|| Weapon’s Free

A long time ago, Xulote didn’t have a home. But then again, that was because his former home had been destroyed and ripped apart at the seams. So having another one seemed out of the realm of possibility for the former military grunt, especially considering his second attempt at making one had also failed, at least until now. With nare a jolt to his body, one of his many owned sleek vehicles made the right turn onto the proper street, just beyond the historic south central area near to Los Angeles, just a mere fifteen minutes away from Hungtington Park (depending on the traffic). Staring up at the sleek highrise he knew his penthouse resided at the very top of, he waved goodbye to his primary driver and looked to one of his more familiar men who he had allowed join him since they didn’t have a car of their own and needed a drive to check on their ailing mother.

“You’ve recovered, from your surgery, da?” Xulote’s deep voice echoed between the three men as his car door swung open after the vehicle came to a stop, the heavy lilt of his native russian accent contorting his speech— but still recognisable in English enough that others weren’t still tilting their head with a ‘huh’ and confused expression. It had taken a long time for him to be able to do that, but once he had, it had never left him. Even if he still spoke Russian fairly frequently, mainly to talk to the one’s back home. Beside him, the smaller man seated upon his organic leather seat shifted uncomfortably, lips twisting as if they didn’t know how to respond, before stuttering a response. Perhaps they didn’t realize one of their hands had moved to cover their chest, as if they still couldn’t believe it, “Y-yes, X-“ the russian arched a brow silently, and that made the younger male correct his mistake quickly, “— Sir, I mean. Yes, I’m healed and it’s—“ All Xulote needed to see was the shimmer in their eyes before he became uncomfortable, raising a large hand to silence them. “I don’t need to know, da? I just wanted to make sure you’re able to get back to work.”

With that, he exited the vehicle— but a tickling sensation on the back of his neck told him he was still being stared at with those glimmering hopeful eyes. If it weren’t for the gut instincts that had saved him many times before, he wouldn’t have been able to avoid the thin hand that reached for him and would have tugged him back towards the car. Twisting around, he glared down at the gaping man who had reached for him with the intention of grabbing onto his suit jacket. Even the driver— one of whom had been with him for many years— gaped as they watched via a peek into the inner rearview mirror, a ‘what the fuck’ expression pasted across their face. A familiar sensation crawled up his back, tingling his tattoos and reminding him of why for the longest time he had wandered the streets shirtless with the russian word for ‘back off’ permanently etched into his skin (even if no one but a fellow Russian or one who could read the language understood what it meant). The other younger man who had grabbed for him tried to recoil, realizing his mistake but Xulote had already grabbed them by their thin throat— yanking them towards his larger body and nearly out of the car he had just stepped out of.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” He growled, and while the other man shook and grabbed feebly at his larger hand, the tips of his tattoos peeking out from underneath his suit sleeve, he waited for a response that took barely any time to formulate. “I was- I just wanted to thank you.” They had responded, and with a considering expression on his stone-cut features, he accepted it after a few suspenseful moments of mental torture for the other man. Releasing their throat, he grunted, “Don’t do it again, da?” The threat lingered in his voice— just enough for fear to seep into the vehicle of the car and dilate the pupils of the young man gripping his throat. “Understood, I won’t, but-“ Both Xulote and the driver reeled back, at the fact the boy dared argue a point.

From the driver a, “What the fuck do you mean, ‘but’, do you want to die?” And from Xulote himself, “Are you testing me?” In which the still terrified man shook his hands rapidly in placation, and the singular word ‘no’ was rapidly falling from their mouth. “No, god’s no! I’d never, I just-“ And then once more those hopeful glimmery eyes fell upon Xulote and he shuddered, stepped back, discomfort eating away at him, “I just—“ He watched as their cheeks started turning a bright burning red, “I just wanted to say if you ever need anything,” His thoughts started to whisper their suspicions as his white brow arched high up the planes of his forehead even as the other man continued speaking, “Anything at all, call me.” Between the driver and Xulote, a look was shared.

