Eating a Peach (Push: Nick/Cassie, explicit)
The next story I wrote was in the Push fandom, and I recruited the person who got me into that fandom - that dirty, dirty enabler musesfool - to beta for me. The recipient, caphairdadbeard, seemed to want what I want from Push fic, namely Nick and Cassie sexing each other up when Cassie's just a bit older. I figured I could write that, and I have to say, I really like how this piece turned out - Nick feels authentically crazed and turned on by her and Cassie just keeps moving forward. Vic helped a lot by making me reconsider the ending and then misjudged how absolutely shameless I am when she jokingly suggested a title having to do with eating peaches (it makes sense within the context of the story, but if you need a spoiler for a story that's less than two thousand words, check out the icon).
Eating a Peach
He's always been electrically charged by Cassie - the words that waft toward him on a breath of cheap booze, the drowning-blue shine of her eyes, the kinetic insistence on her way or the die way - and so it takes him longer than it should to figure out that between one tantrum and the next, she's grown up.
Not totally, not really. She's only sixteen, and even if the baby fat has deserted her cheeks and taken up residence in her bra, just the slightest swelling of incipient breasts, she's still that coltish girl with the endless legs and slim hips. He's fucked in the head, she's older than her years, she's like oxygen to him: whichever excuse he makes, he can't escape the fact that he wants to devour every last scrap of her.
He knows she's seen it because he knows she's drawn it.
The chronology of her drawings - of her visions, really - has always been unreliable at best. One of her drawings, over which she'd labored with a knotted brow that only meant he was swiping the notebook the second she departed for the shower, showed them attached at the mouth when her hair was blue, when her face had lines that revealed she hadn't had an easy time of it.
She's more transparent than is comfortable for either of them, even if she'll never admit that he's read her right. He knows she's built her life these last few years around the idea that he wanted, wants, will always want Kira and not her, that he thinks of her as just his pain-in-the-ass kid sister. She never does let herself buy hair dye of that particular blue, even when he lobs a box of "Oh, Those Azure Nights" in her basket when they're wandering around a pharmacy on her sixteenth birthday. She tosses it before they get to the register, but she lets him buy a packet of blue candles for her red velvet cupcake.
*
They're in another city that smells like cheap food and cheap sex and they're running on empty.
It's been a little more than a month of teetering between wanting to join forces with some of the other Lost Boys and Runaway Girls and needing to stay safe and shielded. A little more than a month of practicing their powers in a studio apartment so small that he has to roll across the bed in one direction to get to the bathroom and in the other to get to the counter with a hotplate they call a kitchen. Cassie's slender enough to edge around the bed but she strides over it instead, her boots making shallow, impermanent divots in the slick bedspread.
It's beautiful but scary, how she does what she wants no matter what he's up to. When he's sprawled limply on the bed, worn out from trying to Move the deadbolt without the inconsistent charge of adrenaline, she steps over his head instead of rerouting. He looks up and catches a flash of white cotton panties just above his face and all of that misspent Moving energy floods back through his veins, his blood thrumming at the sight of her so carelessly exposed.
"I think we should talk," some idiot says in his voice.
"You go ahead and do that, champ," Cassie chirps back, settling earphones over her ears. He can hear the heavy metal screaming and he looks at her, how her teeth are small and pearly in a pink mouth, how her eyes greedily devour page after page of the color plates of the paintings in a book he got her once at a bookstore going out of business. How she pivots on the corner of the bed she's claimed so that she can't see him and he can't see the pure curves of her face, like her knobby spine will deter him from bringing up the odd shape of their partnership.
When he reaches out and tugs the crayon-colored locks of hair hanging down her back, she shivers but still doesn't turn around. "I want you to sit on my face," he says, knowing whatever terrible singer is screaming in her ears will drown him out. "I want you on top of me for days. I want you to spread your legs and take me in. Cassie."
*
She ends up with hair that glows cerulean and a face that's dimmed from standing in a shadowed alley lit only by a single indigo bulb. Blue-light special, he thinks, just as his thigh insinuates itself between hers, pressing her back up against brick that must bite at her, if the hell it's wreaking on his hands is anything to go by. He doesn't remember Toronto being this rough, thinks maybe he's assumed that the famously polite Canadians must live in some kind of paradise.
Where he is right now is a paradise, sure enough. Cassie juts her pointy little chin at him, so defiant, and he wants to bite her, tear strips off her with his teeth. It's not his fault that this is happening now, when the world's gone blue. She saw this happen, put it down on paper, and she has to know what she's doing to him. He's wanted her for so long.
