dream of waking - short story
Dream of Waking
Original Character Short Story
Leech/Kellen, Jake
Rated Adult for Incest, Pedophilia, Voyeurism and M/m Sex.
The thick, half-drunk sounding voice of Billie Holiday is lulling Leech into a groggy, unreal state that is no good for his work. It's well past midnight, but he has a stack of chord charts that must be checked over and corrected before tomorrow. If he learned from his mistakes, he would have graded them long before; Leech is the sort who always repeats history instead of learning from it, though.
Popping his head from one side to the other, he stretches thin arms above his head, trying to shake off Lady Day's spell on his mind and wake up. It doesn't work quite as well as he'd hoped, so he slides out of his chair, tugging on the hem of his lacy, feminine boy-shorts as he ambles out into the kitchen, unwittingly finding himself following his brother. Though Kellen doesn't turn to see him, he seems to sense Leech behind him as he opens the fridge.
"Yer up late," the boy notes astutely, and Leech nods.
"Grading." He watches Kellen fish a beer out of the crisper drawer, sidling past him to reach for an Amp. The soft skin of the younger boy's side brushes his arm, raises goosebumps where the hairs should be. "You?"
"Porn," Kellen answers simply, cracking the beer open on the edge of the counter top and tilting his head back, exposing the clean, pale line of his throat, Adams apple moving languorously as he gulps down a good quarter of the Guinness.
Summertime croons in the background, reminding Leech that the living is easy, and the swallow of Kellen's throat, the wipe of the back of his hand across his mouth as he lowers the beer spins a spell to rival Billie's. Casual as possible, Leech leans back against the counter and flips the lid on his soda, taking a long drink himself in an attempt to wake up, snap out of it, as his brother crawls onto a bar stool at the high table, straddling it backwards. Eyes glinting green as emeralds; trustworthy as a snake with an apple. They lower, taking in the ribbed black shirt hugging Leech's tiny form, the panties he insists on wearing. "Nice pants."
Leech lifts a thin eyebrow, innocent surprise. He hadn't touched Kellen since before Mark. Before Jake. He wasn't sure he was allowed, anymore. His gaze drops, taking in Kellen's undone black Dickies, come stain just to the left of the zipper. Mouth crooks into a comma of amusement. "You, too." He pushes off the counter, heading back for his office.
But no. Of course not, things are never that easy. Not with his little brother.
At the last possible second, strong but slender fingers catch his wrist, a little too harshly, but not hard enough to recall the bruises Mark's fatter fingers had left. Pointedly coy, Leech looks back over his shoulder, meeting those hypnotizing green eyes, under lowered lids, thick lashes. His own a pale but sharp blue, wide, wondering. Kellen pulls him back, finds his mouth like coming home. His tongue slides past the matching lips and the sound of the can of soda hitting the floor, fizzing over the hardwood, goes unnoticed.
Somehow, without realizing it, Leech is in his lap. Against the stiff back of the bar stool, against the familiar smooth surface of his brother's chest. Kellen was never as sharp as him, all angles and flat planes. He was soft, giving, in contrast to his harsh personality. His mouth is still locked to Leech's, taking demandingly, possessive. Reminding him who he belongs to. That other man, with the heavy hands and the gunshot wound in his thigh, he doesn't exist anymore. All there is, is this. Kellen's impossibly soft skin and hard teeth and serpentine tongue, everywhere at once. Leech's hands grasp pointlessly; shoulders, ribs, hips, neck.
Kellen gives a growl that sends a shiver up Leech's spine, fierce enough to make him pull away from the kiss, but Kellen continues without stopping. That practiced mouth moving down his neck, fingers now playing at the lace covering the uppermost part of his thighs. Leech's arms finally encircle his little brother's neck, back bowing towards the all too similar form. They move like snakes, like waves, each undulating and coiling depending on the movement of the other, like a symphony, never ceasing, crescendoing and tapering off though nothing more indecent occurs that Kellen's thumb grazing the growing hardness under Leech's lace. Teeth scrape collarbone, and a shudder leaves his lips.
