Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended. I'm just a fan.
RATING FAO ...m/m, non con, Read at your own risk. So if you don't like please don't read.
set in the third series
Another of my older stories, never before posted. Hope you enjoy.
The bullpen. The same sterile lighting, the same tables, the same factions manoeuvring around each other. The looks, leers, stares and signals. Old rivalries and vendettas. New alliances and schemes. And the same smells. Disinfectant, windowcleaner, stale bodies and breath mixing with soap, deodorant and the discordant touch of perfume. But oh! ... the scents of other people.
The differing taints all seemed like fresh air to him. Not being trapped in a room where the only smells are your own body, your own unwashed clothes, bedding. Your own existence.
On entering Em City after so long in solitary, Miguel Alvarez hand a pang of homesickness. A sickness at the thought of being home. This home, back in Em City. Pain in his head caused him to nearly stumble but he caught himself before any sign of weakness could be seen and noted. This was the kind of home where you could never relax, never feel safe and warm.
But there was a welcome.
Glancing to his left, he saw it in their eyes, El Cid and Guerra. A welcome worse than in his nightmares. That is, his nightmares up until these last few months. Eyes! Oh God! The eyes! Coming from all directions, curious, cunning, manipulative, glazed, tired, dead.
His head, he had to get away from the pain in his head. Had to put on a bold face, persona, but all he wanted to do was sink to the floor, small, insignificant... overlooked...Alone.
After months in solitary, with no one to talk to for days on end, only Mukado and Hacks for what seemed like seconds, with no faces except for those in his head, he just wanted to be left alone! Not back in a small room. But space. Alone.
Not knowing quite how, he moved to an empty chair in the back of the TV crowd and began to build up his own walls, his own space. Slouching, trying to appear at ease, he used his own eyes to warn all others to keep their distance.
Surveying the room, between watching Miss Sally's latest foray into puppet love, he felt the eyes begin to lose interest. There was always plenty else in the air to keep the wary's attention. That just left him with El Cid and Co, sat hunched and plotting off to his right and an unknown face to the left, narrow, pale and with a beard.
Alvarez wore a sneer and stared him out, but the stranger just continued to lean against the pillar staring right back, eyes callculating, assessing.
"What the fuck d'you want?"
The man just shrugged and raised his hands in denial. He appeared to come to a decision and, with a slight smile, turned away and headed for the showers.
What the hell was that all about? Miguel Alvarez's head began to pound.
==000==
After leaving Sister Pete's office, Miguel couldn't stop the images of Rivera. Yes, he'd asked to see the photos. Yes, it had worked as he'd hoped. Now he remembered, could remember what he had done to the man's eyes, but he hadn't expected to react like this. Sure, it would be bad, he deserved it. But, oh!...He wasn't prepared for this.
The corridor was mercifully deserted. Collapsing against the wall, kneading his temples with the heals of his hands, he was beginning to slid down the wall when he heard the footsteps. Shit. He'd blurred his vision. Panic set in. "Alvarez! You supposed to be somewhere, an' it ain't here!" A Hack, Murphy. "Get going."
He had to be more careful. He couldn't afford to be taken unawares so easily. The cost? His life. And after what he'd done, he couldn't trust that the Hacks would keep their hands off him either. They hadn't in solitary. He needed to think, to plan. He needed to deal with El Cid finally, once and for all. He needed allies.
Heading back towards Em City, he began to go through his options. O'Riely? Had worked with him before. Who owed him? Well, that list was short. Passing through the gates and looking around. The Nazi fucks on one side, the Muslims on the other. Well they were both out of the question. Abedesi taunting Kenny and the homeboys. A mincing half done transsexual surrounded by Queens. The Italians who wouldn't piss on him if he were on fire.
Nada. Nothing.
His eyes fell on Beecher limping towards his pod. Too wrapped up in his on off, are they or aren't they waltz with Keller. So already occupied. But then again, could he get them to tango into his problems? Keller was strong and could be extremely dangerous, just ask Beecher. By the time he reached the top of the stairs by his own pod, his head had begun to spin.
