#tpof dean x gender neutral reader

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JACKAL

Jackal/Dean x Hacker!GN!Reader

Last Edited: 21/06/2024

TW: mocking, bleeding, drugging, kidnapping, corrupt cop, foul language, imprisonment, threats of bodily harm, illegal information gathering, open ending

Requested: No.

Word Count: 3,415

AO3 LINK -> HERE

Notes: This took two weeks. It’s the pig’s time to shine. Not. Fuck this nasty bastard with his midlife crisis mohawk. Now, take it away, Penny. (/SpongeBob ref for Rppik.)

@rppik (editor/co-writer): this one goes out to my hyperfocusing baddies out there,

“I assume this is everything?” You can hear Blue and Red getting shifty at your words. They, as well as you, have been waiting for the introduction to end to start your biddings.

“That it is, yes! Would my esteemed customers like to let this lowly Auctioneer know what goods you wish to purchase?” 

Yes, that is the question, isn’t it? Who will you be bidding on to take with you?

》YOU HAVE SELECTED JACKAL 《

“ Blue window? Which do you wish to take with you? I’ll make sure to have it all written down!” The Auctioneer asks, motioning towards a metal door. Behind it, you’re sure there’s someone there to take notes of what items are purchased, they will be shipped to, as well as who wasn’t bought.

“Oh! I’ll do 250 for Mason and Machete each!” Blue’s window lights up. She sounds excited to go first with her purchases. Then again, she always complained when she didn’t get to go before everyone else; better she goes now than later.

“Very well. How about the red window? Whom will you be taking?” She asks, facial expression unable to be seen behind her bandage-like mask, though the way she talks with such joy only highlights how well she is at her job.

“120 on Jackal, 340 each for the Goffard boys,” Red says, window lighting up.

“What the fuck! Fuck you!” Derek says, Matt looking just as livid as his brother. The sweat that had been gathering on Dean’s forehead drips as his lips peel back in a sneer. Those that haven’t been chosen appear to be less tense, relieved to not be bought. On the other hand, both of the larger men that Blue has picked look ready to kill; their eyes looking this way and that, bodies tense like large predators ready to pounce. She’s known for enjoying men much larger than herself so she can “put them in their place” as she so puts it; Red always tends to mock her for her types, excluding the fact that they enjoy the bratty ones.

“Green window? Would you kindly tell this lowly Auctioneer your choice?”

“220 on the corrupt cop,” you announce. Dean looks towards your window, swallowing heavily. It looks like he knows he’s screwed if he goes with you. Yet, there isn’t a thing he can do about it.

“What? C’mon, Green. What’s the Old Man got that you’d want? I’m sure he’s twice your age. 230,” Red tries to barter.

“You’re taking two of the wealthiest men already. Corrupted or not, pigs tend to have information I can use. 320,” you refuse to back down. There’s a reason you tend to only take one, as you can spend the set limit if need be.

“Fine. I’ll take the beastkin for 120 then. Keep the fucking pig, Green.” Ren gives the red window a blank look, likely keeping his mouth shut in hopes of possibly being able to find a way out of the mess he’s gotten himself into. On the other hand, Blue cackles at Red’s defeat, always enjoying the show any sort of bickering brings. Your warped hum in agreement has The Auctioneer clasping her hands together, mic being jostled slightly.

“Then this concludes the bidding! I’ll have the purchases shipped–”

“Shipped?!” Dean cuts her off, but she keeps talking, ignoring the outburst.

“–to you as soon as possible! And those who were not bought will be released, as my lovely regulars have asked!” Some sort of gas starts to fill the room the prizes are in, causing many to start tugging at their bounds, yelling at each other or the windows. The only ones unaffected are you, your fellow buyers, as well as The Auctioneer, as the products start to sway, collapsing in heaps on the metal floor below. Just as quickly as the gas had started, it clears at once.

A crew comes in, dressed similarly to The Auctioneer, to start carrying, dragging, or wheeling away both purchased and unsold. Those who were not acquired are carted off to be dumped somewhere in their respective towns, unlike the procured. They will be drugged up so it’s easier to move to their designated places via buyers’ chosen locations. You watch with muted glee as your choice is put in a wheelchair, having the IV drip attached to his arm, now ready to be shipped to your given drop-off destination. He’ll be dropped off at your little hide-out, awaiting your return, whether he knows it or not.

