Teufel on HotGuySecret
A/N: New series I’m cleaning up and posting in parts. If you couldn’t already tell, a lot of my smut plotlines err on the side of Toxic. No lovey-dovey romance or happy endings here, folks. Bear in mind, the ML is a Bad Guy. I won’t claim this is a groundbreaking work by any stretch, but by golly, I wrote it, so imma post it. Frankly, I just wanted to write spy stuff when I started this, I think. I tend to leap without looking. TW’s: violence, mild-moderate gore, toxic dynamic, eventual confinement, uh…I think that’s it. ALSO. I started a Patreon, check my profile for the link if interested. Every first chapter of anything will always be free to anyone, and plotlines will be a little more diverse there. Not everything I write should be on Literotica, because not all of it is so porn-heavy. Crazy, I know.
If you really like something I’ve written and want to read new chapters faster, they’ll be on Patreon at least a week before here. Literotica has a pending period anywhere from two days to a week.
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“You know him?”
The most uncomfortable part of this conversation is that it’s being had with a man barely a week into his remarkable retirement. Lee, his longtime handler, cuts a grim picture on the opposite side of the bistro table. His face is bereft of its usual humor, and he looks a man twenty years into retirement instead of a mere seven days. White, melamine mugs sit steaming between them, their contents damned to a drain in the back. They were ordered only to avoid the social crime of loitering.
“I…I’m concerned.” Lee admits.
K isn’t a man to warrant concern over his wellbeing, and he nearly scowls. “Why?”
“That man–he’s…different. For you, when all is said and done, this is a job. You get the job done. That man, he’s…well, he’s an agent for Sion.”
K’s also generally in the know. “Since when? I’ve never heard of him.”
“His activity is kept under wraps, and those who do know of him don’t know much at all.”
“How different can he be?”
“He’s evil, K. He’s a damned monster. It’s not just a job, he revels in it. No one’s faced him directly and lived.”
Evil?
The same could be said about anyone who deals in blood for tokens and concepts of imagined value: money, oil, arms, lives. The same could be said about K. Whether it’s done for a paycheck, for fear of a patsy’s death, or for pleasure, the lines of morality are too indistinct to toe one side or the other.
Their conversation doesn’t last longer than another few minutes, and K’s grateful despite the piteous lack of intel. Other than being affiliated with Sion, he learns nothing of substance. Lee has grandchildren he could be spoiling, with finally the time and freedom to do so. His retirement is remarkable because he survived it. After the cheap box-cake and blown candles, Charon usually prefers sending their most steadfast employees off with a bullet between the eyes, a drum of Quikrete, and an excavated pit in the middle of Nowhere. The dead can’t spring a leak. Lee, only because he’s K’s handler, even got his pension cashed out.
His last job in Czechia was technically a success, despite–
He isn’t sure how to describe it. He doesn’t want to think about it at all, but it merits some investigation. He had an…unusual run-in. Unusual because neither of them are dead, not K or the man Lee presumes to be Satan incarnate. It was an espionage assignment, no messes or bloodshed bulleted on the docket. Upon making his getaway, however:
There was an…entanglement.
The body between his thighs was hard, hips wide enough to have his knees straining to stay planted to the ground. The mouth of K’s silencer dug into a wan space between dark brows, while the tip of a blade stabbed into the underside of his jaw–threatening to impale his tongue to the roof of his mouth. He remembers pulling hard, fast inhales through his nose, but the chest he sat atop barely moved. His assailant showed no sign of exertion despite their brief, violent scuffle. Meanwhile, he throbbed in at least ten different places. Their identities were concealed only by domino masks, a cliché that leaves a bad taste in K’s mouth.
Even in darkness, the green of his eyes caught. K couldn’t pin the look in them, but they shone like matches sat behind his blown pupils.
K’s first thought: bodyguard…?
The knife was withdrawn from his throat, and his mask was suddenly tumbling away.
Something warm?
…blood.
He’d sliced through the thin twine, a shallow nick left to ooze at his temple. K recalls being strangely furious, nearly sick with it, because the masked face below him wore a little grin. It’s a chilling expression, one of discovery and burgeoning awe. Like K’s gun kissing his brow was a childish curiosity. He brought his hand to wrap around K’s, and in hindsight, that was the moment he should’ve snapped on the trigger. He pressed his thumb on top of his index finger and pushed up on his elbow. Their faces were closer than such a scenario should’ve afforded them.
