losttheright | I can't help feeling we could have had it all

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stephen meyers

I can't help feeling we could have had it all

At first, when she sees him, Molly is certain that her eyes are playing tricks on her.

It was one thing when she showed up here, after all, when the world went black and she came to having exchanged one city for another, except this isn't anywhere she's heard of and it's missing a few things a real city would have, like, for example, a way out. That part is just as well, though. Even if there were somewhere else to go, she isn't sure how she would get there or what she would do once she got there. She's dead, she knows she is, or was, or whatever verb could be used to describe someone dying and then waking up having been magically fucking transported to some other world or something. There doesn't need to be anything outside of this because there was never even supposed to be this. Someday, maybe, she might even be able to count herself lucky for that. For now, she's just taking it as she can, doing her best to settle into this completely implausible extension of the life she cut short, trying not to dwell too much on the circumstances that caused her to do so in the first place (though that much is easier said than done). She's far away from that now, from Mike Morris and the rest of his fucking campaign, no one she's spoken to having even heard his name before, at least as much as she's been able to tell.

That is, she was supposed to be. Everything having been uprooted, she actually thought she'd have been okay with that. None of the past was going to have followed her here; she wasn't going to have to be the intern who fucked the married presidential candidate and got an abortion (the latter only applying where getting herself to a doctor has been concerned), like she knows she'd have wound up being back home after the other side got a hold of the story, and she wasn't going to be the girl who killed herself, either, and not even the daughter of the chairman of the DNC. Daunting as some of that has been, the idea is kind of refreshing, too. After all, if there's one thing she's ever been good at — and okay, she's good at a lot of things, including but not limited to fucking and fucking up — it's making sure she seems alright when she's anything but, and that's been the case here. In her own head, she'll never get away from what she did, knowing full well that screwing a married man, getting an abortion and killing oneself is supposed to be a one-way ticket straight to whatever Hell is, but at least she hasn't had to let it define her.

One glimpse of Stephen Meyers, and suddenly, she isn't so sure that's going to remain the case. Whether he's a figment of her imagination or not, or just a face she caught from the wrong angle and jumped to the worst conclusion about, it's like a sign that everything has really followed her after all, making the smile she'd plastered on fade and her stomach drop. Of all people from home she'd have wanted to turn up, he isn't last on the hypothetical list (that would be Morris), but anything else that seeing him might make her feel — and it is him, she's sure of it now, more so with every passing second — gets easily buried by residual fury, the sound of his stupid goddamn voicemail message echoing through her head. Jaw set, she swallows hard, not certain yet if he's seen her. The bar's all but empty, but the corner booth she's inhabited isn't the most visible. Either way, she's not about to slink off into the night. She told him once that she wasn't going away, and whether he even listened to the fucking message or not, she isn't going to do so now, either.

Standing, she stares at him and shakes her head, her own voice almost jarring as it cuts through the relative quiet. "No fucking way."

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What he was thinking is that he wouldn't be needing them anytime soon, but Stephen keeps that part to himself. He wanted to be ready on the off chance something happened, but it isn't like he's been looking. Pressing into her hand, he stifles a sound against her mouth, one leg raised to rest on the bed so he can get closer, though he's yet to climb all the way into bed. What he wants is to do this. The where and the how don't matter quite so much. Still, he shakes his head, hand skimming up her side to cup her breast.

"No, not here," he says. How the fuck he's supposed to think when she's touching him, he doesn't know, but he's trying all the same to look unfazed. "Come on, how's the desk for you?" He still doesn't know who gave them these apartments and he hates not knowing, but he can't complain about the fact they came furnished. It's pretty fucking convenient, particularly at a time like this.

