He wants to fuck her sideways. Fuck the loneliness from her eyes. Fuck the heartache out of her. Fuck every remnant of every thought of him from her mind. Fuck away everything he's ever done or said to her. And he's telling himself that the only reason he wants to do this is because she's kind of a friend and because of the lust he feels for her.
It has absolutely nothing to do with the way she roams around his head when he breathes. It has nothing to do with the way every muscle in his body stiffens when she's around. It has nothing to do with the way his stomach churns when he thinks of his lying cheat of a best friendtouching her with his hands. It has nothing to do with the way every part of him wants to melt when she laughes after he burns someone.
Nothing to do with any of that.
And so that's why he's standing here. In the doorway of the room she's rented at the closest motel. He's tracked her down here. He's heard about the way she stormed out on him. And it almost makes him smile.
She's hunched over a table and she's crying. And he's never been able to stand crying. He hates it with every fiber of his being. Especially her crying Because it tugs at his heartstrings, makes him feel human. And it makes him hate his best friend. Because he is the one who has made her this way and he has done something so terrible that she is alone and crying.
Sobs rack her body and any trace of a smile on his face disappears. She's vulnerable lonely and sad, but not weak. Never weak. She is one of the strongest women he knows and it makes his blood boil because she is strong, so strong. And he has brought her down to this level. To sobbing in an empty room at a cheap motel.
He shifts from one foot to the other and the floor creaks beneath his fett and her head snaps up and he sees her face. She wipes at her tears with her sleeves, sniffles, and laughs nervously. "Oh, hi. I didn't hear you come in." She tries to smile and hide every ounce of sorrow from her face. But she can't. And she's beautiful even when she cries. And as he takes his shoulder from the door frame and moves closer, she sits up a little more and tries to gather herself.
He can now see every ounce of fucking misery in her eyes and he wants to take it away. He wants to fuck her six ways to Sunday to make all the hurt go from her. He wants to make it better. And it's only for the lust or the fact that they're friends and he hates seeing her hurt and hates seeing the dull in her eyes. He wants to see her usual excitement.
She stands and goes to a small cabinet by the bed. "Drink?" She asks and her voice is shaking. He smiles and shakes his head. "Oh." She says and slides her hand off the cabinet. He hates the way her voice shook. He is leaning almost casually against the doorway and he finally pushes his shoulder off it to come towards her.
He stretches his arms out and gathers her in them. She stands there, stiff, for a few moments. And then she gives in and her head is buried in his neck. Her arms are hanging by her sides and he buries his hands beneath her hair, on her own neck. And finally she is crying so heavily that she collapses, no longer able to support her own weight. He puts his arms under her shoulders and keeps her up. And his shoulder is wet and she's against him, molded to his body like a second skin.
He presses his lips to her temple. When her crying lightens a little, he rains kisses across her forehead and the ear that is pressed against his chin. Her chest stops heaving and the tears come slower now.
And then her head is moving and his lips are running down her nose, to each cheek, and then he pauses. He is a whisper away from her lips. He takes one hand and tilts her chin up and instead of her lips, he kisses her throat. His lips catch every tear under her chin and he moves his mouth to the side of her throat and he feels something bumpy. He lifts his head, moving her hair away to get a clearer look.
It is a wide scar. About an inch in width, it runs from just under her ear to under her shirt. It feels soft and almost looks strings run from one side of the scar to the other. And he wonders...how many times and how roughly has he kissed her there? The thought surges through him and he lowers his open mouth to it, covering what he can see of it.
She back away from him and his mouth. Her eyes are no longer dull, but he sees the misery retreating. She is standing a few feet away and he thinks she is about to leave. But, no, she's heading towards the door and he thinks maybe she's throwing him out. Maybe she wants to be alone in her misery. But that's not it either. Her hands wrap around the door knob and she pulls it to a close, taking a key from her pocket and locking it as well.
And she turns and looks at him. And that look she is giving him is dark and her eyes are so deep that he thinks he might drown if he looks for much longer. He wants to break into a million pieces with that look she is giving him. And he's walking towards her and he's holding her head between his hands. And their lips are entwined and she's backing him up. And they her bed is not soft and warm and big and he doesn't really care. Because here she is above him, her knees on either side of his waist. And she is removing his vest and now his shirt.
And their mouths are back together again and she does not giggle like a silly little girl. Not like herself. No, she breathes into his mouth. And she whispers 'please' against his skin and her breath is warm and moist. He likes the way she says it. Her tongue peeks out as she forms the first syllable and the air that the second syllable releases makes his eyes close.
It's fucking music to his ears.
And he has spent all this time kissing her, like if he does anything else she'll somehow disappear. He is preserving this in memory, so he can recall it later when he is missing her. When she makes up with him, like he knows she will. Like she's always done.
