Moose / 22 ¦ I make my own whump content, I draw and write, neither of which I'm great at ¦ All hurt, some angst, attempted comfort ¦ Expect adventures of sad men, alcoholism shennanigans, some military whump and more. ¦ requests open anytime ¦ Languages: 🇸🇰🇨🇿🇬🇧
This is a very long post, includes character introductions, main story that I haven't actually gotten around to even compiling yet, a list of untitled stuff in chronological order, the saga of Tony Durant (written, will be uploaded sometime after Whumptober 2022), the post-canon stuff of Tony Durant (things that are like 50% canon), Whumptober 2021 masterlist, Whumptober 2022 masterlist (I've managed to do a lot of prompts this year, so this one will have its own masterlist), art list, and a list of some misc stuff.
So yeah. It's really long. More under the cut.
= Character introductions =
Quick overview + Master document
Norman Corey (+ Jack and Jameson)
Mike Rivera
Lena Schwarz
Ira Briggs
Alexander Wolf
Mason
Rafale
Sokolov Brothers (Artyom and Grisha)
Avis de Falco
Elbrus
Wothdan
Soryuu
Tony Durant
Lishka
F. Fuchs
= Main Story (doesn't exist yet) (consider this on permanent hiatus, no idea when it's gonna be done) =
Entry, Norman - pre-Echo, journal
Entry, Norman - Memories of Echo (alleged version of the event)
Entry, Norman - Echo, immediate aftermath
Entry, Elbrus - Observer
Entry, Norman - Lost Year
Entry, Norman - Lucidity
Entry, Norman - Abdicate and separate
Entry, Norman - Visions of self-loathing
Entry, Norman - Old friends keep drinking
Entry, Norman - The wolf in your darkest room
(time skip, may put some stuff here)
Entry, Norman - Contact, threat, follow
Entry, Norman - Return to sender
(time skip, stuff goes here)
Entry, Norman - Wait it out
Entry, Norman - A light in the void
Entry, Lena - Difference
Entry, ??? - ???
Entry, Norman - Still blood
Entry, ??? - ???
Entry, Mike - Once
Entry, Mike - Found
(time skip, more stuff here)
Entry, Norman - A night of Colombian nose candy
Entry, Norman - Best friend in a bottle of pills
Entry, ??? - ???
(time skip, more stuff here)
Entry, Norman - Screaming for vengeance
= Untitled pieces, not in a chronological order =
Norman - spiralling after a car backfired
Norman - liver pain
Norman - bleeding somewhere out there
= The Tony Durant saga (this is very out of date) =
Exploits (Episode 0)
Debut
Downtime
Art [NSFW]
Wanderlust [NSFW]
Blood
Breaking
Pieces
Sacrifice
Vices [NSFW]
Dilapidation [NSFW, ! NONCON !]
Release, part 1
Release, part 2
...and more to be added
= The Tony Durant saga, post canon shenanigans =
Durant deals with a night terror and a subsequent panic attack
TBA
TBA
= Whumptober 2021 =
Prompt 19 - Bleeding (art)
Prompt 10 - Hospital
Prompt - alt 14 - Battlefield
Prompt 16 - On a need to know basis
= Whumptober 2022 =
MASTERPOST (in chronological order)
Adrenaline Crash (Alternate prompt) | Norman
Nowhere To Run | Durant, Fuchs
A Hair's Breadth from Death | Durant, random whumper
Dead On Your Feet | Durant, Fuchs
Stabbed (alternate prompt) | Fuchs, Durant
Proof of Life | Durant, Fuchs, random whumpee
The Way You Shake And Shiver | Fuchs, Durant (focus on Durant)
Everything Hurts And I'm Dying | Durant, Norman
The Very Noisy Night | Durant, Fuchs [NSFW, ! NONCON !]
Poor Unfortunate Souls | Durant, Fuchs
"911, what's your emergency?" | Norman
What Could Go Wrong? | Durant, Fuchs
Can't Make Omelet Without Breaking A Few Legs | Durant
Die A Hero, Or Live Long Enough To Become A Villain | Durant, Fuchs
Emotional Damage | Durant, random whumpers
No Way Out | Durant, Fuchs [NSFW, ! NONCON !]
Hanging By A Threat | Durant
Let's Break The Ice | Durant, random caretaker
Enough Is Enough | Durant, Fuchs
It's Been A Long Day | Durant
Famous Last Words | Durant, Lishka
Pick Your Poison | Norman
At The End Of Their Rope | Durant, Fuchs, random caretaker(s)
Fight, Flight, Or Freeze | Durant, Fuchs [NSFW]
Silence Is Golden | Norman
No One Left Behind | Durant, Fuchs
Pushed To The Limit | Durant, Lishka
It's Just The Tip Of The Iceberg | Durant, random caretaker
I'm working on a playlist, is it ok if I ask you what songs give you whump vibes? Can be from the whumper, whumpee, loved one, or caretaker POV… it's all good!
Oh good question. My first thought was Bleeding Out by Imagine Dragons. A lot of Imagine Dragons songs are good and whumpy. Umm let's see. I don't really go to music when I need whump so I don't really have a lot of recs. How about Whats Up by 4 Non Blondes, Demons by Jacob Lee, I Wanna Be Your Slave by Maneskin, and omg the Torture Tango from Spies are Forever. That's all i got for now I think.
okay. maybe not exclusively whumpee music, but hear me out. The selection I'm about to lay out here may not be for everyone, I tried to offer the 'best' subjectively whumpy or whump-vibes-adjacent songs in my collection. It has whumpee vibes, it has caretaker vibes, and there's a little bit of whumper too!
I don't know, I'm just rambling at this point, take these:
-> Red Vox - Running To Forget
-> Crossfade - Suffocate
-> Bee Gees - Dogs
-> Moy Dvor - Regular Bus (this is a russian song, but i don't have it in me to write in russian at the moment)
-> Swans - Failure
-> Molchat Doma - Sudno (another russian song, tl;dr of it is guy's bedridden, ruminates about a bedpan and his own mortality. i think.)
-> Sea Power - Tiger King (specifically the version heard during the starting minutes of Disco Elusium)
-> Murder By Death - Spring Break of 1899
-> 5'nizza - Soldat (yet another russian song, this one was used in Stalker: Shadow of Chernobyl)
-> Kino - Gruppa Krovi (russian track)
-> Lord of the Lost - Splintered Mind
-> Matthe Mayfield - Wolf In Your Darkest Room
-> The Antlers - Putting The Dog To Sleep
-> Five Finger Death Punch - Diary of a Deadman
-> Tool - Culling Voices
-> I Prevail - Breaking Down
-> Matt Elliott - C. F. Bundy
-> Slipknot - Tattered and Torn
... and the list goes on. There's also a collaborative whump playlist over on Spotify, don't have the link to it right now, though. I don't use Spotify, but I've heard about this playlist.
