Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/496120.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester
  Character:
      Sam_Winchester, Dean_Winchester
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_Not_Related, Underage_Sex, Piercings, Oral_Sex
  Series:
      Part 4 of Not_A_Verse
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-08-26 Words: 3724
****** Coming Home ******
by BewareTheIdes15
Summary
     Sam waved his hand absently, trying to shoo off the dog, but instead
     of the scratchy paw he'd expected to feel begging for his attention,
     he got the hot, slick press of curved metal, trailed by the wet
     tickle of a strong tongue. Sam jolted upright, automatically shoving
     at the absent body of his assailant. Dean was crouched next to the
     bed, snickering openly as Sam wiped the spit off of his ear.
Notes
     This was actually the first fic in this series - written as a one-
     off, so I apologize for any inconsistencies.
A too-early fall breeze cooled the air outside, making the leaves of the old
beach tree outside of Sam's window rustle restlessly. Inside though, Sam's
bedroom was filled with the humid-hot of a room closed up for too long through
the summer swelter. It was enough to make his nose feel stuffy and he could
only breathe out of one side with his face mushed into the pillow, but he was
too tired to get up and open the window for fresher air.
He still felt the cling of recycled airplane oxygen on his skin, knew he needed
to get up and take a shower or he'd feel really gross in the morning, but his
bed felt really good after a whole day traveling back from his mom's place so
instead he just floated in that phantom space between sleep and wakefulness
until he felt a warm puff of breath against his ear.
Sam waved his hand absently, trying to shoo off the dog, but instead of the
scratchy paw he'd expected to feel begging for his attention, he got the hot,
slick press of curved metal, trailed by the wet tickle of a strong tongue. Sam
jolted upright, automatically shoving at the absent body of his assailant. Dean
was crouched next to the bed, snickering openly as Sam wiped the spit off of
his ear.
"What the hell," Sam croaked, throat scratchy with sleep. Dean's grin widened
until Sam was sure the older boy's jaw was going to crack, but instead he just
opened that plush mouth of his, tongue lolling out to reveal two small metal
beads shining on the flat of his tongue. Dean turned his head from side to side
like he was modeling, still managing to smile even with his mouth wide open.
"You got your tongue pierced?" is the first thing that fell over Sam's lips and
he wasn't sure if he was incredulous or impressed or creeped out - the idea of
something going THROUGH his tongue made him reflexively scrape his own against
the washboard roof of his mouth.
"No, dorkus, the piercing fairy came to visit me while you were gone," Dean
glared, but there was more than a hint of the grin still lingering around his
mouth.
"Shut up, jerk," Sam said, pulling himself up to a sitting position on the bed.
The jeans he'd laid down in got tangled up in the sheets as he tried to make
room for Dean to climb on the bed next to him.
"Bitch," Dean quipped naturally, rubbing his knuckles over the top of Sam's
head. Sam grumblingly reached up to try and smooth out the already hopeless mop
of his hair - his mom had begged him to get it cut while he was visiting.
The older boy settled back against the headboard with Sam, the bed too small
for both of them - especially with Sam's ever broadening shoulders - to sit
side by side without touching in a long, warm line. Dean smelled faintly of
beer and a lingering hint of pot, so he must have been out with some of his
friends. That explained why he hadn't stopped by as soon as Sam got home - he'd
been more than half expecting it.
Despite the fact that they didn't talk at school - even though Sam had jumped
ahead year in some of his subject so sometimes they shared a lass - or hang out
much in public, there wasn't a doubt in Sam's mind that he was Dean's best
friend. And vice versa.
It probably would have been a different story if Dean's mom hadn't gotten
killed in that fire, or if Mr. Winchester hadn't totally lost his shit over it,
if Sam's Dad hadn't offered them the little rental house on their property
until his friend got back on his feet - or if Mr. Winchester had ever actually
gotten back on his feet. But as it was, he and Dean had been together
practically every day since Sam was 6 - had always had each other to talk to
about the crap in their lives because they were really only separate lives in
the technical sense - and so regardless of the fact that they had like, nothing
in common, or what Sam's Dad called Dean's 'teenage rebellion' and Sam's
unavoidable, crushing geekiness, they were closer than most brothers could ever
dream of being.
Ugh, on second thought, Sam took that back, thinking of him and Dean being
brothers was just way to creeptastic for words.
