?

Log in

Delicate - Intergalactical Frisbee [entries|archive|friends|userinfo]
Intergalactical Frisbee

[ userinfo | livejournal userinfo ]
[ archive | journal archive ]

Delicate [May. 20th, 2007|03:14 pm]
Intergalactical Frisbee

sun_surfing

[pwned_spit]
[Tags|, , ]

Title: Delicate
Author: purpleelephant over at the Team Talk boards
Rating: R
Author Notes/Comments: I didn't write this, but the author has graciously given me permission to post this here, as I am in love with this story, and believe you all will be as well. Italicized parts will be in the past, normal fonts will be the present. Leave comments and let her know what you think of the story! I'm sure she'd love to read them!

This story was inspired by the song Delicate by Damien Rice



CHAPTER FOUR – “It's not that we're scared, it's just that it's delicate…”

PART ONE:
Present


There’s a familiar low knock on the door, briefly disrupting my stare from the mirror. My eyes drop from my reflection and stare at the handle behind me. I let out a long sigh and focus back on the image in front of me. It’s the same reflection I’ve had for my entire life, but as I look at it now I feel a new emotion that I have never associated with my reflection before. I am filled with disgust. I have become my worst nightmare; I am crumbling because of a boy. A stupid boy.

“Jac,” I hear him whisper through the door.

Just stop it. Go away, leave me to wallow alone and end this nonsense that has ensued between us. Just leave, please. But again, that is only in my head; only ever expressed for me to hear.

“Jac,” he repeats, followed by another soft hitting of his knuckles.

I remain silent again; too busy waging a war inside my head to respond to him. In all honesty, I don’t know what to say to him at this point, so for once I opt for silence. I focus down on my hands as they hold my shirt and continue scrubbing under the cascade of water, trying to get the purple stain out of my white t-shirt.

A slow continuous beat starts to fill the small room, Dougie knocking a steady stream to try and get me to respond; to get me to open the door. I ignore at first, but it becomes louder and more annoying as each rasp passes.

“What Dougie?” I almost scream, pulling the door open.

I take him off guard and he looks a little scared at first; scared from my sudden outburst of anger that I throw his way. His eyes meet mine, widened with shock, but they soon fall and scan over my figure and that same sly smirk replaces the previous frightened expression; instantly sending a jolt through my veins.

“I like this look,” he laughs and steps closer to me, running his hands ever so slowly across the bare skin of my stomach; I stand frozen.

Why did I step out in only his boxer shorts and my bra? Why am I so stupid as to provoke this? Stupid Jac, stupid, stupid, stupid. You are way too weak and you just ask for this.

He plants a soft kiss onto my bare shoulder and pulls back, looking at me with that same lop-sided grin. His hands travel from my stomach and around to my back, his palms pressing to the shivering skin. He whips me forward, abruptly, bringing my bare skin in contact with his thin t-shirt.

“I should spill things on you more often,” he jokes, his nose now just fleetingly touching mine.

He goes to kiss me, and just as the skin of his lips touches mine, I rip back, pulling from the kiss, from his hold, and out of his presence. I begin to breathe in deeply, suddenly overcome by this suffocating feeling as my chest tightens and I start to feel light headed. Is it because of my frustration, anger and just complete annoyance at the situation? Or does Dougie really have that much persuasion over me, over my body, over how I react to him? I hate to say it, every fibre of my being hopes that it’s not true, but I believe it’s the latter.

I walk away from him, not looking back and swiftly move into my bedroom, in search of a new t-shirt. But I can hear the footsteps, and I can sense the presence as once again I am followed. I ignore him though, just continuing to my wardrobe, opening a drawer and rifling through the fabric for a t-shirt.

“I think it’s better to move this in here as well,” Dougie says rather loudly, coming up behind me and wrapping his arms around my waist, pulling me back with him as he stumbles towards the bed.

We fall in a tangled mess on to the mattress, the weight of my body resting on his. Somehow, we manage to fall face to face, making this even more difficult for me, but making it perfect for him. He reaches up and pushes the hair from his eyes, flicking the hair to the side and then proceeds to do the same to my face, revealing an expressionless look on my features.

