Jack&Teague [& Katy] stories 1-5

by Amy Lane

  Teague’s hand moved to his tighty-whiteys—Teague was way ahead of Jacky in the hard-on department. The lines of his prick were large and defined through the fabric and Teague pet his erection almost absently, until his palm caught the flare of the sensitive ridge and his attention was suddenly very focused.

  Teague made that rough pass of the hand again, and Jack didn’t dare breathe. They’d been sharing a bed for nearly two weeks, and Jack was lucky if Teague let Jacky see him naked, and oh dear God, he was wrapping his hands around his prick and Jack wanted… wanted in.

  Not inside of Teague’s body, but inside of that tight network of protective shields that Teague had erected to keep his fragile, vulnerable heart safe. Jack caught glimpses sometimes. Teague had shown him as much as he possibly could, but Jack was hungry for more. He’d given this man everything—all he wanted in return was Teague’s soul.

  He’d settle for watching the guy touch himself.

  Jack’s knees went weak as Teague slid a sure hand underneath the elastic band, folding it down as he did so, exposing his erection—fat, thick, and long—to the air. Jack didn’t miss the little shiver that passed along Teague’s arms at the cool invasion on his skin. His fist closed, hard, over his cock, and a strangled sound escaped his clenched teeth. His other hand came up to his Irish-fair chest and he pinched a nipple between his fingers so hard his fingertips turned purple, the fair skin around them going white. The nipple itself was swollen red, and engorged with broken blood vessels by the time Teague released his hold.

  Jack tried not to whimper.

  He’d known Teague was rough on himself—he’d seen evidence in the morning, and it was obvious from the way Teague wanted Jack to touch him but never asked. But Jack had never seen his lover clench his prick on his fist hard enough to make himself flinch. He’d never seen him pinch his own skin between his fingers hard enough to leave a bruise. Watching it now felt violent and wrong. Nobody got to hurt Teague that way—not even Teague, not anymore.

  Before he knew he planned to do it, he’d dropped the towel and was on the bed next to Teague, whispering, “shhh… shhhhh… don’t…”

  Teague’s body jerked in surprise and he made to shove himself up on his elbows, but Jack was taller and almost as strong. He placed a hand on Teague’s chest and brushed Teague’s ear with his lips. “No, no… keep touching… just be gentle.”

  “Oh Christ…” growled Teague, and he tried to get up again, but Jack pushed him flat.

  “Please, Teague?” Jack murmured, taking that strong member in his own hand and rubbing it before it got soft with Teague’s distraction.

  “No..oo…oo…” Teague’s hips arched off the bed, and he wasn’t nearly as convincing as he had been at first.

  Jack chuckled. He never had the upper, uhm, hand, between the two of them. Teague’s two front teeth were crooked—no braces for Sean Sullivan’s kid—and watching them as they bit that pouty lower lip was like watching Teague become young again, and open to possibility and love. Jack liked that look, and as he stared bemusedly at Teague’s face, he liked everything about it. He liked Teague’s sharp, high cheekbones and grooved mouth, an d he liked the way Teague’s brown eyelashes fanned his cheeks when he closed his eyes. Jack really loved the way Teague’s brow furrowed because he was concentrating hard on keeping himself in control.

  Jack liked the way Teague looked when he was out of control even better.

  A tiny drop of pre-come leaked out, and Jack used his thumb to spread it over the head of the erection, letting Teague’s gasp ripple through him. Jack moved his hand to the base—firm, but not harsh, and then pulled up, letting the skin skate around for a bit, and it must have felt good because Teague groaned and then abruptly snapped to himself.

  “Jesus, Princess, can we turn off a goddamned light?” His voice was sharp and thin, because Jack was making him crazy, and Jack enjoyed that more than he thought he should. But he had a purpose when he lay down, and damned if he’d let the joy of touching Teague’s body distract him.

  “No, I’m not turning off the light,” he retorted, and then he removed his own hand and replaced it with Teague’s.

  Teague’s hand tightened to the point of pain, and Jack hissed in sympathy.

  “Be gentle,” he ordered, and Teague’s eyes flew open accusingly. He opened his hand and moved his body up off the bed, and Jack moved his shoulder in and leaned over. Teague could throw him off, and pretty goddamned easily, too, but in this as in all things, Jack counted on Teague’s innate gentleness, his refusal to hurt Jack because he loved him.

