“There’s no more room.”
Phil let the knife fall from his hand and clatter to the sheet that they put down where he scratched the alien writing into, stepping back and looking at the room. They’d kept it locked and sealed from anyone as a ‘storage room’, but the only thing stored in there was Phil’s Hypergraphia.
He could hear Melinda now, standing and walking beside him and setting a hand on his tense shoulder. He relaxed from her touch, but the images were still going through his mind and he still didn’t know what to think. The lines and circles and patterns spun through his mind like a cobweb of words that he couldn’t come close to comprehending. “We don’t have the space for another room.” She said beside him, a finger tracing over the deep marks he’d made into the wall. He looked at her, her profile, and his fists clenched. She was trying to help, he knew, but he still knew nothing about the language. It was like he could almost reach it, almost, but wasn’t quite there.
“Use me.”
He had been so lost in his own thoughts that he nearly missed Melinda’s words. When he turned to look at her again she was pulling off her tank top and in just a sports bra, walking across the room. He stared after her, stunned, as she went through the bag she always brought with her when they did this, the bag he’d never found out what it contained, and pulled out a thick black Sharpie marker.
He didn’t move until she’d come back to him and taken his hand, putting the marker in the center of it and curling his fist around it. Then she was taking off the bra and he swallowed the sudden dryness at the sight of her breasts. He had seen Melinda, had touched her, but it had been years. Since before Bahrain, since the Academy, that he had. And then she was turning around and leaning her hands against the wall, back arched towards him and pulling her hair away so that he could see the bare expanse of her smooth back and looking over her shoulder at him.
Finally getting his mind to clear, Phil uncapped the marker and moved forward, one of his hands carefully on her waist to keep her still as he let the designs flow again. Lines spread from the circles and felt like tiny connections and his mind went between the drug that kept him seeing the patterns to the chemicals in his brain that sent tiny shocks from his fingertips every time they brushed the bottoms of her breasts and made him fully aware of just how soft her skin was.
He didn’t know how he knew when he’d finished, but by the time the patterns had made their way to her tailbone and he had to tug at her leggings to finish, he knew there was no more. And yet he was still full of energy, mind still buzzing, still so awake and alive and needing.
“Take the picture, Phil.” She whispered, and if he wasn’t mistaken, her voice sounded a bit shaky. He went to the camera and took a picture of her back, covered in the alien language and still looking so beautiful, so soft, and bringing it around so she could see. His arm brushed over hers, the edge of her breast, and she shivered.
As Melinda looked at the pictures, he couldn’t help but run the tips of his fingers over the patterns on her back, tracing all he’d written and wishing it wasn’t like this. That he wasn’t going insane and that she didn’t need to put a bullet in his head if it took a turn for the worse. “I’m scared.” He said softly, feeling her tremble beneath his fingers. He wasn’t sure if it was the adrenaline or his troubled mind or Melinda’s soft, soft skin, but he found himself pressing his lips to one of the spots on the back of her neck, uncovered, and sucking gently, his hands on her stomach to hold her close as he heard her sharp intake of breath. “I don’t know what is happening to me. Or why. You’re the only one who makes sense any more.” He hadn’t realized it until now but he could feel his cock, pressing hard, against his trousers and painfully, like he’d been hard for far longer than he had realized.
He was losing control.
“You have to stop me, Melinda.” He whispered. How long had it been since he’d called her by her first name? He was an imbicile. She wasn’t just anyone, she was Melinda, his Melinda, but she wasn’t ‘Agent May’, she was more than that. She had always been more than that. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” He half-sobbed, abruptly biting down, trying to mark her and wishing he could take her into him forever so every time he felt like this he had the one thing he needed. “Please. Please stop me.”
She wasn’t stopping him. He hated himself, so much, because his hand was tangling in her hair to give him better access to her throat as she let out a low moan and she’d pressed back against him. He grunted.
“Phil.” She whimpered. Her hand was in his hair. “I... I don’t think I want you to stop.” She said. He bit his lip, trying to think clearly but with her scent and her softness so close he couldn’t come close. His eyes slipped shut as he licked at the mark he’d made, growling at the feeling of it beneath his tongue, and pulled her so close against him he couldn’t remember where he started and she began. “Your shirt. Take off your shirt. You need to... To breathe.”
