Ficlet: "Secrets" VM/OB/KU
Hahaa. Spurr of the moment thing, so it's not beta'd. Told from Karl's POV. And hell, it's rated PG-13...or something. So, really, it's harmless. Oh, and, there are secrets afoot, the kinds behind closed doors.
In the bedroom, there are secret things. Wicked, wild, and tacky things, and the sound of flesh slipping and slapping together, so noisy and wet and sacred, that it made your ears burn red when you pressed up against the door to listen.
Every night, you’d slip in, not discreetly so much as casually, and your keys would drop with the slightest clatter into the glass bowl on the coffee table, the only indication that you had entered at all. You weren’t eavesdropping, and you weren’t spying; you were just sitting on the couch and reading a paperback novel in the soft, dim light of the living room.
The first time, you had no idea what was happening in the bedroom. The first time, you learned quickly to discern whose voice was whose when the moans and soft whispered words fluttered to your ears in a steady build up. A build up to a crescendo that made the book slip through your suddenly slack fingers. By then you weren’t reading the words anyway; you had stopped a long while ago.
With the sound of the shower, you left just as quietly. You always do.
Except tonight, you’d like to stay.
The novel, a western romance, is shut and placed carefully on the table before you. As you wait, you think about Buddy the Lone Ranger and Emma, the sweet peach from Texas with the thick southern accent, and images of their nights on the prairie flicker like a slideshow behind your closed eyelids. You wait for the shower to turn off, something that you have never stayed long enough to hear, and when it does, there is faint laughter trailing behind it.
It sounds so very sweet, and you think you might’ve made the wrong decision. You feel like an intruder.
You are.
And yet, here they come. There’s the turn of the knob, the swing of the door, and you smile prettily as they turn and see you, their arms still locked around the other’s waist.
“Hi, Viggo. Orli.” The names sound strange on your tongue.
“Karl?” Orlando asks in slight, subdued, surprise, and you wonder why they aren’t rushing to disentangle themselves. You wonder how good it feels.
“What are you doing?” Viggo asks, winding one arm around Orlando’s neck, his palm cupping the delicate, rounded curve of one shoulder. It looks almost possessive, though you can’t imagine why he would feel the need to in front of you.
Your palms feel sweaty, and your jeans are constricted, but your dress shirt hides your interest. And you don’t know what to say. You hadn’t planned this far.
“I think. I was just – ” you gesture vaguely to the book, “reading.”
Silence is something so loud that you even stop breathing for a second for fear of shattering it. Then the stern looks on their faces suddenly crack, and they grin. Big, wide, and unguarded.
“You were listening! I can’t believe it, Karl was listening!” Orlando laughs wildly, and maybe he’s lost his mind, but he walks over in a towel and wraps you in a bear hug. His skin feels just as smooth as it looks, and his still dripping hair leaves your collar wet.
Viggo quietly joins in the laughter, and it reminds you of the sounds you heard earlier. It’s becoming an oddly soothing sound.
Suddenly, Orlando’s slender fingers wind around your own and drag you toward the bedroom, while he pulls Viggo along with the other hand. You both barely fit through the doorway, but Orlando is grinning like a madman, Viggo’s warmth is at your side and his free hand is on your hip. And you feel exhilarated.
In the morning, they’ll whisper secrets in your ear.
END.
er, comments? Anyone? It's been so dead lately, not that I'd want to grovel or anything... ;)
</lj>
In the bedroom, there are secret things. Wicked, wild, and tacky things, and the sound of flesh slipping and slapping together, so noisy and wet and sacred, that it made your ears burn red when you pressed up against the door to listen.
Every night, you’d slip in, not discreetly so much as casually, and your keys would drop with the slightest clatter into the glass bowl on the coffee table, the only indication that you had entered at all. You weren’t eavesdropping, and you weren’t spying; you were just sitting on the couch and reading a paperback novel in the soft, dim light of the living room.
The first time, you had no idea what was happening in the bedroom. The first time, you learned quickly to discern whose voice was whose when the moans and soft whispered words fluttered to your ears in a steady build up. A build up to a crescendo that made the book slip through your suddenly slack fingers. By then you weren’t reading the words anyway; you had stopped a long while ago.
With the sound of the shower, you left just as quietly. You always do.
Except tonight, you’d like to stay.
The novel, a western romance, is shut and placed carefully on the table before you. As you wait, you think about Buddy the Lone Ranger and Emma, the sweet peach from Texas with the thick southern accent, and images of their nights on the prairie flicker like a slideshow behind your closed eyelids. You wait for the shower to turn off, something that you have never stayed long enough to hear, and when it does, there is faint laughter trailing behind it.
It sounds so very sweet, and you think you might’ve made the wrong decision. You feel like an intruder.
You are.
And yet, here they come. There’s the turn of the knob, the swing of the door, and you smile prettily as they turn and see you, their arms still locked around the other’s waist.
“Hi, Viggo. Orli.” The names sound strange on your tongue.
“Karl?” Orlando asks in slight, subdued, surprise, and you wonder why they aren’t rushing to disentangle themselves. You wonder how good it feels.
“What are you doing?” Viggo asks, winding one arm around Orlando’s neck, his palm cupping the delicate, rounded curve of one shoulder. It looks almost possessive, though you can’t imagine why he would feel the need to in front of you.
Your palms feel sweaty, and your jeans are constricted, but your dress shirt hides your interest. And you don’t know what to say. You hadn’t planned this far.
“I think. I was just – ” you gesture vaguely to the book, “reading.”
Silence is something so loud that you even stop breathing for a second for fear of shattering it. Then the stern looks on their faces suddenly crack, and they grin. Big, wide, and unguarded.
“You were listening! I can’t believe it, Karl was listening!” Orlando laughs wildly, and maybe he’s lost his mind, but he walks over in a towel and wraps you in a bear hug. His skin feels just as smooth as it looks, and his still dripping hair leaves your collar wet.
Viggo quietly joins in the laughter, and it reminds you of the sounds you heard earlier. It’s becoming an oddly soothing sound.
Suddenly, Orlando’s slender fingers wind around your own and drag you toward the bedroom, while he pulls Viggo along with the other hand. You both barely fit through the doorway, but Orlando is grinning like a madman, Viggo’s warmth is at your side and his free hand is on your hip. And you feel exhilarated.
In the morning, they’ll whisper secrets in your ear.
END.
er, comments? Anyone? It's been so dead lately, not that I'd want to grovel or anything... ;)
</lj>