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You groan as you sit up in bed. The sheets fall away from your torso, exposing your bite and bruise laden collarbones. You look down at yourself, studying the various marks littering your skin.
Jesus. There are even hickeys on your boobs.
You rub your face, and your hand comes away tacky with day old lipstick and mascara. You scrub at your lips and wipe your hand on the covers. They’re just shitty hotel sheets anyway, they’ll get washed. You rub your eyes a little, hoping that your slept-in mascara will translate into a carefully cultivated smokey-eye look. You’d always been adept at pulling off the walk of shame, making the rumpled clothes and smeary make up into more of a cat walk of shame.
There were plenty of tabloid pictures to testify to that.
An arm is slung over your legs, wrapping around your hips slightly.
“Lie back down, sweetheart,” the man groans, turning his head slightly to bury it in the pillow. You stare at him.
His hair is blue, but his roots are showing. His lip is pierced, and his nose has a convex curve in it, the sign of a fracture or maybe even a break. His lips are full and and too red, but that may be your lipstick. His eyes, when he opens one to look up at you tiredly, are green, flecked with grey.
“Get out,” you snap, shoving his arm off you, “get out of my room,”
You swing your legs out of bed and surrender yourself to the chill of the room, walking across the floor, still stark naked, leaving the confused stranger lying amongst the sheets.
“Hey, (Y/n),” he calls softly, “come back, come on,”
You groan loudly, picking up your underwear and a t-shirt.
“Just get out,” you say again, snapping the waistband against your hipbone as you pull the underwear on. You turn around and glare at him, holding the t-shirt over your chest. He stares at you, propped up on one elbow. You scoff and shrug the t-shirt on.
“Are you deaf? I said get out.”
His somewhat handsome face becomes a scowl, and he peels the covers back, sliding out slowly.
“Cunt.”
“Most one night shags don’t stay the night,” you snarl, grabbing your jacket off the floor and rifling through the pocket, looking for a box of fags.
“Most rockstars are nicer to their fans.”
That hits a sore spot. You rip the box of cigarettes from your pocket and throw the jacket down, turning on the man as he tugs his jeans up.
“You have 30 seconds to get the fuck out of my room.”
“Let me get my jacket."
His leather jacket is just behind your feet. You notice how he keeps his distance from you, as though worried you’ll lash out. The thought makes you feel a little proud, and like he views you as some sort of untouchable entity.
Although judging by the marks on your skin, that probably wasn’t the case.
He glares at you, and you glare back, bending down and snatching his leather jacket off the floor. The scent clinging to it is thick and cloying and overly masculine, and you wrinkle your nose as you thrust it against his chest. You nod sharply towards the door.
“Now get out."
The man glares at you, and then turns on his heel and marches out, not even pausing to put his boots on, just scooping them up as he walks and slamming the door behind him.
As you stand alone in your hotel room, wearing nothing but yesterday’s t-shirt and yesterday’s underwear, a profound sense of guilty loneliness overtakes you. You feel bad for the man, having kicked him out so brusquely. You feel bad for not having remembered his name.
You feel bad for only having hooked up with him because he reminded you of 2D.
You groan and rub your throbbing temples, retrieving your lighter from the bedside table, and shoving your shoulder against the door to the balcony.
The air is cool and just biting enough to make you shiver. You cup your hand around your lighter as the flame flickers in the slight breeze, bringing it to the end of the cigarette. The first shock of smoke to your lungs and nicotine to your brain is a wake up call. You pull the fag from your lips and exhale, leaning forward and resting your arms on the balcony railing.
You’d been bringing people back more and more often, even though you hated doing it. Some knew the rules, and were up and dressed before you’d even had a chance to catch your breath. But some were clingy. Some hoped to spend the night and fall in love in the morning.
They were mostly groupies. Wild, crazy, exhilarated groupies, who squealed when you spoke to them and broke kisses every 5 seconds to say “wow. Oh wow. This is so amazing”
A few were people who didn’t even recognise you. In a way they were the best partners. Tired eyes and fierce kisses and no time to sit around discussing what flavour condom to use, or who had dental dams. People with wedding bands on their fingers or lockets around their necks or the name of a loved one inked under the hickeys you left across their collarbone.
You weren’t proud. You used to push them off and shake your head, tell them to go home, fix their relationship, work out why they felt they could only get what they needed from an imperfect stranger.
But recently you’d ignored that matrimonial gleam and simply pulled them closer, seeking the same anonymous release that they did.
