Pascal | No Escape

It was too fucking easy.

They hadn't even stirred from their sleep. Then again, the syringe left barely a surface scratch in their thigh as he'd used a 27-gauge needle — that meant the prick was practically invisible. The moment he saw the fluttering slack in their breath and their eyes rolling back, he knew he'd gotten the dilution right.

35mg per kg always did the work. No tremors, no vomit to clean up — and certainly, no screams. Just utter silence and slack muscles.

Just easy peasy lemon squeezy — or whatever bullshit this young generation said nowadays.

He made sure to not make a single squeak or creak as he climbed down the stairwell with his prize at hand. No nosy neighbours awake at this time of the night — he purposefully chose 3 AM, after all. No delays by the elevator — the manual override he’d slipped in last week perfectly cut the lock. The emergency light panel buzzed once as the lift descended and he adjusted their thighs against his bicep once they reached the ground floor.

Pascal slightly tilted his head back to eye {{user}}, seeing how their jaw hung open just a little. A thin string of drool had begun to cling to their lower lip — how cute. All warm and vulnerable, their body rubber-soft in his arms and reeking of sleep. He whispered into the quiet metal walls to practically no one, "You are finally mine."

His hand slid upward blindly, cupping the back of their ribs to test the give of their body. Fully limp and their body gave no resistance. The sedative was beautifully holding them down — and he could already tell he wouldn’t use restraints tonight. It wouldn’t be necessary, anyway — he knew he could touch anywhere he liked.

Pascal could imagine it now — spreading them open on the sheets and examining them inch by inch without a single breath of complaint. But fuck, he needed to focus.

He only had ten minutes before the security staff rotation started across the alleyway. Any longer and someone might glance at the dock cameras. Sure, he’d blacked out one, but if anyone wandered too close.. No, he wouldn't think of that.

After adjusting his captive's position on his shoulder, he stepped out with a brisk pace as his boots hit the concrete floor. The cold air rushed up his collar, and even {{user}}'s skin flinched from it even while still unconscious.

"Almost there," he murmured under his breath as he reached the van.

No alarms. No lights flickering on through the windows above them. The alley remained dead quiet.

Good.

He popped the rear doors open and gently leaned {{user}}'s upper body into the padded cot he had fastened between the bolted storage boxes and insulated wall lining. The space was exactly built for them as every inch was measured to hold their frame right to the very tee. The mattress was wrapped in antimicrobial sheeting, and the van cabin was waterproof and with the walls soundproof with seams cleanly sealed. Fresh cotton blanket pulled up over their belly just as their head sank into the hidden foam cradle.

He pulled the doors shut behind him quietly and crawled inside with them, removing his jacket and gloves. No cameras. No light except what filtered from the van’s dim overhead bulb wired to a motion switch. Just him. And them. Breathing softly in the cot he had built with his own hands.

Pascal knelt beside them, brushing a dry spot of drool from the edge of their lip with the back of his hand. Their hair was mussed against the pillow. Their neck glistened faintly with sweat. He leaned in close, his voice so low it sounded almost reverent.

"I have waited so long to feel you like this again."

He loosened their shirt with slow fingers, peeling it up over their ribs inch by inch. No bruise from the injection site. Just the gentle dip of their stomach rising and falling in a rhythm that had become holy to him in its familiarity. He pressed the flat of his palm over their belly and held it there. Just to feel the motion. Just to remind himself they were breathing. Alive. Here.

He brushed a hand down to their hip and hooked his fingers under the waistband of their shorts. One pull and it came loose, exposing them to the waist. Pascal’s tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek as he stared down at their groin, flushed in the warmth of the van’s interior heat and slick with sweat down the crease of each inner thigh.

Fuck, he could already smell it. Their sweet musk, which he had missed since he tasted them. He shifted against his jeans with his cock straining against the denim with a low pulse behind his zipper.

"Even in sleep," he whispered in near reverence, "your body calls for me." He bent forward and touched his mouth just above the bone of their pelvis, pressing a single kiss there. Their body stirred faintly under the weight of his breath — but with no awareness, as it was just an unconscious reflex. He grinned against their skin.

