#this is about having lived in the same house my entire life and knowing there's a world out there but not knowing if I'll ever reach it | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

gretavanmoon · 3 days

Text

E09

Spinning Now: "Ex" by Aer (2014) (and a little bit of "Wonderin' Why")

Pairing: Sam x OC

Word Count: 12.2k

Warnings: Drinking, Cursing, Manipulation, Cheating, Sadness, Bad Coping Mechanisms, Hella Angst

Smut including: Kissing, Touching, Oral F!Receiving, Fingering, Unprotected Sex, Reluctant Dominance if you squint

+ So these songs aren't ones that were suggested by you guys, but Aer has always been one of my favorite groups, and these two songs have kind of always gone hand in hand for a little storyline playing out in my head. Not much thought went into this, but sad surfer boy Sam just felt too appealing to pass up lol. Give them a listen if you don't know them, they'll make you want to live in a little beach town with nothing better to do than skate & surf <33

◇ ◇ ◇

A glance to your watch lets you know it's nearing eleven, but the bloom of warmth in your chest from your scotch on the rocks is making you forget about your impending 9AM clock-in. The bartender, Marcus, raises an eyebrow at you as you slide the empty glass his way, silently asking for a refill.

“Same thing, Sammy? Since when did you start drinking scotch, anyway?” he asks, refilling your glass with a handful of ice before pouring the Johnny Walker overtop of it. You return his question with a menacing glare; he knows exactly when you switched from whatever draft IPA was on tap to… this. You watch the ice cubes swirl around in the glass as it fills, keeping silent as your bare foot taps on the wood-slat floor beneath your barstool. “Oh. Right, nevermind,” he responds with a bite of his tongue before being approached by another patron.

You sigh as you turn in your stool beside the ice machine, running a hand through your saltwater-damp strands, feeling the effects of forgetting to put sunscreen across your cheeks this morning. The icy liquor hits your teeth as you sip from the edge of the glass, letting the fire ignite inside your chest again. The feeling is one you’ve become fond of as of late, but you know the headache that will accompany it will have you kicking yourself in the ass tomorrow. The wind is blowing the palms Eastward, and the warmth of the humid air feels like a storm may be preparing to blow through, if you had to guess.

Sand is still gritting between your teeth every now and then as you people-watch at the crowded beachfront bar, Donovan’s, watching as locals and tourists alike dance and sing along with the house band. The multicolored spinning lights are bouncing off the faces of the strangers mixed in with your acquaintances, and you suddenly feel a little envious that you aren’t out there enjoying being alive with them.

A year ago, you would have been right in the middle of it all, stealing the microphone away from the front man, belting out the words to Sweet Caroline or Margaritaville, but now, things are different. Now, you stick to the sidelines in a way that you never have before. Your entire mind, body, and soul have been overtaken by a completely new human being, someone that you aren’t familiar with, drifting further and further away from your true self as the sun rises and sets over the ocean.

Are you happy with yourself?

No, not necessarily. But what the fuck is your other option? You can’t run away to a new place, and you can’t ignore the elephant in the room, so instead of taking control of your life, you let it have you. You bask in the fact that this degenerate side of your lifestyle has become more addictive than any drug you’ve ever done, and you have to admit, it’s more delicious than you could have ever imagined.

◇

A few years ago, now, you’d ridden into this tiny little beach town with your surfboard riding behind you on your baby pink Schwinn bike. You’d come here with nothing but an oversized backpack stuffed full of ratty t-shirts and a few pairs of board shorts, a straw hat, and your lucky koozie in your back pocket. You barely even had more than $300 in your wallet. You’d spent the first week sleeping on the beach and avoiding high-tides, riding around town looking for a job and a place to stay that had a decent roof.

Finally, after four or five days of searching, you’d landed a job as a surf instructor at the Ten Down surf shop, working Wednesday through Sunday for minimum wage plus tips. You were over the moon, of course, working in the field of what you knew and loved best, the ocean.

Growing up as the only child of a single dad was oftentimes more difficult than it was enjoyable, but your father took the hardships in stride. He’d raised you alone, working while you were at school and then teaching you how to surf in the evenings. Even if your father struggled, you never knew it. He was a wild character, always the life of the party and had more wisdom in his pinky finger than you had in your whole body. All your memories of him are fond, and he taught you more about life than you’d ever learned on your own.

He was street smart, intelligent in ways that didn’t make sense to other people. And damn, if he didn’t love the ocean. Loved it so much that he devoted his life to it. And in the end, it was the ocean that took him away from you. Why he thought venturing out during a storm by himself is beyond you still to this day, and you’ve only just now started to forgive him for it. Maybe it had something to do with your mom not being there to help raise you. Maybe he thought he was more powerful than the waves he rode. You’ll never know.

It was only a week after you got hired at Ten Toes that your co-worker Scotty figured out that your home was somewhere up underneath the pier, and asked if you’d like to crash on his couch with him and his housemates. You couldn’t turn down his offer, of course, knowing that if you had to sleep one more night with the sandflies you might actually move back to your shitty hometown. The house was small, but big enough to hold his three roommates and you on their sofa.

In hindsight, that might have been the absolute best year of your entire life, thus far. Everyone you lived with was on the same level as you… surfing to live, and living to surf. You shared meals, met their families, partied way too much, and spent every single night together watching the sun drift down below the waves from your seats on your boards. You were making money, you were having more fun than you ever imagined possible. You were in a constant state of bliss, that is until she came around and turned your entire world upside down.

The day your manager introduced her as the new hire at the shop was the first day of the rest of your life. Her sweet and timid hand taking yours into a handshake, taking your breath straight from your lungs as she introduced herself as ‘Cora’. You became enraptured by her, the way her green eyes poked through her lashes, the way her freckles sat perfectly across her tanned face, the way her long hair reached far past her waist…

She was the newest hire at the shop, just like you had been the summer previous, so you understood completely how it could be a little difficult to grasp how things went, there. So you took her under your wing a little, volunteering to show her the ropes and walk her through her probie-period of learning. She was shy at first, hardly giving you more than a few sentences a day. But you committed each of those sentences to your memory, hanging on her every word like they were the last ones you’d ever hear uttered from her perfectly pink lips.

Over the period of that summer, your shy coworker became your good friend, and as the blaze of the summer started to drift into the coolness of Fall, your good friend became the one you ended up falling asleep with under the pier, this time by choice.

You fell fast and hard for one another, freefalling blindly into what felt like a bottomless pit that the two of you would never tire of floating through. Everything was perfect, she was perfect. Every waking hour was spent with her, surfing, hiking, biking, socializing… and the sleeping hours were spent wrapped up in each other, tangling your limbs and intricately weaving your emotions into what you could only describe as pure and effortless love.

She came out of her shell once she became comfortable with you, spending more and more time away from her own roommates to crash out on the futon in your room you were able to acquire when one of Scotty’s buddies moved out. For the longest time, it felt like life couldn’t get any better, like you’d truly hit the peak, and there was no way you’d ever be able to be any happier than this, here, with her.

‘Love, Sammy… you love me?’

‘With everything I am, baby, I swear…’

And you did, you really and truly did love her. All the other failed relationships of your past dulled in comparison to what you had with Cora. You didn’t have to try with her, the ease of your lives came and went just as easily as the waves crashed onto the beach and drifted away again, always unfaltering and headstrong.

You weren’t even upset when she decided to get a second job at the only 24-hour restaurant in town waiting tables during the lunch and dinner shifts. In fact, you were happy, seeing as how the two of you had begun to save up a little money to rent a place of your own.

You weren’t upset when she began to pick up more shifts there at the restaurant than she did at Ten Down. And you weren’t even pissed when she started bringing home more money than you, even after you’d been employed at the shop for almost two years. You shrugged it all off, because you were a team, in this together, sharing everything under the sun as you survived the world with her.

You weren’t pissed. Not even in the least.

Until one night in early summer when you woke up on a Saturday morning ready to rush to the shop for your surf lesson, pulling yourself from the sheets only to realize she wasn’t asleep next to you. You checked the bathroom, the other guys’ bedrooms, outside on the porch… she was nowhere. And her bike wasn’t parked outside.

Her phone went straight to voicemail over and over and over, and her texts pulled up green as you began to realize her phone was off. Panic set in as your mind began to rush with possibilities of if she was hurt or harmed… thoughts back to last night reminded you that you’d crashed out early after a smoke session with Scotty, sending her a sweet goodnight text that assured her not to work too hard.

After telling Scotty to call you if he heard back from her, you took off on your bike down the sandy street toward the restaurant, hoping to talk to someone who may have closed with her last night.

“Nope, they cut a couple of us at 11:30 and sent us home, I haven’t seen her since…” one of her coworkers told you, only sending your panic into a deeper spiral. You called her roommates, her friends, hell, you ever texted her mom to see if anyone had spoken to her since yesterday. But all came up empty handed. It was like she had vanished.

You decided to ride to the shop to see if by some miraculous chance she’d be there, ready to work her shift. Your feet pedaled hard as you zipped through alleyway shortcuts and across parking lots to get there faster, your heart pounding in your ears as you continually checked your phone for any updates. Your tires slid sideways across the pebble gravel as you let your bike fall against the tin building, and you rushed inside in a huffed mess of nerves and sweaty exhaustion.

You yelled through the building at your coworkers, announcing your arrival. Your voice was chopped and strained as your hands shook with anticipation.

“Damon, Marie! Have you guys heard from–”

You were stopped in your tracks as you met eyes with her, seated at the check-in desk sipping coffee from a bright orange mug.

“What the FUCK! Cora, where– why…where have you been?” you squealed as you approached her, your hand reaching out to touch her to see if you were imagining things. “Why weren’t you at home?” Your last sentence came out as a hushed whisper only meant for her, as your other two coworkers walked away from the scene.

Her normally chipper and honest demeanor was replaced by something you weren’t familiar with as her eyes fell from yours, her words skipped and uncertain as she tried to explain herself.

“It’s nothing, Sammy, baby… I– I went over to Cameron’s for drinks with some of the restaurant crew after work last night… I had too many drinks and decided I shouldn’t ride home, shouldn’t walk, it’s nothing, I just…stayed there.” Her story would make sense if she had ever fucking done something like that before.

“Cameron’s? Baby, you hardly know him, and where is your phone? I’ve been calling all morning…” you pestered, still out of breath.

“It’s dead, it’s in my bag…” she said, leaving her sentence with no more explanation as she nonchalantly sipped at her coffee.

“And you didn’t think to charge it? To text me from someone else’s phone to let me know where you were? Fuck, Cora, I almost sent out a search party out for you…” your voice began to raise. “You never–why did you…?” You were at a loss for words as you tried to understand her reasoning. You knew she would have been just as worried if it were you… well, you think. Your blood was boiling for a whole other reason now, as you knew she deliberately chose to keep you in the dark for the entire night, and well into the morning.

She stood from her stool as she glanced to the double glass doors behind you, meeting eyes with her family of three for their early morning surf lessons. She placed her hand gently on the center of your chest as she still avoided eye contact. “Sam, I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking clearly. Please, don’t be mad…” She left you standing there in the middle of the shop like a dumbfounded idiot, her explanation offering you quite literally nothing. Your hands dropped to your sides as you fought with admitting defeat. That was really fucked up of her…

Things only got progressively worse after that. What once was a loving and beautiful sex-fueled relationship turned into one of secrecy and absence, the action of her not returning to your bed each night becoming something you got quite used to.

Drag-out fights left her crying in your arms, pulling her back into your shanty of a home you’d finally found for $400 a month. Both of you soaked from tears and the rain outside after you told her to just go… only to have her tumbling back into your bed, ravishing each other like it was the first time you’d ever laid your hands on her.

‘Don’t make me go, Sammy… this is our home… it’s ours…” she’d beg as you fucked into her, sprawled out across the mattress.

‘I’m not making you go… you keep choosing to leave…”

But yet, the vicious cycle continued. The best thing in your world, the most joy you had ever felt, continuously choosing to stay away for days on end like some type of terrifying nightmare. After so long, you stopped following her location on your phone. You stopped making sure she was okay, wherever she was. You stopped letting her into your house when she’d come back begging for another chance.

Fuck it, you’d decided, losing all the fight you had left in you when you heard through the grapevine that it wasn’t her partying that kept her at Cameron’s, it was Cameron himself.

That was the fight to end all fights. The worst one yet, when she did everything but admit that she’d been cheating all along. God damnit, you should have known. All the red flags were whipping across your face, your gut screaming at you day in and day out to listen to it. But you didn’t, because you loved her. Until that fight.

That was a long, long time ago. And after that, she never came back home.

◇

Tonight, as you work on your third scotch and deliberate on going and scooping up a girl on the dancefloor and sneaking her away for a night of revelry, your mind feels more jostled than normal.

For the past five weeks or so, Cora had inched her way back into your life after a year of separation, friendly at first, and seemingly more mature than when she had left. But, like the addictive drug that she was, she cast her spell across you, hypnotizing you into falling back into bed with her on multiple drunken occasions.

‘I’m still trying to fucking heal from you Cora, none of this feels right…’

‘I know it doesn’t baby… I’m so sorry… but nobody can love me as good as you… nobody can get me right like you can…do you know what I mean? I still crave you, baby… Don’t tell me you don’t miss me…”

After five backslides, you’d begun to fall into a routine with her again, not giving one single fuck if she was with Cameron or not. She’s still beyond addictive, a substance so disturbingly pure that you swear she isn’t as tainted and devious as she seems. Her entire being is laced with some kind of other material that you swear could end up being your demise.

The sex is even better than it was before, rounds upon rounds of the most beautiful love you’ve ever made, but you know deep down that it is far from such. There is no love in that home. No laughs shared, no blissful reconnections that end with breakfast in bed. No early morning dates out riding the waves together… No, all you do is indulge in each other’s bodies after nights of too much weed and too much alcohol, using each other to get exactly what you want and nothing else.

You can’t seem to pull yourself away from her spell, sneaking her into bar bathrooms and out onto the beach to hide her in the dunes, spilling yourself into her without a care of any repercussions. You’re drunk on her. A slave to your impulses, a traitor to your own devices. It hurts. It really fucking hurts. You know your heart still lives within her, but hers is so far gone that you don’t think it has a home at all. And you know for a fact that it doesn’t belong to you, anymore.

You think you’ve successfully managed to slip through the cracks on her list tonight, not having seen her for a few days, now. You don’t frequent this bar in search of her, like many of your friends think you do. You were here first, this is your spot. But apparently it’s hers again, too, much to your simultaneous dismay, and deep-seeded pull to fulfill your dependency on her. It’s a double edged sword any way you toss it.

“Haven’t seen her tonight, Sammy, maybe you’ve escaped her wrath yet again,” Scotty jokes as he slides into the barstool beside you. Scotty knows everything about you, and you him. You’d never admitted it to one another, but you’d probably call him your best friend. After living and working side by side with him for the past three years, you’ve been forced to like each other no matter how opposite you may be. You both share a love for surfing and it’s a language you both can understand, so when it comes to your fateful relationship with Cora, he gets it.

“Yeah, maybe so,” you agree with a sigh. “Kinda weird for a Saturday though. She’s usually got her fingers in my belt loops by now.”

Scotty scoffs a laugh, running a hand through his waves. “God damn, you’re still tied up in her eh? You ever gonna let yourself be happy?”

You sigh a deep breath of disappointment in yourself. “Tied up’s not the words, Scott. I’m fully aware that I’m a sick individual who can’t seem to stay the fuck away from her. Why am I like this?” You ask your friend over the loud music. “Should I seek help?”

“No helping you, little brother!” Scotty teases as he rustles the hair on your head. “She must squeeze that thing right,” he jokes.

“Yeah, she fuckin’ does,” you agree, avoiding eye contact with him. “That’s all it is now, man. Swear.”

“Don’t lie to me, Sammy boy. I know you better than that shit. You telling me you have no emotions when you sleep with her? No feelings anymore?”

You grit your teeth, holding back the truth. “I dunno, I mean… we were serious, man. I loved her. Now that we’re doing this shit again…” Your inner monologue with yourself fights to the death once again, your head and your heart fighting an endless battle with one another. “It just is what it is right now.”

“She still with ol’ boy?” He asks.

You shrug. “Don’t know. Don’t care,” you say blankly as you take another sip from your glass.

“So you’re just fucking, now. No strings attached?”

“That’s it, my friend,” the admission feels lifeless, as you know you still hold a candle for her.

“You know she’s using you right? This can’t be healthy for you…I know she broke your fucking heart, man,” Scotty goes on, adding a little empathy to his tone.

You simmer on his words for a second, knowing they came from a place of complete honesty. He’s entirely right.

“I’m guilty, I’ll admit to that,” you say. “My heart’s losing but. My body’s winning,” you cheese a smile at him, feeling transparent as you admit to letting a woman use you for just your body.

“Livin’ the fucking dream, my guy,” Scotty laughs hard as he places a hand on your shoulder, finishing off his beer. “You want another?” He asks as you turn back to lean on the bar, finally feeling the effects of your intoxication hitting you hard. Numbing the pain you so often succumb to.

“Ah, maybe one more. Gotta open tomorrow,” you say, winking to the bartender to add one more to your tab.

“You still uh, you still think the deal’s gonna go down?” Scotty asks as he leans his head in closely to yours.

“Hope so, everything is on track for it to be official by beginning of next season,” you explain. You hadn’t told many people yet, but the original owners of Ten Toes had decided to take an early retirement, and since you and Scotty had become their most trusted and knowledgeable employees, they offered you the business as a partnership. “You think we can do this?”

It’s a large endeavor, and you are terrified beyond belief, but you try your best to see it as the opportunity of a lifetime, taking the reigns of an already successful business and making it into your own. All the pieces are already there, all you need to do is sign your name, and your dream career of being an entrepreneur is yours for the taking.

Scotty takes his new beer in his hand, leaning it in to cheers against your glass. “I think we can do this.”

You nod at him as the two of you share a moment, letting the realization fall on you once again. “We growing up, finally, Sammy boy?”

Just as his question rings through your ears, you catch sight of her. The pretty blonde who holds every single key to all the chambers of your heart. The one you’d settled down with, the one who could truly care less about anything besides stringing you along for no more benefit than her own agenda.

She catches your gaze from across the bar, pulling her hair behind her ear as she begins to saunter your way through the crowd.

“I hope so, Scott. Maybe tomorrow, though. Looks like I’m staying an immature asshole for tonight.” You tilt your chin her way, causing Scotty to follow your gaze her way.

“Fuck. She showed. Thought you might actually get a night of freedom,” Scott complains with the slightest bit of clip to his tone. You know Scotty is worried about you, wants the best for you. And you do, too, but for tonight you’re going to allow yourself to think with the wrong head yet again. And with that tight dress she has on, you’re going to fucking enjoy it, too.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, man,” Scott says with defeat as he slides his half-drank beer mug across the bartop.

“Night Scott.”

Her eyes haven’t left yours since you caught sight of her, the breeze blowing up the ruffles at the bottom of her stark white dress. She’s making her way closer, her perfectly tanned legs sauntering across the floor as you finally break your gaze, turning to the bartender to order her a drink.

You feel her presence behind you, the smell of her perfume already wafting across your nose. She pulls the stool that Scott had just inhabited a few inches closer to you, leaning her chin down into the crook of her folded arms.

“Where’s Cameron?” you ask lowly as the bartender slides her glass in front of her.

“Hello to you too, Sam,” she barks from behind her arm, sitting up to squeeze the lime into the vodka.

You cut your eyes her way, knowing that sometimes it wasn’t unlike her to show up at this bar and flirt her way into your embrace, only for Cameron to show up an hour later and whisk all of her attention right away. It’d only happened a couple of times, but still yet, it stung.

“I said where is Cameron?” you bite, really not feeling like pursuing this if he was going to show up.

She sighs a quick breath of aggravation. “Not here. Not coming.”

You sip at the scotch that’s discontinued burning your lips, now numbing not only your mouth but your ability to make decisions, too. “You came all the way over here by yourself, again?”

Cora flips her brown leather bag up onto the bar, her multiple keychains hanging off of it clanking against the wooden bar. “Yeah, Sam, I did. I’m actually… back in town, kind of…” she trails off, smoothing her waist-long locks against her hip.

