Chapter Text
The snitch would have preferred to wait for an eternity for the trial to start. To sit in that damned chair, locked and restrained, with that stupid bag over his head, and just wait.
Wait for that torture to start. To feel himself slowly wheeled to his death, just like hundreds of other victims. Just like the victim he killed a long time ago. To get electrocuted alive, in parts, and waiting—begging—to die.
No. Whatever God exists in this morbid place is a cruel one. Maybe God really is Easterman, watching with a polished smile behind the veil of shadows. God is cruel and wants him to die in the most horrific way, stripped of all humanity and with the most shameful parts of him on full display.
That's the only way the snitch can rationalize the cuffs chaining him to the floor, back against the filthy police station floors. The way he rationalizes a babbling police officer sitting atop his waist, grinding against him like it's the only way he'll be absolved of all his sins.
"If," Coyle stutters, voice growing uncharacteristically soft. "If I were to let you…"
The cop suddenly halts all speech, sitting straight up. His eyes bore into the snitch's burlap bag, as though he were just slapped into rationality.
"You will not hurt me," he hisses, grabbing a pointed edge of the snitch's bag. "You will not."
Coyle's voice, usually a brazen and horribly deafening thing, is almost painfully quiet. Soft, like a child afraid of getting scolded. Guilty, like a criminal telling the truth.
"Oh, Danny. Danny, you son of a fat cow," the cop sneers, slamming the snitch's head firmly against the concrete floor.
The snitch screams, screams. May God damn every soul and every wrong choice that led him to join Murkoff's "charitable outreach" with the promise of getting everything the world owed him.
God is Easterman, though. And Easterman is cruel. Would Easterman really let this happen if God is Easterman? God can't be so cruel.
Coyle, ever persistent, keeps at his grueling pace. Grinding against a place the snitch had long forgotten about. Pleasure is not a luxury in such a facility, and the thought had nearly disappeared from his mind. But, with the cop not stopping anytime soon, it's hard to ignore the pulsing ache at his crotch.
It burns! It aches! It's a feeling stranger than any torture the personnel could ever inflict. Somehow, it's more demeaning. It's perverse and hot, yet the snitch would be lying if he said he hated it. It's been a long time since he felt heat with meaning from another living person, and not just blood gushing out of a wound.
Through the cacophony of his own thoughts, the snitch can distantly hear the sound of thick cloth, the jingle of metal, the rubbing of leather, and the quiet hum of electrical equipment. It's all part of Coyle's uniform, that frayed thing.
The snitch, in most other cases, wouldn't bat an eye to these sounds. Just another handful of noises among the sea of noises in the horrid police station. It isn't until he can feel the twitch of something moist against his stomach that he really stops to question what in the world is happening.
"Please, please," the snitch moans, hopelessly squirming against the floor. "Please, what do you want?"
Coyle stays eerily silent, still moving atop the snitch's waist. Grinding against his crotch, some vile liquid of whatever is out and about pooling on his stomach. The snitch tries again, writhing a little more frantically.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he sobs. "Whatever you want, it's real. I'm sorry, I'm guilty– God. Fuck."
It's probably some science mumbo-jumbo that Coyle is slathering on the Snitch's stomach, he wearily thinks. Why wouldn't it be? Why the hell wouldn't the cop be given something to make his electric weapon even more potent? Or, surely the cop will do some evil, evil thing to him. The heat, the perversion—something is definitely going to happen, and why wouldn't that something be something carnal? Maybe the cop has had enough of defiling mannequins and now needs to defile something undeniably alive.
Finally, Coyle makes his presence known. He grumbles, seemingly dissatisfied. Grabs the snitch by the breast and squeezes until he screams in pain.
"Shut it, you stupid commie shitbird," the cop snarls back, his head-splitting screeching returning for just a moment. Despite the situation, the snitch silently wonders how the cop's vocal cords haven't gotten as fried as his face by now.
"God, God, please, no more," the snitch wails, struggling against his restraints. He only has the strength to tug at the cuffs round his wrists, having neither the will nor the desire to get Coyle off his lap. "Just tell me what you want me to say. I'll do anything, please, just stop."