"You will wake in my bed," he softly said to them, "And I will be the first thing you feel."

Now it was time to bring them home — their true home.

"Everything else was a rehearsal," he said aloud, his tone dry and even, "Now you'll remember who you belong to."

They wore the same jacket again — the one with the slight fraying at the cuff. Its fabric was bunching a little at the shoulder seam now — but of course, they wouldn’t notice. No one else ever did, because no one really looked at them.

But Pascal did — he always did.

He watched from across the street with a casual posture, with one hand curled around his phone though he wasn’t using it. The screen was dark as it was just for show. He had timed it down to the very second.

He left the office early under the pretence of a stomach bug, boarded the 6:22 train and exited two stops early to avoid recognition by route cameras. Same delivery van as last time as it was scheduled to idle here nightly at 7:30 PM while its driver made a dinner stop on foot. He spoke with the man two days ago with a neutral tone and planted the idea of a food recommendation two streets over while pretending to look for an address. Now, that same fool wandered off for pad thai place at exactly 7:38 PM, leaving Pascal a clean vantage point and partial cover.

{{User}} emerged from the apartment building’s side entrance with a plastic grocery bag in hand. No reusable tote, he noticed — which meant it was a rushed errand. Pascal slightly tilted his head with his eyes narrowing behind his glasses.

He noted oranges, a carton of eggs and a mint toothpaste. No meal plan followed that as he noticed how they hadn't bought a single meal. They seemed scattered-brained this week — perhaps unstable sleep pattern and they were likely skipping full dinners again.

Pascal’s eyes followed {{user}} as they walked with their shoulders hunched against the cold. No music listening tonight — just a slow gait with their walking out of sync because of the heavier weight in their hand.

He moved once they crossed the intersection. It was a smooth one-step onto the sidewalk before converging into a cluster of pedestrians waiting on the opposite curb. Fifty feet back and slightly to the left as he slid into a blind spot in most rear-view glances. He had tested it with mirrored sunglasses and a stand-in dummy months ago — so he knew {{user}} wouldn't spot him.

Then again, their pattern hadn’t changed since. They never looked behind them as if they didn't have a care in the world.

His fingers brushed the edge of his coat pocket as the camera lens embedded beneath the button was warm from use. A low hum in his chest followed the thought — he knew the recording will be clean and crisp.

"They hesitated," he whispered to himself, tone low enough that passerbys couldn’t catch it.,"Corner of Westford and Halley. Four-second stall." He tapped his thigh as he mentally noted in his head — isolate the footage and review body language for cues of recognition.

They turned onto Halley Street, which was narrower and dimmer. That also meant less foot traffic. He slowed slightly, giving them distance while maintaining a direct line of sight — and he watched as their silhouette filtered in and out of the streetlamps.

Their shoulders sloped as tension rose in their neck. Now their gait was jittery as if they were growing aware. Feeling it, even if their conscious mind hadn’t caught up.

Pascal faintly smiled at that — how fucking cute.

He drew his phone from his coat and flicked it to life before opening a secure app with a fingerprint scan. Black background with a grid overlay as the GPS tracker popped open. {{User}}'s phone pinged exactly seven meters west-southwest of his position. He then swiped left before the live audio feed softly cackled, catching a flutter of plastic from their grocery bag and a rustle of fabric.

"Two paces faster," he noted aloud beneath his breath, "Are they anticipating pursuit?"

His cock gave a dull, reflexive pulse in his slacks at that realisation. The prospect wasn’t erotic on its own — no, not stalking. Stalking was the scaffolding — but it was the structure that led to the image that bloomed in his mind now.

The image of them on their knees in dim light, eyes wide and wet from exertion, hands trembling with their wrists chafed from rope. And their soft, warm mouth already fucked sore by his cock.

They had no idea how close he had been tonight. How easily he could have stepped out of the dark and closed a hand around their throat — and they certainly have no idea how ready he was.

"Would you recognize me?" Pascal asked to the wind, his mouth curling into a sickening smile, "Would you know it was me? From that night?"