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coldresolve · 3 months

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Moneymakers, pt.xlv // Speaking Your Language

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Freezing your balls off, Renee has to admit, is a weirdly sobering endeavor.

A second cigarette is held loosely between his index finger and thumb, ember flaring at every turn of the wind. He squats in the darkest corner of the patio with his arms poised on his knees, shivering whenever the subzero weather manages to slip through his clothes to cool the sweat that lingers on his skin. Hands still shaking slightly, but that might just be from cold; his face is starting to go numb, too, and whatever sparse movement he makes, like bringing the cigarette to his lips, or refreshing the screen, feels stiff. Requires effort.

Can we talk?

Received at 6:07 – but Renee didn’t read it until 7:51.

It started snowing sometime during the whole ordeal. Not enough to stick the landing, but every few breaths or so, Renee feels the prick in his throat of a snowflake he inhales. He can’t see the moon, can’t even see past the light emanating from the house; anything beyond the halfway point of the back yard is a void.

The screen dims slightly. He brushes his thumb against it, and it comes back to life. Another lungful of smoke, thick in his throat, makes the saliva in his mouth foam up. He swallows the bitterness. The phone is close enough to his face that he can focus on the individual pixels that make up the text. The cracks draw an almost imperceptible shadow across the screen, and he wonders if it’s a trick of the broken glass, or if the LEDs underneath have been damaged in some way. The tiny clock in the corner reads 8:54.

Fancy that, he’s already gotten older.

He shivers. The screen dims. He refreshes it. He takes another drag.

It feels like he’s been stuck in this cycle for hours, but whenever he tries to respond, something gets the better of him. What’s there to talk about? What part of it hasn’t already been said? The quiet reluctance in Lazarus’ demeanor, the air of guilt in that motel room. The moment of hesitation when Renee blurted it out – he's not blind. The sex is good, but it’s just not going to be them. Laz is too busy; Renee is too…

He takes another drag – but it burns in his mouth, awful out of nowhere - he’s smoking the fucking filter. Hacking loudly, he throws the butt away, and spends a good minute desperately spitting out the foul taste. When he has finally gathered his bearings and looks up again, the screen hasn’t just dimmed into standby, it has turned off completely.

Renee is a hair’s breadth from pressing the home button to unlock it again, but he stops himself. He’ll have to face it eventually, but maybe tonight is not the night. He feels depleted. Adding the aftermath of a more explicit rejection to the tally won’t do him any favors, and he’s not sure he has enough remaining control tonight to curb what he says.

Laz deserves better.

Grimacing, Renee rubs his forehead hard with a knuckle, settling further back against the wall. It just feels fucking awful. The cracks forming in the wall of shit he has managed to build up. What does he look like in the eyes of another? In the eyes of Lazarus? The unstable wreck of a man, barely grasping the tethers that keep him grounded, losing them over and over and over again. A man who somehow manages to fuck up every relationship he gets into, every job he works, every opportunity he is given.

And in the eyes of Conrad – the same, now enraged. Violent and cruel for no other reason than to gain… not control, but just the feeling of being in control. And failing miserably at even that.

He thinks about suicide again, and it’s different this time. Not some intrusive thought hammering through his skull, forcing his focus. Not something wreathed in spite or self-hatred, or glamorized through mental images of gore, the mess he’d leave behind, the trails of reactions to a violent death. This is calm. Clear. Sober.

He thinks about it as an option.

Quietly, along with the other routes he could go from here. Turning himself in and dealing with the repercussions of what he’s done. Leaving the house in the dead of night, fleeing this shithole state, fleeing the whole country. Or, well… he could just check out.

It wouldn’t have to be theatric. He could get drunk, down a bag and a half of pills, fall asleep. No drama, no shouting, no big parade. Scribbled on a post-it note on a desk nearby, perhaps, one last sentiment for the world: Yeah, nah, I’m good.

Strangely comforting, that whole idea. Grounding.

The breeze is picking up, the snow falls heavier. It melts on his skin, but the crystals on his sleeves glimmer in the low light. Somewhere far away, coming from the direction of the woods, the high-pitched wail of an animal, uncertain, seeking. A fox, maybe. The silence is otherwise his only companion.

Eventually, he lets out a halfhearted sigh. Presses the home button. With his eyes adjusted to the dark, the screen’s light stings his eyes, and he squints to read the time.

