Work Text:
Kim arrived back home late in the evening. There was nothing left he could do until the pawn shops opened in the morning. He undid his tie and flung it to the floor.
As he watched the burgundy fabric flit to the floor, he thought of the paper flower that had fallen apart in his hands, and the desperate three-day chase through the countryside that had come before.
He considered his bar kit, briefly running his finger through the thin layer of dust that had settled on a bottle of cointreau before slipping onwards. The brandy slotted itself into his hand without his conscious permission.
Kim walked to his bedroom, set a hand to the door, paused. Peacock had surely cleaned up the state he’d left it in, but nevertheless Kim turned back around.
He started toward the sofa. His gaze caught on a faint white stain in the carpeting. Misery took him.
When he next dragged himself out of the miasma of guilt and shame and tainted memories, he found himself on the floor in the kitchen. Kim shook himself and strode into the bedroom, bringing another bottle with him. Only once he’d shut the door did he think to look at the label. Gin. That would do.
An hour later he was lying in bed, idly licking a wooden dildo, polished to a shine with linseed oil and, now, spit.
Drink-sodden and sick of resisting, he conjured an image of sandy hair and sturdy shoulders, honest eyes burning with fury.
“You lied to me again, you worthless thieving whore!” he would probably say. He’d be imposing, with his shoulders squared and those rough, dangerous hands bunched into fists, ready to strike. Kim would say something clever and evasive, but the hands would reach through the protective smoke screen of lies and grasp him by the shirt collar.
There would be a punch, and then Kim would go flying across the room as if he weighed nothing, meant nothing. He’d crash into the drinks cart, hitting his head hard enough to leave a red stain, and then Will’s boots would come down on his stomach, or possibly his fingers.
Then, if he hadn’t lost consciousness yet, he’d feel hands on his belt, unclasping it and tearing the trousers beneath. He didn’t believe Will would be needlessly cruel, but he doubted there would be time for careful preparation. Will would take him there, folded flat on the carpet with nothing but spit to ease their way.
As he imagined the exhilarating, disgraceful details of being taken viciously on the floor, Kim ran a finger down his cock and continued lower. He took two fingers, then three, before crawling to his knees and grasping for the wooden cock.
He fucked himself on the dildo with far too little preparation, enjoying the humiliating burn and anticipating the difficulties he would face tomorrow when he was expected to meet Ingoldsby at the WO. No doubt he would have to suppress the urge to squirm in his seat as he handed over the information.
Kim spent imagining the rage on Will’s face, and rough treatment from rough hands. Maybe he’d even bring the Messer, hold it to Kim’s throat while he fucked him.
In the fantasy, Will pulled out and came onto Kim's face and shirt collar, then left him with a few unquotable words of parting. Kim imagined laying there, spent, used and discarded. For a fleeting moment, he revelled in the imagined relief of being allowed to do penance, even if it left him battered and debased, of having squared his debts to this one person, at least.
He didn’t finish the rest of the gin after all, which was just as well. He didn’t deserve the escape it offered.