Definitely not a bodyguard.
“This is your chance.” He murmured, and his voice came as more a shock than anything. It was low, almost inhumanly so. There was a raspiness to it. He put more pressure on K’s finger, and the trigger started to give.
“If you know what’s best for yourself…” It was a promise he didn’t elaborate on, nor one K wanted to hear the rest of.
With the hand not wrapped around K’s, itching to pull a trigger on himself, he swiped at the blood tickling down his face. He deliberately smeared it across the peak of his cheekbone, then lashed his tongue across the pad of his thumb for a taste of it. Lee called him evil, but K’s leaning towards fucking psychopath. For reasons he’ll never be able to explain, K didn’t repaint a balcony’s tiling with gray matter and viscera that night. The closest he’s come up with is a hindbrain malfunction. If he’s being frank with himself, he froze. Choked up.
Perhaps he well and truly is Satan incarnate, because there’s something inexplicable about him.
Every detail was deeply unsettling and downright eldritch. Their bout, lasting less than three minutes, was vicious. K can admit it was one in which he didn’t have the upper hand, or even the lower hand. His hand was probably being used in a game of gin rummy in a tavern in Hades. Getting him on his back felt miraculous, even in the moment. He’s never been so blatantly outclassed. Tauntingly, he was offered a chance to put a permanent end to their exchange. K believes he somehow knew it was a chance he wouldn’t seize.
Instead, he ran.
K’s under no delusions. He knows he was let go.
It’s been three months since, and he decided to take a short sabbatical. He owns a small condo in the metropolitan heart of Pasto, Colombia; one of many safehouses. After reporting the incident to the upper echelon of Charon, he received no real answer or reply beyond: we’ll look into it. His leave ends next week, and he’ll be receiving intel on his next assignment at midnight. Ten minutes. Cracking open his laptop, he logs into the backdoor of their server.
He draws idle circles on the mousepad to keep the screen from sleeping and drops his head against the couch’s armrest. It’s the middle of April, and even at this late hour, humidity keeps him sticky. It’s against his nature to leave a window ajar. Three minutes pass, and his computer chimes. Frowning, he yanks his head up to study the screen. Data from Charon comes at midnight on the dot, not a second before. He doesn’t use this laptop for anything but work.
In the corner of his screen, there’s a window. It’s an IM from an app he doesn’t recognize. He hovers the mouse over the innocuous notification, debating the danger of opening it. Curiosity ultimately wins out. Isn’t there an idiom about that?
11:53 PM: Miss me?
“What the fuck…?”
His immediate instinct is to destroy the computer. He’s not sure what good it’ll do in the long-run, but at the very least, his location can no longer be traced. Three dots dance at the bottom of the chat. His next breath snags in his windpipe.
11:55 PM: No?
Snapping to his feet, he drops the computer on the coffee table, unbothered by the possibility of bruising any internal circuitry. He stares, unblinking, until another message comes through. The only thing keeping him from smashing it to chips and hairlike wiring is the pending data from Charon.
11:58 PM: Can you keep a secret?
The intel should come through in less than two minutes, but this reeks of compromised. Is the server hacked? Ripping a Beretta from its bolted holster underneath the couch, he turns his ears to any misplaced noise in the flat. His eyes don’t leave the screen. Sweat darkens the collar of his shirt, racing the track of his spine, for reasons far gone from the humidity. 11:59 PM.
12:00 AM.
12:01 AM.
Nothing comes through. If it means anything at all, it means it’s time to get the fuck out of dodge. Destroying the laptop won’t do a lick of good now, so K abandons it. Paranoia has him massaging the safety with his thumb as he rounds the couch, beelining for his prepacked ruck in the bedroom. He stops midstep, and his blood thickens to ice in his veins. There was nary a noise out of place.
The air didn’t so much as shift, and yet–
Someone’s in the kitchenette. Someone large. Someone dangerous.
