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Captain James Egbert of the Skaia City Police Department is not having a good day.
He's been trying to capture a dangerous man known only as Bro Strider, who's held up several convenience stores and gas stations over the last month armed with some sort of Japanese sword and a hand pistol. James had gotten a letter in the mail to his office earlier that day that had sent the entire department into a tizzy.
Capt James Egbert. 572 Waterview St. 4pm. No extra guests, please. Bro.
Of course, they had insisted on sending several people with James, but he had refused. Most likely, Strider won't even show up if James brings a SWAT team with him, so he only allows himself to be wired, nothing more.
Waterview Street is deep in the 'bad' part of town, and James takes an unmarked police car to the location. He parks in the driveway, which is empty, and he checks in with his radio.
“We're in position, captain,” comes the voice on the other end with a fair amount of static.
“Stand by, Sergeant,” James replies. “I'm going in.” Putting the radio back on its hook on the dashboard, James steps out of the car, pressing the button on his key to hear the doors lock. He makes his way towards the house.
It's a simple bungalow affair, the yard and exterior of the house casually deteriorated in the way that is so common for this part of the city. There is a woman on the porch of the house across the street with a toddler on her hip watching James as she smokes a cigarette. Really, it's almost laughably stereotypical.
James is unsurprised to find the door unlocked, but he knocks and announces himself as “SCPD, open up!” anyway. There's no answer, which also fails to surprise him, and he lets himself in. The house is dim and the furniture is rickety and patched up at best, rotting at worst. James tries a couple light switches and finds the electricity gone. Just perfect.
“Strider?” James calls. No answer. God damn it. The tape holding the wire in place against his skin under his shirt prickles uncomfortably as it pulls on his chest hair, and he wrinkles his nose. He sits on the patched-up couch, making a mental note to take an obnoxiously hot shower afterwards as dust plumes up around him, and he sits down to wait.
... Ten minutes later, and Strider still hasn't shown up. “Strider, if you don't show up in the next thirty seconds, I'm leaving!” he calls, annoyance in his tone. He hears a light tsking and he jumps up, spinning around, his hand on his pistol. Strider has his arms crossed and he's leaning against the door frame between the living room and the entryway. He's put himself between James and the easiest exit. Fuck, James thinks privately to himself. He doesn't like to swear out loud, a product of being a single father.
“Already screaming my name, Captain?” Strider asks, and the smugness he radiates makes James's eyes narrow. “And here I thought you were a hard girl to please.”
James makes a noise in the bottom of his throat that he would classify as a growl, and that makes him take a moment to check himself. He's never heard a person actually growl before, let alone himself. “Where were you?” he asks testily, changing the subject. “You said four pm. It's nearly quarter after.”
Strider's grin turns more salacious, and James wishes he could see where Strider was looking behind those ridiculously pointed shades. One of Strider's hands come up and he taps his fingers to the bill of his cap, almost like a mocking salute. “I knew it'd make you hot and bothered,” he drawls in return. Noticing James starting to turn a bit red with anger, he stands up a bit straighter, giving James a better look at the katana handle poking over Strider's back. He's wearing it across his back. On closer inspection, James can see Strider's own pistol tucked into the front of his waistband, half-hidden by the polo he's wearing. And why on earth is his collar popped? This is an affront to all the sensible clothing ever made, in James's opinion.
“Nah, I'm pulling your chain,” Strider is saying, pulling James from his disgust with Strider's wardrobe, “I was actually making sure none of your men could come barging in on our alone time. No, don't give me that look -” James was giving him a rather nasty glare “- they're just unconscious. Won't even have concussions.”
James nods. “Alright, so what? Are you trying to negotiate the conditions of your surrender?”
Strider has the audacity to laugh. “I'm not surrendering. Why the fuck would I do that? I just wanted to get to know you better.” He crooks two fingers at James and disappears deeper into the house. James sighs and follows, keeping a hand on his nightstick on his belt.
He finds Strider in the kitchen, sitting at a table set for two. There's no food, but there are two candles flanking a vase of flowers. Strider grins at him in a way that James in no way interprets to be benevolent. “Come sit down, honey. I thought you'd appreciate the romantic atmosphere.” James flicks his wrist, extending his nightstick, and he knocks over the candles and vase with a sweep of his arm, narrowly missing Strider. Instead of a shout of surprise, Strider gives a whoop and jumps up, stepping onto the table and somersaulting over James, landing behind him with an unsheathed katana in his hand. With a roar, James spins around and takes a swing for Strider's head, which Strider ducks and returns with a flick of his sword, shearing through his belt. The frustrating criminal is laughing the entire while, and James's mind goes white with rage. How dare he.
