[Fic] crawling back to you
Title: crawling back to you
Fandom: Crossroads
Characters: Yomohiro Tomoe | ?/Tomoe
Word Count: ~440
Rating: M
Warning/s: implied sex of the non-graphic variety
Summary: The nights were mainly made for saying things that you can’t say tomorrow day. The discordant melody of desire
Disclaimer: Crossroads is an event made by the mods of I:U.
Notes: Copious listening to Arctic Monkeys’ “Do I Wanna Know” + desire to write = this. I am unrepentant.
It’s the dead of the night and the bar is closed but she steps past the sign and slides the curtain back. The shells clink against each other as she moves through the threshold, the curtain moving back to position in a cascade of pitter-pattering noise like raindrops on wet pavement. But she disregards it, her boots thudding against the wooden parquet floor, seeking the lone figure by the counter.
He starts to turn when he hears her, but she preempts the movement and grabs the neck of his shirt, yanks him close until his forehead touches hers, his nose brushing against her cheek.
“I’m taking you up on your offer.”
He opens his mouth, perhaps to gloat, or to extricate himself, or whatever, she doesn’t give a rat’s ass.
“My place. Now.”
They barely make it out of the bar, his hands fisted by her hips, her fingers tangled in his hair, lips kiss-swollen, cheeks bloodred, hearts thudpounding within the cages of their chests. She pulls him to the exit, stumbling past the tables and pushing aside chairs, falling against walls, desperate, needy, greedy, wanting, and she doesn’t remember making it to her car, or driving home - just that her blouse is unbuttoned and his jeans are unzipped, and the door is left open as she drags him to her room, her bed, on top of her rumpled sheets, on top of her.
He is ever acquiescent, running his palm down the length of her side, pressing his lips against the fluttering pulse of her neck, sliding a knee between her legs, and she breathes a stuttered exhale of what could be his name, what could be a moan, what could be a entreaty. He touches her irreverently as she drags her nails down his back along hard edges and sharp curves, closer, closer, until the space between them diminishes to a press of skin against skin, choking heat, stifling proximity, unuttered regrets in the morning after the melody of practiced forgetfulness.
This never happened it never was in an amalgamation of oh god yes and there there and a dissonance of words and sounds blending into a cacophony of discord. Fast and quick and harsh leaving bruises and a wound on her lip and a hole in her heart, frantic, but fulfilling for the post-hour-after bathing in the aftershocks of white pleasure, static electricity, achieved completion - until she kicks him out of her bed and her house and her life.
One month later she steps past the closed sign and into the bar, and the song loops, repeats.
She never asks his name.
This entry was originally posted at http://quadrantal.dreamwidth.org/7493.html. Please comment there using OpenID.
Fandom: Crossroads
Characters: Yomohiro Tomoe | ?/Tomoe
Word Count: ~440
Rating: M
Warning/s: implied sex of the non-graphic variety
Summary: The nights were mainly made for saying things that you can’t say tomorrow day. The discordant melody of desire
Disclaimer: Crossroads is an event made by the mods of I:U.
Notes: Copious listening to Arctic Monkeys’ “Do I Wanna Know” + desire to write = this. I am unrepentant.
It’s the dead of the night and the bar is closed but she steps past the sign and slides the curtain back. The shells clink against each other as she moves through the threshold, the curtain moving back to position in a cascade of pitter-pattering noise like raindrops on wet pavement. But she disregards it, her boots thudding against the wooden parquet floor, seeking the lone figure by the counter.
He starts to turn when he hears her, but she preempts the movement and grabs the neck of his shirt, yanks him close until his forehead touches hers, his nose brushing against her cheek.
“I’m taking you up on your offer.”
He opens his mouth, perhaps to gloat, or to extricate himself, or whatever, she doesn’t give a rat’s ass.
“My place. Now.”
They barely make it out of the bar, his hands fisted by her hips, her fingers tangled in his hair, lips kiss-swollen, cheeks bloodred, hearts thudpounding within the cages of their chests. She pulls him to the exit, stumbling past the tables and pushing aside chairs, falling against walls, desperate, needy, greedy, wanting, and she doesn’t remember making it to her car, or driving home - just that her blouse is unbuttoned and his jeans are unzipped, and the door is left open as she drags him to her room, her bed, on top of her rumpled sheets, on top of her.
He is ever acquiescent, running his palm down the length of her side, pressing his lips against the fluttering pulse of her neck, sliding a knee between her legs, and she breathes a stuttered exhale of what could be his name, what could be a moan, what could be a entreaty. He touches her irreverently as she drags her nails down his back along hard edges and sharp curves, closer, closer, until the space between them diminishes to a press of skin against skin, choking heat, stifling proximity, unuttered regrets in the morning after the melody of practiced forgetfulness.
This never happened it never was in an amalgamation of oh god yes and there there and a dissonance of words and sounds blending into a cacophony of discord. Fast and quick and harsh leaving bruises and a wound on her lip and a hole in her heart, frantic, but fulfilling for the post-hour-after bathing in the aftershocks of white pleasure, static electricity, achieved completion - until she kicks him out of her bed and her house and her life.
One month later she steps past the closed sign and into the bar, and the song loops, repeats.
She never asks his name.
This entry was originally posted at http://quadrantal.dreamwidth.org/7493.html. Please comment there using OpenID.