Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There was nothing unordinary about that Thursday morning. Roll out of bed, read the news and spend 5 minutes pondering what this is all for, brush your teeth and force the overnight oats your roommate Penelope had made down your throat, no matter how much the texture of chia seeds irks you. You’ll never understand why she likes them so much, but you can’t say no to free breakfast. There’s a stack of books next to your work bag, all signed copies of Intermezzo, ready to go on sale at your small book store on the corner of 6th and Park, in the bustling heart of Valdivian City. ‘Chapter One’ had been a dream come true to open a small bookstore and coffee shop next to the city’s biggest park. You were pleasantly busy most days, content in your little life recommending the people of your city their next 5 star read, or making iced blueberry matchas for the small groups of girls who gathered to discuss their latest romantasy read. It was your life’s work, after finishing your degree in Creative Writing & Historic Linguistics, you had been stuck. Stuck until a mysterious amount of money was left to your name by an unknown benefactor. You’d thought it was a scam, at first, but the bank had confirmed it for you. $500,000 to your name. 

October is always sort of cold, a chill biting at your heels as the shutters clatter upwards and you fumble your keys into the door, bell chiming as you head inside. Your hands busy themselves with stacking up the signed copies of the Sally Rooney novel on the shelves near the coffee bar, the bell on the front door ringing as your co-worker and confidant Mira hurries himself into the shop, hands rubbing together as the door clicks shut. “Walk in like yourself, why don’t you?” you laugh, getting a laugh back from him as he hangs up his coat and scarf, a mop of blonde hair flopped over his forehead. “It’s fucking cold out there!” He jaunts back, padding over to take some of the books out of your hand, the stack near enough ready to topple over. “You gotta be more careful with that, Y/N… One of these days you’re gonna end up taking one of us out trying to carry the world's supply of hardbacks!” He frets, starting to line them all up neatly, blue and white covers staring him back in the face. “Thank you, Mira, you’re a star” you hum, swinging around to the back of the coffee bar to start up the machines to rinse, and check the stock of milks and other cold ingredients. “The usual, poppet?” you ask, and he hums in agreement, flicking through the pages of one of the copies in his hand. “Please. I need it after that commute…” He trails off, and you pause for a moment, the smell of unground coffee beans smacking you awake. “Y’alright?” You ask, not sure what to make of his faltering tone.

“Yeah! Yeah, it was just weird, this guy… He had stopped me on the tube and asked about what time we open. It was just kinda unsettling, y’know… Like, how’d that guy even know I work here!” Mira looks a little spooked, but you are more than sure there’s an explanation there. The coffee grinder whirrs, a moment of paused conversation to allow it to finish, and you tip the grounds into the basket of the portafilter. “Maybe he just saw you in the window and recognised you or something” You muse, the gentle trickle of coffee into the mug underscoring your words. You reach up to one of the shelves to grab Mira’s tea, and dig around in the small pot of utensils for your tea spoon. 

The door chimes open again, and a muti-coloured mess of hair on top of a lanky guy’s head, tight black shirt and large blue coat with a pattern you can only describe as vaguely Connect 4-ish, comes barreling into the shop, almost tripping on his mismatched shoes. He looks sort of disheveled, like he’d run laps of the city to find the shop, and he pants a little as he looks between the both of you, almost as though he’s trying to sus you out. “Uh- You- We don’t actually open for another 15 min-” You cut Mira off with a soft laugh , thinking little of the man’s seemingly rushed demeanor. “It’s alright, you look like you’ve sped a mile just to come here! What can I getcha?” You smile at the now slightly calmer beanstalk in front of you, as he pulls a note from his pocket, still panting a little. “I- Ah, golly… An Americano and a pumpkin spiced latte, with almond milk, if you’ve got it-” 

“Course we’ve got it, silly! That’ll be $11.65 whenever you’re ready! Mira, could you ring him up please-” You start to work on the drinks, and notice the tall man’s jittery state, humming as the palm of your hand presses down on the syrup pump, liquid spattering into the bottom of a cream takeout cup. The lanky man seems to be looking around like he’s trying to remember the place like the back of his hand, shakily tapping an AmEx card to the reader in Mira’s slightly shaky hand. It was so unlike him to be so thrown off by an early customer, I mean, you guys did this all the time, often letting the off customer through before opening for their coffee before work. Your hands have worked idly this whole time, and there's now two cups on the side, a small sticker of your shop’s logo on them. “Here you go, poppet” You beam, and before you know it, he’s legging it back out of the door.