After a few deep drags of the cigarette, you feel more yourself. After a few more, you’ve stopped shaking, and the sick, lonely feeling in your stomach has disappeared. As you look down at the street below, you rub your hands over your arms, goosebumps peppering your skin. The city is just beginning to wake up, and the first stern, tired business men march below you. Somewhere in the distance, the world is preparing for another day.
There’s a chill in the air reminds you that autumn is coming, and with autumn another tour, all across Europe and America and some parts of Asia. You sigh heavily, and take one last draw on the cigarette before stubbing it out on the cold railing.
As you reach for another one, memories of your past gigs flicker through your mind. 2D permeates almost all of them.
You decide you’re done with lying to yourself. Lying is what got you hurt in the first place. Lying is what wound up into you knelt over your hotel toilet, blood dripping from your nose and vomit coating your lips, the bites and hickeys from 2D still sharply visible on your neck.
The lighter flickers in the cold air.
You’re done lying.
___________________________________________________
“You are the mopiest bitch I’ve ever seen,” Charlie says, leaning forward and tenting his hands, tapping his fingertips together. You stare at him over the rim of your can of beer.
“Ok,” you reply, and then take a swig.
Charlie sighs in exasperation.
“See? I just called you a bitch, and you just said ‘ok’. What the hell is wrong with you?”
You shrug, and clink the rim of the can against your front teeth. Charlie studies you carefully.
“Are you having enough sex?”
Typical nymphomaniac Charlie. He thought all the world’s problems could be solved by just shagging a little more and yelling a little less. Maybe he was right, in a way.
“Oh, yeah, I’m having plenty of sex,” you deadpan. ‘Just not with the right people’ you think.
Charlie narrows his eyes at you.
“I don’t think you are,” he says, then sits up a little, his eyes lighting up. You know that look. You sit up a little.
“No,” you say slowly, “no, no, and no again. No.”
“Let’s go somewhere,” he says, grinning, “somewhere you can-“
“No!” you snap, “I’ve been having plenty of sex. Loads of it. I’m practically drowning in all the cock and pussy I could ever want or need right now, ok? I’ve had so much sex, I think I’m actually starting to get sick of it!”
Charlie snorts.
“That’s bullshit, no one ever gets sick of sex.”
You drain the rest of your beer and throw the can at his head.
“Easy for you to say, slut. You’d spread your legs for a donkey if it had a nice tail.”
Charlie tosses your beer can back at you lazily.
“That’s beastiality, and I don’t condone that,” he says, and then leans forward, squeezing your knee, “but I do condone getting my best friend some solid fucking when she obviously needs it. You down?”
“No,” you mutter, sliding down until your chin is on your chest and your back is on the seat of the sofa, “I am most certainly not down.”
Charlie watches you carefully. You stare back at him, daring him to break the silence first.
“This is about that bloke from Gorillaz, isn’t it?”
With a scream of frustration, you push yourself up off the sofa as Charlie bolts up too, crowing excitedly.
“It is! It is, I knew it!”
You stomp to the kitchenette adjoined to his living room, wrench the fridge open and take out another can of beer. You turn to him, glowering at the smug smirk on his face.
“I am not having this conversation,” you snarl. His smug smirk only grows bigger.
“You’re pining after him, aren’t you?”
You crack the can of beer open, and avert your gaze.
“No.”
“C’mon, (Y/n), don’t lie. You’re a terrible fucking liar.”
“I’m not pining after him!”
Charlie snorts and folds his arms.
“You’ve slept with this guy what, 4 or 5 times? And you’ve already caught feelings? Jesus, woman, you can’t just go throwing your heart at people.”
“Ok, first of all, it was only 3 times, and second of all-“ you cut yourself off, searching for the words to say. Charlie smirks and raises an eyebrow knowingly. You huff like a stroppy toddler and sip your beer moodily.
“It’s not like that…” you murmur, clinking your teeth against the metal rim.
“Then what is it like?”
You pause, and then take another swig of beer.
“It’s complicated.”
Charlie sighs and slumps back onto the sofa.
“And here I was thinking it was Freddy who got himself into all the sticky relationship situations. Come sit down, tell Uncle Charlie what’s going on.”
“Only if you promise to never call yourself 'Uncle Charlie' again,” you mutter, shuffling over to the sofa and sitting down heavily. Charlie watches you expectantly, and then raises his eyebrows and motions with his hand when you don’t start talking.
You sigh loudly and sip the beer again.
“I dunno. I kind of just feel like I’m catching feelings.”
“Understandable. He’s pretty damn gorgeous.”
You groan.
“No, Charlie…” you lean forward a little, looking down at your hands, “last time…last time I saw him, he told me he loved me.”
Charlie hisses through his teeth.
“What did you do?”
