Work Text:
Forgive my Northern attitude,
Oh, I was raised out in the cold -
"Yer a fuckin’ loser," Shoresy mutters to himself, pacing back and forth at the entrance to the gas station. "Can’t even win a single game, can yer?"
He goes down the alley that hugs the building, and kicks at the sluggish snow at his feet. We’ll fold, Shoresy. His shoes tap against the broken-up titles that make up the abandoned footpace. One, two, three, four, five steps, then a swivel as he pivots in place and stamps back the other way. It’s cold, but it’s always cold here. Not that it matters. It could be the hottest day of the year, and Shoresy would still be cold - the ice-cold drench of failure slowly setting into ice within his body.
He drags his feet back into the gas station and hovers over the ice cream tray. He idles, picking one up, and putting one down. They’ll all taste the same to him, everything tastes the same to him when he’s like this.
The soft buzz of the heater drones on into his head, and he’s staring into the deep abyss of the ice cream tray, while the LED lights flicker above him, fighting not to cry. It’s just a game, Shorse. Don’t matter too much buddy. He takes a shuddering breath, picks up the stick, and goes to the cashier. Her hair is a messy blonde and her makeup looks cheap, probably a shitty second job for the girl, but Shoresy sighs. She’s wearing the same perfume Laura wore. Whatever. He was over her.
"This all?" The girl asks, her voice a bored drawl.
"Yeah.’ He throws a handful of coins onto the counter, one falling onto her side, the nickel spinning around in a circle. “Keep the change.”
He walks out in a haze, deciding to walk home, not bothering to text any of the guys for a ride. The soft lights of the surrounding buildings reflect in the oil spills that cover the road, and he kicks rocks into potholes, his hands getting colder by the minute. He didn’t bring his gloves with him. He watches the cars that drive past him, and bites away at the stick, the chocolate melting on his tongue. It tastes bitter, like regret. Like nothing.
Everything means nothing when he loses.
"What you need is a distraction," the voice in his head tells him. "You should call Goody."
Shoresy scoffs at himself. He’s not even drunk and yet he’s thinking of Goody. Stupid Goody, with his pretty eyes, the colour of crushed-up onyx, and his scruffed-up hair that sticks to the nape of his neck after practice. Stupid Goody with his tattoo that follows the length of his collarbone, how it makes Shoresy want to kiss the words on it, letter by letter. To spell out his love. Stupid Goody with his crooked smile, and his strong hands that hold him just right, and his stupid fucking voice. God, Shoresy hates his voice.
‘Settle down, Shorse. It’s okay.’
‘Turn over for me, would ya?’
“Yer the prettiest boy I ever seen, y’know that…right?’
He throws the stick onto the ground in a fit of anger. He feels out of control. He’s angry, and it is so much bigger than himself, and he isn’t quite sure where to put it all. It’s not the fact that he lost the game, not entirely. It’s that he can feel the ghost of hands holding him like he isn’t broken, and it makes his bones ache with the horridness of it all. His vision gets foggy, the lights becoming sharp now, and his cheeks ache with the want to sob and his chest is tight and he wants to cry.
He digs his hand into his hoodie pocket, scrolls down to the D section, and blurrily clicks on Drumstick.
If the sun don't rise,
'Til the summertime -
It’s summer the next time they lose a game hard.
The snow never fully melts in Sudbury, it turns into water, the pieces of ice floating down in it like a half-melted ice cube on a warm summer's day. It flows down into the river that Shoresy sits at now, his shitty old jeep parked up beside him, a sweating beer in his hand. He’d lost it fully after this time, their time losing 10-2. He’d slammed his stick, thrown his helmet and punched the closest Appledorn next to him. He couldn’t take the fucking smirks of the Appledorns any longer.
He only came back to himself when he was halfway down the highway that goes out of Sudbury, his knuckles bleeding, and his phone on silent. He just gripped his shaking hands around the steering wheel and hoped the ache in his chest would stop after he got completely shit-faced.
Now, he sits watching the woodland creatures dig their holes and get their food, and he sits on the dirt, it’s sticking to his jeans, and feels small, so small. He sits among the great trees, and sees how the half glow of sun filters its way through the leaves, and how it leaves reflections onto everything that moves - and Shoresy feels like crying his whole heart out. Wants to leave it for the animals to feed on. Ouroboros, as the cycle continues. He could provide something much more than himself.
