Perfect
Here it is, folks: The concluding part to this series.
You guys are the most encouraging, amazing people ever ♥
I just want to say, thank you so much, from the bottom of my angsty heart.
:)
1. All he knows.
2. Tremble.
3. Shatter.
4. Games.
5. Bad Habits.
6. Listen.
7. Tortured Melody.
8. Jigsaw.
9. Names.
10. Forever.
11. Mirror.
Rated R.
I have to admit.
This takes time getting used to.
No more sneaking glances. No more guilt-ridden hidden messages. No more sleeping at night with my eyes tightly closed because I am afraid of looking at another person, when all I think about is you.
No more.
Sometimes when I wake up, and your body is pressed across my outline, I wonder if I am still clinging on to a broken dream.
No more.
Your boxes of things are labeled with white stickers, mingling with my marker-scrawled boxes of stuff.
This is real.
I smell the hint of carbon from my burning pancake and I quickly scrape it off the pan, and into the trash bin.
Fuck. That makes four perfectly wasted pancakes. I need to stop daydreaming.
I turn down the fire to a minimum, and pour in another scoopful of batter, watching the light yellow liquid bloom into the pan.
You walk into the kitchen, your hair damp and clean, your chest dotted with moisture. I feel helpless at the sight of your towel hanging loosely across your hips. You blink at my bedhead and raise your eyebrow at the spatula in my hand.
“I thought you left.”
“I don’t have to leave till later.”
You approach me, mockingly cautious and I see amusement grow on your lips before you cock your head at me with
wide eyes.
“So what smells so good this morning?”
I mumble, embarrassed.
“Pancakes. Or what they’re supposed to be.”
I flip over the half-cooked mush and sigh at the total failure of my culinary skills.
Your arms wrap around me, your thumbs snagging my pajama bottoms down an inch, while you breathe against my neck.
“Wrong answer. You do.”
I feel a little fuzzy from the contact, and my brain naturally melts around your haze.
“I, what?”
“You. Smell good this morning.”
I elbow you away, feeling a little testy.
“Fine. I’ll take a shower.”
You turn me around, and kiss me messily. When your tongue finally pulls itself out of my mouth, I am barely aware of the logic behind pancakes. You reach over and turn off the fire before pressing me against the sink, pulling my leg up around your waist, your mouth already busy at bruising the skin on my neck.
I hear my spatula hit the floor.
I was once afraid that maybe the very reason that I wanted you so badly before was because I couldn’t have you. That it was precisely the sneaking around that made you all the more irresistible.
I was afraid that if we did get together, our relationship would fade out quickly.
The first time we had sex as us pretty much convinced me that my fears were unfounded.
Still, I was secretly worried. What if you got tired of me? What if one day you come home and freak out that it’s me you have to live with, and not someone else? What if you brush off my hands when I try to hold you in bed?
What if, what if, what if.
Now, with my hands in your hair, your mouth swallowing my moans and your hips pushing and pulling to the rhythm of my erratic heartbeat, all I can think about is how incredibly stupid I was to even be afraid in the first place.
…
I have to admit.
It was a little jarring at first.
Whenever you talked to me about him, I cringed inside. Your eyes would light up, your smile widening almost impossibly. You tell me about his promotion and it bothers me that you aren’t jealous or upset that he now holds a higher position than you. You mention that he performed a miracle surgery, your tone elated and proud, as you practically bounce in your chair. It irks me that I cannot share the same sentiments.
It worries me that maybe you would one day want him back.
It scares me to no end that maybe you would want to make him happy all over again.
So I would look away or pretend to smile.
And then one day, you tell me that he’s seeing someone. When I look at you, fearfully expecting to see a hint of jealousy in your eyes, I only see genuine happiness written all over your smile - and I finally get it.
You do love him, but you’re not in love with him.
…
I have to admit.
It made me feel uneasy initially.
When Noah came down to the Lakeview to talk to me, he mentioned his name.
How he, had helped him see the situation through a different light. It unnerved me that my ex is in communication with yours.
When I see Noah having a drink with him at Yo’s, I felt like someone had punched me in the gut.
I felt possessive and irrational and flustered.
I didn’t want to let you in on my unreasonable jealousy because the last thing I would want to hear from you is that you understood how I felt.
Because, I wouldn’t want you to feel this way at all.
Restraining information from you, however, proved futile as I learnt how relentless you can be. I blurted out my insecurities and prepared myself for a negative reaction from you.
