Title: Semi-Automatic
By: Jane, the Frog on the Wall
Disclaimer: You never read this. This fic never happened. You will now begin to forget that all characters and situations in this fic belong to James Cameron and Charles Eglee.
Rating: Mild R, for Asha being a dirty little party girl. . .
Distribution: Just ask, please.
***will pay for feedback in green crayons and/or chocolate-covered Alecs***
Notes: Sketchy/Asha, I know. This was inspired (mostly, anyway) by "Proof of Purchase," and makes no sense at all. I had the strangest night. . .
Dedications: To my lovely and talented beta, Sydney, who told me that the ending sucked, and that the middle sucked, and that the beginning needed some work, and made me fix it. Hugs and sparkles, dearie.
+++++
"Your hair is really. . .soft."
The eloquence stuns her. But this one's a fucking Shakespeare compared to the last one, and the one before that. "Thanks," her brain says, and stops. But her mouth keeps going, encouraging him with a gentle, "I've been told that *all* my hair is soft."
It's moments like these, when she's running her fingers through greasy, uncombed hair and being stripped by dirty, fumbling hands, that she really wants to die. Her name is Ashley Allen. She was high school valedictorian. She completed her first year of university in the top three per cent of her class, and everybody always said she'd go on and be something great. It occurs to her that the loser fumbling with her bra probably spells it "g-r-a-t-e."
All her friends used to joke that she'd grow up to be president. That she'd end up inventing rocket-powered basketball shoes, or socks that never fell apart, or the new, improved alternative to the wheel. It was only for fun, to pass the time, but she thinks, sometimes, that they meant it. She doesn't think that sleeping with six guys in a month and a half was on their list of her achievements.
She sighs and moans in all the appropriate places, as his teeth scrape along her neck and she tries to pretend that it turns her on. She's not even in it for the sex, anymore. But it keeps her warm, and she enjoys the company, sometimes.
He was so cute around nine, when he was mostly sober. She'd laughed with Max and that other girl, Cindy, but when he offered to buy her a drink, she let him. Because he was so desperate, and a little funny, and a little cute. Now that his tongue is in her ear, he's not quite as cute as he used to be. But it's alright, because he doesn't have to be Sketchy. He doesn't have to be the loser from two tables over who's so eager to get laid that he just ripped her favorite jeans. He's Logan, just like he is every night.
But every night, after Logan finishes what she started, he rolls over and starts to snore. And every night, she climbs out of her bedroom window and cries.
It's just so hard pretending she's happy, these days. Hiding the bags under her eyes is getting harder and harder, and she's stopped wearing mascara because the tracks are such a bitch to wash off. In some ways, she's glad he hasn't contacted her at all since she got blamed for the mess his girlfriend caused. If she talked to him, she doesn't know if she could pretend anymore.
It's almost funny, how they never notice that her eyes are red and her voice is shaky when they leave in the morning. It's kind of cute, the way he gives her his number and tells her where he works, like she'll see him again. And she can almost believe what she's been imagining her whole life, when he kisses the back of her neck and it feels like he cares.
But he doesn't, she knows. They never really care, and that's the way she likes it. The only one who really matters, the only one she wants to care, is too wrapped up in his own problems. But even if he did notice, she doesn't know if she could tell him anything. She's just locked into being perky, while she tries her best to hold in the tears.
If only her friends could see her now.
By: Jane, the Frog on the Wall
Disclaimer: You never read this. This fic never happened. You will now begin to forget that all characters and situations in this fic belong to James Cameron and Charles Eglee.
Rating: Mild R, for Asha being a dirty little party girl. . .
Distribution: Just ask, please.
***will pay for feedback in green crayons and/or chocolate-covered Alecs***
Notes: Sketchy/Asha, I know. This was inspired (mostly, anyway) by "Proof of Purchase," and makes no sense at all. I had the strangest night. . .
Dedications: To my lovely and talented beta, Sydney, who told me that the ending sucked, and that the middle sucked, and that the beginning needed some work, and made me fix it. Hugs and sparkles, dearie.
+++++
"Your hair is really. . .soft."
The eloquence stuns her. But this one's a fucking Shakespeare compared to the last one, and the one before that. "Thanks," her brain says, and stops. But her mouth keeps going, encouraging him with a gentle, "I've been told that *all* my hair is soft."
It's moments like these, when she's running her fingers through greasy, uncombed hair and being stripped by dirty, fumbling hands, that she really wants to die. Her name is Ashley Allen. She was high school valedictorian. She completed her first year of university in the top three per cent of her class, and everybody always said she'd go on and be something great. It occurs to her that the loser fumbling with her bra probably spells it "g-r-a-t-e."
All her friends used to joke that she'd grow up to be president. That she'd end up inventing rocket-powered basketball shoes, or socks that never fell apart, or the new, improved alternative to the wheel. It was only for fun, to pass the time, but she thinks, sometimes, that they meant it. She doesn't think that sleeping with six guys in a month and a half was on their list of her achievements.
She sighs and moans in all the appropriate places, as his teeth scrape along her neck and she tries to pretend that it turns her on. She's not even in it for the sex, anymore. But it keeps her warm, and she enjoys the company, sometimes.
He was so cute around nine, when he was mostly sober. She'd laughed with Max and that other girl, Cindy, but when he offered to buy her a drink, she let him. Because he was so desperate, and a little funny, and a little cute. Now that his tongue is in her ear, he's not quite as cute as he used to be. But it's alright, because he doesn't have to be Sketchy. He doesn't have to be the loser from two tables over who's so eager to get laid that he just ripped her favorite jeans. He's Logan, just like he is every night.
But every night, after Logan finishes what she started, he rolls over and starts to snore. And every night, she climbs out of her bedroom window and cries.
It's just so hard pretending she's happy, these days. Hiding the bags under her eyes is getting harder and harder, and she's stopped wearing mascara because the tracks are such a bitch to wash off. In some ways, she's glad he hasn't contacted her at all since she got blamed for the mess his girlfriend caused. If she talked to him, she doesn't know if she could pretend anymore.
It's almost funny, how they never notice that her eyes are red and her voice is shaky when they leave in the morning. It's kind of cute, the way he gives her his number and tells her where he works, like she'll see him again. And she can almost believe what she's been imagining her whole life, when he kisses the back of her neck and it feels like he cares.
But he doesn't, she knows. They never really care, and that's the way she likes it. The only one who really matters, the only one she wants to care, is too wrapped up in his own problems. But even if he did notice, she doesn't know if she could tell him anything. She's just locked into being perky, while she tries her best to hold in the tears.
If only her friends could see her now.