Author: Regala Electra
Summary: He kisses her like reassurances, not knowing how to say the right things.
Word Count: 2,500
Author's Notes: Title comes from Strangest Land by Tom McRae. This fic is for femmenerd, for the occasion of her lovely birthday. Please note that this fic contains 19 year old Sam, dirty talking, and a limber ballerina. Draw your own conclusions. “Never trust a gin woman” is from a short story, Delmonico, by Daniel Handler. Feedback, as always, is loved.
—I'm not pretty, she whispers against his chest, trembling as he unzips her long black skirt.
He kisses her like reassurances, not knowing how to say the right things.
After, she hides under the thin sheet, damp hair clinging to her delicate china-doll skin. He pushes away a few strands, runs his finger down the curve of her face and says, —Hey girl.
She bites her bottom lip, letting it turn near white before she releases it along with a breath that has that curious mix of pineapples and alcohol. She'd been drinking a Singapore Sling when he'd first seen her.
—Hi, he stammers after he nearly knocks his enormous plastic cup of flat beer into her lap. She sets her empty drink (something pink and he has no idea where people are getting those drinks, all he saw was the keg).
She uncrosses her ankles, stands up and even in her heels, she's petite (at least to Sam), delicate and wrapped in some breezy white lace of a shirt. She cocks her head to look into his eyes and she says, —Hi. You're in my Art History class, right?
Forgive him, maybe it's too much of the horrible beer, but he does forget his name for a second. Most of her hair is swept up in one of those complicated twists but the rest of it frames her face in a gentle auburn halo.
—Sam, he answers, hoping he doesn't look like a complete nerd, grinning at her. I'm sorry about that, it's a little crowded in here.
—A little, she says, with a neat little smile. It's a self-conscious gesture; one of her bottom teeth is slightly crooked. —I'm Ann. So what are you studying?
She doesn't get that question out. Instead she laughs; putting a delicate hand with short-trimmed nails to her mouth (her lipstick's faded the color of just-kissed lips). —Sorry. Last thing anyone wants to think of at these parties.
—I'm uh, Pre-Law. He nearly backs into a gaggle of sorority girls passing by but Ann catches his arm before he fumbles. Her grip is delicate but surprisingly strong and he moves a little closer to her than maybe he should.
When she lets go, another embarrassed laugh (that she doesn't quite manage to cover this time), —I'm majoring in Anthropological Sciences.
Sam intends to say really but he's knocked forward again and she doesn't manage to keep him steady, so just as he's about to squash her against the wall, she does an elegant pirouette of a move and he finds his ass hitting the firm seat with a soft thud. She winds up on his lap and says a little breathlessly, —Hi.
He kisses her on her blossom lips.
They take their time exploring each other in the dark, half-unseen and she asks him to come around next Friday when he leaves to go crash at his dorm.
She has an extensive CD and music DVD collection in her tiny dorm room. It's almost aggressively female (Dean-termed "angry chick rock," the sort that always irritated the hell out of Dean) with hidden classical collections shoved in-between the Ani DiFranco and Sleater-Kinney. Sam can't help but notice she has a DVD of a performance of The Nutcracker next to a DVD of Metallica's performance with the San Francisco Symphony.
—I used to be a dancer, she says, like an apology.
She shrugs a perfectly muscled shoulder. She's all long smooth lines and strong muscles under pale skin. —A little. So, movie? Did you find something you wanted to watch?
He chooses something that's not quite a weepy drama and not a pointless chick flick and she picks at a salad while he has an entire pizza to eat.
—Carbs, she gently warns when he offers her a slice.
They don't see the second half of the movie; her hand in his pants, his hand working on removing her bra. —It unsnaps in the front.
—Tell me where to touch. Tell me where, tell me, he begs in her ear as he splays over her, trying not to put too much of his weight over her. She drags his jeans down over his ass with the heels of her bare feet and she murmurs that it feels so good, —So good, so good and he's just making invisible patterns on her skin, asking, —Here? Here? A fingertip to her pebbled nipple and then his finger knuckle. Cups her small breast in his hand, fitting perfectly in his palm.
