𝓚𝓲𝓼𝓼𝓮𝓼 🍒🌸

Blane releases your neck to throw you a confused look, “What was that?”

“Nothing. Let’s–take this into the living room.” You try to herd him into the wider space, struggling to withhold an eye roll at his desperate, uncoordinated hands groping your body. Feeling around for the lightswitch, you flick it on and jump at the sight before you.

“Jesus Christ!”

“Holy shit!”

You and your date shout at the same time, both startled by the curly haired man lounging in the arm chair like he owns the place—jackass.

“Oh, please, don’t stop on my account,” he waves you on before threading his fingers, elbows on each arm of the chair as he rests his chin on clasped hands, an expectant smile plastered over his face. 

“What the hell are you doing here,” you groan, crossing your arms, closing yourself off to him. 

Blane’s eyes widen even more, darting from your rigid body to the stranger leisurely eyeing you in your living room. “Do you know this man?” 

Restraining another eye roll at the idiot’s reaction, you don’t get the chance to speak before Eddie runs his mouth. 

“Does she know me? Oh, her and I go way back! What was it, ‘77? ‘78?” His grin never leaves his stupid face, a wicked glint in his obsidian eyes.

This time you allow yourself to eyeroll. Eddie will take every chance to remind any male that comes within a hundred feet of you that he got there first. And not only was he there first, but he was your everything. Until he wasn’t. 

The genius you agreed to go on a date with looks back at you, still confused. “So, you do know this man?”

The blond’s cluelessness makes Eddie snort, you sure know how to pick ‘em. He likes to think he was your magnum opus, your big kahuna, your white whale. “I’m her husband.”

“Ex,” you grit out, knowing Eddie gets a sick little thrill any time he runs into you with a guy and gets to drop the bomb that you were married once before—to him, no less. 

Blane looks at you shocked, you pointedly ignore his burning gaze on the side of your face. It’s not your fault you didn’t get the chance to disclose that information between his non stop yammering about his management position at RadioShack—proud to lord over a bunch of seventeen-year-olds. 

“And I’m also the father of her children.” The curly haired man stands up with an exaggerated groan, pretending to dust off his tattered jeans. “Yup, everybody around here calls me ‘daddy,’ you can too if ya like.” 

Head jerking back at the brash statement, the blond looks at you again. Apparently, there’s no other way the man can turn his damn neck.

“Don’t–call him–I don’t call him ‘daddy’,” You shake your head, looking at Blane sharply. 

Eddie steps forward, hand outstretched to your date, “Sorry–did you say your name was ‘Flavor of the Week’?” 

“Eddie!” 

“Uh, no, it’s Blane,” the blond shakes Eddie’s ringed hands, cringing at the harsh squeeze the metalhead gives. 

He can’t help the way his eyebrows disappear into his bangs, eyes lighting up like he just heard the best thing all day. “B–uh–lane?” His jaw is dropped in awe of the new low you’ve stooped—hooking up with a ‘Blane’. Why don’t you go ahead and get a ‘Chad’ or ‘Brad’ in there while you’re at it. 

“Well, it’s actually pronounced, ‘Blane,’ but yeah.” 

You stomp over, separating their hands, positioning yourself between the single-sided pissing contest. “What are you doing here, Eddie?” 

Shrugging, he gives you an innocent smile, “I just came to pick up the kids.” 

He knows damn well you don’t have them, he actually ran into the little rugrats at the park with Robin on his drive home. He pulled over, asking what she was doing with his children, and Robin was spineless enough to let slip that you had a date tonight. So here he is. 

He didn’t have anything better to do, anyway. Got tired of the chick he was trying to see—keyword: trying. But she wasn’t anything like you, so he had to ditch her after a short lived affair. He’s thankful he’s here right now, god forbid you sleep with a ‘Blane.’

You narrow your eyes at him—this wasn’t his night to take the boys. The asshole probably just wanted to crash your date. It’s like he’s torturing you for something he did. Anytime you try to go on a date—get back out there, as Robin says—he magically shows up, ruining the whole affair. 

The lack of successful hookups have left you to make some poor mistakes—like sleeping with your ex, for one. It’s like this is his huge, master plan to get you back. He’ll fuck up any chance you have at moving on and just when you’re at your wits end, he’ll swoop in on his best behavior—acting like the saint he’s not. 

“Well, they’re not here,” you deadpan, eager to see what excuse he can come up with next. 

Eddie snorts, looking at Blane for support, “Woah, absentee mother alert! It’s ten o’clock, do you know where your children are?” 

“Okay, that’s it! Get out!” You grab his leather clad arm, dragging him to the door.

You only get to the threshold of the family room before he weasels his arm out of your clawing grasp. 

“Aht, aht! Not so fast! It’s my house, too.” Walking back to a stunned Blane, he throws his arm over the awkward guy, leaning into his face. “My name is on the deed,” he wiggles his eyebrows suggestively at the cringing blond. 

“Yeah, and I’ve been meaning to change that. Got a judge’s approval and everything.” Crossing your arms, jutting a hip out, you give him a smug look. 

“Hop, right? Oh, yeah, no,” he waves you off. “That’s no good. Turns out the guy’s got a soft spot for me. All it took was a few tears, a couple of sad pictures of a broken family, and a promise to make it right—he folded like an omelet. That guy should really get his attorney license revoked,” he muses, frowning at how easy Hopper was to manipulate despite all of Eddie’s less than savory run-ins with the ex-chief of police in his youth. 

