ENDGAME
There's an old adage that runs 'two people can keep a secret if one of them is dead'.
Funny. It doesn't get much use Downside.
Nevertheless, it's possible to stop someone finding something out if you're willing to put in the effort.
Four decades of outings hidden and favours pulled pay off in less than a second, when Will glances up across the small cafe table to see a double-take so good it could almost be choreographed. The ghostlike feeling of control sliding over and past him without taking hold, combined with the instant of dumbfounded shock in Chainsaw's eyes, are worth every occasionally ridiculous second of secrecy.
After the surprise clears, Chainsaw's reaction is both quick and predictable. He leans forward and wraps a hand around the side of Will's neck, digging in his fingernails slightly at the back, over the spine. Halfway between caress and assault, the gesture is a familiar one, but the circumstances give it several new layers of meaning.
"You better not think this makes you any safer, Willy," the torturer whispers, dragging him close.
Will smiles, in that way that he does, and lifts a hand to curl his fingers comfortably around Chainsaw's wrist. "Course not," he agrees, meeting Chainsaw's eyes, smelling alcohol and cinnamon on the air. The moment extends for a short, tense interval, and then-- as though at some unspoken signal-- both hands fall away simultaneously. Will picks up his coffee and sips it with every appearance of total calm-- at least until you look at his trembling fingers. Chainsaw leans back and regards him thoughtfully over the table.
It's Will who speaks first, through the faint, wry smile that rarely leaves his face anymore in Chainsaw's presence.
"So. My place or yours?"
Chainsaw blinks, looking floored for the second time in as many minutes. Will hides amusement, poorly, and waits. Not long.
"Mine," the torturer growls, pushing back his chair and grabbing Will by the collar in the same aggressive motion. Well, he's never been known for his subtlety. He half-leads, half-carries an unresisting Will out the door and down the street, letting go only when they're a full block from the coffee shop.
Will is grinning, breathlessly, in his rumpled shirt and tousled hair. It's a familiar sight. A slightly infuriating one. Chainsaw, snarling, slams him into a wall hard enough to knock the air from his lungs and kisses him before he can inhale again.
"Now I know why you've been getting tougher lately," he murmurs when he finally breaks for air, still holding Will pinned to the wall. "Cute. What do you say I take you for a test drive?"
Still lacking the breath to laugh, Will settles for a smirk. "Do I get a choice?"
Chainsaw studies him for a moment, then releases him and steps back, lifting both hands in an ironic gesture of peaceful intent. "Sure you do," he says, not quite hiding the sadistic smile.
"In that case," says Will evenly, stepping forward to meet him, "depends what you mean by 'test drive'."
"Take a wild guess," purrs Chainsaw, fisting a hand in Will's shirt and yanking him in for a kiss.
When they disengage, they're both grinning. Silently, Chainsaw turns and leads Will to the subway.
"What I don't get," he muses, ten minutes into the ride, "is how you managed to keep this shit from me for-- what, half a century? Little more, little less?"
"Forty-three years," Will replies, a little absently. "Eight-Hour helped. Dice invigilated the test."
Snort. "Invigilated?"
"It's the technical term," says Will, dryly.
"So Eights and Dice. And Eights never spilled the beans?"
"Apparently not."
"And here I thought she was on my side." Chainsaw snickers. "I'm shocked."
Will raises his eyebrows. "I'm pretty sure she's on her side," he points out. "Wherever that is."
Smirking, "You ain't even hit your first century. What makes you think you know her so goddamn well?"
"I'm good with people," he deadpans, prompting a snort from Chainsaw.
"I'll say you are."
The words are just a touch too fond; the silence that follows is awkward, broken only by the rattle of the train. When they finally arrive, Chainsaw has forgotten all about it.
Will, naturally, hasn't.
But all speculation is driven from his mind when Chainsaw tows him out into the street and down the familiar path to his house. No matter how many times he crosses this desolate stretch of road, the one thing that always rises fresh in his mind when he does is the memory of that time, of tugging on battered jeans over bloodstained thighs. Chainsaw knows it, too-- if not the cause, then the effect.
