forever, even with his good, clear instructions. She fishes around and finds the ammo, sits in the driver’s seat. Fuckin’ rain everywhere, everything is slippery, and her goddamn brain is soup.

She gets it loaded, though. She does.

“Good girl,” Eyeball says. “Trade with me.”

Larry doesn’t say anything.

They swap, and Eyeball makes Larry get out of the fucking car. “Walk,” he shouts. “We’re not playing games in front of my fucking sister.”

They take a few steps towards the trail. Eyeball turns.

Comes back for the pillow.

“Sit in the car, Laney,” he says. “Just sit. Dry off. I’ll be right back.”

She holds his gaze for a minute. His face is blank.

“I love you. I’ll be right back. I promise.”

Helaena pulls the door shut and puts her head in her hands. The tears don’t come, but she shakes and shakes and shakes. Sits the gun on the seat and waits.

Makes up her mind.

*****

He comes walking out of the woods a little while later. She doesn’t know how long, hasn’t looked at the clock, but it feels simultaneously like forever and like no time at all has passed.

He’s alone.

He’s soaked through. Clothes sticking to his body, hair dripping, water sloshing out of the tops of his boots. It hasn’t let up, even a little. Fog’s rolled in, too, so when he breaches the treeline, it’s like he’s stepping out of a dream. Like the veil is parting around him.

Pillow under his arm. Sopping. Red.

Helaena’s wet, too. Leaning against the passenger door.

She puts out her arm, surprised by her own steadiness. Holds the second fucking man at gunpoint today.

Only, this one’s not afraid. Barely surprised. She sees him hesitate, just a fraction of a second, but he keeps walking. Trudging through the fucking muck and mud and puddles and filth, through the curtains of this fucking freak show shit, just walking. Walking. Walking. Right up to her. Chest to the shaking barrel of the fucking 22.

Water squishes from his sweatshirt at the contact. That’s where she’s looking. Can’t meet his eye.

“Don’t be crazy, Lane,” he says. Soft. She can barely hear him over the rain.

She can tell, now that he’s close, that he’s unarmed. Doesn’t have Larry’s fucking piece.

Helaena holds her ground. So does he. They just stand there, rain sheeting down around them, over them, through all the spaces between their circling, swirling, helixing atoms.

We are made of mostly empty space. We are mostly nothing at all.

She swallows hard. Watches the metal bob wildly in her hand. Watches him just stand and take it. Watches water drip from his nose. His fingertips. His eyelashes.

“No more,” she finally says. Doesn’t even know if he hears her, it’s so quiet. Thin. Spineless and gutless and terrified. “No more, no more, no more,” and the pitch rises. Rises again.

“No fucking more,” he says. “No more, Laney, I swear to God,” and he puts a hand on her wrist.

The fucking thing hits the ground with a sick sort of splash. The pillow goes, too.

Their bodies meet like a fucking car crash. It’s a fucking fist of a kiss, all teeth and bite. It tastes like metal. Like a gun. Their hands just grope and grope and grope, knuckles and need and nasty fingers. No warmth, no steam when the rain hits their skin. It’s ugly.

It’s so, so ugly, and after a minute, Helaena realizes there’s salt in her mouth. Something like a hot knife cutting down her cheeks, and it’s tears. Both of theirs. There’s a tremble in his jaw that she mistook for cold, mistook for her own, and when she leans in, feels herself go suddenly gentle, she feels the shape of it. The vibration. The mmmm, and it’s just mama mama mama mama mama, near silent. Dissolving.

She doesn’t know if he’s crying for her or crying to her, and it doesn’t matter. It’s all the same. He’s Daddy; she’s Mama; they’re just kids somebody shoved out of the car on the side of the road in a rainstorm, and here they are. Neck-deep in quicksand. Nobody’s daughter. Nobody’s son. Nobody’s anything at all.

Just empty space.

*****

Everything goes into that fucking garbage bag again. Their wet clothes. The pillow. The gloves. Larry’s fucking wallet and keys.

They huddle naked in the backseat, wrapped in the trunk blanket, trying to dry off. There are towels buried somewhere. Neither of them wants to fish.

They crank Granny’s rotten heat, crank the radio, and they sit and rock and rock and rock. Squeeze out their hair. Hang Eyeball’s patch over the vent. Smoke like a couple of fiends, one after another after another.

Say nothing for a long time.

Finally, Helaena asks. Quiet. Hesitant. She leans up to shut the music and says “What did he tell you?”

“Enough,” Eyeball says. Takes a nervous drag. “Enough.”

“What?”

Eyeball takes a deep breath. Sighs and grits his teeth for a second. “Guy’s a bookie,” he finally says, staring at the window. “Used to work outta that fucking bar. Dad got in fuckin’ deep with him. Fuckin’ sports, horses, fights, fuckin’ everything. More than we thought. Like a lot more.” He rolls his eye. “We’re all fuckin’ screwed up, Lane. Bunch of fucking dopamine junkies. Gambling, Jesus, fuckin’ booze.” He pauses. “Sex.”

Helaena inhales. Shrugs a little. Blows it out at him real slow. “Okay.”

“He couldn’t pay. So.” He bites his lip. Purses them tight. “He traded Mama.”

“Traded her?” She looks at him, sharp.

“The pictures.”

“Did she…”

“They didn’t fuck,” he says. “You know. Fuckin’ boundaries. I believe him. Swore on the gun in his fuckin’ mouth.”

Helaena leans her head down on his shoulder. Burrows down deep and shuts her eyes. “Christ, Eyeball. What the absolute fuck.”

“Dad died. They renegotiated. Mama didn’t want to pay.” He pauses. Looks right at her. “Then she tried to kill him.”

“What?!”

“The bar,” Eyeball says. “That was Ma, Laney.” He squeezes the bridge of his nose. A Daddy gesture if she’s ever seen one. “She fucked it up. Bad. He wasn’t even fucking there. But that dude in the back apartment was. Crazy bitch. Asshole didn’t know if she had help, but he thinks so. Didn’t know who. So. Now she’s paying him off for that. Cash in the fucking envelope.” He waits for a long second. Twists one of Helaena’s curls around a finger. “Won’t have to worry about that anymore.”

“What the fuck. How did she not fucking get caught?! What does Alys have to do with this shit?”

He shrugs his bare shoulders against her. “Dunno. He didn’t have any fucking idea. Just said she knows shit she shouldn’t. Always has.”

Helaena wraps around him. Traces the soft pattern of hair across his chest. Runs a line down the center to his belly. Feels all his muscles jump against her fingers.

“What now?” she whispers.

“Now we go,” he whispers back. “Now we fucking go.”

Chapter 25: Love Letter

Summary:

None of it matters. Just them, together. Bloody, holy monsters.

Notes:

this ran on the long side, but nowhere felt right to break it up, so… 🤷🏼‍♀️

smutty smut smut and two maniacs in love

also, yr girl can’t resist a good blood rite. daemon & rhaenyra’s wedding forever lives rent-free in my head. so.

Nude
By Lesley Harrison

 

i.
I am in my body. I am here, in front of you. I am the temperature in this room. I am undressed in my nudity; I am the light and shade you feel. I am more like other people than like you. I have before and after. I am my self, entirely and only. My outside and inside are continuous. I am muscle, organ, fluid, bone. I am monumental. You are the only one who sees me.

 

ii.
I am not naked as I am; I am naked as you see me. I am transparent, almost visible. I have a time and a place. I am tribal and exotic. I must always carry objects. You are heroic. I am a complete museum, the story of my own making. I am a mirror to you; you are reflected in the looking at me. At best, I mimic you. You write me. When you leave, I will no longer exist.

 

iii.
I am a single conscious point. I am indifferent. I am unself, like a photogram. I am prehistoric, before definition. Your body falls over me. I have depth and luminescence. I am neither here nor there; I have infinite extension. I live inside the lived world, the light and dark inside my head like dream substance. I am camera obscura, the room itself. I both adore and resist.

 

 

They drive, and they drive, and they drive.

They go back the way they came. Stop in an abandoned parking lot around the corner from the bar to smash the shit out of Larry’s phone. Eyeball uses the hammer from the trunk kit and lets the rain wash its pieces down a storm drain. Kicks anything that doesn’t float away.

He lets Helaena take a fucking swing. It’s satisfying, she thinks.

They leave the back seat empty, save for the blanket. Plan to vacuum the shit out of it in the morning when it’s dry and they can find a car wash.

Once they’re done, they get the fuck out.

It’s getting late; daylight - what little there is through the cloud cover - is fading, and they’ve been up since before dawn. Running on pretzels and gummies and fucking antacids and adrenaline.

Helaena wants to fucking smoke up and sleep. Get as fucking hazy as she can. Turn into a goddamn vegetable, drooling and useless enough that he’ll have to drag her out of the car.

Eyeball won’t let her do it while they’re driving, though, so she just fucking chain smokes and sucks on gummies, one hand in his lap, heart in her throat, and they drive.

They want to get out of state before they stop, take the coast, so they just follow everything southeast and don’t turn on any fucking phones. Eyeball’s got a good head for that shit, and it keeps him busy. Focused. He drives just at the speed limit, uses his blinkers like a good boy, doesn’t get them fucking pulled over.

He asks Helaena to read, but she can’t even do that. Keeps stumbling over words, losing her place, and it’s hard in the low light anyway. He strokes her hair, tells her it’s fine, and she ends up just playing with his fucking dick - absently, no purpose, just fiddling -with one hand and smoking with the other. He lets her. Doesn’t even get annoyed with the start-stop; the way she’ll get him going, make a fucking wet spot on his pants, get him breathing heavy and shifting in his seat and then leave him cold.

She’d take his fucking head off if he did it to her without asking. Part of him kinda likes it, she thinks.

It’s still raining hard when they cross the border. They wind up on one of those Welcome to Hell strips of road, shitty motels on every third corner, gas stations galore, enough signage to make your head spin.

Eyeball lets her pick the place. Trusts her vibe-check, even though she’s sick to her stomach and scrambled in her head. He is, too. Been popping Alka Seltzers like candy the whole time. Bottle’s almost empty.

Helaena doesn’t like the chains. Too much risk that you’ll get a policies-and-procedures guy. They drive up and down twice, and she finally settles on the last one on the line. Independent, nothing outside advertising hourly rates and HBO. Looks mom-and-pop, friendly, but rundown enough that Mom and Pop probably aren’t working, and they’ve hired an apathetic twentysomething loser to staff the desk.

When they pull in, she gives Eyeball her assessment. Bets him the money in Larry’s wallet that she’s right. He smiles a little and tells her he’d never bet against her. She smiles back, a shaky little thing. Tugs him out of the waistband of his pants and bends to lick him clean before she goes inside.

He’s all wet again, and he fists her hair hard when she does it. “Laney, stop,” he says, hips coming off the fucking seat. Finally had it with her shit.

She’s right. The girl at the counter’s chewing gum and watching some reality dating show, and she gives Helaena only a cursory once-over before handing the ID back. She asks for a card, but when Helaena offers her extra cash to hold for the deposit, she just shrugs and doesn’t give a fuck in the end. Doesn’t even take the cash.

The keys here are more updated; they’re the slide-card type, but the rest of the place isn’t quite there. Old carpet, ugly walls, weird art and those fucking itchy coverlets that some sadistic hellscape warehouse sells in bulk. Strange color scheme; a shade of greenish that reminds Helaena of Alys’ eyes. Of Larry’s.

It makes her head hurt, like a belt tightening around her skull.

Fucking kills Eyeball’s boner, too.

They drag their backpacks inside - necessities and cash - and Eyeball takes the gun, too. Stashes it next to the bed.

They shower. Slip in together under the spray, but it’s weak here. Hot enough, but sad, so they just rinse what they can of the day off, and Helaena uses the heels of her hands to take the knots out of his neck and across the tops of his shoulders.

There’s nothing left in her after that. She feels like empty skin. Barely has the energy to plod out to the fucking car to smoke up, so Eyeball slings her up into a piggyback, undoing all her fucking work in the shower, she’s sure, and drops her into the seat.

They split a joint, pass it back and forth and handle their own fucking smoke, silent. Not even the radio. Just their quiet breath, and the rain’s still-furious beat against the windows.

It followed them here.

Inside, they undress each other. Halfhearted, slow, but they can’t make it work.

They just climb into bed and turn off the light.

*****

Waffle must’ve gotten a fucking bad batch, Helaena thinks. Inconsistent. Whatever was in the shit they smoked tonight wasn’t as good, and she can’t get settled.

Can’t shut off right. Can’t stop the loop of bullshit buzzing through her nerves. She gets stuck in the shadow space and can’t get out.

Eyeball didn’t let her see. He protected her, the way he always protects her, but the thicker the blanket of night becomes, the more Helaena starts to wonder if it’s worse this way. Her head fuckin’ fills up like one of those goddamn Houdini tanks, the images rising and rising and rising while she’s all tied up inside, and none of them are real, or all of them are real, and the water is blood and vomit and piss and she can’t get her fucking hands free. Can’t kick her feet. She just tumbles through it; tosses around next to Eyeball’s restless body trying to fucking breathe, caught somewhere between sleeping and not. Dreaming and hallucinating.

It’s never as bad as you imagine; she knows that. Thinks of the blood on his t-shirt when he came home. You saw it, he said. It wasn’t as bloody as you’d think. She can think up some shit. She can conjure a good fucking nightmare, an epic fucking horror show.

She should have made him show her. Too late now.

The more she struggles against it, the tighter everything gets, and soon enough she just escapes the only way she knows how. Leaves her fucking body. Floats up like her own fucking ghost, and she can’t feel a fucking thing. Sees her own outline under the blankets, sees herself pressed against her brother’s back when he rolls away, sees the unfamiliar shapes surrounding them like monsters in the dim nightlight glow, and feels the tendrils of terror start to wrap their vines around her consciousness.

It happened a lot when she was younger. Sometimes random, sometimes after a bad fucking day, sometimes when she did something stupid like lock herself out of the house. She’d just fucking dissolve. Go to nothing but a hotcold panic, formless and expansive; smoke filling a room.

It’s better now, mostly. Been awhile since a good one. Didn’t even happen after that shit with Luke, but here it is.

She wills herself to touch him. To curl her nails into the warm round of his shoulder and dig. She can barely feel it - just the vaguest sensation of his flesh giving way beneath her claws - but he can. She watches him stir, rouse, turn and search for her.

His sleep is light, too. He comes right out.

“What’s the matter, Laney?” he says, nose-to-nose. Nighttime voice, thick like the dark inside her chest. She feels his warm breath, the sketch of his body, two hands coming up to cradle her face. All images of themselves, superimposed. Flickering.

“Hold me still,” she says. “Hold me still, I’m not here, hold me still,” and he knows. He knows. He knows.

“I got you,” he tells her. “You’re here with me. I promise. You’re here. I got you. Come on.”

His words, her mouth. Her lips are open, breath slipping in and out, too fast, and he gives her his, too. The softness of it. The slow and the quiet of it. Seals her shut; talks to the echoing chamber behind her teeth.

He knows what to do. He always knows what to do.

From somewhere else, she sees herself wriggle against him, insinuate her body between the fierce muscle of his arms. Sees him tuck her against his heat, tip her up to him. “Eyes here,” he tells her, “eyes here, on me, look at me,” and she can. Suddenly she can; when she blinks and blinks again, she’s there. Inches from his face, the ends of their mismatched chins - Daddy’s sharp and Mama’s round - bumping together.

There isn’t much light, just enough to see that his eye is open, and his scar is as naked as the rest of him. Out and bare to her, and she to him.

“There,” he says, and she feels the word on her lips. Feels his hand take the whole of her cheek, one thumb in the hollow below her jaw. “Okay, babygirl,” he says, and her whole body curves right against him. Curves into the sweetness of the word, raw and sharp enough to make her teeth ache.

She needs less than one hand to count the times she’s heard it. It feels like an accident, like he’s nicked himself shaving or bitten his cheek, and it’s love like blood running out.

“Talk to me,” she says. That’s what she needs. The anchor of his voice in this terrible sea. “Say it again. Talk to me. Hold me still.”

“Okay,” he says. “Okay, babygirl. I’m here. You’re here with me. I’m gonna kiss you. Okay?”

He does. Kisses her before she can respond, and she nods into it. Falls into it. Comes into herself between his tongue and her own; wet and tender as some just-born thing. He takes his time, lets it gather gravity and weight so she can find him and know him, let his shape tell her her own. He can’t talk her through it, but he licks and leads and adores her through it, and when he pulls away, she’s trembling.

She can feel it, the shaking. All through her, real; not some foggy mirror throwing fragments back at her. “Talk to me,” she whispers again, and he nods at her.

“Gonna touch you,” he says, mumbling at her cheek. “My hands. My mouth,” and he does. “You’re so soft. How are you so soft?” he asks her, one hand sliding up her ribs. “Never felt anything so soft.”

She leans into it; feels like clay under his touch. Remade. Plucked out of the atmosphere and turned back into matter. The same hand finds her spine, the inside of her arm, the outside of her thigh. Maps them, his tongue right behind; bending and twisting to taste her topography, carve the rivers, smooth the roundness of the hills.

He uses his nose to tilt her chin. Bare her neck. He talks to the pulse, the bones, the pale, thin skin that holds it all in place. “Here, too. Soft. You smell nice, like smoke. Something else, I dunno. Gonna taste it,” and he does that, too. Licking and sucking at her, turning her nipples into little gems without even touching them, little glass facets like his eye. Raising her skin into goosepimples and pinpricks and stripes of heat.

She’s real, she thinks. She’s real; he’s speaking life against her, into her, a microcosm of Creation. Out of nothing, this.

Helaena wraps her arms around him, takes a handful of hair, a handful of the tight muscle of his ass; squeezes and pulls until she can’t anymore. Until not even the air can push them apart. He bends a knee, presses between her legs, and she can reach between his, too; where he’s maybe his softest, that delicate bit of flesh, and also hardest. “Talk to me,” she says. “More.”

“Okay,” he says. “Look, I want you. Do you feel it?”

She does. She can feel his pulse, every thrum and throb of it making him grow against her, drip against her. Making his body talk to her, too.

“Mmhm,” she says. Hums against his jaw, under his ear. Holds tight and strokes him, back and forth, lets the tip of him swirl over her palm, slide down her wrist, sticky. She likes the smell of it, something astringent with something dark. It’s real. She’s real. He feels so good in her hand; so familiar.

“Do you want me?” he asks her, two fingers drawing soft strokes down her belly, across the blunted point of her hipbone. “I can hold you down. Hold you still. Do you want me?” The words are at her breasts, running over their undersides like water. She feels new there, so rarely touched. Even by him.

“Yes,” she says. That’s all she wants. His weight on her, over her; his body between her and all the doors and windows and keyholes and cracks. Something to hold her together so she can’t drift back out.

“Are you wet?” he asks, nudging now, sliding one hand sideways between her thighs. Parting them wider, searching slow. “Do I make you wet, Laney? Can I see?” His voice is just a low murmur, idling like an engine, steadysteady. Stream of consciousness, little peaks and valleys of sound, tethering her to him. To this.

She opens for him. Feels his knuckles brush her, soft; one of them bending to drag down the center.

Helaena sighs. Lets her back arch. Lets herself rise to him. For him. With him.

“I can make you wetter,” he’s saying. “Watch, watch,” just talking to her nipple, scraping his teeth over it. Sucking it back until it nuzzles at his palate. One finger dipping inside of her. Her body pulls him, holds him so tight, and he just slips in and out and in and out, too gentle. Fast, soft, while she grabs at him and sighs again, pushes back.

“Oh, God,” she says, “it’s so good, more,” and his pace quickens, gets her fluttering like desperate little wings around him. Just one finger still. One. It’s not enough. It’s just right. She’s throbbing, so much need spilling out of her that she can hear it. “More,” she says, “more more more,” one hand grabbing at him, trying to pull him closer. Get more pressure. Take him deeper.

“See? You get so wet. You’re so fucking good. Do you wanna fuck me, Lane? Is it okay?” He’s kissing at her cheeks. Brother kisses; rapid, shallow, dry. Little questions.

“Yes,” she gasps. All in her body now. “On my stomach. On my belly. Hold me still,” his finger still inside her, crooked a little now. Reaching for that spot in the front that makes her hair stand up.

He stops to help her roll, but first he presses his finger hard into her. Pulls it out, draws little wet X’s and O’s across the bare front of her pussy. The squishy part. A love letter, sticky as sunshine. Travels down her belly, kisses over the words.

“Come on,” he says when he’s done. “Come on, turn over.”

It’s easy. She shoves her face into the blankets when he tugs her hips up. Feels their scratch, their stiff, their soft. Rubs herself against them like a cat while he presses kisses down her back. Licks her; hot skin, hot tongue, teeth sunk in her ass, way down low by her thigh.

“Gotta lift up a little,” he says. Bites her again, higher. “Got this fat fucking ass. I gotta get under it,” and she smiles, faint but real. Real. Pushes up just a little more and feels him open her wide to find her cunt. Both thumbs, pressing out, a stretch that feels so delicious that she wants to cry.

He gets in nice and slow. Keeps talking. “You feel so fucking good, Lane. So good. Shit, Lane; look at you. Oh my God.” She breathes with it, feels every magnificent inch of him, thinks it’s never gonna end. He gets so fucking deep this way. Her whole body makes room for him. His perfect cock and his perfect voice, telling her how good she looks taking him. “I could watch it all fucking day. All night. Want to? I want to. All night.”

She does, too, she thinks. Over and over until she’s decimated. Until her brain shorts out.

She feels him flush against her, finally; feels his cock somewhere in her fucking throat, and sinks her hips until she’s prone. Flat, legs together to get tighter for him, and he holds her still. Brings himself down overtop. Covers her. Hides her. Traps her in space.

Sometimes it’s too much this way. She feels like she can’t breathe, or can’t take his weight, but right now that’s what she wants. Slow breaths, slow air, every last bit of him on her and in her and around her. She’s here and she’s real.

He’s at her ear now, too; tongue inside, whispering. It tickles. “I’m right here. How do you want it?”

Helaena wriggles underneath him; tries to meet him with her hips, but she can’t fucking move much. It’s gorgeous. “Slow,” she tells him. Sticks her tongue in his mouth, a funny sideways angle. “Slow til you get it then fucking turn me out.” She kisses him again. “Hold my hand.”

They drape their arms together over the side of the bed, and she feels him tangle up their fingers. He’s sweaty. When she squeezes, there’s a heartbeat between them. She doesn’t know whose. It’s fast and bloody and whole.

“Okay,” he says. “Okay, Lane. Babygirl. Gonna make you come like this all right? Tell me when,” his mouth in the back of her neck, over the slope of her shoulder blade.

He’s moving now, a lazy in and out, just a rock. A sway. A lullaby. Some slow sweet thing to put the monsters to sleep, and she shifts just a bit beneath him to help him get it right.

“Talk,” she tells him. “Don’t stop talking.”

“Okay,” and he leans up on his elbow a little. Runs his free hand over her throat, makes a gentle collar for her, so soft. Rubs at the pulses there, lays it flat. She swallows against it, and he hums into her hair. “Laney, I love you,” and the next time he pushes forward, there it is.

“Like that,” she sighs. “Again,” and he stays put. Does it right. “There,” she tells him, “there, there, there,” with his lovely rhythm. He hits that spot like he was fucking made for it. Maybe he was, she thinks. Maybe.

“I love you,” he says again, and she purrs. Grips his hand like she’s drowning and he’s gonna pull her up. “Laney, I love you. What if we got married? We should,” and he’s just babbling at her. Nonsense. His brain isn’t working right, either, she thinks. Fucking high. Maybe he got better shit.

She can’t close her mouth now. Every time he presses in, it just falls open wider and wider, and he’s faster and faster now, just like she said. Just like she wanted.

“We did,” she manages, gasps it through her useless lips. “We did already. When you were born,” her fingers curling down into the sheets, into his skin. “Viking shit. Blood.”

She feels him smile, right at her temple. “We did,” he says. “We did.”

“We do. All the time,” she tells him, all of that pressure now, relentless, everywhere. Filling her right up. “Every time we bleed.”

He drags his mouth over her, ear and neck. Sloppy tongue, scraping teeth, hard breath. Uncoordinated and desperate and beautiful.

“Bite me,” she says.

He does, right in the muscle between her neck and her shoulder; that strip that lights her whole body like a beacon. Makes her want to crawl on her knees for him.

“Harder,” and it’s a moan. She means his teeth. His cock. Everything. “Take me apart.”

He bites her harder, fucks her harder, and everything inside of her breaks; crumbles right into the sea. She’s bleeding, wet under his lips and wet and coming all over his dick, all the gates open. Messy, sharp, loud. It’s a scream, only just human, pressed into the blankets. Big and powerful and fucking old as blood magic.

Just like they are, she thinks for a moment. Just like they are.

Then it’s five, six, eight more times, each one making her yelp and jerk beneath him, and she feels another bite, shallower, smaller, and he’s spilling everything inside of her. She doesn’t know where the fuck it’s all coming from; they just fucked this morning, not even a day ago, but there’s a lot. So much. A fucking flood, just like hers. It takes everything with it.

He turns into hot, wet, dead weight, breathing on her neck.

She can hold him. She can hold anything now.

None of it matters, she thinks stupidly, jaw hanging open at its hinges, spit and come and blood and whatever else dripping all over the sheets that someone else is gonna have to clean. She’ll have his babies. Let him fill her up there, too. Try again. Give her a litter of tiny, terrifying things, just like they are. Six-fingered, sharp-toothed ghouls who’ll call them Mama and Daddy with their fucked up, hungry little mouths.

None of it matters. Just them, together. Bloody, holy monsters.

“I love you,” she tells him, breathless and bitten and bred and beloved. They’re still holding hands.

“I love you,” he says. Takes her sideways, a funny little spoon. Still inside.

Helaena sleeps. Drifts before he’s even soft. She doesn’t dream.

Chapter 26: Vampire

Summary:

Just gonna trauma-bond and act sketchballs 🤷🏼‍♀️

Notes:

these two are fucking trauma bonding gold medalists. honestly they’re on each other’s dicks so hard rn.

this chapter is just them being super gross & down catastrophic for it.

sorry not sorry 😂

“Who taught you to write in blood on my back? Who taught you to use your hands as branding irons? You have scored your name into my shoulders, referenced me with your mark. The pads of your fingers have become printing blocks, you tap a message on to my skin, tap meaning into my body.”
- from Written on the Body by Jeannette Winterson

 

He got her fuckin’ good.

Her own fault, Helaena supposes, twisting naked in front of the bathroom mirror in its weird, sallow light. She asked him for it.

Only one of them broke the skin, but it’s fucking gnarly. She can see the holes from his sharp little canines in the toothy ring at the center of the bruise, already spreading wide and purple there between her neck and the curve of her shoulder. There’s blood smeared all over, too. She can see where he kissed her after, little blots across her upper back. At first she thought that second bite opened her up, too, but then she realized it was just the mess from the first one carried over on his lips.

A little map on her body. Here, and here, and here. This is where I loved you.

She must have fucking passed out cold; stayed put long enough for all that shit to dry on her skin, not rub off on the sheets.

Jizz is still fucking wet inside her, though. She can feel it fucking leaking everywhere. Tacky on her thighs.

There’s a first aid kit in the fucking trunk kit, but she’s not going out there now, so she just takes the washcloth - that unfortunate, bright hotel white - and cleans it up with some soap and water. She winces a little.

It’s fucking vicious.

She loves it.

It makes her want to go suck his dick. Wake him up halfway down her throat. Fucking swallow for him then do it again and again and again. Spend all day with him in her goddamn mouth, filling up her belly until he can’t fucking take it anymore.

She doesn’t. Eyeball’s gotta be absolutely fucking wrecked. Sun’s been up for nearly an hour, and he isn’t.

Helaena cleans herself up between her legs with the same wash cloth, tries to fix the absolute shitshow of her hair, and pads back out. She slips under the messy blankets and just looks at him.

She almost never gets to watch him sleep. Not like this, with light coming in through the curtains and the world stretching itself awake around them. He’s all sprawled on his tummy, one arm up over his head and the other one reaching out. For her, she knows. She had to crawl out from under it to pee. His bad eye’s buried against the pillow, just the tiniest top edge of his slanty, crooked scar peeking at her. His skin’s near as pale as the sheets. Hair spilling all over the damn place. The scratches she gave him are healing over; skinny little scabby lines that will probably be invisible again by tomorrow.

Not like this fucking bite. It’s a fucking keeper. Maybe it’ll even scar. She hopes so.

Helaena lays on her side, clinging to the edge of the bed, and touches her fingertips just to his. Gentle. She doesn’t want to bother him. He doesn’t ever fucking sleep like this; he needs it bad.

They’ve got a lot of shit to do today, but all of it can fucking wait for him. There’s no world til he wakes, anyway. No version of reality without him in it. This fuckin’ crazy motherfucker.

Hers, though.

Hers.

She just watches his breath. Wonders what would happen to her if it stopped.

She doesn’t need to find out. Not today. She stares at him for another twenty minutes or so, itching for a fucking smoke but too lazy to get dressed and down too fucking bad to leave him anyway, before he stirs.

Eyeball’s as surprised by his late sleep as she is; comes awake nearly-frantic when he blinks and sees the light. Sees her laying there smiling at him.

“Morning,” she says, watching him sit straight up like he’s gonna miss the school bus, or get fucking fired or something. “Happy Halloween.”

He shakes his head to clear it a little. Yawns, and tries to end it too soon, so it just grows bigger, takes longer, and she actually laughs at him. “What time is it?” he asks, disoriented, looking around for a clock.

“Nineish,” she tells him. Slides over into his arms. He pulls her in close, out of habit. Absentminded. “You were tired.”

“What the fuck,” he says. Then he looks down and says it again. “What the fuck! Christ Laney. Your fuckin’ back.”

“I know.” She kisses him square in the center of his chest. Scrapes her teeth a little. “Isn’t it pretty? Fucking vampire.”

She feels him touch it. Trace the outline of his own mouth. He turns her a little and bends to kiss over it. A kitten-y thing, tongue slipping out to run across the grooves. “Christ,” he says again. “I fucked you up. Did you clean that up good?”

He tugs her onto his lap, and she nuzzles all along his neck bones. “Mmmhm. Best one ever. I washed it.” His cock’s poking at her, all sleepy-hard and interested in the way she’s settled around his hips. His thighs.“Was gonna fuckin’ blow you til you got up,” she says, bumping their noses and grinning at him. “Want me to do it now?”

He gathers her hair up into a high ponytail with his hands and watches it fall back over her shoulders. Brushes it down past them and arranges it a little. “Yes,” he says, “but now it’s late and we got shit to do.”

She pouts. He laughs. Tells her she’s fuckin’ something else this morning and says he needs a smoke.

She does, too, so she climbs off of him to let him piss and get dressed.

When he stands up, he’s fuckin’ hard as anything, straight up and perfect. Morning dick is fucking out of control. “You’re not gonna be able to pee like that,” she says. “Let me have it.”

“You’re such a ho,” he says, snickering at her, and she winks.

“Just trying to help.” She pauses. Stares at him, fucking lewd. “I honestly can’t believe you’re gonna waste that. Fuckin’ look at it.”

He tips his head back and laughs again, bigger. “The fuck is wrong with you? It looks the same as it always looks. Fuckin’ get dressed, ho. I’ll have one for you later.”

“Promise, Daddy?” She raises an eyebrow. Bites back a grin.

“Promise. No more fuckin’ brat shit, though. You pull a fucking gun on me again you’re on fuckin’ dick time-out.”

The silence goes on for just a beat too long before he heads for the bathroom and she reaches for some clothes.

Once they get outside, Eyeball uses his sleeve to dry Granny’s hood, and the two of them perch together on top and share a cigarette. The rain’s stopped, and the parking lot is a maze of potholes and puddles, water pooled and standing in all of the uneven asphalt. Everything smells wormy and wet. The light is a silvery sort of pale. It reminds Helaena of their hair.

“Coffee pot here looks like it works,” she says. “Not too gross. Didn’t try it. Didn’t want the smell to wake you up.”

He blows her a pretty O and hands her the cigarette. “When’s the last time I slept like that?”

“Flu,” she says, taking a drag. “Or bronchitis or whatever the fuck that was. We just moved into that first shithole. Thought you were gonna fucking die on me.”

Eyeball doesn’t cop to being goddamn sick until he’s a step off an ICU admission. Spent four days propped up in bed with a humidifier blowing right in his face, six different kinds of medication - including Helaena’s fucking expired inhaler and a round of antibiotics she never took because she’s allergic and was prescribed them by mistake for a fucking UTI - on rotation, gasping for air with her threatening to call 911 while he threatened to kill her if she did. No insurance.

He slept past nine then.

Recovered real slow, but at least by day five she was pretty sure he was gonna live. Her body finally gave in and let her catch it then, but it wasn’t nearly as bad for her. They stayed in bed together for another day or two and DoorDashed soup and NyQuil, and she was fine.

“Oh yeah,” he says. Steals his smoke back and puffs on it. “I think I’m probably sicker now.”

Helaena doesn’t argue, just tucks her muddy bare foot up the leg of his pants and worries at his shin. “You needed it,” is all she says.

Eyeball tucks the filter into his pocket when they’re done and tells her to stay put. “I’m gonna clean that fuckin’ thing better,” he says, looking at her back again. “Got Neosporin in the trunk. Human bites are fucking gross.”

She rolls her eyes at him. “I know where your fuckin’ mouth’s been.”

“Exactly,” he says, fishing around. “Let me fuckin’ fix it, Lane.”

He does. Comes out with an alcohol pad that stings like a bitch and some Neosporin and plays doctor. She doesn’t let him cover it, hates anything adhesive against her skin, but it pacifies him well enough. “Thank you, Daddy,” she says and rolls her eyes again.

“Shut up,” he says. “Go get us some coffee. Real shit. I’ll pack us up.” He brings her her shoes and slips cash into her pocket. Gives her a bra, too. “And fuckin’ put this on. Part-time Brian doesn’t need to see your nipples.”

Helaena looks at him, crooked and amused. “Roger that.” She hops in the driver’s seat to get dressed, then she heads to the gas station across the street.

When she gets back, Eyeball meets her at the door. She trades him his coffee for a kiss that makes her knees go to jelly, a little thing with teeth and tongue, one after the other so quick she almost misses them both, but they don’t miss her. Fuckin’ lethal. “Clothes on the bed for you,” he says.

She narrows her gaze. “I’m dressed.”

“Get redressed,” he says, raising an eyebrow.

Helaena smirks. “This how you wanna play today?”

“Mmhm.”

She sips her coffee. Gives him the eye. Goes to get dressed. “It’s too fucking cold for this,” she says through the open door as he’s arranging shit in the car. It’s a fucking dress. Long sleeve sweater dress thing, at least, but short, and he didn’t leave her tights or leggings or anything. Her legs are gonna freeze.

“You’ll be fine,” he says. “It’s not that bad today, and we got heat.”

“Shitty heat. And it’s cold! Just because you run at 150 fucking degrees doesn’t mean everyone does.”

“I won’t let you be cold, Laney. I promise. Get dressed. You got underwear on?”

“Yeah.” She laughs. She knows what’s next.

“Take them off. No panties in the car.”

She starts to strip, shaking her head at him. “I’m gonna make a fuckin’ mess on the seat. I’m leaking like a rusty pipe, asshole.”

“Good.” He pops his head in, cigarette between his lips. “Hurry up.”

“You’re disgusting.” She tosses her fuckin’ dirty underwear at him, and he grins. Pockets them.

They give the room a once-over and lock it up. Eyeball goes to drop the key in the box, and when he comes back, she’s in the passenger’s seat smoking with the door open, coffee in the cup holder. He steals her cigarette. “C’mere,” he says. Gestures at her.

She turns, shuffling a little to get her feet on the ground.

“Look at me.”

Helaena lifts her gaze. There’s mischief in his eye, and she picks up a brow at him. “Yeah?”

“Spread,” he tells her.

She smiles. She spreads. Keeps her chin up like a good girl, looks him right in his pretty face as he crowds in close and leans to push one hand under her dress. His fingers feel nice and warm. A little stern. They slide inside real easy; first one, and when he realizes she’s been trotting around all fucking wet, he adds another.

She likes this fucking game.

She knows what he’s doing, and she grins around a sort of gentle, throat-clearing cough that gives him exactly what he wants. He smiles back. “There it is,” he says. His fingers come out all sloppy, and he puts one right against her bottom lip. “Whose come is this?”

“Yours, Daddy,” she says, opening wide for him. Taking that finger back into her mouth and sucking it clean. Bittersalt and something blade-sharp over her tongue.

“Mmhm. Mine. Did I make you feel good when I gave it to you?” His other hand’s got her chin now, holding his cigarette out from it, just stroking her, soft. Tilting it up. Smoke curling around one side of her face, a hazy half-frame.

“Yes, Daddy,” she says. Quiet. Lashes fluttering at him, not even wholly on purpose. She’s just hot across her chest now, squirmy and small.

“Mmhm. You were such a good girl for me. So loud.” He gives her his other finger, and she cleans that one up, too. Watches him while she does it. “Who does this pussy belong to?” he asks her. Got his hand back underneath, leaning hard on the fuckin’ doorframe now, whole palm sliding down to hold her. Sweet as anything. Nice against her bare skin.

“You,” she tells him. Presses into his hand. He rewards her, just a little. Bends his thumb to brush over her clit.

“Mmhm. You’re so smart.”

Helaena watches him bite down on a smile. She lets him see her do the same. “Thank you, Daddy,” she says. Shifts around in her seat.

He lets her, presses just a little harder. Not enough. “Who do you belong to?”

“You.” She watches his pupil open up when she says it, like one of those automatic doors. Step on the right spot and it lets you right in.

“Mmhm. Me.”

They just stare at each other for a minute, and he lets her rock against the heel of his hand. She can feel herself making a fucking mess all over him; more jizz, her own wet. He slips it out from under her, wipes it all on her thigh in a wide stripe, and she mewls at him. A tiny baby protest. He smirks. Bends to kiss her forehead.

“No brat shit. Keep the fuckin’ dress up. I wanna watch you fuckin’ wreck my seats. You run outta spunk, I’ll give you more if you behave.” He’s pursing his lips. Still working on holding that grin.

“Yes, Daddy.” She winks at him.

Helaena lets him tuck her in and do her seatbelt. Pop the cigarette into her mouth for her. It’s just about done, so he lights himself one with her cherry before he shuts the door.

When he sits down next to her and starts the engine, he cranks the heat. Turns all the vents at her. “You tell me if it’s not enough,” he says. “Nobody likes a cold fuckin’ cunt.”

She leans back against her headrest and laughs at him. “Somebody does,” she shrugs. “Not you, though. It’s enough. I can tell already, Daddy. Thank you.” She hikes her dress around her hips and blows him a kiss.

*****

“Take my fuckin’ finger.”

They’re at a car wash down the road, the only people in the little line of vacuums at the front. He’s got her bent over the back seat, sucking out all the fucking dried mud and pebbles and whatever the fuck is left of Larry’s presence, standing behind her to block the view from the other side. They’re almost done. She can feel his fingertip, just barely inside of her. Just resting.

“We’re gonna get fucking arrested,” she says over the whir of the goddamn vacuum.

“No we’re not. No one can see you. Fuckin’ take it, Lane. Be good.”

She pauses, the hose all sideways and sucking at air, and pushes back a little. Lifts up with her hips and bites her lip when she feels it. Her eyes close, blink, close again, and she feels the rest of his hand bump against her when she takes him all the way.

The vacuum whines to a stop. Time’s up, and she hears his voice, loud in the sudden silence. “There, good girl,” and it makes her squeeze tight.

They both startle a little at the volume, and she hears him snicker.

He adjusts when he speaks again. “You look fuckin’ good like this,” he says. “All shiny and used up.”

She smiles and squeezes harder. Makes her voice as littlegirl as she can and peeks over her shoulder, eyes wide. “Thank you, Daddy. Are you gonna use me again?”

He pulls his finger out and backhands her ass. A tiny little smack that gives her a yelp that rolls into a giggle. “Greedy,” he says, and she can hear the amusement running like a current through the word. “Gimme that fuckin’ thing and get in the car.”

When she turns to hand it to him, she can see him fuckin’ stiff inside his pants. She pouts at him, petulant lips and squinty eyes, brows drawn together, and he can’t help himself. He fuckin’ laughs. Swats her cheek, playful and sweet, and takes the hose to hang it up.

“You’re a mess,” he tells her. Kisses her on the fuckin’ nose.

“Thank you, Daddy,” she says again. She sticks her tongue out at him and lets him help her up.

Chapter 27: Unusual

Summary:

“I’m gonna put some fuckin’ underwear and shoes on, and we’re gonna pretend we’re fuckin’ human beings,” she says. She unbuckles her belt and leans over the console as they pull in. “Take me on a date.”

Notes:

I’ve given up any hope of bringing this thing to heel and getting to the point, so we’re gonna meander our way unapologetically through now 🤷🏼‍♀️🤷🏼‍♀️

Nothing’s changed, I’ve just said the quiet part out loud 😂 I still promise there’s an end game, but it… could be a minute. But if you’ve made it this far, you’ve probably already figured that out, and I fucking love you. Thanks for hanging out.

Anyway hope you like small towns, spooky kids, diner food & drivel.

“Weird love’s better than no love at all.”
-Stephen King, The Green Mile

 

“Breakfast,” she says, propping one foot up on the dash.

Eyeball looks at her; the neat spread of her legs and the long stretch of her arms when she adjusts herself in her seat. She looks back, sideways and wicked, putting on the show he ordered. He raises a brow and looks up to pull out. “What do you want?” he asks, Granny arching into his deft touch and rolling into traffic.

“What do you want?” she asks. “I’m easy. You need real food like you needed fuckin’ sleep. What are you gonna eat?”

“I’ll tell you what I’m gonna eat,” he starts, and she cuffs his ear.

“Can you think with the head on your goddamn shoulders for once?”

“Excuse me?”

“…. Daddy.” Her eyes roll. Hard.

He laughs at her. “You want to like, sit down somewhere? Or eat in the car?”

“You’re gonna have to let me put on some fuckin’ clothes if we go inside.”

“That’s not gonna happen.” He snatches her fuckin’ cigarette and sticks it in through his smile.

“Car, then. I don’t care. Just find something you’ll eat.”

Eyeball reaches into the door pocket and pulls out his last two fuckin’ Alka-Seltzers. Pops them in his mouth and chews. The crunch between his teeth makes her cringe a little. “Toast,” he says. “I could do toast.”

“The fuck we gonna get toast to go? What about a bagel?”

“Heartburn,” he says. “They’re full of fuckin’ air, Lane. Feels like a fucking balloon in my esophagus. You get whatever you want; we stop for gas, I’ll grab something.”

“No more fuckin’ gas station food!”

“Who are you talkin’ to like that?” he says, raising an eyebrow at her.

She giggles. “You’re such an asshole sometimes. Will you please eat some grown-up food, Daddy? Set a fuckin’ example.”

He laughs at her; squeezes her thigh a little. “Here,” he says, pointing and flipping on the blinker to switch lanes. “Little fuckin’ diner. Betcha they’ll gimme some fuckin’ toast to go.”

It’s one of the last places on this strip before the road drops its hospitality act and turns back into a cookie-cutter county route. Low and boxy, trying to give 1950s but failing. Still cute. Helaena likes the look of it.

“I’m gonna put some fuckin’ underwear and shoes on, and we’re gonna pretend we’re fuckin’ human beings,” she says. She unbuckles her belt and leans over the console as they pull in. “Take me on a date. It’s Halloween, Eyeball. My usual fuckin’ man went and blew himself up. Not getting any from him today.”

Waffle fuckin’ loves Halloween, just like she does. Eyeball’s a good fuckin’ time in a lot of ways, but he’s a fucking wet blanket about some shit, too, and he doesn’t give a fuck about Halloween. About holidays in general, really. She and Waffle always do something fucking stupid together.

Last year they did a fuckin’ midnight showing of Rocky Horror. He crammed himself into her fishnets and everything. Let her do his eyeliner. He looked sorta hot, and they got so drunk she had to call Eyeball to come get them because they couldn’t call an Uber. She accidentally deleted the app trying to open it, and then they were too lit to figure out how to redownload it right, and Waffle’s phone was fucking dead.

Waffle’s a better drunk than the both of them, at least when he’s not DUI-ing. She and Eyeball make each other mean, go for the fucking jugular, but Waffle’s goofball shit tempers her a little. Makes her silly instead of fucking rancid. They just giggled into the stupid phone until their cranky kid brother found them and dragged them into the car for a scolding.

Eyeball was mad as fuck, but mostly at Waffle for not handling his shit. Not being able to take care of her. Popped him in the mouth and sent him home with a swollen, bloody lip, but he just laughed. Too fucking wasted to feel it or care.

Helaena got a spanking, still in her costume. Thong on, thigh-highs on, garter belt. All that shit. Right over his fucking knee. It was awesome. Handprints for days.

She loves Halloween. But she’s all alone in it this time.

Eyeball parks and looks at her, gone a little soft in the corners of his mouth at the reminder. “Yeah. No, you’re right. We’ll go in. Let’s do it. Put some fuckin’ panties on, though, would you, y’slut?”

She smacks him, fucking around, and shuffles through the bag they’ve returned to the back seat. “Pants?”

“There’s a pair in there, I think,” he says. Runs a gentle hand up her leg and palms at her ass. Just affectionate, not even trying to rile her up.

Helaena finds some leggings, plain black things, and doesn’t bother digging for underwear. She grabs the bag with her makeup, too.

“What’re you doing, Lane?” he says. “We got shit to do. We don’t have time for…”

“Yes, we do,” she says, turning to look at him. “We got all the time in the fuckin’ world, now, honey. We got some money. We got some dumbass idea to show up at some house where our fuckin’ sister - who doesn’t know us from a goddamn gloryhole - may or may not live. And literally nothing to do in between now and then. No one knows us. No one’s expecting shit from us. We have nothing else but time.”

They look at each other for a minute while he considers her words. He rubs circles over her bottom, strokes down the inside of her sticky, bare thigh. “No, you’re right,” he says eventually. “I just… I dunno. I wanna get farther away. You know? But you’re right, Laney.”

“That’s what I thought you said.” She turns around and starts to pull her pants on. “We’ll split right after. But let me make myself pretty for you. Take me on a fuckin’ date. Sit and drink coffee with me in public and fuckin’ kiss me with tongue if you want to. Okay, Daddy?”

“You’re already pretty,” he says, suddenly sorta quiet. Sorta thirteen years old and stupid. Not Daddy at all.

She smiles as she smooths her clothes out and pulls down the visor.

He watches her do her makeup for awhile, pat on some fucking concealer to try to make herself look alive, like it’s the most interesting thing he’s ever seen. As she’s dicking around with her lipstick, cleaning up the line, he says, soft, “You really think we were fooling anybody, Lane?”

She catches his eye in the mirror. Pauses. “Probably. For awhile at least,” she says finally. “Not Waffle.” He’s the only one who ever caught them; rolled up on them with Eyeball’s cock fuckin’ balls-deep in her throat while she dry-humped his goddamn pillow. Not her finest moment, but it was what was working at the time. What felt good. They always just do what feels good. But bless Waffle, he was more worried about the weed he smelled; wanted to make sure it wasn’t his, and he kept his traumatized little mouth shut. It was two months before they moved out. They’d gotten reckless. “Not Alys,” she says. Laughs a little at that one.

“Dad.”

“Dad,” she agrees. She caps her lipstick and reaches for the mascara. “Guess he had other shit to fuckin’ worry about. Jesus Christ. What about Mama?” she asks, quiet. “The fuck you think fuckin’ Larry was talking about, she frets about us?” Helaena sits, the wand hovering over one eye, waiting.

It takes a second, but he answers. “I asked him what the fuck he meant. Said she told him we were unusual.” His eyebrow quirks. “That we seem to bring out the worst in each other.”

Helaena quirks her eyebrow back and looks at their reflections. The gesture is identical. “Do we, now?”

They grin. Those are less alike in substance, but the spirit is just the same.

“I dunno,” Eyeball says. “Did we turn out so bad?”

She shrugs and runs the wand over her lashes. Warms them up from blond to amber. “I mean… we’re objectively… not great. But I think maybe it’s too soon to say we turned out to be anything at all. Right?”

She does the other eye, and Eyeball nods. “Maybe,” he says. “Maybe not. I dunno. I’ve kinda fucked us hard, Lane.”

Helaena finishes and flips the visor back. Looks at him, wry. “Always were good at that.” She reaches across to fit their fingers together and sighs. “Mama knows, honey. If she didn’t before, she did once we left.”

“You think?”

“Yeah. Dunno why the fuck she was saying shit about us to that creepy motherfucker. But yeah.” She leans over and pecks his cheek. Leaves a little red smudge right where his scar meets the bone. “Wanna go be unusual together over a fuckin’ cup of coffee?”

“Yeah.” He butts the neglected cigarette that’s been burning like incense while he’s been watching her. “But now you’ve made me look like a fuckin’ scrub.”

She smiles at him. “You look beautiful. Just brush your hair.”

He does. Puts it back nice and neat. He fixes hers, too; just arranges her curls around her shoulders. Lets them hang free. Peeks down her dress while he does it and whistles low at that fuckin’ bite again.

Helaena rolls her shoulders into the touch and sprays some perfumey shit on herself. “I probably fuckin’ smell like the inside of your balls,” she says to him, and he laughs.

“I mean. You did a little. But not anymore?” he offers, and she rolls her eyes.

She slips her feet into her shoes and they walk in holding hands.

They sit by the big front window so they can watch the fucking car. Slide in across from one another in one of those teeny two-person booths, pinkish-mauve vinyl seats and a speckly tabletop. Bad lighting. Thin napkins and paper placemats.

Helaena grabs his feet with hers, and they go back and forth trying to pin each other still for a minute, til she feels his knife bump her ankle and stops.

Their waitress is as young as they are. Cute. Reminds Helaena of one of Waffle’s high school girlfriends, with her blue-streaked ash-blond bob and freckles. Snakebites in her lip. His fuckin’ type.

She brings them really fuckin’ decent coffee and good cold water, and she gives Eyeball’s pirate patch the same look most girls do.

“Bet you ten bucks she leaves you her number,” Helaena says.

“Not today,” he answers, laughing. “Probably thinks I’m fuckin’ dressed up, some kinda fuckin’ idiot.”

He gets his stupid toast, butter on the side; she gets pancakes, and she feeds him three quarters of the meltywarm peaches on top. He lets her. Likes the way she’s looking at his mouth, she thinks. The taste of her lipstick on the fork.

She tries to talk him into breakfast potatoes or something - something with some goddamn nutritional value - but he wrinkles his nose. “Fuckin’ diner grease. Onions. Lane, we’re both gonna be fuckin’ sorry.”

She sighs and leans across the table. Feeds him the last three dry bites of her pancakes with her fingers, and he takes them, smiling.

They sit for a little while and talk about nothing. Refill their coffee. He doesn’t rush her, even though she knows he’s anxious to go; just sits there and watches her. Watches the world through the glass. Twirls the salt shaker between his long fingers and taps it on his empty plate. He actually ate the fuckin’ toast; all but a corner of crust too burnt for his taste.

It’s nice, she thinks. Nice that everyone here just thinks they’re on their way to the fucking grocery store, or their cousin’s wedding, or to pick out paint for the bathroom or something. Nice to be anonymous and benign.

Eyeball steals the last sip of her coffee - mostly cold-ish cream now - and makes a face at it. “I forget how much I hate that,” he says. “Gotta remind myself every once in awhile.”

She laughs. “It hates you back.”

“No shit. Probably gonna have to pull over to puke in a couple miles. You ready?”

Helaena nods. She goes to pee, and Eyeball pays the bill. He doesn’t get the waitress’ number, but he tips her good anyway, and he slings an arm over Helaena’s shoulders as they go.

When they get to the vestibule, all crisp light and cold windows, he grabs her suddenly; turns her by her waist and walks her back into the wall. It’s a good fuckin’ kiss. Coffee and fruit and full-on tongue. A breath-stealer and a head-spinner; sucks her right up like a tornado. Spits her out off-balance.

“Pants off,” he reminds her, tugging the two of them hip-to-hip on their way out the door, and she just tips her head up at him and smiles.

*****

Before they head out of town, they stop to fill the tank. Eyeball drops a pair of gloves in her lap, and then he drops The Bag on the floor at her feet.

“Careful what you touch,” he mutters under his breath. “Take something from the bottom - whatever - and we’re gonna throw it away here. Okay? We’ll drop shit as we go.”

Helaena looks up and nods. He’s got a glove on one hand, too. Uses it to pump the gas after he runs in to pay and grab them fresh coffee and Tums, and then he takes her stupid, fussy, sequined panties and balls them up to shove through the little hole in the trash can. Jams them down good.

“Damn, Laney,” he says, coming back to take the bag from her. “ I fuckin’ liked those.”

“I know,” she says. “I didn’t.”

“I know.” He grins. “Like you better without them, though,” he tells her. Reaches with his bare hand to feel her up, and she puts her own hand on top.

“How long you gonna make me wait, Daddy?” she asks him.

“Long,” he says, putting a fuckin’ finger in his mouth. “Fuckin’ long, Lane. We gotta get the fuck outta here.”

He stows the bag back in the fucking trunk, pockets his glove, and slides back into the driver’s seat.

“Can I play with myself?” she asks, pulling at her seatbelt and handing it to him to buckle.

Eyeball clicks it into place. “No. You don’t worry about fuckin’ getting off today. Not when, or how, or fuckin’ who. I got you. It’s my problem.”

He does his own belt and lights her a cigarette. She fits it into a pout that she’s desperately trying to hold steady. Keep from spreading wide into a smile.

“You can show me though,” he says, lighting his own and shifting out of park. “You wanna hold yourself apart and let me see how pretty you are, I won’t stop you.”

He blows smoke out the cracked window, and Helaena toes off her shoes to brace a bare foot against the dash. Her polish looks good, she thinks, letting her knees fall open. She likes the color better in the daylight.

“Here you go,” she says. Uses two fingers to give him a view while he drives. Bites back a giggle when she tells him, “I’m just a hole, Daddy.”

He bursts out laughing, a surprised sort of thing that sounds like one of those little crackling fireworks, short and sharp and bright. “Oh my fucking God.”

“Too much?” Helaena says, giggling so hard now that she fuckin’ snorts at him. She fuckin’ cracks herself up sometimes.

“No,” he says, amusement still bouncing through his voice. “No, Laney. You’re never too much. You’re perfect. Fucking perfect. You, your fuckin’ holes, everything.”

She leans back, a big kittycat smile splitting her whole face in two, and closes her eyes. Sun’s out now, and the rays are warm through the glass; hitting the apples of her cheeks and flickering across her skin in patterned shadow.

He’s gentle. Hits the straight shot on the southbound two-lane out of town and slips one finger inside, presses it side to side to side to side, soft while he drives, until he feels the fuckin’ waterworks turn on. Hears the whine and the catch in her breath.

Leaves her an unfinished mess and asks her who loves her.

“You,” she says. “Only you,” and she thinks it’s probably true.

“Mmhm. Good girl. Hold yourself just like that for me. Don’t move.”

His touch is steady when he tugs absently at her hem. Rolls it up higher against her hip. Rubs a spitty thumb across her clit, just enough to make it ache for him.

“You got good hands, Eyeball,” she says. Murmurs to him through her smudged red lips.

He’s got those steady fucking hands, but his knee just goes and goes and goes, and they just drive and drive and drive.

Chapter 28: Blind Spot

Summary:

“She’s not free,” he says. “You feel free just ‘cause all your shit’s behind you? Nah. It’s still there, just in your blind spot now.”

Notes:

i’m a solid 80% filth peddler, but on occasion that 20% poet’s paid the bills 😂😂😂

so do please pardon the softness and sentiment. it’s always lurking just at the edges 😉

“I bump against the railings and begin to go down the stairs cursing them: one foot in the void/ another foot into the abyss/ another one into nowhere. When'll they turn on the lights in this fucking house?”

- Guillermo Cabrera Infante, from Three Trapped Tigers

 

The signs are good; take them south and south and south, and east and east and east, all along the little backroad cut-throughs. County roads in sweet little towns, or gritty little ones, or ones just like theirs: a mix of both. All of them feel like home, and none of them do; the way all motel rooms are alike in the same uncomfortable way.

The one they stayed in when they first left had two double beds and a weird, overlarge bathroom with a disproportionately small shower. They crammed in it together because they could, and they wanted to, but some fuckin’ body part was always cold and dry, and they had to swap back and forth to get clean.

It had a shoebox microwave and an old TV. A tiny fridge with a freezer that could fit exactly one box of popsicles laid flat. That summer was brutal, and the a/c was finicky on a good day. It would fritz in the middle of the fucking night, and they’d wake up stuck together in a sheen of sweat, dripping and cussing and throwing the door open for air despite the line of fucking basehead geekers they lived next to.

They were all wary of Eyeball. Not at first, but he held a knife to one of their fuckin’ throats on their third night there over something fuckin’ stupid - threatened to shove it up their nose right into their fucking brain - and something in his face must’ve told them he was gonna do it. Nobody bothered them after that, despite the fact they were little fuckin’ babies.

Helaena would sit and smoke in the doorway and shoot the shit with Sylvi - middle-aged hooker next door who slept all day and worked all night; they were fuckin’ pals: could hear each other riding fuckin’ bootleg dick through the walls and never said a word - while Eyeball took the fucking unit to pieces trying to make it blow cold again. He could usually get a passable breeze going, and then they’d suck on rocket pops until the room cooled off enough to try to go back to bed. Redblue lips; sticky purple prints on her neck in the morning.

They’ve both got a soft spot for shitholes like that now. Pull them on like an old sweatshirt.

Same with these funny little towns with their stained-siding buildings and lines of strip malls. They glide by the window as they go, and Helaena feels like she could hide in any one of them and feel just the same. Not like she belongs, exactly, but not out of place either.

They roll into one mid-afternoon that’s right along the river. They’re passing a smoke back and forth, and Helaena’s got her belt off and her legs crossed up on the seat. He hates when she unbuckles, but the press of it against her neck was driving her batshit and the adjustment is near fuckin’ immovable and never sits right anyway. She’s been reading him little bits of Infante, a dog-eared old collection of short stories, but he’s restless with it. Thinks the guy’s pretentious, but Helaena likes him.

She closes the book. “Let’s stop,” she says. “Follow the river back. Good place to toss some shit. Stretch a little.”

Eyeball crushes the cigarette in the ashtray and nods at her. They pull off into a liquor store lot and turn on the burner, just for a minute to take a look around. Find a route that loops to what looks like a lonely little access road and an itsy bitsy beach. “Boat ramp I bet,” Eyeball says.

“Bet you’re right.”

He takes a look at it, tries to commit it to memory. Says the directions out loud so she can hear them, can help remember, and they shut the phone and go.

There’s no ramp, but there’s a pier. Broken-ass thing, but longer than the ones you usually see in spots like this. It’s behind a little development of houses that looks like it got sixed halfway through, like some developer ran out of funds in the seventies or something and forgot all about it. There’s a little cluster, then a lot of nothing.

“Kinda pretty,” Helaena says when they pull up in the bit of dirt that’s probably meant to be a parking area, and it is. The water’s catching the light nice, reflecting the slow crawl of the sun towards bed; that uniquely cold, autumnal sparkle. Trees are all different shades of rust, half naked, and they crowd close to the banks here. Doesn’t look like it sees much traffic, even from the locals. The sort of place you forget exists when it’s in your backyard, but nobody else knows about, either.

It suits them, she thinks.

Eyeball agrees with her. Tells her it’s pretty. They climb out of the car and leave the doors open. Stretch tall over their heads, making their backs long like big cats. Eyeball’s shit all rides up, t-shirt and hoodie, and his little spiders take a look around, too. Helaena slips a finger through his belt loop, and they stand and smoke and watch the day in silence.

“Nobody in the fuckin’ world knows we’re here,” she says after a minute or two. She pauses. “Or fuckin’ cares, I bet.” The thought doesn’t bother her. Doesn’t make her feel lonely. Not today. It feels like a cozy blanket. Like that sun filtering down through the canopy and resting on the back of her neck.

“Somebody might care,” Eyeball says, exhaling through his nose and handing her his cigarette. “Somebody might be fuckin’ looking for us. We wouldn’t know.”

“I don’t wanna know,” she says. Leans hard against the fender. “You did a fuckin’ community service. You think Mama was the only one that dude was fucking with? Shit.”

Eyeball shakes his head. “Nah. Wouldn’t matter, though.”

“I know,” she says, quiet. Takes his hand. “Betcha she doesn’t even know she’s free yet.”

“She’s not free,” he says. “You feel free just ‘cause all your shit’s behind you? Nah. It’s still there, just in your blind spot now.”

He’s right. She knows he’s right. “Better than having it in your fuckin’ face all the time,” she says, and it earns her a nod.

“That’s true anyway.” He leans sideways. Puts his head on top of hers. “He was too easy, Lane,” he says after a minute. “Too fuckin’ easy. Easier than Luke.” She feels his shoulders shift. Hears his heavy swallow.

She closes her eyes. The world goes warmbright behind them; red and orange with bits of white light. A little inverse of the trees; their craggy tops against the sky. “He deserved it. Luke, too, if you ask me. Not that you fuckin’ did.”

She hasn’t said it out loud. Didn’t want to give it that sort of power.

“No, I didn’t,” he says, quiet. He plucks the cigarette from her fingers and takes its last decent drag. Butts it on the tire and pockets it. “We should do the phones here.”

Helaena nods. She’s been kinda dreading this one, but it’s gotta be done. Better to fuckin’ do it now than later.

Eyeball pushes off the hood and goes to dig in the trunk. Helaena pulls out her bag and grabs a pen and her notebook. His phone’s got everything they need, and it’s better organized. Contacts saved correctly, gone through sometimes to update or delete or whatever. Everyone in hers has some stupid nickname, or isn’t fuckin’ saved at all; she just recognizes the sequence of numbers - or doesn’t, she supposes, until she looks at the fucking message history. They don’t even bother turning hers on.

Helaena writes down anything that matters. Her handwriting is neater. It only takes a minute.

Not too much matters.

Eyeball turns his back off - there are messages from Cris, but he doesn’t even look - and the two of them walk down along the pier. “Careful,” he tells her. Gives her an arm. “Fucking wood’s rotted to shit in some places.” It is, too. Soft under her cold, bare feet. Mildewy.

She passes her phone back and forth between her hands. “Why is this so hard?” she laughs. “What the fuck?”

“‘Cause everything’s fuckin’ in there,” he says. “I don’t wanna fuckin’ do it either. You know how many good titty shots I’m just throwing to the fuckin’ fish?”

Helaena laughs. “That video,” she says. “You know the one I mean.”

He grins. “You saved that?”

“Didn’t you?”

“Yeah.” He catches her eye and she grins back.

He took it. Propped the fuckin’ phone on the dresser. The quality sucks, weird shadows and lots of moving in-and-out of frame at first, but it settles after a minute and you can see them. Lots of laughing. Lots of bouncing. Tits and ass and her all over his fuckin’ cock. It’s mostly just their bodies and fuckin’ chins, her wide moany mouth, hair all over the goddamn place. His big old hands grabby and eager and fierce on her boobs. The soft round of her belly; thighs spread open over his lap. Wet slapping sounds and giggles and fuckin’ heavy breathing and shit. Possibly the worst amateur porn she’s ever fucking seen, but it’s theirs.

“I have that other one you sent me, too,” she says.

“Which?”

“You fuckin’ jerking off. Talking to me. Running your fuckin’ mouth about how you wanna wreck my shit.” She looks up at him, and he’s smiling wider.

“I remember that. No, I was all fuckin’ messed up there.” He laughs.

“I know. It’s hot.” She bumps him with a hip. “You know how many times I jacked it to that shit?”

“Damn, Lane.”

“You know I like it when you talk.”

“Mmhm.” He pauses for a second and then leans back and throws his goddamn phone. Nice shot, way out. No hesitation, all follow-through. “Gimme yours,” he says. “Before we can’t.”

She white-knuckles it for a second. “Waffle’s on there, too,” she says. “Before.”

There’s a few of him, but the one she’s thinking of, she can see like it’s in front of her. Leaning against that stupid fuckin’ bike. Beer in one hand, fucking flipping her off with the other. Big asshole smile. Drunk as a goddamn skunk and so pretty. Whole and oblivious and some version of him no one will ever see again.

She shakes her fucking head at Eyeball and shoves the phone into his grip, and it winds up a little to the right of his own. Splash and ripple and gone.

“We’ll take more,” he says to her, but at best it’s naïve. At worst it’s an out-and-out lie.

The kids on their phones. Those lives. Those iterations of reality. All gone now. Gone, but slinking around in their blind spot; some fucking fang-toothed creature lying in wait.

Eyeball pulls her in, squished and tight to his body, and she suddenly feels like crying. Feels the prickle of a thousand memories against the back of her eyelids, all distilling down to salt, and he holds her shoulders when they start to shake.

“I got you,” he says. “I got you.”

“I know,” she says back, and she cries.

*****

The pictures are strange. There’s something compelling in them. Not exactly pretty. Not exactly not, either, though.

There’s just a couple. They didn’t want much on a throwaway phone.

Angle’s up high and askew. They’re in the bottom corner, mouths puckered side-by-side, the kiss itself sacrificed for the record of it. In the third one, their lips finally touch.

Her mascara’s running; eyes red-ringed and wet-looking, but not unhappy. There’s something comfortable in their expression. Something loved.

He’s softer in the photos than in life; the quality of the lighting and movement fuzzing his edges. The smile helps, too. Mostly his good eye, just a suggestion of his scar and a sliver of his patch.

Skin the same shade of pale. Hair, too. A matching set of funny-colored irises.

Background a little tilted and washed out in the sun, but you can see that it’s autumn. That there’s water.

Helaena likes them. There aren’t a ton of pictures of them together; not as adults. No one to take them, really, and they don’t think to do it themselves too often.

“Look at those fuckin’ dummies,” she says.

“Real fuckin’ punks,” he says.

There’s an upskirt shot. Just her blurred white legs, shadow, the corner of her fuckin’ dress. Nothing good.

She rolls her eyes and keeps that one, too. Eyeball laughs.

*****

“Let’s stay here tonight,” she says, dirty bare feet back up on the dash. “I like it. Bet there’s someplace by the water. Bet there’s a ghost. Some eighteenth century banshee bitch crying for her old man or some shit.”

Eyeball smiles at her. Reaches over and lights the cigarette she’s jammed between her lips. “Okay.”

Helaena crosses her ankles, free hand wandering up his arm, shoulder, ear. Staying there and fussing with the shell of it. “All kindsa movies on tonight. Can we watch one, Daddy?”

He gets Granny turned up the rutted drive towards the road, and she sighs like she’s in love when he shifts. “We can do whatever spooky shit you want, Laneybug. We got nothing but time, right?”

*****

The motel they find is a weirdo spot that Helaena instantly loves.

It’s not that close to the water, but it’s pretending to be.

The fuckin’ place calls the rooms cabins, and she supposes they technically are: freestanding little things the size of closets, except they all have little stone patio things off the back with a table and chairs and a teeny fire pit. No privacy whatsoever out there; you can see what all your neighbors are up to on theirs, but it’s cute as shit anyway. The vibe is joke-broke tourist, not hard-luck crackhead, and they’re both here for it.

They take turns in the single-file shower, then sit outside in the dying light smoking cigarettes and splitting a container of olives and some crackers from the grocery store on the corner.

They trashed more shit in the cans outside in the parking lot there, too. Gloves in one. Eyeball’s washed-up bloody shirt in another.

He’s drinking plain seltzer tonight. Says his stomach’s acting up.

He starts a fire, lame as fuck but novel in its little stone frame, and uses it to light their smokes. It throws a little warmth, but not enough, so she sits in his lap wrapped snug in the extra blanket off the double bed while he tames her damp hair into neat, twisty pigtails. He tucks them into loops at the bottom, like Mama used to do sometimes when she was small. Kisses slow all up her neck til she’s fuckin’ acting up, too; shifting around on his narrow thigh like an antsy kid and nipping at the line of his jaw.

“None of that,” he tells her when she starts putting a little purpose in her movement, finding a gentle rhythm against him. “I told you that’s my job.”

“Daddy,” she whines. “All day!”

“Don’t be a fuckin’ brat,” he tells her. “That’s brat shit.” She huffs her most childish huff at him, and he pops the last olive between her teeth. “Keep it up,” he says. “See what happens. You’ll have more than that in your fucking mouth. Fuckin’ sore throat for a week.”

Helaena laughs while she swallows. “I’ve been trying to get you in my goddamn mouth since I fuckin’ woke up.”

Eyeball butts his cigarette. Snags hers and does the same. Starts picking up their mess. “Get the fuck inside. It’s Halloween. Don’t we have a bunch of fuckin’ trash to watch?”

“Uh-huh! Popcorn, too,” she says. Just a bag of plain shit from the store, not the good stuff; neither of them trusts the janky little microwave in the room. Looks like an electrical fire waiting to happen. “Want me to see what’s on?”

“Put on whatever you want.” He pauses for a second. Scrapes crumbs into the crescent of his palm. “Nothing too fuckin’ gory, okay?”

Her eyes go soft at him. “Yeah. Okay.”

“And take your fuckin’ clothes off.”

Helaena leans against the screen door and cocks a hip. “Everything, Daddy?” she asks. Sometimes he likes his presents with a bow.

He thinks for a minute. “That fuckin’ bra from earlier. Put that back on.”

Icy blue. Satin. Little teardrop knot of pearls between the cups; little strips of lace at their tops. Lifts her up and pushes her in. Makes her tits look real fuckin’ expensive. Whoever designed it was thinking about fucking, she’s sure. No one’s fuckin’ wearing it to work, anyway. “Yes, Daddy,” she says and drops a wink.

Poor pretty thing is gonna be a goddamn mess by the time they’re through, Helaena thinks, and she lets the door swing shut behind her with a grin.

Chapter 29: Live Wire

Summary:

a thoroughly wholesome Halloween 🎃

Notes:

i mean, if you aren’t getting edged into near-psychosis by your little brother & giving him a sloppy blowjob while watching a children’s movie… is it even Halloween?

also featuring cockwarming, sex toys and a teeny little sprinkle of D/s ageplay. you know. as a treat.

this is nothing but middling kinky filth. by now you know what you’re getting into 🤦🏼‍♀️🤷🏼‍♀️

[ had the last three chapters done kinda all at once, so here they are ]

I sense there's something in the wind
That feels like tragedy's at hand
And though I'd like to stand by him
Can't shake this feeling that I have
The worst is just around the bend

[…]

What will become of my dear friend?
Where will his actions lead us then?

- from Sally’s Song, The Nightmare Before Christmas

 

She settles on The Nightmare Before Christmas.

There’s plenty to choose from - the fuckin’ place has OnDemand, she realizes when she turns everything on - but she can’t get wound up over the slasher shit like she usually does. Feels a little too close to home. She doesn’t wanna set herself off. Set Eyeball off. Doesn’t know exactly how much gore is too much, and isn’t in the mood to test it.

She considers Poltergeist, but in the end she thinks maybe something a little lighthearted, something to match the stupid hair she’s got - something with a fuckin’ dog - might do it. They haven’t Tim Burton’d it together since like third grade, though she’s watched it on her own a few times since.

He finishes cleaning up outside and goes to the tiny bathroom to clean himself up, and when he comes out she’s cuddled up in bed ready to go; bra on, everything else off. Middling bag of popcorn on the nightstand. Movie all queued up.

He’s shirtless, toothbrush stuck in his mouth, smiling around it at her. He ducks back in to spit and rinse, and the room’s so small she can reach right out and grab him when he comes back to the door. She does. Hooks her fingers right into the waist of his jeans and pulls him to her mouth, kiss landing just beside his navel. He tugs on a pigtail.

“Good choice,” he says, jerking his chin at the TV and smiling.

She beams back.

“Turn it on and get me hard.”

Finally, she wants to say, but instead she presses play and fingers his button apart.

It doesn’t take much at all. He’s already working on it, and when she gets up on her knees to help him take his pants off, he takes a handful of her bare ass and it’s basically done. She winks at him and plays with it anyway. Wets a hand, spits down on his pretty cock, and in five or six strokes she can feel his heartbeat hard in her palm like a drum.

“Good,” he tells her, but he stops her when she gives it a kiss. He motions for her to scoot over, and she does. He crawls in next to her. “C’mere,” he says, patting at his lap while he settles. “You wet?”

She shrugs, like she doesn’t fuckin’ know, and tells him maybe. Tells him he should check, and he tells her she’s being a fucking brat again.

Helaena kneels over him, and he brings his fuckin’ hand down hard on her bare behind. The sting spreads out over her skin, hot and delicious, and when he slides his fingers down to feel, she’s so slippery it’s already made its way to the soft seam of her cunt. He doesn’t even have to fuckin’ open her up.

“Shit,” he mutters. “Okay, then. Sit on it.”

She looks at him a little sideways, thinks this is too easy and he’s gotta be fucking with her, and he is. Not in the way she thinks, though.

“Go on,” he says. Smirks a little. “You’re ready. You don’t fuckin’ need me for anything.” He’s holding himself, just running his hand up and down absently, and he stops for her. Spins a finger in a circle. “Other way, though. Watch your fuckin’ movie.”

She’s still suspicious. Turns anyway. Lets him guide her back, down, nudge a little to help her get it right.

She takes him fuckin’ slow, like she’s sinking down into a goddamn bath or something. Like it’s a relief. She feels every motherfucking inch of it; feels her whole body just come right the fuck apart, let him in, fucking hiss and spit like she’s feeding a fire.

And she’s glad she took her goddamn time, because once she’s flat in his lap and he’s up in her fucking guts, he takes her by her hips and says, “That’s it. Stay.”

“What?” It’s a gaspy sound, a nice full one, coming from where his fucking cock’s sitting in her belly.

“Keep me warm, Lane,” he says, muttering right behind her ear. Walking two fingers over her quivery thigh. “Be a good girl for me. Sit still. We’re gonna watch a movie, and you’re gonna come when I tell you to.”

Her whole back twists up; all the muscles there just jerking back like they’re on a string. “You’re so mean, Daddy,” she whispers. Bottom lip out.

“You’re so spoiled,” he counters. “Got everything you want today. Fuckin’ princess. Sit still. You’re mine now.”

She whimpers a little, shifts her shoulders against him, and his fingers drop low. Start on his own cock and slide up til he’s drawing circles. Tiny ones. Barely-there ones that open up her throat, turn the whimper to a frustrated whine.

“You can be mad,” he says, and she can hear the thin thread of amusement in his tone. “You feel so good when you’re pissed. Your fuckin’ tantrum’s gonna empty my balls.”

She grins despite herself, giggles a little, and feels him twitch in response. It makes her giggle more, and he tucks his forehead down against her.

“Christ,” he says. Buries the word right next to his bite mark. “Shhhh. Watch your damn movie.”

She tries. She really does, if only to try to focus on something else. Keep from losing her shit. But that’s what he’s fucking aiming for, and it’s working.

He walks her right up to the fucking line, keeps those teasing circles steady. Goes and goes and goes, and when that very first warning shot comes, the little lapping wave before the tsunami that pulls her in and up - he stops cold.

Her fucking fingers dig into the muscle of his thigh, and the back of her throat itches with a growl. “Not yet,” he says, a little mumble at her hairline, then it’s just kisses. Ears and neck and shoulders, over the outline of her bruise, temples and cheekbones and under the strap of her pretty bra. Kisses until her breathing is even, until the spring in her spine is stretched loose again and she’s still and humming and soft.

And then it starts all over.

She can hear the tight, strangled thing in his throat, too. The way he’s swallowing his own fucking fist. She swears she can feel him get bigger inside of her, harder, fill her all the way to the back of her tongue while he plays with her clit. Rubs up the fuckin’ sides and rolls it between his fingers until she’s clamped down around him like a vise and her mouth is stuck open and dumb, and her breath is hot and fast…

And then he stops cold. Again.

The sound she makes is a fucking death rattle. He bites the place where it begins, that vibrating chamber in the center of her neck, and she smacks her hand against her own fucking leg, nails in her palm, trying to claw the thing she needs from her own skin.

“Tell me all about it,” he says once he lets go, dragging the words across her ear, a jumbled mess. “You can tell me, Laney.”

She tips her head back, lays against his shoulder, spreads so wide over him that her joints feel loose. “Daddy, I want it,” she says. “Please,” and she thinks her heart’s trying to escape its fucking cage. Jump right out into the hand he’s got across her chest.

“What do you want?” He’s got her hips now, both hands keeping her from that rocking thing they’re trying to do without her fucking permission, and they feel so good. So terrible. She adores them.

“I wanna fuckin’ ride your shit,” she says, all fucking strung out, mouth mashed against his jawbone. “Oh my god I wanna fuck,” and his fingertips dig against her like bone on bone.

“Watch your mouth,” Eyeball says, and then he’s in it. Fingers behind her teeth, and she’s never loved anything as much as she loves his fucking hands right now. They taste like her. She sucks back, pulls them flat to her tongue, licks his fingers slippery and clean. Presses a kiss against his palm. Against the round knot at his wrist, the grooves between his knuckles. Nuzzles the whorls and dips of his fingerprints. His strong, lovely hands that hold her and keep her and build her and break her. Remake her. Fit her, and fuck her, and feed her, and fill her. She bites down, takes the soft curve below his thumb between her teeth.

If she’s here, at this strange altar, she’s not trying to come. Not upset that she can’t. Just bent and bowed; surrendered, letting the tide slip back through the blood in her ears.

He cups her cheek in his wet palm. “Good girl,” he says. “My good girl. We’re gonna go there again; are you ready?”

She’s not.

She is.

The third time happens fast; too fast, he’s calculated wrong. She feels it start before he recognizes it; feels pleasure and panic trip over one another, opens her mouth to tell him stop, or don’t stop, or to ask permission, or make some kind of word, but there’s nothing. Her muscles are squeezed so tight there’s no room for noise, and he catches it just in time. Pulls back from her, leaves her half a breath away and trembling.

“Oh, you’re so good,” he says, and she can’t tell if it’s because she’s listening so well, being such a good girl by not coming all over his dick, or if he’s just babbling at her, losing his mind at how impossibly fucking small she’s become around him; the way all of her muscles have gripped and can’t let go.

She’s so fucking close she can’t stop shaking. She didn’t even know this space existed; an edge this fucking sharp. It’s an accident. It feels transgressive, like she’s trespassing somewhere holy. She’s afraid to fucking move. Even the shaking feels like it could send her over.

He must know. He’s so still, not even his mouth moving now. Barely breathing.

They sit tangled up in this fucking live wire for what feels like an hour, just waiting. Making the air around them tense and spark.

Helaena’s eyes are closed, the movie long forgotten, but she can hear the soft bars of Sally’s song playing somewhere; Catherine O’Hara’s haunted, sad voice. Some spooky little ghost crying for her old man.

It’s enough to walk her back. Step her down. A minute. Two. Twenty. Hard to say, but he feels the ebb, his mouth suddenly back to work over the dips of her collarbone, bent low around her like he’s on the kneelers at church.

She sees him there at eight: serious face, two eyes, hands folded with his shoulder pressed to hers. Sees him with his tongue out flat for communion, Body and Blood. Thinks this is probably as close as the two of them will ever get to that again.

“Okay,” she says. To him, or maybe God, or to herself, or to nobody at all.

Whoever she’s praying to, it’s her baby brother who answers. Gives her an okay back. Tells her to get up.

“Help me,” she says, all wobbly. She doesn’t really wanna do it, still feels fucking edged and doesn’t wanna be empty after being so full for so fucking long, but she goes. He helps her.

“Good,” he says. “You’re so good,” and when she’s kneeling on the bed - legs wide; she’s afraid to put them together - Eyeball tells her to fucking suck him off. Leans up to kiss her, gives her a suck my cock right at her loosened-up lips; tells her you can play but don’t come.

It gets her heart going all fast, prickles her with heat. She’s still gotta fucking wait. Wait. Wait. She’s been waiting all goddamn day.

At least she can wait with his cock in her mouth. Give him some of what he’s been giving her.

“You hear me?” he wants to know. “Don’t come until I tell you.”

“Yes, Daddy,” she mumbles, quiet, trying to wriggle off the bed without getting herself fucking going again. It’s impossible. Moving at all flips her circuits; makes them think something good is coming, and she’s all shivers and a firecracker spine when she gets down on her knees.

He told her she could play, but she’s not gonna. Not yet. She won’t be able to fuckin’ stop. Get herself in trouble. She spreads her knees wide apart, no fucking friction at all.

He tastes like her here, too. Been inside her for almost an hour, maybe, who knows, and she can fucking tell; so hard he could chip her goddamn teeth, all fucking pussy on her tongue when she opens for him.

He’s a disaster. Heavy pulse, leaking everywhere, making his spiders all sticky; gonna take less than sixty seconds, and that’s probably fucking generous.

She tries to draw it out anyway. Make him need a little, like she fucking needs. Holds him and licks over the underside, just the tip of her tongue in tiny strokes, and his stupid balls pull up right away. She almost laughs, his fingers taut in her hair like he might grab her and have his fucking way. He might, but she doubts it.

For all his bullshit, Eyeball likes it when she does the work. She’s good.

Waits a second for him to fucking relax.

She just gives him heat then. Opens real wide and sits her tongue down, just hovers and breathes, little bits of wet when he fuckin’ squirms. Bumps against her. Dripping all on her fucking lips, in the space behind her teeth. Pussy and salt.

She’s dripping, too. She tells him about it.

Closes her mouth around him, a tiny little back and forth, sticks her tongue right against that good spot underneath, jams it under the slide of his foreskin and feels his hips jerk.

“I’m dripping on the fucking floor,” she tells him, letting her lips slide right off. Uses the bottom one to clean up that mess he’s making and shoves him right back in. Makes him feel the whole thing.

“You like my dick in your mouth?” His fingers stiffen all up in her hair, tug at it when he asks her.

“Mmhmm,” she says, vibration and spit with the sound, opening everything up, going so so so soft to help him fit. Help him get back into her throat.

“Do you?”

He’s just looking for more now. Doesn’t care about the answer, just wants the moan. The swallow.

Helaena doesn’t give it to him. Lets him slip right back out, scrape over her teeth, and she answers him with her full voice. “Yes, Daddy.”

She tries not to giggle when he makes a frustrated little noise and scratches those blunt nails against her scalp. Her fuckin’ pigtails are all loose now, frizzed and fucked up and she can feel hair sticking to her face. Cock knocking against her chin.

She smiles, squirms a little. Thinks about touching herself; thinks maybe it’s okay now, so she opens wide again, feels him take his free hand and grope for her jaw, try to stick himself back in, and she lets one finger wander. Just a tiny bit.

When she brushes at her clit, he’s in her mouth again, nudging towards her throat, and her happy little whimper makes him happy, too. He jerks again, pushes deeper, and she finally gets to fucking work. Just presses on herself - too much movement and she’s done for - while she fuckin’ takes him, gives him the full fuckin’ sloppy deal, spit and slide and swallow swallow swallow, gives him a pretty gag, and that just about fucking does it.

He starts his shit, flapping his fuckin’ gums like Waffle on a bender, and his voice sounds like he’s been doing rails for a fuckin’ week straight. All tore up. “Laney I love your mouth. Oh my god,” he says, following her rhythm now. Rocking right along, holding on tight. “Your mouth. You know what I’d do for your fucking mouth?”

She makes some sort of noise, some kinda tell me sound and gags on it more for him, and she can hear his breath going to chaos; feel him pull in, fucking muscles and fuckin’ balls again, just strung right out.

“Anything,” he says. “Anything. I’d do anything for your fucking mouth, oh my god I’d fucking burn it all down, Laney, I’d die,” and he sounds so fucking done. Absolutely trashed. She swallows around him, feels like her bones are all unbolted he’s so big, just everywhere, swallows again, spitty and drooly and aching now between her legs. Literally aching. Violently.

She takes her hand away before she ruins herself, and he clutches at her hair, makes such a sweet, devastating little sound, and then she’s got a fucking mouthful. No warning. He usually will start to fucking pull out so he can make a mess, or start smacking at her like he’s wound too tight, but this time he just grabs her and it’s over.

She swallows all of it. Puts him right in her belly while he fumbles with her ear, thumbs into the the gap in the corner of her lips. “Laney, your mouth,” he says again, and she sucks at his lovely cock, his lovely thumb, leans into the grip he’s got on her head.

They sit there in the wake of it for a minute, the air gone sour-smelling, bodies and sweat and pussy and jizz, and then he remembers himself.

“Come on,” he tells her. “Up,” and he’s just her brother now. She sucked the fucking Daddy right out of him, she thinks, a sort of half-smile on her face, and he helps her clamber back into bed. All quivery strength and hot breath.

All he’s gotta fucking do is pull the trigger. She’s dripped down her goddamn thighs, can feel her heartbeat from her belly to her knees, feel herself grabbing for something every time it pounds at her. Her fucking body doesn’t know what to do with itself, it’s just pinging on all its goddamn dash lights begging for help, and even his hands on her waist, under her arms as he pulls her up almost send her.

“Please,” she says, asking for literally anything, she thinks. Anything, and then he reaches back and fishes under the pillow. Yanks out her vibrator.

She laughs, a sort of manic sound that almost makes her come, too; its funny bubble in her throat. “C’mere,” he says, tapping at the outside of one knee. “I got you.”

“Sketch-head,” she laughs. “Fucking menace.” Thinks he must’ve done it when she was in the shower, had this whole thing laid out because of course he did, and he smiles at her, still all fucked-up.

“That’s me,” he says, “open your fuckin’ legs, I want you to come,” and when she does he just spits on it twice and slides the motherfucker in. It’s just one of those little rabbit things, basic and functional and smaller than he is, which is usually fine but right now she wishes she’d fuckin’ sized up or something. Misses how he fuckin’ fits her; that dangerous, whitehot pressure.

But when he flips it on, sets that buzz low and random, she couldn’t fucking care any less. It’s not the right spot, but it fuckin’ could be if he keeps at it, holds it there, nudging up from inside and letting it spread out through the web of her fucking nerves and light them up.

She lets herself fuckin’ holler for him now. Knows he’s gonna finish her up, no more bullshit, so she digs her nails into his shoulder and opens her mouth and cusses that bastard right the fuck out. Gives him so many goddamn f-bombs he nearly gets hard again from it, fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck you motherfucker oh my god oh shit fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck me harder you motherfucker come on, and he does a good job. Fucks her with it til she’s fucking incoherent, fast and hard, pulling back the stupid rabbit ears with his thumb, keeping them out of the way because he wants to fucking do it himself, and when he can tell she’s gonna come just from that whisper-low vibration and the grind of it inside, all wrong but fucking fantastic because she’s so goddamn wound, he puts that thumb right where it belongs. Right where she’s as hard as his goddamn dick and throbbing and screaming, and the touch - the singular fucking slide of it - rips her fucking throat out.

It takes thirty fucking seconds or something. Maybe forty. Fifty. Less than a minute, probably, start to finish, and she’s inside out, guts just spilling, twisted up and wrecked against his chest, and she can hear him in her ear. “There it is, there it is, holy shit, there it is,” and he’s smiling at her.

When she looks up, he’s eight years old and looking like God Himself just laid salvation on his tiny baby tongue. Wide-eyed and awestruck and way out of his league.

They fold like a bombed-out building into the pillows. Just done.

He’s easy when he takes the fuckin’ thing out of her. Slow. Gives her a warning. He tosses it into the fuckin’ blankets and squeezes her close.

His heart is still jacked up under her ear, pounding away, while she snuggles in tight.

“Hey,” she says, when it’s slowed to a steady little trot.

“Hey,” he says back.

“You catch any of that movie?”

The credits are long done. Screen blank and humming white noise at them. Helaena feels him smile against her hair.

“Not much, Laney,” he tells her. “Not fuckin’ much.”

“Wanna watch it again?” she grins. “For real?”

His chest rises and falls with his tender little laugh. “Yeah. I do.”

“Good; me, too,” she says. “Get that fuckin’ popcorn.”

He does.

Chapter 30: Fifty-Fifty

Summary:

whole lotta nothing. bad dreams, good weed, a smidgen of ptsd and some (dubious) contraception 🤷🏼‍♀️

Notes:

once again i have become fixated on the minutiae. as one does (er, just me probably.)

also there’s totally a Spotify playlist for this big mess. gonna try to figure out how to link it I think 😬😂 gotta get the vibe right, ykyk.

Her hand on my thigh, my shoulder,
in my hair. She leans over to kiss my cheek.
We look at each other, smile. For miles
we travel this way, nearly silent, point
with eyes or chins at the circling hawk, the king-
fisher on the snag above the swollen
creek. One night I weep in her arms
as she cries, "Oh, oh, oh!" because I have touched
her scars lightly: throat, belly, breasts.
In that communion of lovers, thick sobs
break from me as I think of my love
back home, all that I have done
and cannot say.

— from Six Sonnets: Crossing the West by Janice Gould

 

She doesn’t make it through the second watch, either.

Helaena lays her head against his chest; presses the hollow of her ear right to the beat of blood there. It feels like she’s a little shell on the shoreline, and he’s the blanket of a tide, and the air is salty and the sand is warm, and her mouth tastes like seaweed and sunshine.

He takes her hair down slowly, soft fingers at the elastic, and brushes it back from her forehead. Her cheeks. Combs through the tangles and unwinds them. “Where did the two of you get this mess from?” Eyeball asks. “Nobody else’s got hair like this.”

Her and Waffle, he means. He’s not looking for an answer, and she doesn’t give him one. She just sighs at the touch.

He reaches a hand to flick off the lamp.

The movie is shades of black and white. Purple and gray and green. Jerky flashes of low light and low sound.

It’s dark, and it’s quiet, and she’s tired, and she loves him. Somewhere down in her marrow, she loves him. Down in that funny DNA of theirs, spinning like a whole planet on a funny axis, she loves him.

She listens to his heartbeat, and she falls asleep.

The dreams are wet.

Seawater, first. Rain. The mix of the two around her feet, and then she’s stepping in sand, gone to mud, gone to the sinkingsoft loam of cemetery ground. Aerated, spongy rot between her toes, reconstituting. Back to ash, then back to bone, a skeleton bridge clinking like a ghoulish xylophone. Notes beneath her steps, off-key and tuneless as a toddler’s manic, metal banging.

Water. Ocean-gray, shrinking to the white-capped brown rush of a storm-swollen river, receding and receding until she’s standing in a puddle. Bare feet in blood, little shards of skull scattered like cockles on the asphalt.

Everything smells like gunpowder, like iron. Like steam coming up from a subway grate; that wet mid-August stink that sticks to your skin. Piss and garbage and rain. Broken glass in the gutters. A liquor bottle; that cheap fucking whiskey Waffle likes, layered over gasoline, layered over smoke.

Hair burning, or flesh; a crematorium smell, but damp.

Everything’s wet. Everything’s on fire.

Not a nightmare. Not exactly.

She knows those well; wakes from them often in a sort of blundering terror, a sweat, doing one of those screamless screams that only exist in dreams. Only in her head. Forgets where she is until she’s climbing over her baby brother’s body trying to escape, then looks down at his skin, pale as a porch light. Remembers how to get home.

It’s not that.

She comes out of this one nauseous and dirty, but not afraid.

She’s still pressed against him, drooling on his chest. Hasn’t been thrashing around or anything. Her cheek is sticky when she moves it, and in that weird come-to, she thinks someone’s bleeding for a second. Startles herself.

He’s inside of her, arm tucked down and over and crooked at a weird angle so he can reach between her legs. Not an accident; not something done in his sleep. Something he did to get to sleep, she thinks. Just one finger when she gives it a squeeze. Sitting shallow, liable to slip out soon anyway.

She feels like she’s carrying her dream in her pores. In her hair. Under her fucking nails. She looks down at them in the thin light that the television screen is throwing - Eyeball must’ve passed out with it still playing, too; didn’t shut it off - and tries to see them. See if she took a piece of that world with her. It’s too dark to tell.

Helaena shifts around; feels his finger slide out. He doesn’t wake up as she edges away a little, scoots towards the side of the bed, and she stands and stretches out in the gloom.

She goes into the bathroom; shuts the door and turns on the light. Leans down over the sink. She thinks she might puke; can still smell everything, taste it in the back of her throat. There’s something else mixed with it; fucking spunk probably. That shit fucking lingers. Popcorn fuckin’ tasted like it. Should’ve told him to make her stupid face pretty with it instead.

It takes a few minutes, a few rinses with the vaguely dank tap water and some deep breaths, but the feeling subsides, mostly. She’s left staring in the unforgiving mirror, in the unforgiving light, and she unhooks her bra and drops it on the floor. She’s got impressions from the wire. The straps. Everything too tight; she doesn’t know how she fell asleep in it.

She’s got another smattering of little, brand new redpurple hickeys across her chest. Caught in her web. Dotting her clavicle.

She looks like somebody’s fuckin’ kept baby. All marked up everywhere. They fuck around sometimes, play rough, get bitten and bruised and whatever, but Christ. He’s turned her into a fuckin’ chew toy.

She still likes that fucking mess on her back though. Turns to look at it again. Little fucking wedding ring. They were all fucking sex-addled and stupid and bent when she said it, but she wasn’t wrong.

Not really.

It’s so pretty. Coloring up nice now, like swirls of paint across her skin. He’s always turning her into art.

It’s better than a diamond.

She needs a smoke. Bad. Wants some fucking weed; maybe she can get back to sleep halfway decent.

She shuts the bathroom door, leaves it cracked a little for some light and finds herself a pair of pants. Pulls on Eyeball’s t-shirt - some long-sleeved fuckin’ Nine Inch Nails shit that’s seen better days, thumb-holes in the cuffs with the printing fading away; it smells like him; smoke and warm leather or something - and looks around for the keys.

She finds them in his jeans’ pocket, crumpled up on the carpet. Knife in the other side. He’s getting fucking careless, she thinks. Sleeping with a mess around. Leaving sharp shit on the floor. Not like him to just roll over, jam a finger in her and pass out without taking care of shit first. His brain’s not right.

She picks his pants up and drapes them over the chair in the corner. Makes sure the knife is fucking folded up and tucked in good. Looks at the shape of him in the covers, curled up on his side now. A little boy all alone in a great big bed.

Helaena finds the fuckin’ maryjane in the inside pocket of his backpack with Waffle’s fuckin’ papers. She licks a finger and rolls herself up fat. Takes his cigarettes, too. Wants to save her Reds.

Too cold to sit outside tonight, really, but the car’s a gamble. If she wants the heat, she’ll have to wake poor Granny up, and it’s about a fifty-fifty shot that it wakes Eyeball up, too.

Mama would start her car, and it’d rouse that kid out of a dead sleep. Hated hated hated if she tried to leave without telling him; without fuckin’ saying goodbye. It was always like it was the last fuckin’ time he was gonna see her. He’d bolt right up, and she’d catch him barefoot and half-dressed in the rearview and have to turn around. Or not. A lot of times, it was or not.

Late, she’d tell him. You keep making me late. She wouldn’t just go in and say goodbye, avoid all the fucking drama; Helaena could never figure it out.

He stopped running after her eventually, but some part of him always listened for the fucking engine in the driveway. Always waiting for someone to go away.

Sometimes a car starting up outside’ll still do it.

And he still hates that shit. Helaena never leaves without telling him.

But she’s not fucking going anywhere, and he needs to sleep. Never gonna set his fuckin’ brain back in order if he doesn’t. She decides to gamble.

She loses, of course. Just like her daddy.

She settles down with all her shit in the driver’s seat, lights her joint and starts Granny up, and the rotten bitch just wants her man. Mad that someone else’s hands are all over her and needs everyone to know it. Shudders and stalls with a big, nasty cough right away. That’ll do it, Helaena knows, and she’s right.

She tries again, gritting her teeth and muttering come on come on come on, laughing a little at the way she sounds like fuckin’ Eyeball when she does it; like when he’s got her pulled up to the edge and he’s trying to yank her over. Make her sing pretty for him. Granny must think she sounds like him, too; like he’s trying to coax a nice, wet fuckin’ orgasm from her, because she heaves and comes for Helaena like a good girl. Starts right up. Maybe that’s the secret. A little sexytalk. Works for her, so why not?

She’s barely got the heat turned up right and her fuckin’ joint in her mouth when her fuckin’ brother comes out, door swinging. Dressed himself in a hurry, pajama pants all sideways, twisted up and too tight in the front, flap in the wrong spot. Still half-hard from sleep, she can fuckin’ see it. Hair a mess. No knife, nothing.

He tugs at the passenger door, but it’s still fucking locked, and in the tinny light from the outside bulbs, his face registers a moment of panic. Helaena squeezes her eyes shut for a second, thinks shit, and reaches over to pop the lock for him.

“Where are you going?”

She only catches the last words clearly, he’s talking before the door’s even open, and before she can answer him he’s in next to her. Still looking frazzled.

Helaena holds up her joint for him. “Baby,” she says, exhaling, “it’s like two a-m. Where the fuck would I be going?”

He shakes his head at her. “I dunno. I dunno, I heard the fucking car. Don’t…”

“I wasn’t. I didn’t want to fuckin’ wake you up.”

“Laney, don’t…”

“I wasn’t.”

“… leave me. Please.” One leg tucked up on the seat, perched on it, sitting like she does sometimes. Anxious.

“I wasn’t,” she says again. Softer. “I wasn’t. I’m not. Christ, Eyeball. I was trying to be nice.”

“You know I fuckin’ hate that shit.”

“I wasn’t going anywhere! I was dreaming all fuckin’ weird shit and I wanted some fuckin’ weed. Trying to sleep.” She stops and takes a hit, deep, and holds it. Motions for him.

He looks at her like maybe he’s starting to chill out, hands unclenched some, and leans over a little. When she touches him, she can feel the panic still on his skin, and she wrinkles up her forehead. Pulls his face right to hers and thumbs his pretty, tight lips apart. They open for her, and she seals their mouths together and gives him her smoke. Feels him take it from her, a shaky sort of shotgun. Rattly.

He stays even after it’s done, and she runs her hands all down his neck. Over his bare shoulders. Tilts so he can exhale through his nose, and then turns it into a kiss that he relaxes into, just a little.

She strokes his cheek, thumb walking the track of his jagged scar. “Better?” she asks.

“More,” he says.

Helaena nods. Keeps one hand on his shoulder, propped up on her knees, and takes another good hit. He sits down low and lets her lean over him, and it’s so nice. Feels fucking dreamy to see him tipped up to her, bottom lip like something juicy she wants to crush between her teeth. She breathes into him so slow, and she can feel the pressure in his chest when he inhales, her hand resting against him there.

“There you go, baby,” she says. Just a whisper, right next to the line of his nose. Under his good eye. “There. You take it so nice,” and he smiles. A wry little wicked thing.

“Brat,” he says. “More.”

“Mmm, yes Daddy,” and he just laughs at her.

“Nah,” he says. Watches her lean her head back into her fuckin’ drag and grin around it.

She gives him another lungful, closed eyes, windows fogging up around them. “There, baby,” right to his cheek.

“Good,” he says. “Thank you.” He pauses for a minute, and she sits back down into the seat. “What were you dreaming?” he asks her.

“Fucking dirty shit,” she says. “Not the good kind.” She never has those. Not that she can remember, anyway. Sometimes she’ll wake up slippery, some vague sense that something good was going on, but they don’t stick. Not like this. She can’t remember too many details here, either, but the feeling is still there. Sliding right up her spine, creepycrawly when she thinks about it.

“Dirty how?”

“Just fuckin’ grimy. I dunno. Woke up and all I could smell was like, death and… fuckin’ wet dumpster. Thought I was gonna fucking barf. Felt like I smelled like it.”

He looks over at her. “Nah.” He pauses, lets his mouth curl a little. It’s good smoke, Helaena thinks. Making him a little fuckin’ stupid already, between what he took from her and Granny turning into a fuckin’ hotbox now. She’s right. “Cum dumpster maybe,” he says, and he snickers.

She rolls her fucking eyes and laughs. “You’re stupid,” she tells him. “What’re you, fuckin’ twelve?”

“Sometimes,” he says. He steals her joint and sucks on it for awhile. “I like to fuckin’ come in you.”

She laughs again. “I fuckin’ know.”

“Shit, Lane,” he says. “You ever take that shit? No. You didn’t.” He turns to flip open the console.

“Shit,” she says. Throws her head back and groans as he pulls out the goddamn AfterPill. “Nope. Ugh, I don’t wanna fuckin’ take it now; I’m trying to get back to sleep.”

“Doesn’t kick in for awhile, right?” he says. “You can sleep for a minute. You don’t wanna wait too fuckin’ long.”

“I waited this long.”

“Probably too long,” he says. “You’re supposed to do it right away, right?” A little sheepish, she thinks. He should’ve fucking remembered, even if she didn’t. Not like him not to. “Take it. I’ll sit with you if you get sick. We can stay another night if you want. You like it here, yeah?”

Helaena sighs. “I fuckin’ hate this crap.”

“Take it,” he says. “Take it, and I’ll fuckin’ get neutered. Okay? We got money now. I’ll get cut and we won’t have to worry about it anymore.”

She smiles at him. Steals her joint back. “Don’t be fuckin’ crazy.”

“What’s crazy about that? People do it all the fuckin’ time. Then I can just come in you all fuckin’ day.”

The smile turns into a laugh. “You do anyway.”

“Well right now, only because you had to take this shit anyway.” He looks at her, and he looks like a little kid up to no good. “I always want to. It feels so good, Lane. I wanna do it all the time.”

She laughs at him again. “Jesus Christ. You’re a hot mess. Don’t be crazy. That’s expensive, and you’re a fuckin’ baby. What if you wanna have fuckin’ kids someday or whatever?”

“With who, Laney? We’d make fuckin’ gremlins. You know that.”

She suddenly feels like she could cry again. Out of nowhere, like a sucker punch; tears like fingertips pressing at her eyelids. She swallows hard and blinks ferociously. Takes a big old breath and looks straight up. Her voice is a little thin, but she manages. “You talk like you’re not gonna grow out of this having-a-crush-on-your-fuckin’-sister shit,” she says. She takes a hit to try to steady herself.

“Shut the fuck up,” he says. “Shut up. Take your pill.”

There’s an old, flat seltzer in the console. Eyeball opens the box and pops the pill out. Puts it in her mouth for her. She takes it quick. It sticks in her throat, even though it’s small, and she needs almost the whole rest of the fucking can to dislodge it, but she chokes it down.

“There.” She reaches over to take his hand. Draws a little heart on the back, then another, and another. Starts to write her name. “I’m going back to bed. Gonna feel like shit soon.”

They split one of his stupid Newports, then they crack the windows to air out the car, and Eyeball takes the garbage in to throw away.

Helaena strips and crawls into bed, and he fishes around in his bag, then hops in next to her. “Here,” he says, and hands her ibuprofen. “Get ahead of it. The weed will help, too. I’ll smoke you up again in the morning.”

He’s smart. Knows all about pain.

She dry-swallows with a little spit and smiles at him.

He tucks her in and wriggles under the blankets next to her. They twine up together, all limbs and fingers. He’s still got his pants on, and she shoves a hand down inside of them. He’s soft and snuggly, and she holds his hipbone like a teddy bear. “I wasn’t going anywhere,” she says. Mumbles to the hollow of his throat. He smells like pot and cool air and sleep.

“Me either,” he says back. “I’m not going anywhere. Not putting fucking babies in anybody else. I’m gonna get cut.”

“Fuckin’ cut nothing,” she says. Her eyes are heavy. Tongue, too. Too big for her face all the sudden. Not even connected to her brain anymore. That was good shit. “No cutting. You’re mine. Nobody’s gonna fuckin’ touch you. Never again. Fuckin’ cutting, you’re crazy.”

“Go to sleep, Laneybug.”

“Nobody’s gonna touch you. Shut up.”

“Shhhhh.” He kisses her forehead, and she can feel his breath dead center. A perfect little hot circle.

“You’re mine,” she says. Yawns.

“I know, little girl.”

She grins, lion-lazy and in love up to her neck. He’s stoned as fuck with that shit. Out of his mind. So beautiful she could die.

They sleep.

Chapter 31: Gate of the Gods

Summary:

She doesn’t really wanna go here, but it’s as good a time as any. It might help.

Notes:

two things — I’m a creepy little critter who is most at home where it’s a little dark & gross, so that’s where we’re at

& I’m also super interested in like, kink-discovery/origin stories, if you will, & a part of me really wants to do a little adjunct/addendum to this universe with the spanking shit 😂 because helaena’s not telling you the full story, dear readers. it did not, in fact, start there.

Three things I guess - there’s fairly graphic discussion of violence in this chapter. No violence itself, but 🤷🏼‍♀️

Finger me slowly
In the snowscape of your childhood
Our dead floating just below the surface of the earth
Bend me over like a substitute teacher
& pump me full of shivering arrows
O emotional vulnerability
Bosnian folk-song, birds in the chimney
Tell me what you love when you think I’m not listening

-from Keats is Dead So Fuck Me From Behind by Hera Lindsay Bird

 

The cramps fucking wake her up for the second time.

She’s kind of a baby; she’s the first one to admit it. Only wants the pain on her terms, when she’s good and ready for it. When she needs it. A nice fuckin’ hot spanking, or Eyeball’s sharp fucking teeth, or a fuck so rough it bruises her goddamn liver. The sexy, heady buzz of a tattoo needle. All good shit, all when she calls the shots. She can take it like a champ.

But outside the context of desire, of pleasure, of fuckin’ obliterate me, forget it. It’s bullshit. Her tolerance is trash.

Eyeball picks on her for it. You tell me I fuckin’ hit like a bitch when I bend you over, but God forbid you get a fuckin’ headache.

She did tell him that. He was hitting like a bitch. They were still at Mama’s. He’d sighed at her over her final report card; told her she was too fuckin’ smart to get such shit grades. To graduate where she did, so close to the fuckin’ bottom. Sounded just like her Daddy, so she told him to fuckin’ act like one: put his money where his mouth is and lay into her.

He was afraid to hurt her that first time; acting like a sweet little virgin. She pissed him off though, egged him on and he wailed on her good after that. Spanked a string of sorries right out of her mouth, her skin so hot that his felt cool against her ass when he fucked her brainless afterwards. It was so good her head all but exploded.

He wasn’t afraid after that. Impressed, mostly. Turned on. Got him harder than it should’ve, he’d said to her, and she’d smirked.

But give her a literal headache? Yeah. He’s not wrong. She’s pathetic.

And cramps, fuckin’ forget it.

These aren’t the worst she’s had - pregaming with meds and fuckin’ pot was a good idea - but they’re not a goddamn picnic. Bring her right out of that good weed-doze she’d gotten for herself; that dreamless deep stuff she can usually only fantasize about.

It’s six-thirtyish, says the blinking red clock beside the bed. At least she got a couple solid hours.

Eyeball’s out cold, nuzzling up in her ear with his breath, spider-monkeyed around her and pinning her in place. It’s precious, but being on her back doesn’t feel good. She needs to be able to curl in around the sensation. Trap it.

She wakes him up. Bumps their noses, flutters her lashes against him, scrunches at his ribs with her fingertips. Annoying sister shit until he blinks at her, smoggy, and bites her soft on the chin to say good morning.

“Hey,” she whispers. “I gotta move.”

She gives him a second to process. He’s sleepy and probably still kinda blitzed. It sinks in, and he unwraps himself to let her up. “You okay?”

“Yeah, that shit just kicked in is all. Gotta get comfortable.”

“Pukey?” he wants to know, sitting up and rubbing his eye.

“Not yet. Just crampy.” She gets up to pee and wash up a little, and when she comes out he’s got a handful of pills for her and the last can of seltzer, cold and fizzy from the tiny fridge. Lime shit. It’s not bad.

“Bleeding?” he asks when he hands it to her.

“No, not yet.” She swallows obediently.

“Okay.” Helaena watches him stretch and strip down in the lamplight as she climbs back into bed. Grab his jeans from the chair and the shirt of his she tossed last night. “Gonna piss, then I’ll run and grab coffee, okay? You want anything else?” He disappears into the bathroom, door open.

“I don’t think so. Thank you. Careful fuckin’ driving. How messed up are you still? That was good shit.”

“Not very,” he says. “Fine to drive. It’s just down that hill.”

She listens to him pee and wash his hands and face. Run a brush over his teeth. He comes out patting himself dry on his shirt. “You stink like it,” she tells him. “That shirt I think. I was wearing that.”

“Yeah?” He sniffs himself and pulls it back off. “Goddamn Laney, I need deodorant.”

“Gimme,” she says, smiling, and he laughs and tosses his shirt at her.

“You just wanted it.”

“Mmhm. ‘Cause it stinks like you.” She pulls it on, and he finds another one in the bag, slaps on his fuckin’ deodorant and grabs the keys.

“Here.” He tosses her the remote before he goes. “Find some garbage.”

When he comes back, she’s wrapped up in his t-shirt and she’s got reruns of The Office going, trying to get herself laughing. It’s working a little.

Eyeball’s got coffee and smokes and a gross chocolate donut for her. A joint rolled up, too.

“Car’s warm and running,” he says, handing all but his cigs off to her. “Eat and smoke.”

Helaena peeks out the door and doesn’t see anyone in the lot, so she doesn’t bother with pants, just scurries out and hops into the driver’s seat, bare-assed, Eyeball fucking laughing at her as she goes. He leans on the door jamb and puffs on one of her Marlboros, eye closed and chin to the sky, looking like a cat in a puddle of sun, even though it’s not up yet.

She puts the seat back, turns the radio on, and takes her time. The position is good when she leans to the side, just the right angle. She’s getting crumbs everywhere; gonna catch it from him later, but she doesn’t give a shit. Donut is the exact amount of disgusting to help, too; weird tacky frosting and a little dry inside, and the coffee turns it to sugary paste.

The weed is fucking spectacular. She’s gonna be drooling on herself in a minute. Maybe she’ll fucking suck him off again if the fucking cramps chill out. Stick a finger in his ass and blow his mind; turn him into melty goo. She laughs thinking about it, the way he’ll press backwards like a slut for her sometimes, and closes her eyes.

She wakes up in his arms, to him laughing in her fucking ear as he swings his hip to shut the door and bring her back inside. “The fuck are you doing, Lane?” he says. “Gonna suck up all the gas.”

She smiles into his shoulder. “I was comfy.”

“I guess so. How are you feeling?”

“Oh… sick,” she says suddenly. “Sick, put me down.”

The nausea rolls through her like the world’s fuckin’ shittiest orgasm; starts low in her belly like one, climbs up to a sickening height, ends with a spasm. Nothing comes up, thankfully, because she wouldn’t have fuckin’ made it. He sets her down next to the bed, and that’s it. She leans over and fuckin’ dry-heaves.

“Shhhh, okay,” he says. “Here, get up.”

He helps her into bed and grabs the fucking trash can from the bathroom. Tucks it next to her like a stuffy.

“Shit,” she says. “Oh my god, that sucked.” Maybe she shouldn’t have fuckin’ smoked. Sometimes it feels better just to get it all out.

“It’s okay, Lane,” he says. “Lay down. On your side, c’mon.” She arranges herself cautiously on the edge of the bed, facing the wall, and he moves the garbage can to the floor. “There. Okay.”

He sits beside her, soft pressure between her shoulder blades. It’s grounding. The heel of his hand feels like a tether, and she focuses on it. Takes breaths until the wave slips out.

More deep breaths help, then. Stillness. “I fuckin’ hate this shit, Eyeball. Oh my god I’d rather have another fuckin’ abortion.”

“C’mon, Lane. No you…”

“No. I wouldn’t. But no more of this. Jesus Christ, just pull out. We gotta use condoms. Something.”

He’s got a hand in her hair now, just stroking. “Okay. Okay. It’s been…”

“I know. I know. Not fuckin’ normal, honey. Nothing’s been normal. It’s all been a mess.” She pauses. The talking’s not helping. “I’ve needed it… you… all of it, too. I know. It feels better, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

“To be close like that. Dumb. But…”

She can feel him shrug. A little nod with his shoulders, a yes. He kisses it right into the back of her neck; puts a sigh there, too. “Dumb. But yeah. Shit’s been so bad, Lane. So bad. You’re the only…”

He doesn’t say it. Doesn’t have to.

“I know. You, too. We’re both fuckin’ stupid.” She squeezes her eyes shut against another wave of sick. “I don’t care,” she finally says. Quiet. “We just do what we gotta do. We always do. Sometimes I just gotta have you fuckin’ raw.”

She laughs, tries to keep it shallow and blunt and soft. Keep it from making her head spin too hard. He laughs, too. “You’re medicine, Laney. Fuckin’ medicine. The only…”

It fades again.

“The only,” she says. “I know. You, too.”

They go silent. Just sit in it, the television murmuring nonsense around them. He keeps his hand firm on her back, and she puts all of her attention there, keeping the room from going haywire; her fuckin’ stomach from going with it. The cramps are a lot better. God bless NSAIDs.

“Hey,” she says after awhile, the fuckin’ nausea under control for now. “You gotta tell me something.”

She doesn’t really wanna go here, but it’s as good a time as any. It might help.

The real shit is never as bad as the pretend.

“Hmm?” He’s got his fingers walking up and down her arm, riding the blue of her veins and the line of pale freckles there. He still smells like weed, she thinks. It’s in his hair, or his skin maybe. Lucky he didn’t get pulled over. Out of state plates and shit.

“Tell me… tell me how you did it.” She swallows, the motion so heavy it wobbles her guts a little. “I’ve… I just… I think if I knew I could stop imagining. You know? Fuckin’ brain keeps showing me bad shit, not letting me sleep right and messing with my dreams and…”

She feels him stiffen right up, hand closing around one wrist, where he’s been rubbing at her. It takes him a long time to respond, but she gives it to him. Doesn’t try to push, or retract, or any of it. Waits him out. Breathes back the nausea.

His grip stays tight. His voice is careful. She can tell he’s working hard. “What do you want me to say, Lane? I fuckin’ shot him.”

“Where?” It’s just above a whisper. She doesn’t really mean it to be. She’s not trying to make this a thing. It’s already a thing.

She can feel his other hand. He’s propped up on an arm behind her, bottom hand at the base of her neck. Two fingers tapping, like a fuckin’ microphone or something. Right at the round of her bone. “In the fuckin’ head, Lane. Jesus.” Fingers in her hair now. “At ten…” drawing a line, slow. Stopping like a clock in the tangles. “And six.” Back down.

She swallows again at the contact and shudders. Involuntary. “Twice?”

“Mmhm.” He’s got her wrist now, gentle. A little tug. She lets him take her, loose in her elbow and swirling in her belly, backbackback to where her spine bends like a bow at the bottom. There’s a thumb on her pulse, pushing in to count it. Keep time. Pause. She can feel her own knuckles. “I had to be sure, you know? I didn’t… I didn’t want to fuck it up.”

“H… how?” Helaena asks. “Like… was he standing, or…?”

“No.” Other hand out of her hair now. Wandering across her bottom shoulder. “He… he couldn’t kneel right. Leg was all fucked up, so I… I helped him lay down.”

“Helped him?”

“Mmhm,” he says again. “Had to. Kind of… like this,” he says. He’s tugging at her upper arm, trying to edge it out from under her, and she can feel her whole back prick up. Little zaps of electricity turning it to gooseflesh. Cold. “On his stomach.”

Helaena tenses the hand in his grasp. Feels him tighten it, like she’s trying to get away. She’s not. Not on purpose, anyway, but something in her body is resisting. “Where?” she asks.

“Alongside the creek.”

“In the water?”

Her other arm is out now. Long fingers bending it, crooking her elbow in and drawing lines up and down. It’s gentle. A guide, like when he showed her how to fucking skip a rock. Or hold a gun. “Not at first. Left him there, though. Water is…”

He doesn’t finish. She knows what water is. They’ve watched enough of that shit to know what water is. Hastens decomposition. Destroys evidence.

He’s bundled her up like flowers now. A pretty bouquet behind her back. Two wrists in one of his good, good hands; pressing back against her nakedness. Where his shirt’s ridden up.

“The pillow?”

He pauses here, like this is the worst fucking part. He rolls her, just a little. She lets him. Gets flat on her belly, head turned towards the wall. The pressure actually feels good, like it’s sealing off the tunnels. Holding back the sick rising like a creek after a rainstorm. Her eyes keep fluttering, but when they open, she’s staring down into the empty fucking garbage can. Good, she thinks. Just in case.

“Over his head,” Eyeball finally says, and she can hear the strain in his voice. The thread of shame. “I couldn’t look.”

His hand squeezes, and it’s so tight for a second that her skin buzzes with numb. He doesn’t stay that way, though; checks himself when he feels her try to stretch through it. It’s his bottom hand now, wide grip around her like fuckin’ zip ties.

“It’s okay,” she whispers. She means it, too. She wouldn’t look, either. “Did you see when you took it off?”

That fucking pillow is still in the bag. Bloody and bullet-holed. She didn’t look close, but she saw what she thought she saw.

It helps to know. It fucking helps. She hopes.

His other hand is on her bare thigh. Just resting, twitchy and unsettled there. “No.”

“Okay,” she says. “Okay. That’s enough. I’m sorry. Thank you. I just…”

“Shhhhh,” he says.

She can feel him shifting around. Moving to sit up a little more. Get some angle and leverage. She swallows again, again, again. Three times hard as his fingers dip between her legs. Push them apart, his weight leaning into her bound-up wrists as he adjusts.

“Shhhh,” he says again, but she’s not talking. Not moving. “This will help,” he says, soft. “Good for cramps. Right, Lane?”

Right. He’s right. They do it all the fucking time. Medicine.

She makes a tiny sound at him, a gentle whimper of assent, just this side of crying as she feels his fingers slide against her.

He finds her just a little wet. Not enough to get it done, but he fixes it quickly. Knows how to flip the switches; turn her on and make her run like rushing water over him. By the time there’s two inside of her, she’s bucking her hips, feeling the pull in the joints of her shoulders as she writhes and pants and whines at him.

He’s got her good and fucking pinned, pushing her hard into the mattress as he fuckin’ works her over. He’s using that friction, pressing down deep inside of her against the front so she rubs up on it, and there’s so much fucking pressure she feels like a goddamn corked bottle. The more she leans into it, the more her back arches, the more it builds and builds and builds until she’s literally crying. Tears leaking, mouth running; no words, just an escalating desiredistressfearreliefpleasurepainyesnoneed, and when it fucking takes her, crashes over her like a fucking avalanche, the sound is fucking feral. Awful. A heave, like she’s going to fucking puke, and she almost does. The clench sends revulsion racing up her spine like one of those fucking carnival games, test your strength, and it stops just before it pings that fucking bell.

She just retches, and she comes - hard, stupid hard for what it is - and he holds onto her wrists like she might just float away. Drift apart in pieces, like a corpse in the water. Disarticulate and disappear and drown.

She has marks from his clean, blunt nails when he helps her roll back over to look at him. Shallow little tallies in her skin.

His pupil is a door. Wide open and dark. It’s something between the worlds; the Gate of the Gods. It reminds her of Alys. “Better?” he asks her, brows drawn into a question. A plea, really.

She wants to kiss him, but she’s afraid she’ll throw up in his fucking mouth, so she just nods.

One of his thumbs runs down her cheek, right along the wet slope of tears, or sweat, or whatever. “I’m yours and you’re mine,” he says, and he is. And she is. And they are.

And this is; this is; this is.

Chapter 32: Bug-Out

Summary:

We’re not allowed to touch
but let’s make a list of all the shouldn’t things we’ve done or want to.
Tell me I’m pretty and I’ll bite first.

Notes:

really just intended to give them a little moment of levity but then it turned into like 1500 words of spontaneous semi-public kink negotiation? and I kind of loved that for them so i left it 🤷🏼‍♀️😬

and honestly for all of their incredibly messy, unhealthy dynamics, i feel like this is something they’re actually pretty good at? it’s still messy but i think ultimately successful

also, no non/dubcon shit here per se, but there are elements of that sort of fantasy/play? in case you’re sensitive to that 🩷

also Helaena is not having a great day

Bait
by Lara Coley

The proximity of pleasure ravages the room. The devil is in the details,
and by details, I mean, the things I want to do to you. This is where I
should swallow my spark, hold back my sweat and panting, contain
my sizzling skin because pretty girls waste themselves on empty
words and that emptiness weighs like lead on a line. Two fingers fit in
this mouth just as well as any hook, so hold me up like the lured feast
I’ll become. Take as many pictures as you want. We’re not allowed to touch
but let’s make a list of all the shouldn’t things we’ve done or want to.
Tell me I’m pretty and I’ll bite first.

 

The good weed and the fucking unsettlingly hot fingerbang and the overdose of hormones knock her right back out, like her body’s really doing whatever it can to keep her unconscious today. Protect her from the entirely too much of it all. She desperately needs a good chunk of sleep - even more than she usually does - and she’s having more luck sinking into it than normal.

She can’t fucking stay there, though. By eleven, Eyeball’s waking her up again. Kissing up on her and shit, wrapping an arm over her shoulders and tugging at her clothes, being a needy little baby.

But he’s not just being annoying for its own sake.

“We staying another night?” he wants to know, putting the words right into the tunnel of her ear. “You gotta go tell them if we are. Otherwise we gotta get our shit and go.”

“Shit.” He’s right. She didn’t fucking do that yet. “Yeah, we should. I don’t think I can do the fucking car for too long. I’m still not right.” Her stomach is bubbly and strange; felt like she was on that scrambly ride at the fair when she sat up. “Find me some pants,” she tells him and gets up to splash her face and piss.

She looks like garbage. Pale and bruise-eyed, bloodshot from the smoke. No color in her lips. A creepy little doll or something. She doesn’t feel like she wants anybody fucking looking at her right now.

“You think I can just call the desk?” she asks, grabbing the pants Eyeball’s tossed on the bed for her. There’s something hard in them when she goes to unfold them, caught somehow on the inside part of the pocket.

“You can try,” he says, stuffing the toe of his boot under the door to hold it open while he lights a cigarette.

Helaena cracks up laughing. “Eyeball. What the fuck?”

He blows his smoke. “What?”

“What the fuck is your fucking cock ring doing in my pants?”

“What?” he laughs.

“Here!” She’s holding it up, still cracking up. “I just pulled this out of my fucking pants!”

He tips his head back and smiles big, his laugh turning into a cough then back again, smoke billowing all over, making a little gray cloud around him. “Must’ve gotten stuck or whatever,” he says. “I threw a bunch of shit in there.”

She grins at him. “Forgot about this thing,” she says. They don’t get a lot of fucking use out of it. Mostly just decoration. Makes him look pretty, shiny metal and black silicone. Fuckin’ Choke Me Daddy porno shit. The vibration kinda sucks and never gets her in the right spot, but he likes it fine enough. He doesn’t have a fucking wrong spot. “Did you take everything?”

“Yeah. I figured we weren’t coming back, and like… you don’t leave that shit for someone else to deal with. That’s nasty.”

“Right. Manners,” she snickers. “You were only being polite.”

“Well. I mean. Not only,” he says.

Helaena comes up next to him and plucks his cigarette. Takes a drag and bops his stupid nose with his ring, then jams it into his back pocket. “You look good in it.”

“I know,” he grins. “Fuckin’ monster dick.”

She rolls her eyes and snorts at him. “Something like that. You don’t need the help.” She pauses. “I just like the way it looks. Like…”

“Like what?” He’s amused. Got an eyebrow arched up at her

“I dunno. Like dangerous or something.” She snickers a little. Looks away. Feels stupid saying it out loud. “Like you’re gonna fuckin’ hold me down and…”

He looks at her for a minute. Blows her a pretty O and smiles a little at his own fucking cleverness. “And what?”

She shrugs. “And… whatever you want.”

He looks her up and down and passes her the cigarette. Gives her something to do with her fuckin’ fidgety hands. “… That what you want me to do?”

She shrugs again and sucks on it hard. “I dunno.” She looks sideways at him; suddenly feels all fuckin’ hot or something. Dumb.

“Like… like different from how we do already sometimes? Like… fuckin’… you wanna fight about it or whatever?” He takes out his own cigarette and lights it with the one she’s fucking with. Holds her hand still to do it, gentle as anything; fingers curled right around her.

She shifts her weight, like she’s trying to find somewhere to put this that won’t set her off balance. She doesn’t have a fucking problem telling him how to fuck her. They’ve been sorting this shit out together for years. There’s nothing her body does he hasn’t fuckin’ seen; no place he hasn’t had his fuckin’ hands all over. Nothing she’s ever wanted that felt like a secret.

Maybe it wouldn’t have felt like this a month ago.

Maybe she wouldn’t have wanted it a month ago.

“I said I dunno,” she finally answers, and it’s not a lie. She doesn’t know how to say it. Or even what it is, exactly. Might be what he’s getting at. Something in that lane.

She watches his hands; two fingers holding his cigarette, four drumming at his thigh. Imagines them gripped behind her teeth. Pressing her neck against the wall. Wrapped around a trigger.

It all tastes the same when she swallows.

He’s waiting for more. Knows how she fuckin’ operates; mouth before brain half the time. I dunno means fucking hold on.

“No. I don’t wanna… no. I don’t wanna fight about it,” she says after a minute.

“Okay.” He takes a drag, leaning on an elbow. Closes his eye. Like it’s over.

“But you can tell me not to anyway.”

His eye stays closed, but his mouth turns up. “You want me to threaten you?”

Her neck’s all prickly. “Well when you fuckin’ say it like that…”

“That’s what it is. Right? I’m just trying to fuckin’ hear you out, Lane.”

She supposes. That’s sort of it. “I guess.”

“Just words?”

“…. Not exactly. I mean…”

He’s smiling a little now. “What do you mean?”

She pauses. Looks at him, eye contact and everything. It feels weird; like she’s fuckin’ talking to her brother, not her man. Like maybe how normal fuckin’ people would feel, trying to work this shit out. She lets her gaze skid away; land somewhere in the treeline across the gravel. “I mean… use your hands. Or… yeah. Your hands like….”

He butts his smoke against the building and pockets it. Waits for a second. “Like…?”

She’s still not looking, eyes up now to the sky. Looks like rain again, she thinks; fuzzy silver light and gathering clouds. She backs up until her shoulders hit the wall, and his wrist is in her grip, and when she pulls it to her own throat she tells him, “Like this.”

“How hard?” he says, quick on the fuckin’ draw, bless him; turning to crowd up against her, just a little press when she drops her arm. “You don’t like…”

“No,” she says. Eyes closed. “No, I wanna breathe. Just…”

“Open your eyes.”

She doesn’t. Just swallows, and his hand moves a little with it. Gets tighter.

“Open them.”

She squeezes them shut harderharderharder, feels his arm now, flush against her chest; the peril of his lean. His height. His breath, so close it ghosts through the gap in her teeth when she bites down on her lip. She lets herself shrink back. Get small.

His grip gets tighter still, just enough to narrow her; make her work a little for her air. Make it feel like she’s under water, just at the surface; light streaming through the trembling, shifting prism of desire, and all she has to do is slide a finger through to break the flimsy glass.

“Open your fucking eyes,” and there it is. The low register of his voice. The mayhemmenacemercy of it. Its blade at her back.

“There,” she says, a little gasp, eyes springing open; his hand springing open, his body rolling in against her, her chin tilting with his thumb, and the kiss is like coming up into the sunlight. It doesn’t land; it spills, runs over her, floods her with oxygen. “There,” she says again when he pulls back.

“You wanna be scared,” he says, a little mutter at her mouth. Kisses her again. Just a peck. “You didn’t always. You used to fuckin’ bug out when we were kids.”

“I mean… maybe the bug-out is the fucking beginning?” She laughs a little. “I mean… you were the little fucker who liked scaring everyone. Now look at you.”

He smirks. “Now look at me. I dunno. I think you like it more than I do.”

“I guess. Kinda,” and maybe. Maybe. Maybe she does. If it’s on purpose, if it’s a game, if…

“Are you scared of me?”

She scrapes her own cigarette down against the wall behind her and drops it. Takes his face in both hands. “No. Yes. Sometimes. Not now.”

“Okay.” He’s warm. Smells like smoke and soap. He showered while she was asleep. “It’s okay. I can do… I can be whatever you want. I can be anything, Laney.”

“I know.”

“Anything.”

“I know.”

“I’d do anything for you.”

“I know. I know. Right now… right now just get me some fuckin’ cash for tonight, okay? I gotta walk down there. They’re gonna want me to pay upfront. I can’t call. And more meds?”

He nods at her. Face looking he just woke up or something.

She reaches behind to tap his pocket. “…And put it on for me later.”

He smiles. “You feeling up to it?”

“Eh. I will at some point. Dunno when later is.” She stops for a second as he kicks his boot out of the doorway and pops it over the threshold. “I really was just trying to tell you you’re hot.”

He laughs at her. “Okay, but now I can be hotter, right?”

“I guess.”

“Do I have to be wearing that thing when…”

She laughs now. “No. I just… it just.. fuckin’ nevermind. Just nevermind.”

“You’re a fuckin’ piece of work.” He shuffles around in his wallet and hands her a wad of cash, grinning at her.

“Thanks, it’s all the trauma.” She shoves it into her pocket, and he catches her eye and snorts.

“At least it made you funny. Just made me mean.”

“Nah. You’re funny, too. And mean.” Eyeball hands her another three ibuprofen and a bottle of water, and she swallows them down with it. “Thank you. I’ll be right back. Have you eaten anything?”

“Nah.”

“Do that.”

“How’s your stomach? You want anything?”

“No, baby. Still not great.” She pulls on Eyeball’s hoodie and arranges it around her neck; tugs the strings and covers up all those fuckin’ lovebites. Rubs a little concealer under her eyes just to make herself feel better and chugs the rest of the water. Having liquid in her belly helps.

When she gets to the office, it’s a different clerk. Older woman, glasses and grays. Something about her reminds Helaena of a nun; probably the hair. Severe. She guesses she’s the owner.

Helaena doesn’t like her vibe right away. Something in the way she stands, or the way her hands sit against the counter. She has the urge to grab them; flip them over and stare at her wrinkly palms like Alys does. Looking for the ick.

She doesn’t, though. She’s polite; if anything, more than necessary. Gives the cabin number and asks if it’s available.

It’s about half-past eleven now. Helaena doesn’t have the fuckin’ ID she used, and this lady wants it.

Wants Eyeball’s, too. Furrows her brow when she looks at the fuckin’ reservation and there’s only one name. Starts asking questions. Who is he, and why isn’t he on here, and didn’t they ask about the number of guests at check-in, and Helaena doesn’t fuckin’ like any of it. Feels like she’s been being watched. Starts to feel like she’s talking to a fuckin’ cop, and she picks up an attitude with the bitch. Tells her maybe she should take this shit up with her fucking employees, and nevermind any of it, thanks, and as she’s leaving her whole fuckin’ back is sweaty and she feels like she’s going to puke again.

She has to stop at the first car in the lot. Lean against it, palms on the hood for a minute until some poor, nice lady comes out to ask if she needs help.

Helaena’s saying no, she’s fine, sorry for the fuckin’ handprints on your ride when she looks up and there’s Eyeball coming towards her.

Now it’s a scene, or it’s gonna be.

She takes a deep breath and smiles at the lady. Apologizes again and says she’s not feeling so well but she’s fine, and as she steps off, he’s there.

“What’s the matter, Laney?” Right at her elbow, right there, hand at her hip like he’s gonna haul her up off her feet.

“I’m okay,” she says. Swats at him a little to get some space. “Fuckin’ stomach. It’s fine. I’m fine. But we gotta get our shit and go.”

“What happened?”

“Fuckin’ nosy bitch in the office playing twenty questions with me,” she says. “Looking for ID and shit, giving me a hard time about you not being on the fuckin’ paperwork or whatever. Told her to go fuck herself, so we gotta go.”

