Work Text:
Eleven little letters are all it takes to derail her life.
Granted, she’d derailed fairly well on her own before she’d figured it out but that’s neither here nor there.
She’s nine when she first realizes the gravity of those letters.
A name, etched out beneath her collarbone in the thinnest, most delicate script.
Christopher .
Annie cries for three weeks when she’s six because she realizes she doesn’t have one. Beth doesn’t understand until their mother shows them her own, faded but clear enough for Beth to read that it wasn’t her father’s name.
“Kissed by the fates,” her mother had whispered to her under the cover of darkness one night, with a look of sadness that Beth will never forget. There’s a reason they’re spinsters, the Fates.
Beth quickly learns it’s not something to speak of in polite company because Annie never gets hers and Beth never meets hers.
She almost does, or so she thinks for the split moment between hearing the teacher speak the name and the time it takes her to make eye contact with the stranger across geometry class.
She’s a freshman when she meets a Christopher.
Not hers, she knows that the moment their eyes lock.
He goes by Chris and his name feels weird when it rolls off her tongue as she whispers it to herself, like a secret only she knows.
She meets Dean the same week and little by little she buries each letter deep down inside until it’s easy enough to pretend they’re not there. Dean doesn’t ask about it, not even when his fingers slide across her chest.
Time passes, freckles pepper her chest, and the script thins. It fades from mind too, the constant burn to know dulls over time, the excitement of new people wanes. It becomes a part of her like all the lines, freckles, and dimples of her body.
She mourns her mother and shares the story of the Fates with Jane when she tucks her into bed, pulling her pajama sleeve over a scribbled name Jane will never meet.
Twenty years and four kids later names and birthmarks are an afterthought. Beth’s got real problems now, debts and bodies hanging over her head.
A new outlook on life.
She follows him around all day, a woman crazed, convinced he holds the keys to her freedom. It gives her purpose, this shitty little plan in her head, it gives her a sick sense of comfort and control over the chaos that’s become her life.
He leads her to the building, serves it to her on a plate, and it’s so very easy from there.
Too easy.
It’s not the ‘burbs and her mom shtick won’t play so she does the next best thing - she takes her clothes off and raps her knuckles against the paint-stained door of his neighbor.
“Uh, I had a little sleepover with your neighbor last night,” she offers the girl a smile and hopes she sounds believable enough.
“Brian?”
“The other one,” Beth adds quickly with a smile.
“Christopher - in 3B?”
It’s like time stops. A shudder rips through her body and she inhales sharply at the name.
The girl blinks at her, waiting for an acknowledgment, unaware of the bomb she’d just dropped. Beth’s smile falters and she shakes her head slowly.
It can’t be.
“The one with the little boy, a-and the -” she clarifies with a hand to her own neck, hoping the girl will come up with another option, another name.
“Ah, okay - Christopher,” the girl nods, doubling down and Beth’s chest tightens.
Rio.
Christopher.
“We didn’t really get to names - “ she forces a smile, mouth moving and words still coming out. The adrenaline pumps through her as the girl finally suggests the fire escape.
She moves on autopilot, and everything around her blurs. Her legs carry her back to her clothes, down to the street, and around the building. Eventually, she finds an open window and stumbles into his living room, feet landing on the plush carpet.
Beautiful exposed brick stares at her, a gorgeous pop of green to open the room - art everywhere . It’s overwhelming, a side of him she’d never considered, let alone seen.
It enrages her, the perfection of it all. Makes it hard to breathe.
She moves through the apartment, touches everything, unsure of what she’s even searching for. Every single room she enters is pristine and better than the last. Every empty drawer mocks her louder than the one before.
Photos of Marcus decorate the furniture, hints of home amongst the crisp, editorial decor.
The blood in her ears is so loud she doesn’t hear anything but her own heaving breaths. When he speaks all the noise ceases and she freezes, in the middle of his bedroom, a foot from his bed.
“Found what you’re looking for?”
She doesn’t know if it’s the fear of being caught or the rage of it all - him, this apartment, her life, but she can’t stop shaking.
“No.”
“You wanna tell me what it is you looking for?”
“No.”
His jaw ticks in annoyance before he squares his shoulders and takes a step closer. Dark, angry eyes bore into her - and what right does he have to be angry, invading his home is nothing compared to his crime.
“A’ight, let’s play a game - twenty questions, I’ll start. Why you following me around all day?”
Another step brings him closer.
“Was that your ex-wife?” She snaps back.
It’s the first question that comes to her, but not the only one.
What’s her name? Is it on your body?
“Eighteen,” he smirks and takes another step.
“That’s not an answer, Christopher, ” she doesn’t dare blink when she says it, holds her breath to watch his expression, scared to miss a moment.
Except he smiles, like it’s irrelevant, like his name doesn’t mean anything.
“Why are you here?”
“Seventeen.”
She can play the same game.
“Oh, that’s not an answer, Elizabeth ,” he sneers her name and then he loses control for the barest of moments and he looks down. His eyes drop to her covered chest, to the spot they both know has her branded. The spot of skin right below her clavicle where his name rests.