You shrugged dismissively, taking a gulp of your Coke.
“They’re just friends. Ian’s a good listener. And I’m guessing Noah has a lot to get off his chest. Besides, you don’t expect him to talk to you about it, do you?”
I stupidly realized that I did.
I sighed against your shoulder, my flickering emotions slipping away from me.
It was my first awakening that I needed to grow the fuck up or lose sanity completely.
So, when Noah finally wanted to catch up on things months after, I secretly thanked him for filling in the gaps that I couldn’t.
Noah looked positively happy to share with me news that he was taking steps to fulfil his filmmaking dream by heading down to Chicago for a 6 month workshop.
I hugged him with only best wishes inside my heart.
…
I have to admit.
I had no idea that we wouldn’t be able to keep our hands off of each other.
Every mundane activity turns into carnal lust that never seems to die out.
“Faster, Luke. Just. Harder. Mmmm. Yes.”
Your back is sleek with sweat, and I lap at the salt on your skin. I’m way in too deep and you’re pulsing around me, so tight, so fucking amazing. Your hand palms my ass, your fingers squeezing against me, following my hard and fast motions.
I fight the urge to come just yet. This is about you.
I pound into you, your moans inching me closer to the edge.
I find myself begging.
“Reid. I’m close. So close.”
“Just. A little more. I’m nearly there, Luke. Close. Luke. Luke, fuck fuck fuck.”
You’re all around me, so tight, so good, and I come with an ungraceful groan.
I’m limbless across the expanse of your back, but I cannot resist kissing your nape feverishly.
Addicted.
It becomes impossible to do the laundry when you’re around.
But I wouldn’t have it any other way, Reid.
…
I have to admit.
This takes time getting used to.
The feel of your palms against my naked back as I fall asleep against your warm chest; the pecks on my lips you pamper me with in public; the shoulder you let me cry on whenever I’m broken; the way you snark at me teasingly each time I try to beat you at chess; the feel of your fingers through mine in the dark of the cinema; the open, honest laugh you break into whenever I surprise you with a new sandwich ensemble; the way you look at me when you think I’m not aware.
Ours is not the perfect love story, but your love is all I know.
And that makes everything, perfect.
You guys are the most encouraging, amazing people ever ♥
I just want to say, thank you so much, from the bottom of my angsty heart.
:)
1. All he knows.
2. Tremble.
3. Shatter.
4. Games.
5. Bad Habits.
6. Listen.
7. Tortured Melody.
8. Jigsaw.
9. Names.
10. Forever.
11. Mirror.
Rated R.
I have to admit.
This takes time getting used to.
No more sneaking glances. No more guilt-ridden hidden messages. No more sleeping at night with my eyes tightly closed because I am afraid of looking at another person, when all I think about is you.
No more.
Sometimes when I wake up, and your body is pressed across my outline, I wonder if I am still clinging on to a broken dream.
No more.
Your boxes of things are labeled with white stickers, mingling with my marker-scrawled boxes of stuff.
This is real.
I smell the hint of carbon from my burning pancake and I quickly scrape it off the pan, and into the trash bin.
Fuck. That makes four perfectly wasted pancakes. I need to stop daydreaming.
I turn down the fire to a minimum, and pour in another scoopful of batter, watching the light yellow liquid bloom into the pan.
You walk into the kitchen, your hair damp and clean, your chest dotted with moisture. I feel helpless at the sight of your towel hanging loosely across your hips. You blink at my bedhead and raise your eyebrow at the spatula in my hand.
“I thought you left.”
“I don’t have to leave till later.”
You approach me, mockingly cautious and I see amusement grow on your lips before you cock your head at me with
wide eyes.
“So what smells so good this morning?”
I mumble, embarrassed.
“Pancakes. Or what they’re supposed to be.”
I flip over the half-cooked mush and sigh at the total failure of my culinary skills.
Your arms wrap around me, your thumbs snagging my pajama bottoms down an inch, while you breathe against my neck.
“Wrong answer. You do.”
I feel a little fuzzy from the contact, and my brain naturally melts around your haze.
“I, what?”
“You. Smell good this morning.”
I elbow you away, feeling a little testy.
“Fine. I’ll take a shower.”
You turn me around, and kiss me messily. When your tongue finally pulls itself out of my mouth, I am barely aware of the logic behind pancakes. You reach over and turn off the fire before pressing me against the sink, pulling my leg up around your waist, your mouth already busy at bruising the skin on my neck.