“What? The Fuck? Eddie?” Steam could be blowing out of your ears for all you know, you’ve never felt so enraged. Eddie’s overstepped your boundaries a lot since you two separated—ruining dates, buying the boys things you specifically said ‘no’ to, introducing the boys to his flings, purposefully neglecting to bring your kids back until you come over to take them back just so he can see you—but this takes the cake. 

You’ve been waiting five months for the paperwork to go through. In fact, you only just got the approval this past Monday. Now he’s in your house—without your consent—rubbing it in your face that he got the change expunged only four days later.

Blane slips away from Eddie, looking like he got caught with his hand in the cookie jar, he sheepishly mutters, “I can see you two have a lot to work through, so I’m just gonna–” He motions to the door, stepping toward you and then back, unsure whether he should approach you with how irate you look. Deciding to risk it, he lays a hand on your stiff shoulders, giving a hesitant kiss to your cheek. “Call me when you figure this stuff out.” 

Eddie snorts at the bold move. ‘Alright, Blane, you dog,’ he thinks. Even he wouldn’t touch you with a ten foot pole right now—you’d probably melt it—and he’s known you since he was eleven and you were nine. He’s surprised the guy didn’t liquefy from your magmatic fury, leaving nothing but his shitty veneers and obvious toupée.

The front door shuts leaving the two of you alone, the only thing that can be heard is the huffing breaths of your ire. You’re staring daggers at Eddie, wishing on every star that you secretly have laser eyes you never knew about—so you can smite your awful ex-husband, zapping him off the face of the earth like a moth in an electric bug zapper.

“Can you believe that guy?” Eddie throws his hand out to the door Blane just left out of. “Like, ‘Okay, drama queen, way to make an exit,’” he mocks, looking at you for support. “Thought he’d never leave.” 

“Eddie…”

 It’s his first and only warning, but he doesn’t heed it. 

“And, hey, what’s with you and men who have the personality of a wet paper bag? I mean seriously, who’s a grown man and blond?”

Steadily stalking towards him with sharp, unyielding eyes, you’re imagining every way you’re about to throw him out of your house. He’s slowly backing up, the smug smile never leaving his face.

“By the way, I felt his hands—that man has never worked a day in his life. His hands are so soft and supple—like a woman’s. If you wanted to feel a woman’s hands, I’m sure Robin’s just been waiting on your call,” he laughs, getting off on shit talking your choice of date. 

Your movements stop, halting a few inches in front of him. Looking up into his twinkling eyes—mirth to your anger. 

“Well, it’s kind of hard to find somebody willing to date a single mother, and anybody who is, you open your big mouth to,” you bite out, trying your hardest to restrain yourself from grabbing him by the hair and dragging him out the front door. 

A closed-mouth smile spreads up one side of his face, his head ducks to gaze into your eyes, admiring. “You know, I actually know someone who really goes for that type of thing.” 

“Oh, my ex-husband is gonna set me up now?”

He shrugs.

“Alright, I’ll bite. Who?” 

“Me.” 

You snort—that’s the funniest thing you’ve heard in a while. Eddie always did make you laugh. 

His smile falters a bit, but he catches himself before you can see it. “Oh, come on! The boys would be ecstatic to see their daddy home.” 

“Well, their daddy should’ve thought about that before he was an awful husband.” 

That comment takes the wind right out of his sails, the light in his eyes tempering at the reminder of the fuck up he’ll regret for the rest of his life. 

“Also, don’t ever call me an absentee mother,” you threaten, anger flaring up again at the memory of his comment—in front of your date, too. 

Being the king of deflecting feelings, a smile quirks up on his lips again. He prowls the short distance to you, head dipped to read your body language as he reaches for your hips, pulling you to his chest. “Aw, you know I didn’t mean it, sweetheart,” he pouts. “Just wanted old B–uh–lane to leave us alone…” 

Head tentatively moving to your neck, his lips graze the column of your throat. The featherlight sensation against your delicate skin has your shoulders relaxing, a stuttering breath leaving glossed lips. 

“I know you’re the best mother the boys could ever ask for. Best mama and a great wife. S’too bad I wasn’t a great husband,” he mutters against your skin, hot, languid tongue mouthing at the flesh. 

Predictable. This is what you were afraid of. It’s like clock work. He ruins your dates, acts like a saint, plays the part of the man you fell in love with, and takes you to bed. Every. Time. There’s not a hint of remorse in his comment, he’s saying what you want to hear. 

Doesn’t mean he doesn’t believe he was a bad husband. He’s just on a mission right now, and pondering the shortcomings of his vows to you is not a big turn on. 

Pulse spiking at his attention, the intoxicating smell of his familiar cologne melts your brain into mush. “S–Stop,” you try to push him off, but he just takes the hands you splay on his chest and slides them around his back—making you hold him. 

His hands slide up your body, settling on either side of your cheeks. Half-lidded, hungry eyes rove over your face. Swollen lips pant soft breaths against your skin; the sensation has you closing your eyes, trying to scrounge up some sense of self-worth. 

Leaving slow, delicate, open-mouthed kisses around your face, he mumbles lowly, “You know we don’t have to stop sleeping together just because we’re separated, right?” 

