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Right Down The Line, It's Been You And Me; Private - The lovely Mimi is tagged. [[Explicit Content Warning]]
Topic Started: Jul 9 2013, 03:11 PM (1,578 Views)
NotAFlyingToy
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[ *  *  *  *  *  * ]
((Brandon Baxter, continued from "Man, what are you talking about? I brought you a helicopter and a boat!"))

As Summer and Baxter left the shopping mall in their dust, the building shrinking with each and every errant glance backwards, Baxter's priority shifted from attempting to put distance between himself and the perfect couple to finding an actual place to sleep. They'd stopped off at a few different department stores to rummage and compare, with her taking more time than he ever would've. But the result was what mattered in the long run.

The lady had her change of clothes, and Baxter had his new pair of sturdy steel-toe boots that chafed somewhat at his ankles, as new shoes were wont to do. He'd also snagged a pair of gloves from a sporting goods store; they were black and dark blue, the grip on them fair and sturdy. They looked like a pair that he had at home, designed to protect the knuckles and fingers from a close-quarters scrap on the line, maximized ball grip.

The price tag on them was 114.99.

As the two picked their way across the woodlands, Baxter curled his fingers against his palm, imagining the feel of his hand encased in the tough rubber and cloth, a smile creeping onto his face. With the gloves on, it felt more like a game; it wasn't any different than suiting up to go trade blows with an enemy jersey.

It made it all seem less real, like the gloves were armor against his surroundings.

The gloves dangled from his back pocket as he lifted a branch away from his face, holding it there so that Summer could walk into a clearing without getting a face full of bush. He winked at her as he surveyed the clearing with some sort of forgotten campsite set up, the night sky not really helping with the illumination of their surroundings.

“I never really liked sleeping outdoors,” the boy said, dropping his bag at the mouth of the tent, “but I also don't like rooting around for shelter. Think this'll do for the night, Simms?”
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** Summer Simms, female no. 21, continued from…And God said, "Man, what are you talking about? I sent you a helicopter and a boat."

The sun had started to set by the time they'd reached the campsite, the hazy reds and pinks poking dreamily through the woodland canopy. Romantic as it was, just her and Brandon and the sunset, Summer couldn't force herself to enjoy it. It was beautiful, sure, and she was coming down from the high of a no-holds barred shopping spree back at the shopping center, but everything just felt so limited. Who knew how many more sunsets she'd see or whether she'd actually ever shop in a real store again.

She shook the thoughts from her head, her pigtails brushing against the nylon of her new, albeit terribly oversized, yellow windbreaker. Thinking like that wasn't her. Optimism was all she had left and her strongest weapon. In fact, she was doing pretty well for herself, she figured. She'd gotten something to protect her from the night and nature with her windbreaker, not to mention a pair of hiking boots and motorcycle shorts. They weren't the prettiest things to look at, but they proved invaluable during their second hike through the jungle. That aside, who else could say they had a mammoth of a football on their side protecting them?

All in all, she was doing alright. She was going to be fine. Everything was going to work out.

She smiled broadly as Brandon held the bush for her, crossing into clearing of the campsite. Cameras dotted several of the trees, something she hadn't noticed during their first trip, and she smiled for them too. She wanted her parents to know she was doing okay when they saw it. Besides the cameras, the rest of the area was a mess, looking as if a bear, several hurricanes, and a group of bikers passed through. The tent in question was a hole-y mess, but it was better than nothing, she figured.

Following Brandon's lead, she set her bag and her spear that had doubled as a walking stick at the foot of the tent before sitting down on the ground. She let out a pleased sigh and rubbed her calves before answering.

"It's perfect," She smiled, smoothing some loose strands of hair, "You better not snore, though! Don't think I won't stick my fingers up your nose if you do." She laughed, soft and girly like she'd always done back at Aurora.

She hadn't realized how tired she was until she sat down, a long yawn covered by her delicate hands making itself known. Truth be told, she wasn't terribly keen on sleeping outdoors. Not only was she not a fan of nature, but given their circumstances, she would have preferred an enclosed space with just one entrance that they had to watch. Out here, anything could have been lurking in the bushes.

But it was perfect, she told herself.

She was doing well and everything would be fine.

She patted the ground next to her, beckoning Brandon to come sit next to her. All things considered, this was the first time they'd really gotten to relax and she wanted him to enjoy it as well.

"We should make a fire," She said softly, wrapping her arms around her legs and resting her chin on her knees. "It'll be like we're at camp."

