Shelter in place

This fucking sucks, you think.

A pit yawns into existence in the depths of your stomach, and you kiss your teeth. The night managed to be ruined before it even began. Truly a new record in a string of shitty luck. The only thing left is to decide how to respond.

While in the past, you used a plethora of options (each more inventive than the last), this time you're stumped. Bereft. Left standing on a foundation of shifting sand.

How do you correlate the sting of this offensive to the nature of your not-relationship — could you?

In the end, he owes you nothing.

You scrub a hand over your chest with a frown. This should be a non-issue, and yet... And yet.

What the hell's wrong with me?

Beside you, the bartender averts his gaze. Pretends the task of polishing smudged pint glasses is of the utmost importance while you suffer through an existential crisis.

You appreciate the curtesy, clumsy as it is.

Not like there's much else for him to do.

It's a slow night, the locals more interested in the newest blockbuster than sticky floors and cheap drinks with a heavy pour. The music's decent and the strobe lights they kick on after 10 PM aren't offensive enough to induce a migraine.

Moreover, it's quiet as far as bars go - one of the many reasons why it's a favorite meeting place of yours.

Because while its changed hands several times over the years, some things forever remain the same. Like the trashy, half-naked mermaids hanging from the rafters or the bright splashes of graffiti painting the walls in swaths of color... or the low booth crammed into the back corner; a hidden, tell-tale heart hosting an aged carving of yours and Jack's initials on the underside.

The lone vigil of a bygone life filled with coursework and exams, laughter shared over watered down lagers and the pressing clasp of warm palms.

Will we ever be like that again?

Nostalgia's a dangerous thing as you glance at your secret keeper. Makes it harder to avoid the lurch of your heart and the churn of your stomach; the tangled mess of strangleweed emotions threatening to steal the breath from your lungs.

You've been stood up.

Again.

Abandoned in a monument of your youth and surrounded by bittersweet reminders of a time when Jack cared. When he was tender and kind. When the distance between you didn't throb like an open wound.

This isn't the first time. It won't be the last.

Humiliation burns white-hot, sinks its fingers into the apples of your cheeks. It used to be so easy not to take his flakiness personally. He was a busy man with important things to do, even back in college.

When did that change? When did he stop saying sorry? When did he stop caring?

The desolation is much harder to shake off this time. You used to be so understanding but now it feels as if Jack's plunged a hand into your chest, scooped out any tender, soft thing he could find.

Goddamn it. What did you expect?

Jack Abbot is a screaming red flag.

He likes getting shot at for fun, plays cop by listening to a police scanner in his free time, flirts with death to a concerning degree, and bends the rules when it suits his needs.

A loose cannon, wild and untamed since his youth.

He reminds you of Icarus, constantly soaring to new heights. And like the boy with hope in his heart and wings made of wax, you live in fear of the day he'd get burned for flying too close to the sun.

However, you didn't expect to be plummiting towards the earth in his stead. And you don't share his knack for compartmentalization, instead thrown off-kilter by this recent disappointment in a long line of tragedy.

What’s going on with me, you think, regret bitter on your tongue. This is nothing new. Jack's doing what he's always done.

Hell, even after you fuck he never acts differently - as casual with you between the sheets as he is lounging on your couch with a carton of greasy Chinese food and beer.

It's been great.

It's been enough.

Why is now different?

Just the thought of going back to your empty apartment makes your skin crawl, knowing he'll swing by after his next shift with a half-assed apology and your favorite drink since you were a sleep deprived undergrad in hand.

Then he'll coax you into bed where you'll get lost in each other's bodies for hours.

He'll continue to take-take-take.

You'll continue to give-give-give.

On and on, a distant star orbiting a black hole - losing little bits of itself until there's nothing left but dust.

Then he'll leave your life.

First in inches, then in miles; a blurry after-image there and gone in the blink of an eye. You might be lucky if you get a check-up call once every three months.

After all, your lives went in separate directions before - what's stopping that from happening again?

Fuck, I - I can’t do this anymore, you realize, a shiver rattling down your spine, Because I —

An errant thought gains teeth.

Sinks deep and refuses to budge as an awful truth, one buried so well you forgot it was there - ever lurking in the shadows - rises to the forefront of your mind. Hysteria swells. A cold chill rakes gnarled fingers down the nobs of your spine.

Oh.

It’s because I love him. Because I’m in love with him. I always have been.

Suddenly it hurts to breathe, your lungs burning as you drown on the air itself. A steel band cinches around your ribs, threatens to crack you open. Your heart lurches. Despair follows on swift wings, and you have no one to blame except yourself.

Fuck, you scrub a hand over your face with a wane smile. How could I…

It'll never work.

