I don't even know what this is, honestly. I should be studying for everything, but I'm writing this. What is my life even?

This contains smut. I mean, I guess it's smut. But if this is smut, then what I was going to write is what, porn? Ugh, reads this will mostly like be confused, I am sure of it. If you are, I may be able to help. So just ask.

Title from Two Tongues - The Swell Season.

you fall to pieces like you do.

And he says let me love you easy, let me love you right.

The beginning goes like this:

Stefan's hands eagerly roam under her shirt, fingers gripping hungrily for something to hold onto, something tangible, because he doesn't believe this is real.

Because he doesn't get her in the end. He doesn't.

She's straddling his lap, arching her back when his fingers skim over her skin so fiercely that she has to tremble and arch and dig her fingers into the back of his head. She presses her lips to his harder, wants to maybe feel his teeth clash against hers, eases her tongue in and oh, his hand finds the side of her breast, and he kneads it, oh.

She, now hungry, now needing, endeavors to pull his shirt off. Her fingernails drag against his sides as she pulls the shirt up and over his head, dropping it beside them. She brings her hands back to his face; the tips of her fingers grazing against his ear, thumbs settling over his cheeks. She catches his moan in her mouth when she presses down on him. Wants him to breathe out of her name next, or take off her shirt, her pants, her underwear; take her apart and delicately put her back together when he's finished.

She pulls away though, and swiftly, but with shaky hands, pulls her shirt off and throws it to the ground. She looks into his eyes — sees the desire and darkness mixed with gentleness and ease — and decides to get lost in them. She will not think about anything else in these moments — only Stefan and his hand as it unclasps her bra and his eyes as they rake over her bare chest and this feeling in the pit of her stomach that says fucking Stefan, just like that with mirth and desire. She tells him, "touch me," so softly, too softly, that she almost breaks when he finally does; fingers dancing over the skin of her breasts so easily, too easily. She pulls his mouth to hers, kisses him until it starts hurting again.

Stefan's hands fall down her abdomen, leaving a trail of chills as he goes. Easily, and quickly, he flicks open the button of her jeans, folds his hand into them at the side, squeezes at her hip. She feels his fingers, searching and eager, as they dip under the fabric of her panties — warm against the softness of her skin.

She pulls away again, begins to stand and feels the absence of his hands on her body. She stands in front of him and he's looking at her and she sees that same desire in his eyes, never fleeting. She tucks her thumbs into her jeans and panties and begins to shimmy out of them, stepping out when they're on the floor — the whole while keeping Stefan's stare, measuring it with her own desire and mirth and the feeling in the pit of her stomach.

She catches his eyes as they roam over her body, knows he hasn't seen her like this in too many months, wants him to know he has her right now, right here.

He stands after a moment, and she watches his chest rise and fall as he catches his breath, feels a pulsating sensation run throughout her body, settling into certain parts where she's ached for him, wants to call out to him, come here.

But she hears the sound of his belt unbuckling and the sound of his zipper as it is slowly pulled down, watches his jeans and boxers fall to the floor. Her eyes shoot back up to his face, catches him clenching his jaw. She moves to him then, stands right in front of him, her feet suddenly cold from the floor, toes curl under. Her eyes settle on the planes of his chest right in front of her and when she looks up she presses her lips to his chin in a soft and measured manner. She carries her kisses upward more until she finds his lips; at the same moment, his hands find a place to settle on her hips.

She knows his eyes have slipped closed too, and she knows that his brow is furrowed, and she knows that his speech is getting lost in the kiss, and she knows that he wants this badly, needs this — can feel his grip tighten on her. Wants him to hold tighter, harder, wants a bruise — wants to remember his hands on her and all over her and his fingers in her and she shivers at that thought, kisses him harder and there are his teeth clashing against hers until it hurts.

Stefan falls back on the bed with her still in his grasp. All he thinks of is the coolness of his sheets on his back and Elena lying over his front and this intense pressure that feels good when she presses her hips against his.

