Gensomaden Saiyuki Fan Fiction ❯ The Ride ❯ The Ride ( Chapter 1 )

The Ride

by: hibem

 

 

All highway rest stops look the same after you've been on the road for a while, but on this road they are all the same, literally. Designed, no doubt, by some marketing and civil engineering genius specifically for mass production, they are airy, bright, and utterly unwelcoming. The streamlined countertops of the fast food chains, the arcing windows and blandly patterned tile all conspire to herd the masses from cash register to door.

 

I've studied the flow of travelers through this building, or one identical to it, for hours already, with fascination, then admiration and finally boredom. At three in the morning, the only people here are myself and the night janitor, making the intended footpaths all the more glaringly obvious. I crack an eye open to see if he's still giving me that look, which he is, and glimpse a strong gait and a pair of broad shoulders disappearing into the men's room. The janitor's caught me looking at him, I can tell by the determined set of his jaw. I decide I don't like his scent or the abrupt movements of his dust mop. His eyes rest on me as though I owe him something for not kicking me out yet but I don't feel like killing anyone tonight, so I stand up, grab my pack and allow the building to expel me into the parking lot. The first edge of hunger stirring in my gut puts a little more swish in my hips that is probably necessary.

 

I pause in the spill of the fluorescents and light up a cigarette, the familiarity of pack, flame and ash as much an addiction as the smoke, as the way a properly handled butt can be a siren song, weapon or shield. His smile is bland as he takes up position beside me, slouching, hands in the pockets of his rumpled slacks. I hadn't heard him approach any more than I'd heard him enter the rest stop. It throws me off balance a little but I recover as our silence piles up between the rushing of semi trucks on the road beyond. His is the kind of smile designed to inspire trust or at least dismissal. 'Don't worry about me,' it says, 'I'm not threat.' It's lying. I can tell.

 

An odd frission walks up my spine as our eyes meet. His are murky green or hazel behind scratched glasses, his hair a conservative business cut gone shaggy and unwashed. His clothes hang off his spare frame, hinting at a graceful narrowness of waist. My mind supplies me with a sudden image of myself on my knees for him, his hot weight on my tongue. I smirk at him, slightly, savoring the way my lips curve.

 

"Lovely night isn't it?" he asks. It is: dry and clear, and just warm enough that our breath can't condense. The weather's always the same in the desert, though, and I get the feeling he would have asked the same question in the same way even if it were snowing. I tell him this, and he chuckles politely.

 

"I'm Jordan," I offer.

 

"John," he says. It's an obvious pseudonym, not that I'm complaining. He looks more like a Zachary or a William.

 

He takes half a step closer to me as the janitor emerges from the rest stop. His eyes wander over us, brows drawing down in an expression something like disappointment. I grin at him, baring my teeth, crush my cigarette butt beneath my heel, lean closer still.

 

"Where are you headed?" I ask John, looking up to meet his eyes.

 

"West," he replies, vaguely, watching the janitor slam the door to his truck and pull onto the ramp.

 

God, he smells good. My instincts are screaming three or four conflicting things at once. I ignore them. "Think I could get a ride?"

 

He smiles again, and this time there's something like a feeling in it somewhere. Challenge, wariness, concern? Not quite. "All right."

 

 

He drives through the night; our conversation is scattered over the hum of tires and slide guitar playing softly on the radio. We talk for a full hour about architecture, of all things, after we stop at another identical rest stop for coffee, gas and cigarettes around dawn.

 

Later, I wake as the sun heats the wide plastic seats of his Oldsmobile, peel off my sweatshirt and crank down the window, vainly trying to recapture the last of the night's coolness. I run my fingers through my long hair and twist it up off my neck. His eyes flick over me casually as I stretch, back arching. I'm not wearing a bra. I know how to display myself to best advantage. I know that he's burying his reaction to me, but not why.

 

Since he picked me up, he's been driving for over 12 hours with only one break. I ask him if he's tired but he says no, he isn't. He doesn't stop until we reach a good sized town, and I tell him that's as far as I go.

