Different, But All the Same.
it's been a lifetime, a lifetime i've waited for.
Eyes, connecting through a thick haze of sticky sweet smoke, thumping bass lines, and an array of red plastic cups, filled to the brim with sloshing bitter liquid. Suggestive stares, leading to dangerous places, seventeen steps up to a second story ready to tell the tale of a second chance. His hands are on her hips and her hands are in his hair and any type of communication is muted through firmly pressed, halfway swollen lips. They are talking with their eyes, telling stories with their hands, and exaggerating tales through their lips.
He will pull her in, a devilish kiss with the promising miss of another drunken house party. She will make a guttural moan of pleasure, and she will press her fingertips against the stiff denim waistband and the stretchy elastic of his boxer briefs. The contact will make him shiver and stumble backward, knees hitting the rough edge of a mattress in for an even rougher night. Their clothing will shed, piece by piece left in a slump on the plush carpeting of a guest room. Her mouth will gape, lips widened as her breathing quickens, an audible gasp, sighing through soft lips as the very first slip of contact is made.
His hands will dangerously dive down further as the night progresses on, and her gasps will turn into moans that escalate into screams. Their backs will hit the five hundred thread count Egyptian cotton sheets, and they will stain the fabric with evidence of a lust filled night of lushes.
She is a map and he is Columbus. There are lines extending from her legs, highways on her hips, and his fingers are explorers, eager to unravel the secrets of an almost untouched city. There is a river as grand as the Nile, splitting down the left side of her body, and there is a current because her body is sweating at the same time as it is convulsing. He is making trade routes and growing corn and she is just there, open, ready for him to build his own civilization.
Her eyes flutter closed, and his eyes remain locked on the way her body reacts to the way his fingers dance. He is the puppeteer and she is his plaything, ready to move and arch and twist her body any way his fingertips instruct. She is fluttering and gasping and moaning and the bed is creaking and cracking and groaning. This is too much to handle. There is a distinct heat between their bodies and it is too much to handle.
There is a party going on downstairs but there is a party up here, between two charged bodies, and to her it is like a fiesta on her skin, in her mouth, wherever he touches. She is on fire and he is just the gasoline, heating her up, hotter, hotter, until he will eventually smother out the flames.
They will twist and they will turn and she will shake and he will shiver, because her nails are raking down his back in vertical pink lines, and they will surely leave nice temporary scars in the morning, but he is okay with that because that might be the only reminder he will ever get. This night will be gone in a matter of hours, and their emotions will vanish and all they will have next is a foggy memory.
She will try to forget. She will clench her eyes together tightly and she will pretend that this never happened, that she never gave up her self control so easily. He will admit it - but only in his head. He will replay the scene thirteen times a day, and every time someone says her name he will imagine the way her skin felt, the way her body moved. And he will tell the tale to his friends, as a one-night stand gone amazing, but he will keep her name out of it.
She doesn’t know. She is oblivious to the fact that this entire night was planned out. She feels adventurous. She feels rebellious. She feels outrageous. She feels like she’s doing something in the moment - she’s sleeping with a guy simply because she can. It was a spur of the moment decision, to her, at least. She doesn’t know. And he doesn’t have plans on letting her in on his plans.
Their eyes will close as they bask in the pleasure of beginning a busy night. She will clutch onto him like he’s her oxygen, and he will remain in position, letting her breath him in. His scent, his hands, his lips - they will give off some type of chemical, some type of feeling - and she will begin to float. She will watch herself from the ceiling, as if she’s outside of this experience. She will see his movements, and she will see the way her face contorts, but it’s like she’s not really there.
And then it will happen - building up just to let you down. Her legs will shake and her stomach will clench, and her hands will reach out for him, all she wants to do is touch him, make sure that he’s there. He will close his eyes, and he will contemplate kissing her - contemplate making this moment mean that much more than it actually does. But he doesn’t want to risk it. He can’t risk having her wake up from her daze and storm out of the room. So he will keep his lips to himself, but he will let her hold him. And he just might, subconsciously, hold onto her too.
When he is done, he will move, and he will lay beside her. He will stroke her hair slowly, his hopes of lulling her to sleep. Eventually, her eyes will close, and her breathing will even, and then slowly, he will place a chaste kiss on forehead, on her cheek, and then he will slide out of the bed. He will gather his clothing, clumped around the floor, and he will attempt to put his jeans on quietly, put his shirt on slowly. And then he will leave. He will turn around and he will open the door and he will walk down the stairs. And he won’t even say goodbye.
Because that wasn’t part of the plan. They said nothing of staying until the morning. He was just supposed to do it - get it done, get her done, apparently. And then he could leave. He would call Aaron, and Aaron will send out a mass text message of Garrett’s success. Garrett will get closer to his prize - revenge for her sister. He will hurt her, but his revenge might just feel sweeter than she ever did. And she will be forgotten.
She will wake up, alone and cold, in the strange guestroom of some forgotten house party. She will shamefully look around, and then tears will pool in her eyes when she realizes that she was left behind. She was a one-night stand. She will get dressed and she will creep out of the house, praying that no one will notice that she’s leaving alone. There will be make-up caked on her face, and she will smell of vodka.
She will pretend it never happened. She will go home, and she will sleep for days, and she will lie when her sister asks her what’s wrong. She will keep it to herself - she won’t tell anyone. When she gets the text message, she will pretend that she doesn’t know that it is about her. When she sees him, she will pretend that she doesn’t know that it is his fault.
