... and all of my stumbling phrases never amounted to anything worth this feeling
Title: ... and all of my stumbling phrases never amounted to anything worth this feeling
Author: ardvari
Rating: M
Pairing: Original (f/f)
Disclaimer: Mine, all mine!
A/N: Came out of nowhere and requested to be written, and fast. Title taken from All this and heaven too by Florence & the Machine.
... and all of my stumbling phrases never amounted to anything worth this feeling
It feels like fate a little maybe, the night they meet. It’s raining outside, the kind of misty rain that hangs everywhere and doesn’t seem to ever really fall, the kind of rain that leaves everything sopping wet, and that makes the orange globes of light from the street lamps seem blurry and out of focus.
She feels out of focus, too, like maybe she drank one too many of those fruity drinks to be driving, as if the alcohol has suddenly made her reckless and now here she is, driving her old, black car through this weather with clammy fingers and an almost-stranger beside her. Her head isn’t spinning though and she feels oddly grounded as she drives through this city that feels both small and large, that seems to sleep and never really does. Someone always gets shot or assaulted here at night, something always happens.
The woman beside her talks occasionally, sentences that are loosely strung together, asks questions, her dark eyes twinkling in the half light. Her hair was straight at the bar and now isn’t because of the rain, it’s curling up at the ends and growing wavy all over. It’s dark, the kind of black that could be believable if her roots weren’t showing.
She wonders if maybe the hair is what had caught her eye earlier, the way the colorful, flashing lights had reflected off of it, but then she thinks it’s stupid and not true, the first thing that caught her eye had been the woman’s eyes.
Not so much the color, green and then amber around her pupils, but the look in them, the kind of look people’s eyes get when they start living their lives with abandon, with a kind of scientific purpose that lets them wake up in the morning and not worry so much about what might happen because, in the end, it’ll just be another notch in the wood.
She’s seen that look before and she’s intrigued by it, intrigued enough that now here they are, in her car, and the woman gives her lazy directions that takes them the long way to the part of the city that’s full of old houses with huge front porches, where the trees are big and the lifestyles alternative.
“Seventh house on the left,” the woman says and then doesn’t tell her to stop as if she actually expected her to count out the houses.
Earlier, over the pounding beat of music imported straight from Europe, she’d listened to this woman talk about the universe, about foreign countries, about life in general. And then, just before they had left, she’d looked into her eyes, had watched them shift from lucid brilliance to deep-rooted longing as she’d discussed the end of the world.
This was maybe what had coaxed her to drive her home, this woman whose voice had shifted when she’d talked about the end of the world, all that quiet longing for this life to be over, for all life to be over without having to move a single finger to do anything about it at all. There’d been hope in her voice, the kind of hope everyone always thinks is strange because she’s hoping for death and really nothing else apart from that.
She parks the car under one of the street lamps and they’re both bathed in orange light. It’s windy now, too, and leaves are tumbling off the trees and get stuck to the windshield of her car. The woman next to her takes off her seatbelt and then her jacket and her shirt, and then she climbs across the center console with more grace than any one single person should possess.
She reaches out almost automatically and grips the woman’s hips, steadies her before she can topple back against the steering wheel and honk the horn by accident, and then it’s just lips sliding along lips and tongues dueling. This isn’t what she’d planned on but it’s certainly what she’d hoped for, and the woman’s fingers unbuttoning her shirt are warm and confident and quick. There’s just skin on skin then after their bras come off, too, and then the woman pops open the button of her pants and slips her hand inside and then all bets are off and the windows fog up and she hopes, really hopes that no one will walk by and see them. They shudder, both of them, in the humid air that’s growing both hot and cold at the same time as fingers search and then find, and then, while the woman sucks her bottom lip between her teeth and nibbles, she cries out and wonders if anyone behind those dark windows can hear her.
She makes the woman come, too, hard and fast because someone who longs for the world to end deserves to know exactly why living might be worth it, that while her world is rocked and shattered and then built up again, she’s truly living and free.
“Thanks,” the woman says afterwards and she’s not sure exactly for what as their lips meet again, and then there’s some fumbling and all of a sudden the woman is gone, skips across the wet streets holding her pile of clothes in front of her naked chest.
She stares after her, watches her slip into one of the dark houses and knows, just knows that she won’t stand by the window and wait until she drives away, she’ll climb into bed somewhere in that dark house and she’ll dream of what it might be like to see the end of the world, will hope and long to be around somehow, somewhere, to watch the Andromeda galaxy collide with the Milky Way billions of years from now.
That’s the kind of person she is, intriguing and fast and unapologetic, weary of the world and clinging to it all at once. She runs a hand through her short hair and then she drives away and she thinks that yes, this was definitely fate pushing them together tonight; fate and something else, something strong and much, much older than fate could ever be.
