SpN fic Post: Lately....
4/25/07 05:22 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
roxyfic post:SpN
Title:Lately
Fandom:SpN
Pairing:tchah!Not to be making me laugh....
Rating:4...ish?
Summary: This is mkitty_03's PWP, 'cause I lub her.
A/N: any glaring mistakes of logic and sense are mine, God knows![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
mecurtin is doing her best to save me. Thanks so much!
Also, be careful of my rating...sometimes I might not get it quite right...but this part the
P(orn) is really mild, so mild as to be nearly unnoticeable. *sigh* I'm trying, I swear!
p.s. i have really weird and dull kinks...
parts 1-4
Another motel, not much different from all the others, except it was in another county, another state. This new place has got a lawn in the back of it, drying into straw in the summer heat and, sitting on that, a couple of lawn chairs that might have been new when dinosaurs roamed the earth.
They were sitting in the antique lawn chairs, eating grilled cheese sandwiches he’d made on the hotplate, and just bullshitting…
“You know what I like? I like swimming.”
“Yeah, I think we all kinda noticed that. Anytime we’re near anything deeper than a puddle you wanna jump in.” he grins as he says it and Sam grins back, says, “Yeah, I wonder why that is?”
“Duh. Summer hot, water cool. Sammy, Sammy--always looking for some thing more. Sometimes Sam, a cigar is just a cigar.”
“…what?”
Shrugs. “I heard it somewhere—but I think it means, sometimes something just…is. You like to swim, ‘cause it’s fun.
Sam laughs. “Well, yeah, there’s that…but there’s more too. Floating, relaxed…it’s like flying kind of? I close my eyes and pretend I’m in the clouds.” Sam’s smiling, so he doesn’t have the heart to laugh at him--besides, he gets it. Completely gets what Sam’s trying to say. Maybe Sam doesn’t know himself but--getting away. It’s all about getting away.
What if Sam decides he needs to get *away* away?
What if he leaves?
Leaves him?
Sam turns to him and says, “I love you.”
He chokes a bit on a lump of sandwich, swallows hard. “Um. Yeah, me too. Besides we have to, we’re family. It’s the law.” Grins.
Sam’s looking serious. “No,” he says and his voice drops, it’s really deep. Like a man’s. Which, Sam is. A man. Or right there, right at the point you drop over and you’re not a boy anymore… "No, I mean, I *love* you.”
*Fuck. Don’t ruin it, why do you have to ruin it, we were having a nice time, don’t ruin it….*
“All we have is each other, don’t you see? Who else could understand--know what we do? Have what we have?”
He sits up, grabs Sam’s hand and —shit, his eyes light up like a fucking Christmas tree… “Sammy—Sam—we don’t have anything. You’re my brother—that’s it. I love you man, no doubt I do. I love Dad, I love you. That’s it. We’re family. We kinda have to love each other—no choice.”
Sam looks like he just got smacked. Shit.
“You get it?” *please get it so I can stop talking….* It was like kicking puppies.
No, it was like fucking stomping on their heads…no light in Sam’s eyes now. Something else.
“Liar. You’re a liar Dean.”
“No, kid, I’m telling the truth.” That you need to hear. “Believe it.” Please… “Understand?”
He expects Sam to yank his hand away, to yell—throw a tantrum. But he doesn’t. Sits there. Looks at him and nods, once.
That’s it.
It’s over. Sun’s almost down and it’s cold and…
Fuck.
*FUCK*
*******
Idaho. Oregon. All the way back to California before he makes Dad remember his promise--a base—a real place to live in—for Sammy.
That’s how they end up in a seen better days tract house, in a neighborhood whose backyards bordered hell. Last on the left, in the end of a cul de sac. Twenty-four/seven, the sound of truck tires barreling past on the interstate sang out to them, sometimes broken by the sound of metal impacting, shrieking sirens. After a while, hell, it was as good as a lullaby.
At night, the light from inside shone through gaps in the walls. If you squinted, it was kind of like Christmas lights all year long--real festive. There was a tree dying in the front yard, and in the back, an ancient swing set made of red paint and rust. When the wind got busy blowing, the swings moved, creaked and screamed like extras in a horror movie.
Didn’t bother them one bit—been there, done that. Things screaming in the night just meant lock and load.
