A/N: So this is just a couple of disconnected drabbles of stuff that I cut from my other fic's, but that I liked too much to toss out. If more stuff fits that description I'll add them.
So this is how I write for myself when I'm sketching out a story. This was part of Touching From A Distance that never made it in to the finished fic. I'm kind of hesitant to post it because I have zero sense of when I'm writing well in third person, so if it's all awful, my apologies.
It's a whim, a fleeting fancy that brings her into the backyard when the sky turns from inky black, or as close as it gets to that in a metropolis, through all the tones of blue to watch what there is to see of a sunrise with a thick bank of clouds lolling across the sky. When the blue tinges pink in the east she turns to go back in the house.
The look that passes between them - her walking back into the house, him watching from the basement window - is more whimper than bang, and even if neither of them give it away outwardly there's still that mutual roll of the stomach and flutter of the heart. They're leftovers; reactions akin to a nerves twitching a limb in the seconds after it's been disconnected from its body.
She finds him later in the den sticking his hand in the fireplace, as the men in the house are wont to do on occasion. Once he picks the blackened flesh from his palm it's pink and new and ready for round two or twelve or twenty; whatever number he's on by now because nobody's really counting anyway. It's not much different from the whim that took her outside in the morning that brings her in here now.
Her entrance seems to suck the air from the room, cloying and charred as it is, and fills the shadows with doubt. Neither one of them look impassively at each other like they did hours earlier because close quarters make that impossible. Instead it's looks full of balls and brash and cocky silent challenges that pass between them because words are gifts and neither one of them is deserving.
There's the sticky peeling sound of flesh pulling away from the floor as her bare feet cross the hardwood. The sharp tink of her nail against the side of full bottle of rum, minus a couple of swallows that did nothing more than burn on the way down and flavor her mouth spicy to counterpoint the nicotine when his tongue traces out the backside of her teeth once he's got her pushed up against the wall.
There's nothing sweet about the smile that quirks up her lips, it's got victory written all over it because they both know that if she wasn't here she'd be somewhere else with someone else filling her up in dirty sticky ways. But she's not, it's her and him together for always just like he promised.
There's a pulse between them, heavy and wet like a heart pumping sludge rather than blood. The push-pull of lips and hands is edged in teeth and nails; nothing tender, only a constant pleasurable pain that's the summation and epitome of their history together and separate because when it comes down to it they were just different shaped razors that hurt so much better than the ones they used to drag across their skin. A thin line weeping red, healing scabbed and pink. That's the summation of their lives.
They're just souls stripped down to bare bones, retaining only enough common decency to wait until the house is asleep to fuck in the den, but it's mostly because exhibitionism has never been their thing. But there's too many years and too much emotion between them to be anything else anymore.
Even if it's a whim that started it there's a perverse determination that seeps between them; she wants him to know that she's a better fuck than her mom, and he wants her to know he'd never fuck anyone else the way he does her.
The rustle of clothes like the rush of a birds wings in flight, the thumping thud of heartbeats, the heavy raport of his belt hitting the floor. Sounds of a frenzy that's only slowed and not smothered by his fingers pushing into her a few times so he can coat himself in the wetness leaking out.
Her teeth wrap around his collar bone like she wants to rip the flesh off when he thrusts up inside her harshly. It's their idea of a funny game because they both know they have the capacity to hurt each other for real if they really wanted to. Love is always best when it hurts and bumps and bruises are nothing in a full contact sport.
There's the slip of skin on skin because in this position, her wedged between the wall and him, there's no space; he presses against her like he wants to get all of his body inside her, she presses against the wall for the same reason. If nostalgia were a thing either of them believed in they'd be getting drunk off the scent of each other and instead of ragged breaths pouring out them there would be tender words and heartfelt declarations like there were before.
Somehow or other they end up on the floor, him up on his knees, spread wide, her thighs draped over his with her feet braced behind him.
He loves how her skin feels sticky and damp under his hands, the way sweat beads delicate and feminine across her chest, the way her belly concaves and the bottom of her ribs stand out stark creating swells against her flesh that mimic the swell of her breasts sitting high above them.
With his head hung loose between his shoulders he gets the accompanying visual to go along with how she feels around him, tight and unbelievably wet; it makes his cock throb to see her insides push up between her fragile hip bones as he moves.
He wishes he could get it up for someone else; that he could spite fuck her out of his system; that he still didn't want this, want her. Wished it was just sex or fucking or whatever you want to call it that you can't because there's too much unsaid and unaccounted for between them for it to be those things. It's not lust or love, it's a raw need that's laced and bound, restrained and never fulfilled because they want the people they aren't anymore, and maybe never were.
Her face doesn't twist up into ecstatic pain, or any semblance of it. There's a slight furrow to her brow and a sharp K9 pressed into her soft lip, but her face is free, open and honest; all the things he wanted to achieve with a shotgun instead the rush of endorphins his body plunging into her creates. He knows if she ever showed this unguarded side of her to someone else he'd kill her, even if it makes him a hypocrite. If he did her face would probably look the same as it does now.
He thinks seeing her like this is the closest thing he'll get to seeing the promised land, and it's that and the way her nails are clawed softly against the pillowed flesh of her breast, the other pressed against his hand pressing against her hip that springs the coil low in his gut and has him spilling inside her before her body offers one last fluttering clench around him.
They're both liars, she's just the better one between them, and she's reached that point where lies and life bleed together so much that even she can't distinguish one from the other. When he dies a little inside her there's a hint of something like loss around his eyes as she pulls away and slips her shirt back on, face back to being impassive, panties long lost and forgotten at this point.
She could disappear, but she doesn't; 'swagger' might be an overstatement, but there's a roll to her hips as she leaves that leaves him on the floor shoving his hand in the fire once again for the same and different reasons all at once.