Archive of Our Own ^beta

Coming to is a slow thing. Painful too. 

River remembers being in pain. He can’t quite remember the cause, exactly, just the feeling. 

Things had already been hurting. 

But this is worse. 

If he thought it was bad before, he currently feels like he’s discovering whole new body parts that exist only to be in pain. 

River smells dust and mildew and metal. Smoke too. 

And blood. 

It sticks in his nose, and his first inhales are a struggle, as much for the stench as they are for his sore ribs, and sore back, and sore stomach, and sore chest, and sore everything, really. 

Opening his eyes takes multiple goes, and the archive’s emergency lights aren’t harsh fluorescents right now, but they may as well be for the way they burn his eyes. 

The archive, that’s where he is. 

The offsite storage facility for all the dusty, forgotten files the Park needed packing away. The ones that had been dumped on them. 

Forgotten and inconvenient relics sorting through forgotten and inconvenient relics. 

Ha. 

But one of them had been more inconvenient than others, right? 

Yes, he can remember that. Donovan, and the other one – Ben, was it? - had been after a file. Not the Grey Books. Something else. 

Something involving Tearney. 

That’s why shit hit the fan. 

That’s why, Jesus, that’s why River feels like he’s been hit by a grenade. 

Because he had been. 

He shifts and feels loose papers fall off him. Curling onto his side – a first step on the way to, ideally, eventually, getting to his feet – takes effort. River has to close his eyes for a moment, breathe through it. But he manages, and more importantly, his limbs begin to feel more and more like they’re still attached to him with each second that passes. 

They hurt, but he can feel them, move them even, so he counts it as a win. 

“Louisa?” he chokes out. 

He can’t hear anyone moving around, definitely no gunfire, and for a moment River wonders if his hearing’s been damaged. 

But no, he heard his own voice well enough. He can hear the scuff of his shoes on the floor, the rustle of the papers around him, and vague noises in the distance that slightly worry him, but don’t sound close enough to rank higher on his current mental list of priorities. 

It’s Louisa who’s currently at the top.  

She’s been here with him, trapped in this room, and the thought that she could be lying just a few feet away, non-responsive, or God forbid, dead, has River pushing himself up onto his hands and knees. 

Another pause once he accomplishes that, a moment to allow his head the chance to stop spinning, his vision to stop blurring, then he’s reaching for the shelving unit in front of him. It's still standing. Not entirely in the best state, but it’s sturdy enough for him to use as support. He manages to lever himself up off the floor onto his feet, and his previously injured ankle only threatens to give way beneath him twice. 

River finds it a little easier to breathe when not a crumpled mess on the floor, and though the room still stinks, the ability to take full, proper breaths goes a long way to making him feel a bit more like a working person. 

“Louisa,” he calls out again. 

There’s no answer, and so, half dreading what he may fine, he stumbles out from behind the shelves. 

He thinks his heart may momentarily stop when he first spots the slumped form of a body. Before he can start really panicking though, he realises that it’s not Louisa. 

It’s Ben, he remembers. Ben who caught a bullet in the head. Ben, whose sister had been killed, apparently. 

On Tearney’s orders, hence why she’d sent a clean-up crew of Duffy and a bunch of Chieftain dickheads. 

Christ, Lamb was right, he should have said no. He should have turned off his phone and gone home and maybe gotten drunk as he tried not to think about his grandfather. Or Spider. Or the further cratering of his career. 

He feels a stab of shame at how relieved he is that the body isn’t Louisa’s, but the relief is real all the same. For now. Who knows what else he’ll find. 

A quick check of the rest of the room reassures him a little more. There are more bodies by the boor, but none of them her, and he feels even less pity for the Chieftain men than he did for Ben. There’s no sign of Donovan either. 

Maybe, he thinks, they found the file. 

Maybe they found the file and ran with it. It's the only thing that would explain Louisa leaving. Leaving him. 

She wouldn’t leave him for dead, not if she had a choice. But if she’d checked, if she couldn’t wake him but they had the file and they had the chance. Getting the file out would have been the only thing that would save them, the only thing that would protect them from Tearney. They just had to get far enough. River understood. 

And Chieftain would have followed the running targets, the living ones. If they’d bothered – if there’d been anyone alive to follow them – then they probably wouldn’t have wasted time checking the bodies. River probably was safer as an assumed corpse she could call in help for later, than as a literal heavy burden being dragged through the corridors. It would have only put them both at risk. 

Or maybe it was sheer, dumb luck that River hadn’t been executed while unconscious, and Louisa had weighed the risks and left him behind anyway. 

He’ll maybe be a little mad at her if that’s the case. Once he knows she’s safe. 

As he concentrates on picking his way past bodies, hand constantly reaching for a wall or a shelf to steady himself with, River debates where to go. Further into the facility to attempt the hatch, or back towards the front? He doesn’t hear the shouts of orders – or insults – or footfalls or gunfire from either direction,  so it’s really a toss-up. 

