Sentinel Fic 'Legacy' Jim/Blair NC17 1/4

[janedavitt]

carodee was a great friend to Moonridge this year, not only organizing the Orgasm Anthology, but buying three prison AUs ::hugs her::.

This one is my version of her prompt and I'm very grateful to t_verano and wesleysgirl for their input as betas; thank you!

carodee asked me for Jim and Blair in prison and guilty and for a shower scene where one of them is looking on as the other proves who he belongs to. Where I took it ended up pretty dark in places, as you'd expect from the setting.

It's 35,000 words, so I've broken it up into bite-sized chunks with links to the next part at the bottom.

I used some prison slang: 'Punk' is a submissive male prisoner who has (sometimes) unwilling sex with a dominant one. 'Fish' is a new prisoner and can have homosexual overtones, too. My source was an essay here.

Warnings: dub-con/non-con, depending on how you read someone doing something they don't want to do to avoid a worse alternative. Jim and Blair with other partners at various points. Threesome. Daddy!kink, spanking, humiliation, violence.

Okay, that sounds ominous, but trust me to make it work out okay by the end.

The banner uses screencaps from Starfox's page; thank you for sharing!







Legacy

"Fresh meat," King said and stabbed his fork into a piece of potato that, if it was anything like the ones on Blair's tray, was mushy around the edges and hard at the center. He gave a dry chuckle and corrected himself. "Fresh fish."

King wasn't making a comment on the food; he'd spent too long in prison not to be used to it, and he liked it enough to finish what Blair left most days. He'd claimed it with a knowing leer the first few times, when he was still testing Blair's commitment. Now, he just took it without comment, consuming Blair's leftovers with the air of a man reclaiming what was rightfully his -- because if he owned Blair's ass, and mouth, and loyalty, he sure as hell owned his burger and fries as well.

No, King meant the man three tables over, his back prudently against a wall, empty chairs around him, who was eating over-salted Irish stew with an expressionless face. Blair had noticed him as soon as he'd walked into the canteen, King's arm heavy around his shoulders in a blatant, unneeded signal of ownership.

Definitely unneeded. Everyone from the warden down knew who Blair belonged to, and if Blair himself ever forgot, well, he had a homemade tattoo of a crown on his ass to remind him, the skin there scarred, raised and rough against his fingers when he stroked it, his face blank, his eyes closed, his other hand cupped protectively around a dick that had learned to rise to the occasion on demand.

Blair didn't ask it to when it was just for him anymore; what was the point? Sex had long since become an act of obedience and placation; currency in a place where money meant nothing, buying him safety at the cost of -- well, what? Self-respect? Innocence? Like he'd ever had the latter, and the former was an expensive luxury inside prison. At least he'd chosen whose fuck-toy he was, even if King didn't know he'd been manipulated that way.

Blair wasn't King's type in appearance or personality; too dark, too intelligent; King went in for pretty, baby-faced blonds, with air between their ears. He'd had to work hard to get King first interested and then satisfied. That first time -- God, the memory of him pleading for a second chance to make King come harder than he ever had before still had the power to make Blair's skin heat with shame. He'd nailed it, though, armed with the knowledge of what hadn't worked so well the first time and the observations he'd made weeks earlier, watching King fuck the lucky son of a bitch whose parole had freed up a place for Blair to slide into. King liked an audience sometimes, and although someone as low in the pecking order as Blair had to be careful about watching too openly, he'd been able to pick up enough to form an idea of what King wanted.

Only to discover that what a man did out in public wasn't necessarily what he did in private. King's lack of imagination was a barrier to really scratching his itch to dominate and humiliate, but that wasn't a problem that Blair had. Within limits, he didn't mind giving King a guided tour of the wild side, steering him carefully away from acts Blair didn't think that he could perform without throwing up as an encore. He could've written a paper on the root causes of King's twisted, fucked-up libido, but that was never going to happen now. He wasn't exactly capable of being objective about Daddy dearest, after all.

"So what do you think of him?" King asked, breaking into Blair's reverie, his pale gray eyes narrowing.

Blair didn't even turn his head to look at tall, dark, and doomed. "He's no one," he replied with a shrug and gave King his best, worshipful smile, keeping it small enough that the healing cut on his lip didn't sting. He didn't really mind if it did, but it would piss King off if it started to bleed, because he hadn't been the one to put it there.

The man who had was still in the infirmary, his face a bruised mess, one hand crushed -- the one he'd hit Blair with -- and three ribs broken. Blair watched King's hands draw Blair's food tray over to his side of the table and shivered, a frisson of lust and shame (they went together so well, those emotions, but it had taken King to teach him that) racing through him. Blair had forced Carver to hit him, pushed the man until he'd had no other option -- and he'd seen the sick fear well up in Carver's eyes as he realized, too late, whose bitch he'd just put in his place.

King had fussed over Blair, icing his swollen lip, those big, callused hands oddly gentle for once. Blair hadn't squeezed out a tear -- he saved those for King's birthday or when the situation demanded it -- but he'd let his voice crack as he gave an account of the incident and let his hand linger on King's arm a moment or two longer than needed when King hauled him to his feet, making sure King noticed the way it trembled.

King had seen the signs of fear and interpreted them just as Blair had wanted him to, seeing Carver as a rival, a pretender to the throne. Carver had made Blair scared and hurt him; the ultimate sins, as they were King's prerogatives.

Carver had been blameless, of course; the victim, not the aggressor. Blair had chosen him as a fall guy because, when it came down to it, the man was pushing subtly for some of the power King wielded, and that affected Blair. He was linked to King too solidly to be safe if the big man fell from grace, and if he felt under no obligation to protect the man's interests out of loyalty -- given the chance, he'd have watched King choke to death without offering him as much as a glass of water -- he was most definitely invested in keeping King on top of the power pyramid.

With himself on his knees beside him, but that was unavoidable.

