TWW Fic: all the walls of jericho
notes: for falseeeyelashes, who i adore and will probably write anything she tells me too. including carebear fic. not that i’m suggesting it. at all. *g* this just happened to not fit in the comment.
all the walls of jericho
oops! goes the alcoholic. she doesn’t believe in commitment, just conventions. the west wing. amy gardner/john hoynes. general spoilers for 2162 votes. 1,300 words, r.
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Her fingers bring the drink to bed with ice, tipped in glass over the sheets between them.
It's the hotel and maybe, too, the fact that she's still feeling a little festive. He hates her. Good. And it's one of those moments, Amy thinks, that goes beyond what she was thinking and then remembers her rules about the occasional dry and dirty fuck. Still though, she's got this thing for past, present, and future displays of power. The convention usually makes her do things like this; “he’ll do, he’ll do,” she whisper to friends later, never a name but a wide, amused smile into their lunches. It's just something to do.
"You're drinking scotch," he says darkly.
Oops! goes the alcoholic and her mouth is curling into a tight smirk, still with a little bit of a buzz. Her legs fold over the bed as she brings the glass to her lips to mock him, maybe or maybe not. She's always hated scotch because of the memories, the kind of memories that go back and forth between daddy complexes and first loves. Those are the stories that you won't get though. It still goes down her throat the way she needs it, full and bitter and just wet with the ice. She likes the ice the bed, the way it softens into her mouth and licks away at the rest of his taste. She lets him watch too and thinks about calling him mr. soon-to-be-president-elect to be a bitch because this is John Hoynes and Hoynes is the kind of man that she'd rather keep peeled in those stupid morality novels that she never read in college.
It's not a matter of can and won't, but what she is doing right and how it might remain to be seen. She's wearing his shirt, almost to mock him, the oxford hanging at her hips in amusement. Blue, just blue, and he's always been famous for doing that whole regular guy thing - it annoys and amuses her, even now. She admits to liking the buttons, small and clear, and picks at them as the tails of the shirt brush between her thighs.
"It’s a new day," says her mouth, curling, "it's a brand new day - there's a song about this. I dated a girl - guy, oops! But they wrote a song about something like this. He was a poet. I was in a phase."
Her skin is drunk with the moment still and she thinks about hours before. Still drunk. She had a glass of this and a glass of that before his hands weren't even his own anymore. His fingers bumbled over her breasts and hips as if she were someone else, somewhere else. Somebody told her once that he preferred his postcards to home. It’s okay though. Because she dated poets and musicians and politicians and activists and she's got cards and cards to use in case of an emergency. He stays watching her, or hasn't stopped, and reaches forward, his hand curling around her wrist to lead it into her hand as he peels the glass away from her fingers. He sighs. She remembers he was married. Or is. There are kids. There was Texas too, at one point. But that could've been years ago.
"I’m not proud of this."
He shrugs into her drink, tipping the glass back down his throat and licking away at the rim. He does have a wife. Amy imagines her back in the country, somewhere with a white picket fence and a shoebox full of daughters to marry off. Sober, unlike her. Isn’t this how the world still works? Her eyes move to his mouth though and she leans in, just to drop back into the pillows. The sheets spread and cup her ass and she's trying to remember if they did this once or twice, if she said his name or maybe someone else's. She’s not that creative when she's drunk. Or was drunk - some things still really don't matter.
"You’re sentimental."
She shrugs back, "I’m not into sentimental."
Ask Josh, she doesn’t tell him. It goes without saying, the naked and godless finger awake between the two of them. She looks past the sheets and the arch of his shoulder into the window peeking back into them. There's the city, but her eyes are hazy. The city speaks only in lights, smudging the time of day in late, late glows against the glass. It's for people in love. She's not in love. She thinks about DC. She just likes fighting better in DC.
The glass does hit his side of the bed though, the night table and its lamp. The ice sways briefly into a tirade, cracking once and then rest, waiting for the television. He turns in bed instead, nuzzling the curl of the pillows to look at her as she looks away. She can feel his eyes. She ignores his eyes and in her head, she sings his name: John Hoynes, John Hoynes, and the almost son. She’s never liked the south and their curtain-making values. There’s the play, of course, and she'll write for money. However and in every way she can get it.
