Author's Note: I really don't know...
Disclaimer: She is mine, the 'he's are not.
She was beautiful—or rather, she felt beautiful—when Charlie looked at her that way, with his eyes fogged over and cloudy; whether it's from the drugs or lust—most likely a combination of both—didn't matter to her, because in that moment she was pretty, she was wanted, she was being used. And she was using, as well.
Both of them knew this was a mutual fuck'n'go relationship. Both knew not to take it personally when the other moaned out someone else's name, because they were both doing that. Both of them knew they stood no real chance with the person whose name they were uttering while in the throes of sex. And both of them knew that this was all they could hope for.
Charlie licked his lips as he situated himself on top of her, gripping her waist tightly in one hand while the other holds one of her wrists hostage above her head. She squirmed against his grip, but didn't bother complaining. She was used to Charlie's ever changing approach.
His breath tangled with hers when their lips collided roughly, neither one caring about the bruises that would be obvious to the world tomorrow. All that's heard are their mingled moans and sighs, the bed creaking beneath them, and the faint sound of a radio playing in another apartment complex down the hall. AC/DC. Girl's Got Rhythm. Not exactly mood music, but it fits.
Charlie shifts and the girl stops breathing for a moment, a strangled and muffled cry passing her lips as he begins to move, slowly at first before building up. Her head leans limply against the pillow, Charlie's face buried in the curve of her neck as he lets out groaning whines, his thrusts growing sloppy as he loses himself in imagination. "Meeks…" he grunts out. "Fuck…"
The girl bites her lip, gulping, holding onto Charlie tightly, one arm wrapped around his waist, the other lost in his hair, gasping heavily each time he grinds further into her, despite how clumsy he's being tonight. Her chest rises and falls, the rapidity of such movement quickening the higher Charlie takes her, until she loses it and whines his name and freezes in shock.
Charlie notices, but keeps going, trying to keep the image of his freckled, bespectacled classmate solid in his mind until he groans, coming to a halt after he's had his fill. He stays inside of her for a few moments, gulping and pressing sweet kisses to her neck as she furiously blushes.
She's never said Charlie's name before, and he knows to take that as a bad sign, as a sign to stop this, end this, before she gets more hurt than she already is. But as he pulls out, tossing the condom into a nearby trash bin, he can't help but be selfish. He can't have Meeks, and the girl can't have him. They can suffer together, like they have been for the past few months. The drugs aren't enough anymore, and Charlie needs her. Needs Meeks. Needs his poor imitation of Meeks.
He runs a hand through his mussed hair, rubbing at his nose and sniffing, before working his way around the room and gathering clothing, tossing the articles that are hers at the bed, slipping the pieces that belong to him on. Finally, he grabs his sunglasses off the bedside table, slipping them over the bridge of his nose and shoving them into his hair.
He glances down at her, hating the way she just lays there, glaring at the ceiling for letting herself say the one name that was off limits. He knows he shouldn't say it. He knows he should tell her that it's over, that neither of them needs this torture. But he does need this, and that's why he says, "Same time next week?" And once the redhead glowering beneath the bedcovers nods affirmatively, he leaves the apartment.
Author's Note: Angst.