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Tell me something I don't know,
and lead me to the place where no one ever goes.
Let me go under your skin, and let me find the demons that drive those heavenly limbs.
With your fingers in my mouth, I fail to see your faults. So, please, don't let me fall. Please, don't let me fall.
An icy breeze blows hair wildly around her face. Abby takes a slow, grounding drag of her cigarette. She’s inhaled two smokes, and none of her co-workers have left the bar to check on her—not even Susan.
A car rumbles down the street, before slowly driving away. It’s a lot easier to sit in silence and think about the invariable truth that Mark is dead. She has always felt panicky in group dynamics--especially when grief is involved. There’s an uncomfortable pressure of what to share, what not to share. It didn't take Abby long before she had excused herself from the table of her depressed and drunk co-workers.
Another car crawls down the street, flooding the alley with light. It shakes her out of her herself. This time, she pays attention as it’s parked near where she sits on the edge of a loading ramp. The driver door opens, and she stares blatantly because she knows his car—a black Jeep desperately in need of a wash.
What Carter does see: a towering brick building across the empty street. Music is escaping through an open window into the night, backed by a laugh track of voices.
What he doesn’t see: her sitting statue still, smoke wafting lazily around her head in spirals.
The last time they had spoken to each other, he had lectured her on the breaking of her sobriety—(it was a beer, to celebrate returning to her apartment, for fuck’s sake). She played it safe tonight, only ordering a coke with lime. Carter will show up at some point in the night. She couldn’t deal with his burning, sanctimonious stares, if he had found her drinking.
She should just leave him alone—luxuriate in this tiny sanctuary she has carved out for herself. Stay until she fears she's being too anti-social, and begrudgingly goes back inside. But. Carter's presence is familiar and comforting. There's a sadness that is eating within them both. Maybe, they can just meditate in this awful feeling together, smoke the rest of her pack--misery loves company. She knows he is upset with her, but she tries her luck and breaks her silence, “Nice jacket. Is it new?”
He turns towards the direction of the voice, but his expression is unreadable. Carter has the choice to go inside, sit with his co-workers, and listen to stories about his dead mentor. Probably the safe, predictable choice.
He stares down at the ground, and takes a few slow steps towards the alley.
“Do you have E.S.P.?” Banter is safe; banter is their benchmark. She wants to smile, but hides it behind her hand, instead.
“No, your car’s right there. I saw you circle the building twice.” She laughs nervously, pointing out his car parked on the street.
There’s a defensiveness to his posture—arms crossed, heels rocking against the pavement. The tension in his body is always visible to the naked eye—bubbling just below his skin. He feels like a part of Mark’s letter is living inside him, and it might take an exorcism to get it out.
“Abigail Lockhart sits alone?” There are veiled layers to his question; so she goes for a loaded response. (It’s only fair.)
“Well, I’m the only person at that table who isn’t drunk, and I needed a break from that.” She expects him to give something away in his expression—a lilt of his brows, a widening or narrowing of his eyes—but she gleans nothing.
She is picking at a frayed edge of her jacket, and he can’t stop staring. The wild curl of her hair in the wind, the line of her neck as she holds a cigarette lovingly between two fingers, the moodiness reflecting in her eyes—dark as the moonless night.
“Listen, I’m sorry about the other day,” she runs a hand through her unruly hair, “but I don’t want you worrying about me…not you. It’s too complicated.” She can barely meet his eyes, and there’s a burning in her chest, that feels like guilt.
“What’s so complicated?” He quips, shaking his head at her, holding his ground.
A moment of hesitation, and a hit off her cigarette.
“You and me..us.”
He steps a little closer to her, and like a reflex, she reaches for his hands. He gives. She gives. When did this dance start?
“What us? Is there an us?” He refuses to let her hide deep inside herself again, to escape into the recesses of her mind, where he can’t chase her. (He would if he could.)
Something in this moment has them trapped in a shimmering chimera of sincerity, floating around them, through them. It feels like they are the only two people in Chicago—standing in a dirty, deserted alley. Flaying themselves open for each other.
Maybe, it’s because Mark is dead, and all of Carter’s feelings are rubbing a little too raw, that he is able to, finally, get out: “I want there to be.”
The bottom of her stomach drops outs, a pulse is pounding in her head, but she can’t break her eyes away from him. He is crowding her now. His legs are brushing against hers, while their hands are entangled like vines in her lap.