I hear my spatula hit the floor.
I was once afraid that maybe the very reason that I wanted you so badly before was because I couldn’t have you. That it was precisely the sneaking around that made you all the more irresistible.
I was afraid that if we did get together, our relationship would fade out quickly.
The first time we had sex as us pretty much convinced me that my fears were unfounded.
Still, I was secretly worried. What if you got tired of me? What if one day you come home and freak out that it’s me you have to live with, and not someone else? What if you brush off my hands when I try to hold you in bed?
What if, what if, what if.
Now, with my hands in your hair, your mouth swallowing my moans and your hips pushing and pulling to the rhythm of my erratic heartbeat, all I can think about is how incredibly stupid I was to even be afraid in the first place.
…
I have to admit.
It was a little jarring at first.
Whenever you talked to me about him, I cringed inside. Your eyes would light up, your smile widening almost impossibly. You tell me about his promotion and it bothers me that you aren’t jealous or upset that he now holds a higher position than you. You mention that he performed a miracle surgery, your tone elated and proud, as you practically bounce in your chair. It irks me that I cannot share the same sentiments.
It worries me that maybe you would one day want him back.
It scares me to no end that maybe you would want to make him happy all over again.
So I would look away or pretend to smile.
And then one day, you tell me that he’s seeing someone. When I look at you, fearfully expecting to see a hint of jealousy in your eyes, I only see genuine happiness written all over your smile - and I finally get it.
You do love him, but you’re not in love with him.
…
I have to admit.
It made me feel uneasy initially.
When Noah came down to the Lakeview to talk to me, he mentioned his name.
How he, had helped him see the situation through a different light. It unnerved me that my ex is in communication with yours.
When I see Noah having a drink with him at Yo’s, I felt like someone had punched me in the gut.
I felt possessive and irrational and flustered.
I didn’t want to let you in on my unreasonable jealousy because the last thing I would want to hear from you is that you understood how I felt.
Because, I wouldn’t want you to feel this way at all.
Restraining information from you, however, proved futile as I learnt how relentless you can be. I blurted out my insecurities and prepared myself for a negative reaction from you.
You shrugged dismissively, taking a gulp of your Coke.
“They’re just friends. Ian’s a good listener. And I’m guessing Noah has a lot to get off his chest. Besides, you don’t expect him to talk to you about it, do you?”
I stupidly realized that I did.
I sighed against your shoulder, my flickering emotions slipping away from me.
It was my first awakening that I needed to grow the fuck up or lose sanity completely.
So, when Noah finally wanted to catch up on things months after, I secretly thanked him for filling in the gaps that I couldn’t.
Noah looked positively happy to share with me news that he was taking steps to fulfil his filmmaking dream by heading down to Chicago for a 6 month workshop.
I hugged him with only best wishes inside my heart.
…
I have to admit.
I had no idea that we wouldn’t be able to keep our hands off of each other.
Every mundane activity turns into carnal lust that never seems to die out.
“Faster, Luke. Just. Harder. Mmmm. Yes.”
Your back is sleek with sweat, and I lap at the salt on your skin. I’m way in too deep and you’re pulsing around me, so tight, so fucking amazing. Your hand palms my ass, your fingers squeezing against me, following my hard and fast motions.
I fight the urge to come just yet. This is about you.
I pound into you, your moans inching me closer to the edge.
I find myself begging.
“Reid. I’m close. So close.”
“Just. A little more. I’m nearly there, Luke. Close. Luke. Luke, fuck fuck fuck.”
You’re all around me, so tight, so good, and I come with an ungraceful groan.
I’m limbless across the expanse of your back, but I cannot resist kissing your nape feverishly.
Addicted.
It becomes impossible to do the laundry when you’re around.
But I wouldn’t have it any other way, Reid.
…
I have to admit.
This takes time getting used to.
The feel of your palms against my naked back as I fall asleep against your warm chest; the pecks on my lips you pamper me with in public; the shoulder you let me cry on whenever I’m broken; the way you snark at me teasingly each time I try to beat you at chess; the feel of your fingers through mine in the dark of the cinema; the open, honest laugh you break into whenever I surprise you with a new sandwich ensemble; the way you look at me when you think I’m not aware.
Ours is not the perfect love story, but your love is all I know.
And that makes everything, perfect.