And Carver was unpleasant. Blair recalled a time when he'd been reading, lost in the story, escaping briefly from reality. The book had been snatched from his hands, Carver's thin lips set in a contemptuous sneer as he leafed through it, and then tossed it into a puddle, the muddy water soaking the pages, swelling the spine. Blair hadn't bothered to tell King about that incident; King hated him reading and permitted it only because Blair had hidden how much it meant to him. But he'd remembered it.

The main reason he'd set Carver up, though, was simply to reawaken King's possessive side. Blair had been bending over for King for six months; the man was inclined to get bored easily and look for --

Fresh meat? King's words about the new inmate echoed in Blair's head. Fuck, no. Blair took a sip of the tepid water in front of him and controlled his panic. Since beating up Carver, King had been attentive, assiduous -- affectionate even, in his own fucked-up way -- it had worked, he knew that it had. On the way into lunch, King had whispered some plans for the night into Blair's ear that, even as his skin crawled, he'd rejoiced in, feeling a smug security wrap around him. The new guy was too built, projected too much confidence for him to be on King's radar for sex.

Blair breathed in deeply and let it out slowly, convincing himself that he was safe. He gave King a beguiling look, flirting with him silently, and felt his body flush warmly with a practiced, programmed arousal that he knew King would pick up on.

He got an indulgent look back, King's attention focused fully on him now. "You still hungry?" King said, not troubling to keep his voice down. They had the table to themselves; people came over to speak to King once he'd finished eating, but only Blair was allowed to eat with him. Sometimes, King fed him, holding out morsels of food for Blair to nip from his fingers, wiping his hands clean in Blair's hair. They were the bad days, when what drove King was too close to the surface to save for when they were alone. The guards muttered to themselves on those days, hands restless on their nightsticks, their faces watchful, their gazes flickering over Blair, contempt, revulsion, and sometimes an unbearable pity, showing clearly.

It had taken Blair a while to realize that no one would help him, then or at any other time. That King could fuck him to death in their shared cell and no one would come if he screamed. And he did sometimes. Couldn't help it.

That was a dissertation in itself, if he was still a man who cared about such things; the way the guards, for all their power, allowed shit like King to rise to the top. King did their job for them; he kept the prisoners subdued under a control they accepted because King was one of them. And King was connected. His brother was a wealthy businessman, outwardly squeaky-clean, but with ties to most of the drug trafficking in Cascade, and if Christopher King hadn't been able to keep his younger brother out of prison, that was because even drug lords and tycoons had their limits. When Carl gunned down an ex-girlfriend in broad daylight the day before her wedding, in front of a school bus full of children waiting for a light to change, that went well beyond those limits.

"You got an empty space wants filling, baby?" King continued. The words should have been laughable; cheesy porn flick dialogue coming from a mountain of a man like King should have been ridiculous.

Blair didn't feel like laughing. He wet his lips, glad of the water he'd just swallowed, and let his gaze drop. "Please," he whispered, the desperation in his voice a mixture of real and faked. He clenched his hand into a fist where it lay, unseen, in his lap. This was the worst moment. Get this part over, and nothing that followed mattered, because he turned numb and cold when he said it, dead inside. "Please, Daddy."

King nodded and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Thought so." He chuckled and reached across to pat Blair's cheek fondly, then pinched it hard enough to make Blair's eyes water as he rode out the stab of pain. "Gonna have to wait, baby. Can you do that? Stay hard and hungry for me until it's time to tuck you in? 'Cause I've got business to take care of." The syrupy, cajoling tone dropped from his voice and left it bone-dry and cold. "Got me some people to introduce to their new home."

Blair nodded, his shoulders slumping in what King would read as resignation and what was really relief. Nooners kept King sweet, but they usually involved an audience and Blair didn't like being on display, even if it did mean that King usually settled for a blow job from Blair, his climax delayed until Blair's cheek muscles were aching and his tongue swollen, spit drooling out of his mouth, all dignity lost. Relief, too, because he knew now why King was interested in the new guy; he wanted to sound him out; maybe recruit him; maybe just let him know who was in charge. King didn't usually handle that personally, but he was shrewd enough to pick up on the man's assurance, and the muscles the loose prison clothing of denim jeans and jacket and a thin black T-shirt couldn't hide.

Blair wasn't off the hook yet, though. King crooked his fingers in a signal he'd taught Blair to recognize and thought that he'd taught Blair to obey. Blair very carefully uncurled his fingers and straightened them, feeling the blood push back into them and make them throb. His nails were too short to have dug into his palm; King liked to trim them, Blair on his lap, a towel across Blair's bare legs to catch the parings.

He stood and positioned himself in front of King, keeping his gaze fixed on King's face, because that was preferable to looking at anyone else. At times like this, his surroundings became a sea of faces, all staring at him. No safe places to stare at, no blank walls. Just faces.

An expectant hush fell and then was swallowed in a clatter of cutlery, a hum of voices, as King glanced around, a forbidding expression on his face.

King crooked his finger and Blair shuffled forward until his knees were touching King's. He put his hands behind his back, cuffed his wrists with his hands, and kept the tension he felt from showing on his face. King had to think he wanted this. King got off on believing that Blair didn't, was aroused by any hint that Blair loathed what he was made to do -- and at the same time loved the idea that Blair was hot for him. Balancing King's contradictions was like juggling knives, and with much the same result if Blair misjudged a catch. Eager, willing compliance in public was usually safe, though; one reason King had a man like Blair in his entourage was to demonstrate his utter disregard for opinion or rules -- and his ability to compel someone to serve him without limits. Blair was a walking commercial for King's top-dog position.

He felt his dick harden as King rubbed his hand over Blair's groin, tracing the shape of Blair's erection and palming it roughly.

"That's how I want it to stay," King told him. "Hard for me. I don't want you thinking about anything but what a good little boy you're gonna be for me later on, you got that?"