“I know I wasn’t clear enough in past on what I wanted…and that’s on me, but I'm saying it now. I want you, Abby.” She feels the heat of his unwavering gaze.
Her eyes go wide; even in the dim light he is able to see all the facets of color swirling within their depth—honey brown with veins of shining gold. It’s a pool he wants to slowly drown in.
There is an ancient part of her that wants to shut down and hide from this, from him. It’s coded in her genes, a survival mechanism, that has protected her. She owes her life to it, but it has become her default operating system.
In the years she has known Carter, their connection has ebbed and flowed, filling some of the cracks inside her. Even when they were not speaking or pissed at each other, they couldn't, wouldn't stop caring. She is drawn to him deep within the base levels of her brain:
To his brain, his beauty, his struggles.
His honest, bleeding heart.
How he sees his short, time on earth—(with her in it).
The depth of their connection scares her, and she is terrified of hurting him, of suffocating his kindness and patience, his light with her shades of darkness and unpredictability.
“I’m not a happy person, Carter. I want to be; I try, but doesn’t come naturally. I’m a drunk. My family is fucked.”
He scoffs, “You don’t hold the monopoly on fucked up families.” She wants to laugh and cry.
“I have been drawn to you for two years. I have seen you laugh and cry and scream and smile—the entire fucking spectrum of human emotions, and I have accepted all of you, Abby. Yeah, I don't agree with you drinking again, but that doesn't mean you don't deserve happiness. And I just want to try to give that to you. Because it's what you deserve...what we both deserve.”
She is chewing her bottom lip between her teeth so hard, it draws blood.
For years now, there has always been a current buzzing between them. Most of the time, it had flowed slowly or nearly stagnant. Once in a great while, it would rush angry as rapids. Now, they are diving in, consequences be damned.
It feels like she is swallowing on a stone, and she hides the tears pricking uncomfortably at her eyes.
“Okay, John.”
Abby has run so many times—from family, from herself, from him—and he is terrified of scaring her away. That’s why, when Carter presses his lips against hers, it is with the softest pressure. She smells like cigarettes and the leather of her jacket.
She sighs softly in contentment, and he can’t go another moment of his existence without knowing how she tastes.
Carter is running his fingers through the silken, curls at the nape of her head, angling her neck to perfect the slide of their mouths against each other. Abby opens her mouth against his for the first time, soft and pliant. His pulse is beating in staccato against his throat. She tastes like the coke she drank earlier and tobacco. The pressure of her legs wrapping tightly around his waist is crushing him even closer.
The door to bar opens with a bang against the wall. A man emerges from the bar, trash bag in hand. She drops her hands from Carter’s shoulders, and he takes a quick step away from her. They can feel the man’s burning scrutiny.
“Everything okay out here?” He eyes them suspiciously.
“Yeah.” Abby puts her hand against her mouth, snorting with laughter.
The employee tosses the bag into a nearby dumpster, and giving them one more glance, goes back inside.
As soon as she hears the door slam, Abby snakes her hands around Carter’s shoulders again, rubbing her palms against the bristles of hair at the nape of his neck. Her eyes are light, sparkling and blinding him.
“Hang on.” There’s no time to process.
Abby feels herself being lifted up, his strong arms catching under her thighs. She clings to his chest.
“John!” A gasp in his ear.
He carries her like this until they reach his Jeep. Carter gently lowers her onto the hood. She is scowling at him, “When you said ‘hold on’, I didn’t know you meant literally.”
He grins at her, “it was just faster that way. And more fun.”
“Was it? You could have dropped me, Carter.” He steps up between her legs.
“But, I didn’t.” His solid hands are massaging her jean clad thighs. Now that he can touch her, it’s going to be hard to stop.
“Well, you could have.” He is distracted by the light glistening off her full, pouting lips.
“I would never drop you, Abby.” His voice drops, though, and whatever witticism Abby is working on dies in her throat.
She rolls her eyes, pulls him to her--kisses him hard. Her small frame is pushing as close to him as possible without falling off the hood of the car. Her hands run under the back of his shirt, up and down his jaw, through his perfect hair.
“Are you okay?” Carter asks in between her mouth on him.
“I mean, yeah, mostly. I’m still upset about Mark obviously.”
“We can stop.” He’s searching her eyes for any sign of hesitation.
“God, no.” It slips out without before she can even realize.