"Your dad let you do that?" He jerked his chin in the general direction of
Dean's face. His neighbor shrugged, which meant 'no, but Dad didn't care
either', which sounded about right for Mr. Winchester. Actually, knowing him,
he probably hadn't even noticed that his son had a metal spike shoved through
his tongue.
"Did it hurt?"
Dean shrugged again, this time meaning 'so bad I wanted to cry, but I'm not
going to say that because I'm awesome and manly' - it probably said something
deeply disturbing about their relationship that Sam could understand this whole
conversation without Dean talking.
"Why'd you do it?" Sam was staring at Dean's mouth with a morbid fascination,
cocking his head to the side like he could still see the shiny little studs
hidden inside Dean's mouth.
"Ask Jessica Falgout," was all Dean had to say, leering. Sam rolled his eyes at
the sheer predictability of it.
"Man whore."
"Yeah, you love me," Dean smirked, settling his hand easily on Sam's thigh.
At some point over the month Sam had been gone, Dean had apparently decided it
would be cool to paint his fingernails black - not actually a bad idea since
they were always covered in motor oil from his part-time slot at the garage
anyway - but by now the paint was chipped up in odd patterns, revealing the
pale pink nailbed underneath. Something inside of Sam twinged like guilt -
thinking of Dean stuck here on his own all that time, all of the stuff he'd
obviously gotten up to without Sam's voice of reason around to talk him out of
it. He could have called, of course - not like Dean couldn't have asked Sam's
dad for the number or anything - but they weren't like that, they were… they
just were.
A cool sweep of air caressed Sam's neck and he turned his head to watch the
sheer curtains his mom had picked out years ago dance in the breeze from the
open window. It wasn't that Dean hadn't known where their spare key was for ten
freakin' years, he just seemed to like coming in through Sam's window. Sam
wasn't even sure if the lock worked anymore.
"You wanna touch it?" Dean murmured, voice deep and soft, tickling the peach-
fuzzy hairs on Sam's earlobe. He turned his head slowly so they wouldn't conk
heads.
"What?" he asked, caught, as he always was like this, in the mistake of looking
at Dean's eyes too close up, getting lost in the constellations of green and
gold. Dean rumbled a laugh and stuck his tongue out, metal glinting in the
milky, too-bright light pouring in Sam's window from the streetlamp outside.
He glanced up at Dean again, asking for permission with his eyes and Dean just
raised an eyebrow because seriously, Dean would probably have let Sam do the
piercing himself if he'd wanted to. Dean was just like that.
Tentatively, Sam reached up, touching just the tip of his index finger to the
body-warm metal. It was smooth and hard and Sam couldn't help but think of the
times he'd gotten a bump on his tongue from eating too much salt and if that
feeling made him crazy he didn't know how Dean standed having something that
big to rub at all the time. If he moved it just a little bit, he could see the
dark hole in shiny pink muscle, stretching a little with the light pressure.
How the hell did he eat?
"Nihh eh," Dean's tongue flailed under the weight of Sam's finger as he tried
to say… something.
"What?" Sam scrunched his forehead, realizing after Dean narrowed his eyes that
he needed to take his finger out of Dean's mouth if he expected an answer.
Dean rolled his tongue against the roof of his mouth, the bottom side of the
stud catching Sam;s gaze for a moment.
"I said, lick it," Dean urged, manic light in his eye. He edged in closer to
Sam until they were sharing the same air and displayed his tongue again, the
tip of it brushing Sam's lower lip.
Sam couldn't really make out much beyond a blur of Dean's eyelashes, but he was
pretty sure this counted as consent anyway, so he hesitantly opened his mouth -
the tip of Dean's tongue sliding into the trench between his lower lip and
gums, tracing it softly, the way he knew made Sam squirm - and ran his tongue
up the length of his friend's, pointed tip finding the little metal balls.
It was a strange feeling, too perfectly smooth, the almost-nothing tang of
metal mixing with the taste of cheap beer and smoke in Dean's mouth, overlaying
the indefinable flavor of Dean. Sam's tongue explored nimbly, curling around
each of the studs individually, swiping gently at the little bars that extended
down inside the muscle, teasing at the tiny space between the piercings where
the nubbly texture of Dean's taste buds remained.
Dean made these cut off sounds in the back of his throat, the kind that usually
woke the dog up and made him cause a racket - stupid dog didn't mind someone
breaking into Sam's window, but freaked out about sex noises - and Sam pulled
back enough to shush his friend, winding up with the end of Dean's tongue
between his pursed lips and that seemed like too good an opportunity to pass
up.
