hetsmut slashsmut single shug beecher adebisi alvarez oreily

Flatline

by shug


Augustus: Magic. Sleight of hand. Smoke and mirrors. Distraction. That's all it ever is. No real magic in the world yo. What you think is so fantastic, so amazing, so mind-boggling, is actually just shit. Once you dig through the layers and examine it close, it's nothing. Nothing but... a trick.

Yeah, there's tricks all around Oz. All the time. People pull shit over on others all the time, man. Cheat people outta tits, money, sex, power, whatever. Running their schemes to keep themselves ahead, you gotta do it. But even the best laid schemes can sometimes go POOF.

* * *

O'Reily cuts through the tables of the pit in Em City, shoulders rolling like a panther's and squinted eyes just as ominous as he confidently steers his body toward his target.

Whole new target here, you gotta appreciate that. Sure. He's used his bullshit Irish charm before, subtly, on the guys. Never enough to cross the line and let them think his vibes were actually ever going to swing that way, but enough to grease them good as needed.

But this, oh shit, the crooked half-grin creeps across his face as he thinks about just how full-throttle he gets to go here.

Manipulate? Pffft. Please. Lots of people can manipulate. Push a couple easy buttons and get some simple things in return. They need to come up with a better phrase for Ryan O'Reily though. Exploit? Close, not that either though. Cause he really only has one advantage to do what he does, and to him, it's simple.

Others look. He sees.

There's no trick or magic to it. Everyone else, they're so wrapped up in themselves that when they look at another person, they see what they want. But O'Reily, he sees what's *there*. He sees what the other person doesn't even want people to see.

Like, say, Claire Howell.

Others look. They see a rough bitch. He tilts his head as he approaches her, she turns and eyefucks him good. "What the fuck do you want, dickbrain?" She barks.

He rubs his hand across his chin, admits to himself that *they* have a point. Put him out on the street, give him a choice between Gloria and Claire - no contest. Shit, put him in here and give the staunch heterosexual a choice between *Pancamo* and Claire and he'd probably be sucking salami and whistling the Taran-fucking-tella til the ziti's all gone. But that's *not* the choice right now.

Because Pancamo wasn't the one who McManus fucked to a frenzy. And Pancamo wasn't the one who got his bra in a knot when he got dumped after the frenzy. And Pancamo, right now at least, isn't of much use to him anyhow.

But Claire is. You fucking shitting? A *hack*? Back from his early days in Em City O'Reily knew that there was NO commodity as valuable as having a fucking *hack* as the angel on your shoulder.

And he can't have *his* angel right now (or maybe ever). So much as he'd like to fall to his knees and press his face into Gloria's smooth stomach and make her his, he's willing, happy even, to let Claire Howell fall to her knees for him and pretend to be *hers*.

Huh, how bad could it be anyway?

Howell sneers as Adebisi passes by, turns back to O'Reily and starts to bitch him out. "You're late for your kitchen shift, ass- wipe."

Yeah. Um, pretty bad in all honesty. But hey, come on, a cherry this ripe just *has* to be picked, now doesn't it?

Cause as everyone else looks at the sadistic bitch, O'Reily sees layers beneath that. He sees a sadistic bitch who, just like everyone else, really wants some fucking respect. He sees a sadistic bitch who wants not just some respect, but to feel *special*.

Ahh, he smirks at the thought - sweet little *special* Claire. Howell pushes him forward, causing him to stumble, then pull up quick. "Hey, Howell," he says sharply, still in earshot of others in Em City. "I had to go check on my brother, ease up."

"Fuck you and your Forest Gump brother, O'Reily. MOVE it," she barks.

Yeah, she's special alright, this Claire.

Around another corner, and they're in an empty corridor. O'Reily stops short and turns around. "Stop fucking pushing me, *Claire*," he sneers. It's real, but he acts like it's fake. His thin green eyes actually seem to sparkle for a second under the dead lights.

"Shut your fucking mouth, O'Reily," she commands and gets in his face.

