eleanor rigby

At what point does a spiking high temperature no longer count as a heatwave and just becomes the new average temperature for the local area. Is it after the third or sixth heatwave in a month? And for that matter, how many record breaking high temperatures can one summer have in store for a state that is already known for its hot climate?

Fuck! Why did he move back here again?

Santiago is melting. Lying slumped against the cool flooring of the bedroom where the breeze reaches. He's stripped off his clothes, wearing nothing but his boxers and staying far away from any walls because they are fucking radiating heat. At one point he's pretty sure he saw the edges of the walls wobble from the inferno temperature raging outside... either that or his vision is blurring out on him.

It must be what? 150 degrees, 200?? He doesn't care what the weatherman is reporting, there's no fucking way it's only 110 out there.

Leaning his head back down on the cold wooden flooring for reprieve, he can't remember the last time Florida got so hot. (If it has, he hasn't been here to see it).

Shit, it must be even hotter than that time you drove him down to the airport, what was it now, ten or twelve years ago? It got so fucking hot that the radio was warning about staying away from the highway because the tarmac was at risk of melting.

No one in their right mind would've gone out on the road that day. Except you of course. In your shitty little Volvo, with a broken A/C and a clutch that creaked with every change of gear. It's lucky the old piece of junk made it to the airport at all, and nothing short of a miracle that you made it there in time.

He can still see it in his mind's eye. The way your hair was matted with sweat as you pulled up to the drop off point. Still remembers how his old t-shirt was glued to every inch of his sweaty back as he peeled himself off the passenger seat. How, even as disgusting as the two of you felt, drenched in sweat and smelling like two dumpster diving raccoons, having been trapped on the highway for over an hour in that heat, you had held onto his torso as if you were never going to let him go. Your pinkie wrapped around his, so tightly, he was sure the blood circulation was entirely cut off as you told him in no uncertain terms: "You better fucking come back home in one piece, Santiago."

A smile breaks out across his face at the memory. From a distance he can hear the familiar sound of your footfall from the hallway, followed by your voice echoing all the way upstairs as you call out for him.

"Santiagoooo!"

If it wasn't for the heat, he'd call back in response to you. But all the strength is zapped out of him. Plus, he suspects that the reason you're calling for him is to rope him into helping Frankie with the latest crazy home project the man's set on finishing this weekend (and in this heat Santiago's not going anywhere near that).

"Honey." The endearing nickname has him smiling even wider. His mouth parts, just about to respond to you when he hears the rest of your sentence.

"Frankie needs help sanding down the fence."

Bingo.

No way in hell he's responding now.

He can hear you opening and closing doors all over the house in search of him. You'll find him eventually, but it doesn't mean he's not going to take his time enjoying the last few moments of being in the safe shelter out of the sun.

There's a soft click as the door to the bedroom opens. From his limited view on the floor, he sees glimpses of your feet from the corner of his eyes as you march in front of him until you're standing above, looming over his form.

"Santiago. I was looking for you everywhere."

He lets the hand resting on his thigh slide down to the front of his boxers without thought and that catches your immediate attention.

There's a sharp and sudden inhale from you, as if the air is spiked. You look like you've forgotten how to breathe properly.

You liked that huh? The corner of his lips curl into a smile as he holds eye contact with you.

"Sorry, must've dozed off."

"Har, har. Stop lounging around half naked and acting like a thirst trap. Frankie needs help with the fence."

"It's 200 fucking degrees. I'm not going to do that. Frankie can finish his home improvement project when Armageddon isn't happening outside."

You shoot him a small frown. Arms crossing in front of your chest.

He pats the space on the floor right next to himself, as he continues. “Come lay down with me for a second to cool down. You look like you might be overheating. Don’t wanna get heatstroke or anything. Frankie can wait a few minutes.”

You don't move from the spot, making no move to join him. "Poor Frankie is doing all the work."

Santiago's itching to retort that there's nothing "poor" about Frankie's situation. Man is having the time of his life out there. He loves doing these projects.

But Santiago keeps his mouth shut. Because he knows if he doesn't, he'll inevitable set you two up for a back and forth of who's right and wrong, who wins and who's losing the argument, trying to one-up each other the rest of the afternoon. And it's not that Santiago doesn't absolutely love doing that with you but...

Peering up at you, the way your lips are swollen with heat and parted as you look at him, Santiago has a much better idea of how he wants to spend the rest of the afternoon with you.

"Just a little bit, sweetheart," he says, doing his best to sweet talk you as he pats his free hand over the same spot on the floor in invitation. "Come sit with me for one minute, and I promise I'll go help Frankie okay?"

Glancing over your shoulder, you throw a quick glance over the window, probably to check in on Frankie.

"Just a minute, okay?"

"Mhmm. Just one."

It doesn't take more persuasion from him than that. Next thing he knows, you're walking over to him. Soft steps and an even softer gaze in your eyes. Then you sink down on the floor and sit down on the spot right where he patted.

That was... surprisingly easy.

He'd expected more resistance from you. Was fully prepared to do a filibuster marathon to try to convince you to join him. Hadn't quite expected you to just... give into him the way you just did. He blinks up in surprise, at your face mere inches away from him. He's not fully sure what just happened. You've never turned down an opportunity to put up a fight with him before.

You stare down at his chest and bare stomach, lingering there. You swallow down reflexively as you take him in with heated eyes.

Huh...

Santiago knows the effect he has on women. He just never knew he had that effect on you.

As arrogant as it sounds, he knows he's a good looking man. Knows that he's charming to boot. But the relationship between the two of you, for all the love that you had held for each other, had always remained platonic back in the day. You don't look at him the way other women do. And Santiago doesn't flirt with you the way he does with other women. Those were the unspoken rules you two had set for each other from the start and it's all you two have ever known.

And while things have changed now. While Santiago's seen the heated looks you give him when he's in bed with you, your relationship has remained largely unchanged outside of it.

You still pull him up on his bullshit when he's earned it. Never hesitate to square up with him in a competition for anything.

This... This is new.

He taps his bare thigh, almost experimentally to test his theory. He doesn't miss the way your pupils dilate with interest, and as always he can't resist the urge to goad you.

Not when you're eyeing him so appreciatively, in a way that you've never done in the past in all your years of friendships until recently. He figures he's earned the right after all this time to be a little bit obnoxious and revel and preen in the attention from you.

"Cariño," he calls out, until your eyes pulls back up to his face. "Eyes up here," he teases.

You roll your eyes, smacking him in the chest. It's supposedly a playful gesture, but you do it with enough strength that it knocks the breath out of him.

"I know," you retort, but your eyes drift back to his chest and then continue downwards and the attention has heat spearing through his limbs.

"You're still looking," he teases, and his hand snakes down over the plane of his thighs, reveling in your attentive gaze. "Didn't know you were such a perv."

By now you'd usually retaliate or cuss him out, but you don't.

Instead, you continue to stare, eyes blown wide as if you've been cast under a spell, mesmerized.

He palms himself through the front of his boxers, and he can feel the rush of blood rushing down and away from his head as his cock stirs to hardness. If Santiago was considered full of himself before this, it's nothing compared to how he feels in this moment with the way you're looking at him. Your expression blank, like the sight of him has made you lose your ability to speak. Mouth parted, the glistening pink of your tongue peeking out, as if you would devour him if he'd let you.

"Should I give you a show then?" he asks.

After all, if you want to look, he's more than happy to give you something proper to look at.

You nod with an eagerness that has your head bouncing up and down like the bopping bobble head toy Frankie keeps on the dashboard. Santiago lets out a laugh that's more breathless than he had expected from himself. He blames it on the heat.

Dragging down the edge of his boxers, he keeps his eyes on yours as his fingers wrap around the base of himself and his cock jumps in response to the touch.

Shit, that's good. A sweet spike of pleasure runs through him at the languid touch, and he feels breathless with it. His cock is slick with precome that drips down the length with each slide of his hand.

Running his hand up the rigid length, the calloused skin graze against the sensitive skin. Pleasure ooze and drips inside his chest and down his limbs, until his legs tremble with it. Santiago's touched himself countless times before but it's never felt like this before.

Maybe it's the heat that's getting to him. Or maybe it's the way you're inching closer with each passing second until you're practically straddling him on his lap. You and your soft and perfect thighs pressing down on his own, keeping him pinned onto the floor as he tries to keep going. The heat he can feel from between your legs, through the thin layer of cotton that's pressed onto his bare skin. Yeah... maybe it's that.

Santiago goes slow and languid as he touches himself for your benefit. And as ridiculous as it sounds it is for you. Because if it wasn't for you, there's no chance in hell he'd be going this slowly. He'd be fast and almost sloppy, squeezing down on his cock until the desperate need that's riding his spine lets go with his climax. If you weren't here, gorgeous eyes all focused on him, with a look that he wouldn't even let himself dream of in the past, he wouldn't want to prolong it the way he is.

Even now, with the strained effort of taking it as slow as he can possibly stand, he's not entirely sure how long he'll last. He feels like he's on a precarious edge, his climax taunting him, swelling up and simmering with a slow burn in his stomach.

Your torso tilts forward, squirming in his lap, with the tiniest movement every time his hand moves upwards, in time with his strokes.

You're practically riding his thigh, and Jesus fucking christ, that isn't helping Santiago's situation right now. At this point you're both going to come dry humping each other like horny clueless Mormons on their wedding night.

"Sweetheart, wait--" he tries, but you press yourself down on his thigh all the same, and he can feel your sweet slick drip down on his thigh and coat him with it. All he's capable of is a deep and shameless moan.

His cock twitches in his hand, and for several alarming seconds, Santiago thinks that's it. That it's already too late and he's going to come right then and there, spilling himself all over his hand and stomach.

Santiago squeezes down hard around the base of his cock to stave off the needy sensation.

"Shit," he hisses. "Fuck. fuck. Sweetheart, gonna need you to--" he doesn't finish his sentence. Can't spare the seconds it would take to properly think. One hand is already reaching out under your dress (thank god you're wearing a dress) wedging your panties to the side, his other pulling you closer by your waist until your pussy is lined up with the swollen head of his cock.

He doesn't even have time to move his hand in place to grip at his cock before you push down on him. Heat streaks through his insides until his lungs feels like they're burning. Your perfect pussy envelops all of him, every single throbbing aching inch with slick warmth and perfect pressure until his vision whites out.

Fuck, why is he so fucking sensitive.

He can't... fuck, he can't hold on. A desperate groan tears out of his throat and he buries his face into your neck to hide from the sensation that has him surrounded.

He thrusts upwards, canting his hips until you're taking all of him.

Pleasure singes his entire spine, and it burns him alive with it. The heat is unbearable, sweat is plastered to his back, but it doesn't matter. Santiago's skin is damp and sticky, but he's still pressing you closer. Wants every inch of you, warm and gorgeous and so fucking soft, pressed against him in every way he can have you, and he's still not sure if that'd be enough.

Wants to make up for every year, hour, minute and second that he'd wasted of his life, being away from you. Wants all of that even if it kills him.

Planting his feet on the wooden floor for leverage, he grabs your hips to force you down as far as you can take him. Until your head throws back with a high-pitched whine, palms pushing down on his chest as if it's too much for you to handle, and he lets go, sinking down his hips back towards the floor, until only the tip of him rests inside you.

He gives you a handful of seconds to catch your breath. Then he grabs your waist and push you down on his cock. Again, and again. To the gorgeous sounds of your keen moans and whines all blended into one, as you're sobbing out his name.

Forceful, deep thrusts that has tears pushing in the corner of your eyes. He keeps going as the sweet aching heat has him drunk and euphoric on you, with each and every rise and cant of his hips.

He's not going to last. Shit, shit, he's not going to last like this.

But that's okay. Because judging from the way you're grinding against him. Needy and desperate. Your cunt squeezing so tight around his cock it makes it hard to breathe, you're not going to last either.

His hand strays down below your stomach, sliding between your legs until his thumb catches at your clit, slippery and wet, and absolutely dripping for him. You sob at the contact, wracked in shivers as he continues to rub smooth little circles over it, and he can feel just how close you are.

You're perfect. Eyes squeezed shut, head tilted back in surrender, a high-pitched whine escaping your throat and oh fuck Santiago was not prepared for this.

His brain stalls out, hand stopping as his movements comes to a still to take in the sight before him because...You are so fucking beautiful like this.

"Santiago, what the fuck, make me—" you're slapping his shoulder, voice high pitched and desperate that makes his spine tingle as you grind on him. "Fuck make me cum, don't be an ass."

Fuck what is he doing?

Santiago's not sure. Not sure why he's stopped, even as every nerve and muscle in him is screaming for him to chase after the pleasure until both of you are coming.

Not sure why he's just sitting there dumbfounded. Except, this is everything he's wanted for so long that he's denied himself and he realizes that right now— it's here, landed in his very lap. You're the woman he's loved for so long, no matter how much he's denied it to himself, and he just wants to make this moment last.

All he knows is that he doesn't want this to end.

"Wait, sweetheart," he murmurs, even as you squirm from his grip pinning you in place. "Just give me a second. Want to remember this," and he means it with more sincerity than he ever thought he had left in him as he stares up at you in complete awe.

He wants it to last.

Not just out of a ill-placed sense of pride. Not just because he knows you're going to give him shit for coming too fast.

He just wants this to last. Wants you in his arms like this. Wants you to look at him, just like this, like you need him to survive, more than your next breath. This. This. This. He wants it to last forever.

You don't listen to him though. Of course you don't, because you never make it that easy for him. Your hips roll against him, grinding with desperation until his cock nudges something devastatingly perfect that has him convinced his brain is melting.

Shit, he has to stop. Oh fuck oh fuck, he's too close—

"Stop stop," he warns, hand gripping down on your hips to stop you "Boa, Stop— fuck you're gonna make me—"

But it's too late. It's already happening. He can feel his cock pulse and throb as he spills himself inside of you, shuddering through his orgasm— and fuck this was not how it was supposed to go down.

Everything slows. It's everywhere, rushing through him with a chaotic frenzy as it wrings him dry. The euphoric sensation overcrowding everything else, and his head feels like he is going to split with it. He can't think. Can't breathe.

But even in his post-cum haze he knows you still haven't come and he can't have that.

Santiago grits through it. Biting down and clenching on his jaw to ride through the over-brimming sensation that threatens to burst out of his skin as he continues to thrust into you.

Oversensitive and overstimulated. Every slick slide of your perfect pussy has him gasping for air. It's too much. Like live wires are running through his skin and every cant of your hips against him sets every receptor in his brain on overdrive. His cock is so sensitive, he can feel every fraction of you wrapped around him.

And it's perfect and it's good. And it's just so fucking much.

You're burning hot. He feels feverish and on the brink of delirium from the heat. Like he's inside a live furnace, but he doesn't want to stop. Can't stop. Not until he's seen your eyes roll into the back of your head. Not until you've come apart for him.

Locking his arm over the small of your back, he flips you over, onto your back. Pushing his free hand between your bodies until his thumb is rubbing rough little circles on your clit again.

He keeps going, pushing inside even as every nerve at him is screaming for respite. Santiago doesn't stop though. You're so close, and he just has to hold on even as each flutter and squeeze of your cunt is pushing him over the edge of too much.

Doesn't stop even as your gorgeous eyelashes flutter dramatically, your eyes rolling back as you kick your leg out and finally, finally comes on his cock.

The sensation of your climax punches the last breath out of him. He can hear himself whine pathetically into your neck.

The overwhelming tightness of you, your pussy squeezing and clenching down over and over, as if you're trying to wring and empty him out of anything he has left him. It brings him to his knees and collapses into you.

Everything feels sticky and clammy. Both of you drenched, as he's pinning you down with his weight. He feels weightless and heavy all at the same time. It doesn't make sense and shouldn't even be possible. But it certainly didn't help him in his efforts to move

To the protest of his exhausted limbs, Santiago rolls over to lay on his back next to you there on the floor. Both of you sweaty and panting.

God this might have been a bad idea.

It was too fucking hot even before all the physical exertion, now it's like an inferno. He's seconds from passing out. But at least the floor is marginally cooler against his back than the surrounding air, while you're laying there catching their breath.

Every inch of him thrums with pleasure, and his body practically tingles with the afterglow of his climax. But he can't help the scowl on his face. He's mentally cringing.

He came too fast.

Shot his load like some overeager virgin.

And there's no fucking way you wouldn't have noticed that he came before you. It's only a matter of you catching your breath, before you start giving him shit about it.

He lies there, staring up at the ceiling, preemptively trying to come up with some kind of defense or comeback but nothing comes to him. The only thing that fills his head is the image of your eyes from seconds ago, gazing down on him, looking at him the way that deep down, through all those years of platonic friendship, for all the way he's tried to repressed it, he's always wanted you to look at him.

It's so fucking stupid, but his stomach flutters pleasantly at the memory.

"Hey, Santiago...?"

He closes his eyes and runs a hand over his face trying desperately to pull himself together. Because even though he knows it's coming. Right now he feels too naked and raw, without protection to brace himself at whatever joke you're sure to make next at his expense.

Feels a little bit too exposed after that perfect moment of having everything he never let himself acknowledge that he wanted right there in his arms.

He swallows, bracing himself for the witty remark, as he responds to you with a weak, "Yeah?"

You don't say anything.

Instead, he feels just the barest touch against his hand, and he looks down. Your fingers slides against the heel of his hand, searching for his hand before you find his pinkie and curl around it. He drags his eyes back towards your face and you have the softest smile on your sweaty, gorgeous face.

"I'm glad you're here," you say, there's no sarcasm there. Your voice is soft and quiet, and so sincere.

He doesn't know what is happening to him but his chest constricts and is drawn so tight it's painful. And suddenly he's blinking back tears. Call him dramatic, but for a brief moment Santiago swears the chest pains are a sign of cardiac arrest, until you grip his pinkie tighter and the pain eases.

"Yeah...." Santiago nods. Has to clear his throat before he can get the rest of the words out from the lump that is lodged in his throat. "Yeah, me too. Sweetheart. Me too."

Sweat sticks to his back, and the heat is unbearable. But he doesn't want to move. Doesn't ever want to leave this spot with you lying next to him.

He'll never admit it out loud. But he knows why even though he hates Florida with every inch of his soul, he'll always find his way back here. Why no matter how far away he goes, a part of him will always be left behind here. A long long time ago in the drop off zone of Miami International, on a disgusting hot and sweaty day just like today, he made a promise. He promised that he'll always came back home to you.

Dedication & Credits: To my dearest @thirstworldproiblemss who came up with that DEVASTATING concept of the pinkie holding post-sex.

It's cooler than it should be.

The end of October has brought with it a chill you don't recall from your years growing up in Texas. Or maybe it's just been too long since you've been home.

You stare yourself down the mirror of your vanity. The light blue wood of it is faded with time, sticky drawers barren save for the remnants of memories from days gone by; letters from now-dead grandparents, Polaroids with now-lost friends, empty tubes of now-out-of-fashion lipstick shades.

Everything around your reflection is the same as it was when you'd left this place five years ago, a frame of youthful innocence. The person staring back at you, however, is anything but innocent, even if she is donning the wings of an angel.

No. Surrounded by the leftovers from your childhood, the angel in the mirror is all woman.

And she looks good.

A white, boned corset hugs the curves of your upper body, pushing your tits up high on your chest and accentuating the slopes of your waist. The strapless sweetheart neckline shows off your collarbones deliciously, the long line of your neck accented by a thin, white choker. A flowing satin skirt fans out over your hips, cutting off at the midpoint of your thigh, just a hint of skin showing between the hem and the lace edge of your white thigh-high stockings.

You adjust the ribbony straps that hold the feathered, white wings in place over your shoulders, fan your hair out and tousle it slightly, testing out your very best smile before letting it fall, satisfied.

You debate whether or not to even wear the stupid mask. Gaudy and ornate, you have to admit it matches the rest of your costume beautifully, with silver gems glued to one side and a sheer, white veil that you know will conceal most of your face. Perfect for the masquerade bar crawl your high school friends are dragging you to later this evening. A bit much for your father's annual Halloween Bash you feel obligated to attend first.

Resignedly, you slip it on - practice that smile again. It's the only part of your face still visible.

Just one piece remains, sitting on the vanity, white and dainty and looking up at you somewhat menacingly. You slip the garter over your leg and wedge it high up on your thigh, concealed under the flouncy fabric of your skirt like a secret.

You take one last look at the obnoxious cleavage spilling out over the edge of the corset and decide, at least for now, to opt for modesty. You carefully remove your wings and follow the scent of naphthalene to your closet, fish out an old cardigan and throw it over your exposed shoulders. A relic from another life, it's a few sizes too small, fuzzy and a shade of ivory that doesn't quite match the perfect white of the skirt. The sleeves hit just below your elbows and the fabric clings a little too tightly to your form but it's better than the alternative.

