Kian almost let out an angry snort of laughter at the redtube remark. Almost. It was sort of ridiculous how even in an utterly petrifying situation his dry sense of humor never really died, though he had a sneaking feeling hysteria may have had a thing or two to do with that.<br/>Anyway, Kian didn’t have any ‘fetishes’ per se. It ran more along the lines of being a twenty year old virgin just barely beginning to grow out of perpetual teenage salaciousness, so by default any sex was considered great sex because Kian wasn’t getting any. Hence, any and all porn was on the table if he was bored enough.<br/><br/>His opponent got quiet for a while too long then, just staring. It was deeply unnerving, particularly when the eye contact became a challenge Kian knew he shouldn’t rise to meet but like the belligerent idiot he was did anyway. The rage that had been bubbling slowly in his addled mind since gaining consciousness, masked by fear and self-preservation, surged as Kian stared down the man lounging comfortably before him. It was blind, adrenaline fueled anger that ate at him with a desperate need to be released, somehow, regardless of consequence.  When the guy mentioned<span style="font-style: italic">convenience </span>and laughed Kian saw red - there’s only so many deep breathing exercises a guy can do.<br/><br/>The shock of the coffee shop mentioned in passing dumped cold water over his rage. This guy had been at his work? When? The way he played it, it sounded as though this wasn’t the culmination of months of stalking. Just a teensy bit of stalking since this afternoon.<span style="font-style: italic">Happenstance</span>, sure. Why not. Today Kian felt weird, went for his regular head check, went to work, and just<span style="font-style: italic">happened </span>to get kidnapped by a lunatic who looked more like they belonged blanked-faced on the catwalk for Karl Lagerfeld than they did terrorizing a bunch of imbeciles in a basement. Unaided, his mind flashed back to the calm, neatly expressionless face of the receptionist that afternoon; the dry brush of his fingers against Kian’s palm when his insurance information was handed back with a knowing half smile. What sort of luck must he have if he wasn’t even a god-damned target for this psychopath and he still somehow managed to end up getting taken home like a kind of twisted consolation prize?<br/><br/><span style="color: #80BFFF"><span style="font-weight: bold">"I could get existential with you, Kian, I really could. Explain to you on the absolute basest of levels why it is that I do the things that I do. But I'll spare you the finer details."</span></span><br/><br/>Thank the lord for small mercies.<br/>Truly, Kian hadn’t gotten the answers he was after. He’d phrased it wrong, but only an asshole could blame him. He didn’t want the existential, he hadn’t even really cared why the receptionist had ‘picked’ him (maybe later it would have mattered to him, but for the time being more important things were afoot. Now he knew, and it really wasn’t all that flattering. He could have lived without knowing), he’d actually been after something a little more blunt. A simple ‘You’re here for me to slice pieces off you ‘til there’s nothing left that interests me’ would have been enough. Like all moody teens he’d had an interest in monsters and murders at some point, and by the looks of the other three suspended around him (none of them seemingly lacking any parts that he could thus far tell despite what the extra shiny instruments of pain seemed to indicate) Model-face wasn’t typical to any trope Kian knew of - no modus operandi stuck out past the chains and general desolation down here. Was this a Joseph Fritzl thing, the warm bodies in the basement? Lydia had supposedly been here a month, Thomas two weeks - were they being saved for...something?<br/><br/>All questions so clearly answered when the man erected himself from his lazy sprawl over the tabletop to stand close - too close - face to face. It incensed Kian to realize he was a good few inches shorter than the other man.<br/><br/><span style="color: #80BFFF"><span style="font-weight: bold">"I'm going to start taking teeth, Kian, and it's not going to be pretty. I'm not a dentist, there is no anesthetic. I want you to think very carefully about how you speak to me from this point on. Do you understand?"</span></span><br/><br/>If Kian were anyone else, perhaps this would have shut him up. Staying quite had never been a problem before, Kian could stand deaf and dumb in the face of a manager’s explosive tirade without so much as a rise in heart rate - he had no idea why now of all times he just couldn’t seem to keep his mouth shut. Instead. He managed a feral grin.<br/><br/><span style="font-weight: bold"><span style="color: #00BF80">“Oh definitely. Understood.” </span></span><br/><br/>He refused to acknowledge that he was grinning<span style="font-style: italic">up </span>at his adversary.<br/><br/><span style="font-weight: bold"><span style="color: #00BF80">“Maybe you’d be better off sending me out of here then. I don’t really play well with others - 'unsociable' has been thrown around as a good descriptor - I’d probably just end up a hassle and ruin your fun.” </span></span><br/><br/><div style="text-align: center;"><a class="postlink" href="https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/236x/7c/4a/61/7c4a61ccdb7e6f6068dd25d09a128f75.jpg">[ img ]</a></div>