troycalloway:
“It’s not about being masculine. I like looking like this.” Troy counters, even though it’s less of a preference and more that he just doesn’t give a fuck. He’ll admit that his hair can get a bit unruly and beard somewhat out of control but it’s tame now compared to the mess it has the potential to turn into. It’s fact that he keeps to himself, pretty sure that would cause Val to bust into his house in the middle of the night to chop both off.
Troy opens his mouth to argue her point but instead mutters a thanks before shutting up entirely. There’s no point in explaining that six months sober doesn’t mean shit when he’s bought coke at least three times and damn near inhaled the whole bile himself before flushing it down the toilet. Or that the booze is the only way to numb the constant cravings brewing inside of him. It was pointless but, mostly, he didn’t feel like dealing with Val’s pity. She keeps trying to save and Troy is wondering when she’ll finally give up, realizing he’s damaged beyond repair.
A hand lingers up the length of her spine before tangling in her dark locks of hair. Her lips are just as sweet as he remembers them, fairly sure Val still uses the same cherry lip balm she always did back in high school. “True.” Troy admits with a breathless chuckle, wondering when or if her logic will kick in tp stop this from going any further. It doesn’t, instead her lips are crashing against his once more. “Stay?” Comes out husked and, if he didn’t know any better, it comes out in a soft plea.
"No one likes looking like they've given up on life. They just do it because they've ... given up on life." She gestures at his apartment. "You forget, I've known you when you were capable of impressing me. Ah, those heady days of yore. I miss them ..." She pretends to reminisce, while kicking a dirty shirt out of the way. "Clean floors, mood lighting candles, your fuck mix soundtrack playing on your iPod. Sorry, 'Mood Music'. As if I didn't know what that meant." She actually doesn't mind the memories, even grinning about the music. Forgetting to be irritated, she tries to remember what was on the mix. "Didn't you have Kiss From a Rose on there? I seem to recall being deflowered to it."
His shirtlessness, she now realizes, made this almost inevitable, and she vows to next time insist on him getting dressed before continuing the conversation. It was a rookie mistake. Though it's hard to be unhappy at the moment. She should regret this, and leave, and go back to making lists of things Troy needs to do to stop fucking up his life. Not reward his tenuous sobriety with sex and probably cuddling as well. "It depends. How old are the sheets on your bed?" Even though she's trying to sound detached and amused, her arms tighten around his neck and she nuzzles his neck, always missing the smell of him when she leaves, kissing along to the soft skin against his collarbone. "Carry me?" She's still, despite being far too old and supposedly grown up, turned on by Troy carrying her like a hero in a movie and then dropping her into bed. It's her own fault, really. She should have made herself be turned on by fiscal responsibility and good credit.
