Work Text:
Frustration is a nagging feeling that gnaws at your common sense. It builds like pressure and blows up in a moment’s notice, threatening to destroy that prince charming persona Gras worked so hard to piece together. It’s a threat as menacing as a bullet to the head. When that familiar weight settles in the back of his neck, he knows not to let it fester.
Usually, violence is enough to release all that pent up anger. Firing round after round in the bodies of faceless soldiers, seeing them choke on their own blood, convulsing on the ground, writhing at his feet, begging, wailing, shrieking… As long as he can overwhelm his senses with the intoxicating sights of the battlefield, he can drown out the parts of him his master would never find attractive.
This time around, however, violence just isn’t enough.
Gras takes on one mission. Then two more, then three more before he’s told to take a break, as to not overexert himself too much. None of them could satisfy that hunger of his, none made his body tremble with excitement, none set him ablaze, hot enough to burn away that irritation chewing up his nerves. Those fights, when there were any, were dull; fuel for his annoyance.
But it’s happened before, it’s nothing he can’t deal with. He’s tense, on edge, but not out of options. Plenty of times, violence wasn’t enough. The feeling of bones breaking against his knuckles, the thunderous clap of bullets, it just didn’t scratch that itch prickling his skin.
When breaking others doesn’t satisfy him, having others break him works wonders. Trading blood soaked gurneys for clammy, sweat covered sheets; Gut wrenching pleas for heated, lustful taunts. Sometimes, what he needs is to be hunted and claimed, devoured by a predator’s heat. To be torn apart by someone’s white hot desires and reshaped into something less angry, more desirable.
Finding someone capable of hurting him just right isn’t too hard. He aims for the desperate ones, or the sadistic ones. For the former, it takes as little as offering them a way to relieve their stress for a bit. Guiding their hands around his neck and batting his lashes, cornering them with their own pent up desires while pretending he’s not just as thirsty as he is. For the latter, it’s all about pulling them close and pushing them away before they can get what they want. He’s good at playing the perfect, untainted gentleman role. Someone not entirely aware of his allure that just needs to be put in his place.
This time, he goes for the desperate type.
He doesn’t know his name, not that he didn’t introduce himself in the past. He remembers catching this guy staring at him a few times, and making small talk with him during a few other occasions. Remembering that man’s name is more effort than he’s willing to put in encounters like the ones they’ve had in the past though, so he’ll have to make do and work around calling out to him. If push comes to shove, nicknames were made to remedy this exact problem.
Gras butters him up, though it hardly looks necessary considering how greasy the guy already looks. He takes his hand, whispers a few empty words against his ear, makes the pig squeal. The ease with which Gras got him wrapped around his finger is somewhat disappointing but beggars can’t be choosers. It’ll do. It has to. They go back to that stranger’s room in case there’s anything worth stealing on the way out and promptly begin their little affair.
It starts off sweet. Kissing, cuddling, the kind of things a virgin like him craves. Affection, attention, it makes Gras want to punch him. Sadly, it’s out of the question right now. He bears with it, wrapping his arms around that guy’s shoulders, a hand slithering its way up his neck, settling in his hair. Artificially deepening their kiss by physically pushing the stranger’s face closer seems to work well enough, so his next step is to slowly push his body towards the bed.
Gradually, the kiss becomes too little to satisfy the other man. His hands finally begin to wander over Gras’ body, one traveling down to grope his ass as the other begins to toy with the buttons of his jacket. Gloved hands fall on his and soon the musketeer sheds his jacket. Soon, his top follows along and his fling sits down on his bed to take in the sight. Gras is beautiful, and he knows that. He doesn’t need some virgin gawking at him to realize that he’s easy on the eyes. It takes every bit of restraint he has left not to walk out.
“Aren’t you going to undress?” Gras spits out, a little too aggressively for his own liking. “I can help you with that if you’d like.” He smoothes over, completing the gesture with a charming smile. His answer is stuttery, annoying, long winded; too many words to just say no. Gras tunes it out as he finishes undressing himself, standing bare by the time his wannabe partner manages to take off his top and belt. How can someone be bad at undressing?
This time, the musketeer doesn’t bother hiding his disappointment. He moves closer, straddles his lap and shoos his hand away. As he thought, working his zipper isn’t all that complicated. That man is hopeless. This is pathetic. If Gras doesn’t rush things along, he might just bite that guy’s throat off.
“I can’t wait anymore. Let’s start, yeah?” It’s more of a command than a request, the way Gras grinds his hips into the other’s hips only serves to accentuate that. He gets a frantic nod, all the confirmation he needs before shoving that guy’s pants and underwear down. Gras is only half hard while his partner is fully erect and roaring to go. His cock isn’t exactly impressive, only a little below average if he’s being amicable, but it's serviceable. Sinking down on it doesn’t provide him the same kind of pain and stretch he’s used to.
