Disclaimer: The story is mine but the incredible-ness of Dean, Sam, or anything else you're familiar with cannot be credited to me.
Swell
Must be your skin that I'm sinking in
Must be for real 'cause now I can feel
And I didn't mind
It's not my kind
Not my time to wonder why
(Glycerine – Bush)
-
She chews on her pens. Well she doesn't chew on them really; but there's always a pen in her mouth, clamped between her teeth while she's working.
I glance at the pen in my own hand, the one I've been using to circle possible cases in the newspaper spread out before me, looking for the slight indents left by her teeth. We all use the same pens and I'm certain that every one we own has been marked by her, my eyes catch on the slight scratches in the white plastic. I put the pen down.
I don't know why, but the thought of using a pen that's been in her mouth is just too much.
-
I love chocolate ice cream, smooth and freezing cold; rich enough to give you a toothache just looking at it. Little shops like this always serve the best.
I'm sitting across from Sam and Angie, in a booth coated in cherry red vinyl, digging into my frozen treat methodically, laying siege to the sprinkled mountain in my bowl. My spoon is caught halfway to it's destination when my concentration is shattered.
Angie repeats the motion that drew my interest. Her focus is unparalleled as she lifts a gleaming spoonful of strawberry ice cream to her mouth, slipping it past her lips, twisting the spoon upside down, and then dragging it back out. I'm stuck helplessly, imagining how her tongue molds against the concave curve of the spoon as it travels out of her mouth.
I swear lowly and shift in my seat as chocolate ice cream seeps into my pants, glaring at my own spoon as I stab it remorselessly back into the bowl and reach for a stack of napkins.
-
I don't know what she's reading, but it can't be anything very interesting—the life of Sherman Graham isn't exactly fascinating—but she's reading the book on the table like it's a novel on the New York Times Bestsellers List. It's when her focus is so acute that my own shifts. It has to be a habit because she never seems aware that she's doing it, but I notice every God damn time.
Her elbow is seated firmly on the table, palm cupping the curve of her cheek and supporting her head. White teeth are sinking into the plump flesh of her lower lip. I try not to stare—really, I should be given a cookie for my effort—I try to return my gaze to the newsprint in my hands, but the shift in color from pink to red has me transfixed in a way that words cannot hope to mirror. It's at this moment, when I'm so severely distracted, that I shift and the chair falls swiftly backwards. I don't blush, but I stand up quickly, avoiding the looks from the other library patrons as I right my chair. Angie's eyes are twinkling with laughter and broadcasting an 'I told you so,' but the swollen flesh of her lips curled into a smug smile is all I can see.
I settle back in my chair, leaning back on the hind legs just to spite my audience and those lips.
-
The woman has more Chapstick than a pharmacy. She has a variety of multicolored plastic tubes everywhere. There are three in the glove box alone. It's like every time I look at her she's smearing the stuff on. Sometimes the smell is minty, other times it's fruity, mostly I just wish she'd stop it. Her lips looked soft enough, they weren't chapped. So what did she need that stuff for; besides to drive me fucking crazy?
As if the chewing and constant licking weren't enough, now the lips that have had way too much of my attention look wet and bitable—the word juicy comes to mind. I'm considering just leaving her at the next rest stop. Better to deal with a pissy Sam than a woman with an oral fixation.
"Dean, here." I glance up from the yellow line that stretches off into the horizon. I glare at the small green container in her hand. "Come on, take it."
My tongue flickers across my lips, they taste dry and dusty, just like the air around us. I exhale loudly, emphasizing that I really don't want to do this, before I grab the small tube and spread the thick balm across my own lips. I toss the tube back to her as I rub my lips together and glare at the asphalt.
Why did it have to be Strawberry?
-
It's a well-known fact that I have a sweet tooth, many would go so far as to say that my hunger for all things saccharine and cavity-causing is unrivalled. I disagree.