“Divorced,” you correct—separated sounds temporary, this was supposed to be forever. 

“Semantics.” 

You almost preen at the little pecks he gives to your closed eyelids. You haven’t felt this kind of intimate affection in so long. It feels like a sisyphean task to gather your willpower; you can’t let him continue to do this. It’s not healthy. For either of you. 

He doesn’t let you have a boyfriend and he can’t hold down a girlfriend. They all either walk out because he won’t ever stop talking about you or he dumps them because they’re not enough like you. 

Eddie’s wandering mouth inches to yours with each delicate kiss. Finally hovering over your parted lips, he gives a tentative lick to your cherry lip gloss—the flavor he dreams about every night in the cold bed in his empty apartment, fist squeezing his cock, mind convincing him it’s your velvety walls surrounding him.

“You don’t have to keep telling me ‘no.’ Don’t gotta waste your breath.” 

Giving a purposeful lick into your mouth, he draws waiting lips to his in a tight, wet kiss. A moan works its way up your throat, fingers digging across his back as he caresses your tongue with his. 

Pulling away panting, he leaves you breathless—eyes still closed and head mindlessly leaning in for more. But it doesn’t come.

“I’ll always be here, baby.” His confidence is other worldly, you’ll never understand what you do to make him so ballsy. All he gets from you is denigration and cold stares. “I’m the father of your children.” 

That’s the nail in the coffin—the epitome of why you still allow him into your life. He’s the father of your children—a damn good one at that: loving, kind, and a good role model for the boys. You will never be rid of him. You couldn’t do that to the boys. No matter how badly you might want to never speak to him again sometimes. 

Before this goes any further—and you know it will—you have to know…

“Why’d you go behind my back with Hopper?” Opening your eyes, you catch a small look of shock passing over his features before he corrects himself—deflecting again, just like he always does. 

“This house is the first thing we ever bought together. Wasn’t ready for that history to be erased,” he answers earnestly, hands never leaving your face. 

That’s the first time in a long time he’s been genuine with you. It makes you frown, though. The house is what upset him? Not you divorcing him?

“What, I was easier to let go of than a house?” 

His eyebrows knit together for a split second, eyes narrowing just as quick. Do you not get it? He’s been pretty clear.

“I didn’t let you go. I haven’t let you go,” he amends, shaking his head, eyes studying you closely. “I just can’t make you stay.” 

The words he carefully chose have a strange feeling washing over you as you take them in. You’re trying so hard to read his mind through his expressive eyes, but he’s always been good about showing you only what he wants you to see. 

Right now, the muddy pools you used to fall asleep gazing into every night only show empty depth. His words aren’t empty—you trust him in that. But he’s not imploring you to believe him—not begging you to look into his eyes and decide for yourself whether he means what he says. He’s speaking as plainly as possible, his dark irises reflecting that. 

You don’t need to guess what he feels. He’s telling you. 

A rueful smile appears, “At least a house doesn’t know it deserves better. Better than what I gave.” 

He specifically doesn’t say, ‘Better than what I could give,’ because he’s sure now—he could be who he should’ve been from the start. He’s felt the hole you left, tried to fill it with other women. All he’s learned is you were it for him. And he was stupid enough to let you go. No, he didn’t let you go. He made you leave. It was his actions—he knows that now. But he can be the man you need. He’s certain. 

All of a sudden the subject is too heavy for you. His kiss—the quiet affection—messed with your mind. You feel your grasp on certainty slipping. Why did you divorce him? No. You know why…

He’s suffocating you—his charm, his scent, his presence, his hands on your body. The hands you remember like it was yesterday—sliding a ring on, caressing your bump, holding your babies. 

You need to change the subject. Quick. He’s breaking you down, rocking inhibitions like a barge at sea. 

“You need to get rid of that damn key,” you utter, attempting to regain a firmness in your voice—the one he took, along with your breath. 

He accepts your subject change gracefully, a smile spreading across his lips, thumbs smoothing over your hairline. “But what if there’s an emergency,” he goads, eyes alight with twinkling affection. 

“Crashing my date doesn’t count as an emergency,” you chide, looking up at him with an indignant tilt to your head. 

“It does if his name is ‘B–uh–lane.’ Where’d you meet ‘im anyway? Did’ya see his picture on the back of a milk carton?” 

You can’t help but snort at his comment. Blane wouldn’t have been your first choice for a date, but you were desperate for connection. It’s been so long since you were properly wined and dined. You were hoping he’d talk less in bed. 

A blinding grin breaks out across Eddie’s face, he’s always loved making you laugh—it’s his favorite sound in the entire world. Pecking your lips, he pulls back, “I mean seriously, that guy is like those jockstraps we went to high school with! That’s not your type, sweetheart.” 

Fighting the smile off your face, you run your tongue over your teeth behind your lips, “Yeah? And what is my type?” 

He bites his lip, relishing in the banter he’s sorely missed since you kicked him out. This is the lightest you’ve been with him since everything went down. It’s like he and you are in high school all over again—flirting, teasing each other, dancing around big feelings, unsure of your place in the other’s heart. 

“Oh, I don’t know…” he shrugs, playing coy before leaning into your lips again. “Gorgeous…tall…brown button eyes…voluminous curls…father of your children…” He leaves a quick peck on your lips between each attribute he lists, leaving a longer kiss after the last descriptor. 

