Chapter Text
A month after your blisters heal, you're parked on a squeaky barstool at Fennel Fields. Adrian is there, of course, wearing his beyond hideous uniform and an older, broken, less familiar pair of glasses. You're a sucker to think he looks good.
Things settle. It should feel normal because camping lasted half of a week, and with it came a bubble of company that needed to be popped.
Adrian's a complete freak. A loose canon. A ridiculous caricature of an anti-hero. You're a Type A personality. A lone wolf. An emotional shut-in. Most importantly: you two work together.
... That’s why you visit him at Fennel.
Because yes, you hook up sometimes.
You tell yourself it's simpler if you stick with one, semi-dependable person instead of opting for Tinder or Missed Connections. It's stress relief. It's a more tolerable form of team-bonding than camping. It's time spent in good company. Sex-educated company.
(Sex-willing-to-be-educated, at least.)
It's easier if you tote him around, anyway - his Sebring is in the shop from an accident that Adrian insists is so boring to retell that he'll fall asleep if he tries.
Around the root beer lollipop tucked in his cheeks, he asks about your usual cherry pie order. As much as Fennel's food sucks - everything is deep fried in the most tepid of oils, and anything fresh is most definitely wilted - their cherry pie is some of the best you've ever had. However, combined with the milkshake you've been nursing for a half hour, it'd be too much sugar at once. Like the keto diet, except the complete opposite.
"Maybe later."
He says it's why you're so sweet. "You know. Down under." He adds an Aussie twang.
You choke. "How do you even know about that?"
"I ate you out. Oh, you mean—Google. Pineapple works the best, right?"
"I guess if you like pineapple."
"Fingers crossed."
The way he crosses his feet under the counter, you'd think he was sliding a comically empty can of Pineapple just off screen.
One of his coworkers pauses when they see he’s talking to someone. "Hello."
You wave politely. "Sorry. I'm keeping him."
They snort softly, the picture of impassive. "Dude, no worries. They pay us, like, eight bucks an hour. So, are you guys...?" There must've been something visible between you and Adrian that makes them further question. It might be because you're still sitting.
"No." You bring that hammer down a little too quickly. "No, it's not..."
Adrian gives you a sidelong, gleeful glance. "Well, it's not not." Brown hair curlier than usual. There's a smudge of cooking oil on his chin.
"We're" - You can’t exactly say you’re coworkers to his actual coworker - "friends."
"With benefits," Your 'friend' chimes, wiping the counter a bit.
"He’s lying." And on his way to giving you an aneurysm. Your grip is tight around your dishwasher-warped diner mug. It’s not a great idea to argue back with him, especially when he’s the one being honest, but it’s too fucking honest. He's at fucking work. It’s not appropriate.
"A billion percent, I am. Sorzy." He blows a breath up. It catches in his hair. "You know me."
The new glasses make it harder to catch the corner of his eye. Except he’s staring at you, and subsequent heat crawling up your neck.
His coworker isn't phased. "Cool, man," they chide, floating away to seat a couple that just walked in. Does that mean Adrian's this weird all the time, everywhere, with everyone?
He doubles down, directed at you. "You know me the best, probably."
It’s supposed to be corny. Even when he’s earnest, it’s not supposed to work. You have a hard time grappling with that truth even when you’re completely alone.
You plan to leave soon after the clocking from Adrian's coworker, but Harcourt notices your location - shit - and calls a hasty logistics team meet-up. It's awful that it's happening twice in one day. His shift isn't over yet though, so if it calls for damage control you'll have it covered.
Until he makes a stink about your lack of pie when taking drink orders.
"You want water?"
A glance at the rest of the busy table reveals Leota playing her wife back in GamePigeon, Harcourt CCing everyone on digital paperwork, and Economos and Chris bickering over Fennel's tabletop peg game. No fucking help, any of them.
"Yeah."
"That’s it?" He's chewing on the cap of his pen.
You scoff lightly, narrowing your eyes up at him. "Yeah."
He seems like he's giving you time to change your mind, or correct your order. You don't.
"Okey dokey."
Past eight, he's finally off shift and jumping over the bar counter, a small plate in hand. He wastes no time diving into your side of the booth, pulling an irritated oomph from Econ, your neighbor.
"Hey, hey, girlies," Adrian greets universally, grinning like he didn't get off a ten-hour shift. He's ignored, of course, and the small plate gets walked over to you by two of his fingers.
Cherry pie.
