I'm yours
The silence that follows is deafening. Funny how silence can be so loud, Kirk thinks. Like the quiet after a bomb goes off, when your ears are still ringing and the world hasn’t quite remembered how to make noise again.
Dave isn’t Dave anymore. Or was he like this the whole time and Kirk is only just realizing that he isn’t a psychopath?
The conclusion almost seems funny. But, Dave had cried while hitting him. Genuine tears; or at least they looked very genuine. Why?
Because he’s just like Dad.
No. Not because he’s just like Dad. The thought stops Kirk cold, his tears finally slowing as his mind latched onto this truth. Kirk thinks there’s nothing Dave can do to make Kirk hate him more than his father. Because there was a difference; a crucial one that he'd never fully articulated before, even to himself.
His father had been a hurricane of violence that destroyed everything in its path. Mom’s split lip at breakfast. Tracy’s arm in a cast after she “fell down the stairs.” Rick flinching at every raised voice. The bruises on Kirk’s own body had been just one part of a larger tapestry of pain, woven through his entire family’s existence.
But Dave... Dave’s fury has a laser focus. It burns hot and bright, only for Kirk. Outside this room, he's still the same ambitious and talented young musician, still writing songs with Junior, still building his new band. His violence is intimate, personal; a twisted kind of devotion.
And isn't that the thing about his father’s “nice moments” too? Those moments that came only when he was sober: the trips to the ice cream parlor after a particularly bad night or the new guitar strings when Kirk’s broke.
But Kirk realized, with a clarity that felt like glass in his veins, that despite the “nice moments,” he could never forgive his father; and not because of what he'd done to Kirk, but because of what he'd done to everyone else. Those moments could never erase the sound of his mother crying in the bathroom, or the way Tracy stopped inviting friends over, or how Rick developed that stutter that followed him into adulthood.
But Dave's damage begins and ends with Kirk. And his kindness, twisted as it is, belongs to Kirk alone. The pasta cooking in the kitchen (his favorite), the careful way Dave had tended his fever, the genuine concern in his voice just now; it's all part of this strange, terrible intimacy they share.
Yeah, Dave surely has the weirdest mix of violence and tenderness.
But is all of this another layer of manipulation, another mind game to keep him off balance? Or something else? The unpredictability of it all unnerves him. Dave, the man who kidnapped him, who keeps him chained, who beats and harms him, is now offering comfort, showing a sliver of humanity. It’s disorienting. Is this some twisted attempt at control, or is Dave actually capable of growing a heart?
Lots of questions and very few answers. The lines between captor and caregiver are blurring in a way that makes his head spin. He doesn’t know what to think, doesn’t know what to believe exactly.
He wants to believe it’s manipulation because that would be easier, more predictable.
And at the same time, he wants to believe Dave breaking down wasn’t just for show. And that maybe, just maybe, there’s more to this man than the violence and control.
A little while later, Dave finally returns. His chest is bare, fresh bandages stark against his skin, and it throws Kirk off guard, makes him remember his embarrassing, worthless plan to escape. In one hand, Dave holds a plate of pasta, in the other, a half-empty bottle of whiskey. His hazel eyes watch closely as Kirk takes it with his free hand; the other still cuffed to the beadstead.
“Here, your favorite, right?” Dave says, without sounding too interested.
The pasta's warmth seeps through the plate into Kirk's hand. Dave perched on the bed’s edge, a predator at rest, watching Kirk eat with eyes that seemed to look both at him and through him.
“You should take a shower,” Dave suggests with a soft voice. "My mom always used to say showers help with colds and pain. Probably bullshit to just make me take a shower, but y’know.”
Kirk’s mind flashes back to the freezing showers, to the moments he stood shivering under icy water, feeling more like a prisoner than a person.
"I don’t think I need it, I don’t feel that bad, I really don’t," he says, avoiding Dave’s gaze.
Dave seems to pick up on his reluctance. “You can have warm water this time,” he offers, surprising Kirk. "And I won’t be there supervising you.”
Kirk looks at him, searching for any sign of a trick. But Dave’s expression is sincere, almost considerate. After a long pause, Kirk nods. “Okay,” he whispers.
