there must be some kind of way out of here, said the joker to the thief Isaac/Erica/Jackson
I.
He's beginning to tangle into Jackson.
She can't remember when it first happened-when one touch began to blur into another.
It's just, it's happened now, and when she's kissing Isaac, she could be kissing Jackson; and when they're kissing each other, then maybe they think they could be kissing her, too. Maybe it works all ways-her way and his way and his, and oh my, aren't they just naughty, she thinks, as she runs her hands through curls, tugs him forwards against her, arches backwards and presses her body flush against his. They're both beautiful, and, when they're together, they're all beautiful people-beautiful and broken, but she supposes all the best people are.
II.
"You're not my type," he tells her, absently.
They're in his room-they almost always are-and she's sprawled across his bed, watching as he dresses.
Isaac is sat on one of his dresser drawers, legs kicking backwards and forwards, chewing absently on a nail.
"Oh," she says, flashes her teeth, feigns mock offence, "I doubt that."
"No," he insists, again, "You're not-you couldn't be."
"Because I'm not Lydia," she says, rolls her eyes.
He flushes pretty pink, angry, and she counts the freckles on the back of his neck as he turns away; and Isaac leans forward, grins like the wolf he is, and adds, "Or because she's not Scott?"
They clash together, then-there's a spark of blue in Jackson's eyes, amber painted in Isaac's, and it's not a kiss, not at first; it's an attack, a battle, a war for dominance. She watches, idly, sniffs the air and smells sweat, testosterone, that brilliant, blinding fury she always associates with Jackson-and then she hears Isaac consent, watches as he tips his head back with a soft whimper, shows the pale of his throat; but his lips curve into a smirk, and she knows he's won, because he always does, over them both. She stands, then, crosses to meet them, to join them, as she always does; and her eyes lock with electric blue, and she says, "You fit better with us than you ever would with them."
His eyes are wounded, she knows, and her words hurt, because they always do. Later on, when she crushes herself against him, there's no apology in the curve of her body, in the force of her lips-it's mocking; she's laughing; and he shoves back against her, furious and scared all at once, like he's maybe not sure whether he wants this to end or whether he wants the people he can't have, but she knows he knows she told the truth.
III.
"You look beautiful beneath me," he tells her, absently, but he could be talking to Jackson.
Jackson doesn't reply, though-doesn't deem it worthy of a reply.
"I look beautiful anyway," she says, grins like a crocodile-she'll eat them up, eat them alive, because she's hungry.
He looks at her, then, like he's finally seeing her properly, and says, "Yeah. Yeah, I guess."
"You don't sound too enthusiastic," Jackson interrupts, then, and seems a little amused.
"I was pretty enthusiastic last night," he replies, kicks his legs onto Jackson's kitchen table, and doesn't meet her eyes.
There's a cold sort of tension in the air and the same kind of silence they usually fill with sex.
She looks at Isaac-sees the hickeys across his throat, the bruises across his chest, and says, "You look beautiful beneath me, too."
She wonders if she's ever said that to him-to them-before.
There's an emptiness in his eyes, as he looks at her, as he says, "I've done bad things."
She's seen that same emptiness in Isaac's eyes when he thinks of his father.
She holds up her hands-shows him her claws, the blood on her palms-and says, "We all have."
"Not like me," he replies, after a silence. "Not like me."
She looks across at Isaac, for help, but he just shrugs-looks just as lost as she feels, because Jackson is broken and doesn't know how to be fixed.
That's why she leans across and laces her fingers through his.
That's why she presses her lips against his in a chaste, gentle kiss.
That's why she tells him, "We've all done bad things, Jackson-but not like you."
Isaac bumps his shoulder against Jackson's, and says, "We're not exactly going to judge, though."
V.
They were never going to live happily ever after, though. She's too young for that-too fast, too beautiful, too free. She wouldn't want it even if they were offering it; even if they spoke those three words in her ear, soft and precious, brilliant, but they don't, and she's not asking for that, not now. At least, she doesn't think she is-but Jackson always looks lost once they're done, sits at the bottom of the bed with his head in his hands and looks down at his feet; but Isaac always looks uncertain once they're done, a little desperate, like he's not sure he's supposed to be there, where he is, next to them, between them, on top of them. She doesn't want to know how she looks once they're done, but she imagines she isn't beautiful.
She thinks that maybe she looks like herself-and if that doesn't scare her, she doesn't know will.
No, she's not asking for happily ever after, which is good, because they're not going to give it to her.