All the blood rushes from your head, straight into your extremities. Fuck. Back in town?!

“What do you mean kind of?” you ask, beginning to tap your toes against the bottom rung of your stool again.

“I mean I’m working on getting back over this way… looking for a.. place…” She speaks almost as if she’s embarrassed to be admitting this to you.

“What, things not working out in la la land?” you scoff.

“Can you cut the shit, Sam?” she slams her glass down. “God, everything has to turn into some bullshit argument with you. Every single time.”

You can feel the resentment billowing up in your chest. You know that she has regret, and she lets it show every time you’re together. But you revel in the fact that she made her bed, now she has to lie in it. And everytime she ends up back in your bedroom, you press the dagger a little further, knowing that hurting her just as much as she hurt you is enough to get you through. Until the next time, of course.

“I’m not arguing, Cor. Just asking.” You make a point to keep your words short. If an argument is going to happen, again, it won’t be by your hand.

She huffs. “I just… want to be on my own right now. Figure my shit out. Plus the surf sucks down there, anyway.” You can tell she’s lying.

You smile behind your glass. “Cameron only lives fifteen minutes away, doll. Can’t imagine it’s that much different.”

“Why are you pushing the Cameron agenda? We’re not even–”

“Not together? Do you think I’m stupid, Cora? People talk, and I talk back. It’s not a fucking mystery,” you run your tongue behind your teeth as you feel the rage boiling up in you again, knowing that this fourth scotch isn’t doing much to help. “Everyone knows what happened, what you did to me. So just admit it, you’re unhappy because the grass wasn’t greener. Now you want your old life back, that what it is?”

You know this isn��t a discussion that needs to be held at this bar. You know that your words are flying a lot faster than you’d intended. But you deserve to bitch.

“Sam, you really don’t want to do this,” Cora hums as you hear the band move from one song to the next, the crowd finally riling up at the late hour.

Your skin is burning with rage at the realization that she’s seriously thinking about moving back here again, after everything that had happened. After knowing what she did to you. Cheated, lied… then allowed herself to play you like a marionette, a puppet she could call on whenever she needed a quick fuck.

No. No. This is your home, now.

“No, I kinda do, Cora,” you raise your voice a little, turning your body toward her to face her completely in your stool. You could feel the intoxication slurring your words and blurring your vision. “Admit it. You left me because I obviously wasn’t what you wanted, so you ran away without even having the decency to tell me why… to even break things off before you hopped into bed with Cameron. Admit it! You came here looking for me tonight, didn’t you? Looking for the same goddamned thing you always are.” You were borderline yelling at her, now. But it felt good. It felt good to finally get it all out, the alcohol doing away with all your inhibitions.

She cowered away a little, sitting back in her seat as her face got more red with each passing second. But you’re smarter than that, this is all part of her act.

“You think I came here just so you’d take me home again, Sam?”

“Yeah, Cora! What the fuck else would you be here for?! This happens way more than it should. Honestly, it’s slutty behavior, and it’s not a good look on you, it never has been.”

Just as your last word leaves your mouth, you feel the icy stickiness of vodka splashing you across the neck and chest, the lime slice thudding against your stomach as the cold liquid drips down into your lap, followed by a hundred slivers of ice.

You throw your hands up into the air as you scoot your stool back, catching the attention of a few people seated nearby. “What the fuck, Cora?! Are you fucking crazy??” you scream, brushing off the vodka that dripped down your chin.

“Fuck you, Sam!” she yells as she grabs her bag and jumps from her seat, rushing down the steps back out onto the beach. You glance to Marcus, wordlessly telling him that you’ll pay your tab tomorrow.

You follow her down the steps out onto the beach that is nearly empty, now. You can feel your feet tripping over themselves as you chase her to the pier, the tide already coming up well above the beams. The wind is whipping furiously, now, and the storm you predicted earlier is most definitely on its way.

“Cora! Stop!” you shout, ordering her to slow down.

“NO!” she yells over the howl of the wind that was now blowing tiny specks of sand against your legs. “Leave me be, Sam!”

Finally she makes it to another set of stairs that lead up to the road, not far away from what used to be your home with her. “Cor! Please!” you beg. You don’t know why you’re chasing her, your chest still dripping with the vodka soda she decided to douse you with. Why? Why follow her at all? Fuck her, fuck this… but your legs carry you, yet.

She stomps up the stairs, finally turning and crossing her arms across her chest when she reaches the top. Her eyes were red, but no tears wet her cheeks. “What? What, Sam? What do you want me to say?” she barks.

Your body is like a magnet to hers, pulling you instantly into her bubble. You reach up and brush away the invisible tear that you know is bound to fall at any second, willing yourself to catch it before it decides to escape. “I want you to fucking admit it to me, Cora! Be fucking real with me for once! Tell me everything, not just the parts of the story that benefit you!”

She rips herself away from your hand, turning and walking through the parking lot. “I fucking can’t Sam! I won’t! I know I’ve screwed everything up, and it’s all my fault!”

You chase after her again. “Why, Cora?! Be a fucking adult and tell me! I deserve at least that much, don’t you think?” Your breath is heaving again as you practically beg her to just speak to you.

She continues running through the lot and down the street as the clouds continue to push across the dark sky, threatening rain. You can smell it in the air as a few flashes of lightning flash over the sea again.

She finally stops at her car, standing beside it as she furiously tries to dig her keys from the bottom of the bag. You finally catch up, maneuvering your body to stand between her and the door. She’s in full-on sobs, now, choking back the cry that you’ve seen her put herself through time and time again. “Let me go, Sam,” she begs through clipped chokes.

“No. You’re going to talk to me. I’m–I’m sorry I called you… that. I shouldn’t have said that, and I deserve to wear this fucking vodka,” you say reluctantly as you brush it off you again. “I’m not letting you into this car until you talk to me. Tell me the truth. Once and for all, Cora.” You could feel the sadness sticking in your throat, all the old emotion you had for her bubbling up again. Old love is a strange thing, the way it intertwines itself in your bones, strong and stoic until the person that shared it with you comes back and makes it fragile again. Like cracked glass, you begin to shatter for her.

“Tell me you cheated on me. Just say it. Tell me you love him more than you ever loved me, and I’ll let you go,” you say with defeat, hot tears filling your eyes. “I just need to hear it, please… I can’t do this anymore, Cor…”

Her hands come up to cover her eyes as she turns and paces, your final request hitting her as hard as it hit you. You can’t do this any more, you can’t chase her for months on end, only for her to race back into the arms of someone else. It’s time to end it, if it’s going to end at all. Still, even after all this, you’d do anything for her.

Finally she gets herself together again, standing tall and sturdy before you. You watch as her hands slowly make their way to wrap around your waist, her chest still heaving, too. Just the feeling of her skin on yours is enough to make every muscle in your body relax. Her hands gripping into your back, her cheek pressed to your still-soaked chest. “I’m sorry, Sammy. I’m so sorry…” she cries.

“Sorry for what, Cora? Please…”

Her arms tighten around you as her mouth finds your neck. “Please don’t make me say it… I can’t stay away from you…”

You slump with defeat, but the wet kisses she’s started to lay onto your throat begin to cloud your judgment. “Please say it, baby. Just be honest with me for fucking once…”

Her teeth bite into your ear lobe making you hiss, and she leans into you, pressing her core right against you. God damn her. It isn’t fair, all the times you’ve let her get the best of you, using you and manipulating your feelings. She knows all your weaknesses, and your most prominent one is her. Your eyes peep open through the tears, seeing the palms still blowing sideways in the wind. It’s going to pour at any second.

Her hand snakes its way between you as she takes your already hardening dick in her palm, not caring if anyone is even around to see. Fuck her and her ability to melt you into putty every single fucking time. “Cora…” you grit as she squeezes you in her hand. “Tell me you still want me…”

“I think it’s pretty fucking obvious, isn’t it baby?” she laughs through a sob. “I want you, I’ve always wanted you.”

You can’t stop yourself from grabbing her face forcefully in your hands, pressing her tear-soaked lips to yours in a fiery and wanting kiss. Her nails grip into your back, raking across it and back over your stomach as she continues to squeeze your still-covered cock. Your mind is racing with thoughts, but what’s fucking new? Here we go again…

Raindrops begin to patter on your head and on the hood of her car as loud thunder rumbles in the distance. You kiss her hard, just like you always do after some time apart. She’s delicious in every sense of the word, her skin still glowing from the sunscreen oil she applied to her shoulders earlier in the day. The sand still caked on her long blonde strands, the taste of the lime still sour on her tongue. Everything about her, delectable and addictive, and once again, you can feel yourself dancing with the devil.

“This is such a fucking grey area, Cora. I hate when you do this to me…” you mumble as you break away, the rain falling harder, now.

“Let me make you happy, Sammy, please. That’s all I ever want,” she pleads, kneading you in her hand.

You grip her shoulder, turning her to put her back against her car door, switching places completely. You push her back, pinning her against the door. You can feel the sexual tension rising with each passing second as you grit your jaw, wanting nothing more than to devour her right here where you stand. “What would make me happy is if you tell me the truth. But that’s not going to fucking happen, is it?” you ask, raking your eyes over her face.

“The truth is that I’m a fucking fool for you, Sam. And I always will be,” she admits, her teeth biting at your lip as the two of you pant into one another, the need growing heavier by the minute. You thrust your hips into her touch, your body begging you do something.

“I don’t think you’re the fool here, Cora.” The rain begins to fall in giant beads, bouncing off the metal car hood as the thunder rips through the sky. “Park across the street and come meet me up in the shower,” you order her as your hand grips her ass, pulling her even closer into you.

“Are you su–”

“Don’t make me think about it,” you say as the rain begins to soak through your shirt. “Just get in the car.”

◇

You know the hot water is going to sober you, and the last thing you need right now is a clear head. You strip the soaked shirt from your limbs before you even make it inside your house, flicking the kitchen light on as you search the cabinet for a glass. You pull the scotch down from the top of the refrigerator, pouring a few fingers as you take a long drink, letting the liquor get you back where you needed to be. This is all so fucked... You feel so fucking weak.

You reach into the freezer and grab the ice tray, popping a few cubes free and dropping them into your drink. You roll your neck on your shoulders as you take a deep breath, making your way upstairs to the bathroom.

You eye yourself in the mirror as you push your hair back from your shoulders, and your reflection meets you with a disapproving look. As the years go on, you notice yourself looking more and more like your father, his pointed features becoming more apparent as you mature toward the age he was when he passed. Your eyes are red, your skin is blotchy, and your expression is way past defeated, knowing that here you are again, about to drunkenly make the same mistake you’ve made time and time again.

You can still feel the scratches she left behind on your skin as you step into the steamy shower, the hot water stinging where her fingernails tore at your skin. The feeling of her hand on you over your shorts, the remnant taste of the lime on her tongue. You’re still so attached and devoted to her, when all she’s ever done is give you quite literally, nothing. You’re the fool.

After a few minutes of standing motionless in the water, you hear your bathroom door creak open, and her footsteps enter the small room.

“S’me,” she mutters, and you kick yourself into gear.

“Get in here,” you demand, your attitude on one hundred as you surprise even yourself. You hear her begin to undress.

The curtain pulls back, revealing her completely nude self as she steps in to join you in the shower. “Hey…” she says meekly as you fill your hand with shampoo.

“Hey.”

You step to the side, letting her get under the water. You watch as chill bumps cover her body as her temperature adjusts, her head falling back to soak her hair as she shudders a little. You watch her perfect tits bob a little as her arms reach back to wet her hair, her nipples hardening as the water rushes over them. Your eyes drift down to her chest, her stomach… her tan lines more apparent now in the dim lighting of the bathroom. Perfect. Always so perfect.

She finally wipes the water from her eyes as she steps out from the streams, and you motion for her to turn around as you put the shampoo from your hand into her hair, beginning to massage it softly into her scalp.

After a few seconds, she finally speaks. “Why’re you so good to me, Sammy? After everything…after me treating you the way that I do…?”

Her words take the breath from your lungs, making you second guess this whole thing. “I think you know why, baby.”

“But I don’t deserve your attention, much less for you to be washing my hair for me.”

You bite back what you want to say, instead channeling your dad and his wisdom. “Sometimes showing your love selflessly to someone who doesn’t even want it means more to them than telling them that you do. You might not remember all the times I told you how much I loved you, but you’ll probably remember me showing it.”

It’s silent for a beat as your fingertips rub into her scalp.

“Loved,” she murmurs.

“What?”

“You said loved. Do you not…”

Ah, fuck.

You swallow hard, unsure how to even answer that question. “I don’t know what you even want to call it anymore, Cora. It’s… a mess, you know?” You level with her. You feel her nod as you turn her to rinse her hair.

As you meet her face again, she avoids your gaze as her eyes jump to the ceiling, blinking away guilty tears. Maybe she’s finally beginning to understand…

“Of course I still feel something for you, I probably always will. We spent years together. Things like that don’t go away in the blink of an eye. But, you mistreated me, Cora. And now you won’t even admit to it. You don’t even want to be civil enough to give me the benefit of knowing the truth. And that tells me… maybe you never even loved me back in the first place.” Your words of admission make her bite both of her lips in, her chin beginning to shake as she fights back the tears again. Her eyes stay trained on the ceiling above you.

“I did, Sammy. I swear I did. I do…” she whispers.

You shake your head as the last of the bubbles fall from her strands. “No. See, no. You can’t love me anymore. You can’t love me and then sneak back into the sheets with someone else. It doesn’t work that way. Don’t you understand that?”

She wipes the water from her face again, her eyes red with disappointment in herself, but you hold steady. “What we had, it was good. It was perfect. I wanted it all with you, Cora. I wanted the flower pots on the porch, the planning dinner while we make breakfast, the surfing from the time the sun comes up until it goes down again. Sharing a home with you, sharing a closet, sharing my deepest fears and all my memories… you were it. It was going to be you from then on out. But you tarnished it. All my trust in you is gone, especially now since you still won’t even give me what I need. I need reciprocation. You don’t bring me happiness anymore. You bring me doubt, and suffering, and bad decisions… So no. You can’t love me. I…I can’t let you.”

She stays silent as your words sink in, the water now steaming up the air between you.

“...Yet here I am in your shower with you. In our old home. That you invited me back to, knowing and going along with the exact reason I came here in the first place…” she shakes her head. “You’re just as helpless as I am, Sammy…”

She steps closer, gently craning her neck to meet your lips again. What started as a peck, a barely-there tap that spoke more words than you needed it to, quickly turns into a rushed and fervent kiss, your tongues dancing and fighting against one another as her hands grip into your damp hair. She’s so completely overwhelming to you. You’re unable to even form thoughts as you feel her lips on yours, so velvety and sweet. Four hands, already gripping and pulling at each other again, her breasts pressed against your chest as they slide over you.

“Tell me, Sammy…” she pulls away. “Do you still crave me? Do you still think about me when you lay down at night?”

Her hand grasps at your hair, pulling it back as she starts in on your throat again. The feeling of her, so addictive and so blinding. Her mouth and tongue gliding against your skin as the hot shower continues to pour over you making you dizzy as that last shot of scotch begins to soak into your bloodstream, giving you just the right amount of confidence to get through this again.

You swallow and bite back a moan at the feeling of her mouth on you. “Of course I do,” you admit, as much as you don’t want to.

“Have you ever had someone fuck you the way I did? The way I do?” she goes on, her lips making their way down your shoulder.

You refuse to answer, knowing that all she’s doing is using her siren song to lure you back to right where she wants you. But the funny part about it all is that you’ve already succumbed to it.

Instead of speaking, you slip your hand between her folds, making her entire body quiver as your finger finds her clit within seconds. She steps her feet apart a little as you pull her wetness up, coating her all over. “God, Sam…” she purrs as her head falls back. You move your hand to let your thumb go to work, wasting no time in letting your fingers enter her completely. Everything happens fast, your sexual pull to her undeniable and unable to be ignored. She cries out, her sounds bouncing off the plexiglass walls of your small shower.

Her hand finds your dick again, stroking it right in time with the circles of your thumb against her. You grit your teeth, sending your middle two fingers even deeper inside of her, flicking your fingers against her most sensitive spot. “Oh my god…” she cries again, her hand gripping hard on your shoulder to hold herself up.

You know how her body works, and you know that she is liable to get off at any second, so you drop to your knees, knowing that you’d do anything in the world to taste her release on your tongue right now. You’re blinded by desire for her, her words from earlier falling completely to the wayside.

You pull her leg over your shoulder while she leans with her back against the wall, her hands ruffling hard into the roots of your hair again. “Baby, fuckkkk…” she wails as you let your tongue dip into her, pressing it as deeply as it will go. The water is falling directly onto your face, and you feel like you might be drowning, but you don’t need air right now. If you’re going to suffocate, you’re going to suffocate just like this.

Her hips jut forward onto your face, rolling slowly as she begins to corner your tongue right where she wants it. If she’s going to try to say she still loves you, you’re going to make her eat her words. You reach one hand behind her, gripping at her ass as you feel her body begin to shake. You knead your fingers into the muscle, pulling her further onto your mouth, flicking your tongue against her clit as you add just the right amount of suction. You pull your hand away, signaling with the two fingers that were just buried inside her to come on, let you have it.

“That what you want baby? Want me to come on your face?” she asks, panting through her words as she pulls your hair incredibly tight.

“Mhmm…” you reply, making sure to vibrate the word directly on her clit.

Her hands hold your head in place as you feel her stomach muscles tighten, and you do all that you can to hold her upright. Finally you feel her letting go, coating your face and tongue as she mutters obscenities into the thick air. Her hips tremble in your hold, but the taste of her is immaculate, the sight of her letting go for you forever being burned into your brain.

You hate it. You hate this.

With one final pull of your tongue across her, you stand back up, taking her tits in your hands as you delve your face onto her collarbone, sucking hard at the skin purposefully leaving behind a bright pink cherry hickey. “There. See if Cameron notices that tomorrow,” you jerk, knowing that it will piss her off.

“Fuck off, Sam. Are you fucking serious?” she bites as her words come through a little more heated than the blissful expression her face gives.

“Yeah, I’m fucking serious. Now, do you want me to fuck you in here, or on the bed?” you ask, pressing a hand to her stomach to push her against the wall again.

“I–I…”

“No, none of that. Tell me what you want,” you reply with a little bit of a slur, watching as her eyes glint with surprise.

“Fine,” she breathes. “Both.”

“Both? Fuck, baby. You’d think after how the night has gone you’d ask for the bare minimum, but. God, pulling more out of me than I even bargained for. Just like always, huh?”

You know you’re being a jackass, but you really don’t care. If you’re only fucking her for the sake of it, and she isn’t going to give you the truth you’ve been searching for, might as well do it up, right?

“Spoiled. Always so fucking spoiled,” you bite again.

“Sam…”

“Shh. Stop talking. Turn around. The only word I want to hear is my name leaving your mouth,” you demand.

She does what you ask as she turns around and faces the wall, pressing her cheek up against it as you pat between her thighs, having her step apart a bit as you take yourself in your hand, pumping a few times before lining up with her. You take a second to pull her hair to the side, sucking her skin into your mouth again as you finally push yourself into her. The angle isn’t the best, but you make it work, bending your knees a little to press into her as far as you can.

“Motherfuck, baby…” she coos as you thrust further inside, savoring the feeling of her wetness coating you once again.

“Hmm-mm. My name, baby,” you say as she begins to arch her back a little, leaning away from the wall to give you deeper access. Her right hand comes back to pull at her own asscheek, stretching the skin as she cuts her eyes at you.

“S-Sam…mmy…” she utters as you begin to furiously pound into her, the muscles of her ass like shockwaves across water.

“There it is, baby, that’s all I wanna hear…” you grunt as you gather up the hair that’s splayed down her back, picking it up into your hand and wrapping it around your fist.

You use it as leverage to arch her back further as you let your other hand slap across her ass, the sound of the smack startling her into a fit of needing moans. “Fuck, Cor… you feel so fucking good...just like always…” you say as your hips continue into her, messy and slick as the water continues to make everything a soaked mess.

