sundown | for cable (nathan)

[ He exhausts her. That's how it feels, anyways, despite his nearly thirty years on her. He's fucked her good and proper, driven her to climax four times before she collapses into sleep. That good, deep sleep, no dreams she can remember, simply blackness like a weighted cloak.

Which is to say, Francesca doesn't wake quickly, not when he adjusts her, nor when he notches his cock into her opening and begins to use her to his discretion. A few minutes pass before her body gets the memo and she stirs. Hazily, so aroused it nearly hurts, whining sleepily and half-sure this is a sex dream.

Her mind is slower to wake than her body: her ass already rising to meet his every sharp movement. He's caged her against the mattress, she dimly realizes. Her knees dig in, pelvis tilting to to better his strides so he fucks against her g-spot, her fingers fisting in the blankets. ]

Fuck. [ She's not one to curse often, it sounds especially lewd on her proper tongue. ]

Edited (pronouns,,,) 2025-05-03 08:00 (UTC)

[Nate struggles to get a clear read on Francesca. Whether she's actually a nympho and this is just another day for her or if she's just a wallflower that needed some encouragement. He leans to the latter, which makes his gut twist with arousal for her. It makes him feel some ownership of her, which he's truly coming to enjoy.

He can feel the signs that she's waking up, only briefly amused that she accepts it without admonishment. Maybe he shouldn't leave this at one night. Maybe he should take her home and do this every day. Seems reasonable, when he's this deep in her.]

Morning. [Breathless, but still sly. His hand is wrapped around her, stimulating her while he fucks her.]

You feel too good. Needed to feel you again. [His arms tighten around her, pressing kisses to her neck.]

Do you like it when I help myself?

[ She doesn't want this night to end. Under him, with only the hints of sunlight filtering through, it seems possible. Like she won't have to go back to the real world, her real life where something feels missing.

He can keep kissing and fucking her. They won't have to part, let the light in.

Her pulse quickens at his words, wicked as they are. She turns her head, moaning as he rubs up and down her clit, slick with how wet she is. Her brain is lagging from sleep and arousal; her inhibitions lowered, she murmurs her answer between shallow breaths. ]

I'm yours. You can do whatever you want to me.

[Nate's blood feels firey hot when it pumps through his veins. He feels intense pleasure at her words, then the ache of wanting to finish in her follows.

He can only articulate an urgent grunt as he bites the back of her shoulder. Not hard, but he needs to ground himself. His hips are moving of their own accord, sharp enough to make her bounce under him.]

I want to keep you. Like this. [His hand shifts up so he can squeeze her breast, grinding into her as he does.]

And I want to know what my girl wants.

[ She hopes it'll bruise, mar her white skin, so she'll wear the indention of his teeth like a mark of ownership. Maybe it won't; but there's something as good, even better. His question coaxes it out of her alongside her desperate whines and whimpers. ]

I want -- [ He moves like he can find a way to worm inside her. She's started to anticipate when he's about to come. Her hand reaches to slip into his hair, finding a home there to grip. He's driven her to want things she has only ever admitted to herself, in the dark, fingers inside herself. ] I want you to stay inside me when you come. Don't pull out this time.

Edited 2025-05-03 09:25 (UTC)

[It doesn't take much more than her words to tip him over, but the hand gripping his hair does it. The way she clenches and her body holds him in place is incredible-- she wants him like that. That badly. They're both playing a dangerous game but he might as well be deaf and blind from his obsession with her. He cannot hear or see reason. It's only been one night and he wants to do everything to her.

His cock twitches and his hips rut deep into her. His foot grinds into the mattress as he has the most intense climax of the night. It feels endless and too short, he sucks her skin and growls as he releases inside of her. He immediately knows it's fucked up, which makes it feel incredible. His fingers spread over her pussy to stroke her lips and her clit as his hips buck erratically.]

Fuck.

[ She doesn't climax right as he does, but the trigger is the twitching of his cock, the length and heat of his release flooding her cunt tips her over for the fifth time. Hers is not the same intensity as his, she doesn't make much noise, she barely makes more than a choked breath, her toes curling. But it's what she needs.

Clarity rushes in, but regret doesn't ruin the moment. When it ends, she sags into the mattress. By now, the truck smells of sex, and the sun is starting to peek over the horizon and through the trees.