There's barely time to register it before he's forking it roughly into your mouth with an airplane noise, then popping the fork into his own to lick any leftover cherry remnants.
"It’s mushy," you complain, your words half-muffled. He's already cutting you another bite.
"Nuked it in the microwave." A condemning tongue click. His gaze darkens. "Shoulda wanted it fresh."
Despite the sticky wet sweetness tucked in your mouth, your swallow is cotton dry.
He pulls your hair down so your chin tilts up, the tip of his cock catching on your teeth, threatening to slip out. He grasps the base until just the tip is exposed.
"Just take this much." You do.
"Motherfucker!" Chris slams his hands on the table, scattering the tabletop pegs. His pointer finger is accusatory. "You cheated. I know you did."
"You can't cheat this game," Economos scoffs, artfully flicking one peg to tick Chris's nose.
Harcourt settles her laptop back on the table, having anticipated his tantrum. "Does no one here check my Slack messages?"
Back to reality.
Adrian doesn't push or interpret anything further after you ask him to be your plus one to your cousin's wedding. You even go out of your way to explain that Economos refuses to wear a three-piece, and going with any of the women on the team will likely invite prying eyes.
He just nods like how a child might to get their mom to stop talking. "Your turn," he urges around a too-big bite of a s'mores dip he'd baked until nearly black. He prefers his marshmallows like that.
"They're perfect like this," he swats away absentmindedly, insisting on burning an example marshmallow for you. "You slide off the black outer layer of the marshmallow - its winter jacket - then you burn its next layer - sweater and thermals - and then you finish it off." He pops it into his mouth with a satisfied groan. "Bare butt and balls."
You hand him your marshmallow that's toasted an even beige. He assembles the s'mores the best. "You're losing me the more you talk."
"I'm stopping." His fingers, busy with s'more construction, dip into your mouth to rub residual chocolate along your teeth. Like toothpaste.
Your shoveled bite of s'mores stings the roof of your mouth.
Maybe it's the dimming fairy lights framing every door or the pastel taffeta draped from the ceiling or the soft guest chatter or the cliché Spotify-generated oldies playlist blaring. Maybe it's all of it there at the same time that's making you want to kiss Adrian.
Or maybe it's your third (now empty) Rum and Coke.
The cake is fucking delicious. Adrian complains that the fondant is too dry - he hates crumbly sweets, apparently, even going as far as to bulk buy Hospitality Mints to use as sporting clays.
Pasty icing catches the corner of your mouth. His quick thumb strokes it off only to drag across your forehead. "Simba," he rasps, mouth open so wide you can see his tongue turning white.
But your big bite of cake is really too good. It makes you pliant and quiet when he squishes your cheeks to blow a raspberry into your skin, licking it up.
Ruiner.
You can't figure out how to say it without affection, so you keep silent.
Dutifully, he goes to get you a refill. You're looser when you're drunk, apparently, and that makes your company easier to keep. The implication is difficult to consider. Another time.
There's a woman with him at the bar, someone you don't recognize - must be in the bridal party or a plus one - and she's playing gently with the bottom of Adrian's tie. For a singular fleeting moment, one that could be worsened by your blurring vision, her fingers tuck a corner of his button down back into his pants.
So out of place. So audacious. So unjust because it's a blatant display of interest where you can't even pay him a verbal compliment. It's unfortunately sucky. Maybe now is a good time to consider how you're a terrible fit for him until you're the least like yourself.
Deep in semi-spiral worry, you don't see him until he's right back in front of you, fussing over his burnt orange peel. Baby's first Old Fashioned, it seems.
"Took you long enough."
His eyebrow raises. You'd helped him pluck them an hour before the ceremony. The redness took forever to fade. They're neat now. Smooth and even and enhancing.
"'Thank you so much, Adrian.' 'You're the thickest slab of man-meat I've ever wanted a bite out of, Adrian.' 'How can I ever repay you for my rummed Coke, Adrian?' And then you grope me." His hips thrust a bit towards you, covert enough to appear as a simple cheat-out.
Why had that woman hit on him like that? Yes, he's charming, but in a sick way that only you are allowed to find endearing because you're sick too.
"Miss Handsy-Sue over there would be more than happy to thank you," you mutter out around a swallow. The carbonation is a bitter spice down your throat.
"Who?"
The feigned oblivion is fucking played out. Shouldering past him isn't easy after his palm cups your elbow. Full stop.
