Ryan sat on Cyril's bunk, helping Cyril put his hair in a ponytail. *Stanislofsky has to be dead by now.*
Cyril was flapping his arms, making 'pffftt' sounds.
"This is so boring Ryan."
"Almost done bro."
"Ryan...don't get mad at me."
"Why would I be mad Cyril?"
"Ummm...yesterday, the man who talks funny said something to me. I did what you told me to, then Busmalis fell."
He patted Cyril's arm, trying to calm himself and his brother.
"What did Nikolai want?"
"He wanted to look at our stuff. But I kept him away."
"Until Busmalis fell?"
"Ryan, are you fucking that scary hack woman?"
Oz-a-Phonics rears it's ugly head.
"Nah. I got better taste bro."
Cyril jerked out of his grip, staring at him.
"I saw you zipping your pants up with her!"
*She was helping me pee-pee? She's forming the Em City chapter of plaster casters?*
"Uh...Howell makes me fuck her."
"Like the bad man made me? We have to tell Sister Pete. That's wrong."
Yeah, cock-pumping followed by knuckle-slapping. Every Irish-Catholic boy's wet dream.
"I can handle it."
"You always said nobody made you do things Ryan."
"I know. But she'll kill us. Hurt us real bad. We have to keep quiet."
Had to work, had to work...not the cheek puffing.
"You're tough. I'm tough! We can take her. Why are you lying?"
"Jesus Christ, get off my back. I put up with being fucking raped so you'll count your ABC's for another day..."
He wished he hadn't seen Cyril's face drop at the rape word. But it worked.
Cyril went to watch Miss Sally. Dangerous, but Ryan knew stopping him would be pushing too far. Beecher was out of the fuck-me phase, so he guarded Cyril while Ryan paid a visit to Nikolai's pod.
Already back. He smelled the drying sex on Nik before he took his second step in. Nikolai stared from the sink, eyes cool with detached intensity. Ryan knew he was unashamed. Guy was so pathetic half the time, Ryan almost admired him not punking out when he had the best opportunity for a pity plea. Nikolai spoke, shifting his gaze to the window.
"The beast is watching."
No shit. Ryan matched her grimace across the glass barrier. Last time he saw such scowled hate, Dad was issuing equal-opportunity beatings on the O'Reily clan.
Kicking the flashes out with a frozen smile, he turned back to the man who started it all. Standing in front of the mirror, trimming his goattee.
"A few days ago you were all set to die."
Nikolai's words were halting, flat tones in time to snipping under the scruffed chin.
"I...changed my mind."
Gulag Boy went from a death sentence to the inside of Claire Howell, and he still had the arrogance. Made Ryan crazy. And that look from the mirror, the superiority Ryan pounded out of his ass not too long ago. Ryan stepped in front of the mirror, heard the small scissors clatter as he threw them against the wall, about to...fuck if he knew...no time to decide before Nikolai breathed Howell's name into his face.
Ryan moved his hands off, remembering the commandant before he made any other moves. Nose caught by the smell of...cunt. Foreign exchange prisoner exploring foreign body cavities. Typical Stanislofsky lowbelliness. He shook his head, tongue tutting between his front teeth.
"Nikolai, Nikolai, Nikolai. Only pussies eat pussy. Tastes like shit."
He wasn't surprised by the puzzled face back at him.
"If you do not eat, how do you know the taste?"
"I have a great imagination."
Nikolai moved toward the door, unzipping his slick blue jacket.
"Of course. Good day."
Moments after the first headache left, the second entered, staring him down so bad even he gave into the intimidation. Maybe it'd calm her before the horns sprout. Jerking with her hand, she stomped out, feet on the stairs, toward the shower room.
Trying to regain his coolness despite her crazy eyes, he walked behind her. Only one man, Nikolai, used the spray. He stopped when she nearly ripped the knobs off, shower and Nikolai's.
"Keep watch at the door."
Ryan saw her running a sneer down the nude body, hair matted by water and faint traces of soap. He did the same, casually, not like Russkie'd grown a third nipple or a 10-incher. Claire knew him as property, hers as much as Ryan was. The ONLY time they were gonna be equals.