“What’d she say about me?” he asks, picking up his fucking pace.

Helaena tries to keep up, but she has to fuckin’ stop again and lean over a goddamn bush; nauseated. It takes a couple steps for him to notice, and he doubles back. Asks her again as she’s trying to hold her fucking insides in.

“Jesus, Eyeball. Nothing. Nothing! She doesn’t even fuckin’ know your name. I didn’t tell her shit.”

He looks up, and Helaena follows his gaze. Sees the bitch looking out the fuckin’ window at them.

“Why’d you have to start shit?” he asks her.

She doesn’t like his fuckin’ tone, but he’s being gentle. Tucking her hair back into her collar in case she fucking loses it; reaching down to pick her up.

She lets him. Wraps her legs around his waist and takes deep breaths and lets him carry her the rest of the way.

“I didn’t start anything,” she tells him at his ear. “Fuckin’ nice as pie til she started fucking interrogating me. Let’s just get the fuck out.”

In the room, the fuckin’ TV is on the news channel. It’s local shit; wouldn’t have anything relevant, but it’s not helping. Had Eyeball jittery already, now this. Helaena kills it immediately, even though he fuckin’ snaps at her, but it doesn’t turn into a fucking argument because they’re just trying to throw all their shit together to get the hell out on time, and she’s trying not to hurl.

“Dunno how I’m gonna do this car ride,” she tells him, sweeping her eyes around the bathroom to make sure they got everything.

“Windows open, we’ll stop and get you something as soon as we’re fuckin’ far enough away,” he says. “I promise. Put your head down between your knees. Don’t fuckin’ look at anything. It’ll help.”

She nods. “This is fuckin’ stupid. We’re not bothering anybody.”

“You sure you didn’t say something to her?”

“The fuck would I say?!”

“I dunno. Nothing. Nothing, Lane. You got all your shit?”

“Yeah. C’mon, it’s almost fuckin’ noon. I’m not gonna fucking fight about that with her, too.”

Eyeball sends her out to the car while he does one last look around. She hunches in the passenger seat, lights a smoke and cracks the window a little. It’s just starting to mist, and she hopes it stays that way so she can keep the fresh air.

“Key,” he says, holding it between two long fingers when he slips in next to her. “You wanna do it, or should I?”’

Helaena’s half tempted to just leave it in the goddamn door so no one has to go back up there, but then she starts imagining all kinds of paranoid shit. Key getting ganked, room ransacked, them looking for fucking payment and trying to track them down. She just fucking spirals in a matter of six seconds, so she tells him she’ll fucking do it.

“Give it to me,” she says. “I don't want her looking at you. I don’t want anyone fucking looking at you.”

He gives her a sideways sort of glance, something she can’t really parse, but he hands it over.

“Be right back,” she tells him. She plans to just drop it in the box, but they have the goddamn thing locked up tight when the office is open, so she has to go back in.

When she does, the fuckin’ lady’s behind the counter. Helaena hands her the key tersely and spins on her heel to go, but before she gets to the door she hears her. “Excuse me.”

“What?” she says, looking back for a second.

“I don’t mean to intrude, but are you all right?”

Helaena narrows her eyes. “Don’t. The last person who asked me that fuckin’ wishes he didn’t,” and she pushes out the fucking door before she sees her reaction.

She doesn’t know why the fuck she said it, but it felt good for a second. It doesn’t now, and she doesn’t fucking tell Eyeball. Just pulls the door shut and says let’s get the fuck out of here and steals his fucking cigarette. Her goddamn stomach is swooping and diving and doing all kinds of gross-feeling crap, so she takes a drag and hands it back to him as he pulls out.

From between her own knees, she says, “How close are we to ocean, baby?”

Eyeball lays his big hand across her bent back. Ticks up her spine, right against her skin. “I’ll get you there, Lane. Won’t stop til we see some fuckin’ water. Okay?”

She bobs her head at him and takes a deep breath. “Ginger ale?”

“And coffee. We’ll stop as soon as we’re outta this fuckin’ place. You okay?”

“Fine. I’m fine. Did you eat?”

“Nah.”

Helaena rolls her eyes, but he can’t fucking see them. She closes them instead. Concentrates on his skin against hers. Breathes.

Chapter 33: Home

Summary:

… this probably didn’t make the ‘road trip games’ list when you were a kid 🤷🏼‍♀️

Notes:

next stop needs to be fucking Walmart for seat covers & carpet cleaner I think

i mean this is just more filth, you know how i do 🤷🏼‍♀️

At least give me points for not titling this bottledildo, aight? 🤦🏼‍♀️

He held me like an edge of the cliff holds the feet of the fed up
Like the sky holds the surrender of a falling body.
He maneuvered me, like a canoe through crashing rapids,
My hips the stern, his hand the pivoting blade through water.

- from Submissive by Lauren Zuniga

 

It takes a long time for her to feel safe again. She keeps her head ducked down until she thinks she’s gonna pass out from the rush - it does seem to help her stomach - and when Eyeball tries to stop at two different fucking gas stations, she tells him no no not yet.

He’s getting antsy, though; keeps glancing at the gas gauge, which is nearly at a quarter-tank, and moaning about how he wants fuckin’ coffee. She tries to push him past the third stop, too, but he’s had enough of her shit by now and ignores her. They’re a good hour in at this point, plenty far, and he doesn’t know what her fucking problem is, anyway.

“You didn’t say shit to her, right?” he asks, bringing Granny to a smooth stop at the pump and patting her on the dash.

“No.”

“Then what the fuck are you stressing about? You’re acting fuckin’ nuts.” He flicks his ashes out the window and grinds the cigarette into the tray.

“I dunno. I’m just anxious as shit. Might be the hormones.” She butts her own smoke and slips her feet into her shoes.

“Maybe,” he says. “I think last time you took that shit you got all fuckin’ screwy, too.”

Helaena pops the door open. “I’ll go in,” she says. “I need the air. Wanna stretch. You need food; what do you want?”

“Surprise me.” He gets out, too, and pops the hood. “I’ll take a look at everything while we’re here, okay?”

“I don’t wanna surprise you,” she tells him. “You won’t fuckin’ eat what I get you.”

“Yes, I will. I promise.” She looks at him, dubious, but shrugs as he hands over his wallet. “Thirty’ll fill it,” he says. “Might get change.”

Store’s small and generic; doesn’t have anything interesting, and the coffee looks like it’s been fucking sitting all day. Pot greasy looking. That’s the only problem with these little places, she thinks. All tucked into quiet spaces on roads that three people see before noon; coffee gets stale and the muffins are old, and nothing looks appealing. Maybe it’s just her stomach.

She gets Eyeball his coffee - the large is as big as her fuckin’ head - and makes herself a cup, too. Maybe some of this shit is withdrawal. She’s been afraid because of her fuckin’ belly but it might be worth the risk. All of the food looks grody to her, and none of it looks like something her boy’s gonna fucking touch. She finally settles on some trail mix shit - nuts and dried fruit and whatever in there, she can pretend there’s nutrition - and grabs herself a ginger ale, too. Figures they can try for something more substantial somewhere else later.

She pays the sweet-looking kid behind the counter and wonders why he’s not in school, and by the time she gets back out, Eyeball’s got the hood back down and is jamming the pump into the tank.

He takes his coffee and pulls the shit from under her arm for her. “Thank you,” he says. “What’s this garbage?”

“All they had,” she tells him. “Blechhh. Eat a little, and we’ll find something better later on.”

He gives it some side-eye as she sits the shit down inside, and she sighs at him.

“Fine. Car looks okay. I topped off the coolant; I dunno why it was low. I don’t think it’s leaking.” He shrugs as the pump click-click-clicks, and he tells her to go grab her change.

Granny’s running and ready when she slides in again. “All good, baby,” she says. Pulls a pretzel thing from the bag and sticks it between his teeth for him.

He chews and swallows obediently and takes a sip of his coffee. “Jesus Christ. Second sip is even worse. You trying to poison me?” He doesn’t wait for her smartass answer. “There’s a spot we can park back that way,” he says, jerking a thumb in the direction they came from. “You want me to get you off again? See if that helps?”

Helaena takes a swallow of her ginger ale and considers it. Might knock her out for a while, if nothing else. While she thinks, he dumps his goddamn coffee out the window and crushes the cup into the door pocket. “No,” she decides. “Don’t wanna waste time. I want some ocean before it gets dark. Maybe… maybe I’ll just do it myself on the way.”

He grins at her as he flips the blinker on. “That works. You gonna let me see?”

“I’ll do you one better,” she says, arching an eyebrow and undoing her button. Feels good to have a little pressure off her tummy. “I’m gonna let you direct.”

Eyeball laughs. “Feeling better?”

“Enough for a distraction, I think.”

“Good girl.” He stops at an intersection and narrows his eye at the signs. “Gimme a second to get my shit straight. Take those down,” he says, nodding at her fuckin’ pants. “Panties can stay for now.”

She wriggles around, the belt biting at her neck, and tugs her jeans down under her ass. Pulls one leg out as he smirks at her.

“Gonna put your whole fuckin’ hand in there?” he laughs.

“If you tell me to.” She winks at him, and he catches it as he looks around.

“Shit, okay.” He chooses a direction and makes the turn onto another windy back road. Granny seems to be handling them well; they’ve been staying at 50mph or under, and she’s been behaving herself. “Right hand,” he says once they’re settled. “See what you’re working with.”

Helaena listens; slips a finger inside at her thigh and feels around a little. “Not much,” she tells him, “but…”. She bites a grin.

“But what?”

“But I’ll get there.”

“I know you will,” he says. “Get your fuckin’ finger out.”

She listens. Looks at him: one lazy hand on the gearshift; the other on the wheel, cigarette between his fingers. Elbow at the window frame. Lanky and lovely and hers. Sometimes that thought alone will do it. Fuckin’ turn the crank and open the gates.

“Through your underwear,” he says. “Get wet. I wanna see it. Right hand, two fingers, nice and slow. Whatever you gotta do. I’ll tell you when to stop.”

“Yes, Sir.”

He smiles.

She follows directions; takes two fingers and runs them over herself, slow as anything. Up the center first, then one on each side, a gentle back and forth and up and down, and she can feel herself melt. Go nice and soft and slippery. She eases back to one, takes a long slide through the middle, but he corrects her.

“Two.”

“Mmm, yes, Sir.”

He’s watching. Her, the road, then back again.

“Show me,” he says after a little bit, and there’s something for him to see now. She moves her hand, and her panties are a mess. Bright red things, wet-dark in the middle, clinging to her body and sliding all over with her touch. “There it is. Good girl. How do you feel?”

“Dirty,” she says, and she laughs at him. “Never cleaned up from earlier.”

Eyeball snickers at her. “Perfect. Show me my fuckin’ pussy, slut.”

She giggles. “Ohhh, yours.” Goes to strip them off.

“No,” he says. “Move them over.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“I like that,” he says as she slides them to the side.

“Sir? Or my - your - fuckin’ pussy?”

“Both,” he grins. “They’re both fuckin’ nice.” Shifts gears to roll up to a stop sign. No one else around, so he pauses to take a good fuckin’ look at her. “Goddamn. Look at you. Show me inside.”

She giggles again; opens herself right up for him, and the breath he draws - hard, through his fucking teeth - makes her shiver. “Empty,” she pouts. “See?”

“Oh, poor thing.” They’re driving again, slow; rain still just a fine misty haze. She can feel it soft on her skin through the cracked window, a little sheen like sweat. “Touch it. Not your clit.”

“How?”

“Just play. Whatever feels good. Go slow.”

She does. Tilts herself back against the headrest and closes her eyes; gives him a good fucking show. Drags her fingers around, leisurely and languid; gives him a little ladylike whimper. A please. Says his name in a helpless gust of breath and hears the roll in his eye when he laughs, but he fuckin’ loves it. She knows he does. Pictures his fucking cock up at his belly, hard for her and her fucking nonsense, and when she lets her eyes flutter open - all lashes, all pinup-girl pretty - she can see it there through his pants, making him shift in his seat.

“Stop,” he says, after she gives her back a nice, steep arch and moans. She feels the fucking car drift a little and bites back a giggle. “I wanna taste it.”

“Mmmhm, yes, Sir,” she says. Offers him her fingers; puts them right to his lips, and he sucks them back. Tongue everywhere, sloppy as fuck, so much fucking spit. It’s phenomenal. She makes another moany sound, and this one’s genuine.

“There,” he says when she pops them back out. “Better than that fucking coffee. Christ.”

“Low bar,” says Helaena.

His mouth quirks up, and he takes the next turn just a little too fast. “Go on,” he tells her. “You can touch your clit now.”

“Thank you, Sir,” she says. Demure. “Tell me how.”

His eye skids over and back. Fingers jumpy on the wheel, but he’s keeping them steady. “Tap it. Light. Fast. Fuckin’ hold yourself apart. I want to see it.”

She squirms. The thought of it makes her clench up like a fuckin’ Chinese finger trap, and when she does it, she wants to crawl out of her skin. Howl like a dog. He does it to her this way sometimes, and it puts her up a wall.

He talks her through it so nice, though. “Good girl, Laney. Just like that. Your fuckin’ pussy’s so pretty, fuckin’ look at you. I bet you could come for me like that. Do you want to?”

Her brain’s a little skitzed, full of bees or something, but she knows enough to shake her head. “No,” she says, tight jaw and tight thighs and tight cunt.

“You want something inside?”

“Yes, please.”

“Yes, please…”

She’s the one rolling her eyes now. “Yes, please, Sir.” Great, she thinks. Now she’s done it. Never gonna get out from under this one.

She watches him reach one arm behind her seat and lean to look back, rolling up to another stop sign. This one has traffic; no time to dick around. Bag’s out of reach. He takes his turn at the intersection, then fuckin’ grabs her ginger ale and chugs. It’s one of those oldschool bottles, longneck glass things, and she catches his shit right away.

Helaena throws her head against the seat and laughs, a big one from her belly; just sitting and looking at him now, hands in her lap. “You’re a fuckin’ loopy asshole,” she says as he slides the whole damn thing backbackback in his mouth to get it wet. “Also, you fuckin’ deepthroat better than I do.”

He pulls it out and laughs at her. Hands her the bottle. “That was actually pretty good. I’ll get you another one. Fuck yourself, slut.”

She giggles. Winks. Stretches a foot up to the dash. “Yes, Sir.”

Bottle’s not the weirdest thing she’s had up there, and it’s not unpleasant. Little ridges at the mouth that feel nice going in, and it’s smooth and cool, and if she tips it just a bit she can get some decent friction. He watches her mess with it, play around to get it right, and she keeps her eyes on him to make him fuckin’ squirm a little. “Like this?” she asks him once she’s fuckin’ busy, and she sees the way he’s clamped down on his own lip and smiles.

“You can…” he coughs, and she smiles wider. “You can do whatever you need to now.”

“What I need is your fuckin’ cock.”

“Don’t smart-mouth me,” he says. Gives her the eye. Helaena feels Granny protest a little as he upshifts for the straightaway; she’s fuckin’ mad that her man is distracted. “You got ninety seconds to come for me, and if you don’t, you’re not gonna come at all.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Time’s ticking,” and he starts to count.

“Yes, Sir,” she grins, and she gets to work. Shuts her eyes, tilts up into it, and it’s a lot to keep her fuckin’ panties out of the way and get everything right; the angle inside of her, and the right fuckin’ pace to make it happen, and the little circles that she wants, and to listen to his voice, low and steady like a good fuck. She wastes time getting coordinated, and she can hear him counting down, and feel herself getting tight and frantic and her breath catching in her chest and there is no fuckin’ way she’s gonna make it. She’s gonna end up right on the edge, backed into that desperate corner, and this motherfucker will leave her there again for God knows how long. She starts to whine, starts to run her mouth trying to help herself, and she can hear his breath change a little, slip between the numbers funny, and then he takes over.

Hand over hers, nudging it out of the way, and she lets go, just worries about the way she’s fucking herself, that too-small slide that feels like a tease, but it’s better now. She can pay attention to it. Then she’s got that good fucking spot inside, and he’s got those perfect circles going, one finger, fasterfasterfaster to get her there on time, and her knee is jerking and knocking and her head is back and her mouth is open and when he says two she goes tight against the wave, hot and bright and delicious, and giggles herself through it, his fingers pressing flat to hold her. Work her down.

“Good girl,” he says to her, fingers wider and wider and wider, gentle. “You did so good for me. Holy shit, look at you.” Hand’s over hers on the fuckin’ bottle now, sliding it in and out a little. Warm. Sweaty, a little stuttery, and that makes her smile.

“Got you all worked up,” she says as he slips it out of her.

“Maybe a little.”

“Maybe a lot,” she offers, eyebrows up as she watches him put it in his mouth. “Slut.”

He sticks the stupid thing back in the console once it’s clean and blows her a kiss. Downshifts for a turn. “How you feeling? Your fuckin’ nerves and shit?”

“I’m okay, Daddy,” she grins.

“Not Sir?”

“Not right now,” she says.

“Oh, okay.” He reaches over to tuck her hair behind her ear. Lights her up a cigarette. “10-4, little girl.”

Helaena snickers and shifts around, trying to get comfy while she smokes it. “I’m fine, but I dunno about your fuckin’ seats.”

“We’ll clean them up. They’ve been through it,” he laughs. “We’ll fuckin’ stop soon again anyway. I owe you a drink. And this fucking coffee is shit; we gotta fuckin’ try again.”

She hasn’t even touched hers. Sitting cold in the console next to her fucking bottledildo. She didn’t completely trust the fucking cream to begin with, and after watching Eyeball choke down his dirtyass motor oil, she decided it wasn’t even worth the risk.

“Mmhm,” she says. “That was fuckin’ good ginger ale. Real ginger! What the fuck?”

“It was that or your fuckin’ fingers! I was trying to be helpful.”

“Uh-huh. If there’s one thing I know about you, it’s that your motives are always fucking altruistic.”

Eyeball smiles. Flips on the blinker. “Do you like your fingers better? You got fuckin’ small hands, Laney.”

“What I like is…”

“My fuckin’ dick. I know,” he says, making the turn. “You gonna fuckin’ bounce while I drive?”

She smiles. “I’m gonna do whatever you want me to do. Just telling you what I like.”

“You’re a piece of work. I tell you that today?”

“Yeah,” she says. Hands him back her smoke and closes her eyes.

“I’m gonna keep you.”

“Yeah.”

“Go to sleep, Lane. Fix your fuckin’ pants first, though.”

She smiles, sleepy, and reaches down to stick her leg through and tug them up. Leaves them undone.

“Good girl,” he says. Puts his hand on her thigh. It feels nice, like he’s keeping everything in place. Orderly and shit. Every nerve tucked in, all her cells in line, thoughts bundled into neat little squares and stacked up tight.

The way he straightens up the room before bed. Plugs in the phones. Fills the water glass and locks the door and kisses her goodnight. Crawls in beside her to keep her warm.

Puts her right to fuckin’ bed.

She misses their apartment, she thinks for a second. Its funny sounds, and the ugly walls, and the way the floor bows and creaks in the kitchen.

The way he warms her fucking towel and mops up the goddamn shower puddle.

“I miss home,” she mumbles.

“What’s home?” he asks her, and she has to think about it for a minute.

“Where everything’s familiar,” she finally says. “Where you know where all your fuckin’ shit is.”

“You never know where your fucking shit is,” he laughs.

“True. I guess home is where you lose your shit and your brother finds it for you.”

He laughs again. “There you go,” he says.

“I guess home can be anywhere.”

He pauses. “Home is you.”

“Home is you.”

“Home is us.”

“What are we, baby?” she says. She lets her head fall sideways a little. Feels him twist a curl around his finger and let it go.

“Nothing,” he tells her. “Right now we’re nothing.”

“Good. I wanna be nothing with you.”

“Maybe we’ll stay nothing.”

“Good.”

“Die nothing.”

“Better,” Helaena says. “But not today.”

“Not today. We gotta see some ocean first.”

She feels him lean and kiss the top of her head - once, twice, three and four times - and she listens to the road beneath them rumble, and she lets herself drift away.

Chapter 34: Hush

Summary:

“Take me to the beach, Daddy,” Helaena says, toeing off her shoes and shoving a cookie in her mouth.

Notes:

told you they needed to hit up Walmart 🤷🏼‍♀️

and if that doesn’t put you in the mood for a sappy handjob idk what will, frankly

The Hush of the Very Good
by Todd Boss

You can tell by how he lists
to let her
kiss him, that the getting, as he gets it,
is good.
It’s good in the sweetly salty,
deeply thirsty way that a sea-fogged
rain is good after a summer-long bout
of inland drought.
And you know it
when you see it, don’t you? How it
drenches what’s dry, how the having
of it quenches.
There is a grassy inlet
where your ocean meets your land, a slip
that needs a certain kind of vessel,
and
when that shapely skiff skims in at last,
trimmed bright, mast lightly flagging
left and right,
then the long, lush reeds
of your longing part, and soft against
the hull of that bent wood almost im-
perceptibly brushes a luscious hush
the heart heeds helplessly—
the hush
of the very good.

 

The sleep is light, and she maintains that sort of half-consciousness that feels like a flickering movie reel; something brittle or sun-spotted that moves in and out, losing pieces of scenes and replaying others. She hears Eyeball turn the radio on and fiddle with it, looking for something without static. Is vaguely aware of his hand on the gearshift; the bag crinkling when he actually eats something from it. The window’s open, and there’s a hushed sort of whistle now and then. No moisture. They’ve driven out of the rain.

Time, she loses completely; she has no idea how long she sits in the space.

She comes out of it, starting when she feels Granny sit down fast like a bratty kid. Not her usual smooth, obedient slide. Helaena blinks and looks up.

“What’s she mad about?” she asks, stretching out her neck and gazing around.

“I dunno,” Eyeball says. “Maybe she hates this fuckin’ place, too.”

They’re at a fucking Walmart.

They’ve been avoiding all kinds of fuckin’ chain places; anywhere with a bunch of cameras and a corporate office and a fucking legal department. Even the gas stations they’ve stopped at have been mostly little independent things. It just feels safer. Shitholes like this, feels like they have eyes everywhere; a brain that connects to itself. Memory.

“The fuck are we doing here?” Helaena asks.

“We need some shit,” he says. “Not gas station crap.”

“What shit?”

“I need fuckin’ boots. I have to get rid of these,” he says. “I don’t know what’s on them. All fuckin’ mud at Pop’s, probably left footprints everywhere. And we gotta do laundry. Shit’s more expensive at the laundromat. I want to get something to clean the fucking carpet in here, too. Vacuum wasn’t enough.”

Helaena unbuckles and fixes her clothes. Buttons up her jeans. She tugs down the visor to look at herself. She’s an absolute trainwreck. And she can fucking smell herself.

“This couldn’t wait til I got a fuckin’ shower somewhere? And where the hell are we?”

He closes the mirror on her. “You look perfect. You smell perfect. We’re at the ocean, Laney. We leave here, twenty minutes or so and we’re there. Shitty fuckin’ tourist trap town. I just followed signs east. And no. I don’t wanna fuckin’ wait anymore.”

“What time is it?”

“Not late. Fourish. We’re okay. We’ll be in and out of here and I’ll get you to some fuckin’ water. I promise. How are you feeling?”

“Still figuring that out,” she says. “I have to fuckin’ pee. I need a drink.”

“Good,” he says. “Good, we’ll do all that here.”

“Coffee?” she says suddenly. She can smell it now.

He points to the console. Fucking bottledildo and her nasty gas station shit are gone, and there are two huge fucking cups from Dunkin’ there. She must’ve been out good for that one; has zero recollection of a drive-thru. “Dunkin’?” she laughs. “What the fuck?”

He shrugs. “Didn’t want to stop. It’s fine. Better than that other trash.”

“Cold?”

“Eh.”

Helaena takes the full one and sips it. Tepid, but good enough. She drinks more, then more, and grins at him around it. “It’s not bad.”

“Yours is flavored,” he says. “Hazelnut shit, princess.”

“Everyone’s allowed a vice,” she says, an eyebrow up at him. “Thank you.”

“C’mon.”

Helaena kicks around looking for her shoes. Accidentally bumps against the fucking gun under the mat and recoils a little. She shakes her head and gropes with her hands instead, and she pulls them on.

Eyeball locks their shit up good and throws an arm over her shoulder. She leans into him and looks up. “We should get a tent,” she says.

“A tent?” He looks back at her like she’s batshit.

“Just a little fuckin’ pup tent thing,” she says. “We’re going south. It’ll be warmer. And camping is cheaper. Free if you do it right. Little baby air mattress or something; it’ll feel like home. You can sleep right the fuck on top of me,” she says with a wink.

He screws up his face at her a little as they cross the parking lot - he parked near the end, someplace he thinks might be outside the camera range - and head towards the doors. “I dunno, Lane.”

“Who’s the princess now?” she laughs.

“Shut up,” he says. “Me.”

She snorts at him. “What don’t you like?”

“I dunno. Too exposed or something.”

“I felt awfully fuckin’ exposed this morning. I don’t wanna fucking deal with people, Eyeball. I really don’t. That messed me up for some reason.”

They stroll inside, and he lets his arm fall down to sit on her hip. Gives her a little bump with it. “Eh. We get caught camping somewhere we’re not supposed to, then we’re dealing with fuckin’ cops and shit. Way worse.”

She shrugs. “I dunno, baby. Campgrounds are less uptight about shit, especially if you go to a dinky private one. And a tent just seems like a good thing to have. We don’t know where the fuck we’re gonna end up. We might run outta money, or… I dunno. Need to fuckin’ disappear like… disappear disappear,” she says, quiet. “Seems smart.”

He stops to look at her. Really fuckin’ look; turns his body to face her, holds her chin and stares down into her face like he’s never seen her before or something. Like he does sometimes. “You’re right,” he says after a minute. “No, you’re right. It’s smart to have it. We’ll do that. Let’s make this fuckin’ quick, okay?”

She nods, and they split up. He goes to find fuckin’ shoes - good luck she tells him; big-ass fuckin’ feet of his, he’s lucky if he can find a pair in his size anywhere - and she goes to get the cleaning shit, and they agree to meet in the camping stuff when they’re done.

She gets detergent and bleach and dryer sheets, and some upholstery cleaner crap for the car. Has to sit down for a second when she’s done; all the chemical smells in the fuckin’ aisles are a lot, and her stomach’s not doing too great after standing in it all, and that’s where Eyeball finds her. Parked on the floor.

“You okay?” he asks, big hand on her shoulder as he comes around the corner. He found some fuckin’ boots - hates them already, he says, but they’re the only pair they had in his size and he can’t be fuckin’ picky - and has them under one arm, a decent fucking flashlight in his hand. The one in the trunk is small, meant for changing tires or peering down into a mechanical maze. The one he’s got is a big ol’ fuckin’ Maglite; you could club a motherfucker to death and blind him with it at the same time.

“I’m fine,” she says, leaning to kiss his stupid knuckles. “Just needed to sit. Smells like a fucking… I don’t even know. Gross.”

“You’re not that bad,” he jokes. “Just pussy and armpit,” and she smacks him, laughing.

“Shut the fuck up.” She points across the way. “There. Tents. Whatever you think. They’re little and easy. Air mattresses are on the other side; you can get a decent one with a pump for less than forty bucks.”

“They gonna hold us?”

“For a little bit probably,” she says as he helps her up. “Probably shouldn’t fuck on it.”

“Dealbreaker.”

She rolls her eyes.

They find a shitty little canvas pop-up thing with a blowup mattress that will fit it, and before they leave, they grab some chewable Pepto shit and some food. Crackers and grapes and a bag of baby oranges. Cookies, too, because Helaena fuckin’ wants some cookies.

It doesn’t take long; they’re out in less than half an hour and have everything shoved into the back seat. Eyeball trashes his fucking socks and underwear from the bag in the garbage can outside before he slides into the driver’s seat.

“Take me to the beach, Daddy,” Helaena says, toeing off her shoes and shoving a cookie in her mouth.

Eyeball smiles at her. “It’s cold.”

“Not gonna skinny dip, I promise. Just wanna see it. And smell it.” She rolls a grape over her shirt to wipe it off, and she sticks it behind his teeth.

“Why the hell do you do that?” he says, turning on their fuckin’ burner to take a look around. “Like your shirt’s gonna clean it.” He rolls it around his tongue and tells her to open. Helaena giggles and swallows her cookie. Opens her fuckin’ mouth, and he spits the grape in. “That’s how you do it,” he tells her, and she grins at him and chews it.

“You’re stupid,” she says. Chews a fuckin’ Pepto next and gives him one for good measure. Lights them a cigarette to share.

“Let’s go,” he says back. Shows her the map and has her recite the directions out loud for herself.

They head for the beach, Helaena feeding him dirty shirt-grapes the whole way.

*****

Parking is limited when they find what they’re looking for, but the lot is empty, and Granny gets plenty of room to herself. She comes to a neat stop under Eyeball’s touch, and he rewards her with a smooch right in the center of her fuckin’ wheel. Helaena rolls her eyes, and he laughs at her.

She can smell the saltwater and seaweed when they open the doors, and those fucking negative ions hit her like an anvil. Bring her back to ten years old, stepping out onto the gritty pier with Pop, ice cream cone in one hand and his big old thumb in the other, swinging it back and forth.

Hands like Eyeball, broad and warm and strong.

The neighborhood is residential, lots of No Trespassing and Private Property signs all over, so they’re extra careful. They find the little path that takes them back, rickety-fenced and sea-grassy, and it gets sandier and sandier as they go until finally it opens up to the edge of the world.

The beach is long and narrow; looks like it might disappear altogether with high tide. Everything is painted in grays and greens and browns; cool and dry - no rain here at all today - with sunset hovering close.

They’re alone. November in a Mid-Atlantic coastal town is quiet. Nobody even out with their fuckin’ dog. Dunes and waves and silence, like if she designed it her damn self.

“Take off your shoes,” she says. “You’ll get fuckin’ sand all over.”

He’s still got his old boots on, damn beat-up things with the battered leather and worn steel toes. Loves those fucking things. Helaena figured she was going to have to sneak them to the goddamn curb on garbage night one day, and she still fuckin’ might. He’d go to fuckin’ prison for them, she thinks.

But he just smiles at her and undoes the laces. Slips the knife into his back pocket with the other one and pulls off his socks. Even cuffs his jeans to keep them clean, and she digs at his bare toes with her own, squishing sand up between them and leaving her sneakers with his in a pile.

“You’re gonna be cold,” he tells her again, but he’s just scolding her to scold her; knows she doesn’t care. She’s got his cozy fucking hoodie on, and she’s got the humming furnace of his big body, and she’s not gonna be cold because he’s not gonna let her.

They don’t talk much after that, just thread their fingers together and walk. There’s sea glass scattered around, all different colors, and she finds a piece that’s a shade of violety-blue so close to their eyes that she has to take it. Holds it up over his bad side. It’s smooth and roundish on one end, and she tells him he should replace his little falsie with it. He laughs and says maybe he will, and he sticks it in his front pocket for her.

They walk down past the houses, and there’s nothing for awhile but shore and muted traffic noise; they can hear it but can’t see it, and it’s like having waves on both sides. Just a whoosh. Blood swirling in a conch. Sun is stretching before bed, flapping the fucking covers and making a chill. It’s a clear sky tonight, just a smattering of clouds. Nothing to hold in the heat.

“I’m cold,” she says, and before he can tell her see? or wrap her like a fuckin’ burrito in another sweatshirt, she drops to the sand and tugs on him. “Come kiss me.”

He tilts his head at her like a fuckin’ dog, eye all soft, and she can see him consider arguing with her. Can see the fucking words across his brow: it’s getting late, we gotta find a place to stay, don’t wanna leave the car this long, gonna get everything sandy. He doesn’t, though. He doesn’t. Instead, he takes the knives from his back pocket; plops down next to her and opens up his lap, and she just crawls right in. A little birdie into her nest. Burrows against his chest. Tips up her head, and he kisses her like you’re supposed to do on a fucking beach at sunset. Slow. Soft. All tongue, no teeth, big open mouth and a closed eye, and she just falls in.

She warms up right away. He lets his hands creep up under her clothes, spread wide all across her back, and his heat seeps into her lungs. Her heart. Winds its way along the paths of her breath and her blood and turns her into one of those campfire embers; a little glowing hotrock in a pile of dirt.

It gets a rhythm the way kisses do, an updown, an openclose, a nibblenipnose, and then their hips are just doing hip things, rocking and swaying and crashing like the surf behind them. He tastes like cigarettes and fruit, and he feels sturdy beneath her: his body and the ground and the peculiar gravity of the sea. Heavier, somehow, than anywhere else.

She can feel the slow rise of him, the press against her that grows and grows and grows, nudges up a little bit every time his pretty heart beats, and she meets it. Lets it sit against the seam of her fuckin’ jeans and make her flush hotter and curl her fingers into his hair. Search out the pulse at his throat with her thumb and hold it, gentle.

She lets her fingers drift, search, run over the skin of his belly. Slip apart his button and skim underneath. Tug at the elastic til he’s free in her hand.

He’s so lovely; velvety skin and warm blood and something urgent and desperate thrumming there, just for her. He makes a sound in her mouth, a rumbling little hum of pleasure as she moves her hand. It doesn’t wrap all the way around, but enough, and she tugs everything up, fuckin’ shirt and bra and everything, to give him bare skin to bump against, just between her navel and her ribs. Parts their lips for a second to wet her palm; takes her spit and then his, a sloppy kiss in her grip that she spreads over him to make him gasp.

She lets him push himself up and through and against, feels him leaking on her as he turns trembly and fragile.

Everything is sea; salt and white noise and rhythm. Waves and breath.

When her eyes blink open for a second, the sky is on fire. Blood red and citrus orange and the dying sun like kintsugi, golden cracks like lightning.

“Look,” she whispers. “Open your eye.”

He does. Opens, lets her tilt him to the light like he’s just been born, and they are. Just born. The two of them baptized in the warm spill, and it’s pretty he tells her. So pretty, his voice uneven. Brand new. Wobbling on little fawn legs.

“Oh, shhhhh,” she says. “Just watch,” and she holds him firmer. Strokes just harder, just faster, lets her thumb circle and circle and circle until he’s arching his back and she’s telling him watch, watch, open your eye, and he’s so beautiful in the glow of it all. As pretty as she’s ever seen him. And he needs her so much, asking for her by name with that wild pulse against her fingers, harder and harder until he pulls and shudders and gives her everything. Over her tummy, and her hand, and some against the soft swell of her breasts, underneath where its whitest and newest and tender.

He makes that sound, that oh like it’s the first time and he’s surprised himself, and she kisses it off his mouth. Says all mine, all for me, and he just nods at her, looks at the sky and back again, nods and nods and nods. They kiss more, and more, and more. Kiss until he’s soft, and she wipes him with her sleeve and tucks him back away. He helps her with the button, slippery in her grasp.

“Do you want me to clean you up?” he asks. Puts the question to her chin, her jaw. Over a fading bruise at her throat. “It’s cold. You’re wet.”

His fingers walk over her. Through the mess. She feels him spread it into a tacky heart. Paint it soft over one of her nipples until it stands up and throbs for him.

“No,” she tells him, leaning into the touch. “I gotta shower anyway. I’ll fuckin’ wear it. I’ll wear you,” and he smiles. “It’s mine,” she says, and he smiles. “You gave it to me,” she says, “it’s mine,” and he smiles.

Notes:

so i’ve been deliberately not giving location data 😂 because I didn’t want to get caught up in where/how long should this take shit like I'm (very) prone to doing —- but in my head they’re definitely @ Pickering beach in Delaware if that means anything to you. It’s a bay beach, but it works. But don’t use that as a frame of reference for anything else because I’m totally not 😂

Chapter 35: Anchor

Summary:

Sometimes his dick just ends up in your mouth. Sometimes he just fucks you til you scream, because life is funny.

Notes:

yeah this chapter went 0% to plan. there was gonna be no smut, & A Conversation… but then yr girl looked at me and was like… clean shower dick 🥹? and like… ok honey, I hear you. Go ahead.

whoops

But it’s fine because it gives me a chance to use Ocean Vuong’s incredible, beautiful ode to cocksucking so like… we’re all winners, really

Because the difference
between prayer & mercy
is how you move
the tongue. I press mine
to the navel’s familiar
whorl, molasses threads
descending toward
devotion. & there’s nothing
more holy than holding
a man’s heartbeat between
your teeth, sharpened
with too much
air.

- from Devotion by Ocean Vuong

 

The fucking bed is the best one she’s ever laid on. Ever. After Eyeball checks the fucking thing for bugs, she nosedives onto it and barely fucking moves. It just eats her. Takes all her goddamn weight, like flopping into solid pudding or some shit. No bounce, no jostle, nothing.

Helaena’s surprised. Fucking little seaside shithole where people are barely in their rooms; just looking to crash at night after they’ve exhausted themselves with sun and salt all day long. Not exactly the type of place to invest in their fucking mattresses, but maybe they just replaced all of them or something.

She makes this long, low orgasmic kind of noise, and Eyeball chuckles at her. Sits down to take off his ratty boots, and she doesn’t even fucking feel him. “It’s so good,” she moans. Buries her face in the blanket - that’s a piece of shit, scratchy and thin - and fucking dry-humps the thing.

He’s still laughing when he tosses his shoes at the door and falls backwards next to her. “Fucks you better than I do,” he says, and she grins at him, her face sideways and silly.

“Threesome,” she giggles. “You, me, this guy. I’ll never get back up.”

Eyeball rolls over a little onto his elbow and presses one hand against the back of her neck. Pushes down, the heel of it at the top of her spine and his fingers curving around. She fucking purrs; shivers hard at the sensation. So much good pressure, both sides, a fucking Helaena sandwich.

“More,” she says.

He pushes harder. Sits up and kneels over her lower back; settles his ass down right into the curve of it. Pressurepressurepressure. “Good?”

“Mmhm,” she sighs. “Now just stay there all night.”

“I got nowhere to be,” he says. Uses his other hand to stroke down her cheek; mess with her ear.

They sit like that for awhile, with her just feeling like she’s smashed between two rain-heavy clouds. All of the puzzle pieces of her body mushing back into place. Her brain smoothing all out. “So good,” she mutters. “I wish my fucking pants were off. Stick your dick in me like this and I swear to God.”

She can feel him shake a little with his laugh. “I can’t put my dick in and sit on you like this, dumbass.”

“I know! But I wish you could.” She wriggles with pleasure and purrs some more. “Stick your dick in and find someone else to sit on me.”

“Now we’re getting into fuckin’ orgy territory, Lane. Gotta draw the line somewhere.”

She smiles. “You haven’t been in me all day.”

“Nope. You want me to fix that?” His fingers close a little on her neck. Take more of his weight. An invitation.

“Mmm. Maybe. I wanna shower. But I don’t wanna move.”

She doesn’t. Just stays right there, lets him hold her down and squish her back into human shape for awhile. He doesn’t say anything else. Lets the silence; the little electric hum of the room, soothe her. Bumps one knuckle against her lip in case she wants to bite, but she doesn’t; just kisses and kisses and kisses it until she’s done.

Ten or fifteen minutes of it and she’s feeling good. All placid and sturdy and real. “I’m sorry, baby,” she says. “You can get up. I’ll go rinse off.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he shrugs, climbing off her back. “You’re fine. You want company? I’m fuckin’ sandy.”

“Mmhm.”

He strips the top blanket when they get up and balls it up on the chair so they’re not fuckin’ sleeping in grit.

Shower’s decent, too. Nice and hot, big old’ shower head with heavy spray, room for them both. She wants to stay there for awhile, too, and he’s happy to oblige her. They just tangle up under the water and sway, his chin on top of her head.

“We could do a few nights here,” she offers eventually. “Front desk lady was way nice. Older lady but not fuckin’ grumpy like that last bitch, and…” She pauses for a second. Traces a little droplet down his chest.

“And what?”

“Like… not right, too. Confused or something.”

“What do you mean?”

“Like… fumbly with the paperwork. Asked for
ID, then didn’t take it. Had to remind her to give me the key. And…”

“And what?” he asks, moving her wet hair out of her eyes. Looking down and nudging at her nose.

“And she didn’t take my money.”

“What?”

“Yeah. Gave me the total, and I was dicking around in your wallet, and she turned around for something, got distracted, and was like… okay, honey, thank you, and like… I tried again. Because you know how I am. I do shit like that, too, but then she was like oh you already paid, and at first I said no… but then.” She pauses and shrugs. “I just… I just let it go. And she didn’t ask.”

He looks at her strangely. “Were there cameras in the office?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t look.”

“Lane you gotta go back and pay her. What if somebody fuckin’ sees that? What if there’s a camera?!”

“I mean, I don’t mind. I was gonna pay her! I tried…”

“That was dumb. You can’t…”

“I was gonna pay her! I’ll go back and do it! I just… I can’t explain it. She was so sure she was right! She… something’s off with her. Didn’t act fucking strung out or anything. I dunno. Fucking senile maybe.”

Eyeball’s looking thoughtful now. Tapping at her hip. Runs one thumb back and forth over her nipple and bends to suck the water off, slow, til her toes start curling. “Go back,” he says. “See if she’s there. Look for cameras. I didn’t see any outside but… look. Up in the corners. Around the register. Little blinking lights, or red lights, or… little pinpoint looking shit. You know what they look like.”

Helaena looks at him funny. “What are you playing at?” she says.

He’s back at her tits, the other one now, drawing little wet circles over it. Forehead pinched. Scar-side crinkled up to match his narrowed eye. “Just… go look. Maybe see if you can get another night. Pay if she asks. If you see a camera.”

“Eyeball, what…”

“Just do it. I’m just…”

“You’re just what?”

“Thinking. I’m thinking, Laney. That’s all. Gathering information.”

She runs a finger down his belly. Follows the little line of hair there, strokes it up and down as the water pours over her hand. Dots along his spider-trail. Drops down to kiss them, his little creatures, one by one by one. Takes his fucking cock in her hands, in her mouth, and feels him twitch against her lips when she licks it. Start to swell.

“Lane,” he says. Like a warning, or a question, or…

“I want you,” she says, quiet into the hissing shower-roar. Into the little groove inside his thigh. “Fuck my mouth.”

“Lane…”

“Just do it. Be nice.”

Water’s running down. Spilling off of him, over her lashes and her nose, and he fists her fucking tangle of wet hair and pulls. Up and back. It’s so good. Makes her buzz and buzz, and she makes a defenseless little sound against his skin that turns him hard as fuck. Fast like he does sometimes; ten fucking seconds, she swears.

“Jesus Christ,” he says.

“He’s not here,” she mutters. “No Jesus. Just me,” and she takes him all the way fuckin’ back in one swallow.

“You’re gonna fucking kill me,” he groans at her, but it doesn’t feel like he’s dying. She can taste his heartbeat on her tongue. Strong and fast and ferocious and then he’s got the other hand under her chin, tipping her just a little, finding the angle, and then it’s just fuck Laney oh my god Laney Laney Laney, fucking down her throat til her eyes run like the tap and she’s gagging on his dick and on the water, and he’s being nice just like she said; he’s not fucking railing her, but it doesn’t matter. It feels like he’s gonna kill her right back; she can’t breathe, really; doesn’t even fucking want to. Doesn’t need oxygen. Feels like a goddamn mermaid or something.

He’s more worried about it than she is. Can feel her struggling, she thinks, or hear it, because he pulls back and tugs her out of the spray, into the steamy air, paws at her like he’s looking for something.

She tries to tell him she’s okay, she’s fine, fucking breathing is for pussies, but he’s got his slippery hands all over her, pulling and pulling and pulling her up. It’s one of those fucking shower stalls with the sliding doors, sitting on the stupid little track, so when he yanks her up and shoves her into the wall she can just put her feet up on it, press press press, and she does. Braces herself, takes the air that rushes over her, swallows and gulps and gasps, and then he’s just grabbing a knee, lifting lifting, doesn’t even check to see if she’s ready before he’s inside.

Doesn’t matter. She is. She’s ready. Not as ready as she could be, but enough, and the little sting is just right. She likes to feel herself make room for him, stretch around him til she’s full right up, head back to tell the ceiling all about it; tell the whole goddamn place how good it feels when he fucks her. The noise feels perfect, echoing around them, to the walls and the fixtures and the floor and back again, multiplying, just her open mouth full of round sounds, ohs, rising like bubbles and growing before they burst, words that are maybe English maybe not, maybe that fucking Latin shit from church or whatever, she doesn’t know. Doesn’t care. Just noise.

Her back is chilly, everything is slickslidingsortasoapy, his skin and the tub and the tile and her cunt and the world is just wet and want, all of it so sudden. Came out of nowhere; she hadn’t planned to do this but here they are, tangled up and hollering and life is just like this, sometimes. A big fucking wave that just fucking takes you. Doesn’t care that all you’re trying to do is rinse the goddamn jizz off of you, or plan a robbery, or whatever your stupid baby brother was getting at. Sometimes his dick just ends up in your mouth. Sometimes he just fucks you til you scream, because life is funny.

That’s what she’s thinking when he comes, his big mouth open right against hers, catching all those sounds. Life is funny.

She laughs a little, walks a leg up the shower door to get a better angle. Meets his shallow rocking as he finishes up, gets just enough friction from it to give her a tinysoftbaby orgasm; one that feels like a dream. A ghost. She yells about it anyway. Likes the way it sounds in here, so she gives it her whole fucking chest, and he laughs, too.

“Laney,” he says. “Laney you’re fucking ridiculous; you’re a goddamn mess, I love you,” and she loves him, too.

“What?” she says, head back against the wall, watching his cock slip out and drip. Water and spunk and whatever. “What were you even talking about? You wanna fuckin’ steal from that poor lady?” She takes a shuddery sort of inhale. “Is that what you were fuckin’ gonna say?”

Just continuing the fucking conversation, like her goddamn insides aren’t trying to put themselves back into place.

Eyeball leans against the wall over her, catching his breath and kissing at her. Mouthing her neck, downdowndown til his lips get caught in her web. Wipes a hand over his face to clear the water. “I told you, I’m just… gathering information.”

“We don’t need money. Why would you…”

“Oh my God, shut up,” he says, tongue back in her mouth.

She shuts up.

That kiss is so good, she just shuts right up.

They have to fuckin’ wash all over again, but it’s fine. Everything is fucking fine, and she’s glad to be clean. Glad her cramps are mostly gone. Glad there’s a comfortable fucking bed, and that she has cookies, and that she’s well-fed and well-fucked and warm. Not throwing her guts up.

Glad that nobody fucking died today, since that’s something she’s started being glad about now.

Glad that he doesn’t try to send her back to the office, jello-legged and leaking come, to gather information from some poor old lady who doesn’t know her asshole from her ear canal.

Glad for her pack of Reds; the smoke that curls from their mouths and twines together like steam around them as they lean against the doorframe outside. Glad she can still conjure up Waffle’s face the way it used to be; the way he looked with one of these fucking things between his dirty fingers. Holding it out to her when she was eleven, saying here, Buggie and laughing at her while she choked her brains out on it. Glad for the pictures she can still scroll through in her memory.

Glad, mostly, that Eyeball just peels two oranges and feeds them to her and reads her fucking Burroughs - he remembered to bring her bedtime book - til he starts yawning around the prose, and then kisses her goodnight.

Glad, also, that he falls asleep first and she can roll away, flop face-down and sprawl for a minute, take up space, before he reaches for her, his body always searchingsearchingsearching for the anchor of her bones.

*****

She wakes up to him praying.

Rubs the sleep from her eyes and isn’t sure what the fuck she’s hearing at first, and it fucking scares her for a second: him sitting back on his fucking knees next to her, muttering under his breath with his eye closed. She can see him in the thin light filtering in from the lamps outside, mixing with the slant from the nightlight in the bathroom, and she thinks he’s lost his goddamn shit. Swimming in the deep end for sure, and there’s a moment where she runs her gaze all over the room; clocking the sharp things, the fucking gun, how far to the door.

When she figures it out, hears the Our Father start from the beginning, it’s almost worse.

She hasn’t heard him pray since he was a goddamn baby. He barely did it then, really; only in church, or when Mama was making him apologize to God for his fucking smart mouth or his hot temper. Wasn’t the type to get on his knees willingly, ever, for anyone. Only her. Only for the fucking goddess between her legs; kneeling to fucking kiss her, or shove himself inside.

But here he fucking is.

He doesn’t know she’s awake, she thinks. Mattress absorbs all her shifting and settling and sitting up, and he’s way in his own head. Or in God’s. Whatever.

Her born-again atheist boy. Doesn’t even know how to do it on his own; needs the script.

She can’t blame him. She was never good at this shit, either.

She believed harder than he did. Always has, even still. Has come too close to Other Side shit to be as sure as he is about the Vast Abyss of Nothing that awaits them, but Mama’s Big Man never fucking talked back, and she’s not much for a one-sided conversation.

Prefers her cards. Something that gives some goddamn feedback.

She wonders if that’s what Eyeball’s looking for. Figures he’s been bad enough to get a goddamn slap in the face and is out here asking for it. Like he always did with Mama, when she didn’t notice what a little shithead he was being. Had to do it right in front of her.

Attention-seeking little brat.

Helaena listens for a minute. Watches. Her stomach knots all up, pulls tighter and tighter with each word. She can hear some of them, but it’s mostly the rhythm she recognizes. It’s comforting, like a nursery rhyme, but like all of those fucking things, if you look at the origin story there’s a goddamn plague. A war. A village burning.

She wonders how long he’s been at it. If it’s working.

His hands aren’t even folded right. Just loose in his lap, half-clasped. Something childlike about them, anyway, she thinks.

When he rolls into his fifth or sixth or tenth loop, she scoots over towards him.

He startles when she touches him, eye springing right open, hands flying apart like he’s been caught.

He has, she supposes.

“You okay?” she asks him, already knowing the answer.

He doesn’t reply at first. Trying to come up with some plausible explanation, some hard-ass Daddy shit to say, but he’s not in any sort of shape for it. “Nah,” he finally says. Shakes his head.

“Okay,” Helaena tells him. She’s naked. Pale white as a statue; someone’s Idol in the churchyard, frizzy head to chipping-again-already toes. The only thing he’s ever worshipped properly, and nothing to give him for it in exchange. Nothing to offer. No absolution to spare. No free pass, or clean slate, or holy water for the wound.

She doesn’t know what else to do, so she puts her small hands around his big ones. Leans up tall on her own knees so their foreheads match. Presses them together. Closes her eyes and prays.

Reads the script out loud. Plays the part. Just like their Mama did.

Like she’s probably doing right now, in her own dark room, in her own dark bed, with her own dark thoughts. Fretting about her own dark deeds, or her little pale babies with their little black souls, and groping around for the fucking matches.

Notes:

alsoooooo… i think I’m caught in a fun inspiration-loop with hollynotj because i couldn’t figure out how to close this up once I’d gone off the fucking rails, but then I read Hell Is Empty, and All The Devils Are Here (it’s linked at the end of this - go fucking read it if you haven’t, it’s SO good!!!) and was like… of COURSE this is how it ends. Of course it is. So, thanks boo. You’re my hero.

Chapter 36: Twenty-Seven Bones

Summary:

“Those hands,” she says to him. “You got nobody’s fucking hands. God made those just for you.”

“Somebody did,” he tells her. “Or maybe just for you.”

24. My hands—my body’s gates of tenderness, the tools of my wonders. The things I reach out with—toward her wrist, toward the orange and the stone alike, into every darkness before me. Strikers of flame to the lantern wick, looseners of the laces of my shoes.

- from The Hand Has Twenty-Seven Bones by Natalie Diaz

 

He’s fuckin’ buttering her up this morning. Woke her up fucking licking at her, pussy and ass under the blankets until she giggled and squirmed her eyes open, then left her in bed wet with a plate of grapes while he went to get her coffee and breakfast. Coffee is good shit, hot and perfect, and it’s a real danish, too, from a real fuckin’ bakery. Cherry. She can’t even be mad that he didn’t finish what he started.

He got himself fuckin’ food, too, for once. Some kinda almond-y biscotti thing, dry as fuck. Just how he likes it. He dips it in his coffee, and they get crumbs in the bed despite trying not to, and he eats the rest of the grapes without arguing with her. Catches them in his stupid mouth when she tosses them at him, and only gives like three of them back. Bumping them over her bottom lip with his tongue.

“You get a little Jesus in you?” she asks, laughing, and he’s only a little bit embarrassed. She can tell from the teenaged shrug in his shoulders; the way they shrink a little, look less broad when he does it. Pull in instead of up.

It’s not Jesus, though. He’s looking to finish what he started yesterday; tell her what he thinks they oughta be fuckin’ doing.

He offers her the last bite of his food, and she shakes her head at him. He lets it sit on his knee and watches her while she uses a finger to trace her lips; clean up the cherry mess there. Smiles at her.

“You wanna stay here awhile, Lane?” he asks.

“What’s awhile?” she says, sipping the coffee between her folded legs and looking up.

“I dunno. Longer than a night or two.”

“You like this place?”

“You do,” he says. “The fucking bed, and the shower, and the fuckin’ ocean. It’s the kind of beach you were talking about, right? And there’s more like it, all up and down here and shit. Plus, plus - it’s old. Everything around here’s old. All kinds of haunted shit, I bet. We fuckin’ lived like this before. This is better than that. Not a bunch of goddamn crackheads and shit. And if… if that lady’s as fucked as you think, like… we could stay for cheap, or… or free for awhile or whatever. Maybe.” He stops, and leans forward. Swipes his thumb at the corner of her mouth. “You got fuckin’ shit on your face,” he says, and Helaena laughs at him. “Fuckin’ messiest person I ever met, I swear to God.”

She inclines her head, thoughtful. “You fuckin’ hate change.”

“It’s not that.” His knee is bouncing a little, fingers tracing the rim of his paper cup over and over and over. “Okay, it’s partially that, but I don’t really hate it that much. Not always. I just… you miss home and shit. And this is all my fuckin’ fault. All of it. And why… why should you have to spend your life fucking driving around?”

“… Are you trying to apologize?”

“… Maybe?”

“You’re fucking balls at it.”

“I’m trying to say we can stay if you want. If you like it here. If… you want a home or whatever.”

“I’ve been here twelve fucking hours, Eyeball. I don’t know if I like it here. I don’t know what I fucking like anymore, I feel like it’s just been minute to minute to minute to minute all the fuckin’ time, and my brain doesn’t do that. It just shuts off. Needs constant fucking stimulation, or just fucking… to be shut off. Nothing in between. Fuck sleep smoke fuck sleep smoke, you know how I get. I haven’t touched a book, or my cards, or anything besides a pillow or your dick in almost a week.”

He looks at her, chastened a little. Itchy, anxious fingers. He needs a goddamn cigarette. “I’m trying to fix it, Laney. I don’t know how.”

“You can’t. You can’t fix it, baby. It’s done. You know that. You’re gonna - we’re gonna - just have to live with it now. Like your fuckin’ eye. You just… you just fucking work around it. And it’s just there. All the goddamn time. It’s just there. Like every other goddamn thing.” She shrugs. What else can she fucking say?

“For you. I want to fix it for you. I know I can’t…”

“You can’t fix it for me, either. I know what I know, and I saw what I saw, and I fucking did what I did, and you can’t fucking fix it.” Helaena pinches the bridge of her nose and shuts her eyes. She can feel a headache, somewhere way at the margins, trying to work its way in. When she looks again, he’s just still. All but his fingers, walking back and forth across his knee. “I’m still here,” she says quietly. Reaches over for his stupid chin. He needs another fucking shave; he’s getting stubbly again. “Aemond. Look at me. I’m still fucking here. I know what I know and I saw what I saw and I did what I did, and I’m still here.”

“I didn’t give you much of a fuckin’ choice,” he says. “What are you supposed to do? Fuckin’ bail on me with nothing?”

Helaena laughs a little. “With nothing? Sometimes I think you really do think I’m a fucking little girl. You think I couldn’t figure it out if I wanted to? For fuck’s sake.”

He leans his forehead into hers. Lets it press like a kiss, or a benediction or something. “I know you could. I fucking know. You… you run fuckin’ circles around me, Laney.”

She nuzzles at him. Rubs right up like a cat against the truth of it all. “I’m here. Until you tie me to the fucking bed because you’re such a paranoid fuck, every minute you see my face, I’m choosing to be here. Might not have a ton of other fucking options, baby, but there’s always at least one.”

It feels like she’s talking to herself, too. Just as much.

“Can I?”

“Can you what?”

“Tie you to the bed.”

When she blinks at him, there’s a little mischief back in his eye, and she rolls hers at it. “Normally I’d say yes, but right now…”

He shrugs. “Worth a shot.”

Helaena gives him a crooked smile. “Don’t give up yet. Your birthday’s coming. Might let you do whatever the fuck you want to me.” She pauses to let him think about it for a second, get a pretty picture in his pretty head, before she continues. “Let’s do another night here at least. We should do fucking laundry. Maybe like… I’d like to catch my goddamn breath. Can we fucking do that? Be fucking humans? Do something besides drive and eat trash like fucking raccoons and try to sleep?”

“We can do that. We can do whatever you want. That’s what I was trying to say. I want… I wanna take you home.”

Like they’re on a date. Take her home. Jesus Christ.

I wanna go home, he’d said to her then. After Luke. I wanna go home, and she’d just stripped away everything between them and taken him inside. She’d known it then; that there was no other place he could ever belong again.

“You’re my home. Remember?” Cliches are cliches because they’re true, she thinks. They’re fucking true, and she means it. Home is familiar. Scary, sometimes, and fucking rundown, and sometimes there’s no lights for a couple days, and sometimes it’s so loud you have to hide under the covers, and you never know who might come knocking. But your brother’s there. And sometimes there’re popsicles and trips to the beach, and sometimes the hands on you are soft, and sometimes Daddy’s got a pack of fucking cigarettes he forgot about, and sometimes there are birthday parties. Home is a lot of things. Home is running, and running, and running. On your feet or in your fucking brain or whatever. Home is all this shit. Home is a motel in a wannabe beach town if she wants it to be. Home is a good mattress and a hot shower and a fuck that only makes you come a little, but a little is better than nothing. At least you’re held, and full, and clean, and you know who you belong to.

Home is who you belong to when you’re broken.

Home is him. She said it; she meant it. All of it’s true.

“I love you,” he says, and she thinks he’s said that to her more in the past few days than he has his whole life.

“I’ll go down to the office,” she says back. “Do you want me to do two more?”

“Do two more. Yeah. Do a hundred more. Do whatever, Lane. Do the right thing.”

That makes her laugh. A big one, right against his cheek where hers is resting now. “The right thing. Got it, Daddy.” But she knows what he means. Do the right thing because he fucking can’t. Because he doesn’t even fucking know what it is.

Neither does she, but whatever. She can pretend. For him, she can do a lot of shit.

He wraps her up then, big long arms that feel like they could go around three times, and she steals the last bite of his fuckin’ biscotti off his lap. Chews it against his ear, and he doesn’t even yell at her for all that weird crunching. The end is fuckin’ stale or something.

Helaena brushes her teeth and throws on one of his t-shirts and her own pajama bottoms while he tries to clean up the mess on the bed. Doesn’t want fucking housekeeping dicking around.

She takes her coffee and walks to the office, and it’s like fucking Groundhog Day. Lady’s a little sharper, maybe because it’s morning, but not much. Not fucking much. This should be fucking simple, but it takes forever because she misplaces the pen, can’t get the monitor turned on, and forgets halfway through what the fuck she was doing.

Helaena feels bad for her. Honestly. Has no idea how this woman makes it into work, or gets the door unlocked, or whatever. She even looks a mess. Same clothes as yesterday, all rumpled and shit.

She needs someone like Eyeball. Someone who can squish her back into shape, or fuckin’ rail her six times sideways and straighten her out. Someone who fuckin’ loves her or something.

Helaena tries to keep her on track, and they do two more nights, and Helaena fucking pays for them. Every penny, even though there’s not a goddamn camera to be found and it would be easy as hell not to. She takes Eyeball’s wallet out, lays it on the counter, and counts the whole shit out right in front of her. Lady almost looks relieved.

They square up, and Helaena thanks her. She gets to the door, and before she opens it she turns around. Asks this fuckin’ hot mess if she’s had breakfast.

She has, of course she has, she says, but when Helaena asks her what it was, she can’t fuckin’ remember.

“Thank you, honey. Have a great day!” she says. Big bright smile when Helaena waves goodbye.

“You, too,” Helaena answers, then comes back with two oranges and the rest of that fucking trail mix for her. Breakfast-y enough, she supposes. It’s all they’ve got left.

She tells Eyeball the story and tells him to get her a fucking danish and some coffee tomorrow morning when he goes. “That same bakery,” she says. “That was good shit. I bet she likes it. Cheese danish, cream and sugar. Looks that type.”

He holds her face like he’s afraid he’s gonna fuckin’ drop it or something. Softest hands. Fingers at the nape of her neck. Stares at her. Stares and stares and stares.

Says you shoulda left; back at the beginning, you shoulda fucking left, but then he kisses her like he was never gonna let her. Steals all her fucking breath, so now she can’t. Not even if she wanted to. Where’s she gonna go when all her fucking air is here, sitting in his lungs?

*****

Every laundromat in the fucking world smells the same. Humid electricity, detergent and bleach. She’s been in a hundred of them, and no matter how clean or fucking filthy; how new or old; whether some dude is selling blow out back or not, they all smell exactly the same.

This one’s busier than they like, but it’s a Saturday, so it is what it is.

Eyeball’s got that fucking pillow. Wants to bleach it into oblivion before he gets rid of it. Sent her outside to smoke while he dragged all the shit into their room to deal with it; pack it up tight in two of the motel pillow cases and jam it into the laundry bag.

When they get there, he does it again. Gives her his whole pack of cigarettes and a goddamn crossword puzzle from one of the stupid magazines and sends her to the bench outside. It’s a nice day. Warmish, big old sun. She wishes she had her sunglasses. Can picture them on the windowsill in their old kitchen by the door and wonders if they’re still there. If Alys has figured out yet that they’re not coming back.

The puzzle is stupid easy. Designed for women with one eye on a toddler, she thinks, based on the magazine, but it keeps her busy enough not to picture what he’s doing inside. Busy enough that his hand on her shoulder startles her, and she nearly swats it away.

It makes him smile, the way she turns the smack into a grab when she realizes. The way she locks their knuckles together.

“Good?” she asks, and he nods. Lights himself up and sits next to her.

“All in,” he says. “Pillow’s by itself. Enough fucking bleach to eat it. Smell’ll probably clear the fucking place out.”

“What’re you gonna do with it after?”

“Fuckin’ shred it, I guess. Til you can’t tell what happened to it. Toss it.”

She doesn’t reply, just works her jaw back and forth around her cigarette and nods a little.

“The fuck’s that guy’s last name?” she asks after a minute, tapping the point of the pen, thinking real hard or something. “The Twilight Zone guy? The voice.” They used to watch fucking reruns of that shit all the time as kids. “Seven letters. There’s an L in the middle.”

“Serling,” Eyeball says. He’s right. That gives her the last three answers, right in a row, and she’s done.

“Thanks,” she says and closes it up. Butts her cigarette against the arm of the bench. Takes a breath. “You should show me,” she says, finally. “For real show me. Fuckin’ sit me down and walk me through.”

“Show you what?”

“How to use it right.”

His gaze is searching. She can see from the corner of her eye that he’s trying to find hers. Pin it down and pry it open. She doesn’t let him, just keeps staring off towards the street, watching the intersection. Lots of fuckin’ accidents there, she bets. No one wants to stop all the way; fuckers just keep on rolling through.

“Why?” he asks. “I’ll do it. I’ll show you whatever, but…”

She shrugs. “Just good to know, right? You don’t think?”

“It’s always good to know,” he says. “The more shit you know how to do…”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. I’ll show you. Later on today if you want. Do you wanna like… because we’ll have to find a safe place.”

Helaena shakes her head. “No. I don’t think so. Just… put shit in, take shit out, hold it. Aim it. That stuff. I don’t want to be scared.”

He nods. She’s still not looking at his face, just letting her eyes wander. She sees him swallow a little harder than normal. Watches him pass his smoke through the fence of his long fingers, flipping the fucking thing around without so much as a singe.

“Those hands,” she says to him. “You got nobody’s fucking hands. God made those just for you.”

“Somebody did,” he tells her. “Or maybe just for you.”

Helaena smiles. Lets him catch her eye, then, and makes it soft. “That’s probably it. Just for me. Give them here.” She stands up and reaches for him, and he comes along, scraping his cigarette out along the metal arm and shoving it in his pocket. “Switch that fuckin’ laundry, then I wanna get that lady some fuckin’ lunch. Okay?”

Her hand disappears into his as they go. “Anything you want,” he tells her. “Anything you fuckin’ want, Lane.”

*****

(Later, when they get back to their room, he will sit on the bed, ankle-over-knee, and she will stand in the doorway and watch him untie his boots.

The door will close.

He’ll say nothing, pinched-out cigarette still between his teeth, forehead drawn in focus, but she will kneel. And she will crawl. And she will take his fingers, one by one, into her mouth. Nicotine, bleach, latex, skin.

She will pull him to the back of her tongue. Her throat. The place that swells with tears when she cries; the place that opens up with her laugh.

He’ll slide them, gentle, in and out and in again. Hook them in her jaw. Her cheek. Run them over her lips and wet them to a shine.

Everything in silence. Slow-motion soft.

Knees, nails, knuckles, need.

She’ll say she doesn’t know, after. When he asks her. She’ll say the impulse just came, strange and strong, and it felt old, and it felt like a spell, and something in her is made of magic.

He’ll shake his head. Tell her she’s a piece of work. Trace the lines of her face and look at her like he just drew them there.

He’ll agree, though. That she’s magic. He’ll agree. He can’t explain her any other way, sometimes; just magic and eros and alchemy.)

Chapter 37: Put it In

Summary:

He’s so strange. Sees the world on a peculiar slant sometimes; watches himself fucking her and fucking sees the burning heart of everything.

Notes:

I’m most comfortable rolling around in the muck & mud & weird with these two so like… 🤷🏼‍♀️😂 clean shower dick? Never met her. this wrote itself & was done basically at the same time as ch36

Filth, brought to you by the (triumphant?) return of helaena’s spitinmymouth kink, lots of body fluids, and you know, the childlike wonder of it all 😂

With a sprinkle of hitchhiker’s guide, if you catch it 🙃

Uh, also idk if I’d call it gun kink exactly, but… actually, y’know let’s just call it gun kink. Just so no one’s taken off guard.

Also - Lenore Kandel everybody! We all like to give Ginsberg his due for freaky beat poetry but can we please give proper respect to the cuntdeity herself? 😂 love herrrr

To Fuck with Love Phase II
by Lenore Kandel

to fuck with love—
to know the tremor of your flesh within my own—
feeling of thick sweet juices running wild sweat bodies tight and tongue to tongue

I am all those ladies of antiquity enamored of the sun
my cunt is honeycomb we are covered with come and honey
we are covered with each other my skin is the taste of you

fuck—the fuck of love-fuck—the yes entire—
love out of ours—the cock in the cunt fuck—
the fuck of pore into pore—the smell of fuck
taste it—love dripping from skin to skin—
tongue at the doorways—cock god in heaven—
love blooms entire universe—I/you
reflected in the golden mirror we are avatars of
Krishna and Radha
pure love-lust of godhead beauty unbearable
carnal incarnate

I am the god-animal, the mindless cuntdeity the hegod-animal
is over me, through me we are become one total angel
united in fire united in semen and sweat united in lovescream

sacred our acts and our actions
sacred our parts and our persons

sacred the sacred cunt!
sacred the sacred cock!
miracle! miracle! sacred the primal miracle!

sacred the god-animal, twisting and wailing

sacred the beautiful fuck

 

“Hey, open your eyes, Laney. Look,” he says, his voice hushed, round with astonishment, like they just stepped out of the car at the edge of the fucking world or something, and he’s never seen this view before, never will again, and he needs her to catalogue it. Remember. File it in the chamber of her fucking heart where awe and art and the fucking glowing eye of God live. “Look.”

They’re forehead-to-forehead, sweat-on-sweat in the too-hot room, hair sticking down or frizzing up, hands wrapped at each other’s fucking necks. He’s got a thumb in her ear, heel of his hand at her chin tilting her back, up, so when she opens her eyes, he’s above her, his expression like his voice. Fucking Moses staring the Divine right in the fucking face.

She’s been squeezed shut and open-mouthed, all of the muscles there fucked slack with the goddamn yes of it all, so it’s hard. It’s work to look, to take in something other than the fucking sensation of herself unraveling around his fucking cock, but he sounds so pretty. So breathlesslittleboy. She has to see.

He nudges her down with his nose, his temple, and says it again. “Look, Laney. Look at us. That’s us,” like he hasn’t watched it nine hundred times before. “That’s us. Look how fucking good that looks.”

She’s on the stupid desk, or what’s passing for a desk, anyway - that particle board piece of shit - ass sliding back and forth on the edge, her fucking legs splayed wide; one up on the goddamn wall and the other hanging loose, bouncing with the rhythm of it. It’s hard to see around her belly from this angle; his is better, straight on and staring right down at where they meet, where their hips are just slotting together, rocking, back and forth and up and down, franticfranticfrantic.

It’s not special. Not different. She’s getting prickly again, just a little, hair growing back, and she’s stretched wide for him and wet, so goddamn wet, and he’s just him, fiercely big and hard and lovely, and they look like two people fucking.

“Watch,” he tells her. Slows it all down, comes all the way out so that she’s reaching for him with her cunt and her fucking foot, trying to wrap around, pull him back, and he shhhh’s at her. Tells her no, just look, just watch, it looks so good. Takes his time while she whines at him, goes back in so slow, so so slow, says look at you, look at us. In, all the way in, slow so she’s lifting her fucking hips up, arching, clenching her jaw, his finger rubbing at the hinge on one side, keeping her head down. Watch.

Then back out, just as slow. The withdrawal is fucking torture. Fucking delicious. Eyes open for him, watching watching watching. He’s shiny, her mess and his own, and when she leans back, sideways a little trying to see what he sees, he looks huge. Looks like he won’t fit, but she knows he will. And he does, he fits, comes back to her, so so so fucking slow, but this time he rubs up on her first. Up, through, slides his thumb against the tip, squeezing so everything beads and leaks like paint. Makes glittery threads between their bodies. Stars. A whole universe before he nudges her open again.

Oh, she says, oh oh oh, her mouth stuck in the shape of it, going wider and wider and wider like her fucking cunt as he pushes her apart, looks for all those other mouths inside her; tries to make them sing and scream and fucking pray.

“Laney, look,” and she is. She is, and they just turn into one body. Come flush together as he pulls her against him, reaches into her, and he disappears but he’s there, Jesus fuck he’s there, all the way inside, and she swears if she leans back she can watch, feel, press down from the fucking outside on her belly and know the whole of him. “Look at that,” he says, “look at you. Look at how you were made for me,” and that’s the part that does it. Turns this holy. That’s what he sees, she thinks; that’s what’s got him twisted up with reverence, and then she’s there with him. Watching. Jaw and eyes and fucking heart hanging open, watching.

Out again, still so slow, and then he’s rubbing his fucking cock, too; sliding his foreskin fuckin’ up and down, sliding against her, brushing at her clit, tapping at her wet and sloppy, and that other fucking hand has her chin so tight it might bruise. He doesn’t mean it; he’s just gone, watching, holding her, and he’s so strange, she thinks. Her strange little brother, sinking so goddamn deep again, half an inch at a fucking time, telling her look at you, look at us, God, and he’s right. It’s fucking art or something. The way she takes him. The way he takes her. The way they fit like that.

It has to be on purpose, by design, by some hand even fucking bigger than his.

He’s so strange. Sees the world on a peculiar slant sometimes; watches himself fucking her and fucking sees the burning heart of everything.

He should’ve been so many things, she thinks, all of her bones going loose, shaking, her body trembling as he does it again, goes so slow it gives her tremors, makes her moan from that primitive place she can only find when he’s like this. He should’ve seen things with two eyes, made things with two hands, done something with his fucking spectacularly weird, brilliant brain besides see angels in the inkblots of their fucking sex.

She doesn’t tell him that, though. Doesn’t tell him anything at all, just tilts her head back into an ecstatic arc beneath him and opens her mouth, tongue out for communion, and he gives it to her. Spits right into the cup of it. Twice; the first time with a little force, a little fucking take it, but the second one is just a mess of spit running like honey, a slow drip drip drip over her lips, back down her throat when she fixes the angle. She rumbles and purrs with it, opens wide for just one more, just one, please, and it’s another slow mess of drool that starts on her tongue and goes straight to her cunt.

Please, she says, right out loud, please, and then they’re just talking over each other, at each other, nonsense slipping into nonsense, and suddenly his free hand is at her throat, his mouth around hers the way her cunt’s around him, and he tells her look, says it right into her teeth, Laney watch me come for you, look what you fucking did, and he pushes her head down and she sees him. Feels him. Warm little bursts like stars extinguishing themselves against her body, and he’s holding himself right to her, right on her clit so the pulsing of it hits and hits and hits, and it’s not enough but almost, almost, almost, and there’s that sound again. From way back before they were even human, and she says please again, please, her whole body reaching for him. Grasping at his fucking pleasure, searching for her own.

He uses his fucking cock to get her off, rubs and rubs and rubs until she’s panting and the tremors seize her like a fist, and then he shoves back inside. Fast this time; still hard enough to get there, only just, and she feels one last spasm. One last little give, like being inside of her is tootoo much, and she holds him tight. So tight. So so so so tight, like he might never get back out, and he has to get softer before he can, because her fucking body won’t let go.

And she sees all of it. Everything. The way he makes her come, and the way he makes her his.

“What was that?” she gasps, sweat-slicked and shaking, holding onto him like the goddamn aftershocks are gonna knock her on her ass. Crack her in half. “Oh my god, what the fuck was that?”

“That was us,” he says, his voice as spent as his fucking cock. “That was us,” and it was.

It is.

They are.

Helaena just hums a little. Nods, shakes and shakes and shakes and holds him, and then he’s got a hand at her trembling knee. “Open for me again,” he says, putting the words along her collarbone; letting one finger wander behind her shoulder to press her pretty bruise. “Come on, show me,” and she does.

She leans on her hands, tips her face up to the ceiling, and smiles as she opens wide. Feels like the fuckin’ prettiest doll on the shelf. Feels him use his fingers to part her, spread her, watch the drip. Almost all of it is on her, not in her. Everywhere. She’s still quivery, giving him a random clench and throb and flutter, and he presses back to soothe her and love her and keep her. Runs his thumb over. Slips it in shallow to feel her respond.

When he takes it out, he drags it over her. Collects his fucking mess and puts it to her lips, and she opens her eyes then, watches his sweaty face, pink in his cheeks like he’s the fuckin’ babydoll, while she sucks on it. “More,” she says, just a little louder than a whisper, and he smiles at her. Gives her more, off of his fingers and then off of his tongue when he slides her down, turns her around, kneels to take her in his mouth.

She lets him. Jerks and gasps and buckles at her joints when he fuckin’ eats her from behind, stops to look, stops to ask her who she fucking belongs to.

And she tells him. She knows. She knows exactly whose she is.

You, Daddy.

His kiss is filthy, and it’s fucking sticky, and she sucks his tongue like she’s dying and his fucking spunk is gonna save her.

“There you go,” he tells her. “Swallow it, pretty girl. It’s yours,” and she comes again, grinding on his fucking thigh while he kisses her empty-headed and numb and shattered.

“Oh, Daddy,” she sighs, right into his goddamn mouth, “oh, Daddy, yes,” and the answer to life, the universe and everything isn’t 42; it’s fucking oh daddy yes yes yes yes yes.

*****

Afterwards, he just throws her onto the bed.
Picks her right up and tosses her into a heap of fucked-out giggles, and the mattress swallows her up. He comes beside her, sprawled out on his belly, and there’s nothing at all to say for a long, long time.

“Bet that was better than that fucking salad you made me get,” Eyeball finally says. Rolls over to look at her upside down and laughs.

“You’re still gonna eat it,” she says. “When did either of us last eat a fucking vegetable?”

“Sixth grade. And no I’m not. Shit’s fucking soggy now, I bet you anything. Warm. I’m not fucking touching it. I wanna eat warm and wet, I’ll fucking bend you over again.”

Nothing made it to the stupid fucking mini fridge. They walked in, and shit got weird, and that was that.

She rolls her eyes, then her body, until their arms touch, hair tangled together. Plants a kiss where the curve of his shoulder meets the plane of his back; where wings would be if he had them. “It hasn’t been that long. You have fucking lettuce and cucumber and celery, and dressing in a cup. It’s fine. I’m gonna bring that poor lady hers; if you aren’t eating when I get back I’m gonna eat you. And when we’re done, will you show me?”

Eyeball looks at her. Plucks her hand up to fuss at her fingers. “You were really serious, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“What are you worried about?”

“I dunno. Nothing. I just… think it’s a good thing to know. It fucking makes me nervous, and maybe if I fuckin’ knew how to use it, it wouldn’t.”

“I’m not gonna let anything fuckin’ happen to you.”

She shakes her head. “That’s not… that’s not what I’m fucking worried about. It doesn’t matter. Just show me.”

He nods at her. “It’s not fucking complicated. I’ll just do it now.”

She watches him stand and stretch; grow another million inches when he gets up on his toes and puts his arms high over his head.

Gun’s in the dinky little safe; he locked it up before they left. When he takes it out, he’s careful. “Loaded,” he tells her, and she swallows a little. “I’ll teach you to unload it first.” Helaena sits up, and he sits back on the bed beside her and holds it out. “Look at my hands,” he says. “Keep your finger on the frame, like this. Don’t put it near the fuckin’ trigger if you’re not gonna shoot. Okay? Fuckin’ safety first, Laney.”

She nods and takes it from him. Turns it in her hand, holds her finger right, and looks. She’s held the goddamn thing before but it feels alien; its heft fuckin’ ominous or something. “Okay,” she says.

“Good girl,” he tells her. “Nice and safe, right?” Then he points. “This is the magazine. This is the magazine release. This is the slide, and this is the slide catch. Aim that fucking shit somewhere safe, then pull the magazine first. Hit the release, it’ll come.”

Helaena hesitates. “Lay down,” she says.

He looks at her funny. “What? Why?”

“Against the pillow or whatever, not flat. Just lay back. I want…”

“You want what?”

She tugs the magazine out into her hand, gun aimed up to the ceiling, and he gives her a nod of approval. “I want you to lay down. I wanna sit on you.”

Eyeball tilts his head at her, eye narrowed like he’s trying to squeeze inside her fuckin’ brain. “Oh yeah?”

He does it, though. Slow, but he fuckin’ scoots himself over and leans back, and when she straddles him, he strokes one hand down her thigh. She settles herself, sits right across his fuckin’ soft cock.

“What are you doing, Lane?” he asks, a little current of wariness, or warning, or whatever, running through his tone.

“Unloading the fucking gun, right? Now what?”

“Pull the slide. Literally just slides back, it’s not hard, and the shit will just pop right out.”

She does it, and the round pops up and falls over the side. Bounces off her leg. “Like that?”

“Mmhm. You can also turn it and catch it with your other hand or whatever if you want, but… that’s the gist, right?”

“Okay, Daddy,” she says. Soft. Toes gently at his bare leg and sways a little on top of him, and his forehead knits together.

“You’re fuckin’ getting off on this, fuckin’ weirdass bitch,” he says, but there’s a smile somewhere in it.

She shrugs at him. “Doing weird shit is easier like this, that’s all. When I can fuckin’ look at you and…”

“And…”

“And… have you close.”

“Uh-huh. We’re fucking close. Anyway. That’s it. Fuckin’ easy, right?”

Helaena nods. “Then I just… put it back?”

“Basically,” he says. “Unload the fuckin’ mag. Just press out with your thumb, they’ll come.” He reaches up to show her once, and she takes over and does the rest, bullets ticking out into her open palm. They’re silky feeling and smooth. Soft over hard, and nice and cool. She doesn’t fucking hate it. Not really at all. “Good girl,” he tells her, and she squirms again.

“Weirdass bitch,” she says. Raises an eyebrow at him.

“You’re fuckin’ sitting on it, Lane. Fuckin’ dripping shit on me. What do you want?” He draws a little circle around her navel, a spirally in and out. “Now load it again, watch.”

He does the first one for her, and she finishes. It’s easy; they just slip right in. Batteries or some shit. “Like that?”

“Just like that. You learn so quick. You’re such a fuckin’ good girl. Smart. I’mma send you down to fuckin’ stick up that liquor store on the corner.” He grins at her.

She giggles at him; feels him fuckin’ stirring harder and harder against her. Insistent. She slides over him, a little back and forth, and it’s fuckin’ nice. Feels good, and familiar, and sexy. Dangerous, too. Like that fuckin’ cock ring or whatever. “Maybe I will. Now what?”

“Now you just…” He’s the one squirming now, got a hand reaching under her, eye all glinty, pupil wide. Something wicked there. “Just put it in, and you’re ready to ride.”

She does. She puts it in.

Click.

“Good job, pretty girl,” he says, and then he fuckin’ puts it in, too.

Her fucking mouth falls open, and her eyelashes flutter, and the two of them tilt their heads back. Same angle. Same sharp little intake of breath. Same expression on their funny little mirror faces.

And she rides.

Chapter 38: Sharp/Soft

Summary:

“Moon’s in Scorpio starting today,” she tells him. Sitting right in there with their Suns; doubling down on the sting. Pulling at the dirty tide of their blood.

Notes:

this chapter’s a little all over the place 🤷🏼‍♀️ a few things I wanted/needed to poke at but not dwell on?

also, daeron and tessarion: remix 😂 a dingbat dragon’s still a dragon, is all I’m saying

“If you'd lie with scorpions, you need a taste for poison.”
- Aleksandr Voinov, Scorpion

 

“What do you want for your birthday, baby?” she asks.

Those two more nights turned into four, and now tomorrow is the sixth of the month, and in the morning - just when the sun is beginning to backlight the day; when most people are still sleeping but her brother rarely is - he will turn twenty-one. The same age as she is. For eleven days, they’ll stay that way.

Eyeball came early, and fast, and eager. Managed to scare everyone, even at less than six pounds. Bloodied Mama’s dress and Daddy’s seats and Helaena’s fat little foot.

Helaena took her time. Had to be coaxed and prodded and pulled into the world with a pitocin drip and a pair of forceps around her stupid big head. Too comfortable, Mama said. Lazy from the start.

She was too lazy, and Eyeball was too impatient, and the only one Mama never bullied for his own birth was Waffle.

They said he was early, too, but he never got shit for it. Didn’t look early. Fatter even than Helaena, and strong, and slid out in four pushes. Just happy to be here. Didn’t tear or terrify or inconvenience anyone.

That all came later.

Eyeball stretches long over his head, shirt riding up and cigarette burning between two fingers. “Same thing I’ve wanted for my birthday since I was like thirteen,” he says, crooked smile slanting across his face, paralleling his scar.

Helaena rolls her eyes and sips her coffee. It’s sunny this morning, and they’re outside that fuckin’ bakery he found that first day. It’s cute, and it’s tiny, and there’s a little back patio with fucking umbrellas and little baskets of seashells and shit.

She’s got lemon in her danish this morning. Was feeling a little bit fresh. Bratty or something. Thought it suited her mood.

He’s got his biscotti shit, but she’s just glad he’s consuming calories instead of fucking mainlining a caffeine/nicotine speedball.

They’re not supposed to be smoking, but there’s nobody else out here and no one seems to care.

“You get head whenever you want it,” she says.

“Not birthday head,” he says.

“What’s the difference?”

“One’s on my fucking birthday.”

Helaena laughs, tucking herself tighter into the big old hoodie of his she’s wearing. It’s chilly when the fucking breeze comes. “You’re stupid. I’ll fuckin’ blow you. Twenty-one goddamn times if you want it. Whatever. What else do you want?”

“That might be enough, actually,” he says, feigning thoughtfulness. Tapping his cup with the filter end of his smoke. “Beats your record. Seems like a fair present.”

She grins. Her record was on his birthday, actually. His eighteenth. She told him it was legal now - well, kinda - so she was gonna suck him sore, and she fucking did. Nine times.

They’d gotten into a fucking pissing contest over it, trying to see who’d quit first.

It was him.

The last two times he came, shit took an hour and it was fucking dry. He had to fucking tap out.

She’d been smart about it; wouldn’t let him touch her. Told him it was because it was his birthday, and it was sorta true, but she wasn’t gonna get herself fucking destroyed.

Her fucking jaw hurt for like a week, fucking clicked and clacked and ached, and he told her it fucking burned when he peed for a minute, and they’d both randomly yell nine and crack up for no reason for like six months after.

Motherfucker still wants to talk shit about it. That might be enough, he says.

“You’re an old man now,” Helaena laughs. “More than twice might kill you.”

“Ho, I could come down your throat three times in half an hour,” he says and finishes his fucking coffee.

“That says more about me than about you,” she smirks.

“You’re on some brat shit today,” he says, and he’s got her fuckin’ number. “Acting like a girl who wants her pussy spanked and her throat fucked.”

Helaena laughs. “We’re in public, you fucking dirtbag. There could be fuckin’ kids around. Watch your mouth.”

He rolls his eye. “You see kids anywhere? Keep talking to me like that, too. You’ll be wearing my fuckin’ hand like a necklace.”

That gets her eyebrows up. Gets the attention of something between her shoulders, and they tug back a little on her. “You got a lot to say,” she notes. “You wanna fuckin’ play rough? We can play rough.” She picks across the table at his plate; presses the pad of a wet finger into the crumbs. Puts it in his fucking mouth.

He’s all bite. Sharp teeth and a sharp eye. A little blade in his smile, shiny as the one in his back pocket. Forever picking up what she’s putting down.

“Moon’s in Scorpio starting today,” she tells him. Sitting right in there with their Suns; doubling down on the sting. Pulling at the dirty tide of their blood. Helaena puts that finger in her own mouth and rubs at her back teeth. Feels like something’s caught there, but it comes out clean. “We’re both on some shit. Know what we should do for your birthday?”

“What?” he asks. Chin in his palm now, all ears. Staring at her. Breakfast’s all gone but he’s still hungry.

She levels her gaze across the table at him. Holds it steady like a gun. “We should play a game.”

*****

They get Tess - that’s her name; the dipstick at the front desk - her coffee and danish: cheese danish, coffee so pale it’s basically milk, just like Helaena guessed, and Helaena helps her get the phone working again. It came unplugged somehow, and Helaena fiddles with the jack and the cord and shit until she gets a dial tone. Tess tries to pay her; Helaena thinks maybe she thinks she’s from the fucking telephone company or something, but she doesn’t let her. Just sets her up with her food and her office shit and tells her to have a great day.

Tess owns the place; ran it with her husband til he died last year. They lived together in the little space off the office. No kids, Tess said. Never wanted them.

Seems like they had a nice little life, Helaena thinks. Something maybe she wouldn’t mind for herself, even. She could see it. Her and Eyeball, maybe in some fucking alternate timeline where they weren’t such goddamn fuckups. They’d do fine. She could answer the phones and he could fix the air conditioning and at night he could press her against the arm of some ugly pushed-in futon and eat her fucking pussy til she screamed and the people in room one called the cops.

There are worse ways to get by.

Except now Tess does everything alone. The reservations and the books and all that shit. Even clean the fucking rooms.

Not doing so hot without her man.

That’s why there’s hardly anyone else there, Helaena figures. There have been a few other people in and out, but most of the rooms are unoccupied. Place is run like a preschooler’s lemonade stand, and it’s about as clean. She and Eyeball have been taking care of their own mess; don’t want anyone else in there, anyway, but they did ask for more towels and had to come get - and find - them themselves, and no one’s even attempted to do a sweep.

Helaena looked at the fucking Yelp reviews and figured out pretty quick when the guy - Darren - kicked it. He was the brains of the fucking operation and probably Tess’ fucking brains, too. Her memory’s goddamn Swiss cheese, and what she does get right, she does by rote.

She did finally change her clothes on day three, at least, and Helaena thinks she’s showering. She doesn’t fucking stink, and her hair looks clean enough. That old lady blue-gray. Something coppery underneath; maybe she was a redhead. She’s got those cobalt eyes that go with it sometimes. Nails are a mess, though. Long and gross, like claws. They remind her of Waffle’s, and she keeps having to resist the urge to fucking have at them herself.

She picks at her own fingernails on her way back to the room. Eyeball got her some drugstore polish, one of those dried-blood shades she likes on her hands, and did them for her yesterday, but it’s chipping already. A little sliver around her cuticles on some fingers, and her index is missing a raggedy square at the tip. Once it starts, she can’t help herself, so she’s gonna have to have him fix it before it gets too fucked up.

She’s pondering it all when she gets to the door. He’s left it open for her, propped with one of his boots. Still the same pair; he keeps putting off trashing them. She’s eventually going to have to go 007 on him and do it herself, she’s pretty sure.

“Cut that shit out,” he says from the bed as she wanders in, staring down at the mess. “Ripping your fucking hands up like that.”

“Just the fucking polish,” she says. She’s leaving the rest alone. Sometimes she picks and pulls and chews. Not so much anymore - he hates it; cringes at the shredded skin and broken nails, and the way it all catches on his shirts and his hair and the sheets, so she worked really fucking hard to stop - but every so often she’ll go on a tear. Anxiety or whatever.

“Give it here,” he says. Wants to check her.

She rolls her eyes and sticks out her hand for inspection. He runs the tip of a finger around everywhere, making a show of it until he’s satisfied, and then he’s got a knuckle between his teeth and he’s tugging her into his lap. She goes soft and pliant for him. Lets him sit her over a knee. Straddles him like a good girl.

“I figured it out,” he tells her, sucking on her finger and rocking her a little. A gentle updownup, like one of those fucking horsey things in the front of the grocery store they used to go to with Mama.

“What?” she asks, lifting one hip, and then the other, updownup, swaying right along.

“What I want for my birthday.”

“You mean something else? ‘Cause if we’re not playing for yours, then I want it for mine,” she tells him.

“No, that, too.”

She bumps her nose into his, that sway finding intention against him. He doesn’t stop her. “Oh, now you’re just greedy,” she says.

“I’m the baby. I’m allowed.”

“Mmmhm. So tell me.”

“I’m gonna give you my wallet, and I’m gonna drive you to that place we saw the other day. When we went to the real beach. And you’re gonna fucking go in there and find something that makes you feel like the cheapest fucking whore on the cheapest fucking corner of the cheapest fucking block in the known fucking universe. And that’s what you’re gonna wear for me.”

She smirks at him, and he tweaks her fucking nipple hard.

“That was mean,” she says, her fuckin’ stomach flipping over itself.

“That was nothing.”

She smiles, all her blood sinking low between her thighs. “Whatever you say, Daddy.”

“There you go. You’re learning.”

She laughs a little, and he lets her get away with it. “Any preferences?”

He shakes his head. “Just cheap. I wanna look at you and get mad that I paid for it.”

“You mean Daddy paid for it,” she says, looking sidelong at him. Angling for a good slap.

Instead, he just shakes his head again and lifts his knee; tilts it a little to press in. “I’m the only Daddy you got now, Lane,” he says. “Maybe the only one ever who wouldn’t have sold your fuckin’ pussy for a car payment if it came to that.”

He’s not wrong, she thinks, and somehow, it hits just the same.

They’re quiet for a minute, just friction and silence and his grip on her hip, but eventually she says, “Hey.” Leans into him a little harder.

“Hmmm?” The hum’s right on the other side of her voice box, like he’s daring it to say the rest.

“There’s a part of Mama that would be so proud of you,” she whispers. The edge of it blurs. Turns into a gasp when he lifts her up again.

“Not the good part,” he says through the teeth at her neck. Bites a line straight down the center.

“Maybe not, baby,” she mutters. “Maybe not.”

*****

He doesn’t really mean cheap. If she turned up in a fucking tube top and dirty sneakers, he really would fuckin’ lay her out for spending their money, and it probably wouldn’t be half as fucking fun as they’re planning.

It’d be funny as fuck, though, and Helaena considers it for a second. You said cheap, she says in her head, and in her head he fuckin’ bends her over the fender and does whatever he’s gonna do - spanks her or rearranges her fuckin’ guts or edges her until she cries or all of it, maybe - right there where everyone can see it, and that’s the kinda mood she’s in today. Brat him til she’s bloody.

But it’s his fuckin’ birthday, so she plays nice and makes a pretty present of herself. That’s what he means. Not cheap. Slutty. Fuckin’ skanky. Sixty-two cents worth of fabric; something that sits in her pussy instead of over it and covers three freckles on her goddamn chest.

She has trouble choosing between Barbie and Bitch. Goes with Virgin in the end. All white lace, fuckin’ see-through everything, except for the little pink clips on the fucking garters and a bow between her tits to match.

That’ll fuckin’ turn his knobs, she thinks. Lifting her fuckin’ skirt looking for a whore, finding the fucking Madonna instead.

There’s what he thinks he wants, then there’s what he actually wants, and she’s fucking known him long enough to tell what’s what. When shit’s like this, it’s gotta be pretty pink and white and vulnerable. Something he can fuckin’ ruin. Happy birthday, Daddy.

She shouldn’t fuckin’ talk, she thinks. The rot is everywhere. All through them both. They’ve always sat so close together that it’s impossible to tell where it started. Now it all smells too sweet and clings to the back of their throats.

Everything tucks neatly into squares of tissue paper and fits into her bag. Folds up into nothing and disappears.

Just like her, she thinks. Just like them, and she smiles to herself.

She’s done first, for once, and sits on the bench outside smoking while she waits. He’s cleaning the fucking car again. This will be the third time. They vacuumed it once, then took it to a different car wash to do the seats and vacuum again, and now he’s somewhere fucking scrubbing it down and doing the whole shit again. Maybe running it through for the outside, too, just because. Granny’s his girl.

Paranoid, or smart, or both.

Probably both.

He pulls up with the windows down, long arm hanging out, cigarette burning. Granny’s shiny; sunlight off her hood like a jewel. She’s waxed, and Helaena bursts out laughing.

“You keep her cleaner than me,” she grins, hopping into the seat. “When’s the last time I got a wax like that?”

Eyeball grins back. “Not enough down there for a wax now. I’ll fix you up when we get back if you want.”

She could use a touch up. Everywhere. She’s super prickly, and her nails are trashed, and her hair’s starting to get a little fuckin’ out of control, too. She was due for a trim or something before they fucking left. She can do his, but she won’t touch her own. “I do want,” she says.

He blows smoke and nods, and Granny gives a little contented sigh and rolls into gear under his hands. “You find something?” he asks her.

“A couple somethings,” she says. “Not gonna show you.”

“Didn’t ask.”

“You hate surprises.”

“I won’t be surprised.” She looks sideways at him, and he upshifts with a smile. “You’re gonna look hot. What the fuck is surprising about that?”

Helaena takes a drag and props a foot up on the dash. The fucking breeze is a lot, but it hits her lungs nice. Like it’s blowing out the dust. His fingers are at her thigh, up high and in close like he’s thinking of starting some shit.

“Wait,” she says, and he looks over at her. “Wait til I’m bare again.”

“Don’t fuckin’ tell me what to do with my pussy,” he says, but there aren’t any fucking teeth in it.

He wants it, too.

The sharp blade. The soft touch. One against the other til her fingertips are white with pressure in the fucking dirty grout and she’s dripping on the razor’s edge and her veins sit close to the skin, wide open with heat and running like a river.

One against the other til he’s got her pinned by the fucking neck, just like he promised, wet hand and wet breath while she reaches and reaches and reaches with her hips and he tells her no no no.

One against the other til he says ask me, one thumb, one side, tracing that brandnewsmooth ridge. You can do better. You can say it louder. Can’t you? Or don’t you want it?

The sharp/soft, the barbed tongue, one against the other until she’s just the light bent and gleaming around the point, pleading for the relief of its own refraction.

Beg, he says.
Louder, he says.
Say it again for me, he says. You’re so fucking pretty when you’re desperate.

Chapter 39: Red

Summary:

Helaena hums, a low little off-key Happy Birthday and watches him smile. When she’s done, he tries again; inhales good and snuffs the flame quick. “Don’t tell me,” she says. “It won’t come true.”

Notes:

little bit of a domestic violence mention in here, if you’re sensitive (no actual- er, nonconsensual- violence)

also, I’m gonna give a heads up for dubcon shit but onnnnnly because she’s literally sleeping. but it’s nothing we haven’t seen before & yr girl’s not mad about it, I promise 💅🏼

Tonight
I dared to crawl
beneath the sheets

to be nailed down
around me,
waiting for my lover, she

who enters
without knocking, she
who will unstitch

my every seam
along my thigh,
my side, my armpit.

She who carves
a heart out of the heart
and drops it

down her throat.
Sweet surrender this
slow death in sleep

as I dream
the love-making
is autopsy. How else

will I be hers
completely?

- from La Palona as Birdwoman by Rigoberto González

 

.

 

Helaena’s eyes blink her out from her sleep, and he’s fuckin’ balls-deep, pulling her back into him, one hand under her bent knee turning her into the fucking smallest version of herself he can get. Pressing forward, down, fucking her facedown flat and stretching her bare little body wide open.

She’s sloppy wet, wonders what the fuck he was doing to her and for how long; wonders why it didn’t wake her up. Probably the goddam weed. She’s still pretty well baked, feels floaty and feline and dreamy, and it was hours ago. Sun’s coming up; she can see through the gap in the curtains when she turns her head sideways to breathe better.

“Fuck,” she says, and it’s just a groan, dragged up the rough inside of her throat, and it fucking feels like her birthday or something.

“Morning,” Eyeball says, right against the back of her head, and he still sounds fucking blitzed, too.

“Happy birthday,” she sighs, and he’s got his hard fingers in her leg, right at the tender back of her knee, and his body feels warm and sharp against her, a hot knife at her spine. Cutting her up, drawing wet like blood.

He doesn’t answer, just rocks his hips. Lazy, sleepy, deep.

“Harder,” she tells him. Lifts herself to give it back, but he doesn’t listen right away, so she says it again. “Harder, motherfucker,” near wide awake now, warm in her chest and needy in her belly.

“Mmm, shut up,” he says, doesn’t listen, keeps his rhythm, “it’s my birthday. Shut up and fuckin’ take it,” in her ear now.

Helaena smiles. Presses her face into the mattress, feels it smush up to take her shape and take her breath. It’s okay, she thinks; it’s nice, maybe it’ll just put her back to fuckin’ bed. Rocking and rocking and rocking, slow like morning, but it doesn’t put her to sleep. It doesn’t get better, just makes her want to howl at the fucking moon. It feels like a fucking tease, she’s so slippery, and there’s something feral in her; something about being woken up pulled tight and held down and fucked full, and she wants him to fucking end her.

Her hands curl up into little claws and she tries again; tries to meet him and shove him and do it herself, and it’s pissing him off. “Stop,” he grumbles, right in the crook of her neck. “This is what we’re fuckin’ doing.”

She whines. Doesn’t fucking listen to him, either. Tries to pull her other knee under for leverage. “Come on,” she says. “Fuckin’…”

“I said shut up,” he says back, a growly thing now, and that doesn’t help either. Not at all. Just turns up the goddamn volume. He pushes her knee flat, and his pace slows to a fucking crawl, and her back arches as he drags over her and through her and inside her, and something in her wants to just thrash. Toss her arms and legs like a goddamn two year-old, screaming.

It’s good. It’s good. That fucking wild thing that he’s trying to break now, pushing down on her hips, using them to hold himself so she’s fucking pinned, trapped, used. Oh. It’s fucking good. “I want it,” she says, whines and whines and whines, “I want it,” bratty and demanding, and she’s trying to rile him a little. Get him so hot he’s going to fuck her like he’s mad about it, but it doesn’t work. He’s not so high he can’t fucking figure her out.

He slaps her, though. Gives her that sting she was looking for yesterday. Takes one hand and lays it across her ass so hard she fucking yelps, pulls back involuntarily, all of her muscles squeezing at the contact, and it makes him stutter against her. Say shit and follow her. Do it again. Same spot, hot and sharp.

That’s almost as good as the fuck she’s looking for. Makes her bite down on the blanket when he slides back into her fucking ribs, big hand kneading at the skin he’s fuckin’ slapped stupid.

One more time, one good smack that makes her shriek a little, gasp a little, clamp down with her whole body, and then she lets herself melt under him. Sink, drop, stretch and purr like a fuckin’ scruffed kitten. “There it is,” he says to her, “I fuckin’ knew you could listen.”

Helaena smiles. Lets her mouth fall open, lets whatever noise he fucks out of her come right through, and he’s done it to himself, now. Gotten all keyed up, one hand in her hair, a knot he’s gripping and twisting and jamming into the back of her neck.

“Put your fuckin’ hand under,” he tells her. “Come while I fuck you, I wanna feel it,” and that’s a good fucking idea. That’s perfect.

She does herself fuckin’ hard. Frantic, wrist wriggling, hips trying to find some rhythm between the way he’s pulling at her and the way she’s fuckin’ working herself, and it feels chaotic, like a goddamn car crash.

“Come on,” he’s telling her. “Come on, come on, come on my fucking cock, you fucking slut,” and there it is. There it fucking is. Dirty fucking mouth like a detonator.

“Shit,” she says; fucking spits the word like a mouthful of jizz, “shit,” and she locks up tight and comes apart, all around and over and on him, and he fucking slaps her again, gives it to her good while she squeezes, and she sounds like a goddamn wild animal. He should probably put her in a cage, back away slowly she thinks, somewhere in the scorched landscape of her brain, but instead he just comes right along with her; shoved so deep she swears she can taste it.

“Shit,” he says, too. Collapses right against her, on her, over her. Just like she did to him. Twitching and pulsing and all the rest.

“Fucking disaster,” she mumbles. Fuckin’ bedsheet in the corner of her mouth, breathing hard, her body still sorting itself out. Still grabbing at him with her cunt. “You’re a fucking disaster. I’m not going down on you yet. I need a minute.”

His hot laugh huffs against her skin; brushes the little wing of her shoulder blade. “You got it,” he says. Still inside, mess seeping out around him. She can feel it.

“You gonna clean that up?” she asks, nudging at him with a hip.

“Mmhm. I need a fuckin’ minute, too.” He doesn’t clean it up, though. Not even after a minute. He just rolls off of her, dips a hand between her thighs and paints it down her leg. Inside her knee. Right over that sore spot on her ass like balm. “I’ll get you ice, babygirl,” he says. Kisses at her, whatever he can reach, cheek and arm and spilling curls she can’t even feel.

Helaena sighs. A long low exhale. The babiest fucking girliest sound she can muster up. Just pleasure, just yes; whatever was inside of her laying tame now. Curled in on itself in a sort of delicious submission.

It sits in her belly like a hot cup of coffee. Like a kiss with a tongue in her navel. Like fuckin’ birthday cake.

Better than ice on a bruise.

He comes back from the machine outside, pajama pants sitting dangerously on his hips, one of those fucking good Ziplocks from Mama’s house full right up with cold. He butts his cigarette on the door frame and wraps the bag in yesterday’s t-shirt while she watches, eyes dry and low.

“I don’t need it really,” she says with a half smile. “It was only like three or four times. It’ll be fine. I do need a fuckin’ smoke, though.”

He shrugs and sits down next to her. “I dunno. Looks rough already. I got fuckin’ hard-ass hands. Fuckin’ wailed on you good, too.”

She laughs a little. “That’s how I like it, Daddy. Gotta fuck me up sometimes.”

Eyeball brushes the hair off her forehead and sits the fuckin’ ice pack on her ass. Reaches into his pocket for a cigarette, and sticks it over the candle she’s got burning on the nightstand to light it. “Where’d this fucking thing come from?” he asks her as he stands to prop the door wide so they don’t set off the smoke alarm.

Helaena laughs. She didn’t even think he fucking noticed it, but of course he did. Clocked it as soon as he fucking walked in. “They didn’t have birthday candles; can you believe it?” she tells him, talking about that corny adult store he dropped her ass off at yesterday. “Had to get that stupid thing. Bring it here.”

He lifts it off the table and sits next to her with it. “White Satin,” he says. “Good choice. I fuckin’ love the smell of fabric, Laney. How’d you know?”

She swats at him, grinning, and takes a long drag of her cigarette. “It was either that or Hot Nights, and that smelled like someone took a piss on a cinnamon stick.”

“Sounds like a hot night to me,” he shrugs. “Kinky,” and she pokes him in his flat belly.

“Anyway. Make a wish and blow this shit out,” she says. “It’s not much better. And I don’t want the fire department here at fucking seven o’clock in the morning.” Candle’s smoking pretty good, and even with the door open it’s a lot.

He takes a breath, but she pokes him again.

“What?”

“I’m serious. Close your eye. Make a wish.”

He stops. Tilts his head to look at her. “Okay, princess,” he says and pauses, eye shut.

Helaena hums, a low little off-key Happy Birthday and watches him smile. When she’s done, he tries again; inhales good and snuffs the flame quick. “Don’t tell me,” she says. “It won’t come true.”

“Wasn’t gonna,” he answers.

He plucks the cigarette from her fingers and goes to stand in the doorway.

“You feel old yet?” she asks him, kicking her legs back and forth, soft so she doesn’t knock her fucking ice off.

He blows a set of pretty rings; two little identical circles - one for each of them - and watches them rise. “I’ve felt fuckin’ old my whole life,” he says. “Every goddamn day of it.”

*****

They debate the bar. Sit outside again, drinking coffee and playing fucking footsie under the table while he repaints her nails. Didn’t get around to it yesterday, and they’re even worse now from the shower steam and the way she had them sitting in his fucking mouth, holding on for her fucking life while he did whatever the fuck he did there, crammed against her in the fucking tub.

There’s a bar they can walk to, only a little ways up on the same side as the motel. Eyeball’s sketched out about it, though. Feels like someone could recognize them or something, see them coming or going; doesn’t want to get too fucking cozy. Doesn’t want to be easy to find. Thinks they’re gonna want ID.

He argues for the fucking real beach town an hour out. Says they’re fucking used to dumbass kids; won’t harass them or remember them or anything.

Helaena doesn’t want to drive. Thinks that’s sketchier. The out-of-state plates make her nervous, especially leaving a fucking bar at night, and especially in a town where the cops are gonna be fucking bored in the off-season.

She thinks the local place is less likely to ID. Plus, they’ve fucking seen it in daylight and darkness, driven by twenty times or whatever, and they know what they’re dealing with. Know what’s outside.

In the end, she wins. Begrudgingly. The last point does it.

Eyeball hates surprises.

They don’t drink. Not together, anyway, and rarely apart. Eyeball not at all anymore. Not since he split her fuckin’ lip with the back of his big old hard hand, spit and blood on his knuckles like a fuckin’ scarlet A.

Asshole. Abuser. Alcoholic.

He’d never hit her before that. Not since they were really little kids. They’d thrown shit and broken shit and whatever, but that was fucking gnarly. Split her mouth right apart, and she’d fucking swung back, hit him with a bottle that somehow didn’t break - gave him a nice goose egg, though - but that was the last fucking time.

Last time he took a shot at her that she didn’t ask for, and last time he had a fucking drink.

But he’s legal now. Can walk into a bar. Can order a shot of whiskey; straight, no chaser. Can find a pretty girl alone inside and take her home - take her anywhere he feels like, really - if he wants to. If she’ll have him.

Maybe even if she won’t.

You only turn twenty-one once. And one shot is one shot.

She might have two, she says. She likes whiskey, too; it’s warm. Reminds her of Daddy and Waffle and home. Of smoking Camels on the front porch and standing on the back of Waffle’s stupid bike, speeding wasted down the goddamn hill like a couple of fucking cowboys.

Got her fucking shoelaces in the spokes once and broke her ankle. Year after she fuckin’ turned up pregnant.

Mama was over her shit by then. Split her lip better than fuckin’ Eyeball. Waffle’s, too; the two of them struggling to get home with her screeching and him trying to drunk-walk both her and the fucking bicycle back. Mama lost her goddamn mind.

Eyeball, too. Helaena thought he was gonna break Waffle’s goddamn neck, then they’d all have to go to the fucking ER.

Maybe she wants some stupid fucking lady-drink later instead; vodka and cranberry with a lemon wedge. Something pretty.

Something to make her just a little loose. A little blurry at the edges. A little pink in her cheeks and hot in her chest. Easy to push down to her knees.

She’ll figure it out then, she thinks, blowing on her fingers. He did a better job this time. Three whisper-thin coats, lots of time in between. Better for cheap shit. Doesn’t chip as easily. He filed her, too; made pretty little blunt squares, all matchy-matchy except for the thumbnail she cracked the other day and had to cut down to nothing.

Him and those good fucking hands. Precise and clever and hard and dangerous.

She holds her own out, fingers splayed, and lets him check his work. “Much better,” she says, and he agrees, sucking on his last decent drag.

“You got that lipstick?” he asks her, pointing at her nails. “This fuckin’ color.”

Helaena nods. “In my bag. One this sorta color, and that other red. The brighter one. Might have a pink in there, too.”

“Nah.” He stubs out his smoke on the flat rim of the table and brushes the ashes down. Jerks his chin at her fingers. “This one. Wear it. Looks better on me.”

Helaena smiles at him. “Your mouth or your dick?”

“Better be on both before we’re fucking done,” he says, grinning back at her.

“Could put it on both now,” she says with a shrug. “Get under the fucking table for you. No one’s out here.”

He laughs at her. “Won’t someone think of the children, though?”

She rolls her eyes and steals his fucking coffee. Hers is gone, and her fingers are cold from sticking out straight at him for so long. She doesn’t sip it; just holds it, careful not to smudge even though she’s mostly dry.

“You ready, birthday boy?”

He nods. “Go get Tess her shit,” he says, handing her his wallet. “I’ll clean up.”

She meets him out front, Tess’ breakfast in hand, and he opens the car door for her. Belts her nice and tight.

Helaena sits the coffee in the console and the little paper bag across her lap, and as Eyeball slips Granny into gear, giving her a sexylow good girl for her good behavior, Helaena flips the visor down. She digs through her bag til she finds the right color.

Laughs at the name. She forgot what it was called.

Spank Me Red

She drops a wink at her sweet boy and paints her mouth up pretty for him.

Chapter 40: Game

Summary:

It all started that way, anyway. The two of them just playing.

Notes:

uh, the underdeveloped prefrontal cortex continues to dominate the chat 😅 joined today by the ever-escalating codependency and eroticized violence & the continuing entrenchment of potentially uncomfortable power dynamics/play.

Next… probably three-ish? (including this one) chapters will have some elements of cnc/rape-y fantasy/play stuff, & some consensual-but-not-necessarily-safe-or-sane shit so like… if you’re a decent, upright human being and that gives you the heebies (what are you still doing here? Go!😂), it’s a good time to hit the emergency eject.

because, uh, we are kinda just gonna folie à deux this shit kids /dadjoke

“How delightful are the pleasures of the imagination! In those delectable moments, the whole world is ours; not a single creature resists us, we devastate the world, we repopulate it with new objects which, in turn, we immolate. The means to every crime is ours, and we employ them all, we multiply the horror a hundredfold.”

— Marquis de Sade, Les Prosperites du Vice

 

She likes games. Card games, board games, silly shit like charades. Video games sometimes. Sports, not so much, but turns out she’s actually a halfway decent shot with a bow and arrow. Found that one out in middle school when they did archery.

Did drama in middle school, too. One year, the one where she got herself fucking knocked up. Had a hard time keeping up with literally anything after that, so it all sort of slipped away into the ether, but she’d liked it. Been good at it. Pretending is a strong suit of hers.

She plays games with Eyeball and wins, mostly. Chess, Rummy, Canasta. Pop taught them that one; fuckin’ old lady game but it’s fun as hell. Eyeball’s brain works better with real life shit: cars and bills and keeping shit organized, but she can outthink him and outplay him and outmaneuver him when the stakes are fucking nonexistent. When there’s no pressure, and there’re clear rules, and if she wins she might get a little fuckin’ treat.

Wired for reward. For pleasure. For that goddamn dopamine hit. Eyeball is, too, she supposes. All of them are, the whole fucking dysfunctional lot of them. Their circuits are just connected differently.

Games, though. Games’ll fuckin’ do it for her.

It all started that way, anyway. The two of them just playing.

Helaena tugs up her collar a little and arranges it so her bra straps sit right. The goddamn thing is more supportive than she expected, which is nice, but she gives thanks that the fucking dress is lined nice. You can’t see how little everything is fucking covered underneath. It’s that stupid sweater-dress thing again. He likes it. She hates the way it clings to her belly, puts her stupid little pooch front-and-center, makes her ass look like a shelf. That’s his favorite part, though, so she goes for the ride. She does throw leggings on, though. The dress isn’t quite long enough to hide the garters when she sits. She had to get the fucking petite ones because apparently normal chicks are Eyeball-sized, and they’re just a shade off.

Everything is a little lumpy and uncomfortable with her dumbass lingerie stuffed underneath, and the goddamn panties have a slit that her pants are fucking riding up into, but whatever. Worth it to have his fucking tongue riding up into it later.

“Hey,” she says, poking her head around the bathroom door.

He’s ready. Fuckin’ dudes. Jeans, black -t-shirt, fucking baggy-ass hoodie to hide the gun. Hair back. Took him three goddamn minutes, and now he’s just sitting on the bed with a bag of pretzels. She told him to fucking eat something before he put fuckin’ liquor in his stomach. Might not sit right after all this time, and he’s got a bad belly anyway.

“Yeah?” he says. Looks up at her and smiles. “You look pretty.”

She smiles back. “Thanks. Do my fuckin’ hair? It’s getting fuckin’ crazy again. I need it cut.”

“Nah,” he says, getting up. “Leave it alone. I’ll fuckin’ fix it.”

He does, too. Tames it right down. Wrangles it into a nice, neat braid. It takes him a minute, but some spit and some fucking pins and she’s good to go. She’s surprised at first, til she realizes he’s trying to make her look older. Styling her like Mama so she won’t get ID’d. It works, she thinks; he added a couple years maybe.

She doesn’t think he’ll have much of a problem. People always think he’s older than he is. The fucking scar, probably, and the patch. The height. He’s left his stubble alone, too, and that helps.

She’s the one with the fucking baby face. Round, round, round. Everywhere. Even with spank-me lips and dark mascara, she’s somebody’s little girl.

Bartender looks at her like maybe she’s gonna be his when she gets in there. That should be a fucking red flag. Should make her bail right then, the second he does anything but fucking nod her way, and she knows it. Knows Eyeball would be out the goddamn door.

But he’s not here. Not yet. And Helaena likes games. Doesn’t fuckin’ want hers interrupted, so instead of spinning on her fucking high-booted heel, she sits her ass down and orders a drink.

It’s a November Wednesday, dark and chilly with a waning Scorpion moon. Bar’s not empty, but it’s not exactly busy, and there’s barely enough chatter to fill the space. Older crowd. Older than they are, anyway - not college-age, but not fucking piano bar geezers either - and mostly men. Not her favorite fucking vibe, but she doesn’t plan to stay long, and she’s not fucking trying to make friends.

Not trying to be seen.

She doesn’t order a shot. No girly shit either. Neither feels right, so it’s gin and lime. Herbal and bitter and sour; a nice wash-out for her mouth.

“Can I see your ID, please?” the bartender asks her. Dimply smile, dark eyes, nice neat fade and a real Roman nose. Cute. No name tag, but he looks like an Erik. The kind with a k, for sure. That’s what she decides she’ll call him. Not-quite-thirty Erik.

Not quite thirty, and not her fucking type, but his tone of voice and that forearm lean and that finger tap and that eyebrow lift tell her that he thinks he could be.

Tell her she should probably just get the fuck up and go.

She doesn’t.

She’s got one hand to play before she calls it. That’s the deal. If she can’t get served without proof, she’s just supposed to head back out and meet Eyeball on the fucking sidewalk. She can picture him there right now; cigarette in his teeth, hand cupped around it towards the wind, casual as anything with his back against the streetlight. Gun in his waist. Knife in his boot. Smoke like a halo.

She’s got his big, cozy zip-up on over her dress, and she makes a show of digging in the pocket for her wallet. Puts on a good face when she opens it up and the ID slot is empty. Oldest, dumbest trick in the book - shit, she tells fuckin’ Erik-with-a-k; I must’ve left it on the counter when I bought my damn cigarettes - but she does it with a fuckin’ good-sport attitude. Does it like she gets it; she fucking knows he can’t serve her, and oh that’s annoying, isn’t it, but she’s not here to get him in trouble. Does it with a smile. A little self-deprecating eye-roll. A lift up off the stool.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I better go get it. I was just gonna have one anyway.”

He hesitates. Not long.

She doesn’t. Just pretends she doesn’t see it and stands the rest of the way; goes to turn and hears him say, “What’s your birthday?”

Bites her grin.

She tells him the truth, and he smiles at her. Wishes her a happy early birthday, and he probably shouldn’t do this, but he believes her, and it’s just one, right?

Right.

“Thank you,” she says and sits back down. “My baby brother’s is today.”

“Happy birthday to him, too,” he tells her, and there’s her drink. Boom. Drama club superstar.

It’s strong, too. She sips it, and she pays him, and she tips him right, and then she takes it with her to the table she’s been eyeing. Back corner, by the bathrooms, no one too fucking close.

Helaena smiles to herself when she sits down to watch the door. Smiles when she shifts, sips again, feels that fucking leak between her legs. Days’ worth of him. Days and days and days. Damn near a lifetime of him inside of her, stickyslick as blood.

She likes gin. She’d forgotten how much, and she has to be careful not to drink too fast while she watches the fuckin’ clock tick down.

Ten minutes. She hadn’t thought to look when she walked in, but she knows he’ll be on time.

And he is, she presumes. It feels right, anyway, when she sees him slip through the door. Quiet body, quiet feet, even in those stupid fucking boots. There’s music playing, but she can tell from the way he moves that he hasn’t made a goddamn sound. Barely disrupted the fucking air. No one looks up. No one turns their head. Her eyes are the only ones on him.

If he does find attention he’ll fucking keep it, though. That much she knows. Even if it’s only a beat longer than normal. When she looks at him like this - from a distance, like a stranger who’s gonna size him up - she gets it. To her he’s just fuckin’ Eyeball, but he sticks out. Towers over everyone, scarred up, patched up, too fuckin’ blonde. Something not quite right about the eye he does have. Something spooky behind its funny color.

He wears it all. Every fucking thing that’s ever happened to him is written out plain. You can catalogue his parts. Assess the damage.

And you remember him.

Good old Erik almost does a double-take when he turns and sees him sitting there. Obviously didn’t fuckin’ notice him come in and looks like he’s wondering how that’s possible. Helaena smiles a little, just the tiniest nudge at the corners of her lips. Fuckin’ big old cat, she thinks.

He gets a beer. Guinness. That makes her smile, too. Dumb boy shit. Waffle drinks trash; cheap whiskey and Miller usually, but Eyeball needs everything black as his fucking coffee. Black as his fucking soul, she thinks, and laughs to herself.

No fucking ID for him. Just like she figured.

And now they’ve got this stupid thing going; he’s watching her and she’s watching him and nobody’s really looking at anybody but they’re both fucking seeing everything. She’s eyeing the way he’s taptaptapping at his bottle, itchy fingers looking for a smoke, and she’s putting lipstick on her glass for him, kissing at the rim and tilttilttilting it, trying to catch the shine, and her fucking gin is good, and her neck feels warm, and she likes the lighting in here. Amber and low. It takes some of the white out of their hair. Throws shadows.

She tries to play her part; to be just some fuckin’ chick on her way somewhere else. To see him like any other woman might. But it feels better - feels like the liquor in her belly, or like lead; hot and edgy and persistent - to remember what he’s fucking capable of.

That’s why they’re here, after all. So he can show her.

He doesn’t finish his beer. Just sips at it for awhile, baby things, with his hands and his knee and his eye going. Anxious. Gentle-like; not drawing observation from anyone but her.

He’s watching, though. Everyone, everything. Puts one eyebrow way, way up when Erik-not-Erik pops over to check on her.

“You need anything else?” he wants to know.

Helaena tells him no, thank you, and makes a point of shaking her head right along with it, slow and clear. Making sure Eyeball sees her put him off. Sees the way her lips don’t smile back. It’s reflexive, automatic, but as Erik walks away she wonders if it might have been more fun if she’d tweaked the rules a little bit.

That’s it, though. She sees her brother’s bottle go still - he’s been taptaptapping that a little, too; the hard glass bottom against the flimsy paper napkin, not even trying to leave a ring on someone else’s fucking furniture - and his knee go quiet. Watches him sidelong as he thinks and watches her right back, their gazes chasing each other in circles, never catching up.

He doesn’t tip the fucking bartender, and he takes his bottle with him as he stands, and Helaena almost laughs again. Instead, she downs the rest of her drink, one final acidic swallow, because that clock is tick-tick-ticking down, and Eyeball’s had enough.

Slick again, all drum-tight grace, and for a second she can see the bridge. See that murky water just below. See how easy it was for him to hide between the raindrops, use that gray sky like a shield, appear out of thin air, just a strange and shifting shape; the kind the dark makes in your room when you forgot you hung your jacket on the corner of the door. She can see the surprise on Luke’s face, see him pause, hand at his mouth with his fucking unlit cigarette. See him try to make sense of things. See what he must have seen in the last confusing seconds of his life.

It’s this. She’s sure of it, and it makes her heart miss the step. Stumble right over itself in her fucking chest; both knees down on her ribs at once.

Eyeball walks right by her. Kicks his eye down to hers for less than a second. Gives her his dumbass version of a wink, that twitchy lid and raised half-mouth, and heads into the bathroom.

She can hear the water going right away, through a pause in the music. He’s not pissing; he’s washing that fucking bottle. Dumping it down the sink and scrubbing off his prints. Soap and a shitty paper towel at the rim to rub off his fucking spit, she can fuckin’ see it. She knows how his brain works.

Overboard, she thinks, for what this is. If it all goes to plan. But then, when does it ever? And when does her boy fucking half-ass anything?

She hears it thump into the trash as she’s touching up her lipstick. Giving herself something pretty to leave behind, just like he asked. Wonders what she should do with her own glass, empty now to the ice melting at the bottom, but figures there’s not much else to do but leave it. She smudges at the kiss marks with some water and her napkin. A token of a gesture, but whatever.

He’s taking longer than she expects. Up to some sort of no good back there, she imagines, and being quiet about it, but then he’s back.

Helaena feels him before he’s there. Before he says a word, before he touches her, before he even casts a fucking shadow from the yellow lights in the little hallway by the restrooms.

They vibrate here. This odd frequency. Too high - or low - for anyone else to tune the fuck in, so they ride it smooth to each other. A fucking drunk bike ride down a hill, sometimes, but they’re on it together, and at least he’ll remember to make sure her laces are tied fucking tight.

She knows what he’s doing now. Can feel that funny eye of his roving and roaming and adjusting and calculating. Can feel his ear perked and his head tilted. Can see the math writing itself out in the air; some formula she could never fucking solve, but she doesn’t have to. He’s got it. Got her.

She chances a stretch. A glance over her shoulder, and she’s right. He’s leaning in the frame, one sliver of his own hiparmshoulder just visible. One little slant of skin; the pale white of his pretty, sharp cheek. His good side, of course.

She dips her head back down. Presents him the neat back of her neck while she pretends to study her perfect, shiny nails, and waits.

Waits. Waits. Waits.

Peers up through her darkened lashes to see what he sees. To guess what scene-shift he’s looking for, her heart still lurching around like she might do when she stands.

She’s glad she only had one drink. Another one and he’d have to fucking carry her out. It’s been awhile, and that fucking thing was 90/10. Definitely more than a shot; maybe more than two.

Her eyes skim back down, and her skin gets hotter, and something in her nervous system feels it just an instant ahead of time; that little warning bell going off at the base of her brain and the roots of her teeth, and then there he is.

Behind her. In her ear. Low and dangerous, hot beer breath and a nice, steady hand; right in that soft joint where her neck meets her shoulder. Dagger-fingers. Menace, threat, magic.

He’s the Magician, and she’s the lady in the box.

I’d kill every motherfucker in this room to get your mouth on my cock, but I’d really rather not. Stand up, shut up, and walk. Now.

They both might fucking laugh if they weren’t so goddamn tense, fucking wet and wired and wound like this.

It’s terrible. Right out of some bad fucking movie, and he’s been waiting to say it all fucking day; she can tell. There’s irony in it, some sort of dark amusement running through it that’s all him, and it hits just right. Ticks just the right box between real and not, in the overlapping space between fear and desire, between kiss me and kill me, between fucking worship me and martyr me.

He’s bent sideways, big body blocking her partially from view; blocking his own belly, his hip, his right-angled arm.

Blocking the gun in her ribs.

The muzzle is cold. Hard as a cock. Hard as his, probably, but she can’t feel it yet. Not how he’s standing.

She will soon. So soon.

Helaena breathes deep.

And she stands.

And she walks.

Chapter 41: fightflightfreezefawnfuck

Summary:

She’s alive, and she’s his, and she is nothing - nothing - else at all.

Notes:

this is probably the most intense of the cnc/rapeyfantasyplay shit, so heads up for that. it’s obvious that it’s consensual but it’s probably still uncomfortable. and there’s also gun stuff, not super safe, so there’s that too.

brother made a name for himself with the cops
scumbag fuck but i swear that he’s not
he’s so good to me and to nobody else
so you should watch yourself

i’m bad, he’s worse, we’re already dead
we’re already dead

we wake up and all the fuckin’ lights are out

- from inbred by ethel cain

 

Helaena lets him be her eyes. Her ears. Her legs, even; one of his pointy knees bumping against the back of hers, guiding and turning and moving her along.

She lets him be her everything.

She is only her own heart; that drumming pumping heaving muscle, full of blood and terror and an appetite so ferocious it is all that exists.

Her being is a busy place. Her head. Her Self. Constantly full of things volleying against each other for her attention, tugging her one way and another and another, spreading her thin and diluting her focus and making everything too bland or too bright or something. He is the only thing that fucking calms it. Sharpens it. Whittles her down to the present; to the rushing waters of her own body, the narrow edge of her need. He can stop the fucking noise. Cut her clear down to the bones of her desire, whatever it is, and that’s all that remains of her now.

She doesn’t know who’s looking or what they’re seeing. She doesn’t know what fucking song is playing. Doesn’t even feel the hardwood beneath her feet; gin-wobbled or dread-addled or weak in the knees with all of her knowing.

She’s just a thud thud thud in her throat and her chest and her cunt. Just a steady hand at the small of her back. Just a nudge nudge nudge, his cock now, she can feel it through his pants and her dress and her leggings, bouncing against her as she moves. Gun’s there, too. Just brushing her, saying hello every other step or so, tap tap tap.

She sees what he was doing when he turns her down the back hallway where the bathrooms are. He’s got the kitchen door standing open, propped with some cast-iron thing that he kicks aside as they walk through, a noiseless sweep with his foot that seems to go in slow motion. It’s closed; the cook and the line long gone and the place barely lit and ghostly. Greasy-smelling. Bar food. Kitchen exit’s propped, too, and that swings shut behind them with a soft whoosh as they step through it, and then they’re outside.

Dark night, with the moon sitting at a sliver and a thick cloud cover, like rain’s waiting in the wings. There’s a light out here, a dim thing that’s flickering like a shuddering candle. The bulb wants to die, or maybe it’s just blinking at them fast, trying not to watch but unable to help itself. A dumpster. Fucking oily shit on the ground by it.

Fucking gross. Everything out here is gross. Uneven concrete, dirty old brick with mold or moss or what the fuck ever, a shed with a hanging padlock that someone hasn’t cared enough to replace. Something inside is humming; she can hear it slipping into the gaps between her own frantic pulse.

He spins her quick once they’re out; shoves her against the wall like he means it. She totters a little, not ready and not fucking sober, and she can hear the material of her sweatshirt catch on the scrubby brick. It’s a terrible sound, a prickly one, and it literally makes her dry-heave.

Eyeball’s eye goes super clear for a second, super tuned in, and she sees him reach for her. Ready to catch her, put an arm around her shoulder, end this right here. It makes her want to kiss him once the fucking urge to retch passes.

She doesn’t, though. That’s not how this game works.

Helaena steadies herself against the building, takes a deep breath, and then he’s back to it. Right in her face, drawn up so tall; tall and leaning, not bending; making himself a slant against her. A neat little cage. One elbow down, one cocked ninety degrees with a barrel in her belly.

“Get on your knees,” he tells her. So close she can feel the words; dragged up from way low in his throat. Right in that sweet spot, that fucking heartbreaker tone. His breath’s not bad. Not beer-sour. He must’ve fuckin’ rinsed a little in the bathroom. Didn’t drink much.

“Make me,” she says. Chin up, close enough to touch his almost, but looking somewhere past him. Towards the shed, and the shallow bank of trees behind it.

If she looks at his fucking eye she’s gonna fall right in.

That’s not part of the plan. She told him she didn’t wanna fight about it, not really, but that was before she had a little drinky-drink, and anything more than one always makes her wanna fight about it. Any it. Toes her up to that fight/fuck line. Blurs it sometimes; sometimes it’s clearer.

Dangerous ground, maybe, but he’s in control, at least. He fuckin’ knows better.

That other hand comes down quick, right to her throat, and puts his weight on it. So big it takes up the whole thing, gets a grip on all that brutal beating blood at once. Makes her next breath knife-sharp; not quite a whistle but not nice and full either.

Just fucking right.

All of this is just fucking right, says her cunt. Brain’s trying to argue, but he’s gonna pull the plug on that motherfucker in a second, too. “I said get down,” Eyeball says, and all that hot-and-heavy ends up in her knees. Buckles them; that fight/fuck coin-flip landing with a desperate clink, fuckin’ do me side up.

Ground’s hard; she can feel the pebbles and loose gravel and shit right through everything, but she’s got enough clothes on to buffer it a little. Probably not gonna cut her up, but he might. He’s manhandling her; rough with her head, rough with her mouth, already in it. Almost his whole fucking hand, pulling her apart and forcing everything in. Four fingers to the bottom fucking knuckles, backbackback, searching for the gag already. No warning, no softness, just filling everything up so there’s no room for a thought or a wait or a no.

There’s a word they agreed on - two, actually; fucking Captain Crunch because that was sitting in the sale endcap of the fucking grocery store they stopped at this morning, and it made her laugh for some fucking reason - but they didn’t account for what to do if she can’t get it out. If he’s so far in her goddamn throat that there’s no safe word, no safe anything; if there’s not even room for breath between them. If her brain’s said the fucking mercy-prayer and fuckin’ peaced out.

Like this. Like now.

But she doesn’t want out. She wants him in.

The back of her head hits the fucking wall a little harder than he intends, she thinks, because his gun-hand tilts, turns so it’s his wrist against her, feeling for something. Stroking like an apology; pulling her forward a little, but she’s okay. Barely feels it. She lets herself lean in, fall against the touch, a reassurance, and he’s satisfied.

Gives her a slap. Just a little one; yanks that hand out of her mouth and pops her in the cheek. “Look at me,” he says, and she does.

Tips her head up, wet fingers under her chin and a muzzle at her temple. Her whole fucking body shivers, one big jolt through her like fuckin’ metal in an outlet. He can feel it, she thinks; her skin is a goddamn superconductor, because it lights his fuckin’ eye right up. Bright and beautiful and dangerous as hell.

“You’re pretty,” he tells her. Starts fucking with his pants, takes that hand under her chin to do it so he doesn’t fuck around with the gun. “Prettier with my cock in your mouth.”

It’s out now, hard and close and he smells like sweat and fuckin’ wet earth or blood or something; something different than normal. Sharper. Like his body’s trying to get something fucking dirty out.

