The night had gone terribly and Droog just couldn't wait to get back to the hideout and get cleaned up. The plan hadn't been entirely sound to being with, but Slick would never hear that argument. So they had all gone along with it and Droog had done his best to keep the plans from collapsing entirely, despite how Slick had built plans about as flimsy as a house of cards. One shove and the whole thing fell apart.
Or one flicker of a flame. Matchsticks, that dirty- Droog grit his teeth, but outwardly he held it together. Fingers slowly tensed and relaxed on the steering wheel of their getaway van. In the background he could hear Slick cursing and shouting and just going on and on about how it was not his fault, but theirs. No, the shouting was not in the background. Slick was right beside Droog, leaning over in the passenger seat and shouting those obscenities right into his ear. But it did not matter, Droog had learned quick to ignore most of the complaining and criticizing that his 'leader' did. That was the only way he could handle things like this.
Though, really, it hadn't gone well. If he had less self-control, he'd be cursing too. Not just cursing, but beating something. In all honesty, his temper was far worse than Slick’s, he simply hid it better out of necessity. They couldn’t have two people fly off the handle at the drop of a hat.
He'd only barely missed getting blown away by Quarter's mini-gun. Only Boxcars shoving him out of the way had kept him safe from an untimely demise. The man was big and people assumed stupid, but he had loyalty and wasn't afraid to fight for his fellow gang members. Droog respected that.
It was just too bad that Boxcars had managed to take almost all of the gunfire himself. Not enough to kill, but the man was currently passed out in the back of the van, patched up as best as Droog could manage. Deuce would keep him company while Droog absorbed the brunt of the verbal assaults from Slick.
Slick had apparently decided to increase the abuse and poked at Droog to punctuate the accusations of it all being Droog’s fault. Poke. Insult. Poke. Curse, insult. Poke. Dark claws stabbed roughly at his shoulder and after a few more irritating pokes that were punctuated with false blame, Droog veered to the side of the road, stopped the vehicle, and glared at Slick. “You want to stop doing that now, Slick.”
“You don't fucking tell me what to do! I'll do what I want, got it? I'm the leader!” Poke. Poke. Sharper ones now. Ones that would definitely snag at the suit, if the way they hurt and bit into his skin meant anything.
Droog leaned over and caught hold of Slick's throat, pulling him out of the passenger seat with ease and pressing their faces a half an inch apart. “If you don't stop, I'm going to kick you out of the van, Slick. You can walk back.”
“I'll fucking kick you out of the gang! Come near the hideout and you'll get shot right in your hard black carapace, you fucking piece of shit. Your fault for getting Boxcars shot in the first place. If you didn't fucking act so worthless, we could have-”
“My fault that Matchsticks came in and set the exits on fire too, right? Everything is my fault? Maybe if your plan had actually-”
“Guys,” Boxcar grunted and sat up, moving slowly toward them from the back. “I think-”
“Shut up! If you didn't fuck up the plan, it would have worked!”
“Your plans never work on their own. I always have to fix things you mess up, Slick!” He could feel his forehead heating up. There was no way this would end well for anyone. That didn't bother him as much as maybe it should have. He had some steam to work off too.
“Guys, Deuce isn't back here.” Boxcars was quiet, still likely suffering from the gunshots, but there was a subdued sort of panic in his voice. A strain that Droog didn't like.
If the way Slick went slack meant anything, their leader didn't like the tone or the news either.
Within a few seconds they started up again, took a sharp U-turn on the street, and headed back to The Felt's hideout.
Slick, for once, was silent. It wouldn't last, but it was a welcome relief from the incessant words he'd been spewing.
Deuce likes clocks. He likes a lot of things. Deuce doesn't get angry most of the time. It's fine if his friends get angry. He's fine with that because most of the time they don't get angry at him.
There are a lot of clocks in this place. He smiles and touches the face of one. The touch makes the second hand go a little faster and for a moment he make-believes he can time travel like members of The Felt can. Sometimes he thinks about what it would be like if he was a member of The Felt and have special powers and be green like they are.
Mostly he thinks it would mean getting stabbed by Slick, so then he stops thinking about it. He gets stabbed by Slick anyway sometimes. They all do.
He smiles and turns the hand of the clock faster. Minutes go by and he's almost sure it hasn't been very many seconds. He's speeding by! Time can't catch him!
A tap on the shoulder brings a startled “Oop!” from his lips and he turns around and cranes his head back to look at who poked him. His mouth hangs open in a soft circle of surprise and he stares at The Felt. Not all of them, he knows that much. But enough of them. They're very big.
The one who poked him is still leaning over him, eying him with an expression that doesn't register to Deuce. He's holding a long metal something. A something, it's right on the tip of his tongue. A crowbar. And that’s this ones name, he remembers.
Crowbar narrows his eyes. “What are you still doing here?” The Felt member stares down at Deuce in an increasingly threatening manner.
Deuce stares up. He feels sweat on his neck and a prickle of fear, but mostly he doesn't register that either. Fear doesn’t really help. “I don’t remember.”
Quarters smirks. “He ain't too bright, is he? Maybe they left him behind 'cause they finally figured he's worthless.” He snickers at that and the fast one beside him, Scratchy or what's-his-name (that's on the tip of Deuce's tongue too) thinks it's funny too so he starts laughing real high and fast.
Deuce smiles. Wow, they sure are having a good time. Except the big one still leaning over him. That one's acting kind of like Slick. Angry and potentially stabby. Except he's got a big metal bar, so he's probably more in a clubbing kind of mood. Deuce can understand that.
Those eyes just won't stop narrowing. Deuce can barely see the pupils now. He tilts his head and looks up.
Oh wait. There are Felt members right here in this room. He was supposed to do something. Slick told him to. He was supposed to do something.