Almost over. Blair nodded, too exposed now that he was standing to repeat the word that had gotten King flushed with excitement, his pale eyes glittering. He'd get punished later for saying it where there was a chance of it being overheard, assuming King remembered the slip -- but King probably would. He loved a reason to punish Blair, even though he didn't ever need one. And if King groped him at any point during the rest of the day and found soft flesh, not hard, Blair wouldn't get to come.

Which, by then, would be the least of his worries.

"Slut," King said and gave the solid flesh beneath his hand a brutal squeeze. "Aren't you?"

Blair weighed a few responses and let his gaze stray away from King's face for a moment. Over King's shoulder, he'd caught a flicker of movement and it drew his eye. No one else was leaving; they didn't want to risk attracting King's attention and distracting him while he was playing, but the new guy, clueless and deaf, blind, and dumb to what was going on, had stood and picked up his empty tray, his expression as studiously indifferent as ever.

With a dizzying wave of emotion, Blair found himself praying that the man would sit back down. He'd had enough of being touched by hands that were bruised and bloody from inflicting pain on other men; it was bad enough that they hurt him. The man glanced at him, and Blair saw him clearly for the first time. Cold eyes in a handsome face, dark hair cropped military-short, exposing a strong jaw. Blair couldn't see the color of the eyes scanning him in a slow sweep, but he wanted to get close enough to find out.

Because then he could hiss a warning to the stupid fucker.

"You bring it out in me," he replied to King, looking at him again, after hesitating just too long.

King's forehead furrowed, displeasure darkening his eyes at the flippant response, his fingers -- God, that hurt -- digging in.

"Please --" Blair blurted out, and heard the twist of panic wrapped around the words like a thin, red thread. "King, you're -- you're hurting me."

"Sluts like being hurt," King drawled, his fingers busy, cruel. "Don't they?"

With his balls compressed and crushed, agony radiating through him, Blair could only nod. "Ah-ah," King said reprovingly. "Use your words, baby."

"Y-yes, yes, they do." The stammer was unintentional; King's nails had sunk in as Blair began to answer, the worn denim of Blair's pants no protection.

"Yes, they do," King agreed, the pressure of his grip unrelenting. "And what are you?"

Blair timed his reluctant pause perfectly, back in the groove. "A slut."

"Yes, you are." King released him abruptly and Blair swayed and staggered, the relief from pain almost as hard to bear as the torment. "You can come with me this afternoon."

"Uh --" Blair swallowed and tried to remember what job King was supposed to be doing. Not that he ever did any of them personally, but there were appearances to keep up. "I'm scheduled to work in the garden." He liked the garden. Liked the feel of clean dirt on his hands, liked the smell of the plants. Would have liked to have eaten the literal fruits of his labor, but the produce was always sold. The vegetables the prisoners ate were all frozen, bought in bulk. Blair had worked in the kitchen and never seen anything remotely like the vegetables he'd tended in the storage rooms there, though in theory, the garden produce was meant for the prisoners.

King pursed his lips and pretended to consider that, as if it was an actual problem instead of a minor matter he could make disappear with a word to a guard. "You want to get nice and dirty, you can do it in the showers with me," he said finally and smiled, obviously pleased by his own wit. "Now clean the table, slut."

Blair returned the smile, and added a nervous, sycophantic chuckle for good measure. Behind King, the new guy rolled his eyes as if he'd heard the exchange, which wasn't possible, given how far away he was. Blair picked up his tray and King's and went to put them on the stack at the end of the long counter running along the back wall, never allowing his expression to alter. King had spies everywhere and most of them were just looking for some transgression to report to King. Blair didn't get to roll his eyes or let his contempt show, not even in the darkness, his face plastered against King's sweaty chest as the man snored through another night, his fingers tangled in Blair's hair.

Instead of demonstrating his feelings, Blair simply retreated to the space he'd carved out in his head; an act of destruction, not creation. No gently aromatic candles, silver smoke spiraling upward here; no woven silk mat to sit cross-legged on as he meditated. He'd done his best to find inner peace as he stared, unseeing, at a book, or worked at a tedious task, and the result had been as pitiful as might have been expected. The place he'd gouged out wasn't a refuge, just an alternative. Still, it was empty of King. Empty of everything. He was scared of that place; he emerged from it feeling a little less like himself every single fucking time, but if he didn't use it, he'd commit suicide by telling King what he thought of him.

Blair didn't want to die. That fact surprised him sometimes, but it was still the truth.

He placed the trays on top of other trays, identical like so much else in this place, and dropped the cutlery into a large plastic bin beside them before turning to catch up with King.

He collided with the edge of a tray and grunted in surprise. New guy. Figured.

"Sorry." Deep voice, calm and cool, unflustered. Lucky for him that he'd bumped into Blair; some men, with something to prove, or a reputation to protect, would've taken an accidental bump as a deliberate insult and started a fight. Blair had nothing to fight for but his life and he waged that battle on his knees and his back, not with fists or a knife.

Blair looked up into blue eyes and didn't trouble to hide his hostility, needing payback for the panic he'd felt earlier. Nothing to fight for didn't mean that he didn't get angry. "Back off," he advised, keeping his voice level.

The man smiled, a brief twitch of well-shaped lips. "You're standing where I want to go," he pointed out and jerked his thumb. "Move. Please," he added, with a grin spreading across his face.

Grinning. Because it was so fucking kind of him to be polite to a man most cons treated like dirt when King wasn't around, jostling Blair as he walked, or tripping him, murmuring filthy, if banal, words in his ear, groping him, if they thought they could get away with it because they were in a crowded hallway where the press of bodies gave them a brief anonymity.

If it wasn't me, it could be you, Blair wanted to scream at them. You fucking owe me, you jerks. I'm the one who keeps him from lashing out more than he does, I'm the one who controls him, can't you see that?

He took it from them. He didn't have to take it from someone who'd just watched him get humiliated, distaste plain in his cool blue eyes.

