Title: Wicked
Author: ibshafer
Rating: Hard R

Fandom: Hedwig and the Angry Inch
Character/Pairing: Hedwig/Tommy
Disclaimer: I don't own these people, they own themselves and are just nice enough to let me spin them around the page now and then.
Summary: AU; what would have happened if the limo hadn't crashed?
Warnings: sex, adult acts, not explicit

Wicked

~ibshafer

It was wrong.

She knew it was wrong.

She just doesn't care anymore.

She had given so much of herself to this man, this boy, and in return, only been given heartache and outright theft; he'd stolen her soul and she had been in pursuit, of both it and him, for some time now.

Not even this act could balance the scales, satisfy the debt, fill the aching hole where her heart was meant to be, but she did not care.

Something had to belong to her, even if for just a short time, even if only stolen.

She could make herself believe, she was the Queen of Make-Believe, after all, that there was some kernel of truth, some facet of reality buried deep within the baseness of it, the instinctive, wanton, pleasure-seeking animal act, but tomorrow would dawn, as it always did, and she would be alone.

And they would be strangers.

Again.

Now, though, they most certainly were not.

He had downed enough brandy to render him misty-eyed and dreamy and in that rose-hued vision, the wrongness of her, the wrongness that was an integral part of her, as much a part of her as her name and her vast wardrobe and wig collection, was softened, transforming her into the creature she always knew herself to be.

He did love her.

The pain in his eyes, the breath at her neck, lips trailing down the smooth column, said as much and more.

"Tommy," she whispered, breathless, heart pounding.

She wanted to stop him.

No, strike that.

She didn't want to stop him.

She knew she should, knew she would spend many sleepless nights torturing herself if she didn't stop him, but she welcomed the pain, welcomed the connection that pain would always bring her; a connection to him.

She did love him.

And so though she should have taken his hand from where it lay buried in her lap, should have pulled away from his mouth, sweet and mobile against her own, she did not.

In the dim light of a cluttered alley, the limo's nose deep in the detritus, she eased his seat back and knelt in worship, not of the icon he had become, but of the sweet, earnest boy whose young and limited life had not given him the tools to comprehend the supremely damaged creature that she was, an ignorance for which she could not blame him.

Tonight she would teach him.

His breath was stilted and his sweet voice a tiny, gasping cry. The reflexive movements of his hips against her palms and the swollen heat searing her tongue, told her the time was at hand and with a fluid motion, she rose above him, rose onto him, and both gave and claimed what the moment demanded.

The choking gasp torn from his lungs, eyes wide, mouth a grimace of pleasure, was gratitude enough, but when she buried her hands in his disheveled locks and sought out his sweet lips, she felt the rumbling of his moan deep in her own chest even as his hands found her hips, holding her fast to him as he succumbed to the call.

He abruptly broke away from the kiss and she could feel that he needed to speak, had something to say, but at this moment, the thing she needed most was not half-truths, apologies or lies. She needed the oblivion of the union, she needed his heat, she needed this frenzy fueled by remorse.

His very body was his apology.

And so she silenced him, tongue deep in his wicked mouth, fingers brushing at the tears that wet his face, and she poured her heart and what was left of her soul into every movement, every moment, of this wanton, searing, desperate act.

Only when with a rush and a hoarse guttural cry, she had reached her limit, did she relinquish her control of his now swollen lips, throwing her head back with her release, and so a moment later when he followed her over the edge, she no longer guarded his either his mouth or his tongue.

"I love you," he breathed, crushing her to him. "I'm so sorry. So sorry." Lips to her larynx, she felt him suckling as she moaned, understood the understanding of the gesture, and silenced him yet again, lips tight to his.

True or not, it did not matter.

She had gotten what she came for, or rather, what she had happened upon by chance, or rather still, what had found her when she was looking for something else, and that would be enough.

She held him for a while longer, and then, when he'd drifted off to sleep, perhaps to fevered dreams of her, she mused, she lowered herself into the driver's seat once more, drove the limo to the parking lot of the nearest supermarket, and with one last kiss to his sleeping mouth, she climbed back into the night, leaving him to his dreams and his declarations.

Love and regret are relative things, both of which she could lay as much claim to as he.

Perhaps his biggest crime had not been the theft of those songs, but the theft of her heart, of her soul.

And now, with both restored, returned, she could take the pieces off the ground, yet again, and show the wicked world, and the icon, a thing both beautiful and new.