The angry one stands up fully now and Deuce steps forward, because maybe if he moves closer he'll remember what he was supposed to do.
“What're you gonna do with the little guy?” It's that one with the Six on his top hat. Deuce likes that one too. The hat is neat.
Slick stabbed him when he said that last time. Deuce keeps the thought to himself.
“Should just kill him. But I bet that would just make The Crew run us even harder. No, we're keeping him. We'll just hold him ransom. If they don't want him back, fine. If they do come, we catch him, then we off him and the rest of that trash. But no, I like this. Holding him hostage. Itchy, you tie him up.”
Now Deuce is tied up. He wriggles a bit, but doesn't fight much. He just looks up at the tall angry one, staring. “Oh.” It’s all there really is to say on the matter.
Quick as can be, he's stripped of his weapons, taken to a green van, and put in the back. During the ride to wherever they were going, he's situated between the knees of the big one with the machine gun. He doesn't mind. That one made the fast one laugh, so he just settles right in for the ride and leans his head against the Felt member’s stomach. Even with ropes around his wrists and feet, he's content for the moment.
Though there's a nagging thought that slips into his head every now and then. It tells him to do stuff, but usually he’s already forgotten or remembered wrong, if he remembers at all. The voice calls out in between curses and shouts. It’s Slick's voice. He's ok with that. When he figures it out, he'll do what he was supposed to and then it will be just fine.
“Oop!” A sharp turn makes him fall back closer against the Felt member's body and he wriggles and tries to reposition himself back into the comfortable position he'd just found. His body turns a bit and he presses his head against Quarter's chest.
Oh that was the name! Had he forgotten it? Well, now he remembers, though he forgot if he had forgotten to begin with. Hmm. Yes, but now he's comfortable again.
“What're you doin' little guy? Stop that, not supposed to get comfortable. This is a kidnapping, c'mon.” Those words are coupled with a sigh and fingers on his jacket, tugging him back.
He tilts his head up, staring at Quarter's. Small white eyes widen and he just looks at the Felt member.
Fingers relax on his body and he moves right back to rubbing his chest up against Quarter's chest until he's comfortable. Or, at least, as comfortable as he can be while still tied up with his hands behind his back. He frowns, a sudden feeling of irritation floating into his mind. He doesn't want his hands tied anymore. They're going numb.
Deuce moves with purpose.
Droog didn't hate the little guy. None of them did, except maybe Slick, but even he seemed genuinely distressed to find out that they hadn't remembered to get the littlest one in the van too.
Sure, Deuce wasn't exactly the brightest bulb, and he was more like a broken bulb, but he tried hard. He packed a powerful explosive too. Poor guy probably stayed behind to blown up the C4 after they'd left, then forgot to get to the getaway car. Deuce wouldn't even know they were gone. He didn’t remember things very often.
Eventually Slick's bitching and blaming roared its cursing vulgar head again. Droog really didn't care. Nothing they could do to stop the course of things. They just had to speed off and make sure they got to the little guy before the Felt did. Who knew what would happen if The Felt members got a hold of Deuce.
On top of the little guy being missing, Boxcars in the back wasn't looking too hot either. Still nothing fatal, but he was in a load of pain. Droog's fingers tapped the steering wheel to the beat of the vein that throbbed mercilessly in his forehead. His fingers grew sore from the tapping within a minute, but that didn't stop him.
When they arrived, Boxcars stayed in the van with a gun and a nod that they could go on this one without him. He couldn't be much more than a burden on them at this point. Droog accepted that and he went along with Slick into the hideout.
They attempted to make contact with Deuce over the radio, but found that it was static. No reply. Nothing. No good could come of that sign, but they kept on.
Together, they crept up the stairs, slow and stealthy. At the top, Droog turned right and Slick decided that going left was the best bet. When Droog didn't turn to go left with Slick, Slick almost made a comment. Several moments passed and Droog noticed that Slick's mouth hung in an unspoken insult. Their glares held, then Slick narrowed his eyes until they were almost shut, and turned back to the left.
Droog really had more of a chance of success on his own anyway. He didn't need Slick for a whole lot.
But as minutes passed in the pursuit of their little Gang member, he really didn't like his odds either. The place was too quiet. There was something wrong with the silence.
Some time after the first prickles of perspiration dotted his forehead from the eerie silence and lack of gunfire, he found himself deep within the mansion and he still couldn't hear anyone. But he felt a presence. His footsteps stilled.
There was someone else nearby.
Deuce has three fingers. This is fine by him. Four fingers are not necessary, even if everyone else has four fingers. Three fingers is fine. Three fingers means that when he thinks about it, he can move his small hands better than some people and get out of rope. Handcuffs also don’t pose much of a problem, if he wants to get free. Most of the time, when he’s with Slick and they’re playing around, he doesn’t want to get free. He just wants to get more.
This is different though and this is uncomfortable. It's easy to escape though, once he thinks to do it. That fast one moved too fast. Sloppy rope work was all this was. Deuce would have had to spend at least a minute if the rope work had been better.
A moment of triumph. It probably only took a few seconds! Deuce felt his chest puff up with pride. Slick would be pleased.
Then his hands are caught up in a strong hold and the one he'd been leaning against lifts him up, face to face, “And what're you doin'? Think you're gettin’ free, wise guy?”
That large, imposing face isn't even an inch from Deuce's. Deuce opens his mouth to say something and another bump forces his body to swing in the grip and his mouth collides with the Quarter's snarling lips.
Deuce blinks and gives a soft “oh!” against the contact. A heat that had been building in his stomach with every move he’d made against Quarters just gets a bit hotter. He's not sure what to do, but he opens his mouth just a bit more and makes another quiet noise of contentment.
