signal when you want me (when you want me to stop), alison/jamie, hard r
Um, I'm genuinely nervous about posting this. It's been a while since I've felt like that about a fic! I think it's partly because of the subject matter and partly because wtf, I'm actually quite proud of it. The 'stop judging me' tag is totally necessary for this one.
Also, I have a new layout! For the first time in AGES. Woo.
But yeah, onto the depravity...
Title: signal when you want me (when you want me to stop)
Author: likecharity
Pairing: Alison Mosshart/Jamie Hince
Rating: Very hard R
Warnings: Oh, man. BDSM, sexualised violence. Including breathplay, slapping, kicking, scratching and trampling....all consensual, though.
Summary: They maintain a difficult balance, taunt temptation like they're playing with fire. They let out just enough of that tension to be able to live with each other, and then they put the lid right back on it, lock it away and let it build and build until once again, they're bursting at the seams with it.
A/N: I'm...not entirely sure what it says about me that a) this is totally how I see their relationship, and b) I really enjoyed writing this story.
Jamie once said in an interview that he and Alison never impose rules on each other, that from day one they've always behaved however they like with each other. It's not quite true.
There's always been one, unspoken rule, always tagging after them. Never to push too hard, go too far, step over that one last line that exists between them. They spend their lives on that line, because it's okay to push hard and go far, to get so close they can fucking taste it, but to cross it is unthinkable.
They're so close it's dangerous; they know that, but they've never been the type to shy away from risks, and in this case it seems more dangerous to ignore them. Their relationship isn't complete without that tension, it's true, but if left alone it could all too easily bubble over, boil itself away into nothingness and leave them to split off, spinning away from each other with nothing left.
So they maintain a difficult balance, taunt temptation like they're playing with fire. They let out just enough of that tension to be able to live with each other, and then they put the lid right back on it, lock it away and let it build and build until once again, they're bursting at the seams with it.
But they never feel like they have quite as much control as they'd like to, as they pretend to. It's like a monster under the bed, but instead of lying there every night with the covers up to their necks and their eyes squeezed shut 'til they grow out of it, they've encouraged it, fed it and nurtured it, given it something to stick around for. And now it's not going anywhere, not until it's managed to devour them whole.
Over the years, they've developed ways to handle it, and they've grown so used to it that in some ways it almost feels like a routine. They know roughly how long they can leave it before they start wanting to kill each other; they know which of each other's buttons to push to get the reaction they want; they know that a screaming fight will do if things get desperate, but that a live show is so, so much better.
***
While performing, they never used to look at the audience at all. They would have their gazes fixed on each other instead, from the moment they stepped onstage to the moment they stepped off it. It's how things were before there were any audiences at all, when it just used to be him, and her, in a room together watching each other make music. And fans often feel like intruders, like peeping Toms through their windows, because this isn't for them. This was never for them.
And the audience is scary; Alison knows that better than anyone. But in front of them is where she can confront her shyness, banish her demons, stand there and sing and scream and shake, be herself. Nobody can touch her up there. Nobody but him.
Sometimes, they play games. Sometimes, they try to see how long they can last without looking at each other, eyes firmly fixed on the audience, that vast crowd of faces stretching on endlessly. Even if she can see Jamie out of the corner of her eye, it feels like she's up there alone and the thought is terrifying. It's an unspoken competition, who can last the longest, the opposite of a staring contest. Eventually one of them will break, and comfort slides over them like a warm blanket as their eyes finally meet.
They might steer their microphones towards each other, adjust the stands with sticky hands until they're close as can get. Jamie might saunter over if she steps aside, might sing into her mic instead of his own, press his lips where hers were only moments before, as she stands sullenly beside him plucking out the hypnotic heartbeat drone of Kissy Kissy on her guitar. He'll moan the melody; won't look at her. Or maybe as she's singing, he'll lean in, nuzzle against her, breathing on her neck and burying his face into her tangled hair. Maybe they'll share the mic, so close their lips will touch it together, might brush against each other accidentally in a brief, sweaty smear.
Sometimes he lunges forward unexpectedly, and she'll jerk and duck away, but other times he advances on her slowly, coming closer and closer until they're mere inches apart, plucking out notes in tandem. He'll thrust forward, and their guitars will touch, slam together, strings clashing with strings in a shrill shudder of noise. He'll stay for a moment, put more pressure on the instrument as it rubs against her own, and send the electric thrum of the vibrations almost uncomfortably deep inside her 'til she's open-mouthed and light-headed. He juts his chin, leans into her, watching her intently and almost challengingly, and then just as quickly he's gone, it's off, it's over.
And sometimes, then, he'll hold his guitar like a gun, point it at the audience, or perhaps at her; fire a quick shot with his fingertips sliding fast down the strings like he's pulling a trigger. She'll fling herself back, play dead for him. He might get rough with her, snatch her hair into a handful and yank her head back as she sings, shout things she can't hear through the music.
She sees him as a snake charmer as she winds her away across the stage, bucking and rippling towards him, an enraptured cobra. And when she reaches him, he might play with her like a puppet, might turn her mindless with his sound, make her thrash and quake to each strum of his guitar. She's helpless on his strings, clutching weakly at his waist or steadying a hand on his chest as they move together at a rapidly increasing speed, hips jerking back and forth, growing clumsy.
She might fall back, bend herself backwards, might reach out and grab a hold of his hip or his thigh. Her hand might find the guitar, instead, and she might ease it between her legs, daringly pulling it a little closer, pressing it there and letting herself feel that pulse, that deep sound. Feel each vibration of the instrument as Jamie plucks the strings. She can never cope for long, and he knows it, pulls away only seconds after she's held on, whips out of her grasp and leaves her shivering and unsteady on her feet as she heaves herself upright once again.
Or she won't even get that far, her legs weak long before, and she'll drop to her knees at his feet, hunched over. He'll join her on the floor, swinging his guitar off and shoving it between his parted knees, angling it towards her and straining the body of the instrument until it screeches in protest and she's leaning into the sound. And then, just as quickly, away from it; lying right down and letting him between her legs the only way she ever has, ever will. He twists and tears at the guitar, bringing out dirty, gritty noise, and she lets it inside her, every thrill and tremor.
It's all Jamie then, his chance to bring out whatever's inside of him and work through it. He'll finish when he's good and ready, but she knows he's careful not to let it go too far, not to get too close or push too hard or stretch it out too long. Because that's the rule, the only rule there's ever been.
And then he'll draw back, and pull her off the ground, sweaty hand slick in hers as he helps her up. They'll raise their linked fingers and bow in front of their almost-forgotten audience, and be done for another week; month; longer. However long they can stand it.
***
Shows are good-the dates are organised, set in stone, marked out on calendars giving them something to look forward to, something to wait for. But sometimes there's no tour, or sometimes it just won't come quickly enough. Sometimes it comes over them all of a sudden, and that's when it feels really out of their control. It's when they're busy and stressed, strings pulled taut. When Jamie feels like he'll snap at the slightest provocation. And that's when Alison gets childish, riles him up and taunts him, makes it worse. She knows him so well that she's perfect at getting on his nerves, under his skin, and she's patient enough to do it for days. As long as it takes for him to lose his temper.
It shouldn't be something he enjoys, but he takes comfort in the fact that it shouldn't be something she enjoys either. But she wants it, and he always knows when she wants it because she gets like this, nags at him and teases him, gets in his space until he just can't take it anymore.
And then he lashes out, takes her by the hips; waist; shoulders at first, backs her up against a wall or throws her down on the nearest surface. Sometimes he yells, can't help himself, screams something awful, and then she always shudders at the rare thrill of it, scared and excited and buzzing with anticipation under his hands. It makes him even angrier, the way she does it on purpose, the way that even when she's pinned against the wall or trapped beneath his body she'll still tilt her chin up at him defiantly, waiting.
Maybe that's why he always snaps-because she's flaunting the way she has that control over him, teasing him with it, knowing she'll get what she wants. And he could be the bigger person, he could throw up his hands and walk away, but he never does, never feels like he can. She'll always get him in the end, and deep down, he wants it just as bad as she does.
So he does it. He starts with a little bit of pressure, pushes two fingers against the soft skin at the base of her throat. Feels her tendons and the knobs of her collarbone. Her eyes seem to go darker, and she resists, just to increase the tension, to make his fingers press harder against her. And there's something about that that drives him crazy, the way she's trying to take control even now, and within a split-second his hand's around her neck, tight enough to feel the gulp as she swallows hard.
Sometimes he clamps his hand over her mouth first instead, feels her hot breath against his palm, a teasing flick of her tongue sometimes just to goad him into it. He smothers her, his big hand over her face, the heel of it crushed against her lips and his fingers squeezing, blocking her nose.
His other hand gets trapped between their bodies, palm against his crotch, knuckles pressing awkwardly against hers. The harder he holds her, the more her hips push against him, pushing against his hand and pushing his hand against himself. If she's against a wall; door; window with a ledge digging into her back, she gradually draws away from it. Her body bends backwards 'til she's staring up at the ceiling, glassy-eyed, red-faced, sweating. Joined to him at the hips and throat, their legs often intertwined so she can give him weak little kicks of her boots on his ankles when she can't take any more.
