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[scriptums]

You can tell when his lips curl up in a smile against your skin, and it's a reminder of how much you're dying to wipe it off of his face -- even if you /do/ enjoy when he smiles for you. You wouldn't admit it, of course, especially since it's already a sight so rare when the two of you are among the pack; but when it's his body against yours, and the two of you in his bed, or in his shower, or over his counter, or, in one memorable occasion, on his staircase, you get to see him beaming at you, and you'd be lying if you said that didn't have a direct effect on you, making the corners of your mouth tug up as well.

Not now, though, because now Derek is being an utter pain in the ass, and you both know it, and part of you wonder if he's doing it just to get a reaction out of you, so you choose to respond by pretending the way he growls against you has no effect on you whatsoever -- and, really, other than the small grind of your hips against him, you manage, somewhat. It's not really your fault that he's so good at what he does when he's between your legs that you start getting impatient at some point.

You have his attention now, though, and just as good measure, the hand around his throat tightens a bit, because you need to remind him you're in control now; it's not a dispute as much as it is a statement, and Derek has been good at understanding those so far, and this time, the way your hips roll against his is much slower, much more deliberate, and even though you know that he won't be able to feel much through the layers of clothing between the two of you, you still make sure to position yourself to press your hips against the bulge, deliberately keeping the position when his lips attach to you skin to make sure he'll feel it every time you squirm against him.

The way he's sucking and biting into your skin surprises you at first, lips parting as a mixture between a whimper and a moan leave you, and even though each mark stings, you respond by placing your free hand over his shoulders, and there's no hesitation as your nails sink down into his skin, peering through your hooded eyelids to glance at the reddened marks before they disappeared. God, you wish you could leave him the same way he leaves you, because you know the work he's doing on you right now is going to make it impossible for you to show anything below your neck, and you don't mind, you don't, you don't.

The wetness between your legs make you uncertain of how capable you are right now to stop yourself from making him put his mouth to better use, but truth is, you don't want him to stop marking you either, and by the time your breast is exposed, you find yourself having to consciously bite down on your tongue to keep yourself from moaning out his name.

You expect him to do more than that, though -- you expect for his teeth and lips to continue on, wrap around the nipple he was teasing so infuriatingly, and it takes you a couple of seconds to realize he's not going to. You blame the delay on the fact that most of your blood is rushing to other parts of your body, making your skin flushed and hot to the touch, but you manage to get yourself together, tongue darting out to slide over your bruised bottom lip before you're pulling away from him, sliding out of his lap almost entirely as your fingers work on getting your bra off of your body and discarding it next to the two of you, eyes refusing to leave him, the glare you're offering Derek enough to let him know that you're not, in fact, amused.

Your jeans are next, unzipping them without batting an eyelash and pulling them down until the mid of your thighs, and you consider it good enough as your fingers lace with his, and you consider kissing him for a second before deciding you want to watch him, bringing your joined hands together to kiss his fingertips, your pupils blown not moving from his as you drag them over your bottom lip before guiding his hand down your body. At first, you press it almost innocently against your chest, making his palm flat against the space between your breasts before sliding it down, past your stomach until you finally guide it down your underwear.

You know you don't have to guide him from there, but you're not done yet, the hand covering his guiding his fingertips past the fabric on your hips until he's actually touching you, and you don't stop yourself from grinding into his hand, and even though you need a lot more than just that, you just need to make sure he can feel how wet you are, and you don't even care to hide the fact that this was all him -- instead, you lean in, lips brushing against his earlobe as your breath hitches, and you want to make sure he hears it when you whimper out, even if it's not his name. Not yet.

"Don't you dare stop again."

Peter knows, you think. He trains his annoying blue eyes at you with this smirk every time you get near him after you’re with Allison. The teenagers haven’t trained their noses well enough, but, for a born, older werewolf- all it takes is one whiff. It’s something he’s prepared to use against you, and that almost discouraged you from coming back. It being a one time thing, a two time thing, a three time thing———- but, then it reached a fifteen time thing. You stopped pretending like you had any intention of stopping this thing. Fuck Peter. Especially when she’s making noises, and her body is against yours like it is. It’s intoxicating. It’s impossible to stop. Derek considers him a man of willpower, but, just looking at her- just remembering their times together- makes his bend nearly instantly. She’s like a kryptonite, and you’re not sure what that means just yet. You’re also not looking to freak yourself out, so, you don’t think about it too much. 

It’s easy not to, when her face is close to yours and you can feel her breath on your ear as she scolds you. Instead of stopping right away, you smile against her skin. A real, genuine however smug smile. You use it to tug gently at her skin one last time with a playful growl before you’re pulling away to green on brown with a slightly raised eyebrow. Marks on you never stuck. They’d be there only briefly before disappearing due to the quickness of your healing process. You’re sure that sometimes her nails rake harder down your back because of that knowledge. You’re sure you’d have scars. Sometimes you wish you did. Sometimes the reminders would be nice to keep for awhile.

Maybe that’s why you’re always very for marking her. In visible places. Making up for what you can’t do. Or, maybe it’s because it makes you smirk to see a scarf around her neck when she’s sweating. 

Your eyebrow raises more in question when you realize she’s sitting up, and your tilts to observe her with interest. Eyes darken even more when her shirt is no longer in the equation, and your bruised lips part open as you don’t even hesitate to scan your eyes over the fair skin of her body. Words like beautiful aren’t usually what you try to associate Allison with; sometimes it doesn’t work. But, it does now because it’s easier to think with your boner at the moment, and all you can think about is how hot she is. It helps when her hands go to your neck, your back straightening as your eyes glance everywhere, watching everything and wondering what’s going through her head. What she’s thinking about. You never know. She never fails to surprise you with the things she does, and says. 

The pressure against your throat due to her thumbs cause your head to tilt more up, swallowing and keeping your lips parted as your hand hands squeeze her now bare waist and keep her close to you. You actually think you may die if she moves away, and you have no intentions of letting her. She’s not, though, she’s moving closer to you and straightening her own back, and her chest is near your face now, and you’re swallowing again. Your fingers are tightening, and the pressure in your pants just increase; her words not helping any of this. 

