Summary: The idea that what she has now is all she's going to get is nauseating, all she gets is him and his black hole gaps and debilitatingly deep self reflection revelations.
Warning(s)/Kinks: Sexual content.
Disclaimer: I don't own American Horror Story.
A/N: Takes place after Episode 5: Halloween Pt. 2.
It's the first time since Halloween that she's seen him and there isn't any anger left in her, just dull confusion and the a lazy ache that felt a lot like regret and she doesn't want it settled so deep down in her esophagus and gut but it's there and it's heavy like marbles and ragged like driveway gravel, nicking her and rattling around.
She cries when she's frustrated, she can't help it. She doesn't like not knowing, the mystery isn't fun anymore just tiring and she doesn't know if there's a point where culmination will come and tie up loose ends and she doesn't know if she's old enough or settled enough or easygoing enough to not have that bother her one day because it bothers her now.
It's all haze floating off, like the drag of exhaled cigarette smoke over the surface of stale tepid water sitting in the glass on her nightstand that she covers with her hand and watches, idly, and it's not numbness in her, numbness is cold and hollow and what she feels is absolute stagnancy.
The idea that what she has now is all she's going to get is nauseating, all she gets is him and his black hole gaps and debilitatingly deep self reflection revelations. She feels old, melted and stuck. The smoke in the glass sticks to the water and wafts slowly in a way like it's unsticking itself.
And that's her, unsticking herself from the goo that's him, the mess of his inability to choose one side and stick with it or put them both together. She doesn't want regret, or complacency but it's sinking in and curling around her bones, a too warm too soft too heavy crocheted scarf in winter, suffocating but delightful because it's deceptive and warm and soft and heavy, like a scent only recently recognized as being what smoke dragging over water smells looks like.
He's apologizing with his mouth in the dark on the crest of her shoulder blade, his fingers running the stretch of every rib, soft, warm, heavy, like he's tracing patterns in the sand. She cries but not really because it's a moment drawn out that makes a memory you'd put in a collection of ones you get to have always but only if you give a hundred others away. Eternity in a lapsing moment that is heartbreaking and feels like finality because that's the way she wants it to be, but things aren't as easy as that.
The crying feels like the thing meant to do for a moment like that, just a few liquid hot sticky tears with too much salt that come without really feeling all too sad. Concentrated and strong, like whisky or a shade of bright red lipstick. And then she's weary and resentful and it feels good to be so emotionally ill at ease, she's mellow and just herself. Centered at the point where everything that makes her herself is, every thought about her and what she needs and wants and knows and hates and is so fucking sick of.
Her fingertips hurt; the throb of her pulse against the splits in the skin, deeper than paper-cuts, under band-aids is a balm and a focal point that she can time her breaths to. And he must know she doesn't want him to say anything, open his big mouth because if he does everything becomes about him and she's too concerned on enjoying her own existence to care about his. He can stay but for now only like this.
Only with the lazy trace of his scared fingertips across her soft, warm, heavy lines of bones. Shoulder, elbow, rib, spine, clavicle, hip, sternum, jaw, knee, ankle, knuckle. His touch is wary and cautious without any skittish flinch to it, like she's some dangerous animal he gets to pet, but not like you would a housecat. Like a sleepy tiger whose last meal may have been an hour ago or may have been week ago and not knowing which or when and once the thought comes it doesn't leave, so there's hesitance covered up with cracked bravado and she knows he knows that she's letting him touch her, that he doesn't get to do any more than that, he doesn't get rights like that to her, he can only touch her when she wants him too, not when he's gone from tiger to kitten over the past few weeks in a transition that revolts her, she won't reciprocate any suggestion from him.
Not now and now is all she's able to think about, the moment is only like eternity for as long as she forgets there's another that comes after it.
He can stay but she's more than fine with herself, company is nice but only when it's the lazy kind of company she can pretend isn't a thinking, confusing, person. He can be an object for awhile. For now, she doesn't have to think of how much she wants him to be more than a fucked up boy and how much she doesn't feel like the juvenile girl she should.
She just feels old, now. She's lazing around and it's fucking lovely, here like this. All lazy fingers and loose lips.
He can be the ship she wants to sink, and when he's settled at the bottom she'll mumble something out and maybe he'll mumble back and they can be lazy fingers, loose lips, sunken ships together. She's sunk and he's sinking. And he's taking too long to capsize and go under, settle.
Her sigh is a rumble on the sheets she has her face lolling on and when his fingers stop she's insistent with the press of her skin back under them and he goes on, scars against everything that's warm and soft and heavy about her. Her eyelids float up and the room is dim instead of dark, her stretch is languid and long and her stare subtle, his fingers don't move but end up floating across her lowest rib as she turns.