If she's on the bed; sofa; floor; on a table once or twice, she arches up against him, writhing under the strong grip of his thighs on either side of her. It's like something's pulling her upwards from the chest, like her lungs are trying so hard to reach the air. The way she thrashes, tearing the sheets from the bed with her fists, makes her seem possessed. She grinds against him like that, clumsy and frantic, and he can't stand it, can't stand the stirring in his jeans, the inevitable response. It's too close, too direct, and he grips her tighter, tries to hold her still and draw it out of her like an exorcist.
There's violence in it, of course, but no anger-the petty frustrations that bring this on dissipate quickly, leaving only intense passion, a forceful sort of all-consuming lust.
Her hair clings to her forehead, sometimes shields her eyes, sometimes covers her whole face altogether like a heavy black curtain. She grabs a hold of his hips, or hooks her fingers through his belt loops; grabs fistfuls of cushion or duvet or rug; claws helplessly against wall or wooden floor. She never quite goes still, and he can never quite work out the meaning of her violent little spasms, the way her hips jerk against him and she presses so stiflingly close that he swears he can feel the damp heat of her.
It's the hardest thing in the world for him to pull away, but he does-always does, always has to. He does it in one swift movement, lets her go and jerks back from her, fights himself free from her clinging grip. And then she's limp and gasping, panting, and he's stroking her hair back from her face and even getting her a drink of water if she needs it.
She usually laughs a little, then, weak and wheezing, high on the rush of it. He can do nothing but cradle her face in his hands and stare into her eyes, the pupils blown wide. She's fine, she's always fine, and that's why she laughs-at his concern. He's always panicked, sometimes equally breathless, perhaps having held the air in his lungs along with her subconsciously. Once or twice he's caught sight of himself in a mirror and been shocked at the clammy pallor of his face, his slack-jawed expression.
But he's never stopped to question it, never asked why he does this to himself. It's not a question worth asking.
***
It doesn't always come in such a frantic flurry. They can cope for weeks without it, sometimes; have learnt to abstain like that though it feels almost as achingly difficult as being physically separated. It becomes another game-who's the weaker one, who needs it most, who'll crack first?
And then eventually, it will engulf them once again, sometimes occurring in an almost calm way, utterly removed from their wild fits of passion and violence. They'll be working on something, lying on their stomachs together on the living room floor, perhaps, scrapbooking with newspapers and vintage books scattered around them, cutting-and-pasting words from yellowing pages.
Jamie will write out a message in collage. Something offensive, uncalled for, but succinct and simple and usually just a little bit childish. It might start with fuck, Jamie painstakingly sticking the word down, printed on a tiny, fiddly scrap of thin paper. YOU, he might add after a moment, choosing from a newspaper headline this time, large block letters that he places carefully beneath his first word. He'll hold it up to Alison with a goofy grin, his hands sticky with glue, fingertips sticking together in clinging white strands.
She'll roll her eyes, giggle. Scribble something in response, maybe fuck you too, or something unintelligible just to wind him up. A stream of consciousness, the same way she likes to write songs. Maybe she'll cut and paste her reply, too, if she wants to make him wait. While she works on her reply, Jamie will go back to his own art, feigning disinterest but unable to resist sneaking a peek at hers. Finally, she'll push it over to him, slide it across the floor and then rest her chin on her hands, watch him as he reads it.
A few clear, simple words are what do it eventually. Looking like a ransom note it might spell out a warning. C A R E F U L. Or, perhaps, a scrawled instruction. LIE DOWN. REFILL MY DRINK. TIE BACK MY HAIR.
And he'll do whatever it says. Whatever it says. He'll light her a cigarette or he'll light some candles, he'll take the record off the turntable or he'll take off his shirt. He'll lie there on the floor, watch her with a little hint of a smile on his face. She'll take her time because she likes it like this, likes these in-between moments, likes to savour them. She'll smoke, watch him squirm on his back on the hardwood floor, rustling the papers beneath him, maybe with the spine of a hardback book digging into his shoulder. She'll sip her drink, smile back at him, a little crooked smirk.
Every once in a while, that's as far as it goes. She'll just watch him for a while, then go back to her art. Or maybe she'll curl up beside him on the floor, wordlessly. Sometimes it frustrates him like nothing else, makes him seethe and get short with her, snapping at her for days on end. But mostly, it works just as well. What he really needs is that command, that surrender of control. She'll demand something of him-either in these shyly-passed sketchbooks or in words scribbled in Sharpie somewhere (on his bed frame or the bathroom tiles, perhaps) and he'll comply. DO THE DISHES, or SWEEP THE FLOOR, she might say, and both of them will gain some strange sense of satisfaction from it as he carries out whatever mindless chore she's chosen under her watchful gaze.
But they can't always leave it at that. They're too greedy, too foolish.
So sometimes Jamie lies down, and sometimes Alison stands up, stands over him and lets him look up at her like that, watching her a little nervously as she circles him like a vulture. She likes to drag it out. She'll point one foot, run the toe of her boot along the lines of his body like she's tracing out his outline onto the floor. As light as she can, just barely brushing him. Rumpling up his shirt if it's still on. Gently tickling his skin if it's not. She'll run the sole of the shoe down the centre of him, let it pause and press a little at his heart, his navel, his crotch.
Once or twice, maybe just a handful of times, she's seen him get hard from that alone. Seen, felt, the stirring of him beneath her foot, the tightening of the fabric of his jeans. It always brings on a strange mixture of reactions, visceral and sour somewhere in her gut or the back of her throat. Curiosity, excitement, hunger, possessiveness, all blended harshly with a deep gush of revulsion. It's a feeling she favours for its utter strangeness, for that moment that she feels the urges wrestling inside her, the way she fights the desire to kick, to run.
And then he'll smile, a weak little sheepish grin, tinged with embarrassment and understanding, and just like that she's back and he's hers again. She bites her lower lip in concentration, sometimes so much that she'll discover deep grooves bruised into it the next morning, coloured purple with wine. She presses harder with her foot, on his chest, swears she can feel the outline of his ribs, fragile bones all lined up beneath the sole of her boot. He takes a deep, shaky breath, and she feels the expansion of his lungs lift her up.
She always goes for his throat-can never help herself-pushes the toe of her boot right up under her chin and watches him gulp. It's strange, but the power makes her feel a little bit giddy, and she finds herself grinning like a mad sadist as he gulps, tilts his head back with the pressure. Sometimes she'll bring the boot up to his mouth, watch his tongue lightly trace the worn golden leather. Sometimes she'll drag it back down between his legs. Sometimes she'll go right ahead and take the weight off her other foot, cross over, standing right on his chest, trembling slightly on the uneven surface of his body as he struggles to breathe.
Sometimes she kicks at his sides. Hard enough to make him wheeze. Hard enough to bruise the skin, in blossoming blushing shades that they keep track of over the next few weeks, checking on them with a sick fascination as they turn from indigo to ugly, mottled yellow-brown. It makes her heart ache to hear him yelp and groan when her boot connects with his skin, to watch him curl over on the floor beneath her like a wounded animal, clutching at himself.
But she still finds herself crouching down, yanking his hands from his sore skin and pinning him to the floor. She'll sit on his stomach or his chest, straddling him as she slaps his cheek with a swift, stinging strike of her hand, over and over until he's bright red with his eyes watering. Her heart beats fast, she sweats. His face is like putty in her hands, and she contorts it, makes him sneer at her, wrinkle his nose, before she hits him again, again, again. If she's settled too low on his body she feels his erection at the small of her back, a gentle but insistent stiff pressing, and she squeezes his throat, sudden and tight until he starts to choke.
She gets up in something like disgust, sick of feeling his body against hers, finding it almost suffocating. She kicks him again until he rolls over, and then stands there with her arms folded as he coughs and spits, forehead against the floor, face flushed almost purple. If he starts to cry, she holds him like a mother, strokes his back and speaks the first words, breathy reassuring whispers in amongst his sobs. If he doesn't, she brings him a drink or a cigarette, or both. She pours and lights, strokes the sweat from his forehead and presses a kiss there.
Usually, he leaves for a shower, and she sits on the floor, alone and cross-legged, hunched over and trying to collage, to draw or write. It's everywhere within her, this feeling, a tight ball inside, aching and hot in the pit of her belly and the base of her spine.
But she doesn't mind, can't complain. Because it feels so, so much better than the way things were before.
***
Sometimes, it'll be while they're on tour, but not onstage. No-it'll be while they're lying in bed across from each other after the gig and trying to sleep, the adrenaline still thrumming through their veins with nowhere to go. Jamie feels like there's so much of it, so much of everything inside of him that his skin can't hold it in. His hot blood and his adrenaline, his steady throb of arousal, seeping right out of him in little tendrils that trickle their way towards Alison, pool between their beds.
