#inspo: donnybrook

[annwrites]

"Tell me you love me," he commands. Tears sting your eyes. "I love you." "My name." "I love you, Angus."

"I'm so sorry," you say, choking back tears. "Stop fucking crying!" He shouts, shaking you. You squeeze your eyes shut, willing it away. Hoping that when you open them again, he'll have disappeared.

He’s not leaving until he learns what you look like, too. Feel like, maybe. He’ll have to decide that part once you let him inside. And you will. — You wouldn’t go to college. Wouldn’t become an engineer. Wouldn’t make enough money to try and give yourself, as well as your dad, a better life. And Angus doesn’t stay away from you. Instead, he becomes all you eventually have to turn to.

He, sharp rusted shards liable to cut soft delicate skin—bringing about malignant infection, while you yourself are more like a piece of thin linen—one sharp tug against a frayed edge, and you’ll wholly unravel until there’s none of you left.

You consider turning back around—that you've made a terrible mistake. You want the doctor to get her shiny phone out again, or her fancy laptop, and to contact the authorities. Instead of doing the smart thing, though, you walk over to him, and he stands.

You look at him again, to his neck—focusing your eyes, watching as his carotid pulses beneath the tanned skin. It's just when you're considering a sharps container mounted against the wall that there's a soft knock at the door.

You should ask him to leave. You turn to him. You open your mouth to do so, to tell him to go home—to the one that isn’t this one. And then he crushes his lips to yours.

Angus pinches your nipple gently, rolling it between his rough fingertips, his cock slowly filling with blood.  His lip twitches at the pleasant feeling while he imagines doing revolting things to you. — You glance up and see that his eyes are wide open as he stares at the ceiling, his pupils dilated. Some sick part of you desperately wants to know what’s going on in his head. Maybe you’d like it.

“Everything I do is for you,” Angus says, cocking the lever back. “Including this.” He pulls the trigger.

He tells you no one will ever love you the way he does. You don't think they could, either. Not after all the sins you've committed. You're tainted now, you suppose. Anyone else would call you sick. Think you're filled with disease.

“Like our old man? He was the first, wasn’t he? Couldn’t mind his own fucking business. Like when he caught us—you were so young then. I was just trying to teach you. Wasn’t nothin’ wrong with it.” He goes back to licking you again, cleaning you up. You’d been fifteen. Angus over twice your age at that point. 

You feel like a frightened little girl who's been forced to live inside a woman's body that you never asked for—you've been forced to do a lot of things; given even more that you don't want to have. You fear, frequently, that that's all you'll ever be: the girl in the closet, hiding from a monster that always knows how to find her. [...] You'd read once about a term...imposter syndrome. They seem to know what they're doing with the grown-ups parts they've been given to carry around. You don't. It just feels like burdensome, extra baggage to you. Sometimes it's more than you can bear. And instead of helping shoulder some of it, Angus just adds onto the straining weight of it all.

Sometimes...you go somewhere else inside while he tends to his carnal needs. Some place that you've never been, but feels familiar because you visit it so often. He can't find you there. It's the only place he can't.

You bite your lower lip—squeezing your eyes shut—before releasing it, sighing loudly, your slick walls clenching around his thick cock, teasing and pleasing him, until he slams an open palm against the cabinet next to your head, yelling as he comes inside you in one long spurt, filling you up with himself; with toxic sludge that you think one day might give you cancer. But you already have a tumor between your legs. It's why you suffer every day. 

You don't think you've ever drawn in a breath of air that hasn't been tainted with him.

You feel like a doll tonight. You do a lot of the time, really. Pretty on the outside—at least Angus says so occasionally—empty on the in.

You’re not strong enough to keep him if he wanted to walk away. But he likes you being weak. Weaker, at least.

No way the old man has cleaned up his act. He hopes he hasn’t. If he has… The thought makes him feel worse. He deserves to live the same shit lifestyle that he does. The same one he introduced him to. He’s responsible. For all of it.

Sublimation, Colubrina / Algedonic, R.H. Sin / Plainwater, Anne Carson / Cut, Caitlyn Siehl / Ask Polly: Help, I'm the Loneliest Person in the World!, Heather Havrilesky / The Kite Runner, Khaled Hosseini / @paulaxdiez / Japanese Breakfast, Boyish / holyaches / x / ciøta / amisouennemis / Two Girls (Lovers) (1911), Egon Schiele ; Going to Scotland, The Mountain Goats / lostaffections / The Bell Jar, Sylvia Plath / holyaches / unknown

block quotes all taken from my donnybrook fanfic

[annwrites]

donnybrook masterlist

chainsaw angus

—one-shots | inspo | ao3:

eldon's house

meth-lab

angus' monte carlo

the recliner

the bedroom

free clinic

late at night

birthday

first time meeting