shewaswarned | (no subject)

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harley

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[Continued from here.]

I might be starting to sober up at this point, but I can't really tell. My heart feels like it's close to practically beating straight out of my chest, but my hands aren't warm to the touch. I can tell they're as cold as ice against his, as his practically envelopes mine despite the fact that our fingers are tangled. I look up at him and it's strange, how much changes on his face as we walk down the path together, how the shadows age him and the light makes him look even younger, almost like a little boy. It strikes me then that I don't know that much about him, how old he is or even where he's originally from, what his story is. And then it strikes me that he doesn't know anything about me, not really, in much of a similar vein, and so I stop worrying, stop thinking, and my gaze starts to track the line of his shoulders instead, the sloping curve that delves down into long arms.

"We don't even know where we're going, do we?" I murmur out loud, stopping beneath the shadow of a nearby tree, looking up and up, higher and higher, above our heads, until I can squint into the darkness, my eyes making out the shape of a house as they adjust. It's dark up there, literally no sign of life, but it's a house, and it's in a tree, and something about that strikes me as infinitely funny. The hand that isn't holding his points upward, and I chuckle softly, my mind immediately racing with the possibilities. "What about there?"

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The word hits me like a freight train and I feel it all over again, the sudden weight of wanting to do right by her, a duty I don't owe in the least, except it feels like I do. Like I need to prove somehow that she hasn't made a mistake letting this happen, even if she probably has. It doesn't have to be that. It's one stupid night, an idea that I can let myself by startled by later, that this is actually happening, but I'm determined to make it worth her while, however limited my skills are.

It's all I can do, though, not to just leave my head resting against her shoulder, the slick heat of her pressed against me maddening as I stammer some kind of hurried agreement. She doesn't need to ask, but the fact she does is intoxicating in its own right, and I feel a kind of desperate gratitude. Mostly, though, it's buried under everything else, under wanting this more than I want air. Trying not to fumble over much, I reach down and slide into her, one hand moving instinctively to her hip, clutching her against my side as I thrust into her again and again. I don't want to let her go, don't want to do anything but stay inside her and listen to the sounds she makes, the soft, ragged, girlish noises that sound better than probably anything else in the world.

I've been ready, on proverbial pins and needles this whole time and likely even longer than that, back to when I'd touched his hand at the bar and tried to convince myself I hadn't felt that spark of energy, that indescribable flutter of arousal in the pit of my stomach. It doesn't have to be fancy, it doesn't need to involve all kinds of moves. I just need the simplicity of this, and the ease with which he slides into me is enough to knock my breath out of me, my body opening up underneath him, slowly unfurling, legs spreading wide and wider as he starts to move, slowly but still just enough to get me there.

My hands find his shoulders and then his back, fingertips forming light pressure points before giving way for the sharper dig of my fingernails, scratching just enough for him to feel it through the cotton of the shirt. All I need is a few more thrusts, my toes curling against the bedspread as that familiar heat starts to coil low in my belly, and I tense underneath him, so frustratingly close that I feel the moan choking up in my throat as I clutch at his back, helpless, unable to do anything else but move into him, rocking up to meet him halfway, my eyes squeezing shut as his name finally spills from my lips.

I don't know if it's her nails or my name, but something pushes at me and I rock into her that much harder, head dropping to bury against the curve of her neck. It hasn't actually been that long since I got here, since I last saw Callie even, but it feels like a lifetime. I nearly forgot how good this feels, the electric charge crawling over my skin and down my spine, except I can't forget about it for a second. I think about it constantly, but thinking doesn't hold a candle to what it's really like, the way she pulls around me and the sounds she makes.

But when my hands close on Ellen, she feels like she's there. Moving, but solid, real, underneath me as I arch my back into her hands. I know there's no way I'm gonna last long, and I think a fervent prayer she'll be as quick as me or miraculously not mind, and then I forget to care about that and pray instead for this to last longer, to let me just keep fucking her, or else for the end to come at once.

