Title: Spot Check
Author:![]()
zelost_mind
Recipient:![]()
caithream
Rating: Adult
Pairing: Dean/ofc
Summary: Dean, trying to tie up loose ends.
Author's Notes: Set sometime after 'Jus In Bello'. I'm sorry it got so wordy and didn't really stick to the prompt! Oh, man. And many thanks to the girl with a stripper name for giving it a look-see.
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She makes him as soon as he walks in, tracks him as he weaves his way to the bar and pushes between two bodies, leans in to order. Looks up again a minute later and he’s got a bottle of Newcastle Brown flirting with his bottom lip, staring right back at her.
By the time her set’s over he’s moved into a free seat over in Lucy’s section. It’s packed; three fucking parties and payday for the regulars so she’s done nothing but twist and roll and strut and swing all night. Plus she’s still gotta cover the private lounge before her shift’s over, so there’s a whole bunch of wriggling and jiggling and bending and stretching still in store and she’s gotta be either smiling candy sweet or pouting up a storm for the whole duration.
It’s always her facial muscles that hurt the most by the end of the night.
She thanks her audience, flutters down the steps and kicks off her heels as soon as she’s under the cover of dim lighting, sweeps ‘em under the curtain and makes her way over to the bar.
“No shoes, no service,” Tony jokes, scooping ice into a glass, cranking a tap. “Be with you in a sec, doll.”
The vinyl bar stool stings her thighs, skin sticking, as she hoists herself up.
The big brown bottle comes over her shoulder sooner than she thought, lands with a splat on the artfully pocked wood and her nostrils get filled with him – thick beer, man and sunlight and vintage - as he slithers to follow it, material from his t-shirt dragging over her naked shoulder blades as he moves to squeeze up onto the stool next to hers.
He’s got a self-satisfied smile set on his face, ready made, and she takes it for the standoff it is, quirks a brow at him in acknowledgement. He doesn’t say anything for a whole minute while he looks her over, unabashed scanning of her legs, tits, collar bones, tits, neck. Lips.
Then: “What time’s your shift over?” Loud voice, to be heard over the lively concerto of the place, so abruptly familiar it starts a slow buzzing trickle down her sternum.
“I’m workin’ ‘til breakfast,” she informs, grabbing up the bottle of water that Tony deposits on the bar. Takes the opportunity to jab a thumb to her left., order,“The same again for this gentleman.” Tony winks, shuffles off, busy as a bee.
“Great. I’ll buy; you look like you could use a decent meal,” he says, continuing, tipping a little closer. She shakes her head, drinks down half her bottle as soon as she wrangles the cap off.
“I’m on a diet,” she lies. “The three C’s diet, ‘s all the rage in Hollywood right now,”
And he smiles for real, finally. Something a little sad about it but it’s there for sure, amusement slipping in and wiping away the wholly artificial seduction from ‘round his mouth.
“Caffeine, coke, and cock?” he ventures, nods a thanks when Tony flashes back past with his beer.
She drops her gaze to the tacky tiling on the floor, smirks. Can feel herself; heavy and aware in all the right places. Ready for him.
“Pick you up around back at five-thirty?” he presses, leaning in close so he can talk right in her ear, hot breath on her neck, tickling through her hair and it feels so good she lets her eyes slip shut for a second, feels a warm wave of goose bumps coat her thighs and she’ll get into so much shit if the boss is around to see this, Jesus.
“Works for me,” she concedes, and edges off the seat carefully. He twists to let her past and she doesn’t bother even trying to liberate the underwear from her ass crack ‘cause she knows he’s watching her go and the frilly little Frenchies that’re covering her modesty were always a size too small on purpose.
Goddamn underwear specifically ordered so she’d be burdened with a perpetual wedgie. She wants them off, but it’s no good. She’s on point, on the pole, and there’s a strict rule - el coño no permitió - while performing for the fine patrons who choose to occupy the main bar. Panties of some kind must stay firmly in place at all times.
No freebies.
He stays to finish his beer. One elbow propping him up and eyes on her every time she opens her own, every single time she looks up for the agonizing length of two entire songs. By the time he gets up to leave she’s so turned on she can feel the pulse beating between her legs, strong and eager. Can feel her nipples ridiculously, exposed and tingling.
Shower, panties, t-shirt, Uggs, jacket, in that order, and then she’s ready to go, not ten minutes after her shift’s over. A personal record.
He’s parked as close as he can get, alley way too narrow for his car but the murky shape of it is blocking off one end, foreboding, giant engine idling and vibrating like something sinister. The heat’s on when the door slams itself shut behind her and she’s grateful, throws her bag over into the back and puts her hands up to the vents like they’re campfires. He eyes her bare knees and eases out, twists the dials until she can lean back in her seat, warm air ghosting right up her legs.
“You hungry?” he says, when they reach the turn off for the town’s main strip, all yellows, illuminations that hurt her eyes, and actually, yeah, she’s starving; rock of heavy nothing where her stomach should be ‘cause she hasn’t eaten anything since the little tin of tuna she had for breakfast but his car’s just so fuckin’ comfortable. It’s grows on her, huge heavy thing that should be clumsy but it’s not, it’s sleek, prowls over the road surface like it’s so confident, expertly trained.