The hands grope at Deuce and bring him up more, making the contact better. The kiss deepens and Deuce can't help but feel flushed and somehow even more pleased with the way things were going. Then, in an instant, he's tossed away. His body lands on the lap of that shark looking one. He wriggles and tries to sit up on the lap; Deuce just wants to get more comfortable.
The shark one just stares down at him, then grins at Quarters. The grin turns into a laugh and suddenly everyone is laughing except Quarters, who seems a bit red and is panting pretty hard. Even Deuce joins in on the laughter.
Sometimes when he thinks about what being in the Felt would be like, he doesn't think about Slick stabbing him to death. Sometimes he just thinks happy things about it. Not that he would leave Midnight Mafia. He just thinks these things is all.
It's easier to think happy things when everyone is laughing too, so that's good.
Oh! More hands grasp at Deuce and he's flush with the shark one-- Flipper wasn't it? Fin, Flipper, who knows. Deuce sure doesn't. He doesn't really know what's got everyone laughing. He just knows that he's still feeling warm and the laughter-- such an uncommon thing in the Midnight Mafia, except when everyone is drinking-- just fuels that burn in his belly.
Flipper-Fin looks at some of the others and Deuce watches them exchanging glances.
“Look at you...” The grin has sharp teeth, like Slick's. “All hot and bothered by a little kiss.” One hand slides down his torso and strokes along the front of his slacks, the other is snaked under his arms and behind his back, holding him up. “You liked kissing Quarters, huh little guy?” The fingers reach for his button and then slide down the zipper.
Deuce forgot to wear underwear. He wriggles a bit and flushes at the way those fingers pull on his length. Not much to see, but Deuce doesn't mind. Not a lot of things upset him, not especially when someone's touching him just like that. Gentle. “Yes. It was nice.”
Quarters growls, “Shut your trap! Wasn't me got him like that! Just a little freak is all.”
More laughter from the rest of them in the back and he gets comfortable in the grip.
He's lowered down and pushed onto his back onto the metal floor. Legs lift up easily enough and his pants are tossed aside. “Maybe we should keep you, even if you are about as dumb as Eggs and Biscuits. Bet you'd like it too, you seem pretty pleased to get what you've gotten so far. Any of you guys hear any complaints from the little guy?”
Head shakes and some snickers greet that comment.
“Slick wouldn’t like that, I don’t think.” Deuce glances back up at the shark guy, just watching. He wouldn’t like it probably either, but he’s ok with what’s happening so far so maybe it’ll be fine. His friends will come for him soon enough anyway. Though, he guesses time’s a relative thing with these guys. He never knows when all of that time stuff will throw things for a loop.
That familiar looking menacing grin widens and then Deuce feels teeth against his neck, nipping, while deft fingers work the front buttons of his jacket.
The bite, however, is something Deuce objects to. He whines and struggles under it. No biting, he doesn't like biting. Slick bites and never cares and it makes him sad and burning hotter all at the same time and that confuses him.
More laughter and Deuce isn't laughing with them at all this time. He doesn't like this. “Stop. I don’t want that.” His hands move down to the guy’s shoulders, pushing lightly. Nothing too demanding. No one listens to him most of the time and he doesn’t figure it really matters this time either if he wants it to stop.
The biting stops. Then he's much more calm, though he pants out a sound of surprise. Pleased surprise, like with the kiss. His breathing steadies a bit and he looks up at the one on top of him with wide eyes.
“Don't like that, huh?” Fingers stroke along his length again and Deuce relaxes just a smidgen more. “How about this. Like this?”
This is nice. He likes this. Deuce nods, doubly so because both of those things are correct. No bites. Bites are bad. Stroking is nice. He's definitely a fan of that going on lots more. In fact, just to really help that point along, he rubs against the hand with slow movements and grips his fingers into the other. A little moan slips from his open mouth.
The van stops and Deuce blinks as the door is torn open in the back and he's looking at the angry one from before. Only now the angry one kind of looks confused and more red in the face, but slightly less angry.
Deuce is ok with this too. He's a fan of less angry.
Slick hates everyone with passion. But he hates his fellow Crew members a lot less. Or maybe just slightly less. He certainly hasn't killed any of them yet, so that could really be seen in a positive light. Except he doesn't tend to view things in a positive light unless it's after he's stabbed someone. Then he feels pretty damn good and he isn’t afraid to say so.
The point was, Slick didn’t want his team with one member less unless he's the one who made it that way. So Deuce wouldn’t die that night. That was all there was to it. He just wouldn't stand by and let Deuce die because the little guy was an idiot who can't get to the van on time after setting the explosives. If Deuce even set the explosives.
The little idiot wandered about and did stupid shit all the time. Slick didn't even really trust him to have actually set the explosives. It seemed the more important the task, the more Deuce fucked it up. The whole team worked that way, but the little shit had an especially keen understanding on how to make things all kinds of messed up.
The plans didn’t usually entail much more than just shooting everyone up and blasting everyone and everything else to smithereens, so it was pretty hard, even for his shit gang members, to mess things up. Yet, they always did. Even with simple plans, they made it so difficult. Droog thought he was smarter, acted like they needed better plans. But how could they handle more complicated plans when they fucked up even the simplest of ones, that’s what Slick wanted to know.
Droog never had anything smart to say to that, so that was a win right there. Even if Droog did, there was a point where Slick stopped talking and started stabbing and that just shut Droog right up some of the time.
Deuce would sometimes come through and blow shit up like he was supposed to at the end and it was great. Those were the good times. Sometimes the rest of the team managed to keep their act together too and they all made things work. Those were the absolute best times. Those were the times he gave them rewards; he bought them alcohol and they celebrated in style over a well thought out plan that succeeded.
Those were the good times and he liked to think about those, far and few in between that they were.
