T-bag and Michael buttsex! Hurruh!
Title: Purpled skin
Author: Me! ix_tab
Claim: Michael Scofield
Pairing: T-bag/Michael
Rating: Big ol NC-17
Warnings: It's T-bag, you dig? Non-con, very non-con and a bit of the old ultra violence is implied.
Written for prisonbreak100
Michael’s skin bruises and breaks, just like it has always done, though now, the swooping, frenzied tattoos hide much of it. Lincoln used to know exactly how much pressure he could put on his brother before he would become mottled and purpled, and adults would question.
T-bag doesn’t know that. But he’s willing to learn. He watches and waits; savouring Michael’s every step. He sees Michael’s desperate plan unfold, elaborate and intricate as lace round the top of little school girl socks. Michael is tense, and worried. His every thought, every motion is focused on saving his brother. And it means that he is off kilter, distracted. The perfect, pretty prey.
+++
When the moment is right, when his vicious little plan kicks into swing, Michael never sees it coming. The sharp blow to the head leaves he young man sprawled helpless at T-bag’s feet. And he is so very beautiful when he can’t move. Quickly, quickly, with no wasted movement, T-bag hauls the body into the darkness of the shed, and binds Michael’s hands above his head. Reverently, like a child given a special present, he unbuttons Michael’s shirt, and then carefully cuts away the undershirt, exposing Michael’s glorious, demonic blue inked designs that mask the man underneath them.
Sighing, he makes a gag out of the scraps of the undershirt. He so badly wants to use Michael’s mouth, but he wants maximum time here, and screams would be inconvenient.
Michael stirs, then sits bolt upright as the ball of fabric is shoved into his mouth, then bound with another, larger strip. He makes muffled, guttural noises, but it’s his eyes that stink of that sweet, sweet drug, fear.
“Now, now, pretty. Don’t be gettin all huffy with ol T-bag. You and I, we have some unfinished business we have to attend to, And don’t think that you can put this…” Michael closes his eyes, and T-bag snarls. Violently, he backhands the younger man, grabbing his jaw, forcing Michael to focus on him.
“Don’t you go lookin away from me, fish! This is happening; this is going to happen. And aw shucks…I’ll bet you didn’t even plan this in that big ol tat of yours. What’s the symbol for havin your sweet little virgin ass fucked?” Michael pales so very prettily, and he fights, fights against his bonds, against T-bag’s viciously invasive hands. T-bag ignores it, straddling Michael, pinning his thrashing legs, whilst stripping him of his thin grey pants, his underwear.
“What I wanna know, pretty is how you want this to go. Now, if you’d only been a good little boy and let me take care of you before, I wouldn’t have hurt you, much. But now…now I’m gonna give you a choice.” T-bag pulls his knife, pilfered from the kitchen by one of his eager minions. He licks the handle, but Michael’s clear, terrified eyes are fixated on the dance and sway of the blade.
T-bag runs the blade lightly, tenderly down the other man’s inked chest, not breaking the skin, and then taps the flat of the blade against Michael’s mostly flaccid cock.
Michael shudders, whimpers suddenly. T-bag leans over, and bites his neck, gnawing on his collarbone, bringing up bright stinging marks that must surely bruise.
“You sweet thing.” He croons, and he licks away the few, stray involuntary tears that have escaped, dripping down Michael’s face. And he shoves the spit-slicked handle of the knife deep inside Michael, stretching him savagely.
There is an explosion of agonised, terrified sound from behind the gag, and Michael twists desperately away from the invasion, then stills immediately once he realises what it is. T-bag lazily works the handle in and out of the man sprawled beneath him, recognising the twitch that meant he’d touched the prostate. He laughs, low and affectionate, as he keeps two fingers around the base of the blade, stopping it being pulled inside Michael’s body. And he needs this, needs it like some men need drink, or money, or pussy. Michael is an addiction, an obsession, and now he has the boy in his grasp he wanted to break him in, to bruise and beat him. To love him.
So T-bag pulls the knife handle out, slowly, teasing with it, letting go for a second or two, then continuing. His control is slipping, he knows, and he wants this boy so badly.
“Pretty, I’m gonna fuck you now. You hear?” Michael is crying now, just a little. He shakes his head, and T-bag rolls his eyes, slaps Michael’s face. A red angry mark flashes up across the other man’s cheek.
“Be a man, pretty! It’ll only hurt a little for a while. Then it’s gonna hurt a lot.” And T-bag laughs again and slicks himself with his own spit. He’d like to take Michael dry, but the boy was too tight for it. It would take too long, and he’s working on a time limit here. There’s only a finite amount of time before either of them is missed. And he wants this boy for as long as he can have him.
He pushes in hard, and those sounds, those aborted scream-sobs beneath the gag are music, the singing of the angels themselves, to T-bag’s ears. Michael is so tight, vice like, glorious heat gripping him, reluctantly drinking him in. He thrusts, and swears almost in awe. Michael’s body is like sodden-silk around him, and he fills the space he invades within his captive.
T-bag bites and kisses and licks any bit of Michael’s skin he can reach with his mouth, as he pulls the other man’s legs up, splaying them, so he can fuck his way deeper.
It’s too good to last. All too soon, T-bag realises that he’s coming, coming inside the pretty tattooed fish underneath him, and he does, biting his own wrist so that he won’t cry out.
He lies atop Michael, hearing the gasping, sobbing breaths, loving them. He examines the marks he has left all over the younger man’s body, and feels proud. This was his claim on this ridiculously clever, scheming man. This was the things that he had taught him.
“You know something, pretty?” He asks, as Michael closes his eyes, and T-bag lets him, lets him begin to absorb, understand what had just happened to his tender young self.