Most nights, the show is enough for them, performing gets it out of their systems. But sometimes they won't let it; choosing to tempt fate once again and torture each other. And so she jerks back when he lunges forward; looks away when he sings to her with passion. He stares blankly forward into the crowd as she tilts her microphone his way; ignores her as she bends over backwards, struggling to keep her balance.
As the performance comes to an end, Jamie might get down on his knees, guitar steadied between them, and stare up at her pleadingly as she paces the stage, back, forth, back, forth; walks in tight little circles, round and round. He'll twang the strings of the guitar, try to dig his sweaty fingers into the body, try to will the thrumming noise up her legs through the stage floor. She only walks, walks until she can't take it anymore, and then she drops to her knees too, across from him, leans into the sound and then away from it, convulses and jerks like she's having a seizure. But she keeps her legs firmly closed, thighs clenched together.
She doubles over on the ground, face hovering just above the floor. She shudders with every sound he makes, but never comes any closer until he's throwing the guitar aside and holding out his arms for her to slip into. They hug, sometimes, holding each other tight and forgetting the audience; but often they only bow, arms linked or hands held, bodies folding in half and straightening up again like they're puppets on a string.
These nights, they go to bed early.
Silent, they lie across from each other, on their backs, staring up at the ceiling in the gloom of the hotel room. These long moments of silence are Alison's way of passing him the torch, transferring the power. Now Jamie has the control, he savours it the same way she does, lies there in limbo, lets the anticipation roll deliciously through his body.
He waits, and then he speaks.
He says things to her, horrible things, the kind of things that only people you're truly close to can say. Things that must cut her through the heart like a dagger. Things that even hurt him. He attacks her weak points. He says biting, scathing things. The focus is usually on romance, on love, always edging dangerously close to the topic of their own relationship.
"When was the last time," he'll say in an undertone, hardly a question, just a rush of words out of his mouth that she'll struggle to keep up with.
It's always a long time. The release he gets from these moments with her is different to things with Kate, different to how things were with other girlfriends. With them, it's some separate experience, sex how it's meant to be, not whatever strange interpretation he and Alison have created for themselves. It gives him the same relief it gives everybody else, but the pent-up tension between the Kills stays the same, and it will grow and grow, bawl and claw at its cage until they give it what it wants.
Alison, though-she hasn't had a steady boyfriend for a long, long time. She fucks exes, strangers, groupies. And rarely.
"Last night," she used to say, when she was with somebody, and he could almost hear the proud little smirk in her voice as she'd wriggle down in her bed, waiting for his response. "A few weeks," she might say now, with a touch of guilt creeping into her tone. Or "Two months," biting her lip. "Seven months," with her hand sneaking down beneath the covers. "Almost a year, Jamie," and her voice might be sharper as she feels ashamed in spite of herself.
He makes a noise of disgust. He might say "God," or he might swear. Sneer. "You're pathetic."
It's not about sex, specifically, it's just that this is something easier to quantify than what they really mean. It's about Alison's indifference to other affairs as a whole, the way she seems not to need anybody else or the normality and stability of a separate relationship. No, this is all she seems to require, to desire. This is where she gets the majority of her pleasure. It's unhealthy, and it's fascinating, and it's something they both feel horribly guilty for-Alison for bringing it on herself and Jamie for encouraging it.
"You can't really connect with anyone, can you?" Jamie might say, then, almost conversationally. "You only get off on this. It's sick. You're never going to find anybody like me-may as well settle-never marry, never have kids-" his voice starts to break with the cruelty of the words, but he's spurred on by the sounds he gets in response, the rustle of cotton, snap of elastic, that unmistakeable sound of skin on skin.
He'll always find some way to use her name. "You're never gonna find another me, Alison," he might say, as her breathing gets heavier, the pace more erratic.
"VV." Her voice sounds weak and strained, breathless, and he hates how much he loves that.
"Alison," he'll say firmly; doesn't want her to remove herself from this in any way. Makes it better.
Now, sometimes (if he can deal with it) he might mention Jack.
"So pathetic," he'll say, murmur, almost whisper. "The one person besides me-and he's married-doesn't want you-just toying with you-like a cat with a fucking bird-"
He never gets it quite like she does, but he feels himself squirming in his bed anyway, little shivers running through him to his groin. It never goes any further for him, but he doesn't know quite how far she gets.
"And you fucking-"
Sometimes she'll breathe like that, a sudden little sharp intake of breath that makes him lose track of every thought in his brain. Out of the corner of his eye (he never looks at her, not fully) he might see her writhe, might catch sight of her hand pulling in a fistful of duvet. Once, he made the mistake of glancing-saw her silhouette in the dim light coming from the bathroom with its door ajar, saw the beautiful arch of her back and the way her t-shirt (one that used to be his a long, long time ago) crumples just beneath her neck. Saw the slight, subtle curve of her breasts, the erect points of her nipples. And he flushed like a teenager walking in on his crush undressing, and he hated himself for it, attacked her even harder with his words until she was sobbing and breathless and he couldn't ignore that slick sound of motion.
Yeah, sometimes he gets hard, but he ignores it, wills it all away, waits 'til it's so nearly, nearly out of control and then stops it, draws it to a screeching, almost painful halt.
"Stop. Jesus, you're pathetic," he says. Weak, useless, a disgrace, disgusting. Any of a number of words.
It's hard for her to stop when she's so close, but he makes her. Has to go backwards, reverse it all, calm himself down and get soft on her, whispering tenderly like he's waking her from a nightmare.
"Alison, Alison, stop, shh," he'll murmur, curled over to face her but with his eyes squeezed tightly shut, "Alison, shh, it's over."
He'll keep going until the moment's gone, until she takes her fucking hands off herself and lies there shaking gently under the covers, waiting for his next words.
But there never are any; he never knows what else to say. He just rolls over, brings the bed sheets up to his mouth and buries his face in them, winces through the silence until he finally falls asleep. He never knows what Alison does, and he doesn't quite want to.
***
But sometimes he's the one that's weaker. Sometimes if he doesn't get any release onstage he can't sleep from the pent-up frustration, and he catches himself masturbating, mind blank even as he works himself slowly under the covers, almost waiting for an interruption.
Alison always knows, right from the start. She slithers out of bed, slinks across to him, on her knees beside him with her elbows resting on the mattress. He stares fixedly at the ceiling and keeps going, because she won't let him stop. She makes him light two cigarettes, one for each of them. He heaves a sigh, and she can tell it's one of exasperation, louder than his suppressed panting. As one of his hands awkwardly worms its way out from under the sheets, she clamps her hand flat over the packet of cigarettes on the bedside table. Maybe she shakes her head.
"Don't complain," she says a little sharply, but her voice is breathy, tinged with discomfort. She pulls the packet further away from him. "Do you want one?" She looks at him, can make out the dim shape of his face in the darkness, his profile. The movement beneath the covers starts to slow. "Don't stop."
He nods again, face flushed. "Yeah, yes," he says, voice gravelly. "Please," he chokes out, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.
She likes him when he's flustered like this, embarrassed by having to ask for things and be polite about it. It's not how their relationship usually is, everything else is just take take take, no questions asked. And there's something in this that humiliates him, she can tell, can see it in the way he won't look her in the eye and squirms on the bed in front of her. And maybe it's the fact that it makes it better, maybe that's what shames him. She'll never know.
"Take it," she'll say, and shrug, lifting her hand from the packet.
He'll rub his forehead again, does that a lot, pushing the skin into a frown before his hand snaps out and grasps the packet. It's far enough away from him that he has to stretch, and the movement causes the sheets around him to shift and expose. She doesn't look, doesn't need to nor want to. He fumbles with the packet, shaking a cigarette from it. She watches the routine. His other hand works furiously and clumsily under the sheets all the while as he fumbles, clicking the lighter agitatedly, lips pressed tight around the cigarette held in his mouth, and then holds another out to her. She leans back, grinning as she makes it just a little more difficult for him, makes him stretch out towards her.
She lets him slide a cigarette between her lips with a shaky hand. When the cherry of it flares and lights, Jamie drops the lighter instantly and flops down on the mattress, concentrates on himself once again. She watches him closely, but only his face, watches the way it contorts, beautifully, to a wrinkled grimace of pleasure, lips twisted and eyes squeezed shut.
Occasionally all she'll do is watch, burning her eyes into him as he squirms and tries-though not that hard-to shut her out. He drifts when he's in charge of his own pleasure, she knows that, and she doesn't like it. She wants to know what he's thinking. So she makes him speak, keeps him talking. She asks him to talk to her about events from their life together. Sometimes Jamie's task will be something rather mundane, like talking her through the concert they just played, but it's not what he's saying that she pays attention to. She just likes the way his voice changes, the way it wavers, the way he stops and stalls and gulps and struggles to stay on track. (She spits; slaps him; makes him keep going.)
Sometimes she pries deeper. Her favourite thing is to ask him about the early days, about when they first met or when she moved in with him. She likes to make him tell her what he thought of her when he first met her, likes hearing about how shy she seemed, how red she went when he first said hi to her, how his friends thought she was stalking him. She makes him tell her how he thought she was a bit of a freak, but that he liked that. The closer he gets, the more desperate, the easier it is for her to pull things from him that he doesn't want to say. He tells her how one of his bandmates once said she looked like a chubby dyke and he didn't stand up for her, how he and his friends used to joke about the weirdo teenager wanking off as she listened to him play guitar through the ceiling. It makes her nerves spark, with anger and hurt and some twisted arousal that always brings her back, wanting more, wanting him to say worse.