Dean being Dean, completely ignored the shushing as Sam sucked on the slick
muscle of his tongue, studs bumping against his lips occasionally when he took
it deeper.
"Shhh," Sam repeated leaning back enough to completely disentangle his mouth
from Dean's. He was pretty sure his Dad already knew that something was up
between them and just hadn't latched on to what yet; him walking in on them
making out on Sam's bed was pretty much the last thing anybody needed.
"Dude, relax," the gripe was completely ruined by the whimper behind Dean's
voice, "Bobby's not going to hear anything. Checked on him before I snuck in;
sound asleep, man."
Labor-thickened fingers curled against Sam's jaw, pulling him forward into the
press of Dean's lips. Dean's kisses weren't like anything else he did; it was
all open and raw, held nothing back, like he just couldn't help himself and
sometimes Sam wondered if he was like this with everyone or if it was something
special just for Sam. His lips inched slowly off of Sam's mouth, down along the
line of his jawbone.
"Missed you, baby," Dean whispered heatedly against Sam's ear, never faltering
in the determined lick-kiss-suckle against every available inch of Sam's skin.
"Missed you so much. You miss me?"
Sam muttered something like a 'yeah' too caught up in the little lightning-in-
a-bottle zings set off by Dean's lips and teeth on thin skin, the warm, too-
smoothness of the metal in his tongue. Dean's hands were like starved creatures
on his body, scrabbling and scratching, looking for bare skin and marking it up
with dull bruises and red-hot nail scratches wherever they found it. Sam had
had to fake an interest in rock climbing to cover for the marks Dean was always
leaving on him.
The older boy licked a stripe across Sam's bottom lip, studs dragging on the
over-sensitized skin along the inside of his mouth.
"Wanna see what this is really good for?"
Dean's hands were tugging at Sam's jeans before he even finished the question,
opening them enough for Sam's straining cock to press up, tenting his boxers
obscenely. Dean wasted no time in pressing his lips - already swollen and
flushed from the kissing - to the thin fabric covering Sam's dick, heat and
pressure a tantalizing mix as they seeped through to needy flesh. The older boy
mouthed up the length of Sam's cock, huffing out hot currents of air over it as
he went, lighting Sam's nerves like a spark in a box of matches.
He was twitching uncontrollably by the time Dean licked over the sticky-wet
splotch at the head, lolling his tongue out to massage Sam's slit through the
cloth with those damn metal beads. That was just it, Sam was going to lose it
and Dean could make fun of him all he wanted because holy shit, that was the
hottest damn thing ever.
But instead of keeping it up for the few more seconds he needed Dean pulled
back, sliding his painted fingertips under the elastic of Sam's underwear and
shoving both them and the jeans down over Sam's hips. Sam's dick slapped flat
to his belly, muscles clenching at the sudden pain/pleasure rush. Then Dean's
mouth was there, pressing a wet, open kiss to the underside of the head and -
oh, fuck! Those metal balls braced on either side of the sensitive bundle of
nerves just below Sam's ridge, teasing and rubbing and working Sam into such a
frenzy he didn't know when he'd gotten his hands on Dean's head but he was
using them to press Dean down harder into the attempted buck of his hips. Sam
really didn't want to know if his friend had been practicing this.
"Mmm, you like that Sammy?" Dean grinned as best he could with his tongue
flicking through the slick mess at Sam's crown, one of the studs catching on
the slit and it felt like it was going to slide right inside - nerve endings
grinding to a fine powder all the way to the tips of Sam's fingers. "Knew you
would." Dean drug his teeth ever so softly across the sensitive ridge and
seriously, was he trying to make Sam come all over himself because it was damn
well working.
"Dean, Dean please," he tried to keep his whimpering quiet, but it was kind of
hard to gauge volume right now. Or, you know, breathe.
"You want this, baby?" Dean teased, licking Sam from base to tip in one long
stroke and son of a fucking bitch, it was just two tiny pieces of metal, how
could it possibly feel like that? Sam would have bet money he was going to
crawl right out his skin.
"Yes, yeah. Please Dean, I want you to suck me. Please, need your mouth," Sam
begged, because Dean liked it and because there wasn't a single word of it that
wasn't the God's-honest truth.
"Hmm," Dean moaned his approval into a loose suckle at the head, "I know you
do, Sammy. I know it." Then that molten, wet heat was sliding down, blood-rich
lips stretched tight around Sam's aching cock, tongue worming around the girth
of it to get everything slick and buzzing.