Humming in agreement, Molly nods as best she can without pulling away, hand moving around him in slow, light strokes, teasing more than anything else. It's a good idea, though, and she can't pretend otherwise, even if she's sure it's for completely different reasons. She told him once, or told his voicemail, at least, that she wasn't going away, and though everything's different here, she means to stand by that. Maybe they'll never do this again, maybe, come morning, he'll decide it's too much and not want to see her, or fuck, maybe she will, but that doesn't mean she can't stay, leave some kind of a presence. The couch, the bed, now the desk — the more places he'll have to remember her when she's not here, the fucking better. When they can't change what happens, this is the least she can get in return.

"Works for me," she murmurs, pushing up onto her knees so they're closer to eye level, even if they won't be staying here for long. Beyond all of that, she really doesn't care where they do this, anyway. She just wants him, so much more than she should, more than she has any intention of saying. If the desk is where he wants her, it's just as well. They'll have all night to move back here, anyway. "And I think I remember something about how hard I forget what day it is, right?"

Stephen leans in to kiss her, hands finding the small of her back, even as he laughs against her mouth. "Harder," he says. "You already don't know what day it is." That's pretty fair, though. He only knows because he's been keeping track, watching it on his phone and on the computer that was waiting here for him, devoid of his files or any recognizable aspects. It doesn't match up with what he remembers, but he'd worry more about the lost time if it weren't for the number of people who likewise don't seem to be from the same time.

Reluctant though he is to make her stop, he reaches down to wrap his fingers around her wrist, resisting the urge to guide her to go a little faster and pushing her hand gently away instead as he gets to his feet. "Come on." He's aching to fuck her, all the more for the way she's been touching him, and he doesn't want to wait any longer, not when he knows she wants it, too.

She'd never admit to it, but Molly would be hard-pressed to even try to deny him at a time like this, nodding as she gets to her feet in turn. Regardless of how appealing it would probably be to get back at him for how he teased her before, she just can't. She wants him too much for that, the only reason she's remotely willing to attribute to it, even in her own head. When he says things like that, though, why fucking bother wasting time? Much as she might have needed how slow they went before, this is different now, and she can't think of anything better, not least because there's a lot more than what day it is she would like to forget.

"I'm right here," she tells him, stifling a laugh, her other hand trailing from his shoulder down his arm, though she drops it to her own side again when she reaches his wrist. The desk isn't far, and she can't bring herself to let her hand fall into his. Instead, she just grins at him over her shoulder as she heads in that direction, wanting to see him watch her. "And I have to say, I like the sound of that."

Walking isn't exactly the easiest thing in the world right now, not least when Stephen can't take his eyes off of her. She knows it, he knows she does, looking at him with that smug little expression of hers, but fuck it, he doesn't care. Who could blame him? She's beautiful, naked, here with him, and as he walks, he starts working at the condom wrapper to get it open. The desk in the corner of the room has the advantage, at least, of not being terribly far from the bed when they inevitably wind up crashing later in the night, but he doesn't anticipate that being all that soon.

"Good," he says, catching up, slipping an arm around her. He ducks his head to kiss her shoulder, stifling a sound as he brushes against her, pressing close. She's enthralling, and he hates her a little for it, for how easy she makes it to get all wound up in her. She clouds his judgment, and it's not like he can say much for that these days as it is. "You need a hand up there?"

"I'm fine," Molly says with a slight shake of her head, lifting one hand to run through his hair. It's startling, almost unsettling, the way he kisses her shoulder, though it's far from the most affectionate thing he's done tonight, but managing not to focus on that is easy enough when she can feel how hard he is, when she wants him so bad she can barely wrap her head around it. Though it isn't fucking fair, she couldn't be more grateful for it, for him, and how goddamn alive she feels in his arms. He was good before, but it wasn't like this. She doesn't know what that means, and right now, she doesn't care enough to try to figure it out.

Drawing away from him only when they've reached the desk, she uses her hands to hoist herself up, smiling at him as she does. It's not like it's the first time she's ever done this, but she doesn't want to point that out, not wanting to think about anyone else right now, or for him to think about that, either. Her history with other people has caused them trouble enough anyway. "Here," she murmurs, reaching for him, legs apart. "God, Stephen, I fucking want you."

