[original fic] it's about telling the future
title: it’s about telling the future
author: cathiexx
ratings/warning: r. drug use. sex. lots of swearing. good times!
word count: 1,422
author’s notes: for my darling misunderstood_b who wanted birthday smut. i hope this fulfills the requirements. hope you had a fantastic birthday, sweetness. i’m sorry this is late. ♥
it’s about telling the future
twenty-third of september, 1984
it’s two o’clock in the morning and it’s been nearly thirty hours of labor when you finally enter the world from between your mother’s thighs. you’re bright and pink and screaming for air straight away, and the nurse wipes the blood from your face.
your mother is exhausted; strands of hair stick to the sweat on her forehead and she continues to gasp for breath. but she can’t help but glow the moment she sees you, and she reaches out her arms and her fingers are already itching to touch you.
when they place you against her chest, you squirm and borrow closer to her heat instinctively. she cradles you in her arms and tears slip over her cheeks.
"erica,” she soothes (both you and herself). “my darling erica. i’ve been waiting for you.”
your father isn’t in the room.
twenty-third of september, 1985
it’s your first birthday and the single candle on your cake is burning. wax drips onto the pink and white icing and it’s ruining the cake.
your parents don’t seem to notice. they’re too busy yelling in the kitchen with their backs turned to you as you sit at the table in your high chair.
you won’t remember this birthday when you’re older. you won’t remember the way your mother whispered hoarsely “fucking asshole” and you won’t remember the way your father grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her until she sobbed. you won’t remember that your cake was dropped into the garbage, useless, and that it was another three days before they gave you your presents. (they waited until the memory of the day was stale, so that they could play happy families a little easier).
you won’t remember crying and crying until you couldn’t breathe.
twenty-third of september, 1990
you tell everyone you meet that today, “i’m sikth!”
your lisp is still considered cute and adorable and people pinch your cheeks and smile and say, “my, what a big girl!”
your mother organizes a mcdonald’s birthday party for you and invites all of your friends from pre-school. there are more girls than boys, because really, girls are just nicer to talk to. boys just want to pull your pigtails and show you gross things like the worm that they dug up in the playground.
there’s stephanie and bridgette and melissa and catherine and a few other girls that you don’t really like but your mother knows their mothers and so they got invited anyway. (it’s the polite thing to do, erica).
it’s a nice party. you get lots of presents (a my little pony toy, a colouring in book, a princess fairy costume) and there’s lots of lollies and you even get an ice cream cake at the end.
but robert calls you a stupid girl because you won’t let him wear your special birthday hat (ronald mcdonald himself gave it to you!) and it bugs you more than you like. you fold your arms over your chest and tell your mother you want to go home. now.
you shove melissa away when she tries to give you a hug.
twenty-third of september, 1995
today, you realize that you’re not really a little girl anymore.
your father still calls you ‘my little princess’ when he comes home at night, smelling of beer and smoke and sweat. he stumbles as he passes you, placing a hand on your shoulder (although you’re never sure if it’s a comforting gesture meant for you, or a means for him to keep his balance).
you want him to stop calling you that, and to call you by your name instead. he doesn’t like to say your name, and you wonder why.
your best friend, chloe (it used to be melissa, but that was a long time ago, right?) comes over after school and together you bake yourself a birthday cake. it comes out of the oven burnt, and there are rainbow sprinkles all over the kitchen floor, but you have never felt prouder than when you cut two slices and each of you takes a big bite and swallows.
independence tastes good. and later - years from now, really - you’ll wonder if this is where it all started to go wrong.
twenty-third of september, 1999
you are fifteen today, and you wonder if maybe you’re trying to grow up a little too fast.
but it’s too late for thoughts like that. because joel’s palm cups your breast through your school shirt, the school shield emblem digging into his skin as he gropes hard and insistent. you can feel his erection against your thigh, and it scares the hell out of you, because you’re not really sure what to do next. but you’ve come this far and you need to do what’s expected of you.
-- don’t you?
he unzips his fly and holds your hand in his own, pulling it down and placing it on his hard cock.
his flesh burns you and your immediate reaction is to pull away. but he’d laugh at you then, so instead you bite down on your lip (bite down on his) and force your fingers to wrap around him, the heaviness new and unfamiliar in your hand. he groans when you start to move your hand up and down, doing what you know should be done in a situation like this. and he whispers, "fuck, erica. that’s awesome”.
so you do it more.
twenty-third of september, 2002
"eighteen and now a young woman.”
your mother’s voice rings inside your head, buzzing with the words she said to you earlier as she gave you your present.
