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by Llama

"You're missing dinner again."

Toby looks up from his book slowly, even though he's been anticipating this for a few minutes. He knew Keller was on his way well before he reached the pod. Knew he was up to something too, and yeah, he's up on his toes, all sideways glances and no hands even though they're alone. There's a glint of mischief in his eyes, and the promise of more in the way he leans in over the edge of the bunk.

Yeah, he's up to something.

"I'm not really hungry." Not when there's half an hour's quiet reading to be snatched, a break from the ever-present tension. Not when there's only one bored hack ignoring him for some TV time on duty.

Keller's mouth twitches then. "Oh. Okay." But his hands are still hidden, and the cocky grin that lingers when he ducks under the metal rim of the bunk says it won't be long before Toby has to find out what he's doing.

What he's doing, when Toby gives in to the inevitable and leans over the edge, is having a picnic, of all things. The wrong way up, of course, but jumping down to join him fixes that easily enough. Keller's obliging enough to make room for him, but reaching for a bread roll gets Toby a slapped hand for his trouble.

"Ah ah. You're not hungry."

Toby could punch him for that smug grin, if it wasn't so good to see him in this mood.

"So you're going to sit there and eat, and just watch me drool, is that it?"

Keller licks his fingers clean and looks him straight in the eye. "That's the plan."


He should just go back up to his bunk and read his book, but Keller's leg is warm where it's rubbing oh so casually against his, and if there's a better sight in Oz - or maybe anywhere - than the man stretched out in front of him then he's not seen it yet. Besides, Keller needs a lookout, because he's got his back to the glass to hide his stolen feast, the rest of his haul nestled in the crook of his leg. The thin paper wrapping is already glistening and transparent from the grease, and oh god, no. Toby knows what it is even before Keller pulls out the piece of chicken.

Toby's never liked bones in his food. It's a leftover memory of childhood; the sudden discovery that the meat on his plate was once the same as the happy, friendly creatures he drew pictures of at school for his mother to put on the wall. Later, long drowsy business lunches with people who didn't mind their food staring back at them from their plate always filled him with the same remembered horror.

Keller though, he revels in the occasional scrawny chicken wing they slip in between the bland stews and shapes of deep-fried processed meat. Usually Toby has his eyes on his own plate, trying to shave overcooked meat off his portion without getting too close to the bone, and he wants to move now but Keller's obvious fascination has already caught him. His eyes follow the flash of crisp skin and pink-white streaked flesh, watch it twist between those same fingers that touch and tease him, that torment him under that steady, predatory gaze.

Keller's teeth pull carefully at the roasted skin; more carefully than they nip at Toby's neck in the dark, it seems. Yet his skin always stays stubbornly where it belongs, while this slides off the shiny, succulent flesh with ease, and Toby has to catch himself from darting forward to snatch it out of his mouth at the last minute.

The sudden curve of those lips tells him that Keller knows exactly what went through his mind. Pretending he was just shifting position isn't going to wash, especially when he has to bite down to stop his tongue mirroring the one that wipes away the traces of juice from his mouth.

Lips give way to teeth, and Toby can see them sink in, test the meat, detach it gently from the carefully stretched bones that seem so fragile in those hands. Every twist sends a skitter through his heart; a split second of dread when he waits for the joints to strain and break, the bones to snap, crack, split apart under the hands that hold them in their grasp.

But they don't. The spit just turns again and again, fingers and tongue and teeth stripping the meat in efficient slivers, deftly seeking out the tenderest parts to devour. Piece by piece it disappears, Toby's eyes following each bite from selection to swallow.

"I gotta say, you're missing a treat here, Toby."

Keller's grin is sly though, and his attention on Toby again.

Or still.

"It's a real shame you're not hungry."

Oh yes, this is all for his benefit, because nobody needs to caress their food with their lips as he seems to be doing. Is he sucking or kissing, eating or teasing? And does it really matter when the flesh they touch can't feel it; when it's really vibrant, living skin that they both see in its place? It could be the sensitive inside of Toby's wrist caught in that caress, or the back of his knee flexing under the pressure of those fingers; any one of those favourite, favoured places on Toby's body. Any of the many targets Keller zooms in on in fleeting moments when he catches Toby unawares with his need for instant, aggressively intimate touches.

Kind of like now, when Keller's fingers are unfurling and stretching out towards his mouth before he knows it, and there's not a threat in the world that could stop him opening up to let them in. Juice smears on his lips, but he sucks those fingers as if he can keep the connection forever, as greedy for the rub of rough skin beneath as he is for the flavour.

Greedier even, because it's harder to let go when they wriggle, bend and pull away even though he clamps his lips tightly around them. Keller slows, but still twists them out of his reach.


All he gets is a half-smile, but he can't help shuffling closer, even when he realises that of course, there's the other hand. Another pair of fingers to suck on, and this time they don't pull away so quickly, but stroke back, tickling the roof of his mouth, teasing at his tongue. It's so playful, and Keller's laugh so warm, that Toby doesn't hesitate before catching hold of that wrist, holding the hand still to lick along his palm. He lets his tongue dip between the slippery fingers, run up and around the crooked thumb that's trying to reach back to Toby's mouth anyway. And now it's Keller mirroring him, spreading the joint wide to expose the last hidden meat, his tongue searching out any flavour left behind, slipping over clean bone as Toby flicks in and out of every hollow and crease on his fingers.

He's not sure which of them moves first in the end. Maybe Keller edges an inch or two closer, lets his leg tilt a little more in invitation, or maybe Toby is already reaching for him when that happens. Either way Toby's right there, leaning in when the zip slides down, helping it along the way in his impatience. But Keller's hand beats him to the prize, easing his cock free and stroking over its hardening length, and Toby isn't sure which of them he's teasing more now. Head tilted back and mouth open, Keller's hand slips up and down slowly, leaving a glistening trail of temptation in its wake.

It's too much, just watching, and the old Tobias Beecher - any of them -- would never have believed how much he wants to push Keller's hand out of the way, suck him down, plain or flavoured, any way he can get him. Hands either side of the bunk he tries to nudge his way in, only to feel a hand against his chest, pushing him back.

"Just gonna make it taste good for you." Keller's voice is hoarse, his hand still stroking, slick and smooth.

"There's nothing wrong with the way you taste." He nips at Keller's arm to prove it, smiling against salty skin, but Keller just laughs under his breath.

"Dick tastes like dick, Toby, however much you love me."

But it's not the aroma of those smeared juices that lures Toby closer, that brings his mouth down while his hands brush Keller's away. It's not the promise of satisfying any hunger other than his need for this man that makes him pin Keller to the bunk and wrap his lips around that demanding cock, or that makes him suck him down until he can hear gaspy little breaths above him, feel the quickening pulse under his hands.

It's the taste underneath, the living, breathing, sweating warmth of this complicated creature that makes him stay, careless of approaching feet, until Keller's hips grind hard against him and he breathes out "Toby" one last time. Until there's only that bitter rush in his mouth, and the tingle of satisfaction on his tongue.

And yeah, maybe Keller is right; maybe dick does always taste like dick. But as long as it tastes like Keller too, Toby's not going to complain.
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