Trigger Warning: Depictions of Suicide.
The ride back to his house is layered with tension. His words hang in the air - the ones that affirmed how little I mean to him - and I can't shake their sting.
By the time the car pulls into the driveway of his massive home, I'm shaking with nerves. He barks for me to get out of the car, and I pull the passenger side door open, wishing I could steal a few more minutes beneath its comforting metal roof before I embark back into the jungle that it is to live with this unpredictable beast.
He stalks towards the house and my eyes can't help but comb over the angry red lines of his back and small specks of blood.
He needs someone to take care of that or it'll get infected, but I’m not sure it’s wise to press the issues with him. Regardless, when the front doors finally close behind us and he moves towards the stairs, I move after him. After a few steps, he halts, and I almost run into his blood crusted back.
“Sasha?” He questions, twisting his head slightly to see me through peripheral vision which I find is much more intimidating than him watching me head on, because I can’t see the emotions that flicker across his expression microscopically. Instead, all I get is a piece of his intense gaze. It isn’t enough to read him, and it isn’t enough to save me.
So I tread carefully.
“Your wounds need to be taken care of,” I say, but my words are distorted from this evening's happenings. I find myself breathless, my throat raspy. He hears it too, and it makes his shoulders tense.
“I will manage,” He concludes and begins moving back up the steps, clearly done with our conversation and done with me, but I won’t give up that easily. Especially with the memories of him saving me from that asshole in the club - regardless if Levi says that what it was or not.
I hurry after him, until he gets to his bedroom door and whips around so fast, I stumble backwards and yelp slightly when I almost lose my balance, but he’s there. Stopping me with a hand wrapped around my good wrist. That’s when he remembers my injured wrist and frowns.
“You should be the one who’s taken care of,” He replies, and I blink a few times, before my cheeks begin to burn with embarrassment and I gently pull my hand from his grasp.
“Not until you let me clean you up,” I challenge, hoping I don’t meet a swift end with his hand slapping my ass for my firmness in my tone, but his expression softens a tad, and he nods.
“Fine,” He says, and nods for me to follow him into his room. His bedroom looks pristenly kept; like a maid has gone through it and put everything meticulously into place - because a man who’s so into control likes to have his space that way.
Even if his sense of control is an illusion, one he’s convinced himself of to avoid dealing with the emotional trauma of his loss.
I follow him into the bathroom, heart hammering in my chest, palms slickening with sweat when he pulls a first aid kit out of the small towel closet, and sets it on the edge of the sink.
My brows raise, as I move towards it and scan the contents inside while he sits onto the toilet. Even while he is sitting, he’s still tall, but I have better access to his back as he shifts, and I’m thankful he can’t see my shaking hands as I pull out some antibiotic ointment, bandages, and some gauze.
Now that I can freely observe the brunt of my punishment, the open cuts on his skin, I take a moment to bite my quivering lip and swallow my guilt.
“What’s taking so long?” He presses with annoyance. I clear my throat awkwardly, and wet some of the gauze before I begin to blot it against the cuts. I wince, afraid I’m hurting him or doing it wrong but he doesn’t move; doesn’t even make a sound.
“D-does that hurt?” I ask, as I move to coat the cuts in antibiotic ointment. I think he’ll ignore me as a few seconds tick by, but finally he answers.
“No.” He rounds his shoulders for me so I can get a better view and angle of his back as I begin to put the bandages on. “Then again, I enjoy pain. Sometimes it’s hard to distinguish between that and pleasure.”
He inhales a deep breath when I realize I’ve been pressing the bandage harder into his skin while listening intently to what he’s said. I step back, apologizing.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be,” He says, matter-of-factly. After what I’ve just heard, he means it. He rises from the toilet, and arches a brow. “Sit.”
He commands me, and I find my legs moving on their own accord, before I lower myself to the toilet and face him. I try to keep my gaze downcast as he lowers himself to his knee, and grabs a hold of some gauze, but I find my eyes slowly, daringly moving upward until they stop at his sculpted jaw and kissable lips.