Ryan had his own secret. Fucking his rival didn't rank too high on the importance scale, but that part of his life was separate from Claire. He bit back a laugh, watching Nik fill out that towel, Howell unzipping her pants. They both fucked her as a move against the other, and she had no idea how tight a fit her first headmaster could be.
"Get over here!"
He tried to reach for his fly, she slapped his hand away. He saw the hurt in her face, buried under enraged lunacy. How could she be so stupid? Actually think Ryan wanted her, loved her? Fuck any pity for her, he had enough shit falling from above. Besides, her best emotions were in her mouth.
Lousy choice of words, since he was sinking to her depths, lips and tongue rushing, not even bothering to think of Gloria. Feeling her nails scratching his scalp, he bit down, took in her juices.
Pulling away, he aimed for the drain, only stopped when nightstick flirted with his Adam's Apple. He swallowed, wincing as much for the woman behind the juices as the taste itself.
After patting his head and zipping up, she left, Ryan muttered a silent curse. Not as silent when he knew she was gone.
He waited for the accented wisecrack, heard the hiss of water instead.
Making Ryan mow her lawn while the man he told her to kill watched was degrading, but he had this sick feeling she wasn't done with the punishment. Bitches that crazy never stopped.
Already dealing with enough, he pushed the thought away. Began a path back to a place with fake safety. Right now, that was the best he could hope for.
Couldn't believe no one noticed a con-to-hack blow job in the shower room. Em City was a giant zoo.
Walking back to his pod, Ryan tossed a glance at Adebisi, giving orders to Allah. Then Keller, watching Beecher and Cyril, hopefully growing more like his old self every day. Dark Keller was a very useful tool, not to mention one of the coldest sons of bitches in Oz. Probably best to begin tossing a few hints now, but Ryan was too busy keeping his lunch down to care.
A fistful of water guzzled in his throat, spit out after a rinsing. Not good enough.
*Gloria.* Ryan sat in the space behind the bunks, flipped through a few magazines. If she'd just said she loved him, Cyril would be...no article. Where was it? Where the fuck was the photo?
Nikolai. And he had to take the best. Always taking and taking.
"Here you are."
Removing his head from a hand, Ryan looked up, fresh copy of the blood drive article leaning toward him. He took, wanting to rub her against his chest, refusing to under these circumstances.
"You took my original to give to Howell."
Nikolai smiled, pleased at his own ingenuity.
"Yes. I assume you do not want to know what she did to the paper."
"I hope she shoved it up your ass."
Almost preferred the newer copy, page as warm as Gloria was, clean and pure. He wished the paper could stay that way forever, without the blurred shadows and cum stains.
Leaning on his haunches, Nikolai's breath hit Ryan's face, heavy. Even now, Ryan sensed a little old-fashioned awe in the air. Nikolai always feared him under the game face, always right behind, tracing Ryan's steps with shaky feet. Shaky....bleary....vodka had no strong smell or taste. The outline in his jogging pants pocket was a better giveaway.
"Let me have a drink."
Nikolai shook his head, lips licked.
"I want a drink."
Tried to take for himself, but Nikolai grabbed his hand. Strange time to get balls.
He told his mother he'd protect her. He told Sister Pete he'd be paroled in a dozen years. He told Gloria he loved her. He told Cyril to kill Preston Nathan. Fuck, he told Howell to kill Nik. Words never did Ryan a damn bit of good. He wanted the taste of submission to wash away. He wanted alcohol. Some part of him wanted to savage that infuriating Soviet mouth again, tongues in a battle as sexual as it was mental.
Maybe if he gave up on words, just tried acting, the brakes would work. No more Howell, happy Cyril, Em City his again...
A finger rubbed Nikolai's chin, he slid fingers into the brown hair, pulling him in as their lips met. Set off by the amused brown eyes, the first taste hit his tongue with a brief push between lips. Abandon and booze, a brief, fucking nirvana, a way to forget everything and body. He leaned back, Nikolai sliding a knee between his thighs, hands on his biceps, tongues circling each other. Ryan gave up that tiny bit of control as a hand fumbled with the snap, hoping the law of averages worked, that Oz wouldn't...
"Ryan! Not the man who talks funny. Not him too!"
...kick his ass yet again.
to be continued