a figment of your imagination @mattsmoth - Tumblr Blog

Sep 5, 2025

Fucked Up

cw: toxic relationship dynamic, sub!chris x dom!reader, drug use (coke and weed), mentions of cheating, rough sex, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex, multiple orgasms, creampies, degradation, dacryphilia, scratching, blood, mention of safe word (not used), overstimulation, chris is desperate as fuck

credit: gif by @hotelstares

You don’t plan it. You never do. It happens the same way every time: a restless evening that tastes like spoiled sugar, a playlist you shouldn’t have pressed play on, and a text you swore you’d never send again. Your thumb hovers, then betrays you.

bring me some coke. and a little weed.

if you're close by.

Three dots bloom and disappear like they’re ashamed of themselves. When his reply finally lands, 'on my way', you feel the tiny, traitorous flare of satisfaction you always hate yourself for.

While you wait, the apartment hums like a partially remembered song. The AC rattles. A cracked mug sweats on the coffee table. You sit cross-legged on the rug, sweatshirt sleeves shoved over your fists the way you used to when you’d steal his hoodies and he’d whine about never getting them back. You tell yourself you’re calm and in control. And you are, for the most part. Still, the old film reel flickers when you close your eyes. First night, first joke, first kiss in the back stairwell when the party was too loud and he kept looking at your mouth like you were the only real thing left in the building. After that, it was all gasoline. Fast, bright, and too much oxygen. You were ridiculous together, dizzy and mean with how hard you wanted. He called you ‘his problem' and you laughed because he was right.

The end was ugly in that ordinary way heartbreak always is. No screaming, just the sound of something trusted collapsing. A photo you weren’t meant to see. A girl you didn’t know in a bathroom you’d recognize by the ugly tile alone. He stammered excuses that sounded like static. ‘I was— I was messed up. I know you gave me just one chance, and I—‘ He swallowed hard, eyes glassy. ‘I had one chance and I fucked it up. I was fucked up.’ He said it like an incantation might undo itself if he said it softly enough.

You didn’t forgive him. And you still don’t. But there he is, every time you call, your ex-boyfriend like a stray orbiting your doorstep, gravity and guilt braided tight. You don’t have to offer anything. You don’t even have to try and be nice. He comes anyway, like a penance he can carry in paper bags and folded bills.

Headlights rake across the ceiling. You stand, smoothing your sweatshirt, and feel that familiar click somewhere behind your ribs, the place where power sits when you decide to keep it.

He knocks once and then doesn’t come in until you say, “Door’s open.”

Chris steps inside with a little plastic bag in one hand, a brown paper sack in the other. He’s wearing a plain black tee you want to wrinkle and a jacket you want to make him take off just to prove you can. The air shifts, an old ache, a new rule.

“Hi,” he says, voice small around the edges. He doesn’t look at the couch. He looks at your face like there’s a test written on it.

You let your eyes drag over him, slow and uninterested on purpose. “Put it on the table.”

He obeys immediately, sets the baggies down next to your mug. His fingers linger, then draw back like you burn. He smells like nights you don’t talk about. Cologne and rain and the inside of an Uber with the windows down.

“I can get more if you—” He catches himself, rubs the back of his neck. “If you needed more. I can get it for free.” The words come out in a rush, apologetic and proud at once, like he’s offering proof he still knows how to be useful.

“Mm.” You make a noncommittal sound and watch him squirm.

He hates that you’re good at silence. He always did. You used to weaponize it in fights, now you use it like a leash. He fidgets, glances at your mouth, then away. You lean your hip against the table, the picture of calm, and tear the top corner of the bag open just because you know he’ll feel it.

Chris swallows. “You, uh—you doing okay?”

You lift an eyebrow. “We’re doing wellness checks now?”

“No, I just—” He exhales. “You look…you look good.”

“You look nervous.”

A miserable smile. “Yeah.” He nods once, honest to the bone in the ways that don’t matter. “You got me fucked up.”

You let the line hang there, thick and sweet. It’s unfair how much you like hearing it. “I know.”

Something loosens in his shoulders, like acknowledgment is the only mercy he was hoping for. You don’t give him more. You don’t give him anything he didn’t earn.

He digs in the paper bag and pulls out a lighter without being asked. You take it from him, your fingers not touching his on purpose. The joint you roll is muscle memory. Your hands didn’t forget how to do any of it. Smoke curls up like a question.

