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That lone corner beside the globe was the coldest part of the house. And every night, once Telly’s programs ran dry, Keyes’ sonata-concerto was done playing, and Gaia herself had stopped working herself up into a tizzy trying to remember where the capital of Who-The-Hell-Cares was – the self-proclaimed Lord of Darkness was left alone.
Wasn’t anything new really. Skips actually preferred the quiet; less complicated, his thoughts easier to compartmentalize. He could watch the silverfish skitter around his ankles as he listens to his “PG-13 music” (the Scandelabra had dubbed it as such, and is now the only way Skips refers to emo music), or listen to Chairami rehearse until she inevitably conked out, or listen to the bumps in the walls of whom he now recognized as a spirit known as Zoey. That was probably the highlight of his week, the séance he attended for her was super trippy and kumbaya-y. Hella dark.
But Skips didn’t really…do much else.
Sure he liked his little corner, preferred his solitude. He’d been altering his form just to fill the gap in time before morning, trying to form scarier, more egregious figures. The shadows called to him to create different amalgams to ease his boredom, like shifting into a larger version of himself, or into the shadows the others casted along the walls. They’d ebb and warp with the sunlight, until the night became whole and he could wander more freely, shape himself more creatively. His newest fixation had come when you had randomly fell into the rabbit hole of hand shadow puppets, and he began warping himself into new forms. Dog, rabbit, duck, repeated over and over as you giggled to yourself in bed, making a story out of it. It was fun…until it wasn’t.
You hadn’t met him yet, not formally, and Skips had tried to tell himself he didn’t mind. You’d spoken with damn near everyone else in the house, but Skips would be the first to admit that he honestly wasn’t ready to meet you at all. Insecurity was a bitch, but what’s worse than that was the potential for abandonment. For you to see him, and to be completely and utterly underwhelmed. To leave him. Just like they always did. But sometimes the loneliness grew too strong, the weight of it all bearing down on him.
So Skips made a mistake and talked to the one concept he probably shouldn’t have.
“Ever tried jacking off?” Doug had said one random evening, an irregular yet not seldom visitor for Skips on these lonelier nights. Upon seeing Skips’ appalled stare, Doug shrugged, unfazed. “Just sayin’. Sounds like you need to take a load off to me, literally in your case.”
Skips frowned. He’d…thought about it. Not long enough for it to manifest, obviously. In his mind, there were infinitely better things to do. (Like shadow puppets and blasting the same music until his head rattled like coins in a jar. Obvi.) He’d definitely tried in the past, long before the dateviators had become a factor. Back when he was free to swim beneath your eyelids without worry you’d ever see him.
Was that creepy? That was creepy, shit.
“For what, the whole night? What exactly is that supposed to do for me?”
Doug, helpful as ever, shrugged his boulderlike shoulders, leaning against the wall.
“Look, e-boy, I’m not tryin’ to tell what you should and shouldn’t do with your doomed, lonely, soon-to-be all-encompassing little life—” (“Rude.”) “—I just think you got options.”
“And you think the best option is…jacking off?” Skips’ face soured at the very thought of it, his cheeks blooming a fluorescent gold at the thought, twirling a wispy plume of hair through his fingers absently.
“Exactly. See, now you’re getting it.” Doug’s spherical head nodded, a thin smirk on his abstract face. “You should wait, til everyone’s sleep. Crack open a private browser – or don’t, if you’re feeling brave – and find some high-quality shit on the Hub. Or low-quality. It’s all exploitative shit anyway.”
Skips huffed through his nose shortly, as forceful as one would need to blow out a candle. He hated that the sound of it wasn’t completely unappealing. He had been tense a while. What’s some momentary pleasure, right? Might get his mind off things, if nothing else.
“I don’t really watch porn.” Skips admitted slowly, almost lamely. Unsurprisingly, the embodiment of existential dread snorted through a nose he didn’t have, derisively.
“Wow, next you’re gonna tell me your virgin ass doesn’t know what docking is.” Doug spotted Skips’ expression and said in a smug stage-whisper. “You should ask Tyrell and Jean-Loo. There’s a tape of it leaked somewhere and it’s funny to watch them squirm.”