I may carry jumbo-sized bags of peanut M&M's in my jacket pockets, but Angie definitely takes the gold. She has Snickers bars stuffed in the side-pockets of her duffel, rolls of Lifesavers in the pocket of her coat, a pack or two of Bubblicious tucked away in her purse, and a never-ending supply of Blow Pops in her back pack. The chocolate I can handle, it's slick and rich but I'm not a big fan of caramel. Lifesavers are too fruity for my tastes, in more ways than one. The Bubblicious is damn tempting but the flavor lasts about as long as the timers on vibrating beds—never long enough to really satisfy you. But the Blow Pops, those kill me—she has a fondness for the Strawberry ones, though the Grape come in a close second. It's really not my fault though, it isn't just the workings of my overactive libido. It's like she does it on purpose.
I'll be driving down yet another endless stretch of road and even over the deafening bass, loud guitar and screaming vocals I can hear the faintest whisper of those vibrant plastic wrappers. Then because I'm a closet masochist, my eyes are just drawn to the rear view mirror. In a last effort for salvation I'll try focusing on something small, like her feet. A set of appendages that are seemingly innocuous, but nothing about her really is. Her toes are painted a vibrant Sour Green Apple color and they're moving to the beat of music I've long since tuned out. Her pajama pants (which she insists, make the long rides more comfortable) are striped and sport cute cartoon ducklings around the hem. Cartoon ducks and the color green have no right making me want to pull the car over and dive over my seat.
My gaze flickers back to the road but nothing has changed there, I spare Sam a quick look, but he's passed out; cheek pressed to the window, jaw hanging loosely—which makes me wish I had a spare spoon. It doesn't take my eyes long to betray me once again.
Her hand is holding a paper back book firmly against her upraised knees and the other is slowly rolling the white stick between her fingers. Around the paper stem her lips are moist and stained an artificial red, but I'd bet the money I won last night off those drunken bikers that they taste like the sweetest strawberries.
She shifts the candy from the cavern of her mouth to the inside of her cheek. It makes her look young, makes her look her actual age. Moments later, she pulls the candy out of her mouth. Muscles shift as her tongue moves, it's searching out the remaining traces of sugar and washing them away.
The confection has patches of soft pink showing through the glistening red outer layer, which means she's nearly finished. Her tongue—a wet ruby edged in soft coral—slides across her lips and then reaches out to wrap around the candy as it disappears once again into her mouth.
With a series of muffled crunches and the disposal of a barren stick her sugar fix is satisfied, and her jaw moves rhythmically as she savors the sweet bubble gum filling.
-
Her mouth is sweet—no doubt that it has something to do with that kiddy toothpaste she uses—and it's hot like a sauna. This isn't the first time we've kissed, but this is the first time we've kissed like this.
Our tongues are slick as they move. Her mouth is uncharted territory that I explore with barely restrained enthusiasm. From the rugged roof of her mouth, to the smooth skin of her inner cheek; my voyaging gets impeded by the scrape of her teeth as she tugs my lip into her mouth. There's a soft pull—the feeling of blood traveling to the surface of the skin—and then a hot tongue easing along the swollen flesh.
Suddenly, blood is rushing elsewhere.
Her mouth is determined as it journeys along my jaw. The breath coming from her mouth is warm and heavy as it slides across my cheek. Oh fuck. I groan loudly and my body tenses like this is my first time; it's not, but it fucking feels like it. My heart is pumping, blood is flowing, and I'm actually nervous—yeah, nervous; real cool.
My muscles are trying to shake my skin loose apparently, because there's no way I'm trembling. Not when I haven't done anything more than kiss her. If she says anything I'll have to make something up about the room temperature, but somehow I doubt she has noticed.
Her lips are wrapped firmly around my pulse, sucking hard enough I think I feel my veins shift. Wait, isn't there a rule somewhere that says only guys can administer hickeys? She pulls back and looks at the skin, I can't see it but it feels purple—I've had enough bruises to know the feel of a color. She looks satisfied and I try pulling her face back to mine, try to take the reigns out of her hands, but she evades.
My shirt gets pulled up and over my head. I have the chance to register the loss of three layers of cloth, the caress of cool air, before her mouth is scorching my skin. My sternum is practically jumping, thrumming with the beat of my heart like the floor of a nightclub. I bend my head and try to lick her neck. What? It would have gotten her attention. It seems she's got a specific purpose in mind though, because she avoids my mouth. Can't say I really mind, but it's fucking weird—I like to participate and she seems steadfastly against that.