  “Turn off the fucking light,” Teague growled, “and let’s just go to bed.”

  “Lay back down and touch yourself—it doesn’t have to hurt!” Jack protested.

  Teague grunted and shoved his underwear up, then threw himself off the bed to kill the switch. He returned, sliding under the covers in the November chill and hunching over into a self-protective little ball. His back and neck just seemed to be daring Jack to do anything about it, and so Jack slid under the covers with him to try.

  He started out by going all the way under and kissing the small of Teague’s back right at the edge of his underwear.

  “Leave me the fuck alone,” Teague snarled at him from outside the covers, but Jack ignored him. They shared a bed now, and he knew Teague—had trusted him with his life and his heart and he was damned if he’d let the guy scare him off now.

  “Make me,” he mumbled, continuing his string of kisses up Teague’s spine. He got to Teague’s sensitive neck and rubbed his lips against the bare skin there, smiling gently in the dark when Teague shivered.

  “Don’t we have shit to do in the morning?” Teague asked, and Jack “Uhm-hhmmd…” him as he moved to the side Teague’s neck.

  “Don’t we have to leave early?” Teague asked, his voice pitching as Jack nipped under his jawbone. “I mean it’s your folks…”

  “My parents have nothing to do with my hand on your cock,” Jack murmured crudely, skating his palm past Teague’s hip and then around his body and under his whiteys. Teague grunted and surged against Jack’s palm and Jack made what sounded like a muffled crow of triumph as he slid the damned underwear off Teague’s hips and to the foot of the bed.

  “But Cory’s bringing us and she…”

  “She doesn’t have anything to do with us in bed either,” Jack murmured, hoping it was true. He tried very hard not to be jealous of the little sorceress—he knew she didn’t love Teague the way he and Katy did, but Teague seemed so hell bent on following her anywhere, it was hard to draw the line around the loves that drew him.

  Jack forgot about her now and squeezed—gently—and moved his hand from the base to the tip, marveling that he couldn’t touch his fingers and his thumb. The fact that this thing made it up Jack’s ass on an almost nightly basis was almost a wonder of nature.

  Teague grunted again and moved in Jack’s grip and Jack tried one more time to take Teague’s hand and put it on Teague’s cock and to goddamnit, teach his stubborn Irishman how to touch himself with kindness. Maybe it was the dark, or maybe it was that he wasn’t facing his lover, but this time it took. This time Teague let Jack guide his own hand along the length, from base to tip, teasing, tickling, tormenting—but only for a moment. After a moment, Teague’s fingers tightened too strongly and Jack shushed him, whispering in his ear, murmuring comfort things, until Teague was making little grunting whimpers in this throat and Jack was grinding his own erection up against Teague’s backside.

  Teague’s fingers relaxed, and their breaths harshened in the dark. Jack pulled his hand away and licked his palm to make it slippery, and Teague made one last attempt to tighten to pain.

  “Goddammit, Teague, I said it doesn’t have to hurt!” Jack growled. He wrapped his fingers around Teague’s and tried to force him to lighten up, and Teague’s control fractured a little.

  “Princess, the next time we’re naked together, I’m going to hammer you into the mattress…
auuuugghhhhhhhh… fuck you!” Because Jack moved lower, to cup and squeeze Teague’s balls, but gently and not hard at all. Teague’s stomach and chest were thrust forward, and he was reaching… straining for that elusive moment when his body exploded and his mind fragmented in orgasm.

  “You do fuck me,” Jack rasped, “every night you stick your fence post up my ass and I like it. I’m trying to return the favor. Just once accept a little bit of gentleness.”

  Teague made a keening sound in frustration, and Jack kept up the gentle fondling of his body. He wanted to take pity on the stubborn asshole and force him to come, but he wasn’t going to allow any shortcuts that involved bruising or twisting or pinching or pain.

  “Buttercup,” Teague hissed as Jack loosened his fingers again, “the next time I fuck you, you’re going to wish it was a fencepost in your ass…”

  “Fine,” Jack whispered harshly, seeing stars himself as he ground against Teague’s tightly muscled flank. “Go ahead and bugger me until I cry. Fuck me into the mattress or the wall or into the ground… I can take it… just don’t—nah-nah-nah!! Don’t…” stroke “hurt” stroke “yourself.”