He doesn’t bother warming up, or easing his very inexperienced partner into the feeling. Gras starts slamming his weight on the other’s dick at a furious pace to draw out as many wet, desperate sounds as he can. Maybe the other’s moans can make him horny enough to convince him this wasn’t a complete waste of time. He’s not too hopeful he’ll be able to completely get rid of his frustration, but it’d at least be nice to push it back a little.
He closes his eyes, focusing on the lewd noises. The pleas for more, the nails digging into his hips, the heat building in the pit of his stomach. He’s finally hard, and things are starting to come into place. He spits into his hand and starts stroking his own cock, since that useless virgin won’t do him the honor. His breathing grows a little heavier, his head falls back as gasps begin pouring out of his throat, he—
Feels his partner stiffen under him, and something spilling in his ass.
Right.
Immediately, Gras comes to a stop. Something like shock got a hold of him. Disbelief, or incredulous anger. That’s it? Looking down at the other’s expression, it indeed seems to be it. He’s gasping for air like that lukewarm, vanilla bullshit felt good. He looks up at Gras and starts talking about how good it felt for himself. He sits up, wraps his gross, sweaty arms around Gras’s back and kisses his collarbone. Then, his cheek.
He has the gaul to ask if it felt good for him too, and something finally snaps in Gras.
He knew he would blow up eventually. He knew at the rate things were going, he would act out, or storm off, or something like that. Ruin everything. Make everything bad. He pushes that waste of oxygen down, gets up. gunk starts trickling down, and it makes Gras want to gag. He looks away, he would rather look at anything than this guy, this piece of trash. His eyes land on the bedside table. The lamp rests on it.
He picks it up. Doesn’t bother unplugging it, rips it off the wall, and bashes his “partner” in the head with it. Once, and the cover flies off. Twice, and the lamp breaks in his head. Some shards fall on the sheets, others land firmly in his skull, and a few stray ones fly about the room. Thrice, and with the light bulb gone, it becomes easier to just beat him with the stand of the lamp. After that, it becomes so meaningless to count. Whether it takes a single hit or a thousand, the goal becomes to hit until the strength leaves Gras’s arms or this guy turns into a puddle of red and anger.
He stops moving pretty quickly. Not that he tried to defend himself too much while he still could. Maybe shock, or a realization that he deserves it for making Gras so angry. Being still didn’t spare him from more hits. Again and again, up and down, slamming that lamp into his head until he can’t anymore. Slamming it into a puddle of mush and broken bones, until it just falls out his hand with a wet thunk.
Now Gras is the one gasping for air. Running a bloody hand up his disheveled hair, that thing becomes the only thing he can stare at. His heart is booming in his chest, his whole body trembles with excitement and his cock throbs painfully between his legs. He has long forgotten his prior annoyance, washed away by the thrilling sight of that puddle of gore. A puddle that still had a hole, and that wasn’t stiff just yet.
He lifts the corpse up on his lap, lining himself with the entrance. Pushing the tip in, he breathes a sigh of bliss. Then, slams himself inside. With the same relentlessness he showed time and time again, He begins pounding into the piece of meat, moaning, giggling, giddy with relief. Finally, that itch that had been driving him crazy is gone. He can’t tell anymore if the wet noises are being made by the corpse sloshing around in gore or his hips snapping against the slowly cooling flesh of his victim.
He doesn’t last too long. Killing a man has a tendency to wear down people’s stamina, as it turns out. He cums in the body, not too bothered with repercussions at this point. He’s done for the moment anyone finds that flesh light, cum filled or not, so it doesn’t matter. Nothing seems to matter too much right now. He falls limp next to it, too tired to mind how much of a pain getting the blood out of his hair is going to be. He wants to sleep. He’s so sleepy. He can probably deal with it once he wakes up. But really, he shouldn’t.
Begrudgingly, he gets back up. Making his way to the pile of discarded clothes, he steps on glass, the ache sharpening his senses back up. Finds his phone after searching a bit, and places a call.
Ring
Ring
Ring
Ring
Ri—
“...Hello? It’s rare of you to ca—”
“Hey, hey… mind helping me with something? I, uh, may have fucked up a little.” His voice is uncomfortably quiet, and still so loud in the dead silence of the room. His interlocutor takes a bit to process the request and assume the worst before answering.
“Sure. Yeah, sure, what do you need help with?”
“Cleaning. I’ll send you my location.”
“Alright. Be right there, okay? Don’t move, just wait for me.”
After a small gap, Gras hums.
“Don’t tell Chasse about it, okay?”
“Wasn’t gonna.”
“Thanks, Tabatière.”
“Don’t mention it.”
The call ends with a robotic beep, and Gras sits back on the bed.
Aah, explaining this is going to be a pain in the ass.