Newsflesh Fic: The Only Thing I Ever Want Anymore
...I really wasn't expecting the turnaround between these posts to be quite this short, but. Fic! Ready to go! So here it is.
Newsflesh. Post-Feed, MAJOR SPOILERS. Shaun/George. 3000 words. Explicit.
Warning: Incest, and did I mention MAJOR SPOILERS. But no zombies!
For two days every month when the crazy hormones kicked in, I could count on getting knocked flat and stripped naked anytime we were alone. You're damn right I counted the days.
Many thanks to
iulia for beta,
templemarker for kicking my ass into actually finishing, and
petra for audiencing!
The Only Thing I Ever Want Anymore
I'd like to say that George and I were always perfectly in sync, but the truth is that there was a time after the novelty of figuring out sex had worn off when I was a teenage boy and George wasn't. That was when she started making me knock before I came into her room, because she knew that if I got to use both hands to persuade her, I would, no matter how busy she was with something else.
It didn't all go one way, though, even if I never actually insisted on George knocking. Everyone thought I was such a thoughtful brother for knowing George's menstrual cycle like it was my own, but for two days every month when the crazy hormones kicked in, I could count on getting knocked flat and stripped naked anytime we were alone. You're damn right I counted the days. (Other people thought George had raging PMS, but that was an observer effect--any time other people saw George during those two days was time George wasn't allowed to have her way with me. Of course she was cranky.)
So I was used to George suddenly getting the itch, and I was more than happy to do whatever she wanted when she did. Still, it kind of took me by surprise the first time it happened after she died. I mean--no more body, no more crazy hormones, no more monthly crazy sex days, right?
Guess it's your fault for remembering, then, George pointed out. That or you're having some kind of crazy hormone thing of your own, which wouldn't be surprising at this point. When's the last time you got off?
Strangely enough, I hadn't been in the mood since George died. Still--that meant it had been weeks, and while I wasn't sixteen anymore, going without for weeks was pretty weird. I hadn't even noticed.
"About five minutes after the last time you did," I said, remembering the last time with the same awkward mixture of feelings I got every time I remembered some good moment with George--happiness at the glimpse of her, crushing misery at the thought of never actually seeing her again--now with bonus getting-vaguely-turned-on.
Such a gentleman, George said, with a smirk in her voice, and then she....
It wasn't anything she did, exactly, because she can't really do anything. She's a voice in my head; believe me, I know that. But you know how once you start thinking about some part of your body, you can feel every inch of your skin, everything touching you, every twitch of every muscle?
George was thinking about my dick.
I wasn't, for the first few seconds. I was still thinking about the last time I went down on her, how she tasted and how I was never going to have that exact bruise over my kidney again, from George kicking me with her heel when she wanted me to move things along. But someone was, and I could feel it. George was.
Then I was thinking about my dick, and about George thinking about my dick, and about George being here to think about my dick, in whatever form. I was thinking Yes, please.
And thank you, George said, amused. Won't be the first time I've gotten you off without touching you.
I actually made a noise at that, remembering. There'd been nights sometimes when I'd knock and George would tell me to go away because she was busy working. Sometimes she'd tell me to get my earpiece in.
I'd go back to bed with George's voice in my ear, knowing George was watching. She'd have a video window open in the corner of her screen while she worked on a post, or checked site stats, or followed the feeds. Sometimes I'd actually grab one of my cameras to make sure she had a good angle, but half the time I didn't worry about it. George could always find me when she wanted to, and if she only needed to hear then that was enough. I never had to be alone, not really alone, not when I needed her.
I wasn't alone now.
Still, I couldn't help thinking of it the other way, too. "This won't be much fun for you."
No body, no orgasms.
Oh, it's always fun for me, George said, with that same warm tease in her voice that I used to hear in my ear. But I guess you'll just have to come enough for both of us, now.
It sounded like something halfway between a threat and a promise. I went from almost there to completely hard like--well, like I hadn't had sex in weeks and now George was telling me I was going to have to take two for the team. My hand gravitated automatically downward, but George's voice stopped me.