Anyone’d forgive her for being a little envious.
She reaches over and clicks his blinker off, shakes her head. He shrugs a ‘your call’, carries on straight ahead, tut-tutting to himself.
She looks over at him and she ends up snagged on; his model profile, those perpetual tiny singed curl-ups at the corners of his mouth, the way his face is form perfect. He just looks fucking luscious. Always did.
Too pretty, maybe, if you catch a glimpse of him from the left especially.
Unfair, probably, that he looks the way he does, ‘cause it’s gotta be dangerous for a guy like him to be such a fucking head turner. It gets painful after a while, just looking, so she has to climb up onto her knees and trundle closer, magnetized, has to get her fingers in his hair and start some kisses on his rough cheek.
Feels him chuckle, feels his arm band around her waist and pull, ‘til she’s gotta sling one leg over his to stay upright. He hisses when her knee snugs up against the denim at his crotch and she sucks at his jaw, seats herself firmly on his thigh, bears down a tad and fuck. It’s amazing. Been so long since there was something alive between her thighs that she wanted and he’s so warm and big and he smells so good and she just wants him to lay her down and fuck her right here.
Just wants to open his pants and climb aboard, ride him ‘til she can’t even walk.
He shifts to brake and the friction, the denim grazing along her underwear, makes her whimper absurdly. He breathes out another laugh, whispers his free hand up the back of her thigh and squeezes a warning for patience, tilts his head to give her more room and she sighs, slightly appeased, nuzzles in under his chin, smells at him, and shit, he’s so good, he’s gonna make her feel so fucking good.
“What’re you, in heat?” he wonders, low, words like smoke rolling up her neck when the engine cuts out, leaves quiet, finally leaves both of his hands free to put on her and she arches into ‘em, pushes her ass more firmly into his grip even as she’s reaching over the seat for her bag.
“Where’s your roommate?” he asks.
She holds herself against the shut door and watches him make his way over to the fish tank, lets her eyes roam all over him.
“Haven’t seen her this week,” she tells him, distracted by the cut off point where the skin disappears into the sleeves of his t-shirt. He turns around in front of the tank, gets backlit.
“Goldfish’re dead,” he says, and smirks; leans back and crosses his arms, patient to let her look her fill.
She hated those goldfish anyway. Always peering out, judging everything, no fun at all. What’s the point in keeping a pet if you can’t even take it out of the water to play with it? Good riddance to ‘em.
She drops her jacket over the couch on her way past, lets her damp hair down and shakes it out. Feels him following her and has to resist the urge to break into a run ‘cause she knows –knows– he wouldn’t even hesitate a fucking second about giving chase and the thought makes her laugh out loud, delighted.
In her bedroom, the sound of him closing her door behind himself sends a quick little tremor up through her insides, makes her fuck up. She has to start again, conscious effort not to look up into her dresser mirror at him, up-ends the salt shaker and tap tap taps carefully, watches the white dust dance and scatter until she disciplines it, straightens it out with the edge of her City Library card.
Feels the heat of him, the bump of him against her ass just as she leans over to snort it, straightens up too fast but his body is solid, saves her from tipping backwards, tight in behind her. She keeps her eyes shut against the sting in her sinuses, feels his palms on her waist, belly going slippery inside when he inches one of ‘em up under her t-shirt, brush of his thumb over and over leaving a throb throb of sensation that spreads out everywhere like spilled whiskey.
“You want?” she offers, voice shot to shit, and lets her head tilt back, rolls it across his collar bone. He digs the fingertips of one hand into her stomach a little, takes the bill from her with the other.
“What’s in it? Catnip?”
He reaches around her to scrape and collect, neaten up the line she left out for him.
“Exactly,” she says, and laughs, feels the smile coil and coil at her mouth.
She watches him fuck around with it for a minute, grinding out any clumps, deliberating.
“Don't worry,” she teases, reassuring him. “It's not the good stuff, I can’t afford a coke habit.” He shakes his head, amused, and she moves away to turn the blinds, block out the pink morning light rudely.
She’s never really been much for kissing either, but he is, she remembers how he likes to kiss and be kissed back. He hauls her in, hand a firm shape against the small of her back, pushes his thick tongue into her mouth, makes her take it and makes a tiny moan, quiet approval, when she decides to give in easy and just suck on it for him.
Sets him into motion like an ‘on’ switch, and he goes backwards until he lands on her bed, slouches to let her drag off his t-shirt before he reels her in and in, up and over his lap, ideal. Bunches up her top while he mouths at her collar, her tits, through the fabric, impatient, ‘til she lifts her arms so he can scramble it off.
She’s content to be pliant, wouldn’t mind just turning to putty right there in his lap, feels like maybe she is, maybe she would be if it wasn’t for the dangerous-quick thump in her chest, the faintly sickening, swirling rush of adrenaline to her extremities.
