stripytights (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
stripytights) wrote2013-02-14 05:28 pm
stripytights) wrote2013-02-14 05:28 pm
Entry tags:
Fic: Marked Too Deep, Tamara/Jo Harvelle, NC-17
Title: Marked Too Deep
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Tamara Willis/Jo Harvelle
Content Notes: tattooing, dry-humping, mild painkink,
Notes: Written for this prompt. Last name made up by snickfic and stolen by me.
Summary: Tamara needs an anti-possession tattoo, and Jo has a certain skill set. The problem is Tamara hasn't been this close to anyone since Isaac died.
She feels him sometimes, fingertips walking gently over her skin, dipping down her back, over the nape of her neck, but it's only ever in her dreams now, and the tears remain unshed, burn hot and dry in her eyes, bleak and terrible and she cannot see, can barely mourn. She is a perpetual motion machine, unchecked, unbidden, unstoppable, and she rides through the silent back streets of a country she has never known and never loved, and hunts. These people she saves, they are not her people. These monsters she kills are not her foe.
Sometimes as she shovels in cereal or toast in bleak little diners on cold early mornings she catches half glances, old men eyeing her slowly like she doesn't fit into their world view. She used to bare her teeth in a smile at them, now she looks back, long and hard and watches them swivel their eyes back to the cups of coffee they fortify themselves with to face empty days. Women look as well, give her second glances, dropping right back when they see her brazen jacket, her cheap shoes ground down by circumstance and time, and the hurt she cannot hide- naked on her face and marked on her skin.
"Don't wait for me," her memories of Isaac tell her, and his hands are tender against her skin as so little ever is, even in her memories. He asked her to make that promise that long ago, she remembers dully. That she would move on, be happy if he ever died, and she had laughed and kissed him deep, but never promised. It'd be like asking a child to save sweeties for later, to tuck them in their pocket on the promise of delayed gratification. Why ask what can not be done? She sometimes begs forgiveness from his shade on long nights in rooms too small and bare, listens hard for the forgiveness on the wind that she can't be sure is granted.
Sometimes she wakes up, and she's wet and slick, hand trapped between her thighs, like sleeping she sought for release, and when she drives she finds herself glancing at that hand, those fingers, so tender and innocuous like small betrayers. She can't remember what she dreams of on those nights, but there is silence in her head for hours afterwards, a little respite that she treasures but can't imagine that she deserves.
One night she sits with her mobile, cell she hears him tease her, and deletes the numbers one by one until only three remain. The Winchester boys, zeros and ones marked deep and dark into her soul flicker there, jammed up tight and close with Bobby Singer, and then below them Isaac. She phones him a dozen times, a hundred times; on long nights, listens to the hopeless ring, and she could've gone on like that forever, killing until she was killed, wrenching out her soul in every moment that passed if it hadn't been for a chance encounter with another hunter.
He doesn't suggest they work together- she is on the trail of an incubus, he is hunting a nest of vampires, their paths converge for all of a night, and his eyes are disinterested- as lifeless as her own on the rare occasions she looks in a mirror. They swap stories over whisky, drink deep on cheap booze and tell bigger better lies with that mocking half-edge that says they don't care if they're believed. Somewhere down the second bottle he shows her the charm that keeps them out, and she can't believe she doesn't have one.
Shame burns a bright red streak through her, flushes her face and brings a sweat to her forehead, or perhaps that's the moonshine kicking in. Whatever the reason she feels more alive than she has in months- a boot applied firmly to her arse. Fucking self indulgent bullshit, she scolds herself. She's been dreaming too long, dangling in the ether, easy prey for whatever swims by, and she takes good note- sketches it right on down and that night when she dreams, deep and dark and sodden with alcohol, Isaac isn't there.
She sketches it again and again until her hands know the easy movements and then she pays a wire-bender in the street to forge her one, small and cheap and fast, good enough for now, good enough to hang on twine round her neck and hope for protection. Longer term though she needs something permanent.
Something marked and written, and she toys with the idea. It's not just protection she needs, it's a reminder. Of Isaac. Of everything, and in a way that will sting but not forever. When she finally decides, she picks up the phone and calls Bobby Singer, tells him short and sharp what she needs, and he breathes in deep through his nose and considers. She imagines him narrowing his eyes in thought, blunt nails tapping the wall, and she matches him through the phone. Two can play at a game, even if only one person knows they are playing. Then he finally replies. Tells her he knows a place, cheap and clean and easy where she can go and get it done right. Someone he knows who will do right by her, mix the ink with holy water, just a drop, then needle it in good and proper, puncturing fragile skin that is tougher than her meagre faith that she can keep on going.
She scribbles down the address, notes the name, thanks him with words that don't come easy, and he puts the phone down with a grunt that says too much itself- the sound someone makes when they doesn't want to be thanked because they don't think they have given enough. She's heard it from herself a time or two, when she can restore one child of two to a grieving mother, playing the unwilling part of failed hero.
She drives- not slow, not fast towards this Joe Harvelle, rehearses in her mind how this will go. She will close her eyes, and bare her breast for him and pretend she cannot feel anything- she has always hated needles- let him do his job so that she can do hers. It's dug in so deep that when she arrives and a lithe young woman holds out her hand and introduces herself as Jo, she can't quite believe it, holds her hand a little too long in bewilderment, until Jo tugs her inside- lets her save face by converting the awkward handshake into a welcoming gesture.