There were other houses around them, close enough to open a window and touch the place next door--but they were alone. Just the way they liked it.
So…Sammy’s into his books, wrapped up in school like it’s fun or something. Dad’s kind of hanging around, cleaning guns, making notes, he’s got this big ass logbook, and he’s writing a lot.
Stuff starts accumulating. Dad brings home a table, a bookcase. He brings home a rug. Sam brings home teenage attitude.
The place starts to take on some personality. It’s becoming their place. Kind of like home….
It’s not long before Dad’s gone off again—Missouri, or Michigan or something, and not a fucking moment too soon.
Freedom!
He brings home a girl first night, kicks the newspapers under the couch, and smears a rag through the sticky rings on the coffee table. Sam’s in the kitchen washing dishes, and he's
on the couch with the chick, hands down her pants and tongue down her throat.
He hears a door slam. "Be right back.” Slithers off the couch and stalks back to their bedroom, ready to throw Sam out of the room-- hey, he’s gonna need the damn bed, after all…
Hunh. Sam’s in Dad’s room.
Good. Well…good. He doesn’t have to say anything. Good. Great. He tries the door and it’s locked. Fine. And good.
He fucks this girl so hard, the headboard slams into the wall, chipping cheap paint and plaster right off the motherfucker—slam slam slam and she’s screaming his name. Fuck yeah.
Every night Dad’s gone, a different girl is in the house and Sam sleeps in Dad’s bed.
*****
“So, I’m getting a tutor for…” Sam stops and laughs. Kind of rolls his eyes. “Never mind. Anyway, they’ll be over tonight.” He drops his spoon into the bowl of cereal, and sighs. “What are you doing tonight. Dean?”
He smirks, chews his toast open mouthed. “You mean who, don’t you?”
Sam makes him clean up, ‘cause he’s a God damn girl.
He’s fishing underwear out of the couch…silk, with some kind of…monkey printed on them or something. He watches Sam sweep the floor, the broom sweeps around the floor, under the chair and sweeps out socks and a book and a pizza crust and…Sam’s back is a long straight exclamation point of outrage…he looks down at the dust and junk and there’s a…oh.
A condom. Right.
Forgot about that…
“Sorry.”
“For what? That you’re a pig?”
That hurt… “Hey! Sex god, dude…”
“Fuck you.”
“Yeah? Fuck you! Why are we cleaning like you’ve got a date? It’s just a fuckin’…”
Tutor.
*You’ve got a date. Of course you’ve got a date. Why not?*
It feels like shit.
“Yeah, well, I hope she likes peanut butter and crackers because I’m not cooking.”
"Jerk.”
“Bitch.”
*****
He doesn’t even see this tutor, he’s gone with Dad—there’s a favor Dad owes, and they’re off to do an exorcism. He fucking *hates* them. Sammy’s better with the Latin, but Dad needs muscle too…
Hate hate hate exorcisms, hates seeing the demon under human skin, hates seeing the other lurking in the human face. The eyes…eyes are the worst. If eyes are the window to the soul…
This one was every bit as horrible as he figured it would be. The kid—reminded him of Sam. It was bad, but it was over and everyone was alive, had all their fingers and toes, so it was a freaking success… he was going to believe the kid when he said he couldn’t remember anything.
No matter what the boy’s eyes said….
And they’re home sweet home--smell of roasting pork in the air, dogs are barking up and down the block, airplanes are droning overhead. Hot dry wind is whipping up the dust in the front yard, and in the distance he can hear some woman screaming curses.
God damn it’s good to be home again.
He’s grinning, getting ready to yell out Sam’s name and the door opens.
And there’s the Tutor. There he is.
“Dean.” Dad’s voice cuts through his shock like a knife. Damn it. He jogs back to get the bags, and Sam comes down the walk and holds the gate open for them, lets the tutor escape, books bumping on his hip as the kid makes a beeline for the street.
Dad walks past Sam, brisk, straight—he’s showing no sign of the exhaustion that’s gotta be eating him up, the bone creaking tired that’s painting dark smudges under his eyes—he just smiles at Sam like he’s happy to see him. “Sammy.” Slaps his shoulder and heads into the house, but Sam’s not looking at Dad anymore, he’s looking his way….
And still holding the gate.
*Okay.* He squeezes past and looks Sam in the eyes. “Your t-shirt...is…on backward.”