James attacks again, forcing Strider back. The katana leaves deep gouges in the plastic of the nightstick as Strider is forced to block James, grunting with effort to block the effort behind the police captain's swings. Strider stops laughing and instead starts actually focusing on disarming James. Their fight takes them back into the living room, and Strider manages to hook James's nightstick with his blade, flinging it towards a corner of the room, where James faintly hears it clatter to the ground. He goes for his pistol, but Strider tosses his sword away and pins James to the wall by his wrists and kisses him hard, all messy teeth and pressure. James makes an outraged noise and kisses him back.
Strider lets go of James's hands and rips his shirt apart, buttons popping off, and he yanks off the wire James is wearing, making James holler as his chest hair is pulled off with the tape. Strider gives a smug grin that is wiped away as James snaps his handcuffs around Strider's wrist. Strider yanks his hand away, cuffs dangling, and he tosses James away onto the floor. The floor is harsh when it hits James's spine, and Strider steps out of his shoes and trousers – he's not wearing boxers or socks, James notes in the back of his mind, and that just makes him even more annoyed with this smug petty criminal. He's also sporting a hard on, James notes, and Strider roughly yanks James's own pants down. He palms James's own erection through his very sensible dark grey briefs, which James didn't even realize he had until Strider is paying attention to it.
“Briefs? Really?” Strider asks, and James sits up and kisses Strider again, biting his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. Strider just purrs (another sound James never thought he'd hear a human make) and yanks down James's boxers around his knees. He straddles James's hips, lines himself up, and sinks down on James's dick.
James makes a strangled sound. Strider is hot and dry and too tight – he thinks he can feel a bit of wetness from where Strider has torn and is now bleeding. “Jesus Christ,” James pants, “you can't just do that, Strider!”
“Why not?” Strider asks, and if he wasn't panting so heavily (most likely from pain, James thinks with a vicious vindictiveness), he'd almost sound bored. James bucks up in retaliation, making Strider shout as James forces himself the rest of the way inside the criminal riding his dick. James continues to buck up into the man, and when Strider starts to grin again, James reaches around lightening-quick to attach the other handcuff to Strider's free wrist behind his back.
“Motherfuck -” Strider starts, but James doesn't let him finish, knocking him back to lay on the floor. Strider wriggles to try and find a comfortable way to lay on his bound hands, and James hikes Strider's legs over his shoulders, holding them tightly so Strider doesn't knee him in the head, and he picks up a rough, brutal pace, making Strider's back arch as he grunts and groans and occasionally gives shouts of pained pleasure.
“Bro Strider,” James pants between thrusts, “you are under arrest for armed robbery.”
Strider laughs. “Are you seriously arresting me while I have your dick in my ass? Talk about being compromised, Egbert.”
“You have the right to remain silent,” James continues, ignoring Strider's words. “Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”
“Miranda's a fucking bitch,” Strider replies, wriggling more on the floor, and James bends forward, forcing Strider to fold under him. That must make the angle more pleasurable for Strider, somehow, because he suddenly shouts, shuddering under James and making the police captain push even harder, feeling sweat form on his brow. He's not as young as he used to be, he reminds himself.
“You have the right to consult an attorney during questioning. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed to you. Do you understand your rights as I have read them to you?” Strider doesn't answer, just lets out a loud yell as he cums, white shooting across his chest, the same colour as the polo shirt he's still wearing. Strider's post-orgasm shaking is enough to set James off, too, and he presses deep into Strider as he bites the inside of Strider's thigh to muffle his groan. Panting, he pulls out of Strider and tosses Strider's legs away.
James stands up and turns away to fix up his clothes. When he looks back, Strider isn't on the floor, and a rush of panic ruins the last of his orgasmic aftermath. “Strider?” he calls warily. There's a clatter and his handcuffs, opened, slide across the floor from the entryway door.
“Later, snookums,” calls Strider's voice. The katana is gone from the corner. James checks the entire house, but Strider is gone. God damn it.
James returns to his car and collects his unconscious support team two blocks over, and they head back to the station. James doesn't give them details of what happened, just saying that Strider showed up to gloat and disappeared.
A week later, a bouquet of cliche red roses show up at James's office. There's a card with the flowers.
Busy tonight, snookums?
James throws the vase against the wall.