"Who's crying now?"
SMUT FIC. Okay, not really, but there is sex. I was trying to go for something a little darker, and it was working...right up until the end. Oh, well, we'll get there. Also, this is named for the song "Dirge" by Death in Las Vegas, which I may or may not have listened to while writing this.
DIRGE
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It was raining. It was always raining, and Rachel honestly couldn’t remember the last time she had seen the sun. Not that it mattered anyway; this far below the plate one couldn’t see the sky, let alone sunlight.
The rain was coming down hard, so much that it made the window pane look textured and all the city lights look distorted. Rachel could never understand how it could rain this hard this far below the plate, but there were a lot of things that she didn’t understand, so she eventually just accepted it. As it was with most things.
With the rain coming down as hard as it was, Rachel didn’t have to worry about the neighbors or anyone from the street seeing her, but she slipped on the discarded shirt all the same; she just didn’t bother to button it up. She sat up in the window frame, knees drawn up to her chest, unlit cigarette hanging limply from her fingertips. Vaguely, she could make out shapes of people scurrying back and forth in the rain; hear them as they hailed cabs. She lit the cigarette, inhaled; she didn’t even know what time it was. She exhaled slowly, watching as the smoke floated and expanded, curling and twisting, until finally fading into nothing.
On the bed, Jesse moaned slightly, shifting, and causing the sheets to ride down even further on his bare hips. Rachel glanced over at him, and despite everything, had to suppress a shiver. He was, like most boys that ventured down under the plate, stunningly lovely. Golden skin that contrasted staunchly with the white of the sheets, golden yellow hair that was far too soft to be a man’s-everything about his was gold; golden boy. Lean body frame with compact muscles, well defined arms that knew just how to hold a woman. Rachel’s eyes were drawn to the crisp, dark blonde curls that rose above the sheets, and had to clench her thighs. Swallowing thickly, she turned her attention back to the window.
Jesse was bad news. All boys like him were.
“Rachel?”
Jesse’s voice contained a permanent smirk, bordering on smug, and sounding very much like an asshole. Even when he whispered to her late at night, lips ghosting against the shell of her ear, when it was in the heat of passion, when he was slowly waking up-always there was the smirk. There was something endearing about the tone, as well as infuriating. He never sounded soft, or romantic. His voice wasn’t made for either tone; instead, he sounded like he was always mocking someone.
Rachel clenched her thighs tighter. Even with that voice…just by saying her name…
“Rachel?”
Reluctantly, she glanced over at him. Jesse was sitting up slightly, all of his weight on one elbow. A mass of that improbable golden hair hung over his right eye, his left eye still glazed over with sleep. “Whatcha doing in the window, baby?”
“Just looking,” she murmured. Resting her cheek against the chilled pane, she took a deep drag off of the cigarette. “Just looking.”
“Whaddya up so early for?” He glanced over at the alarm clock, sleepily wiping at his left eye. “Babe, it’s 2:30.”
“Couldn’t sleep,” she shrugged.
“Neither can I.” He was beside her then, leaning down to brush his lips against her temple. “I can’t sleep without ya next to me,” he murmured, taking the cigarette from her and dropping it into the quarter-full beer bottle sitting on the nightstand. Rachel turned to look at him-annoyed-and Jesse took the opportunity to catch her chin in his hand, kissing her hungrily. She rotated, feet dropping off of the window frame, and when he stepped closer, Rachel parted her legs for him. Jesse pressed against her, his hot flesh against hers almost unbearable, and she coiled her arms around his neck, fingers entwining in the golden locks feverishly as she kissed him back in a dizzy sense of desperation.
Golden boys from above the plate were always bad news.
Then they were back on the bed, Rachel pressed against the mattress and Jesse ran his tongue along every inch of skin that he could. He kissed down between her breasts, pausing for a moment to pass a teasing tongue along each of her nipples, before continuing down onward to her navel. Jesse glanced up, at her, his gaze mostly obscured by the golden bangs that hung in his eyes, and he smirked, a devilish expression, before continuing his ministrations.
Rachel almost arched off the bed, one hand clutching the sheets like an anchor, while the fingers on her other hand dug into his scalp. She writhed, mouth open, choking out incoherent sounds of pleasure as he licked and kissed his way between her thighs. As her breathing hitched, Rachel was reminded of something a hooker had said once, back when Rachel was just starting to learn about sex. “It’s the most intimate of kisses,” the hooker had purred, lips painted red, ready to attract customers, “the best kiss there is.” And when Rachel moaned her release, she agreed wholeheartedly.
“Rachel,” he murmured from above her, slightly breathless himself. “Rachel,” he repeated, coaxing her eyes open. He rested his weight on his forearms, one placed on either side of her head, mindful of her dark hair that was spread out across the bed. From this angle, she could see his eyes clearly, and the emotion, the lust that swirled in those grey-green eyes brought back the ache between her thighs. It had always been the eyes that had done her in; always so much emotion, so intelligent. The voice did not match the eyes, and she had learned to watch the eyes. Like now.
