Pairing: Teddy Spencer x Black OC! Iris Spencer
Summary: Iris Marie St. John wakes up as Iris Marie Spencer and is in awe.
Songs: Latch by Disclosure ft. Sam Smith + Promise by Ciara
WC: 684
Content: Girl, it's fluff. Husband and wife.
Note: Still powering up.
The headlights were the eyes of the car.
She had brown eyes. He had blue.
And somehow, his were brighter by default.
It took her years to name what that look did to her.
Because spending the rest of her days chained to another person always seemed miserable.
Daunting.
Well, perhaps chained was too heavy a word.
Bound.Â
To be bound to another soul by law and proximity until her lungs wilted and her heart gasped was a nightmare.
Until it became a dream. It became a dream when she finally understood that freedom and devotion were not opposites. No, they were the working parts of a well-oiled machine thatâd been running on fumes and love dust since her headlights had been outshined by his.Â
What once felt like shackles had softened into goldâdevotion worn openly on her left hand. Heavy from the years of quiet abiding poured into fourteen carats and vows written by shaking hands and affection worn with pride.Â
It was fascinating. How time bent its knee to serve revelation to a mind once closed.
It was quiet. Not the hauntingly uncomfortable quiet, no. Peaceful. Deserved after years of ducking and dodging the fate thatâd been appointed by gods who werenât so ruthless after all. Fate that lay beside her on rumpled sheets half-hanging off the side of the bed, pushing out the sighs as soft as lullabies.
She rose, cupping her neck in her palm, and leaned forward, the tip of her finger brushing away overgrown sandy brown hair from his forehead. He leaned into her touch, unconsciously, and she let out a sound. Something between a sigh and gasp of wonder that hadnât found the perfect place to land. She adjusted, shifting her body closer to the middle of the bed where he lay like a king on a throne.
The ends of her hair slid along his elongated arm as she settled against himâher face tucked curve of his neck, leg tucked between his, and her arm thrown over his shoulders. Her fingers slid across the nape of his neck, the round tip of her manicured nails caressing his scalp. He hummed. She purred.
Her chest pressed against his side, willing herself to become one with him if she could. Feeling his chest rise and fall, and the ghost-like trace of his finger against mahogany skin inked by his initials like scripture, would be enough. Sleep tried to force her eyes closed, but she couldnât. Couldnât abandon a moment such as thisâthe view of him as her husband on a bed of clouds while the seas whispered behind him. Sheâd only see him like thisâsoul bare the morning after their nuptialsâonce. No do-overs. No retakes. She wouldnât take it for granted.
âWhatchu thinkinâ about, baby?â
Awareness. He was always so aware. Attentive. Even when his eyes hadnât been peeled and silence lingered like a warm fragranceâcomfortable, inhabitable.
Her thigh twitched. She shifted closer, fitting herself back into him, pressed her mouth to the warm curve of his neck. âYou.â
He stilled. And thenâwarmth under his skin. Flustered. And somehow, that undid her more than any crown ever could.
-
Tags: @darkseidex @amirawrah @ga33y3 @ariesthesun @simplementemeencantafutbol @szalipcombo @sheinaskirt @melaninhawtie @unicoo @imperfectlyperfect78 @ariesthesun @blckblossom @fifi-asco @youreadthatright @mauvecherie-writes @imperfectlyperfect78 @uniqueoutlierblog @ardeneverse + let me know if you want to be added or removed.
Pairing: Jackson Brooks x Black OC!Sydney Brooks
Summary: Jackson Brooks isn't as big and bold behind closed doors as people may assume.
Content: Sensuality. Husband and wife. Slight D/S dynamics.
WC: 684
Note: Jackson Brooks girlies arise!
Sydney Brooks was stealth. Her existence was hardly known save by name and his quick, âI have a wife,â whenever wandering eyes grew too curious and assignments forced too much distance between two hearts way too experienced at growing fonder.Â
It was when your existence wasnât evident, known, or recognized by the public eye that power wielded itself strongly.Â
No assumptions made under pretenses of imagination or pseudo-information gathered from a sad game of telephone between coworkers. Or people who were more concerned with the life of a man who could end theirs in the blink of an eye, than the ones they were sworn to protect and serve.Â
It was interesting. Fascinating, even. That the man who commanded a room with one breath and a sharp gaze was someone drastically different behind closed doors. An enigma. When the badge fell to the wayside, the gun lay with the clip emptied, and his scuffed shoes pressed against the baseboard in the hallway, he was different.Â
Because Special Agent Jackson Brooks didnât exist outside of sterile walls and stale-faced commands, no. The skin of a warrior draped in strategy and wild in power became small by the sixth hour of every evening, and lay at rest until duty showed up, dressed in urgency and war the next morning.
