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When he can't find the ketamine, she lets him shotgun her instead.
"I've been having nightmares," she admits, later, as she lies on his sofa and watches his ceiling haze with smoke.
"I failed my last History quiz," she confesses, sitting beside him on the floor, his shoulder pressed against hers as he crumbles dried flowers onto a thin strip of paper.
"I don't want to go back to them," she reveals, her weight sinking into his lap as she straddles him. "My mom... Jason and my friends... they don't see me."
He touches her face, his thumb on her chin, and seals his mouth over hers, exhaling slowly. When he pulls back, his eyes are dark. "I see you."
She shudders.
She expects him to kiss her properly when they finish the second joint, to press his lips against hers and lick into her mouth and slick his tongue along hers, but he just holds her, his palms wide and warm on her back as she rests against his chest, her head tucked up under his chin.
Across the room the play button on his boombox pops up with a loud click, the song they'd been listening to cutting out mid-chorus, and the trailer's lights flicker.
"Storm?" she asks.
He shrugs beneath her.
The lights dim and glow and dim and glow, a disconcerting pulse. In the air, dust motes
-- pollen ash spores --
hang heavily.
He talks and she listens and she thinks about how she can still smell the flowers he ground up, and smoked, and breathed into her lungs, one exhale at a time.
He tells her about the song he's been teaching himself how to play, and how his dungeons and dragons game doesn't always have dungeons and dragons but does sometimes have evil wizards and cultists and magic spells. He tells her about his favourite movies and his favourite pizza toppings and his favourite dreams of her, the sounds she makes beneath him, cum-drunk and whimpering, her cunt hot and slick around his cock, his name on her lips...
"Eddie," she says now, her voice thin and needy, and he tenses.
"I don't --" He sounds confused and suddenly unsure, exhaling roughly. "What did I -- why did I just --"
She remembers watching him once in the cafeteria, his words muted under the drone of chattering students but his hand gestures dramatic and eye catching, and how that night, in her bed, she'd slipped her hand between her legs, her fingertips on her clit, and imagined the cool touch of his rings against her hole as he worked his fingers inside of her...
"Fuck," he says now, as she realises she just said all of that out loud
-- why why why --
as she draws in a shuddering breath and tastes pollen
-- dust spores ash --
and want.
He does kiss her then, or maybe she kisses him, or maybe it's both of them and it doesn't matter because what matters is that they're not close enough yet, not together yet, and she rolls her hips against his, feeling the hard thick line of his cock press back.
"It's the weed," she thinks he says, tasting the words more than hearing them, "a bad crop, maybe, maybe, I don't --"
"I don't care." She nips at the curve of his jaw, his stubble rough against her lips. "I won't." If they stop now she'll die, she thinks. "I want."
He groans and rolls them to the side, her back on the carpet and his hips rutting against hers, pinning her down, his mouth finding the curve of her neck and sucking a bruise there she'll never be able to hide, that everyone will know her boyfriend didn't make, that Eddie put there.
Yes, she thinks. His bruise on her neck, and his teeth on her collarbone, and his cum dripping down her thighs...
Caught beneath his weight, her mind full of him and her cunt aching for him, bending and breaking as she comes.
She works her hand between them and into his jeans, her fingers slipping against his cock, his mouth finding hers again with a dirty, wet kiss that makes her spine arch and her toes curl and her pulse race.
In me, she thinks
-- now now oh god now --
but she can't stop kissing him long enough to pull off his clothes and the ash
-- pollen spores dust --
smells like jasmine and pears and Eddie and
-- oh --
Eddie comes, his lips still on hers, his breathing wrecked and his cock pressing against her fingers as he ruts restlessly against her.
Oh.
He eats her out as soon as he can pull her cheer shorts and underwear off, her top rucked up and her bra pulled down, his palms hot on her tits as he licks into her cunt and sucks on her clit. Groans when she cards her fingers into his hair and pulls, hard, as she comes.
"Don't have to," he says when she makes to return the favour, "I don't expect --"
"I want to," she says. She licks around his cock head. "I want to."
She takes him into her mouth, her hand wrapping around the base of his cock and squeezing just enough, her cheeks hollowing when she sucks and bobs and
-- want you need you only you you you you --
she hears, hopes.
She looks up at him when he comes, sees him looking right back at her, wanting and safe. She swallows.
He stays hard.
They make it into his bedroom, his mattress a relief after the carpet. He's talking again -- they both are -- their mouths running with half-remembered fantasies and memories, a kaleidoscope of missed opportunities maybe. He wants to fuck her in the theatre room where he plays his dungeons and dragons game, bent over his chair, his throne, the King of Hellfire sunk deep inside the Queen of Cheer.
"The picnic table," she says, her eyes closed, "where you made me feel safe, made me smile, made me wet and aching and."
"And?" he repeats. He rolls them so that she's on top, so that she can ride him, one of his thumbs slippery on her clit and his other on her nipple, his thumbnail scraping lightly, over and over and over, her head tipping back as she watches the spores
-- ash dust pollen --
sheen and shimmer and shine above them.
"Don't stop," she begs.
He doesn't.
He is still inside her when the lights settle into a steady glow, when the dust
-- pollen ash spores --
starts to disappear, the air clearing, cleansing, the roll of her hips becoming more deliberate than instinctive as she chases the embers of her desire before they can fade too.
"Eddie," she breathes into the curve of his neck, licking at the salt-sweat taste of his skin. "We --"
He whines beneath her, his hands gripping tight to her hips, pulling her down as he pushes up. "Don't wanna stop." He rocks them harder, a tense grind. "Never wanna. Never never never..."
Oh god, "yes," she thinks, says, her breath catching in her throat, "I'm coming, I'm coming, I'm --"
His breath punches out of him when he comes too, his cock pulsing inside of her, and she thinks
-- his rings his rings his ring on her finger and hers on his and --
she comes again, or maybe just still, one last flutter of her walls, her muscles twitching, sparking, burning...
"Never," she says. "Eddie."
His palm drags from her hip to her nape, his rings pressed to her skin, fingers spreading warmly, holding her against him, his breathing -- his voice -- absolutely wrecked. "Yeah."
She closes her eyes and shudders.
In the morning, in the dawn light streaming through his window, their bodies side by side and face to face, her foot tucked neatly between his ankles and their fingers just brushing where they lie on the mattress between them, she watches him sleep.
"I see you too," she whispers.
Opening his eyes, he smiles.
The End
