HT100 FlashFic Challenge #08: Bait & Switch -- "Simple Pleasures"
Title: Simple Pleasures
Prompt: 08: Bait & Switch (something is not as it appears)
Authors Notes: When I was whining about The Oz Fic That Hates Me, ozsaur tried to kickstart me on something else by giving me the opening line in this fic. This is what happened.
Word Count: 1134
Simple Pleasures
by Severina
Toby likes Downy dryer sheets.
He likes them because he’s almost gullible enough to buy what the television commercials try to sell him; imagines that the scent reminds him of warm spring days and fields of wheat and the sunshine glinting on his daughter’s hair. But today -- today specifically -- he likes Downy dryer sheets for a very different reason.
When the timer buzzes, Toby hops lightly down from the washer and starts pulling out the damp clothes. He’s humming, just a little, and he can’t be bothered to stop just because O’Reily sidles up. The Irishman flicks a glance at the door, checking for hacks -- O’Reily’s in the laundry room five times a day and nobody has that many dirty clothes -- before his gaze sweeps contemptuously to the garments in Toby’s arms.
“You doin’ Keller’s laundry now, Beecher?” he asks.
Toby shrugs, shifts the bundle under his arm and uses his hip to knock the door shut. “Yup.”
Ryan clucks his tongue. “You really are his bitch.”
Toby shrugs again, as much as he can with his arms full. “I don’t owe you an explanation, O’Reily,” he says.
O’Reily shakes his head and looks like he’s going to dispute that fact, but the door hisses open on one of the new fish, looking jittery and desperate. O’Reily doesn’t spare Beecher another glance before heading off to conduct business.
Toby starts to whistle as he crosses the room to the dryers.
He’s still whistling when Said strolls over. Said snaps his book shut, and for a moment Toby thinks he’s going to get lucky, that maybe Said will be satisfied with just a shake of his head and a glare of disapproval.
“He’s right, you know,” Said says.
Toby sighs. No such luck.
“You are giving each and every man in this cell block a reason to look down on you. To treat you as inferior.” Said leans closer. “Weak.”
Toby huffs out a groan, and gestures to the dryer with his chin. “Get the door?”
When Said just stares at him, Toby shifts the damp clothing up in his arms and is barely able to snag the edge of the dryer door with his fingertips. He gets it open and tosses half of the clothes into the dryer before turning to face Said. Kareem has been a good friend, and Toby knows he only wants what’s best for him, misguided though those intentions may often be.
“Look,” he tries, “it’s not what you think.”
Except… it kind of is. Because he’s only here, tossing Keller’s boxers and wife-beaters and those pants that ride oh-so-low on his hips into the dryer… because of a bet. And Said would find the very nature of that bet vulgar and obscene.
And, Toby wonders, what made him think he could win, anyway? No matter how bored he was, no matter that he’d read and re-read the same book so many times that he almost felt he could have written it better himself, what made him agree to Chris’s suggestion? What made him possibly believe that he could keep his hands off Chris Keller for an entire night, with Chris stalking through the small space, making up every excuse to pass close by him? With Chris filling his own time with sit-ups and push-ups, flooding the pod with his scent and his body and his presence until Toby’s mouth was dry and his hands were clenched into fists and he couldn’t even think straight?
Sure, what Chris did wasn’t against the rules per se --
“It’s simple,” Chris had said. “We don’t touch each other, and whoever lasts the longest wins.”
“Wins what?” Toby had asked suspiciously.
Chris had simply eyed him, intense gaze raking his body, and Toby snorted. “We both already get that.”
Chris had smirked. “Okay, loser does the winner’s laundry. For a month.”
-- but it was still unfair.
Toby lasted -- barely -- through all the long hours between five and ten. Then he went another five minutes after lights out. Five minutes in which Chris stripped off his wife-beater slowly, sliding it up his torso one glorious inch at a time. Five minutes in which Chris unhurriedly skimmed his boxers over his hips, stroked his lengthening cock and murmured all the things he was going to do to Toby when the stupid fucking bet was over.
