x-posted
The title sucks and is the name of a Britney Spears song I know, but I just had surgery and my mouth kinda hurts so I don't feel like thinking too hard and coming up with something original.
Title: Boys
Character: T-bag
Prompt: 84. He
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Brief mentions of rape and murder
Summary: He didn't always kill girls. T-bag muses on his love for boys.
Author's Notes: Just a little drabble.
He didn’t always kill girls.
Sometimes it was boys. With the girls he liked them young; nine, ten, some as young as five. Occasionally he might pick an older girl, sixteen maybe, but mostly he preferred the little ones. He liked the boys to be older, fourteen, fifteen. By sixteen they were harder to lure away, harder to pin down. So many of them were tall and broad shouldered, with big muscled arms from working all day on their family’s farm.
He’d let them live.
He did it because he loved to see them after, so full of shame, full of anger and confusion and self-loathing over what had been done to them. What they had allowed to be done to them They were completely helpless, even after he let them go, victims to their own emotions, their own minds. It was wonderful.
And he knew they wouldn’t talk. They never did. The chance of being called a “faggot” was just too much. No matter the situation, no matter if the perpetrator was caught, no matter the outcome, the stigma would always remain. Down in the South, straight men just didn’t get raped. If something like that happened it was just two queers fucking and one had gotten out of control.
The girls always talked which is why he could never keep them alive. They had such big fat, stupid mouths. Poor crying, shaking little ladies, every man in town believing their story and wanting to protect their now shattered innocence. Chivalry was still alive and well in Alabama even if tolerance was not.
Sometimes he did kill the boys. He’d get carried away and it would happen by accident. The rope would pull too tight and snap their neck, his hands would squeeze a little too hard on their throat, sometimes they’d bleed out before he could even start if he used a knife. Other times he did it on purpose. Did it just to see that look in their eyes as they gasped their last breath, did it just to feel their body go limp and cold right as he came.
Some were just as pretty as the girls.
Skin so soft and milky white in the upper class ones, little unmarked hands and pretty feet. They were weak, their bodies fragile and easy to break. Spoiled little rich brats whose family had kept slaves and who now had servants to do everything for them. They were beautiful alright, but too easy.
The lower class boys were less stunning than the upper class ones. They had darker skin from standing out in the fields all day helping their fathers, callused hands, dirty foul smelling feet, short cropped hair, the poorer ones with lice. They were average, nothing special about them. But they were strong. And they always put up a fight. When they had worked hard for everything in their entire life they would certainly work hard to live. They were so much fun.
All of them of them were so much fun. Different from girls and yet the same. He took the same things from them. Dignity, virginity, life. (Not always in that order.) Sure, they had different anatomical features, different upbringings and social expectations. But they all had one thing in common. They were all innocent. Vulnerable. Helpless.
Perfect prey.
One of these days I'll write T-bag and a male victim as an actual story, not just a drabble. Someday...
Title: Boys
Character: T-bag
Prompt: 84. He
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Brief mentions of rape and murder
Summary: He didn't always kill girls. T-bag muses on his love for boys.
Author's Notes: Just a little drabble.
He didn’t always kill girls.
Sometimes it was boys. With the girls he liked them young; nine, ten, some as young as five. Occasionally he might pick an older girl, sixteen maybe, but mostly he preferred the little ones. He liked the boys to be older, fourteen, fifteen. By sixteen they were harder to lure away, harder to pin down. So many of them were tall and broad shouldered, with big muscled arms from working all day on their family’s farm.
He’d let them live.
He did it because he loved to see them after, so full of shame, full of anger and confusion and self-loathing over what had been done to them. What they had allowed to be done to them They were completely helpless, even after he let them go, victims to their own emotions, their own minds. It was wonderful.
And he knew they wouldn’t talk. They never did. The chance of being called a “faggot” was just too much. No matter the situation, no matter if the perpetrator was caught, no matter the outcome, the stigma would always remain. Down in the South, straight men just didn’t get raped. If something like that happened it was just two queers fucking and one had gotten out of control.
The girls always talked which is why he could never keep them alive. They had such big fat, stupid mouths. Poor crying, shaking little ladies, every man in town believing their story and wanting to protect their now shattered innocence. Chivalry was still alive and well in Alabama even if tolerance was not.
Sometimes he did kill the boys. He’d get carried away and it would happen by accident. The rope would pull too tight and snap their neck, his hands would squeeze a little too hard on their throat, sometimes they’d bleed out before he could even start if he used a knife. Other times he did it on purpose. Did it just to see that look in their eyes as they gasped their last breath, did it just to feel their body go limp and cold right as he came.
Some were just as pretty as the girls.
Skin so soft and milky white in the upper class ones, little unmarked hands and pretty feet. They were weak, their bodies fragile and easy to break. Spoiled little rich brats whose family had kept slaves and who now had servants to do everything for them. They were beautiful alright, but too easy.
The lower class boys were less stunning than the upper class ones. They had darker skin from standing out in the fields all day helping their fathers, callused hands, dirty foul smelling feet, short cropped hair, the poorer ones with lice. They were average, nothing special about them. But they were strong. And they always put up a fight. When they had worked hard for everything in their entire life they would certainly work hard to live. They were so much fun.
All of them of them were so much fun. Different from girls and yet the same. He took the same things from them. Dignity, virginity, life. (Not always in that order.) Sure, they had different anatomical features, different upbringings and social expectations. But they all had one thing in common. They were all innocent. Vulnerable. Helpless.
Perfect prey.
One of these days I'll write T-bag and a male victim as an actual story, not just a drabble. Someday...