Coyle's erratic thrusts almost halt (almost). The snitch again feels the cop's eyes on him, but it's a lot less menacing than before. This time, it feels more like the snitch is about to get told a secret.
The cop slowly leans down, wires and leather rubbing against the snitch's scarred chest, cigarette-laced breath slithering down the snitch's neck. He can feel the warmth even through the burlap bag. He shivers, everything in tandem making him dizzy.
"You want it," Coyle whispers, sounding nearly revered as he says it. His touch is gentle, too gentle, as he traces the word perfectly carved into the flesh.
SNITCH
"You want it so bad that it hurts."
The snitch shivers. What's a man to do in this situation? Say it? Really say that he wants whatever it is the corrupt cop is offering?
He doesn't want to think it, doesn't want to will it into reality, but the snitch would be as guilty as Easterman claims he is if he says he isn't curious.
Coyle is never so vulnerable! The snitch doesn't think he's ever seen the cop so out of his element, except for the film reel in the one trial. It's almost terrifying to think of Coyle as anything but that sadistic, loud, evil man he always is.
The snitch tries, though. Tries very hard not to succumb to the desire, to the morbid curiosity brewing in his gut. He tries to plead some more, tries wriggling out of his restraints, tries to kick himself upright.
Nothing works. So he gives up.
"… I-I… I want it," the snitch whispers, his voice muffled as the sound breaches through the burlap bag. "God, I want it. So bad. It hurts."
He isn't necessarily lying. He wants it! The snitch wants to die before the reagents can get him! He wants to rid himself of the restraints on his wrists! He wants the therapy to have worked so he can be set free and go home! It hurts how bad he wants it all!
And Coyle, ever the pragmatic cop, obeys the needs of his citizen. His gloved hand snakes down the snitch's chest over the ugly word, moving lower and lower.
The snitch hiccups, wriggling not as hard as before. He feels all strange and tingly, unused to such tender touch after so long of executing and torture.
The sergeant's hands continue down, down, down, finally tugging at the last bit of decency the snitch can cling onto.
The bloody and worn jeans remind the snitch of simpler times, from before he was ever in the clutches of Murkoff. The jeans remind him of fresh air and warm sunlight and people's laughter. It hides the parts he'd prefer were not seen, reminds him he's still a person.
The sergeant, ever cautious, tugs at the garment. If the mannequins are anything to go by, the snitch was sure his precious jeans were going to get torn off.
Surprisingly, that assumption was incorrect. His jeans are preserved. Carefully tugged off his legs and set aside with a quiet ruffle. The cool air hits the snitch quickly. Despite being shirtless, he shivers.
Where is his decency now? His humanity? Is it his bag now, which hides his face and identity? Which reduces him to being only a body to be disposed of?
Coyle does not care. He does not care about the inner turmoil of the snitch. He cares only for the quiet sobs and pleas slipping between the bag's threads. Cares more for the frantic heartbeat than of the thoughts of a fearful man.
His skin is rough, the snitch thinks, focusing his willpower on the sensation of the skin sitting on top of his. Coyle's skin is very rough, coarser on one side. A little prickly with hair, but undeniably warm. Without a doubt, the person straddling him is a person.
Under normal circumstances, Leland Coyle is not a person. Leland Coyle is a monster. The cop people sit around the cafeteria telling horror stories about with hushed words and fearful glances. The cop prowling for something or someone to fuck up and have an excuse to take his anger out, to wave his baton around and electrocute to death. But, for now, the snitch can pretend that Leland Coyle is a person just like him. Somebody who's horrifically lonely, who craves the reassuring touch of another somebody.
That moist thing that's been rubbing against his stomach settles atop the snitch's now-throbbing length, still leaking.
That's pre-ejaculate, the snitch thinks to himself. It's been pooling on my stomach. It's coating my penis.
An ungloved hand unifies both weeping members, gracefully pumping up and down. Gruff grunts echo through the desolate hallways. The snitch can't tell which ones are his and which ones are Coyle's.