Moves down over her abs and presses a kiss to each side of her hips. -Let me taste you, he says, not asking, opening her legs wider. He works her pussy with two fingers, tongue licking slow and long, gentle fluttering touches to her clit.
She comes with a —Fuck that sounds tinny and far away, skin slicked with sweat.
—Up here, boy, she whispers, her voice low and throaty. She works his dick in between their bodies until he says —No more, I can't take any more, then levers her hips at just the right angle and when he slides in, he has to pause for a moment. Only manages to hold on by thinking of what a fool he'd be if he let go now. He isn't sure which heart is thudding so loud but he knows his blood is boiling, skin tingling almost as bad as that familiar feeling deep in his balls.
He hitches her legs over his shoulders and fucks her deep, thrusting as slow as he can manage, not caring that he wants to come now now now, begging her, —Please, can you. One more. Time. Please?
She shakes sweat-matted hair and moans, —I can't. Please. Too much. Tightens inside, around his dick and he comes, losing any semblance of rhythm.
—You're too beautiful like that, she says, pushing his bangs off of his forehead, missing his lips and landing at the corner of his mouth.
—My parents always wanted me to pursue real ballet. The classics. Things that everyone recognizes. I liked the modern stuff and I wish I'd been better at it, you know?
Sam tries to think of what she means. He never wanted the life his father has chosen. To never see what good there is in the world because everyone's either a victim or a liar or both. Ghosts sheltered behind doors, real and unrealized. Monsters are more likely to be found in closets than just a couple of mothballs. Where you don't go anywhere without a weapon and that's all there is. Nightmares waiting in the dark.
—Yeah, he lies, drawing her into his arms, —I know.
Somehow, they never fall into the normal boyfriend/girlfriend situation. He doesn't take her out to see movies or have dinner and she never joins him at study sessions (even though they share Intro to the Visual Arts and it's half-expected to retreat somewhere in the stacks with your girl or boy when "taking a break").
—Ann's my middle name, she confesses in the inky black of three A.M. darkness, saying it so soft, as though she's hoping that he's not listening at all, that he's drifting off into sleep.
He waits for her breath to slow and even before whispering back, —So what's your first name?
She laughs out a breath and mumbles, —Dominique.
He kisses the crown of her head.
—Stay the night? Expecting him to leave. Waiting for it.
He tells her he isn't planning on going until she kicks him out. —Your bed's more comfortable than mine, he teases as he bends his legs forward a little more. His feet fall over the edge when he tries to sleep without curling up against her.
He still calls her Ann the following morning, when he sees her up bright and early, dawn light just breaking through her curtained window. The small wrinkle of worry eases off her forehead and she offers to get him some breakfast after her run.
—You can shower..., she falters, trying to think of something for him to do for entertainment.
—I'll go with you, he offers and ignores her protest, saying he can survive on her food, he doesn't need a heart attack on a plate every morning just because he's a guy. She stocks health drinks, some juice and nonfat yogurt in her mini-fridge. Insists that he eat her last fresh fruit: a ripe banana and a pear, not ripe enough.
—Do you even like to run? she asks, pointedly looking at the worn sneakers he's putting on.
Sam pauses, thinking of times he's run in things a lot worse and on terrain a lot more deadly than perfectly landscaped college grounds. He offers by way of an answer, —Let's see if you can keep up with me.
She smiles, accepting the challenge.
They "go out" just the once. It's a gallery opening of their Art History T.A. and Sam fucks her in a bathroom stall, making sure to lock the bathroom door just for good measure.
Her hands are splayed against opposite walls of the stall for purchase. —God, you're so... she whimpers, losing words as he pulls her g-string aside and runs a finger just on the outside, waiting her to get damp, to feel her wetness slick against his hand.
—What can I? What? Can I? Baby, can I make you c— he pauses, trying to break the stammer as she opens her legs wider, strong muscles that don't tremble under the strain of their unwieldy position. —Can I touch you?
—Please, and that's all he needs.
