tamingthemuse | Scents After Midnight

Title: Scents After Midnight
Author: tigerstriped86
Fandom/Pairing: Oz; Beecher/Keller
Rating: M (for Mature: Because where Keller goes, mature things follow...like tattoos and teh secks)

Prompt 147: Biohazard
Disc.: Oz is the brainchild of its creators and of HBO, which brought Keller to my attention. If anything, it's more like Meloni owns me more than I would ever own him. I don't own the song either. It's Stay by Sugarland.

A/N: If the story looks familiar, this is because it's the second Oz fic I wrote (and the first songfic). When I went back to edit it, I found that it turned out differently from the first time and I almost consider tweaked enough to simply be a second story. Plus, I'm pretty sure I haven't submitted it before.

Summary: Keller likes having control, even of Beecher's dreams. This is a fragment of what he thinks Beecher dreams about.

Scents After Midnight:

I'm luckier than most. I can make it right up past the point when the lights go out. Sure, you can make an argument that with all the shit between us that we could never make it. And sure, I've never known anyone like him. Toby's that complete mystery to me. But we have now, after lights out and after lock down.

I've been sitting here staring at the clock on the wall

The guards have a pattern they walk down. The same damn time on the same damn brick road. You can always find what you've been looking for if you hold your breath and wait. That's the trick in Oz. Too bad that I've never been too good at the waiting game.

And I've been laying here praying, praying she won't call

A guard whistles softly as he patrols by for the third time. Beecher's better at hiding his restlessness, but not by much. I can tell by the soft squeaks and groans of his bunk as Beecher shifts his weight above me, also biding his time. I know the tune the guard whistles softly. But nothing here can ever be as soft as Beecher's skin. My cell mate, my lover, my sometimes victim, and my sometimes accomplice.

It's just another call from home

Beecher controls me and my sanity, even if I usually end up on top in some position. He'd be my reason for living even if I were to die, I'm not fooling anybody. God, just thinking about the way that my knee fits into the back of his knee cap is even enough to set me off. Or thinking about his words and the way they slide down the gun barrel of my chest all the way to my cock. Is the guard done with rounds yet?

And you'll get it and be gone and I'll be crying

Toby can feel my impatience. He called me impetuous once. I know he doesn't do it to make me feel stupid, that's why I let it slide. Hell, Beecher's the first man who has even tried to understand me in the last decade. He doesn't pretend either. I've seen the way they look at me like I'm a fucking biohazard, Said and the Aryans and who knows how many others. Toby's arm makes an innocent appearance over the side of his bunk. He's trying to comfort me. He's learning to sneak a little too well. This place is changing him.

And I'll be begging you baby, beg you not to leave

They say that places like this, prisons, are supposed to rehabilitate us. Well, I suppose it would work except for the fact that you can't rehabilitate a dead man. And make no mistake, most of us are already dead inside. Beecher is still one of those exceptions; he's held out somehow longer than most. But he's changing and even he knows it. I wish he would fight it sometimes. And then his swinging hand will brush against my arm innocently.

But I'll be left here with my heart on my sleeve

He's too good to be true, of this I'm completely aware. Why would I push away my fantasy? Why would he want to be tainted by a piece of meat like me? Those are all questions that lie just under the surface. Hey, don't get me wrong. I love the sex. But I love the way that he tries to answer those questions without even knowing he's doing it. It must be that lawyer bullshit he used to love to spew.

Oh, for the next time we'll be here, seems like a million years

Toby's always talking about addiction and withdrawal. I think it's a way for him to cope with his strange new world and also a way to share. I don't even let the sister get away with that shit most of the time. I think feelings are complete crap designed to keep you from doing what's necessary. But Beecher knows me, knows how to talk to me. That might be the greatest trick ever invented.

And I think I'm dying

Some days, I feel like I've told him too much or that I've whispered my secrets to an angel that'll turn out to be a demon any day. But he knows me. He knows the bite behind the bark. He knows my childhood, the special brand of hell my memories bring that outshine his deepest nightmares. I'll never be able to rip him away from my skin. My traitorous ways lie open to him, just below the ugly skin of truth.

He relives the nightmares less and less these days. But I'm always there, trying so desperately not to be concerned. But I always hit the floor the moment after the groans of loss begins. Sometimes I think I'm the lucky one because I never had these things to lose. He only pushed me away twice and he hasn't in a long time. Toby accepts me as part of his world, expects me to rush toward the foe with him. And every time I give myself freely.

What do I have to do to make you see

The guard has finished and it's been a nightmare waiting. The demon known as Oz that feeds on our soul takes us on a wild ride during the night. I couldn't survive without him anymore. I love those sinewy arms and that warm skin, the way he wraps himself close around me and touches even more than just my skin. I don't care if you thank God or whatever spirit in the wind you piss towards, this is heaven and all things to me.

