Crying is for pansies and pussies.
That's why I'm not doing it now. I've done enough crying over that fucking excuse for a personification. An oblivious, airheaded personification whose green eyes are clouded with lust for my younger sister. Sick son of a bitch.
Plus, as you have just witnessed, he kicked me out. Kicked. Me. Out.
For good this time.
It's to the point where the water building up in my tear-ducts refused to spill over and travel down my cheeks. No, instead, my expression remained flat and cold as I gathered my crap and hauled my ass out of the house.
…Oh, and knocked over a few vases and other valuables on my way out. Just to be a troll.
Ha. HAHA. Suck on that, Spagna.
So, now, here I am, in the dead of night, with an overflowing bag of shit, a flat expression on my face that suggested murder, and absolutely nowhere to go.
You know, that would be an important thing to figure out, si? Where to go? I'm not up to wandering around outdoors in the dead of night with the possibility of Pyramid Head, Freddie Krueger, or Jason lurking around, wielding mass weapons of destruction, finding some sick satisfaction out of eating my insides.
But no.
Seriously.
Where do I go?
I couldn't think straight, not with this boiling rage overtaking my whole motherfucking body. Hell, I felt possessed. As if Satan and his cronies were having a goddamn fiesta in my vagina. I couldn't concentrate on the fact that it was a beautiful night and that the temperature was fucking perfect for a camp out. I couldn't even process the sound of the crickets chirping against the quiet of the darkness. All I could think about was stealing Antonio's axe and shoving it up his asshole and through his skull before roasting him over a hot fire.
Breathing out slowly, I paused, my legs feeling slightly numb and my arms aching from carrying the shit-filled bag.
Okay, Lovina.
You are a badass motherfucker.
You are the victim here.
You have been mercilessly kicked out by a tomato-raping jackass, and now, you are essentially on your own.
What do you do?
I guess I could go to the nearest bar and get completely shit-faced.
But in all honesty, the idea of sitting at a bar table, taking shot after shot of hard liquor to quench the overwhelming spiral of emotions within me makes me feel as if the ass-hat won. And I will NOT have that bullshit. No fucking way.
Let's see, I don't really have any…
Ah-hem… I don't have any friends.
There, I admit it.
No one likes me enough to let me into their house, as far as I'm concerned.
And there is no way in hell I am going to subject myself to staying within a certain proximity of my air-headed, slut of a sister.
Lowering my eyes to the ground to stare at my feet, I realized that I had one choice, and one choice only.
This specific choice I am about to make would've made my past self shit herself in disbelief. But now? After that little mental smack down with dear ol' Toni, the idea of crashing with Gilbert for a while didn't seem like such a horrific idea. First of all, I would have a place to stay, even if it was a potato-infested, kinky, Germanic porn brothel disguised as a squeaky clean basement. Second of all, it would just piss Toni off even more when he finds out that I am staying with "ze Awesome five-metered Prussia." Hell, maybe I can even give others the impression that I am having intense, pornographic episodes with the bastard every fucking night.
…Mio Dio, did I really just think that?
Fucking hell, Lovina! You're losing your touch, your decency!
Since when the crapola was engaging in kinky sex with a Germanic a good idea?
Nevertheless, I had made up my mind.
To Prussia's house, we go!
This is where I permanently say farewell to tomato territory, and greet the realm of potatoes with as much civility as I could muster (which in all honesty, isn't that much).
However, once I had reached the house, I didn't just take care of business by going up to the door, knocking, and demanding entrance. Instead, I just stood there, about six feet away from the entrance of the house, staring at it stoically like some stalker.
Was I really doing this? Was I really going to subject myself to sharing a house with an uncivilized ex-nation? Hell, scratch that. I would be sharing this house with TWO Germanics. Goddamn, I am going to contract some strange disease from breathing in this pungent potato-ridden air, and then my lungs will shrovel up, my eyes will fall out, and my throat would clog up, which would cause my heart to stop beating, and then…and then… I would die. DIE.
Okay, I wouldn't die. I'm a personification. I would just suffer for a long period of time.
Deciding that my arms were cramping up from carrying all of this shit, I shook my head as a form of reassurance, and then made my way to the entrance of the house. I just prayed that the blonde potato bastard wasn't home right now. That would be so fucking awkward.
Oh, I so wanted to turn back. To actually take the time to put effort into finding another place to stay, possibly an inn or a motel or a barn… anything. However, effort and I just didn't seem to get along. Then again, the two of us never really have been on civil terms. At all.
