nc-17 | sexual content

This isn't real, so it's okay.

This isn't real, so she lets go.

Closes her eyes.

He'd be gentle, caring, except that's no fun, so she makes him rougher, harsher. Big hands on her arms, shoulders, pushing her back, into the bed -

No. Against the wall.

He'd be drunk. Whiskey. Gin if it was a really bad night. Bad case. Stubble, hasn't shaved in days, stale, alcohol breath, but he wouldn't kiss her for long. Lips, moving down, to her neck, biting her like a vampire, but not enough to draw blood. Hands, everywhere, removing -

No. Ripping her clothes.

Buttons popping all over the place. Bra and underwear shoved out of the way. Hard and rough, some corner or edge of some piece of furniture digging into her back. Fingernails scraping her skin, drawing blood this time, whiskey breath is back, then against her ear, whispering -

No. Grunting. No words.

Pounding in her head, because she'd be drunk, too. Out of her mind. Senseless. Brainless. Holding on for dear life, because he'd be pounding, slamming, moving. Glass smashing, breaking, because he wouldn't care about the vase, the picture frames. Wouldn't care about anything. He'd get her to her bed -

No. Sofa. Even better, table.

Hardwood, cold on her back, him straining and shouting - he'd be shouting now - incoherent babbling about her -

No. About the case.

Trying to fix his mistakes by fucking her brains out. He'd come, and she'd finish herself off while he stood there, panting, too drunk to care about anything but the people he didn't save because of his arrogance, his stubbornness, his conviction that only he can sink deep into the criminal -


It's not real, so she arches her back and lets herself feel it.