"Who're you jealous of?"
It's said less like he doesn't know what you're talking about and more like he's implying that you have no reason to be jealous.
(You hope.)
But there's no discernable intonation. No readable expression.
It feels like something you need to combat, to correct, before it gets to a specific conversation that, as time passes, feels more and more unavoidable.
Your eyes search and locate the woman eating a slice of cake so thin it's practically crumbs. There's an immature, primal part of you that wants to blame her. Hate her. So you do the opposite, of course. "There’s nothing wrong with her coming onto you."
His eyes follow yours.
"Sure." He nods his assent.
"And there’s nothing wrong with you being interested."
God, you could puke.
He squints. "But I'm not."
You can't dwell on that. "You should be."
A shark-like grin splits his lips. Like he gets you. Like you're clear as glass. Could it be because he switched his glasses for contacts? " God, I wish you’d just piss on me already."
You can't dwell on that either. "I-It’s weird that you’re not into her."
"Says who?"
A part of that sounds so childishly laughable.
"Me. She’s pretty, and I know she’s single." One more glance at her table. She's sat closer than you and Adrian, so definitely bridal party-adjacent. Her dress is an ugly orange. If you really squint, you can see how nice her smile is. "Her date is her cousin."
"Well, that doesn’t guarantee that." He shifts the mood into something less heavy without even trying.
"Don’t be dense."
"Am I?"
"Oh. My. God!" Startled, you both whirl to see Michelle, your cousin Becky's matron of honor, waving her arms excitedly. Great. "You guys match! That's so cute!"
Her eager fingers brush the strap of your dress; gesture to Adrian's loose uneven tie. Fingers playing with the end, dipping under his belt -
"Never thought you'd bring your boyfriend around, especially because we barely even see you." Oversharing encouraged by the open bar. "Guess Becky's wedding is as good a time as any, though!"
Adrian's hands clap together. "Oh, isn't it? Romeo and Beckiet are such a pair. Like..." His glasses would rise and fall with his nose scrunch. You miss them. "Shit. Brangelina?"
Michelle's laugh is convincing. A skill from her Avon recruiter days, probably. "Okay! Yeah, you know—"
"He's not my boyfriend."
It's a blurt. Two of you are taken aback.
"He's not my date."
There's more to say that'll assuage the awkward tension you're responsible for creating, but everything is fragmented. Intangible. Adrian's unwilling to help.
Michelle looks between you both, confusion filtering. "Uh huh."
She's hung up on your coordinated colors. It'd been Adrian's idea. You want to strip naked and streak. Ultimately sounds less embarrassing.
"Well," she addresses him directly, "if you're a wedding crasher I hope you at least brought a gift card!"
He gently hooks a finger through your bracelet to guide you into his side, hugging you close even though you've never been more stiff. "Wedding crashing sounds like a total blast. And also a WWE move. But the missus surely wouldn't approve." Accompanied with a squeeze.
You can't remember a time where you were less checked out. There's a little too much being said in too little time that none of it is quite registering.
"Not missus. This is not, can't be... that."
You can't even say it. Fingers drum along your hip.
Adrian's head tilts down towards you, voice deceptively sober. "That's so what this is. That's so what we are."
No. No.
Stepping back is instinctive. Your drink ripples in your hand, and you don't know if it's from the music or your - "Since when?"
Adrian blinks a few times, still at ease. He sighs on an exhale, shrugging. "I'm terrible with dates. It’s marked on my calendar."
You’re incredulous. Panicked. "Cut it out."
"It’s at home."
"No, t-this bit, Adrian. You’re not fucking funny—"
"—Okay—"
"—This wedding was, is, a favor only—"
"—Hey."
"That's not what this is," you urge, breathless. It's almost pleading. You're begging to sound believable. You're not even believing yourself.
"Tough fucking luck. Uh uh," he continues, blocking your exit path. It's hard to breathe. "I know you get cagey with datey stuff, but you're walking like a duck, so I’d like you to quack yourself out of this. Five minutes ago you were chomping at the bit to slash Coral—"
"You remember her name?" The amount of venom in your voice is alarming.
"It's the color of her dress." His look is knowing. "Miss Leech." An endearment.
Adrian's big inhale pushes the buttons on his shirt. "You know, when you think about it, I called it back in the woods. Like, I quite literally told you so."
"I do not love you. You—you are the fucking definition of unlovable." It's the worst thing you've ever said to someone. You add on anyway. "You are nothing to me." Your mouth has a hard time forming and delivering that last bit. It’s so unnatural. So completely untrue.