He lets the visual flash behind his eyes; /Gloria, full of rage, pushing him back against the wall, he straightens up from the knock and faces her, she crumbles, and falls into his arms./ His heart thuds once, very hard with the thought. Eyes still focused, but no longer seeing Howell, keeping the illusion deeply tucked and hidden, he growls out the response. "Make me, bitch."

So she does.

She slides into him and tucks her frame against his. And he knows. He *knows* he's done his job and that he's got her. He can fake it, that's the spell he'll weave; he can fuck her and make her think he wants to be fucking her and only her. Same as everyone else, cast the same simple incantations around to give them what they want and need. /I'm your only pal here. Sure, I'll watch your back. I won't cross *you*. *I* look out for *you*./

Uh huh.

He sucks her tongue and sighs in her ear. Wistfully, he imagines Gloria again. Gloria melting into his arms, Gloria kissing him back, that should be Gloria running her hands up his spine. It should be Gloria reaching around front and...oh yeah, oh...

"YEAH-AWW!" He yelps, nearly bites his own tongue at the extremely rough, sudden squeeze on his cock.

He sees her giggle at him, so he chokes down the instinct to throw her off him, ask her what the hell she thinks she's doing. It's his *cock* - not a grip-n-flex for Christ's sake. Howell leans in to kiss him again, but he's still got the taste of her mouth on his tongue and it's enough for now. He averts his head, quickly remembers himself, so he dives in and licks her neck as a cover.

Pulling her ass close, he grinds into her, keeping the physical touch he needs down there to stay aroused enough til he can slip back to his comfy fantasies. She starts to climb on top of him, and he lets her. They clatter to the ground in a heap of tangled arms and legs, her clawing through his kitchen whites and lapping at his skin.

Chasing tingles follow her licks and touches, sucks are even better - strong vibrations that reverb through his body so strongly that he doesn't have to pretend to be enjoying them.

She rides him, as he stretches his neck and grinds his teeth, there's not a damn thing tricky about his reactions, even better, he's pretty certain that as she starts to pant and wiggle with abandon there's not a damn thing she's faking either.

He knows, *knows* he could do the same for Gloria too. Knows that if he ever got the chance, he could work her body, *manipulate* it all just perfectly - until she was nothing but a tangled, exhausted mess, panting and begging for more all at once. He thinks of what her breasts would look like with beads of sweat trickling from her neck down around her nipples. His heart does double time as Claire starts to grunt his name. And Gloria's face, her brows would be pulled together, just like when she's worried, but she'd probably bite her lip, and then she'd look at him and simply say --

"Ryan!"

Like that, he comes. Shaking a little, face grimaced, jugular vein protruding along his sinewy neck.

And then Claire leans down on top of him as he starts to come back to where he is. A hallway in Oz, with a fucking hack on top of him. She lays her head down on his chest, and O'Reily knows, sees, what she's doing. She's listening to his heartbeat, still thrumming away from the workout.

How's he see that?

Cause it's exactly what he'd do...with Gloria. Swallowing thickly, he lifts a hand and strokes her hair a few times. An act, or real, who cares? She's getting what she wants, huh?

Yeah, everyone's like that. Just once in a life though, he thinks, everyone should get not only what they need, but also what they want.

* * *

Augustus: Some stuff actually looks magical . for a while. Love in Oz, that's something. Yeah, POOF, motherfucker.

* * *

/Jesus Christ, I'm fucking TEXTBOOK./

Beecher *knows* he is, and that still doesn't help. He just can't stop them - vicious circles. They've always been there, the drinking, the love, revenge, and now the sex. Wrapped up tighter than a slave in bondage to his own Goddamn head, fully aware of how fucked up his actions are, but never having the energy (or guts?) to break the patterns.

He had to take Psych 101 at Harvard, required class for all freshmen. Sister Peter Marie, Christ, she oughta be able to pick this out from thin air just by watching him even if she didn't know him. But seeing is one thing, stopping it is another.

Cause when he's sunk down this low he *wants* it - punishes himself for all the shit he's caused and then he just gets tired from the shit that creates and then he just lets it go on cause he deserves it, and shit, at least this time *he's* the one holding the whip instead of some psuedo-Nazi, repressed queen, pasty puffed ... FUCK.

