Chapter Text
———
The fluorescent lights are bright and merciless, doing nothing to help the incessant throb of the headache behind his eyes. The guard's boots thud loudly on the gray concrete floor. Feyd can feel him moving closer, taking advantage of his own ginger steps. He straightens his back despite the twinge, quickening his pace. Almost there.
“Eager to see your new cellmate?” Stubs asks.
It sounds like he’s smiling. The toe of his boot bumps sharply against Feyd’s heel. He grunts, swallowing the pain as he strides faster. Of course there’s a new cellmate. He clenches his tight jaw, inhaling thinly, feeling the dull ache of his ribs on each breath.
“This one’s not going to last as long as Sharpe. Surprised he’s not dead already honestly.”
A bitch then. A weak one at that.
“But you’ll have some fun before going back into the hole,” Stubs’ breath hits the back of his neck. He stinks like he never fucking brushes his teeth and then douses himself in shitty coffee. Jesus fucking Christ. He wants to twist around and—
Feyd takes a deep breath. He can feel the sweat beading on his forehead and under his pits, stomach tight as he continues to walk. They round the corner, his cell coming into view. Stubs opens the gray door, pushing him inside none too gently. Feyd hisses through his teeth, biting back a sound of pain as he stumbles inside, hand slapping against the wall to keep himself upright. The door closes with a thud and he looks up quickly, finding the bunks.
A wash of swift relief passes through his body, muscles unclenching. He's small. Thank fuck. Feyd studies the figure pressed against the corner of the top bunk.
“Women's prison didn’t have space?” Feyd grinds out, taking a step towards the bunk, refusing to wince.
The boy doesn’t say anything. Because he almost looks like he’s still a boy. Slight and pretty and young. He keeps his lips tightly closed, wide eyes unblinking as he watches Feyd drag himself closer. He’s got freckles. Fucking freckles. Like a ad in a fucking magazine. Jesus. No wonder Stubs said that shit.
He watches as the boy’s sharp jaw tenses as Feyd places his hand on the thin sheets of the top bunk, eyes dragging down his thin body, noting the shirt hanging loosely off his narrow shoulders.
“You just get in?” Feyd asks. He doesn’t have a mark on him. Must have just arrived. Or—
“Anyone claim you yet?” Feyd says quickly, sliding his hand towards one thin ankle. God, I hope no one’s claimed you yet.
The boy moves quickly, hand snapping upwards, a dull razor tucked neatly against Feyd’s pumping artery before he can even pull in his next breath. Feyd freezes, eyes widening. His new cellmate doesn’t say anything. Just stares back at him, breath even, blade firm against his neck. A few moments pass in tense silence.
“Suck a guard off to get that?” Feyd says carefully, hands limp and unthreatening.
The boy stares at him calmly, but Feyd can see the light sheen of sweat on skin. Can see how tight his pupils are. Fair enough. It doesn’t look like he’s been crying. The boy opens his mouth, Feyd tenses.
“They told me you are psychotic,” he says, softly. His voice isn’t high.
Feyd carefully bares his teeth in a practiced smile. Of course they told him that.
“They said you ripped a chunk out of your previous cellmate's cheek with your teeth and shoved it down his throat.”
True.
“I just got out of the hole for killing Sharpe, not looking to go back so soon,” Feyd says, swallowing, feeling the press of the blade against his throat shift slightly, easing away from his skin. Immediately, he steps away, back gingerly hitting the cell wall, eyes never leaving the boy’s face. The razor is still clutched tightly in his slender fingers. He hasn’t blinked. Like a fucking doll or something.
“What’s your name?” Feyd asks.
He watches as the boy shifts slightly, facing Feyd more fully. Okay. I see you.
“Paul.”
“I’m Feyd.”
“I know,” he says, face blank of any emotion.
They stare at each other. Re-assessing. Feyd watches carefully as Paul takes him in, shoulders still tense with anticipation like he’s expecting him to leap across the cell and rip a chunk from his neck right now. You haven’t given me a reason to. He’s not going to say that. Also, he really fucking doesn’t want to go back to solitary yet.
“Why did you kill your previous cell mate?” Paul asks with a measured voice, fingers shifting his grip on the razor.
Feyd blinks. No one asked him that. Why would they? He’s psychotic after all.
“He fucking deserved it,” Feyd says, shrugging, feeling his tender ribs protest at the slight movement. He doesn’t let it show on his face.
