#brokenfist

miles upshur from my favorite horror game ever outlast aka a muse i've had since 2018 on hit former rp blog hisapcstle and the actul love of my muse life

Sweet, sweet Sami. Always confided with her in your moments of breakdown, had remembered the time you always ran to her after trouble or when a fight night was over. had mended your wounds without question and offered emotional relief, support in matters you didn’t even deserve. Still so distrusting of people, it’s only been a couple of years since you decided— Maybe life wasn’t for you. so the wrong side of tracks was the only path. She really remains the good in your fucked up life right now. Fights every night, errands by day by shady jobs you were not proud of and she’s still forgiving from it all of it. Why was she so nice? So kind to you? you wanted to pay her back, make up to her, anything to make her feel …special.

Now more than ever,　you aren’t sure how to feel.　Jong-woo stuffed inside you is nice enough,　too-tender in how his frame moves atop yours　⸻　how you are bereft of bitemarks and bruises and skin stinging pink　⸻　sinking into you every time he thrusts,　as if you are fragile ornament,　splayed stolid beneath him in array of uncertainty.　Without inclination to reward his apparent lack of passion,　you’re still,　only just gathering the wherewithal to snake a palm up to the back of his head,　embroider lithe digits through strands already sweat saturated.　Jong-woo must be hellbent on progress in the opposite direction,　nuzzling reddened face into the crook of your neck.

It’s repulsive,　in a sense,　tenderness without purpose.　You would consider forgiving him if he teethed and suckled at your neck,　maybe,　marred you with sweet purples and reds.　He just doesn’t.　Matter of fact skin to skin;　something to be appreciated,　if you were a completely different kind of girl.　Another buck of his hips to guide stiff cock further inside of you.　You tense at the blissful intrusion,　walls tightening around him　⸻　he seems keen on mirroring your gesturing,　what with how his hand closes in toward your skull,　but all anticipation fizzles out in lust-guided haze as he gently,　GENTLY cards through sleek blonde.　

Irritating.　Next he’ll utter something schlocky,　like how beautiful you are or how good you feel,　and you’ll be forced to resist a fluid eye-roll.　God fucking forbid.

you stand a few feet from them, hesitant to approach. would your presence even be welcome after beating them? you can definitely imagine some people being too annoyed about it to want help from you. but you still feel like you should do something, and if nothing else, trying to help feels like some sort of rebellion to your situation. you can be blackmailed into these fights, sure, but they can't control your behavior outside of the ring. so eventually you step a little closer, all but shoving the first aid kit in their direction.

And you will always be haunted, even as you try and drown your woes in another person.

Promise yourself you won’t end up in this position again,　Dae-ho.　Relinquish all your damned,　worthless bullheadedness,　a caging of your teeth hard enough to splinter enamel if you really tried.　Maybe you’re just fucked in the head.　Plain and simple,　tough an curt.　You want to delude yourself into thinking you’ll win the fight next time,　that you have even a sliver of a chance at leveling your brawn against him.　Fuck the inches he has on you,　fuck the disparity in your strength,　fuck it all.　Every ounce of hatred for Bram coursing through you,　hot and cruel,　utterly repulses you　⸻　 despising this liability,　but most of all how he makes you feel.　And what you let him do to you,　in return.

At least you’ve finally goaded him away from the dirt and grime,　even if only temporarily.　What you crave is not to wedge distance between your coupling and the depravity,　but instead to seek solace in the transient sanctuary of a motel bed.　Close enough to home for him to shut the fuck up for more than a second,　and still a modicum of respite for you as things play out exactly how you know they will,　the exact routine you cannot resist,　intoxicating in its consistency.　You will feel gross regardless,　a staining that will not wash away beneath crystalline showerhead spray.

Already drenched in sweat,　seeping off of your frame and soaking the scratchy bedspread below you,　Bram has you all but folded in on yourself,　a stiff palm at the back of your head smothering your face into a cheap pillow.　Every desperate breath you draw in is rationed accordingly,　oft exaggerated to wriggle beneath Bram’s skin,　deny him the victorious conquest of having forced your silence.　No,　never.　You are loud to the very core of your being and he should know this intimately by now:　if he is going to fuck you like a man　(and there are few more manly than you　/　you with your tattoos,　with your musculature refined by labour over vanity,　with your nerve and pluck and audacity),　then you will take it like a man,　and neither of your identities shall be called into question for as long as this remains in the shadows.　That Bram,　what a coward he is,　unable to rail you with yellowed lights flickering overhead,　illuminating the expanse of your back.　The light switch is slammed into its deadening and it stays that way.　You don’t care,　not really.　For as much as you hate yourself,　it seems that Bram will be doomed to hate himself even more,　a landslide of aggression and violence and animosity.

And you let him exact it onto you.

Rough snap of his hips driven into you is enough to jolt you to your senses,　disallowed to drift off into a haze of salacity.　Stupid fucking accent of his follows suit,　barking a command out to you that you can only half-discern through your horned-up stupor.　Your subsequent silence seems to stoke his ire,　and he yanks your head back with a greedy fistful of loose strands,　slamming you back into the bed’s surface,　grinding your face down for a few seconds too long,　finally relenting once you’re frantically squirming against his hold.　You’ll try again,　then.