  He trusted for a moment that Teague would do as he demanded, and slid his finger, slick with fluid from the end of Teague’s prick, and rubbed it ever-so-teasingly underneath Teague’s balls, and into the dark, slick and secret ring of sensitive flesh. He invaded gently and a groan ripped it’s way out of Teague’s chest. Teague groaned again and Jacky moved his hand one more time to make sure that trembling hand was gentle on its own flesh, squeezing just a little harder this time, and Teague convulsed and grunted and came.

  Fluid spattered up against their twined hands as Teague spasmed, whimpering, and Jack ground his own erection against Teague’s taut bottom, groaning on his own and coming from the pleasure of feeling Teague undone under the combined touch of their hands.

  Teague was the first to try to move off the bed when their breathing stilled, but Jack’s arm tightened around his chest.

  “Stay,” he murmured softly.

  “But Jacky,” Teague complained, “we’re covered in… in… in…”

  “Come,” Jack said dryly. “I think that’s the word the kids are using these days.”

  “Fuck you, Jacky,” Teague muttered sourly, but he didn’t move, either.

  “You do. Every night. We covered that.” Jack was laughing, but Teague pushed against his restraining arm and Jack wanted him to lie still for once.

  “It dries pretty quick,” he murmured, kissing the back of Teague’s neck again. He propped himself up on his elbow and leaned over to catch the edge of a stubbly, stubborn jaw with a kiss. “Was it really so bad?”

  “Was what?” Teague took Jack’s slickened hand into his own and pulled it to his mouth, absently kissing it and licking the wettest parts by popping them into his mouth and teasing them moodily with his tongue—basically cleaning Jack up in one way if he couldn’t do it in the other.

  “Was it so bad reaching for something you wanted when it didn’t have to hurt?”

  Teague grunted—it was almost an entire shrink session in a syllable. Yes. Yes it was so bad. Yes, it hurt almost as much as brutal fingers on his skin. Teague Sullivan didn’t get anything—not even sex—without pain.

  “Well tough,” Jack murmured, a shitload of heartfelt in his own voice. “You want Katy, you want me… we’re here for the taking. Take us, beloved. Don’t hurt yourself because you think you shouldn’t reach for us.”

  “Sounds really fucking easy when you say it that way,” Teague muttered, and Jack kissed him between his shoulder blades again, reasonably sure that Teague was too far into his own self-protective mental-spiral-shell to spring for the goodnight kiss. Sometimes it was best to just let Teague adapt to something new and not to bother him. Jack had once endured a week’s worth of brooding regard when he went out and bought a new couch without Teague’s permission, and that was before they were sleeping together. He knew how much Teague feared change—change threatened any tiny corner of happiness Teague felt like he’d cheated from the gods in the first place.

  “Not for you, Teague,” he murmured. “For you, I’m perfectly well aware it’s just not.”

  Teague sighed and absently tucked Jack’s hand under his chin, then backed into Jack, knowing Jack would spoon him. “I love you, you passive aggressive nightmare.”

  “Yeah, and I love you, you dumb motherfucker. Now get some sleep—tomorrow we have to visit my folks and you’ll need to be all shiny in the morning.”

  “Whip-fucking-spiffy,” Teague muttered, but he was well on the way to sleep and they both knew it.

  “Damned straight.”

  Teague

  Dreams of Chaos

  The dream had changed.

  It used to be, all he did was devour Jacky’s intestines, his wolf-muzzle wet and saturated with blood, his snarling, slavering, chaotic wolf-form reveling in Jack’s prone, thrashing body while Teague screamed and screamed and screamed inside, begging himself to please, anything, please, don’t hurt Jacky.

  But that wasn’t enough torment for the dream-gods, apparently.

  Now, as he was ripping Jacky’s body to shreds, he heard a whine behind him, and turned. There was Katy, the prettiest little wolf he ever did see, standing in horror, one delicate paw extended as though trying to stop him from destroying the thing they both loved the best.

  And Teague, horrified by what he had wrought as a wolf, changed back into a naked hunter with a big, heavy rifle.