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At Summer's beckoning, Baxter sat down beside her with much less grace than she had managed, more or less flopping to the ground and stretching his feet out in front of him, rubbing at his leg quickly. Camping reminded him of the summer trips his mom and Dave had brought him on, where they'd all sat around the campfire and talked to each other over a waning light. He could recall vividly how everyone's face looked in the glowing embers, how his tend would retain droplets of water from the humidity, how when he unpacked after returning home, his clothes would smell of campfire and make him reluctant to wash the scent from them.

The memory caught him off guard, a frown playing over his features as he stared across the clearing. He hadn't thought that fondly of home in months, referring to the place where Dave and his family lived more as a battleground of suppressed emotions, rather than any real warmth he could muster forth. It was just a building where he didn't get along with the dude his mother married, a building where nobody had the same last name as him.

Ironic, how it took him until now to realize that he loved it.

“I don't really know how to start a fire,” he admitted, placing a palm to his jaw in order to pop his neck. A soft crack released some tension at the top of his spine, and he let out an audible sigh of relief.

“I mean, without a match or some flint. Unless you have a lighter on you? If not, I could always keep you warm. The tent's not that big."

He couldn't suppress the slight smile as he said it, and for good measure, waggled his eyebrows.
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Summer laughed disingenuously despite being amused by Brandon's comment, an unfortunate side-effect of forcing laughs for so long that it was now instinct. She rested her head against his shoulder for a brief second, a bright smile plastered on her face before moving to rummage through her duffel, pulling out the first aid kit Mr. Danya had been nice enough to give them. She recalled seeing a lighter in there that morning when she'd taken stock and sure enough, after digging for a second, there it was. Holding the lighter in front of Brandon, she scrunched her nose and smiled, tilting her head slightly as she did so. She'd heard somewhere tilting your head makes you more attractive.

"As tempting as cuddling is, what's a camp-out without a fire?" She asked sweetly before lowering her voice, "And what if the counselors caught us? We'd get in big trouble!"

She forced another laugh, got to her feet, and brushed the loose dirt from her bottom and the back of her legs before moving to gather a couple sticks and some dry leaves. As weird as it was, there was a modicum of normalcy in the small clearing, like she was back home. She was glad she decided to stick with Brandon, because she doubted Lydia and Chase would have given her the same sense of nostalgia. She had to admit he was charming, and it made her feel good about herself that he wanted to flirt with her, but that's all it was. Just flirtation. That was all she'd ever really been interested in, never one to pursue anything sexual or long term. More than anything, she just wanted the boost of knowing someone was attracted to her.

Before long, Summer returned with her tinder, carefully positioning it in a terrible teepee a few feet away from the tent before turning back to Brandon.

"See," She said with her familiar smile, wiping away some sweat that had formed at her hairline, "Just gotta light this and get some marshmallows and voila! Camp-out!"

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Baxter watched the girl gathering up materials in order to cobble together a smile, leaning backwards slightly with a smirk as she puttered about. When she made the teepee, however, the burly mountain man in him shook his head, climbing to his feet in his new shoes. He mimicked her earlier action by wiping off the seat of his jeans in two big-palmed slaps before moseying over to where she set up the teepee, gently nudging her aside.

“Yeah,” he said, adjusting two of the sticks so that they were more evenly spaced apart, frowning as he tried to remember how Dave did it, “we're about a badge away from being bona fide girl scouts. Did you ever do that? The whole scout-slash-cub thing?”

When he had the sticks and leaves arranged into the way he wanted them, he rose, brushing his hands off against one another as he shot her a moseyed, dumb expression.

“This here fire be beeyootiful,” he drawled, in a hick accent. “Reckon we should done light this here bundle o' fun?”
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Summer stepped aside and let Brandon fix her mess, all the while running a hand along one of her braids. It was clear she was no Bear Grylls, but that's what Brandon was for after-all, wasn't it? She returned back to her seat on the ground, once again drawing her legs into her arms as she watched him smooth out the teepee. The heat from the day was leeching from the air, replaced with a mild chill, leaving Summer lamenting her decision not to take a pair of pants from the store while she had a chance.

Shaking her head, Summer responded to Brandon's inquiry, face still partially buried in her legs.

"Not me, no. It didn't really interest me. I just watched a lot of Shirley Temple movies and had pretend award shows for myself," She skipped a beat before smiling once again, "It was a sweep in my favor, obviously. What about you? Any boy scouts?"