I can second the Jacob Lee - Deemons rec, it's a good song.
Ayyy I've managed to do all 31 prompts! Honestly I didn't think I could do it.
Anyway here's a masterpost. Also color coded for your convenience because I'm dumb and only now I realized that maybe I should've written which characters are in which pieces. Sorry. And I've updated content warnings. Didn't touch the actual posts tho, since they've already been reblogged.
Colors: Norman, Durant, Lishka, Fuchs, other.
Entries are listed in chronological order, not in order of prompts. Prompt numbers are listed in each entry.
Adrenaline Crash (Alt prompt) | Norman
Pushed To The Limit (stumbling) | Durant, Lishka
Famous Last Words (coughing up blood, "You're safe now.") | Durant, Lishka
Nowhere To Run (cornered, confrontation) | Durant, Fuchs | CW: abusive relationship, possessive whumper.
Stabbed (Alt prompt) | Fuchs, Durant
Pick Your Poison (withdrawal) | Norman | CW: alcohol abuse, hallucinations, intrusive thoughts.
A Hair's Breadth From Death (Say Goodbye) | Durant, other [art]
Proof Of Life (ransom video) | Durant, Fuchs, other
The Way You Shake And Shiver (shaking hands, silent panic attack) | Durant, Fuchs | CW: Abusive relationship.
Dead On Your Feet (hidden injury) | Durant, Fuchs | CW: Abusive relationship, possessive whumper.
Poor Unfortunate Souls (whipping) | Durant, Fuchs
Note To Self: Don't Get Kidnapped (manhandled) | Durant, Fuchs | CW: abusive relationship.
Die A Hero, Or Live Long Enough To Become A Villain (failed escape, "I'll be right behind you.") | Durant, Fuchs
Hanging By A Threat (stress position) | Durant [art]
Can't Make An Omelet Without Breaking A Few Legs ("Are you here to break me out?") | Durant [art]
Emotional Damage (breathing through the pain) | Durant, other
No One Left Behind ("Why did you save me?") | Durant, Fuchs
At The End Of Their Rope ("Hold them down.") | Durant, Fuchs, other
Silence Is Golden (duct tape) | Norman [art]
No Way Out (paralytic drugs) | Durant, Fuchs | NSFW | CW: ! NONCON !, noncon drug use, abusive relationship.
Fight, Flight, Or Freeze ("I don't want to do this anymore") | Durant, Fuchs | NSFW | CW: mentions of past noncon.
"911, what's your emergency?" (self-done first aid) | Norman [art]
The Very Noisy Night (caught in a storm) | Durant, Fuchs | NSFW | CW: ! NONCON !, abusive relationship, brief sui thoughts.
Enough Is Enough (repeatedly passing out, head lolling) | Durant, Fuchs | CW: alcohol abuse.
What Doesn't Kill Me... (sleep deprivation) | Durant, Fuchs | CW: mentions of past noncon, drug use.
What Could Go Wrong? | Durant, Fuchs | CW: dubcon drug use, needles.
Everything Hurts And I'm Dying | Durant, Norman
Let's Break The Ice ("Take my coat.") | Durant, other
It's Just The Tip Of The Iceberg | Durant, other
It's Been A Long Day (fetal position) | Durant | CW: mentions of past noncon, self-harm.
A Light At The End Of The Tunnel (comfort) | Durant, Lishka [art]
Whumptober, day 30 | Note To Self: Don't Get Kidnapped (manhandled)
He wouldn't mind standing here if it wasn't so goddamn cold.
Durant briefly checked his phone, a battered Nokia Lumia that had clearly seen better times. Better times with better people.
He's been standing here for over half an hour, waiting for his boss to show up, smoking cigarette after cigarette just to kill time (and to ease the anxiety clawing up his heels). A little pile of charred filters grew beside his foot.
He lit up another one. Stuck it between his chapped lips (he noted he should drink something), sucked on it until he felt that familiar burn blooming through his battered, tar-stained lungs.
Where the hell was his boss? Where did he get hung up?!
This city is large, the roads are notoriously prone to congestion.
Maybe he got stuck in traffic.
Maybe he--
Hand at his throat, another one grabbed onto his midsection, they pulled him backwards, into the alley he stood in front of, he tensed up for a long moment before he recognized the touch.
Fuchs?
The thumb resting against his neck shifted, softly pressed against his carotid artery, until he could feel and hear the whoosh of his blood. The hand below his ribs swiftly traced along his belly, until it flipped him around and roughly shoved him into the wall.
Durant's nape met the rough, bumpy wall with a dull thud, ache bloomed through the back of his skull, radiating down to his neck.
The thumb pressed harder, cutting off more blood flow.
"Never let your guard down, got it?" the man snarled as he inched closer to Durant's face. He could feel the hot air against his cheek, and the smell of menthol mixing with the usual orange and sandalwood cologne.
Yeah that's... That's definitely Fuchs.
The lack of blood flow was starting to set in, with the grey mix of white noise and that blackness encroaching on his right eye, slowly taking away his sight.
Durant tried to pull away from Fuchs, tried to get away from the hand at his throat... "Yeah."
He had nowhere to go, though. His head was already pressed against the wall, he tried to bend his neck to the side, but the hand followed.
Look at you, puppy. Squirming under your master's hand.
Fuchs traced a line up and down the gunman's middle, tips of his fingers reaching up past the base of Durant's sternum, heel of his palm dipping down to his belt buckle, nearly hopping up onto it. And it felt intoxicating but it only heightened the fear coursing through Durant's veins.
"What the hell are you--"
He wasn't allowed to finish his sentence before Fuchs grabbed him by the throat (for real this time), yanked him away, sweeped his ankle and forced the now petrified gunman to the grimy concrete below. A dull thud sounded through the alley when the gunman's head met the side of the trash bin, bags of week old trash crinkling under his body.
That vile hand wasn't on his throat anymore, he pawed at his neck, ran his fingers right below his jaw, he locked eyes with Fuchs, lips parted, pulled back a little. "Boss," he uttered, hoping for some kind of a reason, some kind of an explanation...
"What, now you get cold feet? When I need you? The hell do I pay you for, then?!"
Durant's brow furrowed, mouth dropping to a light frown as he propped himself upon his aching elbows. What was he getting at?!
"Listen. Your contract explicitly states that you will provide me with your unconditional service."
Puppy, you won't go against the terms of the contract. One you drafted and signed with your own blood.
Unconditional. The little word Fuchs' chemical fingers somehow managed to slip in there. Words that weren't his own, written by his shaky pill-starved hand (magic triangles, Fuchs' little chemical signature, the research drug he got who knows where, the invisible shackles, an easy way to steer him), sealed with a signature and a bloody thumbprint.
You can't get out of this, little doggy.
Loyal. He was loyal, a dependable weapon (and a tool), but he wasn't... whatever this was shaping up to be.
And when the gunman didn't reply, Fuchs offered his hand, limb fully outstretched towards the gunman.
