Chapter Text
What used to be a bracelet is now replaced by a cold shackle around his wrists, bearing the same shade as the pair of shirt and pants they shoved him in on the day he got detained. Bile threatens to rise up his throat, head turning lighter and lighter while they wait for the judge to announce the verdict.
At this point of the day, Macklin would typically be in class. Sitting through Mrs. Hoover’s lecture, moaning about how uptight she was and how boring the class was. Napping, doodling, or secretly exchanging silly texts with his friend under the table, doing anything and everything but listening. He hates her class because of how strict she is, and how much he doesn’t like the subject, but it’s a prerequisite to graduating.
However, he’d rather listen to her for 24 hours of the day instead of being here in the courtroom where the rest of his life is going to be decided.
He is not a special kid and he’s not a special man, in a sense there’s really nothing worth noting about him. Average, a dime a dozen, not so smart and not so talented. No musical skills for his parents to brag about that would make him attend a prestigious performing arts school and turn him into a star like his mother once wanted him to be.
He’s just someone who wakes up early in the morning and hates it, goes to school like he’s supposed to because a diploma will accelerate his social status, and then work until he can’t because that is socially acceptable.
All while being unseen, all while being unimportant, and ignored. It’s his preferred type of life to live. Ordinary and uneventful. He’s supposed to be a nobody.
Now, he’s become the 22-year-old accused of possessing illegal drugs.
Recreational drug-use is non-negotiable. You get caught carrying or using one, you get condemned in both land and in hell. Unless you’re privileged, drugs are a one-way ticket to eternal condemnation, and Macklin doesn’t have that kind of power.
He doesn’t really know how it happened. Only thing he’s sure of no matter the verdict, is he’s innocent.
He was on campus one day, freshly showered and dressed after an extracurricular activity some of them were forced to do in exchange for grades. He left, headed for the bus stop that would take him home. Just as he was about to scan his card, the detector went off. And his luck couldn’t have been more non-existent as a police mobile rounded the corner.
The driver signaled. Cops dragged him off. He was taken into the nearest precinct for inspection, with a K9 sniffing him from head to toe. Macklin loves dogs—but this one, he wanted to get rid of.
And then the next thing he knew, he had been taken into custody because there were two packets of powdered Molly in his bag with an incriminating note about distribution squished underneath his dirty clothes.
They had been for evidence to support his claim of innocence and his lawyer provided. A CCTV footage acquired from the university where they suspected the drug was put into his bag. But unfortunately, there wasn’t one that would catch a potential culprit.
After showering, Macklin had shoved his clothes into the bag and rummaged through it blindly for his cologne. Unsuspectingly getting his fingerprint on the paraphernalia, and that was all they needed to keep him detained.
For them, it doesn’t matter that he has never taken drugs. It doesn’t matter that he even tested negative. Doesn’t matter that he doesn’t even drink, let alone take illegal substances. He got caught possessing something he shouldn’t, despite being oblivious, and his life has gone downhill since.
Sitting in a courtroom, awaiting his fate is not a part of Macklin’s plans. He wants to graduate and be a corporate slave, earn enough to give back to his parents. Meet people and settle down, probably. And then die just like that. Stereotypical. He doesn’t need anything life-changing.
But he knows, as the judge glances his way, as he sits in boiling shame while his parents watch from the back of the room, that his life is never going to be the same again.
Heart racing uncontrollably, Macklin swallows the growing lump in his throat. He doesn’t want to be hopeless, yet it’s proving to be extremely difficult.
Can the judge take pity on ordinary, vulnerable citizens like him?
What’s taking them so long to come to a decision? It’s either he’s a dealer or not. A heart attack is more likely to happen before a final finding.
Tears brim his eyes the more seconds that tick by. Macklin glances behind him, and feels his heart break at the sight of the hard expressions on his parents’ faces. Embarrassment opens the ground and drags him down. His parents believe in him, but they’re not the law.
The law is not open-minded. The law is black and white. The law is not loving. The law is cold-hearted. The law is not understanding. The law is punishing.
He looks back at the judge as the gavel hits the wood.
“May I ask for the accused to stand up?”
Shaking, Macklin gets to his feet trying to seem unafraid as the judge reads his case before them.
The decision comes as quickly and easy as the wait is as long and grueling.
“—hereby found the accused, Mr. Macklin Celebrini, guilty.”
Macklin’s heart drops to his feet.
He hears a thousand things at once—his mother’s sobs, his lawyer’s defeated sigh, the blood pounding in his ears, and the judge sentencing him to two whole years in prison.
