I'll tell you something
I am a wolf but
I like to wear sheep's clothing...
You come on like a drug
I just can't get enough
I'm like an addict coming at you for a little more
And there's so much at stake
I can't afford to waste
I've never needed anybody like this before.
It was the smile that did it. The prim, self satisfied smirk that her royal highness had practically copy written as her own. Not what she smelled like (vanilla and cinnamon – intoxicating), the way her legs looked in those heels (killer), or how her hips swung in that hot little number she'd chosen to wear (all the while insisting to him that it was perfectly modest, thank you very much) to this stupid charity benefit thing her parents had verbally strong armed them into attending, although none of these things really hurt, either. It was that cocky, sidelong glance she shot him, the corners of her mouth upturned in such a specific manner that it was obviously a practiced expression (on him, nonetheless), that made him want to drag her off into the nearest bedroom, or bathroom – hell, even a conveniently placed broom closet would work, Duncan wasn't exactly picky – and do unholy things to her.
She knew; she had to know, even from across the room. Five years had taught her to read him from the most cursory, fleeting looks – his wants, his needs, the emotions he felt but was too busy being tough and masculine to express. So when her eyes flickered toward him for just a quick moment, he knew that she knew, and he also knew that the faintest blush that began to color her cheeks was not because the man she was conversing with had just made a pass at her.
…Had he? Duncan paused, suddenly examining the situation from a much more defensive standpoint. As casually as he could manage, he leaned over to the man on his left at the open bar and inquired as to the identity of Courtney's potential suitor.
"Some French diplomat," the man beside him slurred with a wave of his hand, well into his eighth scotch of the night. "Flaming homo, garden lover, fucking pony enthusiast…"
Mind at ease now that he was sure Courtney was not being enchanted by another (dare he think it – perhaps someone better), Duncan returned his gaze to her mingling. And although her eyes were on said foreign diplomat, the smirk that curved her lips in such a sinful manner – that smirk was meant for Duncan alone. She knew he was watching. She knew.
She always knew.
He got up and swiftly crossed the room, but when he made his final step towards her, she excused herself from her prior conversation and stepped back, her eyes enough of a warning to start hearing her voice in his head without requiring her to have actually uttered a word.
"PDA? In public? Really?"
"Isn't that kind of the point, Princess?" he could practically picture himself drawling back.
"Don't even think about it, or so help me I will–"
He cut his dialogue off by asking her to dance. Aloud.
Courtney's smirk twitched slightly before breaking into a real smile, a genuinely pleased smile, seemingly satisfied with how she'd silently dodged some bit of her boyfriend's lechery (not that they ever seemed to mind when they weren't in public) and allowed him to lead her to the dance floor.
It started out innocently enough, although nothing about his intentions that evening even remotely resembled innocent, to say the least. He swept her across the dance floor with all the grace and charm of any given gentleman in the room, holding her at arm's length and allowing her to lead his clumsy, inexperienced steps. Courtney seemed almost surprised by his willingness to dance in such a manner - usually it was grinding in a dimly-lit club or no dice. But there was an open bar at this charity function, and Duncan had seemingly knocked back a couple stiff drinks in her absence, so maybe she could explain away his sudden desire to dance like an upstanding citizen in society to a lovely classical selection played by the live orchestra her parents had hired…
Until he pulled her to him in a very ungentlemanly manner, his hand propelling her backside forward with a firm squeeze and returning her sudden jump toward him with a pelvic thrust of his own. And then she made a noise - that noise that absolutely killed him every time in the best way possible. That high pitched, strangled screech that meant she was both very pissed off with and yet undeniably turned on by his mischief. And if he'd had any concerns that he might've gone a bit too far to be forgiven that night, he knew he needn't have worried shortly thereafter. Despite Courtney having planted both palms on his chest, forcefully shoving him off of her and retreating to the safety of the bar to hastily request another glass of champagne (perhaps in hopes of explaining away the redness that colored her cheeks when she moved on to more mingling moments later), that delicious smirk was fighting against her damndest attempts to keep a somber, scolding expression plastered on her face before she'd turned her back on him.
The cab ride back to his apartment was her way of punishing him. She went so far as to banish Duncan to ride in the front next to the cabbie while she stretched out luxuriously in the back seat, ignoring his crude comment about putting on a backseat burlesque show. They rode in silence after that, but he could practically feel her eyes flickering to his form almost in sync with the fare counter on the taxi's dashboard, casting a glance in his direction every few minutes or feet traveled, whichever came first.
She'd always said he looked nice in a suit.
They pulled up to his apartment building and Duncan tipped the cabbie extra for having to deal with the tension that hung heavy and thick in the air throughout the ride. Enduring someone else's sexual tension was bad enough, but getting stuck with his and Courtney's in particular was historically a whole new level of insufferable.
His apartment building loomed over them as he extracted a hefty set of keys, keys he'd been collecting since his Juvie days, andbegan flipping through them one by one. Every so often, he considered giving Courtney a key of her own so she could come and go as she pleased, but as they entered the main hall together, her voice began to fill his head again: None of this living together bullshit, not even close. Courtney had always been very insistent on that, and Duncan quite agreed. They needed their space almost as much as they needed each other. But right now he wanted as little space between them as possible, and this was a luxury that she didn't seem to fancy allowing at the moment.