“That was the guy!” Mira whisper-shouted, almost like he was scared that the guy would come storming back into the cafe at any moment, “That's the freaking guy from the tube!” His hands flap about a little, and you can’t help but pull him into a gentle side hug “Mira, I’m sure he was just coming this direction anyway and wanted coffee before work. It’s not like we’re being targeted as a key location for a crime ring!” He laughs and nods a little “Yeah, I’m sorry, you’re so right, this isn’t The Maddest Obsession …” You both get some sort of giggle out of that, as you walk to flip the shop sign to open. 

“What I wouldn’t give for a night with Christian Allister though!” You sigh dreamily, walking over to the romance section of the store. “All brooding and evil and dangerous- ”  The blonde laughs a little louder, the both of you enjoying the quieter part of the work day. “Ooh, yes, nothing says fuck me like criminal activity!”  Both of you settle after a bout of laughter, starting to let customers through the doors, helping them browse the selection of books, the encounter with the strange man fading into the blur of other customers.

“Did you find her?” His voice echoes the walls of the burgundy and wood office, back turned to the door, gazing through the window. The pistol on his desk caught the autumn sun, its gunmetal barrel glinting straight into Parker’s eyes, a reminder of his fate if he dared step wrong in his presence. “Yes Boss. Exactly where we thought she’d be. I- uh, I got what you asked for, Boss.” His hands shake a little as he places one of the cups on the stockier man’s desk. He spins, and the red sheen of his glasses seem to make him look more intimidating than Parker recalls. A neat quiff of brown hair sits on his head, and a large hand combs through it, the collection of rings on his knuckles catching in it for just a moment. Lifting the cup to his mouth, he tips it back a little and his shoulders seem to relax just slightly from their perfect posture. “Ah- So they did have almond milk after all?” He hums, nodding approvingly at Parker, who was just happy he’d live to see another day. After seeing what had become of Jerry… Well’ he certainly wouldn't want to get his coffee order wrong. Parker also knew he was to keep this order under wraps, and maintain to everyone that the sweet latte had been for him, because what sort of drug lord gets almond milk? 

He peers at Parker over the gold rimmed red frames, eyes just as scarlet as the lenses he wore, before moving to stand up. “Now that that’s out of the way… I have my faith in you that everything is situated, Bradley?” “Yes Cha- Boss. Should keep the cops distracted and her safe.” He stutters a little, and the brunette raises his eyebrow, but pays little mind to the slip up. As long as she is safe, no one gets hurt.

But when you’re a gang leader, the most wanted man in Valdivian that the police were yet to crack the identity of, nothing is ever so simple. Chance had first seen you in your first semester at college, when he’d only just started getting involved in all of this. He was scrawnier at the time, hung around with the losers and spent his days playing G&G and his nights running powder across the city for a couple extra bucks. But you? God, you were the most radiant thing he’d ever seen. You were on the board of the student’s union, a straight A student, and worst of all, so very taken at the time. Keith was everything Chance wasn’t. Hunky, rich, and a total jerk. A jerk that didn’t deserve you, one that seemed to make you shrink next to him and his group of asshole friends, and Chance couldn’t stand it. 

The sight of you so quiet. So dulled. It was enough to a point he couldn’t take it. The timing was perfect, really. He needed to prove himself in this double life, prove he could be more than just a runner, and that was the first time Chance had caught the bug for killing. The way the sound of the bullet rang through the air, and the crack as it split the bastard’s skull. It was addictive, and it caught the attention of the man at the helm of the operation he’d been under at the time. Dorian taught Chance well, put him in the gym with his own trainer, Dunk, and built him up physically. He had his PA, Skylar, get him out of those god awful patterned harem pants, and Mac, the organisation's top hacker, got Chance to grips with the systems. 