It was here, in the privacy of a house built by steady hands and a home nurtured by gentle warmth, where Special Agent Brooks was made to submit. To lay down the persona of the man who didnât appear frazzled in the heat of the fire. The man who didnât stumble over traps set by enemies with replenishing heads. His one duty was to retreat to his truest formâhimself. The version of him that was most natural. Comfortable. Instinctual. Innate.Â
Because pleasure was natural. To be on the receiving end of someoneâs attention and affection was desired. But Jackson, Jackson had long since broken out of the cocoon of ignorance that conditioned young men to believe that receiving was heavenâs greatest gift to man.Â
Now older, wiser, sharper, and more rugged around once-smooth edges, Jackson leaned into what was outside the status quo. The societal norm. What would be unbelievable to those whoâd seen the boulder of a man towering over junior-level agents with a tight expression and brooding dominance.Â
Submission.
Obedience.
Pliancy.Â
All at the hands of one Sydney Mikal BrooksâAphrodite in her gaze, Artemis in her carefree spirit, and Peitho in her charming speech. The same charming wordsmith who had him blushing and nervous in that hole-in-the-wall bar five years ago.Â
Some people, some women, wouldnât be fond of the idea of remaining in the shadows. And she understood, she truly did. But there was something so riveting, so exciting about being a master ventriloquist behind a curtain yet to be fully opened. Pulling every string until her favorite one prompted aâ
ââPlease,â so low and borderline broken beneath staggering breaths, filled her ears.Â
She grinned.
Wide and bold.
Her eyes glinted with mischief.Â
It wasnât enough.Â
Sydney cooed.
Mockingly.
Tauntingly.
Then stilled her movements.Â
âYou can do better than that, babyâŚâ Her nails pinched taut skin as she used his legs as leverage to drag herself up the strong planes of her body. Her wet tongue dropped liquid lust along his quivering abdomen and along his collarbone. Her lips suckled his ear. âYou know you can.â
Her sensual features darkened beneath ambient light, haloing her crown of curls like worship. Ethereal. She was absolutely ethereal. And absolutely maddening. His hips shifted beneath hers, but he didnât move. Teathered. Held in place by the control he handed over the moment he saw that crooked smile outside the bar years ago.Â
Sydney Brooks wasnât just a wife. Wasnât just a successful journalist with venomous words leaking off her tongue like scripture stained. No. She was the master of his will. Fully and totally. The only earthly being heâd bow in reverence to.
Slowly.
Quietly.
Passionately.
âPleaseâŚâ A shuddered breath. âLet me touch youâŚmaâam.â
Sydney hummed victoriously and kissed him slowly. âMy good boyâŚâ
-
Tags: @darkseidex @amirawrah @ga33y3 @ariesthesun @simplementemeencantafutbol @szalipcombo @sheinaskirt @melaninhawtie @unicoo @imperfectlyperfect78 @ariesthesun @blckblossom @fifi-asco @youreadthatright @mauvecherie-writes @imperfectlyperfect78 @uniqueoutlierblog + let me know if you want to be added or removed.
If you want to see more x reader fanfiction pick up the pen and write it your damn self. Till then, use the same thick ass finger and those two damn braincells, rub em together and scroll past my work.
Cause Iâll be damned if you tell me what the fuck to tag my work when your lazy ass probably doesnât reblog x reader fanfiction and doesnât engage with authors.
I promise you Iâm not the one or the two nor the goddamn three you lazy fuck
The way yâall be treating authors on this app is abysmal, and you should thank God for that anon feature because itâs the only thing stopping a lot of yâall from getting checked properly.
There are hundreds of Black authors on here putting real time, real effort, real talent into writing a whole body of work â a beautiful body of work, at that â and you ditzy-ass nimrods really have the audacity to crawl into anon and tell somebody their fic âdoesnât belongâ in whatever the fuck they tagged it as?
Iâm gonna say this nice and clear because I have time today:
Your one job as a reader is to read, reblog, and comment. Thatâs it.
Not police tags. Not play fandom hall monitor. Not act like youâre the Supreme Court of âwhat belongs where.â
If you donât like what an author writes? Scroll.
Close the tab. Hit the back button. Go outside. Do literally anything else.