Two years of his life is about to be taken away just like that because somebody didn’t want to take responsibility for their own actions. Two years of his life that was supposed to be dull and monotonous, now about to be filled with fear and resentment.
“No!” He speaks over the judge, grabbing attention. “No, no, no—I can’t be guilty. I didn’t do anything!”
His lawyer grabs his shoulder.
“I tested negative! You didn’t detect drugs in me! You asked witnesses and they told you everything about me! And none of what they said indicated I was using or was dealing!” Stream of tears cascade and hit his cuffed hands. “How did you come up with that decision?! I didn’t do anything wrong! I was framed!”
“Order in the court—”
He doesn’t listen. Panic overheats him.
“Listen to me! You can’t lock me up, please! You simply—you cannot ruin my life just like that! Mom!” Macklin tries to walk past his lawyer to rush to his parents, but is blocked by a cop.
The judge irritatedly pummels the gavel down.
“The decision has been made, Mr. Celebrini. You are to be sentenced for two years in Bay State Correctional Facility for the crime you committed. Take this chance to reflect on your wrongdoings, and work hard to change yourself. You will learn a lot of things in life while in jail, and hopefully, by the time your sentence is over, you will be a better version of yourself.”
Bay State Correctional Facility—did he hear that right? But that’s where they put the men with the worst offenses. Are they seriously locking him in a cell with someone who could’ve massacred their entire family without a blink of an eye?
Voiceless against the majority, Macklin has no choice but to go. Temporarily, he and his parents, as well as his lawyer, are left inside a small room while they prepare his transfer.
Nails dig into the meat of his thighs as he quietly marinates in terror.
“We did everything we could, Macklin. It’s unfortunate they didn’t want to be more lenient with a first time offender whose hands are actually clean. They could’ve just put you on probation with a fine.”
“…I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I know that. I believe you. I had hoped today turned out differently.”
Macklin’s teary gaze lifts to see Rick consoling Robyn. He turns to his lawyer and manages a weak nod. “Thank you for helping me.”
His lawyer smiles sadly. “I want to keep it professional between us, but…sitting here with you and your parents makes me really angry. None of you should be here. You had plans in life, you maintained a routine. You had a direction, a goal. But they’re forcing you to halt that.”
Macklin rests his elbows on the table and buries his face into his hands.
Death is a better option. It’s better than getting jailed. He’s heard of horror stories from BSCF. Prisoners don’t sympathize with you. They’re worse than cops, they will be your nightmare. The law isn’t why people should be afraid of committing crimes—it’s the criminals who are already locked up they should watch out for.
Cops come to pick him up, allowing his parents to get into another car to accompany him to the correctional facility. Macklin thanks his lawyer once more before being escorted to a mobile, sandwiched by two more cops in the backseat.
As if he’d resist. What can he even do? Run away? They will either catch him or gun him down. Whichever comes first.
“You will be given a new uniform when you get there. If your parents want to send you some permitted belongings, they can do so later.”
Macklin lets it enter one ear and exit the other. He would rather have his parents not see him like this, honestly.
Closing his eyes and holding his breath, he feels his heart ricochet. How long will it take before he passes out and never wakes up again?
Cowardly, as he begins to struggle, he opens his eyes and gasps, taking loud, lungful of breaths.
“You alright there, kid?”
He laughs inwardly. What does it look like?
Scared and helpless, he bites back a sob and stares at his hands.
Too soon for his liking, they arrive at BSCF. It’s located in the middle of nowhere, far away from the city. Macklin receives a set of uniform from a cop. Orange, bright and clean. Freshly washed and ironed. He has always hated this color.
After changing, he is given an ample time to say goodbye to his parents.
“We will visit you, okay?” Robyn barely pushes the words out of her mouth as sobs rack her body. “Be careful. Take care of yourself. If anything happens, just call for help. Don’t let them bully you.”
That’s another thing about him. He’s an introvert, afraid of speaking up. Docile and spineless. Macklin doesn’t like fighting, especially when he knows he’s going to lose.
Regardless, he promises his mother that he will be fine. A bitter tang spreads in his taste buds, proof of the lie. Macklin clings longer to his father, knowing Rick will shed this mask at night and cry himself to sleep.
“You’ll come back to give me some stuff later, right? So…can I ask for a favor…? I know it’s heartless of me to ask you this, but…I don’t want you to see me here. I’m so fucking ashamed. If you could only visit me once a week, that’ll be fine.”