"Oh, god, Kellen..."
Kellen doesn't respond, but something in him finally breaks and he sinks his teeth into that thin, alabaster throat and draws a rough cry from it. Recalling easily how sensitive the area is, a hand lifts to play at choking, never really restricting airflow, but doing enough to make those moans come more often. He inches forward on the seat, pulling Leech's lean hips closer to his own, his cock, nearly exposed through the undone fly of his pants, rubbing firmly against the crease of Leech's ass. Enough to make him cry out again, louder. Surely they'll wake the kid, but Kellen could care less. Leech doesn't even consider it. He just keeps tight hold, swaying with Kellen's ministrations, following his lead.
Fingernails scraping down his thighs, tearing lace away, not all the way off, just enough. Cool liquid between his thighs, Kellen for once putting his liquor to better use than getting inebriated. It's rough, but Leech has had plenty of rough lately, and this is better. Kellen fits him like lock and key, pulls him down close in one swift movement then cradles the slighter form against his chest, giving him time to get used to the intrusion. Leech whimpers against his inked skin, mouth brushing over it distractedly, fingers still locked together behind his neck. After a moment, he straightens, causing a hiss to move through Kellen's teeth before suddenly they're moving again, dancers at Carnival, ceaseless movement, hips twisting separate from each other, everything fading except the movement. Though Kellen's voice has not, may never, lower to the rough timbre of Leech's, their cries are similar, reverberating off the ceiling, louder all the time, forgetting neighbors and certainly little boys upstairs; little boys downstairs, watching from the arched entrance to the kitchen with slack mouths.
Leech comes first, surprising himself, back arching impossibly as his head cranes with the curve of his neck. Kellen curls with him, leaning forward over him and twisting his head to the side, snapping teeth around the column of his throat and sucking on it, leaving a perfectly circular bruise in the center of his neck. Leech's normal screams are muted, mouth open but no sound coming out, nails digging into Kellen's back as waves of perfection and elation course through him, over him, ebbing and throbbing smoothly like the jazz music in the other room. Kellen doesn't follow too far behind, mouth breaking away from the soft, bruised skin to exhale a stream of expletives against it as his hips twist and twitch under Leech's. He stays curled over him, almost protective, twining his neck around Leech's and pressing their cheeks together. Leech whispers awed words in German, maybe Dutch, nothing Kellen understands but he knows, anyway, he nods, he continues murmuring his bad English in return.
Chair seat soaked with stout and semen, Leech continues clinging to Kellen for a few more moments. Kellen never cuddled, but he allowed these few moments. He'd missed having Leech this vulnerable, missed having Leech at all. The thought of Mark's hands on his brother made him at once too nauseous to think and too enraged to speak; it was probably smart that Leech had revealed those wounds to the kid rather than him. Kellen may have just killed Leech for his stupidity. But now he was here, safe and relatively whole and still his, so Kellen holds on, just for a moment, before he leans away. The parallel of their bodies finally broken, Leech remains curved over the low chair back as Kellen straightens, regains his Guinness and takes another long swallow. Leech watches his throat again, raising a hand this time to draw a finger down along the side of it. Kellen watches him with that eternally suggestive look, eyes swirling more back to their blue now that he's sated, before setting down his beer. He gently moves Leech off of him, situating him side-saddle instead and fixing his underwear for him as Leech collapses, tiny shoulder against his chest. He doesn't want to move from this spot, not ever.
But Kellen whispers in his ear, low and teasing like a dirty suggestion, "Grading."
Leech groans, dropping his head some in a half-nod, murmuring in contrast to his secret, foreign whispers moments ago. "I hate you."
"I know you do," Kellen replies fondly, shuttling Leech off his lap, waving at the boy in the hall. "Hey, Jake. Beer?"