So, sucking in a breath, I struggled to reach out toward the door with one hand and rapped on the wood with my knuckles. I was determined to look like an unfeeling, angry bitch right now. One of those chicks who looked everything but helpless and only did things that were absolutely necessary.
However, despite this façade bull I was pulling, my insides were slamming around like a fucking hurricane. I don't even know why I'm so unnerved by the fact that I am about to stay at the Potato bastard's house. It's not even that big of a deal, really. Yet, here I am, Lovina Vargas, personification of South Italy, fretting over this so-called "relationship" of ours.
Well, that escalated quickly. A few hours ago, it was established that we were dating. And now, I'm moving in.
WE AREN'T EVEN FACEBOOK OFFICIAL, YET. HOLY SHIT!
After a few more moments, the door swung open, and to my relief (or lack of), the pale-skinned ex-nation stood at the door, his piercing eyes fixated on the short, flat-faced Italian in front of him, her arms occupied with a shit ton of random crap that she had assumed was hers.
It was rather awkward… no, scratch that.
It was FUCKING awkward.
I just stood there, and he just stood there, and…and…
FUCKING HELL, SAY SOMETHING. ANYTHING.
"…Toni kicked me out," I finally said in a frigid tone, my voice sounding like grating nails even to my own ears. But that's a good thing, si? I want to sound like a badass motherfucker. Because I AM one. I'm the queen of badassness and pain and hardcore shit while Feliciana is the queen of daisies and rainbows and corny bullcrap that will DIE in the presence of amazingness.
Oh, Dio. I think that Beilschmidt is starting to rub off on me.
"I figured," he responded, raising an eyebrow, still not moving an inch from his position at the doorway. "And you are here, why?"
As he asked the second question, I saw it. That devious smirk creep was creeping back onto his lips. His red eyes were glinting mischievously, as if the idiota had won some magnificent prize.
I opened my mouth to say something… anything… something clever, something biting, something mean, something fucking out of this world. Sadly, I had nothing. So, instead, I just looked at the ground, inwardly cursing at the fact that my arms were goddamn tired from carrying this shit. As I have said for the umpteenth time.
"I need a place to stay, and you're the only one I can think of." Taking a quick breath, I looked back up at him, making sure to keep the expression on my face hard and unfeeling. That's right, Lovi, you can do it. Think icy, think mean, think bitch. Yes, that's right… think BITCH. "After all, we are supposedly dating, si? Why don't we add a bit of spice to the shock factor and live together?"
Gilbert immediately tutted in a mocking manner, shaking his head, that fucking smirk growing wider. "Now, now, Vargas, I understand that I am irresistible, but I can't just let you move into my humble abode."
My face reddened at that. Was he…was he REJECTING me? That…that… BASTARD.
"You…" I spat out, my eyes narrowing dangerously. "You…I…"
I cannot describe to you how fucking humiliated I feel right now. I needed to save myself in some way, maintain what little dignity I had.
If I had any.
I mean, I did just get mercilessly kicked out by the one person I thought would always look upon me with high favor. And now, I'm trying to convince a potato-humping Germanic with albinism to let me live with him for the time being.
So, I decided to snap.
Yup. SNAP.
"You know what?" I began dangerously. "I don't FUCKING have time for this right now. Today has been one hell of a ride for me, you know that? I think you do, asshole. First, you skip into my room, and without warning, kiss me while Toni is looking, I come to your house and hatch some whack-ass shit of a 'plan,' go back home only to be screamed at and kicked out by the man I am hopelessly in love with, and now I come here, only to have you refuse me entrance. Well, FUCK YOU. I am exhausted, upset, angry, emotionally-drained, in a state of shock, and my arms fucking hurt because carrying a fuck-ton of clothes is heavier than I would've expected. So, let me into your precious, cock-sucking abode. NOW."
My heart beat furiously against my chest as the words flowed out, My teeth bared into a snarl, my eyes fixed on the Prussian, who, to my anger, didn't seem the least bit bewildered.
However, he did tilt his head, the corner of his lip lifting up ever so slightly before he spoke. "Pushy, pushy little bitch. Since I am feeling rather merciful tonight, and since I sense that someone needs some alcohol to drown her sorrows, I will let you in."
With that, he stepped aside, his arms crossed. Casting one last suspicious look, I walked forward and into the house that I had just previously visited not even five hours ago. What goes around comes around, si?