You're not a loyal dog if you don't follow.
"So come on."
Take it, puppy-dog.
"Let's go."
He didn't have a choice, did he?
Durant heaved himself into a sit, despite that disgusting, sickening feeling congealing in his gut. He swallowed thickly, willing the angry bile back down, before he too reached out and met Fuchs' hand, allowed his boss to pull him up.
A hand landed firmly at his right shoulder, gave him a little squeeze. That got his hackles up.
A warning. A sign of things to come.
And Fuchs only grinned at him, before he turned away.
Whumptober, day 29 | What Doesn't Kill Me... (sleep deprivation)
His hands jittered and he couldn't sit still. He couldn't quell that need to move, mind running at a thousand miles an hour while nothing was happening.
Staring out of the window in twelve-hour shifts. Watching over a freight yard, looking for any signs of cop presence. And it was a little difficult with his mind wandering to places he usually reserved for downtime.
And for once, Durant wouldn't be opposed to Fuchs running his dirty fucking hands over his body. Sneaking under his clothes. Touching him in the hottest ways--
Jesus fucking Christ, no. No. What the hell was he thinking?!
He couldn't deny the heat rushing to his cheeks, and... other parts of himself.
He wished, he fucking wished he could occupy himself in some way, not just... have to sit in a window, looking down at a dead-silent shipyard.
How long's he been awake?
He couldn't tell, but his gut suggested it's been more than thirty-six hours.
Whoa. A day and a half in a row, spent wide awake. Granted, he couldn't have possibly accomplished this without copious amounts of coffee, and... meth. A lot of meth. Shit he bought off that Tommy Wiseau-looking ass. What's his name? Ray?
And where's he gone, anyway?
Well that... didn't matter anymore now, did it?
None of the containers had shifted. No new boats on the horizon, no cars pulling into the lot, no movement down in the 'yard.
He messed around with his fingers, rubbed his fingers together to do something while the seconds dragged on.
Even with the rifle in his arms (some old Winchester, fitted with a sixteen-power scope) he still fiddled with his fingers, he pawed at the bolt, fiddled with the little piece of hardened steel it had for a handle.
Maybe he could take pot-shots at the seagulls down there, fucking sandwich-stealing feathered terrorists.
But he kept his eyes peeled for the yard activity instead. Removing one or two gulls wouldn't help anyone, and he'd waste precious ammo.
Wasn't easy to get thirty rounds of .308 to feed this thing. Three full magazines of the precious brass, full-metal jacket teeth ready to shred and maim.
He tapped his fingers against the wooden stock, he played with the trigger, pulled until he hit the safety (fuckin' pinnacle of gun safety right here) and then he let go of it, only to repeat the whole process mere seconds later.
His gums itched and crawled, as if an ant colony burrowed under the firm flesh, and the only thing that seemed to help was gnashing his teeth together, grinding side to side
Durant had to stop himself each time he noticed himself doing it. His teeth weren't the greatest, even if they were pretty much intact (going ten-odd years without a dentist visit would do that to even the most mineralized of teeth), and smoking some two packs a day wasn't helping either.
He even felt the beat of his own heart in his teeth, a feeling he knew, but deeply hated. But at least he could tell his heart was going far too fast. Even when he sat still (or as still as he could, among the shivers and constant fidgeting he couldn't stop), even then he was twitching with every beat, all hundred and sixty of them per minute, if he guessed right.
How much longer will he have to sit here?
Too long, he mused. Even fifteen minutes felt like days in his state. An hour felt like a week. Ten hours - a year.
Durant hated to admit it, but he was losing his mind, doing nothing. Where was the thrill of the chase he so craved? Where was the adrenaline? Where were those fuckers who wanted his boss' shipments?! Even though the rifle in his hands didn't belong to him, wasn't a part of him, it screeched and wailed with a bloodthirsty fervor, it wanted to bite and maim and kill!
The gunman sucked in a tight breath. He's too high, nearly overdosed on meth, trying to keep himself from going utterly nuts.
And all the caffeine wasn't helping.
He stared at his hand. Still trembling. Still twitching with every beat of his heart, just like the rest of him.
Bite it, puppy. Feel it between your teeth. Chew with your sharp molars.
Suddenly, the door behind his back clicked and Durant nearly jumped out of his seat.
Silhouette in the doorway. A man. Familiar shape, he knew that jacket. "Fuchs?"
"Time's up, we have to go," the man uttered, motioning with his hand. A quick little wave towards the door. "And grab the rifle."
And as his boss turned on his heel to leave, Durant got up. There was that whine again, escaping with the lungful of air he involuntarily exhaled.
Finally. Finally he could rip and tear (let the doped-up rabid dog run free), kill at his master's Fuchs' command!
The rifle in his arms itched with excitement, vibrated with insatiable bloodlust and he rested it against his shoulder, frigid metal resting against the fabric of his shirt.
Oh he couldn't wait.
But he could tell the high wouldn't last forever, Durant could already feel the meth begin to wane. Soft licks of a brewing headache.
He wasn't new to this, he knew there was a crash coming, and with how much he took, he'd be out of commission for three days. Just sleeping. And when he wakes, his whole body will be sore, and achy, and he'll wish for death before Fuchs interferes. Pumps him full of different uppers, to make the crash a little less horrible.
Puppy, you know this won't last forever. With his claws so deep in your flesh, you're nothing but a puppet.
Durant stopped for a moment, resting his face against the wall.
Nothing but a loyal gun by his side, an obedient pet. Where's your pride, puppy?
Whumptober, day 28 | It's Just The Tip Of The Iceberg
Remember how I bitched about "Fight, Flight, Or Freeze" (and the sub-prompts) being the hardest of the bunch?
Yeah. Turns out this one just trumped that.
Or I'm just struggling with no writing juice.
Continuation of day 18.
---
She took her coat back at some point.
What a shame. It felt like a blanket to him, his clothes were still damp and occasional shivers wracked his stiff form, but the heating worked just fine.
And... As much as he hated to let his guard down, the gunman dozed off.
The seat was pleasantly warm, that was his excuse. He remembered hearing two little clicks come from the center console, maybe she flipped a switch or two.
Maybe the seats were heated.
That makes sense. Her car was a nice, modern thing, unlike the shitbuckets he was used to. A battered cream Mercedes from early nineties with a busted radio and a suspension so floaty he occasionally got seasick.
But that's in the past. No use wondering about has-beens and could've-beens.
Durant shifted in the warm seat, breath carrying a soft whine as he tried to get comfortable again.
She didn't turn on the radio.
"Are you up," the woman asked sheepishly. Durant pried his eyes open, as much as his tired body would allow.
She's looking at him.
He righted himself in the seat, uncurling after possibly a few hours, judging by the way his spine ached. "Yeah."
"We're in front of my house. I didn't want to wake you, you looked like you needed the sleep."
Her house... Hold on, what's going on?
