Chapter Text
It had always been easy enough for Dee to brush away the Gang’s collective jibes and insults, bid them farewell with a “Later, boners”, and head back to her apartment to cry, or masturbate, or both at once. That was just the Gang; it’s what they do. And, in a weird, fucked-up sort of way, it worked for her. All of their cruelty was easy enough to handle, because even vitriol has some kind of caring behind it, but this – this goddamn silence – has always been the thing that worms its way under Dee’s skin and eats away at the most insecure part of her.
Bunch of self-involved pricks. All of them. Is it too much to ask that they give a shit regarding one goddamn aspect of her life? They ignored her pregnancy. They ignored her crack addiction. They ignore her acting career. They ignore every goddamn relationship she has – whether it’s a casual bang, a hapless mark for a scheme, or a potential life partner. Just for once, is it too fucking much for them to take an interest in just one of her affairs? Sure, she’s not expecting a goddamn ceremony, but even casual ridicule would be welcome at this point. Mock and laugh and point at Sweet Dee! Tell her you’re not surprised she’s sunk so goddamn low. Something. Any-fucking-thing. Acknowledge me. For the love of God, acknowledge me.
It’s probably pathetic to hope for only the barest minimum from those assholes. Setting the bar real high there, Deandra. But they’re the lot she’s stuck with, and goddammit she deserves some kind of fucking satisfaction for all the bullshit she puts up with.
Dee flicks away the remains of her cigarette and sighs in frustration. She’s been spending a lot of time round the back of Paddy’s of late – collecting her thoughts with the sweet help of Mother Marlboro. Furthermore to her exasperation with regards to the Gang’s apparent indifference – just to add a little more turbulence to the barrage of emotions battling for dominance inside of her – Charlie had given her an envelope this morning, with a backwards letter ‘D’ scrawled upon it. The contents of which, Dee can only suppose, as she unfolds the piece of notebook paper for the tenth time today, is some sort of letter – written in Charlie’s unmistakable style:
The purple cock she kinda gets. But is that a turd? What the everloving shit, Charlie? She absentmindedly turns the paper this way and that as she paces the alley in a feeble attempt to make sense of, well, everything. Where the shit did these feelings even come from, anyway? Charlie has always been a constant in her life – from high school to Paddy’s and everything in between – so why has the thought of not spending her every waking hour with him now become unbearable? It’s goddamn pathetic, is what it is. Sweet Dee Reynolds – gone soft like one of those dumb chicks from an equally asinine romance movie. And he’s probably just gonna shit on her regardless. Maybe today, maybe ten years from now, but he will; there’s no doubt about that. Perhaps she should just cut her losses right fucking now. Is that a coconut?
She lights another cigarette, savouring the comforting, warm tendrils of smoke that fill her lungs as she inhales, anticipating that perhaps more nicotine with a side of nicotine will help her decode whatever it is that Charlie is trying to tell her. This would be so much easier if he’d just written her a song. Okay, that’s definitely a dog made out of condoms.
“Hey.” Charlie’s voice punctures the stillness from behind her, making Dee jump halfway out of her skin. “Can I bum one?”
“Shit, Charlie,” Dee replies, ceasing her agitated patrol. For the best, really; she was feeling dizzy as shit. Barely tearing her eyes away from the letter, she offers up her pack of cigarettes. “Sure, go nuts.”
“You, uh, you like the letter?” he asks, as Dee gives him a light. He takes a drag and shoots her a look of unnerving sincerity.
“Well. It’s very sweet, Charlie,” she says diplomatically, which sounds a hell of a lot better than “I don’t understand a goddamn word of it; please explain.”
“I know I’m not real good with words and shit, but it’s like, I don’t know.” He pauses, averts his gaze with a frown and flicks the ash from the end of his smoke. “I think I’d be good for you, you know? And maybe you’d be good for me.”
In spite of the bullshit weighing on her, Dee smiles at that. “Yeah, I think so, too.”
“But you’re still not happy,” says Charlie, looking crestfallen. Dee chides herself internally for being the cause, but goddammit she needs to get this off her chest.
She sighs and takes a long drag of her cigarette. “Those goddamn pricks in there… You know, they don’t give two fucks about anyone but themselves, and I know – I mean, I really do know – I shouldn’t care. I shouldn’t expect anything more from any of them, especially Frank and Dennis. But goddammit, I’m tired of getting shit on. I’m tired of everything that happens in my life – good, bad, whatever – being ignored. How can they sit in there when my whole fucking life is changing and just have no reaction at all? How, Charlie? Tell me goddamn how.” The injustice of it all sits bitterly in the back of Dee’s throat, and she feels no better from having vocalised it.
“But why does it even matter what they think?” Charlie says with a shrug. “Can’t we just do something for us? Can’t this just be ours?” He’s right, of course, but the Dee Reynolds Pity Party takes no prisoners. No surrender; no chance of retreat.
“Of course this is ours, but goddammit, I want-” She sighs; it’s going to sound so lame, but she’s too worked up to just forget it now. “I want them to care about it as much as I do. ’Cause I do, like, a lot, Charlie.”
“You say that like I don’t or something. Jesus, Dee! This week- this week has been, like, the best goddamn shit ever and-” he breaks off with a screech of exasperation as he snatches the letter from her hands and waves it around like a conductor on speed. “I thought I made all of this pretty damn clear already!”
As clear as a turd in a suit and a condom dog can be, sure. But Dee bites her tongue for once, in the interest of not shitting all over what really was a very nice gesture. Shit, she has gone soft. “You did, but-”
“But what?” Charlie asks, his voice rising to resemble something akin to an ostrich playing a kazoo. “It wasn’t good enough? You need more proof?”
