Ramble!Fic wherein Jim sleeps with a girl who reminds him of fruit. (490 words, rated R)
AKA "Oedipal Issues? In My Ramble!Fic? It's More Likely Than You Think."
This is thanks to re_white, because a few weeks ago she got me all fired up about Ramble!Verse. I wanted to work on the lemon fic but I was out of town and (gasp!) didn't have my notebooks so I borrowed some loose-leaf paper and freewrote something unconnected. And then I edited it, a lot, and you are very grateful I did. Trust me. >>
490 words. Rated R for sex, profanity, and recreational drug use. Jim/random OFC, mention of Winona
The girl's shoulders fit into Jim's palms like the round, purple fruit his mother brought from offworld when he was fifteen, when he didn't yet know what a girl's shoulders would feel like but he wanted to. He thought they would feel like that fruit, slick and susceptible to bruise, but in the years since he collected a whole succession of shoulders and none of them were quite right: either sticky or too damp, some knobbly, some soft, all of them missing the threat of sweet juice about to burst through the skin.
Not this girl. She has shoulders plucked straight from nostalgia and she wants to fuck in a lecture hall.
Jim says ok. He likes the flared-out squares of light from the windows and how they spill over the edges of desks. There's steps marching up between two phalanxes of seats and a landing halfway up where Jim and the girl with the shoulders configure themselves. She hangs her head over the edge, her neck corded and curved like a stem, and gravity lures the blood to her brain. The tender grey beast in her skull gluts itself on the drug in her system, the sense-stims that Bones gave to Jim to use up because tomorrow they become illegal.
Jim is flush with them, too, and lies upon her. He lips at the ripening shoulders. He traces the arrowed edge of a shadow on her face. They rut there in a Caligarian chamber where he can taste things by looking at them and Jim is happy because her shoulders taste like that fruit and her moans, when he hears them, are purple.
Afterwards, the girl winds her hair into a bun. She lets Jim rub the stubble of his cheek against her shoulders before she dresses, and then she asks for a contra pill. The blister pack crinkles open in a torquoise sort of way but it's faded, musty, not like the brilliant colors Jim heard when his heart was beating quickly and his brain had just gobbled up a lion's share of chemicals.
The girl lets the pill melt on her tongue and in minutes she has stopped rubbing her fingertips against the carpet, her collarbone, Jim's knee. She smiles at him. "Tell your doctor friend thanks for me," she says.
"Sure thing," says Jim, and stays behind when she leaves.
He hasn't taken his contra pill yet. He's risking a wicked hangover but he wants to prolong this sphere of sensation. He's thinking back to the hot afternoon when he and his mother sprawled their legs across the porch steps and pressed their shoulders together in defiance of the sun. Together they ate the last of the round, purple fruit.
"Don't get your fingers sticky," she said, so he ate from her hand. He held her wrist and was careful to bite into the furrows her teeth had carved out, because there the flesh was sweetest.
This is thanks to re_white, because a few weeks ago she got me all fired up about Ramble!Verse. I wanted to work on the lemon fic but I was out of town and (gasp!) didn't have my notebooks so I borrowed some loose-leaf paper and freewrote something unconnected. And then I edited it, a lot, and you are very grateful I did. Trust me. >>
490 words. Rated R for sex, profanity, and recreational drug use. Jim/random OFC, mention of Winona
The girl's shoulders fit into Jim's palms like the round, purple fruit his mother brought from offworld when he was fifteen, when he didn't yet know what a girl's shoulders would feel like but he wanted to. He thought they would feel like that fruit, slick and susceptible to bruise, but in the years since he collected a whole succession of shoulders and none of them were quite right: either sticky or too damp, some knobbly, some soft, all of them missing the threat of sweet juice about to burst through the skin.
Not this girl. She has shoulders plucked straight from nostalgia and she wants to fuck in a lecture hall.
Jim says ok. He likes the flared-out squares of light from the windows and how they spill over the edges of desks. There's steps marching up between two phalanxes of seats and a landing halfway up where Jim and the girl with the shoulders configure themselves. She hangs her head over the edge, her neck corded and curved like a stem, and gravity lures the blood to her brain. The tender grey beast in her skull gluts itself on the drug in her system, the sense-stims that Bones gave to Jim to use up because tomorrow they become illegal.
Jim is flush with them, too, and lies upon her. He lips at the ripening shoulders. He traces the arrowed edge of a shadow on her face. They rut there in a Caligarian chamber where he can taste things by looking at them and Jim is happy because her shoulders taste like that fruit and her moans, when he hears them, are purple.
Afterwards, the girl winds her hair into a bun. She lets Jim rub the stubble of his cheek against her shoulders before she dresses, and then she asks for a contra pill. The blister pack crinkles open in a torquoise sort of way but it's faded, musty, not like the brilliant colors Jim heard when his heart was beating quickly and his brain had just gobbled up a lion's share of chemicals.
The girl lets the pill melt on her tongue and in minutes she has stopped rubbing her fingertips against the carpet, her collarbone, Jim's knee. She smiles at him. "Tell your doctor friend thanks for me," she says.
"Sure thing," says Jim, and stays behind when she leaves.
He hasn't taken his contra pill yet. He's risking a wicked hangover but he wants to prolong this sphere of sensation. He's thinking back to the hot afternoon when he and his mother sprawled their legs across the porch steps and pressed their shoulders together in defiance of the sun. Together they ate the last of the round, purple fruit.
"Don't get your fingers sticky," she said, so he ate from her hand. He held her wrist and was careful to bite into the furrows her teeth had carved out, because there the flesh was sweetest.