"Digging the jacket," Jo says with a grin, and doesn't notice Tamara's shoes. She's strong, Tamara thinks, notes the easy grace and wiry muscle, the cami top that bares her arms and the brave jut of the ponytail she's swept her hair into, but so young, and abruptly she feels older than her years, like the dust of the day has sunk into her pores, drained her of vibrancy, or the will to pretend, to dissemble. She follows into dark coolness, drinks the tea that Jo pours out and closes her eyes for a second. When she opens them, Jo is setting out her wares, the needles- cleaned and sterilised, the holy ink, and the rest of her paraphernalia- which all fits into a surprisingly small bag.
"Have you done this a lot?" she asks abruptly, wants to make conversation, hadn't expected this to go so fast. There's a white sheet spread out across the bed- stripped off its mattress, just a hard boxy length for her to sit on, and her skin prickles with apprehension with doubt and fear. She has been stabbed- more than once. Bitten, carved and marked by more than one thing, but this is the first time she has ever asked for it, ever volunteered to stretch out under steel (however small it is) and submit to pain.
"No," Jo says casually. "Not once. Do you mind if I practice on your thigh first?"
"Sorry," Tamara says, but a smile twitches unbidden at her lips, pulling at skin that hasn't stretched that way in too long. Jo is formidable in her own way she can't help thinking, smooth and dangerous, and that's just on ten minutes acquaintance. She shrugs out of her leather jacket, strips off her shirt and hesitates when it comes to the bra. It's a low cut balconette one that she'd worn on the off chance it might provide support. "Do I keep the bra on?" she asks, and Jo taps her lip thoughtfully.
"I think so," she says finally. "A little bit of support never did anyone any harm."
Tamara feels almost more naked like this, stripped to the waist in bra and jeans than she would with nothing on,- uncomfortably aware of her nipples hardening in the cool air of the room though Jo doesn't seem to give it a second thought, just bustles over for prep-time. Tamara chooses to sit up for it and Jo doesn't seem to mind.
"You've got great skin," Jo says, "it's so clear. How do you do it? I eat diner food two nights in a row and I break out." She tilts her own head to the light and Tamara sees a little patch of redness- irritated skin that it looks like Jo has been scratching at, and something in her relaxes at the imperfection, the visible reminder of damage in others. She can't talk to people like Jo anymore- they're more intimidating than werewolves, with their invulnerability and their assurance. But when she traces her gaze past the redness, over the graceful lines of Jo's face she reconsiders. There is grief pinched in there, and her eyes are dark and solemn, and she feels a sudden kinship that surprises her.
"Clinique," she says abruptly. She washes her face with their cleanser watches it swirl down the plughole with the blood she scrubs off, that always spatters on her face. It's her one extravagance, her one token nod to some other life. "Non-scented," and Jo nods like that's the answer she wanted, and swabs her clean until her skin prickles at the sensation, as Jo stencils on the pattern, hands so steady that it's done first time. It's only light, nothing like the bold black that it will be by the end, though as Jo warns her it's going to take time and it's going to be painful.
"I hand-poke," Jo says, eyes intent as she leans in close. "Saved a dude who taught me all he knew. It's more mobile, but it's also more painful and it'll take longer. Sorry." She doesn't sound especially contrite, but then she is doing Tamara a favour so there isn't much room to complain. "This way is best because we can use our own ink and that's kind of necessary with these sort of tattoos. Once it's done though, and sunk in deep you can get it renewed at any tattoo parlour for the polished professional sort of look. This will get the job done, but it won't look as pretty as you could wish."
"I don't really give a fuck about pretty," Tamara says, nerves made rawer by anticipation, and then squeezes her eyes shut. "Sorry," she says again. This isn't Jo's fault. None of it is. Jo's hand on her shoulder is warm, skin against skin and it strokes down her arm like Jo knows what she feels.
"No biggie," she says, "I know what you mean." She starts without much ceremony, and Tamara sucks in a deep surprised breath at the first press of the needle against her skin, at the unforgiving pressure and the flare of pain. She breathes in deep, and lets it out slowly, tries not to disrupt the needle on her skin. Jo is perched between her legs, so close Tamara can see the lighter flecks in her eyes, the white strands in her blond hair, can trace her eyes over every inch of her face. She tries to map it out, to distract herself from the pain which is so much more than she'd expected. She's used to pain, taken too much over the years- blows to the heart and to the head, but this is different. It gets under her skin, sharp prickles of sensation that she can feel, every individual poke buzzing along her nerves and she can feel it, like she has felt nothing else for too damn long.
Everything seems sensitized, Jo's hand steady on her skin seems to burn with a painful intensity, and Tamara wonders if she can feel her heart beat faster, thump through, can't tell if it's only her imagination or if Jo's hand really is that warm against her, touch soothing and steadying like she's gentling her, and Tamara's world zeroes in on that touch, too close and too much, but her tongue is heavy in her mouth and she can't find the words to say no or complain, doesn't want to. She's pinned down by fingers she could break in an instant, and a shudder runs through her body, ignites gooseflesh down her arms like she's too cold, and Jo seems like a beacon of heat in front of her, so close, the lines of their bodies running parallel, and Tamara takes another breath, lets it go so slowly because she's not sure what this, what she is feeling.