“With all this now settled, you will wire the payments, yes?” The Auctioneer asks, the customer-service tone of voice still present. You bring out a burner phone, clicking through it to gain access to an account you set up a month prior to this show. If anyone were to get through your firewalls and protections, they’d only track it to some poor sap’s laptop off the coast of the US. It wouldn’t be your fault if said sap happens to have a few megabytes of illegal images saved onto that computer’s hard drive, either, busting the entire operation they have going on.

“I’ve sent the amount agreed upon. It should arrive shortly,” your words hold true, as some device beyond the metal door The Auctioneer is standing beside lets out a ding . Hearing it, she glances over the door before nodding.

“Thank you, Green. May your purchase bear lovely fruit for your taking!” You leave the boxed room, not bothering to listen to the other buyers in case they have any issues; such instances usually end up in heated arguments or death of said buyer, and you're not particularly interested either way. The door closes, another person dressed business-casual stepping in front of you to lead you out of the auction house. The only sounds available are your footsteps echoing, paired with the guide’s loud breathing, muffled poorly by the gauzy wrappings around their head. 

Arriving at a dark-wooden door, the guide opens it, stepping aside to allow you to walk through. You don’t slow your pace, heading down some brick steps to follow a worn gravel path towards your vehicle. Your keys are handed to you by another member of staff, dressed just like the others before them, allowing you to enter and start up the rental with ease. You don’t look back as you drive off, heading towards your work location. By the time you arrive, you’re sure he’ll be there, still hooked to the drip.

-------------------------------------

Pulling into the gloomy drop-off location, you spot an ambulance parked at the warehouse. You position your own vehicle near it, turning off the ignition before stepping out. Another one of the auction house’s people steps out to open the van’s back doors. They step away, allowing you to confirm that this is your item. You give a jerk of your head, confirming that the man strapped down on the gurney is your purchase. With your affirmation, they start to undo his bindings, removing the IV in the process. With the obstruction gone, a member of the crew picks him up like a sack of grains. You lead them into the dilapidated warehouse, knowing they’ll follow without hesitation,  having orders to please, alongside heed, high-ranking buyers.

The lot of you walk past chunks of concrete, piles of metal, a metal beam, clumps of dirt, and countless weeds that have made their way into the place. Entering a back room, you gesture towards a chair seated close to the middle of the area, nearly hidden away in the dark place; had the door not been open, the chair would have been completely obscured by shadows. It’s the only area that’s remotely salvageable out of the entire place, with the roof still held up, all walls in place, and a functioning door to lock when you want. As the lackey none-too-gently jostles Dean into the chair, you stride over to a desk housing a multitude of monitors. Clicking on your mouse, the monitors light up, casting a glow into the mostly dark room as your C.P.U’s fans start up from underneath the desk. The motorcycle helmet has a tinted lens, keeping the bright lights from harming your eyes; of course, protecting your vision was an added bonus of keeping your face and voice hidden from others, it being the main purpose of the costly helmet.

Turning your back to your setup, you look over at your newly acquired purchase slumped in the uncomfortable office chair; the wheels had been removed so anyone in it wouldn’t roll themselves around looking for escape options. You give the worker standing beside your unconscious prize a dismissive wave, their job now complete. They leave without a word nor hesitation to escape your place of employment, shutting the door behind them. You can admit, they had manners many before them hadn’t; The Auctioneer must have taken your words to heart and retrained or weeded out the unfit employees who had been rude. In the past, you had encountered some who believed they had the right to tell you how to treat your belongings like they knew what they needed more than you, the owner, did.

You stare down at the once egotistical man, waiting until you hear the van’s engine start; the gravel crunching under its wheels as it drives off, probably to head back to the auction house. You then turn your back towards the sleeping figure, deciding to rummage around in one of the drawers in your desk. Additionally, you move a few boxes of snacks to find a bundle of zip ties kept together with a rubber-band. With these in hand, you go back to Dean. The drugs in his system keep him under, completely malleable if you wanted to do anything you desired. Thankfully, you’re not like him when it comes to his tastes, if The Auctioneer's words were anything to go by; you're sure he would readily take advantage if he were in your shoes, happy to get his rocks off anyway he deemed fit.