———
The lights are out, his head throbbing less intensely in the dark. Feyd lies stiffly on his hard mattress, trying not to shift. He can’t hear anything from the top bunk, but he knows Paul isn’t asleep. Feyd’s not going to sleep either. Not with the threat of the little fucker’s razor. Can’t be too careful.
“So what did you do to get you in super max?” Feyd asks eventually, not bothering to whisper. They both know the score. “And before you say it, I know. You’re innocent.” They all are in here, he smiles to himself.
“I’m not,” Paul replies without hesitation.
Feyd squints up at the metal slats above him. This really must be his first day. Or he’s trying to give himself a reputation. You look like a girl, it’s not going to work.
“What?” Feyd asks.
“I killed the men who murdered my parents,” Paul says, his voice sounds tight and thick, like it’s about to start trembling. “And I’d do it again.”
Fuck.
“What did you do?” Paul asks after a few minutes of awkward silence.
“First lesson,” Feyd huffs. “Everyone here is innocent.”
In the morning, Paul’s eyes are red and puffy as they stand side by side, waiting for the door to open for count.
Oh fuck. Is he stupid? Or just reckless?
———
The lukewarm water is beating against his back hard as he looks at Paul out of the corner of his eye. He can see his ribs. He’s got pink little nipples, peaked in the cold harsh water of the showers. His head is down, dark curls plastered to his forehead. Black lashes, spiked and clumped. His cock is nice and pretty. Bigger than he thought it would be from how fucking skinny he is. No ass. Not that that’s going to stop anyone.
He can sense the prickle of many hungry eyes assessing his new cellmate. Can feel the movement, the curiosity. Clearly his first time in the showers. Feyd plants his feet more firmly, heart picking up as he mechanically rubs the soap over his body. He dips his head, glaring sharply as a small portly man lingers for a few moments in front of them before hurrying off after catching Feyd’s eye.
Don’t fucking try me, bitch.
But glaring doesn’t work on everyone.
It doesn’t take long. Reed and Thiesman come out of nowhere, boxing Paul in against the wall swiftly, leering down at his pretty face, grabbing for his tiny waist. Feyd moves quickly, ignoring the pain in his ribs, he snatches Thiesman’s wrist and yanks it back sharply, snarling as he steps forward. He snaps his teeth for good measure, watching as his expression drops, fear swiftly replacing the lust on his stupid face.
“He’s mine,” Feyd hisses, bending the man’s wrist back until he cries out.
“How were we supposed to know?” Reed snaps, yanking his cunt of a friend away, engaging in a tug of war with Feyd when he doesn’t let go. Feyd smiles sharply, pulling on the other man until he howls in pain. They don’t have long until someone comes.
“Well now you fucking do, now get the fuck away from him before I break off your fingers with my teeth and push them down your throat until you choke on them,” he says, releasing Thiesman with a shove so he and Reed stumble back, slipping on the wet concrete, crashing onto the floor in a pathetic heap.
Feyd doesn’t spare them another glance, moving back under the spray of water and grabbing the soap from the floor. He doesn’t look at Paul. But he can feel his eyes heavy on his neck.
Don’t you get it?
———
Paul is pressed back against the corner of his bunk again, razor clutched in his hand, curls almost dry now. Dry and falling over his forehead. Feyd stares at him quietly, slumped against the wall. Waiting. What the fuck did you think was going to happen? Feyd raises his hand, teeth catching on his ragged thumb nail as he watches Paul try and figure out what to say. Pretty features shifting minutely under Feyd’s scrutiny.
“I'm not going to let you fuck me,” Paul says.
Jesus fuck. Feyd rolls his eyes impatiently.
“You want someone else to fuck you?” He asks, tearing at the stubborn hangnail. It rips suddenly, skin stinging, bright blood welling from the cut. Feyd licks at it, sucking on his skin.
“I don’t want anyone to fuck me,” Paul says firmly, cheeks waxen. Freckles standing out starkly on his pale skin.
Feyd wonders how old he actually is. Probably closer to his age than he initially thought. Twenty maybe. Feyd’s teeth pinch the broken skin in his mouth sharply.
“That’s not how it works here,” he says, letting his bloody thumb drop. “Someone’s getting fucked.”
Paul’s pink lips purse into a thin line. He knows. Feyd glances at the razor. His stomach clenches.
“If I don’t make it clear you’re mine, someone else will take you,” he says bluntly.
Don’t you get it?
“I can take care of myself,” Paul says softly, lifting his pointed chin.
Feyd snorts, raising his brows in disbelief. What are you, a hundred pounds soaking wet? And prettier than a fucking girl.
“I can,” Paul insists, clenching his bony jaw. His skin looks soft. Soft and smooth.