Author: ardvari
Rating: M
Pairing: Original (f/f)
Disclaimer: Mine, all mine!
A/N: Came out of nowhere and requested to be written, and fast. Title taken from All this and heaven too by Florence & the Machine.
... and all of my stumbling phrases never amounted to anything worth this feeling
It feels like fate a little maybe, the night they meet. It’s raining outside, the kind of misty rain that hangs everywhere and doesn’t seem to ever really fall, the kind of rain that leaves everything sopping wet, and that makes the orange globes of light from the street lamps seem blurry and out of focus.
She feels out of focus, too, like maybe she drank one too many of those fruity drinks to be driving, as if the alcohol has suddenly made her reckless and now here she is, driving her old, black car through this weather with clammy fingers and an almost-stranger beside her. Her head isn’t spinning though and she feels oddly grounded as she drives through this city that feels both small and large, that seems to sleep and never really does. Someone always gets shot or assaulted here at night, something always happens.
The woman beside her talks occasionally, sentences that are loosely strung together, asks questions, her dark eyes twinkling in the half light. Her hair was straight at the bar and now isn’t because of the rain, it’s curling up at the ends and growing wavy all over. It’s dark, the kind of black that could be believable if her roots weren’t showing.
She wonders if maybe the hair is what had caught her eye earlier, the way the colorful, flashing lights had reflected off of it, but then she thinks it’s stupid and not true, the first thing that caught her eye had been the woman’s eyes.
Not so much the color, green and then amber around her pupils, but the look in them, the kind of look people’s eyes get when they start living their lives with abandon, with a kind of scientific purpose that lets them wake up in the morning and not worry so much about what might happen because, in the end, it’ll just be another notch in the wood.
She’s seen that look before and she’s intrigued by it, intrigued enough that now here they are, in her car, and the woman gives her lazy directions that takes them the long way to the part of the city that’s full of old houses with huge front porches, where the trees are big and the lifestyles alternative.
“Seventh house on the left,” the woman says and then doesn’t tell her to stop as if she actually expected her to count out the houses.
Earlier, over the pounding beat of music imported straight from Europe, she’d listened to this woman talk about the universe, about foreign countries, about life in general. And then, just before they had left, she’d looked into her eyes, had watched them shift from lucid brilliance to deep-rooted longing as she’d discussed the end of the world.
This was maybe what had coaxed her to drive her home, this woman whose voice had shifted when she’d talked about the end of the world, all that quiet longing for this life to be over, for all life to be over without having to move a single finger to do anything about it at all. There’d been hope in her voice, the kind of hope everyone always thinks is strange because she’s hoping for death and really nothing else apart from that.
She parks the car under one of the street lamps and they’re both bathed in orange light. It’s windy now, too, and leaves are tumbling off the trees and get stuck to the windshield of her car. The woman next to her takes off her seatbelt and then her jacket and her shirt, and then she climbs across the center console with more grace than any one single person should possess.
She reaches out almost automatically and grips the woman’s hips, steadies her before she can topple back against the steering wheel and honk the horn by accident, and then it’s just lips sliding along lips and tongues dueling. This isn’t what she’d planned on but it’s certainly what she’d hoped for, and the woman’s fingers unbuttoning her shirt are warm and confident and quick. There’s just skin on skin then after their bras come off, too, and then the woman pops open the button of her pants and slips her hand inside and then all bets are off and the windows fog up and she hopes, really hopes that no one will walk by and see them. They shudder, both of them, in the humid air that’s growing both hot and cold at the same time as fingers search and then find, and then, while the woman sucks her bottom lip between her teeth and nibbles, she cries out and wonders if anyone behind those dark windows can hear her.
She makes the woman come, too, hard and fast because someone who longs for the world to end deserves to know exactly why living might be worth it, that while her world is rocked and shattered and then built up again, she’s truly living and free.
“Thanks,” the woman says afterwards and she’s not sure exactly for what as their lips meet again, and then there’s some fumbling and all of a sudden the woman is gone, skips across the wet streets holding her pile of clothes in front of her naked chest.
She stares after her, watches her slip into one of the dark houses and knows, just knows that she won’t stand by the window and wait until she drives away, she’ll climb into bed somewhere in that dark house and she’ll dream of what it might be like to see the end of the world, will hope and long to be around somehow, somewhere, to watch the Andromeda galaxy collide with the Milky Way billions of years from now.
That’s the kind of person she is, intriguing and fast and unapologetic, weary of the world and clinging to it all at once. She runs a hand through her short hair and then she drives away and she thinks that yes, this was definitely fate pushing them together tonight; fate and something else, something strong and much, much older than fate could ever be.