[PART FIVE] - CLOSED
THE SOCIAL NETWORK KINK MEME
ASK THE MODS * FAQ * DISCUSSION * RESEARCH * FILL LIST * PART ONE * PART ONE (OVERFLOW) * PART TWO * PART TWO (OVERFLOW) * PART THREE * (PART THREE (OVERFLOW) * PART FOUR
GENERAL RULES;
IMPORTANT: please DO NOT post prompts about any non-public people as part of a prompt. for example: randi ( Read more... )
ASK THE MODS * FAQ * DISCUSSION * RESEARCH * FILL LIST * PART ONE * PART ONE (OVERFLOW) * PART TWO * PART TWO (OVERFLOW) * PART THREE * (PART THREE (OVERFLOW) * PART FOUR
GENERAL RULES;
IMPORTANT: please DO NOT post prompts about any non-public people as part of a prompt. for example: randi ( Read more... )
The noise wakes him. It’s cumulative, he wakes up slowly, reacting to the growing sound. The buzz of his cell door opening is what makes him sit up though. A guard leans through the gate entryway, peeling metal rings from the wrists of another man, but he doesn’t leave after the handcuffs are back at his belt, just leans against the wall outside the cell to continue talking. The other man is wearing a uniform that denotes him as an inmate, with curly hair and fingers that clench and twists almost unconsciously, like a nervous twitch.
‘I’ll look into it, Jesse, thanks,’ the guard says. Andrew can see him smile, before he cranes his neck around and talks into his radio, ‘can I have fifty-two please?’ and the door shudders closed.
‘Garfield,’ the guard half-barks, his voice changing immensely from the quiet tone he’d used with the other man - Jesse? Jesse flinches, then looks around to see Andrew on the lower bed. ‘This is your cell mate, Jesse Eisenberg. Eisenberg,’ he says, stuttering over the surname, ‘this is Andrew Garfield.’
The guard steps back.
‘Marsden,’ Jesse Eisenberg says cryptically, his lips curving into the smallest of smiles. The guard actually returns the grin, and puts two fingers to his forehead, saluting.
‘Will do,’ he says, and then he’s gone.
Eisenberg doesn’t speak to Andrew, just takes a book from a bench Andrew had barely noticed before he’d fallen asleep, and climbs up to the top bed.
Here is what Andrew has noticed about Jesse Eisenberg: he’s short. Andrew is tall and lanky, but Jesse would be short next to anyone of average height. He has curly hair that looks quite carefully trimmed, and bright blue eyes. He holds himself so that it looks like he’s folding into himself, one side of his body sloped downwards, unassuming. He looks vulnerable. He’s an inmate in a maximum security prison - Andrew would know, he heard the words come from a judge’s mouth just a few hours ago.
Andrew doesn’t know what to do. The cell block is so loud, he wouldn’t be able to sleep if he wanted to, and he doesn’t really want to, locked in a cell with another inmate.
Finally he stands up and walks over to the small desk. There’s another book there, Nineteen Eighty-Four. He turns around to see Jesse looking at him, blinking rapidly. Andrew gestures wordlessly to ask if he can borrow the book, and Jesse hesitates, then nods. Communication in the most binary of interaction. Andrew picks up the book.
That’s how it goes. Andrew learns the basics quickly by imitating Jesse wordlessly, following in his step. He learns about the count process, over and over during the next few days, about food, about yard, even showers, which is the worst of all of it, showering in lukewarm water he has to hit a button for every thirty seconds, men on either side of him and behind, across a narrow pathway. He feels exposed, terrified. He’s next to Jesse though, and he feels no real threat on that side. Despite being where he is, Jesse seems so harmless.
The one thing Andrew has to learn for himself is work. He follows a long line of inmates out of the dining room each morning, close behind Jesse, and every day, Jesse disappears.
So Andrew learns to package a plastic spoon, knife, fork and serviette into a plastic bag. It’s difficult, but his learning curve is steep.
He doesn’t want to talk to anyone, but he’s so bored at the mindless task that he listens to the conversations that flow around him, just men talking smack in terms he doesn’t understand, but he picks up some things. His learning curve really is quite steep.
The fourth night he is in prison is a Saturday night. He’s learning that inmates of the state don’t get weekends - there was work that day, just like any other. He’s not sure if this is a good thing or not.
This night is particularly special, because it’s the first night he actually falls asleep properly, exhaustion catching him, and some kind of feeling of security regarding Eisenberg aiding him.
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He wakes up screaming. Even when he’s awake he continues screaming, horrified, terrified. When the yelling starts, he shuts off his voice, coming back to himself with a jarring nausea, feeling the wet cling of tears on his cheeks.
Finally a voice comes over a PA somewhere telling everyone to shut up or face the consequences, and the noise stops. All that is left are shuffling sounds as newly woken up prisoners go about business before going back to sleep, and Andrew’s uncontrollable sobs.
Finally all the movement stops, and snoring recommences.
Andrew can’t stop crying. He knows he should, he’s probably keeping Jesse awake, but he can’t. His tears soak his pillow, his nose breathing in old fibers and dust out of the foam.
The fingertips on his shoulder make him flinch violently, but he’s exhausted and ruined, so he doesn’t think just obeys as the hands guide him over. His side hits the concrete wall, and he curls into the cold brick, a body folding in behind him. Soft curls tickle his neck.