Eventually he settles on the hatch. If he hadn’t been out that long and Louisa was still nearby, or if she was pinned down somewhere, he might still catch up. He also has no idea how many might be left, who else might be coming through the entrance, and River wasn’t keen on the idea of walking right into their arms. 

He does his best to keep his steps quiet. His head is aching a more bearable amount and his pace is a little surer. He of course still feels like a giant walking bruise, but at least he doesn’t feel like he’s going to collapse at any minute. 

Keeps a hand against the wall as much as he can though, just in case. 

And with each body he passes that isn’t Louisa, or Donovan, River dares to hope a little more. 

She’s fine, he tells himself. She can’t be anything but. 

Louisa's fine and River’s alive and they’ll make it out of this. He's already relishing the fresh air he didn’t know it was possible to miss so quickly. 

He hears the light scuff of shoes behind him moments too late. 

“Don’t move,” Duffy says. 

River obeys, freezing on the spot, in part because he’s too caught up in the oh shit of it all, and in part because he’s a little worried that spinning around too fast, much less attempting to wrestle away the gun Duffy most certainly has pointed at him, would just end with him collapsed at the man’s feet. And after everything, he doesn’t really want to give him the satisfaction. 

“Of course it’s you.  Of course you’re still alive,” Duffy continues. “Hands up.” 

River slowly raises his arms, palms open to avoid giving Duffy an excuse. 

Not that he needed one. The impression River’s gotten is that Duffy had been given all the clearance he needed, and he hadn’t exactly been lacking the appetite to begin with. 

“Duffy,” River says. “Fancy running into your here.” 

“I’ve got a gun pointed at the back of your head, Cartwright. Do you really want to be mouthing off right now?” 

“Look, we don’t need to- You don’t need to kill me.” 

“Hmm. Difference of opinion on that, afraid to say.” 

For a moment, River’s heart is in his throat, waiting for the bang. The pain. 

But it doesn’t come. And the longer it doesn’t, the more River wonders. 

Duffy, he’s pretty certain, would have shot him already if things were going his way, and if he wanted to drag it out, then he still probably would have shot him, just maybe in the leg or something, instead of in the back. 

At the very least he’d surely have clubbed him over the head with the gun and then started kicking him a bit. 

That he hasn’t done any of that suggests to River that things have clearly not gone Duffy’s way. 

“Where are your buddies?” he fishes. Though he’d heard them too late, there’d still only been the one set of footsteps approaching. “Are they so incompetent that you’ve had to come in and do your own dirty work?” 

Duffy laughs at the question, and the sound sets River on edge a little. “You know what, I’ll give you that. A whole fucking squad of those shit-heels, supposedly professionals, supposedly worth the big bucks, and yet they get their arses kicked by a handful of you Slow fucking Horses." 

A handful. River latches onto that. A handful implies more than just him and Louisa. Shirley and Marcus, then? Had they actually gotten the message he’d left? And more importantly, actually showed up? 

Also giving River a smidge more hope was how pissed Duffy sounded. “Arses kicked” isn’t the phrase River would reach for to describe the successful elimination of a small group of witness trapped and outnumbered in an easily breached facility. 

“I mean, I could have told you they pricks hours ago,” River offers. “Maybe you should look at getting better friends.” 

“Like yours,” Duffy scoffs. “They left you for dead, looks like.” 

Again, it’s confirmation that Duffy either doesn’t know, or doesn’t care, he’s giving. 

He knows Louisa isn’t here. He knows Marcus and Shirley aren’t here, at least not anymore. They got out. 

And for River, it’s a relief, like a physical weight off him. They got out. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, shrugging. “I’m feeling pretty alive right now.” 

“That can change very quickly.” 

But he still hasn’t shot him, and River’s trying to puzzle out what that means. 

“Can we just talk about this for a moment?” 

“What’s to talk about? I’m here to take care of the problem, and you, sweetheart, are one of the biggest problems I know.” 

“How about the fact that we’re still talking at all.” 

“Do you want that bullet in the back of your head?” 

“No, obviously. That’s the point.” 

He’s wondering, he’s hoping, even, that the opening he thinks he sees here is really there. If Louisa is out, if Shirley and Marcus got here in time to help her, then he only has to think about himself here. He’s the only one left in trouble. 

River slowly turns around, hands still up, and waits for Duffy to stop him. 

He doesn’t. 

And it looks like River’s not the only one who’s had a time of it. Duffy’s nowhere near as much of a mess as River assumes he himself is, but his white shirt is dirty and stained, including by the bloody patch on his collar, courtesy of some manner of head wound that River can’t fully see. He can also notice the beginnings of more than one bruise darkening his face, and again, it's not as bad as the damage he did to River’s face, but it’s bad enough that River feels a spark of grim satisfaction at the sight. 