Dean didn't stop until his nose was buried in the wiry curls around Sam's base,
throat muscles flexing experimentally around the head. If Sam made it two
minutes it would be absolutely nothing short of a miracle.
Those fucking, FUCKING beads pressed hard into the vein along the underside as
Dean's head bobbed and Sam's eyes clenched of their own volition, head thrown
back as he shot like a bullet right to the edge of losing it. He realized his
mistake in a time-delayed second, but Dean's teeth were already digging in,
making Sam shove his hand between his teeth to keep from screaming. His eyes
locked back on Dean's, annoyance tinting the sparkling green - which was
totally unfair since Sam was the one who just got his damn dick bitten! Of
course that would be a more persuasive argument if Sam's cock wasn't still so
full it was twitching in time with his pulse.
Dean didn't just like to be watched, he insisted on it, wouldn't even bother
finishing if Sam wasn't looking at him - even if Dean's own eyes were closed;
the jerk swore he could feel it. Sometimes Sam wondered if - assuming he ever
got to have sex with anyone else - his constant staring would freak his other
lays out. Right now, though, he seriously didn't care.
Dean huffed a grunt like he was put out or something by Sam's totally
reasonable reaction to the absolute cocksucking magic of Dean's mouth - and no,
he was never going to admit that out loud - but started back up with the steady
rhythm, cheeks hollowing on the upstroke.
His hands traveled up Sam's torso, digging the lacquered-black nails of one
under Sam's t-shirt and scratching lines of sweet-hot pain that made Sam's abs
bunch. The other hand tugged at Sam's fingers and he hadn't actually realized
he still had his teeth clamped down on the meat of his own hand. He released
it, his teeth marks searing with the returned flow of blood, and let Dean's
thumb work it's way into his mouth all the way up to the webbing. Sam cupped
the back of Dean's hand, holding it in place as he sucked Dean's thumb with all
of the meticulous fervor his friend was showing Sam's cock.
Dean pulled off to lap at the head frantically, that little glint of metal
catching in the light gain and Sam was struck with a sudden burning
realization; what if it was for him? What if, secretly, Dean had gotten pierced
for exactly this reason. It would be so like him, always trying to give more;
always convinced Sam didn't love this enough, all evidence to the contrary.
He imagined Dean sitting in one of those leaned-back medical chairs like at a
dentist’s office; shirtless - what? It's his imagination, he can have Dean
shirtless if he wants - some faceless guy pressing a needle through Dean's
tongue while his friend gripped the arms of the chair and thought of Sam. He
imagined Dean, laid out on his bed - no trouble to imagine at all; he spent as
much time in Dean's room as his own - tongue still swollen and achy, stripping
his thick beautiful cock to the thought of doing this for Sam, fist moving
faster and faster over the dark, touch-hungry flesh until -
Dean pulled off again, lips spit-shiny and red, and panted over the wet crown
of Sam's throbbing dick, "Say it. Say it!"
Sam was right on the edge, balls tight against his body from thinking about
Dean and feeling Dean and needing Dean and all it was going to take was that
last little push to turn the brushfire in his veins into an inferno so he
leaned his head back enough for Dean's thumb to pop out of his mouth and moaned
"I love you".
Dean swallowed him down instantly, one flex of his throat muscles around Sam's
head and all the breath got punched out of Sam's chest as he pumped thick heat
down the tight channel of Dean's throat. Dean's thumb pushed back inside of
Sam's mouth, to block the noise he was making - he might be shouting for all he
knew; he was pretty sure he'd been stuck deaf - or maybe just because Dean
liked it. Either way, Sam's mouth latched around it, licking it in time to the
slowing throb-pulse of come.
Dean sucked him through the aftershocks, metal nub darting into his empty slit
- razor-edged pleasure crashing along Sam's insides - one last time before he
sat up, tearing at the fly of his own pants.
The second he'd worked his dick free - so red it was almost purple and leaking
like a faucet - Dean rammed his body up against Sam's, cock slotting into the
groove at Sam's hip. Sam moaned around the flesh in his mouth as Dean fucked
against him rabidly, his friend's studded tongue diving out to flutter around
the border where his digit disappeared into Sam's mouth like he was going to
suck it right along with Sam.