She's always liked to confront the things that hurt, the things that scare her, the things that make her uncomfortable. And Jamie's no different. Somehow they find peace in this, find it cathartic, but it can never be so simple. Some of the excitement, she thinks, comes from his shame, the way he squeezes his eyes shut and pleads softly, "Alison..."
It doesn't always have to be about her. She prizes secrets from his clenched hands one by one. She has him tell her all the deep dark memories from his childhood, or she plays priest, has him confess to her all of his dirty thoughts. She wants to hear about all the things that make him squirm, she wants to see the struggle between his mind and his body as she won't let him stop talking nor touching.
She loses her grip on it quickly, though, never knows quite what to say after each admission, just sits there gently bouncing on the balls of her feet and watching him with blank eyes, almost trance-like. They both drift for a bit, perhaps, and that's toeing the line at its worst, its most blatant. It's both of them giving up control, and it takes such enormous effort for her to snap out of it. But when she does it bursts right out of her and she's punching at him, pummeling his naked stomach with her fists and crying out in an explosion of emotion.
"Stop, Jamie." She'll wrench his hand from himself if she has to, not even thinking first, just yanking his arm away in a panic.
And then sometimes, she'll roll him over, onto his side so that he's facing away from her. She'll tug the sheets down to his knees and attack the exposed skin, scratching down his back with her nails and slapping hard with the full force of her palm, leaving the pale flesh stinging and red. She likes the reaction she gets; she likes the way he yelps and whimpers, judders on the bed and sometimes fumbles behind him to protect himself or grasp her hand when it gets to be too much. Most of all she likes to make him count the strikes, so that she can hear the way he shouts out each number in pain or chokes it out weakly, his voice breaking.
And then when neither of them can take it anymore she sinks forward, buries her face against the flushed hot skin of his back, presses her lips there and murmurs apologies. She feels fragile; out of control; like they're playing Russian roulette.
But if they tease like that, if they choose to keep the tension locked up for even longer, they have to pay the price.
***
Years, they last. Never slip up. Lucky rather than careful.
But it's been on their tail so long that they know it'll catch them up. It's something inevitable, something that looms dark and dreaded in their future, almost like death. They can fool themselves that they'll manage to outwit it, but deep down they know the risks they're taking, know that one night it'll take them over completely and they'll be powerless to stop it.
But years, years they last.
And then, one night-
***
The body of the guitar nestles between Jamie's knees like a limb, hot and hard and pulsing under the pressure. The vibrations buzz so urgently against his fingertips that his whole hands feel numb, and he's sweating so much he feels it dripping down his skin, collecting on his forehead, his upper lip. Somewhere in his field of vision, Alison paces the stage to the tuneless noise he's making. He wipes his forehead with the back of his hand, anticipation swirling in his gut.
Alison sinks down before him, suddenly, drops like a stone and hangs her head, hair veiling her face. Jamie wants to tuck it tenderly behind her ears, or wrap it round his fist and pull it 'til she screams.
Instead, he streaks his fingers down the fretboard so fast the strings feel like they cut into his skin. Alison jerks forward-he feels her hair brush his hand-and then back, and then he angles the guitar towards her. Before she goes down, she presses a kiss to his knuckles where they're whitened in a clenched grip at the guitar's head.
And then she falls back, thighs open, resting on her boots turned inwards, hair a dark halo on the floor. She spreads her arms out like Christ, palms upturned, and waits for it.
He smoothes his sweaty hair, sliding his hand over his head, and stares down at the perfect inverted V of her legs. His heart feels like it's in his throat, closing it right up. He steadies himself, takes the guitar's body in one hand and its head in the other and twists, jerks, forces the instrument back from itself and makes it scream. Alison trembles beneath him, throws back her head and exposes the long, pale arc of her throat, glistening with sweat. Her arms thrash, trying to get a grip on something. She clutches the mic stand behind her head, grips it tightly and seems to arch up off the floor slightly, almost touching the guitar.
And then she's moving with him, jolting up towards him with each reverberation. Each movement he makes causes a fuzzy whine and holler, the instrument buzzing heavily with static. She bucks so wildly, almost violently, that she touches the guitar, over and over, and he grabs a hold of her hip suddenly in alarm, feels the slick bare skin of it where her shirt has ridden up. He forces her down, fights against her resistance, clutching so tight that her hipbone is digging into his palm.
In a flash, he becomes aware of the way the guitar's back is now wedged deep between his thighs, pressing firmly against the unbearable starting swell of an erection. He needs to pull back, get away, but he can't, can't seem to do anything but what he's doing, bearing down on her until the guitar is crushed tight between their bodies. He feels what she's feeling, feels the push, the strain of the limits, feels her rising panic like she's not sure she can take it. Too much, too much.
His mind seems to float away from him, separate from his body which pushes and strains along with hers on the dirty stage floor. The heat, the smoke, the lights of the club envelope them, and Jamie's vision blurs and hazes. The vibrations of the noise make him quiver, and there's no club anymore, no audience, no stage; just him, and Alison, and hot noise thrilling through their veins. His heart hammers, his hips thrust, and the friction is killing him.
Suddenly she's arching up, overpowering him in his daze, and she grabs his leg. It's the shift of the guitar against him that does it, and the pain of her fingernails almost cutting into his thigh. His mind is frenzied white noise and for a moment he can't breathe. She falls forward, burying her face in his shoulder. He can feel her open mouth at his neck. An overwhelming flood of heat and he's gone, it takes him, and his eyes glaze over. The guitar shudders, cocooned between their clenched thighs. Alison's losing it against him, shaking helplessly, uncontrollably. Through the cacophony he hears the moan that wracks her frail body, almost a howl of a sound, but muffled against the slick skin of his neck. She tenses so hard, every muscle and tendon as taut as can be, that she seems to be resisting, fighting against him, her head forcing him back. He drives on, and they grind into each other like parts of a machine, wearing each other down.
His hands seize up, unclench, and the guitar lets out one last scream, a harsh, high-pitched noise that is lost to his own ears under the sound of his own panting and Alison's wheezing gasps. Her body is a dead weight slumped against him, huddled, folded in on itself. The heat is utterly excruciating, closing in on them like a stifling cloud. His skin drips, seems to melt right off him, and he wipes his forehead agitatedly. His head drops onto Alison's shoulder weakly, and his sinuses sting like they're ready for tears.
The next thing he's aware of is the cheering, the crowd, and it makes him sick. Alison's murmuring something, something panicked and unintelligible in his ear, but he heaves himself up onto unsteady feet and bows almost instantly, more from buckling knees than courtesy. He feels Alison's fingers linking loosely through his, small and still trembling, and they come halfway up before bowing again, eyes cast downwards in something like shame before they turn and he's almost dragging her limp body offstage.
The moment they round the corner, they collide once again, in each other's arms and collapsed against the cool wall. He's aware of her tears before his own, hearing the choked sobs as she clutches him painfully tightly. His face is pressed where her neck meets her shoulder, his lips wet with tears and smearing against her skin, and his hand cradles her head, strokes anxiously through her snarled hair. She starts to wrestle herself free, shouts, "Fuck. Fuck!" and then goes still again, snakes her hand down between their bodies and presses it against the damp crotch of his jeans.
Stunned, he doesn't react for a moment, then snaps, snatching her wrist back up. She whips it out of his grasp, face screwed up in anger, and slaps him suddenly, hard, and then again, before he has a chance to react. Tear-stained cheeks stinging with the force of it, he pushes her back against the wall, takes her neck between his hands without a second thought, squeezes. Her eyes are black and scared and she kneads at his waist with her fingers, and he lets go in an instant, shakes his hands loose and stares at her, bewildered.
"Jamie, fuck," Alison says in a stunned undertone, and he backs off, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes until he sees stars.
She tries to pull his arms away and he pushes her back. She kicks him in the shin, grabs him by the throat as he's ducked over and groaning, and forces him against the wall. He looks into her wild eyes, looks at the hard angry line of her lips, and then they're lunging forward at each other as though they mean to knock each other out. Instead, their mouths collide, harsh and quick and bringing blood, all teeth as they try to fight each other off and force themselves on each other all at once.
His lips smear across her cheek and her hands move from their vice-grip around his wrists. His fingers immediately interlink with hers and he mutters, "Shut up, shut up," in her ear through the silence until his voice starts to break.
They embrace furiously again, as though they're terrified of drifting away from each other, losing sight of each other in this inky sea of the unknown. They squeeze so close to one another it's almost like they're trying to turn into a single body, and it almost seems possible as much as it seems necessary. But still they refuse to give in-they panic, they blame, they want to keep hurting just for something familiar.