“I was an arsehole…"
You slam the beer down and bury your face in your hands. Charlie reaches across the squeezes your shoulder.
“Hey, come on now. You’ve bounced back from shit like this before. He’s just a little clingy is all. Like a groupie, but famous."
You stare at the floor from between your fingers. A black, swirling feeling fills your stomach, and you finally admit it. Admit it to yourself, and wet your lips and take in a deep breath so you can admit it aloud, to the world as well.
“That’s not the problem, Charlie,” you whisper, and look up slowly, “the problem is that I think I love him too.”
_________________________________________
The club is loud and crowded and obnoxiously badly lit. Bodies press in together, and eyes flash towards you as you shuffle after Charlie. Clothes are skimpy and flashy at best. At worst they aren’t there at all, and more than once your hand brushes against a barely clad arse or an exposed thigh. On three stages placed strategically around the room, men and women wearing next to nothing gyrate their hips and swing their bodies around poles as people reach up to tuck money into bras, garter belts and waistbands.
The VIP section is somewhat more plush, the bar sparkling clean and bottles of champagne costing more than you want to acknowledge lined up in the fridges. The room is hazy with scented smoke and lit up in a psychedelic rainbow from unseen lights and lasers. In the shadowy corners of the room, celebrities and other people lucky enough to get in are crowded into plush booths, drinking, chatting, and making out.
Despite the energy and grandeur of the place, you just want to go home. No matter how posh, a strip club is a strip club, and it’s not a place you want to be right now.
“Want a drink?” Charlie yells in your ear, and you flinch away slightly.
“I want to go home,” you yell back. He just shakes your shoulder and pretends not to have heard you.
“Go find somewhere to sit, in one of the booths. I’m going to get drinks.”
You say nothing, just pull yourself from his grip. You can’t help but let you eye wander across the room, searching for a blue head of hair or black eyes. People must recognise you, because whispers follow in your wake, but thankfully, no one asks for a picture or an autograph.
Someone whoops in your face, pushing a handful of glowsticks into your hand. You push them back, turning to confront the girl beaming at you from the crowd, glow in the dark paint smeared across her cheeks. Her eyes are wide and her pupils huge. She grins, her jaw in a tight smile.
“Glowsticks!” she shouts over the thumping music, “glowsticks, glowsticks!”
“No, thank you,” you yell back, pushing them back and closing her fingers around them, “I’m ok.”
She blinks a few times, and then looks down at your hands, then back up at you.
“Hey! You’re from Poor Man’s Grenade! I love you!”
She throws herself at you, giggling wildly, arms looping around your neck and almost impaling your eye with her handful of glowsticks. Over her shoulder, you see two other girls weaving through the crowd, eyes fixed on her. The girl strokes her hand through your hair, making soft kissing noises in your ear.
“You’re so pretty,” she murmurs, “you’re so pretty in real life.”
Her friends finally break through the crowd, peeling her off you and muttering fierce apologies. You smile and tell them it’s fine, it’s no problem, it’s all happened before. The girl holds out her hand, fingers opening and closing. She suddenly gasps, eyes widening, leaning forward out of her friends’ grip.
“Your boyfriend is here!”
You, just in the process of turning away, turn back, frowning.
“Excuse me?”
Her friends pause too, turning to see just why their friend is digging in her heels and leaning towards you desperately.
“He’s with the strippers!” she says, then laughs, “that’s not good!”
“Who is?” you ask, but your heart is thudding, your mouth and throat going dry because you know exactly who she means. The tabloids, particularly the sleazy ones, had lapped up pictures of you and 2D together, sharing lighters and jackets and cigarettes.
“2D~,” the drunk girl coos, and then smiles, “2D with the strippers. 2D the stripper.”
Her friends finally manage to pull her back slightly. Once again, they smile apologetically, before melting back into the crowd.
You stand stock still, deaf despite the music, cold despite the masses of bodies gyrating around you. Your blood rushes through your ears, your heart thuds in your throat. Everything feels far away and too close simultaneously.
Charlie’s hand descending on your shoulder rips you from your panic induced isolation, and your head snaps round to look at him, eyes wide.
“2D is here.”
Charlie looks around disinterestedly.
“Oh, really? Did you see him?”
You shake your head and gesture over your shoulder, moving past Charlie towards the exit.
“This pinged girl told me she’d seen him. Let’s go."
Charlie grabs your arm, and when you glance at him, he’s grinning.
“For real?”
You yank your arm from his grip.
“Yes, for real. Let’s go,”
“You’re gonna trust a girl who’s tripping off her nut? Look, girlie, if a member of Gorillaz was in here, there would be a mile long line of girls outside strumming themselves.”