 

"Well," I say as he guides the Olds into the back lot of a 24hour Wal-Mart, "Thanks for the ride."

 

I turn to him in the seat, look up at him through my lashes. The hunger has been building in me all day, is magnified by the taught lines of his shoulders under his thin t-shirt. The wariness is back in his eyes, though they track my tongue across my upper lip.

 

"Can I- for the ride-" I reach for his fly, but his hands counter mine. They are long fingered, dry and warm. His touch is too brief.

 

"That won't be necessary, thank you." He smiles at me again, distant and polite. Closed. "I think I'll sleep now."

 

And without another word he drops his seat back and practically passes out. I stare at him, at his face slack and young-looking in sleep. He snores a little. I snort scornfully, slam the car door behind me and saunter off in search of a bar.

 

 

It isn't until much later that I realize I've forgotten my back pack. I stand over my meal in a grimy men's room wearing only my tank top. My jeans are too small for me now, so I take his. Whoever finds him passed out cold in the stall, pantsless, will probably think he's had a hell of a night. He has.

 

I splash water on my face, sniff myself a little. The jeans are rank and slightly too short, but it doesn't matter. I'm still hungry. They'll be left behind on some girl's floor before morning.

 

 

The Oldsmobile is still behind Wal-Mart at dawn. I'm back in my own clothes, body replete and glowing with self-satisfaction. I wait on the roof above as he wakes, takes a piss against the dumpster, works the kinks out of his back. The shadows of the cars, buildings and cacti sharpen as light spills over the low hills. At least there are no palm trees in this town.

 

I think about my partners last night. Both willing, brazen, naive. I run my hand across the softness of my stomach, up under the curve of my breast as he scans the horizon. I decide.

 

 

He pretends to be surprised even though he watched me slither down the ladder and stroll over. "Good morning, Jordan. Do you still need a ride?" His mask of politeness is firmly in place. The invitation is blatant. I lean in the window, making sure he can see down my shirt, but he refrains from staring.

 

"Where did you say you were going, again, John?"

 

"I didn't."

 

"Ah." I look at him slyly, and he blinks back innocently. "What are you looking for?"

 

He shrugs a little, expression going distant again. He doesn't want me to push this, so I do.

 

"Who are you looking for?"

 

He smiles blandly and starts the car, making me hurry to climb in. He's pulling out before I get my door shut. But, surprisingly, once we're back on the highway he lights up a cigarette and answers.

 

"A friend of mine."

 

Something about the way he says it makes me ask, "Is he in trouble?"

 

"I think maybe he's always been in trouble, but before now it's always been with himself and not other people."

 

He's really smiling now, just slightly. It looks good on him. I watch him, and the sky, and the blur of red earth passing behind.

 

 

I'm hungry again in two days, and too hungry to ignore by the third. Our mingled scents in the car make me antsy. He asks me to be still three times in the last hour of driving.

 

We find a larger city this time, park in a disused commuter lot at the outskirt. My appetite thrums to the far off rhythm of night clubs, throbbing with anticipation, desire, sexual display. I remember my pack this time, and after a quickie in an alley pull on my leather pants and an open button-down. To be tall, hard, masculine again feels delicious. I've been in the car with him for too long. I go on the prowl.

 

It's the second bar, or the third, when I catch a glimpse of him, nursing something or other on the rocks. "John." I glower at him, but he doesn't look at me. Hasn't noticed me. Why would he? I laugh to myself and return my attention to my hand, the ladies on my arm.

 

I almost go for a third trick before I remember, and stop myself. He smells hot-blooded and dangerous, and it's a shame to have to let him go. Still, all in all it's been a good night. I've even won enough to help pay for gas.

 

 

We finally find a truck stop with showers and a laundromat and I talk him into using them only by offering to pay. I hand over quarters and a bar of soap from my pack and shoo him into the men's room. I indulge in a brief fantasy of sneaking in with him, licking hot droplets from his skin. These moments are common for me. I'm almost sure he knows.

