It wasn't the cold that was getting to him. It wasn't the eyes on bare skin. It wasn't the sense of violation.
It was that he /hadn't seen it coming./
"Everything should be easily arranged, Mrs. Gallio," he'd told her not forty-five minutes before. "As you'll see from the file, the funds are all in order for using your connections to make Mr. Fisk's little problem go away and supplying the items we'll need going forward." "Yes," she'd said. "These will cover my expenses. But surely you understand that--" "That this is not your fee, of course, Mrs. Gallio." He'd handed over the dossiers. It had taken visiting hours at a mental hospital to learn exactly the best way to make a bid for Mrs. Gallio's services. Give her options to select from: blonde females, dark-haired males, and redheads of both genders. Wesley had dotted each i, crossed each t, and taken a nausea suppressant when preparing it.
The woman had glanced at the dossiers and dropped them on the floor. "...Is there a problem?" Wesley had asked, an eyebrow raised. "I don't want any of these."
That had seemed insane. The woman's eccentricities were a known quantity, and his efforts had been thorough. "Then, if we can meet again tomorrow, I'll provide a new set of options." "No. Payment on hand is sufficient." "...I don't quite follow." "Take off your clothes, Mr. Wesley." His stomach had gone cold. "I am not one of the payment options, Mrs. Gallio." "Then Mr. Fisk's 'little problem' will persist. Indefinitely. Not to mention my trinkets' no longer being for sale." His stomach had gone colder. No one else available had the connections to get Wilson Fisk out of his current mess, and the exchange of certain goods could keep the Fisks safe for quite some time. He hadn't said anything aloud, hadn't flinched, but still she'd stared at him and smirked. "It's not so terrible. I understand some people have 'safe words'? Yours can be 'No Deal.' Take off your clothes, Mr Wesley."
And, posture perfect, Wesley's hands had risen to take off his coat and hang it perfectly on the back of a fancy chair in the corner. His eyes had glared right back at her as he began to slowly unbutton his shirt, remove it, and fold it with painstaking exactness before placing it on the chair.
He'd continued at length, taking his time, neither of them saying a word, and now here he was, naked, his wrists tied, with the cool, overly-manicured hand on his face, the eyes smiling as they stared. He stared back like stone.
Minifill, Deal, 1/?
It wasn't the eyes on bare skin.
It wasn't the sense of violation.
It was that he /hadn't seen it coming./
"Everything should be easily arranged, Mrs. Gallio," he'd told her not forty-five minutes before. "As you'll see from the file, the funds are all in order for using your connections to make Mr. Fisk's little problem go away and supplying the items we'll need going forward."
"Yes," she'd said. "These will cover my expenses. But surely you understand that--"
"That this is not your fee, of course, Mrs. Gallio." He'd handed over the dossiers. It had taken visiting hours at a mental hospital to learn exactly the best way to make a bid for Mrs. Gallio's services. Give her options to select from: blonde females, dark-haired males, and redheads of both genders. Wesley had dotted each i, crossed each t, and taken a nausea suppressant when preparing it.
The woman had glanced at the dossiers and dropped them on the floor.
"...Is there a problem?" Wesley had asked, an eyebrow raised.
"I don't want any of these."
That had seemed insane. The woman's eccentricities were a known quantity, and his efforts had been thorough. "Then, if we can meet again tomorrow, I'll provide a new set of options."
"No. Payment on hand is sufficient."
"...I don't quite follow."
"Take off your clothes, Mr. Wesley."
His stomach had gone cold. "I am not one of the payment options, Mrs. Gallio."
"Then Mr. Fisk's 'little problem' will persist. Indefinitely. Not to mention my trinkets' no longer being for sale."
His stomach had gone colder. No one else available had the connections to get Wilson Fisk out of his current mess, and the exchange of certain goods could keep the Fisks safe for quite some time.
He hadn't said anything aloud, hadn't flinched, but still she'd stared at him and smirked. "It's not so terrible. I understand some people have 'safe words'? Yours can be 'No Deal.' Take off your clothes, Mr Wesley."
And, posture perfect, Wesley's hands had risen to take off his coat and hang it perfectly on the back of a fancy chair in the corner. His eyes had glared right back at her as he began to slowly unbutton his shirt, remove it, and fold it with painstaking exactness before placing it on the chair.
He'd continued at length, taking his time, neither of them saying a word, and now here he was, naked, his wrists tied, with the cool, overly-manicured hand on his face, the eyes smiling as they stared. He stared back like stone.