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Pairing:
Beecher/Keller
Rating: NC-17 for filthy
smut.
Feedback: Yeah!
Notes: This is...hmm. Well,
I don't know what the hell this is, but thanks to Linda for reading
it over anyway.
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Start, wake, cry out thrashing. Bolt up, caught. Tangled. Where?
God! Fuck.
Here. Still here.
Still...here, with the abrasive scratch of low thread count sheets against
my cold-sweat damp skin. Shudder then, as it catches up to me physically,
heart hammering, hands shaking. Not Kathy, this time. I don't think,
but who the hell even knows anymore the way they all blend together sometimes,
one failure into the next. A blur of futility.
"Toby?" Chris' sleep-roughened voice rises from the bunk below.
"You okay?"
No. Hell no, I need to get out. Out of here, out of my head,
away from the voices. The fucking, goddamned, nonstop voices:
nagging, berating, criticizing. Shut them up, for once. Please. Find some
peace for a few damned hours.
"Uh, yeah," I mutter, peeling the covers back from my sticky
legs. Jump down to the floor and go to the sink to splash a little water
on my face, try to shake off the nightmare, the feeling. But
I can't. Turn around, lean back against the sink and look at Chris. I
want to just go to him but am held back by my own inertia. My own fear.
"C'mere." A sleepily flung arm, reaching in my direction, and
even though I feel a little guilty for disturbing his rest, it's not enough
to stop me from approaching once invited. From sitting on the edge of
his bed and accepting a hand on my knee. "S'okay." He pats me
a couple of times, then says it again, softly, "s'okay."
Of course, it's not okay. Nothing has been okay since the day I careened
into Kathy Rockwell and knocked the life from her body with one sickening
Toyota-driven thump. It's been one long fucking nightmare since then,
both waking and sleeping, with no end in sight.
But Chris is doing his best. It's kind of him. Or something like that.
"I..." Words won't seem to form on my rubberized tongue.
Chris reaches up to stroke my cheek, and I lean in to his bunk to stretch
out beside him, sighing with relief at the contact, huddling into the
pocket of warmth surrounding his body.
The lack of touch is probably the cruelest punishment in this place. Cut
off from comfort, it seems sometimes like the only reminders of humanity
we get in Oz, the proof, is what pours out in pools of blood. It makes
me glad, in this respect at least, that Chris has never been bothered
much by rules. That he dares -- that he dares me -- to steal
what we want out of the night.
I want now.
He's still not really awake, and how he can sleep like that, so normally,
in here never ceases to amaze me. Of course, he's spent a lot more nights
in places like this than I have.
I reach for him, hands going automatically to his waist, sliding down
past the elastic of his briefs. I barely have to touch him, he's so tuned
for sex. I can feel, as much as hear his groan as I take his cock in my
hand, pulling him longer and thicker with each stroke.
Rousing and arousing all at the same time, Chris turns into me with a
big, sexy stretch, and I almost miss the sly quirk at the corner of his
mouth as his arms come around me, tightening down suddenly to catch me
in a warm vise.
"You lookin' for something, Tobe?"
Arms trapped, I push my thigh forward to nudge at his groin, feeling his
dick now pressed at full attention against cotton rib.
"Think I found it, thanks."
"Good." And his voice has gone husky, eyes dark, wisecracks
discarded. He's awake now. He wants to fuck.
We both turn our heads, almost at the same instant, towards the outer
wall of the pod, ears cocked, listening for hacks, eyes straining into
the semidarkness for signs of movement along the corridor or at the central
station. Should be all right for the moment, but who the hell knows how
long...
We do steal this. Quick and quiet, cramped and hidden in the
shadows. Masking our movements, smothering our cries. It's never relaxed,
or leisurely. Sometimes I catch myself in odd, sentimental moments, wondering
what it would be like to be able to roll Chris' incredible body in expensive
sheets and just blow a day in bed, glorying in him. I know it's silly.
Stupid. If we weren't in Oz, thrown together by fate and bad judgment,
I wouldn't ever even know Chris at all. Unless, what, he held up the out-of-neighborhood
convenience store where I was buying a covert six-pack and happened to
take me hostage.
Anyway, I don't want relaxed, or leisurely. Not tonight.
Chris gets down to business, tugging me into a kiss. It's one of those
gear-stripping, breath-robbing Keller classics: a zero-to-sixty, hot,
wet, fuck-me-now hotwired jumpstart that leaves me headspun, stubble-burned
and panting for more. I chase after his mouth when he breaks off the kiss,
hands scrabbling against his chest, trying to pull him back to me. But
he's already on to other things, leaving me hanging, aching for another
taste. He knows exactly what he's doing, the bastard, and I fucking love
him for it.
He grabs at my t-shirt like it's annoying, in the way, yanks it off over
my head and arms roughly. My boxers and his briefs get the same treatment,
and when we settle back in, with the musky rub of skin against skin, he
growls approvingly and gives me another kiss, finally, totally, diving
hard and deeply into my mouth. I get lost in the heat and rhythm of the
kiss, by the sensuous stroke of Chris' tongue against mine. He makes it
so damned easy.