"Get the fuck off me," she says, holding herself very still. "Kira left you three years ago, you stupid fuck!" she screams, pounding on his chest with furious fists.
He crowds her, muffling her fists between the two of them. "It's you I'm lookin' at, Cass."
Her face contorts into a mean little sneer. "You do all your looking with your dick?" she asks, grinding against his crotch.
"You got me," he says, pressing a little closer, hiking her unsubstantial weight up the wall with his thigh. She gasps and clutches at his shoulders to try to keep her balance. "You got all of me," he says, and she crumples into his kiss.
*
She's on the bed because he put her there, because that's where she wants to be. He tells himself to keep it together and knows he hasn't got a chance.
Cassie is splayed out like a rag doll, too focused on him to worry about appearing seductive. Lying down like this, her skirt is too short to cover her panties. None of that detracts from her carved-ivory elegance, the sweet neatness of her long limbs and small face. He can smell her, thinks how she would look if he got her drenched by Moving her instead of fucking her, how beautifully flushed and taut she could be at once.
He lets her think she's getting her way when he starts stripping off his clothes; there's not a lot he wouldn't do when she raises that imperious eyebrow. Being naked in front of her makes sense, so it's easy. While she's distracted, looking him over in a way that reminds him that this is the first time someone's been naked with intent this close to her, he makes his Move.
He Moves the hairs on her arm, feeling each one slowly rise as goosebumps swell on her trembling skin. Her face goes white and shocked, her mouth opening as she helplessly twines her arms around each other over her head. He sees bursts of color on the pads of her intertwining fingers. The white cotton of her panties grows damply translucent.
"Oh, babygirl," he groans, one hand sneaking up to play with himself. He needs this, but more than that he wants her to give it to him; he lets go after one rough stroke.
"Nick," she says, spreading her legs, writhing like she can wriggle out of all her clinging clothes. Her fingers drift uselessly down, completely ineffective, or maybe she just wants to touch the pulsing core of herself. He's going to get there first.
He catches one of her ankles and pulls at her panties, ripping them off. He marvels at her elasticity when he lays that thigh flat on the bed, propping her open, and then tugs her so her perfect peach of a cunt is at the edge of their unmade bed and he can kneel and put his mouth on her.
His first avid suck electrocutes her, judging by the sudden rigidity of her limbs. Her hands are fisted in his hair, pulling it every which way, and he smiles against the wet silkiness of her flesh, teasing her with the poking tip of his tongue. Cassie is moaning, a low and unbroken wave of sound, and of course she is, this is her first time, anything will feel amazing. Caught up in his own brain, he doesn't know what to do without the pressure of living up to some impossible standard, and he loses his rhythm.
She chokes when he pulls back, gulping on all the air she's been too distracted to breathe. "Nick?" she says again, not understanding, and he parts her sparse curls and just looks at her, pink and shining underneath his rough hands. She hiccups, and there's a tear leaking out of one eye, so he Moves to gather her up and lift her toward his waiting mouth. He's not so much gentle as strategic, learning her, nipping and licking at her until her knees lock around his skull and only her shoulder blades are still on the bed. She tastes thin and sweet on his tongue, even a little green like something not fully ripe. He'll take it, take her, because he couldn't have waited any longer.
He doesn't even get a finger in her before she's coming endlessly, jerking like it hurts and panting out sharp little moans. Another wave of desire crashes over him even as he's drinking her down. She tries to close her legs, feebly pushes his head away with her hands to get him out of the way. He's not done, but she must be unbearably sensitive right now. He gets on the bed just as she rolls onto her side. Her skirt is still bunched around her waist, and he pushes her thin shirt up, baring the soft skin of her back. She has two dark, flat moles near her spine, and he noses against them as his hand comes up to cup the slight swell of her bared breast.
"No more," she moans, trying to twist away from him. The head of his straining cock drags deliciously against the stiff fabric of her skirt as she moves.
"Cassie," he says, just to himself, to remind himself that he loves her, that she literally can't do any more now. A real gentleman would pick himself off the bed and beat off in the bathroom.
"Yeah?" she asks, so soft in their cave of a room, voice thick with emotion and exhaustion. She's exposed and under his hands and she deserves better. He kisses the nape of her neck, drags the flat sheet over her still form, and rolls onto his back.