You swear you could do this for the rest of forever, but even through the thickness of the air around you, and through the clouds clogging up your inebriated mind, something about sex with her suddenly feels different. Even in the heat of teetering on the edge of an orgasm, you feel like the earth has shifted, a giant crevice metaphorically forming in the ground between the two of you, separating you by what felt like miles.

Something is off. No, not off. Gone.

Completely just… gone. Just like that.

You look down at the gorgeous body of the only one who has ever made your heart beat fast, and suddenly you see her just as she is– a woman.

A woman who has lied to you, cheated on you, tested your patience and made you question your every move. Manipulated you, used you in every sense of the word. And though she told you tonight that she still loves you, could you even trust her enough for it to be the truth?

This isn’t what you want. This isn’t even close to the happiness you know you deserve. Scotty is right. He’s always been right.

But as your body and human instinct begin to defeat the thoughts rushing your mind, you shift gears, pulling her hair up to meet her ear with your mouth.

“You said both, right?”

You pull yourself out of her, hearing her cry out at the loss of contact. You reach behind you and turn the water off, reaching outside of the curtain to grab two towels. You toss one to her and dry yourself off a little with the other, quickly running it through your hair as you rip the curtain open. “Hurry up, go get on the bed.”

She gives you a side glance as she squeezes the water from her hair, stepping out and into the bedroom. You follow her, your bodies still dripping wet and red from the heat of the water. If you’re going to do this for what you’re deciding is going to be the last time, you’re going to do it right.

“I said on the bed,” you bite as you watch her hesitate. “This used to be your house, why are you being shy?”

“I… I don’t know, you’ve never really acted like this before, just… I picked out this comforter, and you still have it…”

You stand for a second as the flashes of lightning fill the room, the sound of the rain absolutely pounding on your metal roof. You shrug, unknowing of what else to really say. “I mean, why would I get another comforter?”

She shrugs again as she sits down on the bed, slowly inching herself backwards as you watch her hair drip onto the sage green material she once was in love with.

“Look, Cora, you came here to hook up, right? Are we gonna finish up, or what?” your tone surprises you, you don’t even really know who you are right now. And she’s right, you’ve never really acted like this before. But in all honesty, this is the very first time ever that you feel like getting yours, so she can leave. And never come back. You’re washing your hands of this bullshit. The rose-colored glasses are being thrown into the fire, and you don’t even care to stick around and watch them melt.

“Yeah, Sammy. Come here… show me what I’ve been missing,” she says with a pull of her pointer finger.

You damn near roll her eyes at her. What she’s been missing? Is she fucking serious?

You shake your head and scoff, kneeling down to crawl across the messy bed covers when an idea pops into your head.

Love, huh?

You can make love…

You lean down, pressing slow, sweet kisses to the insides of her thighs as you move from there to her still-dripping cunt again. You let your tongue ghost over it again, making her shiver at the contact that you’d so graciously blessed her with earlier. “You cold, babe? Want to get under the covers?”

She nods her head, and you pull the puffy green cover over the two of you, instantly warming the chilled air around you. “That better?” you ask, trying to throw on the charm.

You kiss all over her body, gently running your tongue over the places you know will make her shiver and squirm, paying special attention to take your time. Your hands rub into her as your tongue drifts, making your way up her body slowly as the thunder rolls in the background. You make your way up to kiss her, letting your lips dance passionately across hers as you feel her body beginning to want more from you. She cranes up, her hips jutting as you can tell she’s getting antsy. Her hands finally wrap around your waist, pulling you roughly into her.

“Want you, Sammy…please…” she begs as she breaks away from the kiss.

“Patience, baby… you want me to show you?” you ask, leaving the question open-ended on purpose, the sentiment of love suddenly feeling like poison in your mouth.

She nods hard, wrapping one hand around your neck, and the other around your dick, massaging her hand up and down the shaft as she tickles her fingertips around the head. It makes you shudder, and you feel yourself become impossibly hard in her hand.

You reach down and roll your fingers through her folds again, making sure she’s still where she needs to be. “So wet for me, baby… always so soaked. You think about me sometimes, huh? Think about me and get all excited…make yourself get like this…” you breathe into her ear, your voice just a whisper as you taunt her.

“Yes, baby. Always, all the time… miss you so bad…” she says, but you hear no ounce of honesty in her tone. None.

Finally, her hand guides you to her opening, and you press forward again, filling her slowly at this new angle as her head shoots backward into the pillow, her mouth gaping open as you enter her, inch by delicious inch. You grit your teeth as you watch her face in awe, her doe eyes finally coming down to meet yours as you hit the hilt.

“Baby, god, please…” she groans, pulling hard at your hips. Watching her already falling apart like this is exactly what you want. You begin to slowly fuck into her, rolling your hips deviously slow as you rock into her, paying special attention to take this slowly again.

You back up, pulling her knees up to her chest and holding them there as you roll your hips into her again, hitting her at another impossibly deep angle, low and slow. “Jesus Sam… you’re so fucking good, baby… please keep going…” her moans are pleading and her eyes flit open and closed; you can tell she’s absolutely enjoying every single second of this.

You’re enjoying it, too, but that crevice in the ground is only becoming wider, sending you further and further away from feeling any type of connection with her. Suddenly you’re on another planet completely.

You let her legs fall to the sides again as you go back to missionary, resting either elbow on the sides of her head, putting you face to face again. You take her in a kiss again, licking your tongue into her mouth as you let it quiet her whimpers.

“Like this baby? This how you like it?” you ask, rolling your hips with even more passionate force.

“Mhmm.. yeah… just like this… just me and you…” she pleads, taking her tits into her hands as her breath picks up.

You lean back again and cross one of her legs diagonally between you, hitting her from the side now. Her hands grip into the sheets as you hear the wetness between your skin smacking together, her breathing picking up significantly. “Oh my godddd, what the fuck…” she cries, her body absolutely falling apart for you. But still, you hold strong, not letting any emotion at all come through. And to your continued surprise, it's fairly easy.

“Roll to your belly,” you demand, and you pull out just long enough for her to do so. You enter her again, and she stays flattened against the mattress. You maneuver her legs so that they’re closed together, making her feel ten times tighter than she did before. You fall against her back, letting your body weight do most of the work as you continue quick thrusts, now.

After a few minutes, you watch as her hands grip into the comforter again, holding on for dear life as she whines, turning her head sideways to look at you. For the first time in your life with her, you see love in her eyes, but not the kind that you yearned for so heavily. Not the kind that was going to give you everlong happiness.

“Sammy… I’m close baby…” she says, and you feel her walls fluttering around you. You reach a hand under her, finding her clit again and rolling it under your middle finger, giving her double stimulation as you continue from the back. “Oh my god please, yes…” she cries, and within seconds, her body is silent and shaking as she hits her peak, her breath hitching in her throat as she does so.

You aren’t far behind, the sound of her getting off striking a chord deep within you to carnally follow after her. But you are careful.

You deliver a few especially forced and quick thrusts before pulling all the way out, letting yourself go across her back. You pump yourself with your hand as you make sure you finish all the way, still yet feeling nothing at all for the woman beneath you. Had you finally broken her spell?

You collapse beside her, lying on your back so as not to get the bed too messy. You’re panting and tired, fanning yourself with your hands as you feel the humidity from the storm rolling in through the open windows. After a few seconds of catching your breath, you sit up and go into the bathroom to get her a warm washcloth, returning within seconds to get her cleaned up.

“Thanks, Sammy,” she mutters, her tone very different than it was just a few minutes ago. She rolls over to face you, pulling the thick blankets over her body. You both lie there in silence for a few minutes as you contemplate what to do, now feeling a little clarity from the alcohol leaving your system.

“Why did you… ya know…” she asks shyly.

“What?”

“Why did you pull out?” she asks, taking you by surprise.

“Well, you’re not my girlfriend anymore, so. Think that’s a good reason.” You’re glad you’re able to keep up the careless demeanor that so graciously fell upon you earlier.

She’s stunned silent for a second. “I’m not anybody’s girlfriend, Sam.”

You laugh through your nose, the notion of her answering part of your request only just now coming from her. “Hah, good to know. Fucking two hours late.”

“How many times do I have to say I’m sorry before you’ll believe me?” she asks, rolling up to lean on her elbows.

“I guess as many times as you want to say it, I don’t know,” you quip, not really feeling like entertaining this same goddamned conversation for the thousandth time.

“Well,” she says lowly, “I am. And I’ll keep saying it. For as long as it takes.” You bite your tongue before looking into her eyes, her bright green irises staring back at you with absolutely zero emotion. She’s still not telling the truth. She’ll never fucking tell you the truth.

“Yeah, here’s the thing, Cora.” You roll over to lean up on your elbows, too. “You can say you’re sorry a million times, but it doesn’t mean shit when you don’t have the intention of changing your behavior. I’ve begged you to be real with me, and I’ve never gotten it. I haven’t gotten your true self in ages, Cor. I don’t even know who you are anymore. I’ve given you a hundred chances. And the fact that you want to move back here is a little unsettling for me, to be honest. Scotty and I are about to inherit the business, and I swear to god, I can’t have a distraction like you around if I’m going to run this business the way it deserves. I know you’re not being honest with me. I know you, and I feel like I know you even less now. I deserve happiness. I deserve to get what I give, and I know you’re not the person to give it to me. I’m not perfect by any means, but at least I’m willing to listen, and change my ways if I need to. I’m frankly tired of the back and forth, Cor. I’m exhausted. Showing you how much I care for you and then you rushing back to Cameron, it’s not what I want. It’s never gonna be what I want.”

“Why do you always have to bring up Cameron, Sam?!”

You smile, her actions proving exactly what you intended them to.

“Because you becoming defensive when I mentioned him just now instead of becoming defensive of literally all the other shit I just said… really put it into perspective. That’s all I needed to hear.”

“What the fuck do you mean?!” she cries, her voice strangled.

“I mean, you’re practically numb to all the other shit I said until I bring him up. Only then do you try to defend yourself. Only then do you even hint at being truthful with me. I’m fuckin’ done, Cora.”

You begin to stand from the bed, grabbing a t-shirt from the closet and throwing it her way before pulling on a pair of shorts.

“That’s not what I mean, Sam! You know this! Where are you going, are you leaving?” she says in succession.

You run your fingers through your hair, turning back to look at the one who was once the love of your life still naked in your bed, begging you to come back, but all you can feel is the couch downstairs calling your name.

“You can sleep here, I work early tomorrow. Just make sure you lock the door behind you when you leave,” you say as you open your bedroom door, listening as she calls your name from behind you over and over until the sound of the rain drowns her out.

It fucking hurts, it really does. But the rush of relief you get as you make your way down the steps and into your living room is almost enough to knock you over. Finally. Finally… your pull to her no longer feels like a rope wrapped tightly around your hands. Having sex with her just now brought you a disconnect that you’ve never experienced before. No longer did it feel like she was woven into the deepest depths of your soul, but instead she was just a section of your life that you experienced. And now, you’re ready to move past it.

Did that really just fucking happen? Did you finally do it?

You curl up on your cozy couch as you listen to the heavy rain now turn into a drizzle, the orange glow from your salt lamp in the corner making you feel more at home in your house than you ever have. You know you’re about to get the best sleep you’ve ever gotten, dreaming about something other than her haunting your mind. You feel like the whole world is now at your fingertips, ready to be taken advantage of, and lived.

◇

As your bare feet struggle to stand on the wooden bartop, you balance yourself in the center, leaning back to check with Scotty and Marcus.

“How’s that? Is it dead-center?” you ask as you bite a nail between your teeth, a hammer in one hand while you hold on to the ceiling with the other.

“Little to the left! There…there! Perfect!” Marcus yells out as you position the nail in the saltwater-worn wood of the bar. You pound the nail in, and grip the string that’s fastened securely on the back of the old photo frame. You hang it over the nail, making sure the picture is hanging balanced and straight.

You hop backwards down off of the bar, standing back with the other two as you place your hands on your hips. “Damn, that does look good, doesn’t it?” you agree as you look at the photo of you and your dad hanging perfectly over the bar, you about 9 or 10, his hand on your shoulder as you pose with your very first surf board.

“He would have loved it, my man,” Scotty says with a pat to your back. “I never even met him, but I know he would have.”

You nod. “Yeah, thanks for letting me put that up, Marcus. I’ll see it more here than I will at home…” you tease as you join Scotty in your respective bar stools.

“That’s an understatement,” Marcus agrees with a laugh. “You two are here more than I am.”

Cora never came back downstairs that night, nor did you go up to tell her goodbye when you left for work that next morning. She didn’t leave any notes, send you any texts… and when the day came for you and Scotty to sign the paperwork setting you up for the rest of your lives, she was the absolute last person on your mind.

She never came back into town, either. If you had to guess, she probably moved the complete opposite way, much to your delight.

Now, you don’t think of her when you’re out on the water, you don’t think of her when you smell her favorite sunscreen. She’s still a memory, of course, and if she called you today saying she needed you to fix her bike or sell her a new board, you would. But that would be the end of it.

You’ve taught yourself what it means to be loved by yourself, and yourself alone… knowing that at the end of the day, you’re the one that has to comfort yourself to sleep, and no one is going to love you more than you. It’s fucking corny, you know, thinking of life in that way. But it makes sense, and fuck, if it isn’t liberating.

Life’s peaceful air feels different now. Even surfing feels more fulfilling than it ever has. You’re headstrong, you’re confident. You feel like you’ve gained more knowledge and wisdom from owning this business than you ever thought you would, all in part to the memory of your dad, and what would have made him proud.

Even Scotty is proud of you, your best friend on earth. The two of you together are a force, bringing in more money to the company than it had ever seen before. You’d never tell anyone that, though. And you’ll never flaunt it.

You’ll just sit at Donovan’s every night in your bar stool beside the ice machine, laughing with Scotty as you scream Sweet Caroline, and drink anything but scotch.

◇ ◇ ◇

xoxoxo J

@wetkleenex-gvf @britney-gvf @gretas-sweat @josh-iamyour-mama @highway-tuna @bestfriendsallstrungout @jjwasneverhere @gretavanbrie @writingcold @thewritingbeforesunrise @myleftsock @edgingthedarkness @its-interesting-van-kleep @jjsooobsessed @ageofcj @starcatcher-jake @capnjaket @cozyjakey @jakekiszkapunchmeintheface @stardustjake @dancingcarbon @builtbybrokenbells @gretavangroupie

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smytherines · 3 days

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Tumblr won't let me post this from my drafts, but @uhhhitsme this is me responding to what you wrote yesterday!

I think that's right though. This is a long distance relationship. They live an ocean apart, they only get to see each other when their countries deem it necessary to work together. They have to have their entire relationship in secret because it is illegal. And probably treason because they work for two different countries. It is super turbo illegal.

I mean, long distance couples who don't have all those additional issues, who can call or video chat or whatever every day if they choose to, who have support networks there for them to lean on, (who aren't gay spies in the 1950s), most of the time they still don't make it because the distance is just too much to overcome. But Curt and Owen made it work. Even if it was messy and they were both assholes and nothing about it was rational. They made it work.

We don't know how long Curt and Owen were together before the fall, but I'm guessing it was at least a couple of years? They work incredibly well together, they're bantering and giving these goofy lovesick grins to each other (they make me sick)

Even when they bicker it feels like an old married couple. And it has to be that way for the show to make sense. We get less than ten minutes to establish their relationship, and this little section of the show is what gives the staircase scene true dramatic weight. Because there is so much fucking chemistry in that first ten minutes, such a sense of intimacy between them, that when Curt says "the feelings we had" the audience is already there. We don't need to be convinced (especially queer viewers who clocked this shit right away) because yeah of course these two were together.

They were able to keep this thing going off of maybe a couple of days together every few months? Days where they were mostly risking their lives and killing people and getting shot/stabbed/tortured and then hooking up in a hotel room or safe house or whatever.

One thing I think about a lot is if they were able to be that close to each other, function that well together, be so fucking familiar and warm with each other with just those little scraps of time together, I can't even imagine what they'd be like if they actually had time to just be together. Time to learn to be in a relationship. There's a line from Black Box that goes like "a real relationship- the kind of thing with a permanent address," and that's what Curt and Owen never got to have, and its the kind of thing you have to learn, you have to practice.

That's tough though, because I also think Curt's inherent restlessness would make it very difficult for him to settle down into a comfortable quiet life away from everything. I think he's the kind of guy who theoretically wants the comfort and happiness of a happy little domestic situation, wants to be loved and wanted, but it would be torture for him to have to stay in the same place for very long. At least as a younger man. He wants the idea of it. He wants it emotionally, but couldn't handle it practically. What he truly wants is for he and Owen to eternally live out their glory days together as the world's greatest spies- constant adrenaline and pressure and excitement.

This is pure headcanon, but I picture Owen as the kind of guy who has never wanted any of that. Home is where he keeps his shit in between missions. He doesn't want a happy little domestic life, he wants to do the job he's good at until he dies. Until he meets Curt. Then he starts wanting all sorts of things he knows he can never have. He wants to keep Curt safe, wants to know that they'll be able to see each other whenever they want, they'd have control of their own lives instead of being controlled by their agencies. He wants to stop having to work so hard and think so much and constantly constantly plan for the worst.

So it's difficult to say, but in my heart I do think that if they had more time, both in the pre-fall relationship and, y'know, Curt not putting a bullet in Owen's head, I think they could have figured it out. I think if they were able to sustain the feelings they had for so long on so little actual contact, then it would be difficult and painful and even more messy than before, but eventually they could move on to something better.

I think they loved each other enough to try, but after everything they had each been through in their four years apart, after the ways they had hurt each other and broken each other's trust, they just... couldn't see that in the moment. Which is pretty tragic to me.

#this is what all my convos with mars look like btw #just us sending walls of text to eachother swooning about these damn gay spies #spies are forever #tin can bros #owen carvour #curtwen #agent curt mega #saf #tcb #saf headcanons

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horrorknife · 3 days

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i don't think adam was meant to free roam the bathroom bc amanda wasn't supposed to give him the key. john didn't do anything about him having the key because he is fascinated by the human condition and is willing to roll with changes because it's interesting to him to see how the game plays out. once something is in motion, he doesn't hit pause. he rolls w the punches. the game is unfair to adam on purpose because it's...kind of the point? the bathroom trap sets the stage for later films and does a lot of buildup of john's philosophy and character. the point is that no matter how much he insists he plays fairly or "doesn't murder people", at the end of it, jigsaw is just another maniac on a power trip and has biases.

adam's tape lacks clear direction while lawrence's is very straightforward. lawrence has an advantage over adam because the movie is about classism. john finds adam pathetic and seems to, overall, believe less in adam changing due to his own distaste for him. tbh it's similar to the shotgun chair, because the purpose, really, is Not to induce change, but to psychologically break the person. the shotgun chair didn't fix hoffman, just like how the bathroom wouldn't have fixed adam.

lawrence is more susceptible to change bc he can't stand having Visible imperfections. his image is incredibly important to him. he's willing to think it's changed him because he is desperate to find any grasp of normalcy despite the erosion of his entire self. john thinks lawrence can be fixed if only so he can make use of him. i really don't think it's possible for john to see how detached and clinical lawrence is and not be incredibly intrigued by it. he could absolutely benefit off of lawrence's survival, and that's the point. he needs someone who can do surgeries for him so his work can continue and expand.

lawrence displays his will to live by cutting his foot off, and adam displays his will to live not only by surviving but also by claiming the life of the man he thinks is responsible for his suffering in this bathroom. it's not for lawrence. it's for both of them, because they were both brought here and they were both put through the same hell. the trap bonded them in a unique way in that they don't really Like each other as people, but they care for one another. and i think that by murdering zep and saving both of their lives, adam impresses john bc there's no way john could have expected that that's how shit would go. i firmly believe the bathroom trap went differently than john initially anticipated, and i think this is one of few exceptions to "nothing being left to chance" irt the conversation he and hoffman have while setting up the nerve gas house.

after lawrence leaves and john gets up, he seems happy to tell adam how to get out, and i think he would have allowed him to (if the key hadn't gone down the drain, but john doesn't know that). lawrence made it out despite breaking the rules, and really, adam did what he was supposed to do. he survived! the problem, and the reason i think john does leave adam behind, is bc he immediately picks up the gun and points it at him. what more Clearly signals that ur ungrateful and havent learned anything? john doesn't Allow you to bite the hand that feeds. you get punished for it (happens to both amanda and hoffman). and adam might have shown he wanted to live, and he might have played by the rules, but john doesn't play fair and never has (see: amanda being put into games 4 separate fucking times).

this is just my own interpretation of things and this is how ive always read it. at the end of the day the key was an entire ass plot hole and i can respect all of us trying to bandaid that over. lol

#sorry if this is a mess i woke up at 5:30 this morning and im so tired #jonah.txt #i guess ill tag. whatever #saw #sawposting

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mostlydeadallday · 3 months

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I have so much work to do. I am so behind and have so much to catch up on and I am hiding I am hiding I am hiding from it all.

