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(He doesn't really remember what he was here for. Was it something important?)
The pistol comes down over his head grip-side-up to whip him across the jaw in one swift motion. Icy pain blooms from his cheek, shooting through his entire skull and especially his temples, then down his neck with so much force that he feels it in his shoulder, all the way to the tips of his fingers. His ears ring with a sound like rushing water. Something like saliva, or maybe blood, proceeds to catch in his throat, and he gags through the thin film coating.
He can't swallow. He tries to - attempts to, at least, by instinct, to swallow, but he hasn't recovered yet from the strangulation several minutes (hours) ago and a strong, large, calloused and callous hand is already on his neck in an instant, cruel fingertips pressing into his collar, slowly; a thumb on his thyroid curling to push its uneven fingernail into the skin, harder and harder until it draws blood and threatens to break into the cartilage; the pointer is uselessly on an artery; the middle, ring, and pinky are trying to dig into and scoop out his jugular as if the muscle and tissue and veins there are spaghetti noodles in a pot boiling over. In the back of his mind, he's distantly aware of how much pressure one must apply to rupture vessels and snap a neck with a grip. He has first-hand experience as the one doing so. This is not enough. He knows, fully, that it's not enough, but the dread in the pit of his stomach rushes directly to his dick anyway. He wishes it were enough.
(No, it most likely wasn't all that important. If he can't remember it, what does it matter?)
His stomach hurts. It hurts so, so bad. He can't bring himself to look down, but he knows it's distending, in and out, in and out, in and out, right there, right in the middle, rearranging his organs in ways that shouldn't be possible. It really shouldn't be possible. There is no feasible way for his body to have been able to accommodate that thing the first time it breached him - it barely didn't, it barely couldn't, and at one point, by the time it had been fully sheathed inside of him, he did pass out for a single, rapturous moment to a pain so unfathomable he could barely process it, which is a feat in and of itself considering... everything. He's ruined, now, plainly, for the rest of his life.
His frail breaths come in short, rapid bursts, further exacerbating the thickening brain fog rolling in to blanket his already fractured mind. The novelty of feeling that concussion developing in real time weans off right as he gags again, once, twice, gurgling on his drool and the blood of his red raw gullet. He's going to throw up. His brain has thoroughly disconnected from the rest of his body at this point, but he's sure it's been that way even before he got pistol-whipped stupid. He can't control himself. He can't even blink - not like he needs to, considering he's crying so hard he can't see past his own tears.
This is all what he needs. He needs it so, so bad. The monstrous, impossible cock in what feels like his stomach is just scratching the surface of what he needs - the coppery smell of blood is a permanent fixture of their sex, now, as is the salty taste of those tears. He can't breathe. He needs this so terribly and desperately badly. He can't think. His eyes roll to the side, then up, then to face the man above him murdering him from the inside with that horrendously oversized dick.
His entire body hurts. Everything is mind-numbingly painful. He feels his kidneys shift. That's impossible. He feels it anyway.
(What could possibly be more important than this pleasure?)
Black spots start to dance in the corners of his vision. The hand has not let go, yet, so it was with a near unconscious, almost feverish kind of joy that he realises the pistol's back, its muzzle poking into his chest right over his heart, the sluggish but powerful pounding of his heartbeat reverberating against it, and for a moment he wonders if he's still going to be conscious enough to feel it when it goes off.
Does he want it to go off? On the apex of his climax, does he want it to be punctuated by a bullet to his heart? It'll tear through his ribcage and pierce into the mattress below him; his insides will splatter all over the bed and wet his sweat-soaked back, so will he want it? Maybe not to his heart. His stomach? He places a hand over his belly, gently tracing the outlines of where the cock is viciously ramming into him with reckless abandon, feeling the mound coming in, and out, and in, and out, again. He lets out an involuntary almost-whine that doesn't manage to make it through the unceasing grip on his neck so it comes out like a squeal instead.