“You don’t like me,” he says. “We’ve established that, and my impression is, frankly you maybe dwell on ideas adjacent to that dislike a bit too much to be healthy. However...” 

Duffy watches him with a not-entirely blank face. He's not outright frowning or sneering at him, and doesn’t seem overly in pain, but River can see the tension in his jaw, and his shoulders for that matter, the narrowed eyes, and the general impression that, while he’s not yet at snapping point, he’s getting there. 

The gun is also still pointed directly at him. 

“Waiting for you to stop talking shit,” Duffy says. “Any second now.” 

“It’s over. The file’s gone. The thing Tearney sent you to cover up has already flown the coop, you know that, right?” 

And if River had doubts, if he’d been making an educated guess that Louisa and the file had gotten away, then the brief spasm of fury across Duffy’s face confirms it for him. 

“Yeah,” he continues. “It’s out there, it’s too late. So, what’s the point? 

“The point?” Duffy asks in a tone so dangerously mild that it chills River a little. “The point in what?” 

River swallows. “Killing me.” 

“Ah, well, disagree there.” 

“No, but seriously,” River presses. “Tearney’s done, it’s over. She's had agents killed, she’s tried to have more killed, on top of whatever the fuck she was attempting to cover up in the first place, so she may have sent you here, she may have given the order to clean shop, but she won’t have the clout to cover for it anymore.” 

Duffy’s face curls into an incredulous smile. “You’re actually trying to argue for your life here, aren’t you? Frankly I’d have expected more groveling. A bit more pleading.” 

“You’re wanting me to beg, you mean.” 

Duffy shrugs. “Certainly wouldn’t hurt your case.” 

“Come on, think about it. What would killing me even accomplish at this point?” 

“A great deal of personal satisfaction,” Duffy answers. “Plus, it would solve a lot of problems for a lot of people, even if we’re excluding First Desk.” 

He takes a step forward, and the muzzle of the gun presses into the centre of his chest. River looks down at it, then back at Duffy’s face. 

“So, I guess what I’m saying is” Duffy goes on. “Even if you did have a point, and Tearney’s fucked and these orders get torn apart by the internet and the papers and the oversight committees, the damage has already been done. What’s one more body?” 

“Duffy-” 

Duffy cuts him off with a laugh. “Hell, it doesn’t even have to have been me. Could have been Chieftain, or even Donovan that put you down. Who’d be there to argue?” 

Duffy leans in a little more, and River can feel his breath on the side of his face. 

“Who’d even care?” 

River’s a little tempted to say Lamb. Lamb was awful, Lamb was a dick, Lamb never missed an opportunity to rain scorn and humiliation down on River, but he did care. Deep down. 

And if nothing else, for if no other reason than spiteful pride, he didn’t take kindly to people fucking with his joes. If River died, if River was murdered down here, Lamb wouldn’t let that go unpunished for long. 

But he’d already pulled the Lamb-card today, and as true as it might be, he doesn’t want Duffy to latch onto it, then make any further extrapolated insinuations about issues River may or may not have. 

“This is bigger than us, you get that, right?” is what River says instead. “Chieftain and Montieth and the file’s location being leaked, none of it was a coincidence, and I don’t know about you, but I could take a pretty good stab at who would have the means and motives to orchestrate all of this.” 

Again, he’s not a hundred percent sure, but with what he knows, it would make sense. And be completely in character for that matter. How dangerous that may be for him personally, he’ll have to wait and see. He's helped get her what she wants, after all - even if it was unwittingly - so maybe that will count for something in the end. 

For the moment though, he has more pressing things to worry about. 

“It’s not my job to ask questions like that,” Duffy says. “I get my orders, and I do what First Desk tells me. You’d be smart to do the same.” 

“First Desk sent me here in the first place,” River replies. “Then she decided she wanted me dead.” 

“And you’re normally so eager to please, or at least try to. Bet you jumped real high the moment she called. So, maybe this could be the one time you actually make your bosses happy.” 

“I’m not going to off myself,” River says, then adds “and I don’t think you should be doing it for me either. Also, what about the new First Desk?” 

Or soon-to-be First Desk, he’s sure. 

“Maybe you’re right about Taverner,” Duffy says. “But that doesn’t have much bearing on whether or not I should be putting you out of everyone’s misery right about now.” 

It is fair to say that Duffy has the cover in this moment to put him down, maybe the best opportunity he’ll ever have if he truly did hate him as much as he claimed. It’s a somewhat glaring hole in River’s plan to talk his way out of this. 

Unless, of course, River could perhaps offer the man something more satisfying than the brief moment of joy he’d likely get from the sight of his corpse. 

“What if I did start begging, then?” River asks. 

“Oh, yeah?” Duffy’s tone threaded with disbelief. 

