Dusty Black Coats

•Southie Sorrows RP blog• •Lochlan O’Farrel• •blurbs & visions• with;;lovethewayyouburn •M content; raw&indecent•

[dustycoats]

Head fell back on her yank, Lochlan looked <through> the dark ceiling, not <at> it. Blind to anything that wasn't his Cush, deaf to everything that wasn't the sounds coming out of her sweet mouth. Even the music that throttled the building's foundation with every bump-bump-bump of the bass was lost under the noise of her breathy gasps and light throaty moans and small lilted mews. She didn't have to scream his name, Loch didn't need to hear her wrung out and raw from over exertion so long as she kept sounding just. Like. That.

Soft and sweet.

That was his Cush.

Not the rancorous minx she exuded.

There was no doubt that Lochlan deserved every bit of that violent volatility as they fucked, <wanted> his skin ripping underneath her nails with every drift they took over his chest, but he <<needed>> her tender; mere traces of it entwined with the ferocity she'd been emanating because that's what lead him out of the abyss he'd sank in to. Not the back and forth tussle for control, not the assaults by way of bites and slaps - those things just felt good, but didn't right his head that fell fell forward again to meet her own and Lochlan did kiss her when she denied him - a graze of his lips against the corner of her mouth, muffling the question he initially asked now ebbing off her tongue.

‘gonna love you’

He sighed long and slow.

‘only you’

And breathed in what she let out.

‘ruined hand...’

The one she spoke of spread out on the side of her face, proving it was working, albeit slow and not so smooth, thumb tracing just below the line of her lower lip cause he forced it to.

‘...or not’

Or not was fuckin right, he could still <<feel her>> under his palm and his fingers still stroked down her jaw, pads nothing more than a flutter, it's opposite curling in the skin of her shoulder and dragging down the entire length of her back then dipping to the apex of her thighs from behind - holding there, kneading as she rode his cock and rambled on.

She was gonna love him?

Ya betta? - no, "You promise?"

Gonna fix him?

Already have? - "Swear?"

Yes he had the audacity to ask that of her. No shred of cocky arrogance or a knowing smirk behind to insinuate he already knew the answers, just pitiful neediness because Lochlan wasn't so sure of himself and he needed that goddamn reassurance but it wasn't to be mistaken for doubting <her>.

But when he felt the thin flesh of his lip break under her teeth? He conceived it as her illicit <<promising, swearing>>, that she would love him and fuckin fix him cause why else <<bleed him?>> Lochlan didn't tense under the pierce. On the contrary, he melted against the front of her body, arms encircling her middle and moved with the swaying circles of her marvelous hips as those inner muscles cinched around his ever swelling cock that was in euphoric misery, the ache worsening beyond his ability to maintain when he'd cum with and inside his Cush, her leaning back added <<impossible fucking depth>>. Overwhelming sensations ricocheting off of every nerve he had in his body but Lochlan didn't seize up; his left hand splayed out at the bottom of her spine while that ‘ruined one’ came forth and explored all exposed terrains on display before his heavy eyes;

Waving over the valley of her ribs

Rising with the peaks of her breasts

Sldiing down the groove of her sternum, stomach, and snaking between them where he watched her cunt slide so deliciously up his shaft and down again. His thumb laid claim to her pink, protruding clit and Loch didn't have to roll it, her subtle bounce did that <for> him.

‘you and me’

He almost missed it, her words, too mesmerized by how perfect she looked.

Too enraptured with watching the erotic glide of that shown he glistened with her arousal.

But now he watched her face, eyes fixed on her mouth;

‘will be’ ...

waiting to hear the warning of what they <<would be>>, shaking his head before she even finished.

‘...Defectively ruined...’

His Cush's satin finished legs were pulled out from underneath her before even Loch knew he'd jerked them, impaling her further, drawing his own in to set on his haunches, "No." Head still shaking, back and forth, he leveled with <<his love>>, arms keeping her held up on his thighs and at this vantage point she wasn't left with all the work - Loch pumped his hips, grinding his cock in her cunt relentlessly, not withdrawing from her body so much as an inch but never stopped moving either.