This was a pretty shitty time and Slick's normal scowl darkened to a level where it would hurt most people to keep their face that way. His facial muscles were used to the strain of being near permanently angry. Deuce was going to be in for it. Little shit probably didn't even have any idea how worried-- how angry they all were. Fucker probably thought it was all fun and games and everything was fine.
Slick almost hoped that The Felt did capture Deuce. Maybe rough him up a little, scare him and hurt him enough that it would knock some sense into him. Slick had tried that enough times that he knew it probably wouldn't work, but at least it would save him the hassle of doing it himself.
Footsteps sounded nearby.
Slick froze. His hand inched to his knife in his jacket pocket. Of the many knives, he liked this one the best. The smooth black handle felt so good against his fingers when the blade slid past green flesh to reveal the flush of blood beneath.
Maybe the day wouldn't be all bad. He hadn’t seen enough enemy blood yet, that was all.
A grin spread over his dark face and he pulled the blade free of his jacket. He took two soft steps and waited in a nearby doorway.
It's warm in the room. There's a light directly above him and he can't look at it, or it makes his vision white and then he can't see their faces. It's hard to look anywhere when when he's sprawled out on his back on the large bed. Deuce shuts his eyes to block out the light for a bit. In that time, a mouth is on him, sucking at his length.
“Ohhh!” This is new and wonderful. He's used to putting warm things in his mouth, not the other way around. Deuce groans softly and bucks up against the mouth. Maybe if he was bigger, he'd worry about those shark-like teeth, but at his size he's fine and feeling fantastic.
A wide tongue wraps about him and sucks noisily. The mouth moves faster and fingers stroke his length each time the mouth pulls away.
Deuce peeks his eyes down at the Felt member currently making him feel so wonderful. His hands reach down and he strokes at the back of that nice green head, trying to encourage this to keep on, without opening his mouth and saying something stupid that will make it all stop. He just wants this to continue.
Right before he can finish, the mouth is gone. He lets out a quiet whimper and bucks into empty air. “Please?”
“Not yet. You have to help us out too, don't you, little guy?”
Softer laughter. Silkier, like when the gang does get drunk and everyone slips into better moods. Deuce looks around, glad he can see their faces now. They look pleased. They're ready to join in too, apparently, because most of them are already hard and out.
Deuce sits up and nods. “Alright.” He's game. He knows the drill. You just sort of reach over and-- he takes a two handed approach to the cock, stroking along it quickly and positioning his mouth at the tip of it. A dark tongue reaches out and he swirls it along the edge, licking up the precum and moaning quietly, not even thinking to withhold any sounds that he might make.
His own moan brings on a chorus of moans and he can hear some words that don't give him pause. He's heard them before, even the dirty curses that might offend someone else, but just sound nice when he’s like this. They're part of the reason he likes it. All eyes are on him and maybe if he thought about it, he'd be worried, but he isn't stopping to think here. He's just doing what he does know. It's a simple enough task, but he does it with relish.
Fin-- oh that's the name, not Flipper, whoops-- reaches down to the back of his head and pulls him forward. “C'mon, little guy, doing good so far.”
That means more. Deuce complies and takes in more of the cock. He gives a little murmur, a soft little sound of pleasure at taking someone in his mouth. Not like he had much of a choice when those hands pulled him closer, but he went further than the hands made him. Once upon a time, sometime he didn't remember ago, he would gag and whine, but now he had a secret. You just didn't breath until the cock was almost out of your mouth and then you gasped and it made you moan a little and then it made them moan a lot.
The trick worked and Deuce smiled around the length in his mouth and bobbed along as innocently as a kid would when bobbing for apples. This was fun, wet, and sometimes scary, but at the end you got a sweet, tasty reward in your mouth. Really, this was exactly the same as that.
It wasn't long before hands were at his backside though, rubbing circles on his butt and stroking along his carapace. More than two hands, though he couldn't quite see who they belonged to.
Boxcars didn't really know what to think. Maybe if he wasn't passed out unconscious in the back of the van, he'd be more upset about Deuce being an idiot and getting himself left behind and maybe captured. Then again, Boxcars was the one laying unconscious in the back of a van on enemy territory while the only two who might offer protection went on a search for the fourth inside the very same enemy territory.
However, Boxcars was unconscious, so Boxcars didn't care. He was too busy not being awake and bleeding to give a damn.
Droog really just wanted the night to end on a on a bad note and not get any worse, but obviously that wasn't on the agenda. It was just his luck, the other person stopped moving right when he did.
Maybe it was a coincidence. Maybe it was his mind playing tricks on him. But he was almost one hundred percent certain that there was someone about. They'd better hope they didn't come after him. If anyone messed with him right then, he'd make sure they wished they were dead.
He almost wanted them to move some. Give him a reason to let the stress out. Go on. Do some of that time shit, he didn’t mind. Just meant he’d get the pleasure of watching some red stain all the green in the mansion.
But he wouldn't stay still forever. Mindful of his steps and the sounds about him, he pressed onward. No footsteps followed in his wake, but he didn't let that fool him.
Now he could feel the presence. Someone just around the corner, he just knew it. Droog pulled out his gun and rounded the corner with his back pressed to the wall and his head craned just enough to see down the hallway. Nothing. Oh, what was that shadow? It moved just enough to make it clear someone wanted to ambush him. But he’d get the drop on them first.
He twisted his body and aimed the gun right at the shadow, ready to shoot--
“What the fuck are you doing here? I told you to go right!” Slick.
