We Can Get Wild (Mark/Addison 1/1)
Title: We Can Get Wild
Pairing: Mark/Addison
Rating: R.
Word Count: 733
Summary: “You’re gonna kill yourself with those,” his gruff, factual voice startles her out of mentally scripting the lovers’ spat happening outside a building across the street.
The only thing she really likes about his apartment is the balcony. Overlooking the back end of Canal Street from four floors up, there’s a certain potent combination of isolation and belonging she feels each time she sneaks outside once he’s fallen asleep. She slips outside, sliding the glass door quietly closed behind her. Her thighs still tremble with the aftershocks of the three orgasms his fingers and tongue and cock have given her that night and though she’s run her fingers through her hair, her red locks tumble about her shoulders in the particular kind of disarray unique to being very thoroughly fucked.
Dressed in a pair of his boxer shorts and a lace-strapped camisole, she slides down the seat of a chair and props her left foot on the seat of the chair opposite. She loves these chairs, despite being uncomfortable and beyond apologetically ugly. Her nipples harden underneath the thin lilac fabric of her top, the wind turning the temperature just this side of warm, and she reaches under the chair for the box of Djarum Blacks she bought three days ago. Already there’s enough space left in the box to keep the lighter in too without bending the fragile cardboard sides.
She pulls one from the box and slowly breathes in the scent before placing it between her lips. Cupping her hand around the end against the quiet breeze that never quite disappears at this height above ground, she flicks the cheap gas station lighter five times before the spark and gas exist at the same time and produce a flame. Inhaling deeply, the air around her becomes heavy with smoky clove and she closes her eyes before slowly breathing out. She taps her index finger against it to knock off any extra ash.
The warm and disorienting buzz from the whiskey she shot back earlier, easy and smooth and without a chaser, is beginning to wear off, instead replaced by calming quiet buzz from the nicotine coursing through her lungs and airways. Both are hell on her throat and she knows she’ll sound hoarse in the morning, but the supply of cough drops in her glove compartment was replenished the same day she bought the cloves so her voice will be normal by the time she reaches the hospital.
Thinking makes this harder, makes her feel like these nightly sojourns into everything she knows is terrible for her should actually mean something, and she’s long learned that going back to bed smelling slightly of tobacco and cloves is better than going back to bed smelling slightly of tobacco and cloves with cheeks sticky with tears. The slight disturbance of the mattress is more inclined to wake him up with an urge to fuck her brains out again with hard, blinding, world-erasing, exquisite sex, than wake him up with an urge to hold her to him and ask her to please tell him what’s been bothering her for months.
“You’re gonna kill yourself with those,” his gruff, factual voice startles her out of mentally scripting the lovers’ spat happening outside a building across the street. In oiling the squeaky track of the door in order to mask her own exodus into a world so removed from her daily life, she allowed him the ability to intrude without warning.
“I know,” she says huskily, exhaling an expressive line of smoke over the railing and into the half-night of metropolitan New York. “But everything went to hell and fell apart and,” she pauses to consider the carefully-rolled cigarette between her fingers, “it seemed like a good idea.” She takes a deep drag and listens to the tobacco crackle loudly amidst the never-ending traffic below.
“You’re a disaster,” he mentions without taking a step toward her.
“I know,” she repeats and licks her lips to moisten them. She knows that she’ll have to quit soon, clean up her act and stop yelling and start smiling again because the statute of limitations on willingly destroying her body after a partial willful inclusion in the destruction of her personal life is almost up. “Go back to bed,” she whispers, artfully flicking the butt over the railing.
They both watch the embers fall and extinguish before they hit the ground.
She doesn’t hear him follow her instructions, the door completely silent, as she puts another to her lips and begins part two of their nightly ritual.
A/N: This is one of those fics that works (for me) a whole lot better if you hear the song; I highly recommend that you download this one because I used the sound of it more than the lyrics or title. Despite a slightly uplifting tone in the written lyrics, Mark Knopfler sings this with melancholy and lot of longing with a hint of sexy desperation. Mark Knopfler :: We Can Get Wild
Pairing: Mark/Addison
Rating: R.
