Oh, The Places You'll Go

Porn Battle Ficlets

Notes: Written for oxoniensis's third comment porn battle, January 2007. Each snippet has a prompt and is no more than 4300 characters long. It's amazing what you can get the boys to do in that time.

All The Way — prompt 'tension'

Casey's always known where he's going. To the top. Right? And if that means bringing his best friend along for the ride because they are good together, then that's fine too, right? Because Dan is a superb writer and a real people person and having him around does Casey's career no harm at all. In fact, for all his bragging, Casey's damn sure he wouldn't have got this far without Dan.

And if Casey sometimes thinks about all the ways they are good together, then that's normal, isn't it? It's perfectly ordinary to spend time remembering the things Dan says to make him laugh, the beers they've shared, the drunken, intimate conversations.

"Rebecca does this thing with her mouth," Dan had said on one occasion, and had proceeded to elaborate in exquisite detail while Casey flushed briefly before his blood was needed elsewhere. Nothing wrong with being aroused at that, it was like porn, only without the visuals. And there's nothing wrong with replaying it over and over in his head, as Rebecca's mouth is gradually erased from the picture. It's healthy to have a rich sexual fantasy life. Doctor Phil says so.

And if Casey's sexual fantasies have begun to centre around Dan, it's only because Dan is the constant element in the stories he tells Casey. The women are revolving doors, Casey barely remembers more than the names. And if he sometimes imagines a vague, blank-featured man with Dan it is only because so many of the women Dan seems to date have those weird, androgynous names: Jaime, Glenn, Jai, Sammi. Surely anyone would be confused by that?

And if Casey finds himself staring across the office at Dan, head bent over laptop, mouth twisted in concentration; there is nothing wrong with wondering what those lips would feel like on Casey's cock. Nothing weird there. Just a matter of sensitive skin finding sensitive skin. And when Dan looks up and catches him looking — which happens more often than Casey would like — and gives him that slow smile and Casey gets hard just from seeing those lips curl up at the corners, it's just the shock of being surprised. Right?

Why should it matter that Casey seems to have joined Dan in these fantasies, where Casey's mouth is finding itself in places it never dreamed of going? So maybe Casey spends longer in the shower these days, soaping himself oh so very carefully, pressing into the dark places with a slippery finger that almost feels like it belongs to someone else. Hygiene is important, right? And maybe he finds himself drinking bottled beer more often — no more cans, no more draught — and he begins to notice the experience of the smooth, curved glass more than the drink itself, sliding the bottle further into his mouth than before, letting his tongue swirl around the top of it, sucking his cheeks in to feel the coolness of glass against their warm surface. It's not like he's practicing for anything. Is it?

So what if he finds himself face down on his bed, thrusting with desperate need into one pillow whilst holding another tight in his arms? And if, after he has come with fierce spurts and lung-bursting gulps of air, he strokes the pillow in his arms, muttering soothing words to it, stream of consciousness babble in which Dan's name figures prominently; what then?

Maybe there are days when Casey feels like he's going to explode from it, from the weight of being who he is, from the tension of the not-mattering. And maybe all he wants to do on those days is take the few steps across the office, pull Dan to his feet and eat him alive, inch by precious inch. And maybe that image stays with him, stark and vivid, as he hides away in the men's room, stripping his cock with ruthless efficiency, his post-orgasmic piss the only sting of salt he allows himself to feel. Because it isn't real, is it? It's just fantasy. And fantasies don't hurt. Fantasies don't matter. Casey can't let it matter.

Because Casey's going to the top and when he gets there he'll look over at his best friend who'll have made the trip with him (won't he?). And that will be real. And it will matter. After all, it's all he wants. Right?


What We Are — prompt 'courage'

Casey knows his skin will blister if the boy (man?) boy at the end of the bar keeps looking at him that way. He can feel it already, hairs rising, skin prickling with anticipation. Hackles, he thinks. A throwback to a primitive time when he could've taken what he wanted — clubbed the guy round the head, dragged him to his cave, fucked him into the hard, stony ground.

He steals a glance; the man (boy?) still stares, hot and open, gaze running down from Casey's face to where his long fingers clasp his glass. Casey's thumb rubs over the smooth surface, collecting beads of condensation like his armpits and upper lip are collecting beads of sweat. He feels his heartbeat quicken, his breathing become shallow, his tongue stick to the roof of his mouth. It's fight-or-flight and Casey's sick of flight. It's why he's here, in this bar full of loud music and louder men. So he won't run, but he doesn't want to fight either. There is a third way.

Casey drains his beer and stands, pulse matching the driving techno beat. It pounds through his body; the tips of his fingers vibrate with it. He sways a little, steadies himself against the bar and turns, meets the stranger's eyes. He begins the walk towards him, the scant distance stretching into miles. Eyes black in the dim light hold his, steady, unguarded. Casey knows he could push his hand through the flesh and bone and blood of this man's chest, rip out his heart and eat it without a murmur of protest.

He stops, terrified of the violent wave of desire breaking over him. But the stranger tips his head, parts his lips and with slow deliberation drags his tongue across the space in between. Casey is caught: a fish on a line. He screws his courage to the sticking place (or sticks it to the place he wants to screw) and lets himself be reeled in, moving forward, inexorable, until he is inches away.

Up close he sees more than a boy, less than a man: in-between, but without the uncertainty that marked Casey's own transition to adulthood. This dark-haired, pale-skinned, creature is confident, ageless and Casey wants to fall to his knees before him, declare his undying something, beg to be touched, to be allowed to touch. Instead he sticks out his hand. The stranger shakes his head, rises and heads for the exit, not once looking back. Casey follows.

