RUSH

Ch. 31: Idle

A/N: some nsfw content, lol.

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-Bennett-

The weekend was a blur.

And though there was not much to recall, I still held onto hazy glimpses of it. Of carelessly tossing my phone into the nightstand drawer before crawling into bed, releasing a sigh of relief once I was finally back in the quiet comfort of my room. Of groaning out in utter exhaustion once my body could finally relax against the mattress, only for it to refuse rest. To outright reject it.

Of lying there, waiting for a solace that wouldn't come.

It was a specific kind of frustrating reprieve, to be able to shut my eyes and melt against the bed... only to evade sleep. I let my sore limbs go limp, unable to help the frustrated whine that left my chapped lips as I shifted about, all in a futile attempt to go numb. I didn't feel numb. I felt everything, my mind racing in remonstration.

I wanted to sob, though the feelings were merely simmering in response, my fingers slipping through them like sand. There wasn't enough anguish to cling onto. All I could do was ache.

I buried my face against the pillow, unable to shake off the unbearable restlessness. I felt the warmth of the fabric, rubbing my face against it while digging down... burrowing until I could hardly breath. Trying to suffocate the very thoughts as they flickered through my mind. But nothing.

I angrily wiped at the corners of my eyes while turning once again, feeling the dampness against the back of my shaky hands while shifting against the cold sheets. I was so far past the point of tiredness that all I could do was stare up at the ceiling, forced to contemplate every decision that my mind could conjure up in a childish bout of dissent.

"Maybe if I..." I muttered under my breath, rolling my eyes.

I tried to coax my cock to hardness, languidly palming myself in a desperate search for the slightest glint of relief. Though, I initially found myself dozing off, my hands too tired to stroke in any form of efficient rhythm... my mind too busy to think of anything pleasing.

It wasn't until my traitorous mind chipped in, that I found myself invested. I grumbled in frustration, guiltily conjuring any memories of Mason I could get my greedy hands on. From the delectable shift of muscles and thick, hairy thighs, to how it might feel to be roughly held down, strapping arms manhandling me down against my bed... pushing my face down to muffle my moans.

I could almost hear his deep, rough voice against my ear, coaxing me to grip my cock a bit tighter. To be good.

I whined at the thought, turning and grinding down against the softness of the mattress, helplessly thrusting against it before realizing it wasn't enough. I gasped under my breath while wrapping my hand around my hard on once more, biting down on my mouth while chasing that searing, white flash of release.

I fucked into my hand with no sense of shame, whimpering until I felt raw and uncomfortable, adjusting my grip so that I could continue... irritated that I couldn't find release. I gasped while turning onto my back once more, biting down on my arm to muffle a moan, my eyes rolling back into my skull.

I finally came into my hands, gasping out for air before shakily wiping it over a pair of boxers that I'd lazily tossed beside my nightstand a few days ago. I wiped it all away just as the remorse creeped back up, drowsily basking in the ephemeral satisfaction of a shallow abeyance.

A truce, perhaps. But nothing resolute.

The only sign that I was sleeping at all was the fact that I'd wake up every so often, glaring about before closing my eyes once more. It was a fine line between consciousness and restless dormancy, neither one any less exhausting.