I walked a bit further through the darkness until I reached the one room that seemed to be lit up. The kitchen.
"Mein bruder is out for the night," said Gilbert as he closed the kitchen door behind him. "Drowning his sorrows away through alcohol like any good German." His voice was filled with a devious pride that caused me to scowl.
"I don't give a flying fuck about what your brother is doing. I'm pissed, my arms hurt like a motherfucker, and I want. To. Sleep." I put emphasis on the last three words, even though I wasn't in the least bit tired. I just wanted an excuse to be by myself so that I could sulk in my own misery and resentment while plotting the painful disembowelment of a certain ex-conquistador and his unflawed girlfriend. But whatever. Details, details.
"It's not a crime to set your bag down," he remarked, looking highly amused, the shadows on his face making him look even more mischievous (if that was even possible).
Glowering at him, I immediately dropped the bag at my feet, not caring that the overflowing shit within it spilled out into a crumpled mess. Oh, sweet merciful RELIEF. My arms were literally belting out beautiful notes of justice and freedom.
Can you hear these two arms sing? Singing the song of happy limbs…
"And you're not sleeping, yet," he said simply, taking a few steps closer to me, causing me to instinctively back up, and my irritation levels peaking to new levels.
"You can't tell me what to d—"
"You have unexpectedly shown up at my house, claiming that Antonio has kicked you out. I want the story, and you are going to tell it to me over a few bottles of beer," he said, cutting me off.
…Cutting me off.
Cutting me…
Cut… FUCK HIM.
"I…you… me…" I spluttered, my fists clenching. "There's nothing to fucking say, you asswipe! Antonio got angry and he kicked me out. End of story. And there is no way in all of Dante's levels of HELL am I going to drink horse piss with the likes of YOU."
However, the bastard wasn't listening to me, for he had already grabbed two, dark amber bottles of beer from the fridge, setting them both on the counter with a fair amount of force. His piercing red eyes bore into mine as he pulled up a tall chair and propped himself upon it before reaching out to pat the vacant spot next to him.
… Was he serious right now? WAS HE FUCKING SHITTING ME?
"Are you FUCKING DEAF?" I spat, my head starting to pound.
"No, but I will be if you keep screaming like that. Stop being an un-awesome little bitch and take a seat. You know you want to," he said, using a suggestive tone as that infamous smirk danced upon his lips.
I watched in disgust as he grabbed the bottle, popped the cap, and took a large swig, his eyes rolling back in ecstasy as he enjoyed the horse piss.
"I'm going to bed," I said flatly before turning on my heel to make a run for it.
"Nein. You're going to enjoy a drink with me like a civilized person, and give me a story," he said.
And something about his voice both pissed me off, and glued me to the spot as well, preventing me from exiting the kitchen.
Oh, how it pissed me off. It sent me on a mental, fiery rage of doom.
Gritting me teeth, I breathed out through my nostrils.
"You have some nerve, Beilschmidt."
I really shouldn't have said that. Now, I'm just feeding his overblown ego, which is already the size of Toni's ass.
However, for some reason, I let my limbs perform my bodily actions, as my legs brought me to the chair, which was in an extremely close proximity to Gilbert. Avoiding looking at his red-eyed gaze of anti-awesomeness, I pulled the chair out a few inches before propping myself on it, resting my elbows on the table, and keeping my gaze locked forward.
It's always best to not do the talking. Unless it is to insult or demean. Especially in the presence of a Germanic. In a Germanic house. With beer in front of you.
What's next? Am I going to start eating goddamn potato salad next? Start saying "ja" instead of "si?" Smash a barrel of beer over my head and emit some weird-ass barbarian cry? Watch kinky German bondage crap while eating wurst-flavored popcorn?
…Well, I'd rather watch that than Japan's tentacle yaoi/yuri hentai shit.
After a moment of silence, I saw a white hand slowly pushing a bottle of beer toward me, stopping once it was in direct alignment with my sight. I remained rigid, staring at the fucking monstrosity, my lip curling.
Again, he was expecting me to drink this?
DOES HE NOT FUCKING UNDERSTAND THAT I DO NOT DRINK HORSE PISS?
"Pop the cap and start talking," he said, his voice immediately grating at my ears. I recoiled, fighting the urge to just throw a tantrum that would cause even Satan to hide under his bed covers of tortured souls.
"Don't tell me what to fucking do."