9:25.

His thighs ache from the uncomfortable position. Although he has cooled down enough to no longer shake, the iciness in his fingers has long since started to hurt. With a grunt – several, actually – he hauls his stiff body to its feet, pacing for a while to get the blood running. Rolls his shoulders and then his neck through several deep breaths, before he stretches his arms wide, and finally settles with a drawn-out sigh.

Maybe he has already made that decision, he thinks, if he’s being honest. Maybe that’s why he keeps drifting back to it, time after time. He’s always known he wouldn’t make it to thirty.

Metal clacks as he pulls the door handle, pushing the sliding glass door to the side, kicking off his shoes. The living room is dark, but beyond the nonexistent threshold to the kitchen area, the lamp above the dining table casts out its warm yellow glow. Renee swears he can taste bile in his throat at the sight of Davin sitting there, but he bites it down. Decides aggressively ignoring the fucker will do for tonight.

As he shuts the door again, shrugging off his jacket, the warmth of the house finally starts to seep in, searing through frozen skin. He throws the jacket over the armrest of the couch, rubbing life into his hands as he makes his way through the kitchen, gaze locked on the hallway –

And Davin casually gets to his feet, stepping out to block his way.

Stopping in his tracks, Renee’s hands drop to his sides. He takes a step to the left.

Snorting, Davin does the same.

Renee sharply turns on his heel. Lets out a terse laugh toward the ceiling. “Are you fucking serious?”

“Yes. Sit down.”

“We’re not doing this.”

“We are, Renee.”

Renee turns back, shaking his head. “I’m gonna go to my room and get blasted, actually. High off my fucking—”

“Sit. Down.” Davin’s eyes are dark, and he doesn’t manage to keep the disdain out of his voice.

Renee snarls. “Or what, exactly?”

Davin’s jaw works, breaths coming slow and steady through his nose, eyes scanning his opponent. “I think we’ve left a lot between the lines,” he says low. “Things we might have to work out more explicitly.”

“Schedule a fucking appointment, then.”

“Conrad is right. I am using you.”

Renee pauses at that. His breathing is starting to pick up, the familiar heat in his chest. Hands flexing at his sides. Gnashing teeth.

“I’ve manipulated you,” Davin continues slowly. “Tried to get in your head. Steer you around. Pinned you to a sense of obligation.” He juts out his chin, raising a brow. “Do you want to know why?”

“In the name of good partnership, I assume,” Renee bites out dryly.

Davin smirks. Takes a deep breath, nodding his head slightly. “I put a price tag on entry,” he mutters. “Point zero two per view, eight and a half thousand viewers. Give and take, with the current exchange on ether, that’s four hundred thousand dollars.” With an earnest expression, he holds up a finger for emphasis. “In one night, Renee.”

The sneer fades from Renee’s face. He stares at Davin, shoulders sinking somewhat.

“We’re getting where we wanted to be,” Davin says, eyes intense. “I’m not gonna let you run this shit into the ground. Not now. Not after everything we’ve built here. I am trying to make this thing fucking worth it.”

Renee swallows thick, closing his mouth.

He would be lying if he said he didn’t see, perfectly clearly, the sheer scale of that number. Be lying if he said he could remember ever possessing even an eighth of that throughout his entire adult life. A decade in abject poverty. The memory of biting back shame, having to ask near-strangers if he could spend the night; and curling up behind dumpsters when he couldn’t.

400.000.

And yet…

He shifts his weight from one leg to the other, eyes drifting to the knife clipped in Davin’s pocket – and the hand that has hovered next to it since this conversation started.

A knife, he realizes, that Davin doesn’t need to defend himself against Conrad.

The breath he ejects from his nose feels hollow. An involuntary chuckle bubbles up from his chest soon after, which in turn veers into free laughter. He turns, pacing a few steps through the kitchen, rubbing the back of his neck. Turns back around to face Davin, grinning wide. “If you wanted to call me stupid, you could’ve just led with that, you know?”

Davin frowns. “What?”

Renee throws out his hands. “I guess I gotta hand it to you. Owning up to being manipulative, as a manipulation tactic – that’s some fucking four dimensional chess shit.” He takes a step towards Davin. “What’s next, huh? If that doesn’t work, where do we go from here?”