Who the hell are you hiding from? Come on, show me your tits.
I squirmed around shoving covers off--I'd been sleeping a lot since I got my own place, and at this point I had no idea what time of day it was or for that matter what day it was, except for George's crazy sex day. As I hauled my t-shirt up and off I muttered, "I said that one time, and I was seventeen and drunk and you knew I was joking--"
I threw my shirt. George wolf-whistled, which she'd never been able to actually do when she was alive. I laughed even as I shoved my boxers down, and George said, That's better, which could have meant anything. Everything. I rubbed a hand idly over my own naked skin--hello skin, hello body, how've you been, good to see you again.
Yeah, George said. That. Touch yourself. Let me feel it from this side. Show me what you felt every time I touched you. You remember how, don't you?
My right hand flattened against my chest. I didn't have to think, really, but I needed a minute to let the first assault of memory subside. When I had my breath and my balance again I did what George wanted, remembering George in playful moods, teasing, remembering back when we first exploring each other, or those times that followed after close calls in the field, touching every inch of freshly-bleached skin before we'd even bothered to hit the lotion. My hand wasn't George's hand (except for how it was, now, or at least community property) but I remembered how George had touched me, the way her fingers would stutter here and there over my skin, where she would push, where she would glide.
I could feel George watching me, serious as an outbreak, even though my hands were in what I'd always considered boring territory, between my hipbones and my rib cage. I could feel her feeling what I was doing, discovering the texture of my skin, the shape of my body, from the other side. I wondered if my hands felt familiar to her even when it was me I was touching, instead of her. I hoped so.
I closed my eyes and concentrated on letting my hands be her hands. I finally shifted my touch higher, and did that thing George did, rubbing my thumb just up the side of my nipple. It was more anticipation than contact, just a hint of callus and ragged thumbnail enough to make everything draw up tight. For just a second--just at that moment when it worked, when I touched myself exactly right and found the direct line to my dick--it felt like my hand was George's hand, like it wasn't me touching myself, like we were there together.
I started to look, and George said, No, eyes closed. Keep going.
I slid my right hand higher, finding the places George used to love to touch. The heel of my hand slid up my sternum with the slightly-too-hard pressure that made my breath catch. I hesitated for a second with one finger pressed into the notch between my collarbones, feeling my own pulse, and then slid my hand up my throat, again pressing down just enough to really feel it. I kept my touch light along my jaw, though--couldn't leave marks that might show up on camera, no matter whose cameras we were talking about. I slid my thumb along my lower lip and then pressed it between my teeth.
My left hand was still on my belly, and with my tongue working along the side of my thumb, I moved my left hand down to my dick.
Slowly, George reminded me as I closed my hand and started jerking off, just backward and wrong-handed enough that it might be someone else touching me. Let me feel.
I slowed down, playing my fingers slowly down the shaft. I was remembering again--George, the first time I showed her mine on purpose. She was all scientific curiosity, nose-to-head with her first dick, and I almost bit my tongue in half trying not to come on her face.
See? George said. You always were a gentleman.
I bit down on my thumb rather than try to reply, rubbing the palm of my open hand over the head of my dick, wishing I could feel how it felt to George--was it like a clit? She was right there, she was inside my head feeling this, but I couldn't feel how it felt to her.
Never could, George pointed out. She sounded a little breathless. I moved my hand a little faster, dug my teeth into my skin, trying to make her tell me how it felt, if only the way she always told me--in words, in nonsensical swearing and ragged breath. It wasn't going to take me long, if George didn't--
Wait, George said, and I squeezed hard on my dick instead of letting go, trying to hold myself back.
You're going twice, she reminded me. I don't want to wait. I want you to stay hard. You know what to do, don't you?
"Fuck," I said, because, yeah, I knew. We'd figured out two ways that worked for me, in fact, but no way was I putting a tourniquet on my dick without a spotter, which left me with one.