“Macklin—”
“I will miss you, and I will probably cry every night wishing I was at home. But I feel so bad, Mom. I don’t want to look like this talking to you.”
Rick sighs. “…If that’s what you want. We’ll see you as much possible, Mack.”
That isn’t what he wants, but he is riddled with both shame and hatred that it’s hard to stay level-headed.
As soon as his parents are out of sight, he is led to the East wing of the facility.
Walking down the hall, prisoners openly watch him. Some of them don’t care, but Macklin still keeps his head down. He knows what he looks like. They called him a pretty boy. Too pretty for his own good. His stomach turns as he thinks of what’s simmering in these men’s thoughts.
Cells after cells are occupied with men that look alike. Rough, tattooed, menacing. The judge said he would be there to reflect. These men don’t look like they’d been told the same.
A few of the cells are vacant, or with only one person inside. Macklin wonders where he’d be locked up until the cop stops by the one on the right side of the hall, second to the last.
Macklin is pushed inside as soon as the door is opened, and then his cuffs taken away once the cell is locked again.
“Don’t fuck up, kid. No one’s going to coddle you here.”
The sound of prisoners’ distant cackling and the smell of smoke lingering in the air makes his skin crawl. Macklin gulps as he looks at the empty cell across, gripping the cold bars of the gate.
“Did you abduct somebody?”
He whips around just as the man sits up on the bottom bunk, eyeing him. Macklin had been so preoccupied with his own fears he didn’t even notice there is another person with him.
“I—”
The guy smirks at him. “Did you kill someone?”
“N-no! I… I got caught with drugs. But I was just framed—”
“That’s what they all say. In fact, that’s what I said in court. I didn’t slit that motherfucker’s throat. It was my twin that didn’t exist, Your Honor. They didn’t buy it.”
God. They made him room with a murderer.
The man chuckles, scoffing at him. “Oh fuck off. Relax! I’m not going to kill you. But I’m glad I finally have a cellmate. I’m Schaefer. Don’t even ask for my first name.”
He sizes up the man before him. Shirtless, not an inch of tattoo on his torso. Somehow, Macklin feels less scared even though the lack of ink doesn’t guarantee his safety. “…Macklin.”
“Nice to meet you, Macklin. I’ll take care of you.”
That little semblance of security vanishes with the way Schaefer gazes down his body like the man is contemplating his next actions. Shuddering, Macklin quickly climbs the top bunk and whimpers as Schaefer mischievously grabs his ankle.
The bed is hard, the pillows reek of cigarette smoke. The blanket is thin and will barely keep him warm during winter. Aside from the bed, there is a single drawer the size of a stool, and a sink. Macklin assumes that the toothbrush in a mug is owned by his cellmate.
Where is the bathroom? Where can he take a shower?
“If you wanna piss, you can do it on the sink. I promise I’ll only look.”
Macklin lies down and tugs the blanket over his head, hoping that Schaefer doesn’t touch him again.
Without a clock, he loses sense of time. A cop comes back some time later, probably a couple of hours, with his bathroom necessities and some underwear. When they are called for dinner, Macklin begs to stay but gets told it’ll be the first and last time he will skip a meal.
With how rowdy some of the prisoners are in their cells, coupled with the battle in his own head, Macklin thought he wouldn’t be able to fall asleep. But he wakes up later, noticing the muffled noises, and glances at the side where Schaefer is taking a long drag of a cigarette while intently watching him.
Sleep doesn’t come to him again.
He chooses not to sleep to make sure that his cellmate won’t do anything to him if he’s unaware, although he doesn’t really know what he’s going to do if Schaefer actually attacks him.
Call the cops for help like his mother said? Would they hear? What would the other inmates do? Scream for help or place their bets on how fast Schaefer could kill him? Because obviously, with the disparities between their builds, Macklin cannot take Schaefer down. He’s never been to the gym while Schaefer looks like he could uproot a tree on his own.
The cops shouting at them to wake up is the prisoners’ morning alarm. Macklin sits on his bed as an officer hits the cell door with their baton.
“Can I not go…?”
Schaefer gives him a stink eye while folding the blanket. And then lunging forward, he grabs Macklin’s ankle again and drags him off the bed, scoffing as he yelps painfully from the nasty fall.
“You just got here and you wanna act like a fucking princess already?”
Macklin winces as he rubs his ass. If he had landed wrong, he surely would’ve sprained his ankle. “I don’t want to be with any of you.”