Immediately, your mouth is on her chest. There’s no holding back. Teeth scrape, your tongue presses to her skin, lips wrap around areas to suck. It’s like a mission for you to make the area black and blue with hickies, and maybe even small indents on her hips because your nails are digging in as well. You can’t help it, you’re just so turned on. And, as much as you mentally reliquished most of your control for tonight—— all you can think about doing in this moment is flipping the two of you over and fucking her until she’s came twice and screams your name the entire time. But, she’s in control so you restrain, and just do what you will make her moan in this instant. One of your hands slide up her body until your fingers are dipping into the cup of the right side of her bra, yanking it down without care to be able to finally move your lips over her breast- even taking a moment to suck on the side of it before your tongue just barely teases her nipple. Flicking lightly against it, and swirling around it in hardly a touch, your eyes moving up to see her reaction. She may be in control, but, that doesn’t mean you can’t tease her, too.

[scriptums]

Eyes flickered down to the fingers running restless over her dress, watching the digits pluck at the fabric as his own mouth pressed down into a line, dropping the hand that was on her face to curl it against his thigh to keep it from moving to cover hers. He could tell when she was distressed, obviously; sometimes it seemed easier to him to tell what /she/ was feeling than what he was. But he also knew better than to try to contain her, and so instead Preston just watched with a frown settled on his eyebrows, broken only by a slight raise of one of them with the aggressiveness in her gesture when she snatched the small bottle from his hand, considering it for a few seconds and thinking that maybe he should remove his arm from her knees, too, since something tipped him off to the fact that he should know better than to be touching her right now.

Before he could move, though, and her hands were coming in contact with his body a lot harder than he expected to, the sudden movement making him almost lose his grip and fall back on the floor, only catching himself on the last moment and pressing one of his hands to the floor to push himself back up - only to be met with more yelling, something that made the frown on his features become deeper and causing for anger to start building inside of him, too. Even though she was shoving him and hitting his chest, the actions weren't bothering him as much as what she was saying, heart racing in his chest to the point where he felt he could barely hear her over his own heartbeat, voice raising and hands moving to grab her arms to still her, only being conscious enough about it so as to be sure not to hurt his sister.

"Where do you think this ends, Peyton? What do you think you're going to get out of your happy ending? You talk about doing -- you talk about being 'almost there' as if it's a goddamn accomplishment, as if marrying him was something you need to overcome. Do you really think it'd be this fucking dream you think it is?" By the time he was done talking, his face had become red from his raised voice, and Preston made himself let go of her, dropping his hands and distancing himself so she couldn't hit him anymore. Instead, one of his hands raised to rub at his forehead, eyes closing for a second before gesturing out in the air, tone not much lower than it had been before. "Does it end when he catches us fucking in the brand new house he bought you? When your excuses as to why he can't come along in the 'family vacation' we're taking get weaker and weaker? When you have two kids and you're fucking miserable? I'm not going to apologize for ruining that. I'm not going to tell you I'm sorry because you know as well as I do that it was a goddamn matter of time. You know as well as I do that whatever he could give you would never measure up to you and me, that whatever he could give you would never erase the fact that you're mine."

Fingers picked at her dress, not caring how expensive it was and that she was loosening the threads. It was a nervous tick she wouldn’t be able to stop if she wanted to because her mind was so, so far away from the present as she sat on Preston’s bed that thinking about her subconscious movements was not anywhere near the forefront of it. Peyton had just left the altar of her wedding. Of the future that she made herself cling onto because it was one she needed; even if she didn’t want it, she needed it. She would never survive being without a huge cushion of money. She’s material, she loves having things. One thing her father never failed to do was spoil his children. It was the only affection they got. Money thrown at them to solve everything. And, perhaps it was something that gradually made her bitter as time passed, but, it’s not something she ever really wanted to stop, either.

The reason why she gave up her safety net walked through the door not long after she did, but, she didn’t physically showed that she registered his presence. Blue eyes stayed trained on the wall she’s been staring at. She isn’t threatening to cry anymore, but, there’s a knot in her throat and something in her chest that tells her she isn’t far from it. It makes her feel weak. She’s becoming a lawyer; she’s not allowed to have emotions. Fucking Preston.

Fucking Preston.

A sudden rage easily filled her when fingers wrap around the mini bottle of alcohol, still not looking at him. Her jaw’s clenched tightly, and she only finally reacted when he’s in front of her, and he’s touching her, and a part of her wants to throw the bottle. She only decided against it last minute because she could use some alcohol, and she’s instead curling her hand around it to use her knuckles of both hands to push him away from her. “Shut up. Just, shut up.”

It’s like a whiplash of emotion that courses through her. When she walked out, she was overcome with love for her brother. But, the reality has hit her. She’s right back where she started. The problem hasn’t been solved; there’s no promise of security there. Australia still wasn’t a definite. She wanted definite. She needed definite. And, Preston was just a whole lot of ‘what if’s, and it made her angry. So, she pushed him again, getting up from the bed to keep doing it. Peyton thought maybe it’d be easier to breathe with him away from her, but, it just becomes harder.

"Why’d you have to do that, huh? I was going to do it. I was so close to doing it, and you ruined it!” There goes the tears again, but, there’s no will there to stop them. No possible way to let them not start to streak down her face. Her voice comes out hoarse, and angry, and sad. And, she’s pushing him again, while she’s talking and after until it’s less of a push and more of her knuckles just connecting with his chest in helpless punches. “Why’d ya— why’d you do that? Why?”

[scriptums]

Here's the thing: for a long, crucial period of her life, Cora didn't have anyone to rely on but herself. The six years she spent away from her home, believing that her family was dead and that she could have just as well ended up as the next target made her unable to fully put her trust in someone else, to forge any kind of connection that wasn't fleeting and completely necessary to her. It didn't mean that she didn't crave that, however; being denied of it for so long made her cling to the possibility of Derek still being alive harder than any other thought she'd ever allowed herself to entertain. Losing a member of your pack might have been like losing a limb, but having him back into her life was like more than that; it was like learning to breathe again.

She knew she'd been unfair at first, and really, the kind of expectations she built up were bound to set herself up for being disappointment, but she'd learned. It wasn't just about what he'd given up for her, but rather, the fact that he refused to lose her again. More than safety, he'd given her love, and the only way Cora knew how to return it was giving it back tenfold. It wasn't confusing as much as it was consuming, because wanting Derek the way she did never seemed unnatural. It was more about the fact that she couldn't think of him in any way other than knowing he was the one person she'd do anything for, but it was a good feeling, and she didn't want it to go away.

Rather, Cora wanted to be able to share it with him, too, and while it wasn't like she didn't think this was wrong to some level, she did really believe he felt the same. How couldn't he? Not when he was always smiling at her like that, making her feel so cared for, so safe. And so she threw caution to the wind, lips pressing against his and one of her hands lifting slowly to reach for his face, only to stop halfway through and press against the couch they were both sitting on, because somehow touching him felt like it could be inappropriate at the time.

