maybe if she had been called beautiful before with so much drive, she wouldn't have been so
stuck
on the one drunk boy from the street.
but he had meant it in such a way―
she was doomed right from the start.
༻❁༺
―on a girl with bad days, the first b...
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「 I 」 THIRTEEN.
she and Morrison retired in the nice boy's guest bedroom. Morrison had barely had to exchange a few words with him before he told them that of course they could stay the night, and Marguerite could borrow his sister's old clothes.
"did you have a good time, Presley?"
she decided to correct him this time. "i didn't change my name like you, Morrison."
"oh?" he walked closer to where she was sitting on the edge of the bed. "then why did Tyler tell me my friend Presley was really cool and she should come to more of their shows because she was so kind and supportive?" it was like a recitation. Tyler. the singer in the band.
when she didn't answer, he laughed. "Marguerite just isn't working for you, is it?"
"stop," she said finally. "it's fine. it's my name. always has been and always will be."
"it's fine," he repeated, walking towards her until his knees bumped her own. he looked down at her,
forcing their eyes to meet,
and it got hard to breathe,
and no, this wasn't good at all.
"you told him your name was Presley because that's who you are." how did he sound so sure of himself with every word that fell from his placidly sober mouth? how could he possibly know all the things she could never fathom?
"you don't know who i am," she tried to say, but her words were pathetically soft. "just like you won't say who you are, Morrison."
he didn't respond to that. he just watched her. his eyes had fallen on her too intensely when he finally said,
"you should stand up, Presley."
he didn't move when her legs betrayed her and lifted her up to his level. they were close, and heat was radiating from his body, and there was still a faint smell of marijuana tangled up within his curls, and he was everything she could've wanted at once.
his breath washed over her lips, and she let her hands find their own way to the back of his neck, and he let out a small, breathy laugh.
helaughed.
"all you had to do was stand," he said quietly, tone both endearing and mocking.
it was all too frustrating.
she pushed past him, walking towards the door in confused agitation, when she felt that familiar unfamiliar hand close around her wrist.
"look, Morrison—" she said as he pulled her back towards him and found her lips, pressing them to his own.
in that moment, her heartbeat took a long, breathless pause.
bright yellows.
blossoming pinks.
colors unmatched.
he pulled back to make whatever stupid remark Morrison would make, and she leaned toward him, finally getting to t a n g l e her fingers in his dark curls—softer, she realized, than his hands—and pull him back to her. and she kissed him with everything in her, with movements both learned and unlearned. want. want was finally governing her.
when she detached her lips from his to breathe, he said in gasping breaths, "what was it you were going to say?"
and she didn't want to hear anymore.
so she decided she'd collected enough breath and brought her lips back to his own, leaning her whole body into his because she just
couldn't get enough
of the vision with perpetual stray curls.
a soft whimper escaped her lips when he pulled away, but the trail of kisses he left along her jawline and down her neck made up for it. she felt a burst of sunlight escape from some spot on her collarbone, and
there was probably going to be a mark there.
and when she got home, she would have hell to pay, but it didn't matter because on this perfect night, she had been kissed by the boy who called her "pretty girl," and she still smelled like substances and perfect boys.
and she wouldn't do anything to change that.
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NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR TO YOU: i have two opinions on this chapter.
one is that it's too early and a good old-fashioned slow burn would work better.
the other is that a slow burn isn't how these two operate. Morrison isn't young, nor is he inexperienced, so this moment likely doesn't mean as much to him as it does to me, or even to Marguerite.