Or maybe it’s her. She’s sweating, too; prickly everywhere with it. Wet. Wet down her neck, despite the fucking cold; wet between her fucking legs, and she can smell that, too. Through all her goddamn layers.

It’s both of them.

“Spit on it, whore.”

Her mouth is dry, and it takes a second to get enough. Too long. He smacks her again, not hard this time either. Just a little impatient swat that gets some sound from her belly, a funny moany thing she didn’t see coming, and then she spits, and he fuckin’ rubs himself down with it. “More. Fuckin’ eyes up here, slut.”

There’s just him. No gravel under her and no brick behind her and no fading moon above her. No dead men bloating in the water, running out blood and gas like hourglass sand.

Nothing crowding her brain, nothing in her goddamn ears but his voice. Just him him him and she looks up at his face, pretty like a polished blade, and spits.

That’s it, then.

He’s in her ears, her eyes, her fucking mouth again now; no fucking hesitation, no slow sexy slide, just shoving past her fucking lips and into her teeth and when she can’t get them open for him fast enough, there’s another slap. This one stings. Makes her eyes tear up, so she can’t see him anymore, nothing but a black and white blur swimming in the atmosphere, and the world is even smaller.

Cock.
Voice.
Gun.

“Take it. You know how to take my dick, fucking do it,” and he’s just gonna take her face for a fucking ride. Fuck all the bullshit right out of her. Fill her up and shake her loose and gag her til she’s empty. Til she’s nothing but spit and spunk and tears; dented knees and a dripping cunt with the butt of a gun fucking tangled in her hair.

Once he’s in her throat he puts a hand behind her. Holds her head, and it’s almost fucking gentle. Big sweatywarm palm cradling her like she’s his baby, fucking her goddamn head back back back into it, slamming his knuckles against the brick so he fucking takes the hit, not her, and she doesn’t register much, but she registers that.

That’s how it is. That’s how it works. She takes him, opens up, sucks and gags on whatever he sticks down her throat, and he does the rest. Takes the rest. Absorbs every fucking blow, scraped and bloody and battered and fucking happy to do it as long as he can empty himself inside her. As long as she’s a good girl and swallows what he gives her.

Twenty-one years. There were times when she didn’t think either of them would live this long. But here they are. Fucking by a dumpster with a fucking gun between them, back alley of some bullshit bar on a Wednesday night, hundreds of miles away from anyone who knows their names. A pair of goddamn fucking animals, but they’re alive.

She’s alive, and she knows it because she can taste her own mascara, running down into the cracks in the corners of her lips; she can feel her heart like a fist pounding at her sternum; she can feel the blunt end of a 22 cold against her skin, and she can feel gin or bile or just a hot pooling ache in her stomach, threatening to spill every time he hits that fucking spot at the back of her throat.

She’s alive, and she’s his, and she is nothing - nothing - else at all.

Nothing, for a minute, or three, or six. Time is nothing, just like she is. The only measure is his pace, quick and dirty and businesslike; the squeeze of his hand against her, the way she feels like her fucking jaw is inching and inching and inching apart to fit him, like he just keeps getting bigger. His voice - talk, you gotta talk, okay? she’d said to him; that’s the ground wire, the tether, the thing that pushes everything else out and holds her right in place - telling her to take it or swallow, whore or good girl, choke on it, whatever shit he can come up with. That’s it.

He’s nervous. She can tell because it’s taking a long time, she thinks; when he’s rough like this it’s fucking fast and vicious and over, but not now. He can’t fucking relax.

And then the motherfucking door swings open.

She doesn’t hear it. Not at first. She’s tuned in somewhere else, buzzing up high, full of nothingness and need and liquor and him, and he’s her everything. Even her fucking amygdala. Her hypothalamus. Her fightflightfreezefawnfuck, and she doesn’t clock the danger until he does.

He’s sharp, though. He’s alert. Too fucking jumpy to come, but operating just perfect to act a fucking fool.

That door fucking opens and he’s out of her goddamn mouth so fast her head bounces back and hits the wall, his hand fucking gone. Everything sort of goes wonky, speeds up or slows down, it’s hard to say which, but she brings a hand up to rub at her eyes, clear the mess so she can see what the fuck is happening, and there’s…

“Erik?” she says, and she doesn’t even fucking know why. That’s not his name, she doesn’t know his fucking name, doesn’t know why the fuck he’s out here, doesn’t know why she’s even running her mouth, doesn’t know anything at all.

Eyeball’s deep in his own messed-up pocket, digging for something, and Helaena tries to yank up on him to stand, but he’s moving too much, and she doesn’t like the look on his face, and she can’t get sturdy.

Instead, she uses the wall, leans, and Erik-not-Erik is talking, and she really wishes he wouldn’t. Wishes he’d shut up, something bad is gonna happen here; he’s saying what the fuck, and when she looks at him, sees clearly, his eyes are big and he’s scared or mad or startled or whatever and he’s just what the fucking again, sort of frozen, then there’s a are you ok? and this motherfucker is stupid. He has to see the fucking gun. Has to. He’s stupid. He’s so goddamn stupid and he’s about to be dead and stupid, she thinks, because Eyeball was digging for the fucking magazine, and she hears it click.

Now she hears herself, up on her feet finally, and she doesn’t know how loud she is. Isn’t quite present enough for that yet, but she says something like no, wait, it’s not what… but it doesn’t matter. No one’s listening.

And then there’s a shot.

It doesn’t hit him.

It’s not supposed to. Fired off somewhere else, straight up she thinks, maybe; sees her brother’s arm just go up, like those assholes in the movies who pop off a warning shot into the sky to spook their little girl’s fucking prom date or some shit.

BANG!

It’s loud, and it does the fucking job. Scares poor little chickenshit Erik, who’s fuckin’ out like a boner in sweatpants, back through that door, and then Eyeball’s got her by the arm. Button still fuckin’ undone but at least he put his goddamn dick away, and he’s telling her come on Lane we gotta go come on move come on, heading towards the treeline.

She comes, as fast as she can fucking come, but her legs are short and her boots are high and they have a little heel she’s not used to, and she’s tipsy and the ground is soft and tangled with leaves and roots and shit once they get back there, and it’s dark. Hardly any moonlight; hardly anything filtering through from the buildings and the road or whatever. It’s not woods, really; just a copse, but it’s thick. Lots of evergreen shit, so there’s cover, and that’s good but also hard to move through.

She’s fucking wet, too; so wet it’s annoying now, slippery and uncomfortable and gross, and she hates everything about it.

Eyeball’s trying to help, trying to keep the fucking branches out of her way, but he can’t see either, won’t turn on the burner for light, is flying just as blind as she is. Maybe more, bad eye and shit. He’s faster, getting frustrated with her tentative steps, but desperately desperately desperately trying to keep his shit together. Talking under his breath, come on Laney, you gotta move, you gotta move, and she’s trying.

She tries to talk to him, too; tries to say maybe they can just explain it, tell them she’s okay, tell them it’s a misunderstanding and everything is fine but it’s not fine. She can’t go back. There’s a bullet hanging out there somewhere, and a shell, Eyeball says. They might not find the bullet, but the casing is there. He looked for it quick but didn’t see it; must’ve rolled around under or behind something or whatever, but it’s there. He fuckin’ shot the thing off, and who knows what the fuck they think was going on but it’s not good. Not good, and they gotta fucking go because Erik - Helaena doesn’t like the way he says it, and she knows there’s gonna be more about this shit later - is gonna start some bullshit.

And he’s right. She knows he’s right. There’s no way to fuckin’ undo this one, and they just have to go.

It feels like it takes all night, but maybe it’s ten minutes, she doesn’t know, and they come out behind the fucking motel. She can’t tell, but Eyeball knows; measured it out in his head or is somehow landmarking it through the gaps in the trees, or something. He’s right, though. Bang on.

He holds her back, straight-arms her while he steps out to look around, and it’s fucking late and the place is nearly vacant anyway, so he tells her it’s clear, and out they come.

But something’s not fucking right here, either.

Helaena can hear fucking Tess, out in the goddamn parking lot carrying on about something. Hollering, and banging, and making a goddamn scene.

“What the fuck?!” she says.

“Leave it, we gotta fucking go,” Eyeball says back, but as they come through the little walkway between the buildings, Helaena can see her, just out front of the office. She’s pounding on the door, yelling let me in, and Helaena can’t fucking leave her like that.

“Pack up,” she says. “Quick. I gotta see what the fuck is going on, or someone’s gonna call the fucking cops. Go!”

He looks at her, and he looks at Tess, back and forth and back and forth, but he knows she’s right.

He nods, a curt little fine, and tells her to hurry the fuck up.

He goes one way, and she goes the other, both of them with some fucking business to take care of.

Notes:

just as a lil side note - as someone with severe adhd who is currently unmedicated & just raw dogging life (still nursing my littlest 😅), it’s been super interesting for me to explore the intersection of neurodivergence and subspace and how like… the more stressful things get, the more difficult it becomes for Helaena to manage, and the more intensely she looks for that space - and the more intense stuff she needs to get to that space. 🤷🏼‍♀️ and how potentially therapeutic it is to have someone who gets it, and gets you — you know, presuming you’re not fucking around with firearms and maybe not a close blood relative 😂

anyway, just needed to throw that in there, because I feel like I’ve messed with it more here than anywhere else & it was interesting!

Chapter 42: Lucky

Summary:

Tess follows her gaze, and her eyes narrow behind her lenses. “What do they want?” she asks, and Helaena’s a little surprised by her tone. Not too fucking happy, she thinks, and that’s something she can work with.

“I dunno,” Helaena says, deliberately. “We’re closed.”

Notes:

Even a sweet old demented dragon is still a dragon, amirite?

also, this chapter is smut-free because (as usual) things kinda got away from me so… nothing too terribly uncomfortable here.

Tess is all in a fucking tizzy when Helaena gets to her. She’s got no fucking shoes on, a little springtime cardigan over a t-shirt, and her goddamn glasses are missing. She’s hammering on the fucking door to her own office, hollering let me in, but when Helaena comes up and peers through the fucking window, no one’s in there. Lights are blazing, though. All of them. Every single light in the place: overhead, desk, back room with the door open.

“What’s the matter, Tess?” she asks, and Tess looks at her like she’s fucking surprised this running-makeup bitch with bad hair and dirty clothes knows her name.

She tries to hide it, though. Switches into pro mode as best she can and says, “They won’t let me in. They locked me out.”

Helaena looks again, quick, just for show and tells her there’s no one in there. “Who?” she says first, but she doesn’t have time for this shit, so she just moves the fuck on and asks Tess if she has her fucking keys.

Helaena’s short on patience and fucking agitated, so she doesn’t even wait for an answer, just frisks her. Feels the pockets, sweater and slacks and determines pretty quickly that no, she doesn’t have her fucking keys. Tess doesn’t protest, looks a little embarrassed, just kinda stands there like she doesn’t know what to do.

“Is there a spare out here somewhere?” Helaena asks, knowing full well that Tess has no fucking clue, and that she has no fucking spare minutes. She doesn’t wait for that answer, either; just tugs one of her stupid bobby pins out. There’s a deadbolt, but you have to engage it from the inside, so she thinks the fucking pin’ll do it.

She’s watched Eyeball do this. Knows the mechanics aren’t fucking difficult; you just have to poke around gently, slide around and listen. Like fingering some chick you just met, he said when he tried to show her. Fuck around a little and listen for the right sound.

Like he has any idea what that’s like. She doesn’t think he’s ever fucking fingered a girl he just met. She’s taught him everything he knows about it, but whatever.

Doesn’t matter. She’s no good at it. Would suck at it stone cold sober, she’s sure; clumsy fingers and no tolerance for her own shit, and with a fucking drink in her, she’s useless. She knows it right away. Pops the pin in and jiggles it around and nothing happens.

Eyeball’s watching, because he’s always fucking watching. Waiting to see when she’s gonna drop something he needs to pick up, and he’s halfway to her before she pulls the thing back out. By the time she turns around and tells Tess my brother will… he’s there.

Not a fucking word to either of them, just pulls the shit apart with his teeth and crouches at the knob. One, two, three, click, and they’re in. About as secure as Larry’s shit, she thinks, and the thought doesn’t even complete itself before he’s turning on his heel and walking away.

“Take your hair down,” he tells her as he goes. “And fix your fucking face.”

Tess looks perplexed by the whole interaction, but she’s still more embarrassed than anything else so she doesn’t say a fucking word. Not even a thanks, which is fine; Helaena doesn’t give a shit. She just wants out. Wants back in Eyeball’s fucking orbit, back in his gravity where he can hold her down. She’s feeling the too much of it all again, hard, and just wants to let her nervous system crash out.

God fucking damnit, she thinks. She was just starting to even the fuck out. If this had gone differently, she’d be fucking sorted out for a hot minute, but here they fucking go again.

She walks Tess back in because she wants to scope out the fucking situation; make sure nothing else is gonna hit the fan in the next ten goddamn minutes, and it seems fine inside. Helaena shuts off everything but the desk light because it’s fucking late, just after midnight or so, and this poor old lady needs to get to bed. Finds her goddamn glasses on an end table. Makes sure the register is shut, and the windows, and reminds Tess what time it is.

Helaena pops into the bathroom real quick to brush her clothes off and clean her face up, splash it and run a makeup wipe over her cheeks - the mirror in there’s huge, and the lighting is better - and she’s less of a mess than she thought. Eye makeup is smeared, but a lot of it just ran right off. Cheap shit’ll do that. She rubs at what’s left and takes the rest of the red off her mouth - that’s gone, too, except for a little smear on her chin - and when she comes out tugging her hair apart, shaking loose the chaos on her head into a wild, curly mane, Tess asks her if she’s been drinking.

Helaena’s taken aback, even laughs a little, but she tells her the truth. “Only one or two,” she says. “I’m fine.” She feels a little sheepish, though. A little chastened, like she’s back in high school and fucking Mr. Orwyle caught her smoking under the goddamn bleachers again and he’s just so disappointed, not mad, so she grabs a fucking mint from the ancient bowl on the counter and sticks it into her mouth. It’s gross, probably been there since before good ol’ Darren keeled over, but it’s strong. Does the job. She sucks on it.

“I wish you wouldn’t do that when you’re working, hon,” Tess says, and Helaena looks at her, a little confused, but she doesn’t have a lot of time to think about it, because when she looks out the front window, the motherfucking cops are rolling up.

Panic hits her, fierce and immediate. Like a slap. One of Mama’s, not Eyeball’s. Nothing sweet underneath.

No lights and sirens, just a cruiser, and she squints past it trying to see their room. Silently willing Eyeball to fucking stay put stay put stay put please just fucking stay put. She doesn’t want to fucking deal with this, but better her than him right now. He’s liable to pull some fucking outlaw shit and get himself killed, the way he’s fucking been. Stay put stay put stay put, she thinks. Maybe he’ll fucking trust her for once. Maybe.

Tess follows her gaze, and her eyes narrow behind her lenses. “What do they want?” she asks, and Helaena’s a little surprised by her tone. Not too fucking happy, she thinks, and that’s something she can work with.

“I dunno,” Helaena says, deliberately. “We’re closed.”

“Yes, we are,” Tess says back, and walks up to the window. Helaena hangs back a little, reaching for the door and turning the lock. Quiet.

The cops take their fucking time, the way cops do, doing their stupid cop shit in the car, and then they meander out of there like they got all night. Mosey on up to the door.

Tess cracks the window a little and talks to them through it, and Helaena stands in the far corner, putting as much shadow on herself as she can. “I’m sorry, we’re closed,” Tess tells them.

“Good evening, Ma’am,” the taller one says. Clean-cut, salt-and-pepper kinda guy. Helaena doesn’t like his face. She’s biased, she supposes. Hasn’t seen too many cop faces she does like.

“We’re closed,” she says again, “not taking any reservations til tomorrow,” and Helaena kinda loves her.

“Oh, no, I understand,” Condiment says. “I’m sorry to bother you. We’re just investigating an incident at an establishment down the street, and we wanted to know if you’d seen or heard anything unusual.”

Tess shakes her head, but Helaena’s got the side of her fucking eye on the other guy. Condiment’s partner. Older, all gray like Tess. He’s giving her the eye. She tries to breathe. Tries not to look more than mildly interested. Tries to pretend she’s fucking Eyeball, standing in Boris’ shitty office and digging without a shovel.

“What about you, Miss?” the other guy says. Tilts his head a little at her, like he’s looking for something. Peering through the tic-tac-toe of the screen.

Helaena shakes her head. “No, nothing,” she says. Casual as she can fucking manage, but she can feel the cold fucking sweat under her arms. Down her back. That shit just comes outta nowhere. Gonna have her by the throat any second, probably.

stay put stay put stay put

Eyeball thinks they’re harassing her, taking too long, shit is gonna go bad. Fast.

“Have you been here all night?” he wants to know.

Tess is getting agitated. “Of course we’ve been here all night,” she says. “I’m trying to send this poor girl to bed.”

“Where’s bed?” he asks, and Tess is not having it. Not at all.

“I’m sorry, but it’s very late,” she interrupts. “I’m going to have to ask you gentlemen to leave unless you’ve got a warrant.”

“Where’s home?” he tries again, but Tess is on some boss shit.

“We live here,” she says. “This is home. Diana is my niece, and she helps me out with my business, and unless you’ve got a warrant, you’re going to have to leave. We haven’t seen anything suspicious, and we’d like to get to bed this evening.”

stay put stay put stay put

Condiment nods. “Apologies, Ma’am. If you remember anything, or you see anything, you make sure you give us a call. I’d like to give you our card.”

He makes like he’s gonna hand it through the door, and Helaena’s knees feel like jelly, but God bless Tess. God bless her, Helaena could fucking kiss her, she’s got fucking grits for brains but they are cooking.

“Leave it in the door, please,” she says, and Condiment smiles. Nods. Tucks it in the crack, and they stand for too long, shifting their weight, and Tess just stares.

Pardner over there scrunches his eyebrows one last time at them, looks back and forth, and the two of them fucking cop-mosey away, slow as they came, and slide into their seats.

It’s then that Helaena realizes there are no fucking cars in the lot, other than Tess’ little Honda beater. No one else for them to bother. No other doors to knock on.

No Granny.

Helaena nearly panics again. Knows, logically, that he wouldn’t have fucking left her, but she didn’t hear the engine, didn’t see a goddamn thing, and Granny’s no fucking Eyeball. Not nearly as stealthy, even under his hands, and she has no idea what the fuck is going on.

Tess stands at the window until they go, their headlights turning down the road and disappearing into the dark, then she turns to Helaena like she’s about to deliver an Important Life Lesson. Which she does. “Your uncle is interested in horticulture,” she says, something almost like mischief playing at the corners of her lips. “You never let them in without a warrant. Never ever. And you never offer information. You wait until they ask.”

Helaena can’t help herself. She laughs. She laughs, a big, loud, manic sort of laugh, and she wraps her fucking arms around Tess and squeezes and squeezes and squeezes, and poor Tess is fucking confused, and fucking tired, but she is golden, and she squeezes back.

It’s the first hug she’s had from someone her own goddamn size in months. Maybe a year. Who knows, she thinks. Who knows.

She could fucking kiss her, too. She really could, but she doesn’t. Just says you’re a good one, Aunt Tess, and Tess gives her a smile. Pats her on the shoulder and tells her to please turn off the light when she comes to bed.

Tess goes back into her little room, and Helaena looks back out the window.

There he is, now. Door open, leaning in the jamb. Lot lights are low, but she can see the long, lean shape of him. See the tiny cherry of his cigarette burning. Hood’s up, hair’s back and tucked in, but from this angle there’s a little shock of white there.

She closes her eyes in relief. In gratitude. He fucking stayed put. Ridiculous asshole. He stayed put.

Helaena turns the lock and kills the light, then she slips into the shadows, close to the doors, and makes her way back to him.

His energy is strange. Shifty and charged, but what does she fucking expect. Hers isn’t much better.

He doesn’t even greet her, just hands her his smoke when she reaches for it and says “Local cops. I fuckin’ packed us up. Car’s around back. We’ll get out of here and keep west for a few miles til we’re fucking out of their jurisdiction, then I want out of this fucking state. What did they say to you?”

“Just wanted to know if we saw anything. Tess wouldn’t let them in. They were trying. I dunno, the one guy looked at me funny.”

Eyeball lifts a brow. “She wouldn’t let them in?”

“Told them to come back with a fucking warrant. Said I was her niece. I think she fuckin’ believed it.”

He laughs, a dark little chuckle. A glass full of ice. “Lucky. You got fuckin’ lucky, Lane. Batty bitch. She’s a fuckin’ baller, though. Let’s get the fuck out of here.” He grabs her cigarette and takes the last drag before he shoves it into his pocket.

His knuckles are bloody on one hand. Scraped up raw; banged and bruised up underneath the mess. Looks like he fuckin’ pummeled someone. He’s washed them some, but they’re still oozing a little and look rough as shit.

He’s changed his clothes, too. Looks nice and neat.

“When did you move the car?” she asks.

“Soon as I finished letting you in,” he says. “I thought we might get fucking company. Fuckin’ looking for witnesses or whatever. I didn’t wanna fuckin’ be one.”

She looks at him for a second, and he looks right back. “You saved your ass, I think. They were already looking at me like I fit the fucking description. They’d’ve seen you…” She doesn’t finish.

“They didn’t. They didn’t fucking see shit. Let’s go.”

They do.

Helaena empties the room; he’s already got everything sorted and packed, not a scrap of anything fucking left behind. Bed is military-neat. He even sprayed down the bathroom with bleach; she can smell it. Didn’t want to leave a mess for Tess, or didn’t want to leave evidence of their presence. Probably a little bit of both.

Goddamn efficient, she thinks.

They’re all over the place in there, though, she’s sure. Hair, and fingerprints, and probably fucking DNA everywhere. Everywhere. Doesn’t matter, she supposes. No one knows who they are, and no one fucking got hurt. They’ll forget about the fucking shots fired by the weekend, at latest, and no one gives enough of a fuck about some unidentified girl maybe getting fucking raped in an alley to spend long on that, either. She knows how the fucking world works.

Eyeball pulls Granny up to the curb and gives Helaena his smoke while he throws everything in. She sits in the passenger seat, shaky hand and sweaty pits and a head that’s started ringing like a bell. “We got anymore ibuprofen?” she asks him when he slides in next to her.

“Somewhere,” he says, and he sounds a little annoyed. “I dunno, Lane. None in your bag?”

She sighs. “It doesn’t matter. Don’t worry about it; I’ll fucking look. Just drive.”

“Drink water,” he tells her, pulling a bottle from the door pocket as Granny shakes herself awake, and she does.

The quickest way out - out of the fucking town, then out of the fucking county, then out of the whole goddamn state - is west. He’s already checked the burner, memorized the fucking route, and that’s what they do.

Helaena hates driving late at night; hates being the only fucking car on the road - bored cops with nothing to do but pay attention - and she tries to convince him to use the highway. Tells him they need to blend in.

He’s not fucking having it, though. Tells her they can’t fucking push Granny like that, not even for fifteen fucking miles, and they’re gonna catch attention going too slow on the fucking freeway anyway.

He’s driving, so he wins.

He’s tired. So tired. Wan and sallow-looking, bruise-blue under his eye. Won’t even entertain the idea of stopping anywhere for coffee until they’re over the border, though, so she just cracks her window for the cool air and cranks the music for him. It’s a short ride. Half an hour, maybe, at off-highway speeds, and they’ll roll into some shitty river town soon. Find someplace to hide.

She’s tired, too. Headache coming in like stormclouds. Skin crawly with her sweat that keeps surfacing then drying on her; crawly with the bunched-up layers of clothes.

She just wants to smoke a fucking joint. Wants to strip naked. Wear nothing but her brother’s exhausted, clammy, scratched-up skin. Get inside of him and listen to the lullaby of his filthy fucking blood, the way it sings to hers, and go the fuck to sleep.

She can’t, though. Not yet, so she grinds out her fucking cigarette in the tray, puts her head back, and just closes her fucking eyes.

Notes:

Tess knows ACAB. I really wanted her to do them a solid, even if she didn’t know that’s what she was doing 😂

though on some level, I think she did

Chapter 43: Yield

Summary:

“You gonna tell me what your problem is, or should I guess?” she says as they wind their way through a tangle of back roads, dark and desolate and unsigned. Not even a speed limit suggestion for the curves. Fucking wasteland, Deliverance shit.

Notes:

so i had to split this into two - 42 & 43. because as usual, too long. so they’re both here now

featuring insecure&jealous!aemond, and Helaena kiiiinda kinking out over the whole thing, and a warning for some sketchy gun shit for those of you who want no part of that nonsense - nothing I think is super bananas, but you know. It’s me.

Valentine
by Carol Ann Duffy

Not a red rose or a satin heart.

I give you an onion.
It is a moon wrapped in brown paper.
It promises light
like the careful undressing of love.

Here.
It will blind you with tears
like a lover.
It will make your reflection
a wobbling photo of grief.

I am trying to be truthful.

Not a cute card or a kissogram.

I give you an onion.
Its fierce kiss will stay on your lips,
possessive and faithful
as we are,
for as long as we are.

Take it.
Its platinum loops shrink to a wedding-ring,
if you like.

Lethal.
Its scent will cling to your fingers,
cling to your knife.

 

She knows they’ve crossed the state line when she feels the downshift. Once, twice; Granny resisting a little, like she’s trying to play games with him, too. Not like her.

Not like him.

They’re in the parking lot of some all-nighter truck stop. Highway place, but they came at it from the back route, and there are a couple of tractor trailers and a smattering of other cars there, too. Type of place where the coffee’s always hot and mediocre, and everybody’s tired and rough around the edges.

It’s a chain, but they’re the only fuckin’ places that are gonna be open now, so it is what it is.

Granny jerks to a stop at the pump - still fighting with her man; they must’ve been arguing while Helaena was tuned out - and Eyeball pulls the e-brake harder than he has to.

Stewing about something. Helaena can tell when she looks at him. Tense jaw. Tense hands. Chewing on his cigarette. He doesn’t say anything, just grabs his wallet and gets out.

Helaena goes, too. She has to pay, and she has to pee, and she couldn’t find the fucking ibuprofen - thinks they’re out, probably - and needs some. Headache is full force now, dull behind her eyes and in a band across her forehead.

He finds her inside after he fills up, making both of them coffee. Still doesn’t say much, just nods and takes all the shit she’s got so she doesn’t have to carry it, and walks her to the counter. Puts his elbow to her elbow, quiet. Stands too close. Looms too large. Opens the fucking medicine bottle when she can’t pull the goddamn seal and pours her a handful.

“Thanks,” she says, and he just fucking nods at her and takes a sip of his coffee. Biggest fucking cup they offer. Tall as he is.

Once they’re back on the road, he’s just taptaptapping away on the wheel, smoking like a fiend, hasn’t said a fucking word about what his plan is, where the fuck he thinks they’re going, why he took a fucking potshot at God, nothing. Helaena’s exhausted and getting more sour by the fucking minute, and she’s over the pouty routine.

“You gonna tell me what your problem is, or should I guess?” she says as they wind their way through a tangle of back roads, dark and desolate and unsigned. Not even a speed limit suggestion for the curves. Fucking wasteland, Deliverance shit.

“You can guess,” he says. Sour as she is.

“You gonna blame this shit on me?” she asks. “Go ahead. My idea, right? Bad one. I’m sorry. But for the fucking record, Eyeball, you’ve had worse.” She glares, not at him exactly, just in general, just at the fucking darkness, and puffs on her cigarette.

“Bet Erik’s got nothing but good ones, right?”

There it is. That’s another bullshit line he’s been storing up for awhile now, she thinks, and it’s so goddamn absurd she wants to laugh at him. She would, on another night, in another place. She’d laugh long and hard, because what the actual fuck.

That’s what comes out. That part. “What the fuck are you talking about?” She sounds shrill, she thinks. Frayed. “You cannot possibly be serious. Please fucking tell me you’re not serious.”

“I didn’t catch his fucking name,” he says, and he shrugs. Fucking sarcastic bastard. “We’re not that tight.”

“Oh my God. That’s not even his fucking name!”

“That’s what you called him. Assumed you two were fuckin’ buddies.”

“I don’t know his fucking name! I just made it up!”

“What are you talking about, you made it up?” He tosses the fucking cigarette out the window, and she knows he’s pissed. Hates that fucking shit; rips her a new one every time he sees her do it. “What kinda fucking bullshit…”

“What is the matter with you?! What the fuck do you think I was doing in ten minutes in a fucking bar with you standing outside? Are you that fucking…”

“What’s wrong with you?! Why are you making up names for random dudes in fucking bars? What the fuck…”

“He was the goddamn bartender!”

He downshifts suddenly, rough, and Granny shudders. Bitch hates being manhandled. Helaena thinks they’re going to stall, but he reins her in at the last second and takes a turn, too fucking fast, into the parking lot of a fucking abandoned service station. Looks like it’s been that way for awhile. Roof’s got gaping holes; windows are busted, grass is growing all over the fucking place, poking up through cracks in the pavement. Potholes everywhere. They go bouncing through a few before Eyeball gets his shit together and manages to work around them, and Granny’s old-ass shocks squeak and hiss and fucking complain at them. He just misses a goddamn old light pole, too, rusty metal and broken bulb, just hanging out in the middle of the shitshow.

“What the fuck?!” she says, and it’s a fucking yell this time. “You’re being fucking crazy! What is wrong with you!?”

They come to a bucking, abrupt stop behind the building, almost right up against it, and he forces Granny into park. Not even a good girl for her troubles; for the batshit fucking way he’s ridden her. He’ll be lucky if she gets going for him again, Helaena thinks, eyes rolling.

“Excuse me if I think fuckin’ Erik should do his fucking job and not be fuckin’…”

“How am I supposed to order my goddamn drink, asshole?! Fucking telepathy?! Are you fucking serious right now?!”

“Why are you making up fuckin’ little pet names…”

“Pet names? Stupid asshole. I don’t know what I was thinking, you know my brain just does whatever the fuck… he just looked like a fuckin’ Erik, I don’t know jack shit about him or his fuckin’ life or what the fuck…”

Eyeball’s got his seatbelt off now, fucking door open with his foot out, arm braced on the frame like he’s gonna hop out and do God knows what. Knee bouncing like a motherfucker. “Why are you looking at him at all?”

Helaena stomps her fucking stocking foot. Just stomps it like a fucking little kid, frustrated and pissed and trying not to chuck her half-full fucking water bottle at him and really get this circus going. She wants to. She wants to bad. She’s glad she’s fucking sobered up. “Because I have eyes, motherfucker, and that’s what you do with them! You look at people when they ask you what you want to drink, because that’s what fucking human beings do! You wanna be a fucking animal, that’s on you, but don’t expect me…”

“Get out of the car, Lane.” Quiet. The sort of quiet that cuts right through noise, right through fury, right through everything, like a blade through a tongue. Shuts her right up.

“… What?”

“Get out of the fucking car, or I’ll take you out.”

“What?”

“I won’t say it again.”

She thinks for a second that he’s gonna leave her here. Just drop her in this shithole in the middle of the fucking night and disappear, and this is how it fucking ends. This is how he finally snaps his shit and dives off the fucking deep end, but he yanks the keys out of the ignition and shoves them into his pocket, and she figures that’s not it.

He’s not playing, though. He’s gonna come over here and pull her out, and she doesn’t want any of that. Isn’t in any kind of space to get into that shit, here in the middle of the fucking night with no one around, so she pops her door open and swings her legs out.

Her boots are off, she’s just in those ridiculous white stockings, and they’re gonna get torn and grungy and she tries to tell him to let her put her goddamn shoes on, but he’s not listening. As usual. Just takes her by her arm and tells her to get the fuck up.

She’s too slow, still calling him a fucking asshole and asking what he’s fucking doing, but he doesn’t hear that either. Doesn’t hear, doesn’t give a shit, whatever. Just pulls her up and leans in behind her to fish the gun out of the console.

Helaena’s eyes go fucking big at that one. “What the fuck are you doing?” she asks him again, and he ignores her again, just pulls it out and holds it down at his side. It’s not loaded. No mag. She can see that, and it’s a little relief, but he’s on some psycho shit so who knows what he’s gonna do.

“Take your fuckin’ clothes off,” he says. Taps that shit at his thigh, taptaptap like his fingers on the wheel, like his restless fuckin’ foot, like that tongue at the back of his teeth.

Helaena scrapes her fucking cigarette on the door frame and drops it; fuckin’ looks at him like he’s lost his mind. “The fuck are you talking about?” she says to him. “It’s fucking cold; I’m fucking tired, do I look like that bitch right now?”

“Doesn’t matter,” he says. “I’ll get you hot. C’mere, Lane,” and he steps in all close. All heat, like he always is. Heat and height and something fucking noxiously sweet. Heady like a hit. “Do I get you hot? Or you need fuckin’ Erik for that shit now? You need a pretty boy who’s afraid of a little cop piece? A fuckin 22?” He picks it up, runs the barrel down the side of her cheek like a hand, and she has to fucking catch herself on the mirror.

Her heart’s found the rhythm of her fucking headache; they’re taptaptapping in tandem now too, a slow heavy pound that’s making her skull feel like a bomb. Her fuckin’ feet are freezing.

“I said get undressed. I’ll keep you warm. I fuckin’ promise.”

She tilts her head at him; looks him right in his bluish-ringed, red-tired eye, trying to parse how much of this is real. How much is him looking to finish what they started. How together he is, how in control; how sturdy is that fucking thread that’s wrapping and wrapping and wrapping around him.

The muzzle chucks at her chin. Almost playful. He’s close, thigh-to-thigh, fucking half-stiff cock pressing at her belly. “What do you think, Lane?”

She’s not sure what she thinks at first; she’s just frazzled and fucked-up and knocked right out of her rage by it. Off-balance.

But her knees know what they think. Her spine knows. Her fucking pussy knows, too. Is fucking telling her all about it already. They’re all on board with this fucking mess; with the tone of his voice and the look on his face and the unearthly hot she can feel radiating off of him.

“I think you’re out of your fucking mind,” she says after a long second. Just a tick over a whisper. “And I think I’m gonna get fucking naked for you,” and that’s the right fucking answer. Everything inside her pulls into a nice, tight yes.

Eyeball knows it. Puts a dry kiss right between her eyes. “My girl,” he says. Just a little thing. Just a breath.

“Mmhm,” she answers. Offers him a low, mumbly my boy in return. “My boy,” and he smiles. Dry as that kiss. “Help me,” she tells him.

He does. Uses that free hand to tug her zipper down, and she shrugs right out of his hoodie til she’s standing there in that stupid dress, belly all on display, every little dip and roll and squish of her. Every little warm place.

He wants them all. Slides a hand up and under, pushes her dress towards her hips, her waist, her chest. Finds skin. Clutches at it, grabbygrabby, something like relief in the touch of him.

There’s a stupid button at the neck that she reaches back to fumble with, but he’s got that, too. The smooth little milky pearl just slips through his big fingers, comes apart, and she feels the two halves fall away from each other. She tugs at one sleeve, then another, and they pull it up and over, one of his hands and both of hers, tumbling over and sticking at her elbows until it comes over her crown of curls and he throws it back onto the seat. Trying not to get it dirty.

She almost laughs, considering she just traipsed through fucking underbrush in it, but whatever.

Helaena watches him step back. Look at her. Leggings and that stupid bra now, sheer and lace and a little pink bow, and he traces the underwire with a thumb. Drifts right over the curve of it, over her ribs, and when she reaches back to unhook it, he stops her.

“Leave it,” he says. “You did good. It’s pretty.”

Now he’s soft. Now he’s just fucking molasses, isn’t he, she thinks. Dark and sweet. Glock still in his other hand, just hanging at his thigh.

Dick. He’s such a fucking dick.

And he’s warm, and he’s helping her pull at the waist of her leggings now, helping them get over the rounds of her knees, and when she steps out of them he leans back again. Hand all down her, fingers under the garter at one thigh, under the strings getting lost in the softness of her hips. “Jesus Christ,” he says. Just like she imagined. Just like she knew.

There’s no starlight, really. No moon. Just cold black, and Granny’s shitty fog lights, and the little glowing thing in his eye. Reminds her of fucking cats, or coyotes, or some unknown creature gazing back at you from the woods. Can’t see its shape. Don’t know if it’s gonna eat you. Don’t know if you’d care if it did.

“You’re fucking stupid,” she tells him. Tugs him towards her. Wants his heat and all that skinnyhard muscle and the fucking lovely bulge at the front of his stupid pants. Huge now. “You’re so fucking stupid, I can’t stand it,” his fingers running up the inside of her thigh. Finding that ridiculous slit in her panties and grinning at it.

“I know,” he says back. Talking to her jaw. Teeth on bone.

“You ruined me,” she says. Leans her neck back and bares her throat. Makes herself fuckin’ prey or something. “You fucking ruined me. You’re so stupid. You think anything else would ever be enough for me after this?”

He just shakes his head. “Look at you,” is all he says. “It’s not even my fuckin’ birthday anymore.”

“Another couple hours still, it is,” she says. “Do you want me to finish? I’ll put it in my mouth.” Her own hands down his chest now, tugging up at his shirt, laying flat underneath. Warm warm warm. It’s fucking freezing out, and he feels so good under her palms. Sending her all that good stuff, right through her skin. Right into her blood. Fucking mainlining whatever he’s got.

“I don’t know what I want,” he says, shaking his head, all that fucking bravado just dripping off of him like syrup. Melted. Sweat. Spit, rain, blood, drip drip drip. “Maybe I just wanna come all over you.” He laughs a little, tongue in her ear, like all his brains are fucking melted, too.

“You can,” she says. Says it to his mouth now. Through a nibble at his lip. Just a taste. “You can do anything you want. But first you gotta tell me something.”

“What do you wanna hear, Lane?” he asks her, and they’re in a knot now. Wrists and fingers; she’s taking his zipper apart, and he’s trying to touch her. Trying to press a finger up, moving the nothing fabric of her nothing panties apart to get to the center of her. The goddamn molten gravity of her.

“Give me that,” she sighs, one finger just tracing the map of veins along his perfect fucking dick, the other hand reaching for the stupid fucking gun. “C’mon.”

He lets it go; gives himself two hands to touch her. Uses one to find her nipple through the nothingness of her bra and bring it up, stiff, so hard it hurts. The cold, and the gentle swirl of his hot palm over it, and she melts into a pretty arch against him. “Tell me,” she says again. Brings that cold metal up to sit under his chin.

He smiles at her. Blown pupil and a hard cock and that little bit of try me in his face. “Fuckin’ tell you what?” he asks her again.

“Tell me you own me,” she says. Presses harder. Thumbs that soft spot underneath; that little velvet ridge that makes his hips jerk and his cock twitch and his lip tremble.

“You’re mine,” he tries. Two fingers deep. Slow, in, up.

“No,” she says, following him with her hips, looking for that thumb. He’s thinking about giving it to her, hovering it so she can feel its shadow pressing down. Leaking on her now; on her own slow-circling thumb. “Say it right.”

“You’re mine.” More than the shadow now. The form. The steady, gentle pressure, still and searing hot. So hot there’s fucking steam, there has to be. She’s wet and he’s heat and there’s a hiss through her teeth like a kettle.

“No,” she says. “Say it right, Aemond,” and she nudges at him with the fucking gun. Nudges the curve of his smile when he says it for her.

“I own you.”

Head back. Eyes closed. One leg up, body flush against the cold back window, door handle in her fucking tailbone. He’s right there now. Just against her, just inside, just a tiny bit. Enough to open her. Keep her that way.

“Again,” she breathes.

“I own you,” he tells her. In in in. Just a little, an inch, two, three. Gentle, hand under her thigh. Under the garter. Fussing and tugging and palming at her ass. Sliding the side of his thumb through the cleft of it. Lifting her a little to hold her where he wants her.

“Again, you crazy motherfucker,” she says, a tremor in her voice, smiling up up up at his lightdark face above her. “Jealous fucking bastard. Tell me.”

“I fucking own you,” he says. Clear, quiet, soft. Into the rise of her breasts; the narrowsoft valley between. Teeth, tongue, the press of his cheek. Sure as anything, and he does. He does. He owns her. “You’re mine, little girl. I own you.”

She lets her hand slip down as he comes all the way in. Hears the gun hit the concrete; a dull, thick thud. Hears her own voice, somewhere in the starless air, saying show me, asshole.

Yields. Yields. Yields.

Chapter 44: Apocalypse

Summary:

I know this can’t be healthy
(pretending everything is on fire), but baby,
we could be the most beautiful wreckage
in all this smoke.

Notes:

sometimes i ask myself, ‘how could i make these two grosser?’ and then the answer is a chapter, so… 🤷🏼‍♀️

I will crawl to you across this curdling parking lot of a city,
lick your body new again like my tongue
is God’s hand trying to erase and recreate the earth.
For 6 days straight, we will be
what makes the sidewalk blister.
Day 1: in the beginning,
I will find you, pull you into me.
Day 2: we will make the earth
and the sky jealous.
Day 3: I want you to fuck me
bent over a crumpled taxi.
4: in the graveyard of a strip mall.
5: on the steps of the capital,
in every store, on every mattress that isn’t on fire.
This world is a melting candle
we’re only using for foreplay.

[…]

I know this can’t be healthy
(pretending everything is on fire), but baby,
we could be the most beautiful wreckage
in all this smoke.
When the apocalypse does come,
I will rebuild our city with my tongue.
I will suck this world’s ashes from your fingers.
I will refuse to let the fires of this hell
be the only thing that makes us sweat.
When the apocalypse comes,
so will we.

- from When the Apocalypse Comes by Sierra DeMulder

 

She’s a mess when they’re through.

“You’re beautiful,” he tells her. Doesn’t use that word hardly ever, but he’s a fucking mess, too. Inside and out. Leaning over her, dick still out, breathing all ragged and fucked up like he just ran a thousand miles to stare down at her covered in spooge in some goddamn derelict parking lot, dirty-kneed in torn tights with her tits falling out. To see her staring back, hair like a tornado, sticky lashes, spent and sleepy-eyed.

“I look like a fucking fifty dollar pump-and-dump,” she says.

“Isn’t that what I said?” he grins, running a thumb down over her web; little circles til his crud is rubbed right in. “And nah. Hundred and fifty at least. Two holes and whatever this tits/face/shoulder combo’s called. Plus the outfit.”

Helaena laughs. “You’re disgusting.”

“You started it.” He pushes her hair back and tries to tuck it behind her ear, but it’s useless. It’s got a mind of its own now, so he just shrugs. “In your hair, too. Whoops.”

“Yeah, whoops,” she says, rolling her eyes.

“Wish I had a camera.” He’s not even being a dickhead now, though. His expression’s all thoughtful, like he’s looking at the goddamn Mona Lisa and pondering her smile.

“I bet you do,” she says. “Help me up.”

He does. Brushes at her knees. Kisses his fuckin’ jizz off her mouth. Her fucking ear. Uses his sleeve to get the rest. Takes that stupid bra off for her when she whines about it.

She’s cold, she tells him. All the fuckin’ heat between them’s evaporated, and she’s next to naked, and she’s gunky, so they get back in the fucking car to smoke, and she puts his hoodie back on.

“I’m fuckin’ beat, Lane,” Eyeball says. “I’m so tired. I’m gonna need a fuckin’ bump to get us outta here.”

“What are you talking about?” she asks, screwing up her face and blowing smoke at him. “When’d you fuckin’ get coke?”

“Boris,” he says.

“You didn’t tell me that.”

He shrugs. “You fuckin’ hate it. Only got a little, just in case.”

“In case of what?”

“This. You know, being fuckin’ exhausted like this. Long drive, and who knows. Right?”

Helaena sighs and curls her legs up to take her stupid lingerie shit off. “I wish you’d just take Addies like a normal person.”

“I hate fuckin’ pills.”

“But you’ll put God knows what up your nose. Seems legit.” She peels her stockings down and tugs them off her toes. They’re sweaty and ripped, runs where they’re intact. Real fucking street-looking shit. “Find me pants?”

“Just a bump, Lane,” he says, rolling his eye and reaching into the back seat. “We can’t fuckin’ sleep here, and I’m fucking cooked. Coffee’s not doing it. Just enough to get us somewhere.” He hands her a pair of his own pajama pants that he pulled out of his bag.

“Whatever, baby,” she says, lifting her ass and pulling them on. “Just don’t get all fucked up, start fuckin’ driving like an asshole.”

“Nah.” He stubs out his cigarette in the tray and reaches into his door pocket, fishing around til he finds what he’s looking for. Turns Granny off - Helaena’s fuckin’ surprised the bitch started back up for him to begin with, after what he put her through, but she’s glad to have some goddamn heat - and blows on the key to clean it off.

She watches him take his fuckin’ bump. Little tiny scoop, and it’s gone. Not too much, just like he said. He’s gonna need another one, she thinks, depending on where they’re going. Looks like he has enough for a couple more.

He doesn’t do too bad with it, honestly. It does what it’s supposed to do: keeps him up. Makes him happy and horny. He doesn’t get that angry, paranoid shit that some people do. Like Cris; fuckin’ crazy snowblower, Eyeball says. That’s why he’s such a shit.

Eyeball handles it fine; something about it just bugs her. Gives her the heebie-jeebies. Probably the snorting thing. Feels fucking gross to her, some dirty backdoor bullshit or whatever. She’d rather just swallow something and be done with it; everything in her fucking nose lingers. She can taste it for days, it feels like.

He sits back for a second after; rests his head against the seat and closes his eye and waits. She lights him another smoke and puts it between his lips and watches them curve into a smile. “How’s your head?” he asks her around it.

“Better,” she says. “It better be; I took like 1000mg of those fuckin’ things.”

“Drink more water. Eat the rest of these, too,” he says, handing her the pretzels that were crinkling around in the door pocket with his fuckin’ blow. “That shit’ll tear your stomach up.”

“Look who’s giving me the fuckin’ stomach lecture,” she says, stuffing one into her mouth. She holds the next one up. “This shit the last thing you ate?”

“Well yeah. In a minute I’m gonna wanna eat you, though,” he says with a grin.

“I know,” she tells him. “That shit gets your dick up. You gotta drive, though. Get somewhere before it fuckin’ wears off.”

“I know.”

“I can fuckin’ jerk you off if you want, though,” she says, crunching on a pretzel. “I don’t care.”

“Nah. I’m all right. Let’s just get the hell outta here and find some fuckin’ place to lay down.”

“10-4, Daddy,” she says, buckling her belt. “I love you.”

She hands him a pretzel, and he takes it. Replaces his fuckin’ cigarette for a second and chews. “You, too,” he says through a fucking mouthful of crumbs.

*****

The map was right; it’s fuckin’ river country. They come out of the maze onto some kinda two-lane, maybe a state route, and there are lights and a few signs and shit. Lots of wet. All those ocean and bay leftovers converging into a little network; fingers of water gripping the soft earth. Lots of little secret places: hidden banks and coves and inlets.

Timing is bad to try and get a room; simultaneously too early and too late, so they pull into a little plaza thing, park around back for a little privacy, and figure it out. Coke’s got Eyeball buzzing a little now, fidgeting more than usual, talking fast. Happy, though. Not trying to fucking argue. Just running his mouth and patting at his lap, shifting around, touching her all over and playing with his dick through his pants.

She’s too tired to appreciate it fully, but it’s sort of cute. A little fuckin’ manic puppy or something. He’s gonna crash out from it soon, though; it’s been almost twenty minutes, and it was a little bump.

Car or tent seem like the only options, and either way, they gotta find a spot. Eyeball pulls out the phone and takes a look around. She doesn’t even try to help, can barely keep her damn eyes open, and just yeses, okays, sures him to death while he gives her a fucking play-by-play of his brainwaves. She doesn’t hear half of it, nodding nodding nodding, and he fuckin’ bumps again before they go.

“One more,” he says; “that’s all,” and then he keys it up and he’s good.

He nails the spot, though. Tiny little nothing road that leads to what’s probably a swimming hole when it’s warmer. Barely enough space to tuck Granny in by the water, but a larger lot closer to the road. He navigates down past that one; figures any patrol that comes by isn’t going to expect that, and he fits them nice and tight and hidden at the bottom. There’s just a little light now, sky starting to make room for the sun, and it helps.

Helaena wants to just pass out in the fucking car; thinks she might be able to, but he’s still riding the fuckin’ rails and decides he’ll set up the tent.

It doesn’t take long - nothing like this takes him long anyway, and fuckin’ coke puts him at doubletime - before he’s got it out and popped up on the weird, wet little beachy spot. Got that air mattress blown up, too, and it was a fuckin’ feat, because there is just enough room inside for it.

He’s crashing out, and so is the darkness, by the time he’s done. “C’mon, Laney,” he says, a big ol’ yawn at the end of it.

She moves like a fuckin’ dying wind-up toy, halting and slow, cigarette burning unsmoked between her fingers, but he leads her by the hand, and when she looks up, there’s the sun. They’re facing just right for it, and she squeezes him to make him stop. “Lookit, baby; look,” and she points.

It’s a volcano or something, the way the clouds are; all concentrated, with a bright outline around them, big red orb spilling out the top. They both tip their heads up to watch, and she’s so tired she can hardly hold herself. She doesn’t fuckin’ have to, though. Doesn’t have to do anything at all, because he just stands behind her, wraps those long arms across her body, and she dissolves. Lets that sunrise melt her down, melt her back, melt her right into him, and they just stand there in the quiet; a big funny eight-limbed two-headed monster greeting another day.

“Good morning,” she says, slack-jawed as the pink-yellow-red light breaks over everything.

“Good morning,” he says back, swaying behind her like someone with a baby on their hip.

Helaena smiles as he zips them in. He’s got a blanket on the mattress, over the stupid fitted sheet they bought. Not the scratchy fucking trunk one that reminds her of a dead guy; it’s the one from their room at Tess’ that she liked. Fluffy, off-white thing that feels like wrapping up in a fucking cloud. That motherfucker nicked it for her.

Eyeball tries to jam their bags - cash, weed, gun - into the rounded corner, but there’s so little room they end up pushed right against them. It doesn’t matter at all.

His breath smells like smoke and sex and coke; powdery-astringent and sharp. She lays on top of him, right the fuck on top like he’s the mattress; like his bones are the frame. “Get in me,” she whispers, spreading her legs over his hips like a sleepy little frog.

“You want my dick or my fingers?” he asks her, nudging a little at her and tugging the blanket over their bodies.

“Fingers,” she says. “Or else I’m gonna wanna fuck instead of sleep. And we shouldn’t fuck on this stupid thing. We’ll fuckin’ kill it, we go at it like we do.”

“Okay,” he says. Kisses her cheek and cups one hand between them, one finger crooked through the fucking flap of her pants, and she wriggles down onto it as she closes her eyes.

There, she thinks, and they’re just one body now.

His heart is fast, but it’s coming down, right along with him. Fuckin’ blow is quick and dirty. Here and gone.

“Stay,” he says, right in her ear as her consciousness slips. “Stay, stay, stay,” the words a wave, a wall of white noise, and she just hums in response. Presses down into him and onto him, presses her body tight around his finger, presses her breath into his neck.

The day’s rising with a chill, but she’s so warm. So kept. Kept and warm and warm and kept and warm.

*****

She dreams of Alys.

They’re here, on the bank of this little spit of water, or maybe they’re at Pop’s. Maybe it’s the creek there; maybe it’s both, depending on where you look. Water’s the same, a little dank, a lot cool. Smells like algae. Something from the amnion of Mother Earth. Everything is green; even Alys’ eyes are greener than normal. Mossy.

She’s just sitting there, barefoot with her skirt pulled up; pooled around her unshaven knees. Scarlet-painted toes, wiggling like a little girl, but her face is bare. She looks her age, Helaena thinks. Older than she thought. Older than Mama. Crows’ feet and laugh lines deep as a riverbed.

Her toes wiggle, then her fingers, and then the water is swirling and swirling and swirling; whipped up into vortexes upon vortexes until the trees start losing their leaves, and the branches break, and the water’s just a mouth. Swallowing the world.

But Alys just sits, owl-eyed, watching. In the dream, Helaena’s behind her. Walks up, and when she looks down, there’s a knife. One of those fuckin’ switchblades that Eyeball likes. Looks like the one he lost, or left, or whatever. The one still out there somewhere, bloody. Black-handled, two-toned blade, big long crack near the end of the grip. She fuckin’ stepped on it once. Got a nice talking-to for it, a little snap on the ass with his belt, but he was the dumbass who left it on the floor.

It stops Helaena short. She stares, and then there’s a reflection in it, the edge there, and it isn’t Alys. Not anymore. It’s Mama, with that scared look from Larry’s fuckin’ pictures, then everything goes hot and shit’s on fire, and the ground starts to rise and fall and rise and fall like the Earth is breathing. Sleeping sound through all this mess.

Everything is hot, so hot, so fucking hot and Helaena thinks maybe she should jump into the water, but she looks up and that’s burning, too. Water on fire, like a fucking oil spill or something, and she’s still going up and down and up and down and Alys-not-Alys-Mama-not-Mama - it’s both of them now, neither of them, because the eyes are wrong, they’re bluepurple like hers, like Eyeball’s and Waffle’s and Daddy’s - looks up at her. Flips that knife open. Shrugs and says sometimes you have to burn it all down. It’s not one voice. It’s a bunch of them, and she’s trying to figure out whose, and then she’s awake.

Startles herself. One of those nightmare-wakes, eyes flying open, and she’s sweating. Disoriented, claustrophobic, everything is sort of greenish for a second, light filtering through the canvas, and still so hot, still rising and falling.

But it’s just Eyeball’s lungs. His chest. His steadyslow breath beneath her, and it’s midday, she thinks, and they’re fucking cooking themselves in here with the sun at this angle outside. It’s hitting just right, coming straight through the opening in the trees, heating the air, and they’re burrito’d in a blanket, his fingers still in her. Two. He must’ve slipped another one in after she fuckin’ zonked, and she’s got his wrist pinned so they can’t slide out. His palm’s just fucking right, too. She could get herself off so easy, the hardsoft heel of his fuckin’ hand like that.

She’s calm in an instant. It’s quiet, and nothing’s on fire, and his breath is awful, and she’s soaking wet all over. It fucking stinks in here. They’re foul.

But they’re alone, except for the birds. She can hear them out there, singing away like they don’t give a fuck about anything, and it makes her smile.

Just her and Eyeball and some fuckin’ birds, and the water’s just water and the sky’s just sky, and she’s already filthy, so she rocks herself against his hand, a slow needy grind until he starts to give it back. Starts to push against her, half-conscious, like it’s all just muscle memory, and she fuckin’ comes right away, wet and sweaty and sticky and unwashed all over his stupid arm.

It’s nice. So fuckin’ nice. Cozy. Not one of those blood-and-guts things; just a noiseless, low little pulse that goes on and on and on.

Leaves room in her brain for her to realize that she’s starving. And she has to pee. And she needs some goddamn air.

He’s coming to, stretching underneath her. She can feel all of his muscles reaching end-to-end; his fingers pushing deep and his mouth opening into a smile under her cheek. Like he’s just figured out what’s going on; can feel the in-out-in-again of her. She smiles back.

“Oh, hi,” he says, sleepy sandpaper voice like a little balloon, floating up through the nastiness.

“Hi,” she says.

“You started without me.”

“Mmhm. Finished without you, too.”

He smiles bigger. “Of course you did. Can I put it in?”

“We can’t fuck on this thing. And I gotta pee.”

“I’ll be so quick. And I’ll be nice. Stupid thing won’t even know what we’re doing.” Laughing mouth all over her, cheek and ear and neck, voice a little murmur like water lappinglappinglapping. “You can pee on me.”

He’s already tugging her pants down, and she’s giggling, and he’s still in his stupid jeans, but he’s unbuttoned and bare-chested and she’s got his nipple between two fingers, twiddling and giggling more more more, and it’s, “okay, okay, okay. I really might pee.”

“And I really don’t care,” he’s saying, and he’s laughing at her, something light and sweet like Tess’ coffee, and he just holds himself still and she finds him and it’s slow. It’s so gentle, and he holds tight to her hips and she rocks and rocks and rocks, down flat against him because there’s no room to sit up, sweat-stuck and fucking filthy and it’s fine.

The mattress is fine, and her bladder is fine, not much pressure from this angle, and he says I love you I love you I love you good morning I love you.

“It’s not morning,” she gasps. He’s being so fucking sweet, but oh my God that wakeup dick is fucking unreal, and when it’s all the way in it makes her feel itty-bitty.

“I love you anyway,” he says, just as breathless, thin, shakingquaking, and then there’s more mess. More wet. More come all in her, on her, between their bodies and on his pants because she rocks and rocks and rocks until he’s still. Soft. Spent, spent, spent, and it’s everywhere again. Everywhere.

“We’re so gross,” she tells him.

“Might as well just piss,” he shrugs. Wicked little smile.

“You’d fuckin’ like that,” Helaena says, and she laughs so hard she almost fuckin’ does.

Notes:

so, tmi, the literal hottest (as in temperature, not degree of sexiness 😂) sex i ever had was in a gd tent in the middle of the afternoon & it was fkn gnarly, so that’s where we went 😂 because, gross

allllllllmost let her pee on him too 😂 spared you. (not him. she’s right, he’s down 🤷🏼‍♀️)

Chapter 45: Useful

Summary:

And if he can’t fuckin’ protect her, what fucking use is he, right? He likes to be fuckin’ useful. Needs it, even, maybe.

That’s how his stupid fucking brain works.

The work of the world is common as mud.
Botched, it smears the hands, crumbles to dust.
But the thing worth doing well done
has a shape that satisfies, clean and evident.
Greek amphoras for wine or oil,
Hopi vases that held corn, are put in museums
but you know they were made to be used.
The pitcher cries for water to carry
and a person for work that is real.

— from To Be of Use by Marge Piercy

 

“No one’s gonna give us a room like this,” Helaena laughs, crawling - literally crawling, it’s so fucking small - out of the goddamn tent. “We smell like we just left a gang-bang in a fuckin’ high school gym. Fuckin’ look like it, too.”

Eyeball crawls out behind her, snickering, and the two of them fuckin’ piss side-by-side in the woods behind the car. Helaena has to remove her damn pants all the way, she’s so uncoordinated, and he laughs at her while he shakes his fucking dick off.

“How the hell do you even do life?” he asks, watching her balance against a fucking tree and try not to piss on her own bare feet. “You’re a trainwreck.”

She shrugs, laughing. “Like this,” she answers him. “Taking my fucking pants off to pee,” and then she realizes she has nothing to fucking wipe with. He covers his fucking eye with a hand and throws his head back when she whips off his goddamn hoodie and uses the sleeve. “What?!” she says. “You want me to use some fuckin’ leaves or some shit? I dunno what’s in there. Get fucking vag worms or something,” and that sends him.

He fuckin’ laughs so hard he has to squat down, his whole body shaking. “You’re an asshole,” he tells her, “oh my God,” and she balls the fucking sweatshirt up and tosses it onto Granny’s roof.

“We gotta fuckin’ clean up. We’re disgusting.” She’s standing there naked now, afternoon sun mitigating the chill a little when she steps out into it, but she’s still goosepimpled; taut nipples and shivery skin. It’s unseasonably warm, but not unseasonable enough. It’s still fucking November, and they’re not exactly south yet.

“C’mere,” he says. Wraps her all up against him, and he’s warm as anything, of course. Always warm. “We can scrub up a little here. Enough so we don’t look as fuckin’ homeless as we are.”

She nods, squishing into his bare back while he digs through the car looking for shit. Comes out with a worn-but-clean-enough t-shirt, the body wash, and two towels. Deodorant, too, and their fucking toothbrushes and toothpaste. “Cold water,” he says, dumping out the trunk kit into the back seat so he can use the plastic bucket, “but we’ll be quick. I’ll turn the fuckin’ car on; you can get right in.”

Helaena nods. Not fuckin’ ideal, but better than driving around all day like this. She reaches in and grabs the bottle of water from the console for their teeth, and they walk down next to the tent.

She’s nude, so he fuckin’ washes her up quick first. Has her stand spread-eagled and brush her fucking teeth while he uses the cold-ass water and some soap and the t-shirt washcloth to get her pits and her crotch and her fuckin’ ass. Take off any obvious fucking dirt or jizz everywhere else. A whore’s bath, Mama fuckin’ called it, wiping the three of them down with baby wipes or a washcloth or whatever when she didn’t feel like throwing them in the tub, or couldn’t for whatever reason.

Helaena says it with a snort as he rinses her. “Whore’s bath,” and Eyeball laughs at her. Hands her a towel.

“Nice, Lane,” he says. “Classy. Ma’s a real one. The fuck is wrong with her, saying that shit to little kids?”

She laughs back at him and wraps herself up tight. She’s shaking like a motherfucker. “My fuckin’ hair,” she says through chattering teeth. “You fuckin’ came in my hair.”

“Oh, shit. I forgot.” He stands up and kinda pokes through one side, rubbing with the t-shirt, quick as he can. “Think I got it,” he says, combing through a few times with his fingers while she rolls her eyes. “Get in the fucking car,” he says. “You’re so cold, what the fuck.”

She does; pops in and cranks Granny’s shitty heat, and as soon as it’s blowing good he’s at the door with that big ol’ blanket she likes. “Thank you,” she says, and watches him clean up while she’s tucked underneath.

He’s quick, too; does himself the same way: fuckin’ smelly pits and balls and sticky belly. Brushes his teeth with the rest of the bottled water, just standing there naked and spitting on the ground. Doesn’t look nearly as cold as she was, she thinks, watching the sunlight make funny little undulating shadows across him while he moves. Not even all fuckin’ shriveled up, and she laughs to herself.

He tosses his towel down onto the seat and slides in next to her, still nude and wet-sparkly. Pretty as anything. Smells decent now, too, like wind and water and sunshine and soap. “Better,” he says.

“Much,” she agrees, and pushes the tip of her finger into a fat droplet sitting quiet at his shoulder. Watches it turn into two. Catch the light like a jewel or something. She drags it down into a streak, and traces the path of hair across his chest. A little meditation.

“You know I’m still tired?” he says.

“I believe it,” she tells him as he reaches for the bag of clothes in the back. “Fuckin’ blow does that to you. You’re good for an hour, maybe, then garbage for a day.”

“What do you wanna wear?”

“I don’t care. Something fuckin’ warm.”

Eyeball pulls out sweatpants and a long-sleeve for her. Same for himself. No underwear or anything. “Twins,” he says, deadpan stupid, and she laughs.

“For a few days,” she tells him.

Helaena hands him the cigarette she’s been working on, and he takes a long drag of it. They sit in silence for a minute til he says, “You think she fuckin’ feels better yet? She’s probably figured out that scumbag’s gone by now.”

“Mama?” She shakes her head. “She never fuckin’ feels better. Fuckin’ old ass dead husband, three fucking delinquent kids, whatever the hell’s wrong with her fuckin’ brain. Nah. She’s never gonna feel better, baby. Not even if she believes he’s gone, and who knows if she does?” She lays a hand flat over his thigh and takes a breath. Snags her cigarette back and puffs. “Doesn’t fuckin’ matter. You’ll never make her happy. You can’t. I can’t. Point is, do you feel better?” Smoke billows out of her mouth as she talks, and she props a bare foot up on the dash, right over the vent to fucking warm it up. Her goddamn toes are chipped to shit again, she thinks. Maybe she should try fuckin’ socks once in awhile.

Eyeball shrugs. “I didn’t feel bad before. I didn’t fuckin’ know. So, I mean… no. I don’t feel better. Fuckin’ glad he’s dead, though. Just wish…”

She waits for a bit. Hands him back the smoke to see if it’ll help him finish, but he just drags on it and stares out the fuckin’ cracked side window.

“What do you wish?” she finally asks.

He shrugs again. “Wish she’d fuckin’ done it instead of me, I guess. Wish she wasn’t such a fucking idiot. She fuckin’… some fuckin’ dude just trying to go to bed, Lane. What the hell? God, she’s bad. She’s so bad.”

She adds her other foot. Blocks the other vent with it so they’re both fucking toasting. “Fuckin’ nasty habit of hers,” she says. Sounds more bitter than she means to. “Taking her bullshit out on innocent fuckin’ people. Leaving a mess for everyone else to fucking clean up.”

Eyeball side-eyes her for a second. Puts a hand up to sit on her ankle and runs his thumb over her toes. She leans over and drops her head onto his shoulder. “I fuckin’ dreamt about her this morning,” she tells him.

“What was it?”

Helaena grabs another cigarette from the pack in the console and lights it with her cherry before she stubs that one out in the tray. “Don’t remember. Just… fire. There was fuckin’ fire everywhere.”

He doesn’t say anything for a minute, just runs his finger along her foot. Traces the bones. That big old blue vein that sits just under the skin on top. Finally, “We’ll smoke up before bed later. I’ll get you good and wrecked. That nightmare shit’s starting up again.”

Helaena nods and hands him her cigarette. “You think we should just fuckin’ get on with it? Get where we’re going?”

“Thought we were fuckin’ dilly-dallying,” he says, exhaling through his nose. “Thought we had all kindsa fuckin’ time, right?”

Helaena shrugs her response. “I mean. We do.”

“You fuckin’…” He pauses. Looks like he’s fucking screwing up some courage before he goes on. “You feel safer around other people or something?”

She looks at him. Presses her foot back a little into the warmth of his hand, like she’s fuckin’ petting it. “I dunno,” she says. “To be honest, baby, I dunno how safe I feel anywhere anymore. Definitely don’t feel like I’d be safer with some people I never fuckin’ met, if that’s what you mean. I just… I dunno.”

“… I’m not gonna hurt you, Laney.”

“You think we should go see Pop?” she says suddenly, the idea hitting her like that snippet of a fuckin’ dream that catches up to you hours after you think you’d forgotten it all.

He draws his eyebrows together at her. Skeptical. Waiting for the rest.

There really isn’t any rest, though; she hasn’t been fucking ruminating on it or anything, so she just shrugs her shoulders at him. “We’re going that way anyway, right? I mean…”

“You got lots of ideas today,” he says, but he doesn’t wanna fucking talk about any of them, seems like. Just goes back to where he left off. “I’m not gonna fucking hurt you.”

“Everything fuckin’ hurts me, Eyeball.”

She says it fast; snaps it really, thoughtless and sharp before it even forms in her head, and he’s already handing her back her fucking smoke when she reaches for it. A step ahead of her. Wincing like it’s him; like he’s the one who feels it all.

Maybe he is, she thinks. Maybe he feels all her fuckin’ shit just as bad; maybe it travels over that frequency that runs between them like a nerve. Raw from all that shit he can’t run interference for, or all the fucking shit that’s his fault to begin with.

And if he can’t fuckin’ protect her, what fucking use is he, right? He likes to be fuckin’ useful. Needs it, even, maybe.

That’s how his stupid fucking brain works.

“Not now though,” she adds, soft. “Nothing hurts now. Just my stomach. I’m fucking hungry. Starving, actually. Take me somewhere and fucking feed me, would you? There are like two goddamn pretzels left.”

That he can do. That he can fucking fix.

Helaena takes a drag, and it shakes the whole way in and the whole way out. Her sugar’s tanked, or she’s still cold, or her goddamn nerves are just frayed and split and done. Maybe all of it.

He sees it. Shoves the last of the pretzels at her and tells her to fucking eat them while he packs up the tent and cleans up. Grabs her chin and kisses her, something hard and hungry and sorry and needy and just about everything one of his fucking kisses can be, all at once. Like he doesn’t know what to give her, so he’s just offering it all and she can take whatever she wants.

She wants everything, she thinks. Every bit of him, and she kisses him back to tell him that. A greedy thing, all gimmegimme. Teeth and all, and he likes it. Leans in. Hears what she’s trying to fuckin’ say.

Some days, sometimes, she wishes she could fucking swallow him whole. Wonders if maybe that empty ache in her belly would quiet down for good. If once he turned into her bones, into her blood, into the strange muscle of her heart, she might not ever want for anything again.

And he’d be useful forever that way. Pushing her fucking oxygen around. Holding her up.

“What do you want to eat, Laney?” he asks her, chucking the folded-up tent and their bag and the deflated mattress into the trunk where they came from and lighting himself a cigarette.

Quick. Always quick. Good hands.

She resists the urge to tell him you you you and instead says, “Whatever. You pick. You’re the pain in the ass about it. Just make sure there’s coffee.”

“I’mma find you something warm,” he says, repacking the trunk kit. “I’ll warm you up; I promise.”

She always hears all the shit he doesn’t say.

“I love you, too,” she tells him, as he sits down next to her, puts in the key, and Granny yawns and stretches and shakes off the dust.

He just looks at her and smiles, a half-cocked sort of thing, and shifts into gear.

*****

They find a diner-y thing, all day breakfast and burnt coffee, and go inside.

She puts on a bra first, and some lipstick, and he manages to tame her hair into a wild sort of ponytail. Finds more fuckin’ crusty shit when he does, and uses his spit to try to fucking clean it off while she makes a face at him and he laughs at her.

Once they get in, nobody fuckin’ backs away slowly, so she figures the smell must not be too terrible.

They both get the same thing, some sort of brothy soup with noodles and oversoft carrots, and Eyeball picks out the stringy onions and drops them unceremoniously into her bowl with a fork. She turns her crackers into goo with the liquid, and he eats his crunchy on the side, and they drink a gallon of coffee apiece. It’s good. Tastes like gas station shit. Glass pot for sure. Helaena doesn’t even put cream in hers, just takes the bitter and the hot into her belly straight up, and it’s perfect.

She props a foot up next to him, and he tucks a finger inside her shoe, right against her arch, and his eye is tired and soft, and her eyes are slow-blinking, and they take their goddamn time. Just sit and sip and sit and sip and watch the world do its world-stuff around them.

She wants fucking pie, but he tells her her fuckin’ pie is enough for him, and she calls him a horny shithead and feeds him too-sweet, too-red cherries from her plate while he smiles.

He takes them. Every one. Tells her that her fuckin’ pie is sweeter, though. Raises an eyebrow.

The crust tastes like wet cardboard, but she eats it anyway. Washes it down with the cold dregs of his coffee and holds his hand while he pays. Tucks her fist into his like a little kid and swings their arms together.

Piggybacks on him the whole way out, giggling.

When they find a fuckin’ motel - two-story shithole with grimy windows and sketchy lighting; not her first choice, but the options are slim here - they take a room downstairs at the back. It’s getting dark, and there’s no one around, and he parks horizontal right outside. Tugs her pants down while she sits in the passenger seat. Puts his tongue inside her, bending low and hidden under the walkway that runs overhead, and she says oh my god i haven’t showered, and he just mumbles good, perfect, and there’s days of fucking come, and sweat, and she’s had a hundred orgasms maybe, been stupid wet for stupid long, and she’s sure she’s vile but he eats her like a fucking bowl of ice cream. Not that this motherfucker’s had ice cream since middle school, but whatever. Hands and knees, one of her legs up on his shoulder, and maybe someone looking out a window could see them, and maybe another time she’d care.

Maybe.

His mouth is hot, and quick, and soft, and he works her into a whimpering mess so fast her own mouth can hardly keep up. She tries though, tells him Daddy Daddy Daddy oh please Daddy I wanna Daddy please I’m gonna fuckin’… , quiet as she can, frantic, all those words running together, dry little whispery sounds that die in her throat at the end. Cut off by that sharp sort of strangling pleasure, her thighs clamping down around him and her pretty nails in his neck while he talks back. Talks right into her, right against her, his tongue forming the words along her body like he needs all of her to hear it and remember it and use it to build her; muscle and blood and bone. Just like she wanted. Just like that, come on, come on, there it is, you’re so good, my girl my girl my girl.

“What the fuck was that about?” she asks him when he scoops her up and carries her inside; fucking one-arms her ass while he opens the door.

“Dessert,” he tells her, “fuckin’ pie,” and his mouth is all wet with her, and he smells like pussy, and she shakes her head and laughs.

“You’re repulsive.”

“Is that a fuckin’ complaint?”

It’s not. It’s fucking not, and she just lays on the bed and smokes with the door open while he brings their fuckin’ shit inside.

This place is so fuckin’ out there they still have smoking rooms.

No sense in checking for fucking bugs, Eyeball says. They’re just gonna assume they’re there, and he laughs a sort of surrendered laugh and moves on with his life. Shrugs his shoulders and leaves shit on hard surfaces: bathroom floor, the wobbly table by the door, the nightstands. Doesn’t take in anything that he doesn’t absolutely have to; they’re leaving first thing in the fucking morning. Already decided.

“You gonna fuck me, or you just gonna leave me like this?” she grins, watching him slam Granny’s trunk shut. Might as well get it again before they fuckin’ shower, she thinks. She’s already fuckin’ warmed up. This stupid place is a goddamn get-on-all-fours-and-fuckin-bark-for-it kinda joint. She can get down with that. Put that fucking free porn to use in the background and take him like a champ.

“I’m not gonna fuckin’ leave you at all,” he tells her, coming up to yank on her ponytail. Soft, soft, soft. “How about that?”

Notes:

idk kids, do we want the nasty seedy motel room porn-within-the-porn porn? 😂😂😂 Inception porn? Whatever? bahahahah i haven’t decided yet but it’s probably gonna happen because i sort of need these two to watch some grimy shit together

Chapter 46: 68 ½

Summary:

“Fine,” he says, looking like the goddamn devil himself. “Find some fuckin’ porn. Better be nasty as fuck. Better be nastier than me.”

Notes:

soooo… this ran super long. like 2x normal length

so here’s like 5k+ of dirty, messy porn. featuring… porn? 😂 & guys, so many bodily fluids (so many), so much ass-to-mouth, so little showering.

i honestly think you can just feel my absolute degenerate joy here 🤷🏼‍♀️

i need a baptism. & to yeet myself into the sun.

All
the things I
embrace as new
are in
fact old things,
re-released: swimming,
the sensation of
being dirty in
body and mind
summer as a
time to do
nothing and make
no money. Prayer
as a last re-
sort. Pleasure
as a means,
and then a
means again
with no ends
in sight

[…]

why shouldn’t
something
I have always
known be the
very best there
is. I love
you from my
childhood,
starting back
there when
one day was
just like the
rest, random
growth and
breezes, constant
love, a sand-
wich in the
middle of
day,
a tiny step
in the vastly
conventional
path of
the Sun. I
squint. I
wink. I
take the
ride.

— from Peanut Butter by Eileen Myles

 

“Oh my God, this place is so disgusting!” She sounds fucking gleeful, though, like a fucking little kid playing in the goddamn mud. “Can you imagine how many fucking people nutted on these fucking sheets? I’m probably getting pregnant right now, and there’s only like a sixty-forty shot it’s yours.”

Eyeball laughs, and it’s a fucking good one. He pushes her forehead back, bops her against the goddamn headboard, playful, and drops his weight down next to her. “It’s so bad. What the fuck is wrong with us?”

Helaena shrugs. “Lazy.” They’d gotten spoiled by so many days in one fuckin’ spot, she thinks. Neither of them felt like fucking driving much, and now they’re in some weird metro dead zone, just the right distance from the city for Important Men to bring fuckin’ hookers or side pieces or whatever and still have time to get home to their wives with a plausible excuse. Every place kinda looked like this one, honestly, and she’d liked the parking lot you can’t see from the street.

Clerk was used to shady shit - dodgy IDs and cash transactions - too, and barely blinked at them.

If it wasn’t so absolutely awful, it’d be perfect, she thinks. But there’s a little corner of her sketchy heart reserved for shit like this, and one night is kind of fuckin’ great. Feels like an adventure. Like they haven’t had enough of those lately.

Eyeball fuckin’ thinks so, too, even if he won’t say it. He’s a little more skeezed by the questionable fuckin’ sanitation than she is, but he’s got that goddamn dirtbag DNA, too, and she’s pretty sure something about this hellhole is gonna make him wanna bend her over and pull her fuckin’ hair.

First things first, though. “What do you wanna watch?” she asks. They have fuckin’ Pornhub Premium. Fucking selling point, apparently. Big sign in the lobby.

“You don’t wanna fuckin’ rinse off first?” he says. “Jesus Christ.”

Helaena snorts. “What’s the point? We gonna do some delicate lovemaking shit? You gonna slap on a condom? Or now my fuckin’ pussy’s too much ‘cause you spit on it? You need it washed?”

He rolls his fuckin’ eye at her. “I’ll show you spitting on it. Get the fuck over here,” and then he’s got her fucking flat and pinned, pulled down so both wrists are in one of his huge fuckin’ hands, and she’s giggling and twisting and wriggling as he’s tugging on her fucking pants.

“Stop!” she shrieks, laughing as he pinches at her, hip and thigh and belly, little fuckin’ gooseybites all over. “We gotta put the movie on!”

“We’re gonna be the movie,” and he’s laughing, too. Got her fucking shit down at her knees, stretching that fucking elastic as he yanks them apart.

Hands off her wrists now; he’s not even bothering. He’s got her goddamn brain prone, crawling, kneeling; down so bad he doesn’t need to hold her anymore.

But she’s still squirming all over when she feels his fingers. Feels them slide right up the center of her, still slick with her leftover mess, and spread her right apart. “Oh my God,” she says as he leans down low. Puts a kiss right on the bare front of her. She knows what’s fucking coming, and then it’s there, and he fuckin’ shows her spitting on it. Nice and wet, fuckin’ drooly and drippy right on her fucking cunt, right where he’s slipping that goddamn huge thumb of his. “Don’t,” she says, a way-down-low sort of don’t. “You know what that fuckin’ does to me,” and he does. He knows, and that’s why he does it again, spreads her wider, spits right inside. “Fuck!”

Now he’s grinning, thumb running right behind it. “Oh,” he says, “this isn’t what you were just fuckin’ asking me for? Fuckin’ dirty shit?”

She’s half laughing, half protesting, spine all tight and pulled up, neck prickled. “I wanna find a movie,” she whines, that thumb working its way back back back.

“Fine,” he says, looking like the goddamn devil himself. “Find some fuckin’ porn. Better be nasty as fuck. Better be nastier than me.” Spits again, this time from up higher. Misses what he was looking for but gets close enough to curl her fuckin’ toes.

“Nothing fuckin’ nastier than you sometimes,” she half-giggles, half fuckin’ moans at him, “filthy fucking bastard. God. You make me…”

“What?” he wants to know, using his goddamn fingers now, just rubbing his fuckin’ spit everywhere while she spreads wider for him. “I make you what?”

She doesn’t answer, just presses her fucking cunt into his touch and tells him to give her the fucking remote. He’s still looking at her like he might fuckin’ cannibalize her when he does.

“What do you want?” she asks him, as he fuckin’ hauls her upright, biting at her. Neck, mostly, sharp little teeth in the slots between her bones, all those little places that pop like goddamn bubble wrap against her nerves. Pulls off her shirt to get at her better.

“You,” he fuckin’ says, hands all over. “Told you, we’re gonna be it. I’m gonna make your insides your outsides,” and she’s still giggling, swatting at him, rolling her fuckin’ shoulders. “What do I want for background noise? Find me some chick screaming for it; they’ll fuckin’ think I’ve got two in here. Legend.”

“Need more than two to be a legend in this fuckin’ place I think,” she tells him, and he laughslaughslaughs, face buried under her chin, hot breath and a hot tongue she can feel when he opens up.

“You’re right,” he says. Spits again, fuckin’ right over her nipple and tweaks it up, hard hard hard. “Find me lesbo shit. A fuckin’ orgy,” and he’s got his mouth on it sucking his own fuckin’ drool off while she squirms. “Lotsa screaming bitches.”

She’s in stitches now, just laughing like a fuckin’ idiot and arching her back at him. “Oh my God!”

“Mmhm,” he says. Other fucking nipple now, straight up against his tongue while he tells her, “or more, or don’t stop, or…”

“Shut up,” she squeals, and he stops for a second. Pretends to think real fuckin’ hard.

“Nah, I don’t like that one,” he decides, and then the kiss is on her mouth, and he’s laughing into it, right against her mashed-in lips while she’s trying to fuckin’ get the TV on.

“You wouldn’t know what to do with a bunch of screaming bitches,” she says, and he bites her. Teeth in her bottom lip, a nice hard pinch.

“Yes I would. I’d have them all suck my cock.”

“At once?” she says, and he’s got her wrist now, the one aimed at the goddamn television, just biting down the track of her veins.

“Mmhm. There’s enough,” he says, wry, like he’s teasing her. “At least that’s what I’ve heard. I could feed a small country.”

She snorts as the screen comes to life finally. “Oh yeah?”

“That’s what my sister says.”

“No, that’s enough to feed a small country,” she tells him, jerking her chin at the TV. It fucking greets them both with some guy’s gigantic cock just chilling, like the creep before them just left it paused when he ran out an hour ago or something. “Maybe a medium one, even.”

Eyeball looks back and cracks up. “Oh, shit.”

“That’s why you got a complex,” she giggles. “Crap like that. What the fuck? Where the fuck is anyone gonna put that? Nowhere in me. Shit. I can only fuckin’ handle you ‘cause I’ve been doing it since we were kids.”

He’s kneeling behind her now, chewing on her fuckin’ shoulder, her ear, sucking on the back of her neck. Kinda interested.

Helaena snickers. “That’s what it takes to get your fuckin’ attention? A giant dick?”

She feels him shrug. “Find something,” he says. Mouthing mouthing mouthing, hands traveling down the front of her.

“You don’t care?”

He shakes his head. “I can get off to anything; you know that,” and she can feel the grin spreading over his face.

“Siblings?” she asks, leaning back to catch his eye and giving him a dry little smile.

He laughs at her. “If that’s what fucking turns your knobs. Weirdo.”

She laughs back. “Fuckin’ porn is tame, though. Like the sibling shit is supposed to be the dirty part so they just fuckin’ remind each other the whole time, like oooooooh sisterpussy, while they’re in fuckin’ straight-up missionary on the couch… who does that? Plus it’s usually step-brother shit anyway.”

He’s full on cracked up now, fingers in her ribs tickling the shit out of her, and she accidentally hits the button and Mr BigDick on the screen is groaning like he’s dying or some shit, and then they’re both just in hysterics like a couple of morons.

“What the fuck,” he says, falling on top of her, smushing them both into the fuckin’ worn out mattress. “Lane, you’re fuckin’ killing me!”

“You don’t like it?” she snorts. “This guy’s not fuckin’ doing it for you? Thought you could get off to anything.”

“Give me that fucking thing,” he says, snatching the goddamn remote. “Here.”

He goes to the stupid search function and starts dicking around, other hand walking up her leg. She’s on her back, watching upside down, wiggling a little, anticipation and silliness and whatever the fuck else as he pinches mindlessly at her fuckin’ thigh, higher, pinchpinchpinch, making a little seam all the way to the inside of her hip.

“That’s what you wanna see?” she says, arching an eyebrow when he finds what he’s looking for.

“Mmmhm,” he says, and he’s back down again, still messing with the television one-handed, using the other one to knuckle her apart as he slides down between her legs. Fucking spits again, all focus, right where he wants it, and she feels her whole fucking cunt tighten up, a quick pulse like a flash of lightning or some shit, and she squeezes her eyes shut.

“Shit,” she says, one of his fingers just pressing in, putting his fuckin’ mess right inside.

She blinks, and he’s shaking his head at the TV. She tips back to look, just in time to see the picture skip back. “Too many dicks,” he says, a little annoyed but mostly amused, and she giggles at him.

“What did you think you were gonna find, searching for that shit?” she asks him, the words shaking a little as he works two fingers in, just fuckin’ holding them there.

“I don’t want a bunch of dicks,” he says. “One’s good. I want fuckin’ stuff. Toys or whatever.”

She giggles again. “You do you, then. But you probably should’ve fuckin’ searched right if that’s what you wanted.”

He tries again, and it’s more dicks. “What the fuck,” he mutters, crooking those fuckin’ fingers up for emphasis. Hitting her goddamn g-spot, halfhearted, as the fucking chick on the screen gets a cock jammed haphazardly into her ass. Lady Dickbutt likes it, Helaena thinks with a smirk, but Eyeball’s not here for it.

Third time’s the charm, though, and he drops the fuckin’ remote on the bed and leans down to kiss her. He misses when she tilts her head back to see better, catches her chin instead, sloppy, but he bites it. Bites down down down to the center of her throat, and this girl, the one on the screen now - a blonde, not as pale as they are, definitely a bleach-job - has something in her fuckin’ ass, too. Just a plug, though. Plug in her ass, big ol’ cock in her cunt. Fuckin’ Eyeball-sized, Helaena thinks, staring upside down at the whole mess.

Chick’s fuckin’ full right up. Everywhere, telling everyone about it until she can’t, because then there’s something in her mouth, too. She can tell by that stuffed-up sound, even though she can’t see it yet; the way the fuckin’ theatrical moaning goes garbled.

Gets harder to fuckin’ pay attention, though, because he’s down between her legs again, just settled there and fingerfucking her, that goddamn in-up-in-up rhythm that makes her fuckin’ bounce and gasp and grabgrabgrab; two inside and they’re not enough.

“Shit,” she says, “come on, are you gonna…”

“Like that,” he answers, kissing at her again. Cunt and belly and up between her tits. “Gonna fuckin’ do it like that. Everywhere. You want…”

“Yeah,” she says, a sort of whiny sound, like fuckin’ Blondie’s doing now, too. Whining around the three goddamn fingers in her mouth while this dude fuckin’ rails her. “You got….”

“No,” he tells her, “all that shit’s in the car. It’s fine, I got you,” and there’s three now in her, too. Deep in her fucking cunt, in and in and in and up and up and up and holy fucking shit. She can feel his cock, huge and hard and fucking hot against her hip, and she wonders where he’s gonna fucking put it. Wants it everywhere. Wishes there was enough of him to goddamn fill her up all over.

“How…” she mumbles, trying to fuckin’ grind back down on him, get friction, but he’s sliding sideways, tugging her a little.

“Here, like this, come on,” and she goes with him. Uses her heels to push a little in the direction he’s pulling, and she catches on quick. Starts laughing again when he wiggles her head off the fucking bed.

“You’re so hot,” she giggles, and Blondie’s really fuckin’ getting it now. Fingers in her goddamn throat; she can’t even whine anymore, fuckin’ leg pulled up, taking it like a boss. Helaena’d fuckin’ high-five her, you know, if it was fuckin’ real. Eyeball’s had her fuckin’ pulled and pretzel’d like that before, big hand and big dick in her and it’s some brutal shit, even without anything shoved in her ass. Good, but fuckin’ rough.

“You want it in your fuckin’ mouth?” he asks her, standing up over her now, leaning forward, cock fucking bouncing against her cheek. “Tell me.” Still got his fingers in, shallower and bent funny while he gets his shit straight, but there. There. So fucking good.

“Yeah,” she tells him, and it’s that breathywhiny yeah, that thing that tilts up at the end, pornstar Blondie shit. She’s talking again, too, someone’s fingers just hanging out on her bottom teeth so she sounds like she has goddam marbles or a big bite of something weird in her mouth, going fuck yeah over and over, and it’s funny as shit.

Helaena giggles at herself, at Blondie, at fuckin’ Eyeball who’s trying to bite his own smile back, keep the flood of humor from spilling everywhere ‘cause he’s trying to get his dick sucked, and she says it again because he’s fucking distracted.

“Put it in my fuckin’ mouth,” she tells him, and his eye’s back on her. “Spit first.”

She’s watching him, blood rushing a little to her fuckin’ head, and it looks squirrelly and backwards but he does it. Spits on himself, runs his hand through, then she opens her fuckin’ mouth, puts out her tongue, and the whole thing is strange. He has to fix himself to get it, but he knows what she wants and he spits in her fuckin’ mouth, too. Gets close so he doesn’t fucking miss, and she loves him for that. He gets it just right. Doesn’t make a mess. It makes her fucking cunt grip at his fingers, and he jams them in good. Hard. Hard enough for her to gasp.

He tastes like cigarettes; his fucking saliva. Cigarettes and metal.

His dick tastes like dick. Not clean. Not grody. Just dick. Sweaty, sort of, a little grungy like dick always sorta tastes, and upside-down is the weirdest shit ever. Neither of them are really designed to bend like that, so it’s a lot of jostling to get it fucking right, but he does.

She’s extra fuckin’ gaggy this way, must be the angle, and she just keeps doing it. Gag, swallow, gag, and the swallowing kinda helps and kinda doesn’t, but it’s hard to focus. Hard to keep her shit right, because he’s twisted her the fuck up like this so he can get to her fucking cunt and he’s doing the damn thing. Leaned right over, leaving her to fuckin’ manage his big cock while he screws around, and it’s making her dizzy. The upside down, the gagging, the way she can taste his hothot pulse and the sort of rhythmless way he’s fucking her throat - forgetting, then remembering; chaotic - the way he’s got half his goddamn hand inside just jackhammering her fucking g-spot. It is wild. Bananas.

And it’s not just that. He’s got his mouth doing fuckin’ mouth stuff, spitty and drooly all on her. Pussy, and her goddamn ass, too, and she’s pretty sure she’s about to get it like Blondie. Except there’s no plug, just his hands, so when he starts rubbing at her, little wet fucking circles going can i baby can i?, she knows what he’s asking.

And the baby of it all sends her brain skitzing, feels like she just popped a fucking molly. And yeah, of course he fucking can, but she can’t tell him that. His dick’s in her stupid mouth. She nods, though; nods, sticks her tongue flat against him, pulls back a little, hums.

He understands. Spits again and again and again, gets her absolutely fucking dripping. Does it to himself, too; turns his fingers slick and warm, pushes all the way into her fuckin’ throat at the same time he puts a finger in her ass, slow and crooked like a question.

The answer is fucking yes. Blondie thinks so, too. Screaming it now, yes! yes! yes!, coming her fucking brains out - pretending to, anyway - and Helaena can’t really see her anymore. Got balls in her own eyes, which is actually hilarious, and fuckin’ tears, too, and she gets where the bitch is coming from. This whole shit is just a bunch of yes, a bunch of fuckin’ flashing cameras; a pulsing, shiny screen hollering for it.

He’s everywhere. Down her goddamn throat so deep he’s gonna bump his own fingertips, two in her cunt and one in her ass, just fuckingfuckingfucking everywhere, some sort of rhythm happening, and she’s fucking braindead for it. Whole body just in a spasm for him, gagging and clenching and trying to keep him inside.

She’s pretty sure she’s gonna make a huge fucking mess. She can feel it building, the kind of pressure that breaks the dam. He’s knocking the absolute shit out of her insides, pressing that button like a motherfucker, and his wrist is twisted so it’s sliding over her clit, and she’s getting it so good everywhere. Feeling like she’s gonna piss on him.

She’d like to warn him, but she’s fuckin’ choking on his cock. He’s not paying attention, not being careful or nice, and she can barely breathe. Fuckin’ forget talking.

He’s leaned over far, too. Got his free hand braced on the shitty mattress, bent good, and it’s like a fucked-up sixty-nine; a fuckin’ sixty-eight-and-a-half or something, and she is one hundred percent going to squirt in his pretty mouth. One hundred percent, because he’s got that down low now, too, and she knows what he’s up to.

Helaena laughs. As much as she can laugh, anyway, and that’s enough. Relaxes everything just that quarter fucking millimeter, and he puts his mouth right on her. Right on her, and she’s almost positive it’s on purpose, because he licks at her clit through a smile she can feel, all of its goddamn mischief, and her body just lets go.

She’s fuckin’ louder than Blondie, who’s still shrieking like she’s getting pounded by a fucking Pringles can or something. Loud, and fucking wet, and she can’t believe all that noise is coming from her, fitting around his goddamn cock in her throat, but it is. There’s room for it, somehow, and it’s good. Opens her even wider, stops the gagging for a second, and he knows what to do. Stays with her, keeps that perfect pace and perfect everything, works her right through it, navigates through the absolute flood. Laughs. It’s all in his mouth, she can fucking hear it in his laugh, and this motherfucker is down. Bad.

Laughing through his own Blondie impersonation, a fucking delighted amused triumphant yes yes yes like here he is in the last half-second of the game and he just broke the tie. Laughing, and she can’t stop coming and squirtpissing all over and she’s laughing now, too, trying not to bite his cock off. Trying not to choke to death.

“I fucking did it,” he says, “oh my God Laney you’re so fucking hot,” and the bed is soaked. She can feel it under her, all over her, just a total fucking disaster.

It feels amazing. Like she just let go of something she’s been hauling around on her back for a goddamn decade. It’s that good. She’s that fucking spent. Empty, empty, empty.

He doesn’t even care about his own fucking orgasm anymore; like whatever just happened was way better, and he just pulls right the fuck out of her mouth. He’s so, so, so hard. Looks-like-it-hurts hard.

She has a vague thought like oh he’s beautiful, and then he turns around and kisses her. Gets out of his own way, somehow. Kneels down by her blood-rushing, upside-down fucking dickmouth and puts his tongue right in it. Spiderman shit, all backwards and wrongwise, and his mouth is straight squirt. Straight up come and piss and pussy, and it’s fabulous. She sucks him like a goddamn lollipop.

She’s woozy, though, and Blondie’s done. She can see her now, trapped in used-up freeze-frame on the screen, zoomed out to a little square, and that’s how Helaena feels, too. Used up and zoomed out.

Eyeball helps her flip over so she doesn’t fuckin’ pass out from the head rush, and she feels half fuckin’ drunk for a second. Comes to, though; gets that blood circulating again, and he’s still on his knees by her, fuckin’ hard and dreamy-eyed and downright vile. A mess. Wet all over, lips and cheeks and hair. And she fuckin’ adores him. Loves him with some goddamn animal ferocity.

Hormones or some shit.

“Stay there,” she says to him. Like a purr. Like a little fuckin’ kitten trilling at its mama. He tilts his head, a question, but he stays. Stays and watches her fuckin’ sort herself out; sit up and shake herself off and look around like she’s seeing this gross fuckin’ room for the very first time. “Stay,” she says again, wobbly hand on his shoulder, “it’s your turn.”

She manages a sort of eyebrow-quirk, something she hopes is sort of roguish or naughty or something, but she’s kind of a wreck, so who knows, and slides off the bed next to him.

He looks at her sideways; looks at her like he doesn’t trust her for a goddamn minute, so she did it right. She giggles at him. “Stay,” she says again. “Gonna make you come like crazy.”

“What…”

But she stops him. Turns a little, comes up right behind him and presses her whole fuckin’ body there. It’s good, it’s fuckin’ perfect really because she’s still not right. Still weak in her knees and fuckin’ emptied out, so she gives him her weight; presses him so he’s braced on the end of the bed, kneeling and holding her up.

“There,” she says, that little purr again. Brings her hand to her mouth. Spits.

She can feel his smile in the way he leans back, gives her a pretty little arch in his neck like he’s trying to kiss her with it.

When she takes his fuckin’ cock in her hand, he takes a breath that’s just as pretty. Ragged, sounds like it’s coming from goddamn outer space or something.

She leans against him, tells him shhhhh baby is it good do you like it?, strokes him so fucking slow that her fuckin’ body trembles with the softness of it. He leans into it, lets her, doesn’t try to fucking speed it up. He’s so fuckin’ hard, and leaking like a goddamn sprung pipe, so she fuckin’ stops because she’s up to no good.

“Hey,” she whispers. Gives his ear a little nipnipnip with her baby kitten teeth. “Up tall?”

He goes, just goes, because he’s in that space that’s all pleasure, all yes, all meltybrained feelgood shit, up tall on his knees.

Helaena nudges herself in close, wriggles in between, trying to spread him wide. He registers it a little, and she can feel the tension of a question across the muscles of his back, but she just kisses them. Fuckin’ tongues them into liquid again.

Spits on her fingers.

Now he knows, but he doesn’t fuckin’ care. Wants it. Strung out and filthy for her, and he’s gonna let her turn him out.

“There,” she tells him. Spits moremoremore, til she’s got a goddamn puddle in the bend of her knuckles; smears that mess fuckin’ all over. When she runs it down the crack of his fuckin’ ass he just tips his head back towards her, pretty pretty, and she could just fuckin’ eat him alive.

It’s not fuckin’ wet enough, though. She can tell. Even with the way he’s almost coming over her can’t-close fist, the way he’s breathing like he’s gonna fall right apart, the way he’s just fucking pudding on a spoon, that gallon of fuckin’ spit isn’t enough.

He’s still while she draws little circles, tests the fuckin’ waters, presses and presses, but it’s not enough. She’s nervous to hurt him.

“Can you lean, baby?” she asks him. “Gonna use my fuckin’ mouth.”

That does it. He grins, he fuckin’ leans, upupup, and that just fuckin’ does it. She lets her spit drip drip drip, does it like he does for her, pooling and slick, and he tastes like fucking balls, and sweat, and ass, and him, and she doesn’t fucking mind at all. Holds his fucking cock, just holds it and squeezes it and collects all that fuckin’ mess too as he leaks and leaks and leaks and fuckin’ chokes off little boy-moans in his throat. Brings that pre-come back to help, swirls it around and licks it off, and presses it in with her goddamn tongue, and there it fucking is.

“Okay,” she says. And it’s okay. Better than okay. Fingers fuckin’ slippery to the knuckles, and he’s warm and wet and fucking relaxed, and she’s got it. Got him.

He takes her goddamn finger like a pro.

She’s gotta fuckin’ poke a little. Slide around, delicate, and he is so fucking hot inside. So hot, it’s amazing; a thousand times hotter than his skin. A goddamn incinerator; soft and smooth and slippery and hot.

“Oh God you’re hot,” she tells him, and she means the temperature, and she means the way he moans right from his fuckin’ guts, can’t even fuckin’ help himself, when she finds it; that little squishy knot inside that winds him up like a fuckin’ busted clock.

She’s slow as hell, gentle, always afraid she’s gonna fuck him up, but that’s good. It fuckin’ works, and she likes the way he puts a hand over hers, just holds it while she jerks him off, while she rocks against that little fuckin’ switch inside him, back and forth and back and forth and back and forth. Likes the way his body reaches for her, his heart starts to go haywire through his back, and the noise. The noise puts her up a goddamn wall, those little baby sounds that sit right on the edge of reason and control and just ratchet up and up and up, and she can feel everything. Feel the whole mechanism of him click click click BOOM, like a shot, and she feels it inside and feels it outside and hears it, too, and oh my god he just fucking comes.

It’s different, feels different even just fuckin’ holding onto him, the way her mess was fuckin’ different and splashed him like a goddamn tsunami. It’s straight bonkers, out of fucking control; body just shudders and shudders and shudders like a motherfucker. Doesn’t stop for a minute, his breathing all over the place, everything tight and then everything just fucking shaking and shaking and spent.

Makes a goddamn raunchy mess, too. Fucking jizz all over. All the fuck over. The bed, the floor, his belly and his chest and their hands; everywhere. His dick’s fuckin’ jerking around in her hand and his mouth’s hanging open and sweat’s in little rivers down his back, against her cheek, and she licks it up. Kisses it away. Takes her fucking finger out slow and squeezes the melty muscle of his ass when he lets himself just faceplant into the nasty sheets.

Looks like he just got his guts rearranged.

Helaena wonders if she looks this fuckin’ good afterwards, on her knees and covered in it. Wonders if that’s why he just stares at her wreckage all the time. She gets it, maybe.

“Told you,” she mumbles, ear pressed down to listen to it all. “Crazy right?”

“I fuckin’…” he sighs. “I fuckin’ forget I like that shit so much.” A whole ass babyboy right here. Just for her.

“I don’t,” she says, and his whole goddamn body smiles. Feels like sunshine underneath her. “Quick question, though.”

“Hmm?” he says, sounding like he’s not gonna be able to answer a single damn one. Even his own stupid name.

“Where the fuck are we gonna sleep? This fuckin’ bed is…”

“Not it,” he laughs, shoulders shaking. “This bed is definitely not fuckin’ it.”

“Drenched.”

“Drenched,” he agrees. “Lane, you’re fucking incredible. Look at this shit.”

“We should tell them it was like this when we came in,” she giggles. “They’d believe it, I bet.”

“I bet you’re right,” he says, and they laugh, and they laugh, and they laugh.

Chapter 47: South by Sundown

Summary:

little bit of everything because why not?

Poem
by Denis Johnson

Loving you is every bit as fine
as coming over a hill into the sun
at ninety miles an hour darling when
it's dawn and you can hear the stars unlocking
themselves from the designs of God beneath
the disintegrating orchestra of my black
Chevrolet. The radio clings to an un-
identified station - somewhere a tango suffers,
and the dance floor burns around two lovers
whom nothing can touch - no, not even death!
Oh! the acceleration with which my heart does proceed,
reaching like stars almost but never quite
of light the speed of light the speed of light.

 

They do sleep on the bed.

They shower first, standing so close he’s almost inside her again, but only because they don’t want to touch the fucking walls, and they gaze into each other’s fucked-out hazy faces so they don’t have to look at them, either. Scrub at one another with soapy bare hands, screwing up their noses and dribbling hard water from their loosened-up lips.

It’s a terrible shower, but it’s a shower, and the towels are threadbare, and the fan makes a sound like something’s rattling around inside of it. “Probably a camera,” Helaena says, with a roll of her eyes, and Eyeball laughs at her but doesn’t argue. She’s probably fucking right. Blackmail or spank material or dark web commerce or something.

Eyeball handles the bed. It actually isn’t as bad as they thought. It was still made up when she got herself fuckin’ ruined all over it, and the blanket is one of those cheapie fuckin’ things with a plasticky-feeling top, which saved most of the sheets. Just little bits of seep-through in some spots where it’s worn, which is no big deal. He just strips off the nasty cover and throws it into a corner, and the extra blanket that was folded up there’s gotta go with it. Scratchy, nasty fucking thing anyway, so it’s no great loss.

There’s fuckin’ jizz and whatever else on the shit that was tucked in at the bottom, but they don’t fucking worry about that, either.

When it’s as good as it’s gonna get, they hop back in, damp hair and clean-cool skin, and they fuckin’ scroll through the porn for laughs. Find a whole fucking series with goofy fuckers going at it with shopping bags over their heads and spend a good hour howling and scrolling and howling some more.

“How much would they have to pay you?” she giggles, and Eyeball tells her he’d fuckin’ do it for free. Get his fuckin’ rocks off and nobody would see his fuckin’ face, and he’d make up some stage name like Rod Steele and just be an anonymous, hard cock for all eternity, and Helaena ends up agreeing with him. Except she thinks she’d need some kinda fuckin’ compensation, because the goddamn bag is probably uncomfortable.

“No, you’d definitely hate it,” he says. “The fuckin’ texture. And the sound, probably all crinkly and shit. Bet you wouldn’t even be able to get wet. They’d have to lube you like a fuckin’ waterslide,” and she laughs her face off.

“I bet we could make money,” she tells him, half-serious. “Do it ourselves. Online.”

“We definitely could,” he says. “I’m big and you’re cute. We could fuckin’ make bank, probably. Dunno if we’d make more or less if we fuckin’ said we’re related.”

“Oh, more. For sure more.” She ashes her cigarette into the garbage can next to the bed and blows smoke. “People are fuckin’ weird as hell. You see this bag lady shit. Someone’s horny as fuck for it.”

He nods and takes her cigarette from her. Takes himself a nice, long, thoughtful drag. “Probably not worth it, though.”

“What do you mean?”

He shrugs. “I don’t think I fuckin’ want people looking at you.”

Helaena looks sideways and offers him a crooked grin. “What, you think I’m gonna fuckin’ run off with some fifty year-old guy from the Walmart produce department who Venmo’d me thirty bucks to watch me lick your balls?”

Eyeball grins back. “That’s only a thirty dollar job?”

“Doing it for free now,” she laughs.

He twists a curl around his finger and watches it bounce like a little wet spring. “It’s not that. Just… you’re fuckin’ mine. Nobody else needs to fuckin’ know what your pussy looks like.”

“I mean. They’re all kinda the same,” she shrugs, taking her cigarette back.

“Nah. They’re not. Doesn’t matter anyway, ‘cause that one’s fuckin’ pretty, and it’s fuckin’ mine.”

She smiles at him a little. “Only thing you ever had growing up that wasn’t a fuckin’ hand-me-down from Waffle. My fuckin’ pussy and that patch on your eye.”

He laughs through his nose at her. “Okay, Doc. Fuckin’ analyze me harder.”

“You don’t want that, baby. Trust me.”

He fuckin’ doesn’t. Not even a little. Moves on real quick. “It doesn’t bother you at all?” he wants to know.

“What? People looking at me? Or you?”

“Either. Both.”

Helaena thinks about it for a second. “Not really. Looking? No. I mean, looking is fuckin’ looking. I don’t… it’s the other shit.”

He waits for her, but she doesn’t finish, so he snags her smoke. “What shit?”

“I don’t… I don’t want… I’m not gonna let fuckin’ Joe Blow from Buttfuck, Idaho fuckin’… I’m not gonna do what he says. I’m not gonna let somebody else tell me what to do. That’s… you do that. That’s private shit. I’m not gonna sell that. Someone wants to watch me fuck, whatever. Watch all day and pay me for it. They don’t get to do that other shit. And!” she says. “They gotta fuckin’ watch on mute.”

“On mute?” he says, looking at her with some weird fuckin’ mixture of affection and confusion. Something hungry in there, too. Just underneath.

Helaena nods. “Yeah, no. Fuckin’ nobody gets to listen to you. Fuck that. Not how you fuckin’ talk to me, not how you sound when you’re all messed up. Shit’s mine.”

“Lotsa rules,” he smiles. “You and your fuckin’ ears. I swear if I fucking fit in there you’d make me fuck them.”

She laughs. “I would, probably. I dunno. That’s like… almost the best part. Fuckin’ shuts off my brain. Makes it feel better.”

“I know.”

Everything is quiet for a minute; TV just sitting on the home screen, the two of them shoulder-to-shoulder passing a smoke, eyes closed.

“Hey,” he says eventually.

“Hmmm?”

“Look at me.”

Helaena opens her eyes. Turns slow towards him. “Yeah?”

He reaches for her, big old palm cupped around her cheek, one thumb smoothing down her eyebrow. Just stares for a second. “Get on your knees.”

She rolls her eyes a little. “Baby, I don’t…”

“No, me either, Lane. I’m fuckin’ done, I swear. I… just do it. On your knees.”

She shakes her head a little, but he shakes his back. Short little thing. Stern. A correction, and she arches a brow. Untangles her legs and slips down to the floor.

“Be a good girl,” he says. “No brat shit. Put your hands in your lap and sit pretty.”

That fuckin’ eyebrow goes higher, but the look on his face is so goddamn gentle it makes her turn to fuckin’ putty. Lose all her bones and half her sense, and she just does it.

Eyeball reaches into the pocket of his backpack, sitting on the nightstand, and pulls out the fucking weed and rolling papers. “Open your mouth,” he tells her. “Tongue out.”

She does that, too. Opens, just a little. Puts it out soft and flat for him and watches him roll a joint across his thigh. Quick, efficient, snug.

He uses her spit. Pushes into her mouth, down the center of her tongue to make a little cup. Sits there, pressing circles, walking back, seeing how far he can take the pads of his fingers before he feels her body resist. Skiphitchskip. Then goes further. Further. Further. Millimeter by millimeter, slow and gentle. Lets her relax. Open. Surrender.

That edge of sensation moves back, and back, and back. Nearly disappears under his touch.

It’s so soft.

“Eyes here,” he tells her when her gaze wanders. Looks back and holds her solid as a hand.

They sit like that for a minute, til her breathing matches his. Til the air is still, and her body is calm, and her fucking head is empty. Til she’s just an open mouth. Two quiet lungs. A set of big ol’ doe eyes, unfocused and hazy.

“Look at you,” he says. “You’re sitting so pretty for me. Doing so good.” He pauses for a second to trace that spot on her back. The tenderness of the bruise is long gone, but she knows what he’s doing. Has used her own fingers, over and over, to feel the mottled tissue there. “It scarred a little,” he says, knuckling at the shallow grooves still left.

He draws a line to the tip of her tongue and takes his fingers away wet. Seals that fucking joint nice and tight and lights it up.

Helaena watches his inhale; slow and steady and deep. Watches him hold all that good shit in his chest for her.

He lays himself down with it, flat on his belly, and holds her head in his hands. She’s still. Lets him move her, tilt her, draw her close. Lets his mouth come to her, over and over and over.

Just lets herself receive.

“Good girl,” he says. Just audible. Just this side of clear. Pushes the words into her with the smoke. Fills her up and makes her high and whole and his. “My good girl.”

(Later, nose-to-nose and stoned stupid in bed, she tells him It would never work, you know.

He does know. Knows exactly what she’s talking about. Says never. Says you’re mine and I’m yours. Says tell me again.

And she does.)

*****

She wakes in a spoon, long arms wrapped around her, warm breath at her neck. His voice sort of loose and hovering like she still might be dreaming. It’s light and silly, like a version of him she can barely recall. A version with two eyes.

“Sister,” he’s saying, bumping and nudging and licking at her and being stupid.

Helaena smiles, sleepy and dumb. Feels him lean up when he sees she’s awake, press one shoulder down to roll her to her back. Knees her legs apart.

Straight-up missionary.

She giggles at his fingers, stroking and stroking and stroking her wet; simple circles, little dips inside to bring her around. Easy and tender, fuckin’ oldschool shit.

“Sister,” he says again, a grin in his voice as he taps her a little, gets himself slippery while she wraps her legs around his waist.

“Brother,” she whispers back, biting on her lips as they turn up and up and up.

“Mmhm.” His breath is stale, gross morning shit when he presses his mouth down on hers. Guides himself inside, slow and sweet. Virgin stuff, waking-up-in-that-first-motel-room stuff, laying-on-the-living-room-rug stuff.

It’s nice for a minute, the rocking awake, the feeling like a little fuckin’ boat in a great big sea. The goofy brother on her tongue as she traces his jaw, his temple, his ear.

And then he’s faster, and she wants him deeper, and so she bends her knees ininin; lets him help her ankles up to his shoulders.

“There,” she says, “fuck me like we’re grounded,” and he laughs in her fuckin’ ear.

“What does that even mean?” he asks, and she tells him she doesn’t fucking know, it just sounded good, but it doesn’t matter. He figures it out. Does it perfectly. Calls her sister the whole time. Mostly unserious. Mostly stupid.

Mostly.

Right til the very end, when it’s my sister, and the kiss lands on her cheekbone. Like they’re in the kitchen at Mama’s, and everybody’s there, and he’s saying hello, or goodbye, or thank you.

*****

After that, they’re up and out. Dawn’s just breaking, and all the dudes who were in the rooms around them are snoring next to their angry wives now, and that filmy morning glint shows everything for what it is. Dust and grime and spunk and filth.

They can’t leave fast enough.

Eyeball packs up the room, and Helaena tucks the key and some cash into her pocket and comes back with coffee and breakfast trash from the gas station up the road. Leaves the key on her way back.

“Thank you,” he says, trading his cigarette for the coffee, and he closes his eye with the sip like it’s the next best thing to fuckin’ coming all over her.

It’s close, she thinks. Real fuckin’ close. Hot and bitter and bright, and it feels like it’s washing her insides right out. Rinsing whatever she was fucking inhaling all night long off of her.

“You got bites?” he asks her.

“None,” she says and shrugs, grinning. “Not even from you.”

She blows smoke at him, and he laughs at her. “Me either. Place like this probably has to fuckin’ spray once a week. Maybe they came yesterday.”

“Them and everyone else,” she smirks.

“You’re a fuckin’ live one today,” he says, rolling his eye. “Get in the fuckin’ car, would you?”

She does, laughing and toeing off her shoes as she slides into the seat. Eyeball leans down and does her belt for her. Takes her coffee and sits it in the console.

Granny perks right up, like she’s glad to get the hell out of here, too, and Eyeball gives her a little pat for her enthusiasm.

They head back towards the coast, southeast again. Away from the fucking city, away from the mess of twisty on-ramps and roundabouts and the smog that surrounds it and seems to hang over everything here like some fuckin’ chainsmoker’s old-ass curtains.

As soon as they get out of range of its sludge, they both roll down their windows and take a deep breath. The day is mild, sunshiny with a breeze, and the fuckin’ fresh air is clutch. Feels like a fucking Friday, as though that means a goddamn thing to either of them anymore.

“We got a lot of day ahead of us,” Helaena says once they hit a stretch of road they’re gonna be on for a minute. “Bet we can get somewhere warm.”

“Bet we can,” he says. “That what you want? South by sundown?”

“That’s what I want,” she tells him. “Fuckin’ grits for breakfast tomorrow, and some chick named Charlene better fuckin’ give them to us and call us y’all.”

He pokes her in the belly and laughs. “You watch too much fuckin’ TV,” he says. “You’ve never had grits in your fuckin’ life.”

She grins. “Shit’s just cream of wheat. You know that right? Except they put butter and whatever fuckin’ weird shit in it.”

“I like cream of wheat. Doesn’t hurt my fucking stomach.”

“I know. You can probably get it without butter and shit.”

“I dunno,” he says, looking at her all dubious. “Better fuckin’ ask Charlene.”

Helaena laughs and ashes her cigarette out the window. “You hungry, by the way?”

“Yeah. I’mma fuckin’ eat your…”

She cuts him off. “Shut up,” she says. “God you’re boring.”

He snorts. “Boring? Ho, I will stop this fucking ride and bend you over the guiderail. Fuckin’ make you come twice for every car that honks.”

She tips her head back and cracks up. “Predictable. Is that better?”

“No.”

“Jesus. Eat your fucking apple,” she sighs, taking a bite and handing it to him. “Got some kinda weird corn muffin thing and crackers, too.”

“Apple’s good,” he says. Bites it right next to hers. “Still gonna eat you for dessert.”

“That’s fine, baby,” she grins. “That’s perfect.”

“That’s what I thought you said, fuckin’ brat. Fuckin’ back-talking, shit-stirring, fuckin’…”

She’s laughing again, stretching a leg up on the dash. “Tell me how bad I am, Daddy. Tell me all the fuckin’ shit you’re gonna do to me and my fuckin’ smart mouth.”

“Tell you? I’ll fuckin’ show you later. Haven’t gotten fuckin’ clapped with my belt in a minute. Think you forgot what that feels like.” He smirks at her, and she blows her fucking smoke at him.

“Mmm, threaten me with a fuckin’ good time. I’ll fuckin’ come in my pants right here.”

“Think I’m playing with you.”

“I fuckin’ know you’re not.”

He takes another bite of his apple and gives her the eye. “This is a really fuckin’ good apple,” he says suddenly, and they both fucking crack up.

“You’re an asshole.”

“I know. Read to me, Laney. We got a long drive.”

“What do you want, Daddy?”

“Poems,” he says, taking another bite and fuckin’ crunching away.

“Poems? Long drive for just poetry.”

“I like the way you do it,” he tells her. “You sound fuckin’ pretty. It’s a pretty day. Read me shit about pretty days and fuckin’ pretty girls and whatever.”

She smiles at him. “I dunno if we have any of that. Not usually my kinda shit.”

“We got time. Bet you can find something.”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“There it is,” he says. “Now you’re fuckin’ talking right.” Lays a hand across her thigh and squeezes.

She licks a finger and turns, turns, turns the pages. Shit’s bleak, or it’s hot, or it’s both. It’s fuckin’ melancholy. Full of fuckin’ righteous rage. It’s a lot of shit, but nothing that feels like a sunny day and a pretty girl, and she thinks it’s the dumbest, cutest thing he’s ever fucking asked her for. Wonders what bit him in the ass today.

She does find something, though, eventually.

“Loving you is every bit as fine
as coming over a hill into the sun
at ninety miles an hour darling when
it's dawn and you can hear the stars unlocking
themselves from the designs of God beneath
the disintegrating orchestra of my black
Chevrolet…” she starts, and next to her, he smiles, and he taps his fingers like she’s a song and he’s keeping time.

Chapter 48: Flat

Summary:

Again with the motherfucking cops. Again.

Notes:

if you were looking for high valyrian, you’re… going to continue to be disappointed, but! i got a little something for you anyway 😉🤣

a woman, a
tire that’s flat, a
disease, a
desire: fears in front of you,
fears that hold so still
you can study them
like pieces on a
chessboard…
it’s not the large things that
send a man to the
madhouse. death he’s ready for, or
murder, incest, robbery, fire, flood…
no, it’s the continuing series of small tragedies
that send a man to the
madhouse…

[…]

with each broken shoelace
out of one hundred broken shoelaces,
one man, one woman, one
thing
enters a
madhouse.

so be careful
when you
bend over.

 

- from Shoelace by Charles Bukowski

 

They hit some kinda Friday lunchtime traffic bullshit a couple hours in, right along some little county two-lane that runs through a business district. There’s fucking construction going on, too, and it’s got Eyeball sighing, hanging his arm out the window trying to circulate some air and smoking his face off. He’s over the cutesy poetry by this point, and so is Helaena; they’ve been playing some bootleg version of the license plate game for a few minutes, but that’s getting fucking old, too.

They’d been thinking of stopping to move around and get fresh coffee, top off the tank, before they ran into this mess, and now they’re twice as antsy. Don’t want to pull into any of the places along this stretch for fear of getting fucking trapped and taking forever to pull back out, and shit only gets worse when they finally get out of the goddamn bottleneck and hear that telltale thunk thunk thunk thunk thunk.

“Goddamnit!” Eyeball says, white-knuckling the fucking wheel and throwing his head back against the seat. “Fucking construction!”

“Shit,” Helaena sighs, lighting herself up again.

He’s right. They pull over some big gravel patch just up the road and get out, and there’s a big fucking bolt of some kind stuck in the goddamn tire. Huge gaping hole, not some fucking fix-a-flat deal. Shredded rubber and all, even though they stopped right away.

“Motherfucker!” he says and fucking kicks the rim. “I should fucking sue them.”

Helaena laughs, door open and bare feet toeing at the pebbles. “Okay, Daddy,” and she doesn’t mean her Daddy - the one who pins her to the wall and puts her over his knee and babygirls her when he’s balls-deep - she means their daddy, who fucking blustered all over when he got pissed and threatened to sue everyone and their mama but never did it once.

Eyeball stops and looks sideways at her, deciding whether she’s gonna get a backhand or a laugh, and he decides on the fucking laugh. Rolls his eye and takes a drag and tells her to shut the fuck up. Pops the trunk to fish out the goddamn donut.

“You need help, baby?” she asks, leaning on the corner panel and watching him work.

“Nah,” he tells her. “I need your little hands I’ll let you know. Get me a fuckin’ drink maybe? Probably be sweating my goddamn balls off in a minute.”

They’re right in that midday sun, and it’s fuckin’ fierce today.

“Okay, Daddy,” she says, and it’s her Daddy she’s talking to now. Looks at him soft while he hauls shit out to find what he needs, cigarette between his teeth.

Helaena grabs him a bottle of water from inside and sits it on the ground while he fucks around with the jack. It’s an old one, sticky and annoyed at having to come out of fuckin’ retirement, but he makes it work. Gets under Granny’s big ol’ heavy body and starts getting shit undone.

“You wanna turn on that phone and find me a fuckin’ decent tire?” he says. “Shouldn’t drive on this fucking thing too long. Any place that sells them, doesn’t matter. Close by.”

That’s what she’s doing, perched in the driver’s seat with the door wide open, smoking and searching and watching him - shirt all ridden up, little spiders and his fuckin’ happy trail sticking out, knee bent and legs splayed and looking all kindsa mindlessly sexy and focused and shit - when the fuckin’ cop pulls up.

Again with the motherfucking cops. Again.

Eyeball’s half under the fuckin’ car, almost fuckin’ done putting the goddamn thing on, shit scattered all over the place, and she sees it first. Eyes flick up for a second, and there’s the car rolling up the block, and they’re gonna stop, because of course they’re gonna stop, because that’s what they do when they see shit like this.

“Cop,” she says, feeling little prickly dread-fingers grab her by the neck.

Fucker doesn’t miss a beat. Still got his head shoved half in the wheel well, but he tells her, “Out. Shut that fucking door, make sure you can’t see anything. Lock it. Over here like you’re talking to me. Fast, don’t fucking panic, Lane.”

Like he’s been rehearsing it. Probably has. Probably saw this coming the second he heard the flat, because that’s how his goddamn brain runs.

She listens. Casual as she can fuckin’ manage, up, and a quick glance in the door. Throws a sweatshirt over the open bag in the front seat, locks it and goes to stand at his feet. He pushes one right against her ankle bone, worn out sole like a little focus point. “You’re fine, Laney,” he tells her, just as the cop pulls in.

And she is. She can do this again.

No fuckin’ choice, but hey. She’s glad for the sun. Makes her fucking sweat less suspicious. “I got it. Just finish,” she tells him. Takes a deep breath when the door opens.

She feels a little fuckin’ better right away. It’s a lady cop. Right about Mama’s age, maybe a little older. Friendly-looking, soft around her eyes and her mouth, and alone. Sheriff’s department, says the car.

“You folks need help?” she asks, smiling as she walks up. Got that cop-walk, though. That mosey, gun swaying at her hip. Nightstick. The whole nine.

Helaena smiles back, kicking her bare foot a little, bumpbumpbumping at Eyeball‘s boot. Gentle. Trying to make it feel like okay, I got this, even though her belly’s still flipping up and over and up and over.

“We’re okay,” she says, blowing hair out of her eyes in what she hopes is definitely a completely innocent sort of way. “Just got a flat. Ran over something in the construction back there. Almost done.”

“Hate when that happens,” she says. “At least you came prepared!”

Helaena nods. “Yeah, thank you. I think we’re all set.”

“Don’t want to drive too far on that donut,” she says, nodding in Eyeball’s direction.

Helaena can see him stiffen a little. Hates being perceived. Hates being told what to do. Hates being talked to like he’s fuckin’ dumb, and that’s how he’s gonna take this. But he just pauses for a second, doesn’t say anything. Keeps at it; tightening the fuckin’ lug nuts up.

“Oh, we won’t,” Helaena answers, holding up the phone. “Was actually just looking for a place to get a tire.”

Ladycop nods. Still looking at Eyeball. At his big dumb feet sticking out. Helaena doesn’t like it at all. Knows right away what she sees. That fucking knife in his boot. “There’s a shop about a mile and a half up this way,” she says, pointing in the direction they’re heading. “It’s small. If they don’t have your size, there’s a Walmart two exits up, if you hop on north. They’ll have what you need.”

“Thank you,” Helaena says. Her fuckin’ mouth is dry as hell. She reaches down and grabs Eyeball’s water. “That’s really helpful.”

“Where you folks headed?”

Eyeball’s fuckin’ knee - that bent-up one - starts to go. Jigglejigglejiggle, involuntary, and he fuckin’ catches it quick, but Helaena notices. Wonders if the fuckin’ cop does, too. If she knows what it means. Helaena has to fight the urge to grab him. Settle him down.

“To see our sister,” she says, taking a big fuckin’ swig of water. It somehow doesn’t fucking help at all. She feels drier. Hotter. All her shit starting to go wonky. She leans her hip hard against Granny, trying not to look like she’s about to crumple.

Eyeball’s just about done. Gonna have to slide himself out and look this bitch in the face in a second, and Helaena doesn’t fuckin’ love that. Not at all.

“Whereabouts?” Ladycop wants to know. Nosy now. Fucking antenna up.

“Georgia,” Helaena says. “Ways to go still. Glad to get back on the road. Thank you for checking on us.” She takes another useless sip, hoping she doesn’t sound as fucking pushy as she feels, trying to get this fuckin’ over with.

“Nice day for a drive, at least,” she says, eyes still on the ground. Still on Eyeball’s shifty fucking feet. “Sir?” she says, finally, and Helaena’s fucking heart drops into her ass.

She watches him go still. Watches him turn the last lug nut its last quarter turn. Watches him reach out and grab the frame to slide his big body out from under and sit up, elbows over knees, wrench in his hand, chin high, cigarette clamped in his fucking teeth. Squinting into the sun with his good eye.

“Yeah?”

Helaena closes her eyes for a second. He already has a fucking attitude.

Eyeball fucking hates cops.

And he’s got a fucking knife at a gun fight, if it comes to that. Pistol’s in the goddamn car, locked up tight. She wants to tell him to shut up and fucking act right. Be nice. Get them all out of here alive and fucking intact. He should fucking know that, but he’s being testy and what the fuck can she do? Can’t get nudgy, can’t get mouthy. So she just sits there for a second, heart pounding and brain on the fritz. Figures she’s gonna have to intervene; do something at some point.

“Do you have any other weapons on you?”

“Nope.”

He’s not really lying. Other knife he likes is tucked up in the visor. The rest of his fucking sharps collection is in the trunk. Gun’s under the passenger seat.

Helaena watches Ladycop size him up. Assess the fucking threat level. It was at a fucking zero til she fucking showed up, she thinks.

Eyeball just looks back at her, working hard to keep his goddamn smartass eyebrow under control and mostly fuckin’ failing.

“Do you mind if I hang onto it while we finish talking?” she asks finally.

Fuck.

“We’re finished,” he says. “Tire’s on. We’re just gonna pack up and get going. Thanks for your help.”

There’s not a single fucking ounce of gratitude in his voice.

“I’m going to need you to stand up and just keep your hands where I can see them, Sir,” she says, all fuckin’ business now. “I’m going to hang onto your knife for you while you folks get me your ID’s.”

“What the hell?” he says. “Is it fuckin’ against the law to have a flat tire now?”

“I’m just ensuring everyone’s safety here.”

“Knife’s fucking legal,” Eyeball’s telling her. “It’s not a switch. It’s not fucking concealed. I’m in my own fucking car.”

Helaena watches him stand, her heart going berserk in her chest and heat climbing through her like she’s on fucking fire. Shit’s going fuzzy. He’s being an asshole, fucking argumentative and stupid, but this bitch is way overreacting. Way out of fucking line, and he’s not wrong.

She puts both hands down, trying to fucking ground herself. Complete the fucking circuit or something; touch metal and discharge some panic, whatever. She doesn’t know, just touches, leans, stares at this fuckin’ bitch as she reaches down to take the knife.

Closes her goddamn eyes at the last second; can’t even fucking watch.

He listens, though. Both hands up, stock still. He catches her eye when she opens back up, over Ladycop’s stupid shoulder, and gives her the faintest, tiniest nod. Just an okay. Just a me and you, and Helaena swallows hard.

“ID please,” she says.

Eyeball’s got his in his pocket, and he reaches back for it. Helaena’s is in the fucking car. “I need the keys,” she says, quiet. Her stomach makes a fucking fist at the thought of opening the door.

Eyeball pulls them out of his pocket, too, and hands them over. Lets his fingers brush against hers, soft, and he feels like he’s gotten his fucking shit together. Feels reassuring. Feels like maybe he’s not gonna try to bare-hand strangle this fuckin’ lady.

And Helaena can see her think; see her fuckin’ cop wheels turning, wondering if she should try to get a look in the car, but Helaena moves quick, goes around to the other side, and Ladycop doesn’t wanna turn her back on Eyeball. Doesn’t trust him. Doesn’t want to lose control of the situation, so Helaena’s in and out. Clumsy fingers, clammy, but she grabs her fuckin’ wallet out of her bag, shuts the door, and fishes for her ID.

It’s mixed in there with all Waffle’s shit, his goddamn little treasure trove of forgeries, and she’s tweaking so hard she has to look and look and look again to make sure she hands over the fuckin’ right one. She’s not gonna play games here.

Ladycop takes the IDs back to her fuckin’ cruiser to run them; leaves them standing there leaning on the fender. Tells them just to sit tight.

Eyeball lights another cigarette, eye narrow at the sun. “Shoulda fuckin’ told her I had a lighter,” he mutters. “Weapon, right? This fuckin’ cunt. This isn’t even fuckin’ legal. I’m trying real hard not to…” His voice trails off. She knows what he’s trying not to fuckin’ do.

Helaena suddenly goes cold, like she just swallowed a fuckin’ bucket of ice. Starts in her stomach and spreads out, runs down her arms and her legs and her back and right up her fuckin’ scalp. Into her brain.

“Baby,” she says, her voice low. Running under itself, almost. She’s gotta tell him, but she doesn’t wanna fuckin’ say it. Is afraid somehow they’re being recorded or something; that this bitch can hear them. Now or later. Then she remembers.

“What?” he says when she doesn’t go on.

“Idigi thidigink idigi hidigave adaga wadagaradagant.” [I think I have a warrant.] Pig Latin, or Gibberish, or whatever the fuck you want to call it. Daddy taught it to them when they were fuckin’ kids; his whole stupid family can do it. Sounds like a bunch of nonsense to anyone who doesn’t know how it works, a bunch of fuckin’ g’s and d’s and shit, but it’s easy as hell once you get it. Stupid, but she’s never met another fuckin’ person who knows how. Just them. Her and Eyeball and Waffle and Daddy.

“What?!” he says in plain English, his gaze sideways and sharp as a fuckin’ blade.

Helaena nods, sweaty and prickly and weak in her knees. Continues in their language. “From a couple of years ago, when I had that accident with Daddy’s Jeep.” They were still at Mama’s. She’d been using it when he’d been too fucking sick to drive anymore. Hadn’t been high, just fuckin’ inattentive and stupid; ran into the back of some dude at a stoplight. Earned herself a ticket and a possession charge for the little bit of fuckin’ weed she’d had on her. Never fuckin’ answered either of them.

Had all but forgotten. Not even those goddamn cops showing up at their fuckin’ doorstep back home had triggered it.

Great time to remember.

Great time for her brain to fuckin’ dredge that one up.

Whoops.

He drops into it, too, to answer her. Trying to stay calm. “You never dealt with that?”

Helaena shakes her head. The words are all but a whisper. “I forgot.”

Eyeball squeezes his goddamn eye shut. His fists shut. Takes a big, big breath. “Misdemeanor shit, right?”

She nods. Feels like she’s gonna puke.

“Not worth extraditing,” he says, but his voice is fuckin’ tense. Like he’s trying to convince himself. “You won’t fuckin’ be in there.”

“What if I am?” She already knows the fucking answer. Watches him while he turns and tosses and considers how to say it.

Finally, “I’m more worried about myself. If… ” He pauses. “I’ll fuckin’ handle it, Laney,” he says before he switches back to English. “Don’t you worry about it.”

She grabs his fuckin’ smoke. It doesn’t help. She wants to grab his hand. His arm. Hide underneath it, like she used to do to Mama when she was little. So shy! Mama would say. She really isn’t fond of strangers.

Still isn’t, she thinks.

She doesn’t touch him. Doesn’t wanna look scared, or weird, or whatever. She just smokes and waits and smokes and waits and smokes.

It takes a long time. Ladycop’s being fucking thorough. Running them through every goddamn thing she can, Helaena thinks.

She does finally come sauntering back. Takes her time; looks almost fucking disappointed. Hands them each back their licenses. “Unusual names,” she says, trying to look friendly again, but neither of them are having it now. Helaena’s nerves are fuckin’ fizzled down to nothing, and Eyeball’s strung up tight. “Mind if I take a look in the vehicle?”

“Yes,” he says immediately. Fucking exasperated and over it and ticking down like a bomb now. Lit fuse. Helaena can see it, and the panic starts to spread again. “We do mind. We’re just trying to get back on the fucking road. Are we under arrest?”

“No.”

“Do you have a fucking warrant?”

“No. I’d just like to…”

“You can like to all you want,” he snaps. “We’re clean and you don’t have a fucking warrant and now this is fucking harassment. I’m just trying to change my fucking tire and drive. We’re done here. Give me my goddamn property, or do I need to call my lawyer?”

Fucking full of shit, Helaena thinks. Ladycop thinks so, too, but she’s got nothing to fucking hold them on. Can’t take a I just don’t like this smart mouth motherfucker to court, and she knows it, so she just looks him up and down. Slow. Nods. Hands him back his fucking knife.

Eyeball sticks it in his back pocket and looks back at her. Little fucking standoff that he wins.

“You folks drive safe,” she says. Helaena can tell she still doesn’t want to turn her fucking back on him. Maybe more now.