What Stephen wants more than anything is to get started, wants her so bad it's hard to exercise self-control, but he does, holding back enough to slide the condom into place as he kisses her. "I know," he murmurs against her mouth, though the words don't mean much of anything, almost an effort at reassurance though there's no reason for that. It's evident that she does, but that isn't the point. It's commiseration. They're a mess, a terrible idea, but they're in it together, and somehow, that feels good. "I know, Molly, fuck, I want you, too."

Hands moving to her waist as she steps closer, he kisses her again, reaching down to slide himself slowly into her. He can't suppress a groan at how good it feels, absently thinking how he wishes they could just stay like this, never have to worry about what happens in the morning when now is nearly perfect.

Molly isn't sure what the sound she makes is, half-muffled against his mouth, but she couldn't hold it back even if she wanted to, and she doesn't think she would. They're past that. Anyway, it's not like she's the only one, the way he groans nearly as satisfying in its own right as the way he feels inside her, so fucking good she almost hates him for it, except hating him is too difficult at a time like this. It was exhausting even when she thought she wouldn't see him again; now, it would take more effort than she could muster, though she's still not sure it would be entirely unwarranted. That doesn't matter. Nothing else does, really, not here, not now. However wrong it might be, they have each other, however temporarily, and that's too good to ignore or to cheapen with too much of the past.

"Fuck," she says, a heavy exhale, though she only pulls away when she needs to breathe in the first place. Legs wrapped around his waist, she rocks forward against him, too hungry for more, for what he promised, to keep still. She won't let him completely call the shots, anyway. "Stephen."

Stephen doesn't answer, not yet, kissing her again instead. He should worry more about that, how evident it is that he can't get enough of her, but it's impossible to care yet. Later, tomorrow, when they have to, they'll deal with whatever needs to be dealt with. Tonight, they need this, and maybe that's irresponsible, to throw sense to the wayside in favor of sex, but she feels so good, warm and wet around him, and no amount of sensible reasons as to why they shouldn't outweigh all the very compelling evidence for why they should.

With that first roll of her hips, he's lost, nothing but true to his word for once. A hand on the desk to keep them steady, he slides the other along the back of her neck into her hair, pushing into her hard over and over. The desk shakes under her, but it's sturdy enough to hold, and that's all that really matters so far as furniture is concerned. So long as it holds together long enough for them to finish, he's not sure he even cares if it falls to pieces after. The only reason he has to pull away from her now is to get more, leaning over her and drawing back to give himself the room he needs to lower his head to her chest, tongue circling her nipple. With the way she gets under his skin, he's determined to return the favor.

"Oh, fuck," Molly gasps, head tipping back as his mouth moves lower, eyes falling shut for a moment. He's too fucking good, maddeningly so, and she'd want him not to know it if she had any desire to hold back now. As it is, she's too far gone, too caught up in him for that, and it doesn't matter if it means she gets more of this, Stephen thrusting hard into her like there's nothing in the world left but the two of them, like everything that happened before grows more irrelevant with each push of his hips and drag of his tongue.

That's the fucking point, when it comes down to it. She doesn't care if she knows what day it is or not, but right now, if only for a little while, she wants to forget the rest of it, what brought her here — both to Darrow itself and to Stephen's apartment — and all the reasons why she should have stayed far away. She won't let it all go, she's not stupid enough for that, but just this once, she doesn't want to have to let it play a part at all. Like this, she doesn't have to. One hand curled around the edge of the desk to help keep her steady, she brings the other to his shoulder, nails digging into his skin, her hips pressing just as hard against his in turn. It's the least she can do, give as good as she's getting, especially when what she's getting is so fucking fantastic. "That's right, Stephen, come on."