Toby doesn’t even remember launching himself across the room. In his memory, one moment Chris is whispering smut and the next he has slammed Chris against the wall and Chris is laughing against his lips and telling him that he is waaaay too easy.
“Really,” Said says flatly.
Toby wrenches himself back to the present in time to meet Said’s dubious gaze. He shakes his head, tosses the rest of the clothes into the dryer, and thinks he should at least make the effort to look ashamed or something -- if only to make Said happy -- and then finds himself grinning instead.
He shrugs helplessly when his smile only makes Said glower all the more. He knows he could talk until he’s blue in the face and Said will never understand, so Toby just reaches past him for the box of dryer sheets, pulling one out of the box and crushing it in his fist, bringing it to his nose, inhaling deeply. He steps back, bounces on the balls of his feet and hooks the balled-up sheet into the open maw of the dryer.
His grin gets bigger. “Two points,” he says.
But Said is no longer there.
Toby arches a brow, shrugs, and crosses the room, hops up on the table and sits, swings his legs, contemplates the events of the night before while he patiently waits out the spin. The scent of the dryer sheet still clings to his skin.
Oh yes, Toby likes Downy dryer sheets because they remind him of summer picnics, of mountain streams, of his beautiful daughter. But today -- today specifically -- he likes them for a more practical reason.
You see, Chris Keller hates Downy dryer sheets.
It wasn’t fair, what Chris did. And sure, Toby muses, the end result was great -- Toby has the aching hamstrings and sore ass to prove it -- but does that excuse the means by which Chris went about achieving his goal? He thinks not.
So Toby will honour the bet. He’ll do the laundry.
But when Chris starts sneezing and itching tomorrow, he’ll learn. If you’re going to bet against a Beecher, you need to play fair. You can’t be so damned cocky.
Toby leans back against the glass window, and smiles in anticipation. He’s pretty sure he knows how Chris will pay him back. He -- and his ass -- are looking forward to it.
.
Prompt: 08: Bait & Switch (something is not as it appears)
Authors Notes: When I was whining about The Oz Fic That Hates Me, ozsaur tried to kickstart me on something else by giving me the opening line in this fic. This is what happened.
Word Count: 1134
Simple Pleasures
by Severina
Toby likes Downy dryer sheets.
He likes them because he’s almost gullible enough to buy what the television commercials try to sell him; imagines that the scent reminds him of warm spring days and fields of wheat and the sunshine glinting on his daughter’s hair. But today -- today specifically -- he likes Downy dryer sheets for a very different reason.
When the timer buzzes, Toby hops lightly down from the washer and starts pulling out the damp clothes. He’s humming, just a little, and he can’t be bothered to stop just because O’Reily sidles up. The Irishman flicks a glance at the door, checking for hacks -- O’Reily’s in the laundry room five times a day and nobody has that many dirty clothes -- before his gaze sweeps contemptuously to the garments in Toby’s arms.
“You doin’ Keller’s laundry now, Beecher?” he asks.
Toby shrugs, shifts the bundle under his arm and uses his hip to knock the door shut. “Yup.”
Ryan clucks his tongue. “You really are his bitch.”
Toby shrugs again, as much as he can with his arms full. “I don’t owe you an explanation, O’Reily,” he says.
O’Reily shakes his head and looks like he’s going to dispute that fact, but the door hisses open on one of the new fish, looking jittery and desperate. O’Reily doesn’t spare Beecher another glance before heading off to conduct business.
Toby starts to whistle as he crosses the room to the dryers.
He’s still whistling when Said strolls over. Said snaps his book shut, and for a moment Toby thinks he’s going to get lucky, that maybe Said will be satisfied with just a shake of his head and a glare of disapproval.
“He’s right, you know,” Said says.
Toby sighs. No such luck.
“You are giving each and every man in this cell block a reason to look down on you. To treat you as inferior.” Said leans closer. “Weak.”