He sits there, on the cold dirt, until the sun goes down and he climbs back into his Jeep tray, because he still fears he’ll be eaten by whatever is out here, and thinks.
Fuck, I miss Goody.
He shouldn’t let himself listen to his thoughts, shouldn’t wait until it’s silent enough to hear them, their cold drawing voices blowing around in his head like haunting ghosts. His eyes burn with holding back his tears, anxiety bubbling thick in his throat, in his chest. He feels the shakes start to come in his hands, the ones he desperately tries to hide in his hoodie pocket all the time, because it’s embarrassing that he still cries with all of himself, like a little kid. He thought the alcohol would stop this from happening, stop the cold cut of failure from making another slash into his heart.
Yer a fuckin’ loser, Shoresy. That’s all ya fucking are.
He reminds himself of the way Goody smiles at him while half asleep, his lip twitching upwards.
He’s a man. Gross. Stop it. Who the fuck do you think you are?
He shakes the thought away, trailing a finger up and down the crosses of lines on his inner arm.
You’re stupid. He doesn’t love you. Never did. At all. He just wants a warm body, Shorse.
He gets sick of it by then. This stupid fucking voice in his head, the one that badgers him and doesn’t let up. He bangs his head against the cold metal of the Jeep, again and again. Until his eyes are blurry and he feels like vomiting.
He needs to stop thinking. And there’s a way to stop it all, to be empty. But he doesn’t even want to think about it.
But he can’t help himself. So he thinks. And he’s always been a glutton for self-punishment, so he gets a sick sense of joy flood through him, at the feeling of himself being so out of control, all alone. So, he does the thing that had sadly become a habit for him, he picks up his phone, and texts Goody, his eyes still blurry. He doesn’t even know if there’s service out here, but that’s not the point.
Hey, Gooddy. Cn ya come pick me up?
Or talk to me
Dnt mind which one
Honeslty
Goody
Please
I need to stopnj fuckin thinkngi
It hurnuts want it to sotp so bad
He waits for what feels like an age, his eyes no longer wet, but his whole body aches - from the alcohol or the cold, he can’t tell.
Finally, he feels a buzz.
Shorsey?
Sweet, how much you drink?
He could fucking cry his whole heart out with relief. His brain hopelessly clutches onto the one word that already starts to settle him down, Sweet, Sweet, Sweet, Sweet, Sweetheart. He only calls him this when he’s upset.
Dnt know. Alott i think
Ok.
Where are you?
I’ll pick you up.
Minutes pass. Shoresy bites at his lip, a nervous tick he could never quite get rid of.
Shorse? You there?
Dnt bring one of theb guys
FUckifng please dont
I won’t.
I promise you.
Shoresy fucks around with the buttons at the bottom of the screen and drops a pin.
Forgive my Northern attitude-
Shoresy doesn’t remember the drive back.
But right now it's late at night. How late, Shoresy doesn’t know, and he’s too hammered to feel even a bit guilty for it. He knows he’s at his house, the clicking of Big Sexy’s claws distant. But apart from that, it’s just the two of them. The stove light is on in the kitchen, and it spills across the way to illuminate the room he’s lying in, but the warm lighting is dim and they're sitting next to each other in the dark.
Goody sits next to him, holding his back, and runs a brush through his damp, freshly showered hair. The tangles came out a while ago, but the motion is comforting for both of them. Goody brushes his fingers over his ear, to check all the blood that had been mattered to his skin and hair has been washed away by his hands, and Shoresy takes a stuttering breath in. The light of the kitchen is casting warm light onto Goody’s face, the buzz of the AC is in his ears, and Shoresy almost feels like he’s there. In that good place. But he knows he’s not.
They don’t talk. Or, Shoresy doesn’t talk. He can’t. The muscles won’t move right even if he wanted them to. So, he sits in Goody’s arms, and lets the soft brushing of his hair soothe him.
He looks back at Goody.
“Yer fuckin unbelievable,” he says, “Y’know that, sweet?”
Shoresy just looks at him. His bones ache, and his head still hurts, and the skin on his arms is itchy, but he still gives him a half smile, missing tooth and all.
“Not talking?” he says, turning his attention to his mullet, dropping the brush next to them and letting his fingers comb through it instead. After a moment’s silence, he turns back to him. ‘Can’t talk? That’s ok, sweet. Got all the fuckin’ time in the world for ya to talk.’
You fuckin know we don’t got all the damn time.