She listens to his struggling breaths until they even out and he stops panting. Stupidly, she imagines him taking her home. Imagines him calling her my girl, my baby with more than mere lust to slake. It's a guilty fantasy that she keeps to herself, but it bleeds into her utterance of his name, gentle reverence. ]

Nathan.

[The way she says his name makes him want to wake up like this every day, which feels terribly stupid. It gives him a little bit more warmth before he starts to feel regret slowly seeping in. Subtle, drowned out by the glow he still feels with her in his arms.

He withdraws, drawing her backward to spoon on their sides again.]

Francesca. [There's sort of an authoritativeness when he echoes her with her own name, but it's painfully fond. Even if he's cringing into her hair.]

That was stupid. You make me stupid [But his arms tighten protectively around her.]

I'll take care of it.

It was stupid. [ She can't help but agree. It was a foolish and utterly irresponsible thing to do, but... well. She doesn't regret it. No point in beating themselves up over it either.

Her face presses into the arm under her head. He'll be able to feel her slow, lazy smile. ]

Bit ... messy, you know, but it felt nice. [ No messier than his first two orgasms, first over her stomach, then on her thighs. She thinks he even managed to get some on her sweater.

She even enjoys the sensation of him leaking out of her, squirming slightly. ] It's fine, really. I can get the pill.

No. I won out, I'll do it. [He insists, firm. Definitely not leaving room for arguments.

He moves his fingers, tracing them over the curve of her waist and hips. Soft, reverent touches like he can't believe she's really here.]

And it was worth it, for the record. I'd do it again.

[ Oh. That earns him a wider smile. Her fingers lace through his own, squeezing gently. She doesn't carry on protesting, his voice brooks no arguments and the thought of him caring for her scratches an itch on her brain.

They're quiet for a while. She doesn't fall back asleep, but her eyes grow heavy. Buttery light seeps in tinted windows. Morning birds replace the hoots of owls.

She doesn't want to leave his arms. Not yet.

She turns her head, oddly somber. ]

Thank you for tonight. It was perfect.

[Nate is painfully aware that he needs to do a variety of things in a very short amount of time-- and the first day of semester is not the day he wants to be late. Sets a terrible precedent.

And yet, he lingers for way too long. Breathing in the smell of her hair and appreciating how nice it feels to have a warm body in his arms. That they can lie here in silence. Awake but not compelled to speak and risk losing a second of this.

Then, regrettably, they both wriggle into their clothes and slip back into the cab. There is some idle conversation, about the book and the town. Nate parks and jogs into the chemist, returning with a confident stride as he pulls himself up into the truck and offers her the small paper bag.

He drops her off and he feels terribly fucking sad.

After a quick trip home, a shower, a rushed breakfast and an even quicker drive in, Nate is striding into his classroom with a minute to spare. It's not like him. He likes to be early. He sets about setting himself up, glancing down at his computer and not watching the students entering the room.]

[ Francesca doesn't notice him as soon as she enters the room. She's preoccupied with setting up her own workspace, and distracted besides. Under-caffeinated, somewhat achy from a night of having her body used, mixed with little sleep.

She's lost to wandering thoughts, too, of the stranger, and a peculiar weight in her chest. One of already missing him, her mind buzzing excitedly whenever it strays to him -- which is frighteningly often.

When her head jerks up, it's at the sound of his voice. She freezes, her heart rate picks up, half-sure she summoned him, surprise and joy writ across her face. Tempted to stand and run down to him.

In the next instant, her mind begins to comprehend his presence.

She hadn't gotten his last name. She'd forgotten to ask, somewhere between the second beverage and his face between her legs.

In a clumsy moment of negligence, her pens take a tumble off the desk, crashing down the steps, turning several pairs of eyes her way. ]

[It's hard to concentrate on lecturing, but he has to. Even if his extracurricular activities were exciting, he is interested in his job. Once he settled into the rhythm of it, it's easy enough to set aside what happened last night. He's sure later he'll think more about how they should have exchanged numbers and if he should have kissed her when he dropped her off.

When it seems like he might manage to get through this, he's distracted by the clattering of pens rolling down the stairs. He's standing, so it only makes sense that he should pick them up.