"Right." Adrian's mouth pulls down in an unrecognizable move. "That’s not true. And all of this is you mega death spiraling, and I forgive you for it, even though I don’t have to." A song comes on and he looks over. "That’s my song. So come find me when you’re done."
You don't even remember Michelle wordlessly excusing herself. Probably off to safety pin something inconsequential or dictate who gets however many pigs in a blanket. You don't know how much she heard. It's surprising how it doesn't concern you in the least.
Regret floods fast. You're drunk and teary eyed when you find him in the venue lobby. Adrian's back is hunched, his dress pants cuffed entirely too high, feet planted in pennies on the shallow fountain tile. No doubt he'll be yelled at.
He knows it's you when you sit down, facing out while he faces in. Words tumble in a way they never have before. "I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Adrian. I wanna apologize when I’m not like this, too. I’m sorry I’m drunk."
"It’s cool." He stares sidelong at you the way he does with everyone. It’s not dead, just very hard to read. You sort of miss his peripheral blockers, even though they age him. Even though they cover his young crows feet and magnify his eyes in a funny way. Articulating might be made easier.
Your arm covers your eyes. "No. No it’s not, it’s not okay, it’s... I don’t know why I lied. I don’t think I’m embarrassed of you, I think I’m embarrassed of me, and I don’t want you seeing me need you. I don’t want anyone seeing me need someone."
He doesn't say anything for too long. When he stands, water drips down his shins. His toes are pruned when they slip into the discount brown loafers you'd convinced him to buy. They scuff on the walk to the elevator. There, you apologize again.
Adrian sniffs. "It’s okay."
More quiet. His lack of clear punishment is foreign. It's scary, and you can't trust it - you can't stand it. It's unstandable.
"Sorry again."
"Said it’s okay." He fiddles with the plastic stirrer left over from his dirty Shirley Temple. Guess the Old Fashioned didn't stick. "You don’t need me."
It has you wanting to dig the toe of your heel into the ground. "I guess."
"You don't. I just like imposing myself onto you. And I know you like it, so I do it, since you'll never ask."
He sighs, taking you in. Your half-snapped high heel. Your other shoe dangling from the tip of your finger. Moisture wicking to your neck from the reception heat.
"You really are a baby."
You remember the first time he called you that.
"Your kegels are laying me out."
"I told you, I never did those," you moan. Weeks ago, Adrian had heard you talking with Harcourt about old cavity training. Every cavity.
"Do one now."
"No." You sigh, Your hand covering your eyes. If his cock wasn’t so right, the mood would be ruined.
"Please, baby?"
He softly strokes your hair away from the back of your neck, propping himself lower, sinking his hips in gently. There’s a simple but prolonged plant of his lips behind your ear.
"I don’t even know how," you grumble, craning your neck to keep him there.
For how clueless he is most of the time, he’s incredibly generous and perceptive when he wants to be, which is literally only during sex. He kisses you again, pressing his tongue out like a mothering cat. His hands skate up the sides of your body, digging under to hold your breasts.
"Wikihow?"
Something in you gives. It's not fair to take offense. Not when you'd said what you didn't mean.
"I guess."
You don’t say anything more, walking into your hotel room. He pulls you down until you’re lying on your side. Drags you to his chest, arms over yours to trap you, because tonight you've been nothing but your own worst enemy. You can’t even hug him back, his hold is so tight. "My big fat cherry baby," he presses patronizing into your hair, sighing as if it means anything.
He's humming something out of tune. It's recognizable. The duvet cover is itchy, soon-to-be stained with your wet makeup and Adrian's fountain chlorine. The air conditioning is too cold and dry that if you fall asleep you'll wake up with a sore throat and stuffy nose. You do so anyway. It's the best sleep you've had in months.
Unfortunately, it's only a few hours later when your puke from earlier actualizes itself.
It's a race against time to the bathroom, blurry curses spit after you stub your toes against the unfamiliar hotel side table. Resting your head against the toilet rim is a risk you're willing to take. Your skin is so sticky with sick sweat that it's honestly probably cleaner - at least, without a UV light.
Faintly, Adrian's waking groan - he gets out of bed, you've learned, like Frankenstein's monster every time - triggers a distant sort of internal panic, but you're too wiped, too physically irritated to act on that worry. The most you're willing to do is shove the door closed with your foot.