She tips her head back, feels his teeth in her throat, wide warm hands spreading over her tits, squeezing, and she moans for it. Rides the sudden buck of his hips and the brand of a sharp palm on her ass, up under the edge of her underwear and gripping hard to lift her a little, move her up onto her knees. Then he’s nuzzling at her tits instead, rough licks and sucking bites that make her jerk, over-sensitized, and that’s when she feels it; rough and unfamiliar under her restless fingers.
New, and it draws her attention enough that she pushes his head off to one side so she can look down, see it better.
She brushes her palm over it, feels the ridges of the scab, dry and raised on his skin.
He looks up at her, mouth open on her chest and she makes sure to hold eye contact as she presses the heel of her hand against it cruelly, harder and harder ‘til the pain shows up on his face in a frown.
Then, “That’s one ugly tattoo,” she tells him, petulant, a little giddy.
He just stares back, doesn’t flinch, disappointing, so she keeps going, skims over his skin, searching, drifts her fingers over the hot little ladder of tiny stitches she finds, slides her hand over the curve of his shoulder and feels the coarseness of a dressing still there.
Huh. Exit wound.
His eyes’ve gone smart when she looks again, brilliant green that’s truer than it should be in the shitty light, and that crap’s a little much for her, not what she signed on for, and you know what they say about curiosity, right? Applies to her especially, so yeah, she leaves off those wounds, leaves ‘em alone; presses her knuckles back into the tattoo instead, digs for the itchy pain that’s under there, under the healed parts. Leans down and kisses at his chubby gorgeous mouth again to shush him and reward him when he finally hisses out, hurt.
“Quit it,” he mumbles, jostling her, trying to shift his shoulder out of reach and shake her off, but she ignores him, or pretends to at least, edges forward in his lap ‘til she can feel him just right, ‘til they both sigh at the perfect fit.
She smirks, sucks the shell of his ear into her mouth and resists for as long as she can when he squeezes one arm around her middle and flips her onto the mattress.
“Quit. It.” he warns, dropping his weight on her, prying her hand away and pressing it to the pillows. He gathers up her other hand from where she’s got her fingers hooked in his belt and pins it up with the first, holds her wrists up above her head like it’s nothing and smirks, smug, when she tries to yank out of his grip and fails.
“Say ‘uncle’,” he says, glint of a grin as she pulls and wriggles, gives up after a minute and just stares up at him, biding her time. He tightens his grip around both her wrists and slithers one hand away to grab her boob.
“Say it, and I’ll let you go,” he offers, playing, teasing the pad of his thumb around her nipple. She groans, tries to twist away and he chuckles, the bastard, flattens his denim-pelvis against hers to keep her still.
She feels his arm working between them, jumps when his cold belt buckle touches her, hears his zipper and she’s groaning again, struggling a little. He drops his head to suck one of her nipples, shimmies around between her legs and then she feels him, hot bare weight of him on her belly, dragging on her skin, in the groove of her pelvis.
“You gonna say it now?” he rumbles, shifting, sliding lower, slurps what she knows is gonna be a purple bruise into the thin skin over her ribs, soft mean suction and his cock moving in tiny increments over her panties, the stickiness catching on the cotton, and really. That’s just about all she can take of that; outrageous tension zinging down between her hips every time he budges an inch.
“Please,” she bites out, trying to shove up against him, realises one of her wrists is free when she opens her eyes, sees her fingernails gouging into his bicep. He fits his free hand in behind her knee, lifts it snugger, higher on his waist, fucks against her a little like he can’t even help himself and it’s what she’s been waiting for all night, worms her arm between them so she can feel at him.
He tenses up, wrings the wrist he’s still got pinned, puts his face in her throat and nibbles, and she goes slow, didn’t get the chance to touch him like this last time. He’s big in her hand, too big, ready, and she surges a little, rush of wet hot want for him that makes her clench up everywhere, pushes a current of nonsense out of her mouth.
“Can’t even get my fuckin’ fingers around it, big fat fuckin’ dick, god, please. Please, I want - I want - ”
He groans, shifts again and then his hand’s covering hers, squeezing himself tighter.
He doesn’t take her panties off, she doesn't think she would've been able to stand it if he'd taken any more time, just clasps them out of his way and it’s a shock when he pushes inside, she feels like her body’s choking on him, struggling to take all of him, but he fucks her, steady, and it gets smoother. Smoother until it’s a glide, warm and perfect, simple stretching fuck that gets choppy towards the end, gets better and better when she tells him to go harder.
He obliges like he’s been holding back the whole time, waiting for to say, ‘go’.
-
There’s unlicensed boxing in the basement, and the first night he’s bright eyes and subtle questions, appreciative smiles at all the girls. Asking them all about Lauren, asking if anyone noticed her acting strange before she disappeared.
An addiction to painkillers and an inclination toward witchery. But no, nothing strange.
The second night, he figures out there’s unlicensed boxing in the basement and the case of Lauren, the missing witch who may or may not have turned herself into her cat is put on temporary hold.
She watches him. He fights like he’s was born to do it, swings tight and hard and fast and he doesn’t miss. He’s lethal, a natural, betting on himself probably, so it’s not like he can afford to lose.