They go to sleep like that. Or at least Shoresy does. He falls asleep with the only man he’s ever let hold him, and he’s already snoring a tiny bit when Goody kisses him softly on the forehead, his arms wrapping around his middle.
Oh-
It’s been a couple of months since that night. Since Shoresy had woken up still in Goody’s arms, his back fucking killing him, his head throbbing. Since Goody had made breakfast for him, chicken and waffles, with some shitty expired maple syrup from the back of Shoresy’s cabinet. He had spent the whole morning with the worst migraine of his life and with Goody going on about how unfucking believable the chicken was. Two months since Goody had rubbed his back softly and kissed him on the crown of his head and muttered something about lacrosse mentoring.
They still didn’t talk that morning. And Shoresy liked it that way.
He was such a fucking bad liar to himself.
I was raised-
The grass cuts into the soft part of Shoresy’s thighs as he leans back against the shed and watches the boys play lacrosse. He’s sweaty all over, and the curls at the back of his neck stick to his skin and Shoresy pants, his legs exhausted. His chest is tight from wearing too many layers of sports bras, and he bends over to put his head in between his legs, the nausea of running around too much with an empty stomach getting to him.
God, he hated this body.
It was an annoyance to him, the way he didn’t fit right, no matter how wide he spread his legs, no matter how much he pressed at the shitty gym near the middle of Letterkenny, it didn’t fucking matter. He still lost, he still felt like a fucking girl, and he still fucking hated it.
Mo was playing on the opposite team, their colours of red and blue shining from the lamppost’s shitty neon light. The bugs stick to his skin, and he watches the rest of them warm up to play against the visiting team.
It’s while Shoresy has his head in-between his legs, that he feels a thud next to him.
‘Fuckin’ unbelievable isn’t it?’
Shoresy pauses.
It’s a boy his age, but his knees are bruised and he looks like he shouldn’t be playing such an aggressive sport when it looks like one gust of wind could blow him away. But, Shoresy can’t look away regardless.
The boy, Shoresy doesn’t ask for a name, his mouth dry, has the most beautiful face he’s ever seen. And he’s desperately tried to date some of the pretty girls in Letterkenny, but this boy beats them by miles. His nose is slightly crooked, and his hair is tied up in a messy bun, the sides still recovering from a botched shaving attempt. He’s smirking a tiny bit as he watches Mo get tapped on his helmet by the other captain, and he’s rolling a ball back and forth in his hands.
He looks so confident, so in his element. He looks like he belongs, and Shoresy feels his heart drop.
He’s come here to tease me. Has to be.
‘What’s unbelievable?’
“Hm?”
That pisses off Shoresy for some unknown reason.
‘Oh, is it so unbelievable that you’d be forced to come talk to the fat kid on the team? Well, get used to it buddy, because yer captain is gonna make you believe we’re buddy buddy and then make you shove me in a locker by next week.’ Shoresy takes a deep breath and tries not to be disappointed in himself, ‘So yeah, it’s not that fuckin’ unbelievable, you cunt.’
The boy doesn’t speak for what feels like an age, his face still watching the teams warm up and start to take positions. They’re talking about strategy when Shoresy feels a hand on his knee, warm and sweaty.
The boy laughs to himself, and then turns to face him, his eyes sparkling with…something.
‘You think I’m on the team?’
Shoresy pauses.
‘Huh?”
“Do you think I’m on the team?”
“Course. You take me for a fucking idiot?”
The boy just looks at him, like he’s just hung the moon and stars, and Shoresy stares in between his eyes, where a slight scar sits. He’s never been good at looking at people.
‘Nah, you’d benefit from learning the sport though. You’re a bit prickly aren’t ya? Could use it to get some of that anger out.’
Shoresy lets out a sigh so heavy he feels his head drop, and balls his hands into fists and rubs them against his eyes, digging in until sparks flash against the inside of his eyelids.
Wait for it. Just wait. He’ll tease you about something, Waffle. Just fuckin’ wait for it.
The buzz of the overhead lights fills the silence and the look of this boy, one so normal, sitting next to him, makes him feel just a bit safer for tonight. Makes him feel like he’s not going to be locked in the club room for hours with Mo on the other side of the door, or not be shoved to the ground and laughed at.
Tonight it all feels ok.
-
A month passes.
Shoresy joins Mo’s lacrosse team after his brother begs the coach to let him play, sick of watching his older brother sit on the sidelines. He develops a skill for it quickly.
