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I read meta all day, and this is what I come up with. :)
Title: White Night
Fandom: Oz
Pairing: Beecher/Keller
Rating: R
Disclaimer: HBO and Fontana = not me
Summary: Sleep, angst and sap in no particular order.
A/N: Written for the Flash Fiction Challenge #13: Under the Cover of Night at![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
hardtime100. This kind of started as a prompt I originally gave to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
cheights awhile back, but she said I could share. :)
Well now hold on / maybe I won’t go to sleep at all / and it’ll be a beautiful white night
~ Frank O’Hara, “Lunch Poems”
*
He told me he wouldn’t fall asleep, but I know better. That was three and half hours ago, and in the past four nights he’s yet to make it back up to his bunk without me kicking his ass out of bed. A part of me likes to think he plans it all, the little shit, makes those soft little whimper noises of protest whenever I start jabbing him in the ribs, gently, whispering, “Lights are comin’ on, Tobe,” in his ear before pressing my mouth to his cheek in a half kiss. He’ll frown in his sleep and it’ll be another half hour before I finally get the balls to really wake him.
I’ve never liked sleeping alone, never been the type to sprawl out and take advantage of queen size beds in hotel rooms. I like having that heat against me, the knowledge that there’s someone living and breathing beside you, sleeping there because they want to be there with you.
I could wax rhapsodic about sleep being the ultimate trust, but the truth is I just fucking love watching Toby sleep.
At first it was like he fought the urge to let his eyes shut, as if he thought passing out would cause him to later wake and find me gone, the whole thing a sham, a dream. He’d get this tick where he’d lick his lips slowly over and over again, his cheek sinking deeper into my pillow as his eyes drooped. But something would always be in motion; his hand against my neck, the tips of his fingers making swirling patterns along my skin, the top of my spine, trailing up into my hair before he’d finally sigh, long and deep. The hand would go slack and slip away, curling inward to his chest.
Other times, Christ…the sweat wouldn’t even be cool before he’d be out like a damn light. Like tonight.
His hair is damp at his temples and his upper lip is shiny, but he’s finally stopped panting; I can’t hear his heartbeat anymore. His lips are still parted and his breath comes in thin, sharp bursts of damp heat I can felt against my chin. We’ve probably soaked my pillowcase and I don’t give a shit.
Like a reflex action, my hand comes out to cradle his neck, cupping the base of his skull. I can still taste him in my mouth and I want to keep it there, fresh and slightly bitter, for the rest of the day, long after the lights come on so I can know that this moment was real. Sure, we’re not going anywhere, and I can always feel it throughout the day, that lazy heat hanging over us, but in the end it’s not the same. It’s still not holding him, naked, as the rush subsides from his body.
The pod door could never open again and I’d be happy. I could live my whole life here, in this bunk, watching that softness creep over Toby’s face as his breath evens out. He looks young, a little sweet, and I want to believe I’m the only one that’s witnessed this transformation, that it’s mine, my gift. I brought him this peace, even for a moment, and I’ll look my fucking share.
I like to think I stay awake, but it’s bullshit, I know. I ain’t that strong; if I was I wouldn’t have opened my eyes like I did last night and found Toby leaning over me, kissing me awake, saying, “What do you want?” in that edgy, breathless tone of his, like he’s not still a little skittish, a little shy when it comes to all this.
“Whatever you got,” I sighed back, and fuck, the way he bit his lip before sliding down to the foot of the bed is a sight I want permanently burned in my brain. I watched my cock disappear into his mouth, watched him sigh as his cheeks hollowed out, and I just whispered his name—TobyTobyToby—and swore never to sleep again.
He said something after he’d swallowed everything I had (he’s developed a new habit of looking up at me and running his tongue along the inside of his bottom lip, blinking slowly, and yeah, I fucking taught him that somehow and I’m proud), and I loved how he’d laughed slightly, as if it were an afterthought.
“Is it always like this?”
“Sure,” I laughed, “and if you’re giving me head like that when I’m eighty, you’ll need to go in a fucking hall of fame or something.” It came out feeling right, but I saw that pinch above his nose.
But I didn’t say anymore, and neither did he, and that’s the way it should be.
Like I said, I ain’t that strong.
It doesn’t matter, anyway. Eighty plus years, yeah, that’s real, fucking solid, but so’s this. Toby’s making weird grumbling noises in his sleeping and I can feel the time slipping away.
“Beech.” I scrub my thumb against his cheek. “Wake up.”
He sighs, tucks his face away, and I feel the warmth of his leg slide against mine.
“Five minutes.”
“What am I, your snooze button?”
His leg slides higher, knee brushing lightly against my crotch. “Hardly.”
For once, I should be the one that’s all huffy and shit, but Toby’s got that market cornered, so I don’t even try. Instead, I roll him onto his back and give him his five minutes.
When the lights come on he’s barely tucked into his own bunk, still gasping for breath.
Doesn’t get anymore real than that, baby.