It is a bit out of character for River, true. 

“Would it help?” 

“Why don’t you try it and find out,” Duffy suggests, part daring, part skeptical. 

“Please,” River says. 

Duffy inhales noticeably, and it’s funny, seeing the impact a single word can have. River doesn’t even notice at first that he’d licked his lip – a reoccurring tic of his that’s been pointed out more than once, but that he can’t seem to kick – until he sees Duffy’s eyes zero in on his mouth. 

“Please, Duffy,” he says again. 

“Please what?” As Duffy says that, the gun slowly drifts up, trailing from the centre of his chest to rest in the hollow of his throat. 

River keeps his chin tilted up, and briefly thinks about how it might appear like he’s bearing his throat. 

It’s hard to see how close Duffy’s finger is to the trigger. 

“Please don’t kill me.” 

Duffy's not actually touching him at the moment, only the gun is, but he’s close. River swallows, feels the metal digging in 

He shifts his feet, sways away just a little as he turns his head, no doubt looking uncomfortable and nervous – and to be honest, River isn’t entirely putting it on in that regard. He truly doesn’t want to die here – and between that and Duffy’s own hand, the gun slides up to press against the side of his jaw. 

Duffy taps it against his face, once, twice, almost idly, and he doesn’t do it hard, but the sensation is somewhat terrifying regardless. 

“Again,” Duffy says. 

“Please.”  

River’s looking right at Duffy as he says it, and, well, he has a bit of height on the man - which he’s sure pisses him off - so it’s expected, understandable that River would tilt his head down a little to do so, which in turn shifts the gun to rest noticeably closer to his mouth. 

He can feel it digging in, just above his lower jaw. 

“What will it take?” he asks. 

Duffy hums, not fully absently, but from River’s perspective, it does appear like Duffy’s looking at his mouth again. Or maybe it’s his gun. Perhaps both, given that they’re in such close proximity. 

“What do I have to do to convince you not to kill me?” 

He's careful as he speaks, very aware of the danger here, of one or both of them moving too quickly and the gun going off. Or it going off deliberately. Of, also, overplaying his hand. 

It stings when the muzzle presses into his bruised lower lip. He can’t hide the genuine wince there, but takes strange heart from the spark he notices in Duffy’s eyes at the sight. Deliberate downward pressure, and after a moment, River lets Duffy tug his mouth open with the gun. Not all the way, just enough so that his mouth is open. 

He arches his eyebrows and does his best to convey “really?" non-verbally. 

Duffy shrugs, his mouth curled up in satisfaction. “You asked.” 

River doesn’t deliberately lick at the barrel when it pushes into his mouth, but it’s hard not to taste the thing. 

Metal, not that far off from the blood he’s spent more than enough time today tasting, but also something bitter, and chemical-like. Maybe whatever Duffy uses to clean it. Or maybe it’s been fired recently. 

How's River to know what tastes like what? He doesn’t make a habit of fellating firearms. 

He has to open his mouth wider to make sure it doesn’t hit his teeth, and it’s while he’s got his mouth full of a gun being wielded by a man who hates him that River has a brief moment of...not awareness, he knows where he is, but perspective, maybe. An internal voice speaking to him like an external one. Calling him an idiot. Telling him that this is the stupidest thing he’s ever done. 

But River would disagree. Partly. 

He's still alive, isn’t he? And he has to offer Duffy something. He would never just let him walk out without taking his pound of flesh in some form. He still might not, but River needs to at least try. 

“Okay,” Duffy says. “My new favourite way to shut you up.” 

River pulls back, slides his mouth off the gun, and Duffy lets him. 

“You want me to suck your gun off for a bit, is that it?” River asks after hastily wiping his mouth. “Would you let me go after that?” 

“If you think that’s all it would take, you underestimate how annoying you are.” 

River huffs. “Me also not going public with the fact that you tried to kill us, and corroborating whatever excuse for this you come up with going without saying, of course.” 

“Of course. But did you really think it would be that easy? Come on.” 

“I’ve been told I’m too optimistic at times.” 

“Idiotic is probably the word I would use.” 

Figuring they’ve reached the point now, River, as slowly as anyone would while at gunpoint, moves his hands to Duffy’s belt. 

“Alright,” he says. “Not just the gun then.” 

Duffy's eyes narrow in suspicion, but he doesn’t push River away, and most importantly, he doesn’t shoot him. 

He brushes his hand down, tracing over where he can feel Duffy’s cock. 

“What about this?  Would that be enough?” 

Duffy scoffs. “A little incompetent groping over my trousers? No, thanks.” 

He still hasn’t pushed River away. 

“Are you going to make me say it would loud?” River asks. 

“Say what?’ 

River sighs. “If I suck your cock, will you let me walk out of here alive?” 