Another step, and Davin shifts, almost imperceptibly. Shoulders set, eyes drifting to Renee’s chest – to keep his hips, hands and face all within the same periphery.

The gaze, Renee thinks, of someone who thinks they know what to look for. He chuckles, but it slides into a grimace of contempt. “I guess you could threaten to kill me.”

When he takes another step, Davin takes half a step backwards, blading his body – as if fights are neat enough to be swayed by the stance assumed before they even start. In Renee’s experience, the only thing that makes a real difference is size.

“C’mon, fucking reptoid,” he jeers. “Make it explicit. What are you gonna do?”

Another step. Two and a half, maybe three feet, is all that remains between them. Renee’s fists are clenched, core bubbling.

“What are you gonna do to me?”

Close enough.

Renee levels a hard shove to Davin’s chest, one that makes the man stumble backwards a few steps, off-center, with Renee following closely in his wake.

“Tell me. What the fuck are you g—”

It happens so fast, Renee barely has time to brace. Davin moves, but not to reel back for a punch, like Renee expected – instead he sharply whips his arm up, and his elbow hits Renee square in the face. His head snaps back, ears rumbling with the sound of cracking cartilage. He loses his balance instantly, sinking to his ass. Struggles to at least not keel all the way to his back, and blinking at a momentary blindness, he holds one arm in front of himself to block, but he can’t see if more blows are coming or not, or from where. The blood starts pouring quickly, a familiar touch down the front of his face, but the sensation is stronger than his usual nosebleeds. Really, pouring.

“Fucking idiot,” Davin sneers somewhere above him.

Renee instinctually follows the sound with his eyes, but his vision hasn’t returned yet. It’s like he’s passed out and conscious at the same time, black as night. He doesn’t know how to react to it. Just sits there, dazed.

Footsteps. The sound of something clicking.

A light that hits the wall, and in front of it, the vague silhouette of a chair. It’s still dark, but he can see the Davin now, a few feet to the right - or something green and generally leg-shaped, at least, circling just out of his reach.

Renee places both hands on the ground, and plants one foot, relatively firmly, beneath him. Gasps with the effort it takes just to focus on moving his body in the way he wants it to. He manages to push himself to his feet, straightening up uncertainly, staggering. The front of his shirt sticks to his chest in some places. He’s pretty sure the majority of what he swallows isn’t spit.

Blinking against dizziness, Renee struggles to keep Davin’s figure in focus long enough to read his intentions. The man moves around him steadily, taking his time. “You don’t keep fighting after a blow like that. You’re not gonna win.” A pause. “But you know that already.”

Renee grunts. “Fuck y—”

Davin lunges forward, and Renee seizes up, hands shielding his abdomen – only for Davin’s fist to hammer into his throat. Renee drops again, back scraping the corner of the dining table on the way down, and curls around himself, both hands clutching his neck. Dimly aware of the pain. Dimly aware that he can’t breathe, as if the internal mechanisms in his neck are paralyzed, and that his chest is convulsing as a result. He rolls on to his stomach, shakily pushes to his hands and knees, and it feels like an eternity passes before he is finally able to let out a cough. Ragged and coarse, and unbelievably agonizing. The simple act of drawing air into his lungs feels like he might as well have swallowed a mouthful of glass.

“Do you need me to say it in your language, Vaughan?”

Blood drips between his hands, a steady flow from his face, as his body spasms. Renee tries to croak out a response in between coughing, only to realize his vocal cords are paralyzed, too; he can’t even groan in pain. In his periphery, Davin steps closer. A grasp in the short remains of his hair pulls his head backwards, painfully straining his neck. Davin peers down, expression unreadable. The whole room spins around his looming figure, as if gravity itself keeps shifting.

Instinctually, Renee raises his right arm to shield his face – hesitates – continues its trajectory. He wraps a hand around Davin’s wrist. His whole body sways with the effort, and his grip feels clumsy, and Davin doesn’t budge. Movements camouflaged by the constant involuntary jerks of his body, blood from his broken nose sliding down towards his throat. Renee tries to speak again, but the air just croaks in his chest, formless.

Davin smirks. “Maybe you are stupid.”

Renee blinks hard, but manages to swallow – fuck, it hurts. Then a grin spreads across his face, flashing whatever blood stains his teeth. That smug little smile on Davin’s face melts into caution.