And finally, finally, when the noise around the corner has died down and the crowds have dissipated, when they're too sore and weak and aching to keep fighting it, they stop their struggle. And then all there is left to do is keep clinging on, just hold on tight and let the tides take them.
End.
Also, I have a new layout! For the first time in AGES. Woo.
But yeah, onto the depravity...
Title: signal when you want me (when you want me to stop)
Author: likecharity
Pairing: Alison Mosshart/Jamie Hince
Rating: Very hard R
Warnings: Oh, man. BDSM, sexualised violence. Including breathplay, slapping, kicking, scratching and trampling....all consensual, though.
Summary: They maintain a difficult balance, taunt temptation like they're playing with fire. They let out just enough of that tension to be able to live with each other, and then they put the lid right back on it, lock it away and let it build and build until once again, they're bursting at the seams with it.
A/N: I'm...not entirely sure what it says about me that a) this is totally how I see their relationship, and b) I really enjoyed writing this story.
Jamie once said in an interview that he and Alison never impose rules on each other, that from day one they've always behaved however they like with each other. It's not quite true.
There's always been one, unspoken rule, always tagging after them. Never to push too hard, go too far, step over that one last line that exists between them. They spend their lives on that line, because it's okay to push hard and go far, to get so close they can fucking taste it, but to cross it is unthinkable.
They're so close it's dangerous; they know that, but they've never been the type to shy away from risks, and in this case it seems more dangerous to ignore them. Their relationship isn't complete without that tension, it's true, but if left alone it could all too easily bubble over, boil itself away into nothingness and leave them to split off, spinning away from each other with nothing left.
So they maintain a difficult balance, taunt temptation like they're playing with fire. They let out just enough of that tension to be able to live with each other, and then they put the lid right back on it, lock it away and let it build and build until once again, they're bursting at the seams with it.
But they never feel like they have quite as much control as they'd like to, as they pretend to. It's like a monster under the bed, but instead of lying there every night with the covers up to their necks and their eyes squeezed shut 'til they grow out of it, they've encouraged it, fed it and nurtured it, given it something to stick around for. And now it's not going anywhere, not until it's managed to devour them whole.
Over the years, they've developed ways to handle it, and they've grown so used to it that in some ways it almost feels like a routine. They know roughly how long they can leave it before they start wanting to kill each other; they know which of each other's buttons to push to get the reaction they want; they know that a screaming fight will do if things get desperate, but that a live show is so, so much better.
***
While performing, they never used to look at the audience at all. They would have their gazes fixed on each other instead, from the moment they stepped onstage to the moment they stepped off it. It's how things were before there were any audiences at all, when it just used to be him, and her, in a room together watching each other make music. And fans often feel like intruders, like peeping Toms through their windows, because this isn't for them. This was never for them.
And the audience is scary; Alison knows that better than anyone. But in front of them is where she can confront her shyness, banish her demons, stand there and sing and scream and shake, be herself. Nobody can touch her up there. Nobody but him.
Sometimes, they play games. Sometimes, they try to see how long they can last without looking at each other, eyes firmly fixed on the audience, that vast crowd of faces stretching on endlessly. Even if she can see Jamie out of the corner of her eye, it feels like she's up there alone and the thought is terrifying. It's an unspoken competition, who can last the longest, the opposite of a staring contest. Eventually one of them will break, and comfort slides over them like a warm blanket as their eyes finally meet.
They might steer their microphones towards each other, adjust the stands with sticky hands until they're close as can get. Jamie might saunter over if she steps aside, might sing into her mic instead of his own, press his lips where hers were only moments before, as she stands sullenly beside him plucking out the hypnotic heartbeat drone of Kissy Kissy on her guitar. He'll moan the melody; won't look at her. Or maybe as she's singing, he'll lean in, nuzzle against her, breathing on her neck and burying his face into her tangled hair. Maybe they'll share the mic, so close their lips will touch it together, might brush against each other accidentally in a brief, sweaty smear.
Sometimes he lunges forward unexpectedly, and she'll jerk and duck away, but other times he advances on her slowly, coming closer and closer until they're mere inches apart, plucking out notes in tandem. He'll thrust forward, and their guitars will touch, slam together, strings clashing with strings in a shrill shudder of noise. He'll stay for a moment, put more pressure on the instrument as it rubs against her own, and send the electric thrum of the vibrations almost uncomfortably deep inside her 'til she's open-mouthed and light-headed. He juts his chin, leans into her, watching her intently and almost challengingly, and then just as quickly he's gone, it's off, it's over.
And sometimes, then, he'll hold his guitar like a gun, point it at the audience, or perhaps at her; fire a quick shot with his fingertips sliding fast down the strings like he's pulling a trigger. She'll fling herself back, play dead for him. He might get rough with her, snatch her hair into a handful and yank her head back as she sings, shout things she can't hear through the music.
She sees him as a snake charmer as she winds her away across the stage, bucking and rippling towards him, an enraptured cobra. And when she reaches him, he might play with her like a puppet, might turn her mindless with his sound, make her thrash and quake to each strum of his guitar. She's helpless on his strings, clutching weakly at his waist or steadying a hand on his chest as they move together at a rapidly increasing speed, hips jerking back and forth, growing clumsy.
She might fall back, bend herself backwards, might reach out and grab a hold of his hip or his thigh. Her hand might find the guitar, instead, and she might ease it between her legs, daringly pulling it a little closer, pressing it there and letting herself feel that pulse, that deep sound. Feel each vibration of the instrument as Jamie plucks the strings. She can never cope for long, and he knows it, pulls away only seconds after she's held on, whips out of her grasp and leaves her shivering and unsteady on her feet as she heaves herself upright once again.
Or she won't even get that far, her legs weak long before, and she'll drop to her knees at his feet, hunched over. He'll join her on the floor, swinging his guitar off and shoving it between his parted knees, angling it towards her and straining the body of the instrument until it screeches in protest and she's leaning into the sound. And then, just as quickly, away from it; lying right down and letting him between her legs the only way she ever has, ever will. He twists and tears at the guitar, bringing out dirty, gritty noise, and she lets it inside her, every thrill and tremor.
It's all Jamie then, his chance to bring out whatever's inside of him and work through it. He'll finish when he's good and ready, but she knows he's careful not to let it go too far, not to get too close or push too hard or stretch it out too long. Because that's the rule, the only rule there's ever been.
And then he'll draw back, and pull her off the ground, sweaty hand slick in hers as he helps her up. They'll raise their linked fingers and bow in front of their almost-forgotten audience, and be done for another week; month; longer. However long they can stand it.
***
Shows are good-the dates are organised, set in stone, marked out on calendars giving them something to look forward to, something to wait for. But sometimes there's no tour, or sometimes it just won't come quickly enough. Sometimes it comes over them all of a sudden, and that's when it feels really out of their control. It's when they're busy and stressed, strings pulled taut. When Jamie feels like he'll snap at the slightest provocation. And that's when Alison gets childish, riles him up and taunts him, makes it worse. She knows him so well that she's perfect at getting on his nerves, under his skin, and she's patient enough to do it for days. As long as it takes for him to lose his temper.
It shouldn't be something he enjoys, but he takes comfort in the fact that it shouldn't be something she enjoys either. But she wants it, and he always knows when she wants it because she gets like this, nags at him and teases him, gets in his space until he just can't take it anymore.
And then he lashes out, takes her by the hips; waist; shoulders at first, backs her up against a wall or throws her down on the nearest surface. Sometimes he yells, can't help himself, screams something awful, and then she always shudders at the rare thrill of it, scared and excited and buzzing with anticipation under his hands. It makes him even angrier, the way she does it on purpose, the way that even when she's pinned against the wall or trapped beneath his body she'll still tilt her chin up at him defiantly, waiting.
Maybe that's why he always snaps-because she's flaunting the way she has that control over him, teasing him with it, knowing she'll get what she wants. And he could be the bigger person, he could throw up his hands and walk away, but he never does, never feels like he can. She'll always get him in the end, and deep down, he wants it just as bad as she does.
So he does it. He starts with a little bit of pressure, pushes two fingers against the soft skin at the base of her throat. Feels her tendons and the knobs of her collarbone. Her eyes seem to go darker, and she resists, just to increase the tension, to make his fingers press harder against her. And there's something about that that drives him crazy, the way she's trying to take control even now, and within a split-second his hand's around her neck, tight enough to feel the gulp as she swallows hard.
Sometimes he clamps his hand over her mouth first instead, feels her hot breath against his palm, a teasing flick of her tongue sometimes just to goad him into it. He smothers her, his big hand over her face, the heel of it crushed against her lips and his fingers squeezing, blocking her nose.
His other hand gets trapped between their bodies, palm against his crotch, knuckles pressing awkwardly against hers. The harder he holds her, the more her hips push against him, pushing against his hand and pushing his hand against himself. If she's against a wall; door; window with a ledge digging into her back, she gradually draws away from it. Her body bends backwards 'til she's staring up at the ceiling, glassy-eyed, red-faced, sweating. Joined to him at the hips and throat, their legs often intertwined so she can give him weak little kicks of her boots on his ankles when she can't take any more.