He'd already been half a breath deep before he remembered.
He agreed to sleep at her house. Because she somehow got him to admit he didn't have anywhere to go.
You're such a pitiful little puppy.
What's her name again? Lorraine?
Yes. Lorraine.
He ran a hand under the floppy mop of hair hiding his eyes, rubbing at his eyebrows. "Thank you."
A fresh headache bloomed around his skull, it lingered at his temples and behind his ears. Tendrils of it reached even into his forehead and the very back of his nape.
Lorraine shut off the engine, pulled the key out of the ignition, "We should go inside."
He nodded wearily, opened the door and heaved himself out into the cold. It was still snowing, but less. The snowflakes were smaller too.
He entered the house after Lorraine, shutting the door behind him. Inside, it was nice and warm. He slipped out of his shoes once he saw that Lorraine had taken hers off. He wasn't a dick, he'd obey the customs, even unspoken ones.
"Are you hungry?"
Durant couldn't exactly tell in the moment. Maybe? It didn't feel like he was, but the situation could change at any moment.
Plus, if he ghosts her tonight, there's no telling when he'll rat next. "Yeah."
He ventured into the living room, carefully sinking into the couch. It's nice. Soft.
"And what would you like to eat?"
This question. He hated questions like these. "I'll have what's available."
Not the greatest thing to say, but he was swamped. What if he picked something she couldn't make?
"Uh... We have tomato soup."
Okay, "Tomato soup it is, then."
The rest of the evening was uneventful. The two of them ate in silence, only glancing at each other every once in a while.
Only when she ushered him upstairs into what he assumed to be her bedroom did he speak up.
There was a framed picture on the shelf, and the gunman couldn't resist a question. "Who's that?"
The picture in question was of a young girl, no more than seventeen, grinning ear to ear in genuine happiness.
"Her? That's my daughter, Alice."
Alice. "Nice name."
"She's out of town for the week."
Why did she tell him that? To quell his fears, maybe?
It did the opposite, actually. Not only was he endangering an innocent woman by even being here (even if it was her idea to begin with), he was also endangering her daughter.
Good fucking lord, he needs to bolt as soon as he can.
Lorraine rummaged through her closet. Why? He wasn't planning on sleeping in the same bed as her, there was a perfectly good couch downstairs--
"I have some clothes that might fit you."
And now she wanted him to have her clothes too?!
"I don't think that's necessary."
"Oh please," she retorted, not once turning away from the closet, "your clothes are still wet, not to mention filthy, you deserve to sleep in something comfortable."
There was one glaring flaw in her plan. "And what if your clothes won't fit me?"
"When did I say they were mine?"
They weren't? "You said you have--"
"--some clothes that might fit you, yes. But they're not mine."
"Then whose..."
"That's none of your concern, Silvester."
Right.
Durant (or Silvester, as he's introduced himself earlier) sat upon the double-bed smack-dab in the middle of the room. It sank under his weight with a little creak, though he couldn't quite tell if it was from daily use, or not. This side of the bed was rather firm, so he leaned towards disuse. But he might be wrong, who knows.
He reluctantly slipped out of his suit jacket. That thing hadn't been dry cleaned in several months, and it showed. There were some faint, pale stains all over the fabric, dust particles stuck deep between the fibers, little cat hairs still stuck in hard to reach spots.
Lorraine had stopped with her search at some point, gaze fixated on the gunman, and his methodical undressing.
He folded the jacket in half, laid it beside him, before he got to work on taking off his shirt. His still somehow frigid worked the buttons through their respective holes, until he got past the last one and began to slide his arms out of the shirt's sleeves.
And the more fabric he pulled back, the more scars showed. At first, the ragged strip of scar tissue just below his left deltoid peeked from under the shirt. A strip of pale, stringy tissue, shaped vaguely like a chevron.
There that one bullet hit, nearly blew his arm off.
Then the small scars peppering the rest of his arms became visible. Remnants of little squabbles, bar fights, Fuchs' rough handling, god he hated thinking about him.
Followed by the five scratches on his left shoulder.
"Oh my God," he could hear Lorraind utter behind him, with that quiet, horrified realization.
He didn't have the heart to tell her there's more. So much more.
"What happened to you?"
But he didn't stop, he continued to undress, revealing a series of whip marks, about a dozen of them. Thin, long scars across his back. "'S none of your business."
If she wouldn't tell him whose clothes she was trying to find for him, he wouldn't say a word about his scars.
It just wasn't one of the things she should worry about.
It didn't affect her.
Why was she even upset by them?
"You're not a businessman, are you?"
"Again, it's none of your business," he retorted, trying to keep his voice from straying too far into the hostile tone.
She's doing him a huge favor, he didn't want to blow it all to shit.
He needed a place to stay the night.
The shirt fell into a crumpled heap behind his back, but soon he took it, folded it up, laid it onto his suit jacket.
Lorraine had fallen completely silent all of a sudden. So he turned to look, the woman held a hand up to her mouth, fixated on the gun sitting in the back of his pants.
"Look, I," Durant began, "...I work in personal protection. Sometimes things get hairy."
And I bear the consequences.
Her eyes locked onto his for a change. A rigid accusatory gaze and the gunman slouched a little. He was too tired for this kind of shit.
With his left hand up in the air, fingers splayed in that I am not a threat to you gesture as he slowly unholstered his handgun, before he brought the said hand below the grip, and released the magazine. It fell into his palm, he pulled the rest of it out and laid it beside himself, followed by the gun.
"If you're worried, no, I'm not going to kill you while you sleep," Durant stated, annoyed that she was so apprehensive about things he wouldn't even do, "nor rob you, nor anything else you're thinking of."
Maybe saying it all out loud wasn't the brightest idea, but he wanted the woman off his case so he could fucking sleep.
"I will call the cops if you try anything."
Durant shifted again, sliding the gun and the magazine farther away from the edge of the bed, farther away from Lorraine. He couldn't blame, for fuck's sake she's a civilian, but her fear was starting to get on his nerves. "Fair."
Maybe he should get dressed, go sleep downstairs, on the couch (which looked really comfortable, but he wasn't graced with the opportunity to try it), but he could use a bed for once.
But, Durant decided he's going to bear with it. He's going to sleep here, stiff and quiet like some corpse.
Then, once the first slivers of sunlight peek through the blinds, he'll leave without a trace.
Whumptober, day 27 | Pushed To The Limit (stumbling)
hhh I'm running out of steam but I'm going to finish Whumptober, dammit!
---
He liked heat, just not this kind of heat.
They had cops on their asses for a good few hours by now. Very motivated California Highway Patrol boys in blue.
Oh this was a big mess. Sure, Durant and Lishka had managed to snatch two duffle bags of cash, easily at least forty thousand dollars, but at what cost?
The gunman had somehow managed to down a helicopter with a single bullet, a one in a million shot.
And that's where the issues really began.