"Really," she says again, "not into it."
His hand slides over her stomach for an answer, his fingers bridging across and into her skin. Her eyes close as his thumb begins to circle over lines, lines that have never been there. She doesn't like to look at him; John Hoynes has a wife and puppies for girls and she supposes, maybe when she retires, she might be able to care well-enough to hate herself and him.
"You’re going to tell him."
His fingers are still speaking, sliding over her thighs as she wishes he really just wouldn't. She focuses, feels his shirt peel away from the fit of her skin and his mouth collaring her neck instead. His lips are too dry, but then again, she does remember the early drinking. There were balloons from the street. Peanuts. And a couple republicans - she just didn't want to fuck in a car. That’s an adventurous day. But she's trying not to pay attention because the way Hoynes says him merits a memory of the things that she could've had. Sometimes it's better to have a fuck and go, but Amy's about the reminder of ambition before family, a code of honor that she does bleed. She could say it's for the hard way. Or something sentimental, if she's up for candles and good wine.
She plays though, for the interesting, grinning the question, "is that what you want?" and bites her lip as his thumb rolls lightly over her clit. She knows the answer already.
He doesn't say anything though, but she won't open her eyes. She might tell him she agrees. Later, when her fingers are coating her stocking into her skin. His mouth is still moving, his teeth now tugging at the arch between her neck and shoulder. She won't wear a turtleneck, but will wish that he had used her breasts. She will grin and say something thrilling about the convention. That she can do.
DC does teach them all to lie.
She is waiting for him to start fucking again, far from interested as he slides a finger inside of her. She thinks hot, wet, and an old girlfriend from the college years; maybe he's thinking about his wife too, about the things they used to do. Not that she cares, but it goes faster. She’s too aware though of this sudden move. And maybe, later, it won't matter who approached who and if she let him fuck her in the shower or not.
Her mouth curls, "Josh was right about you."
So says the truth.
all the walls of jericho
oops! goes the alcoholic. she doesn’t believe in commitment, just conventions. the west wing. amy gardner/john hoynes. general spoilers for 2162 votes. 1,300 words, r.
-
Her fingers bring the drink to bed with ice, tipped in glass over the sheets between them.
It's the hotel and maybe, too, the fact that she's still feeling a little festive. He hates her. Good. And it's one of those moments, Amy thinks, that goes beyond what she was thinking and then remembers her rules about the occasional dry and dirty fuck. Still though, she's got this thing for past, present, and future displays of power. The convention usually makes her do things like this; “he’ll do, he’ll do,” she whisper to friends later, never a name but a wide, amused smile into their lunches. It's just something to do.
"You're drinking scotch," he says darkly.
Oops! goes the alcoholic and her mouth is curling into a tight smirk, still with a little bit of a buzz. Her legs fold over the bed as she brings the glass to her lips to mock him, maybe or maybe not. She's always hated scotch because of the memories, the kind of memories that go back and forth between daddy complexes and first loves. Those are the stories that you won't get though. It still goes down her throat the way she needs it, full and bitter and just wet with the ice. She likes the ice the bed, the way it softens into her mouth and licks away at the rest of his taste. She lets him watch too and thinks about calling him mr. soon-to-be-president-elect to be a bitch because this is John Hoynes and Hoynes is the kind of man that she'd rather keep peeled in those stupid morality novels that she never read in college.
It's not a matter of can and won't, but what she is doing right and how it might remain to be seen. She's wearing his shirt, almost to mock him, the oxford hanging at her hips in amusement. Blue, just blue, and he's always been famous for doing that whole regular guy thing - it annoys and amuses her, even now. She admits to liking the buttons, small and clear, and picks at them as the tails of the shirt brush between her thighs.
"It’s a new day," says her mouth, curling, "it's a brand new day - there's a song about this. I dated a girl - guy, oops! But they wrote a song about something like this. He was a poet. I was in a phase."