“No need to give me a messiah complex, now.” A shit-eating grin.
She groans, “I’m never going to live that down, am I?”
“God, no!” he mimics her. She withdraws her hot hands from his shoulders in protest, “I hate you.”
He is nuzzling into the crook of her neck for warmth, but also because she smells so fucking good. He laughs roughly, and she feels the vibration against her skin, making her shiver.
“Unless, you want my ass frozen to the hood of your car, we should move.”
He has to lift her again, in order to lower her from the hood. This time, when he braces her in his arms, she jostles around in his hold, squirming against the line of his cock, straining against his slacks.
“Not fair,” he groans.
Carter enters through the driver’s door. He turns the car on, and the running lights off. The stereo is blasting the last bit of music, he listened to on the drive to the bar. He cranks the heat—“let me know when your ass is defrosted.” She flips him off.
By the time he is situating himself in the backseat, Abby has already shed her leather jacket and sweater. She is looking out the window, and the streetlamp cast lines of shadow across her face. Her hair is messy and dark; he can see the rise of her nipples through the thin cotton of her tank.
She is beautiful, a Goddess, he is unworthy of. But he knows he can't say that. For how much he wants this, Carter is still fumbling to take his jacket off. He rolls the sleeves of his button-down past his forearms.
She turns from the window, and catches him staring at her raptly. She feels her heart pounding nervously in her head. Sliding slowly, Abby moves closer and closer and closer. Finally, when she is within arm’s reach, Carter grabs her the rest of the way, pulling her onto his lap with a sound low in his throat.
The immediate warmth is exquisite. Her senses are completely flooded out by the proximity of him. Her head is resting in the crook of his neck and shoulder. Abby luxuriates in the faint scent of cologne he probably put on 12 hours ago. The starchy, laundered smell of his shirt.
Carter rubs the exposed skin he can feel between her jeans and the bottom of her tank reverently. He hears her sigh; and he pushes further, playing his fingers under her tank top, up her lower back.
She pulls back from his neck, and he takes the opportunity to pepper kisses along the tops of her chest and collarbones.
“I need your teeth, Carter.” It’s matter of fact. She rends her head back, giving him more canvas to work on.
“And you called me the masochist.” It rumbles against her chest. Carter methodically starts nipping and sucking and laving over her perfect, creamy skin.
He pulls back, and the air is knocked out of his lungs. Abby has her fingers locked in her mouth, in an attempt to stifle little gasps of pleasure. There are small, red welts already starting to bloom over her chest in a mesmerizing pattern. This time he can’t stop himself:
“You’re beautiful.”
She shuts him up with a kiss. This time when they touch, it’s frenzied and bewitching--tongues plundering, teeth knocking. There is no space for air between them. When, Abby’s hips move against him involuntarily, he can’t help but grab her ass and counter her with his own upward thrust. It’s dizzying, and dangerous. He drags his mouth off of hers.
“Stop, stop, Jesus, I need a second.”
She scoots a little back towards her side, shooting him a self-satisfied smirk. He takes several slow, deep breathes, until he feels his pulse start to slow just slightly. Carter is just staring at her in a way that makes her stomach pool with arousal and nerves. His eyes look black in the near darkness. He scoots over until he is pressing against her side.
“Don’t move.”
He runs his fingers slowly, around the angle of her jaw. When he brushes his fingers over her kiss-swollen lips, she opens her mouth in anticipation. His gaze darkens, and he files that fun fact away in his brain for later rumination. Instead of giving her what she wants, he carefully explores down her neck. His hands are spidery; fingers splayed wide over her heated flesh, leaving goosebumps in their wake.
Carter pushes her tank down roughly. Her chest is heaving, and he hasn't even touched her. He teases with a finger, ghosting slowly up and down her tits, until they are covered in tiny gooseflesh. Finally, he grabs both of them roughly, tweaking the nipples.
“Harder,” she commands. He pinches just the swollen buds hard enough that Abby’s hips buck off the seat. Fuck. He motions with his hands for her to lift her hips. Carter pulls her jeans down over her ass, until they are puddled on the floor around her feet.
His fingers ghost now over her stomach, and her muscles clench involuntarily. Carter is such a delicious dichotomy. He’s sewn in stitches, saved lives administering CPR. Now, those same dexterous fingers are possessing her in ways that make her gasp and squirm beneath him. She’s creating a mental note of where she wants them next.