And that is what it comes back to this time, isn't it? His hatred for Schillinger did this. Schillinger did this. Sort of.

Gary. His boy, his *son*. Gary. Mutilated and left to bleed to death in a cornfield. /Think your dramas are bad To-BI-as? Try that one on for size, you've had a cakewalk next to what little Gary suffered./

Fuck yes he knows that. And Holly - sweet little towheaded Holly, left alive but at what cost. Did she *see* what happened to Gary? What was she thinking? Was it cold where Hank Schillinger kept her? Her hair, it probably got all tangled and knotted up too. This will never leave her. NEVER EVER leave her. It's her *memory* now, as ingrained in her as the swastika on Beecher's ass.

And he doesn't cry for them anymore. He wailed for Gary, but even now, even though he knows he's doing it, he can't fucking stop it. He mourns for Gary, cause Gary *can't* sit around and feel sorry for himself anymore. He mourns for Holly, wails cause he knows she's going to be in the same desperate pit he is, she just got a 30 year jump on him.

But Goddamnit all to hell, he can't help it either, it sneaks up on him, slithers in, and before he knows it, he's not mourning for *them* - he's mourning for HIMSELF again. *His* loss, what he's done, his guilt, his tragedy here. And then he knows he's doing it and *fuck* if that doesn't push the buttons to make him even guiltier.

And so it all goes. /Ad infinitum. Ad fucking nauseum./

Drown. He wishes he could just drown in it. It's peaceful they say. Who says? Right, all those people who drowned and then came back to life and told us it was really peaceful - another fucking presumption. Nevertheless, it feels familiar, almost peacefully. Like getting lost maybe. Even if it didn't, who cares?

Not him. Cause Beecher's just too fucking tired to stop it this time around.

/Bats in the belfry, way up high,
Bats from my brain, plucked from the sky.../

/Aahhh, shit. Too tired for that anymore either. Leave the rhymes to Poet, I just don't care./

This is what he gets. That's what he gets for trusting even for just two lousy weeks and believing that life in Oz actually can be something other than Hell. It's laughable really.

Make amends with Schillinger, settle down with Chris, let go of the bitterness, grow more serene with his existence. Are you kidding? This isn't Miss Sally's Schoolhouse, Beecher, this is OZ.

He knows that now. It never stops.

Vern blames him for Andy, Vern kills Gary. Well, this is Oz, Vern, and it never stops. Beecher blames Vern for Gary, Beecher kills Hank. And so on. Ad infinitum, ad nauseum.

And the icing on the cake, of course, being the *one* thing, the one lousy thing he thought he could lean on, that got ripped away too.

And he's got no one but himself to blame on that one. Who'd a thought, huh? *Trust*.

Huh.

Broken trust, and just like that, Keller turned it off. Like a water faucet, few simple twists of the wrist and the love just stopped. The last of the good all dried up.

Really though, isn't that a little simplistic of the bastard? Ok, it was wrong to accuse Chris, but he was under a *little* bit of PRESSURE there. Chris summed it up though, the lesson Beecher still keeps forgetting - there is no forgiveness in Oz - not for Vern, not for Keller, and not for Beecher.

But it also just seemed so - *easy*. And so Beecher thinks about how wrapped up in his own head he stays, and as Keller glances across the pit at him, he finally realizes that Chris Keller spends the same amount of time in his own head. /Hell, does everyone do that? Could it be that I'm actually normal?/

Yep, that's right, new addiction, same old black magic. He *knows* the ins and outs and doesn't care, cause it's what he wants. Take a hit; be it booze, tits, religion, love, or sex - it fills you up. That's the power - makes you *better*. Getting high isn't just getting buzzed, it's getting high on yourself. Then it crashes, and you feel twice as empty, twice as down on yourself. And there's the trick to it all. So you take another hit. And hit again, and hit again. Until you finally figure out that the power comes in feeling good about yourself cause you dropped that hit. One less crutch.