Her skin is drunk with the moment still and she thinks about hours before. Still drunk. She had a glass of this and a glass of that before his hands weren't even his own anymore. His fingers bumbled over her breasts and hips as if she were someone else, somewhere else. Somebody told her once that he preferred his postcards to home. It’s okay though. Because she dated poets and musicians and politicians and activists and she's got cards and cards to use in case of an emergency. He stays watching her, or hasn't stopped, and reaches forward, his hand curling around her wrist to lead it into her hand as he peels the glass away from her fingers. He sighs. She remembers he was married. Or is. There are kids. There was Texas too, at one point. But that could've been years ago.
"I’m not proud of this."
He shrugs into her drink, tipping the glass back down his throat and licking away at the rim. He does have a wife. Amy imagines her back in the country, somewhere with a white picket fence and a shoebox full of daughters to marry off. Sober, unlike her. Isn’t this how the world still works? Her eyes move to his mouth though and she leans in, just to drop back into the pillows. The sheets spread and cup her ass and she's trying to remember if they did this once or twice, if she said his name or maybe someone else's. She’s not that creative when she's drunk. Or was drunk - some things still really don't matter.
"You’re sentimental."
She shrugs back, "I’m not into sentimental."
Ask Josh, she doesn’t tell him. It goes without saying, the naked and godless finger awake between the two of them. She looks past the sheets and the arch of his shoulder into the window peeking back into them. There's the city, but her eyes are hazy. The city speaks only in lights, smudging the time of day in late, late glows against the glass. It's for people in love. She's not in love. She thinks about DC. She just likes fighting better in DC.
The glass does hit his side of the bed though, the night table and its lamp. The ice sways briefly into a tirade, cracking once and then rest, waiting for the television. He turns in bed instead, nuzzling the curl of the pillows to look at her as she looks away. She can feel his eyes. She ignores his eyes and in her head, she sings his name: John Hoynes, John Hoynes, and the almost son. She’s never liked the south and their curtain-making values. There’s the play, of course, and she'll write for money. However and in every way she can get it.
"Really," she says again, "not into it."
His hand slides over her stomach for an answer, his fingers bridging across and into her skin. Her eyes close as his thumb begins to circle over lines, lines that have never been there. She doesn't like to look at him; John Hoynes has a wife and puppies for girls and she supposes, maybe when she retires, she might be able to care well-enough to hate herself and him.
"You’re going to tell him."
His fingers are still speaking, sliding over her thighs as she wishes he really just wouldn't. She focuses, feels his shirt peel away from the fit of her skin and his mouth collaring her neck instead. His lips are too dry, but then again, she does remember the early drinking. There were balloons from the street. Peanuts. And a couple republicans - she just didn't want to fuck in a car. That’s an adventurous day. But she's trying not to pay attention because the way Hoynes says him merits a memory of the things that she could've had. Sometimes it's better to have a fuck and go, but Amy's about the reminder of ambition before family, a code of honor that she does bleed. She could say it's for the hard way. Or something sentimental, if she's up for candles and good wine.
She plays though, for the interesting, grinning the question, "is that what you want?" and bites her lip as his thumb rolls lightly over her clit. She knows the answer already.
He doesn't say anything though, but she won't open her eyes. She might tell him she agrees. Later, when her fingers are coating her stocking into her skin. His mouth is still moving, his teeth now tugging at the arch between her neck and shoulder. She won't wear a turtleneck, but will wish that he had used her breasts. She will grin and say something thrilling about the convention. That she can do.
DC does teach them all to lie.
She is waiting for him to start fucking again, far from interested as he slides a finger inside of her. She thinks hot, wet, and an old girlfriend from the college years; maybe he's thinking about his wife too, about the things they used to do. Not that she cares, but it goes faster. She’s too aware though of this sudden move. And maybe, later, it won't matter who approached who and if she let him fuck her in the shower or not.
Her mouth curls, "Josh was right about you."
So says the truth.