Stephen hardly needs the verbal encouragement, but he doesn't mind it, the sound of her voice in this state just making everything that much better. Back on those first couple nights before everything got fucked up, this was part of what he enjoyed so much about sex with her — she's not the kind of girl to lie around and let things happen, let him do all the work. She's a thorough participant, enthusiastic, vocal about what she does and doesn't want, and he likes that, not just for what it does for the sex, but what it says about her, her level of comfort in her own skin, her confidence. It's as hot as any other part of this, her willingness to ask for just what she wants, to point the way to how she wants things to be. From nearly the start, he's liked that in her. She knew she wanted him, and while that in itself is flattering as fuck, it's the fact she went for it, unabashed, even cheerfully coy, that's the real turn on.

Since then, he's seen her so much more vulnerable than this, hurt and sad and furious, and that feels now like all the more reason to keep this up, to do everything he can to block those images from his mind as long as possible. He never wanted that for her, never wanted to hurt her. The only thing he can do for both of them at the moment is to make her feel good instead, sucking at her nipple, fucking her hard. With her legs tight around him and her hips thrusting back against his, she's maddening and perfect. She'll never be as simple again as to be just the intern who propositioned him, but right now, she's every bit as gloriously shameless and he never wants to come up for air.

Well-aware as she is that it would be unnecessary, that he's perfectly capable of making this good on his own, there are still plenty of things Molly could say, all to urge him on, to try to get as much as she can, some part of her holding on to the knowledge that they don't know how long whatever this is between them will last. The more he fucks her, though, the more she loses her grasp on the coherency that would require, and she can't say she minds that in the slightest. She wanted him to make her forget, after all; it's just as well that she winds up only moaning, gasping, instead of telling him how good he feels. With her back arched and her head thrown back and her hips unfaltering as he pushes into her, she's pretty sure it's obvious enough already. He drives her crazy, and if ever there were a time for that to be okay, it's now, when he's deep inside her and nothing else in the world matters.

His name, at least, is one thing she can still manage, startling in how easily it comes to her, like an instinct that not even everything that happened before could rid her of. That, too, she's sure he doesn't need to hear, when she knows he's got to be smug enough without her help, but maybe it's a good thing. This is about him, and she needs him to know that, even if she'd never outright say as much; she could be fucking any other guy, but she isn't, and she doubts anyone else could do this to her, anyway. Right now, this is too good to care what that means. "Stephen, Stephen," she says, a faint, desperate whine, pleading for something, though she doesn't know what more she could want except to make this last as long as possible. He's already asked her to stay, so it's not like to prolong this would be a means of delaying her exit, but it's too easy to get caught up in the past when they aren't like this, and that's the last thing she needs, maybe especially now that she knows the truth of all of it.

It sounds so good, and while that's nothing new, Stephen's no less appreciative of the way she says his name. Lifting his head to kiss her throat, fingers tugging slightly, if thoughtlessly, at her hair as he does so, he stifles a groan against her skin. It's so easy to let himself be enveloped in her, the way she sounds and feels around him, the exquisite vividness of her existence, her skin hot and damp as he runs a hand down her back to her ass to pull her hard against him, like she even needs the encouragement.

"Fuck, Molly," he says, breathless, lost and only distantly bothered by the fact. She takes up all his thought and effort, but she makes it so worthwhile, that though it occurs to him to start touching her clit or keep working on her breasts, he doesn't, an incoherent attempt to drag this out instead. He's come once already tonight, and he wants her to last, too, for them both to keep this up until they can't anymore. "Is this what you want? Like this?"

Molly nods before she can even get breath enough to speak, eager enough that she probably ought to be self-conscious for it, if there were any room left for that now. As it is, though, she's without qualms when it comes to letting him know how good this is, and if that means she's without common sense, too, then so fucking be it. Nothing about being with Stephen can be especially smart, but it's far from the stupidest thing she's done, and if encouraging him means getting more of this, then it can only be a good thing. It's holding back that would work against her, and the last thing she wants is to make him think she doesn't like this, or to give either of them time to question it like they really should be doing.