Original Character Short Story
Leech/Kellen, Jake
Rated Adult for Incest, Pedophilia, Voyeurism and M/m Sex.
The thick, half-drunk sounding voice of Billie Holiday is lulling Leech into a groggy, unreal state that is no good for his work. It's well past midnight, but he has a stack of chord charts that must be checked over and corrected before tomorrow. If he learned from his mistakes, he would have graded them long before; Leech is the sort who always repeats history instead of learning from it, though.
Popping his head from one side to the other, he stretches thin arms above his head, trying to shake off Lady Day's spell on his mind and wake up. It doesn't work quite as well as he'd hoped, so he slides out of his chair, tugging on the hem of his lacy, feminine boy-shorts as he ambles out into the kitchen, unwittingly finding himself following his brother. Though Kellen doesn't turn to see him, he seems to sense Leech behind him as he opens the fridge.
"Yer up late," the boy notes astutely, and Leech nods.
"Grading." He watches Kellen fish a beer out of the crisper drawer, sidling past him to reach for an Amp. The soft skin of the younger boy's side brushes his arm, raises goosebumps where the hairs should be. "You?"
"Porn," Kellen answers simply, cracking the beer open on the edge of the counter top and tilting his head back, exposing the clean, pale line of his throat, Adams apple moving languorously as he gulps down a good quarter of the Guinness.
Summertime croons in the background, reminding Leech that the living is easy, and the swallow of Kellen's throat, the wipe of the back of his hand across his mouth as he lowers the beer spins a spell to rival Billie's. Casual as possible, Leech leans back against the counter and flips the lid on his soda, taking a long drink himself in an attempt to wake up, snap out of it, as his brother crawls onto a bar stool at the high table, straddling it backwards. Eyes glinting green as emeralds; trustworthy as a snake with an apple. They lower, taking in the ribbed black shirt hugging Leech's tiny form, the panties he insists on wearing. "Nice pants."
Leech lifts a thin eyebrow, innocent surprise. He hadn't touched Kellen since before Mark. Before Jake. He wasn't sure he was allowed, anymore. His gaze drops, taking in Kellen's undone black Dickies, come stain just to the left of the zipper. Mouth crooks into a comma of amusement. "You, too." He pushes off the counter, heading back for his office.
But no. Of course not, things are never that easy. Not with his little brother.
At the last possible second, strong but slender fingers catch his wrist, a little too harshly, but not hard enough to recall the bruises Mark's fatter fingers had left. Pointedly coy, Leech looks back over his shoulder, meeting those hypnotizing green eyes, under lowered lids, thick lashes. His own a pale but sharp blue, wide, wondering. Kellen pulls him back, finds his mouth like coming home. His tongue slides past the matching lips and the sound of the can of soda hitting the floor, fizzing over the hardwood, goes unnoticed.
Somehow, without realizing it, Leech is in his lap. Against the stiff back of the bar stool, against the familiar smooth surface of his brother's chest. Kellen was never as sharp as him, all angles and flat planes. He was soft, giving, in contrast to his harsh personality. His mouth is still locked to Leech's, taking demandingly, possessive. Reminding him who he belongs to. That other man, with the heavy hands and the gunshot wound in his thigh, he doesn't exist anymore. All there is, is this. Kellen's impossibly soft skin and hard teeth and serpentine tongue, everywhere at once. Leech's hands grasp pointlessly; shoulders, ribs, hips, neck.
Kellen gives a growl that sends a shiver up Leech's spine, fierce enough to make him pull away from the kiss, but Kellen continues without stopping. That practiced mouth moving down his neck, fingers now playing at the lace covering the uppermost part of his thighs. Leech's arms finally encircle his little brother's neck, back bowing towards the all too similar form. They move like snakes, like waves, each undulating and coiling depending on the movement of the other, like a symphony, never ceasing, crescendoing and tapering off though nothing more indecent occurs that Kellen's thumb grazing the growing hardness under Leech's lace. Teeth scrape collarbone, and a shudder leaves his lips.
