Holiday Fic #1
Happy Holidays! This year, I really wanted to do something to say Thank You to some of the special people who have enriched my life. All I have to offer is fiction. So over the next few days leading up to Christmas or maybe the New Year, I'll be sharing a few stories that I've written as little holiday gifts.
The first story is dedicated to ozsaur. When I first started chatting with some Oz fans, the one name that constantly came up in conversation was ozsaur. When I finally met up with her on IM, I understood why. She is an enthusiastic cheerleader and a leader in keeping the fandom active. Now I look forward to our regular morning chats, whether we're talking about our families, analyzing Toby's relationships, or brainstorming about fanfic. :)
This story is actually something she mentioned wanting to read, though she's probably forgotten all about it now!
Merry Christmas, ozsaur!
Title: Cookie Monster
Fandom: Oz
Timeframe: Early Season Four. Let's assume there was some free time before it all went to hell, shall we?
Prompt: 25moments #16 - Food
Word Count: 1435
Cookie Monster
by Severina
Bored.
Bored bored fucking bored.
I’ve looked through every mag in this joint, even Toby’s most recent copy of American Lawyer. Readin’ about law-firm mergers and profit and loss strategies ain’t exactly scintillating, but I been through my own copies of Busty Beauties and Raunch so many times I got all the tits and pussies memorized. I don’t feel like playin’ checkers with Hill or chess with O’Reily, and truth be told I don’t even feel like jerkin’ off. And I already took in my thirty minutes of gym time, and I been saving the shower ‘til Toby gets back.
I end up leanin’ back on the bed, flippin’ through one of Toby’s library books half-heartedly when what I’m really doing is keeping an eye on the quad.
Everything perks up when Toby walks back through those gates.
Anybody who knows him even a little or has more than six brain cells to rub together -- which ain’t many of these assholes -- can tell that he’s been visiting with his kids just from the way he strides into the room. He’s walking fast, bouncin’ with each step, arms swingin’ loose and easy at his sides, corners of his mouth turned up just slightly.
When he steps into the pod, I swear to fucking God the temperature rises about ten degrees just from the energy he’s puttin’ out.
I set aside the book and lean forward on the bed. Maybe I’m tryin’ to soak up those vibes. “Good visit,” I say.
It ain’t a question, but he nods anyway, and the half-smile becomes a full-blown grin.
“They’re getting so big, Chris,” he says, which is what he says after every visit, and I can’t imagine that Holly and Gary grow so much that he can tell the difference every two weeks. It’s on my mind to ask him if they’re some sorta mutant children, but I figure that’d earn me a dirty look and the cold shoulder for at least a couple of hours, and I really do want to take that shower with Toby in tow, so I guess I’ll save that one until I really want to get under his skin.
“Yeah,” I say, which is my normal reply, and to anybody else it’d mean something along the lines of ‘that’s great, but I really don’t give a shit’. But Toby ain’t like anybody else. He’s the kind of guy that thinks that the people he cares about all gotta care about each other, too.
So Toby goes on and on about the way Holly’s learnin’ to stay inside the lines in her colouring book, and how two weeks ago Gary wanted to be a fireman when he grows up but now he wants to be an astronaut, and it ain’t that I don’t like hearin’ about that stuff, ‘cause I do. I like the way Toby’s face lights up and that warm soft look he gets in his eyes. But I find myself getting up from the bed and stalking to the door frame, showing him my back while I scan the quad and listen to him rambling on. And after a while it’s like every word is a little knife scraping at my skin, digging shallow cuts into my flesh until I’m pretty sure I’m gonna bleed out right there in front of him. And he’s so caught up in his kids, in his parents and their trip to South Dakota, in that life he’s got waitin’ for him on the outside, I’m not sure he’d even notice.
“The Latinos are up to something,” I say as I turn away from the glass, cutting him off in mid-sentence.
He purses his lips, shifts in place to glance past me out into the common area.
“Trouble?” he says, and the way his body gets stiff and his eyes get wary makes me feel like a piece of shit for tryin’ to distract him. For tryin’ to make him stop thinking about his kids and start thinking about me. About Oz.
“Nah,” I say, pushing away from the glass. “Nothin’ the hacks can’t handle.”
The Latinos ain’t up to nothing more than cheatin’ at cards, which they do every day as a matter of principle, but Toby’s still got that antsy look so I take a couple of steps closer, brush my hand down his sleeve, put on my best smile. “What were you sayin’ about Holly?” I ask, even though I ain’t got a fucking idea if it was Holly or Gary or Mother Teresa he was talkin’ about when I interrupted him.
He blinks once, slowly, before turning his attention back to me. He smiles at me indulgently, and reaches a hand into the pocket of his hoodie.
“Holly gave me this,” he says.
He pulls out a cookie -- a thick white creamy middle flanked by two chocolate wafers.
“It’s an Oreo,” he says.
“I’m not actually retarded,“ I say, even as I lick my lips in anticipation, reach out a hand.
He pulls the cookie back quickly, cups it in his palm. “Ohhh,” he says, “I don’t think so.”
Bitch.