Jo licks her lips a little, intent on her work, driving in each needle slowly, methodically, grips on tight. She's deep in the zone and Tamara feels alone in this, inappropriate in feeling so much, until Jo's hand shifts on her skin, and Jo catches her eye, a sudden flush flooding the fairness of her skin, rising to the surface so easily, and like that the air is electric between them suddenly, and Jo's hands tremble for a second before she consciously stills for a second to regain her focus. The pain is transformed- it still hurts, still pricks and burns under her skin, makes her want to squirm away from so much sensation, but there's a thrill to it, a thrill at the closeness that vibrates between them. Each prick of the needle makes her want to shudder, to offer it up a little, and she's not exactly sure why. She hasn't said a word, just has a look to go on, and then Jo's hand slides over her skin, fingers under the strap of her bra, the skin there even more sensitive. It's just for a second, could be an accident- it's not like she's groping her breast or anything, but every inch of Tamara responds with a ferocity that seems alien, too fierce to be real. It's been so long, she thinks, and Isaac whispers to her, far too long.
She shifts minutely, aware now as she wasn't before of her legs bent and exposed even encased as they are in jeans, and her body stretches internally, flexes old thoughts and feelings, like the sharp exposure of the needle is sparking something else. It's not the same sensation at all as hands trailing down her thighs, or a mouth on her breasts, or the scrape of fingernails down her back, but it's hitting her in the same way, deep down and dark, like the touch is igniting her nerves, sending a quiver down her spine. She knows without looking that her nipples are pressing against the thinness of her bra, and that sense of kinship returns when she glances down and sees Jo has a similar problem, white cami-top not doing much to hide it, and Tamara restrains the impulse to touch, to smooth her fingers over Jo, over the exposed shoulders, down the curve of her neck, across the tender scarring that marks her arms- hunters marks, to sink her fingers down between top and low-slung jeans, caress the strip of skin that shows when she leans forward.
Holding her hands back from doing so takes effort, and that itself is shocking. She has shunned touch so long, shunned even the glancing jostle of the crowd, the too intimate locking of eyes, and now it overwhelms her- a cresting wave of eagerness to stretch out and connect. Jo leans closer, locks herself in as she works, and surely her hands should be tired by now, but she doesn't seem to be, arms tense with lean cords of muscle that are almost shocking on such a slender frame. In she presses, retreats and returns like a tide sped up, and Tamara lets her, lets Jo mark herself on Tamara's skin, knows as long as she lives -Isaac in her heart- Jo will hover over it in ink marked deep, oil spread on troubled waters.
Now, when she closes her eyes, the world is red not black, hot pulse of blood through her veins, whisper of Jo's breath, loud in the quiet of the room, and all her senses are enhanced enough that not just the slow remorseless press of the needle registers. She can smell Jo- faint scent of vanilla layered under a little sweat of exertion, can hear her breathing, and the faint whirr of a washing machine a few rooms away. The air is dry and cool on her skin, and if Jo leant just a little forward, Tamara could taste her chapstick. She holds herself still and ready, in check, tries not to wonder how much Jo can take, whether she'd laugh as Tamara went down on her and hold her head between her thighs, or just thrust her hand over her mouth and breathe in deep, stifle the sounds she'd make. Her mouth waters at the thought, and she's glad she's in jeans because the state she's in would have been obvious long ago otherwise.
Then Jo taps at her, brief patter of fingers against collarbone and Tamara opens her eyes. Jo is still so close, just inches away and her face is questioning. "Done for now," she says, so softly that if Tamara wasn't close she wouldn't have heard. The outline is done, hard and black and solid, not filled in, not yet, but stark and beautiful against her the lines surprisingly clean and sharp in a way she hadn't expected from a hand-done tattoo. She doesn't quite know what to say, traces cautious fingers around the skin, doesn't touch the design. Then she glances upwards at Jo, and says "thanks," quietly.
"You Brits, always so polite," Jo says and her tone is a tease, but her eyes are serious and she hasn't moved away, hasn't stretched out hands that must be cramping and sore from such long work. Tamara considers her once more, and takes the plunge, reaches out and traces the delicate curve of Jo's neck, the long slim scar that graces it. Jo doesn't move or shudder or flinch at the touch, doesn't lean into it either, just looks at Tamara and the room is silent. They might have remained there indefinitely, the touch of Tamara's hand against Jo's skin all that mattered in the space between them, if Jo hadn't taken the initiative, leaned right in and kissed Tamara.
She doesn't know what she was expecting. Sirens perhaps, or sick crawling guilt at touching someone else, or even indifference. She feels none of it, and all too much. It's just a kiss, just chapsticked lips pressing against her own, shy but not clumsy like Jo is waiting on her, waiting for her to kiss back, and it takes long seconds to relinquish the fear, to quieten her over-active brain, but finally, finally she kisses back, opens her mouth a little like she's seventeen again and learning this all over. It's been ten years since she kissed someone who wasn't Isaac, been so many months since she kissed anyone at all.