Those ten-odd cars - cruisers, actually - ran them off road, their car damn near uncontrollable with every light on the dashboard glowing (including the dreaded 'check engine' and 'check oil pressure' lights, even the airbag and ABS lights were on) as this entire debacle drew to a messy end.
They hit a rock, and the car went airborne. Flew past a brook, landed hood-first into the gravelly ground. Durant's head hit the dashboard with a crack, and everything disappeared in the darkness.
Until a pair of hands pulled him out. Radiant like the sun. He leaned into those warm hands (or fell into them, but who gives a fuck), part of him tried to fuse with the feeling but his name fluttered in the wind, Tony, Tony, we have to go.
"Tony, wake up!"
Everything came back into a muted focus. Stench of gasoline filled the air, his skull throbbed, a trickle of something hot crawled between his eyebrows and down the side of his nose.
"Tony!"
Lishka's hands cupped his scruffy face, they brushed away some stray bangs that stuck to the gunman's forehead. Such a gentle motion in this gruesome situation...
Durant groaned as he forced his eyes open, a wave of nausea washing over him, engulfing his shaken meatsack of a body. There was smoke coming out of the front of the car, brilliant white curling over the bonnet with a menacing hiss. Faint wail of sirens in the distance.
The gunman's sight was hazy, colors washed out and muted between the incessant ringing in his ears.
There was a new tone, a low roar, joining the cacophony of two high tones and one low.
"Can you hear me? Look at me, hey!"
Now it was equal, two low, two high.
He clambered out of the seat, right into Lishka's arms, damn near falling to his knees and dragging both of them down.
But Lishka held their ground rather admirably, pushing back with all their strength to keep the gunman from falling.
And to keep him upright.
His legs didn't move right. They weren't broken, but those limbs wouldn't go where he wanted them.
"Yeah, I can-- I can hear you," he slurred, forced his tongue to work and his own voice rang in his head.
It hurt his ears.
Durant didn't make any attempts to peel himself away from his boss. Tired. Lishka was warm, comfortable, and he didn't feel like moving.
"Can you walk," came another worried question. Lishka's hands steered the gunman, directing him to rest against the b-pillar of the car, right behind the front passenger door. Suddenly their radiant hands were no longer at his sides and he grabbed onto the nearest thing he could just to try and keep upright.
"Ah... I'd rather not.
But only moments later, Lishka was back again. Two bags slung over their shoulders.
So they're... taking the money too.
"'M dizzy," the gunman uttered. Bitching like a fucking child. Small, bright spots danced in his vision. Huh. This was new...
"How bad is it?"
Now that was a fucking question. Durant blinked, for a moment he'd been quiet, before he settled on an answer. "Bad enough that I don't think it's a good idea for me to walk."
"I know a place where we can hide, It's not far."
Oh... Right. Right, they had so many cops on their asses most people would've just given up if faced with such a show of force.
This belated realization seemed to have roused the gunman a little, he heaved himself off the car, trying to move towards Lishka. Carefully placing one foot in front of the other, swaying with each step as he limply dragged himself over the bumpy terrain, feet catching against rocks and exposed tree roots.
Lishka offered him a hand, and he took it without a second thought. Durant's fingers curled tightly around their hand, he let them guide him over the rough terrain, following routes in the forest, but then they found a shallow creek and soon they walked upstream. "To get the dogs off our scent," Lishka reasoned.
Durant couldn't tell how long they walked up the creek, nor where the two of them wound up, but he could tell there was a house or a cabin in front of them. It didn't seem like anyone lived there.
Perfect place to set up camp, recoup, keep running.
His legs burned, thighs and calves stiff as logs and he could swear they were swollen. Pushed so far past their limits that he was sure he'd fall on the spot, unable to move those overexerted limbs.
Durant let go of Lishka's hand, no longer matching their pace. "You go on ahead, I... I'll come later."
That wasn't the right word, he could tell as Lishka looked at him with a slight frown.
"Why?"
Why? He had the answer, just...
"If I stop moving, I'm not getting up again."
They must've covered some ten miles for his legs to hurt this much. They were moving by themselves at this point, locked in some rhythmic spasm that caused them to walk.
The explanation was either so horrible or so convincing that Lishka did, in fact, go on ahead, yet they still looked over their shoulder to keep an eye on Durant.
Whumptober, day 26 | No One Left Behind ("Why did you save me?")
He'd been left alone here. No food or water for a second day in a row and the pain gnawing at his legs and twisting his gut only grew with each passing hour. The ground was cold, too, but he was thankful he wasn't forced to keep sitting on that god-awful chair.
He barely slept at night. Shallow and short stays in the warm darkness, only about two hours at a time. He woke up - repeatedly - at boots passing by the door.
Rabid hounds of war, doing what their masters wanted of them, to rip and tear and torture.
Soft thumps down the hall. Muffled screams. Gunshots. Durant perked up, as much as his broken body would allow.
Many boots racing down the hall, hushed words speaking of an intruder, some lanky man with a gun.
Wait, is it--
"Left side, left side," came a muffled yell from the hall.
Durant counted two shots right after. Followed by a nice little burst from the two men close by the door. Three more shots. From further away. At least one hit because there was a piercing scream just outside the door. Followed by more panicked words he couldn't quite make out through the haze of pain.
Another shot, quick retaliation of several three-round bursts, and two more single shots from a different gun.
A rifle clattered to the ground. Faint gurgles just in the hallway.
Deathly silence. No barks of gunfire, just the buzzing in his head and some disgusting sinking feeling.
Could it be his boss? Maybe, but this didn't sound like him Precise, yes, maybe a little too much for the man himself. Did he hire someone? To soften up those contractor fuckers, so he can then sweep in and claim all the glory?
He would've laughed if not for the piercing pain in his ribs. Fuchs had the resources, he had people, it wouldn't be unlike him to hire some extra help for the job.
He could afford the extra bodies.
And he could afford to find a different loyal gun, puppy.
Different gunman to fill his place. Take over his role of the loyal bodyguard willing to sacrifice limb and life.
Even if the guy was a dick.
Durant couldn't hear a single sound aside from his quick ragged breaths. He'd grown a little accustomed to the pain, but his legs felt full of red-hot knives slicing away at his flesh.
He stilled once he heard those footsteps in the hallway. Light, so vastly different from the steel-toed boots that ran through the hall only minutes ago. No, these were loafers, a light blend of leather and vulcanized rubber. Tap, tap, tap, the sound was closing in, until the door handle moved and Durant stilled completely.
Either it's Fuchs, or someone else.
He blinked as the door swung open. Silver glint of a Beretta. Muzzle trained right at him, before it wavered and pointed towards the ground as the man's hands fell.
"Durant?"
He... came back for him...
"H-Hey," he rasped, breaking into a little cough at the sudden motion. Too deep of an exhale. His ribs still ached, stabbing pain clawing at his lung with every cough.
Broken ribs had nothing on two shattered femurs...