Loving Jack is the same as loving the ghost of a long-forgotten memory, and you are not content to warm yourself on hollow bones and cinders of affection. Besides, there are too many hurts to soothe, and too many disappointments to name.

Should’ve known better — should’ve done a lot of things, I guess.

Now, you're in too deep.

Waiting without ever realizing you began to do so in the first place; a life on pause, surviving off of half-measures and maybe's, what-ifs, if-only's.

No more.

It's time to muster up some semblance of self, untangle the threads of connection so you can rediscover the pieces of your heart you left with him all those years ago. Relearn how to live without the taste of his kiss, the clench of his muscles, the thrust of his cock. Content yourself with his friendship and nothing more.

And it starts with a simple reply in the face of everything else you really want to say: Ok.

After, you grab the bartender's attention (not that it was ever on anyone else but you).

He pretends not to notice the tears brimming along your lash line."Ready to order?" he asks. "What'll ya have?"

"Uh, yeah - sorry, I was…"

The screen of your phone lights up with a notification. His mouth twitches. You waver, refuse to look. Everything is still too fresh, emotions scraped raw and tender.

A simple flick of your finger turns on DND, then you place the device face down where it'll remain until you call it a night. You're far too fragile - and sober - to think about reading Jack's reply.

“Vodka cranberry, double shot. Please.”

Maybe if you get drunk enough, you'll forget about the home he carved in your bones.

Bottoms up, bitch.

In hindsight, having this conversation with Jack face to face the day after you realized you've spent a significant chunk of your life in love with a man who'll never love you back isn’t the brightest idea.

But if last night showed you anything, it's that every choice you’ve made lately is a disaster waiting to happen. What’s another mistake to add to your long string of misfortune?

It doesn't matter if there's a tremor to your hands when you unlock the door to let him in. It doesn't matter if your stomach churns when he leans in for a kiss only for you to duck aside, his lips catching on the slope of your cheek. It doesn't matter even when he pauses and gives you a long, searching look before pro-offering the drink he picked up on the way.

It can't get any worse.

Right?

(It can. It does.)

When he heads towards your bedroom with a slanted quirk of his lips and a playful wink, his crow's feet crinkling, the hungry, molten mixture of rage and rebellion fueling you sputters before fizzling down to embers.

Your heart stutters.

In that moment, he reminds you so, so much of the fresh faced older boy you knew.

The one who dragged you out for pancakes at 3 AM after you crammed for an exam, soft eyes and tender hands. The one you explored your sexuality with, curled against his chest as you kissed and groped each other, lips clumsy and palms sweaty. The one who stole your heart before you realized how empty he'd leave you.

Anguish and despair nip at your heels when you follow him.

You step into the room. This is all you’ll ever be to him, you remind yourself. A fun time. Nothing serious. You have to break it off for the sake of your friendship.

“Did you have a good night?”

Any attempt at smiling falls flat; ill-fitting, the corners stretched too wide, teeth bared like a dog.

Jack shrugs and shifts his weight onto his good leg, glancing around at the decorations littering your dresser. “Nah, not really.” His gaze slides to you, traveling from your head to your bare toes in a slow once over. “I definitely would’ve had a better time with you.” He flashes you a smile. "Always do."

Swallowing roughly, you rub your hands over your arms and feel far too exposed in the light summer dress you haphazardly threw on, skin too sensitive for anything heavier.

“Hah,” you intone without humor, awkward and stilted. “Probably not. I was out by 11:30.”

Jack hums. “Mm, that’s not like you.” He steps forward, only stopping once he's in front of you. "You're acting weird."

Hands reach for your wrists, broad palms a heated brand as fingers encircle the bone like they're cradling precious china. A rough thumb strokes over your pulse point. Shivery sensation whispers at the touch, awareness dripping down your nerves.

"Is there anything you want to talk about, sweetheart?"

When you stitch together a chuckle, its mirthless.

Of course he'd notice.

“Nothing gets past you, huh?”

Jack grins, his eyes crinkling. "Nothing," he agrees.

With every inhale, your chests brush. The scant few inches between your bodies heats, electric. His torso is a tempting line of hardness begging to mold itself against you just like it has time and time again. It’s torture. It’s too intimate.

The glow of your overhead lamp highlights the glints of spun silver in his hair, the curling sweep of his lashes as he blinks slow and happy, his eyes the shade of kerosene and broken amber beer bottles. He's blinding - like looking at the sun.

Clearing your throat, you shrink back.

“Don’t do that. Where are you going?” He pleads with you to stay, his body curved towards you. A palm settles over your shoulder. “Stop hiding. You can talk to me about anything. Come on, I want to know what’s going on in that pretty head of yours.”