Suppressing a chill and running her hands up and down her legs, Summer nodded in agreement as Brandon suggested lighting their work. He couldn't get it lit fast enough, as far as she was concerned. The sun had all but set, only a dim hue of pink left lighting the small area. She wondered what time is was, briefly, before she thought about what her parents were doing. Her dad would probably be reading, like he did every night before bed. Usually some silly James Patterson mystery. He liked trying to figure out the culprit early on, as some kind of brain teaser. She'd gotten him a couple for Father's Day, laced with little notes in her squiggly handwriting telling him how much she loved him. She wished she had something like that from him or her mom here.

The light of a roaring fire, along with a blanket of it's heat, filled the campsite, Brandon having gotten it started while her mind wandered. She looked up at him, her eyes big and glassy, framed by her long eyelashes. She parted her lips for a moment, picking her words wisely.

"Do you miss home yet?" Summer asked softly, her eyes falling back to the floor. It wasn't like her too ask something so personal. It was some strict rule she came up with back home. You can't offend anyone if you don't try and get personal. There was something nagging at her to know, rules be damned. Maybe she wanted to see that he felt just as vulnerable as she did, maybe she just wanted the comfort. She didn't know anymore.

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While the fire caught, Baxter added larger pieces of wood to the teepee, his fingers dancing around the flames as she shot a question at him. “Nope. Too cool for it,” he responded, stepping back and nodding at his handiwork. The dryness of the evening and the solid location Summer had picked for the fire meant that it would likely burn for a while if he tended to it every so often.

At her question, however, he paused inwardly, even as he crouched back into a seat beside her, stretching his left leg out and bringing his right to a bend in order to rest his elbow upon it.

He hadn't really been all that close to Summer, barring a single time she had taken him around after his aunt had died. Thinking upon it, he hadn't been too close to any of his friends at school. He didn't like talking of his home life, and he especially didn't feel as though his problems were anyone's business but his own. But Summer...

If he was going to open up to anyone, why not the hot little number sitting beside him, watching the twigs pop lightly as the fire licked at the fuel, hungrily stretching its fingers skyward? What had he to lose?

“It's funny,” he said, leaning backwards to watch the day slip away amidst the clouds of the sky, “because it depends on what you mean by home. I miss the school. I miss football, and friends, and homework, and the feeling of summer vacation. I miss the women in my life. But home?”

Baxter bit down on the inside of his cheek, and shook his head. “It's... All I know is that I'm going to do whatever it takes to get back.”

Those final words were steel, harsh and bitten off with a snap of teeth and determination. His face was set and hard, staring into the flames. He had gloves in his back pocket; gloves that he wore when he won games, demolished competition, emerged victorious.

Here may be a new game, and a new pair of gloves, but he was still going to emerge victorious.

“Hey,” he said, nudging her with his elbow, “I'm getting sleepy, and we've walked for a fair bit. Why don't I take first watch, and you head on in?”

With a nod of his head, the steel still present in his blue eyes, Baxter nodded towards the tent.
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Summer stayed silent while Brandon spoke, her eyes trained on the dancing flames spitting from the fire. Rising and falling, their movements erratic and unpredictable. Maybe it was because she was tired, but it was almost as if she was hypnotized. Night had fallen quickly, darkness engulfing the entire area except the fire's reach, looking as if it were a spotlight focused on a single stage area. Beside her, Brandon talked about his home and what he missed and she quickly regretted asking, burying her face deeper into her knees as if it'd stop her from hearing. Hearing him talk did little to subdue her own homesickness and made him seem much more human in comparison. He wasn't just some brick wall for her to stand behind. He was a normal boy in the same way she was just a normal girl who wanted to make it home just as much as she did, he even said as much.

Her face darkened slightly when he said it, the hairs on the back of her neck standing straight up. He'd do whatever it took to get home. Did that include killing? Would he kill her if they were the last two left? Would she try and kill him in the same situation? It was stupid to think about, really. She trusted Brandon. He'd stuck by her this far, protected her. There wasn't any reason to doubt him.

Summer stayed silent for a long while after that, listening to the hum of the crackling fire and watching gnats weave over it. Her eyelids had gotten heavy, drooping slightly as she sat mesmerized until Brandon nudged her. She turned to him and nodded, not feeling much like courtesy-protesting. Standing to her feet and trying to ignore the pins and needles, she once more dusted herself off and bid Brandon a good night before heading into the tent.

Sleep, albeit light as it was, came easily.

Sleep, which unfortunately didn't last long.