"Pop the cap and start talking."
"Don't tell me what to FUCKING do."
"Pop the cap and start talking."
"You know wh—"
"Pop the cap and st—"
So, I popped the cap of the bottle. I don't know why I gave into this weird-ass impulse, but before I could stop myself, I had grabbed the shit, held it at the edge of the table and snapped it against the edge, causing the bottle cap to fly off forward and over the counter to the floor.
The smell was what immediately hit my nostrils. Gesu Cristo, this crap had to be toxic. Why was I subjecting myself to this? I wasn't suicidal. Yet. I have had maybe three beers in my whole life. I preferred to drink my alcohol with style… in other words… wine, champagne, occasionally rum… If I wanted to get shit-faced, then I would tolerate whiskey and vodka.
But never beer. Beer is just so… GERMAN.
…And horrendous for one's taste buds.
However, without another thought, I squeezed my eyes shut, tilted my head back, and took a large swig from the bottle. The liquid hit my tongue, fizzing and attacking, tasting like intoxicated gasoline and urine. Goddamn, this was disgusting. It was worse than that children's cough syrup that those evil stepmothers forced down the rugrats' throats with a giant spoon. My nose wrinkled and my throat burned, but I kept drinking. I gulped and gulped until only half the bottle was left.
However, I could only take so much before I slammed the bottle back down on the counter, my breathing heavy and my head spinning as I resisted the urge to gag.
Oh, fuck… I felt extremely hot. And NOT in a sexy way. I mean, I knew that my cheeks were pink, and that my head felt rather heavy, but light at the same time. Was this stuff really taking effect already? I thought beer was supposed to be relatively light. Shit, I'm such a lightweight.
A low whistle interrupted my thoughts, causing me to lazily turn my head toward the stupid-ass shit-headed Prussian, whose eyes were glinting as he smirked in amusement. "Not bad, Vargas, not bad at all. Especially for an Italian like yourself."
"That's why you don't underestimate an Italian, dipshit," I snarled, unable to control the fact that my words were a bit jumbled. Not quite slurred… but any more of this, and I might as well have been roofied.
"Mmhmm, I'll keep that in mind when you stop swaying in your chair," he responded without a blink of an eye.
…Was I really swaying? Already?
"…I'm doing it on purpose."
"Yeah right."
"No, really."
"Lying is unawesome."
"Fuck you."
"Gladly."
"Fuck y—EWW. NOOOO."
At my freak-out, Gilbert cracked up before finishing off the rest of his bottle, and then getting out of his chair, heading over to the refrigerator to… was he seriously grabbing another one? And he wasn't the least bit affected?
Goddamn, it. My tongue was thick, I was light-headed, I felt a bit too relaxed for my comfort, and I couldn't control some of the shit that was coming out of my mouth. And I barely finished half a bottle of this. I don't remember beer being this strong in my past experiences.
OH GOD, WHAT IF HE DRUGGED IT? WHAT IF…WHAT IF HE WAS PLANNING TO… NO, HOLY SHIT… I CAN'T EVEN…
"So start talking."
His words broke me out of my chain of thought. I leaned forward on the counter, glowering at him lazily, feeling strange as the world seemed to go lopsided.
"Why should I? What do I get out of it?" I asked. Huh, even my own words sounded strange to my own ears.
"My side of the story," he responded simply, as if it were the most obvious, yet treasured thing in the whole world.
"BOOOOORRRRRIIIINNNNNNGGGG," I chimed loudly, my voice resonating through the room, my fingers now gripping the edge of the counter, my half-lidded eyes glued to Gilbert as he walked back to his spot next to me, two more bottles of beer, one in each hand.
"Next time you take a drink, try not to take inhale half the bottle," he remarked as he popped the cap and took another drink. "You Italians have shitty tolerance. Now, start talking."
"Why the fuck are you so fucking obsessed with knowing what happened?"
"Because I want to be entertained tonight. And since I'm not getting any sex out of you, this is the next best thing. Plus, I want to know if Antonio was jealous or not," he responded, a devious grin spreading on his features.
I gaped at him for a good whole minute before balling my hand into a fist and punching him right in the shoulder.
He gave a yelp, recoiling, almost knocking his drink over. Hissing, he rubbed his shoulder before glowering at me in irritation. "What the hell?"
"FUCK YOU!" I belted out, my head now spinning uncontrollably. I knew for a fact that that punch to the shoulder would leave a mark. I was infamous for my sandwich-making skills. Knuckle sandwich-making skills that is.
