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Most of these were written for various Live Journal Community HardTime100 challenges. They range from a G rating to NC17, from Gen to Slash to NonCon.
Even with eyes closed, Toby can see him. Slouched against the door, smiling that wicked smile...the one that causes meltdown. "You can touch yourself, now." Beecher does. Palm rubbing hard on cloth...feeling friction - heat. A low moan.
"Go ahead. Pull them down." Toby slides the boxers down tense thighs - hand circling, grasping, pulling, tugging. "That's it...just like that." Toby's breath coming in short gasps.
"Now! Come for me, baby..."
Toby cries out...falls back against the mattress. He rolls onto his side....sighs, tears leaking out under lashes. "I miss you, Chris."
"I know, baby."
He touches my chest. My sweaty forehead. His hand on the towel he throws over my back. Palm curved to where shoulder and neck meet. I realize with a shock what his touch is doing to my body. My nipples harden. The tightness in my chest, the stirring in my groin. I barely manage to respond to his whispered "You alright?" His body stretches out...dark line of hair down his belly. My fingers ache to touch him - to follow that line down. Instead, I lie on my bed until his breathing evens out. As he sleeps, I touch myself.
Chris stares at the back of Toby`s head. Beecher smiles and nods at something Cyril says, then twists around, looking for Keller - sensing his intensity: He's there, somewhere. I can feel him. Nooter makes Cyril laugh, and Toby turns back to Miss Sally.
Chris leans against the second floor rail, remembering this morning - his groin pressed against Toby's hip. The sweet pain of hardness against bone. Hand deep in his pocket, Chris savors the memory of Toby's cry of release. Deep shudders rack him, as he gasps through his own. He glances down; shakes his head ruefully. Time to do laundry.
`Mmmm...uh! Oh, man..."
"Wha...they said the meds would kick in soon, ok? Until they do, moaning helps. So leave me the fuck alone, alright?"
"You're not the only one suffering, you know."
"Suck my dick."
Toby snickered. "Dickwad."
"Ass-wipe." Toby drew in a breath in disbelief...did he hear Keller giggling?
That was definitely a giggle. Toby was too shocked to think. He stuttered. "Uh...doofus."
They laughed - hard...tears streaming down both their faces.
"That's it. Neither of us touches the meatloaf, ever again."
(Alvarez, his Grandmamma.) (I don't speak any Spanish, and the three free translators I used on the net offered three totally different translations, so I just chose the one that sounded the most poetic. Hope it's fairly accurate...)
I love thunderstorms. When I was little, my grandmother would wait up for them. I would wake, hearing the deep roll of thunder, the waves of driven rain. Then would come the sharp crack of lightening, and I would crawl into grandmamma's lap, as she sat by the window, talking to the storm. "Escuche La Tormenta, Miguel. Listen to The Storm. La puede oir que usted hablando con usted?"
"Yes, grandmamma, I can hear her talking to me."
I lie awake tonight, and I know La Tormenta is out there. I miss her - I wish I could hear her voice again.
The Touch of His Hand
(Alvarez/O'Reily.) (A companion piece to the Flash Fic of the same name.)
As O'Riley waits for Murphy to arrive and take Alvarez to the Infirmary, he focuses suddenly on the warm heat tingling up his wrist, as Alvarez slowly - unconsciously - rubs his thumb over the blue veins on the inside of his wrist. Breath catching, a heat spreads quickly over his body, pooling in his groin - but instead of cursing his traitorous body, he realizes he wants more. "You'll be ok, hermano," he promises Alvarez, and as they leave, he puts a new plan in motion: get Alvarez to repeat that trick on his wrist, but this time, without the concussion.
(Beecher, Andy schillinger)
Beecher wakes - heart thumping, hands shaking.
"You ok, man?" Andy is at the sink, washcloth in hand. "Nightmare?"
Beecher breathes deep. "Did I wake you?"
"Nah. I was so sweaty...figured I'd cool down some." Andy rinses the cloth, then sits on the bunk. "Here, looks like you need this more than me."
Beecher wipes his face - it feels good - cool against the back of his neck. "Thanks. You feeling better?"
"Yeah. I think maybe I could sleep."
Beecher climbs out of Andy's bunk. He laughs, "Who's helping who, here?"
"Maybe we can help each other."
Beecher smiles. "Maybe."