"Yes, God, yes," she says, and she's not sure if it's a response or just a reaction, but she supposes it makes no real difference either way. Bringing a hand up to the back of his neck, she tips her head to kiss him hard, biting at his lip when she draws back only to speak again. There's nothing about this that should be slow now, or gentle, no matter how appealing it was before; the time for that has passed. What she wants is this, Stephen fucking her as hard as he can, to be the one making him work like this. "Just — just like this, Stephen, fuck."

Stephen gasps against her mouth at the press of her teeth, pushing into her that much harder, fingers tangled in her hair. She's so responsive, an appealing — even flattering, honestly — quality in any woman. More than that, though, it's gratifying to be able to get to her like this, to know he's the one pushing her over the edge time and again. Pulling her close, he cups her face as he kisses her, hips pounding against hers, fingers skimming along her side. Like this, it's easy just to forget anything matters other than being here with her, easy not to think about anything other than how she feels, the way she fits with her legs around him. He could get used to this, more easily than he wants to think about, not just having her around for sex but having her back in his life. They can't pick up where they left off, but that's even better, given how badly everything ended. He'll never be the guy she can trust, but they can still make something of this, salvage what's there, whatever the hell that is.

Hand curling more tightly around the edge of the desk to make sure she stays steady, knuckles going white with it, Molly leans eagerly into the kiss, stifling a moan against his mouth. If nothing else, he's really living up to what he promised for once, and she's not sure what to make of that or if it even means anything, only that she doesn't care to think too much about it when he's fucking her so hard she's dizzy with it. How anything, anyone else, could begin to compare after this, she hasn't got a clue, but she doesn't care. That's not the point. What matters is how fucking good he feels, sending sparks shooting through her even as she's determined to last as long as he does, not to give this up so soon. Pulling back just to bring her mouth to his ear instead, hips unfaltering, she draws in a sharp breath. "I want you to think about this every fucking time you use this desk," she says, voice rough, unsteady, desperate in a way that she doesn't care to overanalyze. "Alright?"

Fingers digging into her side, Stephen makes a low sound of agreement. It's not wholly honest, he's distantly aware. Back in D.C., there aren't many places in his apartment where he hasn't had sex and he managed to work at his desk and his table, on his couch and in bed, just fine, but then, those girls are exes now, if he was ever actually dating them at all. It's not that sex with them was worse, just different. Some of them, he cared about deeply, but right now, he can't begin to think of names or faces, every part of his focus taken up by Molly. He doesn't know if he can or should say he cares about her more than he did about the rest, but he feels differently about her, and with that undoubtedly being a product of their history, it isn't something he can think about now.

Instead, it just feels true, like there's no way he could get this out of his head if he tried, how incredibly good she feels, the sound of her voice momentarily feeling like almost enough to push him over again. He ducks his head to kiss her shoulder. "Might have to reserve it for this then," he says, nipping at her skin. There's no way he could get anything done, thinking about this.

It's not like Molly is naïve enough to believe that for a second, though that doesn't prevent her from liking the sound of what he's said, enough that she lets out a faint hum of approval, teeth grazing his ear before she draws back again. Even if she knew there was a chance of her winding up here again, there's no real way Stephen would ever set his desk aside just for sex, no matter what he may or may not have been doing here. That isn't the point, and honestly, she's not sure she cares. The point is that he'll have to remember, that even if they never see each other again after this, he'll be left thinking about her. She was never going to be set aside so easily, not even when she had to end her own life. This is just a hell of a lot more pleasant to leave him with. She thinks she'd be okay with this being all they got as long as she knew she'd left some sort of presence here, and this is the best way she knows to do that.

"That would work," she says, as much of a laugh as she can manage when she's so short of breath, still holding him close to her. "Still plenty of other places, though, too." And they have all night, something that she's pretty sure he's the one who pointed out. There's no chance of getting to anything else too quickly after this, she knows that much, but she still intends on making the most of it, of getting as much as she fucking can from him.