Davin’s knife clicks in Renee’s left hand.

They both move roughly simultaneously.

Renee’s grip on Davin’s wrist tightens to keep him from retreating, at the same moment he drives the blade up – but Davin doesn’t pull away. Instead he rams his leg forward, deflecting the knife against his shin, slamming Renee hard enough to knock him backwards onto the floor – Davin himself landing with his full weight knee-first on Renee’s chest.

The dizzying experience it is to have the air forcibly pressed out of his lungs. Renee hears the raspy half-cry that tears past his lips, too stunned to orient himself for a fraction of a second, which is all it takes for Davin to force his arm up, slamming the hand still clutching the knife hard into the floorboards. By some fucking miracle, despite a shooting pain in the bone of his wrist, Renee’s grip doesn’t waver. Breathless, he bucks his body against Davin’s weight, and finally gets the wherewithal to start throwing jabs with his other hand. And he’s in a bad position, but he thinks one of them makes a solid connection with Davin’s side –

Before Davin brings another elbow down on his face.

A sharp jolt of pain. Blindness, a static void. He can’t see what he’s struggling against, and when his left hand is slammed to the ground again, it opens, and the blade clatters against the floor. Heaving for breath as Davin’s weight momentarily leaves his chest, only to feel himself being hauled by the shoulder onto his stomach. He braces his hand against the floor to push himself up – but Davin’s knee resettles on his lower back, and his arm is yanked out from under him, pried up between his shoulder blades.

His right arm. The broken one.

Renee lets out a shout of frustration, writhing in vain to push the weight off his back. His voice is raw, but the words come out. “Get the fuck off me! Get the f—argh! Shit—”

It’s like Davin reads it in the way he’s struggling – he twists Renee’s arm just to the threshold where making wild movements no longer wins him a sliver of leverage, but instead causes enough pain to suck the air out of his lungs. Renee feels himself involuntarily curling in to Davin’s grasp, some desperate attempt to alleviate the strain on his broken bones, and in that moment, fingers grasp the his hair again, pulling his head back.

“I can tolerate a lot from you,” Davin growls in his ear. “But if you can’t show even a modicum of self-restraint here, I’m gonna drop the curtains on this whole fucking thing, you understand?”

“Argh, fuck, fuck—”

“I don’t care who I need to kill. Do you understand what I’m telling you right now?” Davin pushes his arm up further.

“Ffff—fucker, f—shit, stop—”

“Do you understand?” Followed by another notch, and the blinding tension in the joint seems to instantly triple.

Renee screams, back arching, free hand pushing at the floor. He spits it out, a hoarse cry scraping through his broken throat. “Yes! Fuck!”

It takes a second – emphasis – before Davin lets him go, all at once.

As soon as he is free, Renee kicks himself forward a few paces to get away, clutching his arm tight, panting. He rolls over on his back just in time to see Davin getting to his feet again.

“Jesus Christ,” Renee gasps.

Davin fixes his folded-up sleeve. He peers down at Renee’s cowering figure, almost in passing, before his eyes drift to his watch. It’s the eerily unbothered demeanor, the way he is barely even out of breath.

“Who are you?”

Bracing a hand on his knee, Davin leans down to pick the knife back up. Clicks it shut and clips it back in his pocket. He finally meets Renee’s gaze directly, but the moment of pause where he might have answered passes, instead, with the silent glance alone. One in which the power dynamic – Renee on the ground with Davin towering above him – isn’t lost between the lines.

He snorts.

And then he leaves the room.

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#writing #moneymakers #renee #davin

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coldresolve · 4 months

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Moneymakers: The Lost Media // Audio + Sharing Is Caring

Masterlist I said I'd have the next chapter finished to end the year on, but I don't, so you get this instead. This is (or will be) a collection of scenes or parts of scenes that never made it to the first draft of Moneymakers, but they’re all still canon things that happened, as far as I’m concerned. I’m probably going to rework some of them into the final version, but for now, they’re collected here. These all take place in “simpler times”, for lack of a better way to put it. Think pre-pt22//Fallout. Content warnings: [Captivity, skewed power dynamic, manhandling/roughhousing, hand gag, fear; alcohol, drugs (weed), smoking, intimidation, sadism, forced physical closeness/intimacy, forced drugging, shotgunning, mild choking, vague rape threats, body shaming but it's towards a skinny guy so you don't care lol.]

