𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐪𝐮𝐞 | machine gun kelly

55

A/N:
Idk why writers don't acknowledge how embarrassing it is to write smut sometimes lol. I mean I like reading it so much, but writing it? while I'm giggling to myself the entire time? and not taking anything seriously? it's for the bold and the crazy. anyway yes that is a spoiler for this chapter. <3 have fun! btw, I was supposed to spend today figuring out my costume for the halloween party I have to go to on friday, but I finished this chapter instead. feeling kinda satisfied kinda not so much smh.

p.s: the song for this chapter is my all time favorite song ever <3

***

Machine Gun Kelly's pov;

SHE WAS MY SWEET LAVINIA. To me, she was the girl that one early 2000's rock band-The Veils-sang about in that hauntingly desperate and passionate song. She was my Lucia. She was my Lucia.

God, she was my sweet Lavinia.

Watching her was entrancing in a way that I didn't feel myself breathing anymore. In a way that every other thing in my view ceased to be, but her. She took over my breaths, my heart, my life.

Watching her talk, walk around-I felt like I was dead. Fuck, maybe I was. Because how much had I wanted this in the past two years? How much had I begged for a higher power to rewind time just so that I could save her from a fatal bullet? How much I had begged for her to be brought back alive to me?

All my fucking life I had stopped for a while to ask the one up there for something or the other. I did it when I couldn't have that thing myself-I did it because I had no choice. But no one ever fucking picked up. I called and I called, every call went unheard, leaving me shaking on my knees with an invisible receiver pressed hard against my ear.

After I thought I lost her, I had called again. Knuckles white clutching the phone, breathing unsteady, vision blurry and hot-yet nothing.

And now this. Here she was. The mother of my child, not dead, not buried, her dark perfumed hair in loose curls down her back as she made breakfast for our son at her hotel room's kitchen counter, her lavender silk robe hanging around her slightly tan supermodel frame like it was made for her-like every fucking thing she ever wore was designed and made just for her body and her curves.

The sun poured in through the living area's large windows. The kitchen was to the far right, and as I sat with my son, his short thick finger scrolling on spotify, my eyes kept rotating from her to my son and back again.

It was disbelief. It was plain utter disbelief. This was all I had ever wanted. This was my fucking world-this was all I needed. Then why had I been deprived of it for so long? The deprivation-in a sick way-felt worth it now. Every single second of pain I had felt in the past seven hundred and thirty days, was worth it.

It was worth it, when I had found her asleep in the hotel room bed, holding close to our son, last night. It was worth it when I had watched her chest rise and fall in sync with Connor's. Their soft breaths sounding in the room against the moonlight-fuck I could watch them forever. I could watch her forever.

Then she woke up, took me to the living area. Her frustration had pooled up inside of her, and her dark eyes-glassy and sparkling-had given way to tears.

But it was worth it, when I had seen her resolve falter. When a wall broke down and she gave in. When she didn't argue anymore, when she got up and went back inside the bedroom, leaving me on the sofa, without a word or a glance.

But it was enough for me. It had been enough for me because it was fuel to me. It made me feel surer than ever that I could fix us. Even besides us, there was so much I needed to fix first, in order to give her and my son the life I always wanted to give them. But I will close all those distances, I will fix every leak, I will plaster over every crack. I will make it work. I will fucking fix this.