"I love you," he says, his dick in his hand, the uncolored waves of her hair tickling his shoulder. He breathes in the smell of her lingering in the air, and strokes, catching his spunk with her damp, torn panties. His mouth is still watering for the taste of her but he closes his eyes and breathes in time with her, knowing she's asleep and won't say it back.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
As always, I'd love to hear what you think.
This same entry also appears on Dreamwidth, at http://innie-darling.dreamwidth.org/460036.html.
Eating a Peach
He's always been electrically charged by Cassie - the words that waft toward him on a breath of cheap booze, the drowning-blue shine of her eyes, the kinetic insistence on her way or the die way - and so it takes him longer than it should to figure out that between one tantrum and the next, she's grown up.
Not totally, not really. She's only sixteen, and even if the baby fat has deserted her cheeks and taken up residence in her bra, just the slightest swelling of incipient breasts, she's still that coltish girl with the endless legs and slim hips. He's fucked in the head, she's older than her years, she's like oxygen to him: whichever excuse he makes, he can't escape the fact that he wants to devour every last scrap of her.
He knows she's seen it because he knows she's drawn it.
The chronology of her drawings - of her visions, really - has always been unreliable at best. One of her drawings, over which she'd labored with a knotted brow that only meant he was swiping the notebook the second she departed for the shower, showed them attached at the mouth when her hair was blue, when her face had lines that revealed she hadn't had an easy time of it.
She's more transparent than is comfortable for either of them, even if she'll never admit that he's read her right. He knows she's built her life these last few years around the idea that he wanted, wants, will always want Kira and not her, that he thinks of her as just his pain-in-the-ass kid sister. She never does let herself buy hair dye of that particular blue, even when he lobs a box of "Oh, Those Azure Nights" in her basket when they're wandering around a pharmacy on her sixteenth birthday. She tosses it before they get to the register, but she lets him buy a packet of blue candles for her red velvet cupcake.
*
They're in another city that smells like cheap food and cheap sex and they're running on empty.
It's been a little more than a month of teetering between wanting to join forces with some of the other Lost Boys and Runaway Girls and needing to stay safe and shielded. A little more than a month of practicing their powers in a studio apartment so small that he has to roll across the bed in one direction to get to the bathroom and in the other to get to the counter with a hotplate they call a kitchen. Cassie's slender enough to edge around the bed but she strides over it instead, her boots making shallow, impermanent divots in the slick bedspread.
It's beautiful but scary, how she does what she wants no matter what he's up to. When he's sprawled limply on the bed, worn out from trying to Move the deadbolt without the inconsistent charge of adrenaline, she steps over his head instead of rerouting. He looks up and catches a flash of white cotton panties just above his face and all of that misspent Moving energy floods back through his veins, his blood thrumming at the sight of her so carelessly exposed.
"I think we should talk," some idiot says in his voice.
"You go ahead and do that, champ," Cassie chirps back, settling earphones over her ears. He can hear the heavy metal screaming and he looks at her, how her teeth are small and pearly in a pink mouth, how her eyes greedily devour page after page of the color plates of the paintings in a book he got her once at a bookstore going out of business. How she pivots on the corner of the bed she's claimed so that she can't see him and he can't see the pure curves of her face, like her knobby spine will deter him from bringing up the odd shape of their partnership.
When he reaches out and tugs the crayon-colored locks of hair hanging down her back, she shivers but still doesn't turn around. "I want you to sit on my face," he says, knowing whatever terrible singer is screaming in her ears will drown him out. "I want you on top of me for days. I want you to spread your legs and take me in. Cassie."
*
She ends up with hair that glows cerulean and a face that's dimmed from standing in a shadowed alley lit only by a single indigo bulb. Blue-light special, he thinks, just as his thigh insinuates itself between hers, pressing her back up against brick that must bite at her, if the hell it's wreaking on his hands is anything to go by. He doesn't remember Toronto being this rough, thinks maybe he's assumed that the famously polite Canadians must live in some kind of paradise.
Where he is right now is a paradise, sure enough. Cassie juts her pointy little chin at him, so defiant, and he wants to bite her, tear strips off her with his teeth. It's not his fault that this is happening now, when the world's gone blue. She saw this happen, put it down on paper, and she has to know what she's doing to him. He's wanted her for so long.
"Get the fuck off me," she says, holding herself very still. "Kira left you three years ago, you stupid fuck!" she screams, pounding on his chest with furious fists.
He crowds her, muffling her fists between the two of them. "It's you I'm lookin' at, Cass."