He’s all fucking keyed up, so Helaena puts a hand on his arm. Feels how tight his muscles are. How much that fucking knife is itching him. “Let’s pack up and get outta here,” she says. Uses her softest tone, just a note higher than normal. Her best fuckin’ save me Daddy, and it works.

He turns first; Helaena puts her body between them, and she doesn’t fucking look back. Just crouches down beside him while he cleans up. Puts her shoulder into his. Doesn’t touch any of his shit, just rests her fingers at his wrist and feels that thud thud thud, like a fucking flat tire in his veins.

Notes:

so! super curious - the ‘language’ they use here is something my whole mother’s family knows. I learned it as a kid and have heard it called pig Latin (it’s not, though - at least not traditional igpay atinlay) & gibberish - I have never met anyone else who could do it, though I’m positive they exist. It’s tough to translate into text (which is why I did it exactly once in here lol), but you just basically take individual syllables and elongate them with a consonant pattern. Super easy once you catch on, but it sounds bonkers to most people who’ve never heard it.

I’m SO interested to know if anyone else speaks this, where you learned it, what you call it - so if it’s familiar to you, talk to me!!

Also acab 🤷🏼‍♀️ again

Chapter 49: Stardust

Summary:

“Rules?”

“Mmhm. We get in here, you’re mine. You do what I say. You do it when I say it. You don’t fuckin’ argue.”

Notes:

guys 🙈 this is like 7k words. I debated dividing it, but it would’ve been like a 1700 word chapter and a 5300 word one & like… idk. didn’t love that so… here we are. i shouldn’t be unsupervised.

also this was going to be way, way nastier. in like, the (consensually) mean way. but instead aemond was like ‘ok but what if i was just sorta vibing as some blue collar dirty daddy service top-ishhhh kinda guy?’ & helaena was like ‘you know what, that’ll fix me actually’ so here we are

pretty porn-y. featuring DD/lg stuff, fairly tame bondage/restraint, rough sex, an… accessory?, & your typical noisy!subby!Helaena and… filth 🤷🏼‍♀️ absolutely irredeemable filth

and the man himself, Allen Ginsberg

please master order me down on the floor,

[…]

please master press my mouth to your prick-heart
please master press my face into your belly, pull me slowly strong thumbed
till your dumb hardness fills my throat to the base
till I swallow and taste your delicate flesh-hot prick barrel veined Please
Master push my shoulders away and stare in my eyes, & make me bend over
the table
please master grab my thighs and lift my ass to your waist
please master your hand’s rough stroke on my neck your palm down to my
backside
please master push me, my feet on chairs, till my hole feels the breath of
your spit and your thumb stroke
please master make me say Please Master Fuck me now Please

- from Please Master by Allen Ginsberg - or, the poem you teach in high school English if you want to get fired

 

“I fucking can’t do that anymore,” Helaena says. “That fucking cop shit. That fucked me up. Baby, I can’t.” She’s got both legs pulled up on the seat, all tucked into a little fucking vibrating ball, cigarette bouncing between two fingers.

“I know,” he says. “Laney, you did so good.”

But it’s not fucking over yet. Eyeball doesn’t fucking trust any of it. Wants out of this county, out of that fuckin’ lady’s jurisdiction, paranoid as anything and convinced she’s gonna try and pull them over, catch them doing something dumb, whatever. Not stopping at any goddamn tire shop or service station or anything, just trying to get the fuck out.

It’s rattling her worse. Making her chew her fucking fingers up, and he’s so tunnel-visioned that he’s not even giving her shit for it. He will later, when he’s calmed the fuck down, but she can’t bring herself to care. Mouthful of cigarettes and skin, just watching his hand on the gearshift, blood buzzing like there’s lightning in it.

“What do you wanna do?” he asks her. “I mean, once we’re fuckin’ out of here. You wanna just stop for now? Get off the fucking road?”

Part of her does, but another part wants to just go and go and go; get as far away from this as possible. “I dunno,” she says. “You decide.”

He flicks his ashes out the window. “There,” he says. Points. They’re crossing the fuckin’ county line now, heading straight east instead of south. Figuring the fucking cop would expect the opposite. “Let’s fuckin’ find a place to deal with the car. We need a fucking hose, too. Leaking coolant. Must’ve been a little fuckin’ pinhole last time I looked at it, but now it’s pissing. Puddle underneath when we stopped. Need a fuckin’ parts store.”

Helaena nods. “Whatever you want,” she says. She’s fuckin’ toast. Can’t sort herself out.

Eyeball keeps looking slanty at her. He’s all nerves, too, but she’s stressing him out. Hurtling right towards a meltdown.

“Here,” he says, throwing on his blinker. There’s a gas station on the right, little dinky thing. “We’ll get some fuckin’ gas. Give me the phone, I’ll find what we need.”

He pulls up to the pump, and she’s too fucking sloppy to even go in and pay. He gives her cash and she counts it wrong twice; tells him he didn’t give her enough and almost fucking starts crying when he counts it for her and shows her it’s plenty. Can’t get her stupid shoes on.

“Lane,” he says. “Laney. Lane. It’s fine; it’s okay. Stay in the car. I got it.”

He presses a kiss to her cheek, dry and soft and sort of sorry or something, and when he comes back out she’s bawling. Tears and snot, just rocking back and forth in the seat, can’t even catch her goddamn breath.

He’s got coffee for her, and gummy shit-name brand even - and a box of those stupid doughnut hole things that she likes when she’s messed up, and when he sees her through the window, he just opens her fucking door up and kneels down right there. Sits all the shit on the ground and lets her fall into a stupid heap. Doesn’t say shit, just hangs on, presses on her back nice and hard, a steady little rhythmic circle that moves up and down. Just right.

She gets him all fucking nasty, crud all over his shirt, but he doesn’t care. Holds her for a couple minutes til she’s breathing like a normal person. Sniffing all that shit back into her nose and wiping off with her sleeve and taking a big fuckin’ sip of coffee. It’s sorta shitty, but not bad enough to dump, and he did the best he could with it.

“Sorry,” she tells him.

“It’s fine, Laney. It’s fine. Sit and fuckin’ eat your garbage. We’ll go get that shit for the car and find a place to stay and be fuckin’ done.”

“We’re not anywhere near where we fuckin’ wanted,” she says, but he tells her to shut up.

“We’re done,” he says. “You’re done; I’m done; fuckin’ car is done. We’re all taking a goddamn break.”

“Camping?” she asks. It’s warm enough today, and she doesn’t want to fuckin’ deal with anyone else. Has met her fucking quota for human beings.

“Room,” he says. “We need a room for…”

“For what?”

“For straightening you out,” he says, and that’s that. He gives her a look, and it’s like another big, warm hand on her.

He fills the tank, and when he’s done, he pulls out the phone to find a fuckin’ parts store. She drinks her coffee and eats her damn doughnuts and takes big, steadying, shuddering breaths, and they’re off, his palm swallowing up her whole knee as they go.

Eyeball leaves her in the car and gets what they need, and the place even takes the fucking busted tire for him for free. They’re supposed to charge, but he just shoots the shit with them for a little bit, fuckin’ yahoo redneck car guys, and they don’t take the fee.

Helaena smiles a little when he tells her. He doesn’t fuckin’ get along with anyone, really. Used to have some of that slippery charm, but kinda gave up on it when it was just the two of them settled in, and he doesn’t usually turn it back on. Doesn’t give a fuck who likes him. Some people like that, but most people don’t, and it’s not like him to get fuckin’ chatty.

A little reckless, she thinks, to make himself memorable, but there’s something kinda sweet about it. She doesn’t give him shit, just gives him a cigarette and a kiss and laughs as he strokes Granny’s wheel and tells her he’s gonna make it all better soon.

“Your girls love you,” she tells him as Granny purrs into gear.

“They’re both fuckin’ crazy,” he says, “but I fuckin’ love the shit outta them.”

*****

The motel they find is another shady little brokedown place, but it’s a different kind of shady. Deals with migrant workers, mostly, so they don’t give a single fuck about anyone’s documents. Helaena’s fuckin’ relieved, because it took everything she had left in her to get it together enough to walk inside, and the guy at the counter doesn’t even ask. Just takes down whatever fucking name she gives him, takes her cash and gives her the key. Friendly and efficient, and he’s sucking on a cigar, so she feels right the fuck at home.

She tosses the key to Eyeball when she comes out and points him in the right direction. “Turns out I’m pretty good at this shit,” she says as he pulls the car around.

“What, picking motels?”

“Mmhm. Haven’t fucked up too bad yet.”

“You got a good gut,” he tells her. “Street-smart shit. Your fucking brain is a Chuck E. Cheese but like… Einstein is the manager or something.”

She cracks up as he parks. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me, I think,” she says and winks.

He opens her door and takes her hand to help her out. Fuckin’ gentleman shit, and when they get to the door, he slips a hand up her back and stops for a second. “Rules,” he says, and she perks up a little. Lifts an eyebrow at him.

“Rules?”

“Mmhm. We get in here, you’re mine. You do what I say. You do it when I say it. You don’t fuckin’ argue.”

She holds his gaze and watches him fight with the smile that’s trying to get his whole fuckin’ face. She cocks half her mouth up. Feels that knot that’s sitting just behind her stomach loosen just the tiniest little bit. “Okay, Daddy.”

“What did I say?”

“We get in here, I’m yours. I do what you say, and I don’t fucking argue.” She looks through her lashes at him, and he lets the smile go. Just a little.

“Smart girl. Brat me and you’ll wear my fuckin’ hands.”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“Go in and sit down while I get this shit inside.”

He opens the door, and Helaena goes in. The room is dark. Small windows with cloudy panes, like they’ve been there forever. Everything is old, but real. Chipped wood. Faded wallpaper. Smells like cedar, mixed with something slightly sour, mixed with something close. An organic smell. Not entirely unpleasant, just like a lot of bodies have passed through, and she doesn’t fucking hate it. It’s clean and spare and bigger than it looks from the outside.

There’s a little kitchenette thing, too. Microwave and mini fridge and some counter space with a dinky coffee pot. Powdered creamer and paper cups. A fuckin’ sink.

It’s got a soul, she thinks, and settles into the wooden rocker by the door. She’s never seen a motel with a rocking chair before, and it’s fucking comfortable. She can picture some lady with a baby on her chest, shushing and soothing and swaying back and forth, and she sits back and smiles at the thought.

Not a bad place to be someone’s little girl.

Eyeball sorts them out, eye halfway on her the whole time to see if she’s behaving. Brings the important shit inside, tugs the mattress around for his neurotic bug check, puts their toothbrushes and crap in the bathroom. Door open, smoking out the side of his mouth, quiet.

“Can I take my shoes off, Daddy?” she asks, and after he gives her permission, she just rocks and watches him, or closes her eyes.

“Lay down,” he tells her when he’s done. “I’m gonna take care of the fuckin’ car while we got daylight. Eat, drink, whatever, but keep that goddamn TV off. Rest your fuckin’ scrambled egg brains. I’ll wake you up.”

She nods at him, bumps his nose with hers, lets him strip her down to her panties. Cotton and purple and comfy. He kisses her right over them, a lingering sort of thing that makes her squirm, and then he tucks her in. The sheets are crisp and not as soft as she would like, but it’s tolerable. He brings in the blanket from Tess’, too, and makes her a little nest with it before he goes.

“Thank you, Daddy,” she says, and he just nods at her and shuts the door.

*****

It’s dark when he wakes her. Only just, she thinks; clocks just fuckin’ went back, and now it’s dark early, and it’s a thin sort of dark, still. Like sunglasses over the sky. She can tell, even with the hazy windows. It’s not too late.

He smells like grease and metal and sweat. Washed his hands but nothing else, and they’re cool across her forehead when he touches her.

“Hi,” he says as she rubs her eyes. “All done. I checked everything while I was at it. We’re fine for tomorrow.”

She smiles, coming out of something heavy and deep. “Okay. Thank you.”

“Bath time,” he tells her.

Helaena blows a curl out of her eyelashes. “I don’t wanna.”

He picks an eyebrow up at her, and she smiles a little. Gives it back, still sleepy.

“Excuse me?” he says.

“I don’t wanna. Don’t wanna wash you off.” She can tell from his face that he doesn’t catch her fuckin’ drift, so she takes the hand he’s resting on her knee and tugs it under the covers. Pulls it between her legs, and his response is just fuckin’ automatic. One finger reaches under her elastic, pulls it to the side as she leans in, and she squeezes his hand with hers when it finds its way inside. Slips in so easy, like she’s been dreaming about it and getting all fuckin’ ready, and maybe she has. She can’t remember. It feels so fucking good, like a relief or something, and she squirms for him. “See?” she says. “You’re all inside. From earlier. I don’t wanna wash you off.”

He smiles at her, not fuckin’ aggravated anymore at her no, and she feels him move around. Press real gentle upupup. “Not gonna fucking rinse you out,” he says. “Just off.”

She looks at him a little sideways. A little big-eyed. “On the outside, too. I wanna keep it. It’s mine.” Fuckin’ petulant as anything.

She knows how to fuckin’ push his buttons. Get away with shit.

That finger’s twisting now, so soft, twisting and pressing just a little harder. “I’ll give you more. I’ll give you so much.”

“Oh, Daddy,” she sighs, fuckin’ grinds down against him, and he shakes his head real quick like he’s the one just waking up. Takes his finger right out.

She whines at him, a little baby protest, but he shuts her right up. Finger to her lips. “Suck,” he says. “Do it right.”

She does. Slow. All the fucking way back. Soap and steel and oil and pussy. Him, too. Fucking come. She sucks until that finger prods at her throat, soft, and then he pulls it back through her lips.

“What does your pussy taste like?” he asks her.

“You.”

“Okay,” he tells her, wet finger down her cheek. “I’m fuckin’… go brush your teeth. Your breath smells like you smoked a fuckin’ doughnut. And get that shit for your hair and bring it out here. Go on,” and he sends her to the bathroom. Pinches her ass on the way and makes her giggle.

When she comes back out, he’s sprawled in that rocking chair; fuckin’ manspreading all over the place. Legs wide and elbows bent on the arms. Long fingers steepled. Looks even bigger than he is that way; on purpose, she’s sure. Just waiting for her.

“Crawl,” he says.

She pauses. Thinks about arguing. She’s got that little bottle of leave-in curl shit for her hair. Fuckin’ questionable motel carpet. But he looks fucking good like that, dirty jeans and dirty t-shirt; dirty fuckin’ boots still on, dirty look on his face with his fucking legs spread. She’ll take it, she decides.

Besides. In here, she’s his. No fucking bullshit.

She crawls.

Lets him watch her drop slow. All fours, bottle tucked inside her panties.

“Eyes here,” he says. Does that stupid two-finger thing, being a wise-ass, half of his mouth tipped up, and she loves him. Fierce as anything, she loves this motherfucker.

She fucking crawls, eyes on him, and he keeps her steady with his gaze. Barely blinks, just watches like she’s the most interesting fuckin’ thing he’s seen all day. Like he’ll never get tired of the view.

“Hi,” he says when she gets to him, all smiles now. “You can always look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you just wanna make me happy.”

Helaena smiles back. “I do, Daddy.”

“I know,” he says, and there’s something sad in there. Just at the edges, fencing his words, but he pushes through it. Tells her, “C’mere. Up.” Pats his lap.

He helps her; holds her hand and her hip as she rises. Helps her settle herself down. Takes the bottle from her panties.

“Gonna fix that fuckin’ hair,” he says, “it’s a mess. Here.” Eyeball digs in his pocket for a second. Pulls out that second lollipop from Boris’ stupid place that she’s been saving.

“That’s my molly lolly,” she giggles. “I’m keeping it!”

He rolls his eye at her. “I’ll get you another one, Princess.”

She looks at him. Bats her fuckin’ lashes and pushes her lip into a pout. Really fuckin’ giving it to him. “Promise, Daddy?”

“Do I ever let you fuckin’ roll without one?”

Helaena shakes her head and pulls off the wrapper. Sticks it right in his mouth before he can fight about it, and he smiles around it and sucks.

“Is it good?” she asks.

“I’ve had better,” he says and pops it back out. “Turn around.”

She does, and he puts the fuckin’ thing between her lips and gets to work.

He’s fucking slow. Takes his time, working that shit all the way through until the frizz is gone, and it all just sits in soft little spirals on her head. Quiet, breath and hands and his mouth across her shoulders, back and forth on a track, across her spine and her scar and up to each ear as he goes, and she can feel her skin prick up to greet it. Turn into puckers like it’s trying to kiss back. Her scalp’s all fuckin’ funny, too; running with electric, sparking and buzzing under his fingers. She likes the little pull; the scrape of his fucking blunt nails. It tugs at the strings of her body. Tries to get her hips to move right along with it.

“Daddy, can I…” she asks.

He’s fixing it now; dividing that mess in half to tie it up.

“Can you what?” he says. Got a pin between his teeth while he fights with it, and it sounds like he’s talking through a cigarette.

Helaena shifts herself. Gets him right between her legs, just in the right place. Rocks a little. “Can I do this?”

“Use your manners,” he tells her, pin in his hand now as he tucks one side in.

“Please, Daddy?” She makes a big show of pulling out the fuckin’ lollipop to ask. Does it with soft breath, and a soft sway, and all that prickly heat is spreading. She can feel him respond, lift up a little to press against her, and it makes her bite her lip. Tip her head back a little.

“Mmm, not if you’re gonna do that. Hold still,” he says.

“Daddy, please.”

“What did I say? Keep your fuckin’ head still. And go ahead, but if you come, I’ll choke you out.” She can hear the smile.

“Thank you,” she says. Rocks back and presses down and sighs at the friction. It’s not enough to get her there, but it’s fuckin’ nice. Makes her focus. Soaks her through, and when she sits back, she can feel him. Hard, hard, hard.

He’s pretending to ignore it. All of it. Her grinding, and his cock, and the little noises she’s making at him, sighs and high-up hums and breath-catches. Sucking sounds around her stupid candy. He’s just fiddling with her fucking hair, pulling it into two even pigtails just below her ears.

He’s paying attention, though, because she’s so wet that when she slips forward, pushes against the curve of him just a little bit harder, she makes this moany sound, different and by accident, and he collars her with his fucking hand. It’s soft, but it means fucking business. Takes up her whole stupid neck. “Stop it.”

Hits that note just fucking right.

Helaena stops. All the noise in her throat, too. Skids to a halt against his palm; against his fingers, slippery with her hair mess. With his own spit, which he’s been using to tame it.

It almost fucking destroys her right there.

Almost.

She whimpers at him, something small, and swallows hard. “I didn’t come, Daddy,” she says. Presses that sticky watermelon sugar against the back of his hand and twirls it a little. “I’m being good.”

“You’re done,” Eyeball tells her. “Hair’s finished. Get down, brat.”

She bites on her smile and puts her lolly back in. Slides off his lap, wiggling as she goes, and she gets a fuckin’ backhand for it. Clips the right side of her ass, and it makes her yelp and lean forward and catch herself on the bed. It stings, even through her underwear; a little radiating heat that spreads down her thigh. Spreads over, too. Right between her fuckin’ legs.

“Look at this fuckin’ mess,” he says to her, and that’s what he’s talking about. Fucking wet panties and slippery cunt; he can see it all when she bends. “Won’t get in the fuckin’ shower, now this shit.”

“Daddy, I…” but she doesn’t finish; he just fuckin’ wails on her again. Other side, sends that goddamn jolt right back through her. Makes her gasp. Turns her fuckin’ knees into mush.

“I didn’t ask you a question,” he says. “Get on your knees.”

It’s not difficult; they wanna fuckin’ go anyway, so she hits the floor and waits. Feels him draw one finger down her spine, top to bottom, and it gives her the fuckin’ shivers.

“Turn around. Put this on me.”

She looks over her shoulder, and he’s leaning up, tugging something out of his fuckin’ back pocket, and she bites down when she sees it. Crunches her fucking lolly between her teeth and grins.

He’s smiling back. Really fuckin’ trying not to, but it’s not working so good.

“Yes, Daddy,” she says, turning to face him. Big eyes and pursed lips, and a wiggle in her fuckin’ hips. An impatient little kid waiting for her fucking toy.

He hands the ring to her and tells her to get him out. Make sure he’s hard. She wants to giggle, because of course he’s fucking hard. She felt it. Can fuckin’ see it, under the denim and the zipper and his belt. But she just nods, solemn. “Yes, Daddy.”

She goes nice and slow. Unwraps him like a present. Takes that belt apart; lets it slip right through her fingers. Old leather, worn and soft. It was their daddy’s; a little too big for her brother’s narrow hips, but he can wear it tight. She unbuckles it. Just lets it hang.

The button fights with her. Almost always does; she has trouble with little shit like that, but he doesn’t help her. Watches her fuckin’ struggle; strokes her hair and her cheek and pets her soft when she gets it. “Good job,” he says. Gentle as anything, and she leans into his palm like a puppy.

She can feel him now, hardsoft skin, and that fucking crazy want is instant. “Oh, Daddy,” she says, tugging that fuckin’ zipper, slow and careful so she doesn’t fuckin’ catch him in it. “It’s so big.”

Makes her eyes big, too, and when she looks up at him, he’s swallowing a laugh. Thinks she’s a fuckin’ lunatic, and he’s fucking crazy about her right back, and she pulls the lolly out of her mouth and puts her lips into an O.

“And you’re just a little girl,” he says, raising an eyebrow as she takes his dick out. “What are we gonna do?”

“Whatever you want, Daddy,” she says, and he laughs at her.

“Mmhm. Good answer. Put it on.”

Shit goes on like a watchband, and she’s gotta loosen and loosen and loosen, nearly all the fuckin’ way, and the clasp is small and kinda flimsy, and she fuckin’ fumbles with all that, too.

And he fuckin’ likes it. Watches her clumsy little hands play with his cock, and she swears he fuckin’ gets harder for it. She gets it, though; tightens it just enough; leaves space to just slip a finger. Does it like a good girl. Fuckin’ black silicone thing, little fucking metallic studs that are supposed to feel good for her but really don’t feel like much of anything. He’s gotta get all the fuckin’ way in for them to touch her, and if he’s doing that, she’s not feeling fuckin’ anything else. There’s a vibrating piece that tries; really, it does, but it’s the same shit. He’s gotta be in her up to his balls, and it doesn’t quite get the right spot. More frustrating than anything.

It looks good, though. It fucking looks good. Looks like he’s about to ruin her life.

She kisses him the whole way up and down, holds her lolly and just smooches the fuck out of his dick. Doesn’t ask permission, either, but he’s being fuckin’ soft as hell right now. She doesn’t know why; thought he’d have all sorts of pent-up aggression, but he’s letting her walk all the fuck over his shit. She half likes it, half doesn’t.

Fuckin’ loves his cock, though. Kisses it til it’s like kissing a goddamn diamond, and it’s just huge and she wants to fucking let him do whatever he wants with it. Honestly. He could fuckin’ bludgeon her with it and she’d say thank you, Daddy.

“Are you finished?” he asks her after a minute. Amused, twirling one of her stupid pigtails around his finger.

“No,” she tells him, and that’s just a fuckin’ step too far. A little shove too hard.

“Yes, you are,” he says, and grabs her by the fuckin’ chin. “That better be the last fucking no I hear.”

He’s got his belt off quick. Just whips it through the fucking loops like nothing, and she thinks he’s gonna bend her over, but he doesn’t.

Instead, he fuckin’ ties her up. Circles her wrists up behind her back, tight enough for a bite but not a fuckin’ chomp, and steals her damn lollipop. She gives him a look, narrowed eyes and a pouty mouth, and she sees it again. That almost-smile, but he catches it fast and sticks her candy between his teeth.

“You wanna be fuckin’ dirty and you wanna fuckin’ talk back? Here,” he says. Nudges at her knees with his big old foot til she catches his meaning and opens wide so he can stick it in between. “I’ll fuckin’ give you dirty. Shut you the fuck up. Suck my cock, and you better come before I do.”

Helaena bites her lip. Lifts her chin at him.

“Sorry, I didn’t fuckin’ hear you.” Sarcastic fuckin’ bastard. She wants to pinch his stupid cheeks.

“Yes, Daddy,” she says. Gives him the eye and watches him try not to give it back.

“There it is. Come on.”

She does.

He watches her mess around a little before he helps her. Shit’s hard without her hands, trying to get him in her mouth and get the angle right when he’s so hard he just wants to stab her fuckin’ brain, and she gives him a little show. Acts like she can’t fit her goddamn mouth around it; like she’s never fuckin’ done this before. Uses her own klutziness to fuckin’ wind him up.

In the end he helps. Holds himself for her, squeezes her jaw a little too hard, and it makes her fuckin’ throb. Fucking grind down and rub herself all on that goddamn steel toe he’s put there for her, panties sliding and catching and making a mess on his stupid boot.

It’s better than his fuckin’ leg, if she’s honest. Easier to get right, little fuckin’ bump at the end that she can work herself onto, and he’s not even close when she starts to breathe funny around his dick, fast and desperate. Doesn’t help that she can’t take him deep like normal; needs to have her shit together and her hands free to really do it right, so it’s just a fuckin’ shallow mouth-fuck, but he doesn’t care. He’s not trying to get off yet. Just wants to watch her struggle with the size of him, with her own pleasure. Wants to watch her make a fuckin’ sloppy mess of herself.

Tells her that, too. Tells her when she arches her back into it, when she’s got her hips perfect, that sliding downforwardup rhythm that hits everything just right, fucking cock bumping inside her cheek. “Fuckin’ sloppy slut,” he says, and his tone sounds like he’s calling her fuckin’ Your Highness. Like he’s the one on his knees tied with a goddamn belt. “Come on. Let me see it.”

That’s all she needs. Something inside her fucking cunt hears it and just lets go, and it’s a shallow little thing, shallow as his cock in her mouth, but it’s sweet and soft and exactly what fuckin’ Eyeball was looking for. Tiny little waves to get her loose and stupid, turn her into a dumb little fuckdoll, giving him head and humping his goddamn boot.

“There it is,” he says, fuckin’ big hand in her hair, fingers in her neck. “There it is, little girl,” and her whole shit unravels. Bones melting. “You did such a good job, Princess. Come here.”

She can’t even help, really. It’s not even that little baby orgasm, not enough to wreck her; it’s the fuckin’ white noise in her skull. The way the fuckin’ picture’s all scrambled, and the only clear thing is him. Taking up the whole screen. Big body big voice big big big, and her shit won’t even work. He has to reach down and scoop her up. Drag her into his lap, breathless and brainless and pulsing with current.

“Good job,” he says again. Gives her a kiss right on the mouth. “You taste like dick,” grinning grinning grinning at her, rocking her like a baby. Right in that chair, head on his chest. Still got her fuckin’ lolly in his mouth.

His heart’s fuckin’ fast. Knocking against her ear and her cheek, rattling its little cage, despite how calm he’s being. The way he’s wrapped around her like a blanket. Talking right to the top of her head, that neat little part he made. Hasn’t even fucked it up that bad; it’s not frizzed out around her face yet.

“Do you feel good?” he wants to know.

“Yes, Daddy,” she says.

It’s not over. Probably not even close.

Her boy says he’s gonna straighten her out, motherfucker’s gonna straighten her out.

“Good,” he says. “My turn,” and then she’s back on her feet. Just for a second, though. Then it’s knees up as he’s shoving her into the fuckin’ bed. Got her by the belt around her wrists, pushing at the small of her back, down down down til her face is in the blankets and she’s gotta turn sideways to breathe. She gets one good breath, deep and heavy, before he’s tugging at her soaked fuckin’ panties. Doesn’t even bother to take them off, just down so he can get what he wants; pussy out, ass out, wet elastic down by her knees. Keeping her tight.

“Shit,” he says. “Fuckin’ look at this. Look at you,” and she doesn’t know what he sees but she can guess. Can feel it. Her fuckin’ mess just dripping. It’s on her thighs, fuckin’ wet trail of it down where he pulled her underwear, and she’s so slippery that when his open palm lands against it - gentle, no sting, just a pop to startle her, make her gasp - it sounds like he slapped a fucking puddle.

“Shit,” she moans at him, and the next one does sting. Stings and heats her up good. Makes her yelp.

The fuckin’ wet helps, like a cushion or something, and he tells her talk nice. Jams that long middle finger in for emphasis, and she fuckin’ jerks against him. “Try again.”

“Thank you, Daddy,” she sighs, her mouth moving without her brain, and he squeezes at her ass.

“Better,” he says, and she can feel him screwing around with something behind her, hand moving, and she realizes what it is when he fucking pushes inside her all at once.

It’s slowish, but it’s steady, not really slow enough because she can feel her fuckin’ eyes roll back. Like it’s too much. Like he hasn’t been doing this shit for years. Feels new and heady and almost unbearably good and terrible all at once, and there’s a fuckin’ buzz with it, and he was turning the fuckin’ ring so it would hit her better from behind. It’s on the underside, sort of where it should be, but of course it’s not fuckin’ right, and she can feel it buzz-bounce-buzz-bounce in a maddening kind of way, fast as fuck because he is fucking pounding her. Trying to knock her goddamn teeth loose or something, just going at it, and she’s screaming already.

Surprise, and fucking ouch, and fucking yes, and he can go longer with that goddamn thing on, longer and harder, and she can feel him digging around already. Playing with the angle while she opens her mouth and hollers for him, just noise mostly, and he’s searchingsearchingsearching. Leaning down over her, still got a hand on that fucking belt pulling back, keeping her in place, and he’s listening. Waiting for the change in pitch, the way her hips jerk towards his, that intake of breath that means there.

She’s too fucked up to tell him. Too gone. Just pliant and screaming and getting fucked stupid. Fucked empty. She feels him hit it, feels the way it’s entirely too goddamn much, the way her body’s fuckin’ white-flagging because didn’t she just come?, and she hears the noise he’s looking for. The thing in her belly. Some goddamn bitch in heat kinda thing, animal brain screeching, and that’s it.

Over and over and over, brutal fast and her whole fucking body is bouncing. Brain rattling so hard it’s turning to soup or whatever, and her mouth is just running. Mindless.

fuck fuck fuck fuck

And he fucking smacks her. Times it so it hits her at the same goddamn time as his cock and she shrieks. It’s so good, her whole shit lighting up like Times Square or whatever, and he says, “Watch your fucking mouth.”

Sounds like a threat. Sounds like she’s just about to die, and she fucking wants to.

more more more more more now, she didn’t even look for the word, didn’t give it permission, but there it is.

“Ask me,” he says, and she can fucking feel it now. Pressure at the bottom of her spine, right where he’s got her fucking wrists pinned and pushed and twisted, warmth, something tightening like a stripped screw. Her legs are shaking. She’s not gonna be able to fuckin’ keep herself up.

She’s trying to find the words he’s looking for, the right way to say it, but it’s not coming fast enough.

The next fucking slap finds it, though. Pulls it out of the muck and the mud and the wreckage. Lands right on the outside of her ass, down by her thigh, swift and hard, and it knocks it loose. “Ask me, I said.”

please

“There it is. Say it again.”

please please please please please

“You gonna fuckin’ come again?”

yes

She is. Any fucking second, she’s trembling, everything fucking shaking and tight and balancing on the edge of some kind of abyss and he is goddamn fucking relentless and her fucking knees are done.

“For who?”

you Daddy, and then she’s just spewing bullshit, going you you you fuckin’ take me apart I’m gonna die I’m gonna come fuck fuck fuck fuck me, and he doesn’t fucking correct her this time. Just takes her apart. Lets her die. Makes her come.

And she fucking howls. Knees turned to jello, and something about the way she slips down and the way he pulls up and the way he fucking shoves all the way in pushes that vibration just right, and she’s surprised the goddamn walls in this place stay up, she screams so loud.

She doesn’t stay up, though. Can’t. He has to hold her, shoulders burning a little while he fuckin’ adjusts her so he can stay in, stay with her, because he’s gonna fuckin’ lose it, too. Chasing that fucking craziness, fast while she’s just a fuckin’ ragdoll for him, just flat and fucked-out and useless. Nothing but a fuckin’ place to stick his cock. He gives up on her wrists, just hauls her against him by her hips while she hollers.

Pulls out a little.

More.

More.

Says, “I’m gonna make all your fuckin’ holes taste like my dick,” and she’s too dumbfuckedoutstupid to say anything when he starts rubbing his goddamn cock against her ass. Leaving fuckin’ wet all over it, and some part of her thinks fuck, thinks what?!, or no, but he’s not trying to fuckin’ hurt her. Not gonna shove it in without lube or whatever. Just rubbing rubbing rubbing, vibration hitting her while he does it, jerking himself off a little, and then he makes a pretty little noise, groany and growly and delicious, and fucking comes. Gets it on her fucking pussy, her fucking ass, the bed, all over. Warm and wet and fucking perfect.

“Fuck,” he says to her. “Fucking shit, look at you,” and she’s just a mess. Dripping spunk and girl-come and whatever, fucking flat on her face.

Then his thumb is there. Sliding right through all of it, pressing down and around and in in in, getting her ass fucking nasty and sloppy and working all that fucking come inside.

It feels good. Good good good and filthy and slick and normally she’d fucking hate it. But right now she just moans at him. Says Daddy while he breathes all heavy and messed up behind her. Goddamn wrists belted up with his thumb in her ass.

“Who loves you, little girl?”

Oh, him. Him. That’s easy.

“You, Daddy.”

“Mmhm. Now you fuckin’ taste like me everywhere,” and she smiles. Fucking face all goofy and sideways and lost, brain in a puddle, just smiling.

He slinks up onto the bed, and she can feel him fucking with the belt. Her hands are tingly, numb-ish; she can feel the marks at her wrists. A little raw. He rubs at them, fucking messy kissing and biting at them for a minute, working the blood back in. Lollipop long gone, now it’s just her in his mouth. He sucks every single fucking finger before she feels him messing with himself, too. Taking that stupid thing off his cock and shutting it down.

“Okay, Princess,” he says. “Turn over for me.”

She doesn’t. She can’t. She’s nothing. Goo.

He does it for her, smiling into her, nosing at her, bumpbumpbump. “Ready?” he says.

For fucking what? is what her brain says, but her mouth won’t fucking work. It makes some sort of stupid shape, just hangs there like a door off its fucking hinges, and he laughs a little.

“Gonna do it again,” he says. One hand reaching down and stripping her goddamn panties all the way off now.

Helaena shakes her head at him. She can’t. Can’t can’t can’t can’t can’t, she’s fucking destroyed. Spent like a goddamn tax check, it hurts, hurts to move or exist or think, she’s sore and bare and used and fuckin’ blissed-out, and she whines. Straight whines when he tugs her up a little. Puts her against the pillows.

“No,” she manages. “Done.”

“You’re done when I say you’re done,” he says, soft. Soft as fucking anything, but he means it. “You don’t say no to me in here.”

She shakes her head again. “I’ll fucking die,” she mutters. Even the fucking thought of it might fuckin’ kill her.

“You don’t say no to me,” he says again. “Try yes.”

She shakes her head again, and now he’s kissing at her. Fucking gentlest mouth she’s ever felt. Cheeks, lips, jaw, neck. Like rain or a little fucking breeze or some shit, just lips and lips and lips, warm, everything. A hundred thousand kisses, some fucking childhood debt he’s paying for her, giving her what she’s owed, what all of them were owed, kissing kissing kissing and it’s so good she could cry. So soft. Kisses.

“Try yes,” he says. “You say yes to me. Yes, Daddy. Yes, Daddy.” Kisses, kisses, down her breasts and her belly, up her arms. “You say yes, Daddy. Say it.” Kisses on her palms. Her thighs. Making her back arch up, making her bare her throat, dragging the very last yes she can muster out from inside of her. “You have another one for me. I know what your little body can do. You can give me one more. Tell me yes. You say yes to me, little girl.”

And she does. He pulls it out. Somewhere under her ribs, somewhere in one of the locked rooms of her stupid heart, there’s a yes. Just for him. Only for him. It’s there, and he finds it, and he pulls it to her lips with his own. Kisses, kisses, kisses, and she tells him yes.

“Say it again,” he tells her.

“Yes, Daddy,” she breathes, and he kisses her again and again and again.

“Good girl. Give me one more,” and then he’s between her legs. Slow, wet, all tongue, all lips, just suggesting and asking and lickinglickinglicking, just outside, just next door to the fucking shattered glass of her, just kissing. “One more,” he’s saying, “give me one more,” mumbling it to her, praying it to her.

It’s there. Just like her yes. It’s there.

He knows what her body can do. Knows what she can fucking do for him.

“Come on,” he says, gentle, gentle, kisses at the insides of her thighs, one tiny one right on her clit like he’s looking for permission. A little graze with his tongue to see if she can take it.

She can. She does.

“Come on, little girl,” the words just brushing her, just enough, soft soft soft, lips tongue lips tongue circle circle circle kiss kiss kiss and the last one feels like an exhale. Like she is leaving everything - breath, body, every fucking no she’s ever said - right behind. Dismantling herself, atom by atom by atom. Returning to the fucking stardust from whence they fucking came.

“There it is,” he says. “There it is. What a good girl. I knew you could do it. You’d do anything for me, wouldn’t you, good girl? Any goddamn thing.”

Chapter 50: The Devil

Summary:

Just you and me and the devil.

Notes:

this was gonna be smut-free but like… then it wasn’t, so 🤷🏼‍♀️

also idk if this is painfully obvious but these two just talking filthy garbage at each other is one of my favorite things to write 😂 i will almost always seize that opportunity 🤷🏼‍♀️😂

also it ran a little long again because… supposed to be unsmutty but you know. Whoops

Lastly! Aemond is so obviously a snake guy right?!

As for the couple-
well, they have the horns of fauns. The chains are laid loose over their heads. Their bondage
is a willing one.
They stand beneath the batwings
—spread like parasols- to avoid the cold. Who would
blame them? If this is a wheel on which we stand, at a moment not far
along the Circle of the Snake, when consciousness cannot merge with consciousness,
let what may merge, merge.
Let there be heat if not light.

- from The Devil: Tarot Key XV by Lewis Turco

 

“We could disappear here,” Helaena says, swinging their arms up and pointing at the fuckin’ sea of apples. The trees are squattish things, twistyturny trunks and limbs, long gnarly fingers holding bunches and bunches of redgreen stripy fruit.

Fuji, looks like. The kind Mama always uses for pies. Once a year, for Thanksgiving. They’re terrible. Thin and runny, crust like drywall. Waffle will fuckin’ eat them, mostly to kiss up to Mama, but also because he’s a goddamn garbage disposal, but they make Helaena fuckin’ gag. Make Eyeball wanna puke.

Everything makes Eyeball wanna puke. He fucking hates Thanksgiving.

Not the fuckin’ apples’ fault, though.

The trees go on and on and on, for as far as they can see up the fuckin’ road. Miles of orchards, it seems like; neat rows over flats in some places, and in other spots there are little bumpy hills that roll through.

Everything fuckin’ smells like apples. Crisp and clean and sweet, but something fermented underneath. Cidery and sharp. Rotten.

“We could,” Eyeball says. “Be a couple of fuckin’ fruit bats. Eat fuckin’ apples and sleep in trees and shit.”

“Sloths,” Helaena says. “Or monkeys. Swing around and fuck up high.”

He laughs at her. “Trees are too fuckin’ short for me to fuckin’ swing. You could though, probably. Do monkeys fuck in trees?”

She shrugs and takes a bite of the apple she swiped a minute ago. “I dunno. Probably? Do they?”

He shrugs back. “Dunno either. Only animal fucking I know about’s fuckin’ doggy,” and he waggles his stupid eyebrows at her.

“Whatever,” she laughs. “We could fuck in a tree. We’d make it work. We could just step off this fucking road and be gone. Adam and Eve shit, except we’re already fucked, so we can just eat that shit in peace. Play with the snakes.”

Eyeball fuckin’ likes snakes. Kept one for a minute, big old python, in a big fuckin’ tank and everything. Herman, like the Munsters. Let Helaena name it.

Mama fucking hated that thing; was scared shitless. She told him he couldn’t have it, and when he didn’t fuckin’ listen, told him to get rid of it a hundred times, but he didn’t fuckin’ listen to that, either. Was bigger than her by then. Not scared anymore. Did what he wanted. Would let that fucker wrap around his shoulders and his neck and everything. Sit around with it hissing and clicking in his goddamn ear. Flicking its weird little tongue.

Helaena liked it, too. Liked the way its skin felt, like a bunch of tiny sequins dragging over her when it slithered around. Warm, too. You wouldn’t think so, fuckin’ reptile and all, but it was. She’d wear that thing like a scarf, Eyeball tickling under its chinless chin while it coiled around her neck, watching dumb shit on TV, and Waffle would side-eye the two of them, but he thought Herman was the shit, too.

Didn’t like feeding him, though. Skeezed out by messing with dead things; didn’t like the way that fucking jaw came apart. Gave him the heebies. Didn’t touch him much, either, but liked to talk to him and shit.

Poor guy couldn’t come with them when they left, so one of Waffle’s fuckin’ weird friends took him.

“I fuckin’ miss that snake,” Eyeball says. Thinking about Herman, too, when she says it.

“Me, too. He was cool as fuck.” Helaena hands him her apple, and he takes a bite. “Betcha there’s a bunch in there. Let’s do it. Be feral fuckin’ snake-charming apple-munchers. Fuckin’ hiss at motherfuckers if they find us. Have a lair.”

Eyeball laughs. Turns and grabs her by her mouth so she opens and spits his nasty, chewed apple shit right in there like she’s a baby bird or something. “Fuckin’ weirdo,” he says, still laughing as she shrugs and swallows.

“You took all the flavor, asshole,” she laughs back, and he smiles. Lights a cigarette and hands her back her fuckin’ fruit.

“Finish it,” he says. “Then we should head back, you think? Gotta be getting time-ish.”

Granny’s still parked at the fuckin’ motel. They got up early and washed up and whatever, and Helaena wanted to take a walk. It’s rural, and it’s quiet, and it’s pretty here, and the weather is still fucking mild. She wanted air and sunshine before they got back in the goddamn car for the day, so it’s apples and exercise for breakfast.

“I told you. We’re not going back,” she says. She isn’t exactly looking forward to it. She’s still fuckin’ skittish after yesterday, and she kinda likes it here. Maybe was only half joking.

He looks sideways at her, mischievous, and says, “Okay. You wanna move in here? Let’s do it,” and drops his smoke; starts dragging her off the road. “Off to the fuckin’ Hobbit hole.”

Helaena giggles and tries to stay on her feet, tripping over them like a fuckin’ idiot and grabbing him, and he’s just tugging and tugging, holding her good, not letting her fuckin’ faceplant, and the two of them go clambering and spilling and giggling over the shallow fucking ditch on the shoulder.

Eyeball fuckin’ yanks her up out of it, and she holds onto his wrists, and they fuckin’ tumble like a couple of assclowns into the trunk of a little sad-looking tree, scraggly-rooted and thin-branched. The fuckin’ runt or something. He hits it first, catches it with his back, and she stumbles right into him, and a goddamn apple falls and clunks that fuckin’ nerd right in his head. Square hit, and Helaena goes hysterical.

“Fuckin’…” she gasps, can’t even get her own bad joke out, “fuckin’… Sir Aemond Targaryen discovers gravity,” she snorts, trying her best at a goddamn British accent and fucking failing like it’s high school physics, and then he’s laughing, too, just as bad, because she’s the fuckin’ nerd here; really, it’s her, and she shoves him, and he shoves her, and she shoves him again, and then they’re just wrestling in goddamn decomposing apples. Probably worms. Snake holes. Soft ground and roots and rocks in her back when he wins, overpowers her and pins her and calls her an asshole. Flips her over so she’s on top.

When she sits up, belly and shoulders and head rolling with her laugh, his stupid hair’s a mess and his stupid patch is fucked up and he’s grinning so wide she can see his cracked back fuckin’ wisdom tooth. The one he just lives with, because who has dental, or money, or whatever?

“You’re stupid,” he says.

“This is it,” she says back. “This is the tree. It likes us already.”

“Is that what it is?” he laughs. “Thought that was a pretty clear fuck off.”

“It was a kiss,” she insists. “It loves you. Everything here loves you. Look!” She points up, and when he tips his head, squints between the tangle of limbs, there’s a cloud. Big and puffy and heart-shaped.

He’s looking up at it, but she’s looking down. Apples everywhere. Hanging from the trees, scattered all over the ground, pretty one in his throat. That’s the one she wants.

That’s the one she bites. Leans down and fits her fuckin’ teeth around it, and his neck goes backbackback, opens for her, and she says, “See? Everything loves you.”

“Just you, I think,” he says, head shaking underneath her. “That’s okay. That’s how I like it. Love is overrated.”

“Let’s stay,” she says. Lips climbing the pale, slender trunk of his throat. “Fruit bats.” Higher. “Sloths.” Higher. “Monkeys.” Chin now. “Snake charmers.” Mouth. “Just you and me and the devil,” and he smiles into her kiss.

*****

“Give me your fuckin’ hands.”

They’re just about to leave, but Eyeball keeps looking crosswise at her fuckin’ chewed-up fingers. They’re driving him nuts, and she’s been wondering when he was gonna fuckin’ say something. She guesses he doesn’t wanna sit and stare at them while he’s trying to fuckin’ drive. Get all bent out of shape and distracted.

She sticks them out for him, and he shakes his head at her. “I had them all fuckin’ pretty, and now they fuckin’ look like Ma’s. Bloody and shit. Fucking gross, Lane. Why the hell do you do this to yourself?”

She shrugs as he digs in the bag for clippers and a file. Cringes a little when he goes at her with the stupid things - it’s kind of an icky, smarmy sensation that runs up and down her back - but she lets him do it. “I’ve been good with it,” she says. “Yesterday was just shitty.”

“Had these fuckin’ things in my mouth last night, all I could taste was blood,” he says, using that tiny pair of fuckin’ scissors that stresses her out. She doesn’t touch them. Would fuckin’ end up shredding herself. He’s careful, though. Taking off all the nasty bits so they don’t catch on shit. “You got lotion somewhere?”

He does the best he can. Gets them short and even and smooth. Takes off what’s left of the fucked-up polish. Cuticles are still kind of a mess, but there’s only so much you can do; they just gotta heal. The lotion feels good, at least, and he rubs it in nice, even though his touch is exasperated and he goes too fast.

It’s some kinda love, anyway.

They look better. Feel better, too.

When he’s done, they do a once-over of the room and make sure they have all their shit.

Helaena stops on her way out the door, bag bumping at her hip like it’s trying to tell her something. “Hey,” she says. “You haven’t pulled a card in a fuckin’ minute. You wanna?”

She hasn’t had that little itch in her fingers for a bit. Hasn’t felt like anyone wanted to fuckin’ talk to her. Hasn’t exactly felt like fucking listening, either.

Eyeball shrugs at her. “Yeah. Okay.”

The two of them plop down onto the curb, sit criss-crossed and knee-to-knee. Helaena rings her bell and has him shuffle. He takes a fuckin’ long time. Longer than normal, just passing the deck back and forth between his palms, bridges and bends, over and over. She doesn’t rush him. Taps mindlessly at his kneecaps until he’s ready.

He pulls The Devil. Lays it straight.

“Literal, as always,” she says, eyes rolling. Light, but uneasy, maybe. “That’s us.”

Their card. Always fucking turns up when they’re on some shit. Those two little chained up babies, shackled to the Beast.

Now she knows why she hasn’t fucking wanted to read.

Helaena lights a smoke, puts that fucking deck away, and they get back on the fuckin’ road.

Granny sounds good. Runs like a little dream; like Eyeball just fuckin’ gave her the what-for with his dick, too. He tells Helaena he changed the fucking oil while he was at it, topped up her fluids, which is sort of the same thing, she thinks. Six of one, half-dozen of the other; both of them nice and wet and happy.

They’ve got the coast in mind. Good day for it, another breezy warm one, and the beaches down here are those touristy things. Soft sand, lifeguards and boardwalks, fuckin’ paid parking, all that shit. It’s the off-season, though; not summer and not winter, so they aren’t expecting a fuckin’ crazy lot of people.

That’s good, because Helaena’s still fucking done with humanity, and Eyeball had his fuckin’ fill of chitchat at the fucking parts store, and she got him to agree to find a place to pitch a tent and hide.

“I don’t wanna be looked at. I don’t wanna be spoken to. I don’t want to be fuckin’ touched. I literally do not want a single fucking human being other than you to know I exist for like, a week,” she tells him, toes wiggling up on the dash, smoke pouring from her mouth while she talks. “I was fuckin’ serious. I want to live in a tree and fucking forage. I’m done being a person. I’m a gnome now.”

Eyeball grins at her and ashes out the fuckin’ open window. “Roger that,” he says. “We’ll find something. I’ll find you a little fuckin’ mushroom to live under. Tiny hat. You want a fuckin’ tiny hat?”

She laughs. “I want enough molly to roll for a month, and I want a treehouse, and I wanna get fuckin’ dicked down til I see stars, and I want one of those orange cupcakes with the nasty white shit inside that looks like spooge. And I want the ocean.”

“I can do like… three and a fuckin’ thirthieth of that for you by dinnertime. That gonna work?”

Helaena takes a drag. “Eh, don’t worry about the thirtieth. I’m saving that for my fuckin’ birthday I think. But you can get me ocean and dick and sugar.”

“In that order?”

“Nah,” she grins.

“What about all at once?”

“Perfect. I’ll fuckin’ ride your shit on the beach while I eat a fuckin’ cupcake.”

“Long as you don’t get that shit in my mouth we’re good,” he says.

Helaena rolls her eyes. “You will eat my entire ass, but a fuckin’ Hostess cupcake? Too much.”

“Your ass doesn’t give me fuckin’ heartburn,” he says. “Speaking of….” He reaches down into the door pocket for his little bottle of Tums. “I guess apples are fuckin’ too much for me now, too.”

She sighs. “We fuckin’ get settled somewhere, you should see a doctor and get some fuckin’ pills. Eat like a normal person. It’s getting worse.”

“I hate doctors,” he says, chewing on three at once. “And I hate pills. I also hate normal people. I’ll make you a deal. Your pussy starts making me puke, I’ll get some fuckin’ pills.” He grins around the coffee he’s washing all that shit down with, and Helaena shakes her head at him.

“You probably got a fuckin’ hole in your stomach the size of a fist, you know that?”

“Probably,” he shrugs. Sips again.

“You bleed out on me I’ll kill you,” she says.

He smirks at her and sighs. “I’m not fuckin’ bleeding. I’d know if I was bleeding. I’m fine, Lane. Worry about your damn self. You’re the fucking bleeder. Those fuckin’ hands.” He reaches over for one, and she gives it to him.

“I just…”

“Don’t,” he says. Gives her a squeeze. “I’m hard to kill. Shit’s always fuckin’ swinging on me and missing.”

“See? That fuckin’ attitude. That’s the shit that’s gonna do it.”

“Talk to me about attitude. I’ll fuckin…”

“Shut up,” she says. “Shut up. Pull over. I’m gonna fuckin…”

“You gotta puke?”

She laughs. “No. I’m gonna fuckin’ jump your bones. Pull over.”

He looks over at her, sketchy and amused and fuckin’ confused. “What?”

“You heard me. Right there,” she points. Little fuckin’ gravel pull-off, like the one they stopped on with the goddamn flat tire, but smaller. Just enough room for one car, probably. Big, heavy tree hanging down near the front. “Pull over.”

He’s still fuckin’ side-eyeing her, a funny little grin ticking up the sides of his mouth, but he does it. Brings Granny to a neat little stop and pulls the e-brake, and before he’s even unbuckled, she’s undone and has one fuckin’ leg out of her stupid leggings. Old stretched-out shit, just peels right off, and he’s laughing as she’s climbing over the goddamn gearshift.

“What the fuck?” He’s laughing, but he helps her; hands at her waist as she comes on top of him. Fights hard with her stupid shirt, bending low and twisting around to pull it off.

“Here,” she says, laughing back. “In the window,” and she reaches over to try to drape it over the top.

“Laney, what the…”

“Shut up. Help me.”

He does. Helps her lay it flat, rolls the window up to hold it in place, has his hand in her bra before it’s even done. Fingers tweaking at her goddamn nipple, turning it hard and pushing up to pop her whole tit out of the cup.

“Don’t lean,” he says. “The horn,” and she giggles as he takes her in his mouth. Sucks and sucks, hot tongue, bottom teeth sliding up against her.

“Fast,” she says. “We gotta be fast,” and she’s tugging at his pants. Elastic, stupid sweatpants; they come easy like her fuckin’ leggings, and he’s not hard, but he’s interested. Won’t take long, and she works on him with her hands, rocks her hips, and he’s just sucking still. Hickeys already, little reddish marks springing up everywhere he goes. Chest, shoulder, neck.

Everything about this angle, this position, is fucking terrible. No room to move, uncomfortable, but she doesn’t give a fuck. One knee pushed into the console, one up slipping and sliding against the door, looking for purchase, but it’s narrow, too high, just bad. She’s all fuckin’ hunched over.

Eyeball leans the seat back to see if it will help, but it doesn’t go too far and seems to make things worse. Opens up a gap that they can’t close well, so they fuckin’ wriggle up up up to put it back, giggling.

Helaena tugs at him; leans to spit as careful as she can and gets it right, caught between her cupped hand and his cock, and that helps right away. She spreads it all over, uses her palm to trace circles, rubs her thumb underneath, twists up and back. All those little tricks, and he’s ready for her quick.

She’s not though.

She gets him up and then has to use her hands to brace herself, so he starts screwing around to put it in. “Not yet,” he says. Feels around a little. “It’ll hurt.”

She’s got her mouth at his neck now, his ear, sliding all over. “Touch me,” she says. “Fuckin’ say something dirty.”

She can feel him grin as he bends two fingers, uses those big knuckles to run up and down on her. Gets right up to her damn ear. “You’re a fuckin’ slut for me,” he says, making all those little hairs there stick up with his hot fuckin’ breath. “Get on my dick, slut.”

He’s smiling and she’s giggling and that does it. Turns the faucet on, gets her running a little over his thumb and his bent wrist as he slides it up.

“Keep going,” she says, leaning into him, bitingbitingbiting.

“Mmkay.” Talking to her mouth now, holding himself, rubbing all the fuck up on her with it. Laughing into her skin. “Let me get it,” he says, nose bumping against hers. “Come on. Ride my fucking dick.”

She snickers at him. Wriggles way down, feels him right there, just inside. That fucking stretch around him that makes her want to growl or something. “I can’t fuckin’ move much,” she says. She’s gonna slip, get stuck, it’s all fucked up. “Gotta be you.”

He laughs, lifts up, and there it fucking is. She’s all fuckin’ wet now, body all keyed up. “You fuckin’ attack me like a fuckin’ rabid raccoon and I still gotta do all the fucking work,” he says.

“Open the fucking door,” she gasps. He’s right to business, quick like she said, and he’s not messing around. Fuckin’ sloppyfast, wet slaps like he’s counting out bills. “Lay down. I’ll fucking do it right there on the side of the road. Think I give a fuck. Go on.”

“I bet you would,” he says. “I fucking bet. You’d take my dick anywhere. Cockslut.”

“Anywhere,” she says. “Anywhere. Fuckin’ anywhere,” and she’s trying to give it back a little. Doing what she can to fucking finish him, rocking with him and fuckin’ gripping hard and talking shit. “I don’t give a fuck. Fuckin’ car train bus fuckin’ airplane fuckin’ ride your dick on a bicycle,” and she’s gigglinggigglinggiggling, “fuckin’ take it in the middle of the road like a fuckin’ dumbass deer,” and he’s laughing back at her. “Stop traffic for a mile. Have to call the fuckin’ game warden ‘cause I won’t get off.”

Face buried in her shoulder, smiling, laughing into that little joint, biting at her. “Right here,” he says. “Take it right here. Here. Come on. Fuckin’ take it,” and he’s breathing heavy, and she’s holding on, and he’s telling her take it take it take it take it, just running his stupid mouth now, filthy fuck, take it fucking take it Laney take it take it you want it don’t you fuckin’ take my cock take my cock, faster and faster and faster, hips up and up and up, straight up and his cock is in her ribs suddenly, and she feels that pulse. That rabbit heart beating right inside her. Head back.

She grabs his whole stupid face. Kisses him, mumbly lips and slippery tongue. “I got it,” she says. “I got you,” grinning, shallow fuckin’ bouncing while his spunk drips out of her.

He blinks his eye open at her, all smiley and stupid. “Fuckin’ piece of work,” he tells her. “Shit. Gimme your fuckin’ pussy. Let me…”

But she’s shaking her head. Trying to climb right off already, before he’s even fuckin’ soft. “Let’s get outta here baby,” she says. “Before anyone fuckin’ gets nosy. Come on.”

Eyeball shakes his head. “Whatever you want. You should fuckin’ play with it for me though. Finish up. When you come, it all…” He stops and looks sideways at her as she gets back into her own seat, clumsy and soft-kneed. Got little kid mischief in his face, like he does sometimes. “It all fuckin’ comes back out if there’s nothing in there,” and he fucking laughs. “It looks so good. Just fuckin’…”

She’s laughing now, too, and she can feel it. “You’re so gross,” she says.

“Show me,” he says, tucking himself all back in. “It looks so good. Jesus, Lane. Your fucking pussy looks so good. Fuckin’… open it.”

She rolls her eyes and settles. Open it, like it’s a fucking door. A portal. For him, she supposes it is. Takes him to whatever place this is. Closest his ass ever gets to holy anymore. Better than some soulless Our Father anyway.

She does what he says; uses two fingers while he tugs her shirt out of the window.

When he looks back, he shakes his head. “Christ. You’re all fuckin’ swollen and shit. Look at you. Look at your fuckin’ clit. You can see it, fuck… look. You wanna come so bad.”

He’s not wrong. She just wanted to get the hell out, but she’s wound as fuck. Sitting on that edge.

“Let me, Lane. Oh my god.”

“Quick,” she tells him, and he is.

He’s quick. Dips a finger in, gets her mess and his jizz all over, and that motherfucker just taptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptaps that shit, fast and slick, one finger right where she’s hard and swollen just like he said. She holds herself apart and he fuckin’ taptaptaps til she’s squirming, body pulling away from the insane fuckin’ directness of it, but he doesn’t stop and she picks her ass up, tucks back and back and back, and he follows, and she keeps going ah ah ah ah ah ah fuckin‘ escalating vowels until he presses in, pulls everything up, taptaptap and she says fuck i i i fuck i’m gonna fuckin’ come i’m gonna i fuck i’m gonna you’re gonna make me fuckin’ and when she does, there’s more fuckin’ mess. Hers, his, just squishing out with her crazy little fluttery rhythm.

“Look,” he says, pushing in, holding her through it, watching. “God you’re hot.”

“Drive,” she gasps. “Fucking pervert weirdo,” laughinglaughinglaughing, making a mess on the goddamn seats. “Just fucking drive.”

Chapter 51: Speaking Quietly

Summary:

We cannot be excused from this
device of road and harrow, from this weight
we heft and heave

or: just a lot of nothing 🤷🏼‍♀️

Notes:

little beachy mishmash of Not Much Happening

also, heads up for some suicidal ideation— I realized that it’s been sprinkled around in here without warning, which was not thoughtful on my part, & I apologize if it’s taken you by surprise or been distressing. It’s brief and much like the other little instances & I will definitely note it going forward!

oh! L is an east coast thing I think 😂 so if it’s not clear through context - an L is basically a joint (sometimes it’s specific to one rolled in empty cheap cigar shit but not always) 😂

On Speaking Quietly With My Brother
by Jay Deshpande

 

You who threw the rock at the back of my head
as hard as you could at four because you thought
this was how to make a stone skip on the ocean,
I have watched you in the dark of a yard
where we can only see each other by a lamp left on
some rooms away. We can see only
one another’s chin. Soon, you will stay up
through the night after I fall
into a laughing sleep. Two moths dust
the same screen for remembered light.
We have all been removed from the lyrics, brother,
our names will be stricken from the papers.

When I think of you and me and recall some
adolescent sunrise, standing on rooftops,
blue still the island but the bowl of it about
to fill with light, it is perhaps strange and horrible
to know one day one of us will die
and the other will be alive, volume turned up,
his mouth now weighing twice as much.
We cannot be excused from this
device of road and harrow, from this weight
we heft and heave. So, you will be the sister.
And I will be the sister. And you—
you are about to give me my words.

 

It’s late afternoon, thin clouds settling over the sun, when they smell the ocean. Dark early now, so there’s not much day left, and they want to get settled somewhere before they’re fumbling around in Granny’s headlights trying to get shit together.

Helaena gets out at the gas station to stretch, and Eyeball sends her in to pay and get batteries for the flashlight and something to fucking eat. She brings him coffee, too, and it’s good shit this time. Strong and bitter.

They toss the very last of the stuff from the bag - the bag itself - in the trash outside, and it’s a little weight off. A relief not to be carrying any of that shit anymore. They haven’t wanted to throw things too close together; probably hung onto some of it longer than they had to, but now it’s done.

Except for Eyeball’s stupid boots. He still won’t fucking ditch them; has just been carrying around that new pair waiting for whatever. The fucking Rapture or something. They ever got pulled into evidence, they’d be able to fucking trace every place that asshole’s been for the past decade. Including Helaena’s fucking cunt, now, probably. Dirty bastard didn’t even wipe them off, she doesn’t think.

He flips on the phone to look around once they fill up. There are a few legit campgrounds, and lots of iffy-looking spots they might be able to set up for free. They hem and haw and bicker about it for a few minutes, but Helaena wins. Tells him she’s gonna dropkick the next stranger she sees for no fucking good reason, and he laughs at her and tells her fine. Have it her way.

“I feel you, Laneybug,” he says, and she knows he does. Knows he believes her. Knows he’d fucking do it for her, if she wanted him to.

He pokes around the map for a bit while she smokes and picks apart a suspicious salad, feeding him the fucking cucumbers and dipping days-old-looking lettuce in a cup of ranch. He’s trying not to watch, but he can’t fucking help it. Keeps peering over at her like she’s a car crash on the freeway, or some weird dude tugging one out on the bus. Just as grossed out but he can’t look away.

“If you think you’re gonna put your fuckin’ tongue in my mouth after…”

Helaena swallows. “I’m gonna put it in your mouth. I’m gonna put it in your ear. I’m gonna put it up your fuckin’ nose and in your funny eye socket and I’m gonna put it in your ass and jam it in your fuckin’ dickhole. I’m gonna tongue-fuck every goddamn orifice with gas station ranch until…”

And then he just leans over the seat and sticks his fingers in her ribs until she laughs so hard the whole shit slides off her lap. He catches it before Granny gets a facial, sticks it up on the dash and fucking stays at it til she’s almost pissing herself in the fucking parking lot, tears and everything. Doesn’t fuckin’ kiss her, though. Nope. Just gets her ribs and armpits and that one spot on her neck til she throws a please in with her fuckin’ stop!, gasps it out, a pretty little shrieky giggling beg, and that does it. He stops, just grinning at her while she catches her breath.

“Threaten me,” he says. “Fuckin’ go ahead.”

She grins back. “Wanna make out?”

“Shut up,” he laughs. “Finish your shit. I found a spot. It’s gonna be dark in a minute.”

“Yes, Daddy,” she says, arched eyebrow and everything.

“I’ll put you over my fuckin’ knee right here. Let everybody see it.”

“Fuckin’ threaten me. Go ahead,” she giggles, and he rolls his eye and hands her back her fuckin’ food.

*****

With the sun gone, it’s chilly.

He’s warm as fuck, though, hoodie unzipped so she can lean back into him and he can tuck it around her a little. She’s in the cup of his crossed legs so her ass doesn’t get wet, heels of his stupid boots pressing in, and when she tilts her head into his shoulder, the angle is just right. He fits his fuckin’ mouth right around hers, tight seal; holds her cheek and lets that fuckin’ smoke go nice and slow.

It’s good stuff. Pretty-smelling and brain-numbing, and it’s got something else in it. Something of his. Something she can’t fucking get when she does it herself. His chemistry just rolled right up in that shit, curling through her like fingers. Grabbing at her fuckin’ throat from the inside.

Tonight it’s making her stretch long and spread wide. Open right up so it can get everywhere, and when he lets her give it back - hands her the fuckin’ L, matches up their fuckin’ fingers - and she sucks in, his mouth’s there on the end, wet and clean, and she can fuckin’ taste him. Lights her shit up. Makes her want it bad, and she makes some kinda noise that slips between his teeth like the smoke.

It’s the fuckin’ weed, or the way the water licks all wet at the rocks they’re on, or his heart chipping at her shoulder blade, trying to make its way to hers like a jailbreak. Got her all fucked up.

“Baby,” she says. “We could fall right in.”

“Nah,” he says, his voice drifting over her, warm and low and quiet. “Have to walk in from here. Shallow.” He’s been playing with the little stones sitting in the tidepools next to them, skipping them or just tossing them in, listening to the way they splash and sink. Can’t see much; they’ve only got Granny’s little fog lights on so they don’t attract attention, and the moonlight is faint through the cloud cover. She wonders if he can hear the depth; if there’s something in the sound that tells him, or if he’s just fuckin’ imagining it because he’s fucking burnt out of his head.

“We could do that,” she says. “Walk right out.”

“We could.” He takes a big fucking hit.

“Do you want to?”

He’s got the smoke. Holding it for her. Letting it sit there and soak him up from the inside, and when he tilts her face to his and lets it go, it makes her dizzy. Can’t tell the water from the sky, can’t tell his body from hers, can’t tell if they’re fuckin’ gods or not. If they’d step into the sea and it would part for them, or they’d walk right on top, or they’d just drown quietly, engine idling til it runs out of gas.

“Yeah,” he says. “Ready when you are, Lane.”

She’s not ready, though. Not tonight. She doesn’t answer him, just lays back and gives him all her fuckin’ weight, like he doesn’t hold enough already. Slumps against his skinnyhard strength, and they just sit at the pointed tip of the earth, there on the flat of the blade of rock, shipwrecked and stoned and too tired to die.

*****

“You’re scratchy,” she mumbles. Comes awake over him as he pushes up against her, rubbing his days-old fuckin’ stubble against her cheek and trying to stretch in this stupid small tent.

“Mmhm,” he says back. Wiggles a little, shaking her up into a yawn that opens against his neck, wet and warm. “Good morning.”

“You gave me fuckin’ road rash,” she tells him, rubbing at her face. It’s been laying against his, and it feels all fucking raw. “Good morning.”

His hand comes up to fumble at her. Runs over everything and tangles in her hair, and he’s yawning now. “Gotta piss. You’re on my fuckin’ bladder.”

Helaena grumbles and shifts sideways; manages to roll off enough for him to turn and unzip the fuckin’ tent. Gray morning; she can see the silvery light and washed-out sky, and she blinks into the glare. It’s early. She has to fucking pee, too, and crawls out after him, slow and bleary-eyed, mouth dry as the fucking sand she steps into.

They’re in a teeny patch of it, just big enough for the tent and a set of hands and knees, in a rocky little clearing. She doesn’t know how the fuck Eyeball’s gonna get Granny out of the mess he’s gotten her into, all tied up in branches and bits of driftwood and soft ground, but that’s his fuckin’ problem, she supposes. He insisted this was the spot; hated the first place they looked. Felt too exposed.

There’s nothing fuckin’ exposed about them now.

By the time she gets herself together enough to squat pantsless against a fuckin’ tree, he’s done and pulling all their crap out of the tent already.

“Not supposed to be here,” he says. “Better get the fuck out. You okay, Lane? Need anything from in here?”

She nods, still in slow motion. Breaks into a stupid grin. “Don’t have anything to wipe with again.”

He laughs at her. He’s slow, too. Fucking weed was bananas. She ever fuckin’ sees Waffle again, she’s gonna ask him where the hell he got it. Fuckin’ buy stock or something.

“Use your fuckin’ pants,” he says. “We’ll do laundry today. Everything in that bag probably already smells like piss anyway.”

She laughs and wipes herself, and he brings her fuckin’ clean clothes.

They’re just down the road from a real beach; one with a parking lot and those old-as-shit little metal grills and everything. No fuckin’ bathrooms, though. It’s a dinky thing. Not the one everybody comes here for.

After Eyeball lets Granny out of her bondage - not as bad as Helaena imagined, as usual; just a little back and forth, and she does just what he wants her to do - they head down there so they can sit at a fucking table and sober up the rest of the way. Drink some shitty instant coffee Eyeball fuckin’ found when he was looking for his smoke stash before they left and stare at the water and not get hassled for being somewhere they shouldn’t.

Helaena’s glad for all of it, the sitting and the ocean and the not moving around too much. “Fuckin’ stomach hurts,” she tells him as he lifts up the nasty, greasy old iron of the grill to stuff a bunch of shit inside for kindling. Sticks and dry brush and whatever.

“You need fuckin’ Tums?” he asks around the cigarette in his teeth. “Got some left.”

Helaena shakes her head and takes a drag of her own while he tries to get the stuff lit. “No, fuckin’ cramps. Like I’m getting my period or something.”

“Already? Fuckin’ early isn’t it?”

Her cycle’s short but not that short. She’s not due for almost another fucking week. Five days at least. “Yeah. Shouldn’t be here yet. Bet it’s that fucking pill. That shit’ll mess everything up for a minute.”

Last time she took it, it made her fucking late. Had her panicking and buying a shitload of those fucking cheapie dollar store piss tests; kept coming back negative but she convinced herself she was knocked up for like ten fucking days before she finally started to bleed.

Eyeball nods at her, fire sputtering and spitting itself into existence now. He drops the grill piece back on. “Probably,” he says. “I’ll find you meds.”

She nods and blows smoke while he digs around in the car. Comes back with ibuprofen for her and a gallon of water. Fuckin’ pot, too, to heat it in. Another little bit of home.

“Pot, but no plates. No silverware,” she grins.

“I like this pot.” It’s cast iron. Mama’s. They stole it when they left; he’s got some weird fuckin’ attachment to it that Helaena can’t figure out. He’s oddball like that. Gets a hard-on for random shit and can’t let go.

Explains his attachment to her, she thinks wryly.

“I know you do,” she says, still smiling. She downs her pills, drinking straight from the fuckin’ jug, and hands it over so he can start the coffee.

“Gonna shave, too,” he says, “while we got hot water.”

“How you gonna see for that? Fuckin’ rear view big enough?”

“Nah,” he says, ashing his smoke and holding it in his teeth while he fishes around in their bathroom stuff. “You can do it.”

Helaena laughs. “I’ll fuckin’ Sweeney Todd you. Crazy. You gonna let me hold a straight razor to your throat? I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. Can’t even do a zipper half the time.”

She’s watched him do it a hundred fucking times. Likes to watch all that silly boy shit, but definitely doesn’t trust herself not to cut him up. Won’t even do herself with a straight razor.

“It’s easy,” he says, tugging out his shit. Razor in a case, the good soap, aftershave stuff. “You won’t hurt me.”

She realizes he’s serious when he reties his fucking hair and takes off his shirt. Lays all that crap out on the table on it. “Check that pot,” he says while he’s at it. “Coffee first. Not making it with fuckin’ shave water.”

Helaena feels it. Pretty warm. Cast iron takes forever. He cleans the stupid razor while they wait, just rubs a smidge of oil on it, and tells her how to fuckin’ do it.

“Gotta fuckin’ angle it,” he says. “Like this,” and holds it against her arm. “Little strokes. Don’t fuckin’ chop. Just hold everything tight. Keep wiping it off in the water. Go back if you miss. Not fucking brain surgery.”

Helaena nods but she doesn’t fuckin’ like it, and she tells him so. “I’m still half fuckin’ blitzed,” she says, and he laughs and tells her it’ll help. Make her less anxious.

When she checks the water again, it’s good enough for coffee. She hands him the pot and he makes two little paper cups with the instant shit. Grocery store brand. The only kind they like. They both drink it black.

She watches him get himself all fucking set. Takes off the patch and gets his face wet and steamy. Oil, then soap all over, everywhere he’s fuzzy; just like Daddy taught him.

His shit’s just as pale as what’s on his head. Hard to see until it’s longer, but rough as anything when you rub up on it. Honestly she likes him a little fuckin’ scruffy. Looks like a hardass or something, sexy, but she can’t stand the way it feels.

“C‘mon, Lane,” he says. Hands her the fucking razor, all pulled out of the handle for her.

She looks at it, suspicious, but she takes it. Lets him show her again how to hold it. How to angle it. Shit’s heavier than it looks.

“I’m gonna fuckin…” she starts, but he interrupts her.

“No you’re not. I trust you. Just fuckin’ go easy.” Tips his face up to her while she stands over him and tilts to the side a little. “Start here,” he tells her, tapping up by his temple. “Take your fuckin’ time. You’re fine.”

She is. She’s fine. She holds it just the way he showed her, leaning in nice and close so she can see what the fuck she’s doing. Starts on his good side, other hand holding his head so her thumb’s right on that craggy line of numb tissue; the jagged edge of his scar spilling out both ends. Little baby strokes, smooth when the blade comes away.

“Just dunk that shit and wipe it in between,” he says. Helaena does. Works top to bottom. Hesitates at the steep cut of his jaw. He can feel her, the little retraction, and he reaches up for her hand. Just pats it a little. “Use the middle. Little softer, and start away from it, not on the fuckin’ bone. Okay?”

“You’re so goddamn sharp everywhere,” she tells him. “All fuckin’ bones,” but she does the best she can, and it works. Perfect. She leans closer, even, and stops when she sees him smile a little. “What?”

He laughs then, the fuckin’ blade far enough away not to slice his shit. “You stick your fucking tongue out when you concentrate. It’s fuckin’ cute, that’s all.”

She rolls her eyes at him. Been doing that shit since kindergarten; gave up trying to stop. “Close your damn eye,” she says, and he laughs again, but he does. Closes it and leans back. Lets her get his whole damn chin. Down his neck with a big stretch.

That part gets her heart hammering. She can see the blood there; feel it run against her skin when she moves around to get all the fuckin’ stubble. He’s not fucking anxious at all; the beat of it just a lazy little drum. She lets her bare fingertips linger over it. Has the urge to push it in with her tongue, suck it until it rushes and fills up the way his goddamn cock does when he wants it bad, but she doesn’t. Just brushes over it. Slips the razor, soft, against both sides of his pretty pulse and wipes away the soap.

She does the other side of his face just the same. Watches him twitch and tug the muscles around to stay tight for her, make it easy and clean.

“See?” he says when she pronounces him done. “Not even a fucking nick, right? You can do shit, Laney. You’re better than you fuckin’ think. Sit down; I can finish.”

Eyeball smiles at her and reaches to take the fuckin’ pair of her underwear she’s been using as a washcloth, but she shakes her head at him. “I like this part. Let me.”

He does. She rinses him, all that gunk off his face til he’s pink from the heat and the shave and smooth as anything. Baby skin, rosy and shiny, and she presses her cheek down right against it. Lets him pull her onto his lap.

“Thank you,” he says. Tells it to her neck. Puts it in her bones.

She takes the aftershave shit from the table and pats him all over, but before she’s done she takes that oil - just fuckin’ olive oil, kitchen shit, same as Daddy always used - and uses her thumb to rub it all in his scar. He’s supposed to do that to keep the fuckin’ tissue decent. Keep blood circulating. Keep it from seizing up and getting stiff and nasty. Keep it mobile. He never fucking does it unless she harasses him - doesn’t like it touched; fuckin’ fussed over and shit - but he doesn’t fight her at all. Doesn’t flinch. Just presses into her touch, into those little circles she’s drawing up and down the length of it, good eye closed and his body all loose and warm. Bare chest rising and falling soft as anything against her.

“Feels good, right?” she says.

“Mmhm,” fingers in her hips, rocking her a little.

“I’m talking about your stupid face,” she says, and he smiles at her.

“It’s the stupidest,” he says back. “Do my hair, too? We’re already fuckin’ here.”

Helaena sips her coffee. “Yeah, sure.” He needs it. It’s getting longer than he likes it, ends all fucking splitting and shit. Looking like a shaggy fuckin’ dog.

She’s not afraid of that. He wears it up all the damn time, so it doesn’t matter if it isn’t perfect, and she’s been doing it forever. Does a decent job.

“You got the scissors?” she asks him.

They’re in the bag, too, he tells her, but she sees him stop while he’s digging.

“Take all of it off,” he says suddenly. “I want it short.”

Her eyebrows go up. “How fuckin’ short?” Shit hasn’t been above his shoulders since like fourth grade or something. Another thing he did just to make Mama crazy - make her look at him, fuckin’ pay attention - but it stuck. He’s always had it long.

“Short,” he says. “Like fuckin’… over my ears short. Against my neck.”

Helaena shakes her head. “Gonna need clippers for that, baby. You got those?”

He shakes his head back. “No. Fuckin’ left them. Didn’t think we’d need them.”

Helaena had a fucking undercut a few years ago; had the hairdresser do it, and then she made Waffle keep it up for her for awhile. Eyeball fucking hated it. Refused to help her, but she’d liked it. Her hair’s goddamn thick. Hot in summer. She took the clippers when they’d moved but hasn’t touched them in years. Probably still sitting on the top shelf of that stupid closet, if Alys hasn’t cleaned them out yet.

“If you want it like that I need them,” she says. Tilts her head. “Why do you want it off?”

He lights a cigarette and shrugs. “Warm down here. I dunno.”

“What are you gonna play with all day?” she asks, only half joking. Fucker messes with that goddamn elastic, up and down and up and down, all day long.

“You,” he says, and when she rolls her eyes he laughs. “C’mon, Lane. You left yourself wide open there.”

“Oh, always,” she says, arching a brow at him as she finishes her coffee.

He smiles at her. Smooth pretty cheeks and all. “You still wanna fuckin’ beach ride? Your fuckin’ stomach up for it? You know I get all up in there.” Gives her a look.

“It’s okay. Just annoying. Meds helped a little. And I only want it if it’s right in the fuckin’ sand,” she says. “I wanna be rinsing that shit outta my cooch for a week,” and he laughs. Laughs and laughs and laughs. “Wait til I cut that hair off, though,” she giggles. “We can pretend we’re strangers.”

“Yeah, why not? Went super well last time,” he says. Fuckin’ cuffs her in the ear, and she rolls her stupid eyes at him and grins.

“Not like that. I’ll be the mermaid; you be the prince,” she says.

“How do you fuck a mermaid?” He quirks an eyebrow.

Helaena shrugs and steals his cigarette. “Let me get that hair and I’ll show you.”

Chapter 52: Mermaid

Summary:

“I know you’ve seen the damn movie. You kiss her first,” Helaena says, giggling. “Then she fuckin’ grows legs and spreads them for you.”

Notes:

a little more Not Much. snocones and scissors and smut and spiders, oh my! 🕷️

sex is kinda unsexy 🤷🏼‍♀️🤣 sorry!

you are my sweetest downfall
i loved you first, i loved you first
beneath the stars came fallin' on our heads
but they're just old light, they're just old light

[…]

oh, he couldn't bring the columns down
yeah, he couldn't destroy a single one
& the history books forgot about us
& the bible didn't mention us, not even once

- from samson by regina spektor

 

The town’s a strange one in the off season, like a fair sitting around waiting to open or something. Lots of shit to do and no one doing it; fuckin’ locals reading behind the counters, or some places shuttered entirely. Not worth the electricity.

All the normal stuff is there, though, and they find a little 24-hour laundromat with a bagel place next door. Helaena wrinkles her fuckin’ nose at it but eats hers anyway while they wait for their shit to finish. “Princess,” Eyeball says to her. “Spoiled fuckin’ thing,” just because she says it’s not a real fuckin’ bagel. More like fat, round bread. Cream cheese is okay, though, and the coffee’s better than their instant shit.

Eyeball’s just picking at some pathetic-looking fruit cup and a piece of dry sourdough toast that looks better than her damn food. He tries to give her the anemic cantaloupe, but she wrinkles up at that, too. Tells him he can fuckin’ keep it, and he laughs at her.

“Look like you slept in a dumpster but you got rich bitch taste,” he says.

“Look at that shit,” she says back. “Looks like someone put it through the fucking dishwasher. Are you gonna eat it?”

He does, actually. Just sad enough to not make him sick, she guesses. Eats everything but the fucking underripe pineapple. Too much acid. Helaena won’t touch it, either; she hates the fucking stringy shit.

“I should make you eat it,” she teases him. “Makes your come sweet or something, right?”

He huffs a laugh through his nose at her. “I dunno. You got a problem with it? ‘Cause you don’t act like you got a problem with it.”

She grins back. “How the fuck am I supposed to know? You never leave it in my fuckin’ mouth.”

He laughs and throws the damn pineapple at her. Pings her right in her chin. “Works both ways. You fuckin’ eat it.”

“My pussy tastes like candy already,” she laughs. “Any sweeter it’ll make your fuckin’ teeth hurt.”

He rolls his eye at her, but he’s smiling. “Mmhm. You got that good princess pussy. Fuckin’ Barbie’s Dream Cunt. Shut up. Let’s go.” He picks up their trash, and they take their coffee to go, and their clothes are dry by the time they get back.

They run the rest of their fuckin’ errands, too. Drive a little out of town to yet another goddamn Walmart and get some shit - cheap clippers and some shit for camping and whatever - and by the time they get out of there, it’s misty and drizzling off and on. Just enough to make everything glittery; turn the day into some kinda dream. Blurred edges and weird backlight.

Just their fuckin’ style. Spooky kids.

Helaena turns her face up to smile at it, and when she does he’s already there. Chin tipped, cigarette burning in the corner of his lips, little glimmer in his lashes, and she fuckin’ smiles at him first. Tells him she loves him.

He just musses her frizzing curls and opens up her door for her.

Nobody’s in the goddamn parking lot when they get back to the beach except some lady in a yellow raincoat getting ready to walk her lab, like something out of a fuckin’ commercial. Cute thing, just past a puppy probably, Helaena thinks.

There’s a guy at the little fuckin’ snow cone stand now, too, which tickles her. They thought closed meant for the season, but he’s back there in a baseball cap with a too-large bill, reading the paper in a little canvas folding chair.

“Please, Daddy?” she says to Eyeball, sticking her fingers through his and giving him stupid big eyes.

“Whatever you want,” he says back.

She gets cherry - the only kind he might split with her - and she asks for a spoon, and the guy looks fuckin’ thrilled to have a customer, like they might be the only other people he sees all day. Dude’s older than she thought at first.

“Probably retired,” she says, parking her butt on the corner of the same table they sat at that morning. “There’s no way he makes a fuckin’ living doing that.”

He blows a cloud of smoke and nods. “Yeah probably. Not a fuckin’ bad gig, right? Squirt some melted sugar shit over ice and charge eight bucks for the diabetic fuckin’ privilege.”

She giggles. Pops the spoon between his lips while he’s bitching, and he laughs at her. Swallows that shit anyway.

“I don’t wanna fuckin’ hear you talk shit while you sit here with sixteen fucking ulcers fuckin’ chugging coffee like you’re doing a keg stand. The fuck is wrong with you?”

“Mouthy today. Didn’t fuck you up enough the other night or what?”

“Never enough, Daddy. I need a fuckin’ collar and a choke chain and to be bent over this table and fuckin’ split in half,” she grins. “You know that.” She takes a spoon of her snow cone and hands him the box with the clippers. “Get these set?”

He eyes her, one eyebrow up in some fuckin’ parody of insult. “Excuse me?”

“Please?” she tries

Eyeball grins and takes them from her. “Grab me batteries.” She waits. Sneaky-spoons him while he gets shit out of the box instead, and he rolls his eye at her. “Kinda cough syrupy, honestly,” he says, making a face. “Definitely had better cherry shit.”

“Mmhm,” she says, giving him a look. “You had mine.”

He stops and clunks the clippers down on the table. Pauses before he starts taking the fuckin’ plastic shit off. “You are on it today,” he snickers at her. “What the hell, Lane?”

“I’m not on it,” she laughs. “That’s my fuckin’ problem.”

She hands him the batteries she was digging for and takes another bite while he puts them in.

“Here,” he says. “Get this done and then you can show me how to fuckin’ rail a mermaid or whatever. I’ll take your fuckin’ fishtail cherry, too.”

She giggles. “Not enough. I want you to drip this shit down my ass crack and lick it out. Not leaving here without a goddamn yeast infection and a ticket for public lewdness.”

That sends him. Puts his head down into his hands and laughs right from his stupid belly. “You’re an asshole,” he tells her.

“Mmhm,” she says. Picks up the scissors and fuckin’ menaces him with them. “You sure you want this? No going back.”

“I’m fuckin’ sure. Have at it.”

The moisture’s frizzed him up a little, too. Probably not the best fuckin’ day to do this outside, but whatever. She takes his hair down and combs it out, then sticks it back up tight at the base of his neck. It’s soft as shit. Fucker.

He’s eating her goddamn ice now. She rolls her eyes where he can’t see her and kisses the top of his head.

“Last chance to puss out,” she says, pressing the scissors to his bare neck.

“Ask me again, you’ll be fuckin’ tapping out,” he grins. “Why the fuck I gotta tell you anything twice, I dunno,” and she shrugs.

“Okay, Daddy.”

Snip.

Scissors aren’t that sharp, so it takes a little fuckin’ sawing, even though his hair’s not thick like hers. She gets it, though. Comes off in a ragged-edged ponytail in her hand, and she looks down at it for a second, just fuckin’ staring.

That weird sort of grief gets its fingers in her almost immediately. Right in her throat. The back of her eyes. Same shit that got her when they tossed their phones. Like it’s her goddamn hair or something.

It is, she guesses, in some ways. It fuckin’ is. She’s combed it out for him a million fuckin’ times, wet and dry and sweaty and whatever. Held it like reins, wrapped around her goddamn hands while he gave her head. Taught herself how to braid with it in sixth grade; so much fuckin’ easier and more well-behaved than her own. Pulled fuckin’ strands of it out of her mouth and her ass and the shower drain and the elastic of her goddamn panties.

It’s as much hers as it is his.

He’s hers as much as he’s his own.

Maybe more.

She just stands there. Fuckin’ winds it around her wrist like a bracelet. Too long, because Eyeball looks back at her after a minute. Can feel the change in her posture. Her hands.

“You okay, Lane?”

Her voice is all thick. All honey. Too sweet and slow; sounds like a toothache. “Yeah, sorry baby. Didn’t think I gave so much of a fuck about your stupid hair.”

He smiles as she shoves the fuckin’ ponytail into the pocket of her sweats, all balled up. “That is some straight serial killer shit,” he tells her, but his tone is soft.

“Witchy shit,” she corrects him. “Gonna put a fuckin’ spell on you.”

“What kind?”

“Haven’t decided yet,” she says. “Patch off, let me finish. How do you want it?” she asks him as he slips it over his head.

“Around my ears, fuckin’ short sides. Right to my neck in the back. Close. You can leave it longer on top if you want but not that fuckin’ Flock of Seagulls shit. Standard whiteboy crap.”

“10-4, Daddy,” she says, smiling a little. “Gonna leave it long enough to pull.”

He looks back again and smiles, too. “You got it. Go grab the fuckin’ trunk blanket and put it down. I forgot.”

“We’re outside!”

“That’s fucking gross, Lane. Go get it.”

Helaena rolls her eyes at him, but she does it, and when she gets back he’s got his shirt off, too. All the shit on it on the table, like before.

She lays the blanket like a dropcloth, but before she does, she sinks her teeth right into the muscle of his shoulder. Bites and chews and sucks, all kinds of horny girl shit, and he laughs and jerks away from her. Fucker is ticklish, even though he pretends otherwise, and she goes at him for a minute to get him back for before. Does it til he grabs her and leans her into the table and swats her on her fuckin’ ass.

“I’m not paying you to fucking harass me,” he laughs. “I’mma spank you red hot, little girl.”

“You’re not paying me at all,” she giggles back. “Maybe I’ll just leave it like this. Cute little bob.”

“Shut up,” he snickers, and she bites him again.

“Sit down and let me finish.”

He does, and she takes the clippers to him. Nice and slow and neat. They’re fucking smooth and buttery and buzzy, brand new blades, and even though they’re cheap shit they do a good job. His hair’s nothing difficult. It doesn’t take too long - they’re done before that lady comes back with her dog - and she’s too fucking focused to cry about it. Just trims him up a little on top; follows behind with her fingers to brush the mess away, and leaves him fresh and clean.

Pretty, too, she thinks. He looks younger. Smooth face and short hair, he looks his fuckin’ age, even with that fucking scar out. She just drops fuckin’ kisses all over him, peppers his whole stupid face, and he asks her how it looks.

“You look like my fuckin’ little brother,” she tells him. “You look like a baby.”

“Wasn’t exactly what I was going for.”

“What were you going for?”

He shrugs. “I dunno. Just different.”

“You got different. I like it, I think. I’d let you hit it.”

“You better.”

“Dunno if I can still call you Daddy, though.”

He runs a hand back through it, shakes the loose shit out, then reaches behind to fuckin’ grab her by her neck. Startles her. “I’m still your fuckin’ Daddy, Princess. I promise.”

“Mmkay,” she says, squirming under his grip. Hot all up her back in a snap. “Fuckin’ stop; you’re not helping. Go look.”

He turns and shakes himself off a little more. Takes the fuckin’ blanket, too, to brush off at the garbage by the lot. “Clean this shit up. I’ll be right back.”

She does, and he is, big old wide grin on his face. Took a look in Granny’s mirror, and he likes it. Smooches her big. Backs her right up into the fucking tree that’s hanging out there and asks her how to fuck a mermaid.

“I know you’ve seen the damn movie. You kiss her first,” Helaena says, giggling. “Then she fuckin’ grows legs and spreads them for you.”

*****

He talks her into a campground. Bathrooms with showers, a real fuckin’ fire pit, nobody else around on a shitty day like this, he says. Cheaper than a motel. Not gonna get fuckin’ woken up with a cop light in your face.

The one they find has beachfront sites, too, and when Helaena asks - has to talk herself up to do it; she’s still not vibing with human interaction - they give her one, no problem.

She gets a little twistier in her already-kinda-twisty belly when she has to write down all Granny’s information, too, though. No way to fuckin’ pull any shit there. She does it in her messiest fuckin’ handwriting, makes her five look like an S, smears ink with the stickydamp side of her hand, and hopes that it won’t fuckin’ matter anyway.

“I hated that,” she tells Eyeball, hopping back in the car and shoving the map at him. “Let’s go.”

He hands her his cigarette and looks down at where the dude in the booth circled their site. Location’s not half bad. They got water and sand and privacy. It’s a hike to the showers, but it’s fine.

They decide to just drive there and do that first. Tent takes two seconds to pop up, and they’d rather do that in the dark than use a campground shower.

They split up - she takes the women’s, he takes the men’s - to see which one is cleaner and emptier. They’re both empty, and they’re both gross, but the women’s has more space, so they go there.

One of those little divided-stall deals, curtain and two tiny rooms. One for your crap, and one with the nozzle. Timed push-button-too-cold shit, but it’s running water.

Lots of company, too. Fuckin’ dead bugs and graffiti and from the smell of it, some fuckin’ mold somewhere.

“Oh, yum,” Helaena says, staring at the fuckin’ crusty centipede chilling in the rim of the drain.

Eyeball digs it out with his fuckin’ toe and kicks it away. “Maybe we should call Heather,” he says, pointing at the Sharpie’d wooden wall. “Think she’ll let us use the shower after we have a good time?”

Helaena snickers as she yanks her shirt over her head. “I dunno, toss-up,” she says, hanging it over the rickety hook. “Not sure where we’re less likely to get fuckin’ crabs.”

He laughs and lays his dirty shirt down on the bench-thing. Nobody’s really here; at least it’s pretty dry, but it’s still fuckin’ rank. He sits their shower stuff down on top, right near the end so they can reach it. Folds towels on the other side.

“Ready?” he asks.

“As I’m gonna get, I guess.” They forgot to get fucking flip-flops, so they’re fuckin’ barefooting it, too, which is goddamn appalling, but what else can you do? Add fuckin’ foot fungus to their list of problems, she supposes. They’ve got worse.

Eyeball turns on the water, and they crunch up together under the spray. Soap up as fuckin’ quick as they can, and it’s goddamn cold. She keeps pulling in fuckin’ closer and closer, trying to siphon off some of his body heat, and after a minute she starts laughing.

“How are you fuckin’ hard in here?” she asks him, spitting nasty water onto the floor and shivering. “Jesus Christ.”

“It’s not the fuckin’ ambiance, I promise,” he snorts. “Why are you all up on me?”

“Because I’m cold!”

“Well that’s why I’m tryin’ to fuck. Back off or get on.”

She giggles at him and runs her hand over his dick, all up and down. Giving him a nice fuckin’ stroke. “You won’t,” she says.

“Try me, ho.”

“There’s fuckin’ nowhere to….”

“Hop up,” he grins, tucking his fuckin’ hand under her ass and bending a little.

“You think you’re putting me against that wall…”

“I’m not putting you against shit. I said hop up.”

She starts to argue, but he shuts her up with his fucking mouth. Leans down and sticks his tongue right in there, fuckin’ campground water and smoke.

“There’s your fuckin’ kiss,” he mutters at her when he pulls away. “Now you spread your fuckin’ legs.”

Helaena laughs again, but she hops a little. Lets him catch her and sling her up against his chest.

“I’m not fuckin’ wet,” she tells him. Feels his fuckin’ dick poking at her, right where her thigh meets her ass meets her cunt, little threeway intersection, and thinks she will be in a fuckin’ second.

That’s what he says, too. “Give me a second,” and starts sucking at her. Goes right for her neck. That spot right under her ear. Slow, hot mouth. A hundred times hotter than the fuckin’ water. Lots of teeth. Fingers digging into her, kneading at her ass. “Gonna fuck the shit out of you in this fuckin’ grimy shithole,” he says, laughter running through his voice. “Gonna fuckin’ turn your pussy out. Make you fuckin’ scream for all the fuckin’ spiders, and the fucking flies, and the fucking…”

“Shut up,” she snickers at him. “That’s not fuckin’ sexy at all.”

“No?” He bounces her up a little. Puts her in one arm and sticks the other hand between her legs from the back. “Then why’s it fuckin’ working? Fuckin’ weird girl. You like bugs. All that creepy shit.”

She’s giggling now, the sound of it running over him like the water. “It’s your cock. Fuckin’ poking at me.”

“Mmhm,” he says, trying to adjust them right. “You gotta hold on, okay? You don’t want to touch this fuckin’ wall, you gotta fucking hold onto me.”

“Mmhm,” says, wriggling tight against him. Water’s slowing. Gonna stop on them any second; timer’s ticking out.

“In and up,” he says, bitingbitingbiting at her, and she does it. Leans in, pushes up tight around his hips while he fuckin’ fiddles around. She feels him get it right.

“There you go,” she says, and he nods.

It’s terrible. Honestly, terrible. No leverage. They try, but he can only get in a little bit, maybe half, a little more with her help if she fuckin’ bounces, but it’s frustrating. Just him sliding in and out, too shallow while her pussy fuckin’ grabs at him.

She supposes it’s better that way; doesn’t fuckin’ think she’s slippery enough to take all of him yet anyhow.

It’s driving her crazy, but he likes it. Has her fuckin’ grippy-gripping him where she usually doesn’t, squeezing where his shit’s all sliding around already. She’s always shoving him up into her stupid cervix, but this is just tight slippery friction against the head of his cock, the happy little ridge underneath, all that good stuff, and he’s panting like a goddamn dog at her in like six seconds. Arms shaking a little.

“You okay?” she asks him. “You need to put me down? I can…”

“Shut up,” he says, bumping her up again and tugging her back down onto him so that the breath in her fuckin’ mouth steals her voice. “I can fuckin’ hold you forever. Not that, I just…”

Doesn’t finish, just bounces her again, and she squeezes her arms around his neck and her cunt around his cock and bites down on his ear.

Water’s off now. Just cold dripdripdrips onto their shoulders, Helaena’s bent knees, the tops of their stupid heads. Splashy sounds pinging through the fucking place when it hits the floor.

She whines at him, tries to wriggle down, and if he lets her drop a little and lifts up it helps, but they can’t get a good rhythm, and he’s gonna fucking lose it quick. She can tell. Raggedy breath and mumbling at her, oh shit oh shit oh shit, so she just chills the fuck out. Squeezes as hard as she can and lets him do his thing, do what works, fuckin’ get himself off, and the squeezing helps. She does it like a little heartbeat, and it gets things all juicy and lit up and when he makes that little yelp-y noise in her ear, it’s finally good.

His noise is so good. So fucking good.

“Shit,” he says to her again, fingertips hard in her like he’s afraid she’s going somewhere. He lets her slip down after a second; get her feet on the grubby, slimy floor.

She runs a hand through his hair while he’s bent to her and smiles. Can just about get a nice fuckin’ handful, and she does. Fists it good and tugs, just because she can.

“I know,” he’s saying. “I know. That sucked for you. I know. I got you,” and she wasn’t even really thinking about that, just about how cute he fuckin’ looks all clean-cut and wet and fuckin’ dripping water and jizz and whatever, but she lets him have at her.

Quick and efficient, even all fucked up and crammed in here trying not to touch shit. Just tugs one knee up and gets his fingers under while she holds on tight, gets her big mouth moaning in no time, head tipped back while he fuckin’ works her over. Gets deeper with his fingers than he could with his dick, feels like, three in there, thumb on her clit, no fancy bullshit.

“Come on,” he says, mouth all burrowed down into her wet nest of curls while she gasps, “tell me all about it,” and she does.

Gives him a nice, loud oh God and fuckin’ comes all over his hand, buckled knees and bared throat, and when she blinks her eyes open, she giggles. Still fuckin’ squishing him. Trying to break his goddamn knuckles.

“What?” he asks her. Follows her gaze. Then he starts laughing, too. “Nice,” he says.

“Hi, buddy,” Helaena says, all breathless and fuckin’ ran-through. Big fucking wood spider, hairy huge motherfucker, crazy fucking legspan, just hanging out above them. Almost right against the showerhead. “That’s hot,” she snickers.

“He likes a show,” Eyeball says. “Probably wondering where all the fuckin’ naked chicks went. Been fucking boring in here for a minute.”

“I think he sees his friends,” she says, brushing her fingers down his belly. Catching all his little crawlies there. She laughs and shakes her hair out a little, and he looks back down at her. Kisses her again.

“Or maybe he’s trying to get home.” Kisses across her chest, up her little web and down. “By the way,” he says, still kissing and kissing and kissing. Punctuating his fuckin’ sentence with them, over and over and over. “I did see that damn mermaid movie. Fuckin’ kiss comes later. After the legs. First you gotta make a fucking deal with the devil.”

“Sea witch,” she murmurs. Gives that kiss right back.

“Same thing.”

Helaena shrugs. Slips him the fuckin’ tongue. “Sometimes you win,” she says, right against his lips. “She did, right?”

Chapter 53: Soft Animal

Summary:

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on

- from Wild Geese by Mary Oliver

Notes:

couldn’t decide whether to open this thing with some classic mary oliver or with more from the absolute most beautiful book ever written (jeannette winterson is god; I’ll hear no arguments; this matter is adjudicated), so i just went with… why not both?

also, if this isn’t how you’re being served your morning coffee, time to sit your boo down for a chat. That’s all I’m saying ☕️

She arches her body like a cat on a stretch. She nuzzles her cunt into my face like a filly at the gate. She smells of the sea. She smells of rockpools when I was a child. She keeps a starfish in there. I crouch down to taste the salt, to run my fingers around the rim. She opens and shuts like a sea anemone. She's refilled each day with fresh tides of longing.

- from Written On the Body by Jeannette Winterson

 

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on

- from Wild Geese by Mary Oliver

 

Waxing moon. The clouds drift out just before dark, and it’s hanging clear and cold-looking when they turn in for the night.

High as fuck again. The fucking weed’s been doing its job; letting them both sleep enough to feel human most of the time. Keeping the goddamn nightmares away. Makes them drooling and dull - shuts Helaena off so good she doesn’t even get antsy for his dick in her mouth - but it’s fucking bedtime when they smoke up, so who cares.

But like anything, shit has its limits.

She’s fuzzy and dry and disoriented when Eyeball starts his fuckin’ shit, and it takes her a minute to come to. He’s underneath her, body fuckin’ twisting and twitching and whatever, fuckin’ head going back and forth, and it feels like she’s being smacked around. Fuckin’ hard-ass skull banging hers, bony elbows and knees all finding her soft bits, and there’s nowhere to go. Can’t get away from it in the teeny little tent, can’t even sit up, so she’s just awake and taking it for a minute, confused and fuckin’ stuck and trying to sort out what the fuck is going on.

Motherfucker’s making noise, too. Nothing coherent, just sloppy-mouth stuff, no words, but he sounds fucked up and stressed out and scared, and by the time she figures out he’s asleep, dreaming, whatever, he’s starting to wake up, too.

Wakes up swinging. Hand in a goddamn fist, long limbs all over the fuckin’ place; tries to sit up and socks her in the face. Not that hard, he’s slow and dazed and whatever, too, but it’s a solid thump and Helaena’s ow, what the fuck?! gets him blinking awake into the darkness. She assumes so, anyway. Can’t see shit. Pitch black with everything zipped up, but he starts kinda mumbling. Real words, so she figures he’s up now.

“What the fuck?” he says back. Groping around.

She starts groping back, trying to find his hands, his wrists, something to keep him still and calm him the fuck down. They’re both propped on their elbows, she thinks; can feel the way his sharp bones and shifted weight are moving the air in the mattress under her.

“Hey, hey, I’m right here, shhhhhh,” and her palm bumps his chin, or his nose; some pointy cartilage-feeling thing, and she holds it there until he finds it with his own hand.

Clammy fuckin’ fingers. Hard and frantic, grabbing at her like he’s trying to cut off her fuckin’ blood supply.

“Shhhh,” she says again. Over and over, just shushing and shushing, over the sound of his crazy breath. “Shhhh, baby, I’m right here. Bad dream. Bad dream. I’m here; it’s okay, hey hey hey,” and his grip goes softer. Just a little.

“Fuck,” he says. “Fuck. What the hell…”

“Tent. Camping. Just you and me. Just us. There’s a fuckin’ flashlight in here somewhere, it’s in the bag, hang on….” and she starts groping for that next.

“No,” he says, “no, leave it, it’s fine it’s fine. I don’t want…”

He doesn’t finish, but he doesn’t have to. She can tell from his hands what he doesn’t fucking want her to see. “Okay, baby. Okay. Shhh.” She can feel his features now; palm splayed over his face, his laid on top. “C’mere.”

They’re already smashed together; not really anywhere for him to come, but he knows what she means. Reaches with his other hand to find her, and when he does, she snuggles herself down into it.

“C’mere,” she says again, shifting over, in, rubbing her thumb over his cheek. She feels his scar running under, the texture of it, and traces down. Finds the corner of his lip.

He comes. Lets her hand lead him, pull him, and puts an ear to her chest. Feels funny without his hair spilling everywhere, she thinks, but what’s left of it is right under her nose. Sweat and maryjane and that sugarleathersharp smell that’s just his body. Whatever’s swimming in his cells. His cheek is soft, and she strokes down it with that thumb again. Slow slow slow.

Slow til his rise-and-fall is slow, too. Til his hand’s under the hem of her t-shirt, pushing down on the bottom of her rib cage, walking up the center towards her heart. Til his humid mouth’s dampened her collar.

Then she asks her questions.

“You okay now, baby?”

She feels him nod, a nuzzle-y nod that goes on and on. “Mmmhm.”

She takes a lock of hair and twirls it hard around her finger, til she can feel it dig in. Pull tight above her knuckle. “What were you dreaming?”

He doesn’t remember, he says. She feels him shrug and burrow and shrug again. He’s fuckin’ lying, and they both know it, but she doesn’t press.

It doesn’t matter, really. She can imagine.

She just hums a little. Traces his ear, all those seashell curves and a funny bend at the top. Tiny little dip that you can only just feel, not even see. Rubs at all the scar tissue inside. “You should get pierced again,” she tells him. “Now that you look like a fuckin’ baby. Gonna get ID’d every time you want some smokes.”

“Fuckin’ metal’s gonna change that?”

“Probably not,” she says. “I just like it. And your hair’s outta the fuckin’ way now.” He took them all out because his fuckin’ hair got caught all the time and it drove him bonkers.

“Whole way up again?”

“Mmmhm,” she says. Rolls his ear around and around and around, and she can feel him shudder a little with it. Likes his fuckin’ shit played with.

“Okay, Laney,” he says. Finds her hand and pulls it right to his mouth. Kisses the back of it. “You want some coffee?”

“Yeah.”

“Me, too. You wanna get up?”

“No,” she tells him.

“Me either.”

She feels him laugh a little. “DoorDash it,” she says, and he laughs again.

“I’ll make us coffee,” he says. Picks up his head and looks for her lips. Misses, catches just below them, and when she adjusts to help him, he misses again, and they both just laugh.

“Forget it,” she says. “Just get up.”

They do, and when Eyeball unzips the tent, it’s still pretty dark. They crawl out into it, moon hung low and transparent over the water. Throwing enough light to see halfway decent. “Almost sunrise,” he says. “We got front row tickets.”

He’s right, she thinks. There’s that pre-dawn hush over everything. Thinning of the air. Not the middle of the night, for sure. Fucking cold, though, and she wraps around him tight when she stands up; face pressed right to his back to steal his fuckin’ heat.

“Get that blanket,” he tells her.

“I don’t wanna get it all sandy,” she says.

“Don’t worry about it, Laney,” he says, tugging her around to his front. “We’ll fuckin’ wash it. Get it and fuckin’ wrap up.”

She doesn’t move, and she doesn’t see his stupid eye, but she knows he rolls it at her. He squats and reaches back inside. Tugs it out, dragging that shit right through the sand, and hands it to her.

He’s got bent, smushed cigarettes in his pocket - lighter, too - and he straightens one out for both of them and lights them up. “Sit,” he says, blowing smoke through his nose at her. “Fuckin’ get warm,” and he goes to get shit for coffee out of Granny’s trunk.

Helaena sits down on a big old rock by the fire pit, and Eyeball shines the fog lights out for a second so he can get one going. It comes to life right away, and the little tin camping pot they fuckin’ got at Walmart heats the water faster than that iron thing. They each get a good, hot cup fast - little tin mugs to match the pot - and Eyeball cuts the headlights.

It’s quiet. So quiet. Just the tiny little waves doing their tiny little wave things, and little fuckin’ bird titters here and there. They know morning’s coming. Telling each other all about it. Making their plans for the day or something.

The two of them don’t fuckin’ talk at all, just sit and stretch their bare toes at the warmth, sipping and smoking and staring at the flames. It’s fuckin’ nice. He’s calm now, got his cuddle fix and his bulletproof caffeine/nicotine combo, and he looks pretty in half-shadow. Early morning gray and campfire glow, and that’s what she’s thinking about when he looks up at her, brows close together in his thinking face, and then stands up to stretch. Sits his cup down on a rock and makes himself long and lean, unbuttoned pants sliding low and his pale body like smoke rising rising rising.

“Whatcha doing?” she asks him when he wanders out a little. Sinks his skinny butt into the sand closer to the water.

“C’mere,” he says. “Bring your shit.”

She shrugs. Butts her smoke against her rock and wraps herself in the blanket so she doesn’t fucking drag it. Takes her coffee out to see him. “What’s up?”

He’s stretched long on the ground, too; legs straight out, leaning back on his arms. Facing away from the water with his head tipped up to her. “Come sit,” he says.

She looks at him a little sideways and moves like she’s gonna curl next to him, but he shakes his head at her and grins. “What?” Helaena asks.

“Not there,” he tells her. “Here,” and fuckin’ makes a kissy face at her. Sticks out his tongue.

She laughs. “What are you talking about?”

“Sit on my fuckin’ face.”

She laughs harder. “You’re stupid. Let me finish my fuckin’ coffee before you start your bullshit.”

“Bring it,” he grins. “Take your fuckin’ clothes off. Sit and drink your coffee.”

Helaena kicks him, just a gentle shove with her fuckin’ bare foot and rolls her eyes, but the fucker’s serious.

“C’mon,” he says. “I won’t make you spill it. I’ll wait til you’re done to give it to you fuckin’ good. Get naked. Let’s go.” He reaches out to take her cup for her, and she looks at him sideways, but she hands it over.

“You’re a maniac,” she tells him, but it doesn’t fuckin’ stop her from stripping off her goddamn pajama pants.

“Shirt too,” he says. “I wanna look at you.”

“I’m gonna fuckin’ freeze,” she starts, but he’s already giving her a look that tells her she’s being an idiot. She switches to, “You can’t fuckin’ see much anyway,” but that doesn’t work either. She’s fuckin’ white as he is; could probably guide a goddamn fleet of ships into harbor at midnight with her bare tits, and she gives up on that one before he even argues.

“Keep your blanket if you want it,” is all he says, and in a second she’s just standing there fuckin’ nude, staring down at him with a half-cocked smile. Dumbass blanket draped across her shoulders like a fuckin’ fur coat or something.

“You’re so stupid,” she says.

“Sit,” he says back, laying himself out flat. “Best fuckin’ seat in the world and you know it. Can’t believe you’re fucking fighting with me about this.”

Helaena giggles. “I’m not,” she says. “I’m really not, Daddy.”

“Just fuckin’ habit to give me shit, or what?” He puts his free hand out to her, and she slips her fingers in between his. Lets him lead her down til she’s spread across his hips.

Motherfucker’s got a semi just from looking at her. Saying hello right under his fuckin’ messy zipper. She laughs at him. “Never gets old, huh?”

“Never.”

“It will.”

“Not today.”

“Not today.” She looks down at him. Sees the first little glimmer of sunrise in his face; reflecting back at her in the blue glass of his false eye. Tiny pupil made of sunlight, growing wide just like his real one. Letting her in.

“Here,” he says, handing her her coffee as she settles a little over him. “Take your time. I got all day, pretty girl.”

She sips it with one hand. Uses the other to trace over his mouth before she sits all the way. Presses her thumb inside. He’s fuckin’ warm as anything. Soft as the sand under her knees, even when he bites a little. Gives her his stupid twitchy wink. She smiles.

She sits.

Easy - easy - top three on her Best Head Ever list. Maybe the winner. And it’s always fuckin’ good; she taught him right, and he fuckin’ likes pussy. Could fuckin’ stick his face in it all day and be fine. Has that crazyass tongue that can do stuff only fingers should be able to do.

But it’s goddamn spectacular. Goes on for an hour or three hours or twelve, whatever; she fuckin’ loses time like she’s in a fuckin’ vortex or something after awhile.

Just sits at first, doesn’t even move. Drinks her stupid coffee and laughs at the ridiculousness of it all, spread over his pretty mouth while he just fuckin’ breathes on her. Watches her up there, fuckin’ eye all amused. Warm as his lips.

“You look like a fucking angel or something,” he says to her. Fuckin’ kisses her, just a little. Just the outside. “Fuckin’ fuzzy white wings,” grinning like an idiot.

She’s got that blanket sitting funny around her shoulders, down her arms a little, and she can see what he means. Giggles at him. “That’s me,” she says, and he kisses her again. Kisses and breathes, and she can feel herself turning to liquid. Dripping right out onto him, hotwet seeping like that light over the horizon.

Sun’s coming up; soft and round. Poking out of its hiding spot in the bank of low clouds, and she giggles again. Sees herself up there as he flattens his tongue against her. Presses up just a little, just soft and searching, and coaxes her fuckin’ clit out of its little hiding place, too. Soft and round and warm, and she bites her lip around a gasping sort of laugh.

Sky breaks open, runs like honey or yolk or blood, and she takes the last swallow of her coffee. Tosses the cup and reaches down for his cheek. “Look,” she says; tilts him back, up, away; upside down eye going wide. He’s got the image one way and she’s got it the other, lenses flipping reality in on itself, inversion and reversion and reflection and refraction, until they are both nothing and everything, and when he says beautiful he could mean any fucking thing at all.

But he means her. Means the way all that gilded light is catching in the prism of her hair; the mirror of her skin, and she knows it because he takes all of her. Opens wide, comes back to swallow her, and it’s in his hair, too. In his skin. Same as hers. And he’s the loveliest. The most beautiful. Tongue all over her now, soft; lips around hers in a sloppy fucking kiss, frictionsuctionwhatever, just taking her.

No fucking rush. No urgency. Like they’re in their own goddamn bed on a fucking Sunday morning, but she can smell the ocean. Brine and salt, something deep and dangerous and holy; something that existed before any fuckin’ thing they’ve seen and that will outlive everything they know. It’s here, that ancient thing with its ancient breath, and he’s fucking looking for it in her. Trying to pull it from her goddamn body, searching for the spell to call it out. Writing runes with his tongue, and she’s got his hands now.

They’re at her hips, soft patterns in her flesh, circles, and she needs to hold on, so she finds them. Lets him move them with his own, their knuckles hooked and helixed like their funny DNA. That staircase, that spiral, up up up. Up like his tongue inside of her. Up like his hips behind her, looking for something - anything - to fuckin’ rub against, he’s got himself so strung out. Up like her face to the light that’s breaking. Up like that heat, climbing the rungs of her spine like a ladder. Up.

Air’s cool, and the sand is cool, and she’s just heat. Like he’s just filling her to overflowing with it as she rocks like a little boat over him, against him, with him. She leads and he follows, or he leads and she follows, waves breaking over and over and over, moon and tide, tide and moon, tugging on whatever fucked-up magic’s in their blood.

His fuckin’ mouth is too busy to talk, mostly; just stops for a second to nip at her, bite into the quivery-soft flesh of her thigh. Long enough to say tell me, Laney; you can tell me when she whimpers at him, swallows some sound trying to slip through her teeth.

After that, she does, but all she can manage is good. It’s good, it’s so good, oh my god it’s so good you’re so good, and maybe that’s true, she thinks, somewhere back in her fucking blown-fuse brain. Maybe good is still possible; still a thing he can be. If he can do this for her, love her out in the light like he’s not fucking afraid to be seen so wholly, give her wings and a halo and a fucking hot cup of coffee, make her kneel in the sand and come apart into as many fucking pieces as there are tiny grains beneath their bodies, then maybe. Maybe he’s good, or close enough. Maybe she is, too.

Maybe.

oh shit it’s so good, and it just goes on and on and on. He’s not trying to finish, even though the sun is finished, and the sky is lit, and the tide’s running out like it’s late for work. He’s just slow-mouthing at her, slow-licking and slow-circling and he’s got a little rhythm that might never ever be fucking enough; that might bring her there by half and half and half again for as long as she fucking draws breath; make her claw her own palms to shreds and beg and beg and beg.

She doesn’t beg, though. She would if she could - she’d do it so pretty for him, sound so goddamn desperate he’d come all over himself, sticky zipper and a sticky belly like he’s fucking fifteen again - but she can’t. Can’t say anything but good, just stuck on stupid, a skipping record, and you’re so fucking good, it’s so good oh my god it feels so good you feel so good, good good good, and she hopes that’s what he’ll hear when he sleeps again. That if she says it enough, his subconscious will play it back for him in the dark. A loop loud enough to drown that other shit out. Good.

He fucking sucks on her til she dissolves. Melts down like sugar on spit.

So good her fucking body doesn’t have the sound for it. Doesn’t have the language. She’s silent at the end, fucking hands in her own mouth; both of them jammed in there to the first knuckle, choking back nothing.

All of her blood - the stuff in her veins, the stuff she fucking lets loose with her own teeth, clamping down on her quaking bones - all of it’s just liquid light.

And it’s good.

Chapter 54: Gritty

Summary:

Helaena closes her eyes. Lets Eyeball put his cigarette between her lips and takes his last fucking drag. Hers is already gone. “I at least want to know, I think. Don’t you?” she asks.

Notes:

this was part of ch53 until it wasn’t, ha. so it was done @ the same time.

dirty (sandy?) smut & a little family drama (were you missing Otto?) & in the spirit of bottledildo, i almost titled this douchebottle 🤣

He reached inside
and turned on the lamp —

I never knew I was also a lamp — until the light
fell out of me, dripped down my thigh, flew up in me,
caught in my throat like a canary.
Canaries really means dogs, he said.

He put on his shoes.
You started this with your mouth, he pointed.
Where are you going? I asked.
To ride the Ferris wheel, he answered,
and climbed inside me like a window.

- from My Brother My Wound by Natalie Diaz

 

“Wash it today,” Helaena mutters, half here and half not. “Fuckin’ mess, and I like that thing.” Talking about her blanket.

“Mmhm,” he says, the sound vibrating against her clavicle. “Clean it up,” as he’s slipping down her body, cataloging her bones with his tongue. Sternum, ribs, the rounds of her pelvis, little handholds on either side. “Fucking mess.”

Fuckin’ jizz all over her. Dripping out from between her legs. All over that fluffy, sandy fucking blanket.

“Look at what you did,” he tells her, finger sliding right through it. Pushing it back inside, only because he wants to fucking watch it leak again, head right down there now so he can see it all.

“What I did?” she grins.

“Mmhm.” He’s got a damn fingerful of it now, dipping in like ink.

She can feel it run across her belly; recognizes his small, sloppytight script in the way his finger’s moving. His damn name. Right under her belly button.

“Yours,” she says to him. She means the mess. She means everything.

Helaena stretches her arms over her head; pushes her hands through the sand there and lets it run through her fingers.

“Mine?” he asks her. He’s just brushing at her now, soft. Pressing her sideways, up, apart so he can watch. She lets her knees fall wide to let him; all kinds of in the mood for his crap right now.

“Yours,” she repeats. “All this fucking mess. Your fault. Give it to me,” she tells him, sticking out her fucking tongue.

He does. Leans up to put his finger in for her, and she bites at him a little. Cleans him up, lazy. Thinks she could fuckin’ fall right back to sleep; blanket and sand beneath her and his body above her. Come sticky on her thighs and spit drying on her tits. Still all fuckin’ blown apart from his goddamn mouth; from the way he just pushed her on her goddamn back afterwards and fuckin’ slow-stroked himself inside until she was covered in it, that little moany fuuuuck right in her ear like a lullaby.

Maybe she’s still a little fuckin’ high, too. Just a little.

“More,” she says, and he sucks at her. Purple-red bruise just inside her hip; his finger dipping in again. Fuckin’ giving it to her to lick.

She stretches longer. Arches right up into his tongue, hot pressed against her side, and he sucks there, too.

“Put it in me again, Daddy.”

“Again?”

“Mmmhm. You can’t just bang a girl on a beach like that and expect her not to fuckin’ want more.”

She feels him smile. “Mmmkay. Gotta give me a fuckin’ second. Jesus.”

Helaena tugs him tight against her. Starts fuckin’ rubbing up on him. “Put it in me, Daddy. Please. Gotta fuck all this come back inside me. Fuckin’ give me more. Fill me up. Make it come out my fucking mouth.” Fuckin’ purrs it against his throat, gritty limbs winding around him like vines. Laying it on thick as fuck, smiling into the brand new sunshine spilling all over them.

“Gonna fuckin’ get all full of sand,” he says, hand over her belly. Sliding up slow. Spunk like fuckin’ glue, grabbing all the dirt from his skin as he goes.

“Mmhm,” she giggles at him. “Fuck this whole fuckin’ beach into me, too. Put a little baby mermaid in me. Fuckin’ scaly-tailed, purple-eyed thing. Scare all the fuckin’ doctors.”

He laughs as she runs her nails up his back. “Awfully fuckin’ demanding this morning,” he says, and she can feel him starting to perk back up a little. Doesn’t fuckin’ take him too long. She knows how to do it.

“Who, me? You started it,” she tells him. “You turn the fuckin’ thing on, you gotta go for the ride.”

He laughs. “Fuckin’ needy,” he says. Grabs her by her damn chin and pushes his thumb between her teeth while she squirms. “Spoiled. I fuckin’ baby you too much. Think you can get dick whenever you want it.”

She twists a knee behind him to pull him closer and opens right up. Looks him in his pretty face, little bit of attitude in her expression; little bit of fuckin’ do it, and when he spits in her fuckin’ mouth, she preens like a happy cat. He still fuckin’ tastes like pussy.

“Put it in me,” she says again when she swallows. “Fuckin’ sleepy-spoon-fuck me, Daddy. Please? I want it.” Whiny little thing, fuckin’ Veruca Salt shit, and he eats it right up.

“Turn over,” he tells her, and she grins.

Not hard yet, but she can feel him getting there when he reaches down to fuckin’ rub up on his own mess. Slides his cock right through it from behind. All the come leaking out of her, all that new slick stuff she’s got for him; uses his hand to get it everywhere, and she helps. Pushes back and fucking moans pretty for him. Spreads wide, points her knee up to the sky, fuckin’ uses his half-hard dick to play with her clit. Get herself going again.

That does it. Gets him right back where she wants him.

They’re a fuckin’ wreck. There’s sand everywhere. She can feel it between their bodies, in their fucking mouths, stuck under her tits and in her hair. He fuckin’ leans over her to spit again, and there’s goddamn sand in that; he nearly fucking misses, gets it just inside her bottom lip and she can feel it on her gums.

Sex actually hurts. They’re both raw, and he fucking dick-foliates her insides a little; himself, too, probably, all that gritty shit, but it’s fucking hot. Filthy. He fucking holds her by her neck, whispers disgusting shit in her ear, and she gets herself off with her dirty fucking hand and they wriggle and roll around and fucking wrestle themselves into a goddamn sweating, panting, nasty, biting knot until she comes on his cock with a sharp little sound like he kicked her guts out. That’s what it fucking feels like; her orgasm fuckin’ eviscerates her, and she can’t take any more of him once it’s done. He’s suddenly way too fucking big, fucking wicked huge, and he feels like sandpaper, and she ends up just kneeling in front of him and letting him jerk off on her stupid face. She helps him a little with her mouth, but he mostly does it himself while she tells him how bad she fuckin’ wants it. Kind of a lie by this point - mainly she wants a smoke and to fuckin’ douche or something - but he doesn’t fucking care; just likes his ego stroked like his cock.

It takes forever, and they’re both just laughing at it all by the time he gets off, and it’s just a pathetic little bit that winds up under her eye mostly. Some on her lip. He just thumbs it into her mouth to wipe up; not even a mess worth looking at for long.

Fucking sand in that, too, when she licks it off. Probably was already there when he splooged on it. Tastes like salty mud.

She thanks him for it anyway. Big eyes and all.

“Thank you, Daddy,” and he smiles down at her.

Looks like some dude who just got washed up on shore after a fucking pirate raid or something. Dirty as hell and kinda dazed and doofy, giant scar cutting his face all up. She imagines she’s not a whole lot better. Braves a look down at herself, and her tits and belly are just streaked with whatthefuckever, and honestly it’s like some weird porno version of Lost.

Except the car’s right over there, and they’re sitting on a few grand in cash, and she can go get a prescription for the fucking antibiotics she’s probably going to need tomorrow.

He helps her up. Wraps around her, big stupid bear hug until she’s a giggling mess, and tells her he needs a fucking cigarette. Needs ten cigarettes. Needs the whole fucking pack, probably, and she agrees with him. They’ve been at this shit for literally hours, running on straight campfire coffee.

“I need to fucking rinse out, too,” she says, and she does mean out. Not just off. She can fucking feel the visit to urgent care already. Goddamn fallopian tubes all clogged up with sand or something. Giant fucking dick packing her with that shit like cement. He’ll be lucky if he doesn’t need a trip, too, she thinks. Gonna feel like he’s pissing glass for a minute.

It’s like he’s reading her mind, because he lights them both up and says, “We should fucking pee.”

She snickers and blows smoke. “Yep. Hand me that bottle of water?”

He does, and when she finishes pissing, she tries her best to clean her shit up. Rinses a few times, then fuckin’ sits down on her shaken-off shirt on a rock and tries to pour it inside herself a little. Gets twisted like a pretzel in her fucking attempt, and he’s almost crying he’s laughing at her so hard.

“Asshole,” he says. “Let me.”

He actually manages a little better; has her lean and tip, and he sticks the mouth of the fuckin’ bottle right in there and pours some. When she stands, it all comes spilling out and running down, and maybe there’s some sand, too. Who knows.

She’s still sore, so he fuckin’ smears her with KY because they don’t have fuckin’ Vaseline or anything, and she puts on cotton underwear and they call it a day.

“How’s your dick?” she asks, and he snorts at her.

“Fell off, but I had some fuckin’ gorilla glue in the trunk, so we’re good.” He takes a drag through his laugh. “You really do need to fuckin’ tone your shit down. I let you get away with way too fuckin’ much.”

“Sounds like you need to tone my shit down,” she says, picking up a brow at him.

He takes a swallow from that same fucking nasty water bottle and nods at her, and she screws her face up at him while he grins. “I do,” he says. “You obviously need a firmer fuckin’ hand. Putting that fuckin’ pussy in time-out. You’re gonna be fuckin’ standing in the corner and sucking dick til further notice.”

She laughs at him. “If it doesn’t fuckin’ rot off.”

“Excuse me?”

“If it doesn’t fuckin’ rot off, Sir.”

He throws his whole head back at that one. Fucking swats her in the cheek, playful, and chases it with a kiss. “Watch yourself, little girl.”

Eyeball makes them more coffee, and she curls up in his lap to drink it. His hard body is softer than the fuckin’ rock, at least, and she can’t stomach the idea of sitting back in the sand, even though she’s fucking dressed. They sip and they smoke and when they’re done, they fuckin’ pack everything up. Decide to go wash the goddamn blanket and find something to eat.

He’s actually fuckin’ hungry. “Fuckin’ worked me out,” he tells her. “Christ, Lane. I’m getting old. Can’t fuck like I used to.”

She giggles at him. “Right? I remember the fuckin’ good old days. You’d fill up all three holes on nothing but a swig of fuckin’ Jim Beam and a Pall Mall. I’ll get your slippers, Daddy. We’ll have some fuckin’ noodles and then you can take a nap.”

He laughs again, big and warm. “Think you got me confused with your other brother. You ever see me drink Jim Beam?”

She smiles. “Maybe once. I dunno; I don’t think Waffle’s got that kinda stamina. Always seemed like a fucking two-pump chump to me. Lazy bastard.”

“Yeah, well. He never had to fuckin’ keep up with you, did he? Fuckin’ put it in me Daddy every ninety seconds.”

“It’s a tough fuckin’ life, isn’t it?” she says. Half ironic, half fucking not, and he wraps his arms around her and kisses the top of her head.

“You think he’s…?”

Helaena waits to answer. Sways with him a little. Leans her ear against his chest and listens to the very-much-alive of him. “I dunno. Looked like shit.” She pauses. “Looked like Daddy. That fuckin’ shallow breathing. I didn’t like it. He was getting a fucking fever, felt like. I… we fuckin’ missed everything. If he’s fucking dead, we missed everything. Couldn’t even fucking show up for him.”

She feels Eyeball stiffen. “When’s the last time he fuckin’ showed up for anyone?”

“Does it matter? Fuckin’ dead is dead; you show up. We showed up for Daddy. He did, too.”

“Fuckin’ shouldn’t have,” he says. “If I fuckin’ knew? Never.”

Helaena sighs. “He’s not Daddy. Fuckin’ dumb as a box of rocks, dirty fuck but not…”

“He did it to himself.”

“So what? You snort some bad fuckin’ coke, I’m not supposed to care? Because you did it to your damn self?”

“I’m not saying you don’t fucking care. You just don’t fucking owe him anything. You can’t fuckin’ owe dead people shit.”

“He protected us. You don’t wanna fuckin’ see it ‘cause you two have your own shit, but you know how many times he fuckin’ took a hand so we didn’t? Why do you think he’s the way he is? He’s a dickhead but fuckin’… he tried for us more than we ever fuckin’ tried for him.”

Eyeball reaches around her, squeezes that arm tight to get to his smoke. Takes a nice, long drag. “We all took plenty of fuckin’ hands, Lane. You got this guilt thing going on ‘cause you think he’s dead. Same shit he was on when he told us about the fuckin’ money. All the sudden your shit catches up with you because time’s up, and you see stuff with some kinda fucking soft focus lens. He’s a piece of shit. We all are.” He shrugs. “Saying it doesn’t mean I fuckin’ want him dead. But like… if he is fucking dead, he doesn’t know if we showed the fuck up or not. He doesn’t care. That shit’s for everyone else. You give a fuck about anyone else?”

“No.”

“Then let it go.”

Helaena closes her eyes. Lets Eyeball put his cigarette between her lips and takes his last fucking drag. Hers is already gone. “I at least want to know, I think. Don’t you?” she asks.

“I guess. Yeah.”

“Should we call the place he was at?”

He shakes his head. “They won’t fucking tell you anything over the phone.”

“Google?”

“We can try. I mean. We see something, that means he’s dead. But we don’t, doesn’t necessarily mean he’s not. Probably a good place to start.”

“I’m not calling Mama.”

“Nope.” He lights another fucking cigarette. Pulls on it hard. Squishes Helaena right the fuck up against him and tucks her under his chin, like she’s shivering or something.

She burrows deep. She’s plenty warm, but it feels good to be there. Safe or whatever. “… We could call Pop.”

He holds his smoke for a minute, like it fuckin’ helps him think or something. Blows it slow over her head. Straight up. “We could do that.”

Pop fuckin’ likes Eyeball. Always did. Thought he was fuckin’ smart and talked to him like a grown up from the time he could talk at all. Showed him how to do shit. Use a hammer the right way, mix those fucking bags of concrete, bait a fucking fish hook. Even knot a stupid tie.

Gave him his first knife of his very own, too, so he’d stop swiping Daddy’s shit. Mama hadn’t fuckin’ loved that one. Not at all.

Pop stuck up for him after the shit with his eye, too.

Mama lost her fuckin’ mind. Lit into him about fuckin’ fighting once she realized he wasn’t gonna die. Pulled her goddamn hair out, hollered for days, bitched to anyone who would listen about his bad temper. How he was a fucking cowboy. Didn’t fuckin’ listen to anyone. How he was gonna end up in jail.

Pop gave it back to her, though. Stood out on the back steps and put his finger in her face and told her that boy loves you. Said at least you have one man in this house, Alicent, and that had shut her right the fuck up.

Helaena’d understood then that it was some kinda dig at Daddy. Knew there was all sorts of tension.

Makes sense now, though. All of it.

Helaena tells Eyeball he should call. Talk man to man or whatever. Thinks Pop’ll be happy to hear from him.

Eyeball’s skittish, though. Fuckin’ dead guy floating on the property and all. Gets shifty-shouldered and shifty-eyed about it. Thinks maybe the line’s tapped or something, if they found old Larry. Thinks it’s gonna look all kinds of suspicious if they just call out of the blue after fuckin’ disappearing.

“Just think about it,” Helaena says. “You don’t have to fuckin’ do it today. Or at all if you really don’t think it’s smart.”

She’s pretty sure no one’s found anything yet. No reason for anyone to be poking around there with Pop gone. Property’s posted and shit; not even hunters allowed.

“I dunno, Laney. I’ll think.”

“Okay, baby. Don’t let it make you crazy.”

“Already there,” he tells her. Fuckin’ sticks his tongue down her throat then, big hand warm on her back. Trying to mush them into one body or something.

“Brush your damn teeth,” she tells him after. “Still tastes like you drank a fuckin’ cup of Chock Full o’Cunt,” and he laughs so hard his stupid knees buckle.

“I fucking love you, Laney,” he says. “Fuckin’ douchebottle,” and then she laughs herself fucking braindead, too.

Chapter 55: Spork

Summary:

“Somebody’s gotta fuckin’ take care of you. Jesus. You’ll just fuckin’ screw yourself stupid otherwise. Won’t you, Princess?”

Notes:

started this, then got distracted & went on a side quest - aemond & helaena’s big escape 🤣 - so had to write & edit & publish like 7k of that nonsense for absolutely no reason, but i came back here & finished 🤷🏼‍♀️

this chapter is just meander-y bullshit that I had to rein in. I’m going somewhere with it and will probably get there by July 🤣🤣

anyway it’s Monday so we have some fuckin’ hormonal pms-y type shit and some orgasm denial (of a sort) because there’s nothing more Monday than that right?