He catches it smoothly, his own foot kicking yours out of the way. So fucking be it.
"Pyrat," you complain in half-explanation, trying to mentally block him from coming in. The pitch blackness makes it faster to spot him, somehow.
Another round of last night's drinks come up again, and Adrian's behind you now, hands going to your neck and shoulders to rake through your hair. Tugging once. Twice. The third hurts sweetly, but in a way only he can make it.
He leans around your shoulder, his baby stubble scratching against your cheek. Rubbing his sleep into the side of your head, he asks, "Done?"
An answering moan. Talking could open the floodgates. His hand released your hair to wipe at your mouth, but as you try to instinctively pull away - he's beyond skilled at embarrassing you - he clamps down light enough to send a message. "I trust my hands more."
Gentle parenting.
Adrian's thumb swiping tenderly across your mouth summons tears. Sober, inexplicably emotional tears. You feel a bit better when you hold them back, the burn in your eyes twinning the one in your throat and chest.
When he deems you clean, he washes his hands - thank god - and drapes a sopping rag across the back of your neck. Trickles sneak under your dress. The material might water stain, but his fingers coolly massage the sides of your throat and up near your ear, jaw, and temple. It's an easy sacrifice.
"How long you been doing this?"
You burp. "Min- a minute." Then grimace, because christ is the smell hellish.
"Cherry Baby needs rocking," he murmurs, sounding completely sincere. You don't know what it means, but he seems to. It's crazy that he talks to anyone when he speaks a language only he understands.
He sits behind you, hips bracketing yours, letting your elbows rest on his knees rather than the unforgiving ceramic seat. His nails play "Crack an egg on your head, yolk runs down". It's motherly, sort of creepy, and really fucking touching, except thinking about eggs at this point in time turns your stomach.
With a cheek pressed to the hotel toilet because leaning on him consciously feels unfair - "Puke breath is worse than morning breath."
Adrian's fingers grasp your jaw and redirect you over your shoulder. "Sniff test."
"No—" Before you can stop him, he leans in immediately, sniffing your small puff of air. "You're going to make me puke again."
"I've smelled rotted bodies. Yours is like a yummy two on a scale of dead body to smelling salts."
You don't know which is on which end. It sounds like the worst scale to hold placement on, but you can't exactly blame him.
Memories of earlier trickle in, a tepid stream of clear guilt. "Okay. Gimme." Your chin nudges up in encouragement.
His face doesn't budge as his eyes scrub over you. He's not squinting. He doesn't need to, with you this close. Damn it. He's a special kind of beautiful. The slope of his nose. Indents left from his smiles. He smiles so much. You used to find it unsettling. It still is, but you're coming to the conclusion that as long as he's doing it, the reasoning doesn't matter.
Slowly and - if somehow possible - gently, he blows into your face. It's dry, a little sleep-musted, and you twist to fall back dramatically, eyes rolling. His warm shoulder is the perfect pillow.
"Completely a compliment. A new weapon in my arsenal," he says, arms crossing across the front of you, like a Guido Reni Virgin painting.
He's hugging you. Assumedly because he wants to. Because he can. What feels like a billion tiny pins prick behind your eyes. Fuck, you can't almost cry again.
"I should shower."
The pain of leaving him will ground you. It's more familiar than whatever it is that he's giving you. You're strong enough to suggest his absence, but not strong enough to enforce it, so Adrian strips down to his briefs and gets in with you, roughly scrubbing your face clean with the palms of his hands, incredibly focused and utilitarian. Give him a task and he’s all about it.
It’s crazy how your intimacy lies in the moments where you’re not having sex. It’s scary and new. Seems like something that should be unwelcome, but if you're honest with yourself, it’s not anymore.
He digs through your suitcase and finds two pairs of sweatpants. You want to make fun of how he’s wearing your purple set - the ones you wear on your period because they’re soft and variously stained. They strand his ankles naked, but he’s so unbothered and quietly confident about them that all you can do is tug on the waistband. It has you hip to hip while the both of you brush your teeth, his eyes piercing into the side of your face while you look down like there’s shame to be felt.
There is. You remember everything. It hadn’t been that long ago. And now he’s woken up with you, treating you with such care and gifted delicacy, and you wonder if you’re the first person he’s done this for. It’s crazy how easy it is for him. Like it’s not a burden or a chore. Like he wants to brush his teeth and wash your face for you. You space out.