"<I>... am fuckin defected." To say the very goddamn least.

He fell forward, sent her back, catching himself with his right hand that buckled under the pressure but he recovered, wincing only a moment and went down further on his forearm, "... a bastard." Loch, still on his knees but remained buried sheathed in her core, was able to catch her mouth, took it when he spread his knees further apart so in turn her's widened out too and he pushed, "...asshole..." and <pushed>, "sonofabitch." <<and. pushed>>, using his left hand to hitch her leg around his waist, so that she didn't scoot up the mattress and was able to fully take all of him, while he addressed his flaws to his flawless wife, "But we..." racing heart the result of their time spent in that bed and the spark of fear that his Cush's speculation caused, "We won't ruin..." And Lochlan was very insistent, voice teetering on the outer edge of yelling in the beautiful face he was kissing in between words and thrusts, "We <<can't>>." The onslaught of emotions snuck the fuck up on him, so he blinked himself out of those wretched feelings that were sure to ensue if he kept imagining their demise, and fucked her harder, "Just cum with me, Baby." Now, and forever.

Lochlan shed the weight that speaking their ruin put on him.

Face strained and abs tight.

He'd wait for the tell-tale-twists of her face, cinch of her legs, to know she was rollng off that edge and then Loch would dive too. Filling her full of hot streams that would flood her womb and soil the expensive sheets that twisted around his feet every time he dug them in to dig deeper, deeper and deeper til the tip of his engorged cock met resistance inside his Cush.

[lovethewayyouburn]

Long may they reign.

[dustycoats]

He'd seen it as well; his Cush with her mouth swelled shut, after having suffered the ruthless extraction of her teeth. Him, forced to do nothing, if that were even imaginable, but watch it happen -- even when Lochlan knew without a doubt that he'd have went turncoat in the proverbial blink of an eye, in the proverbial beat of a heart, if... if that's what it took to keep brutal hands from hurting her. Somewhere in the deepest reaches of his sub-conscious, he saw them replacing Ismaal and his wife in that room. Put the shoe on his foot to walk around in but ya know what? It was that very visual, that possibility, <fear>, which kept him so solidified to carry out the execution and hammer that blade through a husbands hand in to his lovers neck. They had to keep the upper hand. They had to intimidate, they had to do awful things that kept stockpiling their demons, they had to follow through, they had to prove they were no match to go up against and if they told you <<this>> would happen <<IF>>...! Then <<this>> had to happen.

And if it took killing women, who may or may not have had a part to play against them, then... Lochlan would do it. He would kill wives and leave broken husbands behind to run back to their side of the fence and tell the tale of exactly what it was the O'Farell's did for their own counter-act of war. He would cut pretty necks all goddamn day if it meant that in the long run the enemies would never have the advantage of putting his girl, his sons and son to be, in a grimey house, used to be tortured and as a pawn against him.

So when Lochlan had looked at the married two in that room, he didn't have a beckoning to feel merciful, neither did he consider staying in the good graces of karma. This was karma, for the Chechen sweethearts, and their dirty deeds and you bet your fucking sweet ass Ismaal was leading Tommy to the slaughter. What goes around comes around, and Ismaal was being served a harty dose of it for only God and him knew what. He looked at them and knew exactly what the fuck had to be done so that it was never him and his Cush. That's where she got it backwards. And that's why she should have never been brought there.

Bleeding fucking hearts had no place in that house.

He was a fool.

And he was breathing too hard, too shallow.

Something jagged had broken off inside him. Lochlan's chest ached and felt compressed, like something heavy was sat atop of it - constricting his airway. Light, dark, light, dark...light...dark... his vision became obscurred with every hard beat of his heart, like the lights dimmed and then brightened to the rhythmic, erratic thumping as he walked to that bathroom. Where his mind left off, his body had taken over; flip the switch to turn the bulb on, twist the handle to make the water run, cup his palms under the stream to fill them, then rub them together to make a red river that eventually turned pink. Watch it swirl then drain when he washed the proof of his barbarism from his hands that shook so hard he could've been mistaken for an alcaholic who'd been forcibly dry for days.

