IF THERE WAS ONE THING effy could work in her favor, it’s tate’s sex appeal. her soft hands, working delicately through his hair, makes his jaw tighten. white knuckles fall by his side and he’ll focus on everything but her. the soft tick of the clock in the far room of the basement, an unending laugh chiding at the dead. for them, time is nothing.
there’s the gentle whir of the vinyl in his room, washed out in crackles and undetermined music, unable to be distinguished from across the basement. her lips meet his skin, her words hanging in the air until he latches onto them, making sense of the noise she was making. she’s right, tate has never been a man of logic. it’s funny, the idea that the words just moments ago had actually came from his own lips. a smile edges on his mouth, but he cannot distract himself from her lips. his chin is tilted upward, and he shifts subtly on the couch. his mouth shapes her name, but he refrains from any words.
so many things come to his head, smart remarks, snide let-downs that he just knows will stop her then and there. but… he’s realizing— he doesn’t want that. for once, right here, he feels her. he wants her. OH GOD. panic creeps down his spine, spirals up to his throat. he hesitates, then bites the inside of his cheek. she’s kissing his neck, and this time his eyelids flicker closed. failing to keep himself composed, tate moves from his reclined position to brush some hair from her shoulder.
he traces her jawline, tilting her face up before he encaves himself in her lips, meeting her there and supplying back what she’s been insinuating. he holds her face, but keeps the kiss short, brief, testing her with his eyes after he draws back. ' do me a favor. ’ he narrows his eyes, but with a twinkle of amusement. ' shut the hell up. anything you say can and will turn me off toward you.’
shut the hell up. gladly. snogging seemed like the easier answer, the natural one, the simple one. in many ways, fucking was the only thing that felt natural in this hell hole; like waking up on christmas morning, or getting your braces taken off. normal, boring shit like that. in many ways, it felt normal, and god ( if he even existed, which she doubted immensely, ) only knows that they both wanted to feel a little normal. rotten digits comb through wavy sun beams like clouds passing by, and her motions are delicate, calculated, talented. there was a time where she once felt like she was falling in love with him, and those emotions drown her, fill her lungs like black smoke and consume her thoughts like a bad trip. she has to remind herself that he’s a piece of shit. asshole. wanker. douchebag. tosser. she pulls away from their lip locking momentarily, if only to amuse him with her finger zipping across her lips, a gesture made to show that she’d keep quiet, as per request.
digits come to the fabric of her shirt, and she unwraps herself for him. talk about christmas morning. she adorns a purple, striped bra---- it almost looks new, when contrasted to the decay and the rot of the rest of the house. lips lock again, and she holds him like a lover, like a friend, like he is the only thing that makes sense in this fucked up world. it makes her sick, to think she can hold him like that. she tries not to think.
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