Protection (Otto Octavius/Reader)
Prompt for the 19th was: Mafia. This fill is NSFW and mentions blood. Thanks to @bellafarallones for playing in this space on discord.
You’ve been expecting this knock at your door ever since you signed the papers for the Sundance Theater. When you made the choice to buy it, you knew it was a neighborhood under the “protection” of The Octopus.
Far too charming a name for a mob boss, not that anyone asked you.
Still, you thought you had more time before the knock. You haven’t even set up your office; your ankles and knees bang into boxes when you go to answer.
Otto Octavius is more intimidating in person than in the papers. And it’s not like he comes across as a pussycat in the pictures you’ve seen.
His frame is wide enough that you almost miss the four “employees” behind him in the hallway. Dark glasses cover his eyes–you’ve heard rumors about an explosion in one of his venues–and his suit is a deep grey, long coat swaying as he steps toward you.
“Good afternoon, my dear.” He doffs his fedora. The movement would be polite were it not for the glance he casts up your body.
“Afternoon. I’m afraid we’re not open yet. I’m aiming for Friday, if you all would like to come back then.”
Octavius walks past you, dropping his hat on your desk and leaning back against it to study you, “I’m not here for a show. I’m here to talk business.”
“By which you mean how much of a cut you want from my box office?”
A tight-lipped, insincere smile, “Exactly. Ten percent of whatever you make goes to me.”
Fuck, you’ll barely scrape by at that rate. You’ve already run the numbers.
“Six.”
He raises a brow, amused, “It’s not usually a negotiation, sweetheart.”
You bristle at his tone, “keep calling me that and I'll go down to four.”
He pushes off from the desk. You flinch but hold your ground, “My folks ran a movie house back home. I know what my monthly take’ll be, times being what they are. You shake me down for ten percent, you’ll have an empty theater and zero money from it in four months.”
Octavius is close enough that you feel his body heat as his aftershave tickles your nose. When he holds out his hand you flinch again and he laughs.
“No need to be jumpy. I never discipline a first offense. Seven is my final offer.”
“Done.” You put your hand out and try not to think about how it practically disappears when he shakes it.
“I’ll send someone around at the end of each month to collect.” He pulls you closer by your wrist, “have your books ready for a peek. Think I’ll need to keep an eye on you.” His thumb and forefinger grip your chin, “don’t try anything smart. This face will only get you out of so much with me.”
You step back, severing the touch, “I’ll keep that in mind.”
—----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The first month you're open, Octavius sends a heavy to come pick up his protection money. On month two, you’re sorting the reels in storage when a body blocks the light from the hallway.
“What did I say about cooking your books?”
Your stomach twists, but you turn with a calm smile, “What makes you think I am?”
“The envelope you left for me on your desk. That’s not seven percent of-”
“It is when plenty of people are pinching pennies and don’t want to pay for the films I’m able to show.”
He furrows his brow, “What’s wrong with them?”
You sigh, “Nothing, but most of the theaters in the city show the same films. It’s hard to compete, and hard to build variety if you don’t have any cash to spare. This place even came with these” you tap the older reels, “they’re pre-code, they’d be a real draw. Until someone on the city council got wind.”
“Leave them to me.” He smiles. You give him a business-like one in return.
“Thanks, Mr. Octavius. If they’re not breathing down my neck I can maybe show a few pictures out of Germany or France, too.”
“A woman of culture, I see.”
“Don’t patronize me. Please.” You barely remember to add that last word, and your tone is flat.
“I’d never talk down to you, little ray of sunshine” He’s much closer now, his eyes dangerously charming.
You snicker, “That’s a new one.”
“Really? I’m surprised; your decoration isn’t subtle.” He gestures a black-gloved hand toward the lobby, with its murals of bright skies over deserts and light fixtures curved like rising suns.
You shrug, “I didn’t choose it. The previous owner must have been into the Egyptian craze. Sun gods and all that. It could really use a touch up. I might be able to pay for one if I made, say, seven percent more a month.”