I don't even know why I was so angry. I should've expected a comment like that from him. However, my tongue was thick, my insides were strangely hot, my face felt overheated, and my vision was fading in and out of focus. Without another coherent thought, I grabbed my bottle again, finishing off the rest of the contents. The familiar sensation of gasoline and urine going down my throat caused me to cough and gag, but I forced it down nonetheless.
With a hiccup, I slammed the empty glass down again, in half mind to chuck it at Gilbert's bewildered face.
"F-FUCK YOU. FUCK YOU AND THIS HOUSE AND EVERYTHING AND…AND… FUCK TONI AND FUCK FELICIANA AND FUCK FACEBOOK AND FUCK CATHOLICISM AND MORALS AND SPANIARDS AND BARCELONA AND GRANDPA ROME AND BONDAGE AND TENTACLE PORN JUST…FUCK EVERYTHING! FUCK FUCK FUUUUCCCKKKK!" I belted out, slamming my fist down on the counter, unable to process the throbbing pain.
"…Tentacle porn?" Gilbert questioned, giving me a skeptical look as he casually popped open the bottle of the next beer.
Okay. OKKKKAAYYY. That's cool. Totally awesome. HA! AWESOME. FUCKING AWESOME.
I exploded again. "YOU'RE SUCH AN ASSHOLE. YOU'RE MAKING EVERYTHING WORSE BY GIVING ME ROOFIED HORSE PISS, AND YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO BE A GOOD CATHOLIC MAN BECAUSE THAT'S WHAT YOU USED TO BE, BUT THAT WAS THE PAST BECAUSE PRIESTS DON'T AREN'T SUPPOSED TO WANT SEX, BUT YOU DO… AND YOU'RE SO INSENSITIVE AND…AND… HOW CAN YOU BE FRIENDS WITH ANTONIO?"
Tears were streaming down my cheeks at this point, but I couldn't give two flying shits. Was this really all from the beer? Lesson learned… I have no tolerance for beer.
"HE KICKED ME OUT. I LOVE HIM AND HE'S TOO STUPID TO UNDERSTAND THAT AND I'VE ALWAYS BEEN THERE FOR HIM…AND…AND… HE'S DATING MY PERFECT, PLUMP-ASSED, GOOGLY-EYED SISTER, AND THEY'RE PROBABLY HAVING SEX EVERY HOUR OF THE DAY WHERE I'M NOT AROUND AND IT MAKES ME SICK BECAUSE I LOVE HIM SO MUCH EVEN THOUGH I WANT TO DRIVE A STAKE UP HIS ASS AND OUT HIS EYEBALL. I JUST…"
I think my drunken state of mind is actually processing the fact that I have reached a breaking point.
I couldn't talk anymore. I was just sobbing. I don't even know if this is all because of intoxication, or because I am just so fucking done with everything.
The sobs hurt my chest, intertwining painfully with my hiccups as my shoulders shook and my breathing came out in uneven intervals, my eyes stinging as the tears continually spilled down my cheeks, sometimes dripping onto the countertop.
"He broke my heart. I never thought that he could break my heart," I admitted weakly, not caring that I was practically pouring my heart out to Gilbert fucking Beilschmidt. I didn't dare look in his direction as I continued to cry and cry and cry.
Lovina Vargas isn't supposed to cry, but as of late, that rule has been proven void.
I've cried over this man so many times in the past month.
"...I think that will do, Vargas. You don't have to talk anymore." Gilbert's voice immediately snapped me out of my thinking spiel as I stared at him through my blurred vision, sniffing uncontrollably.
"Fuck your permission," I snapped, a small amount of bite making its way through my otherwise half-hearted comment.
He decided to ignore my attempt at argument by turning away from me, taking another swig from his beer, a frown on his face as he looked at nothing in particular. "I've had my heart broken before, you know."
I was about to open my mouth to make some demeaning comment at that, but the words just couldn't come. I felt drained of all bitterness at this point.
"Most people actually are aware of this; I'll be surprised if you aren't. You know that that Hungarian bitch, to this day, is using my heart as a meat cleaver, ja?" he said flatly.
I gave a simple nod of my head. I wasn't stupid. I knew that Beilschmidt has had the eyes for Elizaveta since the fucking prehistoric times…or whenever the hell they met. I'm also aware of her continuous rejection of him, even though she tends to freak out when he's not around. Talk about serious bitch-lash.