Word Count: 733
Summary: “You’re gonna kill yourself with those,” his gruff, factual voice startles her out of mentally scripting the lovers’ spat happening outside a building across the street.
The only thing she really likes about his apartment is the balcony. Overlooking the back end of Canal Street from four floors up, there’s a certain potent combination of isolation and belonging she feels each time she sneaks outside once he’s fallen asleep. She slips outside, sliding the glass door quietly closed behind her. Her thighs still tremble with the aftershocks of the three orgasms his fingers and tongue and cock have given her that night and though she’s run her fingers through her hair, her red locks tumble about her shoulders in the particular kind of disarray unique to being very thoroughly fucked.
Dressed in a pair of his boxer shorts and a lace-strapped camisole, she slides down the seat of a chair and props her left foot on the seat of the chair opposite. She loves these chairs, despite being uncomfortable and beyond apologetically ugly. Her nipples harden underneath the thin lilac fabric of her top, the wind turning the temperature just this side of warm, and she reaches under the chair for the box of Djarum Blacks she bought three days ago. Already there’s enough space left in the box to keep the lighter in too without bending the fragile cardboard sides.
She pulls one from the box and slowly breathes in the scent before placing it between her lips. Cupping her hand around the end against the quiet breeze that never quite disappears at this height above ground, she flicks the cheap gas station lighter five times before the spark and gas exist at the same time and produce a flame. Inhaling deeply, the air around her becomes heavy with smoky clove and she closes her eyes before slowly breathing out. She taps her index finger against it to knock off any extra ash.
The warm and disorienting buzz from the whiskey she shot back earlier, easy and smooth and without a chaser, is beginning to wear off, instead replaced by calming quiet buzz from the nicotine coursing through her lungs and airways. Both are hell on her throat and she knows she’ll sound hoarse in the morning, but the supply of cough drops in her glove compartment was replenished the same day she bought the cloves so her voice will be normal by the time she reaches the hospital.
Thinking makes this harder, makes her feel like these nightly sojourns into everything she knows is terrible for her should actually mean something, and she’s long learned that going back to bed smelling slightly of tobacco and cloves is better than going back to bed smelling slightly of tobacco and cloves with cheeks sticky with tears. The slight disturbance of the mattress is more inclined to wake him up with an urge to fuck her brains out again with hard, blinding, world-erasing, exquisite sex, than wake him up with an urge to hold her to him and ask her to please tell him what’s been bothering her for months.
“You’re gonna kill yourself with those,” his gruff, factual voice startles her out of mentally scripting the lovers’ spat happening outside a building across the street. In oiling the squeaky track of the door in order to mask her own exodus into a world so removed from her daily life, she allowed him the ability to intrude without warning.
“I know,” she says huskily, exhaling an expressive line of smoke over the railing and into the half-night of metropolitan New York. “But everything went to hell and fell apart and,” she pauses to consider the carefully-rolled cigarette between her fingers, “it seemed like a good idea.” She takes a deep drag and listens to the tobacco crackle loudly amidst the never-ending traffic below.
“You’re a disaster,” he mentions without taking a step toward her.
“I know,” she repeats and licks her lips to moisten them. She knows that she’ll have to quit soon, clean up her act and stop yelling and start smiling again because the statute of limitations on willingly destroying her body after a partial willful inclusion in the destruction of her personal life is almost up. “Go back to bed,” she whispers, artfully flicking the butt over the railing.
They both watch the embers fall and extinguish before they hit the ground.
She doesn’t hear him follow her instructions, the door completely silent, as she puts another to her lips and begins part two of their nightly ritual.
A/N: This is one of those fics that works (for me) a whole lot better if you hear the song; I highly recommend that you download this one because I used the sound of it more than the lyrics or title. Despite a slightly uplifting tone in the written lyrics, Mark Knopfler sings this with melancholy and lot of longing with a hint of sexy desperation. Mark Knopfler :: We Can Get Wild