Falling onto the railing as if meaning to, he leant forwards and gazed around the pen. He knew instantly he was being watched and a couple of seconds was all it took to locate the source. That new face again. Russian or something other European. Could that be the answer? He'd not been here long enough to have history in this place so maybe they could start some? No. Not a good bet, an unknown quantity.
Besides, that look he was giving him, he could feel it all over him, as if he was not just looking past his clothes but right into him. So best he not be approached but Alvarez needed to know about him if only to get a clear idea of what his interest was.
Yeah right. He'd already got a good idea. He'd been here way long enough but had always managed to keep his arse out of that kind of trouble and, to Alvarez, it would be trouble. Not interested. No way. Hadn't he seen him with Rebadow earlier? And that old con had a rep for always knowing what was going on way before anyone else.
Decision made, he sauntered back down to take a seat across from the old man who for once had lost his shadow, Brusmalis. Now he didn't know how to broach the subject, especially faced with the wondering expression turned to him, after all he'd barely ever spoken to the man. "Erm?" Oh, good start.
"Yes?" inquired Rebadow placidly.
Leaning forwards on folded arms, he tried again. "That man? Russian?"
"What Nikoli?"
Slight gesture with head and eyes, "Beard, leaning on a pillar, blue tracksuit." What was with that outfit? The quick glance told he was still being observed. "Keeps watchin' me."
"Yes. Nikoli Petrovich Stanislavski."
"What do'u know?"
Rebadow leant back in his chair, hands relaxed on the table. "He's Russian. A Jew and done for trying to sell stolen diamonds—to a cop!" supplied Brusmalis far too loudly for Alvarez whilst sitting down next to his pod mate.
Oh Fuck! So much for being circumspect. He looked over at the Russian and met an amused expression. They stared at each other for a few seconds, which to Miguel seemed long enough to be stripped down to his skeleton. Turning back to Bob Rebadow, he was about to speak and realised yet more had joined the table. Beecher and Keller stood beside him. Fuck! He was loosing his wits bad. How had they managed to arrive without his knowing it?
Scraping the chair back, he rushed, head down, to his pod to pace around, grabbing at his hair then threw himself onto the bunk. Fuck! Shit!
"I thought he wanted to know?" said Brusmalis surprised.
"Know what?" Keller asked as he occupied the vacated chair. Occupied being apt as he sprawled there, legs spread, left arm hooked over the back, right hand brushing down Beecher's thigh, being slapped away as he sat.
"About our Nikoli."
As one, they turned to look over at him. The man under discussion pushed himself from the pillar, arms still folded, looking off to Alvarez's pod, then turned to his audience, that slight smile on his lips and headed towards them.
"Me thinks he's taken a liking to our little Latino and it's made our hombre nervous."
"Keller, you judging everyone by your own balls?"
Answering, he leaned in, hand back on Beecher's thigh, "You know where my balls lead."
"Take, it, away!"
Keller began to squeeze. Beecher stood and left, passing Nikoli, missing the gleam in Keller's eyes but knowing it would be there.
"Hello, my friends," smiled Nikoli.
==000==
Days had gone by yet all he had managed to do was circle around people and get beaten by Cramer in that dumb boxing match. How the hell that could have happened was a mystery. His head had become fuzzy, had felt fogged which was so different to the stark images that continued to invade his mind like one of those wrecking balls on a demolition site, even through the pills Dr Nathan had him on. Sometimes he felt his mind was under assault and the attacker was his own psyche.
But staying out of solitary, the hospital, the morgue, was an achievement in and of itself. Since the match, his few attempts to the clearer O'Riely brother had been met with arrogance and contempt, but Ryan had not dismissed him entirely. So, maybe.
This week's session with Sister Pete had not helped. It had just added weight to the wreaking ball. He'd become such a regular shadow of his former self lately that the Hacks had been sending him back to Em City alone, as if they couldn't be bothered with him.
The dull concrete corridor was always cool and empty with nothing but a couple of locked storage rooms so he could afford to relax slightly. This unobserved walk had given him the chance to compose himself and paste on the combat ready persona he needed before facing the other inmates. He walked slowly, preparing himself, pushing to the back of his mind the thoughts and images that talking, or more usually, listening to the nun had stirred up.