“You look so much better when you’re bruised”.
_---End
Author: Me! ix_tab
Claim: Michael Scofield
Pairing: T-bag/Michael
Rating: Big ol NC-17
Warnings: It's T-bag, you dig? Non-con, very non-con and a bit of the old ultra violence is implied.
Written for prisonbreak100
Michael’s skin bruises and breaks, just like it has always done, though now, the swooping, frenzied tattoos hide much of it. Lincoln used to know exactly how much pressure he could put on his brother before he would become mottled and purpled, and adults would question.
T-bag doesn’t know that. But he’s willing to learn. He watches and waits; savouring Michael’s every step. He sees Michael’s desperate plan unfold, elaborate and intricate as lace round the top of little school girl socks. Michael is tense, and worried. His every thought, every motion is focused on saving his brother. And it means that he is off kilter, distracted. The perfect, pretty prey.
+++
When the moment is right, when his vicious little plan kicks into swing, Michael never sees it coming. The sharp blow to the head leaves he young man sprawled helpless at T-bag’s feet. And he is so very beautiful when he can’t move. Quickly, quickly, with no wasted movement, T-bag hauls the body into the darkness of the shed, and binds Michael’s hands above his head. Reverently, like a child given a special present, he unbuttons Michael’s shirt, and then carefully cuts away the undershirt, exposing Michael’s glorious, demonic blue inked designs that mask the man underneath them.
Sighing, he makes a gag out of the scraps of the undershirt. He so badly wants to use Michael’s mouth, but he wants maximum time here, and screams would be inconvenient.
Michael stirs, then sits bolt upright as the ball of fabric is shoved into his mouth, then bound with another, larger strip. He makes muffled, guttural noises, but it’s his eyes that stink of that sweet, sweet drug, fear.
“Now, now, pretty. Don’t be gettin all huffy with ol T-bag. You and I, we have some unfinished business we have to attend to, And don’t think that you can put this…” Michael closes his eyes, and T-bag snarls. Violently, he backhands the younger man, grabbing his jaw, forcing Michael to focus on him.
“Don’t you go lookin away from me, fish! This is happening; this is going to happen. And aw shucks…I’ll bet you didn’t even plan this in that big ol tat of yours. What’s the symbol for havin your sweet little virgin ass fucked?” Michael pales so very prettily, and he fights, fights against his bonds, against T-bag’s viciously invasive hands. T-bag ignores it, straddling Michael, pinning his thrashing legs, whilst stripping him of his thin grey pants, his underwear.
“What I wanna know, pretty is how you want this to go. Now, if you’d only been a good little boy and let me take care of you before, I wouldn’t have hurt you, much. But now…now I’m gonna give you a choice.” T-bag pulls his knife, pilfered from the kitchen by one of his eager minions. He licks the handle, but Michael’s clear, terrified eyes are fixated on the dance and sway of the blade.
T-bag runs the blade lightly, tenderly down the other man’s inked chest, not breaking the skin, and then taps the flat of the blade against Michael’s mostly flaccid cock.
Michael shudders, whimpers suddenly. T-bag leans over, and bites his neck, gnawing on his collarbone, bringing up bright stinging marks that must surely bruise.
“You sweet thing.” He croons, and he licks away the few, stray involuntary tears that have escaped, dripping down Michael’s face. And he shoves the spit-slicked handle of the knife deep inside Michael, stretching him savagely.
There is an explosion of agonised, terrified sound from behind the gag, and Michael twists desperately away from the invasion, then stills immediately once he realises what it is. T-bag lazily works the handle in and out of the man sprawled beneath him, recognising the twitch that meant he’d touched the prostate. He laughs, low and affectionate, as he keeps two fingers around the base of the blade, stopping it being pulled inside Michael’s body. And he needs this, needs it like some men need drink, or money, or pussy. Michael is an addiction, an obsession, and now he has the boy in his grasp he wanted to break him in, to bruise and beat him. To love him.
So T-bag pulls the knife handle out, slowly, teasing with it, letting go for a second or two, then continuing. His control is slipping, he knows, and he wants this boy so badly.
“Pretty, I’m gonna fuck you now. You hear?” Michael is crying now, just a little. He shakes his head, and T-bag rolls his eyes, slaps Michael’s face. A red angry mark flashes up across the other man’s cheek.
“Be a man, pretty! It’ll only hurt a little for a while. Then it’s gonna hurt a lot.” And T-bag laughs again and slicks himself with his own spit. He’d like to take Michael dry, but the boy was too tight for it. It would take too long, and he’s working on a time limit here. There’s only a finite amount of time before either of them is missed. And he wants this boy for as long as he can have him.
He pushes in hard, and those sounds, those aborted scream-sobs beneath the gag are music, the singing of the angels themselves, to T-bag’s ears. Michael is so tight, vice like, glorious heat gripping him, reluctantly drinking him in. He thrusts, and swears almost in awe. Michael’s body is like sodden-silk around him, and he fills the space he invades within his captive.
T-bag bites and kisses and licks any bit of Michael’s skin he can reach with his mouth, as he pulls the other man’s legs up, splaying them, so he can fuck his way deeper.
It’s too good to last. All too soon, T-bag realises that he’s coming, coming inside the pretty tattooed fish underneath him, and he does, biting his own wrist so that he won’t cry out.
He lies atop Michael, hearing the gasping, sobbing breaths, loving them. He examines the marks he has left all over the younger man’s body, and feels proud. This was his claim on this ridiculously clever, scheming man. This was the things that he had taught him.
“You know something, pretty?” He asks, as Michael closes his eyes, and T-bag lets him, lets him begin to absorb, understand what had just happened to his tender young self.
“You look so much better when you’re bruised”.
_---End