He stands there with his jacket still on, waiting for instruction. That’s new, kind of. That’s not who he was when you were together. Then, he was loud and thoughtless and the center of every room. Now, he’s a cautionary tale with a heartbeat.

You tilt your chin toward the hook by the door. “Jacket.”

He moves fast, shrugs it off, hangs it neatly, like if he’s careful enough the past won’t clatter to the floor. When he turns back, you’re looking at him the way he once begged you to. Openly, unkindly, like he’s yours to appraise. The attention hits him like a touch. He shivers.

“Why do you keep coming when I call?” Your voice is soft, but you’re not kind. “You don’t even ask what it’s for.”

“I don’t—” He stops, searching for an answer that won’t embarrass him. Fails. “I don’t wanna tell you how I feel.” He laughs at himself, a breathy, broken sound. “But you know.”

“Say it anyway.”

He licks his lips. The truth wobbles. “I…I could be whatever you want me to be.” He meets your gaze and doesn’t look away. “I could do whatever that you wanted from me.”

Heat prickles under your skin. Not lust, but power. The memory of what it felt like when you didn’t have to wonder if he’d listen, because he never did. You take another drag, slow enough to make him watch your mouth, then thumb ash into the tray.

“You think that fixes what you did?” You don’t raise your voice. You don’t have to. “You think doing tricks earns you back a seat at my table?”

He flinches. “No…no. I just—I want to make it right. However you’ll let me.”

You study him for a long second, long enough that the nervous twitch in his jaw starts and stops twice. The truth is ugly. The want is still there, mean and undeniable. It always lived in the quiet moments anyway. The ride home with the windows down, the way he’d hold your thigh under restaurant tables, the rasp of his voice when he’d lean in and tell you to come here. You smother that memory under your heel like a spark in dry grass.

“Take off your shoes,” you say.

It’s a simple thing. It shouldn’t mean anything. But it does, because he does it without a sound. He tows them neatly to the mat, folds himself smaller in a way that makes the room feel bigger around you. When he straightens, he doesn’t step closer. He waits.

“This isn’t a date.” You flick your gaze from his mouth back to his eyes. “You come when I need something. You leave when I’m done. That’s it.”

He nods, throat working. “Okay.”

“You don’t touch me unless I say.”

Another nod. “Okay.”

“And you don’t look at me like that unless you can afford it.”

That takes him a second. The corner of his mouth lifts, helpless. “What’s the price?”

“You don’t get to ask that.” You tip your head toward the couch. “Sit.”

He does, hands on his knees like he’s afraid to wrinkle your cushions. You set the joint down, pick up the baggie, and tap a neat line onto a coaster just to make him watch. You’re aware of the performance you’re putting on, the way slow movements read like promises. You’re not promising anything. You’re proving a point. He watches, breathing a little loud in the quiet. When you lean over the coffee table, he instinctively leans back to give you space. You could laugh, but you don’t. You drag a knuckle under your nose and breathe in. There are a dozen lines you don’t cross sober. You intend to keep them.

He wets his lips. “Do you want—I can—” He gestures, offering to cut, to line, to serve, to be the pair of hands that always shake a little less than yours.

“No.” You slice the word thin. “You can sit there and be good.”

Color climbs his cheekbones. He’s beautiful when he’s humiliated. You hate that you remember that. He stares at your fingers until you tuck your hand back into your sleeve.

He breaks first, voice quiet. “Can I say something without you…without you taking it as me trying to—” He flails for the word. “Get something?”

You narrow your eyes. “Try.”

He takes a breath that shakes. “I know I don’t deserve to be here. I know that.” His hands flex on his knees. “But I’m—I’m better at being near you than I am at being away from you. Even like this.” He swallows. “Especially like this.”

There it is. The soft center of him, messy and unguarded. The part that makes you meaner because it makes you weak.

“You’re not here for you,” you say.

“I know.” He nods quickly, relief and dread shivering together. “I’m here for you. However you need.”

You step closer then, just enough that he has to tip his chin up to keep your eyes. You look down at him the way you’ve taught him to love, measured and merciless. His lashes flicker. His breath hitches. Your shadow cuts his collarbone in half.

“Good,” you murmur. “You’re learning.”

