a/n- Hi, guise. I've only watched two episodes of the new season, so I have no idea what's happened. This is just a drabble- completely random and unrelated. I find this to be terrible and weird, but I also like it for some reason. You might get confused, or you might not. If you have any questions, just leave it in a review, or pm me.
genre- Angst. And then fluff. I think. xD
pairing- Hm. Nikita/someone. I'd like to think it's some person on the show- maybe minor, maybe major. I guess you can decide. An eventual Mikita.
warnings- This contains sexual references and acts. If the rating should be risen from T, please let me know. Language is also included, some of the crude variety.
Enjoy?
Oh, and disclaimed.
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When she's tired and restless, she travels far from the city into the country where everything's quiet and cordial. She lies on random grassy hills under the moonlight and stares at the white, wavering world she lives in; she breathes in deep, withering breaths until she feels the kind of calm serenity that she never gets on any particular occasion.
Sometimes, she visits big, bad Division, and knocks out guards and all the other shitters that she doesn't care about, just so she can hear him reprimand her, and tell her that she can't do this anymore in his deep man voice.
She usually just stands, sits, or kneels (whatever is to her current fancy) and withholds her tears, because there's no point in becoming distraught in front of the man she'd die for. She likes the tortuous process of being full of lusty hope only to crash excruciatingly hard into booze, rickety recliners, and guiltless self-pleasure.
.
She has sex with other men as a consuming distraction; through their redundant groans and harsh, upward thrusts, they're usually too plastered to care or hear her gasping Michael's. The guilt is horrifying, but then she thinks of him fucking women like she fucks men, and she feels angry, which makes her okay again. The anxiety-induced tremors stop after a while.
Let's dance she demands to her willing suitors- her wish is certainly their command. In that sexily trending way that everyone raves about, they begin their tribal-esque jig- her ass undulates their crotches until she can taste their want, feel their need, and desire their fullness. Their gasps simultaneously delight and disgust her. She tells them to whisper into her ear sweet nothings, because she needs something nice and comforting, even though it's more superficial than Beverly Hills and Kim Kardashian combined.
After their immediate compliance, she lays her head on their shoulders, tilts up her mouth, and soaks in their warm, hot, comforting breath whispering about her ear. She usually kisses them then, inducing the monotonous hot and bothered state. They groan into her mouth and tell her the various ways that they're going to fuck her. She shoves her tongue into their mouths like the inescapable tease she is; her hands tend to go on a road down their pants at that point. They whimper like pussies, and beg for more, more, more, because it feels so good. It's all the same after a while.
Her disgusting habits become pleasant for her- sin is irresistible once you lather yourself in it. After much practice with malicious ways, the innocent life isn't so desirable.
.
She rides bikes regularly, because she likes how neon, papery leaves sound demolishing under her wheels and how good the experience makes her feel. She can't run this fast, no matter her training; she pedals and pedals and pedals until she can't breathe, and it seems as if she's ran all of the leaves off her meandering trail.
Under a particularly glaring ray of sun, crowned by the rarity of a glowing cerulean shelf, she finds herself skidding to a stop, suddenly unaware of her whereabouts. An ordinary, yet quaint coffee shop subsequently meets her glance around. She enters, casually noticing that the cashier is a handsome specimen; she seduces him within a few flashes, and then palms him her address. She sometimes wishes that she'll pick up a serial killer, but she hasn't succeeded with that so far.
.
The cashier has a surprisingly talented mouth. It's wide, full, moist, and brimming with knowing promise. She moans against his lips, because its masculine twists and taste is so much like his that it makes her want to scream and never ever unglue herself. When he's done flailing in ecstasy, she pleas for him to stay the night. In the morning, powdery brown stubble is strewn across his face, and it's also so much like his that she wants to rip off his work-embroidered t-shirt and khaki pants at that second. He smiles at her in a crooked, handsome way.
"Do you want me, sweetheart?" He gruffly teases, eyes trained on hers.
She glares at him, "Get to work before I kick your ass."
He laughs then and swoops in for a kiss, "I bet you would. See you later, beautiful."
.
She feels better today. Maybe it's because the atmosphere seems brighter- the sky is always light and blue; the clouds, infinitely white and fluffy; the air, crisp, clean, and refreshing. She doesn't hate the world so much anymore.
"What's happened?" His sweet, honey-colored eyes delve into hers inquisitively.
"What do you mean?" She whispers, becoming breathless and a tad threatened.
He gnaws on his chapped bottom lip for a moment, before replying, "You smiled. Just then."
She resists a grin, though still not able to suppress a twitching quirk around her mouth.
"There!" He exclaims, "You did it again!"
"Now, I'm offended," she halfheartedly scolds, her face stretching into a toothy grin.
"I should fix that," he swoops up to her, tickling her firm stomach with ready hands. She throws her head back and laughs and realizes that she hasn't felt so good since Michael.
With this heart-stopping thought, she stiffens.
Pushing him away and standing, she inserts, "I've got to go."
His smile crumples from his face, and his hands fly to her waist, "But, why? And where would you go? This is your place, not mine."