Droog’s finger twitched on the trigger. Just once. Not in a lethal spot. Maybe he could say it was an accident. As soon as the thought entered his mind, pleasing as it was, it evaporated under his irritation and left. He didn’t make ‘accidents’, he was a cold, calculating killer and if he shot Slick he couldn’t even pretend it was an accident. No one would believe that lie. Another day he might give in and do it anyway, but they had things to do. “I did. We must have circled around back. Did you find any signs of-”
“Does it look like I have Deuce? Don't be an idiot, neither of us found him. Only thing I found was another apparently lost idiot, but not the right one.”
There was the headache again. He thought he'd lost it, but here it was, finding him. His head throbbed too. It was unfortunate Deuce couldn't find them like his headache of a boss had. “Did you check all of the rooms in this hall?”
Slick turned to the doorway he'd been pressed against in wait for his ambush. “Not this one. But he's not inside so it doesn't matter.”
“If he's being held hostage, they might have left a note.” Droog moved on into the room. He couldn't push too hard to make Slick do it, but he wasn't about to leave any stones unturned. Maybe if they found Deuce they'd kill him, but maybe they'd keep him. Bait.
If he thought that the Felt would take bait, he'd probably take hostages too. That's where the gangs differed. The Midnight Mafia couldn't afford to lose one or two; The Felt could lose three or four and barely feel a thing.
Droog kept on, ignoring Slick who strode in front of him like the man was leading or something. He'd lead them into this mess, he could get over himself as far as Droog was concerned. Room after room, he glanced inside to check if anything looked out of place.
At the end of that very hallway, in a room on the right, he found the note. It was, plain as day, in the middle of the floor. For a moment, Droog pondered how Slick could have failed to notice it before. That moment passed and he strode into the room and moved to read the writing.
Slick was faster. The shorter man grabbed the note and held it aloft and out of his reach. Not that Droog tried too hard, though it was irritating enough and some of his ever-present fury threatened to boil over. Childish games, at a time like this?
Their approval is pretty apparent, even to Deuce. Especially to Deuce. He doesn't get a lot of credit for good things, but he figures he is pretty good at figuring out if people are pleased. The entire group of them seems pleased.
He is obviously really good at everything he is doing. Or is that really good at doing everyone? Deuce doesn't know. He just knew he was going to be busy for quite some time with all of the people around him, waiting for a turn. But they were sharing pretty well, so that was fine.
A thick finger prods his entrance and he lets out another soft moan and works faster at Fin's length, moving his head fervently and trying to get closer to the reward. By the time a second finger rubs at his entrance, then shoves into him with the first, he's got a pretty clear idea that the reward is about to arrive.
Before he knows it, there's a spasming and the cock floods his mouth with warm fluid. He sighs and licks his lips. Some of the warmth moves down and he reaches up to wipe it away. Slick would be angry if he didn't, so he licks his fingers clean. Waste not, want not.
A third finger is in and he twists his head to look back at who's inside of him right then.
Quarters. He smiles softly and pushes against the fingers, only to find them pulling out. Oh. Oh! Quarters already has the tip of his cock at Deuce's entrance. It's thick, but Deuce won't complain. He likes a bit of thickness and at least there was prep.
“Yeah, y'like that, don'tcha? Mmm think we found why they keep you around after all.” A chuckle, and Quarters pushes deeper, groaning low and holding inside of Deuce.
His mouth opens up in a low moan, “Yes. Yes, please...” and soon he finds another cock at his lips, urging them to open wider and let it in. He obliges and uses one hand to steady himself against the bed while he's taken by Quarters and the other to stroke along the shaft currently situated in front of him.
“F-fuck, his mouth is nice and small. None of those freaky friggin' teeth Slick sports. Just a nice hot mouth. Isn't that right, little guy?” The Felt member reaches down and caresses at Deuce's head.
Deuce tries a nod, but it's difficult in a position like this, so he does the nest best thing and tries to talk with his mouth full. That just gets short laughs from everyone else and he's pleased, again, with himself. But the fact is, he’s lying a little bit. He has those same teeth Slick has. He just knows not to ever use them when he’s giving head. Not that he ever thought to before, but training has taught him that you make sure you never even let them scrape along anything unless you’re given permission.
It's a bit painful now in his wide open mouth and in the back where Quarters is. This isn’t a lot a lot of pain; no one is hurting him a lot here. The pain is just enough that he's wriggling his hips and trying to ease some of the discomfort of having someone so thick inside of him.
Then he feels a slap on his bottom and he jolts forward, taking a lot more of the cock than he was prepared to take. It makes him gag. The gagging makes him pull back, only to find himself impaled even further on the cock.
This is quite a bit disconcerting. Deuce wants to slow things down a bit.
“Anyone could have missed the fucking note!” Slick didn't have patience for Droog's attitude right then. He was busy and he needed to attend to business. Namely, take what Droog kept calling 'bait' and get Deuce the fuck out of the place where they were holding him for ransom. The plan that coincided with the one that dictated they fuck the shit up in every one of those Felt members present and this time do it right. Simple plans, no room for them to go wrong. The massive failure from before said they couldn't possibly fail worse on the same night. Not even they were that unlucky.
Slick got into the driver's side this time, ignoring Droog's protests. Once he started the vehicle up, he looked back to tell Boxcars the plan.
Oh great, Boxcars was unconscious in the car. Just what everyone needed. It wasn't like he was going to die or anything. He had maybe five bullet holes in him. Baby.
“Get up!” He reached back, taking both hands off the wheel, and tapped Boxcars on the head. The tap was a bit rough. It was also possible he used sharp claws for added effect.
Slick also probably didn't care if he caused more damage to the sleeping lummox. This was a serious mission and no one was going to sleep on the job. Slick almost tapped harder, but Droog reached over and forced his hands back on the wheel with a lot more force than necessary.
“If you're going to drive, you're going to keep your eyes on the road and your hands on the wheel, understand? We can't help Deuce if your driving skills get us killed, can we?” That tone just irritated Slick. Chiding. Like he was a kid.