That same, tight smile, “Nice try, spitfire.” He’s fully blocking your ability to leave the room, to do any of the million tasks needed to keep the Sundance running.
“Look, we’re done here, will you let me-” You cut off with a gasp as your back hits the wall.
“You don’t give the orders. Understood?” His finger jabs into your chest, and all you can think of is what else those hands could do to you. How easily your blouse would rip under them, how much of your throat they could grip, how roughly they could pull your hair as he gave you orders-
Now is not the time for that.
You fix him with a withering look, “Yes, sir.”
“Good girl.” He punctuates the words by brushing his finger briefly over your cheek, “You’ll be showing those older movies in a week.” Octavius moves to the door, then smirks back at you, “save me a seat.”
—------------------------------------------------------------------
You show The Mummy first; there’s some old ballyhoo in storage along with the film, meaning it’s easier to draw guests in from the street. You sell out the whole weekend.
When you’re running the projector Saturday night, you peer down and see Octavius in the very center of the back row. He glances up, sees you, and crooks to fingers, indicating you should come down.
You shake your head, pointing at the projector. He nods, understanding, and gives you a little salute.
The next weekend, you’re loading Frankestein into place, brushing dust off your slacks, when your foot catches the power cord. You bend to fix it, facing the doorway, straighten to find Octavius watching you. He doesn’t bother looking away from where your white blouse has popped a button; the damn thing never stays closed across your chest, which is why you only wear it on days when you’ll be hidden away up here.
“Quite the show.”
“I’m glad you liked it.” You roll up your sleeves, continue prepping for the next showing.
“You’ve got great taste, sunshine.” He removes a cigar from his coat pocket, “if Rosie was around I’d be bringing her here every week to catch the imported stuff. Probably appreciate it more than I do.”
When he pulls the matchbook, you reach out and pluck it from his fingers without thinking.
“No smoking in my projector room.”
The cigar is still in his mouth when he quirks a brow at you.
“Half of the stuff here will go up in smoke if you so much as say ‘fire.”
He tucks the cigar away, “Good point.”
You set the matchbook in his waiting palm, “C’mon, you were a science professor once upon a time right? You have to remember chemistry; nitrate plus too much heat equals a lost investment.”
Octavius chuckles a little, coming to stand at your elbow as you finish aligning the reel, “How’d you know that?”
“I read the papers. When I started shopping around for a theater, I read everything I could find about who controlled the areas I was looking in.”
“Pragmatic.”
“I try.” You smile, pleased at the compliment. Feel the expression go shyer than you mean when he meets your eyes over his glasses. There’s a softness in his gaze, the lines and curves of his face becoming all the more striking in the low light of the booth.
“Is that why you keep showing movies about mad scientists? To get under my skin?” He teases.
“Is it working?”
“I don’t know. I’ll have to catch a few more, see how I feel.” He steps away from you, sits in one of the chairs against the wall of the room, “Think I’ll see how the show looks from this angel tonight.”
His gaze rolls over you again, but it feels different this time. Like he’s trying to see rather than just look. So you let him, turning back to the projector as the room below begins to fill so he can enjoy the view.
—----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Octavius becomes a fixture in your projection room. At first you assume it’s because that’s the last place someone will look for a mob boss, so he can relax. But when you ask the kid who shares projection duties with you if Octavius ever sits in he shakes his head, confused
Your next hypothesis is that he’s hoping you’ll put out. Except he never moves beyond banter and hungry looks, no matter how empty the theater below you is. The closest he ever got was patting his lap, musing that you looked so tired, kitten, how about curling up here to keep warm.
You jokingly hissed at him and he laughed. You thought about taking him up on the offer the rest of the night. And for at least two nights after that.
All of that is to say that when Octavius doesn't appear for a whole week, you’re worried something happened. You check the papers every day, bracing for a headline about how The Octopus was found in pieces, or how some joke about how not even he can swim with cement shoes.
