Title: is this it?
Summary: She practically scares you into the realization. RyderCat
Originally, this was much more fluid. The writing was more dance-y, in a sense, but then I started to realize that choppy lines fit Ryder more. Also, I have no idea what this story means. Yay.
Also, the title is from the song by The Strokes, but it's also a line in the story. Go me.
Strangely, I really love this story. Personally, I think this is one of my favorites.
"have you ever, have you ever, have you ever –"
her voice increases as she gets closer. she is ever so close and ever so scandalous. the ever so innocent girl with a boy like you, dark and bones.
"fallen in love?"
she practically scares you into the realization.
confession one: you don't usually do this kind of stuff. you don't think you mind.
she's dancing in your lap. her fingers are wrapped around the top of your chair. the primal beat of the music rumbles in your ears. you're trying not to cry out right there. to do that would break your facade. plenty of girls have done this to you before. many were more skilled and had more curves. yet, cat is here. she is sexier than anyone else you have ever met.
she mutters in your ear, real low and gravely. she wants to fuck you so hard so you'll never forget her.
it takes all your willpower, but you manage to get her to the club's bathroom. you fuck her right there. her legs are wrapped around your waist and her back is pressed firmly against the bathroom stall. she smiles afterwards. her smile is all warm and sleepy. her eyes are half open. her eyes look like your bedroom blinds.
"i always wanted my first real fuck to be with someone who loves me."
your mouth drops. she is able to see every straight tooth that took your dentist years to fix. she laughs. maybe she is not as oblivious as you have always thought she was. she smirks at you.
"thanks for that," she says. "maybe we can do it again, real soon."
she goes to leave. you grab her. you hold her tight against you.
you say, "let's go to my house."
she looks surprised. she doesn't object. the next day at school, she's wearing one of your shirts. she smells just like you. people raise their eyebrows. you are smiling because you can't stop.
confession two: you let her keep the shirt. it looks better on her than it does on you.
you end up calling her first. you end up having phone sex. it wasn't even your intention. you just wanted to hear her voice. it's kind of scary when you realize it. you'd rather just talk about useless facts than have her say dirty things under her breath. you would have never pegged her for the type to be so bad. you had always thought that she would marry one of her friends from her group. maybe she would have little children who would sing just like her. you would have never expected her to tell you exactly how she wants you to fuck her, where she wants to be touched, what she wants to do to you.
she hangs up when you can't hold in your final moan.
you show up to her house thirty minutes later. she shows no surprise. when you don't kiss her, she can't mask her shock.
"i want to know things about you," you mutter, "i don't get that."
she smirks. it looks a little too forced. underneath that smirk, she looks very tired. you see a glimpse of her real self: the girl that dyed her hair to look like red velvet cupcakes. the girl that hums songs under her breath and sings in the shower. a girl that still hides under her bed. a girl who is trying to change.
she stands on her tippy toes. barely kisses your lips. her eyes are blatantly sad.
you bury your lips in her hair, "i want to know you. i want to make it make sense."
instead, you two end up in her bed. you don't do anything. you just lay together. your bodies are close in a totally different way. you watch the wind chimes outside her window clank against each other. the birds outside land on her empty bird feeder. she has a shreds of paper cranes hanging from her ceiling. a lone wing, a bright beak, only one whole, clutching on for dear life. you can faintly see the faded stars she drew in between every one. her walls have recently been painted, a plain white.
"what happened to you?" you whisper in her ear.
you see her lips push together.
she suddenly winces, "i told you, once."
you two fall asleep shortly after. her words have been hung in the air. her secrets are among the graves of paper cranes.
you faintly remember.
confession three: you think you're in love with caterina valentine. that is very much a problem.
you wake up the next day. you leave her a note that says: "i think i love you. i can't stop. this is bad."
you go for a run to clear your head. for once, it blissfully works. you think of muscles moving. you think of bird chirps – how they echo in your ears. you think of whole paper cranes spreading their wings.
you return home. she is on your front steps. her eyes are stinging with tears. you have the strangest urge to press a tissue to each one. you want to capture them and keep them. your note is clutched in her left hand, in a fist. she is angry.
"what do you think you're doing?" she screams. "is this real? you're not supposed to do this! you promised!"
you shake your head. assure her that it is real. it is all you. you love her. you cannot stop. this is the truth. this is what she wanted. this is what she gets. you love her.
you kiss her. it is as simple as that. for once, there is nothing else behind it. it is a sweet sort of kiss. this is your first real one. you tell her that.
"this is my first kiss," you say.
she understands, kisses you back.
it is that simple.
confession four: you don't know if you'll ever be able to let her go.
you do it the same way that you used to. you trick an innocent girl. she writes a love song. she puts your name in the lyrics. she rhymes your name with with cider.
you kiss her.
cat doesn't cry. she doesn't scream. she doesn't say anything, actually.
you kiss her. she does not kiss you back.
"is this it?" you ask.
you know the answer. yet, you wait.
she opens her mouth.
she asks you, "have you ever fallen in love?"
you say yes. she cries.
this is not what she wanted, but it ends the same way.
confession five: but you know you have to.
the first day you met her:
"you're going to break my heart," she giggles. "you have to."
confession six: you promised.