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(Notes:
Was originally supposed to be a "drabble by request," written for
Trasker [who had requested something where one of the boys is going
through his morning routine, and the other is watching him in the
mirror]. It ended up being...longer than a drabble.
*g* Thanks to Mav and Rowan for the speedy beta.)
I usually like to
shave after a
nice, steamy shower—just habit, I guess. I've been doing it that way
ever since I was old enough to have anything to shave. I always
figured it was the same thing most guys did. Chris, though—he just
shaves whenever the mood strikes him. I never have figured out a
pattern to it. We'll finish up a game of chess or even just be lying
around reading or talking, and all of a sudden, he's standing at the
sink lathering up. It's like Chris's basic makeup resists the
confinement of routine.
The same could
probably be said about a
lot of things, I'm learning. By the time I get out of here, I could
probably write a book about things to which Chris's physiology exhibits
a basic, sometimes violent resistance. Runny scrambled eggs, for
instance. Certain kinds of fabric softener. Country music of any kind,
but especially the "really twangy" variety. Being touched by anybody when he's angry.
Letting me read,
uninterrupted, for any longer than an hour at a time.
It's almost
gotten to the point where, after I've been reading for a while, my
brain interrupts itself before he has a
chance to. Right now, I'm staring blankly at page 29 of Herzog.
No matter how hard I try to concentrate, the words just sit there
outside my reach, ink marks on paper that can't hold my interest for
the length of time it would take to decipher them. If I'm honest with
myself, I'll admit that I'm not trying all that hard in the first
place—because Chris is stirring, getting restless, and that has the
potential to be more interesting.
But he's not
heading my way,
and he's not sighing or grumbling or pacing or staring out into the
common area. It's 3:00 in the afternoon, and he's reaching for his
shaving cream and razor. I start to wonder whether lockdown is slowly
turning my brain to putty, because frankly, Chris shaving strikes me as
far more fascinating than anything Saul Bellow might have to say right
now.
A couple of days
ago, we both stopped bothering with shirts
during the day—too warm, not really necessary, and just one more thing
we'd have to wash. Chris is shirtless, bootless, and sockless, wearing
nothing but a wrinkled pair of pants with the fly hanging halfway open.
Muscles in his chest and arms flex and bunch as he spreads shaving
cream over his face. I used to wonder whether he was constantly flexing
for my benefit, maybe not even consciously—but I know now that his
muscles just look that way all the time. Even when he's sleeping.
"Good book
there, Beecher?"
I
look up from the reflection of Chris's pecs in the mirror to that of
his grinning face, now covered in a layer of white lather.
"Riveting."
He laughs and
tilts his head upward, swiping the razor slowly from his throat to his
chin. "You look a little...distracted."
He's
fishing, but I'm not biting. I simply shrug and continue to watch the
foam disappear under each stroke of his razor. Not for the first time,
I find myself admiring his neck as he swivels and tilts his head first
one way, then another. It's fantastically powerful, like the rest of
him. I love that I can drive him crazy by licking that sensitive hollow
where neck meets chest, by nibbling at the strong rope of muscle that
extends from that hollow to his ear, even by just breathing
against it the right way. I love watching his neck, his throat in any
state of exertion; even better, I love coaxing it into one.
I really love watching it
when he gives me head.
And
just the thought of one of my favorite ways for Chris to exert himself
brings with it a torrent of images and remembered sensations that
compel me roll to my side and cross one leg over. I know he has a
pretty good idea why. There are lots of things that easily escape
Chris's notice, but me starting to get hard is never one of them. He
chuckles quietly and rinses his razor before moving on to his left
cheek. "You okay over there?"
"Just fine,
thanks."
"Well..."
The smile he gives me when his eyes meet mine in the mirror is almost
too self-satisfied to be attractive. Almost, but not quite. "Let me
know if there's anything I can do to help."
"Will do."
Of
course, now I can't get the idea of him sucking me off out of my mind.
It seems to be getting easier and easier to distract me from great
works of literature these days. I automatically glance outside the pod
to assess the hack activity, but doing something like what I have in
mind during the day—even this far into lockdown, with the hacks as lazy
as they've become—is more or less out of the question.
More or less...
Sometimes,
meeting a challenge is nothing but a simple matter of providing
sufficient incentive for innovation. Chris, I've learned over the past
couple of weeks, can be very, very innovative, given the right kind of
incentive.
I make sure the
bunk gives a strong, healthy creak as
I shift position again, this time to press my stiffening cock against
the mattress. I let my book fall to the side and reach out to grip the
metal bed frame, and then I close my eyes and start to rock. Each
gentle roll of my hips works my cock against the mattress and makes the
bedsprings squeak, just a little. Just enough for us to hear. My cheeks
flush warm and my breathing gets a little heavier as I lick my lips and
establish a rhythm—nothing anyone outside the pod would ever notice,
but, then again, I'm not particularly interested in getting a blowjob
from anyone outside the pod.