He's salivating at the thought. He cries, and cries, and cries, loud and unrepentant, with a delirious intensity. He wants it; he needs it; he feels he might die without it. His jaw still hurts.
He won't even die. It'll just be one single shot. Just one shot. He claws at the hand on his neck. He needs it. It'll just be one single shot. He needs...
The pistol moves again to leisurely rest against his damp forehead, moving his hair out of the way with a gentleness that doesn't belong to the violence of the act, and out of everything the man's done so far, that, inexplicably, aggravatingly, reads the most disrespectfully to the detective, but at this point, though, he couldn't care less. He's got no oxygen pumping into his brain, no oxygen to his heart, no oxygen to his worthless limbs, nothing but blood to his leaking dick.
He needs to cum. He can't take it anymore. His thoughts haven't been coherent in a while and neither has his actions, nor his body, barely registering that he's kicking pointlessly at the man's legs from under him, pleading for- something, anything, everything.
He closes his eyes, the encroaching darkness in his periphery finally closing in on him from all sides, taking him under.
-
Caustide picks up on the third ring while Ashveil's still going over what he wants to say.
Right, so. Ashveil may have gotten carried away for what was supposed to be a very straightforward honeypot job, and he is very, very, just so incredibly lucky that he did not die. He acknowledges this, and also he should buy a lottery ticket after this.
(He doesn't want to think about that tender look in the man's eyes as he flicks the safety off on his gun - which was still against Ashveil's forehead, by the way. But still.)
"Assignment's done." He huffs into his phone, running a hand through his hair.
He stares ahead of him, eyes glazed over, at the empty hotel room. To an outside observer, it doesn't even look like a murder took place here. Torture, sure, but never say that Ashveil - or, er, his shadow, he can't exactly take all the credit here - isn't clean with his kills.
He woke up, after he passed out the second time around, laying on his side on the bed covered in copious amounts of bodily fluids that range in as many colours and levels of viscosity as bodily fluids are capable of coming in. He's still recovering - tremendously well considering the circumstances - from the sheer onslaught he had been subjected to several hours prior. And what a phenomenal onslaught it was, wow. The man may be evil, but he sure knew how to fuck someone like they're worth less than the grout in the cracks of the sidewalk he steps on.
Ashveil is almost disappointed that he had to kill the guy. With a cock that big, it's just a real damn shame. A real damn shame. But there's three-hundred thousand credits coming out of Polwave's own pockets on the line here, and the detective's got mouths to feed. And also a friend to not disappoint.
He did, also, do a quick log of all of his sustained injuries, including but not limited to: that fucking concussion; dark bruises and abrasions in a ring around his neck; tearing in his ass that had stopped bleeding at some point between him waking up and devouring the man whole; lacerations on his back from when the man had him on his stomach at the start to cut him up with his stupidly dull pocket knife, among many other things. One that isn't among them, however, is a gunshot wound. Is he disappointed at that? In the immediate moment, maybe, but he's aware enough that his future self is thanking him profusely for one less major wound to clean when he's feeling a little less insane.
"Awesome. Got a couple guys going in to clean up, so I'll pick you up soon."
"Cool, just - wait, can you bring me some clothes? From my office." Ashveil cuts in.
"Huh? Why?"
"I'm extremely naked. That guy cut my clothes off of me and now I can't wear them anymore. They were so expensive, too." He groans, throwing his head back.
A tense silence follows him, and it takes Ashveil a truly embarrassing amount of time to realise what that sounds like. "It wasn't rape. I mean- I wanted it. I mean- that's- you know- it was part of the, uh, plan- I-"
"I get what you mean." Caustide says, and Ashveil can hear something like relief in his voice. Ugh, stupid concussion, making people misunderstand him! "I'll bring the clothes."
"My saviour," Ashveil crows, placing a hand on his heart even though, obviously, Caustide can't see it. "Thanks for not making me walk out the door with my entire ass out."
"As opposed to half of your ass out?"
"Then that's just sexy."
"Oh, true."