You suck your lips in, head swivelling left and right. He has a point. No one seems to be drawing particular attention. You let out a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding, and plaster what you hope looks like an easy, somewhat bashful smile onto your face.
“You’re right,” you say, then nod once, sharply, “ok, I need alcohol. Lots of it.”
Charlie beams and plucks a shot glass from a tray balanced on his hand, holding it out to you.
“You’ve got the spirit to drink the spirit. Bottoms up, girlie.”
You take the shot glass and down it without even sniffing it, the alcohol scorching your throat, and you barely have a chance to cough before you’re reaching for another one. Charlie just smiles.
“Better?” he asks, and grins smugly when you nod. He slips past you, and you follow without a word, plucking another shot from the tray and knocking it back easily.
Charlie finds the two of you a booth, and you’ve barely sat down before a fourth shot chases its way down your throat. Your fifth clinks against Charlie’s in a sort of toast, and is quickly downed.
“To forgetting about one-or rather three-night stands and learning to have fun again,” he says, raising his shot to you. You slam your shot glass down.
“Yeah. To...whatever you said.”
He just laughs, and pushes another shot towards you. You take it, smiling. Charlie had never been particularly good with comforting. He found his sanctuary in the bottom of a bottle, and in a way, so did you. It’s easier to forget than to heal, and if you forgot, you could kid yourself even for a few hours that you were healed. As the first sneaking tendrils of alcoholic relief seep into your brain, you smile happily at the thought of sweet reprieve from your troubles.
Some problems are to difficult to face. Some problems are easier forgotten than solved. Some problems just need to be drowned in a nice, burning shot of blueberry vodka.
You raise another of the countless shots to your lips, droplets of the alcohol dripping down your chin, the others blistering your throat as the toxins boil in your stomach and tear apart your brain.
Charlie tosses his head, and through the braided locks of his hair, you see him.
Charlie sees you looking, sees the furiously terrified look in your eyes, frowns a little, and turns, following your gaze.
“Oh,” he says, “fuck.”
Sitting just across from you, near the stage bestrewn with woman wearing next to nothing.
Blue hair, black eyes, thin, delicate fingers tucking money into the waistband of a scantily clad woman as she gyrates her hips over his.
A woman who looks just like you.
“Fuck,” you whisper under your breath, “fuck, fuck, fuck.”
Charlie’s head whips back round, and he reaches across the table, grasping your hands in his. Your heart hammers against your chest, your legs trembling as your stomach churns and adrenaline fires through your brain, every instinct in your body begging you to flee.
“Hey,” Charlie hisses, and then tries again, a little louder, “(Y/n)! Fucking snap out of it!”
You don’t register the pain that shoots through your legs as you stand up too fast and bash your thighs against the edge of the table. You’re moving without realising, eyes never leaving 2D, your feet picking your way across the alcohol soaked floor, carrying you through the crowd of gyrating bodies. Elbows and shoulders slam into you, making you stumble, but never taking your eyes off him.
You break out of the crowd in front of the strippers, and from across the stage, 2D’s eyes meet yours.
Your brain becomes heavy and light all at the same time. You feel as though you are upside down and spinning. The shot you hadn’t realised you were still holding falls from your fingers, clattering to the ground and splashing poison across your boots. The dull coldness of the liquid seeps into your socks, and your hand drops to your side, arms trembling with grief and adrenaline.
“What are you doing here?” you ask, softly, and there’s no way he can hear you, but his face falls inwards. Rooted to the spot as you are, you can’t help but take a step backwards as he pushes the dancer on his lap back a little, not taking his eyes off you, letting her slip to the floor as he stands, walking forward until the only thing separating the two of you is the stage.
Your eyes slide to the side, to the dancer who had just gotten up off his lap. She’s plucking notes from her underwear, her eyes half-lidded and sparkling as she shuffles it through her fingers. She tosses her hair over her shoulder and looks over at 2D, tucking it into her bra. She struts forward, and leans in to kiss his cheek.
His eyes still don’t leave yours as her lipstick leaves an affectionate, sultry ring on his skin.
You take another step back. Your head is hammering in synch with your heart now, but as you shuffle backwards, 2D suddenly lunges forward, clambering awkwardly up onto the stage, pulling himself up on his elbows and then staggering across it. One of the pole dancers tosses her head irritably and shouts something that neither of you seem to hear.
2D leaps down the other side, now closer to you than he has been in months.
This is closer than you ever planned on getting ever again. You swallow, your throat sticking, and run your tongue over your bottom lip. You feel as though you’re about to laugh or cry. Bright spots flicker across your eyes as 2D closes the gap between you.
