Word Count: 200
Everything tastes like dirt, not musty and gritty, but rich loam, full and earthy in Jack’s mouth. It’s all he’s tasted in weeks. He can taste it on Donal’s skin, over the sweat and oil of his body, the fading almost taste of roses. They’d rolled in the roses their planet was famous for before leaving home, bitter and autumn warm. It was probably Jack’s imagination but that doesn’t stop him from lingering on the soft kiss placed on the curve of Donal’s hip bone. It had been a softer curve before they left home; the last of Donal’s boyhood weight was gone, leaving him thinner, gaunt, cheek bones prominent on a once round face.
Jack still thought he was beautiful. So different than the boy he’d dragged from home. But beautiful.
He rolls Donal’s balls in his hand, making sure the other man (boy) was supported against the crumbling wall. They don’t have time for this, not for Jack on his knees, nuzzling Donal’s hip, his thigh like this is a leisurely cock sucking instead of a hurried affair, the bombs coming closer. Jack still takes his time, searching for the taste of roses under the dirt and dust.