When she slides to her knees in a single fluid motion, I consider asking her to pick up my jaw while she's down there. I consider myself to be experienced, but I never considered Angie to be the type of girl who took control like this. Most chicks expect to get a little before they give anything; not that I care because mutual satisfaction is guaranteed.
Her mouth felt hot to my tongue, but it's actually a furnace—and I've officially reverted back to the sixteen year old boy who came at the feel of a tit in the backseat of his father's car.
The wall is firm behind me and it's a good thing too, because without it I wouldn't be standing. She isn't the best at this, it's obvious that she hasn't done it before, but with some practice—I'll volunteer right now to be her dummy—she definitely could be.
Her lips drag along my oversensitive skin, moving in time with the throbbing in my veins. It's almost painful, the wet friction and the feel of her tongue—soft and rough. Sheer willpower alone is what keeps my fingers from diving into her hair, even though my hands crave the sensation of the silken locks, the potential of causing her pain is enough to keep them still. They shake and clutch for purchase at the wall behind me instead, my head banging back against it as she flicks and curls her tongue, one sharply white incisor scraping lightly, pleasure crawling up my spine in thick fingers spiked with lust. Her fingers digging into my hipbones, Sour Green Apple polish contrast to the white of my skin, blood chased away by her tight grip. The cool swish of her hair on the overheated flesh of my thighs.
My mouth is dry, tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth, and I've an inkling that it's because every fluid in my body is rushing southward. I try getting her attention, but the words come out as a loud groan rather than anything coherent, and my hypothesis is proven. There aren't stars blinking behind my eyelids and I don't feel like I'm falling, it's more like everything stops, blanking in a crush of white noise – but then it all comes back in a rush to compensate. It floods me in a tsunami of physical sensations; air inhaled as quickly as possible, my pulse tap dancing through my veins, every nerve in my body is bouncing around with sweet, heated gratification. The southbound liquid must have washed away my brain because my mind vacates for long minutes and there's nothing but the wall at my back and the trembling in my legs.
I realize later, when some semblance of thought returns to me, that the reason I can't see isn't because I've gone blind. My eyes are just closed, so I blink and the first thing I see are those swollen lips trapped beneath those white teeth.
I reach out and tangle my fingers in the dark fall of her hair, belated satisfaction. Using the mass of curls as leverage I pull her to me. She comes willingly this time and I devour her mouth using her saliva to wet my dry tongue. I'm already planning out my next move when she pulls back, stopping long enough to kiss my chin lightly before she disappears behind the door of the bathroom. I've kicked down doors hundreds of times sturdier—this one probably has a cardboard or plywood core—but I pause confused. We talked about this and I know she said a lot of stuff about "going slowly" and whatnot, but I'm fairly certain she's the one who took it this far. I decide to shed my jeans and just go to bed. I slide beneath the cool sheets in nothing but my boxers and wait.
I tuck my hands beneath my head, concentrating on the cracks in the ceiling, asking myself why I fell for such a strange chick. I mean, I get that she wants more than hardcore sex, that's mutual; but sometimes it's almost like she doesn't want me touching her that way. It doesn't make a lick of sense when I know that Ange is comfortable with sex, hell she knows more about it than Sam does—she rattles off sex facts the way most people talk about the weather. Yet another thing to add to the list I've been compiling of all the shit I don't understand about her. Never had I regretted my inept conversation skills before I met her, even though I know it would lead to a series of chick flick moments, I really wish I could talk to her about it. You know, just ask her what's going on behind those coffee eyes.
Angie slides into the bed on the left side, curling around her pillow like she always does. I look at the glowing face of the clock and then at the door wondering where the hell Sam is.
The mattress shifts as she turns on her side, she doesn't cuddle so I'm not expecting the feel of her hand, soft and familiar, on my chest. Her lips press into mine long enough for me to catch the scent of her toothpaste and then she's pulling back. She settles back onto her side of the bed with a whispered 'goodnight' and a loud yawn, but her hand stays where she put it. Each finger feels heavy and the skin beneath burns in acknowledgement, the contact is an answer to a question I hadn't thought to ask.
Title from the song "Swell" by locofocos
A/N: I have to give a co-author credit to my wonderful beta Feralpixc, the parts that don't suck were all hers! Or at least most of them were. Thanks for reading and, hopefully, reviewing.