Because while youâre busy feeding whatever porn addiction youâve got going on, authors are actually out here doing the work â putting in the hours, building worlds, crafting characters, editing, rewriting â doing shit you clearly canât do, or you wouldnât be in somebodyâs inbox whining like a toddler with WiFi.
And this isnât just about OC fic â this is about fanfiction as a whole. Iâm sick of you mfs acting like your personal taste is a commandment everybody else has to follow.
Itâs simple: donât like it? pick up the pen or shut the fuck up.
happy â black history month â to all the black americans , the afro-caribbeans , the afro-latinx afro-natives , and other black diasporas. weâre strong and this was always about us <3
HAPPY BLACK HISTORY MONTH đŁď¸. Did yâall know itâs the 100th anniversary of Black History Month? IM SO HYPED ABOUT THAT. Shout out to all my black cosplayers, black artists, black gamers, black people in the education field, black shifters, black self shippers, black people in the medical field and sooooo much more. Yâall are amazing and Iâm proud of yâall. KEEP GOINGâźď¸
(Yâall be safe if yâall are going outđŤśđž)
â.ŕłŕż WHEN I CLOSE MY EYES á°
In which we get a peek at Teddy without Talia.
tw : alcoholism
Teddy didnât know how to live without Talia.
That was not some dramatic thought he entertained on bad days; it was a quiet, brutal fact that had settled in his bones years ago, like an old injury that never quite healed. Heâd come to understand it the way you understand your own heartbeatâconstant, unchosen, there whether you wanted it or not. When she left, he was sixteen, still more boy than man, and suddenly missing the piece of himself that had steadied him since before he even knew what âsteadyâ meant. His girl. His shadow. His tail. Fourteen-year-old Talia whoâd followed him through childhood like a star follows the moon, always trailing just behind him, always within reach if he turned around. He had loved her long before he knew what the word meant, long before he understood that not every kind of love got to stay.
Nights like this made that truth unbearable.
The apartment was dim and stale, lit only by the televisionâs flicker and the amber glow of the streetlamp bleeding through the blinds. He sat hunched on the couch like the world had been laid across his shoulders, a half-empty bottle of bourbon dangling from his hand. It had been bourbon tonight; yesterday it was whiskey; the day before that, whatever cheap beer he could get his hands on without somebody calling his parents. It didnât really matter what it wasâonly that it burned. Only that it blurred. Only that, if he drank enough, the empty space beside him stopped feeling so loud.
He shut his eyes as the bourbon scorched its way down his throat, the liquid heat clawing through his chest like it was looking for something to set on fire. He coughed once, jaw clenching, then tipped the bottle again anyway. Somewhere, in some sane part of his mind, he knew this was killing him by inches. But grief had a way of turning suicide into ritual, and every swallow felt like another chance to see her againâif not in person, then in that soft, spinning place just before oblivion, where memory and fantasy tangled.
Sometimes it worked.
Sometimes, if he drank past the sharp edge and into the blur, she would be there with him. Not really, of course, not in the way he wanted, but enough to hurt. Enough to soothe. Tonight, twenty-two-year-old Teddy sat on his worn-out couch and, in the corner of his eye, there she was: Talia at eighteen, the way sheâd been in the picture heâd stared at on Instagram earlier that day. Smiling at the camera in some London cafĂŠ, hair done, lip gloss shining, a new city wrapped around her like it had adopted her. She looked older. Happier. Further away than the ocean could account for.
He turned his head just a fraction, and the room swam; the phantom Talia sharpened for a heartbeatâsitting beside him the way she always used to, one leg tucked under her, shoulder pressed to his arm, scrolling through her phone and nudging him when she saw something funny. The ghost of her laughter echoed in the spaces where the apartment was quietest. If he blinked too long, he could almost feel the weight of her leaning into him.
A tear slipped free before he could stop it, hot and heavy, carving a slow path down his cheek. He didnât bother wiping it away. It fell off his jaw and disappeared into the fabric of his t-shirt, swallowed up like everything else that mattered.
He took another drink.
Because if he could not have her hand in his, he would take the burn in his throat instead. If he could not find her across an ocean, he would search for her at the bottom of a bottle. And if the only place he could sit beside Talia Xavier was in the blurred, poisoned edge between consciousness and blackoutâ
then Teddy Spencer would keep chasing that edge, night after night,
until the memory of her stopped feeling like home
or until it finally took him with it.