Not willing to argue with her logic, Phil’s hands went to the buttons of his shirt, undoing it quickly and untucking it from his pants. He pressed back up against her, this time his hands, rather than being at her waist, cupped her breasts from behind. Her reactions were instantaneous - arching her back into him and her ass pressed back against him. He groaned and massaged her breasts, trying to increase her pleasure, before slipping one hand from her to her leggings, sliding them down and leaving her in just her panties - black, like everything Melinda wore.
“Your pants, too.” She said, panting and whining as his thumbs went to her nipples and teased. He moved to unbuckle his belt, but when one of her hands stroked over him he knew trying to wait and be the least bit patient was out of the question. He undid the top button and shoved them down with his boxers, swallowing seeing his cock between them bobbing up against the hair on his stomach and harder than he’d ever remembered feeling.
“Let me in.” He asked, trying to keep from begging. He needed to know that she wanted this, wouldn’t be the monster the drug was trying to turn him into, but it was so hard to just not let go. Thankfully, when he was like this, Melinda was there. She wrapped an arm around his neck and pushed back, grinding against him and slipping the rest of her clothing down her legs, rising up on her toes so she could slide down onto him and his length was buried in her from behind, nearly sobbing at how tight she felt around him and finally feeling like he was safe and at home and protected.
The feeling of being so safe was fleeting, though, when she rocked up to help him thrust, but returned feeling her back on him. He just wanted to be in her forever. He needed her. Soon, though, he got into the rhythm of thrusting back and forth, rocking his hips into and out of her, while one hand moved to gently stroke between her legs.
She was whimpering quickly, he could see, and when he craned his neck to kiss just below her ear he could see her biting her lip. It was an amazing sight, Melinda May, trying to keep quiet while he stroked her clit in smooth movements determined to push her over the edge. He, however, was making no such attempts to keep quiet. Everytime he was back in her he let out a grunt, each movement to pull out of her accompanied with a loud whine.
He could feel when her orgasm began, a slow build that had her tightening almost imperceptibly and her whole body shuddering and her control of her vocal cords slipping. “Oh... Oh, Phil.” Her moan was quiet and perhaps not as loud as he would have liked - had she screamed with Ward? Could the younger Agent pleasure her the way he hoped to? - watching her climax sent him over the edge easily, groaning and thrusting his hips jerkily as he came inside of her, forgetting the world save for the scent of her soft, soft, dark hair.
Everything came spinning back, though, when they collapsed on the floor together, him pushing back so that he rested against the wall and slipping out of her, her head on his chest.
He’d just fucked his best friend. And it had been amazing, but that wasn’t what made a difference. He’d lost control.
“Do it.” He said. “Shoot me in the back of the head. Please do it, Mel.” He finally said, tears falling past his cheeks and onto the silk of her hair. He knew he should call her ‘May’ or ‘Agent May’, because calling her by her first name made it too personal and they needed to stop with personal. And he knew from that first day back in the field after he’d been revived that she liked being called Melinda, secretly, knew it was the only way to get anything out of her and this would be impossible to. “I can’t... I can’t let that happen again. No more warnings. Do it.” She wasn’t reacting but he knew she heard him when her hands with obscenely sharp nails dug into his skin.
“No.”
He couldn’t breathe. He wracked his mind, trying to remember if he’d even gotten consent. She hadn’t said the words, she’d moved with him, but what did that say about them? It said that he was the kind of man who didn’t ask permission and simply assumed by a woman’s actions rather than words what she wanted. He was disgusted with himself, pants around the vicinity of his knees and cock spent and still against her back, his shirt undone and loose around his shoulders, and she wearing nothing except the patterns that neither one of them could understand written on her back.
At least he hadn’t been so monstrous as to scratch them in with the knife.
“I can’t do it. I try to think of doing it and the only way it ends is by putting two in the back of my head after, one for you and one for me. An apology for hurting you and the anger at myself for causing it. Or else, it ends in not being able to and watching you fall apart.” He just barely heard her words because he could hear her crying over them. Short sobs that he was trying to understand because all his life he’d never known Melinda to cry, not unless she was alone, or thought she was.
He wasn’t the only one whose control had slipped.
He cradled her close, kissing her head and neck and any part of her he could reach, and just like that they were curled up together on the storage room floor, making love so slowly it nearly ached and crying as they held each other through it, whimpering about love and death and life in words neither could make out. They were both broken. She was too good for the life she was left with and he was too tainted for repair.
She was the canvas for when he fell apart and had to be put back together, but sometimes, he needed to be hers as well.