Slick just wanted nothing more than to knock that filthy sneer off of Droog's mouth with a firm punch to the snout, but he begrudgingly accepted that, yes, he should be driving. That didn't mean he liked it. His fingers moved back to the steering wheel and Slick stared ahead. “You get him up then.”
Boxcars grunted behind Slick and slowly moved to sit up. “Deuce still isn't-”
“Yeah we know. We're on our way, idiot!” Slick pushed harder on the accelerator, leaning down in his seat to reach the pedals better. The stupid look Boxcars had plastered over his dark face showed clearly in the rear view mirror. He sneered, “Got himself kidnapped. We're gonna go collect him. Droog, get in the back and make sure Boxcars doesn’t bleed out on us. Gonna need all the manpower we can get.”
The confusion and anxiety on Boxcars face faded a little when Droog moved to the back of the van to sit with Boxcars. Boxcars mumbled some words to Droog and as much as it pissed Slick off, he couldn’t hear the words or Droog’s replies. They seemed pretty tender, in comparison to their normal attitudes.
Slick wished he could just get rid of his entire team. Fire them all, kill them all, something. Then he wouldn't have to put up with this stupidity anymore at least. God, they needed to get a fucking room. Except no, they didn’t. He didn’t want to think about what they did when they were alone. Idiots. Both of them, fucking idiots.
At least they were almost there.
Deuce is not really one to complain. He takes a lot of things in stride and just does what he is told. But this hurts and he is not quiet about it. He whines around the cock in his mouth and tries to breath better, but it's kind of hard when the cock behind him is going a lot deeper than he expected it to go and faster too. Kind of makes any kind of reasonable breathing hard and that difficulty level only raises with something in his throat.
He doesn't know who the one with the number three hat is, but this member is making Deuce choke quite a bit and the member doesn't seem to care that much. There's just more thrusting and it's kind of scarier than he expected and he doesn't really want this that much anymore, but it's still making him feel hot in his belly and he needs release so this is what he has to do, right?
Slick wouldn't let him release until he was satisfied himself, so it only makes sense that's how this works.
Another whine and he pulls back from the cock in his mouth and looks back at the Quarters. “Ow.” He hasn't forgotten things are going too fast back there either. He won’t complain here, but he’s going to let it be known this is discomfortable. Discomforting? Uncomfortable. That’s the one. This is uncomfortable and he doesn’t want it like this any more.
He's not sure that his single word will get any mercy. He's pleased when it does. Quarters grunts and eases himself into Deuce, then holds. “Keep on suckin', don't think Trace's done with ya yet. C'mon.” He pushes lightly at Deuce’s head, moving him back to the cock.
Now that things are restored to how he likes, Deuce is content to satisfy their needs. He sucks with new earnest, moaning and drooling 'like a whore' according to some of The Felt nearby.
When the cock behind him moves again and slips into an easy rhythm, he's more than happy to move with it. There are no slaps or bites or kicks or anything he did not, in most cases, enjoy. He feels the heat rising and his eyes shut. The world goes dark, but everything feels wonderful and full and warm. Between the two of them, he's in paradise now. The reward is getting closer, he knows. After that, it's only a matter of time before his own final reward of getting to come himself.
His own small length is just asking to be touched, but he's busy with his hands on Trace, the one with the red hat. At least, he's pretty sure that's what he heard. He's not really listening to anything but the pleasant noise of licks and sucks and light body slaps behind him.
It's not long before Quarters grips a tight hold on Deuce's hips and forces him back to take harder thrusts. This time it's not at all disorienting. Deuce expects it. He readies himself and relaxes and takes the violent thrusts as they come, all while working his mouth along the head of Trace's cock and pumping his hands along the shaft.
Trace comes first, pulling out after the first spurt and getting it on Deuce's face. He is pretty sure he can hear people moaning and grunting, but he's not really paying attention to anything but swallowing, pushing back against Quarters, and just feeling amazing. The noises are just floating along in the background, ever present, but never really breaking into his reality for longer than a moment.
What does break into his reality, though, is Quarters. One, two, three-four-five more thrusts and the Felt member lurches forward, curls his body over Deuce's small carapace, and fills him with that sticky warmth he’s learned to enjoy. A few weak thrusts, then he's out, pulling free from Deuce with a 'pop'.
Slowly Deuce stretches out, arching his back and sighing at the sensations. A few more moments pass and he blinks his eyes open to the sounds of more noises.
It looks like some of the gang members couldn't wait for him to be available. They're touching each other, moaning, gasping, and all together having a grand time.
He helped this. Deuce sits up and reaches back to his entrance with one hand to feel the come that wants to leave him. He gets a dab of it on the tip of his finger and brings it up to taste. Another soft sigh and he lays back. The taste is nice.
His legs get lifted up and he finds himself with another cock at his entrance before he can even look at whose it is. That's fine though, this one is smaller and he's ready to take it inside of him. Before he can blink, it's to the hilt and the owner of it is grunting and pushing and moaning and writhing and just really, really fast with everything.
It doesn't take a lot of brain power to figure out who it is, even for Deuce. But he doesn't mind the speed, in fact, he'll gladly take it if it feels as nice as this. This cock fits him better. It feels more natural and makes everything a bit better.
A body slides onto the bed next to Deuce and he glances over to find that slow one with his cock just hanging out, begging for some attention. He's not about to deny it what it wants. His mouth's a bit sore from being open so long, but who cares? Not him. He's already got a mouthful and that's perfectly good with him.
Slick was an idiot. Unfortunately being leader of the gang meant that sometimes Slick did incredibly stupid things under the veil of leadership and managed to blame it on other people. Not today. Not again, at least.