August nights in this city are miserable, and living above the theater means being in the direct line of the rising heat. Which is why you’re still awake at 11pm on a Tuesday, urging the breeze from your bedroom down the front of your white slip.
A bang from the window in the front room startles you. Your mood is not improved when you hurry in and find a large figure slumped against your wall.
“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?”
“Jesus! Fuck, Octavius you scared the hell out of me. Oh Christ, is that blood?”
“Nothing escapes you, sunshine.” Red drips hit the hardwood as he leers at you, “gonna faint on me?”
“No, but you will if you don’t sit down.” You haul him to the sofa and he lets you, his legs barely supporting him long enough to make the short distance.
He’s so pale. When you push his jacket away, blood staining your hand, you see why. His white dress shirt is so wet it oozes when you try peeling the fabric away to see the wound.
“We need to get this off.” You begin unbuttoning his shirt.
He chuckles, woozy, “Gonna let me make some time?”
“I need this open so I can clean up the blood and stop the flow.” You carefully peel the shirt away from his sweat and blood soaked skin. Your stomach roils at the copper smell and the fact there’s a literal hole in his side. That means the bullet passed through and didn’t hit anything important. You think.
“Y’know” his head lolls to one side, glasses slipping down his nose as you ease him onto his back, “M’a married man. Was a married man. My Rosie…”
You let him talk, it’ll keep him awake, “I’m going to get some hot water. Stay. Still.”
You fill a dish with water, grab every towel you have, and grab the alcohol you use to treat cuts from your bathroom cabinet. Kneeling by the couch, you carefully dab at the wound; once it’s covered you’ll call for help, there’s no way he’s getting out of this without stitches, but all that’ll be moot if he fucking bleeds out in your apartment first.
He’s still babbling, something about the sun in his hands, when you press the alcohol to torn skin. He snarls in pain and contorts, grabbing your hair at the root.
“Ow, ow, Otto please that hurts-”
“Hurts? Hurts?! You think this hurts? You don’t know the first goddamn thing about hurt!”
He’s pulling you closer, blood and cologne flood your nose and tears prick your eyes from how roughly he’s yanking your hair.
“Please” you say again, with all the calm you can manage, “I’m not trying to hurt you. I want to help.”
“My Rosie…it hurts so much” his growl gives way to a sob, grip loosening enough for you to pull your head free.
“I know. I know.” You touch his cheek with your left hand as you keep cleaning the injury with your right. He grits his teeth, tears rolling down to his chin, and presses his face into your touch. He doesn’t open his eyes until the bandages are in place and the bleeding has stopped.
When he looks at you his expression is the gentlest it’s been all night, “You don’t have to look so worried, sunshine. If it’s my time, it’s my time.”
I don’t want it to be
You shake the thought away, “That’s all well and good, but I am not having a mob boss dying in my apartment.”
“Not like anyone will think you did it.” He frowns as you stand, “Don’t go. Please come back” he tears up the longer he looks at you, “your dress, your lovely dress.”
You look down. Your slip is so wet with blood and water it may as well be painted on.
“It’s just a nightgown. I can replace it.”
His fingers catch the hem, “The blood on it, it’s like…like when she…”
He nearly topples you when he clutches the fabric, shoving his face against it as he sobs, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
You know he’s not addressing you.
It’d be safest to push him away, tell him to get a hold of himself. That weeping into your skirt won’t bring Rosie back, no more than keeping this neighborhood in a choke hold will.
You bend, carefully unpeeling his fingers from the slip so you can kneel. Pushing his hair from his face, you see it’s now smeared with blood.
“Shhh, shhh” you soothe, “it’s okay, Otto. It hurts but it’ll be okay.”
He whimpers, weakly rubs his cheek into your hand. You smile at the tickle of his stubble, keep up a string of comforting words until his breathing evens out and he slumps further into the cushions.
Once he’s asleep you pick up the phone, dialing the number for what he refers to as his “campus location.”
“Octavius office. This is Larry.”