He was jerked backwards by cloth pulled over his face. Losing his balance, his feet were kicked from under him and left arm crushed to his side as someone else's was fastened around his torso. Shouting as loud as he could, kicking out, the fabric tightened over his face, cutting in under the chin, causing him to fight for breath. Hell! He was fighting for his life. Fuck. Shit. This was it. All over. He was going to die now. Any second the shank would sink in.
Over the roaring in his head, he hard a sharp, "Legs, get his legs," and felt himself being lifted and carried backwards. So there were at least two of them. He continued to struggle but why hadn't they killed him already? "The door," the man who controlled him from behind commanded. His legs were dropped and he struggled harder, fighting for breath. Off balance, the cloth loosened slightly as the attacker fought to keep him restrained. A breath, yelled, the closest thing he had ever made to a scream. "Shut him the fuck up!" voice a little further away.
It sounded familiar but not a Latino accent. So they weren't El Cid or his cronies. Then who the fuck were they and why? A renewed, tighter pulling on the cloth dragged him backwards into presumably one of the storage rooms. He had to go with it or be strangled. Other hands on him as he was heaved onto something hard and jarring. A piller? A strutt? Not a wall as his hands were forced behind it and tied.
He began to buck once more and received a shove to the forehead, knocking his skull back against the pillar. Pain breaking through the blood roaring around his ears. "Don't. It's useless if he's out cold. He must be able to feel it all."
Oh God, they were going to torture him first? Then kill him? What the fuck was going on? Who were they? That voice had sounded strange but he couldn't work it out. No time now. Just pure torror. He kicked out and caught something. "Fuck!" the familiar voice swore viscously and his ankles were then also tied to the column, firmly but not cutting in. More cloth then, but it held as he continued to fight.
The fabric over his face was whipped away but he could see nothing. His vision was blurred and it was dark with only a little light seeping in around and under the door which appeared as a foggy haze. A blindfold then covered his eyes and was secured at the back of his head, knotted where he had hit it. He hissed out a breath at the pain and amazingly it was repositioned.
What the fuck was happening? What sort of torturers were concerned at his pain? He drew breath to yell once more. A hand covered his mouth. A whispered voice by his ear, "Shush. Stop fighting. It does you no good!"
Again the discordant note struck as if whoever was speaking was trying to sound different, covering up something but what? An accent? A distinctive well known voice?
"Quel...?W..who are you? What do you want?" Still fighting the bonds, his voice gained strength, "Untie me, you fuckin' bastards!"
A slight chuckle by his left ear. A grunted laugh from further away. Another whisper, the breath warm on his cheek. "First would be telling. Second you are soon to discover and the third? That will not be happening for a little while."
So they planned to let him go? Or would it just be to fall dead to the floor? "Fuckin let me loose!" he screamed out as he fought afresh with his whole body to pull his hands free.
A stinging slap to his face followed by a soothing blown breath and a fingertip caress. "Que..?" he began as the fingers continued to his mouth. Just one followed the outline of his lips. He couldn't get a handle on this. Again, what the hell was going on? He'd expected to be dead by now. The finger dipped inside his mouth, ran along the inside of the lower lip, was removed and replaced by a tongue along the top.
He was beginning to admit that he knew when the other spoke from some yards away, sounding extremely bored, "Just fuck im already will ya?"
No, sweet heaven. They were going to rape him! No! No, oh fuckshitno!
He began to buck wildly, pulling at whatever bound his wrists and ankles only to have his head pulled back and to the side by his hair, a body pressed against him. He couldn't allow this to happen. Never had. Keep fighting. Furiously he struggled between the pillar and body, both unmoveable and static until he realised through his movements he could feel the man's cock and it was getting hard, pushing into his own. He went rigid.
Fighting was getting him no where and the bastard was enjoying it! Would pleading work? He was willing to beg what was left of his soul away if it could get him out of this. "Por favor. Please, no," quietly to the man holding him. "I'll give you money. Everythin' I got. I can get you tits, dust? Anything you want?" He almost sobbed, "Just please, don't do this to me." The man moved back slightly but remained touching at the groins. Was it working? "Anything you want."
