Oz FlashFiction #40: Visualize
It's Tuesday, so it must be Oz Porn Day. Here is my humble offering. :D
Title: Visualize
Prompt: 40: Lights Out
Character/Pairing: Beecher/Keller
Timeframe: Early S4
Word Count: 493
Visualize
by Severina
The new Playboy arrived in the afternoon, dog-eared and with only a few of the pages stuck together, and Chris had planned on spending the evening getting acquainted with Miss February. But then Toby suggests a game of chess; hangs his head and hunches his shoulders when Chris’s eyes drift to the glossy cover. So Chris drags the trunk out to the middle of the room and pretends not to notice the way Toby’s eyes light up as he fetches the board.
They win one game apiece and stop there, as they always do, having learned through experience that the third game just leads to acrimony (and on one momentous occasion, a cracked board, skinned knuckles, and a stint in the hole.) Chris wanders over to his bunk while Toby stows the game, figures he’s got about thirty minutes left to commune with the lovely Cheryl from Stockport, but he finds his attention drawn from airbrushed tits to Toby, sprawled out with a novel on the pod’s lone chair.
Chris rotates his neck, flicks a page in the magazine. Tries to concentrate. Cheryl From Stockport reclines on a plush rug, pale pert ass in the air, and Chris shifts minutely on the bed, watches Toby from beneath lowered lashes. Pictures Toby last night (and the night before that, and the night before that…) sweat-slicked and straining beneath him, gasping; pictures sinking into Toby’s sweet ass, watching his cock disappear one slow deliberate inch at a time; pictures the way Toby’s palm flicks out sharply to crack at his thigh, to urge him to move faster, harder, Toby’s blunt nails scraping against his skin. Pictures lowering himself over Toby’s back, snapping his hips, giving Toby wants he wants, what he needs. Sliding his mouth over the slick flesh of Toby’s spine as it arches beneath him, lips eating up the space between them like candy.
He lets the magazine slip from this fingers, runs a flattened palm over his stirring dick. Toby keeps his eyes on his book, but he hasn’t turned a page in awhile, and when he licks his lips slowly Chris knows that he’s not seeing the words on the page. When he swallows convulsively, Chris knows what he’s seeing in his mind’s eye.
He watches Toby try for casual as he rises from the chair, slips his novel onto the seat and walks to the sink to brush his teeth before lights out. The set of his shoulders, the stiffness of his spine gives him away every time.
Tonight, he decides he’ll keep Toby on the edge. Whisper in his ear all the filthy things he’s going to do, wants to do, would do if they had more time, more space, more toys. Tonight, Chris wants to make him keen, make him to shake with the need. Tonight, Chris wants Toby to beg.
He leans back on the bed, meets Toby’s eyes in the mirror.
Chris usually gets what he wants.
.
Title: Visualize
Prompt: 40: Lights Out
Character/Pairing: Beecher/Keller
Timeframe: Early S4
Word Count: 493
Visualize
by Severina
The new Playboy arrived in the afternoon, dog-eared and with only a few of the pages stuck together, and Chris had planned on spending the evening getting acquainted with Miss February. But then Toby suggests a game of chess; hangs his head and hunches his shoulders when Chris’s eyes drift to the glossy cover. So Chris drags the trunk out to the middle of the room and pretends not to notice the way Toby’s eyes light up as he fetches the board.
They win one game apiece and stop there, as they always do, having learned through experience that the third game just leads to acrimony (and on one momentous occasion, a cracked board, skinned knuckles, and a stint in the hole.) Chris wanders over to his bunk while Toby stows the game, figures he’s got about thirty minutes left to commune with the lovely Cheryl from Stockport, but he finds his attention drawn from airbrushed tits to Toby, sprawled out with a novel on the pod’s lone chair.
Chris rotates his neck, flicks a page in the magazine. Tries to concentrate. Cheryl From Stockport reclines on a plush rug, pale pert ass in the air, and Chris shifts minutely on the bed, watches Toby from beneath lowered lashes. Pictures Toby last night (and the night before that, and the night before that…) sweat-slicked and straining beneath him, gasping; pictures sinking into Toby’s sweet ass, watching his cock disappear one slow deliberate inch at a time; pictures the way Toby’s palm flicks out sharply to crack at his thigh, to urge him to move faster, harder, Toby’s blunt nails scraping against his skin. Pictures lowering himself over Toby’s back, snapping his hips, giving Toby wants he wants, what he needs. Sliding his mouth over the slick flesh of Toby’s spine as it arches beneath him, lips eating up the space between them like candy.
He lets the magazine slip from this fingers, runs a flattened palm over his stirring dick. Toby keeps his eyes on his book, but he hasn’t turned a page in awhile, and when he licks his lips slowly Chris knows that he’s not seeing the words on the page. When he swallows convulsively, Chris knows what he’s seeing in his mind’s eye.
He watches Toby try for casual as he rises from the chair, slips his novel onto the seat and walks to the sink to brush his teeth before lights out. The set of his shoulders, the stiffness of his spine gives him away every time.
Tonight, he decides he’ll keep Toby on the edge. Whisper in his ear all the filthy things he’s going to do, wants to do, would do if they had more time, more space, more toys. Tonight, Chris wants to make him keen, make him to shake with the need. Tonight, Chris wants Toby to beg.
He leans back on the bed, meets Toby’s eyes in the mirror.
Chris usually gets what he wants.
.