"Fuck off," Blair snarled, the words sweet in his mouth. How long had it been since he'd indulged himself in open anger? "Asshole."

"Ellison," the man corrected. "And you're -- no, don't tell me, let me guess, punk. Snuffles? Rover? No, wait… Trixie. Yeah, you look like a Trixie. A sweet little puppy, not a wolf like your owner."

Blair felt his skin crawl, goose bumps breaking out as if he'd been drenched in icy, tainted water as the insults struck home, driven deep by the truth behind them. Yeah, he was riding with King; he bent over and more for the man, but he didn't need reminding of it. He met Ellison's eyes without flinching. "Blair Sandburg. And you're so dead, man."

Ellison gave him a pitying look. "If you say so." He reached out and put his hand on Blair's shoulder and then applied a downward pressure unexpected and strong enough that Blair's legs buckled and he stumbled, falling to his knees. Ellison held him down there and leaned forward, his groin inches away from Blair's face. Blair could see the meshed teeth of the zipper and the weave of denim and he caught the scent of the man briefly, a clean, single, plangent note against the unvarying drone of food and bodies washed in the same soap, wearing clothes laundered in the same detergent. Blair heard the clatter of metal on metal as Ellison tossed his tray onto the pile and then he was dragged up again.

"Next time, just do as you're told, Trixie," Ellison said and released him with a final, reproving tap under Blair's chin.

Blair looked past Ellison to the doorway where King stood talking to one of the guards, his back to the room, oblivious to the incident, though that state of affairs wouldn't last for long. Too many people had seen what had happened, even if no one had been close enough to hear the conversation he'd had with Ellison. It didn't matter; Ellison had touched him; had forced him to his knees.

Ellison wasn't fresh meat; he was dead meat.

"Woof," Blair said softly, more to himself than the suddenly frowning Ellison, and then smiled and walked away, tingling with anticipation of a swift and bloody revenge, all mercy fled.

So fucking dead.

***

How could a man do that? Barter his self-respect for a tenuous, fragile safety doled out by a thick-necked killer who was going to rot in Starkville -- or die when he lost his edge and a stronger man took over.

Jim Ellison watched Sandburg walk away with a slow, sexy saunter, ass moving just enough to send a signal -- in this case, he guessed it was 'bite me' -- and felt anger burn through him. He'd watched the little show King had put on and found himself on his feet, ready, not to intervene, but maybe distract, when he'd realized how turned on King's victim was, his breath quick and shallow, that ripe mouth red, the blue eyes half-hidden under half-lowered eyelashes -- and the guy's dick straining the front of his jeans.

King was right. Goddamn slut.

And if he was a slut, Jim was a fool for that unthinking tug of arousal he'd felt when he'd caught the man's eye and seen the blue eclipsed by black as his pupils dilated. More than a fool, now he'd managed to piss off King's toy and, inevitably, King himself.

Nice job, Jim. And he'd told himself on the bus ride here to keep a low profile; do his time, all six endless fucking years of it, and then leave, start over.

He stared after Sandburg's retreating ass and shook his head. He'd never dealt with disappointment well, but expecting self-respect and backbone from a pretty face in the slammer -- yeah, like that was going to happen. Slut-boy wasn't the idiot; he was.

Sandburg reached King's side and stood there quietly, a respectful distance away, his head bowed slightly as he stared down at the floor. Jim looked at the mass of hair caught back by a strip of black leather and found himself following a single strand of hair from where it sprang from Sandburg's head to where it lay against his back. Long hair in prison wasn't a good idea; it gave people something to grab in a fight and it made you look feminine, especially when it was all thick curls like Sandburg's, and a warm, living brown. He wondered if Sandburg chose to wear it that way, or if it was something he'd been made to do by his protector.

King… Jim knew all about him. He'd been out of the country when King had gone to trial for killing Diana Sims, but when it'd looked likely that Jim would be sentenced to serve his time in Starkville he'd asked around and gotten some background information on the place. The warden, Banks, was a man whose reputation had been that of a hard-ass cop, but decent enough, until his young son had been killed in a terrorist bombing. His wife had left him six months later, and Banks had transferred from the police department to the prisons, sentencing himself to a life surrounded by criminals, any crusading fervor long since died down to a sullen indifference laced with moments of bitter, icy rage.

Banks was more to be pitied than anything, but King was scum. If he died, or got transferred, it wouldn't change anything, though. There was always a King and Jim was willing to pay the man lip-service if it got him a quiet life -- within limits. He wouldn't kill for him and he wasn't sure he'd have bent over for the guy as Sandburg had done, but then, Jim, without vanity, knew that he wasn't the type to get fucked in the darkness, his body owned or bartered. He was ex-Army, a man who'd killed efficiently and without hesitation when he had to, and it showed. He'd get offers of sex from men like Sandburg but he'd never have to endure what they did.

After a few years, he'd probably start saying yes to the offers, too.

He was blocking the way to the counter and before he got into any more trouble he moved away, walking slowly toward the door as he wondered how quickly Sandburg would babble out a complaint. Without thinking, he extended his senses and listened in, but King was still talking to the guard, something about a work detail he wanted changing, and Sandburg was silently waiting.

He shouldn't use the senses, not in here. They wouldn't be needed -- the only person he wanted to look out for was himself -- and he dreaded what he'd hear and see and smell. Oh, God, the smell, the thick reek of fear and the more prosaic odors of sweat, urine, and cheap disinfectant. Prisons stank. Jim had felt his nostrils burn and his throat close up after just five minutes behind the prison's walls.

The guard moved away and before Sandburg could open his pretty mouth, a thin man with slicked-back reddish hair, who'd been one of the people watching Sandburg at the counter, sidled up to King, his expression ingratiating, his gaze cutting sideways to Sandburg for a split second.

