More From Me :P
Title: King of Fear
Character/Pairing: Theodore ‘T-Bag’ Bagwell
Prompt: 015. Fear
Rating: PG-13
Summary: The concept of fear was one of those things he never quiet understood, because there were so many variations on the same thing that they all combined and defined by one monosyllable that couldn’t do the emotion justice.
Author's Notes: Just some short little weird-ness not related much at all to anything. Just some T-Bag/Maytag fun. :P Beware: Swearing be here!
King of Fear
The concept of fear was one of those things he never quiet understood, because there were so many variations on the same thing that they all combined and defined by one monosyllable that couldn’t do the emotion justice. Fear. Fear of death, fear of pain, fear of love, fear of heights, fear of creepy crawlies hiding behind your bed, fear of the dark. Fear of people.
Fear of him.
When he was five years old he used to climb on top of the shed out behind his neighbour’s house and jump out in front of their little daughter and scare her so bad she wet herself and went running to her daddy, who came out with a shotgun and blew a hole in the shed right next to where T-Bag was standing and said that if he came near his daughter again the hole was going to be in his head.
He told the story to Maytag one time when they were sitting in their cell, leaning back with eyes hazy with all the substances they’d been abusing for the day. Maytag’s clothes were all messed up because he hadn’t been able to get them back on right after their little romp of the day.
“That’s juicy!” Maytag giggled, scratching at the lines on his forearm that he kept carefully hidden from the rest of the world. Suicide and drugs did funny things to a man’s arms. “There was this one time I took my sister’s cat and I wrapped a piano wire ‘round it’s neck and kept it up til my sister walked in on me. And her boyfriend hit me right there.” He reached awkward around his head to point out one spot just like any other but somehow more significant. “With a big frying pan. And she kicked me out on the streets and told me to fend for myself.” He laughed and leaned in and whispered the words against T-Bag’s neck. “Last time I ever saw her. She looked damn petrified of me then.”
“She’d be damn petrified of you now, girly.” T-Bag smacked him just above the ass and scratched his fingernails along through his hair, digging into the other man’s scalp just hard enough to hurt but just light enough to be somehow unsatisfying.
Maytag laughed and stretched out a bit like the cat he’d tried to strangle. “I should call her or something… see if she wants to take a look…”
“You do that, girly…” T-Bag muttered in his ear as his other finger toyed with little bits of hair that had fallen out of place and it was tough to resist digging his fingers in and ripping all that hair out, especially because he knew Maytag would like it. “You do that and you tell her to come an’ visit me sometime. I’d show her a thing or two ‘bout bein’ petrified.”
“That’s not fair.” Maytag had this voice he used whenever he was tired or high and whining like a little baby, and T-Bag had come to hate it not nearly as much as she should. “You don’t even have to try. Everybody’s scared o’ you. You’re like… I dunno, the King of Fear or some shit like that.” He looked up at him in that wicked sort of way, like he did sometimes when he was suggesting all those filthy little ways he’d like to see people die. “My sister would piss herself if she knew about all the crap you’d done… she’d piss herself if she knew all the crap I’ve done… Hell, she’d piss herself in general if she heard about anybody doing more than, I dunno, holding up a bank.”
T-Bag laughed and yanked at a few strands of Maytag’s hair, to which their was no response because the boy was damn used to having his hair pulled, like little elementary school girls with their pigtails perv boys yanked on during class, a simile that got T-Bag licking his lips and wondering the possibilities of the outside world. “You’re sister as hot as you, girly?”
“Nah.” Maytag laughed and pulled a cheaply made shank out of his pocket, twirling it in his hands like he did with things when he was bored. “She’s ugly as Hell and she’s got this stupid pug nose I just want to break all the time when I see it. She’s a bitch. Someone needs to do something about her. What’s that word you had for it? Somebody needs to get rid of her?”
“Exterminate.” T-Bag drew the word out long, his fingernails nicking deep ridges into Maytag’s side, kind of wishing they’d draw blood.
“That’s the one.” Maytag slid the shank along his pant leg, too light to do any damage but it was one of those things that kept him occupied like nothing else in Fox River did. “Somebody needs to exterminate her. Really slow. With something blunt and icy hard… and she’d be screaming the whole time. She’s scared shitless by blood. Since dear old ma and pa bit the dust.” He laughed and smirked at T-Bag, trailing the shank gently along the flesh of T-Bag’s arm just light enough to make him want more and just hard enough to draw all the chills to the surface. “Shrinks used to say that’s what got me like this. They said ‘cause I saw them all bloodied up and mutilated I got like this. What about you? Did they make your excuses?”
T-Bag laughed and brushed the shank off his arm, back to Maytag to watch it trace little lines on him and wondered how hard he’d have to push Maytag’s arm to get the boy to stab himself. And then wondered how deep it would need to be to make him bleed to death. “They tried, o’ course. But they always seemed to change their minds…”
Maytag laughed, pocketing the shank again and leaning in with that look in his eyes that was always a prelude to him doing something deliciously bad. “Bet they were scared of you. Bet they were damn terrified.”
“Maybe…” T-Bag mused softly and considered all those words they said and how much it all amounted to nothing of particular importance at all. He grinned then, running his finger over one of those scars on Maytag’s arm considering tearing it open with his fingernail. “’Bout you, girly? You scared of me?”
The pause was interesting to him because it always said more than words ever could. “Not so much.”
T-Bag laughed because it was damn funny to him for some reason or another. He leaned in and bit down on Maytag’s ear before whispering in it. “You should be, girly. Damn straight, you should be.”
