fic post
Cross posted from tww_minis
Title: A Hundred Miles or More
Author: DRG
Category: Angst, Slash Other
Characters: Toby, CJ and Sam
Pairing: (some implied) Toby/Sam, Toby/CJ (and Sam?)
Warnings: (mostly implied) drug use, voyeurism
Word Count: 1,150
Rating: nc-17 to be uber safe (for language and adult themes)
Summary: He wonders how the hell any of this was considered to be a good idea.
Author’s Note: For the isolation prompt. TWW is not mine, do not sue. A first real attempt at anything serious with Toby. I’m not sure how I feel about it. Many thanks to sterling_sky for the beta-help and support and raedbard for the appreciated pom poms.
He is sitting the wrong way round on a red lacquered chair. Everything seems off kilter. The hotel room and its yard sale décor. The crack of neither night nor day squeaking through crestfallen window blinds. Every fucking thing. His mood, fractious and heavy despite their games, is muddled by whisky and conjured memories; it’s not about the way she tilts her head like that; her lips pink and tight in a melting candy floss kiss shape, she just has an irritating knack of skewing his reality and will.
“Go on…” She says, her voice probing him a little harder this time. “It won’t kill you.”
He shakes his head but she strikes it anyway, the burst of match light skims over her hotchpotch of clothes - some his, others not - on her skin and the floor. When the darker shades loom again he trails his bare arm toward a crumple of cotton. Stale air leaps into his mouth as his ribs shove into the wooden chair back. He can barely reach, but as he snares it briefly between his two longest fingers, he remembers her where he is now, watching attentively with her thoughts and limbs clambering over the chair.
She smiles as she looks toward him, her trunk rolling slightly into the mattress hollow he left behind. A heavy sigh drags in the air when the hit takes hold and it crunches her head against the pitted wallpaper. Laughter and thrashing arms wipe the illicit smoke swirling in her hair and above her head. The air conditioning unit, thought to be dead or at best beyond repair, splutters and coughs as the vapours drift toward the crack of the quarter open window. He wonders how the hell any of this was considered to be a good idea.
“Are you sure?” She asks, her neck craning with the effort of another drag.
Smoke leaks from her grin as she sits up and leans over the pizza box nearby. When she notices a green light on the ceiling winking ominously in the corner of one eye she begrudgingly extinguishes the joint on the corner of the damp cardboard. After an unexpected flash of orange flutters itself from danger she rolls over and calls out his name for no particular reason.
Propped on one elbow, her upper body is at such an angle her legs are forced to droop precariously over the bed’s edge. For a split second he wonders how she doesn’t lose her balance, but this is CJ Cregg after all and that was not something she was used to doing, even on nights like this. Her free hand sketches invisible rambles on the crest of her breastbone. When he thinks he reads a secret spilling onto the collar of her favourite blue shirt he needs another drink.
The carpet is itchy and intrusive on the soles of his feet but he plunges in regardless. Immediately he is ankle deep in mulberry jam coloured nylon, his steps twitchy and nervous - someone could have died in here. When his toes step into a crispy patch of floor horribly and cruelly close to what is apparently the mini bar, he is convinced of it and retreats to the chair. The spillage of whisky, (the last of his black coat smuggled plunder) drying slowly on his hand will have to do. Careful not to disturb the most treasured kisses in his path he bumps his tongue along the rugged skin; first into the hot pools that lie in nooks between his fingers; then higher, harder into his knuckles. His eyes flame and thighs twitch when a hint of cum mixes beautifully with the rest of the siphoned liquid in his mouth. It has only been a matter of minutes but he needs him close again; moulded against the flank of his hips, pleas buzzing filling and refilling in the valley the nape of his neck - his favourite kind of butterflies.
“Hey Chicka…” Says the purr out of nowhere.
The intent and stench of her breath on the shell of his ear yanks him from his reverie. A fizz of his hunger jolts upward into his throat and singes his tongue.
“What the hell? Get the fuck away from me!”
“Fuck you and your crotchety killjoy ass!”
