Fan Fiction ❯ Wrong ❯ Wrong ( One-Shot )

A/N: Characters are mine, no matter how much Katou looks like Kaori Yuki-sama's Katou. The resemblance is only superficial.

~*~

A sigh, a whisper of a caress as he sunk into her again. She wasn't right, but he'd fuck her anyway. Any release was good as long as it took the edge off. This was Katou's mantra as he touched her, nibbled here and there, squeezing perhaps too roughly. It didn't matter. None of it mattered, because she wasn't right. In the morning, when he was gone, she could chalk it up to another drunken fumble, but for him, it was deliberate.

She'd looked right, back in the bar. Boyish figure draped in black, shoulder length black hair hanging loosely around her face, slipping out of a haphazard ponytail. She'd even had a book then. It wasn't the right book, but it was there and the symbolism was complete. He'd walked over and introduced himself by stepping up behind her and handing her a drink. His hand was good; it didn't stray down to the waistline of her pants at all. At least, it was good at first. She pulled him onto the dance floor and they mimicked the night's later activities, bodies rubbing and grinding against each other. They were sinfully inappropriate and it felt right. Later, they'd found their way to a motel, something dirty and seedy and not worth a first glance were it daylight.

Now, however, as he fell limp to the mattress, it was okay, this dalliance from the right. He'd pay for it in the morning, he knew. When he dragged himself in, and Ryouga saw his rumpled clothing, he knew he'd pay. But that was what he'd been looking for all along, wasn't it? That was why he'd picked a fight and gotten his ass thrown out for the day, so he could come home and Ryouga would make everything right again.

But if that had been his goal, why hadn't he picked up some other trash? There'd been plenty, and none of the others had looked like him. At least, not like she did. Passing resemblance aside, she was still wrong, even right now. The way she slept, on her stomach, arms curled under her. Ryouga didn't sleep like that at all. He fell asleep in his chair, or sometimes on the couch, snuggled in front of him. Never in a bed, though. Never on his stomach. A hand dragged through limp blond hair, and Katou lit a cigarette. He still had two hours before dawn, and it would be at least that before he could go home, to him. Until then, he'd be wrong. Urban camouflage pants slid up over pale, slender hips, bordering on boney. Wrong could be fun, too. An oversized black tank fell over blond hair and almost off a painfully sharp shoulder. Feet stomped into boots, nevermind the laces. A quick look back before he walked out the door.

Maybe, just maybe, wrong was right, too.