Sam doesn’t even blush, bastard, fucking…looks back all serious and says, “Are you jealous? I’m trying to make you jealous.”
What the fuck? “Dude…” *DAMN IT* Yes. "Yeah. I am.”
Sam nods, still serious. “Good. Good.”
He’s still standing on the sidewalk as Sam walks into the house. “The fuck?” Asks the dog slinking past, asks the clouds. “What the *fuck* just happened here? Can somebody explain how my *FUCKED* up life just got worse?”
******
He’s in one bed, and Sam’s in the other. He can’t keep his eyes off Sammy, because really? He’s starting to scare the shit out of him. He watches him through narrowed eyes; faking sleep himself until Sam snores, and he knows for sure he’s asleep and gratefully turns to the wall. He’ll never sleep. Never.
That kid’s eyes are there every time he shuts his own.
Feels a dip in the bed…oh God…not again…
He feels something warm, a silky weight glide along the inside of his thigh, and he groans. Slides back, pushes, and there’s a wet trail now, nudges against him, slides between his thighs, sliding in a thicker pool of wet. And he has to stop this right now, now. Sam’s cock under his balls, past them, back, Sam’s shoving himself between his thighs and all he can do is tighten until he’s stiff all over—shuddering every time that hot smooth head rubs against him. He’s shaking, stuttering out, “ Dad…Dad could come in.”
“So? He knows we sleep in the same bed some time…” he bites the back of his neck. “I want to be in you.”
*No!* But he quakes...bites his lip. Muscles seize up, Sam’s groaning, and the sound of it is so hot and he has to come. He feels Sam’s fingers drill into the thin skin stretched tight over his hips, feels hot wet spread over his legs, can feel Sam’s cock jump as he comes all over him…
Wakes up holding in a groan, alone, the newspaper rough sheets scraping against the head of his cock, and wet, shit…all over, all his.
*****
The tutor comes out of the house and looks over to where he’s sitting in the car, doors open and the old head station Dad listens to banging on the radio. He looks over at Our Tutor, and grins, raises his eyebrows. The kid looks rumpled and crumbled and he wonders just how much Sammy’s learning here. What he’s learning.
The kid heads for the gate, and he asks, “Hey, need a ride?” and something in the back of his mind kind of kicks in…not a real good thing, not a real bad thing…yet.
“Sure—thanks.”
Off they go, and he feels…chatty. Kind of talkative. “So, Sam’s in your class? Yeah? How’s he doing? Good? Good. Wanna get something? Coke or something? You have to go home right now?” That get’s a slow smile, and a blush…yeah.
So they end up in the parking lot behind the playground and by this time it’s dark and no one sane is out there…He’s sitting in the back of the car. If the car could talk—he’d be dead meat.
The kid’s on his lap, and he’s kissing him, talking to the kid between hungry kisses… “I won’t tell…you his boyfriend? No? Good…” He kisses him, searches out every little spot in his mouth for Sam, under his tongue, his lips, inside his cheeks, he chases any possible trace of Sam, warm and a little salty—sucks his tongue and thinks about sucking his cock. “He touch you? Where? Here?”
He slides down on the little strip of floor with his ass against the front seat, one foot jammed against the console, unzipping the kid, yanking his jeans down. “Turn around, hold the seat back…you liked it? When he fucked you?” Asks again, with his lips grazing flesh, a kiss…*was he good, did he make you come like that, did he…did he say my name?*
Lips press against the hot hole exposed, hot, wet, red…when his tongue touches him, the kid jerks away, but he holds him—won’t let him move…*Did he fuck you hard?* He works his tongue in, wet and spit. He tries to shove as much into that little hole as he can, he’s not even thinking of anything but Sam now—this kid is nobody, just where Sam was and he wants to be there—he wants Sam. Wants to feel what this kid felt.
He really wants to be fucked by Sam and he really wants to *not* be fucked by him and it’s kind of too much, and he starts to cry, thank God, quietly. But tears keep filling his eyes and running down and he feels like an idiot. A crucified idiot.
He fucks this kid, fucks him carefully, like he’s made of glass…because really? He wants to hurt him.
Afterward, when the tutor is gone and he’s back home again, he parks in the drive and lays on the back seat, face pressed to the vinyl. He smells plastic and dust. Upholstery. Old carpet and hotdogs and the faintest whiff of smoke, vomit…and sex.
tbc...