‘Lochlan?’

He heard her, no matter if he responded or not, and his Cush landed her husband back in to the here and now. Thoughts caught up to his head from where they had stopped back at the bedroom door and suddenly he was back and forth in his twisted up mind. ‘What the fuck are you doin?’ She’d asked.

Defensive first;

"We control the fear." He said so absently, that maybe the words were only mouthed, thoughts going back to a time that had been dead for fucking years. Still wringing his hands together, the cold water making them frigid and his eyes stayed fixed on the task. They didn't veer to his wife and all be goddamn if they looked in the mirror. ‘The hell are you thinkin?’ She wanted to know.

Justification second; "He'd have killed Tommy. That's the fuckin game." Lochlan mumbled, hushed voice, sights still downcast at the water that was now running clear. They weren't answers to her questions, the guy was stuck in his conscience for a moment.

Berating third; "Shouldn'a fuckin brought you here--" he knew better, "Shouldn'a fuckin came here." The tug she gave his arm snapped him out of it and in turn Lochlan snapped <away> from her, jerking not just his limb but his entire body away from her reach so abrupt he had to grab the ledge of the counter to keep from staggering.

Fourth? Blame. "Why are you here?" Lochlan yelled at his Cush, smashing the counter that just kept him from falling like he held a hammer, "What? What, you wanna fuckin bait me? To see that shit?" He was pointing at the door, refering to Ismaal and his wife, "You needed to see the guy that helped beat and burn you you needed to see •Ilya• you called fuckin Dibs on •Ilya• but you...you go in <<there>>—“ Conveniently forgetting the part he helped her in. The way he seethed? Made it sound like ilya was all a ploy, a means to another purpose; to watch her husband do the unthinkable. It was accusing. It was crazy.... Fifth? Fear. "--and for what, Cush? What <now>? You came and you saw (him. She saw her Loch.) So what happens <<now>>?” Lochlan panted, his rant broken words and exhaustive groans between them.

He didn't know how to self sooth - [emotionally. She had always done it for him. So now, her seeing him as the devil many others did? What the fuck did that mean? If she were at home, if this was any normal night, he'd drag the sheet off her body and cover it back with his own. Pull her arms around his neck. Her kisses and soft mewing moans of his name and her love a reminder that he was okay because they were okay.

What happens when he comes home again, becaue he will, and she doesn't wanna touch him and can't find it in her to look at him because she becomes of the mind he just came crawling home to her after stabbing a woman in the neck? That's where the root of his fear was at, and that's why he was acting fucking crazy in the bathroom. And that's why he sat on the ledge of the tub and raked his hands down his face, frustrated that they wouldn't be goddamn still,

"Shouldn't be here."

[dustycoats]

There was an incessant buzzing in Lochlan's head that had nothing to do with the four discharges of his gun. Sound like a bee hive, and it made his skull and teeth feel as if it caused a vibration. Even his vision became disoriented, much like the way an old television screen glitched around the edges. He was watching his Cush, crouched down and talking, but Loch wasn't really seeing her, or them. Damn sure didn't glance at Tommy, who stood just off to his right with a fallen face and accusing eyes; ‘see whatcha did? Now what the fuck we sposed to do?’ There was a goddamned plan in place - an evil one, some might say, but one that served a purpose! Sent a message. How was he supposed to back-pedal that? Spin it?

He wasn't.

And that's why the state of his mentality shifted when she walked away from him and went to the couple. And it's why he had to let his head drift away in to the black-buzz from the place Loch would otherwise fight to keep it - he couldn't care what his Cush thought about him, he couldn't care about maintaining control, he couldn't care about the repercussion's that may befall his image in her eyes. What the fuck did she think it spoke about him, about all of them, if Lochlan let it be perceived that she could come in and change the whole game? It wasn't about looking weak, it was about seeing a woman who held the power to make Lochlan change his mind when he was otherwise known to mean what he says and make good on it.