Oh, his expression is so open, so soft.

What a terrible thing to destroy.

If only this moment, this memory could last forever suspended on a string.

Maybe once you beat your feelings back into submission…

Better to be quick otherwise you fear the words will get stuck around the bend of your throat like a noose. Resolved, you inhale and muster your courage. Steel your heart and do your best to ignore the ginger stokes of his fingertips.

You exhale, "We need to stop."

The world grinds to a startling halt.

Silence descends but for the rigid exhale through his nose, and all you can do is watch as Jack's eyes darken, scalpal sharp in the dim overhead light. Even still, his half-smile never wanes. Of course, it wouldn't be that easy. He's always been a greedy man. Wants what he can't have, and destroys what he does.

"What do you mean?" Jack asks (but he knows, there's no way he doesn't). "You're gonna have to be a bit more specific than that, sweetie."

You sigh and rub the bridge of your nose. "Jack, you know what I mean."

"Do I?"

"I just - I can't do," your voice cracks, your free hand motioning helplessly at him, "this anymore."

A vein throbs on the side of his neck, his stubbled jaw working side to side. Muscles bunch and release with every grind of his teeth. Tension impregnates the air, crackling between you like bottled lightening. The calm before the storm.

"You gonna tell me why? Or are you just going to ditch me - act like we," he catches himself, and re-phrases his sentence, "like it didn't fuckin' mean anything?"

“Jack…”

There’s a certain grief that can’t be spoken, gnarled roots burrowing deep in your chest. You wish this wasn’t happening. You wish you could take it back but this pantomime of a relationship isn’t fair. Not to you. Not anymore.

Though while you knew this conversation wouldn’t be fun, Jack's staunch denial still manages to surprise you.

“It didn’t mean anything though,” you say.

At least, not to you, you think. To me, it meant the world.

— And that’s the problem.

You need to stop whatever this is between you from building. He’s already shown he doesn’t share your desire for more in a multitude of ways. He’s been avoiding you for a reason, whether he was consciously aware of your feelings or not.

Undoubtedly, you trust him with your life but not your heart.

As sweet as he is - has been - he won’t treat it gently. He can’t contain his own commitment issues let alone make room for yours.

No, it’s better this way.

Let's what you have - had - stay a memory unmarred by the ugliness of your hurt feelings and bitter disappointments. At least, that's what you thought.

Except Jack's shoulders draw up towards his ears and his hands fall away from you. His gaze is glacial as it pins you in place. There's a shadow that lurks in the depths of his eyes, his lips curled into a cruel smirk.

Everything about him looks weighted down, adding years to his face.

If you didn't know better, you'd think it was heartbreak.

"Well, is there? I mean, shit, I think I deserve a fuckin' answer after all the years we've known each other." He scoffs. "At the very least."

“I’m not done with you,” you say. “I would never do that, Jack. I just - I can’t be with you like that anymore. I need space but I’ll still be around, I promise.”

He glares, a snarl rumbling from the depths of his chest. “Cut the bullshit. Tell me the reason.”

"Why does that - I -"

Words fail you when you need them most. Left scrambling for a reason to give while Jack looks so… God, you want to reach out and comfort him (the urge so strong you have to shove your hands under your arms to stop yourself). And then it comes to you, unbidden.

At the beginning of this mess, you only had one rule.

If there's someone you're serious about, you stop fucking. While made for your benefit more than his - barring the few flings after the passing of his wife - it comes as a handy lie. A believable excuse that'll stop any further questioning and save you from incriminating yourself. The last thing you want to do in this moment is be honest, and if he doesn't relent soon, you fear you'll crack under the weight of your grief and the fury in his eyes.

“I think I - I think I want to start looking for a boyfriend again.”

An expression flashes across his face, there and gone in the blink of an eye. But there’s no doubt he recognizes this for the goodbye it’s supposed to be.

This is it, you think.

You can put what you had to rest and move on, a memory on a shelf you’ll dust off years down the line when the hurt isn’t so prevalent. And hopefully, with time, you can relearn how to be his friend. Though the strange gleam to his eyes sends a prickle of apprehension down your spine, and then you find yourself being manhandled as he snaps forward, a snake coiled to strike.

Air flees your lungs as Jack shoves you with a firm palm, your feet stumbling over themselves as you trip backwards into your bed frame. Wood knocks into the backs of your knees, and you fold like a stack of cards. The sheets puff out around you, the scent of your laundry detergent tickling your nose.

You blink at the textured ceiling, mouth agape as you try to process what happened. This was supposed to be an amenable end to a dubious affair. It's quickly turning into anything but.