Schaefer tosses the folded blanket over his pillow before crouching and grabbing Macklin’s jaw in a tight grip. “Look, if the big shots in here are going, then you are too. You can’t say no. No one recognizes disobedience in prison. Get it?”
Feeling caged, Macklin turns his head away and folds his knees when he catches Schaefer eyeing his feet. A cop comes to open the cell, asking him what the fuck he’s doing on the floor, before Macklin stands up with another wince and puts his shoes on.
It surprises him genuinely when he doesn’t get cuffed. None of the prisoners lining up in the hallway are restricted. Macklin follows them as everyone heads to the yard behind the building where he learns they will be having morning exercises every single day.
He finally gets to take in just how many inmates are there. The amount of orange is jarring. Also, they don’t seem to wear the uniform as it should be worn. There are those who are only wearing the orange pants but with a different shirt. Their own clothes, probably. Sleeveless tank tops are prevalent, showing off bulky arms covered in tattoos.
Everywhere Macklin looks, he catches a whiff of cigarette smoke. Isn’t it prohibited? Why are the cops allowing it?
Schaefer grabs him and puts him in front before he could get to the back. Macklin glares at him and crosses his arms as an inmate whistles, checking out his back side.
“Don’t drop the soap, baby. Especially when we’re showering together.”
A popular prison phrase that Macklin unluckily knows. Dropping the soap forces one to bend over and pick it up, and thus, inviting someone to have their way with you. He makes a mental note of showering when most of the inmates are done.
A cop dressed appropriately for the morning exercise assumes their position before everyone. Macklin makes the mistake of thinking they will only do basic exercises. When they are told to drop down to do 20 push-ups, he almost collapses.
Thankfully, nobody gives him hell for being physically weak. He still manages to finish it, sweating and panting already by the time he pushes himself back up.
Even when he’s already there, standing amongst men who have done the most heinous crimes, it still feels like a fever dream to Macklin. It doesn’t feel real. He feels detached from his mind and body. Like he’s walking on air but he’s not happy. Even the trial yesterday is a fading echo in his mind.
The morning exercise lasts for what seems like forever. He can’t tell. Are there any clocks around here? Perhaps they want the prisoners to lose track of time, to lose their grasp of reality.
He fans himself as the sun beats down on them.
“Want me to lick your sweat off, pretty?”
“You’re just gonna make him sweat again anyway when you rail the shit out of him!”
Macklin endures a few more lewd comments. One of them even audaciously pinches his ass. “Get your hands off me—”
“What are you gonna do about it, babe?” The inmate leers, rubbing their hands together as if getting ready to pounce on him. “Don’t you know newcomers get ‘baptized’ in here? With holy cum, you know.”
Disgusted and horrified, Macklin turns to Schaefer.
His cellmate raises a brow indifferently. “As you can see, you’re the only one that looks like that here. Some of us wanna get laid.”
He looks away.
Smirking, Schaefer swats the other inmate’s hands off before snaking an arm around Macklin’s waist. Prisoners hoot about how lucky Schaefer is as he brings his mouth down to whisper right next to Macklin’s ear.
“Relax, boy. I don’t want you.”
“Then stop touching me!”
Schaefer gives his waist a squeeze before letting go. “You’re so easy to impale on a cock since you’re so clumsy.”
He takes a step away just to put some distance between them. Macklin doesn’t need to look around to know that he is being undressed with their eyes. It’s like a worm stubbornly trying to wriggle its way into his pores, repulsive and terrifying.
Officers hand out towels for them to wipe their sweat. Macklin keeps his gaze glued to the ground as his ears try to block the obscene whispers and jeers. And then just as he passes the towel back to the cop, his eyes get roped to the bleachers at the side, where he locks eyes with an inmate.
Their gaze reminds him of a hawk’s—sharp and calculating. Macklin had already caught glimpses of them earlier, and every time, they had their eyes on him.
Just like some of the inmates, this one is wearing a white tank top instead of the orange shirt. Most of their arms are free of tattoos, but Macklin won’t put it past them to have one somewhere else.
He averts his eyes, waits for three seconds, and looks again to see if he’s still being watched. He is. But for some reason, it feels different from the predatory gazes of the other inmates. This one doesn’t feel like he will be attacked.
This one feels like he’s going to be possessed.
Before he could decide how to react, all of the inmates are being steered back into the building and to the dining hall for breakfast.
Macklin lags to watch how meals are done. He grabs a tray and is roughly pushed aside as inmates rush to stand in line. Biting down his lip, he stops himself from crying. This will be his life for the next two years and he can’t cry every time he gets picked on.