It infuriates her, burns her from the inside out.
His eyes are back on her own in a second but it doesn’t matter because she’d caught him, and he knows it.
“Where is it?” she demands and his jaw clenches. There’s no way to pretend anymore, not with the fury growing behind her eyes.
She wants to see it, it’s the only way she’ll believe it.
He doesn’t respond or make a move to show her, just stares forwards with a blank expression she’s far too familiar with.
All this time, every single time he’d said it, whispered it, every single time he’d written it down. A wave of nausea washes over her as her thoughts spiral and she has to shake her head to force the thoughts out.
When he doesn’t make a move she speaks again, voice a little stronger. “Where is it?”
She’d seen enough of his body, bare skin too but she wasn’t looking for it.
When he finally responds his voice is rough. “You’re looking at it.”
She frowns and shakes her head hard, impatient.
“I don’t understand.”
He tilts his chin up, bares the tattoo on his neck, and swallows. She inhales, sharp, eyelashes fluttering. She swallows the tears down, finally understanding.
He’d covered it.
He’d been branded too and he’d erased her before he’d ever known her.
“You knew,” she manages, voice barely a whisper.
His jaw clicks again as he slides both hands back into the pockets of his jacket. He settles his shoulders in a small shrug, squares his stance as if he’s expecting her to ram through him physically.
Maybe she will, she hasn’t decided yet.
She steps closer, lifts a shaky hand to point at him, his neck. She hasn’t looked away from his eyes, not daring to let her gaze slip.
“You knew,” she whispers. “All this time, and - “
“So what?” He shrugs again but his eyes drop off of her and fall to the floor. The words stun her where she stands. “Would it have changed anything, Elizabeth?”
There he goes again, saying it, her name. Doesn’t it hurt, she wonders.
Her lips part and nothing comes out. She stands frozen and breathes through her mouth like a child.
“What would you have done differently?” He’s taunting her, tone mean and harsh.
He steps closer and looks up at her again. “I gave you an out.”
There’s moisture collecting in the corner of her eyes and she blinks quickly before he can see what he’s done, what he’s capable of.
“What are you talking about?”
“I gave you a way to make more money than he ever saw, you didn’t need him - you still don’t. You could have left.”
She reels, and it hurts.
“That’s not fair, I didn’t know.”
“Life’s not fair.”
“Oh, screw you!”
He chuckles, dry and humorless. His eyes drift across her neck and down to her clavicle where his name is scrawled right below the bone.
He’d seen it, the bastard. That day in her bedroom, after he’d peeled her clothes off in the afternoon sun. She can’t remember if he’d touched it, or even looked at it. She screws her eyes shut, trying to recall but she’d spent so long ignoring that piece of her that anything different feels wrong.
“It don’t mean anything but what it is,” he says softer and then he’s closer, close enough that she can feel him breathe.
“And what is it?”
He’s touching her, pushing hair out of her face again, and tucking it behind her ear.
He’s close enough that if she’d just look down now she could see the finer details of the tattoo. And it’s not fair that she’s perfectly the right height to see it, to lean in and rub her cheek against it. She forces her eyes to stay on his, refusing to give herself what every inch of her body and being is screaming for.
Would she still be able to see it even covered up?
“A fucked up little birthmark,” he says with a smile she doesn’t return.
She needs to get out of here before she cries, or worse before she lets herself look. Touch.
You don’t have to stare at it every day, she wants to tell him.
And she must have because he’s closer, nose almost touching her own, and answering her.
“No,
I
just had to say it - hear it,” he hums quietly, warm breath fanning her mouth. His gaze tilts down just a modicum, enough for their foreheads to touch. “See it on your body.”
“Stop it.”
“Know he’s touching it - you -”
He’s punishing her, with his words and fingers, with the hand that's dipping across her neck and to her shoulder. So close to the spot of skin that's burning through her sweater, calling to him.
“Enough,” she blinks and pushes against his stomach. She doesn’t push very hard and even if she did, he knows exactly how much she can take, knowledge he was born with.
“I knew it was you -” he rasps and laughs quietly like it's an inside joke she isn’t in on, “- and then I saw you.”
The pull she feels in the deepest parts of her that keep bringing her back to this life - was it ever about the money, the adrenaline, or was it just him all along.
She pushes again but he shakes his head once, sharply, and closes the gap between them. The noise that bubbles out of her is foreign to her ears, wet and sad. She hiccups into his mouth, as his hands find her cheeks. He wipes the moisture away with his thumbs and licks into her mouth.
Maybe this is all there is for them, stolen moments like these.
Her jacket hits the ground, then her top, until she’s almost bare in front of him gulping down air between kisses. He gives her pause, pulls back to look down at his fingers as he tugs the strap of her bra over the edge of her shoulder, the last piece of fabric standing in his way. She’s pale there, and he runs a finger over it lightly before he leans down.
When his lips finally cover the etched skin she cries. He releases it with a soft pop only to bite it, and quickly soothe it with his tongue. She curls into him, head falling into the spot where his neck meets his shoulder, eyes wet.
