When T-bag got back into Gen-Pop from the Infirmary, the boys had a present for him. He was a boy, probably just barely old enough for the adult prison system, obviously terrified, and good enough.

But he wasn't Pretty. And that was who T-bag really wanted.

Still, he could make do. But his thoughts…his thoughts were all about Pretty.

And when he saw Pretty during tier time, sitting on his bunk, obviously in his own little world…well, he couldn't resist.

T-bag looked for Pretty's obnoxious, Spanish-sweet-named roommate, but he was nowhere to be seen. Good. T-bag wanted him all to himself. Without interference.

He slid, serpentine, up to the open door of the cell. Pretty looked up at him, sitting straight up, and T-bag felt a jolt of fire in his belly at the apprehension in those eyes.

"What do you want, T-bag?" Pretty said. His voice was cold and steady. T-bag smiled.

"Well, now, that isn't very po-lite, is it, Pretty? Didn't anyone teach you to respect your elders?" He braced his arms against the wall and the cell door, blocking the exit. "But you're right," he added after a moment, perusing the younger man's body with his eyes. "I do want something from you."

He saw a muscle work in the boy's jaw, and felt a slow, satisfied grin work over his face. "And what would that be?" Pretty asked, in that same cold, unfeeling voice.

T-bag strolled into cell 40, and watched as Pretty's shoulders and neck tightened almost imperceptibly. He kept slinking forward, until he was standing directly in front of the man, turning so his back was against the wall and his hips were jutting forward, into Pretty's space.

T-bag cocked his head to the side, studying those long lashes, those wary blue eyes, that strong jaw, and those luscious lips. He wondered, idly, if Pretty had been so pretty as a kid. Probably. He was probably just the kind of boy T-bag liked…beautiful, delicate, and so, so scared…

"I saw you, in the storage room, Pretty. Oh yes," T-bag said, leaning closer abruptly. He felt a satisfied smirk appear on his lips as the boy jerked backwards without thinking. "Your body is smarter than you are, isn't it? It knows…"

He grabbed Pretty's chin, hard in his hand. He felt the sharp intake of breath, and then Pretty froze. T-bag dug his fingers harder into the boy's jaw line, knowing he'd likely leave marks, but not caring. He had him right where he wanted him. Scared, and not fully in the present.

He could practically see the memories flashing across Pretty's eyes. "Yeah," he whispered, flicking his tongue over his lips. "You know what I want, Pretty? It's not just your ass…or your mouth…or even your fear. Not that those things aren't," and here, T-bag let out a light, slithering hiss, "enjoyable…but right now, I just want to know how you know…"

He could feel Pretty's breathing, shallow and short. He felt tightness in his belly. "Who taught you, Pretty?" he whispered. "Who taught you?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Pretty replied. But his voice was softer, weaker, suddenly younger by far than his body. And then, T-bag was holding the face of a teenage boy, with those same pretty, terrified blue eyes.

He slapped him hard, before gripping his jaw again. Pretty's fists clenched, his eyes closed, his body jerked. "That's what I'm talking about, Pretty," he whispered. "That reaction…that's not the first time you've been hit. Or…cornered."

Pretty didn't react. His eyes were open again. T-bag could see tears in his eyes, but Pretty didn't let them fall. Too bad.

"So…who was it? Your daddy? Hmm?"

He could see that wasn't the right answer as soon as it came out of his mouth. Pretty didn't react at all.

"Or your mama? No. I can see that wasn't it either. Hmm." T-bag squeezed the boy's jaw tighter, seeing him silently struggle against the pain he was causing.

"You got other family, Pretty? Uncles, cousins? Siblings?"

He felt, rather than saw, Pretty shudder ever so slightly.

"You got a brother, Pretty?" T-bag enquired. "Is that who taught you?" He put his other hand on Pretty's knee, squeezing it.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" An angry, accented voice came from T-bag's right, and T-bag sighed. "Get the fuck outta my cell."

"Relax, sugary fella," T-bag said, without releasing either Pretty's leg or his jaw. "Me and Pretty here are just havin' a—"

"Get. The. Fuck. Out." The Puerto Rican's face was one step from deadly, a look T-bag had never seen on it before. He released Pretty and straightened up.

"Whoa, now," T-bag replied lazily, putting his hands up in the air. "Didn't realize you had a claim on him." He enjoyed the fury on the Puerto Rican's face at those words; yes, he knew how to push their buttons, all right. "I'll leave you boys alone." He made a kissing noise at an enraged Sucre, and left.

"Oh, Pretty, Pretty," he said to himself as he moved back towards his own cell. "By the time I'm done with you, you'll be so broken you won't know which way is up. And you'll be mine."