Pearlescent buttons line its front, and you seal them right to the top, so only a hairsbreadth of flesh is poking out below the silver cross at the centre of the choker.

Better.

You slip your wings back over your arms, smooth out the straps and finally leave the woman in the mirror behind.

-

Creep it real!

The words line the banner that hangs above your father's front door, just one of many cheesy puns and hokey decorations that litter the main floor of his home.

It's too fucking much. It's always too fucking much. Your dad's favourite holiday for as long as you can remember, Halloween is always a bit of a production.

You help string cotton cobwebs from the ceilings and stick cartoonish bats to the wood-panelled walls. Your mother, dressed as the perfect Bride of Frankenstein, makes punch and fills bowls with chips and candy while your father, dressed as her perfect monster, puts the finishing touches on the lawn display, all gravestones and skeletons and intricately carved jack-o-lanterns. You watch him through the front window with a dubious smile as he gets the smoke machine going. Easily his most prized possession, it had been a lucky find at a yard sale from a neighbour who'd once worked in set direction.

It's funny how, after all these years, your parents haven't changed a bit. It's also funny how seemingly easy it is for them to pretend you hadn't left on bad terms.

"Thanks for helping out, kiddo," your dad's saying as he makes his way back inside, snatching a black plastic spider from your hand and reaching up over your head to the corner of the window pane, lodging it into place in a tangle of cotton. "Nice to have you home."

You give him your best smile, that one you'd practiced so much it probably looks as phony as it feels.

"It's nice to be back," you tell him even though it's a lie. "Thanks for putting me up."

He frowns. "We're not putting you up; this is your home."

It's a nice sentiment but it's not really true. This hasn't been your home in years and you've been more than content to keep it that way. Even now, you've got no plans to stay beyond this weekend, already bored and tired of the life you'd left behind.

"I know it is, Dad, sorry," you amend for his benefit.

"You're a good sport stickin' around for the party, too," he adds.

"Sure," you shrug, although you're selfishly much more interested in getting to the bar and finding someone who will hopefully make it so you don't have to spend the night at your parent's house.

"I think some folks'll be surprised to see you," he goes on. "Dropped in so last minute, I didn't get the chance to tell anyone you'd be home."

Yeah - you know. It had been a somewhat intentional move on your part, knowing all too well how your parents would make a thing out of your return. Plus, you hadn't really planned to be here, either; the timing had just worked out as you'd happened to be passing through the Austin for work. It had felt almost wrong not to stop in for a few days. Try to put appearances and make nice.

"It's fine, I probably won't hang out too long anyway." Best not to get his hopes up.

He grins warmly, tells you to stay as long as you want, and then your conversation is abruptly cut off by your mother blasting 'Monster Mash' through the living room speakers.

-

Twilight fades into dusk fades into night and the party is in full swing.

The sound of music and a cacophony of voices fills the air, clinking beer bottles and thrumming bass echoing loudly in your ears where you stand against a wall, mostly keeping to yourself unless otherwise spoken to. The living room is dimly lit by a superfluous display of electronic tea lights, casting an orange glow over the crowd of faces that you assume would be familiar if they weren't obscured by smatterings of fake blood, glitter and silicone.

One figure stands out among the throng though, perhaps because he doesn't seem to have put much effort into his costume at all. The dark plaid that stretches across the expanse of his back unleashes a flood of memories (or more accurately, a distant collage of schoolgirl fantasies). You recognize him beyond a doubt, even before he turns to the side and reveals that unmistakable hooked nose and strong jaw, patchy facial hair that's a little greyer now than it was when you used to daydream about how it would feel brushing against your cheek.

Joel Miller.

Your father's oldest friend from down the road, he's broader than you remember him, thicker in the arms and midsection, the latter especially noticeable in the way his belly strains over the waistband of his jeans, confined by plaid tucked into well-worn denim, all accented by an ostentatious belt buckle. His face is partially cast in shadow by the off-white cowboy hat he's wearing, the ensemble capped off by a faded red bandana tied clumsily around his wide neck.

And fuck, if it doesn't suit him. There's something almost natural about the way he tips his hat at passing partygoers, the way he leans against the wall opposite you and hooks a thumb over the massive belt buckle, the engraved metal shining faintly in the low light. Gripping the neck of a beer bottle with his other hand, he's a man plucked straight from a Marlboro ad, even more beautiful now than the last time you saw him - years ago now.

Your heart nearly stops when his eyes suddenly flit upwards and catch yours across the room. He smirks, a lop-sided, curious thing and it's only then you realize you're fucking staring.

You avert your eyes, scan the crowd without seeing anything, only to land your gaze on him again. He hasn't looked away. You stiffen where you stand, hold his stare for a second too long. You swallow harshly and his smile widens.

Christ, you need a drink. Your heart's pounding as if there's anything more to that smile than an old family friend politely recognizing his best friend's daughter.

But then his eyes rake over your front, not-so-subtly fixating on the skin above your stockings. He tilts his head to the side, and if you didn't know any better, you'd think he were assessing you. Even from here, under the low glow of synthetic candlelight, you see a muscle in his jaw click, plush lips pursing as his dark eyes trail back up your chest, landing on your masked face before he brings his beer bottle back up to his mouth and takes a long pull. His eyes don't leave your face.

Okay, maybe you're not imagining it. Sweet, reserved, respectful Joel (a single dad if your memory serves) is definitely eye-fucking you from across the room right now. In your father's home. Like he doesn't care at all that he once knew you as a child.

You resist the urge to pinch yourself.

Instead, you decide to test the waters. Bite your lip and flit your gaze to his mouth, watch him as you turn towards the kitchen and catch the moment he decides to follow.

Not imagining it.

It's lighter in the kitchen, the sound of the party dulled but not entirely silenced beyond the wall. Safer, private.

You feign nonchalance, crouching to retrieve a beer from the fridge, blissfully aware that the boots you hear against the linoleum a moment later belong to Joel without needing to look up and see for yourself.

Sure enough -

"S'a nice costume," a gruff says from behind you. You jolt upright, beer in hand, to face the source of the sound. And there's the Marlboro man in all his glory, standing in the doorway of the kitchen with a playful glint in his eye and a devilish smile plastered to his face.

You grin, cheeks warming at the way he looks you over in the light of the kitchen, so much brighter here than in the living room, staring at your chest as though he could see right through the thin fabric of your cardigan.

You work to play it cool, even as your skin burns under the weight of his stare.

"You think?"

You twist to the side, giving him a better view of the entire ensemble, wings and all. You figure there's no need for subtly at this point; wrong or right, the way he's looking at you now tells you he hasn't just followed you into the kitchen for a quick hello.

"Yeah, I do," he says, inching further into the room. "Go on, let me see all of it."

Jesus. Joel's apparently given up on subtly too. You suppose it could be interpreted as harmless. But then you spin for him, all the way around so the soft fabric of your skirt flutters around your thighs. You come to a stop facing him, watch his smile fade to something darker when you daringly lift the hem of your skirt to reveal the garter with a smirk.

And if there was going to be a moment for him to decide that you'd taken things too far, that would be it. But he doesn't. Instead, he stalks even closer, eyes fixed on the edge of your skirt, almost entranced in the way he shakes his head.

"So fuckin' sexy," he marvels quietly.

"Oh my god."

The words escape you almost like a laugh because there's just no fucking way. Every fantasy you've ever had is being brought to life before your eyes. A moment imagined in a thousand different ways. Joel Miller finally seeing you as an object of desire. Joel Miller undeniably wanting you.

He instantly flushes at your reaction, setting his empty beer bottle down on the counter and removing his hat to run a nervous hand through his hair. And it's the first sign you see of the Joel you think you know - polite, charming. Disarmingly good-mannered.

"Sorry, comin' on a bit strong, I guess," he chuckles. He holds his hat to his chest and reaches his other hand between your bodies. You stare at it in confusion. "I'm Joel. What's your name, sweetheart?"

"Oh."

Another involuntary reaction, whispered and soft as realization smooths across your features.

No wonder he's being so callous with his advances; Joel doesn't know who you fucking are.

Faced with a dilemma, you very quickly work through your options. You know what you should do, what the morally right decision is. You should be honest, tell him your name, remove your mask. Watch him grapple with embarrassment and politely leave you to it. You can't imagine he'd carry on with you if he had any idea you were his friend's daughter.

But then again...he already wants you. Right? And you wholeheartedly want him. So what if he doesn't know who you are? Maybe part of you likes it that way. You're not the same person you were the last time he saw you anyway.

You will tell him the truth, you decide. Just...not yet.

You take his hand in yours and shake.

"Tonight, cowboy, you can just call me Angel."

Joel grins, cocks his eyebrows and chuckles. "Oh yeah?"

You don't get a chance to respond because then he's bringing your hand up to his lips to press a soft kiss against your knuckles and the words die on your tongue, your mind temporarily going blank at the feeling of his scruff scratching at the back of your hand and his dark gaze peering up at you from under his lashes.

"Alright, then Angel."

No. You're definitely not telling him the truth yet.

He lets your hand fall and puts his hat back on before leaning an elbow casually against the kitchen counter. The sleeves of his flannel are rolled up, revealing thick forearms and tan skin. Unconsciously, you gravitate closer.

"S'quite the party, huh?" he grins, cocking his chin in the direction of the music and orange light emanating from just around the corner.

You shrug. "It's fine. I'm not staying long. Going out to a club soon."

You don't miss the way his smiles falters just the slightest bit.

"You live in the neighbourhood?" he asks. "Don't think I've seen ya around before."

"Haven't you?"

"Woulda remembered, I reckon."

You have to bite back a laugh at that.

"Well, I used to live around here, but I moved away a few years back," you shrug. It's technically not a lie.

"But you're back in town," he says. States it. Not a question.

"For now."

Joel smirks, drags his eyes over you again, contemplative. Still, no sign of recognition passes over his features, only unbridled interest that makes your cheeks burn and your mouth water.

"What made you leave?" he wonders after a moment of charged silence, his wandering gaze finally landing on the one part of your face he can see.

Now there's a loaded question. Your eyebrows shoot up your forehead as you consider how best to answer him, attempting to bide yourself some time as you ease your body closer to his with a pointed sway of your hips.

"You know, I don't really like to think about the past," you land on and right now it couldn't be more true.

Joel chuckles, brows knitting together somewhat dubiously at the response. Thankfully, he doesn't push it.

"What are you drinkin', Angel?" he asks, his eyes darting down to the beer bottle in your hand.

"Oh - beer," you tell him. "You want one?"

"Won't say no to ya," he smiles.

You turn back to the fridge, bending at the hip rather than crouching this time, fully aware of the view you're offering him. If he reacts, you don't hear it, but when you face him again, beer in hand, his arms are crossed over his chest and his cheeks are painted a faint shade of pink.

Good.

You extend one of the bottles out to him, eyes fixed on the way his biceps strain against the fabric of his shirt. His fingers ghost against yours when he takes the bottle from your hand and it shoots an electric tingle down your spine.

"Bottle opener's in there," you tell him, nodding towards the drawer he's currently leaning against. He follows your gaze and seems to consider moving for a moment. Then he grins.

"I got it," he says, placing his own bottle on the counter. Your brows furrow and then your jaw drops as Joel then begins to fiddle with his belt buckle, undoing the notches so it hangs loose around his waist.

Your pulse quickens and you nervously look over your shoulder, suddenly terrified of someone walking in on you.

"S'alright," Joel assures you, redrawing your attention. When you turn back to him you he's holding a hand out to you. "Let me see."

He nods towards the bottle and you silently hand it to him, entranced. Then you watch as he deftly hooks the edge of the silver buckle under the lip of the bottle cap. He flicks his wrist upwards and with a sizzling pop, the cap goes flying, landing with a quiet clang onto the tiled floor.

"Wow," you murmur, genuinely impressed and suddenly unable to tear your eyes away from his fucking crotch.

Joel seems to notice the response, taking you by surprise as he places the bottle on the counter and wraps his fingers around your wrist, gently pulling you into him. Your bodies don't touch but you can feel the heat radiating off him from here, the static buzz that fills the remaining space between you.

"Old party trick," he jokes, voice low.

You find yourself peering towards the kitchen door again. Joel notices that too.

"Hey," he murmurs, catching a finger on your chin to turn your face back in his direction. You swallow against the nerves suddenly bubbling up in your throat.

"S'this alright?" he asks as he traces his fingers up your arm, leaving goosebumps in their wake. You nod.

"Yeah," you decide, throwing caution to the wind and pressing your hips forward till you feel the hard metal of his loosened belt buckle jutting into your stomach.

He hums, a sound deep in his chest, and it's all you can do just to stand there as he curiously runs his fingers over your shoulder, smirking as he fiddles with the feathers of your wings and inspects the costume up close, dark brown eyes scaling hungrily up and down your body. His hand moves downward then, over the fabric of your cardigan, thinly veiling the bones of the corset beneath and you wonder if he can feel them, if he knows what you're hiding when he rests his palm against your waist and pulls you in just that little bit closer.

His gaze lands on your parted lips and there's a moment of heated anticipation where you're certain he's going to kiss you, the smell of him so close and inviting.

"No halo?" he whispers instead, cocking his eyebrows and lifting his gaze to the top of your head. "Shouldn't a good little angel have a halo?"

Oh, fuck.

"Well, maybe I'm not such a good little angel," you purr, only the hint of a shake in your voice as you widen your eyes and bat your lashes for good measure. You swear you hear his breath stutter before he's shaking his head in near-disbelief. You smirk; it's exactly the reaction you'd been hoping for.

"Anyway, the halo felt like overkill," you shrug.

Joel scoffs, glancing down to grab at the fabric of your skirt. Your brain short-circuits as he hikes it up your leg, revealing the white lace garter sat high on your thigh.

"And this?" he questions darkly. "You're tellin' me this ain't overkill?"

You laugh even though it's not funny, even though arousal is steadily pooling at your core and coursing through your burning veins.

"Well, at least I put some effort in," you attempt to tease him lightly, answering the unrelenting grip he has on your skirt with a tug at the fabric of his shirt, fisting the plaid at his sides and trying not to think too hard about the fact that it's first time you've ever touched Joel Miller like this. That you're only here because of a shameful lie. "Bet you just had all this lying around the house, right, cowboy?"

Joel's lips twitch and he watches in wonder as you reach up and grab the cowboy hat off his head, planting it atop yours with a wink. Joel snakes a hand behind you to tip the rim back, showing him more of your masked face as you stare up at him expectantly.

"Now that's pretty," he marvels softly and then he's entwining a hand around the back of your neck and leaning in closer and there's no mistaking it now; he's going to kiss you and you want so badly to kiss him back but -

"Not here," you stop him with a firm hand on his chest. You don't know what the fuck you're doing, but it can't happen in your parent's kitchen. You give him his hat back and he groans as he yanks you in closer when you try to pull back.

"What exactly are we doin', honey?"

"Just come with me?" you suggest breathlessly, untangling yourself from his grasp and grabbing him by the hand. He doesn't argue, just nods and lets you lead him out of the kitchen. You cautiously watch your back, make sure no one sees you dragging Joel Miller up the carpeted stairs and into the concealed darkness of a second-floor hallway.

There's a beat as you size each other up, eyes adjusting to the lack of light. Then Joel is crowding you against the wall, his gaze flitting over your masked face curiously.

You know in that moment the question he's asking. And you know in that moment what your answer should be. Take off the mask. Tell him the truth. Watch him walk away.

But instead, you hook your fingers into his belt loops and tug him into your body, crane your neck upwards and whisper, "Kiss me," praying to the heavens above you'll be forgiven for this.

You'll tell him. You'll tell him.

But right now you just want to kiss him.

Joel exhales sharply, hums a quiet assertion and then he's crashing his mouth into yours. Your head hits the glass of a framed photo behind you, a sting quickly remedied by the feel of his lips moving on yours, his hands cupping the sides of your face with a tenderness you wouldn't have expected.

His kiss is far from tender though, and for that, you're grateful. It's rushed and breathy, toothsome when his tongue invades the space between your lips. He tastes like beer and mint, and the masculine scent of his skin takes up the air around you as his broad frame encages you against the drywall. Your mind goes blank with the headiness of it, the coarse drag of his moustache along your skin soothed by the plush softness of his lips. Dreams of how that aquiline nose would feel bumping into yours, material at last.

His hands move lower then, traversing the line of your body, making you moan into his mouth while his touch ignites a fire inside you. You don't think, just impatiently begin to unbutton the pearly confines of your cardigan to reveal the corset beneath.

Joel breaks the kiss to glance down at your exposed chest and groan, his upper lip curling at the sight. His hands hover over the scratchy fabric, fingers twitching with another endearing flash of uncertainty. You stamp it out with an overly-confident graze of your palm over the bulge in his jeans, grinning when it makes his breath hitch, when you realize with a sick sense of triumph that Joel Miller is hard for you.

"Shit," he curses softly as he watches your hand work over him and you feel his cock come alive under your touch.

"Touch me, Joel," you quietly plead when his eyes finally find yours again.

He shakes his head.

"Wanna see you," he insists breathlessly, reaching up to toy with the edges of your mask.

You let your hand fall from his cock to swat his fingers away. Joel frowns.

"Where's the fun in that?" you ask innocently.

"Well," Joel hums, ducking forward to press his lips into the space below your ear. "I usually like knowin' who it is I'm about to ruin."

An involuntary shiver courses through you and when you speak, it's with a shake.

"You want to ruin me?"

His low chuckle echoes into the hollow of your ear while his teeth graze gently over the lobe. "Ain't that what you want, Angel?"

Oh, god. Fuck it then. It's now or never.

In a flash of movement, you tear the mask off your face and quickly clutch at Joel's curls, pulling him back into a bruising kiss before he can properly take you in. You take charge as best you can, languidly licking into his mouth and pressing your hips forward till they collide with his. Joel's response is swift, his arms wrapping around you and holding you prisoner against his body while his tongue begins to dance messily with yours.

And fuck, it's perfect. Your hips grinding against his is an almost unconscious thing, pure hunger taking over every other emotion until you feel it.

The way his body goes rigid and his lips still on yours.

Then the sudden, quiet grunt of protest against your mouth that has your eyes flashing open in response. It takes your brain a second to catch up, to notice that he's not looking at you but rather something right behind you.

Only then he does look at you and at last you see it click.

"Fuck - wait," Joel gasps, prying your mouths apart and pushing himself off you with two firm hands on your shoulders. Pathetically, your lips chase after his.

"Joel - " you whine, attempting to yank him back, clutching at the fabric of his shirt. But those firm hands encircle your wrists and tear you away, forcing space between your bodies.

"You..." Joel shakes his head, glancing between you and whatever he's seeing behind you, his expression some mixture of shock and outrage. You peer over your shoulder and finally understand; your high school graduation photo is tacked on the wall beside your head, the beatific smile of a younger, more-optimistic you staring you both down in the quiet darkness of the hallway.

You sigh exasperatedly. "Joel, it's okay. It's fine."

"It ain't - " Joel scoffs lightly and drops your wrists, steps back out of reach. A painful knot of rejection curls in your stomach, made worse by the burning heat of guilt over your stupid, stupid lie. "It ain't fine."

"Joel, please, you wanted me just a second ago," you whisper and you hate that it sounds so broken, so needy. Your words seem to affect him though, his features softening into something almost pained. "Please, I-I'm not some little girl anymore."

His jaw tightens, conflict etching the weathered lines of his face. "I don't think that's how your old man would see it."

"You think I give a fuck what he thinks?" you demand, stepping forward. He doesn't touch you, but he doesn't move either. You sigh.

"You asked why I left town."

Joel frowns. "Yeah?"

"It's because of him, Joel. Both of them," you nod in the general direction of the stairs, to the place where music is thrumming and your parents are obliviously mingling. "I mean, we - we hardly even speak. You have no idea what they put me through."

Joel's eyes stay fixed on the stairs, to the light of the party shining up from below. You see it clear as day - that part of him telling him to run as fast as he can from this. But he doesn't. So you go on.

"They don't know me, Joel," you insist, reaching out to wrap your fingers around his wrist. He turns back to face you and that pained look is back in his eyes. But he's drifting closer to you, hands stretching out in front of him like he wants so badly to touch you.

"You don't know me either," you breathe and at that, Joel scoffs. The pained look on his face gives way to something else and there's a shift behind his eyes as he frees his wrist from your grasp to press his hand into the wall beside your head.

"Actually, I think I do, little girl," he spits, leaning in close, the change in atmosphere taking you aback as your heart pounds violently in your ears. "You think I didn't hear it all from him? All your sneakin' around and actin' out? Runnin' away at eighteen? I know you."

"Who did you think I was running away from?" you bite back, petulant.

Joel shakes his head and chews on the inside of his lip, but you can see it, see the way his resolve is fading before your eyes.