But he wasn't responding, lips frozen in place as her own tried to move against his, and even though she wondered if it'd earn her any reaction to move her tongue across them, Cora couldn't find it in herself to do it, instead pulling away, lips still slightly parted for a few seconds until she pressed them together in a thin line, unable to keep her eyes from showing the fact that she was hurt by the rejection.

Her eyes refused to meet his, instead glancing down at her own hands and attempting to get over the knot in her throat to allow the few stuttered words out. "I thought-- I, I'm sorry," was all she managed, turning her whole body away from him and keeping herself from just getting up and walking away.

Send in ♉ for my character's reaction to suddenly being kissed by yours

It happened when things were good.

That smile that Cora had reminded him of when he woke up after saving her life, her nurturing him and making sure that he was okay. For a moment while he was in that hazy moment, he had thought he’d be scolded for it. Prepared himself for that outcome, really. But, she was all smiles. His little sister had the look of someone who didn’t want to die, and was thankful for the fact that the grim conclusion wasn’t tossed upon her. Derek remembered the comfort he had gotten from that, since the other teenagers he took upon himself to look after were different. Not death seekers, but, close. They carelessly threw their lives around, and while Cora was anything, but, careful – it was a nice reminder to the newly turned beta that she wasn’t on the edge of suicidal.

So, that smile made him smile. The normal grimace that took over his face replaced with nothing but pure fondness for the last remaining family he trusted. Peter might think it was him, but, that was untrue. While Derek had gone to Peter a numerous amount of times, it wasn’t out of trust. It was because he lacked other options. It was because he’d never want to burden his sister with what was on his mind, and what there was to do. In fact, he did all he could to keep her out of it. The werewolf had seen one too many teenagers die, and Cora Hale was not going to join that list. Not if he can help it.

However, the smile that he gave faded instantly when lips touched his. Muscles became taut and frozen in place, everything about him screaming almost discomfort. Everything, that is, besides his eyes. They were shut, reflexively, and didn’t open for the entirety that his sister’s lips were against his. Derek also didn’t push her away, didn’t do anything until it was inevitably Cora who broke the kiss. Green eyes snapped open when space was given, nothing besides confusion twinkling in them as he stared at her, lips parted in surprise. Words were inability for him, and it took him several seconds to remember that he needed to breathe before he resumed doing so – as subtly as possible.

“Cora…” he breathed out, confusion and scolding and surprise all laced into the name. His mouth hung open like he was about to say something else, but, nothing came out. Instead, he blinked.

[scriptums]

You want to say that it's just the feeling of having some kind of power over him that is intoxicating, pretend that it's the main reason why you keep coming back, except it's not and you can't even begin to make it seem like so. His hands over your body are a constant reminder why most of the time you two spend together is with clothes off nowadays, and the groans falling from your lips because of the way he's gripping at your skin show that you're not ashamed to admit it, either. He doesn't seem to want to let go, and that's good because otherwise you might find yourself pulling at his hands to get them back where you wanted them; not that you think he'd really mind at all, but still.

The sounds he makes gets you thinking that you couldn't ever have enough of them, not really, and sometimes you catch yourself daydreaming about all of the new ways you could elicit them from him - so often, really, that more than once Lydia has shot icy glares at you for not paying proper attention to what she was saying because you found yourself lost in your thoughts again. But, you can't help it, because if having him on top of you turns you on, having him underneath you and calling your name is enough to drive you crazy, and you wouldn't say you've reached the point where you're careless, but getting him like this has been climbing up your list of priorities at an alarming rate.

His fingers in your hair speaks for the urgency between the two of you, though, and between that and the hand on your ass, your skin feels like it's on fire and you don't find yourself minding it at all. You let him have this small bout of control for now, because truthfully, you like the way he pulls your hips to his, like he can't get enough of you, making a point of grinding yourself slowly against him while your tongue slips back into his mouth, sliding against his own until he's breaking away, and the only reason you don't complain is because you know Derek's lips are moving somewhere where he can make much better use of them.

The teeth against your skin are a reminder of the fact that you know you're wet already, and you don't hold yourself back from whimpering out. You know he won't have a problem hearing that, but you make yourself a little louder anyway, because you like moaning out for him, and you want him to keep earning those sounds out of you. Him sucking on your skin is a bit of a different story, though, because even though you like the marks, you know even Isaac is suspicious by now over how often you seem to have something covering your neck even though it's the middle of summer, and that's enough to lend your voice the scolding tone it has when you speak again, nose brushing against his cheek before your own is pressed against it.

"I told you you have to be more subtle," you start, and it's not that you're annoyed, because you're not, but you don't think it's fair you should walk around publicly parading the marks he leaves on you when you can't return the favor. You pull away, then, tongue darting out to lick your bruised lips before you're sitting up straight on his lap, hands that were previously resting on his shoulders dropping to the hem of your shirt before you pull it over your head, discarding the piece of clothing somewhere towards your left before you place your hand on the side of his neck, four fingers pressed against the back while your thumb rests on his throat. You arch your back a bit, pushing your chest out towards him before pulling him closer to you without hesitation, and even though you focus most of the pressure on the back of his neck, there's still some applied to his throat too, as a reminder that you didn't plan on giving up control that easily. "Try here instead."

You never thought you’d fall into a hunter’s bed again——let alone an Argent’s——yet here you are, with one on top of you and her lips against yours in a way that just bleeds passion. Not for the first time, either. Some would even call this a routine, but, you just settle for hot. The tension between the two of you is normally enough to make you sweat, and your skin is already sleek with the perspiration as you guys do nothing but kiss. Your hands are needy; sliding all around her body, and squeezing at her hips, and sides, and back. Getting her close enough just doesn’t seem possible, but— fuck, you are trying.

This thing you’ve begun isn’t a relationship, and you’ll say that’d happen over your dead body. But, you guys don’t fight as often outside of the bedroom. You banter, but, it can sometimes end with small (frustrated) smiles, and questioning looks from everyone else. Chris has even asked you to stop flirting with his daughter, and all you could do was clear your throat.

This is not a relationship, but, you’ve been running out of excuses as to why you wouldn’t want it to be one.