He swaps to hockey after a while. The feel of the ice underneath him makes him feel like he’s floating, and he’s never felt more at home.
But, he still goes out to the field every Sunday. For some reason his father cannot fathom.
It’s not because of a boy.
Why would it be?
Shoresy is a straight-going aggressive boy who is normal for his age. He doesn’t hope for such silly things such as a soft caress on a flat chest, or the feeling of a rough hand against him. He hopes he’ll get a good chick with him, some girl he takes out on the town, one that’ll come cheer at his matches.
But, still. He sits in the rafters and watches the boy with the stupid half-chopped hair run around for hours, a stupid smile on his face, and smiles a bit more every night he comes up to him after the game’s over and hands him a single chicken tender.
‘Hey, bud.’
Shoresy shoves him over a bit, his hands digging into his lacrosse jersey.
‘Ya fuckin’ stink, dude. Need to go have some of 13’s perfume do ya? Get ya girl to spray more than just perfume on ya? Only thing that’ll fix that damn smell on ya.”
‘You’re fucking unbelievable, y’know that Shorse?’
‘Piss off Drumstick.”
The boy pauses. Looks at him, his face deadly straight.
‘You….don’t know my name still, do you?”
Shoresy feels himself blush before he can stop it.
‘Nah, I know. Ya mum was calling for it after we were done, last time I ploughed her.”
“It’s Brant Goodleaf. Everyone calls me Goody though.’
“Huh?”
“Goody. Just call me Goody.”
He fights a smile at the bo- Goody and extends a hand to him.
“Fuck you doing that for?”
“Good to meet you, Goody.”
Goody does a stupid fucking laugh at that.
“Yeah, good to meet you too, Shoresy.”
-on little light.
Shoresy’s lost again. To the Soo’s.
He doesn’t have time to scream and kick and punch whatever or whoever he wants before he’s getting manhandled into the back of Goody’s car, his hands forcing the seatbelt around him and slamming the car door shut. It’s night out, the match was scheduled at night, and it only makes Shoresy want to lose his shit even more. The audience was full. Cameras were there. He fucking had all those eyes on him, and still fucking lost.
Pathetic. Useless.
You’re a stupid asshole who shouldn’t have made a promise he couldn’t keep.
Not good enough to keep this team going.
If we fold, it’s on you.
Barely even a fucking leader.
You’re letting them all down.
He was meant to be the fucking best. He said he’d never lose again. Shoresy was a fucking liar. He watches the small flickers of lights of the local shops and houses on the way back to Goody’s house, and all he wants to do is fucking lose his mind, the anger and disappointment within him wanting to be ugly and messy and explode. He bites down on his lip, squeezes his fists together and tries to hold it together.
He can’t. He just fucking can’t.
He raises his fists and punches into the back of the seat in front of him, and smashes his knuckles onto the metal bars of the headrest, over and over again. He swears and screams and he doesn’t know why he’s losing control like this, why he’s howling like a slaughtered beast. He feels angry tears rise into his vision and he hiccups on a wet laugh. He’s so fucking pathetic.
He only stops when Goody stops at a red light and turns to look at him. “Shoresy,” he says, no anger in his voice, but stern, “Stop hurtin’ yerself. I mean it.”
Goody’s voice leaves no room for question, only agreement. “Huh?” He asks, anyway. Just to piss him off.
Shoresy swears he sees his eye twitch. “I’ll say it again, and don’t make me repeat myself. Put yer fuckin’ hands in yer lap, and wait until we get home to move them again.’ He turns back to focus on the road, and Shoresy can’t help himself.
“Yer but,” Shoresy says it while fidgeting in his seat, his energy wild. “But what if I don’t want to? Huh? What are yer gonna do then?’
Goody laughs, and it doesn’t feel quite right. And despite himself, despite the fact he might be suspended for his behaviour on the rink tonight, or the fact that the team might fold, or that he feels a cold sense of dread run down his back at the cold angry energy that’s coming off Goody right now, Shoresy gets a tiny bit excited.
“Well then, I’ll just have to settle yer down.”
-
They don’t talk the whole way into Shoresy’s house, the energy coming off Goody making him feel like he shouldn’t be stupid with him, but he’s still angry, and his knuckles still hurt, and he doesn’t care at this point.
So, as soon as Goody closes the door behind them, Shoresy grabs at him, shoves him against the door, and tightens around him, his hands starting to shake.