Thank god, that’s one of his main heavies. You explain the situation. The henchman doesn’t sound surprised that Octavius ended up in your apartment and he promises to send someone over right away.
After hanging up, you fill a bowl with fresh, warm water and settle on the floor by Octavius. Gingerly, you remove his glasses and begin cleaning the remaining blood from his face. The shape of his lips, and lines of his nose, every facet of him begs to be admired. You wonder how long Rosie was able to hold out before kissing him; you’re not sure you’d have made it more than a day.
Brown eyes flutter open and a large hand catches your cheek. Then he’s kissing you, softly but oh-so-insistently. You return it, too startled to be anything but honest, until the hand slides from your face into your hair to urge you onto the couch.
You pull back, scramble to your feet “I’m not your wife, Octavius.”
“I know.” He blinks, woozy and confused, “so?”
“So don’t kiss me.”
Don’t make me think this means anything. Don’t make me think you really see me
With some effort, he sits up, “I won’t do it again, I swear. Please stay.”
“Of course I’ll stay. You’re in my apartment.”
He nods, eyes a thousand miles away, and pats the (non-bloody) spot next to him. Your self-control only extends so far.
As soon as you sit, he rests against you. He’s so big, so warm, even with the heat you can’t think of anything nicer than curling up with him some quiet night. But you can’t simply close your eyes and pretend; the smell of blood is too strong.
So you rub his arm comfortingly, set your other hand on his thigh only for him to gather it in his own. He stares at it for a beat, then raises it to his face, cradling it there as his lips move.
When the quiet words croon out, they’re barely a melody. It takes you a moment to place what he’s singing.
“My sunshine, my only sunshine…”
A small tug is all it takes to get your head resting on his chest.
“You make me happy, when skies are grey.”
He interrupts the song with a short, pained hiss as he shifts to put both arms around you.
“You’ll never know dear, how much I love you…”
You’re practically in his lap, letting him kiss your knuckles as he half-mumbles the song against them, “Please don’t take my sunshine away.”
For one, beautiful breath, you believe it. Then reality digs its claws into your chest.
“Otto, don’t.”
“You never called me that until tonight. I like when you do.” He’s still kissing your hand, “don’t what?”
Tears burn the corners of your eyes, “Don’t, don’t sing to me or kiss me or act like I’m anything other than one more piece on the chess board.” You jerk your head toward the window and the city beyond.
“You are. You’re so much more.”
“I’m not. You come to my theater, watch a movie, flirt with me a little if you’re bored. That’s what we are to each other; a distraction.”
You meet his eyes; they’re back to the same level of pained as when you found him bleeding out.
“You’re wrong. Let me take you to dinner and I’ll prove it.”
He probably won’t remember any of this come morning.
The knock from the side door of the theater saves you from having to answer him right away.
“My rides here” He murmurs, moving his arms from you at the speed of molasses.
How long has it been since someone wanted to stay?
You manage a tiny, playful smile, “If you’re still alive tomorrow, give me a call.”
—---------------------------------------------------------------------
A week and a half later, you’re counting out the money in the ticket booth before opening when the stem of a half-dozen roses slips through the opening.
“Hey, sunshine.” Otto smiles at you from under the brim of his hat.
“Glad you’re in one piece. And thanks for sending Flo by to let me know you were out of the woods. I was worried.” You step out of the booth, “are they red because they’re an apology for bleeding on my floor?”
He picks the bouquet up, offering it to you, “I promised you a night out. I intend to do it right.”
Your cheeks match the petals, “I didn’t think you meant it.”
“Every word.” His smile brightens when you take the flowers, “Pick you up at eight?”
“Gonna make it worth my while to scramble to get someone to cover me tonight?” You bat your lashes.
Otto steps closer, hands behind his back but chest almost touching yours, “More like I’m gonna make up for all the trouble I’ve caused.”
You kiss his cheek, “I’ll see you at eight.”