Title:Lately
Fandom:SpN
Pairing:tchah!Not to be making me laugh....
Rating:4...ish?
Summary: This is mkitty_03's PWP, 'cause I lub her.
A/N: any glaring mistakes of logic and sense are mine, God knows
mecurtin is doing her best to save me. Thanks so much! Also, be careful of my rating...sometimes I might not get it quite right...but this part the
P(orn) is really mild, so mild as to be nearly unnoticeable. *sigh* I'm trying, I swear!
p.s. i have really weird and dull kinks...
parts 1-4
Another motel, not much different from all the others, except it was in another county, another state. This new place has got a lawn in the back of it, drying into straw in the summer heat and, sitting on that, a couple of lawn chairs that might have been new when dinosaurs roamed the earth.
They were sitting in the antique lawn chairs, eating grilled cheese sandwiches he’d made on the hotplate, and just bullshitting…
“You know what I like? I like swimming.”
“Yeah, I think we all kinda noticed that. Anytime we’re near anything deeper than a puddle you wanna jump in.” he grins as he says it and Sam grins back, says, “Yeah, I wonder why that is?”
“Duh. Summer hot, water cool. Sammy, Sammy--always looking for some thing more. Sometimes Sam, a cigar is just a cigar.”
“…what?”
Shrugs. “I heard it somewhere—but I think it means, sometimes something just…is. You like to swim, ‘cause it’s fun.
Sam laughs. “Well, yeah, there’s that…but there’s more too. Floating, relaxed…it’s like flying kind of? I close my eyes and pretend I’m in the clouds.” Sam’s smiling, so he doesn’t have the heart to laugh at him--besides, he gets it. Completely gets what Sam’s trying to say. Maybe Sam doesn’t know himself but--getting away. It’s all about getting away.
What if Sam decides he needs to get *away* away?
What if he leaves?
Leaves him?
Sam turns to him and says, “I love you.”
He chokes a bit on a lump of sandwich, swallows hard. “Um. Yeah, me too. Besides we have to, we’re family. It’s the law.” Grins.
Sam’s looking serious. “No,” he says and his voice drops, it’s really deep. Like a man’s. Which, Sam is. A man. Or right there, right at the point you drop over and you’re not a boy anymore… "No, I mean, I *love* you.”
*Fuck. Don’t ruin it, why do you have to ruin it, we were having a nice time, don’t ruin it….*
“All we have is each other, don’t you see? Who else could understand--know what we do? Have what we have?”
He sits up, grabs Sam’s hand and —shit, his eyes light up like a fucking Christmas tree… “Sammy—Sam—we don’t have anything. You’re my brother—that’s it. I love you man, no doubt I do. I love Dad, I love you. That’s it. We’re family. We kinda have to love each other—no choice.”
Sam looks like he just got smacked. Shit.
“You get it?” *please get it so I can stop talking….* It was like kicking puppies.
No, it was like fucking stomping on their heads…no light in Sam’s eyes now. Something else.
“Liar. You’re a liar Dean.”
“No, kid, I’m telling the truth.” That you need to hear. “Believe it.” Please… “Understand?”
He expects Sam to yank his hand away, to yell—throw a tantrum. But he doesn’t. Sits there. Looks at him and nods, once.
That’s it.
It’s over. Sun’s almost down and it’s cold and…
Fuck.
*FUCK*
*******
Idaho. Oregon. All the way back to California before he makes Dad remember his promise--a base—a real place to live in—for Sammy.
That’s how they end up in a seen better days tract house, in a neighborhood whose backyards bordered hell. Last on the left, in the end of a cul de sac. Twenty-four/seven, the sound of truck tires barreling past on the interstate sang out to them, sometimes broken by the sound of metal impacting, shrieking sirens. After a while, hell, it was as good as a lullaby.
At night, the light from inside shone through gaps in the walls. If you squinted, it was kind of like Christmas lights all year long--real festive. There was a tree dying in the front yard, and in the back, an ancient swing set made of red paint and rust. When the wind got busy blowing, the swings moved, creaked and screamed like extras in a horror movie.
Didn’t bother them one bit—been there, done that. Things screaming in the night just meant lock and load.
There were other houses around them, close enough to open a window and touch the place next door--but they were alone. Just the way they liked it.