It only took a handful of thrusts before the dry drag on Sam's hip ran slick
and hot, Dean's mouth open on a series of quiet grunts against Sam's chin. His
hips churned for a while after his cock stopped jerking against Sam's hip and
Sam just let him, knowing without words that the smooth rhythm of it comforted
Dean.
Finally the motion wound down to a barely perceptible rocking and Sam let his
friend's thumb fall free, now-wrinkled pad pressing into his lower lip.
"Welcome home," Dean muttered from his hiding place in the crook of Sam's neck.
He was licking at the skin absently, the pressure of metal a sharp reminder of
what had just happened, and Sam figured pretty soon he'd be wearing a hickey
right there as penance for the one's he'd missed over the last few of weeks.
Dean was probably going to sleep there - practically on freakin' top of Sam,
and forget the airplane funk, Dean's come was going to feel mega-gross in the
morning - but that shouldn't be too big a deal. Mr. Winchester honestly
believed Dean's story about how he just got up really early most days and
that's why he was never home when his father woke up. Sam's Dad hadn't come
into Sam's room without at least a couple of minutes warning since that time
he'd walked in on Sam jerking it - they'd barely managed to be in the same room
with each other for a week after that.
Sam squirmed his hand free so Dean wasn't completely cutting off the
circulation, bringing it around instead to rub that spot right behind Dean's
ear that made his eyelashes flutter.
Honestly, this was the reason, more than anything else, that no matter how many
times his mom asked him to move in with her and William - gag! - he was always
going to turn her down. It had almost nothing to do with the house or dog or
his stuff of school or even Dad, though those were all excuses he'd used, and a
lot more than Sam would care to admit to do with Dean's bedroom, 76 yards
southwest of his still-open window. This right here, this was home.
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ra,
and that couldn’t be done so simply.
So it was people that could gnaw at him, that could eat away at his brain until
his lips were curved in a permanent snarl and his fingers curled like talons.
And it had to be a woman, because though she was fairly certain her father
appreciated his own sex to some extent, it was women who tortured him, who made
him growl and ache. But who? It couldn’t be that one Ms. Moxxi—their affair was
done and dead, and he’d moved on. He was still bitter, but that was
unavoidable, and fairly harmless.
So that night, after spending the evening staring at the television while her
father read a book on the other side of the couch—spending time together, as
they called it—she lay awake in her bed, flipping through potential subjects.
But it could be anyone.
There was an entire school full of girls on whom he could focus his desires,
many of them she’d never seen, let alone interacted with.
So she was about to fall asleep without a hope when she remembered how once
she’d seen Carmen and Jack walking in the same hallway. There was nothing
unusual about it at first glance: it had been between classes and the hall was
packed with other students and teachers alike, but she remembered that he’d
turned his head just slightly in her direction as he walked. He didn’t give two
shits about anyone else in the room so it couldn’t have been coincidence. She
frowned, and decided she would figured out a way to weasel it out of Carmen
come Monday.
***** Chapter 4 *****
“Your dad’s kind of a dick, you know that, right?”
Angel blinked at the question. But, she supposed, this made her job easier.
“Where’s this coming from?” Angel replied, sitting beside Carmen at the
cafeteria table.
Carmen shrugged one shoulder, speaking with a mouth half-full of sandwich. “He
tried to fuck me Friday after class.”
It took her a bit of time to process that bit of information.
“…Did he.”
Carmen visibly reconsidered her statement as she finished chewing and
swallowed. “Well, maybe ‘fuck’ is a bit overkill, but he shoved his hand down
my pants and tried to get me to blow him. Fuck works, I guess.”
Concern briefly diluted the intrigue that clouded Angel’s eyes. “You don’t seem
particularly shaken up about it.”
Carmen shrugged again. “I wasn’t particularly adverse to it. I just… I dunno.
It didn’t feel right. It was too easy. Or it was for the wrong reason.
Something.”
“He wouldn’t let you be in control,” Angel murmured, only partially to the
other girl.
Carmen processed this as she swallowed another bite.
“That sounds about right, I guess.”
And Angel had a plan.
“I can help you with that,” Angel eagerly said.
Carmen raised her brows. “Help me bang your dad?”
Angel waved a hand. “Besides that. More than that. I can help you rule him.”
Carmen gave her a long look. “Angel, what aren’t you telling me?”
Angel ignored the question. “We need to meet somewhere. Tonight. Somewhere
busy, so no one will pay attention, but somewhere we can slip away.”
