In Oz Drabble Tree, No One Can Hear You Scream
It's time for another Oz Drabble Tree! This is our 6th drabble tree! If you're new to this, check out: The First Ever Oz Drabble Tree, The Return of Oz Drabble Tree, The Little Oz Drabble Tree That Could, Are You There God? It's Oz Drabble Tree and Oz Drabble Tree Knows Best
( The Rules )
( The Rules )
"Hey, bitch."
"Chris?" Lee sits up, rubs at his eyes. "What's up?"
Chris laughs. "Haven't you heard the news, prag? We're having a reunion."
Lee barks out an answering laugh. "You're fucking kidding me."
"I told you," Chris says. "Ratings are in the shitter."
"Yeah, but..." Lee protests.
"But nothing," Chris says. "Let me in so we can run lines."
"Lines?" Lee repeats doubtfully. "Figured you'd throw me against a wall and we'd ad lib from there."
The doorbell buzzes.
"I'll ad your lib," Chris growls.
"Kinky," Lee says, hanging up.
Chris stalks inside the moment the door opens, bringing with him a wild energy.
Lee raises an eyebrow. "Chris... Keller?"
Chris smiles, all teeth. He grabs at Lee, yanking him closer, loving his excited gasp. The familiar way they fit together sends a shiver down his spine.
He takes his time with the kiss, licking into Lee's mouth, the soft touch of tongues making his dick hard. Chris holds Lee tight, pressing kisses to Lee's neck and bare shoulder. The swell of love he feels for this man shouldn't be a surprise anymore.
"Oh, Beecher," Chris says slowly. "You're mine now, baby."
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"What?" Chris looks annoyed, which is telling in itself.
"Your presentation's wrong," the AD says. "You're doing Keller, not Eliot."
Chris relaxes and gives Eliot's laugh. "Sorry. Must be today's company. Muscle memory and all." Across the interrogation table, he slips Lee a covert wink.
Lee has muscle memory too: bodies moving; hands surrounding; the slap of Chris's thighs; mouth struggling with first one ball, then both; arching upwards, straining to come as Chris whispers filthy fantasies; Chris jizzing inside him in spurts.
"Let's go again," the AD calls, "Everybody back to one."
Chris grins at Lee. "Let's do."
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Of course Lee walks to the shoot. It's New York. No one drives. Chris gives him that shitty grin, and just like that, everything in the world is good again.
"Hey! You get lost on the subway?" Chris tugs Lee into a trailer that has Meloni taped on the door.
Lee laughs. "Shouldn't I be in makeup or something?"
"Nah, you look good just the way you are." Chris leans into Lee's space, and muscle memory makes it so easy to pull him close, nuzzle him. Their mouths meet, and Chris takes Lee on another ride through crazy town.
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It's back on set together, misting stinky sweat. It's Chris hovering over him, not quite touching, although with each heave of his chest it seems--this time--they must. It's Chris's bulk wielded as weapon and promise both, its whole attention devoted to him.
It's when they touch, fifty eyes upon them, painfully restrained within the script, and Chris's strength surprises still.
It's after wrap, alone together, cameras off, the Chris Lee knows comes to him.
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Lee catches Chris' grin and returns. "Still stinking up the place, huh?"
Chris reels him in and crushes them together hard. "You miss it," he growls in Lee's ear. "I skipped a shower for ya."
They laugh together, and it all clicks into place.
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Day is easy, buttressed by his brothers and Salat. But like the log that rolls away from the campfire into the night, sealed in with Simon, the sustaining glow fast fades.
So, over and over Kareem listens as Simon masturbates. "Come with me, my brother! Come, come!" and the odor of man's greatest earthly joy permeates their air.
Too hard to sleep, too battle-weary to endure, Kareem grits his teeth and waits for morning to come.
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They match each other's panic like well-trained carriage horses running away together, and his ass is damn tired of it.
"Love you," Chris murmurs, pulling him close for a gentle kiss. "Don't forget it."
It's impossible not to kiss him back and whisper, "Never."
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"That Sheppard," Ryan squinted. "Isn't that the one that Penders raised?"
Toby shook his head. "Nah, too well-trained."
"The dog, not Penders, dicksplash!"
"No talking!"
Two pods away from Ryan's, the Sheppard sniffed, moving down the row.
"A shame being ratted out by our old pet," Toby smirked.
"Chester! Leave it!" Ryan hissed.
At the name, the dog pricked up his ears.
"No talking!" Murphy banged his stick against a wall.
"Won't work," Toby whispered. "They train police dogs in Dutch or German."
"So, how do you say 'go for the throat' in Dutch?"