Whoa, I must be absolutely traumatized from what happened because those same “kissable” lips have leaked hatred from them appointed at me.
When he presses the gauze to the sore cut on my wrist, I hiss in pain, before I frown down at his hands.
“Ow,” I murmur, before he continues until the dried blood is clear from my skin, and all that’s left is an angry red open wound, that’s started to heal. He grabs the same ointment I used, and begins applying it to my wrist, careful to be gentle with me this time, before he finishes with a bandage that might not hold because of the angle of my hand and forearm.
After a second of assessing his handy work, he wraps it once to keep the bandage from falling off, and peers at me.
“Good?” He questions, and if my shock bothers him, he doesn’t show it more than a narrowing of his eyes.
“Yes… very good.”
I don’t know if it’s the fact he’s just taken care of my wounds, or the atmosphere of pain and lust that’s made its way into the bathroom, but I find myself staring longingly at his mouth with a need that’s reckless and immature.
You don’t actually want the man who claims you’re worthless. You don’t quiver beneath his gaze, and fantasize about what more he can show you beneath the hell that is his exterior; the anger and the pain, the trauma and sickening desire.
But I do.
And right now, I can’t peel my eyes from the things I so desperately want to taste.
So I lean forward.
Surprise flashes in his eyes, but that’s all, until my lips make contact with his, and my brain malfunctions, letting my body take over.
His mouth is the perfect balance of softness and firmness, in the way he molds his mouth to mine, and claims my kiss as if he’d initiated the damn thing. His breath mingles with mine, warm and inviting. I need no convincing to let his tongue sweep my bottom lip and enter inside of my mouth to tangle with mine until I’m moaning and gasping from the embrace.
It’s silly. I know. But what can be expected from a girl who has nothing? Sometimes beauty needs the beast. In the most feral way.
I lean forward so much, he falls backwards, me on top of him on the bathroom floor, until I’ve straddled him, and his hands have cinched my waist, and there’s no escape from his touch.
I don’t want an escape.
I want him to devour me until there’s nothing left.
I want to taste and feel, and smell, and drown in him.
By the tightness of his grip, I can tell he wants to devour me just as much.
I’m grinding on him, bare pussy against denim, the deeper and longer the kiss continues, until the friction has my pussy ablaze and the pressure from my swaying movement creates an ache that rolls through my entire being.
He can tell - no surprise considering a predator always knows how to read prey - that I’m about to shatter into blissful oblivion atop him, so he begins dragging my hips along his thick erection. Despite his pants, I can feel every perfect bulge of his powerful cock.
Just the mental image alone has my nipples achingly hard as I reach the brim of an explosive orgasm.
“Levi!” I cry out against his lips as I feel my inner walls clenching as pleasure crescendos in my pussy until my hips and legs are trembling above him. I’m thankful he’s guiding the rhythm I grind myself against him, because it draws out my orgasm until my lips have slipped from his and I’ve collapsed atop him.
My body is his at this moment. Completely and utterly his. I don’t doubt he’ll claim me again the way he had in the club. Especially with his cock throbbing so desperately in his jeans to be set free and stretch and fill me until he’s coming deep inside of his possession.
But he doesn’t.
And I don’t know what’s more alarming. His resolve, or my disappointment as he gently pulls me off him.
He settles me down beside him, confusion in my gaze as he remains quiet and stands up, dusting off his jeans, but there’s a discernable spot of wetness on the crotch of his pants. My wetness.
He puts up that wall again, guarding his expression as he makes eye contact with me. He nods to the first aid kit.
“Put it away. I have business to attend to. I’ll speak with you later.”
With that, he spins around and stalks out of the bathroom, a contemplative posture as he goes.
I don’t know what the hell that’s about. I’m not sure I want to, because I’m not too fond of rejection. He must know that. I pull myself up off the floor with as much dignity as I can muster, and move to the first aid kit, before I pack all of the things back into it and put it away.
He denied me.
He didn’t want me.
I hate the ache that forms. The ache that lays my secrets bare, and magnifies my slowly building fondness.
It makes me want to scream.
It makes me feel utterly alone.