A dark alley, filled with muffled noise. They are not alone. Casey doesn't care because the boy's mouth is on his, but no sooner has Casey opened to it then it slides away and nuzzles the hollow behind Casey's earlobe, tongue tracing tiny circles. Casey drags in a sharp breath, cool air across burning lips. He's getting hard and wants to press against solid flesh, wants to connect but he doesn't quite know what the etiquette is here, so his hands hang limp by his sides and his body keeps its distance. Then the boy slips two fingers into Casey's mouth and he is undone.

He slams his hips forward and grabs the stranger by the hair and by the wrist, pulling his head back so that he is watching Casey fuck his fingers with his mouth. Casey controls the movement, sliding them in and out slow and easy, tongue gliding along their length, lingering against the groove of skin at their base. He runs his teeth over the fleshy pads, licks around the nail beds. The boy groans, voice deeper than Casey expects. It pulls at Casey. Closer. He pushes the boy's wrist down and crashes their mouths together. There's fumbling and reaching and slick, warm fingers around him and his own fingers curving around hard flesh and they stroke a fierce rhythm, panting into each other, spare hands clutching whatever they can find, restless explorers.

Casey's been waiting his whole life for this. He is drunk on it, higher than he's ever been. He's at a loss but he knows everything, everything that matters. The boy pulls back, meets Casey's eyes and smiles. He smiles and twists his hand and Casey feels his skin crack and peel and he erupts. Two strokes and the boy is with him, thick liquid threading between Casey's fingers.

They separate; Casey tidies himself, wipes his hand on his jeans and sticks it out.

"Casey," he says.

The boy licks at his fingers, languid, daring. He takes Casey's hand with his damp one.

"Dan," he says. "I like your shirt."

I've Come For My — prompt 'award'

The first time Casey doesn't win an award, Dan reaches for him under the table, squeezes his hand briefly and lets go.

The first time Dan doesn't win an award; Casey drops a warm hand on the back of his neck, and leaves it there, heavy, grounding, until the ceremony is long over.

The first time Dan and Casey don't win they shift their chairs closer, hands clasping elegantly dressed thighs. Dan's disappointed — the world should acknowledge how well he and Casey work together. Casey's disappointed — the world should recognize how great Dan is. It shouldn't be a secret.

The first time Casey wins there are hugs all round. Dan clasps him tight, whispers, "No one better, no one at all." After Casey's received his award, Dan drops his knife. Murmuring an apology he disappears under the table. Returning, he leans a hand on Casey's thigh for support. It's not his fault if he overbalances his hand sliding upwards, fingers brushing Casey's groin. Casey's hand comes down, grabs Dan's wrist and holds him there, just for a second. Just long enough. Dan scrambles back up, flushed, breathing hard, looking at his fingers with awe as if he's just touched the Holy Grail.

The second time Dan and Casey don't win, nothing happens. Seated apart as a result of Luther Sachs' attempt to schmooze corporate sponsors, they exchange shrugs. Later, Dan is in the men's room washing his hands when the door swings open and Casey strides the length of the room checking the stalls. Dan looks at Casey's reflection, a slight smile curving his lips. Dan turns to dry his hands, feels Casey's presence behind him. Casey puts a hand on Dan's shoulder.

"I'm sorry, Danny," he says. "I wanted that for you."

"Me too." He should say, "Let's get back to the others," but he doesn't.

"Danny," says Casey, in a tone Dan's never heard before. "What about a reward instead?"

Dan wants to be suave, sophisticated, to turn with a smile, say, "What have you got in mind?" in his best bedroom voice, but he can't manage it because this is Casey. Instead he turns and lets Casey see the real Dan: the one who's never stopped being frightened, the one whose heart bleeds so easily it's covered in scars and disintegrating stitches.

"You're not scared of me, Danny?" Casey's voice is hoarse. Dan shakes his head, nods, shakes again. Casey's hand curls round the back of Dan's head, pulling them close so their foreheads touch.

"You can't be as scared of me as I am of this," he breathes. Dan's stomach twists. Casey nudges Dan's head up, seeking his mouth. They connect and all the fear blows apart because this is good, they belong. It begins softly but Dan can't resist flicking his tongue out to taste and Casey presses forward, planting one foot between Dan's, knee pushing between Dan's legs. Barely taller, he uses every last millimetre to take possession of Dan; his mouth, hands, tongue are everywhere cataloguing the curves, the lines, the softhardroughsmooth of him. Dan feels Casey's hardness against his hip and shifts a little against it. Casey moans and shudders, pulling back, looking at Dan with darkened eyes. Wordless, he pulls Dan into a stall and locks the door.

It seems to Dan he's having an out of body experience, looking at the scene from above. Sees himself standing, pants down, hands weaved in Casey's hair, Casey's mouth around his cock. He's finding it hard to breathe. Untangling a hand he pulls at his bowtie, unfastens the top stud which pings off the partition wall. Casey pulls back and looks up.

"I'm sucking a debauched angel," he says, returning his mouth to Dan's cock. His hand travels across the seam from hip to groin, fingers sliding around slippery flesh then creeping backwards, up, up and in.

"God, yes! Want you in me," Dan can feel pressure building, winding him tighter and tighter. If he explodes now he'll take the whole room apart. But it's too late, he's coming and the world goes white and red and black.

He collapses onto the toilet seat, unable to support himself. Casey looks at him, grinning.

"Your turn?" Dan asks.

"Not this time. This one's for you."

For a second Dan is scared again, but then he looks into Casey's eyes, sees what he's always wanted to see. Fuck the award; this is all the recognition he'll ever need.

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