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The corridors of Urithiru are nearly empty at this time of night, and the glow of multi-colored gemstone lamps against the stone walls provides an aura that could be either eerie or softly calming, depending on the traveler's mood.
Kaladin is more exhausted than anything and hardly notices the way the shadows dance along the walls as he passes, trudging back from the training grounds with his head ducked down, hands shoved deep in his loose pants pockets. He's normally the kind of person to walk with his head raised, chin up, aware of his surroundings at all times whether he's on duty or not, but tonight he's just too tired to bother. He knows who's working the night shift in these halls anyway, and trusts them to patrol their area well.
During the day this particular stretch of corridor is teeming with messengers, military brass, Windrunners, Alethi royalty, scribes, artifabrians… everyone who has something to say about what needs doing, everyone who has an opinion about the current war effort, everyone who… well, just everyone.
But now these ancient halls are deserted, and he's come across no one except a lone pair of guards, who nodded at him respectfully as they passed.
He should be sleeping right now, like everyone else. Resting for tomorrow. His schedule is packed from sun-up to sun-down, new recruit training with the Windrunners and committee meetings with the Highprinces (he's really looking forward to that one) and strategy sessions with the two Kholin men most involved in the fighting still happening out on the Shattered Plains. There might even be time to squeeze a meal or two in there if he tries hard enough.
To be fair he did attempt to go to sleep a little bit ago, after he ate dinner then reviewed some of the maps Dalinar left for him to look over after yesterday's strategy meeting. He put them down when his eyes started to lose focus and climbed into bed, but ended up rolling around restlessly for over an hour before he got up to shower, thinking maybe it would reset his internal clock or whatever it is they say works for those with trouble falling asleep.
The warm water felt nice on his tense muscles, easing out knots he'd be carrying around probably since the moment he woke up, and he took his time cleaning his body, then once again readying himself for bed.
Unfortunately the clean hair and skin and clothes didn't help much, and after another torturous half hour of insomnia he gave up, got dressed again, and headed down to the training grounds to hopefully exhaust himself enough that he would be able to pass out at some point tonight.
He reaches his apartment without encountering anyone else and lets himself in, closing the door gently behind him. He doesn't bother with pajamas or a shower this time, just shucks off his sweaty shirt and pants and throws them in the general direction of the lounge chair, shuffling almost blindly the remaining distance to his bed.
The sheets are cool and crisp as he slides between them, soothing against his warm skin, and he closes heavy eyes, sure sleep will come this time.
His mind whirls, half-formed thoughts darting from one corner to the other, too quick to follow, too slippery to hold onto, and he groans, willing his brain to calm the fuck down. Rolling over, he grabs a pillow and yanks it on top of his head, face pressed into the bed. It muffles the ambient sounds of the Tower outside his room and he stays smothered there until he can't breathe in his own damp, recycled breath any longer, flinging the pillow away and rolling over dramatically, sucking in deep lungfuls of cool air.
Frustrated, he throws the blankets back and climbs out of bed yet again, stomping over to the door that leads to the small balcony overlooking the mountains.
The night air is brisk as he steps outside, chilling his still-damp skin, and he wraps his arms around himself, shivering. He has no Stormlight in his system to carve the atmosphere into a warm bubble around him—he expelled all of it hours ago. It gives him too much energy, lights him up inside and tends to keep him awake, which is the last thing he wants right now.
Maybe if he stands here long enough his body will start to understand. His brain will see the darkness and process that it's no longer supposed to be awake, and he'll finally be able to close his eyes and storming rest.
He stands there until he can't anymore, until his skin is pebbled from head to toe with the cold, but his mind is still a chaotic jumble, still desperately latching onto one thought for several seconds before abandoning it and jumping onto another, not staying on one subject long enough to even really think about it, let alone solve anything.
He goes back inside, seriously considers walking all the way to the Hearthstone wing of the Tower to steal herbs from his father's surgery that will knock him unconscious. It won't be restful sleep—drugged sleep never is—but it's got to be better than nothing.
Sighing, he dismisses the idea. He has several important meetings tomorrow; he has to be fully cognizant.
Every day is the same. And this past week, every night has been the same, too. He wonders how long he can hold up until he breaks. Using Stormlight to stay alert can only work for so long, and he thinks he may be reaching his limit.
Again, he tries to sleep, and again, he fails. Eventually he gives up and just stares at the ceiling, laying on his back with hands resting over the blanket on his chest, eyes burning with exhaustion.
He used to have periods of insomnia as a child, he remembers. What did he do then to relieve them? He hears his mother in his mind, reading to him, remembers the relief of finally dozing off to the sound of her lilting voice.