All you can do is whimper when she bites down your lip. On some level, this could probably be embarrassing. The way she takes the dominance from you, and the way you’re almost willing to give it up—— you feel insane not to. Not when she makes you feel the way she does; not when she turns you on so much that the cooldown you need to take from one orgasm to another is you striving to give her multiple ones with your fingers and tongue. Keeping your hands off of her is torturous, honestly— but, her keeping hers off of you sometimes seems even worse. Your pride can sometimes tiptoe in, making you flip control without hesitation- but, you’re not sure that’ll be a problem tonight. If the way you’re groaning when she pulls your head back forcefully is indication, you really think not.

Your own fingers move to thread into her hair, grabbing at the back of her head and making sure to keep her close to you while your other hand slides down to press against her ass. You push down, bringing her hips into yours and finding the smallest relief when you feel friction- it’s not enough, but, you sigh out against her mouth, anyway. It’s around then you decide that you don’t just want to kiss her lips, and your own begin to move toward her cheek, and jaw. When you get to her neck, you bite down. There’s no line that you can see clearly at the moment, so your teeth scrape and your mouth sucks without thinking of the consequences. You don’t leave one mark——you leave three.

[scriptums]

There's a low, rhythmic thumping in your ears matching your heartbeat, and even though you thought you'd be used to it by now, you're not, not really. As you straddle his hips, his hands settled firmly on your lower back to bring you closer, it occurs to you that really, it's never going to feel like old news, and it's part of what makes it exciting. There's no beating around the bush: you've been fucking Derek Hale, and thoroughly enjoying every single minute of it, with no intention to stop, and you think it's safe to say it's a mutual feeling. But you also have no desire to recognize this as a legitimate relationship (even if the red marks you leave on his back for a few fleeting seconds seem to say otherwise, as does the fact you wish the bruises formed by your lips didn't fade as soon as they did), and so every time you meet him, it's like this: it's with rushed kisses and eager pulls, with shared moans and whimpers in the dark, and always over before the morning.

But there's still some shared sense of intimacy, enough that you feel comfortable telling him (almost demanding, really) what you like, and he has too, and the thought of some things you've done together would probably be enough to make you blush in another situation.

Not now, though. Not when your skin is burning for his touch and you seem unable to keep your fingernails from digging into him, into his neck and scalp when you roughly pull him to your lips, and you can tell he enjoys it by the low groan coming from his throat. God, the sounds he makes are enough to remind you of the wetness between your legs and how you'd like to take care of it sooner rather than later. Still, you don't let the sense of urgency rush you, because you enjoy teasing him as much as you enjoy teasing yourself, and you know you'll come either way (he always makes sure you do), and so you don't allow yourself to rush past all of the good parts.

Like biting down on his bottom lip when they're locked again, teeth sinking into it and pulling roughly in a way you didn't really allow yourself to do with anyone else, your fingers now threading into his hair to keep a grip on it just tight enough to make sure his head is thrown back and that you hover over him while you kiss, and you love having him under you, even if you're never sure how long he'll allow you to stay like that. Still, you can almost always find a way of convincing him - which usually ends with his face between your legs and your hips rolling insistently to grind against his tongue - and you're sure tonight won't be much different.

[scriptums]

You think that the weight of the admission would be enough to get her to back down, because even though you always hated the though of making yourself vulnerable to her again, to showing even a glimpse further of what goes on inside your head, you had to, because you couldn't take Elliot trying to wedge herself into your life anymore. She didn't earn the right to know what you needed, what you wanted from her, you think; not anymore, not when it was far too late to make up for any of it. But you were exhausted, and part of you feels like you could pour your entire heart out if understanding what she did to you would be enough to keep her away, because you can't take it anymore, and not being in a relationship with her was supposed to make things easier.

Her words earn a heavy sigh from your lips, though, because it's like even when she's willing to listen, she isn't, not really. As usual, she's far too preoccupied with getting what she wanted, and as the familiar pang of a headache seems to settle in, you wonder why you didn't just walk away from this conversation before it even started. The frown settled on your face shows exactly how much of a willing participant you are, however, and you can't help the way your fist almost slams on the counter in front of you. "Stop! I don't want you to fight for me, Elliot! Not now, not anymore. You didn't... you couldn't even see that I needed to fucking mean something to you back when we were together, and that's not changing now. I can't have you in my life, because being around you means giving, and there's nothing left to give."

The rush of words makes you let out a shaky breath, because talking about your feelings isn't the easiest thing in the world, and you hate the fact that she still affects you so much even though this was supposed to be done so long ago, and so you look at her with a defeated expression, shoulders slumping as you offer a slight shake of your head. "I don't want you around, Elliot. If there's one thing you can give to me, it has to be this."

I wanted you to fight for me.

The words feel like they made the world stop spinning. Everything seemed to go quiet, and stop moving, and the Earth may not be spinning but your head is, and your stomach is twisting, and your chest caves in on you where breathing becomes almost painful. You were picking a fight with her. Being the selfish person that you always prove to be because you lost the girl to a drinking problem you won’t even admit you have. You made it about you. Your pain, your struggles, your heartbreak. Realizing that you rarely thought about what Dawn wanted or needed isn’t a particularly pleasant when you’re suppose to love her.

No, you do. You do love her. Maybe it’s warped, and maybe you need to learn how to love better but these feelings that you have when it comes to her were love. You knew it. 

That’s why the world stops when that’s said. That’s all that she wanted. She wanted you to look like you gave a damn about her as much as you did the next party, the next drink. You failed to do that, and you have to live with it.

Suddenly, there’s a loud sound. Nothing important (a honk of a car, really), just a reminder that the world still is spinning. Time didn’t freeze and all you’ve done is gawk at Dawn while trying to think of an appropriate thing to say back. Sorry just didn’t feel like it’d cut it. Not anymore.

"I am now," you croak in a quiet voice, expressive eyebrows furrowing in a distraught way. "I’m fightin’ for you tooth and nail until the day I die, Dawn. And, maybe that won’t ever be enough, and I won’t blame you for it if that’s the case. But, you bet that I ain’t goin’ nowhere. Even if I’m just a friend, I ain’t leavin’. And, I ain’t ever doin’ what I did to you again."

[scriptums]

"If you need to hear why I love you, I can go on all night."

It’s ridiculous how those words make your stomach twist and know like you’re fifteen again, because you’re a goddamn grown woman with a lot more emotional baggage than a schoolgirl with a crush, and yet it’s that exact feeling coursing through your body and making you aim to bury your face between Andrew’s neck and shoulder, because you think that at this point in your life you’re allowed to be a little silly. This is new for you, still; you two have gotten to the point of saying ‘I love you’ not that long ago, and even though you’d both approached it carefully, because you know full well the weight this kind of admission carries given your respective pasts, it was still amazing how comfortably you found yourself settling with the knowledge that you were in love with him.