Skips’ nose wrinkled. Darkness abound, why the hell had he called Doug for help? Granted, Doug was one of the few objects/concepts he’d grown to have respect for, though that was mostly out of kinship. In different ways they were feared, but that barely counted for anything. Skips was of the firm opinion that yeah, he was a weirdo, but Doug was an absolute creature and he both fucked with that and hated that. Also, Doug was the only person Skips was 100% sure wouldn’t give him shit for his true form because frankly, he’d also give him shit for everything else.
Ah yes, indiscriminate assholery. Gotta love it.
“I’ll…try it.” Skips finally relented, because really, what the hell else was he supposed to do tonight? He sighed heavily, plucking a silverfish from his wispy dark hair, shrouding his head like a metaphysical lion’s mane, letting the tiny thing skitter free.
Doug nodded. “Hell yeah. I’d clap you on the back and tell you good job, but you kinda ick me out I won’t lie.”
“…Thanks.”
“Whatever.”
Skips was getting therapy after this. If just to keep Doug away longer.
The house was almost silent, save for the distance snores of you and the other objects in the house. Thankfully Skylar only had so much juice in her, so you wouldn’t be able to see nor hear what was happening now.
Skips floated in his realm, the feeling light yet heavy, cold yet enveloping, all-encompassing…yet so lonely. He reached below him, fingertips grazing the ground he’d formed in his mind palace and sitting. If he really concentrated, Skips could hear Scandelabra’s honk-shoo-mimimi snore from the dining table, even over Abel’s rumbling. Skips blocked them out though, having no intention to listen to their snuffles tonight.
He sat, legs propped up and feet slightly separated. Okay…okay. This was happening. He sucked in a silent breath, in then out. Drown them out. Each subsequent inhale clouded over his senses, and soon he could hear nothing at all but his own deep breaths.
Skips had forgone finding a video to do this to, not wanting to for a million reasons. Instead he concentrated, reaching up to graze his fingertips over his battered scarf and pull it free, exposing his pallid throat to the static air. Was this supposed to feel so…embarrassing?
Shaking his head, Skips slowly traced his hand down his own clothed chest, feeling himself grow flush with more embarrassment than pleasure. Alright fine, he’d pulled up a few videos earlier, sue him. But it was for educational purposes – seriously. He’d seen one actor go absolutely insane at brushing fingers over themselves, even clothed. Again though, it was an actor. Ugh.
Focus, dude.
Putting himself in the appropriate mindset, Skips endured and slipped his hand up underneath his shirt, the metaphysical fabric wisping and curling, blending into the shadows. Up his soft tummy, to his slightly wider ribcage. He shivered. Was this pleasure? Or was he just weirding himself out?
His fingers were nimble, uncalloused. Long and thin, what Keyes would have called “piano fingers”. They ghosted up his ribs, and he found himself absently counting each bone. One, two, three…how the hell did he have ribs? He forced himself to not think about that part. Last thing he needed was Doug popping up while he was finally feeling something—
“Oh…!”
Oh indeed.
Skips had jolted, his pointer finger having brushed over his nipple. He sucked in a shuddering breath, the silence deafening and the only sound his own breathless gasps. He swallowed, and part of him wanted to stop out of embarrassment. Even alone, the loudest sounds were sometimes the ones only he could hear. But Skips didn’t stop.
“Nnh!” The next sound was a little louder, the brush as soft as the last but deliberate. His cheeks were that pretty fluorescent gold, and he did it again, recalling how the actor in the video had done it. Slow, teasing circles, meant to stir.
His unoccupied hand squeezed into a fist at his side, and he shut his eyes. Soft, trembling sounds mixed and bubbled from his lips, each one coming out with less and less conscientiousness. He doesn’t remember when, but he’d kicked off his boots and they vanished into the void, taking and cradling him as always, accepting everything he gave it.
After the fifth or so full circle he switched to the other side, and his head fell sidelong. His hair ghosted over his face, brow pinching and lips gently parting as he breathed. He was entirely unsure what to do with himself, so he let instinct lead him. His other hand brushed over his navel, his other arm angling to keep his shirt lifted away from his skin to give himself better access. He teased at his waistband, those straight lashes fluttering against his cheeks.
