Where it should be soft, it is hard. And where it should be painful, it is unbearably gentle. It is all the wrong things and all the best things – all at once.

Ashley feels her own body moving and hears something a lot like weeping from her own mouth and she slides down with her arms full of Spencer Carlin.
Spencer Carlin, kissing her again and it is the sweetest torture – ropes always held so tightly, controlling actions… I've been a marionette for this love.
And she won't stop. She can't stop.
Even though this could be the only thing left between what used to be (a date, a kiss, a friendship) and what is to come (what is to come now, Spencer… besides you and I, only physically).
Even if this is a dream and Ashley soon wakes up – she'll maybe catch the tail end of the day and she'll sit in her room and watch the lights blink from above and she'll talk to Kyla and she'll wish… for the hundredth, millionth time… for another chance at forever with a girl she walked away from.

Even with all of that hovering over-head, Ashley won't stop. She can't stop.
Not when Spencer tugs at her bottom lip, not when Spencer lifts the hem of a periwinkle blouse and removes it, not when Spencer shudders – almost reverentially, almost agonizingly – atop Ashley's nervous… desperate… completely branded hands…
Not when they are against one another, the sound of clothing and of hot skin, the sound of what is slick and what is rough. Not when everything that Ashley wants in this world is suddenly underneath her, tender and angry and… and…

Mine, dear fucking God, you've always been mine. And I've always been yours. We shouldn't be this, though… but how do I fix anything when you are looking at me like that, like you could hate me and need me so badly?

Ashley is pushing now, familiar thighs around her hips and they are as seamless as they once were – where Spencer rises up, Ashley does the same and they groan.
They groan, parched and raw, they groan and they rock into one another faster and Ashley can't stop.
She can't stop her body from lowering, from placing every inch of her long-denied form against Spencer.
And, stuck in the same boat in the same ocean, Spencer can't stop it either.
Spencer can't stop those fingers from winding along Ashley's face and bringing them together – forehead to forehead, tip of the noses bumping, a sweep of the lips growing more and more frantic with each thrust.

What is to come now, Spencer? Besides you and I, only physically… please, tell me, there is more after this… please?

"Oh… god…"

Not a prayer, but certainly giving thanks. But also, it is damnation and Ashley can't stop saying it now.
Only Spencer's tongue in her mouth ends it. Just not in Ashley's head.
In there it is repeated and repeated, bringing that L.A. wild child and that scoffer of all things spiritual… of all things meaningful… right down to her knees.

And Ashley's head is somehow on Spencer's shoulder and she feels cold when she should feel sweaty and she fights the urge to hold on tightly to Spencer now.

Because this isn't a beach, where you confessed everything. This isn't a night where you give me all of you. This is not when you hop into my car and run away with me. And we are not dancing, we are not dressed up and admiring one another. We are not in school anymore, with you chasing me down and with me trying to understand why you'd do such a thing… That's not who we are.

And what are we now, Spencer? What the fuck are we now?

"We… uh, we need to talk. I think."

And Spencer's voice is closed-off where it used to be so open. And Ashley can't stop it, can't stop the tears that roll down her face and sink into Spencer's beautiful hair.
There are no comforting hugs and there are no soothing words.

It is just the two of them, mostly naked and aligned on the floor, unable to get up again and unable to help the other one stand.

And Ashley can't stop any of this. Not at all.

"Yea…" Ashley whispers out.

**** **** ****

TBC