butterflyfactor | (no subject)

It was the first time since her arrival that Layla had been in a crowded place and not had anyone ask about or comment on her tattoo. The lace and feather butterfly mask she wore covered it completely. It added to her general feeling of well being- not the anonymity, because no one there knew or cared who she was regardless of her garb- because she did, she felt good. A pleasant buzz ran through her. She hadn't been drinking. She didn't dare, because she wasn't prepared for the sort of lack of control that came with booze, but not just observing the crowd but being part of it was pleasantly novel.

Potentially overwhelming, as well. She slipped out of it and down the hall, finding a few strands of silver and blue beads pushed into her hands by other party goers, and absently wound them around her fingers as she stepped outside the compound doors. The party had already spilled outside- Mardi Gras wasn't the sort of even that contained itself easily or well- and she watched the dancing and drinking from her place leaning against the wall, a little farther out of the light than anyone else.

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Sliding his hand under her thigh, Jamie lifted her leg until it was hooked over his hip, rocking against her with a moan stifled by her mouth. His better judgment was quickly becoming less and less of a factor, his body superseding any sort of higher reasoning. There were far too many clothes, but they were still in an incredibly public place -- not that that stopped him from pulling at his tie, loosening the knot.

"Ah- Jamie..."

She pushed her hand under the tie as it was pulled away and brushed the button of his shirt open so she could push her hand against the skin of his chest, fingers tracing scars, palm smoothing them over. She kissed him, over and over, because she finally could.

With Layla taking care of his shirt, he let his hand fall to the other side of her dress, pulling it up just as he did the first time. His mouth strayed from hers, ghosting the line of her jaw so that he could make his way down her neck, leaving a trail of wet kisses as he went.

The back of her head didn't quite hit the wall. The messy coil of her bun, getting messier by the second, provided a barrier. Her breath caught, audibly, and she shivered. No one had ever- not anything close to this, before, because she'd known- she'd been waiting- for a moment that wasn't this one.

But this one felt so good.

It's my job to make sure things happen a certain way. Well, that implies I get paid for it. It's my responsibility to make sure things happen a certain way. It's what I do, it's what I'm for. It requires a degree of what people who think we have free will would describe selflessness. You have to have a choice, to be selfless. But I will tell you this, right now: In this moment, I want nothing more than to make the choice to be completely selfish.

"-Jamie," she gasped, fingers dragging through his hair, arching off the wall. Her pulse felt heavy, but fast and the heat flushing through her that she'd known happened, but apparently not understood, made the night feel even warmer than it actually was.

Generally speaking, when people say my name, it's with derision -- disdain, annoyance, anger. On the odd occasion -- the sort of occasion I've come to treasure since it happens at a rate once in a blue moon -- it's said with something close to fondness. Layla's said my name twice, now, in as many minutes, and the desperate edge to her voice is almost unfamiliar. I can't even remember the last time I've been wanted.

Sucking at the hollow where her neck met her shoulder, he straightened long enough to catch her bottom lip between his teeth, then sunk down to his knees, settling between her legs, his hands still holding up her dress. Breathless, he pressed a kiss over her panties, his fingers itching to push them out of the way.

Layla, you've got me on my knees.

I'm so bewildered- not my natural state, not by a long shot- that for a moment, with my lip stinging and my breath going so fast, I almost don't recognize what's happening. I almost don't hear the sound that comes out of my own mouth when he kisses me, again, someplace new. It's shamefully close to a whimper. I hear what comes next, though, and not from a distant place. I am as awake and aware as I have ever been.

It's clarity. But it's not especially welcome.

"St- Stop," she choked out.

And one single word shatters that illusion with startling precision. Stuff like this is how I know I didn't really step into some R-rated Bogey film. Stuff like this is how I know I'm still stuck in my sad story of a life, where I can't even do this right.

Immediately, Jamie let go of the dress, holding his hands back at shoulder-height, palms facing her. He settled back on his haunches, though he didn't move to stand just yet, instead looking up at her with a confused expression that was tempered by concern.

"What?" he asked, his voice an octave lower than it was normally, and his face flushed. "What did I do? Are you--? Did I--?"

"No," she said, flushed deeply pink, not just from embarrassment, "it's not you." She brought both of her hands up, to her face, not quite covering it, but pressing her fingertips hard against her temple, her forehead.

"I'm sorry," she panted, breath still wild, "i-it's not-"

This is why I don't explain things. Well, that's not true. Typically, I don't explain things because I don't need to, it serves no purpose. Apparently, now, I don't explain things because I'm really fucking bad at it.

"Then what?" he asked, concern giving way to plain confusion as he got to his feet. He'd been in a race against his better judgment for most of the night, but some part of him still hoped to salvage what they'd had all of a second ago, basic instinct overriding the guilt that threatened to make its presence known at any moment.

"Me," she said, forcing herself to meet his eyes, knowing that she actually looked as distressed as she felt, and hating that, thoroughly.

"It's me, I- I can't, please, Jamie, I'm sorry, but I can't."

I must be drunker than I thought. If this same conversation were happening while I was sober, the sting of rejection would be gnawing at me from the inside out. As it is, it hasn't quite sunk in yet what she's saying, and instead of guilt, I feel anger. That'll change in a few hours time, I'm sure, when it finally hits me what a singularly bad idea all of this was in the first place, but for the moment I take comfort in it, using it as a crutch.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" he asked. "Jesus Christ, Layla, I know cryptic is sort of your default state of being, but now isn't the time." Panting, he ran his fingers through his hair, pushing back the memories of her having done the same thing just a few moments prior. Overwhelmed, he took a couple of steps back. "You know what? Just... Just forget it. All of it. Never mind. This..." He let out a bitter laugh. "Just forget it."

Edited 2010-02-21 08:27 (UTC)

The all of it is a little ominous. It would be even more so if he was sober. That doesn't mean it doesn't sting, though.

"Jamie..." she started, knowing she had no way to finish the sentence, no way to stop him from running. She had nothing.

"Whatever," he said, throwing up his hands in defeat as he turned away, back into the light. He might've been drunker than he thought, but he was nowhere near drunk enough to deal with this. After months of wallowing, he'd finally tried to move forward, and she'd gone and derailed that attempt with just one word.

Layla watched him go, arms crossed over her chest, hands on her shoulders. After a few minutes, she sank down to a crouch, leaning back against the wall, and closed her eyes.

Yeah. That went well.