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He couldn't get enough.

On his knees in an alleyway that hadn't existed three years prior, squeezing another man's dick to hardness was where, perhaps, he was the most honest.

He could pretend all he wanted that he was something bigger and better, but Travis Touchdown was a loser. Maybe it was worse that he denied this vehemently, filling his brain with such far-flung ideas of 'worth' and 'use', when he knew that neither of them applied to him, unless it was in a negative form. That was all he was. Negative. Nothing. A sad sack of shit, with nothing better to do with his shit-stain of a life than slaughter people, pray for forgiveness, jack off, pray for forgiveness and offer himself for barely even a fistful of change.

It was the guy he worked for, a gruff old fuck that had to be fifty or more, with burly arms and a jagged demeanour. He spoke in such a no-bullshit manner that Travis couldn't help but like the guy, but his concept of 'like' had always been a bit broken. His boss, whose name he had never managed to pick up, was only as patient as he needed to be with Travis. While he was appreciative of a job done well, one too many fuck-ups and he was reprimanding him with that same amicable tone.

"You're thirty and you haven't made anything of yourself?"

"No, sir."

"It's alright, son. You're pretty fuckin' stupid, nobody expects anything,"


But he wasn't wrong. Nobody ever expected anything from Travis Touchdown, with his flashy name and his sob story of a past. Mother and father murdered? Oh dear. First love was his sister? Oh dear. A twin brother he never knew about? Scandalous. He never did anything to fix himself. He hid himself away and kept a kitten and watched anime and played video games and played the victim that only believed in God when it suited him. The sick fuck at the back of the bus, jacking off because there was nothing better to do and he liked it when people stared in horror. Right up until he realised what he'd done.

He was stupid and horny and missed cramming an older man's dick down his throat, trying to imagine the cunts ploughed and the painted lips that had his job before with one hand down his jeans, desperately scrabbling fingers over his length with all the finesse of a teenage boy. He supposed he'd never grown up. His life had been wasted, doing sweet fuck all, too broke to pay someone to tell him he had issues and too shy to admit it to someone's face.

There were huge fingers holding his nose closed when he got too sloppy with his teeth and he choked for breath, hacking and coughing until his stomach lurched and there was bile running down his chin and onto his designer t-shirt, sour and thick. The Boss Man grunted and pulled his dick from the assassin's mouth, but refused to let his grip go, forcing him to look up from behind the safety of yellow aviators. A rough voice worn by too many years of cigarettes growled at him to be careful, or he'd break his nose and his pretty glasses along with it.

Yes, sir. I didn't mean it, sir.

He tried to speak through slack jaw and held nose, breathy and unintelligible and so hard he could barely think. He got off on being treated like shit. He got off on being strung along and made to feel worthless and replaceable and stupid, no more than a dumb fuck with a tight ass and a decent dick a girl could feel alright, but little else.

Travis Touchdown was as worthless as the lives he took.

He let his Boss come on his face, if it meant an extra hundred pounds. He scraped it off his face and ate it, relishing every last drop, licked it from his glasses and spent himself with a moan that sounded more like a sob, guilty and foul and irredeemable.

You better show up in the morning. Get your fucking money then.

God, he loved that man.