Character/Pairing: Theodore ‘T-Bag’ Bagwell
Prompt: 015. Fear
Rating: PG-13
Summary: The concept of fear was one of those things he never quiet understood, because there were so many variations on the same thing that they all combined and defined by one monosyllable that couldn’t do the emotion justice.
Author's Notes: Just some short little weird-ness not related much at all to anything. Just some T-Bag/Maytag fun. :P Beware: Swearing be here!
King of Fear
The concept of fear was one of those things he never quiet understood, because there were so many variations on the same thing that they all combined and defined by one monosyllable that couldn’t do the emotion justice. Fear. Fear of death, fear of pain, fear of love, fear of heights, fear of creepy crawlies hiding behind your bed, fear of the dark. Fear of people.
Fear of him.
When he was five years old he used to climb on top of the shed out behind his neighbour’s house and jump out in front of their little daughter and scare her so bad she wet herself and went running to her daddy, who came out with a shotgun and blew a hole in the shed right next to where T-Bag was standing and said that if he came near his daughter again the hole was going to be in his head.
He told the story to Maytag one time when they were sitting in their cell, leaning back with eyes hazy with all the substances they’d been abusing for the day. Maytag’s clothes were all messed up because he hadn’t been able to get them back on right after their little romp of the day.
“That’s juicy!” Maytag giggled, scratching at the lines on his forearm that he kept carefully hidden from the rest of the world. Suicide and drugs did funny things to a man’s arms. “There was this one time I took my sister’s cat and I wrapped a piano wire ‘round it’s neck and kept it up til my sister walked in on me. And her boyfriend hit me right there.” He reached awkward around his head to point out one spot just like any other but somehow more significant. “With a big frying pan. And she kicked me out on the streets and told me to fend for myself.” He laughed and leaned in and whispered the words against T-Bag’s neck. “Last time I ever saw her. She looked damn petrified of me then.”
“She’d be damn petrified of you now, girly.” T-Bag smacked him just above the ass and scratched his fingernails along through his hair, digging into the other man’s scalp just hard enough to hurt but just light enough to be somehow unsatisfying.
Maytag laughed and stretched out a bit like the cat he’d tried to strangle. “I should call her or something… see if she wants to take a look…”
“You do that, girly…” T-Bag muttered in his ear as his other finger toyed with little bits of hair that had fallen out of place and it was tough to resist digging his fingers in and ripping all that hair out, especially because he knew Maytag would like it. “You do that and you tell her to come an’ visit me sometime. I’d show her a thing or two ‘bout bein’ petrified.”
“That’s not fair.” Maytag had this voice he used whenever he was tired or high and whining like a little baby, and T-Bag had come to hate it not nearly as much as she should. “You don’t even have to try. Everybody’s scared o’ you. You’re like… I dunno, the King of Fear or some shit like that.” He looked up at him in that wicked sort of way, like he did sometimes when he was suggesting all those filthy little ways he’d like to see people die. “My sister would piss herself if she knew about all the crap you’d done… she’d piss herself if she knew all the crap I’ve done… Hell, she’d piss herself in general if she heard about anybody doing more than, I dunno, holding up a bank.”
T-Bag laughed and yanked at a few strands of Maytag’s hair, to which their was no response because the boy was damn used to having his hair pulled, like little elementary school girls with their pigtails perv boys yanked on during class, a simile that got T-Bag licking his lips and wondering the possibilities of the outside world. “You’re sister as hot as you, girly?”
“Nah.” Maytag laughed and pulled a cheaply made shank out of his pocket, twirling it in his hands like he did with things when he was bored. “She’s ugly as Hell and she’s got this stupid pug nose I just want to break all the time when I see it. She’s a bitch. Someone needs to do something about her. What’s that word you had for it? Somebody needs to get rid of her?”
“Exterminate.” T-Bag drew the word out long, his fingernails nicking deep ridges into Maytag’s side, kind of wishing they’d draw blood.
“That’s the one.” Maytag slid the shank along his pant leg, too light to do any damage but it was one of those things that kept him occupied like nothing else in Fox River did. “Somebody needs to exterminate her. Really slow. With something blunt and icy hard… and she’d be screaming the whole time. She’s scared shitless by blood. Since dear old ma and pa bit the dust.” He laughed and smirked at T-Bag, trailing the shank gently along the flesh of T-Bag’s arm just light enough to make him want more and just hard enough to draw all the chills to the surface. “Shrinks used to say that’s what got me like this. They said ‘cause I saw them all bloodied up and mutilated I got like this. What about you? Did they make your excuses?”
T-Bag laughed and brushed the shank off his arm, back to Maytag to watch it trace little lines on him and wondered how hard he’d have to push Maytag’s arm to get the boy to stab himself. And then wondered how deep it would need to be to make him bleed to death. “They tried, o’ course. But they always seemed to change their minds…”
Maytag laughed, pocketing the shank again and leaning in with that look in his eyes that was always a prelude to him doing something deliciously bad. “Bet they were scared of you. Bet they were damn terrified.”
“Maybe…” T-Bag mused softly and considered all those words they said and how much it all amounted to nothing of particular importance at all. He grinned then, running his finger over one of those scars on Maytag’s arm considering tearing it open with his fingernail. “’Bout you, girly? You scared of me?”
The pause was interesting to him because it always said more than words ever could. “Not so much.”
T-Bag laughed because it was damn funny to him for some reason or another. He leaned in and bit down on Maytag’s ear before whispering in it. “You should be, girly. Damn straight, you should be.”