If she's on the bed; sofa; floor; on a table once or twice, she arches up against him, writhing under the strong grip of his thighs on either side of her. It's like something's pulling her upwards from the chest, like her lungs are trying so hard to reach the air. The way she thrashes, tearing the sheets from the bed with her fists, makes her seem possessed. She grinds against him like that, clumsy and frantic, and he can't stand it, can't stand the stirring in his jeans, the inevitable response. It's too close, too direct, and he grips her tighter, tries to hold her still and draw it out of her like an exorcist.
There's violence in it, of course, but no anger-the petty frustrations that bring this on dissipate quickly, leaving only intense passion, a forceful sort of all-consuming lust.
Her hair clings to her forehead, sometimes shields her eyes, sometimes covers her whole face altogether like a heavy black curtain. She grabs a hold of his hips, or hooks her fingers through his belt loops; grabs fistfuls of cushion or duvet or rug; claws helplessly against wall or wooden floor. She never quite goes still, and he can never quite work out the meaning of her violent little spasms, the way her hips jerk against him and she presses so stiflingly close that he swears he can feel the damp heat of her.
It's the hardest thing in the world for him to pull away, but he does-always does, always has to. He does it in one swift movement, lets her go and jerks back from her, fights himself free from her clinging grip. And then she's limp and gasping, panting, and he's stroking her hair back from her face and even getting her a drink of water if she needs it.
She usually laughs a little, then, weak and wheezing, high on the rush of it. He can do nothing but cradle her face in his hands and stare into her eyes, the pupils blown wide. She's fine, she's always fine, and that's why she laughs-at his concern. He's always panicked, sometimes equally breathless, perhaps having held the air in his lungs along with her subconsciously. Once or twice he's caught sight of himself in a mirror and been shocked at the clammy pallor of his face, his slack-jawed expression.
But he's never stopped to question it, never asked why he does this to himself. It's not a question worth asking.
***
It doesn't always come in such a frantic flurry. They can cope for weeks without it, sometimes; have learnt to abstain like that though it feels almost as achingly difficult as being physically separated. It becomes another game-who's the weaker one, who needs it most, who'll crack first?
And then eventually, it will engulf them once again, sometimes occurring in an almost calm way, utterly removed from their wild fits of passion and violence. They'll be working on something, lying on their stomachs together on the living room floor, perhaps, scrapbooking with newspapers and vintage books scattered around them, cutting-and-pasting words from yellowing pages.
Jamie will write out a message in collage. Something offensive, uncalled for, but succinct and simple and usually just a little bit childish. It might start with fuck, Jamie painstakingly sticking the word down, printed on a tiny, fiddly scrap of thin paper. YOU, he might add after a moment, choosing from a newspaper headline this time, large block letters that he places carefully beneath his first word. He'll hold it up to Alison with a goofy grin, his hands sticky with glue, fingertips sticking together in clinging white strands.
She'll roll her eyes, giggle. Scribble something in response, maybe fuck you too, or something unintelligible just to wind him up. A stream of consciousness, the same way she likes to write songs. Maybe she'll cut and paste her reply, too, if she wants to make him wait. While she works on her reply, Jamie will go back to his own art, feigning disinterest but unable to resist sneaking a peek at hers. Finally, she'll push it over to him, slide it across the floor and then rest her chin on her hands, watch him as he reads it.
A few clear, simple words are what do it eventually. Looking like a ransom note it might spell out a warning. C A R E F U L. Or, perhaps, a scrawled instruction. LIE DOWN. REFILL MY DRINK. TIE BACK MY HAIR.
And he'll do whatever it says. Whatever it says. He'll light her a cigarette or he'll light some candles, he'll take the record off the turntable or he'll take off his shirt. He'll lie there on the floor, watch her with a little hint of a smile on his face. She'll take her time because she likes it like this, likes these in-between moments, likes to savour them. She'll smoke, watch him squirm on his back on the hardwood floor, rustling the papers beneath him, maybe with the spine of a hardback book digging into his shoulder. She'll sip her drink, smile back at him, a little crooked smirk.
Every once in a while, that's as far as it goes. She'll just watch him for a while, then go back to her art. Or maybe she'll curl up beside him on the floor, wordlessly. Sometimes it frustrates him like nothing else, makes him seethe and get short with her, snapping at her for days on end. But mostly, it works just as well. What he really needs is that command, that surrender of control. She'll demand something of him-either in these shyly-passed sketchbooks or in words scribbled in Sharpie somewhere (on his bed frame or the bathroom tiles, perhaps) and he'll comply. DO THE DISHES, or SWEEP THE FLOOR, she might say, and both of them will gain some strange sense of satisfaction from it as he carries out whatever mindless chore she's chosen under her watchful gaze.
But they can't always leave it at that. They're too greedy, too foolish.
So sometimes Jamie lies down, and sometimes Alison stands up, stands over him and lets him look up at her like that, watching her a little nervously as she circles him like a vulture. She likes to drag it out. She'll point one foot, run the toe of her boot along the lines of his body like she's tracing out his outline onto the floor. As light as she can, just barely brushing him. Rumpling up his shirt if it's still on. Gently tickling his skin if it's not. She'll run the sole of the shoe down the centre of him, let it pause and press a little at his heart, his navel, his crotch.
Once or twice, maybe just a handful of times, she's seen him get hard from that alone. Seen, felt, the stirring of him beneath her foot, the tightening of the fabric of his jeans. It always brings on a strange mixture of reactions, visceral and sour somewhere in her gut or the back of her throat. Curiosity, excitement, hunger, possessiveness, all blended harshly with a deep gush of revulsion. It's a feeling she favours for its utter strangeness, for that moment that she feels the urges wrestling inside her, the way she fights the desire to kick, to run.
And then he'll smile, a weak little sheepish grin, tinged with embarrassment and understanding, and just like that she's back and he's hers again. She bites her lower lip in concentration, sometimes so much that she'll discover deep grooves bruised into it the next morning, coloured purple with wine. She presses harder with her foot, on his chest, swears she can feel the outline of his ribs, fragile bones all lined up beneath the sole of her boot. He takes a deep, shaky breath, and she feels the expansion of his lungs lift her up.
She always goes for his throat-can never help herself-pushes the toe of her boot right up under her chin and watches him gulp. It's strange, but the power makes her feel a little bit giddy, and she finds herself grinning like a mad sadist as he gulps, tilts his head back with the pressure. Sometimes she'll bring the boot up to his mouth, watch his tongue lightly trace the worn golden leather. Sometimes she'll drag it back down between his legs. Sometimes she'll go right ahead and take the weight off her other foot, cross over, standing right on his chest, trembling slightly on the uneven surface of his body as he struggles to breathe.
Sometimes she kicks at his sides. Hard enough to make him wheeze. Hard enough to bruise the skin, in blossoming blushing shades that they keep track of over the next few weeks, checking on them with a sick fascination as they turn from indigo to ugly, mottled yellow-brown. It makes her heart ache to hear him yelp and groan when her boot connects with his skin, to watch him curl over on the floor beneath her like a wounded animal, clutching at himself.
But she still finds herself crouching down, yanking his hands from his sore skin and pinning him to the floor. She'll sit on his stomach or his chest, straddling him as she slaps his cheek with a swift, stinging strike of her hand, over and over until he's bright red with his eyes watering. Her heart beats fast, she sweats. His face is like putty in her hands, and she contorts it, makes him sneer at her, wrinkle his nose, before she hits him again, again, again. If she's settled too low on his body she feels his erection at the small of her back, a gentle but insistent stiff pressing, and she squeezes his throat, sudden and tight until he starts to choke.
She gets up in something like disgust, sick of feeling his body against hers, finding it almost suffocating. She kicks him again until he rolls over, and then stands there with her arms folded as he coughs and spits, forehead against the floor, face flushed almost purple. If he starts to cry, she holds him like a mother, strokes his back and speaks the first words, breathy reassuring whispers in amongst his sobs. If he doesn't, she brings him a drink or a cigarette, or both. She pours and lights, strokes the sweat from his forehead and presses a kiss there.
Usually, he leaves for a shower, and she sits on the floor, alone and cross-legged, hunched over and trying to collage, to draw or write. It's everywhere within her, this feeling, a tight ball inside, aching and hot in the pit of her belly and the base of her spine.
But she doesn't mind, can't complain. Because it feels so, so much better than the way things were before.
***
Sometimes, it'll be while they're on tour, but not onstage. No-it'll be while they're lying in bed across from each other after the gig and trying to sleep, the adrenaline still thrumming through their veins with nowhere to go. Jamie feels like there's so much of it, so much of everything inside of him that his skin can't hold it in. His hot blood and his adrenaline, his steady throb of arousal, seeping right out of him in little tendrils that trickle their way towards Alison, pool between their beds.
Most nights, the show is enough for them, performing gets it out of their systems. But sometimes they won't let it; choosing to tempt fate once again and torture each other. And so she jerks back when he lunges forward; looks away when he sings to her with passion. He stares blankly forward into the crowd as she tilts her microphone his way; ignores her as she bends over backwards, struggling to keep her balance.