// Audio

From the living room, the title screen of a video game plays pensive music, still audible from the other side of the house. The windows showcase the pitch black of the outside; even the hallway, despite being illuminated by the light from the kitchen, is dim enough that Conrad intuitively keeps his hand on the wall as he exits the bathroom. They’re letting him roam the house now, but venturing outside his room carries the risk of the sorts of chance encounters he’d rather avoid.

He's five steps from the door to safety, and a timid relief is already setting in, as it turns out, all too prematurely.

One arm coils around him, pinning his arms to his sides, while his yelp is muffled by a hand firmly clamping down over his mouth. Conrad instinctually fights back at first, revolting at the heat of the chest on his back, panicking.

“Sh,” Renee hisses in his ear, no louder than a whisper. “It’s not like that! Fucking chill, dude, chill!”

Conrad whines into the hand, twisting to get out of Renee’s grip, but when he manages to wrench one arm loose, Renee shifts, pushing him back-first into the wall, hand staying firmly locked over his mouth. Hands pushing at the man’s chest, at his wrists, he meets Renee’s gaze with wide eyes - but he doesn’t look angry, per se. He just looks oddly frantic.

“Shhh!” he hisses again, holding up a finger between them. “Sh-sh-sh-sh-sh.”

Conrad reluctantly forces himself to freeze, breaths coming shaky through his nose.

Renee seems to still too. As soon as Conrad isn’t actively fighting anymore, his gaze slowly drifts to the side, unfocused for a moment. Five seconds, maybe ten, before his eyes snap back to Conrad, and a crooked smile forms on his mouth. “Do you hear that?” he whispers.

Eyes wide, Conrad frowns. It takes him a while before he can concentrate enough to listen more intently to his surroundings. There’s still that music emanating from the living room, and below that, the ambient hum of the house – lights, or maybe the buzz of the fridge, or the wind outside. His own heartbeat, struggling to return to normal. He shakes his head as much as he can with Renee still pressing it to the wall.

Renee rolls his eyes. “C’mere,” he sighs. And he grabs Conrad by the sleeve of his t-shirt to pull him down the hall, only stopping to exaggeratedly press his index finger to his lips when Conrad yelps again.

As they approach the door to Davin’s room, Renee slows down, footsteps silent against the hardwood floor. Instinctively, Conrad mimics the careful way of walking, despite how his body still buzzes with adrenaline.

Renee lets him go to stand opposite him, holds a finger to his lips again, nodding towards the door. “Listen,” he whispers.

Conrad swallows. He uncertainly presses his ear to the door.

Muffled, almost drowned out by the noise from the TV in the other end of the house, or even just Conrad’s own breathing – the faint, faint sound of music. It ebbs and flows, rises and falls to pitches that are barely audible. It sounds like a guitar, but not an acoustic one; it’s sharper somehow, more crisp. Quieter. It sounds like an electric guitar that hasn’t been plugged into anything.

Renee grins wide. “I fucking knew it,” he whispers enthusiastically. “You don’t have hair like that for nothin’.”

Conrad nods awkwardly.

They both listen to it for a bit. Notes cascading, weaving together. Balanced, in a way. The occasional slide upwards, like that thing guitarists do when they push the string up perpendicular to the fretboard. It’s not a song Conrad recognizes, and it’s hard to tell with no other instruments to accompany it, but it sounds refined.

“Do you think he’s ever used it to get laid?”

Conrad blinks. Shrugs noncommittally.

Renee snickers low. He purses his lips for a moment, then holds up a finger again, reaching for the doorknob. Slowly, incrementally, he pushes it down, one eye shut in a grimace as he listens for any tick of the spring.

Conrad takes a step backwards, prompting another eyeroll from Renee.

He opens the door maybe an inch, carefully releasing the handle again. A vertical strip of his face is illuminated by a soft yellow light.

The music is clearer now. Conrad is happy to leave it at that, but then Renee grabs hold of his sleeve again, pulling him in front of himself to peek through the crack, and reluctantly, Conrad lets him.