After a few
seconds, I allow myself
to just barely open my eyes. Chris's razor is frozen in mid-stroke, and
now I'm the one being watched. I keep going—no faster, no harder—just
slowly, slowly humping the bed, as Chris's hand finally falls to his
side, surrendering any pretense of finishing his shave. I want to let
my eyes close again, but I can't take them off Chris's reflection, as
his expression transforms from casually teasing to not-so-casually
wanting. If I do this right, pretty soon there won't be anything casual
at all about the way he's looking at me.
This is all
feeling
pretty good, actually, but I'm suddenly inspired to make it feel even
better. I release the bed frame and reach down between my legs to rub
my flattened palm up and down the length of my clothed cock, still
rocking my hips in the same, slow rhythm. Chris likes that a lot, I
think, because suddenly he's next to me—eyes glazed over, breathing
down my neck—before his razor is even finished clattering into the
sink. He sinks a hand in my hair and pulls my head back to kiss me,
smearing my face with shaving cream. I let go of my dick and wrap my
hand around that neck, dig my fingers into those muscles and start
trying to guide him down to where I really want him. Feeling his hot,
clever mouth on mine only makes me want to fuck it that much more.
"Suck
me," I whisper against his lips. He doesn't laugh or try to argue or
even smirk with satisfaction—he just whispers something I can't quite
make out and moves down my body to bury his face between my legs. When
he gets this way, falls into this weird, mindless, sexual autopilot
mode, I almost feel guilty, like I'm getting
away with or
taking advantage of something. But he never seems to mind—not at the
time it's happening, obviously, and not once he comes out of it—so the
feeling passes quickly. Any last remnants of it are gone by the time he
pulls me through my boxers and takes me down his throat, and now yes,
here we are, exactly where I decided I wanted to be only a couple of
minutes ago. I'm lying on my bunk and he's leaning over me, one arm
wrapped tight around my thighs, the other around my hips, holding me
down and sucking my cock. I thrust to meet him, and he takes it
all and then some. He seems like he needs even more, the way his arms
almost lift me off the bed to pull me that much deeper. He might be a
little out of his mind, but he's the one controlling the action here;
as always, I'm content to lie back and let go. We've reached that point
where the entire SORT team could walk in, nightsticks drawn, and
threaten me with a sound beating and a month in the hole and I just
wouldn't be able to give a flying fuck. After everything they've put me
through here, they can give me this.
My brain takes a
valiant stab at logical thought: cover yourself;
you—this—cover it with something. I grope behind me
for the blanket, the sheet, anything,
but I can't, I'm lying on top of them. So much for "incentive" being
the mother of "innovation." More like "sudden onset of blinding lust"
being the mother of "getting your dick sucked in broad daylight where
anyone can easily help themselves to an eyeful." That's when my brain
settles on Plan B: get off as quickly as possible. Get off now. I start to pump my
hips mercilessly, and Chris hums with satisfaction, the tips of his
fingers sinking deep into my thigh.
God, yes, those
fingers...
I pry them off my thigh and shove them between my legs; within seconds,
Chris has worked a finger inside me and I'm biting into my fist as I
come in long, powerful spasms that fold me in half, curl me around him
where he stands. He uses his free hand to soothe me, massaging my
twitching stomach muscles in gentle circles; when I'm finally at rest,
he lets me slide slowly from his mouth.
And there's a
loud rap at the pod door.
I
jump. Chris jumps. I curl into an even tighter ball to shield my
softening cock from view, and Chris takes one slow, insolent step away
from me, beaming at the red-faced hack who's angrily brandishing his
nightstick. He clearly knows what it is that he just missed, but
there's nothing he can do about it now.
"Problem,
officer?"
Chris's voice is thick and rough. I choke back a laugh as he slowly
wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Break it up!"
the
hack sputters. Chris raises his hands in the air and smiles an even
broader smile, and the hack shakes his head and walks away.
I'm
still trying to catch my breath, but I can't stop giggling. As fucked
up as it would probably sound to anyone else, this is the kind of thing
that's going to get me out of here with something resembling my sanity
intact. The giddy feeling of getting away with something—something
that's both fun and forbidden but that doesn't hurt anyone, so no guilt
could possibly come of it. The happy feeling of being in league with
someone else against others who don't necessarily have your best
interests at heart. The incomparable feeling of having someone look at
you the way Chris is looking at me right now, like there's no one else
on earth he'd rather be looking at for the rest of his life.
Just feeling, period. Something I
was scared to let myself do freely for what felt like a long, long time.
Chris
waits until the hack is a few pods away from us, then walks back to my
side and caresses my cheek. When he takes his hand away, there's a glob
of shaving cream on the tip of his finger. "Now, where was I?" He gives
my chin one last swipe of his thumb before returning to the sink to
continue his shave. I keep watching him until he's finished, except now
it's with the sharp edges of my boredom and discontent worn away. All
that's left is to drink in the sight of him and reflect on the fact
that no, Chris and routine don't mix well at all. Really, I think it's
one of his finest qualities.