You don’t touch him. You don’t have to. The room knows who’s holding the leash. Behind your ribs, something warm and ugly purrs. It sounds like victory. It sounds like an old door opening on rusted hinges. You’ll decide how far to let him go. For now, you let him sit there and want, and you let yourself like the wanting.

He looks up again, not quite managing bravery. “If you…if you wanted more—”

You tilt your head, slow as smoke. “You’ll do whatever I want.”

“Yes.” He doesn’t blink. “Whatever you want.”

“Good,” you say again, tasting the word. You pick up the lighter, flick it just to hear the sound. His eyes follow the flame like it’s a star.

“Stay,” you tell him, finally turning away to fetch a glass of water you don’t need. The command is casual as a shrug. It makes his shoulders drop like you’ve just given him air.

“Okay,” he whispers, like a vow he’s relieved to keep. Then, softer, as if he forgot he wasn’t allowed words like this, “you got me fucked up.”

You smile where he can’t see it, small and cruel and yours alone. The night stretches ahead, long and pliant. You decide you’ll shape it when you’re ready.

You sip your water slow, throat working while Chris sits perfectly still on the couch like a dog waiting for the next command. When you set the glass down, his eyes dart to your hands, then away again like he’s ashamed of being caught watching.

You lean against the counter. “So that’s it? You just bring me whatever I want, don’t even ask what it’s for?”

Chris shifts. “You don’t owe me an explanation.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

His jaw flexes. He doesn’t meet your eyes. “I’d rather not know. I just—” His voice hitches, low and rough. “I could do whatever you want me to do. Doesn’t matter what it is. No questions asked.”

The way he says it makes your stomach flip, but you won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing it. Instead, you push off the counter, pace a few steps closer. He watches your feet like they’re dangerous.

“You don’t even ask for money,” you remind him. “Not even gas money. Not even for this—” you nudge the little baggie with your knuckle, “and you expect me to believe you’re not still trying to buy me back?”

His throat bobs. “I’m not—I’m not expecting anything. I don’t want you to think—” He breaks off, rubs a hand over his mouth, voice muffled. “I just want to be here. However you’ll let me,” he repeats.

The ache behind his words is real, raw. You hate that it cuts through you, sharp as glass under bare feet. You can’t let him see that, though. You smirk instead, cruel and practiced. “Pathetic.”

His head bows. He doesn’t argue.

The silence hums, heavy. You move closer until you’re standing right over him, forcing his chin up to meet your gaze. His pupils are blown wide, breath unsteady.

“Do you remember,” you murmur, tilting your head, “the night you fucked it all up?”

He flinches, like you’ve struck him. “Yes.”

“You should,” you say. “Because that’s the night you decided a bathroom quickie with some stranger was worth more than everything we built.”

“I was—” His voice cracks, desperate. “I was fucked up. You don't know how fucked up I really was. I wasn't in the right state of mind. I know I fucked it up, okay?” The same words he says anytime you mention that night. His words spill out like confession, like prayer. He stares at you as if absolution might slip from your mouth if he begs hard enough.

You take a slow breath, reach down, and fist the front of his shirt. Tug just hard enough to pull him forward, to make him stumble to his knees at your feet. He doesn’t resist. He never does anymore. You look down at him, savoring the view, Chris kneeling, jaw tight, eyes wide with shame and want.

“That’s right,” you say softly. “You fucked it up. And now you get to live with whatever I give you.”

Your words send chills down his spine.

“Do you understand?”

“Yes.” The word rushes out of him, breathless.

The corner of your mouth lifts, slow and dangerous. You tug his shirt harder, seams straining under your grip. “Good. Because I haven’t even started yet.”

You pause, eyes locked on his, grip unrelenting. “You remember your safe word?”

His throat bobs as he nods quickly, voice wrecked already. “Yeah.”

“Tell me,” you demand.

“Yes. I remember.” His voice cracks, but the certainty in it is clear.

The fabric gives with a satisfying rip, a jagged sound that splits the quiet room. His shirt hangs loose at the collar now, threads frayed where your fist tore through. Chris gasps, eyes darting up to yours, caught between shock and hunger.

“You’re going to ruin me,” he whispers.

“You already ruined yourself,” you remind him, and hook two fingers under the torn edge, yanking again. The neckline splits wider, exposing the slope of his shoulder, pale skin begging for your teeth.

He swallows hard, hands flexing against his thighs. He doesn’t move. You haven’t told him to.