You hesitated for  a long time, you think, and maybe if he didn’t understand so well he wouldn’t have been so patient, but you told yourself you couldn’t fall like you did last time, and so you didn’t until you were sure he’d be there to catch you. But you’re doing it now, and there’s a part of you that wants to make damn sure to show it to him, usually more with your actions than your words, but you’re getting there as well. Your lips touch his neck before you’re humming against the skin, not saying anything right away to actually savor the moment before giving a light shrug with one of your shoulders, as if it didn’t make a difference. “I wouldn’t say need, no. But maybe you can give me a few reminders.” Your mouth is tugging up at the corners, and you’re sitting there, curled in his lap and inhaling his scent and touching his skin with your lips and your fingers and every other part of your body that can find his, and you start to think to yourself that maybe what happened before was so you could earn this.

It’s worked, you think; you don’t plan on giving these feelings up so soon. Shifting your weight on top of him, you finally pull away to be able to meet his eyes, and even though you really don’t look your best with your hair sticking out of its bun and wearing an old sweatshirt covered in paint splatters, you don’t actually care, because you know he doesn’t either. “I can start, if you want me to.”

[scriptums]

"I need you."

Her words burn like iron scorching into your skin, and you refuse to let yourself believe her. It’s not that you think her words are completely false, but you’ve recently learned they don’t mean what you used to think they did. You never wanted for Riley to need you, outright; you never wanted to be the kind of man who could only ever have  a fulfilling relationship when a woman couldn’t live without you, because your ego was never that fragile, but you always though those words meant something other than dependence. When she whispered it to you, it was with fingers tangled into your hair and thighs pressing against your body; when she said it loud and clear, it was always a way of surpassing ‘I love you’, ‘I love you more than anything’, ‘I love you forever’. They were words spoken tenderly, meant to somehow try to capture what you thought to be so deep between the two of you.

But when there’s tears in both your eyes and hers and you’re trying to ignore the fact that every part of you is still reluctant to let her go, you understand that you’ve always been a goddamn investment to her.

You find it in yourself to raise your voice to make sure she hears you clear, but you can’t stop your tone from shaking and you don’t really care, because you think it’s only fair she’s met with the mess she made out of both of you, words leaving your lips with a certainty you didn’t really know you possessed. “You don’t. Don’t you dare say that – don’t you dare say those words to me again. Because if you needed me, you wouldn’t have - you threw this all away. Do you see it? You didn’t need my help destroying everything we’ve built, so don’t you dare say you need me when you did all of this on your own. Don’t fucking try to put this on me.” Your fists are shaking by your side when you finish talking, and you can feel your face burning further with each word, and so you make yourself look away from her until you feel less like every part of you is about to crumble to the touch, because you know you won’t be able to take whatever else she has to say until you can somewhat put yourself together.

And even then, you can’t really make any promises.

[scriptums]

It's the way that he brushes you off so easily that gets to you the most, and you wonder if this is ever even going to get anywhere, because while you're used to dealing with stubborn people, you usually have back up, and they rarely make you want to rip out your hair as much as Isaiah does. Maybe it's the fact that you've pushed this far that keeps you from backing down, because you find yourself snarling out the next words, your expression hardening to try and show nothing but disdain. "Not when I'm having the time of my life here." You're not too good at it, because attempts at being witty were really never a strong suit of yours, but you maintain your posture because you know you can't really falter around him.

The look on his face seems to change, though, and maybe it's the way he's getting close to you without doing much more at all, and even though your foot moves as if you were about to take a half step back, you stay where you were, and you have to crane your neck up a little more if you want to meet his eyes, though. You don't; instead, your eyes glue to a spot on his neck for a second, and you really can't decide what he's trying right now, but he manages to distract you for a few seconds before you blink slowly and your lips part, this time speaking with a lot less certainty than you did before. "What are you doing?"

There's still a slight furrow to your brow when you straighten your spine again, because no matter what his intentions are (and you're kind of trying really hard not to think about it), you don't want to back away for some reason; you stand as tall as you can, eyes finally lifting to his own and lips slightly pursed together, making sure your entire posture tells him clearly you are not going to back away, even though part of yourself has to keep remembering that you also are not going to lean in, and you hate your hormones for betraying you, but you also know it's only wrong to notice how attractive he is if you act on it, and you're not going to, so you know it's okay.

Sometimes you wonder why she seems to care so much. Sure, she isn’t the person in the world who finds your behavior unbearable, but, you have Kathryn and Damien, and you know that’s all you really need. Maybe someone else will come along the way that you’ll welcome in, maybe not. You’re happy with have, though. What you aren’t happy with is this. Her attitude towards you because, what? You say a few unpleasant truths? Because, you know you’re going to amount to something—whether it be soccer, or studying sports medicine if that doesn’t work out? Your confidence overruns into arrogance, for sure—but, you aren’t the only person in the world like that, and Alexia acts as if that’s the truth. It confuses you; infuriates you, at times, even.

Your eyebrow lifts even more at her words, the smug grin on your face planted firmly on those lips and the cock of the head going nowhere. As much as she can frustrate you with her never ending persistence of telling you that you’re not a good person; you find her attractive. Cute, sometimes. Hot, definitely. Especially at times like this with those flushed cheeks, and the slightly unkempt hair from the sweat of dancing and the all around humidity that the party had. It’s not hard to let your eyes just scan her faces over and over again because you can’t deny that you like what you see.

However, a scoff and a roll of the eyes followed because she was talking again, and this time you were paying attention to what she said. This was getting ridiculous. “C’mon. This has to get tiring.” It probably doesn’t. She probably enjoys it. Getting riled up, yelling at you. That’s why she participates in those protests. Nothing ever comes of it other than white men getting pissed because people think differently. They never really fold; just pretend to, and fuck everyone over once again later.

All you can think when glazed eyes finally focus back on the Latina is that getting her to shut up wouldn’t be easy. Words wouldn’t do it. Walking out the room wouldn’t, either. She’d follow, and hearing her yell behind you sounds even worse. Kiss her?

Kiss her.

You don’t do it right away. You’re a lot of things, but, you’re not that guy. Forcing yourself onto an unsuspecting girl is disgusting, not cute. Maybe in some contexts, but, a girl whose yelling at you, and probably isn’t even interested isn’t one of them. So, you just step closer. It’s time to test the waters. See if she is interested. There wasn’t a lot of room between you before, her finger against your chest and all made that definite. But, now there’s even less and if she breathed any harder, you’d probably feel her breath against your jaw. It’s not close enough, you don’t think, however—you’re patient.

