a/n: listen to fear and loathing by marina and the diamonds. it's where i got the title from.
don't wanna live in fear and loathing, i wanna feel like i am floating instead of constantly exploding in fear and loathing.
I
(before Bahrain)
She was a playful lover when they were in the academy, before Bahrain happened. She wouldn't giggle necessarily, Melinda May doesn't giggle, but Phil would take great pride in getting that small laugh that almost resembled one when he'd kiss her stomach and sides (it was her tickle spot, after all).
She would roll them around, letting him go on top before flipping them and grinning down at him, her hair fluffing all around her shoulders as she sunk down on him.
She was radiant and touching her felt like touching the sun – warm and impossible all at once.
She would smile at him and put her fingers atop his chest, over his heart, and she could probably feel the unsteady pounding rhythm beneath her palm.
Afterward, they would lay together on whichever bed they were using. She would rest her forehead against his shoulder, giving him her full and complete trust. She looked like an angel.
He was convinced she loved him, he knew she did. She looked at him so adoringly (eyes wide open and emotions visible in the brown depths). And he loved her.
II
(after Bahrain)
She was rougher, way rougher. She was always more dominant than he, but it got worse. More intense. She would hardly look at him, and he felt like he was just there to help her forget. Maybe he was.
Her eyes would close as she rose atop him, her nails digging bluntly into the skin of his chest (and neck, and collarbone, anywhere she can reach).
Sometimes she would pin his hands over his head or wrap his wrists in his tie and put them above. He noticed she only insisted on doing that after he tried to touch her tenderly. He stopped doing that.
She would ride him and move her fingers down to her clit, bringing herself to orgasm and clenching around him masterfully so he'd come as well.
When they were through, she'd roll off him onto her back and lay there for a beat or two. Sometimes three. Sometimes she'd look up at the ceiling without a word and he'd hold his breath, afraid that if he did something he'd startle her off. But that was futile anyway, for she would get up eventually and tug on her clothes and leave his room.
He knew she needed him this way so he continued to be her scapegoat. Someone she could come to when she needed release. He loved her still, probably always will, but he wasn't sure if she still felt the same.
III
(post-finale)
After they found out Ward was Hydra and he was captured, and they were comfortable, she came into his room one night. She was timid, Melinda May wasn't timid.
She slipped into the bed beside him, the bed dipping, and he knew what this was about. And he knew that it would be different.
And it was. It was like a combination of both Melinda's he knew well. She was still dominant and enjoyed leaving marks on him, but there was more emotion and she actually looked at him.
She even let him roll them over and pepper kisses all along her face, along her neck, down her chest and to her stomach. He felt the muscles undulate under his lips and he swore he could hear the faint sound of that laugh she used to give him when he kissed her there.
She wrapped her legs around his waist and would look straight at him as she came (showing so much emotion that he could feel it like an undercurrent, pulling him under) and he felt his heart thundering inside his chest.
He rolled onto his back and she made no move to touch him so he went for it. He grabbed her hand and tugged her so she rolled onto her side and was pressed against him. She didn't fight it and she didn't snap at him. She simply rested her head against his arm.
Maybe, just maybe, she did still love him as he loved her.