She was everywhere; he didnât know how to stop it, not really, didnât know how to excise her from his brain without cutting out the parts that made him himself, because Talia wasnât just a girl heâd loved onceâshe was woven into him, threaded through his thoughts and habits and reflexes so thoroughly that even the way he reached for his phone felt wrong if he wasnât reaching to tell her something.
She was in every thought.
Heâd go to make coffee and remember how she used to wrinkle her nose at his first attempts, telling him he was âwasting good beans on foolishness,â then quietly drinking it anyway because heâd brought it to her. Heâd walk past a store window and see a pair of shoes, a book, a stupid mug with some sarcastic slogan on it, and for a split second his brain would light up with Talia would love that before reality washed in, heavy and sour, reminding him that she was not a ten-minute drive away anymore, not a hedge-hop or a staircase climb, but an ocean and a lifetime from where he sat.
She was in every breath.
The way he inhaled on cold mornings and thought of the way she used to tuck herself into his side, complaining that her hands were âcirculation-challengedâ while shoving icicle fingers under his shirt. The smell of rain on pavement that always dragged him back to summer storms on the estate, both of them barefoot on the porch, counting seconds between lightning and thunder. Even the cheap bourbon on his tongue betrayed him, because buried somewhere underneath the sting and the oak was the faintest trace of vanilla, and that was hers.
Whenever he shut his eyes, there she was.
Not the polished Instagram version, not the carefully lit, curated girl smiling for strangers in a feedâthough he saw that Talia too, whether he wanted to or notâbut his. The one with a bonnet on, face bare, eating cereal out of a mixing bowl while leaning against his shoulder. The one in track shorts and a massive hoodie, feet in fuzzy socks on his lap as she quizzed him for a test and fell asleep halfway through the third question. She haunted the backs of his eyelids, showed up in the little flashes between blinksâthe tilt of her head when she was trying not to smile, the exact curl of her lip when she was about to drag him, the way her eyes softened when she looked at him like he was something sheâd chosen on purpose.
She was a ghost inside who Teddy was.
A fragment of his mind he couldnât leave yet, wouldnât leave, because to let go of her would mean letting go of the version of himself that had loved her honestly and fully and first, and that was the only version he still respected. So he carried her, even when the weight of it made his chest feel too tight, even when it made every other part of his life feel like a cheap knockoff.
On the nights when it got too loud in his head, when her absence was a scream instead of a hum, he thought about looking for her for real. Thought about typing her name into some search bar that wasnât Instagram, pulling up maps and flights and addresses, following the ghost trail across London until he was knocking on some door, rain in his hair and apologies on his tongue.
But every time the impulse clawed its way up his throat, he reached for his phone instead.
Heâd open Instagram with fingers that still remembered her password from when they were kids, even though it didnât work anymore, and heâd scroll. Scroll through the little squares of her life that sheâd chosen to share with the world. Talia in a cafĂŠ, latte art heart foaming in her cup, light catching in her eyes. Talia on some rooftop, city spread behind her, smiling like she belonged to the sky now. Talia with friends he didnât recognize, laughing at something he hadnât said, in a world he hadnât helped build.
She looked⌠good.
She looked like sheâd survived leaving him.
And that was the part that gutted him most.
Because if she was posting, if she was smiling, if she was putting outfits together and showing up in places that didnât include him, then Talia didnât need himânot like this. Not this version of him, sweaty and shaking, nursing a bottle in some dim room while the ice melted faster than his resolve. She deserved better than the thoughtless, selfish boy whoâd reached for the nearest vice instead of the next flight. Better than the man who could barely make it through a day without needing something to pour down his throat to blur the edges.
She deserved better than to have Teddy Spencer arrive in her shiny London life as a cautionary tale, stumbling through her streets like some blubbering fool whoâd finally followed the ghost of her all the way to the source, only to collapse at her feet with slurred apologies and bourbon on his breath.
So he didnât go.
He stayed where he wasâon the couch, on the floor, hunched over the sinkâdragging the bottle up to his lips instead of a suitcase out of the closet. Every swallow was a compromise: a way to see her without risking actually seeing what sheâd become without him.
Because somewhere inside, beneath all the static, he knew:
Talia Xavier deserved a man who could stand upright in front of her.
Not one who could only walk toward her in straight lines when the room was spinning.
As he turned, he saw her.
She was standing by the kitchen doorway like sheâd just stepped out of a memory and wandered into his present by mistake. Same crop top from the Instagram photo heâd been staring at earlier, same high-waisted jeans hugging her waist, same little gold necklace she never took off, the one heâd clasped for her before a school dance when they were still kids playing at being grown. Her hair was differentâcurlier, bigger, haloed around her faceâbut her expression was painfully familiar: a small, tight frown tugging at her mouth, her eyes moving over him slowly like she was trying to solve a problem she already knew the answer to.