Dave watches him eat with a detached calmness, his eyes distant yet focused. “Kirk, stabbing me,” he began, running his fingers over the bloodstains on the sheets, “was a real dick move.” The casual tone made it worse somehow, like discussing a minor inconvenience rather than a fucking attempted murder.
Kirk’s hand trembles slightly as he brings another forkful of pasta to his mouth. “I’m sorry–”
“I’m giving you one last chance to make things right. If you do something like that again, I’ll kill you. No hesitation. That’ll be it.”
There’s basically no malice, no rage. Only frightening naturalness to the way he says it, like it’s a simple fact. Kirk swallows, but the food in his mouth suddenly tasteless. “Okay,” he murmurs, not knowing what else to say.
“I gotta change these fuckin’ bloody sheets now,” Dave says bitterly, pointing at them.
Kirk’s guiltful gaze darts between Dave’s face and the sheets. All Kirk thinks he can say is “sorry,” but quickly figures that won’t fix anything, not for Dave, not for him.
“What would you do if you got out of here?” Dave suddenly asks.
The first thing Kirk thinks is that there must be a catch. But he shrugs, the movement limited by the cuff on his wrist. "Um, I don’t know," he admits, "maybe find another band... Visit my mom, probably. She hasn’t seen me in a little while." The words feel hollow, even to him.
Dave tilts his head, studying Kirk. "You don’t sound too convinced," he says before taking a swig of his whiskey.
Kirk frowns, the uncertainty in his own voice catching him off guard. "I guess... I don’t really have a clear plan."
His gaze drops to the plate of pasta, his appetite fading away under the weight of Dave’s words.
They sit there in silence.
"Seems like you don’t have much to do," Dave says, his tone shifting to something softer, more contemplative, “seems like maybe you’ve only got me now.”
Kirk’s chest tightens at the implication, but he says nothing.
“I get how you feel,” Dave says, leaning back slightly. “It's horrible to feel like you have no purpose in life. Believe me, I know.”
Kirk looks up, caught off guard by the sudden shift in Dave’s tone.
"But I’m giving you a purpose," Dave continues, his eyes locking onto Kirk’s. "You might not see it now, but you will."
Dave takes another sip of whiskey, and with that, he leaves the room.
When Dave came back, came the paper. The pencil. And the revolver, the knife, the axe, the rifle, the bazooka... Any of the hidden weapons that Kirk doesn’t see but knows for sure Dave is fucking capable of having.
Dave doesn’t speak right away; he lets Kirk see, let the implications slither into his brain before the words even left his mouth. The silence stretches, stretches, and then, finally:
“You’re gonna write your mom a letter.”
Kirk’s stomach twists itself into an unholy knot. His body, exhausted and aching, barely responds, but his mind is thrashing, gasping, screaming. His lips parted ever so slightly, though no words came, just the sound of his own pulse hammering in his ears.
Dave sits on the edge of the bed, one hand lazily twirling the pencil. “Tell her you’re fine. Tell her to stop looking for you. That you just wanna be free and all that shit.” He smirked. “Like a true rockstar, huh?”
Kirk blinks, his breath coming shallow. The letter. To his mom. His mom, who must be sick with worry. His mom, who didn’t deserve this. You see, it wasn’t the message itself—God, he’d say anything, anything—but to lie to her?
“I can’t,” he croaks.
Dave tilts his head, his smirk fading. His hand slips into his jacket, slow, deliberate. The glint of the muzzle of the revolver caught the dim light, a cruel little wink.
“You will.”
A shudder wracked through Kirk’s body. His eyes darted from the paper to the pencil to Dave, searching, pleading, but the ginger only raised his brows, expectant.
“Please,” Kirk tried, his voice cracking. “I’ll– I can write to the cops instead, if you want to.”
Dave just shook his head.
“Just not my mom. Please, Dave, she doesn’t–”
“No? You don’t wanna do it?” He leaned in, revolver now resting against his own knee, as if it were just an extension of his arm. “I’ll tell you what happens if you don’t. The cops keep looking, she keeps looking for you, everyone keeps looking for you.”
“No, I can write to the cops–”
“She’ll cry, Kirk. She’ll cry her heart out, wondering why the fuck would you write to those assholes and not to her. She’ll think you don’t give a shit about her, about your family. That’s what you fuckin’ want?”