Well, he can't very well ask his mother to read to him, he's a grown adult, and she has another young child to look after.
Later, when the bouts of sleeplessness would hit him as a slave, he didn't bother trying to rectify it, because what was the point? He lived his life in a haze, barely there to the extent that he would have no recollection at all of the days that passed.
Can't do that now, either.
What do other men do? When they can't sleep, what are their remedies? He knows insomnia is not a problem specific only to him, knows many people suffer from it, especially in times of high stress. Surely men in the army had trouble sleeping after battles, after all the killing and blood and gore.
Vaguely he remembers the men of his squad talking about it, how some would exercise, how others would find a woman to love. Well, the first clearly didn't work for him, and the second is off the table. There's another, though, one he dismissed at the time, because the thought of indulging in it not only with other men around but after a battle wasn't something he could ever imagine doing.
Well, he's tried everything else. And it's not like he's never touched himself before, even if it's probably much less often than he thinks other people might. Not that he thinks about other people touching themselves.
He gives a gusty sigh and starts to slip a hand beneath the sheets, then hesitates. He has time. There's no rush here, and he thinks diving full-on into it might actually be more stress-inducing than relaxing, anyway.
Closing his eyes, his hand drifts instead to the side of his face, the stubble rough on the sensitive pads of his fingers as his hand slides gently to the back of his neck. He rubs the tense muscles there, not hard, just enough to feel it, and his eyelids flutter in soft satisfaction.
He shifts slightly, his body sinking deeper into the mattress, as he moves to the other side of his neck, head rolling to stretch the tightness there, adding another layer of sensation as he massages. The positioning of his hand means he's basically cupping his own neck now, and it's not something he's ever thought of as being erotic before, but it feels that way now, how his spine rests just there in the palm of his hand as he presses in with his fingers.
He moves up, hand sliding past his hairline, and rubs the knots there at the base of his skull, and a quiet, rumbling groan slips out from between his lips. The bone there feels bruised to the touch, a clear sign of all the tension he's been carrying in his shoulders and neck, and it's a painful kind of pleasure that seeps through him as he works at the tender spots there for several minutes.
He already feels more relaxed than he has all night, but he doesn't stop, letting his hand move higher, threading through his long hair. Experimentally, he closes his hand into a gentle fist, the strands of his hair pulling in large clumps, not enough to hurt but enough that his head tips back into the pillow, and it feels good.
He does it again, his chest tightening in a way he's never felt before, one he wouldn't mind feeling again.
His left hand creeps up slowly from its resting place over his sternum, and storms, even the blanket on his skin feels good right now, smooth and light, almost tickling where it rubs against the hairs on his chest. His palm slides from cloth to skin just under his collarbone, warm on warm, and then, without his input, it settles with fingers on one side of his throat and thumb on the other.
He can feel his pulse thundering beneath his skin, squeezes lightly to feel it even more. Gasps as a low heat zips through him, pooling in his core.
Releasing his grip on the hair at the back of his head, he brings his hand around to trail fingers along his face—his eyebrows and lashes, the curve of his cheekbone and sharp edge of his jaw, the bump on the bridge of his nose, the chapped fullness of his lips. It feels like the skin of his face is oversensitive now, his fingers leaving little tingling bolts of sensation in their wake, and he reaches down with his other hand to throw the covers off of his suddenly too-warm body.
He lingers around his mouth, teasing the damp place where his lips meet, while he spreads his hand wide on his chest and runs it upward, following the line of his sternum, then back down again. His thumb brushes a nipple and his body jerks, breath catching in his throat.
Oh, storms. He's never touched himself like this before, never explored his body in this way. It's… overwhelming.
He imagines what it would be like if it was someone else's hands touching him like this, in these places. Tracing his open lips, breath warm against their fingertips. Gently caressing his chest, following the curve of his pectorals, teasing the sparse hairs, absently passing over a pebbled nipple.
Again, his body reacts almost violently to his touch.
Opening his eyes, he looks down at himself, at the hand on his chest, resting carefully over his right breast, one finger pressed lightly to the dusky nipple there. He sucks in a breath, then presses harder, and he moans, long and low, throwing his head back into the pillow. Moves his finger from side to side, still keeping the pressure, and shocks shoot through him from the contact directly to his groin.
When he looks again his briefs are tented obscenely and he's almost embarrassed at himself. It took so little to get him to this point, just some lazy touching. It occurs to him that sex has never felt like this for him, this good, this relaxing. He suddenly worries that he's been doing it wrong, but the thought doesn't stick in his mind for long, he's feeling too good for such a negative emotion to take hold right now.