He’s mesmerized by the fullness of her hips, straining against a pair of sheer black panties. There is one hand on each hip, and he is massaging the curves of her, committing them to memory. Slowly, slowly, he begins teasing her over the panties. Trailing his finger up and down, rolling and pinching her flesh.
Her panties land in the passenger’s seat. Seeing her splayed out for him in the backseat of his car, is going to give him an MI. Teasingly, he runs two fingers over the swollen flesh of her. Just missing where she desperately wants him over and over and over again.
Abby is getting impatient at this point. Half of her wants to speed this up, but the other half loves his tortured teasing. Without thinking, she reaches a hand down in an attempt to get at her clit. He bats her hand away, and gives her a stern look, “What did I just say? Be patient.”
She rolls her eyes, but listens, withdrawing her hand. Suddenly, he dips a finger into the soaking heat of her. It’s distractedly wonderful how wet she is—(for him). Gathering some of her slick, he, finally, hones in on her aching clit. Slow, slow circles at first. Spiraling up to a rhythm that has her squirming again.
Using his other hand, he thrusts two long fingers inside her. It’s fucking sinful, as he easily slides in past the knuckles. He angles and crooks his fingers inside her, rhythmically, and that’s when she loses coherency.
His right hand never stops rubbing circles over her clit. Before long, she’s bracing herself, grabbing at any part of him that she can reach. Her breathe catches, and then she goes completely silent. He feels the rhythmic contractions of her cunt on his fingers, and hears her babbling—“fuckfuckfu.” He fucks her through it, until her hands are pushing him away.
Carter is sitting with his head back, eyes closed, so he doesn’t see so much as feel Abby invade his personal space.
“Hey.” Her voice is rough silk. She is pressed up into his side, nuzzling into his neck, sucking open-mouthed kisses down his throat.
Slowly, she starts palming him through the material of his slacks. She can feel the heat he’s giving off, and it only makes her wants to stoke the flames. A clink of metal, and the belt of his pants is open. Frantically, he helps her drag down his slacks and boxers. At this moment, he thinks he might actually pass out from the ravenous way she is looking at him, looking at his cock.
Abby keeps watch on Carter’s face—she loves this part, gets off on being in control. As she spits into her hand and grabs him at the base of his cock, there are minute flickers of expression across his face that tell a story. She just holds tight for a moment, getting used to the heft and blaze of him in her palm. Carter is holding his breath, head thrown back, hands resting behind his head.
She gives him an experimental stroke, and he groans. There is already pre-cum weeping from the thick head. He gives her a pleading look.
Abby sets a steady, unrelenting pace. Every time she drags her small hand up the aching, length of him, she twists her wrist around the sensitive tip, until he feels dizzy with pleasure. She looks back to his face; and his eyes are closed, brow furrowed. All he can hear is the salacious sliding of her hand on him.
Slowly, his eyes open, and the half-lidded gaze he gives her, nearly puts her in an early grave. They crash together, tongues tangling, panting into each other’s mouths. He moves his hand to tangle in her hair; experimentally, he gives a tug at the roots and she keens.
“Carter,” her voice is wrecked, dark and warm as melted chocolate. Seduction in it’s unadulterated form, haunting him in both his dream and waking hours.
And that is his undoing. She feels his body tensing against hers, his cock pulsing hotly under her touch. His hips are skipping off the seat, chasing her hand on him. He comes with a loud moan against her mouth. She strokes him slowly, slowly through his orgasm, until he’s pushing her hand away.
They fill a pleasantly exhausted silence, by passing a half empty water bottle back and forth like a life line. There's an aura to her, in this moment, that is other worldly. Her chapped and swollen lips red as pomegranate, flushed face, and pupils still fucked out. Nyx emerging out of the inky depths of Chaos--terrifying and beautiful. She is magickal, and he is already hopelessly bewitched.
They sit next to each other on the loading ramp, bumping shoulders, and smoking one of her cigarettes to mask the smell of sex.
The door closes behind them, and the music feels somehow even louder. Susan is waving at them with a confused expression--how long have they been gone?
Walking slowly back to their table, Abby turns to look at him, "I forgot my underwear in your car...You should give me a ride home.”
“Oh, I''ll give you a ride for sure,” His voice is gravel against her ear, "damn succubus."
“Honestly, not the worst thing I’ve ever been called."
The smile she flashes him, just before sitting next to Susan, ruins him.