Fairy Tail belongs to Hiro Mashima.
Rated M for adult themes, sexual content.
The Man I Love
Walls pressed in on either side. Erza made space for herself between a shelf packed with bleach and a mop handle. Hands brushed beneath the hem of her dress, feeling her thighs, and higher, to the band of her thong. He stopped there. Jellal had always been maddeningly patient. Despite the circumstances, he took his time, teased until she bit his lip hard enough that he caught his breath.
(I can't be with the man I love.)
His fingers slipped beneath the band. Erza shimmied her hips and helped him dislodge the confining scrap of clothing. It ended up somewhere in the corner of the small closet. She didn't see where; only a sliver of light dared eek in on this moment and it was barely enough to make out the tattoo on Jellal's face, his tuxedo. The glint of gold seen on his finger before he slipped it inside of her.
(I can't be if he treats me rough.)
She pressed her lips to his wrist when he planted his palm on the wall beside her head, then licked and nipped. His breath caught. She pulled him close and worked on getting open the clothing that meant he wasn't hers.
(I can't see him; I can't call him up.)
Buttons popped. Fabric rustled. Skin, smooth, covered hardened muscles. She didn't know she was moaning until he locked his hand over her mouth and muffled the sound. Her hair was still trapped between his fingers and now it tickled her face. He kissed her neck and got it in his mouth. He didn't stop to fix it, not while he focused, fingers coaxing her toward a place where she was careless and mindless and crass. She nudged the mop handle and set it sliding into the door.
(All that's real to me is)
Muffled voices slid through the barrier, competing with music. "Have you seen Jellal?"
"Like, twenty minutes ago. Not since."
They moved on. Jellal never slowed. Erza came. He was right to clasp her mouth closed. She was less than subtle and always had been. On the tail end of her orgasm, he took his hand away and replaced it with his mouth. He still tasted like wine. He still tasted like someone else's lipstick. Erza weaved her fingers through his and felt skin-warmed gold.
(Trailer parks and beaches)
With his free hand, he undid his pants. Erza stroked him. He lifted her leg. A bleach bottle met the floor. The cap came off and spilled the acrid fluid everywhere. Neither one of them stopped.
(Alabama freezes)
His shoulders were scarred from her nails long ago. Erza worked to leave her mark again. He sucked on her throat, kissed her neck, her chin, her mouth. He pulled on her bridesmaid dress. He gasped out her name, suddenly the careless one.
"I love you."
Love.
What did that mean any more?
(Platinum impeaches, honey.)
She pulled him close; her nose burned. It seemed fitting that she was uncomfortable. Their whole lives had been this way, tumult and pain and saccharine pleasure. She opened her mouth and tasted herself off his fingers. And his ring.
His body fit with hers; he belonged. And he did not. She was too loud again. When the time came, he spilled inside of her.
(I can't be with the man I love.)