Sandburg stiffened as if he was about to speak -- but King was already listening to Carrots. Sucked to be invisible unless you were on your knees…

Jim didn't speed up. He wanted to see how this played out and he wanted some space between him and King -- who was one big man, he'd give him that, sleekly muscled, his body hard. Carrots was spinning a story that was accurate enough as far as it went, but, which Jim found interesting, subtly blamed Sandburg for the incident. Vicious little shit-stirrer, Jim thought and surprised himself by the strength of his antipathy.

Sandburg was talking now, a swift, urgent gabble as he defended himself. Jim waited to be made into the villain, but it didn't happen. That interested Jim even more; Sandburg didn't have any reason to protect him, so why the swift turnaround from open hostility to this?

" -- knee gave way, the one I landed on when Carver hit me, and the guy, Ellison, he grabbed me and pulled me back up, that's all. He didn't know I was yours, King, and he didn't mean anything by it --"

"Save it," King ordered. He turned and crooked his finger at Jim. "You. Get your ass over here."

Jim raised his eyebrows and glanced around, meeting hastily averted faces. The guards on duty had melted away. "Me?" he said, playing the innocent.

"Yeah, you." King cracked his knuckles, the crunch of bone enough to set Jim's teeth on edge. "Here. I want to talk to you."

"And I want to talk to you," Jim said easily, stopping just at the limit of King's reach. "I've got a message for you --" King's fist struck him in the belly, a hard, solid punch, delivered as King stepped forward, moving with a speed that Jim hadn't expected from a man that heavy. He grunted in shock, the breath knocked out of him, and doubled over, his hand rising in a placating gesture.

"Yeah?" King was grinning now, his fist drawing back again. "Anyone ever tell you that actions speak louder than words?"

"From -- uhn -- from your brother," Jim gritted out through his attempts to drag some air back into his lungs.

"What?" King frowned and let his hand fall to his side. "You know Chris?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Jim saw Carrots lick nervously at his lips and step back, a futile attempt to distance himself from the pot he'd stirred before he got burned.

"We're not --" Jim paused and concentrated on breathing and convincing his body that it was safe to straighten up. He wasn't prepared for this conversation; he hadn't planned on using his ace this early in the game. He knew who he blamed for the change in plans, though, and it wasn't the redhead. Why hadn't Sandburg gotten his ass out of the fucking way? He got five seconds to catch his breath and then King made an impatient sound deep in his throat.

"Okay, it's your first day, so I'll cut you a break on touching my property seeing as you know Chris. I wanted to talk to you anyway, but not here. You come with me."

"I should be --" Jim hesitated, unsure of where he should be going. The warden had come out into the yard to meet them when Jim and six other men had gotten off the bus, shackled and morose. Banks was a tall man, a once-strong, elegant frame beginning to blur from lack of exercise, his dark skin oddly dull, like his eyes. But his voice had snapped out a terse welcome of sorts around the thick cigar he was smoking and he'd told them that they'd be excused work until the following morning to give them time to settle in.

"First day," King said again. "You don't need to do nothing but make new friends, boy, and let me tell you, I can be the best friend you've ever had if you behave yourself."

Without meaning to do it, Jim glanced at Blair.

King chuckled, the sound not remotely reassuring. "Not like that." His hand reached out and caressed Sandburg's face. Jim would have been unable to resist the urge to wipe his skin clean afterward, but Sandburg took it in silence, his expression blank. "Though Sandburg's good at behaving, aren't you?"

"Yes, King," Sandburg agreed, with a grave nod. "I'm real good at lots of things."

The mockery in Sandburg's eyes was so clear to Jim that he braced himself for the blow that would inevitably follow, but King just chuckled again and gave Sandburg's face a brisk pat.

"Seems Sandburg's down to work in the garden," King remarked. "I could've gotten him out of it, but the fresh air puts color in his cheeks." The next pat landed on Sandburg's ass. "And anywhere the fresh air misses, I take care of, isn't that right?"

The constant need for agreement from Sandburg, no matter how rote, how scripted, was telling. King wasn't as confident as he appeared. Good to know. Jim waited through another murmured proof of just how whipped Sandburg was and then fell in behind the pair, Carrots long gone, and followed them out to the garden.

He looked at the fenced-in space without much interest. He wouldn't be working here for a while; it was hard work, but out in the fresh air, and for Sandburg to be assigned to a coveted job, either he'd been here a while -- unlikely as even with a protector, Jim didn't rate Sandburg's chances of survival high -- or King had pulled some strings for his pet.

The garden was large, the rows of vegetables neat and orderly, but there was a dispirited air to the plants, as if the sun shone less brightly here, and the rain fell too lightly. Jim picked a cherry tomato off a plant, studied it, and then smiled cheerfully at King and popped it into his mouth.

He got a measuring look back and then King nodded, as if Jim had confirmed his expectations, and made his way to a place where a tall tangle of beanstalks provided a certain amount of privacy. Sandburg had been handed a plastic bucket and a small trowel by the guard at the gate, the trowel marked with a number and Sandburg's possession of it recorded on a clipboard. Without looking at Jim, Sandburg knelt and began to clear weeds from around the base of the beans, his hands deft but unhurried.

Time. There was plenty of it here.

"So Chris sent you."

Jim shrugged. "Not exactly. When he found out this was where I was headed, he came to see me. Said I'd done him a favor and if I mentioned his name to you…"

"Yeah." King looked tolerantly understanding. "I get it. I lay off pulping you unless you really piss me off." A flicker of suspicion showed. "What I don't get is why Chris owes you. You work for him or something?"

"Not exactly," Jim said carefully. Sandburg paused, his knuckles suddenly white on the wooden handle of the trowel. "I worked for Norman Ventriss."

"That fucker?" King spat, the filmy liquid landing close to Jim's boot. Jim didn't glance down. "Chris hates his guts. If you're one of his men, why would Chris trust you? This is bullshit --"

"He trusts him because Ellison killed Ventriss' son."