He can’t sense him, but the daunting shape is a tease in his periphery. Instincts are a potent device, and in his line of work, you don’t get far without the speed and dexterity to utilize them. Releasing the safety, he deadens the air with three shots. Whoever it is, they’re just as fast and dextrous. The hint of a person becomes a dark blur of movement, and from the crack of splintering backsplash, K knows no shot hits their mark. In anticipation of such skill, he’s moving as soon as the last bullet bursts from the barrel. He makes a breakneck dash for the bedroom, but his opponent catches him by a handful of the back of his shirt.
In close quarters, K becomes immediately aware of who’s come for him, and it’s this knowledge that sees him fighting like a cornered beast. He whips the gun in a backhand motion, attempting to catch the bastard across the face. Then, ideally, blow his head off like he should’ve done three months ago. It doesn’t go as planned, and his forearm is caught in a crushing grip. It’s more the grip-strength of something mechanized, as K’s aghast to find his hand zapped of tension, numbing in microseconds. His fingers loosen, and the pistol clatters to the floor.
Twisting, he arcs a left hook to compensate.
When that, too, is caught, he propels from the floor and goes for a triangle-choke, wrapping his thighs about the man’s throat. What K doesn’t expect is to be suddenly, violently smacked against the ground, as his opponent puts all his considerable weight into dropping forward. The back of his head cracks against the tile like an egg, and pain blooms in his back. Instead of loosening the pretzel of his thighs, he tightens them spitefully. Despite the pressure placed on his trachea, his opponent doesn’t choke or grunt. K isn’t even sure if his breathing is staunched.
Who the fuck is this motherfucker–?
Their brawl sees an odd pause.
He’s not concealing his face, not that a domino mask does much to hide a person’s features. K knew he was some kind of attractive then, but his unabashed presence now swallows the room, him in it. He’s fucking huge, but his face is discomfortingly boyish. He has the smooth, sharp symmetry of a young heartthrob, or maybe that’s the concussion. K’s almost positive he’s concussed. He’s slumped halfway on his back, legs tightened to a noose about his opponent’s throat. His opponent, undaunted, is sitting upright on his shins. K’s forearms are still hostage in the shackle of his hands. He can feel bracelets of bruising forming. Without so much as a twitch of further movement, they watch each other.
“Who the fuck are you?”
The man quirks a strange, small smile. When he speaks, there’s no trouble, as if K isn’t squeezing with all the strength he possesses. He debates just letting go. It’s hurting his pride to maintain a grip with no effect. This guy’s either going to kill him, or he isn’t. K can admit when he’s outmatched.
“You don’t remember?”
K drops his legs. Unfortunately, this doesn’t earn the release of his arms. Their position has become uncomfortably intimate, with his thighs split around the cut of a strong waist. His ass is a hairsbreadth from fully resting in the seat of his groin. “I remember. What do you want?”
“You assume I’m not here for your life?”
It comes out more dry than K means it to, and he worries it’ll be taken as a provocation: “You would’ve taken it already.”
The smile is quick to slip away, and there’s a sudden coldness to his face that belies the youthfulness of it. Finally, he loosens around his forearms, but it’s nothing to celebrate. Swift as vipers in a den of mongoose, his hand locks around K’s throat. It’s a large enough appendage for his fingertips to nearly touch at the base of his skull. He applies pressure, but not to a point of keeping air from cycling through. K’s professional enough to not react. He maintains that dryness in his own expression. Still, it isn’t the first time he’s stunned by this person’s speed. Big as he is, he shouldn’t be so fast or soundless.
“What if I change my mind?”
“Then–” K fights the urge to cough. “…hurry the fuck up.”
His grin returns with force, and he breathes a short laugh. The temperature drops sharply between them. His grip tightens, but instead of crushing his trachea, he’s clamping off the supply of blood to his brain. Before long, pops of bright color are set off in his eyes. He’s lightheaded, and a shameful noise is wretched from him. Through the cotton-balls rubbing together in his head, K feels something even more terrible. This psychopath is hard. He’s…getting off on this. Good God, is this how he dies? Strangled to death by a superhuman pervert?
He’d rather simultaneously starve and freeze to death in a Gulag.