[scriptums]

The way he seems to be almost completely oblivious to your words and presence make you almost feel like resorting to violence, and you have to take a moment to silently chastise yourself because you'd never resort to violence, and, truthfully, it's just another example of how good he is at getting under your skin, and it makes you angrier, which really doesn't help with the whole situation.

You hate how he seems this laid back; this okay with who he is and what he's doing, and really, you're only a firm believer of being yourself when you're not Isaiah. You hope that it is written across your face when he finally seems to find you interesting enough to pay attention to, except that your expression falters when he calls out your slip, and you hate the fact that he notices the somewhat unusual behavior, because it only feels like giving him more power, and you're here to knock him down a few pegs, not to just feed the stupidly self assured grin on his face.

"Don't- don't tell me what to do," and you know it's childish, but God, you almost can't stand to look at him right now, because you can almost feel that he knows he's superior to you, and you want to show it's not true. You also have to keep yourself from looking like it matters whether or not he finds you hot (even though it kind of does, a little - but you'll go to the grave keeping that secret and it'll be fine), and so you make a conscious effort to make your voice drop down again to make yourself sound less like a squealing girl and more like a woman who demands to be taken seriously.

"I'm not here for you to find me hot. I'm here because someone needs to put you in your place, and it's clear that no one else is going to do it unless it's me." Your finger has dropped, though, and you think you'd look ridiculous with your hands on your hips, so your arms are now crossed tightly in front of your chest, knowing you won't be leaving until you manage to make at least some progress.

The red solo cup loose in your hand has most of your attention, bringing it up to your lips when escaping seems to no longer become a possibility and you’re stuck looking at a fiery Latina whose finger that seems to be a metaphorical pitchfork is stabbing you in the chest. It doesn’t jostle you at all, the liquid steadily going through your lips and down your throat until you tip it back upward and keep your arm at an angled L, fingertips holding the ridge of the cup. 

You don’t expect people to understand the way you treat Damien. You’ve never tried to explain yourself since your motives are yours to know. It’s your business. But, even if it wasn’t; they still wouldn’t understand. You don’t care, though. Because, all you want is for that kid to stop being so damn generous to everyone else around him, and think about himself for once. You’ve been rougher on him recently; you’re not teenagers anymore. He needs to grow up, and with that - receive tougher skin. 

She’s yelling, and you’re not even listening. Your heads fuzzy, and you’re staring at the wall behind her. The dried paint blotches form into faces, and shapes if you don’t think about it. Still, every few words hits your ears. “Puppet”. “Nice”. You even pick up enough of the next few words to realize she’s insulting you. A smirk forms, and you take another sip of your drink. 

What really catches your attention is the curse. Enough to pull your gaze from the bird that you totally made out on the wall to look down at the girl with a raised eyebrow of entrance.

“Language,” it pushes from your lips with nothing but amusement behind it, sloshing the liquid in your cup with a quick shake before downing the rest of it and putting it down on your dresser. You straighten yourself, making yourself taller rather than in the slouched position you had yourself in before and tilt your head with cockiness behind it. “You’re kind of hot when you’re mad.”

[scriptums]

He infuriates you so much, you think it's possible that steam might actually start coming out of your ears.

You can't deny that there's something about him that just makes it impossible for you to let any subject go, that makes you go past the line where you'd usually accept for discussions to end when it was clearly too exhausting for both parties, but he's so frustrating that you think it's right to return the favor. The heat burning in your cheeks might have more to do with just the fact that you're sick and tired of his attitude, because you know the two or three drinks you've had are fueling both your anger and making your voice go a pitch or two higher, but it's justified and you both know it.

One of your fingers presses against his chest, and you're not sure whether or not it's enough to get the point across, but you keep talking anyway. "I don't care why you're doing - he's not your puppet to play with. He's a kind, generous, nice person, and I know you wouldn't understand the first thing about that, but you need to stop treating Damien like you do. Just fucking quit it," you say, eyebrows furrowed in your attempt to look serious, so caught up in what you were trying to tell him that you barely even get hung up on the cursing leaving your lips.

[scriptums]

You can see the way her posture changes when you move closer to her, when your fingers are almost touching her body, and it tugs at your heartstrings for some reason; you can't really point out if it's because the knowledge of the fact that you still have an effect on her makes you feel like she should be trying hard to let you go or if it's because you know that, in some level, you too would feel the same. The thought is pushed away as soon as it came, however, because it's what you've been training yourself to do anyway. It's a task also not made completely hard due to the fact that it's her selfishness that got you both here, and it's a sign that she hasn't change, and won't, and so it further confirms that you've been making the right decision all along.

Her response is met with a short nod, and if you were never one to go on long rambles before, right now words seem even less necessary, your wish to communicate with her as little as possible showing in the silence that neither of you could ignore. You didn't want to, though. You wanted her to know, needed her to know that this wasn't an invitation back into your life, and that the fact that you wanted to make sure she wasn't dead didn't change anything between the two of you.

You ignore the small part of you that thinks that maybe it should. But being faced with the possibility of losing Elliot didn't translate into some sort of enlightening about how you shouldn't take her for granted, because you know you never did, and instead it makes you wonder if she's ever going to grow up. You try not to show the way your jaw is locking when she thanks you, because you know she doesn't mean it in a bad way, but you know that there's no amount of gratitude that makes this right. Still, you can't hold back on the comment that follows, almost mumbled under your breath as you walk past her if you hadn't made sure it was loud enough for her to hear. "Just don't expect me to be here next time."

The word that you repeat as you stare at the plain white wall is ‘breathe’. Breathe because, in a second, Dawn was going to be closer to you than she has been in a long time. In a second, her hands are going to be in a place they’ve been thousands of times. A place you had missed them being. Still miss them being. Perhaps your thought process is shallow. Even a little bit confusing since the last thing you should be thinking about is your relationship with her. But, she was there. And, you don’t want to be all, “that has to mean something”, but— didn’t it? The turning in your stomach makes you feel sick, and you realize that’s probably guilt from being the terrible person you are. 

Shoulders tense as soon as she’s there. Your slouch position becomes straight, and that breathing that you’ve reminded yourself to do is no longer an option because your holding it. Your holding it, and staring at the wall, and trying not to lose yourself in the fragility of your emotions at the moment. Emotions that you don’t even understand. You want to be held, but, you also don’t want to be touched at all. You want her to say something, but, you fear what she might say so much that you’re trying to convince yourself that the silence is comforting. You want to be friends, but, you also know you can’t be. Just friends was never a title that was meant for your relationship. 