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Summer left Baxter with his thoughts as the night and the chill began to settle over the clearing, leaving the lineman to adjust his seating so that he had his legs crossed, hands clasped in his lap as he watched the fire hiss and pop, eating up the wood piled in it with an unquenchable thirst. The night and the fire reminded him of countless nights like it, where he'd been in his room at home after a silent, tense dinner, everyone at the table gazing between himself and Dave as if a bomb would drop at any minute.

The nights when the blast did erupt from their bodies in the forms of verbal assaults, he'd have fled to his bedroom, waited fifteen minutes, slid open his window and escaped into the night. Some nights he'd just walk, quick and quiet, his music pounding in his ears as he welcomed the anger, embraced it, nurtured it until it burned out. Some nights he'd call a few friends in his phone, go out for a night on the town, cruise wherever the wheel and the engines took them until morning came and they'd have to face the light.

But sometimes the fire, the explosion, wasn't suppressed with the pleasure of friendly company or the indulgence in harmless rage. Sometimes it burned hot – too hot – and would only be quenched by the heat of another type of flame.

On nights like that, he'd scroll through the contacts on his phone, find someone that he could bury himself in with no questions, no regrets, nothing but a need and the will to slake it. He'd call them at eight o'clock at night, where there would be no secrets as to his intentions, and he'd indulge in the heat they could bring out in him until the debris from the explosion was all but gone.

The chill from the night, the numbness that had suppressed his fear and anger and revulsion as to where they were and what their purpose was here, reminded him of that sort of flame. Would it be wrong for him to indulge upon it now? Could it be wrong to light a fire to chase away that numb feeling that, even now, in front of a roaring fire, consumed him?

Silently, Baxter rose to his feet, his foot collapsing the carefully constructed teepee of burning wood with a swift boot. A bottle of water from his bag took care of the majority of the flame, leaving a few smoldering embers in its wake. When the task was complete, he tossed the plastic into the charred remains.

Baxter turned, making his way inside the tent and edging around Summer, sliding so that his front faced her back, lying on his side with his head propped on his hand. With his free one, he reached around her until his fingers grazed her stomach and held on, pulling her back into his front, fully spooning her.

Then, his fingers wandered to the hem of her top.
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It was a dream, she told herself.

Her entire body went rigid, back arching in protest as she tried to distance herself from him, heart beating like a drum against her chest.

It wasn't happening, she was just imagining things.

His hand was cold and callused, snaking up and down her body, exploring her before settling at her chest, but he didn't stop. She could feel his excitement against her, pushing, prodding at her in rhythm. His breath was hot against her ear, coming out in deep, shaking intervals, masking the shaking of her own breath. His smelled of the morning, the scent boring into her nostrils with each exhale.

It was a misunderstanding. Brandon wouldn't do this.

She wanted to cry
She wanted to scream.
She wanted to get up and run.

She didn't want to upset him and make him hate her.

His arm was wrapped heavily around her mid-section, dead weight bearing down on her as his hands busied themselves. She stared off into darkness, not daring to blink. There wasn't a thing to be seen, only felt, and heard, and smelled, and somehow that was all the more terrifying for her.

She'd given him the wrong idea, that was it.

Her shaking, manicured hand, dirtied by her time spent on the island wrapped around his large one, weakly trying to lead him away from her.

"Brandon..."

Her words were soft, shaking. Her heart was caught in her throat now, beating painfully, threatening to beat right out. She swallowed to no avail, hoping to subdue it. This wasn't right. This wasn't how things were supposed to be. Thing were supposed to be perfect and everything was supposed to be okay.

He was supposed to protect her.

She'd trusted him.

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His hand trailing up her stomach elicited a response, though not one that his fingers had expected. Her body stiffened – surprise, readiness – and he began to explore more openly. Massaging, flicking, trailing fingers down any and all exposed skin.

The sound of his tongue licking dry lips sounded like a bomb blast in the night, accompanied by her quickened breathing, his own even, deep breaths. He'd caught her by surprise, but the way she trembled against him and the way she didn't react – not yet – had him become bolder in his movements.

Baxter's hand was pushed away from her chest, led by a quaking hand – trembling with passion. His name – god, his name sounded so good on her lips – was spoken softly in the barriers of their tent, and his hand was pushed away from her chest, freed of her T-shirt.

His confusion was momentary, and it resolved when he realized that the direction she pushed it in was downward. Southbound. It was an offer, an olive branch, and he could almost hear her saying the words.

I want you, Brandon.

He obliged her, the back of his fingertips trailing down her front as he flicked them over her clothed core, pressing lightly against it. He then switched his grip, cupping her fully, massaging insistently through the fabric. They needed this. They deserved this.