Mafia bosses have expiry dates though, and eventually, Dorian got got. Chance had been the one to find him, not long after graduation, after he’d stared you down, those long legs in a gown, the ones he snapped photos of and planned to fuck into his own fist over the thought of kissing up and down. Duty called, however, and he saw Dorian’s guts spattered up the office wall, a knife pierced through his stomach, and it had felt strange to him that he hadn’t screamed. The team cleaned him up, and there wasn’t really a question about it. Chance was in charge, and he took no prisoners.

It starts when Dunk bursts Chance’s office door open, sending it clattering against the wall. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing.” Chance snarls, striding over to grab Dunk’s collar. It’s the most important heist he’s ever pulled off and how dare the trainer disrupt him this way, “They- They got to her, Boss.” he exhales, and Chance puts him down, face flashing with what looked to be rage. “What do you mean, they got to her, Dunk?” He half-growls, his hand already reaching for the gun on his desk, slipping it into his blazer pocket. “The blonde one, they let him escape instead- She’s in-”

“Enough. I’ll sort this myself seeing as you incompetent goons can’t seem to kidnap the right fucking person” Chance’s shoulder forces Dunk into the wall as he storms out of his office. Oh, Curt and Rod are so fucked for this.

You’re tied to a chair, legs bound by rope as a figure approaches. All you remember was someone kicking the door in, telling Mira to run for it, one man grabbing your wrists and one shoving something over your mouth. From through your blurry eyes, you see a man in a suit, vaguely familiar, pant legs pressed and starched, blood spattered up his left side, barely visible but there, and by God could you smell it. There's no tie, and the cream shirt is halfway unbuttoned, adorned by what look to be maps but your eyes could easily be deceiving you. A pin hangs off the shirt collar, undone, two red, 20-or-so sided crystals, connected by a gold chain, dangle from his unpinned collar, chest heaving, hair stuck to his pecs with sweat. The red sunglasses top it off, along with the cigarette between his teeth and the pistol in his hand. The tuts, walking towards you, barrel aimed at your chin. “Tsk, I told ‘em not to touch you, and here you are. Can’t really let you go either, sunshine, little bookstore clerks, you’re all goody two-shoes… but you were always a good girl” He hums, the dim bulb of the warehouse lighting the frames up, and you can see his eyes. Red.  Like the blood spattered over his cheek, or the healing gash on his eyebrow. “You got two choices here. You do as I say, or you die, got it, darling?”

Chapter Text

Your breath baits in your throat, and you feel like death might be the preferable option, as he stalks over to you. The man spins the gun in his hand idly, while almost studying your face, eyes traipsing up your jaw, across your cheeks, and down your bound form. If you weren’t so scared of dying, you’d probably find this all too attractive, and bodies reacting how they do, you feel a little slick pool between your legs. Fidgeting against the restraint, he laughs, like you’re some poor doe, and runs the cold tip of his pistol down your jaw. “The more you struggle, the harder this is gonna be, Y/N” 

“H-How do you-” You choke out, tears running hot as he tilts your head up to face him with the metal. His eyes flash red, gold frames only slightly hiding the mirthy gaze you have locked onto him, and his eyebrow raises as he watches the way your thighs rub for him, the way saliva coats your bottom lip and drips just ever so slightly. For the first in a long time, the hairs on the back of his neck, caked in some poor sod’s blood, stand at attention. You would never, right? This was not how Chance had expected this to go. 

Usually, when he kidnaps, there’s a struggle. 

But you?

 You’re so very pliable under the tip of his pistol, tear-glossed eyes looking up at him, clawing along his bloodied jaw and the thick muscle of his neck. He somehow felt as though it was him that was under hostage, and it was the lusty gaze you cast over him, tracing over his edges, that cut deep enough into his act that he groaned under his breath, poking the tip of the gun at your lips to test just how far he could take this. The cold of the pistol and the warmth radiating from his digits, only inches from your flush face, make your lip tremble. This whole situation felt straight out of one of the novels on your store bookshelves, the ones with an all too handsome machiavellian gang leader and a slightly smokey looking cover. 