I move to his shower, hoping he won’t mind me using it as I feel the energy drain right out of me, as if the gravity has shifted and I’m being crushed beneath it’s weight.
I peel off his shirt and toss it down on the ground, before I twist the knob to the shower, and watch as the water pours from the jet, drowning out all other sound.
If he really has business to attend to, I’m sure I’ll be fine. Besides, he was acting strange when he left - like he was trying to avoid me - so I doubt he’ll come running back. He’s not in any hurry.
Stepping beneath the water is anticlimactic. I hoped the steam would ebb away that hopeless sinking feeling, but all it does is envelop it in a blanket of steam. Tears come to my eyes swiftly, stinging in their wake before they’re morphed in with the droplets of water that cascade from my hair down my face.
I know he can’t hear me, so I don’t bite back my sobs. I let them roll through me, shaking my shoulders, and making my stomach feel like there’s a gaping hole inside of me. It’s not until I lift my hand to brush my hair back that I realize I’ve completely ruined what he’s done to mend the wound on my wrist, but it’s too late, and there’s no use turning back now.
So I unwrap it and pull off the bandages, crumpling it up, before I drop it at the bottom of the shower, and peer down at it. An image of that sleazy club member flashes in my eyes and I feel a bout of bitter laughter rolling up my throat until my sobs have become hysterically amusing.
An itch climbs up my hand to my injured wrist, so I scratch it, against the logic in my brain telling me to stop, even when my nails make contact with the sensitive new flesh, I scratch. Hard.
What does it matter if it bleeds again? If it pours and flows until I’m unconscious?
Maybe then I’ll be reunited with my sister. Maybe then the pain will finally end.
I gasp, realizing I’ve now begun to dig my nails into it. I bite my lip to stifle the strangled sound of pain on my tongue, as I open the cut up and the thickness of blood coats my wrist.
The bottom of his shower slowly begins to turn reddish. A mix of water in and loss and a dash of giving up.
I peer around for a razor, anything to spur the speed of blood flow, and stumble upon one that I suppose will do the trick. Swiping it from a shelf in the shower, I examine it, and deem it fit for my purpose, before I drag the blade across my wrist. The sting makes me hiss, until the blood reaches the surface of my skin and begins to slowly drip from it.
It’s not deep enough.
So I cut again, and again. Until it bleeds as freely as the other wound.
Not gushing. But a gentle flow.
I let the razor drop onto the ground, and the sobs take back over, but all that’s in the place of anguish is a numbness that truly makes me feel dead inside.
I peer around the shower, before I turn and shut off the water.
If death will come to steal me away, I don’t want it to be in Levi’s shower.
I’d rather be laying in bed. As was my sister when the smoke came for her lungs and suffocated her in her sleep.
I command my legs to move. They’re on autopilot as I step out and don’t bother to swipe a towel from the closet. I walk, soaked, and naked out of the bathroom to my bedroom, leaving a trail of water, blood and tears.
I should probably clean the blood up. He’ll be mad I’ve made such a mess, but I conclude he won’t care about that when it’s all said and done. I’m thankful I don’t find him in the hallway. I wouldn’t have left his room had I heard his footsteps. I scurry to my room, before I spot my bed, and climb into it.
I feel queasy.
Scared.
Done. So fucking done.
But that doesn’t shake that voice in my head that’s telling me to fight, the drowsier I become.
Fight.
Breathe.
Live.
In this shitty world. Just don’t let death win.
It’s autonomous I know. So I suppress the urge to wrap my wrists and let my eyes flutter closed and breathe steadily, until my heart almost feels heavy in my chest.
Or is that footsteps?
I don’t know anymore.
Not until he’s in my room, after god knows how many minutes have passed by. He calls my name, angrily and frantically, but I can’t peel my eyes open.
My brain just won’t command my body properly.
But I can hear him, and oh god, he’s pissed.
“Sasha?” He calls. “Sasha - Fuck,” He hisses, and I feel his touch as he shakes me.
“What the fuck were you thinking?”
He admonishes me, before I hear him cursing again, and I fade into the darkness.