Stretching backwards, he snags the Baretta by its grip. It’s, once again, a futile effort. He’d have been better off enduring the strangulation. The same hand that makes for the gun is caught with blinding speed, and he’s jerked forward. His palm is slapped against the top of an end table, and before K can process the gravity of what’s happening, that Bowie knife from Czechia reappears. Through his hand and the table both. It’s a thick fucking table, a big slab of varnished oak. The hilt is snug against the back of his hand, the entirety of the instrument plunged through to the bottom of the tabletop. He’s been effectively pinned, and shock hits first.
“Hah–” Breath leaves him in a dramatic whoosh.
…how fucking strong–?
K stares, speechless, at the blood puddling under his palm. It’s hot, but his hand soon feels like a block of ice. It’s starting to run over the edge, dribbling a black puddle to stain the tile. When the pain hits seconds later, he snaps his teeth on a noise. He won’t react in front of this man. As long as he doesn’t move it, it’s not the worst pain he’s ever felt, but the thought of being stuck puts a lump of dread in his throat. It’s not like this guy’s going to sit back and wait patiently while he yanks it out.
“I came to make a trade.” He announces, crouching less than a foot away. Again, he’s watching him with rapt fascination, like this is the first time he’s gouged someone through the hand. Like K’s powder in a beaker, and he’s waiting for it to fizz up after adding in the catalyst.
Sagging onto his knees, K spares him a tired glance through his hair. Sweat has it clinging to his face. “That makes it sound like we’ve got something the other party wants.”
“I told you, I have a secret.”
Of course he’s responsible for those IM’s.
“Tell it to your fuckin’ diary.” K grunts.
He huffs a laugh, resting his jaw on the bumps of his knuckles. “You’re not curious why your intel didn’t come through?”
“I can only assume the shit’s hacked, by you.”
He flips his hands up in a ‘woah, settle down’ gesture. “I didn’t touch Charon’s servers. Cross my heart, hope to die.”
“Be my guest.”
“Well,” He stands, and Jesus Christ, who feeds this guy? Maybe it’s because he’s on the ground, but he’s the epitome of towering. K’s not a small man, but their difference in size is staggering. He’s got more than five inches of height on him, and his bulk isn’t discreet. The width of his waist must be the width of K’s shoulders. Is he really an agent? He’s far from inconspicuous. “I won’t twist your arm, so to speak.”
Is he…baiting him? He came all this way just to dangle a morsel of information in front of his face?
“If I accept, what are you getting from me?”
“Whatever I want.”
K stiffens, because there’s an implication. With a man as dangerous and unhinged as this, a severe implication. Surely, whatever information he’s got isn’t worth it. His hand is lanced through with lightning, and his arm shakes with weakness. He’s lost enough blood to feel vaguely faint, wrung out like a dishrag. “…right.” He mutters, dropping his head to hide the tension in his face. If he declines, is that…it?
He’ll die here?
Seems like a shame. Espionage and murder for money isn’t the best career for those who want a comfortable, natural death in hospice after a long, fruitful life. But, he’s not even thirty. He’s not even sure what he’s dying for. He doesn’t know the first thing about this man other than the agency he’s affiliated with, or why he’s been targeted by such an allegedly high-profile individual. K does value his life to some extent. He never expected to make it to retirement age as a field agent, but that doesn’t mean he has no sense of self-preservation.
“I’ll trade.” He grits.
“Excellent.”
This time, K can’t stifle the ragged noise. Sion’s nameless agent grips the knife by its hilt, and instead of yanking it free, he shifts it back and forth. It worsens the grizzly wound in his hand, flesh and bone eviscerated by the blade’s micromovements. All the while, K feels eyes on his face. His reactions are being observed, studied. Finally, after too many seconds, he rips it out. His blood wets the surface of the table like a splatter painting, and the pained hiss is a clatter against his teeth: “hngh–fuck!”
He snaps his wrist to his sternum, clenching around his hand to stem the hemorrhage. Then, he cuts a venomous look at the man he’s just sold his soul off to. Said man regards him with eerie, clinical interest. Confident that he won’t be attacked further, K climbs to his feet. He retreats to the bedroom for the medical kit, unsurprised to be quietly followed. While he treats the messy injury, a smothering silence pervades the room. He’s crouched by the bedside, and his impromptu attacker is leaning in the doorway. Staring holes through the back of his bruised head.