“it’s the pill,” she stated, her eyes watching your reaction carefully. “i want you to be aware, erica, and i want you to be careful.”
she doesn’t say that this conversation should have happened years ago (and she knows it, she caught you straddling thomas on the sofa when you were barely sixteen). but she tells you about a woman’s options, and the right to say no, and how a man should always carry condoms with him.
she also tells you that giving a guy a blow job is the best way to get what you want from him. that, and showing a lot of cleavage.
later in the night at a birthday party that some random girl threw for you, simon hands you a plastic cup full of shitty beer and stares at your chest, his eyes drawn to the shadow and valleys that your shirt refuses to hide. “erica,” he breathes. “you look fucking hot tonight.”
when he locks you both in the bathroom and your lips are wrapped around his cock and his fingers pull at your hair, you remember your mother’s speech.
"it’s all a power play, really. it’s about getting what you want out of life, you see?”
thanks, mommy dearest.
twenty-third of september, 2006
it’s a haze now.
twenty-two and you’ve still got a lot to learn.
you have to admit though, you have picked up a lot over the years.
example #1 - you know how to make a man beg for release. (it’s all about your mouth and your fingers and your tongue around his balls).
example #2 - you know that pills and weed and booze is not a good mix. (unless you do it in the right order).
example #3 - you know it’s far too easy to walk into a clinic and end a life before it really begins. (you would have cooed my baby to your stomach, you know you would have).
adam takes you to a hotel room for your birthday. “i’ve planned a surprise,” he chuckles into your ear and he guides you to the room with his hand at your waist. you stumble a little -- the vodka from dinner hits you now -- and when he opens the hotel room door you forget how to breathe.
she’s layed out on the double bed, in nothing but white panties, with her breasts heaving and her nipples hard. her hair is so blonde it glows in the dim hotel light, and her lips curl at the sight of you.
“she’s all yours for the night,” adam presses his lips to your throat and mumbles. “i’m going to sit here and fucking watch.”
her name is tiffany, and she likes to breathe “fuck yes” when she comes.
author: cathiexx
ratings/warning: r. drug use. sex. lots of swearing. good times!
word count: 1,422
author’s notes: for my darling misunderstood_b who wanted birthday smut. i hope this fulfills the requirements. hope you had a fantastic birthday, sweetness. i’m sorry this is late. ♥
it’s about telling the future
twenty-third of september, 1984
it’s two o’clock in the morning and it’s been nearly thirty hours of labor when you finally enter the world from between your mother’s thighs. you’re bright and pink and screaming for air straight away, and the nurse wipes the blood from your face.
your mother is exhausted; strands of hair stick to the sweat on her forehead and she continues to gasp for breath. but she can’t help but glow the moment she sees you, and she reaches out her arms and her fingers are already itching to touch you.
when they place you against her chest, you squirm and borrow closer to her heat instinctively. she cradles you in her arms and tears slip over her cheeks.
"erica,” she soothes (both you and herself). “my darling erica. i’ve been waiting for you.”
your father isn’t in the room.
twenty-third of september, 1985
it’s your first birthday and the single candle on your cake is burning. wax drips onto the pink and white icing and it’s ruining the cake.
your parents don’t seem to notice. they’re too busy yelling in the kitchen with their backs turned to you as you sit at the table in your high chair.
you won’t remember this birthday when you’re older. you won’t remember the way your mother whispered hoarsely “fucking asshole” and you won’t remember the way your father grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her until she sobbed. you won’t remember that your cake was dropped into the garbage, useless, and that it was another three days before they gave you your presents. (they waited until the memory of the day was stale, so that they could play happy families a little easier).
you won’t remember crying and crying until you couldn’t breathe.
twenty-third of september, 1990
you tell everyone you meet that today, “i’m sikth!”
your lisp is still considered cute and adorable and people pinch your cheeks and smile and say, “my, what a big girl!”
your mother organizes a mcdonald’s birthday party for you and invites all of your friends from pre-school. there are more girls than boys, because really, girls are just nicer to talk to. boys just want to pull your pigtails and show you gross things like the worm that they dug up in the playground.