Hungry love bathed in hot cinders
waiting to be drenched in rain crying from your open pores
Love the mystery of life
The seed
The Master Seed you said
Lives
and like a bleeding locust
feeding from this tree
the ripe plum of everlasting love
I kneel
humbling myself before perfection
My quick tears sagging the earth
as I eat mud to touch the root of you

- from Hungry Love by Jayne Cortez

 

She’s still just feeling like one of those fuckin’ cake things with all that warm chocolate stuff in the middle. Like you could slide a spoon down her, and she’d fuckin’ run out all over. Sweet and sloppy and warm and soft. Wants Eyeball to fuckin’ stick his fingers in her and lick her off. Wants to drip down his stupid chin. Slide like sweat into his collar.

She sits in his fuckin’ mess and drinks more coffee. Eats her stupid pancakes and feels him in her fuckin’ panties, and she just wants to lay in the sun and spread her legs and let him fuckin’ watch. Have him put her mirror down there so she can watch, too.

Wants him to fuckin’ spit on her shit and kiss it off, or push it all inside her with his tongue. Wants one of those old man butterscotch candies Daddy used to keep in a bowl on the counter; wants to pass it back and forth between their mouths until they’re both just coated in sticky sugar.

Wants to latch onto the pulse in his throat and suck.

Who knows why. Hormones or something. All fucking wacked out and unbalanced and making her six kinds of crazy, and when he fuckin’ revs her engine like that - makes her come til she’s scraped down to her nerves; handles her rough and dirty - she’s just a goddamn mush for him. Everything soft and open and throbbing like a wound.

They’re in fuckin’ public, so she just uses her stupid fork to put her tasteless, hard-fleshed strawberries in his mouth. Footsies him under the table. “I wanna eat you,” she says to him. “Fucking chew you up.”

He’s got fuckin’ pancakes, too. Dry. Folded over like stupid tacos, eating them with his big hands like a dipshit dork. Hasn’t touched his own fruit.

He stops, his shit halfway to his mouth, and just looks at her like she’s bananas.

She swallows her own bite and nods. Casual as anything. “Fuckin’ do unspeakable shit to you. I’m serious. Think I’m all hopped up on fuckin’ like… oxytocin or whatever. I’d get thrown in jail for the shit I’m thinking about.”

“What the fuck, Lane,” he laughs. “We’re at a fuckin’ Waffle House. Can you not?”

She grins, big and bad. “Oh now you care. Fine when you wanna run your mouth, but the minute I wanna eat your heart out with a spork…”

He almost spits his fuckin’ sip of coffee; fuckin’ chokes to death. “That’s not fuckin’ oxytocin talking to you, little girl. That’s like…”

“Cute aggression,” she says. “It’s a thing.”

He’s just smiling at her. Looking at her like he wants to eat her, too. “Psychosis, I was gonna say. Straight Alicent-off-her-meds shit.”

“Mama ever had these kinda fuckin’ thoughts about you I’d eat her, too.”

He laughs. “You’re fuckin’ stressing me out. Eat your fuckin’ food.”

“Rather climb you.” She takes another bite.

“What?”

“Mmhm. Like one of those fuckin’ cat trees. Put my goddamn claws in you, fuckin’ all the way up. Climb you.” She stabs another berry and leans across the table, and he opens right up.

“No more of those fuckin’ pills,” he says, fuckin’ chewing while he talks. Rude as hell. “That shit fucks you right up. Do you even hear yourself?”

Helaena snickers. “I hear myself. You should fuckin’ hear what I’m not saying out loud.” She sips at her coffee. “Don't think it’s the pill. I think you broke me. Finally did it. Fuckin’ got me so good I’ll never be the same.”

It’s the pill, she’s pretty sure. Shit’s wild as hell. Turns her all sideways for a minute; never knows what’s gonna happen next. It’s a ride. Could be PMS, too, she guesses. Maybe both.

She looks back at him, and the fucker’s still just smiling at her.

“You can climb me,” he says. “Fuckin’ climb me, eat me, whatever. Just shut the fuck up about it and finish your breakfast first.”

“You in a rush?”

“Nah,” he says after a second. “I guess not.”

“This town is cute,” she tells him. “Empty. We should do dumb spring break shit.”

“It’s November.”

Helaena nods. Sips her coffee. “So?”

“What kinda shit?”

She shrugs. “I dunno. Fuckin’…” Her voice trails off.

He just smirks at her. “We’re so fucked up, Laney. We don’t even fucking know what normal people do.”

“Get shitfaced. That’s spring break shit, right? But we don’t wanna do that.”

“You can,” Eyeball says. “I’ll be your fuckin’ DD. Fuckin’ take advantage of you in the back seat.”

“Normal people don’t play like that.” She raises an eyebrow.

“People do all sorts of sketchball shit. They just don’t talk about it. At least we’re just playing.”

She pops another strawberry into his mouth. “True. I’m not gonna get fucked up alone. What kinda fuckin’ lonely-ass alcoholic Waffle bullshit is that? Besides. You know how I do. Liable to fuckin’ start swinging on you. We don’t play nice.”

“Nope. And I don’t fuckin’ like being swung on.”

“No, you don’t.” She gives him a pointed look. “I mean. We could go to a club?”

The expression on his face almost makes her spit out her bite. All he says is, “You fuckin’ see a club around here?”

She swallows and grins at him. “No, but we go a little south there’s one. Guarantee it. What, you don’t wanna fuckin’ grind on me and shit? Fuckin’ put your hand up my skirt?”

He laughs. “What I don’t wanna fuckin’ do is have to knock a motherfucker out for looking at you sideways. Also, dance.”

Helaena giggles. “You can dance. You got rhythm. It’s just fucking with your clothes on.”

“Lane. You don’t wanna go to a fucking club. Sounds like your fuckin’ worst nightmare.”

“No, you’re right. I don’t.” She tries to take another sip, but her shit’s empty, so she snags his cup. Steals the last of it. “Tattoos?”

He looks at her. Shrugs a little after a second. “That we could fuckin’ do, I guess. Expensive though.”

“Had no trouble spending shit to play dress up with me. Fuckin’ ink will last longer than those goddamn stockings.” She winks.

“We’ll get more fuckin’ use outta that shit. Don’t fuckin’ worry.” He lifts his eyebrow at her. “Especially in whatever kinda fuckin’ mood you’re in. You wanna fucking climb me, better look like a fuckin’ kitty. Your ass better be fuckin’ on your knees and purring for me in that shit.”

Helaena laughs at that one, bigger than she means to. Catches an eye from some lady in a booth across the way, looks like she’s there with her old-ass mama or something. Sourpuss. Helaena winks at that bitch, too. Tells Eyeball she’s done. Fuckin’ time to go before someone makes them.

“If I had a dick, I’d fuckin’ ruin you with it,” she says, winding her fingers through his in the parking lot. “Seriously. You don’t even know. I’d put it everywhere.”

“I do know. And you do have a dick,” he reminds her, opening her door for her. “I packed it.”

“No strap.”

“No strap.” He leans in to buckle her up and kisses her cheek, grinning. “We could get you one. That sounds like some fuckin’ spring break shit.”

“Fuckin’ getting dicked down by your sister?”

“Classic. At least ten movies with that plot line off the top of my head.” He smiles as he slides into the driver’s seat.

“No, I’d just be so mad that I couldn’t feel it.”

“That fuckin’ sounds like you.”

“If I had a real dick I’d fuckin’…”

“I know,” Eyeball laughs. “I got one. I know. Trust me.”

“Would you suck it?”

He throws his fuckin’ head against the seat and rolls his eye so hard he probably sees his goddamn brain. “If you had a dick, would I suck it?”

“Yeah.” She toes off her shoes as Granny shimmies and shakes her ass.

“If you woke up with a fuckin’ dick tomorrow, Laney, I’d fuckin’ live and breathe cocksucking. I’d suck your fuckin’ soul out through it. Fuckin’ get myself a Deepthroat Champ t-shirt. Gag all over you. I promise.”

Helaena giggles. “Would you suck my fuckin’ strap?”

“What the fuck? Why would you want that? You just said you can’t fuckin’ feel it.” He pauses and lights a cigarette. Blows his smoke. “What the fuck are we doing?”

She snags it from him and puffs on it. “I think you’d look hot. Doesn’t matter. Wanna get a tattoo?”

“Suck my dick in the shower first,” he says. Steals his cigarette back. “Christ. See? Now you got me thinking about getting head.”

“… Are you ever not thinking about getting head?”

“Occasionally. Sometimes I’m fuckin’ thinking about giving it. Seriously though. I’m not letting someone fuckin’ touch my shit like this. Still got sand in my fuckin’ balls or whatever.”

“You getting a ball tattoo?”

“Maybe. Lane. Come on. We look like fuckin’ hostages. Let’s get a fuckin’ room. Clean up. Plus if you’re fuckin’ serious we should think about it. Decide what.”

She shrugs. Winks at him. “We can do that.”

*****

Asshole is serious about that time-out shit.

Takes her into the crap-lit motel shower and washes her up good; gets the rest of the fuckin’ sand out of her crevices and rinses it out of her nine million layers of hair. Shines her up good; makes her rosy-skinned and squeaky clean.

“Better?” he asks, fingers in her scalp, digging for grit. There’s no more. He did good.

Helaena nods, watching him with that skinny little bar of paper-wrapped soap. Gave her the last of that cheapie body wash shit they had, so he’s making do. Trying to get it all over his big old body.

“Let me,” she says, but she fuckin’ gets fresh with him because that’s what kinda shit she’s on today. Starts dragging her fingernails down his back and spending a little too long in the pretty little points at the bottom. Rubs herself all up on him.

“Think about your fuckin’ choices, Laney,” he says. “No one’s gonna fuckin’ be getting you off, remember? Not me, not you.”

She pouts right into him. Lets the water run over her lips. “But…”

“Think about your choices, I said. You can stop your shit and we can get on with life, or you can fuckin’ get me going and see what happens.”

She smiles, mouth spreading open against his showerslick skin. Half tempted to stick her fuckin’ fingers right in herself to see if he’s gonna bite them off or something. She starts to, even. Reaches down. They end up between his legs instead, though. Sneaking through to get a fuckin’ hold of his balls, because she’ll fucking flirt with anyone today, she guesses. Even Death.

Doesn’t flip the switch she’s looking for, though. He just cups a hand over hers and says, “Oh, it’s like that, then?” Rubbing at her fingers while she plays with him.

It takes a minute, even with her pressed up along his back making pretty noises at him, warm spray over their bodies and dripping all over. He really is getting old, maybe, she thinks, working her teeth into the muscle of his shoulder. She fuckin’ wore his shit out. He’s not that interested.

He gets there, though. Nice and hard under her hand, and it’s probably something to fuckin’ do with the way she’s wriggling against him like she needs something. Like she’s got a fucking problem he could fix.

Not gonna, though.

He turns around then; lets his cock bump high up her belly. Get trapped between them.

“That’s enough,” he tells her. “Hands behind your back.”

She looks up at him, blinking the water out of her eyes, and does what he says. Tucks them tight together, shoulders back, fuckin’ tits out. He rolls his eye at her, but he smiles.

“Good. Back up. Against the wall.”

“I’ll get cold,” she whines.

“Good. Fuckin’ calm you the fuck down. Go on.”

She pouts, but she listens. Backs up til her skin hits the tile, leaning just a little over the angle of the tub. She gives him a look, and he smiles. Looks pretty all wet; sparkly and shit.

“Foot up,” he says, pointing to the edge of the tub. “Open your fuckin’ legs. I wanna see it.”

Helaena bites her lip a little. Can feel all of her blood doing that thumping pounding thing, heating itself up in spite of the fucking cold wall behind her. She puts her foot up and gets herself steady before she fuckin’ spreads for him.

He just stands there and looks for a minute. Takes his goddamn time, fuckin’ jerking off all slow and lazy. Like it’s okay, not the greatest, and she wants to fucking laugh, but she doesn’t.

“Still pretty,” he tells her. “Gonna fuckin’ keep it that way, right?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“Don’t fuckin’ touch it.”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“Give that shit a break.”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“You’re gonna stand there, and it’s gonna fuckin’ drip for me. Fuckin’ self-cleaning oven shit.” He’s got a smirk on his face that she wants to fucking chew right off. She almost tells him that’s not how it fuckin’ works, but then she kinda figures that it is. Turn the fuckin’ heat up and let it go.

She lets it go, too. Gives him another yes, Daddy while he fucking plays with himself. Uses his other hand to fuck with her tits. Roll her nipples around between his fingers and turn them straight out at him. Splay his hand wide and trace the weight of them with a thumb. Feels fuckin’ nice. Better than normal, like when she’s about to start bleeding. So good it makes her squirm, and he fuckin’ likes that. Moves his stupid hand faster.

“Do you want it in your mouth?” he asks her. Puts her fuckin’ nipple between his knuckles and squeezes, and what she really wants is to open his whole damn chest with her fingernails and lick up the mess, but she just nods. She’ll take it.

“Yes, Daddy,” she says.

He looks her up and down. Fixes that eye between her legs. “You sure?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“Ask me.”

Helaena picks up her chin at him. Sucks on her cheek. “I wanna fuckin’ swallow your cock,” she says after a second. Pauses to watch him lift a brow. Watch a droplet of water slide down the left side of his fucking neck. He doesn’t stop her when she leans in to lick it right the fuck off, slow as anything. Takes way too long before she adds, “Sir.”

The fucking hand on her nipple pinches it so hard she almost falls right over. Makes fuckin’ knee-pudding out of her. She catches herself, though. Doesn’t do him the fucking favor of falling into him, just takes it like a goddamn boss. “You fuckin’ leave your manners in the car?” he wants to know. “Dirty-mouthed whore.”

She grins. He’s all up on her now. Nice and close, hair dripping onto her cheek. He smells like that weird hotel soap. She doesn’t like it. Wrinkles up her fucking nose, and the motherfucker tweaks that, too. Makes her giggle.

“Please.”

“Give me the whole fuckin’ thing. Nicely, fuckin’ slut. Christ. Who raised you?”

She loses it, then. Laughs right against his chest, feels the scratchy hair there against her face, and he loses his own dumb game, too. Wraps his arms around her and kisses her head, and their smiles meet somewhere in between and mush together in a stupid kiss. “Gonna suck your dick, Daddy. Please.”

He just laughs more. Tells her that fucking works. “Get down, y’fuckin’ dumb whore,” and pushes on her head. She goes down giggling. “Touch yourself and I’m fuckin’ done playing, though. Hear me? And I want that shit dripping down your legs when you get up.”

She nods. Grins. Takes him down her throat til he’s got a fistful of her wet hair and he’s telling her to suck it, slut, and she’s letting him jerk her damn head around like a pretty toy. Gets her going so bad she’s trying to press her thighs together to relieve it. Not even on purpose. Just clenching tight, making the tiniest lick of friction she can fuckin’ imagine, and it does nothing but frustrate her.

She catches herself before she gets fuckin’ popped, though. Sits still, tries to go as wide as she can, but it’s not wide at all in the stupid tub. She’s all pressed on herself while he’s fuckin’ using her, and she starts panting like a goddamn dog around his cock.

“Greedy thing,” he mumbles at her, half fucking trashed already. “You want pussy privileges back, you fucking earn them. Suck.”

Fucker gets off on his own dirty-mouthed bullshit, because that just about does it. Balls pull right up tight and he yanks her hair so hard it sends a whole-ass lightning bolt down her back. Jams his goddamn junk down her throat and she fuckin’ gags hard. Water and cock all together in there, and that’s where he puts whatever fucking spunk he’s got left. It’s not much, and she doesn’t fucking taste it at all. Straight into her belly, and she heaves all over but doesn’t throw up; he pulls back in time and fuckin’ apologizes a little. His way, of course. Wipes her eyes with his thumb while she gasps and swallows and gasps some more.

Got her good and messed up, though. Can’t even stand for a minute, and he’s not doing good, either. Leans over her against the wall, breathing hard, and she rests her head against his thigh and shuts her eyes. Got a whole angry-ass ache in her cunt.

“I need it,” she says to him. Right to his stupid cock, going soft on him an inch from her damn mouth. She puts out her tongue just to be a brat. Licks at it a little bit, sets him jerking around again.

He calls her on it. “Brat,” he says. “Fuckin’ stand up.”

It’s hard. Everything is slippery, including her stupid brain and her cunt and all of the muscles she needs to cooperate. He helps her. Feels gentle as anything, hands under her arms. Gets her to her feet. Holds onto her for a second, pressed right in. Front of him’s cold, but water’s still running warm down his back, and it feels nice against her skin when she wraps around him.

“Let me see,” he says after a minute. Kisses at her neck, fuckin’ groping down between her legs.

She nuzzles and purrs at him a little, but he doesn’t stay.

“You get so wet for me, good girl,” he says. Presses a little kiss to her cheek like he’s her fuckin’ brother or something. Takes the washcloth, fucking warms it up nice in the water and puts it on her cold-ass neck. “Should I clean you up, or do you want to walk around smelling like a whore?”

Helaena whimpers a little at him, gives him bratty sister bullshit back, but he just tuts at her. Shakes his head. Goes slow and washes all of it away.

Can’t rinse off the fucking ache though. It sits low in her, rumbly and buzzy like he stuck one of those fuckin’ remote control jobs inside her and is just going at her slow and steady. Constant.

“Daddy, I…”

“Shhhh,” he says, shutting off the water. “You’ve been so good. Somebody’s gotta fuckin’ take care of you. Jesus. You’ll just fuckin’ screw yourself stupid otherwise. Won’t you, Princess?”

She shoots him the dirtiest look she can muster, and he wraps her in a towel. Cozy as you can get in that thin motel shit.

“Clothes on the bed,” he tells her. “And keep pouting. Makes me wanna eat you with a fuckin’ spork or whatever.”

Helaena bites back her fuckin’ grin. Pouts right through it and winks.

Notes:

also raise your hand if you need the pegging and/or aemond-sucks-on-it scene? 🤣

I kinda do but also it’s prooooobably not something that’s gonna be possible for them right now 🤣 but I think a previous version of him was probably 100% down. I can see current!aemond being fine with getting pegged tho 🤷🏼‍♀️ he’s just a pleasure hound right?

Chapter 56: Mutt

Summary:

I mean, spring break, amirite?

Notes:

does mysaria’s astonishingly bad s1 accent live rent free in anyone else’s head? like… SO many people had to be like ‘no, this is totally fine.’

i love her anyway, and I’d let her at me with a sharp object in any universe

We were patient enough to count the hairs on each other’s heads, too impatient to get undressed. Neither of us had the upper hand, we wore matching wounds.

- from Written on the Body by Jeannette Winterson

 

Shop’s small; a little hole-in-the wall type deal with six-high stacks of books and tight turns and one chair.

One artist, too. She’s sitting with her black-booted feet propped up on the glass counter when they walk in. Fishnets and a short skirt that you could probably fuckin’ see right up, the way she’s sitting, but she’s got her shit all crossed tight. Smoking a cigarette that she stubs right out when her little bell rings.

Helaena likes her right away. Mellow energy and a pretty voice; some accent she can’t place. Only noticeable on certain words. Cute as fuck and queer as a three dollar bill. Somewhere between them and Mama in age; probably closer to Mama.

She’s an hour or so from closing when they ask her if she’s got any time today, and she tells them she can take one of them, maybe, if they know what they want and it’s small.

Helaena does, and it is.

“I’m gonna go get a fuckin’ cup of coffee,” Eyeball says. “You good?”

Helaena nods, and he hands her a wad of cash, like he doesn’t think he’ll be back in time or something. She screws her face up at him, but she takes it, and he tugs her fuckin’ ponytail a little on his way out.

“That your man?” Missy - that’s her name, she says; doesn’t fucking look like a Missy, or sound like one, and Helaena doesn’t believe her for a second - asks when he goes.

Helaena pauses for a half-beat. Maybe just a fraction too long, before she says, “My husband.” Both gonna have to show ID, maybe, she thinks, and she doesn’t wanna make this weird.

But Missy’s not a fuckin’ dumbass, and it all goes fucking weird right away. “You two look alike,” she says. “Your coloring, not your faces. Thought he was your brother maybe.” She’s just making conversation, casual as she slides the little font-flash book across the counter, but there’s something in her eyes that reminds Helaena of fuckin’ Eyeball. Of Alys. Little bit of seeing in the looking.

“We get that a lot,” Helaena says, staring down at the page.

“From one of those towns where everybody’s got the same great-great-great-great granddaddy I bet,” she says. “They’re all over.”

Helaena smiles, tight-lipped, but when she chances a glance up, there’s nothing she doesn’t fuckin’ like in this chick’s face. Cool as shit, just settling back into her chair. Metal on her fuckin’ boots jangling. They’ve got little tinkly chains along the sides; some kinda charms or something hanging there, but Helaena can’t get a good look at them.

“Yeah,” Helaena says. Forces a little laugh. “Fuckin’ small town shit,” and Missy smiles at her.

“You look like a small town girl,” she says. “One who’s seen some shit, though.”

Helaena looks up at her. “I mean. Who hasn’t?”

“True,” she acknowledges. “You see anything that’ll work for you?”

Helaena nods. “I like this,” she says, pointing. It’s almost exactly like what she was imagining. Delicate script. Sharp edges, though, like the words are made out of boning knives. Long and skinny.

Eyeball will fuckin’ like it, too, she thinks.

“Good choice,” Missy says. “Don’t use that one a lot, but it’s one of my favorites. Pretty, but’ll cut your throat.” She pauses for a second to catch Helaena’s eye, and there’s a glimmer of humor there. “Basically every girl I’ve ever dated.”

Helaena laughs. “Fun though, right?”

“That’s a good word for it, sure.”

Helaena likes her smile. Gap-toothed troublemaker shit.

She goes to pee and gives Missy a minute to sketch her up, and when she comes out, it’s almost done. Just a little thing. She had to have Helaena spell it for her.

“How’s this?” she asks.

Helaena nods and settles down where Missy’s pointing her. “Perfect.”

“Never heard that one before,” Missy says.

“Yeah, it’s unusual.” She tugs down the collar of her shirt a little, and hears a little whistle when Missy takes a look.

“That’s his work, I’m going to assume?” she says, adjusting the fabric and peering down.

“Mmhm.”

“… He’s a handful.”

Helaena shrugs, lips quirking a little bit. “I asked for it.”

There’s a pause, like Missy’s trying to decide if she wants to go here, and in the end she does. “Asked for it as in…”

“Literally asked for it,” Helaena says. “As in, bite me. No, harder. Doesn’t fuckin’ knock me around, I promise. He’s an asshole, but not like that.”

Missy’s still looking down; got her fucking shirt pulled out. “So you’re the handful,” she says, sort of mumbling, but she sounds distracted. “Sorry. I just noticed the ink on your chest. Is it okay if I look?”

Helaena shrugs. “We’re both kind of a lot. And sure. I can fuckin’ take this off…”

“You don’t mind?”

Helaena shakes her head and pulls it over her head. “Easier for you anyway, right?”

Missy nods at her and leans in closer. “This is super well-done,” she says. “Design looks simple but it’s really not. The little bits that look like they’re sparkling? That’s badass.”

Helaena smiles. “Took forever.”

“I can tell. Sorry,” she says, and then her fingers are on it. Light and sort of fluttery; feel like an accident or something. Like they’re moving without her consent, just little half-strokes over the line work. Like she’s looking for the texture. Expecting silk and finding skin.

She’s got cool hands. Competent-feeling. Firm and steady. Like Eyeball’s fucking shit, but a hundred degrees colder and a whole lot smaller.

Helaena doesn’t fucking like strangers touching her, but she’s paying this chick for it, she supposes, and she doesn’t mind so much. Not really. Not even whatever the fuck this little extra rubdown is. She likes her web, too, and it’s kinda nice to have someone else besides Eyeball appreciate it.

“Does it mean anything in particular, or just look cool?” she asks. Back to Helaena’s shoulder now, tilting her head sideways to figure out the spot. Eyebrows knit and everything. Even takes the glasses off her head, sticks them on and pulls them off again. Makes Helaena smile.

“Little bit of both, I guess,” she says as Missy makes her fuckin’ decision and pats that little scrap of paper down.

“You want it underneath, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Perfect,” she says, wetting it with her cute little bottle. Glass. Fuckin’ oldschool atomizer, Helaena realizes.

“Cute,” she says. “My mom’s got one like that.”

“Was my mom’s,” Missy tells her. “She had a bunch. I stole all of them after she died.” She cocks her head again and pulls it off like a fuckin’ BandAid. “There. What do you think?”

Missy holds a mirror so Helaena can see, and it’s just right. Exactly like she had in her head, almost. “Nice,” she says. “Thank you.”

When that fuckin’ needle starts buzzing on her, she starts to wonder where the fuck Eyeball is. Coffee shouldn’t be fuckin’ taking this long; they saw at least three different places on the way here, and none of them were that far. Even if he walked, he should be back by now. Probably twice over.

Her stomach starts to tie itself up a little; fuckin’ head filling up with all sorts of nasty what-ifs. She starts thinking about the last time she didn’t know where the fuck he was, and her heart starts pounding. Armpits and neck in a clammy kinda sweat, and Missy stops for a second, tuned in enough to feel what her fucking blood is doing in there. Her breath. Asks her if she’s okay. If she needs a break, like she’s being a fucking puss about this itty-bitty thing on her back.

Helaena almost tells her yes. Almost fucking calls time so she can have a goddamn bathroom meltdown - she’s about six seconds off from it - when he finally comes strolling in. Got a big ol’ cup in each hand, juggling his way through the jingly door, smile on his face and a cigarette burning in his teeth. Knife shiny in his boot.

Helaena wants to fucking strangle him. Wrap her goddamn hands around his neck and choke that fucking grin right off. Either that or just collapse into a heap around his skinny knees and cry. She’s grateful for this stupid dentist’s chair thing; got her leaning forward, trapped there between the sticky vinyl seat and Missy’s sticky vinyl gloves. Otherwise she might be doing shit she’ll be sorry about later.

As it is, it’s not fucking cute. “Where the fuck were you?” she says, fucking sharp as anything.

Room goes way fuckin’ tense for a second. She doesn’t like the look that starts spreading across Eyeball’s stupid face. The way his hand goes tight.

Missy’s good, though. Cuts it quick, like she’s done this shit once or twice. “Yeah,” she says, like it’s just a normal fucking conversation. “You missed it. Was just saying to your girl that I normally tell people not to get names on their bodies unless it’s their kids, but you two have a vibe.”

Helaena looks back at her kinda sideways for her bullshit, but she rolls with it. Softens up a little.

Eyeball sets down one of his cups and opens the door back up to butt his smoke. “Sorry,” he says, pocketing the stupid thing. “What kinda vibe?” Takes a sip and raises his eyebrow. More at her than at Missy.

Missy smiles at him. “Like you’ve been married a hundred years or something,” she says. “Not going anywhere, you know?”

He sorta shrugs, like he doesn’t know how to respond. Like how the fuck would she pick up on any of that shit from the five minutes he was in there. Like he doesn’t know what the fuck Helaena told her and doesn’t wanna blow up her spot. “You want your coffee, Lane?”

“In a sec,” she says. “Where’d you go?”

“Down the street,” he says. “Had a fuckin’ hard time deciding. Two places.”

Missy laughs. “You did good, kid,” she says. “Blackwoods is way better. Those two are the Hatfields and the McCoys.” She turns to Helaena. Buzzes her a little and wipes the ink. “Two coffee shops across the street from one another down there. Been there for decades. Coooonstant competition. Constant feuding. It’s hilarious. Whole town has a side, I swear. That’s how you make friends around here. Blackwoods or Brackens? Your man here chose right; otherwise I’d have to throw both your asses out.”

Eyeball actually laughs at that one. “Shit’s not bad,” he says. “Gonna get fuckin’ cold on you, though.”

“I’ll take it,” Helaena says.

Missy pauses while he comes behind the little counter to hand it to her. Watches him push her hair back from her face and tuck it behind her ear.

He looks down and smiles a little. It’s almost done. “Fuckin’ looks good, Laney,” he says.

She smiles back. Cup’s nice and warm between her hands. Everyone’s fuckin’ relaxed now. Her heart’s settled itself the fuck down in her chest.

“Had to tell her you’re not a fucking woman-beater,” Helaena says to him, teasing. “Saw the shit you did back there.”

He comes within a fuckin’ inch of shame. She can see it. Stupid face goes half scolded little boy, but he pulls it in quick. Sticks a smirk up there instead. “Nah. I don’t fuckin’ wail on you unless you ask for it.”

“That’s what I said.”

Helaena can hear the fucking eyebrow arch when Missy says, “No worries. I’ve seen worse.” Gloved finger slow across Helaena’s muscle. Runs right over those fuckin’ teeth marks when she goes. “Worked in that scene for years before I moved along.”

“What scene?” Helaena asks.

“Kink,” she says. Mild. Like she’s talking about the fuckin’ weather. How sunny it is for November or whatever.

“You’ve seen some gnarly shit then,” Eyeball says, kinda curious now, and she nods.

“People are complicated. They do all kinds of complicated things. Always been interested in them.” She cocks her head towards the wall, and Helaena follows Eyeball’s gaze.

Bunch of certificates and shit up there; Helaena assumed they were just her license, safety shit and whatever. Those are there, too, but the middle one’s a fuckin’ degree. Master’s in psychology.

“So you’ve really seen some shit,” Helaena says, and Missy just laughs.

“Never used it. I mean, not traditionally anyway. Just interested. Had to use that poor kid free ride for something, right?” She smiles and rubs more ink away. Surveys her work for a second. “Think you’re done, honey. You wanna take a look?”

Helaen sips on her coffee - it really is good; no need to fuckin’ try that Bracken shit, she thinks - and nods. “Yeah.”

Missy cleans it up a little. Rubs the good, soothing stuff all over while Eyeball watches, big old smile back on his lips.

Missy hands him the mirror to hold for her when she’s done, and Helaena twists around to take a look.

Small thing. Right beneath her pretty new scar. Just his name - the real one - in that lovely, lethal-looking script. D at the end drops down into a stem with a leaf, and there’s that little cherry-heart she asked for. Juicy-looking and bright red, just hanging out and asking for a bite.

Tiny drop of blood there, too; like someone already took one.

Helaena grins. “Perfect,” she says, and it is.

It’s perfect.

*****

“Fuckin’ love this fat ass.”

Helaena giggles. Supposed to be going to sleep, but whatever bullshit she was on was contagious or something, because now he’s just acting like an idiot. Got her on her stomach just groping at her like a creep on a bus. Those good, big hands everywhere.

“Go to bed,” she says.

“Can’t. Need this ass first.”

More giggles. She can’t tell whether he really is just a horny mess - all fuckin’ keyed up now that she’s branded or whatever - or whether he’s still running the long game on her; trying to turn her into a desperate, begging fucking dumpster fire. Probably a little bit of both, because she can feel his ridiculous fucking boner. Size of her goddamn arm, she thinks, just hanging out against her while he does whatfuckingever to her ass. Squeezing it and fucking spreading it and being a menace.

She’s just got her head on her arms letting him, big fuckin’ dummy.

Fuckin’ biting at her now and shit. He keeps at it, she’s not gonna be able to sit tomorrow.

She tells him that, and he laughs at her but goes easier. Just nips all over. “Can’t help it,” he says, and then there’s his mouth. His tongue. Sloppyhot and wet right against her, slow little up-and-downs. Taking his time. Fucking pervert midnight snack or whatever.

It’s nice. Real fucking nice, actually; turning everything down there into liquid heat. “Made for this, right?” he says, just sucking at her tailbone. “To be fuckin’ opened up and filled and fuckin’…”

There’s fingers in her now. One finger, anyway. Spit on, just to the knuckle, and maybe he’s right, she thinks. Wriggles a little back to take more of him. Made for it. All of it. All of him.

“Mmhm,” she says, and he fuckin’ presses his dick all into her, rubbing up.

“Mine,” he says. “Made for it. Fuckin’… taken and filled up and mine.”

Two fingers. Better than it should feel, she thinks, especially without the good lube. He’s just fucking spit all over everything, but it’s enough.

Still not touching her fuckin’ pussy. Got her arching herself into the stupid mattress looking for whatever, finding jack shit. Just pressing his fingers apart, sliding them around, pushing down a little to give her pressure from the wrong fucking side and make her crazy.

Bullshit’s working. Like scratching everywhere but the goddamn itch, and he’s got her clawing at the blankets after a few minutes, toes curling up and all that.

Making himself fuckin’ nutty, too, though.

“You’re gonna fuckin’ come like that,” she giggles at him. Voice all whiny and stupid, but she’s gotta say it, he’s so dumb right now. “Fuckin’ humping my leg like a dog.”

He laughs, too. A real one. “Least I’m gonna come,” he says. “Can’t say that for you.”

“Gonna break your dick, old man. Doing too much.”

“Nah.”

“Mutt,” she giggles. “Fuckin’ fingering my ass and humping my leg. Dirty fuckin’…”

“Watch yourself,” he says. Bites right into her neck. Cock leaking all over the fucking place.

“You really gonna make me wait?”

“Mmhm. Think I’m playing with you. I’m not fuckin’ playing.”

It’s bad. So bad she’s climbing the goddamn mattress; trying, at least, but he’s got a good grip, holding her down with his free hand pushed between her shoulder blades now, still rutting like a fuckin’ animal.

“Fuck,” she says.

“Good, right? Gonna be better later. I promise. I fuckin’… oh, fuck, Lane,” and there it is. Little pulse and throb and fuckin’ wet against her leg, just a little bit. Fingers digging into her, pressing and twisting and fuckin’ making it worse. Grabbing the nerves under her skin and making them howl.

“Goddamn,” she says, whole body mad. Fuckin’ lit. “Could’ve fuckin’ put it in, you know. Fuck, I…”

He shakes his head against her. Chews a little. “Nah. You’re so fuckin’ wrecked you could come like that I bet. Getting your ass fucked.” Breathing hard on her ear. Words right in it. “Not today.”

She makes some fuckin’ frustrated sound, and he pushes those fuckin’ fingers in more. Uses his hip to rub his damn mess right into her skin. Smear it all between them.

He’s not wrong, she thinks. She could fuckin’ figure it out. Hold herself so he’d get it done. It wouldn’t take much; she’s so tore up she’d probably squirt all over his shit again.

“Pussy’s mine,” he tells her. “It’s mine, and you fuckin’ come when I say so. Say it.”

“Mmhm it’s fuckin’ yours,” she says. Grumbly and grouchy and out of her head for it. “Goddamn fucking mutt.”

Eyeball just smiles. Calls her a brat. Tells her that her fuckin’ ass belongs to him, too, and she supposes she can’t really argue when he’s up to his fucking neck in it, can she?

Notes:

in her former life, missy was 100% a domme who went by Lady Misery, and she would be stepping on Aemond’s balls with her pretty boots and having him say thank you, ma’am in under five minutes. 🤷🏼‍♀️

Chapter 57: Oranges

Summary:

all talk no action

literally 🤦🏼‍♀️🤣

Notes:

uh, as usual i got distracted by the little stuff, and this is super dialogue-heavy and… not much else? I’m always overly interested in communication & negotiation and tend to get lost in it, and there was supposed to be a lot more going on here… and next thing I knew I was at like 3k+ with very little to show for it

So… sorry for that 🤦🏼‍♀️ also just gonna put in a warning for Aemond’s casual misogyny, which is usually just simmering quietly but pops up in a ‘girls don’t count’ sort of way here

I don’t wear the crown
for the times power
has tainted
my body,
but I can tell the difference
between giving up
and giving in.

[…]

I wanted the end
several times
but thought,
Who owns this body, really?
God?
Dirt?
The silly insects
that will feast
on my decay?
Is it the boy
who entered first
or the boy
who wanted everything
to last?

- from Tenor by Luther Hughes

 

“Oranges,” Helaena says, stretching big, fingers locked together with her palms turned up. She flops back against the pillow and looks up at him. “I want oranges.”

That kind of day. He knows the one. She wakes up with something in her brain - usually some kind of fruit, but once it was popcorn, another time it was Slurpees from 7-11 - and that’s it. All day. All she wants; all she can stomach. Nothing else will do. Sometimes it goes into the next day, but usually it’s a one-and-done deal.

Eyeball smiles down at her. He can’t do citrus, but it’s fine. More for her. “Okay,” he says. “Oranges it is. Do you want coffee?”

She thinks it over, pressing her toes out hard and wiggling herself awake. “Maybe. They need to be good oranges, though. I get that shit that’s like eating wet paper, I’m going to be pissed.”

“We don’t want that,” he tells her.

She laughs. “Nope.”

“Coffee?” he tries again, unwinding himself from the sheets. This room’s got a decent pot. Decent shit to put in it, too. They made some last night before bed to try it and were surprised by how not terrible it was.

“I think so. Yeah,” she says, cocking her head to think for a second. “Yeah, coffee is okay.”

She gets up at the same time he does and fishes through the bag for cigarettes; the nightstand pack is empty. Feels around with her hands while she watches him. Still getting used to that hair, she thinks, as he adjusts his patch over it and starts messing with the shit on the counter.

“Daddy?” she says. Watches him pause.

“Hm?”

“C’mere?” She finds what she’s looking for, fucking Reds with the lighter tucked inside, and pulls them out.

“What do you need?”

“You.”

He looks back at her. “Not gonna fuck you, Laney,” he says, dumping the water into the damn pot. Got his Daddy voice on; sitting right on the edge of a reprimand. Shit turns her knobs.

“I know.”

He closes the lid and presses the button. Pads over to her. “What do you need?”

“Light my fuckin’ smoke and tell me I’m pretty.”

He laughs as she tugs the door open and sticks a cigarette in her mouth. “You’re pretty fuckin’ naked, is what you are,” he tells her. Takes the damn lighter anyway.

“Mmmhm.” He lights her up and tugs her out of view. Fuckin’ morning dick should’ve chilled out by now, but it’s still doing its thing, and she gives it the eye. “You sure you’re not gonna fuck me? Fuckin’ dick thinks you are.”

He smirks at her. “Just woke up. Relax.”

“Right in the doorway,” she says, raising an eyebrow and blowing smoke through her damn nose. “Put it anywhere you want. You like to be a fuckin’ showoff. Big fuckin’ wake-up dick and a chick who lets you stick it in her ass? C’mon.” She giggles and takes another drag.

He rolls his eye at her, but he looks like he’s thinking about it for a second.

Back home he would have. Before.

It’s her thing, mostly; the what-if-someone-sees crap. Not so much the being watched as the being wanted so bad, who cares of it, or the I’ll fucking take you right here, slut, and who’s gonna stop me? of it. Almost always her idea.

But part of him gets off on the double-take. The fucking shock shit.

They used to do it in front of windows, or do some sneaky public shit sometimes. He had her suck a goddamn ice cube to stay quiet while he fingered her under the table at a fucking Denny’s once. Nearly choked to death and had to seltzer that ripped-up old seat clean afterwards, but it was fun as hell.

Not to mention his public jerk-off stuff. Sketch-head. She doesn’t know where that fucking dirty garbage comes from.

Not now, though. Not today. Too risky. Learned their fucking lesson.

He just ignores her nonsense completely in the end. Says, “Let me see that,” pulling her wild mess of hair to the side and checking on her back. “Gotta clean it up and stuff.”

They split her smoke, then he gets her with a little soap and water on a washcloth and lotions her up.

“Feels nice,” she tells him. Skin’s all dry and tight where the ink is new, and she rolls her shoulders into his hands. He works her over good, hands pulling all that tension out. She forgets she keeps it there sometimes.

He doesn’t forget.

“It’s pretty, Lane,” he says.

“You only think so because it’s your name,” she grins.

“Well if it was fuckin’ someone else’s, we’d be having words,” he says to her and cuffs her damn ear. “No, she did a good job. Lines are clean. Steady hand.”

Helaena nods while he makes her coffee. It’s that weird shelf-stable creamer shit, but it’ll do. Doesn’t use too much of it. He hands her the cup.

“We’d be having more than words, I think,” she says, blowing smoke at him. “I’d be visiting Daddy. But yeah. That’s her job.”

“Somebody’d be visiting Dad,” he tells her. “Probably wouldn’t be you.” He takes a sip of his own coffee. “You really tell her we’re married?”

Helaena leans back onto the bed. “Yeah. Thought we’d have to fuckin’ show ID or something.”

Eyeball pauses for a second, and she can see everything behind his eye click-click-spinning like a bunch of gears. He sips again. “Bet we could get away with it,” he says. “Just tell people that. Especially if you changed your name a little. Spelled it the normal way. Fuckin’ Dad and that aesc thing. Real fuckin’ hard-on for that.” He taps his fingers at the paper cup. “Bet nobody’d really question it.”

“She did.”

“What do you mean?”

Helaena shrugs. “Just said she thought we were siblings til I said you were my husband. We fuckin’ look alike, baby. You know that. Have to fix the fuckin’ hair and eyes and shit.”

“Hair’s an easy fix.”

“For you,” she laughs. “I’d need six boxes of fucking dye to handle my shit.”

“Only needs to be one of us.”

“Have to do the eyebrows, too.”

“What eyebrows?”

“Exactly,” Helaena giggles. “You should be a fuckin’ ginger. That’d be cute.”

He snorts. “Was thinking dark.”

She winks at him. “Nah. Ginger. Suits you, you soulless fuck.”

He laughs; a fuckin’ good one, too. Plants a wet kiss right on her stupid face. “Whatever gets you going, Lane.”

“Speaking of orange,” she starts, and he grins at her.

“I know. Fuckin’ get dressed. Gotta feed you before you start gnawing on my fuckin’ hand or something.”

“I might anyway.”

“Left,” he tells her. “Leave me my damn business hand.”

Helaena grins. “You can get your business done with either of them.”

“In a pinch,” he says. Drains his cup and takes hers for her. “You always want that right hand if you can get it.”

“I do. Other people, maybe not so much.” She says it kinda thoughtless. Automatic. Thinking of how many motherfuckers he’s laid out with those fucking knuckles, but he pauses. Takes an uncomfortable beat of silence, and she skids her gaze away. Looks down and changes the fucking subject. “Still like these little babies better,” she says quietly, dragging her finger over his belly. That inky spider line.

“Why’s that?” His tone’s quiet, too. Like something’s sleeping, and he’s trying not to wake it up.

“One I just got is kinda in your face, right? Little bit of mystery with these.”

He nods. Draws a spiral, circles ringing out and out and out across her chest, and drops a kiss just outside the lines. Bottom lip wet across her nipple. “You’re always a mystery,” he tells her.

“Not to you.”

Eyeball shrugs. “Maybe less to me. Doesn’t mean not at all.”

“Good,” she says. “Wouldn’t want to bore you.”

“Never,” he says. Taps her hip. “Bend over for me. This shit’s not going away.” Means his damn cock. Still sticking straight up, looking for everyone’s attention.

She raises her brows at him. “Yeah?”

“You sore or anything?”

“Nah.”

“Then yeah. Time-out’s over. C’mon; let’s make it quick.”

She snorts. “You’re so romantic.”

“You fuckin’ want candles and rose petals, maybe don’t get into it with your brother,” he says, watching as she turns to lean down over the side of the bed.

Helaena laughs. “May as well be married. Fuckin’ make this quick.”

“Shut up,” he says. Reaches between her fuckin’ legs to cop a feel. “No complaints here.”

“Fuckin’ wet-ass morning cunt,” she says as he slides a finger in. Gives her a quick and dirty warm-up that makes her eyes roll back hard. “Shit, baby. Make it yours.”

She smiles as he fuckin’ folds her in half. Hand in her hair, fuckin’ face-down ass-up. Spreads her wide and stares. “No fuckin’ flowers this morning, Wifey,” he tells her. “Sorry. But if you want your pretty little box rocked, I can fuckin’ do that.”

He does, too. Goddamn door open while she screams for it and everything.

He likes that shit.

Always has.

*****

“Good thing I bought more Tums,” Eyeball says. “Got fuckin’ heartburn just looking at you.”

Ten pounds of fucking oranges in her lap. Two of those big old bags. Seedless things, size of her fist, and she’s on her third in a row, just collecting the peels in Granny’s console. Sucking on her drippy fingers while he smokes in the driver’s seat, laughing at her.

They’re good ones, too. Two of them stood in the damn produce section and squeezed and sniffed like a hundred bags before she decided, but it fucking paid off because she hasn’t had a bad one yet. Good thing, because the minute she does, it’s over, and then she won’t be able to eat a damn thing for the rest of the day. Just sit around and smoke and chew on her own disappointment.

“I’m done,” she laughs. “Three is good for now.”

Eyeball sticks them in the back seat but leaves two little oranges to hang out in the glove box for her, just rolling around in the library with the fucking Glock. Strange little microcosm of their strange little existence, Helaena thinks, watching him click the door shut.

His appointment isn’t til a little later. She was surprised that he took the afternoon one; he usually likes to get shit done early and be through with it, but when Missy offered, he wanted the latest she had. He’s her last of the day, but she told him he could swing in any time two or after if he wanted, since she didn’t have anyone else scheduled.

Didn’t have an answer when Helaena asked him why. Just felt like it, he said. Acting like he’s up to some shit, though she can’t imagine what it might be.

He gives her an idea after a minute, though. Ashes his smoke out the window and looks at her a little sideways, like he’s working up to something. She can tell by the way his fuckin’ eye can’t settle down; bounces around her body, over the resting gauges on the dash, off of everyone who walks by. The way he twists his knuckles and cracks them one-handed.

Anxious.

“Spit it out, Eyeball,” she finally says. Isn’t totally sure she wants him to, but it’s better than whatever this kid-about-to-piss-his-pants thing is. About to get her just as wound, and she doesn’t even know why.

“You like her?” he finally asks.

“Who?”

“Chick who did your tattoo.”

“Do I like her? I mean. Yeah, she’s fine,” Helaena says, a little hesitant. Still not sure where this is going. If her answer’s gonna put somebody up a creek. “Why?”

“Like… like her?”

Helaena tugs her eyebrows together at him. Staring out the window still, not looking her in her face. “Like do I wanna fuckin’ bang Missy-the-tattoo-chick?”

That earns her a tight little nod. “Like… would you?”

“No.”

“Because you don’t want to?”

Helaena reaches over and snags his fuckin’ smoke. “Because I don’t fuckin’ bang anybody but you, dickhead,” she says, dragging on it. “How many times we gonna do this?” Irritation flares in her chest. Lately, it’s a quarter-step away from hysteria, or panic, or whatever, and even its shadow makes her want to leap out of her own skin. Any kinda shit like this between them anymore.

Eyeball shakes his head, like she’s getting this all wrong or something. “What if… what if I was cool with it? Like, if I was there?”

She pauses. Appraises him. “You having some kinda fuckin’ two-chicks-one-dick porno fantasy, or what?” she says. “You wanna fucking star? Or direct?”

Eye still cut away from her. Got this look on his face like he’s seven and she’s eight and he’s waiting to see if she’s gonna tattle on him about the fucking dead mouse he stuck in her underwear drawer. “Like a fucking threesome, Lane. Do I need to fuckin’ spell it out?”

“Think you do,” she says. “‘Cause if that’s how you wanna play…”

“It’s fucking not. I don’t. Forget it,” he tells her.

She talks over him. Keeps going, before he hits the switch and the idea’s as dead as that goddamn rodent. “… Because if that’s how you wanna play, that’s fine, but we need to talk about it like fuckin’ grown-ups.”

He stops. Gives her a little cautious look, and she tilts her head at him. Blows some smoke.

“Probably not into it anyway,” he says.

“I mean. Probably not,” she agrees. “We don’t know shit about her. Like if she’s got a fuckin’ woman. Or a man or something or like… hates us or whatever. Thinks we’re super annoying. But like… I mean you never know, right?”

He nods and pulls out another cigarette. Lights it. “People do weird shit. You never know.”

“That’s what she said. I mean. She used to like… work with weird shit. So.” She pauses and flicks her ashes out the window. Pops the last little orange wedge she’s been hoarding into her mouth and chews. “Do we like… do we offer her money?”

Eyeball laughs, a startled little barking sort of thing that sends smoke billowing out of his mouth. “Christ, Laney. That fuckin’ escalated quick. You want it that fuckin’ bad you’re gonna pay? No, I mean… no. Not everybody likes that shit. Fuckin’ wants to be a whore like you.”

Helaena shakes her head. Swallows and takes a drag. “No no no. You brought it up, first. Second, no. Not a whore, asshole. Your whore. That’s fuckin’ different. Somebody else talks to me like that…”

“They’d be fucking dead,” he finishes. “Not everybody wants to be a whore. Any whore. My whore, your whore, anybody’s fucking whore. You don’t just offer random people money to fuckin’… no. That’s not it. Not fucking desperate, Jesus. Get my needs met just fine.”

She shrugs. “You’re right. So like…”

“You really want to, though?”

She thinks for a second. “I’d do it. I mean, with rules.”

“Well yeah.”

“Rules,” she says again. “You fuckin’ put your dick in someone else, I’ll cut that shit off. I swear to God, Eyeball. I’m not playing. Gone. Cut it off while it’s still inside, I don’t give a fuck.”

He cocks his head at her, little bit of surprise or awe or something there. Like he just caught himself in a mirror and thought he looked fuckin’ good. “I hear you,” he says. “That’s cool, Lane. No pussy like your pussy, anyway.”

“No pussy. No mouth. No ass. No hole you just fuckin’ cut in a bitch for fun. Nothing. Fucking dick is mine. Goes in me.”

He nods. Drags on his smoke hella slow, staring at her like he’s gonna jump her right there. “You got it, little girl. Anything else?”

She shakes her head. “I think that’s it.” She stops. Holds up her hand. “No, one more thing.”

He picks up his eyebrows. “What’s that?”

“Don’t fuckin’… don’t get your fuckin’ shit all over. That’s fuckin’ mine, too. Okay? Nobody else wants to fuckin’ wash your crud outta their hair.”

He blows his smoke as slow as he took it in. “Yeah.”

“I mean. That goes for… fuckin’ anybody. We do this now or later or with whoever. Or ever. Or never. Or…”

“I got you, Laney.”

She nods. Settles back against her seat and puffs on her own smoke. “What about you?”

He shrugs. “With some fuckin’ chick? I don’t care. You do whatever you want.” He pulls on his cigarette and exhales through his nose. “No, wait. One thing.”

“What?”

“You’re mine.”

“I know.”

“No, like… anybody talks to you otherwise, it’s gonna be a problem.”

She smiles a little. Something warming up in her, too; same thing that lit his ass right up a second ago. That weird, hot chemistry in their weird, hot blood. “I hear you, Daddy. You know I don’t know how to fuckin’ listen to anyone but you anyway.”

“You barely listen to me,” he says, soft as anything. So soft she could die, maybe.

“I’ll do anything you say, Daddy,” she tells him. “I promise.” Butts her smoke into the tray with her orange peels. Whole place smells like citrus tobacco.

When she looks over, he’s just looking back. “You’re pretty,” he tells her. “I’d only do it for you, you know. So you can do your fuckin’ girly shit. Big ol’ dyke.”

“Liar,” she grins. “You’re doing it so they’ll put it on your tombstone. Here Lies Fuckin’ Eyeball. He Fucked Two Bitches at Once.”

He laughs and laughs and laughs. “I love you,” he says.

“Why her?”

He shrugs. “Why not? We’ll never fuckin’ see her again.”

“And you think she’s hot.”

“… And I think she’s kinda hot.”

“There’s my boy,” Helaena says. Tweaks his damn nose. “You and that MILF shit.”

He smirks. “You think she’s hot, too.”

She nods. “She reminds me of you, kinda. Her hands,” she tells him. “They feel like they know what they’re doing.”

He tilts a little. Puts her right in the center of the frame. “You need that,” he says. “That fuckin’ being-held-right stuff. Goddamn feral cat.”

“Mmmhm. No timid bitches.”

“No timid bitches,” he agrees. “Not for my girl. I know what you need, Laney. I got you.”

Chapter 58: Spider

Summary:

I have only to wait & all things come to me
& therein break their necks
but a calm & normal heart
where does that come from?

Notes:

was just about done with this when I realized the damn word count & had to split it up from the previous, so… here it is 🙃

& also, in the spirit of helaena’s adhd overshare, I have SUCH an urge to like, write an essay on my thought process for this shit w/ mysaria 🤣 I spent entirely too much time thinking it through for what ultimately probably feels like a pretty flimsy framework 🤣

anyway.

The Spiders
by Chelsea T. Hicks

my functional heart, where are you
what turned you into an empty glass
is it that I love the spiders & am like one
wherever I go making my house
I have only to wait & all things come to me
& therein break their necks
but a calm & normal heart
where does that come from?

 

“You wanna run in?” he asks her. Got Granny pulled up to the curb outside that coffee place, idling nice and quiet like a good girl for him. Decided to do that first, before he gets in for his appointment.

Helaena looks at him a little funny. Not like him to send her on an errand while he just fuckin’ sits there, but she shrugs and tells him sure.

“Find me something to eat, too,” he says. “I don’t care.”

That gets him a look.

“You go in, then,” she says. “Or come in with me, because I’m not fuckin’ picking your food.”

“There’s plain rolls. Left of the counter. I want one of those. Make sure it’s plain; there’s fuckin’ ones with butter on them, too. No fuckin’ butter.” He hands her a little folded stack of bills, and she narrows her eyes at him.

“The fuck are you up to?” she asks him.

“Nothing. Just fuckin’ lazy today. Can’t a man be fuckin’ lazy? I always do this shit. Do me a fuckin’ solid, would you?”

Fucker’s a lot of things. Lazy isn’t one of them. “Whatever,” she says. Doesn’t trust him as far as she could throw him, but doesn’t know what the hell he could possibly be doing, so she just takes the money and pops open her door.

There’s a fucking line, which drives her crazy - fucking people all standing too close together, clock ticking away, all she wants to do is get the hell out of here; part of why she always makes him do this shit - and she has to paw through a million little paper-bagged rolls to find one without any crap on it, and she’s getting so edgy and crawly that she has a hard time counting out the bills and just hands the whole wad over to the kid behind the counter. Eyeball’d have a stroke, she thinks. Hates when she does shit like that; thinks the whole world’s out to take advantage of her.

He’s not so wrong, in her experience, but it was either that or stand there for half an hour getting redder and hotter and dumber and end up having to do it anyway.

Kid’s honest enough, she thinks. Hands her change that looks right, and gives her one of those cardboard trays for her coffee, and she navigates back out all goddamn frazzled and done. Feeling like an idiot. Not a great space to be in, anyway, but then she gets back to the car and that motherfucker’s not there. Got her locked out, too. Granny’s goddamn Fort Knoxed, all that shit they have in there, so she’s just left standing on the sidewalk leaning against the door, tapping her foot. Anxiety climbing up her spine like a ladder.

She wants an orange.

Sips her coffee, instead, but her stress-head metal-mouth makes it taste funny, so she just sighs. Sits her shit on the roof and looks up and down the fucking street for a minute, cigarette clenched between her teeth.

He still somehow manages to sneak up on her; big old cat. Comes at her from the other side of the road, got his long arm out to pinch her shit. Pulls out her smoke and laughs at her when she whips her head around like she’s gonna box.

“What the fuck?” she starts, but he’s jostling in his pocket for something before she even finishes. Sticking her cigarette in his mouth while he does it. Looking at her like he thinks he’s cute.

“Happy birthday,” he says. Sidles up right alongside her, hip-to-hip, and tugs out her hand. She’s got it all balled up, marks in her stupid palms from those nails that’re starting to grow back, but she’s too discombobulated to resist much, and he untucks her like a little bedsheet. Drops something into her palm.

“Not my birthday yet,” she starts. Moves on to, “Where the hell were you?” Then it’s “Oh!” when she looks down.

He’s leaning up to grab his coffee when her brain starts working again, rolling himself right across her to do it. Pinning her body with his. He smells nice, she thinks absently, peering at her hand. Got citrus clinging to him, somehow; probably from sitting in the goddamn car.

“That fuckin’ hunk of glass from the beach the other day,” he tells her, taking a sip. Screws up his face real quick. “Shit, that’s yours.” Looks like he wants to fuckin’ spit but can’t bring himself to do it on the street.

Helaena’s still looking. Holds up her hand to see it better while he switches out their coffees. Dangles the little chain from one finger.

It’s delicate, but not flimsy. Something solid to it. Silvery, but not silver; paler, like their hair, kinda. White gold, she thinks, probably. And it is that sea glass. Big round purpleblue thing she picked off the sand. Thing she told him he should stick in his damn socket; same shade as their eyes.

It’s all wrapped up; glass in the middle like the abdomen, bunch of little shiny legs on each side. Couple bands wrapped through to hold it all in place.

“It’s a spider!”

“Mmhm,” he says. Happy with his cup now that he’s got the right one. Cigarette smoking between two fingers while he sips at it.

“What the fuck?” she says again, but not fucking pissed this time. Just surprised.

“Guy wasn’t busy,” he says, nodding his head across the street.

She follows his gaze. Little dinky jewelry store, nothing she’d even notice if she was just checking out the road. Smushed in between that other coffee place and some kinda fuckin’ head shop, it looks like. Tie-dye shit and a goddamn bong in the window with a neon yellow For Tobacco Use ONLY! sign taped up there.

“That place?”

He nods. “He’s a real fuckin’ jeweler. Does all kindsa cool shit,” he said. “Told me he could have it today if I came back after noon or so.”

“When did you fuckin’…” but she knows before she finishes. “Oh. Fuckin’ sneaky asshole,” she laughs. “You know how fucking stressed out you had me? Thought you fuckin’… nevermind.”

He just smiles. “Do you like it?”

“Yeah, I like it,” she says, smiling back at him. “It’s pretty.”

“Look,” he says, sticking out his hand. “C’mere.”

She gives it to him, and he sets his cup back down on the roof. She ducks her head and lets him fasten it around her neck, and his finger traces down. Helaena follows with her eyes.

Little spider-dude sits perfect; perched just at the edge of her web, like he’s gonna crawl right in.

“Thank you,” she says. “It’s fuckin’ cool. I love it.”

“Thought you would,” he says. “Creepy girl.” Leaning down over her again, warm and sweet as anything. She closes her eyes and leans back. Lets him push all his weight forward, fuckin’ trap her right against the door. Handle in her back. Citrus and smoke and that little bit of something sharp when she breathes him in.

“Since when do you do this kinda shit for my birthday?” she asks.

Not big on the kinda gifts you open. Neither of them are. She usually gets a little fuckin’ card for coffee, or a bunch of cash for the bookstore or whatever on her birthday. Christmas, she’ll get something little. Usually more for his dumb ass than hers; some ridiculous underwear or something. Typical boy trash, like when Daddy got Mama a fucking vacuum one year, and she didn’t talk to him for nine days. Not even a New Years’ kiss. He liked clean floors; Eyeball likes dirty whores.

She and Eyeball are practical, by necessity and by design. He tries to keep her in weed and smokes and whatever fucking hair product is working for her this week, and she kept a roof over his head and keeps his balls empty.

But every so often, he surprises her.

Replaced her cards when she dumped a whole cup of coffee over them. Cried for an hour but told him it’s fine it’s fine it’s fine I can still use them it’s fine, and then she woke up the next day to the prettiest deck she’d ever seen. All classic art, super laminated, fucking amazing.

He never said a word. Just left her cigs on top of them so she’d see them when she got up.

That’s how he does shit.

Now he just shrugs. Embarrassed maybe, like she caught him jerking off with her t-shirt or something. Eye kinda shifty. Down somewhere around her ear. “You’re everything, Laney,” he says. “I don’t fuckin’… I’m garbage, and you’re… you. And dumb shit like this doesn’t fuckin’ fix that, but…”

She cuts him off. Little bit of mercy. “It’s so pretty. It’s beautiful.” Takes his stupid chin, and when he won’t look at her, she just tips her head up and bites on it. Still nice and smooth, like he’s ten years old and two-eyed again. Straight razors are where it’s at. “Thank you.”

“Happy birthday,” he says. Shrugs again, and it’s all she can do to keep from bawling.

*****

Missy’s in the middle of cleaning shit when they walk back in. Door propped wide, all the windows open, and everything smells kinda herbal - rosemary maybe? - and lemony. Vinegar underneath.

It’s a warm day, lots of breeze, and she’s in another skirt that would be iffy if she moved wrong. Up on a chair, trying to jam a fancy-looking feather duster into the high corner of the room. She’s just short of it, and Helaena can see she’s debating whether she wants to chance getting up on her toes. It’s one of those fucking spinny chairs.

“Bad idea,” Eyeball says right away, and she turns towards them.

“Oh, hey,” she says.

“Want me to do that?” he asks her. “I can reach.”

“Would you? Thanks!”

She gives him her duster and ignores the hand he sticks out to help her down, and Helaena smiles. Watches her hop off like a tiny little bunny as the chair spins away under her momentum.

She’s shorter than Helaena, probably no more than five-one or so. Helaena hadn’t realized; she’s got flats on today. Yesterday’s boots had heels.

Also didn’t notice the fucking knife yesterday. Chick’s strapped up like Eyeball. Legit holster on her ankle; cute little cuff-thing with goddamn rhinestones. Eyeball clocks it, too. Helaena watches his eye run over her, one of those hands-free pat-downs he does on everyone he sees. Wonders if he saw it yesterday, too. Figures he did.

He stretches up a little onto his toes and sweeps out the corner for her, then does a little walk-around to get the rest of them while he’s at it. Missy takes off her cleaning gloves - black rubber things, a little longer and thicker than the ones she works in - and washes in her little side-sink while he does it.

“Thank you,” she says when he’s done. “Went a lot faster than it does for me.”

“I’m occasionally useful,” he tells her, dry, and Helaena tries not to roll her eyes. Recognizes the piss-poor flirt for what it is. Awkward fuck.

“Yeah, same,” says Missy, and she turns to Helaena. “How’s it looking, mama?”

“Good, I think,” she says, turning around so Missy can peek down her back. “Been putting that shit on it. Feels good.”

“Yep,” Missy says. “Looks normal. I like that red mix we did.”

“Me, too.”

“So what am I doing for you?” she asks Eyeball.

He tells her, and she smiles big.

“Nice. Can’t beat the classics, right? I like a good vintage. Here,” Missy says. Paws through one of her stacks of books and hands one over. “This’ll have something close. Font, too. If you don’t see anything good, let me know. Lots to look at, and I can tweak things however. Standard color?”

He nods, and Helaena snuggles up under his arm to look with him while Missy gets her shit ready.

It doesn’t take long. He finds some fuckin’ 1940s sailor type style that hits him just right; bubbly heart and a stick-type arrow, that particular sort of shading that puts it all in an oldschool relief. Wavy banner right across the middle, and that classic lettering inside. “Make it bleed for me,” he says to Missy, and she high-fives his ass.

“Heart or arrow?” she asks.

“Heart,” he tells her.

She has him go pee and strip off his shirt and get comfy while she gets it sketched, and she’s pretty quick. It’s simple.

Missy lets Helaena shave him up. She’s tempted to do his whole damn chest; make him all clean like he does for her, but she figures that’s fucking weird, so she behaves herself and just makes a wide patch right over his heart, and that’s where Missy slaps on that stencil.

“You feeling okay?” Missy asks him, tilting her head a little as she presses down on it.

“Yeah, why?”

“You’re awfully warm.”

He and Helaena both laugh. “He’s a fucking furnace,” she says. “Oh my God. Wintertime I just have him stand around naked. Heats the whole goddamn place. Gotta fuckin’ blow on his dick like soup before I…”

“Jesus, Lane!” he says.

Whoops. “Sorry,” she says. Mouth does shit before her brain catches up sometimes. Worse when she’s a little nervous.

Missy just chuckles, one eyebrow up as she spritzes her little bottle on him. “It’s cool, just making sure we weren’t dealing with a fever. Bad time to get tattooed. This good?”

Helaena looks at it and smiles. Eyeball does, too. “Yep,” he says. “Perfect.”

They crank the fuckin’ music - they all like a lot of the same shit, turns out, and they party for awhile with Joan Jett and Sid Vicious and fuckin’ Bowie - and shoot the shit, and Missy even lets Helaena crack open an orange if she promises to be neat about it. Eyeball’s a little dubious, but he doesn’t say shit, and she doesn’t make a mess.

“That your little girl?” Helaena asks her, halfway through or so, pointing to a picture of a toddler on the mirror. Looks like Missy. Same nose. Same straight dark hair.

She pauses for a second and wipes some ink. Nods. “Yeah. Older than that now. Six.” Goes back to her business, but Helaena sees her swallow a little bit.

She does, too. Looks for Eyeball’s gaze, and he’s already there. Knows how she rolls. Every time they run into some kid the right age, it can set her off. Not always, but the fuckin’ weird energy shift, subtle as it is, gives her a little push, and she’s looking for him to steady her.

He tries. Slow-blinks at her. Offers up the hand on the opposite side, and she takes it, but she’s already off today. Already in a sort of swirly spiral of strange, and the overshare just happens.

“Us, too. I mean. I - we - we don’t have them, but. They would be six.”

Missy cuts her eyes over, startled a little. “You got kids?”

“No. Yes. No. I mean, we would have, but we - I - had to. You know. I was super young, so Mama made me - wanted me to - have an abortion, so like…”

Eyeball’s grip gets stronger, but he sits quiet. Lets her do whatever the fuck this is. Run her damn mouth.

“Shit,” Missy says. Pauses again to clear the ink. “That’s tough stuff when you’re a kid yourself, I bet.”

Helaena nods. “I mean. What else do you do but…” She shrugs.

“Both of you?” Missy asks.

She nods again, and he squeezes her. Soft and rhythmic and slow like a heartbeat. Warm fuckin’ hands. Full of blood.

“Wow. Together a long time. Been through a lot.”

Helaena laughs. Fuckin’ surprises herself with the way it sounds, bitter as a fucking bad orange. “You could say that.”

Missy looks at them both like she’s caught them in the rearview. Deciding whether she’s gonna turn this shit around or keep plugging along.

“I don’t have my girl, either,” she says after a long pause. “Not right now. Had some shit going on in my life, you know… not really the right place for her.”

“It happens,” Helaena says. Because what else is there to say? Because shit happens. Over and over and over, all kinds of shit just happens.

*****

Tattoo’s a fucking beauty when it’s done. Helaena says it first, and Eyeball stands in front of the big full-length mirror and agrees with her.

“Just saying it ‘cause it’s your name,” he says to her, giving her back her own line and throwing in that stupid twitchy wink of his.

Laney, in that kitschy-cool script. Wrapped right around a fucked-up, bloodyblack heart. Arrow-pierced and broken as shit, drawn up like it’s fuckin’ pulsing anyway. Going about its goddamn business, right over his own.

Battered, pretty thing.

Missy laughs at them. “Not-so-neutral third party agrees,” she says. “Badass, right?”

Definitely badass.

They square up, and they tip her good. Throw each other look after look, and as they’re getting ready to leave, Helaena asks if she’s got anyone else today.

“Nope,” Missy says. “Almost closing time.”

“You, uh… you smoke?” she asks. Tries to sound fucking casual.

Missy smiles a little. That half-lit thing from yesterday. “What, like grass?”

Gets a fuckin’ full-belly laugh from Eyeball and a smaller one from Helaena.

“Sorry,” he says, big old smile on his face. “I’ve never heard anyone but my mom call it that.”

“For real,” Helaena starts, but fuckin’ stops herself before she says more, Eyeball’s fingers in a pinch behind her back. “But yeah. Like grass.”

“I’ve been known to partake,” she says with her own little grin.

“You wanna smoke with us?”

She starts to say no, and Helaena gets a chest full of something between relief and disappointment. Brief, though. No time for it to pick a side, because Missy walks it back.

“Actually,” she says, kinda drawing it out. Thinking for a minute. “You know what? I think I do.”

Helaena smiles at her. Takes another pause and screws up whatever kinda guts she has before the next part. “You fuck?”

Missy lets out a little surprised sort of laugh, but it doesn’t sound nervous. Mostly amused. “Personally or professionally?” she says. Voice back to that cool-chick shit she was on before. “Because it’s been awhile since I got paid for that kinda work.”

Helaena shakes her head. “Personally,” she says. Hopes her fuckin’ face isn’t looking as hot as it feels.

Eyeball’s got a thumb in the waist of her pants; nice, slow and easy rub against her skin. Back and forth and forth and back.

Missy looks a little sideways at them. A sizing-up thing that reminds Helaena of her stupid brother again. More and more and more. “I do,” she says, finally. “On occasion.”

There’s a funny silence, and Helaena works her fuckin’ lip between her teeth. Thinks Eyeball’s gonna have to fuckin’ take over, because she’s about to either fall into a fit of giggles or fucking tears, but she pulls it together just before it gets too long. Too weird.

“You wanna fuck with us?” she says. Puts up a fuckin’ eyebrow. Vulnerable and stupid and feeling every single one of the goddamn years between them. “I mean. You can totally still smoke, even if you don’t.”

She can feel Eyeball’s shoulder move a little. A laugh he swallowed, but it’s trying to fuckin‘ escape.

Missy’s own laugh bubbles up again, girlish in a way that doesn’t really suit her. It’s tinkly and sort of affectionate, like the little kid in that picture just asked her to play Barbies or something. She looks at them both for what feels like a goddamn hour, but it’s probably more like fifteen seconds or whatever, before she says, “Okay. I think maybe I could do that, too.”

Little twinkle in her eye. Some kinda mischief. Something familiar.

Notes:

here’s said essay 🤣

no, listen, I really wanted to explore this dynamic with them - adding someone else into the mix - for a few reasons, but it felt super challenging within their particular situation. That mix of possessiveness and entanglement and obsession with that hypersexuality and boundary-pushing and like… also a sort of oddball sweetness? Like wanting to give one another something - especially like, aemond wanting to acknowledge helaena’s queerness without feeling threatened?

super messy

& I thought Mysaria was a decent choice because of like… her canonical sort of sexualized trauma-bonding (ala rhaenyra), and the fact that these two assholes are sexualized-trauma-bonding specialists. & her sort of being a fairly savvy student of human nature while also existing in this world where everyone is fucked up & making questionable choices.

& on and on and on 🤣 but trust, your girl’s overthinking was 🔥🔥🔥 here

Chapter 59: Boulder

Summary:

“You do this shit a lot?” she asks them when they get inside.

Eyeball shakes his head. Buries himself down in Helaena’s neck, like he’s hiding, and she says, “No.” Decides she probably should tell the truth here and adds a, “Never, actually.”

Notes:

uh. 8k.

in my defense, when you have three pieces to move around the board, it’s hard!

I’m just leaving this mess here, sorry not sorry. 🤣 drink heavily. It will help.

heads up for allusions to traumatic birth (no actual details) and uhh… fisting 😬

in other news, I think this is the only Helaena/aemond/mysaria on ao3 🤣 probably because wtfff? I’ll see myself out.

Threesome? No, thanks. If I want to disappoint two people at once, I’ll just go to dinner with my parents.

- probably my favorite bad joke ever, shut up, don’t come for me, I’m a loser

 

“I think she was just being polite,” Helaena says, straddling the faded wooden picnic table bench and leaning back against his chest. Trying to aim for the right side so she doesn’t smush his new little heart. “She’s one hundred percent ditching us.” She smiles a little and snags the joint out of his mouth. She pulls on it, but only a little. Doesn’t want to blitz herself sleepy; she’s just aiming for half-stupid at the moment. Just in case.

He shrugs. “You ever agree to a fuckin’ threesome with some strangers just ‘cause you got manners?”

“Never been asked,” she shrugs back. “You know me. I might.”

Eyeball laughs. “Yeah, actually you might. I can see you pulling this shit. Yeah, sure, but then you fucking get distracted by a cool-ass cloud or some shit and forget you got a dick appointment.”

She snickers. “Or maybe she’s like you. Bad stomach. Fuckin’ went to Wendy’s and now she’s puking in a ditch somewhere.”

Missy said she was hungry; wanted to grab something on the way and would meet them in a few. Knows where the motel is, she says. Had a friend who stayed there for a minute.

“Maybe,” he says and lifts the fucking joint back from between Helaena’s fingers.

“Is it dumb if I maybe don’t care that much?” she asks.

“Nah,” he tells her. Sticks it back in his mouth and sucks. He’s getting way more fucked up than she is; keeps pulling and pulling and pulling. Nervous shit. Like he’s gonna need a lot of help if he’s gonna do this. Last one, he holds for her, and she flips upside down to take the smoke. “I’m not all that bent either, to be honest, Lane. Finish this thing and we can go in,” he says after he breathes it all into her chest. “Put some dumb shit on TV and I’ll put you to bed. Gonna go in the morning right?”

Helaena nods. She smiles and closes her eyes when he pushes the joint between her lips again. Leans back hard and tips her face to the twinkly sky. Breeze is cooler now that the sun’s asleep, but the night is still a pretty one. Clear and mild; little bit of salt in the smell of it, even though they’re not that close to the beach.

She finishes it and stubs it out against the side of the table, and she’s just started untangling herself a little bit to get up when the headlights hit her. Sweep right over her like a cop light; triggers a kind of startle reflex or something, and she sits up quick.

Eyeball’s not fuckin’ fazed. Slow-moving, high, whatever; he just closes a hand around her wrist and says relax.

It’s Missy in a rattly little shitbox; Granny’s bastard kid or something. Neglected and loud. Old as they are, looks like, with a mismatched front quarter panel and an exhaust that’s gonna get her a ticket if it hasn’t already.

He fuckin’ cringes at it; even burnt as he is, Helaena can tell he’s got a list in his head of about six different things he’d like to do to that thing already. She giggles to herself a little; imagines him being like yo, can I pop your hood? and meaning it literally, and all kinds of fucking confusion starting up.

He looks at her a little funny but doesn’t ask. Just stands up with her and wraps his fingers around hers. Gives a little squeeze as Missy slams the fucking door and it bounces back. She curses at the damn thing and shuts it slower. Harder. This time it sticks, and she gives them a little wave, keys jingling in her hand.

“Hey,” she says, cigarette bobbing in her teeth. “Always make an entrance with this thing.”

Helaena smiles. “Ours, too. Fucking thing won’t go an inch for anyone but him.”

“You guys want some fries?” she asks. Helaena can see them sticking out the top of her big old bag.

Wendy’s.

She almost bursts out laughing.

They tell her no thanks, they’re good, and sit back down with her outside.

Eyeball smokes more; lights up and shares a little with Helaena but takes most of the fuckin’ smoke, and she actually starts to worry he’s gonna find himself on fucking Brokedick Mountain. Not usually a problem, but he’s overestimated his shit and been there once or twice before with good weed.

Oh, well, she thinks. It’ll make sure he keeps his goddamn prick out of their date, and his pretty mouth still works fine.

She wonders if he’s doing it on purpose.

They give Missy her own shit; let her roll it herself and decide how gone she wants to be.

The answer is somewhere between the two of them; swimming a little deeper than Helaena, but not as messed up as her boy. She just smokes her J - rotates it with her fucking cigarette, which is adorable, Helaena thinks; has one in each side of her mouth at one point, and it’s enough to make her laugh out loud - and pulls a deck of playing cards out of her bag, and the three of them play War.

Nobody wins, because who finishes a game of War sober, forget all fucked up, but Missy’s got the most cards when they finally call it.

“You win, I quit!” Helaena laughs, tossing her cards like a goddamn drama queen. Eyeball snickers. He’s fucking lit; doesn’t even roll his eye at her. Just thinks she’s cute and picks up after her. Got a stupid-looking lock of hair hanging in his face, puppydog shit, and she wants to kiss his nose. “I’m cold. Let’s go in.”

He’s fucking kissing on her before they even get through the door, and she has to swat his hands away. Tell him they got fucking company, behave himself for ten seconds please, and Missy laughs at them. Shakes her head like she’s watching two teenagers grope each other at the mall, but it’s warm and crackly like the business end of a joint.

“You do this shit a lot?” she asks them when they get inside.

Eyeball shakes his head. Buries himself down in Helaena’s neck, like he’s hiding, and she says, “No.” Decides she probably should tell the truth here and adds a, “Never, actually.”

Missy’s eyebrows shoot right up. “No shit.” She just stands there for a second, looking at them like maybe she would’ve asked for some cash, after all, if she knew she’d be fuckin’ babysitting. “Going to guess you talked about it, and everything’s cool?”

Both of them nod, fuckin’ synchronized dorking, and Missy laughs a little.

“Okay,” she says. “Just making sure. Old habits die hard, all that stuff.”

“Rules of engagement,” Eyeball says, picking half of his mouth up. “Weapons at the door.”

Missy laughs. Slides off her shoes and tugs out her knife. Hers is a switch. Compact and shiny. Longer handle than normal. “Mine’s bigger,” she says, dry, as Eyeball pulls one out of his back pocket.

He laughs and tosses it next to hers, and they clink together on the table by the window. “Mine’s meaner,” he says. “Also, bigger,” and pulls the one from his boot. Adds it to the pile and winks his dumbass wink.

“Oh, touché,” Missy laughs. “What’s your lady packing?”

“Me,” he says. Cocks a brow.

“And like, eight inches or so, but it’s in the bag somewhere,” Helaena says. Shrugs and grins, and Eyeball laughs. “I’ll find it if you want.”

“No, it’s cool,” Missy says. “Weapons at the door, right?” She looks up at Eyeball. “Since we’re here and talking sharps, I gotta know. The eye. That is a killer scar.”

“Last fight I lost,” he says. “I was ten.” He shifts foot to foot, shoulders kinda pulled in, and Missy knows what’s up. Fuckin’ leaves it alone. Doesn’t ask to see the rest of it, even though she looks like she wants to.

“Mine’s not as cool,” she says, and that’s fuckin’ that. She pulls her shirt up over her head and drops that shit on the floor, like let’s get on with it, and the scar she’s talking about sits low on her belly. Starts at the waist of that itty bitty skirt, which is riding dangerous down there.

Mangled-looking thing. It’s from a c-section, that Helaena can tell, but one that looks like it went tits-up. Tissue is thick and twisted, and it’s an inverted T - an uneven one, like a fucking first grader did it - instead of that usual neat little horizontal line.

The tattoo around it is fucking incredible, though. Silkworms, all done in black and gray, with the most delicate linework Helaena’s ever seen. All around it, like they’re the critters that sewed her shit back together, threads and little knotted bits chilling all over. Looks fuckin’ real. She touches it without thinking, then pulls her hand right back.

“Sorry,” she says, but Missy draws a finger down her wrist. Just along that vein inside, soft.

“It’s okay,” she says. “You can touch it.”

Eyeball’s watching, high as hell with his eye all hooded and soft. He likes scars. Other people’s, anyway. Got his head low, like it’s too heavy for his shoulders, chin resting in Helaena’s hair.

Skin’s all puckered, feels tight and thick. Like his. Just as jagged. Helaena traces the line. Wonders what it must be like to have someone cut out of you - to just be taken right the fuck apart for them - and not be able to tuck them in. Back into your body, or into bed next to you or whatever.

Feels like that sometimes with her and Eyeball. Like they were fuckin’ carved right out of each other; had some kind of accident in that nameless space before birth and popped out with rough edges that matched up. Born fuckin’ wounded and halved. But they can slot back together, at least. Wiggle and twist until the fit is right, bone to socket. Tuck back in. Nobody ever said not the right place for you right now.

Helaena shakes her head a little. Tries to clear it; all these fuckin’ stoned thoughts like bugs ticktickticking at the pane of her brain.

“Tattoo is fuckin’ bonkers,” she says, and Missy smiles.

“It’s my favorite,” she says back. “You wanna see the rest?”

Helaena laughs. “Mmhm.”

“Your boy gonna watch, or is he gonna play?”

Helaena leans back. Finds his mouth, low still, and lets him suck on her for a minute. Turn that bottom lip swollen like he’s used it all night. Fuckin’ good kiss, smoky and soft and wet. “He’s gonna watch until I ask for him,” she says after. “That cool with you?”

Missy nods, mouth tilting at its corners like she’s seen this one before. “Boys like the cuck chair,” she says.

Helaena bites a smile. She ever said that, she’d get her fucking attitude adjusted so fast it’s not funny, but Eyeball just snickers a little. Fuckin’ chill as anything.

“Got a thing about his dick,” Helaena says, and she watches him smile bigger. “Looks like it’d fuckin’ fit a family of six, but like…”

“Reverse clown car,” Missy says. “Looks huge, seats one.”

Helaena snorts, and Eyeball puts his whole head back in a laugh, and he answers her this time. “Something like that,” he tells her.

“That’s cool. I need eight inches, I’ll ask your girl for them.”

Eyebrows go up, but he just kinda smirks. Helaena can see what he’s thinking - same as her; this chick doesn’t know what she’s fuckin’ dealing with - but she just giggles a little, too, and offers her mouth for another kiss. He gives it up, slow and sweet, and he lets her tug his shirt up and over. Helps her a little at the end.

“Wanna go sit?” she asks him, fingers all up and down his chest. Avoiding that saran-wrap shit stuck all over. Nervous-like, because she is. Maybe she shoulda fuckin’ toked up more, because he’s doing just fine. Blew all those jitters away in a cloud of smoke.

“Yeah,” he says. “Right here if you need me, babygirl,” and that’s almost as good as a hit.

Close.

Helaena lets her hand slide all the way down his arm til he’s out of reach; slip off the warm ends of his fingers as he settles that big body of his into the chair.

Missy’s got a smile on her face, calm as anything, too, and that helps some.

“Finish?” she says, palms turned up, standing there in her skirt and her pretty black bra and those cool-ass stockings. Little bit of glitter in them, nothing flashy. Can’t even notice until you’re nice and close.

Eyeball’s hanging out, chin up a little, interested in the damn show, and Helaena looks for him reflexively. He just nods a little at her, not so much permission as a sort of c’mon champ you can do this deal, and it makes her want to giggle. She does do it. Reaches right back for that cheap-feeling zipper at the back of Missy’s skirt, and like every other cheap fucking zipper, it sticks. She has a hard enough time with fasteners that actually work, and this one wants a fight, and she can feel herself going all fuckin’ hot under her clothes.

Missy helps her. “Bad zip,” she concedes, but she’s used to it or whatever - got a good pair of hands - and it slides right down for her, and she steps out and kicks it away.

Panties don’t match the bra. They’re bright pink things, neon under those stockings, plain cotton and cut like she wasn’t expecting anyone to see them.

Stockings peel off easy, and they’re warm and sweaty and smell like girl - vaguely perfumey, something acid - when Helaena tugs them soft down her legs. She kneels to do it. Feels like the right thing to do, and nobody seems to think otherwise, and Missy points her red-painted toes to make it easier. Same color Helaena likes on her hands; bloody and dark.

Her legs are smooth, like she did them up this morning. Little scabby nick at the back of one ankle, and some kinda vine climbing and snaking around the whole right side. Trumpet flowers, black and gray here, too, all the way to her hip.

Helaena traces it, slow. Kisses the flowers, so real-looking she almost expects them to have taste and texture; to slide papery over her tongue, but they’re just skin.

Missy’s hand finds her hair, tangles through her curls more gently than her fuckin’ brother usually does, and when she tips her gaze up, there are two eyes looking back. Dark ones, with dark lashes and dark pupils and something a little soft inside.

Whole thing feels weird; gives her a flash of heat up her spine, and she can’t hold herself steady. Looks for him again, and he’s sitting there shirtless with his button undone now, but he’s not fuckin’ playing with himself. Just watching, hands splayed over his thighs. Unreadable expression, but it’s because of the weed, not anything else, because he smiles at her. One of those halfsie deals, one side, looking like her Daddy - their Daddy, too; something in the way the low light hits him - and it settles her stomach like a fuckin’ swig of ginger ale.

There’s ink on her ribs, too. A constellation. Helaena recognizes it. “Cancer,” she says, dotting a finger over the stars. “We’re water, too. My birthday’s in a couple days; he just had his.”

Missy smiles again. “Now I know why I like you two. Never met a Scorpio I wouldn’t fuck,” and she laughs. “Happy birthday.” She turns to Eyeball. Says it to him, too, and he thanks her. “Not gonna ask how old,” she adds. “Better for everyone that way,” and they all fuckin’ laugh.

Helaena leaves Missy’s bra. Likes the way everything spills over the top of it like a vase; flowers and skulls and a bloody dagger through it all. Looks like the oldest bit, maybe, or the one that’s seen the most sun. Lines a little blurred in, faded.

Blunt like her tongue when she leans in to run it over; tug back on the cup to free one of her nipples like a little plum, purplyredbrown, texture just like one when it stiffens up for her. Drags across her teeth when Missy leans back a little.

She’s soft; lovely soft, breasts loose like that bra’s the only thing keeping them afloat, pale-ish tiger-stripes across them like currents. Like her skin’s a waterfall, gonna take Helaena for a little ride, downdowndown, and that’s where she goes. Down, lips and teeth and tongue, more stripes at her belly; more skin that feels like it’s been somewhere else.

She gets to the elastic, blinks through the dip-and-arch under Missy’s arm - she’s got definition there, the gym or holding that gun all day or whatever - and sees Eyeball, all mischief now. Something cocky on his stupid face when he taps at his teeth with a finger. Asshole. Fucking asshole, but she giggles anyway. Loves him for his bullshit. Bites at the cotton and skin, and hates the way it feels in her stupid mouth right away. Texture is terrible, but Missy laughs a little. Same tinkling bell of a sound as earlier, and that’s just enough to get her through it.

Helaena tugs and tugs, and Missy helps with the other side, and then those goofy pink underwear are off.

Not as sexy as it is in the movies. Lurching and halting and dumb. Eyeball’s taken her shit off like that, but it’s always that stupid stringy lacy shit he likes; stuff that slides down in a set of teeth like it’s designed to.

Missy kicks them aside, too, once they’re gone, and then she’s just in that bra. One hand at the back of Helaena’s head, the other just hanging out loose at her side, grinning down.

Dark between her legs, too. Close little patch of curls, sorta groomed but not shaved up like Helaena. They look softer than they probably are, but she can’t fuckin’ bring herself to find out yet, so she just stares a little. Catches herself doing it; hears Missy laugh a little again.

“Come on,” she says. “Your turn.”

Helaena makes herself look up. Still half out of that bra, tit all funny from the fucked-up cup, and both of her nipples are up like pretty little stones. Smoky rose quartz or something. Helaena thumbs at one a little, the one that’s out, and it hardens up more for her. Brushes against the pad of her finger, all perked up and interested.

Helaena’s not fuckin’ dressed for stranger-sex, either. Leggings and one of Eyeball’s fucking ringer t-shirts, light and long-sleeved, falling past her stupid hands and pushed up her forearms and folded over to keep it there. Mismatched underneath, too; boring black bra and a pair of polka-dotted hipster things. Feels like a little kid being stripped for her bath or something when Missy pulls that shirt over her head and it tangles in the crooks of her elbows.

That feeling dies fast, though. Nothing little kid in the way her mouth follows the strap across her shoulder, or the way her fingers slip apart the clasp, or the way she draws circles that tighten and tighten and tighten like fucking screws until Helaena’s nipples fucking hurt. Wet mouth over them like balm, hot inside and enough to pull a little gasp out from somewhere Helaena didn’t even fucking know it was sitting. A little oh, and that’s all it takes for Eyeball to fuckin’ stick his hands in his pants, finally.

She can see him over the slope of Missy’s shoulder, eye on her steadysteadysteady. Not fucking hard - gonna take more than this, state he’s in - but he’s fuckin’ working on it. Flat-palming himself with a stupid little smile on his face.

Leggings fuckin’ slip off like those tights, and suddenly Helaena feels more exposed than she wants. Feels like maybe there’s just a little bit she wants to keep a secret for a fuckin’ second longer, so she puts her hands against Missy’s hips and walks her back a little. Just to the edge of the bed.

She goes; lets herself be moved around like a little doll or whatever. “Sit,” Helaena says. Surprised at herself. Surprised by how much she needs to fucking control this, because normally giving in is a relief. What she needs. A goddamn eraser for her fucking brain.

But she doesn’t want him to fuckin’ get in the middle here. Have to help her sort her shit out. Also isn’t gonna fucking lay herself down for anyone else. There’s not a single cell in her body capable of that, she thinks.

Never was.

Only one moon in her weird little sky. One tide in her blood.

So she tells Missy to sit, and she sits. Little bit of amusement in her face, like she knows what’s up, and Helaena figures maybe she does. She’s not new. But she doesn’t fucking care because she’s lived long enough to know you don’t argue when you’re about to get your pussy eaten, and she is, so it’s all fucking good.

They try a little kiss, but something about it feels weird. Like they’re trying to dance to different songs or something, and it doesn’t work, so they don’t waste time forcing it. Mouth works better everywhere else, though. Down her neck, and over the bolts of her collarbone, and down in the valley between her pretty tits.

Helaena kneels again to get the rest of her, that fucking scratchy carpet rubbing her up all wrong, but she doesn’t give a shit. Missy’s skin is soft, and it pricks up under Helaena’s tongue like it’s trying to lick back; trying to compensate up for that shitty makeout attempt, gets tight and twitchy like Helaena’s digging at her fault lines. Looking for the right way to nudge her apart.

Down her belly, the soft little roll of it, that big mess of a scar. Fuckin’ birth gone sideways. Big fucking hiccup in the natural order of things. Helaena traces it again, lips this time; tongue, too, and when she closes her eyes, she knows where she is. Never been here, but it’s familiar. Deja vu. Ruined flesh in her mouth. Everything she loves is broken, and it’s close enough to home.

Below it, though. Below it is all alien. Nevermind that she came through one; that she’s tasted her own a thousand times - on fingers and lips and the hard angles of her brother’s chin and his nose and his rosy shiny cheeks - or that, when she was fifteen she had some chick from homeroom’s fuckin’ legs wrapped around her neck like fuckin’ Herman while she tried to sort it out, see if it felt like something that might fix her. Nevermind all that shit, because Eyeball was right, she guesses. They’re all sort of different, and this one’s fucking nice.

All close heat. Fucking hair just like she thought - scratchier than soft, but not enough to rub her raw. Not like that five o’clock shadow shit he gets, just a funny tickle at her skin, and inside it’s like a map. One of those topographic things, all curves, and here’s how you get to the top, circles that get closer and closer and closer until you get dizzy and fall right off.

Nothing’s hidden. Not like her own. It’s all right there, like she was fucking designed for someone like Helaena who gets lost in her own damn house. Eyeball’s always gotta nudge at her stupid clit, coax it out, sneak around like he’s on some covert mission, but this is easy. Fucking Pussy Eating for Beginners.

Simple, Helaena thinks, but it somehow still fucking unmoors her. Makes her glad for the floor under her knees, and the way she can press her elbows to the bed if she needs to.

She smells like sea and rock and moss. Something alive, and the wetter she gets, she tastes like it, too. Stronger and stronger until it’s too close to drowning. Until Helaena’s adrift; no compass, no starpoints to guide her, and there’s something in her chest like panic, almost. Like she just looked up and realized how far she’s gotten from the fucking shore, and she’s out here without an anchor.

When she pulls back, they’re both sort of breathing hard, and she can’t look up. Can’t meet Missy’s eye, because she’s sure it’s written all over her damn face.

Eyeball’s there, though. She can look at him. There’s nothing he hasn’t fucking seen.

When she finds him, he’s looking back. Steady gaze, one hand in his stupid pants and the other draped along the window sill, casual as he gets. He’s waiting for her, though. She can tell. Like he knows she’s gonna need him.

Like he’s got that anchor she forgot.

Helaena holds out a hand, little c’mere with her fingers. Says it, too. “C’mere, baby.”

He starts to get up, and that’s when she feels safe again. Back on land. That’s when she looks at Missy, who’s got her little palm at the round of Helaena’s shoulder, squeezing a little and soft around her eyes. Pair of big dinner plate pupils.

“I’m gonna… I want…” Helaena starts, but it fucking feels funny to say it. To tell someone else, even if she was just up to her fuckin’ ears between her legs.

Eyeball’s here now, hand on her other shoulder. Crouching at her back like he heard what she didn’t say. Like he knows.

She can tell him. “Get in me,” she says. “Please?”

Barefoot, bare-chested with his pants all undone. Smells like cigarettes and weed and skin. Fuckin’ nods at her, wraps one big hand around her neck as he settles. Warm.

It helps. Hand at her throat pulls those words right out.

“He’s… I want him to fuck me,” she says, eyes up on Missy’s pretty face again. Little bit of pink where her cheekbones press out. Hair a little mussed. “I want him to fuckin’ put it in while I… You wanna see?”

“Uh-huh,” she says, and Helaena smiles.

Got his dick out behind her, and it’s not fuckin’ broken, but it’s not his best work. Motherfucker gets so hard it’s like fucking a goddamn fence post most times, and right now she’s pretty sure he could get it in, but she wants better.

She leans forward a little, up so he can get her stupid underwear off, and she feels him tug them down. Slide a hand under one knee, then the other, to strip her bare. All her fuckin’ shit clamps down at his touch, like yep, and she thinks he can see it. Hears him mumble a little, shit, Lane while he stares at her. Watches her want.

She’s fucking wet from all of it. Pussy in her fucking mouth and that motherfucker’s hungry eye all over her. Feels it when the air hits her; feels it when he starts that slow-finger shit so he can use it for himself. He wants better, too. Rubs it all down his cock and comes back for more, two inside her in some kinda sexy grind that makes her moan.

“She’s got you fuckin’ wrecked,” Eyeball says, and Helaena can hear his smile. “I’m deep as hell in there.”

He is. It’s good.

Helaena’s tentative; puts her own fingers out. Runs them right down the center of Missy’s slippery cunt. Slides one just in, just the smallest bit, and Missy’s hips follow her. Sink her in moremoremore, and she’s hot inside. So fucking hot, like everything’s on fire in there. Hot as her boy.

She sounds pretty, quiet and soft and all girl, and Helaena’s wet down her fucking wrist in a minute.

She shares, because that’s what this shit is about, right? Reaches back with that messy hand and grabs him by his dick. Nice and fucking stiff now, she thinks, between her fuckin’ slop, and her good grip, and the way she twists her hand just right when she strokes him. Feels his heartbeat right against her; feels him grow and grow and grow and her fucking cunt is pulling in like it’s gonna die for him.

“Come on,” she says to him, “fuckin’…”

“Okay,” he says, and gets up on his knees for it.

Missy, too; she’s up a little, hand in Helaena’s hair, her hazy sort of stare over her shoulder.

“I wanna sit,” Helaena tells him. Leans down, hands and fuckin’ knees, head right between Missy’s thighs. Shiny things, smell like girl, and she kisses one because it’s there and it’s soft and it’s fucking wet for her mouth. For it and from it and fucking asking for it, really, so she kisses it again and again, gives it her fucking teeth, gentle while he fucking stretches her wide. Slow. Puts on a good show; Helaena can feel it, the way he uses his hands, too; slides a thumb all the way around as he goes. Spits on her. Gives her clit pretty circles to help her open up all over, and Helaena sighs against Missy’s cunt now. Breath and heat and oh oh oh, right there, so close that her pursed lips catch that wet like a little cup.

Fingers tighten up nice in her hair. Pull, even though she’s not trying to; she’s distracted, and she’s got her lashes fluttering like little wings, and she leans into Helaena’s nice, flat tongue when she sticks it out.

He's all the way in now, right up against her, hands on her ass. Pressure there to help the fucking view.

It’s good, she thinks. There’s her anchor. Her tether. Her goddamn gravity. His fucking cock in her belly, hands tight, holding her down.

“I wanna sit,” she tells him. “Just sit for a minute and fuckin’…”

“Okay,” he tells her again. Keeps her close, fingers hard in her hips now. Strong hands while he sits back. Takes her with him til she’s tight down in his lap and she can feel his blood running hard inside of her. Can’t fucking tell who’s who.

“Here,” she says. Tugs Missy right to the edge of the bed where she’s sitting again. “We’re gonna… can he… do you want us to…?”

She can’t finish it, even now. Shy or something, fucking stupid when she’s just taken a fucking cock two feet away from this chick; when she’s been up to her neck in her damn pussy, but here they are. Here she is. Fumbling with words like fucking eleven year-old Eyeball fumbling with her brand new tits.

Feels the same. Embarrassing and fucking exposed and achingly, terribly sweet.

Missy spares her the rest. Just gives her a yeah. Gives them a yeah, nods and pulls Helaena into her, and from there it’s just easy.

Everything’s easier when his dick’s in her and he’s wrapped around her like a blanket; when he slips his big hand over hers. They fuckin’ smile, corners of their lips touching, one of his fingers and two of hers, or two of his and one of hers, or one of each, both of them inside while they fuckin’ swap out their stupid mouths.

Helaena slinks nice and low to let him do what he does, puts her head down and squeezes him tight, turns her fucking pussy to a heartbeat for him. In and out without the in and out, just tighttighttight while Missy’s legs shake around her. She knows those fucking noises; some of them are like hers. Knows what he’s doing to her up there, and maybe she should be jealous but she’s not.

Fucking noise is incredible. Wet and filthy, fucking prettygirl gasps and shit, and it’s making his goddamn cock jerk inside her and her pussy jerk back. Making her make her own noise, stupid little whines against her own arm.

She fucking gets a turn, too, and by now they’ve fucking turned her out, got her gripping the bedsheets like they’re gonna save her, but nothing is now. Helaena keeps everything slow, steady, same little back and forth; balances herself with one hand and uses the other to press up and in and up and in, his finger right against hers. Both inside.

Helaena feels it fucking start, everything squeezing down to nothing, crushing their bones together, and he feels it too. Gets right in her fucking ear and tells her how good she is.

“That fuckin’ mouth on you,” he says. “She’s gonna tell you all about it,” and then he moves. Just a little. Tiny bit of friction that Helaena’s been dying for, pulls out just enough so all those nerves go pop pop pop, shoves back in, and Helaena makes some sorta desperate sound, tongue moving with it, and that’s it.

Missy just about crushes her goddamn shit to dust, cunt and thighs and hands, and she’s strong. Helaena can barely fucking breathe, and that’s fine.

It’s a good death, she thinks. Fuckin’ suffocated by pussy with her stupid brotherhusbandDaddy balls deep.

There are worse ways to die. She’s seen a few.

And when it’s over and she’s still alive, she’s almost disappointed. Thinks she just wants Eyeball to stand her up and rail her to death, then. Bend her over and put her stomach through her mouth and call it a day, lights out, goodnight, I love you.

Missy’s all sweat and fuckin’ haze and breath, brushing her hair out of her eyes and looking good and ran-through.

But she’s a fucking pro, so this probably isn’t shit for her. She’s probably one of those wind-up toy chicks; can go and go and go, like Helaena on a good day.

Helaena’s thinking about it, wondering if maybe they should keep going, still spread over Eyeball’s lap with their whole mess on display, when Missy slides down off the bed and sits herself in front of them. Got that fucked-out face on, all her blood in it and no goddamn sense, looks like, and Helaena smiles at her.

Missy looks at them with a question, puts out one of her hands and just kinda rests it on Helaena’s little poochy belly. Draws a line down so it sits just above, kinda thumbs a little at them, and Helaena knows what she’s getting at. It’s cool with her, honestly. She’s happy just to fuckin’ backwards bounce on his dick for a second with some nice pressure on her damn clit and be done; she’s all turned on and twisted up from fuckin’ sitting still on it, can feel all her shit squishing around down there, body fuckin’ dying for it. Sounds good. Sounds nice. Sounds like she could tip back against him and give him her sloppy goddamn pussy-tongue, have a taste of his, come all over both of these weirdo fucks and be set for the night.

But even in his happy little weed-fog, Eyeball’s got ideas. Most of his goddamn ideas are sketch as fuck, but he can fucking get her off, so she rolls with it. Right now he’s in her ear again.

“Wait, wait,” he says, and she can feel him trying to push her up a little, fuckin’ pull out, and she straight whines at him about it. Kinda shit that’d get her spanked good if they were alone, probably, but he just shushes her a little, twirls a finger around her nipple like a consolation or something, and she goes. Leans forward, kinda awkward ‘cause there’s Missy, but she’s rolling with it, too. Shimmies back some to give Helaena room, and Helaena fucking whines again when he leaves her empty and dripping everywhere.

Gives him a full Daddy and a pout before she can stop herself; it just kinda falls out from her fucking animal brain or something, but bless Missy’s kinky little heart, she doesn’t even flinch. Just sits back for a second and lets them sort it out.

“Sit back,” he says. Sits himself down, all criss-cross-applesauce, tugs her back. Pushes her knees apart.

Helaena shakes her head. Over the floor. Suddenly can’t stand the carpet on the soles of her feet, or that little bit that rubs against her when she settles between his legs. “Bed,” she says. “Please.”

She feels him nod and give her a little push, and the three of them pile into the damn bed like a bunch of kids at a sleepover. It feels silly as fuck, and Helaena’s got the giggles. Like the absurdity of this shit just hit her, and she’s hurtling through the goddamn Twilight Zone or something.

Rod Serling. That’s his name, the guy from that show. She remembers that damn crossword puzzle, out of nowhere. That was his name; Eyeball knew it.

Solves everything. Puzzles her out.

Back in his lap now, and the mattress is better. Top blanket is chenille-y or something, super soft, better than most of the motel shit. Cheap and shedding a little, but it’s comfy, and it feels fine against her skin when she settles down and leans back.

His cock’s poking at her, hot and hard, and everything’s slippery and sticky between her legs when she opens them up.

“Do you want me to touch you?” Missy says, and Helaena nods. Snuggles way way way back, turns into the side of Eyeball’s neck. Wants his bones and blood and all that shit.

She really is fucking wrecked. Missy’s hands are small; one finger feels like nothing, and two are there, and fine, but she likes fucking pressure, and full, and something that feels like it’s gonna keep her steady.

She can’t get grounded, fucking wriggles and squeezes, heels in the bed with Eyeball’s teeth in her earlobe, her neck, biting at her lip while she squirms. Eyes pressed shut like that’s gonna help. Move everything down or something.

He knows what’s going on, and starts shushing at her again. “Shhh, Laney, stop,” right in her ear. Doesn’t even think Missy can hear.

She whines, curls her toes up, slides down trying for moremoremore, but she stops. Settles.

Thumb pressed right on her clit is nice; she tries to fucking relax into it. Takes a breath.

“Do you need more?” he asks her.

“Fucking want your cock,” she tells him, which is basically a yes. Pretty much.

Missy slows a little, just her thumb pressing, a little back and forth.

Eyeball shakes his head. “Hand is good,” he tells Helaena. “Watch, okay? Watch.”

Still got her eyes closed, not fucking watching anything but the little lightshow when she presses on them, but she can feel him turn his head a little. Look at Missy.

“Whole fucking thing,” he tells her. “She can take it.”

“Yeah?” Missy says, and Helaena can hear the angle of her chin. The tilt.

She swallows a little. Thinks fuckin’ why not?. Fuckin’ Eyeball can’t do it, big giant mitts he’s got; he’d end up fucking yanking out her tubes by accident or something. Punching a hole in her shit like drywall.

Whole ass hand is more intimidating than his stupidbig cock, somehow; even Missy’s cute little ones, but this finger-shit she’s working with isn’t really cutting it.

Helaena nods a little, eyes still closed, because how do you look at an almost-stranger and tell them to fuckin’ fist you, right? You don’t. You fucking don’t, so she just nods. Gets his lips back down at her ear. “Good girl. You’ll fuckin’ like it.”

She nods. Thinks she fuckin’ might.

Missy’s switched her gears now, clicked right into pro mode. Out of that little post-fuck haze, and it’s cute, Helaena thinks. Smiles a little to herself; smiles into that hollow spot under Eyeball’s funny chin. Puts a little kiss there, a little okay sure.

“It’ll be a little easier if you turn around,” Missy says. “Like when you get him from behind, right? It opens everything for business.”

It does. Yep. Helaena nods, and Eyeball helps her turn a little. Settle up on her knees, and she can open her eyes now. Look at him.

His eye’s all wide. Dark. Dick bouncing against her belly, dripping his shit all on her now. “I got you,” he tells her.

“I know,” she says. Takes a big swallow. She can feel herself going all funny. Feel her brain doing that weird misfire thing. “Talk for me,” she says, and he nods.

Fuckin’ happens sometimes. Mama used to hate it when she made him do that - use your own voice, Helaena - but she can’t help it. Not like she fucking does it on purpose. Like she wants to look like a goddamn idiot. Her shit just goes sideways sometimes. Like her tongue’s stuck, and there’s a big fuckin’ boulder in the road between her brain and her mouth, and he’s the only one on the right side. Been like that since they were little kids. Barely happens now, but every once in awhile.

She can feel it somewhere in the shadows right now, like it’s gonna come rolling down the hill and fuckin’ gum up the works any second.

Missy’s asking about lube, but Helaena can fuckin’ feel her shit. She doesn’t need it. She shakes her head, and Missy wants to know if she’s sure, and she thinks if they keep fuckin’ talking and not fucking, she’s gonna. She just shakes her head again, and Eyeball says, “All good.”

Helaena leans in, touches her damn forehead to his, and then Missy’s fingers are back. Different this time, lots of scissor-shit and sliding around and big circles inside, and for a minute it’s more like a goddamn gyno visit than anything else. Helaena wrinkles her nose up a little, sees Eyeball smile at her.

But then it’s good. Then it’s slow, and it’s bent knuckles, and it’s a thumb outside so gentle it’s almost too fucking much. Doesn’t make any sense, but honestly none of this does so whatever, she just takes a big shaky breath and lets her mouth hang right open.

He puts his against it. Lets her make noise right into his teeth, right down his throat, and Helaena can feel herself going wide just like she does for him. Familiar but not, a kind of stretch-without-a-stretch, a shape she can’t sort, and it’s strange and good and a lot. Thumb goinggoinggoing still, so it’s not all of it.

She makes a funny little sound. Feels everything slow down, pause, hold her right open while her boy tucks his own big hand at the back of her neck. Talks right to her bitten mouth. “Look at you, good girl. You can do it, right? You’re doing so good.”

Helaena nods, and she feels Missy reach with her other hand. Looking for someone else’s; hers, his, doesn’t matter, but Helaena’s busy holding on. One hand on the fucking headboard, one hand somewhere dug into the muscle of his bicep, squeezing hard, leaving little half-moons all over that are gonna bleed any time now, she’s sure.

Eyeball reaches back. Finds what he’s looking for. Puts lots of slickflat pressure against her with the heel of his hand, lets it slide all over, fucking holds her together and moves it all around like she’s doing it herself. Fuckin’ rubbing up and grinding or whatever, not too much, lets her focus.

Then there’s a whole fucking hand in her and it is bananas. Mostly because it doesn’t fucking hurt, not really, and it’s not anything like she expected. Missy’s just a little thing, and she’s folded up or something, doesn’t feel like being punched in the damn cervix or whatever, just pressure. Just full, and something fuckin’ grinding just right against that nice spot up front, like her hand’s bumping Eyeball’s fuckin’ hand right through her cunt, like some backwards version of when he sticks the damn plug in her ass and fucks her hard.

Good. It’s just good, all of it, she’s good and Eyeball’s fucking good and he’s back to talking. Saying God, Laney, you’re so fucking hot, look at you, and she’s just a little puppy for him. For this. Mouth open, panting, little tremble in her knees like she’s so goddamn excited for life. Missy’s hand moving just a little, just turning so her knuckles do the right thing, press and press and press, and his grip on the back of her neck and his hand slidingslidingsliding and fuck this is weird.

It’s so weird.

“It’s good, she’s good,” he’s saying, and she’s glad someone can fucking say it because she can’t. Boulder’s come right down that hill now, and she can’t even moan or scream or yes like she wants to. Can’t do anything someone else might hear. Stuck on stupid but fucking unraveling, fucking backwards black hole shit, everything inside her twisting and spinning through space, so she takes her stupid headboard-hand and grabs him. Pulls his ear down hard to her mouth.

It’s just a bunch of bullshit. Her usual crap, babbly syllables and fuck and whatever, just quieter. Softer. Just for him, because something hit her dipshit switch and she can’t fix it, so she just lets it all go, and he translates.

“Okay, Lane, good girl, it’s okay, go on, go on,” slides that palm just right. Pushes up, hard against the hand inside her, and that does it.

It’s the weirdest orgasm she’s ever fucking had. Like her fucking body can’t pulse so it waves, or tips, or just unscrews itself from the rafters and freefalls, and it goes all the way to her stomach. Flips it like a goddamn park ride, half-sick and half-ecstatic. Wild-ass motherfucking shit, and all she can do is say oh my god to Eyeball’s goddamn brain. Like her mouth’s shoved right against it through his stupid ear, and he’s got her tight. Holding her down.

Missy gives her a little bite, right on her ass, a spitty little nip, and it makes her giggle. Tugs her back down to Earth a little.

She wants to say something, like thank you or like, good job or something pathetic like that, but she can’t. Fuckin’ boulder and everything. So she just wriggles a little, still upside down and inside out, and tries to make her body say it instead. Little fucking tail-wag.

Eyeball laughs a little, and Missy does, too, like she gets it.

And Helaena fuckin’ loves him. Desperately, desperately, because he doesn’t goddamn apologize for her. No sorry, my sisterwifeywhatever is a dumbass with a broken brain and she can’t talk to you right now. He just kisses her, fucking jerking himself off again. Says you’re so fucking pretty when you’re quiet and grins.

And then he gives her a good excuse, because he says, “Six fucking holes here, I’m not gonna bust in my own hand,” and Helaena fucking laughs her face off. Asshole.

She leans down and fucking sucks him off, lazyslow and all messed up, because that’s all she can fucking manage, and because she’s hoping by the time it’s over she can use her goddamn mouth for something else.

She lets him make a mess on her. Finishes him with just her stupid tongue; licks him like a damn lollipop until it’s all over her tits. Kisses him with her dickmouth afterwards, and he moves that big rock aside for her.

Rolls that stone off the tomb and lets all her little ghosties out.

Missy just sits there on the end of the bed and watches, but she doesn’t look like she minds. She just looks tired, and hazy, and pretty, and done.

Notes:

spent a lot of time in my own head for this. probably too much, and in the end decided there was only one way for it to go right and lots of ways for it to go wrong.

really felt like h&a needed to act mostly as a unit here in order for it to not be catastrophic - and I had fun sort of playing with the fact that they’re both actually pretty sexually inexperienced, despite all their weird shit. They only know how to play one instrument 🤷🏼‍♀️

Chapter 60: Memory

Summary:

Memory is strange. Shady motherfucker. Shapeshifter, closet-monster, ghost. Protector.

Notes:

i mean you wanted an entire chapter of Helaena having FEELINGS, right? 😅🙄

Memory is a complicated thing, a relative to truth, but not its twin.

- Barbara Kingsolver

 

Afterwards, when it’s just the two of them again, they lay in bed in the low light, clean sheets tucked around their hips and pillows stacked like marshmallows behind them. Helaena rests her head on his chest, just beside the heart with her name, and he peels oranges for her; big fingers stripping off the papery membranes and putting the bare wedges on her tongue.

“Kinda sore,” she tells him after she swallows one, shifting her body against him.

“Probably should’ve used lube,” he tells her. “Somebody’s whole fuckin’ hand up there.”

“Didn’t feel like I needed it,” she says. “Probably, though.”

He pauses for a second to peel more for her. Pops a piece into her mouth and asks, “Would you do it again?”

Helaena shakes her head and chews. “Don’t think so. Your hands are way too fuckin’ big for that shit. Not something I’m gonna do to myself either.”

“No, I mean…” He turns a little so he can see her face. “Like with another person.”

“Oh.” She thinks for a minute. Snuggles way down into him. “No. I mean. Probably not. It was fine. I’m not mad about it. Who’s fuckin’ mad about pussy, right?”

He laughs a little and bops her in the nose. “But…”

“But I dunno. You saw me.”

“Too much.”

“Too much.”

“One and done,” he says.

“One and done. What about you?”

“One and done.” Doesn’t even hesitate. “You can put it on my fuckin’ tombstone still, though,” he grins.

She smiles back. “Boring, right? ‘Cause I wouldn’t let you fuckin’ stick it everywhere?”

He shrugs a little. “I dunno. I don’t think so.”

“What then?”

Another shrug. He drops his handful of orange peel on the nightstand and takes her little baby spider necklace, like some kid with a toy. Walks it all over her chest, in and out of her web, up her neck bones and over her chin, makes stupid little walky-walky noises with his dumb mouth. Goofy hands and goofy little pursed lips.

“You’re ignoring me,” she laughs.

“Nah.” Keeps going. Steps it up to her lips and clicks it against her teeth. Back down again.

Helaena giggles and rolls onto her back. Stretches big over her head, and he undoes the clasp one-handed.

“Don’t sleep in it,” he says, sliding the chain off. “Fuckin’ strangle yourself, knowing you.”

“Thank you,” she says, watching him set it next to all the orange shit. She arches long long long, all of her limbs tight, and she comes out of it curled like a little fuckin’ pillbug when he starts kissing down her chest and her belly, sucking down at her ribs like he’s gonna fucking eat them. It tickles, makes her squirm, and she pushes his stupid head away when he tries to go lower.

“Just gonna kiss it,” he says. “It’s sore,” fuckin’ blows a hot little laugh just against her navel while she flat-palms his forehead.

“Haven’t you had enough pussy in your mouth today?” she asks.

“Not yours. It’s better. Just gonna kiss it. C’mon,” and she giggles, teeth in her hipbones, hands over her thighs, downdowndown.

“Just a kiss,” she concedes. “One.”

“One,” he says. Pushes her knees apart. Fits himself between, halfway off the dumb bed by now. “Just one,” and there’s his tongue dipping in, down, wet, gets there and stays there and runs slick all over.

“One!” she says again. “You’re cheating!”

He shakes his head against her, keeps at it and at it and at it, talks right down into her. “This is one. Haven’t stopped,” and he sounds all muffled, lips open, and his laugh is airy and hot, and she’s fucking sore but he’s soft. So soft. Just fucking making out with her cunt, lots of spit and tongue and silliness.

“You’re stupid,” she laughs. “It feels good. I love you. No more.”

He grumbles, but he listens. Comes back up and puts her own mess in her mouth. “In the morning, then,” he tells her. “Morning, I’mma give you the shaky-legs. Make you rattle like our old fuckin’ washing machine.”

She giggles and giggles; thinks he’s gotta still be so, so high. “Okay,” she tells him. “Okay, yep, just like that.”

“Promise?”

“Mmmhm. Shake all over you. Knock your fuckin’ teeth out.”

“Good,” he says. “Gonna fuckin’… wait. I’m gonna fuckin’…” Just yawns then. Wide, all his stupid fillings, that cracked back molar, everything. Got Daddy’s bad enamel.

“Mmhm,” she says again. “Gonna sleep, is what you’re gonna do.”

“Gotta fuckin’…”

“It’s locked,” she tells him. “Bolt, all that. I can see it from here.”

“You sure? I…”

“Shhhh,” she says. Reaches for the light as he leans down over her. Clicks it off. Holds his face and shushes him to bed.

And he’s there. Right there, toe over the edge, dozy in her arms - right where he belongs; where he’s always belonged; where he’s safest, and warmest, and held - when he says it.

“Laney,” he says. “The knife.”

She’s close, too. Eyes closed, cheek against his smoky hair, whirring clicking room noise - the vents? the bathroom fan? the ocean in the perfect shell of his ear? - lulling her.

“What knife?” she says first. Before she’s back in her body. Before anything at all outside that door is wholly real again.

She knows, though. The words skip ahead of the thought, but it comes, and she knows.

The knife.

He doesn’t answer her question. Just says, “It was in my pocket. I wiped it off, and I put it back in my pocket.”

Helaena pauses. Waits for more, but nothing comes, and then she realizes he’s asleep. Can’t decide if he was the whole fucking time, maybe.

She’s not, though. Not now. Not tonight.

Memory is strange. Shady motherfucker. Shapeshifter, closet-monster, ghost. Protector.

Only fucking counselor she ever liked told her that one when she was a kid. Your brain is protecting you. It’s okay if you can’t remember. Sometimes if something is too hard, it will erase it for a little while so you don’t have to worry about it.

Made her feel like something was working right in her head for once.

She’s a forgetter. A misplacer. An out-of-sight-out-of-mind-er. A what-time-was-that-again-er. An overdrafter, a late fee accumulater. Capable of getting lost in her own neighborhood; of leaving her wallet on the counter; of letting a ticket snowball to a warrant. Of letting mice move into her bedroom because they like the food she left buried under a pile of clothes.

Eternally late. Truant. Chaotic. Irresponsible and disorganized and lazy.

Protective.

Easier for her to bin the bad shit and dump it than for some other people, she thinks, just because of how she’s wired. Fucking exits everywhere; brain full of garbage chutes and sinkholes ready to swallow it all. No sorting mechanism. Helpful occasionally. Most of the time a fucking nightmare.

Eyeball’s not like that, though. Not usually. He hoards information. Brain like a filing cabinet. Card catalog. He got that useful kind of trauma response; the hypervigilance. Knows where his fifth grade report card is and how many miles til an oil change and three ways out of every room. Knows which motherfucker in the place has a gun.

Should know where he put the knife.

But he’s got gaps, too. Because he was just a baby. Just like her.

If she asks him about that ambulance ride - the one for his eye - he can’t tell her shit. Not til the hospital, and he’ll tell her the first thing he remembers is her. Not Mama. Not bleeding all over her shirt and her hands and her frantic screaming when she pulled back the dressing that the fuckin’ EMTs told her not to touch.

Remembers Helaena’s wide eyes. Headlights. Like a fucking car coming when you’re standing on the side of the road waving your half-eaten arms or whatever; escaped some crazy fucker’s chainsaw barn bunker, and here’s some Good Samaritan to save you. Watched too many horror movies as a kid, maybe, but that’s what he told her.

He remembers her eyes. Just like his.

Two of them.

But before that? Not much.

He’s got gaps.

Other stuff, too. Stuff he won’t tell her. Or can’t, because he can’t even tell himself. Lots of it she can guess, and some she’ll never know.

Do you remember who we were before all this? he’d asked her. And she can’t remember where she put her keys, or what story she told the fucking caseworker last time, or what time she needs to be at work, or how many condoms are left in the drawer. Can’t remember the last hour of her life, some days. Can’t remember her home phone number when the principal asks because the one on file is four numbers ago; can’t remember how to fucking talk sometimes. Can’t remember where Daddy keeps the spare house key, or to take her Plan B, or how she got that bruise - the big one.

But she remembers when they were just Helaena and Aemond. Aemond and Helaena.

She remembers that.

It was like this, she thinks. A little bit, anyway. Hiding under the covers and using each other for light. One of them asleep, and one keeping watch.

*****

The night is all fits and starts for her; no sleep deep enough for dreams, which is probably a mercy.

He sleeps, though. Heavy and hard; that good fuckin’ weed sleep. She hasn’t seen him that goddamn toasted in a long time.

Still managed to rig up Missy’s fucking muffler with a zip tie before she left, though. Told her it was too fucking late to be driving something that loud, and she was asking to get pulled over, then he slid himself under that old piece of shit with his Maglite and shut it right up. Dumped washer fluid in, too. Said looking at that nasty window was giving him hives.

He’s a fucking good kid til he’s not.

In her restlessness, Helaena watches him. Counts his breaths, counts his freckles, counts the twitches in his eye when he dreams.

And in the morning, when he stirs before the goddamn sun does, groping through the darkness for her, she’s there. Relief and dread in the waking: does she ask, and will he remember, and how much does it matter when what’s done is done?

They’re miles and states and sometimes it feels like lifetimes away.

But it’s out there. Just because it’s behind you doesn’t mean it’s gone, he told her. It’s just in your blind spot.

Helaena doesn’t bring it up. Doesn’t ask the question that’s been standing all night between her and sleep. Instead, she works her body under his arm. Fits herself into his empty spaces and rolls herself on top of him, both of them naked, fucking mouths full of night-rot.

She’s still sore, she realizes when she tells him good morning, I want you. Weird. Not like her, but she did have a whole fucking hand up there, so she just slides and slides and slides against him, gets herself sloppy on his ridiculous fucking morning dick. Gets herself so wet she thinks maybe she won’t even fucking feel it, but she does. It’s a pinch and a sting and a gasp, but something about it feels just right. Feels like something she’s earned.

And when she braces both hands on his chest - one right over that pretty new heart, giving him a little stingpinch of his own, maybe - and he tips his whole head back, eye shut and throat open, and just says her name, over and over and over oh Laney oh Laney oh Laney Laney Laney, she thinks she’s earned that, too. Every syllable of it.

And when he holds her hips, guides them back and forth like he’s knee deep in a river looking for gold, a glint of something precious in the murky depths - when she lets her own head drop and her hair fall over him like water or the weeping branches of the willow in Pop’s side yard - the only thing she can think is you’re mine you’re mine you’re mine.

And nothing in front of them, or behind them, or crouching in the fucking dark, just out of sight; nothing in those echoing halls of memory, waiting to be named - nothing - is bigger or badder or holier or more terrifying.

She rocks herself over him until she comes, and then she doesn’t fucking stop. Keeps her rhythm steady, lets her mouth open wide to let the pressure out, sobs herself into another one, and then another one, and another and another maybe; or maybe it’s just one that goes and goes and goes, whatever it is, it rolls into the next; over and over itself, on top of itself, has her clawing him open like that feral fucking cat he knows she is. Has her shrieking and howling and hissing and spitting, and she doesn’t want to stop. Ever. Not when it hurts, not when she feels him come inside of her and make this sound like maybe it hurts him, too; not when she hears him say Jesus Laney you’re gonna kill us both, not ever.

She fucking has at it until his body taps out. Until even his bones feel soft, and there’s nothing left for her. Until she’s pretty sure that fucking bastard had another one, too, somehow, and they’re just a raw, sweaty mess. Little beads of blood where her clipped nails dragged hard over him, and a puddle of spunk under her where her dozen fucking orgasms forced it out, and a look on his face like all that work made him hungry enough to swallow her whole.

“I’m not done with you,” she tells him, and he doesn’t tell her no, doesn’t say yes you fucking are, doesn’t smack the damn bed three times in a row and fuckin’ ring the bell and white-flag her.

Calls her bluff instead.

“You think you’re fuckin’ badass today? Let’s go. Get on my fucking mouth.”

It’s not even a smile when she looks at him. It’s some kinda white-hot you owe me thing, and she doesn’t even know for what, just knows she’s earned it. All of it, any of it, whatever it is. And the look she gets back is full of it, too. Some come and get it shit.

So she does. Wiggles herself up over him, but she needs his help. Got those shaky legs he promised her; they can’t move on their own, and she’s only upright because she’s fucking sitting on him. He’s strong, though, even like this. Hauls her up when she falters. Doesn’t even talk shit.

She sits back down, heavy with all of it, and drips his own goddamn jizz into his mouth. He’s fucking happy. Fucking kid splashing in the mess he’s made. Just starts licking at her, getting all of it out of his way, gentler than she thought he’d be for all his macho bullshit.

It’s too much, though. Almost starts her crying from the jump, it’s so much, and she just shakes her head, frantic back and forth, and he stops. Kisses her instead, all down her spent thighs, and watches whatever’s left fuckin’ leak all over him.

“What are you fuckin’ mad about?” he asks her, those good hands running all over. Grabbing at her ass and rubbing at her everywhere.

Dumb tongue, big and useless, but she shakes her head, like what are you talking about?

“Mad about something,” he says. Tries a kiss again, just his lips against hers, and she shudders at it, but she holds still. “You’re on it like you fuckin’ hate me, little girl.”

Helaena gets it. Fuckin’ feels like a rage-fuck; one step off from a goddamn brawl. Some kinda shit she’d do instead of throwing hands at him. Claws out, eyes wet.

That’s not it, though. That’s not it, and she wants to tell him that, but she doesn’t know how to say you are something I am trying to reclaim. Something taken from her. A memory in fragments. A dream. A childhood. An eye. A knife in a pocket, or a gutter, or a neck. A brother. A baby. Two babies. An ordinary life. Someone - a lover - who has only ever been hers.

Maybe that, too, she thinks. Maybe.

She doesn’t say any of it. Only shakes her head again and says more, let’s go. Traces down his scar with her thumb.

“Hold the fuckin’ headboard,” he says.

Helaena sighs. Closes her eyes. Her arms are as shaky as her legs, but she does her best; curls her fingers into the fake fucking wood up there, bites her lip, and lets him finish the job. Erase. Obliterate. Shatter her and own her and remember her.

Remember her love. That it is sharp, and sweet, and dangerous, and his. That they are the same poisonous fruit from the same poisonous tree, and the only difference is the pattern of the rot.

*****

“I didn’t sleep,” she murmurs when her mouth works again. “Everything hurts.”

“Felt you moving around all fucking night,” Eyeball says. “That fuckin’ weird half-sleep shit. Couldn’t get myself up to fix it.”

“You were fuckin’ wasted.”

“I know,” he tells her.

He tucks her under his chin, and she draws her hands in front of her. Clasps them tight and curls in like a baby.

“I can sleep now, I think,” Helaena says. “Like this. If you stay.”

“The fuck would I go?” he says, and she shrugs against him.

“Get up or something? I dunno.” She pauses. “… You never think about leaving?”

“Leaving what?” he asks, but he doesn’t wait for an answer. “You? The fuckin’ country? This whole goddamn stupid existence?” He wraps himself around her, tucks right up into a spoon and hides his face in her hair. “The fuck would I go, Laney?” he says again. “Nah. I don’t think about leaving. Go to sleep. How are you still conscious after all that? Jesus.”

Chapter 61: Downshift

Summary:

just a lil spanking

that’s it

that’s the chapter

Notes:

happy birthday to me; have 3k+ of spanking porn 🤷🏼‍♀️ ft DD/lg stuff, a little sprinkle of degradation as a treat, & helaena in subspace. guest starring sex toys in creative roles. (er, one sex toy used creatively & it’s a better use 🤷🏼‍♀️😂)

honestly it’s super tame but like… if y’all don’t like a little swat on the bottom, just skip this one cos there’s literally nothing else 🤣

“One must do violence to the object of one's desire; when it surrenders, the pleasure is greater.”

- Marquis de Sade

 

She wakes alone, anyway. Untangled from his arms and in a mess of pillows he made around her, some kinda little cozy nest so she wouldn’t feel the weight of his absence. She’s warm and snuggled in, and he isn’t far. Puttering around, packing things up and making coffee. It’s the smell that gets her going, makes her nose twitch like a little rabbit and her eyes blink into the dimness, but as soon as she comes to, she has to pee. Bad. So bad she jumps right the fuck up like something stung her in the ass and runs by him on the way to the bathroom.

She fuckin’ startles him, and he laughs as she barely makes it; practically falls down pissing. Burns, too. Jesus Christ.

“Probably shouldn’t have fuckin’ gone at it like that this morning,” she says, washing her damn hands while he raises his eyebrows at her. “Didn’t fucking help. Sore as hell.”

Eyeball fuckin’ tuts at her. Shakes his head. “Being fuckin’ irresponsible with my pussy lately,” he says. “My fault. Thinking with my fuckin’ dick and letting you run the goddamn show. Get away with all kindsa fucking bullshit.” He stops what he’s doing; sits that bag right down on the table and tilts his head at her. “Gotta straighten you out, Laney. Getting fucking ridiculous.”

She stands there, just looking back at him. Knows where this shit is going; feels that knowing in her belly, something hot and bubbly. Works that bottom lip between her teeth. “Straighten me the fuck out? Just said it was your fuckin’ fault. Seems like you need to sort your shit out, Sir.”

He doesn’t take the fucking bait. Not like she’s angling for, anyway. Just puts on this look, his fuckin’ Daddy face, all stern and regretful and fuckin’ dirty as hell. Brushes his hands together a little, like he’s got fucking crumbs or something on them.

Coffee’s dripping. Almost done.

“Shit’s for me, too, little girl,” he says, shaking his head at her. “You think I fuckin’ enjoy it? Hurts me more than it hurts you.”

Helaena almost bursts out laughing. Motherfucker hasn’t pulled that one out before, and it’s a fucking nice one. Dumps a little kerosene on her or something, gets that flame right up.

“Does it, though?” she asks, raising an eyebrow at him.

Fuckin’ cool customer today, though. Running this shit. Not rattled by her crap at all.

He just keeps an eye fixed on her while he makes himself a cup of coffee. Pours it into that stupid paper cup, slow as anything, and takes a nice, measured little sip. Picks up one long finger and points. “Go stand in the corner. Face the wall.”

She starts to move, but he raps a knuckle against the fucking table, sharp.

Helaena stops dead. “Yes, Daddy.”

He just nods, and she goes the rest of the way. Tucks herself right into the wall in the empty corner by the door, and he fucking ignores her. Goes about his damn business; she can hear him back there, shuffling shit around and picking up and whatever. Catches his motion in her periphery sometimes; laying crap out on the bed - her clothes and shit probably - and slipping in and out of the bathroom. Drinking his stupid coffee like he’s got all day.

She didn't look at the fucking clock. Doesn’t know how long they have before checkout, but it’s gotta be soonish, she imagines. She almost says something, fuckin’ runs her mouth while she shifts foot to foot staring at the ugly beige-ish wall, but she figures he’s got it. Figures he could do without a lecture from her on time management.

“Stop fucking fidgeting,” he tells her. “Stand still.”

That’s hard. Takes all her goddamn focus, which is probably why he says it. Makes her keep a running line of still still still through her head, a thought she has to grab onto and use to tug herself back over and over, because when her mind drifts, her body follows. She’s no good at it, but she keeps trying. Starts to shift into fucking gear - with a fucking rattle and whine, like Granny, but she gets there - and get herself idling at the right speed for this mess.

Feels like she’s there forever, and she starts little fuckin’ huffy shit, blowing up at the curls that keep wanting to fall in her face. Sighs. Taps her bare toes, quiet on the carpet but he sees it.

“Knock it off,” he says. Little edge to his voice now; little gaps between the words that make her belly flip. Flips harder when he comes close. Brushes that big hand over her bare ass, finger right up the fucking crack of it, so light it’s almost not there. Feels like a breath; like he’s in her ear telling her what he’s gonna fucking do to her. Hair fuckin’ stands up just the same. Skin prickles.

Fucker walks away. Back to his bullshit, putter putter putter. Little old man doing his morning routine, coffee and newspaper and feeding the goddamn birds. Checking the weather.

He props the door open and stands outside to smoke. Doesn’t offer her one; not even a drag, just watches her. She can feel it. Eye like a hot stone on her skin, making everything inside rise up to greet it.

still still still she thinks, letting her lids get heavy. Letting them close just a bit, blur everything in front of her, narrow the world down. still still still

She hears him kick out the doorstop. Hears that metallic fuckin’ click of it settling into the frame. Feels him come up on her again; the way the air moves out around his body and makes room for him. Just like she does. Like all of her cells contract, split, spin themselves into a frenzy to let him in.

“You’re nice and quiet,” he says. Right fuckin’ behind her. Right against her. Way up high over her, still got fucking weed in his hair. Clinging to his skin, some kinda skunkysweet smell mixed in with his own. Stirred up with goddamn cigarettes. “Your brain quiet, too?” Mouth against her hair when he dips low to talk. Makes her scalp buzz.

“Trying, Daddy.”

“I know. It’s fuckin’ hard.” One of those good hands on her ass now, both sides, back and forth. Grabby and knead-y and slow, tugging all that blood up close to her skin.

All that fuckin’ wet, too.

“Gonna make everything quiet for you,” he tells her. “All you’re gonna fuckin’ hear is me. Maybe then you’ll be able to fucking listen, right?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“Turn around. Eyes down.”

She turns, and he’s got his hand out for her. Wraps it around hers, big and warm, and she follows him like they’re fuckin’ walking to school, just her and her fucking Daddy. She watches his feet, a step or so ahead of hers; lets them be her eyes.

When he stops, she stops, and he drops himself down onto the edge of the bed.