It's a miracle I last even as long as I do, my arms shaking and fingers digging into her thigh as I gasp against her skin, and the world goes white and blank and perfect, then hot-red behind my tightly shut eyelids, blood rushing in my ears. I feel everything, every bit of it, every inch of her stretched under me, and none of it registers. There's nothing there but the liquid heat, draining everything from me, good and bad, before and after, until I just about disappear.

I'm spiraling end over end, the tension building and rising to a damn near agonizing degree, every single sense but sight assaulted with my eyes still closed. There's the scent of sweat, sex, dust, probably from however long the blanket on this bed has been here, and beer as he pants against my lips, my neck, my breasts, breathing hot over my skin until I arch up again, towards him, into him, around him and almost through him as we collide into one another, over and again, sped up to the point of sloppy, staccato movement that doesn't look elegant but does the job perfectly.

I used to try to picture being with David again, tried to recall the way it had felt when his lips were seeking out the constellation of freckles on my left shoulder, the soft hitch of breath when he'd finally come, the heat of his body that never seemed to dissipate as we lay there together afterwards, and the way I'd try to preserve the scent of him on my skin for as long as possible after that. But when I open my eyes, finally, the face swimming in my vision isn't David's, and I cup Harley's jaw in my hand, draw him down to press my forehead against his as he thrusts for those last precious seconds.

It's a slow building, and maybe I've even come already, I wouldn't be able to tell by this point, feeling stretched and pulled taut underneath him, and the release is good, so good, each thrust of hips now and thereafter only perpetuating the sensation until I'm rendered hoarse from crying out, my head slowly lolling to one side, too limbless to even reach up and brush hair out of my face as full-body shudders continue to course through, and I rest fingertips against his ribcage and laugh breathlessly, punctuating the sound with a sated moan.

Letting out a heavy breath I didn't even know was still in me, I collapse still half on top of her, dazed. It hits me for a second that there isn't much difference between the way the world looks when I'm coming and the way it is with the back of a hand to my head, but this is better in every way imaginable, and it flickers away fast, forgotten almost immediately. I never made Callie sound like that, but she's barely on my mind now, a ghost in the background. Ellen's laughter is brighter, stronger.

My thumb strums up over her waist, her ribs, and there's a dull ache in my wrist from holding onto her like that. Hard enough to leave bruises, I think, and the idea's a satisfying one. Marks to remind her tomorrow I was here, this was real.

For the first time since leaving home, I might get a decent sleep tonight.

"Fuck," I say again, like it's the only word I know other than her name. It might as well be. My voice is rough as it is, so that I'm surprised I even speak. Nuzzling against her cheek, I still don't know much of anything at all about her, but for the moment, she's just about perfect to me.

He's still there, when I can summon enough energy to open my eyes again, my entire body warm and loose-limbed, a feeling of pleasant satisfaction working its way through my veins as if my heart is responsible for pumping out the feel-good hormones, causing it to course through me from head to toe. On a reflex, I reach up to run my fingers through his hair, my palm cupping the back of his head, keeping him against me, inside me for a few more moments. There's no question I'll be sore tomorrow, but it's difficult not to smile even now when I realize what the gentle pain in my muscles is bound to make me remember.

My skin is still oversensitized, nerve endings working overtime in the aftermath, and as his fingers caress up my side, I shiver and gasp before a lazy smile works its way onto my expression and I groan, stretching lazily underneath him, tensing for a few beats until I collapse back into a slow ebb of endorphins.

"Fuck is right," I murmur, another breathless laugh slipping past, and I blow hair away from my face, turning my head to look up at him as his nose brushes along my cheek, and then my jaw. I reach up to push a few strands of his hair back from his forehead, fingertips sweeping dark pieces away and lingering there, against his temple.

There's something hypnotic about the brush of her fingers. This is nothing, I know, not in the long run, not really. It's just sex. But right now, she's tender and warm, and it's nothing but it's not meaningless. I like her well enough, but I don't like her the way my sisters would say, that isn't what I mean. It still means something that I'm here, and I'm grateful in a way I don't know how to voice or if I should. If I could without sounding like a jackass.