She hardens her features, her heart cracking in its rickety frame, "We shouldn't do this anymore."
"What?" He murmurs, disbelieving.
"Because I can't. It's not you-"
"-'it's me,' right?" He scathingly completes, "that's the biggest pile of bullshit that I've heard in a long time, Nikki."
Her heart throbs painfully, "This isn't what you want. Having sex and ordering in all the time is what I like. You deserve better."
"What man wouldn't love this life? And you are the best, dammit!" he exclaims angrily.
"I'm far from it. That's why I'm leaving," she retorts quietly.
He freezes and takes a deep breath.
"You're a wonderful woman. And think what you want, bitch about whatever, but I won't let you leave me. I've fallen for you, as stupid ass as that is, and you're not going to say that you don't love me, or don't care for me. You can't walk out. You won't," he finishes, eyes brimming with tears that no ordinary man would permit.
She stares at him for a while. The amber shade of his eyes are mysteriously entrancing. Light beams off and licks the strings of brown near his pupils, and saline liquid brushes haphazardly over his eyelashes with each blink of a desperate eye. His short, chocolate-pigmented hair frames a wide brow and a broad, firmly-set jaw. Well-tinted pink lips appeal to the core of every woman (no exceptions, even with the most cold-hearted of women). The cleft in his chin was, at first, to her a cute feature, but has become what she considers his best accessory.
She smiles with as much genuine power that she can muster and takes his big hands. Admiring his long fingers, she kisses each pink tip, harried thoughts tumbling through her head.
"I do care for you. Understand that. But I can't be with you," she answers, blank look set and heart cracking into confused shards. She's in love with him, but she's in love with Michael more. It's not right for either of them.
"Nikki, stop this," he pleads, leaping up predictably. His arms encircle her, squeeze her, grasp ever single part of her. His body clenches around hers. His hands fist into her hair. He forces her eyes to meet his.
She grimaces, extricating his frame from around her, and softly enunciates, "Have a good life."
She closes the door to easy tears, her wants, and the promise of a dead life.
.
It's not easy to evade the allure of his presence. She stops by his coffee shop, out of reluctant loneliness, overpowering sadness, and rampant curiosity. The day is cloudy, grumpy, and wholly undesirable; her hair is ruffled and frizzy, and her hormone levels exceed the usual rate.
She watches him through the window- his hair has grown out, curling attractively at the ends; at a closer glance, her face unabashedly squished to the window, his eyes appear bloodshot. The smile he offers to the flirty customers is weak and thin. Lines have deepened their lengthening trail across his brow, and wrinkles lay around his eyes in premature crow's feet.
Her hands tremble in anxiety and longing; she feels taken aback. After ending her colorful relationship, she reverted to her past ways. But fucking men she doesn't know has no appeal- not anymore. Booze has lost its burn, and even riding her Schwinn doesn't hold much glory. She just needs to see him.
The stained glass has holes from her intent gaze, and fog thickens the glass from her heaving breaths.
She really wants him to lift that tired, handsome head up and see her- a mysterious figure draped in homeless-esque garments to hide her true self- the fiery woman with hair of black silk, with eyes as cold and warm as the ocean, though colored a deep obsidian; the woman with a tattered spirit, held up only by resilience.
He doesn't look at her.
So, she walks away and begins to cry. The alley is a lonesome refuge, but friendly to her purpose. She huddles in a corner next to moldy muffins and spoiled whole milk, tears running down her face. This is the only time that she'll let herself truly be distraught.
The back door from the coffee shop suddenly opens. She pulls her fragile, cotton hood over her dark hair. Footsteps drag across the ragged cement; the dumpster lid opens with a slouchy bang and closes with a stubborn bounce backwards.
She hears steps to the door and breathes a shaky sigh of relief.
They pause unexpectedly, "Ma'am, are you okay?"
She shivers. His voice is too comforting and soothing, and she finds that she doesn't really like that very much.
She lowers her voice into a gruff tone, "Yes."
She hears cracked gravel crunch as he moves closer, "Are you hungry?"
"N-no, not really," she replies.
He chuckles, "You don't have to be modest, though it's nice to see around here. . I have a bagel right here."
"I'm not hungry," she retorts, inserting a harsh intonation for a better effect.
He steps back, "Uh, okay. Just know there's food if you need it."
She hears the door open and can't resist the growing sob that bursts forth, realizing her mistake immediately.
Footsteps race to her, and her hood is thrown off with hasty hands.
"Nikki?"
"No," she whispers, defeated.
Harsh hands pull her up and caress her arms. Her body is thrown against the faded brick wall, and desperate lips press against hers. His tongue pokes into her mouth, her traitorous body immediately melting to his harsh embrace.
"Nikki," he murmurs, sliding his hands to her stomach and over her breasts.
"Stop, please."
"Why? Why the hell did you leave me? We were happy, dammit!" He glares into her face, shoving his mouth against hers in a way that puts her organs on fire.
"I had to," she pulls away.
"Bullshit!"
"I-"
"What, Nikki? Why would you just-"
"Because there's someone else, okay?" She gasps exasperatedly, unable to meet his gaze.