“Right here, little girl.” Tugs her nice and close. Close enough to get at her fuckin’ ass again, both hands, working that muscle soft and warm for him. Turning it into mush or something. “Look at me.”

Helaena lifts her gaze. Finds his. He’s fucking on it today, face nothing but serious and sweet, one of those sorry we gotta do this deals. She goes babysoft for him. Blinks those lashes low, bottom lip out like it’s looking for a bite.

“Over my knee. Let’s go, little one.”

Oh. She likes that one. Makes her cheeks pink up, and she can see him register it. All of it. The way she feels herself shrink down small; the way her mouth goes sillyslack.

He helps her down; starts to bend her over one. Nice and slow. Just one, left side, and she sees his wrist. Wearing that stupid cock ring like a watch, and she can’t help herself. She giggles.

“What’s that, Daddy?” Eyes wide at him. Mirroring that solemn face he’s got.

“Good girls get toys,” he says. “Be a good girl for me, take what I give you, and maybe you can play. Would you like that?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

Helaena lets him take her the rest of the way, fold her over his big old hard knee and prop her bare ass high. He hooks his other leg around hers to hold that shit in place. Not the most comfortable she’s ever fuckin’ been, but it’s not supposed to be, so whatever. She likes it anyway. Likes being all wrapped and tucked and tangled up.

“You know why we’re here?”

“Tell me, please, Daddy.”

Still working on her ass, one hand all over. “Who do you belong to?” he asks her.

“You, Daddy.”

“That’s right. All of you, right?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“That means this is mine,” he says. Hand on her fucking ass pauses to squeeze it. Hard. “Isn’t it?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“And this? This is my pussy, right?” Just flat-palming her now between her legs, using the span of his hand to hold her thighs apart. Wedge himself right in between.

“Yes, Daddy.”

“Tell me.”

“It’s yours, Daddy.”

“Mmhm. You haven’t been very careful with it, have you, little girl?”

“No, Daddy.”

She feels him lift his arm up, and he just lets it fall. All gravity, a loose heavy thud right on her. Cupped hand, all that shit. Gentle. It’s nice, lands low near the middle. The good spot, and she squeaks at him, or growls, or growlsqueakpurrs, something highlow that tastes good in her mouth. “What happens if you don’t take care of Daddy’s things?”

She squirms a little in his lap; can’t fuckin’ do much because of how he’s got her stuck, but she can do enough to show him. Ask him. “They get broken, Daddy.”

Arm comes down again, same sorta lazy thing. Not a swing at all, just a little pop to make her moan. “Smart girl. They get broken. And if it’s broken, I can’t use it, can I?”

“No, Daddy,” she says. High up, breathy kinda sound, and he does it again. Heavy hand right where she likes it. This one’s just a little harder. Just a little meaner, palm a little flatter. Makes her fuckin’ heart skiphop against her ribs.

“I should have my fuckin’ pussy whenever I want it, don’t you think, little one?” Fuckin’ pinches her then. Right over the warm spot. Makes her gasp, her back arch a little bit.

“Yes, Daddy,” she manages. Sounds kinda mumbly now, like her mouth’s full right up with something. Spit or need or a bunch of words crouched just behind her tongue.

“So you’re going to remember that every time you sit down now, aren’t you?” This one’s a smack. It’s got a bite to it; nice sharp set of teeth, and it makes her jerk a little against him.

“Yes, Daddy,” she says. Little bit of a gasp in there.

“Good girl. You’re gonna take care of my fuckin’ property. Gonna fuckin’ use your words and ask me for permission to play with it til further fucking notice. Count off now.”

smack

It stings. Still low, makes her feel fuckin’ dirty, the way everything lights up for it. “One.”

smack

“Two,” she says, pushing back against it. Feels good to fuckin’ meet his hand. Helps him get it right, too; low low low, where everything feels swollen and slick and fuckin’ sore already.

smack

“Three,” and he picks up the pace. Picks up the sting. Makes her writhe against him with it, makes her own sounds fucking echo through her head.

smack

Takes her up to ten, her voice wobbling on its own edge, turning to something like steam while she feels herself run fucking sticky and hot; filthy for him between her thighs when he lets one land there, just a little too low.

“What kind of fuckin’ slut gets off on this shit?” he asks her. Lets his finger slip down to feel her, and there’s a halo around it, a pulse of light, radiant like God Himself just fucking spanked her raw, and she takes in a breath that runs over her fucking brain. Wipes it clean. “Ask for more.”

“Please, Daddy,” she says.

“I can’t hear you, little one.”

“Please, Daddy.” Louder, and she lets it sit just outside desperate; just riding that line.

“Please Daddy what?” Drags his knuckles over her, like she might get it wrong and he might have to fuckin’ fix her.

“Please treat me like a whore, Daddy,” and the fuckin’ words just come out, goddamn brain hitting the downshift. Ready to go.

He can tell.

“One more time. You sound so pretty.”

“Please, Daddy,” and she barely fuckin’ hears herself. It’s mixing with the white noise, with the in-out blink, but he hears it. Strokes over her, slow and sweet, and then gives her one that makes her whole body fuckin’ jerk. Fuckin’ spasm and howl, and then he’s just shushing her.

“Shhhhh,” he says. “Quiet. All fuckin’ quiet now,” and when he spanks her again - lands that bigass hand hard, makes a little heart right in the center - it is. It’s quiet.

Another smack, and every fucking thing fades to black.

The world is just him. His voice, and his hand, and the sound of his body against hers. She can’t even fucking hear herself anymore; doesn’t know what he transforms her into - doesn’t know if she’s begging him or bratting him or crying like a little bitch - she’s just the striker, and he’s the match, and the fucking room’s on fire. Smoke in her mouth and her eyes and between her ears, crowding everything out.

Just him.

She hears him say spread for me when he pauses. Hears him say up, and her body just obeys. Braindead little puppet lifting upupup, not much leverage but she tries, and when she sinks back down, his wrist is there. Humminghumminghumming against her slippery fucking cunt, just off center, just a little wrong.

“Still,” he says, and she’s still. “This pussy’s mine, little girl,” and he’s not looking for words; just the yes in her muscles, running through her veins, sifting between his fingers when he threads them through her hair. “I’m gonna fuckin’ take care of it. My job now.”

The vibration’s just enough to drive her crazy; make her fucking hips buck and roll and reach, but she can’t get it right. Not with how he’s angled; not with how his goddamn leg’s got her pinned. No matter what she does, it feels like it’s right there, but just a fucking breath wrong. The frustration’s just more fire, more smoke. Just makes her ears sharper. Her mind fuzzier. His voice clearer.

“You gonna fuckin’ come while I hit you, little girl? That’s the kinda shit you like?”

Next fucking smack almost does it. Pushes her almost right against it; makes her tense and whine and pant; makes her whole fuckin’ body shake.

He runs that big hand all over now, soft up her back while she squirms and drips and aches and burns. Gentle over that skin he’s lit up. Down to where she’s sore and needy and still just wide open for him.

Then it’s

one
two
three

and the third one’s the one. Knocks her just right against his arm, against that pathetic little buzz, and everything inside of her goes tense and whitehot and fucking nuclear.

He doesn’t stop. Wails on her right through it; rhythmic, lighter, quick succession of slap slap slap, and the last one he holds. Cups his hand between her thighs, pushes in hard, gives her something to tie her to this goddamn fucking planet. To keep her from floating right away.

Still just his voice.

“Look at you, whore. I could have you like this for fuckin’ days. Fuckin’ ass-up coming all over me. You’re so pretty.”

Helaena’s head is full of blood and smoke and nothing. He echoes and echoes and echoes.

He helps her up slow; she’s dizzy and clumsy and throbbing and trashed. Strung out better than he was last night, feels like. Fuckin’ stumbling through an alternate universe while he pulls her right against him. Doesn’t sit her on his lap - no way that’s gonna work right now- just wraps her up tight to his bare chest and lets her close her eyes and give him her weight.

His heart is fast and his cock is hard and his body feels like it’s conducting current. Like she can feel whatever sits at the center of Life bolting around in his veins.

But everything is quiet. Brain just light filtering through curtains; gauzy sunshine and blurry heat.

They’re just breath inside skin over bone inside everything.

After a minute he takes those big hands and holds her face. Looks for her voice with his tongue, pushes it back until it loosens hers up. “You did such a good job for me,” he says, and she finds a fuckin’ thank you in there somewhere. An I love you, Daddy, and she lets him turn her, lean her down against the bed to make a slope of her back. A cradle in the arch of her tailbone, and he lays himself down there.

“You’re so warm,” he says. Cheek and nose and lips against her where she’s crackling like a flame. “Little fuckin’ dragon or something, Laney. Shit.”

The air feels good. The fuckin’ washcloths from the bathroom feel better, soaked in cool water and laid over her skin like a salve. He keeps them good for her, padding back and forth and back and forth to wet them while she purrs into the pillow like somebody’s fuckin’ princess. Smiles and preens while he plays with her hair.

But his body feels best, sprawled out beside her, long and lean and lovely and quiet - and big, the way the Sun is big, or the Tower, or the Emporer is big - until he tells her that it’s time to go.

Short little dress, no panties, and another fuckin’ stolen pillow for her bruises.

Notes:

okay but… i really am interested in helaena’s use of subspace as a tool for regulation, & this type of play as a ‘reset button’ of sorts… and also as a way to kind of show growth? idk as usual I’m in my head with 100 essentially useless reasons for everything & here’s some spank!porn 🤣🤣🤣🤣

and I persist on my side-quest for an origin story here. I think it’s coming at some point.

Chapter 62: A + H

Summary:

eh we’re kinda all over the place here 🤷🏼‍♀️

Notes:

the poem at the beginning is my absolute favorite poem of all time, ps. somewhere there’s a recording of the author reading it - YouTube I think? 10/10 would recommend finding it 🥰

anyway, back from my side quest to finish this chapter, which simultaneously goes everywhere and nowhere all at once, oops

little discussion of some super-underage (consensual, as much as it can be) sexuality, if that gives you the ick

Go with the one who loves you biblically.
The one whose love lifts its head to you
despite its broken neck. Whose body bursts
sixteen arms electric to carry you, gentle
the way old grief is gentle.

Love the love that is messy in all its too much,
The body that rides best your body, whose mouth
saddles the naked salt of your far gone hips,
whose tongue translates the rock language of
all your elegant scars.

Go with the one who cries out for her tragic sisters
as she chops the winter’s wood, the one whose skin
triggers your heart into a heaven of blood waltzes.

Go with the one who resembles most your father.
Not the father you can point out on a map,
but the father who is here, is your home,
is the key to your front door.

- from Untitled by Rachel McKibbens

 

Late start, with all the bullshit this morning. They get their shit and get out just in time, and it’s not a great day for driving. Another mistygray sky, and it keeps opening up over them and pouring in little bursts; ten minutes here, five here, two there. Weird weather.

Helaena’s chilly in her little sundress; doesn’t know why the hell he put her in it, except that he likes her in next to nothing. He puts the heat on for her, though, and she wraps herself in his big old hoodie, and it helps a little. Takes the teeth out of it, anyway.

Her ass is fucking lit up and achy, even with the pillow under it, and she just feels gross and sore and fucking stinky. They didn’t have time for a shower, and they’ve both got old sweat and jizz and whatever smeared all over, and it’s grubby as shit.

She has to fucking piss every twenty minutes, too, it feels like, and she can’t fucking figure out why. They grabbed gas station coffee when they left, but that’s pretty much all she’s had to drink, and it’s fucking annoying. Eyeball’s already over it; told her they’re just gonna pull over next time and she’s gonna lift her skirt and be done with it. Either that or use the empty coffee cup, he says.

“The fuck is going on with you?” he wants to know, and she’s hoping it’s not what she fuckin’ thinks it is.

“I dunno,” she says. “All fucked up from the weird shit we been up to. Fucking sand and fists and getting dicked down for hours. Not built for that kinda pounding anymore, I guess. Getting fuckin’ old like you. I need a shower and some fucking cranberry juice or something.”

“Shit.”

“Let’s just do that,” she says. “It might be fine.” Worth a shot, anyway, she thinks. Could just be fucking irritation, or a goddamn nervous bladder. That happens sometimes. Anxiety. She doesn’t know what’s worse: the fuckin’ nail chewing or the constant pissing. Her body does all kinds of weird crap when she gets stressed out.

He nods at her and ashes his cigarette out the window. “We’ll stop,” he says.

They’d planned to get a decent chunk of driving in today, but that’s not gonna happen now. She’s kinda glad, anyway. Even with the fucking pillow, sitting is shitty. Usually, she likes the soreness after getting smacked around good. She gets fuckin’ babied, and it’s half the fun; wearing his handprints and ice packs and getting lotion and a fucking lolly or whatever. Literally gets her goddamn ass kissed.

Gets him leaning down over her and fucking jerking off on her pretty bruises while she watches over her shoulder, lazy-lidded and warm. Gets lots of mumbly stuff about how good she looks. How his she is.

But not today. Piss-poor planning, and she’s been shifting around in her stupid seat trying to get halfway comfortable the whole time. Almost impossible. She even took her belt off and knelt backwards for a minute, and he let her. Feeling bad about being an asshole and making her sit so long, plus he got to flip up the back of her fuckin’ skirt to admire his work. Made her smile a little, anyway.

They stop again because he’s all talk; soft in the middle like an underbaked cookie, and she goes to pee in an actual bathroom while he looks for juice for her and fills the tank.

“Only decent shit they had,” Eyeball says, and it’s a whole fucking big bottle. Warm, sitting on the shelf with the boxed mac n’ cheese and peanut butter. Plain cranberry, no sugar or fuckin’ grape juice or whatever mixed in. Probably too late, but you never know, so she just cracks the top off and chugs it straight. Makes a face. Better cold, but it is what it is.

He gets her aloe, too. One of those gel-things meant for sunburn, and even though that’s not fucking cold, either, it still feels good when he bends her over the fender behind the building and rubs her up good with it.

“Somebody got a good show,” he laughs, nodding up at the camera over the dumpster.

Helaena giggles. Fuckin’ cord is dangling, looks older than dirt. Obviously not working. “We can pretend.”

“If you weren’t all fucked up I’d fuckin’ have you right here,” he tells her, fishing through the trunk for a towel to lay over the damn pillow. “Christ. Waste of that fucking dress, you know.”

“You picked it,” she reminds him, and he shrugs. “Besides, do what you want. You’re in charge now, right? Have me.”

“Yeah, well. What I want and what’s fuckin’ good for you are two different things sometimes.” He pauses and pulls out what he was looking for. “What you fucking want and what’s good for you are two different things.”

He just looks at her for a minute before he lays the towel down, and she feels a little rush of affection, like a shot of something. Hot in her throat and strong enough to make her eyes sting. She swallows it down and lets it sit there as she climbs in and he clicks her seatbelt for her.

Helaena lights herself a cigarette and blows her smoke at him when he slides in next to her. “You gonna make me quit this, too, Daddy?”

“Not making you quit anything,” he says as he works Granny into gear. She whines a little, feeling bratty herself, but she goes. “But you keep at it, I might, Mouth.”

She winks at him. “Do I need permission to use that?”

“What, your mouth? Depends on what you’re using it for. Running it at me like that, yeah.” He reaches over and snags her damn smoke. Grips it in his teeth and puffs.

She giggles and wriggles around, trying to get comfortable. Aloe’s tamped down the fire a little, and she manages to find a position that doesn’t aggravate it too much as they pull away; propped a little on the left side, body angled towards his. “Gonna give you road head,” she says.

“Gonna shut the fuck up and drink your juice,” he laughs. “I gotta get us at least outta this fuckin’ state, right? You start that bullshit, we’ll end up towed outta here. Ain’t got that kinda time.”

She shifts her feet around on the dash and sips at her stupid giant bottle. Stares at her toes. They need some fucking attention, too, she thinks, and she considers trying to do it in the car. Eyeball’ll have a stroke, though, between the smell and the fucking mess potential, so she figures she’ll have him do it later. He owes her some princess shit.

“Eat, too,” he tells her, digging with his free hand into the little plastic bag he shoved down on her side. Pulls out a muffin and yogurt and a stupid little fruit cup and sticks them in her lap. She didn’t even know he got anything else.

Helaena looks sidelong at him while she picks at her muffin. “You should eat, too,” she says. Holds out a piece for him. It’s bland enough, some kinda walnutty thing.

He lets her stick it in his mouth, but after he swallows, he tells her, “Don’t fuckin’ worry about me. Let me handle you, okay? Jesus. Been fucking shit at it, Lane. No more. I promise.”

She pulls her forehead in, trying to sort him out. Something’s got him all twisted up, deep in his own head. Always been a fucking dangerous place for him to be. “Baby, you…”

“Shut up. Eat, okay? Let me know if you gotta stop again.”

She shuts up and eats, and she does need to stop again an hour or so later. He just pulls into the stupid McDonald’s and waits, and he doesn’t even huff at her.

*****

They scrap more plans. The camping ones. Between the iffy weather and her fucking hyped-up bladder, they decide they’re better off somewhere indoors for the night.

They get across the state line, at least, and even a little farther down before Helaena finally has to call it.

“I can’t sit anymore,” she sighs. “My fucking ass is killing me. And I have to pee.”

No sigh. No head-shake. Just, “okay, Laney,” and the tick-tick-tick of a blinker when he pulls over to stop for the fiftieth fucking time that day.

Bad call on the little gas station; bathroom is out back, and you need a key, and it’s disgusting anyway, and Helaena shudders. Fucking grateful for all her goddamn dick-bouncing, because she’s gotta use those muscles and hover. There’s no way she’s sitting down. She debates the fucking sink, too; whether it’s grosser to wash or to not, and she ends up just holding her hands out like they’re wet, even though they’re not, and sanitizing up to her fucking elbows when she gets back to the car.

“Bleach,” she huffs. “I’m taking a bath in bleach when we get wherever we’re going.”

Eyeball smiles a little at her. Got Granny cleaned up, tossed all their trash and refolded Helaena’s towel so she’s not sitting on the wet spot anymore. Fresh coffee, too. The worse the bathroom, the better the coffee; fucking inverse relationship, and Helaena closes her eyes around her first sip. Better than that goddamn juice.

Before they leave, he puts more aloe on her. Drops kisses down into the neckline of her stupid dress, and they all feel like they’re dripping with something she can’t fucking place. Something that runs thick and sweet and toxic.

He’s quiet. Hangs an elbow out into the mist and traces around the inside of the steering wheel, clockwise and counter, over and over and over as they go.

“I love you,” she says, just because, and he pokes at her bare knee - right into the dip - and she hears the I love you more he doesn’t say. The little code pressed against her bone.

*****

First motel they find is a little sketchy, she thinks. They drive by slow a couple of times while she thinks about it, and in the end she tells him no. Can’t explain why, it just doesn’t feel good, even though it’s not a chain, and it looks just brokedown enough.

Could be the car outside the office. Too nice, she thinks. Doesn’t belong to a highschool kid or someone too worried about their own shit to concern themselves with hers. Fuckin’ busybody ride, is what it looks like.

“Nope,” she says. “Sorry.” Crossing her legs, trying to ignore the annoying, urgent press down by her damn kidneys. She’s gonna need a fuckin’ visit somewhere, she’s almost positive now. Fuck.

She takes another sip of that stupid cranberry shit, and Eyeball moves along. Doesn’t ask questions, just trusts her and goes.

*****

The motel they wind up at has a fucking pool. And it’s open.

Helaena probably would have okay’d it anyway, but the pool does it for her. It’s one of those painted-concrete graded-bottom jobs, where the whole thing feels fucking slimy and they’ve dumped enough chlorine in there to make you think there’s a nefarious reason for it, but it’s a pool. A real pool.

“There’s a pool!” she squeals at him, and she doesn’t care that even the fucking room smells chlorinated, or that the carpet has a weird film, like maybe it never really dries completely or something. Like the padding’s a nasty dish sponge.

Weather isn’t swimming weather, and neither of them have owned a goddamn bathing suit since they were kids, but she still makes eyes at him and asks him to come out with her. It’s evening-ish, and there’s a real chill, but he smiles at her and tells her they can do anything she fuckin’ wants, so they do.

She drags him out by his hand, and he pulls the only lounge-thing they have over to the edge so she can lay on her stomach and put her hands in the water. No one else is out there, so he fills a Ziplock from the ice machine and puts it on her ass, and he lays his stupid hoodie over her shoulders like a blanket.

“You good, Lane?” he asks.

She nods. The air is damp, and the cushion is damp, and there are fucking mosquitoes that she has to keep swatting, and she’s sore all over - her whole back now, too, from holding herself all fucked up in the passenger seat for so long - but Eyeball sits down beside her, pants rolled up and feet bare and dangling into the cold-ass pool, and she’s more content than she’s been all day.

She can reach his stupid head, and she combs through that shortass hair with her wet finger; drips chemically water down his cheek, and he just leans right into it. Gives her his weight like she’s a pillow, and she holds him in her upturned palm. Reaches to kiss him, like a princess in a fairytale who’s caught herself a frog and thinks it might grow legs long enough to run her right outta this goddamn mess if she only loves it hard enough.

*****

The dreams are intense. And bizarre. And so fucking real that when she comes out of them, she’s sweating enough that she’s sticking right to him despite the humming a/c he insisted on running near full-blast.

She forgets them almost instantly, too; gets too focused on figuring out where the fuck she is, where the light is coming from, why it smells like a damn sauna in here, why everything is so sticky. They just leave a weird residue on everything, make her move like she’s climbing through a bunch of sheer curtains or something. She can feel them clinging to her, spreading out over the boundaries of her brain, and she can’t remember ever dreaming like that.

It’s disorienting and startling, and she can’t decide if she’s grateful or disappointed with how fucking quick they’ve left her. Feels like maybe they were trying to tell her something.

Her jostling wakes him, gets him shuffling around beside her, that big hand between her legs curling into her thigh and gripping it hard.

She’s in a mess of something. Wonders for a second if her period’s started, there’s so much, but it’s not. Eyeball stretches; takes his hand out of the blankets and through the diagonal light splitting the bed in half, and she can see it. There’s nothing there. No blood. She’s just wet. Fuckin’ juicy as anything, and when he turns into her, nightbreath right under her nose, and asks her if she’s okay, the sound of his voice gets a heartbeat pounding all through her. Frantic.

Now she really wishes she could remember her fucking dream.

“I’m okay,” she says, and his hands are already busy. Running all over her, like they’re looking for a wound, or a pulse, or a need. Habit, she supposes. Habit. “I’m okay. Kiss me, though. Kiss me,” she says, and the second he does, every organ in her body grows wings. Turns into a butterfly. Turns her skin into a net, holding everything in place while her insides just flutter and flutter and flutter.

The edge is right there. Right there, even though her legs are closed and he hasn’t touched her. She feels like the fucking kiss could do it, the way his tongue presses the center of her top lip and his thumb rests at the bottom. Pushes it up and out, makes something delicious for him to sink his teeth into. He does, fucking Christ, he just bites down and it makes tears spring up out of nowhere. It doesn’t hurt, just fills her up to the top and she overflows.

“What’s the matter?” he asks. Feels the tremble in her lip like the rim of a paper cup; feels it bend in and everything spill over the side.

“Nothing,” she says. “Nothing; I don’t know,” and she feels him grip her tight, pull her flush against him, wrap her up.

“Come on, c’mere, it’s okay,” nose and lips and all the rest right into her.

She has to fucking piss. Her body’s pounding like a drum. Feels like they’re swimming through some fucking surrealist mess of fluid and sensation and haphazard, untethered perception. Floating through some sort of gap in space-time or something.

“Do you wanna play a game?” she asks his cheekbone when it brushes at her mouth.

He laughs a little, something small and warm. “Your games get us in trouble,” he murmurs back. “No.”

“Not this one,” she insists. “You be Aemond. I’ll be Helaena.”

She can feel his smile. Another laugh. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she says. Reaches down for him, hard and caught between their bodies; resting against the softness of her belly and the skinnytight of his. “Remember?”

“Mmhm,” he tells her.

“Like this,” she says. “We used to do it like this.”

They used to do it with their clothes on, and they used to do it without looking at each other, and her hand used to fit all the way around, and dread used to sit there in her tummy, curling up next to the want, and the need, and the thrill, and the comfort. Some big messy mix.

And now they’re naked. Now he’s got his forehead tilted down to her, both of them half fucking cross-eyed to hold the gaze. Now her hand’s too small to close around him, but his isn’t, and it’s big and safe on top of hers. Now the fucking mix is messier. Bloodier and scarier and a thousand times more precious.

“Like this,” she says again. Thinks about spitting but opens her legs instead. “Can I, please?” she whispers. “Just to help.”

He nods, and she lets him in between. Rocks against him til he’s wet, and their hands are wet, and there’s an ache, a single point of light like a star trying to fucking die, but she doesn’t let it. Just uses it all to slick him up, make him slide easy through their palms until he’s holding her tighter and tighter and tighter, free hand cupped around her chin, squeezing her into a kiss that takes all of his sound like a big, hot black hole.

“Come on,” she says, softsoftsoft. “Come on, remember? It was like this the first time, too,” him nudging through her hesitating grip, belly-to-belly in her bed, twelve and thirteen, and she thought he fucking pissed on her. Jerked her hand away, startled, and he yelped, and it got on her t-shirt and her belly and her wrist and at first it scared him, too. But after a second, he explained it. Knew from the fuckin’ dirty shit he watched with Waffle, and she screwed her nose up at him. Sniffed her hand, and it didn’t smell like pee, so she believed him.

Tasted it, then. Poked her tongue at it a little, and he’d laughed at her.

Does the same now. Feels him let go over her little fist; over his own. Against her bare stomach. Feels him warm and wet and half-innocent, she supposes, just kissing a pretty sound into her mouth, a little shaky, and she smiles. Sucks it off their fingers.

Bittersweet, like everything. Like every goddamn thing.

He makes a sticky heart on her; she feels it curve and ring around her navel. Feels the A + H he draws inside, like they’re chalking up the flat rocks by the creek at Pop’s. Writing their names for the rain to wash away.

“Will you touch me?” she asks, just a messy need now, a bleed she can’t staunch, and he nods.

He uses one finger. The pad of it, soft; the tiniest upward stroke, over and over and over, until she weeps.

“There,” he says. “It’s okay, it’s fine, I got you,” bottom lip dragging up her wet cheek.

Like he’s Aemond, and she’s Helaena, and it’s okay. It’s fine. She can cry. No one else is home.

Chapter 63: Unsupervised

Summary:

just a couple of unsupervised brats

I swim down to

look for our four-

chambered house.

The window

in our room still leaf-

darkened, its bruiselight

charged with fault.

Am I very lonely?

I age in reverse until I am as

small as my child

body, my chest swollen

with bright longing

that the walls will not always

greet each other

in collapse—

- from Portrait of Atlantis as a Broken Home by Vanessa Angélica Villarreal

 

Another round of wildass fucking dreams wake her with a wide-eyed startle. Sit her straight up like something out of a cartoon, hair in a frizzy halo and skin spunk-and-sweat-and-tears tacky all over.

He’s next to her with the burner in his hands, scrolling. Looks over at her and raises an eyebrow. “You okay?”

Helaena blinks and blinks. Shakes her head like she’s trying to knock something out of her ears. “I dunno. I think so. Dreams again. Fuckin’… my brain is fried. I feel like I dropped a bunch of fuckin’ acid. Tripping hard. What the hell?”

“What were you dreaming?”

“I don’t even know. Gone already. Just fuckin’… wildest shit. Real.” She shakes her head again. Follows it with her shoulders, trying to get all of it off of her. “Goddamn. What are you doing?”

She jumps up as she says it; kicks off the blanket and heads for the bathroom. Feels like she’s gonna piss herself.

“Finding you a fuckin’ urgent care.”

“Uh-uh,” she says, washing her hands and flicking off the water. “No fuckin’ urgent cares. Expensive, they wanna argue about insurance, get fucking testy if you don’t have it. They don’t fucking listen either. Two back home gave me shit I can’t take, even after I told them, and it turned into a thing.”

She hates doctors like Eyeball hates cops. Like Eyeball hates doctors, actually. Like Eyeball hates everyone.

“Gotta do something, Lane,” he says, looking up as she comes out and crawls back into bed.

“I am,” she says. Grabs that bottle off the nightstand and swigs her cranberry shit. “See?” She makes her best baby face at him, but she knows it, too.

He just gives her a look.

“Find me a Planned Parenthood,” she tells him with a sigh. “Gotta be one around here somewhere.”

“You think?” he asks. “Didn’t even bother, figured they’re a bunch of fuckin’ Bible-beaters or whatever.”

Helaena shrugs. “Bible-beaters fuckin’ get the clap, too,” she says. “They just say the devil did it.”

He laughs at her. “You’re right,” he says, looking down at the phone. “Kind of a drive, though, looks like.”

“I’ll call. You gotta make an appointment, else you fuckin’ sit there all day.” She rolls her eyes. “Fuckin’ asshole. Fuckin’ giving me dirty dick.”

She’s joking - she gets UTIs easy, two or three a year because she likes to fuck and forgets to pee, and she’s not surprised after the crap she’s been pulling lately - but he looks butthurt. Makes a face like she smacked him or something.

“Jesus,” she says. “What’re you fuckin’ stressed about? Shit happens all the time when you’re a slut.”

He laughs, then. Rolls his eye at her. “Fix your shit,” he says, giving her the phone. Got the page pulled up with the number and everything. “Gonna be fuckin’ whining for it, and I don’t wanna hear it.”

“That’s it, Daddy,” she snorts at him. “You don’t wanna listen to it. Nothing to do with your balls.”

“Not worried about me,” he says. “You got a few other places I can fuckin’ stick it if I want to. You’re the one who gets bent when it’s not up your cunt all day.”

Helaena throws her head back and laughs. “You would, too, if you were me. You don’t even know.”

He grins at her. “I don’t. So fuckin’ fix it, ho. You want me in your shit so bad.”

She crawls into his lap to make the call. She hates the damn phone, hates making appointments, hates fuckin’ talking to strangers most of the time. Feels better to have him right there, and she just dicks around with him while she does it. Pokes at his lip while he blows quiet raspberries at her. Tugs on his ear. Traces the outline of his pretty little heart. It needs lotion, she thinks; dry at the edges. He plays with her stupid toes. Didn’t fix them yesterday; told her he’d get her all pretty today.

Ends up that they can’t get her in til tomorrow, anyway, they tell her, and she doesn’t want to make another call, so she tells Eyeball it’s fine. “Not gonna fuckin’ die between now and then,” she says, and he gives her side-eye, but he just shrugs.

“Whatever you want, Laney.”

“They were nice,” she tells him. “Didn’t even fuckin’ care when I said I was homeless. You know how you can hear when people fuckin’ get weird? Lady didn’t get weird. That’s why I like that place; people don’t fuckin’ get weird.”

“Good, ‘cause you’re fuckin’ weird enough for everyone,” he says, sticking his fingers into her stupid ribs and ticking her. “Get the fuck off of me, too. Fuckin’ wiggling like that. We’re gonna have problems.”

“Depends on what you consider a problem,” she says, arching a brow. “Maybe it’s an opportunity.” She scoots off his lap and eyes his fuckin’ half-hard dick.

“An opportunity for you to choke on it, little girl,” he says, and she giggles.

“Okay, Daddy.”

He grins at her. Reaches out to chuck her under her stupid chin. “Shut up and get in the shower. By your damn self,” he adds, and Helaena sticks her tongue out at him. “I’ll shave you when you’re done if you want.”

Shower even fuckin’ smells off to her, like someone dunked boiled eggs in bleach, and she comes out with her nose wrinkled up.

He’s in there, perched on the closed toilet messing with the razor. “The fuckin’ smell though,” she says, stepping out and dripping down onto his leg while she grabs a towel. “How’re you gonna stand to sit in here with that?”

He looks at her like she’s crazy. “What smell?”

“The water! I fuckin’ stink worse than when I got in.”

He stops. Sniffs a little and shrugs. “I dunno. Little chlorine-y maybe? It’s not bad. What the fuck are you smelling?”

“Fuckin’ sulfur-y or like… I dunno, it’s gross.”

Eyeball pops the bathroom door wide to get some air in for her, but he’s still looking at her funny. “Better?”

“I guess. Yuck. You don’t fuckin’ smell that?”

He shakes his head. Tugs her in close and sticks his whole face against her. “Just girl,” he says. “Clean girl or something. Soapy girl. Girl who needs a fuckin’ shave,” he laughs, rubbing up against her prickliness.

Helaena rolls her eyes. “I’m the ho. Okay, Eyeball.”

“I’mma start up high,” he says. “Spread for me.”

“Mmhm,” she says. “Do a good job, because after this, you’re taking me to get a bathing suit.”

“Excuse me?” Doesn’t even pause, just leans in and presses down. In. Thumb sliding up like he’s gonna give her something good, but he doesn’t.

“You heard me. You’re taking me in the pool. It’s sunny.”

“Awfully demanding for someone with a blade to her fuckin’ clit, don’t you think?” he says, but he’s smiling. Working his way around, following all those lines with a wash cloth, wiping all that soap away. Gentle as anything. “If you want something, say please.”

Pauses with his cheek to her hipbone and waits for it, fingers tapping at the curve.

“Please, Daddy?” she says, and she’s suddenly not sure what she’s asking for. A little fuckin’ dip in the pool or to sit the fuck down on his pretty face.

He kisses up on her, then. Hums a little, right to the center. Uses his tongue to make her knees go weak, one little in-and-up before he stops to get back to work. Doesn’t even fucking look at her when he says, “Keep pouting, Lane. Just makes me wanna fuckin’ rough you up.”

Helaena rolls her damn eyes and lets him finish, but she holds onto his fuckin’ ear. Gives it a pull when she’s feeling feisty, and it never makes him slip. Only smile.

When the only hair she’s fuckin’ got left is above the neck, he rinses that razor good and runs a palm over her. Dusting her off like he just carved her out of nothing. Like he’s Pygmalion and she’s fuckin’ Galatea or something.

“‘m I gonna do with you?” he says, and it sounds like he’s mostly asking his damn self.

She answers anyway. “Take me swimming.”

“You’ll just skip right over the top,” he says. “Fuckin’ smooth like this. I know what I wanna fuckin’ do with you.”

She looks at him, some sorta mix of sly and shy. Can’t decide who she wants to be like this, naked and bare. Some dumb Barbie doll, or something made of marble and myth. “So do it,” she tells him. “Gonna get sorted out tomorrow. Might as well.”

Won’t feel good, but it’ll feel right, she thinks.

Eyeball pushes that stupid lock of hair off his forehead. Keeps falling into his face and driving him nuts since she cut it. Makes him look like a grumpy kid. “Nah. Come on, little girl. I’ll rinse off then I’ll take you in the pool.”

Helaena leaves him to that stinkyweird water and goes to lay down for a minute. Ass is still sore, and she’s starting to feel gross in her belly, too, way down low. Not looking forward to more driving. Maybe he’ll clear off the back seat and let her sprawl out there.

He finds her curled sideways-funny on the bed when he pads out naked, toweling off his stupid hair. Soft and white and wet. “You okay?”

She nods up at him when he comes to stand over her, dropping that hand down across her forehead. Looking for a fever. “I’m not hot,” she tells him. “Not yet. I’m fine. I promise it can wait a day.” She pauses to watch him run the towel over his body and toss it over a chair. “Think it’s okay to wear my fuckin’ underwear to swim? Don’t fuckin’ feel like shopping.”

He shrugs. “Fine. Covers the same shit, right? Just wear something dark.”

He’s shuffling through their bag before she can move to get up.

“What’re you gonna wear?” she asks.

Fucker’s got like two pairs of boxer shorts, and Helaena hasn’t seen either of them since they left. He hates underwear like he hates everything else. Even as a kid, used to get into it with Mama about being fucking commando all the time. Says it hurts his fuckin’ junk. How rubbing up on denim all day doesn’t, she doesn’t fuckin’ know, but whatever.

“I’m not going in,” he tells her, then he hands her black panties and that weird magenta bra she never wears. She doesn’t like the straps; they slip around like crazy, but they need to do some fucking laundry and the options are limited. He does the clasp for her, and he adjusts the straps, too, without her having to ask. They don’t stay, but he tries.

“Come on!” she says. “You have to! When’s the last time we were in a pool?”

He can’t remember, and she can’t really, either. Probably some birthday party when they were little or something. Mostly they swam in the creek at Pop’s, and when they stopped doing that, they just cooled off outside with the fuckin’ hose. Sprayed each other silly; water so fucking cold it turned her lips blue and gave her goosebumps big as stones.

Doesn’t matter, he says; he’s not gonna do it, but he’s happy to sit there and keep her company. She pouts again, and he looks at her like he wants to toss her on the fuckin’ bed and ruin her good. Before she gets too ticked off about not being allowed to let him, she grabs his hand and pulls him out the door.

It’s still pretty early; sun’s out, but it’s not exactly swimming temperature, and they expect to be the only ones out there. They’re not, though. There’s some lady with her boy, fourish or so Helaena thinks, looking pretty fuckin’ cute in his Elmo shorts and a rash guard that clings to his round little pot belly. Got hair like Waffle used to; big pile of curls on his head like an ice cream cone, growing up instead of out. Got a lisp and a big stupid grin that makes even Eyeball crack a fuckin’ smile.

Mom looks tired. Looks like she’s been up since 5am, and she knows this kid is gonna be done with this pool shit in three-and-a-half minutes, but she got them both dressed for it and packed snacks and his little puddle-jumper anyway because she loves him, and that’s exactly what happens.

Eyeball perches on the edge with his feet in again, and Helaena slides down into the water between his legs and drapes her arms over and just floats for a minute. Water’s colder than she likes, but his body is warm, and she just hangs out there and kicks her feet around. Tries to watch them without watching them, doesn’t wanna be creepy, but they’re sweet.

He’s a good little swimmer, doggy-paddling like a champ, and Mom hops in when he asks her to. “Come play with me!” he says, and she gives him a mama-smile and slides in. Makes that oooooh cold face that Helaena made, herself, and swims around and chases him for a minute or so.

Kid decides he’s done, though. He’s cold. He’s hungry. What’s on the TV? How long are they staying here? Can he have an ice pop? Where’s his Elmo towel? He doesn’t like the white one. He wants to get out. Now, yes now Mommy, let’s get out, and they do, Helaena smiling at them both.

Eyeball, too. She can feel his mouth turn up in her hair, even when he calls the kid an annoying little shit. But his fingers are cupped around her shoulder, and she feels him squeeze. Feels his fingers press in, tap tap tap a little rhythm, squeeze again. It’s a thinking tune. A little song about something he won’t ever say out loud.

She tips her head until she feels it bump his belly. Sings that same song back to him in silence, shaking her damp curls against his skin.

It’s quiet after they go, and Helaena turns around to face her fuckin’ stick-in-the-mud brother. Starts tugging at him a little. “Come on,” she says. “Just for a minute?”

He shakes his head and lights that cigarette he’s been dying for; holding off ‘cause he didn’t want to piss off some mom who didn’t want her kid second-hand smoking. Helaena smiles. Watches the way his hand cups around it to shield it from the breeze. Waits til he twists a little to set the lighter down, and then she pulls with all her strength, feet against the side and arms wrapped around one stupid leg.

He fuckin’ snorts at her, tips a little but doesn’t fall in. “Fuck you,” he laughs, but she doesn’t let go. Braces herself and pulls and pulls, and he doesn’t go anywhere. Just sits there, amused for a second before he lifts an eyebrow, butts that brand-new smoke, pulls the shit out of his pocket - wallet and knife and cigs - and pushes off into the water.

He goes right under, and he’s got her up in the fucking air before she has time to process what he’s doing, then he just tosses her ass like a doll.

Helaena shrieks and giggles and shrieks again, and she splashes all over the damn place. Comes up in a mess of spluttering laughter, and she has half a second to catch her breath before he fuckin’ does it again. She pops up, and then he’s got her by the hips and that’s it. Splash, and she’s coughing and giggling and he’s laughing back at her, pulling his stupid patch off and tossing it to the side.

“Asshole,” she laughs.

“You want more? Keep going,” and he’s got her again, lifts a little like he’s gonna pitch her, and she goes tight, ready for it.

Instead, he just drops her straight down. Catches her before she goes under, her cold wet skin smacking his bare chest. “You’re not supposed to do that til you’re healed,” she says, and he just shrugs. Kisses her, chlorine and nicotine and warmth, and spins her through the stupid water til it swirls around them.

“I’m done,” he says. Plenty tall enough to keep his ink out of the water. Then he hops up, hands on both her shoulders, and tries to fuckin’ dunk her.

Helaena shrieks at him again and slides away, sideways instead of under, and when she turns, he fuckin’ bear-hugs her and lifts her backwards. “Dickhead,” she squeals, and then it’s another kiss. Upside-downish-bad-angled shit, but it makes her mouth open wide. Her chest. The whole jangly set of her ribs, just openopenopen, and their laughter melts together and slips right in. Fills her up.

She turns and uses her whole damn arm to send a wave at him, and he sends it back, and then they’re in the middle of a fucking full-tilt waterbrawl, splashing themselves stupid and spitting at each other and acting like a couple of fucking jackasses. Fuckin’ hooting and hollering. Some poor mother’s noisy, unsupervised brats; waking the whole goddamn block with their bullshit.

She’s half-shivery, pale-lipped but pink-cheeked, dripping all over when he picks her up and sets her sore ass down on the side, his stupid heavy jeans soaked and clinging and sagging too low to be fuckin’ appropriate. She stares down, then back, then down, then back. Eye-to-eye when he kisses her and turns all that water to bleachyhot steam. Warms her through like a fresh cup of coffee. “I have to pee,” she mutters at him, grinning. Bites his bottom lip.

“That’s hot,” he says back. “Do it in my mouth. Do it right here. Fuckin’ infect the whole place. That’s so fuckin’ hot, Laney.”

She smiles into his stupid cheek. “Your fuckin’ dick’s out, asshole,” she tells him, and he drops his head against her neck and laughs and laughs and laughs some more.

Chapter 64: Safe

Summary:

had 63 & 64 done together, so here they are

lots of discussion of abortion & the entire thing takes place at a medical facility, so take care if that’s icky for you

also, c’mon, baela totally gives super competent NP vibes, right???? omg i love her so much

“Did you hear the lady on the phone yesterday?” Helaena asks, stretching long and shifting in the stupid seat. Not as bad as before, but she’s still uncomfortable. More like a dull ache today instead of that sunburnsting. They stopped at a pharmacy up the road and she got a box of those disposable cold pack things that you crunch up in your hand, and she’s got one stuffed into the pillowcase under her ass.

“No, why?” he says.

“Bunch of dumbass nosy motherfuckers outside, I guess,” she tells him. “Protesters or whatever. She said they gotta stick to one spot and just to fuckin’ ignore them. Or they have people who can escort you. Kinda fuckin’ shit is that? How fuckin’ bored do you have to be?”

Eyeball upshifts, and Granny submits pretty for him. No whining. “That’s some Alicent Hightower shit if I ever heard it,” he says. “People do that type of shit, you know they’re up to fuckin’ dirty business. Don’t fuckin’ worry about it. I’ll fuckin’ escort them somewhere if they say shit to you.”

She shakes her head. “Ignore them. I don’t fucking care. They wanna protest my goddamn piss problems, let them. What the fuck?”

He laughs a little. “I dunno. Shit’ll get to you sometimes.”

Helaena shrugs. “Nah. I get to me sometimes. Someone else is trying to do it on purpose, I’m too stubborn.”

He smiles at her and ashes his smoke out the window. “True.”

Closest clinic was like ninety minutes out of their way west, so that’s where they’re headed. The roads are confusing and not signed too fuckin’ great, so they keep having to flip that phone on and off and hope there’s a little service. It’s making Eyeball fuckin’ jumpy. He’s used to just putting that map in his head and getting on with things, but these roads are some next-level shit, and it’s stressing him out. Smoking like a fiend, one after another after another.

They finally come out onto some kinda state route, little strip malls and shit, and it gets easier from there. Appointment is mid-morning, so there’s not a ton of traffic, and it’s only like ten minutes out once they find civilization.

It looks a lot like the one back home, Helaena thinks: nondescript little beige building tucked at the back of a plaza but not really part of it. Sort of a maze to get in, kinda thing you can see but not really find until you’re right up on it.

Lot’s a goddamn freakshow, though, just like that lady said. They’ve contained all the little trolls behind a rope barrier, like they’re at some fuckin’ Hollywood premiere or something, but they’re all dressed like they just came from one of Mama’s church luncheons, shirts tucked in and pants too high and fake pearls. Most of them look too fucking old to worry about anything that fuckin’ goes on here, but that’s how people always are, she guesses. Worried about everything but their own bullshit. Anything to not have to look in the mirror. Just like Eyeball said: fuckin’ Alicent shit.

They all turn and stare at fuckin’ Granny’s big ass when she rolls in, and Helaena sighs, exhausted already by it. Eyeball puts his hand over her knee.

“I got you,” he says, and she knows. She knows; she knows; she knows.

“Ignore them,” she reminds him. “Please. I don’t give a shit about it, just walk by the motherfuckers. Flip them off if you have to but shut your fuckin’ mouth, okay? I’m not trying to start shit today. I just wanna fuckin’ feel better.”

“I know it, Lane,” he says, and by the time they get themselves parked, some other poor chick is coming out. Got two people with her in dorky little vests carrying fuckin’ umbrellas in this goddamn 75-and-sunny shit, and Helaena assumes it’s to keep the herd of twats at bay. They spin them sideways, some Mary Poppins shit, and just stroll right by. Helaena smiles a little. Hopes this girl was just here for her goddamn Plan B or something and she’s not fussed. Doesn’t feel bad or anything.

Not a long walk, and they cross paths with the umbrella-spinners right away, before they even get to the sidewalk, and they offer their services. Make sure they know they’re here to help.

“We’re good,” Helaena says.

Eyeball just kinda nods. Suspicious of every fucker he sees, and he says, “I can take care of my girl,” and waves them away.

They give him a little what-for, an up-and-down or something, but they just say yeah, sure, that’s fine and move along. Someone else is fucking pulling in by then, anyway, and Helaena just tucks herself into his ribs, opposite side from those shitheads, and keeps walking.

Wasn’t like this when she had her abortion, she thinks. Outpatient shit at the hospital - D&C; couldn’t use the pills because she was kinda far along for that, and there were two, blah blah blah - just walked in and walked back out, Mama clicking her heels three steps ahead of her, jaw set in a line. They’d offered her a wheelchair, but Mama rolled her eyes and that was that.

Rather deal with this garbage, honestly. Long as he’s with her, anyway. Take a bunch of fuckin’ church bitches and Eyeball over that big, sterile hallway and Mama’s clenched fists any day.

He’d give her the pain meds, even though he hates them. Not like Mama.

There’s a security guard right outside the door; little post like a fancy doorman or something. Big, burly guy. Shorter than Eyeball but wider. Arms like fuckin’ tree trunks.

Asshats are heckling him, too; trying to chat his ass up, right until the two of them get close enough to take their attention. He’s fucking ignoring them - eyes on her and Eyeball, calm and clear and warm; Helaena likes him immediately - and Eyeball behaves himself and ignores them, too. Just pulls her in nice and snug; lets her lean like a crutch against his sturdy ribs and wraps his arm around her shoulder. Covers that outside ear with his big hand and presses the other side in tight, trying to muffle the sound. Shrinks the world down to something manageable for her.

Helaena just looks down. Watches his feet, watches her own feet, tries to use as few of her fuckin’ senses as possible. Conserve whatever fucking energy she has for this crap, which isn’t a whole lot. Bad enough trying to sort out a goddamn appointment as it is, and then all this bullshit on top.

“I’m sorry,” the guard says to Eyeball when they get up there. “Can’t let you take any knives inside.”

Dude’s got a nice voice; baritone thing that matches his eyes. Sounds like maybe he actually is sorry, though Helaena fuckin’ doubts it. Puts on a good show, though. All sorts of sincere.

She feels Eyeball stiffen up next to her. Can practically see his brain clicking and chugging like an engine, trying to decide quick which fuckin’ knife this guy’s talking about, whether he can get away with keeping the other one, whether he’s gonna surrender a single goddamn thing to this motherfucker. Whether he might just send her the fuck inside and wait.

He’s not a fucking idiot; he’s gotta fucking realize why they’re doing it like this. She wouldn’t let anyone in strapped up like that, either. People are crazy. Got a whole parking lot of proof.

Still. Still.

She pushes harder against him, a little tiny it’s fine type thing, and she feels the little hip-bump he gives her back.

“I get it back when we fuckin’ come out, right?” he says, and Helaena’s relieved. She doesn’t wanna fucking do this alone, and he knows it. And she knows what kinda shit he’s swallowing to make sure she doesn’t have to.

“Of course, man,” the guy says. “I’ll keep them safe for you,” and Helaena almost smiles. Feels the little lift in the corner of her mouth. Dude’s solid at his job; had her dumbass brother clocked from across the lot, probably. He’s seen some shit, she fuckin’ bets.

Eyeball pauses again, like he’s surprised, but he hands both the fuckin’ things over. Keeps a good grip on her when he bends to grab the one from his boot, and she’s glad because the fucking chatter from the peanut gallery is starting to annoy her. Seep into her nervous system. He helps. He always fucking helps.

He’s hesitant about the whole thing, like he might change his mind, but the guy is careful and deliberate and sits them in a little box he’s got stashed there. Shows Eyeball, and Eyeball nods at him. Got a look, but he’s behaving.

“Thank you, Sir,” the dude says, polite as anything, and Eyeball just kinda lifts his chin. Not happy, but he’ll deal.

Doesn’t need a fucking knife, anyway, Helaena knows. She’s seen his work.

“This parking lot safe?” Eyeball asks. “These idiots gonna mess with my fuckin’ car?”

“Not on my watch,” dude says. Raises his eyebrows and smirks. Got a gun on his hip.

Eyeball believes him. Gives him a nod, and they go inside.

“How you doing?” he asks as they step through the door. “You good?”

She nods at him. Tells him she can check in on her own, go fuckin’ sit, and he does. Sprawls in a chair where he can see the fuckin’ door, legs wide, fuckin’ sharp eye everywhere.

Waiting room is busy. All women except for him. All looking like they’d rather be fuckin’ anywhere but here, but that’s life, she guesses. So would she.

She has to fucking piss, and when she gives them the fake fucking name she used - didn’t want them to be able to find her, doesn’t know if their computers are all fuckin’ linked up or what - she tells the lady at the desk.

Lady hands her a damn cup. “Might as well,” she says, cheerful as anything. “They’re going to ask you for it anyway!”

Yeah. She knows.

She pisses and leaves the little cup - fucking cloudy, UTI for sure - in the slot in the wall, fake fucking name all neat on the label.

She hates fucking waiting. Makes her anxious as hell, no matter where she is. Doctor, grocery store line, on fucking hold on the phone; all of it makes her feel like her skin’s full of bugs. Like she’s about to burst open and send them crawling everywhere, like some horror movie shit. Send every motherfucker in the room screaming for the door. Least it’d go quicker that way, she thinks, and rolls her eyes.

He knows it. Tries to occupy her. When she’s done with her paperwork - fake name, no address, no phone number, email she hasn’t touched in years and can’t remember the password for, no insurance, Amoxicillin allergy and a period last month and no she doesn’t need birth control or an HIV test, and yes she feels safe at home, wherever the fuck that is, fuckin’ joke she thinks - he hands her ancient magazines that she fuckin’ skims and tosses. Holds her hand and messes with her fingers; makes his run back and forth across her palm, playing some kinda ridiculous medieval battle scene, little fighting noises and everything.

Helaena giggles. Bounces her knee. Tries to keep breathing normally and not get fucking aggravated by every little goddamn noise. Some lady’s got her baby in there, quiet thing, not crying, but even those tiny gurglingcooing things are making her brain hurt.

It takes forever. Even with the goddamn appointment it takes forever, and by the time they finally call her back, she’s so twisted up that she almost doesn’t recognizes the name she gave. Nurse has to call it like three times, and Eyeball has to nudge her a little.

“Be right back,” she tells him, but she knows that’s a goddamn lie. Be lucky if she’s back in time for fucking dinner, she figures.

Whole bunch of bullshit for one little fucking pill. Better start fucking pissing after they get at it from now on. This is so fucking dumb.

Everything’s fuckin’ fine; her vitals are good, she’s not burning up with raging fucking sepsis or anything. She’s still short. Still fat. All that good shit, she thinks, rolling her damn eyes.

“Someone will be right in,” they tell her, and Helaena almost laughs. Been over an hour and a half already.

She busies herself swiping the whole goddamn basket of free condoms while she waits. Figures it’s probably smart to start using them again once she gets her goddamn period - fucking Plan B is brutal - and if she has a bunch on her, it’ll help.

They’re fucking flavored, and she laughs right the fuck out loud at that one. Imagines telling Eyeball she’s gonna slap a rubber on him to suck his dick. Banana, you think? Or coconut? She can see his stupid face right now. Jesus.

They tried fuckin’ flavored lube once, just for giggles; used half a goddamn tube on her, and he gagged. Told her he’d rather eat her whole ass after a week without a fucking shower than ever do that again, and she’d laughed so hard she cried. Strawberry, it was supposed to be, but it tasted like a balloon full of puke or something. Rancid. They threw it right in the fucking trash; only ever need it if they use the fucking back door, and he uses his damn mouth for that, too. Wanted nothing to do with it.

Stupid condoms probably aren’t any better, she imagines. He’ll have to fuckin’ go down on her first. Ruin his good time if he tries that shit afterwards. Fuckin’ fake-ass pineapple-latex pussy. What the hell.

Whatever. They’ll probably help with the UTI business, too, she thinks. She’d be fine never having to do this shit again.

She has no idea how long she sits there. There’s no clock, and Eyeball’s got the phone, but it feels absurdly fucking long, even for here. She starts thinking maybe they fucking forgot about her after awhile. It’s busy as hell, and the goddamn door’s shut, so maybe they think the fucking doctor’s in there or whatever.

Anxiety starts working at her bad. Already amped up, but now she’s gotta make decisions, like does she go out there looking for someone? Does she wait? Maybe it’s not as long as she thinks. Her perception of time is notoriously fucking bad, and maybe it’s only been like ten minutes or something.

Or maybe it’s longer than it feels, and that’s fucking worse. Then they really did fucking forget about her. What if they went to fucking lunch or something? They probably don’t do that all at the same time here, she thinks, but what if they do?

Would Eyeball come looking for her after enough time? Probably. Probably, she thinks. But that door’s locked. Got a little keypad, for a code or a badge swipe or something.

Can she get out if she has to? Does it work both ways? What if she’s trapped?

She has to fucking pee again. Her ass hurts. Hard fucking chair, and she keeps standing up and sitting down, stand sit stand sit stand. Her heart’s starting to do that thing, fucking rattle around in her chest like a loose screw, and she can feel sweat prickling.

Finally she decides that she’s gonna piss herself if she doesn’t go find a fucking bathroom, so she opens the door, and there’s one right across the hallway. Not the one she used before, but it’s open and she’s fucking glad. Decides that she’ll have to go find someone when she’s done, because now she has to get the fuck out of here. No way she can do this much longer, or it’s gonna be fucking Meltdown City.

When Helaena comes back out, she nearly cries from relief, because she steps out right behind some lady in scrubs who’s going into the room she was in.

“Sorry,” Helaena says. “Sorry, I really had to pee.” Her voice sounds like it’s coming through one of those cardboard paper towel tubes or something, all echo-y and far away.

“Oh, no, that’s fine,” the lady says as Helaena leans against the fucking exam table to keep herself from tipping right the hell over. “Are you Ms Waters?”

Is she?

Yes. Yes, she is. That’s who she is today.

Helaena nods.

“Nice to meet you,” she says, closing the door. The fucking click is way too loud. “My name is Baela. I’m one of the Nurse Practitioners. I took a look at your test, and it does look like you’ve got a urinary tract infection. Have you had one before?”

Helaena nods again.

“Okay, so you know the drill, I’m sure.” She’s smiling, trying to be friendly, but there’s something plastic about it. Something Helaena doesn’t like. “You’re allergic to Amoxicillin, correct?”

Another nod.

Baela holds out a little packet, and Helaena reaches for it. Knows just what it is. Feels another little wave of relief try to break through, but it only crests a little. Doesn’t make it all the way in, because Baela doesn’t let go right away.

“It’s Monurol,” she says. “Single dose. Have you taken it before?”

Helaena nods again. Wonders what the goddamn holdup is. She likes this fuckin’ place because they can just give her the shit and call it a day. She doesn’t have to trot off to the fuckin’ pharmacy and wait again. Wham bam fucking thank you Ma’am, here’s your piss Kool Aid, have a great day.

“Okay, great. Instructions for mixing are on the package; make sure you’ve got clean hands, all that jazz. And it is safe for you to take right now.”

Helaena narrows her eyes. This chick’s still holding the fucking package, looking at her like she’s expecting Helaena to say something.

Safe? “Okay, thanks,” she manages. “I’m only allergic to Amoxicillin, so…”

“I didn’t see it on your paperwork,” fuckin’ lady says, “so I just wanted to check in with you…”

She pauses, and Helaena’s head starts to fill right up. Buzzhumblitz, hot white noise between her ears. She can barely hear the rest of it - just barely - but she does.

She fucking hears it.

“Are you aware that you’re pregnant?”

Notes:

be honest, did you see that coming from 100 miles away? 🤪

Chapter 65: Hard and Soft Parts

Summary:

This is fucking bad. This is so bad. Everything is so bad. She’s so fucking bad.

Notes:

had this whole mess almost all done with the last two - it all sorta spilled itself at once, so 🤷🏼‍♀️

there’s some violence here, nothing super gory or lengthy

“My hunger, too, has both hard and soft parts.”

- from A Brief History of Cyborgs by Franny Choi

 

“No.” Helaena shakes her head. Snatches that goddamn pouch of antibiotics like this fuckin’ lady might change her mind now that she’s gonna start fighting about it. “No, that’s impossible,” she tells her. Shoves that shit deep in her pocket and tugs at the zipper of Eyeball’s stupid hoodie. Trying to shrink down and disappear inside it or something. Fucking head’s got a duststorm blowing in there, drying out her stupid brain.

“Why do you say that?”

Bitch doesn’t believe her. Helaena knows that look, like she thinks she’s a fucking dumbass little kid. Pity for how stupid she is or whatever. Makes Helaena want to fucking throw something, but her muscles have all gone to goo and she doesn’t think she could manage. “No, I took Plan B. I’m not pregnant. I —“

“I’m sorry,” Baela-the-NP fuckin’ says. “This doesn’t sound like it’s news you want to hear. All contraception has a failure rate. We have someone who can…”

“I have to go…”

“Talk to you about what’s going on, and what your options are. Would you like…”

“I have to go! Right now, I…”

“… to talk to her?”

“No!” Fucking talking over her, standing in front of the goddamn door; what the fuck is this shit? She wants to get the fuck out of here, can’t even think, but that fuckin’ mess in her head has all that sand in her fucking legs now, heavyheavy, and she tries to tell them to fucking move. To go. Get the fuck out of here, she needs air, she needs somebody to fucking talk to her in a way that makes some goddamn sense. Fucking pregnant; what the fuck is she talking about?

She takes a step, but the floor starts to wobble, and she starts to sink.

“You can sit down for a moment,” Baela says. “It’s okay. Take your time, this is a lot to process. I’ll get…”

“No!” she tries again. Still can’t move, her shit is all fuckin’ gummed up, stuck, melted right into the goddamn floor or something. She needs fuckin’ Eyeball. Where the hell is he? “I want my hu— I want my… get me my br—“ She can’t fucking remember who he is. Who he’s supposed to be, if she told anyone, did she write anything down, what did she call him? Did she call him anything?

Dumb bitch is looking at her fucking crosswise, got her forehead wrinkled like she’s confused; like Helaena’s speaking in fucking Gibberish at her or something.

“Aemond! Fuckin’… get me… he’s in the fucking waiting room. Tall, one fucking eye, patch… bring me Aemond!” Her knees just fucking quit on her then, full stop, and she folds into the goddamn chair. “Please!” she adds, like that’s gonna help anything now.

Baela’s still looking fucking concerned, and Helaena still wants to fucking hit her. Would, she’s sure she fucking would if she could swing her damn arm. If any part of her goddamn body would obey her. Looking at her like that cunt ER nurse did, I’m so sorry honey, no she’s fucking not. She’s just sorry this shit happened on her fucking shift; that she has to deal with this crazy chick who let her fucking little brother stick his dick in her.

Baela reaches for the door, too goddamn slow, and Helaena’s yelling at her again. “Get me my fucking brother!”

She slips through the cracked door like a little ghost or something, and Helaena sits in the fucking chair, heat climbing and climbing and climbing, like she’s a goddamn house on fire. She’s itchy with sweat, and fucking dry, and she’s sore and she’s a lot of fuckin’ shit but she’s not pregnant. She can’t fucking be pregnant; she took that stupid pill and she felt like shit afterwards. All fucked up from it; it had to fucking work. Why would they fucking lie to her? That’s bullshit. Maybe they mixed up her fucking pee, and there’s some other poor knocked up girl out there who’s gonna walk out of here thinking everything’s fine til she starts puking her guts up or something. Assholes. Assholes. Her knees are knocking. Where the fuck is Eyeball? She’s gonna just go. Go fucking get him herself.

She tries to stand up but she can’t. She still fucking can’t. What the fuck? Where the hell is he?

“I’m sorry.” Different girl. Pale-faced pale-eyed chick, nervous-looking mousy-haired thing, didn’t even knock, or maybe she did. Maybe she fucking did, Helaena doesn’t know. Can’t fucking hear right. “He’s not out there, Miss.”

Helaena blinks at her. “What are you talking about?”

“You were looking for your… brother? He’s not in the waiting area. I’m sorry. Do you…”

“What are you talking about?” She can’t fucking hear right. Her own voice sounds like it’s coming through a wind tunnel. Still all full of sand. “He was out there! Go get him!”

She tries to fucking stand up again, but the arm she’s got on the counter/sink thing is shakingshakingshaking, she can’t press down, can’t get any leverage, all her joints are liquid. Elbows, knees, fucking neck.

“I’ll check again, Miss, but…”

“Go fucking get him!” She’ll yell for him, she decides. He’s fucking out there, blind motherfuckers. How do you miss fuckin’ Eyeball? Fucking idiots. “Eyeball!”

Lady looks at her like she’s crazy, just standing dumb in the doorway while Helaena loses her shit. Oh. Oh. They don’t know his fuckin’…

“Aemond!” she tries instead. “Aemond!”

Fucking nervous, like this bitch doesn’t know if she should keep the door open, close it, call the goddamn cops, go back to the waiting room, maybe just fucking disappear, and Helaena can fucking relate. She can, because she doesn’t know what to fucking do, either. She wants to leave but she can’t get up, she needs fucking help, she needs…

“AEMOND!” Oh, she’s hysterical now. She can feel it bubbling hot in her throat. This is a scene. She knows it, but she can’t stop. She needs help to get the fuck out of here. “AEMOND!”

“Lane?”

There he is. Fucking morons, there he is. He’s here. Of course he’s fucking here, why would they tell her he wasn’t? Why are they fucking lying to her? Bunch of useless motherfuckers, mixing up her piss, can’t see a fucking six-foot-three motherfucker with an eye patch sitting in their waiting room.

“Come here!” she hollers back. Still sounds like a fucking maniac, shrill and edgy and desperate.

“Lane?!” She hears him again. He’s getting fucking loud with someone, too. Arguing. Probably that chick behind the desk, fuckin’ Merry Sunshine with her piss cups. Using his big voice. His dangerous voice.

“You can’t fucking hear her yelling for me? Fucking open the door! What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Helaena starts to shake her head. no no no no no to him getting bent, to that fucking receptionist who wants to fucking fight about it, to this whole goddamn place.

“Just let him back!” she hollers. Just fucking let him back, what the fuck, he just wants to help her out of here, what the fuck is wrong with these fucking people?!

CRASH

Uh oh.

That does it. Breaks the spell. Cuts right through the chaos in her head; the sand and the heat and all those dangling, disconnected nerves that won’t let her move. One neat slice. One shove between the shoulder blades, right into fight or flight, and she’s out of that goddamn chair so fast she knocks that bitch square into the doorway on her way out. Sends her stumbling, bouncing off the jamb or whatever, Helaena doesn’t stop to look, and she’s never been so goddamn grateful for a bright red EXIT sign in all of her fucking life.

Bulb in one of them is fritzing a little. It blinks, blinks again, like one fucking angry eye, and she comes barreling through the fucking door - don’t need a goddamn badge or a code or whatever to get out, only in - before it can go a third.

And there he is. Oh thank God there he fucking is, and she’s just in fucking time because that asshole’s half through the reception window; got Merry Sunshine by her neck. Well. Not exactly her neck, not really, just the lanyard she’s wearing, the thing that’s got her magical door-opening ID hanging from it, and she’s squeaking. It’s not even a real scream - Helaena hopes the poor bitch never gets fucking mugged or anything, voice like that - but it stops abruptly. Squares off along its edge, confused or relieved or something, when Eyeball fucking lets go. Just drops that chick like a rock when he sees her.

Doesn’t waste a goddamn second, either. Dumbass knows they’ve fucked up bad, and his shit kicks into gear, too.

Which is good. Which is fucking great, because the moment she sees him she fucking short-circuits again. Feels her shit just crumble. Quit on her. But he’s already there. Just leans down to grab her up, and she feels a sob break against his shoulder like a wave when she wraps herself around him.

No time for her fuckin’ tearful reunion shit, though. He shushes her, harsh and close. Needs her to shut the fuck up so he can hear, so he can think, so he can fucking focus, and the only way she can do that is to bite down. Get a mouthful of his stupid shirt, so that’s what she does. Fills herself with it. Stuffs it back inside like a gag when he pulls her against him and starts to move. Got it tugged up, his belly and his spiders out, her face deep down so she can’t really see too good. So she can spiral in, in, in.

“Listen to me, Laney. I need you to walk.” He just says it over and over, walk walk walk, voice like a rope she can hold, and she does. One foot in front of the other, walk walk walk.

Not a long distance, not far to go at all, and she’s just running on muscle memory. On the way her body knows his. Knows it and trusts it and needs it.

She’s turned so inward, narrowed down so much, that she doesn’t even see that fuckin’ security guard coming.

Eyeball does, though. He sure fuckin’ does. Was ready for it, six steps ahead like he always is with shit like this, and he just swings on that motherfucker quick. Cold-cocks him with the nastiest fuckin’ right hook Helaena’s ever seen. She feels him reach back for it, drop the left side loose to get momentum and let his hand skim down her body, and she glances up just in time to see it land. Jaw shot. Dude never saw it coming; just walked around the corner into a fist. Topples over like a fuckin’ crash test dummy or something; like he’s got stuffing in his clothes. Boom.

The sound is horrendous, and it’s fucking lights-out.

He drops right there in the hallway, and that’s where Eyeball leaves him. Steps around his floppy fuckin’ leg and just scoops her up. Pulls her up against his shoulder and carries her the rest of the way, like she’s some kind of goddamn dummy, too.

Fucker was waiting for it. Knew they probably called the guy. Knew he was fuckin’ carrying and it wasn’t gonna be a fair fight, so he decided to get dirty first.

He grabs that box of knives on the way by.

Fucking protesters are gone. Lunch break or shift change or they paid their dues to the Big Guy for the day or whatever, and it’s bright and quiet and hot outside.

Helaena squeezes her fucking eyes shut against it - against all of it - and feels herself start to shake. And shake. And shake. Whole body trembling like that fucking punch knocked the Earth clear off its goddamn axis.

Eyeball’s all fucking business; no time to fuckin’ coddle her. Just bundles her into the passenger seat, slams the door, and has Granny spreading pretty for him and rolling into gear almost before he shuts his own.

“Get down low,” he says, and those are the only fucking words he speaks for a long, long, long fucking time. She doesn’t fucking know how long. She just slinks down in her seat, wraps that big old stupid hoodie around herself like a blanket, and shakes.

And when she has to pee for the seventeenth goddamn time that day, she just takes her old-ass coffee cup from the console, pours its remnants into his, wriggles out of her stupid pants, and fits the mouth right around her whole shit. Pisses while she holds onto the dash and Eyeball navigates some fuckin’ twistysnakingcurling back road that looks like something on the way to Pop’s. Gets it on her hands anyway. The seat. Her fucking foot, somehow.

The shaking, probably.

Puts the top back on and sighs, then chucks that thing right out the window.

Her damn brother never says a word. Drives and smokes and drives and smokes and drives. Taps those long fingers half-stilted on the steering wheel, knuckles blooming into a bruise.

They don’t look too good, Helaena thinks, and she wonders if they’re broken.

*****

The gas station they end up having to stop at is a grimy little thing, lonely and rundown and in the middle of nowhere. Looks like every other dump they’ve seen. Dirty siding, dirty awning, handwritten signs on shit and a parking lot with cracks in the asphalt.

She has no fucking idea where they are. They’ve been driving for hours, she thinks; he’s run that fucking tank way low. Lower than she’s ever seen him do, needle hanging out right on the edge of that red line. Just driving and driving and driving away.

They haven’t spoken a single word to each other.

Helaena’s nervous system is fucking crashed out, and she hasn’t been able to come back from it; has been fucking in and out of herself, can’t get a goddamn grip on her shit at all. Hasn’t mixed her meds, had a single fucking sip of water, nothing. Just drifting. And smoking. And peeing. Twice more since the first coffee cup; she ended up dumping the second one out the window and using it both times, afraid she was gonna run out of fucking containers. Made a mess both times, too, and cleaned up with her own panties. Got them shoved in the door pocket now, stinking like dirty piss. She’s disgusting.

Eyeball’s been too busy trying not to get them fucking arrested to care, tensed up and swivel-necked and she swears that fucker’s blinked a total of three times. Teeth grinding around his fucking cigarette.

He closes his eye and leans back against the seat when they pull in to fill up, idling alongside the pump. Doesn’t even open it when he says, “You gonna tell me what the fuck happened in there, or what?”

Lay a motherfucker flat first, ask questions way the fuck later.

That’s Eyeball.

Not that she could’ve answered him then, anyway. As it is, her tongue still feels like it’s made of lead. She just looks at him for a minute. Really looks, like she hasn’t seen him in days.

He looks tired, she thinks. All creased up in his forehead and bluish under his eye. Hand is swollen; starting to get real ugly. She can see the pulse in his throat, thin skin there just humming fast like a bird’s wing. He’s scared.

When they were little, she thought he wasn’t scared of anything, and that’s why he was the way he was. Now she knows it’s ’cause that motherfucker’s scared of everything.

“We gotta find a pharmacy,” she says, licking her lips a few times first to get the words started. Clear the dust out of her mouth. “Or like a fuckin’ Walmart or one of those dollar stores or something. I fuckin’… they… they mixed something up. I need to check. They fuckin’….”

He waits. Just sits there. Doesn’t tell her to spit it out. Keeps his hands splayed, heels against the wheel, body leaned back in a half-stretch, fuckin’ eye still closed. Like he’s bracing himself.

Like he’s felt this coming. Like this is what he’s been fuckin’ trying to get away from since they left, not a bunch of redneck cops.

Helaena closes her own eyes. Shifts around a little. Wets her damn lips again.

“They fuckin’ said I’m pregnant,” she finally says.

He doesn’t move. If she didn’t know him, she’d think he didn’t even fucking hear her, but he did. For fuckin’ sure he did.

“They’re wrong,” she says right away. “They fucked something up, they’re a bunch of goddamn cockmonkeys. You saw it. You saw it all, they couldn’t even find you in the fucking waiting room, I asked for you; I couldn’t fucking think, I asked for you and they said you weren’t there but you were! They fucked up so bad, I…”

“I wasn’t,” he says. Cuts her off, which is just as well because she can feel herself getting into a goddamn mess again; feel the heat rising up inside of her like she’s still there, still inside that ugly room, so it’s good. His voice is good. Stops her dead. “I wasn’t there at first,” he says. Eye still closed. “That fuckin’ place is always running behind and I needed a goddamn smoke. Figured I had a fucking minute, so I went outside. Came back in and heard you losing your shit back there. Fuckin’… set me right off. You didn’t sound good, Lane.”

She shuts her own eyes. Squeezes tight. “I wasn’t good,” she says. “They fuckin’… I wasn’t good. I need a test. Okay? We… when we can stop. When it’s safe, I…”

He nods. Pinches the bridge of his nose; looks just like fuckin’ Daddy that way. Exhausted. Small.

“You get your fuckin’ medicine at least?” he asks her.

“Yeah. I didn’t take it yet. I need water.”

He nods again. “Fuckin’… just get out, stretch, piss, whatever. There’s a bottle somewhere, don’t fuckin’ worry about it. I’ll get another one. I’ll be right back.”

Helaena doesn’t want him to go. Heart starts pounding right away when he steps through that fucking door; when she can’t see him anymore.

This is fucking bad. This is so bad. Everything is so bad. She’s so fucking bad.

Can’t even get out of the seat. Leans forward onto the dash and buries her face in her arms, cigarette smoking away into the ether, and starts shaking all over again.

Shaking and shaking and shaking and shaking.

Chapter 66: Power

Summary:

“Listen to me,” he says. Tugs her way in, close enough so she can hear the muscle of his heart. Close enough to fuckin’ disappear inside. “The most dangerous fuckin’ place anyone is ever gonna be is between us when you need me. I don’t give a fuck, Lane. I don’t. Let it burn.”

All my life,
since I was ten,
I’ve been waiting
to be in
this hell here
with you;
all I’ve ever
wanted, and
still do.

- from Margaret & Dusty by Alice Notley

 

There’s no fucking cell service out here.

Eyeball tries when he comes back; doesn’t want to hang out in this stupid lot like a pair of sitting ducks - there’s nobody here; they stick out good - but he can’t get a signal. She can tell he doesn’t want to leave her in the fucking state she’s in, but fucker’s gotta triage. Someone has to.

He’s frustrated, probably with her as much as himself, the situation, whatever, but he’s swallowing it. All of it.

Tries for a minute with the phone but gets nothing, so he just jams it back in his door pocket with a sigh.

He’s got a bag full of all sorts of shit, and he pulls out her water. Hands it to her and pops the trunk. Camping shit’s back there, and he brings her a fucking Solo cup and a spoon.

She can’t do it, though. Still can’t. Too trembly. No tears, just tremors that she can’t rein in: not with deep breaths, not with hopping up and down a bunch of times outside, not with a big swig of water. Like that go button on a blender got stuck; she’s just whirring and whirring.

In the end, he mixes it for her, and it tastes like chalky, bitter Tang. So bad she can hardly get it down. Takes her miles and miles, it feels like; little sip after little sip, and a few good gags that get her some side-eye. She doesn’t remember it being this fucking difficult. This gross. She does choke it down, though, and by the time she manages the last of it, there are houses dotting the landscape again, and there’s a bar, sometimes two, on the phone.

Evening by now, too. Dusky, darkening sky. That makes her feel better. Safer. Less visible.

They find a fucking plaza with a Walgreens. Makes Helaena crinkle her nose up. Looks like the last one they were at, where all this shit went sideways. They all look the same once you get past a certain point down here, she guesses, and tries not to let it bother her. She’s still fucked up. Nerves sputtering like dying candles under her skin.

“Can you do it, please?” she asks him. “I fuckin’ stink like rotten piss.”

“Whole goddamn car smells like piss,” he says. “Give me those fucking underwear.”

He’s got his hand pulled up into his sleeve when she gives them over, trying to hide the mess there. Helaena eyes it. He needs ice. Soap, too; there’s a split in one knuckle that’s opened up good. Not bleeding anymore, really, just sitting there gapped and raw. He sees her looking and shoves the hand in his pocket.

“It’s fine, Lane,” he says and goes inside, throwing her nasty fucking piss-panties in the trash by the door.

Doesn’t look fine to her, though, and she can feel some of her goddamn faculties coming back at the thought. While he’s in there, she rummages through the trunk for the first aid shit buried in the mess, and when he comes back out, she’s got it open on the hood, using Granny’s headlights to pull stuff out.

“The fuck are you doing?” he asks, tossing the bag down on her seat.

“Let me see it,” she says.

He looks around, a little anxious. They’re parked way off to the side and near the edge of the lot. Trying to avoid cameras, which is dumb when he’s just strolling on in, but it’s habit now. He sighs through his nose at her, but she can tell he’s glad she’s sort of acting like a human, and he pulls back his sleeve.

“Not broken,” he tells her. “I can move it fine. Stiff, but only ‘cause it’s swollen. It doesn’t hurt that bad.”

“You gotta ice it, baby. And clean it.” She’s got those cold packs out, too. They’re a little big for the spot, but they’ll do.

He lets her crunch one up and wipe everything off with an alcohol pad, rolling his eye and lighting another cigarette with his good hand, and she dumps some peroxide on for good measure. It bubbles up like a fucking shaken-ass soda bottle.

When it’s clean, she tapes gauze overtop, then tapes that cold pack down, too. Wraps it sturdy like a bandage. He looks stupid, but it works, he says. Feels good.

“You should take ibuprofen,” she tells him. “Help the swelling.”

“Nah,” he says. “Shit tears up my fuckin’ stomach. You know that.”

They’re quiet for a minute while she puts everything back, puffing on their fucking smokes and watching the sky. It’s a purply color, like a bruise, greyblack at the edges where night’s creeping in.

“Do you think he’s…” she asks, finally. Lets the last word hang silent.

“Who? Fuckin’ security guard?” He blows a cloud of smoke and shakes his head. “Nah. Fuckin’ chin shots won’t kill you, Laney. Just knock your shit around. Probably fucked up his jaw, that’s all. He’ll be fine. Dinner through a straw for a minute, worst case scenario.”

“Hit his head on the floor,” she says, quiet, and he shrugs.

“Nice concussion, maybe. Workman’s comp shit. Little vacation. You’re welcome, man.” He pauses and looks over at her, eye running everywhere. “We got bigger problems than he does, babygirl. I promise.”

Helaena closes her eyes. Takes a long, shaky sorta drag. “They shoulda just fuckin’ let you back,” she whispers. “I just needed you.”

“Listen to me,” he says. Tugs her way in, close enough so she can hear the muscle of his heart. Close enough to fuckin’ disappear inside. “The most dangerous fuckin’ place anyone is ever gonna be is between us when you need me. I don’t give a fuck, Lane. I don’t. Let it burn.”

She stays there for awhile. Feels as safe as she gets anymore.

Brother of hers could always protect her from everything but himself. Dumbass, she thinks.

Let it all fucking burn.

*****

The test is positive.

She stares at it, bent over the fucking sink in the bathroom of some crackhead motel in some creepy little town that sits right on the fuckin’ state line. Feels like some place you’d see on fucking reruns of Cops, and they’re both a little nervous that someone else’s bullshit OD or goddamn hobo fight is gonna get them lit up.

Upside is that they fuckin’ blend in with the stream of sketchballs, and nobody looks too closely at anything. All worried about making it through the night with enough fuckin’ skag or blow or whatever the hell they’re into.

Eyeball’s got plans, too. Got his eye on the shitboxes parked outside; the ones that look like they haven’t been moved in months but are still on the road. There are a few in the back, belong to long-termers probably. He’s gonna lift a plate.

Gonna get pulled over just for fun with this Yankee shit on here, he told her. Mostly one-plate states where they are, and he thinks he can fix them up so they fly under the radar.

No one’s gonna fuckin’ notice, and if they do, they’re not gonna report it, he said. Bunch of fucking tweakers. Biggest problem we’re gonna have is if they’re already fuckin’ stolen. Motherfucker laughed at that one. Ice cold sound.

Helaena doesn’t love the idea, but she doesn’t love driving around as-is, either. Calculated risk. If they can blend in and keep their noses clean, gonna be better off. He’s probably right. Usually is about that shit.

Right about that test, too.

Second one in a two-pack.

“First one’s positive, that’s gonna be, too, Lane,” he says. Standing behind her with a hand on her back. Soft. Softest she’s seen his ass all day. “You don’t fuckin’ get unpregnant between pisses.”

He’s so calm. Like he’s run out of steam for anything else, which is good, she supposes. She has, too. All used up. Almost didn’t even bother with the goddamn things, she’s so done, but then decided it might be better to get it over with with that fuckin’ mindset. Eyeball thought so, too.

The two of them just stare. Stare and stare. Another little fuckin’ blue plus sign.

Laney plus Eyeball equals disaster.

As usual.

“Now what?” Helaena says. Voice flat and dull and dusty.

“Right now - and all we’re gonna fuckin’ worry about is right now, because it’s fucking late and we’re fucking done, Lane - you’re going to get the fuck in bed. You hear me? Bed. No TV, no books, no cards, no fucking thing. You lay down. Rest. C’mon, go do whatever you gotta do in the bathroom and I’ll fuckin’ tuck you in.”

She leans her head back into him. Closes her eyes, and that stupid thing is superimposed on the backs. Little plus signs glowing like something waiting in the woods. “Yes, Daddy,” she manages.

The word lands funny, and she feels his body change. Feels something ripple through it, some kinda little wave that she can’t name.

She trashes the piss-tests, splashes her face in the sink - this shit fuckin’ smells weird, too; what the fuck - and rinses her nasty mouth, then she lets him strip her down and tuck her into bed.

No bugs. He checked.

The sheets are threadbare, and the blanket, too. The a/c rattles like there’s something loose inside, and it blows half-assed, but whatever. It’s noise. It’s air.

“What’re you doing?” she asks, watching him slide the magazine into that fuckin’ 22.

“Putting this on the nightstand,” he says. “Not fuckin’ safe here. I’m going out to deal with the fucking car. Deadbolt this shit. Do not come out of this room unless it is on fire, Helaena. You got me?”

Pulled out that full name. Motherfucker is serious.

“How long are you gonna be?” She’s done being alone. Maybe forever. They’re fuckin’ bad news together, but they’re fuckin’ worse news apart, apparently.

“Not long, I hope. Okay? Leaving this with you.” He sets the gun next to the bed and kisses her forehead, dry lips and hot skin. “Anybody walks through that door besides me - anybody starts banging on that door besides me, I don’t care if it’s fuckin’ Dad back from the goddamn grave - you fuckin’ put one in them.”

“Jesus Eyeball. What the fuck.”

“Just sayin’,” he tells her. “You’ll be fine. Just covering my goddamn bases. Okay? I’mma try to be quick.”

“You sure you’re good with that fuckin’ hand?” she asks.

“I’m golden. I can screw with anything,” he says, shaking the goddamn screwdriver he’s got jammed in his pocket. Trying to be funny. Trying to wink. Doesn’t have the fucking bandwidth for either.

Been a goddamn long day.

“Just don’t be stupid,” she tells him. Sighs her eyelids down like blinds in a slow, exhausted roll. “Please.”

“Met my quota today,” is all he says.

*****

She gets what he’s trying to do with the just-rest-don’t-do-anything shit. She’s still wound tight. Wound wrong. Hasn’t had any kind of real reset or decompression or straightening-out, and she needs to fucking shut off, but this doesn’t fucking do it. This laying around with her thoughts shit. He knows better, but he’s not fucking right, either, so he’s not on his game.

She tries, anyway. Shuts her eyes and takes deep breaths and tries to fucking meditate or something, but she’s balls at it. Ends up more anxious than she started, just shuffling her stupid feet under the sheets and having to get up to pee again.

Weed would help. Weed always helps, but he wants them sober here. Wants them both to keep their fucking shit together and not give anyone a goddamn excuse.

Thankfully, fucker’s quick. Ten minutes, fifteen at the most probably, and he’s slipping back through the door. Smells like metal and sweat and Helaena wants to fucking lick him. Feels like a fucking animal; can’t explain it, just needs him in her goddamn mouth. The smell of him triggering her stupid salivary glands or something.

“All good,” he tells her. “Shiny new fuckin’ plates for tomorrow.”

“Come here,” she says. “I wanna lick you.”

He’s too shot to care what kinda crap she’s on. Strips right down, takes a piss, washes his filthy hands and shuts the light. Crawls in next to her.

They tangle like tree roots. Limbs overlapping and bending, knobby knees and blunted elbows, bumping chins and grippygrabby fingers. His busted fucking knuckles feel hot. Weirdly soft. Too much fluid in the joints.

She licks him. Neck, jaw, ears. The slant of his clavicle. The dip in the center of his chest. Salt, and earth, and boy. Her boy. This boy who came into the fucking world reaching for her and has never, ever stopped.

He’s reaching for her now; following her downdowndown, hands in her hair.

“You don’t have to… Laney, you’re fuckin’ sick; you’re…”

He doesn’t say it, and she doesn’t care, and he doesn’t want her to stop.

She takes a big fuckin’ handful of his stupid balls, squeezes them, and he shuts right up. Goes quiet. Quieter still when her mouth is on them, slow tongue and soft lips, and the air is thick and close under here; nest of blankets and hot skin. Everything smells warm and sticky, he’s gross; needs a fucking shower and she’s never cared any less. Takes it all in her mouth, feels all his blood come rushing to her; reach for her, too. Feels him go hard in her cheek, against her teeth, over her flat tongue.

He has a pretty face. Helaena wishes she could see it; watch it fall apart for her, but her memory is perfect. Knows it like her own, so she just calls it up there. Knows he has his mouth open and his eye closed. He likes to watch her back, but sometimes he can’t; sometimes it’s too much, and everything is too much at the moment.

Everything.

Got his hips going now, following her; big old feet, too. She can feel them rub against her, back and forth like a kid on a fuckin’ ride or something, happy toes, and she smiles around him.

He feels it, holds her tight, right hand weaker. Just a little. The smallest bit, and it makes her eyes prickle. Makes her swallow hard, and he sighs; she hears it through the sheets and through that noisy fucking a/c and through the blood rushing between her ears.

Oh, sweetheart, says her brain, says her hands, and she runs one up his belly. Into her own hair to find his, tighttighttight. He’s got her so tight, always, and she closes the gap. Nudges in and in, until he’s all the way back, ache in her jaw and the corners of her lips and his scratchysoft hair against her nose. The air is hot and he’s in her throat and she can’t breathe so good, and it’s perfect.

This is all there is. All there’s room for.

Fucking shitty motel mattress and shitty rough bedding and his dumb furry legs pushing at her ribs and his stupid cock in her mouth and his busted-up fingers digging in her scalp. Sweatytaut skin, body-stink and the fucking urge to piss herself again, so she crosses her own legs. Squeezes all her muscles. Makes her cheeks hollow, feels the gag when he bumps at her, everything jerking around and against and inside. It’s like a fucking battery or something. Like lightning in an outlet. All of her lit up and shining, Queen of Cups High Priestess Empress Moon, whatever. There’s power here, too.

Her boy who surrenders for no one, to nothing; reaches for no one and nothing; Page of Pentacles Magician Emporer Fool, reaches for her, surrenders to her, unravels for her, a galaxy unspooling into infinite stars.

Just energy shifting shape. Balancing itself.

She catches it all behind her teeth when he comes for her. Holds it in the cup of her mouth, her own spit pooling, wet-eyed and wet-cheeked when she tugs herself up. Climbs his body, feral little fingers like a set of claws. Feels the humid air fall like a curtain around her.

She gives it all back. Pushes it between his lips, back and forth. An exchange, a current, light and electricity and charge. Something tangible.

She swallows it, though, in the end. Opens wide for the fingers he presses at the hinges of her jaw. Tips back when he spits; their mess - fucking spunk and drool and stale nicotine; something popping and fizzing like that sugar shit that hits your mouth like a bomb - coating her teeth. Running to the back of her throat.

Helaena slips quiet into the wide circle of his arms and feels it close around her. Pull in.

belt collar halo noose

Somewhere between them - in that fucking dangerous space - cells divide. And divide. And divide. Replicate themselves. Tiny powder kegs of DNA just waiting for a spark.

“I love you,” she says. “I’m sorry.”

Eyeball shakes his head, no no no, and rolls his weight on top of her, and she is pinned. Stuck. Anchored, tethered, held in place.

Breathless and bitten and bred and beloved.

Notes:

I mean there’s regular feral girl and there’s pregnant feral girl

y’all ever just need to fucking EAT that man who put that baby in you?

… no? Just me? 😅

Bahahaha helaena’s got that streak in her anyway; she’s about to be a handful 🤣

Chapter 67: Freakshow

Summary:

“You ready to throw hands now, Princess?” he asks her after a few minutes. “Nobody here to call the law.”

Helaena turns to look at him and blows her smoke out through her nose. “No,” she says. Quiet. Wraps his big ol’ hoodie tighter around herself.

“Yeah, me either.” He pauses to pull out his coffee, tucked against the wipers, and takes a sip. “But we gotta sort some shit out.”

Notes:

we’re talking about abortion again, kids

“A true freak cannot be made. A true freak must be born.”

- from Geek Love by Katherine Dunn

 

Helaena stretches long. Coming out of more trippy fucking dreams that make her want to stick a finger in her ear to clear them out, like spiderwebs or something. Vivid, crazy shit.

Eyeball was in them. That much she can remember when she sees his face; rolls onto her back and looks up, and there’s a moment when she’s not sure which side of the veil she’s on. He’s shadowed strangely in the light from the cracked bathroom door, fucking big and looming like some kinda dream-thing. Takes up her whole field of vision.

But his breath fucking stinks. Armpits, too. Smells like he’s gone the fucking deodorant-in-lieu-of-a-shower route for a couple days, and that’s how she knows he’s real. She can never smell in her dreams. She reaches up a hand to be sure; cups his cheek, and he’s scratchy. Needs a shave. Hairy, stinky brother-monster. She’s awake.

“Hi,” he says, watching her bring the world into focus. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

“I’m warm,” she says back. She is. Sleepywarm, wants to cuddle; drag his smelly ass down on top of her like another weird, crappy blanket, but she has to fucking pee, too. That wins, and she wriggles out from under him and pads to the bathroom.

He’s got everything ready for a quick exit; only the necessities unpacked and everything laid out by the door. They wanted to be up before anyone else. Before the light. Trying to time it so the last of the fuckin’ geekers have gone to bed, and the first round isn’t up yet. Got a little experience in this department, so just before dawn it is.

Moving in slo-mo, though. Yawning and pissing and stretching and blinking, trying to get her body to cooperate. Not happy with her at all today, seems like, and when Eyeball comes in to brush his teeth and see what the fucking hold-up is, she’s still sitting on the goddamn toilet. Just hanging out in pause.

“Fuck’re you doing, Lane?” he says. Edgy-sounding. He really doesn’t fuckin’ like it here. Whole place has his radar on. Junkies and stolen plates and whatever.

“Sorry,” she says. Yawns again. “Can’t get my shit together.”

“That’s old fuckin’ news,” he grumbles at her. On some grumpy old man shit.

Bathroom’s so fuckin’ small she can reach across the whole sink from where she’s sitting, even with her stupid T-Rex arms, and she grabs her goddamn toothbrush and wings the fuckin’ thing at him. Happens before she really thinks about it - body before brain, the way it works with her sometimes - and it’s satisfying for a second; that whoosh of air and the little tick when it smacks his skin. He’s not fucking impressed, though. Whips around real fast.

“Why you trying to fuckin’ start shit?” he says. Pushes the question out through his teeth, around his own fuckin’ brush. “Sun’s not even fuckin’ up and you’re having a goddamn tantrum on the fuckin’ toilet. What’s wrong with you?”

She tips her head up. Sees that cherry burning in his eye, sorta low smolder shit that gets her motor running sometimes. Tells him the truth. “You started it. I dunno. Mad at life.” She blows a frizzy curl out of her face and stands up to flush.

“At me?” he wants to know, all garbled. Spits his fuckin’ mouthful into the sink.

Helaena shrugs. “You life? I guess you are. Yeah, at you. At me. At this fuckin’ rathole, at my fuckin’ cooch, at fuckin’ 5am. This fuckin’ mess we’re in again. Again! What the fuck, Eyeball? This is dumb as hell. We’re dumb as hell.” She’s leaning on the sink, fuckin’ eying his toothbrush now, sitting on the edge. Itchy fingers. Just wants to pelt him with shit; see if it helps.

He sees her and snatches it back real quick. Picks hers up off the floor, too. “Yeah, it’s horseshit. It’s all fuckin’ horseshit. Gonna have to be mad about it somewhere else, though. Fuckin’ get dressed.”

She narrows her eyes at him. “I wanna hit you.”

He doesn’t even pause. Just pops out the door to grab her clothes. “I wouldn’t,” he says, tossing them at her. “I’ll fuckin’ hogtie you and throw your ass in the car. Not brawling here, Lane. Sorry.”

She doesn’t move, just lets the fuckin’ fabric puddle at her feet and stares.

He sighs big, fuckin’ shoulders and all. “I’m serious. We got shit to fuckin’ sort out, but we’re not gonna do it right now. Let me have a fuckin’ cup of coffee first, would you?”

She stares and stares. Thinks there was a time not too long ago when he’d’ve just fuckin’ squared up, but motherfucker’s tired. Got her knocked up and pissing glass in some fuckin’ dump, trail of bullshit down the whole fuckin’ coast; he’s over it.

He stares back, just waiting.

Helaena finally reaches down to pick her shit up.

“Good girl,” he tells her. “We gotta fuckin’ go.”

*****

Still semi-dark when they pull out of the rutted goddamn parking lot and onto the shoddy four-lane. No traffic at this hour on a Saturday, and Eyeball finds them another one of those cookie-cutter plazas. Everything’s still shuttered but the laundromat, which is what he was Googling for - one of those fucking 24-hour jobs that only coexist with poverty - and it’s empty.

They pop their clothes in, then they take their gigantic cups of gas station tar and lay side-by-side on Granny’s warm hood, propped up against the windshield, smoking and watching the sun inch its way up.

“You ready to throw hands now, Princess?” he asks her after a few minutes. “Nobody here to call the law.”

Helaena turns to look at him and blows her smoke out through her nose. “No,” she says. Quiet. Wraps his big ol’ hoodie tighter around herself.

“Yeah, me either.” He pauses to pull out his coffee, tucked against the wipers, and takes a sip. “But we gotta sort some shit out.”

“Yep.” Not her fuckin’ strong suit, but considering it’s her dumbass uterus, she figures she’s gotta take the goddamn lead on this one.

Seems like he’s already done some thinking, though, because he gets right into it. “I mean, you gotta be just pregnant, right? Like… you were bleeding the night I… are you supposed to be bleeding now?”

“Yeah,” she says. “But like, only just now.”

He nods. “Early enough for that fuckin’ pill then, right? Don’t have to drag you into fuckin’ surgery again or whatever.”

She looks sideways at him. Doesn’t really feel fuckin’ ready for this conversation, but when will she, she supposes. Was never ready before, either. Kinda thing you just have to hold your nose and fuckin’ jump into. “Yeah. Should be.”

“We can find another fuckin’ clinic down here. You can use a different name and go in alone.”

All kinds of fuckin’ shit wrong with that idea. Helaena’s body rejects it immediately; goes pricklycold at the back of her neck, swoopy in her stomach, and she starts shaking her fucking head at him almost before he finishes. “I’m not doing any of that,” she says. Takes a long drag, trying to steady herself. “Not going back to Planned Parenthood. Probably have my fuckin’ ugly mug plastered behind every goddamn desk in the country. Like the bad check wall at the fuckin’ dollar store, baby. And you know they got yours. And I’m sure as shit not going anywhere alone. Fucking scratch that. Scratch all of that. Fucking crazy talk, is what that is.”

“Lane…”

“No.” She takes a sip of her coffee and almost covers herself in it, she’s shaking so much. He has to reach over, put that busted hand of his on top of hers to settle it. Saves the day.

He holds it for her; tips it against her lips like she’s a baby, and he takes her cigarette when she’s done, too. Hangs onto all her shit while she blows a few breaths out to try to pull her damn self together.

Doesn’t go so well, and he just drops the whole awful idea. “Okay,” he says. Gentle as anything. “Okay. Fuck that. How do you wanna do this, then?”

Helaena shakes her head. “I don’t know, baby.” She grabs her smoke back and pulls on it hard. Shit’s almost down to the filter. “I don’t even know what I wanna fuckin’ do.”

He pauses, coffee halfway to his stupid mouth. “What do you mean?”

She shrugs and butts her cigarette against the metal. Scrapes it down good, the last of the smoke hanging in the air around her for a second. Humid morning; holds everything close. “Last time nobody fuckin’ asked me shit,” she says. “Pretended to, but they all knew what the fuckin’ answer was gonna be. Just needed to check their goddamn boxes, right?”

Eyeball tilts his head at her. Takes that sip he was waiting on. “I know,” he finally says.

They’ve had a billion versions of this fuckin’ discussion - the way everything fucking went down - when the stakes were nothing, but it still feels the same now. Still feels like she was done dirty, even sitting in the same fucking position all these years later. “I don’t want that shit again,” she tells him.

“Not gonna have that shit again,” he says. “Haven’t let a motherfucker tell you what to do since then, Lane. Nobody even here to try this time.”

“Except you.”

“Except me. But I don’t have to tell you shit. You’re not fuckin’ dumb; you know what we gotta do.” He sips at his coffee. Closes his eye like it hurts or something.

“We?”

“Yeah, we. We fuckin’ made this mess, didn’t we? It’s all we. Always been we.”

Helaena reaches over and yanks the cigarette from his mouth. “Tell me about we when they’re sucking your insides out with a fuckin’ Dirt Devil, asshole.”

“Christ, Laney.”

“I’m serious! I don’t wanna fuckin’ do it again.”

“Nobody wants to fuckin’ do it. You think anybody wants to spend their fuckin’ morning like that?” He grabs his goddamn smoke back. “It’s garbage, but what’s the alternative?”

She shrugs. “You said I’d be a good mom. Said you’d give me a thousand fuckin’ babies if I wanted.”

Eyeball squeezes his damn eye shut. Knocks his head back hard against the glass. “I fuckin’ said if they were normal, Lane. But this isn’t like two fucking regular people screwing up. And besides,” he says, sucking on his cigarette. “That was then. When we had a fuckin’ place to live, and fucking jobs and shit. What’re we gonna do with a baby now? ‘Specially one with two fuckin’ heads or whatever.”

Helaena leans in. Puts her cheek on his bony shoulder. “I dunno.” Her voice sounds small. Uncertain. “We could have that shit again. Gonna have to at some point, right? Unless we wanna live like this forever. Run out of money and go live with the goddamn apples and snakes.”

He leans right back. Kisses into that mess of curls. “Now you’re making fuckin’ sense,” he says. “Let’s go back there. Be tree people.”

She sighs. “Or we could be like that fuckin’ book. Remember we read that? Crazy motherfuckers who took all kinds of fucking drugs so they’d have fucked-up freakshow babies on purpose? And then that chick had a fuckin’ kid with her weird fuckin’ fish brother?”

Eyeball laughs a little, hoarse and dry and sad or something. “That was some weird-ass shit. Yeah. I mean. We could try. Why not? Breed our own goddamn circus. Use what you got, right?”

She nuzzles at his stupid neck for a minute. Closes her eyes into the sweatsmokesweetskin smell of him. Like coming in the door after the worst day of your life and knowing you’re gonna be able to sit down for a minute. “Can we be done for now? Just until after my birthday? I don’t wanna do this anymore.”

He sighs, too, and kisses her again like his mouth is the heaviest damn thing in the world. Lips hard and lingering against her cheek. “Yeah. Another fucking day doesn’t matter,” he says. “We got a little time, I guess.”

Helaena nods. “Terrible present, by the way. Spider’s cute, but this other shit…”

“I got a better one,” he tells her. “Finish this fuckin’ laundry, find us a place to stay. I’ll show you, Laney.” He pauses for a second. “You feeling any better?”

“Mmhm. Not peeing so much. Not burning so much. By tomorrow I’ll be pretty good, I think.”

“Good,” he tells her. “I’mma give it to you.”

“You better. You fuckin’ better, asshole.” She takes the last sip of her coffee, gone cold now. Somehow makes it extra bitter. “How’s your hand?”

“It’s fine. The fuck you worrying about me for? It’s fine. Gimme that.” He takes her empty cup and mushes it down with his and sticks the whole mess under one of the wipers. Looks around.

Lot’s still empty, mostly; just one other car by the liquor store at the other end. For those fuckers who take their Cheerios with Kahlúa, Helaena guesses. She smiles a little when he leans down over her. Swings one stupid leg across, knee sliding against the slope of the fuckin’ hood, bodies slipping against the metal and against each other and against the slipperywet air, his hand pulling at her face to tilt it right to his. Kiss like that big sticky sun-ball, round and hot and bright.

“You and me,” he tells her, hopping down and tugging her to her feet. Gives her a big old bear hug and everything.

“Me and you,” she says.

He hoists her up and piggybacks her inside to finish up their shit.

*****

“So do you wanna see how far we are?”

They’re at yet another gas station. This one’s got a car wash and some vacuums, though; Eyeball wanted to clean Granny up and get under the hood. Been paranoid the whole time; worse since their fuckin’ flat, and even worse now that they’re carrying some bootleg fucking plates.

He’s talking about that address. The one he’s got crunched up in his wallet. The one he lifted from Mama’s that may or may not mean a goddamn thing at this point. Their sister.

They’re in Georgia; that cool, clear midday sun putting everything in sharp relief. Clean edges. Clean definition. Granny looks as tired as they are. She’s making some sound that Eyeball doesn’t love - a squealing type thing that he says is a bad belt - and she needs a bath. Lots of crud everywhere, just like the two of them.

“May as well check,” says Helaena. He’s got the phone open, leaning on the fender looking for another parts store, cigarette hanging out the corner of his mouth. Wispy smoke, greasy hands, fuckin’ line of sweat down the middle of his back. Looks like he just got home from work, she thinks. Looks like she wants to jump his bones.

He digs that card out of his billfold and dicks around for a minute. “Shit,” he says, blowing a cloud.

“What?”

“Some rich bitch shit,” he tells her. “It’s on a fuckin’ island.”

“An island?”

He nods. “C’mere. Look at this.”

He zooms a little, dirty fingers pulling that address into focus, and sure as shit, there it is. Surrounded by ocean. House is right at the edge, looks like. All by itself. No fucking neighbors for a minute. Can’t tell for sure from the map, but Helaena thinks maybe it’s up on a cliff or something, judging from how the roads wind around. She whistles a little. “Okay, I see you there,” she says. “You did all right.”

“Wonder what the fuck they do,” Eyeball says.

“Guess we’re gonna find out, right?”

“… Today?”

Helaena almost laughs. Tone of his voice, tone of the question, everything. Not his usual on-it type shit. Cute or something. Hesitant. She takes a long drag and blows it out. “Not today. That okay?”

Of course not fuckin’ today, she thinks. They still gotta sort Granny out. Sort themselves out. He knows that.

“Yeah,” he says. “Got shit to do anyway.”

She rolls her eyes. “Goofy fucker. I dunno. Somebody’ll probably fuckin’ call the cops the minute we roll up on that neighborhood. Feel like we should rent a fuckin’ Beamer and hit up Versace before we go.”

He snorts at her, back to scrolling for that fucking belt he’s looking for. “Then we really gotta beg for a basement. Be straight outta cash.” Pauses for a second, squinting down at the screen before he looks up. “You ready, little girl? Store’s like six miles out. Run this old cunt through the wash and hit the road.”

Helaena butts her smoke and nods. Starts hanging that dusty hose back up on the machine while he puts their shit back inside.

“Ready, Daddy,” she says, and he smiles. Something a little off-kilter in it - backwards, maybe, like a reflection of itself - but it’ll do, she thinks. It’ll do.

Notes:

dude this chapter, tho. went through like three versions that i hated; had them having a good knock-down drag-out fight - but it never felt right.

then i realized these kids are fucking TIRED. they don’t have the energy for it. and once i let them soften up, it came a lot easier & felt truer 🤷🏼‍♀️

the book referenced in here is geek love by katherine dunn, & it’s a good one! dark and weird and awesome

Chapter 68: Good and Evil

Summary:

Green, too, for what it is. Trees everywhere, all draped in fuckin’ loamy, soapy-smelling Spanish Moss. Damp in the air. Aquatic. A fuckin’ shipwreck of a city. Built on bones

Notes:

eh, more dialogue-heavy shit up in heeeere

But we’re in the souuuuth south. IYKYK.

“Black magic never stops. What goes from you comes to you. Once you start this shit, you gotta keep it up. Just like the utility bill. Just like the grocery store. Or they kill you. You got to keep it up. Two, five, ten, twenty years.”

- from Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil by John Berendt

 

They head east. Back towards the coast. That’s where that fuckin’ bougie island is, and that’s where the most haunted city in the US is, says Eyeball. Says Google.

You want a ghost party, babygirl, he said, I got you.

Granny’s got a shiny new belt and a coat of car wash wax, and Helaena’s got her head back and her eyes closed, bare feet up on the dash. Ass is still kinda sore, but it’s faded to that delicious sort of sore that feels like a big old hug in her muscles. A gentle little throb, more pleasure than anything else, and she doesn’t mind at all. Makes her feel held. Kept. She can sink down into it, and it makes it easier not to think about anything else.

Bladder’s calmed down more, too. Not as urgent, not as often, and the ride is almost fuckin’ cozy. Light fading into one of those November sunsets that doesn’t care where you are, how warm the day is, whatever: it’s gonna give you that pretty pre-winter show. They’re driving with it at the rear window, and it’s filtering in and reflecting off the mirrors, and there’s a glow over everything.

“We should stop soon,” Helaena says, blinking a little in his direction. “Fuckin’ stiff, and I stink.”

Eyeball nods. Ashes his smoke out the window and pats the wheel, little love-tap as he upshifts and Granny sighs at him. “We’re close. Before dark. We will,” like he knows where he’s going. Got someplace in particular in mind.

“Close to what?” she asks.

“Your ghosts.”

She smiles, a wry sorta thing that only moves one side. “Got ‘em all with us, I thought.” The matching laugh that comes through her nose takes a bunch of smoke with it, and he catches her eye. She winks.

“You’re a fuckin’ riot, Laney,” he tells her, eyebrow in a neat arch. “Real fuckin’ funny.”

“What, yours don’t follow you around?”

“They don’t have to,” he says, tapping his temple. “I never let those motherfuckers out.”

“Should try getting on your knees and being a good boy for me,” she says, taking another drag. Little fuckin’ smirk in her voice. “Settle them down.”

He laughs. “Your birthday tomorrow. That what you want?”

Helaena grins back. “Maybe. You beg pretty. Prettier than me, even.”

“Nah. Fuckin’ art when you get going,” he says. “Your fuckin’ please Daddy’d go fuckin’ PornHub platinum.”

She arches a brow. “I dunno. Every once in awhile I get that little fuckin’ please in my ear. You know what I’m talking about. That fuckin’ thing, I could put on a loop and jerk off to for the rest of my life. That’s what I want for my goddamn birthday.”

She watches his gaze skid off sideways, almost embarrassed or something, and she has to swallow a laugh.

“Yeah, well. That shit’s not on purpose.”

“I know,” she tells him. “That’s why it’s so good.” Watches him work that cigarette around in his mouth, bounce it and chew it and shit, and she smiles. “All I’m trying to say is, fuckin’ let go of your shit for a minute. Fuckin’ clears your head out nice.”

He ashes his smoke again, and Granny whines a little when he slips gears for a turn. “Not built like that,” he says. “I mean, I’ll fuckin’ do whatever; I don’t care. Whatever you like, Lane. You want me on all fuckin’ fours screaming for it, that’s fuckin’ hot. Let’s go. Just doesn’t do the same shit to me.”

Helaena shrugs. Tweaks his fuckin’ ear. “Whatever. You’re better on the other end anyway.”

“I know,” he says. Gives her another eyebrow. “Born a fucking bossy-ass bastard. Probably die one.”

“Probably,” she agrees. “Thank God. I know you don’t believe in karma and shit like that, but c’mon. You think it’s an accident the universe handed me a fuckin’ bossy brother with a big dick?”

Fucker laughs at that one. “I dunno. Everything’s an accident; nothing’s an accident, whatever. Maybe you were somebody’s good girl four hundred fuckin’ years ago, too.”

“Yours,” she says. Mashes out her damn cigarette in the tray.

“You think?”

“I’d find you anywhere. Two of us probably fuckin’ running mayhem shit in some Medieval rat-infested whorehouse.”

“Nah,” he tells her. “You were a princess, and I was probably some loser guard who dicked you down when no one was looking. Right behind your ugly husband’s back.”

Helaena snorts. “You were the damn ugly husband. Bent me over one of those fuckin’ wooden horse-y things and made me call you fuckin’ Sir Flogsbottom or something. Turned me right out. That’s why I didn’t care how fuckin’ ugly you were.”

“Oh my god,” he says, and he just fuckin’ loses it. “You’re an asshole.”

She snickers at him. Cuffs his stupid ear again. “Anyway, Boss. Where are we going? I know you got a plan.”

“I always got a plan, Princess. I told you. Fuckin’ ghosts.”

*****

It’s some Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil shit they roll up on. He’s using the GPS more than usual, flicking it on and off, and she figures out pretty quick that it’s a where and not a what he’s looking for.

He finds it.

It’s a fuckin’ hotel hotel. Big flat-fronted thing, ancient-looking brick and wrought-iron railings, right in the middle of some urban-ish shit. Whole thing feels uncomfortable. Fuckin’ traffic, people everywhere, buildings standing shoulder-to-shoulder with each other in tight little rows. Old. Busy and bustling on a weekend, and not their usual gig, but more than that, there’s something that hangs over the place like fog. Slips in between all those bodies. Into all the mortar. All the cobblestones.

Granny’s windows are open, and it seeps right in as they slow to city-speed. Damn car feels it, too, Helaena thinks. Balks a little at her boy’s steady touch, and he has to talk sweet for a second to get her back on track. Skittish fuckin’ horse or something.

It’s a slowdrip sort of feeling. Like this place has blood. Like it’s a living thing.

Green, too, for what it is. Trees everywhere, all draped in fuckin’ loamy, soapy-smelling Spanish Moss. Damp in the air. Aquatic. A fuckin’ shipwreck of a city. Built on bones. Evening is settling, too; smudging the outlines and turning everything into a dreamscape.

“Shit,” Helaena says. Blows out a mouthful of smoke and sticks her head out a little like a fuckin’ dog or something. Takes it all into her lungs. “You smell that?”

He nods and exhales his own shit; big cloud around his face. Drums his fingers on the gearshift. This creepy-crawl, start-stop stuff annoys him. He’s trying not to show it, though; holding steady and looking around.

“Valet?” He rolls his eye and points at her door. They’ve been collecting all their coins in the little fuckin’ slot there. “Fuck that. How much change we got?”

Helaena looks at him a little slantylike. “What are we doing?”

“Right now we’re fuckin’ parking, and I’m not giving some motherfucker my keys.”

“Parking for more than an hour or whatever, we don’t wanna fuckin’ use a meter. What the hell are you up to?”

Eyeball fuckin’ sighs. Blows that piece of hair that keeps driving him bananas out of his stupid face. Stretches his arm out straight and shakes it like it’s fuckin’ stiff. “Staying here.”

“Here? Like, fuckin’ sleeping here?” She arches an eyebrow up good at him. Fucking real hotel, touristy shit, probably with room service and a fuckin’ minibar or whatever. Someplace that’s gonna want your card on file and your face to match your wallet.

“Yeah, like fuckin’ sleeping here. Fuckin’… you know what? I’ll go in and get shit together; you sit in my fuckin’ seat so we’re not parked. We’ll figure it out when I get back.” He rolls his eye and pulls up to the curb, pinging the hazards on.

“You? Baby, I don’t….”

“It’s fine.” He cuts her right off. Pops his door open. “It’s fuckin’ fine, Laney. C’mon, I don’t wanna sit out here like a couple of assholes for too long.”

He’s already climbing out the goddamn door, no room to argue, so she just opens her side, too, and comes around to sit. As she slides into the driver’s side, she watches him shake his fuckin’ head at the valet, looking polite as anything, and the guy nods back.

She doesn’t fuckin’ like this at all. Sitting here with all the goddamn people and traffic and shit around her; too much going on. She’s afraid someone’s gonna come and tell her she can’t be here, and she’s gonna have to figure out how to get this bitch to move, and then she’s gotta figure out where to go, and in her head she’s already fuckin’ stalling out on some crowded fuckin’ city street, everybody watching while she has a goddamn panic attack. Or she’s got Granny going, but she doesn’t know where the hell she is, buncha one-ways and tiny alleys and whatever, she can’t find her way back and she has no phone and she’s lost in a car full of fuckin’ cash and weed and blow and a gun, stolen fuckin’ plates, fake ID’s and no fuckin’ Eyeball.

Not a good scene. Not a goddamn good scene, and she can feel that tidal wave coming. Gathering itself up in her body, climbing up her back and getting ready to crash down her spine and wreck her fucking shit. Got her all jittery, hands shaking on the wheel like Granny’s sketchy idle, and all she wants to do is close her eyes and disappear.

She can’t, though. Gotta stay alert, gotta look fucking normal, gotta sit here like she’s just some dumb bitch waiting on her old man to finish his totally normal goddamn vacation business, la-de-da, what do you recommend for dinner, and do you have a room facing away from the street, you know my wife doesn’t sleep well with noise, and what’s the WiFi password, if you please? And everyone is so goddamn slow down here; fucking slow-talkers and slow-walkers and slow-thinkers; the two of them stick out like a couple of pasty sore thumbs, the way they run their mouths and tap their feet and blow their fucking smoke.

No good. It’s no good. And what the hell is he thinking? This kinda place, walking in there like he’s Joe Fuckin’ Anybody, Joe Fuckin’ Nobody, like he’s got nothing to hide. Like they haven’t been collecting fuckin’ problems everywhere they’ve been for the past goddamn month. She already feels like this place has eyes. Been watching them since they rolled in.

Dumbass. Stupid-ass motherfucker. Gonna get them both a nice set of bracelets, she thinks, staring down at her wrists, both hands locked on the stupid wheel. Fucker. Leaving her alone out here, sitting in this goddamn time-bomb of a car, fuckin’…

“Eyeball!” Almost jumps out of her fucking skin when he sidles up to the window on her. Catches her all trembly and shallow-breathing, and that smile flips over real quick.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” she says. “Fuckin’ nothing now, can we get the hell outta here? Fuckin’… I don’t wait good. You know that.”

He nods and opens the door for her. Walks her right around, hand on her back, steadysteady. Feels nice, she thinks; big palm shoving that rising wave back down where it belongs.

“All good,” he says. “We’re all good. Jesus. It’s okay, Laney.”

“What’re you doing?” she asks him as he pulls away. “This place is fuckin’… it’s nice. What kind of shit you pull to put us up in here? And how much money are you fuckin’ spending?”

He eyes her sideways as he pulls out, gaze bouncing around the mirrors as he goes. “You let me fuckin’ worry about money, all right? Christ.”

“They didn’t want ID?” she asks. Hands are still shaky; can’t get her goddamn cigarette lit, so he leans across and does it for her.

“They did,” he says. “I gave it to them.”

“What the fuck, Eyeball?! We spend fuckin’ weeks stressing out about this shit, being fucking careful, acting like shady motherfuckers everywhere we go, now you go and fuckin’ act like…”

“It’s fine,” he says through his teeth, trying to fucking navigate an inch-wide side street and swing around behind the damn building. “I fuckin’… I looked at shit. On the phone. There’s nothing in the fuckin’ news at home about either of those dirtbags. No fuckin’… no bodies turning up. No missing persons shit.” His forehead creases as he tries to squeeze Granny’s big, ugly body up against the curb between two other cars. Helaena winces, but he makes it. Room to spare. “Go in. This door’s closer. Take the bags, here,” he says, digging in his pocket for a key. “Room number’s on there; I’m gonna find parking and I’ll be right back.”

She’s not into any of this shit. Not him poking around on the phone so much, not him looking for news, not him using his real fuckin’ shit to check in, and definitely not him fuckin’ leaving her alone again. She starts to protest, but he’s getting aggravated with the goddamn traffic and the parking and their bickering, so she just opens the door and hauls a bag over her shoulder.

She can tell from his face he doesn’t like leaving her to manage all this crap herself, either, but what’s he gonna do? Have them fuckin’ walk God knows how far through a strange city in the dark carrying enough shit to put them both in jail for twenty fuckin’ years? No. Nope.

Helaena kicks Granny’s door shut and sighs. Watches him pull away before she gathers herself enough to get moving.

It’s quirky inside. Everything looks old as shit, but in an on-purpose sort of way. She’s not in the right fuckin’ headspace to take it in like she should, but she likes the vintage-y tile and the swirly brass fixtures and how everything smells like flowers and newspaper. It’s honestly cool as hell, and even the little signs are lettered funky. She follows them to the elevator, then left when she steps off, and the room is three quarters of the way down the hall.

Not one of those cool-ass balcony rooms, but it’s nice. By far the nicest they’ve seen this whole time, and pretty much the nicest she’s ever seen. All done in red and white, but not fuckin’ gaudy or whatever. Clean. Not as oddball as the common spaces; looks like shit was redone not that long ago, and it’s generic, but upscale generic. Not motel generic. Bathroom’s got a shower big enough for a fucking orgy; fuckin’ sprayers all over the walls and shit. Big old king bed, too.

Expensive, she keeps thinking. Expensive. Risky. Stupid.

But so nice.

She’s still fuckin’ wound tight. Feels like she’s got beetles crawling up her damn bones, hasn’t settled, so by the time Eyeball gets there - it’s not that long; he found a parking garage that was close, he tells her - she’s just perched on the edge of the bed, shoes half-hanging from her feet, staring out the window. Street view. Big, sturdy live oak dripping in that moss shit, looming over a road better suited for a goddamn bike lane; cars squeezing themselves through anyway. Not noisy, though. Good glass. Good insulation. There’s an a/c for white noise; not really hot enough to turn it on, but Eyeball probably will anyway, way he runs.

“Hey,” he says, turning the deadbolt behind himself and tugging at the door to check it. “Not bad, right?”

Helaena can see the gun in his waist when he stretches. Has it tucked neat in the back of his fuckin’ jeans; big old hoodie hiding its shape for the walk.

“Not bad,” she agrees. “What the hell’s going on, though? This city shit, fuckin’ real hotel… they didn’t make you show a card?”

Fucker looks sketchy. Pulls out that 22 and lays it by the bed, other hand walking itself up her arm a little. “No, they did.”

“Eyeball. What the fuck…”

“It’s not mine.”

“What the fuck!? What’re you doing?”

“Relax,” he says. “Fucking relax, Laney. I got it fuckin’ sorted out. No one’s fuckin’ looking for me yet. I used my own damn name for the reservation. But it’s the fuckin’ shop card.”

“What? What shop card?” Shit just keeps getting worse, she thinks. He’s being a real asshole.

“Fuckin’… I’ve had it for months. Business account. They sent two cards when the old ones expired,” he says. “I got the mail all the goddamn time there. So I locked one up in the office, and…” he shrugs. “I have one for emergencies. That motherfucker spends so much fuckin’ money each month and does so much fuckin’ blow he can’t keep his shit straight. Just pays the bill. Doesn’t even look at it. Writes a fucking check and shreds the rest.”

Helaena’s just shaking her head now, slow, like she can’t fuckin’ believe what she’s hearing. She can’t. She really can’t, because he’s not this dumb. “That’s fuckin’ stupid,” she says, voice hanging out a register higher than normal. “No, that’s fuckin’ stupid. All this, all this shit we’ve been through, and you’re gonna get us fuckin’ busted for this? And you put your goddamn name on it! Your fuckin’ government name, dickhead! What the actual fuck are you thinking!?”

He’s shaking his head back, hand roaming all over her now. Shoulder, arm, knee, under her dirty fucking shoe and into the arch of her foot. She can feel the adrenaline in his touch, the just listen in it, and that’s what he says.

“No, listen, listen… we’re not gonna get fuckin’ pulled in for this. We’re not. It’s just for them to keep on file anyway! You know how that fuckin’ goes. They said I could pay cash. They just need something to hold for fuckin’ damages or whatever. Lane. It’s okay. Just don’t trash the goddamn room! And even if you did, dude’s not even gonna fuckin’ notice. I’ve used it before. Just to test. I’m telling you, Cris doesn’t even look. The fuckin’ books in that place are a shitshow. He ever gets audited, he’s fucked.”

Helaena squeezes her eyes shut. Too late now to fix it, anyway, she thinks, so she just swallows hard. Tries to drown that panic in her belly and breathe normal. “What are we even doing here, baby?” she finally asks.

She looks up, and he’s just staring at her. Something a little helpless in his face, and it makes her throat close right up. “I’m just trying to love you, Laney,” he says. “I’m trying.”

Chapter 69: Sunday Smoke

Summary:

She closes her eyes and tells him she loves him. Thanks him, because she’s twenty-two. She’s alive. She’s got her boy. And it’s all just fuckin’ Sunday smoke.

Notes:

hello & welcome to 4600 words of birthday porn 🙃 ha

was aiming for something a little bit like… primal & borderline… uncomfortably intimate? idk. there’s nothing too shady, just a little toy & some praise kink for the bday girl 😬 you could probably pull some size!kink outta here too if you really wanted to. nothing too wild, kids.

But she’s gonna have to trash that dress.

oh to be 22 again & flexible enough for a good old hentai-style mating press 🤣🤣🤣

Body of a woman, white hills, white thighs,
you look like a world, lying in surrender.
My rough peasant’s body digs in you
and makes the son leap from the depth of the earth.
I was lone like a tunnel. The birds fled from me,
and night swamped me with its crushing invasion.
To survive myself I forged you like a weapon,
like an arrow in my bow, a stone in my sling.

But the hour of vengeance falls, and I love you.

[…]

Body of my woman, I will persist in your grace.
My thirst, my boundless desire, my shifting road!
Dark river-beds where the eternal thirst flows
and weariness follows, and the infinite ache.

- from Body of a woman… / untitled by Pablo Neruda

 

He lets her wake up slow. Feels her shifting around, restless in the pre-dawn hours - he’s up, seems like he’s always fuckin’ up now; told her he’s sleeping like shit and did all that stuff with the news and the hotel reservation and whatever when he couldn’t knock off - and pulls her head to his chest. Wraps his big old arm around her, knuckles soft down her cheek, and strokes her back to bed. Shushing whispers and the hum of his haunted heart, and she drifts and drifts. Down into the clean smell of him. Into the scratchy patch where the hair’s growing back around that damn tattoo. Into the quiet of his breath, soft and softer.

No rushing today, he said. No fuckin’ running around, no up before the sun, nothing to fuckin’ sort out or talk through or fuckin’ stress out about. You’re gonna sleep, he told her. Then I’m gonna take my fucking time with you, and she’d smiled big and slow.

Yesterday was the first fuckin’ day in years, probably, where he didn’t stick his fuckin’ dick in her somewhere. They didn’t touch each other. Nobody fuckin’ got off. Just kinda worked itself out that way. Busy, then by the time they ate something and showered and smoked and stripped down for bed, she’d just wanted to spider-monkey herself around him and pass the fuck out. So that’s what they did, sinking heavy into the cool sheets and the fucking killer mattress. Lights out.

And when she wakes again, it’s morning. Real morning, with the sun up and the birds chattering. Window opens - got a grate over it to deter fuckin’ jumpers, she guesses, the purposeful and the accidental - and Eyeball’s got air coming in, a/c off, curtains back just enough to give it that little wake-up glow. Fucker’s got her coffee, too. Timed it just right; knows the way she tosses and rolls and stirs. Knows how much time he has before she’s yawning and stretching and looking for caffeine.

Pastry, too. Little croissant thing. Fruit.

She grins at him before she’s even all the way awake; can smell the damn coffee. “What’re you doing, asshole?” she says, blinkblinkblinking into the dim. “Where did you go?”

“Just the lobby,” he says. He’s sipping on his already. Got himself breakfast, too. Same as hers. “Got a bunch of shit down there. Went for a smoke.”

“Mm, I want one.”

“Birthday girl can do whatever the fuck she wants,” he tells her.

“Pee first,” she says, and it doesn’t fucking burn this morning. Happy birthday to her.

“Come smoke with me,” she says, tugging a dress over her head. No panties, no bra. “Then I want you to fuck my brains out. I miss you.”

“In that dress?” he grins. Short thing, kinda ugly she thinks, but it’s got a flippy little skirt on it that he likes to fuck with.

Helaena bats her eyes at him. “Maybe. Let me think about it.”

“Feeling better?”

“Mmhm.”

She fits her hand into his good one and lets him take her to the elevator, barefoot and barely dressed and barely even awake.

Street’s got a nice little pace to it. Not empty, not busy, just a slow and steady stream of traffic; people and cars and whatever. When they step out, there are church bells going somewhere in the background - nine AM - and everything smells humid and earthy. None of that fuckin’ smoggy city shit, like all those big old leafy oaks are cycling it through and turning it all back into green.

Pretty day; lots of that clear, cool sunshine coming, and life is as good as it gets anymore, Helaena supposes.

She’s got her coffee cup in one hand and her cigarette in the other, Eyeball’s arm draped over her shoulder, the two of them leaning on the old brick just watching the world go by. Just some blond Yankee bitch and her man, blowing some fuckin’ Sunday smoke.

She closes her eyes and tells him she loves him. Thanks him, because she’s twenty-two. She’s alive. She’s got her boy. And it’s all just fuckin’ Sunday smoke. All gonna blow away eventually. And here they are, right now, with sunlight on their skin and hot coffee in their bellies, and the rest of it all can go get fucked.

*****

“Tell me what you want,” he says. Hardly through the fucking door and he’s up in her business already, like he fuckin’ missed her, too; turning her and pressing her into the wall next to the bathroom. Stealing her fucking cup so he can get to her hands, take her fingers in his mouth, trap them between their lips, fuckin’ sloppykiss around them.

Reminds her of Mama’s; the frantic way they’d fuckin’ get at it the second her car pulled away, one eye on the clock and the other on the door. Said he was gonna take his time, but his mouth doesn’t wanna.

She has to slow his shit down, brace her palms against his bare chest, hold him off like some big, silly dog. Laugh against his teeth and ask him if he’s gonna fuckin’ let her answer.

“Mmhm,” he says, bending to suck at her neck, opening that bite into a grin.

“I want to forget,” she says. “That’s all.”

Doesn’t have to explain. Doesn’t have to fuckin’ explain to him now, never has, and she loves him for it. For the way he speaks her clumsy language.

“You want your fuckin’ molly?” he asks.

She shakes her head. “Not now,” she tells him. “Later, maybe.”

“Okay,” he says, hand so fuckin’ big it spans the cage of her ribs, pushed up under that stupid dress. “You don’t need it. Gonna make you forget everything except my name,” and he has, and he will, and he does, and she loves him for that, too.

He does fuckin’ relax after that, like he remembers it’s her birthday and they’re grown now or something. Keeps her at the wall for a minute, though; one hand on her pushingpushingpushing, pinning her by the shoulder or the chest or the neck or the hip, making his way around. Mouth wet and warm as a fuckin’ southern summer, that hot pre-storm buzz that makes your hair stand up.

Works her over good.

Tongue in her ear, teeth at the bottom; tugs til she feels it in her scalp, feels the words filling her head and forcing everything else out. You’re gonna feel so good; I’m gonna make you feel so good, and she already does, and when he says just be good; be a good girl for me and I’ll make you feel so good, that’s all she can think. She wants to be good.

At her throat, trying to suck her heart right through it, that soft skin at the base where he pushes back against her blood. Heats it up. Makes it run thick like honey in her veins, sweetens the whole fuckin’ deal. Her head tips, eyes closed, and she’s got teeth in her shoulder. Biting into that soft juncture with her neck that makes her knees want to give up the fucking ghost.

They start to; get wobbly and shit, but he’s ready for her crap. Dropping low already, onto the floor, rucking that dress upupup. Pushing it over her hips, hand in the knot of fabric, holding her up. Down. Back.

His hair is soft, all freshly washed, and some part of her still looks for the rest of it when she takes a handful. She can’t wrap it anymore; make herself fucking reins to hold while he turns her body into a fucking ride, but she tries anyway. Digs in and twirls her fingers tight while he presses his cheek to her belly.

He stays there for awhile, like he’s looking for something. Cheek and ear and mouth; the sharp cut of his jaw and the line of his nose, searching and searching and searching while she drags a knee up on his shoulder. Drapes it over and pulls him in, more fuckin’ rushed than he is, urging him along. Heel tucked right into his back.

He ignores it, though; just mouthing at the soft of her, the round of her, the pale silvermoon of her, forehead down and knees down. Some kinda fuckin’ penitent or something, she thinks, the way his lips are moving. Nothing she can hear, maybe it’s not even words; just kisses with something in between. Maybe just breath. Maybe.

Then it’s her thighs; got them spread around him, and fucker knows just what he’s doing. Spends his goddamn lunch hour there, bites a line up and back, one then the other, like he’s tugging at her seams. Opening her up to take everything out, leave them empty and trembling with their own undoing.

They’re fucking wet from his spit, from his heat, from her already. From her fucking cunt that he’s trained like a good little kitty. Knows his touch, turns itself inside out and messyslick when he’s close like this, and she can feel the push of his smile. The way it opens and opens and opens, just like she opens and opens and opens, and then there it is. There he is, just resting himself against her, bottom lip dragging back and forth. Up and down. Sliding with whatever’s there, fucking mouth-wet and pussy-wet, just overtop. Not spreading her apart, not looking for trouble, just fuckin’ taking and taking and taking, and she keeps giving him more. Can feel it all just gather itself and seep out like all that magic in the mortar here.

Making words now for fuckin’ sure. She can hear them. Feel their shape against her skin. “Look at you. You fuckin’ know what’s coming, don’t you? All wet like that,” and Helaena doesn’t know if he’s talking to her or her goddamn pussy. She giggles a little, tugging at his stupid hair, and she feels the way he laughs back, all hot air and smiley cheeks. Feels his tongue nudge her, just a little; slide up the center and take whatever’s left.

That shit makes her crazy. Makes her fuckin’ scratch at him, whine way back low in her throat and squish his damn head between her legs.

Exactly what he wants; the fuckin’ needy bitch in her. Tells her so while he’s kissing at her fuckin’ knees, grip on her legs solid as anything, turning to get to the back where everything’s soft and white and sweaty now. “There it is,” he says. Licking at that fucking sweat, tickling her so she’s laughing and whining and whining and laughing, kicking at him like a goddamn donkey or something while he fuckin’ holds her still. “There’s my good girl,” like he’s living for this bullshit. For the way she’s twisting in his grip, his teeth at the back of her ankle. Something like a threat in the way he’s gnawing at her there, arrow-sharp and dangerous, and she likes it.

“Pretty feet, too,” he says. Fuckin’ bites at her stupid dirty toe, and she’s laughing again, and so is he, grinning, tracing her arch with a finger, and that tickles, too.

Helaena snorts at him, calls him an asshole, and then that motherfucker just hauls her right up. Tugs her leg out so she slips, and he catches her like he’s some goddamn hero, but before she can even roll her crazy eyes at him, she’s on the bed. Tossed like a stupid little doll, bouncing through the mussed-up blankets, shrieking a little too fucking loud for before noon, probably.

Eyeball shuts her up quick. Puts his mouth on her, crawling right overtop. Right in her fucking face, nose-to-nose and mouth-to-mouth, big old body between her spread out knees.

Kiss is hungry, like he hasn’t had his breakfast yet. Tongue in her throat, teeth in her lip, trying to chew her and swallow her and eat her right up. She gives it back just the same; feels his bony, muscley weight sink heavier onto her, like the way she’s sucking his fucking face is pulling him down, in; like she’s swallowing him, too. Fucking fist fight of a kiss, is what it is. Little fuckin’ tussle they couldn’t bring themselves to have yesterday, and it’s just as good, she thinks. Something satisfying in the clank of their teeth; in the way they’re both gonna have a fucking fat lip.