“Are ya mad at me? ‘s that why ya can’t sleep?” He rolled his hips against hers, eliciting a gasp. He kissed her jaw, nipping his way down to her neck, before looking back at her. “Baby, that’s not what the money was for. I ain’t paying ya for sex. Ya ain’t no whore,” he whispered, and her hips bucked. “’s not what this is, baby,” he crooned, rolling his hips slowly, sensually. “Never what this ‘s been.”
Rachel grit her teeth, raising her hips to meet his. “You’re not slumming?” she hissed, unable to keep the bite out of her voice.
“Nah, we both know I’m not good enough for ya,” he said, thrusting in. Thin lips pulled into a pleasure-induced smile as Rachel’s fingers dug into his biceps, wrapping her legs around his waist to bring him closer. He leaned down to kiss her as his fingers curled around the dark strands of hair, thrusts becoming stronger, deeper. She whimpered at the change, hands moving up closer to the shoulders, and he moved his attention to her neck and collar bone. Rachel’s head rolled, fighting for breath as strong, harsh gasps were expelled from her lungs at each full impact, her body arching in a desperate attempt to get closer and gain more pleasure even while seeking relief.
The thrusts were becoming wilder, erratic, and Jesse looked back up at her face. “Baby,” he groaned, and she snaked one arm around his neck, kissing and licking along the column of his throat. Teeth grazing along his neck, she started to move against him, hips rolling up to meet his thrusts. The rhythm was disjointed, but that suited her just fine. The ache was unbearable, heat coiling between her thighs, and she brought her face back to his and kissed him, biting savagely at his lower lip. Her mouth opened in ecstasy, eyes squeezing shut as she tossed her head to the side; it was over.
Distantly, she was aware of Jesse’s hoarse shout, felt how he stiffened above her, save for that last, deep thrust. He collapsed on top of her, head cushioned on her breasts and tucked beneath her chin. Rachel could feel his heart hammering against her stomach, and she brought up a hand to tangle in his damp hair.
“What was the money for?”
He raised his head a little to look at her. “What?”
“The money,” she repeated, running her fingers through his hair. “If it wasn’t for sex, then what was it for?”
“’s so ya can get the hell out of here, baby. Ya shouldn’t hafta live down here.” Jesse smiled, the expression mirrored in his eyes. “My girl shouldn’t hafta live down here.”
Just when exactly she became his girl, she had no idea. Hearing him say it out loud didn’t really cement the idea for her; Jesse said a lot of stupid things. It was the look he was giving her, though, that scared her. He meant it; he, golden boy from above, wanted to take her out of the slums and bring her above the plate. Just like in faery tale. Perfect, it was perfect; didn’t every little girl living in the slums dream that one day someone would rescue them from this squalor, take them away and show them a life full of sunlight and clean, fresh air? Hadn’t she once dreamed, long ago, as she sat on the steps of the abandoned cathedral, watching the prostitutes stumble by in their mile-high heels and their heavily painted faces, of escaping this life, of a prince who would take her away? And now, here he was, so what was the big deal? After all, hadn’t she been upset only hours before when she thought that he had been paying her, thought that she was nothing but his whore?
She should be happy. No man would shell out money to move his whore; Rachel had no illusions that there were no whores above the plate. The women above the plate would smell of lilacs and jasmine, cinnamon and apples, have hands that were smooth and soft, hair perfectly styled with not even a strand out of place; lovely and elegant and perfect, and nothing like her at all. Even with his unfortunate speech pattern-that odd, lazy drawl that seemed more suited for the slums than the social circles that he frequented above-he would still be irresistible to those women. If anything, it would make him seem exotic, dangerous-golden boy looks with the personality of a slum rat; the women would go crazy. Rachel knew that she had certainly been taken with him when she had met him, intrigued by his rakish grin, self-assured gait, and that drawl. From the moment when he had walked into her bar and smiled at her, Rachel had been done for.
So, she should be happy. She was happy. That was the problem; Rachel was practically dizzy with emotion whenever she was with Jesse. He made her laugh, he made her smile, and she lay awake at night thinking about him when he was long gone. She worried about him when he was gone, worried that, for all his bravado, his smart mouth would get him into trouble; worried that one day he would leave and not come back. The crushing feeling when he came back, that blinding joy which made her want to smile so wide that her face would hurt; it was all a little too much. As far as slum/above plate relations went, it was best if attachments weren’t formed.
But damn it all if Rachel wasn’t attached.
Perhaps a little more than attached, she thought as she looked up at him. She lifted a hand and ran two fingers down the scar that was on his cheek, the scar given to him when he had gotten involved in something he shouldn’t have. It wasn’t deep or terribly disfiguring, but it always served as a reminder to Rachel that Jesse could take care of himself. And her.
“Rachel?”
She smiled; there was a slight waver in his voice, something that she had never heard before. Maybe, maybe she wasn’t the only one who was getting too attached. “Hmmm?”
“I do mean it, ya know. ‘m gonna take you above the plate, see the sky. I promise.”
And Jesse never made promises that he didn’t mean; he rarely made promises, period. She rolled her hips against him, pulling him back down by the hair for a kiss.
Outside it continued to rain. Rachel didn’t care.
FIN