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You’re upset about the breakup because you’re always upset about the breakup, and it’s a bummer because you just can’t fucking move on. Because you were treated unfairly. Cuz you were treated like straight-up shit. And nobody suffered any repercussions for it, your ex is just--out there, walking around, doing whatever the hell it is they do when they don’t have you to cramp their good time. And none of that seems fair---none of that is fair---and even when you’re having a good day it can throw a wet blanket on the whole thing. So on days when you already wake up on the proverbial wrong side of the bed it’s worse, festering into something dark & ugly & foul & capable of infecting anybody unlucky enough to be stuck in the house with you.

Shawn’s always upset about his divorce but Shawn’s got a therapist, he’s working on his shit. You’re just not there yet. Every time he brings it up--like no babe it’s fine we can put you on my health insurance---you cut him off cuz y’know. You’re just not there. You’ll take him up on it when you are, but for now--just drop it. Please, Shawn, honey--just--I don’t want to talk right now, okay? I’m sorry. I just need a breather.

And you know it stings him, but he’s good at not pushing when you mean business. If you don’t feel like storm clouds this is when he tucks you into his arms and pets your hair back from your face and kisses your forehead so gently, giving you a little squeeze and the option to fall into him or not. If the feeling is get away from me now he’ll gently slip away, fingers barely grazing the inside of your wrist, not make a fuss about it.

But then y’know. Some days you wake up on the wrong side and so does he and then you’re two little storm clouds bumbling around the house until you collide and something explodes, something breaks, someone gets snappy or bitchy or cries. For some reason though that always seems to fix things, like you have a problem to both focus your energy into as a team instead of just tearing around the place like separate cyclones of emotional baggage. Somebody’s just gotta be the first to break.

This time it’s you.

You’re upset about the breakup because you’re always upset about the breakup, and you woke up on the wrong side of the bed feeling broken & fucked-up cuz you just can’t fucking move on. Cuz you were treated unfairly. Cuz you were treated like straight-up shit. And it’s the little things--your art block, the ache in your joints, the weather being too goddamn hot to even want to set foot outside but outside’s all you had cuz you’re not gonna be the asshole out partying it up at the bar with the good fries and spreading the superbug without knowing--that stack up, and you were treated unfairly. Like shit. In your breakup and all the months and years leading up to it and every day after. The glass in one of your frames broke on the move from your hometown to Shawn’s place, and that’s somehow your ex’s fault because even though you’re happy now--have been, hands down, ever since this big weirdo oozed his way into your life and started trying to pester you for attention--and replaced the glass when you were in the process of unpacking, you wouldn’ta had to move again in the first place if you’d never started seeing him, and you wouldn’ta started seeing him if your ex could’ve kept their shit together because that one was supposed to be forever, you were happy. You were happy. Until they started treating you like shit. If they hadn’t-----

You’d be back in your hometown. You’d have your old life still. You wouldn’t have closure, cuz you wouldn’t need closure, cuz you’d be happy and still doing that thing, with your job at the record store & your coworkers who turned into friends.

It’s not that you don’t like your life now--you love your life now--but you weren’t done with that life yet.

So you’re mad for no reason, wounded & tender & bruised under the skin, feeling every pound of the baggage you didn’t choose to bring with you in your busted-ass joints and that feeling goes airborne and pretty soon Shawn’s got it and you’re both crabbing around for no reason, being distant & slamming cabinets. Storm clouds.

He’s reading and watching TV at the same time which irritates the piss out of you for no reason, so you stand in between the couch and the TV with your hands on your hips. On anyone else it’d look angry, but he knows that’s just. How you stand. When you’re even moderately annoyed.

Can I help you?” He sounds flat, tired. Pissy.

“I need out of my head.”

Suddenly he’s listening. He puts the book down and you can practically see it slide over him--not Clown Mode, but maybe Clown’s first cousin. It’s still Shawn when he stands up off the couch, but a darker version. Primed for trouble. The way his arms cross over his chest is almost reflexive. “You’ve been a shit today.”

You don’t wanna look at him, it feels like too much. You can feel the crease between your eyebrows deepening and setting like concrete even as your hands fall away from your hips and end up somewhere around your back pockets, like pieces of your control are being pulled away. The drop to your knees feels like a reflex & the wait, the hangtime between hitting the floor & him stepping up to you to take your head in his hands and smear your face into the fly of his jeans feels like an eternity.

There’s no praise, no taunts, no demands. Just his big hands on the back of your head, holding you to him, your wrists drifted to cross behind your back instinctively. It could be a minute but it could be an hour and your breathing slows down, you can feel it melt out of your back and shoulders & maybe--just maybe--the wrinkle between your eyebrows start to go slack. He smells like two stroke oil and laundry detergent and spice, he was out in the shop earlier. It’s good. It’s almost a loss when he takes half a step back to unbutton, unzip, shove his fingers into your mouth and press at your tongue before unceremoniously swapping for his barely-half-hard dick.

Suck.

You don’t look, but you nod. You don’t touch, you don’t uncross your wrists, you just nod, and suck, and feel him getting hard to fill your mouth. How heavy his cock feels on your tongue and the stretch in the back of your jaw, his hand on the back of your head to firmly hold you when he fucks into your mouth--first a couple gentle thrusts, exploring, letting you roll your tongue around him, lick at the head, pay attention to all the different textures and spots and subtleties cuz even when he’s fucking you he’s still a fucking showman, the show just happens to be his dick--and then easing into it with a slow easy pace. Not saying anything, not getting weird, just fucking your mouth in a casual kind of way that says I could do this all day and listening to you breathe. Strong hands holding you still, not letting you contribute. Just breathe.