“Take it off,” you say finally, low and sharp.

Chris obeys instantly, tugging the shirt over his head and balling it in his fists before realizing he doesn’t know where you want it. He hesitates. That hesitation is its own kind of gift.

“Floor,” you instruct.

He drops it, fabric pooling at your feet. His chest rises and falls quick, nerves and anticipation carving lines down his torso. You let your gaze linger deliberately, dragging your eyes over him.

“You’re still so eager,” you murmur, stepping closer until your knees nearly brush his shoulders. “After everything, you still kneel here like you’re waiting for scraps.”

Chris shudders, looking up at you through his lashes. His voice is ragged. “I could be whatever you want me to be. Anything you want.”

The words are almost pitiful. Almost. You reach down, grip his jaw, tilting his head back until he’s forced to hold your gaze. His breath comes faster under your touch, mouth parted.

“You’ll be what I make you,” you tell him. “That’s the only thing you’re good for now.”

A broken sound slips out of him, half whimper, half laugh, like it’s exactly what he wanted to hear.

You push him back, firm, until he topples onto the couch. He sprawls there, caught off guard, hair mussed, lips swollen from biting them. Before he can catch his breath, you straddle his lap, pinning him with your weight. His hands twitch like they want to grab your hips, but you slap them down against the cushions.

“Did I tell you to touch?”

“N-no.” His voice cracks.

“Then keep them there.” You grind down once, slow and punishing, watching his head tip back against the couch. He lets out a strangled groan, thighs trembling under you.

Chris whines low in his throat, nodding frantically. His chest rises and falls under you, breath catching every time you grind your hips down, slow, deliberate, punishing.

“You want this that bad?” you press, leaning in until your lips ghost his throat. His pulse hammers beneath your mouth, desperate. You bite down just enough to make him flinch, then soothe the mark with your tongue.

He shudders under you, his head tipping back against the couch, a broken groan spilling free.

“Every time you come here,” you whisper against his skin, “you hand yourself over like you’re nothing. Like you’d rather bleed than let me go.”

His nails dig into the couch cushions, knuckles white. You drag your nails down his chest, this time sharp enough to leave angry lines in your wake. He arches beneath you, breath catching, a sound of both pain and relief tearing out of him. You smirk, pulling back just enough to watch his face. His cheeks are flushed, lips parted, pupils blown wide. He’s wrecked already, and you haven’t even decided how far you’ll take him tonight.

“Good boy,” you say softly, cruelly.

You keep him pinned beneath you, straddling his hips, watching the tension ripple through his chest as he struggles to stay still. His wrists twitch against your grip, instinct begging him to touch you, but he doesn’t dare. You can feel it, the way he’s straining not to disobey.

“Look at you,” you murmur, voice heavy with disdain. “I barely touched you and you’re already shaking.”

His jaw clenches. He tries to swallow down a sound, but it leaks out anyway, low and needy. You smirk, rolling your hips slow against his lap. His breath stutters, lashes fluttering, and you know he feels how deliberate you are, how cruel you can be. You drag your hips once more, the pressure sharp enough to make him gasp.

“Please…” he manages, voice ragged.

“Please what?” You tilt your head, pretending not to understand. “Be specific.”

His mouth opens and closes, embarrassment burning across his face. His eyes flick up to yours, glassy, pleading. “Please—just let me—”

You grind down harder, cutting him off with a sharp gasp of his own. His whole body arches beneath you, desperate for relief he isn’t allowed to chase.

“Pathetic,” you breathe against his ear. “All it takes is a little pressure and you fall apart.”

He shudders. “I’m sorry—”

The apology makes you laugh, cruel and sharp. “Sorry doesn’t fix anything. You think saying that word erases what you did?”

His eyes squeeze shut, shame written across his face. “No.”

“Exactly.” You release his wrists and immediately tangle your fingers in his hair, tugging his head back so he has no choice but to look at you. “But maybe,” you add, slow and deliberate, “I’ll let you make yourself useful.”

Hope flickers in his eyes, fragile and bright.

“Back on your knees.”

Chris scrambles to obey, sliding off the couch until he’s kneeling in front of you, chest rising and falling like he’s been starved. His hands hover uncertainly at his sides, trembling with restraint. You spread your knees, lean back against the cushions, and watch his breath catch when he realizes what you’re offering.