I rolled onto my side and reached past George's gun on the nightstand to the nearest bottle of gun oil. I fumbled it open and spilled some onto my fingers with my feet already in the air, and I tipped one leg to the side and bent the other toward my chest, opening myself up.
It's been a while. Don't rush, George said as I got my slicked hand to my ass, and I groaned but didn't argue, pushing in with just the tip of one finger to start.
Breathe, George said, and I did, in and out and in and out without stopping. I rocked my finger in the same rhythm, a little deeper each time. I made myself breathe as deep as I could when I was almost bent in half, and I didn't touch my dick. George made little encouraging noises that kept me going despite the annoying way I had to bend my wrist and the part where it was still just sort of weird and I hadn't gotten deep enough yet for it to feel good. Then I remembered that even with one hand in play I had two ways to get there, and pressed my thumb behind my balls.
"Fuck," I said out loud, in unison with George, and then I said, "Please," and she said, go on, go on, and I pulled my finger out and pushed two in, faster this time. It burned a little, but at least I'd remembered that it was going to feel good, too. When I got my fingers in far enough to hit my prostate my whole body jerked, and again I had just a second of feeling like it was her hand, her touch, like she was with me more than just in my head.
There you go, she said, and she definitely sounded breathless now.
"This," I gasped, and I didn't have to say the rest out loud. This is what it felt like when you did this to me. Feel this.
I didn't ever want George to go silent on me, but speechless was all right. I knew she was there, I could feel her not being able to say a word as I twisted my fingers--fingers that had spent a whole lot more time inside her than inside me. But she had a different set of equipment, so my fingers could never have felt quite like this to her. This was something new--I was making George feel something completely new, after everything should have been over.
My hips rocked almost involuntarily--it felt so fucking good, and all I could think was that that meant it was good for her, too, just this once it was perfectly easy to know. My dick slid against my thigh, leaving a wet trail and reminding me that I had a whole other hand I could be putting to use right now, if I actually wanted to get off.
"George," I whispered, because this was for her, this was her show, and if she wanted me to drag this out....
Yes, George said, and that was it. I looped my arm around my leg to reach my dick--awkward, but nowhere near the awkwardest way I'd ever gotten off. I was still jerking off left-handed, but it wasn't like I needed finesse. I hit the point where I stopped thinking completely, where there was nothing in the world but my dick and my ass and George saying my name.
I was just about to come when she said, Keep it going for me, Shaun.
I snarled incoherently but did it, nailing my prostate so hard I saw stars--or maybe that was because I'd forgotten to keep up with breathing, and was half on top of my own lungs. I came with her voice in my ears, with George under my skin, jerking myself hard, working my fingers inside myself, and then it was over, except that it wasn't. I was still hard, gasping and shaking, fingers still in my ass driving myself crazy for George.
I let my left hand hang open, waiting for what George wanted next, shuddering and trying to catch my breath. It didn't really work; every time I inhaled my body shifted just enough to remind me that my fingers were still in my ass, sending sparks skittering through my balls and up my spine. What next, what next, what next.
Let me, George said. My turn. Put your hands down.
"George," I said aloud, because she wasn’t there, she wasn't, but my dick jumped at the idea, at just her voice, sounding a little bit wrecked and a lot determined to get me off.
Hands down, she repeated. Both of them.
I hissed and withdrew my fingers from my ass, and let my legs flop down to the bed as I shoved both hands into the rumpled covers.
I waited. I kept my eyes closed. My ass was slick and faintly sore. My dick was hard and so sensitive that I could just about get off on air currents. My hips jerked at a phantom touch, at just the idea of a touch, at....
"George," I whispered. She wasn't here, she couldn't touch me, but... but maybe she could still make me feel.
I felt it again, the maybe/maybe not touch, probably nothing, obviously nothing, because I was alone here. George didn't have hands anymore, she didn't--I could feel her smiling again, I could see the purse of her lips--didn't have breath to blow against my overheated dick, except that I could feel it. I could feel her.