How? Why?

The empty space above you doesn’t stay vacant.

Jack quickly crowds you into the mattress with his weight as he settles over top of your body. The softness of your body knows the hardness of his, every curve has a matching divot. He molds himself to your front, his firm hips slotting themselves between your thighs as broad palms skim your sides. Warm and calloused, they ruck up the skirt of your dress.

"So that's it, huh?

"What—"

Reaching beneath you to grasp at the soft globes of your ass, Jack yanks you into him. Your pelvises slot together in a harsh clash of friction. Before you can stop yourself, a whine breaks free. The heat of his body sinks into you, and your lashes flutter. A bolt of awareness slices through you as your body responds to his proximity, liquid desire a slow kindling fire behind your navel.

He feels like home - like you're right where you belong beneath him.

Senses overwhelmed as he surrounds you, the heady, pleasent scent of his cologne flooding your lungs with every stuttered inhale. When teeth scrape along the delicate skin of your throat, sharp pinpricks of pleasure-pain lighting sparking sudden and bright, you squirm.

Then he's speaking, low and husky, "My girl's going to leave me for someone else? Think again, sweetheart."

“I’m not your girl. Never was.”

He doesn't need to know how your heart aches at your reply, every beat thrumming in your ears, screaming: it's you, it's always been you, only you.

A cruel mouth latches onto the corner of your jaw, teeth worrying at the flesh as blunt nails dig into the soft fat of your ass. "That right?" Jack asks. His voice rumbles through your torso, your nipples pebbling as they drag over the plains of his chest. "You think you're not my girl?"

The line of his cock ruts into you, dragging wickedly over your swollen clit. It's almost enough to make you swallow your tongue, retract every hasty word and beg for his forgiveness. "I know I'm not your girl," you bite out.

"Ah, so if you're not my girl," he grinds into the cradle of your hips taunting - teasing, "tell me what's got your pretty little pussy so fucking wet, sweetie. C'mon, let's hear it - I'm curious."

"Jack!"

Keening, you rock up into the firm pressure of his shaft. The angle's just right, spreads your folds beneath the thin cotton of your panties to expose your soaked core to the chill of your room. Mortification hooks behind your navel, a warm flush creeping from your crown down to the tips of your toes.

"Don't you know it's rude not to respond when someone asks a question." Jack presses a sloppy kiss to the side of your neck, following up with a stinging nip. His stubble drags over your skin, a path of raw tenderness left in the wake of his attention. "Should I take a guess?"

"I can't — ffuck!"

Blood thrums through your veins, rabbit fast. You're steadily losing all sense of control and rationality, the aborted rolls of your hips increasing in frequency the longer Jack keeps himself pressed against your pussy.

"Do you think some nobody can fuck you better than me?" A hand slaps the outside of your thigh. "Answer me."

A sharp burst of copper floods your mouth, your skin splitting open with how hard you’re chewing on it. Blood clings to the swell of your bottom lip, a ruby red bead you lick away with a nervous tongue.

Sweat dapples your brow, and it’s getting harder and harder to ignore the molten desire curdling your stomach.

“Shit, Jack, please,” you beg, hands tangling in the sheets by your head. “I don’t know what you want from me.”

You’re not sure what you’re asking for but at the same time, you’re not sure how you ended up here.

Again.

“I want you to tell me who your pussy belongs to.”

Fingers inch down to tease along the soft flesh of your inner thighs and play with the elastic of your panties. You tremble, gooseflesh dimpling the exposed skin of your arms as knuckles brush over the length of your soaked pussy. Your clit pulses, the pressure enough to tease.

“Come on, sweetheart,” Jack coaxes, working his way beneath the fabric clinging to your dripping folds, “tell me you’re my girl - always have been ever since college.”

His cock nestles into the crook of your hip, hot and heavy through his jeans as a darkened patch blooms across the denim crotch. The sticky wetness of his pre-cum smearing into your skin as arousal swells. A brief flicker of worry for his leg snakes through you before being knocked loose by the harsh rut of his hips.

“You just have to say it - say you’re my girl and I’ll be so, so good to you.” His breath warms the shell of your ear. “All you have to do is say it, and I’ll make you cum so hard you see stars."

Jack doesn’t give you a chance to cobble together a response, sliding a thick finger through your sticky folds and into your needy pussy just as your lips part to reply. All words leave you, your mind wiped clean as a low, broken cry echoes out into the room. Swallowed up by the sounds of city life outside your apartment as he works to stretch silken flesh open.

You clamp down at the sudden fullness, walls tight and puffy as they flutter around his finger. You can't help but wish it was his cock fucking in so deep the tip kissed your cervix with every thrust, hitting that spot just right to make you cum so hard you soak the bed.