“Think highly of your skills, do you? Or is it that even you don’t value yourself that much?” 

He aims for dismissive, but River felt the way his cock twitched at the offer. And more so, he’s seen how Duffy looks at him. 

“More like, what’s more valuable to you?” he says. “Killing me, or the satisfaction of knowing I did this, and you’ll be able to lord it over me whenever you like. And also a blowjob. Practically on the house, given that I’m just asking you not to do something. Heck, I’ll even let you pull my hair a little.” 

Duffy laughs, and then the gun is digging into his cheek, turning his head to the side. River doesn’t fight being pushed around, in part because the metal is pressing painfully against one of his bruises. It might even be one Duffy himself gave him. 

“You know what?” Duffy says. “Why the fuck not? I can kill you anytime.” 

The gun disappears, and River is briefly, despite everything, taken aback by the quick acquiesce. He blinks at Duffy, and when Duffy notices, his gaze sharpens. 

“Oh, all talk then,” he says. “Impolite to lead a man on, Cartwright.” 

“No,” River says quickly. “Just want to make sure we’re both on the same page.” 

“Yes, sure, same page, you twat.” 

“In that case then.” River starts tugging at Duffy’s belt. 

“Eager.” 

“No time like the present.” 

Because who knows who could show up at any minute. Reinforcements from First Desk or Second. General police. Lamb even. 

And not only is it only about a two out of four, three out of four at a very optimistic push, chance of the backup actually helping him, he can’t say he’d want to be found in this position by any of them. 

Assuming he does get out alive, he doubts he’s going to be sharing the details of the how. 

“Stop,” Duffy says, before River can even get a hand in his pants. 

“Excuse me?” He does stop though. 

“Down,” Duffy says, gesturing to the floor with the gun he’s still unfortunately waving around. 

“Alright then,” River concedes after a moment, raising his hands in mock surrender and easing his way down to his knees. 

He can’t say he does it particularly gracefully, but the gun does disappear back into its holster, and Duffy’s hands replace his own at his fly, so he doesn’t think it’s been noted. His knees are immediately protesting his position, but it’s no worse than any of his other hurts, so River ignores it for now. 

“Open your mouth.” 

River watches as Duffy pulls out his cock, and okay, not that he’d ever tell him, but it is a little intimidating. 

To stop himself pulling a face that may give away too much, River does as he’s told, letting his mouth fall open. Duffy strokes his hand up and down the length of himself a few times, but his eyes are on River. 

“Yeah, there we go,” he says. “It normally pisses me off whenever you open your mouth. This though.” 

River debates how much eye-rolling he can get away with here. Duffy knows him, he’s not going to buy him going suddenly meek and compliant. Unless he’s expecting, wanting River to genuinely be that desperate. Which he’s not. 

Or he might like River trying. Pretending, begrudging or otherwise. And piss him off too much, he might just shoot him anyway. 

With his free hand, Duffy trails a thumb across his face, taking particular care to catch and press at each bruise and cut he comes across.  

“I can’t decide if it’s a shame about the face, or if maybe this is an improvement,” he says. 

River wonders if there’s a compliment in there somewhere. He'd probably ask Duffy if he finds him pretty if he didn’t need to keep his mouth open. 

Duffy’s thumb finds its way to his mouth, and like his gun had before, it traces over his swollen bottom lip. River doesn’t do it deliberately, but as he swallows – as best he can – his tongue flicks against the thumb. Duffy’s eyes darken. 

His other fingers curl to rest under River’s chin, holding it, before he pushes his thumb into River’s mouth. It brushes across his tongue a few times before River thinks fuck it and closes his mouth to suck on it. 

Not that Duffy complains. The opposite, really. 

“Yeah, you’re gagging for it,” he says lowly. “Everyone fucking knows it.” 

River reminds himself that he signed up for this. 

He continues to suck on the digit as Duffy thrusts it in and out a few times, and when he eventually pulls out, he makes sure to press at River’s lip again. River’s looking up at him as all this happens, but it’s also impossible to not additionally be aware of the cock that’s practically in his face. The one that Duffy’s steadily stroking as he looks down at him. 

A hand latches onto his hair, firmly, and tips his head back. 

“Beg me,” Duffy orders. 

River’s hands twitch at his sides as he forces himself not to fight against the pull. “Please don’t kill me.” 

Duffy smirks. “No, not that bit.” 

Right, River thinks. 

He closes his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath. 

“Please,” he says, opening his eyes. “Please let me have your cock.” 

“Why?” 

Because I want you not to kill me. 

“Because I need it.” 

“Yeah,” Duffy says, pleased. “I know you do.” 

With one hand still holding his head in place, Duffy uses the other to drag the tip of his cock across River’s face. He leaves a wet, sticky trail up his neck and over his jaw. Then, with an audible smack, Duffy slaps his cock against his cheek, chuckling when River flinches. 

