Keep practicing [Franco Barbi X Reader]
Tags and warnings: Eng is not my first language, nsfw
The only thing you are feeling right now is humiliation. You haven't felt this humiliated when the big guy grabbed you by the hair and slammed you into the wooden planks of the trailer. When you stepped on the glass next to Screamer, going deaf and blind for a good ten seconds. The humiliation right now isn't the fact that you were backed into a corner of the empty cafe set and injured, like you had been hundreds of times. It is humiliating to look at the big head freak with the butt of his shotgun resting comfortably against his belly
His barrel pointed at you.
And even more humiliating is the wetness between your legs.
There's a metallic taste on your lips and that same smell from the dentist's office. You doubt it's reality, it's something old, long forgotten. Something from that past life that doesn't matter now, much more significant - a cold tightness in your mouth that makes your cheekbones ache and your lips start to crack. The barrel doesn't fit entirely, only half, exactly half, but it's more than enough. The end slides over your lower teeth with a groan echoing in your ears - it seems the enamel has started to crumble. You don't care.
Not when he looks. Flushed, with watery, shiny eyes. His mouth opens sloppily, showing a jagged row of teeth. He looks closely, savoring this moment of dominance, his moment
You are trapped between the wall and the barrel.
Absolutely, uncompromisingly
"Keep going" he encourages you, pushing the pacifier further so that in order not to choke you have to resist, strain your neck.
The wall presses painfully on the back of your head.
So, so funny, so that his hand slides down, and the plump fingers that had been lying on the bracket slide onto the trigger. Not until it clicks, not a full press, but enough to almost rip the firing pin and set the mechanism into action. Enough, so for lack of any other way out, the tip of your tongue falls into the barrel, surprisingly still hot from the previous shot.
The taste of bitterness, gunpowder, blood, dirt - an amber that starts to settle in your throat and your eyes water. You whine. And it makes him even more happier.
Your hands hold your side, torn not too deeply, but deeply enough to wet your clothes. Bown stains creep toward your groin, and the heavier fabric sticks to your body, exposing the curves that had previously been hidden behind your tunic.
"Suck, take it, you who-re."
He buckles his hips with each letter again, and again, and again. With each thrust the back of your head meets the wall, each second of respite turns into a new wave of pain in your cheek, while the corner of your lips gives in. Wet with saliva - and tears? - the barrel slides deeper, all the way to the stop, crushing your tongue on the way - as if you had bitten it ten times at once. The protest is muffled in your throat, unable to escape, the squelching sound with one more experimental movement of Franco dies, without weakening the pressure. So hard that your jaw joint creaks pitifully, but
Only whine quietly, sobbing in unison with your ragged breathing.
It will either end right now, or a little later, when you won't have time to crawl through all the tasks.
The show is interrupted by a deafening siren. They've made it. Deprived of Franco's attention, they've completed the trial, and can save themselves. It doesn't make your humiliation any easier, but it does make your soul happy just a little bit.
The man snorts. Pressure on your head eases and he can finally take a clean breath. As much as possible clean, with notes of mold, dampness and the smell of Franco.
"Ya should keep practicing." He coquettishly looks at your hunched figure before him. Small, scared, beaten down. Painted in shades of red and pulsating pink - on the lower part of your face, where the barrel of the Lupara has French kissed you.
"And maybe ya get a promotion." The barrel is pointed at you. You shiver, getting ready for pain or more humiliation, but this time he doesn't aim - the metal hits the top of your head, just behind your night vision goggles.
The most gentle touch he's ever got you.