Work Text:
Tell him I had a funny dream about him. He was elected
President of the United States.
Chris Keller to Katherine McClain in Wheel of Fortune.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Opulence surrounded him, burgundy hues overwhelming the eye. The cost of the curtains could have paid to fully furnish three maybe four houses. Beecher stood behind the focal point of the room a huge, expensive desk. He was wearing jeans, a green t-shirt, and a wide smile. Perhaps he should have looked out of place, but he didn't. Keller knew clothes didn't make the man; they were just costumes that hid the identity beneath. Beecher belonged here. It was marked on his skin, but he belonged to other places too, places Keller liked to roam.
A bit casual today, aren't we, President Beecher? Keller said as he leaned against the desk, smudging its smooth surface with his fingerprints.
Beecher's smile widened. I'm changing the rules, bridging worlds. I'll wear whatever I fucking please. The title's premature. Don't you think? I've only been elected for what? He looked at his watch. Three hours.
Maybe. But I don't think it's too early to start celebrating.
What did you have in mind?
Keller stepped closer and traced a finger down Beecher's chest, over his stomach, and across his groin. He let his hand rest there, pressing slightly. I thought I'd fuck you over this nice, solid desk.
Laughter filled the room. I like the way you think. You know, I've got a couple of open positions in my cabinet. Interested?
Depends on what you're offering, Keller said. He moved closer, rubbing against Beecher's thigh.
The best position. Starting today, you'll be the only one I'll let fuck me over. I'll give you that power.
I'll keep it, Keller said. He'd always had that power over Beecher, and Beecher over him.
Good. Beecher kissed him. Get to work.
My pleasure. Keller pushed Beecher backward, his hand brushing something velvety. He knotted his fingers in those ridiculously expensive curtains and tugged. The sound of fabric ripping away from curtain rods filled him with satisfaction. My fucking pleasure.
His words drifted off, and Beecher was gone.
Keller wasn't sure what had woken him, perhaps it had been a hack making his nightly rounds, but whatever it had been was goddamn rude. A bit of thin sheet was clasped in his hand, and he released it with a frown of disgust. He turned onto his side, his semi-hard cock brushing against the rough material that offered little comfort and never fought off the chill.
His cock reminded him that it still remembered the dream and wanted a little attention. Keller reached down to stroke himself, the warmth and touch familiar. His dick was well acquainted with his hand. While familiar could be good, it sucked when you wanted something different. Slow, light touches barely took the edge off his need, but there was no reason to rush things, nothing better to be doing.
What an odd dream. Beecher would have found it amusing, and he would have enjoyed telling him about it, particularly the bit about fucking him over the desk. Oh yeah, he would have whispered that bit into Beecher's ear a few minutes before lights out. Later, in the darkness, he would have whispered a bit more with a few demonstrations. Keller ran his fingers over the tip of his cock, then down along the shaft and around his balls. Fuck, that would have been fun.
He wondered what Beecher was doing now. His hand stilled as a cold rush of longing washed over him. Christ, he missed Toby. He should be back in Em City, holding Toby, touching Toby. It wasn't fair. Bringing him back to Oz was a goddamn tease. He wanted Beecher. His hand fell to the edge of the bunk as rage chased away the coldness, but it was impotent emotion. It wouldn't bring him Toby. He rolled onto his back.
This cell, this cage, they'd locked him in seemed to be growing smaller. He needed to be outside of it, to get to Beecher. Keller took a deep breath. He had to fucking calm down, think of something else. Toby. Yeah, what would Toby be doing now? Maybe he was touching himself, wrapping tight fingers around that big, fat cock of his.
Oh yeah.
Keller put his hand back on his penis. His erection had started to fade, but the image in his mind and his expert touch quickly brought it back to life. He knew what he liked: Beecher naked, mouth slightly open, panting, as his hips moved to thrust into his hand. Keller's strokes became firmer, and he rocked upward as he pictured Toby doing the same. This was good, real good.
You couldn't get a better mental picture. Except that dream might have given him an idea for one Beecher bent over the desk, his ass arching begging to be taken. He closed his eyes imaging the velvet curtain spread across the desk, his hand wrapping in it as he teased his dick against Toby's ass. Smoothness beneath his hand, smoothness underneath his cock, all of it so fucking right.
In the fantasy, Toby's hand covered his. Stop. Beecher slid out from underneath, stood, and turned to face him. A change in plans.
Christ, Keller muttered. This ain't . His words were silenced by Beecher's hand over his mouth.
I'm going to fuck you.
Yes, that was what he wanted. Somehow Beecher always knew. Even when he didn't want to know, wouldn't admit to knowing, he always knew. Keller licked at the palm covering his lips until Beecher removed his hand. Do it, he said. Hard.
Hard, Beecher repeated, and Keller found himself pressed down against the velvet, his cock sliding roughly across the material. Firm hands spread his ass cheeks, and then Beecher's wicked tongue was sending pleasurable jolts of torment through his body.
Christ, Toby, he said. The words came out in a groan both in his mind and in the sterile emptiness of the cell. On the bunk, Keller turned over so he was fucking the bed, legs spread and ass exposed for a tongue that touched only in his mind.
The tongue disappeared. His curse of frustration turned into a moan, as with no warning, Beecher pressed into him, taking him hard just like he wanted. So damn hard the goddamn desk was moaning too.
Chris, Chris, Chris, Beecher chanted, making it sound like he was some kind of fucking god. Chris Keller Almighty. Hearing that was almost, ALMOST, as good as the way Toby's massive cock was filling his ass, marking him so damn deep that there was no way any part of him could remain untouched.
Chris, I'm gonna .
Keller felt Beecher shudder as he came. It was too soon. He wasn't even close, and he didn't want release by hand or even by mouth. He wanted that cock.
The feel of a body pressed against him became harder to imagine. The fantasy disappeared like water slipping down a drain. Its hollow echo couldn't chase away the rough sheet beneath him or the hand that wasn't slick enough or tight enough to satisfy. Reality was cold, stale air on his ass, frustrated groans, and violent attempts to draw release from indifferent friction.
When he finally came, the release was a flood of disappointment spilling over his hand and staining everything it touched. Keller collapsed onto the sticky, damp bunk. With each pant, he breathed in desperation and longed for the scent of passion.
He closed his eyes letting the emptiness dull his mind. There was an almost peaceful blankness for a few moments before the memories descended. Toby whispering in his ear. Toby's hand on his wrist. Toby's mouth on the back of his neck. So many small moments crowded his mind, all he'd had and lost and wanted again. The quiet seemed like another wall, shutting him in, and he had to break it.
Hey, Toby, Keller whispered. I had a funny dream about you. Wanna hear?
Of course, the silence didn't answer.