Her hands are gripping his shoulders and his hands move to her hips, over which lay a set of trousers. They cling to her legs, he has seen, just as the green sweater she is wearing clings shapelessly to her torso. He is moving his hands up, tracing them lightly over her stomach.
He kisses her even more fiercely. He feels her ribs and doesn't care that she is so skinny lately. He feels the weight of her breast pressed over his palm and suddenly, he sits up. She is still straddling his waist and he is now lifting her shirt over her head. And she is naked from the waist up before him.
And almost tenderly, he wraps his arms around her torso, pressing their bare chests together. He buries his face in her neck, kissing a bare shoulder. Her mouth is close to his ear and he can feel the breath on it, making it slightly moist.
And he can't stand it any longer. He rolls her over, so that he is now supporting his weight above her. He nuzzles her neck, sets his teeth against it, and bites. He wonders about her reaction. To his surprise, she arches up into him, gasping sharply. He wonders even further about the idea that is forming inside his mind. He lowers his mouth to the already forming bruise and sucks her skin into his mouth. He does it for a few seconds and lifts his head. It has formed a purple star at the base of her neck.
She can't see it, although she is writhing beneath him from the sheer burst of feeling in her neck. But he knows that he will. He'll see it when he goes to lift her hair away from her neck to whisper apologies. Will he think he did it while overcome with passion? He kisses the mark and she moans. It is tiny and breathy and it tells him everything he needs to know. She does not want him. The woman beneath him is thinking of someone else. She is thinking of him.
And he thinks for a moment. Does he want her to want him? It doesn't matter. She knows who he is and he decides he doesn't mind. She is here, beneath him. Moaning because of him. And that is all he needs to care about.
He digs his fingers into her hips and captures her gasp with his mouth. While he is devouring her mouth, he slips his fingers beneath the waist of her trousers and with a hard, swift pull...they are gone. She is exposed before him and he is gazing down on her. He wants her to moan again. He brushes his fingers across her breast and gets his wish. Her head actually raises off the bed as she releases a sharp moan.
Her eyes open and they are so very dark. Her fingers clasp the button of his trousers and he helps her, their hands brushing. And now he is the one exposed to her. As far as his guess goes, she has only ever been with him. And he wonders if she is comparing them to each other. He wants to make her forget every part of his body.
But the look she is giving him as he sinks himself into her tells him. It's not the man in front of her who makes her grip the bed sheet. He is the one who is penetrating her soul right at this very moment in time. Him panting above her. Him in every motion of her body. Him in every flicker of her eyes.
It's he who is pushing her over the edge, not him.
And it's not his name she has just whispered. It's Kelso's. And he shatters at this. Shatters in an almost white-hot heat. Braced above her, they breathe in time with each other. They are both in a cold sweat and he lays his head in the crook of her neck, breathing in the scent of her skin. Sex and citrus, a pleasing smell to say the least.
He can't stop thinking about how she has used him. And he hates himself for not really minding it, being used.
He rolls to the side of her and there are no words spoken. He knows where she stands. He knows that this has never been about him. He knows that she has only ever needed a substitute. And he didn't mind being one for a short time. He ignores the subconscious thoughts in his head that he wants her on his terms, wants her to shatter while crying his name, wants to leave his imprint on her soul. And so, with that, he swings his legs over the side of the bed and runs a hand through his hair. He reaches for his pants and pulls them on, standing up as he does so. His shoes come next and he makes no glance at her as he reaches across her legs for one of the pair.
Finally, he stands and walks towards the door. He turns his head back toward the woman lying on the bed and remembers. He picks up her pants and rummages around in the pocket for the key to the door. As he does, she sits up. "Thank you." She says, in an almost nonchalant voice and he knows she feels guilty. He can see every inch of it in the way she cross her arms over her knees. He hands her the trousers and she pulls them over her legs before grabbing the sweater.
When she is finally dressed, she stands, presumably to find her shoes. He waits until she is facing him and then grabs the front of her shirt and presses her up against him. And he is kissing her with every fiber of his being, every emotion he has ever felt for her is pouring from his mouth to hers.
After a long time, he breaks and holds her at arm's length. He drops his hands to his side and does his half-smile. The tears are coming to her eyes again. Guilt. Tears of shame. But, he knows he does not regret it. Does not regret taking away her misery for a time being.
After all, misery was what he dealt best in. He walks to the door and unlocks it, slipping outside. She is left there, alone, but a little less sad.
"Steven," She cries sharply. The man above her stops almost mid-thrust and the hair in his face is straight, not curly. And it is not the man above her who has pushed her over the edge, penetrated her soul at that very moment. It's not the man above her who has made her grip the bed sheet and moan wildly.
It's not the man above her in every flicker of her body.
It's Hyde.
Kelso breaks.
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