bend your arm backward to look like wings
young adult – het, implications toward adultery – shameless fluff, romance
Her father was out on business—something about getting those damn, stubborn bastards to foreclose or whatever, she didn't speak her father's language—for the remainder of the week.
Which left her and her mother alone, unsupervised, in their illustrious house.
Thankfully, Mommy-dearest had a drinking problem and would spend the night at one of her "girl friends"—…if you call what they do as friendly—home until the next day or two, leaving her all alone for the most part.
Thankfully, she has a best-friend/love-of-her-life over on a semi-daily basis (i.e. anytime daddy is away, the boys come to play).
And, on this glorious Sunday, he is in her room taking over the length of her bed—damn his six-foot stature—as she ponders whether or not her father will really kill him (as her mother cheers him on in the background somewhere) if he ever does find out.
After much thinking—and a little daydreaming ("No, Papa, don't kill him!" "…What. The. Fuck.")—she decided that her dad, most certainly, would kill him and then kill her for disobeying him.
'cause her dad was psychotic like that.
"…What's wrong now?"
"I'm just thinking—" Which she was. Thinking. Of jumping his bones right now.
…Well, she'd do that anyway so long as she knew Mommy-dearest wouldn't be home anytime soon—or, um, at all—as the act was being committed.
It's not her fault that she is a teenage human female and that he is so very pretty and lying on her bed and begging to be the focus of every single nasty, dirty thought she's ever head.
Then he had to open his big, dumb mouth.
"Well, that's a scary thought."
And, apparently, she inherited the Scary Gene from her Papa since before he could even blink, she was already on top of him—which, honestly, wouldn't be such a bad thing if she wasn't brandishing that pillow like a sword and trying to make him eat it. Or smother him with it, either option seemed good to her at the moment.
"Where you born evil or something?" She huffed out, annoyed by his laughter bubbling beneath his chest, muffled by the pillow. She really, really—no, honestly—hates him right now.
So she presses more of her weight on the pillow—and, subsequently, over his head—in retaliation as his hands sneaked over her, um, backside.
…Or somewhere in that general vicinity.
Which isn't what he expected but, whatever, he can try a new kink.
But dying sounded like it would suck so, being the sneaky bastard that he is, slipped his hands under her shirt and ghosted over her ribs, erupting a bubble of uncontrollable laughter from her.
"Quite it!" Trying to swat his hands—those evil, devilish hands of his!—off of her, she momentarily forgot about killing him and, in response, he stood up and with it, the pillow fell to the floor and her head met the bed with an unresound 'oomph'.
"Aww, don't say that." There is a devilish twinkle in his eyes that she doesn't like—because, remember, she doesn't like him anymore, 'kay?—and wants to wipe off his face like you do an etch-a-sketch.
"…I hate you." Then, he crawled onto her, his ear pressed to the skin just above her heart and looking like a worn, but oh s content, five-year-old.
Which she did not find cute, not in the least—really!
…Until she realized where his hands still where.
"Ack! Y-you jerk!"
"…You're so cute when you're mad!"
She wondered, vaguely, is this could count for self-defense if she killed him right now.
…Or after, when it stopped feeling good.
Later, when they realize that though staying in bed for the remainder of the day would be fine, it would be more beneficial to study for that big Geometry quiz on Monday that both where so going to fail if they didn't get off their butts and study.
But, somehow, it spiraled into a tirade of who-is-smarter-than-the-average-bear and detailing the chronicles of living through Eragon and not being permanently brain dead afterwards (which he, snidely, added that she already suffered from so watching it made no difference whatsoever).
Now, it was all about the glaring contest that, so far, he was winning with fantastic colors and the remittance of their tic-tack-toe battle half-hazardly abandoned on the kitchen counter.
"So…" She began, blinking—and, thus, admitting defeat because her eyes where burning and he was so cheating because nobody could withstand the urge to blink in two minutes.
(That or he was some sort of God but it wasn't like she was going to feed his already inflated ego by admitting that.)
"What?" Cocking her head to the side, confused.
"I want to eat face, too."
Oh no, he thinks he is a zombie! She thought, I really hate you Romero, and panicking slightly as he reached over and totally disregarded her personal space and—
That night, she examined her handy-work, paying careful note to the bones that curved and fluttered beneath his skin—visible only because he was so damn skinny and she would have to demand from him his secrets (which would probably be, not eating)—as he breathed. She admired the tiny, black and red and blue hearts drawn on his skin, one for every heart beat—six—that fluttered when her skin touched his and two for every time he muttered her name—twelve in total.