Fuchs slipped his gun away for the moment, taking long, hasty strides towards his gunman. "We don't have much time before the rest of those jack-booted fucks come down here."
Durant estimated they had ten minutes at most. Realistically, it's less. A lot less.
More like five minutes.
Fuchs kneeled beside him, took a pair of wire cutters to the zip ties binding the gunman's wrists. "Let's get out of here."
Two snips, and the pressure at his wrist was gone. Durant flexed his hands, splayed his palm, curled his fingers into a tight fist before he loosened them. But just as quickly as the pressure was relieved, Fuchs was already hooking his arm around the gunman, about to lift him up.
"No no no, wait, wa--"
Then the bones in his leg shifted and he screamed loud enough to wake the dead. That piercing, blood-curdling wail--
"Shut up!"
--he screamed until his lungs seized with lack of air.
"For fuck's sake just shut up!"
Followed by desperate lungfuls of that precious, precious air, cut shallow by his broken battered ribs, fingers curling against the floor and nails scratching away at whatever was under his hands.
Please god make it stop, make it stop, make it stop--
"Oh shit--"
Darkness blotted out his sight, drowned out every sound, his body was sagging into that painless warm void, but he was plucked out of those deep dark waters only moments later. Sweaty. Back against the bumpy ground, his entire body ached and throbbed and his guts were twisting into tight knots under the strain.
"Fuchs..."
Moist eyes, dry throat. He could only croak as he twisted on the ground.
His boss fell quiet, just looking at his gunman, unsure what to do next. Barely touching him, just lightly resting two fingers on Durant's shoulder.
"I took a couple guys with me, they're waiting outside." Fuchs spoke, considerably more gentle than only minutes ago, "I need you to stay quiet."
Quiet, huh? Durant wasn't sure it was even possible. "Then gimme drugs. Or knock me out. Please."
Desperate words, quiet urgency. This would go a lot smoother if he wasn't screaming with every little movement. Even now, even when he was lying completely still, Durant was only hairs away from screaming his lungs out. Words didn't come to him as easily as they usually did either, they came mangled and incoherent through the haze of pain. "My legs are fucked. Broken. Fuckers broke my legs."
"Yeah, I figured."
Then he could've-- he could've stopped sooner!
"And since you can't stand up, I'm gonna have to drag you."
Fine, fucking fine, "Just get on with it," Durant grumbled. Impatient, frustrated, anxious. Conflicting feelings mixing into some horrible painful mess. "You gonna give me something, or we goin' raw?"
"Raw."
God-- he swallowed. Every little bit of motion of his legs plunged him into throes of agony so intense he could no longer keep conscious.
Fuchs produced a single tie, he folded it in half twice, and brought it down to the gunman's chin. "Here, bite this."
And he did. Fuchs positioned it between Durant's teeth, and he bit down on it. It'd help, even if just a little.
"Alright."
White and orange hues of pain. It felt as if legs were being torn apart, pulled off his body like he was some insect.
Paralyzed. Eyes blown wide open, he was stiff as a board and his body tried to screech, yet breath halted in his throat, it wouldn't budge, nerves overloaded with this unspeakable agony.
He couldn't take it. Couldn't do it. As if rigor mortis had set in while he was still alive.
Durant could hear a word, quiet and mangled in the haze, a single "Finally" as the gunman slipped under.
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.
---
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.
Whumptober, day 23 | At The End Of Their Rope ("Hold them down.")
Unfamiliar voices. He was waking, surfacing from the depths of the warm darkness, very close to breaching the surface and entering the waking world.
He didn't want to. There was pain and blood and broken bones.
None of which he wanted to deal with.
But the warm darkness didn't want him anymore, it spat him out, and the waking world washed over him. Overwhelming sounds, pungent smell of rot and sandalwood. And cigarettes. And iodine.
Car. No, too big. Back of a van, maybe?
There wasn't much light. Only... a pen light, briefly shining over his face and he winced at the bright light.
"He's awake," an unfamiliar voice stated. Cold and clinical, but it had that gruffness which didn't fit a doctor.
A shuffle by his side, but he didn't look. "That soon?"
Durant blinked. Once, twice. The air was stale and musky, smelling faintly of diesel. Rumble of an engine came from somewhere above him. Above his skull. Right over his scalp.
"Hey, Charlie. You know where we're going or do you need directions?"
He-- he knew this voice!
There was a bit of dead air before this Charlie replied. "I'm good."
The familiar voice, Fuchs, he turned back to the gunman laid on the floor, one hand resting on his shoulder. "Alright."
Brushing up against the swollen, throbbing hole in his shoulder. Durant whined as his boss poked around the inflamed tissue, it sent sparks of this bone-deep ache down his arm and collarbone, he even felt it in his neck and jaw. A vile, sickening feeling.
"Knock it off," Durant groaned, squirming a little, as if trying to get away. Yet Fuchs didn't exactly stop. Sure, he wasn't moving his fingers around, but they still rested against that swollen mess. Any touch was too much pressure. Even this.
"Dom, Marin, Lud, you guys ready?"
The gunman tried to look around, woozy from the pain. Three guys, none of whom he'd met before, one sat by his arm and the other two by his legs.
Oh he didn't like where this was going. More pain, more broken sounds of agony tearing through his aching throat.
Now, which one was which? All of them looked the same!
Fuchs shifted beside him, finally lifting his hand off the swollen ring of tissue. "Sorry, I don't have anything for the pain."
Figures.
"Alright. Dom, hold him down. You two, pull his legs. On three."
Wait-- "No--"
"One, two--"
"Please--"
"Three!"
The scream that burst out of his lungs was not human. Black spots danced in his vision, his voice snapped in two and he screeched until his throat was painfully raw.
Until his lungs seized as they ran empty.
He couldn't even draw a breath, spine bent as if it was a fucking bow, ready to fire, hands balled into fists so tight he was sure he drew blood, his mouth forced agape with a silent scream before everything got swallowed up by the darkness again.
Sinking in the warm, black waters. An unconditional embrace of some being he couldn't quite perceive. Just that it loved him, its touch was the warmth he chased again and again.
And he got a taste of it once before.
Lishka.
But this imperceptible being wasn't Lishka. It was something older, someone he met years and years ago.
Unconditional love, doesn't matter what he made of himself.
But this being let go of him, he could feel its sorrow as he surfaced again. As he emerged into that fucking van again.
"Did we have to do that!?"
Fuchs uttered a single cold "Yeah."
Utterly disinterested.
But whoever he spoke to (Dom, maybe?) was growing rather agitated at the callousness. "You're not supposed to pull on a broken leg!"
"Marin, you kinda have to pull on a broken thigh bone. I've looked it up."
So this guy wasn't Dom, as the gunman initially thought. "Yeah but this isn't how you're supposed to do it!"
Some merciful soul let him hold onto their hand, and Durant didn't waste the opportunity.