Because sometimes-- not always-- he stops, in exactly the right place, and pulls Will to him for a kiss.
Today is one of those times.
Will murmurs something wordlessly encouraging, grateful for the distraction from remembered shame, and parts his lips for Chainsaw's tongue with wholehearted enthusiasm. The grip of strong hands in his hair is painfully tight; he answers it with an arm around Chainsaw's waist and another rising up between his shoulderblades, curling his fingers against the torturer's back and clinging with increasing desperation. He knows what Chainsaw wants: submission. And he gives it, freely, moaning into the kiss.
Which only serves to piss Chainsaw off further. If there's one thing that's guaranteed to ruffle his feathers, it's handing him something he was planning to take.
All part of the game. When Chainsaw finally lets go, there's acknowledgment in the way he plants a last press of his lips on the corner of Will's mouth, quick and messy. Both men are breathing hard; Will takes a moment to lean on Chainsaw's shoulder, making a half-unwanted gift of his temporary weakness.
"If you keep doing that," he whispers, wryly amused, "one of these days we won't make it to the house."
"And fuck out in the open where anybody might see?" Chainsaw slides a hand down to Will's crotch and squeezes, none too gently. "I thought I was the exhibitionist."
"Maybe you're rubbing off on me," Will purrs in a passable imitation of Chainsaw's sleek cruelty, and laughs at the fleeting look of surprise on the torturer's face. "C'mon."
It's a mark of how off-balance Chainsaw is that for a few steps he actually lets Will lead him towards his own house, before his controlling nature reasserts itself and he shoves his way past. "I can still fuck you up," he says sweetly, closing his hand hard on Will's wrist.
Controlling the fear, Will summons a cheerful smile. "Sure," he returns, with a lightness of tone that is only partly forced. "But you'd rather fuck me."
"True. So true." Absently, Chainsaw squeezes Will's wrist a fraction harder. Over the sound of bones grinding together, he continues, "You make the greatest little noises with my cock in your ass."
The smile graduates to outright laughter. Will accepts this distraction from terror gratefully, letting Chainsaw drag him up the stairs without protest. "You are unbelievably crude," he points out, and grins when Chainsaw cackles.
"Oh, Willy. Took you this long to figure that out? And here I thought you said you were good with people or some shit."
"No, I think I figured it out a while back," Will returns dryly. "I j--"
Chainsaw forestalls further witticisms by slamming Will against the bedroom door and kissing him, fast and violent. "Shut the fuck up," he murmurs when he finally breaks for air.
Will grins, panting, letting his hands settle on Chainsaw's hips. "Okay," he replies with exaggerated innocence, and when Chainsaw slams him into the door again he laughs breathlessly through the pain.
He's still laughing half a minute later when Chainsaw bites his lip, hard but not to the point of drawing blood, and opens the door to shove him through it.
"Fucking smartass," the torturer growls, low and angry; Will has to take a quick look at his face to be reassured by the sight of the mischievous glint in his eyes. "I know how to get you to quit your yammering. Get on your knees, Willy."
His chuckles finally fade as he sinks to the floor, his hands finding their way without prompting to Chainsaw's belt, unfastening the buckle and then tugging it free of his jeans. While he's tossing it aside, Chainsaw ruffles his hair. The gesture is bizarrely affectionate.
A moment later, he's unbuttoned the button and unzipped the zipper and tugged down Chainsaw's jeans and underwear, and the hand in his hair makes a tight, tangle-wrapped fist as though to erase its prior gentleness with new cruelty. Will accepts the transformation with a small smile.
When his lips brush soft skin over hard flesh, he hears a small, pleased grunt. When he follows their path with his tongue a moment later, it's a full, low moan, rich and encouraging. The hand in his hair tightens. Obedient to the implied command, he opens his mouth and wraps his lips around Chainsaw's cock.
"There we go." The words are a low whisper, almost inaudible; Will suspects they're not entirely addressed to him. "Oh yeah. C'mon, Willy, whassamatter? Cat got your-- tongue?"