“I was thinking about this all the way back here,” he lies as he twists and pops off the top of the cookie. He narrows his eyes and looks at me speculatively before tucking the chocolate piece back in his pocket.
I cross my arms at my chest, affecting nonchalance, while I debate tackling him and wrestling the remainder of the cookie from his hands. I could do it. I ain’t never used my full strength on him -- not in bed, not in the gym, not on the wrestling mat. Not even that last time.
Then his tongue snakes out to lick at the creamy white filling, and I can’t really think at all.
The thing is, Toby’s tongue is nothin’ short of miraculous. Toby’s tongue is able to do things that turn my insides to jelly, that make me bite my lip and clench my fists, that make me writhe and squirm, that make me breathless and weak. And I can’t keep up any kind of disinterested air when he’s rotating that damn fucking cookie slowly in his hand, when that tongue is licking wide wet swathes across that cream over and over again, when my entire world has dwindled down to that exceptional tongue and the things it can do.
My arms have dropped down to my sides and my breathin’ is gettin’ heavy by the time he finishes lapping up that cream with a final flourish. And when I finally manage to drag my gaze up to his eyes, he’s lookin’ at me like the cat that swallowed the canary. That rhyme-spewing motherfucker that I first met ain’t ever too far below the surface, and he’s dancin’ behind Toby’s eyes right now.
He doesn’t take his eyes off me as he pops the chocolate cookie in his mouth.
And before I know it I’ve taken two steps across the room, crushed him in my arms, and propelled him up against the back wall, my lips already against his, plundering that sweet little mouth, stickin‘ my own tongue down his throat and seekin‘ out every last taste of chocolate and icing and him.
He laughs against my lips even as he opens his mouth to mine, drags his fingers into my hair, nips and sucks at my bottom lip, and presses us even closer together.
Even when one of the hacks pounds on the door it takes a long moment before I can manage to pull away, and after Mineo has scowled and yelled and finally stalked away, I look over at Toby, tousled and sweaty, lips full and wet, and want to jump right back in. Fuck the hacks.
Toby reads my mind ’cause he shakes his head, just slightly, and steps around me to lean against the sink.
“Well,” he says with a smirk, “that was even better than I expected.”
I wipe a finger across my bottom lip, nudging at the place where his teeth caught flesh, gaze at the tiny spot of blood on my index finger. Don’t trust myself to say a word. Don’t trust myself to even breathe.
“Hey, Chris,” he says.
I look up silently.
He sticks his tongue -- his astounding fucking tongue -- in his cheek, then reaches into the pocket of his hoodie and draws out two more Oreos.
“What do you say we save these ‘til lights out?”
I should really find out if Toby’s parents can bring the kids for a visit every week.
.
The first story is dedicated to ozsaur. When I first started chatting with some Oz fans, the one name that constantly came up in conversation was ozsaur. When I finally met up with her on IM, I understood why. She is an enthusiastic cheerleader and a leader in keeping the fandom active. Now I look forward to our regular morning chats, whether we're talking about our families, analyzing Toby's relationships, or brainstorming about fanfic. :)
This story is actually something she mentioned wanting to read, though she's probably forgotten all about it now!
Merry Christmas, ozsaur!
Title: Cookie Monster
Fandom: Oz
Timeframe: Early Season Four. Let's assume there was some free time before it all went to hell, shall we?
Prompt: 25moments #16 - Food
Word Count: 1435
Cookie Monster
by Severina
Bored.
Bored bored fucking bored.
I’ve looked through every mag in this joint, even Toby’s most recent copy of American Lawyer. Readin’ about law-firm mergers and profit and loss strategies ain’t exactly scintillating, but I been through my own copies of Busty Beauties and Raunch so many times I got all the tits and pussies memorized. I don’t feel like playin’ checkers with Hill or chess with O’Reily, and truth be told I don’t even feel like jerkin’ off. And I already took in my thirty minutes of gym time, and I been saving the shower ‘til Toby gets back.
I end up leanin’ back on the bed, flippin’ through one of Toby’s library books half-heartedly when what I’m really doing is keeping an eye on the quad.
Everything perks up when Toby walks back through those gates.
Anybody who knows him even a little or has more than six brain cells to rub together -- which ain’t many of these assholes -- can tell that he’s been visiting with his kids just from the way he strides into the room. He’s walking fast, bouncin’ with each step, arms swingin’ loose and easy at his sides, corners of his mouth turned up just slightly.
When he steps into the pod, I swear to fucking God the temperature rises about ten degrees just from the energy he’s puttin’ out.
I set aside the book and lean forward on the bed. Maybe I’m tryin’ to soak up those vibes. “Good visit,” I say.
It ain’t a question, but he nods anyway, and the half-smile becomes a full-blown grin.
“They’re getting so big, Chris,” he says, which is what he says after every visit, and I can’t imagine that Holly and Gary grow so much that he can tell the difference every two weeks. It’s on my mind to ask him if they’re some sorta mutant children, but I figure that’d earn me a dirty look and the cold shoulder for at least a couple of hours, and I really do want to take that shower with Toby in tow, so I guess I’ll save that one until I really want to get under his skin.
