Tommy closes his eyes. His hand, lotion clad, is gliding up and down his dick, and he wants to stay in the moment.
He imagines Oliver, leaning toward him, laughing. His eyes are full of mischief, hope, the way they were before the island. He buries his face in Tommy’s neck, kisses it, just like when they were in college.
Laurel is there too. She smiles, watching them. She nestles next to them, then, kissing Tommy. Her hands reach down to Tommy’s dick, stroking it, as Tommy strokes Oliver, as Oliver’s fingers press into Laurel. She looks blissful, innocent.
They move then, Oliver behind Tommy, Tommy behind Laurel, all three of them moving in synchrony. Tommy is surrounded by them, by warmth and scent and gentle hands, and the intensity of Oliver pressing into him, of Laurel clenching around him, sends him into a frenzy long before he wants it to end.
When he’s done, Tommy opens his eyes. He wipes his hand off on the sheets.
He knows he should feel guilty. Not for wanting them both, because he’s pretty sure that by this point, wanting them both is a fundamental part of him. He should feel guilty for imagining being with their ghosts, with the people they used to be before pain set in, before they all grew up and turned responsible and serious and crushed with grief.
It doesn’t work when he imagines being with Oliver the way he is now. His fantasies turn violent; he sees the men Oliver killed, he sees something blank and cold in Oliver’s eyes. Tommy knows that if he were better, he could imagine something different. But his fantasies are his own, and these days, he takes his happiness where he can.
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timeasmymeasure
turned angsty somehow
Date: 2014-05-31 07:45 am (UTC)He imagines Oliver, leaning toward him, laughing. His eyes are full of mischief, hope, the way they were before the island. He buries his face in Tommy’s neck, kisses it, just like when they were in college.
Laurel is there too. She smiles, watching them. She nestles next to them, then, kissing Tommy. Her hands reach down to Tommy’s dick, stroking it, as Tommy strokes Oliver, as Oliver’s fingers press into Laurel. She looks blissful, innocent.
They move then, Oliver behind Tommy, Tommy behind Laurel, all three of them moving in synchrony. Tommy is surrounded by them, by warmth and scent and gentle hands, and the intensity of Oliver pressing into him, of Laurel clenching around him, sends him into a frenzy long before he wants it to end.
When he’s done, Tommy opens his eyes. He wipes his hand off on the sheets.
He knows he should feel guilty. Not for wanting them both, because he’s pretty sure that by this point, wanting them both is a fundamental part of him. He should feel guilty for imagining being with their ghosts, with the people they used to be before pain set in, before they all grew up and turned responsible and serious and crushed with grief.
It doesn’t work when he imagines being with Oliver the way he is now. His fantasies turn violent; he sees the men Oliver killed, he sees something blank and cold in Oliver’s eyes.
Tommy knows that if he were better, he could imagine something different. But his fantasies are his own, and these days, he takes his happiness where he can.