Jo doesn't push too close, careful of the ink, but her hands slide up Tamara's arms, sure and strong in their touch, and Tamara copies her, traces her hands over the sensitive skin under Jo's neck until they clasp around the back of her neck and Jo shivers once, under Tamara's mouth at the feel of a thumb stroking over the nape of her neck. When they break apart something has changed between them, Jo's eyes are narrowed and alight with some unreadable emotion, and this time when they kiss, it's slick and hot, and Jo worries at Tamara's lip, sucks it gently for a brief second until Tamara chases her back, kisses her so thoroughly that she can imagine just doing this, just kissing until they can't take anymore, lips swollen and bruised, bodies so desperate for release, for a simple touch that when Jo takes up the needles again it'll be a relief.
It's an unrealistic dream and one she relinquishes with barely a sigh, as one of Jo's hands ghosts up her exposed ribcage, thumbs the curve of her breast through the underwiring, brushes against the nipple, sending spiralling excitement through Tamara's veins. All of a sudden she feels too clothed, as before she had felt too exposed. Wants all the skin on skin she can, pulled close and tight like a guard against the darkness, against the menace of her dreams. She barely realises she's tugging at Jo's white cami-top until it's half off, and Jo raises her arms and slips it off with ease, stands there, the mirror image of Tamara in more ways than one- bra and jeans, battered not broken, and when she lets down her hair from the brash ponytail, Tamara wants to bury her face in it for one long second.
Instead she fumbles at her jeans, pushes them down with difficulty, rubs over her underwear with the efficient strokes she suspects she touches herself in the night with, cotton rasping near- dearest closest friend, amazed at how wet she is, soaked right through, and Jo is there, walking fingers up her thigh, knowing thumb grazing the soft inner skin, until she presses the heel of her hand up close, and Tamara moves against it helplessly, feels her thighs tighten around Jo's hand, trapping it there like she can't bear to relinquish it, but the thought stirs no shame, just hot want spilling over her, and Jo moves minutely, mostly pressure rather than finesse, until she hooks her fingers round the material, and slides unceremoniously in, hand cramped and hindered by the underwear but fingers working still, brushing over Tamara's clit with ruthless precision, and Tamara arches back, spreads her legs to give more space, rocks forward against the sensation, not wanting it to end, but not sure how much she can take after so long. It's like a banquet of riches spread before a beggar.
Her body wants what it wants, and she grinds forward as best as she can, wants fingers to push inside her but Jo teases instead, thumbs over her clit- not directly just near as can be and Tamara is surprised to find her hand in her own mouth, biting down deep as she tries not to beg, tries not to urge Jo to more. She climbs faster than she has ever done to her peak, doesn't know what works for her the most- Jo's knowing touch or that it's happening at all, until Jo's hand cramps- a visible tremor and Tamara gasps sharply at the sensation, spirals up and tumbles over in surprise, bends the fingers of her other hand into the clean white sheet and holds on tight for dear life, feels every inch of the warm pleasure lap through her, chasing out the dark for this moment at least, filling her with a clean white light as she rides it out, small shivers of electric pleasure pulsing down her spine, pooling at the base- almost too much for long seconds, and yet not quite enough to last.
When she comes back down, Jo is massaging her fingers with her other hand, brusque quick movements, and Tamara brushes her hand away, molds to it with both her own, pushes in hard and deep and chases the pain away, until Jo shivers in her turn, mouth a little open in surprised shock perhaps at how fast the pain goes (Tamara knows her stuff though the best work out she gives it these days is hard swift fingers pressing deep into calf muscle after a day stretched too long,) or perhaps that it feels good. When it's done Jo stretches out her fingers wonderingly, bends them automatically- pretty hands with unpolished nails, Tamara notices. Suddenly she wants a drink, big gulps of ginger ale, or a tumbler of whisky, or hell a g&t. Jo looks like the sort of woman who'll have lemons in her fridge. Her mouth is parched, she blames that for her inability to form words right now.
She wants to kiss Jo again, wants to reciprocate and rock against her, let Jo ride her fingers easily and well, and the naked hunger in Jo's eyes says she wants it as well, and when Tamara inches her fingers against those tight jeans she sways into the touch, though thick denim means she can't feel much at all. She breathes in deep and then pulls away for a split second, comes back closer like she's broken a barrier. "When we're done," she says. "I'm going to finish this first." Still stretching her dominant hand like it might fall off, she shimmies out of the jeans, claws them off with her feet, steps out of them completely at ease like tattooing someone while you're in your bra and pants is the most natural thing in the world, and for Jo it might be. It's not intended to be sexy Tamara thinks, but in a way it is, and again she struggles not to touch.
She wants to give in, pull Jo up close, touch her through the damp cloth, but Jo is ready to work again, face remote and relaxed, and Tamara doesn't want to run the risk of a smudged tattoo. So she waits and watches as the slow insidious prickling over her skin begins again. Lets herself look at the strength of Jo's arms and legs, the slender flexibility of her torso, the slight swell of her breasts encased in utilitarian cotton. When Jo bends a leg and leans forward, until she's almost straddling Tamara's leg as she works, Tamara dares to gently press up, not looking to finish this right now, just to maintain their connection, watches with bated breath as Jo's eyes flutter closed for one brief second, and her hands still, until like nothing has happened she resumes work, fingers still patient like this is all she cares about, Tamara under her hands, seal of protection etched and inked in a way that won't diminish.
For the first time in so long Tamara lets herself want with the possibility of satisfaction
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Tamara Willis/Jo Harvelle
Content Notes: tattooing, dry-humping, mild painkink,
Notes: Written for this prompt. Last name made up by snickfic and stolen by me.