She wasn't going to 'suay him -- he was passed the point of even inexorable; Lochlan was <nothing>.

That woman, who was "loved" so much by Ismaal that her mouth was nearly empty?

Her temporary hope wasn't going to last.

And Lochlan did what he denied his Cush to do before entering the room with Ilya;

Shut the fuck off.

He and Tommy moved at the same time, his friend bending down to hook an arm around Cush and drag her backwards away from the couple. Ismaal must have known then that the Queen's word wasn't always law because he panicked, hands clutching around her neck when he faced her. There was noise, there was talking-yelling-screaming-something going on between man and wife, Loch knew it but it just wouldn't soak in and it didn't make him miss a single beat. He retrieved the blade previously put away with his right hand and squatted down, jaw so fixed it's a wonder his back teeth weren't cracking.

But, he didn't follow through on what he said he would do if his Cush was hurt.

Instead, he took the blade and plunged it clean through the center of Ismaal's hand -- which would sink in to his wife's neck on the other side of his palm, severing the major artery while simultaneously sewing them together. He'd watch the woman he supposedly loved, forced to hold her fatal wound, bound to her until the blade that fused them was free'd -- die in front of him. And there wasn't a fucking thing he could do about it, there wasn't no saving her, and Ismaal was helpless to stop it.

That buzzing was louder, he couldn't hear the sounds she made or the manic wails Ismaal was in. Lochlan stood up and used the back of his hand to wipe what he assumed was sweat off of his cheek, face too numb to have felt the splash of blood that squirted across it.

"This is for you." He said, voice so far away from that room and his being it might as well have been a ten year old note found on a crumbling piece of paper instead of spoken in that moment. Lochlan had pulled a lone bullet out of his front pocket and tossed it over Ismaal's shoulder in to his lap. The one he could use to hunt him, just like Loch had told him he would do. That he <wanted> him to. Ismaal could use Lochlan's own fucking bullet to try and get his own vengeance. It was Lochlan's own way of saying I have the final fuck you.

When he turned around, the only look he gave to his wife was ‘look what you just made me fucking do’, but what his glare failed to convey was the ‘in front of you’ part.

But his eyes couldn't stay on her, couldn't see her own looking back at him. Didn't want to.

And before he pealed his own skin away from the bone so that he could get out of it, Lochlan left that room and the rest of them in it.

[lovethewayyouburn]

Him & I

[lovethewayyouburn]

Wife. Mother. Southie. Queen. Cover Model.

[lovethewayyouburn]

Gala Night. Date Night. Reigning King and Queen.

[lovethewayyouburn]

[dustycoats]

Bound by wild desire

[dustycoats]