Pulling out of her, I still don't want to move or go far, turning onto my side next to her. My fingers catch on her wrist, so delicate under my hand. It's still true what I said, that she's tiny. That she seems fragile. She's not, though, not even close. And she seems content enough. Even in the darkness, she looks pleased, and there's the enormous sense I got something right.

Even here and now, I don't feel like MOST GUYS, but looking at her, I don't even know if she can tell. I don't know if I'm relieved or annoyed by that. I just know I want to kiss her again, so I do.

I could almost fall asleep right here, I start to think, completely naked and splayed out lazily across a dusty comforter, but all I end up doing is staring at the ceiling, trying to make out the places where the house ends and the real tree begins as my eyes finally adjust to the darkness after being shut for so long. The afterglow is starting to wear off, the warmth of my skin slowly being replaced by a slight chill, and I shudder once, briefly, before moving to pull the blanket from the foot of the bed over me, drawing it up to my shoulders.

It shifts and tugs away from my skin as he rolls over onto his side, laying next to me, his fingers tracing over the veins of my wrist, the bone. I curl my own fingers reflexively and let my head swivel over to face him as he presses forward, mouth brushing over mine, and the blanket slips down to my hips as my arm winds up over his chest, hand gently cupping his face.

"Are you - was that - ?" I don't know why I'm asking, only that it seems like the right thing to do, just to check, to make sure. I get the impression that I'm supposed to feel more torn about this, sobering up with a subtle pulse of pain in my head, but it's difficult to summon an objection to what we've just done, what he's managed to make me feel. Maybe I'd feel guiltier if I knew how old he really is. Maybe not.

I look at her for a moment, search her shadowed eyes for a clue as to what she's asking. I almost laugh when it hits me, mouth curling into an involuntary smile. I don't want to tell her that she could have just been there and done nothing and it would have been good for me. It's not that simple, but it is, too. It doesn't take a hell of a lot on my end. I should be asking her, I realize. It's not something I think about as much as I probably should.

"Yeah." When I close my eyes for a moment, it's Callie's palm against my cheek, the soft weight of her arm across me. So far from home, she doesn't feel real anymore. She's insubstantial, haunting me like the rest of my stupid memories, and I think, I never knew her. I knew her soul, better than I wanted, I knew something inside her, but I never really knew who she was. Now I'm here, I don't know if I ever will. My fingers close on her hip, tugging her toward me.

She's Ellen, though. The fact I keep my grasp is proof of that. Her curves are mesmerizing, and I try to memorize the feel of her skin under my hand as I lean in close, forehead touching hers in a show of misplaced tenderness, an answer to hers. "Yeah. Definitely. Was it... I mean, for you..." I don't know if I really want to know unless the answer's yes, but the question's already sort of out.

The ridiculousness of the unfinished questions strikes me and I laugh again, still riding on the lingering pulses of the feel-good hormones, making everything amusing for a beat, my head feeling both level and slightly left-of-center at the same time. I should be getting up, searching for my clothes in the darkness, fumbling around for the trail of clothes that would no doubt lead anyone to us, tangled here - and yet I can't bring myself to do much more than lean into him, my eyes falling shut as his palm grasps for my hip and his forehead nudges against mine. Something in my chest pangs, aches, and I swallow hard, nodding once, my hand sliding back from his cheek into his hair as I comb fingers through his hair, strands a shade of autumn leaves.

"Yeah. Yes," I promise, and I don't know what it says about me that it was, but I know it's not the worst decision I've ever made in my life. It probably won't ever be - this fling, this whatever-it-is with him. For all I know, it ends here, tonight, and that might explain my reluctance to extricate myself from him, so I linger here for a little longer, just breathing him in, taking advantage of the warmth in an otherwise cold room.