Isaac/Erica/Jackson
I.
He's beginning to tangle into Jackson.
She can't remember when it first happened-when one touch began to blur into another.
It's just, it's happened now, and when she's kissing Isaac, she could be kissing Jackson; and when they're kissing each other, then maybe they think they could be kissing her, too. Maybe it works all ways-her way and his way and his, and oh my, aren't they just naughty, she thinks, as she runs her hands through curls, tugs him forwards against her, arches backwards and presses her body flush against his. They're both beautiful, and, when they're together, they're all beautiful people-beautiful and broken, but she supposes all the best people are.
II.
"You're not my type," he tells her, absently.
They're in his room-they almost always are-and she's sprawled across his bed, watching as he dresses.
Isaac is sat on one of his dresser drawers, legs kicking backwards and forwards, chewing absently on a nail.
"Oh," she says, flashes her teeth, feigns mock offence, "I doubt that."
"No," he insists, again, "You're not-you couldn't be."
"Because I'm not Lydia," she says, rolls her eyes.
He flushes pretty pink, angry, and she counts the freckles on the back of his neck as he turns away; and Isaac leans forward, grins like the wolf he is, and adds, "Or because she's not Scott?"
They clash together, then-there's a spark of blue in Jackson's eyes, amber painted in Isaac's, and it's not a kiss, not at first; it's an attack, a battle, a war for dominance. She watches, idly, sniffs the air and smells sweat, testosterone, that brilliant, blinding fury she always associates with Jackson-and then she hears Isaac consent, watches as he tips his head back with a soft whimper, shows the pale of his throat; but his lips curve into a smirk, and she knows he's won, because he always does, over them both. She stands, then, crosses to meet them, to join them, as she always does; and her eyes lock with electric blue, and she says, "You fit better with us than you ever would with them."
His eyes are wounded, she knows, and her words hurt, because they always do. Later on, when she crushes herself against him, there's no apology in the curve of her body, in the force of her lips-it's mocking; she's laughing; and he shoves back against her, furious and scared all at once, like he's maybe not sure whether he wants this to end or whether he wants the people he can't have, but she knows he knows she told the truth.
III.
"You look beautiful beneath me," he tells her, absently, but he could be talking to Jackson.
Jackson doesn't reply, though-doesn't deem it worthy of a reply.
"I look beautiful anyway," she says, grins like a crocodile-she'll eat them up, eat them alive, because she's hungry.
He looks at her, then, like he's finally seeing her properly, and says, "Yeah. Yeah, I guess."
"You don't sound too enthusiastic," Jackson interrupts, then, and seems a little amused.
"I was pretty enthusiastic last night," he replies, kicks his legs onto Jackson's kitchen table, and doesn't meet her eyes.
There's a cold sort of tension in the air and the same kind of silence they usually fill with sex.
She looks at Isaac-sees the hickeys across his throat, the bruises across his chest, and says, "You look beautiful beneath me, too."
She wonders if she's ever said that to him-to them-before.
CONT.
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There's an emptiness in his eyes, as he looks at her, as he says, "I've done bad things."
She's seen that same emptiness in Isaac's eyes when he thinks of his father.
She holds up her hands-shows him her claws, the blood on her palms-and says, "We all have."
"Not like me," he replies, after a silence. "Not like me."
She looks across at Isaac, for help, but he just shrugs-looks just as lost as she feels, because Jackson is broken and doesn't know how to be fixed.
That's why she leans across and laces her fingers through his.
That's why she presses her lips against his in a chaste, gentle kiss.
That's why she tells him, "We've all done bad things, Jackson-but not like you."
Isaac bumps his shoulder against Jackson's, and says, "We're not exactly going to judge, though."
V.
They were never going to live happily ever after, though. She's too young for that-too fast, too beautiful, too free. She wouldn't want it even if they were offering it; even if they spoke those three words in her ear, soft and precious, brilliant, but they don't, and she's not asking for that, not now. At least, she doesn't think she is-but Jackson always looks lost once they're done, sits at the bottom of the bed with his head in his hands and looks down at his feet; but Isaac always looks uncertain once they're done, a little desperate, like he's not sure he's supposed to be there, where he is, next to them, between them, on top of them. She doesn't want to know how she looks once they're done, but she imagines she isn't beautiful.
She thinks that maybe she looks like herself-and if that doesn't scare her, she doesn't know will.
No, she's not asking for happily ever after, which is good, because they're not going to give it to her.
FIN.
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Is it Argentum_ls?
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Thanks!
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