✁𝙏𝙤𝙢 𝙃𝙤𝙡𝙡𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙞𝙢𝙖𝙜𝙞𝙣𝙚𝙨

𝐟𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐛𝐨𝐲!

ᵂᴬᴿᴺᴵᴺᴳ: ᶜᵁᴿˢᴵᴺᴳ, ᴹᴱᴺᵀᴵᴼᴺˢ ᴼᶠ ᴰᴿᵁᴳ ᵁˢᴱ ᴬᴺᴰ ˢᴱˣ

ᴵᴹᴾᴼᴿᵀᴬᴺᵀ ᵀᴼ ᴷᴺᴼᵂ: ᵞ/ᴺ ᴵˢ ᵂᴵᵀᴴ ᵀᴴᴱ ᴺᴱᴵᴳᴴᴮᴼᴿᴴᴼᴼᴰ ᶠᵁᶜᴷᴮᴼᵞ, ᵀᴼᴹ ᴴᴼᴸᴸᴬᴺᴰ. ˢᴴᴱ ᴸᴼᵛᴱˢ ᴴᴵᴹ, ᴴᴱ, ᴺᴼᵀ ˢᴼ ᴹᵁᶜᴴ. ˢᴼ, ᴬᶠᵀᴱᴿ ᴬ ᴺᴵᴳᴴᵀ ᴼᵁᵀ ᴬᴺᴰ ᴬ ᴴᴱᴬᴿᵀᴮᴿᴱᴬᴷ ᴵᴺ ᵀᴴᴱ ᴾᴿᴼᶜᴱˢˢ, ˢᴴᴱ ᴰᴱᶜᴵᴰᴱˢ ˢᴴᴱ ˢᴴᴼᵁᴸᴰ ᶠᴵᴺᴬᴸᴸᵞ ᴸᴱᴬᵛᴱ ᴴᴵᴹ.

You could feel your knees begin to burn as you arose from off the couch. You were soothed by the slow snores of the boy who laid on your floor as you assessed your situation.

Your memory was hazy, your eyes burned as much as your knees as you felt that wet sensation between your legs. Slowly but surely, you pieced together what had happened the night before as the remnants of a joint seemed to stare at you down and the carpet burns on your knees seemed to set your legs on fire with every slow movement you took.

You remembered the weed, the way Tom blew smoke rings as you tried to catch them onto your ring finger like it was the only ring he'd ever give you. You remembered the way his lips had hovered over yours as he blew sick and warm smoke into your mouth and gripped your hips so tight you gasped and the smoke got caught in your throat.

Picking his shirt up off the ground and pulling it over your head in an attempt to cover your cold body, you tip toed over his sleeping form and began to search for your clothes.

Your blouse laid near Tom, a button missing and clutched in the young man's closed fist. Your skirt was ripped at the bottom and bunched up on your coffee table. Your bra was suspended from a lamp and your panties laid in a wad on the edge of your rug.

"You look better in my clothes than I do." You heard his groggy voice from behind you as you retrieved your panties from the floor.

You gazed down at the young man who looked more like a tired young boy that laid on your floor. You had always wondered how someone who could be so terrible at times could look so small and innocent. 

"Can I have my shirt?" You asked, shoving your open palm towards him.

"No 'good morning, Tom'? No 'I had a great time last night, babe'?" He countered.

"Just give me my damn shirt. I have to go." You bit your lip, wiggling your fingers to add punctuation and emphasis to how much you needed that blouse.

He began to hand it to you before he grabbed your wrist quickly and pulled you to his place on the ground.

You struggled against him for a moment, the thought of how much you hated him at times loomed over the forefront of your mind as he began to kiss your neck.

"Just stay for a little bit. It's only Saturday. Just stay." He whispered so sweetly against your throat.

He was doing it again, that thing you couldn't resist. The soft tender touches, the innocent tone in his voice that glazed over his true intentions of getting you high and having sex because that's the only way he knew you. His stupid smile against your neck caused it to tingle with desire, creep up your neck and into the back of your mind.

You could stay, your insecurities of what he'd do without you around starting to make you think. You could go too, however, take a shower, tend to those rug burns on your elbows and the bruises he left on your thighs. But if you stayed, you'd be caught where you where the night before, loving him to the tune of a marijuana haze and indie music. But if you left, you'd be worried about what he was doing, what girl he might be with while you were at home wearing out your living room rug from walking in circles for so long.