Summary: Falling in love is a little like falling apart.
Fandom: Johnny's Entertainment
Spoilers and/or Warnings: (if applicable): none, really.
Title, Author and URL of original story: Yielding, by solesakuma
Note: Thank you to usomitai for helping me - I didn't end up posting the other one, but I am still so grateful for what you did!
"To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything, and your heart will certainly be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact, you must give your heart to no one, avoid all entanglements; lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket- safe, dark, motionless, airless--it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable."
- C.S. Lewis
He's drunk, and you know it. You're not sure what to do with that knowledge; in fact, you don't really want to be here in the first place, but coming was easier than resisting. You'd seen the worried looks, the unspoken words between your friends - coworkers - friends, because it's not like any of the people you interact with anymore aren't your coworkers. Not anymore.
When was the last time he went out and had fun? are what the glances say. He's been working really hard lately, has he been taking care of himself?
He's talking like he can't stop, and, really, you're trying to be polite and listen, but there's a pounding between your temples that you can't ignore that throbs with the beat of the blasting music. He laughs - you don't know why.
You don't know him well, but as you watch him, you think that he seems looser right now, more relaxed and upbeat than you've ever seen him, and you spare a moment to marvel at how happy he seems, flushed with the heat of the club, from the rush, from the alcohol in his drink - he seems like a different person, and, for a second, your traitorous heart is jealous.
(It's easy to laugh like that sometimes, but it always leaves an empty echo in your heart afterwards.)
You're not as drunk as he is, even though there's a slight buzz in your veins, so you can see the glances he begins shooting at you. You're pretty sure that he's not aware of it, the flickering of his own eyes up and down your body, and when you arch your body a little, just to see what he'll do, you see his eyes run down the curve of your spine.
You smirk at him, and you see a flash of irritation in his eyes.
It's terrifying how quickly the grin spreads across your face at that.
(It's not that you don't know that you're attractive, or that you forget; it's just that sometimes it feels like that's all you've been reduced to, a pretty face and how much money you can make for someone else because of it.)
If you were more drunk, you think you wouldn't be having as much fun. It bothers you, the idea of losing your inhibitions, you'd rather be in control - and right now you are in control.
You are on top of the world, watching his eyes burn holes into yours.
(You're beginning to like him a lot, and it's a feeling that unfurls without your permission; it scares you.)
He's getting closer, and he's still talking, and you still don't know what he's saying. You can hear him better now, but he's getting closer, and your mind is so focused on that fact it can't process a word that comes out of his mouth.
He talks like it's a lifeline, like he doesn't know how to function if he stops. You feel him getting closer, and closer, and his lips are brushing your neck, his breath ghosting over your skin, and he's still talking. You kind of want to hit him for being such a tease, and you can tell that he's enjoying this.
(You’re enjoying it too, aren’t you?)
You're thinking about the scandal. You're thinking about how good you’re feeling and how much you want it. And most of all, you think about how you can see the vague echoes of fear in his eyes because of the things you're thinking about.
And then you kiss him, because it's clear he's not going to.
It scares you because you know better than that. He scares you, this man that makes you lose control, and you think - he reminds you of someone and you can't quite put your finger on it -
It feels good, but you draw away, because you won't make this decision for him. You know you want him now, and you know you can make him feel even better, but you see deliberation of the future in his eyes. He's drunk, but not stupid.
And he comes to you.
(But you haven’t made anyone feel this good in ages.)
You bite him because he's noisy, but he doesn't even flinch. You wonder at the amount of trust he's putting in your hands.
He's sitting in your lap, and it's not your doing, and you laugh, because you wonder if he knows how much of himself he's entrusting to you. He's finally shut up, and something about the way he looks makes him seem vulnerable.
(Your heart skips a beat, because he's looking at you. At you.)
He's in dire danger of ending up half-naked in some random public place so you take matters in your own hands, literally, because you're dragging him along by the hand through the crowds of faceless people, and he follows you.
When you reach the car, he blinks like he's not sure how he's gotten there, and maybe the car only provides the barest bit of cover, but it doesn't stop you.
When the door closes, you don't wait. You're just going with the flow, and his hand is under your shirt.
He closes his eyes, and you are aware enough to realize he's still against the door. You suppose that's just as well. He doesn’t seem to care.
(You don’t, either.)
He makes some sort of noise, a half hearted objection, and you roll your eyes. It's a little late now, and it's not like he's the innocent party here. He bites his lips and shuts up, finally, and he goes along with it like you knew he would.
You have a strange feeling of becoming free.
(Your walls are tumbling down, and it's like you've lost something.)
But he meets every one of your kisses like he's pouring his soul into you, and you decide that you don't care anyway, and you realize that it's too late for your formidable barriers to be rebuilt, but for the first time in so long, you don't feel empty
(That’s the best part.)