She wonders if he thinks she's going to something other than pound her loose fist into the side of his head, not hard, maybe even a ghost of affection in the gesture but he stares down, heavy eyes and a hand splayed out across her sternum, finger tips under her breasts and on the hard palate of bone between. She curves into his palm and it's warm and callused and it moves, like a pulse, subtle unobtrusive, lazy, smoke sticking to water and floating.
His chin in his other palm and he looks far away and focused at the same time, petting tigers and curious about how they got their stripes is what she gleans from the look. There's no tug or pull, just the rasp of knuckles and fingertips on the pink tip of her breast and the puff of it nubbing, tightening, making itself noticeable under the weight of his hand.
She raises up and he's leaning back, hand falling away, guilty, ghostly, her hair takes its place rolling over her shoulder like she's rolling over him, hands pushed heavy into the mattress on either side of his head. He's so ready for the rend of her teeth tearing out his throat or sharp strong hands ripping open his chest, eating out his heart, sucking marrow out of cracked ribs, feline and feral and her hair drags over his face and he looks like he wants to sink to the bottom of the ocean and stay there.
Her lips are soft and warm and a heavy drag across the chapped rasp of his, humid and hot when pressed against something other than air. She's floating and he rises up and cradles the space between the back of her hips with a heavy, lazy hand, thumb and pinky stroking the matching dimples and she rubs the two at the top of his spine with little kitten fingers.
The band-aids on her fingers make her spread them the tiniest of bits wider, her hand feels different with them all on but she drags the stiff edges under his shirt, the fabric sticking to bare hint of adhesive not stuck down tight, little tag ends, flimsy little tattered edges and she lifts the shirt that smells like him and cigarette smoke under his arms and melds her chest to his and doesn't move. His heart tattoos its thumping beat on hers and she can't tell if they match because it's his she's been wondering about too much to worry about what hers is doing.
He's warm and soft and his elbows are heavy where they rest on the inside of her legs around his waist, like his chin on her head rubbing against her hair. His neck is hot and smells like skin and laundry detergent and she glues her mouth to the dip between tendons, memorizes the swallow and bob of his working throat with her lips.
Her arm is thrown loose over his shoulders and her fingers tap down at the spot they hang over again and again and she's warm, secluded right there and she could fall asleep and sink and take him with her like this.
It's nice and so is how well the roll of her hips has his throat vibrating under her pink, damp pouting lips. It's nice how his hands dance up around her waist when she falls back and leaves her legs laid over and around his and the hot damp mound of her sex against the bulge of denim that's him underneath, pulsing, hot, and heavy ready to sink into what she's offered once before but won't tonight.
It's nice when she twists herself down onto him and her shoulders and elbows are the only parts of her pressing down into the bed instead of raised off or on him. And he rolls back and watches her little breasts turn pink and strain themselves with the stretch of lungs sucking in air through her little pink mouth gaped open and silently sucking in greedy mouthfuls of air to hold in tight.
It's nice to see his eyes heavy lidded like he's drugged up and the way a hand drifts down and fingertips trip over the flat expanse of white cotton over skin shaved smooth and so thin and so close to being between her legs and his, knuckles and fingers and hands but all he does it catch it between her as she's coming off a stroke and press through the stick of wet cotton to the wet pooling out of her that he wants all over him, on his cock, on his fingers, on his mouth.
It's nice that he dampens the spot on her underwear with licked fingers where there is exactly what she can't arch herself enough to have ground against the harshness of bone or belt buckle. There is a shifting rhythm to his fingers flicking at the tiny spot, pellet hard and sending the nerves running off it jerking like strings being yanked and the wash of itchy chill down the backs of her legs and heels comes like it always does, like ice on her skin and it sparks her away from her focused circling hips to shake for a moment and realize her feet are twitching because his finger is dancing on and across nerves, back and forth, harsh, cruel and she slaps his hand away because it's not as good as his hands warming her waist with humid palms and the parry of just his hips.
After she's letting out the ragged painful breath she's been holding and she's suitably warm and soft and heavy she's retracting her feet and knocking her knees together, rolling up in a rush and tossing her hair down her back and staring at him, prodding his knee with her toes and fisting the sheets between her thighs, just curious, watching him stare back, fathomless, a dark cracked open chasm where there's an void and an abyss that maybe she wouldn't mind be at the bottom of, as long as maybe he could sink down too, float back up maybe.
But he looks at her painted red toes and grasps an ankle with hot branding fingers and forces his groin against her heel and she smiles and leans back onto her elbows and finally her back and imagines his face while listening to him breath and the rasp of denim over skin.
She only knows he's done because he lets go and spreads himself over her, stretching, reaching, covering and she likes the weight of him on her, warm and soft and heavy. Nice and she's sinking, sleepy and satisfied and maybe he is too.