Shaking your head, you try to disavow him, but the fondness in your eyes betrays you. “That was my old type. I’m not into that anymore.” 

He had hoped you’d say that…

“Really? Because I actually came to return your panties.” He reaches into his jacket pocket, pulling out a ball of black lace, letting it hang from his index finger in front of you. 

The spell is broken, you blanch, snatching the intimate scrap of fabric from his greedy hands—more like sticky fingers, how the hell did he get those? 

“I didn’t leave these with you,” you hiss, stuffing the underwear in the front pocket of your jeans. He’s not allowed to see your intimates anymore—or at least he won’t be once you stop sleeping with him. 

Shrugging, he dismisses your attitude with a passive tilt to his head, “Yeah, well, I got a hankering during work.” 

His shit eating grin makes you scoff. Not only did he use his old house key to break in and ruin your date, but he also snuck in earlier—while you were at work and the boys were at school—just to rifle through your drawers. At least, you hope to god it was your drawers and not your dirty laundry basket.

“You’re a pig.” 

His grin only widens at your derision. Leaning in, he shakes his head as he says, “Oink oink, baby. Whatever you say, now can we please fuck?” 

“No.” You’re not about to enable his behavior by sleeping with him after this shit show of a night. 

Eddie’s eyebrows raise, amused at your attempt to turn him down, “No?”

“Correct. I’m setting a boundary and I’m putting an embargo on my panties.” You reach around his body, plucking the pair he has haphazardly shoved into his back pocket. You’re sure he nicked this pair while he was waiting for you to get home from your date. 

When he realizes what you’re doing—watches as you hold the red lacy fabric he painstakingly picked out—he’s beside himself. “Hey, hey, hey, that’s mine! You can’t have both! I need at least one for later if we’re not gonna fuck.” 

Ignoring his comment, you notice the fabric has a stiffness to it, immediately dropping it, you wipe your hand against your jeans—a useless reaction as the underwear is completely dry. He didn’t get this out of your drawers…

“Oh, you’re disgusting! Seriously deranged.” You cannot believe this is what he’s doing with his old house key. This is a new low, even for him. 

“Oh, like you didn’t take my Dio shirt last time,” He argues, remembering the way you sent him home shirtless—like a real walk of shame. He’d never felt more turned on. The image of you in his shirt—just like old times—became his masturbation material for a whole week after that. 

You guffaw, throwing your head back at the insanity he’s trying to dress up as logic. “That’s a shirt, dumbass! Not underwear!”

He throws his arms up like he’s exasperated by your ‘logic.’ “Fine, you can have my underwear if you want! Here, I’ll give ‘em to you right now!” 

You watch in horror as he starts unbuckling his belt. He gets as far unbuttoning his pants and pulling down his fly before you’re able to stop him. “No, I touch enough male undergarments, thank you,” you sass, holding up a hand to halt his movements. 

All of a sudden, he looks miffed. You don’t know why, but you feel the need to correct yourself. “The boys,” you specify.

His face relaxes, shoulders dropping—you can almost see his hackles go back down. “Oh! Well, they don’t count.” 

With nothing else to say, you shake your head, trying to fend a smile off, “You’re such a perv. Always have been.” 

“You used to love that about me.” He tilts his head, studying you intently. You feel like you’re under a magnifying glass—his gaze is piercing. 

“Yeah, well, I grew up,” you mutter, no longer smiling. 

He closes the space between your bodies, wandering fingers inching their way back around your waist. His head ducks as he catches your eyes, face drifting to yours, “Well, grow back down then.” 

Before you get the chance to respond, his lips are on yours. It feels like all the air in the room has been sucked out to fuel Eddie’s greedy endeavors. His hands slide up each side of your body, leaving you shuddering at the caress he gives the very edge of your breasts. 

Eddie’s the first to pull away, heavy lidded eyes filled with desire watch as your lips fall after his—looking for the lost connection. The ghost of a smile covers his lips at the sight of your trance, your eyes still closed, longing for him to come back. He grants you one more sweet kiss before you open your eyes, chest huffing as you try to slow your heart rate. 

“We can’t keep doing this…”

“Who says?” Every time you’ve claimed an end to this—you and Eddie—it’s been an empty threat. Hollow words from a broken heart. 

“Me.” Looking up at him, you try to sound firm in your decision, but you can’t help the way your chin juts out—head almost leaning in again, desire defying your brain. 

Watching every single minute movement you make, he’s confident in the way this night will go. That famous grin spreads across his face. Cocking his head, unconvinced, he argues, “Well, you’re unreliable. I bet you $100 you’re wet right now.” 

A sigh leaves you swollen lips, your willpower leaving you like rushing water from a broken dam. “Eddie…” It’s one last attempt at trying to abstain—a weak attempt, but an attempt nonetheless.

He licks his lips, letting go of your face to grab your hand and force it into a handshake deal. “Show me or pay up, sweetheart.” 

Another sigh leaves you, trying to fight off a smile at his dirty ploy. “You’re ridiculous.”

He shrugs, smirking, “You married me.”

“And divorced you.”

“Semantics,” he repeats his sentiment from earlier, fingers creeping under the hem of your top.

Shivering at the feeling of his ringed fingers, you try again, “You should leave. I–I’ll make you leave.” 

Another empty threat. 

