His name jars him. Sets a weight dropping down his throat, settling central in his chest. His jaw tenses, and he feels… Oh, it doesn’t matter. Lost. Sad. Something. (The name didn’t cut. His name didn’t cut to hear. (That shouldn’t. That doesn’t. She’s playing him. Of course.)) It doesn’t matter, and the feeling’s gone when she touches him, because that means something entirely different, doesn’t it!
Oh, she wants to fuck him after all—?!
No she most certainly does not, and he huffs at himself for even beginning to entertain that thought. Please, she’s shown where her interests lie. Don’t lie? Doesn’t matter. He was an ass to let himself believe believe anything. Maybe that was her trap.
Christ. The fodder he’s given her tonight. The cause for ridicule. No doubt he’ll hear about this for weeks to come. Years, maybe; it isn’t as if there’s anything else to talk of in this nowhere existence.
(Her hand set mockingly against him. Who does she think she is? (And why should it hurt, almost, this softness of gesture? Vague notion that slips back below his haze, into forgetting.))
He starts to slap her hand away, manages no more than a heavy lift and fall of his own. Jerks his head backward instead, away from her deprecating touch, and watches in uneven blinking.
no subject
His name jars him. Sets a weight dropping down his throat, settling central in his chest. His jaw tenses, and he feels… Oh, it doesn’t matter. Lost. Sad. Something. (The name didn’t cut. His name didn’t cut to hear. (That shouldn’t. That doesn’t. She’s playing him. Of course.)) It doesn’t matter, and the feeling’s gone when she touches him, because that means something entirely different, doesn’t it!
Oh, she wants to fuck him after all—?!
No she most certainly does not, and he huffs at himself for even beginning to entertain that thought. Please, she’s shown where her interests lie. Don’t lie? Doesn’t matter. He was an ass to let himself believe believe anything. Maybe that was her trap.
Christ. The fodder he’s given her tonight. The cause for ridicule. No doubt he’ll hear about this for weeks to come. Years, maybe; it isn’t as if there’s anything else to talk of in this nowhere existence.
(Her hand set mockingly against him. Who does she think she is? (And why should it hurt, almost, this softness of gesture? Vague notion that slips back below his haze, into forgetting.))
He starts to slap her hand away, manages no more than a heavy lift and fall of his own. Jerks his head backward instead, away from her deprecating touch, and watches in uneven blinking.
What. Is. She. Playing. At?
And what for fuck’s sake had she even said. ]
I don’t want to sit with me for a while.
[ That. Probably makes sense enough.
Whatever. As if this woman deserves his sense. ]
Where’s Wallace?