Her face contorts into a mean little sneer. "You do all your looking with your dick?" she asks, grinding against his crotch.
"You got me," he says, pressing a little closer, hiking her unsubstantial weight up the wall with his thigh. She gasps and clutches at his shoulders to try to keep her balance. "You got all of me," he says, and she crumples into his kiss.
*
She's on the bed because he put her there, because that's where she wants to be. He tells himself to keep it together and knows he hasn't got a chance.
Cassie is splayed out like a rag doll, too focused on him to worry about appearing seductive. Lying down like this, her skirt is too short to cover her panties. None of that detracts from her carved-ivory elegance, the sweet neatness of her long limbs and small face. He can smell her, thinks how she would look if he got her drenched by Moving her instead of fucking her, how beautifully flushed and taut she could be at once.
He lets her think she's getting her way when he starts stripping off his clothes; there's not a lot he wouldn't do when she raises that imperious eyebrow. Being naked in front of her makes sense, so it's easy. While she's distracted, looking him over in a way that reminds him that this is the first time someone's been naked with intent this close to her, he makes his Move.
He Moves the hairs on her arm, feeling each one slowly rise as goosebumps swell on her trembling skin. Her face goes white and shocked, her mouth opening as she helplessly twines her arms around each other over her head. He sees bursts of color on the pads of her intertwining fingers. The white cotton of her panties grows damply translucent.
"Oh, babygirl," he groans, one hand sneaking up to play with himself. He needs this, but more than that he wants her to give it to him; he lets go after one rough stroke.
"Nick," she says, spreading her legs, writhing like she can wriggle out of all her clinging clothes. Her fingers drift uselessly down, completely ineffective, or maybe she just wants to touch the pulsing core of herself. He's going to get there first.
He catches one of her ankles and pulls at her panties, ripping them off. He marvels at her elasticity when he lays that thigh flat on the bed, propping her open, and then tugs her so her perfect peach of a cunt is at the edge of their unmade bed and he can kneel and put his mouth on her.
His first avid suck electrocutes her, judging by the sudden rigidity of her limbs. Her hands are fisted in his hair, pulling it every which way, and he smiles against the wet silkiness of her flesh, teasing her with the poking tip of his tongue. Cassie is moaning, a low and unbroken wave of sound, and of course she is, this is her first time, anything will feel amazing. Caught up in his own brain, he doesn't know what to do without the pressure of living up to some impossible standard, and he loses his rhythm.
She chokes when he pulls back, gulping on all the air she's been too distracted to breathe. "Nick?" she says again, not understanding, and he parts her sparse curls and just looks at her, pink and shining underneath his rough hands. She hiccups, and there's a tear leaking out of one eye, so he Moves to gather her up and lift her toward his waiting mouth. He's not so much gentle as strategic, learning her, nipping and licking at her until her knees lock around his skull and only her shoulder blades are still on the bed. She tastes thin and sweet on his tongue, even a little green like something not fully ripe. He'll take it, take her, because he couldn't have waited any longer.
He doesn't even get a finger in her before she's coming endlessly, jerking like it hurts and panting out sharp little moans. Another wave of desire crashes over him even as he's drinking her down. She tries to close her legs, feebly pushes his head away with her hands to get him out of the way. He's not done, but she must be unbearably sensitive right now. He gets on the bed just as she rolls onto her side. Her skirt is still bunched around her waist, and he pushes her thin shirt up, baring the soft skin of her back. She has two dark, flat moles near her spine, and he noses against them as his hand comes up to cup the slight swell of her bared breast.
"No more," she moans, trying to twist away from him. The head of his straining cock drags deliciously against the stiff fabric of her skirt as she moves.
"Cassie," he says, just to himself, to remind himself that he loves her, that she literally can't do any more now. A real gentleman would pick himself off the bed and beat off in the bathroom.
"Yeah?" she asks, so soft in their cave of a room, voice thick with emotion and exhaustion. She's exposed and under his hands and she deserves better. He kisses the nape of her neck, drags the flat sheet over her still form, and rolls onto his back.
"I love you," he says, his dick in his hand, the uncolored waves of her hair tickling his shoulder. He breathes in the smell of her lingering in the air, and strokes, catching his spunk with her damp, torn panties. His mouth is still watering for the taste of her but he closes his eyes and breathes in time with her, knowing she's asleep and won't say it back.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
As always, I'd love to hear what you think.
This same entry also appears on Dreamwidth, at http://innie-darling.dreamwidth.org/460036.html.