When you press your tongue against him hard on a slide in he lets out a soft little grunt and his pace kicks up, his fingers threading into your hair to pull gently, casually. It sends a shiver up your spine and if your mouth wasn’t full of cock you would’ve gasped a little but as is your mouth is full of cock, Shawn’s making sure of that, and all you can do is keen helplessly and push yourself to meet his thrusts, angle to open your throat, doing as much as you can without touching.

Quit it,” he rasps, pulling you off his cock by the hair, little shoots of pain prickling at your scalp when you squirm. You still can’t look him in the face, but with your whole world melted down to the rhythm of your breath & his thrusts you don’t need to. It’s not important. You know what he looks like.

He lets go of your hair, shifting his weight back so he has the space to jerk off with your spit for lube and that’s what you care about. His dick, right there in front of your face, but not in your mouth. Like--you are looking and--what the fuck. But also, hot. Hot, yes, please.

More.

Don’t be greedy,” he says and his voice is already strained around the edges, rough with pleasure. “You get what I give you.”

You just nod and he shifts closer to you again, brushing his knuckle against your lips. “Open.

You do then he’s easing back in, just the tip at first while he strokes himself, murmuring “hold still”, dipping in and out of your mouth teasingly while you try your hardest to hold still, just focus on breathing. Let him rub the head of his cock over your tongue and not move, not touch, not grab him by the hips and take over. Just breathe. Let him. Be good. Not try to take, not focus on action, just focus on now. The way his hands slide back into your hair and he jerks your head back, shoving his hips forward at the same time to catch you off guard, make you gag and spasm helplessly when his cock hits the back of your throat. His fingers petting through your hair, cooing “shh, shhh, shh, you can take it baby” while he relentlessly fucks your mouth.

He’s all over, he’s everywhere, fingertips pressing into your scalp and neck and tilting your head again, angling your jaw better, filling your mouth over and over. You can breathe or you can drown & you don’t know when you shut your eyes but you’re not looking anymore, it’s too much input. If you think about not gagging, you’ll gag, so it’s better not to think. Just breathe. Focus on the feel of being held & cradled & the burn and stretch in your jaw & his voice telling you you’re good, you make him so happy; how sweet your mouth is.

Just a little bit more, baby, ‘s almost done…

If you had your wits about you, you’d ask what’s almost done but you don’t, all you have is Shawn’s hands holding you still, your hands twisted up behind your back, fingers laced together tight & the big roaring empty between your ears. Shawn’s honest to god moan as he grips your hair tighter--“oh, yeah--that’s good, that’s so good, yeah--all the way down your fuckin’ throat, god, look how good you are for me...”--presses your head down further & your idle realization that yeah, it is, and now that he’s past your gag reflex he’s barely moving, just these short little thrusts with you filled all the way up, fucking decadence. Relishing that he can make you do things you think you can’t do. You don’t need to see his face to know that.

Just breathe.

Your mouth floods when he pulls back, all sloppywet with deep throat spit and regular spit and the taste of skin, too much; you can feel it spilling out the corners of your mouth like the tears that are leaking onto your cheeks from being stuffed full. Just reflex. Body pushed past its limits. His cock is so heavy on your tongue and he groans when you try to lick over him while he’s still fucking into your mouth.

There’s no more discussion, just his pants dropping the rest of the way as your eyes come open and then he’s down on his knees behind you, manhandling your jeans & underwear down & your face to the floor, ass up, his dick sliding into you so easy and he fucks you raw on the living room carpet. Strong hands around your waist, hips, dug into your thighs; fingers pushed into your mouth when you cry out. Telling you how good you are with his hand over your mouth, your moans pushed out into his palm as he spills deep inside you.

Your can’t tell if your ears are ringing or that’s just the blood in your head.

You can feel a drip sliding down the inside of your leg.

He gets up to get you a washcloth. It’s nice and warm to be held & touched & smoothed over when he cleans you up enough to get your pants back on, pulling you into his lap and kissing you deeply, his hand on your thigh. Gentle.

“Hi baby,” he murmurs, nuzzling against your cheek. You run your fingers through his hair, over his shoulders, down his arm. He’s a little tacky with sweat but it’s good. He’s good.

Hi,” you whisper. Your voice feels froggy like you’ve got a mucous bubble to cough up & that’s gross but it’s fine. It’s good. You’re held & it’s good. Shawn kisses your cheek and your spine tingles; his breath on your skin.

I love you.

He sounds like gravel & water, concrete barriers in the middle of the highway. You love him. You love him. You’re sorry & you love him. His skin’s soft in the crook of his elbow, under your fingertips, just touching. Just breathing. Together. You love him.

 

(When you finally get up off the floor he groans about his knees while you try not to smile. He makes you drink about a gallon of water before you both lay down for a cuddle and a nap, watching the late afternoon sun cut across the bedroom wall. You feel safe all tucked up in his arms.

And when you wake up you feel a thousand times better. Turns out you were a little bit dehydrated after all.)