(no subject)
Title: Clauses
Author: broken__records
Pairing: Jim/Pam
Word Count: 501
Rating: T
Summary: Random AU angst set...late season two, I guess. He’s a drunken doorbell ringing at three in the morning...
Author's Note: I feel like this gets kinda bogged down with the structure I'd set up and my weird need for alliteration just about everywhere and things, but, I don't know.
He’s a drunken doorbell ringing at three in the morning; she’s a robe gathered at her chest, fingers clutching tightly as if she knows a glimpse of her clavicle would take him down like he was nothing.
He’s a flushed frantic face and a shy shoulder slumped against her doorjamb; she’s a stunned somnambulist, eyes startled open, awake.
“Um, hi,” he says, the two syllables somersaulting into one another.
“What are you doing here?” Her words are like sprinters, off with his gunshot greeting and rushing to the finish.
She’s a watchful glance over her shoulder; he’s a pair of embarrassed eyes looking down at her doorstep.
She’s a few steps forward and a door clicking closed behind her; he’s a shoe shuffling against cement, toeing at an empty planter.
“I, um- Well-,” he stutter steps.
“You have to go,” she says, voice so terse and tight her lips barely move.
She’s a cool but hard hand pressing impatiently against his chest; he’s a step then stumble backwards, one foot slipping from the stoop.
She’s a laugh let loose from her lungs like a gasp; he’s a hand gripping hard onto hers, keeping himself standing and steady.
“Pam, listen-” he starts.
“Please, don’t,” she pleads, knowing.
He’s a finger and a thumb loosely circling thin wrist now; she’s a hand that hangs lifeless between them, exhausted.
He’s an unthinking tug towards his body, an unconscious contraction of muscle; she’s a guilty gasp, a startled swallow, a welcome warmth against him.
“I love you, just-” is his curt confession, drunk on skin and warmth.
“Jim, it’s- No, we can’t.” is her easy lie, sober on obligations and comfort.
He’s a head hanging down, eyes searching for something in her face; she’s an averted glance, her skin singed under his stare.
He’s a press of his hips against the delicate fabric of her warm weather robe; she’s a swell of heat somewhere deep and unnamed.
“Liar,” he grins and it’s dark, dangerous.
“Stop,” she begs and it’s faint, fearful.
He’s a determined hand, potent and persuasive at the small of her back; she’s a calculated hesitation, a premeditated resistance.
He’s a hot and hungry mouth against hers, relentless tongue and teeth; she’s a desperate fistful of hair like it’s hope.
“Oh, God-” his alcoholic breath is hot on her bottom lip.
“I’m pregnant,” her breath tastes bitter against his tongue.
He’s a shaky step backwards; she’s a pair of arms folding across her chest with finality. He’s an upward roll of glassy eyes, a preventative swallow; she’s a bitten bottom lip still moist and warm.
He’s a sobered stare of conflicting feelings; she’s a tight throat and eyes that burn. He’s a nod; she’s a half open mouth without any words.
“Right,” hands get shoved deep in his pockets as if it will hide what they’ve done.
“I’m sorry,” her robe gets pulled even tighter around her body as if it will hide her sadness.
He’s a retreating back; she’s a still statuette.
Author: broken__records
Pairing: Jim/Pam
Word Count: 501
Rating: T
Summary: Random AU angst set...late season two, I guess. He’s a drunken doorbell ringing at three in the morning...
Author's Note: I feel like this gets kinda bogged down with the structure I'd set up and my weird need for alliteration just about everywhere and things, but, I don't know.
He’s a drunken doorbell ringing at three in the morning; she’s a robe gathered at her chest, fingers clutching tightly as if she knows a glimpse of her clavicle would take him down like he was nothing.
He’s a flushed frantic face and a shy shoulder slumped against her doorjamb; she’s a stunned somnambulist, eyes startled open, awake.
“Um, hi,” he says, the two syllables somersaulting into one another.
“What are you doing here?” Her words are like sprinters, off with his gunshot greeting and rushing to the finish.
She’s a watchful glance over her shoulder; he’s a pair of embarrassed eyes looking down at her doorstep.
She’s a few steps forward and a door clicking closed behind her; he’s a shoe shuffling against cement, toeing at an empty planter.
“I, um- Well-,” he stutter steps.
“You have to go,” she says, voice so terse and tight her lips barely move.
She’s a cool but hard hand pressing impatiently against his chest; he’s a step then stumble backwards, one foot slipping from the stoop.
She’s a laugh let loose from her lungs like a gasp; he’s a hand gripping hard onto hers, keeping himself standing and steady.
“Pam, listen-” he starts.
“Please, don’t,” she pleads, knowing.
He’s a finger and a thumb loosely circling thin wrist now; she’s a hand that hangs lifeless between them, exhausted.
He’s an unthinking tug towards his body, an unconscious contraction of muscle; she’s a guilty gasp, a startled swallow, a welcome warmth against him.
“I love you, just-” is his curt confession, drunk on skin and warmth.
“Jim, it’s- No, we can’t.” is her easy lie, sober on obligations and comfort.
He’s a head hanging down, eyes searching for something in her face; she’s an averted glance, her skin singed under his stare.
He’s a press of his hips against the delicate fabric of her warm weather robe; she’s a swell of heat somewhere deep and unnamed.
“Liar,” he grins and it’s dark, dangerous.
“Stop,” she begs and it’s faint, fearful.
He’s a determined hand, potent and persuasive at the small of her back; she’s a calculated hesitation, a premeditated resistance.
He’s a hot and hungry mouth against hers, relentless tongue and teeth; she’s a desperate fistful of hair like it’s hope.
“Oh, God-” his alcoholic breath is hot on her bottom lip.
“I’m pregnant,” her breath tastes bitter against his tongue.
He’s a shaky step backwards; she’s a pair of arms folding across her chest with finality. He’s an upward roll of glassy eyes, a preventative swallow; she’s a bitten bottom lip still moist and warm.
He’s a sobered stare of conflicting feelings; she’s a tight throat and eyes that burn. He’s a nod; she’s a half open mouth without any words.
“Right,” hands get shoved deep in his pockets as if it will hide what they’ve done.
“I’m sorry,” her robe gets pulled even tighter around her body as if it will hide her sadness.
He’s a retreating back; she’s a still statuette.