At this point Carmen had figured she wouldn’t be getting any answers, so she
sighed and said, “I don’t know, how about the food court at the mall?”
“But it’s Monday, no one will be there.”
“No one will be anywhere on Monday.”
Angel rolled her eyes. “Fine, food court. Meet me there at six.”
They met over a plate full of slightly soggy fries—though Angel preferred them
that way—and one large soda. They planned what Carmen would wear, how she would
speak, act, every tiny glance and smirk and velvet laugh that would slip from
her lips. For a long time, Jack would believe himself the victor, he would
believe that he could take his well-earned prize at any time and in any place,
and she was to confirm the illusion—but cut him off. Allow him a few strokes, a
few breaths, but nothing more.
“You’ve already been doing everything well,” Angel said, “You’re already a
natural target for him. You just need to let him know that you’re not a target,
but… be gentle.”
“It’s not usually my style, but maybe I can make an exception,” Carmen
returned, a grin teasing at her lips.
“I’m not sure a ‘maybe’ is acceptable, Carmen,” Angel murmured, her hand
settling above Carmen’s knee, her fingers teasing the inside of her leg. Carmen
shifted in her seat, her knees angling further towards Angel.
“This is why you wanted somewhere we could slip away, huh?” Carmen responded,
approval ringing in her voice.
“If we had to.” Angel slipped her hand up to curve over Carmen’s groin.
“Should’ve told you to wear a skirt,” she muttered, then glanced back into
Carmen’s green eyes. “But that would’ve made it too obvious.” She pressed two
fingers against Carmen’s heat and the girl gasped, her thighs tightening around
the hand between them.
“Relax,” Angel murmured. “Don’t lose yourself. No matter what I do, you can’t
show that I have you.” She unzipped Carmen’s jeans and slipped her fingers
through the course hair she found. “You need to be in control, whether you’re
compromised or not.” She found that, due to the restrictions of denim, her
fingers could do naught more than settle on Carmen’s clit, much to her dismay.
Carmen began to shift her hips to bring her jeans down, but Angel tsked her
tongue. “If we do need to slip away, it wouldn’t do to have you incapable of
escape, would it? This will have to do.”
“So tell me,” she continued, “how many times has he had his hands on you?”
“On me? I don’t know, lots. Unless you mean, like… on me.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Then just the once.”
“How about his eyes, then?”
Carmen shuddered slightly, though whether from the question or Angel’s fingers
was unclear.
“All the time. Even when he’s not looking at me, he’s watching me.”
Angel frowned. He did the same to her, she knew. Not the mentally undressing
bit, hopefully, but always he was aware of her, always he watched, as if she
would turn on him in an instant, as if she’d smile at him and tear out his
heart as he poured himself a glass of milk.
Carmen continued speaking on her own, as if to distract herself from…well,
herself.
“His hands were rough,” she said, “As if he’d done a lot of manual labor.”
Angel still said nothing. The skin on his hands was thick and calloused, yes,
they were strong and vicious from life on Pandora, and she wasn’t quite sure if
he’d yet managed to wash out all the blood and dirt from beneath those short
and square fingernails.
“We come from Pandora,” she murmured finally.
“I know,” Carmen replied, her voice breathy.
“It’s…not a nice place,” she continued, ignoring the other girl as her cheeks
flushed and her legs clenched and she bit her lip so hard she almost broke the
skin.
Their eyes met.
“You need work,” Angel said, withdrawing her hand, wiping it on a leftover
napkin from the table, and leaving Carmen behind.
***** Chapter 5 *****
“You need work,” he said, tossing the datapad on his desk.
“What do you mean I need work?” she replied, snatching the datapad and
reviewing her code. “This works perfectly!”
“Yeah, it works, but it’s not all about working. Those idiots out there in your
class, they need to care about getting their crap to work. You, though, you
need to worry about efficiency, you need your code to be elegant. Instead of
telling to go from A to D to C to B, you need to get it to just go straight
from A to B.”
Carmen pouted. “Maybe I want to go from A to D to C to B, hell, maybe I don’t
even want to get to B, maybe I want to go to Q instead.”
He stood up and began to walk towards her. “Wherever you’re going,” he said,
bracing one hand on the back of her chair and the other on the edge of his
desk, “I want to cut the crap and get straight there,” he growled.
She blinked once, and calmly said, “So go there.”