She’s not supposed to go down there but none of the other girls’ve got much of a stomach for the violence so the bathroom’s always quiet when she needs to get ready for the stage.
And that’s where she meets him, officially.
She’s wondering between cherry and passion fruit, wondering whether a stars ‘n’ stripes bikini is really the way to go when the door slaps open, gust of swelled up testosterone air and then he’s there, eyebrow quirked at her reflection, bare chest and a crimson mouth that he licks around.
“Hey. I’m Dean,” he says, and twists his t-shirt in his hands. “Mind if I, uh...” He juts his thumb at the urinals, doesn’t wait to see her shake her head before his back’s to her, clear boot print stamped across his spine.
She watches his jeans sag a little, watches him flip his shirt onto his shoulder.
He doesn’t flinch when she smoothes along his ribs, runs a curious finger along the damp line of denim, he just breathes against the wall and lets her explore, forehead on his forearm.
It’s easy, like he was expecting it to happen all along. One minute she’s thumbing up the nape of his neck, the next he’s kissing her, expectant and greedy.
It’s hot, in a terrifying kind of way. She has no idea what she’s doing but she knows what she wants so she just scissors her legs around his waist, clings tight and tries to keep quiet ‘cause she is so fucking fired if anyone catches them.
“Fuck,” he pants, mouth dragging over her collarbone, nose nudging into her bikini top, and then his fingers are inside her, odd and gentle, thick. He strokes out, presses back in, watching her face like he’s testing something and she can’t help it, her muscles clamp on him, involuntary shock of satisfaction for her that makes him hiss, coil tight and then ease up. Breathe deep against her chest, trembling from the adrenaline that's still coursing through his system.
-
“Didn’t think you’d still be here,” he says quietly, one hand drifting along her parts idly like he can’t keep it still, cataloguing maybe. She shrugs, messes with the pointy amulet on his chest.
“You know, if you need – If you need money, or – or a ride,” he starts slowly, awkwardly, and she frowns at the sound of him, gets up on her elbows so she can look at his face. “Or if there’s somebody – someone you need me to take care of? I can help you out. With that. If you... Y’know. If.”
She stares at him, watches his eyes flicker to hers and then away again, trailing over the ceiling. Unsure but offering, and it tickles her, a little unfurling genuine thing of sugar and sharpness somewhere deep, right there in her chest cavity. She realises she’s grinning when his brows go annoyed and he huffs, shoves her off of him and tosses his forearm up over his eyes.
“Forget it,” he amends, hiding.
She wriggles out of the sheets and crawls to the head of her bed, kneels and reaches over to gap the blinds, peers out noisily.
He shifts out of the midday light she lets in like it burns his skin, mumbling irritably.
“I’m looking but I can’t see it anywhere, what have you done with it?” she hums, draping herself onto the window sill.
“What the hell’re you talkin’ about?” he asks, shifting up onto one arm. She lets the light hit his face, watches him squint, blink and blink, too interested to dodge again.
“Your white horse,” she says. “I don’t see it out here.”
He flashes some species of smile that looks like it could injure someone, mumbles, “Oh, real cute,” as he flops down onto his back. She laughs, unstoppable, even as she slithers back down to join him, throws a thigh over his, skates a slow palm down his belly to meddle her fingertips in his pubes, coaxing.
“Nothin’s keepin’ me here,” she says, sighing, when he stays silent and stiff. “Really. I’m not looking’ to be saved from anything.”
“Okay,” he says after half a beat, turning his face towards her, and she moves her fingers lower, lets ‘em split apart around the root of him. “I just, uh. I won’t be back this way again, that’s all.”
She kisses at his spiky chin, says, “Oh yeah? So you’re breakin’ up with me?”
He snorts, mutters, “’Guess so.” She smiles, curls her fingers around his cock, stretches her thumb out to rub along a delicate ridge. He jumps in her hand, fills; burst of growth like a prize and she watches his face, watches his brows go soft and then hard again ‘til she can’t watch anymore.
She wakes up and he’s tasting at her. Long, slow laps, rough dough tongue, soft and lazy between her legs, cactus stubble pinking her thighs up ‘cause he’s not careful and the contrast is maddening. It’s him all over. She clutches a hand in his sweaty hair, strains her neck to look down at him, watch him work. He’s all eager slippery mouth and dark, open eyes.
“C’mon, I’ll buy you lunch,” he says, later, when the stubborn midday sun is lighting the room completely. He sits up and messes his hands through his hair. “I gotta meet my brother anyway.”
She watches ‘em go. Watches him put on his sunglasses in the parking lot, watches all the heads swivel in the diner when his car snarls to life. Sweet smile from his kid brother and a salute from him through the windshield and then they’re gone, dust trails kicked up behind ‘em.
She bounces a straw in her clotty milkshake when she’s about ready to leave, clenches her tired thighs on the fresh used sting between her legs and has to sigh, completely satisfied.
Fuckin’ A, but that guy knows how to fuck. Damn shame he’s leavin’, she thinks.
She stretches as she steps out onto the sidewalk, needs to get back to the apartment to feed Lauren or there'll be hell to pay. Bossiest fuckin’ cat she’s ever met.