There’s a thud somewhere in your bedroom. Skips startles, and on instinct pressed a little too hard against the bud he was teasing on his chest.
He keened.
He did it again, a rattling sigh escaping him. Holy shit. That shouldn’t have felt as good as it did. Skips waited, waited for the silence to fall still again. As soon as he was in the clear (literally no one could see him but the thought was there) he was immediately doing it again. The sounds that escaped him were little whimpers, muffled by biting his bottom lip. But it was soon getting to be not enough. More, more, more sensation please. Finally, he slipped his fingers into his pants. Skips was half-hard already, to his dazed surprise. He’d only jacked off like, twice. Neither time was enjoyable, and he’d never actually gotten anything out of it. He’d certainly never been hard when doing it.
Skips swallowed, eyes slipping open a sliver, his pupils dilated as he watched himself. He wrapped his hand around himself and began to slowly stroke. Up and down. Up and down. Some touches were more exploratory as he learned what he liked. A gentle skim of his bitten nails over the scrotum, a faint press into the vein beneath on every upward stroke. His lips were bitten, still brushing over his nipples interchangeably while he worked himself up.
His shirt was starting to get in the way, so he took only a half a second to hike it up, shamelessly for the moment exposing his chest and holding it up by his teeth. The more accessible angle made it so much easier, and he thanked himself for it.
Skips curled his toes, changing the angle of his hand after about a minute. He hated to admit it, but his wrist was starting to ache. How did people do this for more than two minutes at a time? It was exhausting, even if it felt really good. Frustration started to meld together with pleasure, and he groaned in something like irritation.
“C’mon…damn it…” He gasped breathily, sweat clinging to his forehead and plastering a few strands of black, inky hair there. So fucking close, he could taste it. Too close, and yet not enough. It was almost enough to make him stop, but he wanted more. Needed to just let go, if his stupid body would just fucking unclench.
He switched hands, though the exploratory touches were long gone. This was about release, letting himself let go. Just to feel fucking something. Anything but frustration and regret and solitude. Sensation took over, and his mind raced as he tried supplying his mind with something, anything he could to get him there.
There’s another sound from upstairs, and Skips ground his teeth. It didn’t startle him this time though, and in fact Skips only moved faster. It was probably just you moving upstairs, dealing with whatever that sound was before. He could see you in his mind’s eye if he really wanted to.
But he didn’t have to. Why would he, when he could feel you anyway?
Every inch of the darkness that light couldn’t touch, down the shadows on your face and the dusk of your bedroom only let him feel you at every moment. Even if you didn’t think he could, he was always there. He shuddered, eyes threatening to roll back as he let himself feel you as you waded through him, how you padded around your bedroom and fumbled blindly for your phone. His hand, subconsciously, moves from his chest to reach for the massive expanse above., fingers trembling as his other moves faster. Trying to reach you. Wanting you. Needing you.
“Fuck!” Skips barely hissed out around the fabric in his mouth, like a ghost walking through a person except vice versa. It was too much, and Skips’ head fell back as his lips fell open into a choked cry. His release was something hard that knocked the breath from his lungs, a sticky substance spouting from the tip of his cock that spurted across his skin and the underside of his shirt. His hips bucked and a series of staccato whimpers escaped until he was shooting blanks and had to wrench his hands from himself, clenching his hands into fists and trembling like he was being electrocuted from the inside out. Tears beaded pathetically at his eyes, but he couldn’t close them when they were rolled so far back he could see himself white out.
When Skips finally fell limp, it was on his side with a whine, in a weak fetal position. His eyes were half open, his skin alight with a fire he thought himself incapable to feel. Feel. Skips panted, chest rising and falling. The darkness was absolute again, the silence deafening, but this time Skips felt…lighter. Not as alone.
He let out a shaking laugh to himself, a mite delirious as he finally let himself listen to the sounds of you settling upstairs. It warmed his formless heart in a way, that you felt so comforted in darkness. Skips had returned to his former decorum before he shut his eyes, remaining in his realm a little longer.
Waiting for the day you finally make his acquaintance. His penumbra.