BrigitsFlame, September - Week 4
Original fic for
brigits_flame.
Title: Pretending
Prompt: Thirsty
Word Count: 566
Rating: R
Summary: And the shadow of the day/Will embrace the world in grey/And the sun will set for you. --Shadow of the Day, Linking Park
Author's Note: FFFFF I WROTE PORN (KINDA). Thus why it is so short, since I generally am not good at this stuff. Yesss.
The first kiss is a mistake too late to take back, all teeth and no tongue and completely desperate. It takes him by surprise, but he finds himself feeding of the urgency of her hot breaths on his lips. She almost flutters open her eyes, but then he closes his and both their bodies are blind, tingling and pretending, and then they’re on the bed. Squeaking in protest at their combined weight, the patch-quilt covered bed smells of old crayons and dust, of memories and better times. The blue walls have a reddish tint from the sunlight peaking through ugly beige curtains and glancing off the red pillows.
With a harsh intake of breath, he bites her lip as her hand crawls inside his pants, the other hand’s thumb rubbing a small circle on the bare skin of his back. Her thumb is cool and gentle against his feverish skin. He wonders vaguely through the haze when he lost his shirt and tie. She’s pushing up against him, bra still on but stiff dress pulled down around her waist. She falters in her rhythm for a moment when she feels one of his hands grab a foot, peeling off her pantyhose so he can play absently with her toes, and the other slides slowly up the inside of her thigh, tickling and tender. She gasps softly as his fingers find their destination, and tightens her fingers which in turn make him gasp. The bed groans at their frustrations, and now they’re not sitting up anymore. Creaking springs work furiously and the guests downstairs would be blushing and trading awkward glances and snickering and making dirty jokes if the stereo wasn’t blasting a cheesy love ballad and the live band outside wasn’t making the house shake softly with its bass. Her head smashes roughly against the cherry headboard and he slams his elbow into the bedside lamp, but there is no stopping and no moaning and no dirty talk and no giggles, just clinging and slipping, sweaty skin and then a quiet, collective sigh-sob of,
“-Jack! (Oh, Jack…!)”
Tears pool at the corners of two sets of eyes, finally open and staring into one another, and then her tears trickle over and his nose begins to run. She chuckles a bit through the tears and then for-real cries, and he lies beside her, letting her tears fall onto his arms as he lets his fall into her hair. A sad, sweating scent envelops the room and she’s glad she locked the door. He’s glad too. They can stay here for a minute, not listening to the low buzz of voices and laughter against the faint music from outside-just listening to their own tears and woes in the company of another who does not care and will not judge. Because once crayons and musty air replaces the stench of grief and doomed desire, they will put on happy smiles that barely reach their eyes and be the best man and maid of honor who are in love with the now-married groom. But for now they can cry and curse and fling snot on stupid red pillows, asking how to make this ache go away and thirsting for an answer they know won’t be easily found, if ever found at all.
Two mockingbirds sing in the tree outside the bedroom's window, lonely against the cacophony of life.
brigits_flame.
Title: Pretending
Prompt: Thirsty
Word Count: 566
Rating: R
Summary: And the shadow of the day/Will embrace the world in grey/And the sun will set for you. --Shadow of the Day, Linking Park
Author's Note: FFFFF I WROTE PORN (KINDA). Thus why it is so short, since I generally am not good at this stuff. Yesss.
The first kiss is a mistake too late to take back, all teeth and no tongue and completely desperate. It takes him by surprise, but he finds himself feeding of the urgency of her hot breaths on his lips. She almost flutters open her eyes, but then he closes his and both their bodies are blind, tingling and pretending, and then they’re on the bed. Squeaking in protest at their combined weight, the patch-quilt covered bed smells of old crayons and dust, of memories and better times. The blue walls have a reddish tint from the sunlight peaking through ugly beige curtains and glancing off the red pillows.
With a harsh intake of breath, he bites her lip as her hand crawls inside his pants, the other hand’s thumb rubbing a small circle on the bare skin of his back. Her thumb is cool and gentle against his feverish skin. He wonders vaguely through the haze when he lost his shirt and tie. She’s pushing up against him, bra still on but stiff dress pulled down around her waist. She falters in her rhythm for a moment when she feels one of his hands grab a foot, peeling off her pantyhose so he can play absently with her toes, and the other slides slowly up the inside of her thigh, tickling and tender. She gasps softly as his fingers find their destination, and tightens her fingers which in turn make him gasp. The bed groans at their frustrations, and now they’re not sitting up anymore. Creaking springs work furiously and the guests downstairs would be blushing and trading awkward glances and snickering and making dirty jokes if the stereo wasn’t blasting a cheesy love ballad and the live band outside wasn’t making the house shake softly with its bass. Her head smashes roughly against the cherry headboard and he slams his elbow into the bedside lamp, but there is no stopping and no moaning and no dirty talk and no giggles, just clinging and slipping, sweaty skin and then a quiet, collective sigh-sob of,
“-Jack! (Oh, Jack…!)”
Tears pool at the corners of two sets of eyes, finally open and staring into one another, and then her tears trickle over and his nose begins to run. She chuckles a bit through the tears and then for-real cries, and he lies beside her, letting her tears fall onto his arms as he lets his fall into her hair. A sad, sweating scent envelops the room and she’s glad she locked the door. He’s glad too. They can stay here for a minute, not listening to the low buzz of voices and laughter against the faint music from outside-just listening to their own tears and woes in the company of another who does not care and will not judge. Because once crayons and musty air replaces the stench of grief and doomed desire, they will put on happy smiles that barely reach their eyes and be the best man and maid of honor who are in love with the now-married groom. But for now they can cry and curse and fling snot on stupid red pillows, asking how to make this ache go away and thirsting for an answer they know won’t be easily found, if ever found at all.
Two mockingbirds sing in the tree outside the bedroom's window, lonely against the cacophony of life.