“Go on,” you murmur, threading your fingers through his hair. “Earn it.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. He pulls your cotton shorts to the side, his mouth on you instantly, hot and eager. You let your head fall back against the couch with a sigh. His tongue moves frantically at first, desperate to please, until you yank his hair hard enough to make him still.

“Slow down,” you snap. “You don’t get to rush this. You’ll take your time, exactly how I want.”

Chris whimpers against you, muffled and raw, but he obeys. His tongue drags slow now, deliberate, and you reward him with a sharp tug of his hair that makes him moan into you.

“That’s better,” you breathe, eyes half-lidded as you watch him. His face is flushed, jaw tense with effort, hands fisted tight against his thighs as if he’s holding himself back from grabbing you.

Every few moments, he looks up at you, desperate for approval. You give him nothing but silence, forcing him to work harder, to keep guessing. When his tongue finally hits the right rhythm, you let out a soft moan that makes his whole body jolt like he’s been shocked.

“Yes,” you murmur, grinding against his mouth. “Just like that. Don’t stop.”

He groans, the sound vibrating through you, and it makes your toes curl. You pull his hair harder, forcing him closer, until he’s choking on the pressure but refusing to pull away. He’d suffocate before he’d disappoint you, and the thought makes heat flare through your chest.

When you’re close, closer than you mean to be, you yank him back abruptly, ignoring his muffled protest. His lips are swollen, chin slick, and he looks wrecked already.

“You think you deserve my cum?” you snap.

He shakes his head instantly, panting. “No.”

“Exactly.” You wipe your thumb across his mouth, slow and mocking. “You don’t get that yet.”

The desperation in his eyes is intoxicating. He’s trembling, every inch of him begging, but he won’t move without permission. You lean forward, dragging your nails down his chest, watching pretty red lines bloom across his skin. His breath catches, a whimper spilling free, and you smirk.

“Get back up here,” you order.

Chris scrambles onto the couch again, hovering nervously, waiting for instruction. His hands twitch like he doesn’t know where to put them. You straddle him once more, pressing your mouth to his neck, sucking hard until a bruise blossoms under your lips. He moans, hips bucking helplessly against you, but you press down harder to keep him pinned.

“You don’t move,” you hiss into his ear. “Not unless I tell you.”

“I—I won’t,” he promises, voice trembling.

“You better not.” You drag your nails down his back, sharp enough to make him arch. “Because if you do…I’ll leave you like this.”

The threat makes him whine, pathetic yet sweet, his breath hot against your shoulder. And you smile, because you know he’d let you ruin him and come crawling back for more.

You drag your nails down his chest once again, harder this time, watching him twitch beneath you. His breath hitches as more lines rise red on his skin. His hips jerk up instinctively, seeking friction, and you slam your palm against his shoulder to pin him flat.

“I said, don’t move.”

“I—I’m sorry,” he gasps, shame and arousal tangled in every word. His hands go back to clenching the cushions, desperate to hold on.

You grind down against him deliberately, rolling your hips with punishing slowness. The friction makes him choke out a groan, head tipping back, throat bared. You nip at it, hard enough to make him gasp again, then soothe the sting with your tongue.

“You’re already so close,” you murmur against his skin, cruel and mocking. “Pathetic. I could make you come in your jeans if I wanted.”

He whimpers, face flushed, thighs trembling beneath you. “Please…please don’t—”

“Don’t what?” You sit up, tugging at the waistband of his jeans. “Don’t ruin you yet? Don’t make you humiliate yourself before I even let you inside me?”

He shudders, words stumbling. “I’ll be good. Please. I’ll be good.”

“Prove it.” You yank his jeans down rough, shoving them past his hips. He groans in relief, already straining, leaking, pathetic. You climb off him only long enough to strip yourself down, deliberate and unhurried, making him watch. His eyes devour you, wide and reverent, and you smirk.

“You don’t get to touch,” you remind him as you climb back onto his lap, your hand wrapping around him once, just enough to make his whole body shudder. “You sit there and take it.”

“Yes,” he chokes out. “Yes, anything.”

You line him up, dragging the head of his cock against you slow, teasing, and his breath stutters like he’s about to break. “Please,” he begs, voice ragged, “I need—I need you.”

You sink down in one smooth, brutal motion, taking him all the way in at once. His cry tears through the room, raw and desperate, his nails clawing into the couch cushions as his hips buck up against your weight.