So…Sammy’s into his books, wrapped up in school like it’s fun or something. Dad’s kind of hanging around, cleaning guns, making notes, he’s got this big ass logbook, and he’s writing a lot.
Stuff starts accumulating. Dad brings home a table, a bookcase. He brings home a rug. Sam brings home teenage attitude.
The place starts to take on some personality. It’s becoming their place. Kind of like home….
It’s not long before Dad’s gone off again—Missouri, or Michigan or something, and not a fucking moment too soon.
Freedom!
He brings home a girl first night, kicks the newspapers under the couch, and smears a rag through the sticky rings on the coffee table. Sam’s in the kitchen washing dishes, and he's
on the couch with the chick, hands down her pants and tongue down her throat.
He hears a door slam. "Be right back.” Slithers off the couch and stalks back to their bedroom, ready to throw Sam out of the room-- hey, he’s gonna need the damn bed, after all…
Hunh. Sam’s in Dad’s room.
Good. Well…good. He doesn’t have to say anything. Good. Great. He tries the door and it’s locked. Fine. And good.
He fucks this girl so hard, the headboard slams into the wall, chipping cheap paint and plaster right off the motherfucker—slam slam slam and she’s screaming his name. Fuck yeah.
Every night Dad’s gone, a different girl is in the house and Sam sleeps in Dad’s bed.
*****
“So, I’m getting a tutor for…” Sam stops and laughs. Kind of rolls his eyes. “Never mind. Anyway, they’ll be over tonight.” He drops his spoon into the bowl of cereal, and sighs. “What are you doing tonight. Dean?”
He smirks, chews his toast open mouthed. “You mean who, don’t you?”
Sam makes him clean up, ‘cause he’s a God damn girl.
He’s fishing underwear out of the couch…silk, with some kind of…monkey printed on them or something. He watches Sam sweep the floor, the broom sweeps around the floor, under the chair and sweeps out socks and a book and a pizza crust and…Sam’s back is a long straight exclamation point of outrage…he looks down at the dust and junk and there’s a…oh.
A condom. Right.
Forgot about that…
“Sorry.”
“For what? That you’re a pig?”
That hurt… “Hey! Sex god, dude…”
“Fuck you.”
“Yeah? Fuck you! Why are we cleaning like you’ve got a date? It’s just a fuckin’…”
Tutor.
*You’ve got a date. Of course you’ve got a date. Why not?*
It feels like shit.
“Yeah, well, I hope she likes peanut butter and crackers because I’m not cooking.”
"Jerk.”
“Bitch.”
*****
He doesn’t even see this tutor, he’s gone with Dad—there’s a favor Dad owes, and they’re off to do an exorcism. He fucking *hates* them. Sammy’s better with the Latin, but Dad needs muscle too…
Hate hate hate exorcisms, hates seeing the demon under human skin, hates seeing the other lurking in the human face. The eyes…eyes are the worst. If eyes are the window to the soul…
This one was every bit as horrible as he figured it would be. The kid—reminded him of Sam. It was bad, but it was over and everyone was alive, had all their fingers and toes, so it was a freaking success… he was going to believe the kid when he said he couldn’t remember anything.
No matter what the boy’s eyes said….
And they’re home sweet home--smell of roasting pork in the air, dogs are barking up and down the block, airplanes are droning overhead. Hot dry wind is whipping up the dust in the front yard, and in the distance he can hear some woman screaming curses.
God damn it’s good to be home again.
He’s grinning, getting ready to yell out Sam’s name and the door opens.
And there’s the Tutor. There he is.
“Dean.” Dad’s voice cuts through his shock like a knife. Damn it. He jogs back to get the bags, and Sam comes down the walk and holds the gate open for them, lets the tutor escape, books bumping on his hip as the kid makes a beeline for the street.
Dad walks past Sam, brisk, straight—he’s showing no sign of the exhaustion that’s gotta be eating him up, the bone creaking tired that’s painting dark smudges under his eyes—he just smiles at Sam like he’s happy to see him. “Sammy.” Slaps his shoulder and heads into the house, but Sam’s not looking at Dad anymore, he’s looking his way….
And still holding the gate.
*Okay.* He squeezes past and looks Sam in the eyes. “Your t-shirt...is…on backward.”
