Hey guys! I know I should be working on Karma, and I am, I promise, it's just that I've had a bit of trouble with the next chapter and I'm not yet a 100% proud of it. It might take a few more days or so and I'd like to first thank you all for the reviews. I appreciated and loved them all. Truly.
In the meantime, enjoy this one-shot of the trio, Maddek, that popped into my deprived mind while I was studying at the library yesterday. ;) Let me warn you, it's rated M, for mature.
M FOR MATURE.
This is very fictional. Very unusual. Very unrealistic. Very imaginative with a hint of Brokeback Mountain, if you know what I mean ;) It's weird, I guess, but my brain wanted to write this. Oh, and I'm writing in the second person point of view. Something I've never done before.
Enjoy.
Review.
I am Yours and You Are Mine
When you kiss Addison, it's Derek that you taste.
It's there, clinging to the wet softness of her tongue, the tangy hint of weed and weakness and wallowing in self-pity that bites into your soul the way her teeth sinks into your bottom lip. It hurts a little and you would be surprised if she were anyone else but Addison, however it's all pain when it comes to her. Always. Some pain, some pleasure, but you would be damned to claim she wasn't the most beautiful sin you've ever seen.
But the bitter taste of iron masks the remnants of your best friend and you just open your mouth wider and let her in. For a moment, you forget the girl you're kissing belongs to the person you care about and almost love the most in the world. Because he's family, you tell yourself. For a moment, you think it really is Derek's mouth pressing open and wet against yours, licking you clean and filling you up.
Except the hair twining between your fingers is too long and too soft, and her bones poke almost painfully through the thin coating of skin and satin, and when her jaw scrapes against yours, it's all smooth silkiness and doesn't prickle your skin.
You blink, just once, and when your eyes focuses again, they're locked on hers and she's watching you through a haze of escape. She looks like herself, all sharp angles and dark shadows, prim and proper - almost, just almost - but you see the same cage reflected in her eyes.
The car is silent and all that comes with it, all the reasons Derek wants to be with her and none of the reasons he should be with her. It creeps up Fifth Avenue, and the harsh florescent lights paints cruel patterns across Addison's pale skin, and she looks dingy and used up, like she's been chewed up and spat back out. You've seen that look before, every time Derek shows up drunk and desperate at your front door after a heated argument with no one other than her.
You don't understand what's going on. You don't, but, really, you're the same cocky bastard you were yesterday, so you actually do.
You only kiss her harder and slip your hands under the hem of her dress the way you used to slip your hands under the hem of Derek's sweater when he'd fall into your arms and you'd make it all better.
When she pulls back to look in your eyes, you don't ask the question again because you know what to do, you know what she's going to say. You will still do it either way.
I want you.
You know how to do it.
You're twelve-years-old and the store Mr. Shepherd spent almost every dime on hasn't break-even in months and has spent the entire night venting out on Derek's mom, arguing, and Derek has shown up at your doorstep crying and broken and convinced his life is over.
You can taste the same fears in the mouth singeing yours now. Your fingers move across her skin and they press, press, gently, right where her shoulder meets her neck. When she moans into your mouth, you can see the same ecstasy moving across Derek's preteen face.
You kiss her and taste him and makes her forget.
Addison is more brittle than Derek, and when your fingers skim over her bare skin, the pure lace, you don't want to press too hard, press too close, because you're afraid if she opens her eyes and looks – really really looks – she'll realise she's clinging to the wrong blue-eyed boy.
You're not ready to lose her, not quite yet, not when she feels different and familiar all at once and it's confusing and just not so, not when you can taste everything you can't have with every flick of her tongue against yours.
Your hands move higher, over the hot skin of her thighs, and slip between them, caught between slick, wet heat and the coarse wool of your pants. You're hard and tight all over and when you flick your wrist, just the tiniest bit, she whimpers a little at the back of her throat, red lips intact and open, and her hips settles over yours, softness against hardness.
You groan into her hair and you do it again, and again, and she's moaning again and it's delicate and feminine and there's nothing hard about it.