The quiet words from Sandburg silenced King and left Jim with nothing to do but nod when King raised his eyebrows.

"Okay," King said finally. "I can see how that would change things." He pursed his lips. "Yeah, I read about that… followed the case in the paper. I just forgot your name, is all."

Sandburg didn't say anything, but Jim caught a twitch of his shoulders that was eloquent enough. Yeah, Jim didn't think that King could read without moving his lips, either. His brother had all the smarts in the family -- except Chris wasn't as close to Carl as Carl wanted people to think.

Only half-brothers, in fact, sharing a rich father, but where Chris was legitimate, his daddy's boy, acknowledged and loved, Carl's mother was an addict who'd been pretty enough at one point to keep Peter King around for long enough that he paid for the son she'd had, once he'd confirmed it was his.

Chris and Carl hadn't met until they were in their twenties, when Peter's death and an unexpected codicil to his will had brought Carl out of obscurity.

"He's a fucking liability, Ellison," Chris King had said, leaning close to Jim in the small interview room, closer than Jim liked, "but he's got connections of his own, even where he is, and with what my father left him, he's not penniless. That woman he killed was the daughter of one of the Mayor's friends, for God's sake -- I cleaned him up, introduced him -- but blood will out, and his mother--" Chris had dabbed at his mouth with a pristine square of cotton, out of place in the dingy room in his expensive clothes, his polished shoes. "Never mind. He's in prison and I've done as much damage control as I can so that the King name isn't sullied."

You run drugs, Jim wanted to point out. Sell them to kids in playgrounds. It couldn't get much filthier. He settled for a nod.

"He's family. I can't… change that."

Which meant Carl was about the only person in the world Chris was squeamish about killing for whatever reason.

"But he can help you in there if I ask him to." Chris looked vaguely proud. "He runs that place, more or less."

"I'm still not seeing why you want to help me," Jim said bluntly.


"No?" King smiled, wide and sharp. "Norman Ventriss was left devastated by the loss of that serpent's tooth he called a son and I, well, let's just say I made a killing of my own when he was incapacitated. To the tune of nearly seven million dollars." King arched his eyebrows. "You see why I'm grateful?"

"I guess." It didn't really matter. He was going to prison for six years and no amount of 'friends' bought with the blood of a peach-fuzz faced kid would make it anything less than a slice of hell.

"And because I'm handling Carl's investments for him, he'll be grateful, too. So when you see my brother, tell him hello from me, naturally, and that I said he should consider you as one of the family."

"Just as long as I'm not a kissing cousin," Jim said dryly.

A look of distaste passed over King's face. "As to that, I don't believe you're his type." He gave Jim a thoughtful look. "You really did upset poor Norman," he mused. "Tell Carl that in addition to his protection, I'd take it as a favor to me if he could do something special for you. If there's something you want, or, well, six years is a long time, someone, let him know. You're not married, so there won't be any officially sanctioned conjugal visits, but if you had a girlfriend, then perhaps something could be arranged…"

"There's no one." Jim shrugged. "I'm not much of a catch."

"Don't underestimate yourself." King stood. "I'll speak to my brother myself once you've settled in. For now, just tell him that you're under my protection and I hope he'll honor that."

"Thanks," Jim said and tried not to hear the weariness and suspicion in his voice.

And now here he was, and it tasted bitter to claim this jerk's protection, and risky, too, because Jim hadn't had time to assess the prison and its power dynamics, but he didn't have much choice.

"Jim Ellison," Jim told Carl. "And your brother said…" He hesitated and then got the words out. "That he'd like you to treat me like family."

The trowel in Sandburg's hand twisted like a hooked fish and his shoulders hunched in on themselves. Something had touched a nerve; Jim heard Sandburg's heart speed up and caught a whiff of fresh sweat, acrid and sour, as if what had prompted its release wasn't the bright sun or the task Sandburg was performing, but an emotion. Fear? Despair? Jim didn't know. He hadn't been trained to use his senses to that level of expertise -- there hadn't been time -- and he knew, with some guilt, that he hadn't pushed himself past what he'd been taught.

It didn't matter. Carl beamed at him, his large hand delivering a friendly slap to Jim's shoulder, and Jim forced a smile onto his face as false as Carl's undoubtedly was.

And Sandburg's trowel slashed across a thick stem and severed it, the half-ripe beans clinging to it still green in the afternoon light, but doomed to wither and shrivel within an hour or two.

***

Blair dipped his paint brush into the can and drew it against the side to get rid of the excess, which dripped back, looking like liquid mud. The pale brown of the new paint wasn't doing a great job of covering the original shade of dark green on the walls, but the brown had been donated in bulk by a hardware store in town looking for a tax write-off and primer would have had to come out of a budget somewhere.

Keep painting until you run out of paint or you can't see the fucking green, then, he'd been told when he pointed out the paint's deficiencies.

Blair was resigned to spending most of the week on a job that should have taken a few days; it wasn't as if he had anything better to do. He rubbed at his aching shoulder. Some help would've been nice, but the man assigned to the chore with him was down with stomach flu.

He kicked at the dustsheet on the floor to smooth it out and then decided to take a break. His hand was cramped and with the door closed and the high, barred windows not designed to be opened, he was getting a headache.

He found a piece of wall that was green, not brown, to lean against and sat with his back to it.

The quietness of the place, destined to become a classroom, seeped into him and he felt himself relax in increments, the bliss of knowing that King was on the other side of the prison like a cool hand on his head, taking away the continual hum of tension.

Maybe he'd sign up for some more classes. Most of the prisoners did one or two, either as a way of filling in the long, empty hours, out of a genuine interest in the subject, or as a way of impressing the parole board. They sat, well-behaved for the most part, as someone from the outside, male or female, expensive scents clinging to their clothes, walking in a cloud of fresh air from outside, lectured to them with varying degrees of apprehension in their eyes, and then walked out.

Went home. Just… left.