#elletalks #this is about being traumatized #this is about being mentally ill and neurodivergent #this is about shaming myself for not living up to the standards of the mob of hecklers in my head #this is about watching my entire belief system crumble at 27 years old and sitting silent in the pieces of it #this is about having lived in the same house my entire life and knowing there's a world out there but not knowing if I'll ever reach it #I'm tired.#i don't want to feel all of this anymore could someone take it away please #vent

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caffeinatedopossum · 2 years

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I just heard someone say that getting married is the hardest thing they've ever done.

I'm sorry but if getting married is the hardest thing you've ever had to do, I don't think I can talk to you. That's fine, that's totally okay if that's hard for you. I just need a long moment of silence for my misjudgment of the average amount of suffering that any given human experiences.

#and obviously theres shit like forced marriage and things #however #if you are choosing who to marry of your own volition. that shit should be easy #i cant even count with all of my fingers and toes the number of things that have been harder for me than getting married #for one. the reason im not yet legally married which is that im disabled and im in a very intenese match of Do I Deserve Rights #with the government #after that weve got recovering from an ed. not sure how im managing that. plus i couldve easily died #you know from malnutrition. not only from me starving myself but also due to severe malnutrition in my entire childhood #due to neglect and abuse. its tge reason i never grew properly. i have a hole in my jaw. its also why my jaw is underdeveloped #ive got severe insomnia and anxiety to the point that i wont sleep for days without strong meds #and cant really leave my house alone #i lived through untreated hypothermia and likely heat stroke as well and those were both MUCH harder than getting married #i experienced child labor and escaped what was probably a cult given that i had to run away to an undisclosed location #cut off contact with everyone i knew from it and remain anonymous #i ran away from home because of the abuse and when the cops were called on me i had to sit thete #with a straight face and listen to social workers and authorities tell me that what i was calling abuse was ok and that i had to go back #i had to fight for an education that i never really got. same for medical care including emergency medical care #anyway point being i will be very relieved to spend the rest of my life with my favorite person after all of that #there are no regrets or uncertainties about that. my life is the best its ever been and she only makes it better

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our-lady-of-mcr · 2 months

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everytime i think im done ranting i remember something else LMFAO this one is extra long i hit tag limit god mf damn

#self #for instance.....my mom wants me to cut off everyone who is still tied to the school #and im so mad at myself for feeling a certain type of way when the campus manager called me not too long ago basically to tell me she doesnt #trust the girl who did this shit and she wasnt mad at me but was also mad at me for bringing her to her dads house #for reference we were trying to get a cat from the campus managers dads house LMFAO #and i honestly cannot wait to speak to her again and be like 😔 god dammit you were right like you were every single time #i just dont understand the wiring in her head to think the shit she says and does to people is normal and okay and how she doesnt realize it #is literally a mental health break. when i finally told my mom the first thing she said was shes probably off her medication #which.....probably isnt wrong sadly coming from someone who has borderline and very easily can lose it #but the difference is i dont give in to the urges to try to hurt everyone around me in every way i can #and me and her have said before that we thought she might also have borderline because we were very similar #but god damn does she love proving that if she has it its extremely severe or its something else entirely #on an honest note. shes incredibly narcissistic and i know her mom is part of the reason shes that way bc she was given princess treatment #her entire fucking life and then doesnt understand when other people dont treat her the same way #i hate rambling about this and i hate it that it is bothering me so fucking bad but like ???#if youre going to decide that you can put our past aside period and move on then fucking do that and stop bringing the past up as a way to #hurt me and the people around you???? she acts like shes not done horrible fucking things to people. so sorry i wrote a letter that was very #honest at the time. so sorry that when you found out i apologized for it and said i regret it because 2 weeks after my apology i no longer #regret writing it. if its making school a living hell for you....theres probably a reason for that girlfriend #i am not the person who put that shit in your folder #though i seriously fucking doubt its actually in her folder shes probably assuming it is #and youre the one who made a complete ass of yourself to every educator that ever stepped foot in that building #that has nothing to do with me that you are a literal warning given to every new educator!!!! i havent even been in school there in months #yet IM the problem??? how am i the problem when i graduated in fucking january???? everything since then falls on you #AND YET AGAIN! MIGHT I MENTION! IT IS NOT JUST MY LETTER!!! THERES AT LEAST 2 OTHER ONES!!!!!#BECAUSE IM NOT THE ONLY PERSON SHE DOES THIS SHIT TO!!!!#god sometimes i sit back and realize that theres a reason she regresses as a person and i do not #im not going to sit still anymore and let someone walk all over me and she can thank herself for that #shes who taught me that blocking and running as fast as i can doesnt fix anything #so here we are bitch. youre not blocked and im sure youre sitting at home thinking about how youre right about everything

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gaysindistress · 4 months

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Things that I feel like would happen when you’re in a relationship with Simon Riley.

Simon Riley masterlist

1. First off he hates the word ‘boyfriend’.

Maybe it’s because he’s in his mid thirties or something but he can’t stand being called your boyfriend. He’s more than that but also not at the same time. You live together, have access to each other’s bank accounts (which is only because he hates it when you try to fight him about him giving you money), and you’re each others emergency contact. He thinks of himself as your husband. The man wears a silicone ring when he’s home and a necklace with the ring that’s totally not a wedding band when he’s working. Price has seen the chain once or twice and smirks, shooting him a knowing look but never says a word.

Simon cannot stand it when people get nosy and want to know what your relationship status is. You’re together and that’s all that matters. No one needs to know that you’re the beneficiary of his will and life insurance policy or that he’s put you on all of his accounts. No one needs to know that he buys you anything you want but has only ever bought you two rings; a thin gold band with a flower engraved on it and its twin a matching emerald ring. No one needs to know that when he gifted them to you, there were tears and promises of safety, love, and happiness whispered against feverish skin. No one needs to know that he has your name woven into his chest tattoo.

No one needs to know any of that because your relationship is between him and you only.

2. You are not some submissive little house wife. You are a strong independent woman and he prefers it that way.

I know this one goes against what most people say but hear me out on this. Simon has been independent since birth practically. He’s only had himself to count on for years. Even in the military, he’s only been able to rely himself. Sure the others watch out for him but if it came down to it, he’s the only one who’s going to get himself out alive.

The thought of someone else relying on him in that way is terrifying. He can’t even fathom what it would be like to look at another person and fully trust them in that way. Half the time he feels like he can’t even be trusted to take care of himself let alone another human. In theory a sweet docile housewife is great with the meals and clean house but not for him. He needs to know that you can hold your own. He needs to know that you can be independent and carry on without him if something happened while he was working. He needs to know that you will be okay if he doesn’t come back.

You have to be okay without him no matter how much it pains him to think about it.

Like I said before, he’s made you the beneficiary of everything so he knows you’ll be set financially but that’s not enough. He’s made Price promise to keep an eye out for you. He’s made you promise to let Price do that and you agreed because it’s Simon who’s asking but you’d tell anyone else to fuck off.

In addition to all of that, he’s installed the best security system the government has to offer in your house. You have a very expensive and large safe in your shared closet that he’s instructed you to only open if you feel unsafe. While you might not like it, you agree to go shooting with him so he can sleep at night knowing that you could protect yourself if he’s not home. He’s gone as far as to make sure you have all of the licenses and certificates that are needed to legally own firearms in the UK.

He’s not leaving any opportunity for you to be vulnerable or have your ‘safety checks’, as he calls them, taken away.

3. Simon Riley is a godless man…until he meets you.

Now this is entirely my own headcannon with no evidence to support it so bear with me.

Simon had a shitty childhood where his mom would pray to a god who never listened and his dad would shout verses at him when he was drunk. God was a mythical figure that he was told stories off with nothing to show for it. He did believe at one point but then his dad never got better, his mom wore bruises of every shade, and his brother found comfort in drugs.

He found himself praying when he was being tortured by the Mexican cartel. Between the flashbacks of his abusive past, he prayed to a god who had failed him so many times before to help him. He prayed again as he dug himself out of that Texas grave with the major’s jaw bone. He wailed his prayers when he found his family executed after Sparks tried to kill him.

After that he deemed himself a Godless man. Years of praying had passed with nothing. This god had decided that Simon was not worthy of a miracle so why would he continue to worship him?

That was until he met you. He finds himself praying before every mission, every time he has to leave you, every time he’s on his way home, and just about any other time he thinks of you. He doesn’t know what exactly he’s praying for other than for you to be there when he gets back.

He whispers his prayers to an absent god against your skin as he worships your body, soul, and heart. He promises to be devoted to you until his last breath and vows to find you again in whatever afterlife awaits you. He pledges to find solace in you and only you when his haunting nightmares return. He makes an oath to your heart that it will never weather another storm alone again for his will take whatever beating that comes your way. He shows you that he will love you in the same manner as a Hozier song; putting you above all else because you have become his religion, his faith, his beliefs, his life.

You have become all that he is and he thanks the god he once believed in for you. He prays again but to you, his heart, his love, and his beacon through the enteral storm of life.

#simon riley x you #simon ghost x reader #simon riley x female reader #simon riley imagine #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon riley #ghost imagine #ghost call of duty #ghost x reader #ghost cod #ghost #ghost x female reader

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curryshesus · 18 days

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jeon jungkook fics that own my mind, body, heart, and soul

in other words, this is a collection of my favorite jk fics on tumblr! if you enjoyed any of these fics as much as i did, pls remember to support the authors by interacting with their post.

➺ bitchin - by @kinktae

summary: the 80s were a time of choices. which perm was right for you? what color neon would you wear next? none of these choices, however, were more questionable than a certain deal you made with jeon jungkook.

➺ idealizations concerning real life relations - by @venusiangguk

summary: jungkook loves to be loved, but he doesn’t love in return.

➺ hotter than hell - by @chateautae

summary: jungkook, lucifer and king of hell, has been cast out of the crimson underworld for a reason he’s unsure of. embarking on his journey for the answer should’ve been easy, if it weren’t for you, the human that nurses his wounded body in her home, and accidentally witnesses the truth of his identity. kickstarting a hellish adventure with the devil himself, you discover lucifer is the most infuriating company ever; and jungkook finds out that maybe his answer to returning home lies within his annoying human confidant.

➺ jump then fall (into you) - by @writtenwhalien

summary: bringing Jungkook along as your date to your ex’s lavish cruise wedding seemed like a perfect idea at first — all of your family and close friends together, nothing can go wrong… then Jungkook’s ex shows up and all of a sudden you’re in a years long relationship with him. You don’t mind though, really, how hard can sharing a cabin and pretending to be deeply in love with your best friend really be?

➺ too late to dream - by @kookslastbutton

summary: You did it. You married your college professor. You even bought a house together. Against all odds, everything had fallen into place. But after two years of marriage, you begin feeling something was missing. You want a baby but your husband can’t say the same.

➺ the forgotten spaces- by @oddinary4bts

summary: you've been dancing on the same dance crew since your teenage years, and you finally have an important role in it. It feels like life is taunting you when your rival comes back after disappearing for a year, ready to tease you every chance he gets. Will the teasing turn into more, or are you going to take him down with you?

➺ when the end comes - by @oddinary4bts

summary: Seven years after you've started dating Jungkook, long distance creates a wedge in your relationship. When the only solution seems to be breaking up, you go your separate ways even though love still lives in the two of you. Will you find a way back together, or has the end come for you and Jeon Jungkook? **sequel to the forgotten spaces

➺ falling - by @starshapedkookie

summary: soulmate (noun): a person who is bound to another through the strongest level of emotional and physical connection. one is given a name on the body upon 18 years of age and any transgressions against the laws of soul-bonding will not occur without harm.

➺ love alive - by @jamaisjoons

summary: a year after you and jungkook break up, the two of you meet at your brother’s party.

➺ changes in between - by @taegularities

summary: Becoming the roommate of Jeon Jungkook is the biggest change you’ve ever gotten thrown into - but little do you know that the addition of another man will bring even further turbulence into your (love) life.

➺ falling skies - by @fortunexkookie

summary: Jeon Jiyeon was your childhood best friend; her brother, Jungkook, was something else entirely. You used to be friends, but then he had gone from endearingly frustrating dumb boy to card-carrying fuckboy so fast it had given you whiplash.

Despite the teasing and fighting, Jiyeon realized how Jungkook felt about you long before he did - it was a twin thing - and if you were her sun, and he was her moon, then she just wished she could show you how he reflected your light.

➺ sugarplum elegy - by @bymoonchild

summary: You know no bounds nor depth with Jungkook. While your fuck buddy loves sleeping in your bed and doing laundry for you with his favourite fabric softener, you are in love with a mysterious honeyed, velvety voice on Soundcloud. All’s fine, until you find out that the voice that metaphors your heart to a sweet sugarplum melody actually belongs to the boy who has been taking up a special spot in your bed and in your heart, strumming at your heartstrings all this while. Or, Jungkook has one braincell, but it’s heart-shaped.

➺ an abundance of mondays - by @diortae

summary: "why the fuck would it be easy? you’re disgustingly in love with your best friend. of course it’s complicated.” he pauses to roll his eyes, as if he hasn’t just laid out the most secret parts of you here in the middle of the campus dining hall.

➺ five dates - by @kpopfanfictrash

summary: “Ten dates,” he nods, smile tugging at his lips. “Ten dates, to decide if you want this – want me – or want me to go. Ten dates to get to know me. Ten dates,” he says, oddly soft, “to fall in love with me.” Which then becomes five.

➺ here comes the bride, all dressed in pride - by @hansolmates

summary: You and your cousin Doyeon have had beef with each other since the sandbox. When she plucks the last straw, you decide to end your long-simmering fight by claiming that you and her ex—Jeon Jungkook, are now boyfriend and girlfriend

➺ if i told you - by @gukyi

summary: in order to pay for university, jeon jungkook decides to market his most valuable asset to the wealthy socialites of campus: himself. donning a suit and tie, tousled hair, and glasses (to look smarter), he becomes every rich daughter’s dream: the perfect boyfriend to bring to balls, dinners, and business gatherings. all while you watch from the sidelines, only able to dream of having that much money to buy yourself what you really want: him.

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slytherinslut0 · 7 months

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enemies w/ tension. | slytherin boy headcanons

author's note: feralism inside. readers be advised. eighteen plus.

- your enemies reaction to you bending over in front of them.

Draco Malfoy.

Draco Malfoy, as your enemy, was an absolute arsehat.

He’d purposely go out of his way to make your life a living hell whenever he bloody could.

The teasing and pranking was relentless; from accidentally spilling a particular shimmering potion on your white uniform blouse, rendering it perfectly see-through and exposing your bra to everyone in potions class, to pulling out your seat when you weren’t looking; he’d done it all.

He was an absolute menace, but you also knew there was something more to it than that, something possessive, something obsessive.

And you thought this for a multitude of reasons, but the main one being that he admitted he was into you while drunk at a common room party. which of course he denied the next day, and every other day since, choosing instead to be as annoying as ever.

but on this particular late evening, assigned as partners for a class project, you found yourselves alone together; the tension high and the banter relentless.

“Draco, please stop acting like a bloody child for five seconds.”

He’d roll his eyes, fighting a smirk. “Pleading for mercy are you? How adorable.”

You’d huff, staring at him with your arms crossed out of frustration as he held your quill above his head, just out of your reach.

“No, I’m pleading for you to stop being so goddamn insufferable. Give me my quill.” You’d hiss, entirely irritated.

Of course he’d just laugh, wetting his lips as he analyzed your frustration, revelling in the fact he’s so clearly gotten you going.

“Here.” He’d sneer, all before tossing it half-way across the room. “Go fetch.”

by this point, your blood was boiling, but you wouldn’t miss the glint in his eyes, the one that told you he was enjoying this a little more than he should be.

With a frustrated sigh, you pivoted sharply, seizing the perfect opportunity. As you closed in on your quill, a deliberate hair flip cascaded over your shoulder. Slow and sensuous, you bent at the hips, hands trailing down your sides, tracing the subtle sway of your body reaching for the quill. Picking it up achingly slow, on the ascent, you locked eyes with Draco over your shoulder, a sly smirk playing on your lips.

Draco’s typically poised demeanor faltered as he watched, an involuntary pause freezing his features. His steely gaze, usually cloaked in arrogance, softened into a momentary bewilderment.

The realization hit him like a revelation, and before you could even process it, he was up and out of his seat, one hand gripping the back of your head as he loomed over you.

“What the fuck was that?” His voice was torn, shredded. “Quite the fucking tease, huh?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You blinked, grinning. “I simply picked up my quill.”

His grip on the back of your head tightened, his pupils blown wide with lust. All his restraint was gone.

“You’re a fucking filthy little thing “ he leaned in closer, wetting his lips as he glimpsed yours. “Do that again and I’ll fuck you right here, right over this desk.”

Blaise Zabini.

Blaise fucking Zabini. Your enemy? You guessed you could call him that.

Mainly because all the guy ever did was sabotage your bloody love life. Every single damn chance he got.

And not even in a traditional asshole type of way, like by scaring dudes off or threatening their livelihoods--oh, no.

he scared them off by just being himself.

You’d known Blaise since first year, being that the two of you are from the same house and share the same friend group,

but, all the two of you have ever done, since day bloody one, was banter and bicker like a pair of fucking first years.

But as you matured, that friendly banter slowly transitioned into something more, something that neither of you seemed willing to acknowledge.

Something that you knew was about to boil over, at any given moment. and perhaps, that moment was today.

you sighed in frustration, watching as the guy you’d been talking to all night began to make his way through the crowd, finally taking the hint and excusing himself after Blaise had just ever-so-kindly invited himself into your conversation.

“Why do you have to ruin everything?” You took a sip of your drink, glancing at a smirking Zabini through narrowed lids. “Do you not want me to find love? Do you truly hate me that much?”

“I did you a favour, trust me,” he’d quip, flashing those perfect pearly teeth at you. “Dude would have bored you death.”

“The great Zabini, doing me a favour?” Your eyes widened, and you’d stifle an amused scoff. “Sure you’re feeling okay?”

As Blaise was poised to respond, you fumbled with your wand, inadvertently dropping it onto the wooden floor of the common room. Acting on instinct, you bent down to retrieve it, sensing Blaise's eyes lingering on your backside for an unnecessarily long moment as you slowly straightened up.

And when you finally looked over, you watched as he brought a hand up to his mouth, attempting to hide his grin as he shot you a knowing, wide-eyed glance, his body tensed as though he was fighting to restrain himself.

but after only a few seconds, he’d step closer, his hand grazing your arm as he leaned in.

“Excuse me miss, but I think you’ve made me drop something,” he’d pause, watching your eyes as you met his.

“I’m sorry?” You snorted. “what are you-“

he’d pull you closer, bringing his mouth toward your ear. “you made me drop my fucking jaw…”

you’d blink, caught off guard. “Blaise-“

“That ass is fucking perfect,” he murmured, wetting his lips. “cant hide it anymore, princess…i want you bad.”

Lorenzo Berkshire.

“Enzo-earth to bloody Enzo,” you emitted an audible groan, sinking back down into the chair beside him.. “can you please at least fucking attempt to help me?”

Enzo was uninterested in your pleas, truthfully, he was uninterested in anything you had to say. Paying no heed, he sat slouched, head nestled in his arms on the desk, seemingly oblivious to your presence.

you sighed. this was going to be a long damn class.

“Enzo, please? you can sleep after class-“

He grumbled softly under his breath, neglecting to raise his head from the desk. However, he pivoted it towards you, his bleary brown eyes meeting yours.