"You know the drill, Beecher."
As he dropped his boxers on the pile of clothes, and bent over for the C. O., Beecher laughed.
"That tickle, Beecher?" he asked as his gloved fingers went where he had absolutely no wish to ever go again.
"If my grandmother knew what I went through every time she visited, she'd faint."
The C. O. stood up, snapping the latex gloves off, and tossing them. "If my girlfriend knew where my hands were all day, she'd never let me touch her again. Now get the hell out of here."
Beecher saluted, laughing, "Yes sir!"
(Beecher, Cyril, Keller)
Cyril laughs loudly...again. His eyes wide and trusting, staring at Toby, who tells his story in hushed tones. Suddenly louder - Chris can almost hear the words even thru the Plexiglas - Cyril jumps in his chair, and gasps out loud.
"Toby! What's he going to do?" His face so expressive, so open, so easy to read.
Chris thinks back. He can't remember ever being that trusting, that open. He frowns...almost wishing... What the fuck. Wishes are for fools. He turns over in his bunk.
Cyril cries out in surprise as Toby finishes his tale.
"Cyril! Shut the fuck up!"
"Are you still high?"
"No, sir." Beecher's voice is quiet, the bravado gone with the lights.
"Good. I want you to remember this. Bend over that chair."
He's pulled into position; the hard, plastic back digging into his belly. It's uncomfortable as hell, but that's probably the point. His bare ass is raised up high - in plain sight of the curious, the bored, the sadistic.
He pulls out that same worn leather belt he tied Beecher's hands to the bed with that first night he claimed him and branded Beecher as his own.
Schillinger grins wickedly. "This is gonna hurt."
Toby lies awake thinking of simple gestures. The depth of that voice grounding him when he flies apart in his nightmares. The gleam of those eyes spiraling warmth down into his gut. The heat of his smile sparking a touch-fire in his belly. His breath catches. "When did this happen," he wonders? "When did it become important to see his face in the morning? When did my heart start to ache at the most innocent touch? When did I start to imagine what the brush of his lips must feel like against mine?" He falls asleep dreaming of Chris' kiss.
Poet's Downfall; or: Tit Me, Man
"Come-on, Adebisi, I gotta have some tits, man. You know I'm good for it."
"You got green, Poet? Then get the hell out of here. Unless you wanna take it out in trade. You and me. Yes?"
"What do you mean? Trade? What I gotta do?"
"You wanna suck on my tits, you gotta suck on my cock."
"Aw, man. You sick motherfucker. I ain't touching you for nothing. Goddam."
"It`s all up to you. I know you got needs."
"I got demons crawling up my ass, man."
"I can help. Here, hit this. Now, get down on your knees."
Voyeurs and Perverts
Furtive gestures, fumbling touches, hot, clumsy kisses. Hidden between the dryer and the wall, he struggles with the zipper, a greedy hand reaching through to grasp a hard dick. No time to get down on his knees; he'll have to settle for a helping hand - quick tugs and heavy breathing - he comes with a grunt, then puts himself away. Voyeurs and perverts watch through the glass, rubbing their own crotches, wondering if maybe they could be next. A hot hand and a hotter mouth. "Yeah, I could get in line for that, even if I ain`t a fag."
Like a bird of prey he watches from above. Sharp eyes always alert, choosing his victim, then moving in for the kill. Down the stairs from the balcony to the bar, as his chosen prey leaves the dance floor, leaning forward, fighting for the attention of the bartender.
His warm, solid body presses from behind; "Gimmie a refill, and whatever he's having, okay?" His prey turns and is mesmerized by the promise of pleasure in dark, blue eyes. He shivers as the predator strikes, seduced by an easy sensuality he doesn't know to fight.
"Thanks. My name's Brice. What's yours?"
The Bad Man
(Schillinger/Cyril - Warning: NonCon)
The mean guys held him tight, so tight it hurt. But not as much as it hurt when The Bad Man grabbed his hips and pushed his way inside. They shoved a rag in his mouth so he couldn't cry out, couldn't call for help, couldn't say "No!" Burning pain - he struggled, but they held him hard. Hot breath on his neck, scratchy chin; The Bad Man grunted in his ear, and he cried like a baby. But he couldn't help it. When they dropped him to the ground, The Bad Man laughed. "Tell your brother Ryan I said hi."
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