It's when he's standing, pen in hand, that he realises where it came from. Who it came from. Jesus christ. He's frozen a moment and, in that moment, he does not look happy to see her. He needs to follow this through, so in total silence he walks to her desk and sets the pens down firmly.

He barely looks at her, turning away and continuing the lecture.]

[ Her heart thumps in her throat, lips involuntarily tilting toward a smile and abruptly folding at the dour look that meets her. She takes it for displeasure immediately, and spends the rest of the lesson trying to reason with herself it wasn't aimed at her. It's just uncomfortable, after the night they spent together.

But she's acutely aware of how he doesn't acknowledge her at all, his eyes swimming past her in the crowd of faces. Difficult to ignore the growing trepidation in her gut, the slow gather of storm clouds. The sense she's done something wrong.

He's an efficient teacher, doesn't mince words. Something she finds refreshing. The lecture ends early. She lingers afterward, slower to let the rest to disperse. Alone, she picks her way down the steps, stopping to stand a polite distance away.

Clears her throat. ]

I'm -- [ she begins, her voice weak, fingers clutching her bag strap. Much like a chastised child. ] sorry. For disrupting you in the middle of your speech.

Edited 2025-05-04 08:08 (UTC)

[It is extremely difficult to proceed onward, but the only way to stop himself from showing recognition or being flustered is to ignore her.

He can't help notice her lingering, he sees her past the shoulders of a student approaching him with questions. When they leave, he's trying to gather his things as quickly as possible so he can avoid this interaction.

It pains him deeply to hear the tone of her voice, so different from this morning. He knows he's different too, he can't be that person here. He's yanking his jacket on as she speaks, a convenient excuse not to look at her.]

Don't worry about it. [It doesn't sound as reassuring as the words should be.]

I can't stick around. [He hopes that should make it quite clear, that they can't talk here. That he doesn't want to talk here.]

Oh.

[ The inflection turns her stomach inside out and all funny. It feels silly to apologize, and stupid to assume he's angry. She hasn't actually done anything wrong.

She always has been sensitive to changes in tone and demeanor, though, so her smile is awkward and strained. And he still doesn't look at her. ]

I understand. I just thought ... we could talk? [ That's reasonable. She's being perfectly reasonable. Right?

She shouldn't have to qualify it, but she does. ] About -- [ Searching for what to say, how to define what transpired between them, but none of it feels sufficient or appropriate. ]

About us? [ It lands like a bull in a china room. ]

[He becomes increasingly aware that looking at her is the worst thing he can do, which means he absolutely needs to force himself to do it.

He meets her eyes, trying to make sure it's a completely neutral expression. Neither besotted like last night or full of any misplaced irritation, just blank. He's always been absolutely terrible at this, so he's got no experience or natural instincts to fall back on. When he talks, it's just out of panic.]

There's nothing to talk about. It was nice, now it's done. [Even the admission that it was nice feels like he's toeing lines he shouldn't.]

If you want to drop the class, do it. [He ducks his head as he moves to pass by her.]

I need to go.

[ Francesca doesn't cry, despite her eyes stinging with categorical rejection.

She doesn't drop the class either.

Initially, she very nearly does. But though quiet and retiring, if she's anything, it is stubborn. Pure obstinance keeps her seated in his class, though she does nothing to call attention upon herself. There's a very simple purpose to it. If he's apathetic toward her -- virtually all men are the same, Eloise tells her, because they're "chauvinist pigs that think a woman is loose as soon as she fucks him", then it won't inconvenience him.

But, if on the offhand it bothers him to any degree to have to see her several times a week, he just has to deal with that discomfort. And she does think it irritates him; he so rarely makes eye contact with her over the duration of the semester.

( Her own discomfort means little to her. The feeling of being ridiculed compels her to do her very best to pass with flying colors. She's aware it's a dumb ambition, but it's about as spiteful as she has ever been. )

Finals come and go. When she hands over the last paper, their fingers graze each other. She can't temper the curl of her lip any more than he could control his displeasure to see she was his student. There are no goodbyes spared. And it's the last time she hopes to see Nathan Summers in more than passing. ]

[The guilt of that interaction lingers for a long time. Makes him even more aloof, because he feels like a fuck-up. But he also feels he did the right thing. At least for her. This isn't the kind of thing she wants marring her reputation.