Kinda thing you gotta come up for air from, and when they do, he’s messing with that dress. All tangled now, trapped around her and tucked in with the bedclothes somehow, and her wriggling is only making it worse. Got her itchy and antsy and worked up good, something inside of her looking for a mess.

She laughs a little, manic sorta thing almost; tells him just rip it. Never liked the stupid thing anyway. Color washes her out, grayish with yellow.

Stops him for a second, though; he pauses with a fistful of it at her hip and gives her a look. Like he will. Like he wants to, but really?

She gives the look back, fierce as that kiss. “Come on,” she says, so he does.

She helps, holds the side, and the sound isn't as satisfying as she thought, just a little tchty thing, but it feels good. Feels like she’s something juicy, and that’s her peel, and it splits right down the front. Cotton, flimsy, and they both laugh a little at it, like they’re in some fuckin’ movie, book, literal bodice-ripper shit, and it’s ridiculous.

Hot, though. Hot. Real fucking hot, and she wraps her legs around him while she shimmies her arms free, wet cunt sliding down the front of his pants. Fucker’s hard underneath, all the way, and she wants him so bad she can taste it in her swollen mouth. Metallic, acid, enough to take her enamel off.

Not yet, though. Taking his time, as much as you can call it that when they’re at each other like fuckin’ mating lions or whatever. Got his own mouth back on her, all at her tits now. Back and forth, like he can’t decide which one he likes better. Big handfuls, big mouthfuls, pinching at her and biting at her and licking everything hard and sloppy and throbbing like the rest of her. Rabid, drooly shit that gets her going; nails down his back and his neck and her hips just grinding upupup against whatever they can reach. Wriggling, looking, not finding what they need and leaving her grabbing hard at the aching emptiness of everything.

Makes her growly. Makes her back arch and her throat open wide and when he’s done with her tits he’s back there. Sucking at her bones, big hand down and sprawled over her thigh, thumb right against the rush of blood that runs inside there. Pressing down, in, making her squirm and bite back; making her angle herself for more friction, moremoremore but he’s not there yet. Just being grabby, mouthy, bloody where she’s scratched him.

“Turn over,” he says, and she thinks he’s gonna fuck her. Put that shit in finally, but she doesn’t want it like that. She wants to look at him, watch the way he fuckin’ crinkles up and goes stupid-looking when he slides inside; watch that one good eye of his dilate into black, or squeeze shut, or stare.

Helaena shakes her head. Tells him that. “No, I wanna watch,” but he shakes his head back.

“Not gonna fuckin’… no, just turn over. Now.”

Tone is fucking nice. Tone makes her neck prickle and her fuckin’ cunt drip, so she turns over, one of his hot, hard hands pulling at her hip to help.

“Stay,” he says. “Don’t fucking move,” as he climbs over her a little again. Drapes an arm over the bed and starts fucking around with the bag sitting down there.

She’s restless and breathless, doesn’t know what the fuck he’s up to and doesn’t care, just wants him back.

He’s quick. Got the fucking lube and that little plug of theirs. Silicone, vibrate-y thing, and it makes her smile. Makes her wanna crawl up the fucking bed, out of her skin and right into his. Wants to be fucking in him. Bite a hole in his chest and live there, heartbeat raw against her lips.

This shit slows their roll. It has to, and that’s kind of annoying, but that’s the point, she thinks. Stop-start, hit the fucking brakes before it all goes up in flames.

“Up,” he says, tapping at her ass. “Come on.”

She shimmies her knees up and under a little, and he’s not wasting a lot of fucking time. Mouth on her right away, spit all over, tongue around and in and around and in until she’s straight moaning like she’s getting paid for it. It’s so good, fucking mess dripping in and down, hot and sloppy, both hands gripping her hipbones to hold her still.

“Oh my god,” she says. Fuckin’ over and over and over, oh my god, when he slips his thumb in. Out. In again, oh god, and that gets his mouth running at her.

“Okay, little girl,” he says. Fucking spits on her, thumb back in slow. “I can be god if you want. Anything you want. You can fucking call me god,” fuckin’ voice making her whole body pull tight.

She answers him with more noise, just noise, and then he’s slicking her up good. Got half that bottle, feels like, just wetwetwet, fuckin’ lube and fingers and more lube and pressure that makes her want to bite the fucking blankets.

She does, bitey and growly and out of control when he sticks that fucking thing in. Goes slow as fuck, turns it and wiggles and pinches at her ass, bites at it, fucking licks her while she shakes and whines and takes the damn thing.

It’s not big. Not fucking itty-bitty, but not big. It’s just enough. Vibration low and rumbly, enough for him to feel it, too, when he’s in, and it makes her feel trembly and weird up her back. Down to her knees.

“Christ, you did so good,” he tells her. Fucking flat-palms that thing so it’s flush against her, all the way, and he tells her how good she looks. How fucking pretty she is. Makes her squirm lower, open wider. “You’re my good girl,” he says, soft like sugar; that powdered shit that disappears when you touch it. “You’re so good.”

“Fuck,” she says back. Straight out of her chest, like he reached right in and yanked it.

“I’m gonna,” he tells her. “Right now. You need it, don’t you?”

She nods her head, nuzzley against the sheets, and he takes it. Doesn’t make her talk, or ask, or beg. Just a come on, soft touch turning her, and she opens her eyes wide to let all of him in.

Watches him tug himself out of his damn pants, already unzipped and opened up. Kick them off behind him. Kneel back down and lean right over her, fuckin’ nasty lubey mouth on hers again, and it’s fucking disgusting. Silicone and ass and tobacco on his tongue, and it makes her goddamn eyes roll back and her knees tug up.

“Like this,” she says. “I want it like this,” fuckin’ folded right in half, “hold my legs.”

Squishing her damn self down to nothing when he does it, fuckin’ ankles up by his shoulders. Only holds one, kisses it right on the bone, and everything is fucking tight and small and she feels full already, fuckin’ thing buzzing in her ass.

He’s fuckin’ kneeling up, scooted right against her, and she feels him start screwing around with his cock. Little fucking slaps against her, sliding all over, looking for her mess. She watches him spit and spit and spit; feels it fucking get all over her, feels him rub right through it, hears his breath in little rugged skips through his teeth.

She’s got a goddamn drum in her cunt by the time he tries to get the fuck inside, whole body just pounding away, some kinda wild rhythm she doesn’t even recognize, one on top of the other on top of the other, ferocious and fast and it doesn’t match what he’s trying to fucking do. The crawl of it, the slow press, the steel in his jaw. He’s there and then he’s not, there and then not, and the stretch makes her gasp. Whine. Open her mouth, wider and wider and wider, but he fucking stops. Doesn’t fucking get anywhere. Just shakes his head at her.

“Goddamn, Laney, there’s no fucking room,” he says. “Fuckin’… all bent like this with that fuckin’ thing in there.”

She wants to cry. Feels the well-bucket rising behind her eyes, and it’s stupid. Stupid stupid he’s fucked her twenty thousand times it’s stupid, he fits, and she tells him that. Heavy voice, tears and want and frustration, “it fits!”

“I know it fucking fits,” he says. “Just not like this. Here. Here,” he tells her, kissing up her leg again. “Put them down.”

“No, I want…”

“I don’t wanna fucking hurt you. Put them down.”

She glares a little, but it works. She lets her legs slip down to the sides, fall loose and open, give him something to fucking work with, and that does it. Lets him inch his way in, slow and fucking moany and breathy and goddamn ridiculous, so ridiculous, she wants to gnaw the flesh off his bones he’s so good. The sound of it; the way he picks one fuckin’ leg back up and pushes, fuckin’ leverage and grip and she thinks maybe she’ll die. Split right in half and let all the startled birds in her chest just fly right out.

Starts her mouth up again, oh my god, the way he just sinks right into her like he’s never felt anything so good. “I missed you,” he says. “You’re so fucking good, oh my god,” and then there he is. All the way, and she’s got just about all she can fuckin’ take, she thinks. Body full of buzz and hum and dick, no room for a memory. A thought. Anything at all.

“Try again,” she manages. Tucks up with him all tucked in, and that works. He helps her come in snug against him, holds that leg up by his stupid ear again, fuckin’ crouched low and leaned over and they’re so close. Just a little fucking knot, threaded together, and she says fuck me and he says I am, and it’s this maddening, slow fucking grind, a rocking thing. Doesn’t pull out, doesn’t go far, just in and back and in and back, inchinchinch and grindgrindgrind and it’s wild.

Makes her jaw unhinge, makes her belly flip and roll and spasm, makes her eyes flutter frantic like little wings until they close right up. Squished and scrunched until she feels his hand at her throat. Not a grab, not a fucking choke, just firm. Just Daddy shit.

“Look at me,” he tells her, and she wants to. Really. Likes his pretty face, just inches between them like this, but sometimes her brain just does whatever. Shuts off her senses when it’s overwhelmed, and that’s what it’s doing, she thinks.

Fucker hits the override, though. Leans down so his mouth is right over hers, hot nasty breath and that dumb lock of hair that’s gone fuckin’ rogue falling into her face, voice right where she needs it to be. Key for the lock.

“Look at me when I fuck you,” and that does it. Yep. Eyes snap right open, and there he is. Right there. “Good girl,” he tells her, hand squeezing now. She still has fucking air, it’s just right, pressurepressurepressure, his whole body over her and on her and in her and all she sees is him. All he sees is her. One of those fucking funhouse rooms, mirrors on mirrors on mirrors, bouncing back off each other’s lenses, the image repeating and repeating.

She’s never been so full in her fucking life, everywhere, eyesnosemouthearsasscunt. Belly. Belly, too, she thinks, and now, like this, it hardly bothers her. Hardly scares her. Feels like that’s just right, too. Every goddamn thing in its place and god it just goes on and on, and it gets better. Fucking slipperier.

Takes forever, those little baby motions, that slow stay-inside buzzyhumming delicious sort of fuck; he can’t really move until he can. Until she’s so ground-out deep-fucked desperate that she’s pulling up off the bed for it, and then it’s a slide. Still slow, but there it fucking is, and she watches him bite down on his own mouth. Watches his eye go in and out of focus, still on her but sorta loose and hazy, then that hand’s back hard on her throat. Fingers digging, forehead down against hers, hips all over the goddamn place, and he gives her what she asked for. That pretty, lost little boy please, and it’s probably on purpose but it sounds so fucking good. Feels even better, the word sitting in the air between them, so close she can feel it ride her own tongue. Please, and she’s pulled so tight his fucking orgasm feels like those little Fourth of July popper-snap things you throw against the ground, bang bang bang inside of her, on and on and on, lighting her up against the low, gravel hum of that fucking plug in her ass.

There’s no fucking room for any of it. She can feel it all just fuckin’ leaking out around him, hot and sticky, making her wetter, and she just sigh-moan-sighs right along with him. God, he’s everywhere; just collapsed right down on top.

“Fucking insane,” he says, mutterymumbling into her skin. “Your fuckin’ little body; I can’t. I can’t,” just babbling bullshit at her while she lets her legs slip down. Wind around him and pull, trying to keep him shoved deep and close and in.

“Don’t go,” she says back. Mouth all over him. He tastes good. Sweat, need, sex, boy, god.

He leaves that goddamn plug in. Lazy-fumbley-fingers her with the opposite hand - bless his heart, trying not to give her more goddamn problems - until she bucks up and howls, some roaring animal sound right into his open mouth, and he just pets her and pets her. Kisses her slow.

“God, you’re such a good girl. Mine, right? My good girl,” and she is. Good. And his. Mostly his, she thinks. Mostly his. “Happy birthday, pretty girl,” he says. “I love you.”

She’s so heavy she could sleep again. Heavy and empty and blank.

Can’t remember anything but this motherfucker’s name.

Notes:

Alexa play southbound by artemas 🤣

Chapter 70: Troublemaker

Summary:

you didn’t think the birthday sex was over, did you? 😅

Notes:

… it’s not over 😬

that’s it. that’s the chapter. nothing too crazy.

Alexa play southbound by artemas ON LOOP 🤣

“I want a trouble-maker for a lover, blood spiller, blood drinker, a heart of flame, who quarrels with the sky and fights with fate…”

- Rumi

 

“Go pee.” Still leaning over her, hands folded on her spitty, drooly chest, sharp fucking elbows poking into the meat of her arms. Nose-kissing her and everything.

“Don’t wanna,” Helaena tells him, sticking out her tongue. “Don’t have to. Don’t wanna move.”

“Bet you don’t wanna have to fuckin’ go looking for meds again even more,” Eyeball says, and it’s hard to fucking argue with that, she guesses.

“Fine.” More tongue, and it pokes right into his stupid lip this time, ‘cause he’s just being weird and bopping and bumping at her with his face. “Clean me up first. It’s my birthday.”

Hard for him to argue with that one, and she knows it, so she just cocks an eyebrow and waits. Doesn’t have to tell him twice, either. Dirty bastard.

Mouth is nice, though. She’s still keyed-up and touchy; fuckin’ sensitive as anything, but he does it right. Soft tongue, just in, leaving all her crazy shit alone. In and in and in, gentle, just one side knuckle when he needs it, like his goddamn ice cream cone is dripping. She could let him do it fucking forever like this, she thinks, and he’d be just fine. After awhile there can’t be any damn thing left, but he’s acting like there is, and he’s just licking ‘cause he wants to.

Up to something.

She smiles. Lets him be up to it. Lets him go and go and go until it’s obvious; until he feels the change in her muscles, feels her relax and lean in and start fucking following him around. Spread her damn legs wider.

“Oh, it’s like that,” he says, pretending he didn’t start this shit. “Come on, then. Right here,” tapping his fucking tongue against her.

“Asshole,” she laughs, putting her fuckin’ bare foot right against his forehead.

He laughs back at her. “You don’t want it?”

“I want it.”

“Thought so…” he starts, but she pushes him a little, foot tilting that stupid head of his away.

“From the back,” she says, grinning something fuckin’ naughty at him.

Doesn’t miss a goddamn beat, that boy. Rotten as she is. Just takes that ball and runs with it. “Okay, Princess,” he tells her, fucking leans in to suck her clit but she’s already doing it. Turning herself around to fuckin’ give him everything. Leaking cunt and buzzy ass and all the fucking rest; just spreads wide and pushes that big old smile into the sheets. Wags her fucking tail at him, and she hears him laugh. Smack her a little, fuckin’ backhand across her bottom.

“Nasty thing. I could fuckin’ eat this mess
all day. Come on,” and that does it for her. Little come on come on come on as he goes, makes the words part of his rhythm, drags it out, in out up in out up, changes to come on right here to fuckin’ come in my mouth, everything softlightwetsoftlightwet, come on, in my fuckin’ mouth let’s go, tight string of her spine, everything stackingstackingstacking, til she’s trembling against him, lips tongue in out up in out up come in my fucking mouth and then her back’s arched deep and she’s telling him fingers fingers fingers I want your fuckin’ fingers.

He gives them to her, one two three come on, fucks her with them hard for a minute, jiggles all her fuckin’ business around, plays with that thing in her ass, too, until she’s just a shower of fucking sparks. Until he’s back to sucking at her cunt, pulling noise straight out of her chest and her belly and her mouth, too; ends with the two of them talking over each other, his current under her rapids, there it is come on, soft, to her godfuckingdamnit just like that yes yes yes and if the neighbors weren’t awake they fucking are now. Good morning happy birthday happy Sunday church bells choir hallefuckinglujah.

Pink-cheeked panting wrecked and ruined and tongue-fucked right into the mattress, fucking facedownflat and finished, fuck.

“Take it out,” she tells him, fucking blanket in her mouth. “Battery’s dying.”

He’s dirty-mouthed and melty-muscled, goddamn thing fighting for its life humming against his cheekbone while he’s fucking crashed out. Helaena can feel him smile right up on her, feel his heavyhot breath against her pussy. Almost makes her start that shaky shit again, the way he sighs right into her body. Right inside.

Dumb thing slips out into his hand, slowslowslow while he’s wiggling it, and she hears him laugh. Feels it. “We killed the fuckin’ thing, Laney. Fuckin’ death rattle.”

She giggles, eyes low-lidded and lazy. “Never holds a charge, you know that.”

“Mmhm,” he says, clicking it off and tossing it over the side of the damn bed.

“You’re hard again. What the fuck.” She snickers at him, groping back with a hand when she feels him brush her fuckin’ leg with his dick.

“Neck-deep in pussy, that’s what the fuck. Behave yourself or I’m sticking it back in.”

Helaena laughs, big one this time. “Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

“You’re not fuckin’ done? Jesus Christ.”

“Could fuck my ass. Did the hard part already.” She shrugs a little, and he laughs right back.

“Always with the enthusiasm. Gonna take a fuckin’ minute,” he tells her. “You want me at it that long?”

“You can just fuckin’ finish yourself if I get too bored,” she says, sly.

“Brat,” he says. “Did it now. Ass is mine.” Lays that big old hand right across her, and she yelps and giggles and yelps again when it comes back, opposite direction.

“C’mon Daddy,” she says. “You know you fuckin’ want it.”

“Mmhm.”

“We kill the lube too?”

“Nah,” he says. “Plenty left.” Got it already, warming up in his palms; she can hear the sloppy sound of it, and it’s slippery and dripdripdrippy when he slicks her right up. Fingers in her, over her, in and out til she’s breathing heavy for him. Leaning in.

She looks over her shoulder to fuckin’ watch him do himself. Turns her knobs, big fuckin’ hands on his big fuckin’ dick; makes something hot roll right through her like she hasn’t been turned inside out all morning.

“Damn,” she says.

“What?” Eyebrows up, stopped, just fuckin’ holding himself. Waiting.

“Nothing,” she smiles. “Just looking.”

He rolls his stupid eye at her. “You’re a mess,” he says, then right back to it. “This really what you want, birthday girl?”

“Yes, Daddy.” Bats her eyes at him, then perks up a little. Got an idea. “I wanna watch you.”

Half his mouth fuckin’ turns up at her. “Flip over? We can make it work that way.”

“Mmmmnah I don’t wanna fuckin’ move. I’m comfy.”

He shrugs. “Not a fucking magician, Lane.”

She giggles. “Get that phone. Fuckin’… turn that camera around for me.”

He laughs. “View’s not gonna pass quality control. Little screen, fuckin’ far away and shit.”

“Good enough, fuckin’ come on.”

He shrugs at her and slides off the end of the bed to dig for the phone, buried somewhere in the other bag. Doesn’t take too long, and he tosses it up to her. “Here, weirdo.”

“Thank you, Daddy,” she says. Winks and starts screwing around with it, getting that camera front-facing while he scoots back behind her. She sees his doofy expression on the screen first, tilting the stupid thing around trying to get it right. Looking at her like she’s a nutter, but a nutter he fuckin’ loves or something. Back there tapping his dick against her ass all absent-minded while he stares at her. Still up, though. Nice and hard. Doesn’t seem to have a problem with any of it.

“Good?” Eyeball asks. Sounds like he can’t even believe this shit.

Helaena fucks around a little more. Zooms. Decides it’s as good as it’s gonna get. She can see what she wants to see, pretty much. “Mmhm,” she says, big old smile. “Fuckin’ use me, Daddy. C’mon.”

He shakes his head at her, but he’s smiling back, and he does the damn thing. Nice and slow, just gives her a little while she watches, one arm bent up to hold her little makeshift mirror.

It’s fucking distracting, all of it. He’s watching her watch, and she’s catching his eye in the screen, fucking Hi, Daddying him like she really is some little kid messing around, silly-eyed and smoochy-faced while he fuckin’ puts his cock in her ass, little baby strokes that make her breath catch. Make her bite her lip.

And then she hits record. Slides her thumb over the button, and the first fucking sound on that video is her moany oh shit - him fuckin’ seeing her do it and slipping inside fuckin’ deeper than he was, losing track for a second, then sorry, Laney — what the fuck are you doing?

“Just fuck me,” she says. “We’re tossing this anyway.” They are, soon as they leave here. He’s done too much stuff on this goddamn phone; it’s gotta go. May as well have some fun first.

She sees him roll his eye. Fuckin’ sigh at her, one hand holding his stupid dick. Squeezing himself and shallow-stroking her, trying to find that damn rhythm again.

Then she just gets stupid. Mischievous and goofy; fuckin’ sly-grinning at him again, and he’s being careful like he always is with this shit. Barely in, not enough to rattle her goddamn cage and shut her up, so she starts running at the mouth. “Hi,” she giggles, looking into the stupid camera, angling back and forth between her stupid face and herself getting fucked. “Hi, I’m Helaena, and welcome to the first episode of… of fuckin’…Shit I Fuckin’ Do.”

“What the fuck?” he says behind her, slowing down again, fuckin’ snorting at her. Keeps going, though. Fucker keeps going. Amused, interested, whatever.

She giggles again. She keeps going, too. “Today’s my fuckin’ birthday. And this,” she says, tilting that camera again, “this, this lovely gentleman behind me” — that gets her a laugh, another little-bit-deeper slide, another startled sound from her belly — “this is fuckin’ Eyeball. Say hi, Eyeball.”

He doesn’t, just laughs again. Gives her a fuckin’ pinch.

“He doesn’t like the camera,” she says, breathy-sounding now because he’s a little farther, and it feels good. Feels more. “Camera likes him, though. See? Look how fuckin’ pretty he is.”

“You’re stupid,” he says, but there’s a smile there. Crooked thing, and he curls down to kiss her, dipping in and out of frame. Pushes a little harder when he does, and she gasps a heady-sounding gasp and almost drops the fuckin’ phone.

“He’s fuckin’ pretty,” she says again. Pauses. “He’s my baby brother. Fuckin’…” another little gaspy-sound, stuttering hips behind her, his fist bumping against her ass. “Fuckin’… my brother, but we do this shit. See?” Angles it again, watches him stare down, focus, fuck her slow. Ignoring her bullshit now. “He’s got a busted hand.”

“Lane…”

“Got a fuckin’ busted hand because he loves me so much. Fuckin’…”

He’s trying to shut her up. Rocking her a little, gripping her tight and giving her just enough to make her stop for a second. Concentrate. Make her stupid mouth drop open.

It works, just for a minute, and she pauses to fuckin’ take it. Make some pretty noise. Doesn’t drop the stupid phone though. Giggles again, some kinda porn-y voice when she picks back up. Can’t help it.

“He fuckin’ loves me,” she says. “He loves me, so we… so I fuckin’ let him… because I fuckin’ like it, ‘cause he fucks me like… it’s so… fuck,” she says. Everything’s faster now, still shallow, but it’s goddamn nice, and he’s still trying to hit her goddamn off-switch. Shoves one hand into her hair and yanks straight up, and everything swings off-center for a second - brain, phone, whatever - while she tells him ohhhh, fuck, Daddy that’s so good.

Just audio after that. Camera’s just got a mess of bedding, some amateur avant-garde erotic filmmaking shit, Helaena’s voice in the background - we fuckin’… oh, god… we fuckin’ been through it, been through some shit, so… - screen bouncing a little, dark and light, white sheets shifting against it - so we do it like this… right, Daddy? We fuckin’… we do what we want. We do what we want; I fuckin’… oh my god I fuckin’ love your cock; you can… oh my god, please - screen just shaking and shaking and shaking.

Shit, Laney; say it again

I fuckin’ love your cock

Again

Camera shaking, shifting, sliding over the mattress, fuck, I love your cock, oh my god

Ends with her telling him to fuckin’ come in her ass.

She fuckin’ hates that most of the time, but it fucking feels right. Way he’s pulling on her, making her shiver and moan, big hand in her hair. On her shoulder. Hard, heavy grip like he’s gonna fuckin’ take her, ride her, own her. Should end like that, she thinks, arching her back, fuckin’ biting at herself. Back of the hand she’s got clenched down in the bedclothes. Should end with him fuckin’ everywhere. All over her.

She tells him that when she feels him start to breathe funny; start to dig those big old fingers in. Tells him fuckin’ come in my fuckin’ ass, Daddy; please, sound muffled, half her goddamn mouth buried in the blankets now.

It’s just a little, anyway. Way he comes, it’s as shallow as their fuck; she can tell. Soft feeling, soft spilling, just the fuckin’ tip inside her, other hand tight around the rest, twistysliding all over. Sticky and nasty and hot as hell.

He pushes her flat after, heel of his hand to the small of her back. Making himself a nice, cozy, sweaty landing when he falls right on top, one hand groping for that dumbass phone. He finds it and kills the goddamn video, then opens his mouth wide against the back of her neck. Back of her ear.

“God, Laney,” he says. “God, you…” but he can’t finish. Doesn’t know, can’t fucking talk right, whatever, so Helaena interrupts him.

She grins. “You can call me god,” she tells him, breathless and dumb. “I can be god if you want.”

He laughs, face pressed between her shoulder blades. Sucks at her little wings. “We do what we want,” he says. “On some God shit. Right?”

“Always have,” she answers. “Always fuckin’ have. And that… that’s it for today, kids. That’s the shit I fuckin’ do.”

“You’re stupid,” he says, body shaking against her. “You are so fucking dumb.”

“I love you.”

“Go pee, for fuck’s sake. Jesus Christ. I love you, too.”

*****

God, she’s tired. Could sleep again easy, she thinks, staring in that big bathroom mirror while she washes her hands. Body-tired, not so much brain-tired.

Fuckin’ hungry again, too, and when she comes out she takes Eyeball’s half-eaten banana and takes a big bite. Taste is a little off, she thinks, but not bad enough to spit. She chews it with a half-thoughtful sort of face while she looks at him.

He’s still sprawled on the bed, hands behind his head, just living his best goddamn life. Body white as those sheets, almost, she thinks. Ghostie-boy. She wants to curl up; use him like a pillow and waste this perfect goddamn day.

“Hi,” he says. “You good?”

“Drippy,” she says, screwing up her face. “Like, everywhere. Fabulous otherwise.”

He smirks at her. “I’ll clean that up, too, if you want. Get over here.”

“Be dragging a fuckin’ corpse around this city,” she tells him, smiling. “That how you wanna spend your day?”

He shrugs at her. “If it’s yours….”

Helaena laughs. “I’m already fuckin’ too tired for life. What’re we doing, boss man?”

“You wanna sleep?”

She shakes her head and takes another bite of that iffy banana. “I want snacks. And I wanna see shit. We gotta check out first, right?”

Eyeball shakes his head. “Two nights.”

“Two… you’re crazy,” she says, shaking her head back. “We check out quick you can get that money back, fuckin’ maniac. It’s still early enough. C’mon…”

“Nope,” he says back. Pushes off the bed and snags the bag off the floor. “Paid for two, we’re doing two. Not running around like assholes. Get the fuck over here. Get your goddamn drippy ass dressed.”

“You do it,” she says, arching a brow at him.

He laughs. Pushes that stupid piece of hair off his forehead. “Get over here, I said.”

She does. Scoots right in between his knees as he sits back down and pulls the bag next to him. “Shouldn’t we shower?”

“Nope,” he says, and before she can argue, she’s got a goddamn finger back in her ass.

Helaena fuckin’ squeals, and he smiles at her. “You are disgusting,” she giggles as he fuckin’ grabs at her with his nasty hand. Goddamn spunklube fingerprints on her asscheek.

“Mmmhm. And you’re mine. Gonna fuckin’ walk around like this til I say otherwise.”

“My birthday,” she tells him, biting him square on his stupid nose. “I make the rules.”

“I don’t care what fuckin’ day it is. Fuckin’ Sunday Monday birthday Christmas goddamn Arbor Day, little girl, you’re mine, and if I want you walking around with my fuckin’ jizz running down your legs, that’s what you’re gonna do.” He’s smiling up at her, looking like a fuckin’ hot mess.

“You’re filthy. Who the fuck raised you?” she grins.

“Wolves.”

Helaena laughs. “Brush your fuckin’ teeth at least. Fucking breath smells like pussy.”

“That I can do. We’ll shower later. That thing is boss.”

“Mmhm. Got all kinds of ideas for it.”

“You ever think about anything else?” he huffs at her.

“Occasionally,” she says. “What am I wearing, Daddy?”

Eyeball fuckin’ snickers. “Well. I know what you’re not wearing.”

“Never liked that dress.”

“This one’s better,” he says, tugging some little black thing out.

“Black?” she asks, surprised. Not his usual deal.

“Fuckin’ suits you today, Troublemaker,” he tells her. Presses a kiss right between her eyes. “Nothing but fuckin’ trouble, this one,” and she grins.

Notes:

I’m 100% subscribing to her YouTube channel idc

Chapter 71: Green

Summary:

“Dying’s for people,” Helaena tells him, snagging that cig back and sticking it between her teeth. “Gods don’t fucking die.”

“From my rotting body, flowers shall grow, and I am in them and that is eternity.”

- Edvard Munch

 

On foot, it’s even greener. Moss clinging to everything in strange ombré layers; ivy climbing whatever it can reach; weeds and odd blooms shoving themselves up through cracks in the cobbles and concrete, like the city was built atop a forest that’s trying to reclaim it. Like it’s a tombstone laid over the restless dead.

The smell reminds Helaena of death, too. The magnolias are long closed, but their ghost is hanging out. Thickly floral, a gagging sort of sweetness that has its invisible fingers at everything’s throat. Smells like their house after Daddy’s funeral; the way everyone tried to fill the space with compensatory life. Flowers upon flowers upon flowers. Arrangements on every fucking surface for more than a week. Maybe more than two. Hard to remember now.

Helaena had to toss them. Became the unofficial tech in that macabre little botanical morgue, because Mama was in no shape to deal with it, and her brothers were content to live in the decay. Waffle too drunk to give a shit, and Eyeball smoking on the front stoop, cocking an eyebrow at her in some posture of romanticized nihilism. Appropriate, he told her when she said the whole house was rotting, taking fistfuls of mushy plantlife out to the fucking trash.

She’d smacked him right in his stupid face with a mess of stinking lilies, and he’d just shrugged at her and blew some smoke, brown-edged petals in his hair. Pushed her against the dirty siding out back later, the smell of it all in his clothes, long stems of his fingers shoved inside of her out of the reach of the floodlights. Thank you, he’d said. You do all that shit no one else wants to do.

Daddy was a cunt in more ways than she’d known back then, but she’d cried at the way Eyeball sounded just like him. Kinda thing he’d always say. She’d cried, and he pressed his lips against her stupid wet face, rocked her into his palm, swallowed the hitching sounds in her throat: grief and frustration and pleasure and need and relief, all bundled together inside of her in their own ugly bouquet. Reckless. They’d gotten so reckless at the end.

Funny how smell does that. Calls up memory.

Helaena fits her fingers through her little brother’s; leans into his solid weight beside her, strolls with him through this Valley where the Shadow strolls, too. Where its hot, cloying breath is always at your neck.

She’s been trying not to think too hard, too wide, about too much, but it’s difficult here. She’s hungry in a way that she usually isn’t. Tired in a way that she usually isn’t. Has that life/death split-screen in her face.

Not sick like she was last time. Not yet. Probably too early. Should fuckin’ put an end to it before it starts up again, she thinks; all that goddamn misery. She doesn’t want to be driving all over the place like that, stopping every twenty minutes to puke her guts up on the side of the road.

But she doesn’t know where to go, if not fucking Planned Parenthood again. Hospital’s gonna be too damn expensive, take too long, ask too many questions. Send her to a damn OB anyway, like before, and if she tries to start there, it’s gonna take ages to get an appointment. It’s all shitty.

She doesn’t know where, doesn’t know how, doesn’t even fucking know if, she guesses, though nothing else makes any goddamn sense. What the fuck are they gonna do? Hole up in some windowless basement shoebox with their fuckin’ incest gremlin baby and live happily ever after? Some goddamn Grimms shit come to life? Nah. Eyeball’s right. Only goddamn thing they can do is fuckin’ pull the plug. Drain the mess.

Helaena shakes her head, one of those little Etch-a-Sketch shakes to clear the board, and leans hard into Eyeball’s sturdy ribs. He feels it. Reaches up and gives her hair a little finger-scrunch; tugs her in close. Doesn’t ask. Got the same shit on his mind, probably, she thinks. Two of them operate like that sometimes.

“What do you want to eat?” he asks her, nice little sub for what the fuck are we gonna do, and at least that she can answer.

“Everything.”

That makes him laugh. “Good thing we’re here, then,” he says. “They got fuckin’ everything.”

He’s right. All sorts of cute little places with all sorts of shit, but in the end, they haven’t had their fuckin’ grits, so that’s what it is.

Turns out these fuckers eat all kinds of grits. Breakfast grits and lunch grits and fuckin’ grits with shrimp, and Helaena can’t do that smell on a good day, forget a knocked-up-and-smelling-water day, so they get them plain as they can and sit the hell outside. Fresh air and whatever. Don’t even get a funny look from their waitress, not-Charlene, and Helaena figures they’re probably used to sketchy northerners here.

Can’t escape the fucking butter, though.

Eyeball doesn’t fucking care, he can’t tell if he’s hungry anyhow, and he takes like three bites and feeds her the rest of his across the little table. Picks at the wilty greens and eats exactly one potato cube.

Helaena doesn’t give a fuck. She finishes her own, three-quarters of his, more than half of the other shit, and a small pot of coffee, and he just smiles at her. Puffs on a cigarette he’s not supposed to have and nudges at her with his stupid foot.

“Gonna have to fuckin’ carry you outta here,” he tells her.

“You should anyway, after what you fuckin’ did to me this morning,” she says. Eats another goddamn forkful of potatoes. They taste right. Everything here tastes right; not like that weirdass hotel banana.

He laughs. “Oh, you mean all that shit you literally asked me for?”

“Yeah, that. Fuckin’ worked up an appetite; what do you want from me?” He smiles. Sticks one last spoon of porridgey crap into her mouth and butts his smoke on the dirty plate.

“Gross, Eyeball,” she says, but he rolls his eye at her and pockets the thing.

“Not gonna leave it. C’mon, Lane.”

She sighs. Dumps the dregs of her coffee into his cup. “Finish that,” she tells him.

It’s black, and he does. Swallows it down and drops a kiss on her head when he gets up to pay the bill.

Helaena really does fuckin’ consider asking him to carry her ass when they go. Even her damn bones feel sluggish. The dull heat and the perfumey air and her full belly and that little fucking hellion inside of it all conspire to make her shuffle and drag; make her wanna pull some legit little girl shit. Some pick me up, Daddy shit.

He can tell. Keeps an arm swooped low and circled; takes a lot of her weight and slows himself down to match her pace.

Nobody here fuckin’ rushes, though, and their half-speed is just about right. The two of them mosey, nowhere to be and nothing at all to do but breathe and walk and watch.

*****

Cemetery’s an old thing. Old.

She likes it right away. Tugs Eyeball towards it; the first thing she’s wanted to poke her nose into since that fucking plate of grits. Everything else, she’s been content to wander by, but this shit has her name all over it, and he knows it. Goes right along.

Getting dusky already - does that earlier and earlier now - but the sign says it’s open til five, so they have a minute.

It reminds Helaena of some of those odd spaces back home; random acres in random spots along the back roads that people used for family plots, or village plots, or whatever. Disused, unsanctioned, dotted with stones that’ve long lost their markings.

There was one by her fuckin’ elementary school. Teacher took them all there one day to do rubbings, bunch of little brats with their crayons in tow, leaning on the ancient things and trying to extract some meaning from them. Mama’d had one of her weird fits about it - called the principal and everything, fucking embarrassing bullshit, but that was Mama- but Helaena’d liked it. Put her whole chest into it, tongue between her teeth scribbling hard. Ended up with vague impressions of nothing. Ghosts of ghosts of ghosts. It had reminded her of one of those Magic Eye things: look at it long enough, and it starts to talk to you.

Not here, though. Someone’s kept these up. There’s overgrowth in the yard of graves, but it’s performative, like they’ve let the moss creep to fucking regulation length. Let the stones chip just so. All still legible; all old as dirt. Crumbly edges, carvings all serif’d and shit.

Around the dead - it’s really just a little chunk of the place, spread with mausoleums and sculptural markers - there’s a whole-ass fucking fairyland. That’s all she can think when she sees it: more of those fucking live-oak trees, all leaned together over a pathway and draped in curtains of that low-hanging moss. Goddamn portal to Middle Earth. Fuckin’ bugs, butterflies and dragonflies and all kinds of chirpybuzzyflappy things, fucking everywhere. Birds. Squirrels. Eyes upon eyes upon eyes, like the rest of the damn place but visible here. Not peeking out from behind buildings and ducking away when you turn, but meeting you head-on every place you look. Just watching.

And green. So green.

It’s like walking right along the Veil. Weaving in and out, Living and Dead.

She can smell it all, too. Salt marshes, Eyeball says, when she tells him it fucking stinks like filth. Filth and flowers, like this whole place, but amplified. More filthy than floral. It’s mud and rot, he tells her. Coastal decomp. They’re by the ocean, and its waste is all around this place. Pushing in along the edge. Adding bones to the pile.

Pretty as anything. Painted up nice for the company.

But underneath that movie-set sort of veneer, it shares a circulatory system with the rest of this fucking city. Thumping pulse, capillary leaks, something strange in the DNA.

Something that eats its own tail. Like them, Helaena thinks. Like them.

“Can we sleep here instead?” she asks, tilting her chin up to watch the purplish sky spread between the branches over their heads. “Soft ground.”

She smiles, big-eyed cheeky shit at him, and he smiles back. “Fit right in,” he tells her.

“Spooky kids.” She goes quiet then. Thinks of fuckin’ Waffle, laying there in his own sort of limbo. Straddling that Veil. “Just like Waffle said.”

They stop, arms swinging down together like the tongue of an unwinding clock, tickticktick as they catch each other’s gaze.

Helaena doesn’t ask. She doesn’t have to. On that same wavelength again. Feels even stronger here, somehow; whatever that shit is between them. “I looked,” he tells her. “While I was doing all that shit on the phone. Nothing.”

“Nothing,” she repeats, quiet, and he shakes his head.

“Nah. Still shouldering that fuckin’ mortal coil or whatever.”

Helaena nods. “Maybe.”

“Maybe.” Eyeball lights a cigarette, big hands cupped around it while he leans against some tree with a trunk twice his size around. Takes a drag and hands it off.

Helaena sucks on it for a second. “That’s good,” she says, because what else can she fuckin’ say?

“Is it?” He takes his smoke back. Blows a heavy cloud through his nose. “Fuckin’ living like that. Think I’d rather just be fuckin’ done. Wouldn’t you?”

She shrugs, uncomfortable. “Maybe. Guess it depends if I’d ever get better. I mean. Fuckin’ burned-ass people, bad like him, they take a long fucking time to get better. But they do.”

“Sometimes,” he says. “Sometimes they just fuckin’ live like raw meat forever. Infected all the time and stiff and shit. Who the fuck wants that? Nah. Fuckin’… don’t do that shit to me, Lane, okay? Take me out back and put a fuckin’ bullet in me, like I showed you. Suck my dick first if it’s still fuckin’ there, say goodbye, but Christ.”

“Don’t talk like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like shit’s gonna fuckin’ happen to you. Don’t.”

“Shit could happen to anybody. Just telling you so you don’t fuckin’ let me…”

“Stop. Please. Not today.” She shakes her head, hard like she’s shaking loose all that ugly shit he’s put there, and he takes his free hand and ruffles her stupid hair.

“Standing in the middle of a fucking graveyard and you don’t wanna talk about dying. Some fuckin’ spooky bitch you are.” He sounds gentle, though. Words wrapped in that Spanish Moss shit.

“Dying’s for people,” Helaena tells him, snagging that cig back and sticking it between her teeth. “Gods don’t fucking die.”

He grins at her. Cups her whole-ass face in one palm. “You should pray,” he says, raising an eyebrow up at her. “Make sure you stay on His good side. On your knees and shit.”

Helaena laughs and blows her fuckin’ smoke at him. “You haven’t had enough?”

Eyeball shakes his damn head. Does one of those quick little look-arounds, makes sure no one’s staring too hard, and he whips her damn cigarette out of her mouth and crushes the stupid thing with his foot.

She starts to give him shit - fuckin’ litterbug, she wants to say; he never does that crap, hates it - but he’s too quick. Has her up, just scoops her off the ground like a fuckin’ little kid in a mess of protesting giggles and spins her, and she shriekylaughs into his mouth when he brings it right down onto hers. Turns quick, and she feels him do a lean-and-shove. Press her right into something cool and hard and sit her down.

Feels like he sat her ass in a fuckin’ planter, and when she looks down, that’s what it is. Creeping ivy trailing all out of it, sticking out from under her, and then she looks up.

“Eyeball!” she scolds him, tugging back from his kiss. Fucker sat her down on a goddamn headstone, some big old pretty statue. Little kid. Girl with a sweet little rounded chin and bad bangs, tiny buttons on her boots. “You can’t fuckin’…”

But he’s not listening. Has about as much respect for the dead as he does for the living. They don’t give a shit about stuff like this, he says. They’re dead. The fuck they care?

Doesn’t say any of that shit now, but he doesn’t have to; way he’s got one hand up at Helaena’s fucking throat, squeezing that goddamn kiss right out of her. It’s a good one. Knocks her breath back into her lungs and her head into the stone, just hard enough to make her wince a little. Reach for him.

There’s a smile under it, something self-satisfied and wicked and rowdy. Fucker thinks he’s a real funny guy.

Helaena knows better; can feel the way this whole place moves. Old magic and dirty blood, all of it running just at the surface. Just under the thin skin of the atmosphere. Her ass doesn’t belong parked on some baby girl’s grave.

Not literally. Not metaphorically, either, she thinks. Just for a second, like the thought isn’t hers. Like it’s something that seeped in on all this strange, sultry air. Something crowding her head.

Not much time to pick it apart, though; to interrogate it. Ask it how it fucking made it through the tight seal of their lips; through the noisy bloodrush in her ears, because Eyeball’s fucking handsy. Fucking mouthy. Everything everywhere all at once, fingers creeping up her leg and something just above a whisper under her nose. She can smell his cigarette breath, that bad back tooth.

“We do what we want, Laney,” he’s telling her. “Don’t you fuckin’ worry. We do what we want,” squeezing at her thigh. Laughing a little, thumb ticking down her bones and pushing in between; pressing her pulses like he’s working at a latch. Waiting for the click.

It never comes, because when he tips her chin up, turns her face to the dark that’s rolling in, there’s a drip. A splashy bead of rain, she thinks, or some kind of tree crud, or her dumbass brother’s spitting and fucking missing like he does sometimes. But then there’s another, and it’s not spit, not rain - clear sky and busy mouth - and there’s nothing falling from the goddamn foliage.

It’s closer. Hotter. Slipping down like a fucking tear across her forehead, because…

“ … Eyeball!” Helaena jerks her head away from him, drags him a little because he’s got teeth in her bottom lip, and the quaver in her fucking voice makes him stop his bullshit. “What the fuck?!”

He pulls back, hand still closed around her throat. Looks at her sideways. Clocks that water at her hairline; the way she’s staring upupup. Follows her gaze and finds the source.

Helaena watches his forehead wrinkle; the stiff line of his scar moving with it. Feels his grip loosen into a question mark.

Watches those little stone eyes above her fill up and overflow.

She’s frozen for a minute, just stuck on stupid, but that’s not Eyeball’s fuckin’ style. He’s a fucking doer, so he leans up and pokes one longass finger right in.

Hesitates a little, though. Goes slow. ET type shit, that steadyshake sort of ascent, but he jams it in there.

Nothing fuckin’ moves, of course. Shit’s marble, but it’s liquid. It’s water. Spills right out and rolls down his fingertip, and Helaena watches him fuckin’ sniff it. Bring it to his mouth.

Her stomach whirls and churns and for a second she thinks oh shit here it comes; thinks she’s gonna lose her lunch. Start up that pukey pregnant bullshit again right here, on this poor kid’s grave. This chubby-cheeked little six year-old, out here staring at them making a whole-ass desecration.

She swallows instead, swallows again and again, and by the time she’s got it under control, he’s going salt, tears, what the fuck?

Helaena looks at him. Looks back up. Struggles to her damn feet, using his elbow to yank herself. Fucking straightens that plant life she’s smashed down, like it’s bedcovers or something, and Eyeball’s just fucking standing there, too.

It’s quiet. Sky damn near black with a wide-gazed moon staring down. Gotta be five, maybe after; place is closed now or just about, and it’s just them and this sad little stone thing standing in the fading light.

Still got his arm, and she clamps down hard with her fingers. Just stares. Watches the light change. Feels the funny air shift around her, like it’s making room for something. And it’s a trick - of her own eyes, or shadows, or her spooky fucking brain - but the water shimmers like a puddle and disappears, and what’s left, just for a fucking second, is green.

Notes:

we’re at bonaventure cemetery in Savannah, which is the most beautiful cemetery on earth ps. took some liberties with geography 😅 and with lore, kinda — and with poor Gracie’s stone, which is fenced off these days & sits a little low for a good makeout sesh 🤣

but I’m a spooky bitch just like yr girl, and I can’t resist a good ghost encounter 🤷🏼‍♀️

Chapter 72: St Winefred’s Well

Summary:

hands and mouths and mouths and hands

Notes:

the way i fought with this chapter.

but honestly, writing this ended up just being my therapy this week. i needed something soft, so this is the little detour i took.

I’ve been playing with versions of this scene on and off, and I actually thought maybe I’d cut it all together and do something in canon verse with it instead? And I still might. Idk.

but the world is burning down around me here in my appalling country, and I needed to have them both be wayyyyy in their softness. So. Here it is.

Porn-y without much sex at all 🤷🏼‍♀️ ft. a sweet and soft surrendered Helaena & a soft!dom aemond who knows how to regulate her. lots of water. and some (only a LITTLE gross) kink.

And turns to wash it from her welling eyes
And breathes the blots off all with sighs on sighs.
Her glass is blest but she as good as blind
Holds till hand aches and wonders what is there;
Her glass drinks light, she darkles down behind,
All of her glorious gainings unaware.
........
I told you that she turned her mirror dim
Betweenwhiles, but she sees herself not Him.

- from St Winefred’s Well by Gerard Manley Hopkins

 

Fucking gun is all up on her. Poking into her thigh, rubbing against her whole fucking shit. He didn’t want to leave it in the safe - trusts this fancy hotel even less than the other shady places they’ve stayed - so he’s got it tucked in the waist of his pants, and she’s slung against him in a piggyback. Got his big old hoodie wrapped around both of them, looking stupid as hell, but he wanted to hide his fuckin’ piece good, and that’s hard with her up there bouncing around.

Rhythm is nice, though; that slow updownup of his stride. The way she can feel his breathing, too.

It’s helping her calm the fuck down, anyway.

Eyeball was all over that poor little statue-girl in the cemetery; fuckin’ cavity searched that thing looking for a hose or a valve or a sensor or whatever. Can’t just let shit go; has to know how every damn thing in the universe works, so he poked and prodded and shined that stupid phone light all over for who knows how long.

Got so absorbed in solving his little mystery that he’d barely noticed her fucking derailing. Starting that spiral, ininin; thoughts in Picasso pieces, abstract and misaligned, everything all scrambled into a mess of tiny faces and ghosts and blood, sterile hallways and sterile tables, blond hair and purpleblue eyes, curves and angles and planes, the way it feels to lean over the sink and lose everything inside your belly.

She couldn’t tell him any of that shit of course. Couldn’t open up her damn head to show him that thread she was pulling, so she just stood there, lightheaded and woozy, shit crashing around her skull like she’s a busted Morse code receiver. Coming through static or thunderstorms or whatever while she was staring up at that carved-marble face, soft everywhere like little kids are. Round little chin, just like baby Waffle’s. Like her own was. Sweet thing sitting there in judgement, maybe, or in some kinda solemn solidarity, and it was too much. Those dollbaby features. Warm tears.

Moss-eyes. Alys-eyes.

Too much.

He didn’t notice for a minute; not til she started to sway right there at his stupid busy elbow. Bumped him, bumped him again, and he’d turned around, distracted voice saying what, Lane? what?

Saw it then, though, however it shows up, written all over her face, and gave up on his stupid side quest. Gave in to the strangeness - the city’s, the night’s, that spooky little girl’s, his spooky little girl’s - and took her by her chin. Sturdy and calm.

“I’m right here.”

He was. She knew it. She knows now, too; taking a little ride on his back, sweaty face to his sweaty neck, saddled over his hips with that fucking Glock trying to get fresh with her. Sliding up on her stupid wet panties. Still leaking outta everywhere with the right kinda jostling.

“She was mad,” she tells him, resting her chin on his sharp shoulder. “Fuckin’ screwing around like that in her little girl bed.”

Eyeball shifts his weight. Bumps her up a little. “Nah,” he says. “Some kinda fuckin’ stunt.”

Helaena reaches around him to snag the cigarette out of his mouth and does her best not to set his stupid hair on fire. Takes a drag and stares up at the streetlights. Old style, fuckin’ gas things with that fancy iron filigree, like the balconies on their hotel. Pretty. She blows a cloud of smoke up at them. “I don’t think so. I felt her.”

“Felt her?”

She puts the cigarette back between his teeth. “Yeah. Why I got all freaky like that. She fuckin’… I dunno. Not happy about something.”

“Ghosts aren’t fuckin’ happy,” he says through his bite. “That’s why they’re ghosts.”

“Got in my head about some shit.”

“You sure you didn’t get in your own fucking head?” He pauses and reaches back to adjust the goddamn sweatshirt. Keeps riding up, and he’s paranoid. “Seems like a you thing to do.”

Helaena rests her head against him and shakes it. “Partly. But nah. I mean. She started it. I just fuckin’ ran with it like I do.” She pauses. “Baby was six, Eyeball. Fuckin’ six. I dunno.”

He’s quiet. Takes a long, slow drag and coughs that shit out. Fuckin’ good, wet cough, too. Hardly ever does that, bent in half, stopped cold on the sidewalk with her wrapped around him like that ivy shit that’s everywhere.

“Coincidence,” he tells her. “Everybody’s six sometime. Too many fuckin’ dead kids in that place,” but he squeezes her anyway. Fiddles with her fingers, one after the other after the other, all the way back.

*****

They get to the room, and she feels like fuckin’ burnt toast. Day’s sucked everything out of her, all that fucking walking around and the constant parade of strangers and the way everything smells and some dead girl trying to tell her how to live. She’s hungry, and she’s tired, and her brain is running like a 24-hour news ticker in some language she only half understands. She wants a fucking shower and dinner and to empty the contents of her fucking head into a dumpster, maybe in that order or maybe not. Doesn’t matter.

Eyeball locks that fucking door up tight while she leans against the wall and shuts her eyes because she can’t decide what to fucking do first. Can’t prioritize or whatever; needs everything all at once and can’t make her body move to do any of it, so she just freezes in place like a dumbass mannequin or something. He side-eyes her while he sits on the bed and takes his shirt off. Unlaces his boots. Same fucking boots. Still.

She keeps thinking she’s gonna trash them on him, but she can’t bring herself to do it.

“Come on,” he says, tugging that gun out of his pants and sitting it on the nightstand. “Bath time.”

Helaena makes whatever sort of smile she can manage. Puts her hand out to him, and he gives her another squeeze and opens the bathroom door.

She had all kinds of ideas for this killer fucking shower. All those damn sprayers. All that space. Just asking for it, she thought. Still does think so, except she can’t wring anything useful out of the mess in her head, so she just stands there like a fucking idiot while he dicks around. Pulls out towels and turns the water on and shit. Room’s got its own thermostat, and he cranks that motherfucker for her while she leans against the sink and watches him.

He doesn’t mind. He never minds. Doesn’t even try to talk to her, just pulls her towards him and starts stripping her down, like she’s some fuckin’ little kid getting ready for her tubby. Quick and easy, and she holds her arms up for her dress and steps out of her panties like a good girl.

It’s business. He doesn’t linger over her. No fuss; no busybody stuff, just Daddy when he puts a palm to her back and guides her in.

He comes, too, but he stands out of all that damn water. Only has two of those shower heads going, and he’s holding one, so he slips alongside. Just gets some spatter and splashback while he does what he does. Short little directions, one-step shit - close your eyes, stand still, hands up, head back - so he can do the work. Good hands everywhere, in her hair and behind her fuckin’ ears and under her sweaty tits and her pits and ass and crotch and feet, making all those grubby bits just sparklyshinyclean; one of those showerhead things in his left and the washcloth in his right. Kiss on her forehead when he’s done.

“Good girl,” he tells her. Quiet, voice all tangled up with that shower noise. “Stay right here.”

He sticks that sprayer back on the fuckin’ wall and pops out and back, two seconds. Up to something. Always fucking up to something, she thinks, and she’s right. Got his t-shirt, that sweaty funky one from today, just a stupid plain white undershirt thing.

“Close your eyes,” he says, and the words run right over her like water. Warm. Taking all those fucking knots right out of her body.

Helaena doesn’t say shit. No questions, no whys, no nothing, just shuts her damn eyes and lets it all fuckin’ soak in. Run off. Whatever.

Eyeball wraps that nasty thing around her head, spun up and twisted into a blindfold, and ties it off good. Lets his thumb swipe over the curve of her chin when he’s done, softslow thing while the water drips down.

“On your knees,” he says. “Flat. Arms out front.”

She goes, her head just humming away with shhhh and heat and the rolling sound of his voice, and he helps her. Holds her hand, her arm; traces the line of her spine as she goes; knees and arms and forehead and hands to the tile.

It’s not cold. Nothing in here is cold, but it’s sort of cool, she thinks. Soothing like that gel shit on her spanked-hot ass, or like a fuckin’ popsicle when she’s had him in her throat too long. Contrast feels good, hot skin and cool floor, points of her body lit up with it. Here, and here, and here. She takes a breath, and another, and another, and her lungs fill with humidity. Feels like she’s sucked this whole city right inside.

Dark. White noise and water kneading at her like a pair of hands.

His fingers find her. Walk down, neck to ass and back again, a slow and steady press to push her flat flat flat. Prone and penitent and yielded with a head full up with nothing.

“Stay,” he tells her. That’s it. One word, and then all the water’s going. Got everything on now, spraying everywhere, and he adjusts that shit to hit her right. Between her shoulders, against her tailbone, thighs and hips and the base of her neck. All those fuckin’ good spots; all the tension in the meat of her unwinding itself and running down the drain.

She stays. Bowed and bent and clean. Some kinda round rock in a riverbed, washed right down to smooth.

It’s fucking hard when he makes her wait. She’s no good at it. Whole body rebels; starts her fidgeting. Revs her anxiety like an engine. He knows it; will usually fuckin’ stand there and watch her to keep her still, but she hears him leave. Hears that soft metallic click of the door slipping into the frame. Cuts right through the sound of the shower.

He shuts the lights, too. Got her eyes closed and a blindfold on, but she can tell. The fan goes off, and the darkness gets deeper, somehow. Turns to velvet against her lids.

Stillness is easier like this. The water’s fucking scalding. It feels amazing. Holds her like a pair of fuckin’ fuzzy cuffs, cozy and snug and safe. The whitenoisewhoosh and the saunahot air and the way the tile doesn’t feel like tile, not exactly; something gentle to it like they ran it over a lathe and coated it in stardust or something. All of that makes her heavy. Fills her limbs like sand, and she just sinks downdowndown into the stretch of her arms and the pull in her back. Into her own gravity, and the strange orbit it holds her to.

Sinks and sinks and sinks.

Falls and falls and falls.

The world is a womb. Tighthot pressure and calm, calm, calm and the way her lungs move in and out.

She’s still.

She has no fucking idea how long he’s gone. Could be five minutes or five hours, the way she’s slipped between the clock-hands. Melted time like a fucking Dalí painting or something; turned it liquid as the water streaming down her pressed-low cheek.

He’s silent when he comes back in, but the darkness changes again. Thins out a little, and the fan folds in with the shower-sound, and she can feel him there parting the heavy air with the sharpness of his bones.

Some kinda fuckin’ ghost or something.

That’s her brother.

He doesn’t speak, and the water drowns his steps, but he comes close and her body knows before he touches her. Settles, somehow; goes fuckin’ belly-up like a happy cat and waits.

“Okay?” he asks, crouching there, big hand coming to rest at her cheek. Takes up that whole side; holds her between his heat and the floor, and she leans into him and nods.

Thumb slips down over her wet lips; searches out the cave of her mouth, and she opens for him. Lets him press the root of her tongue, skim the height of her palate and pull a hitch from her throat that turns into a suck, water still runningrunningrunning over the bare island of her skin.

“Oh, there she is,” he says, and she goes looser. Flatter. Downdowndown. “There’s my good girl,” knuckle curling behind her bottom teeth. “You waited so pretty for me, didn’t you?”

She doesn’t answer, just opens wider. Lets him see her, spit and tongue and wet; the shiny, dripping cup of her slacksoft mouth.

“Up, now. On your knees.”

Takes a second; body doesn’t wanna move. She’s cozy, fuckin’ melted to the floor; muscles holding on to the shape of her surrender. She comes, though, and he’s patient. Tuned right in. Hands on her to hold her steady, and god she’s just heavy. Some kinda droopy, rain-battered flower or something; spread petals in disarray, dripping honey and light and glitter.

Treats her like it, too. Delicate. Stands over her and lifts her chin, like he’s tipping her right up to the sun.

He is, she supposes. He’s big, and he’s warm, and he’s the center of every fucking thing.

Gotta move the stupid showerhead, though, because now it’s right in her damn face. He does. Shuts that one off, then sticks his fingers back in her mouth. Two now, flat over her tongue, in and out like they’re fucking her good. He tastes like tobacco and soap, wet skin, and she bites a little, just a kitten-y thing when he pushes up to nudge her teeth.

“Suck,” he says. Adds a third, and he’s gotten himself all wet. She can feel him dripping, a sort of gentle patpatpat slipping like sweat down her temple. Cooler than the hot spray at her back, quieter. Whisper-y or something.

Helaena sucks. Soft, just the smallest bit, his palm turned up and pressing at her nose, fingers deep like he’s in her fucking cunt hitting everything at once. The gag is gentle but it’s there, and it makes her clench her thighs against it. Curl her bare toes up.

It’s his bad hand he’s using, busted bruised thing, and some part of her can taste the blood sitting right there at the surface. Coppery and sweet.

She loves his fucking hands. Warm. Always fucking warm. Can do anything. Everything. Make her feel small enough to tuck right into his palm, and she turns a little to give him a bump. A nuzzley kiss with her whole stupid face, cheeklipsnose, and he uses his other hand to tug at her hair. Pull her in. Close enough to rest against the wet front of his stupid jeans, soaked through and clinging to him.

Didn’t even undress. Doofus, she thinks vaguely. It’s a half-thought, like all of them are now, fuzzy in that liminal space where she’s floating.

She can feel him, though. That’s clear enough, half-hard against the round slope of her cheekbone. Against the corner of her parted lips.

Fingers in her hair pull tight when she turns a little, and the ones in her mouth slip down. Out for a second, tiny little lapse in control that makes her smile against the stiffening press of his cock. Open wide.

Teethteethteeth. Just the ghost of them around the shape, enough pressure to make him lean in, tug hard, wet curls knotted into the hooks of his knuckles.

Makes her want to drag him under with her. Some kinda sailorsiren story where they hold on too goddamn tight, forget to breathe, and they both just fucking drown. Turn to little sea skeletons. One little pile of bones.

Thought makes her bite harder. A promise, or a threat; something pitch-dark and sopping wet, and his free hand closes where it’s resting, that juncture of her neck and her shoulder, and something in there howls when his thumb pushes down. Makes her head tip and her mouth go slack, and then he’s back inside.

“Mine,” he tells her, four deep, four wide, and the word feels as close as the air in here. As hot, too, and she’s suddenly half-dizzy, spinny-headed and loose-limbed, stomach somewhere in her knees.

He can feel it, too, she thinks; he must, because he tugs her a little out of the spray, just enough to where the floor feels a little cool again and the water hits the soles of her feet. Still got a mouthful of him.

Still his.

“Mine,” again, tilting her head back. She can’t see him, but she can feel him looking. Can feel his eye trace the drop of water that slides from her lip. The ones dripping from her hair and meeting on her hip. The ones pooled and collected in the bolts of her clavicle.

She nods, but she doesn’t have to. It doesn’t matter what she thinks. Sun fuckin’ rises and sets either way, and she just spins.

“It’s hot in here,” she hears him say. Hears the water go quieter, another one of those fuckin’ things shut off. “Drink.”

She doesn’t have time to wonder - maybe she wouldn’t anyway, because they’re just fucking wired together like a circuit, and his voice is the switch - because his cupped hand is at her chin, and her lips are open, and he’s got a shallow pool tipped back against her mouth.

She swallows. Gets just a little. Warm; got that weird mineral hotel taste, and she drags her tongue over his skin when she’s done. Tastes him like the chaser to a shot.

“Again,” he says. “Drink.”

Both hands. More water. Gentle and slow like he’s filling her up, pouring ininin, and half she gets, half she misses. Half drips down her chin. Her neck. Thumb pulling at her bottom lip, and she catches the tip of it with her teeth, just a skim when she adjusts.

Knees hurt a little like this, bony bits pressing at the tile. It feels good, she thinks. Makes her back arch out when he toes at one of them, soft with his own bare feet.

“More,” he tells her. “Drink.”

Two again, and they’re flatter. Shallower. She has to dip in and suck, little puppy with her fuckin’ saucer or something, tongue in the water puddling in the crease between his palms.

He lets them fall away slow. Lets her nip at the soft spot under his thumb. At the pulse in his wrist. Drags it all up the side til that thumb’s back in her mouth and she’s wrapped around it like a baby.

Hits some button in her, some needy thing that makes her wriggle against her own heat, and he presses harder and harder and she sucks harder and harder til she’s making some kind of desperate hum around him, some steady updown pitch that rings in her head. Holds the note.

“I know, little girl,” he tells her. “Look at that pretty mouth you got.” Pops out while she tries to hold on, and that sound echoes, too. Wraps around the hiss of the water and fills the room right up.

He pulls back for a second, and she doesn’t know what he’s doing, but it’s fast, and then he tells her again to drink. Folded hand against her chin.

Helaena drinks, and it’s not water. Takes her off guard for a second; she loses a little, sweetsharp over the rim of her lip, but he’s ready for it. Meets her there to catch some, lick it off her fucking chin and press it back behind her teeth.

Wine. Some kinda blush shit, probably with all that crap in the little fridge they know better than to touch. Gonna cost them a fuckin’ hundred dollars or something, she thinks, somewhere backbackback in the part of her brain that can still make thoughts, but it’s dim. Little line of static running through; she can’t bring herself to care, and it’s fine because there it is again. His voice.

“Drink.”

She opens, waits for his hand, but it doesn’t come.

Mouth this time. Bent low over hers, his fingers pressing at her jaw to make a little cup. Fucking wine and spit and water, some kinda nastywarm mess that makes her body pulse, air in the fucking lines or something, and when she swallows it she comes up panting.

More, she wants to say, but she swallowed all her goddamn words, too, she guesses, because nothing comes out. Just breath. Just-ran-and-ran-and-ran shit, but he knows what it means anyway. Gives her what she wants.

“Drink,” squeezed open again at her achy hinges, a vessel, empty for him.

Wine, mostly. More than before, poured into him then out again fast, spilling over their kiss and downdowndown. Drips on her naked belly. Down her fucking wrist when she reaches up for him, hand at his face and a finger at his scar; the tight little edge where it meets his cheek.

He doesn’t stop her. Kisses back, gentler than she wants but she takes it; thinks he’s gonna pull away so she keeps what she can, lips and tongue and water and wine. Stupid sopping t-shirt between them, squishing out like a sponge when they press together.

“Drink,” he says, and she can feel the word on her own lips. Little bit too much breath, she thinks; lost some of its command, but her body doesn’t care. It listens.

She opens, and it’s his palm again this time. Handful of wine for her to lick up like a good girl, and she does. Tongue in the creases and the grooves; in the spaces between his long fingers, and they slip in. One by one by one. They all taste like skin and fruit and acid, like him, and she goes slow. Lets him pour it out again, and again, and again for her til it’s running down his wrist, now; into the bend of his elbow, and her mouth follows it. Lipstongueteethlipstongueteeth, and she can feel his veins open wide with heat and blood and want, pushing back like a kiss.

Not enough to make her tipsy; it can’t be. She’s not swallowing much, but it feels like it anyway. Heavylight head and skin buzzing warm despite the cooling air - he must’ve killed the heat, she thinks; everything is thinning a little - and the room is swirling like paint. Spiraling in, and she can feel the colors despite the darkness; white bodies and silvery tile and the fading denim of his wet jeans and the startling blueviolet of that one good eye.

“Drink,” he says. Last time, and the bottle’s empty now. Water again, hands wide and curved deep like a bowl. Cooler, just a little, and he’s crouched low before her. Nearly face-to-face and so close she can feel the way his breathing fills the space.

She bows her head, and she takes what he gives her. Slowslowslow, and it feels like fucking church; chalice tipped against her lips, or like she’s kneeling at St Winefride’s well.

Ends with her face resting in his palms, the world spinning around her on a tilted axis while he tugs that fucking t-shirt off her with his teeth.

Takes a long time for her to blink. She just stays there. Eyelids down, knees down, hands and head and breathing down. Slow and steady and supplicant, with a shiver starting in her spine.

He waits, too. Holds her, quiet, til her lashes finally lift. Tiny thing, a test of a blink, but it’s enough.

“Look at me,” he says.

Water’s off. Has to be on a timer or something, because he hasn’t touched it again.

Helaena looks. Picks up her head a little, and his hand turns to hold her chin, and she tries to remember if he’s ever been this beautiful before. He must have, she thinks, he must have, but she can’t remember when. Can’t call it up.

On his damn knees, too, but up high over her, sopping wet and half-sparkling in the dimness, eyelashes dripping diamonds over that big old pupil. Fuckin’ jeans soaked through and unbuttoned, dick dangerous-hard and making a damn mess all on his stupid belly, her name right there on his chest.

“Hi, Daddy,” she says. “I want you,” and he only gets fuckin’ prettier when he smiles down at her.

“Come have me, then,” he says.

*****

She can see what he’s been up to when they come out of the bathroom. Room’s neat as a pin; bed all made up and shit, everything just tidied.

And there’s food.

Helaena laughs a little, ‘cause she’s fucking starving, just now starting to feel it again. Coming back to herself. Was trying to decide if she wanted to get fucked or fed first, thinking she should probably go with fucked since they’re already naked and fuckin’ wound up, so she has a giggle at the whole thing.

Scrounged it from downstairs, he says. Didn’t want to be gone too long, so he went to the little spot in the lobby again and got lucky. Crackers, fruit, cheese. Little fucking nibbly shit, but enough of it.

“Fuck or eat?” she grins, and he laughs back at her.

“It’s your birthday, little girl,” he says. “Fuckin’ sit down and do both.”

Helaena cocks an eyebrow at him, but he’s already tugging her towards the bed, so she goes. Watches him scoot back against the headboard and cross his legs, fuckin’ dick just along for the ride. Just happy to be here.

“C’mere,” he tells her. “Sit.”

She does. Head tilted soft at him, crawling into his lap like he’s gonna tell her a bedtime story. Cradling his silly face in one hand and his shoulder in the other, and she’s so goddamn wet from all this, he just goes. Nice and slow, but she doesn’t need to stop. Doesn’t need to adjust. Just settles, some kinda whimpery breath through her teeth, watching him open his mouth at the heat of her. The way she just takes him all at once, like she was fucking born to do it.

“Oh,” she says, right at the end, like she’s surprised. Like she didn’t fucking know how it feels to have him so goddamn deep. “Oh, shit,” and she feels the knock in her knees, little hello they like to do when he gets up into her belly.

“Mmmhm,” he says back. Little hum against her neck while she tucks her legs around him. “Good?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Mmkay. Just sit, Princess. Don’t move. Fuckin’ dinner time.”

She giggles again, rocks a little, and he shakes his head at her. Reaches over and sticks a goddamn grape in her mouth, and she chews.

“Gonna sit on your fuckin’ cock while you feed me? Not gonna be any fuckin’ room in there.”

He laughs at that one. Sticks another one against her teeth, and she opens for him. “Just fuckin’ tell me if you need me to pull out a little or whatever. Now fuckin’ shut up and eat.”

Helaena smiles. Bumps their noses. “Yes, Daddy,” she says. “Thank you.”

“There it is,” he tells her. “You know how to fuckin’ listen. See?”

“I can be so good for you, Daddy.” Lips against his, pushing that fuckin’ half-chewed mess right into his mouth.

He swallows. Gives her a kiss. “Mmmm. Show me.”

Chapter 73: Improv

Summary:

Got no fuckin’ plan after this. No plan for it, really. Just gonna roll up and see what happens, and it’s fuckin’ improv after that.

Notes:

someone order a Rhaenyra & Daemon hot mess sundae?

No?

Oh. Well. Here’s the dish, anyway 🤷🏼‍♀️😅🤣

“In my family, misery didn't just love company, it wanted hostages.”

- from Perv: A Love Story by Jerry Stahl

 

She fuckin’ falls asleep like that, somehow. Overcooked, overdone, fuckin’ out. Crazylong day with more exercise than she’s used to, and wild fuckin’ ghosty shit, and a belly full of dick and dinner and she’s just done. Feels herself getting dozy when she leans against his chest, and the last thing she remembers is the slow grind of her body against his, like she was gonna start something, but she doesn’t finish. Motion of it knocks her off like a switch.

Goddamn dreams wake her, though. More nutty garbage. This one’s got a playground full of little kids, all dressed funny - nightclothes, or nothing, or Halloween costumes? - and they’re all sick or something, coughing their baby brains out until the goddamn ground starts to shake with it, and Helaena startles herself into consciousness trying to grab something.

Eyes fly right open, heart going and going and going, but underneath her, it’s just fuckin’ Eyeball, moving in his sleep. Twitchy legs or whatever, rocking her side to side, and he’s blinking at her a little, too, sleepy, ‘cause her bullshit woke him up. Got a little scratch right there between his shoulder and his collarbone, where her palm was laying flat. She can see it blooming next to her fingers in the amber nightlight glow.

Must’ve softened up and slipped out at some point, but he’s fucking hard again, shit all at attention against her belly. Still got one arm around her, and he starts groping with it while he comes back to life.

“You okay?” Scratchy-slow voice, warm night breath on her skin.

“Mmhm,” she says, shifting a little. Trying to get comfortable, stretch somehow at the same time. “Dreams again. More dumbass shit.”

“Bad?” he asks.

Helaena shakes her head, forehead right to his. “Just weird. Fuckin’ real as hell.”

“What was it?”

She shifts again, trying to loosen up one of her fuckin’ hips that doesn’t like to sleep like that. “Kids,” she tells him. “Bunch of fuckin’ hacking coughing fuckin’ kids. All fuckin’… I dunno. Weird shit. Just weird.”

He pauses for a second, like maybe he wants to say something, but he doesn’t. Just runs a big old warm hand up her side, thumb across her ribcage like he’s strumming a guitar. “Mmkay. Still early. Go back to sleep. You need anything?”

“Mmhm.” She smiles down into his cheek. “Didn’t finish.”

She feels another pause in his body. Feels his smile - little thing, all mischief; she can tell just from how it moves his stupid face against her - start to play with his mouth. “You didn’t,” he says.

Helaena snorts. “What the fuck, Eyeball.”

Smile gets wider. “Fuckin’ tapped out on me,” he mutters, mouthing at her jaw with his grin. “Can’t do that shit when you got me up to my fuckin’ balls, Lane. Am I that fuckin’ boring?”

She’s giggling now, got his tickly stubble against her cheek and tickly breath against her neck, and he’s laughing at her. Asshole. “You fuckin’ put me out,” she tells him. “Warm water and fuckin’ feeding me and shit, what do you want?”

“All good,” he says. “I got mine. You don’t fuckin’ feel that shit? ‘Cause I do.”

She does, actually. Sticky little mess between them. “Thought it was from before.”

“Nah.” Motherfucker laughs again, and Helaena rolls her eyes.

“Didn’t even fuckin’ wake me up. What the hell.”

“Nope. I was careful.”

She snorts at him again, squirming a little now. Leaning into his fuckin’ hardass dick. “Using me in my sleep like some kinda fuckin’…”

“Like what?” he mutters. “Like you fuckin’ belong to me? Like I can come in you til it comes out your fucking ears any time I fuckin’ want? Like that?”

Teeth eat that smile right off her damn lips, and his tongue pushes into her mouth, and his words press that goddamn gas pedal all the way to the floor. “Mmhm. Shit.”

“That’s what I fuckin’ thought,” he says. It’s playful, but it’s got something nasty in it that makes her shoulders tug together like someone’s yanking on her fucking leash.

“Again,” she tells him.

“You want it again?”

“You got any left for me?” Challenge in her voice that’s gonna get her roughed up, she thinks, and she’s right. He gives it to her; grabs her by her goddamn neck and makes it vibrate against his palm, growlymoany thing that ends in a gasp.

“Birthday’s over, little girl. I’ll put a goddamn gallon down your fuckin’ throat if you don’t watch your mouth,” he says, and that fuckin’ sound keeps coming. Turns into a purr. “Get on my dick before I change my mind.”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“What?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“Louder.”

“Yes, Daddy,” pitch up and volume up and she’s fucking wet. Wet with whatever he fuckin’ left in her already; wet with her own mess, wet with the sweat that’s stuck their skin together in their sleep. Not quite enough, though; the stretch is a lot. Makes her breathe through her teeth and pause.

He hears it. Feels her stop and wriggle a little. “Louder,” he tells her again, right in her ear now. “Wake this fuckin’ place up.”

“Yes, Daddy,” she says, fuckin’ gaspwigglegasping at him, hand tight on him, that heavy pulse running through her grip. Not loud enough. Not what he wants.

“Louder, slut.”

“Fuck.” That does it. Magic. Whole body cracks in half, feels like; right to the hotwet center of her, and her spine shakes and shudders and she sits deeper and he’s fuckin’ there. “Oh, fuck.”

Still going, though. Once this fucker starts running at his filthy mouth, he can’t fuckin’ stop himself. “Even a good slut in your sleep. Had you all kinds of twisted up. Thought your shit was gonna fuckin’ choke me out, you had me so tight.”

Gets her going, too. Fuckin’ likes this game. “Uh-huh,” she says. Already fuckin’ breathless. Already all in her chest. “Fuckin’ pussy loves you.”

It does, too. Fucking screaming for him already, some spot way up in there that makes her want to dig that other fucking eye out, it’s so good. This angle has him right in it, and she just wants to spit.

“Does it?” he says. Still got that hand at her throat, got her pulled right in so their foreheads keep smacking, and it’s rattling her goddamn brain. “Or you’re just a fucking slut, come all over anything that fucks you?”

“No,” she says, whines against that fucking hand, her own fingers fucking grabbing his dumb face now. Hard. Hard so her fingertips are white and he’s gonna have scratches there, too, she thinks. Gonna look like he got into a bar fight with some bitch, probably, but she can’t let go. Afraid she’ll just fall right apart.

“No?”

“No, Daddy. Just you.”

“Just me?” He’s doing the fucking work, got her up on her knees and leaning, and she’s just holding the fuck on, trying to sit herself back to make him hit her right, slack-jawed and vibrating like some goddamn pulled-tight string.

“Yes Daddy yes Daddy yes yes yes,” right in time with that dirty fucking slap, skinonskinonwetoncome, and her eyes keep trying to close, trying to hold something back, but she likes him like this. Squished up in her goddamn fingers, looking like she owns him.

“You got that nice fuckin’ pussy.”

“Uh-huh.” Close enough to bite him, so she fucking does. Teeth in his bottom lip, so fuckin’ soft she half expects it to just burst like one of those fucking grapes, run juicy and bloody and delicious in her mouth. Almost disappointed when it doesn’t. “It fuckin’ loves you.”

“You just like some good dick.”

She grins at him, fuckin’ wicked mouth to wicked mouth. Tells him yep.

Motherfucker drops those hips fast. So fast it sets her off balance, but she’s still got a good hold on him, so she stays put when he squeezes her fucking throat and says, “Then fuckin’ bounce on it, ho. I wanna watch you lose your shit.”

She does. Gives him what he likes at first, fuckin’ halfway out, halfway in, updownupdownupdown like that, small as she can make herself so it’s fucking work to get back in and the grip is crazy. Makes him swallow and breathe and swallow and open his mouth up pretty for her, tell her shit Laney shit Laney shit and she thinks maybe he’s gonna lose it first, she keeps going on like that.

But goddamn, she gets sore quick, her legs and her ass and all that, and her own body’s hollering for the good stuff - that fucking sexy friction with his bones, that pressure inside that makes her want to strip her own goddamn skin off - so she just sits all the way down. Makes herself fuckin’ moan like some phone sex chick when she gets him where she likes him, it’s so goddamn good, and then she just does that slippery circley rocking thing that gets her everywhere.

It’s a nice show; head back and everything, and he even scoots himself flatter for her, gives her room, watches her like he’s never seen this shit before in his life.

Gets fucking chaotic fast, though, because she can’t decide how she wants to get there; whether she wants it from inside or out; all that pleasure all that yes all that good yanking her around all over. Can’t see shit really; fucking hair loose and dried in a mess because she didn’t do anything with it when they got out of the shower, and it’s sweaty and in her eyes now, stuck in the fingers of one hand she’s still grabbing at his face with, and she’s just a fucking tornado or something. Disorganized and loud and when she can see him, he’s smiling. Looks like he’s fuckin’ got it bad for her, obsessed with her fucking disaster or something. Makes her hot all over.

“Help me, Daddy,” and he fuckin’ knows what to do. Gonna fuckin’ give it to her every which way. Takes his hand and tucks it between them, bent knuckles up, easy little updown bicycle shit so she can do the rest. Lean right, fuckin’ push that dumb piece of hair off his forehead so she can see how much he loves her, and it’s easy. Easyeasy now ‘cause he’s got her, always got her, she can just fucking let it go.

And he tells her that, too. Got her all fuckin’ figured out, lets her have a come on baby show me; puts his finger on her trigger, she doesn’t have to fucking think or choose or decide because it’s fucking everything everywhere all at once. Has her screaming like she means it, fuckin’ whole body thing, even the soles of her goddamn feet curl up, fucking teeth chatter in her mouth and she’s a goddamn camera in burst shot, no pause, no breath, just bangbangbangbang around him.

Fucking eyes closed, scrunched right up so they don’t fall out of her fucking head with the force of it, but she feels him. She fucking drags him right along with her, it’s so much; the way she tightens up like that, just pulls it all out of him and she feels everything. Everything, all those muscles go hard and his back go up and his stupid balls tug up and she doesn’t know how he has anything left to give her, but his heartbeat feels like it’s in her chest he’s so deep, and there’s more mess between them when it’s over.

Both of them panting like a couple of dogs going at it in July or something, but he’s fucking laughing, too. Laughing, fucking can’t catch his damn breath, and it takes Helaena a second to figure it out.

“Fuckin’ all over me, Lane,” he says, “you’re amazing,” eye fuckin’ lit up like Christmas, and then she starts fucking laughing, too.

So lost, gone, fuckin’ somewhere else that she didn’t even realize it. Goddamn squirt party up in here. “You’re getting good at that shit,” she manages. Fucking wheezes a little. Shit is everywhere. Another shower or whatever.

“Nah,” still laughing. “All you, fuckin’ gnarly bitch. You are outta control.”

She giggles. “Mmhm. You love it.”

“I do. Get me a fuckin’ straw,” he says, fuckin’ looking at her like he’s about to get detention and he knows it.

She smacks him for that one, but she laughs so hard she snorts, and it gets his dumb ass going again. “Shut up, asshole.”

“Go,” he says. Waves her off with his hand. “Go take a fucking piss, if you got any left. Gotta clean this fucking mess up and go back to bed. Leaving in the morning.”

“Okay, Daddy,” she says, still grinning wide. Pauses for a second before she pouts a little. Tells him, “Daddy, I’m hungry.”

*****

Helaena props her feet up on Granny’s dusty dash, elbow-deep in a bag of hot chips. Not usually a big fan of spicy, but that’s what she wanted, so that’s what she’s got. Has to keep licking the crud off her fingers and her cigarette still tastes like it, but whatever.

Eyeball’s got all the fuckin’ windows open, though; doesn’t even like the smell of that shit. Makes his nose itch, he says. Makes his mouth taste sour, which makes his stomach sour, and on and on.

Like he’s the one who’s knocked up or something.

It’s fine, though. Got that ocean-y breeze blowing through, and it’s another pretty day. Dry and clear, big blue sky and clouds that look like some little kid painted them up there. Fat with fluffy edges, all that stuff.

Been dawdling all morning long. Finding reasons not to drive the last ninety fucking minutes of this weirdo road-trip they’ve been on, but now they’re re-showered and fed (Helaena twice already), and Granny’s had a bath, too. Had her tank filled up and her hood popped for an inspection she passed just fine.

They’ve rearranged their shit and tossed their garbage and even taken a little stroll through the prettiest neighborhood they’ll probably never see again.

Got a new phone.

She’s being a brat about the old one, though. Keeps telling him she just wants to watch that fuckin’ video one more time, Daddy; please?, so the stupid thing is shut off and buried in her bag somewhere. She could probably play it in her head now, honestly. She really did watch it a bunch of times; doesn’t know why she’s so attached except maybe she’s still fucking traumatized from tossing their other stuff. All those pictures and shit.

Keeps thinking about Waffle. Dumb, pretty, drunk Waffle, flipping her the goddamn bird when he still had enough fuckin’ fingers on both hands.

Rhae doesn’t look like him. Not from the picture, anyway. Straight Daddy, except for the mouth. Must’ve gotten that from her mama.

“You Google them?” Helaena asks. Finally on their way. Gonna show up at fuckin’ like three-something in the afternoon on a Monday. Probably nobody even home, she thinks, if it’s even still the right address. Probably got jobs and shit, house like that.

“Nah.”

She’s surprised, but just a little. Normally likes to be prepared, but nothing’s been normal for a goddamn month or whatever. Been raw dogging this whole thing, off the fucking rails, so why stop now?

He’s nervous, though. Finger-drumming the wheel and chainsmoking out the window, not even sharing like he usually does.

Got no fuckin’ plan after this. No plan for it, really. Just gonna roll up and see what happens, and it’s fuckin’ improv after that. Hasn’t felt super real til now; been just meandering along making trouble for themselves and everyfuckingone else, apparently; some vague idea of family rattling around like a loose screw in the back of their stupid heads.

“Well they definitely got fuckin’ money,” Helaena says, wiping her nasty fingers on her leggings. Regrets it right away, but at least they’re black. Maybe she should’ve fancied up a little. “Looks just like we fuckin’ thought here, doesn’t it?”

Coming off some big, long bridge - with some big, long toll, too; no way around it here - and it’s a different world already. Marina with boat boats right there; not those dinky things with the fuckin’ pull-chain lawnmower motors. Big boats. Big building there, too; cleanwashed deck jutting out over the water and grounds with shrubs that all look the same, like some dude gets paid to count the needles.

“That’s some shit,” Eyeball says through his teeth, easing Granny down so she doesn’t stall on them here and really get the party started.

Road turns windy real quick, just like on the map, and he takes it slow. Super slow. Probably too slow - he’s the one fuckin’ stalling out, she thinks - since there’s no traffic at all here. Doesn’t look touristy, really. None of those vibes.

More trees than she imagined. More woods and more rocks and everything is kinda dark once you get inland a bit. Even that bright blue sky is tempered through the canopy; makes everything gloomy or something.

Not a lot of houses, and the ones that are there are all big and empty-looking. Soulless things. Look like no one’s ever fucked in them or built a fire outside or thrown shit at the wall when they got pissed. Stepford shit.

They go up. And up. And up. Not quite to ear-popping height, but not that far off, and neither of them likes it much. Granny doesn’t, either. Chokes and sputters and complains, and the only talking is Eyeball trying to straighten her out. Cajole her into just a little farther, babygirl; I promise, rubbing at the wheel like he’s fuckin’ rubbing one out.

Climb takes longer than they expected, and it feels like the longest part of this whole damn thing, though Helaena knows it’s not. She rolls up the fucking empty bag of chips and stuffs it in the door pocket, and she tries to light herself a cigarette and realizes she’s fuckin’ shaking.

Tries once, twice, and before she can fail a third time, Eyeball reaches over quick to get it for her. Reluctant to take his hand off the damn gearshift, but he makes it happen. His hands aren’t shaking. Steady motherfucker.

She’s barely three drags in when they crest the fucking hill, and there it is. There it’s gotta be: the last - only - fucking house up here before the road snakes back down. Top of the fucking world.

Looks different from the others. Bigger. Three or four floors maybe, with an attic. She can tell by the windows. Garage, too.

Got some kinda stonework - fake, Helaena thinks; stupid veneers - along the bottom, and the siding is dark. Super gray, or black maybe; not like those faux-cheery coastal colors on the other shit. Iron fence and a gate at the bottom of the longish, narrow driveway. Open. Somebody’s home.

They swing by first, not too slow so they don’t look like they’re fucking casing the place or something in their ugly old car, and sit in a pull-off a quarter-mile down or so to talk.

Decide at the end to park at the bottom and walk up. Eyeball doesn’t like the situation; too narrow, too hard to turn around, not great to back out of quick if they have to. Especially not with Granny how she is. Fuckin’ workout they just gave her.

Fucker’s always got an exit plan.

And a knife. Two knives. Boot and pocket, like always. And a gun in his waist.

Helaena tries to talk him out of that - says if someone sees it they’re liable to fuckin’ shoot first - but he says it’s fine. Fits nice under that hoodie in the back; no one’s seen it yet, and he’s not about to knock on some stranger’s door with his fuckin’ pregnant old lady unarmed. Especially not here.

Helaena picks up her eyebrow at that one, but she knows how useful it’s gonna be to argue, so she doesn’t. Not really in any shape for it, anyway; got her own heart going like a jackhammer. Sweatycold pits and everything.

She tries to tell herself it’s probably not even the right place, and if it is it’s her fucking sister. Her uncle. Whatever shit they had with Mama’s not her shit. Not her brother’s shit.

Helps a little.

Not enough, but they fuckin’ do it anyway. Pull back out and turn around, and Eyeball brings Granny to a smooth stop right at the bottom, near that wide open gate.

“What do we say?” she asks him as they step out.

Air’s funny here. Thin and quiet. Not even any birds or anything. Fucking strange.

“Hey, Sis,” he says, shrugging a little. “What’s for fuckin’ dinner?”

Trying to be cavalier or whatever, but his goddamn hand is sweaty, too, when she grabs it. He holds on, even though she thinks he probably has the same thought she does: that it’s weird. That they should back the fuck off of each other here.

They don’t, though. They don’t.

Just walk up that driveway, slowish. Helaena’s knees a little wobbly. Head a little fuzzy.

She does it, though. She makes it.

His hand helps.

And when they get to the door - big, reinforced thing with tiny stained glass panels way up high and a peephole in the center - it swings open before they even get to knock.

They’re in the right place. Bitch looks just like them. Cut straight outta Daddy’s ass.

Gaggle of little kids with her, too. Pale and funny-eyed as the rest. One holding on to her free hand, smaller one perched on her pushed-out Mama hip, and the last tucked up right inside of her, swimming in that cute little round belly sticking out front.

Normal-looking, Helaena thinks. Healthy. They seem fine.

Seems like a long time they stand there staring at each other, but it’s gotta be just a couple seconds before she speaks.

“Aemond,” Rhae says, finally, and she doesn’t even look surprised. Smile’s tight, though, but it’s polite enough, and it’s there. Counts for something. “And Helaena with you.” Helaena watches her clock their clutched-up hands, but to her credit, that stern, pretty face of hers stays neutral. “I was wondering when you might show up.”

Chapter 74: Minefield

Summary:

oh, family

“A new world, material without being real, where poor ghosts, breathing dreams like air, drifted fortuitously about.”

- from The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald

 

Rhae might not be surprised, but they fucking are.

Helaena feels her brother’s hand go loose for a second, the way her own damn mouth does; just a little closed-lipped jaw-drop while she tries to make some sense of it.

Eyeball tilts his head a little, and she can feel the narrowing of his eye. The turning gears in his head. The foot-to-foot shift he does, body waiting to see what he’s gonna do from here.

“Come in,” Rhae says before they can puzzle any of this shit out. “Please. And don’t worry about your shoes. Just watch your step; we’ve been busy today.”

Something wry in her voice. Wry and tired, Helaena thinks as Eyeball lets go of her hand. Moves his to the dip of her back; a little okay, a little I got you as he guides her through the door.

They have to step over a bunch of shit in the big old mudroom-foyer thing - scattered blocks and a topless sippy cup and a big red plushie dragon spilling stuffing from its wing joint - but the place is fucking spotless otherwise. Even the damn baseboards are shiny. Hired-help kinda clean, Helaena thinks; especially with a houseful of kids.

Two boys, both with some toned-down version of her own curls, or maybe it’s a toned-up version of Rhae’s; she’s got Daddy’s hair, too: vague kinda waves that probably kink up like crazy in the humidity. Older boy is kindergarten age, or close. Little one’s still a toddler. Diapers and everything; no more than two, probably not even. Both quiet. Solemn-eyed. Stick close to their mama and only peer through their babyfine lashes at their visitors, and the tiny one sucks his thumb.

Cute, Helaena thinks. Makes-her-chest-hurt kinda cute, and she hooks a finger through Eyeball’s fuckin’ belt loop and squeezes tight to try to ease it. He gives her a squeeze back, either side of her spine, and the muscles there just sigh.

“Can I get you something to drink?” Rhae asks them. “Coffee? Wine?” She laughs a little at herself; says, “It’s fourish, right? It could go either way at this point,” then adds water to her list, like it’s an afterthought.

Helaena smiles a little. Doesn’t hate this chick yet. “I actually… yeah, I could drink coffee,” she says. “Thank you.”

Expects Eyeball to tell her nah, but he gives a cautious coffee, thanks too as they step into the kitchen and Rhae adjusts that baby on her hip. Older one’s scurried off somewhere; TV going in another room, and Helaena assumes that’s where he went.

Pot’s on already. She can smell it. Whole place smells like coffee. Coffee, some kinda lemony cleaning product maybe, and smoke underneath.

She sees why when they sit at the table - solid wood, big sturdy thing; the fucking high chair matches - and she spots the ash tray on the windowsill next to them, dead end of a fat cigar just hanging out inside. She smiles a little. Thinks about asking if she can fucking light up - she’s nervous as hell still; that’ll help - but decides against it. Fucking baby and bump and all.

Rhae makes herself a cup, too - they all fuckin’ drink it black - and sits with them, kid on her knee. “This is Viserys, by the way,” she says, giving him a little bounce. He doesn’t smile, just plays with the napkin in front of him. Cloth. Fancy as fuck up in here.

“After Dad, or you just liked it?” Eyeball says, taking a sip of his coffee and picking up a brow.

Rhae actually chuckles a little at his dumbass joke, but she looks confused for a second. Just a beat, but Helaena catches it, and Eyeball does, too. She can see his wheels turning again. Trying to do the math.

“Just thought it was unique,” Rhae jokes back. “You are related to me, then,” she says. “Thank goodness. Daemon would have my head if I accidentally invited the Jehovah’s Witnesses in again.”

Helaena laughs at that one, and even Eyeball gives a half-smile. “What gave it away?” he asks. Says it like he’s fucking around again, but he’s curious. So is Helaena. She was the same age as this kid last time Rhae saw her, and Eyeball was probably as old as the one in her belly.

“Forgive me, but we’re not an inconspicuous bunch,” Rhae says. She pauses to catch that napkin before it flutters to her sparkly floor and sip her own coffee, and then shrugs a little at Eyeball. “Honestly, I opened that door and thought for a second that I was looking at my husband twenty years ago. You even stand like him.” She sips again. Longer one this time. “Isn’t it funny how that works out? You’ve never laid eyes on one another, but…” Another shrug. “Genes are something. My oldest is going to look just like the two of you, I think.”

Helaena watches as her eyes move back and forth between them. Thoughtful sort of thing, not that shrewd sharpness like fuckin’ Eyeball. Like Alys. “You’re more your mother,” she tells Helaena after a minute, then her gaze drifts down to her neck. “That’s very unusual,” she tells her. The spider she’s wearing. “Pretty. What kind of stone is that?”

Helaena fingers it a little. “Sea glass, actually. We found it on the beach.”

“Color is perfect,” she says. “Uncanny, really.”

“Right? That’s why I picked it up.”

“You have a good eye. Did you design it?”

Helaena shakes her head and nods at Eyeball. “He did.”

Rhae raises her eyebrows. “Both of you, then.” She raises her mug to her lips, then scowls at it. Empty. She plunks it back down, running that napkin over the wet ring, and says, “Sorry; I always notice those things. I do design work. Anyway. Forgive me my forwardness, but…”

“What are we doing here?” Eyeball looks at her over the rim of his own cup, and she does that tired-smiling thing again.

“I was going to say it differently, but…”

“You can be straight,” he says. Knee’s bouncing under the table, just a little vibration against her foot - Helaena’s got one leg stretched to him, habit - but his voice is cool as anything. Unbothered.

Rhae looks at him a little sidelong, a sizing-up sort of thing, and despite herself, Helaena smiles. This look she fucking recognizes. This one is one-hundred-and-fifty-percent pure, unadulterated Eyeball. Twin shit. “Okay, then,” Rhae says. “What are you doing here?”

And then that motherfucker shrugs. Makes a big fuckin’ thing, oh just fucking ask me, and he doesn’t even have an answer. Not even the one they decided on, just forever coming with the fucking attitude.

Helaena rolls her eyes. “It’s not… we don’t want anything,” she says. “We got some family shit back home. Had some time off, and…”

Rhae waits for her to finish, bouncing that serious little baby on her lap, but Helaena just lets herself trail off. Can’t remember exactly how she wants to say it now, feels stupid all the sudden, and Eyeball’s no help.

“ … Wanted to see if we were any better?”

Helaena laughs a little, dry thing mostly through her nose, and shrugs. “I guess so. Kinda.”

“I’d hate for you to have traveled all this way for a disappointment,” Rhae says, and that one gives Eyeball a grin. Helaena, too. Rhae pauses for a second, looking back and forth at them again. “You two are close. That’s good. I worried you’d all wind up at each other’s throats, given you grew up… strangely, I’d imagine.”

Helaena bites down on her mouth. Fuckin’ hard, too; urge to say it is so strong for a second. That oh we’re fuckin’ close is right there. Right there, maybe more than it’s ever been, but she swallows it. Just nods.

Rhae sighs. “Listen. Daemon is at work, but I think it would be best if he joined us for… the conversation we’re meant to have here. Are you staying nearby?”

Helaena shifts a little in her seat. “We stayed last night in Savannah, but…”

“Haven’t figured out tonight yet,” Eyeball finishes.

“Beautiful city,” Rhae tells them. “First time?”

They both nod a little, and she smiles at them. Makes like she’s going to sip her damn coffee again but remembers it’s gone and pulls a face.

“I hope you were able to spend some time. It’s worth a good look. But I’m not going to send you all the way back there. Here,” she says, setting Viserys onto the floor. He looks at her for a second, big-eyed, before he just plops down in place. She stands up and opens one of the drawers behind them in the row of cabinets. Shuffles through some shit. “This is just over the bridge. Hang a right, mile or so down. You can’t miss it. Just give them Daemon’s name at the front desk. They know him there. They’ll have a room for you.” She sees the hesitation in Eyeball’s reach. In his fingers when he closes them around the card she’s handing him. “On us, of course.”

“Thank you,” Helaena starts. “You don’t have to…”

“I insist. Really, it’s no trouble at all. I’d like to have you back for dinner later, if that’s possible?”

“Sure,” she says.

“Normally we’d take you out somewhere decent, but unfortunately…” she pauses for a second, just a beat and a half or whatever, but Helaena can see her choosing her words. “We’ve had to let Nettie - our nanny - go just recently, and these two are heathens,” she smiles, leaning to ruffle the kid’s hair. “Heathens with a bedtime. So if you don’t mind, I’ll order something for Daemon to pick up. You don’t want me to cook, trust me.”

“Of course, yeah, thank you; you really don’t…” Helaena starts.

Rhae waves a hand at her. “Enough of that. What do you eat? And if you tell me you’re a couple of gluten-free-Keto-or-something kids, I’m going to make you order.”

“Anything is fine, thanks,” Eyeball says, but Helaena rolls her eyes again.

“Anything is fine, just don’t expect him to eat. He’s got like six hundred ulcers he won’t fix and he survives on coffee and toast.”

“And spite,” he says. “You forgot spite.”

Being a brat, but Rhae laughs a little; thin sound through a drawn-thin mouth. “I live with one of those types. I’m used to it. We’ll sort it out. Is eight all right? Not too late, right? You’re young.”

“It’s fine. Great. Yeah, thank you.” Helaena’s fidgeting with her empty mug, pulling some Eyeball bullshit, and he just reaches out a little. Taps her wrist to quiet it before she sends the fuckin’ thing flying.

“Perfect. You go get settled, relax for a moment, and we’ll see you at eight then?”

“Thank you,” Helaena says, and Eyeball nods. Adds his yeah, thanks as he stands up, and he clears the fucking table like a good boy. Scoops all three of those mugs up with his bad hand - looking better, Helaena thinks; not as angry, but still pretty clearly bruised - and carries them to the sink.

Fucking dishwasher in here somewhere, Helaena’s sure, but all that shit’s hidden behind the wooden facing of the cabinets and she wouldn’t wanna guess where.

Rhae lets him do it, thanks him, and Helaena smiles. They can be fuckin’ normal when they have to be, she thinks. Put on a good show.

Big sister walks them to the door, back over that minefield of kid-clutter, which has gotten worse since they last saw it. Older one is back out here, and he’s got a tower taller than he is, made outta some plastic pipe-looking shit. Right in the damn doorway. Makes Helaena smile.

“Aegon,” Rhae sighs at him, and both of them do a fucking double-take. She doesn’t explain, though, just slides the tower over carefully, doesn’t fucking wreck it, and runs her fingers through his hair.

He’s not a smiler, either, Helaena thinks. Sober as his baby brother. Rhae’s right; he’s a fuckin’ mini-Eyeball; sharp-faced two-eyed menace. She can tell. She smiles at him, something in her going pudding-soft, and the two of them thank Rhae again and say they’ll see her later.

“Call if you have trouble at the hotel,” she tells them, scribbling her number on the back of that card before they go, “but you won’t. And feel free to park in the driveway next time. Sometimes people take that turn too quickly up here; you’re asking for it doing that.” She arches a neatly-groomed brow and waves a little, some kinda finger-flutter maneuver that doesn’t really suit her.

Rich bitch thing, and Helaena supposes she is, just like Eyeball said, but not all the way through. Just those outer layers. Core of that onion smells just like Mama’s house. Fuckin’ cigarettes and sweat and cherry Kool Aid and rot.

*****

“What the fuuuuuck,” Helaena says. Eyes fuckin’ bugging out of her head. “This can’t be right.”

“Key works,” he shrugs, “it’s right,” but that eye of his is wide, too. Taking it all in. He blows a little breath out, moving his dumb hair out of his face, and sticks his foot in to hold the door while they stare.

“The fuck you think he does?” she asks. “Just fuckin’… having this shit on standby?”

“Dunno,” he says, “but I tell you what. You don’t make this kinda fuckin’ money being an upright citizen.”

Helaena laughs a little, but he’s probably right, she thinks. Not in their fuckin’ experience, anyway.

Eyeball motions for her to go into the room, and it just gets wilder when she does. Place is straight bananas. Bigger than that apartment they abandoned back home; two or three times the size, really. Fuckin’ big ass curvy couch with matching big ass curvy chairs. Glass coffee table with real-ass flowers on it - dahlias and snapdragons and some kinda filler shit - looks like. Big giant bed, big giant glass doors leading to a big giant balcony, and in the bathroom there’s a fuckin’ big giant tub. Kind with seats and jets and what the fuck.

Place is one of those big old chains; never guess they’d have anything like this hiding upstairs, but here it is. Looking out over that wide, pretty ocean, too.

“Holy shit,” Helaena says, clicking the latch on the doors and stepping outside. Could fuckin’ rent out the balcony space by itself, she thinks; it’s got a roof and goddamn furniture of its own. Discount for having to piss over the railing, but still probably worth more than their old closet.

Eyeball tosses all their shit on the fucking kitchen table - kitchen table, four chairs - and comes up behind her. Whistles low in her ear and leans down over her, sagging his weight, chin sharp on her head.

“Dude is on some shit,” he says. “This is fuckin’ mafia.”

She laughs. “You think? He’s not just some fuckin’ CEO or like… Wall Street guy?”

“Same thing,” he shrugs, and Helaena smiles.

“I guess,” she tells him. “Either way, what the fuck. Don’t fuckin’ touch anything.”

“Oh, I’m touching everything,” he says, hot little laugh against her ear. “I’m touching the bed. I’m touching the table. I’m touching the fuckin’ bathroom counter, and this fuckin’ railing, and that ugly fucking rug in front of that fake fucking fireplace. I’m gonna touch the walls, and I’m gonna touch…”

“Shut up,” she snickers. “We don’t fuckin’ belong here. We can’t afford to fuckin’ fix shit.”

She feels him go still behind her; feels that playful sway in his body skidstop, hip rocking into her and staying put. Voice is tight as a string when he uses it again. Sounds like he’s got a cigarette tucked between his teeth. “We don’t fuckin’ belong anywhere, Laney,” he says. “I belong in a fuckin’ box. Underground or over. You belong here. Every fuckin’ day of your life. Should have shit like this all the time.”

Got one hand on her shoulder now, working her ear between his fingers, just screwing around with it. Rest of him quiet.

Helaena closes her eyes. Sighs into it; touch feels nice. Nicer than his fucking words, anyway. “You’re an idiot,” she says. “Only box you belong in is mine,” and it doesn’t make him laugh, but he wraps that other arm around her snug.

“Fuckin’ princess,” he says. “This should always be your fucking gig.”

She shakes her head back at him. Gives him a face full of hair. “Hire me out,” she says, sly. “Fuckin’ high end pay-and-play shit, right? Find the right douchebag, could have us both set up nice. Just stay right here til I get old and saggy.”

She can feel his scowl. Makes her knees wobble.

“Not that shit,” he tells her, leaning hard now. Pressing her up against the railing. Narrow little stacked bars, some kinda safety glass around them on the outside, but when he bends her a little, her belly swoops, roller coaster-style. Doesn’t love heights. When she looks down, shit tunnels on her, and she pricks up into goosebumps. “I said princess, not fuckin’ whore. You trying to leave a fuckin’ trail of dead motherfuckers? ‘Cause that’s how you get a trail of dead motherfuckers.”

She grins. Rolls her whole body back. “Not for a million fuckin’ dollars?”

He pauses, all up against her, bent low. Words right to the back of her ear. “One time, one million?”

“Mmhm.”

She feels him smile. “Cash up front; bullet in the back. Never see it coming.” Waits a beat. “Never see you coming, either,” and Helaena laughs and laughs and laughs.

“Just you, baby,” she says after a minute. “Only one who sees that is you.”

“You know what I’d do with a million fuckin’ dollars?”

“What?”

“Anything you wanted. Everything you wanted.”

“I don’t want anything,” Helaena says. “Not one goddamn thing.”

Fuckin’ lie, she supposes. Plenty she wants, but she can’t buy any of it. Not with a million dollars. Not with a billion. Not with a trillion, so she just stretches her neck out pretty for his mouth. Warm spit on her skin, sunset in her hair, and she thinks of something.

“Actually,” she says, “I do. I want something. Won’t cost a fucking million, either.”

“What?” Lips on her like he knows. Probably does. She’s easy sometimes.

“Fuckin’ slowest, nastiest makeout shit you’ve ever seen,” she tells him. “Fuckin’ lick my stomach from the inside,” and he laughs.

“You’re gross, let’s do it.”

“And a nap.” She’s suddenly exhausted. Exhausted, like she could pass out right here, standing outside in this cool evening air. Hits her all at once.

“Okay, little girl,” he says, and he picks her ass right up. “Fuckin’ kiss you lights-out,” and she lets him.

Chapter 75: Skeleton

Summary:

“We may as well just address the elephant in the room,” Daemon says, like he thinks they have any fucking idea what he’s talking about. “Get it out of the way so we can relax, shall we? I mean. That’s why the two of you are here, isn’t it?”

Notes:

tiny bit shorter than normal; I’m having some… structural problems, per usual. But. Here it is.

ps being fingered to tears - just pregnant chick things 😆

i got bones beneath my skin, mister
there’s a skeleton in every man’s house
beneath the dust and love and sweat that hang on everybody
is a dead man trying to get out

- from perfect blue buildings by counting crows

 

They suck face until she can’t stand it; starts whimpering, can’t kiss back she’s such a mess, trying to rut against his stupid thigh like a dumb sleepy puppy. All he’s gotta do is slip his fingers in. Two, slow as his tongue in her mouth, in deep and a crazymaking drag back out, and he does it like ten times. Nothing anywhere else, and by the end of it she’s got tears. Literal tears. Spreading for him and searching and whining and begging with everything but her words, lips too tied up to make them.

“Shhhh,” he says. Fingers still. “Go to sleep, little girl,” and she all but fucking wails against his teeth. Wet cheeks and everything, and he just nipsnipsnips at her bottom lip. “I thought you were tired.”

She whines again. Squeezes him so tight she’s sure his fuckin’ knuckles crack and sucks on his damn tongue like a pacifier.

“Greedy thing,” he says, at that slow-stroke shit again. “You always need more and more and more. Never happy. Fuckin’ bigass bed, sheets cost more than a mortgage, and here you are, won’t even sleep. Just wanna wreck them.”

Helaena just squirms. Digs her fucking fingers into his neck, eyes shut and leaking everywhere.

“Don’t cry,” he says. Noses at her drippy fucking face, like he’s the puppy now. Licks at it. “It doesn’t hurt, does it?”

Got his other hand all in her hair, holding it out of her way, and she just turns into it while he talks. Tongue up his wrist, shit tangling and sticking, because she doesn’t know what the fuck to do, she’s so twisted up. Bites down on another achy moan that fills her mouth, and she can feel his stupid fucking hard-on pressing through his clothes.

“You’re a fuckin’ disaster,” he says. “Overtired. Look at you. Go to sleep,” on his fucking bullshit. Smile under it all, and she can’t decide whether she fucking hates him or loves him. Whether she wants to fuck him or stab him.

Just kisses him again instead, arches up into that grip he’s got on her thigh now, hand spanned between so she can’t take care of herself, and feels more tears just slide right out. Can’t stop them, feels like an idiot, doesn’t know where they’re even coming from. Kiss is just the sweetest thing, and it makes it worse. Feels like it’s dissolving her.

“You need something, babygirl?” Asks it right to her bubblyblubbery lips. Like he doesn’t know, and of course she can’t talk.

Helaena sighs. Mouth trembly, and throat tight, and the motherfucker takes pity on her. Done asking questions she can’t answer. Holds his finger right over where she wants it, so close she can feel its shadow, and that’s all it’s gonna take.

tap tap tap and she’s sobbing, and he’s shushing her, and she’s coming all over those fingers he slides back inside. Goes on and on, ‘cause he doesn’t stop, and when she’s good and fucking wrung out, and his face is as fucking wet as hers from all that damn kissing, he just wraps around her nice and tight and she falls the fuck to sleep.

*****

Short nap, surface and shallow, but it helps. Spends it snug against him, fingers still in, and she’s half-conscious for most of it. He barely has to nudge her to get her up, and she stretches out full-length. Feels his hand slip out from between her legs, wet.

“Gotta get ready,” he tells her, and she nods.

He asks her if she wants a shower, but she doesn’t. Just wipes herself down a little; cleans the mess he made of her, washes her face, smells her armpits and hits them with some soap.

She’s standing naked in that ridiculous bathroom, just staring at herself from nine different angles in the crazyass mirrors when he comes in. Laughs at her a little. “Even better if you bend over.”

Helaena rolls her eyes. “Dunno what to do with my hair. Fix me up.”

He nods. Gets to work right away, and she watches those good hands do their thing. Give her a nice, neat braid and twist it up like a little fuckin’ cinnamon roll at the back of her neck while she smiles. He looks so goddamn serious when he does this shit, she thinks. Pins in his teeth and everything, and she smiles even bigger at the results.

“I look all grown up, Daddy,” she says. Raises a brow at him in the mirror, and he shrugs at her.

“You look pretty.” He leans there in the doorframe, body taking up the whole damn thing, and watches her do her makeup like he’s watching a fucking magic show. Like he’s never seen it before. Stupid boy, she thinks, pursing her shiny pink lips at him and blowing him a kiss that bounces all around the room, pops off its own reflection over and over and over until it covers him. Marks him. Makes him hers.

She lets him dress her, too. Does a good job. Dress has laces up the back, and she thinks he picks it just so he can fuss with them, pull her tight and fuck with her bra and whatever, but she doesn’t care. It’s cute.

Cute underneath, too. Too cute, she tells him: that stupid pair of crotchless things she trotted around in for his birthday, and the matching bra that doesn’t cover shit. This dress doesn’t have that nice lining, and she feels like one of those old timey comic book chicks with torpedo tits or something.

He just grins. Says if she doesn’t wanna wear what he puts her in, then don’t fucking ask him to dress her, and it’s sort of hard to argue that one. “You want our uncle to see my nipples, then I guess that’s on you,” she tells him, and he just laughs.

“Doesn’t seem like he’s too hard up for pussy,” Eyeball says. “Keeps her fuckin’ full right up, doesn’t he? Christ.” He opens those balcony doors and lights Helaena a cigarette. “Fuckin’ jackrabbits.”

“Raw dogging that shit all day,” she laughs, blowing smoke at him. “Runs in the family I guess. You fuckers can’t help yourselves.”

He looks sideways at her. Shrugs a little. “What’s mine is mine,” he says, and he takes himself a long, slow drag, and she loves him so goddamn much it fucking hurts to breathe.

*****

Drive’s even weirder at night. No streetlights, but there’s enough of a moon to make everything ominous. Backlit, hulking shadows all over; twisty fucking road. Almost trite, like the opening shot of some B-grade thriller. Something she and Waffle would watch; two beers, a bag of salty popcorn and a big, fat joint.

Two of them pull up, one arm each hanging out the window, and Eyeball parks in the same spot. Black car on a black road on a silverblack night. Helaena tells him he should use the driveway; reminds him what Rhae said, but he shakes his head and ashes his smoke.

“Told you I don’t like it,” he says, looking back over his shoulder before he pops open the door. “You ever see me park anywhere I can’t get out of quick? C’mon.”

Takes her arm, real gentleman-like, and they walk up to the door.

Light’s on outside, and there’s one on in the garage, too. They make it to the knock this time, and Rhae answers. Takes her a minute, and she’s got on fresh clothes and no babies but the one she’s cooking.

“Hello again,” she says. Smiling, but it’s sitting funny on her face, like she stuck it up there in a hurry without checking in the mirror. “Come in!”

Shit’s all picked up off the floor now, too, and it smells like Chinese. Soy sauce and grease and whatever, and when they make their way into the kitchen, that’s exactly what it is.

“Daemon’s just in the shower,” Rhae tells them. “He’ll be down shortly. I hope this is all right? I thought the rice, if nothing else.”

Smart choice, Helaena thinks; probably the only takeout trash her brother will touch. Steamed rice, sometimes the fuckin’ water chestnuts or snow peas, the fortune cookies if he’s feeling brave.

“It’s good; it’s great. Thank you,” Helaena says, and he nods and echoes her, and then sis is trying to get them to fuckin’ drink the wine with her.

She’s got herself a glass, tells them it’s just one and she never does it when she’s pregnant but it’s a special occasion, isn’t it, and it occurs to Helaena that she’s as anxious as they are. Swirling that little bit of red around and around and around while she tells them sit, sit and drink, drink.

They both decline, so she pours them more coffee - pot’s still on; it’s the fuckin’ house that never sleeps, just like theirs - and they plunk down at the table again.

“Is the room all right?” she asks them, still tipping her glass around like one of those fuckin’ wibble-wobble toys. “There’s enough space for the both of you?”

“Oh my god,” Helaena starts. “It’s ridiculous. We were not expecting…”

“It’s fine,” Eyeball interrupts her. “Thank you.”

Both of them look at him a little sideways. Got his fuckin’ guard up like a forcefield, but Rhae just thinks he’s being an asshole, cutting her off and being short like that. Helaena knows better - some shit here he doesn’t like - but there’s not too much time to sort it out, because then the big old man of the house comes sauntering in.

He is big - just like Daddy always said, tall as Eyeball and broader everywhere - and he does fuckin’ saunter, too. Jungle cat shit. Just like fuckin’ Eyeball, except this guy’s a lion to Eyeball’s panther. Big and takes up his space nice and slow and on display, not sneakyslink style like her boy.

Same family, though. Pale, feline and funny-eyed, and Helaena sees what Rhae was talking about. Put twenty years on her brother and here he is. Stands just like him, once he stops to lean. Wild shit.

“You came back,” he says with a smile. Lazy. Dimple. That’s all his own. “My little dragons didn’t scare you off.”

Grin gets bigger, and he reaches over to shake Eyeball’s hand. They fuckin’ hold on too long, trying to crush each other’s bones, like Pop’s the one who taught them both or something. Helaena watches Daemon clock those bruises. “Aemond,” he says. Nods, and when he lets go first, there’s something like amusement playing at the corner of his mouth. “You’re a scrapper. What’s the other guy look like?”

Eyeball’s not fucking impressed. “Worse.”

Daemon laughs. Good natured sort of thing, but Eyeball’s not impressed with that, either. “Very good,” he says, turning to Helaena. “And Helaena. You’ve got a live one here, don’t you?”

He reaches for her hand, but he doesn’t give her his man-shake. Just turns her knuckles-up and puts a little kiss right there. Nothing but polite, not fuckin’ lingering or gross, but she doesn’t have to look at her fuckin’ brother to see him. She can feel his little current start buzzing tighter from here.

Hers does, too. She doesn’t like it. It’s classic Daddy - he kissed Mama’s hand til the day he keeled over; Mama’s, hers, every fucking chick he ever met - but it’s got a coat of polish on it that feels fuckin’ sticky. Makes something in her recoil.

She smiles, though. Polite as anything, and when he turns to his wife and plants one square on her lips, something in her recoils a little, too. Helaena watches her fingers curl around the delicate stem of her glass with some interest.

Eyeball’s next to her, white-knuckling his own mug, and she catches his eye quick. He saw the whole shit, too. Cocks a brow at her.

Daemon sprawls himself in a chair and smiles. Picks up his fuckin’ glass between two fingers like a cigarette and tilts it a little at them. “Glad to have you. It’s been awhile. Last time I saw you, you,” he says, gesturing at Helaena, “were wrapped around your mother’s leg, and you” - he tips his glass at Eyeball - “were just a twinkle in her eye.” He pauses for a second and smiles. “I imagine you still are, handsome lad that you’ve become. Though my wife tells me things are… strained, I believe was the word she used.”

Daemon reaches a big arm over and grabs that container of rice. Scoops a little onto Rhae’s plate and a bunch onto his own. Looks up like he’s waiting for an answer.

Eyeball makes him wait longer. Takes a nice, steady sip of his coffee first, and Helaena messes with her own. Lets him take this one.

“Something like that,” he says after a minute, but Daemon isn’t fazed by it. The pause, the way the sentence sits sharp like a blade. None of it.

He just passes the container across the table to him. “She also tells me you’ve got the stomach of a finicky cat. Apple, tree I’m afraid,” he laughs.

Rhae’s face goes even paler, and Eyeball narrows his eye as he takes the rice, and Helaena can feel her own expression shift.

“We may as well just address the elephant in the room,” Daemon says, like he thinks they have any fucking idea what he’s talking about. “Get it out of the way so we can relax, shall we? I mean. That’s why the two of you are here, isn’t it?”

“Daemon,” Rhae says, little bit of a warning in her voice. She reaches out to put a hand over his forearm, but it doesn’t even look like the dude fuckin’ registers it.

“Surely your mother’s told you. Why else might you come knocking out of the blue?” he asks. He sips at his wine, his forehead creasing a little at the blanks they’re fuckin’ drawing, and he shakes his head. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

He looks over at Rhae, who’s sitting stock-still, like this all might fucking go away if she pretends hard enough. She’s staring at her fuckin’ husband like he just punched the goddamn drywall or something. Dropped her fucking birthday cake. “For fuck’s sake,” he says to her again. “You were right.”

Eyeball catches Helaena’s gaze. Presses his knee right against hers under the table and pushes it up, like she’s a balloon on a string and he’s trying to hold her right in place. Keep her from drifting clean away.

Daemon’s fuckin’ on it now, though. Rolling his eyes; muttering and shit. “My fucking brother didn’t tell you, either,” he says. “Of course he didn’t. Why would he? That would have required a set of stones wouldn’t it?”

Rhae’s jaw is tight. Working back and forth like she’s grinding down a bunch of words instead of spitting them out; trying to make that shit fine enough to swallow.

Helaena grabs her brother’s hand. Doesn’t even think, just reaches over and lets his big old fingers close around hers, and he holds her. Thumb in steady circles against her palm, his body remembering how to take her reins even when his fucking brain’s somewhere else.

“Okay, then,” Daemon’s saying, all of it just an exasperated sigh. “It seems that this is going to fall to me.” He takes another sip of wine and fixes both of his eyes on Eyeball’s good one. “I’m sorry for that ghastly stomach of yours. I’ve encumbered all of my sons with it, I’m afraid.”

Eyeball’s thumb stops dead.

Notes:

ahhh I forgot how much i love writing daemon 😂 smarmy, low honor daemon is such a treat for me 😅 this chapter was fun

he’s a little different here than how I’ve usually done him, but oh the essence is always the same bahahaha

I look at aemond vs daemon as like… gangsta vs gangster. Sid & Nancy vs Al & Mae Capone 🤣

Chapter 76: Trip

Summary:

just a nice, cozy family dinner. you know.

Notes:

had a full on brawl with this chapter. still dunno who won.

god, sometimes you just don’t come through
god, sometimes you just don’t come through
do you need a woman to look after you?

(will you even tell her if you decide to make the sky fall?)

- from God by Tori Amos

 

Everything goes real quiet for a minute. Real quiet. No clinking silverware or chair-shuffling or fuckin’ chewing. No breathing, even, seems like. Not even from Daemon, who just decided this shit was casual enough to drop on some motherfuckers he hasn’t seen in twenty years, right after the hello and before the how you been?

He’s looking at them like he’s expecting one of them to pull out an oh yeah, she did mention that once or something. Like their dumb asses forgot, but they didn’t fucking forget.

Whole shit is like something out of a movie, fuckin’ gaping mouths and ringing silence and everybody stuck in pause, and it’s so goddamn absurd that Helaena breaks the spell because she’s stuffing down a laugh. It’s in her chest like a cough, near as insistent, and she feels like she’s fuckin’ turning purple trying to hold it in. Has to jam her teeth together until she can’t, and then it is a cough, because she’s a goddamn twit sometimes but even she knows better than to peal into hysterics right now.

So she coughs. Coughs and coughs and coughs, laugh won’t stop coming and she can’t let it go, so she keeps forcing it into that ugly bark until Rhae’s at the fridge pulling out the water pitcher and Daemon’s standing, two hands gripping the table looking like an asshole, and Eyeball’s got her arms pulled over her head, and this is by far the dumbest moment of her life, she thinks. Straight out of a goddamn Augusten Burroughs book, and when she catches Eyeball’s gaze through her fucking forced-watery eyes, it’s no help.

Fucker sees right through her. Knows her cough, and her laugh, and the depth and height and width of her fucking bullshit. Got her by both wrists, giving her the eye, and she thinks she’s gonna get it right here. Pictures him bending her over this bougie-ass table and spanking her hot in front of these two and she almost loses it entirely, like the falling-to-her-knees kinda losing it. Has to look away.

Rhae’s still looking concerned, pushing that glass of water towards her, and Daemon has the decency to look a little fucking embarrassed, and Eyeball’s got one hand between her shoulder blades now, just a nice little circlecircle rub, and Helaena takes a few shaky little breaths. “I’m sorry,” she says and sips her fucking water. “I’m sorry. Swallowed wrong,” but there’s only a tiny little pause before Eyeball’s gotta say his piece.

“You fucked my mother?”

Fuckin’ rich guy, but he’s not a prude, anyway. Not fuckin’ stuck up like that, just kinda waits for a second; debates how much he’s gonna say. Rhae’s cringing a little, and Helaena feels bad for her. It’s her fuckin’ man, after all. She’d be a little pissy, too, if it were her, even though she knew. Still weird to talk about, her husband giving it to her stepmama.

“Alicent and I were briefly… involved, yes. She had something of an attack of conscience afterwards, which is why I presumed she’d told you.” Daemon pauses again, big knuckly hands still on the edge of the table.

“Yeah, she’s prone to those,” Eyeball says. Careful. Dry.

“Fuckin’ day late and a dollar short most of the time,” Helaena adds, and her brother shoots her a look. She shrugs. It’s fuckin’ true, but maybe she’s saying too much. He doesn’t like when she shit-talks Mama to anyone but him.

“Well, apparently it didn’t linger, so I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news.” Daemon raises an eyebrow, and there it is again. Fuckin’ face she’s seen a million times.

“Dad knew?” Eyeball asks.

Daemon nods. Takes a forkful of some sesame chicken looking shit on his plate and chews. He’s the only one eating. Rest of them are all just sitting there like a bunch of assholes, fuckin’ appetites gone south. “He did. Started asking questions about you,” he says, tipping his glass at Helaena, “but rest assured, you’re safe, darling. Anyway. I’m sure you got one story or another, but he didn’t appreciate the news, and that’s why we’re here and he’s… there. Partially, at least.” He takes a sip of his wine - almost gone now - and looks at Rhae. Smiles a little, and she gives him one back, but farthest it goes is the corners of her lips. She’s got that same dimple as her fuckin’ unclehusband - they saw it earlier today, same side and everything - but it doesn’t make it to the party.

“There was… a lot going on,” Rhae says. “Distance seemed like the best option for everyone, and… you know how that is after awhile. It just becomes the way things are.”

“What else was going on?” Helaena asks. Already here, may as well be fucking nosy. She sips at her coffee.

“You were married, right?” Eyeball says, and Helaena holds that cup against her lips for a minute. Trying to hide that oh snap on her face. He doesn’t like that shit; the fucking around. Built funny like that. Put a knife in a motherfucker’s neck but’d never touch his girl. Scorpio shit or whatever.

Daemon doesn’t care, though. Seems the type who does whatever the fuck he wants, so he just puts that eyebrow up again. Sips. “I was, yes. Briefly. She was also not particularly fond of the situation.”

“Women tend not to be,” Rhae says, tone like a little ice-drip down Helaena’s neck, and she almost swallows her damn tongue. Two of them stumbled into some shit, she thinks, and Eyeball gives her a knee under the table with that long leg of his.

“Yes, well,” Daemon says back, but he fuckin’ leaves it there. Doesn’t look in her direction. Quick little about-face instead, and says, “So tell me what I’ve missed,” talking to them now. “You’ve grown up hale and healthy in spite of it all, it would seem. You’re what? Twenty…”

“One,” Eyeball answers, and Helaena chimes in with her two.

Daemon nods. “College, then? Career?”

They both sort of shift a little. Don’t wanna fucking go here, but what else are they supposed to fuckin’ talk about now? Just fuckin’ unload the rest of the baggage? Nah. Dude’s trying to be normal. Ask normal shit.

“He works on cars,” Helaena tells them. “Can fuckin’ fix anything. Right, b… right?”

Eyeball’s twirling his fork a little, back and forth in the mess of rice on his plate. Hasn’t touched it. Just fiddling like he does, and he shrugs. “I do okay, yeah.”

“Had to fix a bunch of shit on the way down here,” Helaena says. “Tire and hose and… something else. Old car.”

“Good to have around,” Rhae says. She’s trying, bless her. She really is, and Helaena nods. Eyeball just fiddles. Fiddles and fiddles.

“He is. I fuckin’… be lost without him. Stranded somewhere.” She kicks out her own leg. Bumps him, and he just presses back.

“What about you?”

Helaena shrugs. “Done lots of shit. Last place, I just… I read cards and stuff. Like Tarot. Cute little shop; we lived right overtop.”

Rhae narrows her eyes a little. Interested. “You’re not there anymore?” She’s sipping her wine now.

Whoops.

“I mean. Got some time off. Taking a little break; I mean, I’m going… I could go back. We just… we never really go anywhere, you know? So we thought…”

Saying too much. Too fucking much; sometimes she doesn’t know what the hell to say so she just says, and that’s what she’s doing. Popping off at the damn mouth, so Eyeball’s gotta fucking step in. Like always.

“Thanksgiving,” he explains. Lifts his head up, straight on between the both of them like he’s being real forward. “Got a little holiday break and didn’t want to spend it there. Like we said, shit’s weird at home.”

“Are you in town that long?” Rhae asks. Fuckin’ Thanksgiving isn’t for another week and a half. She sounds neutral enough, but Helaena almost laughs again. Can hear the little what the fuck in there, like this bitch thinks she’s gonna have to babysit them for the rest of the month, surprise.

As it is, she’s gotta smile. Can’t help it. Shakes her head, but she lets Eyeball do the fuckin’ talking now. “Nah,” he says. “Don’t worry. Be up outta your shit way before that.”

“No, no, I just…”

But Daemon laughs at that one. “Long break,” he says, and there’s that brow again.

“Yep.” Eyeball doesn’t fuckin’ like this dude, daddy or not. Helaena can feel his brain clickclacking from here, and she toes at him under the table again. He toes back.

“What do you guys do?” Helaena tries, but she’s pressing on another sore spot, seems like. Whole house is one big bruise.

Both of them sort of look back and forth at one another before they answer. Rhae goes first. “I’m also on a bit of a break at the moment,” she says, “but I do a little bit of everything: you know, hair, makeup, sometimes pieces of set or costume design for small projects, things like that. Bits and bobs. Mostly self-taught, but I do have a license for some of it.” She pokes at her own plate, mostly just moving shit around. Only one chewing anything is Daemon. “But since we… haven’t any help with the children at the moment, and I’m…” she gestures to her stomach, “I figured I’d take a pause. I do enjoy it, though.”

“That sounds interesting,” Helaena tells her. Seems like the right thing to say, and it does, really. Seems like something she might like, herself. Not stuck in the same place every damn day or whatever. Probably can choose her own hours sometimes.

Rhae smiles. “It is. I do plan to return at some point.”

“What about you?” Eyeball says. Got his spoon twirling now, round side down against his napkin, staring at Daemon.

“Me?” Like he’s surprised to be questioned.

“You.”

“I dabble,” he says. “This and that.”

Her boy tilts his head a little, and she can see him trying not to fly his fuckin’ asshole flag. Doesn’t do too good. Hasn’t had a lot of practice lately, she guesses. “What can I dabble in to keep a fuckin’ penthouse on payroll? Gonna guess you’re not pulling out engine blocks.”

Fuckin’ gator grin on that handsome face. “Oh, they gave you the good room! Excellent. I’m not sure if they told you, but you can get 24/7 room service there. Please don’t be shy… though you aren’t much of an eater, are you? But perhaps the lady.”

He turns that smile towards Helaena, but she does one of those Rhae-style things back, tight-lipped at this greasy fucker. Ducking right out of the question, like the two of them can’t fuckin’ Google his ass later. Should’ve done it already, she thinks. Would’ve known what kinda shit they were stepping into.

Wifey isn’t here for this stupid game, either. Gives them that tax return answer, the neat and tidy 1040. “He works in corrections,” she says. “He’s the assistant warden.”

Motherfucker’s a cop.

*****

They’re sitting in the living room - well, one of them; the fancy one, with the wine rack along the wall instead of shelves of fuckin’ toys - just her and Rhae. Little glass each, Rhae’s red and her white. Helaena caved after that corrections bullshit. Figured no way she was driving home with her brother fuckin’ sober now. Christ.

Let’s let the boys clean up, Rhae said; come relax, and it made Helaena want to hug her and also chew her nails right off her damn fingers. Leaving those dipshits alone in there together.

Skews her perspective, spending every fucking minute tucked up against his ribs. She’s always got his temperature, and sometimes she can’t tell if anyone else does. These two aren’t fucking idiots, but they don’t know shit about shit, really. Don’t know who the fuck they’re dealing with.

She does, though. She knows.

No fuckin’ hollering coming from the other room, though. Nobody being smacked over the head with a fucking chair yet.

“Are you all right?” Rhae asks, pulling her feet up onto the sofa. Sits like Helaena likes to, when she’s not fuckin’ dressed for Eyeball’s bullshit. Criss-cross applesauce, round belly hanging out in the middle. On some Buddha shit. “You seem anxious.”

“I am,” Helaena says. Laughs a little, nervous. “Probably should be fuckin’ medicated, but…” and she shrugs.

Rhae smiles a little. It’s a real one, though. “I don’t have to tell you where you probably get that from, I’m sure.”

Helaena smiles back. “I’m not that bad,” she says. “I’m not like her. Fuckin’… no. But yeah. Probably.” She looks at her a little funny.

“We were friends,” Rhae says. “Did she tell you that?”

“Mama? No. She didn’t tell us shit about you.” First she’s hearing this fuckin’ story. Friends.

“I’m not surprised. But yeah, we were. That’s how she met Daddy.”

Helaena raises a brow. Takes a nice fuckin’ swallow of her wine. “Not what Daddy said. Told us he worked with Pop.”

“He did,” Rhae says, “but they didn’t know each other well. That all came later. We’re only a couple of years apart, your mother and me.” She stops to smirk at herself a little. “I always tried to be older than I was. Hung out with the big kids.” Eyes roll over Helaena a little. Not unkind, but she’s seen some shit. Thinks she knows what she’s looking at. “I’ll bet you did, too.”

Helaena shakes her head. “Didn’t really hang out much with anybody,” she says. “You know how it is. People feel the fuckin’ weird coming right off you.”

Rhae laughs a little, and there’s that dimple. She’s cute as hell, Helaena thinks. She really is. Her mama must’ve been pretty. “Should I be offended?”

“No, I mean… I just… no, I don’t think you’re weird, I guess I just…”

“… I married my uncle.”

“… Yeah.”

“That’s weird,” Rhae says. Dry. “For better or worse.”

Helaena feels sort of like she just walked in, fuckin’ stepping around all that shit on the floor. Trying not to turn her ankle wrong, crack a bone or break her damn face or something. “Not the first person to do it,” she says carefully. Poking out a toe.

Rhae rests her hand over that big old belly. Looks like it’s fuckin’ grown since they sat down. “No.” She drums her fingers, soft and thoughtful, and then Helaena’s fuckin’ tripping over her shit. Impulse is there, and she can’t stop herself. Fuckin’ mouth of hers.

“I mean, looks like he takes care of business, right?” she says. Eyeball’d fuckin’ lose his mind, probably laugh til he cried, she thinks, second it’s out.

Rhae pauses for a hot one-two-three, and Helaena thinks she’s fuckin’ done it now. But then she smiles. Wicked sort of thing, slow-spreading; looks more like it belongs on her man’s face than on hers. “Bold of you to assume it’s his.”

Probably not the kinda joke she should be making right now and the bitch knows it, but looks like she can’t help herself maybe, either. Just sits there with a quirked eyebrow and a grin til Helaena snorts, hand over her mouth, wine sloshing a little over the side of her glass.

“No, listen,” Rhae says. “Can I give you a piece of advice? That’s what sisters do, isn’t it? Impart wisdom? I’ve not had one before - always wanted one, though - but that’s what I’ve heard.” She wraps her hands around her own glass like it’s a fuckin’ mug of cocoa or something, and Helaena looks at her. Realizes she’s sorta drunk. Probably fuckin’ pregaming before they got there.

