505
A Victorious Oneshot
A/N-You might want to listen to 505 by Arctic Monkeys while reading this oneshot. It's definitely inspired by it.
The only reason this fic is sexualized is because I believe that the song's story is pretty much about the same thing, and who else describes such a situation if not Beck and Jade? Sorry if you feel I shied away from a few certain parts. I wasn't comfortable writing it but the story needed to see the sun. And besides, that song is AWESOME.
Well, it seems I'm back to 505. The last five hangs from the door loosely, threatening to spark against the concrete below. There's no peephole, so I can't see in and she can't see out, but I know on the other end waits my favorite worst nightmare, my girl, my muse. She's always on my mind and always in my bones, sending shivers through them and putting ice to the millions of nerves within me. I open the door she's left open for me and there she is, lying on her side with her hands between her thighs and a smile. There's something that lifts me up and lets me float above the earth. It's the thought of her smell, her breath on my neck, her taste.
And the best part is having it is never as good as the tease.
It's like all of those movies you've seen. It's slow motion, how she gets up and grabs your collar, whips her legs around you and steals your words with a sensual kiss. Her hands grip tight onto my greasy hair and it hurts a bit, but it can't hurt as much as when I slam us into the wall, never once breaking our lips apart. Because we're silent, I have to lick the words from her tongue. They swirl in my brain and tell me that I cannot stay the night. It always comes to this, a one night stand at 505, and for some reason I never say no. I never say that I will, in fact, stay, and nothing she will do can stop me. I allow myself to be a tool of her relief and release. I allow myself to be a hero of her body, beckoned by the light in the sky from her glassy eyes, but I always have to go before I'm seen, before I'm heard. I don't know what this is to her. It could be a game, it could be something more. I never know with her, and that scares me and comforts me at the same time.
The crappy motel room is freezing, but she's so hot against me. She's my beautiful black widow, not letting me escape the sultry trap of her long legs. I can't pull away, and then I wonder why I want to. I walk us to the bed where she lets go of me and lets herself fall to the bed. Her fall is graceful, like she's fallen from heaven before. She grabs the bottom of her shirt and lifts it above her head, tossing it aside carelessly. She points to me in the moonlight and curls her finger again and again, calling for me. I feel as if I'll freeze to death for a moment, before my hands find her warm thighs as I approach her.
Through glossy eyes of my own, I can see her ripped-up jeans on the edge of the bed. Her hands are already trying to take off mine, and she glares at me when I stop her. The quicker she does, the quicker it's over, and the quicker I'm gone. It hasn't even been twenty minutes, but when she tries again I don't have the strength to stop her. Being my wooden cross, I raise her up and kiss her ardently. I want to take the passion of five months or more from her soul before this night ends. I want to take enough to last me until her next call for a hero, saving her from stressful nights alone with her thoughts. That's the thing about such meetings, you don't think with thoughts. You don't think at all. At least you're not supposed to. Being my crown of thorns, I wear her like a king should. She moans into the air, as if she's calling for heaven. Even with her hands around my neck, I still adore her. I kiss down her thigh to her knee. She stops me and pulls me up to her, locking me into another life-threatening kiss. I don't know why it frightens me, for it's no harsher than the bark.
It's weird to see a tornado meet a volcano, it's hot and it's cold everywhere, it's dangerous, but damn if it isn't beautiful.
The rhythm grows dark and sinister, like we're making love inside of a catacomb. Skeletons are watching, demons are judging, ghosts are yearning, I'm terrified and she's right at home. Her moans mimic that of the ghosts, her eyes are a pearly black like the demons, her hip bones are smooth like the skeletons, and I realize this isn't heaven, but it's hell, because once we're done, I'll be forced to leave. I'm no hero; I'm nothing but a tool, a utility. Over-thinking it makes the making love into sex, the sex into screwing, and the screwing into something worse. It's less than enjoyable, no matter how fast I rock my hips. I close my eyes because everything distorts from right to wrong. Shadows with cameras film from the window outside, the voices crawling through the crevices of the broken, chilly air are laughing, she's telling me to not stop, I'm telling myself to slow down, I'm telling myself to make this worth it. I'm telling myself to say something, just one goddamn word. She turns around and I began to kiss her back, the smoothness only teases my lips, damn, I'm yearning for her next call already. I remember how for the past few weeks I've been having my phone right by my pillow every night on the highest volume there is. It's been by me in the shower, on the toilet, in the kitchen, on the front lawn, at school. It's been with me. And ever since she dropped out, it's been the closest thing I've had to her voice. I guess this is the only exclusion to the tease being better than the real thing.
She's on top of me, making my life a living hell. The greatest pleasure has become the greatest pain. The "something worse than screwing" becomes angry, fast, as if I hate her. I think I do. I do hate her, and that's why this is the way it is. She doesn't value me, yet she's everything to me. And by the end of it all, she climbs off of me and covers herself with the disgusting motel sheet like I haven't just been staring at her naked form all night. The middle of adventure's such a perfect place to start, yet we always seem to start at the beginning. Doing that makes us strangers, doing that make us nothing to each other. Without words, I know what she wants, because it still crawls on my tongue, through my brain-she wants me to go. Putting my clothes on and slamming the door with one look back too many, I wonder just if this will ever end. Once again she's had to greet me with goodbye, and I'm goddamn sick of it.