“Fuck,” he groans. “Always so soft n wet n pretty for me.”

Whining in agreement, you give up any pretense of resistance, letting primal desire chase away the despair, the guilt that threatens to choke you. Wiping your mind clean of any thoughts until the only thing that remains is the stretch of his fingers and the ache in your cunt.

Your hands slip, scrambling for purchase with sweaty palms. “J-Jack!”

Your knees tremble where they dig into his sides, air rushing from you in heavy pants as the space between your bodies heats up. You know you won’t last long, already hanging on the edge.

Never in a million years did you expect to be so turned on by Jack's rough behavior. He usually treats you like something delicate.

Though he holds no such compunction now, raw in his desperate desire to make you cum.

Jack peppers kisses onto whatever skin he can reach, spreading your thighs wider with his torso. His knuckles strain against the fabric of your panties, stretching out the cotton and ruining them forevermore as he slips another finger into you.

Then his head bows, catching your gaze, and he says, “Hold on.”

Barely seconds after you anchor yourself to his shoulders, he starts finger fucking you to within an inch of your life. His forearm ripples with strength, the movements of his fingers pressing and rubbing against all the right spots. Curling up to massage at your g-spot until you’re shaking beneath him with hitched breaths.

“Shit, shit,” you gasp, eyes rolling back as your toes flex against his side, “Jack, baby, please don’t stop.”

He huffs a laugh, dark and amused. “Wouldn’t ever do that to you, sweetie.”

“S’good - I - I’m close.”

You sob, tears brimming along your lash line. The sloppy, squelching sounds of him fucking your pussy ring in your ears, as embarrassing as it is arousing. He’s making you gush, slick wetting your inner thighs, dribbling down your ass to stain the sheets.

“So close, gonna - hnnng - gonna cum.”

“Yeah, that’s it. Just like that, baby. Give me that squirt.”

You shake your head. “I can’t - I can’t!”

If you could, you’d suspend time so this moment never ends. The finality of your arrangement hovering just on the other side of pleasure. In the back of your mind, you know Jack's only behaving this way because he’s jealous. Angry.

He doesn’t mean it, and this is a mistake.

It’ll only hurt you in the long run but you’ll take what you can get.

After all, this is the last time you’ll be together like this.

“No,” he shushes, dropping a kiss to your sweaty brow, “No, don’t lie. I know you can. I’ll make you.”

There’s no escape.

He refuses to let you escape, using his weight to keep you pinned as he spreads his fingers open inside you, twisting and fucking so deep you feel a twinge behind your navel. And then you’re right there, crashing over the edge as the bubble of pleasure bursts, crackling through your limbs.

You cum harder than you ever have before. Nails sinking into his shoulders with a hiss as a wounded, broken wail scrapes its way out of your throat. Your pussy throbs, gummy walls sucking him deeper as a rush of cum gushes from you in spurts. Your ears ring with white noise, and you’re vaguely aware of the fact your hands have gone numb.

For several long moments, you float with a head full of cotton, only rejoining the atmosphere when warmth dribbles down your ass in sticky rivulets of squirt.

Jack's arm is curled around your waist, holding you close as his nose nuzzles into the side of your head. Tender lips dust kisses over your crown. His cock is still a heavy weight digging into your hip but he doesn’t seem to be in any rush to relieve himself.

“Jack,” you sigh, a wave of fatigue crashing over you. Your eyes sting when you close them, a lump building in your throat. You ache all over pleasantly, satisfaction settling deep into your bones. In spite of that, a rift opens in your heart. “Jack, I--”

He kisses your shoulder, shushing you. “Don’t ruin it. Just let me hold you for a little while longer… please.”

The tears are almost impossible to stop. “It’s already hard enough, don’t make me -- I can’t just…”

Jack squeezes you gently. “I love you,” he says, “but I swear to god you can be so fucking stupid sometimes.”

You jolt, eyes swinging up to meet his, wide and disbelieving. “What did you just  - I - I  don’t. ..Jack?”

“How could I not feel the same?” he asks rhetorically, tone resigned and wary. “Have since... since college - it just took me a little longer to realize it, that's all. Honestly scared the shit out of me.”

Me too, you think softly as something unfurls in your chest. Lighter than air; ridiculously buoyant with happiness - with hope.

Oh, how stupid.

He averts his gaze. “I almost fucked everything up too, but Robby helped me get my head on straight.”

“We're idiots, huh?”

Jack hums noncommittally, a boyish gleam to his eyes and a sheepish smile on his lips. “You said it, sweetheart.”

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