Summary: Tamara needs an anti-possession tattoo, and Jo has a certain skill set. The problem is Tamara hasn't been this close to anyone since Isaac died.
She feels him sometimes, fingertips walking gently over her skin, dipping down her back, over the nape of her neck, but it's only ever in her dreams now, and the tears remain unshed, burn hot and dry in her eyes, bleak and terrible and she cannot see, can barely mourn. She is a perpetual motion machine, unchecked, unbidden, unstoppable, and she rides through the silent back streets of a country she has never known and never loved, and hunts. These people she saves, they are not her people. These monsters she kills are not her foe.
Sometimes as she shovels in cereal or toast in bleak little diners on cold early mornings she catches half glances, old men eyeing her slowly like she doesn't fit into their world view. She used to bare her teeth in a smile at them, now she looks back, long and hard and watches them swivel their eyes back to the cups of coffee they fortify themselves with to face empty days. Women look as well, give her second glances, dropping right back when they see her brazen jacket, her cheap shoes ground down by circumstance and time, and the hurt she cannot hide- naked on her face and marked on her skin.
"Don't wait for me," her memories of Isaac tell her, and his hands are tender against her skin as so little ever is, even in her memories. He asked her to make that promise that long ago, she remembers dully. That she would move on, be happy if he ever died, and she had laughed and kissed him deep, but never promised. It'd be like asking a child to save sweeties for later, to tuck them in their pocket on the promise of delayed gratification. Why ask what can not be done? She sometimes begs forgiveness from his shade on long nights in rooms too small and bare, listens hard for the forgiveness on the wind that she can't be sure is granted.
Sometimes she wakes up, and she's wet and slick, hand trapped between her thighs, like sleeping she sought for release, and when she drives she finds herself glancing at that hand, those fingers, so tender and innocuous like small betrayers. She can't remember what she dreams of on those nights, but there is silence in her head for hours afterwards, a little respite that she treasures but can't imagine that she deserves.
One night she sits with her mobile, cell she hears him tease her, and deletes the numbers one by one until only three remain. The Winchester boys, zeros and ones marked deep and dark into her soul flicker there, jammed up tight and close with Bobby Singer, and then below them Isaac. She phones him a dozen times, a hundred times; on long nights, listens to the hopeless ring, and she could've gone on like that forever, killing until she was killed, wrenching out her soul in every moment that passed if it hadn't been for a chance encounter with another hunter.
He doesn't suggest they work together- she is on the trail of an incubus, he is hunting a nest of vampires, their paths converge for all of a night, and his eyes are disinterested- as lifeless as her own on the rare occasions she looks in a mirror. They swap stories over whisky, drink deep on cheap booze and tell bigger better lies with that mocking half-edge that says they don't care if they're believed. Somewhere down the second bottle he shows her the charm that keeps them out, and she can't believe she doesn't have one.
Shame burns a bright red streak through her, flushes her face and brings a sweat to her forehead, or perhaps that's the moonshine kicking in. Whatever the reason she feels more alive than she has in months- a boot applied firmly to her arse. Fucking self indulgent bullshit, she scolds herself. She's been dreaming too long, dangling in the ether, easy prey for whatever swims by, and she takes good note- sketches it right on down and that night when she dreams, deep and dark and sodden with alcohol, Isaac isn't there.
She sketches it again and again until her hands know the easy movements and then she pays a wire-bender in the street to forge her one, small and cheap and fast, good enough for now, good enough to hang on twine round her neck and hope for protection. Longer term though she needs something permanent.
Something marked and written, and she toys with the idea. It's not just protection she needs, it's a reminder. Of Isaac. Of everything, and in a way that will sting but not forever. When she finally decides, she picks up the phone and calls Bobby Singer, tells him short and sharp what she needs, and he breathes in deep through his nose and considers. She imagines him narrowing his eyes in thought, blunt nails tapping the wall, and she matches him through the phone. Two can play at a game, even if only one person knows they are playing. Then he finally replies. Tells her he knows a place, cheap and clean and easy where she can go and get it done right. Someone he knows who will do right by her, mix the ink with holy water, just a drop, then needle it in good and proper, puncturing fragile skin that is tougher than her meagre faith that she can keep on going.
She scribbles down the address, notes the name, thanks him with words that don't come easy, and he puts the phone down with a grunt that says too much itself- the sound someone makes when they doesn't want to be thanked because they don't think they have given enough. She's heard it from herself a time or two, when she can restore one child of two to a grieving mother, playing the unwilling part of failed hero.
She drives- not slow, not fast towards this Joe Harvelle, rehearses in her mind how this will go. She will close her eyes, and bare her breast for him and pretend she cannot feel anything- she has always hated needles- let him do his job so that she can do hers. It's dug in so deep that when she arrives and a lithe young woman holds out her hand and introduces herself as Jo, she can't quite believe it, holds her hand a little too long in bewilderment, until Jo tugs her inside- lets her save face by converting the awkward handshake into a welcoming gesture.
