Interlude.
A/N; I honestly have absolutely no idea where this came from. At all. The words just flooded out - and most probably will leave you just as confused as they've left me. Then again; all my stories are a bit weird.
Disclaimer; FLCL is perfect just the way it is.
Oh, but it's all so tangled up and confusing. Nothing makes sense; then again, nothing ever really did with her. So many times, he'd wished he could read her mind just as skillfully as she'd read his. But that would never happen, and he knew that.
She wasn't like other people, he knew that too. Hell, she wasn't even human to begin with.
She was just… Haruko. There to mess up his already messed up life.
That was one thing, if anything, she always did perfectly. That – and taking no shame in owning both his body and what was inside of it.
She took great pleasures in taunting him; she'd done it so many times now he was beginning to lose count. But there was one time he was sure he wasn't ever going to forget. That time he'd thought she had something cooking with Kamon.
It had annoyed him so much – too much. And she'd taken it upon herself to drive out every little truth out if his mouth 'til it bounced off the four walls that was his room.
Haruko had so shamelessly snuck into his bed and disarmed him of all protests, frowns and 'I hate you's.
And she'd only laughed at his empty insults attempted to be thrown right in her face as her hands had so skillfully tugged the covers off him and her sharp teeth had found that certain spot below his ear.
It was crazy to the point where she drove him completely mad. Who in their rightful mind would take such pleasures in messing with someone? He hated her so badly for pushing what he wanted so much into his face. Toying with him, torturing him and enabling him from thinking of anything other but her face. Even if it was of how much he hated her.
She'd do it some nights; sneak in next to him and intoxicate him 'til he was trembling and then just leave him cold when he was mere seconds away from actually having her.
She was one cruel bitch. Promise after promise, she'd made him break – she'd break him down.
She'd haunt him during classes – even though he had never really paid much attention to those anyway. Her voice would be a dull echo even with Mamimi clinging all over him.
And she'd always be there waiting on the top bed, toying with her guitar and giving him an evil and know-it-all smirk. She'd ask him how his day had been on purpose, knowing he'd flinch and snap at her just because he knew she was already well aware of how it'd been.
Then she'd do it to him all over again.
He'd find her in the kitchen, in the living room, outside the house, in his bedroom and sometimes even walk in on her showering knowing she'd skipped locking the door on purpose – just to mess with his mind.
And at nights she'd occupy him. Sometimes with the lazy strings of her guitar purring throughout the empty, dark space of his room – and sometimes with her long, soft fingers teasing their way up his skin.
Teasing away his shirt, sliding off his shorts and sucking down the very spot that ached the most. She'd done it so many times before; and left him gasping, ashamed and furious that he'd long gone lost hope already.
But when that final thread of hope was gone; she had delivered the final blow.
He'd been in a haze of sweat, inaudible whispers and bitterness when she'd finally taken it upon her to make him moan her name.
She took great joys and giggled uncontrollably when he watched at her through eyes filled with anticipation and her name sliding off his lips like a broken record.
Her hands would be everywhere, her tongue would do things he'd never even heard of and her hips would sway in such a manner he'd find blood under his nails from digging them into her thighs.
He'd never once before found himself so lost and disconnected; no, this was only something she could pull out of him. It would be so rough, and yet so bittersweet his hands would fumble for any kind of relief.
Over and over, she'd pick up the pace 'til he was hanging onto nothing but a thread and then leave him hanging on some more as her hips would slow down to nothing but the hint of a sway.
When she finally got what she wanted; his anger illustrated with actions – his hands tugging, clawing, roughly guiding, his teeth biting and lips marking – she let him have what he'd wanted for so long.
He'd slowly fall asleep with her sprawled out all over him; oddly knowing that he'd wake up to nothing but an empty bed and imprint of a certain pink-haired memory on his sheets.
He really did hate her.