"What you're feeling now isn't anything new. It's unawesome, yes, but it's been felt by many. It makes it even worse when it's repeated. Take it from me," he said, his eyes growing distant as his gaze averted to the surface of the counter. I stared at Gilbert, my mind completely blank as thoughts attempted to crown the currently intoxicated, drained space that was my brain.
And that's when I did the unthinkable.
Si, the unthinkable.
The forbidden. The tabooed. The reckless. The fucking-stupid-what-the-hell-are-you-doing-you're-going-to-get-German-cooties.
I lunged forward, grabbed him by the front of his shirt, taking him completely off-guard, and pressing my lips to his.
…
…..
…
…Yeah, I got no explanation for this.
I'm drunk. Yup, that's totally it. I'm intoxicated, and there's no point in trying to control myself anymore, because I frankly do not give a fuck. I'm upset, he's angsty, and I don't want to hear anymore depressing shit coming out of his mouth. So what better way to keep those words in the mind and away from the lips?
…I have a point for this, I swear.
His lips were moist, and slightly addictive, especially with that tinge of alcohol laced on them. Even if it was beer. But whatever, I can look past that.
At first, Gilbert stiffened, his whole body going rigid, and for a split second, I swore that he was going to push me off. However, as soon as the thought crossed my brain, his shoulders relaxed and he kissed back. My brain was doing the strange, drunken loopdy-loops as my lips moved against his in a rhythm that I would never be able to achieve with this much fluidity while sober. I pressed myself further into him, my breathing heavy against my eardrums as it flowed unevenly with my heartbeat. However, before I could completely fall off my chair and lose my balance, the Prussian had grabbed me by the hips to stabilize my position before literally pressing my torso against his. My arms snaked around his neck as I straddled his waist, not minding the odd, cramped position due to the size of the chair.
Oh, God… his tongue… it was like lava on steroids. …I don't know if that's even the right words to describe it. Goddamn, I really am drunk. My sober self, at this very moment, would be clocking me in the face before beating me over the head with a fucking crowbar.
My breathing grew rapid as I felt his fingers trail from my hips to caress the bare skin of my thighs, causing me to shudder as I moved my hips slightly so that I was literally jammed against him… and… oh…oh…
Oh…OH…OH, MOTHER FUNCTION.
I felt it… his manhood… or whatever I should call it, against my ass. And it was hard. HARD. ROCK SOLID.
And you know what, ladies and gentleman?
Lovina Vargas wanted the D.
Lovina Vargas wanted the German, five metered D.
I felt his teeth snatch at my lower lip, causing me to squeak slightly as my fingernails raked through his hair and down his neck before trailing down his front against his torso. Goddamn, I've never been this horny in my life, and that was saying something.
This HAS to be the alcohol talking right here. Alcohol mixed with desperation and patheticness to a whole new level.
What am I even doing with my life?
Apparently this.
How depressing.
Before I could pull the hard-core, pornographic Italian on him, he suddenly broke the kiss, brining his lips tenderly to my ear. And he whispered one sentence to me.
"Go to bed, Lovina."
Okay, that's not what I was expecting, but if he really wanted me to go to his basement to finish this…
Then, without warning, he literally picked me up and set me down in front of him, my whole body feeling oddly cold and empty. I stared at him with confused eyes, taking in his disheveled appearance and amused, yet bitter expression.
"You and I both know that if we actually went through with this, we would douse ourselves with fire later. Which would not be awesome. Plus, you're drunk. Tomorrow, if you remember this, you'll probably wake up and attempt to castrate me for this. Just…just go t bed. The guest room's free; there are extra blankets and everything in the closet. It's the first room on the right once you reach the top of the stairs."
I just continued to stare at him, my mind buzzing as I attempted to recollect all that had just happened. However, all I could do was just stare, sway, and try not to fall on my ass.
"…The fuck…" I mumbled, my words eerily soft and unnaturally thick against my lips.
"Go to bed, Lovina," he repeated, still looking at me, smiling softly… almost sadly. "I'll see you in the morning if you're still here."
FACEBOOK POST:
Lovina South Vargas is in a relationship with Gilbert Beilschmidt
Like. Comment. Share. About an hour ago
Alfred FackingHero Jones, Bella Jansens, Francis Bonnefoy, Ivan Braginski, and 29 other people like this.
…Crappiness really does come in all forms.