He pulls off your top, not waiting for any protest as he drags you in for a messy kiss. Undoing your jeans and working them down your legs, he crouches as you put your hands on his shoulders, using his body to steady yourself. He looks up at you while removing your shoes and freeing your feet from the bunched-up pant legs. It looks like you could dive headfirst into the muddy pools of his eyes, swim for miles, and still never reach the bottom. Heat flushes through your body like a fever preparing to put you out for weeks on end. The desire in his twinkling irises has you huffing out desperate breaths.

“And yet…I’m still here,” he murmurs, standing up chest-to-chest with you. 

In a flash, he’s ripped off his own clothes, dragging you to the couch, his naked body covering yours. Puffs of breath rush across your panting lips, he smells like cigarettes and Listerine—an indication that the bastard knew he’d get you one way or another. 

“Tell me this is the last time.” 

“Eddie, please,” you whine, trying to pull his hips to your core, aching to feel the hard weight of his cock against your wet and waiting heat. 

“You wan’ me, sweetheart?” Halting his hips from going any further, he gazes down at your face, screwed up in desperation.

Frustrated at the change of pace—he wanted you so badly earlier and now he’s acting like he’s got all the time in the world—you groan. “Are you gonna fuck me or not, jackass?”

“Are you gonna do what I tell you?”

“Oh please, if this is how you wanna play, I can get off just fine with a vibrator upstairs. I don’t need you,” you grit out, pushing his shoulders, trying to put space between your heated bodies. 

A low chuckle leaves his throat as he lets you push him—only slightly. Taking the space you force, he picks up one hand, reaching for your wet folds. The frustration leaves your voice, face, and body as he runs deft fingers along your slit, gathering slick arousal. A broken moan leaves your lips, the new sensation between your legs has you rolling your hips for more—needing him inside of you now. 

“Baby, you’re so wet you’re gonna short circuit the damn vibrator. You know you need me, so just tell me what I wanna hear.” 

“Fuck you.” He’s toying with you and you hate that he wields any kind of power over you. 

“I’m tryin’ to, honey,” he grins, watching between panting bodies as his fingers lift, a string of cyprine hanging on for dear life. Sucking wet fingers into his mouth, he moans at the taste of you—his favorite flavor. If you’d only have him back, he could be down feasting on your delicious cunt morning, noon, and night. 

Watching his eyes roll back with a slack jaw, tears almost fill your waterline—you need him so fucking bad. It doesn’t matter if it’s his mouth, his cock, or his fingers—you need to feel him.

“This is the last time,” you mutter, saying what he so desperately needs to hear—you don’t know why. Not a particularly fond sentiment—the phrase is something he’s complained about before. 

“Promise?” Placing his hand back down beside your head, his face tilts as he watches you with rapt, hungry attention. 

Your eyebrows furrow, with a shake of your head you indulge him, “Yeah, sure.” 

Air huffs out of his nose in amusement at your willingness to comply after he spent so long breaking you down. Grasping his hard cock, he runs the leaking tip through your swollen folds. A relieved moan leaves you as he notches the head into your hole, lining up for a straight shot into your warmth. 

Sanity crawls back into your mind for a split second causing you to pause his hips. “Wait–Eddie, condom.” 

Pressing lightly inside of you, only centimeters of his tip breaching your hungry walls, he shakes his head at your words. “No. No condom, baby. Wanna feel you.”

Struggling to make your brain think logically, you whine out again. “Eddie, we can’t–if we don’t–”

With the tip safely in your cunt, he reaches his hand back up to you, grasping the side of your face, petting your hair with a soothing thumb. “You gonna stop me, sweetheart? Gonna throw me out?” 

If he hadn’t said the words so softly, desperate panting breath accenting every syllable, you would have thought he was mocking you—teasing you for your earlier threats. A mewl leaves your throat, your hips roll against his cock, aching for more with a mind of their own. You shake your head at his questions—no, you won’t throw him out. You need him too bad and the shithead knows that. 

A mocking grin pulls his lips up, leaning down, he gives you a condescending peck on the nose. “No, you won’t do that, sweetheart. I know you…I love you.”

Closing your eyes, you breathily let out a weak, “S–Stop.” You don’t need to hear that right now, not when you’re still trying to force yourself to reject him and his constant advances. 

You moan as his tip finally pushes all the way in, the thick ledge of sensitive skin hugged by your greedy walls. “I love you,” he repeats, breathing against your open mouth, inching in a little more. “Wanna have another baby with you, mama.”

Your nails claw down his chest as you shake your head, trying to hold in the mewling whine threatening to escape your lips. Your traitorous hips give another desperate roll, wanting him fully inside you despite your mind screaming at you to tell him to go to hell. 

Ravenous, dark eyes take in the continuous shake of your head—the rejection to his admission. It only makes him hungrier. “Wan’ another baby, sweetheart. Wan’ a little girl. She’ll be as pretty as her mama.”

His words bring you back to your body, the feel of his hard, bare cock inches away from full envelopment. “Shut up, Eddie. We can’t have another baby, we’re divorced.”

Never one to follow authority, he only smiles sweetly at your perturbed eyes. “Yeah, for now.” 

“Forever,” you grit out, pinching his nipple in retaliation. That was a mistake because it only makes him grunt and jerk his hips, pushing his cock one bit closer to where you need him. 

Muffling another groan at the feeling of your wet heat, he messily murmurs, “You can’t raise another baby on your own, sweetheart.”