there’s stephanie and bridgette and melissa and catherine and a few other girls that you don’t really like but your mother knows their mothers and so they got invited anyway. (it’s the polite thing to do, erica).
it’s a nice party. you get lots of presents (a my little pony toy, a colouring in book, a princess fairy costume) and there’s lots of lollies and you even get an ice cream cake at the end.
but robert calls you a stupid girl because you won’t let him wear your special birthday hat (ronald mcdonald himself gave it to you!) and it bugs you more than you like. you fold your arms over your chest and tell your mother you want to go home. now.
you shove melissa away when she tries to give you a hug.
twenty-third of september, 1995
today, you realize that you’re not really a little girl anymore.
your father still calls you ‘my little princess’ when he comes home at night, smelling of beer and smoke and sweat. he stumbles as he passes you, placing a hand on your shoulder (although you’re never sure if it’s a comforting gesture meant for you, or a means for him to keep his balance).
you want him to stop calling you that, and to call you by your name instead. he doesn’t like to say your name, and you wonder why.
your best friend, chloe (it used to be melissa, but that was a long time ago, right?) comes over after school and together you bake yourself a birthday cake. it comes out of the oven burnt, and there are rainbow sprinkles all over the kitchen floor, but you have never felt prouder than when you cut two slices and each of you takes a big bite and swallows.
independence tastes good. and later - years from now, really - you’ll wonder if this is where it all started to go wrong.
twenty-third of september, 1999
you are fifteen today, and you wonder if maybe you’re trying to grow up a little too fast.
but it’s too late for thoughts like that. because joel’s palm cups your breast through your school shirt, the school shield emblem digging into his skin as he gropes hard and insistent. you can feel his erection against your thigh, and it scares the hell out of you, because you’re not really sure what to do next. but you’ve come this far and you need to do what’s expected of you.
-- don’t you?
he unzips his fly and holds your hand in his own, pulling it down and placing it on his hard cock.
his flesh burns you and your immediate reaction is to pull away. but he’d laugh at you then, so instead you bite down on your lip (bite down on his) and force your fingers to wrap around him, the heaviness new and unfamiliar in your hand. he groans when you start to move your hand up and down, doing what you know should be done in a situation like this. and he whispers, "fuck, erica. that’s awesome”.
so you do it more.
twenty-third of september, 2002
"eighteen and now a young woman.”
your mother’s voice rings inside your head, buzzing with the words she said to you earlier as she gave you your present.
“it’s the pill,” she stated, her eyes watching your reaction carefully. “i want you to be aware, erica, and i want you to be careful.”
she doesn’t say that this conversation should have happened years ago (and she knows it, she caught you straddling thomas on the sofa when you were barely sixteen). but she tells you about a woman’s options, and the right to say no, and how a man should always carry condoms with him.
she also tells you that giving a guy a blow job is the best way to get what you want from him. that, and showing a lot of cleavage.
later in the night at a birthday party that some random girl threw for you, simon hands you a plastic cup full of shitty beer and stares at your chest, his eyes drawn to the shadow and valleys that your shirt refuses to hide. “erica,” he breathes. “you look fucking hot tonight.”
when he locks you both in the bathroom and your lips are wrapped around his cock and his fingers pull at your hair, you remember your mother’s speech.
"it’s all a power play, really. it’s about getting what you want out of life, you see?”
thanks, mommy dearest.
twenty-third of september, 2006
it’s a haze now.
twenty-two and you’ve still got a lot to learn.
you have to admit though, you have picked up a lot over the years.
example #1 - you know how to make a man beg for release. (it’s all about your mouth and your fingers and your tongue around his balls).
example #2 - you know that pills and weed and booze is not a good mix. (unless you do it in the right order).
example #3 - you know it’s far too easy to walk into a clinic and end a life before it really begins. (you would have cooed my baby to your stomach, you know you would have).
adam takes you to a hotel room for your birthday. “i’ve planned a surprise,” he chuckles into your ear and he guides you to the room with his hand at your waist. you stumble a little -- the vodka from dinner hits you now -- and when he opens the hotel room door you forget how to breathe.
she’s layed out on the double bed, in nothing but white panties, with her breasts heaving and her nipples hard. her hair is so blonde it glows in the dim hotel light, and her lips curl at the sight of you.
“she’s all yours for the night,” adam presses his lips to your throat and mumbles. “i’m going to sit here and fucking watch.”
her name is tiffany, and she likes to breathe “fuck yes” when she comes.