He pulls away again, and when I start to protest he laughs. "Roll
over," he says, returning with the small jar of Vaseline we keep
stashed under the corner of his mattress. Chris pats the flat of his palm
against his pillow, and when I start to turn, he grabs me from behind,
wrapping his arms tight across my chest and sinking his teeth into the
top of my shoulder, sharp enough to sting.
And for all the doubts I still have about Chris, for all of my rational
desire not to want this from him -- he hurt me, broke me, he's a liar,
and a killer, and I should know better -- for all of that, he can do
this for me, what nothing else ever really could. Not Gen, not booze,
not smack, not madness. Chris can take me there.
It's his weapon, and his gift.
So, what are lies? Next to this mindless nerve-tripped spaceflight, where
all I can do is lock down and hang on for the ride, pumped so full of
raw heat that nothing else gets through? And what's trust? But Chris'
muscular weight settling heavy against my back, pinning me reassuringly,
helplessly down, an anchor against the hysterical bucking rush of lust,
and guilt, and fear.
"Yeah, just let me feel you... please."
"Anything for you, baby." His voice is warm, soft, seductive
in my ear as his hands continue to stroke across my body. "Everything.
You know that, hmm? You want me to fuck you now, Toby? You need to get
fucked?"
I manage a wordless nod, then he's biting me again, scoring hard, sucking
kisses against my skin that make me squirm and gasp until I have to turn
my face down into the pillow to muffle the piteously vulnerable sounds
of need.
Nothing, no one, has ever made me feel like this.
His fingers, two, blunt but slick, curved just right, press inside me,
and I close my eyes in anticipation of the real fire I've been waiting
for. The fingers withdraw and his hands are on my hips, hard and strong,
correcting my angle. When I feel the head of his cock, rubbing slow and
warm against my hole, it's all I can do not to just shove back, impaling
myself on him. Finally he begins to press forward in one long, hot, thick,
greased slide that makes my eyes roll back in my head as I focus on the
stretching pain, willing myself to breathe, open, relax.
"Yeah, like that, just like that," I manage to gasp out between
pants, hand reaching back sliding across his skin, slick now with sweat,
trying to grab onto him, guide him, pull him in. More, want more, need
more...
"Shh...I've got you," Chris whispers, placing a steadying hand
on the small of my back. His voice is gentle, but holds an unspoken command:
Quit fighting. Stop trying to control this. Give it up. And unbidden tears
of relief squeeze from the corners of my eyes as I finally relax and let
him take me.
Chris begins to move again, almost unbearably slowly at first, like he's
testing me, but that doesn't last for long. He likes to fuck me too much
to turn this into some stupid power struggle, not while he's balls-deep
inside me, with my entire body practically begging him to just pound me
into oblivion.
It's a strange circle that comes to a close in this. How I've learned
to crave this particular intimacy, the unequivocal truth of a dick fucking
my ass. Blotting out the dread and terror of Schillinger's ugly violations
and feeling only Chris' consuming desire for me, the drive in him, to
convince me of his love, win me over, show me how it can be different.
And right now, I don't even wonder why.
His left hand slides low across my belly, reaching to wrap around my own
neglected, aching cock. I can't hold back a groan as he begins to jerk
me off in time with his strokes, harder, faster, and harder still, slamming
into me and around me until I'm so completely fucked I almost
feel like laughing.
Soaring. High. Finally, finally pounded right the hell out of my own stupid
head and into this gorgeous, swirling space behind my eyes, just him and
me, easy and obvious. And at the moment I would risk anything -- the hacks,
the cage, the hole, gen pop, death-fucking-row -- for the feel of Chris'
body moving inside of me. For his iron-fisted grip on my cock, pumping
me with ruthless, relentless, perfect strokes, hurtling me towards the
edge until...there , yes, God, there... And just for a moment
we escape Oz, as Chris growls and bucks against my back, burying his load
in my ass while his hand rips the first spray of come from my swollen
cock, and orgasm pours and pulses through my body like sweet, warm sunshine.
And suddenly, this thing, whatever it is that exists between
us, this connection, feels open and sure. How can it not be true? The
voices are silenced, and I am content. Chris helps me roll onto my side,
then spoons around me, arm draped heavily across my chest, as he reaches
strong fingers to lace through mine. "Love you, Toby," he whispers,
rubbing and scattering soft kisses against my shoulders, my neck, the
side of my face. He squeezes me hard. "So fucking much." He
holds me there, like that, for as long as we dare.
But the respite is all too brief. Even the all-out sensory mayhem of a
Keller fucking wears off sooner or later. And when the veil lifts, I'm
back here again. Neatly vacuum sealed into the false sterility of Emerald
City -- the scuttling sound of rats in the night giving lie to the artificial
purity of all that plexi and steel.
I shift in Chris' arms, and realize he's already fallen back asleep. I
watch him a moment, appreciating the power of his body, even relaxed.
He seems unreal to me suddenly, all of this does. Except, of course, that
I'm the one who's unreal. Who I was, what I had. Before.
I'm startled by a noise, the rap of a hack's flashlight banging on the
door a few pods down. The sound snaps me back to reality completely, and
I slip out of Chris' grasp as gently but quickly as I can. And sneaking
furtively like the criminal I am, I creep back to my own bed, alone, to
wait out phony dawn.
—FIN—
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