Baroque by Dana Woods
11 100-word Drabbles.
*
I.
She's standing in Gunn's doorway, smirking like she's got him all figured out--like she knows his soul. It makes the hair on his arms stand at attention, causes something white to spark behind his eyes and ice-cold heat to pool in his stomach.
Her eyes are sybaritic panes of brown glass, and she brushes against him when he steps aside.
II.
Her
hips sway like a pendulum as she moves around Gunn's kitchen, mixing liquor and Sprite. Fred once told him that without air resistance a pendulum could swing forever. But Fred's gone, there's always resistance, and Faith's hips will stop swaying.
Gone. Resistance. Stop. Sharp little needles of immutable truth that pierce skin, hit nerves. Faith doesn't say anything about his trembling hand when he takes the glass she offers.
"Jungle Juice." Her grin is like barbed wire. "Drink up."
III.
But the second glass slides down like silk and settles nice and warm at his center. Things are starting to get blurry around the edges and Gunn can't see truth clearly anymore. He pours himself a third and leans back on the sofa next to Faith.
A turn of her head, the unveiling of her profile. "Feeling good?"
"Feeling warm," Gunn tells her. "And dizzy."
She faces forward again, hidden by a curtain of brown tresses. "Keep drinking, babe."
IV.
"Why you here?" he asks, still working on his third.
She blinks in surprise, her sleepy eyes on Gunn. Looks away and lifts her shoulder in a lazy shrug. "Stopped at the offices and heard what happened. Thought you could use...a drink."
But her eyes cut in his direction, and they tell the real story.
V.
She sets his glass out of reach. "You've had enough."
But she's wrong. He can see the pen clasped in his fingers, hear the tip scratching along paper. He starts shaking, and Faith pulls away. Leans over, retrieves his glass and brings it to his lips.
"Drink," she orders.
VI.
She's hot and wet and her skin tastes like coco-butter.
Gunn is hard and throbbing and about twenty seconds away from crying like a bitch.
A hand at his throat, pushing his head back, and dark brown eyes demanding his attention. A pause on the upstroke, then heaven when she comes back down, tighter than before and hard enough to jolt him.
VII.
She tastes like the daphne and Gunn damn well knows that he's never smelled daphne, and shouldn't know that it's a laurel-type bush.
Which, of course, reminds him.
Fred tasted light and airy, like her bubbling personality aerated everything in her. He wonders if Illyria can be tasted, then decides she probably tastes like brimstone.
VIII.
Gunn stares and she snorts in frustration. "Okay, okay. It was fun. You were on. Drop it."
"That's not--I just--why? We haven't even talked since we first met."
She looks away and pokes her fork into the white food container. "Maybe I know where your head's at right now, and maybe I know that you needed a distraction from it."
If Gunn remembers Faith's story right, there's no "maybe" about it.
IX.
Her hand grabs his and she exams his wrist. "Looks fresh," she says, then reaches for the shampoo.
Leans his head back and thinks about the two-day-old double helix going around his wrist. "It's so I don't ever forget," he says, voice distorted from the water raining down on him.
X.
"Where's yours?" he asks suddenly and she blinks at him, so he gestures at his wrist.
She smiles a little, then lowers her head and points. Through her hair, he can see bits of ink on her scalp, but before he puts a picture together, she leans up.
"Jail house ink." She grins. "I'm hardcore."
XI.
Gunn nods. "Thanks. For...well, thanks."
Faith's face sobers, her eyes flickering to his wrist. "Didn't need that. You'll never forget; just wish you could. That's how it works."
Not entirely, though. Time passes, memories get fuzzy, and sharp feelings fade. He peers at her hair and she eyes him blandly.
"It's a stake," she says. "I betrayed my Calling."
She hands him a slip of paper, tells him to call if he needs to talk. He walks her to the door and locks it behind her, rubbing his wrist.
.End
Faith is long limbs, blood red lips, just-been-fucked hair and hedonistic intent. She's ancient power barely contained by fragile skin, and maybe that's why she looks good in the tight black shirt that's only just keeping her breasts covered.
Faith's got about two-dozen various little bottles of booze--"Blinked pretty at the stewardess"--and a large bottle of Sprite.
The first glass goes down harsh and jagged. Strips flesh away from his mouth and throat until everything's raw and bare.
Faith is slumped against the arm of the sofa. Brows drawn together, lips slightly twisted, and nails clinking restlessly against her glass. Doesn't seem like the vessel of generations of power right now. Just a hot young thing that feels like a worn old thing.
When he finishes the third glass, Faith straddles him like a prize-winning jockey and asks him how he feels now. Gunn can't answer, because he's too busy wondering if he's going to pass out. He's on fire from the alcohol and Faith is kicking off heat worthy of a blast furnace.
Faith's jeans are on the floor and her shirt is no longer barely containing anything. Gunn's face is pressed between her breasts, and she's sliding up and down on his cock like they've done this a dozen times.
He thinks it might be punishment, Faith sliding to the side and guiding his head down. For a while, all he can taste is dry latex that curdles his tongue. But then, it's like Faith explodes past it. Like even her taste can't be contained.
The next morning, Faith puts her underwear on, strolls into the kitchen for food, and then settles in the living room with a container of leftover Chinese.
Two hours later, they fuck in the shower and Gunn's tears are indistinguishable from the water. Faith climbs down and ducks her head under the spray of water. Gunn takes the condom off, ties it at one end and leans outside of the shower to drop it in the trash.
Gunn orders dinner in and Faith demolishes almost an entire pizza. When she leans back and rubs her stomach, Gunn realizes that she does have him all figured out. Or, the major part, at least. So maybe that means he's got her figured out, too.
"Gotta jet; the others weren't too thrilled about me coming here."