By columbiachica (kat)
Rating: R. No, seriously.
So this is what they mean when they say "bedroom eyes."
You've never understood that phrase before; after all, in the bedroom, are you really looking at his eyes?
But you are. They're all you can really focus on without spinning sideways and losing yourself. It's dark, but they glitter in the light. You'd like it to be moonlight filtering through your curtains, but it's just the dim, dull lamplight from campus, pooling lemon on your scarred hardwood floor.
It's dark and his eyes are dark. Dark and his pupils are dilated from lust and lack of light and you wonder what your eyes look like, nervous and giddy all at once.
You try to let your eyes do all the work because your hands are shaking and you don't think you can touch him yet.
His fingers are skimming over you, down your shoulders and chest and tummy, brushing your hip, before dancing back up again and his eyes, they're always on yours.
They're always on yours and you know that when he looks away, you'll be wondering how you got here and what's happening and what it will be like in the morning when the yellow light is harsh.
When he came bursting in here you didn't intend for this to happen. You wanted to slap him and send him on his way for how he's jerked you around, for how he messed you up with his "I love you" and his constant running and chasing.
But his eyes just wouldn't let you. You listened to him, halfway, as he begged you to run away with him. It didn't matter what he was saying because his eyes said everything and then you knew, instantly, why every date you'd gone on since ended disastrously.
All the denial in the world couldn't help you when you missed him.
And you missed him even though he botched your relationship and didn't call you and admitted he loved you and then didn't call you some more.
In the pit of your stomach, you knew you couldn't run away with him, not physically. Mentally, though; that sounded appealing.
So you grabbed the back of his head and kissed him, trying to channel all of your desire into this one kiss, but your lack of experience hindered you. For once, he saved you, and helped you, and backed you into your nearly empty dorm room stacked with boxes.
He pulled away first, eyes wide, surprised. And now here you are as his fingers skip up and down your body and you know exactly what you want from him. You wanted it a long time ago, but you were too timid and prudish to ask for it. Somehow you thought you'd be branded and the town would line up and mourn the death of their innocent Rory. Dean would pitch a fit and kill Jess and it'd be your fault.
But you've spent a year partially removed from the town and now Dean's married and there's not going to be a mark unless he sucks too insistently on your neck.
And now that you're older you know that your first time might not be candles and roses and silk and a serenade. You can accept that because you've gotten older and accepted that people aren't perfect and Jess sure as hell isn't but he does care about you despite his tendency to run.
You know that your mother won't approve, that she'll cringe when you tell her (if you tell her, because you're old enough to have secrets now), but she can't see this expression on his face and in his eyes. If she could, she'd know: even with all the problems piled up between the two of you, he genuinely loves you and that makes all the difference.
He's having trouble with your shirts because you've layered them and they get tangled and you just lift them both over your head and throw them on the floor and tenaciously battle the instinct to hide your chest because you didn't bother with a bra.
Once again his fingers trail down your skin and it's gentle but it's not reverent and you like that because you're sick of being worshipped.
He bends and you think you know what will happen but you aren't quite prepared and when his mouth makes contact, you think you might faint. You shut your eyes, unable to watch, and clutch his head. Half of you wants to slow the train down but the other half is awed by this sensation, and you compromise by clenching your hand painfully in his hair and groaning.
Panting, he comes up for air and you look in his eyes again, bedroom eyes, you think, and you know you must look ridiculous (mouth hanging open and eyes all wide and dilated and nostrils flaring for air) but it just doesn't matter when he stares at you and starts walking to your bedroom.
No going back after this and you know it and you don't care. You throw his thick leather jacket somewhere out of your peripheral vision and work on his shirt, thinking you'll feel less exposed once he's out of his clothes too.
But no, you still feel naked and vulnerable even though your most private of places remains covered.
His eyes never leave yours and you realize: that's just a physical manifestation. You've already bared yourself. You gave him your heart and he fucked around with it but now he's here and his eyes look scared too and suddenly, the clothes (or lack of them) don't matter.
Shyly you take off the rest of your clothes yourself, leaving the panties as some sort of insurance and he undresses himself. It's not some lusty pulling, yanking, grabbing, ripping dance, but it's matter-of-fact and necessary.
He lays you on the bed and scoots down until he's peering at you over your stomach and breasts, his hands rubbing your knees. Your stomach tightens for a million reasons and as soon as he divests you of your underwear and goes to work, you're gone.
There's really no coming back but you think you like this other side of innocence.
You wonder how anyone else could possibly do this the way Jess does but banish that thought and enjoy the moment.
It's lucky you're the last two people on campus because even though you try to control yourself, you're making loud and obvious noises and your legs are trembling (Jesus, everything's trembling) and your vision's going hazy and the room narrows infinitely and it's just this one feeling –
Like watching an explosion in space. No sound because your vocal cords don't work all of a sudden, but blinding light that spreads everywhere.
He's eased himself up your body by the time your eyes can focus again and he's balancing on his elbows, staring at you with that same tender but not reverent gaze.
Ready? his eyes ask.
And you wordlessly spread your legs a little wider and he gets the hint.
You purse your lips because this kind of hurts.
He bumps up against something solid and you say, Quickly, or you think you do, and he pulls out a little and thrusts hard.
The ripping pain only lasts a moment, but it's the pressure that hurts. Just wait, you request, or you think you do, and he obliges. You wriggle your hips, trying to accommodate him and not cry. Finally, you decide that it's just going to be uncomfortable and nod.
It lasts for a few minutes until Jess is groaning, saying your name roughly in your ear and you love that and he falls on you.
He says sorry in your ear, or you think he does, and you wrap one of your legs around his calves and sigh.
You tell him that you can't run away with him and he doesn't argue but he doesn't stay either. He just gives you a number and a longing look and that's enough for some reason.
He helps you load up your car and gives you a last breathless kiss and leaves and for some reason, it doesn't hurt as much this time. It should hurt more than ever because you've given him the ultimate intimate experience and you're walking damn funny today but it's not melancholy that settles at the bottom of your stomach; it's closure.
okay don't worry even if things end up a bit too heavy
we'll all float on all right already
Author's Note:Comments, critiques, criticism, and pimping welcome. Lyrics are from Modest Mouse.