He's well enough acquainted with Chainsaw's particular rhythms to anticipate the sharp yank on the last word and get there first, moving with the inescapable tug of that hand until his nose brushes wiry curls and he nearly chokes. Nearly. Chainsaw's very good about that one. Will's never quite dared ask him why. The answer almost certainly involves more than he'd like to know about Eight-Hour anytime this century.
He rolls his tongue, pulls back slowly, and listens to the rhythm of Chainsaw's breath. When it quickens, as he knew it would, he hums smug triumph at the halfway point. The infinitesimal sigh from above him, a gasp in reverse, is better than music. All the nearly choking under the cliffs is made worthwhile by the little noises Chainsaw makes, by the look on his face when pleasure distracts him from cruelty.
That's not a thought Will wants to dwell on. Focusing all his attention on the cock in his mouth is infinitely preferable. He does exactly that, and is shortly rewarded by an appreciative groan from Chainsaw as his intermittent humming finds exactly the right resonant frequency to set the torturer's toes curling. The sense of personal victory is beautiful.
The slight pain and less slight humiliation of having Chainsaw's cock shoved down his throat as far as it can go is not so beautiful, but Will was prepared for something of the sort, and adjusts his pace accordingly. Faster. Faster. The hand tangled in his hair is a guide, but the rhythms of pulse and breath and small movements are a clearer and a quicker one; he listens to those, and moves with Chainsaw's hand almost before it pulls. Faster. He doesn't need the whispered warning, the murmur of mocking encouragement, to know Chainsaw's getting close.
When the words trail off into gasps, he pulls back and braces himself against choking on the spasm of quick thrusts. The muscles of Chainsaw's lower back tense under his hands, then gradually relax; the hand in his hair lets go, dropping down to stroke his face.
Closing his eyes, Will leans forward and rests his cheek against Chainsaw's stomach. A haphazard arc of fingernails digs into his jawline; with a soft exhalation too quiet to be called a sigh, he swallows.
The taste of semen is still salt-heavy in his mouth when he rises unasked, hands tight on Chainsaw's waist for balance. The torturer slides his fingers into Will's hair again and pulls him in for a kiss, hard and demanding. Will, as ever, accedes. His eyes blink open at the pleased little groan to see Chainsaw's just closing as he parts Will's lips with an eager tongue.
It is far from the first time Chainsaw has kissed Will after a blowjob like this. At first it was a puzzle, one of few the torturer has presented over the years. Now he's pretty sure 'kinky bastard' about covers it. That and perhaps a little contrariness, a little desire to be unexpected, to--
Never let yourself get distracted while Chainsaw is kissing you.
Will is reminded of that useful little rule when he finds himself backed up against the bed, pushed backward and awkwardly overbalanced, clinging to Chainsaw's hips and wincing at the fingernails marking his scalp.
The kiss breaks long enough for both of them to breathe. "A little-- possessive today," Will gasps out, and is rewarded with a snort and a shove to the middle of his chest; he falls back onto the bed, losing his grip on Chainsaw in the process.
"Take off your clothes," the torturer orders. Will is already pulling his shirt over his head. When he disentangles himself from the fabric and starts unbuttoning his jeans, he's greeted with the sight of a naked Chainsaw leaning against the wall by the head of the bed, watching him thoughtfully.
He raises his eyebrows. "Yes?"
"Something just occurred to me," Chainsaw starts idly; at the deliberate casualness of his tone, inevitable precursor to something creatively sadistic, Will nearly freezes.
Nearly.
Keeping his pants on at this stage of the game is just inviting violent punishment; he wriggles out of them, along with his underwear for good measure, and tosses the whole mess in a heap to the floor as Chainsaw continues speaking.
"Did you know control works on contractors if they invite it?"
...Shit.
"No," he murmurs, keeping himself very still.
Chainsaw laughs. "I can tell," he purrs, slides onto the bed, and leans over Will with a positively bloodthirsty grin. "God, you're so cute when you've got that scared-rabbit look."
Will smiles briefly. "Glad to know I'm appreciated."
"Are you trying to distract me?"
"Maybe." The smile resurfaces. "Did it work?"
