a/n: Happy Birthday, Ana! I hope you have a really great day.(; This is a drabble, and it makes no sense. I've no idea what the genre is. Hopefully, someone can tell me. Oh and before I forget: this is extremely AU.
Prompts: rugged patchwork quilt, sweaty hands, "sinking like stones"
Pairing: Clairington
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She's the type his senseless ma had always warned him about.
[Don't fuck around with them types, Derrie. (she took her long, accustomed pull of her slender Marlboro) they only trouble for a good boy like you. You a bit like your father. Got the same nose. Long an' strong. (spittle fuddled out from her slack mouth) at least, you got some sense. He never did. (her eyes always turned from a clear aqua to an intricate turquoise when she was upset) but he don't matter no more. You won't leave me like he did. Come 'er, Derrie boy. Mommy loves you. (her frail arms would always extend, little thin bones protruding, high cheekbones wasted on a beauty trashed from nicotine and too many hard days, and encircle his hesitant form. She would then return to her point) that girl's too high-strung for you, baby. All that beloved blondie hair. Reckon she thinks she somethin. And big ole blue eyes. (her tiny, bony arms, visibly disclosing thin, blue vessels running feebly underneath, would tighten uncomfortably around him) fuckin whore, Der. Don't mess with them types. Not like her. You got me, anyways. (her voice would soften, coarse voice warm against his ear) remember that curiosity kills the cat, Derrie, and he'd always mumble something in return. Usually a little hmm that she was always satisfied with. His conscious screamed for him to agree, but he couldn't. just. no.]
;;;
She was always different, nothing like his wizened ma, beautiful and intelligent and rich, very much so. (She a blue-blood, Derrie; you don't wanna mess with that type. Smoke would twirl and a decrepit mouth would mold into a scowl.)
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She's the flirt that won't get off her adamant high; she has more resemblances to his ma then he thought possible, but he ignores that for the sake of her beauty and supposed innocence and (she ain't worth shit.) the hope for someone caring and maybe some fucking salvation.
(you got me, anyways)
She never teased him like others did (what the fuck is up with your mom? How old is she anyway? Shouldn't she be dead by now?) but only stared with her wide eyes the shade of a cloudless sky into his own, delving maybe, searching for who he might be; maybe she was hoping for a sign of personality, just a tiny iota, beyond his usual blankness and nonchalant attitude.
She wouldn't find any.
;;;
She works her charming ways with her eyes, eyelashes gently fluttering close and open slowly; her lips would always pucker with a new shine, and were always painted crimson, plump from her teeth's involuntary gnawing on her bottom lip.
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She's always trouble for him.
They were in the school gym, and her eyes were back to work again, into his, her hand soaring across the plane of his chest; his quiet adoration reached past the strength of her limbs.
He wouldn't say it, what he really felt, but his eyes only widened as she withdrew some pot, fresh off the plant, and offered him a thatch.
His words caught in his throat, tears filled his lids, his heart was sinking like stones he skipped in the prim creek by his house; his feet rapidly carried him to his home, panic and rage overwhelming.
(You got me, anyways.)
Her voice echoed in his head, disgust overwhelmed, and a desperate loneliness overtook.
[I dun told you, boy, she just a fuckin whore. I told you not to mess with them types, din I? Didn' listen, and now look at you. Cryin like a fuckin pussy. (her arms extended like always, craggly fingers beckoning, mouth forming into a grim smile, taking a well-deserved break from repairing his rugged patchwork quilt and smoking her beloved Marlboro) what she try to do to you, boy? He stopped her there, assuring her that nothing happened, that he had learned his lesson. good boy. (her voice became hoarse and her body trembled harshly with coughs. But yet another take of a ciggie) Mommy got you, now. That bad girl ain't messin wid you anymore. -I (wracking coughs against her stiff hand) love you. He couldn't help but quiver.]
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She's the one that always moves on quickly. He knew that, as he was an avid observer, but after their little escapade, she seemed discouraged, and her flirtatious rendezvous were only half-hearted. There were cute, little shadows deepening under her eyes, blemishing her skin which was as fair and delicate as porcelain, and her hair shone with grease and misuse.
She caught his gaze and smiled hesitantly but warm all the same; he averted himself away from her.
(what she try to do to you, boy?)
Because she cared for him, and he didn't want that, but he knew it; that was deep within him, in his subconscious, in the trembling way his ma spoke to him.
(you won't leave me like he did)
And he knew that she had never even desired a person like she did him; she was for him, all for him, and her breath rasped in honor of his presence, sweaty hands briefed her as often as it did him. But his loyalty and reluctant love for his ma denied her of his companionship and possibility of salvation, but-damn-he wanted her.
;;;
But then she's invited him for a walk (please, Derrick, just a stroll); he didn't deny the situation he was intermingled deeply into because his heart rose and fell in desperate beats, and her hands reached countlessly as to take his hand only to fall back. Their strides were carefully measured, as were their words (how was your day? The weather's been nice lately.), but he wanted his palm to meet hers, for his lips to touch hers (fuckin whore), if only once, and he wanted for his ma to get out of his head. Just for a while.
So he commenced a kiss like no other.
It was in no means perfection, but it was overflowing with emotion; pulses raced, hands entwined tightly, and fingers gently caressed.
And her cracking voice never intruded. It was just him and that-his-perfect girl with none of her friends glued to her shoulder, no ma, no visible destructions; just the wind swirling their hair in slick circles, the whistle of a UPS truck as it roared past, and the melody of birds tweeting happily about as their lips tied together tighter and tighter. He was ridding himself of his troubles, inhaling her fruity shampoo, the mint of her breath, the warmth of her chest against his, and his grasp tightened. Before he fell interminably, he saw those eyes blink slowly up, and her mouth slide into a grin, and dammit he didn't deserve this.
;;;
(Reckon she thinks she somethin.)
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Because she's the only one that can make him cry, and guffaw, and forget his ma, and he knows that she is somethin, and he's not stringing her along, that he wants her forever. She taught him forgiveness and how to eat m&m's with popcorn (just open it and drop them in there quick. Damn, Derrick, don't burn yourself!) and to love truly; he constructed that drugs aren't everything, that cigarettes only destroy lives, (and who the hell wants to kiss someone with stinky breath anyway?), and that there will never be anyone else for him.
(Remember that curiosity kills the cat, Derrie.)
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But satisfaction brought it back.
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a/n: I've no idea what that was, Ana. I'm sorry; it was rushed and stuff. This is what happens when you listen to Cage the Elephant, I guess. xD I still hope you liked it and Happy Birthday! To others: review? and I hope you liked it as well.
My signoff was epic. ;D
-Livvy