Your brain snaps back to reality as a waft of thick smoke blows your direction and you sputter a little, a lit cigarette hanging from your captor’s mouth, bobbing a little and letting ash fall onto your lap as he prods the gun against your mouth a little harder as his eyebrow raises.

“Open up, then.”

Oh, you were so dead. 

So dead. 

He wanted you to shove the gun into your mouth so he could blow your brains out, you were sure of it. So sure of it that it barely registered in your head that his fingers were playing with his belt buckle as he smirks down at the sight of your lips wrapping around the barrel, tongue flat against the bottom of the cylinder as he slides it to hit against your tonsil, and you gag. 

Hard.

Your vision blurs into a haze of tears as you start to accept your fate, and you wonder how Mira’ll cope running the shop on his own. He’s a strong man, you decide, and he’s got it in the bag. You think about how Penelope will cope with the rent and wish you’d left the poor girl something if your half-written will and-

“N-Ngh~ That’s it~”

W-What..? 

You blink away your tears and see him, red faced (not just from the blood), towering over you, pistol slick with your drool as he stares intently. His glasses were more pink than red as they fogged up, sweat beading at his nasal ridge, making them slip down the slope of his bloodied nose. Panting like a bitch in heat, he eyes your slick tongue, saliva dripping off the tip of it onto your shaking thighs, hot and wet as it seeps through the fabric of your clothes. A pyretic humidity fills the air between you both as the metal slides back over your taste buds.

The gun slips into your mouth.

Out again.

In again.

His hips rut the air in tandem. Thick tobacco blows your way as he pushes it further, china on steel as your teeth scrape against the gun, the man clearly having his fun with watching your blown pupils appear and disappear into view behind your eyelids. Dappled with the faint sparkle of an eyeshadow you’d bought 5 or so years ago, they flutter back open to watch Chance pull the weapon out from your mouth, a foggy ring around the metal at the deepest point you’d managed to take it, inspecting it like fine art. A burner phone thwips out of his back pocket.

Click.

The flash of his phone camera seems to blind even him in the warehouse, as he groans and rubs his eyes beneath his glasses to the tune of your choked out panting. Whatever he’s doing, clearly he has a thing for the way you sputter at him, the way saliva drips down your chin and mixes with the grey tears, stained by the fibres of the coat of mascara that clings weakly to your lashes. 

For Chance, killing is an act of violence, but kidnapping is an act of eroticism. 

To see the person of his infatuation bend and break to his very will, under the tip of his pistol, it gives him back what he never had. It pays back tenfold for all the times you didn’t notice him in college, or at leats, all the times he believes you didn’t notice him. Because of course you did. You’d have been a fool not to notice the scruffy haired nerd in the front row of class, answering all of Lyric’s questions like he’d studied them the night before. The only reason you didn’t do anything was Keith. 

Keith and his stupid growls every time you looked Chance’s way. Keith and the conveniently timed roses at your doorstep every time you’d fought over Chance. Not that the brunette knew that. All he saw right now is you.

You. Raw, and teary under his thumb. 

“You look lovely like that, princess…”

Tocabbo stings your eyes again as he crouches down to look you in the eyes, his face blurred and distorted as he looks into your eyes. Part of him, somewhere deep within the recesses of his hardened heart, felt guilty. All those years ago, he’d have destroyed himself from the inside out for making you cry like this. For bringing you to teras and fucking your throat with his gun just to feel something. But a life of crime, and too much heartbreak later, and this is what the man was willing to afford himself at this moment. Nothing more, nothing less. 

Content in the knowledge that you are totally and completely at the will of him, with no knowledge, to his knowledge, of who he is just yet.

“Now… This’ll be really easy if y’this obedient, Y/N. Can you do as I say~?”

He smirks and you nod, slowly, as he begins to loosen what holds you to the chair, dark red lines in your wrists and ankles that he wishes he could kiss and lap at. Not that he would right now. He hasn’t even gotten what he needs of you yet. He helps you stand, knees wobbling as he tsks at you, opting to, in a deft swoop, toss you over his shoulder as the blood rushes to your skull and you go horrifically dizzy.

Your world hazes more than it already has as you catch the tail end of his speech, before the world goes dark around you…

“Let’s talk about this somewhere more… Comfortable, hm?”