"You're just - you're just a kid. He's my best friend."

You scoff.

"I hate him, Joel."

His eyes narrow and the sound of your pulse in your ears is almost deafening as Joel takes up all the space around you, something darker taking over his gaze, something menacing and delicious and promising.

"You know, that really ain't no way to talk about your daddy," he snarls.

You should flinch away from that tone, shrink and recoil from its threatening edge, its condescension. Instead, you gravitate towards it like a magnet, something warm and achy pulsing between your legs at his words.

"Maybe you need a little discipline," Joel grits out, grabbing roughly at your waistline, other hand still braced against the wall beside you.

And - oh. That really shouldn't turn you on as much as it does. Petulance quickly fades and you find yourself nodding frantically, overwhelmed as arousal swiftly burns through you, when you realize what you're on the precipice of.

"Maybe, I do," you breathe, crashing your pelvis forward into his and craning your neck up higher so your mouths are only an inch apart. Joel doesn't back away anymore. "Are you going to put me in my place, Joel?"

At that, his head falls forward and he's whispering, Goddamnit but it's too fucking late now.

Because his strong hands are clutching at your face as he presses his body weight into yours and he kisses you again, hungrier now and decidedly rougher. You whimper as his mouth moulds into yours, his hands moving to draw the silken fabric of your skirt up your thigh. His knee invades the space between your legs and forces them apart, while his lips greedily begin to trail below your jaw, sucking and nipping at the delicate skin of your neck. You curl your leg up over his waist and pull his body in closer, grind your clothed heat into the strong muscle of his thigh and hear him groan into your skin.

You claw at his back, clutching him to you as he plunges a hand between your thighs and cups your sex through your panties. The lacy fabric, wet with your arousal, scratches dizzyingly against your folds and your head falls back into the wall with a strangled sigh.

"This what you want?" he coaxes, strumming at your clit over your underwear.

"Yes - yes, Joel."

He bites down on your clavicle, pressing harder against your pussy, the tips of his thick fingers moving lower to brush your clothed entrance and cloud whatever is left of your judgment as you melt into his touch.

"Beg for it," he growls, taking you by surprise yet again. His free hand grabs you firmly by the jaw, and when his eyes find yours, there's a desperation burning in his blown-out browns, the lewdness of his request dulled by the impression you suddenly get that he needs to hear you tell him you want it. "Beg."

You don't deny him.

"Please, Joel," you plead pathetically, wriggling on his fingers and clutching desperately at fistfuls of plaid. "Please don't stop. I want this. I want you."

"Yeah?"

In lieu of an answer, you very quickly make a decision. Perhaps the stupidest of your life.

You bite your lip and unravel yourself from his embrace, tugging him hurriedly down the hall to your bedroom before you can think any better of it.

You pounce on him the second the door is locked behind you, throwing your arms around his wide neck and knocking his hat to the floor as you kiss him with newfound fervour.

"What're you doin'?" he demands but his hands are warm at the small of your back, holding you close.

"I said I want you," you repeat, fumbling with the buttons of his shirt. Joel swats your hands away, tearing his mouth from yours abruptly.

"Here?"

He glances around the room, seemingly well aware you've led him directly into your childhood bedroom, eyes raking over the juvenile details that remain here; flouncy wallpaper and patterned bed sheets, *NSYNC posters and a corner full of discarded stuffed animals.

You palm at his cheek to redraw his attention, marvelling at the feel of his scruff beneath your fingers.

"Here," you assert.

Joel sighs, long and ragged, almost tortured as he quietly curses under his breath. You stare back at him dolefully, daringly ducking forward to kiss the corner of his mouth and run your fingers through his greying curls.

"Fuckin' Christ," he snarls.

All hesitance fades as his fingers coil firmly around your wrists, pinning them to your sides and guiding you into the room till your lower back hits the edge of your vanity.

"Angel, my ass," he grits, big hands meandering below the hem of your skirt, stealing your breath as he hooks his fingers under the lace edge of your panties. "You're a bad fuckin' girl, aren't you?"

You barely manage a soft, "Mhmm," before he's shimmying your underwear down your legs, taking care not to disrupt the garter around your thigh. He encourages you up onto the vanity, trinkets and make-up and perfume bottles clattering underneath you as you spread your legs for him and wrap them around his waist.

"Wanna taste you," he whispers urgently, like he's afraid he'll change his mind. You shudder as he ghosts his lips down your chest, laying open-mouthed kisses over the exposed skin above your breasts.

"Oh fuck," you whine as Joel falls to his knees between your legs and pushes your thighs further apart, making space for those broad shoulders. He positions your left leg over his shoulder and hooks his arms beneath your knees, dull fingernails digging into tender flesh. "Please."

"Shut up," he growls as his teeth come down on the skin of your inner thigh, chastising. And you know he's right, know you have to find the will to stay quiet. You curl your bottom lip between your teeth and let your head fall into the mirror behind you while Joel hungrily kisses his way closer to the apex of your thighs, groaning when he tastes the sticky slick that's already begun to coat the skin there.

You're throbbing - aching - for him to touch where you need it most and Joel doesn't tease you for long.

"Pretty fuckin' cunt," you hear him say and then his tongue is swiftly licking through the seam of your folds, sending an electric shock through every nerve in your body. Your mouth falls open in a gasp but Joel doesn't give you a chance to catch your breath, closing his lips around your clit and sucking harshly before pulling back with a lewd smack.

Your fingers are in his hair then, desperate to force him back onto you. Joel chuckles, glancing up at you with pink cheeks and wet lips.

"When's the last time someone ate your pussy, sweetheart?"

Too fucking long, you want to say but your brain can't form the words so instead you just whine and furiously shake your head from side to side.

"Oh, she's a needy thing, ain't she?" Joel murmurs darkly, eyes glinting with lust. "Been that long, huh?"

Now you nod, biting down harder on your lip to stop yourself from begging. Though Joel seems determined to make you.

"Poor little pussy," Joel says, making you shudder as he frees one of your legs from his grasp to press two fingers against your folds. He caresses you, languid swipes over your aching hole and your puffy clit, spreading your arousal tortuously till you meet his gaze, pleading.

"Please," you finally break, voice cracked. Joel smirks, triumphant.

"There she is," Joel smirks. Then you watch as he parts your lips with two fingers, exposing you fully to him before spitting onto your clit. Your eyes widen and you squeal at the sensation, watch him marvel at the sight of his own saliva mixing with your arousal as it drips down to your cunt before he catches it on his tongue and begins to devour you.

And fuck - the urge pinch yourself returns full force. Joel Miller, a man you've known most of your life, consumes your pussy like it's his last meal on Earth.

His mouth is hot and wet, eager with his efforts as he sucks and puckers over your folds. He teases you with his tongue, fucking it into your tight hole and making you writhe beneath him. Joel hums approvingly at the response, sending a fresh wave of sensation searing through you as you curl your leg around his shoulder and pull him in closer. His nose bumps against your clit and it's so good but it's not enough; you can't help it. You whine, high-pitched and broken as you wriggle your hips in search of more.

"Quiet now," Joel chides you, using the hand he'd been using to part your folds to lay a swift slap against your pussy. A wet smack fills the room and you arch your spine at the sudden, harsh contact on your sensitive cunt. Your knees instinctively come together but Joel holds them firmly apart, already diving forward to lap at your core once again.

You hiss through clenched teeth, nearly falling apart completely when he at last begins to carefully circle your clit with the tip of his tongue. Tight, practiced, impatient swirls that make your vision blurry and your toes curl. Your fingers slacken in his curls as you give in to him, let the sweet ministrations of his tongue bring you closer and closer to the edge.

Wetness gathers at your core when he flattens his tongue and lets you grind lazily against it, another quiet hum of approval encouraging you as a knot of pleasure begins to pull taut at your insides.

"More," you find yourself moaning softly.

You can feel his smile against you. "Yeah?"

"Please," you keen, rutting up into his mouth, not even entirely sure what it is you're asking for. It's so hot in here you can hardly think straight; your skin burns in the confines of your bedroom, under the heat of his mouth, layers of fabric and feathers clinging sticky to every part of you.

Joel cocks an eyebrow at you. "You gonna keep that pretty mouth shut?"

"Yeah - yes, I will, I promise," you ramble, grabbing wildly for his wrist, guiding it towards your centre.

"You want my fingers?" he asks like he doesn't already know.

"Please."

He shoos your hand before you can even get the word out, pinning it on the vanity beside you before sinking a thick finger into your heat, grunting as the warm, wet of you engulfs his digit. The back of your head collides with the glass behind you as Joel begins to fuck his finger in and out of you, quickly adding a second. You keen at the stretch, some strangled noise getting stuck in your throat as Joel chuckles lowly.

"You like that," he comments matter-of-factly as he hooks his fingers inside you and nudges at a spot seldom found by boys your age.

"Joel!" you gasp, too loud, and the fingers he has curled around your wrist tighten, a warning. You curse yourself, covering your mouth with your free hand in an attempt to contain the noises threatening to claw their way out of way.

Joel doesn't seem to be paying much attention anyway, enraptured as his mouth finds your clit again, fingers still working you open in shallow thrusts and beckoning little motions. His tongue flicks and sucks at the bundle of nerves and you don't know when or how but the hand that conceals your lips falls to clutch as his curls again, your hips grinding into his hot mouth and pushing his fingers deeper. You're so close now, can feel release ready to snap inside you.

"M'gonna stop f'you don't shut up," Joel murmurs against you, muffled wetly into your heat.

You hadn't even realized you'd been making any sound.

You think you whisper, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry but you don't know for sure because then Joel is pulling his fingers from you and gripping your ass under your skirt to hold you flush against his face, softly moaning around your clit as he laves at you, his tongue and mouth insistent, greedy.

"Oh god, oh god, oh god," you're chanting and Joel hums a noise that sounds like a question as his eyes flash up to meet yours. You can only moan and nod, telling him without words, don't stop, don't stop, don't stop before your muscles tense and you're coming with such force your entire body preens with it, spine arching and slick pooling where his chins meets your pulsing core.

Joel eats you through it, offering no reprieve even when you begin to squirm and flinch with the come down, stars still bursting behind your eyes.

"Joel, fuck," you whine when it begins to feel too much. "Can't - "

He grunts, finally detaching his mouth from you. You shiver at the loss of his warmth, cry out without meaning to when he licks a parting stripe through your sensitive folds.

When your vision refocuses, you find he's staring up at you wrecked, pink lips swollen and slick staining his cheeks and chin. There's something else there too - that stupid, pained look, that unmistakable conflict.

"Goddamn," Joel groans softly, turning his face to bite at the garter around your inner thigh.

"Joel, it's okay," you find yourself saying. You grab at the bandana around his neck, try to force him to look at you again. "Fuck me. Please. I want you to fuck me."

Joel sighs, shallow and tight, shakes his head against your leg. "You're bad fuckin' news, kid."

You can't contain the smile that spreads across your face at that. "But you want me, too? Right?"

You pet his scruff till he finally meets your gaze. There's a resignation there, in that tortured stare he gives you. But there's also lust. Wanting. He wants you.

He nods.

"Then take me," you tell him.

There's a final moment of pause, of hesitance, as Joel looks over his shoulder towards your bedroom door. You follow his gaze, pussy aching with emptiness. Joel considers the door for a moment, then looks back at you, staring at him beseechingly.

Please don't leave now, you plead with your eyes.

Joel sighs and shakes his head. You watch with curious fascination as he then begins to tug at the bandana around his neck, loosening it enough to lift it over his head.

"Sit up," he orders you, and you do, Joel moving to stand over you. You can see how hard he is now, cock straining against the zipper of his jeans. He doesn't let you ogle for long though, tilting your chin up with a strong hand under your jaw and smushing your face under his calloused fingers as he hinges down to kiss you. You taste yourself on his tongue when he forces it into your mouth, his kiss all spit and slick and commanding dominance before he pries you off him.

"You're gonna behave," he tells you simply. Not a request, but an order as he drops his hand from your face.

"Yes, daddy," you say coyly with a big, toothy smile and Joel groans, exasperated. It makes you giggle.

"Christ," he growls with a shake of his head. "'Course you're one of those. Turn around."

He doesn't wait for you to obey, rather, he manhandles you down off the vanity and spins you away from him, bringing you face to face with your own reflection before a firm hand between your shoulders is pushing you down into the faded blue wood.

You go perfectly still, waiting, feeling the rough drag of denim against the back of your thighs and the hard metal of his belt buckle digging into your flesh. But Joel's not done.

He tugs at the straps of your wings, wriggling you loose from them along with your cardigan and leaving them discarded on the floor, all traces of innocence abandoned.

"Fuck," Joel breathes, eyes flitting wildly between the you before him and the you in the mirror, running a hand roughly down your spine, grabbing at every ridge and curve before landing on your hip and pulling you into him.

"Joel..." you whine and then you jolt, gasping when the tender hand on your hip makes harsh contact with your ass.

"What'd I say?" he chides you.

Before you have time to react, he's moving over you, leaning in close so his lips are right at your ear.

"You're gonna behave," he repeats. You nod but it makes no difference because then there's a flurry of red in the mirror, as Joel slips his bandana over your head. With rough but certain fingers, he tilts your chin upwards and hooks his fingers under the fabric.

"Open," he tells you and your lips part without argument.

You watch him in the mirror as he then pulls the makeshift gag up over your chin and forces it into your waiting mouth, soft, washed cotton pressing down on your tongue and scratching at your molars with how far he pushes it in.

"Bite down," he says and you do, lips straining around red, compelling you to breathe through your nose so all you can smell is the masculine scent of him embedded into the bandana's fibres, woodsy and salty and all-encompassing.

"Good girl," Joel offers and your eyes flutter at the praise. "God, look at you. Look."

His hand in your hair tugs your neck up, giving you no choice but to appraise your reflection as he hikes your skirt up to your waist and begins to unzip his jeans behind you.

You have to admit you look a mess, hair tousled and mascara smudged around your eyes, your mouth stretched obscenely around the bandana, involuntary drool already turning red to dark brown. If you'd thought the person staring back at you in this very same mirror was all woman before, now she is all girl, all mouldable and pliant and dutiful. All Joel's.

Your pussy clenches around nothing and you moan at that thought, impatiently pushing back into him when you hear the metallic clang of his belt hitting the floor.

"Yeah - gonna fuck you now," Joel vows, pressing down between your shoulder blades so your chest is flush with the vanity. Again, he yanks at your hair to keep your eyes up, keep you focused on your reflection when the hard line of cock notches at your entrance. "Watch."

You do watch, watch him as his brows furrow and his nose scrunches in concentration, staring at the place where your bodies are nearly connected before spitting a slow stream of saliva down on to your already drenched hole. He runs the tip of his cock up and down through your folds and you feel like you might go insane with want until finally, finally, he begins to sink inside with a hushed groan.

Your hands brace against the edge of the vanity as you writhe at the stretch, the burn of him filling you. It would almost be too much, you think, if the twinge of pain you feel at the intrusion wasn't one you found so delicious, wasn't a reminder that you don't think you've ever had something this big inside you before.

"Tight little pussy," Joel mutters through gritted teeth, voice strained. "Fuck me."

You whine, wish you could repeat his words right back to him. Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me.

"What?" Joel goads, bottoming out inside you, stilling with two firm hands on your waist. "What do you want?"

You can only wiggle your hips and moan softly, a silent plea. Joel chuckles once.

"Yeah, I know," he purrs and then at last, Joel Miller is fucking you.

He wastes no time, starting a hurried pace, accented by the dull smack of skin on skin and laboured grunts passing through Joel's teeth. The vanity shakes beneath you, and you wish the rush of panic you feel at someone downstairs possibly hearing its incessant scraping against the hardwood didn't make your head spin with arousal, but it does. Or maybe it's just Joel's thick cock pounding into you, nudging at your cervix with each unforgiving stroke.

"This is what you needed, huh?" he's murmuring, voice low and dark. "A big, fat cock fillin' you up?"

Oh, god. You nod, whine around the gag, find his eyes in the mirror again and your knees go weak at the sight of his form looming over yours, the collar of his shirt askew, sweat dampening his forehead.

"Yeah? Dirty - fuckin' - slut."

You keen at that, push back into the place his hips meet yours and moan. Slick dribbles between your thighs and your pussy flutters around his length and of course, of course Joel notices the response.

"Oh - you like that, don't you?" he grunts, tugging at your hair once again and making your spine arch for him.

"Look," he repeats, coaxing you to lock eyes with your own depraved reflection, a fallen angel spilling out of a corset, willingly split open by her dad's best friend. "Look what a bad girl you grew up to be."

Another muffled moan is swallowed by his bandana, his words sending a lick of heat down your spine as something wild and heady begins to scratch at your nerves. His frame engulfs yours again, lips back at your ear as he whispers,

"Daddy's cock'll fix you."

Oh fuck. Your eyes roll back into your skull and you think you hear him laugh, a mocking sound that only drives you crazier, only makes your brain go foggier when he pulls back and clutches at your hips, fucking you so hard you feel tears prick at your eyes and a tightness start to build in your core all over again.

"Yeah, that's right," Joel rasps softly, breathless. "You wanna be good, don't you? Wanna be a good girl and come again for daddy? Go on, baby - come on daddy's cock."

You want to - fuck, you want to come again. You want to be so, so good for him. To show him you always could be. Your eyes begin to flutter closed as you crane onto your tippy toes to take him deeper, feel the drag of him against the sweetest part of you, hurtling towards release with each thrust of his hips against yours.

"Don't," Joel orders you, tapping your cheek with gentle intent till you open your eyes. "Want you to look at yourself when you come on my cock."

You immediately flit your gaze up to meet your reflection, see your cheek pressed into wood, eyes wet and mouth full of fabric. You barely register Joel reaching around you to toy sloppily with your clit before you're falling apart, coming with a silent scream and clenching down around his length.

"Good girl," Joel grants you raggedly as your body quivers under his and then goes limp, waves of your come gathering around his girth and dripping down his balls. "Fuck - that's so good, baby."

Joel fucks you relentlessly as your second orgasm crashes over you, chasing his own high as he begins to ramble wildly under his breath, his voice echoing hollowly in your pleasure-drunk mind as though he were speaking from very far away.

"Gonna fuckin' ruin you, baby girl. Gonna use this little pussy up. You're not gonna wanna take another cock for weeks."

You whimper tiredly, nod obediently. You're not sure you want to take another cock besides his ever again.

"Maybe I'll send ya out to that club with my come drippin' outta ya."

And you know it's stupid and careless and wrong to want that but you make a noise that sounds like yes please all the same. Joel groans.

"Say that again?" he presses you, the rock of his hips coming faster, more erratic.

Yes please, you try again, words turning into mumbled nothings against the gag.

"Shit," Joel curses lowly, and you're jolted back to almost-reality when he forcefully tugs the bandana from your mouth and air fills your lungs in a cool rush. "One more time."

"Please," you say, voice broken and hoarse. "Yes, please. Come inside me."

You think you catch him smirk in the mirror but it's quickly replaced by something else entirely, his jaw slackening as his breath begins to stutter and his chest begins to heave, a whispered chant of, oh shit oh shit oh shit your final warning before he's spilling deep inside you.

He hardly makes a sound as his big hands come down on the vanity beside your head, thick arms all around you as he pumps his load into you. He's biting down hard on his lower lip, doing a far better job of staying quiet than you are, tired little whimpers pouring from between your lips until he's folding over your back and covering your mouth with his palm again.

You stay like that, your breath hot against his hand and his lips in your hair, until he's emptied himself completely. He frees your mouth once it's over but stays glued to your back, a heavy weight above you as both your breathing levels out.

You both shiver when he pulls out, and there's a softness in the way he tilts your face towards his now, in the way he lazily licks into your mouth at the same time that his fingers reach between your bodies to catch the come dripping out of you and push it back inside.

Eons seem to pass before he's sighing and hoisting himself off you with a gentle, "C'mon, baby." He taps your sides as he steps away but you stay where you are. You're not sure you have it in you to move just yet.

You hear the buzz of his zipper and the clang of his belt buckle and then his hands are on you again, tentative as he pulls your skirt down over your ass and smooths out the fabric.

"Hey," he murmurs, and you're pleasantly surprised at the feel of his lips pressing sweetly into your upper back. "Come on."

He tugs at your arms, gently helping pull you upright and sighing again as he takes in the sight of you. You smile, almost bashful about it, Joel carefully lifting the bandana up over your head and adjusting your hair for you with a sigh. He crouches to retrieve your cardigan and fits it back over your shoulders before slipping you back into your angel wings.

"Look up," he says, and you do, holding perfectly still as he rubs his thumbs under your eyes, caressing away drying tears and smears of black make-up.

He tuts.

"You might wanna..." He makes an errant gesture with his hand at your tarnished visage, and you understand.