-
Author:
zelost_mind Recipient:
caithream Rating: Adult
Pairing: Dean/ofc
Summary: Dean, trying to tie up loose ends.
Author's Notes: Set sometime after 'Jus In Bello'. I'm sorry it got so wordy and didn't really stick to the prompt! Oh, man. And many thanks to the girl with a stripper name for giving it a look-see.
She makes him as soon as he walks in, tracks him as he weaves his way to the bar and pushes between two bodies, leans in to order. Looks up again a minute later and he’s got a bottle of Newcastle Brown flirting with his bottom lip, staring right back at her.
By the time her set’s over he’s moved into a free seat over in Lucy’s section. It’s packed; three fucking parties and payday for the regulars so she’s done nothing but twist and roll and strut and swing all night. Plus she’s still gotta cover the private lounge before her shift’s over, so there’s a whole bunch of wriggling and jiggling and bending and stretching still in store and she’s gotta be either smiling candy sweet or pouting up a storm for the whole duration.
It’s always her facial muscles that hurt the most by the end of the night.
She thanks her audience, flutters down the steps and kicks off her heels as soon as she’s under the cover of dim lighting, sweeps ‘em under the curtain and makes her way over to the bar.
“No shoes, no service,” Tony jokes, scooping ice into a glass, cranking a tap. “Be with you in a sec, doll.”
The vinyl bar stool stings her thighs, skin sticking, as she hoists herself up.
The big brown bottle comes over her shoulder sooner than she thought, lands with a splat on the artfully pocked wood and her nostrils get filled with him – thick beer, man and sunlight and vintage - as he slithers to follow it, material from his t-shirt dragging over her naked shoulder blades as he moves to squeeze up onto the stool next to hers.
He’s got a self-satisfied smile set on his face, ready made, and she takes it for the standoff it is, quirks a brow at him in acknowledgement. He doesn’t say anything for a whole minute while he looks her over, unabashed scanning of her legs, tits, collar bones, tits, neck. Lips.
Then: “What time’s your shift over?” Loud voice, to be heard over the lively concerto of the place, so abruptly familiar it starts a slow buzzing trickle down her sternum.
“I’m workin’ ‘til breakfast,” she informs, grabbing up the bottle of water that Tony deposits on the bar. Takes the opportunity to jab a thumb to her left., order,“The same again for this gentleman.” Tony winks, shuffles off, busy as a bee.
“Great. I’ll buy; you look like you could use a decent meal,” he says, continuing, tipping a little closer. She shakes her head, drinks down half her bottle as soon as she wrangles the cap off.
“I’m on a diet,” she lies. “The three C’s diet, ‘s all the rage in Hollywood right now,”
And he smiles for real, finally. Something a little sad about it but it’s there for sure, amusement slipping in and wiping away the wholly artificial seduction from ‘round his mouth.
“Caffeine, coke, and cock?” he ventures, nods a thanks when Tony flashes back past with his beer.
She drops her gaze to the tacky tiling on the floor, smirks. Can feel herself; heavy and aware in all the right places. Ready for him.
“Pick you up around back at five-thirty?” he presses, leaning in close so he can talk right in her ear, hot breath on her neck, tickling through her hair and it feels so good she lets her eyes slip shut for a second, feels a warm wave of goose bumps coat her thighs and she’ll get into so much shit if the boss is around to see this, Jesus.
“Works for me,” she concedes, and edges off the seat carefully. He twists to let her past and she doesn’t bother even trying to liberate the underwear from her ass crack ‘cause she knows he’s watching her go and the frilly little Frenchies that’re covering her modesty were always a size too small on purpose.
Goddamn underwear specifically ordered so she’d be burdened with a perpetual wedgie. She wants them off, but it’s no good. She’s on point, on the pole, and there’s a strict rule - el coño no permitió - while performing for the fine patrons who choose to occupy the main bar. Panties of some kind must stay firmly in place at all times.
No freebies.
He stays to finish his beer. One elbow propping him up and eyes on her every time she opens her own, every single time she looks up for the agonizing length of two entire songs. By the time he gets up to leave she’s so turned on she can feel the pulse beating between her legs, strong and eager. Can feel her nipples ridiculously, exposed and tingling.
Shower, panties, t-shirt, Uggs, jacket, in that order, and then she’s ready to go, not ten minutes after her shift’s over. A personal record.
He’s parked as close as he can get, alley way too narrow for his car but the murky shape of it is blocking off one end, foreboding, giant engine idling and vibrating like something sinister. The heat’s on when the door slams itself shut behind her and she’s grateful, throws her bag over into the back and puts her hands up to the vents like they’re campfires. He eyes her bare knees and eases out, twists the dials until she can lean back in her seat, warm air ghosting right up her legs.
“You hungry?” he says, when they reach the turn off for the town’s main strip, all yellows, illuminations that hurt her eyes, and actually, yeah, she’s starving; rock of heavy nothing where her stomach should be ‘cause she hasn’t eaten anything since the little tin of tuna she had for breakfast but his car’s just so fuckin’ comfortable. It’s grows on her, huge heavy thing that should be clumsy but it’s not, it’s sleek, prowls over the road surface like it’s so confident, expertly trained.