Blair signed up for the classes mostly just to stare at a new face and feel envy and contempt eat him.

They were free and they chose to be here. Idiots. Fools.

His ass hurt and he shifted position until sitting was less of a memory of pain received.

It had been a week since Ellison had arrived and King, for all his overt friendship with the new fish, had never gotten over his initial suspicion that Ellison wanted his toy. Dumb of him; Blair could feel Ellison's gaze on him when they were in the same room, but it was a cool, wrinkled-nose appraisal, the kind a man would give to some shit on the bottom of his shoe.

No heat, no passion in those ice-blue eyes.

Blair couldn't hate anyone more than he hated King, but if Ellison's stares were to blame for the recent nightly spanking and reaming of his ass, he was willing to let Ellison occupy second place on his own shit-list. Last night had been hell.

"You've been such a bad baby boy, haven't you?" Thick fingers, two of them, went from Blair's busy, frantically sucking mouth to his ass, screwing into him with a brutal efficiency. King's lap was broad and wide, but not comfortable. Blair couldn't breathe, his ribs compressed, his stinging ass flinching away less from the scrape and shove of quickly drying fingers (don't make me suck them again, please…) than the memory of being spanked until a touch was agony and an additional slap would have broken him enough that his tears would have been real.

"Yes, Daddy, sorry, Daddy -- please, oh God, so sore -- please --"

He heard himself babbling with a detached disgust at how good he was at this, how he knew the exact words to say, not to end his ordeal immediately -- never gonna happen -- but to inflame King to the point where it would be over more quickly.

"Yeah, you look red down here. Not as red as your sweet little ass, though." Pat-pat on his ass with King's free hand, two smart, light cracks of his palm, and Blair screamed through his clenched teeth, loud in his head, barely audible outside it, a stifled shriek followed by a gasp for breath. King chuckled, excited, drunk on the power of having Blair just where he wanted him.

"Need a bit more reminding of who you belong to, baby? Need some more spanking?"

"No! No, I know, I do, I swear it. I'm yours. I belong -- ah -- oh fuck, please don't hit me again. Please? I belong to you."

"I think you need a little more reminding." Silky-sweet and reasonable, which meant nothing. The monster could be controlled, but Blair was lost in pain and shame and his brain wasn't fucking working the way it should.

"Yes, yes, I do," he said, fervent, pleading. "Show me. Fuck me. Use me."

Just don't fucking spank me again, or I'll throw up on you, and that's not one of your kinks, is it?

The fingers ground in deeper and he heard King grunt with satisfaction as Blair arched as much as he could and rode the fingers fucking him in a sham of eagerness.

"Slut."

If he was, he was considering celibacy when he got out. The celibate slut… yeah, he could handle a really long dry spell after this. Maybe there was a monastery somewhere that took men like him in. Men who knew how to kneel and worship, mouths full of praise for what they were looking up at.

He managed one more 'please' and then his face was pressed against a thin, scratchy blanket on the bunk and the sweat on his chest and belly was drying in the cool air. He could breathe again.

King fumbled for the small bottle of oil he used for lube -- cooking oil wasn't Astroglide, and left stains, but small mercies, small mercies -- and coated his dick. Blair tensed. King used condoms, acquiring them from an unknown source. Like the oil, they were for his own safety and comfort, not Blair's. King's medicals showed him as clean; if that ever changed, he'd fuck bareback and take as many men with him as he could, Blair was sure of it, but for now, King played it safe.

He just didn't have an unlimited supply of rubbers and he didn't usually fuck Blair every single goddamned night -- Had there been a rustle of foil or not?

Blair licked his lips. "You -- you're using a rubber, right?"

The silence behind him held a still, scary quality to it. The oiled fingers, three this time, that punished the question, split Blair open, hurting in a way that was unendurable.

He didn't often pass out. King didn't like his fun being spoiled and Blair was terrified of not being in any position to control events. If King gagged him and robbed him of his words, he felt the same clawing, rising panic.

But the red-black agony took the choice away from him and when he'd woken he'd hurt too much to know or care what had been done to him while he lay unconscious.

When he recovered enough to think about it, the stiff crackle of dried come in his hair was a relief, even if it meant he had to stumble to the showers and, as King wasn't around, run a gauntlet of slaps and whistles when he turned his bare, bruised ass to the room and his face to the lukewarm spray.

The door opened and he scrambled to his feet, biting back a groan as his body protested. There might have been a flicker of sympathy on the guard's face; he didn't comment on Blair's unauthorized break anyway.

"Got you someone to help, Michelangelo."

Blair forced a smile at Taggart; not too difficult as he was one of the guards who seemed to lack a sadistic streak. "It's a big room, but it's not the Sistine Chapel." His smile faded as Taggart stepped aside and Ellison, in new blue overalls, stiff and clean, walked in.

No. Not him. King finds out and I'm -- Finds out? He already knows, has to. Shit. Shit --

His distress must have shown on his face. Taggart cleared his throat and said gently, "Warden Banks' orders."

That was small comfort.

The door closed and Blair was left alone with a man who was staring at him again, a small frown marring his forehead, his mouth tight with annoyance.

"Paint and a brush is over there, man," Blair said eventually. "You can probably work out what to stick where, right?"

"Funny."

"Wasn't meant to be." Blair moved a step toward his own paint can and caught his foot in a fold of the dustsheet. He didn't fall, but the jar was enough to make him suck in his breath as stiff muscles and bruised skin protested.

"About as funny as your choice of protector."

Ellison really didn't go for small talk, did he? "Okay, that's enough --"

"He keeps you safe from everyone but him," Ellison murmured, as if to himself. "Except he's the biggest threat to you. You fucked up there, Chief. Big time. Because there are plenty of mean sons of bitches here, but no one as twisted in the head as King. He's going to kill you one day soon, you know that, right? Take his games too far one night and --"

Blair had let him talk because he was too tired to fight back and he was used to letting harsh words wash over him even when they stung like cold, salt water on abraded skin, but this was too much. "You talk about his games to people and you'll die before me." He spun around and poked Ellison's shoulder. "What the hell do you know about them anyway?"