And days later, they will see each other. He will say it was nice to see her, and how is work? He will drive the car and she will realize, in that moment, that she was nothing but an ulterior motive, all while staring out the shit-stained window.
He will pull her in, a devilish kiss with the promising miss of another drunken house party. She will make a guttural moan of pleasure, and she will press her fingertips against the stiff denim waistband and the stretchy elastic of his boxer briefs. The contact will make him shiver and stumble backward, knees hitting the rough edge of a mattress in for an even rougher night. Their clothing will shed, piece by piece left in a slump on the plush carpeting of a guest room. Her mouth will gape, lips widened as her breathing quickens, an audible gasp, sighing through soft lips as the very first slip of contact is made.
His hands will dangerously dive down further as the night progresses on, and her gasps will turn into moans that escalate into screams. Their backs will hit the five hundred thread count Egyptian cotton sheets, and they will stain the fabric with evidence of a lust filled night of lushes.
She is a map and he is Columbus. There are lines extending from her legs, highways on her hips, and his fingers are explorers, eager to unravel the secrets of an almost untouched city. There is a river as grand as the Nile, splitting down the left side of her body, and there is a current because her body is sweating at the same time as it is convulsing. He is making trade routes and growing corn and she is just there, open, ready for him to build his own civilization.
Her eyes flutter closed, and his eyes remain locked on the way her body reacts to the way his fingers dance. He is the puppeteer and she is his plaything, ready to move and arch and twist her body any way his fingertips instruct. She is fluttering and gasping and moaning and the bed is creaking and cracking and groaning. This is too much to handle. There is a distinct heat between their bodies and it is too much to handle.
There is a party going on downstairs but there is a party up here, between two charged bodies, and to her it is like a fiesta on her skin, in her mouth, wherever he touches. She is on fire and he is just the gasoline, heating her up, hotter, hotter, until he will eventually smother out the flames.
They will twist and they will turn and she will shake and he will shiver, because her nails are raking down his back in vertical pink lines, and they will surely leave nice temporary scars in the morning, but he is okay with that because that might be the only reminder he will ever get. This night will be gone in a matter of hours, and their emotions will vanish and all they will have next is a foggy memory.
She will try to forget. She will clench her eyes together tightly and she will pretend that this never happened, that she never gave up her self control so easily. He will admit it - but only in his head. He will replay the scene thirteen times a day, and every time someone says her name he will imagine the way her skin felt, the way her body moved. And he will tell the tale to his friends, as a one-night stand gone amazing, but he will keep her name out of it.
She doesn’t know. She is oblivious to the fact that this entire night was planned out. She feels adventurous. She feels rebellious. She feels outrageous. She feels like she’s doing something in the moment - she’s sleeping with a guy simply because she can. It was a spur of the moment decision, to her, at least. She doesn’t know. And he doesn’t have plans on letting her in on his plans.
Their eyes will close as they bask in the pleasure of beginning a busy night. She will clutch onto him like he’s her oxygen, and he will remain in position, letting her breath him in. His scent, his hands, his lips - they will give off some type of chemical, some type of feeling - and she will begin to float. She will watch herself from the ceiling, as if she’s outside of this experience. She will see his movements, and she will see the way her face contorts, but it’s like she’s not really there.
And then it will happen - building up just to let you down. Her legs will shake and her stomach will clench, and her hands will reach out for him, all she wants to do is touch him, make sure that he’s there. He will close his eyes, and he will contemplate kissing her - contemplate making this moment mean that much more than it actually does. But he doesn’t want to risk it. He can’t risk having her wake up from her daze and storm out of the room. So he will keep his lips to himself, but he will let her hold him. And he just might, subconsciously, hold onto her too.
When he is done, he will move, and he will lay beside her. He will stroke her hair slowly, his hopes of lulling her to sleep. Eventually, her eyes will close, and her breathing will even, and then slowly, he will place a chaste kiss on forehead, on her cheek, and then he will slide out of the bed. He will gather his clothing, clumped around the floor, and he will attempt to put his jeans on quietly, put his shirt on slowly. And then he will leave. He will turn around and he will open the door and he will walk down the stairs. And he won’t even say goodbye.
Because that wasn’t part of the plan. They said nothing of staying until the morning. He was just supposed to do it - get it done, get her done, apparently. And then he could leave. He would call Aaron, and Aaron will send out a mass text message of Garrett’s success. Garrett will get closer to his prize - revenge for her sister. He will hurt her, but his revenge might just feel sweeter than she ever did. And she will be forgotten.
She will wake up, alone and cold, in the strange guestroom of some forgotten house party. She will shamefully look around, and then tears will pool in her eyes when she realizes that she was left behind. She was a one-night stand. She will get dressed and she will creep out of the house, praying that no one will notice that she’s leaving alone. There will be make-up caked on her face, and she will smell of vodka.
She will pretend it never happened. She will go home, and she will sleep for days, and she will lie when her sister asks her what’s wrong. She will keep it to herself - she won’t tell anyone. When she gets the text message, she will pretend that she doesn’t know that it is about her. When she sees him, she will pretend that she doesn’t know that it is his fault.
And days later, they will see each other. He will say it was nice to see her, and how is work? He will drive the car and she will realize, in that moment, that she was nothing but an ulterior motive, all while staring out the shit-stained window.
♠ ♠ ♠
It took me forever to get inspiration for this, but once I did, the words just kind of flowed out. Even though I'll admit, the middle was a little frustrating.What do you guys think? Did you catch the literary devices I used through-out the thing? (Kudos to the Creative Writing class I took this summer!)
Two one-shots down, two one-shots to go. :D