The only light in Davin’s room comes from the lamp of his desk, in front of which he sits silhouetted, head bowed, hunched over his instrument. He doesn’t move much as he plays, apart from tapping one heel near-soundlessly against the floor, and occasionally nodding a little. Left hand shifting along the neck of the guitar beneath the band of a capo, thumb pressed against the shiny surface. You can’t really see what his fingers are doing from the back, but you can hear it – the notes are clear, and almost brittle. He’s playing with a pick.

Renee lets out a soft snort.

The music stops. Davin hesitates for a moment, then turns his head to the side, face obscured by his hair.

Conrad doesn’t even realize what’s happening before Renee opens the door fully, and a hard push to his back sends him stumbling forward, tripping over himself. He braces his hands on the floor, gasping as he reflexively spins around – only to find the door shut firmly behind him.

He snaps back around again to find Davin now turned in the chair, staring at him, a pick between his teeth, brows raised.

Conrad stares back, too stooped to speak for a solid five seconds, before his brain finally registers that it might be a good idea to say something. “I’m, I’m sorry, I didn’t – I wasn’t—”

Davin eyes him up and down. Then looks at the door. He slowly grabs the pick out of his mouth.

And then he bursts out laughing.

// Sharing Is Caring

In the evening, Renee hauls him out into the living room to play video games again. A different one this time – a puzzle platformer where each one of them is a different robot who can shoot portals to and fro. Unlike the shooting game, Conrad isn’t completely lost for what to do in this one. The controls are easier when there’s no rush in having to aim at things with the joystick. The rules are more straightforward – you just solve the levels, one by one.

He starts out careful. Doesn’t speak up, even when he spots a solution that Renee clearly hasn’t seen yet. Just pretends to be oblivious. There’s a cardboard box of white wine perched on the edge of the coffee table, from which Renee steadily refills his glass. A bag of salted peanuts to go along with it, handfuls of which he nods down at a time. The offer is made early on, but Conrad declines, and Renee doesn’t press.

As the night goes on, Conrad tries to chip in more, uncertainly takes part in solving the puzzles, just to test the waters. To his surprise, Renee seems genuinely excited at that. Teases it out, even, and drops encouraging remarks every now and again.

Despite himself, despite everything, Conrad starts to enjoy it. Thoughts spent weighing the mechanical workings of each level, as opposed to wallowing in his own doom. It feels good to have some kind of human connection that isn’t steeped in violence. Even as Renee’s words begin to slur somewhat, and he seems to take the game less and less seriously. The atmosphere is still good. He’s still just fooling around, making lighthearted jokes.

Even when he suggests they go outside for a bit, Conrad’s alarm bells aren’t blaring. They did that the last time, too, and nothing happened. Why would it now?

It’s much colder this night. Immediately bites his skin on the very first step past the threshold of the sliding glass doors. Been raining from the smell of it, that damp earthy scent. The yard is pitch black.

Renee lets out a whistle as he zips his jacket up, patting the front down over his chest. “Shiiiiit,” he says. “Imagine your scrawny ass, that’s instant frostbite in this fucken’ weather.” He giggles, then steps away toward the right side of the deck, bootsteps sluggish against the wet wood, laces trailing behind him. Stands at the edge, back illuminated, feet spread slightly, and it isn’t until he hears it that Conrad realizes he’s taking a piss and awkwardly averts his gaze.

A dozen or so seconds of exaggeratedly minding his own business later, Conrad hugs himself tight to keep a sliver of warmth, until Renee zips his flyer back up and returns, fishing a pre-rolled joint out of his jacket. The lighter crackles, illuminating his face before the ember has been lit. He catches Conrad’s eye, blowing the first puff of smoke sideways into the wind. “D’you change your mind since last, hm?”

Conrad blinks. “About what?”

Renee takes another drag, then waves the joint between two fingers, raising a brow.

“Oh. Um, no thanks.”

Renee nods, sniffing slightly. He stuffs one hand into his pocket, watching the yard for a bit. And that seems to be it for the topic, until he turns back to Conrad again, brows furrowed. “Have you, like… never been high?”

Conrad shrugs a shoulder uncertainly. “Not… not really,” he mutters.

“For real?” There’s something almost appalled in Renee’s tone, like he’s struggling to conceive of the notion. He takes another drag, watching Conrad thoughtfully for a few moments. And his expression is hard to read in the low light, but Conrad swears he sees the moment when it slides into something more wayward, a glint in the eyes partially obscured by shadow and strands of bleached blond hair. “You should try it,” he says, and it doesn’t sound like a casual suggestion.