"Oh, god, Kellen..."
Kellen doesn't respond, but something in him finally breaks and he sinks his teeth into that thin, alabaster throat and draws a rough cry from it. Recalling easily how sensitive the area is, a hand lifts to play at choking, never really restricting airflow, but doing enough to make those moans come more often. He inches forward on the seat, pulling Leech's lean hips closer to his own, his cock, nearly exposed through the undone fly of his pants, rubbing firmly against the crease of Leech's ass. Enough to make him cry out again, louder. Surely they'll wake the kid, but Kellen could care less. Leech doesn't even consider it. He just keeps tight hold, swaying with Kellen's ministrations, following his lead.
Fingernails scraping down his thighs, tearing lace away, not all the way off, just enough. Cool liquid between his thighs, Kellen for once putting his liquor to better use than getting inebriated. It's rough, but Leech has had plenty of rough lately, and this is better. Kellen fits him like lock and key, pulls him down close in one swift movement then cradles the slighter form against his chest, giving him time to get used to the intrusion. Leech whimpers against his inked skin, mouth brushing over it distractedly, fingers still locked together behind his neck. After a moment, he straightens, causing a hiss to move through Kellen's teeth before suddenly they're moving again, dancers at Carnival, ceaseless movement, hips twisting separate from each other, everything fading except the movement. Though Kellen's voice has not, may never, lower to the rough timbre of Leech's, their cries are similar, reverberating off the ceiling, louder all the time, forgetting neighbors and certainly little boys upstairs; little boys downstairs, watching from the arched entrance to the kitchen with slack mouths.
Leech comes first, surprising himself, back arching impossibly as his head cranes with the curve of his neck. Kellen curls with him, leaning forward over him and twisting his head to the side, snapping teeth around the column of his throat and sucking on it, leaving a perfectly circular bruise in the center of his neck. Leech's normal screams are muted, mouth open but no sound coming out, nails digging into Kellen's back as waves of perfection and elation course through him, over him, ebbing and throbbing smoothly like the jazz music in the other room. Kellen doesn't follow too far behind, mouth breaking away from the soft, bruised skin to exhale a stream of expletives against it as his hips twist and twitch under Leech's. He stays curled over him, almost protective, twining his neck around Leech's and pressing their cheeks together. Leech whispers awed words in German, maybe Dutch, nothing Kellen understands but he knows, anyway, he nods, he continues murmuring his bad English in return.
Chair seat soaked with stout and semen, Leech continues clinging to Kellen for a few more moments. Kellen never cuddled, but he allowed these few moments. He'd missed having Leech this vulnerable, missed having Leech at all. The thought of Mark's hands on his brother made him at once too nauseous to think and too enraged to speak; it was probably smart that Leech had revealed those wounds to the kid rather than him. Kellen may have just killed Leech for his stupidity. But now he was here, safe and relatively whole and still his, so Kellen holds on, just for a moment, before he leans away. The parallel of their bodies finally broken, Leech remains curved over the low chair back as Kellen straightens, regains his Guinness and takes another long swallow. Leech watches his throat again, raising a hand this time to draw a finger down along the side of it. Kellen watches him with that eternally suggestive look, eyes swirling more back to their blue now that he's sated, before setting down his beer. He gently moves Leech off of him, situating him side-saddle instead and fixing his underwear for him as Leech collapses, tiny shoulder against his chest. He doesn't want to move from this spot, not ever.
But Kellen whispers in his ear, low and teasing like a dirty suggestion, "Grading."
Leech groans, dropping his head some in a half-nod, murmuring in contrast to his secret, foreign whispers moments ago. "I hate you."
"I know you do," Kellen replies fondly, shuttling Leech off his lap, waving at the boy in the hall. "Hey, Jake. Beer?"