The ridiculousness of it all seems to catch up with you then and you giggle breathily, shaking your head as if to wake from some perfect, lucid dream.

"Thanks," you tell him. "Joel, I'm - I'm sorry for lying to you."

Joel licks his lips and you think for a moment he's going to tell you off, scold you like you probably deserve. But then he grins and there he is again - the Joel you remember from before.

"Guess I can't really complain," he concedes, tucking a lock of hair behind your ear. "You're, uh - you're somethin' else, sweetheart."

You smile and Joel sighs, finally letting his hand fall. You watch him as he finds his hat, warming when he stops to kiss your cheek before making his way towards the door.

"Wait," you call quietly after him. "So would you...do you wanna do this again? While I'm in town?"

There's a lengthy beat of nervous uncertainty and then Joel laughs. He shakes his head and stares at the floor as he readorns his hat, finally turning to face you with one hand on your doorknob.

"You're gonna be trouble, aren't you, Angel?"

You smirk devilishly back at him. "You're damn right, cowboy."

i.

It had been two years since you last saw him. 

But you could still pick him out of a crowd of a hundred.

He was standing by the bookcase in the office, somewhat removed from the rest of the party. It was in a house you didn’t recognize, though you had to admit that you rarely remembered much from nights in Cousins. Your attention had always been focused on one boy — the same one you were staring at now.

Jeremiah placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder, whispered something in his ear, then retracted. You watched the exchange with barely veiled interest, then corrected yourself.

You refocused on the drink in your hands and the game of beer pong you were supposed to be setting up for. Belly was your partner — she always was, despite her skills (or lack thereof) — and you felt her eyes switch between you and your now-abandoned target.

She brushed her arm against yours, and you appreciated the attempt at grounding. She filled the last of the cups on your side of the table, then nudged you again. “Let’s go.”

You smiled, your new fixation the triangle of cups across from you. You raised your arm, chose the singular cup closest, then lined up your shot. Belly jumped when you made it, and Steven glared as he raised the drink to his lips.

Jeremiah was his usual partner, and you were not surprised to find that he was struggling with his new teammate. Clay wasn’t a good friend to any of you, but Steven would call these desperate times, so nobody complained.

You fell into a rhythm like that: you made most of your shots, Belly less so, and Steven carried his own team. His competitiveness came out, and it took everything you had to match him with your own.

However, the attempt was futile, and your attention fleeting. More often than not, your gaze drifted far from the table of cups, two beers souring the back of your throat (though you thought the view must be more to blame).

“Stop staring,” Belly murmured. “It’s weird.”

“It’s not weird,” you said defensively. “I’m just taking in my surroundings.”

“You’re taking in one surrounding. Trust me, I would know.”

You sighed, then aligned your next throw. You eyed the far right cup, then bounced the ping pong ball on the table, landing it was a soft splash. Clay drank it happily. “It’s not like that. I’m over him. I’ve been over him.”

Clay missed his attempt, and you took it as an opportunity to face your friend fully. Belly looked at you suspiciously, searching for verity in your features, and you prayed the alcohol in her system would allow her to overlook how little there was.

She shrugged. “Then don’t ogle him like you’re not. It’s the same look you had three years ago.” She attempted her shot without looking (not that it made much of a difference).

“Maybe that’s just my face.”

“Maybe you need to figure your shit out.”

“Belly,” you scolded, “you’re too young to talk like that.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m not a kid anymore. We’re playing an entire drinking game.”

She wasn’t wrong — all of you had grown up. Years had passed, people were lost, but the Fishers and the Conklins would never leave Cousins, and you didn’t plan to either. Still, Belly was and always would be a little sister to you. It was the way of the world. “Doesn’t matter.”

Steven made his next shot, and you drank the beer eagerly. The ache that built in your stomach was nearing unbearable. 

“Seriously, though,” she said as you paused to line yourself up. There was one cup left, and you knew you could get it. You smiled to yourself as you aimed. “Don’t let this — let him — get to you. It’s not worth it.”

You knew she was remembering what had transpired just a couple of years ago. The heartbreak that left you fragmented for months. Conrad’s career had taken off — there simply was no longer room for you in his life. That didn’t make it hurt any less. “I’m fine.”

Your wrist bent back, arm raised in position, a familiar sound reached your ears. You had just released the ball when it clicked in your mind, knees buckling at the weight of it, and your shot went wide, not remotely close to your lonesome target.

It had been two years since you last heard him laugh.

Some part of you — the shattered pieces of your heart you never dared to clean up — collapsed at the sound, the sensation of broken glass resting on your tongue. Cuts littered your mouth, but when Conrad laughed again, you let your teeth meet, those calcified ridges mixing and joining the brigade. When you opened your mouth to speak, the words spilled like blood.

Belly noticed the shift, and her fingers curved around yours. She waved off Steven, signaling the premature end of the game. Squeezing your hand, she whispered, “Let it go. Let it all go.”

You took a deep breath and nodded. Glass shards turned to sand in your mouth, so dry that you suddenly needed a drink. Smiling at Belly, you extracted yourself, hunting down the kitchen of a house that felt too large.

You bumped into a few vaguely recognizable people, but you didn’t bother with pleasantries. The kitchen was full, and you navigated it quickly. One hand found the bottle of tequila and the other the cheap mixer someone had the forethought to bring. Your cup was full within seconds, and you swallowed it down just as quickly.

Was it your best move? No. But you were certain seeing your exes for the first time in years at a random party fell into Steven’s list of Desperate Times. Your throat burned, and your mind tingled from something stronger than watered-down beer.

Conrad was within your sights now, and his head tipped back as he laughed again. There was such pure joy on his face — the type that was so painfully gone in the months before your breakup. Those were days you could never forget — his grief, his stress, his coping. His absence would forever be a part of you, something you could note and ache for, but never fill on your own.

You had tried. 

Jeremiah, too, looked happier around his brother. Conrad had missed the past two summers, too busy touring. He was in different cities every night, following his dreams, as well as the direction of his manager. The lines had blurred until the latter was all that remained. But at least he was back now, for the sake of everyone else.

You refilled your drink, then let your feet draw you closer, to the emptier corner of the living room. Despite your unsteadiness, your sight cleared, tunnel vision on him and him only. You were able to pick out details, discrepancies, and you took them in with no small amount of sorrow. Still, your heart had no issue rearranging to paint this new picture of him, to adjust the space he took up to fit all the results of time.

It had been two years since you last met his eye.

But you were doing it now. Shock filled them first, his body visibly tightening when he caught you in his peripheral. He found you easily enough — he always had a gift for that. And while the rest of Conrad might have changed, his eyes never did.

The deep, careful brown of them greeted you now. From across the house, their comfort curled around you, deceptively-soft talons digging in until you ceded, embracing it. 

You hated him for it.

Jeremiah stole his attention again, and the moment was over. That quick. You swallowed the ball in your throat, then went back to your observations. You had lost your shame a handful of drinks ago.

Conrad’s hair had grown over time, soft waves that your fingertips itched to touch. You supposed they couldn’t help themselves — you knew him by instinct alone, knew him as less of another person and more as a part of you. He was ingrained in your memory, in your body, in the prints of those wistful digits and gaps between them, designed just for him.

He had gained more muscle, his skin was clearer, his eyes were lighter. If anything, you could be happy that some weight had been taken off his shoulders. He was more open than you’d seen him since Susannah had passed, and even now — even after the heartbreak and humiliation — you could find relief in that.

It had been two years since you lost everything before you realized you had it. Since everything became him.

(Hey, sweetheart. It’s Conrad. I’m in Houston tonight, and they weren’t kidding when they said everything is bigger in Texas. There was a burger literally the size of my head, I wish you could see it. Maybe I’ll bring you some day, I don’t know. Look, I miss you more than you can imagine, and I’m trying to get home soon. I feel like it’s been forever. After these next few weeks, I’ll be done, and then you won’t be able to get me to leave your side. I promise. See you soon. I love you.)

—

ii.

“You should have told me he was going to be there.” You let your head fall back against the cabinet behind you, savoring the pain, then sudden emptiness it brought. The Fisher’s house was blissfully vacant, but that only emphasized your memories of last night.

“I didn’t even know. Steven said he was coming next week. He must’ve got an earlier flight.” Belly sounded apologetic enough, though you knew it wasn’t her fault.

“Still. I thought it would be just us this summer.” From now on.

Belly removed the batch of cookies from the oven. She dropped them on the counter without ceremony, then propped herself on the island opposite from you. “I’m sorry.”

You sighed. You knew you were in the wrong, knew the majority of your distress was the result of your drunken state. “It’s fine. I’m just so…so….” You searched for the word.

“Sad?”

“No.”

“Tired?”

“No.”

“Hungry? We have cookies.”

“No. But hand me one.”

“Hmm…angry?”

“Who do I have to be angry at? Myself?”

“I don’t know.”

“I don’t know either.”

She smiled at you. “You’re stressed. Eat another cookie.” She was already reaching for the pan behind her, and you accepted.

“I want to want him gone. I do. But I can’t.” You laughed, though it lacked humor. “I need to figure my shit out.”

Belly made a sound of agreement. “That’s what I’m saying.”

“It just sucks. All of it. I’m so….”

“I can’t play this game anymore.”

“Embarrassed!”

Her brow furrowed, and she kicked your shin lightly. “What do you have to be embarrassed about? You didn’t even speak to him last night.”

No, you didn’t. You just sat in the corner, sipped on your tequila and citrus, and stared at your ex like some forlorn lover. Thinking about it now brought all those feelings back, so you couldn’t even blame it on the alcohol. You missed him, missed the wholeness you felt with him.

It was pathetic, really. You had broken the whole thing off, after all. You had loved him, and then you had lost him. Time would never change the truth of circumstance, and this well of grief was not finite. Not in the slightness. What you felt for him, his presence and his absence, was unending. It was something you had kept buried down over the past two years, but that didn’t make it any less consuming when it inevitably rose up.

“I must’ve looked like a stalker,” you answered. “He and J were just talking and I kept sneaking looks like I was slick.” Belly opened her mouth, but you beat her to it. “I was not slick. I was a stalker.”

“You can’t be a stalker if you’re friends with them.”

“Am I friends with Conrad, Belly? Is that what you call this?” You shook your head, jumping to your feet. You needed to move, this energy inside of you making you restless. You couldn’t spend an entire summer like this.

“I just think that maybe — maybe — it might be worth a shot.”

You sent her a glare. “First, Jeremiah, and now you telling me this? It’s like you think I have a death wish.”

She gave you a look, brow raised. “Conrad isn’t capable of murder. He’s too soft.”

You returned her stare. “Being his friend would kill me. After everything, we can never go back.”

There was too much history shared, too many lines crossed. You couldn’t forget what it was like to be his, to be loved by him, for something so platonic. Your relationship was built on friendship, on years of it, and you weren’t willing to risk losing something like that a second time. It was simply too much.

“Don’t be like that. He misses you.”

“I left him.”

“He left you first.”

You snorted. “Are you trying to change my mind? Because if you are, you’re doing a shit job.”

Belly tracked you as you paced, her eyes heavy on your shoulders. “I’m just saying that nobody was innocent. And that if you can miss him, he can definitely miss you back.”

“Who said I missed him?”

She scoffed. “And I thought I was the idiot.”

(Hey, it’s Conrad. Again. I’m sure you’ve been super busy, and I guess I just keep missing you, but guess what? I’m coming home early. Something got messed up with the venue and they had to cancel the show. I’m getting on the plane now, and it’s late so maybe you’re asleep. It’ll be a surprise then. As long as you don’t listen to this first. Seriously though, I was wondering if we could talk? I know shit has been…shitty recently, and I really wanna talk to you, sweetheart. See you in a bit. I love you.)

—

iii.

Your head ached and your stomach churned — the unforgiving symptoms of a hangover. You were never drinking again, that was for sure.

Your feet landed loudly as you made your way downstairs, the sun flowing through the windows telling you you had slept later than you thought. It had to be afternoon, and that still felt too early. But the house was silent, and you had enough sense in you to appreciate that fact alone.

Appreciate it, and take advantage of it.

You fell into your ‘morning’ routine quickly enough. The pot of coffee had long since grown cold, but you downed it anyway, hoping the caffeine might kickstart your nerves.

That, paired with a piece of hard toast (you made a mental note to thank Belly for the effort later), was enough to revive your senses. The lighting became less harsh on your eyes, and you finally took in your surroundings.

The place was trashed.

You knew having a rager at the start of summer was never a good plan — nobody remembered their limits until at least a month into the season. All it left you with was a destroyed house and an even worse pit of regret. This would take hours to clean up.

The text from Belly that awaited you when you woke up suddenly made more sense. An explanation that she, Jeremiah, and Steven had to run into town for some errands, and a long-winded apology for leaving you alone.

You smiled to yourself. Sure, you weren’t looking forward to cleaning up alone, but summers in Cousins came with such less-than-ideal situations. That’s what made the good parts so much better. 

Once you drained the last of your coffee, plus two glasses of water and some Excedrin, you got to work.

The bottles came first, clinking around in the garbage bag as you piled them in. The noise was almost unbearable, but you were determined to have this house clean by the time everyone was back. With the glasses and cans gone, all that remained was a sea of red Solo cups. You dug through it with caution, but remained efficient.

This was not your first rodeo.

And it was amidst the random articles of clothes and bags of chips that you fell into your rhythm. You were stuffing items into trash bags, tying the plastic up, and then moving on to the next quickly. Your focus remained on remembering what you could, and you were pleased to have a decent enough recollection. (And even more pleased to realize you couldn’t have done anything too bad.)

You were quite so distracted that you didn’t notice his presence until you had spun around, his body taking up your sight and a scream leaving your mouth.

“Jesus Christ,” you cursed, a hand on your chest as you calmed yourself. He was too silent for his own good.

“Morning,” Conrad said, a secret smile lingering on his lips. There were bags under his eyes, but judging by the empty foyer behind him, you could tell he had been cleaning as well.

You took a few more deep breaths, waiting for your heart to slow. “You scared the shit out of me.”

“I can tell.”

You narrowed your eyes and pressed your lips together for a moment. “How long have you….” You gestured with your finger.

“Been watching you? Almost an hour.”

“Shit.”

“You’re not very observant.”

“Shut up.” You tied up the last bag in your hand before throwing it into the pile. That was the last of it, and all that remained (thanks to Conrad, you hated to say) was a heavy round of disinfectant. And Febreeze.

His hands slid into his pockets, and you could feel his gaze roving over you. It made you feel hot all over, and you refused to look at him, lest he read the emotion in your face. This was the closest you had been in years — despite the urge to call him, to text him, to book a flight out to whatever town he was in just so you could see him perform. You never followed through, the fear that what you felt would no longer be reciprocated too much.

And now, with him staring at you, so many questions dancing on the tip of his tongue, you couldn’t take it.

“Do you mind taking those bags out?” you asked instead. You needed him away, even if only for a few minutes.

“Yeah…yeah, totally.” You knew he wanted to say more, but you walked away before he could.

With every passing second, Belly’s apology made more and more sense. You were absolutely going to kill her.

You took out the broom, sweeping out sand and crumbs and other substances you refused to inspect too closely. Conrad came back to help you move furniture, but you only gave him a quiet thank you in return, still not meeting his eye.

He was all around you, and it set you on edge. You tried to think only of the mop in your hands, letting the action use all your focus, but when he began vacuuming even the smallest area rugs, you knew it was no use. Conrad consumed your thoughts, just like he always had.

You were thankful he didn’t mention your behavior, evident as it was. He tossed a couple of looks your way — some confused, some regretful, some merely sad — but it was not something you wanted to acknowledge. You chose ignorance instead.

That was until he initiated the conversation.

“So,” he broached as he emptied the debris he had collected, “how have you been?”

You bit your tongue, waiting. But when seconds passed and he kept expecting a response, you gave in. “Good. I’ve been good. You?”

“Good,” he echoed. “Lots of shows.”

Oh, how you loathed him. It was always about his career, you knew that. You never should have expected anything different. It’s what tore you apart, what created such a rift between Conrad and everyone who cared for him.

It was a distraction at first: the small venues, writing songs, attracting a few fans. He had lost his mother, barely got along with his father, and was looking for something that would fill the hole that they left. Music was his way out.

You could still remember when it got too much. When the happiness from his success turned to dread, because you didn’t know the next time you’d see him. When he’d spend hours locked in his room, writing and writing and writing like it was all he had left. Like you weren’t waiting on the other side of the door. His shows drained him, led him to alternatives for energy, until he was isolating himself. You could never tell if he loved or hated what he had achieved. 

And in the end, you had reached your breaking point. Maybe he deserved more sympathy, but so did you.

“That’s good,” you said, but it came out a whisper. “I’m happy you’re happy.”

If he was going to add something, he held his tongue. The silence was no longer as tense, but it was filled with unspoken words. You still had a few more hours until Belly returned, and you decided to pass it like you had planned all along.

You began spraying the counters, and handed Conrad the duster. He took it without complaint, and you let all the unsaid things remain that way.

(It’s Conrad. Listen, I’m sorry for what I said. I didn’t mean it. Not at all. You’re not clingy, you’re not too much, you’re not overbearing. You’re perfect. For fuck’s sake this is my…third voicemail of the night? Something like that. I just need you to talk to me, darling. That’s all I’m asking. I take it all back, and I’m sorry, and I love you. I do. Just talk to me. Phone works two ways, you know.)

—

iv.

You never should have listened to Belly. This — this cramped bar with just a slightly raised platform where Conrad stood — was the last place you belonged.

You cursed your recent bout of bad judgment.

“I want to go home,” you whispered for the umpteenth time.

Belly dutifully ignored your complaints. “Just a little longer,” she countered. “It’s important to him that we’re here — I promise that the second he finishes his set we will leave.”

You groaned internally, leaning back against the counter behind you and letting the minutes tick by. Jeremiah was glued to Belly’s side, and Steven to a girl you didn’t recognize. Alone at the bar, you thought you must make for one pathetic sight.

Conrad had only planned one event during his stay in Cousins. It was a fundraiser event for the women’s shelter Susannah had dedicated so much time to. You appreciated his effort and would donate money of your own, but that didn’t mean you wanted to sit through the entirety of the show.

Most of his songs you recognized. While you had made it a point to not listen to Conrad’s music over the past two years, you couldn’t simply forget it. Nor could you control the radio stations that played it. He was inescapable in that sense, so you shouldn’t have been surprised about how often he littered your thoughts.

It was not as though you hadn’t tried with someone else. You had been on plenty of first dates, even stayed with one for a couple of months, but things never worked out. Not like they did with him — like the two of you had been the most natural thing in the world.

There was new music, too. While you tried not to focus on the lyrics too much, you couldn’t help but pick out a few of them. The heartbreak contained in the words, the desperation and dreams, and when his voice grew raspy, completely spent, you accepted that you might never fully get over him.

And more than anything else, you hated him for that.

You hardly even noticed when the show ended. People were exiting the bar, chatting quickly about his eyes and his hair and his smile and how mesmerizing it all was. You were only watching for Belly to move, resigned to stirring your drink in silence and waiting for the night to be over. This was not somewhere you wanted to be, but you would stay for her.

“Didn’t expect to see you here.” His voice surprised you, and you would have fallen out of your seat were it not for Conrad’s hands on your waist steadying you. He removed them quickly, but the sensation of his touch lingered. “J told me you were coming, but I didn’t believe you’d show.”

“Well,” you raised your arms a few inches at your sides, spreading your fingers, “here I am.”

“Don’t look too happy about it.”

“It’s for a good cause.”

He raised a brow, sensing your half-truth.

“It’s been a while,” you continued. The rest of your group seemed to have disappeared, and you mentally cursed Belly.

Conrad smiled, and your chest tightened. “You didn’t have to stay. If you were uncomfortable—”

“I was fine,” you cut him off, sharper than you intended. You softened your voice. “It’s just difficult. A lot of memories.”

He dipped his chin in understanding. “Well, if it makes you feel any better, seeing you in the crowd was a surprise. A good one,” he added.

You hummed in response. Irritation was an ember in the bottom of your stomach.

“I’m serious. It reminded me of before. Made the lyrics feel a little more real.”

That’s when the anger in you, the one that would forever be aligned with him and the way he made you feel, flared up. “I don’t need your consolation. I told you I was fine.”

“And you expect me to believe that? You think I don’t know you?” His voice had an edge to it, but it remained controlled.

“You haven’t known me in two years — in longer than that. Don’t act like you do now.”

His face changed, a flicker of feeling crossing it, but disappearing soon enough. It turned cold, just as it was when he was younger. It was his fallback — acting nonchalant, uncaring. He tried to speak, but you were on your feet before he could.