The corner of his sculpted lips lifted, and he cupped her chin, turning it just
slightly towards him, but she didn’t look at him. He smoothed his palm down her
neck and into her bra, cupping a breast and squeezing. He closed his eyes for a
moment as he groped her, his thumb running over her nipple, then pinching it
between his fingers. He never got very handsy with his escorts, there never
seemed any point when all he wanted to do was spend himself and get back to his
life.
“Mm, no,” she said, “I think I like my way better after all.” She plucked his
hand from her breast and stood up, straightening her blouse. “Besides, I think
I want to go all the way to Z now, anyway.”
He was tired.
It was Friday night, and he was sitting in his office with no light but the
orange glow from his terminal, which glimmered in the smoke rings spewing from
his lips.
It was illegal to smoke indoors, but he was alone, and he really couldn’t give
a damn.
He let out a breath through his nose, he closed his eyes.
He hated her.
He hated the way she looked at him in the morning, he hated the way she looked
at him in the afternoon, he hated her smile and her laugh and the way her hair
fell down her back. He hated the color of her eyes and her laugh, the look on
her face when he spoke to her.
But oh, he loved her. When she brushed a lock of hair behind her ear as though
it would clear her thoughts, the furrow in her brow when she focused, the way
her skin felt under his fingers, the smell of her hair and the peace on her
face when she slept, even if it was in class.
He hated how he wasn’t sure if he was thinking of Carmen or Angel.
Or did he love it?
He frowned, shaking his head and opening his eyes, taking one last drag of his
cigarette before putting out the end on his wrist, his nostrils flaring at the
scent of singed hair.
The heat built between them, they didn’t need light to guide their way.
She was tied to the bed with Jack’s shirts, her head thrown back and her lips
forming a perfect O as she cried out her pleasure, Angel’s pale brow coated
with a sheen of sweat as her hand moved within the other woman’s heat.
“You’ll wake the whole neighborhood,” Angel murmured as she raked nails down
Carmen’s back and rained kisses on her.
“Good,” came the reply, Carmen arching towards her lover as much as she could
with her restraints. She let out another moan as Angel’s fingers reached deep
within her, as she curled her hand and made a fist within her. Carmen let out a
sigh as she relaxed her body and let the sensation take her.
And usually Angel was ever stoic in her adventures, containing herself when
desire consumed the women she lay with, when their sweat-covered bodies
shivered and their chests heaved and muscles clenched, but she couldn’t help
but feel a tingle in her spine as she looked at the body before her. She didn’t
make a conscious decision to let her hand slip to Carmen’s breast, when she
untied the fabric at one of the other girl’s wrists and slipped a hand in her
hair to bring their lips together. Angel caught Carmen’s moans in her throat as
their tongues danced, tracing teeth and memorizing taste as Angel’s fist
continued its slight rhythm, as Carmen’s heat tightened and flexed and the
blush left her loins and rushed to her face and her toes curled and—
A third person stormed into the room just as she let out her final cry.
“Get the hell away from my daughter!” he roared. They were temporarily blinded
by the sudden light that filled the room, then Carmen let out a yelp of pain as
Angel was torn from her.
“Shit,” she muttered, then instantly regretting her choice in words.
Fortunately—or not—he was currently focused on other things besides her
language.
When her eyes finally adjusted to the light, she saw him dragging Carmen out
the room by her neck.
She took a step forward and cried, “Dad, don’t!”
But he only responded with, “You just stay right there, young lady! I’ll deal
with you later.”
Outside in the shadow of the side of their house, no one would notice them as
long as he didn’t get too loud.
“Who the hell do you think you are,” he snarled, gripping her hair and
wrenching her head back, “To use my little girl like that? I should kill you
right now for what you did, and if I were back on Pandora, I would get away
with it.”
She took a deep breath, noting how looked him square in the eye, and said,
“Okay.”
His nostrils flared. “I’m glad you agree,” he growled.
“Of course I agree.” She tilted her head just slightly, a bit of her damp hair
falling from behind her ear. Suddenly he noticed that she was still unclothed.
“Jack, you’ve never been wrong before. I’m sorry.”
He could take her, he thought, he could do it right now, he could strangle her
while he fucked her and leave her body for the varren, he could pack Angel up
and leave this place behind as nothing more than a second Pandora. He didn’t
like staying in one place, anyway, he didn’t want Angel getting too attached
because that was just unhealthy.
And as he thought all this, as her fingertips hesitantly touched his chest, the
pain returned, the twisting in his stomach, the hot knives that writhed through
his thighs and for a moment it calmed him.
