problematic attentions

by ootmobile

Summary:

Eoin finds company elsewhere.

Notes:

working title “why do all of eoin mcgonigals girlfriends look like paddy mayne?”

He meets her in the pub. A wink and a bottle of beer is all it takes before she’s tucked under his arm, blinking up at him with big, round eyes and taking him by the hand.

She’s a lovely thing, really. Really she is. Small and shapely and opening to Eoin like a flower as he lays her out, writhing and moaning sweetly as he strokes over her stomach and down between her thighs. He’s lucky so many pretty girls let him take them home. Or not home necessarily, but somewhere. This one, blissfully, doesn’t live with her parents.

“I live with some girlfriends, they’re out, it’ll be fine.” She’d smiled at him as she led him up the stairs.

Sand coloured hair, blue eyes. He almost laughs.

He sinks into her with a sigh. It’s no secret he enjoys women. He really does like them, and it’s not a task to find a pretty girl to go home with. This one in particular is very pretty, and very accommodating, and he likes how she's wet and hot and willing around his cock. It’s easy to pick up the pace, to get a little mean with it and chase away the visions of strong arms and broad, muscular shoulders. Rugby kits and muddy knees. He forces his eyes open, watches the way her soft body arches, the way she tucks a hand under her thigh to open herself to him more. 

It really is good. She's started to make little squealing noises — rubbing at herself as he pounds into her — blonde hair all around her like a halo and mouth pink and round and hanging open. He kisses her. Tries not to bite.

When she finally clenches around him and comes with a shout it’s easy to follow suit, hips snapping until he feels that blinding haze overtake him. He can’t remember what this girl’s name is. His mouth forms a B regardless.

Afterwards he can feel how her nails have dug into his shoulders. It’s a pleasant sting. A deserved one, he thinks.

“Will you stay?” She strokes a hand over his bicep, beautiful against the bedsheets.

“No,” he avoids looking at her, gets up and dresses quickly by the door, “I have to get back, I’m sorry.”

He leaves without kissing her. Trudging his way back to the barracks, praying Blair is asleep when he gets in. He can’t bear the way his eyes burn into him.

He is not asleep, and those eyes do burn. 

“Good night, lad?” His mouth quirks up at the side. Eoin doesn’t feel like smiling back. He tries anyway.

“Ah, yeah. Fine” It’s stretched thin, and he undresses quickly, tries to turn to hide the damage she’s done to his back.

Blair notices anyway — as he always does — and one accusatory eyebrow arches towards his hairline. He says nothing.

The worst of it is that Eoin feels guilty, and what for? He’s a young man with no ties and he should be — he is — allowed to go out and have a little fun of an evening. But there’s something in the way Blair’s blue eyes pin him in place, the way they rake over his scratched shoulders and the purpling mark he knows has been sucked into his collarbone that makes shame run hot through him — makes the tips of his ears go pink.

He crawls into bed and tugs the blankets up around him, bids Blair a hasty goodnight and rolls away from him. He can feel those eyes boring holes into the back of his head, and shuts his own tightly.

He’s had a good night, he has — drinks with some of the lads and a fumble with a pretty girl — so what’s eating him? He knows what’s eating him. He knows, and he’s ignoring it. He has to ignore it. He can hear the soft fwip of pages turning in the cot next to his and it makes his fingers twitch.

When Blair’s light eventually switches off Eoin is still awake, staring unblinking at the wall and trying to chase off the sick feeling in his stomach. He rolls onto his back, stares at the ceiling instead — it’s dangerously close to staring at Blair, which he absolutely cannot do. Eventually he gives in and does it anyway, and all it does is make his chest hurt. Blair is turned towards him, face slack with sleep. For someone with so violent a reputation he sleeps peacefully, hands tucked under his chin like a child. Eoin longs to go to him, longs to collapse next to him and push his hands into his hair, press his face against his throat. He swallows hard and tries to picture the way his girl from earlier had looked with her mouth on him instead.

When he does fall asleep it’s with his face tipped towards Blair’s, a mirror image of one another across the room. He’s plagued by dreams of strong fingers and broad palms, of a chin flecked in rust coloured stubble and soft cotton undershirts. He wakes exhausted by it.

Blair is already gone, already risen for the day, but he’s pushed his worn copy of Yeats to Eoin’s side of the nightstand. He picks it up, brushes his thumbs across the cover, softened by Blair’s hands and the hands before his, and presses his fingers between the pages, puts his face to the words and inhales as if he could smell the sweat from Blair’s fingers through them. All it does is make his eyes sting and he snaps it shut and returns it to the nightstand. He pushes himself to his feet, and starts the day guiltier than before.

Notes:

i wrote this in about 12 hours. excuse the *gestures* whole thing.