#tclod smut

[hope-to-hell]

For @imdoingmybestmyman who asked for mob au with Henry or a Henry character, partner turned on by violence, obsession/stalker themes. In the Blood, featuring Will Shaw. Not sure how closely it adheres to the prompt, but it was fun either way (and turned out pretty on-brand for me anyhow). Contains blood, violence, smut (fingering), jealousy, unsafe use of bodily fluids.

Listen. Listen. Will's clinging to control of this situation by a thread. Sure, he's in command, but he's also so fucking young, and temperamental besides. Not so good for staying at the top, not when there are so many others circling like sharks (Melot sulks and plans and he's probably going to get his own self killed before he manages to make a move, but he's thinking about it, and it's a problem. August plays the mad-dog role well enough, laying bruises in the spaces Will leaves behind, actually drawing out information instead of just screams; he is tired of the bullshit and the power games and the fucking playing nice with some kid who calls himself boss but is neither wise nor measured. He's about six seconds from burning this place to the ground. Sy sees it all; he shrugs and goes back to cleaning his guns but he's got his back to the wall and his eyes on Will. Damn kid. Won't live long enough to grow into the gig at this rate).

And you?

Well, you're just here to watch the man work. Not like you've got much of a choice, with the way he's got you cuffed to a pipe, strained and awkward and Jesus, if you'd let me loose-- but no. Will wants you to see this. He wants the way your breath catches at the sight of him drawing his knuckles back torn and bloody; even if he can't hear you panting over the roar of blood in his own ears, he damn well knows what this does to you.

Doesn't matter about anything else; when he gets you alone after this he'll stroke the backs of his fingers down your cheek, leaving bloody smears; he'll pry your mouth open with those same fingers and tell you suck, get them clean, there you go. Pretty thing. It's filthy and it's awful and you need it, nevermind the hazards. Probably won't live long enough to have to worry about it, not with the way the wind is blowing.

But for now. Jesus but he’s reveling in it, in the pure kinetic pleasure of making someone hurt. No idea who this guy is— someone who’s pissed him off— but it doesn’t matter. He’s window dressing, meaningless except for the way his hurting gets Will hard. And it gets you all kinds of interested, doesn’t it, watching him. Watching the way blood spatters onto Will’s white shirt— a vanity, Will’s way of saying look at me, look at what I can do. C’mere. I wanna fuck you while the blood’s still wet.

Think about it. Think about Will, handsome in a boyish way, unassuming until moments like these, when he slips just a little. It’s no secret that he likes the violence; there’s a wild sadistic streak in him that burns just below the surface. The secret is that it’s

all

for

you.

Sure, he likes it, sure it gets him hard, but what he really likes is this, when he chases the others from the room so he can tangle his fingers with yours where you twist in your cuffs. Where he can shove his thigh between yours and see the slick you leave on him.

We’re gonna die here, he says as he’s suddenly twisting his fingers into you. He’s just outside. He thinks I don’t know. If he suspects— and he’s unlocking your cuffs one-handed even as he’s driving you to orgasm— If he suspects, he’ll kill us both. So be sweet for me. You think August isn’t out there right now, palming his cock, thinking about how hard he’s gonna fuck you when I’m gone? Will’s looking through the wall like he can see it, glaring fiercely at the face in his mind’s eye. Maybe at the hand he must imagine to be pressing down hard over tented trousers. Maybe he’s imagining that hand in you, thinking about whether August would pull pleasure from you or keep it all for himself.

I’m afraid. It’s smaller than you meant it to be, but he hears it and it makes him groan.

You should be. If we come out of this alive it’ll be a miracle. But I’m not stupid, not as much as they think. Here’s what we do— and he’s whispering low and urgent, words creeping into your ear under the cover of your own moans, laying out a plan that’s wild, that’s rough-and-ready, and that just might work.

Ready? Good. Time to go.