She doesn’t know what else to say - no? - so she just nods, still kinda amused and maybe feeling her wine a little, too. Goddamn lightweight.

“Don’t tolerate something once unless you’re prepared to tolerate it forever,” Rhae says, suddenly as solemn as her baby boys. “From anyone. Men, women - whomever you’re inclined - but anyone, really. Whatever capacity. People are who they are. They’ll get away with what they can get away with.”

Not so much advice as confession, Helaena thinks, watching her rub her stomach. Touches her own, reflex or something, and just looks at her for a minute.

“Seems solid,” she says eventually. Taps her fingers on her damn glass, more words itchy in her fuckin’ throat. “Do you… are they okay?”

Rhae’s forehead wrinkles. “Who?”

Helaena jerks her chin a little at her sister’s big old bellyful.

“My kids?” She nods. “They’re fine. We weren’t planning on any, but then…”

“ … Shit happens.”

Rhae smiles again, and this one’s that wry, tired one. “Shit happens. And we weren’t sure whether… whether it was wise to continue, but all those tests they do looked fine, and…” she shrugs. “I did always want children. I grew up rather lonely, you know?”

Helaena can imagine, but she doesn’t really know. Felt like shit in a lot of ways, but never really lonely. She nods anyway. Sister maybe would’ve been nice, she guesses. Different kinda thing. Boys, boys, boys all her damn life. Well. Except for Mama, but she doesn’t really fuckin’ count.

“You get sick?” Helaena asks. “Like pukey shit?”

Rhae looks at her a little funny, like why does she wanna know, but she answers. “Only with Viserys. I thought for sure he was a girl, it was so different from the first time. I was sick for a good four months with him, off and on. Otherwise, no. I’ve been lucky.”

Helaena shifts and sips and shifts again. Toes her stupid shoe on and off. “I just… I was. Once, like a long time ago,” she says, gesturing vaguely at herself. “Got super sick, had to go to the hospital and shit. Throwing my guts up every twenty minutes or whatever.”

Helaena watches her sister’s face go through four hundred different expressions, all of them looking like something someone’s mama would make. Someone’s halfway fucking decent mama, anyway, and she feels stupid again. Just fucking running her mouth tonight, like she can’t be fucking normal without him at her damn elbow. Forgot how to have a conversation with someone who doesn’t know what she looks like when she’s inside out and sideways. Shit with Missy all over again.

“How long ago?” Rhae asks, sort of cautious. Sympathetic.

“Long time. I was like fourteen.”

“Jesus.”

“Nah,” Helaena says. Lets her mouth turn up a little. “Wasn’t Him. Told Mama it was, though.”

Rhae balks for a second, and then she lets herself laugh. Shakes her wavy blond head a little. That neat updo’s come undone in some spots - no spray in it, just a few pins that Helaena can see - and she looks younger with it mussed a little. Less like Daddy. “You’re a trip,” she says. “I’m sorry. That must have been terrible for you. You were just a baby yourself.”

Helaena nods, fingers tapping and pulling
and whatever at her glass. Antsy as hell all the sudden. Needs a cigarette. Needs her brother. Can feel some kinda crash-out starting, all this goddamn chitchat. Not fucking bad, just a lot, and he’s all alone in there with fuckin’ Uncledaddy Prison Cop, and he’s gotta be feeling some type of way, too, she thinks.

“It’s okay,” she says. “I mean, I was okay. I didn’t, you know, have them.”

“Them?”

“Twins.”

Rhae winces, the way only women who’ve had babies wince at twins, Helaena thinks, and she doesn’t like it so much. Doesn’t like any of this so much anymore, actually. She’s fucking tired. A little hungry again, even. Chinese food fucking does that, leaves you emptier than you started after a minute, and she didn’t actually swallow a whole lot. None of them did.

Before Rhae can choke out any more pity, Helaena makes a point of yawning big. “I, um… thank you. I’m really tired, actually; it’s been a long day. You know? I think I should go grab my brother and…”

Rhae nods. “Of course. Absolutely. You two must be exhausted.” She reaches for Helaena’s empty glass, and Helaena gives it over. Two of them stare at each other for a minute, fingertips bumping around the stem, and Rhae looks like she wants to say something else. She doesn’t though.

Not til they’re almost to the kitchen, anyway. Still not much noise coming from in there. No fuckin’ brawling, anyway; just some kinda low hum. Like buzzing electricity or some shit. Rhae stops just before the door - funny design; most places, you just wander from the kitchen to the living room and back again, but shit’s got a door with a knob lock and everything - and puts a hand on Helaena’s arm. Neat nails, done up French. Fuckin’ classier than Helaena’s blood clot color. “Do you two like the water?” she asks.

Helaena furrows her brow a little.

“The ocean,” she clarifies. “You said your necklace was sea glass you’d found.”

“Oh. Yeah,” Helaena tells her. Not sure what she’s getting at.

“Why don’t you give me a ring when you get up tomorrow, if you don’t have plans? We could take the boat out. The boys love it.” She pauses. “It will just be us; Daemon will be at work.”

Helaena’s starting to feel fuzzy and weird, fuckin’ wine and exhaustion and sisters and cops and all kinds of shit she can’t process right now, so she just nods. Sure, yeah, sure, yeses at her and opens the door.

Chapter 77: Kept

Summary:

girls will literally write 9k words of highly questionable smut instead of going to therapy

(It’s me. I’m girls.)

Notes:

i couldn’t get the previous chapter to cooperate, but i sure as hell knew what I wanted this to look like 🤣 so I wrote this first, and honestly, I needed it. Therapy.

So now I’m visiting it on you. Sorry 🙈

there’s a loooot of iffy shit in here, cos you know… these two will just have real weird sex instead of going to therapy. I’ll try to give you a heads up for the potential ick.

9k of porn ft recreational drug use, extra gross body fluid stuff, unsafe kinky gun shit, unusual restraints, collaring? of a sort?, and, uhhh… unsafe sex? As in quite literally unsafe, not just lacking a condom.

I think that covers it? For now?

Because x will have you at it all night, so we’re not quite done 🫢😅 but it was time to call it

maybe surrender is the kink of gods
who know they’ll rise again

- Christopher Sexton

 

“He’s a tool,” Eyeball says. Clicks her seatbelt into place and lights her cigarette with the one he’s already got in his fuckin’ mouth.

“No shit,” Helaena tells him, taking a big old drag and closing her eyes. “Surprised you left him in there alive.”

He looks sideways at her, mouth quirked a little. “His house,” he shrugs. “You don’t drop a guy in his own fuckin’ house unless you have to.”

Helaena laughs a little. “Look at you, Mr Morals and Standards. Where’d you find those?”

He huffs at her. Rolls his eye. “I dunno. Where’d you find that mouth? Bottom of your fancy fuckin’ glass?”

She smiles as he downshifts for the hill, hopping a little in his seat and giving Granny a little pat for her troubles. “I’m not drunk.”

“Nah. Pink in your fuckin’ cheeks from the heat, right?”

She blows an errant curl from her forehead. Frizzing up on her now. “What’d you talk about?”

Eyeball ashes his cigarette out the window. Wiggles his shoulders a little, like he’s trying to get a knot out, and Helaena reaches over to squeeze at one. Doesn’t do anything to help, but he likes it anyway. Leans in looking for a pet. “Nothing,” he says. “Fuckin’ nothing.” Chewing on that smoke, though. Chewing and chewing.

“They got a boat.”

“Two.”

“What?”

“Got two boats,” he says, negotiating a turn fucking sharp as his cheekbone. “In case one fuckin’ breaks down, I guess.”

Helaena snorts. “You wanna go out on one?”

“No.”

She laughs. Wine is messing with her, she guesses. Just a little. “Sister invited us tomorrow. No Cop-Daddy, just her and the rugrats.”

“Not my sister. And he’s full of shit. You think some fuckin’ pig made me?” Gives her a look.

She giggles. “Which is it? She’s not your sister? Or he’s not your daddy?”

“No way Mama fucked that guy.”

“Mama did lots of shit you don’t wanna fuckin’ think about,” Helaena tells him. “Besides. You saw him. More Daddy than Daddy. More you than you.”

Eyeball takes another drag as they come up to the fuckin’ bridge, all soft white light and elegant lines. Fuckin’ boats in the bay. Helaena wonders which one Rhae was talking about. All look the same to her.

“Maybe,” he finally concedes. “He’s dirty.”

“What do you mean?”

He just looks at her like she’s a dumbass or something. “What fuckin’ cop you know has money like that?”

“He dabbles,” Helaena says, trying to imitate his stupid fuckin’ voice, but it just turns into a yawn at the end.

Her boy gives her a smirk. “Yeah. Sure fuckin’ does,” and that’s that. His tone puts a period on it, and Granny bucks a little in agreement. Tired of hearing her mouth, too.

They stop for gas on the stretch of road back to the hotel, and Eyeball comes out with a bag full of shit. Drops it in her fucking lap, but she’s too fried to be nosy, so she just wraps her arms around it like a damn couch pillow or something and leans back against the seat with her eyes closed.

No more conversation after that. Not really. He just says, quiet, motherfucker left me in that house as they come up on the parking lot.

Helaena doesn’t open her eyes. Says motherfucker left you with me, and the two of them split another cigarette, his big old hand spread wide on her thigh.

*****

Upstairs, he rolls the fuckin’ biggest joint she’s ever seen. Leaves those fancy glass doors open, strips off his shirt, and pulls her onto the balcony and into his lap. She’s so tired that her eyes are watering, and she just lays against his shoulder and watches that fuckin’ L grow fat as a cat’s tail. Giggles at him.

“The fuck you need that for?” she asks. “You trying to sleep til Friday?”

“I’m trying to get fucked up,” he says, sealing it off with his fuckin’ spit. “Over this sober bullshit.”

Helaena laughs again when he lights that shit and sucks. “That’s some fuckin’ whiteboy YouTube hiphop shit,” she giggles. “Need fuckin’ six chains and a forty,” and he grins around the stupid thing in his teeth, smoke spilling out from his mouth.

“Shut up and shotgun,” he says back. “You’re getting shitfaced, too.”

She smiles as he pulls a lungful for her and relaxes right into him. Weed is sweet and strong and his breath is warm, and she wants to lay in his arms and let him feed it to her like a fuckin’ baby. Just tip back and take it, so she does. Eyes closed, lips open, hit after hit after hit until she’s blitzed and drifting, night breeze in her face and his chest scratchysoft.

Whatever the fuck strain this is, it’s the goddamn blowie potion, though. Oldschool stuff, whatever fuckin’ Boris used to sell that made her drop to her knees like a motherfucking Baptist. Gets her a little tired and a lot horny, right from the jump, and she starts thinking about how good he’d feel in her throat. About how he’s probably all fucking sweaty, tasting like ticked-off adrenaline and grimy dick, and she wants it bad.

Tells him. She’s right by his ear, and she gets herself going even more. Makes him laugh that loose-limbed laugh he finds when he’s high; her favorite, rolling and soft-edged when she starts whispering filthy shit. “I want you to fuck my mouth,” she says. “You wanna watch me take it? I can do it. Fuckin’ gag all up on your dick, Daddy; I want it.”

“Yeah?” he says. Smiles at her and pulls on that joint, then sticks it in her mouth while he exhales. Thing is still going, and she takes another fuckin’ pull, too.

“Yeah,” she says. “I can do it pretty for you.”

“I know you can. Go on, then.”

Helaena grins up at him, and he steals the fuckin’ thing back and gives her one last good hit from his lungs. Ends up coughing it into her mouth, and she laughs.

“Better fucking quit that now,” she tells him, turning so she can slide off his lap, tugging that dress over her head. “Not gonna be able to keep it up for me.”

“Try me, ho,” he says. Gives her his stupid wink, and she can feel him halfway there already from her laying in his lap and talking shit.

Belt’s a little fight, but she gets it, and he’s got those damn jeans with the sticky zipper on, but those come, too. Not a lot of trouble, then she’s on her knees between his sprawled out legs staring up at him. Looking like trash in her tiny little underthings.

He’s pretty. Fuckin’ balcony’s got string lights, solar or something, running around its borders, all soft-glowy shit, and he’s pale and twinkly in it. Arms out along the back of the cushions, legs wide, takes up the whole damn thing. Fucking joint stuck in the corner of his mouth. Looks like trouble. Looks like hers, and his fucking cock looks like hers, too. Bigger when she gives it a kiss, feels it stiffen up against her lips, gives it some nice fucking juicy makeout action.

“See?” he says to her. “You know what you’re doing, little girl. Like that,” and she smiles at his praise. Smiles around his dick, feels it press into her tongue.

Tastes just like she thought. Sweatysharp, metal somewhere, hers. Hers, hers, hers, and the thought makes her smile bigger. Makes him smile bigger. She’s watching him, distracted a little maybe because he’s reaching for her hair. Pulling her closer, messing with the pins to take it down. Way he’s leaning pushes him in a little bit more, and she’s gotta relax some before she’s really ready.

Doesn’t mind, though. Doesn’t fucking mind, because his fingers feel nice there, tugging her curls loose and wild, gentle little pulls while he looks at her like she’s just the prettiest thing he’s ever seen. Hot end of that fucking joint hanging over everything, but she’s not worried. He’s being careful, thumb tracing her cheek, breath a little funny when she opens her throat a little and slides him back. Rubs her tongue back and forth underneath.

“Shit,” he says. Has to pause for a second, and she hums a little laugh that makes him swallow. She feels it in the way he grips her hair. Adjust his hips. Leans into her. “Shit,” again, and he plucks one of those flowers from its little glass vase on the tiny side table.

Real ones out here, too; same type, and the one he pulls is purple. Big sunny dahlia, a few shades off their stupid eyes, and Helaena has to fucking squeeze hers shut when he tucks it into her hair. Can’t stand it, makes her goddamn teeth hurt with its loveliness, and she slides him right through her lips. Right back out so she can act a fool, fuckin’ press her cheek against his sloppywet dick, kiss it all over while he threads the stem tight to hold it in place.

“You’re so pretty,” he says, and she blinks back open to look at him. Soft-lit and soft-gazed, smoke around his face like a blurry photograph.

“You, too,” she says, dumb and cooked and slow-brained and sweet.

Takes him back into her mouth while he watches her. Leans back again, free hand just messing with her, hair and ear and whatever he can reach, and just watches.

She watches back. Holds his eye. Likes to see the way it flutters at her; the way things open and close, the way the light turns into stars or whatever. Lots of that, all of it, when she lets all her muscles melt and her little bones unlock and finds some kinda messy rhythm, back and forth, cup of her mouth running over with her fucking spit, and the looser she gets, the more there is. Mixes with the mess he’s making on her, runs down her chin, turns her into a wet, drooly kinda wreck.

She starts giggling at it, the whole fucking thing. The way his belly is tight and twitchy, spiders jumping around; the way her knees feel grass-stained and littlegirl from the texture of the ugly flattened carpet; the way she’s leaking all over, mascara running into the corners of her mouth. The way his voice sounds, fucking blitzed and blissed and stupid when he blows his smoke and tells her she’s a good girl, says like that, like that, you do so good for me, tips his head back and tells the fuckin’ sky all about it.

Her giggle makes him all groan-y and dumb, and her mouth is stretched so fucking wide for this shit, and all of the sensations gather up together in her throat and she gives him the hitch and the gag, twice, three, four in a row, swallows, sighs, does everything that damn mouth of hers will do except bite.

She gives him a fucking finger, too. Another giggle as she works it under, and he scooches a little bit to let her. Knows what she’s up to; she sees his lips quirk up, teeth right in the bottom one.

Nothing back there except his fucking sweat, so she can’t get to the good stuff without being afraid she’s gonna hurt him, so she just rests it there. Just a tiny bit, little fingertip inside, wrist bent funny against the front of the stupid couch thing, but he likes it good enough. Squirms while she fucking sucks him off hard, slippery, hothothot, balls pulling up against her stupid arm.

Makes her giggle again. Way they just fuckin’ move on their own, stupid boy-parts, she thinks, and she takes the hand that’s gripping him and gives them a little pet.

It’s all sort of twisted up and chaotic; pants in the way because they’re not off, just sorta pulled down and fucked up from their bullshit, but she gets all of him. Fuckin’ cock and balls and ass, all of it. Has him by all those achyneedyyes bits, and it makes her feel amazing. Boss-bitch style, on some serious babe stuff, and he’s wriggly and wound up, trying to shove himself all the way down, and she loves him so much. Loves all this shit, would spend the rest of her life on her knees, bombed out of her mind, fuckin’ sucking his dick and making her own goddamn pussy scream for it.

“Don’t swallow,” he tells her, fucking joint curled up in his tight fist, gonna burn the damn cushion or himself or something, but he doesn’t notice. Doesn’t care. He’s right there. Right there, right there, she can feel it, and she pauses. Holds all her shit still and lets him live in it for a second. Lets him want her, lets him crack his eye back open so she can see everything on fire in it. Little mirror.

He looks down at her, and she looks back at him, and he’s trembly and beautiful, hot and tight around her finger and hot and hard in her throat, and those stupid tears just spring up again. Like they’ve been hiding somewhere waiting to ambush her; make a lump in her chest that she swallows to try to move, and that does it. The swallow; those lurching muscles that squeeze him tight, gag, and his hips lift a little and he makes his little kicked-puppy noise and she pulls back some so that he fills up her mouth and not her belly.

It’s warm. Nice, she thinks; the air’s cooled off, and she’s chilly dressed in nothing, but he fucking gives her a mouthful of warmth, ferocious sort of pulse against the inside of her cheek, over her tongue, and she shuts her eyes again to feel it. Lovely, holy nonsense.

She holds it there, just like he said, and feels his hand roaming all over her. Restless and tender and all of that.

His thumb traces over her eyebrow and he gathers her right up to him, head-to-belly for a second, and she can feel the skittery in-out of his breath there.

“Show me,” he says after a second. Squeezes a little at her wet cheeks, down by her mouth. “Show me, open, come on, let me see it.” Words come fast. A little jumbly, full of air, but she hears them.

Helaena opens nice and wide. Shows him her fucking mouthful of jizz, and he smiles at her.

“Good girl. Hold it, hold it, don’t…” and he leans down over her, close close close.

She thinks he’s gonna give her some tongue, fucking play with it, kiss it up like he does, but he doesn’t. Spits instead. Holds her mouth open like that, comes right in, fucking spits into the mess.

Giving him head’s kept her from that bad fuckin’ cottonmouth, but he’s got a little bit of it. Saliva’s weed-tasting, sticky skunky shit, so he does it again. Again. Four times, quick, spits into her babybird mouth, keepitkeepitholdit in between, til he’s satisfied. Staring at her nasty tongue covered in his filth.

“Swish,” he tells her, “hold it,” and he leans up a little. Starts digging in his fucking pocket.

Up to something, Helaena knows it, but before she can really form the thought, she sees what it is.

Eyeball pulls that tiny bag of fuckin’ molly out and empties it into his palm. Two pills. She wants to fucking smile, laugh, smack the shit out of him for how disgusting he’s about to be, but she’s afraid she’ll spray this fuckin’ crap everywhere. Cover them both, and that’d be fucking funny - she’s gotta rein in a good one, honestly, fucking picturing the scene - but also, she kinda loves it. Kinda loves all of it. Wants it.

So instead she swishesswishesswishes, gets enough of her own fucking spit into the mix that when he holds it up between her fingers and tells her to open, show me, she can swallow.

He’s grinning at her. “Dirty bitch,” he laughs, “here.” Drops it right into the vile stew on her tongue, and Helaena chokes down the whole fucking mess.

It’s repulsive - fuckin’ jizz and weed-spit and that bitter fuckin’ pill - but it goes down like dessert, and she smiles back.

“Christ, I wanna fuck you so bad,” he says, laughing, and puts a kiss on her that makes her spine collapse on itself like a goddamn blown-out building.

Helaena laughs. Lets him pull her up, back in his spent, wet lap, and she snuggles right up. “Where’s yours?”

“Too dry to swallow,” he says, “need some fucking water.”

She wrinkles her nose. “I gotta swallow with a wad of jizz, but you get the fuckin’ bubbly. Sounds right.”

He snorts, fucking rubs at her nose with his. “C’mon,” he says, and when he stands up, he just takes her with him and tosses her giggly ass right over his shoulder.

Got a bag full of fun stuff from the gas station, and he shuffles through it for a second while she kicks her damn legs in the air. Water, Gatorade, lollies, smokes. Swigs a fuckin’ blue Gatorade with his molly then hands it to her.

Helaena rinses her mouth out with it, three good sips, til she doesn’t feel like she’s got spooge-teeth anymore, and Eyeball sticks the bottle on the nightstand and crawls up in bed with her after he tosses her down.

“I’m gonna fuckin’ pass out,” she tells him, yawning wide against his cheek.

“Be good in a minute,” he says. “You wanna bump?” Still has some of that fucking coke kicking around, and she thinks about it but tells him no. Hates shit in her nose; hates the way that powder lingers. Can’t blow it out clean enough to save her life.

“Just play with me,” she tells him, “fuckin’ get hard again before that shit kicks in, or you might have a problem.”

“Fuckin’ boner police tonight,” he laughs. “What the fuck? When’s the last time I had a goddamn problem, Laney? Jesus. Acting like I’m out here limpdicking you on the regular.”

She grins. “Play with me anyway. Fucking look at what you did. Messy boy.”

“Gimme, then,” he tells her. Crawls right up over her til she’s flat against that mountain of fluffy pillows and cops a feel, big old fingers spreading the stupid slit in her panties apart. “Holy shit,” he says, “I fuckin’ can’t with you. Stick a dick in your mouth and you turn into a busted fire hydrant, what the fuck,” and Helaena starts giggling again.

“Oh, yeah. Any dick’ll do,” she says, rolling her eyes at him.

“Brat.”

“Guilty.”

“I should fuckin’ cuff you. Fuckin’ cuff and collar and a fuckin’ leash, you rotten…”

“Threaten me with a good time,” she says. Puts out her wrists, fuckin’ starting shit, and he sticks a finger in her mouth. Tastes like pussy, and he barely even brushed her. She’s fucking wrecked, and she sucks at him hard til he yanks it out.

He takes both those stupid wrists in one hand and pins them to the fucking headboard. Smiles down at her. “Mouthy. Fuckin’ mouthy. I’m about to ruin your shit, little girl.”

Stops for a second, and she watches his eye roam all around the fucking room. Land somewhere near those big glass doors and light right the fuck up.

“You like it here?” he asks her.

She screws up her face at him. “What?”

“Fuckin’ rich bitch shit,” he says. “This your jam? You wanna be somebody’s fuckin’ penthouse princess? Gag you with a Rolex and whoop your ass with a fuckin’ Gucci belt?”

Not sure what he’s fuckin’ getting at; got an expression that doesn’t look right. Doesn’t fucking jive with itself. Like he’s trying to cut his good eye out so he can see her better or something.

Maybe it’s the fucking weed. Confusing her; she can’t figure out the rules to this game, and he’s too fuzzy to sort them out or explain or whatever, and it doesn’t matter. Moved on already.

“Get down,” he says. “Get down. On your knees, on the floor, come on.” Slips off the side of the bed and gives her a little pull, and she goes. Still squinty-eyed, trying to solve him, and he pushes down on her shoulder. Has her kneeling, staring at those tall windows when he backs himself towards them. Watches her, finger up like she’s a kid in time out. “Wait.”

She waits, sits with that puppydog head tilt when he starts to fuck with the curtain. Only takes her a second, then she’s smiling, trying not to laugh out loud at how fucking silly this motherfucker is.

He knows it, too, because he’s struggling with his own damn mouth, but he thinks he’s clever or something. Got that fucking curtain tieback. Fancy shit, some sorta silky thing - matches the fucking drapes, but it’s darker, softer-looking - and it’s got all sorts of sparklies. Rhinestone things, faceted all over, and in the low light they gleam like real shit. Set in around the whole thing, just about, and Helaena giggles up at him when he brings it over.

“You wanna be kept?” he asks her, eyebrows up, one hand fiddling with that mussed-up flower in her hair.

She turns half her mouth up at him. Never said fuckin’ shit about it; whatever he’s on is all him. All in his stupid head, but she’s real fucking interested in what he’s gonna do next so she tells him maybe. Says if you earn it.

She likes his grin; the way it goes lopsided and dangerous and crinkles up the corner of his eye. Likes the way he wraps that sparkly thing across his palm like the business end of a cat o’nine. Likes the way he tells her to fuckin’ say it right and holds her chin.

“You can keep me if you earn me, Sir,” she says. Makes her sleepy gaze heavy and puts it through the fence of her lashes, and he presses his thumb back into her mouth.

“Hands out, brat,” he says.

Makes her squirm. Makes her bite. Fucker likes that shit.

Wrists out pretty for him, and he wraps her up tight. Pretty little present, tied in crystals and a bow, but underneath, that knot’s got teeth. Blood still flowing, but the whole shit beats with her heart, and she feels it in her cunt. Dripping hot like it’s in love, thrumming in her ears, her throat, faster and faster and there that shit is. There. All at once, comes on like she’s fuckin’ kneecapped. Starts her shaking.

“Shit,” she says, and he knows right away.

“You’re okay,” he tells her. “I got you, come on.”

Helps her get her bound little body up off the floor, waits a beat to see what it’s gonna be - a bounce or a sway or some twirly ballerina shit - and then just fuckin’ takes her through it.

Side-to-side today, all in her hips and her back, and he holds her snug to him, hands trapped against his chest and his chin tucked down into her hair. there there there you’re okay you’re okay, little bit of slowdance shit while the jitters chatter up her bones. you’re okay i got you i got you, and in a minute she is. She’s okay, burrowed into him like a little foxymama in her den, facedown in his sweaty, hairy armpit.

She has the impulse to lick it, and giggles out a hi molly right into his skin.

Eyeball laughs back at her, pulls back to look down at her face. “You good?” he asks her, and she nods.

“Good,” he says. “Good,” and he sways some more, rocks her back and forth all sweet and slow, like he forgot for a second that he fuckin’ tied her up. Was about to get into some gnarly shit, probably.

Helaena doesn’t fucking care. Happy to stare up at him, watch the way the light puts funny white streaks in his hair while she’s warmwarmwarm against his bigbig body.

“Come on,” he says after a minute, something bringing him back. “I want that mouth.”

She giggles again, because he just had her stupid mouth, all of it; had it so hard he made her jaw sore and fucking filled it up with spit and spunk and did everything but brand his name across her goddamn lips. What the fuck does he want with it now? She asks him with her eyes, with her brows, but he doesn’t answer her. Just backs her up, pushes her against the bed and sits her back onto it.

“Knees,” he tells her.

“Yes, Sir.”

He climbs up too. Shoves her a little so she’s sitting on her feet, and he’s kneeling up over her. Tall. He’s tall.

“Suck.”

Fingers, one then two then three, he likes it when she does that. Hot tongue between them and over them, pressing at the points of her teeth like he’s reading Braille inside there. Some secret message, some blueprint or love letter, and she likes it too. The taste of him; today it’s fucking weed and stale nicotine and maybe rain, it tastes like a pitterpatterpat sounds, wet and rhythmic. In and out, she likes it when they fuck like this. It’s fucking, he reaches deep and looks for the good spot. His fingers are hard.

“Suck,” bent knuckles like he’s propping a door. The one between here and there, now and then, the warmdark of her body and the sure and steady of his.

“Suck,” and he’s standing now. Up on the bed, pants low at his knees, palm spanning her throat and tipping her upbackup.

His cock he means now. Again. Not hard enough to fuck her with, not enough to fill her throat, but there’s enough for a fucking mouthful. There’s always enough for that, even when he’s soft, she thinks. Enough, always enough, and that tastes like the motoroilpurr of an engine, the way it feels when it wants to start and you just have to bounce a little on the pedal.

“I like it,” she says. Smiles up, and he smiles down, and she licks him like a lolly. Better than that fake grape shit. That’s the kind the gas station had, she saw it in the bag of crap. She’d rather suck on him. Anywhere, everywhere, “I like it. I love it.”

“I know you do,” he says. Fingers that flower in her hair. Those curls in her hair. “You’re my good girl.”

“Mmhm.”

She can tell from his voice that he’s with her now. Rollingrollingrolling.

“Suck.”

Sound startles her a little, she’s just making a pretty pattern, lips on his cock and hip and belly and balls, cockhipbellyballscock back and forth, and every time she hits that spot, slips her tongue just under a little to feel the ridgy rise right there at the tip, he jerks a little, gets harder, and it’s cute.

Jaw’s funny, though. Tight in the center. She’s thinking that, uh oh, she needs her lolly, it’s starting already, and he says suck, and something nudges her cheek. Harder. Not skin.

“Oh!” she says.

Fucker’s holding that gun like maybe he means it, maybe he doesn’t; loose sort of grip, but it’s right. It’s how he showed her. Good hands, big hands, wet from her mouth. Gun looks wet, it’s shiny too. Smells like metal, hot, dirt, sex.

She looks at him first, bloodshot eye with a pupil like a fuckin’ plate. Round, so round, spookycatinkblotblooddrop thing, she wants to wade in to her waist, three-finger herself in the deep of it, oh.

“I said suck.”

He did. He did, she does, opens her mouth and lets him slide it right in. It clicks and it clacks, scrapes her teeth like he used to. Tongue stud, bulky thing that would knock at her mouth like a door. Ring her fuckin’ shit like a bell when he went down, letmein, too much eventually. Distracting, triggered her. Made her antsy.

This, though. This, texture and heat. Guns look cold. This one looks cold, black as his pupil, but it’s dull. Tastes dull, tastes warm, tastes like the smell of a blown transformer. She sucks. It’s hollow in her mouth; empty barrel. When she pokes her tongue inside, it’s iron and rust and something oily like blood.

Whole shit makes him lean, chin up head back. Watching her like a preying bird, circling and high. He’s gonna eat her, bones and all. Lick her off his fingers while her fuckin’ ghost moans for it.

“Fuck,” he says. “Fucking Christ, Laney,” and when he tugs it back, she holds on with her lips so that shit pops like gum. Like a shot, and it makes her shivershake, full-body.

He’s hard again now. Hard enough to suck and fuck and ride like a goddamn bumper car if she wants it, just watching her fuckin’ crazy bitch shit. She opens for him, leans, tells him please Daddy please and it’s back and forth, fuckin’ cockGlockcockGlock, tied up hands between her legs, little rhinestones rubbing up on her mess.

Getting tighter, though; jawbones locking up, and he can feel it that last time. Pulls his junk right outta her mouth, holds her face hard with his fingers.

“Open, open,” quiet coaxing thing, gun bumping at his naked thigh. He tosses it, little whoosh against those ritzyass sheets, and pulls the bag up next to him. Rubs circles into her cheeks as he digs, mumblyvoice running over her like velvet. “Good girl, you gotta stay open,” fishing til he hooks that stick with a knuckle. Unwraps it for her.

Grape, grape, grape. Gonna leave her purple-lipped and sticky, and she sucks it into her cheek.

“Thank you,” she says. “Thank you, I… “

Mouth shuts her up, mouth and hands all over her. Kisses on her eyes and nose and ears and neck, they sound like blinky stars, make her fizz up like Pop Rocks.

“I wanna watch you,” she says in between. “I’m so wet, I just… I want to… tie me up, fuckin’… make me watch.”

“Watch what?” he says, “what?”

He’s warm. He’s the water, she’s the bubbles, tiny little bursting things all over, right in his mouth when he draws it over her.

“You,” she tells him. Nods her head at him.

He’s already fuckin’ doing it. Not paying any attention, doesn’t even realize it, and it makes her giggle. Bigass hand playing with his bigass dick, mindless dumbstroking it while he kisses her. Fumbles with her bra strap, her lolly stick, the strings of her ridiculous panties.

“This?” he asks, laughs back, thinks she’s stupid. Cute. Both, she can see it in his face.

“Mmmhm. Make me watch.”

Kisses her forehead, her temples. “Okay. Sit. Sit back,” he tells her, shoving at her shoulders.

She rolls her lollipop around in her mouth, tastes like sharp syrup or something. Sits back like he says, propped against that tall stack of pillowpancakes. Gigglesgiggles at the word, at fuckin’ Eyeball, all tangled in the legs of his pants and laughing at himself. Gets them off, though, then he’s just naked there in front of her, holding his dick.

“Spread,” he says. Still looming upupup, still has that thunderstorm shit swirling around his pretty eye like he’s gonna pour all over her. “Show me your pussy.”

Helaena smiles. Spreads. It’s enough to show a little, she thinks; enough to pull apart her dumb underwear where they’re split and show him something, but he wants more. Says it.

“No, more. Everything. Fuckin’… show me you want it.”

Want. Want tastes like lab-made grape, like a mouthful of fucking come, like the hot drip of desire down the slope of her back, and she shows it to him. Just moves all that shit to the side so he can see the way it makes her swell up and slick up and need, both hands, little knot of fingers trying to give him what he wants.

He watches her hands and she watches his, and she sort of matches up with him. Sort of like music, plucking the stupid string of her panties, one finger then another then another while his hand moves back and forth. Lazy grip, lazy gaze, he’s drifting and distracted, just watching the mess shine up her knuckles.

Fucking disaster. She’s not even doing anything good, just holding. Looking. Her pretty boy and his stupidpretty dick, he’s hers, he’s better than lollies and metal and the papery taste of a joint, he’s so pretty. Not wet enough, he’s never gonna feel good like that, he didn’t even spit. Dry mouth maybe.

“C’mere,” she tells him after a minute. Her chest is full of clouds; thick heavy things that are gonna make her cry or something. Rain. “C’mere, you need to get it wet.”

His brain’s all fogged, though, like those clouds rolled in on him, too. Doesn’t seem to register what she means, because he comes but he doesn’t give her his cock. He’s got that gun again, drags it up off the bed and fumbles it a little. Mag’s in it, she sees that now. Loaded, maybe; maybe not, she doesn’t know. Probably not. He’s not stupid; it’s probably not, but she doesn’t ask.

Her jaw just drops. Still tight, so it just cracks itself open a little around her candystick when he reaches with it. Gets it wet. Slides it through the center of her drippingwetthrobbingwet cunt. Long and slow, warm metal against the ache of her. It feels good. Better when he does it again, gives it a little vibration that tastes lowblack like molasses, makes her whole shit pull and jerk and grab. Makes her gasp.

“Shit,” she says. Voice isn’t really hers, it’s got too much gravel in it, but he answers her.

“Shit,” he says back. “Oh shit,” and when he pulls away from her that thing is glittery, got her girlmess, shinysoftwhite in the creases and the ridges. It’s pretty. Looks better that way, she thinks. Has to choke back a giggle that wants to be a moan, wants to be a begging hot sound, because he puts it in his mouth. Sucks it like she did, takes the taste of her off of it, ohmygod, playing at the trigger with his thumb like a joystick or something.

Scary, scary, fuck, stop, she says, and he does. Lets it fall, thud right next to him and he’s over her again. Acid mouth on hers, stick poking out of the corner of their kiss, wiggling back and forth.

Bra straps are annoying. Slipping down. Cheap shit, doesn’t matter; bare shoulders for his mouth. Shoulders and collarbone and sternum and neck.

Helaena misses his hair. Misses the way it covers her like a blanket, gets in her mouth, gets tucked haphazard into his patch. Can’t even grab what’s left like this, wrists held tight, so she just noses at that stupid disobedient piece that’s hanging in his face. Hanging in hers. She blows at it, and it flutters and floats and she giggles and says fuck me now please, please, now.

He just stares for a minute, bright warm eye like a Christmas bulb, then, “I’m hot. It’s so hot in here,” and he’s got sweat on his chest. In the hollow of his throat. “I will, Laney; I will, just let me… I gotta turn up the air, I…”

Trails off, and she’s suddenly hot, too. Scalp starts to itch with it, make her head taste like ants or something; she didn’t notice til he said it but she’s hot. Thirsty, too. So thirsty, so when he gets up she sorta rolls herself and scoots herself and gets her tied-up hands around the neck of that Gatorade on the nightstand. Cap off with her teeth, laughing at it when she spills it down her chest, and then he’s back.

“What’re you doing, stupid,” he grins. “I love you, give me that,” and he takes it. Pours for her, pours and pours and pours, tastes like cool liquid glass maybe. It feels good and clean and better, and she swallows. He swallows. Licks it up, the sticky wet drips down to the bottom edge of her bra, hot tongue and sweat and sweet pale blue. Lickskissessucks on her, whole chest blooming like a big field of sunflowers, bright light bursting hot everywhere. Summer, summer.

“Come on,” she says. “Come on, in me in me in me come on Daddy please,” scooting back, and she looks down. He’s got that other stupid curtain tieback thing in his hand, little gems in some silk, emerald-color. Green. Green as Savannah, green as gravestone moss, green.

She wonders for a second what he’s doing with it but then he says, “Okay,” and there he is. Tugging her knees apart, pulling at that stupid string at her hip. Wants her bare, naked for him, nothing between them but sweat or air or breath.

He pushes her hands up, holds them high over her head in his sweatybig palm, and she wraps up around his waist, knees and ankles, tangles around herself, around him, holds on, oh.

Want is so much. It’s so much. Fills her, overflows her like he’s fucked her six times and left it all inside, makes her grind her teeth down on her stupid lolly and arch her back and make some sort of sobbing needy sound, and his fucking cock is so big. And right there, just inside then just outside then inside then outside, shallowing her so that that ring of nerves all catch fire, all blinkblinkblink, keep reaching for him. In and out and in and out, and sometimes she fucking hates it. Hates how crazy it makes her. How disorganized and desperate.

But this is so good, now it’s good, that nudgenudgenudge just an inch, just two, the feeling of taking him and stretching and reaching and sparking, over and over. It’s a tease, it’s fuckin’ surrender shit, it’s being forced to open. Receive. Over and over, take take take, open more, open again, something centering in it. It doesn’t blow her apart, send her pieces everywhere. It pulls her like gravity into her own goddamn expansiveness, has her panting and gasping and growling.

“Good, right? It’s good?”

It’s good.

“Tell me, Laney,” so earnest, right in her ear. So serious, so littleboy, feels like they’re six and seven and he’s asking her if she wants to hear about a fucking brontosaurus.

Helaena nods, says yes, but then he’s on it. Really on it.

“Tell me you love me, Laney.”

Shallow, shallow, but oh gosh she’s deep in whatever this is. Feels him breathing, and she matches it. Makes her chest rise to meet his, then lets it fall away. Does it over and over, three times or five or something before she answers; gets them running at the same pace first.

There. There.

“I love you,” she says. In, out, that thread between them tight. Vibrating. Electricity or something, tastes smoky. Grapes and smoke.

He catches on. Both of them just fucking laid flat, fucking hammered-high, but they’re on the same fucking twisted plane of existence, breathing breathing breathing, synchronous and fucking holy as anything.

“Tell me you’re gonna marry me. Right? Tell me,” in and out, just a little. Breath, body, breath.

Fucking cunt is screaming, like a fucking tinybaby orgasm keeps rolling through, the openclose like a pulse. Over and over, the fucking relentless feral pleasure of it. Feels like edging and coming, falling and flying, strange and hot and he’s huge. So is she. Whole universe or whatever.

“I am,” she says, and it doesn’t matter that she can’t. Can’t is for other people, people who can’t get here and know this and oh. This is too big. You can’t stop it. Nobody can stop it.

“You’re gonna have my baby. Right? Tell me. You’re gonna have my baby.”

“Uh-huh.”

“It’s ours.”

“Uh-huh.”

“We made it.”

“Uh-huh,” and his face is so close. Cheek-to-cheek like dancing, his breath in her ear and her breath in his ear and they’re the same. They’re the same. What’s inside of her is just fuckin’ carved out of their rib; the place where they’re joined. The landing on the spiral staircase of their DNA.

“You love me, Laney.”

“I do.”

“I love you.”

“I know.”

She’s fuckin’ wound so bad. So bad, just hovering here bound and balanced on those little sprinkles of dust in the light. She doesn’t mind, though. She could stay, have him just work her gently til one fucking good stroke will do it.

Still at home with Mama when they figured that one out. Spooned up in her bed, fuckin’ January, cold enough in the house that the inner pane of her window had iced itself. Crap insulation, heat so fucking low it may as well have been off. No fucking money. Daddy in the hospital. Had to move, scrunch together to stay warm, sleepy-fucking just for heat, but it got her going. She felt that slow coil, the press just inside making her so wet it dripped on his damn balls. Curled her toes and shit, and when he woke up all the way, wanted more, shoved in deep, she shook like a fucking unbalanced washing machine. Right around him, trembling everywhere when he dinged a hundred spots at once. Three of those strokes and she came right the fuck apart.

She didn’t know she could do that, fucking come like that, but she can and she did and she’s there again now.

He can feel it, how fucking easy it’s gonna be to shove her off that cliff. Slows down even more. “When I tell you,” he says. “Not til
I fuckin’ tell you,” slowslowslow. “You’re mine. It’s mine. When you fuckin’…”

“Yes, Sir.”

Thumb in one side of her damn mouth, lolly in the other; she can feel her fucking teeth sinking into his knucklebone.

“When you come, it’s mine,” other hand fucking with that stupid curtain thing. She can feel his fingers working, little spidery tugs, smoothing and untangling.

“Yes, Sir,” she’ll yes and yes and yes him and sink down and down and down and want and want and want.

“My girl,” soft, and then he’s got it how he wants it. Elbows down, hands at her throat, and she figures him out.

Helaena smiles up, grin tastes like sugarhoneylemondrop stuff, like laying in the grass with nowhere to be and his touch is a click. A lock. Silk and stones, glimmer, green. Tight at her neck.

He’s fucking with the slit, the loop, twisting and turning and sitting it flat. Making her pretty and neat, just how he likes things, and when he’s done he presses down just underneath, sticky thumbweb like a frame. Blinks that eye like he’s gonna hold her image forever.

Beneath him, bowed up like a bridge, clinging tight and twinkling like a sky full of stars. Cuffed. Collared. Kept.

“Come on,” he says, and the next one fills her up like a breath. Like she’s been underwater, and it’s air rushing in and it’s a gasp and it’s life, and she fucking rides that shit until she’s done. Until she’s nothing but glitter.

He’s not done, though. Fucker can go on forever on this shit; molly puts that big S on his chest, rockstar dick, and she’s already fuckin’ emptied him out once. He’s still going, and she’s just soft and melted and pouring out sunshine.

“More,” he says to her, “I fucking love that shit,” smiling into the strap at her neck. Feels bite-y a little, ring of teeth at the edges, gem-points maybe, “fuckin’ pussy tryna kill me, fucking grabbing me like that,” and she just shrugs her fuckin’ hips up at him. Like take it take more take me, mouth doesn’t work, lollipop just tucked under that bitten up lip.

He takes her. Again. One hand holding her fuckin’ wrists and the other pushed up under her bra, using his flat belly flat bones fucking ridiculous cock, friction every time they slide updownup and it’s fast this time, almost on top of the first one, and it keeps coming and coming and coming and coming, and she keeps picking herself up to meet him, fuckin’ holding him like a fist.

Covered in sweat. Both of them, skin stuck and shiny, slippery, oh god thereitisthereitis fuck, and he just says i am i am shit do it again come on my fucking cock
jesus christ helaena come on, stupid asshole running his stupid mouth, calling her out of her fuckin’ name, but she does what he says because he doesn’t stop. At it at it at it til she can’t even think, can’t holler anymore, hollowed out, insides just molded right to the shape of him.

Just a little dollbaby after that last one, flopped back slack and lockjawed around her stupid lollystick, fucking crosseyed or whatever. Just a prettywet hole, feels like, sloppy and used up and loved into oblivion.

Can’t do anymore, can’t move, “I’m hot,” she tells him. “Fuck.”

He’s still fucking ready to go. Goddamn, she thinks. Godfuckingdamn, at the end of the world it’s just gonna be the roaches and her baby brother, hard as fuck with nowhere to stick it.

“I know,” he says, smiling at her. Fingering that shit around her neck, still fuckin’ rubbing his dick up on her. Not even raw. Not yet, she’s so fuckin’ soaked she’s like balm to him. Cock sliding through the center, up and down and up and down, satinsilksoft.

“Hot,” she says, “oh my god,” and he grabs that Gatorade. Gone lukewarm, tastes like sea now, extra salty from her lips, but she drinks and drinks and drinks.

“Outside,” Eyeball says. “Come on,” but she can’t fuckin’ do shit. Nope. Just bats her stupid eyes at him. Sticks out her purple tongue, goofy dickhead stuff, and he smiles at her like he needs to fuckin’ get inside of her again. Like it’s too fucking much for him to be so far away.

“Take me,” she says. Tries to fucking roll over, kick her stupid feet, but she can’t even do that and just ends up in a giggle pile.

He takes her, though. Bends down, hauls her up like he just married her ass and carries her onto the balcony full-on ragdoll, limp in his arms and still fucking tied up.

It’s better out there, cool night with dry air. Itty bitty breeze coming off the ocean, even high up as they are, and Helaena fucking gulps that shit down like water. Good on her skin, good in her lungs, good on her fucking pussy when she lays over his lap and spreads her legs. Yum.

He laughs at her while he lights a smoke from the pack on the table, still killer hard, poking at her thigh. He’s fucking clammy, cold-tacky with sweat when she gets all up on his chest; stinky like it. All saltymusky shit, sweat and sex and spooge. Bad weed breath. It’s fucking good; lolly’s gone and she wants to suck on him instead but she just gnaws on the stick. Bits of paper wearing off against her teeth when he shares his cig. Swaps it out and rubsrubsrubs at her jaw.

“Stay open, come on, you’ll chew your fucking shit apart. Come on,” circles around her smoke while she sucks and blows, inhales exhales, wriggles against his cock and smears its mess all over.

She’s fucking wasted, every fucking drop of pleasure squeezed right out of her like a sponge but god she still wants him. Not it, but him, wants to fucking lick him off the floor, or shoot him straight into her vein, or roll him up in that shitty paper from Waffle’s room and smoke him up. Fuckin’ molly. Hangs over her like a magnifying glass; makes that need in her so big. So big. Light hits it right, it’ll fucking burn everything to the ground.

Gets him, too. He’s holding her smoke for her and pawing at her and rubbing up on her like a fuckin’ hornyass cat or something. Kissing at her face. She’s got nothing for him but her submission; the pliancy of her limbs and the lolling of her neck and the liquid marrow filling up her bones. Nothing to give but in. Up. He can have it, though. He can fuckin’ have it.

She tells him so, says you gonna finish Daddy?, says put it back in, little hands playing with him, getting a little numb from her ties but okay, they’re okay. Thinks she’ll just wrap around his hips and open wide and take the ride; let herself be held down onto his fucking cock and bouncebouncebounced until she’s sore as hell and dripping spunk and pounded like one of those fuckin’ fleshlight things. Thought makes her smile, makes her sag her restless weight into him and start brainlesshumping her fucked-out cunt against his knee. Giving him her throat so he can mouth at her pretty collar. Pry her jewels off with his teeth.

“You want more?” he asks, but he’s already giving it to her, hand between them getting it right, shuffling her around til he’s fucking smacking his shit against her, fuckin’ dick-tapping at her clit and making her jerk all over the place. Little break’s only half fixed her, and her body’s trying to pull away and fucking come again, all at once. Can’t fucking get enough. Never.

“I want more,” she says. “More but I can’t… I can’t…”

“I know.”

“Use me,” she says, “fuckin’ slap my shit around, I don’t care, I wanna fuckin’… I wanna fuckin’…”

There he is, he’s fucking in again, all the way, she’s still wet where the hell is it all coming from, Jesus, oh fucking christ why is he so big all the sudden, fucked too much too long too hard and now she’s all fuckin’ swelled up and tiny or something. Her mouth tastes coppery without that lolly, like she’s biting her own lips to shreds or whatever, and it hurts but fuck, fuck it’s so good, and when he just stands straight up, he tugs her down and that motherfucker’s dick is gonna dislocate her ribs. Holy shit.

“You fucking cockslut, you’re amazing,” he says, over and over, “oh my god, look at you,” and then she’s pressed up against that railing. oh oh oh, high, he’s so tall, and he’s got her up, way up so he can lean deep into her, so he can find that angle he likes and when she tips her head back she’s flying. Sweet dark cherry sky in her mouth, tobacco, acid metal sticky grape fuck her stomach’s lurching, back is sweating against those stacked iron bars and rollingrollingrolling over them, spinning them like those things on their old elementary school playground, whirring against the glass behind them.

She’s high, so high, high high high, trying not to look, turn, cut her gaze sideways to see that she’s fucking parallel with the moon. Big old eye of the universe watching them on their bullshit. Watching him sink into her like she’s a fucking bath, hold her by her neck, her hip, leaning back back back. Far, too far maybe. Too far, she doesn’t love heights, that sick swoop through her spine like a diving bird.

Like Superman.

That’s her boy. That fucking S on his chest. Brass knuckles and a six-hour hard-on and a knife in his boot and a gun in his waist. Got her twisted up, tied tight, fucked full and held a million fucking feet up up up above everything. Gods, monsters, couple of dumbass shitfaced kids about to fall off the edge of the world.

Can’t even grab him. Not really. Shirtless and short-haired now, can only fingertip his arm and lock her knees around his waist. Screammoanbeg around the tongue in her mouth, teeth down in it, and it’s just a yes anyway, just a more, and if she’s gonna die let it be like this, please. Muscles clamped down so hard around him that the motherfucker can’t even freefall out.

fuck fuck fuck muffled sounding, but he can hear her, understand her, feel it echo in his muddy head, mumbling back at her mmmhm like this like this like this, and it hurts now, railing too hard and back bent too hard and wrists tinglingnumb and his dick too hard, fucking cunt too small too tight for him but god he’s gotta be close now finally maybe gotta be, fucking pounding the hell out of her shit shit shit and then he’s shaking, vibration like tracks when that goddamn train is coming, and she wants it all of it whatever he’s fucking got wants to hear it feel it see it, too; see it, so she opens up again, face right over hers, all she can see is his shadow, lashes, scar, skin they’re so close, right on top of each other and fuck, there it is, the fucking throb inside of her, pussy stretched so fucking crazy around him that she can feel it in her fucking thighs, ass, belly, fuck.

His slump nearly kills them both. Pitches their bodies off balance, wobblewobble, but he tugs back, down to his fucking knees, takes her with him, saves the day.

And oh my god, she loves him, he’s still fucking hard enough to get back in. She gives him a good fucking shriek when he does, flips her right over, pressing her forearms into the damn deck, both of them on all fucking fours, motherfucker she says. Deep like this, gonna pop right out of her mouth, fucking come like lube slicking her up, cheek scraping the floor, oh.

One hand at the back of her neck, holding that stupid silky yoke, just pressurepressurepressure at her throat while his whole big body covers hers and he fucks her til he can’t.

Perfect.

Perfect.

Jesus fuck it’s so much.

“My fuckin’ pussy,” she mumbles once he’s soft and spent and sunk low to the ground. Just a battering, wet heart. “Oh my god.”

“Not leaving,” he says. Facedown with her; mouth in her sweaty ear.

“Good.”

“Shit’s mine.” Kisses fuckin’ fill her head, drip in like molasses. “Pussy’s mine. You’re mine.”

“Mmmhm. Yes, Sir. Fuck me harder, Sir.”

He just laughs and laughs and laughs.

Chapter 78: Pomegranate

Summary:

oh still just high & hanging out & making a mess 🤷🏼‍♀️

Notes:

got a little distracted and ended up sidequesting again, but I’m back with a whole lotta nothing that ran on longer than I planned 🤷🏼‍♀️ Not even done but I had to rein it in somewhere 🤣

couple of messy bitches

My mother is a god; she wanted to spare me.
But my nature is nature.
Like everything alive I was meant to be split open,
to blossom, to be sucked, to be eaten,
to lean, to bend, to wither,
to die and die and die and die until I died.

- from Persephone 3 by Marie Howe

 

“I’m hungry.”

They’re back in that big floofy bed, cross-legged, and he’s supposed to be untying her damn hands, but he’s worse than her on this garbage. Keeps getting distracted, tugging a little to get that knot apart but then stopping to pull petals out of her hair - that thing is dropping them like crazy now, smushed and wilty from their nonsense - or just blink doe-eyed at her, like a middle school girl or something. It’s cute; he’s cute, but her fucking wrists hurt. She’s got big red lines in them, and they feel raw and numb at the same time somehow, and she’s over this tied-up shit. And hungry. So hungry.

“Okay,” he says, still la-la-la-ing over there, just plucking away like she’s got all night.

“C’mon, stupid,” she says, nudging at him with her toe. “They hurt; I’m hungry.”

He blinks again, gives another little pull, and that dumbass curtain thing finally gives. Helaena shakes out her hands good, and he takes his thumb and rubs at the angry dents, eye gone all big and sad now.

“Oh,” he says, “Laney I’m sorry, look,” rubbingrubbingrubbing.

She sees. “It’s okay,” she says. “They’re okay, I’m not bleeding, I’m hungry.”

“We have to… we should clean them up,” he tells her. “Look, teeth.”

That’s not the word he’s looking for, nope, but he doesn’t notice, or he doesn’t think it’s funny, because he’s still making a sadeye at her. Starts kissing around those purple-red bracelets he’s left, soft little cloud-tasting things, and it’s nice. She turns for him, turns and turns, so he can make his pretty circles.

“Skin’s not broken,” she tells him again. “It’s fine,” but he’s just shaking his head, not really listening.

“Come on,” he says. “Bath.”

That makes her smile. Better than a stupid alcohol wipe or something. A bath. In that tub. Almost forgot, got so busy with whatever, but that tub is boss; so much room, and whirlyjet things, and the idea makes her bounce like a little kid, clap her hands, and he laughs at her. “Okay!”

“I’m hungry,” she frowns again when he pulls her into the bathroom. Whole thing is big, sparkly fixtures and lots of buttons for everything, and mirrors. So many mirrors by the sinks, and her own stupid pouty face makes her laugh when she sees it repeated like a fucking Warhol painting. It’s a mess. Swollen lips and streaky cheeks and hair like a frizzy, crooked halo. Looks like she’s been on a bender for a week and getting fuckin’ railed to pay for it. She grins, and he drops the towels he’s got onto the marble and stares at her. Gives her a grin back. All kinds of mischief.

“Look,” he says. Wiggles his brows at her when he comes close, and her giggle’s got a stupid snort in it, and that sends him. Fucker tickles the stickysweat back of one knee when he comes up on her and lifts that shit right up.

“What’re you….” she starts, but she can’t get it all out, too silly, and she figures it out anyway, laughs harder when he bends her right over.

“Look,” he says again, turns her head. Room’s starting to fill up a little, yummy steamy stuff, mineral tasting, water running in that tub, whooosh, but she can still see.

“That’s fuckin’ hot,” she tells him, and it fuckin’ is. Could stare at that for a minute, she thinks. Got her spread open and bent over, knee up, whole mess of her cunt repeatingrepeatingrepeating itself, fuckin’ leaking spunk from every shiny surface she can see. Big thumb pressing, screwing around, and when he pushes it in she can see herself give some grippy shit back. Hold him tight, and fuck.

She wishes he was fucking hard again. Wants to watch herself take him, fuckin’ huge cock tiny cunt stuff, it looks so good when he fucks her, so good, fuckin’ jizz squishing out around him, little strokes ininin stretching her nice until she’s all full up, shit.

“Mmhm,” he says. “Watch,” and it’s just fingers, but that’s good, too. Just one at first, and she can see the rest of him next to it, spiderbelly with that palepretty hair to his navel and his sloppysoft cock with her mess still on it and his hand, long fingers, it’s the left side, no bruises, god it looks good.

Doesn’t feel as good as it looks, she’s sore and roughed up but it doesn’t hurt, either. Not one finger. Fuckin’ big knuckle, two will open her more, and he does that next. Two. Holds her apart, fuckin’ all pink and white, shiny fuckin’ come on his shiny fucking skin, cute little pussy. It really is, she thinks. It’s cute, and she giggles, and then he fucks it, turns his fingertips up to bang at her a little, and she can see herself getting wetter. Feel her tummy twist, roll, swoop like she’s back over that railing, wheeeee kinda skydrop stuff.

It’s her favorite kinda fuckin’ porn. She told him that once, long time ago, watching chicks get fingered. Rough stuff, public stuff, loud wet dirty shit, he remembers. Tugs her legs wider. Tells her watch watch watch and the tub’s still running, like they’re outside and it’s a waterfall, splishsplashsplish and oh god it looks so good, the faster he does it the better it looks, and it feels good now, it does, because she’s running too. Just like that faucet. Wet all over his hand, sparkly, got a steady hum in her mouth rising like water. Echoey in here, lots of oh oh ohhhhhh stuff, how the fuck is she gonna come again?? How, but she is, she’s gonna come and fucking watch it, like some wall of cameras in some back room somewhere, her fuckin’ wet-ass pussy all up on display with him three-fingers deep now, fuck.

Arm keeps scraping against the metal on the sink, and her hipbone’s too tight against the sharp edge of the counter, and it’s hard to keep her eyes open now. Got her face all screwed up, side of his knuckle bumping at her clit fastfastfastfast, her own tongue too big for her mouth and his goddamn fingers look too big for her, too; too big oh fuck all of it’s too much fuck, and she watches herself pull so tight around him it makes him say it, too.

“Fuck,” full of heat and steam and oh oh oh oh oh, bubbling like soapy stuff up up up and he says i love your pussy and she says oh and fuckin’ watches herself come all over him. Squeeze and shudder, hips all squirrelly; her goddamn pussy loves him right back. Does whatever he says. He tells her come, that shit says yes Daddy how hard?

Lands a smiley slippery slap right on her ass then; she’s still bent and flat-faced and swallowing up his big old fingers, and it tastes shinysharp and white or something, clean, like the tiles and the smell of her shampoo and the water pooling between her toes and…

“Oh, shit,” Eyeball says, snickering like a naughty boy; like he just got caught lifting Mama’s wallet again. “The tub.”

Overflowing. Nice little cascade of water over the edge, creek streaming across the floor like Pop’s house. No blood. Just water. Trickletrickletrickle, outlining her grubbypale feet and bubblegum toenails.

He yanks his fingers out, leaves her empty and still reaching for them, and he shuts off the tap. Water’s not to the door yet, just puddling all up on the floor in here, and Helaena stays facedown panting like a dog, laughing, while he hits the drain and throws the towels down.

Still laughing, just like her, little hollow sound in this porcelain room.

“Get in,” he says. Back up on her, running hands all down her spine, her ass, her shoulders. “It’s hot, you’ll like it.”

“I’m hungry,” she remembers, pushing herself up. Wrists hurt. Belly’s rumbly. Shit usually kills her appetite but not tonight, maybe it’s the fuckin’ weed. Makes her wanna put everything in her mouth, cock and cookies and whatever else.

“I know,” he tells her. “I know, Laney. Get in. Come on. I’ll get you something.”

It’s drained a little, got room for her, and he’s right. The water’s hot, and that bubbly jet thing is fucking beautiful when it pushes at her lower back like his good hands do sometimes, and maybe she’ll just eat this up instead.

She’s got him by his thumbs, just hanging on like a little kid, and she tries to tug him in with her. “Sit with me,” she says, and he nods at her.

“I will. Gimme a minute, I’m gonna get you food,” and she tells him okay. Doesn’t know what kinda shit they’ve even got, maybe he got something else at the gas station, but it doesn’t matter. He’ll find her something, so she shuts her eyes and leans back on the towel he put behind her. Probably should’ve used it for the floor, ones there are all sopping and that water’s still chilling out there, but whatever. It’s a nice little pillow, and she relaxes into it.

Tub is boss. It’s so boss. Could probably fit three more people in it, deep, good bubbly stuff going on, and she giggles. Thinks about leaning over it, letting that water pressure get her off again, having him fuck her from behind while she does it, and it makes her whole mouth start sparking or something. Like that strawberry soda stuff she used to drink when she was little, super fizzy and sweet and pink, and she squirms. Rubs her thighs together and giggles and she can’t believe it’s even a thing, she’s still sort of bananapants from a few minutes ago, molly is wild shit.

Still smiling, eyes closed and sunk deep when he comes back in. She hears him slosh over the wet floor and nasty towels, and when she looks up he’s empty-handed.

“Nothing to eat?” she pouts at him, bottom lip out and all. Surprised. Thought they at least had something in that mess of shit out there.

“I ordered you stuff,” he says. Sits on the side and swings his long legs over next to her.

Helaena giggles, bites at his shin and gets a mouthful of stupid hair. “Imma eat you instead,” she tells him. Pretends to growl and just makes herself laugh again, starts licking at him, and he splashes her with his big dumb foot. Harder than he means, she thinks; sends a spray of water up and over, and that makes her laugh even more.

She splashes his dumb ass back. “From where? It’s like…” she doesn’t know what time it is. Fuckin’ late. After midnight probably.

“Room service,” he says and sticks his tongue out at her. Puts his nose up in the air, snooty voice, “24/7.”

That’s fuckin’ funny. Funny funny, what the hell is he doing, silly shit, and she just laughs and laughs, doesn’t know why it’s so damn funny but it is, and her laugh tastes fizzy, too. “What’d you get?”

Eyeball shrugs. Lets himself slide in next to her. “I forgot already,” he says. “Something you like.”

“Okay,” Helaena says. Lays her head down on his shoulder. “Thank you.”

“Mmhm.” He lays his head back against hers and starts plucking at her hands. Tracing those lines on her wrists. “Let me take that fuckin’ shit off your neck,” he says, drawing upupup, walking his fingers along all her glowy blue veins until they disappear under her skin, then it’s pinches. Up along the squishy flesh of her upper arm, the soft round of her shoulder, over to the base of her throat. Feels good, little crawly touches, and she shivers a little even though the water’s hot as hell.

Knot in that thing is wet now, harder to move, but he’s got those good hands. Even high as a motherfucker they’re good, and he gives it little tugs, tug tug tug that pulls it against her neck and makes her purr, little kitty in her collar until she feels it come loose and slide down to her chest. She doesn’t know if she’s got biteybites from that, too, but she feels his mouth run around the ring of it, feels the fabric float away, and she melts down into goo. Hot, a bubbly witch’s pot of it, melting right into his slippery skin when he pulls her up tight and wraps her snug in his wiryhard arms.

They sit like that for awhile, just sit and wriggle into each other and nuzzlenudge like a big pile of mushymush, and it’s so nice. All cuddles and quiet, just splashybubbly water and humming jets and dark, just the mirror lights on, and maybe they’re sitting there for an hour or a day or something, Helaena doesn’t know, when there’s a knock.

Rapraprap, short staccato thing, sounds far away but it scares her a little. She’s just in outer space, drifting and snuggling and it’s a big old boo! She jumps, and he snickers at her and kisses her stupid face and tells her it’s just room service, hold on, he’ll get it, and they have to untangle and he dripdripdrips his way to the door.

Naked. He’s naked, and Helaena giggles when she hears the oh!, the whoops I’m sorry thank you, and hears his sillycackly laugh on his way back.

“Asshole,” she says when he pops back in. Giggles more. “You don’t… you don’t fuckin’ do that to chicks, she probably thought you were gonna fuckin’ drag her in here.”

“Dude,” he says. Got a tray balanced on his hand like a waiter. “Fuckin’ dude, I didn’t open it all the way, all the fucking towels are…”

Doesn’t finish though, just shrugs, not even fuckin’ embarrassed, Christ.

“At least you don’t have a fuckin’…” She stops and snorts, sounds so stupid, “…a fuckin’ huge hard-on or something. Was he cute?”

He rolls his eye at her and snorts back. “Kinda? Anyway shut up. Look, here,” he says and pulls off the lid.

Helaena bursts out laughing. “What the hell?”

Bread. There is so much bread. Like… rolls, and slices? And pancakes? And biscuits? Fucking water crackers? Some kinda dipping stuff, looks like honey in a cute little jar, and okay at least there’s some fruit. Figs and pears and a pomegranate, cut right open so the seeds glimmer like jewels on a fancy plate. But it’s mostly bread, like a mountain of fucking bread, and a tiny thing of what has to be soup. Soup. And a singular, sad-looking tomato.

Eyeball looks down, and Helaena watches his eyebrows draw together, then fall right apart like they’re laughing, too, and the fucker just grins at her.

“Baby what are you doing?” she asks, throat full of silly carbonation and some kinda minty-tasting thing. “What is all that?”

“Snacks,” he says, and he sets the damn thing on the big old flat corner of the tub and shrugs at her.

“Oh my God,” she says as he climbs back in, and she starts splashing at him again. “You’re such a nerd!”

“You don’t fuckin’… you don’t… you don’t want this delicious-looking fuckin’ soup?” he laughs, splashing her back.

“This is like… this is probably like a fuckin’ thousand dollars of fuckin’…” she can’t even finish, just dissolves into giggles against his drippy chest, and he shuts her right up. Sticks a fig into her open mouth, and she chuckle-bites it, thing is ripe as hell and it’s so good and she just shuts the absolute fuck up and chews.

“There you go,” he says, poking her in her stupid nose. “Eat, dumbass.”

Helaena swallows. “Have some… have some fuckin’ bread!”

More laughter, and then she’s got another mouthful, and after that he’s just dropping shit in her mouth between bouts of hysteria, it’s getting into the fucking water she’s laughing so hard, and they’re just crumby fingers and crumby lips and two stupid noodles in a nasty crumby stew.

Gets worse, too; fuckin’ sticky. Start messing with that little honeypot, letting it dripdripdrip. It’s for the biscuits, she thinks, fuckin’ southern shit, or maybe it’s for the pears but they don’t slop it on either. Fuckin’ let it pour, amberlemonsunshine, while he squeezes her jaw apart. Still wants to lock up, big fingers in its hinges, and most of it misses. Hits her nose or her chin or drips where the water meets her chest. Some makes it; doesn’t stay because he fishes for it with his tongue, gets bitten, whatever; it all turns coppersweet, chlorinewarm, big mess like summertime fuckin’ jerked off and came all over them both.

He sticks those dumb red seeds to her with it, gives her ruby cheeks and a bloody necklace, and they giggle like asshole kids in a food fight.

“The apple was a pomegranate,” she tells him, listening to the crystalline crunch of those things popping between his teeth. Right next to her damn ear.

“What?”

“The apple,” she says, dunking her fuckin’ tacky-ass elbow down into the water, screwing her nose up at it and scrubbing with her hand.

“What are you talking about?”

“With Eve. And Adam and the fucking snake. No apples over there. It was a pomegranate.” She read that somewhere, can’t remember, and she crawls back into his lap. Swings her damn legs across his hips and bites him square in the middle of his stupid forehead.

It wrinkles into lines, music, whatever underneath her, goes softysoft, and she presses her cheekbone over it instead.

“Oh,” he says, vibrates at her throat. “How the fuck do you bite a pomegranate? You gotta open that shit.”

Helaena shrugs. “Persephone, too. Ate a fucking pomegranate. Bitches been getting in trouble with this shit since forever.” She bites at him again, and he takes another fingertipful and jams the seeds into her grinning mouth.

Fuckin’ kiss rolls them around like one of those tumbler things, steals all the sweet and all the red and leaves them colorlesscracking on her teeth when it’s over. She swallows them like pills, traces his jaw with her tongue, grabs her bottle of body wash shit sitting on the edge.

“We made a fuckin’ mess in here,” she laughs. When she opens it, tiny bubbles come spraying out like shiny rainbow confetti, and she blows at them, watches them sparklepoppop around their heads. Smell tinny, clean, taste like herb-y stuff.

Eyeball tries to stop her, but he’s too late, and she dumps way too much in, right where one of those kickass jets is whirring away, and shit goes bananas. Cheapie stuff, the kind with all those chemical foamers in it, and they boil over like a pot. Blubblubblub, bubblesbubblesbubbles, and the tub is full and the air is full and their mouths are full and they’re laughing, palming each other in the face with it like fuckin’ cake at a wedding, shit rising into a wall of ridiculousness around them.

“Ohhh nooooo!” Helaena squeals. Sounds too high, too tight through her narrowed mouth.

They’ve fuckin’ done it now, she thinks, ohhhhh boy, got a fucking flash flood, and when he stands the fuck up, she nearly drowns laughing. Looks like a damn yeti, fuckin’ abominable snowman shit, that movie they used to watch at Christmas when they were kids, up late with watery packaged hot chocolate and fake-butter popcorn, and she coughs out spit and soap and he’s laughing, too. Pulling bubbles like brush out of his damn hair, sweeping his hands over his body, and they’re falling off but more keep coming, and ohhhhhhhhhh noooooo. She can hear them crackling in the shells of her ears, tickyticky sounds, up her nose, cinnamon on her tongue, and it’s pointless. All pointless, no stopping it, they’re laughing like assholes as the shit runs everywhere and then they just quit. Quit, kiss, soap in their fucking mouths, in their bellies probably, foaming up their stupid brains and scrubbing them clean. Brand new bright white, white as their bubbling skin, as white as this kiss is hot now, hothot, fever of it running all through the web of nerves in her. Poking up through her pores, hot.

Air is steamy, water’s steamy but the heat is inside of her. Feels like she’s going to singe the oilslick skins of her silly bubblesuit, and she grabs him by his cheeks. Tugs their mouths apart, wipes the back of her hand across a soapy band on his chest.

“It’s so hot,” she tells him. “I’m so thirsty. You didn’t get anything to drink?”

He didn’t, but they have stuff. Blue stuff, good stuff, they both remember, and he nods. “It’s hot,” he agrees. “Too hot, come on,” and then he’s dragging her to the door.

Floor’s slippery, water and soap and sopping towels, but once they get to the carpet it’s better. Helaena drags her wet feet over, dries them in the softplushy threads of the rug, and the relief is instant. Balcony’s still open, cooler air, and her brother grabs the Gatorade as they go, out out out, back into that nighttime breeze.

“Oh!” she says. Full of surprises everywhere, fuckin’ sky is spitting at her when she leans against that railing again. Clouds crept in wearing their fluffy slippers while they were away, and now the moon is half-shaded, dark streaks through it, and there’s rain.

She tilts her head up to it, chugs her fuckin’ drink while he crowds in close, slings an arm over her shoulder. They’re both fucking sticky-skinned from the starting-to-dry soapy shit. She’s got a random purple petal clinging to her tit like some tweaker mermaid, and his thumb’s fussing with it, pressing the wet mess of it into her flesh, and they’re naked out there in the thin, damp starlight, just getting rinsed off by the sky.

Chapter 79: Oasis

Summary:

more mollynonsense; sorry not sorry 🤷🏼‍♀️

Notes:

having a little trouble with ICE in my country 🙄

so here’s a better use for it

nothing important, just more nonsense. promise this night is almost over 🤣🤣

It’s not too late. Our heads haloed
with gnats & summer too early
to leave any marks.
Your hand under my shirt as static
intensifies on the radio.
Your other hand pointing
your daddy’s revolver
to the sky. Stars falling one
by one in the cross hairs.
This means I won’t be
afraid if we’re already
here. Already more
than skin can hold. That a body
beside a body
must make a field
full of ticking. That your name
is only the sound of clocks
being set back another hour
& morning
finds our clothes
on your mother’s front porch, shed
like week-old lilies.

- from On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous by Ocean Vuong

 

The rain picks up fast. Starts sheeting down while they’re standing there, like those clouds were just waiting for a target and here they are.

It feels good; clean and cool like a shower, and it gets all the leftover gunk off. All that stickiness, whatever residual crap they had on them, and they both turn their faces up to it, open-mouthed smiling and goofy as hell. Gulping, laughing, coughing, and Helaena pushes at her own jaw. Cranks her teeth apart and lets it all pour right in. Swallows, twirls her naked self around and swallows moremoremore.

“I love rain,” she laughs. Makes her skin goosebumpy and her nipples turn hard like gems; like those shiny little cuff-and-collar studs. Everything taut, everything at attention, everything straining to see what’s next.

“Me, too.”

It’s pouring over him, and it’s like that night a month ago when she watched him from the window, body hunched and hiding, cigarette burning behind his big white hand, but it’s not that. It’s brand new. It’s like she’s back sitting in that stupid plushie chair in that therapist’s office - what the hell was her name, she can’t remember now, doesn’t matter - follow my finger with your eyes follow follow follow, replacing that picture with this one: naked, laughing, head back, pale as a streak of lightning, wet and beautiful and high and happy, and she just throws her arms around him. Squeezes tight, like she can pull all of him in, osmosis, take him hide him keep him absorb him like so much water.

He squeezes back; holds her like she’s so slippery she might disappear, and it rains and rains and rains.

They soak themselves until their marrow’s soggy and they can hardly stay upright, then he just scoops her up again and takes her back inside. Leaves those big doors open for the breeze and the darkness and the taste of the ocean in the air.

“Coffee,” he tells her. Plops her right down on that kitchen table, her wet ass slipping around to the edge.

“Yes!” Helaena says, shaking her hair out like a wet dog while he starts to fuss with the pot. It’s a real one, fancy. All kinds of settings, and there’s all kinds of bougie shit, too: regular can of expensive-looking coffee, some brand she doesn’t know; those little single serve pods, even fucking beans and a grinder so you can do it your damn self.

That’s what he does; stands there like some dripping wet, weirdo barista at some overpriced nudist cafe fuckin’ grinding coffee beans in the middle of the fucking night. Helaena grins at him and uses her toes to tug a dish towel off the counter. Eyeball used it to mop up some of his mess, and she steals it to dry herself a little, face and neck and whatever else. Smells like detergent and rain and it’s some sticky microfiber shit that makes her shudder. She doesn’t wanna touch it long, makes her mouth taste like static shock and hurts her teeth, so she tosses it.

It hits him as he fills the little basket thing, and he turns to look at her, scar out and lovely, a tiny drop of water sitting in the bow of his pretty top lip. “What?”

She just smiles. Pokes at him with the same monkey-toe she used to snag the towel. “Cream. Do they have cream? Got everything else up here.” They didn’t even open the damn fridge. Could be fuckin’ full up with good shit for all they know.

He pokes his head in. “Cream,” he says. “And milk. And half-and-half. Buncha fuckin’ liquor; you want rum in there? Soda. Fuckin’… enough condiments to have a goddamn barbecue or whatever.” He tugs at the freezer door next, just for funzies she guesses because what the hell are they gonna put in there, frozen dinners and ice cream? “Just ice.”

He closes it, then he stops for a second. Looks back at her, fuckin’ naked and perched on the table, fiddling at him with that restless foot, kicking her legs like some little kid way up high. Then he opens it again.

She looks at him funny, all water-dropped and shimmery in the dim kitchen light. Rain is pounding out there now, wind going, like maybe a big old thunderstorm is kicking up or something. Roaringroaring rain. “What…” she starts, but he tugs out the trays.

Stainless steel things, match the kitchen, matte-shiny with that freezer-frost shit. She hears the little crickcrack sound, watches his hands give a pop with the lever in the center, and they’re all loosey-goosey.

“C’mere,” he says, voice sillylike, playful, tastes cherry-red in her ears, but she doesn’t come; he does. Right up between her legs, ice behind his teeth, sucking like it’s candy, then there’s his mouth.

Cold kiss, freeziepop kiss, makes her shiver and smile. Hands are cold, too; cold from the tray and the freezer and the rain, but they melt, too. Melt right into her body, and the ice melts in her mouth, and they pass it back and forth and back and forth for a minute. Let it turn warm, let it run down their throats and around their gums, let it run out the corners of their lips and over their chins, clankclankclanking against their parted teeth.

Whole kiss is a grin. It’s kids on the beach and snow cones and the first hard spray from the sprinkler, that icy fucking hose water blasting their sunhot skin, giggly and full of summer-shouting.

Delicious. Cold, makes her nipples perk again, and he finds them with his thumb and loves them hard and tickly-pulsed. One and then the other, slips them between his knuckles, traces the line downdowndown to where the upturned mouth of her breast sits against her ribs.

When it’s gone, nothing but a ghost on their tongues, he takes another one. Uses it like a finger. Heat of her neck, bones and thin-skinned hollow places; places where her blood comes running up to meet it. Downdowndown, chest and shoulders and arms; veins like a map, she can feel them shrink and retreat, feel the funny contrast, hotcoldhotcold. Brain doesn’t know what to do with it; where to focus or how to sort it. One sensation like the other like the other, a cold burn, and she just falls. In and down and in and in and into it, like it’s that deep fucking bath water.

He lets that one melt away, too. Drip down, fill the little cup of her navel and trickle out, and he follows it everywhere. Warm over cool, blowing breath or dragging his tongue like an eraser. Makes her sit real still, freeze like those cubes in their fancy fuckin’ tray and wait. Feel. Just feel.

Another one, and that one makes circles and spirals, mandalas, fractals. All over her round parts, nipples and kneecaps and shoulder-curves and nose. That makes her giggle, and he sucks off the water before it can drip and make her sneeze. He traces those angry red bracelet-bruises at her wrists. Soothes them slow and follows them with kisses. Down again, back to her belly button, circles and circles and circles. Wider. Over the pooch of her tummy, all the way around like he’s drawingdrawingdrawing, a happy face, smiley, and she wriggles. Kicks her legs at him, and he bites her lip. A warning a yes an I love you, whatever.

Coffee’s brewing up good; whole place smells like it, warm and yummy and home, all that rain still rushing like a river, everything’s full. Ears, nose, mouth, hands; got them running all over him, skin shower-cool but his heat is there, too. Just underneath.

Cold circles, lower, thighs nudged apart by his other hand now. Finds more curve, more round, the soft topography between them. Just that blunted corner of ice, tracing the landscape he knows better than any fucking thing on this earth. Dripping water, down the slope of her thigh and the pricklysoft of her cunt, just a little. Tiny cool line like one of those fine-pointed markers, ohhh it’s nice.

She’s hot there. So hot, furnace boiling, and the cold makes her gasp at his mouth. Reach for him, push him back, both, she doesn’t know but he likes it. Hums at her lips, kisses her deep as drowning. Takes all her air, but it’s okay. She’s so still now she doesn’t need it, toed up on some tight string that’s running from the top of her head to her stupid feet, waiting.

Thing’s smallish now, good and melted, and Helaena barely barely barely notices when he slips it inside. Feels just like his fingertip, colder, water-slick and shallow.

Did this before once, back home, and she hated it, but it wasn’t like this. Clumsy, whole edgy cube just stuffed in her, and she kicked him in his damn nose. Always jamming shit up inside just to see what it’d fuckin’ do, but they’re grown now, she supposes. At least he is, on his Daddy shit, slowtendersoft shit, finger just circling through the cold. Dreamy and lazy, like he’s doing her a favor. Hotcoolhot, everything stacking up on itself right there where the outside turns in, where all of those nerves pop and spit and reach, and oh.

She says it, oh, tiny mouse sound through her tiny mouse mouth, and first it’s you like it? but she can’t make the words come, sitting in some kinda pause, so she nods and he circles and she nods and then it’s you like it, not a question just words in the gaps of her teeth, oh she does. yes

It melts away, cool creek bubbling to warm, disappearing under his fingers, inside and around and against her, in the whirlpool of his touch.

He fumbles behind him for another one, whole tray starting to loosen up from the air, and the damn thing clatters to the floor. Doesn’t matter; he grabs one and pops it in his mouth first, sucking it clean and smooth at the corners while Helaena’s toes wigglewiggle and her hips squirm and her neck makes a pretty backbend. When he’s happy with it, he’s back to work; lips on her lips and tongue on her tongue and that icecoldwarm thing writing his name across her thigh. She recognizes it, the careful mountains of his m and n; the way the d feels like a spikyslashy thing.

She smiles, he smiles, and then he’s on the other side. Hers now, graceful loopy l that bumps up, makes his knuckle brush the hotwetdrip of her, slow like all that honey they poured in the bath. It drags up a rumbly sound from her chest. A purr. Honey-tasting, too; matches up, and then there’s his mouth again. All that hot-over-cool, fuckin’ steam coming from her skin when he licks it, brands the letters over her, stares like he can see them. Like he’s reading and remembering, like he’s got that hymnal open at church so he doesn’t lose the words.

Centered again, oh, just the softsmall edge, up and down, bumpbumpbump in a gentle line, just in and up and in and up and in, in, in, the lightest press. No stretch, just hotcold surrender when he presses it right through.

He holds it, lets it melt down the ridge of his thumb, and then he’s low. Big body dropping downdowndown til his knees hit the floor, and Helaena flutters her eyes at him. Watches, tastes like silvermetalsweet when he blinks up.

Pretty like this, she thinks, pretty kneeling, pretty from this uphigh angle, pretty when his teeth sink, pinch, drag at her thigh. The inside of her knee. When he takes her fuckin’ toe and sucks it like a lolly.

She giggles; he grins, and then he’s pushing upupup, ice slipping deeper inside of her gentle and cool, hotcoldhotcold, turning her into a fountain. Water trickling out, slowskinny stream that ends on his tongue. Out flat and waiting, right there, like he’s been walking in the desert for six days, thirsty as fuck, and here she is. Goddamn oasis.

He just waits, and he drinks, and he smiles, and she laughs, and when she does it comes out moremoremore; she can feel it. Just a little, soft feeling like she’s leaking all his fucking spooge or something. She probably is, she thinks; that’s probably there, too, just running out into his prettyboy mouth.

When that bit of ice is gone, there’s another one. Starts smaller; everything is shrinking up from sitting out. He swishes it first, cleans it with his spit and it slides in easy. Makes her clench and sigh, pet him while he turns his tongue to a cup, dripdripdrip, fuckin’ water and pussy and come, staring at her like she’s the fucking Madonna.

He kisses her, then, lips round to the shape of her, a sort of sucking needy thing, before he finds more ice. Melty, small, and this one he just licks. Quick over his tongue, and Helaena squeals when she feels it, table edge digging into the flesh of her ass as he slides that thing right inside of it.

“Ohh!” she says, a burst of cold where it doesn’t belong, and he smiles. Big, dopey sort of thing going on in his eye, and she’s dripping from everywhere. Running messy and cool, hot skin hot body hot little holes like the chalice on the altar, right into his mouth. Both at once, drip drip drip, holy holy holy, drip drip drip over his tongue, swallow swallow swallow oh.

Makes her shiver, squeeze, tremble all through her muscles like he’s leaning on a nerve.

He is, she supposes. He is.

Arch of her foot fussing at his shoulder, her hands damp on the wood, his hair soft at the palewhite skin inside her thighs.

She loves him, she thinks. Fucking fierce as anything, she loves him.

Then it’s done, nothing left, all that ice in a puddle on the floor, and they’re just staring at each other in the low-light kitchen gloom. Helaena reaches down, fits her hand around his cheek, and he turns his coolwarm lips against it, and they stay.

They stay.

Outside, it’s a fuckin’ monsoon or something now. Rain like a stampede of horses, thunder off somewhere like a fucking drumline, whole ass western going on over the sea. It fills her head right up, her ears; makes her feel dozy and dumb. Molly starting to fade, maybe; comedown starting, and god she’s just tired. So tired. Bones going to liquid while she sits, and she tells him so after a minute or ten or fifty.

“I’m tired,” she says.

He’s just staring back, leaning into her bare skin, temple and cheek and the side of his nose. Pupil wide and black and shinybright.

He nods. “Okay,” he tells her. “Okay. We should sleep.”

It’s late. Or it’s early. That strange hour when it’s both, or it’s neither. Clock on the stove says so, tiny cloud-cracks of first light through the window agreeing.

She nods back and lets herself slide down; plunk right into his lap like a hot, heavy stone, and when he stands, she laughs. Weightless or something, just swept up like dust in his arms, but they don’t go to bed. Not right away.

Outside first. Cup of coffee each, still warm from that fancy machine.

It’s perfect.

Everything is howling, blowing in sideways, but they curl up into a corner where it just whooshes right by. Sends a little backspray at them that feels good; tastes mistyfresh like morning.

Weed’s fine, everything in those stupid little baggies jammed into the cushions, and Helaena perches in her brother’s lap. Angles herself to shield him while he rolls and seals and lights it up. Skinnier this time, just a little nightnight joint, and he lets her go first. Suck it in slow and sexy, stretching long over him, straddled across his hips with his fuckin’ half-hard dick pressed against her cunt. Feels good. God, everything is good.

She gives it to him, opens wide and fills his lungs, her hair hanging down in damp spirals and his face between her palms. Two three four five, until her head is just haze and sleep and shhhhhh.

“Okay,” he says. Takes the joint from her and kills it against the wall, blowing the last of his smoke through his nose. “I’mma get your ass to bed, little girl.”

“Yes, Daddy,” she says. “I’m sleepy.” Yawns like she’s three, and she fell asleep at the grown-up party, and he’s gonna pluck her off the couch and tuck her little body in. She nuzzles his neck, and he hauls her up against him, and when they hit the sheets they’re cool. Soft. Everything.

He’s all the fuckin’ way up again, cock hard against her ass when he gives her that spoony-spoon cuddle, and she murmurs something even she can’t fuckin’ hear. Can’t understand. It bypasses her brain; slips out through her lips as she opens her legs for him, and he tucks in, too. Slow. Slow, slow, slow, inch by inch by inch, til he’s in tight. Snug inside of her, her body holding him like a teddy, and he’s got his face in her neck, and she’s full and tired and beloved.

“I love this,” he says.

“I love you,” she says back. “Goodnight, Daddy.”

“Goodnight, Laneybug.”

Chapter 80: Bright Instrument

Summary:

just meandering

Notes:

this is not what I set out to write, but like… I couldn’t get it going, and then I got way sidelined by another au that’s rotting my brain 🤷🏼‍♀️ and then that brain said more porn please, and so more porn it is. Next chapter will be what this one was supposed to be I guess

these two are like… way leaning into the size kink of it all here, and it’s more wet and messy and weird sex. you know how I do.

but it was me
who didn’t know: me with my
six dozen kisses and the great Eden
of my virginity. How
do we not talk about it

every day: the ways
we were changed
by the gift
in someone’s touch—your body,
suddenly a bright instrument
played by an otherwise
silent divinity.

…

It was
a kind of miracle: the dreamed
impossible—my soul finally called
to my flesh. I didn’t know
what I didn’t know and then I knew.

- from Donna James by Tim Seibels

 

Sleep is loose and layered, like a big old pile of summer clothes. Doesn’t settle. Helaena just inhabits it, pushes her arms and legs in and lets the dreamy half-consciousness drape over her. She’s aware, then she’s not, and she’s dreaming, then she’s not, and she’s too hot, then too cold.

Her boy’s restless, too. Rolling away from her then back again; reaching for her then trying to jam the blankets in between to buffer the sweat. He’s hard, then he’s soft - cock, elbow, cheek.

Messy rest, if you can even call it that at all.

Hard to tell how long it lasts; none of it feels real, all the slipping in and out of shit, but some part of her registers the gray, slanting light. The white noise of the rain still rushing outside. Her mostly-full bladder, her dry mouth, her wet cunt.

Dreaming, she thinks sort of vaguely. She must have been dreaming, or maybe it’s the way he’s been bumping and nudging and rubbing at her that’s got her all fuckin’ dick-melting hot. Confusing her poor body with his unsettled sleep. Coming and going.

When she decides to try to get up to take a piss, she has to crawl out from under his arm, but he won’t fuckin’ let her. Clamps right down in his own semiconscious panic; that animal brain of his not having any of it.

Helaena grumbles at him. Gives him an elbow, but it doesn’t help. She can feel his muscles flex and tighten, hold her hard, and then his nasty breath is right against her face. “Stay.”

“I just gotta pee,” she says, but he shakes his fucking head against her. He’s still half asleep, maybe still fuckin’ blitzed; she doesn’t know what the hell time it is or anything.

“Uh-uh.” He pulls her in closer, or pulls himself closer, whatever. Giant fucking hard-on right against her ass. “Stay.”

“I’ll be right back,” she says, wriggling a little into him. Sounds halfhearted, though, and it feels more like quarterhearted or something. She’s wet, and he’s hard and warm and delicious on her skin, and he’s not making it easy.

“No.” Grumpy-voiced, sleepy-voiced, all kindsa brother-voiced. “Gimme that pussy first.”

She smiles as he fuckin’ rubs on her again. Coming outta some dream; maybe the same one she had. Maybe they’re all threaded and looped together in every fucking dimension, fucking on some astral plane but didn’t finish. “Mmmmokay,” she mutters. She’s so fucking easy sometimes. All the time. God.

He’s just searching with his hips, hands busy with her now. Hot all over, skin-and-blood-and-need hot; looking for places to hold while he tries to get himself where he belongs, jammed up between her stickysweaty legs. Jawline and neck and ribcage and hip, his hand drawing the shape of her in his lazy scrawl.

Helaena spreads for him. Feels her body resist a little, tacky and gross from whatever the hell’s leaked and dried and made a mess of her, and his big old dick smacks right against the inside of her thigh. Heavy and close enough to make her sleepy-whimper.

He likes that. Always likes her noise, fuckin’ dips his face into her hair when she does it like he can hardly stand it. “I was dreaming,” he tells her, like he’s poking around inside of her head. Knows just what she was thinking.

“What was it?”

“Fuckin’… I remember,” he says. “For once,” just rockingrockingrocking a little. Taking her with him, that slow dirty grind that melts her guts to liquid. “You were fuckin’… we were little kids. You were little.”

“Mmhm,” she murmurs, rocking and rocking along, slippery-sliding against him. Waiting for him to go on.

He does, but he meanders. On some shit this morning, from dreaming or fucking mollycrashing or whatever. “Still little,” he says to the curve of her neck. “Still fuckin’… still feel like you did when you were fuckin’ fourteen. Over, come on. On your stomach.”

Helaena grins into the blankets, half stupid when he pushes her a little. Lets him roll her and fix her and get all up on her back. Feels like a knife pressed there, leansharp body threatening her spine, and she feels all his fucking energy rush right through her. Make her shudder.

He’s still running his stupid mouth. Telling her a fuckin’ story, telling her what he wants, just on it. Straight outta sleep with this shit. “I was the only one in my fucking class getting pussy and I couldn’t even fuckin’ brag about it,” he tells her, hotdry laugh in her ear. She smiles as her skin pricks up under it, shoulders tugging together at the shiver. “Fuckin’ thirteen, Laney. What the fuck. Come on, cross your fuckin’ ankles. Nice and tight for me.”

She listens, running the sole of one foot down his stupid hairy shin before she locks them up.

“Good girl,” he tells her. Tells the pillow, anyway, right through the little window-curve above her shoulder, then she can feel his mouth on her. Right over that fucking bite. Her freshy-fresh tattoo. Some part of her can still feel it; the ghost of his teeth in the graveyard of her bones. “I wanna fucking work for it. Fuckin’ little-ass pussy. Jesus Christ. You like that?”

She makes a baby noise, arches up, wriggles, all different kinds of yes. Would fuckin’ open her legs a mile for him, let him feel how much she likes it, if he didn’t have her held down and squished so small.

Fucking dick right there now, just pressing against her, huge and hot and dangerous and hers. She’s got his pulse. Can feel it everywhere. Can translate it; read him like her cards. She knows what kinda game he’s playing, how he’s trying to feel, and it makes her swallow a little. Gather up her fucking spit before she can talk.

“Mmmhfuck, why are you so big?” she asks him, lifting up a little to slide him down the middle. Right against her, bump at her fuckin’ clit first and settle like he’s gonna push right inside if only he could fit.

He smiles into her hair; it all moves a little with the corners of his lips. “For you. So you can’t fuckin’ think about anything else when I’m in you,” he says.

Body likes that answer. Brain, too; both of them scrunch in, get smaller and hotter and wetter, and she gives him her best littlegirl whimper. “So get in me.”

“Say please.” It’s at the back of her ear, but it burrows all the way in. Shrinks her more.

“Please, Daddy.”

“There you go,” he mutters at her, but he doesn’t fuckin’ do it. Not yet. Just presses harder, gives her a deep sort of nudge that lights all her shit up. “Are you a big girl? You gonna fuckin’ take it like one?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“I dunno. Too fuckin’ small, I think. See?” Little bumpbumpbump again, just hips, no hands, knocking at the fuckin’ door and making her arch her back and stretch long, press tighter, gasp against the hand he’s got over her mouth now.

Room is hot. Rain and breeze still, tempering the air, but goddamn; motherfucker’s got lava for blood and he’s got her sweating herself stupid. Dripping everywhere, and he’s dripping on her, too. Dripping inside her, up so tight that his fucking dick is leaking all over her. Hand downdowndown to her throat. Gentle as anything when he fits around it and holds her steady.

“Tiny little thing,” he says. Voice lower and lower and lower, just a whisper, like the louder his fucking body feels, the quieter his mouth gets. She can hear him fine, though. Hear whatever secret he’s got to tell her. “Gonna have to stretch that little pussy nice for me. Can you do it?”

Goddamnit. “Yes, Daddy.”

“Gonna fuckin’… you want it?”

“Please, Daddy.”

“You sound so pretty. Gonna fuck you wide open, pretty thing. Okay?”

Eyes fucking roll back at that one, and she bites the damn pillow like a naughty puppy or something. Can’t even fucking answer, just makes some growlybitey sound to match, and her hips roll back against him like a tide. Makes him slip, push in, give her the fuckin’ tip and the sound that comes out of her is so goddamn feral that she almost laughs.

He does, too. Through his nose, warm puff against her skin, and he doesn’t pull back. Just lets her have it; lets her relax around him, tells her she’s perfect, oh my god her cunt is perfect.

“What’s that feel like, little girl?” he asks her. Deeper, slow, her whole body squeezed so hard she starts fuckin’ panting through her teeth.

“Fuckin’ crazy,” she tells him, voice as tight as she is, and it’s not a lie. Fucker’s got her caged up, pressed together between his knees, and every goddamn inch feels like a fight. “So much. Got me stretched so fuckin’ wide, I can’t…”

“Mmmhm.” Hum feels good, too, like it’s a hand scruffing her neck or tugging on her hair. Puts her nerves right up. “You’re fuckin’ impossible, Laney; God you feel like…”

Like what, she doesn’t know. He just buries his face in her neck, matches her breath for breath, gives her more and more and more while she whines and wriggles and fuckin’ wets his huge cock like her whole body’s crying for it.

“Oh god,” she says when she feels it - right up there in her fuckin’ business, smooching on her cervix or whatever, pressing in behind it so til there’s not a goddamn millimeter of room, she swears - “fuckin’… right in half, Daddy, fuck.”

She sounds funny, like she’s on a little tightrope of desperation or something, and she can feel all of his goddamn muscles answer it. Squish her somehow tighter, squish themselves tighter, squeeze his brain right next to hers in that strange, fragmented headspace, where they’re just pieces trying to jam themselves together to make some kinda sense. Breath right in her ear now, heavy; pressure on her and in her and through her, blocking her throat and making her belly ache with how fucking deep he is.

“There,” is all he says for a minute. Just rests, waits, whatever, licking and chewing and tonguing at her while she scrunches her face up and makes little dollbaby sounds. “Good?”

“Good,” and it’s a sighmoangaspthing, barely intelligible, but God it’s fucking good. It’s everything. His weight just swallowing her up, so fucking good maybe she’ll just come right now, like this, gush all over his fucking cock, a fucking ocean of it, and drown them in it facedown in this stupid big bed, and no one will find them for days, that Do Not Disturb sign just clicking against the metal doorknob every time someone comes to look. If he moves at all, she might. She might.

And he might, too, she thinks, way that motherfucker’s belly is jumping all over. Way he’s making those noises back, quiet little sounds like he’s gonna fucking die right on top of her. Fuckin’ vibrate-y things, groanyboy things, sound like they’re just shoved balls-deep into hers, and it’s ridiculous. So good she wants to fucking eat them. Eat him.

Maybe they can just swallow each other. Fucking snake eating its own tail.

She’d fucking like that.

When he finally says something, it’s hazy. He’s still in that dream: her at fourteen, braced under him, tense and rigid like a fucking corpse while he tried to get the goddamn angle right. Knowing she should fucking relax - no stranger to pain; none of them were, and the stiffer you got, the harder it stung, but she couldn’t. The sensation was so fucking alien. Even his nasty, bony, toofasttoohard fingers hammering at her were nothing like it. Smaller then than he is now, maybe by a lot, but it still felt like he was trying to shove Waffle’s stupid soda bottle bong up in there.

“Shouldn’t’ve let me do it like that,” he says, just fishing around in her head again. They’re buzzing through the same universe, so many memories in common, every trigger wired alike. “I hurt you. Shoulda waited.”

“For what?”

“This. Now. For me to fuckin’ grow up.”

When she laughs, she almost fucking loses it. It rolls her a little, pushes him in, and it jostles her stupid bladder right against his cock, feels like. Laugh turns into a moan before she can grit out an answer. “Then you really fuckin’ would split me in half. Sticking that giant thing in a virgin. Nah.”

“I’d be so gentle,” he mumbles, like they’re back there and he’s trying to talk her into it again. Like he X’d himself into a time machine. “I fuckin’… I know better now. Fill you up so sweet you’d cry about it, I swear.”

Might cry about it now if he doesn’t shut up, she thinks. “Dumbass brother,” she says to him. Stupid big dumb puppydog. Dripping honey all over the place again. “Show me.”

He does, then. Tells her come on and slides off; holds her hip like they both might fucking implode if he slips out, and gives her that slow, side-lying morning shit. Pulls one of her knees up snug and shrugs himself against her just a little, just a nudgenudgenudge inside, barely moves at all at first, until that noise is coming right in rhythm. With him, with that rain still pouring out there, just little ah ah ah stuff, and it picks up and picks up, louder and faster but soft, so soft somehow, she’s so goddamn wet, and then he’s got her hand. His own. Both of them right there and he tells her to feel, come on, right in her ear.

She does, and it’s fucking unreal. Slippery and soft and god he’s big and he just feels bigger and bigger and bigger the more he touches her, everything tightening like a fucking screw when he plays with her. Thumb in that pretty pattern, bumping at himself when he strokes down, and where they meet she can’t even tell them apart. Not really. Both of them slippery and moving together like they’re always this way. Supposed to be this way.

“Watch,” he says after a minute. “Open your eyes.”

He can’t see her face, but he fuckin’ knows her. How she scrunches up when she gets close like this, hides everything else so she can feel it just right, but sometimes he wants her to look. At him, at them, whatever, so she opens her eyes, and the angle’s good. Tilts her chin down, his other hand twisted up in the tangled mess of her hair, and it makes her gasp out loud. Makes all that noise come faster, louder, way she’s fucking shinytight and open wide, just like he promised, both of them all flushed and glittery with each other’s fucking mess. Beautiful and strange, something fucking alien about it, and it’s probably just the leftover seep of all that shit in her brain, but she doesn’t care. She looks.

And Jesus Christ, there’s some spot inside her, all the way back and all the way in, and some little-dicked motherfucker’d never get at it but he can, he does; however they’re fuckin’ doing it is just right. Probably on purpose, she thinks, somewhere in some backwoods turn in her consciousness. Ruining her on purpose; writing his name so deep that nothing else will ever be enough. Makes her eyes cross, makes her see them fucking in double, makes her start shrieking, give him a christ right there right there like that oh daddy please with her whole chest, and he gives it to her right there right there right there, just like that, fingers still working her over, and that’s it.

Wettest thing that’s ever happened when she comes. Squirt and piss and whatever, whole body lets go all the fuck over his cock, and their hands, and the bed, and the fucking carpet ‘cause they’re on the edge, and maybe the goddamn ceiling, too; she doesn’t know. Body just pops like a cork, sprays everywhere, and she swears it gets in her fucking mouth, too, because she’s hollering, and probably his because he’s right next to her, but he doesn’t care. Maybe doesn’t even notice because he’s fucking uncorked right along with her, like her wave just washed it out of him, sound of it mixing with all that whooshing water, and it’s straight fuckin’ porno shit. Up to his balls while she fucking wrings him out, screaming her head off and soaking the goddamn room.

It’s a mess.

Leaves them both half-laughing, Helaena halfway into what feels like could be her first fucking asthma attack in two years, but she manages to rein it in. Take some breaths, bite down on the fingers he’s curled into the side of her mouth in some silly softboy fishhook thing.

He’s still fucking pulsing and pulsing and pulsing, goddamn orgasm spilling like a bottomless cup, and she can see it. See the way it makes her own body move, she’s spread so tight, and she wonders if it always fucking looks like that.

She sucks on his damn fingers while she ponders it. While he gets right in her ear again, sighs at her, “Fuck, Laney; fuckin’ come all over my fuckin’ dick like that, I can’t…”

“Big old dick. Everywhere,” she murmurs, garbled around those sleep-and-skin-and-sex-tasting fingers in her mouth. “Came all over everywhere. Good morning.”

Except it’s not morning anymore. Not for awhile. All that gloom is just the day. Dark, rainy sky and a dark, gunmetal sea, and when Helaena scoots herself up to make her way to the bathroom to wipe herself down or something, she realizes right away that it’s not fucking good, either.

Notes:

fun fact: I came thisclose to giving yr boy a real piss kink, cos like… you don’t get a better mix of that possessive/territorial thing and like… gross little brother than that, right?

but honestly it seemed a little… impractical? to be doing that all the time, so instead I just wussed out and made him obsessed with his own jizz instead 🤣

this ends your episode of true smut confessions

Chapter 81: Messy

Notes:

I did it 🙈 I wanted to get this chapter done before the end of the month. Got a little distracted and ended up side questing HARD - like 25k hard - and had to find my way back into Helaena’s head.

But as a break will sometimes do, it gave me a little clarity and direction about some shit, which I needed. So. here we go.

I also bounced back and forth between this and another part of the aforementioned side quest 🤣 which will be turning up soon probably.

If you stuck with me here, thank you! ♥️

I am an
unforgivable
creature. But darling, I will love you.
I will love you through all my disgusting perfomances.

— from The Short Poems Series by Royla Asghar

 

“Oh, shit,” she says, talking to herself first, but real quick it’s, “Ohhhh shit. Eyeball!”

Helaena gets to the fucking tub as fast as she can without breaking into a run and slipping, cracking her damn head open on the tile, and she shuts the tap off.

“Eyeball!”

Oh, it’s bad, and as her eyes adjust to the day and her brain fuckin’ adjusts to being sober, she starts to realize how fucking bad.

Water everywhere. Everywhere. Somehow, they didn’t turn the stupid tub off all the way, and the whole fuckin’ bathroom is flooded. Sound must’ve blended in with the rain sounds, or they were too high to register that shit, but it’s been running for hours. Seeping out onto the carpet, maybe even under the door and into the hallway, but she hasn’t figured that out yet. Looks like it, though. Could even be going through the fucking floor, raining in one of the goddamn rooms down there.

“Fuck!” Eyeball hisses at her, coming into the doorway, wiping his stupid cock off with a pillowcase.

All kinds of shit mixed in, too. Clothes, their fucking room service mess - soggy bread and fruit and dissolving paper napkins and the tray and whatever else - and bits of flower petals and those stupid curtain things. Looks like a fucking dumpster overflowed. Fucking smells like it, too. There’s rot already, mixed in with that weird chlorinated, chemically water smell, and somehow the combination gives her the shivers.

Every damn towel in the place is soaked through, except the little wash cloths on the sink and one hand towel on the rack. Fucking trash soup.

“FUCK!” he says again, just staring. Not like him just to stand there in the overwhelm of it all; that’s her deal, but he’s still probably all muddled and blurry and braindead from last night, and his pieces aren’t clicking into place like they should.

He’s trying to make them, though; one big old hand smacking at his forehead, right in the center like a parody of his own distress.

Helaena’s fucking bladder is about to explode; full right up again somehow, and so she sloshes and splashes through the shitshow to take a piss. Should just do it on the fucking floor, she thinks. Wouldn’t make a difference.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Eyeball says, like maybe she should’ve just fuckin’ done it where she stood. Like he’s mad at her for trying to be civilized.

She rubs at her head. It’s heavy, like there’s a faucet in there, too, and it’s spilling everywhere, filling up her skull with water and waves. All of a sudden she’s fucking woozy, stomach not right, and she thinks she might puke right into the mess at her feet.

“Pissing,” she says to him, squeezing her eyes shut. “The fuck does it look like I’m doing?” If he’s gonna be a dickhead, she can be, too.

“I fuckin’ mean with this room, Laney. Leaving the fucking water on! Look at this shit!”

She squints at him, still sitting. Afraid to try to stand up, way her belly’s pitching. Fucking molly or weed or the fuckin’ kid in there, who knows, but standing and walking was a dumb idea.

“Roll me a joint,” she says. That’ll help the nausea. She’s dripping pee and come and whatever; she can feel it. She needs to wipe. Or shower. Or…

“What the fuck?!”

“I said roll me a fucking joint. Please.” Helaena drops her head between her knees. “I feel like shit.”

She doesn’t look, but she can feel his grimy energy crackle through the room.

“You can’t fucking smoke in here,” he says, and his voice is a trip wire. If she moves wrong, she’s gonna send him, but she doesn’t have the fucking wherewithal right now to watch her step.

She tries, though; heaves a sigh against her own sticky skin, still bent in half, and tells him, “I know. I’m gonna get up.”

His stupid big feet spin and slap through the fucking water, over the nasty carpet, as he heads for the balcony, and she breathes a little. He’s gonna do it. Shut his damn mouth and smoke her up so she can feel like a human being, and then they can figure out what to do about this fucking room.

She’s taking some deep breaths, trying to fuckin’ psych herself up to stand, when she hears it.

“Goddamnit, Helaena!”

Shit.

The fucking balcony door slams and rattles, like he smacked his damn fist into it. Thick sound, though; flat, like he used the side. Nothing shatters.

“What?!” she yells back. Tries to, anyway, but it’s too low. She tries again, and again; the volume hurts her head, and then he’s back in the fucking doorway. When she peeks at him, there’s no joint in his hand. All he’s carrying is some fucking attitude.

“Get up.”

“Give me a minute,” she says. “I don’t fucking feel good. Where’s my weed?”

He ignores her. “You see the rest of this fucking place?”

“No. How would I see it? What’s the matter?”

“It’s fucking destroyed,” he says.

“What do you mean?” She tries to pick up her head, and the room wobbles, but she hangs in there and it stops after a second. Evens out. She can’t look down, though; can’t watch the water shimmer, or she feels like she’s gonna fucking hurl. She just focuses on Eyeball; his tight fucking jaw and his slanty hip and her name right there over his heart.

“It’s fucked up, Laney!” He’s near yelling, not there yet, but she doesn’t fucking like it. “Fucking water all over the kitchen; goddamn freezer door’s open and shit’s all defrosted, glass fuckin’ everywhere outside, shit fucking burned, what the fuck!? What were you doing?!”

“Me?!”

“You never fucking pay attention to what you’re doing!”

“How is this my fault?” She fuckin’ rage-wipes herself then, toilet paper all slipperygross from him leaking out of her and from her own leftover stuff. All wet for his dumb ass five minutes ago, coming all over his dick and now he wants to start shit. Helaena makes herself get up and flushes, leaning on the back of the stupid thing to hold herself up.

“You fuckin’… everything you fuckin’ touch sometimes, Laney; I swear to God. I don’t fuckin’ come behind you like fuckin’ Ma, picking up your shit, this is what I fuckin’ get!” He flings a long arm out, his face somehow even narrower. Sharper.

“You were fuckin’ here, too, asshole! Acting like this shit is all me! It was you fucking touching all this shit, gotta fuckin’ play with everything. Gotta get high and touch shit and take shit apart, can’t fucking relax for…”

“No I fucking can’t!” Now he’s yelling. Didn’t like that one at all, everything about his big old naked body gone tense and mean. “I can’t fucking relax; I can’t be fuckin’ tripping balls for an hour because who’s gonna fucking supervise you?! Right? Can’t find your own asshole half the time, be living like a goddamn crackhouse tweaker whore if I let you, fuckin’…”

She hits him. Nice, solid throw; fucking corner of that stupid tissue box cracking him right in his face. Stomach heaves right along with her arm, and she thinks for a second it’s over. Gonna puke right onto her own stupid feet. She has to grab at the wall, and she braces herself for it, but the sensation drops down like a fuckin’ elevator to her knees and then dissolves; last night’s nasty bread in a puddle of cloudy water.

He’s still for a second; a dangerous sort of still, but he doesn’t throw anything back. Doesn’t step across the fuckin’ flood like she thinks he might, Jesus Himself grabbing at her throat. He just fucking walks out. Turns on his heel and goes.

But today is not the fucking day, and she is not the fucking one, so she follows him. She always follows him. Splashes through that filthy shit back out into the room, pinching her goddamn nose because the smell is really fucking getting to her now.

Motherfucker’s not lying, though. Got those curtains open, daylight streaming in, and the room is tore up. She can tell even without getting up close to anything. It looks like Mama’s been in the hospital for a week with Daddy and Waffle’s been on a bender, had six strangers he met two days ago over, and they blew rails all fucking night.

That pisses her off, but Eyeball’s pissed her off worse, and she’s not done with his ass.

“Fuck you!” she yells at him, voice shrill and ugly and fucking furious. “My mess? You clean up my fucking messes? Oh, let me have a fucking moment of silence because you have to move my shoes, asshole! Because you gotta wash the dishes again after I do it! Fuck you! You’re…”

Phone on the nightstand comes right out of the fucking wall. One sharp tug, that’s all he needs, and that shit goes flying. He doesn’t aim at her, just sends it clattering and skidding across the stupid table, taking whatever shit was sitting there with it, and all of it hits the floor like a hailstorm. Receiver bounces, shit scatters, bang bang bang bang bang.

“Fuck your shoes! Fuck the dishes! You think I care about that shit? I’m talking about real shit, Helaena! How many jobs? How much money? How many fucked up shitty decisions? I don’t get a fucking minute to be shitty, ‘cause I gotta…”

“What?” Fuck his goddamn phone-throwing tantrum. Fuck him. “Who the fuck’s shitty decisions put us here to begin with? Who the fuck has been cleaning up after you?!” She’s fuckin’ yelling at him, digging around for some goddamn clothes. Feels insane screaming naked at him like a hooker who didn’t get paid or something. Her head is pounding now, she needs some water, and the thought almost makes her laugh like a lunatic. She finds one of his shirts first, maybe it’s yesterday’s, it smells like deodorant and the floor and his body when she pulls it on. Makes her heart hurt. “I’ve been cleaning up your fucking shit your whole life! I’m a fuckin’ slob, got a bad brain but I’m not fucking broken like you! I don’t do the shit you do! When’s your last time you had to fuckin’ run from the cops ‘cause of me? Fuckin’ throw evidence away in another state, fuckin’…”

God, he’s so fast. She doesn’t even see it, really; just catches a flash in the corner of her own furious gaze, then hears the dull crack of the chipping glass.

She blinks. It’s the fucking gun; took a big old chunk out of those sliding doors, then he grabs something else from that same drawer and fuckin’ wings it across the room like he’s throwing a grenade. One of his fuckin’ knives. Fucker’s tossing weapons like he’s about to roll up on a cop stop.

Tension in his body is out of control. Helaena’s staring at him now, her own breath hard like she just ran a damn mile. Thinking again she’s gonna work herself into an asthma attack as she watches him start to pace the fucking room like a caged lion. Looks even taller than he is; keeps stretching those long arms up, palms to the ceiling, making and unmaking his fists. Long strides, stepping over all the fuckin’ shit all over the floor. Muscle, muscle, muscle. She sees his dumb ass naked every day, but not like this, just stalking around trying not to lose his goddamn mind.

Trying not to hurt her, probably.

Makes her take a pause, at least. Pay attention to her own body. It’s not doing so good. Dry headache is throbbing, and it feels like a little cherry bomb every time it does. Stomach still twisting right in time with it, little wretched waves of nausea that the pounding makes crest and crest and crest. Sticky mouth. Knees that keep wanting to knock together and send her on her ass.

Helaena leans forward, puts her hands down in the end of the bed to steady herself, and something about that motion upsets her fucking equilibrium, and that’s it. Fuckin’ knees buckle, and she hits the deck like he did just fuckin’ knock her ass out, then it all comes up. She fuckin’ retches, and retches again, and there’s no hope of making it to the fucking sink or the toilet or even the damn trash can; she just loses it all over.

Goddamn hideous sound snaps Eyeball out of whatever bullshit he’s on, and he’s there before she can even force her eyes back open. His hand’s on her shoulder, warm and big, and she can hear him talking. Sounds like he’s super far away for a second, like he’s the voice of God booming through that universe behind her eyelids where all those fucking pinpoint stars are floating. Just her name.

“Laney? Lane. Lane! Helaena!”

It’s coming again, she can feel it, and she tries to shove him aside a little. Isn’t sure exactly where he is, disoriented and sick, but she doesn’t want to puke all over him. She’s sure he knows what she’s getting at, but he doesn’t care. Doesn’t move, just reaches to try to gather her hair out of the way for her, and she has a vague thought that she loves him for that before she chucks again.

Three times in total once she’s through, just rooted right to that spot next to the bed, and thankfully there isn’t that much, she guesses. Didn’t have a whole lot in her fuckin’ stomach, so it’s mostly just acid shit, and it’s gross but not fucking epic.

Eyeball pulls on a pair of pants and uses the last dry fucking hand towel from the bathroom to wipe down her face after he strips his stupid, foul shirt off of her. The bed itself is fine, she just made a mess of the corner of the blanket, so he hauls her up as gently as he can and sits her there.

He’s not looking so hot, either, she thinks, blinking at him slow like a cat. Eye’s fuckin’ tired. So pale he’s near translucent; more than normal anyway. Weirdly sweaty and still tense as anything.

“Weed,” she tries to tell him again once she can talk, and this time he listens. Finds her a fucking Gatorade first, though; has her swish it around her mouth for a minute then spit into a cup to rinse, and she’s glad. She didn’t even think of that. He leaves it with her to go roll a joint.

Doesn’t have one for himself when he comes back, but she doesn’t ask. Just takes the damn thing in her shaky-ass fingers and lets him light her up.

“You need to drink,” he says, watching her take a giant fucking hit and fanning the smoke with his hand. Door’s open, but they’re still inside, and the last thing they need is to set the goddamn alarm off. “Fuckin’ dehydrated.”

Helaena shakes her head. The thought of putting anything in her stomach right now makes her wanna barf again. He’s still aggravated, too; she doesn’t like his fucking tone and isn’t in the mood to be a good girl for him. “Let me fucking finish this first,” she says, waving her joint at him. “Your fucking kid is trying to kill me already.”

He pauses, halfway to opening the stupid bottle for her. Shuts his eye, like he’s trying real hard not to be a dick and needs a minute. “Nah, not already. Too soon, right? That start right away? Nah. No. It’s fuckin’ comedown shit, that’s all. High as fuck last night.”

She shrugs. Could be. Could be fuckin’ anything, she guesses. She closes her own eyes and leans back against the mess of pillows, pulling on the fucking joint. Same shit as last night, but it’s definitely not making her want a goddamn cock in her mouth this time.

She can hear him screwing around; figures he’s trying to do something about the fuckin’ situation in the room, and he pops back over every minute or so to wave his stupid hand in her face. The last time, he stops, just for a second, less than a second, and lays his hand at her forehead like he’s checking for a fever or something.

It chokes her right up. Makes a giant lump in her throat that she can barely move her smoke past, and she feels tears prick at her eyes like needles.

Motherfucker, she thinks. Shithead bastard motherfucker. Knock his fucking teeth out.

That’s the last coherent thought before she dozes right back off, propped up in that huge bed all alone with a fuckin’ L in her hand.

Doesn’t last long, and she doesn’t light the fucking room on fire. Of course she doesn’t, because no matter what Eyeball’s doing, he’s got a sight-line on her. Knows she’s gonna pass out before she does and plucks that shit from her fingers before she can hurt herself.

Always coming behind her to clean up her mess.

She wakes up, and she still feels like crying, but at least her stomach’s settled a little. Gatorade’s tucked next to her like a little blue boyfriend; he put her stupid hand right on it, and she manages a sticky-lipped swallow before she coughs and calls for him. He’s fucking around in the bathroom, sounds like.

“Eyeball!”

He comes out, feet still splashing like a duck through a puddle. Room’s a disaster, but he’s trying. Some shit’s picked up, and she can see a cup with what looks like a bunch of fucking glass in it sitting on an end table.

“What’s the matter?” he asks. Sounds annoyed, but his expression is so soft she could wrap it around her like a blanket. He’s a top tier bullshitter sometimes, but sometimes he’s balls at it.

Suddenly she doesn’t know what she called him for; doesn’t know what the hell she wants, doesn’t know a single goddamn thing.

“I don’t know,” she says, voice high and trembly and little-girl, even to her own fucking ears. “I’m sorry. I don’t know. I forgot.”

“It’s okay,” he says as the tears just fucking overtake her. Feels like throwing up. She can’t stop it; her body just forces them out, sobs coming one after another after another, and he tells her it’s okay. Tells her he loves her, and she needs to drink, and they’re gonna get the fuck out of here. Gonna get rid of the fucking baby. Gonna go somewhere and live in a fucking tent by the sea and nobody’s gonna find them, and he loves her. He does. He loves her, and he loves her, and she’s right, he’s fucking broken but he loves her, okay? Just don’t go. Be as messy as she fuckin’ wants, it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter, Lanybug. Okay?

Chapter 82: Nobody Who Loves Us but Us

Summary:

Love me. I am pitch black,
sinful, blind, confused.
But if not you, then who else
is going to love me?

Notes:

wondering if I can make this a neat 100 chapters? idk.

anyway, heads up for a little bit of blood & a brief mention of abortion

Love me. I am pitch black,
sinful, blind, confused.
But if not you, then who else
is going to love me?

- from Love Me. I am Pitch Black by Maria Petrovykh

 

“Everything fuckin’ hurts.”

The more awake she gets, the more sober, the more everything starts to suck. Beyond her stupid, pukey stomach, her head is throbbing. Relentless. Her back feels like she fuckin’ slept all wrong; muscles stiff and sore. And her goddamn pussy feels like that motherfucker was pounding it with ten inches of steel from sundown to sunup.

Probably because he was. Christ.

“Here,” Eyeball says. He gives her a handful of ibuprofen. “Can you keep it down?”

He dry-swallows his own, and she sips at her Gatorade, hesitant. It doesn’t come right back up, so she takes the pills one at a time, cautious, while he watches her like some fucking nurse in the psych ward.

“I don’t remember doing this shit,” Helaena tells him, flicking her hand in a vague gesture around the room. She can hardly stand to fucking look at it, and she really doesn’t remember. She’s got pieces of it in her brain, clues on her body, but not the whole picture. Nothing in order. It’s like somebody ripped all the pages out of a book, threw some away, and gave her the rest in a crumpled little ball and told her to read it.

When Eyeball turns a little to follow her gaze, she notices his fucking back for the first time. Crosshatched with scratches, swollen at their edges and janky as hell. Must’ve fuckin’ went at him like a fisher cat, she thinks. He probably fucking rocked her shit. Had her howling like one.

He shakes his head, and his voice is quieter than normal. “Me, either.”

He’s trying to get this damn mess under control, trying to keep an eye on her, trying to fucking do it all while he’s in no goddamn shape for it, and it’s fucking hard to watch. Looks lost, like he doesn’t know where to start, can’t prioritize, can’t think right. Looks like she feels most of the time.

“Come back here,” she says, holding out a hand and wiggling her fingers at him.

“I gotta fuckin’…”

“Come here, I said.”

“Got shit to do, Lane. We have to get the hell out of here. I need…”

“I need you to bring your ass over here. Please.”

He sighs, but he comes. Crawls right onto that big old nasty bed - there’s blood on the sheets, she sees now; probably from his back, fucking blood and spooge and squirt and who knows what else - and sits cross- legged next to her. “What, Lane?”

She just reaches up and wraps her arms around his neck. Gives him a tug, down down down, and he lets himself relax. Something in him goes right to fuckin’ jelly, and in a second he’s got his head on her chest, ear-to-heart, and he exhales like a big dumb dog. Hot breath. Probably smells like dog breath, too, but she can’t tell.

“Fuckin’ Swiss cheese,” he mumbles.

“What?”

“Why we can’t fucking remember. Too much fuckin’ weed with your X and your brain looks like Swiss cheese. Big gaps in your memory. Saw pictures of it once, like fuckin MRIs or something.”

“That was the fattest fucking joint I’ve ever seen,” Helaena says, some kinda dry laugh in there somewhere.

“Yeah, well.” He fiddles with her belly button; just sticks a fingertip right in there and jiggles. “Can’t fix this shit. Forget just fucking cleaning. Bunch of shit’s fucking broken. Carpet’s fucked, water and burns and shit. And there’s like six fucking cigarette burns on the shit outside. Big ones, Laney. The fuck were we doing?”

“Being fucking idiots,” she says. “I’m fucking broken, too. Not gonna walk right for a week, asshole. I’m so sore. You stick your whole fucking leg up there or what?”

He huffs a little at her; same kinda laugh as hers. “I dunno. You fuckin’ liked it at the time. That I remember. You liked all of it. Whatever.”

Helaena kisses the top of his head. “My fuckin’ tubes fall out or something, just shove them back in there I guess.”

“You got it.” He’s quiet for a minute; lets her card her fingers through his hair and nudge her stupid Gatorade at him. He leans up for a sip. “We have to leave. We fuckin’… we can’t be here. Fuckin’… we can’t pay for this shit. Can’t… like, what do you even fuckin’ say? Thanks for the room, assholes, have fun buying a new one? What the fuck, Lane?”

She sighs. “My head hurts.” She rests her hand across the crown of his, like rubbing him’s gonna fix it, and closes her eyes. “Can’t do anything fuckin’ right. Drive a thousand miles to find somebody to fucking love us, and maybe they’re fucking gonna, and this is what we do?”

He snorts. “Love us? That what you came here for? Motherfucker’s got more money than God, stuck his dick in crazy and fucked me into it, then peaced the fuck out. Lived twenty years just fine that way. Knew what he was walking away from and left me there. Left you there. Fuckin’ great uncle you got. Great fucking sister. No summers on the fuckin’ shore, right? No checks for private school. No checks to even keep the fucking lights on. No coming back to save us. Ain’t nobody who loves us but us, Helaena. Not one. You came here looking for that, I dunno what to tell you.”

She doesn’t like his voice. It’s thick and blurry and ugly, like he’s fighting with it and losing or something. Tears hiding underneath, maybe. Not that he’d ever tell her that.

Hard to argue with the words, though. He’s right.

Lots of times, he’s fuckin’ right. Especially about people. He doesn’t like anyone, and he’s usually fucking right.

Helaena pulls a stray strand of his hair out of her mouth. “I mean. We’re not exactly super fucking lovable,” she says after a minute.

She can feel his mouth turn up, pressed right against her tit. Knows what kinda smile he’s wearing without seeing it. Skinny little line like a knife blade.

“You’re fine, Laney,” he tells her, giving her a kiss with the corner of his lips. “Nothing fuckin’ wrong with you. People just get too close and they can fuckin’ smell me on you. That’s all.”

“I like the way you smell,” she says, soft as she can make it. “Right now it’s mostly fuckin’ ballsack and jizz, but…”

He laughs, shoulders shaking a little against her, and squeezes her tight. “It’s this fucking bed. Or it’s your own fucking pussy, ho. Fuckin’ filled you up good this morning.”

The thought makes her muscles seize up a little. Makes her ache where she’s raw from him. She laughs back. Runs a finger down the jagged edge of his scar, tracing it like a road on a map. In a way, she thinks, it is. They followed it all the way here. Without it, who the hell knows where they’d be. Who they’d be.

“You know,” she starts after a minute. “He fuckin’… he knew who Daddy was, too. I mean, besides the money shit. He fucking had to. I mean. I know who my brothers are, right? I know what sorta fucking bullshit you do. He knew. It’s easy to lie to your fuckin’ kids, but you grow up with somebody like that? Nah. They got your fuckin’ number.”

Eyeball looks up, and she looks down, and all she can think is how goddamn tired he looks. “Of course he knew. He’s just the fucking same. Sticking his shit in little girls. Both of them are fucking perverts. Fucking your niece, pimping your girl. Fuckin’ six of one, half dozen of the other, right?”

Helaena smiles wanly. “You sound like Pop. Also, you stuck your shit in a little girl, y’pervert.”

He huffs. “Not the same when you’re a little kid, too, dipshit.”

“I know.” She takes another sip of her stupid Gatorade, then reaches down to put it against his lips. Some of it spills onto her stomach, but she doesn’t even bother trying to wipe it off. Eyeball licks it up for her, mouth warm and sticky, and she smiles at him. “Anyway. He’s a fucking douchebag. I just… I dunno. Rhae’s been nice to us.”

“Mmhm. Won’t be now, though. Not after this shit.”

“Yeah, probably not.” She stops, then closes her eyes and pushes them ininin, like she’s trying to jam them through the back of her skull. “Fuck.”

“What?”

“She told me to call when we got up; she wanted us to go on that fuckin’ boat today. Goddamnit. What fucking time is it?”

“Late,” Eyeball says. “Fucking late, like after three. We went to bed at fucking dawn, Lane. Slept hard.”

“Shit.”

“Raining still, anyway,” he tells her. “Nobody’s on a fucking boat today.”

“Still.” She sighs. “Should’ve fucking called. Rude ass shit.”

He shrugs. “Doesn’t matter now. We have to go. We have to get the hell out of here. Talk about rude shit. We fucked up bad.”

Suddenly, her stupid head is spinning again. Comes on without warning, and she feels like she’s gonna pitch right off the goddamn bed. Arms tighten up on him, hard, and she tells him she’s gotta lie down. Gotta get flat. Maybe she’s gonna fucking puke on him again.

He helps her scoot down, lie on her side, angle herself over the edge. There’s a trash can right there; he must’ve moved it when she’d dozed. Anticipating. A million steps ahead of her.

“I got you, Lane,” he says, tucking back her hair and curling over her like those big, stone angels in the graveyard. Guardians of the dead. Halo and wings and that hard sort of holy. “Let it go, I got you.”

Her whole body heaves, but the only thing that comes is another wave of tears.

*****

“Eyeball!”

They’re almost ready to go. He packed their shit and did what he could with the room, but it’s still a nightmare. Still going to piss off whoever has to find it. She feels fucking terrible leaving like this, but she couldn’t come up with a better plan, so they’re just gonna do what they’ve been doing for weeks now. Do what they’ve been doing since the day they ducked out on Mama, really. Since they were kids. They’re just gonna go.

Except now she’s got another fucking problem.

He’s quick to pop back in, barefoot in that stupid flooded bathroom again. He picked up most of the nasty stuff out of it - what he could, anyway - but the water itself is a hopeless case. “What’s the matter?”

“I’m fucking bleeding.” She hadn’t noticed it before when she sat down, but she could’ve been bleeding then, too, she guesses. She was way out of it.

“What? Where?”

“Like bleeding bleeding,” she says, staring down at the damn toilet paper in her hand. It’s not a lot, like maybe the almost-last day of her period, but it’s definitely blood. Bright red. New.

He stops, just looking at her for a minute. Trying to sort out what this means. “How much?” he finally asks.

“Not… I mean, not fucking gushing or anything.”

“Okay. That’s good,” he says cautiously. “Just start?”

“I dunno,” she says. “Your dick bloody?”

“No. Jesus, I would’ve fuckin’ said something.”

“There’s blood in the bed,” she offers, “but I think it’s yours. Looks like smears or whatever. From your back. You should clean that, by the way.” Helaena keeps looking back and forth, bloody wad in her hand and his anxious expression. “What… I mean… what do we do?”

She doesn’t say it out loud. Doesn’t really feel like she has to; he can read her good as anything, but she wonders if this shit’s just taking care of itself. Maybe they did make some little fuckin’ monster baby, and her body’s nope-ing it right out. She’s sore, but not in her belly. Not crampy. Not like after the abortion.

You’ll have some cramping, they told her. Her fuckin’ uterus shrinking back or whatever. Felt like the worst period of her fucking life times ten. This doesn’t feel like that at all; just feels like she got railed too fucking hard.

He doesn’t know what to do. She can tell. He always knows what to do, but he’s just standing there, mouth open like a goddamn idiot. Moving fucking slow today, like he broke himself.

“You need a fuckin’ doctor?” he finally says.

“I… not yet. Not right now,” Helaena tells him. “We can see what happens, I guess? Get me my fuckin’ bag.”

He grabs it for her, and she fishes around until she finds a zillion-year-old pad shoved down at the bottom, wrapper all wrinkled, half out. It’s all she’s got, besides an equally- ancient tampon, and she figures she better not start shoving shit up there. Infection or whatever.

Eyeball watches her stick it to her stupid panties. Try to press it enough to make it stay, even though the fucking adhesive is shot, and she’s shaky and weird the whole time. Stomach still not right. She should eat, but that might be a terrible idea. She didn’t shower. She’s so fucking disgusting, and she feels like shit, and she wants to flop back on the equally disgusting fucking bed and start all over. This day is garbage.

No energy to argue with him about leaving when she stands. No idea where the fuck they’re going. No idea what the fuck is happening to her, or to their fucking misfit baby, or to their fucking lives.

This was the extent of her brilliant fucking plan. This was the end game, and she fucked it up.

As usual.

She just sighs and fits her hand into his, and then leans hard into his body when the hand’s not enough. Body’s not even enough, really. She wishes she could crawl right under his skin. Wrap around his clickity-clackety skeleton bones and listen to his heart. Let it lull her back to sleep.

He’s got all their shit slung around one arm, her tucked up under the other, a gun in his pants, a knife in his boot, a patch on his eye, and the keys in his pocket. Eighteen layers of fucking deodorant that she can smell; that makes her stomach clench like a fist and whirl. Should’ve left himself alone, she thinks. She prefers the stink. Sweaty dirty boy.

Got a look on his face that belongs on someone older.

“C’mon, Laney. It’s okay. Walk. Walk. Walk. I got you, little girl. Let’s get outta here. C’mon. I got you, baby. Walk.”

She walks.

*****

He wants out of the fucking lot, out of this fucking place’s orbit, but once they go, they’re just aimless. They drive for awhile with no map, no GPS, and they wind up in the parking lot of a Circle K, sharing a bag of pretzels and watching the sky close its curtains for the night.

Vampire shit, she thinks. Feels like they just crawled out of a coffin.

They’ve got a full tank of gas and a bag full of crap - more Gatorade, coffees tall as they are, cigarettes, snacks, some fucking decent pads - but nowhere to fucking go. Weather is shitty; they’re both fighting headaches the ibuprofen’s barely touched, and every swallow feels like a game of Russian roulette: is this the one that’s gonna send it all back up?

Helaena drops back against Granny’s rattly old headrest. “I need a nap.”

Eyeball ashes his smoke out the cracked window. “Shouldn’t drive in this. Not fuckin’ overnight. I hate driving overnight.”

“Drive where?”

“I don’t know, Lane! Fuckin’ anywhere. I don’t wanna drive anywhere.” He turns to look at her, and she reaches to pluck the cigarette from his mouth. He lets her.

Helaena jams it between her teeth and swallows a gag. She needs the fucking cigarette more than she needs to not be fucking nauseated right now. Once she’s steady, she takes the longest drag she can manage. “Your turn,” she tells him, smoke drifting out from between her lips. “I’m the asshole who thought this was a good idea. All out of them now.”

He gazes at her, eye following the whole shape of her, right from her pulled-up-and-crossed feet to her leaned-back head and down again. Slow. Even through her half-closed lids, she can see him thinking. See how hard he’s working to do it; to make his brain slide into the right gear to get them out of this goddamn ditch.

“We’re… we’re a little low on funds,” he says after a minute, and she can feel his relief when she doesn’t immediately start in on him. She’s not fucking dumb. They’ve been spending more than they should, and she knows it. “And we’re right fuckin’ here, right?” He pauses to pull out a smoke and light himself up again. Car’s off, and they’re parked in the row of spaces to the side, out of the glow of the lot lamps. The cherry of his cigarette’s pretty, Helaena thinks stupidly as he sucks hard on the other end. A little ruby in the fucking rubble. He exhales in a stream. “I think we should go see Pop.”

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of AU landddd