"No. Don't push your luck."
"I don't plan to," Will returns evenly. Manipulating Chainsaw is dangerous, not to be done lightly.
Of course, lying to him is more so.
He's surprised that one slid past without comment. Then again, the fear he used as a cover was anything but fake; he has every reason to be terrified at the mention of control. And the falsehood is plausible, because who bothers teaching contractors that particular loophole? Eight-Hour only mentioned it once at whim. It probably would have slipped someone else's mind.
"So," says Chainsaw, hands planted to either side of Will's head, knees to either side of his hips; he pulls himself from memory into reality to listen. "Gonna invite me this time?"
"No." Flat. Unequivocal.
Afraid.
The torturer snorts. "Why not?"
"You don't own me," Will responds with a small shrug, letting a faint smile curve his lips.
"That so?"
Without waiting for a response, Chainsaw lunges down and kisses Will hard; their teeth clack together and he can feel the red wet pain of his lip starting to bleed.
He kisses back, matches Chainsaw's passion with calm desire, and grins when they part for air.
"See?" His hands are up, cradling Chainsaw's face. He squeezes gently in a gesture of simple affection, an intentional goad. "Possessive."
"Cheeky son of a bitch."
Will gasps at the sudden wet warmth of Chainsaw's tongue on his ear. "Terror-- makes-- me flippant," he pants, turning his head away to give that tongue a better angle. "It's a flaw."
Chainsaw comes up for air and grins. "No fucking wonder you're so mouthy."
They're both still laughing when Chainsaw leans over to retrieve a pair of handcuffs from the night-table.
A few hours later, Will's wrists are cuffed to the bars of the headboard and he at least is no longer laughing. When he forgets himself and struggles-- often-- the metal bites into his skin, which makes Chainsaw snicker. Thankfully there's no blood anywhere, although he has no guarantee that state will last.
He moans and shivers when something warm and wet closes around the head of his cock: Chainsaw's mouth, hot tongue swirling in maddening circles. A heartbeat passes, and two, and three; he has enough time to draw in one long breath and let it out again before the sensation retreats, leaving him thrusting pathetically into empty air.
Somewhat desperately, he wonders how long this situation can persist.
"Let me in," Chainsaw growls, pulling Will's head back and running his tongue along the bared expanse of throat. The sensation plays on his vulnerable position to provoke combinations of terror and ecstasy that Will wishes he didn't know were possible.
"No," he responds, sounding almost defeated in contrast to last night's steadfast refusals.
"Let me in."
Louder: "No."
Chainsaw shifts his grip, curling steady fingers around Will's cock, pressing warm lips to his ear. "What'll it take?" he asks, softly. "How many hours of this before you crack, Willy?"
"Never."
A short laugh. "Never's a long fucking time."
"You'll get bored first." Now he's grimly resolute, determination regained in the face of facts.
"Get bored of you? Pull the other one, it has bells attached."
"Fuck you," he retorts.
"Not until you give me control."
Will grits his teeth. "Fuck off."
"Not until--"
"Chainsaw, this is stupid. You know it is. If you hurt me to make me give in, I can't; the loophole is designed not to work like that. If you don't hurt me, nothing you threaten or offer can possibly be better than an indefinite reprieve from torture. I'll never crack," he says flatly.
"If you're right, then telling me that is about the dumbest thing you could ever do. What gives?"
He laughs. "You've been at this for a day already and I'm not thinking straight."
Chainsaw grins smugly, trailing his fingertips down Will's spine. "Well, I must be doing something right, then. Now let's see, where was I..."
Will groans, defeated again, and lets his head flop back onto the bed. "You're fucking twisted," he mutters.
"And you're fucking me. What does that say about you?"
"That I'm a glutton for-- ohfuck-- oh oh oh ohhhhhh--" He sucks in a heated, gasping breath, struggling against the handcuffs that secure him to the frame of the bed.
"Yes?" asks Chainsaw, lifting his head.
"--punishment. Dammit, Chainsaw."
"Gonna tell me I'm a sadistic son of a bitch?"