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Immediate silence drops over the quad. Nazis grin, Bikers look around in confusion, Italians examine their fingernails, and the Others groan.
Toby's whisper is loud, "What does that even mean?"
Ryan grabs Keller by the forearm. "You sure we gotta do this?"
"No one calls me a dicksplash!" Keller jumps to his feet, ripping away from him. "You got my back or not?" He glares at Toby and Ryan.
Toby sighs. "Nothing like a vacation in the hole." He nudges Hill. "Stay out of it this time."
"And miss the chance to roll over some fucker's toes?"
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There’s a body of society; prisoners are one part. Winston Churchill said you can measure the civilization of a society by how it treats its prisoners. When they write our history decades from now, how do you think we’ll measure up?
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He doesn’t belong in this place. He is not a murderer or rapist, pedophile or drug dealer. Artist versus artist, and the punishment is in excess of the crime. He won’t last a week in this place and there is little sympathy in the eyes of those who should care, those who trade on words like rehabilitation, those who ignore the taunts and humiliation visited upon him.
Prison is death; the only question is will it be on his terms or theirs? In the split second before he pulls the trigger (over and over) it all clicks into place and adrenalin sets fire to his veins.
Fear is a powerful weapon used to break and destroy. It’s time they got a good look at it.
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Chris murmurs: fucking sexy, gonna make you come again, this is only the beginning.
He twists his wrist, fingers curling, plunges them in hard when Toby's thighs tremble. Toby arches up, straining not to come. Chris scrapes his teeth across Toby's bottom lip.
Toby exhales sharply, a steady chant of yeahohyeah, and then. Chris, pleaseplease.
Chris smiles, makes more promises, asks Toby to wait.
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Miguel didn’t fight as he was pushed against the door, moaning his surrender into Keller’s aggressive kiss. When Keller shoved him down, he went willingly, eager for a taste of that hard cock.
“Jesus, Alvarez. You’re so fucking sexy on your knees.”
He felt a thrill of pride curl in his gut, and he had to concentrate to avoid coming, just from the sound of Keller’s throaty growl. But he hadn’t been given permission for that, yet, so he focused on the feel of the cock in his mouth. There was no place he’d rather be than at Keller’s feet.
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Cyril wishes he could hide. He doesn’t like when it gets so loud his brain hurts and no one’s words make any sense. When he was a little kid and people were mean he hid under the bed or in the closet; until he realized he was tough enough to fight back.
He could probably fight right now, but he’s pretty sure that would only make Ryan madder. Instead, Cyril makes his way back to his pod and curls up the bottom bunk, in the far corner, with his back against the wall and hands over his ears. He remembers a nursery rhyme and begins singing it quietly; closing his eyes and focusing on the words until his entire world becomes a sunny meadow with a young girl named Mary and her white lamb.
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“What’s up your ass?” he asks. “You been prickly all day.”
For a moment Beecher stares daggers, clearly itching for a fight, but when Keller just looks back placidly Beecher flops back in his chair.
“I don’t know what happened to my dog,” he mutters.
“Your dog.” Keller scratches his chin. “Your parents probably took him.”
“Her,” Beecher corrects. “And no. Dog hair on the furniture?” He sniffs. “They’d never allow it.”
“You miss her, huh?”
“I guess so. Beautiful Husky. Genevieve didn’t want a dog, but the kids fell in love with her.” He smiles. “I guess I did too.”
Keller cocks his head, considers his audience. “Your wife probably wanted to be the only bitch in the house.”
When Beecher snorts out a laugh, Keller leans back, grins. Mission accomplished.
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Lopresti smiles.
“When does he arrive?” Schillinger knows he sounds anxious, but he’s been waiting for a sign, for the other shoe to drop, telling him the pendulum is finally swinging the other way.
“Day after tomorrow.” Lopresti looks over his shoulder at the mailroom door out of habit for uninvited (and potentially problematic) eavesdroppers.
Hands on his hips, Schillinger cocks his head to the side. “Where’s he going?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
A grin works its way to Schillinger’s face. He folds his arms across his chest, feeling his commandeering genius flow through his veins. Taking a step forward and lowering his voice, he says, “Pass on a welcome home message from me. Tell him he’s in prime proximity for the ‘Keller Special.’|”
Lopresti furrows his brow and Schillinger tries not to roll his eyes in the C.O’s face, instead saying, “He’ll understand.”
When Lopresti leaves, Schillinger slowly turns around, lost in a myriad of rushing thoughts, and continues sorting the mail. An upbeat tune dances off his lips with the sound of a sharp whistle.
Oh Sweet Pea, your ass is mine.
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