Even he found it funny that pain soothed him, as though it were a mother
shaking a newborn to make it stop crying, and just barely managed to keep from
going too far. He closed his eyes as Carmen laid a light kiss on his bottom
lip, let out a breath through his nostrils as she ran her fingers over his
scalp, pulling at his hair, then dragging her nails down his neck along his
jugular, leaving red marks in his flesh down to his collarbone. With every
moment she touched him but didn’t touch him, his ache grew, and he wanted her
more and he yet he didn’t.
“I’ll kill you,” he said as she pushed him to his knees, “I’ll fucking murder
you.” But as he sank and his vision was filled with nothing but the bronze of
her skin he knew he might miss that soothing pain, and it only made him hate
her more.
Angel waited an hour before going outside to check on her father. She
hesitantly peered out the front door, then checked around the house.
“Dad?” she called when she made out the figure in the dark.
“I thought I told you to stay inside!” he barked, but there was no more bite in
his voice, and that worried her.
“Are you all right?” she asked, but she knew he would not answer. He was clumsy
as he stood, since he’d been on his knees for a while and his legs had surely
gone numb. She didn’t bother offering her arm because he knew he wouldn’t take
it; instead he clung to the side of the house for support, and it was all she
could do but to walk just behind him and pretend not to notice.
“Do you need anyth—”
“Go to bed,” he muttered, and she nodded. It would do nothing to rouse him
again, after all.
He returned to the scene of the crime, as it were, and he gathered up the
evidence: he picked up Carmen’s clothes, the shirts they had used, and the
sheets of his bed, he took them out back and he burned them, at least careful
to control the flames so as not to attract any unwanted attention. He placed
two of his fingers on one of the latches of his mask as he stared into the
flames. He finally sighed as he removed the mask and gingerly ran a hand over
his face, his skin tingling from the sensation. For a moment he imagined how he
looked flickering in the firelight, the blue mark branded across his face, then
quickly stopped as he grew nauseated at the thought of ever having to see that
scar again.
When the embers quieted, he sighed, and put his mask back on, feeling like
himself again. He stamped out the last few sparks, then returned to his
bedroom, but found he wanted to be nowhere near the place. He resigned himself
to the couch instead, with a bottle of liquor to keep himself company, though
he hardly touched it. Instead, he stared out into the darkness, and he wondered
where his Angel was.
***** Chapter 6 *****
She was watching him again.
She’d started wearing red lipstick, and he didn’t even try to hide his staring,
and she made him sick, and it made him ache, and he found that he needed her.
Who was she, he thought, she was nothing but a girl, she’d been in the right
place at the right time, she was only a mistake that he couldn’t erase, a
problem he couldn’t throw out
and what truly made him ill was that she stared back.
Those green eyes boring into him like he owed her something, like she could see
through him and into him and onto him and it made him squirm because he really
hated the taste of his own medicine.
A mist of sweat clung to the back of his neck, moisture under his mask and in
the palms of his hands, somehow he felt that this was her fault, this was
Angel’s doing, one had become two and two had become one in their corruption,
this was their doing, this was her doing
his hands were shaking
his office, he was clenching and reclenching his fists and resisting the urge
to give in, or perhaps giving into the urge to resist he couldn’t remember
anymore but she walked in and it was just her lips red and her hair black and
her
she held his gaze as she approached him and pulled off his belt and tied his
wrists together behind the back of his chair
her nails—did she sharpen them or maybe they were fake—dug into his wrists and
he heard her exhaling his tension was so all-consuming she was blindfolding him
and tugging his trousers down and then nothing for a while
but then he heard her moaning.
and the ache grew and he grew and he shifted and drew in a breath through his
teeth and
he felt fingers in his mouth, sweet fingers, he was tasting her, feeling her
drip down his tongue and he couldn’t help but let a moan escape from his lips
and he heard her smirk and her snort and god she hurt so good
“Fuck me,” he growled,
“Maybe,” she replied.
but he felt her on him soon, and he was almost sad to feel his ache dissipate
as her mouth worked him, slow as she was, and it was a minute before he’d
realized that he’d finished and this time it was her tongue that was in his
mouth, and this time he tasted himself, how bitter and sharp, how acrid and
“You called yourself Handsome,” she said, and he hated himself for it.
“You were a king,” she said, and he hated himself for it.
“You disgust me” he heard, and he hated her for it.
“She deserved more.”
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