"What would be the point? You already know."
Snort. "Good one."
Expecting another teasing caress, Will tenses slightly; he's almost to the point of relaxing when Chainsaw breaks the silence in a worryingly thoughtful tone.
"Hang on."
Will reviews the past few minutes of conversation in a search for the origin of this statement, and curses silently when he finds it.
"How the fuck do you know how the loophole's designed?"
The hand around his cock squeezes hard; he squirms, tries to twist away, and yelps in startlement when Chainsaw bites his ear.
"Don't fucking make me repeat myself."
Caught. Well, really, did he think he could get away with that one forever? No.
"...I lied," he admits, suddenly conscious of the way his legs are pinned apart by Chainsaw's strategic sprawl. Whole new vistas of frightened arousal open up before him, each less pleasant than the last. "I knew about it before you said anything. Eights mentioned it once."
"Why?" Chainsaw's voice is low and dangerous, his breath hot on the sore shell of Will's ear.
"I don't know," Will replies truthfully, suppressing a shiver.
He knows before the words leave his mouth that they won't be a good enough answer; Chainsaw proves him right by digging sharp fingernails into his thigh and repeating the question. "Why the fuck did you lie to me, Will?" The words are louder now. Angrier.
"I don't know!"
"...I'm almost tempted to believe you, I really am. You strike me as just about crazy enough to lie to me on a whim. But y'know," and he drags his nails up Will's leg, past his groin and across his stomach, "I'm pretty sure there's more to it than that."
"There's not," says Will; the words strain their way free of a throat tense with fear. Only one way out of this situation has even a half-decent chance of not ending in torture. He hates it, but he hates the idea of being castrated for Chainsaw's amusement considerably more.
Full disclosure. Hold nothing back and hope Chainsaw relents.
"I was playing that conversation completely by ear," he elaborates quickly, tight-voiced. "I do that sometimes with you. More often than I should. I didn't think about it; I just did it."
The torturer plants his hands in the tangle of blankets to either side of Will's head and stares down at him contemplatively.
"Seriously?"
Will won't let himself relax-- won't even let himself close his eyes. "Seriously," he affirms.
Their gazes stay locked for another few beats. Then Chainsaw grins, shifts his weight, and reaches down to muss Will's hair.
"You're a total nutjob," he says cheerfully, "but I like it. Now where were we again?"
"The same place we've been since yesterday," Will mutters, a slow smile forming on his face. "Orgasm denial and-- hhhhaah-- you interrupting me midsentence with-- fuck fuck fffffuck."
Chainsaw drops a wet, teasing kiss on Will's thigh and blinks up at him innocently. "Interrupting you midsentence with what?"
"With-- with your tongue on my-- oh fuck Chainsaw please."
"Begging! I like begging. But you know what I want, Willy. Gonna give it to me?"
He's almost tempted.
"...No," he whispers unsteadily.
"Too bad," the torturer chirps, and lets go.
Will utters a helpless moan, letting his head thump back onto the pillow again. "Goddammit," he mutters, "would you just fuck me already?"
"...Now there's an idea."
When Chainsaw's hand reaches between Will's legs to finger his asshole, he whimpers, more from discomfort than arousal. A few seconds later the hand withdraws, and he knows better than to sigh with relief.
It's back after less than a minute, as predicted, slick with lube and circling his anus in a slow, teasing rhythm. He whimpers again, louder, then bites his lip to stifle a cry as Chainsaw slides a single finger up into him.
"Oh, c'mon, Willy. Don't get shy on me now. Let's hear it."
Will remains silent.
The finger twists hard, and he yelps with pure surprise; the sound trails off rapidly into a heartfelt groan that has Chainsaw snickering into his stomach.
"Talk dirty to me," the torturer purrs. Will wonders if the sudden shift in objective is supposed to be this obvious. Of course if Chainsaw can't own him one way he'll try for another.
And is Will going to let him?
His eyes drift shut. He squirms deliberately on Chainsaw's finger, letting out another whimper when warm lips close around his cock.