“No!” Kirk cries out.
“Then write!” Dave snarls.
Kirk’s hands are shaking. The paper is now placed in front of him, the pencil dropped onto his lap. The blank page before him isn't just paper; it's a canvas of manipulation, of betrayal so profound it threatens to consume him entirely.
Dave watches, and for a moment, just a moment, there's a bit of humanity behind his eyes. Then, it's gone.
“Write,” he murmurs, “say you’re fine so you stop worrying the shit out of everyone.”
And Kirk, with his heart screaming, picks up the pencil and started writing.
Dave groans softly from the pain of his stabs as he lays down on the bed. He puts his hands behind his head and just calmly stares at the ceiling.
Kirk writes:
Mom,
Sorry for writing so late, I've been focusing on other things right now, I’ve been reflecting a lot, but I'm okay and I don’t want you to worry about me. I know everything must seem strange right now, but I promise you, I’m completely fine. Leaving without a trace is very unlike me, but I just needed time away, to figure things out for myself, away from everything, away from expectations. Please don’t listen to the police, don’t let them scare you. I left because I wanted to, I needed this. I don’t want you or anyone looking for me. Please, just trust me, I know what I’m doing. Tell everyone I’m okay. Tell them to move on. I just want to live my own life without anyone trying to pull me back.
I love you guys. I always will. But please, let me go.
Kirk
He pushes the letter towards Dave without a word, without even looking at him. His hands retreat quickly, as if the very paper might burn him if he holds onto it for a second longer. Dave, lying back on the bed, takes his time reading it. His eyes move slowly across the page, absorbing each line, but there’s something else in his expression.
It sure is a moving letter if you know the real context, Dave thinks.
He glances at Kirk, but Kirk doesn’t return the look. He just sits there, still, chewing without really tasting the food in front of him.
Dave exhales, folding the letter in half. "Listen, you know it’s better this way,” he says, his voice softer than before. “It’s better for her to think you’re fine and safe somewhere, rather than wondering if you’re even alive.”
Kirk doesn’t answer right away. His fingers tighten around his fork. The true horror isn't the letter itself. The true horror is how perfectly he had mimicked himself; how easily the lie slipped out, how naturally he could sound like the Kirk everyone knows and loves. How his mother would read this and feel relief, never suspecting the terror behind each carefully chosen word.
Dave tilts his head slightly. “Kirk,” he calls his name firmly.
Kirks looks at him, raising his eyebrows slightly.
“You know that, don’t you?” Dave’s voice is gentle, almost coaxing.
“Mhm…Yeah,” Kirk answers flatly.
It doesn’t make it feel any less like a betrayal anyway.
Dave grunts. "You think I should get stitches?" He asks suddenly. He’s obviously saying all of this to remind Kirk of what he did, to make him feel bad.
Kirk gulps. "I’m... I’m really sorry," he says, almost ashamed, "I don’t know what was I–"
Dave cuts him off with a wave of his hand. "I get it, I’m not mad at you. Not right now, anyway. But if you do it again… You already know."
Kirk nods slowly, the unspoken threat was more than clear. "Yeah."
"Now, hurry up and finish eating."
Kirk eats in silence, his face full of bruises, as well as his neck, which now also have a cut and probably fucking hickeys. He tries to process the bizarre turn of events. The letter to his mom. His words were distant, hollow, just detached enough to seem real, yet every letter was torturing Kirk as he wrote it. The worst part? His mother will definitely believe it, because she believes in him. That’s the true horror of it.
It’s better to think Dave is right about it. Maybe it is better than her spending sleepless nights thinking he just vanished into nothingness, never knowing if she’d see him again.
After stabbing Dave, he had expected fury, a brutal punishment for what he had done. Stabbing someone was no small thing, even if it wasn’t enough to kill him or seriously harm him. And with his temper, Kirk had braced himself for the worst; a relentless torture, worse than the punches he'd already endured. He can still feel the sharp sting of Dave’s fists, the sickening crunch of bone against bone. His body aches all over, and he knows he’s probably sustained more damage than he realizes. Maybe even fucking brain damage.
Was the letter the real consequence? Are Dave’s punishments getting more psychological rather than physical?
Kirk sits there for a moment, with now, an empty plate still warm on his lap. “Can I take my shower now?”