Everything blurs again like it often does with him. The only thing she’s sure of is the body touching her own, the hands moving her and undressing her.
When she’s finally naked and spread on his sheets he pulls back, one knee still on the bed. He’s still dressed, breathing hard, and staring. He runs a hand down his face, finger catching on his bottom lip and she finally lets herself look.
The bird moves every time he swallows, jumps up as his throat works and she feels fresh tears prickling in the corners of her eyes. He reaches for the back of his shirt, pulls it off in one swift move, and then his body’s on top of hers. Warm, too soft for what it's done to her.
Long fingers wrap around her wrist and he tugs her hand up, up until it's stuck between their bodies. He settles between her legs, lets her feel every inch of his body, makes a home right where he belongs.
Still staring at her, he pulls her hand to his neck and presses her pointer finger to a spot he finds in one go. It’s there - to the edge of the center of his throat, on a wing. She feels his pulse right below the pad of her finger, strong, a little fast.
She can feel her bottom lip tremble and then he’s on her again.
“Right there,” he whispers against her mouth, “You feel it?”
She nods, too scared of what she'll sound like if she uses her voice.
“Good,” he rasps and pushes inside of her with a soft whine like he's in pain. She can feel him shudder where she's touching him, feel his pulse jump against her finger. Her grip tightens against the spot as he rocks into her a little harder with every stroke.
She would have called him a stoic before, with his rigid shoulders and blank expressions, always hiding - but here, looking at him now and the way his fingers grip her thigh, the way his breath comes so shallow, the way his mouth goes slack, she reconsiders.
Beth swallows his grunts, pushes up to kiss him a little deeper, harder and he responds easily. She tries to lift her body too, to meet him halfway but every time he fucks into her she loses her legs.
“Like you were made for me,” he grunts out. The bed shakes a little, the headboard softy thudding against the wall every time he drives into her. She takes it easy, wants more.
He finds a rhythm quickly and it steals the breath out of her lungs, leaves her gasping, and clutching to the sheets. He drops his head into the pillow next to her, mouth wet and open against her shoulder.
She can feel his mouth moving, barely hearing the words coming out of his mouth.
His perfect little cunt.
His cock buried deep.
His.
She whines, hands shaking against his back, nails digging into soft skin.
He finds her clit with shaking fingers, swiping at the swollen bud. His finger slips, too wet to find the right spot but she’s so sensitive and so close that all it takes is a little pressure and she crashes.
She cries and clenches around him so tightly that she almost pushes him out of her body. He stills suddenly, the throbbing of his cock inside of her so obvious that she feels him thicken through her orgasm. The fullness and heat that follows as he comes inside of her makes her tremble inside and out.
He pushes deeper, pants against her chest, and holds her still with one hand at her hip as he finally finishes.
She shakes a little, sparks of her orgasm still pulsing through her. He fucks into her once, softening and too sensitive but unrelenting. When he does, he presses against her clit, ripping a whine out of her as she pushes back instinctually, still swollen and turned on.
“Fuck,” he bites out finally slipping out, and then he’s touching her again. “You want more, Elizabeth?”
Thick fingers find their place as he rises to an elbow to look at her. There’s sweat beaded above his lip, all she can think about is licking it off.
She buckles against his hand, tries to look down at where he’s touching her but he grips her hair at the scalp and shakes his head.
“You’re gonna look at me when you come.”
Apart from the hand moving as he strokes her, he’s absolutely still over her, lip finally curling up as she begins to thrash under him. When she’s close, legs and belly clenching with the impending orgasm his fingers slip lower and she cries.
Her nails dig into his bicep as his fingers collect his come, what's dripped out of her and her own liquids, and pushes it back inside of her.
He watches her expression as he does it, slack mouth and hooded eyes. He pumps two fingers inside, wet and down to the last knuckle. Deep enough to bring her over quickly. She comes easy, not as hard as she did with him buried inside of her but enough to finally let her body relax.
She exhales quietly, her body falling limp as he settles next to her. His hand drapes across his belly, still wet with her but he doesn’t make a move to wipe it off.
She shivers, skin prickling and nipples tightening from the cold. He must notice even though he’s not directly looking at her because he leans forwards and grabs the blanket at the foot of the bed.
The relentless urge to cry is finally gone, so is the anger - mostly. The post-orgasm endorphins wash over her, giving her enough nerve to finally ask.
“Why did you cover it?”
It’s barely a whisper but it’s out there. It settles in the quiet room as he smiles, amused.
After a beat, he finally faces her and answers.
“I was a skinny kid in a Spanish neighborhood with Elizabeth tattooed on my neck,” he chuckles and shakes his head. “Everybody who sees it asks about it.”
His eyes drop to the blanket, and the hands clutching it to her neck. His jaw ticks again and she briefly considers pulling the blanket down and letting him see again. It's his name, after all. She quashes the thought as quickly as it began.
He doesn’t say anything more and she doesn’t push. She thinks about her mark, what it’d be like if everyone could see, and how they’d stare. What life would be like if she couldn’t move on from it, to be reminded of it - him , every single time another person looked at her.
Now she knows, and now they share another secret.