—------------------------------------------------------------
The dark green dress is modest in hemline and nothing else; it stops below your knees, but the fabric hugs your curves and the pearl buttons can be undone to your belly button. You leave the top three open and watch Otto's gaze flick to the fourth as you come down the stairs.
“I’m lucky you don’t wear that to work, sunshine; be a line of guys down the block to muscle past just to see you.” He loops his arm around your lower back.
“Looking pretty sharp yourself.”
The restaurant is close enough to walk, and you catch Otto up on the goings on around the theater as you do. As the sign for the Sirens Lounge comes into view, Otto loops his arm through yours.
“I’m sorry.”
“In general or for something specific?”
“Bleeding on you, blubbering like a helpless kid, getting fresh” he swallows, bashful, “singing.”
“That part I didn’t mind. You have a lovely voice.”
“You should hear it when I’m not half-dead. Rosie used to tease me, I’d always sing along with the songs when we danced.”
You laugh, delighted, as he holds the lounge door for you, “Lucky girl.”
A nice thing about being on the arm of the Octopus is that no one rushes you through dinner. You and Otto spend two hours getting closer by candlelight. The booth is in the far back corner, may as well be walled off from how little attention he pays to anything but you; by the time you’re feeding him chocolate cake from your fork, you’re practically in his lap and he pants like a dog any time you kiss his cheek. You’re dying to drag him home by his tie, unbutton his shirt and chase the trail of chest hair peeking out with your kisses.
Your nerves still pick up when he summons the car and takes you back to his place. You’d bet the deed to the Sundance that he wants you in bed. You want to be there, too. There’s just the small matter of not being ready to risk getting knocked up by someone with so many enemies.
The first thing that wrongfoots you is the apartment itself. You’re fully expecting intimidating luxury. The space Otto guides you into is paneled with warm wood, the furniture comfy and well-loved, the shelves lined with books and the odd piece of art. It feels inviting, homey, and Otto is clearly proud of it as he gives you a little tour.
Your two return to the living room, Otto sitting on the deep green couch, arms and legs in a contented sprawl.
“Dim the lights, sunshine. That switch.”
You do as he asks, turn back to find him with his glasses off and a wolfish expression.
“Is this where you tell me to get on my knees?”
“Is that what you want?”
You think, then shake your head.
“C’mere a minute.” He extends his hand and you take it, straddling his lap when he coaxes you down, “What do you want, sunshine?”
“I want you, Otto. I’m not ashamed to say it, but I’m scared of what might happen if you fuck me full-on and I’m so wound up I’m desperate for some way to get off that doesn’t involve this” you drop one hand to ghost over his fly, “and doesn’t leave you out to dry.”
He groans, smiling at you, “My pragmatist. Always thinking ahead.” He loops his left arm around your lower back, caresses your face with his right hand, “there’s all kinds of things we can do. My mouth’s good for more than just sweet talking, and my hands…” he chuckles when you turn your face to kiss his palm, “I know you like them. Think you like how big they are.”
You laugh as he gropes your tits through your dress. The firm, possessive touches make you moan, “Is it that obvious?”
“You watch them. Used to be out of fear, but now…” the hand drags down the front of your dress, “bet it’s because you’re thinking about what I can do with them. Right?”
“As rain.” You nestle your face in his neck, nuzzle his cheek and feel him smile.
He lifts the hem of your dress, “May I?”
“Please” you sigh as he slides his hand under the fabric and up your thigh.
“Oh” he growls, “you weren’t kidding, you have been thinking about this all night. Almost soaking out of these” he snaps the band of your underwear “and onto my pants.”
You purr as he lazily strokes you through the black fabric, “I’ll pay the dry cleaning.”
“No chance. Been dying to feel you lose control, my pragmatist. Plus it’s nice to know you were getting hot at dinner along with me.” He kisses your brow, muttering against it, “thank god for long table cloths.”
You kiss his neck, tease your fingers along his covered cock, “Mmm, that’s very flattering. You could have any girl in this city but you’re getting harder than steel for little old me.”
