#so yah

the arguing isn't new, you and your father have never usually got along. you can admit that, even though there is effort on both sides- common qualities clash more than they collaborate.

can I cm over?

yeh :> u kewl?

its easy to make it to his, you've been sneaking out your back window for like, 9 years at this point, you've been climbing into his candy scented bedroom since you guys could reach each others windowsills.

you rub your mushed up mascara into your cheeks, then chuck out what you would assume frank and you would need for a night to chill out. a small j, something to drink, that dvd he wanted last week. something to sleep in. his dad is nice, a real music nerd. he lets you chill if you keep the door ajar. you always do.

you knock on the window twice, and he's pressed up against his bedroom wall- just by the window. he smiles with all of his teeth, and his face makes your heart hurt.

he's lovely, even when he tugs open his bedroom window and pulls you in so you tumble dow onto the floor. hitting the ground with a thud. its not that you haven't done that fall over 400 times before, its just a shock to the system. you break down as soon as your ass hits the ground. and for a second, frankie laughs- giggles at your tumble until he realises you're crying. "oh-oh shit, dude m'so sorry- hey, s'okay its just aa tumble-"

he reaches out to grab at your shoulder, kneeling to face you- and you push him away in mock anger, it-fuck-fuckyou fff-frank- he shakes his head and shuffles closer, placing a hand on the ground so he can kneel comfy.

and he just sits there. waiting for you to tell him what's actually wrong. it's almost annoying when someone knows you so well. cause he just does, he's seen you fight with your dad- heard the evil insults he spews when he's had 6 whiskeys. so he just looks at you kindly, hands fluffing the carpet under his fingernails.

so-sorry and he just nods again. handsome and sweet- he moves to kick his CD player on so his dad can't hear your cry. it-its just, he said-he said I was-wasted, wasted potential, said I couldn't, frank he's being a fucking weirdo, talking about me when I was a teenager like I hung the fucking moon-even though I was-was sick and fucking devastated all the time-it-it was so fuckin-weird, like-like out of nowhere-he fuckin' hate-hates me- he said-said I was almost pretty-like I was-was pretending.

with each word he inches closer. moves forward. and look-you've known for a while you guys feel the same about each other. you guys spark, or flirt, or whatever the fuck this is. he stared long and hard the day you went shopping for new low-rise jeans. but its more than that- its good and real. really actually real. so when he places a hand on your knee- you see the tension in his head, stuffed to the brim with anger against your dad. he squeezes your knee so hard you mumble hey-frank- and he interrupts so fast your ears spark up-"that man is so fuckin' old he couldn't tell if the sky was pretty anymore-"

its all right there, in his hand connected to your thigh, his eyes tearing up to match yours. its in his bleached out hair and grumpy frown. he couldn't stop caring about you if he tried. "that man, is a fucking liar-" you keep crying, shaking your head no-he interrupts your movement again. "no-no you're right, he isn't, isn't a fucking liar- he's a fucking idiot-" he moves so his hand meets your shoulder, he helps your straighten your back. "do-do you wanna lie down? or something? I don'know-just, don't fucking, think about it-"

you nod, and push your bag toward him, your hands still shaky. can I- he nods before you get the pack of Marlboro lights out of your front pocket. "you don't gotta talk- if you don' want. we can just, uh-be here, or whatever the fuck you said,la-last week, just sit together and be fine--" fine with that- "yeah- and you say you fuckin'hate hippies-you talk just like one-"

you climb up onto his bed, kicking at his leg while you bundle up next to his cracked window. he sits close to you, mumbling something about keeping warm. you don't remember falling asleep on his shoulder, it was probably after he offered to brush your hair and wipe your make up off cause "you don't look like shit you just look like you've been crying for 3 hours-"

it doesn't feel like being shaken awake, or even like anything is happening, but you hear him. high and whiney- panting your name like a bird song. his body close to yours-his cock in his hand, pumping it furiously. out in the fucking open. looking over you with his lip between his teeth. "so-so pretty, the most beautiful girl I've ever-ever-so pretty-perf-perfect, I love-" you lock eyes with him once he realises you're staring at him, jaw slack and eyes wide. he turns red before you reach for his hand. "im so-so fucking-fuck ive fucked it-jesus, fuckm'sosorry-" don't stop.

now he stops again. just like he did earlier. but this time, he's shaken. a little nervous. you can see the humiliation on his face. its almost too perfect. he's just that fucking pretty. please-frankie-dont. don't stop.

you nod like you're coaxing an animal out of a cage. he starts moving his hand as you pull down the front of your jeans, exposing your panties to him. say-say it again-what-why did you "I was-was so fucking mad-he-he doesn't, ive-ive loved you for a fucking, life-life time. ive-ive wanted you-fuck, canyou scoota littlecloser,man?"

you inch towards him. wrapping a hand around the back of his neck so you can breathe onto each other- feel hot pants of air stain your faces. he ruts his cock into the soft fabric of your panties, and moans at the contact. you grip your hand around the back of his neck tighter, so he moans "so-suchabeautiful girl-" in response.

its sticky, and wet- your thighs getting coated in a slick of you and him, pre-cum covering the slick texture of your upper leg- when you kiss him for the first time, he laughs from pure joy- then chases your mouth like you're water in the desert. licks into your mouth like he wants to taste every tooth. he's handsy, grabbing at your chest and your ass, letting his grip get harsher and harder as he gets closer- leaving a stain on the front of your panties.