He presses closer.
"Who is he? I'll kill him," he nicks her earlobe.
"I'm in love with him."
His moan of fury and sadness mingle as he kisses her harder and harder; he forces her legs around his slender waist, licking at her collarbone.
"You're mine, Nikki. Mine."
He attacks her body with angry hands, plucking at her lady parts. She unwillingly moans against him.
"Why did you come back?"
"Because I just wanted to see you one more time," she answers, throwing her head back in pleasure from his thrusting fingers. Guilt begins its trek, stiffening each tendon, ligament, bone, and muscle; she begins to untangle herself from his stiff limbs.
"I won't let you go. Not this time."
She stares at his glowing yellow eyes, bruised, plump lips, and unbuttoned polo, "I love you too." She then accurately knees him in the crotch.
With a gasp and a groan, he sinks against the wall. She brushes her hand against his unshaven face, plants a kiss on his messy hair, and jogs away.
.
She hacks a mission. Michael is in charge, per usual. With the assassination completed, she finds him sitting on a bench, completely alone and unsupervised.
"Nikita," he acknowledges warily.
She nods. A silence concurs, before she gathers her courage-
"I'm in love with someone," she blurts, searching his face.
His jawbone hardens, "That's dangerous."
"I thought you would be happy for me-"
"Of course, I am," he says carefully.
After a brief moment, he adds, "And who is he?"
She cocks her eyebrows, "Who wants to know?"
He chuckles sarcastically, shaking his familiar head.
The silence lasts for a while. The sky is clear, a light blue ink staining the atmosphere; the wind is nonexistent; the season, chilly, unobtrusive, and pleasant, overall. It's surprisingly quiet, excluding nosy birds and daring squirrels.
"I'm going to marry him."
He sharply looks away, "Why did you come here? Just to tell me that?"
"Yes. Maybe I just wanted to see if you still gave a shit, Michael."
"So, you're not going to marry him?" He cocks his head, eyes fixed on her ear.
"I didn't say that."
"You don't love him." He states harshly.
"I do," she retorts slowly.
He grimaces.
"I guess I should go," she pauses, "have a good life, Michael." She blinks away unexpected tears.
"Nikita.."
"What?" She inconspicuously clears her throat.
"I-"
She turns around, taking in his uncomfortable figure. He stands slowly.
"I don't think you should marry him."
She sighs. "Why?"
He runs a hand through his hair.
"It's just not a good idea."
"Don't you think I know that, Sherlock?" She replies, crossing her arms.
He laughs in his discomfort.
"He'd take care of me better-"
His head snaps up.
"You don't know that."
"I do, actually," she explains, "I lived with him-"
His head whips around, before he rushes to her.
The minute before he kisses her moves slowly. The hazel pigment of his eyes are hard and soft like the bark of a tree; the green is deeper than curly ivy vines on a rustic wall; the full brown planes are a beautiful shade that melts her insides and warms her belly. His eyelashes are impossibly long and dark, unlike his hair, which is a light brown color highlighted by summer's blond glare. His high cheekbones and moist lips reach a higher perfection than she can ever imagine. His scent is of pine, wet dirt, and a fading tinge of Giorgio Armani.
He pauses, his eyes on hers. The gaze is intense and wanting and resistant. She lets her shell crumble for a moment, immediately embarrassed. She knows her eyes are pouring all of her deepest emotions forth, and it hurts her to be free, because she likes security and closure. She doesn't really want him to know how much she truly cares. But it's too late now, and they both know it.
He exhales loudly, one finger reaching out to stroke her cheekbone. His head lowers, his lips pressing gently to the base of her neck. As she arches just slightly, his face spreads into an anticipatory grin that's instantly chastised by an annoyed hand in his hair and a wicked one on his crotch.
"Same old Nikki," he nostalgically whispers into her neck. She realizes this is a moment that she'll have to take action, rather than wait.
"Michael," she whispers hoarsely.
It's all she has to do before his mouth is level with hers, and they're both heaving with anticipation. It's not magic or nice and neat, but rough, as his lips crash against hers with a passion that she'd almost forgotten he had. His tongue among her mouth induces a deep groan from both of them, as their arms stretch around each other. Puzzle pieces click as mouths fit into places, and hands traverse familiar places. The sky begins to drop its white mist from its affably unpredictable depths; it's glory is lost on them, as they entwine further.
He pulls away first, blinking rapidly and clasping his hands in front of his crotch, "Nikita, I-"
She throws her hair back, pulling a strand from her mouth and smiling in girlish embarrassment, "I know."
His grin is awkward and crooked, so unlike his usual self. "That's settled."
"Yeah, I guess it is."
His eyes almost sparkle, as she kisses him on the hand, and walks away with him right beside her.
.
a/n- If you want to explain what that is, go ahead, because I don't know. It's angst-y, then not, I guess? When I wrote this, I really considered the no-name guy to be like a ghost of Michael really. That's why he has no name. I'm not sure exactly what the thought behind that is, but I hope you liked it anyway. If you could review, that would mean lots and really help me out. Thanks for reading.(:
-Livvy