You slip the plastic bonds over his wrists and onto the office chair arms, using more than 3 on each one; his ankles are bound together before being fastened to the gas lift under the seat. By now, you’re almost completely out of the restraints, making a mental note to buy more. Having Jackal completely secured, you’re able to get back to your job. Throwing the last few ties into the drawer, you kick it shut and plop down into the only other office chair in the building. The monitors’ lights greet you, your previous tabs still covering the screens.

Your keycaps clacking, alongside your mouse clicking, are the only sounds in the room. Time passes by relatively quickly while you work, hyper-focused on your job as code, images, intel, and correspondence between other informants sinks its claws into your attention.

That is, until you hear a low groan emerging from your captive. Keeping your gaze trained to the current sequence of coding you’re looking over, you decide to finish the task at hand before paying him any mind, making sure to glance at another monitor that houses photos of people; their private information is summarized in bullet points next to their respective pictures, knowing it won’t take much longer for this particular assignment to be finished.

The office chair housing your new, shiny, and reluctant informant creaks as he tries to yank his hands out of the plastic ties. You don’t let that distract you, dragging an image from a monitor you weren’t typing on to the one you’re currently using; it sticks itself to the document you’ve placed it over, the information beside it matching the file you’ve constructed for this individual.

“Hey,” his gruff voice croaks out. He’s been asleep for hours, making it sound more gravelly than usual. Perhaps he’s finally noticed his current situation. It’s too bad you’re not interested at the moment. 

“Hey!” You ignore his call, saving your progress on your current project. You can feel him seething at your lack of attention from how heavy his stare is, the creaking of the office chair echoing as he tugs and throws himself around. It isn’t long before you hear a growl that turns into a hiss as the chair tips from all of his struggling. The sound of his body smacking into the concrete below brings a small amount of satisfaction; you can hear a wheeze escape his lungs. With this, you finally decide to bless him with the oh-so-sought-after diligence he wanted from you.

“Having trouble, Old Man ?” The question sounds warbled from your helmet, but the mocking tone is so pronounced that not even your face covering can keep it monotone. The chair you sit in creaks as you swing it to face him. His crumpled form on the ground greets you, as does his curled lips in what would be a snarl, if he didn’t look so pathetic, that is. “For such a cocky pig , you sure do look like a wet mutt. ”

“Fuck you! When I get out of this, I’ll make sure you wish you were dead!” You click your tongue in annoyance, turning your chair away from him to continue your task. He can stay down there if he won’t be polite; let a worm like him wiggle in the dirt.

Your clacking sounds up again as you get back to work, tuning out more of his threats, growls, and hissing. To you, they sound like a cranky old pig squealing about all the wrongs it's suffered before getting slaughtered. Time passes by faster than you think, forcing all your attention to creating files upon files of information on people many of your clients have requested; good, bad, neutral, it matters not. This is your job, after all.

When you feel your back tighten from sitting in the same position for too long, you lean back, twitching at the quick shot of pain you feel. You turn your chair, looking over at the still collapsed man. He’s frowning, staring at you from the ground; Dean had stopped making sounds after realizing that you weren’t listening nor paying attention. With your now diligent eyes back on him, however, he curls his lips back like a mutt does when snarling.

“You need somethin’, Old Man?” The mocking tone you use seems to make his snarl deepen. “Well, I need something from you.”

“Fuck you! I’ll crush your fingers to fuckin’ dust with my boot heel if you so much as touch me with ‘em!” You raise your brow, knowing he can’t see it through the helmet.

“As if I’d be a captive fondler like you, Old Man. I need your brain for this,” your honesty only serves to make him hate you more; the way his eyes seem to glaze over with utter disgust and rage tells you so.

“And why would I help you?”

“Because you’re in no position to refuse. Unless… You want me to start taking your fingernails off one by one. I don’t have any issues either way,” your distorted voice says, not even bothered by the threat you’ve just promised him. You can see the gears turning in his head as he purses his lips in reluctant thought. To give in is to admit defeat, or that’s what you assume he believes; he has to give in one way or another due to the fact that one route promises a very bloody and painful outcome.