“God, you’re a...” River mutters, trailing off with a heightened awareness in this moment of just how many insults are genitalia-related. “The hatred is mutual here, just for the record.” 

Duffy pulls his head forward so that his cock is rubbing against the side of his face. He, it, is all River can fucking smell. 

“Nah, I’m more and more convinced that you like it when I’m mean to you. Seem to go out of your way to piss me off enough. Like you’re just asking for a slap.” 

With what little movement he is allowed, River turns his head, mouth open, so that the shaft of Duffy’s cock slides over, but not in between his lips. He figures he should probably try to speed things up, lest Duffy start really getting into it. 

He lets Duffy slowly pull his head back and forth with little resistance, letting his lips and tongue drag along the shaft, getting it wet, feeling it harden with each pass. He's not sure if one of them does it deliberately, or if it’s on accident, but eventually the head of Duffy’s cock slips into his mouth proper. River tastes the precome on his tongue before he’s even thinking to lick at it. 

Duffy groans, and then tugs River’s head around so that he back facing head on, as it were. The cock slips further into his mouth, and then he’s being jerked forward, or maybe it’s more like down, and has to catch himself on Duffy’s thighs. 

It's too much, too quickly. 

River’s always had a somewhat sensitive gag reflex at the best of times, and he’s, well, he’s done this often enough to be suitably confident in the act itself, but not so often that he doesn’t still have a gag reflex. 

So, he chokes. 

Duffy groans again, then laughs, at him, as River confirms though narrowed, watering eyes when he looks up. 

He’s held in place for a long, deliberate moment before his hair is released and he’s allowed to pull back. 

“Arsehole,” River says, coughing. 

“You made the offer,” Duffy replies. “But if it’s too much for you, I can pull the gun out again. Maybe you’ll have an easier time handling that. All you’d have to do is open your mouth.” 

River ignores the threat, ignores the fear and maybe the something else that stirs in him despite the horrific context of it all. His hands are still on Duffy’s thighs, and they’re thick and solid and a strangely stabilising presence. 

Even this close it’s impossible to tell if there’s any blood splattered on Duffy’s dark trousers, but River can see the wear of the night on them still. Dirt, concrete dust, patches here and there where the fabric looks like it’s been scrapped against something rough like brick. 

River hopes he got thrown into a wall at some point. 

“You don’t have to be a prick about it, is all I’m saying,” River says as he looks back up at Duffy’s face. 

And before Duffy can retort, and probably insult him, River is wrapping a hand around his cock. He begins to stroke it, grip loose but noticeable. 

A hand lands on his shoulder, then then other is once again threading through his hair, and the way it cradles the back of his head might be nice if the hand belonged to any other person. 

Keeping his own hand wrapped around the base of Duffy’s cock, River leans forward to take it into his mouth, of his own accord this time. He plays it conservative, rather than ambitious to start. Runs his tongue over, around the head. Sucks gently at what’s in his mouth while his hand strokes the rest of it. 

He sucks a little harder as he starts to bob his head, taking in a bit more each time. The hand on his shoulder squeezes, and it could be encouragement, it could be a warning, it could be Duffy hanging on. Who knows.  

River glances up and finds Duffy looking down at him. The look on his face is...appreciative, he’s tempted to say. He's not mad, certainly. 

But it’s Duffy, so there’s a mean edge of satisfied superiority to it as well. 

River maintains the eye contact as he swallows down more, his hand stilling to simply hold what he can’t yet fit. He's not gagging, but he can feel the saliva starting to leak from the corners of his mouth. 

Blinking up at Duffy, River can imagine easily enough what he looks like, and even if Duffy didn’t have the weird hate boner for him that he does, he’d like to think it would just be that effective. 

Bobbing his head, dragging his tongue along the underside of the cock each time he shifts back, River watches Duffy clench his jaw, like Duffy himself can’t decide how vocally appreciative, or just vocally open he can stand to be. What would be more humiliating for River, he guesses. 

Or maybe it’s just taking him a moment to think up more insults. 

And River, with more than half of Duffy’s cock in his mouth, has the intrusive thought of, what if he just bit down right now? 

Fair play, given the fists and knees and boots he’d gotten to the crotch earlier today. But not very conductive to getting him out of here, so thankfully, for both of them, he doesn’t follow through on it. 

River finally looks away, closing his eyes not in shame or awkwardness, not really, but in concentration. He shifts his hand back onto Duffy’s thigh, steadying himself as he pushes to take the cock deeper. He gags, predictably, the moment it grazes the back of his throat. 

Above him, Duffy swears. 

He pulls back a little, swallowing, but only so he can calm himself.  

And it does get easier, the more he does it. The right angle, his mouth stretched wide, he can fit most of it, and barely even starts choking himself as long as he’s careful. He thinks he even does a passable job at remembering to also use his tongue. 

