Title: Escape Velocity
Fandom & Pairing: Nowhere Man, no real pairing
Spoilers: No spoilers, but set vaguely mid-series
Warnings: Blades, obv.
Word Count: around 1200
Summary: It was kind of like a drug -- it was addictive, and he needed ever-increasing amounts to get the same high.
Disclaimer: Any resemblance to anything whatsoever is purely coincidental.
A/N : This was written for Kink Bingo, for the square "blades." Many thanks to ennui_blue_lite for giving this a once-over. Any remaining errors are, of course, my own.
He didn't consider it cheating, not any longer. Thomas J. Veil didn't exist, ergo, neither did Thomas J. Veil's marriage. He'd never had any trouble attracting sexual partners, and it was no different now. In fact, in some ways it was easier -- he had an edge about him that he hadn't had before, a sense of danger, maybe, that seemed to draw people like flies to honey and if there was any benefit to be had from how fucked-up his life had gotten, he was going to take full advantage of it. So he found comfort and release in others' arms, often enough.
The thing was, though, he'd developed a fondness -- if he were to be honest with himself, it was a fetish -- for knives. Not for using them; despite all the shit he'd been through, he still didn't enjoy hurting others. No. He liked to have a knife used on him. He didn't like to be tied up -- ironically enough, that felt too scary -- but he loved the drag of the cool metal against his skin, the need to stay perfectly still lest he cut himself on the razor-sharp edge. He knew it was razor-sharp because he kept it that way. He supplied his own knife for this game.
It was a thing of beauty - sleek and deadly. The blade was only five inches long, double-edged and with a wicked point. The handle was smooth and black with curves like a woman's body. Sometimes he just took it out to admire it. Sometimes he brought himself off just looking at it, but it wasn't the same.
In fact, it was kind of like a drug -- it was addictive, and he needed ever-increasing amounts to get the same high. It started with just having the knife nearby, on the nightstand of a cheap motel room where he could touch it, run his fingers over the handle while having his dick sucked. Then, when that wasn't enough, he'd have his partner ride him while wearing the knife, sheathed, in a thigh holster that he'd gotten specifically for that purpose. For a long time, that was enough to get him off, harder and stronger than anything he'd ever felt in his old life.
Maybe that was why knives did it for him. It was a fucking cliché, but he never felt more alive than when he was chasing death. It had been true when he'd been a photojournalist, entering war zones, and it was even more true now. In some ways, he felt like he'd only reached his full potential now, when he'd been pushed to the brink of what he could endure.
So he pushed himself a little harder every day. He progressed from having his partners wear the knife to having them put it against his skin while they fucked him. There was nothing like being on his back, legs spread wide, ass stuffed full of anonymous cock, with a knife resting on his sternum, blade pointing towards his chin. Or fucking a woman into the mattress while she held the blade against his nipple. One falter in his rhythm, and it'd be sliced off.
It was always in the back of his mind that one day, he was going to pick up the wrong person. One of the ones who was after him. Or hell, just a random psychopath. He'd give them the knife, and before he knew it, he'd be lying on the floor in a spreading pool of his own blood, dying. But the truth was, he wasn't sure anymore that that was a bad thing. He was dying by inches anyway, each day driving him further towards the edge, and the end of all of this madness, confusion, fear and pain was starting to look like a consummation devoutly to be wished.
The fact that it hadn't happened was only further proof that the universe wasn't done fucking with him yet. He should have been dead a dozen times over now. He'd been sloppy, careless in his investigations. He'd trusted the wrong people. He'd walked into situations he knew were traps. At first he'd just done it because he was an idiot, or to put the kindest spin on it, because he'd been new at this. Not anymore. Now he was just reckless. He had nothing left. Not his name, not his friends or family, certainly not his pride. He wasn't even sure why he'd begun this journey, why he'd been so determined to go up against what was obviously both the unstoppable force and the immovable object.
So all that was left was this - the cold metal warming against his skin, and now the slick slide of the blade as it skated over his soapy skin like a straight razor, down his chest, leaving planes of smooth flesh, stripped bare, in its wake. It was enough to get him hard, and he gripped his cock in one hand, squeezing the shaft until the blood pooled red and angry in the head of it, pulsing in time with his wasted heart.
Rivulets of water ran down his abdomen, and now trails of blood too, when he nicked himself with the blade -- whether on purpose or not he didn't even know anymore, and didn't much care -- and the sharp-sweet sting of it pulled a hiss from his teeth, the soap and blood mingling in the shallow slices to make the sear of it more intense.
When he'd finished shaving, his chest smooth and gleaming, he carefully cleaned his knife, rinsing it thoroughly and then drying it on the cheap rough motel towel before sheathing it again. Only then did he turn his attention to cleaning himself, dampening the towel in the sink and scrubbing it in rough strokes over sensitive and abraded flesh while his hand stroked furiously over his cock. Water made a poor lubricant, but avoiding pain was really not the point of this exercise.
The blood had mostly stopped flowing now, just barely welling up through the lacerations, as if his body didn't have enough vitality left for more than that. He closed his eyes then, focusing on the memory of the blade, the feel of it, the gleam of it, imagining the edge slicing into him, so effortlessly, the blood flowing rich and dark over it. He came silently, holding the mirage in his mind until he wasn't quite sure if it was reality or not. Maybe a hallucination. Maybe a memory of the past, or a vision of the future. He wasn't certain that it mattered.
When he'd finished, milked every last drop out of his limp and spent cock, he opened his eyes again, and carefully washed away the remnants of his seed in the bathroom sink. He didn't look in the mirror, didn't want to see his own dead eyes looking back at him.
There was a new lead to follow, to chase down, another vain hope that would end with him no farther than he'd been when he started this quest. But then there'd be the dark, and the night, and the next anonymous motel room. And the blade. For now, it was enough.