He doesn’t know what he’s expecting to get when it is finally his turn to be served, but certainly not this thing he’s not sure if he can call food. Looks like porridge but almost gray, and two slices of bread without jam. Not a tiny bit nutritious. How do they expect the prisoners to survive? Will the same menu be served for lunch and dinner?
“Is this all…?”
The inmate assigned to be one of the servers that day scowls at him. “If you suck me off, I’ll give you more.”
…Never mind.
The guy behind him impatiently shoves him out of the way so Macklin turns on his heel to find a seat in the room. He spots a vacant spot at the first long table.
“Fuck off, newbie.”
Macklin blinks. “No one is sitting here—”
“I’m not fucking repeating myself. You don’t sit there.”
There must be an unspoken permanent seating arrangement. Shouldn’t he have been briefed about it? Sighing, he goes to the second table and sits down at the very end, as the man he’d seen sitting on the bleachers earlier comes in with two other inmates in tow.
Automatically, people give way, letting him cut the line. Their eyes meet for the nth time as if the man knew where to look for him, and Macklin cuts the eye contact immediately.
The first bite of his bread is tasteless. The first spoonful of his porridge is the same. But he still shoves food into his mouth because he’s starving.
The man that cut the line takes the spot he wanted to have earlier. Who might that be, he muses, because it looks like the inmates are giving him a free pass to do what he wants. Even the cops didn’t do anything when he refused to participate in the morning exercise.
He tenses up when an inmate sits next to him. Macklin scoots away to keep their thighs from touching, but the prisoner grins and moves closer.
“You’re new?”
He only nods and resumes eating, until a hand squeezes his thigh. Macklin looks around for a cop—
“Don’t even think about it. They won’t do shit, trust me.”
Right then, Macklin decides he hates his life.
Unable to bear it any longer, he shoves one last spoonful of porridge into his mouth and gets up, leaving his tray at a designated area.
“Can I please go to the toilet…?”
A cop escorts him, staying outside as he enters the communal toilet.
For a moment, Macklin simply leans against the sink, gripping the edge. He’s shaking, and he feels cold, and he wants to vomit. This cannot happen to him every day. He won’t be able to go through two years of unsolicited sexual comments and unwarranted touches.
As he washes his hands, someone comes into the toilet. Macklin concentrates on scrubbing his hands clean to distract himself from the urge to throw up, vaguely registering the sound of a urinal flushing.
“You in the same cell with Schaefer?”
The voice, deep and lazy, pulls him out of reverie. Macklin suspiciously looks at the reflection of the man in the mirror, nodding. “Why—”
A hand muffles his cry as he is forcefully pressed against the edge of the sink.
Grinning, the inmate grips his hip to keep him immobile. “If you’re going to scream, the name is Matt Barzal. Though I prefer to hear more, yes, and harder.”
Whimpering in panic, Macklin tries to resist but the man only pins him harder against the sink with his hips, before he feels a finger hook into the waistband of his pants. “Stop—”
“The fuck are you doing?”
Barzal smirks, eyeing an inmate that just entered. “What do you think?”
“This is a fucking communal toilet, Barzal. You piss and shit here, not try to rape someone who obviously doesn’t want your dick.”
“I’d rather you shut your mouth. Stay and watch if you want, and if you don’t, then go—”
“You know you don’t run this place, right? Smitty does. And as long as Smitty is here, you’re another shadow trying to mimic him. That’s not what he’s gonna do. He doesn’t need to force someone to want his cock. Let the guy go.”
“This one is mine—”
“Let. The fucking guy. Go.”
Macklin trembles like a leaf as the two men try to stand their ground.
“Don’t make me bash your skull open.”
Macklin gasps loudly as the hand on his mouth disappears. Barzal releases him, gives him a pointed look that tells him this won’t be their last encounter, before shoving past the other man on the way out.
He shakes pitifully by the sink as the other inmate walks over to the urinals.
“Look away. I don’t appreciate being watched while I piss.”
Sniffling, Macklin turns around and hunches over the sink, tears falling.
Eventually, the inmate joins him to wash his hands. “What brought you here?”
He wipes his eyes. “…I got caught with drugs that weren’t even mine.”
Silence responds to him for a moment. Then the inmate turns the tap off with a huff. “Barzal is fucking insufferable. You’re not gonna get away from that bastard if you’re alone.”
Macklin looks at him in the mirror.