“Fuck,” he gasps, voice breaking. “Oh my god—”

“Stay still,” you hiss, gripping his shoulders hard. “Don’t you dare move.”

He bites his lip so hard you’re sure it’ll bleed, trembling violently under you as you grind down slow, making him feel every inch. His eyes roll back, chest heaving, sweat shining at his hairline. You ride him deliberately, pace slow, drawing it out until he’s sobbing with the effort of holding still. Every roll of your hips makes him gasp, every squeeze makes him whimper.

“You feel that?” you taunt, leaning in close, your mouth hot against his ear. “That’s what you ruined. This is what you threw away.”

His whole body jerks under you, broken moans spilling out. “I’m sorry,” he babbles. “I’m so sorry—please, I can’t—”

“You don’t get to cum until I say.” You rake your nails down his back, even harder this time, leaving fresh welts. He cries out, the sound shattering, but his hips stay pinned, obedient despite the shaking.

“Good boy,” you breathe, mocking and sharp. “Maybe you’re not completely useless.”

The praise breaks him further. He keens, eyes glassy, begging incoherently. You grind harder, faster now, feeling the tension coil tight between your thighs. Your fingers dig into his hair, yanking his head back so you can bite at his throat again, marking him as yours.

“Say it,” you order, breathless. “Say what you are.”

“I’m—” His voice cracks, tears spilling into the corners of his eyes. “I’m yours. I’m nothing without you. Please—”

The confession makes you clench around him, dragging a sob from his chest. You ride him harder, using his body, taking what you want. He writhes beneath you, wrecked and pliant, every sound pouring out like worship.

When you finally allow yourself to tip over, it’s with your nails sinking deep into his shoulders, your body trembling as waves crash through you. You ride it out mercilessly, grinding down on him as he sobs under the force of it, begging for release.

You pull back just enough to look at him, flushed, shaking, tears on his cheeks, mouth open in broken pleas. You decide to grant him mercy. “Come for me,” you command, sharp as a whip.

He doesn’t last a second. His whole body arches off the couch, hips jerking helplessly as he spills inside you with a cry that sounds like both agony and salvation. You ride him through it, squeezing every drop from him until he collapses, boneless and shaking beneath you. His eyes stay fixed on you, glassy and adoring, like you’re both the executioner and the only thing keeping him alive. You lean back, catch your breath, and smirk down at him. “Pathetic,” you whisper again, just to watch him flinch and melt at once.

His head falls back against the couch, chest heaving, sweat dripping down his temples. He looks ruined, glassy-eyed, lips swollen, trembling under your weight. But you don’t climb off. Instead, you shift your hips and start moving again.

His eyes fly open, panic and pleasure colliding all at once. “W–wait—” he gasps, voice wrecked. His hands twitch against the cushions like he doesn’t know if he should fight or surrender. “I— I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” you cut him off, your tone sharp enough to slice through the air. You roll your hips deliberately, grinding down on him until his whole body jerks with a strangled moan. “You’ll take it. You’ll give me what I want.”

He whimpers, head tipping back, exposing his throat. “It’s too much—”

“Good.” Your nails bite into his shoulders for balance as you ride him harder, chasing your own pleasure now. His whines turn broken, incoherent, every thrust pulling him apart a little more. His cock twitches inside you, oversensitive, and you smile at the sound of his voice breaking.

“Please,” he begs, voice hoarse. “Please, I can’t—”

“Shut up,” you snap. His cry fills the room, raw and guttural, and the noise only spurs you on.

You grind down harder, pace unrelenting, your own climax building fast. You cling to him, pressing your mouth against his neck, biting down hard enough to bruise as the heat coils in your belly.

“I’m not done,” you pant against his skin. “I want to come again. You’re going to make me.”

His eyes roll back, tears slipping free, his chest heaving with each ragged breath. He nods frantically even as his body trembles under the relentless pace. “Anything,” he chokes. “Anything you want—”

Your nails dig in deeper, sharper, until you feel the thin skin of his shoulders break under your grip. Hot blood beads beneath your fingertips, streaking red down his back. His whole body seizes at the sting, a sob tearing out of him, and then he’s gone. He convulses under you, crying out as his second orgasm rips through him, messy and uncontrolled. His release pulses inside you again, thick and hot, his body twitching violently as the overstimulation drags him to pieces.