“I’m not having one.”

Ducking down to give you a searing kiss, he meets your blown eyes. “Well, I’m not fucking you if I have to wear a condom,” he argues, a wicked glint to those brown irises. 

“Eddie!” 

“It’s your choice, but I’m setting a boundary, honey,” he mocks your earlier words.

Huffing out a frustrated breath, your pussy is getting wetter by the second and it’s been so long. Doing quick mental math, you don’t think you’re ovulating. His cock is already so warm inside your cunt and it would only take one buck of his hips to sink all the way in—your sanity is slipping away again. If you miraculously conceive, you’ll jump off that bridge when you get to it, you decide. 

“Oh, just fuck me you jackass.”

Victoriously grinning, he gives you another kiss—this time softer. “As the lady wishes.” 

A loud moan emanates from deep within your chest, travelling up your throat and out of panting lips as he fucks all the way in. You’re practically whining as you feel every ridge, every bump, every pulsing vein on his large, thick cock. 

“Eddie, please move, fuck–please!”

Hanging his head over your writhing body, he bites his lip harshly—trying not to blow his load so early. “Shit, honey, you feel s’fucking good, fuck me.”

“Eddie,” you whine, repeating yourself like a broken record, “Please, I need you to fuck me–just move!” 

Pulling out shakily, he thrusts in with another loud groan wracking his body, weakening his ability to hold himself up. Dropping his weight onto you, he spreads his knees as much as he can on the couch, hooking his arms under yours and grasping your shoulders. He begins a messy pace, pulling your body to his grinding hips, cock tunneling into your tight hole with jerking thrusts. 

“Fuck, sweetheart, wan’ you to have my baby again. Pretty mama wanna have daddy’s baby, huh?” He mumbles the words through bared teeth and sharp breaths, pistoning his hips into you. He’s revelling in your surrender to the odds.

His vigorous movements, the desperate grip pulling your limp body to meet each thrust has you huffing out whines in time with the jarring intrusion of his cock. “Said it’s the last time, now she’s gonna have my baby. Gonna fuck you so full, sweetheart. Y’gonna look so sexy carrying my baby again.” He’s babbling out incoherent thoughts—wishes and desires to see you pregnant and his again. 

Every groan and grunt from him pushes you closer to the edge. In a moment of such intense pleasure, you find yourself believing his words—getting off on his desires. “Eddie, please, wan–” But you can’t bring yourself to admit it.

And he knows. 

“I know, I know, sweetheart. You wanna have my baby, I know you fuckin’ do. Wan’ daddy’s cum in this pretty little pussy? Shit–you gonna cook me up a baby in that tummy o’ yours, pretty mama?” Reaching between sweaty bodies, he presses a hand down on your lower stomach, reveling in the way he can feel the thick tip of his cock hitting his rough palm from inside you. The pressure has you near screaming, he dips his head to give an adoring bite to your neck—a soft acknowledgement of the pleasure he’s providing you. “Y’gonna gimme my little girl, honey?” 

If you weren’t on cloud ten thousand right now, you’d hate the mental position you’re in. The only logical one out of the two of you, you’re thinking another baby is the last thing this fraught relationship needs. But he feels so good inside you, so you can only moan out, desperately nodding. “Y–Yeah, please–please gimme your cum–need it so fucking bad!” 

His large palm rushes down the rest of the way, your stomach clenches as you feel his fingers rubbing haphazard circles around your clit. “Oh fuck–fuck, fuck fuck me–god, unh!” 

Eddie feels the vice grip your cunt has around his cock and it has his balls pulling taut to his body. Hunching over you and mixing panting breaths, he prattles into your mouth. “Fuck, sweetheart. Wan’ another baby with you, shit. I love you, fuck, I love you–love you.” 

The affectionate promise is the only thing he can manage to say as he shakily orgasms, his spend spurting messily onto velvety walls as you squeeze every last drop from him. 

Breathing like he just ran a marathon, he drops his head into your neck, adorning the sweaty skin with soft, open-mouthed kisses. Your heart and mind are at war as you thread your hands through his wet curls. The oxytocin conjures up pretty dreams of reconciliation, new beginnings, addicting baby smell, and a happy family. The hormone doesn’t need to create a picture of a loving husband—that’s already laying in your arms right now, shivering from the aftershocks of the biggest orgasm he’s had in a while. 

“I love you, sweetheart,” he mumbles into your neck. Your heart drops. You thought you’d be able to chalk it up to the heat of the moment—that he wasn’t truly telling you so plainly that his feelings never changed. 

Syncopated heartbeats and calming breaths are the only sounds in the quiet room before he speaks again, nuzzling his nose against your throat. “Wanna be good for you. Let me come home. Let me take care of you, let me be with you and the boys again.”

Tears flood wide eyes as you stare up at the ceiling, struggling to feel normal from his dangerous words and your shallow breaths. He’s saying exactly what you wished you could hear for three years straight—leading up to the divorce and after. The melancholy soaked pleas are different from his usual song and dance. For one, he’s saying all of this after he got his fill of you. 

Feeling the weight of him lift off your chest, you slowly tilt your chin down, meeting his big, wet eyes as they reminisce on the contours of your face—noting every change he’s so sorely missed in his absence. Licking your dry lips, you don’t mean to draw his yearning gaze to your mouth—it only seems to make him more desperate. 