Gets out of his jeans and boxers with a speed he'd thought better suited to a horny teenager and okay, he's only nineteen, but this is just something else. Too much. Navigation of opening a condom and putting it on has never gone so smoothly and they try to keep quiet but he knows that they're failing already.
But he can only say, —Can you, can you hold onto to me?
He doesn't say please, the request is in his voice, this plea to watch her take control. She answers with a look brimming full of lust and affirmations. Legs encircle his waist and she cautiously wraps her arms around his neck, settling them more around his shoulders. He wants to tug off her shirt (one of those wrapped up blouses again, but in pale blue this time) and peel off her bra but wouldn't break this embrace for the world.
She groans when he pushes her flush against the locked door. His thumb touches her clit and he gently presses one finger in and begs, —Don't come yet, and she bites the collar of his only nice shirt to muffle her moan.
—No, I won't, won't, won't, she stammers, hips rocking, fucking his hand. Once he gets another finger in, he finds that spot, that wonderful spot, —Do you feel that? She nearly bites his lip when he moves to kiss her deep but she moves her face away, eyes squeezed shut, mouth open in a pant.
His cock juts at the sight of it and he slowly removes his fingers, letting her orgasm subside, marveling at her control.
—Hey girl, you want this? he asks as he pushes just the tip of his cock against her, hoping his brain overrides his dick's desires.
Another dancer's pivot, something incredible as she pushes herself down on him, sheathing him as far as he can go in this position. —Fuck me she says, not stopping (fuck me fuck me fuck me) and the stall door shakes with each thrust. He doesn't feel the latch break until it does but he gets a moment of grace, stumbling to the side, emptying himself into her.
Her skirt is ruined with sweat and her own wetness, his hands have ruined the fabric and he may have torn the slit further up her thigh. He tries not to wince at how he looks in the bathroom mirror. She makes a quick assessment, pulling her thin strap that she calls her panties off, saying to him, —I think there's a back exit.
He kisses her, fingers curling in the loose tendrils around her face. —Good idea.
She shows him a few traditional ballerina moves in her dorm room, dressed in her leotard, ballet tights and her well-worn ballet shoes. They were a dusky rose color once.
Saves en pointe for last, rising up in an elegant rising motion, her body just lifting up. Like she could take off.
She says nothing during all of this and only starts to explain why she doesn't dance officially these days as she takes off her shoes and the rest of her outfit, standing in front of him naked, —I'm too tall, my hips are too wide, my turnout was always lacking, I could never get under 120 pounds unless I starved myself, her voice gets angrier as she continues on with the list. It's a litany of complaints she's probably heard for too many years.
He tugs off his unbuttoned shirt and puts it around her. She stops to look up at him, so small and wiry, a look in her eyes that been there since he's known her.
—I'm not pretty, she confesses, moving away when he tries to kiss her.
—This has to end, she announces when he tries to hug her in the hallway outside of their Art History class.
He wishes that he could forget the rest of the argument, how they both skip class to go back to her dorm room (because his roommate's always around, despite allegedly taking classes at Stanford). How she has a box of the few things he'd left in her room, everything neatly collected and packed away. She’s been waiting.
How he fucks her into the mattress, her tears running down her face, begging him to tell her anything, anything real about him as he tells her that this is real, this is real.
She says two words (get out) afterwards, stripping off her ruined clothes. Sam finds all the fighting's left him and he complies.
Before he closes the door for good, he simply states, —I can't share.
He wants to tell her how pretty she is but she'll never believe him. Especially now.
They don't share any classes after the semester ends and he only sees her around the campus less than a handful of times. Each time she does look at him (at least there's that), but she maintains her perfect façade, a tilt in his direction is all the acknowledgment he gets.
One of his friends tells him how he should never trust a gin woman and another loudly barks —Dude, you totally stole that from a book.
Sam just thinks about whispers in the dark and the comfort of believing in safe, an illusion that fades just like everything else.
So take my hand
I'm a stranger in the strangest land
I'll return the favor
Slide into my heart
We'll hide there in the dark