T-Bag/Maytag, Death
Title: Understanding
Character/Pairing: T-Bag/Maytag
Prompt: #31, "Death"
Rating: PG-13...ish.
Summary: They had an understanding in death.
Author's Notes: A quickie, 'cause with that grin of his, I always pictured Maytag giddy with excitement over story time with T-Bag. Next one...less death, I think. Maybe. Those two make me want to kill things in the stories. lol
They had an understanding in death. On the nights an inmate was murdered and death hung heavy in the air, Maytag’s screams would echo throughout A Wing. Death always put T-Bag in a mood. In the same way he could feel Maytag’s fear, pain, excitement, he could sense death. Feel it, taste it, smell it. It was a sweet hint of pleasure floating into their cell, teasing him with a taste of what was beyond the bars, beyond his reach.
But Maytag was inside the bars. And on those nights T-Bag felt death drag its warm hand across his face, his eyes would fall on the boy sitting so pure, so perfect; despite how T-Bag had defiled him in the past, he was new on those nights.
Maytag could never guess which side of T-Bag he’d get. On some nights, he’d be in ecstacy, ravaged by T-Bag drunk on the end of life. Others, the sheets would be stained red, the pillow wet with his tears.
He relived the glory of the kill through Maytag, just a little more of that feeling in the air.
Maytag never complained. He understood. He couldn’t sense death, or feel it the way T-Bag could, but he felt the way his pulse raced and breathing grew heavy at the thought. Caught in a twisted cycle of foreplay, he’d sit in silence, enraptured by T-Bag’s stories, imagining how it must feel, and someday he would know.
Questions whispered against a nipple, of the feel of a tiny neck compressed between strong fingers, the final tiny gasps silenced, and a limp body laying peacefully on the ground.
Answers drawled in an ear, hand wandering over warm skin, so different from the unfeeling flesh of a corpse but inviting just the same, of clothes stripped from a human rag doll, and of toys broken, thrown away.
Pants pulled over hips amidst begs for the feel of freshly spilled blood, the thrill of pushing hard steel through yielding skin, muscle, scraping bone as a hand wraps around hard warmth.
Descriptions of broken bones, severed flesh, bodies turned inside out and laid out for display, punctuated by gasps and moans from that relentless stroking.
They have an understanding. As the stories stop, breathing too hard and minds too clouded to concentrate on past victims, the present is all there is. Hot, living forms moving together, intoxicated by remnants of the kill.
A pity he proved to be such a bad murderer himself. I applaud him for his efforts. :(
Character/Pairing: T-Bag/Maytag
Prompt: #31, "Death"
Rating: PG-13...ish.
Summary: They had an understanding in death.
Author's Notes: A quickie, 'cause with that grin of his, I always pictured Maytag giddy with excitement over story time with T-Bag. Next one...less death, I think. Maybe. Those two make me want to kill things in the stories. lol
They had an understanding in death. On the nights an inmate was murdered and death hung heavy in the air, Maytag’s screams would echo throughout A Wing. Death always put T-Bag in a mood. In the same way he could feel Maytag’s fear, pain, excitement, he could sense death. Feel it, taste it, smell it. It was a sweet hint of pleasure floating into their cell, teasing him with a taste of what was beyond the bars, beyond his reach.
But Maytag was inside the bars. And on those nights T-Bag felt death drag its warm hand across his face, his eyes would fall on the boy sitting so pure, so perfect; despite how T-Bag had defiled him in the past, he was new on those nights.
Maytag could never guess which side of T-Bag he’d get. On some nights, he’d be in ecstacy, ravaged by T-Bag drunk on the end of life. Others, the sheets would be stained red, the pillow wet with his tears.
He relived the glory of the kill through Maytag, just a little more of that feeling in the air.
Maytag never complained. He understood. He couldn’t sense death, or feel it the way T-Bag could, but he felt the way his pulse raced and breathing grew heavy at the thought. Caught in a twisted cycle of foreplay, he’d sit in silence, enraptured by T-Bag’s stories, imagining how it must feel, and someday he would know.
Questions whispered against a nipple, of the feel of a tiny neck compressed between strong fingers, the final tiny gasps silenced, and a limp body laying peacefully on the ground.
Answers drawled in an ear, hand wandering over warm skin, so different from the unfeeling flesh of a corpse but inviting just the same, of clothes stripped from a human rag doll, and of toys broken, thrown away.
Pants pulled over hips amidst begs for the feel of freshly spilled blood, the thrill of pushing hard steel through yielding skin, muscle, scraping bone as a hand wraps around hard warmth.
Descriptions of broken bones, severed flesh, bodies turned inside out and laid out for display, punctuated by gasps and moans from that relentless stroking.
They have an understanding. As the stories stop, breathing too hard and minds too clouded to concentrate on past victims, the present is all there is. Hot, living forms moving together, intoxicated by remnants of the kill.
A pity he proved to be such a bad murderer himself. I applaud him for his efforts. :(