Oz FlashFiction #19: "Changes"
It's PORN TUESDAY. So sayeth trillingstar. I hear and obey.
Title: Changes
Prompt: 19 - Leftovers (Challenge #13: Under The Cover of Night)
Character/Pairing: Beecher/Keller
Timeframe: Early S4
Authors Notes: Porn is not my forte, okay?
Word Count: 504
Changes
by Severina
Vaguely, he remembers sex on a king sized bed, moonlight on the pillows, Gen soft and pliant in his arms. In his mind the image is pleasant but distant, like his memories of the family trips to the beach when he was a kid, the water lapping gently at the shore and the scent of coconut lotion in the air. It confuses him. He knows that he liked it, but he can’t imagine why.
Now, Toby drops his forehead to the damp sheet, gasps raggedly. Chris drapes over him, all hard lines, blunt fingers digging into his hip, breath harsh in his ear. Two fingers flex slowly, steadily inside him, working him open, and Toby’s world narrows down to tiny moments, eye-blinks -- the firm press of Chris’s chest against his back, the scratch of the blanket against his cheek, the sting of sweat dripping into his eyes, his dick hard and leaking against his stomach.
He pushes back, rocks upward, and when he speaks -- for Christ sake, Keller, just fuck me already -- he doesn’t even recognize his own voice, strained and desperate and raw with need.
When Chris pushes inside it is fast and rough and just how Toby wants it, and he braces his hands on the bed frame, closes his eyes, ignores the memory-flash of his hands tied and the smell of sulphur from the lit match. Knows that this is nothing like that, nothing, that even though Chris is stronger and faster all he has to do is open his mouth and Chris will stop.
Chris’s grip on his hip tightens as his strokes become shorter, erratic, and Toby drops his hand to his cock, matches the rhythm. He knows that in the morning, in the shower, he will find bruises from that grip smudged onto his skin, and he will let the tips of his fingers dance over them, eyes wide in wonder, half-hard under the spray. The image is enough to send him spiralling over the edge, and it’s only when Chris’s hand clamps down hard over his mouth that he realizes he’s made some noise, drawn some attention when attention cannot be drawn. He shifts, lips upturned, nips at the pad of Chris’s hand, and then Chris is stiffening against him, shuddering too.
There used to be red wine and vanilla-scented candles, soft music. Now there is this -- Chris moving easily behind him, mouth open at the nape of his neck, one muscled arm draped over his waist. Come drying on his chest, finger-shaped blotches scorched onto his skin. The flicker of light at the guard tower which warns that soon they’ll have to move to separate bunks, pretend that none of this ever happened.
He stifles a sigh, rests his hand over Chris’s and smiles to himself when Chris’s fingers curl into his own. They have a few minutes yet. Toby lets his eyes drift shut, knows that Chris will rouse him before the guard arrives. He’s content, and not confused at all.
.
Title: Changes
Prompt: 19 - Leftovers (Challenge #13: Under The Cover of Night)
Character/Pairing: Beecher/Keller
Timeframe: Early S4
Authors Notes: Porn is not my forte, okay?
Word Count: 504
Changes
by Severina
Vaguely, he remembers sex on a king sized bed, moonlight on the pillows, Gen soft and pliant in his arms. In his mind the image is pleasant but distant, like his memories of the family trips to the beach when he was a kid, the water lapping gently at the shore and the scent of coconut lotion in the air. It confuses him. He knows that he liked it, but he can’t imagine why.
Now, Toby drops his forehead to the damp sheet, gasps raggedly. Chris drapes over him, all hard lines, blunt fingers digging into his hip, breath harsh in his ear. Two fingers flex slowly, steadily inside him, working him open, and Toby’s world narrows down to tiny moments, eye-blinks -- the firm press of Chris’s chest against his back, the scratch of the blanket against his cheek, the sting of sweat dripping into his eyes, his dick hard and leaking against his stomach.
He pushes back, rocks upward, and when he speaks -- for Christ sake, Keller, just fuck me already -- he doesn’t even recognize his own voice, strained and desperate and raw with need.
When Chris pushes inside it is fast and rough and just how Toby wants it, and he braces his hands on the bed frame, closes his eyes, ignores the memory-flash of his hands tied and the smell of sulphur from the lit match. Knows that this is nothing like that, nothing, that even though Chris is stronger and faster all he has to do is open his mouth and Chris will stop.
Chris’s grip on his hip tightens as his strokes become shorter, erratic, and Toby drops his hand to his cock, matches the rhythm. He knows that in the morning, in the shower, he will find bruises from that grip smudged onto his skin, and he will let the tips of his fingers dance over them, eyes wide in wonder, half-hard under the spray. The image is enough to send him spiralling over the edge, and it’s only when Chris’s hand clamps down hard over his mouth that he realizes he’s made some noise, drawn some attention when attention cannot be drawn. He shifts, lips upturned, nips at the pad of Chris’s hand, and then Chris is stiffening against him, shuddering too.
There used to be red wine and vanilla-scented candles, soft music. Now there is this -- Chris moving easily behind him, mouth open at the nape of his neck, one muscled arm draped over his waist. Come drying on his chest, finger-shaped blotches scorched onto his skin. The flicker of light at the guard tower which warns that soon they’ll have to move to separate bunks, pretend that none of this ever happened.
He stifles a sigh, rests his hand over Chris’s and smiles to himself when Chris’s fingers curl into his own. They have a few minutes yet. Toby lets his eyes drift shut, knows that Chris will rouse him before the guard arrives. He’s content, and not confused at all.
.