“…Tonight at 12. Tell a cop to take you to Will Smith.”
Who could that be? An officer? Macklin swallows, fingers curling at the hem of his shirt. “What should I call you?”
“Leno.”
“Thank you for saving me…”
Leno scoffs. “I didn’t save you. I really just can’t stand that asshole.” He gives him a once over. “Trust nobody here if you wanna live.”
Eyes sandy but unable to fall asleep, Macklin tosses and turns in bed, clutching the blanket to his chest. Thoughts of his parents and friends keep him wide awake. Undoubtedly, his classmates must already know what happened. He’s supposed to graduate this academic year and then suddenly, he’s gone.
Do universities even accept students with criminal record? And if he graduates one day, which companies are fine with employing ex-convicts? Will it matter if he explains that he’s innocent, or will they only focus on him being imprisoned?
The cell door rattles as a cop unlocks it for Schaefer. Macklin’s cellmate takes his shirt off with a grumble, complaining about running out of cigarettes.
Macklin pretends to sleep until he feels Schaefer settle on the bottom bunk.
“I know you’re awake.”
He doesn’t make a sound.
“You shouldn’t have resisted Barzal.”
Recognizing the name, Macklin rolls on his side facing the wall, and curls up. “What are you, his messenger…? Did he tell you I was totally incapacitated until someone came in and told him off?”
“Between the two of you, I’m going to believe him.”
“…I thought friendships don’t exist in prison.”
Schaefer snorts. “That’s true, and we’re not friends. I suppose nobody oriented you yet but prison gangs are a thing. Not everybody is affiliated with a gang, but I’m with him. Barzal doesn’t like being denied.”
“He was going to—”
“He wasn’t. He was simply trying to scare you. You’re not his type, you know. He likes the ones that look like dainty flowers. You’re attractive but not effeminate enough for him, so don’t get flattered.”
Macklin huffs in annoyance. “There’s nothing to be flattered about getting sexually assaulted.”
“Whatever. He’s pissed as fuck so you better be ready.”
That Barzal is without a doubt frightening, but considering that he was threatened easily by another inmate, maybe he’s not all that.
Speaking of, he must look for this Will Smith.
“What time is it?”
“Do I look like I fucking know? I count sheep in my head to sleep and if you don’t shut up, I’m gonna squeeze your head through the bars.”
Macklin ignores the fear buzzing in his veins and gets down. He was told not to trust anyone, but if this Will Smith is going to be able to help him, then he must give it a chance.
Putting his shoes on, Macklin walks up to the cell door and pokes his hand out to call a cop’s attention.
“Excuse me, I need something.”
Frowning, the officer comes to him. “You should be sleeping.”
“Please take me to Will Smith. I need to talk to him.”
The cop looks him up and down. “Does he know you? You only got here yesterday.”
“…He’s expecting me.” Probably not, but if he says no, the officer might not let him out.
The cuffs find their way back around his wrists before the cop unlocks the cell. Schaefer glares at him in disbelief, before the cop leads the way to the west wing.
The west wing is significantly quieter. Macklin laments not being placed here instead of the east wing. The smell of cigarette is stronger though, and he covers his nose with his collar to block it, only to realize that the odor has already clung to his shirt.
There are no offices when they reach the end of the hallway, and what he expects to be one turns out to be a large cell. A dark blue partition wall covers the inside, serving as a secondary door.
“Smith, you’re expecting someone?” The cop turns to him. “What’s your name?”
“…Macklin Celebrini.” His heart thumps in alarm. Will Smith is not a police officer. Did Leno trick him? “I’m sorry, I think—”
“It’s the newbie,” the cop announces.
“Let him in.”
As the cell is unlocked, Macklin steps in with a push from the officer. The cop walks away without waiting, as if they know he’s going to be there for a while.
Why is he so gullible?
There’s soft rustling from the opposite side of the partition. Macklin stays rooted in his spot, shaking.
“Are you planning to show me your face or not?”
Gulping down a whimper, he goes to the side and gently pushes the partition.
What greets him takes him aback. The space of this cell is above the others. There is a small TV, a fan, a pile of books sitting on a small table, and other things that could make someone call this cell luxurious.
“What can I say, I’m favored.”
Macklin looks at the back of the man shoving something inside a chest-high drawer. A large scorpion tattoo covers the expanse of his back from the nape down to the bottom of his spine, its tail stretching across his broad shoulders.
He gasps inaudibly as the man turns around. It’s the one that kept watching him from the morning exercise, the one that walked into the dining room like he owned the place, the one that did what he wanted without gaining protest from anybody.
