Notes

baby, a bruise is only your body trying to keep you intact by cardinalrachelieu (Restricted)
Fandoms:Figure Skating RPF
Mature
No Archive Warnings Apply
F/M
Complete Work
25 Mar 2018
Tags
No Archive Warnings ApplyScott Moir/Tessa VirtueScott Moir Tessa VirtueSmut if they don't sort their shit out this is my bet on what the future holds Don't @ Me G O D these two are so Messy™ i need a drink
Summary
His jaw works around some desperate plea, some half-formed desire. "Tess," he says, fingers digging into her waist, breath fanning against her lips, "we can't keep doing this."

She drags a palm over his chest, delights in the way he shudders at her touch. "Doing what?" she replies, all innocence and ignorance, as if this is just another part of some routine, as if his cock isn't still pulsing inside her.



———————————



“Trevor asked me to marry him,” she says, watches the shift and pull of his features as the words sink in.

“Oh,” he replies, lips hardly moving, and then—“Congratulations.”

Tell me to refuse, she wants to say. Tell me I’m making a mistake.

He pulls her close and kisses her cheek and his arms have never felt so stiff around her shoulders as he says, “I’m so happy for you.”

I can tell when you’re lying, she wants to say. “Thank you,” is what she whispers into his jacket as her arms tighten around his waist.





Her fiancé is perfect for her. He loves traveling and enjoys fashion and supports her every time she gets the itch to take on a new project. There’s just one problem. He’s not—

“Scott Moir,” someone says, and her head snaps up.

His cheeks are pink with cold and he’s bundled so thoroughly his chest has lost all definition, but he made it. Barely.

A team of makeup artists and stylists and producers descend on him as he shrugs out of his coat. He manages to squeak out a hello before they shove him into a chair and begin the monumental task of preparing him for this talk show appearance.

Tessa’s hair stylist tsks at her, so she goes back to looking down. “Cutting it a bit close this time,” she chides, lips stretching into a smile, and steals a sidelong glance at her partner.

Someone bops him on the nose before he can respond, hisses out a stay still, and Tessa has to stifle a giggle.

After the cameras stop rolling and the hosts are distracted with thanking the audience for attending, he presses a kiss to the back of her hand and pinches his lips together.

She furrows her brows and tilts her head.

“Sorry I was late,” he whispers.

She squeezes his hand. “Don’t worry about it.”

There’s something sincere behind his eyes. “Let me make it up to you?”

(She should’ve figured it out then—or any of the dozen other times her stomach flipped when he said those words—that she was ruined for anyone else.)





There’s not a cloud in the sky the Friday afternoon she marries Trevor. No rain to delay the ceremony, no breeze to interfere with pictures, no sign from God that what she feels in her gut is true—that this may be the right thing to do but it’s the wrong thing to be.

Scott’s there, but he’s not—not the part of him that makes her feel whole, anyway. He smiles and claps and kisses her cheek and offers a sincere congratulations, but he feels hollow, like a projection.

Be with me, she wants to say, but how can he? She’s gone where he can’t follow. So she bites her tongue and hugs him tight and pretends not to see the pained look on his face as he shakes Trevor’s hand.

(He’s a better person that she’ll ever be. Always has been.)

He leaves before the reception begins, and all she can think about during her and Trevor’s first dance, her new husband’s hands placed so carefully on her body as he takes them both through the practiced steps of a simple waltz, is how effortlessly Scott would’ve twirled her around the dancefloor.





The first time it happens is the day she gets back from her honeymoon. She’s jetlagged and probably looks like a zombie when she stops at the rink, but she doesn’t care. She needs to see him. Nine days abroad has felt like an eternity.

Rubber and cold and something familiar drape themselves over her senses as she pushes open the giant glass doors. It’s late and the lights are all but powered down, but she knows he’s here. His car was still in the parking lot when she pulled in.

“Scott?” she calls, not meaning to sound quite so breathless.

He pops up from behind the boards, a big grin on his face, and, God, she’s missed him.

He drops whatever was in his hands and half-walks, half-runs to where she’s standing. “You’re glowing,” he says as he wraps her in a hug, and she feels home. “Fiji treated you well.”

Something clicks back into place in her chest. Something deep. And then her lips are on his.

He doesn’t pull back like she expects, doesn’t say this is wrong or we should stop or what are you doing? Instead he crushes her closer and tangles his hands in her hair and sighs her name like he did when they were younger and just as reckless.

It’s fast and desperate and wrong in every measurable way, but she doesn’t regret it. (She could never regret being with him.) It’s only after—when they’re slick with sweat; when he won’t quite meet her gaze; when she feels the cool weight of the ring on her third finger—that the first notes of guilt strum through her soul.

“That was a mistake,” he says, but there’s no conviction in the words.

“Yeah,” she agrees, and at least has the decency to wait thirty seconds before swinging her leg over his waist and rolling her hips against his.





The second time it happens, there’s alcohol involved. (Months later, when Trevor confronts her, she’ll blame her lapse in judgement on the three martinis she had. She won’t mention they’d worn off by the time Scott had slid into her.)

She traps a moan behind her teeth, acutely aware of their press team in the adjoining hotel suite.

“No,” he commands, grips the back of her neck as he drives into her again and again and again. “I want to hear you.”

She shakes her head, clamps her lips together, tightens her fingers over the rounded ledge of the desk.

But then his teeth scrape against that spot on her neck and his hand is squeezing her ass so hard there’s bound to be a bruise and he’s whispering the filthiest things in her ear, and so she lets herself go, lets his name tumble from her lips, and releases the shuddering, keening sound she knows he wants to hear.