The breath isn’t let go of until she’s done. It’s a quick process, even if awkward. You think you’re settle when your lips part to exhale, finally glancing in the direction of the blonde that still had a lock on your heart that you desperately want to get rid of, and absolutely do not at the same time. These conflicting feelings are going to be what drives you mad. 

"Um," you start, clearing your throat as the fingers of your right hand tap gently against your thigh. "We can go, I think." Brown eyes scan the room with more interest than necessary, not spotting anything else that was specifically hers before slowly moving her head to look back at Dawn. "Thank you." For everything. For absolutely everything. 

[scriptums]

You know that the way you're stuffing the few belongings Elliot had with her into a bag is unnecessarily harsh, and you also know better than to snap at someone who'd just been in a car accident, but, in your two years of higher education, they never really taught you how to pretend you didn't care when the person lying on a hospital bed was close to you.

More than close, really; at some point you were sure she was the love of your life, but you also remember how that was an idea that crossed your mind before it seemed like she was unable to have a sober breath, and the thought of how hard you had to work to dissociate yourself from those feelings makes you shove one of the spare t-shirts you brought more forcefully into the bag. She didn't really need the three spare outfits, but they're keeping your hands from becoming idle and making sure you didn't have to spend too much time looking at her, so you don't think that being overzealous was necessarily bad.

When her voice croaks from the other side of the room, you consider ignoring it for a second, once that all the worry that washed over you when getting that phone call subdued and gave room to so much anger it made you livid, but you're still here to help her, and maybe you couldn't break the habit as well as you thought it did, because you're turning no longer than a second later to face her and watch her gesture towards her fly.

She's not looking at you and you think it's good that she can't see the way your expression changes every time you see the cuts and bruises on her face, your expression hardened as you silently walk over, casting your gaze down and making yourself close the button and pull the zipper up. The proximity is something that would've shaken you a bit more in different situations, but right now you want to be away from her, and so you don't linger for even a second longer than necessary, and you don't think about all the times that you've done the reverse process. Instead, you think about the fact that even now it seems painful for her to admit that she needs help, and even though you didn't think there was any hope left to be crushed, the sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach proves you otherwise, and for a second you're worried the whole situation is going to make you sick.

Instead, you grab the bag you were stuffing with her clothes and nod towards the door. "Is there anything else you need or can we go?"

It’s quiet, and you wish it wasn’t.

Every thought she isn’t voicing can be clearly heard throughout the room in a sound louder than she could ever yell. Her silence kills you, makes your shoulders slouch further down than they already are. She’s disappointed, and it makes you feel small; it makes you feel like a child. Of course, it’s reasonable. If that tree had been car, only God knows what would have happened. Your conscience would be a lot heavier, and the suspension on your license would be the furthest thing from your mind. Not that it really is in the forefront of it. The main concern being how to get through the next half hour without going absolutely mental. From the silence, yes— but, also from her in general. Her presence is still as intoxicating as it’s always been; even while being irreversibly pissed off by you. 

"Can you…?" your voice trails off, cracked and hoarse as you finally stop staring at the front of your jeans. Open and avoiding every attempt you make to change that. Your left arm is in a sling, and your right hand is useless to you. It was never a matter of thinking you’d actually fix your fly; it was always a matter of when you’d finally ask for the help. "Please." You don’t look at her. You stare straight at the wall with your jaw square, ignoring the soreness that follows. 

[scriptums]

The sounds of Elliot stumbling through the door and towards the bathroom is enough to wake you up, but you lie still for a while longer, counting slowly to ten in between each breath, giving yourself the strength you need to get up and follow her. But you reach ten, and your stomach is still turning, and there's still a burning behind your eyelids, and so you listen to the muffled noises of your girlfriend emptying her stomach and ask yourself if you can pretend to be asleep for a little longer. The catch is, though, is that you're not pretending for her sake, because you know she'll probably barely register you whether you follow her or not, and the only thing keeping you from ignoring her is the way your gut seems to be sinking with guilt, even though you know that nothing you do will ease the tightening in your stomach. You still get up, though, because that's somehow better, dragging your feet to the bathroom the two of you share to catch a glance of her sitting on the floor, and maybe she'd catch the sigh that left your lips if she wasn't so out of her damn mind, but she is, and sometimes you wonder how much she'd care if she wasn't.

Instead, wordless still, you reach for the glass sitting on the sink, filling it with water and kneeling by her to hold it out until she takes it from your hands, waiting until she rinses her mouth to finally say something. Your hand moves to brush her hair out of her face as you talk to her, and you can't help but to catch yourself wondering when your touch on her had lost all of its tenderness to give place to becoming completely mechanical instead, and maybe you shouldn't be doing this anymore, but you're not quite sure how to stop yet. "Do you want to get into the shower?" The voice that leaves your lips surprises even you, because you didn't think you were so choked up, not when you were so good a hiding it, and so a small clear of your throat breaks the silence again before it's just the two of you looking at each other, her unfocused eyes making you feel like the weight on your shoulders might finally break your spine at some point.

[scriptums]

His answer made another smile grace her features, because while she really didn't expect a different answer, it was kind of nice to see it put like that, and by the time she looked back at him, there was more than a hint that he'd been staring at her this whole time, which didn't really bother her. Instead, she held his gaze, not looking away when he did and instead stifling another quiet laugh at his attempt at feigning innocence. "Maybe I'll just have to cut you off completely." Against her own words, however, her chin tilted up as his lips moved closer to her neck, eyes fluttering shut for a second as they touched the skin and remaining like that for a second or two, letting the goosebumps disappear from her skin before Dawn was glancing down at Andrew again, unable to keep herself from leaning in closer to him.

"It's okay," she said, head moving as if she was going to rest it on his shoulder before her lips brushed his earlobe and her voice dropped to a whisper. "I can't either." Then, she pressed a kiss against his jaw, just below his ear, her bottom lip dragging over the skin before her teeth captured the lobe for a second, the gesture almost sweet given the lack of roughness.

But he started talking, and so she had to sit up and pretend not to be a little sad at the fact that she got the answer wrong, but still not being able to help the slight frown settled on her features. "I don't think that's fair. I mean, I did get it 20% right. Something around that." Still, she sat up straighter, thighs pressing against the side of his hips as her back arched a little and her chest pushed forward as her hands dropped to the hem of her shirt. Dawn didn't rush, taking her time to slowly lift the material and giving him time to take in each inch of skin until she had it over her head, dropping the shirt on her bed beside them and giving him a little shrug. "Beginner's luck. But you seem pretty smug about yourself, so I ask you: what's my drink of choice?"

