It isn't anything beautiful, okay. It's quick, and it's fumbling, and it's pretty fucking amateurish, and it isn't anything to store up in your memory or set your hopes on. And fuck it anyway, because that's just how you like it, that's just how you set it up. You're getting exactly what you wanted.

(careful what you wish for)

The tile under your back is cold and a little sticky, and the mouth on your neck is so hot and sharp that you don't mind that none of those bites ever turn into a kiss. Maybe if you expected something else, maybe if you didn't know what this was, then maybe you'd be disappointed, but these are the rules you laid out. Kissing doesn't have anything to do with getting off, and that's all you're about tonight.

(any port in a storm)

So you've done away with the kissing, and the words, and being able to meet each other's eyes. You've axed all that bullshit romance that's got nothing to do with you. You're not even naked; pants low on your hips as a clever hand works inside them, shirt hanging inside-out from one wrist, tangled between your bodies. Your palm slides over the back of his head, and goddamn it, you're still surprised, still expecting to feel the soft hair wrapped around your fingers, confused by the burn of stubble under your hands.

(better the devil you know)

He's on his knees, and this is what you wanted: hot mouth and cold tile, closed eyes and the numbed-out feeling in the base of your spine, the empty place you go when you pitch, where you wish you could live all the time. There's more than one way to get there, and this is what works for you. No one's getting hurt, and if they are it's their own goddamn fault, because you should all be grown up enough to know that it isn't anything beautiful, okay. It's just a way to find some fucking peace.

(it's always darkest before dawn)