Toby huffs out a groan, and gestures to the dryer with his chin. “Get the door?”
When Said just stares at him, Toby shifts the damp clothing up in his arms and is barely able to snag the edge of the dryer door with his fingertips. He gets it open and tosses half of the clothes into the dryer before turning to face Said. Kareem has been a good friend, and Toby knows he only wants what’s best for him, misguided though those intentions may often be.
“Look,” he tries, “it’s not what you think.”
Except… it kind of is. Because he’s only here, tossing Keller’s boxers and wife-beaters and those pants that ride oh-so-low on his hips into the dryer… because of a bet. And Said would find the very nature of that bet vulgar and obscene.
And, Toby wonders, what made him think he could win, anyway? No matter how bored he was, no matter that he’d read and re-read the same book so many times that he almost felt he could have written it better himself, what made him agree to Chris’s suggestion? What made him possibly believe that he could keep his hands off Chris Keller for an entire night, with Chris stalking through the small space, making up every excuse to pass close by him? With Chris filling his own time with sit-ups and push-ups, flooding the pod with his scent and his body and his presence until Toby’s mouth was dry and his hands were clenched into fists and he couldn’t even think straight?
Sure, what Chris did wasn’t against the rules per se --
“It’s simple,” Chris had said. “We don’t touch each other, and whoever lasts the longest wins.”
“Wins what?” Toby had asked suspiciously.
Chris had simply eyed him, intense gaze raking his body, and Toby snorted. “We both already get that.”
Chris had smirked. “Okay, loser does the winner’s laundry. For a month.”
-- but it was still unfair.
Toby lasted -- barely -- through all the long hours between five and ten. Then he went another five minutes after lights out. Five minutes in which Chris stripped off his wife-beater slowly, sliding it up his torso one glorious inch at a time. Five minutes in which Chris unhurriedly skimmed his boxers over his hips, stroked his lengthening cock and murmured all the things he was going to do to Toby when the stupid fucking bet was over.
Toby doesn’t even remember launching himself across the room. In his memory, one moment Chris is whispering smut and the next he has slammed Chris against the wall and Chris is laughing against his lips and telling him that he is waaaay too easy.
“Really,” Said says flatly.
Toby wrenches himself back to the present in time to meet Said’s dubious gaze. He shakes his head, tosses the rest of the clothes into the dryer, and thinks he should at least make the effort to look ashamed or something -- if only to make Said happy -- and then finds himself grinning instead.
He shrugs helplessly when his smile only makes Said glower all the more. He knows he could talk until he’s blue in the face and Said will never understand, so Toby just reaches past him for the box of dryer sheets, pulling one out of the box and crushing it in his fist, bringing it to his nose, inhaling deeply. He steps back, bounces on the balls of his feet and hooks the balled-up sheet into the open maw of the dryer.
His grin gets bigger. “Two points,” he says.
But Said is no longer there.
Toby arches a brow, shrugs, and crosses the room, hops up on the table and sits, swings his legs, contemplates the events of the night before while he patiently waits out the spin. The scent of the dryer sheet still clings to his skin.
Oh yes, Toby likes Downy dryer sheets because they remind him of summer picnics, of mountain streams, of his beautiful daughter. But today -- today specifically -- he likes them for a more practical reason.
You see, Chris Keller hates Downy dryer sheets.
It wasn’t fair, what Chris did. And sure, Toby muses, the end result was great -- Toby has the aching hamstrings and sore ass to prove it -- but does that excuse the means by which Chris went about achieving his goal? He thinks not.
So Toby will honour the bet. He’ll do the laundry.
But when Chris starts sneezing and itching tomorrow, he’ll learn. If you’re going to bet against a Beecher, you need to play fair. You can’t be so damned cocky.
Toby leans back against the glass window, and smiles in anticipation. He’s pretty sure he knows how Chris will pay him back. He -- and his ass -- are looking forward to it.
.