“can you knock it off?” his voice was a shredded rasp. it was clear he was exhausted. “don’t you ever get tired of hearing your own voice?”

You scoffed, irritation evident on your face. This was the typical Enzo conversational experience--a constant exchange of snark and jabs. It baffled you how a man so fucking attractive could also be so damn daft at times.

“i don’t, actually,” you huffed, trying to keep your composure. “but i certainly get tired of your ignorant attitude.”

that managed to get at least a chuckle out of him, even if it was a half-assed one.

“spicy today, i see.” his lids fluttered back closed as he muttered, “bite me, darling.”

“you’d like that, wouldn’t you?” you teased, your voice taking on an arrogant tone. “masochist.”

Enzo emitted a snort, a hearty chuckle escaping from his chest in response to your suggestive jab. Progress was evident, and you sensed the need to elevate things to the next level if you intended to secure his assistance.

Making sure his eyes remained closed, you slyly nudged your quill, sending it tumbling off the table and onto the floor. A mischievous smirk played on your lips as it hit the ground, and Enzo's eyes snapped open, fixing on you.

Maintaining the intense eye contact, you slowly leaned over in the chair, letting the seductive sway of your movements accompany your reach for the fallen quill.

you could feel Enzo's gaze following your every movement as you retrieved the quill with a lingering touch--all while a subtle, suggestive smile danced on your lips.

the second you straightened out, Enzo sat up straight, clearing his throat, tongue darting out to moisten his lips as he fought to collect himself.

“what’s the matter, Enz?” you quipped, unable to control yourself. “thought you were tired?”

“don’t play with me, angel.” he muttered, leaning closer. “please, Merlin, don’t fucking play with me.”

you’d snicker. “help me with this assignment and i’ll let you touch it.”

“deal.”

Mattheo Riddle.

you and Mattheo were enemies for one reason, and one reason only--his suffocating arrogance.

perhaps you were the only girl in the school who called him out on his bullshit, perhaps you were the only girl in the school who didn’t fall flat at his feet anytime he simply breathed.

and Mattheo, well, he wasn’t used to this type of treatment. and he certainly wasn’t keen on the fact he couldn’t get you in his bed with a mere second long glance.

of course, you were fully conscious of the fact he was hot as fuck, but your self-respect and dignity outweighed your sexual desires, which in turn, created fiery spats every-time the two of you were near each other.

And so, here you were, paired with him for a research assignment; the two of you alone in the library on a Sunday night, while he was totally hungover. And as insufferable as ever.

“Mattheo, give my fucking textbook back.”

He’d groan, rolling his eyes as he tucked the book under his arm, hugging it to his chest while seated sluggishly.

“Come and get it back, then.” He’d utter, smirking. “I promise I don’t bite…hard.”

You fought back a scoff. “You won’t be able to bite at all if you don’t cut it the fuck out…it’s almost ten o’clock we need to start this.”

Mattheo rolled his eyes, again, his tongue piercing the inside of his cheek as he pulled the book out from under his arm, and stood up, moving over to the bookshelf behind your chair.

With suffocating snark, he knelt down, shoving the book onto one of the shelves lowest to the ground, all before turning back around and smirking at you, crossing his arms over his chest and shrugging casually as he cocked an eyebrow.

“You told me to give it back.” The arrogance in his tone was nauseating. “You didn’t specify where.”

“First of all, that’s the wrong shelf,” you’d mutter, watching his eyes follow you as you pushed up from the chair, veering closer. “And second of all, you’re not funny.”

Mattheo poised for a sharp retort, ready to counter with his usual biting wit. However, his words stumbled into silence as he observed you drawing near.

With a swift, almost calculated movement, you bent at the hips to retrieve your book beside him. The fabric of your skirt dared to venture higher up your thighs than convention allowed, leaving Mattheo momentarily entranced and rendering his intended response obsolete.

But the second you straightened out, meeting his eyes, lips teasing a knowing smirk, he was on you.

Your back slammed against the shelf as he grappled your hips, shoving you back. he towered over you, his lips pressed directly against your ear as he growled;

“You shouldn’t be bending over like that in front of me,” his voice was torn, shredded, and he finished the sentence off with a sharp “ever.”

your heart was hammering. “Why not, Matty? Didn’t enjoy the show?”

“You have no idea what that ass of yours does to me,” he groaned, his grip on your hips tightening. “Every fucking day I imagine railing it--I imagine fucking the attitude right out of you…you should know better than to tempt me.”

Theodore Nott.

“Look at that,” Theodore quipped, his snarky grin practically evident in his tone of voice. “top of the class again. how does that L feel, huh?”

you grumbled, rolling your eyes so far into the back of your skull that you were seeing white.

“don’t get cocky, Nott.” you nearly snarled, the frustration seeping from your lips like breath. “it’s not a good look on you,”

theodore merely chuckled, knowing that was a complete fucking lie.

cockiness was an infuriatingly good look on him, and that was solely due to the fact that the objects of his arrogance were damn impressive achievements that could make anyone green with envy.

the man was unfathomably smart for an arrogant jock whose life was dedicated to being the best quidditch player to ever exist.

clucking his tongue, he’d shoot you a knowing glance. “you sound jealous, bella. what’s your grade?”

as he tried to lean over to glimpse your mark, you pulled your paper away from him, scowling. “how about mind your own business, hm?”

he’d chuckle. “never been known for that, have i?”

Before you could formulate a response, Theodore snatched the paper from your hands, leaning away to sneak a glance at your mark. Your groan of irritation resonated, signaling your exasperation with his antics.

Annoyed, you reached over to grab your paper back, your low-cut blouse exposing more of your chest than you’d intended.

As soon as Theodore’s eyes fixed on your chest, noting your breasts practically spilling out of your shirt, he paused; his fingers involuntarily releasing the paper without further fight, his lips parting and eyes darkening.

“merlin,” he’d breathe, his voice torn. “you trying to give a lad a fucking heart attack, wearing a shirt like that?”

your cheeks grew warm, his eyes not once breaking from your chest as you straightened back out in your chair, adjusting yourself.

“it’s rude to stare, Nott.” you’d say, fighting a grin. “didn’t your mommy ever teach you that?”

Theodore let out a low groan, edging his body closer to yours. His lips dangerously neared your ear, and he couldn't resist sneakily glancing down your shirt, unable to control his wandering gaze.

“it’s rude to tease, Bella,” he’d purr, his voice a dark murmur. “and truth be told, i can’t quite help myself…”

you huffed, unable to stifle your smirk. “sounds like you need a refresher in manners.”

“Oh, principessa,” he’d retort, his voice laced with need. “you can refresh me in anything you want as long as i can see more of those perfect tits of yours.”

Tom Riddle.

Tom Riddle was an absolute brilliant genius;

a good man. a private, by-the book type of student.

and if you were being completely honest with yourself, this was precisely why the two of you didn’t quite get along.

it seemed as though Tom had it out for you, as though he had some sort of personal vendetta to make your life a living hell.

At every opportunity, he wielded his prefect powers to land you in trouble for something. Perhaps, in all fairness, you should have known better than to sneak into the restricted section of the library or prowl around the castle late at night,

but, gods. couldn’t he just cut you some bloody slack for once?

Admittedly, you were afraid to cross Tom. You weren't eager to be on his bad side, but at the same time, you weren't prepared to entirely abandon breaking the rules and having fun just because you were aware he could catch you.

so instead, you learned his schedule, where he’d be and at what times, knowing how to effectively avoid him.

the man was a cunning genius, you knew he could effectively destroy you if he so pleased.

but, on this particular night, he was set to be patrolling the dungeons for at least another two hours, giving you plenty of time to sneak into the library and do a little research.

and everything was going extremely well, hidden in the restricted section, blanketed by the nights encompassing darkness, when you noticed your shoelace was untied.

Bending down to address the matter, a peculiar sensation tingled through your senses as you completed the task. A subtle shift in the atmosphere hinted at an approaching presence, and just as you straightened up, the hushed cadence of footsteps drew closer.

Before you could pivot to face the intruder, their looming silhouette materialized behind you.

A towering figure, their breath, warm and palpable, brushed over your ear as they leaned in, setting your nerves on edge.

“you shouldn’t be bending over like that in public,” the voice was a deep, dark rasp in your ear, the arrogance in the tone unmistakable. “some people might think you’re a little slut.”

heat rushed you, your thighs clenched. “and what if i want some people to think that?”

immediately understanding your suggestive remark, Tom wasted no time before grappling your hips and spinning you around to face him, one hand slithering around your lower back and grasping a palmful of your ass.

“filthy whore,” he’d growl, his voice shredded now, barely restrained. “breaking the rules and showing off that perfect ass for anyone to see…calls for punishment i’d say.”

his teeth found your neck and you whimpered, clutching onto him. “i’m-“

Tom pulled back, meeting your eyes. “bend over the desk, now.”

#sorry #i got extremely carried away #18+ au.

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evasive-anon · 5 months

Text

Jason Attacking Tim at Titans Tower

Fanon vs Canon

We've all seen the versions in fanfiction but I'm not so sure everyone's seen the original so if you're one of those batfam fans who doesn't want to read the comics (regardless of reasons) but you are curious about how it actually went this is for you.

What I'm addressing:

What does Jason actually say to Tim during the attack?

Did Jason drug all the other Titans?

Did Jason really wear a Robin costume?

Did Jason slit Tim's throat or call him replacement?

Did Jason actually break Tim's bo staff?

Was Tim crying or scared?

Did Jason write a message on the wall in Tim's blood?

Did Jason's eyes glow green?/Did he follow pit rage mechanics?

Panels and details below. This is a LONG one.

What did Jason actually say to Tim during the attack?

Dialogue in fanfiction during the Titans Tower attack varies based on what kind of fic you're reading but usually its either 'time to clip Replacement's wings' if its staying a beatdown whump 'or oh no precious lil bby why is no one watching you' if its an accidental child acquisition. Not judging either option, but this ain't about them its about the real shit.

Look at these opening lines:

Hey, Tim. I was here first.You're the Red Hood. You've been cleaning up Gotham the easy way. Easy? What do you know about easy, Tim? You had a father that looked after you. You went to a private school, right? You slept in a bed. I slept on the streets, I lived in the alleyways in Gotham. Trying to survive. Until Bruce took me in. I trained as hard as I could. I did whatever he asked. . . at least at first. But it didn't matter. They said I wasn't tough enough to be robin. But today, they say you are. Show me, Tim. Show me what you have that I didn't.

Jason really puts himself out there in all of his dialogue in this encounter, the struggle of having to fight for anything and everything he got in life, even the things that came to everyone else for free, and then being told he wasn't even good enough for the things he fought for.

There's a trope in fanfics that if Jason knew Tim stalked Batman and forced his way into being Robin that it would change how Jason felt about the situation but that's even addressed in this comic:

You were a kid, worried about how Batman was spiraling down into darkness. You spent weeks tracking the dark knight. Solving a mystery no one else could. You discovered who he was behind that mask. Millionaire Bruce Wayne. You were so pleased with yourself, I'm sure that you forgot who you were really dealing with. I know Bruce Wayne. And let me tell you, Tim if someone was trying to find out who Batman really was. If someone was stalking him for weeks. He'd know about it. You can't be that good. I am. He let you find him. And I bet he said the same thing to you as he did to me, didn't he? That you had a talent to make a difference in Gotham. That he needed someone he could trust in war on crime. That you were one of a kind. The light to his darkness. Robin, the Boy Wonder.

Tim saying 'I am' is really such a moment that doesn't come through in text because he is right that he really did do that but I also completely understand why Jason wouldn't believe it.

TBH my favorite part is how done Tim honestly sounds with Jason thoughout all his trauma dumping. Like imagine a grown man who used to work the same part time job as you breaking into your house, dressing up in your work uniform, ranting about how much the job ruined his life while he beats your ass??? God, and he probably had to write a fucking report about it after. RIP Timmy.

What do you want? Do you want to be Robin again? Is that it? You... want to take it away from me? Why in the hell would I ever want that? Don't you get it? When I died no one cared! No one remembered me. Are you completely insane? No one could forget you. I've spent my entire career wearing this mask under your shadow. I had to convince Batman to let me try this. All because he'll never stop blaming himself for what happened to you. You ask me, that's the only reason he hasn't taken you down. He's holding back. But me? No freakin' way. That's the Robin I wanted to see. Still. You do realize the whole idea of training a teenager to fight against something he'll never eradicate is a mistake. It didn't even surprise anyone when I died. When I failed. I failed-- but I'm still beating you. Do you think you're that good now?! Do you really, Tim? Yes.

Tim bashing Jason across the face as he says 'no freakin' way'? *chefs kiss*

Jason drugging the other Titans to knock them out?

Little bit true, Kory was actually just already away from the tower and BB and Cyborg were about to bounce because of the drama going on with Donna's return but Jason like super tazes them and then drugs Raven who he thought already went through enough shit without him knocking her out violently.

Note: Jason says in the text here that he never rolled with Cyborg or BB but like he actually did in some comics so?? The continuity is lie I guess idk.

Did he show up in Red Hood gear or a Robin costume?

Both tbh but he spent most of the time in the Robin costume but bro actually made a stripper rip away version of his Red Hood gear so he could dramatically reveal the Robin costume underneath. I can't believe no one ever includes that in their fics its so fucking funny.

Does he call Tim 'replacement' or slit his throat?

No, this came from a Batman comic with Hush not Teen Titans. That incident takes place in a graveyard not Titans Tower and he calls Tim pretender not replacement.

Does Jason break Tim's staff?

Tragically, no. The bo staff snap would have been iconic. Instead he just takes Tim's staff and beats Tim up with it and breaks stuff. BUT!! He uses it to bust a statue in the TITANS MEMORIAL ROOM which is a place in Titans Tower just for having statues of dead previous titans and Jason is rightfully pissed he didn't get one. Like Tim is correct in saying no one forgot him still but like I would be hurt too if all my friends made cool statues of friends that died and then just left my zombie ass out, like wtf.

Note: I am seriously losing my shit that I have never seen someone bring up the memorial room in a fanfic. That is so much angst material. 😭

Tim crying/ being scared?

Hell no. He's a fucking Robin you know he's being a sassy boy the whole time, even towards the end when he's about done he's still saying he's her and I love Tim for that.

Note: There are a few different times where Tim does a flippy Robin move and then Jason just fucking copies it like flexing that he can do it too, and its just so petty and stupid he's trying so hard to be better than an actual child. 💀I get why in the context of the situation but its still so ridiculous.

Message on the wall in Tim's blood?

TBH I really don't know for sure on this one?? Like its implied that he did but Tim isn't bleeding all that much throughout this beatdown and like we don't see Jason do it just the Titans reacting to seeing it after. It could be Tim's blood, it could be red paint, and it could even be that Jason packed an actual bucket of blood to bring with him to write a message with after he finished. TBH the world is your oyster on this one.

Note: If anyone can find another comic where this event was brought up where they actually clarify it was Tim's blood hmu and I'll update this but I couldn't find any.

Pit rage/ glowing green eyes?

Fanon only at this point in the comics. Jason is seems to be himself and even thinks Tim and his friends are pretty cool at the end, and he's just like reflecting on if he had good friends if he would have turned out better as he leaves.

#tim drake #jason todd #red hood #robin dc #teen titans #comic panels #jason and tim #teen titans 2003 #dc comics #panels are from teen titans (2003) issue 29 #i would never tell anyone they have to read comics but i do think seeing the original scene of fanon favs is good #not because you need to follow them but because its good to know what you're taking inspo from #jason attacking tim at titans tower #LONG POST

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halcyone-of-the-sea · 11 months

Note

Ahhhh I've been waiting for your requests to open, I've been following you since your first Price fic and never had an idea to request until like 2 weeks ago 😫 so, I've been thinking, what about being in a relationship with Keegan but getting separated when ODIN hits the earth and not meeting again until about 5 years later? 👀 Love your writing, hope you have a great day 🩵 :)

For The Weak And Weary

PAIRING: Keegan P. Russ x F!Reader

SYNOPSIS: When ODIN struck you had thought he had died, sky alight with fire. It had taken years to accept it, much less live with it. But after Dallas falls, would you get a glimpse of your Lover's phantom again?

WORDCOUNT: 6.2k

WARNINGS: Angst, depressive thoughts, PTSD insinuations, gore, wounds, blood, death, canon-typical violence, (1) suggestive joke, alcohol, hallucinations, fluffy reunion, tears, verbal arguments, etc.

A/N: Just because I'm a sucker for sticking to the game timeline I made it ten years, lol. Enjoy, Anon! Very fun prompt.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

You could never make sense of what Keegan went through in 2005 during Operation Sand Viper. It would be pointless to try and wrap your head around it from what little you knew. All that mattered was that when he came back on leave, something in his eyes was…damaged. Hell, he’d only been sixteen—the both of you had known each other since you were kids, you knew when something was wrong.

And this was entirely new to you.

He smiled less and snapped more; got spooked when you dropped something in his family's kitchen like a grenade had gone off. Maybe, you reasoned, he thought one actually had.

But through it all, you could still see how much he cared about you. When you were old enough you’d both moved into a nice place in the suburbs and started a relationship—a life shared between the two of you.

You knew he loved you from the way he’d grip you close at night and breathe into your scalp. How when you were sick from the take-out dinner he’d brought home, Keegan would hold back your hair and rub circles into your spine as you threw up. He never shied away from telling you how beautiful you were; prided himself on it. Keegan loved to show you off.

But there were times back then when you wondered if the same Keegan that had been so fulfilled to join Ghosts had died, and, in fact, a phantom was instead puppeting his skin. He was so quiet now.

If you’d known that the world was going to end on July 10th, 2017, you’d have never let him walk out that door angry. You would have grabbed his hand and pressed your lips to his, whispered affirmations into his flesh and sobbed at the cruelty of it all.

“I can’t keep pretending that you’re okay!” You yell, tears in your eyes, at the man standing tense in the kitchen doorway. Blank blue eyes stare lifelessly. “Keegan—this is killing you.”

It was early morning by then, and the neighborhood was quiet. The house that the both of you had moved into years ago was littered with the remnants of a happy home. Pictures on the walls, dishes in the sink, and freshly baked bread on the counter. All you’d tried to do was give Keegan a hug, slipping your hands around his waist when you’d entered.

He’d balked back, jerking to the side and nearly elbowed you in the gut before he saw your wide eyes and stopped himself. The way he’d looked at you…how could eyes be so dead?

“You need to talk to someone,” you put your foot down, shaking your head. “I-I don’t know a therapist or…or someone who can get you proper help because I can’t keep acting like I can live like this.”

Every mission, every time he went away, it always got worse.

Keegan’s eyes get sharp, hands at his sides clenching. He speaks in a low growl. “I don’t need to talk to a shrink, alright? I’m fine, you just startled me.”

“Bullshit,” your mouth hisses, glaring. “You thought you were back in ‘05.”

The man points at you, strong jaw clenching, “Don’t.”

“Keegan,” you plead, “please, I love you! I don’t care about this, I just want you to be alright. To be able to live your life—”

“What you want is to try and change me!” The black-haired man barks. Your eyes blink in shock. Keegan rarely yelled. “I already told you I was fine, why don’t you get off my back all the time?” His eyes flash, pupils going to slits as his hands shake at his sides. Why did he look scared? Your breath stills, lips slightly open, with tears dripping to the tile. “Fuck, it’s like I can’t come home without you pesterin’ me ‘bout something!”

A stiff silence falls.

“Kee—” He snaps a hand to his mouth and rubs at his stubble, suddenly unable to look at you.

“...Forget it.” It’s low and shaky how he says it, eyes wide, before he darts into the foyer and slips into his boots. You listen to the sounds of panicked shuffling before the man wrenches open the front door and slams it shut behind him. One of the picture frames falls and hits the ground with a shattering of glass.

You flinch and tense, taking down a terse breath and sniffling tightly. Trying to get your lungs to work properly, your feet take you over to the picture as they feel weak and uneven; a stuttering mess of steps before you bend down. Your fingers bleed as they shift the glass away, taking out the image of you and Keegan on your hike through the mountains.

