@dieterstark sent:
‘ you fucked me so good that i almost said i love you. ’
every nerve in her body is alight with him, him and his touch, him and his drinks, every wicked word he’s ever told her. her heartbeat is pounding in her ears still as she comes down from their shared high, and for an unbearable moment, she fears that she heard him wrong — no, she fears that she heard him right, and she did, because surely her subconscious isn’t so cruel as to invent those words itself. his speech stops her in her tracks as she makes some vague attempt to untangle herself from his sheets, from his hold, but then —
— ellie laughs, a cold noise that almost sounds out of place coming from her. it’s amusement, certainly, because beneath the isolation of feeling like the only one between them with a beating heart, she’s morbidly entertained with hearing the word “love” through his voice. the pair of them are a time bomb, meant to have detonated long ago; somewhere along the line, it all shifted out of focus. one night had turned into two, two into three, three into a blur. it hardly registered when she started keeping her things at his apartment: a ring of ponytail holders, first, then folders full of her lecture material, then all of her bad impulses and swallowed confessions.
in another time, in another life, it’s domesticity, or something like it.
❛ do me a favor. say it anyway. ❜ bare shoulder lifts in an easy shrug: when the morning comes, this will be forgotten by them both. love will stay a fantasy, a concept they’ll never dare speak of soberly. tomorrow night, she’ll fall back into his lap and kiss him like he’s the only thing she’s hungry for. she’ll blame it on the vodka ( or she won’t, because it’s not every night that the alcohol that drives her to him, some nights she has no excuses, she only has her desperation ), and she’ll drift off to sleep with his name on her lips, guilty and sweet.
❛ you don’t have to mean it, ❜ she assures him; in her current state of intoxication, there’s no way she could work out if it’s even possible for him to feel such a thing. ❛ but if you’re going to tempt me with the thought... you might as well follow through. ❜
prompt: norman fucking rockwell!
status: accepting.