âTeddy,â she breathed, and his name carried a whole history in itâbirthday parties and hospital rooms and whispered secrets over bad movies and burnt popcornâstacked one on top of the other until his knees nearly gave out.
He swallowed hard; the bourbon burned going down, but nowhere near as much as the sight of her did. âYou shouldnât be here,â he managed, even as his feet moved toward her of their own accord, like they didnât know how to do anything else. âYouâre supposed to be⌠I donât know, somewhere with better lighting and better people and better versions of me.â
She didnât move away. She tilted her head instead, eyes scanning the bottle dangling from his fingers, the stain on his shirt, the way he swayed when he tried to stand up straight, and there was something so heartbreakingly soft in her gaze that he wanted to look away and couldnât.
âThis is what youâre doing to yourself now?â she asked, her voice low and steady, not accusing, not shocked, just⌠tired in a way heâd never heard from her before. âThis is how you spend your nights, Theodore Spencer, drinking until the room bends and hoping I appear like some kind of⌠ghost on demand?â
He let out a laugh that sounded more like a choke, his shoulders shaking once. âYou say that like itâs not working,â he whispered, eyes shining. âYouâre here, arenât you, Lia? You always come when I get it just right, when it stings enough and my hands stop shaking and the edges blur, you show up and I get to look at you for a little while and remember what it felt like to be⌠okay.â
Her face crumpled for a heartbeat before she pulled it back together. She took a few slow steps toward him, bare feet silent on the floor, until there was barely a breath between them. Up close, he could see every detailâthe faint scar on her chin from when she fell off her bike at eight, the tiny freckle near her left eye he used to trace with his thumb, the gloss on her lips that smelled like strawberries.
âIs that what you think this is?â she asked, and her voice was gentler now, frayed at the edges, like the words hurt her on the way out. âYou think youâre seeing me because you miss me hard enough? Because you drink enough? Like Iâm some prize you can unlock at the bottom of a bottle if you just hate yourself thoroughly enough?â
He clenched his jaw, eyes breaking away from hers for a moment as he stared at the wall over her shoulder. âWhat else am I supposed to do,â he said thickly, âwhen every part of my day has you in it, and youâre nowhere, but youâre everywhere, and the only time it stops feeling like Iâm being skinned alive from the inside is when Iâm drunk enough to pretend youâre still in the next room?â
His eyes snapped back to hers, glassy and wild. âI donât know how to not want you, Talia; I donât know how to wake up and not reach for my phone to tell you the stupid thing that happened in lecture or send you a picture of my lunch or ask you how your day was. I donât know how to sit on a couch and not expect you to come thundering down the stairs and steal my blanket. I donât know how to breathe through a thunderstorm without thinking of you counting the seconds between lightning and thunder on your fingers. You left, and everything else stayed; all the habits stayed, all the instincts stayed, and the only thing thatâs gone is you.â
She flinched like heâd hit her, shoulders curving inward for a second before she straightened again. âI didnât leave because I stopped loving you,â she said quietly, and his heart lurched painfully in his chest. âYou know that. You have to know that. I left because my parents put me on a plane and decided that this was better for me, that London and school and distance were better for the life they wanted me to have, and you⌠you were supposed to fight for me, Teddy. You were supposed to come find me, or at least try, or at least not drown yourself in whatever you could get your hands on while scrolling through my pictures like Iâm some stranger you used to go to school with.â
He swallowed, hard, his throat clicking audibly in the quiet room. âYou say that like Iâm capable of being the person you deserve,â he murmured, voice thick. âYou say that like Iâm not standing here sweating bourbon with shaking hands because the only way I can see you anymore is like this.â
Her eyes shimmered; she blinked too fast, as if she could bully the tears back where they came from. âYou were always capable,â she said, and the way she looked at him when she said it made his chest hurt, made his bones ache. âYou held me together more times than youâll ever admit, you made me feel safe in a world that didnât always know what to do with me, you loved me like it was the easiest thing youâd ever done. Donât you dare rewrite yourself into some monster in my story just because youâre hurting.â
He laughed again, broken and bitter. âIâm not a monster,â he said, shaking his head. âMonsters at least know what they are. Iâm just⌠stuck. Sixteen and abandoned in a twenty-two-year-old body, waiting for a girl who isnât coming home.â
A tear finally escaped her lashes and slid down her cheek, catching the dim light. She stepped closer still, so that the hem of her jeans brushed his bare feet, so that he could smell herâcitrus and shampoo and something warm underneath that was just her. She lifted a hand, hesitated for a moment, then pressed her palm to his cheek, thumb smoothing over the wet track his own tear had left there.