Smiling faces mock you, and you break at the bright and open affection Keegan wears as he looks down at you—eyebrows curved up and smirk like a knife to the chest.

You loved him so much it hurt to breathe when he was away.

He had needed time, you knew, but what you didn’t know was that time wouldn’t be available. Around noon the world had opened into a ball of fire and death. 27 million dead. Los Angeles, San Diego, Phoenix, Houston, and Miami…all gone…at least, that was what everyone in Dallas was telling you.

When Keegan had been away taking a walk to calm himself, you’d been home alone. The earth caved, the ground shook; houses burst like balloons. By the time you’d crawled from the rubble of your home, all you had was the picture and the clothes on your back. People were screaming—you were screaming. But you knew that you couldn’t stay here if you wanted to survive.

And then you’d made it to Dallas by sheer luck and the few tricks Keegan had taught you; had thought that he had died in that first strike by the Federation. You carried that guilt and self-hatred for not holding your tongue for a few more hours.

So much could have been different in these ten years. Better. You never got over him for even a second.

But the reality was that you couldn’t think about all of that now, because if you didn’t focus on holding your breath you would be dead in the next three seconds.

Your hand is anchored to the body of your sniper rifle, finger hovering over the trigger as you hide behind the outcropping of rubble in the decimated cityscape; the air is hot and humid despite the weight of the night. It sticks to your skin in a sheen of violent sweat. Yet it’s still not as potent as the blood.

Teeth gritted, you hold back whimpers as Federation soldiers stalk the grounds, scores of them—legions. An entire army that had breached the walls and executed everyone insight, soldiers, civilians, if it once moved it didn’t anymore. The burning in your shoulder was agonizing, head smashing itself back to the rubble in an attempt to stifle your own ragged need to scream into the night as layers had peeled back to allow a bullet to pass through.

In the ten years you’d been here, you’d taken up the mantle of quite the sharpshooter; pulling on Keegan’s lessons when he was on leave and wanted to bring you to the firing range. You had even picked a rifle similar to the one back in your destroyed home—held in a plastic case and treated like royalty by your long-deceased lover. It wasn’t the same, but the jet-black Lynx made you steady like the picture in your breast pocket did.

A reminder of what was lost and why you had picked the knock-off up in the first place.

Footsteps get closer as the sweep of a flashlight cards above your skull, if possible you go even more still, lips pulled in and heart rampaging. There were barked orders and yelling, but no more screaming.

How long had you been unconscious after taking that shot to the shoulder? Fear was breeding with horror—was…was everyone dead?

Spanish is loudly called not five feet away, and the flashlight leaves as your breath does. You let off a quiet gasp and suck down air greedily. Eyes flashing from one shadow to another, you look for any opportunity to slip away from the city. In the wind, you could smell fire, and taste it on your tongue as you licked your lips.

All around you can see the limp shadows of bodies and the apartments, large skyscrapers were on fire deep in their frames. The city was entirely lost.

How the federation got into the walls you would never know, though there was concern about the enemy soldiers rounding up civilians outside the walls and executing them. Maybe one cracked before the bullet entered their skull.

You bite hard into your lip to force back your pain. Trying to shoot a rifle would be useless at this point, you might as well have lost the limb. Slinging the gun’s strap over your head, you look back and forth along your visible perimeter, checking for hostiles as you unsheathe your combat knife and cradle your limp arm to your chest.

If only Keegan could see you now.

Rounds of gunfire make the air burn with urgency, and you take the time to peek out behind as sweat makes a trail down your dirty face, dripping off of your chin as you breathe like a wheezing dog. Your wound needed tending, and you had the med pack on your vest with the supplies, but you can’t do it here.

Where’s safe? If Dallas has fallen…is there anywhere that’s still standing? A location hits your brain as your gaze darts from one abandoned street to another. You take a deep breath and whine as you force your legs to stand and move quickly, feet shifting as quietly as you’re able to make them.

“Fort Santa Monica.” Now a stronghold, you’d heard US soldiers here talking about the large presence of military power out in California—numbers so great they rivaled those that had lived in Dallas.

You stumble over a spasming body and slam your uninjured shoulder into the bulk of the building’s wall, groaning loudly like a wounded boar.

“Fuck!” If you made it out of the city, that would be where you would have to go; to warn them of what was coming. The Federation had found a way inside the Dallas wall, and that meant if they had enough tenacity, they could do it to them too.

Everything would be done if another city fell.

Holding your knife tighter, you push off the wall and grit your teeth harder, mind running on that edge of hysteria and forced calm. It’s in these moments where you have to pull on old memories to keep you going—even if they end up hurting more than the open wounds you carry.

Keegan had his bad moments, but you always got through them together. Years and years of knowing each other inside and out; memorizing bodies and thoughts like they were second nature. He would want you to keep fighting, tell you to get your ass in gear and go…and you would never let him down.

You owed him that much even if some days you wanted more than anything to join him.

Blade in hand, you hear muttered speech from up the alleyway and pause, feet splayed but still swaying as you come to a slow stop. Your ears ring at garbled sentences, foreign words spilling into one another.

Panting, you listen closely, limbs vibrating. More gunfire echoes over the air, screams and death that get ingrained into your head like a brand into sizzling flesh. Skyscrapers burned and buildings fell with great earthquake booms. Everything is under a sheen of distance.

Get out of the city. Get to Fort Santa Monica.

“Kill who I have to,” you slur out, itching at your neck as you leave a trail of blood behind you. A single pair of footsteps walk quickly forward near your corner and you hold your breath, bringing up your knife as pain pounds in your arm.

Deep blue eyes sit in the back of your mind, counting you down as they always did.

Keep your arm steady for me, Doll, a phantom tells you. Breathe...

When the first shadow of a Fed soldier graces your eyes, you strike.

—

It’s roughly nineteen days from Dallas to Santa Monica, and that was if you kept up at a steady walking pace. If the crude sling you’d fashioned from bandages found in your med pack was any indicator, it would be double that.

On the first day, you had hiked half-dead over the destroyed landscape of what remained of the USA, licking your wounds and counting your losses. You’d had your pick of abandoned houses, taking a red brick one just because it looked nice and you were about to pass out from blood loss. The only reason you’d made it this far was that the bullet had thankfully passed right through you, making sure that if you moved too suddenly no more damage was being done internally. You packed it with a sterile rag.

Sitting in the home, pictures gathering dust on the fireplace mantle, you tipped back a bottle of whisky you’d found in one of the bedrooms, grimacing at the sting. It was better to be drunk for what you were about to do.

Heating up your combat knife in the fire you had started in the hearth, you watched the metal grow an eye-flinching white as you stared off into nothingness.

“You remember when you showed me that scar, Keegan?” You always talked to him. Others had given you shit for it, but they knew the purpose. If you didn’t talk to someone, even a ghost, you would give up.

The guilt was eating you alive, and it would overtake you eventually. Hadn’t in ten years, but it would…you knew it, everyone did.

Keegan was everything, and nothing looked the same when you lost him.

“The one on your thigh?” Pulling the knife back, you turn to the leaking flesh of your shoulder, gushing blood as black desecrates the sides of your eyes. You’d taken off your vest and shirt. If you tried hard enough you could imagine Keegan standing in the corner, watching. Always watching. “You said you had to dig a bullet out and cauterize the wound—when I asked you said you barely felt it over all the adrenaline.”

The ghost tilts its head, eyes sad and lips pulling taunt. Your lungs take in a shaky inhale and your hand quivers; only you feel how your eyes burn with unshed tears.

“I never thought about it before,” right as you growl and shove the knife into your skin, you bark out in fear, “But I think you were fucking lying!”

On day two, you knew you had to avoid the remains of Fort Worth, so you decided to increase your distance and cut that landmark out entirely—too many remnants of Federation. They were everywhere now, and you needed to keep low; get out of Texas. You scavenged properties and took stock.

Four magazines for your Lynx, a pouch with five protein bars, one bottle of water attached to your belt, and your knife. Normally you’d have a pistol at your thigh, but you’d used it up in the firefight back home. When you’d woken back up, it had been gone.

And, of course, you had the picture. You kissed Keegan’s face and placed it back in your breast pocket, caressing the material softly before clearing your throat and addressing the obvious.

With what you had getting to California was a pipe dream.

You’d been on the radio all day, clicking through channels and pleading for anyone alive to reach out. Nothing. Static.

I’m the only one left. The thought was intoxicating, pounding in your skull like your hangover. Everyone is dead.

While you had become somewhat of a loner in the last ten years, especially with the few months you’d been by yourself in the beginning, Dallas had given you a chance to build bonds again. Ten years, and in an instant it was all wiped out.

It rang a devastating bell.

Somehow, you had cheated death where so many others had failed—not only in Texas, but back with ODIN too. You had survived, but somehow Keegan hadn’t.

Keegan, the one who never spoke about ‘05 and jerked awake from nightmares years later because of it. Keegan, who wanted nothing more than to stay at your side when he was home and keep you on his chest when watching movies. Keegan, the love of your life.

The only love of your life.

“I really wish you were here,” you mutter, grimacing as your arm gets jostled as you stumble over a piece of rusted metal in the empty street. “Who gave you the right to go away before me, huh? We were supposed to grow old together, Russ. You promised me that.”

Garbage gets blown over the road when a hot breeze shifts the air, bringing the scent of dirt and the noise of rustling trees. Nature has reclaimed the towns and suburbs—great patches of ivy and long grass that rise to your hips. But the silence was a curse.

The only thing keeping you going is the thought of delivering your warning to Santa Monica, from there…

Your lips thinned. What even was there left? How many times could you go from one place to another, starting over with stories of your past and having to brush the pitying looks off as you fake a smile?

Shaking your head, you recall memories from the better days as the light gets low in the sky.

“You’re doin’ too much, Sweet Thing,” Keegan mutters, and you turn from the stove top with a bright smile to face him.

He had just gotten out of the shower, towel ruffling through his dark hair as he stands in the kitchen entrance and watches you cook for him. The shirt hangs off of his wide shoulders, and gray sweatpants are loose over his formed hips—his strong brow line raises in a casual expression.

“Oh, don’t act like you don’t like it,” you tease, hearing his low chuckles as you turn back to your pan. “You look good, y’know.”

“Oh, yeah?” Keegan grunts, smirking, and his feet pad over to you, tossing the towel to the counter as his presence looms over your back. Large hands grab onto your hips and a nose burrows into your hair; inhaling deeply before gradually melting to the curve of your spine.

You smile and hum, pushing back so you can rest on his chest. A chin sets itself on your head, deep massaging fingers making you pur as they bunch your sleep shorts.

It was late—nearly two in the morning. Keegan had only gotten home a short while ago, but sleep wasn’t going to stop you from spoiling him. A wine bottle was on the island counter, two glasses, and the food was nearly done from what you could scrounge up on short notice.

“...Good to be back,” the man grumbles into you, kissing your head and slowly sweeping his arms around your waist as you sighed softly at the contact.

Your face gains heat.

“Well, I’d sure hope so, or else this would be awkward.” You huff to hide the bright smile in your voice. But like a moth to flame, you hear, as well as feel, Keegan chuckle against your spine. His grip squeezes you for a moment.

“How was it when I was away?” He asks as you move around the contents in the pan, nose brushing your neck as his lips travel to kiss behind your ear. He breathes against the flesh as his low rasp makes you shiver. “Any trouble?”

“Negative, Sergeant,” you raise a brow and smirk over your shoulder at him, seeing his blues spark as he gazes hard into your eyes. A faint twitch to his lips is what you get before his hand captures your cheek; anchoring your face as he descends to connect his mouth to yours.

He sighs into it, arm still around your waist—tight as if you were a pillow.

“Keep talkin’ like that and we won’t have to wait long for dessert, will we?”

Days three through seven were uneventful beyond the constant agony of your arm and tired legs, but on day eight amid a waterless walk in the sweltering heat was when the hallucinations began.

Keegan walks beside you, his footsteps mirroring your own as sweat pools down your forehead and drips off your nose. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t look at you—he just walks, looking exactly like he did the day he died.

At first, you’d flinched back and blinked wildly at the sight, panting, but then he’d disappeared and your heart had shattered. It worried you with what you were seeing, but it was also a strange comfort to be able to ramble to…something, even if it wasn’t real. Hungry and with a dry tongue, you were on the verge of calling it quits.

So on day eleven, without a wild animal in sight to give you a proper food source and all the water having to be purified, you started talking to him while licking the inside wrapper of your last protein bar.

“But I never understood why you hated sleeping in shirts,” you licked your lips to get the remnants of granola off of your flesh, pushing away the greasy sheen from your cheeks. Your arm was burning up—every heartbeat was felt as it moved the skin around red and infected flesh up and down. Puss was leaking out from the crude stitches you had made of embroidery thread from that first house you’d found.

“And you always kept the room freezing.” Continuing, you drop the wrapper to the ground and then take the meat of your fingers and get what little flavor you can off of them, grunting through realization. “That was a ploy to have me use you for heat, wasn’t it? Jesus.”

The man in the corner of your vision smirks, tilting his head and chuckling from where he leans against a tree trunk.

“Yeah, that’s right. Knew it.” Glaring at nothing, you stand from your overturned stump and nearly fall right back over, stomach yelling at you as your vision swirls.

You dig a hand into your hair and grip at the strands, pulling and groaning. “...God.”

Keegan comes over and stands above you, your eyes staring down at his feet as you get light-headed. You focus on his shoelaces, counting the Xs and taking down shaky breaths. When you blink like a cat with dirt on its face, the shoes are gone entirely and you stand back up to your full height.

“...Keegan?” You ask after a moment, the words disappearing into the trees, but no one’s around.

Your sight goes to your wound and your jaw tightens, moments of clarity slipping in as a knife would into your consciousness before the curtain settles once more.

You bend over and vomit what little nutrients you had, spending day twelve sleeping through a fit of nightmares and fever-induced delirium.

Nothing about the remainder of the time you can recall to memory—bits and pieces always flash through on long nights, but they’re only walking montages. Dragging feet, looking at your hand as if it was a foreign object as you turned it back and forth; everything in a sheen of sickness. Days and days and days. Little food. Less water.

More than one-thousand miles.

But somehow, the Wall peels out in front of you as you crash through the foliage, your body giving out and collapsing down a large decline. Bouncing and getting jostled by rocks, you come to a stop without the strength to get back up, staring blankly ahead as your head connects with concrete. Your mouth is open in broken inhales, pain not even registering.

Shouts echo, the pound of rapid feet.

Green eyes meet yours, a youthful face with a beanie and stubble. He’s saying something to you, glancing over your gear and your obvious near-death situation—his hand jostles the side of your face. But your eyes shift behind him gradually, attention falling to someone more important.

Before you finally let yourself rest, you stare at the smiling face of your steadfast phantom.

—

The doctors and nurses at Fort Santa Monica were nice, if a bit secretive about the entire operation. Seeing as you weren’t an official soldier, no dog tags or patches—no name in the database—everyone was a bit hesitant to tell you anything.

Until you said you were from Dallas, of course.

But no one was eager to rush you in your state, even if the information was dire. You had been hooked up to an IV and bedridden for a week straight; talking to nothing on account of the dehydration and electrolyte imbalances. Some days you spend unconscious.

But what really pissed you off when you got back into it, was the fact that they had taken your Lynx and your gear—your picture.

You’d almost grappled onto the first nurse you’d seen when you’d woken without it. It was a beacon, your prized possession of damaged corners and taped tears. Water damage that may or may not have been from sobbing fits in the first five years.

In fact, that was the entire reason you had snuck out so late in the first place.

Stalking down the hallway in the white shirt and camo pants that had been given to you on the fifth morning you had woken up here, you pad along with no shoes, only plain gray socks. You limp with bandaged flesh all along your healing shoulder and your feet.

The doctor had explained that you’d entirely skinned the bottoms and your heels were a mess of blisters and open wounds.

“Take my property,” you grumble under your breath, shuffling along and rubbing at the back of your neck. “What gives them the right?”

You weren’t going to stop until you found it.

Reading the name tags on the walls, you silently wonder where they would have taken your stuff as you slip out of the medical ward, listening to the buzzing of the lights and frowning. As you’re limping along the next hallway, a man suddenly turns the corner on nearly silent feet.

“Woah!” You halt immediately, heart jumping in your chest. A hand catches your shoulder before you run headlong into him.

Green eyes lock with your own, wide and blinking quickly. Brows furrow and you’re quickly looked over before a slow, teasing remark enters the air, you listen with a growing heat on your neck.

“Y’know, I could have sworn you were supposed to be in bed, Ma’am. I miss something here?” The man who had found you.

“Wouldn’t know,” you say blandly, blinking up at him and taking a careful step back. This brunette had a casual air to him—still in his gear despite the time. He folds his arms and tilts his head at you, smirking. “If you’ll excuse me.”

You begin to walk forward, slipping past him and hoping you won’t get snitched on. Except it seems you’ll be having a shadow, as not a few seconds later a smooth chuckle meets your ears and the man walks beside you.

“I think I’ll be taggin’ along if you don’t mind. Security and all.” He turns to face you, sticking out his opposite hand. “Hesh.”

“That supposed to be some kind of nickname, Kid?” You raise a stiff brow but participate in the handshake nonetheless. His grip is firm but not hard.

Hesh blinks at you, eyes swimming with amusement before he shrugs in a boyish way and shakes his head with a laugh. “Hell, you remind me of someone, Ma’am.” A moment passes in silence as you study the area. The man huffs, “Where exactly are we off to?”

“Wonderland,” your lips grumble, tired and wanting to sleep but not until you find your picture. Hesh sighs but you can still hear the hilarity inside of it.

“Alright then…don’t know if you’re going to be finding a shrinking potion anytime soon, though. We’re in low stock.”

“Very funny,” your eyes send a dry look, but you relent when he prods you with his eyes, taking a corner. “I’m looking for my vest.” Hesh blinks at you in curiosity, letting you elaborate as you motion to your upper shoulder. “My pouch has some of my personal belongings. I don’t like being away from it.”

“Oh,” the brunette nods a few times, his beanie jerking along. “Yeah, that’s no problem.” A hand is waved and you stare in confusion as he pivots. “C’mon, I’ll get you there.”

Your eyes burn into his back before you immediately speed after.

“Why so eager to help?” Hesh smirks at your question.

“As I see it, if you went over nineteen days of hard hiking just to get to us, you should at least be able to keep your stuff on you, Ma’am.” Your lips flicker in a smile.

“You’d be the first.” You tell him your name and miss the slight emotion it provokes in his eyes, head lightly pulling to the side but ultimately saying nothing. Hesh shrugs with a grunt, leading you to a meeting room on the opposite side of the building.

Yelling is on the other side.

“Elias, how long has this been kept from me?!” The voice makes your head perk, evoking something inside of your chest. Hesh seems taken aback too, holding up a hand to you for momentary silence—not that you had to be told.

“Keegan, I can’t have that happen. She needs to recover and you being there could jeopardize that. We need what she knows about Dallas.” Your body stills to a near-frozen state, and it’s comedic how your entire face falls to a blank slate. Wait a second.

…Keegan?

“She belongs with me—I thought she fucking died and she’s been here for who knows how long?! Why wasn’t I informed?” Rampaging feet suddenly sound off, going to the door at break-neck speed.

“Son, that’s not a good idea. This is what I was worried would happen if you found out.”

“I didn’t exactly ask, did I? As far as I’m concerned, nothing else matters besides getting back to my Girl,” the bark is ferocious and violent, more of an animal’s than a man’s. “Now where the hell did you put her before I tear this damn fort apart and—” You shove at the door before Hesh can grab you, throwing it open and letting it hit the opposite wall with a great boom of wood.

Your wild eyes instantaneously lock into sharp blues, pulse pounding in your ears. It’s like all the air is taken from your lungs in a great punch.

Oh, he’s so similar to how you remembered him to be ten years ago.

Keegan stands only a few feet away, turned in your direction with his eyes so wide and small you might faint. There’s black face paint in his sockets, making the cerulean all the more bright and shocking to the senses. He’s still tall, still built, if only a bit more rugged than when ODIN struck—there are lines on his forehead and his scars are more faded. Small differences in the way he holds himself like the difference between a rabbit and a hare. Keegan’s black locks are shorter now, but still…his.