He lowers his left hand then, lets it do the same to his left nipple as his other hand works his right, pressing into them, rubbing them back and forth, and then pinching them lightly. The dual sensations make him literally arch his back off the bed, cock suddenly aching to be touched.
He slows the motions of his hands, shifts his touch into something more soothing, calming. Then he lets his hands wander down along his stomach, through the shallow ridges of muscle there. It tickles, but in a dull way—there is no laughter on his tongue, only quick breaths dripping with arousal.
He gives himself free reign here, hands touching every inch of skin, dipping into his belly button, tangling in the hair just below the line of his briefs, scratching his nails lightly along his hip bone. His feet slide upwards on the sheets as he lifts his knees, pressing his hands firmly down the sides of his abdomen, then the crease of his hips, then the tops of his thighs. The hair is coarser here, thicker under his palms, and he shivers as he curls his fingers and lets his nails scrape the skin on the way back up.
The bedsheets rustle as he hastily shoves his briefs down his legs and kicks them off. The room is quiet except for his own heavy breathing. He flushes, imagining what he looks like right now, completely naked, knees up and legs spread almost wantonly. Pushes away the shame that threatens, because storms above and below this is the best he's felt in years and he's alone, there's no one to judge him now, he's not going to let himself ruin this because of his own insecurities.
He starts back at the top, both thumbs brushing his nipples as he drags them down again, then frames the thatch of hair between his legs, refusing to touch just yet. He feels every movement, every twitch of his fingers, and yearns to wrap them around his cock but he resists, instead letting his right hand drift farther down as his left ventures up again, caressing hips and stomach and chest.
He gently teases his balls, nearly chokes on an inhale at how sensitive they are, then continues onward, pressing firmly on the skin there, gasping.
His mind, always in a million different places, feels stuck in this moment. On this one feeling, this one sensation, in a place that feels so deep he wonders distantly how he would survive anything more. Does he want more? He's never really allowed himself to think about it, but now, he thinks yes. He does. He wants more. He needs more.
Eyes squeezed shut tight, the fingers of his left hand now digging desperately into his thigh, he quests even lower, teasing at where his cheeks press together, slowly delving deeper past the seam. He drops his left hand around the outside of his body, grabs the soft curve of his ass and pulls it to the side, exposing himself, and he is not prepared for the way that makes lightning shoot through him, causing his hips to buck wildly into the air with an embarrasing, high-pitched moan.
Panting, he lets the fingers of his right hand slip along his damp, sweaty skin, closer and closer to the forbidden place where no one has ever touched him before, where he has never even touched himself, not like this.
He opens hazy eyes and looks down and his brain betrays him then, superimposing the image of a person bobbing up and down on his neglected cock, dragging their tongue from base to tip before suckling the head lightly. The fuzzy face grins at him, pressing wet kisses back down along his shaft, then disappearing completely as they suck first one ball into their mouth, then the other, rolling them gently on their hot tongue.
Kaladin is gasping for air now, his imaginary partner working him over as if they're truly in the room with him. Every action fabricated in his mind feels real, the sensations passing from fiction to fact like he's weaving fantasy into reality with just his sheer desire.
The questing fingers of Kaladin's right hand finally brush against his opening and he suddenly craves more, wants to feel them inside of him, wants to bury them deep. His dick throbs, and the illusion's blonde head dips, black-flecked hair artfully tousled as Kaladin grips it in desperate, grasping hands, and their tongue presses to his rim, hot and firm and wet, just as Kaladin's finger pushes in—
It hits him like a stormwall—powerful, inescapable, and electric, surging through him in waves. He thinks he groans but can't be sure, can't hear anything, can't see anything, doesn't even know if his eyes are open or closed. The pleasure crests high, lifting him up above the rest of the world before crashing him down again, then again, then again.
When he finally comes back to himself he's sprawled bonelessly across his bed, sheets a complete mess, belly and chest covered in the evidence of his release. His mind feels empty, but not like when he's the Wretch, when the emptiness echoes and he feels so cold and alone. This emptiness feels good, less like he's missing something and more like he's been relieved of it. His thoughts are syrupy slow, and he feels warm, and tired, and utterly relaxed.
Groggily, he leans over to the night table to grab a tissue, clumsily wiping himself clean before dropping it over the side of the bed and letting it flutter to the floor. Then, eyes already slamming shut, he reaches blindly for the covers, finds a corner and yanks it over himself, shoving his face into his pillow as the blanket settles down around him, cocooning him in warmth.
Between one breath and the next, he falls asleep, dreaming in hues of blue and gold.
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