Then the hand in his hair is tightening, pulling, and River complains, but of course it isn’t particularly audible. The vibration though, Duffy seems to enjoy. 

Duffy begins to rock his hips forwards, but at his own pace, and River hurries to adapt, but not before one particularly deep thrust has him choking.  

He feels like it’s fifty-fifty whether Duffy wants him doing most, if not all the work, or if he’d rather just a wet hole to fuck. 

“Come on,” Duffy says. “Let me feel it.” 

The hand that had been on River’s shoulder touches his cheek, tracing over the shape of himself as he moves in and out of River’s mouth. His thumb presses at the corner of his mouth too, feeling the stretch of it, gathering spit and smearing it out across his skin. River digs his own fingers into Duffy’s thighs. 

“You can take more, I know you can.” 

He pulls River’s head down, and keeps pulling when River’s body starts to protest. He doesn’t exactly beat his way in, but it’s strangely inevitable, the way Duffy forces, unrelentingly, his cock down his throat. 

“Just like that.” 

River grasps at the fabric beneath his hands, his face, his nose pressed against Duffy’s crotch. The grip in his hair and now around his neck holding him there. 

His shoulders hitch. His eyes are watering. He can’t breathe. 

Because there’s a sizeable cock down his throat. Obviously. 

Duffy's fingers map out the shape and feel of himself there too, brushing over the front of River’s throat, drawing attention to its presence there. 

“Swallow,” he says. “That’s it, you can do it.” 

If it weren’t for the tone and the setting of his words, Rive might count this as the nicest, most supportive Duffy’s ever been with him, even prior to Stanstead. Hell, even with the context it probably counts. 

He’s eventually allowed to pull away. Or rather, Duffy drags him back by his hair. River gasps for full breaths as the cock slips from his mouth, pushing through both the burn in his throat and the ache in his ribs. 

He grabs at Duffy’s wrist in a pointless attempt to...he’s not sure. Pull it away? Delay the inevitable? He knows it’s coming. And it was his idea, 

This will get him out of here. He’s like, eighty percent sure it will. Duffy would have accepted nothing less. 

“Had enough?” Duffy asks. 

“Depends,” River replies, and the word comes out rougher than he’d like. “Are you going to let me go?” 

“Hmm, I think you’ve maybe earned yourself a quick death, but not much more than that.” 

“Well, okay, obviously not done then.” 

He lets go of Duffy’s wrist, and takes hold of his cock instead. It’s leaking, it’s wet and slick from his mouth, and the glide is smooth as his strokes. As he does, he shifts as subtly as he can, trying to ease the pain in his knees. His jaw’s hurting too, the aching stretch mingling with all the other throbbing pangs on his face. 

Still, he opens his mouth again and resumes sucking Duffy’s cock. Duffy lets him set the pace for now. Lets him press his tongue against the slit, lets him use his hand too, lets him take only what he wants. 

A quick glance up shows that he’s watching him again, and the intensity of the stare is heavy. 

At one point, fingers brush over the tear stains drying on his cheeks. Between that, the spit, the precome, River feels even more of a mess than before. And he no doubt looks it. 

He should probably be grateful that he’s not bleeding at the moment too. 

When he feels hands in his hair though, he knows that Duffy’s done with him leading. 

“Quit playing coy,” Duffy says, just to drive the point home, and then he’s snapping his hips forward, fucking crudely into his mouth, and River can only kneel there and take it. 

He tries to steal a breath when he can, tries to keep his mouth and his throat as open and relaxed as possible to make it easier on himself, but it’s still rough. 

Duffy pulls River’s head back and forth in time with his thrusts and River has no movement of his own. The barest hint of resistance earns him a sharp pull on his hair, so River doesn’t bother.  

He still gags, sometimes, but it’s almost like Duffy’s battering River’s throat into submission, as stupid as that sounds. He just pushes his cock in, again and again, filling his mouth, sliding down his throat, moving through the gagging and the gasping like it’s not happening. 

Or rather, like he doesn’t see the problem the way River might. 

It must all feel good for Duffy, with the way he groans, with the way he mutters more to himself than to River, each time River’s breath hitches, each time he swallows desperately around the intrusion, each time he can do nothing but scrape and grasp at Duffy’s legs as he holds himself up. 

“You’re going to swallow, aren’t you?” 

River blinks up at him, but with how much his eyes are watering, it’s hard to make out the expression on Duffy’s face. It's especially hard to make it out when he’s dragged down onto his cock so far that his nose is flush against his skin, true, but even when he gets that little bit of extra space, it’s not much better. 

His voice tells River how smug and pleased Duffy is though. 

Duffy’s nails scratch at the back of his head, and he’d almost forgotten that there was a tender spot there too, somewhere, right up until Duffy’s pressing on it. 