He's confident that she'll move on, so it surprises him that she stays in the class. He's not sure if she's stubborn or just fucking with him, because he doubts that she likes the class that much.

It certainly makes it harder for him, because he aches to look at her when his eyes pass by her. He relishes reading her assignments, like they're communicating somehow. She's smart, she earns good marks and the good feedback he gives her.

When he catches glimpses of her at school, he feels sick. He feels irritated when she sees her with the young men, even if they're peers and even if this is what he wanted for her. There's at least one moment when their eyes linger on one another when he's leaning on his truck, smoking because it's a bad habit he picks up when he's stressed.

He doesn't see her around town because he doesn't go out anymore. Work to home, home to work. Sometimes he sees her walking and fantasises about rolling to a stop and calling her into an embrace, but he never does. He just feels sick, he goes to sleep thinking about her, he dreams about being tangled around her and fucking her until she cries and he comes to school and pretends she doesn't exist.

It's on a particular day of overwhelm that he feels inclined to relieve tension. Terribly inappropriate at work, but he woke up thinking about finishing on her chest and today her shirt shows just enough of her elegant collarbone and pale chest that it gets him excited. More so when their fingers brush together as she turns in her paper, even though he doesn't look up at her.

But he's alone. And it's getting late. He's not expecting students, his colleagues rarely drop in unannounced. He leans back in his chair, frowning at his desk with her paper in front of him.]

[ She had it all plotted out that she would just never be in Nathan's close vicinity again. Made a mental map of campus and how to avoid him. Certainly not alone in a room with him.

Of course she'd leave her scarf in the classroom. In the middle of winter. She grinds her teeth, seriously considering just foregoing it altogether -- only it's freezing, and her sister had given her that scarf. It's her favorite. She doesn't want somebody else to snatch it up over winter break.

So she finds herself at the classroom door, hoping he's already left, only to discover he hasn't. Of course. That's her luck. The light is on, and the door is -- locked.

Cursing herself, she stalls and argues with herself before knocking. ]

[It seems like the perfect crime. The doors are locked, most people don't have classes this late in the day. It's raining, so most people are home and curled up somewhere warm.

As Nathan takes in his surroundings, he notes the scarf on his desk. Turned in by someone else. He hadn't thought of it until now-- but it's hers. And he hesitates briefly before his resvolve weakens and he reaches for it. He strokes the soft fabric in his hand and brings it closer to his face. It smells like her hair and perfume and her skin and it brings him right back to that night, burying his face in her hair and sliding in and out of her.

He can't have her in reality, but there's nothing wrong with the fantasy of it in his view. His hand slides down to unbuckle himself, unzipping himself and palming himself. He imagines having her on his lap and bouncing on his cock and he starts to slowly stroke himself. Then there's a knock, and it sucks all the air out of his lungs. He goes soft almost immediately from sheer embarrassment, but he still looks flustered as he dresses himself and grabs for his coat and bag so he can just get the fuck out (and hold them in front of himself, just incase).

The door flies open and he looks extremely vexed by Francesca's presence. He's still holding her scarf and he's completely silent.]

[ Francesca notes several things. The door swinging violently open. The color in his face. Her cashmere scarf, hanging limply from his hand.

She's peeved, too. She'd recently come down with a head cold; the medicine from the chemist is fading fast. She had only come to class to get through this final exam. What she wants is to be home, bundled up with some earl grey.

They haven't spoken a single word to each other in how many weeks now? Months. She knows the sound of his voice, but she wouldn't be surprised if he didn't remember hers. The radio silence they've agreed upon ends now.

With accusation in her voice, arms crossed in front of her: ]

That's mine.

[The heart sore feeling he gets when he sees her fades quickly, replaced with a baffled feeling and furrowed brows.]

I didn't think it was mine. [It's not his colour.

He frowns at her crossed arms, because it's extremely childish but so endearing. God he wants to kiss those upturned lips. Instead, he thrusts the scarf at her.]

Go on. Save me a trip to the lost and found.

[ God.

She is so through with this... this attitude. She doesn't feel well enough to deal with it, his total lack of decency toward her. She reaches for the scarf. Unfortunately, she can't keep her mouth shut, her pink nose flaring. ]

What is your problem?

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