CJ runs to her corner her hand slammed against a spiky reminder of his lips on her skin. She is suddenly sober and longing for a locked bedroom door with a radio playing under the sheets.
They had left it too long this time; isolation and burn out hell was smouldering their trail long before she shoved them into the car without a map. A knot of mockery pulls her gut in when she realises she was trying to tell herself this was all about shitty timing or perhaps drunken games of Go Fish. It had become much less about cards and more about dirty dust road highs a long time ago.
Eventually she turns her head to see his hands scrape and pull the back of his neck. The movements, rough and stuttering sandpaper-like grate on his skin and her conscience; she doesn’t often reject apologies.
“Yeah… me too. In triplicate.”
“Don’t push it, ok?” He answers half laughing in spite of everything. One eyebrow pokes the pads of his fingers as he watches her head drop and fingers fumble under the bed.
“Here.” She huffs, throwing something his way. “Peace offering.”
Despite the dim light he catches the object effortlessly. He curves his lips in praise of her skill only to frown when he looks closer at the packet crackling in his grip.
“Oh good god CJ. Twinkies?”
Her words crack the sticky cloud of white foam oozing from her mouth. “Yep. You said to bring food.”
He tosses the package back her way his head flopping back in disgust when he misses his mark landing it perilously close to the blanketed hook shaped figure instead.
“Careful.” CJ chides gently leaning in to retrieve the missile from a spray of hair. She cleans her mouth with a sweep of her finger and laughs softly just so she can watch it sway in its puckish breeze.
Toby puffs his sigh to mingle with it; how could he possibly think he is the only one to be beguiled by Sam Seaborn? For now he tries not to and watches her instead, her hand gently on the shoulder of his white Ralph Lauren T shirt, her face amused and moved by his sleeping position. They wonder at the same time how he slept through the fracas though neither of them knows.
Her little finger, shaking and glittered with the last of her high brushes against his jaw.
“He’s beautiful Toby.”
His smile snags on the wood and bleeds onto the back of his hand. He doesn’t care anymore. It’s too late to argue.
“Yeah…he is.”
====
Title: A Hundred Miles or More
Author: DRG
Category: Angst, Slash Other
Characters: Toby, CJ and Sam
Pairing: (some implied) Toby/Sam, Toby/CJ (and Sam?)
Warnings: (mostly implied) drug use, voyeurism
Word Count: 1,150
Rating: nc-17 to be uber safe (for language and adult themes)
Summary: He wonders how the hell any of this was considered to be a good idea.
Author’s Note: For the isolation prompt. TWW is not mine, do not sue. A first real attempt at anything serious with Toby. I’m not sure how I feel about it. Many thanks to sterling_sky for the beta-help and support and raedbard for the appreciated pom poms.
He is sitting the wrong way round on a red lacquered chair. Everything seems off kilter. The hotel room and its yard sale décor. The crack of neither night nor day squeaking through crestfallen window blinds. Every fucking thing. His mood, fractious and heavy despite their games, is muddled by whisky and conjured memories; it’s not about the way she tilts her head like that; her lips pink and tight in a melting candy floss kiss shape, she just has an irritating knack of skewing his reality and will.
“Go on…” She says, her voice probing him a little harder this time. “It won’t kill you.”
He shakes his head but she strikes it anyway, the burst of match light skims over her hotchpotch of clothes - some his, others not - on her skin and the floor. When the darker shades loom again he trails his bare arm toward a crumple of cotton. Stale air leaps into his mouth as his ribs shove into the wooden chair back. He can barely reach, but as he snares it briefly between his two longest fingers, he remembers her where he is now, watching attentively with her thoughts and limbs clambering over the chair.
She smiles as she looks toward him, her trunk rolling slightly into the mattress hollow he left behind. A heavy sigh drags in the air when the hit takes hold and it crunches her head against the pitted wallpaper. Laughter and thrashing arms wipe the illicit smoke swirling in her hair and above her head. The air conditioning unit, thought to be dead or at best beyond repair, splutters and coughs as the vapours drift toward the crack of the quarter open window. He wonders how the hell any of this was considered to be a good idea.
