he repeated it against the shell of his ear, a mantra of growing urgency, the nails in jackson's back pleading. the whisper, incessant, could not break his heat or tongue, could not delve into his passion and take it-
jackson. jackson. ah...
laurel liked it eventually; always did. his hands were small and delicate, cold and climbing his spine with autonomous will.
please? it- jackson!
hurts. he finished it for him in a ragged gasp, told him it was okay and stop moving and it wouldn't. laurel said he wanted to do this. laurel sat on his lap and said it twice, said it while his hips were- and his hips were-
jackson. ah, mm, jack.
softening, fading into the sounds of their skin slapping; he twined his hair around his fingers and admired the shining thickness of it, obsidian threads. cool like the rest of him; laurel panted and remained writhing, whining something incomprehensible. tensing, taut, his hips were-
He opened his eyes and gazed at the ceiling, alone with his hand. Laurel was somewhere safe, maybe with his father, and Jackson laughed-
Even fantasy sickened.