I shifted against the sheets, sending a twinge through my ass that felt just like George had been there, and I whimpered at the next feather-touch on my dick. Then there was another, quicker, and that had been almost, almost--I could almost swear that had felt like the real thing.
What's more real than you and me? George asked, and that time there was no mistaking it, not just friction but pressure, not just someone touching me but George, her hand, her fingers, still feeling a little slick with lube. I sobbed and pushed into her grip, squeezing my eyes shut tight. I knew she'd be gone if I looked. I wasn't going to look. I didn't even think. I just shoved my dick into her hand, gasped again when her free hand settled gently on my thigh.
That's it, Shaun. That's what I wanted. You're going to come from this, aren't you? You're going to come for me.
"I thought--we'd established that," I gasped, still twisting in the sheets. I shouldn't have been so close so fast, but I was--for her, for this. "Please."
All you had to do was ask, George said, and I could just about see her wicked smile, and then I felt her hand slow its rhythm, and there was a touch on the head of my dick. Softer than her hand, wetter than a kiss. I arched off the bed, clutching the sheets to keep from reaching for her, and came with my dick jerking against my belly, leaving wet splatters on my skin.
I didn't open my eyes when it was over. When I'd mostly caught my breath, I rolled onto my side, pressing my face into my pillow, dragging my sticky-wet sheets over myself.
"George," I whispered.
Still here, she whispered back, right in my ear, right where she belonged.
For a second I felt completely dislocated, like I was back in the Masons' house, but I knew where I was, and that wasn't it. I hadn't gone anywhere--but neither had George. Not far, anyway. She was on the other side of the door in a darkened room. I was the one who was busy, this time, I was the one who had work to finish before I could join her. I had to take down the bastards who killed her. But once I did--
You just remember to knock, George said softly. You don't come in until I tell you it's okay.
Never, I promised. George never locked me out for long. Not when I really needed her.
Night, Shaun, George said.
I snuggled into my pillow, feeling honestly wiped out, not just unable to face getting up--feeling better than I had in a long time, knowing with every inch of my body how close she was. Night, George.
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Newsflesh. Post-Feed, MAJOR SPOILERS. Shaun/George. 3000 words. Explicit.
Warning: Incest, and did I mention MAJOR SPOILERS. But no zombies!
For two days every month when the crazy hormones kicked in, I could count on getting knocked flat and stripped naked anytime we were alone. You're damn right I counted the days.
Many thanks to
iulia for beta,
templemarker for kicking my ass into actually finishing, and
petra for audiencing!
The Only Thing I Ever Want Anymore
I'd like to say that George and I were always perfectly in sync, but the truth is that there was a time after the novelty of figuring out sex had worn off when I was a teenage boy and George wasn't. That was when she started making me knock before I came into her room, because she knew that if I got to use both hands to persuade her, I would, no matter how busy she was with something else.
It didn't all go one way, though, even if I never actually insisted on George knocking. Everyone thought I was such a thoughtful brother for knowing George's menstrual cycle like it was my own, but for two days every month when the crazy hormones kicked in, I could count on getting knocked flat and stripped naked anytime we were alone. You're damn right I counted the days. (Other people thought George had raging PMS, but that was an observer effect--any time other people saw George during those two days was time George wasn't allowed to have her way with me. Of course she was cranky.)
So I was used to George suddenly getting the itch, and I was more than happy to do whatever she wanted when she did. Still, it kind of took me by surprise the first time it happened after she died. I mean--no more body, no more crazy hormones, no more monthly crazy sex days, right?
Guess it's your fault for remembering, then, George pointed out. That or you're having some kind of crazy hormone thing of your own, which wouldn't be surprising at this point. When's the last time you got off?
Strangely enough, I hadn't been in the mood since George died. Still--that meant it had been weeks, and while I wasn't sixteen anymore, going without for weeks was pretty weird. I hadn't even noticed.
