Timed to a week after V-Day
Mar. 3rd, 2016 11:51 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
minimumbullshitThe worst part?
He remembered every second of it. Every moment, feeling this blissful, shallow delight at the very thought of Max Carrigan. The warmth. The impossible certainty that they were meant to be together forever. Hell, he'd almost bought a ring. Instead, he'd seared the bastard's name into his goddamn flesh.
At least he hadn't had it tattooed onto his ass.
Instead, it followed the line of his collar bone, in delicate, black script. Why he'd fucking put it there, where the edge of it peaked from under the collar of his shirts, almost impossible to explain away, he didn't have the first fucking clue. But there it was, permanently.
Or for a few weeks, when he started the rounds of exorbitantly priced laser treatments to have it removed.
The first few days afterward, when it was still tender and healing, he'd been able to hide it under a bandage. He'd blamed it on a freaked accident at work, and Max, being Max and wrapped up in his own shit, hadn't asked many questions.
Nearly a week after Valentine's Day, and the lie just seemed pointless.
He'd come home from work and ducked upstairs for a shower. When he came down, towel slung low on his hips, he was peeling at the curling edges of the tape holding the damp bandage over the evidence of his fucking humiliation.
Okay, maybe he was exaggerating, but the goddamn i was dotted with a heart.
"So," he said, approaching Max with a stern look, "Something fucking roofied me on fucking Valentine's Day." He peeled back the bandage. "And you're not going to say a fucking word about it."
He remembered every second of it. Every moment, feeling this blissful, shallow delight at the very thought of Max Carrigan. The warmth. The impossible certainty that they were meant to be together forever. Hell, he'd almost bought a ring. Instead, he'd seared the bastard's name into his goddamn flesh.
At least he hadn't had it tattooed onto his ass.
Instead, it followed the line of his collar bone, in delicate, black script. Why he'd fucking put it there, where the edge of it peaked from under the collar of his shirts, almost impossible to explain away, he didn't have the first fucking clue. But there it was, permanently.
Or for a few weeks, when he started the rounds of exorbitantly priced laser treatments to have it removed.
The first few days afterward, when it was still tender and healing, he'd been able to hide it under a bandage. He'd blamed it on a freaked accident at work, and Max, being Max and wrapped up in his own shit, hadn't asked many questions.
Nearly a week after Valentine's Day, and the lie just seemed pointless.
He'd come home from work and ducked upstairs for a shower. When he came down, towel slung low on his hips, he was peeling at the curling edges of the tape holding the damp bandage over the evidence of his fucking humiliation.
Okay, maybe he was exaggerating, but the goddamn i was dotted with a heart.
"So," he said, approaching Max with a stern look, "Something fucking roofied me on fucking Valentine's Day." He peeled back the bandage. "And you're not going to say a fucking word about it."