Already Slick had managed to almost crash their only vehicle with his erratic behavior, distracting screamed insults, and terrible driving. So Droog made him pull off the side of the road-- not without a great deal of force and screaming, and even a gun draw-- and then he took the wheel. Simple as that. They were on track again. He felt a bit bad for Boxcars in the back, but they’d all get over it. This was important and Boxcars wasn’t dying. In fact, he was feeling quite a bit better now. Droog smirked, just allowing the edge of his lips to curl with the thoughts.
The minor setback in who was leading who at the time didn't take up too much time, which was grand, because when dealing with time bullshit, time was literally of the essence. He was alright with this, but the closer they got to the spot, the more erratic Slick became in the passenger seat.
When this was through, he was going to get plastered and probably beat the fuck out of Slick. He hoped so at least. Then there would be an excuse and he would still get all of his rage out. That was for after though. He had to help Deuce first.
So sore. Deuce could barely move his limbs, much less finish himself off. It wasn't really fair. All that work and effort spent on getting everyone off if they hadn't finished yet, and then he was left to fix his own problem. Normally that was just fine, better, in fact, because he could work at his own pace and it wasn't some rough jerking that hurt. He liked it when Slick left him to his own devices after, or at least wasn’t too rough with him.
But he couldn't move much, so what was he to do? Deuce just sighed and edged his hand slowly down to his length. Fingers took hold and lightly stroked along the aching flesh. He shut his eyes and slowly worked his hand.
Moments into the session all to himself, he found a hand on his, pulling it away. Eyes slowly slipped open and he looked down. Oh.
He smiles and relaxes just a bit more into the bed. When did Clover enter the room?
Clover slides up Deuce's body and presses a kiss to his lips. This mouth doesn't feel demanding, but curious. The tongue slides out and presses to Deuce's lips. He sighs and allows his mouth to fall open for the kiss. He can feel a tongue against his, slowly sliding and moving, and it's just about the nicest thing all night, to just play like this.
No, no, the nicest thing has to be what Clover did just then. His hips jerked forward and their lengths, roughly equal in size, worked against each other to bring the most heavenly friction. Their bodies are black against green and he might not know what contrast means but he knows he likes the looks of it. But he likes the feelings better than the looks.
He's keening into Clover's mouth and jerking up with near-frantic thrusts, ready to come now because Clover won't mind.
They don't have to talk, and he wouldn't hear much anyway, but he knows that Clover won't mind. He's been so good and held it all in so long that it won't matter. In fact, Clover seems to know he wants to come. He seems to be ok with this.
His 'ohs' crescendo quickly and it's only a few moments before he's about to come. Deuce feels the most amazing sensations and he can't help but shut his eyes to block out some of them. It was almost too much, to feel this Heaven, to know this bliss and feel so fucking amazi-
A door somewhere slams open.
The rubbing stops, all friction pulls away, and he watches Clover for some answer.
Something about The Crew being there already, too early. Oh. And something else about what had they been thinking, how could they be that stupid, prepared better for next time, blah blah blah.
The Crew is coming for him.
No! Deuce grabs Clover and tries to get more bucking from him.
There's more gunfire, loud and unforgiving in the background, penetrating into his reality and making him anxious and upset. He can hear curses and shouts of pain.
“Clooooover!” It's all he's asking for. This is all he wants. He just wants to come! They promised him! He was good and everything. Why would they do that to him?
It wasn't fair, he's been so good and now Clover was off of him and moving with the rest to fight or flight. His good luck stopped bullets in their chambers, maybe, but it didn't fix knives in his lungs. But at the door, he turned and looked at Deuce with a sad look.
Deuce's shoulders slumped and he just lay there, waiting.
It's not a long wait before Slick finds him, Droog right behind. Slick takes off his jacket, wraps it around Deuce, and picks him up. Simple as that. Then they're gone.
No yelling. No one shouted. He didn't get any hits. He just lay in the back with a panting and pained Boxcars, feeling sad and sore.
Clover had gotten him so close. Just one more thrust and it would have been fine and he would have been so good, so golden.
Instead he was cold, sitting in blood, and feeling angry.
Deuce didn't get angry very often, but he could feel that emotion bubbling up.
It. Was. Not. Fair.
He would get his finish.
Droog tried, he really did. He tried to help keep the team together. But it was hard when Slick had a look he'd never seen in his eyes that went beyond rage and into something altogether more terrifying. It was hard when Boxcars was bleeding and moving from conscious to unconscious and the entire night had gone bad because of one failed move after another. Nothing was made easier by Deuce going missing and winding up-- well, he didn't want to think about what happened between the Mansion and the Pick Up spot-- in the back of their van positively furious.
None of this was familiar and it just ticked him off more. Made him want to kill things. But he kept his cool. He had to. Droog just drove them home as fast as possible. Home. Hah. Back to The Hideout, rather. How could he slip, even in his mind, and call it home? Nothing would ever be home.
But as much as he hated to admit it, having any one of them dead or missing wasn't what he wanted, even if he couldn't call them family and they didn't live in a home. All they had was each other.
The thought made him want to vomit. When did he become so sickeningly and disgustingly sappy about things? He was acting like a dame and that just wasn't acceptable.
Fingers drummed on the steering wheel and he stared ahead. Almost there. Then they could fix Boxcars up, make Slick stop being on this new edge, and get Deuce feeling safe again.
Poor guy. No one deserved that. No one but the Felt. But they'd get theirs. Even if Slick didn't have plans already to take them all out, he did. The gang stuck together, even if he didn't like them too much most of the time anyway.
Deuce watched Slick closely. The bedroom door clicked shut and he lay back on the bed.
It's not hard to decipher what looks Slick gives him anymore. He acts like it is and just stares with no emotion, but if there's anything he knows, it's Slick. Any other day and he'd scramble up to Slick and get what he could if they were both in the bedroom together.