"About five minutes after the last time you did," I said, remembering the last time with the same awkward mixture of feelings I got every time I remembered some good moment with George--happiness at the glimpse of her, crushing misery at the thought of never actually seeing her again--now with bonus getting-vaguely-turned-on.
Such a gentleman, George said, with a smirk in her voice, and then she....
It wasn't anything she did, exactly, because she can't really do anything. She's a voice in my head; believe me, I know that. But you know how once you start thinking about some part of your body, you can feel every inch of your skin, everything touching you, every twitch of every muscle?
George was thinking about my dick.
I wasn't, for the first few seconds. I was still thinking about the last time I went down on her, how she tasted and how I was never going to have that exact bruise over my kidney again, from George kicking me with her heel when she wanted me to move things along. But someone was, and I could feel it. George was.
Then I was thinking about my dick, and about George thinking about my dick, and about George being here to think about my dick, in whatever form. I was thinking Yes, please.
And thank you, George said, amused. Won't be the first time I've gotten you off without touching you.
I actually made a noise at that, remembering. There'd been nights sometimes when I'd knock and George would tell me to go away because she was busy working. Sometimes she'd tell me to get my earpiece in.
I'd go back to bed with George's voice in my ear, knowing George was watching. She'd have a video window open in the corner of her screen while she worked on a post, or checked site stats, or followed the feeds. Sometimes I'd actually grab one of my cameras to make sure she had a good angle, but half the time I didn't worry about it. George could always find me when she wanted to, and if she only needed to hear then that was enough. I never had to be alone, not really alone, not when I needed her.
I wasn't alone now.
Still, I couldn't help thinking of it the other way, too. "This won't be much fun for you."
No body, no orgasms.
Oh, it's always fun for me, George said, with that same warm tease in her voice that I used to hear in my ear. But I guess you'll just have to come enough for both of us, now.
It sounded like something halfway between a threat and a promise. I went from almost there to completely hard like--well, like I hadn't had sex in weeks and now George was telling me I was going to have to take two for the team. My hand gravitated automatically downward, but George's voice stopped me.
Who the hell are you hiding from? Come on, show me your tits.
I squirmed around shoving covers off--I'd been sleeping a lot since I got my own place, and at this point I had no idea what time of day it was or for that matter what day it was, except for George's crazy sex day. As I hauled my t-shirt up and off I muttered, "I said that one time, and I was seventeen and drunk and you knew I was joking--"
I threw my shirt. George wolf-whistled, which she'd never been able to actually do when she was alive. I laughed even as I shoved my boxers down, and George said, That's better, which could have meant anything. Everything. I rubbed a hand idly over my own naked skin--hello skin, hello body, how've you been, good to see you again.
Yeah, George said. That. Touch yourself. Let me feel it from this side. Show me what you felt every time I touched you. You remember how, don't you?
My right hand flattened against my chest. I didn't have to think, really, but I needed a minute to let the first assault of memory subside. When I had my breath and my balance again I did what George wanted, remembering George in playful moods, teasing, remembering back when we first exploring each other, or those times that followed after close calls in the field, touching every inch of freshly-bleached skin before we'd even bothered to hit the lotion. My hand wasn't George's hand (except for how it was, now, or at least community property) but I remembered how George had touched me, the way her fingers would stutter here and there over my skin, where she would push, where she would glide.
I could feel George watching me, serious as an outbreak, even though my hands were in what I'd always considered boring territory, between my hipbones and my rib cage. I could feel her feeling what I was doing, discovering the texture of my skin, the shape of my body, from the other side. I wondered if my hands felt familiar to her even when it was me I was touching, instead of her. I hoped so.
I closed my eyes and concentrated on letting my hands be her hands. I finally shifted my touch higher, and did that thing George did, rubbing my thumb just up the side of my nipple. It was more anticipation than contact, just a hint of callus and ragged thumbnail enough to make everything draw up tight. For just a second--just at that moment when it worked, when I touched myself exactly right and found the direct line to my dick--it felt like my hand was George's hand, like it wasn't me touching myself, like we were there together.