Anyone’d forgive her for being a little envious.
She reaches over and clicks his blinker off, shakes her head. He shrugs a ‘your call’, carries on straight ahead, tut-tutting to himself.
She looks over at him and she ends up snagged on; his model profile, those perpetual tiny singed curl-ups at the corners of his mouth, the way his face is form perfect. He just looks fucking luscious. Always did.
Too pretty, maybe, if you catch a glimpse of him from the left especially.
Unfair, probably, that he looks the way he does, ‘cause it’s gotta be dangerous for a guy like him to be such a fucking head turner. It gets painful after a while, just looking, so she has to climb up onto her knees and trundle closer, magnetized, has to get her fingers in his hair and start some kisses on his rough cheek.
Feels him chuckle, feels his arm band around her waist and pull, ‘til she’s gotta sling one leg over his to stay upright. He hisses when her knee snugs up against the denim at his crotch and she sucks at his jaw, seats herself firmly on his thigh, bears down a tad and fuck. It’s amazing. Been so long since there was something alive between her thighs that she wanted and he’s so warm and big and he smells so good and she just wants him to lay her down and fuck her right here.
Just wants to open his pants and climb aboard, ride him ‘til she can’t even walk.
He shifts to brake and the friction, the denim grazing along her underwear, makes her whimper absurdly. He breathes out another laugh, whispers his free hand up the back of her thigh and squeezes a warning for patience, tilts his head to give her more room and she sighs, slightly appeased, nuzzles in under his chin, smells at him, and shit, he’s so good, he’s gonna make her feel so fucking good.
“What’re you, in heat?” he wonders, low, words like smoke rolling up her neck when the engine cuts out, leaves quiet, finally leaves both of his hands free to put on her and she arches into ‘em, pushes her ass more firmly into his grip even as she’s reaching over the seat for her bag.
“Where’s your roommate?” he asks.
She holds herself against the shut door and watches him make his way over to the fish tank, lets her eyes roam all over him.
“Haven’t seen her this week,” she tells him, distracted by the cut off point where the skin disappears into the sleeves of his t-shirt. He turns around in front of the tank, gets backlit.
“Goldfish’re dead,” he says, and smirks; leans back and crosses his arms, patient to let her look her fill.
She hated those goldfish anyway. Always peering out, judging everything, no fun at all. What’s the point in keeping a pet if you can’t even take it out of the water to play with it? Good riddance to ‘em.
She drops her jacket over the couch on her way past, lets her damp hair down and shakes it out. Feels him following her and has to resist the urge to break into a run ‘cause she knows –knows– he wouldn’t even hesitate a fucking second about giving chase and the thought makes her laugh out loud, delighted.
In her bedroom, the sound of him closing her door behind himself sends a quick little tremor up through her insides, makes her fuck up. She has to start again, conscious effort not to look up into her dresser mirror at him, up-ends the salt shaker and tap tap taps carefully, watches the white dust dance and scatter until she disciplines it, straightens it out with the edge of her City Library card.
Feels the heat of him, the bump of him against her ass just as she leans over to snort it, straightens up too fast but his body is solid, saves her from tipping backwards, tight in behind her. She keeps her eyes shut against the sting in her sinuses, feels his palms on her waist, belly going slippery inside when he inches one of ‘em up under her t-shirt, brush of his thumb over and over leaving a throb throb of sensation that spreads out everywhere like spilled whiskey.
“You want?” she offers, voice shot to shit, and lets her head tilt back, rolls it across his collar bone. He digs the fingertips of one hand into her stomach a little, takes the bill from her with the other.
“What’s in it? Catnip?”
He reaches around her to scrape and collect, neaten up the line she left out for him.
“Exactly,” she says, and laughs, feels the smile coil and coil at her mouth.
She watches him fuck around with it for a minute, grinding out any clumps, deliberating.
“Don't worry,” she teases, reassuring him. “It's not the good stuff, I can’t afford a coke habit.” He shakes his head, amused, and she moves away to turn the blinds, block out the pink morning light rudely.
She’s never really been much for kissing either, but he is, she remembers how he likes to kiss and be kissed back. He hauls her in, hand a firm shape against the small of her back, pushes his thick tongue into her mouth, makes her take it and makes a tiny moan, quiet approval, when she decides to give in easy and just suck on it for him.
Sets him into motion like an ‘on’ switch, and he goes backwards until he lands on her bed, slouches to let her drag off his t-shirt before he reels her in and in, up and over his lap, ideal. Bunches up her top while he mouths at her collar, her tits, through the fabric, impatient, ‘til she lifts her arms so he can scramble it off.
She’s content to be pliant, wouldn’t mind just turning to putty right there in his lap, feels like maybe she is, maybe she would be if it wasn’t for the dangerous-quick thump in her chest, the faintly sickening, swirling rush of adrenaline to her extremities.