Her fingers slowly undos the first few buttons of your shirt, hand delving at the zipper of your pants and you're fifteen-years-old again, and you have had too much to drink to walk in a straight line, let alone get out of your jeans, and Derek's hands tremble a bit from too much Ketle One as they close over the zipper and pull tight denim down your knees.
Her fingers are long and thin, and the nails click against the metal of the zipper as she slides it down and slips her hands into the ripple of curls. You half expect calluses from long practices of the saxophone, and while the fingers wrapping around you are smooth and soft, they shake slightly in the darkness too.
When you kiss her again, you're the one to close your eyes and escape.
You flick your wrist again and it's hotter and wetter and tighter than before. She's ready, more ready than she's ever been, and you know it's not like any other time, any other woman. It's Satan. You've never had a thing for redheads, and you've never been one to keep secrets.
When your pants hit your knees and her dress is rucked up over her stomach, it's about anything but anyone's friend.
Best friend.
You tell yourself it has nothing to do with anyone's best friend.
You've never been anyone's first time before and so hasn't she but you can't stop watching the look in her eyes. So innocent and vulnerable. Not like the Satan you've come to love. It's dark as the car climbs north, so dark you can't tell if they're green or if they're blue. They shift and change with every block you cross and you watch them water with pain and narrow with concentration, and round with wonder as she shifts her hips just a tiny bit and a groan hisses between your lips as your eyes slide towards the back of your head.
When you open your eyes again there's something sparking in hers, and you don't recognise how alive they suddenly seem. A smirk plays across her lips in a smile that's nothing but wicked and depraved, it doesn't matter how good she looks falling out of her dress or the way her full lips part to form a perfect circle or how much you like the way her perfume catches the air and clings, because she's the devil incarnate, and she shifts her hips again, and again, and you're no longer the one with the experience.
Red lips moves along your jawbone, barely touching, barely there, barely Addison, like the whisper of the devil to man.
You're fourteen-years-old and Derek's asking what it's like, and you laugh in his face because the last thing you can ever see happening is any girl or anyone for that matter wanting and willing to have sex with a boy who has hair for a birds nest, acne, and weighs 110 pounds. He asks again and you try to explain, but your words catch in your mouth because the look in his eyes is so dead and blank it takes your breath away.
You struggle to catch your breath as she shifts again and your eyes round at the pulsing life glinting in hers.
Laughter rings in your ears and it's hers, because she sees the look in your eyes, and she takes advantage of the moment to choose the pace and push you back against slick leather and kiss you so hard you forget how to breathe. Heart presses against chest, like the cruel trail of liquid fire made over the weeping earth.
Your tongue twines around hers and you taste a break up on her tongue. When your eyes lock with hers, the streetlights show only ocean staring back at you. When your fingers dig into the flesh of her hips and you pull her closer, sink into her deeper, the only person on your mind is exactly who she is.
Afterwards, you're both tired and she sprawls across your chest as the streetlights paint glimmering pictures across her skin. Her cheek is tucked into the curve of your throat, and she's warm and soft against you. You close your eyes as a light washes over your face and you're fifteen-years-old and the morning sun is stinging your eyes and Derek's bare chest is pressed against yours. It's an awkward fit, and his nose jabs into your shoulder hard enough to bruise and you can't feel your left foot. Booze and regret cling to the air, but you breathe in and pull him closer because it isn't supposed to be.
When he leaves an hour later, it's with a sheepish grin and promises that it will never happen again. He keeps his word and starts dating Monica Geller (aka Moni-cow) from the school band he's in a week later.
Addison says the same, but you know it's a lie when she tucks herself into the cradle of your arms and runs her foot up the length of your left calf. You pull her closer and hold her tighter and breathe her in. She smells like sex and satisfaction but nothing like regret.
You like the feeling.
You like her too.
When you kiss her goodnight, it's only Addison that you taste.
. . .Now look what has happened, I am yours and you are mine. . .
I know, it's weird and creepy and unrealistic. But that's what fanfiction is all about.
Please leave a review. You can tell how weird and icky this nonsense is. I feel you.