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[personal profile] mistalagan
Title: Phantom Hiker
Author: [livejournal.com profile] mistalagan
Rating: NC-17
Characters and/or Pairing: Gabriel (Trickster)/OMC
Spoilers: Not really.
Warnings: Rape, genderbending, mention of pedophilia
Word Count: 3022
Notes/Prompts: From SpnKink: In his trickster days Gabriel often went hitchhiking. When the man that took him tries to rape him he enjoys to turn the tables. Go with this where you want. Just no scat or watersports please.

She was fucking perfect.

He'd almost drove right by her. Did drive right by her, actually - must've been distracted - but after he'd blinked away the glint of sun in his rearview she was standing right there by the side of the road, thumb held up hopefully and inexpertly as she hopped around behind his truck, and he didn't get more than a hundred feet further before he was flipping around and rolling down the shotgun mirror.

He hadn't meant to pick anyone up. Hell, he'd just gone into town to pick up bread and aspirin and a pack of razor blades. Hadn't been more than four months since the last one, and he liked to wait a little. Made cops less suspicious. Plus, the longer the wait, the sweeter the reward. He'd always been good at self-control.

But this one was perfect. Had a thin white blouse on, puffy cap sleeves topping creamy, slender arms, and little denim shorts just on the cusp of inappropriate for a September evening. Couldn't be more than five-feet-one, and damn but he liked them small and delicate and trusting. Big brown eyes - in the light he'd swear they were almost gold - and cute little pink lips. She was biting the bottom one as she inched forward, peering at him through the open window with her duffel trailing behind in one hand.

He had a good face for this. People liked his face - it seemed trustworthy, solid. The kind of face people wanted to tell their problems to. The kind of face even the most suspicious person tended to let their guard down around. He wasn't a big guy, either - five-foot-eight - which gave people even less to be afraid of.

"Hey, need a ride?"

"Um, yeah." She had a great voice - it sent shivers down his spine already; timid and soft and high. "Just, um, to…crap, wait a sec, I'm sorry…" She fumbled in the back of her shorts, pulling out a bright pink phone, and squinted at it for a moment. "Can you get me to Glenville? Please?"

"Sure, no problem. Hop in." He leaned across and opened the door, taking the little plastic bag and throwing it on the floor. The bread would probably get crushed. Whatever. She still seemed a little hesitant, so he tilted his head a little and grinned. "You kinda remind me of my sis."

She didn't really react, so he pulled out his wallet and flipped past the clipped Polaroids until he came to one with a passable likeness. D, 1998 was scrawled on the back. "Look like her, see? Hey, sorry, my name's Dave. Dave Wheeler. Look, I don't want to creep you out or anything, just trying to be friendly."

She smiled a little and scooted in, struggling with her duffel. "Oh, no. You're the nicest guy I've met so far, actually. Some of those truckers are really sketchy. I'm Gabby, by the way." A lock of hair slipped out of her ponytail, catching the light from the setting sun. Her nipples were poking out a little from the chill.

"May I?" He grabbed the duffel and shoved it between them. "Just trying to do my part to help. You don't look like you're gonna bash my head in and steal Carrie or anything. No offense."

She laughed this time. Hook, line… "None taken! Um. Who's Carrie?"

"Oh! She's my truck. Good gal. She's gotten me through a couple rough roads."

"Oh, that's cute." She leaned forward, resting her forearms on the dash. They drove on for a while longer until he spoke again.

"Hey, you said you were heading to Glenville, right? Meeting someone there?"

She shrugged. "Thought I'd get a motel for the night, actually. I'm traveling up to New York, eventually. Might take a while. Hitchhiking to save money, you know."

"Hmm. Y'know, I think the motel in Glenville's out, actually. Some Labor Day renovations or something. Between you and me, it needed it. I drive past that dump every week, wouldn't trust it to keep my dog."

"…Shit. Really? How far are you going?"

He pursed his lips. Gotta be careful. "Actually, I wouldn't have gone there at all if it weren't for you. My place's a little south of there. And Weston's a good hour away - that's the closest town with anything worth it."

She pulled in a deep breath. "Crap. I'm sorry. Um. Can you just - drop me off before we get to your place, then? I don't want to be a bother."

The sun had set. Perfect timing. "You sure?" He looked at her worriedly. "Not a lot a people gonna pick you up this late, and I wouldn't trust them if they did."

"What am I gonna do? No motel, and I can't ask you to drive all the way to Weston." She looked nervous, now, but also looked at him as if he had the answer. Easy.

"Stay at my place." Before she could protest, he raised a hand and flapped it at her. "It's just me and the dog, and you won't be intruding. Promise. No charge."

"I don't know. Maybe you'd better just let me off…" She looked really small, now. Young. Like, fucking sixteen or something.

"Look." He slowed, put both hands on the wheel, looked at her with his big blue puppy dog eyes. "Like I said, you kinda remind me of my sis. And I wouldn't want her wandering the roads at night trying to get a ride from God knows who, okay? C'mon. I couldn't possibly be sketchier than those truckers, you said so yourself."