"imfuck-im gonna, your-your my girlfriend now-now yeah? right-hey-pretty girl, say-say your my girlfriend" yeah-yeah im your-sure yeah, why do you need? "cause im gonna take these-these panties after I've came on'on em'-" it covers down to your mid thigh, splashes up onto your chin. you giggle as he licks it off and whispers "fuckm'sorry-"

Wayne. Wayne McCullough. Fucking WAYNE. That crazy fool that will come to your house. Now you might be wondering, op, what the fuck is a Wayne? THIS. THIS IS A FUCKING WAYNE. 

There is SO FUCKING MUCH I could say about Wayne, and I’ll get it all out of my system eventually, but let’s start out with the obvious. This man is a fucking LEGEND. A rap sheet as long as his mangled right arm, probably been fingerprinted for as long as he’s been finger painting. His first word was fucker. Wayne is a man of action. A man of few words who would rather just beat someone’s face in with whatever the nearest object is (or the hammer he keeps on him. Or his nunchucks. Or his other nunchucks. or-) for hurting someone or trying to hurt someone in any capacity. It’s just the natural course of action. Why use lot word when few word do trick, but in Wayne’s case the few word that does the trick is subtly baiting the asshole into throwing the first punch -technically the first several - so that whatever the fuck he does after that is self defense. 

You know the whole if he wanted to he would thing??? WAYNE DOES. AND HE DOES. Wayne actually cannot look directly at you most of the time. He literally can’t. He just cannot process how beautiful you are in the most raw and original meaning of the word. You look like how good things smell. Wayne wants to metaphorically bury his nose in you and breathe you in until he chokes. He thinks he’d like it too. And guess what? You NEVER have to ask him for a goddamn thing. Wayne doesn’t always have practice when it comes to showing you how he feels about you in a romantic context. He doesn’t really know how to be a boyfriend yet. But good GOD he has all the right fucking instincts. Don’t be surprised if the first morning you spend together, regardless of if you had sex or just crashed at the same place, you wake up to find coffee and cereal, maybe a granola bar or something. Hell, he’ll break out leftover takeout from last night if that’s what’s on hand. But he sets it up for you. He goes outside and picks a couple of those little flowers that grow on curbs and in sidewalk cracks, the ones that are really small and probably weeds, but are still flowers regardless. He puts them in water, either in a comically too large beer bottle for such small flowers or in a plastic novelty shot glass he found lying around somewhere. 

There’s no big flashy good morning my darling, your handsome lover made you breakfast in bed, no loud declaration. There’s just Wayne standing there and watching you like he’s trying to tell if you approve or not. He looks like a little kid giving their first schoolyard crush a hand made valentine with a little lollipop taped inside and a notecard that says you’re so sweet, I’m dumdum for you! Wayne wants to please you. And if he doesn’t, he’ll keep trying until he figures out how to. He is NOT afraid to claw his way through two feet of solid steel if it means getting to see your face. 

HE’S SUCH A LITTLE FUCKIN WEIRDO TOO. Do you know anything about Conan the Barbarian, where to get those huge beef jerky sticks, or metal music?? “...no?” WELL YOU’RE GOING TO!!!!!! Wayne is just. He’s a little freak. And you MATCH HIS FREAK to a degree neither of you knew was possible. It doesn’t matter if you’ve never moshed a day in your life, or ever had the desire to before now. Wayne goes out of his way to dance in a room full of people at some party or event because some guy at the gas station said girls or romantic partners or whoever you are to him like it when guys dance with them, so now he’s dancing. He’s dancing awkwardly and terribly, like a clumsy rendition of saturday night fever in the pit of a punk concert. And he doesn’t really care if he’s good or not, he cares about the fact that it’s you that he’s doing this for. He’s so fucking sincere and earnest and shameless. You point him in a direction and he’ll floor it. He’ll floor it like he’s in a stolen gold ‘79 Trans Am or whateva.

Yes he WILL try to court you like a bird. Boystrous dances. Bringing you things. Getting you anything you might mention even SLIGHTLY wanting or needing. And guess what???? You cannot stand to see him be the only one dancing like that for more than a few seconds before you’re joining him. It doesn’t matter if you’re good or not either. You’re matching his freak. You’re accepting his bird-like courting rituals. Wayne will choke down 3 or 4 cups of coffee so vile he thinks he’d rather drink actual drain fluid, and he’ll do it with a smile in his eyes because he gets to drink coffee WITH YOU.