"Digging the jacket," Jo says with a grin, and doesn't notice Tamara's shoes. She's strong, Tamara thinks, notes the easy grace and wiry muscle, the cami top that bares her arms and the brave jut of the ponytail she's swept her hair into, but so young, and abruptly she feels older than her years, like the dust of the day has sunk into her pores, drained her of vibrancy, or the will to pretend, to dissemble. She follows into dark coolness, drinks the tea that Jo pours out and closes her eyes for a second. When she opens them, Jo is setting out her wares, the needles- cleaned and sterilised, the holy ink, and the rest of her paraphernalia- which all fits into a surprisingly small bag.
"Have you done this a lot?" she asks abruptly, wants to make conversation, hadn't expected this to go so fast. There's a white sheet spread out across the bed- stripped off its mattress, just a hard boxy length for her to sit on, and her skin prickles with apprehension with doubt and fear. She has been stabbed- more than once. Bitten, carved and marked by more than one thing, but this is the first time she has ever asked for it, ever volunteered to stretch out under steel (however small it is) and submit to pain.
"No," Jo says casually. "Not once. Do you mind if I practice on your thigh first?"
"Sorry," Tamara says, but a smile twitches unbidden at her lips, pulling at skin that hasn't stretched that way in too long. Jo is formidable in her own way she can't help thinking, smooth and dangerous, and that's just on ten minutes acquaintance. She shrugs out of her leather jacket, strips off her shirt and hesitates when it comes to the bra. It's a low cut balconette one that she'd worn on the off chance it might provide support. "Do I keep the bra on?" she asks, and Jo taps her lip thoughtfully.
"I think so," she says finally. "A little bit of support never did anyone any harm."
Tamara feels almost more naked like this, stripped to the waist in bra and jeans than she would with nothing on,- uncomfortably aware of her nipples hardening in the cool air of the room though Jo doesn't seem to give it a second thought, just bustles over for prep-time. Tamara chooses to sit up for it and Jo doesn't seem to mind.
"You've got great skin," Jo says, "it's so clear. How do you do it? I eat diner food two nights in a row and I break out." She tilts her own head to the light and Tamara sees a little patch of redness- irritated skin that it looks like Jo has been scratching at, and something in her relaxes at the imperfection, the visible reminder of damage in others. She can't talk to people like Jo anymore- they're more intimidating than werewolves, with their invulnerability and their assurance. But when she traces her gaze past the redness, over the graceful lines of Jo's face she reconsiders. There is grief pinched in there, and her eyes are dark and solemn, and she feels a sudden kinship that surprises her.
"Clinique," she says abruptly. She washes her face with their cleanser watches it swirl down the plughole with the blood she scrubs off, that always spatters on her face. It's her one extravagance, her one token nod to some other life. "Non-scented," and Jo nods like that's the answer she wanted, and swabs her clean until her skin prickles at the sensation, as Jo stencils on the pattern, hands so steady that it's done first time. It's only light, nothing like the bold black that it will be by the end, though as Jo warns her it's going to take time and it's going to be painful.
"I hand-poke," Jo says, eyes intent as she leans in close. "Saved a dude who taught me all he knew. It's more mobile, but it's also more painful and it'll take longer. Sorry." She doesn't sound especially contrite, but then she is doing Tamara a favour so there isn't much room to complain. "This way is best because we can use our own ink and that's kind of necessary with these sort of tattoos. Once it's done though, and sunk in deep you can get it renewed at any tattoo parlour for the polished professional sort of look. This will get the job done, but it won't look as pretty as you could wish."
"I don't really give a fuck about pretty," Tamara says, nerves made rawer by anticipation, and then squeezes her eyes shut. "Sorry," she says again. This isn't Jo's fault. None of it is. Jo's hand on her shoulder is warm, skin against skin and it strokes down her arm like Jo knows what she feels.
"No biggie," she says, "I know what you mean." She starts without much ceremony, and Tamara sucks in a deep surprised breath at the first press of the needle against her skin, at the unforgiving pressure and the flare of pain. She breathes in deep, and lets it out slowly, tries not to disrupt the needle on her skin. Jo is perched between her legs, so close Tamara can see the lighter flecks in her eyes, the white strands in her blond hair, can trace her eyes over every inch of her face. She tries to map it out, to distract herself from the pain which is so much more than she'd expected. She's used to pain, taken too much over the years- blows to the heart and to the head, but this is different. It gets under her skin, sharp prickles of sensation that she can feel, every individual poke buzzing along her nerves and she can feel it, like she has felt nothing else for too damn long.
Everything seems sensitized, Jo's hand steady on her skin seems to burn with a painful intensity, and Tamara wonders if she can feel her heart beat faster, thump through, can't tell if it's only her imagination or if Jo's hand really is that warm against her, touch soothing and steadying like she's gentling her, and Tamara's world zeroes in on that touch, too close and too much, but her tongue is heavy in her mouth and she can't find the words to say no or complain, doesn't want to. She's pinned down by fingers she could break in an instant, and a shudder runs through her body, ignites gooseflesh down her arms like she's too cold, and Jo seems like a beacon of heat in front of her, so close, the lines of their bodies running parallel, and Tamara takes another breath, lets it go so slowly because she's not sure what this, what she is feeling.
