Whumptober, day 24 | Fight, Flight, Or Freeze ("I don't want to do this anymore")
Man this prompt sounded so easy but it gave me the most trouble out of all of them. And it's kinda short as a result.
NSFW.
Cw: mentions of past noncon.
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What time is it again?
Heavy breathing filled the room. The air was hot and musky, with a faint tinge of onions. Three days worth of sweat. There was salt on his tongue, he licked his moist lips and tasted liquor. Durant couldn't quite place the taste, but it stung and he concluded it had to be quite potent.
Fuchs laid over him. One hand so dangerously close to the gunman's crotch, far too close for comfort, but he didn't feel like pushing it aside either. Limp and tired, so drunk, but not enough by any margin.
He could still feel, he could still think. His eyelids were heavy, oh yes they were, and it was hard to pry them back open, but the darkness was lazy, it didn't want to claim him yet.
Durant's fingers dug into Fuchs' mussed-up hair, tracing circles on the younger man's scalp. The gunman... found it calming, even when he didn't know why he was doing it. Why was he stroking the man he so hated, the man who used him to sate his urges, and barely anything else?
Fuck's sake, he nearly left him to die back then. In the torture warehouse. The images were hazy, Durant didn't want to remember any of it but he couldn't forget the pain.
The agony tearing his legs apart. Fuchs, how he aggravated those broken bones, until the gunman couldn't take it anymore and that darkness took pity on the man.
It didn't keep him up at night. But he still remembered those tiny jagged knives cutting away at his flesh. The way his legs felt, numb and achy, but it went away. Thank god it went away because he needed his legs.
He was just a gun with legs, after all.
Fuchs made a sound, some tired moan, as he shifted on top of his gunman. Hand brushing away against his slumbering dick and he felt a twinge of warmth flush his face.
But other than that, he didn't feel anything.
Huh.
He'd stopped with the gentle strokes, his fingers sat in Fuchs' dark hair, motionless, as the gunman stared at the ceiling.
Maybe it... wasn't a great sign. That Fuchs seemed like he wanted to get into his pants, but his touch didn't do anything to him.
It used to, though. His hands used to do a lot of things to him. Guided your obedient little maw to his wet, throbbing meat.
Durant swallowed at the thought. No. He didn't want that.
What did he want, then? If not to please his boss? To raise him to the very highs of that primal ecstasy?
Durant only ever felt dread. When Fuchs was coming down on him. When he wasn't even given a chance to say 'no'.
Seven words mindlessly teetered from his drunken tongue, rolling from his lip like a handful of glass marbles. "I don't want to do this anymore."
He had enough of this. Of everything. He wished he could perish in the moment, he didn't want this, he didn't want to be a part of this horrible contract, he didn't want to be here.
He wanted another drink. More. And more and more.
Until his body couldn't take it anymore and his brain checked out, leaving him to wake up in a pile of trash with possibly the worst hangover he ever experienced.
But Fuchs didn't seem to pay any attention to those seven words, the most sincere words the gunman had uttered in the past two and a half years. Durant's boss only squirmed on top of him, arm lazily hooking against Durant as the younger of the two pulled himself closer, higher.
He didn't want this.
He didn't want to be here.
But maybe, maybe if he imagined this wasn't Fuchs, but someone else...
(Fuchs was as good as a blow-up doll about now.)
...maybe then he wouldn't be feeling like this.
But Durant couldn't bring himself to put in the effort. At the end of the day, when they both wake up half-naked on the same side of the bed, it'll still be Fuchs. And the gunman would still wind up with that sickening feeling at the back of his throat.
Now their faces were only inches apart, Durant could feel his boss' hot breath against his neck. How he rutted against his knee, too out of it to even notice. At least he wasn't trying to grope him anymore, even if... he didn't mean it. Durant hoped his boss didn't mean it, the guy's absolutely shitfaced for god's sake.
Durant's only solace was that his boss was face-down, chin resting against the edge of the mattress, but the rest of his head hung past the edge. If the guy vomits, at least it won't be on the gunman's clothes. The cheapshit suit he's been wearing for who knows how long.
It didn't matter. Nothing fucking mattered.
The gunman let his eyes fall shut, and the darkness still refused to claim him.
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