Lips part in silent shock, an entire halt of your nervous system.

The entire universe holds its tongue as you two stare at each other; walls and rooms blur into a mess of matter and reality—this couldn’t be real.

Keegan’s feet shift for a moment as if to steady himself as his fingers twitch. In his hand, he holds your picture, his body covered in gear and weapons. He blinks as you tell yourself he’s a phantom, simply that same ghost come back to haunt you as tears sting the backs of your eyes. But then he speaks, and it’s the same voice you had slowly lost the ability to remember in year three.

“...Sweetheart?”

His ghost never spoke. His ghost could not imitate the phonics of his speech or the rhythm of his throat. His ghost could not make you recall the memories you’d long since boxed up.

You jerk forward just as he does, bodies colliding into a feral grip of flesh and fabric, hands latching and faces burying. Sobs rip from you as Keegan’s shaky breath echoes right next to your ear—his chest hitching and arms snatching your waist and lifting you up as easily as he always had. He holds you up without any thought of putting you down, legging your legs dangle as Elias slowly exits the room and corrals a highly confused Hesh with him.

The door shuts, but neither of you notices.

“Keegan—” Your voice is high with emotion, hardly believing what you're seeing—what you’re touching. “Oh, my God.”

He had been alive all this time? Ten whole years and you’d thought he was dead. But by the way he was barely letting you breathe from in his iron clutch, you imagined Keegan had thought the same about you. It was…incomprehensible.

“Shh,” he whispers, his shushes cracking and flinching between broken gasps of your name. “Shh.” He sets you down on the floor only to have his firm hands travel to your cheeks, turning your head to each side in a desperate need to understand if you were really there.

Keegan’s eyes are wet, but no tears let themselves fall quite yet.

“I’m so sorry!” You hiccup and the man kisses your cheeks—your browline and nose. Every piece of you he can as you both stay so intimate you might melt into one another. “I thought you were gone, I-I should have stayed and looked for you, I didn’t—”

“You’re alive?” Keegan’s hands rub across your body, gripping and tugging you closer and closer. “My Girl’s alive?”

His tears drip to your face as he hovers above you, and you both shake with the weight of years.

“Me?” Your chuckle through sobs—you want to scream and wail at the same time. Blue eyes flutter and ragged breaths puff on your forehead. “What about you, you asshole?”

Keegan shakes his head, and you stare deeply into him, hands coming up to cup his cheeks as he sags forward. He had stubble now, spreading out to grate your flesh.

The man forces a weak huff.

“Christ,” is all he mutters before he presses his lips to yours in a kiss so unyielding you expect to have your air stolen. Ten years to feel him kissing you again—to feel his warm flesh under your hands and his heart rampage into you.

You’d do it all over if it still amounted to this.

Your body shivers and you reciprocate with just as much fervor; this emotion of relief is so overwhelming and all-consuming that it makes your head light. You suck down quick breaths between the sensation of your lips meeting, Keegan doing the same.

Unconsciousness was better than letting him leave again, your lover sharing that sentiment as chests slid against one another. Soft hair slips through your fingers as you grip Keegan’s hair, cascading through locks as he groans into your lips and tries to hide his tears from you.

He pulls away and immensely shoves his head into your neck.

“You’re here,” he whispers quickly. A hand quivers at the back of your head as your tears wet his gear. “You’re right here. You came back to me, didn’t you, Doll?”

You cry, “I’m here, Keegan.” The man sobs when he hears you say his name, his knees giving out as you both fall to the floor and not letting the other move beyond the caress of skin and lips.

“I missed you,” Keegan gasps, “so much. Don’t you understand? I was nothing without you. You took it all from me, everything. Every damn thing.”

You press kisses to his neck and racing pulse, healing him inside and out without even realizing it; it was only fair, he was doing the same back to you.

The picture lays long forgotten on the floor.

“Never let me go,” your voice forces out, as he rocks you back and forth like a child. “Never again, Keegan. Please, I love you too much to go through that again.”

“Never,” he immediately promises, pulling back and kissing your lips again—neither can stop themselves from this. Blues eyes blink quickly, cataloging your face and every little blemish he’d have to relearn and study; to find the story behind. Keegan had never been happier. He felt like he might break from it. “Over my dead body, I’m never lettin’ you out of my sight. You’re stuck with me.”

You laugh genuinely for the first time in ten years and say you’d like nothing better as he pulls you back in and plants his mouth to yours in reverent worship. His arms trapping you to him as yours do just the same.

Not to leave again anytime soon.

TAGS:

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joelscurls · 5 months

Text

stalemate

pairing: Frankie Morales x f!reader

words: 7.2k

summary: Frankie Morales is your best friend — until a drunken hookup tears you apart.

warnings: 18+ minors dni; friends -> enemies -> lovers, TF characters without the TF plot, no Tom (in this house we hate Tom), alcohol consumption, smoking, angst, jealousy, pining, Frankie & reader being idiots in love, explicit smut, size kink, brief mentions of drunk sex, bad / regretful sex (between reader & OC), oral (f!receiving), unprotected piv, creampie, multiple orgasms, use of pet names (bebita, querida, baby, etc.), grilled cheese as a love language, happy ending, I think that's it but let me know if I missed anything!

a/n: thank you so much to @javisashtray & @pedgito for beta-reading this for me <3 this is for all my frankie lovers out there (aka bitches with good taste). dividers are by cafekitsune. follow @joelscurlsupdates for fic notifications! enjoy :)

Frankie Morales makes the best grilled cheese you’ve ever had. Perfectly golden bread; gooey, melty cheese — just the thought of it makes you drool. He says he has a secret ingredient. Won’t let you in the kitchen while he cooks for you, lest you find out.

Sometimes, upon entering his apartment, you can already smell melted butter. He’ll have started on one without even asking if you want it. He knows you always do.

Sit, he’ll shout from the other room. I’ll be right there. Feel free to put something on — but please, not 13 Going on 30. You’ll thank him and question his distaste for Mark Ruffalo in the same breath: you’re the best, but it’s not my fault Matty is the dream man.

He’ll bring you the wafting plate along with a Corona, and insist that you eat before it goes cold while he makes one for himself. Ever the gentleman, ever the friend — at least he was.

Because the two of you haven’t spoken in a month; not since the drunken hookup that you’re both pretending didn’t happen.

You’d laughed the entire cab ride home from the bar. That last round of tequila shots had left you feeling good, all warm and giggly, and Frankie mirrored you in the backseat with his drunken grin. Eyes glassy, lips pulled wide, he’d smacked you lightly on the shoulder as you recalled Santiago’s pitiful loss in that third game of pool. “When he pocketed the eight-ball…” he trailed off into another fit of laughter.

“And then—“ you attempted, voice caught in your throat as another giggle barreled out. “—the cue hitting his drink!” Your entire body folded over, hands braced on Frankie’s thighs as the two of you struggled to regain composure. Through labored breaths, you squealed. “He’s never going to live that down!”

After a few particularly stressful months at work, you lived for these nights out with your friends. You’d met Frankie through your best friend Mal, who was dating his friend Benny, and your circles had eventually meshed into one. Sometimes it felt like it had always been that way, like you’d known the guys your entire life.

Especially Frankie.

Your friendship was a special one — punctuated by frequent trips to the movies to watch the latest horrible slasher film; by nights spent yapping on the phone about nothing in particular. He’d become a constant in your life. Never, in your right mind, would you even dream of doing anything to jeopardize that—

“You look really hot tonight, by the way.”

He shouldn’t have said that. He shouldn’t have. But then it was you who leaned in closer, you who rested your hand on his hip and plucked the Standard Heating Oil cap off his head, placing it atop your own.

It was you who kissed him first.

He deepened it though — that was all him — large, restless hands grasping at your sides, your back, your face; tongue pushing past the seam of your lips to press against yours. He’d groaned into your mouth when the cab stopped at the curb in front of your building. Cursed under his breath when you pulled away.

And then, your voice ragged and breathless, you’d asked, “do you want to come in for a bit?”

It was a mistake. A horrible, blissful mistake. Waking up with sticky thighs and Frankie’s thumbprint bruised into your hip, you’d found his side of the bed cold; your inbox empty. He hadn’t called, hadn’t texted. Still hasn’t.

The aftermath is cursory glances. Half-assed greetings and pleasantries murmured across the bar. Which you don’t mind, really. You don’t want to speak to him. He’d probably just feed you some lie about losing track of time, not remembering what happened that night.

You wish you could forget it.

The visual is fuzzy; fleeting. But his voice — god, his voice — it still rings in your ears, drips at the nape of your neck like a leaking tap: fuck, baby, knew you’d take my cock; feel so good wrapped around me.

Your friends don’t know. They can’t; they wouldn’t let you live it down. Benny has made plenty of offhand comments already about you and Frankie being perfect for each other, having the same stubborn disposition. Mal does nothing to shut him up. Instead, she encourages him. Tells him he’s so right.

You’re pretty sure your eyeballs are going to fall out someday from glaring too hard.

Because you’re not perfect for each other — far from it, actually. Fuck, you can’t even communicate effectively. How could you ever be in a real relationship?

Not that you want that. Frankie is…well, Frankie. Sure, he’d felt undeniably incredible on top of you, inside of you — but he isn’t the type to settle down. In fact, you don’t think you’ve ever heard Frankie talk about dating.

Besides, he’s clearly not interested in being anyone’s anything right now. Not even your friend.

It hurts; cuts deeper than you care to admit. Just weeks ago, you’d spent an entire weekend at his place, marathoning the X Files and gorging on cold pizza. Now, he won’t even look your way for more than a few seconds.

Won’t make you a fucking grilled cheese.

It’s a Friday night, which means you’re meeting your friends at Sid’s. The glow of neon seeping through the windows of the old dive bar is warm and inviting as you step out of your rideshare and make your way toward the doors.

Frankie is sitting at the bar with Santiago when you enter. Hunched shoulders, narrowed eyes trained on his bottle of Corona, he appears detached from whatever Santi is saying to him. He doesn’t acknowledge you when you stroll up to them — not until his friend’s hand lands hard on his back, pulling his attention away from the beer. He offers a half-assed hello and an even more half-assed half-hug, and then he’s sliding back onto his barstool.

Ever-oblivious, Santiago doesn’t seem to notice the way Frankie curls in on himself; the way your back is up like an agitated cat’s.

Mal and Benny turn up minutes later, immediately ordering a round of shots for the group. You down the liquor eagerly, not bothering to lean on salt and lime to numb the sting. You want to feel it. You order another before joining Mal and the guys at a pool table in the back, letting the acid slide down your throat with no more than a wince as Santi racks the balls.

“Alright Fish, you’re up,” he says. “Me and you. Whoever loses buys the next round.”

You watch as Frankie quirks a brow at him. Takes a swig of his beer. “You sure you want to make that bet, Pope?”

Santi grins; nods confidently. “Hell yeah, I do.” The rest of you don’t bother to suppress your laughter. You catch a glimpse of Frankie, head thrown back, his broad, glistening neck exposed, and you have to fight to ignore the sudden panging in your chest.

When Santi inevitably loses, you order a vodka soda. You’re already feeling a bit tipsy after two shots in less than twenty minutes, so the drink goes down smooth; quick. There’s a rush to your head as you settle back at the bar and fiddle with the wrapper to your straw, letting the slightly soggy paper roll between two fingers.

You barely notice when Frankie slots in a few seats down, your attention drawn only when you hear his voice. It’s deep — sounds just like it did when he had his chest pressed to your back in the dim light of your bedroom — and his intonation nearly gives you whiplash.

When you snap your head up to look at him, you find he’s speaking to a woman. Her back is turned to you, long, dark hair tossed over her shoulder and her elbow resting casually on the bartop, but you imagine she must be beautiful by the way Frankie is visibly fawning over her. You’re staring, you hear her tease. Can’t help it, comes his reply.

Something like discomfort builds in your throat. Rises up up up. You take a long sip of your drink, letting vodka and sugar push it down.

You’ve never seen Frankie flirt with anyone, apart from you. It’s strangely unsettling, listening to him smooth-talk her. I’m a pilot, you know, he brags; could take you up in the sky someday if you wanted. Her giddy squeal comes seconds later; really? You’d do that for me?

You feel bad for her. She doesn’t know yet that all he’ll do is disappoint her.

He feeds her lines as you sip on your drink, citrus and grain burning only when he tells her: yeah, I came with friends; they’re all over there. Gestures toward Benny, Mal and Santi standing around the pool table in the back.

Scoffing, you stand from your seat at the bar and retreat to the patio. You don’t bother to check if Frankie is looking.

It’s cooler here, a sobering breeze carrying salt air with it as it wafts by. A few patrons have spilled outside, most smoking on faintly glowing cigarettes as they talk and laugh boisterously among themselves. You’d planned to sit alone, to plant yourself on a bench and enjoy your drink in solitude. But then a stranger is approaching you — a man, cigarette grasped between two of his fingers — and he’s asking you for a light.

He’s in his mid thirties, if you had to guess. Curly, dark hair sprouts every which way from his scalp; rounded, green eyes studying you as he awaits a response. He’s tall, though not as tall as Frankie. His shoulders aren’t nearly as broad and his chest isn’t quite as wide. His t-shirt hangs loose around his torso, swallowing his narrow frame — dissimilar to the way Frankie’s button-down clings to him.

Then again — why are you even comparing? Maybe the opposite of Frankie is exactly what you need.

You’ll have to seduce this stranger first, though. Not that it seems like it’ll be very difficult. His eyes are already raking over you, lips turned up at the corner as you take a casual sip of your drink.

“I don’t smoke,” you admit apologetically.

“Ah — that’s alright.”

He has an accent; midwestern, maybe? You don’t bother to ask. You don’t care, really. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is—

“You here all by yourself?”

“Yeah,” he laughs at your lack of subtlety. “Are you?”

“No,” you say. “My friends are inside.” Lowering your voice, you add, “but I was thinking about leaving soon.”

“Why’s that? Early morning tomorrow?”

You shake your head. Rub at your neck as if working out a knot, a contented hum pushing past your lips at the press of fingers into skin. Your stranger’s eyes trail rather conspicuously downward.

“Just over it,” you sigh exasperatedly. “I’d much rather be home…in bed…out of these clothes.”

You pull gently at the strap of your dress, as if you can’t bear the sensation of it against your shoulder any longer.

Your stranger’s gaze darkens, and the grip on his box of cigarettes grows tighter.

“You uh — want some company — once I find a light?”

Too fucking easy.

“Sure,” you giggle.

He slips away only for a minute or two, giving you just enough time to second-guess yourself. You know nothing about this man, not even his name; only that he smokes American Spirits and smells like tobacco. Should you really go home with him?

But then you think of Frankie inside — talking up a woman at the bar, pretending that you don’t exist — and that just about makes up your mind for you.

Your stranger reappears, now-lit cigarette dangling from his lips. The tip of it rages red and angry, and you think you know how that feels.

He smirks at you as he stuffs the pack into the front pocket of his jeans. An unceremonious silence hangs in the air as he sucks on the filter and puffs out a string of smoke. You wait patiently for him, quietly.

He snuffs the butt of his cigarette out in a nearby ashtray. Takes your empty cup and discards that too.

Can’t wait to get you home, he whispers in your ear then. You feign arousal, peering up at him and batting your eyelashes. Me neither, you mewl. Let’s go.

You lead him back through the bar, finding Mal and letting her know that you’ll be going. She seems a little perplexed, quirking a brow at you as you grip tightly onto your stranger’s arm, but she tells you to have fun anyway. Text me, she mouths as you make your way to the exit.

You only get a few feet, though, before you’re intercepted.

Frankie is blocking the door, arms crossed, a panic-stricken look on his face that you can’t quite comprehend. “Hey,” he says, “can I talk to you real quick?”

Your stranger backs off. Lets go of your arm and starts out the door. “I’ll wait outside,” he says, slipping away with a wink before you can protest.

The bar is bustling with noise, people in every corner drinking and laughing and dancing. Strangely, though, you’ve never felt so alone. So vulnerable. And you hate that Frankie has this power over you, the innate ability to make you feel so fucking small. It’s infuriating, it’s—

“Are you sure you want to leave with him?”

“Excuse me?” you scoff.

Frankie stares you down, face red, eyes inky-black. “You don’t know this guy, do you? What if he’s a murderer or something? Or like — a pervert?”

He’s grasping at straws, you know it. It’s why you laugh; roll your eyes.

“What are you, my keeper?”

“No, it’s just — I’m just concerned for your safety, okay?”

You’re briefly stunned. After weeks of ignoring you, he cares about your wellbeing? How can he be so hypocritical?

“I’m fine,” you bite back. “Why don’t you go back to your girl at the bar? Worry about getting yourself some instead?”

He’s wounded, if only slightly. His lips part like he might retaliate, but he’s silent. Dejected. Satisfied, you brush past him. March out the door without so much as a parting glance.

Finding your stranger leaning against the bar’s brick exterior, you force a smile. He outstretches a hand and you take it, reluctantly. “Ready to go?” he asks.

You’re not so sure anymore, but you nod anyway. Squeeze your stranger’s bicep and preen under his lustful gaze when he tenses in your grip. “Yeah,” you purr. “I’m ready.”

Cold air bites at your toes the following morning. It wakes you from a deep slumber; bitterly pulls you into consciousness. Confused, you yank at the covers. But a mysterious weight holds them in place, and only then do you remember then that you’re not alone.

Eyes sliding open reluctantly, you scan the room. Your dress from the night before is draped over the chair in the corner, your stranger’s clothes piled up on the floor nearby. He snores next to you, an arm raising to hang above his head, and you shift. Slip out of bed and pull a t-shirt on before padding into the bathroom.

Early morning light spills across tile, bounces off the mirror above the sink. You squint, shuffling over to the window and yanking the blinds closed. Then you check for damage in your reflection. Your makeup from the night before has stained your cheeks and your eyes look as tired as you feel, but otherwise there appears to be no physical evidence of your rock bottom.

The sex wasn’t great — not even good, really. Your stranger had lasted all of three minutes, had fanned his hot breath across the shell of your ear as he came, and then collapsed on top of you. Rolled over and drifted to sleep. He’d started snoring before you could even process what had just happened.

Cold water splashed across your cheeks does nothing to cool the burn of regret that scorches your skin. You feel uncomfortable, almost as if your body is tainted, now, remnants of your stranger leaking from between your thighs as you steady yourself at the edge of the sink.

He must’ve heard the tap, or maybe the pounding in your chest, because he emerges seconds later. He yawns and stretches, feline-like, in the doorway. “Hey,” he mutters. “How’d you sleep?”

“Pretty good,” you say, eyes twitching slightly as you will them to stay put above his waistline.

“You always up this early?”

You nod. It’s a lie, but he doesn’t need to know that you’d nearly jumped out of bed at the sight of him still there. He doesn’t need to know that for a split second, you’d almost hoped it was Frankie.

He asks if you want to get breakfast. You shake your head in faux-sympathy. “Sorry, can’t. I was hoping to get some cleaning done.”

“I could stick around and help,” he offers.

Jesus Christ. Just take the fucking hint.

“That’s so nice of you; I’m just more efficient by myself,” you lie again.

If Frankie were here, he’d grab the cleaning rags out of the closet just off the kitchen. He knows where they’re kept: second shelf, on the left. He’d wipe down the counters and the coffee table while you’d work on clearing dishes, disposing of pizza scraps. And he’d probably put on his dad-rock playlist — against your wishes — though you’d inevitably find yourself dancing to Foo Fighters and giggling when he’d sing along and mess up the words.

It begins to sink in then, as you shoo your stranger, now dressed, out the door, that your attempt to use sex as a way to get Frankie out of your head was useless. He’s still there, refusing quite adamantly to budge, all mussed curls and big eyes and deep voice. There’s no evidence that he’ll be leaving any time soon.

The revelation renders you nauseous. You spend the rest of the day with a hangover that you’re sure has not been induced by alcohol. And by the time night falls, darkness descending over your bedroom like a fog, you still feel sick.

A week later, you drag yourself to Benny and Mal’s for their monthly game night. You’d tried to get out of it, told Mal you haven’t been feeling great — which isn't a total lie — but she’d begged you until you broke.