"There's traction splints for that! I don't understand why we didn't just rob an ambulance!"
A third voice barged into the argument. "And what, get the pigs going after our asses?!"
"You know, Dom's got a point." Fuchs uttered, "Cops would've just fucked up our window of opportunity."
He should've stayed in the warm void, no one was arguing down there. No one was yelling, it was just a quiet buzz of his head.
Dom only blinked moments before he glanced down at the gunman. "He's conscious, by the way."
The air seemingly stilled, all four of them suddenly fell quiet, eyes locked on the gunman as if he'd done something horribly wrong.
Dom was the first one to pipe up. "Sorry for all that, we're doing what we can."
Followed by Fuchs, just as callous as before. "We're almost at the surgeon's. Charlie, how long 'till we get there?"
He's just so glad Durant wouldn't be his problem for much longer, isn't he?
"Five, ten minutes tops," came the reply from the front.
"See? Just a few minutes more and you'll be fine."
Broken bones don't heal overnight. Torn tissue doesn't heal overnight, especially if it's inflamed. A bone takes at least a month to grow back right. The bigger the bone, the longer it takes.
Durant only grumbled in response. Empty words, just pure verbal manure. Fuchs clearly did give a shit.
Puppy, he could hire a different loyal gun.
And he... he was probably about to hire someone else.
Then why did he come back for him?!
That's the fun part, you don't know if he actually came back for you.
He's seen it first hand, Fuchs was capable of just tossing people to the curb, leaving them there to fucking rot.
God.
What if... he leaves him too? What if he abandons him at the side of the road, what if you're a stray again, little doggy? What then? What will you do then?
Durant looked at his boss again. Fuckface had the faintest hint of a smile curling his lip. Callous. He didn't care a single bit that his gunman had repeatedly passed out from pain.
The gunman shut his eyes. He didn't have the energy to think about the intricacies of their horrible work relationship to even begin dissecting this mess.
When he wakes, he already knows the next three days are going to be hell on earth.
He rolls over, wincing as he feels his intestines throb at the sudden movement. Norman feels like his head is about to blow up, there's just so much pressure building up between his temples that it's hard enough to even look at the floor. He grunts, fingers curling against the horribly stained carpet. There's some crust stuck to the fibers, it crumbles between his fingers and it smells like acid.
God, fuck-- did he pass out in his own vomit?
Just the thought of it sent waves of nausea through his body.
None of it seemed to be in his clothes and it's entirely possible he passed out in a spot he didn't clean in a couple months.
Well the good news was he seemed to be upstairs. The Beatles poster on the wall and a grey couch, those two were in the upstairs living room.
At least he wouldn't have to crawl up the stairs, because with the way he's shaking (even with his arms close to his body, even then he could see the tremors) and the dizziness, he wouldn't even be able to stand.
But he's going to have to, and soon. The longer he lays here, the longer allows his body to collapse in on itself because his blood alcohol level dropped below his usual levels, the worse he'll get.
He blinks, once, twice, but he ends up with his eyes shut for another few minutes, just trying to get his stomach under control.
The quickest way out of this entire predicament would be a few shots of whiskey, or one shot of something even stronger. Then he could taper, until he'd bring his alcohol levels to zero safely.
One step at a time, though. He could think about tapering off this fucking bender once he fixes whatever's wrong with him right now.
His shirt was completely glued to his skin. He'd drag himself to a shower once he gets some actual alcohol down his gullet. There's a reason he keeps a bottle of Jack under the sink, in case he's on the floor and walking is out of the question.
Part of him was thankful he lived alone. That no one, even Mike, would see him struggling like this, crawling halfway across his living room to reach the tiled ground of the kitchenette. And then he crawls to that blessed cupboard, brittle nails catching against fake terracotta tiles, until he's there and he can at least try and sit up.
Though he can feel something in the room with him. There's that familiar shape, a shade of his, dressed in an awful jacket with those rabid eyes and glowing red horns. Why did he imagine it like that?
It walks up to him, kneels by his side with a malicious hand resting on his bony back. "I told you you couldn't run."
He never could. This demon in him, this affliction he let into his flesh, it would always be there, no matter what he tries. But when he's quiet, focused on simply getting to that hallowed poison, the apparition speaks again.
"And you never listen, as usual. Listen chief, how many times do I have to tell you to let me help?!"
Help? As if this apparition could ever help him.
"Oh I can," it sneered with that wicked grin of its, "It's simple, really. Let go. Let *me* handle your needs."
"No," he growls, staring it right in the eyes. And it still grins - knowingly - it still grins with confidence.
It smacks its lips, before it stands up and waltzes around the room as if it owned the place. "Well you can keep lying to yourself. But the truth is I'll always be here, chief. Ain't no way you gonna get rid of me."
He can finally sit up, climb up the cupboard door and pull himself up. He sits with his shoulder against the cupboard, legs limply bent somewhere off to the side. His right leg will co numb in a minute if he keeps it like that, but his priorities lie elsewhere. He claws at the cupboard, until he pries it open. The bottle of amber poison damn near glows in the shade and the apparition is there again, kneeling by his other shoulder, arm resting on Norman.
"Take your meds, chief. Tip it back, let it slip down your throat."
And he does. Greedy, long swig, he feels a little drip from the corner of his mouth and he swallows again and again, until he runs out of air, until he can't bear the familiar burn in his neck.
Only then he let go. Only then he screwed the cap back on and stuck it back into the cupboard.
"Let 'er work. You'll be better in no time."
Its hand was now cupping his cheek, tracing the dark circle under his glassy bloodshot eye. He wishes he could sleep, he wishes he wouldn't have to deal--
"Aw, wouldn't you like to get rid of me?"
--with his own mind screaming at him, goading him into things he doesn't want to do because he's weak.
"You're at my mercy, chief, and you know it."
Oh he is, he's at the mercy of his poisoned body. At the mercy of his fried brain and fucked-up liver.
Norman slumps as he sits. He couldn't tell what day or month it was, even if his life depended on it.
"Maybe it does, what do you know."
It doesn't. He can tell he's home. And that's enough for now. He can feel that hallowed amber poison (Saint Jack, banisher of shakes and sweats, he who carries temporary relief from the pain of life) working his addled flesh, seeping into his blood, untangling his frayed nerves.
Pulling everything into its rightful place.
But the relief wouldn't last forever. Sure, his hands shook a lot less just five minutes later, and his stomach didn't seem to be so set on evacuating through his mouth. But his liver, she was pissed. There was that stabbing pain again, clawing and biting at his lungs. A good reminder why he needed to jump off this bender as soon as he can.
And it laughs, a hearty wicked laugh by his head and the rifleman winces at the terrible grating sound. So he climbs up the counter, pulls half of his torso onto the counter top just so he could stand up.
Whumptober, day 21 | Famous Last Words (coughing up blood, "You're safe now.")
Barks of gunfire in the dead of night.