Ellison glanced down at Blair's hand until Blair snatched it back, and smiled faintly. "I'm in a cell nearby, remember?"

"Eight cells away," Blair contradicted him. "Too far to hear anything. He doesn't make much noise --"

"You'd be surprised." Ellison grimaced as if he wanted to spit out something foul. "I'd say you were the quiet one. What he does to you -- but you don't yell. Why is that?" His hand rose and Blair stood still as a fingertip stroked from one corner of his mouth to the other, an exploratory touch, impersonal and assessing. "No gag marks…"

Blair knocked Ellison's hand away, trembling from the light contact. "Don't touch me!" He scrubbed at his mouth hard with his hand. "He'll know if you've touched me."

"No, he won't," Ellison said with an infuriatingly calm certainty. "But I know where he's touched you."

"What? How?" Blair often felt as if the skin King had touched had been left slimy, grimed, but he wasn't so far gone that he believed it was visible to anyone else.

"By the bruises." Ellison glanced at the painting equipment and rolled his shoulders. "Better get started."

"Fuck the painting." Blair was so tense that his teeth ached. "Bruises? Yeah, I've got bruises, but I'm still breathing and I'm going to stay that way. I get out of here in three years, less if I behave, and I will, I'll be a fucking model prisoner; King's in for life. I'll walk away and leave him to rot and I'll be smiling when I do it." With the deliberate cruelty he'd learned at King's hands, he asked, smiling, "How long have you got in here?"

The flinch showed in Ellison's eyes, which widened a fraction and then went blank. Victory, but it didn't feel like it. "Six years at the most," Ellison told him. "So you can wave goodbye to me, too, I guess."

"If you last that long."

"Hostile little fuck, aren't you?"

Blair gave Ellison his best flirtatious look, deliberately overdoing the pouting lips. "Want to see the bruises you're responsible for and then call me that again?"

That got him a frown. "Huh? I haven't touched you."

Ellison had. His hand on Blair's shoulder, his fingers on Blair's face…

"You didn't need to. You looked. And King did the touching for you." Blair shook his head, losing interest in the game. "Forget it. Paint."

"He did what?" Ellison's nostrils flared and then he visibly calmed down. "You're trying to make me feel guilty, is that it? I'm not as easy to manipulate as your boyfriend. Better remember that, Trixie."

"Stop calling me that." Blair lost it. There was a buzz in his ears, a hollow pounding in his chest and he was seeing two Ellisons, but it wasn't going to stop him taking a swing at one of them. "Stop it --"

His fist connected, not with an arrogantly tilted jaw, or the throat he'd been aiming at --fighting clean was for losers -- but Ellison's palm. Which closed over Blair's fist and began to squeeze. The additional pain had him panting out curses but Ellison didn't ease up.

"Want me on my knees begging?" Blair shook his head wildly. "No. Not to you. Never for you." The grip tightened and he could swear he heard bones crunch and grind. "I won't fucking do it."

Ellison sighed. "Just say 'please, stop'. I know you can do that. I heard you say it last night often enough."

Blair choked, a soft, shocked grunt of betrayal. Bad enough to have to do the things he did, without having an audience for the secret moments, the private filth. "You sick fuck!"

Abruptly, his crushed hand was released. "Close enough." Ellison sounded bored now. "I hope you can still hold a brush, Chief; I don't want this job to take long."

"Why? Got somewhere you'd rather be?" Blair demanded. Pins and needles shot through his fingers and he flexed them gingerly. If they were broken, if he couldn't use them -- shit, he wouldn't be able to --

Ellison's gaze moved from the closed windows to the shut door. "I don't like the way it smells in here."

Blair cradled his throbbing hand. Moving his fingers had hurt, but they weren't broken. If they were swollen or bruised, King might think he'd done it the night before…yeah, that could work. "I had a shower this morning, so I'm not taking that one personally."

"I know," Ellison said absently. "I saw you. All of you." He bent to pick up his brush. "If you meant it about some of those marks being punishment because King thinks he's got competition for you --"

"I meant it and he thinks it. He won't believe me when I say I'd sooner suck a dog's dick than yours."

Ellison clicked his tongue reprovingly. "Wait until you're asked, huh? And I'm not planning on asking. Want me to speak to King?"

Blair gave an incredulous laugh. "You've got to be fucking kidding me. Or do you hate me that much?"

Ellison didn't even look at him. "Point taken. So I'll stop looking, King will get bored of playing, and it'll be back to normal until -- no, wait. He won't get bored because he gets off on it. Hmm. Guess you've got a problem, Chief. Of course, he may get bored of you. Just what does happen to punks King gets tired of, anyway?"

Blair hadn't been inside long enough to know from personal experience, but he'd heard rumors. The one before him who'd been released had been the lucky one, the lottery winner. From the distaste on Ellison's face, he knew all the nasty details. "He doesn't pass them on to his buddies, if that's what you're hoping."

"Unless one of his buddies is into fucking corpses."

Bright sparks were flickering in front of his eyes, anger and fear combining to make him dizzy. "What do you want from me? Want me to admit I screwed up? That maybe I should've just kept my head down and hoped no one noticed me --"

"That wouldn't have helped. Not with your mouth."

Blair laughed, bitter and sharp. "Knew you wanted me to suck you."

"I meant you talk too much, but take it how you like." Ellison picked up his paint tray and filled it from the open can, the conversation over for him, judging by his silence.

Blair watched Ellison start to slap paint on the wall with efficient, swift strokes. "You've admitted you were looking."

Ellison didn't respond.

"Didn't tell me why."

Blair filled the continuing silence with a mocking chuckle and then got back to work himself, feeling oddly refreshed.

It felt good to fight back.



Part Two