I started to look, and George said, No, eyes closed. Keep going.
I slid my right hand higher, finding the places George used to love to touch. The heel of my hand slid up my sternum with the slightly-too-hard pressure that made my breath catch. I hesitated for a second with one finger pressed into the notch between my collarbones, feeling my own pulse, and then slid my hand up my throat, again pressing down just enough to really feel it. I kept my touch light along my jaw, though--couldn't leave marks that might show up on camera, no matter whose cameras we were talking about. I slid my thumb along my lower lip and then pressed it between my teeth.
My left hand was still on my belly, and with my tongue working along the side of my thumb, I moved my left hand down to my dick.
Slowly, George reminded me as I closed my hand and started jerking off, just backward and wrong-handed enough that it might be someone else touching me. Let me feel.
I slowed down, playing my fingers slowly down the shaft. I was remembering again--George, the first time I showed her mine on purpose. She was all scientific curiosity, nose-to-head with her first dick, and I almost bit my tongue in half trying not to come on her face.
See? George said. You always were a gentleman.
I bit down on my thumb rather than try to reply, rubbing the palm of my open hand over the head of my dick, wishing I could feel how it felt to George--was it like a clit? She was right there, she was inside my head feeling this, but I couldn't feel how it felt to her.
Never could, George pointed out. She sounded a little breathless. I moved my hand a little faster, dug my teeth into my skin, trying to make her tell me how it felt, if only the way she always told me--in words, in nonsensical swearing and ragged breath. It wasn't going to take me long, if George didn't--
Wait, George said, and I squeezed hard on my dick instead of letting go, trying to hold myself back.
You're going twice, she reminded me. I don't want to wait. I want you to stay hard. You know what to do, don't you?
"Fuck," I said, because, yeah, I knew. We'd figured out two ways that worked for me, in fact, but no way was I putting a tourniquet on my dick without a spotter, which left me with one.
I rolled onto my side and reached past George's gun on the nightstand to the nearest bottle of gun oil. I fumbled it open and spilled some onto my fingers with my feet already in the air, and I tipped one leg to the side and bent the other toward my chest, opening myself up.
It's been a while. Don't rush, George said as I got my slicked hand to my ass, and I groaned but didn't argue, pushing in with just the tip of one finger to start.
Breathe, George said, and I did, in and out and in and out without stopping. I rocked my finger in the same rhythm, a little deeper each time. I made myself breathe as deep as I could when I was almost bent in half, and I didn't touch my dick. George made little encouraging noises that kept me going despite the annoying way I had to bend my wrist and the part where it was still just sort of weird and I hadn't gotten deep enough yet for it to feel good. Then I remembered that even with one hand in play I had two ways to get there, and pressed my thumb behind my balls.
"Fuck," I said out loud, in unison with George, and then I said, "Please," and she said, go on, go on, and I pulled my finger out and pushed two in, faster this time. It burned a little, but at least I'd remembered that it was going to feel good, too. When I got my fingers in far enough to hit my prostate my whole body jerked, and again I had just a second of feeling like it was her hand, her touch, like she was with me more than just in my head.
There you go, she said, and she definitely sounded breathless now.
"This," I gasped, and I didn't have to say the rest out loud. This is what it felt like when you did this to me. Feel this.
I didn't ever want George to go silent on me, but speechless was all right. I knew she was there, I could feel her not being able to say a word as I twisted my fingers--fingers that had spent a whole lot more time inside her than inside me. But she had a different set of equipment, so my fingers could never have felt quite like this to her. This was something new--I was making George feel something completely new, after everything should have been over.
My hips rocked almost involuntarily--it felt so fucking good, and all I could think was that that meant it was good for her, too, just this once it was perfectly easy to know. My dick slid against my thigh, leaving a wet trail and reminding me that I had a whole other hand I could be putting to use right now, if I actually wanted to get off.
"George," I whispered, because this was for her, this was her show, and if she wanted me to drag this out....