Two Months Later
Well, it seems I'm back to 505. The last five sits on the concrete below. It's been a forty-five minute drive and I'm exhausted, but for some reason I'm here. There's still no peephole, so I can't see in and she can't see out, but I know on the other end waits my favorite worst nightmare, my girl, my muse. She's always on my mind and always in my bones, sending shivers through them and putting ice to the millions of nerves within me. I open the door she's left open for me and, in my imagination, there she is, lying on her side with her hands between her thighs and a smile. But in reality, it's only hell.
Over and over and over again.
I feel as if I attempt to search her mind, I'd be searching forever. This bed is a casket. We're dying and reviving. Every single time, we're starting over. Every single time, we're strangers. Her breath in my mouth is a misty toxic pesticide, but it's the pest itself. It crawls into my heart and lays its eggs. I will never get away, I don't even know if I want to. Beyond a shadow of a doubt, I'm completely powerless, and no, I'm not happy with it, but I accept it. In the beginning, things were perfect, as they always are, but when she decided she wanted nothing to commit to, I told myself I'd become nothing. I'd deduce and reduce myself-for her. It's getting harder and harder for me to see a future with her, though it's all I want. It may seem odd; I can even imagine a wild life of partying and drugs, but if I'm with her, then hand me the needle and the red plastic cup as quick as you can. I can imagine us old and wrinkled, giggling in our raspy weak voices, and that thought is what we are, we're not me groping her breast, her kissing my neck, we're not animals, no. It hurts because I'm starting to think she's lost sight of what we first were, or if she just has chosen to forget or ignore it. Sometimes I feel that she doesn't really know me. If she really knew me, she'd know that I've been a pretty sad person as of late. I feel like I've been sinking into mania. Much more recently, I've been cynical about the future and this little thing called love. I've garnered a darker view on it, for sure. I know it's silly to be so dramatic over a girl, but it's...it's something she does to me.
Midnight motorcycle rides used to be my therapy. It helped me retain my sanity and for a while was an obsession of mine. Mind you, a rather pointless one, but it just…helped. Maybe the wind simply cooled the thousand suns burning inside of me for her, I don't know. My fears, woes, and doubts have been haunting me and Jade is no help. Her warmth should be the ultimate comfort, but it's only a statistic to my troubles. My lovely Jade has become a problematic statistic to the reasons I need to get out of this city. The midnight riding and other pursuits of happiness have become less of havens and more difficult to do, since all of this emotion most times overflows and I simply want nothing more to do than sit still and simmer in it. I feel like that's all I can do. If not for my friends and family, I don't know where I would be. I don't know when it happened, but I've become less in tune with God. I don't know how my religious family would respond to that. I don't even know how to respond to it. And I feel that no matter how successful I become in life, I'll always feel empty at times, and then feel too much at others. Just knowing that you're nothing but a body with the mind of a zombie and the mouth of a mute is crippling, let alone the promise that when her lust-filled eyes open all of the way, and she finally realizes what she's doing, she'll abandon me, which is paralyzing. It's having your soul stolen from you time and time again. It's losing your happiness, your last bit of childhood, your true love, your light. It's saying goodbye to your soul, and no one quite understands. At times it makes me angry, but at time I'm not even sure if I want anyone to understand, to listen. I'm suffering and I'm definitely suffering alone. I just want the Jade that loved me back, not the Jade that hungers for me. I'm not prey, I'm not prey.
She growls whispers of "More" into my ear, and I simply comply, like a slave, a mindless henchman to her evil, temptress ways. This is not a perfect world. A utopia this is not.
My wishes have not been satisfied.
I'm scared, I'm worried,
I'm terrified.
With a stinging sickness, with an illness that would not purge, I'm lost in her warmth. As much as it pains me, I often visit the catacombs of our memories, where they're dead and buried inside stone angels. Now, this place is supposed to be what I cannot stand, but I can't imagine myself anywhere else. I'm still connected to her in such a way. I could not say enough to be careful with my heart. I would wish that I wasn't so weak, but I know the good that wishing does. All these crypts hold what I wish to contain, ghosts that I want to haunt me, and so I'll never forget. So I'll never stray from sadness again. Loving too much, I am a walking curse. But Jade, my dear, you are a walking disease. I run my hands over the tomb of our first date, and then blow away the dust on our first kiss. I shine a flashlight on our parents meeting, and smile at our endless nocturnal talks.
When I declared my love, suddenly you no longer liked the eerie glow of the moon. Saying it beamed on me in such a way, I appeared ethereal. A phantom that reminded you of all that you despised. Even though I feel comfortable in this familiar darkness, I cannot shake the feeling that eyes are upon me smiling, smiling in the dark…above, beyond, behind, below. The only crypt open and revealing is the one where our future was planned. But now it can never happen. Now we can never be. I wipe away the dust that barely collected and I lay myself in the crypt. Funny, I can't remember what I wanted. I can't remember the children's names, the house, the state, the love.
I can't remember my dreams.