Jo licks her lips a little, intent on her work, driving in each needle slowly, methodically, grips on tight. She's deep in the zone and Tamara feels alone in this, inappropriate in feeling so much, until Jo's hand shifts on her skin, and Jo catches her eye, a sudden flush flooding the fairness of her skin, rising to the surface so easily, and like that the air is electric between them suddenly, and Jo's hands tremble for a second before she consciously stills for a second to regain her focus. The pain is transformed- it still hurts, still pricks and burns under her skin, makes her want to squirm away from so much sensation, but there's a thrill to it, a thrill at the closeness that vibrates between them. Each prick of the needle makes her want to shudder, to offer it up a little, and she's not exactly sure why. She hasn't said a word, just has a look to go on, and then Jo's hand slides over her skin, fingers under the strap of her bra, the skin there even more sensitive. It's just for a second, could be an accident- it's not like she's groping her breast or anything, but every inch of Tamara responds with a ferocity that seems alien, too fierce to be real. It's been so long, she thinks, and Isaac whispers to her, far too long.
She shifts minutely, aware now as she wasn't before of her legs bent and exposed even encased as they are in jeans, and her body stretches internally, flexes old thoughts and feelings, like the sharp exposure of the needle is sparking something else. It's not the same sensation at all as hands trailing down her thighs, or a mouth on her breasts, or the scrape of fingernails down her back, but it's hitting her in the same way, deep down and dark, like the touch is igniting her nerves, sending a quiver down her spine. She knows without looking that her nipples are pressing against the thinness of her bra, and that sense of kinship returns when she glances down and sees Jo has a similar problem, white cami-top not doing much to hide it, and Tamara restrains the impulse to touch, to smooth her fingers over Jo, over the exposed shoulders, down the curve of her neck, across the tender scarring that marks her arms- hunters marks, to sink her fingers down between top and low-slung jeans, caress the strip of skin that shows when she leans forward.
Holding her hands back from doing so takes effort, and that itself is shocking. She has shunned touch so long, shunned even the glancing jostle of the crowd, the too intimate locking of eyes, and now it overwhelms her- a cresting wave of eagerness to stretch out and connect. Jo leans closer, locks herself in as she works, and surely her hands should be tired by now, but she doesn't seem to be, arms tense with lean cords of muscle that are almost shocking on such a slender frame. In she presses, retreats and returns like a tide sped up, and Tamara lets her, lets Jo mark herself on Tamara's skin, knows as long as she lives -Isaac in her heart- Jo will hover over it in ink marked deep, oil spread on troubled waters.
Now, when she closes her eyes, the world is red not black, hot pulse of blood through her veins, whisper of Jo's breath, loud in the quiet of the room, and all her senses are enhanced enough that not just the slow remorseless press of the needle registers. She can smell Jo- faint scent of vanilla layered under a little sweat of exertion, can hear her breathing, and the faint whirr of a washing machine a few rooms away. The air is dry and cool on her skin, and if Jo leant just a little forward, Tamara could taste her chapstick. She holds herself still and ready, in check, tries not to wonder how much Jo can take, whether she'd laugh as Tamara went down on her and hold her head between her thighs, or just thrust her hand over her mouth and breathe in deep, stifle the sounds she'd make. Her mouth waters at the thought, and she's glad she's in jeans because the state she's in would have been obvious long ago otherwise.
Then Jo taps at her, brief patter of fingers against collarbone and Tamara opens her eyes. Jo is still so close, just inches away and her face is questioning. "Done for now," she says, so softly that if Tamara wasn't close she wouldn't have heard. The outline is done, hard and black and solid, not filled in, not yet, but stark and beautiful against her the lines surprisingly clean and sharp in a way she hadn't expected from a hand-done tattoo. She doesn't quite know what to say, traces cautious fingers around the skin, doesn't touch the design. Then she glances upwards at Jo, and says "thanks," quietly.
"You Brits, always so polite," Jo says and her tone is a tease, but her eyes are serious and she hasn't moved away, hasn't stretched out hands that must be cramping and sore from such long work. Tamara considers her once more, and takes the plunge, reaches out and traces the delicate curve of Jo's neck, the long slim scar that graces it. Jo doesn't move or shudder or flinch at the touch, doesn't lean into it either, just looks at Tamara and the room is silent. They might have remained there indefinitely, the touch of Tamara's hand against Jo's skin all that mattered in the space between them, if Jo hadn't taken the initiative, leaned right in and kissed Tamara.
She doesn't know what she was expecting. Sirens perhaps, or sick crawling guilt at touching someone else, or even indifference. She feels none of it, and all too much. It's just a kiss, just chapsticked lips pressing against her own, shy but not clumsy like Jo is waiting on her, waiting for her to kiss back, and it takes long seconds to relinquish the fear, to quieten her over-active brain, but finally, finally she kisses back, opens her mouth a little like she's seventeen again and learning this all over. It's been ten years since she kissed someone who wasn't Isaac, been so many months since she kissed anyone at all.
Jo doesn't push too close, careful of the ink, but her hands slide up Tamara's arms, sure and strong in their touch, and Tamara copies her, traces her hands over the sensitive skin under Jo's neck until they clasp around the back of her neck and Jo shivers once, under Tamara's mouth at the feel of a thumb stroking over the nape of her neck. When they break apart something has changed between them, Jo's eyes are narrowed and alight with some unreadable emotion, and this time when they kiss, it's slick and hot, and Jo worries at Tamara's lip, sucks it gently for a brief second until Tamara chases her back, kisses her so thoroughly that she can imagine just doing this, just kissing until they can't take anymore, lips swollen and bruised, bodies so desperate for release, for a simple touch that when Jo takes up the needles again it'll be a relief.