Dave looks at him and smirks. He leaves the room, and Kirk is confused, but he gets it when Dave comes back with his revolver. He chooses Kirk’s clothes before he uncuffs him completely.
He scolds him to the bathroom, always pointing at him with the revolver. "Take your time," Dave says before leaving him alone.
The bathroom feels eerily quiet now without the absence of Dave’s presence. Not that he’d prefer it in any other way. He glances over his shoulder before stripping, half-expecting Dave to change his mind, to storm in and reassert control, but the door remains closed.
The warmth of the water is almost overwhelming after days of freezing showers, and as he stills under the spray, a shudder runs through his body. It’s not just from the temperature shift; it’s a release of pressure, the first crack in his tightly wound defenses.
The cascade beats down on him, washing away the grime and blood, but it does little to soothe the deeper aches. He stands there, letting the warmth seep into his muscles, trying to unravel the knot of emotions inside him. The heat brings a dull throb to the bruises, but it’s a welcome pain; a reminder that he’s still here, still alive, still surviving. He runs his fingers through his hair and replays the events of the last few hours: the stabbing, the conversation, Dave’s tears. The warm water should be comforting, a moment of peace, but it’s filled with uncertainty. It’s almost too much. He’s used to the cold, to the harshness, and this sudden kindness feels like a trap.
Despite himself, Kirk feels a sliver of something else; relief, maybe. The shower is nice and warm, and no one is watching. For now, he’s just a man under the water, free to think, free to breathe. But even as he enjoys this brief respite, a part of him remains vigilant.
He finishes reluctantly, stepping out into the fogged-up bathroom. The steam clings to him, he brushes the fog off the mirror and catches his reflection. One eye is red from the punches, his face is swollen and full of bruises, the cut Dave made the first day has a thick scab over it.
The man staring back looks tired, worn down and fucked up, but there’s a still defiance in his eyes.
He puts on the clothes Dave gave him. The warmth lingers on his skin, but Kirk knows better than to let his guard down completely. This shower, this brief moment of solitude, is a rare luxury.
And as he opens the door and steps back into the reality of his captivity, still drying his hair with a towel, he freezes for a moment when he sees Dave. He’s finishing up with the bed, smoothing out clean sheets that have replaced the bloody ones from earlier. He’s being surprisingly gentle, almost domestic, and it throws Kirk off.
Dave glances up, their eyes meeting for a brief second. “Hey,” he says, voice low and unassuming.
“Hey,” Kirk replies, equally subdued.
The casualness of the exchange feels surreal, given the context.
Dave picks up his revolver from the nightstand, but his movements are slow, deliberate, like he’s giving Kirk time to adjust. He gestures toward the bed with a slight nod, and Kirk understands. With a quiet sigh, he walks over and sits down. Dave leans next to him, taking Kirk’s wrist in his hand as he clicks the cuff back onto the bedstead. His eyes linger on Kirk’s face, taking in the swollen bruises, the cuts, and the sheer exhaustion etched into every feature.
For a moment, Dave just stares, softening his expression. “I’ll get you some ice,” he says, standing up abruptly.
Kirk watches him leave, frowning gently at the strange tenderness in Dave’s gaze. When he returns with a small bag of ice wrapped in a towel, he hands it to Kirk without a word. Kirk presses it to his face, wincing slightly at the cold but grateful for the relief.
Dave sits down on the edge of the bed, rubbing his hands together as if unsure what to do with them. “I called some minutes ago, and quit my job,” he says, grinning. “I got an offer from a friend a few days ago. I’ll be working nights now, dealing.”
Kirk raises an eyebrow, not sure how to respond. “Dealing?” He repeats, a little cautiously.
“Yeah, selling pot. It’s better than what I was doing. More money, fewer hours. And… I’ll be able to smoke pot for free.” He raises his eyebrows.
Kirk nods slowly, the ice still pressed to his face. “Makes sense,” he says, though the idea of Dave as a dealer doesn’t exactly fill him with confidence.
“In a few days,” Dave continues, his tone lighter, “I'll check out the auditions with Junior. We already got, like, at least thirteen drummers lined up for Megadeth.”
It’s almost cute how a smile forms in Dave’s face everytime he talks about Megadeth.
“Thirteen?”
