this was written in, like, november or something. it was supposed to be really long and smutty and fascinating but it seems i just don't have the ability to write that. i might write another thing in this universe because college AUs are my everything, but it's nothing certain. i really don't know what to think of it, so please feel free to tell me how it could be better.
'you know how dragonflies can sting the hearts like darts' is a verse from the do's song for lovers.
disclaimer: obviously do not own anything.
trigger warning: alcohol consumption, non-graphic (i think?) sex and mention of physical abuse.
It started like:
You've been working at the bar for a couple weeks when your eyes fall on her pretty, pretty face. She sits at the counter and you're the one to take her order, even if Sarah is technically closer and more available right now. She demands three shots of tequila and you gap at her a little; it's 5pm. She raises an eyebrow and asks: "Is there something wrong?" in such a tone that your first instinct is to slap her, and your second to kiss her.
(It's funny, how all this time later she still provokes the same reactions in not quite the same order – but only because she is so gifted with her mouth.)
Three hours later, when your shift is coming to an end, the girl is completely hammered and stares at you for a long time before getting up and going to the bathroom, so you follow her. You barely have the time to lock the door before there's a warm body against your back, a tongue against your throat and hands squeezing your breasts. When your fingers slip inside her pants there's barely a whimper and that's it; she swallows back all the other noises.
She doesn't look you in the eye once, nor does she try to kiss you anywhere near your mouth. You're grateful she isn't trying to make it seem intimate when really, nothing about what you're doing is. Sure, you learn things about her body that most of the rest of the world won't ever know, but you don't know her name, age or story. It makes you feel safe, like you can get the physical release you crave without endangering yourself at all.
She tries to touch you after her muscles stops shaking, but you know she's too drunk to get you off, so you settle for grinding against her thigh. You know it's been long enough for the raw friction to be enough; you're proven right when her hands find themselves on your ass to push you harder against her, and you groan against her neck.
You stay in each other's arms until your breathing is back to normal, until your legs can hold your weight and don't buckle every two seconds anymore. She holds you against the wall in silence and draws away delicately, like she's afraid you'll fall. You want to scoff because you're not sure you can fall much lower anyway, but you restrain yourself and go to the sink to wash your fingers. You also do your hair in a ponytail, because they're messy. (It's one of the first things you learn: she likes to pull on your blonde curls.) She leans against the wall and looks like it requires a tremendous effort of her to control her voice when she says:
"How 'bout a deal?"
The words are slurred, but considering that by now her veins must contain more alcohol than blood cells, it's mildly impressive that she's able to talk at all.
"What kind?" you ask, staring at her curves through the glass. You can't help but think, God I just banged that, because the girl is insanely hot. She's wearing skin-tight, black jeans with a simple baby blue shirt, but she looks like a damn goddess. Even drunk. You kind of regret not enjoying her orgasm face as much as you could have.
"The kind where... We fuck, sometimes. Maybe often. But nothing more."
You chuckle when she seems unhappy with herself at the phrasing.
"You don't even know me," you protest, because you used to be kind. "And you're drunk off your ass, you probably won't remember any of this the next time you wake up."
"I will."
If she could, you're pretty sure she would stomp her feet. She looks so determined and serious that you laugh again.
"Right," you mutter after a moment of staring at each other. "Here's what I suggest: I'll give you my number, and if tomorrow you still want it, you call me. Then we'll see."
She frowns but finds nothing to answer, so she just nods. You get out of the bathroom – there's a man waiting outside who glares when he sees the both of you– and she stumbles towards her coat. Miraculously it's still here, on her seat. She gives you her phone, you type in your number with your name and she leaves without another glance.
You'll feel guilty in the morning if you read somewhere that a pretty girl was hit by a car because she was too loaded, but for now you're exhausted and you can't wait to get home.
.
She doesn't call you the next day, but the day after that. She tells you: "I remember and I still want to make that deal" before hello, so you avenge yourself by asking:
"Excuse me but... Who am I talking to?"
"I- wha- Really!?"
She sounds so offended that you can't help the bark of laughter that comes out of your belly.
"I'm kidding. But I still don't know your name."
"I'll tell you my name if you accept my offer."
"We've only fucked once and you're already using blackmail? It doesn't sound very appealing to me."
"Do you accept it or not?"
You make sure you sound jaded when you answer:
"Sex and nothing else? Sure, why not."
"Great," but her voice doesn't tell you anything about what she's feeling, whether it's relief or joy or nothing at all. "My name is Regina. I'll text you next week."
And with that she hangs up.