He fucks her again in the shower before they fall asleep on the oversized bed in his room, and then she slips back across the hall just before dawn.

(It’s an Oscar-worthy performance when she opens the door an hour and twelve minutes later to greet him and the rest of their team.)





“Have a safe flight,” Trevor says and kisses her temple. He waits for her to get through security, offers a final wave once she’s on the other side of the metal detectors, and then leaves.

Scott shows up twenty minutes later, two cups of coffee and a paper bag of something delicious in hand.

“Morning,” he says, relaxing into the seat next to her.

“Morning,” she replies, and takes the flat white he’s offering.

They’ve been fooling around for months, but the ugly truth finally catches up to her at thirty thousand feet, a thin red blanket covering her lap and Scott’s fingers buried inside her. It’s the first time she realizes that what she’s currently doing—what she’s been doing—is cheating. (It’s an odd feeling, to realize you’re a horrible person.)

Scott turns the page in his book and smiles up at the flight attendant who stops beside their row.

“Something to drink?” she asks, and Tessa wonders if her face looks as flushed as it feels.

“Coffee,” Scott says smoothly, fingers still moving inside her with such a punishing swiftness that she knows it’s only a matter of seconds before she unravels completely. “No cream or sugar.”

The woman busies herself with uncapping a thermos. “And for you, miss?”

Tessa shakes her head back and forth, doesn’t trust her request for water to come out as anything but a strangled moan.

“She’ll take water,” Scott says as he brushes his thumb over her clit. “Extra ice.”

Tessa presses her eyes shut, nods.

As the flight attendant prepares their drinks, Scott leans over and hovers his lips close to her ear. “Come for me,” he whispers, so quietly she barely hears it, and then a wave of something bright crests though her and she has to hold her breath to keep from groaning in pleasure.

The flight attendant is four rows back when the pulsing finally subsides and she opens her eyes. Scott winks at her in the middle of taking a sip of coffee, a smug grin on his face.

He withdraws his fingers and slides her cup of water closer, eyes going back to his novel. “Drink up, T.” Another sip of coffee. “It’s important to stay hydrated.”

(She decides to do what she does best: compartmentalize. It’s the only way she can continue to be both a wife and a partner.)





It’s not that she doesn’t love Trevor—she does, truly. It’s just… she also loves Scott. (How could she not? Is it possible to spend twenty-five years with someone and not love them?)

But they could never be together, never be more than… whatever it is they are. They’re too different.

Scott sighs and rests his forehead against hers. His jaw works around some desperate plea, some half-formed desire. "Tess," he says, fingers digging into her waist, breath fanning against her lips, "we can't keep doing this."

She drags a palm over his chest, delights in the way he shudders at her touch. "Doing what?" she replies, all innocence and ignorance, as if this is just another part of some routine, as if his cock isn't still pulsing inside her.

He groans and covers her mouth with his.

Tessa takes two showers before going home, hopes Trevor won’t be able to smell Scott’s scent all over her. By some miracle, it works, but Tessa sees something flash across her husband’s face when he sinks into her later that night.

She can read the thought behind his eyes: You don’t normally feel like this. Or maybe it’s just the guilt talking.

Either way, she rolls them over and fucks him with such exuberance that he can barely remember his own name by the time he comes. (She doesn’t, but that’s nothing new.)

“What did I ever do to deserve you?” he huffs, one arm lazily thrown over his eyes and a content smile warming his features.

(Tessa can’t bring herself to answer, so she presses a kiss to his cheek and tucks herself against his chest until sleep claims them both.)





“The whole time?” Trevor grits, fist clenched at his side.

Tessa says nothing.

He leaves without another word, and Tessa knows it’s tasteless, but she doesn’t have anyone else she can call—not about this. So she picks up the phone, and he answers on the second ring.

“Tess?” he says, so earnest that it hurts.

She breathes, presses her eyes shut, tries to force away the moisture. There aren’t words for this, she realizes.

Something metallic jingles on the other end of the line, and then his voice, determined and stiff—“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

(It only takes him ten.)





The divorce is quick—painlessly so. She goes out of town one weekend, and when she comes back on Sunday night, Trevor’s things are no longer in their—her house. He doesn’t tell anyone the real reason the two of them split up. She should probably be grateful, but she’s only bitter.

It would make things easier if he’d done something to make her hate him. Alas, he’s stubbornly noble. Hilariously, it’s one of the reasons she fell in love with him.

Tessa takes a pull from the half-empty bottle of wine clutched between her fingers. “I could’ve been a good wife,” she says absently.

Scott draws her closer, palm smoothing over her spine.

Her head feels uneven and thick and sloppy when she pulls back to look at him. “Do you think we’ve ruined each other?” she asks, words sticky with merlot and guilt.

He gulps and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and presses a kiss to her forehead. His silence speaks louder than any words he’s ever said.

(They stop having sex two weeks later.)





“I asked Kaitlyn to marry me,” he says, a half-smile pulling on one corner of his mouth.

“Oh.” It’s not like she should be surprised. He and Kaitlyn have been building to this for months, years even. Still, though. It seems sudden. And then Tessa notices the way he’s looking at her, like she's botched a step sequence. “Congratulations,” she blurts out.

Something washes over his features, but she pulls him in for a hug before she can place the emotion. “I’m so happy for you,” she says, not meaning a single word. Does that make her a bad person?

(No, it doesn’t... but fucking him less than an hour after he says his vows certainly does.)