Fic: Find You In a Crowded Room
Dec. 24th, 2011 01:43 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sabinetzinTitle: Find You In a Crowded Room
Summary: It's not a question of belief.
Fandom: The Usual Suspects
Word Count: 592
Rating/Contents: NC-17, non-con, public sex
Pairing: Keyser Soze/Keaton
Policies: Read my archiving, feedback, and warnings policies here.
A/N: Oh, don't even act like you didn't see this coming. And, uh, I guess, merry Christmas Eve?
Keaton doesn't believe in Keyser Soze.
He's a fairy tale, a cypher, a whisper in the dark. Someone always knows him who knows him who knew him- until the obvious happened, of course, because no one ever, ever knew him and got out alive. He's heard one or two people brag that they did, over the years, the way drunks do.
They didn't last until morning.
Still, Keyser Soze is rarely at the forefront of Keaton's mind, no more than Jack the Ripper would be. He likes to think that his relationship to Soze is much like his relationship to old Jack, actually; he doesn't bother them, they don't bother him. This arrangement works out quite well for him for a long time, but then there is, of course, that night.
He's drinking- it doesn't matter where, some bar that doesn't make a difference- and he's getting the good kind of drunk, the kind where everyone is his friend. The place is a shithole, albeit a cheerful sort of shithole, so he doesn't even bother with the bathrooms, stepping out to piss in the alley.
He's barely even got his dick out when he feels the gun against the base of his skull. He's got nothing on him, not even a pocket knife, so he carefully raises his hands and puts them flat against the wall; he's dead at the time, but he wouldn't like to get deader.
He knows what's coming when whoever it is doesn't reach for his wallet, just yanks down his jeans; the gun doesn't move a centimeter, doesn't waver at all. He hears the guy spit into his hand, the jangle of a belt buckle, and that's it, he has to struggle, because he can't decide whether that or a bullet sounds worse.
The man slams him forward, and his face is shoved against the filthy brick of the wall; he's helpless, then, knows he is, because he's just outmatched. There are thick fingers inside him, the wetness on them doing absolutely nothing to help, and then the sharp, angry press of a cock, violating him. He bites his lip and doesn't make a fucking sound, despite the fact that it hurts worse than anything he's ever felt, excepting maybe the time he got shot; if he's going to have to take this, he's not going to give this bastard the satisfaction.
The only blessing is that the cocksucking lunatic who's doing this to him isn't fucking around about it. He's just driving in over and over, like he wants this to be done just as quickly as Keaton does. He leans in close to Keaton's ear, close enough that Keaton can feel his breath; he wants to flinch away, but the gun is still right there, stopping him from even trying.
"I want you to know," the man whispers. "I want you to know who did this to you."
"Fuck off," Keaton spits out, because he could fucking care less.
"This," he says, "is Keyser Soze."
He freezes; the bastard goes off right then, shooting into Keaton's ass, pushing the gun in harder against his head.
And then, suddenly, the man is gone; all Keaton catches is the swirl of a trench coat at the end of the alley.
He pulls up his pants, goes inside, pays his tab, gets the fuck out of there, and when the subject of Keyser Soze comes up after that, he fucking well keeps his fucking mouth shut.
Keaton doesn't believe in Keyser Soze.
He doesn't need to. He knows.
Summary: It's not a question of belief.
Fandom: The Usual Suspects
Word Count: 592
Rating/Contents: NC-17, non-con, public sex
Pairing: Keyser Soze/Keaton
Policies: Read my archiving, feedback, and warnings policies here.
A/N: Oh, don't even act like you didn't see this coming. And, uh, I guess, merry Christmas Eve?
Keaton doesn't believe in Keyser Soze.
He's a fairy tale, a cypher, a whisper in the dark. Someone always knows him who knows him who knew him- until the obvious happened, of course, because no one ever, ever knew him and got out alive. He's heard one or two people brag that they did, over the years, the way drunks do.
They didn't last until morning.
Still, Keyser Soze is rarely at the forefront of Keaton's mind, no more than Jack the Ripper would be. He likes to think that his relationship to Soze is much like his relationship to old Jack, actually; he doesn't bother them, they don't bother him. This arrangement works out quite well for him for a long time, but then there is, of course, that night.
He's drinking- it doesn't matter where, some bar that doesn't make a difference- and he's getting the good kind of drunk, the kind where everyone is his friend. The place is a shithole, albeit a cheerful sort of shithole, so he doesn't even bother with the bathrooms, stepping out to piss in the alley.
He's barely even got his dick out when he feels the gun against the base of his skull. He's got nothing on him, not even a pocket knife, so he carefully raises his hands and puts them flat against the wall; he's dead at the time, but he wouldn't like to get deader.
He knows what's coming when whoever it is doesn't reach for his wallet, just yanks down his jeans; the gun doesn't move a centimeter, doesn't waver at all. He hears the guy spit into his hand, the jangle of a belt buckle, and that's it, he has to struggle, because he can't decide whether that or a bullet sounds worse.
The man slams him forward, and his face is shoved against the filthy brick of the wall; he's helpless, then, knows he is, because he's just outmatched. There are thick fingers inside him, the wetness on them doing absolutely nothing to help, and then the sharp, angry press of a cock, violating him. He bites his lip and doesn't make a fucking sound, despite the fact that it hurts worse than anything he's ever felt, excepting maybe the time he got shot; if he's going to have to take this, he's not going to give this bastard the satisfaction.
The only blessing is that the cocksucking lunatic who's doing this to him isn't fucking around about it. He's just driving in over and over, like he wants this to be done just as quickly as Keaton does. He leans in close to Keaton's ear, close enough that Keaton can feel his breath; he wants to flinch away, but the gun is still right there, stopping him from even trying.
"I want you to know," the man whispers. "I want you to know who did this to you."
"Fuck off," Keaton spits out, because he could fucking care less.
"This," he says, "is Keyser Soze."
He freezes; the bastard goes off right then, shooting into Keaton's ass, pushing the gun in harder against his head.
And then, suddenly, the man is gone; all Keaton catches is the swirl of a trench coat at the end of the alley.
He pulls up his pants, goes inside, pays his tab, gets the fuck out of there, and when the subject of Keyser Soze comes up after that, he fucking well keeps his fucking mouth shut.
Keaton doesn't believe in Keyser Soze.
He doesn't need to. He knows.