The sight of him undone, the tears on his cheeks, blood under your nails, his body jerking helplessly, pushes you over the edge. Your climax crashes down, raw and brutal, your nails digging deeper into his torn skin as your hips grind hard against him. You ride out every wave, using him, taking what you want while he sobs beneath you.

When you finally slow, breathless, you stay seated on him, your nails still pressed into the welts you carved. He’s a wreck. His chest soaked with sweat, hair plastered to his forehead, lips parted around broken whimpers. Blood smears across your fingertips, bright against your skin, and you trail them down his chest just to watch him shudder.

“Look at you,” you murmur, cruel and satisfied. “Bleeding for me. Falling apart for me. Twice.”

Chris blinks up at you, pupils blown wide, tears still clinging to his lashes. He looks wrecked. He looks worshipful. He looks like he’d let you do it all over again if you asked. You smirk, leaning down until your lips graze his ear. “Pathetic,” you whisper, and feel him shiver under the word like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.

You stay on him until the twitching stops, until every last pulse of his release fades into trembling silence. Then you climb off slowly, deliberately, ignoring the way his body sags in relief under you.

Chris collapses against the couch, a boneless wreck. His chest heaves, sweat sticking his hair to his forehead, red lines slashed across his back, chest, and shoulders where your nails left him open. He’s still hard, still leaking, but too spent to move. You don’t look at him. Instead, you bend to grab the paper bag he brought, pluck a preroll from the bottom, and light it with the cheap lighter. The first drag fills your lungs, smoke curling out of your lips like a sigh. When you finally glance at him, he’s watching you like you hung the moon, wrecked and worshipful, blood streaked down his spine, tears drying at the corners of his eyes. He looks ruined. He looks addicted.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you say flatly, exhaling smoke in his direction.

He flinches, but he doesn’t look away. His voice is a whisper, hoarse and cracked. “I can’t help it.”

You snort, leaning back against the arm of the couch, joint balanced between your fingers. “Pathetic.”

He takes the word like a knife to the gut and a kiss on the mouth at the same time. His lips part, trembling, and then he says it again, the thing he always says, the thing you’ll never let him forget. “You gave me one chance, and I fucked it up.” His voice breaks, chest rising fast. “I was fucked up. I ruined it. I ruined us.”

You take another drag, hold the smoke in your lungs until it burns. When you blow it out, the cloud drifts between you like a wall. “You’re right.”

His breath stutters. He swallows hard, looks down at his ruined hands, fisting the couch cushions. “I’d do anything,” he whispers. “Whatever you want. However you want it. Just to stay here.”

The desperation in his voice grates against something soft inside you, and you crush it quick. You stub the joint out in the ashtray, lean forward, and press your palm against his chest. He startles at the touch, eyes darting up, but you shove him back down into the cushions with a smirk.

“You don’t get to stay,” you tell him. “Not unless I say. You come when I want something. You leave when I’m done. That’s all this is.”

Chris nods quickly, frantic, even as his eyes shine with something heavier. “Okay,” he whispers. “If that’s what you want.”

“It is.” You stand, tugging on your sweatshirt like nothing happened, like you didn’t just rip him open with your nails and take him apart twice over. You head for the kitchen, refill your water glass, and leave him sitting there, ruined and quiet.

When you return, he’s still staring at you, wide-eyed, waiting for scraps. You hand him his shirt from the floor. The collar is ripped, the fabric streaked with sweat and a smear of blood. He clutches it like it’s a gift. You sit back down, cross-legged on the couch, glass of water in one hand, joint in the other. You look at him like he’s nothing. You look at him like he’s everything.

“Go home,” you say finally, voice soft but sharp.

For a moment, you think he won’t move. Then he nods, slow and heavy, tugging his ruined shirt back on. He winces at the sting of fabric against the fresh scratches, but he doesn’t complain. He never does.

At the door, he pauses, fingers tight on the handle. He glances back once, eyes glassy and wrecked. “You know I’d bleed for you,” he says quietly.

You exhale smoke, let it drift toward him like a wave goodbye. “I know,” you murmur, and turn your head away before he can see that some part of you loves it.

The door clicks shut, and the apartment hums again. You sit in the haze of smoke and silence, heart beating steady, skin still buzzing, the taste of him still lingering in your mouth. You don’t let yourself think about what it means. You don’t let yourself admit that you’ll call him again. You already know you will.

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