I have 3 massive WIPs i should be writing, yet which is the one fic i have inspiration to continue at the ungodly hour of 3AM?
My Deazzello incest fic, yeah.
My son is sleeping in my bed as if wanting to make up for the lost time. The time when I wasn't there to hold him and tell him bedtime stories. When someone else was telling him stories, kissing his boo-boos, teaching him how to walk, how to eat with a spoon, how to dress by himself.
I think of that other father, wondering if he knew.
He will never know now, and my son is sleeping in my bed, his knee resting on my knee, his arm across my chest, breathing slowly in the night.
He's asleep, and these nights are speechless between us. The nights are muted and motionless, except for his occasional soft snoring.
I can't sleep much. I listen to the sounds of him, I smell him, observe him in a new light. The way his chest rises and falls against my side, his twitching as he dreams, the quiet moans as he turns, but even when he turns, he has a limb or his butt pressed against me.
We’ve been sleeping like this for God knows how many nights. I breathe him in tonight also, watching his black silhouette in the dark, the moon twinkling on his hair.
My eyes are burning with tiredness, and he sighs in his sleep, nestling closer to me.
I don't want to pull him close. What we have is already unbearable.
But I do, and he sighs, waking up as if he has been waiting for this for ages, waiting for a sign. His eyes are glistening, and I'd be startled by their depth if I wasn't mesmerized.
He stares at me, the remnants of sleep keeping his eyes narrowed, but he doesn't need to properly see.
I hold my breath, not knowing, not wanting to know what I feel. Maybe I'm exhausted. Maybe…
Maybe I just want to give up control once.
He presses against me, breathing me in, slowly, I can feel his nostrils trembling in the quiet dark, I can hear the tiny differences in his breathing, becoming slightly faster, and I can feel my breath synchronizing with his.
He knows I can't resist him. He knows, and he can't seem to resist me, his arms tighten around me, pulling me closer in the dark; and he’s all breaths and swooshing of clothes and body heat, it’s getting hotter in the bed with every second, and I hold my breath in before whimpering, I surprise myself with that sound.
I missed him so much, I missed what we used to have...
He slowly presses on my shoulder with his hands and body weight to turn me on my back, his thighs embracing my hips, and he’s on top of me, breathing on my face, my ears, my jaw, my neck, his fingers hovering over my hair, not touching, he doesn’t dare to touch yet…
I find my arms around his waist, pulling him close, the hard heat of his loins pressed against mine, and his eyes flick open, staring down at me. What a foul sight I must be, I think, but his face is full of adoration and tenderness as his eyes focus on me, and he leans down, this breath damp and warm, puffing on my cheeks.
His lips are soft on my skin, and he kisses my face all over, everywhere but my lips, wet and eager and hot. Like he can't get enough. Like he can't give enough.
I love him so much that my bones ache.
He suddenly can't hold back and kisses me on the mouth, and I’m not able to shove the thought out of my head that this is my son I'm kissing, my son who doesn't mind, whose lips are dancing around mine... mine that are motionless.
I think of Joe, that Joe who he has been before I… before he knew, before I knew, before it all got contaminated with something dark. I think of Joe as he was when I met him, all carefree and laughing, all ginger and shining, and a flash of disgust washes over me because I'm cheating on Joe with the memory of him right now, wanting to purge the fact out of me that he’s my son, wanting to cut out a part of him, and how can he do this when I can’t make love to my son, I just can’t...
“Joe…” His name escapes my lips in a breathy moan, not a warning as I intended, but a yearning wish. ”Joe…”
“John,” he whispers back as he keeps showering me with kisses, his heart beating so violently against me that I'm worried for a second that it might give up.
“I love you…” I whisper into his hair, the only thought I have. I love him, but…
“I love you too, John, I love you so much,” he moans, rubbing harder against me, as if not looking for satisfaction, but love and closeness and togetherness. As if wanting to melt into me. Wanting to become one with me once again.
I grab his wrists as he runs his fingers through my hair, and he looks up, confusion and want in his black eyes.
“I… I can't,” I whisper, and his eyes are narrowing.
“What do you mean?” he whispers hoarsely. “What do you mean you can’t…?”
“It’s not… it’s not right,” I say, my arousal rapidly fading, bile burning my throat.
We don't hurt anyone, I tell that to myself, we’re adults, I want him, I desire him…
Tears are tickling my temples as I watch him squeeze his mouth shut and get up.
I close my eyes as I hear him leave the room, entering the kitchen, I hear him leaning against the counter, I hear him taking deep breaths.
Ours can't be a proper father-son relationship.
Nor a romantic one. Nor a friendship.
Because this is all of them, so neither it can be.
I cover my mouth with my hand and sob into it as he suddenly screams into the dark in a screechy, desperate, otherworldly voice.
