A/N This is a hard T, arguably M. You've been warned.
With Luke, it's awkward and she's angry. She's trying to relax, trying to enjoy it, trying to get her mind off Ryan and trying to push aside that picture of him about to fuck the blonde. She is buzzed with alcohol, and she knows deep down that she doesn't actually want to do this – wants to be fifteen minutes away with a different blonde haired blue eyed boy all together – but she is angry and she is buzzed and Luke wants her.
His fingers press into her body in all the wrong ways. His lips are too rough and his skin smells of sunblock and salt – a smell that always stuck with him, even when he didn't go to the beach. She knows she should enjoy it, should be arching her back in pleasure, not just because that's what she's seen in all the movies and all the shows.
He tries to kiss her breasts, but she keeps his lips on her mouth as a distraction. She does not moan, not purely, not meaningfully. She pretends to like it. Few people know that she's an incredible actress.
When it's over, it's still awkward, and she's still angry. Luke dozes and she stares at his ceiling fan thinking of Ryan and that blonde and whether she actually moans when he fucks her.
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With DJ, it's being drunk and lost and looking for an escape. She enjoys it more than Luke, finally understands that sex can be more than pretend, but it's only physical. His body is perfect, and his fingers know just the right places to make her give her body over. In her mind, she's telling him to take her somewhere, anywhere, away from here.
He smells of grass and sweat, and his skin tastes of salt. His lips are soft, but his hands are rough as they move over her body, weathered from manual labor. She lets him kiss her everywhere, anywhere, wishing that he could do what the alcohol sometimes couldn't and make her forget about that yellow car and orange sunset and pair of blue eyes watching her as they drove away.
He is the first boy who actually makes her call out and reach that peak from which she falls regretfully. Sometimes he stands and dresses quickly, needing to return to work and reality and the grass that seems to grow by the minute.
Other days he tries to stay in bed with her and strike up a conversation, but most days she can only turn and pretend to sleep as she replays the silence on the other end of the phone over and over again until she is forced to reach for the bottle she hides under her mattress.
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With Alex, it's beer and new and rebellion. She has never known another woman could make her feel sexy or wanted, but Alex knows all the right places to touch and kiss and fondle. At first she is awkward and uncomfortable, but she is open to change because her life is a fucking mess and maybe this will make it a little better.
Alex smells of coconut soap and alcohol. Alex tastes like beer because it's cheaper than liquor, and actually makes moans, sometimes yelling as she reaches her peak. It's erotic and messy and wrong in all the right ways. She learns more about her body. She feels more than even with DJ with his sexy smolder and incredible muscles and firm body beneath her fingers. Alex is soft and feminine and maybe just what she needs.
She is always buzzed, not drunk, not sober, but somewhere blissfully in between. When they finish, Alex reaches for a cigarette and sometimes Marissa considers asking for a drag, but cannot bring herself to smoke another cigarette, not again, not since that night.
She reaches for another beer and chugs it and then reaches for Alex, needing to forget the August breeze and blue eyes that she still misses every single fucking day.
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With Volchok, it is regret and anger and sadness and vodka all mixed into one hard, rough fuck. Sometimes he slams her against walls, and she lets him. She doesn't care anymore. As she feels his rough, uncaring hands all over her body, she thinks she may never care again.
He smells like salt and sweat and man. He tastes bitter and salty. His body is hard, his kisses unyielding, his hands relentless. With him, it is hard and fast and rough. She does not care if she finishes, does not care if she feels any pleasure at all, only wishes that somehow as he slams into her over and over again he can for one moment fill this never ending emptiness.
He does not try to hold her. He does not try to ask her how she feels or what she needs or wants or is thinking. She would not even tell him if he tried. Instead, they both dress, and he smokes while she finds the vodka that she hopes will poison her veins and kill her already so this will all go away.
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But with Ryan, only with Ryan, she is always sober. Her heart beats hard and fast and her stomach is full with the most energetic butterflies. Her entire body is on fire everywhere he touches, and he takes his time kissing her, touching her, memorizing her. He makes her feel like the most beautiful glass, as if it is his job to keep her safe.
He smells of spice cologne and something else that she spends every single night trying to discern. She only knows it's Ryan's smell, and she loves it because she loves him, every single inch of him, every single scar.
His body is not perfect. He has two distinct scars that she kisses every single time she sees them, sometimes twice for good measure, and she loves the way his eyes darken as he watches her love him in a way she knows he has never known before. She likes to think he will never be loved this way again, that only she is capable of something of such great, unimaginable depths.
With him, she does not feel empty anymore. She does not act or pretend or try to escape. She is never quite as alive as the moments Ryan moves inside of her. In these moments, everything to her is startlingly, beautifully clear.
When they finish, he pulls her into his arms and holds her against him. She rests her head on his chest and lets him play with her hair, trying not to smile, always failing anyway. She always thinks that if he asked, she would stay here with him forever.
She always thinks that if she died in his arms, she would already be in heaven.