WHEN IT ENDS || Jason McCann Fictional Story||

25.~|"Spiderman, Spiderman, Does Whatever A Spider Can"|~

Songs for this chapter :

Stupid
by Tate McRae

Can't Help Myself
by Vincent, Pauline Herr

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"Oh, come on! I said I was sorry!"

"Sorry won't cut it!"

"So. . . How 'bout another kiss?"

After receiving a glare —a very spiteful glare that I'm impressed I never showcased in front of even ma or Katy— he reconsiders his offer, brows furrowed. "Yeah, I know. Stupid answer," he says.

"Nothing will cut it! He's seen me, without anything holding up my assets! And it's all your fault you didn't lock the door!" Frustrated, I throw my hands in the air, still uncomfortable from having not one, not three, two guys seeing me without any undershirt. Fabulous. Splendiferous!

"It's not like he actually saw your assets," he protests, eyeing my chest area, as if he's trying to make sense of what asset I'm talking about in the first place. You'd think that after the stunt he pulled, he'd have more restrain on himself. But NO. He's shamelessly looking where he's not supposed to look. Very not-so-subtly at all, I might add.

"Oh. So I have to wait to complain before he actually sees it, huh? Or maybe that's what you want? And maybe that's why you're still on bed?" I cross my arms, the unclasped bra crinkling beneath my T-shirt, making Jason smirk deviously. Ugh!

"And this. . ." Grunt! "Stupid. . ." Groan! "Cami-bra! Aargh! How do women wear these things everyday?!"

Just as it sounds, yes, I can't clasp my bra. I've never, and I mean never, worn a single bra in my entirety of seventeen years of experience. Unless, trying it out for a good thirty-forty something seconds while doing my 'entering womanhood' phrase counts. Yep, the look on ma's face was contorted like something between a chihuahua with a serious case of anxiety (which means a lot since these creatures are basically the antisocials of the beast class) and the comatose daughter, of that painting specialist in the Mr. Bean movie, after waking up.

Ah, those good 'ole days. . . Nothing could compare to pissing her off, specially without even trying to.

So, I've spent my whole life —till now— on athleisures and sports bra because they're simply paradisiacal. But with this burr–ah, everytime, I think I've got it, the hooks slide over plain fabric, giving my sidekick boyfriend an entertaining display of how my bust —whatever little amount I have of it— tightens and then falls.

"Urgh! Damnit!" He chuckles. "Of course, you're finding it recreational!"

"Who said I'm having recreation?"

"You're laughing at me!"

"Well, if you say so. . ." I give him a glare, my face red and smoke practically blowing out of my ears.

"It's still your fault I'm in this position!"

"So let me count," he fists his fingers on one hand and starts counting down, "'Sorry won't cut it', as you sai—" he begins.

"I don't sound like that!"

"Of course, sweetheart, my sincerest apology," he pats my back, a soft look of fake condolence crossing his face, "A kiss won't do it, no matter how amazingly we do it." He glances at me, probably to check for a blush on my face, but there isn't any visible with the curtain of my hair, and then ponders again, "So. . . m&ms?"