It's an unrealistic dream and one she relinquishes with barely a sigh, as one of Jo's hands ghosts up her exposed ribcage, thumbs the curve of her breast through the underwiring, brushes against the nipple, sending spiralling excitement through Tamara's veins. All of a sudden she feels too clothed, as before she had felt too exposed. Wants all the skin on skin she can, pulled close and tight like a guard against the darkness, against the menace of her dreams. She barely realises she's tugging at Jo's white cami-top until it's half off, and Jo raises her arms and slips it off with ease, stands there, the mirror image of Tamara in more ways than one- bra and jeans, battered not broken, and when she lets down her hair from the brash ponytail, Tamara wants to bury her face in it for one long second.
Instead she fumbles at her jeans, pushes them down with difficulty, rubs over her underwear with the efficient strokes she suspects she touches herself in the night with, cotton rasping near- dearest closest friend, amazed at how wet she is, soaked right through, and Jo is there, walking fingers up her thigh, knowing thumb grazing the soft inner skin, until she presses the heel of her hand up close, and Tamara moves against it helplessly, feels her thighs tighten around Jo's hand, trapping it there like she can't bear to relinquish it, but the thought stirs no shame, just hot want spilling over her, and Jo moves minutely, mostly pressure rather than finesse, until she hooks her fingers round the material, and slides unceremoniously in, hand cramped and hindered by the underwear but fingers working still, brushing over Tamara's clit with ruthless precision, and Tamara arches back, spreads her legs to give more space, rocks forward against the sensation, not wanting it to end, but not sure how much she can take after so long. It's like a banquet of riches spread before a beggar.
Her body wants what it wants, and she grinds forward as best as she can, wants fingers to push inside her but Jo teases instead, thumbs over her clit- not directly just near as can be and Tamara is surprised to find her hand in her own mouth, biting down deep as she tries not to beg, tries not to urge Jo to more. She climbs faster than she has ever done to her peak, doesn't know what works for her the most- Jo's knowing touch or that it's happening at all, until Jo's hand cramps- a visible tremor and Tamara gasps sharply at the sensation, spirals up and tumbles over in surprise, bends the fingers of her other hand into the clean white sheet and holds on tight for dear life, feels every inch of the warm pleasure lap through her, chasing out the dark for this moment at least, filling her with a clean white light as she rides it out, small shivers of electric pleasure pulsing down her spine, pooling at the base- almost too much for long seconds, and yet not quite enough to last.
When she comes back down, Jo is massaging her fingers with her other hand, brusque quick movements, and Tamara brushes her hand away, molds to it with both her own, pushes in hard and deep and chases the pain away, until Jo shivers in her turn, mouth a little open in surprised shock perhaps at how fast the pain goes (Tamara knows her stuff though the best work out she gives it these days is hard swift fingers pressing deep into calf muscle after a day stretched too long,) or perhaps that it feels good. When it's done Jo stretches out her fingers wonderingly, bends them automatically- pretty hands with unpolished nails, Tamara notices. Suddenly she wants a drink, big gulps of ginger ale, or a tumbler of whisky, or hell a g&t. Jo looks like the sort of woman who'll have lemons in her fridge. Her mouth is parched, she blames that for her inability to form words right now.
She wants to kiss Jo again, wants to reciprocate and rock against her, let Jo ride her fingers easily and well, and the naked hunger in Jo's eyes says she wants it as well, and when Tamara inches her fingers against those tight jeans she sways into the touch, though thick denim means she can't feel much at all. She breathes in deep and then pulls away for a split second, comes back closer like she's broken a barrier. "When we're done," she says. "I'm going to finish this first." Still stretching her dominant hand like it might fall off, she shimmies out of the jeans, claws them off with her feet, steps out of them completely at ease like tattooing someone while you're in your bra and pants is the most natural thing in the world, and for Jo it might be. It's not intended to be sexy Tamara thinks, but in a way it is, and again she struggles not to touch.
She wants to give in, pull Jo up close, touch her through the damp cloth, but Jo is ready to work again, face remote and relaxed, and Tamara doesn't want to run the risk of a smudged tattoo. So she waits and watches as the slow insidious prickling over her skin begins again. Lets herself look at the strength of Jo's arms and legs, the slender flexibility of her torso, the slight swell of her breasts encased in utilitarian cotton. When Jo bends a leg and leans forward, until she's almost straddling Tamara's leg as she works, Tamara dares to gently press up, not looking to finish this right now, just to maintain their connection, watches with bated breath as Jo's eyes flutter closed for one brief second, and her hands still, until like nothing has happened she resumes work, fingers still patient like this is all she cares about, Tamara under her hands, seal of protection etched and inked in a way that won't diminish.
For the first time in so long Tamara lets herself want with the possibility of satisfaction
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I wanted to mention, though, that if you got Tamara's last name from reading my fic the other day, I totally made it up. AFAIK, she isn't given a last name in canon. (Although, I'd be totally stoked to introduce a piece of fanon. :D)
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Edit: clearly I am talking rubbish. You're right about it coming from your fic, the google thing was a different Tamara bit of information. I'm like a sieve today /o\
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& hearts ;
Like how & eacute ; will give you é. I only know a couple, though there are *loads* for the special characters.