"Fuck me," he says, clear and steady and almost unashamed, hoping for the faint flush in his cheeks to be disguised by dim light and a poor angle. "Chainsaw, please, I want your cock in my ass."
Finding the words is easy; Chainsaw says things like this all the damn time, and it's just a matter of switching perspective. Saying them, now, that's the trick.
He looks up to find that familiar face staring at him disbelievingly. Chainsaw's mouth is slightly open; his tongue darts out to wet parted lips, and Will abruptly sees the numerous tiny signs that add up to a look of glazed lust.
Is that really all it takes?
"More," the torturer demands, closing his free hand around the base of Will's cock and pushing a second finger past the slowly relaxing sphincter of his anus. Will gasps and tightens up again, shivering; Chainsaw laughs. "Keep up the good work and you might even get to come today," he husks, his breath warm and humid on Will's skin.
"I want-- I need you to fuck me," Will begs, squeezing his eyes shut again and leaving the uncertain tremor in his voice. "You're too fucking good at this. All of this. Please, Chainsaw."
"Shit, Willy, you've been holding out on me." He dips his head and licks a slow path up Will's shaft, then grins. "Too fucking good at what, exactly?"
Will tries to answer; the words are cut off by a yelp and a hiss, and he jerks helplessly, caught between Chainsaw's hands like an ear of corn. (The words 'buttered and ready to eat' tack themselves onto the end of the simile in Chainsaw's imagined voice.)
Apparently "at ahhhssssssssJesusfuck" is a good enough answer, because Chainsaw lowers his mouth to Will's cock and does something indescribable with his tongue, forestalling shame and further begging with equal force.
The fingers inside him press up and in, prompting an incoherent moan; he thrusts up into Chainsaw's mouth and whimpers plaintively, trailing off into loud, unsteady breathing when mouth and hand withdraw.
He doesn't look; he doesn't have to. When the head of Chainsaw's cock nudges his anus, he groans out a fervent "Please yes--" and relaxes as best he can.
It still hurts a little. Then Chainsaw's fingers wrap tight and slick around his shaft, and he is beyond caring. Through some combination of chance and design, the angle is perfect; he cries out wordlessly when a rough thrust nails his prostate, does it again on the next, and gives himself up to screams of lust as the pattern continues at an ever-quickening pace.
Twice he approaches the edge; twice Chainsaw holds him there, pounding into him ruthlessly, and gentles the strokes of that teasing hand until the pressure of incipient orgasm fades from his body.
The third time, he gasps in a quick breath and starts talking before he can second-guess himself.
"Chainsaw, please let me come-- fuck, you bastard, I'm so fucking close-- please, let me come, please fucking make me come fuck you oh Chainsaw fuck me please yes--!"
That last word spirals up into a whine, then a wail, then a hoarse shout. He twists and writhes, impaling himself frantically on Chainsaw's cock, bucking up into the delicious constriction of that hand, eyes squeezed shut and mouth falling open.
Through his helpless panting and the savage explosion of pleasure, he hears and feels Chainsaw start to follow him over the edge. The few seconds of labored breath as he slides down from the peak with Chainsaw still pumping in and out of him are a twisted mess; he can't tell if the hard hot feel of those last rapid thrusts is pain or pleasure, and he's not sure about the usefulness of the distinction.
Eventually, it stops.
Chainsaw lets out a soft, delighted groan, pulls out, and flops onto the bed at Will's side. "That," he declares smugly, "was fucking fantastic."
Will summons the breath to snort. "Glad to be appreciated," he replies.
"Smartass."
"So..." He tries for casual, fails, knows it, goes ahead anyways. "Are you planning to untie me?"
Chainsaw reaches up to play with the handcuffs while he thinks; the pain clues Will in to the fact that he bruised his wrists very nicely just now.
"Mmm..." A hard tug; Will yelps despite himself. "Nope."
"Bastard." Somewhere between exhaustion and defeat, he finds his tone has acquired a note of fondness.
"Don't I know it," Chainsaw agrees, almost tenderly. "G'night, Willy. Sleep sweet."
"Night." Pause. Mumbled sleepily: "You asshole."
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