corruption | j. maybank
summary: another indigo eyed boy had her first and she still feels the echos of them
wc: 1,542
a/n: also hey. im back from the fucking dead kinda. i had no clue who to write this for so, here ya go. (though im over writing for obx)
warnings: regular smutty things, with toxic/ slightly abusive ex, some angst
With a small pinch of cocaine coating her nostrils and new, uncharted electricity in her veins, she could pretend with some small understanding that some fundamental part of her nervous system knew the truth but still sits pacified with the fabrication of her reality. So, with the aid of hard drugs and the cold clasp of rings against the sweaty jut of her hip, the fluttering of her eyes makes her world blurry in a gloriously disastrous way that she knows will leave her throat thick with regret in the morning but she’s too focused on the sinful ministrations committed by the blonde hovering over her. His hands are roaming in the way overindulged high-school boys act when under the impression that something is free, but for the life of her, she cannot mind it. Despite her soft indignation at the high probability that the indigo-eyed boy leaving hickeys along her neck like a necklace was in fact one of those boys, her back still arched and the cocaine had carried her to a new high she never thought possible. A feeling she was quickly attaching to the pale-eyed, sharp-toothed boy sloppily pulling down her jean cut-offs. She doesn’t remember his name and doesn’t bother to learn what syllables she’s meant to chant as he grinds against her writhing hips, but he knows hers. He’s crashing into her without a shred of remorse he almost should feel, a soft whine crawling from his throat as the tips of her nails dig into the bulk of his shoulder. When she starts gasping like the oxygen in the room was depleting and her hips struggle to match his rhythm, he believes for a moment that she’s hooked; caught in his web, and finally ready to surrender to the truth once he gives her what she wants.
She is crying like she might just fall apart under him in a puddle of smudged eyeliner and bad decisions, her thoughts tangle hapharsdly as praises fall off her tongue and it becomes increasingly harder to keep her truth at bay when his head tips back with a moan spilling frm his throat the same exact way Rafe’s would when she would tug at the roots of his sandy hair. Unable to scratch together memory of this boy who’s a fucking magician and who he might be, she writhes under his teasing touch, pushing his calloused hands against her breasts because she cannot stop the fantasy that it’s him. She gives him the words she pretends he loves, enjoying the way his chest stutters under her palm and the elongated moan he cries against the shell of her ear when she flips them over. The sheets catch against her ankles, challenging her as she gives him new sights of the grandeur of her body; in sharp, hidden contrast to the wasteland of her mind she will never grant him the chance to decipher.
When the cold press of his myriad of rings presses against the boiling skin of her lower stomach, she gasps out in a raspy moan, fingers curling against the sheets as his thumb starts lazily drawing against her heat, a devious plan of manipulation the boy doesn’t understand he’s wielding. He likes the way her throat bobs in an attempt at control of her own body as she begins to shake and suddenly he wants her to say his name. JJ’s lusting after a domesticated ideal of her that will never come to fruition because she doens’t know his name and she’s keeping her eyes closed. So he removes the pressure of his hands and instead resigns to pushing her hips in a repeated motion that will have what ever this is ending and he can settle his nerves and forget her gasps of pleasure in a haze of marijuana.
She, on the other hand, is diminished to pleaing, not understanding the sudden magnetic pull of how this boy, that is so different from Rafe, is tying a string to her heart that threatens to snap. She feels as if the hand against her body was a declaration of love, however surface-level and lewd, and she aches at the loss of it in a deeper way than just primal lust. So she curls herself closer to the sweat-slicked expanse of his chest, pressing her palm against his ribs to feel the erratic thump of his heart that’s kicked into such a frenzy by her.
“Please,” she finds herself saying, unsure of what exactly she’s begging for, but all she knows is more. More of his shameless hands and the cold jolt of his rings that drag along her flesh in waves of goosebumps. She begs again, her hips slowing and stuttering as her movements become more lackadaisical, hoping her sudden attempt at intimacy works. The words continues to fall from her tongue, sloppy kisses littering his neck as she focuses more on the act of their need rather than the end. The emotion she suddenly feels atop this indigo-eyed boy blooms in her heart with a fevor similar to the rush of cocaine in her nose is almost painful. She feels the cracks in her heart with a intensity she believes to be love in her twisted understanding of the emotion.
JJ blinks, his thoughts stumbling as her body language changes, sincerity pouring from her in what seems like a fake rush. He briefly wonders if she ever learned the difference between love and lust as she rides him in pornagraphic fashion, a breathless smile matching her glazed eyes. Falling into her trap of honesty, the sweating boy brought his hips up in needy revolution, enjoying the contortion of her face as her orgasm nipped at her heels. A soft, nearly imprecepptiable cry of something that sounds a lot like fuck me haunts him. He knows she means it in a lustful, heart-less adolescent way, with mouths full of meaningless words. But, bouncing on his hips, skin pressed together and moans cascading into a final cry, she thinks this time it’s different. When above Rafe, with his aggressive hands and the wicked curve to his smiles, she said that in the way fuck me, was mean and sloppy, full of lust and only the end in mind. But here, with her fingers itching to be grasping his, not Rafe’s, but whoever he is instead, she thinks she means in it in way way fuck me was meant. With kisses and giggles and pleasure after love. She empties her heart into the words, wishing that for once her heart meant what it says and that she’s not foolishly chasing after something with a guy just because she fucked him and mistook it for more.
As their rendezvous of misplaced affection and foolish grasps at doomed teenage love ends, they realize, with shaking fingers and flushed faces that their mortal end is in fact as awkward and he feared and disastrous as she knew. She feels the need to interlock their fingers and kiss his cheek, because it seems domestic and sweet, a homage to something they might be, but she refrains. He lets whatever he imagined might spark from the kindling of their lust unraveled and fall from his grasp.
As she peels herself away, she can’t help but think of him and how this scenes is hauntingly familiar to all the times Rafe sniffed after he came, already searching for another high that was decidedly not her and the numerous times he would cradle her face and kiss her just a little too hard and blame it on the fact that he just felt overwhelmed about how much he liked but not loved her. She can feel her arousal sticky on her thighs when she stands and feels a type of selfishness overtake her; there was this boy with cold, rings and pale-eyes that seemed desperate for her touch, why couldn’t she love him? And why couldn’t she keep him all for herself?
He’s picking himself up, the fragile remains of his dashed hopes of love cutting against his skin as he tugs on his shorts, crass enough in his exit that his sweaty chest is still exposed as he maneuvers toward the doorway. She, fingers curling around the lacy fabric of her bra, watches, eyes widened in a half-plea as he waits by the door. She realizes that JJ is not, in fact, hesitating to confess his love, he’s waiting; respectfully with his back turned for her to change so when he opens the door, she’s not on display. Her cheeks heat at the action of decency that she knows belongs to only him, and yanks on her clothes in the form of an apology that they couldn’t be more. She’s gathering words to tell him to stay, but she doesn't know how to formulate such an emotionally available sentence. And he’s already gone- desperate to abandon the girl that attempted to be real during sex and forget the taste of her lips. So she remains, eyes cast to the door as if the sole memory of his figure can bring him back. But she’s too intimate with the understanding nature of impossible ends brought on by foolish wishes. So this time, she doesn’t.