But he's just too tired to crawl out. Didn't see the love as the same old thing, just another trick. Thought it was actually *real* this time. But he made Keller feel good, and Keller pumped his ego and then it all came crashing down.

So as Gary lies in a cold grave and Holly screams the nights away, he does this. To make himself pay. And, oh yes, in that vein of forgiveness, to make that cunt Keller pay.

Cause Chris wasn't the only one who can fuck Beecher senseless, and really, that's gotta sting.

So Beecher puppy-dog eyes Chris until there's a tap at his shoulder. Turning around, he cocks a weary brow at the pockmarked face, Tith, or Tidd maybe, he doesn't really pay attention, you've seen a dozen cocks you've seen 'em all really, no point in applying names to them all.

"I want you to suck my dick, Beecher."

"Yeah, and I want Querns to suck mine, let's see who gets their wish first," he sasses back. Oh, he knows he's going to do it, but those are the rules this time around. He may be a whore, but he's not a fucking *prag* for fuck's sake - show a little respect people.

"C'mon, Beecher," Tidd grabs at his crotch and does a subtle jig. "Got it bad right now, don't do me like this."

Beecher considers, then tilts his head to the side, why not? Time for a hit, turn the trick one more time. "Let's go."

Not somewhere out of the way, oh no, huh-uh. Cause this is shame of the grandest scale, the hell with scarlet letters, put the actual *act* out there for Em City, Chris Keller, and God to all see.

First thing he does after getting Tidd to dog after him to the laundry room is leans in and kisses him flush on the mouth. Not hard either.

Soft, and just a hint of lingering. That subtle cross between a friendly kiss and a drawn-out slippery smooch. Then ever so slightly, just a couple of inches, he backs away. Lips still parted, his blonde lashes gently raise, quickly enough to see that Tidd's eyes had actually closed.

Of course it was fake, but it's a detail he never forgets, and no one really complains. He supposes that maybe for those few seconds they forget too, they're willing to wrap the illusion around them, believe in the trick and the lie that it's a tiny bit more than what it actually is. That it's not just them wanting sex, but someone wanting them.

Must work on Tidd too, big time, cause his whole body tilts forward, just an inch, but nevertheless. And as tired as Beecher is, he's still got it in him to keep the black magic going too. His heart drops to his stomach as he swallows thickly, then leans close and presses his lips to other man's again.

*Other man's* lips. Not Chris Keller's. And as he winds his hands around Tidd's neck, Tidd exhales a sigh against his tongue. That's what sealed the deal with Keller way back when, Keller kissing him and sighing like he meant it. But Beecher knows it this time around, it's not even really playing with fire, cause there's no way he's falling down that bunny hole again.

Let Tith, or Tidd, or Browne, or whoever, pretend, that's not his gig anymore.

He drops to his knees, heart and breath cool and regular, unceremoniously tugs on a zipper, then licks and sucks. It's tangy, salty, even a bit -- bitter. He admits it, it tastes downright bad. But that's ok, Counselor.

Cause in Oz, bad is good: Sex isn't love, but it's a damn fitting punishment - and Misery, ad infinitum, ad fucking nauseum - thy name is Beecher.

Augustus: Escape - that'd be a trick worthy of magic. If you actually CAN escape that is. Cause it ain't magic man, but it's that indelible mark Oz leaves. Maybe Oz'll let go of you, but you can't let go of Oz. POOF.

* * *

Fuck all this nature shit man.

The chilly spring air somehow cuts right through the corduroy jacket, nips even worse through the thin fabric of the hospital scrubs he wears as pants.

Miguel curls up tighter as he squints one eye opened. No clue where he is, but fully cognizant of where he's *not*. The smell alone gives it away before he even opens his eyes. Never really thought dirt had a smell, but it does. Smells like ... dirt. And sleeping on the ground, yeah, feels like sleeping on dirt.

He aches. The wound in his side still aches, even worse from sleeping on it in the cold air. His arms and legs are stiff; for all the bouncing around he did in that little fuckin room it wasn't shit compared to this.