Please, make it stop. Make me stop thinking.
He clings onto Goody with everything he has and hopes it gets across. How his chest is tight, even though the feeling of four layers of sports bras hasn’t been there for years, and how he feels like he’s falling apart, the chaos in his brain leaking out of him.
Goody pushes his nose into the top of Shoresy’s head, and he feels a soft kiss there.
“What do you want?” He says.
Shoresy wants, he wants. He wants all of him. He wants to be destroyed by him, and he wants his head empty. He wants to kiss every letter of Goody’s tattoo, until the words are burnt into his tongue, he wants to memorise the grooves of his teeth and kiss the back of his knees where the sun cannot even kiss them. He wants so much, wants to thumb at the scars that line Goody’s chest, wants to make him feel good.
He needs to stop fucking thinking.
“I want…” Shoresy whispers, and he can hear how wrecked he sounds, “You to take me down.”
Goody exhales, his breath catching in his throat. “Mhm,” he replies, hoarsely, “You want me to take care of you?”
“Don’t fuckin’ say it like that.”
He feels Goody’s hands start to push his jersey up. “Why not? You just wanna be my pretty boy tonight, don’t ya Shoresy?” He kisses his forehead, his breath fanning out onto him, “Wanna think about nothing, yeah?”
Shoresy snaps. Pretty, pretty, pretty. Yes, yes, yes, I’m your boy, always been your boy. He moves his head to kiss him, desperately. Goody’s hands come up to tangle in his hair, and one of his hands snakes up at Goody’s waist. They move together, slowly, until Goody has his back pressed flat against the door, Shoresy in between his legs. He kisses Goody’s hands, then his chest, then down the curve of his waist, his hipbones, loitering there for a second before travelling down the curve of his belly to his waistband.
Goody groans, guttural, as if it’s been forced out of him. “Shoresy,” he mumbles.
He pauses. The only thought he’s had in the last minutes is about Goody.
‘Mm? Kinda busy trying to make ya feel good, bud.” He mumbles it out, hands dragging up and down.
“You wanna do it here? Really, Shore?”
He leans his head against Goody’s thigh, and lets out a warm breath, the motion making Goody flinch just slightly.
“Mm…don’t mind. Just wanna make you feel good.”
He can feel himself already calming down, the feeling of Goody’s hands on the back of his head making his head feel stuffy.
Goody’s trousers slide off with ease, leaving his dick exposed to the air, the piercing going through it shining in the dim hallway light. Shoresy brushes a couple of fingers down it, the cold feeling of the piercing making him smile hazyly. He’s consumed entirely with the thought of with touching Goody everywhere, and moves his hand up steadily, feeling Goody’s chest.
He feels drunk. “When’d ya get this…?”
Goody shoves a hand back into his hair and pushes him against his thigh, close enough to smell him, but away enough to not touch.
“Less talking. Let yourself go, sweet. Focus on me.”
Shoresy feels himself whine without trying. Fuck. “Huh?”
He knows it’s coming, so when he feels the hand in his hair tighten and push him against the entire heated mound of his pussy, he whines into Goody’s thigh.
“You fucking heard me.”
“Ma-maybe, I didn’t,” Shoresy runs his fingers down Goody’s dick, and flicks at his piercing. It gets him a choked moan from above.
“Tongue, use your tongue.”
“But you’re so wet already.”
Goody bucks his hips against him, and Shoresy finally relents, his two fingers reaching up to jerk him off. “Yer so good to me, y’know that?” He does it slow in the way that he knows drives Goody insane, and drags his fingers down roughly, getting him a broken-off whine from above. He finds himself drooling a little, the taste that Goody has never got any less addicting.
“Shut up and suck my dick.”
Shoresy works his tongue along the underside of Goody’s dick, dragging his mouth toward the tip. Then he licks lightly at the area just below the head, and he feels his hips jerk at the touch.
“Fuck, Shoresy-” His grip on his hair tightens, putting pressure on his scalp. “You take me so fucking well.”
Good, good. He lets drool drip onto Goody’s dick and sucks at it messily, producing slick sounds as he slides his mouth up and down. He finally feels himself relax into it, the previous wild rage that he was holding in his body leaving him, as he slumps against Goody.
“Goody,” he whines out, his breath heavy. “Wanna hear you.”
He hears a chuckle above him, and Shoresy knows he’s fucked after that.
‘Settle down, would you?”