She can't love you like me

Toby closes his eyes and leans back. Maybe he thinks my scent is like the crushed peanut between the prison soap that makes us all smell like sour limes and the off-brand deodorant. It's that same smell that they have in real honky tonks where they serve steak with those knives with black handles and blood on the plate if you like it a little more rare. It's the type of place where you like sitting in the dark corner without any noisy interference and you both order Foster beers because neither of you like American brews.

Toby breaks the silence first. “I was surprised to get your call tonight, Chris.”

''Not as surprised as I was to call you. I didn't think we had too much in common, but here you are.”

Toby chuckles in that knowing way of his. “What does that say about us?”

I don't even notice when the tall blond waitress interrupts us, and I love a natural blond. The only thing that interrupts my train of thought is the tavern's static intercom system.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we're proud to present, back by popular demand, line dancing! So ya'all get out on the floor and let's have some fun!” The overzealous announcer proclaims. Toby just shakes his head, barreling down into the appetizers. But that won't cut it for me.

Toby finally does speak when he realizes that I haven't said anything in awhile. He still has that spark in his eyes. You can hear Toby's fork fall to his plate. “Oh, come on. You can't be serious.”

“You can't tell me that we've stopped at a steakhouse that has just magically gotten line dancing back by popular demand to not at least try it?”

Toby quirks his eyebrow. “You're not getting feverish, are you?”

He still has that glint in his eye and now my hand is extending toward his hand across the table. “I can always lead.”

Toby blinks. “I wouldn't have pictured you doing a two-step.”

I continue to hold out his hand and shrugs. “I dated an ex-Dallas Cowboys cheerleader once. It was her deal.”

We stay line dancing and two stepping longer than expected. Honestly, that glint in his eyes is going to be my undoing. Toby pulls his coat closer as he follow me into the wind, unsure of where else this date is going. Of course, if his two-stepping is any indication, then probably right back to his place. But he'll have to work a little harder for it.

He makes a joke about his dancing and I hear myself laugh one of those laughs that reminds me of how strange and wonderful the world can be sometimes. It's hearty and it's hard not to get swept away in it. I nearly bang my knee into a parking meter.

I lean up a wall and beckon Tobias over. “So you've learned something new about me tonight, but what are you good at?”

Toby just smiles and shrugs. I feel a need to lick my lips, since they're getting a bit chapped in the brisk wind. “Okay, I'll tell you what. If you're game, I'll let you in on one more thing in my life. But then I want to know more about you.”

Toby nods. “I'm all yours.”

I break into a big grin, leading the way. “You'd better be careful who you say that to, Tobe.”

Two blocks farther, we stop in front of a converted warehouse. It's brick facade has a faded billboard advertising for coffee beans higher into the sky. I have that gleam in my eye again. Toby's probably thinking to himself that It's a secret gleam and you always have this feeling, just this knowledge, that something good is behind the door. My muscles pump as I lift the gate up from its rusty hinge and he flick on a couple of lights hanging overhead. The door rattles when it shuts and it makes Toby jump just a bit. The place is warm verging on stale.

“May I take your coat?” I wait behind Tobias, helping him out of his jacket. Toby feels a lot better without it.

“You're an artist.”

I shrug, pretty modestly. I don't really feel like an artist. “Of sorts.”

Toby walks towards the back as his eyes adjust. He notices the mural, all forms and styles of the drama masks in a very deep and attentive gray scale. “This is wonderful.”

“You're just saying that.” I fold my arms as if trying to examine the portrait from his perspective.

“No, I really mean it. What kind of artwork do you do here? Just murals?”

I shake my head as he looks toward a comfy red chair, almost like one you would see at a barbershop. “One of our guys does murals and another does decals for cars and shirts. My specialty is tattoos.”

“I've always wanted one of those. But it's hard to get a good booking with a great artist you feel a connection with.”

“You've always got me.”

Toby looks me straight in the eye. “And I trust you well enough to know what the design would be.”

The stare is so intense I have to lean back just a bit, as though I've been put under a prison spot light. My tools lay in wait, just begging to be used. I look from Toby to the tools and back again. “You'll have to remove the shirt.”

“Now I know why it's so warm in here.” Toby is slightly embarrassed by the shape of his body, but he notices that I am looking at him, evaluating him as a canvass. Toby must wonder how I evaluates him as a man. There's a nail hanging off the wall and Toby hangs up his shirt, returning to the chair dutifully. I can see the nervous goosebumps of a beginner forming.

I whisper into his ear as I begin to flip open black ink containers with my thumb and rummage for a packaged, sterile syringe to open with my teeth. “Are you nervous?”

“No.” Toby gulps. He's cute when he lies.

I nod, playing along. “Okay, but you should know that this really hurts. But once it's over, you'll be addicted to tattoos.”

Tobias gives me a look that might say that he's already addicted to me, at the very least. It's a pleading look, like that girl gave me on prom night a million years ago. She wanted it, but only for it to be over. Toby doesn't know what will happen after. But I've already got a pretty good idea.

