A little quick write inspired by @dailysandersidesaudoodles mafia mociet drawings. Soz if it's not great, I wrote this at midnight <3
TWs: Mafia-typical gun violence; coercion; morally gray sides; mentions of sickness, poverty, intoxication; description of injuries (bruising and being tied up); implied animal death (hunting); toxic relationship dynamics
Four words. Four deceptively simple words.
Patton held it in shaking hands, eyes trained on the barrel in front of him. He’d never fired a gun before; never even thought about it. His pop had tried to teach him when he was little, but he’d never had the stomach to hurt the animals he was told to hunt. The ripple of power, the loud bang, the whimpering pain the creature released as red sprayed across the ground before him. Patton had vowed then and there never to hunt again, never to shoot a living thing.
The man they had chosen for this was someone Patton knew all too well. A stock broker. A conman. A monster and abuser. And, of course, Patton’s boss. He’d been bound to a chair, tied down tightly to the wood. The bright ropes cut into his bruised skin to leave colorful dots and lines, not unlike a pretty package on Christmas. Even the green gag had been wrapped in the front in a sadistic mockery of a bow, all ready to be splattered and frayed with the shot Patton had been gifted.
The hand on him shifted, now placing its palm flat against his lower abdomen. Patton couldn’t tell if it was meant to be comforting, encouraging, or mocking. He… really didn’t think he wanted to know, come to think of it. Seeing that crooning face all over again wouldn’t help his rapid, unspooling indecision any more than it had the first time.
This group was Patton’s last resort. Almost destitute, Patton had crawled pityingly to their doorstep with his ill son in hand. Logan was of a sickly nature; brilliant of mind yet feeble of body. It had taken only one boy at school to walk in feeling under the weather, and Logan was unable to move on his own. Patton had tried to cure him, tried to pay for the treatments, and no one bothered to give any real help. He’d lost every penny on the boy he so desperately loved, and he was rewarded with being kicked to the curb by both his landlord and boss.
Janus was the lucky one to answer his endless pleas for sanctuary. The man brought them in, nursed Logan back to health with no cost. Not only that, he housed them and gave Patton a job close by in order to get back on his feet. He wanted Patton around because it was apparently rare to see such a bright mind and a beautiful face together at the same time. Patton had fallen for the flattery and adoration on the spot.
As time had passed, Patton became more desperate for Janus’ affections. The man acted like Patton was the most interesting little doll he’d found at a charity shop: only worth bothering with because there was a spark of potential and the soft slump of obedience in Patton’s gaze. And as for Patton, Janus was the very air he breathed: smokey and husky and tainted with feelings best left in the quiet hours after intoxication. At this point, Patton was under his spell completely, willing to do everything Janus had asked of him and promising he always would be.
And here they were now. Janus wanted to see precisely how far Patton would go if asked. Patton had promised once more he would do anything.
The gun trembles. He runs a finger over the hammer.
“Is he not worthy enough to die? Is my word not enough for you?”
An immaculate finger ghosts over Patton’s earlobe, barely there but enough to make him shudder in equal terror and agony. A tear wells up behind his lenses.
‘No one would know’, Janus had promised. It was to be their little secret, a truth unspoken to all and carried to the dusty grave Patton would be lowered in. It was to be his hell, his horror, his beauty and acceptance. In doing this, Patton would belong to them, to him. There would be no point in leaving after he made this choice; Janus would have more than enough evidence to get Logan off him before throwing Patton away somewhere so he wouldn’t talk.
Not that Patton would ever talk. He was in too deep for that, now.
“Maybe you need direction? Perhaps you have forgotten what I need of you…”
A hand cups Patton’s shaking one, and steadies it as Janus gently shifts Patton’s hand into proper aim. Patton watches as a thumb reaches around ever-so-gently, and cocks the hammer into place to prime the gun.
The man in the chair squirms and screams. Janus chuckles gently under his breath.
Patton closes his eyes, and shifts his finger onto the trigger.
There was no other option, in the end. There was no world where Patton would not choose to obey.