It's going to happen anyway. T-bag thinks it's cute, the way Seth pulls the scratchy cotton blanket over his face and presses his back into the wall. It's happened every night since the first; he doesn't even need to look down from his bunk to know that it's happening now.
"You gonna fight me?" he asks, and it's obvious how funny he finds the scrawny teenager's attempts to disappear into the cement behind him. There'd been no resistance the first night; poor little thing was too shell-shocked to do much of anything but put the fabric of the pillow between his teeth and cry. He'd cried through the night, and the next morning he'd started pulling this shit, this hiding under the covers like a toddler.
Seth doesn't answer, but T-bag is sure that everybody on the block can hear the kid's breathing change when he tells him to put the sheet up.
"Please…" It's soft, something lower than a whisper.
"You don't wanna make me do it myself, trust me there, pretty" he swings his legs threateningly over the side and oh god, the sound the kid makes is enough to make his dick throb. It's a cut-short sob, the sound of breath through vibrating ribs, bile being swallowed back down.
"I'm sorry," he's been down there bawling his eyes out since the incident in the shower that morning. There was no pity for him, though; he'd gone behind T-bag's back to that pretty Scofield boy, begging for protection.
"C'mon now," T-bag warns, "You asked for this".
And soon the sheet is up, and they're nothing but faint gray outlines; that's when T-bag tells the kid to hand over his shoelaces. There's more tears and the boy looks so sweet, so helpless when he shakes his head and cringes away from the older man's touch. He warns the kid to relax, says it'll make it easier if he don't tense up so much, and there is resignation in Seth's eyes. The tears stop so quickly that it's almost disappointing, and it would be if it weren't how his bony fingers tremble as he pulls the laces out of one shoe, kicking the limp shell of it across the cell.
"I… I won't fight…" Cancelled eyes fix on the blood stains on the hung sheet, and he holds the laces in a white-knuckled fist at his side, "Please…"
"Please what?" T-bag moves toward him, an aggressive step, and Seth whimpers and fuck it's too good, and suddenly he's inspired to rip the shirt from Seth's body with enough force to throw him from the bunk to the floor. He curls in, bruises on his stomach in the shape of something like a paw print, scattered sets of five parallel red lines stamped across skin the color of Styrofoam and bones that bulge in mountains and valleys. It's been a long week for him; T-bag can't say for sure that he's ever seen the boy asleep.
And when Seth, in a voice that shatters with fear, begs not to be tied up, it's the end of him. The man standing over him takes a handful of dark hair and forces him up onto his knees. There's no fight; T-bag almost dies right there of happiness when the dead-eyed kid brings his hands behind his back and waits, head down, to be bound. The shoelace is just a little bit too short, and Seth's fingers wither against his palm and turn purple under the fingernail. T-bag wonders, as he hauls the boy up by his arm and throws him onto the mattress, what such a passive, timid little boy could have done to get himself thrown in a high security prison. T-bag assumes it was drug-related; Seth doesn't look a day over fourteen, and he can practically touch his thumb to his pointer finger when he runs his hand up the kid's clothed thigh.
He climbs on top of the boy, straddling his hips, and pets Seth's hair with one hand while the other pulls his pants off. It's amazing; belly-down on the cot, the kid looks absolutely sexless, like a little child. It makes his cock ache, watching how Seth's shoulder's flinch when the hardness of the older man's member presses against him, how his eyes screw shut when T-bag starts to push into him. He cries out and protests that he's not ready, that it hurts oh god it hurts and then there's blood and the fact that the bleeding makes the pain so much better only makes it all so, so much worse.
Even after the abuse of the past few days, the kid is still impossibly tight. T-bag considers reminding him to relax, almost warns him that most of the bleeding is from how he squirms and struggles and tries to get away once he's already impaled. It's too good though, to be rougher than he has to be. I makes the whole experience that much more satisfying as he picks up his brutal rhythm, tearing the boy apart with a viciousness that, until tonight, he'd never unleashed on anybody who he didn't plan to kill. And Seth writhes and whines, breathes in a series of gasps and no-please-stop's when T-bag wraps a hand around the kid's half-hard cock and starts to wank him, rewarded with bucking hips and airy, broken sobs as the boy stiffens under his fingers.
It goes on forever, Seth's hitching breaths and defeated moans, and a dark spot forms on the pillow near Seth's face, an "8" shape made from tears and drool. When it's finally over, T-bag climbs off of his cellmate and twirls the boy's hair between his fingers as he pulls his pants back up.
"If you think you're crying discourages me any," Seth cringes at the familiar, taunting drawl, "You're dead wrong".
But that doesn't make Seth lift his head, or even make a move to pull his own pants back up as the red stain crawls under him, spreading across the pale linen. T-bag takes the sheet down, satisfied; Jason hadn't been so adorably delicate, so girlish and weak. It's refreshing enough of a change that T-bag almost wants to thank Scofield.
"Take that as your warning," he says as he climbs back up into his bunk, "Nobody's coming to rescue you".