Conrad takes an involuntary step backwards. “I don’t, I don’t want—”

Renee rolls his eyes, giggling as he casually follows Conrad’s slow path of retreat. “Don’t be a fuckin’ prude, c’mon.”

Back hitting the outer wall of the house, Conrad swallows. “I s-said no.”

Renee snickers. “Did ya?” And he closes the distance, getting uncomfortably close, so close Conrad can feel the heat of his body, even through the cold. A hand loosely wraps around his throat, the knuckles of his index finger and thumb pushing at the bottom of his jaw, tilting his head upwards, while the palm of his hand pushes his head into the façade of the house. Renee takes another drag, making the ember crackle lightly, and he leans down, face a mere inch from Conrad’s, eyes dark. He blows the smoke out carefully, slowly, towards Conrad’s mouth.

Conrad holds his breath.

The hand around his throat tightens ever so slightly, squeezing uncomfortably around his larynx. He lets out a gasp.

“Inhale it,” Renee murmurs low. Tilts his head to the side for another drag. He’s so close, Conrad can feel the heat of the ember on his cheek.

When he blows the smoke out this time, Renee’s lips aren’t more than a few millimeters from Conrad’s. His breath is heated, and it’s not physically unpleasant, but the proximity makes the bile rise in Conrad’s chest. The looming threat of the fingers around his throat, the revolt in his core. Conrad has to force himself to breathe it in. The burnt herbal scent of it, under which the strong note of alcohol still lingers; the slightly bitter taste makes his stomach lurch. Something catches in his throat on the exhale, and he feels a strong urge to cough, but then Renee’s grip tightens, cuts him off – he barely manages a whine, hands pushing at the man’s wrist.

Renee shoves himself closer, using the weight of his own body to pin Conrad’s to the wall. By chance or intent, one of his legs ends up between Conrad’s, thigh leaning uncomfortably on his crotch. He nonchalantly takes another drag and leans down again, releasing the pressure on Conrad’s throat just to blow more smoke into his mouth.

Conrad shuts his eyes, reluctantly makes himself inhale it again. Whatever he can do to appease the situation, to avoid a more forceful approach. A feeling is spreading in his chest, or his head, it’s hard to tell. A lightness of sorts, a decluttering, mixed with a sense of grounding in his body, like he’s becoming attached to the wall, attached to the patio under the soles of his feet. Attached, in some way, to the hand coiled around his throat. There’s an edge to it. Fear.

“You’re fuckin’ lucky I don’t have a thing for twinks,” Renee murmurs, breath hot against Conrad’s skin. “I feel like making someone cum. I’m very good at that, y’know.” He takes a deep breath through his nose, keenly taking in Conrad’s expression. “But there’s no fuckin’ substance to you, is there? Stick figure ass. You look more fuckin’… snappable. Dry fuckin’ twig.” He hums, tongue sticking out between the teeth of a crooked smile. Brings the joint to his lips again. Doesn’t seem to mind that Conrad’s hands are trembling slightly on his wrist, just ducks down again.

Conrad forgets he’s supposed to inhale, finds himself letting out a soft high-pitched sound instead, one that ends up returning the smoke to sender. It prompts Renee to tighten his grip, leaning heavier against his body, hip digging into his lower abdomen.

“Breathe,” he growls.

Conrad winces, but he does it. Heaves the smoke through the constriction at his neck, feels it catch somewhere in his chest. The world spins on its axis, askew, moving without moving. It’s a new type of fear, one that isn’t as heavy, it’s hard to describe; less like a rhythm, and more like an even tone. There’s a detachment and an uncanny closeness, both equally poignant.

“Do you feel it?”

In his attempt at a nod, Conrad’s chin only hits the back of Renee’s hand. Renee still picks up on it, that’s what matters. He hums, satisfied, and then he lets Conrad go, taking a few steps backwards.

Conrad can’t help sighing out his relief, which quickly veers into a series of involuntary coughing. It takes him a moment to regather his bearings, and he shakily eyes the other, hand pressed against his chest, back still pressed against the wall.

There’s a smug grin playing on Renee’s features. “Not so bad, is it?”

#writing #moneymakers #conrad #renee #davin #the lost media #a tumblr exclusive ig

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