He called your name as you approached the exit quickly, and his long legs made it easy for him to catch up. You might have once appreciated them, but now they were just another thing to hate.

The parking lot was deserted, the only two cars belonging to you and him. You kept your gaze locked on your vehicle, digging through your pocket for the keys.

“Come on, sweetheart.”

You had just reached his car when you spun, finger pointed at him accusingly. “Don’t call me that.” 

Conrad’s eyes pleaded with you. “You’re being unfair.”

“I’m being unfair?”

“Yes, you are!” He took another step toward you, but you weren’t backing down. “You won’t give me anything. Not a hello, or a goodbye — I can’t even have a fucking conversation without feeling like an ass by the end.”

You threw up a hand. “Maybe you should listen to your intuition. Seems pretty accurate to me.”

“What do you want from me? I’ve let you have your space, I’ve tried to talk to you, and you haven’t given me shit! For fuck’s sake, you couldn’t even answer a fucking phone call!”

It was your turn to approach him. “So that’s what this is about? Me not answering my phone? What are you, 16?”

You were inches apart now, and you could smell the mint on his breath, as if he had recently been chewing gum. You glared, but when your back met his car door, you didn’t move.

His voice was lower, but just as angry. “I called and I called and I called. And do you know what I did when you didn’t answer? I left you voicemails. Hundreds of them.” Conrad was in front of you now, a mass of muscle caging you.

Your hands found the fabric covering his chest, fingers curling around it. “I know exactly what you left me.”

The world became silent, save for heavy breathing and thundering hearts. You could feel his blood thrum, or maybe that was yours. There were no barriers between you, not when the wall of lies came crashing down. Your grip tightened, and you didn’t imagine when his eyes flicked down to your lips.

You licked them subconsciously, and he followed the action.

Five more seconds passed, his oxygen became yours, and his hand inched toward the handle of the door. One more second, and you were moving.

His lips tasted the same: sharp, warm, inviting.

He was completely identical and drastically different from who he was two years ago. You slotted against him perfectly, filled in all his gaps the same way he filled yours. Your hands were on his chest, his shoulders, his neck, carding through his hair like a lifeline drifted too far out. You were asking him to save you from himself, but the two of you were already gone.

You barely registered he was pushing you into the car until you were laying along the row of backseats. His weight was familiar, his tongue greeting you like an old friend. You gasped at his crudeness, at his lack of care for propriety and patience — no, he wanted to taste you quicker, to gorge himself on something he had lost so long ago.

“Conrad,” you whispered for no reason other than because you could.

“I know,” he murmured, and the words echoed into your jaw. You learned the flavor of his tongue, of his sweetness and his bitterness and his apologies as they burned all the way down.

Your hands shook as they unbuttoned his shirt, a few ripped stitches the collateral damage. You needed him closer, needed to touch him like you were freshly 18 and learning that clinking belt buckles and shifting fabric could be so much more intimate when it was his fingers at fault.

You closed your eyes and drowned in the past and present as they met right here, right now, in the backseat of a beaten car and in the care of the boy who taught you to love for the first time. You wanted to want him gone, you really did, but he made it too damn hard.

You didn’t even notice you were being turned around until your knees dug into the unforgiving leather and his palms were gliding over your throat, your tits, the slope of your waist and down to the place between your thighs and the wetness that waited for him there.

Clothes littered the floor, the windows were fogged from your breath, street lamps shined moonlight onto your bodies for all you could tell. You never imagined yourself returning to the juvenile years of car sex in the middle of the night, but Conrad was an exception you’d always make.

You clenched your jaw, let your teeth grind and waited for the dryness, the broken glass that composed your heart to cut you up and then turn into the shifting sands under your feet. But when his lips pressed to your pulse, when you twisted to meet his eye, you only tasted sea glass, all smooth edges and soft beauty.

That was his magic.

(Hey, it’s me. My manager just called and some stuff came up. I won’t be home tonight. I know I said we’d talk, but I gotta push it back. It’s my fault, I should have planned it all better. I’ll be out for a couple of days, and I don’t know how much time I’ll have to call. Just wait for me, baby. We’ll talk soon. I know I keep saying that, but I’m serious this time. Fuck, I gotta go. I’ll see you in a few days. Love you.)

—

v.

“You’re full of shit, by the way.”

Belly’s accusation floated through one ear and out the other. You had no reason to dwell on the truth any longer — you were absolutely, completely, entirely full of shit. No use pondering facts.

“Just let it go, Bel.” Your voice was warmed by hours in the sun, slow like molasses and melting lies past your lips. “Everything is as it should be.”

You knew she was scrutinizing you in the neighboring lounge chair, but you didn’t bother opening your eyes to meet her gaze. You were content with your perch on the pool's edge, the faint sound of music coming from the speaker across the yard. 

It was always playing something new, and today was hits from the ‘70s. ABBA drifted to your ears, and you succumbed to the ease the songs of the past brought. In addition to that, you were promptly ignoring the sounds of laughter, their source the group of boys at the dock. You could hear Conrad’s above the rest, and you pretended it was just a memory.

“You can’t lie forever. I’ll get the truth out of you one day.”

You sighed, lifting your sunglasses and turning your head. You met her eye. “Trust me, when something relevant happens, you’ll be the first to know.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

“Liar!” She jumped up from the chaise, and you begrudgingly followed her into the house. If she was going to make a scene, you wanted as many walls as possible between her and the boys.

You slid the door shut behind you, then propped yourself on the kitchen counter in preparation. One brow raised, and you waited for her to begin.

Belly was the one pacing this time, shooting you looks of betrayal every so often, but the only emotion you could hold was amusement. You secretly loved when she got like this, spirited and excited, just as she was when she was younger.

“I’m going to give you one more chance,” she said, “to tell me the truth.” She raised one finger, showing it to you with as much importance as the digit could hold. “One more chance.”

You rolled your eyes, but the grin was inescapable. “There’s no more truth to tell. After you left, nothing happened.” 

“Then why did you come back so late? You took over an hour to get home, when it should have taken you, like, five minutes. Conrad also came home late.”

“I got hungry, sue me.”

“And Conrad?”

“Coincidence. He was probably hungry too.” You knew he was — could still remember the reminiscing smile on his face when you pulled up to the 24-hour burger place last night. 

Belly shook her head. “You haven’t acknowledged him all day. You walk out of every room he walks into, you refused to look at him when he’s nearby,” she was ticking off evidence with her fingers, “and you practically had a heart attack when he asked you to hand him a towel earlier. Is that coincidence too?”

“....Yes?”

“Bullshit!” She stopped in front of you, looking at you deeply, as if this was a matter of much urgency. Perhaps it was for her. “You’re avoiding him. I want to know why.”

You tilted your head, smiling and mustering as much faux-oblivion as you could manage. “I’m not avoiding him. I just don’t want to spend time with him. I want to spend time with you.”

“Oh, shut up.” She pressed her lips together, considering. Then, she pulled a familiar bracelet from the back pocket of her cut-offs, and your stomach twisted. “So, I suppose this bracelet — the one I found on the floor of Conrad’s car — doesn’t belong to you?”

You considered your options. Lying was always a viable one, but she really did have you here. Your name was engraved in the damned thing. Groaning, you snatched the inculpatory chain from her hand, sliding it onto your wrist. “Don’t say anything. It’s not like that.”

“Not like…what?” She leaned closer. “Like you didn’t fuck him—”

“Belly!”

“What? I’m stating the truth.”

Goddamn her. You rubbed your face, taking a moment to collect your thoughts. There was no way out of this now. “Look, stuff happened last night. One-time stuff. It didn’t mean anything.”

“I don’t believe you.”

You threw your hands up, exasperated. “It’s the truth. For real, this time.”

She shook her head, and you gave up. “It’s more than that. I know it is.” She narrowed her eyes. “What happened to you guys?”

You shrugged, then pushed out a deprecating smile. “I wish I could tell you.”

“Why are you avoiding him?”

“I’m not avoiding him.”

“You’re definitely avoiding him. Even he said it, in that sad tone of his while he looked at you like a lost puppy.” She mimicked said look, eyes going wide and bottom lip coming out to pout.

“You’re ridiculous. He doesn’t look at me like that.” Maybe once upon a time.

Belly propped herself up on the counter beside you, her voice nearing sympathy. “He so does.”

And for a minute, you wanted to believe it.

(Sweetheart, I’m trying here. I’m really fucking trying. I know you’re mad but please come home. Baby, please. You can scream at me and fight with me and hate me all you want, but I just need you home. You’re giving me nothing. Nothing at all. I don’t know what you want. You know I love you. Just pick up the damn phone, will you?)

—

vi.

The sounds of music and drunken laughter filled the air, and beneath it all, the crackling of the fire and the sighs of wistfulness. Those were the symptoms of summer that you had grown well-acquainted with over the years you had spent in Cousins. Despite the freedom and the parties and the hours spent under the sun, the season was a fleeting one, and like so many others, you found yourself missing it before it was even over.

Your feet kicked through the sand without much caution. You knew the dangers of broken glass and hidden animals, but they weren’t of concern to you tonight. No, your mind was miles away — much farther from the bonfire than your legs managed to take you.

It was better this way, you thought. Under the cover of night, the sand was a cool reprieve from the inferno that was your mind. The moonlight was soft on your skin, guiding rather than blinding. Noise was only something that existed far away from your bubble of solitude. It was peaceful.

However, all the benefits in the world could not detract from the instinct to join his own silence. Upon finding Conrad sitting a few feet from the shore, the only light coming from the end of his joint, you half-willingly joined him. Your body was the culprit, seeking out familiarity, regardless of who it existed in.

“Fancy meeting you here,” you greeted. The small smile he sent you made your heart twist. It was a little happy and a little sad and every bit the boy you had known better than yourself.

“Hiding from the masses?” he asked.

“You won’t tell, will you?”

He patted the sand next to him, indicating for you to sit down. “Only if you don’t.”

You followed his direction, finding a distinct heat in his body next to yours. “How are you feeling?” you asked, because worrying for Conrad was muscle memory at this point. Summers, this place, all of it was hard for him. For everyone. Ghosts lingered around every corner, but you knew they haunted him the most.

He hummed. “Good, I suppose. Being here feels like home, but that only makes her absence that much louder. But it gets easier every year.”

You had intended to keep your distance from him, to limit your contact, lest you have a repeat of what happened only a few nights ago. But you were weak then, and you were just as weak now. You leaned your head on his shoulder. “I’m sorry. I wish it were different.”

He made another sound of acknowledgment, the vibration running through you as well. He took a hit from his joint, then held it to your own lips.

You accepted the offer, inhaling the smoke, holding it for a moment, then exhaling. “Where are we?”

It was a game you had created for the two of you years ago. When time felt both too fast and too stagnant, you created your own junction. A different place to dwell, to exist, to share between two people who only had each other at the end of the day.

“We’re in Paris,” Conrad started softly. “We’re sitting on my overpriced balcony, smoking cigarettes that are definitely ruining our lungs, and watching as a million different people live a million different lives.”

“How long have we been here?” You took another drag, your muscles loosening.

“A few weeks. We came for a show, but after one night we fell in love with the city and all its ridiculousness. I took you to the Louvre, and we stared at the paintings and pretended they meant something to us. We found significance in the most human action.”

“And what would that be?”

“Art.”

You closed your eyes, listening to the timbre of his voice meld with the lapping of small waves on the shore. “Did I tell you that you belonged on those walls? That I wish I could paint you and canonize you forever that way?”

His fingers — so timidly — brushed yours. “You did. And then I told you that even the most brilliant painter could never capture your essence.”

“You sap.”

He was close enough that his breath grazed the shell of your ear, and you shivered. “It’s the truth. My only truth.”

You let yourselves sit in silence, soaking up the mundanity of the moment — the earthy smell from the paper between his fingers, the gentle wind that tickled your cheek, the arm he wrapped around you at the first sign of chill.

Maybe you weren’t in Paris, but you definitely weren’t in reality either. Because in reality, his touch would burn you, and his words would be cold, and you would be running away from Conrad instead of burrowing deeper into his side.

Finally, with the joint burned out and the distant sirens telling you that time was almost up, you gained some needed courage. “Did you ever write a song about me?” you asked.

You felt his eyes shift to you, but you kept your gaze on the horizon. Some amount of tension returned, but neither of you moved to leave. Those unspoken words were nearly tangible in the space between you.

“Are you really asking that?” He almost sounded affronted.

You nodded, anxiety lining your fingertips (only soothed when his touch crossed them once more). “You don’t have to answer if—”

He laughed, a soft, deprecating sound. “I really fucked up, didn’t I?”

This time, you pulled away. Your stomach churned, and you were certain you had arrived back in the present. Unsteadily, you rose, your legs weak under you. “Let’s not do this.”

Conrad remained seated, ignoring your words. His gaze cast out toward the ocean. “It’s hard to believe you would ask that. I would think after everything—”

“Conrad…” you warned. Your heart was in your throat, and you were struggling to swallow the damned organ down.

“After everything, after we loved and we fought and you left, that that question wouldn’t even be a question at all.”

Hurt passed over your face. His voice was empty, and it only made you ache. You didn’t need to hear any more of this. You took a step, but his hand closed around your calf, keeping you in place. Now, he looked up and met your eye. 

You swallowed glass. You didn’t move, even after his grip loosened.

And, like it was the most obvious fact in the world, he said, “They were all about you.”

(It’s Conrad. Again. I want to talk. I know things have been rough, and I take responsibility. It was my fault. I said shit I shouldn’t have said. I did shit I shouldn’t have done. I didn’t treat you right. But give me another chance, baby. Please. Just one more chance and I’ll fix it all. Do you want me to beg? Is that it? Because if so, this is it. I’m begging you to come home. I’m begging you to talk to me. I’m begging you to give me a chance. Please. I love you.)

—

vii.

You had a lot of regrets in life. A multitude of them. Ones where you stayed, ones where you left, ones where you remained silent, ones where you spoke words you didn’t mean. But the one that chipped at you the worst right now was the fact that you walked away that night.

You knew what he meant, knew there was no malice in his words. But the memories of what had once existed between you two, of what you thought would be forever, were too much. You regretted walking away, and you regretted that he didn’t hold on just a little bit longer.

And perhaps your response to those emotions was not the best, hardly justifiable, but sensibility was not your friend tonight. You wanted to stay away, but you couldn’t — so you opted for the next best thing. 

There was a stranger’s hand pressed against the small of your back as he pulled you closer. His lips tasted like cheap beer and cigarette smoke, and the scratch of his facial hair on your cheek was far from enjoyable. But regardless, this spectacle was not for your sake.

No, it was for Conrad’s.

His eyes were lasered into the back of your head, your back, the legs that were currently straddling someone that wasn’t him. You knew it would make him mad, make him hate just a little bit more, but maybe that was just what you needed.

You couldn’t avoid him. Not like you planned, not like what was necessary. So, you needed him to do it, to break your heart one more time, to destroy that hole he left beyond repair, to perhaps make room for someone else. It — him breaking you, that is — was bound to happen, anyway. It was an inevitability; you loved Conrad so much that it would always become too much.

Or that was your fear, at least. You weren’t willing to test any other possibilities.

So, yeah, you were making out with a guy you didn’t know — you might even let him take you home, if he made it worth your while. You needed Conrad to recreate those barriers for you, because you knew damn well you’d break down every one of them if it meant having him for just a second.

And, judging by the heated whispers you couldn’t help but overhear and the glare he sent your way when you stood up, you would call your mission a success.

You wanted to want him gone, but you couldn’t. You would rely on him to feel that way instead.

But ultimately, you were wrong. Ultimately, Conrad found you hours later in the Fisher’s beach house while you were just trying to get back to your room.

“I need to talk to you,” he said roughly, fingers curling around your wrist.

You were exhausted, having spent the last twenty minutes scrubbing every inch of your skin and trying to eradicate the taste of smoke on your tongue. You had a lot of regrets in life, and hooking up with someone you didn’t know was one of them.

Still, you looked up at him. His skin was hot, and his eyes were blazing. “Yes, Conrad?” you prompted.

“What were you doing tonight?”

“Surely that’s not something I need to explain to you.” You kept your tone level, shaking his hand off of your arm. 

He ceded the grasp easily enough, but he was not done with you. “I’m serious.” His voice was tight, angry. “What the fuck were you doing with him?”

“Having fun,” you supplied, albeit dismissively. You prayed the racing of your heart would not give you away. “It’s summer.”

“Don’t give me that shit. You didn’t even know him.”

You raised a brow. “And you know all my friends?”

He narrowed his eyes. “He could’ve been a creep. Something could’ve happened. And what was it for? To make me jealous?”

You scoffed, continuing your path to your bedroom. He trailed after you. “Not that it’s any of your business, but he wasn’t a creep. He was very nice. This wasn’t about you.”

(Yes, it was.)

“Bullshit!” His hands were in the air, his body thrumming. This was something that had been building, something that could only come out like this — erratically. “You make no sense, do you know that?” 

“The fuck are you talking about?”

“You! You stare at me all night, make it seem like you might actually miss me, then you fight with me. You fight with me, and then you turn around and fuck me. And then what do you do? You go right back to pretending I don’t exist.”

“Not everything is about you, Conrad!” you yelled. You didn’t remember getting mad, but your skin was prickling with the anger now, a fire consuming you and your mind. “Not everything I do is based on you.”

“It is when it only ever affects me! You ignore me and then you talk to me like you did when you loved me and then you go hook up with someone else! How is that not about me?”

You were going to throw something. Very soon. You crossed the threshold of your room, but let the door remain open between you. You were uncaring of the rest of the (sleeping) household members. “God, you’re such an asshole. I’m sorry your feelings are hurt, but I can’t fix that. I can’t fix you or your feelings or any of this.”

“Yes,” he said, very carefully, very fervently, “ you could. You’re the one who gave up first — you left and you ignored all my calls and you wouldn’t even give me a fucking chance to make things right.”

Tears burned the back of your throat. “Are you serious right now? I gave up first? Because from what I remember, you were the one who barely came home, who I probably shared a bed with once a week, who chose your career over everyone who ever loved you. And what did that get you? Are you happy now?”

Guilt was buried deep in his irises, but his voice didn’t betray him. “What did you want me to do?” He didn’t cross into your room, but you knew that boundary bothered him. He would respect it, but he needed more than this separation. “My mom was dead, my dad was gone, I had nothing. I had no one—”

“You had me!” Your finger was shaking, but you pointed it at him all the same. “You had me, and Belly, and Steven, and Jeremiah, who you left alone, for fuck’s sake. You had everything you could ask for, but you still chose the money. All of this, and you preferred coke with the band and throwing your life away for a few golden years.”

“That’s not what happened.”

“Then what was it, Conrad? Was I really so terrible? Did I really abandon you for no reason at all?” When he didn’t answer, you kept going. “You were a sinking ship, and I wasn’t going to let you pull me down too.”

His breathing came in shudders, a million emotions battling over his features and no single one winning. “Fuck you.”

“Fuck you, too.”

You were in silence once more, drastically different from how it was spent last night, on a cool beach with a dying joint. You realized you hadn’t needed to fool around with other people, to make him mad enough to avoid you himself. No, all you needed was to spill your truths and see that the past was just as bloody as you remembered.

Your fingers curled around the edge of the door. “I regret it,” you finally said. “I regret everything with you. Every fucking second. You were not the man I thought you were. Two years wasn’t long enough.”

If he was going to respond, he didn’t have the chance. You slammed the door hard enough for the wall to shake, then locked it for good measure. 

The tears resurfaced, the dishonesty of your words choking you, and you crawled into bed unsteadily. You hated him. Hated him so much it hurt. Hated him even more for the fact that you still didn’t hate him enough.

(I fucked up. I fucked all of it up and I’m sorry. For everything. There it is. I’m sorry and I miss you and I need you and I’m so, so lost without you. I hate myself for making you leave, more than I’ve hated anyone before. Please just give me a call back. A text, even. Give me some type of sign. Tell me this is something we can fix. I’ll fix it all, just give me the chance. I’ll do anything. I do it all for you anyway. Give me a call. I love you.)

—

viii.

“Teach me something.”

Conrad raised an eyebrow at you, eyes squinting against the sun to see you properly. “What?” he asked.

“Teach me something,” you repeated.

He took only a few seconds to pack away his surprise, and then he was handing you his guitar, helping you find your grip. He smiled as you fumbled with the body. A few stray strands of hair fell across his forehead, and you had to fight the urge to brush them to the side. 

Once your hands were in place, fingers splayed across the frets in what felt like an arbitrary manner but you knew had meaning, he began instructing you. “Strum.”

You hesitated. “Don’t laugh if it’s bad,” you warned, semi-serious. “This is my first time.”

