Dance turns his head, looking into the back seat.
“How’s she doing?” Drin says.
“Zonked out,” Dance says, a phrase he borrowed from Emma, and which always makes Drin smile at him.
Emma has curled up awkwardly along the bench seat back there, covered in her gawky thrift-store coat, head on her arms. She’s snoring gently, which means she’s probably coming down with a cold. Dance reaches back, ignoring the flare of pain in his spine, all along his back and shoulders. So long as he can move it, he probably should, loosen it up–the dojo taught him that much. He shifts the coat up over her shoulder, to keep her neck warm and prevent her being so stiff when she wakes up. Then he draws his hand back so his touch doesn’t wake her up. He wants to pet her hair, rest his hand on her warm soft cheek, but he wants her to rest more.
He shifts around with a sigh, adjusting himself in his pants yet again. Touching either of them or thinking about them makes him harden up, no matter how ridiculous it is, and no matter how much pain he’s feeling elsewhere. The bruise aches, his back muscles might spasm rigid again, the cuts are hot and swollen. His lower back and pelvis have to get shifted about every ten minutes. He simply can’t stand the position he’s been sitting in for ten hours. He tries leaving legs sprawled awkwardly in the passenger space with one knee propping up high on the dashboard. He knows that will be tolerable for about twenty minutes.
How can Drin, with legs like ladders, fold himself up and sit so quiet, driving, for so long? Drin is going to be stiff as a wire hanger, and about the same shape, when he tries to crawl out of the car at the next rest stop. Grumble at him and it just makes him chuckle. He puts on a shaky old man voice, saying, “Well, bugger, man, then I’ll need help unfolding, won’t I?”
Dance looks past his smiling husband at the fading flat pink wash of light behind the jagged horizon. He wants desperately to bugger something or other, possibly knotholes in trees, and random plastic objects. Words set him off too. Images, memories, flash through his mind and seconds later he’s feeling his balls tighten up.
That morning, while Emma was driving, all Drin had to do was reach out his long arm from the front seat. That hand stroked Dance gently through his pants, and he was helpless, flopped out on the back seat, arching his back and gasping in some of the hardest orgasms of his life. Five minutes after giving it up into Drin’s hands like a teenager, he was asleep, dreamless as a stone, out cold for an hour or more.
Drin did it to him four times that day, so it’s no wonder he feels a little disconnected from where they are. They haven’t talked about it. They haven’t talked about a helluva lot.
For one thing, Drin is preoccupied, watchful, eyes flicking around the mirrors when he’s driving. When he’s not driving, he’s still watching the surrounding traffic, commenting on drivers and odd makes of cars and not allowing the driver to lose alertness for one minute. When Dance is driving, the running commentary makes him feel like he’s being slowly pecked to death. He just can’t last as long as they do at it, he can feel his attention wandering off into old blues tunes, which seems like an odd weakness for some creature who, in Emma’s odd memory, was once supposed to be some kind of big scawy monster.
Emma is tired too. She wasn’t best-pleased in the store when he told them brusquely to pick up things for her, he could smell she was about to get her period. He can smell it like a hot coppery perfume on her all the way from the front seat. It makes him want to cuddle her and kiss her and get an electric blanket on her, after he’s given her a couple of really good orgasms to make the pelvic muscles calm down. Those make her feel much better. She has intense orgasms just before her period hits. For some reason she’s embarrassed when he says that, which he doesn’t understand at all. He loves seeing her writhe and buck and yell and then that long, slow, delicious slide into relaxation. All those long leg muscles gone loose, the slow hollow and swell of her belly as she breaths.
He shifts a little, tugging at his pants, and sees it when Drin glances over at his crotch.
“You want me to pull over on the side?” Drin asked gently.
Dance grunts. It’s almost painful, the throb of response in his body. But he doesn’t like the smells on the wind, and he shakes his head.
“Okay,” Drin says. “You let me know.”
Dance grimaces. “I will.”
“You’re doing really well, you know,” Drin says then.
Dance blinks, frowns, wonders briefly what he is being compared to, and gives up on the elusive thought. He just wants to hear Drin saying, “Unzip your pants.”
He blinks. Drin did say that. He stares over at his husband.
Drin smiles. “State you’re in, I could be giving you phone sex and you’re gone. Show me some briefs. I love how your underpants look against all that gorgeous skin. I love it when you pull it down off your butt and I get my hands on you and start working that lube onto you–”
He’s quite right. Dance doesn’t even get his hand down there in time before his cock is jerking in his poor much-abused briefs. Drin just smiles. Dance fumbles with a tissue tiredly, feeling his body sinking back into the awkward seat, lolling into the door, head falling back. He can’t stay awake to save his life. “You be all right?” he says, fighting it.
“Fine,” Drin says, in that soothing-little-kids voice that always puts him right to sleep. “Just close your eyes. Emma can spell me when she wakes up, don’t worry.”
“But if things don’t smell right–” Dance says, trying to keep his eyes open, and failing.
“We’ll wake you up,” Drin assures him.
“If you can,” Dance says, peevishly, eyes shut.
Drin just smiles.
Then Dance feels a big warm hand come up to his face, cup his jaw, stroking his cheek gently. “Sleep,” Drin says softly, and it rolls over him in a big warm fluffy blanket of clouds.
===
Challenge: Cornered
Writer’s Notes: A followup on events in my first “cornered” piece of fic