Sam doesn’t even blush, bastard, fucking…looks back all serious and says, “Are you jealous? I’m trying to make you jealous.”
What the fuck? “Dude…” *DAMN IT* Yes. "Yeah. I am.”
Sam nods, still serious. “Good. Good.”
He’s still standing on the sidewalk as Sam walks into the house. “The fuck?” Asks the dog slinking past, asks the clouds. “What the *fuck* just happened here? Can somebody explain how my *FUCKED* up life just got worse?”
******
He’s in one bed, and Sam’s in the other. He can’t keep his eyes off Sammy, because really? He’s starting to scare the shit out of him. He watches him through narrowed eyes; faking sleep himself until Sam snores, and he knows for sure he’s asleep and gratefully turns to the wall. He’ll never sleep. Never.
That kid’s eyes are there every time he shuts his own.
Feels a dip in the bed…oh God…not again…
He feels something warm, a silky weight glide along the inside of his thigh, and he groans. Slides back, pushes, and there’s a wet trail now, nudges against him, slides between his thighs, sliding in a thicker pool of wet. And he has to stop this right now, now. Sam’s cock under his balls, past them, back, Sam’s shoving himself between his thighs and all he can do is tighten until he’s stiff all over—shuddering every time that hot smooth head rubs against him. He’s shaking, stuttering out, “ Dad…Dad could come in.”
“So? He knows we sleep in the same bed some time…” he bites the back of his neck. “I want to be in you.”
*No!* But he quakes...bites his lip. Muscles seize up, Sam’s groaning, and the sound of it is so hot and he has to come. He feels Sam’s fingers drill into the thin skin stretched tight over his hips, feels hot wet spread over his legs, can feel Sam’s cock jump as he comes all over him…
Wakes up holding in a groan, alone, the newspaper rough sheets scraping against the head of his cock, and wet, shit…all over, all his.
*****
The tutor comes out of the house and looks over to where he’s sitting in the car, doors open and the old head station Dad listens to banging on the radio. He looks over at Our Tutor, and grins, raises his eyebrows. The kid looks rumpled and crumbled and he wonders just how much Sammy’s learning here. What he’s learning.
The kid heads for the gate, and he asks, “Hey, need a ride?” and something in the back of his mind kind of kicks in…not a real good thing, not a real bad thing…yet.
“Sure—thanks.”
Off they go, and he feels…chatty. Kind of talkative. “So, Sam’s in your class? Yeah? How’s he doing? Good? Good. Wanna get something? Coke or something? You have to go home right now?” That get’s a slow smile, and a blush…yeah.
So they end up in the parking lot behind the playground and by this time it’s dark and no one sane is out there…He’s sitting in the back of the car. If the car could talk—he’d be dead meat.
The kid’s on his lap, and he’s kissing him, talking to the kid between hungry kisses… “I won’t tell…you his boyfriend? No? Good…” He kisses him, searches out every little spot in his mouth for Sam, under his tongue, his lips, inside his cheeks, he chases any possible trace of Sam, warm and a little salty—sucks his tongue and thinks about sucking his cock. “He touch you? Where? Here?”
He slides down on the little strip of floor with his ass against the front seat, one foot jammed against the console, unzipping the kid, yanking his jeans down. “Turn around, hold the seat back…you liked it? When he fucked you?” Asks again, with his lips grazing flesh, a kiss…*was he good, did he make you come like that, did he…did he say my name?*
Lips press against the hot hole exposed, hot, wet, red…when his tongue touches him, the kid jerks away, but he holds him—won’t let him move…*Did he fuck you hard?* He works his tongue in, wet and spit. He tries to shove as much into that little hole as he can, he’s not even thinking of anything but Sam now—this kid is nobody, just where Sam was and he wants to be there—he wants Sam. Wants to feel what this kid felt.
He really wants to be fucked by Sam and he really wants to *not* be fucked by him and it’s kind of too much, and he starts to cry, thank God, quietly. But tears keep filling his eyes and running down and he feels like an idiot. A crucified idiot.
He fucks this kid, fucks him carefully, like he’s made of glass…because really? He wants to hurt him.
Afterward, when the tutor is gone and he’s back home again, he parks in the drive and lays on the back seat, face pressed to the vinyl. He smells plastic and dust. Upholstery. Old carpet and hotdogs and the faintest whiff of smoke, vomit…and sex.
tbc...
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