“You’re going to do great,” he said with more sincerity than the moment warranted. He was golden like this, taken in hues of yellow and orange and pink as the sun set. It was as if the light was crafted just for him — to pick up the slightest bits of blond in his hair, the flecks in his eyes, the tan of his skin. He was sunlight incarnate, and like called to like.

You did as he said, your other hand coming down to strum the strings. It sounded…less than ideal, nowhere near the natural sound Conrad never failed to elicit, but it was not terrible. It was something. 

He laughed when you winced, and you nudged him with your foot. “Great,” he said. “You’ll have a career of your own in no time.”

You giggled, the sound young and carefree. The two of you were at the start of something new, the edge of the world you had known and ready to step into the next. He had moved up from a couple of lowkey venues — those coffee shop performances were turning into packed houses, his Spotify listeners growing by the hour, and he had even been recognized twice while in public. Things were changing, but you were ready for it. “I’ll be your opening act,” you promised.

Conrad plucked the guitar from your hands, placing the acoustic down quickly before falling to lay on his back. He dragged you with him, and you made a sound of surprise as you ended up straddling him. “You know,” he started, “the park is looking pretty deserted…”

You slapped his arm, face flushing when he pinched your upper thigh. “It’s still light out.”

“Come on, sweetheart. Who’s going to see us? You got a skirt on and everything.” He gestured to the empty fields surrounding you. There truly was no one in sight.

Sighing, you leaned down, fingers curling into his hair as you kissed him. It was the heavy, unending kind of kiss. The one that could go on for hours and hours, and it would still only feel like a few seconds.

His hands gave up on teasing you, deigning to just pull you closer instead, dancing over the arch of your spine as you bent to meet him. His tongue had just barely grazed the seam of your lips when you pulled back, a smile on your face. You felt like you were glowing.

Still just a few inches away, you murmured, “Not right now, you perv. You’re going to have to wait.”

He groaned dramatically. “You’re a cruel woman.”

“I know.” You pulled his arms until he sat up with you. “I have priorities.” And you grabbed the guitar once more.

“I can’t give away all my secrets,” he argued, but adjusted the instrument in your lap, then fixed your hand along the neck, setting you up for a different chord. “Next thing I know, you’ll be outselling me.”

You hummed. “I’ll bring you backstage one night.”

“I’ll just become a groupie. That way you’ll never get rid of me.”

You grinned, strumming another chord with just as much (or, more accurately, as little) success. You pressed a quick kiss to his lips. “I love you too much for that.”

Your only warning was the smile playing across his mouth, and Conrad was once again tossing the instrument to the side, flipping you so you were on your back, pinned under his body. “I love you more,” he whispered as he began to decorate your throat in love bites. He said it between movements, as if it were something he needed to show you.

You resigned yourself to him, letting your laughter and your fingers and your kisses do all the talking. Conrad Fisher was the sun, and you were lucky enough to be in his orbit. You would never want to get rid of him.

Not when he made you feel like something just as golden.

(Your call has been forwarded to an automated voice messaging system. The number you are trying to reach is not available. The mailbox is full and cannot accept any messages at this time. Goodbye.)

—

ix.

With every day that passed, you were getting an increasing sense of déjà vu. You had lived this life before — the one where you were young and happy and living under the sun for two months straight. The one where you saw him every day, and in the dreams in between.

Conrad was a fixed point in your life, everything began and ended with him. He was inescapable, even when you needed him gone the most.

That being said, despite falling asleep with more anger than you’d ever felt, you’d woken up with a lighter chest. Some of your words might have been founded in falsehood, but they were a device that aired out all the feelings you had kept buried for so long.

Conrad, too, seemed less inclined to argue the next day. And those tensions continued to cool down from a rapid boil to a gentle simmer. Granted, you didn’t speak to him for a week, but at least you didn’t want to throw something at him every time you saw him.

And you managed to spend that week in peace. If Belly noticed the shift, she didn’t say anything, and you were able to accept that. The two of you functioned around each other; you knew his schedule like he knew yours. You navigated the world according to him, all in the name of avoidance.

It was that ceasefire that you operated under now. Conrad was in the living room, idly strumming on his guitar, and you made yourself useful in the kitchen. The house was empty of everyone else, and you couldn’t help but notice the parallel from the beginning of summer.

You had taken to cooking for him recently. It was a silent form of apology, an olive branch to extend. While you would never directly hand him the food, it was always left for him when you knew he’d be around. 

You took the clean plates that appeared on the drying rack as a good sign.

Today’s meal was bruschetta. You had made it a few times with him, and it was something he once enjoyed enough to take a break from work to share with you. The tomatoes had already been blanched, peeled, and cut, currently sitting in a bowl with the garlic, basil, and the rest of your seasonings. The bread came next.

Pathetic as it seemed, you had gotten up extra early to pick up a loaf of bread from the farmers’ market. It was for your own sake as well, you told yourself. Regardless, the bread was soft with a nice crust, and there was no point in debating the good things in life.

While the oven warmed up, you were cutting slices from the loaf, slanted in the way he always appreciated. You should have been more concerned with how much Conrad factored into your decisions, but it had already been made clear that he knew.

He began to play a familiar tune on the guitar. From rooms away, you were smiling. You closed your eyes for a moment, remembering the first time he played it for you, and let your hands guide themselves as they sliced the bread.

You had been sitting in his bedroom. His skin was starting to return to its normal shade, less pallid, more alive. His eyes held bags but they were lighter, as if he finally found reprieve for whatever battle raged in his mind.

He sat you on his bed and his touch lingered for moments after. He played a song, one that was new and soft and took you away to a different plane. His voice rasped as he quietly hummed the lyrics, but you were more focused on the notes his fingers evoked, as if each one was carefully plucked and placed to create a sound so perfect.

He asked you if you liked it. I love it, you said. 

He kissed you gently after. Your touch might have brought him back to life.

He said he would marry you one—

“Shit!” You dropped the knife, letting it clatter to the ground as you covered your thumb with your other hand. “Shit, shit, shit—”

Pain shot through you, starting at your finger and lasting all the way to your toes. It eradicated anything else from your mind. There was blood on the counter. Blood on the cutting board. Blood on the floor. Blood dripping down your forearm. All your hard work—

“Hey. Hey, let me see.” Conrad was in front of you, worry lines digging into his forehead, his hands cradling your own. “You’re alright, just let me see it.”

You registered the wet tears on your face, but they were faint compared to the searing heat in your thumb. Your bread was ruined, everything was ruined. You couldn’t tell what you were crying about anymore. “I’m fine,” you mumbled, trying to step back and only narrowly missing the sharp blade on the floor.

Conrad put a hand on your back, guiding you in the opposite direction. He helped you onto the counter beside the sink as best he could, mindful of your wound. “Just let me see,” he repeated.

Slowly, you let him pull the shielding hand away, giving him access to the cut on your thumb. There was so much blood. Had you ever bled this much? “It hurts,” you whispered, so quiet you thought he wouldn’t hear.

“I know,” he said just as low. “But it’s not deep enough for stitches. We’re okay.”

You closed your eyes, leaning your forehead against his shoulder, trying not to see the crimson staining his white shirt. “I’m sorry.”

Conrad pulled a first aid kit you didn’t know existed from the drawer beside you. With one hand, he turned on the sink. “I’m going to rinse your finger off, okay?”

He didn’t wait for you to respond. The water added some sting, but it was soothed by the hand running up and down your spine. You didn’t know what had come over you — why this injury felt so much worse. You supposed there were exacerbating circumstances.

“Alright?” he asked, and you soaked in the vibrations.

“Yeah.”

“You sure?”

You looked up at him then. His eyes were deep, currents of emotion moving through them. You felt yourself get caught in a rip tide. “I’m fine, Conrad. I’m sorry.”

He shook his head. “No apologizing. You’re okay. I’m okay. We’re okay,” he repeated. “I’ll clean this up for you.”

You settled your head back against his shoulder, only managing one glance at the cut. It wrapped around half your thumb, deeper than any regular kitchen slice, but you found consolation in the fact that stitches weren’t needed.

Your truce had been building to this moment: the one where he had the chance to fix you, to make things right, as he said. You were tired of the push and pull, and the hating and loving, and the silence and passion. You craved this stability; the quietude, the balance that had always existed between you and him.

It was easier that way. To stop thinking, to have someone else take care of you.

You hardly even noticed the burn of alcohol as it splashed across your skin, too lost in the steady beat under his skin and the gentleness in which he held you. He disinfected and wrapped the injury, all the while reminding you that you were fine. We’re okay.

But when he pulled away, your free hand curled into the fabric of his shirt, keeping him close.

He paused. “I’m going to clean up the blood. I can run out and grab another loaf of bread—”

“I’ll take care of it, you’ve done enough.”

“But—”

“Just forget about it,” you cut him off. “Forget it all.”

He gave you a sad smile, catching the double meaning in your words. He reestablished his proximity, this time standing between your legs, the counter placing him closer to your height. His eyes roved over your face, searching for something you didn’t know, and stopping when he must have found it.

There were so many nuances, so much history, but you were content here, with him close enough to share body heat, and for his smile to be a balm for the worst of vexes. His thumb brushed an errant tear from the corner of your eye, and you covered his hand with your uninjured one, keeping him there.

You pressed a kiss to his palm, and you swallowed the seconds as they ticked by, preferring to keep them all inside rather than let this moment end too soon.

He held the side of your head with more care than you thought possible. Then, scared and hesitant, he asked, “What happened to us?”

You wished you had the answer, some quantifiable reason that could explain it. Somewhere between the time and the fear and the love, you knew you’d find something close. But instead of digging around and unearthing potentials and possibilities, you settled for, “I don’t know. But whatever it is, I really, really fucking hate it.”

And, judging by the quiet laugh paired with lips that pressed to your forehead, you knew Conrad agreed.

—

x.

You don’t know what, exactly, drew you to leave the comfort of your bed. Perhaps it was those sleepless tendencies, or perhaps it was an innate calling that needed to be answered, but here you were, the moonlight silver and soothing on your face. 

Conrad appeared to have a similar idea. You wished you could say you were surprised, but you thought this summer had made that emotion unfathomable. Nothing could shock you anymore.

Although late-night swims were always Belly’s thing, he seemed to have picked up the habit. You watched him make slow, but steady laps. At one point, he must have noticed your presence, but he didn’t stop right away.

It was only after you had sat at the pool’s edge, legs dipped into the water below, that he paused. He was at the corner opposite you, and you smiled hesitantly when he caught your eye.

This fear was foreign. You couldn’t recall the last time you had been so nervous around a boy, nonetheless Conrad. He had seen you at your best, just as he had seen you at your worst. And he accepted you every time. What was there to be scared of?

“Hey,” you said, the word coming out quieter than you intended. But it was enough for him.

He swam over, and your anxiety prevailed in your wringing fingers. You didn’t know who he would be today: friend or enemy or lover. When he was treading in front of you, he whispered back, “Hey.”

You took in his wet hair, the strands barely slicked back from the hand he ran through it. His broad shoulders, the shining droplets of water caught in the divots. His lips, welcoming in the exact way you remembered. Something designed just for you.

“It’s a bit late for a swim,” you observed, finger curling around a lock of his hair. You dropped it, but did not move away.

Conrad smiled at you, the tilt a little crooked and a lot more endearing. “Got restless.”

“You should’ve woken me up, I would’ve joined you.”

“That’s alright.” He placed himself between your legs once more, forearms resting on both thighs, holding his lighter weight there. “You needed the rest.”

You laughed. “You calling me ugly, Fisher?”

“Nah,” he said, something secret hiding in his eyes, something that baited you, “never that. You’re the prettiest damn thing I’ve ever seen, you know that.”

You flushed at his sincerity. You opened your mouth to quip something back, but words were no longer a possibility. Not when he was looking at you like that. You shook yourself out of the reverie. “Why are you really out here?”

His temple fell to his arm, looking at you sideways. Your fingers resumed their ministrations, coming through the strands of hair. “Couldn’t sleep,” he supplied, not that it was any more telling.

“And why’s that? You gotta give me something here.”

“Too many thoughts. Memories.”

You hummed. You knew what he meant, like a galaxy lived in your mind, and contained in each star was a memory. The cosmos resided within a prison, a skull bursting with light and life. “Good ones?”

“Some. Most of them. But those’ll just make you miss it all more, won’t they?”

Your heart ached for him, and you hoped your touch could convey your sympathy where words failed you. “I’m sorry.”

“You keep apologizing to me. You have nothing to be sorry for. You were right. About everything. I should be the sorry one.”

“And are you?” You didn’t know what answer you were looking for.

“About some things, yes. The way I treated you, the way I hurt you. There are things I wish I could take back, more than anything else.”

“But?” Your hand paused.

“But knowing you? Having you? Loving you? Being loved by you? Those are things I will never regret. I could never be sorry for those years, because they were the best of my life.”

Your throat burned, and you willed the tears down. This was not the time for that. Not when he was so unguarded, when he was gifting you his truths so willingly. “I lied,” you said. “What I said before—”

“You don’t have to do that.” The vulnerability, the understanding, on his face tore into you, but you needed him to know.

“No. I’m not just doing that.” Your hands moved to hold his jaw, to keep him in front of you, to prove to him that this was your truth. “I don’t regret anything with you. I don’t regret you. I was hurting and embarrassed and missing you and I said shit I never should have. I have been fighting this whole summer to feel that way, to want you gone, as proof that I really was over you.”

His lips were pressed together, gauging you. But you trusted him implicitly, trusted the way he could read you. He would know if you were lying, and you weren’t.

You went on, “But all the past month has proved is that I wasn’t. I was mad at you, sure. But I was to blame, too. We both were. I think what happened needed to happen, that we needed to grow on our own for a bit. But I still loved you.  I still love you — I don’t think I could stop if I tried. That’s not something I could regret.” He was the sun, imperfect and with the potential to hurt, but necessary to sustain life. Time had passed, you were no longer stranded at high noon, burning alongside him — no, now he was on his way to setting, to settling. And that was something you could handle.

“I love you,” he said, three words heavy and honest. His lips pressed to the inside of your knee, and he maintained eye contact. “I loved you then.” He moved up a handful of inches, to the middle of your thigh. “I love you now.” He reached a place closer to your hip, and a shudder ran through you, mouth suddenly dry. “I’ll love you forever, I think.”

“Please,” was all you could manage, a desperate plea that built at the bottom of your throat.

“What do you want, sweetheart?” His thumb and index finger played with the hem of your thin cotton shorts. “Use your words.”

His lips continued to decorate the inside of your thigh, and you began trembling without noticing. You wanted to fall into the water with him, to drown with him, in him, for however long he’d have you.

“You,” you managed. “Something. Anything.”

His teeth glinted in the moonlight as he grinned, and you hardly registered getting to your feet, too focused on Conrad pushing himself up and out of the pool, a quick and practiced motion. “Alright, then.” His hands were on you, roving over your body, and neither of you bothered to dry off as he backed you into the house. “Let me make you feel good, hmm?”

The air conditioning brought a chill to your skin, and it clashed with the searing heat that came with his hands on your hips, felt even through the fabric of your shirt. Half your attention was spent on not slipping on the tile, while the other, more devout half was on him.

Conrad captured your lips quickly, exploring them as if he hadn’t once been so well acquainted. He found the corners, the seam, the top of your cupid’s bow and the fullest part of your bottom lip. He was rememorizing you, learning your ins and outs and venturing to take a taste, bathing you in something divine and erotic and lovely and sinful.

Your back met the edge of the countertop, goosebumps rising at the cold sensation. That’s what you were drowning in: sensations. The air and the marble and the water and his voice and his mouth and his fingers that were dipping dangerously close to the place you needed him the most.

“Conrad,” you said, the name rolling off of your tongue in a manner so familiar. You played with the hair at the nape of his neck, relishing the moment his attention traveled to your neck.

He chuckled, something that warmed you down to your center. “Is this alright?” he asked, though he already knew the answer.

“Yes,” you said too quickly. “Yes. Yes, you’re perfect.”

He laughed again, the reverberations shooting through you, and you made a small, desperate sound when his hand slipped under the waistband of your shorts, immediately coming into contact with the evidence that betrayed everything you were feeling.

Instinctively, your legs closed, and he tutted. “Darling,” he murmured into the junction of your throat and jaw, “is all that for me? That easy?”

You had half a mind to nod, hating the way he rendered you quite so breathless. “Don’t tease, Fisher.”

A digit circled your entrance as he hummed, and your nails dug into his shoulders, the only thing keeping you standing. His finger went in to the second knuckle, and you hated the way you clenched around just that presence. It drew a groan from somewhere deep in his chest, and he sucked just a little bit harder on the delicate skin of your throat, the smarting sensation giving in to the pleasure of it all.

But the moment ended too soon, and he opted to gather the slick instead, spreading it. It was when he began circling your clit, hardly any pressure, that you truly lost any sense that was left. Lightning shot through your body, all sourced from his ministrations and the way that your nerves bowed to him so easily. Your moans were soft, hiding things, and Conrad was intent on uncovering every one of them, uncaring of the sleeping household members just upstairs.

You knew it had an effect on him. For fuck’s sake, his hard-on was digging into your thigh and you caught him grinding against you every so often. And honestly, you would let him take you right now — you were certainly ready enough. But you knew this — toying with you, bringing you a paced pleasure — was something he enjoyed, and you weren’t in any state to argue.

So, when two fingers slid into you, his thumb rubbing through your folds just to land back on your clit, you were the picture of agreement. The bundle of nerves he was slowly circling, the spongy spot that he hit when those digits curled, the hand that slipped under your top to knead at your breast — those were the things that prompted your acquiescence.

The sheer amount of stimulation made all other thoughts in your mind dissipate. Of course you knew Conrad was good — you’d experienced him enough — but it always surprised you. Even after all this time, even after the quick round in the back of his car, being with Conrad was never a disappointment.

Your head fell back, and although you registered him murmuring things to you, praises and adoration and the few occasional words of condescension — domination — none of it could be properly discerned. Not now, at least. Your arms wrapped themselves around him, your back probably bruising from the way you were pushed against the countertop, and your hips rolled as you rode the waves of euphoria rushing through you.

His fingers increased their tempo, pumping in and out of you, curling just enough, while his thumb did the same. You buried your face into the crook of his neck, teeth making an appearance as you tried to muffle yourself.

“I’m gonna cum,” you said in one exhale, pulling him as close as you could, muscles twitching as he pinched your nipple lightly.

“I know you are, sweetheart.” He said it without any surprise at all, like he truly did know your body better than you did. “C’mon, I got you.”

The coil that had built so tightly in your stomach snapped, and you would have fallen were it not for his body pinning you against the kitchen island. One arm curled around your waist, while his other hand continued its movement, those two fingers and thumb enough to prolong your orgasm. 

Flames licked at your body, your muscles spasmed, every inch of you felt exposed. The touches, subtle as they were, that moved over your arms and back made you twitch. You felt more alive than you had in months.

“You’re beautiful like this,” Conrad whispered when he finally stopped. He pulled his hand from your shorts, and you swallowed thickly as he popped those fingers in his mouth. Desire burned in his irises when he was done. “You taste like honey.” He leaned closer, a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “You are exquisite.”

You could only look at him, still recovering from the aftershocks. Your eyes flitted down to the tent in his swim shorts, and you absently brushed your knuckles over his hip bone. He shivered, and you did it again.

“Don’t tease,” he echoed your words back to you.

Like someone else was in control of your body, you pulled your shirt off of you, happy you had slept without a bra. Conrad’s gaze dropped down to watch, pupils dilating until the brown of his irises was nothing but a thin circle. Your shorts came next, and then you were standing in just your panties, the thin fabric soaked long ago.

You pushed yourself to be seated on the counter, and Conrad naturally stepped to be between your legs. Watching him carefully, your eyes never once leaving his, you reached your hand under the waistband of his shorts, palming his cock.

A muffled groan came from behind his closed lips, derived from the deepest place between his ribs, presented like you ripped it from his chest yourself. He looked pained, his breathing labored, as you pulled out the length of him.

He was hot, heavy and leaking in your palm, and you pumped him a few times for good measure. His hands shook as they placed themselves on your spread thighs. His lips, however, were kind, intimate as they grazed over yours, nothing more.

“You’re killing me here,” he whispered, but he looked like he was more than ready to die by your touch.

“Sorry, pretty boy.” You smiled, though you knew he could only feel the tilt.

Then, he kissed you. In just a few seconds, he pieced your nervous system back together, and you were suddenly aching for more. “No more apologizing,” he said as he broke away.

You let out a breathy laugh, and fought the urge to do just that once more. Instead, you held his gaze as you pulled your panties to the side, then aligned his cock with your entrance. His hands moved to the top of your ass, and his mouth dove back to yours.

You swallowed his moan when he pushed in, barely an inch. You urged him forward, legs hooking around his waist. He continued, inch by inch, until he was fully seated within you. There was a moment of pause, in which you adjusted yourself to the size, the stretch of him. There was the initial smarting sensation, but you were soon accommodating him, needing him.