Tonight is different.
He's earned this. His eyes narrow on Slick.
“Fuck'd they do to ya, Deuce?” Slick’s scowling and advancing slowly.
Deuce doesn't buy that angry tone for a second. The movements aren’t predatory like they normally are and he doesn’t feel that normal sick pleasure in the pit of his belly. Slick looks anxious and angry and scared and mostly angry, but it doesn’t seem to be directed at him. No insults, no biting, no kicking. Not yet at least.
He looks away and shrugs. “They wouldn't let me come.” On top of the rest of it. He liked the rest of it, mostly, but that last bit is still a sore spot for him.
There’s cursing and Deuce tilts his head up at Slick. The man slides down onto the bed near him with surprising grace, all things considered. Snakelike, maybe. Sometimes he thinks of Slick as this dark snake that just opens its mouth wide and swallows him whole, makes him feel safe and content, even as he’s in the most dangerous of places where he could die any moment.
Deuce wriggles over onto Slick's lap and holds onto him. He'll force this issue with all the sweet softness he can. Slick doesn't normally go for it, but this time it's different.
Another wriggle and he looks up with wide eyes, “I wanna come, Slick. They wouldn't let me. Made me do all of that and wouldn't let me. It hurt.” Not a lie, he wasn’t even sure if he was capable of lies. But it was worded for optimal pity here. Maybe he had a had a head full of empty most of the time, but no one could say he didn’t know how to get results in the pity department.
More cursing and he found himself on his back, relaxing into the mattress. His fingers moved to Slick's shoulders and he smiled up. “You're gonna let me right Slick? You're gonna let me come, right? When I want to? They never let me. Made me and everything and never let me.”
“Fuck, m'not a monster,” but it's mumbled and Slick's pressing a kiss to Deuce's lips, no gnashing teeth or biting, or even tongue fucking. And it's nice. For once, Deuce is completely at ease with a kiss with Slick. It doesn’t bring that same violent edge he normally hates to crave, but he’s glad for a change.
He's still hard and ready. That never went anywhere. In fact, it only ached worse on the ride back to the hideout and while he waited for Droog and Slick to decide what to do with him and Boxcars. Droog quickly decided that Boxcars needed more attention--for medical purposes only, he had assured them with flushed cheeks-- and lead them both off to Boxcars’ room.
If Slick would just hurry a bit, Deuce would definitely be fine.
Fingers pulled at the jacket buttons and Deuce shivered at the exposure. Still not naked, but sometimes that’s ok. He likes being on Slick’s jacket and the idea he might get to keep it on during excites him further. Slick never lets him do anything like this. He must have done something really good to get this.
Once the jacket’s wide open, Slick’s rubbing harder against Deuce. The pace isn’t rough, but it’s demanding and it works at Deuce’s sensitive flesh just so perfectly he could hardly stand it.
He bucked a little, fingers clenched in the sheets. A long moan escaped his lips and slipped into Slick's mouth. That moan was echoed back and the thrusting of their lengths together was a pleasant addition to all of the heady sensations caressing his body and mind. Deuce craved this. He needed more and wasn’t afraid to buck a bit more earnestly.
It wasn't long before they moved together almost perfectly in rhythm, sliding their bodies against one another and working towards that mutual point of escape from the pain and confusion into a single blip of time where everything felt good. Felt wonderful.
For Deuce, it wasn't long. His head jerked back and pushed harder against the mattress, but his body arched up, bringing him closer to his Slick, closer to this incredible pleasure that it was clear only one group could ever bring him.
Slick was quick to follow. He shot himself off with a curse and a moan, then flopped beside Deuce. That thin black chest rose and fell in harsh pants of breath and the normally dark body was flushed with heat.
Deuce sighed and inched closer, then turned onto his side and wrapped an arm and a leg over Slick’s body.
Slick grunted, half-heartedly tried to push him off, then sighed too.
"G’night, Slick.” Deuce yawned and stretched out a bit more, crawling up onto Slick and laying face down on his chest.
“Yeah.” Slick’s arm reached over Deuce and moved down to the rumpled bed sheets. He pulled them up over them both, then shut his eyes.
Normally he fell right off to sleep. On days with a lot of energy and excitement, he especially dropped off like a rock tossed from a bridge. But he was busy thinking and there was no time to sleep until he figured his thoughts out.
“Love you, Slick.”
Slick had his eyes shut and he looked asleep but that was alright. Deuce could feel the arm tighten over his back. He could hear the heart beats speed up. He saw the little twitch of a smile that eased into a straight face of relaxed slumber.
That was enough for Deuce. He yawned again, curled up, and prepared to nod off himself.
Some days he wondered what it would be like to be in The Felt. But now he knew and it meant disappointment and anger. He didn't hate them, but he wouldn't be part of their ranks, even if Slick wouldn't stab him to death if he joined them.
He was perfectly content where he was, even if most of the time it meant getting bit, kicked, stabbed, and insulted. He knew Slick. He knew Droog. He knew Boxcars. It just meant he was a part of the gang.
If you've made it this far, I really that you've enjoyed! I know I enjoyed writing it, though I thought in the beginning (haha!) that it would be a quick PWP and it wouldn't take nearly as much time and energy as it took to write.
I plan to write more in the future about my favorite messed up Mafia members, the Midnight Mafia crew.
Also, I made the attempt at messing with tenses here, trying to simulate that part of Homestuck and especially within the Intermission where time is kind of fluid. So so Deuce it's present tense, and for everyone else it's past. But then in the end they sort of merge together. I had some people not entirely sure what made me do that, so I'm not sure if that method worked or was just horrible confusing. Either way, I had fun working in a different tense than past, because I don't really use present tense ever.