She was nibbling her bottom lip again, staring at him with those brown eyes. "…Alright. But I'll pay, okay? And no funny business."

He laughed. Nicely. "No funny business, I swear. You can have the guest bedroom, I've got a great little house."

"…Thanks. Really."

"Hey. No problem. …You up for soup for dinner?"


He waited. She'd gone to bed at eleven, but they didn't always sleep right away (he'd learned that from a blonde little bitch back in '92 who'd almost clawed his eyes out). The red digital clock ticked away the minutes as he sat waiting. His dog had fallen asleep a long time ago, exhausted from the excitement of meeting someone new. He always kind of wondered what she thought about all this shit. Never complained, anyway. Hell, he fed her, right?

At two-twenty-seven exactly, he padded down the hall and to the closed door, duct tape hanging off his shoulder. The lock was easy to pick - he'd had plenty of practice, and he slid it open with hardly a whisper.

She was sleeping face up, sprawled under the comforter - still in that little white blouse - with her lips slightly open and hair like a halo around her head. He took a long look, admiring her in the moonlight, before closing the distance to the bed and pouncing.

She woke almost immediately, struggling against his hand and making little shrieking noises. Her eyes were impossibly wide as she writhed and kicked, but he had a good sixty pounds on her and the comforter - tucked under the mattress on the sides - helped hold her down as he bit off a length of duct tape and wrapped her tiny wrists up in it. He pushed the whole ensemble up to the headboard, tying her down nice and tight, before pulling back with a yelp. "Fucking bitch bit me!" he cursed, wringing his hand before backhanding her hard as she screamed. That shut her up briefly, and she lay with her head to one side, eyes brimming. He breathed hard through his nose, glaring at her. "Here's the deal, sweetheart. There's no one around. No neighbors to hear you. And the quieter you are, the easier this is. Got it? No struggles, and you're scot-free in the morning."

This was a lie, of course. But it made them think they had a chance, and he liked seeing the hope in their eyes. It was sweet when they thought they'd get out alive.

She stayed quiet, occasionally sobbing a little, as he ripped off the comforter and pulled down her sweatpants. When he'd got his fingers in her little lace panties, she kicked out, and he held her legs tight as he inched the underwear down. He could smell the sweat, and almost taste the tears just knowing they were there.

One ankle went to one edge of the bed, another to the other, so she was laying spread eagle out on the white sheets, pussy nice and pink and vulnerable. She was muttering under her breath, as if she knew it wouldn't help - "Please, please, just let me go…" He grinned.

"In the morning, sweetheart." He pulled down his own jeans, now, his cock already hard and aching for her. "I wasn't lying, you know. You do remind me of my sister. She was always a little slut too…"

He lay along her body, hands cupping her neck and chin, and kissed her. Her lips were salty and sweet, and her chest was still heaving as he pinched a nipple still hidden by her blouse. He breathed in the scent of fear as he caressed her hair, trailed his fingers along her arm. "Don't worry, sweetheart. I'll make it good for you." He pushed up her shirt, tried to undo her bra before cursing and giving it up for a moment, flopping of the bed to rifle in his jeans. The knife was small, only a few inches, but it cut through the material easily. It would cut through skin easily, too. He was almost trembling - like her - with anticipation, ready to see her blood well up so prettily along her white skin. But he wasn't going to do that, yet. Plenty of time later. He had a good five hours to work with.

He licked his way down her body, pushing his tongue into her belly button and mouthing down her thigh before smiling against her clit. He nuzzled it, making her whimper and sob out another "Please", and now he could say that she was pleading for more as he pulled away, jacking his cock a couple times before leaning along her once more and lining his head up with her cunt. He took a moment to relish the look in her eyes - wet and scared - before pushing in with one deep thrust.

She didn't scream. That was the first thing that seemed wrong, and he stilled. Her eyes were closed, and her shoulders were shaking again. Crying, probably, so he pulled out just as quickly.

And pushed himself off the end of the bed in agony, curled up on the floor. "Fuck! Fuck fuck fuck what did you do you bitch…" It took a good two minutes before he could even look, and when he did he was horrified. His dick was bleeding, bright ribbons of blood coursing down it, and it was with one trembling hand he reached down and pulled out something - hard. And white. Is that a tooth…?

Through the haze of pain he barely registered the soft sound coming from the bed. He looked up, hands bloody and bracing himself against the wall as he slowly stood and saw her staring right at him. Laughing. He saw red - the adrenaline was enough to propel him forward, grabbing at the knife and plunging down towards her head.

The limp fingers of her right hand shifted, pressed against each other, snapped.

He didn't understand how he managed to slice through the duct tape instead, or how her hundred pounds managed to manhandle him around with the knife against his throat.

She didn't look vulnerable anymore. She looked demonic.

"Hey, honey," she purred, and ground down against him in a move that might have been hot if every touch to his dick didn't send spears of pain shooting through his gut. He watched - almost detached, still in shock - as she retrieved the duct tape, tying him up in much the same manner as she had been tied - spread eagle and all. She sat back, surveying.