“I wasn’t the man you needed, but I wanna be now–I can be–I–I am,” he struggles to correct himself, those words feel like the most important sounds he ever has and will utter in his entire life. 

Everything is too much—his pleas, his honesty, those eyes, the weight of his softening cock still inside you, his seed just waiting to ooze out at the first sign of the blockade’s retreat. You can’t do this, not now. Avoiding his attention, your eyes dart to the side. “Eddie–”

The tone of your voice—fretful and solemn—tells him exactly where your mind is going. You’re going to push him away again. But he doesn’t want to spend another minute without you if he can help it. Always being held at arm's length by the woman he loves is changing him fundamentally. He can’t do it anymore. His twin sized mattress is too cold, his apartment too empty. 

Panic displayed clearly in muddy irises, he hurries a rough hand to your cheek, guiding you back to him—as if one look from you will grant every last wish his heart desires. “No, please–I–” 

A frustrated sigh leaves his lips, you feel the soft wind of it across your face. Words are failing him when he needs them most—he knows actions would be a better show of commitment, but he’s never been good at behaving when it comes to you. You just do something to him. It’s like there’s an inherent weakness sewed into his chemical makeup that makes you the kryptonite to his Man of Steel. You make every neuron in his brain fire, awakening facets of his mind that have laid dormant his whole life. 

Actions are better, but words are all he has in this moment and he can’t afford to squander it. 

Making sure to hold your attention, he throws caution to the wind. “Sweetheart, when I look at you, I don’t see my ex-wife or a co-parent. I see the girl I met at eleven in the trailer park—the one who told me to get bent for flipping her skirt up,” he lets out a rueful laugh, forever embarrassed at that being your first impression of him, but never regretting what a beautiful mess it turned into. 

The memory draws a wet chuckle from your throat before you have a chance to catch it. Your brows pull tight over sad, wet eyes as you think of that day—how your young heart never stood a chance when the pretty older boy showed you such attention.

Allowing himself to hope at the sound of your laugh, he continues with a small smile. “I see my first love—the girl I dreamed about every night for nine years until I finally figured out you’re not supposed to think about friends that way.” Another wry chuckle, followed by a mumbled confession—the adolescent misunderstanding of relationships: “I just thought every guy pictured forever with their girl friends—white picket fences and little babies.”

A warm tear glides down soft skin, heading for your hairline across your temple, but Eddie intercepts it—rubbing it away. “I’ve been dreaming of you longer than I’ve been alive, honey. I can’t–I wanna be with you. I’m supposed to be with you. If it takes another nine years for you to feel the same, I’ll be here. I’ll be yours and nine years older. But I’ll be yours.” 

Trying to stop your face from crumpling into overwhelmed sobs, you let out a stuttering breath. “Eddie, you hurt me–”

“I know,” he fervently assures, wiping away more tears, his naked body feeling restless with desperation. 

“I deserved better.”

“You did,” he affirms, confident in his fuck ups and your innocence in the ordeal. 

Unable to think of what else to say—no argument to be had from his end—you let out a deep sigh. This is more than one person should have to deal with. There’s been so many emotions whirling around your heart tonight, enough to make you dizzy and sick to your stomach. 

You’ve had dreams of scenarios exactly like this—Eddie comes crawling back, admitting every wrong, assuring you he’ll be a better man. But he was supposed to be a good man from the start. You shouldn’t have to give second chances to a man you legally wed—a man you’ve known since you were nine years old.

Second chances. Is it insanity? Allowing him in again, risking the same result. Deep in your heart, you can tell he’d never do you wrong again. But so much fear covers that truth. He’s left you with enough baggage to start a bellhop service, carrying every trauma to its designated hideaway, where it can quietly corrode your mind and heart.

He acts like he knows what his actions did, but can he still see the ripples his pebble made on smooth, unsuspecting waters? It will never be as easy as it once was—he must know that. 

“You can’t just–be with me, again,” you shake your head at him, imploring him to understand. 

Wet eyes dart between yours—a nervous twitch in his eyelid, a stuttering nod. He accepts your response. He made his grand argument, and you’ve declined. That’s that. Trying desperately to hide the deflation of his heart—the fire charring his hope like a prescribed burn on old, spent crops—he resigns himself to his place in your life: an ex, a co-parent, an old friend, a bad memory.

Pulling out and off of you, he sits up, prepared to gather his belongings before you can see him cry. How pitiful to cry now after everything he’s done to you—you shouldn’t have to see that. 

Shivering from the loss of his body heat and the weight of him inside of you, you watch with worried eyes as he quietly sniffles, pulling one of the legs of his jeans outside in. “It won’t be that easy.” 

Your words halt his movements, the insinuation sending his heart plummeting to his stomach. It won’t be that easy. But will it be something? Slowly, he turns his head back to look at you, afraid that one wrong move might make you change your mind.

Pulling your knees to your chest, you cross your arms as a barrier, hiding your naked body. Ignoring the way your movements cause his cum to leak out of you with gravity on its side, you squint at the tears in his waterline. Battling the small quirk of your lips, you try to stay resolute despite the contentment of giving a sad man hope. 

“I’m not that easy.” 

If he wasn’t so convinced you’re working him up just to let him down—which he’d deserve—he’d think you’re teasing him like you used to. 