When I finally rise, it's to sit up, swinging my legs off the edge of the bed, my hair mussed beyond recognition of any kind of styling, and I hunch forward, feeling my spine curve and my shoulders roll as I put my back to him for a minute, the blanket half-clutched against my chest. "I should get dressed," I murmur, and yet it's like I'm almost frozen, in this stasis, torn between wanting to get up and walk out and laying back down and curling into his arms again.

When she finally draws away, there's a weird relief, like I was holding my breath until then. I think I kind of was, just waiting for it to happen. Though I know parting quickly is probably the smart thing to do, having just these few minutes after feels good in a way that hurts, an ache in my chest that's unfamiliar. It's not for her, not really. Just for what she does. For what she doesn't even know she gives. And now that she's taking it away, I almost want to thank her for that, too, because she's right, she should get dressed and go, I should get back to where I've hidden myself away, or else I'm going to do something stupid here.

I've been almost completely alone for the first time in my life for weeks now. And maybe people would say that the company I had back home wasn't worth much, maybe I would even say that, but it was mine. It was my family, no matter what shit we put each other through. Life here is dizzyingly strange, confusing, but her softness throws me more off-kilter than all the rest of it. I can almost feel a sob rising up in my throat to choke me and I don't know anymore why. I just know I should get away from her before it happens.

She's so beautiful, though, her skin blue-white with moonlight, and I want to kiss that spot at the base of her spine. I want to pull her back to me again, fuck her again, and I want her far away from me. Wanting anything else feels like a kind of betrayal and it's probably better for us both this doesn't happen again. Except who would it hurt if it did?

It's cold this late at night, but my t-shirt clings to my back as I sit up to look for the bottom half of my clothes. "Right, yeah," I tell her. "Me, too."

I skim my toes across the floor, threadbare rug and dusty panels of wood, and my foot finally makes contact with the black lace, even though I stiffen before realizing exactly what it is, relief easing in after a moment. I lean over to reach for it, and it's always something of a balancing act, getting dressed in the dark. Somehow the other way always seems easier in the heat of the moment, pulling at clothes hard enough to stretch or even tear, especially with no fasteners involved. It's safe to say I'm completely sober at this point, but my eyes have that itchy feeling, that fuzzy sensation, and I blink to try to bring the world back into focus as I stand, pulling the panties up over my hips.

The dress isn't in the room, I remember that much, but just beyond, in the hallway. Still, I'm not going to move very far to change, walking over on tiptoe across the room to grab it, bending low to scoop it up. The clasp in the back is going to prove to be a challenge, though, and I'm half-wondering how I even managed it earlier tonight without help, but I'm not going to shy away from it now as I back up to him, gathering my hair to one side over my shoulder and tilting my neck, trying to catch the moonlight in order for him to be able to see what he's doing.

"Would you?" I ask, and I don't doubt that he will, but it seems polite to ask. It's ironic, too, the politeness after what we've just done, inches away from where I'm standing now. There was nothing polite in that, nothing full of niceties, just hard and desperate and more needed than I'd like to admit to anyone right now, myself included. I just need to get back to the Compound, figure out my next move. A shower seems like the logical next step, and I need to think logically right now. Anything else is going to just prove messy.

Watching her cover up again is strangely disappointing. I would've thought it would be a relief, that once she wasn't naked anymore, it would be easier not to think about pulling her down and going again. There's a distinct part of me that wants to prove it wasn't a one-off thing, not a fluke, that I can make it good for her again even if I wasn't giving her much thought it the moment. Instead, seeing all that skin disappear makes it impossible not to think about. I just want to pull it off her, to be the one to take it off her this time.

"Yeah." With my pants back on and my belt still hanging loose around my waist, I get to my feet, stepping behind her. Even with the light against her back, it takes me a moment to catch the tiny glint of silver that tells me where the clasp is and I manage to pick it out and refasten it without much trouble. I can't resist then, hands sliding down to her waist as I lean down to press a kiss to the back of her neck, though I feel immediately as if I've done something I shouldn't. A few minutes ago, there was nothing at all between us, and now she's clothed, I feel like I should be asking permission. I don't care, though, if she gets mad at me. Her skin is salt and sweat and something sweat I don't know, her curves soft under my palms, and if this never happens again — and I don't know why it would, why she'd let me — I want to remember.