“Are you sure?” She asks, her neck craning with the effort of another drag.
Smoke leaks from her grin as she sits up and leans over the pizza box nearby. When she notices a green light on the ceiling winking ominously in the corner of one eye she begrudgingly extinguishes the joint on the corner of the damp cardboard. After an unexpected flash of orange flutters itself from danger she rolls over and calls out his name for no particular reason.
Propped on one elbow, her upper body is at such an angle her legs are forced to droop precariously over the bed’s edge. For a split second he wonders how she doesn’t lose her balance, but this is CJ Cregg after all and that was not something she was used to doing, even on nights like this. Her free hand sketches invisible rambles on the crest of her breastbone. When he thinks he reads a secret spilling onto the collar of her favourite blue shirt he needs another drink.
The carpet is itchy and intrusive on the soles of his feet but he plunges in regardless. Immediately he is ankle deep in mulberry jam coloured nylon, his steps twitchy and nervous - someone could have died in here. When his toes step into a crispy patch of floor horribly and cruelly close to what is apparently the mini bar, he is convinced of it and retreats to the chair. The spillage of whisky, (the last of his black coat smuggled plunder) drying slowly on his hand will have to do. Careful not to disturb the most treasured kisses in his path he bumps his tongue along the rugged skin; first into the hot pools that lie in nooks between his fingers; then higher, harder into his knuckles. His eyes flame and thighs twitch when a hint of cum mixes beautifully with the rest of the siphoned liquid in his mouth. It has only been a matter of minutes but he needs him close again; moulded against the flank of his hips, pleas buzzing filling and refilling in the valley the nape of his neck - his favourite kind of butterflies.
“Hey Chicka…” Says the purr out of nowhere.
The intent and stench of her breath on the shell of his ear yanks him from his reverie. A fizz of his hunger jolts upward into his throat and singes his tongue.
“What the hell? Get the fuck away from me!”
“Fuck you and your crotchety killjoy ass!”
CJ runs to her corner her hand slammed against a spiky reminder of his lips on her skin. She is suddenly sober and longing for a locked bedroom door with a radio playing under the sheets.
They had left it too long this time; isolation and burn out hell was smouldering their trail long before she shoved them into the car without a map. A knot of mockery pulls her gut in when she realises she was trying to tell herself this was all about shitty timing or perhaps drunken games of Go Fish. It had become much less about cards and more about dirty dust road highs a long time ago.
Eventually she turns her head to see his hands scrape and pull the back of his neck. The movements, rough and stuttering sandpaper-like grate on his skin and her conscience; she doesn’t often reject apologies.
“Yeah… me too. In triplicate.”
“Don’t push it, ok?” He answers half laughing in spite of everything. One eyebrow pokes the pads of his fingers as he watches her head drop and fingers fumble under the bed.
“Here.” She huffs, throwing something his way. “Peace offering.”
Despite the dim light he catches the object effortlessly. He curves his lips in praise of her skill only to frown when he looks closer at the packet crackling in his grip.
“Oh good god CJ. Twinkies?”
Her words crack the sticky cloud of white foam oozing from her mouth. “Yep. You said to bring food.”
He tosses the package back her way his head flopping back in disgust when he misses his mark landing it perilously close to the blanketed hook shaped figure instead.
“Careful.” CJ chides gently leaning in to retrieve the missile from a spray of hair. She cleans her mouth with a sweep of her finger and laughs softly just so she can watch it sway in its puckish breeze.
Toby puffs his sigh to mingle with it; how could he possibly think he is the only one to be beguiled by Sam Seaborn? For now he tries not to and watches her instead, her hand gently on the shoulder of his white Ralph Lauren T shirt, her face amused and moved by his sleeping position. They wonder at the same time how he slept through the fracas though neither of them knows.
Her little finger, shaking and glittered with the last of her high brushes against his jaw.
“He’s beautiful Toby.”
His smile snags on the wood and bleeds onto the back of his hand. He doesn’t care anymore. It’s too late to argue.
“Yeah…he is.”
====