But 'salright, you know, fuck. He yawns and pushes himself so he's sitting up, rubbing his eyes and spitting into the weeds on Bear Mountain.

Alone.

No-fuckin-one around, no one to talk to. No one tryin to shank him neither though. Used to get all hot and pissed off, worked up in that little cell, hacks treatin him like shit, Cid down his fuckin back when he was out. Thought he deserved it, thought he didn't deserve it.

Wanted to be left alone, terrified of being left alone. So here he is now, stuck right in the middle of it all same as ever, nothing fuckin changed. 'Cept the scenery.

And fuck it ALL if he's going back to that scenery of glass and bars, concrete and cages. But fuck this *woods* shit too man. Forrest. Mountain. Whatever. He's aware of what he's been doing, flitting from cities to woods, never letting his guard down. But most notable, the way he tends to keep closing himself in tight as possible.

It was a trick, or a lie, or something. Or he's conditioned to need what he hated - those close four fucking walls of Oz. Even now, out in the woods, he found a thick area, trees crowded close, branches blocking out the open sky and possibility of stars or sun. Prefering to cocoon himself and stay wrapped up tight as possible. What the fuck was that all about, huh? Free from Oz and all he fuckin does is worry about gettin shagged right back there and making any space he finds as confining as his cell was anyhow.

Still worried bout stayin alive, still fuckin knowing he's fuckin it all up, not havin any fun - it's just geography man. Geography and scenery that just keeps on changing.

He coughs a couple times and pounds on his own his chest to jump-start his heart for another day. Looks around again. Shit, it's all the same man. Tree after tree after fuckin tree. No Maritza, no priest, no baby, no nothin. He thumps himself back onto the ground, raw nerves and throbbing temples. He lifts a hand to his head and tries to soothe the aching pulse there, suddenly aware of the dull achy itch between his legs.

He chuckles wryly to himself as his eyes make out an owl perched above him, it's looking down, and Miguel can't decide if it's there to just observe or judge at the same time. Either way, he don't really care. Too late now for any o' that shit anyhow. Ok. So. Let the little pecker watch if he wants. Routinely, he spits in his hand and slides it inside the waistband of the green scrubs, trying for nothing more than to ease the frustrating throb down there.

Not that great, but it's ok as he strokes himself a couple times, you know, making the throb better and worse and therefore better at the same time. Soon as he falls into a practiced, mechanical rhythm, his eyes drift closed, and the owl above whoos, seemingly in appreciation. So he talks to it, "Yeah, at's right baby, whoo fuckin whoo-OOO!" His voice cracks on the last syllable as the ache suddenly catches and turns to pleasure.

A few unrotted leaves crackle softly as his legs fall further apart. Mouth open, his breathing deepens and his tongue wanders for a few moments, licking his lips before settling on the corner of his mouth with another sigh. He deepens his stroke, mind finally unknotted as his heart trills along with the shivers up his back.

And it gets good. His face flushes with heat and his dick seems to spark with happiness; all splayed out in the woods, content to be jerking off in the wee hours of the morning for owls, God, and anyone else willing to see. Nearly makes him laugh. But he moans low instead, a libidinous little rumble in the back of his throat at first. But he don't bother holding it back, just oooh's and ahhh's with each stroke. Answers the owl with an occasional "whoo-oooo" instead. He briefly considers slowing it up, making it last longer as his heart starts thudding harder.

Cause that's what he'd do, you know, if he was with Maritza, or some other chick or something. But he ain't, and that all flits by too quickly to even bother festering on, it's just a realization. So he just strokes and strokes and "whoo-hooo"'s again as his heart pounds really hard inside his chest and before he knows it, a couple more slides of his hand; up, down, up down, updowndupdown and then his blood is *singing* as he rocks his own little slice of the world until finally his happy cock trembles and the sizzling volt goes straight down his spine and he spills. He writhes in the dirt a little with it, muscles stiff, fingers of his free hand digging into the damp soil, blinks his eyes open and focuses on the owl as he draws the reflexes out, shamelessly stroking a couple more times and shuddering with the relief and indulgence.