Before Dee can respond, Charlie is all over her, lunging forward to grab her by the waist and smother her mouth with his own. He kisses like he’s on fire, all groping hands and probing tongue, with an intensity that never fails to get Dee going. She moans into his mouth as his hands clutch at her ass and tangle in her hair, and fuck if he doesn’t make her feel like she’s the most desirable woman in the whole goddamn world.
It’s exactly what she needs. He wasn’t wrong when he asked if she needed more proof; not entirely. Sure, the letter had bared his soul in the most Charlie way possible, but when you’ve got more than thirty years of being belittled and discarded under your belt, you tend to need constant, clear-cut reassurance. Yes, bitch, you really are good.
Merely sucking face isn’t what Charlie has in mind, however, and they stumble backwards, empty beer bottles skittering across the pavement as they careen past, until Dee slams into a dumpster with a hard thump and a muffled yelp. Fuck, that’s gonna bruise like shit. With Charlie’s dick already hard and pressing into her thigh, the discomfort is forgotten easily enough, and replaced by the sudden and overwhelming need to have him pound her cunt as hard and as fast as the cocksucker can manage.
Neither of them wastes time with the delicacies of foreplay or any of that gentle nonsense, and for a moment the alley is filled with nothing but the flurry of eager hands tugging and fumbling with inconvenient clothing, and the lewd moan of two zippers giving way. (And one goddamn alley cat mewling at the vulgar spectacle, but Dee chooses to ignore the fuck out of that.)
He stops kissing her long enough to share a look – half arousal, half “how’s this for proof?” – before he angles himself just so and pushes into her with a low, heady grunt.
Goddamn, she’ll never be over how thick the motherfucker is; he’s stretching her wide – damn near to the breaking point – and Dee can’t decide whether she wants to sob, scream or beg him to never, ever goddamn stop.
Charlie utters a groan of satisfaction as he begins to move, rocking his hips torturously slow – slow enough that Dee nearly orders him to pick up the pace and goddamn fuck her like he means it. But she resists the temptation, instead clenching around his cock in a way she knows will make the fucker squirm, and sure enough the languid roll of his hips quickly builds to the rough, frantic thrusting that Dee needs. She grasps at him – fingers clutching at his ass and clawing his shoulder – ready to ride him until they’re both screaming each other’s names and praying for this moment to last forever. Yes, fuck, this is more like it.
He gasps a strangled “Dee” – the only coherent word he can manage – and buries himself in further and further, every movement accompanied by a jarring thump, thump, thump as he fucks her against the cool, hard metal.
The very concept of Dee Reynolds achieving orgasm through penetration alone is goddamn inconceivable – ludicrously so, in fact. Yet here she is, conceding the power she covets so dearly, having her brains fucked out in the most quintessential Charlie ‘Dirtgrub’ Kelly manner imaginable – backed up against a filthy-ass dumpster with Charlie’s equally grime-encrusted fingernails digging into her thigh as his fat cock hammers deep inside of her, filling every inch of her pussy and it’s coming, holy mother of fuck it’s coming-
“Oh, goddamn, Charlie. Fuck, yes.”
Their lips meet in a frenzied assault of need and desperation as her body gives in to the utter fucking delinquency of it all, her muffled moans of pleasure reverberating deep into Charlie’s mouth. He thrusts into her once, twice, three times more – each of which heightens and prolongs the rolling wave of euphoria enveloping every inch of her – before slamming into her a final time as he comes with a roar of profanity, his whole body shuddering from the release.
Spent, exhausted, but now fully dressed (if not more than a little dishevelled), they sit side by side on the cool concrete in a brief period of calm while they regain their composure.
With her heart pounding a mile a minute – unsure of whether she’s still revelling in the afterglow or whether she’s overwhelmed with the enormity of what she feels she needs to say right now, Dee breaks the silence. “Hey, look. I want you to know… I mean, I want to tell you a thing, and I don’t want you to freak out. Fuck, this is hard.”
The words stick in her throat. It’s not that she doesn’t want to say them, or even that she’s afraid he won’t say them back. Rejection and Dee Reynolds go way back – to the womb even. But feeling something like this for somebody who isn’t herself? It’s alien and it’s unexpected (and it’s making her want to dry-heave just a little) – and more than anything, she doesn’t want to fuck this up.
“Charlie, I think- I think maybe…” Dammit. God-fucking-dammit. He’s looking at her like she’s the centre of his entire fucking world – a look that Charlie Kelly reserves for shit like fancy cheeses and worm hats and brand new cans of spray paint – and Dee’s nerve withers like a gay guy’s boner at a titty bar. Maybe it’s not the time after all. Or maybe she’s just a goddamn pussy. “Ah, shit.”
“Dee,” Charlie says, taking her hand and offering that characteristically lopsided smile that makes her feel far too soft, “me too.”
What a wild goddamn ride. She loves Charlie fucking Kelly. And he actually fucking loves her back. Leaving the words unsaid doesn’t make it any less true. It’s real; it’s theirs. And for once, Dee isn’t hounded by the nagging insecurity that’s constantly gnawing on her every thought. There’s a peace that comes from having given a part of yourself to someone else, and a sublime sort of relief in receiving a part of them in return. Dee couldn’t explain it if she wanted to, but it’s pure fucking bliss – a high right up there with the delirious rapture of a coke binge.
“Alright,” says Dee, squeezing Charlie’s hand as they both rise to their feet. There’s a lump in her throat and her stomach is churning like she’s just ingested a handful of Stay Awake. This shit is now or never, and Christ, she doesn’t know how it’s gonna play out – but perhaps she doesn’t even need to. Maybe, just for once in her life, she doesn’t need to be in control. “Alright,” she repeats, her voice unusually calm and foreign to her own ears. “Let’s go face the Gang.”