They retained their silence in the elevator, practically glaring at one another from the respective sides they chose as the machine carried them upward, though there was something eerily seductive about how she knew to let him bask in the tension. It would only make what was to come that much better. And that smile, that lofty, provocative, and utterly maddening don't-even-pretend-you're-not-wrapped-around-my-finger smile never once faltered; not when the elevator dinged and the doors slid open on the fifteenth floor, not when he made a quick grab for her ass as she exited in front of him, not even when she swatted his hand away before it could even reach the intended target without a glance in his direction.
Sliding his key into the door proved to be a bit of a challenge for Duncan, as anticipation seemed to have taken over his brain, overriding some of the more important functions such as control over basic motor skills. All the while Courtney was leaned against the wall beside his apartment, watching. Waiting. Biding her time until the eminent attack. It was only a matter of minutes, now…
Or seconds, his brain amended as he pushed open the door and felt his girlfriend's hand on his shoulder. Suddenly he found himself thrown up against the adjacent interior wall with a strength that seemed impossible of someone so slight. As she assaulted his neck and bruised her lips against his own, her intensity both familiar and exciting all at once, Courtney allowed only her foot to stray from his attention, deftly kicking the apartment door closed with a sharp jab of her stiletto heel, while the rest of her focused on forcing him to shed his suit jacket. He returned her affections with a flurry of kisses to both her mouth and her collarbone, groaning with frustration when she struggled to keep him from unzipping the back of her dress (what little of it there was, anyway - perfectly modest his ass).
"Princess," he admonished, his tone a rough and gravelly warning, "this is not one of those good times to teach me a lesson."
"I'd just rather continue this in a more comfortable place, that's all," she responded breathily, leading him to the waiting bed by the length of his tie. Duncan found himself landing rather uncomfortably on his back (the hefty collection of keys he'd hastily stowed in his back pocket when Courtney had pounced did not prove to be as plush as his feather top mattress), but he wasn't about to ruin the moment by complaining, not when Courtney was crawling her way on top of him.
"Y'know, the wall was perfectly comfortable for you that one time we got stuck on that elevator in Boston," Duncan remarked with a smirk to match hers, immune to the glare her eyes had narrowed into. "And hell, you seemed more than comfortable with the wall that one time at your parents' house when we both excused ourselves from dinner to 'use the bathroom'? Hell, you were loud enough to almost get us caught in that closet-"
"Oh, shut up," Courtney grumbled before silencing his taunting chatter with a well-placed bite to the ear, taking advantage of the resulting groan to begin tugging his dress shirt from his belted pants. Still, Duncan had barely enough of a hold on his rational mind to force a hand (the one that wasn't getting tangled up in Courtney's now lengthy brown locks as he pulled her to him for a real kiss) underneath his own body weight and fish out the ring of keys that were stabbing various parts of his backside, and as far as he was concerned, only Courtney was allowed to leave a mark there. Preferably with her nails. While writhing in pleasure and breathing his name…
He visibly winced has the keys broke free of his underside, and he paused for a moment to consider the physical manifestation of his life that he held in his hands as Courtney began to force his buttoned shirt open with a few sharp tugs (finesse had never really been one of her stronger qualities). Every key to every lock that had stood in his path from Juvenile Hall to this very moment, collected on that sturdy silver ring. His old house. His first car. His last cell.
Her favorite necklace.
He let the keys fall to the ground with a clatter, his mind awash with history as he lost himself in Courtney's touch.
It was one of those girly self-made pieces of jewelry, a child's diary lock and key hanging from the gold chain around her neck like a trophy in waiting, like access was meant to be won. But as the dawn broke free of the clouds that final morning of Total Drama Island before they all parted ways and returned to their same lives as changed people, Courtney and Duncan sat together on the Dock of Shame and she'd given him the key, wordlessly. Not won, not taken, but received. A gift, not a prize.
"I'm up for the challenge," he'd told her back then, shielding his eyes against the glow of the morning sun, without her ever having asked the question with anything more than a twitch of her lips.
"I know," she'd replied, so steady. Always so steady.
"I think I might love you," he told her that night, their clothes littering the floor around his bed (though he could practically feel her compulsive desire to pick them all up and hang them nicely in the closet). Five years, and she didn't even turn to look at him when the impromptu and theoretically long-awaited confession popped out of his mouth before he could give it much (or perhaps any more) thought. Five years, and he could practically feel her sleepy smile as he ran his fingers through her hair and let them trial down her bare back.
"I know," she replied, so steady. Always so steady.
Maybe some time that week, he'd even make her a key to his apartment. Give it to her all done up and pretty, like in a box or something. Surprise her, even. But the more Duncan thought about it, the less anything of the sort seemed like it would really be a shock to her. Because despite the boundaries they'd so painstakingly set up for each other so many years ago, they'd spend the last five years slowly crushing each and every one of them into the dirt. Whether either of them liked it or not (and he'd been beginning to think that maybe, just maybe, he really did), he knew her just as well as she knew him. And she knew him more than well. She always knew.
She just knew.
I have no idea where this came from, how I wrote it, or even why. I honestly can't think of much of a purpose for having written it, either. It doesn't seem to have much of a point or even a plot. But I think I'm happy with it (and will probably remain happy with it for about three days or so before I start driving myself mad with all of its flaws), so I'll bask in the feeling of completion for a while and enjoy that while I can. Lyrics and title creds to the illustrious band Garbage, a major source of inspiration for about five years now.