As the performance comes to an end, Jamie might get down on his knees, guitar steadied between them, and stare up at her pleadingly as she paces the stage, back, forth, back, forth; walks in tight little circles, round and round. He'll twang the strings of the guitar, try to dig his sweaty fingers into the body, try to will the thrumming noise up her legs through the stage floor. She only walks, walks until she can't take it anymore, and then she drops to her knees too, across from him, leans into the sound and then away from it, convulses and jerks like she's having a seizure. But she keeps her legs firmly closed, thighs clenched together.
She doubles over on the ground, face hovering just above the floor. She shudders with every sound he makes, but never comes any closer until he's throwing the guitar aside and holding out his arms for her to slip into. They hug, sometimes, holding each other tight and forgetting the audience; but often they only bow, arms linked or hands held, bodies folding in half and straightening up again like they're puppets on a string.
These nights, they go to bed early.
Silent, they lie across from each other, on their backs, staring up at the ceiling in the gloom of the hotel room. These long moments of silence are Alison's way of passing him the torch, transferring the power. Now Jamie has the control, he savours it the same way she does, lies there in limbo, lets the anticipation roll deliciously through his body.
He waits, and then he speaks.
He says things to her, horrible things, the kind of things that only people you're truly close to can say. Things that must cut her through the heart like a dagger. Things that even hurt him. He attacks her weak points. He says biting, scathing things. The focus is usually on romance, on love, always edging dangerously close to the topic of their own relationship.
"When was the last time," he'll say in an undertone, hardly a question, just a rush of words out of his mouth that she'll struggle to keep up with.
It's always a long time. The release he gets from these moments with her is different to things with Kate, different to how things were with other girlfriends. With them, it's some separate experience, sex how it's meant to be, not whatever strange interpretation he and Alison have created for themselves. It gives him the same relief it gives everybody else, but the pent-up tension between the Kills stays the same, and it will grow and grow, bawl and claw at its cage until they give it what it wants.
Alison, though-she hasn't had a steady boyfriend for a long, long time. She fucks exes, strangers, groupies. And rarely.
"Last night," she used to say, when she was with somebody, and he could almost hear the proud little smirk in her voice as she'd wriggle down in her bed, waiting for his response. "A few weeks," she might say now, with a touch of guilt creeping into her tone. Or "Two months," biting her lip. "Seven months," with her hand sneaking down beneath the covers. "Almost a year, Jamie," and her voice might be sharper as she feels ashamed in spite of herself.
He makes a noise of disgust. He might say "God," or he might swear. Sneer. "You're pathetic."
It's not about sex, specifically, it's just that this is something easier to quantify than what they really mean. It's about Alison's indifference to other affairs as a whole, the way she seems not to need anybody else or the normality and stability of a separate relationship. No, this is all she seems to require, to desire. This is where she gets the majority of her pleasure. It's unhealthy, and it's fascinating, and it's something they both feel horribly guilty for-Alison for bringing it on herself and Jamie for encouraging it.
"You can't really connect with anyone, can you?" Jamie might say, then, almost conversationally. "You only get off on this. It's sick. You're never going to find anybody like me-may as well settle-never marry, never have kids-" his voice starts to break with the cruelty of the words, but he's spurred on by the sounds he gets in response, the rustle of cotton, snap of elastic, that unmistakeable sound of skin on skin.
He'll always find some way to use her name. "You're never gonna find another me, Alison," he might say, as her breathing gets heavier, the pace more erratic.
"VV." Her voice sounds weak and strained, breathless, and he hates how much he loves that.
"Alison," he'll say firmly; doesn't want her to remove herself from this in any way. Makes it better.
Now, sometimes (if he can deal with it) he might mention Jack.
"So pathetic," he'll say, murmur, almost whisper. "The one person besides me-and he's married-doesn't want you-just toying with you-like a cat with a fucking bird-"
He never gets it quite like she does, but he feels himself squirming in his bed anyway, little shivers running through him to his groin. It never goes any further for him, but he doesn't know quite how far she gets.
"And you fucking-"
Sometimes she'll breathe like that, a sudden little sharp intake of breath that makes him lose track of every thought in his brain. Out of the corner of his eye (he never looks at her, not fully) he might see her writhe, might catch sight of her hand pulling in a fistful of duvet. Once, he made the mistake of glancing-saw her silhouette in the dim light coming from the bathroom with its door ajar, saw the beautiful arch of her back and the way her t-shirt (one that used to be his a long, long time ago) crumples just beneath her neck. Saw the slight, subtle curve of her breasts, the erect points of her nipples. And he flushed like a teenager walking in on his crush undressing, and he hated himself for it, attacked her even harder with his words until she was sobbing and breathless and he couldn't ignore that slick sound of motion.
Yeah, sometimes he gets hard, but he ignores it, wills it all away, waits 'til it's so nearly, nearly out of control and then stops it, draws it to a screeching, almost painful halt.
"Stop. Jesus, you're pathetic," he says. Weak, useless, a disgrace, disgusting. Any of a number of words.
It's hard for her to stop when she's so close, but he makes her. Has to go backwards, reverse it all, calm himself down and get soft on her, whispering tenderly like he's waking her from a nightmare.
"Alison, Alison, stop, shh," he'll murmur, curled over to face her but with his eyes squeezed tightly shut, "Alison, shh, it's over."
He'll keep going until the moment's gone, until she takes her fucking hands off herself and lies there shaking gently under the covers, waiting for his next words.
But there never are any; he never knows what else to say. He just rolls over, brings the bed sheets up to his mouth and buries his face in them, winces through the silence until he finally falls asleep. He never knows what Alison does, and he doesn't quite want to.
***
But sometimes he's the one that's weaker. Sometimes if he doesn't get any release onstage he can't sleep from the pent-up frustration, and he catches himself masturbating, mind blank even as he works himself slowly under the covers, almost waiting for an interruption.
Alison always knows, right from the start. She slithers out of bed, slinks across to him, on her knees beside him with her elbows resting on the mattress. He stares fixedly at the ceiling and keeps going, because she won't let him stop. She makes him light two cigarettes, one for each of them. He heaves a sigh, and she can tell it's one of exasperation, louder than his suppressed panting. As one of his hands awkwardly worms its way out from under the sheets, she clamps her hand flat over the packet of cigarettes on the bedside table. Maybe she shakes her head.
"Don't complain," she says a little sharply, but her voice is breathy, tinged with discomfort. She pulls the packet further away from him. "Do you want one?" She looks at him, can make out the dim shape of his face in the darkness, his profile. The movement beneath the covers starts to slow. "Don't stop."
He nods again, face flushed. "Yeah, yes," he says, voice gravelly. "Please," he chokes out, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.
She likes him when he's flustered like this, embarrassed by having to ask for things and be polite about it. It's not how their relationship usually is, everything else is just take take take, no questions asked. And there's something in this that humiliates him, she can tell, can see it in the way he won't look her in the eye and squirms on the bed in front of her. And maybe it's the fact that it makes it better, maybe that's what shames him. She'll never know.
"Take it," she'll say, and shrug, lifting her hand from the packet.
He'll rub his forehead again, does that a lot, pushing the skin into a frown before his hand snaps out and grasps the packet. It's far enough away from him that he has to stretch, and the movement causes the sheets around him to shift and expose. She doesn't look, doesn't need to nor want to. He fumbles with the packet, shaking a cigarette from it. She watches the routine. His other hand works furiously and clumsily under the sheets all the while as he fumbles, clicking the lighter agitatedly, lips pressed tight around the cigarette held in his mouth, and then holds another out to her. She leans back, grinning as she makes it just a little more difficult for him, makes him stretch out towards her.
She lets him slide a cigarette between her lips with a shaky hand. When the cherry of it flares and lights, Jamie drops the lighter instantly and flops down on the mattress, concentrates on himself once again. She watches him closely, but only his face, watches the way it contorts, beautifully, to a wrinkled grimace of pleasure, lips twisted and eyes squeezed shut.
Occasionally all she'll do is watch, burning her eyes into him as he squirms and tries-though not that hard-to shut her out. He drifts when he's in charge of his own pleasure, she knows that, and she doesn't like it. She wants to know what he's thinking. So she makes him speak, keeps him talking. She asks him to talk to her about events from their life together. Sometimes Jamie's task will be something rather mundane, like talking her through the concert they just played, but it's not what he's saying that she pays attention to. She just likes the way his voice changes, the way it wavers, the way he stops and stalls and gulps and struggles to stay on track. (She spits; slaps him; makes him keep going.)
Sometimes she pries deeper. Her favourite thing is to ask him about the early days, about when they first met or when she moved in with him. She likes to make him tell her what he thought of her when he first met her, likes hearing about how shy she seemed, how red she went when he first said hi to her, how his friends thought she was stalking him. She makes him tell her how he thought she was a bit of a freak, but that he liked that. The closer he gets, the more desperate, the easier it is for her to pull things from him that he doesn't want to say. He tells her how one of his bandmates once said she looked like a chubby dyke and he didn't stand up for her, how he and his friends used to joke about the weirdo teenager wanking off as she listened to him play guitar through the ceiling. It makes her nerves spark, with anger and hurt and some twisted arousal that always brings her back, wanting more, wanting him to say worse.