“You—”
“Leno said you’re going to talk to me tonight.”
“…He suggested I come to you if I need help.”
“Help from what?”
Will Smith’s eyes sparkle in the dim room as he crosses his arms. Something in his gaze makes Macklin second-guess if he came to the right person.
“…Barzal. I got attacked by him this morning, and Leno said I should talk to you if I need protection.”
“Do you even know who I am?” Sitting on the bed, Smith reaches for one of the cigarette sticks on the table and lights it. “I think you need to understand some things before I decide if you deserve my help or not.”
Macklin looks at his cuffed hands.
“Basically, I run this place. Prison hierarchy and shit. The more crimes you commit, the more people you know, the higher you climb the ladder. And I sit on top of it. Everything you see in here, I earned rightfully. I’m free to do a lot of things whenever and wherever I wish.”
Macklin fidgets awkwardly as he is scrutinized. “…How exactly does that make you able to help me?”
“Let’s just say the cops benefit from my crimes in and out of jail.” Will grins at the display of confusion on his face. “Oh darling, you know no jackshit about people like us. That’s cute. What did you do again?”
“Possession of illegal drugs.” Though tempted to clarify his innocence, Macklin forgets about it. No one is going to believe him if he’s here.
“A first-timer?” Chuckling, Will takes a drag. “Drugs, whores, whatever these cops want, I provide it straight from this cell. I have connections, Macklin Celebrini. Lots of them. Convicted or not, I am still protected, and a lot of these inmates respect that. Except for Barzal and his moronic group that may or may not play you like a toy to test my fucking patience, unless I take you under my wing.”
“Then please let me join your group. I don’t want Barzal to—”
“Join my group? Sweetheart, look at you. You can’t fucking hurt a fly.”
Macklin’s brows knit in mortification.
“Shhh, don’t be like that. Come here.”
Hesitantly, he comes over to Will, and flinches as Will breaks the cuffs with his bare hands.
“I’ll protect you and keep you safe from these douchebags if that’s what you want. In one condition.”
Swiftly, Will grabs him by the waist and manhandles him into his stomach on the bed, and presses him down with his weight.
“Be my bitch.”
Oh, Macklin is nothing but a fool.
“Please don’t—”
Will kisses the shell of his ear. “If you pass the trial, then I’ll let everyone know you’re mine and they cannot touch you. Think about it, Macklin. As my bitch, you only have to spread your legs for one man every night. I’ll even make you feel good.”
He’s frozen underneath Will’s weight, too scared to move a muscle.
“Without me, all of the inmates here are going to use you like a doll, and pass you over to the next man every single hour.”
Macklin shuts his eyes tightly, wishing he didn’t go to class that day. Maybe he’ll be at home right now, watching some movie instead of studying.
“What do you think? You might even enjoy some of my extra privileges. Walk around without an escort, request whatever you want from clothing to food to accessories, and if you want to beat the shit out of someone for fun, you can. Say I allowed it. The cops will gouge their eyes out and cut their ears and tongue off pretending nothing is happening. Good bargain, hm?”
Burying his face into the pillow, Macklin computes his options. He’s already pinned down the bed. Maybe Will won’t force himself on him, but he is going to suffer Barzal’s persistence, as well as the other inmates’. Maybe Will won’t even take him every night.
“…Don’t be rough, please. I won’t be able to leave my bed—”
“Are you a virgin?”
His face erupts into flames. “No. I had a boyfriend.”
“Great.” He hears how pleased Will is. “So getting your ass fingered won’t be overwhelming, then. Ass up, darling.”
Right now? Right here? When the inmates can easily listen to them?
Quivering, he looks at Will as the man hovers on top of him instead of pinning him down. “I’m sorry, do I…do I really have to do this now? Is there…anything else I can do instead of…being your whore…?”
“Aw, he’s trying to negotiate.” Will pulls away and lifts his ass, forcing him to his knees. “That’s the only thing I want from you, sweetheart. To be my fucktoy. That’s the only way you will be of service to me. Keep your ass up, ‘cause I will not repeat it.”
Clutching the pillow, Macklin presses his face back on it. If he passes this, if he pleases Will, then at the very least he won’t be targeted by the others. At the very least, his body will be taken by someone good-looking. How shallow of him, but if he’s going to be someone’s whore, it better be to an attractive man.
Maybe one day he will learn to like this. Maybe it’ll be the saving grace of this hellish place.
