five times kissed ( pretend im on badgedblonde n take this 4 jj n adri ! )
send me five times kissed for a drabble about five times our muses kissed
he doesn’t lose bets often ( mostly because the ones he makes are almost always on his own terms; and his own terms almost always mean an unfair playing, a hustling to assure himself notes to tide him through the days that follow ). one of the only exceptions to that is her. it could be attributed to the charming held behind her smile, perhaps the almost childish edge her voice takes when he tries to say no- but it’s definitely not probably the way she has him wrapped around her finger. it still doesn’t making losing any more bearable, not when she’s as smug as he would be, reluctance huffed as lips press fleeting to the swell of a flushing cheek. “i’ll pay you later.”
she still teases him about his choice of pineapple on top of pizza, more so than she chooses to eat it. he’s grown used to it, as he has the sink of her couch beneath his weight and the warmth of her cats on his lap. it’s almost a regular thing, this. take out and shitty movies and just- enjoying himself for a little while with only a few worries poking about at the back of his thoughts that he can easily ignore. he’s grown used to the teasing of her kisses against his cheek, trying to distract him from everything else but her.
there’s no forgetting who she’s going to be. there’s no forgetting who they are, the ever present bridge between them that she seems able to overlook despite how it grows with every day, every week, every month until it’ll be too large to cross. he’s reminded of how bad of a person he is for her. rough edges and stained hands; nothing more than a criminal. he can’t be more than that. he can’t be good for her. they’re both reminded of it when his lips only meet the very corner of her mouth, mind preoccupied and somewhere that isn’t here.
alcohol makes things easier. alcohol always makes things easier. he smiles easier, forgets easier, doesn’t mind the lack of space between them that needs to be there. he’s not good. he’s not good, he’s not good he’s not- she smiles. tiny little dapples of sunlight in the shadows that swamp him. thinking can be left until later when the hangover joins the party, an unwelcome guest that lets itself in regardless of want, regardless of anything else. he kisses her easier, then. lips the taste of whiskey and her mouth the tang of vodka. makes it easier.
she doesn’t let him wallow. he hates her for that. he’s grateful for that. it doesn’t matter either way when his sadness isn’t something he’s so easily pulled out of, clings to his shoulders like the blanket that comforted him as a child. reluctance to let go makes him snap when he shouldn’t. has him defensive, back into the corner and denying any help offered ( he likes to think she knows he doesn’t wholly means the things he says when he gets like this, but he can never be sure when she’s just as reluctant to let her own hurt show ). relenting on her part comes eventually with a heavy sigh from parted lips that hold something motherly when they press to his forehead.