She's always liked to confront the things that hurt, the things that scare her, the things that make her uncomfortable. And Jamie's no different. Somehow they find peace in this, find it cathartic, but it can never be so simple. Some of the excitement, she thinks, comes from his shame, the way he squeezes his eyes shut and pleads softly, "Alison..."
It doesn't always have to be about her. She prizes secrets from his clenched hands one by one. She has him tell her all the deep dark memories from his childhood, or she plays priest, has him confess to her all of his dirty thoughts. She wants to hear about all the things that make him squirm, she wants to see the struggle between his mind and his body as she won't let him stop talking nor touching.
She loses her grip on it quickly, though, never knows quite what to say after each admission, just sits there gently bouncing on the balls of her feet and watching him with blank eyes, almost trance-like. They both drift for a bit, perhaps, and that's toeing the line at its worst, its most blatant. It's both of them giving up control, and it takes such enormous effort for her to snap out of it. But when she does it bursts right out of her and she's punching at him, pummeling his naked stomach with her fists and crying out in an explosion of emotion.
"Stop, Jamie." She'll wrench his hand from himself if she has to, not even thinking first, just yanking his arm away in a panic.
And then sometimes, she'll roll him over, onto his side so that he's facing away from her. She'll tug the sheets down to his knees and attack the exposed skin, scratching down his back with her nails and slapping hard with the full force of her palm, leaving the pale flesh stinging and red. She likes the reaction she gets; she likes the way he yelps and whimpers, judders on the bed and sometimes fumbles behind him to protect himself or grasp her hand when it gets to be too much. Most of all she likes to make him count the strikes, so that she can hear the way he shouts out each number in pain or chokes it out weakly, his voice breaking.
And then when neither of them can take it anymore she sinks forward, buries her face against the flushed hot skin of his back, presses her lips there and murmurs apologies. She feels fragile; out of control; like they're playing Russian roulette.
But if they tease like that, if they choose to keep the tension locked up for even longer, they have to pay the price.
***
Years, they last. Never slip up. Lucky rather than careful.
But it's been on their tail so long that they know it'll catch them up. It's something inevitable, something that looms dark and dreaded in their future, almost like death. They can fool themselves that they'll manage to outwit it, but deep down they know the risks they're taking, know that one night it'll take them over completely and they'll be powerless to stop it.
But years, years they last.
And then, one night-
***
The body of the guitar nestles between Jamie's knees like a limb, hot and hard and pulsing under the pressure. The vibrations buzz so urgently against his fingertips that his whole hands feel numb, and he's sweating so much he feels it dripping down his skin, collecting on his forehead, his upper lip. Somewhere in his field of vision, Alison paces the stage to the tuneless noise he's making. He wipes his forehead with the back of his hand, anticipation swirling in his gut.
Alison sinks down before him, suddenly, drops like a stone and hangs her head, hair veiling her face. Jamie wants to tuck it tenderly behind her ears, or wrap it round his fist and pull it 'til she screams.
Instead, he streaks his fingers down the fretboard so fast the strings feel like they cut into his skin. Alison jerks forward-he feels her hair brush his hand-and then back, and then he angles the guitar towards her. Before she goes down, she presses a kiss to his knuckles where they're whitened in a clenched grip at the guitar's head.
And then she falls back, thighs open, resting on her boots turned inwards, hair a dark halo on the floor. She spreads her arms out like Christ, palms upturned, and waits for it.
He smoothes his sweaty hair, sliding his hand over his head, and stares down at the perfect inverted V of her legs. His heart feels like it's in his throat, closing it right up. He steadies himself, takes the guitar's body in one hand and its head in the other and twists, jerks, forces the instrument back from itself and makes it scream. Alison trembles beneath him, throws back her head and exposes the long, pale arc of her throat, glistening with sweat. Her arms thrash, trying to get a grip on something. She clutches the mic stand behind her head, grips it tightly and seems to arch up off the floor slightly, almost touching the guitar.
And then she's moving with him, jolting up towards him with each reverberation. Each movement he makes causes a fuzzy whine and holler, the instrument buzzing heavily with static. She bucks so wildly, almost violently, that she touches the guitar, over and over, and he grabs a hold of her hip suddenly in alarm, feels the slick bare skin of it where her shirt has ridden up. He forces her down, fights against her resistance, clutching so tight that her hipbone is digging into his palm.
In a flash, he becomes aware of the way the guitar's back is now wedged deep between his thighs, pressing firmly against the unbearable starting swell of an erection. He needs to pull back, get away, but he can't, can't seem to do anything but what he's doing, bearing down on her until the guitar is crushed tight between their bodies. He feels what she's feeling, feels the push, the strain of the limits, feels her rising panic like she's not sure she can take it. Too much, too much.
His mind seems to float away from him, separate from his body which pushes and strains along with hers on the dirty stage floor. The heat, the smoke, the lights of the club envelope them, and Jamie's vision blurs and hazes. The vibrations of the noise make him quiver, and there's no club anymore, no audience, no stage; just him, and Alison, and hot noise thrilling through their veins. His heart hammers, his hips thrust, and the friction is killing him.
Suddenly she's arching up, overpowering him in his daze, and she grabs his leg. It's the shift of the guitar against him that does it, and the pain of her fingernails almost cutting into his thigh. His mind is frenzied white noise and for a moment he can't breathe. She falls forward, burying her face in his shoulder. He can feel her open mouth at his neck. An overwhelming flood of heat and he's gone, it takes him, and his eyes glaze over. The guitar shudders, cocooned between their clenched thighs. Alison's losing it against him, shaking helplessly, uncontrollably. Through the cacophony he hears the moan that wracks her frail body, almost a howl of a sound, but muffled against the slick skin of his neck. She tenses so hard, every muscle and tendon as taut as can be, that she seems to be resisting, fighting against him, her head forcing him back. He drives on, and they grind into each other like parts of a machine, wearing each other down.
His hands seize up, unclench, and the guitar lets out one last scream, a harsh, high-pitched noise that is lost to his own ears under the sound of his own panting and Alison's wheezing gasps. Her body is a dead weight slumped against him, huddled, folded in on itself. The heat is utterly excruciating, closing in on them like a stifling cloud. His skin drips, seems to melt right off him, and he wipes his forehead agitatedly. His head drops onto Alison's shoulder weakly, and his sinuses sting like they're ready for tears.
The next thing he's aware of is the cheering, the crowd, and it makes him sick. Alison's murmuring something, something panicked and unintelligible in his ear, but he heaves himself up onto unsteady feet and bows almost instantly, more from buckling knees than courtesy. He feels Alison's fingers linking loosely through his, small and still trembling, and they come halfway up before bowing again, eyes cast downwards in something like shame before they turn and he's almost dragging her limp body offstage.
The moment they round the corner, they collide once again, in each other's arms and collapsed against the cool wall. He's aware of her tears before his own, hearing the choked sobs as she clutches him painfully tightly. His face is pressed where her neck meets her shoulder, his lips wet with tears and smearing against her skin, and his hand cradles her head, strokes anxiously through her snarled hair. She starts to wrestle herself free, shouts, "Fuck. Fuck!" and then goes still again, snakes her hand down between their bodies and presses it against the damp crotch of his jeans.
Stunned, he doesn't react for a moment, then snaps, snatching her wrist back up. She whips it out of his grasp, face screwed up in anger, and slaps him suddenly, hard, and then again, before he has a chance to react. Tear-stained cheeks stinging with the force of it, he pushes her back against the wall, takes her neck between his hands without a second thought, squeezes. Her eyes are black and scared and she kneads at his waist with her fingers, and he lets go in an instant, shakes his hands loose and stares at her, bewildered.
"Jamie, fuck," Alison says in a stunned undertone, and he backs off, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes until he sees stars.
She tries to pull his arms away and he pushes her back. She kicks him in the shin, grabs him by the throat as he's ducked over and groaning, and forces him against the wall. He looks into her wild eyes, looks at the hard angry line of her lips, and then they're lunging forward at each other as though they mean to knock each other out. Instead, their mouths collide, harsh and quick and bringing blood, all teeth as they try to fight each other off and force themselves on each other all at once.
His lips smear across her cheek and her hands move from their vice-grip around his wrists. His fingers immediately interlink with hers and he mutters, "Shut up, shut up," in her ear through the silence until his voice starts to break.
They embrace furiously again, as though they're terrified of drifting away from each other, losing sight of each other in this inky sea of the unknown. They squeeze so close to one another it's almost like they're trying to turn into a single body, and it almost seems possible as much as it seems necessary. But still they refuse to give in-they panic, they blame, they want to keep hurting just for something familiar.
And finally, finally, when the noise around the corner has died down and the crowds have dissipated, when they're too sore and weak and aching to keep fighting it, they stop their struggle. And then all there is left to do is keep clinging on, just hold on tight and let the tides take them.
End.