Do you want him to hug you? No, no of course you don’t roars the voice in your head.
Please pleads a smaller, much quieter part of you, kiss him. Hold him. Tell him.
His hands grip your arms, and he shakes you a little. You have to crane your neck a little to look at him, blinking hard, salty tears you hadn’t realised were in your eyes trickling down the back of your throat.
“2D,” you whisper, and just like that, his eyes light up, he kisses you, and your world implodes.
_______________________________________________
An hour later, you sit in a café, knees hugged against your chest, nibbling a hangnail on your thumb. You stare blankly at the painfully white fluorescent lights overhead, and adjust so the hard chair isn’t digging into your back quite so much.
You feel as though your consciousness has shifted up and slightly to the left. The only things you can be sure of are the seat beneath you, and faux wood grain on the table, and the loose thread on the side of your jeans that you wind around your finger. You’re drunk and hungry and you feel a little sick. The room spins every now and then. Everything feels fake.
Except 2D.
He’s very real.
There’s a quiet clink as a cup of black coffee is placed in front of you. 2D slips into the seat opposite you, holding a plate of sausages, hash browns and fried eggs, and a mug of hot chocolate. The scent is nauseatingly delicious, and your head spins as all your senses suddenly focus in on that one plate of food. That’s very real too. 2D grins, and pushes it towards you.
“There’s enough for both of us.”
You glance at him as you reach forward and take a hash brown, breaking it apart with your fingers, barely noticing how it burns your fingertips.
His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and as you shift and stretch your legs out under the table, you knee brushes his, and he quickly moves his legs out of the way.
The hash brown sticks in your throat.
2D sips his hot chocolate, and then takes a hash brown, wolfing it down in two bites. You just stare at the plate, suddenly feeling sick. This is a bad idea.
“Long time, no see.”
You glance up at 2D through your eyelashes. He’s watching you carefully, as though trying to gauge your next move. You try and keep your face unreadable.
“I sort of…went into hiding. A little bit.”
2D huffs a laugh, but when you look up at him, he’s grimacing a little, the corners of his mouth tight. He runs his finger round and round the rim of his mug.
“I couldn’t find you anywhere,” he says, “I tried calling you, texting you. I tried asking Noodle if she’d seen you, she said no, I even tried texting Freddy, but he never replied.”
Ah. Now these sly, secret smiles Freddy would give you whenever you snapped out of a daydream made sense. He knows exactly what you were thinking about.
“I’m sorry,” you murmur, and the words seem to stick in your throat. You swallow down a mouthful of coffee, burning your tongue, wincing the heat floods through your chest. Your head feels a little clearer. You fold a fried egg over in half and eat it with your hands.
The two of you sit in silence for a long time. 2D doesn’t take his eyes off a spot in the table just in front of your hands, except to look at the plate of food every time he takes something from it. Your eyes can’t help but wander.
God, he’s gorgeous. His hair is mussed up, and sweat shines across his cheeks and forehead. He wears a white dress shirt, unbuttoned to his sternum and with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing his pale forearms and the tattoos decorating them. An untied bowtie hangs beneath his shirt collar, and, to your horror, there’s a dark purple mark ringed with green and yellow blooming across what’s exposed of his collar bone. You quickly look away.
“(Y/n),” he says softly, and your attention is drawn gently to him. He’s looking directly at you now, and you blink at him, lest you begin to cry in relief.
He reaches across the table for your hand, and you flinch back a little. Instead of backing away, he follows, grasping your hand.
“Look, (Y/n),” he says, and you notice a slightly desperate tone in his voice, “forget what happened at the club. Forgot everything that’s happened with us. I’m sorry. I just want to be around you, in any way. Please.”
He leans across the table towards you as he speaks, resting on his forearms. His eyes are dark and serious, pleading with you. You stare back, your brain firing all at once.
Your thoughts are hazy, your mind isn’t focused. 2D’s face swims in and out of darkness.
You lean forward into him, pressing your lips against his again in the way you’d missed so much. You curl your hand around the back of his neck so he can’t pull away.
But pulling away seems to be the last thing on his mind. Instead he surges forward with a soft, anguished moan, raising himself out of his seat in his plight to be closer to you, to engulf you, to embrace you. His nails dig into your hand and he grips tightly, as though you’ll float away if he doesn’t, and the other comes up to cup your cheek, brushing your hair back slightly.
You don’t know how much time elapses, how long you spend lock-lipped. You only know that when he pulls away, it wasn’t long enough.
A cold, empty longing blooms in your stomach, and you feel your throat tightening. He’s slightly breathless, his eyes half closed, not even focused on you.
“Please don’t go,” you whisper.