“Fine,” he begrudgingly agrees to you picking his brain on something.

“Good. Tell me how you get your victims through your swine work.”

“My what work?” Jackal looks completely lost on your command; it makes you sigh in annoyance. You even turn your chair away from him again to start typing.

“Your swine work, Hog . Pig . You’re a cop, Dumbass. Tell me how you nab your victims through it, Old Man,” you talk slowly, adopting the tone one would with a child.

“Stop fuckin’ callin’ me Old Man !” He snaps; you’re unsure if it was your tone that pushed him over or the name. That doesn’t mean you’ll stop, though.

“I’ll call you whatever I please, Old Man ,” you pause, looking back towards him over your shoulder. “ Now answer the question. ” The voice changer seems to glitch, causing it to warp and warble; it sounds much deeper than how it did in the previous line of conversation.

“ Fine . I punch out when it’s time to, change my clothes, and fuckin’ find someone I think looks like they’d put up a fight. That enough for you?”

“ No. Keep up your little cute act and you won’t have fingernails soon. ”

“Fuckin’ bossy. Fine . I go for the feisty ones, unless I’m in the mood for someone I can overpower easily. I follow ‘em around for a bit, see if they got what I want, and then try to drive ‘em into a corner where I can do whatever I please. Sometimes I just need to get off, and others I really just wanted to gut ‘em. I like doing both, though. Seein’ ‘em die with that fear in their eyes… It’s a huge fuckin’ turn on,” during his entire schpiel, your typing hasn’t stopped. In fact, it appears to have gone faster as he spouts away.

“Are there any specifics for who you target? Or did you just happen to find them…?” You trail off, trying to pick apart the brain hiding beneath his midlife crisis mohawk.

“I usually just saw ‘em by chance and went from there. I wanted innocents. Couldn’t give a shit about guilty folks.” You hum in acknowledgement, your typing slowing down only to be replaced by mouse clicks as he continues, “Why? Or are you just gonna say it’s not my business?” His snarkiness is laced into his question, nearly making you want to say exactly that– it’s none of his business.

“It doesn’t concern you. You’re just another means to an end, Dean .” The inhale from him seems to echo in your eardrums, knowing you’ve simply upset him once again. Then again, how can you not? He’s just another squealing pig, albeit an even more crude one than you're used to running into; he’s just another pawn you’ve bought for your entertainment.

The clacks from the keys signal the end of your chat. You’re now focusing on your assignment again, not caring about the man laying prone on the ground. Engrossed with the task on hand, you don’t hear your captive rubbing against his bindings, forcing the skin to break and bleed; it doesn't register in your mind when he starts to slip his wrists out from the ties so he can try his luck at his ankles. As far as you're concerned, the only thing worth your consideration is the annoying endeavours you’ve been hired to complete.

What does get you to stop your production is the leather-covered arm wrapping around your throat from behind. There may be no blade, but the arm is tight, unrelenting in this choke hold you’ve been placed in. His other arm is securely gripping his own form, making sure that you won’t be able to break free of this situation.

“Spent too long on your work, Green ,” Dean sneers from behind you. If you didn’t have your helmet on, you would have felt his breath, reeking of cigarettes from the few he smoked before his kidnapping.

“I’ll admit. I underestimated the piggy,” you say, feeling the arm constrict like a snake squeezing its prey. You choke out a wheezy laugh, hands laying still on your keyboard; you make no move to pry the arm off, knowing he’ll only go through with choking you out if you escalate the struggle further.

“Hook, line, sinker . You didn’ even notice when I started to use the ties to cut into my wrists. Everyone knows blood is just another kind of lube,” he retorts. “And now, I’m goin’ to make sure you feel just as humiliated as you made me feel. Let’s hope you don’ bleed out too quick. ” Those words are all you hear before the arm squeezes more, cutting off all your airflow. Your hands fly off your keyboard to claw, tear, and yank at the jacket’s sleeve, unable to grab any skin. You’re at a disadvantage, knowing only when it’s too late to save yourself.

Maybe you should have chosen a different person to bid on.

》 START OVER? 《