-
It’s still dark out by the time that Goody reaches in between his legs, and makes him regret ever being smart with him. Shoresy never turns the lights on, the darkness making him relax into the back of the sheets even more. He’s almost sleepy, the feeling of Goody’s rubbing him making him moan lazily in his arms, Goody’s mullet making his nose tickle.
“You still with me?” He says it slowly, the drag of his fingers inside of him making him not really pay attention to the outside world.
“Mm…yeah.”
Some unnamed feeling mounts in his chest before he can help himself. He feels like he’ll either fracture or float, and he doesn’t know which. All he knows is that he’s in Goody’s hands, that he’ll stay in Goody’s hands, no matter what. If he floats away or falls apart, Goody has him.
“Good,” Goody says, “You wanna come, sweet? You’ve earned it, sucking my cock for hours. God, you look good on your knees. You know that, right? So pretty for me.”
He’s going to be the fucking death of me.
Shoresy can’t think right now. He can only feel: Goody’s fingers inside him, his other hand rubbing at his back, making him shake against him, his words undoing him.
So, naturally, he’s a smartass back. Because he never learns his lesson.
“Huh?”
He hears Goody sigh, and suddenly teeth are nibbling at his ear. Shoresy trembles, a shiver that shakes his bones drawing up his spine when Goody’s thumb presses far rougher than it had done before against the bundle of nerves throbbing beneath it.
“Fuck –” His breath catches, voice hitching as his muscles flex and tighten, his stomach tightening. It’s good, it’s the greatest, his chest hurts from how hard he’s panting and he feels tears in his eyes.
“I’m pretty sure you heard me, Shorse.”
He speeds up, the spot inside him getting abused. “Fuck,” he hisses, as Goody goes even faster, his eyes watching him, and Shoresy burns . “I—I really d-didn’t—” He presses a hand to his mouth, his cheeks bright red. “G-Goody—please, o-oh, I’m sorry—”
He feels himself tighten around Goody’s fingers for the final time, and he sobs then, when Goody doesn’t let up until he’s squeezing his thighs around his forearm so hard it must hurt, his legs twitching.
“Good boy,” Goody praises with a tenderness that makes Shoresy’s heart twitch just as much as his cunt does.
Shoresy whines, his legs still wrapped around Goody’s arm. “Shut up, dude.”
-
They lay like that for what seems like forever, the concept of time lost on Shoresy. He doesn’t talk, his head positively empty. He only grumbles when Goody gets up to wash his hands, and practically mauls him once he crawls back into bed, his hands reaching for Goody’s mullet.
“You’re so embarrassing, bud.”
Shoresy’s so tired he can’t even think about making a jab at him.
“Fuck off. Not embarrassing.”
Goody's fingers are feather-light along the shell of his ear, his lips pressing soft kisses to his forehead every so often. "Sure you weren’t," he said quietly. His fingers trace the shape of Shoresy's brow before he leans in to kiss Shoresy properly, his lips tasting like himself.
Shoresy sighed at the touch. “Gross dude, go wash ya fuckin’ mouth."
He’s never been good with emotions. But Goody knows this. Has known since he sat next to him at that lacrosse game and watched the world’s shittest lacrosse team with him.
So he knows what he means instead. Can practically hear the I love you so much I’m going to fucking explode you make me feel so good can we never stop this I wanna just yours make you breakfast every morning I’d be so good to you buy you shitty Stirfry every Sunday.
“You okay now?”
"I’ve been fine."
"How are your knuckles? Need me to get the ice?” Goody doesn’t move to get it, and both of them know they’re not moving.
Plus, it’s Goody’s way of saying the three words both of them don’t want to say.
Hey, have you eaten lunch today? I got extra chicken fries. Shorse, go to fuckin’ bed. Shorse. JJ’s left this fuckin’ girl's paint behind, wanna get pretty and dolled up with me? You’re unbelievable, just sit down and watch this shitty ass porn movie with me.
I love you, I love you, I love you.
"They’re great."
"Mm," Goody mutters, pressing a kiss to the hollow of his throat. "Long as you’re settled now."
Lacing their fingers together, Shoresy puts an ear to Goody's chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart, and slowly feels himself fall asleep against him. He traces the words that hug Goody’s collarbone and smiles.
He’s never told Goody he knows Latin. And he isn’t going to start now, so he has to stop himself from letting out a love-sick laugh when he remembers what it says.
Me ad litus versus.
Me towards the shore.