A hand brushed down the extended side of his neck to rest against his left shoulder. The other, holding his hair, began to massage rather than pull. A soft kiss to the jawline just below his left ear. "But why? When I can take what I want now?"
Miguel sagged, letting out a low tortured moan. What could he do? He couldn't fight anymore and obviously couldn't talk or bargin his way out. An approving, "Good," was practically purred into his ear followed by another gentle but longer kiss in the same place. "Do not fret. I do not intend to hurt you. Unless you want me to?" the last on a higher note, asking the question.
But he didn't want. He didn't want any of this. And could he really believe that he would not be harmed? Except from getting his arse raided against his will? Which, he figured, was becoming inevitable. He risked asking, "Are you really gonna let me live?" He was disgusted at how plaintive he sounded. A chuckle in response, it was infuriating.
"But of course. How else will we be able to continue to enjoy each other?"
Relief flooded through Alvarez. Somehow he knew he was being told the truth. Followed by resignation. If he just let it happen, not that he appeared to have any choice, it would be over soon and he could get out of here. But did this man really believe he could make him enjoy this? Conceited prick.
A new spark of rebellion flooded through him. Then panicked relisation. Continue to enjoy each other? Continue? This was to happen again? No way. Get out of here. Find the bastards and deal out pain of his own. 'Grande' pain.
All this went through his mind, planning, scheming, to be brought crashing back to the present as his hair was released and the hand moved to his shoulder then mirrored the actions of the other as his would be, soon to be? rapist stepped back and began to slide hands down to Miguel's narrow waist then to settle on his hips. If only he could see the bastard maybe he could gauge what was to come.
Who the fuck was it? He needed to look him in the eye. 'Get this blindfold off me,' he begged silently. He couldn't stand not being able to see. Fuck. He began to visibly shake. Oh, God. What had he done? How could he have done that? Deliberately and viscously blinded someone? And Rivera had done nothing!
Again he was brought back to the here and now, with a momentary feeling of relief quickly squashed. Hands moved inside his t-shirt, palms on his skin, moving upwards, brushing over nipples to shoulders once more, clothing brought up on bent wrists. Quickly the bunched shirt was forced over his head, constricting his arms even more and leaving his torso exposed.
The hands began to explore, pressing firmly on flesh. Every inch on show was prodded in examination, his chest, his sides, down to the band of his still too big jeans. His well-defined abs were each pressed, massaged and outlined. Firm hands and gentle fingertips intermittently. Back up, massaging towards neck and shoulders then once more down to pause and gently pull at nipples.
A sob he couldn't contain escaped his lips to earn a gentle kiss on his lower one and firmer handling. A pinch, a tug then gentle circling with thumbs on his, he was ashamed to admit, firm and erect nipples. A hand grasped the back of his head while the other palm pressed a path down the centre of his body over navel and on, under the band of his jeans and underwear. As his belly was massaged firmly, the tips of the fingers brushed the top of his prick.
Alvarez let out a gasp and a mouth clamped to his own in a bruising kiss. Desperation renewed the fight in him only to be met with increased pressure on his neck and belly. 'I'll bite his fuckin tongue off! If I survive this I'll hunt you down and kill you, you fuckin' bastard'. But the tongue only played with the inside of his lips, the corner of his mouth, never giving an opportunity for mutilation. This man was not stupid.
In his pants, the middle finger began to stroke across the top of his dick, the others digging in on either side. Abruptly a shift and the hands were back on his hips then plunged down onto his butt, grasping hard. One found the shank, which had been digging in ever since he'd been pushed against the spar.
An arm around his back pulled him savagely forwards, groin slamming into groin as the shank was removed carefully. A tutting noise followed by a ping at it hit the floor a few feet away as it was casually dropped. Again hands pushed down onto his cheeks, the waistband of the pants digging in tightly just above his cock. A whisper by his ear, "Very nice. But a little skinny for my taste. You must eat more, Michael."
