Hell Hath No Fury
Title: Hell Hath No Fury
Author: Katie
Rating: R, for several uses of a word of the f-variety. And for, y'know, sex. Not particularly explicit, I don't think, but you be the judge.
Summary: Abby, Richard, and why they're finally done. Set somewhere during the S5-S6 era.
Spoilers: None, unless you've been living in the dark ages of ER and don't know who Richard is, or something.
Notes: I'm not usually this scathing about the Abby/Richard relationship. I actually really like them; they've always intrigued me and before they go bad they're actually an OTP for me. This fic, hopefully obviously, is after they go bad. This just kind of came out of nowhere for me, during a power outage, of all things. Go figure.
Disclaimer: Blah blah blah, insert standard disclaimer here.
It's nice to feel wanted.
Oh, she knows he doesn't want her, not anymore. But he wants enough of her that she counts it. Takes what she can get.
He wants the way she smells. Cigarettes, apple shampoo, the faint scent of hospital that she never can seem to wash off.
He wants the way she tastes. Bourbon, cinnamon gum, chapstick. Sweat filming her skin as she lays beneath him.
He wants the way she feels. Muscles hard. Soft in all those other, right places. The curve of her hip against his, the flatness of her abdomen, the roundness of her breasts in his hands. The warm wet that he plunges himself into again and again.
And most of all, he wants the way she fucks. She fucks the way she fights - angry, bitter, almost scathing in her movements. And she is very angry. He sees to that. It's the very reason she knows he'll never leave her. There is always enough anger for a good fuck.
He wants her, he craves her. His own personal addiction, and she the enabler. She thinks that's funny. Ironic. He hates her addiction so much. She bites her lip to keep from laughing as he moves atop her. No, it's not that it's so nice to feel wanted. It's that it's nice to be in control of what he wants.
In control. She feels the anger welling inside of her, and she uses its strength to flip him, sitting up on him in triumph. She sees his look of satisfaction, his desire as he gropes at her, anticipating her next movements.
In control. She utters a foul word under her breath, and sees his lips curl up in pleasure. Her anger grows, and this time she uses it to pull herself up, off of him, to the tune of his shocked protests. As she slips off the bed, she watches his desire for her melt into disgust, and she smiles triumphantly.
She can hear him calling after her, swearing angrily, but she keeps walking, closing and locking the bathroom door behind her. As she stands in the shower, cold water cascading over her body, she knows it's over. There's no reason for him to want her anymore. She leans her head back, closing her eyes against the stream of water. Never before has unsatisfying sex been so utterly satisfying.
Author: Katie
Rating: R, for several uses of a word of the f-variety. And for, y'know, sex. Not particularly explicit, I don't think, but you be the judge.
Summary: Abby, Richard, and why they're finally done. Set somewhere during the S5-S6 era.
Spoilers: None, unless you've been living in the dark ages of ER and don't know who Richard is, or something.
Notes: I'm not usually this scathing about the Abby/Richard relationship. I actually really like them; they've always intrigued me and before they go bad they're actually an OTP for me. This fic, hopefully obviously, is after they go bad. This just kind of came out of nowhere for me, during a power outage, of all things. Go figure.
Disclaimer: Blah blah blah, insert standard disclaimer here.
It's nice to feel wanted.
Oh, she knows he doesn't want her, not anymore. But he wants enough of her that she counts it. Takes what she can get.
He wants the way she smells. Cigarettes, apple shampoo, the faint scent of hospital that she never can seem to wash off.
He wants the way she tastes. Bourbon, cinnamon gum, chapstick. Sweat filming her skin as she lays beneath him.
He wants the way she feels. Muscles hard. Soft in all those other, right places. The curve of her hip against his, the flatness of her abdomen, the roundness of her breasts in his hands. The warm wet that he plunges himself into again and again.
And most of all, he wants the way she fucks. She fucks the way she fights - angry, bitter, almost scathing in her movements. And she is very angry. He sees to that. It's the very reason she knows he'll never leave her. There is always enough anger for a good fuck.
He wants her, he craves her. His own personal addiction, and she the enabler. She thinks that's funny. Ironic. He hates her addiction so much. She bites her lip to keep from laughing as he moves atop her. No, it's not that it's so nice to feel wanted. It's that it's nice to be in control of what he wants.
In control. She feels the anger welling inside of her, and she uses its strength to flip him, sitting up on him in triumph. She sees his look of satisfaction, his desire as he gropes at her, anticipating her next movements.
In control. She utters a foul word under her breath, and sees his lips curl up in pleasure. Her anger grows, and this time she uses it to pull herself up, off of him, to the tune of his shocked protests. As she slips off the bed, she watches his desire for her melt into disgust, and she smiles triumphantly.
She can hear him calling after her, swearing angrily, but she keeps walking, closing and locking the bathroom door behind her. As she stands in the shower, cold water cascading over her body, she knows it's over. There's no reason for him to want her anymore. She leans her head back, closing her eyes against the stream of water. Never before has unsatisfying sex been so utterly satisfying.