It formed her name in across his shoulder blade in the tiny, frilly hearts that she spread all over his skin. Her heart beating fast in her chest as she looked down and whispered, "I love you", and pressed on more kiss to his skin.
She couldn't wait until morning.
Even with his eyes closed he can feel her smile against his skin—it's warm and makes his skin tingle with each breath she exhales against his skin—with each butterfly kiss she presses to the back of his neck, the crook of his neck, his cheek. He wants to shrug her off him just to see how she'll react; he wants to open his eyes and see the expression on her face as she relishes in her little secret.
He wonders what will happen the day her parents—or, more importantly, her father—finally find out what they've been up to. (A part of him agrees with her that her father would kill him dead as her mother cheered from a safe distance—and, possibly, kicked a few of his ribs into his lung—as she prayed for the ground to swallow her up whole.)
"What are you doing?" His voice is scratchy from use, something she always found amusing about him ("You sound like a chain-smoker this a whole in his neck in the morning!").
Predictably, she giggled against him. "Nothing," she said playfully, resting her chin on his shoulder. Her body is warm against his skin.
He goes back to sleep, soon followed by her.
(In the morning, he wakes to her name written on his shoulder in tiny, blue, red and black heart drawn on his shoulder and in read, her name written over his heart.)
It's not a secret that he father doesn't want his baby girl to grow up any time soon. He still wants her to stay young and innocent the way he remember her to be—that little girl in pig-tail running into trees when they walked in the park; the girl who thought the neighbors ravenous pit-bulls where adorable puppies.
He doesn't want her to date a guy like him because he's an evil ("But that's what gives me charm!"), self-centered ("…Only a little.") and not good enough for her ("Well, I can't argue with you on that one, Pops."). No one is good enough for her.
(And, sometimes, but he'll never admit this, he agrees with the older man. No one is worthy of her but me, he thinks and believes it.)
So when her father comes home early—and, surprise, he didn't call in advance!—and walks into her room without knocking to check and see if she is awake and, instead, finds her curled up against him with nothing but a loose fitting tank top and her underwear, his on her ass, he isn't at all surprised by what happens next. No, not in the least.
What surprises him though—and what scares him the most about this situation—is how eerily calm he is.
And how so, totally, irreversibly screwed he is.
So, on the bright side, he had a grand total of five broken ribs, a bruised wrist and a killer headache.
On the other side, she was wrapping his knuckles up in gauze and reprimanding him. Which, of course, would've been cute if she was not directing it at him.
"You punched my dad in the face. My dad. And, no, I don't care if his hands where around your throat. You smacked my dad you dip-shit."
"It was self defense! Would you rather I died."
"Well, that's an option I haven't been thinking," she added sarcastically, tugging hard and cutting circulation from his fingers for .2 seconds.
Goodbye fingers, he murmured. "I'd make a hot corpse, you have to admit."
Her expression told him everything. She was not amused. "My dad made a point, you shouldn't be molesting poor, innocent girls that you are supposedly best friends with. Dirty old man."
He was feeling a brain cell burst, he was sure of it. "Molestation means that it is unwanted and you, my dear, clearly wanted it."
He grinned cheekily, "And I'm not an old man. I'm only eighteen."
"…You're still a dirty old man no matter which way you look at it, dummy."
"But I'm a hot old man, you have to admit."
"Keep deluding yourself."
september 16, 2007 (8:30 PM) – november 10, 2007 (2:45 PM)
- Bend Your Arm Backwards to Look like Wings ("Casually Dressed") © Funeral For A Friend.
- Romero, an American director famous for his famous zombie movies (i.e. the dude that made the "Nigh of the Living Dead").
Author's Note: This is absolute crap—completely and utterly so. But I've needed shameless fluff for a while now and this has quenched my urge for it. Now I am off to write some hard, well-deserved angst. – Noelle
P.S. Yes, I know that their names are not mentioned, at all, in this piece—f.y.i. Their names are Jebudiah and Bob—and if I said it was stylistic would I look all profound and awesome-like? …I thought so. (The real answer is this: I'm a lazy sonuvabitch.)
P.S. Esmé and Luke, that is their respectable names.