Fandom: Oz
Pairing: Beecher/Keller
Rating: R
Disclaimer: HBO and Fontana = not me
Summary: Sleep, angst and sap in no particular order.
A/N: Written for the Flash Fiction Challenge #13: Under the Cover of Night at
hardtime100. This kind of started as a prompt I originally gave to cheights awhile back, but she said I could share. :)Well now hold on / maybe I won’t go to sleep at all / and it’ll be a beautiful white night
~ Frank O’Hara, “Lunch Poems”
*
He told me he wouldn’t fall asleep, but I know better. That was three and half hours ago, and in the past four nights he’s yet to make it back up to his bunk without me kicking his ass out of bed. A part of me likes to think he plans it all, the little shit, makes those soft little whimper noises of protest whenever I start jabbing him in the ribs, gently, whispering, “Lights are comin’ on, Tobe,” in his ear before pressing my mouth to his cheek in a half kiss. He’ll frown in his sleep and it’ll be another half hour before I finally get the balls to really wake him.
I’ve never liked sleeping alone, never been the type to sprawl out and take advantage of queen size beds in hotel rooms. I like having that heat against me, the knowledge that there’s someone living and breathing beside you, sleeping there because they want to be there with you.
I could wax rhapsodic about sleep being the ultimate trust, but the truth is I just fucking love watching Toby sleep.
At first it was like he fought the urge to let his eyes shut, as if he thought passing out would cause him to later wake and find me gone, the whole thing a sham, a dream. He’d get this tick where he’d lick his lips slowly over and over again, his cheek sinking deeper into my pillow as his eyes drooped. But something would always be in motion; his hand against my neck, the tips of his fingers making swirling patterns along my skin, the top of my spine, trailing up into my hair before he’d finally sigh, long and deep. The hand would go slack and slip away, curling inward to his chest.
Other times, Christ…the sweat wouldn’t even be cool before he’d be out like a damn light. Like tonight.
His hair is damp at his temples and his upper lip is shiny, but he’s finally stopped panting; I can’t hear his heartbeat anymore. His lips are still parted and his breath comes in thin, sharp bursts of damp heat I can felt against my chin. We’ve probably soaked my pillowcase and I don’t give a shit.
Like a reflex action, my hand comes out to cradle his neck, cupping the base of his skull. I can still taste him in my mouth and I want to keep it there, fresh and slightly bitter, for the rest of the day, long after the lights come on so I can know that this moment was real. Sure, we’re not going anywhere, and I can always feel it throughout the day, that lazy heat hanging over us, but in the end it’s not the same. It’s still not holding him, naked, as the rush subsides from his body.
The pod door could never open again and I’d be happy. I could live my whole life here, in this bunk, watching that softness creep over Toby’s face as his breath evens out. He looks young, a little sweet, and I want to believe I’m the only one that’s witnessed this transformation, that it’s mine, my gift. I brought him this peace, even for a moment, and I’ll look my fucking share.
I like to think I stay awake, but it’s bullshit, I know. I ain’t that strong; if I was I wouldn’t have opened my eyes like I did last night and found Toby leaning over me, kissing me awake, saying, “What do you want?” in that edgy, breathless tone of his, like he’s not still a little skittish, a little shy when it comes to all this.
“Whatever you got,” I sighed back, and fuck, the way he bit his lip before sliding down to the foot of the bed is a sight I want permanently burned in my brain. I watched my cock disappear into his mouth, watched him sigh as his cheeks hollowed out, and I just whispered his name—TobyTobyToby—and swore never to sleep again.
He said something after he’d swallowed everything I had (he’s developed a new habit of looking up at me and running his tongue along the inside of his bottom lip, blinking slowly, and yeah, I fucking taught him that somehow and I’m proud), and I loved how he’d laughed slightly, as if it were an afterthought.
“Is it always like this?”
“Sure,” I laughed, “and if you’re giving me head like that when I’m eighty, you’ll need to go in a fucking hall of fame or something.” It came out feeling right, but I saw that pinch above his nose.
But I didn’t say anymore, and neither did he, and that’s the way it should be.
Like I said, I ain’t that strong.
It doesn’t matter, anyway. Eighty plus years, yeah, that’s real, fucking solid, but so’s this. Toby’s making weird grumbling noises in his sleeping and I can feel the time slipping away.
“Beech.” I scrub my thumb against his cheek. “Wake up.”
He sighs, tucks his face away, and I feel the warmth of his leg slide against mine.
“Five minutes.”
“What am I, your snooze button?”
His leg slides higher, knee brushing lightly against my crotch. “Hardly.”
For once, I should be the one that’s all huffy and shit, but Toby’s got that market cornered, so I don’t even try. Instead, I roll him onto his back and give him his five minutes.
When the lights come on he’s barely tucked into his own bunk, still gasping for breath.
Doesn’t get anymore real than that, baby.
no subject
I could hear Keller's voice in my head as I read this. And Toby's huffy voice along with the yawning sound the pod doors make when they unlock them in the morning.
Beautiful.
no subject
Thank you!!
no subject