It was freezing cold. Lochlan's body was stricken with incessant tremors that didn't show any sign of relenting - though he just started to feel them it was as if he'd been plagued for hours. If anything, they only became more racking, and served to worsen his clenched stomach that was rolling. Waves of nausea lapped at the back of his throat, burning, leaving a foul metallic coating on his tongue. It was like he could taste what he smelled and the rancid smell was horrific but oh he did not want to open his eyes and see the cause of the pungent odor. Loch kept them squeezed shut, bare knee's scratching painfully on... cement? And why couldn't he move his arms! Left with little else to do but look and assess, those lids of his finally cracked open to take in the sight of none other than himself. Wasn't no reflection in a mirror, he literally sat adjacent of his former self strung up by bound wrist and the air in his lungs was knocked out by the metaphysical impact of the visual, "No no no no no wake the fuck up." He mumbled through tight teeth, jaw pulsing, not demanding his bleeding counterpart to lift it's head but willing he the dreamer to get the fuck outta there. Lucid dreaming? Loch lunged to stand but the only thing he managed to do was rattle rusty chains - that's why he couldn't move his arms; like his mirage across from him, he was bound the exact same way. No amount of pulling or prying was fruitful and his bare legs were locked in place. He looked down to see if they were anchored too but came to find only the mesh shorts he went to bed in. Seems his sub-conscience had a depraved sense of humor. If he wouldn't confront the trauma willingly, it would do it for him. Make him a hostage inside of his own goddamned traitorous mind. Movement caught his peripheral. Lochlan snapped his head back up and looked over in the corner where two men were screaming in each others faces. They were blurred out though, none of the features clear enough to make out so much as a wrinkle or whisker either one and he was deaf to any noise that didn't come from his own self; breathing, heart beat, and a dull buzz in both ears. Only reason he knew they were yelling was how the color of their mouths darkened when they went wide, their rigid frames bulking towards one another, fingers stabbing in this direction and that. It all suddenly desisted though when the one in the suit reached behind him to retrieve a snub revolver and pressed it none too gently in to the others forehead. Loch did hear the sound of the hammer being pulled back, but it was louder than it should have been - dramatic, echoing off the walls and right in to his canal so sharply that it made him both flinch and wince. He looked away. Didn't wanna watch what happened. Didn't wanna see if that guy pulled the trigger. Lochlan didn't want to remain in that dream! His rapid heart made his chest hurt. His bone dry mouth made his throat hurt. Breathing was difficult and he gasped for air he couldn't seem to replenish his lungs enough with. Loch searched for anger to grab a hold of. If he could just get mad enough, he could snap those goddamn chains regardless if this wasn't the laws of realism! That's why he looked at who was his alternate self. The weak and pathetic son of a bitch just hanging there bleeding all over the place, not fighting! If he could focus on himself then, who let everyone down and royally fucked up everything, oho he would definitely find that rage. His throat worked to swallow the bile he could feel rising in his esophagus while the rest of him worked to find the courage to look up again when he heard his own voice; ‘be front and center at my fuckin funeral, cryin your goddamn eyes out’. Lochlan seethed and flexed his fingers around the metal, pulling even when his shoulders threatened to sever from muscle, a flicker of the sweet madness warming his frigid body for a fleeting moment until he saw her. Smelled her. Heard her - ‘I was’. That's when Loch faltered in his fight, hearing her whimpered declare that she had been at his funeral. But she wasn't looking at either of him. Alone in the opposite corner, staring at something he couldn't see. ‘I can't do this without you’. His face pinched in perplexity - she knew he wasn't dead! ‘Please come back’. He was trying! "Cush--" He rasped for her attention, shaking those chains, "Look at me, Cush!" Lochlan begged when he watched her sink down to both knee's, back still to him, and he leaned forward in a pitiful attempt to be closer, "Wake me up..." Because he sure as hell couldn't wake himself up, didn't know how to try! "What was 'at, boyo?" He jerked his face in the direction of that ominous voice that made him even colder than he already was in spite of the fact he could feel sweat sting his eyes. Lochlan watched the sharp dressed man casually stroll towards his other self who had finally shut up with the death-wish instructions to his wife. Panic. That's what he felt grip him by the fucking neck when he saw that guy moving, swinging a razor strap slowly back and forth. He didn't know why it scared him, since when did he get legitimately scared? But it did. The kind of fear that had talons and dug them in so deep you were crippled by it. The kind of fear stemmed from a real place, a real possibility, that he was never going to wake up in his bed again, see his boys again, his Cush, that it would all be gone if he didn't get free. At least he managed to force himself to look away, right at her, who still wasn't looking back at him, "Wa-wake me up, Cush!" Because what if she didn't? Logic was gone and Lochlan was terrified he would never. The closer Sloan got to his target the more frantic he became, "Baby--" His voice quaked, wrists on fire from where they twisted in the shackles all of their own volition, "Please..." Couldn't swallow the golf ball knot stuck in his throat, but oddly enough it subsided whenever it turned to liquid behind his eyes and drained out the corner of them. "CUSH--" "Do ya worst..." •• Lochlan shot up like a bullet, coughing for a breath that his lungs were begging for him to take. Quilt had been kicked off his legs, the cold sweat irritating since he stuck to the fitted sheet because of it. He furiously wiped at his face and eyes, not just coughing but gasping a suppressed sob. Crying? The aftershocks from the fucking nightmare was still a definite monkey on his back that he was having a hell of a time shaking, had to look around to make absolutely sure he was awake but that didn't help at all, was too dark to see anything, so he sucked in through his nose to smell where he was at. The homeliness, the lingering scent of their bodies, her lotions -- it was all there but unfortunately did nothing to quell the witless fear that had him shaking still. People use the phrase like my life depended on it all the time. So overused was it, that no longer could you feel the affect it's meant to have when you hear it. But, when Loch felt his Cush? He never missed a beat, and he kissed her. Like his very life depended on it. Nobody would be able to refute that it did if they were privliged enough to witness. His lips and mouth used her own as if they were the resource, the only one, to provide him with the necessary elements of living; oxygen, hydration - and his supplicating tongue sought her healing one. Vehemently beckoning her to wash off the timorous feeling the dream left him wrecked with in his foggy waking. Didn't matter if he fucked her for all she was worth hours ago. It didn't matter if he knew she'd be bruised come morning with the proof he'd been on her. And it didn't matter she couldn't walk with ease to the shower when it was all said and done. Lochlan's hands still went on the roam over her body, but unlike their salacious wander before he fell in to that God forsaken slumber, this time they were just... importune. For her to make him feel okay. For her to erase that wretched shit from his head and calm his crawling skin while fingers and palms skimmed her supple curves from neck to inner thighs. Like she herself was a sanctuary he couldn't get in fast enough.