Dave sgrin, and there's hint of pride in his voice: “Yeah, thirteen.”
Kirk can’t help but feel a small flicker of happiness for Dave. It’s certainly strange, considering everything, but seeing Dave excited about something other than their twisted dynamic is refreshing.
“That’s good,” he says softly. “I’m… glad things are working out for you.”
Dave glances at him, his smirk fading into something more contemplative. “Yeah... Thanks.”
For a moment, there’s a comfortable silence between them, a rare pause in the chaos that has defined their time together.
Dave clears his throat, standing up and glancing toward the door. “Alright, well… Goodnight, Kirk,” he says, his voice unusually soft.
Kirk looks up from his spot on the bed, the ice still pressed to his swollen face. “Goodnight, Dave,” he replies, his tone equally subdued.
Dave lingers for a moment, as if considering saying something more, but he ultimately turns and walks out of the room, leaving the door ajar.
Kirk hears the faint sounds of Dave settling onto the couch in the living room. He lays back against the pillows, staring up at the ceiling, the ice slowly melting against his skin.
The room feels oddly peaceful. The usual oppressive atmosphere has lifted, if only slightly. Kirk doesn’t know what tomorrow will bring, but for now, he lets himself relax, even if it’s just for a little while.
Three days later
With Dave gone for the auditions, Kirk had thought being alone would feel like a reprieve; a stolen moment of peace where he could exist without Dave’s looming presence, without the constant unpredictability of his moods, after being with him for full days before this. And for the first few hours, it was. The silence was soothing, and the bed, though still quite unfamiliar, was far more forgiving than that wooden chair.
But as the minutes stretched into hours, the silence and peace started being too loud. Kirk shifted his legs restlessly, spreading them, crossing them, his fingers flexing absently against the handcuffs tethering him to the bedstead. His eyes drift to the television, a mindless sitcom playing. The laughter track feels distant, almost mocking. Yet, it doesn’t bother him. Instead, he focuses on the fact that Dave moved it from the living room to there and left it on for him in the morning before leaving; a small, strange kindness in the midst of everything. A detail that shouldn’t matter but it did for Kirk.
And no matter how many channels he flips through, none of it could quiet the strange, nagging feeling in his chest.
It isn’t exactly fear. Dave has been unpredictable and volatile since day one, but that isn’t what twists in his gut now. And it isn’t exactly boredom either, though the thought had crossed his mind in the past days, back when the hours alone stretched out like an endless desert when Dave was out for work. No, this was somewhat different.
He hates Dave. Hates what he’s done, hates the way he’s upended his life, and yet… there's no denying it: with Dave gone, the room feels colder, emptier, and Kirk can’t bring himself to believe it was just the chair, or the bed, or the lack of movement around him. The sound of Dave’s feet, the faint clink of his lighter, even his rough, almost mocking laugh; Kirk has grown used to them, and now their absence feels disorienting. Maybe there's some sort of safety in Dave’s presence, as twisted as it is. Not comfort, but certainty.
And what unsettles Kirk the most isn’t that he “misses” Dave; it's that he isn’t scared of him coming back. Not anymore.
Before, he’d braced himself for whatever mood Dave would walk in with.
Will he be angry? Drunk? High? Quiet and pensive?
There was always something to fear. But now, he realizes he isn’t dreading it. If anything, he was waiting. Wondering what Dave might say when he walked through the door.
He sighs wearily, shaking his head at himself. This isn’t him. This isn’t right. And yet, no matter how hard he tries to shake it, the truth clings to him like a second skin.
He does’t like being alone, but worse than that, he hates what that says about him.
The front door creaks open, and Kirk’s breath hitches, an involuntary whisper of something like relief fluttering in his chest. The sound of Dave’s boots on the floorboards, the faint clink of keys in his pocket; all of it stirred a strange and unwelcome warmth that Kirk quickly suppressed. He shouldn’t feel this way.
Then Dave unlocked the door, and there he was: a lopsided grin on his face and a paper bag in his hand. He rips the tape off Kirk's mouth.
“Missed me?” He teases.
Kirk’s lips part instinctively, the word "yes" nearly tumbling out before he catches it and swallows it back down. Instead, he averts his gaze, muttering a noncommittal “hey” in return.
