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Summary:It's come to that indefinable moment where it's not a question of if it will break or not. It's not a matter of falling but a matter of crashing; contact's going to hurt. If this is to be the last time they fuck, he's going to make sure it counts; he's going to make sure they break into infinite pieces. #Break-up sex#
A/N: Some angst and some smut; my favorite concoction. Andy/Sharon. Pre-Reloaded; exploration of them breaking up if they'd had a secret sexy-relationship going on before MC. Just break-up sex. Bwahaha. Enjoy.
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Easy, love, you don't cry
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He likes the expanse of her spine, the flesh soft beneath his touch. Her complexion like white snow beneath his hands, warm in contrast when he moves his hands from her lower back up along the sides of her ribcage to her shoulder blades. He can feel the muscles underneath, flexing with an inhalation. The moan leaving her lips when he slides into her again; his groin flush against her ass.
He likes the expanse of her spine, the image of her from behind bent over her own desk. The sound of skin slapping against skin, his cock buried in her one moment and the next moment friction as he slips out from her walls only to burrow into her again.
It's a conundrum; he wants to fuck her till she screams or succumbs to motionlessness and yet simultaneously he wants to make love to her slowly till she sighs in satisfaction. He wants to leave scars on her pristine skin, scratch through the fragile layer of skin till she bleeds but he wants to soothe her skin with gentle kisses at the same time. He wants to make her cry; not in the throes of passion but genuine hurtful crying. He's never seen her cry. Yet he wants to make her laugh too. It's a contradiction that sinks its teeth into him and won't let go. It turns him and spins him round and round till all he feels is nauseous, till he is left with only confusion.
How can he decide when he wants everything?
He wants to fuck her and he wants to make love to her; he can't have both.
Apparently he can't have neither after tonight.
It's come to that indefinable moment where it's not a question of if it will break or not. It's not a matter of falling but a matter of crashing; contact's going to hurt. If this is to be the last time they fuck, he's going to make sure it counts; he's going to make sure they break into infinite pieces. He knows what he wants; he's just uncertain how to make it happen. He wants her to break; like he's breaking. He wants her to hurt; like he's hurting.
She's remarkably composed when she told him about her promotion whereas he is the opposite. She's calm; he's in the grip of a whirlwind of emotions that flicker indistinctly between anger and sorrow, from indignation to malevolence, from infinitesimal happiness to infinite confusion.
She had delivered the news – the promotion – with a voice that bordered on that monotone connotation that annoys the hell out of him. Her mask of serenity annoys him too; the obscure eyes she looks to the world with annoys him; the way her hair never seems out of place annoys him; the way she tries to negate everything to simple causality annoys him. She's plain logic when faced with turmoil; he's only ever livid.
He had not seen this coming. It's like a slap to his face. She might as well have kicked him solidly in his abdomen; it hurts in a way he has not anticipated.
It's not entirely selfishness that surrounds him; he's happy for her, glad to know she's chosen to tell him in advance. It's the matter of what it will mean. It's the end as far as they go; no more late night dates that never make it outside the bedroom. It's the end of casually showing up at her place and leaving before dawn; the end of casually sending her a text when he's horny. It's the end of sneaking into a toilet stall at work and getting her off, a hand over her mouth inside the cubicle to keep her quiet, the other under her skirt, her eyes explicit caught in the middle of indignation and pleasure.
It's a beginning and an end. He's not sure how to feel about it.
It's ending.
A last fuck, he thinks with contempt.
It's not her fault; he tries to reason with himself. But there's nothing to quench his anger, and so he fucks her. It's the thing she expects; it's what she wants. If she wanted gentle behavior she would say so. She never has trouble with telling him exactly what she thinks or what she wants; no trouble with saying no. No, she moans louder, her arms reaching for the end of the desk, fingers around the end plate, tightening. There's nothing to misunderstand; she wants it rough, wants it to hurt as much as he does.
She's crashing too, he realizes; it's ending for her too.