“Yeah,” Duffy goes on. “You’re going to let me come in your mouth and you’re going to swallow it all down, aren’t you, Cartwright?” 

If that’s what it takes, River thinks. 

And it’s frankly preferable to the idea of Duffy coming on his face. 

He makes a vague humming noise that’s more vibration than sound with his mouth this full, in case Duffy expects a response. 

Duffy’s movements speed up, thrusts just about as rough, but somehow even less considerate than before. 

“I’m becoming more convinced that I’m the one doing you a favour here,” Duffy says gruffly. “Such a goading little shit, so eager for a mouthful of come, you were just waiting for the excuse. If you wanted to get on your knees so badly, sunshine, you only had to ask.” 

Fuck off, fuck off, fuck off, River thinks. But at the same time, he sucks Duffy’s cock all the harder, does his best to let him slide down the back of his throat, involve his tongue whenever it won’t get too in the way. Whatever it takes to make this good. 

To hurry up and finish it. 

It actually takes him a little by surprise when Duffy pulls partially, but not all the way out when he comes. He's not down River’s throat, but simply in his mouth, which at first seems like an odd choice, but makes sense the moment Duffy’s release spills onto his tongue. 

He wants him to taste it. 

And River does. He also swallows it, he has to, but it’s a lot, too much, filling his mouth quickly with each pulse and Duffy won’t let him pull away, grip like iron in his hair. 

When he does, eventually, let him pull back, the now spent cock slipping from between his lips, River’s immediately wiping at his mouth, hoping he catches and clears away the trails of come that had leaked down his chin. What he wasn’t able to swallow quickly enough. 

“Uh uh,” Duffy tuts when River tries to lean away, tugging lightly on his hair and directing him back towards his crotch. “Clean me up.” 

River exhales deeply. “Right.” 

God does his throat hurt at even that one word. 

He runs his tongue over Duffy’s cock, cleaning off the come, swallowing that too, and if the pressure is too much, if he’s feeling too sensitive, then Duffy doesn’t let on, just watches as River works, continuing until he’s satisfied enough to finally let go of his hair. 

River sinks back onto his lower knees, thighs protesting the strain as much as everything else is. He rubs at his jaw, hoping that might ease the stiffness of holding it open for too long, half aware of Duffy tucking himself away and straightening his clothes. 

He swallows, and wets his lips, and wishes he had something on hand to chase away the taste. Soon, he hopes. 

River remains aware of the eyes on him as he stretches out his neck, prods at his jaw, and when he eventually looks up, Duffy is of course staring at him. Contemplating something even, by the looks of it. 

Duffy stares at him a moment longer before clearing his throat. “Right, get up.” 

It takes an almost embarrassingly long time, with his legs asleep and already injured, but eventually River manages to get to his feet, with the help of the nearby wall. Duffy, of course, doesn’t offer to help, but River can’t say he would have trusted the hand even if it had been extended. 

“So...” River ventures softly, now that he’s standing. 

The twitch at the corner of Duffy’s mouth tells him he caught the roughness. 

“Turn around,” Duffy says. “Do it,” he adds a bit more forcefully when River hesitates. 

River complies, and when he’s facing the wall, tries to remind himself that Duffy wouldn’t shoot him in the back. At least, not like this. If he was going to kill him, even after all this, he’d want to see his face. 

It’s fucked up, but a little comforting in these circumstances. 

Although, maybe he’s wrong. It’s been known to happen. Maybe River should think about running, just in case. He's faster than Duffy normally, maybe that will hold true even while injured. 

But before he can, Duffy shoves him in the back, pushing him against the wall. 

“Hands behind your back,” he says. 

Duffy waits until River has obediently crossed his wrists at the small of his back to grab them and close what River immediately recognises as a zip tie around them. 

Odd, he thinks to himself. And slightly worrying. But it’s not a bullet, and quite unnecessary if there was going to be a bullet in the near future, so maybe River has pulled this off. 

“Duffy?” he asks. 

“Come on,” Duffy says, yanking him away from the wall by his bound arms and shoving him in the direction that River eventually recognises as the entrance. 

He starts walking, paying extra attention to the floor, given that he no longer has his hands to catch him, and he doesn’t have much faith in being caught should he trip and fall. Duffy follows behind. 

“So, does this mean we’re good?” 

Duffy huffs. “Not even close, princess. But if you mean in this moment, I’m still thinking about it, so maybe carefully consider how much of a prick you want to be.” 

“I’m just wondering where we’re going,” River says, tugging at the zip tie as he gingerly steps around a knocked-over shelf. 

“Can’t very well make a phone call down here, can I?” 

River turns his head to look back, but there’s no sign of the gun, which further flames the hope in his chest. 

Duffy waves at him to look forward and watch where he’s going. 

“And can I ask who you’re planning on calling?” 

“You’ll see.”