“Maybe,” Feyd says. “But you can’t fend off a gang.”
“And you can?”
“I’ve got friends here. Enemies too. But I have a reputation. You don’t.”
He watches Paul absorb this information. It’s difficult to see from this far, but Feyd thinks his eyes are green. Don’t be fucking stupid.
“I’m not letting you fuck me,” he insists.
Feyd pulls in a breath through his nose.
“Well, you have to at least let people think I’m fucking you,” he snaps. Jesus.
Paul straightens his back, thick brows pulling together. A little line appears between them.
“Why would you help me for nothing?” He asks slowly.
“I wouldn’t.”
Paul stiffens.
“I’ll suck your cock and we’ll call it even,” Feyd shrugs casually, watching his words land. Paul blinks.
“What?” He asks blankly, like thinks he misheard him.
“I’m bored,” Feyd says, like he could care less. His heart picks up in his chest. “There’s nothing else to fucking do here. Trust me.”
He watches as Paul’s shoulders relax a little, as he leans forward, confusion still clear in his expression.
“You’re gay?” He asks.
Feyd’s stomach twists, a bolt of fear shooting through his body.
“No,” he says sharply. “Don’t you ever fucking say something like that here. To anyone. No one here is gay. Do you understand?”
He pushes away from the wall, watching as Paul stiffens again, lifting the razor. Paul’s murky eyes are wide.
“I’m serious. You’re fucking dead if you say that shit here,” Feyd snaps, cheeks pulsing with heat.
“I understand,” Paul says.
You don’t.
Feyd moves quickly to his bunk, staring up at the metal slats, willing his heart to settle. He presses his hand to his stomach, swallowing the saliva that rushes to his mouth, pushing down the taste of acid.
In the morning, Paul has little circles under his eyes, soft looking curls unruly and fluffy. They stand together by their door. Waiting. Paul turns to him, expression set.
“Okay,” Paul says.
Feyd’s heart leaps. The door opens, a tired guard outside.
———
The lights are off now as they stand on opposite sides of the cell, eyes adjusting to the almost darkness. Feyd hasn’t been able to stop thinking about it all day as he stood next to Paul, growling at anyone who got too close. Yanking him around roughly by his wrist, making sure everyone saw.
They are finally back. Finally alone. Feyd’s palms are sweaty. He wants to touch his cock, to at least rub it a little through his pants. But he waits. He steps closer, slowly. Paul is stiff, his ubiquitous razor clenched tightly in his hand.
“I’m not going to fucking rape you,” Feyd says.
“Yeah, forgive me if I’m not exactly relaxed right now,” Paul says, a little bite to his tone.
Feyd’s lips twitch.
“You can put the razor against my neck if it makes you feel better,” Feyd says, cock stiffening even as he says the words.
Paul doesn’t need any more prompting, pressing the blade to Feyd’s skin. Feyd swallows the saliva in his mouth, pulse thumping against Paul’s light touch.
“Okay,” Feyd says softly. “Don’t freak out, but I need to mark you up a little.”
“What?”
“Just like some hickeys on the back of your neck, make them think I’m rough with you,” he holds his breath hopefully. Waiting.
Paul nods, the press of the blade easing.
“Okay.”
There’s an awkward few moments where they just look at each other in the dim darkness of the cell.
“So uh—”
“Oh yeah, of course—”
Paul bares his neck, twisting it as far as he can without turning his body towards the wall. Razor still at the ready. Slowly, Feyd lowers his head until his unsteady breaths are puffing against Paul’s skin. He isn’t touching him, but it’s clear how tense he is. Fucking relax.
Feyd opens his mouth, fitting his teeth to his neck, and bites down. He starts to suck hard. Paul doesn’t make a sound as Feyd presses closer, suckling at his neck, breath picking up, huffing loud and bullish out of his nose and against his skin. Feyd closes his eyes, mouthing wetly at Paul’s soft neck, cock hardening in his pants as he licks and sucks and bites. A sound escapes his throat, the noise dulled against Paul’s neck. The skin under his mouth is wet with spit as Feyd continues to work. Fuck, he’s so pretty. His hand bumps clumsily forward towards him only for Paul to flinch away from his touch. Feyd freezes, eyes snapping open.
“Okay, I think you left a mark,” Paul says tightly.
Feyd pulls back, cock throbbing, mouth wet and stupid as he looks down at Paul, eyes traveling to his groin—
He’s soft.
Of course he’s fucking soft.
Feyd takes a step back quickly.
“Okay,” he says.