Release.
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She always judged the girls in movies, the stupid ones who clawed and screamed to no avail, the ones who fought and didn't get away. She wouldn't be caught, she always said. She'd run as fast as she could, scream as loud as she could, hurt him as much as she could. She'd get away.

But Summer was frozen, eyes clenched tightly shut fighting back hot tears, lip pressed between teeth hard enough to draw blood. She could run, but she wouldn't get away. He was faster, stronger. She could scream, but who would hear her? She wondered if this was his plan from the start, all the nice things he'd said, the way he'd come to her defense, bringing her out to the woods. Was it all for this?

His hands were rough, clumsy, working with a purpose. Every touch sent shivers down her spine, every hair on her body standing at attention. He was going to take what he wanted and maybe she'd let him. She felt disgusting, dirty. Nausea was tearing through her. Maybe this was her fault, maybe she lead him on, flirted too much, gave him the wrong idea.

Brandon wouldn't do this.

He'd do whatever it took, he said so himself. Is this what he meant? Was this the last thing she'd feel before he killed her?

She wanted it to be over, he could do whatever he wanted just as long as it was over. She tried to think of happy times, lunches with her mom, birthdays, her first ever commercial. Anything to make it over.

But nothing could drown out his soft moans, her name coming in hushed tones, one hand brushing loose hair from her while the other violated her.

She wanted it to end.

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If there was something amiss in her reaction, if she had given Baxter anything less than tacit approval of what he was doing to her, he buried it and justified it away as shock, embarrassment, lack of experience. There was simply no way that she couldn't be feeling the drive he was as his fingers tangled in her hair, his hand between her legs pressing her more firmly against his arousal, fitting them together, entwining them.

She was warm beneath him, soft under his fingertips as he slid backwards, tipping her so that she lay upon her back and half of his weight was pressing into her side. He pressed his face into her shoulder, dragging one of his knees up her body to rest between her thighs, both hands reaching to plunge into her dark hair, massaging the back of her skull.

There wasn't a smile on his face as he lifted himself by his elbows to fully straddle her, nor was there one present when his blue eyes settled upon her own, taking in the expression he found there. He expected breathless passion, want tinged with fear, flushed skin and husky breaths.

It wasn't what he found.
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This is it.

She chanted it over and over in her head, preparing herself, readying herself for the inevitable.

Brandon pushed her to her back and she didn't protest. She'd give him whatever he wanted just to make it end. His face buried into the crook of her neck, nipping at the tender flesh, his thick beard like sandpaper against her skin. She couldn't suppress a whimper, taking everything she had not to cry. She could smell the sweat on him from the labor of the day, feel beads of sweat dripping from his brow on to her exposed shoulder.

She focused on that and the stars.

Drip.

The were pretty, something she didn't normally see through the lights of Seattle.

Drop.

They cast a hazy light through the tears in the tent, back lighting Brandon as he moved his face into her view. She was happy she didn't have to see his expression, just the light catching on his hair and cheekbones. She was happy she didn't have to admit that it was the same Brandon from earlier.

His body was heavy on top of her, making breathing difficult. She couldn't move, his thick leg moving between hers and restricting her even further. The heat from his body was intense, almost unbearable as he moved closer to her, fingers weaving roughly through her braids and loosening them even further.

She remained focused on the sky, still biting back the tears.

She just wanted it all to be over with, wanted him to be done with it already.

"Stop," She groaned softly, unable to hold back tears any longer, their trail burning its way down her cheeks, "Please... Brandon..."

She'd never look at stars the same way again.

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Grinding, gyrating motions, the friction and heat of two people looking for release. He was kissing her neck, nuzzling, his hands wandering around her body to stroke and caress and palm. Baxter moved with purpose, sliding lower and lower, his intentions clear when -

Stop.

It all came to a screeching halt. Her passion turned to fear, trembling, quaking. Her willingness turned to horrified stiffening, the shaking of her voice becoming genuinely terrified whimpering. He was poised above her, his hands all over her, while she literally quaked beneath him.

But he wasn't... he didn't. He hadn't meant to. She was... They were...

Suddenly, his mouth was open, words pouring forth in a desperate attempt to rationalize, explain, justify. Anything to beat back the self revulsion that had poured from his stomach and into his throat.

“Whatever, cock tease.”

He was off her, rolling to face the far wall of the tent, stretching out on his side. He squeezed his eyes shut, clenched his fists underneath his head.

There, the fire he had sought to destroy raged on. There, he hated himself.
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