"Whooo, shit," he sighs as he slowly relaxes again. Grabbing a few more leaves, he wipes off his stomach and hand, then leans back as the now disinterested owl dips its head then flutters off. Licking his lips again, he waits. Waits for the clarity to dissolve, the peace to shatter and leave the hollowness in return, confusion at what to do next the only thing there to sometimes fill that up.

Groggy, his inner ears prick up as he hears a distant rumble. It's hushed to him, so far away. He wonders if he's hallucinating it. Been thinkin about that shit lately too. Wakes up from bad dreams and piles that on - probably start trippin out and like, flashing back and shit on the weird doses Groves dropped his way couple years back.

But he knows he ain't trippin out, it's real. Sound's fading fast too, but he's already locked on to the direction. Not thunder from the sky, thank God for that small favor, been like a rat in a drain ditch getting plastered with rain for nearly three days straight.

So he gets up and follows to the place where the sound had been, finds the highway just as dawn starts to crack across it. Probably just his imagination, but the air seems to warm with the light. So Miguel unbuttons the shabby, muddied jacket and decides to take his chance, try an hitch a ride. Rubbing his hand across his stomach, he slinks along the road, trying to be noticed and inconspicuous at once.

His heart leaps to his throat when a semi slows down as it passes by and rolls to a stop up ahead. So he chases it down; a ride, some company, probably a warm place to sit. It'll move him along, break up the monotony for a while at least. Til it drops him off again. Somewhere else, a city maybe, fuck these owls and trees and shit like that. Then it'll pull away and leave him once again, same as ever, alone.

* * *

Augustus: How about twisting shit all up - gaining more in Oz than you ever had outside. Turn the chaos inside out on itself, rise to the top. Yeah, see, 'cept that in Oz, just like life, ain't no such thing as an up without a down. You're at the top of the Ferris wheel, checking out the view, suddenly you get it man. You look down - POOF.

* * *

The lionhearted yawns.

He flips his numbed leg over the edge of the bunk as he considers the next move. But it's all rote now. He'll get up, stalk around the pit bare-chested with devious gleaming eyes, surveying his kingdom with a mixture of pride and contempt as he walks off the prickly tingles in his calf.

Of course it's asleep. Not just his leg, but him too. Drowsy power - all that force lulled to boredom from lack of purpose. One more illusion's come and gone in Oz.

Power - that's an illusion in here just like on the street. Adebisi has more in here right now than he'd ever had out in the world. Eat, drink, sleep, kill, and fuck with reckless abandon all he likes. Because he knows the true secret of power lies in desire of it itself. But he's reached the apex and seen that even that is a lie, that his appetite can't even be quenched.

Hollow victory. That's all it is. Justice, right. He sucks between his teeth and blinks as he kicks out his leg again. Tendrils of feeling waft through the veins down there. Blood flowing again, carrying the oxygen his lionheart pumps to keep him alive.

What for, eh? All he's done, only one person could ever understand it - the sheer depravity of the futility. The only other one like him.

Said.

He rolls the toothpick to the other side of his mouth as he leans against the railing and his dark eyes track the familiar white khoffi. /He has his hat, I have mine./

Adebisi grins to himself at that and briefly considers offering one more time. But he already knows the outcome, so why bother wasting energy with a pointless conversation? Ah - entertainment. Taunt a little maybe. /No, be honest, to be close again./

He walks down the metal steps, hitting his foot a little more roughly than necessary to shock it back to consciousness as he follows Said into his pod, hesitating briefly at the door with extended hands until he gets the nod to enter.

"Hello Kareem." He meets Said's gaze squarely. The wide, secure gaze sends a silvery splinter up his spine and he suddenly remembers why he came here. He allows a grin to widen to a toothy smile, checking to see if Said will fill the dense silence. When he doesn't, Adebisi continues as he slowly circles. "How is your health these days?"

Said's eyes narrow as he follows the fluid movements of the other man. "What do you care about my health, Adebisi?"