Will is coming, and it’ll be the first time we’ve all gotten together in over a year, she’d whined through the receiver.

And then-

I know things were weird between you and Frankie last time at the bar, but you can’t let that stop us from seeing each other.

How do you know that, you’d asked, chewing on your bottom lip, the phone tucked between your ear and your shoulder.

He basically moped around the rest of the night after you left. Kept bitching about you leaving with that guy. He seemed really…agitated. You don’t have to tell me what happened, just please don’t bail.

So you’re here, steeling yourself as you climb the steps to the front door, hoping that if nothing else, you can make it through the night without strangling Frankie for his lack of discretion.

You enter the house with baited breath.

Your eyes immediately catch Frankie, tucked into the corner of the sectional, fingers wrapped tightly around his beer. He meets your gaze briefly before letting it slip to the floor by his feet, as if he’s trying to pretend he hasn’t seen you at all.

“Hi,” you try.

He looks back up at you, or rather past you. Taps his fingers along the bottle for a long moment. “Hey,” he says finally, to the wall behind your head.

“How have you been?” the words come out forced, almost foreign. You shift your weight awkwardly and he sighs.

“Fine. I’m fine.”

“Right,” you mutter. More silence. “Me too, in case you were wondering.”

“Good,” he says, voice cold. “That’s good.”

You’re not sure whether you want to slap him or kiss him. Because as infuriating as he’s being right now, he looks gorgeous, denim shirt hugging his biceps, his shoulders; stray curls peaking out from under that stupid Standard Heating Oil hat. You yearn to rip it off his head, run your fingers through his hair, nip along the sharp line of his jaw; the broad expanse of his neck.

You long to feel something other than the prominent ache that’s permeated your body for weeks, now. And you fear that he’s the only one who’d be able to alleviate it.

Your mouth opens again just as Benny emerges from the kitchen. Whatever words you were about to utter are lost in the ether as he pulls you into a suffocating hug and thanks you for coming.

“Mal’s in the kitchen,” he says. Grabs a handful of Lays from a bowl on the coffee table and shovels them into his mouth. Still chewing, he adds, “we got those wine coolers you like; they’re in the fridge.”

With a hurried thanks, you slip away unscathed.

You find Mal crouched in front of the open fridge, rustling through a produce drawer stocked with beer cans.

“Hey,” you announce.

She seems almost surprised to see you when she cranes her neck toward your voice, despite your promise to show. Eyebrows raised, mouth slightly agape, it’s as if she’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. She pulls another drawer open. Fishes out a wine cooler and passes it to you with an outstretched arm.

You take it in one hand. Help her up with the other.

“You’re here,” she says, and it sounds like more of a question than a statement.

“Yeah. I said I would be.”

“I know, I know. It’s just — I wasn’t sure. The whole Frankie thing…”

“It’s nothing; I promise,” you lie. “Water under the bridge. We’re fine.”

She quirks a brow at you, disbelief coloring her features, but she lets it go. Closes the fridge with a thunk and adjusts her sweater at the hem. “Good,” she says. “I don’t want you two ruining game night.”

It’s half a joke, but you know deep down she means it. She takes this all very seriously. Back in college, she’d forced you and your suitemates to play Cards Against Humanity with her every weekend. None of you had the heart to tell her when it started to grow monotonous, and so the tradition carried on well past graduation, eventually evolving into a new tradition with new friends.

Games bring people together, she’d said once over a round of Monopoly that had stretched well into the night, resulting in delirious laughter and a warm, fuzzy feeling in your chest.

You’d believed her at the time. Now, you’re not so sure that it’s foolproof.

The two of you rejoin the guys in the living room, Santiago and Will having shown up in your absence. You greet them as Benny pulls out a stack of game boxes. Settle on the couch, as far away from Frankie as you can manage.

It starts during the second round of Charades.

The first round had gone fine — good, even. Teamed up with Santi and Will, you’d avoided eye contact with Frankie for the whole of it. Focused only on guessing Santi’s horribly-mimed clues in between handfuls of trail mix and sips of watermelon-flavored bubbles.

It’d felt a bit like old times, all of you in one room again. Mal snuggling into Benny on the loveseat; Will catching his brother up on time spent touring the country, giving motivational speeches to recently discharged veterans. He’d asked you how you’ve been as Santi studied his next word, and you’d remembered then that everything was very much not how it once was.

And you hadn’t missed Frankie’s discomfort at the question; the way he set his beer bottle down on the table with a bit too much force, glass clanging against wood. Though if Will noticed too, he hadn’t said anything. Just moved into a story about some woman he met on the road that reminded him of you.

Santi’s turn had ended with a whopping zero points for your team, and now Frankie is standing at the front of the room, unfolding the scrap of paper in his hand and reading it to himself. In the lull, you find yourself staring at him, eyes near glazing over at the sight of the tiny paper pinched between long, thick fingers. Fingers you remember the reach of, the weight of.

He crumples the paper and stuffs it into his pocket, signaling that he’s ready to go. Mal flips over the sand timer on the table. And you almost don’t notice at first when he starts, mind occupied by equal parts lust and annoyance, that he’s fucking mouthing the phrase.

You watch, enraged, as Benny squints to read his lips. He raises his hand excitedly and jumps to his feet; yells out the answer with a sureness that Frankie affirms with a nod.

“That’s right. It’s the Empire State Building.”

“That’s fucking cheating!” you shout, a bit angrier than the situation calls for, and the room grows quiet. Fury coursing through you, you add, “are you fucking serious, Frankie?”

You feel the eyes on you; the awkward sheen you’ve cast over the room. Mal shifts across from you, glaring when you turn to face her, and you laugh defensively.

“What, nobody else thinks that’s unfair?”

“Please,” Frankie sneers.

“No, she’s right,” Santi tries — ever the peacemaker. “We’ll just add a rule going forward; no mouthing the words.”

“Fuck that,” you hiss. “I want their point taken away.”

Frankie scoffs from the other side of the room. “Bullshit! We earned that before the rule was added.”

You’re fuming now, standing to get a bit closer to his height; though he still towers over you. Mal is right on your heels, placing a hand on your shoulder in an attempt to placate you. You brush her off. Take another stride toward Frankie.

“There shouldn’t need to be an official rule against it, Frankie. It’s common fucking sense — which clearly, you have none of.”

Visibly offended, he says nothing. Just tenses his jaw.

“Why did you come tonight?” you continue, voice more level now; direct.

You hear your name uttered behind you, tone pleading, warning. You ignore it.

“Seriously, why?”

He’s quiet for a long, drawn-out moment, eyes pointed at the floor again.

“What are you talking about?” he spits, finally.

You laugh, amused and irritated, and these things somehow feel one in the same. “I mean, clearly you don’t want to be in my presence or even acknowledge my existence — unless it’s to cockblock me — so why are you here?”

His brows furrow; lips twist. For a second, you think he might actually leave. He adjusts his cap, jangles the car key in his pocket — but Benny stops him before he can take a step.

“Just — cut it out, okay? Both of you.”

“He’s the one-“

“I don’t care,” Benny interjects. Scanning the room, you catch sight of Santi and Will and Mal, all visibly agitated, and you sigh.

Guilt washes over you, then. The twisting of Santi’s face, Mal’s doleful stare, the wordless look exchanged between Benny and Will. All confirm your fear that you’ve effectively ruined their night.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble.

Frankie echoes your apology. Still, the others aren’t impressed.

“I don’t know what’s been going on lately with you two, but you need to figure this shit out,” Benny says. He sounds like a parent: stern and slightly disappointed. “Can you please just — go in the other room and talk through it?”

Though you haven’t much cared for Frankie’s opinion as of late, you still turn to him to gauge his reaction. He appears just as hesitant as you are, just as guilt-stricken. But something more lurks behind his eyes — something like fear, anxiety. Why, you aren’t sure.

You raise a brow at him, a wordless question. He answers with a sigh.

“Fine,” you both say at once.

“Thank goodness,” Mal chimes. Herding you two like cattle with a hand on each of your backs, she leads you out of the living room and into the adjoining hallway.

Her voice drones behind you as you make your way toward the third door on the right. Shall we continue the game?

The guest room is primly kept. It appears almost untouched at first glance, though you know that to be untrue. You’ve stayed here before, after blurry nights spent drinking shitty gin and singing karaoke. That must’ve been years ago now, though, after Mal and Benny first bought this house, and you begin to wonder if your tumultuous friendship with Frankie only made you neglect your friendship with her. And that only adds to the anger stirring inside of you — because what was it all worth, if it’s ended up like this?

Frankie closes the door behind him with a click, and the air in the room feels exponentially thicker.

“What the fuck was that?” you hiss.

He scoffs. “Me? You’re the one who freaked out and started an argument over nothing!”

“It wasn’t nothing. You were cheating.”

“Please.” He rolls his eyes. Takes two steps toward you. “That’s not what this is about and you know it.”

“Oh,” you laugh, “so you are aware that you’ve been an asshole?”

He says your name, voice suddenly lower, softer. Your entire body tenses as you struggle to keep strong, to not think about how it sounded in your ear in the midst of pleasure.

“I wasn’t trying to be-”

You throw a hand up; silence him. “Well you have been,” you groan. “You’ve been a huge fucking asshole. You hurt me, Frankie. You were my best friend, and then you just… stopped returning my texts. You won’t even look at me when we’re in the same room together. Did you regret it that much?”

The room goes still. You watch as Frankie’s chest rises and falls arduously, his eyes settling on you. They’re dark, pupils blown wide, squeezing shut as he exhales long and hard.

“No.”

You quirk a brow at him, confused.

“No?”

“No,” he repeats, averting his gaze. “And that’s the problem — I didn’t regret it at all.” His eyes lift slowly, finding you again, voice more sure when he adds, “I’ve wanted it for a long time”

You can barely comprehend what he’s saying, your heart climbing its way out of your ribcage and up your throat. You gulp, feeling the shape of it there as saliva slowly slides past.

He takes another two steps forward, mere inches from you now, and your breath hitches.

“Do you know how difficult it’s been to look at you without getting fucking hard?” he whispers. “How many times I’ve fucked my fist in the past month imagining it was you?”

Your mouth falls open, stunned. “That girl at the bar-”

He shakes his head. “I thought maybe if I fucked someone else, it would help.”

“And did it?”

“I didn’t — I didn’t go home with her,” he admits, a little bashfully. “I couldn’t do it.”

His hand lifts, then, cautious and shaky. It finds its way to your face, grazes your jaw so softly you’d think you imagined it if you couldn’t see.

“Why not?” you squeak.

He nods, as if he’s finally accepting something he’s known to be true, admitting it to himself before he does so out loud.

“Because she wasn’t you.”

It feels as if your entire world has spun on its axis.

Without thinking, you wrap your hand around Frankie’s neck and pull him toward you, crashing your lips into his with a groan. He’s quick to respond, desperately tangling his fingers in your hair and winding his tongue around yours, a broken moan slipping from his throat.

For a long moment, that’s all it is. It’s clashing teeth and restless hands; the draw of blood and the taste of it, earthy and metallic on your tongue. It’s the two of you, reconciling for lost time and unshared feelings and the overlooked need for each other through tangled bodies.

And when you finally pull apart, his lips are swollen and his eyes are glazed over, and you’re sure you don’t look much different.

“Frankie,” you whine as his mouth latches to your neck, warm and wet. He doesn’t retreat; just hums against you.

“Need you,” you say breathlessly. “Need you to touch me.”

His large hand skates down your front, under the waistband of your leggings. He presses two fingers against your clothed clit, and your knees buckle. You lean into him, bracing yourself with a hand on his chest as he begins rubbing small, deliberate circles into cotton.

Lips trailing up to your ear, he nibbles at the lobe. Presses his tongue just behind the shell of it and sighs. “Been wanting this since that night. Want to make you feel good. Want to do it right.”

You mewl in response, high-pitched and too loud, and you have to bite into his shoulder to keep from crying out again. He’s still working you toward the brink, pace relentless, beseeching you every time you buck into his hand.

There you go baby, that’s it; I got you.

You know he does, can feel the support of his unoccupied hand at the small of your back, holding you to his strong body. And god, how you’ve missed the feeling of it pressed to yours. You think that that alone could make you come.

You feel yourself slipping as your orgasm approaches, legs slumping underneath you more and more with every pass of his fingers. “Frankie,” you warn, teeth still anchored in his skin. “I’m going to-“

The words are muffled, but he gets it. Presses down harder and works his fingers faster. “Come on baby,” he growls in your ear, “come on.”

Your orgasm hits you so hard that you collapse, your body dead weight in Frankie’s grip as you writhe. He grasps onto you tightly, working you through it with his unyielding touch, swiping back and forth, back and forth as the final waves crest.

You’re panting when it ends, and still when Frankie helps you to the edge of the bed. Perched there, staring up at him with glassy eyes, you realize you’ve never felt so sated and so needy at the same time.

“Frankie?”

“Yeah, baby?”

“Please fuck me.”

He should probably say no. After all, you’re in your friends’ guest room, people just a few hundred feet on the other side of the door. But then again, he’s already made you come.

You watch him consider it, eyes flickering to the door and back to you, dark and deep and pooling with want.

In the end, he can’t help himself.

“Can you be quiet, querida?”

You nod, though you’re sure that even if you said no, he wouldn’t care. He’d do just as he’s doing now: pressing your shoulder, encouraging you to lay down on the bed; helping you pull your sneakers off, then your leggings, then your shirt; stepping back to marvel at your half-naked form before him.

“Fucking beautiful,” he murmurs, and your entire body heats from the inside out. You feel like you’re on fire, his stare keeping you alight as he undresses down to his boxers.

He climbs over you with a hand on either side of your head, pressed into the mattress. The lip of his hat bumps you, and you immediately rip it off of him, tossing it aside and tangling your fingers in dark curls.

You tug at them, dragging him down until his face is hovering just above yours, and he responds with a strangled moan. His body pressed to yours now, you can feel the weight of his hard cock against your clothed pussy. Your mouth finds his again in a languid kiss — slow and deep. You feed each other sighs and moans, taste each other’s longing. His hips roll into yours with every exhale, teasing you — reminding you, and you feel like you’re steadily going insane.

He pulls back, panting. Rests his forehead on yours.

“Can I take this off?” he asks, plucking at the strap of your bra. You nod furiously. Lift the upper half of your body so that he can undo the clasps.

Breasts suddenly exposed, you feel your nipples begin to harden. Frankie groans at the sight of them, so pert and needing. Wordlessly, he dips his head, buries his face in your chest. His tongue wraps around one of your nipples and you cry out, hand flying to your mouth in an instant.

“Oh fuck,” you moan into your palm.

“Feel good?” he asks, knowing smirk playing on his lips as he shifts his focus to the other nipple. You feel so sensitive everywhere, the heft of his tongue going straight to your clit, and you can barely answer him. A shaky yes tumbles from your mouth — the best you can do. He hums, so low the vibrations burrow under your skin and barrel through you, and you keen at the sensation.

“God, you sound so pretty,” he sighs as he rolls one of your stiff peaks between two fingers. His other hand drifts down your body, dips between the two of you and pulls your panties aside.

“Fuck,” he curses, fingertip brushing over your seam just barely. “You’re soaked, bebita. That all for me?”

“Mhm,” you whine. “All for you Frankie; fuck-“

He’s shifts down your body, hooks both arms under your legs and drags you toward him in one swift motion, leaving you no time to process before his tongue is on your pussy. “Have to taste you,” he babbles drunkenly, plunging into your leaking cunt and lapping at you.

“Oh, oh shit,” you moan as he drags his tongue up to your clit. “Please baby, please.”

“I know; I got you,” he soothes. Then he begins to lave your clit with the soft flat of his tongue, warm muscle encircling the throbbing nub. Wide eyes staring up at you, he observes intently. Responds to every sound, every tell with a switch in direction or an increase in pressure. He’s so attentive, so desperate to make you come on his mouth, and it sends you into a sort of delirium.

Your second orgasm hits you out of nowhere, slams through your body with so much intensity, you don’t even have the strength to warn Frankie before your release is gushing all over his face and, undoubtedly, the bed below.

He growls against your cunt. Comes up for air and kisses you hard, letting you taste yourself on his tongue as he tugs his boxers down and frees his aching cock. Notches at your entrance without detaching his lips from yours.

It’s a stretch — you recall it being so last time too — though the alcohol had done wonders to loosen your body. Now, you feel every devastating inch of him as he pushes in. He’s gentle. Tells you how good you’re doing as he feeds you more and more of his cock. There you go, that’s my girl, taking it so well for me. And for some reason, him calling you his nearly makes you come again.

He notices the way you preen in response. Thumbs across the slope of your jaw as he settles inside you. “You like that, baby? Like me calling you mine?”

“Yes, Frankie — fuck. Want it.”

You don’t specify whether you mean him or his cock. You’re not entirely sure. Not that it matters. You know he’ll give you both, give you anything. Can feel it in the way he gazes at you through heart-shaped eyes as he lets you adjust to him.

“So fucking beautiful, you know that?”

Your eyes roll back and saliva pools in your mouth. “God,” you breathe.

“I’m serious,” he says, finally beginning to move. The slow drag of his cock brushes your g-spot and you gasp. “Was so stupid before, fucking you drunk. Wanna remember every second, every noise you make, every inch of your perfect fucking body.”

“Jesus, Frankie.”

He pushes back in with one deep thrust. Sets a pace that, while not rough, definitely isn’t gentle. You begin to babble and writhe under him. Hook your legs around him so he can get even deeper.

He groans. “Tell me how it feels, baby.”

“It’s so fucking good,” you cry. “Feels like fucking heaven, Frankie.”

“Nah, that’s you.” He lets his head fall on your shoulder, drives into you faster. Pants into the crook of your neck. “Perfect fucking pussy.”

It ends all too quickly — with your fingernails dug into his back and his sweaty curls sticking to your forehead. Your cunt clenching around his cock, pulling his orgasm out of him just as yours begins to roll through you. You free fall from the cliff’s edge together, breathless moans spilling between your slotted mouths, his warmth flooding you and leaking from the place you’re still connected.

As the room around you slowly comes back into focus, you hear the sound of distant laughter. Benny’s boisterous chuckle and Mal’s much softer one. Clearly distracted, they’re likely blissfully unaware of what’s just happened. You giggle, covering your face as Frankie pulls out.

“What’s so funny?” he asks, prying your hands away.

“We’re gonna have to get them a new bedspread. We just defiled this one.”

He stands, then, pulling you upright with him. You squeal as blood rushes to your head and your vision goes staticky.

“Worth it,” he smirks. Gives you a chaste kiss. “Got my girl back.”

You dress and rejoin the group as inconspicuously as possible. Pray they don’t notice the way you’re wobbling on your feet, or the sheen of sweat that’s coated your skin.

“You sort everything out?” Santi smirks knowingly as you reassume your place on the couch, Frankie settling back into the corner.

“Yeah,” he mutters, refusing to make eye contact.

“It’s about time,” Benny shouts from the kitchen. Frankie’s head shoots up, pivots toward his voice.

“What do you mean?”

He emerges in the doorway with a shit-eating grin. Mal stifles a laugh from the loveseat.

“Just saying it’s about time,” he shrugs. “That’s all.”

Shit; apparently you hadn’t been as quiet as you thought.

The others chuckle as you and Frankie exchange a mortified look. The embarrassment is short lived though, Will clapping his hands together, asking what game you all want to play next.

An hour later, after a couple rounds of Codenames and another wine cooler, you head out the door with Frankie right beside you. It feels odd, not hiding anymore. But more so, it feels right.

He leans you against your SUV under silver moonlight. Kisses you with plush, soft lips against yours; restless hands roving up your sides. Pulls back with a suspiciously large grin.

You cock an eyebrow at him. “What?”

“Nothing,” he says. “Just glad I stopped being an idiot.”

“I don’t know about that,” you tease, and he smacks you gently on the arm.

“Come over?” he asks, his hand draped over your waist.

You think on it for only a second. Nod. “Yeah. As long as you make me a grilled cheese.”

“That can be arranged.”

end notes: thank you so much for reading! if you enjoyed, please consider commenting and/or reblogging :)

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