"Let me help you with that, 'kay?" She placed a kiss to her two fingers before trailing them down his cock, and he flinched, expecting pain. He could only breath a quiet sigh when there was none, and he looked down apprehensively.

It was as if it were whole again. As if she could heal with a touch. Not even bloody. He stared.

"See. I can be nice." She grinned sharply, playing with the knife - flipping it back and forth between her two hands and sending it twirling in the air. Just above his groin. Hell. Even if it fell, it couldn't possibly hurt worse than - than whatever the hell she did before.

She bounded off the bed - still half naked - and rooted around in his pants before triumphantly coming up with his wallet. "Now, let's see!" She trotted over to the light switch, and he squinted against the white light - was it always that bright? - flooding the room. As she returned to the bed, she pulled out first cash, then credit cards, tossing them one by one to the floor. "Here we go."

She settled down by his head. "Ooh, you took a picture like this of me, didn't you? You don't have to answer," she looked down, clearly amused by his renewed struggles. "Stop that, sweetheart." He glared.

"Fuck you."

"I think we tried that, actually. You obviously weren't man enough for me." She smirked. "Janice Keery, twenty years old in 2005." The picture flipped face down onto his chest, and he could make out the J, 2005 scrawled in black marker on the backing. "Serena Ramos, seventeen in 2004." Flip. "Ila Advani, seventeen in 2002…aren't we nice and multicultural?"

"You a cop?"

She blinked, turned to face him, pressed her lips down to his ear. "Honey, by the time I'm done with you, you'll wish I was."

Flip, flip, flip. "Isabella. Mary. Dora. Nalani…hmm. Lily Olsen, thirteen in 1992. Bit of a - what's the term? Ephebophile? Hebephile? Doesn't really matter, I suppose." Flip. Flip. Flip. Flip. Flip. The last photo fluttered down to sit on the rest. "Want me to write out the last for you? Gabrielle Angelotti. Sixteen in 2005." She waved her picture - it must have been in his pockets, somehow - in his face. "Or David Wheeler, thirty-seven. Either way."

He could feel the tape around his wrists starting to give, and he redoubled his efforts. The night could still be salvaged. If he just got free, he could still overpower her easily. Kill her quick, though how he wanted to torture her for this humiliation…

She slid back off the bed, went to dig through her duffle. The tape was nearly torn through, and as she straightened back up he lunged - wrists rubbed raw, but free, ankles still awkwardly strapped to the bed.

She was a lot more solid than she looked, barely budging at his assault. She sighed, and raised her fingers to snap.

His wrists were back at the top of the bed. …The fuck?… "Darling," she said as she turned, "none of that, now."

"Fuck…what the fuck are you?" He tugged wildly against the bonds, using whatever leverage he could to push himself up and away from her.

She paused, letting the instruments in her hands - scalpel? tongs? a syringe? - fall to the bed, and tilted her head, her smirk changing into an appraising frown.

"You know," she said, "I was just going to do this. Little local anesthetic, little cut, you walk away intact. Mostly. Maybe not the anesthetic if you'd pissed me off more, but you did promise to make it good for me. I'm sure you'd have followed through. Right?"

He stared into her cold, unforgiving eyes, and screamed for help.

She timed him. "Eleven minutes, thirty-six seconds! Not bad. No one's around, remember? Anyway, you didn't let me finish. I'm going to do something a lot more interesting." She pressed the scalpel tight against the base of his balls, dragging it up and down, and he tensed and swallowed dryly down his sore throat.

"Please." His voice came out shaky, weak. He could vaguely feel a trickle of liquid going down his arms, and snot hung heavy on his upper lip.

"You scare easy, don't you? Typical." The pressure eased up as she took the scalpel away. "Alright. So." She snapped, once, twice, three times.

If he'd thought the pain in his dick had been bad, nothing could have prepared him for this. It felt like every bone in his body was reshaping, compressing, cracking and healing all over again. His skin sagged and stretched and snapped - he could feel his hair growing out, and other hair curling in and disappearing, his muscle eroding, shrinking, dying. He might have blacked out at one point, only to wake to a new round of agony.

When the pain stopped, he found himself looking into a hand mirror at Gabrielle Angelotti. "You - " he stopped. His voice was high, breathy. Scared.

"Me?" The hand mirror was taken away, and a man's face smirked down at him. "You."

The guy was - god, probably as tall as he was. Had been. Fuck. Not big, but big enough. And sporting an erection which - seemed far bigger on someone else.

"No. No no no, please don't this." He shivered, licked his lips. Her lips. Fuck. He could feel his - her - breasts heaving, her hair curling around his head.

"Don't - why ever not? Don't you like being on the other end, sweetheart?" The man leaned over him, wiped his snotty face, and with a cruel smirk pressed his lips down onto - hers.

"I'll make sure you enjoy it," he whispered, laying fully along her trembling body. "Absolutely sure."


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March 2012

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