Wordlessly - a rarity - he pushes your cheeks in to pop open your jaw - still all the way through gentle - and scrubs your tongue. There’s a ring of fucking toothpaste around his whole mouth and all it makes you want to do is cry. You don’t deserve this. You don’t deserve him.
You tell him so when the lights are off and you've stripped the sheets and flipped the pillows. It sort of comes out on its own. You’re glad you didn’t put thought into it, because you barely remember saying it. It’s still a relief. He doesn’t even move.
"I’m sorry." God, you normally never say that. Now you can't stop.
He shuffles, you hear him flick a lamp on -
"Don’t. Please. Or…" The heels of your hands dig into your eyes. "Lights off. Please." ‘Please’ is barely a recognizable word.
He doesn’t comply directly. "I’m not gonna turn around."
It’s important for the lights to be on, for some reason. You speak it all into his back. Shifting from the backlighting. Steady breathing. That makes one of you.
"I care about you a lot. And there's a part of me that didn't want to, and still sort of doesn't, but the more I sit in it, I think—know it's about me. Not you." Your throat closes. "I… for forever I wanted to be that kind of independent where I didn’t even want to spend my time with someone. I guess I thought that meant I’d have... made it, or something. I don't know. It's crazy saying it out loud."
Your chin catches the pillow. It's hard to regulate anything, but it feels right. "This is a failure. I'm sorry."
He sighs, flipping, staring up at the ceiling. "This… S'not like it's a two-way street, you know? I don't like you because you like me."
He says it like people don't stay in relationships for that very reason. He doesn't know anything. Or maybe he knows exactly what it's like, because he's experiencing it for the first time: unadulterated, pure. Complete and absolute. Like heroin, or something else horrible and addictive.
"Isn't it a waste of time? If, if I'm like this?" You a week ago - even you yesterday - would never ask him such a thing. It's disguised begging. A twisted form of compliment fishing. But asking it feels like unzipping jeans after Thanksgiving dinner, and as paradoxical as it is, the more you ask for, the better you feel. His answer is surprising.
"Uh, yeah." His chin dips towards you, eyes trained on the popcorn ceiling. "It’s so fun to kill my time over you. I prefer being seven and three quarters inch deep in you over actually killing bad guys, which is saying something. And when I'm not in you, you're in me." He taps his temple. His eyes, green forever, meet yours. "Everything about you. Tangled brainworms. Like a rat king."
Said in a very matter of fact, blunt tone. Said like it’s not the sweetest thing you’ve ever heard, that someone's ever told you. "That's a lot. For your first time. It's so not fair for me to be, for me to..."
"Moot point." He stretches around a yawn, taking his time. It's casual. It's not an argument. "Me personally, I think it goes without saying that when someone says they love someone, it means they love them in whatever way they know how to.” Gently, softly, kindly.
"Not that you love me," you say, your voice catching. You hope your tone conveys it. What you really mean, what you've meant to say all night and still can't.
"Yeah. Not that I love you, or anything." He gives you a blinding grin. Granted confirmation. That'd be lame."
Of course he fucking reads you. Of course he knows what you need, because if you look back at even before that week in the forest, you notice how he's always known what you need. Who you respond to best. Maybe because you're exactly what he needs, too.
"So... you forgive me?"
His blink is slow and directed. He rolls, keeps rolling, not stopping until he’s draped over you, a weighted blanket, pushing air out of your chest. He’s going through something new and similar. Learning. Your hands twitch, wanting to keep his shoulder in place. "So easily."
It triggers your tears.
"Ew!" He surges up, sitting on top of you now, his elbows braced on either side of your neck. "Quit that." His hands move to cover your face, pinning you down. "Don't— stop being so upset all the time. You didn’t do anything wrong."
He’s right somewhere in his terrible delivery.
"Okay." Your tears still flow.
He stares tolerantly until you stop, french-kissing your tears off your face. A soft dog tongue. He wipes you down afterwards with the backs of his fingers, petting. Drying. "Can I kiss you without fourth base?"
"Y-yeah."
It’s gentle. Sort of clinical. It’s utterly and completely terrifyingly soothing.
You whisper against his lips with sleep-deprived confidence, content if it never reaches his ears. "I feel like you're something I should've earned."
It's overly poetic and vulnerable. His nose intentionally presses yours. "Oh, well."
Oh, well.
You're not a parasite. You're used to being reduced to one, so it'll take some getting used to. But his patience for you is found within you.