Was he being propositioned right now? The driver’s expression showed a teasing glint that could only come from a friend witnessing a roundabout confession— as if they were at a bar and a woman in a dress conforming to their curves had strutted right up to them and placed their number in the pocket of his jeans (which had happened before, on occassion). So when he glanced back at the other man, still with their rosy cheeks and the hopeful gleam in their eyes— he had his conclusion. He was indeed, being propositioned. Before he could stop himself, a sinful cackle began to crawl up his throat, “Your freshly made man-tits have barely recovered and you’re telling me I can do anything?” He leaned down, getting right in their face and exhaling a teasing puff of hot air across their faces, “Don’t let your mother catch you with those dirty thoughts in your mind, da?” The other man gaped as Xulote pulled away and slammed the car door closed, fixing the cuffs of his suit and striding towards his home, where the only man he wanted a proposition from anymore would be waiting.

Unbeknownst to him that in the vehicle pulling away from the curb, his driver was trying to stifle his laughter and the other was trying to defuse the situation with a whiny ‘shut up’, before covering their reddened face with both hands.

“You know he has a kid, right?”

“God, don’t tell me, that makes him hotter!”

---

Xulote had paid a lot of money for his penthouse, for the security that came with knowing that while no one else could enter with weapons— him and his people could. Hence why as he watched the lit up numbers glow and then darken with each passing floor from within the elevator, he found himself subconciously placing his hand over the familiar curve of his Maxim 9, a relief to his mind that he would be able to protect those within his newfound home no matter what. The elevator beeping and prompting him for his passcode for the penthouse level removed his hand from his gun, a quick ‘1848’, and then the elevator was climbing up the last floor before it’s heavy doors parted and allowed him direct entrance into his home. Olga’s large form sat waiting for him with a wagging tail and panting jowls of happiness and he placed a large palm on the top of her giant skull for a quick scratch behind the ears. Though, as he waited and the elevator doors pinged closed behind him— he started to feel that familiar insinctual sensation that had urged him to turn when the man had tried to grab him in the car previously.

Bright icy blue eyes speckled with splatterings of teal began to observe his dark, silent, home. Normally, by this point his little princess would have run up to him with a screamed ‘Daddy’ before colliding into his pant-leg. Abraham liked the brightness of his open-floor plan penthouse, so normally on days when it wasn’t cloudy with fog or rain— the curtains would be pulled aside from the large windows so the unobstructed view of their rooftop access and beyond was visible and poured light into the home. Today was one of said days when the curtains would have been pulled aside, but they remained closed and his home quiet. Before he had even realized it, his gun was pulled free from the tucked spot underneath his belt, the safety clicked off and a knife’s wooden engraved handle in his other palm.

His mind started to conjure dangerous possibilities. He had sent home the nanny and security as soon as he walked into the building, had they been taken in that time? How did no one notice? How many weapons did he have on him? His heart pounded, mind raced— and he began to feel his hands tighten around his weapons as he stalked forward, a curious eye on Olga because she was trained to protect his family. Why wasn’t she reacting to his aggression? Why were her soulful brown eyes just staring at him with a curious playful head-tilt? And then she had wandered off towards one of the two living spaces? “Fuck, Olga-“ he hissed, trying to get her to come back to him because what if the intruder was still in the home, “Olga, dammit!” His words were whispered but she didn’t react as he heard her presumabely climb onto the couch in the living room and lay down, if the shuffling and noise was any indication.

Fuck! 

He started to catalouge his weapons. His favored knife and gun were already in-hand, he had two more small compact knives stashed in each one of his shoes, another knife tucked into the inner pocket of his suit, and a small pocket pistol sheathed away at the base of his ankle. With that and the layout of his house memorized, he began his search of his home. The elevator only dropped off and picked up individuals at the first level of the penthouse, but their were still two floors above this one— the current floor had roof access and so did the upper-most one. Olga wasn’t reacting whatsoever on the first floor, so theirs a possibility no one was here or she had simply gone senile in her aging dog-years. With the expertise of the military, his father’s training, and the eased practice of one who still did the sort of work he was calling upon the skills of— he began to search and clear each room with methodical precision. The kitchen and it’s accompanying walk-in pantry was first, then his office and Valentine’s playroom that shared the same wall but in a room of it’s own, and finally the rooftop access before he took the outdoor stairs to the second floor.

With each room he cleared, with no sign of his daughter or Abraham, Xulote became more and more hostile. Thoughts running rampant in his mind of the actions he would take against the people who may have harmed or taken them.

