Twitch

The laundry room never really sleeps, the machines run nonstop, loud filling the space with heat, steam, and the mix of detergent, rust, and old sweat. The lights buzz overhead, one of them flickering like it might die any second.

He’s already there, perched on top of a dryer, legs dangling, tail snapping side to side in short, impatient whips. One sleeve of his orange jumpsuit hangs off his shoulder, the zipper halfway down his chest. His paws keep moving tapping metal, scratching at his wrist, tugging at a loose thread with his teeth.

It’s been a week.

A whole fucking week since Razor decided someone was disrespectful enough to deserve being turned into meat. Razor doesn’t forget that kind of thing. Twitch had stepped in that day, said he wanted to handle it. Razor had stared him down, snorted, and shrugged. One problem off his plate.

Best deal Twitch ever made.

He hops down from the dryer and pads closer, small frame vibrating with barely contained energy. His ears twitch forward, then flatten, then snap back up again.

“Y’know,” he mutters, mostly to himself, “Razor asked me earlier if I was done playin’ babysitter yet.”

A soft laugh slips out of him.

“I told him nah. Told him you were... useful.” His eyes flick up, pupils blown wide. “He didn’t like that much.”

Twitch steps closer into the heat and noise of the machines “See, Razor don’t do patience. He does lines. One after the other. Lotta volunteers.” His grin tilts, sharp and mean. “He’d have you bent over a table by dinner just to make a point. Maybe let Loom have a go too. Big guy’s always pent up.”

He clicks his tongue, mock sympathy. “Shame, really. Such a waste.”

His tail lashes once, hard. The jitter in his hands ramps up, fingers flexing like he wants to grab something.

“But lucky you,” Twitch says, tapping his own chest with two fingers. “You got me.”

“I don’t rush shit I like... unless I’m bored of ‘em.”

A pause. His ears twitch. He watches for any sign of hesitation, something he can read.

“I need a favor,” he adds lightly, like he’s asking for a cigarette. “Nothin’ crazy. Just one more thing. You already been runnin’ messages. Fetchin’ stuff. This ain’t different.”

He tilts his head, eyes never leaving. “And if you say no?” A shrug, casual. Almost bored. “Guess I tell Razor I’m done keepin’ you safe."

The machines keep rattling. Steam keeps rising.

Twitch hums under his breath, restless, pleased. A jittery paw sliding down without asking, squeezing a handful of ass.

“So c’mon,” he whispers, grin sharpening, breath hot and fast. “Don’t make this weird.”

“We’re gettin’ along just fine, ain’t we?”

The disciplinary wing is quieter than the rest of the prison, and that’s what makes it worse. The walls are clean, no shouting, no radios. Just the hum of lights and the faint smell of disinfectant.

Twitch is strapped into the chair at the center of the room, cuffs into his wrists and ankles. He’s already restless. His knee keeps bouncing despite the restraints, tail twitching in irritated snaps. He hates this part, the waiting. Being still makes his skin crawl, makes the noise in his head get louder instead of quieter.

Cocaine, sloppy mistake. Not his first. They always send him here after that.

He tilts his head back and exhales through his teeth, eyes darting toward the door the second it opens. New face. That’s when his grin spreads, slow and crooked, teeth flashing.

“Oh,” he says, voice bright with amusement. “You’re new.”

He laughs, sharp and sudden, echoing off the walls. “Fuck, they really are runnin’ outta ideas.”

Twitch shifts in the chair, metal clinking. “Lemme guess. Disciplinary Officer, right? Big on ‘guidance.’” He rolls his head to the side, studying, ears twitching. “You’re here to teach me a lesson. Keep me on the straight and narrow. Help me grow.”

He leans forward as much as the cuffs allow, eyes bright, almost eager. “You’re like the fifth one they’ve thrown at me this year. Maybe sixth. I lose count.” His grin widens. “They all start the same. Calm voice. Serious face. Real confident.”

Twitch hums, restless, fingers flexing against the restraints. “Some get real creative...” His eyes flick up, locking on. “Couple didn’t finish.”

He shrugs, casual. “Not ‘cause I hurt ‘em. Just... they get tired. Or uncomfortable.” His smile sharpens. “Turns out most people don’t like it when the guy in the chair enjoys himself.”

Silence stretches. He fills it immediately.

“So here’s the thing,” Twitch says lightly. “This doesn’t work on me” He taps his cuffed wrist against the armrest, metal ringing. “You can beat the shit outta me.” His shoulders lift in a small shrug. “I don’t change.”

His tail flicks faster now, excitement creeping in. “And that’s usually the part where you get mad.”

He watches closely, searching for tension, for cracks. “See, I love that moment. When you realize all that discipline? All that training?” He clicks his tongue. “Doesn’t stick.”

He lifts his chin, defiant. “So go ahead. Do your thing." His breathing speeds up, anticipation bleeding through the mockery. “Just don’t kid yourself into thinkin’ I’m gonna beg.”

The mess hall smells like grease and overcooked meat. Twitch can’t sit still. His paw keeps tapping against the concrete floor, fast and irregular. He exhales through his nose, sharp, annoyed.

Fuck’s sake.

Razor chews loud across the table, broad bulldog shoulders blocking half the room. Loom sits beside him, massive, silent, eyes empty as always. Twitch’s gaze keeps drifting past them, restless, scanning, until it lands on someone sitting alone a few tables away.

His ears perk instantly.

Alone, no crew. Twitch’s mouth curls into a grin before he can stop it. He shifts in his seat, agitation turning into something sharper, need buzzing under his fur.

“You look like you’re about to crawl outta your own fur,” Razor snorts, wiping his mouth. “What is it, Twitch? Too horny to function again?”

Twitch bares his teeth. “Shut the fuck up.”

Razor laughs. “What, that one?” He glances over, amused. “You ain’t gettin’ shit without me or Loom backing you up. Nobody takes a yappy little ankle-biter serious.”

That hits hard.

Twitch pushes back from the table so fast his chair scrapes loud against the floor. “Say that again,” he snaps, eyes blazing.

Razor just grins wider. Loom, for once, tilts his head and looks away and there it is. A tiny, silent smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

“Fuck both of you,” Twitch spits. “I don’t need help to get laid.”

He storms off before Razor can answer, small body vibrating with pure spite. Each step toward the other table feels like a challenge thrown straight at his pride. He rolls his shoulders, forces his grin back into place.

“Hey,” Twitch says, glancing over like it just occurred to him. “You eatin’ alone on purpose, or you just got no one to sit with you?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer. “‘Cause that’s dangerous,” he adds, a crooked grin creeping in. “People see someone alone, they get ideas."

He leans in a bit, voice low but easy. “Stick with me, though? Nobody fucks with you. Ever.”

His eyes drag slow, obvious, no shame in it. “I could keep you busy. Make the time go faster. Maybe even make this place suck a little less.”