[lovethewayyouburn]

@dustycoats Tewwww Much

[lovethewayyouburn]

[lovethewayyouburn]

You pulled me in and together we’re lost in a dream. @dustycoats

[lovethewayyouburn]

[lovethewayyouburn]

[dustycoats]

It wasn’t until his body threatened to give out if he didn’t •give in• that Lochlan finally shown any kind of impression he would stop torturing them both. Sitting on the corner edge with her in his lap, back against his chest, holding her shoulders tight against her sides, he kissed the salty skin at her neck. Lids heavy, rhythm gone, worn out palpable but •need• even more prevalent still, “Knew I was fuckin dyin.” Where that come from was anyone’s guess, but his voice was distant and hoarse, thick with lust and self inflicted exhaustion, “Knew it and told you be at my goddamn funeral.” He sucked in a breath and turned his face inward to graze his teeth below her ear. Loch let go of her arms, one of his moving to slide beneath her heavy breasts where two fingers could take one nipple between them, “Told ya you was mine-“ Free hand snaked down her front and right between her sopping legs where his palm splayed over that wound core slowly circling on his shaft, “That you’s •my fuckin girl• no matter what goddamn grave I’s layin in.” Loch all but growled against her jaw, the roughened pad of his middle finger laying claim to the now pitiable clit that if it was anything like himself, needed relief to an epic degree and he ever so lightly swept the digit from side to side, “So cum for me Cush, and tell me •who's• the fuck you are.”

[dustycoats]

His face turned in to her palm, lips dragging over the clean cut there, drunk on the salty copper that spilled in to his mouth staggeringly more than any of the liquor or what-have-you else he'd partook in over the course of however many days he picked to not be sober. Lochlan wasn't “man” enough to tell her he didn't need her praises or professes, because that's exactly what the fuck his twisted head •did• need so when she spoke again of that tormented life, his hands pushed down on her hips for just a •slight• tantalizing abrasion against her squeezing walls that was steadily leaking out around him. Tormenting his damn self; Lochlan ached for intemperate assault inside her but at the same time, her stilled and snug fit was an •exquisite• kind of hurt.

[lovethewayyouburn]

Did I say that I loathe you? Did I say I want to leave it all behind?