Some came from his gun, almost two magazines worth of bullets carefully delivered to a rather angry posse of russian mafiosos.
He killed them. Felled every single one of them for so much as threatening his boss' life.
But at what cost?
They had more guns, more determination than him. They gave him quite the trouble. Far more trouble than he ever faced...
Two of them had automatic rifles. Kalashnikovs. Their barks were the most distinct out of the pack so determined to take him down.
And... Lishka. God, what about Lishka?
Did they make it out?
This unquenchable worry was the only thing keeping him on his feet, swaying and reeling as he followed the trail, the only way out.
The one Lishka must've taken.
Durant's clothes stuck to his skin with an uncomfortable warm moisture. Like sweat, but a lot more dense. The smell of copper and rot filled his nostrils and mouth, he wheezed and coughed and--
It was on his tongue now. That overpowering metallic tang, as if he was sucking on a quarter. Drops of liquid at the back of his tongue, trickling into his neck, disappearing into some nauseating mess.
Lishka. He had to find Lishka...
But it was easier said than done, when his legs trembled with every step and the world insisted on turning him over. Toppling him, forcing him to the ground with the aid of the ruthless gravity.
He couldn't yield just yet.
Keep going, the most loyal of dogs.
He wouldn't yield.
Vestiges of what may very well have been pain licked at his body. Gathered in quite a few distinct spots peppered all over his body. Trickles of warm moisture. Soaking his clothes, leaving trails of the precious crimson.
Holes. Ripped flesh, battered lead. Those fuckers landed a few good hits...
No. No. He still had ways to go, he had to carry on, if not for himself, then for Lishka.
Everything hinged on his boss. Every little step he took led to them, Durant pushed on through sheer force of will. Forced his weary limbs to move, to resist the ruthless gravity.
He blinked, trying to get rid of the moisture in his eyes. The image before him grew fuzzy, and he blinked and blinked, trying to clear it up.
He rounded the corner. Teetered past the bent and battered door, emerging in a dark alley, only lit up by an ancient halogen lamp somewhere above him.
There was a... person, right next to him. Bright ginger hair and radiant like the sun.
Lishka?
The person had peeled away from the wall, their hands were coming up to him, along with a quiet: "Tony?"
Unmistakable radiance, shining and bright in this darkness...
Lishka.
Durant clawed at the wall behind him, trying to dig his numbing fingers into it, trying to hold himself upright for just a little while longer. "You're... y' 're safe now."
Safe. Those fuckers are all dead. Corpses strewn along those winding hallways, shot and gutted, their blood painting the ground like some gruesome scene right out of a slasher movie.
He blinks, again. It's... hard to pry his eyes back open, difficult to even look at his boss and his legs fold beneath him. He falls to his knees and hands, there's a small trickle of blood dripping from a ragged hole in his ribs. The gunman steers his hand towards the hole, forces the heel of his palm against the wound but it does nothing to help, the blood trickles between his fingers, drops of it landing on the growing puddle under him.
"We're safe--"
The gunman didn't get to finish his sentence before a horrid rattling cough shook his ribs.
"--s-- safe n-now..."
Horrible noises came from his ribcage as he breathed those labored ragged breaths. Wheezing and rasping with every inhale and exhale, fading a little with each.
Lishka was here, and alive. That's all that mattered. All that ever mattered...
Whumptober, day 20 | It's been a long day (fetal position)
The ending is a little half-assed but hecc it, ima post it anyway.
Cw: mentions of past noncon, self-harm.
---
No no no no--
Arms wrapped around himself, pulling himself into a tight little ball.
He doesn't want to feel those hands on him anymore, it drives him to a breaking point.
Hot water pounds against his taut little form. And Durant whispers to himself, no no no no, hushed words drowned out by the white noise of water.
The unconditional warm embrace.
His skin burns, his crotch isn't happy about the heat but he bears with it. The water is warm enough to steam. And leave red patches on his skin. But he doesn't mind, he relishes in the warmth and yet some deeply desperate part of him insists it's not enough, that the water isn't hot enough, but he doesn't have the will to get up and make it warmer.
As if he could.
He wasn't here... anymore.
Corpse burnt to ash in that fucking building.
Just thinking about how... he looked, his name, these simple things were enough to draw bile into the gunman's throat.
Nails digging into his skin, breaking the dermis, sinking deeper, slicing capillaries and drawing beads of venous blood.
It stung, Durant dragged his nails along his skin, raking shallow wounds into his back. Scratching off the evidence, erasing his paths, scorching the very earth he'd trodden.
Not enough.
What else was there to do? Pound drinks in some vain hope he wouldn't feel for a few hours? Or should he go find someone else to spend time with, find someone else to work for...
He wasn't ready. He couldn't...
Not the time. He had old wounds to nurse, try and... figure out what to do next.
Where to go next. Which cities and towns he hasn't been to, places far enough from the trails they walked together, just so he wouldn't have to face those terrible memories.
Not. Enough.
More pressure, deeper scratches. He had the power to do anything he wanted with himself, he wasn't bound to do the fuckface's bidding, no one could force him to do anything and he'd be damned if anyone tried!
He wouldn't bend before anyone, wouldn't kneel before anyone--
Puppy, you know you're lying to yourself.
--has the chance to--
His body coiled in a pained cramp, somehow curling up even tighter than before, forcing a choked sob out of his burning lungs.
He tried to stop it, tried to keep the noise from clawing its way out of his throat, but that only sent a deep, twisting pain along his windpipe.
If his lungs didn't hurt before, they definitely did now. Ribs, too. Shallow stabbing pain nibbling at the cartilage between his ribs and sternum, sticking suspiciously close to his heart.
But then it spread to his lungs. Below his right pec. And it stayed there, didn't move. It simply lingered there, a grim reminder. But of what, he couldn't quite grasp.
Durant resorted to ignoring that feeling, he only focused on breathing, tried to keep those movements as steady as he could but he still spasmed, lungs still jerking under the occasional sob.
The water still rained down upon his shivering form. And even though it grew colder, a sign he was running out of time, he still remained there, curled up into a tight little ball, slowly overcome with exhaustion.
He'd have to get out eventually. And sleep. And wake up screaming because now he could, now he could scream because the fuckface was dead and gone and he-- and he--
Another choked sob tore through his ribs, squeezed his tired little lungs, he moaned and gasped and clawed at his ribcage.
Tight. Too tight. And he wished he could escape.
Seconds melted into minutes in the cooling water. His eyes shut on him at some point, and the sobs have died down.
He couldn't tell how long he laid there. Just that the water had run cold in the meantime. That it was time to get out, but the gunman was completely spent. And he shivered in the cold water, only roused by that bone-deep pain flaring up in his limbs. Seeping into his torso, up his neck and into his head.
And he dragged himself out of the shower, water still running as he sat down on the floor. Resting against the wall.
He'd get up at some point, shut off the water. But for now, he needed to be out here, just blinking as his mind came to a slow halt.