“Not without you,” he whispers back.
_____________________________________________
The dash for a taxi is muted in your mind. You barely notice the leather beneath your seat. You disregard the driver’s disgruntled clucking as you fall on 2D, hands roaming everywhere they can reach, lips pressing incessantly against his, trailing kisses down his neck, over his jaw, into his hair.
Kissing him makes you feel more yourself. You feel your heart coming alive, feel the stagnant blood in your veins finally begin to move. Your brain is working again, neurons and impulses and electricity sparking and firing and dancing, making your body work just as it should.
You mumble the address to your hotel to the driver through kisses, and 2D takes the chance to latch onto your neck, sighing and moaning against your skin as his hips roll against yours. Fuck, he’s hard.
His hands are hesitant at pushing yours back when you reach into his trousers.
“Not in the taxi,” he murmurs.
“I didn’t know you had standards,” you reply, and instead of blowing of your comment, 2D pulls back a little. His hands grip your hips a little tighter as the taxi pulls to a halt, stopping you from tipping over. One of his hands comes up to cup your cheek.
“Where have you been?” he asks, and you know he doesn’t mean physically.
You hadn’t realised how deep inside your consciousness you had regressed. Outwardly, you had been the same bright front woman of Poor Man’s Grenade, strutting and confident. But inwardly, you’d lost some vital part of yourself, thinking it to be gone forever.
But not anymore. Now, you fill yourself, wholly and entirely, feeling yourself coming back with every stroke of 2D’s hand over your skin.
“I don’t know,” you whisper, and then lean in a little, speaking your words against his lips, “but I’m here now. I’m with you.”
The two of you stumble out of the taxi, and for the first time that night, you feel the chill in the air. It exhilarates you, and you shiver as you lean in through the taxi window, holding out three £20 notes for the driver. You give him what you hope is an apologetic smile.
“Thank you. Have a nice evening, keep the change,”
He grunts some sort of thanks in return, and then drives off. As you turn back to 2D, he’s craning his neck up at the hotel. He looks back at you as you take his hand and lead him towards the front doors.
“This is your hotel,” he says as the two of you step inside. You take his hand and lead him down the corridors and up the stairs to your room. He pauses in the doorway.
“This is…your room.”
You turn back to him, slipping into the darkness of your suite and holding a hand out to him.
“It’s my turn now,”
2D follows, his hands finding you in the dark, smoothing over your waist and down your hips, resting his forehead against yours, letting go of a long, tense sigh of breath before kissing you again.
There’s no rush in this at all. Every touch is reverent and measured, not light enough to be ghosting but not hard enough to be rough. 2D’s hands cup your cheeks and trail through your hair as he kisses you, and your hands grip his hips and hair as you kiss him back. He doesn’t push you against the door the second it’s closed, but instead cradles you against his body as he kicks it shut, lip latching onto your neck, his words trickling down your skin.
“I’ve missed you,” he whispers, breath hot on your neck, making you shiver, “I haven’t stopped thinking about you.”
You trail a hand up his neck and into his hair, turning your head as you pull his up to kiss him again. The words don’t come easily, but you hope he can feel what you mean as you move your body against his. Judging by the groan that leaves his lips and the incessant press of his hips against yours, he understands.
With one hand behind his head, the other makes its slow journey down his chest, over his stomach and under his shirt, your fingers ghosting over the ridge of his hipbone and across his lower belly. His breath stutters against your lips as he pulls away, resting his forehead against yours and pressing against you again.
“I want you,” he whispers into the darkness, which presses around you, presses you into him, and oh god, you realise you want him too. You’ve missed every inch of him, and the way his hands roam your body, you want to think he’s missed you too. His every touch sends shivers down your spine, and as he lays you back, his lips melding to yours and breaking away with soft, satisfied moans, something in your chest, or maybe your brain, or maybe even within your entire body, shifts, and you feel whole.
Arousal washes over you in waves as his hands slide beneath your shirt and his long fingers undo your jeans, pushing them down, letting you kick them off. Your hand leaves his head and both slip beneath his shirt, bunching the fabric and pulling it up, over his head, letting the article fall from your grip and returning your palms to his bare, warm skin, feeling his ribs and the muscle and the sinews as he rocks his hips and tenses and gasps against your body.
Your hands continue further up, tangling in his hair, and you bring his face down to your level, pressing your lips against his fiercely. His fingers glide down your stomach, and the pad of his index finger circles your clit through your underwear gently. You rock your hips against his finger as he presses a little harder, drawing slow, delicious circles against you that make your legs twitch as they close around his hips. He pulls away from the kiss and lets his lips trail over your jaw and down your neck, and as he latches onto a point on your collar bone, your fingers sink into his messy hair as a deep, satisfied moan breaks from your lips. Oh god, how you had longed for this. How you had longed for this. How desperate you had been for his touch, his kiss, him. Now that you have him, your head almost spins with the elation of it all. You don’t understand how you went all this time without him.