 

 

I wait until she's asleep before I let the change wash over me, limbs lengthening, curves hardening into lines and angles. I extract myself from her room carefully, pulling on my corduroys by feel and letting myself down the fire escape. Wouldn't do for the roommate to see a man coming out of her room. I imagine if I wore panties I'd lose them in every dark bedroom. Good thing I don't.

 

 

The thugs are trying to beat the shit out of him, but they don't seem to be doing a very good job. Still, there are about seven of them, and only one John (or Zach or Will or whatever). I begin to intervene before I remember who I am right now. Shit. But as the one left slouched against the bricks starts to reach into his jacket I'm moving, then wrenching the gun from his hand, then things are a blur until all of them are running or have stopped moving.

 

I grin at him, making it cocky, and extend my hand. He gives me a sharp look, waiting to see what I'll say.

 

"I'm Jordan. You OK, man?" He shakes my hand. His grip is strong, firm.

 

"Bran. And yes, thank you, I'm quite all right."

 

I grin wider, if that's possible. His real name. I get an odd feeling in my chest.

 

"Let's go back to the car," he says, and starts walking.

 

I follow. It's some minutes before all the implications catch up to me.

 

"I-" I trail off.

 

"You're a succubus," he observes.

 

"That's one word for what I am." I am not nervous or apologetic. Not not not. "How did you know?"

 

"I followed you."

 

Somehow, I am unsurprised.

 

"It doesn't bother you, then."

 

He smiles at me, small and tight. I'm taller than him. He still smells good. My cock twitches. His eyes on me this way set off a slow burn. I light a smoke, offer him one. He takes it.

 

"Who were they?" I ask.

 

"Messengers from some old associates."

 

I raise an eyebrow but he changes the subject.

 

"Jordan's your real name?" he asks.

 

"You like? Made it up myself."

 

"Very... biblical."

 

I laugh.

 

 

When we get back to the car, he stops short, turns to me, and the next thing I know I'm half-sprawled across the hood with his tongue in my mouth. And God, I'm hard instantly, struggling free of my back pack and shirt so I can run my hands all over him, hips lifting to meet his, legs pulling him closer without my conscious direction.

 

He says my name. I rip his shirt trying to get it off him.

 

"Is this why you didn't want me before?" I ask.

 

"No."

 

We crawl into the car only when we realize how cold metal is on bare flesh. The back seat is less than ideal, but it's him I'm pinned underneath, god he's so dominant and I'm fumbling for my lube in the yellow half-light of far-off street lamps but my pack's still outside on the hood.

 

I jerk myself slowly as he goes to get it, one hand holding his pants up, half covering an odd marking on his abdomen. I'll explore him later when I make him get us a hotel room but right now he's back and oh- he doesn't waste any time does he?

 

Right there. Yes.

 

I open my mouth and he swallows my sounds, tongue plunging deeply in mimicry. I am frantic against him, around him. My hunger fades under his hands, my awareness of him inside me. When he comes it is with a shocked gasp, and then I am coming so hard I am barely aware of the sating flow of his energy into me. He pulls out, carefully, watches as the change I can't hold back ripples over my body. The familiar ache of muscle and bone realigning makes me feel naked, half-pinned under him. I breathe and watch him watching until he drifts down and passes out against my shoulder.

 

 

In the morning, my whole body is one long cramp from sleeping in the Old's back seat. He is still sprawled on top of me, his face pressed against my neck, one hand possessively cradling my breast. His touch, his breath against me wakes a familiar fire. Though I am not hungry in the least, I crave him. The thought shakes me. I will have to be very careful with this one, I realize. If I have him as often as I want him, I will probably kill him.

 

I disentangle myself gently, though I know he will not wake for hours yet, pull on my jeans and t-shirt. I smell like him, which is both comforting and arousing. My knees feel weak as I stumble around the car. The odd jangle of instincts he used to awake in me has quieted, unified into one. I look over the back seat at him. Mine.

 

I find the keys under the passenger's seat, and begin to drive.

 

 

 

*A/N This story is a stand-alone, and also the first chapter of the much longer Suite on Rte. 86.

**Saiyuki and all its characters are the property of Kazuya Minekura.