He would deeply peel the cuticles from the surrounding area of each finger, before gently trimming the length of each nail, so the least possible surface area was available— meaning he would have to resort to a thinner plier or even a chisel and sharp pick to remove each nail from it’s bedding slowly.

The secondary living room was clear, as well as the bedrooms, which only left the upper-most floor and the two rooms directly next to the master suite that required pin-code access. The master suite had been empty, so ‘0420’ was quickly pressed in and then he was quickly entering one of two of his locked rooms.

He would thinly cut each of their achilles heels (not directly snapping them, but shredding them so each move ripped the severed tendon more and more) and then string them up from their wrists, pulling them high until they were forced to use their feet and scream in pain lest they want to dislocate both of their shoulders.

Gun-first and the light switched on, a deep blue painted room with a four-poster bed in the very center appeared, along the walls various instruments of pleasure too big to store away in one of the closets or in a drawer lined a decoratively stone embellished wall. He knew Valentine would never be in this room, but with Abraham he could never really tell what the brat was going to try and pull on him. But that hope had been dashed and that left one final room.

He was going to run the loud chaotic sounds of a vacuum for hours, watching them slowly lose their mind from the lack of silence before attached a clear suction tube to the end of it. He’d bring the tube closer and closer to their eye, letting the noise grow louder amongst their pleas for mercy before directly suctioning it over their eye— peeled back and left wide and unblinking with forceps. Each hour he would raise the suction, allowing them to think that their sight was safe until suddenly the pressure would become too much and they would begin to feel the uncomfortable sensation of their eye bulging from it’s spot— and eventually their eye would pop free, only held to their skull by the meaty connection to their skull, stretched thin.

The next room was a quick ‘1104’, but he knew as soon as he had entered the prestine brightness of his modernized weapons room; lined to the extremes with various guns, knives, and a repair workstation right in the center still not wiped clean from lubricant, the custom stain finish for one of his engraved knife handles,  and a spare bore brush— that they were not there.

A frustrated roared shout echoed in the room as he pulled out of the room and slammed the door closed so loud that it shook the walls. Knife and gun alike were tucked away as he stormed downstairs— fully intending to race out of the penthouse in his ‘Victor’ and rally the troops in the search for the one last thing he had.

He would kill them. He would fucking kill them.

That thought ran on repeat in his mind as he stampeded down the secondary set of indoor staits leading to the lower-most floor, only to pause when Olga greeted him at the bottom of the stairs. He pointed a stern finger at her and hissed, “You didn’t protect them!” Her big head tilted and she barked, which only made him more frustrated as she trailed away with a happy jog and wag of her tail, back to the living room. The living room he hadn’t checked because she had gone there. With his white brows pulling together, he followed his dog and despite the urgency still eating away at him that he had to leave and find them— he decided to trust in his dog’s cues and go after her. Only to release a heaving sigh of relief at the sight that met his eyes.

Encased in outreaching golden dome of light sourced from a nearby table lamp, Abraham stared back at him from the sofa with sleepy eyes— and on top of him covered in a monochromatic blanket, Valentine slept. Dead to the world as soon as her eyes had closed and unable to be woken by anything. “Fuck.” He heaved, his hand raising to run exhasperatedly over his face, his other hand clutching his hip firmly. Until the sleep-soft voice of his lover reached his ears, “Why did you yell?” Again, his formerly racing heart calmed at the sound of their voice— at the very sight of them— and with his hands resting at his sides he strutted forward with a hiss, “I swear i’m going to put a fucking tracker on you both.” A squeak from Abraham in shock was all his answer, said noise only being echoed a second time when Xulote bent down and easily picked them up before he fell back onto the couch in the spot that Abraham had previously been in.

One beefy arm was curled around Valentine, who did nothing more than hum and cuddle further into the mass of his pectorals. The other arm was curved around Abraham’s waist, a hand firmly gripping their ass (as per usual). With the warmth of his family seeping into his skin through the his clothing, Xulote finally tilted his head back against the armrest of the couch, closed his eyes, and relaxed— calm. Only Abraham’s voice caused one of his eyes to peel back open— staring down towards the area his lover’s head that rested on the bulk of his shoulder. “You never told me why you were yelling?”

He closed his eyes, gripped his family close, pressed a kiss to Abraham’s forehead and shared his answer.

“No reason. Go back to sleep, da?”

---

I thought I had lost you.