erushi (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} erushi) wrote in ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/community.gif){kind=small} the_safehouse,@ 2008-09-11 01:25:00 |
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| Entry tags: | fic 2008 |
Briefing Room #2 Fic: Aftermath
Also for schnuffi, who wanted an extention of my carrot/food-porn comment fic.
Title: Aftermath
Author: Erushi
Format: Short story. (842 words)
Circuit Archive / Pros-Lib: I guess?
Slash/Gen: Slash.
Summary: Unadulterated smut, albeit with the thinnest veneer of something that might resemble (hopefully without any squinting necessary) a vague point - pun not intended! - to tie it to the challenge prompt. With a mention of Keats.
Disclaimer: This is an amateur work written purely for entertainment. No profit is gained from it, nor is any infringement of copyright intended.
Author: Erushi
Format: Short story. (842 words)
Circuit Archive / Pros-Lib: I guess?
Slash/Gen: Slash.
Summary: Unadulterated smut, albeit with the thinnest veneer of something that might resemble (hopefully without any squinting necessary) a vague point - pun not intended! - to tie it to the challenge prompt. With a mention of Keats.
Disclaimer: This is an amateur work written purely for entertainment. No profit is gained from it, nor is any infringement of copyright intended.
Prompt: The last temptation is the greatest treason: to do the right deed for the wrong reason.
Later he shall recall the softened Scottish burr of och lad, but you did a good job, running in like that which had followed a harsh lecture on the importance of following rules and the liquorice bite of single-malt whiskey as it carves a burning path down his throat. For now, his reasons remain his to tell (which he does not), and Bodie chooses instead to remember the huddled bundle wrapped in rope and smeared with blood, more flesh and rags than human, when he had burst into the warehouse alone but for a drawn gun. It takes seven pints of bitter, swallowed hard and fast in the presence of the silent figure beside him that matches him gulp for gulp, before he concludes that the taste of the bile that had risen in his throat at the end of his desperate sprint has been masked and only barely.
When they stumble into his flat it is in an alcoholic haze of clumsy limbs and frantic rubbings of lips that muffle the aggressive clicks of teeth on teeth. Clever hands begin working with nimble fingers at the buttons of his shirt and Bodie thinks that tonight, perhaps, he shall memorise it all. This is what it feels like when the cold, stale air of his flat wraps around his naked torso and bared thighs, what it sounds like when his clothes tumble to the floor in a series of soft rustles and a dull thunk. He files in his memory the whimpers and shudders that follow his hands as he reciprocates, smoothing over soft cotton and over uncovered flesh before kneading deftly at knotted muscle. Doyle’s body is a study of contrasts: smooth skin and wiry hair, lithe muscles and languid movements; Bodie meticulously notes them all.
On the kitchen counter there is a grocery bag made of brown paper that crinkles as a hand reaches in and a carrot is withdrawn. “Do you remember when I...?” Doyle asks, and Bodie pictures the carrot dipping between those kiss-swollen lips one afternoon on the target field and a blowjob against smooth ceramic tiles and tries to say yes. Yes becomes please when carrot and mouth mirror their counterparts in his memory, and please sticks in his throat when the vegetable is given a final flick of tongue before it carefully outlines the countours of his mouth, saliva-wet and hard.
The blunt orange tip paints a slick trail from chin to groin, pausing at his nipples to chafe first at one brown nub and then at the other as they rise and harden, matching pebbles of dusky pink. Bodie says no thinks yes, digs the heels of his feet into the threadbare carpet. The carrot caresses the trembling lines of his inner thighs, traces the pulsing vein of his cock, is replaced by the moist heat of a mouth and a tongue that paints intricate patterns on oversensitive flesh. He thinks he begs when the head is laved and its slit pressed, knows he begs when that talented mouth is withdrawn with a wet pop. And when he is suddenly enveloped by a tunnel that is hot and tight and perfect, he groans at the slipperiness and the accompanying realisation that his partner had come to his flat prepared that randy bugger.
The curly-haired man begins to ride him, and Bodie tries to keep count of the little circular motions made as Doyle fucks himself on his partner’s cock. One thrust to two ticks of the second hand of the clock on the wall, and he realises with disgust that he no longer knows the time because he has forgotten. He had meant to remember but he has forgotten and he doesn’t want to forget because this might well be their last damn it. But Doyle does that strange scissoring motion which tears a strangled stream for his throat, and any frustration he feels at not-remembering melts in the face of harsh pants and the slap of soft flesh-on-flesh and hard muscle-on-muscle one-two-three-four.
When Doyle leans over to scatter kisses over his chest, Bodie imagines a trail of pink smudges that blossom in the wake of nips hard enough to sting. He looks at his fingers gripping bony hips, pictures red marks that fade into purple bruises being left on lightly tanned skin, knows that there won’t be bruises because he will never be able to bring himself to hurt Doyle. Not here, not now.
Their movements have grown quicker and harder, desperate and jerky and out of time with the ticks of the clock – see, he is still trying to memorise it – and Bodie wonders if this is what being in the thrall of love feels like. He thinks of Keats and of La Belle Dame sans Merci, wonders if he should even be thinking of such when it isn’t a dame he is fucking and his partner isn’t what would be conventionally described as belle. Then he is coming, coming, and the echo of his sigh as he comes sounds like merci.