“Okay,” Paul repeats, fingers still tight on the razor as he watches Feyd slip onto his mattress.
Feyd listens. Eventually, Paul climbs up to his bunk. When he thinks it’s been long enough, Feyd sticks his hand down his pants.
———
If Paul heard him last night, he doesn’t say anything. The marks are dark and clear on his pale neck as he bends to slip on his shoes in the morning. When he looks up, he meets Feyd’s eyes.
“You have to walk stiffly,” Feyd tells him.
He nods slowly in ascent. He starts to limp towards Feyd.
“Not like that,” Feyd says, wrinkling his nose.
Paul blinks in surprise.
“Just like— like you’re trying to hide it. Not like you’re trying out for fucking community theater.”
Paul stares at him, lips pressed together firmly. After a few moments, he starts moving again, walk stiff but not dramatic.
“Better?” He asks dryly, coming to a halt next to Feyd.
Feyd grunts, looking forward towards the opening door, away from the sarcastic twist of Paul’s mouth.
———
Feyd grabs a handful of clothes, shoving them into the machine, keeping an eye on Paul out of the corner of his eye. It hadn’t been difficult to get them on the same duty. At least not yet. Feyd doesn’t mind laundry duty. No one really bothers him. And people can’t overhear conversations over the loud thumping of the machines.
“That’s too full,” he tells Paul.
Has he never done laundry before?
Paul nods, pulling out some clothes and pushing them into the next machine down the line.
“Can we go to the library later?” Paul asks, his cheeks are pink, hair a little wild from the humidity of the room. Feyd wipes at his forehead, meeting his eyes. They’re mostly green. He drops his gaze.
“The TV is never playing anything good.”
“I want to check out some books,” Paul says. “Use the computer.”
“Oh okay,” Feyd says. “Yeah, we can— not that much fucking soap!”
Feyd reaches out and pulls Paul’s hand back away from the washer. He winces. Feyd drops his wrist quickly.
———
Feyd clicks through the channels, passing through the weather, a basketball game, a woman being interviewed about finding a Jesus face on her muffin or some shit. He settles on a channel with a woman with puffy glossy lips and artificially curled hair, eyes wet and limpid, smiling up at a man with salt and pepper hair and artfully messy stubble. They are speaking softly, arms wrapped around each other. The backdrop is an idyllic little town, fall leaves on the trees.
“Turn that shit off,” the old man behind him snaps. “Change it back to Storage Wars.”
The woman on screen tilts her head back, the man pressing his mouth to her sticky looking lips.
“You’d rather watch some stupid cock sucker go through a shit ton of junk in a rat infested storage locker then look at tits?” Feyd asks, turning to glare at his wrinkled face, frail old body curled into a rickety folding chair.
“You can’t see her tits,” the man points out, indignant. “And, yes! Turn it fucking back.”
Feyd pulls back his lips, baring his teeth at the old fucker. Something shifts beside him and he turns instantly, watching as Paul approaches, a book in his hand, eyes darting from the screen to Feyd. He changes it back to Storage Wars, chucking the remote at the man with a sharp glare.
“Fuck you,” the man calls, settling back in the folding chair, remote in his gnarled hand.
“Fuck you,” Feyd yells over his shoulder, falling into step beside Paul and leading them from the library.
———
Paul doesn’t bring it up. It’s been days, the bruises starting to fade on his skin, and he still doesn’t bring it up. Feyd doesn’t either. But he jerks off every night thinking about it. Thinking about Paul saying ‘Okay’, little tired smudges under his pretty eyes.
He hasn’t seen the razor.
———
The dirty tennis ball bounces off the wall. Feyd raises his hand and catches it easily. He tosses it away again, watching it bounce from the floor to the wall and back towards him.
“How long have you been in here?” Paul asks.
Feyd catches the ball, cutting Paul a quick glance. He’s seated on his bunk, legs crossed, back against the wall, book on his knee.
“Five years,” Feyd says, throwing the ball again. When it bounces back, it’s far above his head and he has to reach high to catch it.
“How old were you?”
Knew that was coming next.
Feyd clenches his jaw, throwing the ball with a lighter touch this time.
“Sixteen.”
He doesn’t look back at Paul. The ball bounces lazily. He bends to catch it this time, a familiar feeling starting in his stomach.
“What?”
“I was tried as an adult,” he says, keeping his voice cool. “Well, guess I was actually seventeen by the time I was officially sentenced.”
Paul doesn’t ask anymore questions.