"Didn't say just the desk," Stephen points out, turning his head to kiss her. Speaking isn't easy when most of his focus is on what he's doing, though it's not like a hell of a lot of attention is required to keep his hips moving in a steady, insistent rhythm. It's the result of that, how overwhelming the pleasure is, a sensation that leaves him lightheaded and angling for more, that keeps him from being able to say or even think much now. He means it, though. There are plenty of other places in this apartment they can use, and he means to get to as many of them as they can before they can't anymore. Whatever happens after this, tonight will be memorable.

"Good," Molly murmurs, the word coming out half-muffled against his mouth when she leans in to kiss him again, slow and deep but still none too gentle. She still doesn't know what any of this means — doesn't know much at all right now, in fact, except that he feels fucking good, each thrust of his hips making her that much more desperate for all that she can get — but as long as he's saying things like that, she doesn't care, either. As long as this isn't ending yet, she doesn't have to worry about what comes next, which is a fucking relief. Even if she were capable of that much coherent thought right now, it gets her head too muddled trying to consider all that in the face of so many conflicting desires. The only one that really matters is this, him. Reaching for the hand at her side, she curls her fingers around his wrist, trying to guide it up towards her breast. "Because we do have all night."

It's a heady promise, one Stephen means to live up to for as long as they're both able, but it doesn't matter either. The rest of the night is later, and this is now, this is what's important. Letting her guide him, he moves his hand to cup her breast, thumb brushing over her nipple before he pinches it slightly. It takes a surprising amount of effort not to be rougher with her right now when she's got him so worked up, but for all that she's far from delicate, he doesn't want to hurt her. There's a difference between that and this, just enough to try and get her more worked up in turn, a counterpoint to so much pleasure. He's getting closer and closer, but that won't slow him down when he's determined to make sure she gets what he said he would give this time.

Startled as much as anything else, Molly gasps, a high-pitched sound that she'd probably deny later catching in her throat, head tipping back with it. Mostly, it feels fucking good in a way she wouldn't have expected, making her want more of that, as much as he'll give, teeth pressing into his lip and nails dragging down his back when she moves her hand there again, all to try to urge him on. The way she sees it, the more attention he pays her, the better, and this was never really going to be anything soft and nice, so there's no point in acting like there is (there will be time for that later, too). "Fuck," she says, a heavy exhale, voice more earnestly needy than she intended. "Fuck, Stephen, come on."

Stephen groans, breaking away just enough to catch his breath at the bite of nails and teeth, leaving him tempted to grab her hands and pin them down to keep her from doing that again, not because it doesn't feel good, but because it does. It's not like he's got some twisted idea he doesn't get that or anything, because this is far from punishment and it isn't about somehow magically earning forgiveness. It's just that he's close enough as it is without her all but pushing him over, and when she's urging him on like that, he has no fucking intention of coming without making sure she does, too. "Fuck," he echoes, ducking his head to kiss her throat, teeth grazing her skin. "So close."

Molly whines in protest before she can even stop to think about doing so, though she finds it difficult to care once she has. There was never a chance of this lasting too long and she knows it. That doesn't stop her from wanting as much as she can get from him, not even because of anything to do with their pasts but just because he feels so fucking good. The promise of more isn't enough to change that, either, when they're here now. "Then fucking touch me," she bites out, more a plea than the order she means it to be. She could easily do it on her own, but she'd rather leave it to him, and if there's one thing she can say in Stephen's favor, it's that she knows he'll be good for it. "Come on."

"So demanding," Stephen chides, but he listens all the same, hand sliding down between them to work his finger over her clit, tracing careful circles. He doesn't want to tease it out anymore than she does, but he doesn't want to hurt her either, and she has to be incredibly sensitive by now as it is. If they want more tonight — and fuck, he really does — then he can't be too rough with her now. Free hand tangling in her hair, he pulls her close for another kiss. He may not have too much more in him, but he means to drag this out for every second he can get.

I can't help feeling we could have had it all

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