  And human form or no human form, he was still screaming on the inside when he raised that big fucking cannon to his shoulder, found Katy in the sight, and pulled the trigger.

  He was still screaming on the inside as her proud, furry body flew against the wall of the psycho’s house in a spatter of blood and brains.

  And he was almost screaming as he woke up, cold-sweating in Jacky’s arms. Jacky woke a little—just enough to know it had been a bad dream and to comfort Teague, shushing in his ear, rubbing his cheek on Teague’s back. For once, Teague couldn’t reject the comfort.

  He laid there, eyes wide in the night, feeling those big masculine hands on his chest and his hip, and wondered what it would take to make the dream go away.

  Some inner part of him perked up, and he almost scented the air—yes, his wolf had grown so strong that scent was his first recourse. Becoming a werewolf was so easy, so seamless—maybe that’s one of the things that frightened him the most.

  Jacky’s breathing evened out next to him, and Teague’s eyes searched the dark restlessly—his night-sight was better too, but it didn’t matter. He was reasonably certain he wouldn’t be able to sleep again, not without some sort of break, some sort of reassurance that he wouldn’t go back and have the same dream.

  Carefully, quietly, he scooted out of the bed and brought the coverlet up to Jacky’s chin, then rummaged in the drawers he and Jacky were using now and came up with some sweat-bottoms and a T-shirt. There was never a moment in Green’s Hill where everybody was asleep—if he was going out to the front room to watch TV, he’d better be dressed.

  The person he found was the person he’d hoped for, but not the person he’d expected.

  There was just something soothing about watching the little college student knit. Cory was sitting on one end of the couch, and Grace, the vampire, was sitting on the other end, and they were knitting silently while watching Serenity. Teague grinned in spite of himself. He loved that movie.

  Hoping they wouldn’t notice him at all, he sat down in the overstuffed chair adjacent to Cory, and tucked his feet under his ass to watch.

  Cory turned to him and smiled, never pausing in the movements of her clever fingers, and then she and Grace exchanged looks. He became so caught up in the exploits of Captain Mal and his crew that he barely noticed when Grace stood up, moved to the kitchen, and came back with a bottle of chocolate milk and a plate of cookies. He was startled when she put the milk in his hand and the cookies
in front of him.

  “Thank you but I don’t…”

  “I’ll take the thanks and leave the disclaimer.” Grace’s freckled face was as mild as her words, and Teague bobbed his head again and drank his chocolate milk. The movie came to its dramatic end and Teague was surprised to hear sniffling coming from Cory’s side of the couch. She smiled gamely at Grace and wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand. Grace shook her head and tsked, and stood up to kiss Cory on the top of the head like a mother.

  “I’ve got a few things to do before dawn, sweetie,” she said, “and you need to get some sleep. Tomorrow’s a busy day.” She eyeballed Teague, who was staring with wonder at the vast cabinet of dvds. Usually the cabinet was closed flush with the wall—he hadn’t imagined there was such a selection. “It’s a busy day for you too, werewolf,” Grace said meaningfully. “I expect you two to be in bed long before I am.”

  Cory nodded dutifully. “Yes, Mama Vampire,” and Grace flashed a playful fang in return. When she’d moved on, Cory jerked her chin towards the cabinet. “Pick another movie—or maybe an episode of Firefly if you like.”

  “That sounds about right,” Teague yawned, moving to the cabinet to pull out the pilot episode. Something short—he was starting to feel sleepy again.

  “Bad dreams?” she asked, her fingers still moving, and then, “Me too,” at his non-committal grunt.

  “What sorts of bad dreams do you have, Lady Cory?” he surprised himself by asking as he set up the dvd.

  Cory shook her head, a faint smile playing at her lips. “You don’t want to know about my dreams, Teague—you want surcease from your own.”

  Teague stopped and frowned, mouthing the unfamiliar word, and Cory blushed.

  “Surcease,” she mumbled, flushing. “It means ‘ease’ or ‘relief’… sorry. I… when I’m not paying attention that shit just slips out and it’s not…”

  Teague found he was smiling to calm her down. “It’s okay, Lady Cory—I just forget, sometimes, that’s all.”

  “Forget what?” she asked shortly.