Jealousy turning saints into the sea (Chapter 6)
Fandom: Faking It Pairing: Reamy Author’s Notes: SURPRISE! I decided to go on with this one because I have so many other things I want to write. And with Faking It's Season 2B promo, we're prolly gonna need all the Reamy we can get. Also, I did something. I wrote smut, I think. Not quite, smut smut I'd say, but still. Like ranging from sloppy kisses to Joey Tribbiani's girl on girl fantasies, I'd say this is safely bordering on 2nd base. This is my first attempt so go easy on me. As always, reviews make me happy. (And I've been on the rocks lately so please send me some.) Thanks again for reading! Still no beta. Sorry. Standard Disclaimers apply.
It's been a while since she felt this kind of happiness - unbidden, unadulterated, absolute. She feels herself sigh, her head burrowing deeper into her girlfriend's neck, filling her lungs with her scent: cigarettes and lilies. Her favorite.
Reagan's arms are wrapped tight around her back, her thumb reacquainting with the exposed skin on her side. It feels a lot like waking up from a nightmare: no more monsters with fiery hair pulling her away from Reagan's arms, no more insurmountable glass walls separating them as the brunette is engulfed by an ominous fog on the other side.
She's flooded with relief that awakens all the butterflies that have fallen stiff and unmoving on her gut, finally fluttering their fragile wings, brushing them across her ribs, hitching her breath.
A lone tear trails it's way down her cheek and onto her girlfriend's spine, another hitch escaping her lips. For once, it doesn't come out of crippling sadness. It's one that marks the end of the fight. One that promises better days.
"Hey," Reagan starts, her voice soft and soothing, hand travelling to her arms and pushing her back,
It's a welcome reprieve to have someone else's voice in her head, in her general vicinity, really. After spending sleepless nights and endless waking hours consoling herself. She revels in it, the gentle cadence hanging in the air like a warm cotton blanket.
Reagan pulls back, worried eyes surveying her face.
Her fingers continue to trail the contour of her frame, up the angle of her shoulders to the length of her neck and finally settling on the sides of her face, begging her eyes to meet her hazel ones. Amy leans in to the touch as her eyelids drop to a close, an unmistakable shiver tingling in her spine and breaking out as goosebumps on her skin.
"Shrimps," she adds, stroking the rise of her cheek.
She smiles as she opens her eyes, planting a kiss on her girlfriends palm. "Hey."
"Look at me," the older girl offers, her eyes shining with happiness even in the dim of the bar.
"We're okay, a'right?," she says with a convincing bob of her head, hands playing with the hairs on Amy's neck.
"We have a lot of talking to do but we're going to be okay," she says finally, smiling and leaning forward to plant a kiss on the curve of her brow.
She pulls them off the couch and to her table, her arms resting flatly on her hip. She pushes up some sliders and teases her cheek with her nose while whispering "I could definitely care for a margarita."
Amy replies with a playful bite to her bare shoulder and saunters away to grab their drinks.
The bartender a blonde male whose entire left arm is covered in a multitude of tattoos. His smile is uncharacteristically shy as she waits for her order, claiming a stool that emptied just as she arrived.
Leaning a little to her left trying to catch the baristas swift hands, she notices the tip bowl and drops a few dollars in, noting the incredulous amount of bills mounting on the base.
"Impressive. huh?," the barista starts, tipping his head to gesture to the bowl in question.
"It's mostly the DJ, really," he adds bashfully. "Sometimes, it seems like the male population thinks it's a raffle. The more entries you send, the more chances of winning."
His laugh is a nervous staccato, eyes going up to the tower where Reagan continues to bob her head to the music. They catch eyes and she waves at them both.
Turning back to the bar, she finds the bartender blushing. It's barely noticeable under his burly facial hair, seemingly out of place in his manly build.
Of course, the bartender likes her girlfriend! What's not to like?
To her right, she finds a group of college boys waving up at her, their collective alcohol consumption probably illegal, but their identification passes the fleeting scrutiny of the guy behind the bar so they continue to tip back shots of blazing liquids.
They're huddled together under the lone source of actual, useful light in the establishment, scribbling digits onto scraps of paper.
It's not until some of them pop back out with a drunken hand that she realizes that majority of the contents of the bowl are paper and not money.
"I send up far too many drink to her, and not just from guys! She'd probably be an alcoholic if she drank them all," he continues, finishing up her orders.
With the bartender, she knew it was just a little crush. Nothing serious. Nothing to worry about.
But the realization sits heavy and bitter in her gut. She wonders how many guys her girlfriend has to turn down every night, how many roaming hands she's had to swat away.
It had always been an increasingly exasperating task, driving away inebriated perverts wherever she went. Especially ones that can't seem to take a hint, ones that puff their chest out and tilt their chins up like the world owes them shit, like a wink and a hand up your ass somehow makes them more likable.