âYou are home,â she whispered. âYou always were. I just⌠I couldnât drag you into the future with me if you didnât want to walk there.â
He leaned into her touch like a starving man, eyes fluttering shut as more tears threatened. âI wanted to,â he said hoarsely. âGod, I wanted to. I just⌠didnât know how. I still donât.â
Her fingers slid into his hair, nails scratching lightly against his scalp the way she used to do when he couldnât sleep. His hands, empty and heavy at his sides, finally movedâone coming up to cover hers where it cupped his face, the other hovering just over her waist, afraid to settle, afraid sheâd evaporate if he held on too tight.
âI miss you,â he confessed, the words breaking apart on his tongue. âI miss you so bad it feels like my ribs are splintering one by one. I drink because when Iâm sober, itâs just me and the empty, and when Iâm like this, at least I get⌠this.â He swallowed. âA few minutes with you in a shitty apartment, and Iâll wreck my liver for it. Thatâs how gone I am for you.â
She closed her eyes then, a tear slipping free and landing somewhere near the corner of his mouth. He tasted salt when he licked his lips, and it undid him.
âThis isnât me, Teddy,â she said softly, voice trembling now. âYou know that, right? Iâm not really here. Iâm asleep somewhere with my phone on charge and my coursework half-finished, and youâre standing in a room getting drunk enough to hallucinate the version of me who still sits on your couch and calls you an idiot when you drink too fast.â
He shook his head violently. âDonât,â he choked. âPlease donât say it like that.â
âBut itâs true,â she insisted, and there was no cruelty in it, only pain. âYouâre doing this to yourself because itâs easier to see me like this than to accept that Iâm not two doors down anymore. That doesnât make me real. It just means youâre lonely and you miss me and youâd rather see my ghost than sit in a room without me.â
Silence fell heavy for a moment, broken only by the soft, uneven drag of their breathing.
He stepped forward, closing the last sliver of space between them, and brought his forehead down to rest against hers. Their noses brushed; his eyes shut tight. His hand finally settled at her waist, fingers curling into the fabric of her top as if he could hold her in place through sheer desperation.
âStay,â he whispered, the word shredded and small. âPlease, Lia. Just⌠stay a little longer. I donât care if youâre not real. I donât care if youâre a trick my brainâs playing on me. I just⌠I canât do the part where youâre gone yet. I donât know how.â
Her breath hitched; he felt it ghost over his lips. For a moment, they just stood like thatâforeheads pressed together, eyes closed, sharing air the way they always had when the world got too loud. His fingers flexed at her waist; her hand tightened against his cheek.
âI love you,â he whispered into the space between them, the confession raw and stripped of anything but truth. âI donât know how to stop. I donât want to.â
âI know,â she murmured, so quiet he almost didnât catch it. âThatâs what scares me.â
He drew in a shuddering breath, the smell of her filling his lungs one more time. âDonât go,â he begged. âNot yet. Just let me stand here with you for a minute longer. I swear Iâll do better tomorrow, just⌠let me have this tonight.â
For a moment, he could have sworn her fingers stroked his cheekbone, slow and soothing. He could have sworn he felt her exhale, could have sworn the warmth of her body seeped into his through that thin layer of fabric.
He held on tighter, eyes squeezed shut, as if he could trap the moment between his eyelashes and never let it escape.
When he finally forced himself to open them again, the room tiltedâand she was gone.
Just the blank stretch of the kitchen doorway, a crooked picture frame on the wall, the hum of the fridge in the background. His hand was still raised, cupping nothing but air. His forehead rested against empty space. The only body heat near him was his own.
The bourbon bottle slipped from his other hand and hit the floor with a dull thud, liquid sloshing up the neck, some of it spilling onto his bare foot.
Teddy stood alone in the dim light of his apartment, chest heaving, tears drying on his cheeks, the echo of her voice still ringing in his ears. He let out a sound that wasnât quite a sob and wasnât quite a laugh, something cracked and ugly and too big for the four walls around him.
Then, slowly, with the kind of numb familiarity that only comes from repetition, he reached down, picked the bottle back up,
gracieabrams
titsay
origamiaround
pixelskylines
2087
blakekathryn