The angry voice was back in his head. As if it was his fault the Hacks had starved him. This bastard couldn't even get his damn name right. " Fuck you." A kiss, a nip at the same spot on his jaw.
"Maybe, one day, when you have earned it."
Miguel pulled back his head and spat at where he thought the face was. The hands gripped and pulled hard once more, slamming their bodies together, straining the bindings around his feet. "Missed!"
A laugh from yards away. Alvarez' head snapped in that direction. Shit he'd completely forgotten about the other man. "Get on with it. Times' passin'."
Shit, did he want to do Alvarez too? No, no please, way too much. A hiss like an animal marking his territory was issued in return. Another laugh and either reading Miguel's mind or reassuring the other of his prey, "Hey, you know my dick leads in another direction."
Attention back on Alvarez, he was lowered back down to stand. The hands resumed a pummelling massage. A hard cock was rubbing against his own, stirring one. A groan, even his own body was betraying him. How could he begin to get turned on in these circumstances? Yet it had been so long since he had been touched even remotely like this. Such a long time since he had received anything but beatings, shankings and scars or his own ministrations. His mind reeled that his body could, and was, responding to this attack.
Another shift and he was released to stand panting. His chest, his whole frame moving to accommodate the desperate breaths he was taking, trying to control his panic, not only at what was being done to him, but at his own bodies reactions. Lips kissing again, along his jaw, mouth and neck, constantly moving, always gentle as if trying to seduce a virgin. But to this he was, but he didn't think much to the restraints approach. The kisses light, licking. A beard.
This man had a beard. Remember that. Help track him down. The voice, fake, covering something up. Remember that. His jeans and underpants were swiftly pulled down. He forgot everything as his cock was licked from root to tip, then a warm enclosure around the head.
He jerked backwards, once more hitting his head hard enough to be momentary dazed. Then all he knew were the sensations on his prick. Licking, light and fast, up then back down his entire length. The head surrounded by lips, hands digging in over the protruding hipbones. It continued fast then agonisingly slow, the same movements, same lightness of touch.
Alvarez felt himself tempted to scream out, 'harder,' but stopped just in time. He shouldn't want this. Why was he responding, becoming semi-erect? He fought his body, fought against the sensation. He found he was moving his hips forwards against the pressure of the hands holding them, towards that mouth while letting out small gasps and moans. When had he begun to moan in pleasure? His mind was in turmoil. His body beginning to win out.
"Time," spoke from a mile away. "Got to go."
The mouth left him, the hands swiftly removed. His mind whimpered, "No." That chuckle again. My God, had he said it out load? A hand holding the base of his skull, the other, that same place on the jawline. A second punishing kiss and, as a tongue thrust in to fuck his mouth, all thoughts of biting it were forgotten. That hard cock was crushing, dry humping against him. He tentively began to respond with his own tongue then nothing, all contact gone. He strained forwards. All he found was a laughing, "Next time, my Michael."
In the time it took to think 'Que? What? When?', his feet were loosened and his hands untied then he was violently pushed to the floor. Reeling, he scrabbled to get the blindfold off. He needed to see who had done this to him. Who was it that had taken him from terror to feelings he couldn't come to terms with. The eye binding off, he found that it was damp. He hadn't known that he'd cried. Rubbing at his eyes, he was just in time to see the door closing. They'd been fast.
He pushed himself to a sitting position. His arms, giving out under him, it took a couple of attempts. He was shaking uncontrollably with pains shooting up and down his limbs. It took a minute to get the shaking under control and then he untangled the fastenings from his feet. It came away easily. If they had not been loosened, his ankles would probably be broken by now. The cold floor felt soothing to his abused butt and he relished the coolness as he began to replace his clothes.
Standing, dressed but none too steadily, his eyes caught a glint on the floor. His shank. He bent to retrieve it as the door handle was rattled and a surprised, "What the..?" from a Hack as it swung open.
In no time at all, Miguel Alvarez was stripped once more and landed heavily against a filthy wall as he was thrown unceremoniously into 'The Hole'.
==000==
TBC...