“Good?” he mumbled against your lips, hips twitching when you ground yours.

“Mhmm.” Your eyes had fluttered shut, savoring just how full you were.

You could feel his amusement, but you didn’t dwell on it long, for he had begun moving. They were slow strokes at first, ones that allowed you to feel every inch, that brought him as deep as he could. You felt his shape, his curve, and you could even imagine the thick vein that ran along the underside of him.

Impatiently, you squirmed. You were slightly overstimulated, but you still wanted more. Wanted him to be rougher, faster, harder. But you knew what this moment meant, why it was so important that every second was held just as reverently as the last.

His lips moved indolently against yours, even once he picked up the pace. It was dirty and vulgar; his tongue was in your mouth, sliding against your own, learning the caps of your teeth and soothing any old wounds from glass shards. You could have been embarrassed by the resulting noises, could have been terrified of being caught, but you weren’t. You felt like you were on a different plane, where you and him were the sole inhabitants.

Conrad was the only thing that existed in your sensory. His taste and his scent and his sounds and his image and his touch. His cock prodded at a place that made your stomach tighten, the talons of climax curling around your mind. Whatever change in body language you displayed spurred him on, despite the increase in volume. You supposed he stopped caring about that a long time ago.

You rolled in tandem with his thrusts, sparks traveling across your body. The base of his length would brush against your clit, and tears pricked in your eyes from the sensitivity. Still, when his grip tightened around your hips, giving him more control of your body, you only felt relief.

Your mind was still numbed from your first orgasm, and it was all but nonsensical now. He was harsher, bruising even, but you hardly felt the pain when he fit so perfectly.

He grunted and you swore and you were hanging off the edge of the world when he began to twitch inside of you. You leaned back just enough to get him deeper, to give him all the access he could ask for. You’d have no qualms being nothing but a doll for him to please, to fuck stupid. 

“You feel like heaven,” he breathed, his mouth traveling to the shell of your ear. He was close. “I could do this for hours.”

You whimpered, and it sent him over.

Three particularly hard thrusts, and he was spilling inside of you. Your breasts, as sensitive as every other part of you, required just the briefest of touches, and your release shot through you.

His curses were echoing in your ear, alongside your name and his love and those little praises that made you feel like exactly what he said you were. Exquisite.

You fell back onto your elbows, white the only color you saw against your eyelids. You absently felt him pull out, and you twitched when a thumb ran over your swollen clit. The sensation was too much, and your pussy clenched around nothing at all.

You felt his seed drip out of you, could’ve cried when his fingers continued to toy with your overstimulated body. Your legs were weak, the only thing that could move them being the jerks that came with every circle over your clit. You didn’t stop him though, not when the last dregs of pleasure still existed underneath all that pain.

A few stray kisses covered your thighs. “How’re you feeling?”

“Good.” Your voice was raw.

“Good,” he said. His lips pressed chastely to your clit.

You flinched, holding back a whine.

When you opened your eyes, you saw Conrad searching for an old rag in the hallway closet. Once he found it, he returned to run it under the tap water. Slowly, you sat up, opening your legs as best you could, some amount of soreness already setting in.

His smile only revealed kindness, and he began drawing the rag over the inside of your thighs. Not teasing, but in earnest care. Some fascination swirled in his pupils when he caught sight of his cum leaking out of you, but he said nothing.

“What now?” you asked as he wiped himself off, then tucked back into his shorts. Your fingers danced over his shoulders, hoping to relieve some of the tension.

And despite the fact that the two of you were almost completely bare in the middle of the kitchen, muscles fatigued and hearts racing, Conrad planted his palms on either side of your hips, settling so he was just inches away. He was still open, still honest, and relief rushed through you. You were okay.

“Well,” he said, “I think Jeremiah might flip his shit if he finds out that we…” he gestured with his finger between you, “in his kitchen, so the first order of business would be—”

“Conrad,” you reprimanded. “That’s not what I meant. Where do we go from here?”

He sobered, his thumbs skimming the sides of your legs. He almost looked sad. “I have a few more shows during the fall. I don’t want to drag you back into that. You deserve better than the person I was — the one I could be again.”

Your chest constricted. “I see.”

“Hey,” he said when your gaze fell, already getting lost in the rush of new thoughts in your head. You looked up at him, and he continued, “This isn’t like last time. This isn’t a one-time thing. At least, I don’t want it to be.”

“Then what do you want?”

“You.” His voice was desperate, pleading. “I want you. But this is something I already signed up for. I can’t just cancel a whole season of shows for….”

“For me?”

He sighed. “Don’t say it like that. You know what I mean.”

You nodded. You were being unfair. “Yes. Yes, I know what you mean.” You rubbed your hands over your eyes, counting to ten, then facing him once more. “I’m sorry, it’s just…hard.”

“I know. And I’m sorry.”

This wouldn’t be like last time. You would make sure it wasn’t like last time. Both of you had grown, and your relationship did not have to become some cyclical heartbreak. “What about after? After the fall? What comes then?”

Light returned to his eyes, and he relaxed. “I’ll be done for a couple of months. Working, I guess. Probably recording. But no shows.”

Compromise. You would compromise. “So, we wait. We can wait a little longer, I think.”

Conrad nodded, his grin returned. You felt your own lips tug up in response. “Yeah,” he agreed. “A little longer.”

Hope bloomed somewhere deep in your stomach, and you couldn’t help the small laugh that fell out of you. This really was not the time or place for this conversation, but the two of you were anything but conventional. Your mouth chased his one last time, searching for something warm and familiar and promising.

He returned the gesture, but pulled back early. “One more thing?”

“Yeah?”

“Promise you’ll answer the phone when I call?”

You kissed him again. “I promise.”

—

xi.

If you were being honest, you had never been this nervous in your life.

Your bag was a heavy weight in your hands, and the December wind was sharp as it cut through you. Nonetheless, there you were, standing outside a hotel in Boston, fist raised and prepared to knock on the door in front of you.

You knew you had the right room, had read it a million and one times from the text he sent you. This was it — he was right behind that door.

However, trepidation lingered. What if he felt different? What if things had changed since summer? What if he met someone new? Someone better?

Thankfully, the questions lost their opportunity to plague you any longer, for the door to Room 216 swung up before your knuckles even had a chance to rap against it.

You were greeted with a painfully familiar face. 

A smile hung on Conrad’s lips, and he leaned against the doorframe as you stayed frozen. “Are you just going to stand there, or….”

You shook yourself out of your trance, the chill resurfacing on your goosebump-ridden skin. You stumbled into the room quickly, letting him lift your weekend bag from your hands and place it next to his. “Hey,” you finally said.

Conrad’s teeth glinted, his amusement evident. “Hey yourself.”

The room felt about forty degrees warmer, and you shakily fumbled with the zipper to your jacket. After two consecutive failures at pulling the damned thing down, he stepped in. One hand landed on your shoulder, grounding you in place, while the other pulled down your zipper with ease. He removed it from your arms next, folding it and placing it on the dresser, before turning back to you.

“Relax,” Conrad said, and you listened.

You took three deep breaths and reminded yourself why you were here. He invited you. He wanted you here. You smiled. “I missed you.”

His grin was bright, and his arms welcoming as they opened. You fell into them naturally. His chest rumbled against you as he said, “I missed you more.”

You stayed like that for a few moments more, making up for the past months spent apart. In that time, you had felt just about every emotion known to man, but you would still come back to him. The hotel room wasn’t ideal, but you knew he wanted something close to his childhood, his history.

You couldn’t ignore the disappointment that filled you when he broke away, but it was only to lead you to the bed, and his hand never left yours. In fact, you almost thought Conrad was being clingy.

The thought made you laugh.

“What’s so funny?” he asked, brow furrowed.

You only laughed again. “Nothing. It’s nothing. I just really missed you.”

He frowned, searching for something deeper, checking to guarantee you were okay. “I wish I could’ve seen you sooner. I just wanted to get it all out of the way first.”

You squeezed his hand. “I get it,” you assured, earnest.

When he laid down against the pillows, bringing you with him, you followed without complaint. You found comfort here, with your head on his chest and his arm around your waist and his fingers — always moving, always working — drawing circles on the exposed skin of your waist. His heartbeat was a steady and sure thing under your ear, and you listened to it like it was the most sophisticated of symphonies.

“How was the drive?” he asked after a few minutes spent soaking in the silence.

“Long. Everyone’s traveling now.”

He hummed. “But you made it here alright?”

You raised your head to smile at him. “I’m alright.”

Things began to decompress. You fell into your natural rhythm, the ability to coexist with him never fading. You knew his body, his breathing and his speaking and his pulse, from both miles away and from right underneath you.

However, things were still left unsaid. You could tell he was holding something back, something important, but you weren’t sure you were ready to push him. After all, you had only been here twenty minutes. You didn’t want to waste the time you did have, didn’t want things to end too soon.

But it seemed that Conrad didn’t share the sentiment. Your eyes had just shut, the exhaustion finally catching up to you, when he spoke. “I have something to tell you.”

You didn’t move, but your ears were holding on to every word that left his mouth. “Hmm?”

He held his breath for a second. You felt it. It was enough that you opened your eyes, a hand drifting across his jaw, an attempt at comfort. “Tell me,” you said.

He waited one more beat, and then: “I’m not doing any more shows.”

“....What?”

He met your eyes. “I’m done. At least for the next year. No writing, no recording, no concerts—”

You jumped, landing yourself in his lap. Concern and excitement and worry and hopefulness tore through you. “You’re done? What do you mean you’re done? Do you want to be done? Conrad, you can’t just quit. You love music. It’s what you always wanted to do. Did something happen? Are things—”

He grabbed your wrists, stopping your hands from roving over him in assessment. “Everything is okay. I just need a break. It’s not something I love anymore — not like I used to. It’s been that way for a while, and now I finally have a reason to do something about it.”

Your teeth dug into your lip, heart in your throat. This felt like a dream, and you were scared you might wake up too soon. “Are you sure? Listen, I don’t want you throwing your career to the side for this. I want you to choose what makes you happy.”

His fingers stopped on your waist, holding you in place, punctuating his point. “This is me choosing. I’m thankful for the past few years, I really am. But I’m also tired of it. I don’t want to be in a different city every night and playing songs for people I don’t know. I want to be able to come home and sleep in my bed and hopefully — hopefully — wake up next to the person I love.”

He emphasized the last few words, and you knew he was genuine. This is what he wanted.

You smiled so wide you swore you’d split right in half. “When did you even come to this decision? Why didn’t you tell me?”

His thumbs drew patterns on your sides. “Honestly? It started when we were sitting on the beach during the bonfire. You walked away and I realized I could never handle that again. But after that night in the kitchen, I was certain. I called my manager the next morning.”

“Conrad….”

“I knew what I wanted.” He looked at you, holding your gaze. “And even if you wouldn’t take me, I knew that I needed to become someone deserving of you. That’s the man I’ve always wanted to be — the one that was loved by you.”

Your throat closed, and words — not for the first time — failed you. 

He continued, “Things are different now. I promise.”

You nodded, because it was the truth. Things were different now. Because this wasn’t summer, it was winter. Because you were wrapped in his arms just for the sake of being there. Because you had taken your time, relearned who the both of you were and who you could be together. Because this was a hotel in Boston, Conrad had stepped back from the life he had lived for the past three years, and you were no longer spitting glass at the thought of him.

Not for the first time in his life, Conrad thought the world must be against him. Because — like just about everything else — this was not the plan.

“You’re staring again,” Jeremiah whispered. “Murder Eyes.”

“Shut up,” he mumbled, but his eyes didn’t leave their target, watching the hand that was curled around your waist, five fingers digging into the supple skin there. They slipped under the loose fabric of your top, and the Solo cup in his hands felt the aftermath, crushing with ease. Not the plan at all.

But Jeremiah was decidedly not done yet, the alcohol in his system giving him too much confidence for Conrad’s taste. “She looks like she’s having fun.”

“Shut up,” he repeated, averting his gaze when you caught his eyes. For fuck’s sake, it was like you’d never heard of a room. The bonfire crackled in his peripheral, shooting sparks across the darkened sand under his feet. You were wrapped up in the arms of someone he didn’t know, didn’t care to know. Lips grazed your throat, and his cup suffered. 

“She’s a pretty girl,” his brother continued, “you’re not the only one looking.”

Conrad turned, seeking solace in the bottom of a drink and finding none. After all, his beer had disappeared quickly when he saw you, saw him. “That’s your best friend.”

“Doesn’t matter who she is. But if you’re going to spend all night eye-fucking—”

“Nobody is eye-fucking—”

“I might as well enlighten you.” Jeremiah stood proud, as if this was him being charitable. But the grin on his face — the exact one Conrad would punch off if it were anyone else — was as clear as ever. He thought it was funny. 

“Enlighten me how?” Conrad, on the other hand, was unamused.

His brother began backing away, but not without a few parting words. “It could be you.”

Conrad scoffed. He dropped the crushed plastic to the ground unceremoniously, searching for a new distraction. This was not the plan.

This was not the plan because you were supposed to be friends (hell, he’d call you acquaintances for how little he acknowledged you in public), and friends didn’t act the way the two of you did. 

No, all Conrad does is fuck his brother’s best friend until she’s stupid, speechless, and shaking, and then he packs up his things and pretends it never happened. And he sure as hell doesn’t treat the rest of his friends like that.

And perhaps he could reconcile with the fact that what you shared was not friendship. Perhaps he could cope with the fact that your relationship was a pure canvas coated in shades of debauchery, where you drink and smoke and fuck because what are summers for? That he could permit.

But what he didn’t like, didn’t plan for, was the burn of jealousy that accompanied finding you doing those same things with another. You were not exclusive by any means, and he had not kept himself bound to you in any sense. The blonde making her way onto his lap could attest to that.

Still, when he looked at you, when he found you biting your lip and smiling at someone else — the same way you did to him — that smarting sensation returned full force. His chest constricted at the sight, and when eye contact was established once more, he forgot all about the touch now trailing down his chest.

He swallowed (albeit with some difficulty) as you watched, eyes flicking between him and the stranger whispering words he did not care to discern, then returning to his. He kept himself passive, face devoid of emotion, and when some feeling flickered in your features (one close to disappointment), he did not react.

You returned your attention to the man actively working to earn it. Conrad pretended nothing transpired at all.

But, even an hour later, in a bed that wasn’t his and fucking a girl he barely knew, he was still thinking about you.

—

It was late when you received the text, and you read it with bleary eyes.

Come over.

You turned your head to watch…John? Jim? James? Regardless, the boy you followed home (despite your low expectations for the evening) was washing his face in the bathroom sink. You were tired, and you were certain Conrad was as well, judging by his own company.

(You knew he took her home. Would he be Conrad if he didn’t?)

You typed back, Not tonight, just finished.

Pretending?

You snorted to yourself. He wasn’t exactly wrong. Not tonight, you repeated. You couldn’t handle him tonight.

Why not?

Aren’t you already…occupied?

She’s gone. Curt, simple.

You smiled. Poor thing.

And it was like he was right beside you when he responded, She wouldn’t agree. You could feel his attitude. When you didn’t respond, he said again, Come over.

Not a question. You peaked your head up to find Justin (that sounded right) on his way back. It was about time you left anyway. You stood quickly, and smiled at him kindly as you grabbed your bag. 

He pushed one out, just for the sake of it, and tracked your movement toward the hallway. He opened his mouth to say something, but you were out the door before he could get a word out. 

You were lucky you drove yourself. Once in the safety of your car, you checked your phone again.

Conrad waited for a response.

No, you said again.

His response was instantaneous, and you laughed to yourself. Why?

You sobered yourself. You were better than this, better than him. Aware of your hypocrisy, you answered, Because you never stay.

You didn’t get a text back.

—

You couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment it started. Maybe somewhere amongst the late-night swims and whispers of comfort, you found him. It wasn’t pretty, but it definitely wasn’t ugly.

Not when Conrad Fisher was involved.

And staying away from him, for all intents and purposes, only made you miss him more.

Two weeks. You lasted two weeks.

Honestly, all it took was a couple more lame hookups with Jason (you eventually learned) for you to break. You craved something, an emotion or a rush or even just that look on his face when Conrad finally let go, and there was only one person that could give it to you. 

So, yeah, you were parked outside the Fisher’s beach house at 2 AM, your blood thrumming in your veins at the prospect of what was soon to come. The only light on in the house was Conrad’s, and you turned your car off before the headlights accidentally woke up the rest of the household.

You liked to think that you learned how to read Conrad over the years. You had spent countless summers in Cousins, and more often than not found yourself at the Fisher’s. Jeremiah was your best friend, Conrad was his brother. It was all sorts of wrong, but perhaps that’s what made it so desirable.

When he met you at the door, the first thing you noticed was his eyes. They were quieter than usual — a shade of brown so dark they were nearly black. Nearly, but not quite.

It was fitting, you supposed. Because for a man who appeared so cold — so blank — to so many, if you looked hard enough, you could always find a discrepancy.

Today’s was his forehead. It was wrinkled with the thoughts that pooled there, the current of them that tangled itself up, one knot of heartbreak and loss and deep, unending hurt. You knew he was mourning someone who hadn’t left quite yet, and you thought that that was worse than having already lost them.

He said nothing, his lips pressed together, but you detected a slight tremor in his hand when it found the small of your back. He led you up the stairs, and you followed. 

The impatience was building at the bottom of your stomach, and with each step on the staircase that felt longer than usual, the clashing of emotions rose to your ribs, climbed them like rungs. Your lungs felt useless, and desire, worry, lust pressed relentlessly against your sternum.

You needed him.

You needed him okay.

His bedroom was at the end of the hall, you knew it well. Conrad didn’t have to guide you, you made your way there quickly, glancing at him as you fell onto his bed. It felt just as you remembered: the pillows like clouds that could make up heaven, for the two of you would be canonized there.

“Making yourself at home?” He questioned, locking the door behind him.

Letting your head hang off the edge of the bed, you gave him a lazy grin. You wore an old crewneck and some sleep shorts, but the way he was looking at you made it feel like the most opulent lingerie. “Don’t be mean.”

He was upside-down in your eyes, and you knew you broke through some of his walls when he crouched to be level with you. “But I thought you liked it?”

You rolled your eyes. “Prick.”

His voice lowered, conscious of how close you were to the rest of the household. “That’s no way to address a friend,” he said, faux-hurt.

A laugh loosed itself from your chest. “We’re not just friends and you know it.”

He looked ready to argue, mouth parting in the way that only promised trouble, but you moved before he could get a speak, pushing up to lay properly against the pillows instead. Conrad stood, but whatever comment he was going to make remained unsaid.

Instead, he was positioning himself over you, your body caged by his own, forearms landing on either side of your head. He smiled.

Absently, you ran your thumb over a dimple. Something in you ached.

His eyes shuddered, and you eyed the tangle of thoughts that decorated his forehead. You held back the instinct to smooth it out. He was not yours to solve.

Finally, his mouth landed on yours. You sighed at the relief, at the familiarity of the act. There was an air of control to it, something sourced from jealousy and too much sober thinking. He was rough, bruising, his teeth meeting yours by accident, then catching on your bottom lip.

A sound — something he would call pathetic — reverberated in your throat, and you could taste the satisfaction in his smile.

And yet, despite the anger and the aggression and the aching, the hands that held you in place, thumbs parentheses on your cheekbones, were as gentle as ever. Your noses never bumped, his weight was never overbearing, and he tasted like he always did.

Sea salt, cinnamon, the last dregs of beer accompanied by the lime he kept in there. The flavors never clashed, they were just him.

If there was one thing you could rely on, it was this: his edges, sharp as they were, fit perfectly against your own.

His lips formed a path to your jaw, leaving open-mouthed kisses, sucking when they deigned. You closed your eyes and settled against his ministrations. Real or not, you were certain this bedroom beat heaven any day.

Your back arched, nipples scratching against fabric, and Conrad swallowed your moan at the first point of contact — his thigh right between your own. Your hips twitched up, desperate for more, but he held back, not yet done with you.

Your throat was his first focus. One hand kept him propped up, while the other held your jaw. He tilted it however he pleased, permitting himself access to expanses of skin, sensitive and tender. It was as if he was playing with you — you were art, created for and by him, his medium the lips that traveled and touched and tasted.

“Conrad,” you whispered as his tongue circled your pulse point. In other circumstances, you might have been embarrassed by how fast it was racing. 

He paused, eyes flicking up to yours. His pupils were all you saw, irises a thin line of afterthought, and his lips were red, swollen, betraying just how alive he felt. “Hmm?”

You carded through his hair, then pressed your own kisses: the corner of his mouth, his jawline, tracing down to a spot — one you knew well — that elicited a soft groan. “Did you bring me over to tease me,” you whispered, “or to fuck me?”