The place is warm with the lid down in the front. Toby watches as I peel my outer shirt off to reveal a wife beater barely hiding my heaving, tanked form behind it. He nods at my cross. “Did you do that one?”

I shake my head. “That's a memento from my tattooing mentor. Means a lot to me.”

Toby's mouth is dry now. “It's important that this means something to you.” I can see in his eyes that he's not even sure if he's referring to the tattoo or to something else. I prefer to think of it as being something else.

“You're going to want to hold still and...” Toby tenses up before I have the chance to finish my statement. I roll my eyes, amused, as I hit him with the drawing pencil. He didn't expect that and he both leans toward and repels from the pencil. I've seen that repellent force before. Every ex or unsympathetic family member telling me what sin I've committed that particular week. But I don't give a fuck about Toby doing it here because I know he's not looking at me like I have Aids or like I'm a giant tub of radioactive waste. He doesn't think I'm a biohazard at all.

Toby realizes that he just got scared from a fuckin' pencil and I sigh a little as he moves with his own chuckles. But, he straightens up before too long and I do some fixes to what got smeared until I'm satisfied with what I see. His eyes catch mine, a little off guard and very focused. Tattooing is a very serious expression of oneself, of one's own soul.

“You ready for the real deal?”

I don't give him time to respond and I don't give him the option of seeing the design. Toby says he trusts me and I'm holding him to that word. Plus, torturing him can be kind of fun. I can see the gears whirring right before I begin with the ink and needle. I bet he's wondering if I'm gonna draw a pail of blueberries or something like that. Toby worries too much sometimes.

He hisses as the needle touches his skin. It's like an extension of my personality as the lines begin to take form on his epidermis. I have his arm cupped roughly in my hand. I have to force myself to look away from his eyes and to concentrate on the artwork. He is doing his best not to shiver, not to hurt.

“Pain is worth the pleasure of having it.”

I stop for just a moment about a third of the way through and Toby's face is pale. He's holding up, but tattoos are an experience, that's no lie. He nods to me, giving me permission to dive back into the permanent work on his body.

He gives into the sting of the needle this time, his skin so close that I could taste it and I want to taste it so badly. But I can't just yet. There is his own pain and the pain I put myself through, a tense anticipation that's giving me a hard one that I'm controlling only by virtue of the fact that I am indeed inking somebody.

The last set of sparks on his skin must be what sends him over the edge. His knuckles have turned white, but I think he can sense that the ordeal is over. I help him from the chair and we walk towards the mirror.

“Wow.”

I smirk. It doesn't sound as impressive on paper. You have to imagine Toby's face, the way his muscles flex in light of the redness. The way his back straightens like having this secret is worth what it took to get there. And it was.

Why don't you stay

I run my fingers over the tattoo lightly. He gets more goosebumps, but this time from my touch. Fingers are replaced by lips, tracing the bumps all the way up to his neck line. Toby's breathing turns shallow as he watches me grazing with teeth against his skin. His eyes are blank, beautiful still slates of thought and color.

I'm down on my knees

He reaches back with his unmarked arm and begins to massage my bulge. Now it's my turn to hiss. I need him to massage it, need him to want to massage it. But I won't let him turn to see that need. I just keep tasting his skin as his fingers move through the fabric of my jeans.

I'm so tired of being lonely

He turns on his own and I find myself unhooking my belt as his fingers slide my zipper down. I don't wear undershorts as a rule, but he doesn't seem incredibly surprised. My too is hard in his warm hands and he knows how to stroke it in a way that makes my nose crinkle. I can feel the heat passing between up.

I can give you what you need

His lips wrapped around my cock force out the cum almost right then and there. I back up toward the counter for some leverage and he follows on his knees. My jeans fall down around my ankles and his tongue finds a couple of spots to roll over that make me groan. He's no stranger to the cock, but he still has quite a bit he could learn.

“Toby. I...”

He looks up at me defiantly as he deep throats all eight of my inches hungrily. I can feel him, right there at my tightening balls. I tear away my gaze from his for just a moment enough to look up towards the sky, as though I can only catch my breath from heaven.

When she calls you to go, there is one thing you should know

I can feel that it's almost over and I can't help but wanting it to go longer. He slows, which almost makes things worse. Now I'm in pain from need of release. He begins to pump my cock through his mouth and I can feel my hips complying. He won't let my cock go, afraid I won't let him have a taste. I want to tell him that he can have whatever he wants.

We don't have to live this way

I finally cum long and hard at the back of his throat. My hand entwines in his hair and he pulls skyward in time to kiss me. A bit of after splash lands on his jeans and he looks down at my still hard cock, almost amused.

“I think you need to come home with me.”

I'm pretty sure that Tobias Beecher isn't referring to being tired.

Why don't you stay?