She tips her head back, feels his teeth in her throat, wide warm hands spreading over her tits, squeezing, and she moans for it. Rides the sudden buck of his hips and the brand of a sharp palm on her ass, up under the edge of her underwear and gripping hard to lift her a little, move her up onto her knees. Then he’s nuzzling at her tits instead, rough licks and sucking bites that make her jerk, over-sensitized, and that’s when she feels it; rough and unfamiliar under her restless fingers.
New, and it draws her attention enough that she pushes his head off to one side so she can look down, see it better.
She brushes her palm over it, feels the ridges of the scab, dry and raised on his skin.
He looks up at her, mouth open on her chest and she makes sure to hold eye contact as she presses the heel of her hand against it cruelly, harder and harder ‘til the pain shows up on his face in a frown.
Then, “That’s one ugly tattoo,” she tells him, petulant, a little giddy.
He just stares back, doesn’t flinch, disappointing, so she keeps going, skims over his skin, searching, drifts her fingers over the hot little ladder of tiny stitches she finds, slides her hand over the curve of his shoulder and feels the coarseness of a dressing still there.
Huh. Exit wound.
His eyes’ve gone smart when she looks again, brilliant green that’s truer than it should be in the shitty light, and that crap’s a little much for her, not what she signed on for, and you know what they say about curiosity, right? Applies to her especially, so yeah, she leaves off those wounds, leaves ‘em alone; presses her knuckles back into the tattoo instead, digs for the itchy pain that’s under there, under the healed parts. Leans down and kisses at his chubby gorgeous mouth again to shush him and reward him when he finally hisses out, hurt.
“Quit it,” he mumbles, jostling her, trying to shift his shoulder out of reach and shake her off, but she ignores him, or pretends to at least, edges forward in his lap ‘til she can feel him just right, ‘til they both sigh at the perfect fit.
She smirks, sucks the shell of his ear into her mouth and resists for as long as she can when he squeezes one arm around her middle and flips her onto the mattress.
“Quit. It.” he warns, dropping his weight on her, prying her hand away and pressing it to the pillows. He gathers up her other hand from where she’s got her fingers hooked in his belt and pins it up with the first, holds her wrists up above her head like it’s nothing and smirks, smug, when she tries to yank out of his grip and fails.
“Say ‘uncle’,” he says, glint of a grin as she pulls and wriggles, gives up after a minute and just stares up at him, biding her time. He tightens his grip around both her wrists and slithers one hand away to grab her boob.
“Say it, and I’ll let you go,” he offers, playing, teasing the pad of his thumb around her nipple. She groans, tries to twist away and he chuckles, the bastard, flattens his denim-pelvis against hers to keep her still.
She feels his arm working between them, jumps when his cold belt buckle touches her, hears his zipper and she’s groaning again, struggling a little. He drops his head to suck one of her nipples, shimmies around between her legs and then she feels him, hot bare weight of him on her belly, dragging on her skin, in the groove of her pelvis.
“You gonna say it now?” he rumbles, shifting, sliding lower, slurps what she knows is gonna be a purple bruise into the thin skin over her ribs, soft mean suction and his cock moving in tiny increments over her panties, the stickiness catching on the cotton, and really. That’s just about all she can take of that; outrageous tension zinging down between her hips every time he budges an inch.
“Please,” she bites out, trying to shove up against him, realises one of her wrists is free when she opens her eyes, sees her fingernails gouging into his bicep. He fits his free hand in behind her knee, lifts it snugger, higher on his waist, fucks against her a little like he can’t even help himself and it’s what she’s been waiting for all night, worms her arm between them so she can feel at him.
He tenses up, wrings the wrist he’s still got pinned, puts his face in her throat and nibbles, and she goes slow, didn’t get the chance to touch him like this last time. He’s big in her hand, too big, ready, and she surges a little, rush of wet hot want for him that makes her clench up everywhere, pushes a current of nonsense out of her mouth.
“Can’t even get my fuckin’ fingers around it, big fat fuckin’ dick, god, please. Please, I want - I want - ”
He groans, shifts again and then his hand’s covering hers, squeezing himself tighter.
He doesn’t take her panties off, she doesn't think she would've been able to stand it if he'd taken any more time, just clasps them out of his way and it’s a shock when he pushes inside, she feels like her body’s choking on him, struggling to take all of him, but he fucks her, steady, and it gets smoother. Smoother until it’s a glide, warm and perfect, simple stretching fuck that gets choppy towards the end, gets better and better when she tells him to go harder.
He obliges like he’s been holding back the whole time, waiting for to say, ‘go’.
There’s unlicensed boxing in the basement, and the first night he’s bright eyes and subtle questions, appreciative smiles at all the girls. Asking them all about Lauren, asking if anyone noticed her acting strange before she disappeared.
An addiction to painkillers and an inclination toward witchery. But no, nothing strange.
The second night, he figures out there’s unlicensed boxing in the basement and the case of Lauren, the missing witch who may or may not have turned herself into her cat is put on temporary hold.
She watches him. He fights like he’s was born to do it, swings tight and hard and fast and he doesn’t miss. He’s lethal, a natural, betting on himself probably, so it’s not like he can afford to lose.