The snitch should probably feel flattered that someone feels strongly enough about him to do this. Coyle is a demanding man! Demanding in so many horrible ways, and with so many wives! Word around the grapevine is that he's killed all three of his wives in increasingly horrific ways. That must mean his standards are pretty high. So, that means the snitch is good enough to meet all of the cop's standards!
Maybe he's really, really flattered. Or, maybe he's really, really scared.
Coyle has high standards, but he's killed his wives! If the snitch fails to meet the cop's rigorous standards even once, does that mean he'll go away just like his wives? He hopes not. He quite likes hearing the cop's moans.
Despite his desire to remain at least a little level-headed, the snitch can't help but lift his hips, trying in vain to match the pace of Coyle's hand. The touch is making his head fuzzy, and all he really cares about is trying to coax more out of Coyle.
The police station? Not important.
His imminent death? Doesn't matter right now.
God? He holds back a laugh.
Coyle growls like some sort of rabid animal, his hand's movements growing erratic as he chases his high. It's too fast, far too fast, for the snitch to bear. Overwhelming pleasure becomes plain overwhelming, his quiet and muffled moans turning into screams.
"God, no, no, enough," the snitch wails, twisting and flailing his limbs about. Surely, Coyle knows what he's doing to him. He has to know that the snitch's penis feels like it's on fire, that the snitch wants to cry and scream from something other than blinding pain for once.
Coyle, ever unpredictable, mercifully slows. His hand squelches as he pumps up and down one last time, thick liquid dripping onto the snitch's thighs.
"You wanted this, Danny boy."
Coyle's words are absolute. The snitch can't possibly argue against him. He's right. He agreed, and now he's here.
"Ye-eah," the snitch moans back, his hips bucking up for something he isn't quite sure he wants. "It felt…"
The snitch pauses, gasping for air.
It felt?
"… Good," he admits.
The snitch nods, more assuredly.
"It felt good."
Coyle snickers under his breath at first, like he shouldn't be heard. The snitch can clearly imagine his shoulders shaking gently, his head tilting to and fro, with that big toothy smile on his face. His snickers turn into giggles, and the giggles turn into a holler.
"Just good?" Coyle asks, sounding so unlike himself again.
Has there ever been a time when Coyle laughed so genuinely? The snitch can't remember. Maybe the answer is never, and the snitch has discovered another wonderful side of the cop.
The snitch whimpers, unable to produce an answer (much to his chagrin). He pitifully bucks his hips up again, desperate to feel Coyle against himself, desperate to hear Coyle again.
"You got a death wish, you damn alluring piglet?" The sergeant purrs, that wet hand smearing their shared fluids over the snitch's torso. He shivers, the once-warm liquid cooling against his body.
Coyle lifts himself from the snitch's lap, standing on his knees and wedged between the snitch's thighs. The snitch whines like a petulant child, chasing after the other in vain. Coyle only chuckles, pushing the snitch back down with a disapproving tut. The snitch murmurs unintelligibly, something like "please" and "sorry" in the slurred words.
"Oh, sweetness," Coyle coos, groaning quietly above the snitch. "I'll make sure you feel fuckin' better than good. Just 'good' don't exist in my dictionary."
Something squelches above the snitch, and some new foreign substance drips onto his legs. It sounds undeniably lewd, especially with Coyle's grunts becoming more like the soft mewls of an alley cat.
The snitch has wished for a lot of things recently. He sometimes wishes for his death to be swift and painless. That's the least God can do for letting him get here, he thinks. It's the least the world owes him. Now, though, there is a certain longing he desires more than anything.
He'd like to see Coyle. It'd be nice. Cute, even, to see the cop in such a tantalizingly new state.
"Coyle– Co-yle," the snitch moans, weakly tugging at the cuffs still attaching him to the police station poles. "Please. Please, let me help. Let me. Let me."
Something above the snitch makes a wet pop, and a restrained whimper leaves Coyle. He goes uncomfortably quiet, and the snitch can feel the cop's eyes on his body.
Quiet jingles of metal. The snitch holds his breath.
"Don't get used to it." Coyle's breath stutters, trembling and weak.