Impractical Jokers: You Can't Escape

Chapter 1 - Confrontation

Not knowing is the worst.

You don't know what you're doing here, in this cold and empty room, the only reminder that you're alive being the way you flinch in fear when you hear thundering footsteps cross above you. You don't know what he smears across your face as he circles you and tells you that he's had a satisfying day, how the highlight of it is right now as he stares at you, touches you. You don't know why he's doing this.

You just don't know.

The door you've come accustomed to hearing opens slowly, a distinct creak of worn metal on hinges that are a few years too old. An involuntary whimper leaves your mouth - you wish you could see what was happening but the thick black blindfold tied at the back of your head prevents you; and the tape over your mouth has you struggling to breathe. Warm breath fans against your ear and you shy away to the best of your ability, bound hands twitching in your lap while your body arches as much as the ropes around your torso will allow in an attempt to get away from him. A tight grip in your hair tears a muffled yelp past your lips.

"No," he breathes, and though his tone is deathly quiet it carries the weight of a thousand threats, has you frozen as ice travels down your spine and causes you to stiffen with terror. "...moving away after all I've done for you. Bitch."

Out of everything it's the expletive that makes you riled and, before you can even think about what you're doing, a muffled 'fuck you' escapes you. God, you're so scared you could cry - or vomit, and that is something you do not want to think about while your mouth is firmly clamped shut - but you've always been defiant, always had fire. Perhaps that was a contributing factor to why Brian had taken you in the first place.

An airy chuckle is released from the confines of his throat, low and husky, and the shift of metal against his pant-leg has you swallowing hard. He's cut you before and it stung for days.

"I'm gonna remove this tape-" And without warning, your captor pulls the tape from your lips, the relief of oxygen overridden by the searing pain on your face."-and you're gonna repeat what you just said to me."

Lips clamp closed and you shake your head no, knowing that the words will earn you something you never wanted. A beating; a few cuts; maybe a few bites that break your skin as he reminds you that you're his and he won't have you disrespecting him, if he's feeling kind.

"I'm sorry..."

A sob threatens to choke you to death as the psychopath rips your blindfold off, sending your head jerking back as fingers close around your throat lightly, pads of fingers occasionally digging in to the skin as he leans in once more, smooth voice so venomous you could have wilted to death right there.

"Repeat it or I swear to God I'll kill you."

"...f-fuck... you..."

The sensation of falling is the next thing you feel and it takes a moment for you to realise what has happened. Brian had moved in front of you, had raised his leg and kicked you right over. Your head hits the hard floor with a sickening thump, tears springing to the corners of your eyes as you stare, dazed, up at the ceiling before he comes into view, looming over you like an animal that had finally caught its prey.

It is at times like these where you take him in, picture him, remember him, for the naive hope that you can escape and send this bastard down hard still exists deep in the very core of your being. The dark eyes that pierced the dullness of the room; the mop of hair, impossibly soft in appearance; the hefty build, from biceps that made you shudder to legs that possessed so much strength you doubted their authenticity. Brian Quinn. The man who had seemed so sweet before it had all gone to shit.

The fact that he's wearing a Superman shirt may have been amusing to you had you not felt your head had been smashed with a sledgehammer.

"...I am stunned," Brian admits, though the sneer on his face makes your very existence sink. You're going to get hurt, you know it. As if doing it to confirm your beliefs, a heavy boot rests on your chest. "That you would have the nerve to say that shit to me. Don't you know what I'm risking, keeping you here with me?"

The fact that he truly believes he's a victim of your cruelty almost makes you laugh - but you've done that before, right to his face, and it had landed you with a wallop to the cheek so hard the bruise hadn't faded for weeks. You've learnt, despite your resilience, Brian always comes out on top and so it's best to remain silent, pitiful even.

"The next time you say something like that you'll be choking on your own blood, because I'll slit your fucking throat. Understand?"

The tip of his boot digs into your throat, makes you gag, and you nod with such reverence you feel your neck will snap. Slowly, he removes the pressure and reaches down with strong arms to pull you up, tutting when one of the legs of the chair veers to the side with a wobble. Brian gives you a pointed look, as if to say 'look what you've done now'.

What happens next stuns you: his hand splays against your face, feather-light and gentle, and the only thing that keeps you from flinching away again is the fact that he will hurt you.

"...I care so much about you, [Y/N]."

Inhaling thickly as his lips press to your cheek, your eyes close and a shudder of horror passes through you as you realise your cheeks have flushed lightly. If he notices, he doesn't say anything.

"Don't make me hurt you, baby..." he whispers, lips trailing from the side of your face to the delicate skin of your neck, past bruises aligning your skin like paint flung carelessly on a canvas. Your lower lip is caught between your teeth and it takes everything in you not to throw up. "I don't want to hurt you... I just wanna keep you... you understand, right?"

Nodding your head, you dare to raise your bound wrists and touch the side of his face with your knuckles. It's revolting, how you are being forced to pretend that none of this bothers you, that you're not scared out of your mind, that he's not in the wrong. You're all but relieved when he jerks away from your fingers, refusing to let you touch him. For a moment, it appears as if he's going to say something... but instead his lips form a tight line and he pulls away.

"...I was gonna untie you today," he says matter-o-factly. You feel your heart sinking already. "...but given our little... confrontation, I don't think that's best right now."

"Brian-"

"Later."

It takes everything in you to not cry out, to not beg him, and the only thing that stops you is that you've tried before and gotten nowhere with him. He doesn't have an empathetic bone in his body and you won't be swayed by kind words that appear as your saviour; he's nothing but a monster, a demon shrouded in murderous politics and ideals - and it sickens you, it really does.

Staring hopelessly at his retreating back, you can only hope he'll see sense - and, much more to the point, that he'll feed you today.