College jocks and jerks and just the general male population tend to overrate themselves especially after several beers, hitting on anything that moves and demanding reception. She could only begin to imagine the amount of catcalls her girl must endure, the level of objectivity aimed at her every night.
It only occurs to her that Reagan must have dealt with this ever since starting to DJ at clubs, and she feels the raw anger flare up inside her like wildfire.
She understands now why she acted the way she did during the pageant.
Fucking testosterone fueled, heads in their dicks, male population.
"She's tough. She handles herself very well," he adds to her silence, giving a final swipe at their glasses.
"She has a girlfriend, though. Some high school chick she met. She's probably too young for me anyway." He shrugs and then blushes an even deeper shade of crimson, shocked at his own admission.
"At least, none of us gets her tonight, right?," he says, a sad smile ghosting over his lips, pushing the drinks toward her.
There's an insatiable urge to clarify that last statement, albeit a little unnecessary in the general scheme of things, but she proceeds anyway, feeling the need to mark her territory.
Sticking her hand out for a shake she says, "I'm Amy, by the way." Accompanying her introduction with a saccharine smile, too wide and too glaring to be genuine.
A flash of recognition graces his face, an unsure "Jason" making its way from his lips.
She turns then, giving her hips an extra sway as she crosses the floor and climbs the tower.
Let's see about that, Jason.
She walks over to Reagan, a new found hunger lingering in her core. She puts the drinks down to the side table and wraps her arms around her girlfriend, peppering the back of her neck with the ghost of kisses.
A smile pulls on her lips when she feels the DJ shiver against her chest, tipping her head back to plant sloppy kiss on the underside of her jaw.
"Hmmm. Jason got you in a good mood, huh?," she says, as she continues to mix her tracks, body thumping against hers in a very encouraging rhythm,
Amy's arms skirt around the hem of her skin tight leather pants, teasing the exposed skin with feather light touches of her fingers.
"You didn't tell me you're a popular tease in this area?"
"Ha." Her chuckle vibrates against her chest, effectively eliminated the minuscule gap between their bodies.
"I'm very much liking this possessive display." she says with a laugh. Amy can see the goosebumps she's successfully summoned with her ministrations, her palms now disappearing under her girlfriend's shirt.
She stops her exploration then, holding the jut of her hips in her hands, pulling so that they were connected head to toe.
"Do you not have a break or something?" She's getting impatient now, needing to show the rest of the world (or the crowd down below) that Reagan was taken, to cement the idea in their heads. If only to stop them from hitting on her and sending her drinking or leaving her numbers.
Although, really, this is for her as much as it is for the audience constantly gawking at her girlfriend. She wants this show branded in their brains so they know to back off.
"You're pretty much growling in my ear. Calm you tits, man." Reagan says with another laugh, twisting the dials down and playing a prerecorded mix.
Turning in the blonde's embrace, she allows her fingers to travel languidly up Amy's arms, making her index and ring finger walk along her collar bones like gangly legs and then proceeding to wrap her arms around her girlfriend's neck, pulling her in but halting her advances within a breath's width from Amy's anticipating lips.
"Mine," that, Reagan's positive, is the closest thing to a growl, a human can manage.
The blonde is on her before she even takes a breath she'll surely need, devouring her mouth like a savaged beast, slowly lapping her tongue on the blonde's upper lip.
Reagan is all too happy with this development, taking advantage of the momentary freedom of her lips to inhale a sharp, shaky breath. She buries her hand in Amy's hair, the other one planted firmly behind her neck, keeping her in place.
Before long Amy is sucking on her pulse point, eliciting an inviting moan from Reagan's lips slowly venturing into dangerous territory, marking exposed skin above her shirt. She can feel Amy's heartbeat from where her lips continue to meet skin, not unlike her own.
The DJ slips her hand down into the other girl's back pockets, pulling their hips even closer. Amy registers a few catcalls, and several howls of approval, but she's too hot to care. Too deep inside Reagan's mouth to bother with propriety and decency.
This is a bar. This isn't the first heated makeout this crowd has witnessed, she tells herself.
Amy pushes her hands further up her girlfriend's shirt, smiling against her lips when she earns another audible hitch.
"Shrimps," Reagan calls, bidding her to rejoin the conscious world, but she refuses to be pulled back, stubbornly sucking on another patch of skin on the brunette's throat.
Reagan allows her several seconds of tongue exploration before finally pulling back, pecking her frowning eyebrows with a chuckle.
"Hey, now. You're going to get me arrested for harassment." She rearranges the parts of Amy's clothing that have gone askew and runs her hands through blonde hair gone awry.
Biting her chin jokingly, she adds before turning, "If we're lucky and no one goes to jail tonight, I'll show you how much of a tease I really am."
I know this one's short, sorry. What did you think? Let me know here!
Show of hands for those who want to see actual smut!
