Morgan Myst

The Director pulling him aside with the footage still looping on the monitor, voice low, telling him it was obvious your moans dripping out wet and broken were real in a way you’ve never given the cameras before, obvious now that every gasp and whimper you’d faked with the others was thin and breathy and hollow compared to this and your former costars were bound to complain.

Said it made the lads before him look like they couldn’t even get you properly wet, let alone fuck the sense out of you. Said pairing you with Ghost again was asking for trouble. Too risky. Too fuckin’ real.

Swinging the monitor around to show Ghost the way he had angled his hips so the camera caught his cock stretching your silky cunt half an hour before, thick enough that your walls flutter around him without any acting, slick spilling out around the base every time he bottomed out.

Your fingers scrabbling along the bed every time he ground himself down, too fucked out to really run from the pleasure the way you wanted to, body shaking brain reduced to static goo.

You having a hard time remembering the scripted words you were given, eyes rolling in your sockets, little whimpers and moans punched out “hn-hn-hn-“ every time his hips met yours and the head of his cock kissed your cervix.

Ghost cooing down at you when you miss your cue for the third time, hand pinning your wrists above your head while the other kept your thigh shoved wide, voiced amused when he asks “wha’s amatter? Cat got your tongue, dove?”

Ruined any possibility of you answering when he fucked you deep, making your cunt visibly pulse around him on the monitor, arousal drooling down his balls.

You tried. You really did. You mouth opened, some broken attempt at the first word, but it dissolved into another punched out moan the second he angled just right, letting the camera see the way your eyes rolled in their sockets.

His thumb stroking once over your clit, almost gentle, almost fond. “Tha’s it,” he murmured, “take it. Fuckin’ take it.”

Another missed cue. Another low, rough chuckle. He didn’t really give you room to think. Just kept you pinned and full and dripping while the cameras roled and the script stayed forgotten on the floor somewhere behind the lights.

The director was still talking but Ghost wasn’t listening, instead, just reached over and rewound the tape instead. Watched the part where you tried to speak again. Watched the way your body gave out for him and only him. Watched his own hand on the screen, thumb stroking your clit.

Eddie (morose): It's messed up that after all of the shit you've been through, you know how to remove a blood stain so well.

Steve: ...

His name is Steve, newish in town and recently single. He catches Eddie noticing the tan line from a ring that’s no longer on his finger and adds, “I was married. I’m… not anymore.” (Eddie guesses it must have been a rough divorce.)

Steve is bisexual, he also mentions hastily with a faint blush that tells Eddie the attraction might actually mutual.

They chat for a few hours, comparing their early lives growing up in small towns (Steve in Indiana, Eddie in Colorado) and their current jobs (Steve works in an office doing something the only explains as “really, really dull,” Eddie in a local community center organizing afterschool activities for local kids and DMing for a couple different youth DnD groups) and music tastes (neither of them are huge fans of what’s playing in the bar). After a while, Steve admits that he’s in a rut.

“You looking to change that, sweetheart?” Eddie asks, and part of him wants to jump up and down and punch the air at how smooth that came out holy shit. Because Steve smiles shyly back (it’s like the fucking sun coming out a from behind a cloud) and says that yeah, he’d like that.

Fast forward to next morning. Eddie wakes up drooling on a perfectly hairy chest and a pounding in his head that doesn’t actually hurt, it’s just loud. Knocking, he realizes eventually, and reluctantly hauls himself out of bed. Whoever it is at this unholy hour of… uh, 10am, can just deal with the fact that he’s answering the door in his boxers, covered in hickies and scratch marks, and with bedhead so wild it makes him look several inches taller than he actually is.

Only to be informed by the woman at his door that she knows Steve is here because she tracked his phone to this location. “Oh! Not like that,” she adds hastily when Eddie’s eyes go wide. “No, I’m not, like, a jealous girlfriend or anything, that’d be weird, he’s like my sister. I mean—well, it’s hard to explain. But, anyway, look, I know he’s been having a rough time since his wife died, and I’m glad he found someone to, um, keep company with, he’s way too fucking picky if you ask me—It’s just, I really can’t afford the time off to keep babysitting right now, so if he could be, like, alive by the time school gets out, that’d be good…?”

And oh god, Eddie is trying to absorb all that. Steve is a widower? Jesus H. Christ, at some point last night Eddie had moaned that whoever his ex was obviously hadn’t known what a good, perfect, wonderous thing they were giving up. Steve is picky, but picked him? Oh, that’s giving him butterflies. Steve has a kid? Well, Eddie is good with kids…

Suddenly there’s a groan behind him and Steve shuffles up to wrap an arm around Eddie’s torso in a loose but affectionate hug. “Thanks a lot, Robin,” Steve complains, his voice still rough from sleep, “I hadn’t told him about the twins yet.”

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So Eddie pulls Steve aside to explain to him that Robin just isn’t into him, but he does it so poorly and tells Steve that his crush isn’t into him and Steve is just heartbroken

I did not know how much I needed this in my life.

Me, I died for him.