Anonymous asked: Tim Tebow-Christopher Hitchens slash fic
Christopher Hitchens leaves Tim Tebow to look his fill and contemplates removing his boots, forearmed with the knowledge that come morning, he may not remember to check them for scorpions. Their sting hasn’t managed to kill him yet, so Christopher Hitchens bends down and begins tugging at his boots whilst Tim Tebow traces a tattoo on Christopher Hitchens’s shoulder with one work-roughened finger. Tim Tebow’s curious hand trails to where Moses’ Law is written upon Christopher Hitchens’s back. Tim Tebow doesn’t ask about those scars, and Christopher Hitchens doesn’t tell. (Although the tale of it isn’t quite so dire as it could have been had the quartermaster delivered the required number of lashes, rather than the number of lashes he was capable of counting to, and to Christopher Hitchens’s good fortune, that number had been something less than fifteen.)
Christopher Hitchens drops his boots to the floor and turns to see Tim Tebow sprawled across the bunk, his limbs loose, and watching him closely. Sweat beads on Tim Tebow’s upper lip and at his hairline, and if Tim Tebow isn’t inclined to remove his clothing, Christopher Hitchens feels more than capable of performing the task for him. Christopher Hitchens rolls and ends up sitting on Tim Tebow’s belly, reaching out to untie the scarf knotted around his throat.
Tim Tebow peers down at Christopher Hitchens’s hands with a frown, and then reaches out to help. “You needn’t undress me like a child.”
“Oh,” says Christopher Hitchens, batting away Tim Tebow’s fingers, “that certainly isn’t my intention, love.” The knot proves stubborn, so Christopher Hitchens swoops down to have a go with his teeth. Tim Tebow makes a noise like a gasp, and for a moment, presses one warm, broad palm to Christopher Hitchens’s shoulder blade. The knot finally loosens and Christopher Hitchens tugs it free from around Tim Tebow’s neck. The fabric is damp from its contact with Tim Tebow’s body. Christopher Hitchens tosses it somewhere behind him and dares to swipe his tongue over the hollow of Tim Tebow’s throat, tasting the sweat collecting there. The lad is salt and sting in his mouth.
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