“Yeah,” I say, which is my normal reply, and to anybody else it’d mean something along the lines of ‘that’s great, but I really don’t give a shit’. But Toby ain’t like anybody else. He’s the kind of guy that thinks that the people he cares about all gotta care about each other, too.
So Toby goes on and on about the way Holly’s learnin’ to stay inside the lines in her colouring book, and how two weeks ago Gary wanted to be a fireman when he grows up but now he wants to be an astronaut, and it ain’t that I don’t like hearin’ about that stuff, ‘cause I do. I like the way Toby’s face lights up and that warm soft look he gets in his eyes. But I find myself getting up from the bed and stalking to the door frame, showing him my back while I scan the quad and listen to him rambling on. And after a while it’s like every word is a little knife scraping at my skin, digging shallow cuts into my flesh until I’m pretty sure I’m gonna bleed out right there in front of him. And he’s so caught up in his kids, in his parents and their trip to South Dakota, in that life he’s got waitin’ for him on the outside, I’m not sure he’d even notice.
“The Latinos are up to something,” I say as I turn away from the glass, cutting him off in mid-sentence.
He purses his lips, shifts in place to glance past me out into the common area.
“Trouble?” he says, and the way his body gets stiff and his eyes get wary makes me feel like a piece of shit for tryin’ to distract him. For tryin’ to make him stop thinking about his kids and start thinking about me. About Oz.
“Nah,” I say, pushing away from the glass. “Nothin’ the hacks can’t handle.”
The Latinos ain’t up to nothing more than cheatin’ at cards, which they do every day as a matter of principle, but Toby’s still got that antsy look so I take a couple of steps closer, brush my hand down his sleeve, put on my best smile. “What were you sayin’ about Holly?” I ask, even though I ain’t got a fucking idea if it was Holly or Gary or Mother Teresa he was talkin’ about when I interrupted him.
He blinks once, slowly, before turning his attention back to me. He smiles at me indulgently, and reaches a hand into the pocket of his hoodie.
“Holly gave me this,” he says.
He pulls out a cookie -- a thick white creamy middle flanked by two chocolate wafers.
“It’s an Oreo,” he says.
“I’m not actually retarded,“ I say, even as I lick my lips in anticipation, reach out a hand.
He pulls the cookie back quickly, cups it in his palm. “Ohhh,” he says, “I don’t think so.”
Bitch.
“I was thinking about this all the way back here,” he lies as he twists and pops off the top of the cookie. He narrows his eyes and looks at me speculatively before tucking the chocolate piece back in his pocket.
I cross my arms at my chest, affecting nonchalance, while I debate tackling him and wrestling the remainder of the cookie from his hands. I could do it. I ain’t never used my full strength on him -- not in bed, not in the gym, not on the wrestling mat. Not even that last time.
Then his tongue snakes out to lick at the creamy white filling, and I can’t really think at all.
The thing is, Toby’s tongue is nothin’ short of miraculous. Toby’s tongue is able to do things that turn my insides to jelly, that make me bite my lip and clench my fists, that make me writhe and squirm, that make me breathless and weak. And I can’t keep up any kind of disinterested air when he’s rotating that damn fucking cookie slowly in his hand, when that tongue is licking wide wet swathes across that cream over and over again, when my entire world has dwindled down to that exceptional tongue and the things it can do.
My arms have dropped down to my sides and my breathin’ is gettin’ heavy by the time he finishes lapping up that cream with a final flourish. And when I finally manage to drag my gaze up to his eyes, he’s lookin’ at me like the cat that swallowed the canary. That rhyme-spewing motherfucker that I first met ain’t ever too far below the surface, and he’s dancin’ behind Toby’s eyes right now.
He doesn’t take his eyes off me as he pops the chocolate cookie in his mouth.
And before I know it I’ve taken two steps across the room, crushed him in my arms, and propelled him up against the back wall, my lips already against his, plundering that sweet little mouth, stickin‘ my own tongue down his throat and seekin‘ out every last taste of chocolate and icing and him.
He laughs against my lips even as he opens his mouth to mine, drags his fingers into my hair, nips and sucks at my bottom lip, and presses us even closer together.
Even when one of the hacks pounds on the door it takes a long moment before I can manage to pull away, and after Mineo has scowled and yelled and finally stalked away, I look over at Toby, tousled and sweaty, lips full and wet, and want to jump right back in. Fuck the hacks.
Toby reads my mind ’cause he shakes his head, just slightly, and steps around me to lean against the sink.
“Well,” he says with a smirk, “that was even better than I expected.”
I wipe a finger across my bottom lip, nudging at the place where his teeth caught flesh, gaze at the tiny spot of blood on my index finger. Don’t trust myself to say a word. Don’t trust myself to even breathe.
“Hey, Chris,” he says.
I look up silently.
He sticks his tongue -- his astounding fucking tongue -- in his cheek, then reaches into the pocket of his hoodie and draws out two more Oreos.
“What do you say we save these ‘til lights out?”
I should really find out if Toby’s parents can bring the kids for a visit every week.
.