Dave’s amusement is quite evident as he sits on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. He hands Kirk the bag, its greasy warmth seeping through the paper. “Got you a burger.”
Kirk takes it, his fingers brushing against the rough paper as he murmurs a quiet “thanks.” He unwraps it slowly, the scent of cheap meat and melted cheese filling the air.
“How you feeling from your cold?”
“Uh, good. Better”
Then, for a moment, Kirk focuses on the mundane task of peeling back the paper, grateful for the distraction.
“How–” he ventures, hesitating at first, “how did the auditions go?”
Dave leans back lightly, resting one hand on the bed as he fishes a cigarette from his pocket with the other. He lights it with practiced ease, the flame briefly illuminating his face before it vanishes in a curl of smoke. “Good,” he replies finally, his eyes fix on some distant point beyond the walls. “We found what we were looking for.”
There was something in his tone, in the way his face remained carefully composed, that made Kirk pause. Strange, because there was a smile on Dave’s face every time he talks about Megadeth.
He looks up from the burger, his gaze lingering on Dave’s profile. “Are you sure?” he asks, hesitant but curious. “You don’t look… too excited.”
Dave’s lips curl into a faint smirk, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “You noticed that, huh?” he says, his tone more amused than accusatory. “Yeah, there’s still something bugging me, and it’s not about the band, Kirk.”
Kirk frowns, his curiosity piqued despite himself. “What’s it about then–”
“You,” Dave snaps, his voice cutting through the room like a whip. “It’s you. It’s your fault.”
Kirk freezes, the burger halfway to his mouth as Dave turns to look at him with judgeful eyes.
“I should’ve had a great fuckin’ day today,” Dave continues, his tone biting. “Everything’s coming together, we’re all happy... but no.” He laughed humorlessly, shaking his head. “You just had to be in my head, rent-free, all goddamn day.”
Kirk says nothing. He can't say anything.
Dave narrows his eyes. “You think I’ve forgotten?” he asks roughly. “You think I forgot how you stabbed me while you were trying to fuckin’ escape?”
Kirk’s stomach twists, guilt bubbling to the surface. “I’m... I’m sorry,” he says quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.
Dave takes a long drag of his cigarette, before he immediately slaps Kirk.
Kirk whimpers, the pathetic sound escaping his lips before he can stop it. It was small, barely audible, but it shattered the eerie stillness like a pane of glass. Tears welled up in his eyes, unbidden and unwanted, and he blinks furiously to keep them at bay. Dave exhales, smoke curling out in lazy spirals above his face.
"You know what your fuckin’ problem is? You don’t know a damn thing about discipline. Or respect."
Kirk shifs slightly on the bed. “I’m sorry,” he tries, but it doesn’t sound convincing even to himself. In fact, he immediately thinks he might have fucked up again, considering the possibility that Dave hates the word “sorry.” At least coming from him.
“Sorry?” Dave echoes, mocking the word. “Sorry doesn’t mean shit, Kirk! Not coming from you.” So Kirk was right.
“I’ve tried being nice to you. But clearly that ain’t working. Someone needs to be fuckin’ rough with you for you to understand.”
Kirk’s heart pounds as Dave reaches for the revolver inside his pocket, the motion slow, deliberate, like a predator toying with its prey. He uncuffs Kirk’s hands, the metal clinking ominously. For a split second, Kirk’s mind races with possibilities; should he run? Fight back? Try anything even if Dave shoots him? But he didn’t move. He couldn’t.
In one swift motion, Dave grabs him by the arm and yanks him out of the bed. Kirk stumbles, barely catching himself before Dave shoves him down to the floor. The impact knocks the wind out of him, his elbows scraping against the rough wood as he tries to push himself up.
Motherfucker, Dave curses under his breath as he straddles him, heavy and immovable, and yanks Kirk’s hair. The cigarette dangled from his lips, the smoke stinging Kirk’s eyes.
“Who the hell do you think you are? Huh?” Dave snarls, his voice trembling from the adrenaline.