When Regina comes, she never makes a sound. Her body is tensed and arched, her eyes closed and her mouth wide open – but no sound comes out of it. To you, it looks a lot like breaking, like your warmth dismantles every piece of her and leaves her fragmented, scattered all over the bed (or sofa; carpet; bathroom's door; car's backseat; random surface).
It's pretty and it would make you sad if you weren't trying so hard not to watch.
You never bother with fixing it afterwards, because it's her own damn job. You don't really want to care for someone else's issues: you've got enough on your plate with yours. Caring for others is such bullshit anyway. They just die or disappear or sell you to the cops at one point, and you're left with nothing except a positive pregnancy test and 10 months in jail.
So after Regina comes and breaks, you simply put on your clothes and shut the door of her dorm's room behind you without a second thought. When she looks really shaken, you hold her a little with a smug grin, but that's as far as you're willing to go.
.
Of course you know about the state of her skin.
You understood quickly what it means, because contrary to what everyone seems to think, you're not completely stupid. Or maybe they're right and you only recognized it for what it is because you have seen so many of them already – scars left by another.
You didn't see it the first few times because those were rushed, semi-public and nakedness was not very high on the list of your priorities. But you set a foot in her room and ripped her shirt off of her body while she was pressed against the wall, you saw and you understood and you kept on fucking her because it didn't matter.
It still doesn't, but it's been 5 months of seeing her at least once a week, and somehow it pisses you off to see new marks appear every now and then. She's 23 and the fact that she's dumb enough to go back where shit like that is done to her grates on your nerves.
(You always fuck her harder when her skin is multicolored - red and blue, red and yellow–, as if punishing her for not escaping, even though you know she probably can't because she's at freaking Harvard and she's not dumb at all.)
.
You're so very loud when you come, after she learns how to touch you. You're not embarrassed by the fact, because you learned long ago that lies can be so much more convincing when mixed with honesty.
Yeah, she's good at making you come so hard that your muscles contract for entire minutes.
No, you don't give a damn about her.
.
Your meet her roommate Kathryn for the first time when Regina's legs are wrapped around your head, so obviously none of it goes smoothly. You're surprised it didn't happen before, but apparently Regina keeps a very close watch on her best friend's schedule, and you two never crossed path. There's a lot of awkwardness, a desperate attempt at hiding your naked forms with the white sheets, and high-pitched exclamations like "I'm sorry, I haven't seen anything, I'm so sorry!" Kathryn is so flustered that you laugh, and laugh, and laugh; you can't stop until Regina bites down hard on your shoulder.
"Ouch! Regina, what the fuck!?"
"Kathryn, I'm sorry, could you please get out of the room so we can... make ourselves decent?" and she seems so controlled suddenly that your head spins with the change.
"Yes, yes of course! I'll be waiting in the... elsewhere."
She's gone and Regina's out of the bed before your next breath. She looks for her clothes calmly, and you only understand that something is wrong when she's facing you again. Her eyes are wild and terrified and the rest of her face is completely neutral.
"Get dressed and get the hell out of here," she demands with a voice so cold it makes everything stop.
Your mouth opens and closes several times before you remember that Regina's problems are not your problems. If she's so afraid to explain to her roommate who you are and what you two are doing together, she shouldn't have started the whole damn thing in the first place.
So you slip on your sweatshirt and old jeans without another word while you also try very, very hard to appear unaffected.
(It doesn't occur to you until much later that night that you are fucked, because you need to make it seem like you don't care. So you do.)
.
You think about the situation for 3 days straight. You don't answer her texts or her calls, not even when the message behind it gets more apologetic.
You think about facts, and you write them down:
- Her name is Regina Mills.
- She studies law at Harvard because she's brilliant.
- She likes when you kiss the scar on her lip.
- She has a mole near her sex, on her left thigh, which you always peck before you get down to business.
- You secretly took a picture of her, asleep and spreading her legs, and sometimes you touch yourself while staring at it.
- She's physically abused by at least one of her parents, but keeps going home to Boston every two weeks or so, for some reason that you can't fathom.
- Somewhere in the past months, you started attaching importance to her opinion and general existence.
- You don't know her at all outside the bedroom.
- She's the most gorgeous thing you have ever touched.
You don't think about possibilities, really, but you write them down anyway:
- Holding hands
- Kissing for the sake of kissing
- Long talks
- Meaningful sex
- Punching her parents in the face
- Punching her in the face
You think about how stupid human beings really are (maybe it's not the human race but only you, always you), how easy it is to get them to repeat the same mistakes again and again.
You think and you call her back.
.
"I want to start over" you say, and you hold your breath.