“No, you’re not,” he agrees seriously, needing to hear more. 

“And you have years of making up to do…”

His mouth parts slightly in awe as he cocks his head, questioning whether he heard you correctly. After what feels like forever studying your face, the hint of light in your eyes fills his body with optimism—like an injection of sunshine straight into his veins. Letting himself hope again, he turns fully toward you. His shining eyes regard you like an idol, and he is your lowly devotee.

“Already got your name written all over the next nine years of my datebook," he says with a slow grin, feeling light as a feather—more alive than he has in ages—all because you're looking at him with those pretty eyes of yours.

“And probably months of groveling before you can even think about coming home,” you argue, scrutinizing his elated face. It’s getting harder and harder not to match his smile.

Nodding, Eddie takes your proposed penance in stride. “That’s doable.” He hesitates, curious to know how long his punishment will last before he can hold you at night again. “How many months?”

Pressing your lips together to stop the smile threatening to break free, you narrow your eyes at him. “Five.” 

“Three,” he negotiates, trying to melt your icy barriers with his best puppy dog eyes. 

“Don’t push your luck. Four.”

Accepting your counter offer, he nods. “I can do four. Do I get to see you?” 

He already legally gets the boys every other weekend, but unfortunately, divorce court doesn’t rule on ex-wife visitations, so he’s had to resort to holding the children captive just to see your angelic face—anger aside. 

Ignoring the flutter of your heart, you suck your teeth, cocking your head to the side. “How else are you gonna beg for my forgiveness? Over the phone? That’s not nearly as enjoyable.” 

Huffing out a laugh, his dazzling grin tempers as he broaches more sensitive subject matter. Gesturing between your still nude bodies, he nervously mutters, “And, what about…this?”

Understanding he’s referencing the tempestuous ongoing affair neither of you have the willpower to end, you smirk, not letting the mood dip again. “Well, I expect to be fully wined and dined now.” 

Thankful you’re not blocking him from all acts of intimacy during his atonement, Eddie chuckles. “Sweetheart, if you wanted to date me, you could’ve kicked the jockstrap to the curb and called me up.”

Now is not the time for his cocky attitude or for him to feel smug about crashing your date. “You are on the thinnest of ice,” you warn. 

Raising his hands in surrender, he bites his lip to temper his grin. “Yes, ma’am.” 

Feeling the way his cum is pooling under your ass on the couch—a mess you'll be scrubbing off the leather later—you consider him for a quiet moment. 

Relishing your attention on him, Eddie readjusts his body to sit on the other end of the couch, mirroring your position. He waits for what you have to say, knowing your thinking face when he sees it—it’s the same one you’ve had since he met you. 

“Do you really want another baby?” 

The question catches him off guard, he didn’t think you’d bring that up. He knew the odds that you’d ever agree to have another baby—let alone take him back—were slim, but he brought it up nonetheless. Although, he was feeling far more brazen with his desires while he was inside of you. 

Trying not to ogle at the trail of his seed leaving your hole—the view clear between your ankles from planted feet and pulled up knees—he nods. “Do you really not?” 

Scoffing, you rest your cheek against your palm. “Well, up until two hours ago, I thought divorce was forever and that I was done having kids. Didn’t really want anybody else fathering my children,” you mutter out the last part, the words feeling far too intimate of an admission. 

Eddie’s heart jumps at the sentiment. He’s glad you didn’t let another man give you kids, but what makes his pulse race is your lack of a rejection. You didn’t say no to another kid. He won’t push the matter, though. He’s flying by the seat of his pants with you right now, he can’t risk upsetting the pleasant equilibrium he did nothing to earn. 

Catching sight of the time on the microwave in the kitchen behind you, he realizes how late it is—how greedy he’s been with your indulgences. If he’s going to get back in your good graces, he needs to be on his best behavior and give you space when you deserve it. 

Sucking in a deep breath, he lightly smacks his knees, moving to put his underwear back on. “I should probably go. It’s pretty late and you’ve gotta get the boys in the morning.” 

Pensive expression dropping at his sudden need to escape, you sit up, grabbing the Metallica shirt he was wearing earlier and pulling it over your head—swiping it right from in front of his reaching hands. He watches your movements with barely contained fondness, happy to drive home shirtless if it means you’re sleeping in his scent again. 

“You can stay…if you want.”

Your quiet words bring shock to his features—he really doesn’t think he did anything to deserve the concessions you’ve made tonight, but he selfishly won’t turn you down. As he’s about to accept, you quickly amend your offer.

“On the couch…” you specify, “And we can pick up the boys together in the morning…”

Letting a hopeful smile light up his face once more, he gives a small nod. “Okay.” 

Eddie’s pretty sure no man on earth has ever felt as happy as he does in this moment—just watching the way you hesitantly eye him while gathering up strewn-about clothes. He feels like he’s walking on sunshine when you make up the couch for him, even giving him blankets, a pillow, and everything. You want him here. You want to pick up the boys together. As a family.

He has never felt so invigorated. It’s that night, lying on his old couch, staring at the ceiling of the first home you and he bought together, that he makes a vow. He will be the man you deserve for the next nine years—and every set of nine after that. He’ll be yours, always. And soon, you’ll be his again.

A/N: Like, reblog, and comment if you enjoyed it! I'd love to hear what y'all think about this! I really like it and it's definitely gonna be a work I re-read lol.