||[Jan. 29th, 2008|06:45 pm]
The Jarod and Kyle Refuge
This alone should be evidence of the space of my brain right now, and by that, I don't mean the subject of the story. |
Title: Every Night Holds Its Secrets
Rating: R/NC-17 (you have been warned).
Disclaimer: Still not mine, and given the choice, I couldn't afford them anyhow.
Summary: It's night, and a certain someone cannot sleep.
The sweatpants were old, a pair he had bought during a sale at a department store. It had been his first time in a department store after he had escaped, and he found the racks of clothes over-whelming. He had managed to buy the sweatpants, a three-pack of briefs, and a three-pack of t-shirts. He had wanted sweaters too, and a warm coat or jacket, but he had taken a wrong turn somewhere in shoes, and got lost in the house wares. When the sales associate finally found him wandering between the electrical mixers and blenders, he had only wanted to get out.
That was past a year ago, and he found the sweatpants to be of good use during the long, sleepless nights when he couldn’t focus on work; nights when he’d simply lie in bed, and stare at the ceiling, and think. He found the hole nearly by accident. He had wanted to smooth a crease in the sheet, his hand slipped upwards, and fingers brushed: it was strangely erotic, just the thin cotton of his briefs the only thing separating his hand.
It was a hot night, and humid. He was somewhere: halfway south, and halfway Midwest. He had got a lead on his brother, whispered proofs that he might be alive, and he had hurried through the last job, packed his bags and rented a car; he had driven into the night, and was halfway to nowhere before he thought it might be a good idea to sleep. It was a small motel; nearly identical to the others he had stayed in along the many roads he had traveled. He had the window opened a crack, and the ceiling fan on high, and still his skin was soaked in sweat.
He brushed his fingers across again, curious now. Experimenting, he hooked one under the cotton, and touched. The skin felt smooth. He hooked another finger in, circling, reaching up, before sliding down. He tried this, fingers brushing across, and forth, a thumb flicking over the top: he shifted slightly, as fingers touched the edge, his back arched and his mouth drew to a straight line, and he had to remind himself he still had the knife under his pillow, for he felt the blood rush from his head. He slipped his other hand in, and slowly eased his sweatpants lower. He felt the goose bumps on his skin through the humidity and heat, and still his hand sweeped in rhythm.
Still he experimented. Let his other hand explore, flit across the inside of his thighs, flutter upwards behind. His fingers slipped in almost accidentally, and again he felt that initial totter, that dangerous almost fall into loss of control. He stopped, a brief hesitation, but it ached somewhere – everywhere – and he was aware of the tension and the emotion built inside him, and he continued, slipped his fingers in further, and explored.
The burst was like colors, bright and intense, exploding inside him and around and through him. He called the name without realizing, and he collapsed, hands fisting into the sheets under him. His last thought before he slipped into quiet oblivion was he’d never tell. He arched one hand over his head, and felt for his knife.