She hasn't said anything and he doesn't know if he should say anything, doesn't know if there's words for this, for what he feels, and what he doesn't.

But then, there she is, there she says something, says, "Stefan," in a way that he remembers; so he flips her over with ease and this is something he's never forgotten — how to make her fall apart — and suddenly, and with ease, the back of his middle finger in trailing down her center. Her eyes fly open at that and her mouth falls open and away from his — he stares at her, allows himself to smirk a little. Then he enters one finger, feels her clench around him, and she says his name over and over. He tries not to forget what that sounds like — what she sounds like when she's needy and he can give, give, give to her and make her feel and now he remembers her telling him over and over to feel something.

He feels this, Elena. He feels this.

When he finally enters her, he tries to watch her face, tries to listen to her breathing, tries to calculate her movements — but fails miserably. He gets caught up in her and hasn't he always though. He stays still inside of her, tries to gather himself together for a minute, relishes in how good this feels right now.

Elena's eyes are shut tight, mouth agape, skin crawling. She tries to grab a hold of the sheets, but finds Stefan's hands braced beside her; she grasps his wrist and doesn't let go, tries to maintain some breathing.

He finally begins to move slowly, settling into a pattern. This is not foreign for him, he remembers. He did not, could not, will not forget how she feels when she's around him and how she likes it and what makes her dig her nails into his skin now and apologize later.

She releases a moan in his ear when he drops his head to her shoulder, still thrusting into her steadily and passionately. When she's close, and he knows she's close because he's close too, he kisses her heavily and moves once, twice in a circular motion. Elena falls apart around him and the way she does it — so elegantly, so sweetly, whispering his name over and over again — makes him come right after.

He doesn't move right after, lays there and peppers kisses to her face, tastes her sweat on his lips. When he finally does pull out, she winces and instantly feels the absence of him and wants it again, wants him again.

He rolls over and lies beside her, not touching. This is not like all the other times; he tells himself, none of this is. He would lean over and kiss her softly on the corner of her mouth and let her curl into him, head on his shoulder, hand running up and down his arm.

Now, he lies here, stares at the ceiling and remembers this; keeps it in the corner of his heart next to all the things he never said to her. Wants to keep it there, wants to sit and remember it, wants to remember her and having her and being the one she wanted.

Because it wasn't supposed to happen like this. He wasn't supposed to be enough.


This is what the end looks like:

She kisses him hungrily, eagerly, passionately, letting her hands run up and over his shoulders, feels him moan into her mouth.

Feels the mistake.

But disregards it, lets him kiss her breath away and run his fingers through her hair. He bites her lip and there's blood and there's a second when she's scared that he'll ruin her; take her and twist her until she knots up.

It goes away though. Because Elena remembers that she's supposed to handle this; she's not afraid of him, doesn't want to be afraid of him. "I'm not afraid of you," she'd told him in the beginning.

She pulls away from him to say, "I'm not afraid of you." Wipes the blood off of her lip.

"I'm afraid of you," he says, but kisses her to kill her words, to maybe kill her.

Because he isn't supposed to get her in the end. He isn't.


The middle:

Stefan wakes up and Elena's still beside him and she's staring at him and there's a smile that he remembers, has not forgotten.

Remembers a conversation about gazing and staring and her bed, not his, and her pillow, not his, and her Stefan, not this one.

He eats the words before he can say them.

Elena reaches out her hand and rests it on his forearm, squeezes gently, "Sorry about the scratches," she laughs quietly and it's so pretty. But he knew she'd say that, and he looks down at his side but doesn't see any scratches just like he knew he wouldn't.

But this is what they did then. Even though this is different now.

He chuckles and runs the back of his index finger down her cheek, just like he used to do. Tells her she looks beautiful in the morning, just like he used to do.

And she scoots over closer to him and kisses the underside of his jaw, just like she used to do, whispers "I love you," the same way, him hanging on each word like he used to do.

He says it back, over and over again. Wants it to mean something different this time. Needs it to mean something different this time.

Because he doesn't get her in the end. He doesn't.

This is what the beginning and end look like: