| |
[Home |
Quicksearch |
Search Engine |
Random Story |
Upload Story]
Stages
by CatHeights
I
________________________
Wanting Keller is easy, almost instinctual. Beecher thinks it's a bit like breathing in that hours can go by where he's completely unaware that he's even doing it. Then suddenly awareness breaks to the surface, and he's fighting for control, like someone drowning and struggling for that last gasp of air before relaxing into oblivion.
He stares at Keller's reflection in the mirror, a slight smile tugging at his lips. It's so much easier not to fight the want, to let it be as natural as breathing. "Happy New Year."
"Happy New Year," Keller says.
Keller wants this bad. Beecher can tell, and that's good because he'd hate to be alone in all this wanting. He's done the alone and self-denial route. It sucked, and in the end it led him back to Keller. And he's fine with that, of course he is -- this is what he wants.
He waits for a hack to pass by their pod before jumping down from the bunk and approaching Keller. Desire pricks his fingers. He wants to touch Keller, to feel the connection his traitor mind has tormented him with for so long. Beecher thinks he's ready to move forward and let himself have what happiness he can find in here. It's a New Year, and he wants a change. So why is there this strange nervousness fluttering in his stomach?
The hand he places against Keller's chest lands awkwardly, a thump rather than a caress. Keller reaches for him and strangely his movements are just as awkward. As fingers touch his side, Beecher winces, memory slicing through his mind.
One of Keller's hands rests against his stomach, the other on his wrist, and quickly he's flipped. Warmth gathers in his body, and there's a strange fluttering in his stomach. He doesn't want to stop wrestling.
He tries to push aside the memory. That's the past. He's not being played this time. This moment is natural and of his choosing. Beecher puts a hand on Keller's neck, and they kiss. Their lips are far too tentative; there's no passion. This is nothing like that first time.
Beneath his hands, Keller's shoulders feel solid and warm -- so right. "I love you." Even drunk, Keller looks so earnest as he returns the sentiment, "I love you, Toby." Then, they're kissing, the taste of alcohol slipping into his mouth along with Keller's tongue. It burns, but Christ, it all feels so good, the warmth of touch, the burn of desire. This is love.
Keller's mouth opens beneath his. At the first hint of tongue, Beecher's cock hardens. Laughter echoes in his mind. No passion? Right. Why is he trying to lie to himself? Desire grafts with his skin, sensitizing every bit of his body. How can anyone survive wanting this much? It can't be right to feel like this. He slides an arm behind Keller, pulling him closer. Now would be a good time for his mind to shut down. All that matters is he and Keller and this moment. But when has his mind ever listened to him? Never.
While his fingers can't get enough of Keller, clutching him closer, his arms tingle with the phantom ache of bones once broken. He doesn't want that memory, but it, as well as the memories of rejection, are determined to dance their way out of his skull to duel with desire for the right to scar his skin.
His heart pounds, and he can't stop rubbing against Keller, hardness against hardness. He wants more. He wants it fucking all. Beecher knows he's shaking, bone-deep shudders twisting his body, but he's not sure if he's shaking from desire or from remembered rage.
Keller breaks the kiss and rubs the back of Beecher's neck. "It's all right. There ain't no hurry. I just wanted to kiss you." He follows the word with a gentle kiss.
It's too damn gentle, as if Beecher is some crazed bird that he has to soothe before it stupidly flies itself into a mirror.
"Night," Keller says. He steps backward, undressing and then sprawling across the bottom bunk, wearing just his boxers. One hand rests lazily on his stomach.
How dare he? How fucking dare he? Who the hell is Keller to decide what he's ready for and what he's not, to decide what he wants? Beecher takes a breath, trying to control the shaking. Part of him wants to crawl into Keller's bunk and show him just how ready he is, and his cock is urging him to do just that, but he's not going to do it. He's not ready, and he hates that Keller knows that. How does Keller know that? He thought he'd learned not to be so goddamned transparent.
The glare he gives Keller is met with a twist of lips and that ever-intense gaze. His fingers twitch with the urge to touch, to press against Keller's chest and trace a fingertip path down to his stomach, all the while using his lips to wipe away that smirk. He denies desire and climbs up into his bunk. So much for a New Year. This has to set a record for returning to the status quo.
"Beecher. You still hard?"
His hand stops inches from touching his cock. "What?"
"I know you are. Touch yourself."
He yanks his hand back, fingers clenching into a fist as his head begins to pound, an echo to the loud stuttering of his heart. How can he be so fucking stupid? Any minute now Keller is going to start laughing. He's been played again, walked into another round of "let's see how gullible Beecher is." Everything has just been an elaborate plot to regain his trust so that Keller can reject him all over again.
I don't wanna fuck you, Beecher. I don't even wanna be in the same room with you.
Beecher puts his head in his hands. Why can't he stop remembering?
"Toby? All right, how 'bout you tell me to touch myself. Come on, something to pass the time. You'll enjoy it. I know you will."
The pounding in his head lessens. There's no taunt in that voice, just concern and the hint of seduction that wraps around everything Keller says. Beecher raises his head, swallowing the hysterical laughter trying to bubble up his throat. He really is stupid. Keller's not playing him, but he does want to play -- a sex game. And that is just typical Keller, and, well, he can do this. He wants to play. Yes, he does. Beecher takes a breath and says, "Touch yourself."
"How?"
Beecher can't help the snort of laughter that slips out. "You need instructions."
"Yeah, I do. Give 'em to me."
Keller's smirking. He knows it. It's in the sound of his voice. "Okay, you want instructions. Wrap your hand around your dick. No, strike that. Take off your boxers."
"Ahead of you, Toby. They're already off."
A laugh slips out, easy and relaxed. "Of course they are. Give me a second." Beecher takes off his shirt, and then his pants, fingers lingering on the waistband of his boxers. What the hell? It's nothing anyone hasn't seen before, and besides he gave up the indulgence of being self-conscious a long time ago. Still it's a bit unsettling -- this is weird, new. Once he removes his boxers, he can't help draping the sheet partially across one hip.
He runs a thumb over the tip of his cock and closes his eyes. "Put your hand on your chest." Beecher's fingers twitch as he imagines Keller's skin pressed beneath them. "Move your fingers down toward your stomach." He pauses. "Then along the inside of your thighs, but don't touch your dick, don't even brush against it."
Keller moans, and Beecher strokes himself. His lips curve in a hint of a smile. He's allowed to touch whenever he wants. Keller has to wait for that instruction. This can work.
"Brush your fingers lightly against the side of your cock." He can hear Keller's intake of breath. "Cup your balls, and then stroke underneath them, toward your ass."
"Yeah, that's good," Keller says, his voice a throaty growl.
God, he can picture Keller lying there, legs spread, and touching himself. Beecher arches into the roughness of his palm. "Press harder. You like that, don't you? But you'd like it better if I fucked you."
"Oh shit, yes, Toby. I want you to do that, whenever you want. Fuck, yeah."
He can't help responding to the want in Keller's voice. A moan tries to slip past his lips, and he clenches his jaw to restrain it. It takes a few seconds before he can talk. "Stroke yourself, as hard as you want, as fast as you want."
Beecher's movements grow quicker, rocking into his fist, as he listens to the sounds Keller is making below. For a while time narrows to the touch of his hand and Keller's moans, and then he says, "Call my name."
"Toby. Oh God, Toby."
This time he can't stop the moan. There's an ache in his chest at the way Keller says his name, shaking with need and with love. And Christ, he believes it. Beecher takes a breath, his cock heavy in his hand. This game isn't going to last very long. He can't stand for it to last.
His tongue slides over his top lip, and then he orders, "Come," his voice a rasp of sandpaper.
"Fuck, Toby."
As Keller's words fade into a moan, Beecher knows Keller is coming -- because he was told to, because Beecher ordered him to. His mind barely has time to register how much he likes that idea before his cock is pulsing in his hand, orgasm rolling through his body.
Keller's heavy breathing is a match to his own. It's a comforting sound.
"Told ya, you'd like it." Keller's voice sounds smug, and Beecher huffs out a laugh, but he doesn't give a response.
He closes his eyes, a smile tugging at his lips. He really needs to clean up, but that can wait a few minutes more. His body is relaxed, free of tension for once. It's a novel feeling, one he's not eager to have fade. His fingers wrap lazily in the sheet. Despite the languor, faint but constant need strums beneath each fingertip. He still wants to touch Keller and drown himself in the feel of skin. This little game was a pleasant release, but tomorrow he's going to want more. Tomorrow he'll be ready for more.
II
________________________
No one has ever kissed him like Keller does. It's as if Keller wants every part of him, and is determined to take it all with his mouth. It's possession of the best sort, the kind that tries to convince you to give over everything and allow yourself the bliss of being a blank slate, written anew with that mouth. Escape is something Beecher's looked for so many times, but he's never been able to find it, not in alcohol, not in drugs, not even in Genevieve. He wonders if eventually he'll find it in Keller, if one day the doubts won't resurface the moment those lips leave his body.
Even though they're toward the back of the pod, way into the shadows, a sliver of harsh light from below flickers through. It slashes across Keller's cheek as he drops to his knees, pulling Beecher's boxers down along the way.
Keller's hands press against his thighs, and Beecher clenches his muscles, feeling the heat build. He can't look away from Keller's mouth as it circles his cock, tongue teasing across the slit. Something in his chest tightens at the sight and feel of Keller touching him like this. Beecher knows he's never felt anything this powerful before. He places his hand on the back of Keller's neck, fingers softly touching, almost awestruck.
As Keller takes more of him, Beecher rocks slightly, awash in wet heat. He moves his hand to Keller's shoulder, grabbing tightly, trying to anchor them to each other. Whatever this is between he and Keller, he's not letting go of it.
His other hand grips the frame of the bunks, the roughness cutting into his palm. "Chris," he whispers, and Keller suddenly sucks harder, making his knees almost buckle. "Oh yes. Chris."
Keller's hands are pressing against his ass, pushing him faster, deeper. He forgets how to breathe.
When he finally comes, the strength of it makes him feel like he's been ripped free of his body. He's finally free. He's escaped.
There's barely time for him to remember how to breathe before Keller stands and kisses him, tongue wiping out the barest beginnings of doubt. Beecher knows he'd be willing to forgive that mouth anything. And yet, it really isn't about forgiveness, is it? Forgiving Keller should have been impossible, but it wasn't. It was inevitable. Some things wrap their way into your soul, and no matter how much they hurt, you still let them in, again and again.
No, forgiveness isn't hard. It's the forgetting that always trips you up. Eventually Keller's mouth will leave his body, and he'll remember that he doesn't know how to forget.
III
________________________
Keller's beautiful. It seems an odd thing to think about another man, but it's nonetheless true. Of course he doesn't possess that safe, commercial beauty. No, it's more the beauty of a predator, the kind that frightens as much as it tantalizes.
He runs his hand down Keller's naked back, warm skin pressed beneath his palm. The feeling is addictive. He can't get enough of it, so when he reaches the base of Keller's spine, he changes direction, moving upward in a return journey. This time his body follows, cock sliding over Keller's ass. Beecher leans in, presses a wet kiss on Keller's neck and whispers, "I want to fuck you."
The sharp buck Keller makes is unexpected, and it almost causes Beecher to fall off the small bunk, but he hangs on, regains his balance.
"Do it," Keller says and reaches back to grab one of Beecher's hands, guiding it beneath the pillow.
An amused huff of laughter slips out when Beecher realizes what he's feeling -- lube and condoms. Keller's prepared. He wonders how the hell Keller managed to get a hold of those items. Who was it he asked? Schillinger had never had such niceties. No lube to ease the way, and Christ that had hurt. Fuck. Why is he thinking about Schillinger? This situation isn't even remotely similar. It's not like that bastard was ever the one to take it up the ass. Goddamnit, he needs to stop thinking.
Beecher takes a deep breath and slips the items out from beneath the pillow, leaving them beside Keller on the bunk. Then he moves downward, his hand stroking skin, the motion calming and arousing. It's funny, he thought that being able to touch Keller would take the edge off the want, but it hasn't. The want just keeps increasing exponentially, bringing him to this moment where he needs to get as close to Keller as he physically can.
He reaches for the lube and spreads it across his fingers. The touch to Keller's opening is oh so gentle with one finger circling while his thumb adds pressure below. The tip of his finger slides in. He waits a second and pushes in a bit further, but then Keller's bearing down and the finger's sliding all the way in. It feels so warm and smooth -- and tight. He bends his finger slightly. Keller moans.
Want fills his senses as he rests a hand on Keller's ass, massaging the rounded curve. So perfect. No swastikas to mar the skin. His hand presses down hard as the breath exits his mouth in sharp, hitching sounds that can't be as loud as they seem. It's hard to hear Keller above the noise.
"Add another finger. Please, Toby, please."
His breathing quiets some at the sound of his name, and he does as requested, amazed at how easily Keller takes that second finger. He strokes Keller from above and from within, desire quickening the rhythm of his fingers.
"Yeah, fuuuuck. Do it. Need you. Toby." Keller pants out each word.
As Beecher slowly pulls his fingers out, other hand reaching for a condom, his mind throws a sucker punch. It's possible he's become just as dangerous as Keller, in his own way.
You sure are, sweetpea.
Beecher shudders, the memory of Vern's voice moving through his spine like ice water. Numb fingers grasp at the condoms, grabbing three instead of one and clenching them in his fist. Keller's raised his ass, has his legs spread. He's eager, and Beecher wants this bad, wants to feel himself pressed into Keller, but he can't do this. He doesn't want to hurt Chris. He can't hurt Chris. Not now.
In an extremely awkward movement, he stumbles off the bunk. The condoms fall from his hand, and he bends down reclaiming one.
"Toby, what the fuck?" Keller turns onto his side, one hand reaching out.
There are no words he can offer in explanation, so he just slides back into the bunk, wrapping their bodies together and silencing Keller with his mouth. He matches Keller kiss for kiss, rough and possessive, until once again the memories are temporarily silenced.
With his knee, Beecher nudges Keller onto his back. "I need to see you," he says. Keller nods, and Beecher swears he understands. Another kiss and then his shaking hands rip open the condom and roll it on. He's about to reach for the lube, but Keller is a step ahead, already beginning to smooth it over Beecher's cock.
Keller raises his legs, bringing up his knees, and Beecher aims for where he's sure Keller's opening is and misses. He tries again, and again, and again. This is unbelievable. How many lawyers does it take to get a dick into a hole? He can feel the manic laughter building in his throat.
"Relax," Keller says, as he uses his body to guide Beecher to the right spot. He hooks one ankle over Beecher's shoulder, and the other leg around his back, pressing.
Beecher gasps as he feels the tip of his cock slide in. He keeps pushing slowly until he's firmly inside. "Holy shit."
"Good, huh?" Keller says.
"God yes." Beecher gazes up worriedly. "You okay?"
"Shit yeah." Keller presses down and Beecher thrusts a bit to meet him. "Oh yeah, fucking fantastic."
That makes him laugh. "Glad to hear it." He carefully rocks into Keller, and once he's more confident, he leans down for a kiss.
"Harder," Keller whispers. "You won't hurt me."
He keeps kissing Keller as he relinquishes a little of his control, letting the building need guide his movements. It's not long before their bodies begin to feel slick with sweat. Beecher feels like he's balancing on the razor edge of want, so damn close to satisfaction that every inch of his body is reaching for it. The feeling is incredible. Insanely, he thinks he wants to stay forever on that ledge with Keller, want shuddering between them.
Far too soon, his muscles tense and his body finds release. Floating, he hears himself making sounds he's never made before. His body feels shaky when he pulls out. He moves off the bunk to remove and discard the condom.
Beecher quickly turns back toward the bunk but pauses at the sight of Keller thrusting roughly into his own hand. Somehow it's like he's never seen Keller this naked before, so open. He's back on the bunk in a second, wrapping a hand over Keller's, joining the rhythm. It only takes a moment before Keller is shuddering beneath their hands.
"I love you," Beecher whispers as their mouths meet. The words are lost in the kiss, sacrificed bits of smothered air.
IV
________________________
He's always loved the law. There's a stability to it that still manages to allow for some creative interpretation. Nothing in Oz is stable, nothing concrete, except for the walls that cage you.
The lights flicker on and Beecher jumps down from the bunk, eyes still adjusting to the change. Maybe today they'll end this fucking lockdown. He swears if it lasts another day, he'll go out of his mind. It won't be the first time. Yet there's a part of him that also fears the lockdown ending. The last two weeks have been as stable as things get in Oz. He's safe. Chris is safe. But that safety will flee the moment those doors release.
You can't win.
He wishes there was some way he could atone for all the pain he's caused, for all of the things he's done. Then maybe love wouldn't be bliss one moment and torment the next. Maybe then he'd be able to forget.
Beecher rubs at his eyes, feeling Keller's arm pressing against his shoulder. That constant want bubbles to the surface. It's a pleasurable feeling, a feeling of being connected to someone he cares about.
As Officer Murphy begins to call out prisoner numbers, Beecher wonders if maybe tonight he'll let Keller take him, another step to draw them even closer. He wants to know what it's like to feel Keller inside him. Yes, maybe tonight. And maybe when this lockdown ends, he'll figure out a way to keep them both safe.
Beecher reaches backward and grasps Keller's hand, thumb rubbing against the palm -- want circling through the touch.
Disclaimer: HBO and Fontana own them. I'm just playing around in the sandbox. No profit being made.
Please send feedback to CatHeights.
|
|
|