"No. Absolutely not. Unless we’re completely alone, and nobody can see you— nope." 

The smile on his lips formed into an even bigger one as his fingers continued to draw small, lazy patterns into her skin. Brown eyes didn’t look away from the blue set gazing down at him, head tilting in the slightest up at her. Dawn was really attractive. It’s one of the things that initially drew him to her. She had an expressive face, and a beautiful smile. Honestly, he had a hard time looking away, sometimes. 

"Oh," he started, blinking for a moment when she pointed out his hands. Reflexively, he did look away to look down at where they were before looking back up with an innocent sort of look. "Apparently, I just can’t do that, huh?" A tiny smirk came onto his lips before he slowly moved himself up to press his face into her neck to leave a brief kiss against the column of it, proceeding to go back to his original position afterward with the same smirk. 

Her answer was enough to make his brow raise. “You were closer when you said tighty whities. I’m a briefs guy. Boxers are for people who sag their pants, and who want to wear Superman undies.” He paused for a moment, licking his lips before continuing with more of an explanation, “Now, if I’m just walking around home - I’ll put on a pair of boxers because walking around in briefs just feels inhumane. But, right now, my friend, I am wearing briefs. So, take off your shirt.” The smirk on his face grew even more at the end of his sentence, tilting his head as his nails brushed against her skin now. 

[scriptums]

An eyebrow rose as the words left his lips, the idea formulating as soon as he finished his sentence, head slightly tilted to the side and a small smile curling up the corners of her mouth. "Does that mean you'd be okay with me getting naked in public? Not that streaking is a favorite activity of mine, but..." Her sentence was punctuated with a small laugh, the sound filling the pauses between their conversation and only wavering for a second when his hand moved to her hair. It wasn't a bad thing, not really; they were dating, and affection wasn't uncommon between them, but still, they were still getting used to each other, and so it was hard to be unaffected when that kind of thing made her stomach twist a little bit in a way that was kind of really good that she still had to tell herself she was allowed to feel.

With her eyes lingering on his lips before they dropped to the way his hands were settling on her body, Dawn adjusted herself on top of him before speaking again. "Your hands on my thighs don't feel like keeping them to yourself," an observation made just for the statement rather than actually trying to correct the situation, especially when his fingers came in contact with her skin. The question made her eyebrows furrow, however, slightly narrowed eyes as she looked up, trying to remember the few times she did get a glimpse of his underwear and suddenly founding an even stronger regret to the fact that lights were kept low most of the time. "Well, I think... I'm gonna go with boxers? Maybe?" Her eyes were still narrowed for a second, bottom lip caught between her teeth before she flashed him a hopeful smile, her hands placing themselves over his wrists as her thumb stroked the skin on the side of each one, keeping his hands where they were.

"That is true, you do get to kiss me all the time. You don’t get to get naked for me all the time. I mean, we can kiss in public, but, you can’t do that in public." There’s a short pause as he considered what he said. "Well, actually, you physically can. But, public indecency doesn’t sound like a charge you want on your criminal record." Talking just to talk was a habit that, always dragging out conversations longer than need be. The great thing about Dawn is that it never felt like a flaw around her, and he settled into an easy smile as a hand moved up to tuck a piece of hair behind her ear without thinking much about the action. 

As she straddled him, his head tilted upward and the back of it thumped lightly against the wall with the action. His hands moved to slide along her thighs, resting them there and tapping his thumbs against her jeans while she drew shapes into his shirt. The movement soothed him, and it caused the corners of his lips to push up as well to form even bigger smile. “All right, hands to ourselves,” he repeated after her, a small chuckle pushing past his lips as she waved her finger in front of him. “That’s a lot of talk for someone who didn’t know my favorite movie.” Granted, he doesn’t know hers either. That’s besides the point, though, and he’d just smirk like it wasn’t a lot of talk on his side, as well. 

Not looking away from her as he considered his first question, he pressed his lips together in thought. One of his hands moved to cup at her hip, dropping his gaze only them to watch at his thumb slipped under her shirt to rub gently at the skin under the fabric. “Since you seem to know about my underwear choice — lets start there. Am I boxer, or briefs guy?”

[scriptums]

Eyebrows furrowing together for a second at Karma's reaction, Amy looked down briefly at her magazine, wondering if she'd actually be able to sell the idea that no, really, she was just that interested in knowing how much Kim Kardashian's wedding cake cost before deciding it wasn't worth it, just dropping the magazine to her lap instead. Her best friend's next words made her eyes widen, though, and for a second it was as if she'd perfected the deer in headlights look, eyes darting around the hotel room as if she might actually consider jumping out of the window as an emergency exit.

The attempt would be futile, though, because she knew Karma would be right behind, and so her shoulders dropped, almost as a gesture of defeat towards a battle she wasn't even having, fingers playing with the corners of the cover of the magazine to keep herself occupied. "Talk about what?" With a somewhat coy expression on her face, Amy's gaze moved towards Karma only to see the girl getting up, and the blonde hesitated for a few seconds before crossing her legs instead of keeping them stretched on the bed to give her room to sit if she wanted to. "Because, you know, I've dropped the theory that Lauren has poisoned the wedding cake, so you don't have to try and talk me out of it again."

Bingo.

"Good." It left her mouth shortly, blinking a bit since her eyes now actually became focused on Amy enough to notice she was looking through magazine. The gossip girl inside of her wanted to briefly change the subject to know if there was any juicy deets she was missing out on, or fun quizzes to take. Her mouth seemed to glue tightly back shut, however, fingers noticeably tapping harder. As much as it was to purposely get her best friend’s attention, her nerves helped carry the weight of her fingernails down to clash harder against the desk.

Originally, she had told herself that she wasn’t going to say anything. Liam Booker was what had gotten in between them, and has caused their fight. Gushing about the fact that she slept with him didn’t sound like the best way to mend their friendship. It made sense to her. And, it even worked for a few days. Until the guilt started seeping in.

Keeping things from Amy wasn’t something Karma was particularly good at. And, if she started keeping things from her— who knows what else she might choose not to say. And then one day, they’ll be strangers that can barely make eye contact during their five year reunion without it feeling awkward and rushing past the other with a muttered hi. 

Biting her lip at the thought, she let out a sigh through her nose and pressed her palm flat against the desk to use it as leverage to stand up from the chair. “So…—I think we should talk.”