‘It’s alright,’ Jesse’s gentle, uncertain voice whispers, his words laced with sleepiness. ‘It’s gonna be alright,’ he mumbles into Andrew’s shoulder. His breath is hot on Andrew’s cold back, and Andrew shakes.
‘What if, what if, what if,’ Andrew’s voice is cracked and spinning around like a truly broken record, alone in the night’s quiet.
‘Shh,’ Jesse breathes into the curve of his shoulder blade. ‘Tomorrow,’ he says. ‘You’ll still be here tomorrow, just like I will be, and everyone else.’
Andrew barks a bitter laugh, cruel and hurt cracking out of his throat.
‘You can find out if it is, or was, or will be, tomorrow.’
Andrew should be nervous that he’s essentially being spooned by a convicted felon in a cell deep within a maximum security prison. He should be concerned, but he’s too exhausted, too emotionally wiped to care.
He falls asleep to Jesse’s arm on his shoulder.
In the morning he wakes up alone. They go through count, assembling on the yellow line together without speaking.
Jesse doesn’t look at him, doesn’t talk to him, as usual.
Andrew is beginning to wonder if that had all been a dream too.
Andrew usually sees Jesse again in the afternoon just after work. Never at lunch - he’s gone completely between breakfast and the afternoon lock-up when they’re meant to sit there for half an hour before rec, and two hours after dinner to think about their crimes or something. Andrew is starting to get the suspicion that most inmates use the time to cut drugs or make some kind of alcohol. Jesse usually reads.
Today Jesse doesn’t appear. When he doesn’t, Andrew is slightly disappointed: he was going to actually try talking to Jesse, ask him a question. Something had happened in the corner of the yard while Andrew had been there, trying to blend in with the chain-link fence at the side of the green oval. He had been hoping to ask Jesse if he knew what happened - Andrew had followed the lead of the other inmates when bullets had started raining down from the high guard towers, laying down and covering his head with his hands. He hadn’t seen the aftermath.
Jesse doesn’t sleep in their cell that night. Andrew begins to wonder if maybe he’s been exonerated or something: he seems too gentle, too quiet to be guilty of anything. It makes Andrew a little hopeful; if Jesse has been released, maybe he could fight for his own innocence.
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WARNING: onscreen non-con, violence.
The next day is different to most. Andrew is along the back fence during the recreation hour, doing his best to go unnoticed, when a pack descends on him. He doesn’t see the movement, just feels the pain. The world stops turning and goes grey. All the sounds around him dim, all he can feel is the solid feeling of his stomach muscles clenching against the punch to stop the blow impacting his internal organs. He bends over, and there’s a knee to his back next, just above his hip, where he knows one of his kidneys is.
He slides down to his knees, an ache blooming and pounding on his back. There’s a hand in his hair, and the man pulls his head back so that Andrew can see his face. His throat is pulled tight, uncomfortable.
‘How do you think those girls felt?’ the man asks. ‘They must have been so beautiful, pliant and open for you. You’ll get to understand their experience soon,’ he promises, looking Andrew dead in the eyes. The blood in Andrew’s head is making his skull pound. The man lets go of his hair, and he thinks, stupidly, that it’s over. As his head falls down, a knee connects solidly with his nose. He howls in pain, and rolls onto his side, clutching at his now gushing nose. He hears cracking noises that he knows now are the sound of rubber bullets being fired, and sees everyone around him dive for the ground, then everything is eerily silent.
They lead him, stumbling and holdings his bleeding nose, back to his cell and drop him there, door slamming shut behind him. Andrew lets the blood nose run its course over the bowl of the toilet, slumped on the ground and watching the beads of blood drip slowly now into the shallow water. When it has stopped, he washes the dried blood from his face and fingers, the red clinging to the edges of his nail beds. His head, back, stomach, knees, face hurt. He wants it all to stop. He wants to go home. Instead, he curls up on his bed and reads about autocratic domination.
The next day it’s during the evening showers, and it’s worse. Andrew wont lie - he enjoys giving blow jobs to the right people, to the guys he’s fallen in love with. He loves the thrill of the contact, that he is helping his partner to essential bliss.
This is not a blow job. This is mouth rape, his jaw forced wide too fast to take too much in. It cracks and aches, but he doesn’t dare bite down, the blades at his body posing too much of a risk to him. His gag reflex, something he thought he’d tamed a long time ago, rebels and he chokes, coughing around the now hardening intrusion - the guy is getting hard at Andrew’s terror. He wants to vomit.
It’s over faster than most blow jobs, the come pouring down his throat. He swallows, over and over, trying to avoid the taste lingering on his tongue. The blade comes away from his neck, the second one pointed at his genitals retreats next, and he’s left there, empty and used, naked and aching on the floor of a prison bathroom.
Even the long shower he takes after doesn’t wash the dirty feeling of being used away.
Jesse is there that night, so Andrew gives up the fleeting idea of freedom. Andrew doesn’t talk to him - he doesn’t even know if he can talk anymore. He lines up for evening count in a routine that is becoming too familiar, too automatic, and falls asleep feeling like maybe he does deserve this.
What if- what if he had done the things they say he’d done?
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