“I don’t want just any girl. I want you.”
“Charmer.”
“It’s true” he presses more firmly against your folds, “think I’ve wanted you from the moment you tried bargaining down your protection percentage.”
“What do you mean ‘tried?” You nip his ear and he moans, “I did bargain you down.”
He smiles and kisses you. It’s so much better than before, because he’s all here, seeing you and not a ghost from his past. You lick the memories of champagne from between his lips, wrap your arms around his shoulders and dig your fingers against the muscles of his back.
“Tell me what you want.” You murmur when he lets you breathe.
“Oh, sunshine….” he coos, collecting his thoughts, “I wanna corner you in the projection room, cover your mouth and fuck you while the picture runs, leave you with the taste of leather on your tongue and my cum dripping down your thighs. I want to take you to bed” he jerks his head down the hall, “spend all night under covers, remind myself what it feels like to be a living man instead of a walking corpse.”
You moan, fumble your hand down to join his and shove your underwear to the side.
He takes the hint.
“Ah! Ohfuck, what, what else do you want?”
“This.” He curls the two, thick fingers inside you and you yelp in pleasure, the sound making him grin “that, too. You’re beautiful like this, oh, oh hello girls.” He growls as you finish unbuttoning the top of your dress.
You giggle as he presses his face to your tits, kissing them hungrily as his fingers draw slick, filthy sounds from between your legs. It’s divine, having all his attention on you. You wrap your arms around his back again, resting one hand in his hair, and hold on tight.
Your thighs shake, a tell that you’re close. You’d be in heaven riding it out on his fingers. But a glance at where his cock is seriously straining his zipper gives you a better idea.
“Otto?”
He lifts his head. Your chest is shiny from his kisses, and he looks like he’d jump of the Empire State Building if you asked.
“Put your arms around me.”
“You sure?” He obeys in spite of the question, “Don’t have to stop for my sake, I’d keep doing that until my hands fall off.”
“That’d be a shame. I only like them because they’re attached to you.” You adjust, lower yourself down to grind against his cock, moaning at the size as you rub against the trapped shaft, “same with this.”
“Fuck! Fuck,” he tips his head back with a laugh, “thank you, sunshine, fuck, the day you let me fuck that cute little pussy I’m a goner, won’t wanna do anything else.”
“Hmm, that’s too bad, since I have to run the theater. You’ll have to control yourself.” You run a nail down his neck.
He tips his head forward, kissing you messily, “I could do that. Or I could start demanding your protection pay in the form of this.” He gropes your ass with both hands, forcing you into a faster pace, “make you bounce in my lip or let me ruin your lipstick once a day, keep my head under your skirt while you’re trying to do your books. Oh you like that, don’t you sweetheart?”
“Uh huh, fuck, Otto”
“That’s it, sunshine, that’s it. All the way. Gonna make you feel like this every day, because you’re my girl and my girl deserves the best.”
You hide your face against him as you cum. He rubs small, gentle circles on your back as you shudder.
“Am I really your girl?” You look up and find him smiling hopefully.
“If you’ll have me.”
“Of course.” You peck his lips, “although right now, think it’s more a matter of you having me.”
You only get halfway through rolling your sensitive folds against him when a hand clamps down on either hip.
“Good point.” He ruts demandingly up against you, “that’s it, c’mon, c’mon-”
“Ah! Holy god you’re strong.” You laugh as you try to wiggle in his lap and find you can’t.
“Want me to hold you down sometime?”
“Desperately.” You kiss him as his hips jerk and his breath catches. When he cums it’s with a satisfied groan. Better still is how he holds you to him afterwards, like a man searching the dark for something lost and cherished that he’s finally found.
“Otto? Cozy as this is, I think we better clean up.”
He nods, “Come take a bath with me. Promise I’ll only get a little handsy.”
“Only a little?” You pout and flutter your eyelashes.
He laughs, scoops you into his arms, and carries you further into the warm, welcoming house.