———
Feyd sucks desperately at Paul’s neck, his soft curls brushing against Feyd’s skin. He hadn’t reached for the razor this time at least. Feyd keeps his hips angled carefully away from Paul as he bites at him, hands hanging stupidly by his sides, fists clenched into his sweaty palms as he gnaws on him like an animal. His soft cool skin smells like the cheap soap they all use, but also somehow not. Sweeter. Or maybe he’s just fucking imagining it. Feyd pulls back his teeth, letting out a shaky breath, nosing to a different spot, brushing his mouth softly behind his ear. Paul jerks like he’s been shocked. Feyd freezes, pulling away for a moment.
Neither of them speaks. Bodies still.
He can hear Paul breathing, light and quick. Slowly, he moves closer, pressing his lips against the same spot. Paul shifts again, a little sound snuffling from his nose. Oh. Feyd opens his mouth, licking softly at the spot, feeling him squirm and twitch under the attention, his own breathing picking up, jagged and fast against Paul’s wet skin. He suckles gently, keeping his teeth away, trying—
“Okay,” Paul says, voice breathless.
Feyd comes too quickly into his hand that night, imagining Paul saying something else.
In the morning, Paul doesn’t meet his eyes.
———
Feyd’s ribs heel. Paul’s bruises don’t. And still he doesn’t bring it up.
Feyd doesn’t either.
———
Feyd paces outside the door impatiently. The guard watches him with nervous eyes. He doesn’t mind this one. Smith. Name as fucking anonymous as his face. But he never treats Feyd like an animal. Has never asked him for something. Probably more to do with weakness than morality. But still.
“Visiting hour is almost up,” Smith says timidly, apropos of nothing. He’s skinny and short, hair thinning a little on top, tiny smile lines around his eyes. Looks clean and doesn’t smell. Feyd probably wouldn’t mind sucking him if he asked. But he wouldn’t ask.
“I know,” Feyd says, turning to walk back towards the other wall.
A few more minutes pass and then the tell tale sound of the door buzzing alerts him. Paul walks through the door, eyes immediately alighting on Feyd. He can see Smith visibly relaxing as they start to walk away. How the fuck did he become a prison guard?
“Who was your visitor?” Feyd asks.
Paul purses his lips, brows furrowed. He’s not looking at Feyd.
“An old family friend.”
He doesn’t elaborate further.
Feyd moves so Paul is the one walking closest to the wall when they get out into the yard.
———
Feyd wakes up with a start, breathing quickly, heart pounding sickeningly in his chest, arms shooting out blindly. Except there’s no one there. Feyd sits up, shoving his thumb in his mouth, worrying at the ripped skin until he tastes blood. After a few minutes, his heart calms. He rolls from the bunk. The early light of day casting the cell in gray light. He pisses quickly, about to get back into his bunk when he looks up at Paul. He’s blinking awake, hair wild and fluffy, eyes murky with sleep, cheeks a pretty pink, body shifting as he stretches. Beautiful. Feyd swallows, eyes drawn to the tent under Paul’s sheets—
Oh.
“Paul,” Feyd says, voice gravelly and hopeful.
Paul flops his neck, focusing on Feyd, brows scrunched in confusion, a little line on his cheek from the flat pillow.
“I can— if you want, I can,” he stops, hand outstretched, pointing stupidly.
Paul looks down his body. There’s a long silence. Too fucking long. Feyd can’t look at him, eyes dropping to stare at his graying socks.
“Okay,” Paul says eventually, voice soft.
Feyd’s shoulders slump with relief at his words. Finally. His heart starts thumping again for entirely different reasons. Tentatively, he moves towards the bunks, pulling himself up until he’s seated at his feet. Paul sits up, scooting back to give Feyd space, back resting against the wall, sheet falling to pool around his middle. He’s wearing his damn undershirt, but he can see his little nipples are hard in the cool air.
There’s an awkward pause.
And then Feyd shuffles forward between his legs, pulling down the sheet until he can see him, hard in his underwear. Out of the corner of his eye, Paul’s pale thigh shifts. Feyd reaches out, tugging down his underwear, quickly wrapping his fingers around Paul’s stiff pretty cock. Fuck.
He doesn’t look up, in case Paul’s face is— Feyd bends at the waist and licks at the sticky head softly, tasting him. His own cock throbs, a shiver of arousal running through his body. Fuck, he wants— Paul rests his fingers against the back of his neck lightly, soft cool fingertips soothing to his hot skin. Feyd makes a tight little noise, eagerly moving to slip him into his warm mouth, starting a slow easy rhythm, the wet sounds soft and filthy in their small cell.
———