His hands slide around her shoulders, digging in deep to the muscles as he pushes his hips into her ass. He settles against her, his chest presses into her back. Heavy on top, he imagines but she only wriggles and sighs in pleasure again. His lips descend on her neck as he gives a tentative bite before his teeth surely sink in, marking her with the edges of his teeth. Pain in physical form is easier to comprehend than what lies inside your heart.
He can feel the pressure of her troubled breathing in his ear, in the way she shivers underneath him – the way she spreads her legs even wider. He soothes the mark, tongue out to lick up towards her ear; she's ticklish there, a small giggle escaping in amidst a gasp. He rolls his hips, the rhythm different than before; he nibbles down the side of her throat again, hands quickly attaching themselves to her hips; steadying them both. He kisses the point between her shoulder blades before he straightens again; a quick rhythm instead of languid.
Her breath hitches; her hips scooting backwards and meeting him.
He holds one hip, his fingers white from the tight hold of flesh; he's going to leave another mark. He takes a hold of her thigh and slides her backwards, dangerously close to the edge. The extra space for his hand to sneak in between her folds, fingers already slick against her clit.
She hums.
He quickens the rhythm even more; blind to anything but release and his cock buried in her; blind to anything but his fingers rough on her, circling her.
She comes with a shudder, sound unable to move past her mouth; he watches her, her mouth against the surface of the desk as if she wants to taste the wood of the desk, as if she can breathe through the fabric of wood. He rocks into her a couple of times before he follows. Her voice vibrating in her throat – a little sound that's in between a plea and a moan; his fingers are still on her clit and she wriggling, the feeling too much he knows. He lets go, both hands once again around her thighs.
He stops.
Shit.
His legs shake; knee's feeling unstable under him. He leans down on her again, his hands on the desk right next to head, trying to take off some of the weight of his body on her.
It's in the still of the aftermath; breaths loud in among otherwise silence.
He slips out of her, his cock soft. She looks like a lifeless doll on the desk now, forehead against the wood of the table, hair obscuring her eyes. Her breaths are loud, hitching as if she is trying to keep up. His chest is stuck to her back, hips still pressed into her cheeks; the warmth of sweat nonetheless slowly evaporating and leaving behind a sticky feeling.
She's in a different world right now; the bliss of aftermath and closure. She's always very different in the aftermath he has noticed. Sometimes he wonders where she goes; floating around somewhere in clouds where no mortal has reach. He grunts into her skin, settling a little kiss to one shoulder-blade before he distances himself.
He gives her privacy; stepping away, a little caress along the back of her thigh, slick with sweat.
He disappears into her bathroom, cleaning himself. He contemplates the shower, decides the spray of water will calm him down. He steps inside the glass cubicle, the water warm. He should turn the tap to cold but he really does not want to wake up now; he wants to linger in this slumber. It's relaxing and he's sated; cold water and it would douse him in reawakened contemplation and anger. The warmth seeps into him, exhaustion never having been this serene before; he's ready to close his eyes and fall asleep. The pressure is just hard enough to slip into the muscles of his back, leaving behind a feeling of sleepy satisfaction.
He hears the door opening. A cabinet opening as well before something rustles. She's quiet, he thinks – no humming voices or questions directed at him. She steps into the cubicle with him, her arms immediately going around his middle, her cheek against his chest. He tucks her against his chest; turning them so the water doesn't land directly into her face.
He likes the span of her back like this as well; hair slowly starting to become almost black with water, tendrils starting to cling to her shoulders, starting to stick to the skin of her back. He spins them around again, the majority of the water down her back now; she looks up, lips slightly apart.
He leans down and plants a kiss on them.
"I'm going to miss this," she mumbles; the distinction between 'you' and 'this' clear to him. He knows there's a reason she not saying 'I'm going to miss you'.
He simply nods, hands now at the back of her head; tilting her face upwards to he can kiss her more profoundly. Their mouths seem desperate; clinging to each other's lips like the water clings to their skin; the water slides off eventually and eventually they need air.
