speaks in asides (plumtastic) wrote in saintstreet,
speaks in asides

The Loneliest Valentine (The Pretender -- A)

Fandom: The Pretender
Author: zeplum
Rating: A
Pairing: Jarod/MissP, like, duh.
Summary: In 2x11, the infamous Gigalo Jarod, our favourite naughty mastermind leaves a surprise at a sex shop for our favourite snarky mastermind in a short skirt. The rest, they say, is history.

Notes: Totally written to get it out of my head, as an exercise in cracked-out style, and to practice my non-existent pornish skills. Whateve, I'm glad I wrote it for the fluffy bunnies line alone.

Written for The Month of Pretender, also known as, The Best Idea EVER.

In the book, he writes their first time sweet and gentle, just so it will irritate her.

He can almost hear her voice in his head saying, "But where are the fluffy bunnies, Jarod?"

But there are no fluffy bunnies. No chocolates on pillows. Not even a rose.


Writing the book is actually very easy. Frank teases him, pokes his head into the back room to make sure he's okay, that he hasn't collapsed upon the keys. He's just in a hurry, and this story is like a second skin to the story he's never really known.

This is her life, through his eyes. All the pity and the pain, the deception and the anger, all right there to be bound in 186 trade-paperback pages.

The Loneliest Valentine. He thinks it appropriate, considering the time of year.

At first he approaches the sex scenes as part of the narrative, not giving them clinical precision per-se, but not becoming too emotionally invested either. He may have styled the main characters after Miss Parker and himself, but the characters are not them, and Jarod finds it almost invasive to write it thinking this way.

Besides, they've kissed, only once. When they were children. Hardly the basis for a great romantic thriller, really.

By the end of the day, it makes him groan with frustration, leaning back in his chair and popping the aching muscles in his back. But he can imagine, has imagined --

dark nights spent alone in the Centre as a teenager, hidden from the cameras, hand down his pajama pants, breathing controlled so Sydney would never come to check on him. he'd imagine her in the back of someone's car, a little drunk and laughing lightly, but still that sadness around her eyes that the other boys never saw. he'd imagine how the boy's hand would travel up her calf, over her knee, across her thigh -- how she'd gasp into his touch and let his hand go further, deeper

then as a young man, unafraid of being caught and unafraid of a little exhibitionism -- after all, if he sometimes felt like a rat under glass, why shouldn't he act like one? -- and he's not afraid to take his time and draw things out. he imagines her, lipstick thick and warm, leaving marks on skin. he imagines her head thrown back, taking advantage of every sensory input -- her hair, rich like mahogany, is mussed and her lips kiss-swollen. he'd stroke himself hard and shut his eyes and wonder what her lips would taste like, if she'd like to tease

night's spent alone now, not even in a bed, but in a chair. a nameless faceless, warehouse, a phone to his ear and her voice on the other end. they play and wound, but never kill, and it's the closest he's felt to her since they were children. he lets her voice replace his reason, savoring the dark harsh round quality to it -- imagining the way her mouth would taste of smoke and brandy. he always makes one final quip, jab, and then hangs up before she can carry it any further.

then he turns off the light and sits alone in the darkness. watches out the window. imagines catching her one day -- she'll only catch him if he lets her -- and kissing her breathless, kissing her like they are equals -- the hunter and the hunted. imagines grinding his hips into hers -- against a wall, on a bed, it doesn't matter -- and having her smile when she feels him hard against her thigh, like she's been wondering where he's been all these years.

He's carried these thoughts around much of his life. He's had other women in "his" bed, but only one has dominion over his heart and soul the way Parker does. Obsession? True love? Victims of fate?

He rises; it's been a long day and Jarod heads for the shower, the pure white tile acting like a beacon. He turns on the water, just this side of steaming, and peels off that day's clothes, deposits them neatly so he won't have to remember to take care of them later. Stretching this way and that, Jarod tries to work out the kinks in his shoulders, the residual cramping in his legs, but only the hot water will help. So he pushes back the curtain, steps under the spray and hangs his head, letting the water strike his neck, roll down his shoulders, over his back and chest; small rivulets of water teasing his skin.

He wonders what she'll do when she finds the book. Jarod knows she'll keep it, "Evidence," she'll tell Sydney, then secret it away. but Jarod's known her for too long, and Parker's curiosity will get the better of her.

She'll read every last page.

Jarod lets himself indulge, thinks of how she'll put down the book when she finds those parts. How she'll curse his name, how she'll go back and read the passages over and over again. That she'll slide down in bed, hiding, trying to forget the images her mind has conjured, trying to ignore the heat under her skin, between her legs.

He's feeling the same right now, half hard and anxious, so he closes his eyes against the world and braces his weight on one arm, runs the other down his body. Fingertips brushing over a stone hard nipple there, skin soft and resisting, a direct, burning current to his cock. Jarod gasps and grits his teeth, letting his hand do the work of another, gliding over his skin, slick with soap.

He imagines it's her hand, long, square nails teasing down his chest. He'll kiss her, wet and dirty, open mouthed and lots of tongue, and he'll pull him to her.

He imagines the simple things: her taste, her smell, the bite of her nails into his skin, the sound of her laughter -- rich and dark -- in his ear.

He sets an unforgiving pace, part punishment and part vicious thrill. Bites his lip when he comes, because he can imagine her doing the same -- both of them denying to the last.

The water is cold when he finally gets out.


Site Meter

Almost all the books he's read in Not-Argyle's collection have a rose, or satin sheets, and there is always, always a bodice ripping somewhere.

Reading through the books was safer than than looking around the store. Jarod learned to stop poking into corners fairly quickly -- one didn't always find what one expected. Besides, the the brightly colored packaging made his skin crawl, faintly. Slick silicone and hard bits of rubber wrapped up like candy.

Jarod was pretty sure it wasn't any candy he'd want to try.

So, he stuck to the books and tried to learn what women wanted. What they fantasized about, or at the very least, what the prolific author's thought their readers fantasized about. But Jarod read between the lines.

Warlords in loin cloths.
Vampires with a cause.

The books made him smile, and he tucked away the knowledge they gave him. But then he thought that he should leave something behind for Miss Parker. She would be as amused by the accoutrement of the establishment as much as it made him faintly nervous.

He'd just have to return the favor.
Tags: 2006, adult, miss parker/jarod, pretender
  • Post a new comment


    default userpic
    When you submit the form an invisible reCAPTCHA check will be performed.
    You must follow the Privacy Policy and Google Terms of use.