I shudder - and it's not even a shudder, really, as I sense him moving to stand behind me. A shudder implies revulsion, fear, and I'm not feeling any of those, even though my shoulders tense slightly, first at the brush of knuckles against the back of his neck and then at the light pressure of fingertips against my hips, slowly slipping under the sides of the dress to touch bare skin. It's more of a shiver, a response of anticipation, my body more than reactive to even the slightest touch from him. It takes every single ounce of self-restraint left not to practically melt back into him when he kisses the back of my neck, though for a minute, it seems entirely possible.

I'll settle for this, though, circling slowly without taking a step back, keeping myself here and present in his space, and I'm smiling, but I can't quite tell what the emotion is behind it as I rise up on tiptoe towards him, my hand cupping his face in the dark as I kiss him softly, briefly. "Thank you," I whisper, turning away before the temptation rises to an all-time high and starting to search for my heels, my hand drifting down his arm to briefly tangle fingers with his before moving to pull away altogether.

Already she's starting to feel like one of those things that happens to someone else, though there's a satisfied weariness in my limbs that says otherwise. I'm tempted just to stay here for the night. It's not like anyone would care or I have a real home to get back to. And it'd probably be less awkward than walking back toward the hut I'm staying in, ending up keeping her company part of the way.

Which is when I remember I don't even know where she lives.

I fasten my belt, watching her, not sure how to reply to that, not even sure for a moment why she'd thank me. For the sex? For helping her dress again? Neither seems worth much, not from her end. "You're welcome," I tell her, stilted, unsure. What I really mean is she's the one who should be getting thanked, but it doesn't make it out of my throat. "Do you... want me to walk you home?" It feels awkward. I wish I could tell her that's not her fault. Sometimes it feels like Callie never went home, or like she never left it. She appeared to me like a dream and went away again, fading into the air like a spirit, and I don't know what the protocol is or how much I care to follow it.

It's a bit of a balancing act at this point, struggling to slip on heels without anything to reach out to at first, but I finally nudge my hip against the wall, giving myself some leverage as I move to put one stiletto back on and then the other, easing up a few inches when I finally put my second foot back down. The question he poses is somewhat unexpected, and there's an innocence in that too that directly contrasts everything else, even the way I've just kissed him, that it makes my heart ache thinking of the possibility that I could have ruined him purely from an overeager desire to satisfy myself.

But he's still standing there, tall and slender, those jeans dipping low over his hips, looking at me with those dark eyes searching, watching. I thought they were brown at first but I'm starting to realize that isn't the case, not up close when I can finally see the blue. My resolve, my aim to make it out of here with something resembling dignity is crumbling fast, and I have the overwhelming urge to snag fingers in the denim waistband, to sink to my knees in front of him until he tangles his fingers in my hair and utters my name again.

I settle for a small, tight smile and a quick nod, conceding that much and concentrating on keeping my balance as much as possible. "Okay," I reply, absently reaching up towards my hair and almost breathing a sigh of relief when it isn't matted and tangled against my fingers. "Come on, I think there's only the one way out of here."

I glance back at the rumpled bed, the last remaining evidence anything happened at all, and head in the direction we came from. It makes me wonder if we're the first or if others have come here, if others will after. If we will again. I don't know if it means something that she wants me to walk with her when she could have said no. I don't even know if I want it to mean anything. I mean, I know I want to fuck her again, but that's about all that's certain in my head.

For a moment, I almost stumble in the hallway; it's darker here and I think we should have turned on the lights, but I didn't want to. If there even are any. The darkness makes things easier, and I could see her well enough in the moonlight. I can see her still, and I step back to let her move ahead of me into the next room. This place seems even less real than most of the island, maybe just because it's up in a tree with an elevator and all.