They towel dry, eyes avoiding each other in the mirror, taking turns to surreptiously look at each other. There's no coy smiles or dry humor; no flippant comment from him nor any sarcastic reply from her.
He feels a bit lost; dry skin, towel in hand and looking to his reflection in the mirror. He's not sure what he sees; only he looks like a lost soul.
She caresses his cheek, her thumb soft. She brings him closer and she even seems composed up close. There's something in her eyes he can't discern when he finally looks; something dark and sad. She stands on tiptoe, her lips are soft against his, not in a hurry and yet he can already detect the small difference in it. She's saying goodbye. That's the reason her lips are soft against his, the reason she lingers in a way she has never lingered in a kiss before.
His hand is rough around her jaw, abruptly breaks them apart, distance between them. The briefly hurt look in her eyes only another exasperating component. He keeps his fingers on her till they wound their way around her neck, his thumb sliding down the length of her windpipe. It's not hard; it's not meant to be. He just wants to feel her swallow, wants to feel the vibration of her breathing.
Her lips curl slightly, the smile derisive if not for the small apology in her eyes.
"I'm sorry," she says; and she has nothing to apologize for.
He covers her mouth again, brings her close and staggers with her, his arms tight around her, into the wall just next to the door into her bedroom.
"I want to stay the night," he says, the words more a statement than a question.
He knows by the shadows in her eyes that it's the last thing she wants; he knows this is what she has tried to fortify herself against the whole day leading up to telling him about the promotion. She wants a clean break; a crash that surely only breaks a piece into two separates beings. He wants destruction, naturally.
"Just for tonight," he elaborates, the implicit 'just this last time' hanging between them in the air, heavy like dew in the morning, cold as well.
She gives an almost unperceivable nod; her eyes on his chest, her hands loosely on the low part of his back.
He guides them into her bedroom, careful of not disturbing whatever thoughts she mulling over now, her eyes far away. No, it's better to stay silent. She's already naked, so is he. He pulls the covers off, nudges her on the bed and lies next to her, the sheets on top again.
He lies behind her, a tentative hand on the curve of her hip. He imagines she purses her lips and berates herself; he imagines she's contemplating kicking him out anyway. It's just supposed to be a goodbye fuck; she had probably only meant to tell him about the promotion and that they had to stop seeing each other. He's pretty certain she never figured anything else into it.
He can't just say goodbye; he can't just leave without a little piece to take with him. He needs some form of remembrance, something to soothe what is undoubtedly going to become a difficult time of transition.
She scoots backwards and he knows it's alright to smother her then, pulling her in close and settling his lips against the spot just behind her ear. Kissing her behind her ear.
His legs tangle with hers.
Goodbye; he thinks, not sure whether it's supposed to be this laden with a bittersweet taint.
It's not her fault; he tries it for a mantra. It's not her fault that he's come to care for her when it's the last thing he expected. That is not her fault. She has never made any specific plans to take over major crimes; not her fault either. She has always told him this was simply casual; simply sex. Nothing there to misconstrue; not her fault he decides to think it's different. It's not her fault it has become profound in his heart when he was not looking.
It's not her fault and yet he can feel the small embers of anger, already alive and raw beneath his skin. He's angry; at her, at himself. At the Chief leaving; at Taylor for everything else. It's a mess. It was never supposed to be like this but he can't control it.
There's plenty of opportunity to be angry in the future, he thinks. It's not an emotion that needs to resurface now.
"You're lovely," he whispers in her ear, and he can feel the half indignant, half happy smile that always sneaks upon her face when he tells her something she's not used to. "Beautiful."
Her hands intertwine with his between her breasts, the bottom of one heavy against his wrist.
"I'm sorry too," he whispers then.
She hums. One of those sounds that allay agreement in some fashion; it's one of those noises that both soothes and riles him up.
He kisses the skin under her ear now, just where her neck begins.
Her hands tighten around his.
It's going to be different; so different.
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