"Heh heh heh heh," he half laughs, half-growls in amusement as he circles behind Kareem. Tilting his head in, he speaks over his shoulder. "You once told me that you have a weak heart. Do you remember that?"

Turning to face him, Said answers. "I also told you that you have a bad heart."

Adebisi's pulse quickens. "Do you still believe that?"

Said grinds his teeth and looks away. Quickly shaking his head, he blinks rapidly. "I don't know what to think anymore Adebisi."

Adebisi inspects his face, momentarily enraptured by the clenched muscle along his jaw line. He feels his own pulse deep behind his eardrum, certain that Said's is throbbing through his skull too. "You do not have a weak heart, Kareem." He roughly pokes a finger into Said's chest, then brings it to rest on his own. Running it along the meat of his naked pectoral, he sighs, still gazing at Said. "You and me, we are the same. We have the strong hearts, because they belong to nobody but ourselves."

"No. No no, my brother..."

"So I am your brother now?" Adebisi interrupts.

Pleading with his eyes, Said grabs Adebisi's arm. "You always were my brother, Adebisi."

"Then why do you refuse to act like it?"

"Because you are so wrong about my heart, Adebisi. It doesn't belong to me, it belongs to Allah."

The last traces of his grin fall away. Enough for the day. "We will see, Kareem," he cocks a brow and starts to leave. "We will see."

"Adebisi," Said calls him back. "Your heart. Your strong, strong heart; it belongs to Allah too."

Adebisi merely sucks between his teeth, shakes his head, and ambles away. His cock still lightly buzzes though, so he motions roughly to the pretty young Christian to follow him.

It's an order, and it'll be obeyed. Anything he says, he'll get.

He pulls the curtains and arranges the pretty one on all fours, miserable in knowing it's not how it could be. It's too easy, so he doesn't even bother to indulge the visions of what he really wants. For a while, at least.

Until the undulations of his own hips as he slides in out of tight warmth prickle his nerves enough to let him forget about it all. Until a bead of sweat traces its way around his brow and down his temple, meanders across the curve of his jaw and down his chin, finally dripping and falling on his own hand, plopping with the same salty resolve of an unshed tear for all the greatness he'll never really share.

So he works with pure animal ferocity to get higher and sunk even deeper, pumping deep as senseless visions of his brother Jefferson Keane flit by behind closed eyes. But it's not his gaunt face masked in anger, it's his thin face dripping with serenity that goads him on. But there's a face behind his, the one that pulled Keane from his burning fire, called him brother, let him wear his hat. A rush of pleasure spikes through Adebisi's cock and up his spine as he grinds again. Reaching up, he pulls the crooked knit cap off his own bare skull and tosses it aside, never missing a beat in the primal rhythm he's set.

Panting, beastly gurgles choked back in his throat, he shoves again, taking what he wants from this because the ultimate continues to evade him. One eye bugged open, he notices the pretty one under him furiously stroking his own cock, a simple courtesy Adebisi refuses to perform for him. That drives him closer, the knowledge that if the pretty one was stronger, more deserving, he'd show him the respect that only certain men can command.

A man like ...

"UH, Uh," he grunts loudly as the thought shoots another rip of intense pleasure through his body. Too much heat to stay contained, heart pounding fiercely, the spasms overtake him as he spills into the warm body. Thick tongued, head fuzzy, but still unsatisfied, he says it to himself only once. "Kareem."

Breath recovering, skin cooling, he quickly backs away and pushes the pretty one to the floor. Appetite suppressed, though never fully sated, because of the mere impossibility of what he wants. If he'd get it - him, Said - his way, it'd no longer be what he desires. His heart slows a bit, thumping with less urgency as he stretches across the bunk and exhales a bored yawn.

* * *

Augustus: And the ultimate trick in Oz? Survival. But it's not quite that easy, not that simple, man. The trick isn't to just keep breathing, but to keep your *heart* beating. *Your* heart - alive, pumping, beating. True to -you-. And if you can do that, if anyone can pull off that trick in Oz, maybe there is some real magic in the world.

Yeah. Poof.


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