His fingers move faster, and you can feel him rolling his hips against your leg, feel the hard shape of his cock through his jeans. You reach down, and he brings his head up from your neck. His lips are slightly swollen and his tongue darts out to wet them. You seal your mouth against his, trying to ignore the warmth in your lower stomach long enough to navigate his belt, the button on his jeans, and the zip.
He removes his hand from you for just a second, long enough to shuck off the jeans, but by the time he’s returned to you, you’ve yanked your soaked underwear off and thrown it to some dark corner of the room. In the darkness, you see an annoyed knot crease form between his eyebrows.
“What?” you ask, breathless half with a huff of laughter. The crease deepens.
“I wanted to do that,” he says, letting his hand return to your clit, his chin bumping against your chest as he makes his way back up your torso. You open your mouth to reply, but as he resumes his ministrations, the words die on your lips. He’s not fucking around now. He means business.
With his other hand, he tugs at your shirt, his intention obvious.
Usually you’d tease him. You’d pull the hem of your shirt down, or feign innocence.
This time, you pull your shirt up and over your head, and for a moment, he pauses to look at you. He slows his movements, and your breath leaves your lips in a hushed rush. He kisses the corner of your mouth, and then with one hand, undoes your bra, eyes fixed on you as you shrug it off, movements as fluid and graceful as you can make them. He kisses you again, and you swallow the words that follow like water.
“You’re so beautiful.”
It’s all you can do to wrap one arm around his shoulders and tangle the other in his hair, burying your head in the join between his neck and shoulder. He presses himself against you, fingers still moving against your clit. Your thighs press tighter around him as they tremble and shake. He grinds against your leg, latching his lips against a spot on your collar bone and sucking a dark hickey onto the skin there. Your grip on his hair tightens as you feel the coil in your stomach grow tighter.
His fingers move faster, and you gasp, throwing your head back and arching against him. A low groan escapes his lips as your thigh presses against his cock, and you feel him grind against you. Strangled moans and cries worm their way through your lips, and the next second, you cry out loud and clear, gasping 2D’s name. His fingers slow immediately, but not so slowly that he doesn’t draw out a few more almost over-sensitive sensations from you.
You barely give yourself a moment to catch your breath as he pulls back, just link your arms around his neck and pull him down, wrapping your legs around his hips. He grinds against you with a soft moan, and you kiss him briefly, and then pull back.
“Condom?”
He stares at you blankly for a second, and then nods.
“I’ve got one,” you both say in unison. He grins at you, and you smile back.
“Mine’s in my jeans pocket,” he says, leaning away from you slightly, hands searching across the bed until he finds his jeans. You sit up as he rifles through his pockets, and instead of teasing him - although the thought is a tempting one - you simply sit, head against his chest, stroking a hand across his opposite collarbone, listening to his slow heartbeat.
The sound of someone else’s heartbeat…you can’t remember the last time you stayed with a partner long enough to lie with them and just listen.
2D’s lips press against your forehead, and you pull yourself back to reality, blinking and looking up at him.
“You ready?” he asks. You kiss him in reply, falling back and pulling him with you. You obviously catch him off guard, because he lands heavily on top of you, forcing a breathless laugh from you.
“Fuck, I’m sorry,” he mutters, pushing himself up, but you don’t give him a chance to apologise any further, as you wrap your arms around his neck and pull his lips to yours. His hips grind firmly against yours, and you feel his cock pressing against you, into you, and with an arch of his back he’s inside you again, and you’re sighing and gasping and arching and reaching for him, and he’s falling right into you.
You link one arm around his neck, and with the other, you stroke through his hair, sometimes grasping it lightly as he thrusts and hits a particular spot. Your eyes are half closed but when you do open them, you see his own eyes are unfocused, his mouth hanging slightly open, a look of deep concentration and intense pleasure on his face.
“D,” you whisper, and then repeat it again a little louder. His eyes come into focus on you, and his teeth catch his lip as he stares down at you. You’re breathless and sweaty and caught between ecstasy and somewhere better.
“Kiss me.”
He leans down and presses his lips to yours desperately, like a drowned man coming up for air. You kiss back, arching your back so your chest presses against his. His hips lose their rhythm slightly and you both moan against each others lips.
He’s kissing you, filling you, holding you, scattering you, finding you; and it feels so divine.