He let out a breathless laugh, then slid his fingers under the hem of your sweater, pulling it up with no further preamble. His hands grazed your sides as he did so, slow and steady, while his lips paid overdue attention to the rest of your body; he traced the tops of your hips, your stomach, greeted each rib as they revealed themselves to him. He tsked, “Impatience isn’t a good look on you.”

“And jealousy isn’t a good look on you.”

His teeth glinted in the moonlight, and digits unclasped your bra with practiced ease. “What do I have to be jealous of, sweetheart? You can fuck whoever you like.”

You hummed thoughtfully, relishing the tongue that circled the peak of your breast. “You say that, and then you give me Murder Eyes all night.”

Conrad nipped lightly, then soothed the hurt with a kiss. He finally divested you of the fabric, unceremoniously throwing it to the corner of the room. “You can hardly blame me.” He pinched your other nipple, and you squirmed. “I didn’t like that guy.”

“You don’t like any guys, Con.”

He elected to ignore that observation.

After all, with your legs pressed together, seeking friction, and those sounds coming out of your mouth, he had other priorities. Priorities he quickly fulfilled, dragging down your cotton shorts and letting them join their predecessor in a place that felt miles away from this haven you’d found. 

Your breathing picked up, courtesy of the lips that moved from one hip bone to the other, then down. Lower. Shudders were left in his wake, and you had just enough sense left to have your fingers stay tangled in his hair, the locks curled and soft from saltwater.

His thumb brushed over the scrap of lace you called panties, and you jumped at the sensation, still needing more. Conrad took his time though, learning your anatomy and the sounds it could create when given the right sort of attention.

His lips were next, taking their course, sloppy kisses in all the right places, but the damned fabric preventing him from much more. The thing was soaked, for fuck’s sake, not doing much for concealment, but you wanted it — like every other fathomable barrier — gone.

“If we get caught,” you whispered with no small amount of difficulty, “I’m killing you.”

He didn’t move from his perch, but his eyes met yours, and you almost came from the sight alone. “You ought to stay quiet then,” he murmured, and backed away just to get the panties (ones you picked out specifically for tonight, damn him) down your legs and thrown to the side, that easily forgotten.

With half a mind, you tugged on the sleeves of his own shirt, and he obliged you, losing the old t-shirt and giving you no time to take in the view, much to your chagrin. For he was already wrapping two biceps (large ones, you had to note) around your thighs and pinning your hips down.

He started carefully, gentle presses to the surrounding area, kitten licks that made your fingers tighten their hold. He moaned, and you could have laughed. Who knew Conrad Fisher liked his hair pulled?

The tone shifted. What once was delicate could no longer be called such; he licked a broad stripe, not caring for the subtleties when his objective was nothing so pure. But if nothing else, he had a sense of duty, and that was what dictated his next moves.

His tongue massaged your clit for a moment as he relearned (he was always relearning, looking for details he might have once missed) what made you tick. And when one palm left his hair in hopes of muffling your noises in lieu, you knew he was pleased.

He closed his lips around the bud and hollowed his checks, and your teeth dug into the back of your hand, hips bucking up. Your attempt to close your legs was pitiful at best — Conrad was keeping you open for him without issue. 

“Fuck,” escaped your attempt at stifling yourself, and the vibrations that followed from his chuckle had a coil tightening in the bottom of your stomach.

He was vibrant like this, painting you in pleasure until you were the picture of euphoria. Those colors were bursting across your closed eyes, a reminder that Conrad could be quite the artist when he wanted to.

Two digits circled your entrance, then slid in to the third knuckle easily. His free forearm draped across your hips, and he broke just to whisper, “You taste divine.”

Before you could manage a retort (if you were even capable), he was working you with just as much fervor. Your hips rolled as he discovered nerves and their endings, setting them alight until your entire nervous system was compromised of him and his eyes and his tongue and his fingers when they curled and found the spot that made you see stars.

He would be the death of you. That was for certain.

It was somewhere between the teeth nipping at your clit and his fingers pumping and curling at a renewed pace that your orgasm hit you. It consumed you, set you on fire and made you believe in everything holy because God, there was nothing mundane about this.

It was hard and blinding and there was his tongue lapping up the fruit of his labors like it was so sweet. Your legs were shaking, and the tremors had crawled up to encase your whole body in such ecstasy. It was like release and shooting up at the same time.

You opened your eyes, and Conrad was looking at you like you belonged in a museum.

He straightened, but didn’t bother to school his face, giving you all his truth. Sweatpants hung low on his hips, his arousal evident, and you reached for him without a second thought.

He only paused to remove the rest of his clothes and find a condom in the drawer of his nightstand, and then he was propped over you once more.

“Could you be any louder?” he joked.

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re one to talk — I recall quite a bit of noise from you a few weeks ago.”

Conrad loved a good blowjob and you knew it. And you were sure a few members of that house party knew it too. Thin walls and whatnot.

He grinned, and you swore your ribs reorganized themselves just to make room for that specific smile right beside your heart. His forehead was blissfully clear of misshapen thread.

Still, a part of you ached when he entered you. This place you were in, tangible or not, would not last much longer. By the time you were done, you’d be leaving on shaking legs and he would leave the porchlight on just long enough for you to reach your car. No goodbye’s, no I’ll see you tomorrow’s, nothing that said that the oxygen shared between the two of you at night would be the same one shared in the morning. All you could count on was that it wasn’t him. Not when others were involved.

“Get out of your head,” he murmured, voice low. “Feel me.”

And you did. Every inch and the slight curve that you fit you perfectly. You followed his instruction, letting the sensations engulf the sting of overstimulation until mind-numbing pleasure was all you were left with.

That, and the groans that accompanied your own. Quiet curses reminded you of where you were, who you were with, and you hooked your legs around his waist, bringing him deeper.

Your nails left scratches down his back, ones you knew he loved, and when his thumb circled your clit, you had to turn your head into the nearest pillow. It was too much.

Conrad paused, and your breath stuttered. You rolled your hips, desperate to reach the climax that was steadily building.

“Let me see your face,” he said, forceful enough that you listened. “I want to see you.”

“Please,” was all you could manage.

His tempo resumed, increasing, and you thanked every deity you could think of for quiet bed frames. You were feeling him, all of him — his hips stuttering, his breath quickening, the sinful slap of skin. 

Your nails carved into his scapulae, the vertebra of his spine, the muscles formed through hours of dedication. He was massive, but you knew you had control. Even if only when shrouded in shadow and under the cover of darkness, he would bend to you.

“I’m going to cum,” you whispered, his thumb the final piece. Your thoughts disappeared as he took care of you, brought you to the edge and let you break over it.

You felt his eyes watching, taking you in, and he fucked you through your orgasm, incurring wave upon wave until you were numb, blissed out.

Your name was on his lips when he finished, a strong few thrusts followed by his own trembling muscles revealing it all. You could drink in that sound for eternity, you thought. You could sip it like wine and gorge yourself on it like it was all you needed to survive.

For the seconds after, you kept your lids closed, unseeing. So, you were entirely surprised to find soft kisses being pressed to your neck, your cheek, your temple. Even after he pulled out, his lips remained to savor something you thought didn’t exist.

They were indolent, not at all like his earlier markings. This was him taking his time, appreciating you, worshipping you. He was kneeling at the altar, and you were his goddess. Without words, without articulation, but clear enough.

Your breathing was heavy, but you were cautious. Things seldom lasted this long, and you didn’t move in fear of the moment ending. This was a different sort of vulnerability, one that had never before existed between the two of you.

“Conrad?” You said, testing the waters.

“Yes?” He met your eyes, and the knot was back.

Without thinking, you ran your thumb between his brows. It disappeared, if only for a few minutes. That was enough. “Are you alright?”

You both knew the answer, the circumstances of his situation. Alright was a far cry from anything he could be. “I don’t know.”

The two of you needed to clean up, to wash yourselves of the transpired events, but you couldn’t help but hold onto this period of peace. “What do you need?”

He sat up, and pulled you with him. He didn’t answer the question, not as you wished, but this was Conrad, and you had a gift at reading between his lines. “Do you want to watch a movie?” he asked, his voice wrong. Different.

You smiled at him. “Yeah—Yeah, that sounds great.”

Something in him — hiding in his set shoulders, his clenched jaw, his shaking hand — relaxed. Utter relief. He presented you with another smile, and you thought you might start a collection.

He helped you stand on weak legs, a bit of cockiness returning at the sight, but he kept his mouth shut, opting to lead you to the adjoining bathroom instead. The mirror revealed the disheveled states of you both, remnants of things — people — that would never get old.

He met your eyes, and you made your only stipulation. “I’m picking though.”

He shook his head, but accepted. The two of you wouldn’t be able to agree on a movie if you tried. “Only if I choose next time.”

Giving Marc head during the worst possible times of his day is your version of fun.

There's nothing quite like the look of unbridled desire that blooms in his eyes every time he sees you sink to your knees in front of him, a pleading smile on your lips..

"Please, baby, I'm busy," he'll always say, as if to protest. But you know he just says it for show; he'll never stop thanking his lucky stars for how desperately insatiable you can be.

Because when your throat feels empty, it feels hollow, and the only thing that can make you return to yourself is his thick, veiny cock stuffed down your throat until your nose brushes the coarse patch of hair at the base.

If he's about to fall asleep? No better bedtime story than the sound of you gagging on the swollen head of his cock touching the back of your throat, your hands splayed on his thighs for balance.

He's on the phone? You'll kneel before him like a zealot bends to pray, and you'll take him into your mouth without a word, hardly even a look into his eyes, while he stifles his moans.

He comes home from another hard day as Moon Knight? You're there for him, ready to pull him down to the bed and let him lose his worries with your mouth around him.

And now? He's just gotten out of the shower, towel draped sinfully low on his hips, his chest a canvas of scars and muscles and droplets of water that still run down the rivets of his stomach.

You've been trying to distract yourself with...well, anything, but that's been awfully hard considering your favorite man is in much need of a relaxing shower. You'd almost gone in with him, but had refrained when you saw the hard look in his eye.

You could be his treat after the shower. Besides, you'd convinced yourself, he needed those quiet moments to come back to himself from a long day.

Of course, the temptation had been so strong that you'd had to resort to sinking your hand into your shorts to keep yourself from interrupting his alone time.

"Look at you," he muses when he steps out of the bathroom, leaning down to drop a kiss on your head. "Keeping yourself busy, I see?"

Your eyes open at the sound of his voice, and you can feel the droplets of water from his hair land on your arm. It cools your hot skin, and your fingers stop circling your clit. "Couldn't help myself," you shrug with a smirk, "what else am I s'posed to do when I know you're just a few feet away, looking as good as you do?"

His smirk remains on his face, but you swear you can see it grow wider when he flits his eyes down to where your hand has disappeared under the soft material of your lounge shorts. "You want something, sweetheart?" he teases, and your face burns.

"Only you," you reply, your voice thick. Pulling your hand from your shorts, you hold out your shining fingers to his mouth, tapping them against his bottom lip before placing them over your tongue, gently sucking your sweet juices from your own fingertips.

"C'mere," you coo. "Wanna taste you, Marc."

It doesn't take much more than that to get him to drop his towel, laying back on the bed with his feet dangling off the edge, just enough to reach the floor. His cock is already half-mast, a delicious challenge for you to conquer. Before you put your mouth over his tip, he reaches out to tug at your waistband. "Lemme see that pretty pussy, baby," he says, his voice always a quiet command. "I wanna hear you play with yourself while you suck my cock."

You bite your lip with a grin and obey. You usually allow him these little requests; it makes him feel like he's in control for the few minutes before you've got him writhing and whimpering beneath you.

With one hand on your clit, rubbing rhythmic circles on your bundle of nerves, breathy moans dropping from your lips, you lift your eyes to his and open your mouth, taking him softly.

At first. You like to watch his lips quiver as he tries to hold in the desperate moans. No matter how many times you find yourself in this position, Marc's moans remain loud and plentiful, turning into an unforgettable chorus of whines when you inevitably take him down to the base of his cock.

"Fuck," he curses under his breath, throwing his arm over his face. "You know just how to make me feel better, honey. That's it, fuck—"

His voice catches when you moan around him, the vibrations stiffening his cock in an instant. Your throat is deliciously full, and you hollow your cheeks for a moment, sucking hard and fast to watch him crumble to pieces.

Now you've got him where you want him.

"Do I make you feel good, Marc?" you ask sweetly when you lift your mouth from him for a moment's reprieve.

It's all he can do to nod, a whine squeezing its way from his throat. "Always so good, doll," he heaves, his hips straining up from the bed. "I wanna—please—"

You dip your tongue down and swirl it gently around his tip, lapping up the precum with an appreciative moan. "Ask nicely, baby," you tease him, your hand curling around his length and delivering a courteous, languid stroke.

His hips stutter. "More, please," he breathes. "Wanna fuck your throat. Please."

For a moment, you pause to look at him. He looks absolutely wrecked. You've never gotten him this desperate so quickly. "And you say I'm insatiable," you murmur. "Come on, Marc. Fuck my throat. Play with me how you want."

His hands come down to the back of your head with almost no warning but a, "thank fuck," and then your eyes are squeezing shut as he plants his feet to the ground, bucking his hips faster and harder into your mouth, watching your hair fall into your eyes.

"That's it, baby," he mutters, and you relish in the deep gravelly tone that his voice takes. "Want me to come down this pretty throat?"

You can't even reply; his hips don't stop until his groans grow louder, and longer, and his hands grip your hair in tight fists, nearly pulling it out from the roots. "Such a good girl, taking my cock so well," he hums. "Gonna come, baby, gonna—"

He loses all coherence when he comes, and it's music to your ears as his hips stutter once more before falling back to the bed, his hands still pulling you to the base of his cock as he pulses, painting the walls of your throat with his release.

When he loosens his grip, you lift your head and swallow, swiping a finger under your lip to catch any drops that might have fallen. Nothing but a smug chuckle passes your lips.

"What?" he asks, his chest heaving and lined in a sheen of sweat.

Your hand returns to your core, having removed it when he was fucking your throat. "Nothing," you say, feigning innocence. "It's just..."

His lips curl up. "Lemme take care of you, baby," he says with a hand reaching for you. Despite his fatigue, his arms are strong as he pulls you up on the bed. "Wanna return the favor," he murmurs, and his hands find your hips, pulling you to straddle his chest.

"Yeah?" you tease, and you can't help but wonder how fucked out the both of you look. No doubt your hair is knotted beyond belief, and with the way he's tugging you closer to his face, making your sopping core hover over his mouth, you're sure it'll be quite a bit longer before the two of you can clean up.

He hides it behind baggy jeans and boxers, but you pride yourself on being very, very familiar with it. It took the first six months of your relationship to take it all the way into your cunt, the thickness of it stretching you till you thought you were bound to break, the length of it bullying so deep you thought you would feel it in your fucking throat. Even now, four years later, you still need to be prepared thoroughly before taking Frankie, a process that he takes great joy in.

Frankie will spend hours between your thighs, sucking at your clit and fucking you open on his calloused fingers until you’re sobbing and shaking. He loves to pull your thighs apart when you try to close them, keeping you wide open and dripping for him. You beg for him to fuck you, that you’re ready, but Frankie also loves to ignore you, content to keep lapping at your twitching cunt, murmuring a, “quiet, princesa, I’m working.” You want to strangle him. 

You also love him so much that it hurts sometimes. 

He’s perfect, everything is perfect, except for the fact that, although he’ll spend an entire night eating your pussy like a man starved, he won’t let you return the favor. You can count the amount of times in four years that Francisco Morales has let you suck his cock on one hand, and you wouldn’t even use all of your fingers. Whenever you’re between his legs, working him between your lips, inch by thick inch, he always wrenches you off him with a grip in your hair, before he bends you over and fucks you until your pussy is gaping and your brain is mush.

But you know you’ve got him this time. His hands are bound with a silky scarf around the head board, the pinkness of his blush spreading down to his chest as he watches you with heavy eyes.

“Princesa, please, just- you can sit on my face, yeah? And do what you want to me, but baby, I just gotta...I gotta make you feel good, please?” he grunts with that deep voice of his, raspy and needy.

You kiss him softly as a reply, brushing a hand through his soft curls. “Frankie,” you whisper. “I want to suck your cock today. I told you that, baby, didn’t I?” Frankie nods tentatively. You grin at the way his lips part, big eyes watching you like you’ve hung the moon and stars, just for him. “Then you’re going to shut up and let me suck you as long as I want, you got that?”

Frankie nods again, and nearly whines when you pull away from his face, brushing your lips down, down. You lick over the softness of his stomach, around where his cock, throbbing and red and dripping, lays against it. You avoid sucking the sticky tip into your mouth right away, instead moving lower to bite at his quivering thighs. You can hear Frankie’s breaths growing louder, desperate for your touch. 

“Please, mi vida,” he whimpers, hips bucking up ever so slightly. His cheeks burn at the sound of his own desperation, but when you smile at him, almost shyly, at his words, it almost becomes worth it.

“Okay, Frankie,” you whisper, and he gasps when you move back up his body, ever so slightly, to lick hungrily over the length of his cock, moaning at the taste.

He groans deep in his throat at the feeling of your hot tongue trailing over the veins and crevices of him, memorizing every thick, throbbing inch. You make your way up until you reach the tip, and, with one final glance at Frankie, his pupils blown wide as he meets your gaze, you close your plush lips around the tip.

Frankie’s back arches, just a bit, off the bed when you suck hard on the tip of his cock, tongue dipping into the slit as you swallow everything he has to give. “Ah- oh God, oh God, por favor, baby,” he whines, not even knowing what he’s begging for from you.

But you know, you always know. 

You can’t exactly smile around Frankie’s cock, not with your mouth stretched as wide as it is around the girth of him, but it’s a near thing. You slide down the length of him, tongue running along every new inch you let into your pretty mouth, watching as Frankie’s eyes roll into the back of his head, soft stomach heaving with every labored breath.

You brace yourself with your nails digging into his thighs as you push down even further, the tip of him finally budging into the back of your throat, and though you try to swallow around it, you can’t help but gag a little.

Frankie’s eyes snap open at the feeling and sound, his body going suddenly still. “Baby, do you need to stop? Fuck, you can stop if it’s too much, we can just-” You shake your head gently, not daring to slide him out of your mouth just yet. “Okay, okay, mi vida,” he breathes. “Just, please, I don’t want to hurt you.”

You could never, you want to say, but your mouth is far too preoccupied. Instead, you push just a little further, shoving him just another inch into your drooling mouth.

Frankie never lets you do this, never lets you have your fill, and you’re drunk off the taste of him, eyes rolling into the back of your head at the tip lodges in the back of your throat. And even as it does, even as his fat cockhead makes you choke, you keep sinking down.

He slides deep into the length of your throat, forcing you to breathe through your nose. Your eyes are watering at the stretch of him, your nails digging little indents into his hairy thighs. You fucking love it.

Frankie loves it too, evidently. With every inch, he whines, crying your name in stuttered gasps. You just keep moving, bobbing your head up and down just slightly to get more and more of him in, until you finally, finally, reach the thick base of his cock, the wiry hairs tickling your nose.

“Oh God, fuck princesa, you’re so perfect. Shit, your mouth is so good, you- you’re so good to me, baby, oh fuck, no one’s ever gotten this far, I-I-” he gasps, head thrown back and eyes clenched shut.

Oh. Your head feels like it’s underwater, delirious with the fact that you’re the only one to ever do this for Frankie. The only one that can do this for him.

You gaze up at him, entranced by his sweat-slicked, heaving body, pretty and needy. He blinks his eyes open, looking down at you when you stop moving, utterly still with his cock buried deep inside your throat. You, all pretty with your cheeks flushed and eyes watery, lips stretched wide and sticky and utterly obscene. You gaze back, your stare unrelenting, and suddenly swallow hard around the entire length of him.

Frankie nearly screams at the feeling, completely unreal and new. “Ah- ah!”

And you just keep doing it, bobbing slightly while you milk him with your hot, wet throat. Overwhelmed tears are leaking down Frankie’s face, his hips hitching up just barely to meet the minute movements of your head.

“I- Princesa, I’m gonna- I can’t hold it, ‘m sorry, can’t- it’s so good, too good mi vida, I-”

Frankie tries to pull his hips back, but you hold yourself onto him, keeping him buried within you as he spills hot, sticky cum down your throat.

You keep sucking him, milking him as the last dregs of his orgasm die away, before finally pulling yourself off him.

“Good?” you whisper, you voice sounding raspy and fucking used.

Frankie’s eyes widen in shock. “Good? Holy fucking shit, baby,” he mutters, head thrown back to look up at the ceiling, as if to ask God is she being fucking serious right now?