FicWad

You kiss him and he grabs your ass with a whoop that you forgive him for because he's drunk and you've given up on trying to control him when he's in that state. That, and your hips are being crushed together and you can feel the bulge in his pants that signals that the alcohol has yet to reach a vital area.

He fucks you tenderly up against a wall, his broad shoulders sustaining fingernail wounds as you claw desperately at him while he's pounding your brains out. Just when you think you're going to die, you come.

You love the hair on his chest and the long formerly-fashionable sideburns and the strong jaw and the hugeness of his hands. You hate the way he farts in the morning when he stretches and yawns, and the way he's prone to freaking out in public places, and how he uses the most undignified bandages possible whenever you're passed out from blood loss and can't argue with him over it.

You have always been full of repressed desire, and you almost blush when he tells you that you look most happy on a battlefield. It is because you want to fight. You lash out and he loves it, accepting the blow. He is your rebellion.

And when he fucks you with your fingers clenching the cool metal of the sink you cry out and forget everything, because you just want to let go. It doesn't happen very often and it is always with him.

You touch him and die.

And then he's gone and that's it and back to routine and limping through life, not dying that heart-breakingly beautiful death, and pretending the cross around your wrist does not exist.

You know he's doing the same, just a quick walk away.

You wonder what it would be like, after all these years.

And then you stop.

And collect yourself.

Because it's done.

Like smoking, you gave up that addiction long ago.