My body screams, ‘KISS HIM FOR FUCK’S SAKE ALREADY! STOP BEING SO GOD DAMN STUBBORN AND GIVE IN!’ My brain is pleading and begging, ‘Don’t fall for it again, it’s not worth it.’ And the war starts up once more.

Before I can stop it, his mouth is latched to my mine again and his tongue is parting my lips. His hands are wandering, up and down my back, stroking and caressing softly, yet filled with a primal urgency that makes me buzz with electricity from head to toe. His fingers begin to fumble with the clasp of my bra, trying to undo the tiny hooks that hold it in place. This action snaps me from his pull and I break away, pushing up from the mattress and away from his lips.

Before I can fully get up, he grabs my shoulders and tries to pull me back down, but my arms straighten and lock, keeping me an arm’s length away from him.

“What the hell Jac?” he asks out of frustration.

I continue to push up from him and slide off the bed, back to my drawer and hastily find a t-shirt to put on. Doesn’t matter what it is, just so I’m not so scantily clad in front of him anymore; I am not making this any easier on myself.

“Why are you being so difficult tonight Jac?” Dougie asks, hearing him shuffle off the bed and pad his way over to me yet again.

“I’m not difficult.”

“I understand a bit of playing hard to get, but this is just borderline ridiculous,” he smirks, but the frustration is still evident in his voice. “It’s almost like you don’t want this anymore.”

What if I didn’t?

“But that would be ludicrous,” he continues, “so how about enough of this hot and cold shit and just let me kiss you properly already,” he finishes.

I whip around and glare at him, stopping him in his advancing tracks. I wish I could get across everything I want to say in a look, a simple look that only takes a second to portray. In that second, I wish he would just get it; get it and understand once and for all.

He starts to laugh quietly; that same crease of his eyes, curl of his lips and infectious sound. What the hell is so funny now? I do believe I was giving a death glare, not an ‘I’m trying to be funny so laugh at me’ glare.

“Care Bears eh?” he smirks, now continuing to walk towards me and tugging at the bottom of my shirt.

“Yes.”

Like I said before, it was the first shirt I could find. And I prefer to be covered in a Care Bear t-shirt right now, than clad in only my bra and boxers in front of him.

“It’s cute,” he smirks, and drops the fabric from his fingers.

He leans in yet again, but I step to the side and push him away.

“I have to do some work,” I state, trying to sound forceful, hoping that maybe he’ll take the hint.

It’s a lie though, I don’t have to do work, I just want to get away from him right now, away from this situation. I have to get out of it; I don’t trust myself around him. I don’t trust my strength or my will power around him, or lack there of, and I know that I need to stop this.

I leave my bedroom and walk down the stairs hurriedly, back to the kitchen, back to my laptop. I make my way through the complete darkness of the house, not turning any lights on but walking as if on auto-pilot. Dougie follows, hot on my heels, and knows his way around. He’s been here far too many times.

“How’s work?” he asks as we enter the kitchen again.

“Don’t ask Dougie. You don’t care,” I growl almost.

There goes my theory about Dougie only saying what he means; because I know he could care less about how I am, how work is, or how my life really is. He only asks because it’s interfering with his neighbourly shagging, as he so eloquently put it.

“I wouldn’t ask it if I didn’t want to know,” he says, trying to feign some sincerity.

I fall for it; it’s so rare that I hear it from him, can you blame me? I’m stupid, I know, but I fall, yet again.

“It’s hectic and busy and frustrating,” I respond coldly, sitting down in the same wooden chair across from my laptop.

“Maybe you should do something to relax,” Dougie suggests, breaking the fleeting sincerity and replacing it with his all too familiar sexual innuendoes.

He goes to pull the hair blocking my face back as my head hangs, but I shrug off his touch and lean away from him, pulling the chair with me. The loud scratch of the chair legs against the tile floor is almost deafening as I shift from him. He exhales loudly and I can sense his frustration and anger building.

“It was a joke,” he sighs.

I continue to sit in silence.

“Really, what’s wrong? What the fuck is going on Jac?” he asks again, shifting his chair closer to me and wrapping his arm around my shoulders, pulling me into him.

* * *
linkReply

Comments:
From: she_writeslove
2007-08-27 07:38 pm (UTC)
jgsdfsndk
AHHH, this is like on big game to him.
=/
(Reply) (Thread)