His name falls from your lips like a mantra as you break the kiss to toss your head back, pressing your thighs tight against his sides. You can feel the bottom of his ribcage pressing against your legs, moving in and out as he breathes you in over and over again, each breath more desperate than the last. You wind your arms around his neck and pull him close, trying to press every inch of your skin against him. He bows his head, pressing it into the crook of your neck and gasping, his hips rocking back and forth, each thrust slow but hard, making you gasp, the grip of your legs around his waist tightening slightly.
His wrap around your thighs, and despite your iron grip, he extricates them easily. Whining at the loss of friction, you reach up, pressing your palm against his cheek. He turns his face slightly, nuzzling and kissing the heel of your hand as he adjusts his position, throwing your legs over his shoulders, and then beginning to move again, slowly.
The new position throws up even sharper pleasure, spiking through you like a bolt of lightning every time he thrusts in. You gasp and moan with every wave of pleasure, hands falling to your sides. He leans his weight onto the bed either side of you, and you link your fingers with his. He squeezes your hands tight, and you hope he never lets go.
For a moment, you open your eyes, staring up at him. He stares back, his cheek pressed against your calf as your ankles cross together behind his head. Slowing his pace to a steady rocking of his hips, he buries himself deep inside you at a pace that makes you shudder and gasp.
His profile is half in darkness, but as he ducks his head a little, you see the unbridled adoration shining in his eyes. Sweat shines on his forehead, and his eyes are half lidded, his lips parted as he huffs for breath, but in that moment, you realise that no one has ever looked at you like that before.
And you don’t want anyone else to.
Uncrossing your legs from behind his head, you pull him down, arching your back and pressing your chest and stomach to his as he head falls into the crook of your neck, his lips pressing against your shoulder. His hips speed up, and his arms curl around your body, tighter and tighter until he’s crushing himself against you and you’re clinging back to him, as though trying to meld yourselves into one, legs tight around his waist, his hips jerking back and forth and making you cry out with delight. You can feel your thighs trembling as you get closer and closer, and his rhythm becomes more and more discordant, more desperate to find a release as he buries his moans in your hickey-painted neck.
“(Y/n),” he moans, “oh my god, (Y/n).”
His breathy, desperate moans are enough to send you over the edge, toes curling, teeth clenching, throwing your head back and crying out in ecstasy as wave after pleasurable way washes over you. 2D finishes just seconds after, with a strangled cry and a sharp jerk of his hips that buries him inside you as deep as he can go. His breath is hot and damp on your neck, his forehead and back slick with sweat, and for a few seconds after, the two of you simply lie as you are, cocooned within each other, panting and gasping and shaking slightly.
You swipe a trembling arm across your forehead, letting your neck go limp. Your nose brushes against 2D’s, and he tilts his head slightly, pressing his lips to yours. The kiss is soft and hesitant, and you desperately don’t want it to end. As he pulls away, his eyes fixate on yours in the darkness.
As he falls next to you, so do three words fall from his lips.
And, without even thinking, four words spill from yours.
“I love you, too.”
————————————————
You groan as you sit up. The sheets bunch around your waist, your marked up collar bones and neck fully on show. You allow your finger to gently drift across the marks littered across your skin, feeling the flushed flesh beneath your fingertips.
You rub your eyes, your hands coming away slightly shaded with mascara. Thank god you’d opted to wear waterproof mascara, minimising the damage the next morning.
There’s a disturbance in the bed beside you, and an arm curls over your legs.
“‘m cold,” groans a voice, muffled by the pillow into which the owner’s face is pressed.
You look down at the figure in the bed beside you.
His hair is blue, and his nose is delicately curved. His lips are thin but you know the kisses they give feel better than anything in the world. When he turns his head and squints up at you, his eyes don’t catch the light, but rather absorb it. You want to drown in those eyes.
You lay back down beside 2D, and brush your hand across his cheek and into his tangled hair. He draws you closer against his chest, nuzzling his head into your shoulder.
“It’s nice to finally wake up next to you,” he murmurs, his lips vibrating slightly against your skin. You pull back slightly, staring at him. Your survival instincts are dormant. You feel no fear, no desire to run or escape. You feel safe, you feel whole, lying in 2D’s arms, with your hand in his hair and his legs tangled with yours.
Your eyes meet his, and they seem to search for a sign, for some signal of how to continue. His eyes meet yours, fearless and unguarded. There’s no question in his eyes. There’s no answer either. Just reassurance. Just your face reflected back at you, calm, slightly smiling.
You kiss his forehead. You stroke a hand down his back. You press your body a little closer to his, and feel his heart beating against your chest, feel your own heart beating back.
This time, you stay.