Yes, George said, and that was it. I looped my arm around my leg to reach my dick--awkward, but nowhere near the awkwardest way I'd ever gotten off. I was still jerking off left-handed, but it wasn't like I needed finesse. I hit the point where I stopped thinking completely, where there was nothing in the world but my dick and my ass and George saying my name.
I was just about to come when she said, Keep it going for me, Shaun.
I snarled incoherently but did it, nailing my prostate so hard I saw stars--or maybe that was because I'd forgotten to keep up with breathing, and was half on top of my own lungs. I came with her voice in my ears, with George under my skin, jerking myself hard, working my fingers inside myself, and then it was over, except that it wasn't. I was still hard, gasping and shaking, fingers still in my ass driving myself crazy for George.
I let my left hand hang open, waiting for what George wanted next, shuddering and trying to catch my breath. It didn't really work; every time I inhaled my body shifted just enough to remind me that my fingers were still in my ass, sending sparks skittering through my balls and up my spine. What next, what next, what next.
Let me, George said. My turn. Put your hands down.
"George," I said aloud, because she wasn’t there, she wasn't, but my dick jumped at the idea, at just her voice, sounding a little bit wrecked and a lot determined to get me off.
Hands down, she repeated. Both of them.
I hissed and withdrew my fingers from my ass, and let my legs flop down to the bed as I shoved both hands into the rumpled covers.
I waited. I kept my eyes closed. My ass was slick and faintly sore. My dick was hard and so sensitive that I could just about get off on air currents. My hips jerked at a phantom touch, at just the idea of a touch, at....
"George," I whispered. She wasn't here, she couldn't touch me, but... but maybe she could still make me feel.
I felt it again, the maybe/maybe not touch, probably nothing, obviously nothing, because I was alone here. George didn't have hands anymore, she didn't--I could feel her smiling again, I could see the purse of her lips--didn't have breath to blow against my overheated dick, except that I could feel it. I could feel her.
I shifted against the sheets, sending a twinge through my ass that felt just like George had been there, and I whimpered at the next feather-touch on my dick. Then there was another, quicker, and that had been almost, almost--I could almost swear that had felt like the real thing.
What's more real than you and me? George asked, and that time there was no mistaking it, not just friction but pressure, not just someone touching me but George, her hand, her fingers, still feeling a little slick with lube. I sobbed and pushed into her grip, squeezing my eyes shut tight. I knew she'd be gone if I looked. I wasn't going to look. I didn't even think. I just shoved my dick into her hand, gasped again when her free hand settled gently on my thigh.
That's it, Shaun. That's what I wanted. You're going to come from this, aren't you? You're going to come for me.
"I thought--we'd established that," I gasped, still twisting in the sheets. I shouldn't have been so close so fast, but I was--for her, for this. "Please."
All you had to do was ask, George said, and I could just about see her wicked smile, and then I felt her hand slow its rhythm, and there was a touch on the head of my dick. Softer than her hand, wetter than a kiss. I arched off the bed, clutching the sheets to keep from reaching for her, and came with my dick jerking against my belly, leaving wet splatters on my skin.
I didn't open my eyes when it was over. When I'd mostly caught my breath, I rolled onto my side, pressing my face into my pillow, dragging my sticky-wet sheets over myself.
"George," I whispered.
Still here, she whispered back, right in my ear, right where she belonged.
For a second I felt completely dislocated, like I was back in the Masons' house, but I knew where I was, and that wasn't it. I hadn't gone anywhere--but neither had George. Not far, anyway. She was on the other side of the door in a darkened room. I was the one who was busy, this time, I was the one who had work to finish before I could join her. I had to take down the bastards who killed her. But once I did--
You just remember to knock, George said softly. You don't come in until I tell you it's okay.
Never, I promised. George never locked me out for long. Not when I really needed her.
Night, Shaun, George said.
I snuggled into my pillow, feeling honestly wiped out, not just unable to face getting up--feeling better than I had in a long time, knowing with every inch of my body how close she was. Night, George.
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