Will tugs his pants and underwear down without a warning. Macklin hears him spit before he feels the first finger rubbing his hole. He flinches, as it has been a while since he’d been touched intimately.
“I got no lube, so this will have to do for now. And you should probably unclench if you don’t wanna get hurt. What good would a whore be if I can’t fuck him properly, right?”
He does his best to release some of the tension in his body while Will rubs his hole and mouths around it. Soon enough the first finger slides in, prodding at his walls.
“Nn—”
A calloused hand wraps around his cock, equally wet with spit. Macklin gasps as Will strokes him, igniting the heat in his belly.
“Don’t be shy. They don’t give a shit if you’re loud.”
He’d rather stay quiet but Will tonguing his hole makes him whimper. Even though he doesn’t like what is being done to him, he begins to feel tingly, his cock swelling rapidly with every stroke of Will’s hand.
The growing pleasure makes him loosen up, and it gives way to a second finger. Macklin hates it, but he’s already feeling good, and he hates himself even more.
“You got a nice, sweet ass, baby. I’m afraid that even if you don’t pass this test, I’ll have you like this again.”
As the fingers crook and touch his spot, Macklin whines and spreads his legs, arching his back. “Please—”
“You’re gonna take four fingers, darling.” Will scissors him fast, rubbing his soft walls. “If your ass can’t take four, then I’ll kick you out.”
He’s never had four before so Macklin doesn’t know if he’s gonna be able to do it.
Will’s tongue wiggles into his entrance beside the fingers, sliding in and out.
“Oh—”
He feels the laughter against his ass. Macklin’s toes curl as Will adds another finger, stretching his hole even more.
Moans stream out of his mouth. By now, Macklin has given up on hating the pleasure as it sinisterly clouds his mind and takes control of his body. His hips begin to rock to meet Will’s strokes, seeking the friction it provides to his hard cock. “I’m close—”
Will takes his sweet time fingering him. When his cock twitches, indicating how close he is to coming, Will drags him off the bed without pulling his fingers out and makes him stand with his back against Will’s chest. “Put your arms around me.”
Panting, Macklin clasps his hands on the back of Will’s neck for support.
The fourth finger enters him abruptly, and Will wastes no second to punch all four digits into his ass repeatedly. Hole stretched to the limit, the sting makes Macklin leak.
“Oh fuck, mm—please, please, I need to come! I need to—”
“Do you feel good?” Will strokes him again while biting and sucking on the side of his neck.
“Ah! Y-yes, please! Please—”
“Say it, baby. Say that you feel good.”
Mewling, Macklin doesn’t know if he wants to push back against Will’s fingers or thrust his hips to fuck Will’s hand. In the back of his mind he still knows he shouldn’t be doing this, that he is being exploited, but it feels so good he can’t bring himself to be disgusted.
“Ahh—Will—please, y-your fingers—your hands make me feel so good—”
“Good boy.” Will hisses to his ear, nibbling on the lobe. “Now come for me.”
With four fingers jabbing at his prostate, lips and teeth decorating his neck with hickeys, and a hand tightening around his cock, Macklin stiffens as he finally comes, shooting strings of white on the floor. “Oh my god—”
“There you go. So beautiful.”
Will strokes him and fingers him until he’s twitching from overstimulation. Once he’s milked to the last drop, Will swipes a finger on the head of his cock and licks it, simultaneously withdrawing his fingers from his gaping ass.
His jelly legs give out and Macklin drops to the floor, luckily avoiding the droplets of cum.
“You did well, I suppose.”
Catching his breath, he looks up at Will who is still sucking on his own finger, chasing the taste of his release. “You’re gonna protect me…?”
“Not yet.” Will crouches and brushes his hair back before kissing his lips. “Lick your cum off the floor. That’ll be our contract signing.”
As the high gradually wears off, shame shrouds him. But he has already reached the final step, and he doesn’t want his efforts to go to waste. Closing his eyes, he dips his head down and flicks his tongue like a kitten drinking milk from a bowl.
“You remind me of this cat I adopted for a few months before a car ran over it.” Will’s laughter echoes. “The best looking one out of all the pets I had.”
Curiously, he looks up.
“Sweetheart, you’re not special. Of course I had a lot of pets before you. And they went through tests worse than this. Be glad I’ve gone soft because you’re so beautiful that I had to be nice.”
Will tilts his face up and presses a chaste kiss on his lips. “You’re mine now.”
The way Will said it carries finality. Breach the contract, and Macklin will pay for the damage.