"I didn't even know they made treehouses like this."

"They don't." Even as I'm saying it, I'm not sure of what I mean, whoever they are. Is it the island, the forces behind these changes that happen so often and expect us to simply follow along with it, to give in for however long it lasts? Some of the huts have been here since before I arrived, since before most of the people here arrived, and yet this one is filled to the brim with trinkets and gadgets, some still laying unfinished, ghostly remnants of the treehouse's past inhabitants as we walk through in near-silence, aside from the occasional knock when my heels collide with wood flooring instead of the rugs.

I swivel toward him as we reach the lift, my fingertips fumbling back behind me, reaching to find the switch. My eyes find his in the darkness and I wait calmly, patiently, even as my fingers start to itch to reach out for him again, and I curl them in against my palms, digging fingernails into the skin until the pain jolts me enough to turn the switch in my brain.

"They didn't, not - I don't think it's a commonly used model," I add, by way of explaining. "Whoever lived here before us probably designed and built everything, but no one's come to claim anything in their absence. It's all just - here." The door slides open behind me as the lift rises and for a moment, I have to just stand there and take it all in, trying to make out shadows of shapes barely visible in the dark, before my gaze sweeps up to his face and I reach up, adjusting the cuff on the sleeve of his t-shirt without much preamble.

It's depressing, honestly, the idea that all this shit just got abandoned. Not because I care about the stuff, I don't know what most of it is in the darkness, but someone made it. Someone worked hard on it all and lived here, and then one day, they just up and left. Vanished into thin air.

There's a moment where I feel something tug sharp and hard at my heart. I did the same, too. I just wound up here.

If there's something guaranteed to get my mind off that, though, it's the faint graze of her fingertips as she tugs at my sleeve, fixing it or something, I don't know what. The door for the elevator's open and it doesn't have far to rise, but I don't think about it. She touches me and I forget to think, I just lean in and kiss her again, forgetting about the kind of invisible barrier that's been up ever since she put her clothes back on, too. It occurs to me too late that walking her back to her place means knowing where she lives, wanting to come in with her, things that probably shouldn't happen, because this isn't exactly anonymous, but I doubt she wants me tagging around after her either.

Someone will reclaim this place again, I think, trying to put an optimistic spin on my own stream of consciousness. They'll have to, eventually. Leaving these things here to collect dust and rust away (everything inevitably falls to ruin) just seems like such an utter waste, but our being here, even for a little while, in this dark space, it almost feels as if there's been some life infused here, just for those moments when everything was simple in that bed. There's a mountain of complications heaping onto my shoulders, so heavy, but when he shifts in my periphery and I turn to find his eyes, all of that doesn't really seem to matter.

He's concrete under my fingers, much more than the cold memory of a dead fiance, and I can find comfort in that much, for however long I'm permitted. I can't tell if this is only going to have happened the once, and I'm trying to read him to see if that's the case. If there's one thing I'd at least feel confident admitting I've learned from Patty, it's this. But he's leaning in before I can get a good glimpse of his face, shadows shifting over his features, and when his lips press against mine, I don't need to keep thinking. Somehow, during it all, we both manage to get onto the elevator, but even then, I've still got a hold on him, one hand fisted in his shirt and I've managed to graduate to openly devouring his mouth.

This time around, as the elevator descends, I can focus on kissing her just for the pleasure of kissing her, groaning into her mouth, welcoming the force and how plain she is about it all. It's not like there's any need for us to pretend the desire isn't there, but it's always seemed to me like girls are a lot coyer than they need to be anyway. Mostly it would help a lot if they would just spell out what they want so we can get it right the first time. This, here, with Ellen, is simple, and I'm remembering again how not to think about it too much and to kiss her without groping blindly at her, less needy.

I regret that about the second we hit the ground and doors slide open again, and I have to step back to let her out of the elevator. There's no way of knowing if I'll get the chance again without outright asking her, and i'd feel like an idiot doing that.

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