She’s not supposed to go down there but none of the other girls’ve got much of a stomach for the violence so the bathroom’s always quiet when she needs to get ready for the stage.
And that’s where she meets him, officially.
She’s wondering between cherry and passion fruit, wondering whether a stars ‘n’ stripes bikini is really the way to go when the door slaps open, gust of swelled up testosterone air and then he’s there, eyebrow quirked at her reflection, bare chest and a crimson mouth that he licks around.
“Hey. I’m Dean,” he says, and twists his t-shirt in his hands. “Mind if I, uh...” He juts his thumb at the urinals, doesn’t wait to see her shake her head before his back’s to her, clear boot print stamped across his spine.
She watches his jeans sag a little, watches him flip his shirt onto his shoulder.
He doesn’t flinch when she smoothes along his ribs, runs a curious finger along the damp line of denim, he just breathes against the wall and lets her explore, forehead on his forearm.
It’s easy, like he was expecting it to happen all along. One minute she’s thumbing up the nape of his neck, the next he’s kissing her, expectant and greedy.
It’s hot, in a terrifying kind of way. She has no idea what she’s doing but she knows what she wants so she just scissors her legs around his waist, clings tight and tries to keep quiet ‘cause she is so fucking fired if anyone catches them.
“Fuck,” he pants, mouth dragging over her collarbone, nose nudging into her bikini top, and then his fingers are inside her, odd and gentle, thick. He strokes out, presses back in, watching her face like he’s testing something and she can’t help it, her muscles clamp on him, involuntary shock of satisfaction for her that makes him hiss, coil tight and then ease up. Breathe deep against her chest, trembling from the adrenaline that's still coursing through his system.
“Didn’t think you’d still be here,” he says quietly, one hand drifting along her parts idly like he can’t keep it still, cataloguing maybe. She shrugs, messes with the pointy amulet on his chest.
“You know, if you need – If you need money, or – or a ride,” he starts slowly, awkwardly, and she frowns at the sound of him, gets up on her elbows so she can look at his face. “Or if there’s somebody – someone you need me to take care of? I can help you out. With that. If you... Y’know. If.”
She stares at him, watches his eyes flicker to hers and then away again, trailing over the ceiling. Unsure but offering, and it tickles her, a little unfurling genuine thing of sugar and sharpness somewhere deep, right there in her chest cavity. She realises she’s grinning when his brows go annoyed and he huffs, shoves her off of him and tosses his forearm up over his eyes.
“Forget it,” he amends, hiding.
She wriggles out of the sheets and crawls to the head of her bed, kneels and reaches over to gap the blinds, peers out noisily.
He shifts out of the midday light she lets in like it burns his skin, mumbling irritably.
“I’m looking but I can’t see it anywhere, what have you done with it?” she hums, draping herself onto the window sill.
“What the hell’re you talkin’ about?” he asks, shifting up onto one arm. She lets the light hit his face, watches him squint, blink and blink, too interested to dodge again.
“Your white horse,” she says. “I don’t see it out here.”
He flashes some species of smile that looks like it could injure someone, mumbles, “Oh, real cute,” as he flops down onto his back. She laughs, unstoppable, even as she slithers back down to join him, throws a thigh over his, skates a slow palm down his belly to meddle her fingertips in his pubes, coaxing.
“Nothin’s keepin’ me here,” she says, sighing, when he stays silent and stiff. “Really. I’m not looking’ to be saved from anything.”
“Okay,” he says after half a beat, turning his face towards her, and she moves her fingers lower, lets ‘em split apart around the root of him. “I just, uh. I won’t be back this way again, that’s all.”
She kisses at his spiky chin, says, “Oh yeah? So you’re breakin’ up with me?”
He snorts, mutters, “’Guess so.” She smiles, curls her fingers around his cock, stretches her thumb out to rub along a delicate ridge. He jumps in her hand, fills; burst of growth like a prize and she watches his face, watches his brows go soft and then hard again ‘til she can’t watch anymore.
She wakes up and he’s tasting at her. Long, slow laps, rough dough tongue, soft and lazy between her legs, cactus stubble pinking her thighs up ‘cause he’s not careful and the contrast is maddening. It’s him all over. She clutches a hand in his sweaty hair, strains her neck to look down at him, watch him work. He’s all eager slippery mouth and dark, open eyes.
“C’mon, I’ll buy you lunch,” he says, later, when the stubborn midday sun is lighting the room completely. He sits up and messes his hands through his hair. “I gotta meet my brother anyway.”
She watches ‘em go. Watches him put on his sunglasses in the parking lot, watches all the heads swivel in the diner when his car snarls to life. Sweet smile from his kid brother and a salute from him through the windshield and then they’re gone, dust trails kicked up behind ‘em.
She bounces a straw in her clotty milkshake when she’s about ready to leave, clenches her tired thighs on the fresh used sting between her legs and has to sigh, completely satisfied.
Fuckin’ A, but that guy knows how to fuck. Damn shame he’s leavin’, she thinks.
She stretches as she steps out onto the sidewalk, needs to get back to the apartment to feed Lauren or there'll be hell to pay. Bossiest fuckin’ cat she’s ever met.
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