He jams the muzzle of the revolver into Kirk’s mouth, the cold metal pressing against his tongue, forcing his jaw wide. Dave was going deep—with the revolver—inside Kirk’s mouth, maybe too deep. The taste was acrid, metallic, and Kirk gagged slightly, his breaths shallow and rapid through his nose. He doesn’t answer given the revolver shoved down his throat. Tears blurred his vision as he stared up at Dave, whose face was a mask of fury, his hazel eyes alight with the thrill of control. Dave tightens his grip on Kirk’s hair, enough that they both feel a few strands popping free from his scalp.
“What’s the matter?” he hisses, his voice dripping with venom. “Cat got your tongue? You finally learning to shut the fuck up?” The cigarette burns low, the ash teetering on the edge of falling.
Kirk groans, his hands trembling as they hover near Dave’s knees, unsure whether to push him off or keep still. His mind screams at him to do something, anything, but his body refuses to obey. Every fiber of him is frozen, locked in place under Dave’s weight and the sheer gravity of the moment. And Dave revels in it. The fear in Kirk’s eyes, the way his body quaked beneath him. It fills some deep, hollow part of him, a void he doesn’t fully understand but can’t ignore.
This is power. Pure, unfiltered, raw power, and he doesn’t want to let it go.
Dave’s grip on the revolver doesn’t falter, the barrel still pressed against Kirk’s throat. The ash from the cigarette finally falling and landing on Kirk’s chest. Dave ignores it, his focus solely on the man trembling beneath him.
"Say you’re mine," Dave’s voice is low, dangerous. He slides the muzzle of the revolver out of Kirk’s mouth just enough to give him some space to say what he asked him to. "Say it."
Kirk’s eyes widen slightly, a flicker of defiance sparking through his terror. His lips tremble around the metal as if trying to form words, but nothing came out. He swallows hard, but it's a little painful with the revolver still in his mouth.
Dave takes the corpse of the cigarette out of his mouth and throws it away. He leans in closer, his face inches away from Kirk’s. “Say it, or I swear to God, I’ll blow your fucking head off.” The barrel slid out from Kirk’s mouth and rested on his bottom lip.
Kirk hesitates for a moment longer, his mind a whirlwind of fear and humiliation. He hates this; hates being reduced to this. But he isn’t stupid. He knows Dave isn’t bluffing.
He closed his eyes. “I’m…” His voice cracked as he tried to speak with the revolver pressed to his lips. “I’m yours...”
Dave pulled back just slightly, his eyes narrowing. “No, fuckin' look at me as you say it,” he spat. He yanked Kirk’s head by his hair, moving it around, forcing him to meet his gaze. “And say it like you mean it.”
Kirk blinks rapidly, trying to clear the tears that blur his vision. His breathing is uneven, ragged. He shuts his eyes tightly for a moment, willing himself to comply, to do what Dave wanted.
When he opened them again definitely, he forced as much conviction into his voice as he could muster.
“I’m yours.” Louder, firmer this time.
Dave’s lips curl into a smirk, satisfaction flashing across his face. He loosens his grip on Kirk’s hair slightly but doesn’t move the weapon. “Yeah, you are,” he mutters. “Say you’ll always do whatever I want. No matter what.”
His chest tightens as the words hover on the tip of his tongue. He hates himself for what he's about to say, for the way he's giving in so easily, but the cold steel in his mouth was a constant reminder of the stakes.
“I’ll do whatever you want.” He inhales shakily and added: “no matter what.”
Dave's smirk widens. "I know, because you're fucking mine. I own you, don't I? Kirk?" He raised his eyebrows, waiting for an actual answer.
"Yeah," Kirk answers wearily.
Dave studies him for a long moment, the smirk fading into something more calculating. He moves the revolver from Kirk’s lips, letting it rest against Kirk’s jaw instead. The pressure isn’t as harsh, but it's still there, still threatening.
“Good boy,” Dave says quietly, almost gently, as if he were pleased with a student who finally got the answer right. “See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”
The doorbell ringing sent a jolt through Dave, but he didn’t let it show.
He threw Kirk back onto the bed, handcuffed him and taped his mouth shut.
“Don’t make a goddamn noise,” he whispers in Kirk’s face, before walking out and locking the door behind him.
He makes his way to the front door, peering through the peephole. His stomach tightens at the sight of who was standing on the other side.
James.
James Hetfield, the one from Metallica?
Yes, that one.
For a second, Dave just stands there, frozen.
What the hell is James doing here? Does he… know?