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It’s taken you a long time to decipher the anomaly that is Anton Chigurh. Even still, you can’t completely say that you have the man all figured out: but you’re certainly closer than anyone else has ever been.
You both know this is a dog-eat-dog world, and you accept this as is — bloody and unrelenting, but how else could it be? Your entire life, you’ve ran: from everything. From yourself, from others. Now isn’t any different: now you’re just running with Anton. As much as you’re sure he justifies the criminal life as anything but running, you’re not sure what else car hopping and motel switching could be. This ‘life’ you two live is built between the thin tight ropes of accidental suicide, built with bullets and stacks of dirty money. You wouldn’t have it any other way, though.
The soft buzzing of the motel A.C. swims through the cold room Anton had rented for the both of you, somewhere along the country line, still running. Always running. Warm water beads down your legs as you step out of the shower, you turn the knob to the left to cease the water coming from the shower head. You swallow tiredly and take a deep breath in, sliding a towel off of the sink’s counter and squeezing your hair dry with it. Fog from the hot water muddies the mirror you stare into, making your reflection seem more alien than it usually did. Different motel sink, same reality — you laugh at yourself mentally.
Once you’re finished wringing your hair out, you take to drying down the rest of your body. Your bruised, battered and tired body. It comes with the territory, you suppose. You note the emptiness of the motel to yourself, Anton left earlier in the day with a short ‘I’ll be back’ — whatever that entailed. Nothing good, you’re certain, because when was it ever? The motel feels empty and void without him, almost like you’ve lost a safety blanket of some sort, even if you knew he’d return. You wrap the towel around your torso and move to open the bathroom door, immediately noting the clock on the wall as you do, twelve in the morning.
You thought he’d be back by now.
You shake off the anxiety that builds in your core, you know Anton can handle himself more than anyone, but that doesn’t mean you want him home to you any less. It’s ironic really, that you can still see the domestic aspects of your relationship with Chigurh, even if you were only fooling yourself. Your bare feet press into the coarse carpet of the motel, dropping the damp towel on the king bed made for two. You look towards the front door and make sure it’s locked, before covering yourself in some old pair of underwear you packed a while back. The opportunity to purchase new, nicer undergarments never really arose in your current life.
With only your chest and lower region covered, you sit on the foot of the bed and run your fingers through your wet hair, looking down at your knees blankly — silently. Whatever fucked up form of a stay-at-home (motel) wife this was, you were already far used to it and learned that contemplation towards it never changed anything. There’s a soft jingle at the door, and your head instinctively perks up, your gaze snapping to look at the handle as it’s pulled down from the other side. Your fingers tense, and your nerves rise — but dissipate just as quickly as they appeared when a familiar death-smelling man walks through the door and closes it behind him, locking it. Bolt pistol in hand, he sets it down carefully on the desk pressed against the wall.
You sit up from the mattress and stare at a very frustrated Anton in concern, as frustrated as he could look, at least. You know better than to pry, especially when he is like this, but you part your lips.
“You’re back late.” You state the obvious, and Anton stares back at you intensely. His chest rises and falls slowly, like he was trying to cage some sort of deep rage in his ribs that was trying to claw its way out of his mouth. His jaw clenches, but he looks completely collected at the same time: calm face, heavy breaths. The Anton usual. Chigurh notes you with a deep hum and a nod, raking your barely covered figure up and down.
“You were keeping track?” Anton responds, raspy, more of a mock than a question. He looks away from you and shrugs his denim jacket off of his shoulders, you let your eyes roll as you step closer to him. Your bare feet stand before his boots, and you look up at him, placing your hands on either side of the base of his neck. You rub his collar with your thumbs, and he looks down at you, eyes tired as they always are. The touch isn’t exactly reciprocated — it rarely is — but it’s not unwelcome. You can feel how tense his muscles are under your fingers, you tilt your head.
“Did something happen?” You ask, drowning in Anton’s eyes: taking in the monster he is. Anton swallows and makes a dismissive noise in the back of his throat, turning his gaze to the side.
“No.” He says. You know he’s lying, he knows that you know, but you don’t push any further. Something happened outside that didn’t pan out his way, that’s the best thing you can chalk it up to. You were half-expecting him to answer plainly, it’s unlike him to voice the things that truly upset him. There’s silence, he stares at you once again, after taking in every other detail from the wall, it seems. Your hands travel up his neck and find purchase on his jaw, you pull him down to you slowly, and he doesn’t pull away.
“Did you get the money?” You ask without breaking eye contact, bewitching Anton. His lips press into a thin line — ah, so that was it. You can put together how angry he must be, now. Anton expected this.. suitcase he’s been chasing for, who knows how long, to be placed at his feet, and it was not. You don’t ask him about it further, you’ve put together your answer. You already know Anton doesn’t want your sympathy, and he doesn’t deserve it, but you give it to him anyway.
Your palms still rest upon the sides of his face, taking him in like an angry, lost dog. You lean your head closer to him and apologetically press your lips into his dry ones. Anton’s fingers twitch at his sides, and he finally moves his arms up to grip your shoulders. His hold is hard and rough, it’s awkward, but it’s the only way he knows how. He engulfs you, in size and height, but you still keep him tethered like a small lifeline. With the way Anton sighs into your mouth, you can conclude that he needed this more than you did, and you’re more than willing to give it to him. Your own eyes close, but his remain open just a small amount — unnatural. You wrap your arms around Anton’s neck, his tongue slides into your mouth with the aggravation he’s been holding in. Treating you like a stress ball.
You’re taken a little bit aback by the heat of his kiss and the tight grip he has on your body, and you feel as though you’re about to fall backwards with it — but Anton’s arms keep you steady as he sternly locks his lips with yours: like he’s yelling at you. Even in moments like this, he seems so serious, so cold and premeditated in all of his motions. Unfortunately for the both of you, breath is needed, so your hands drop to his chest and you pull away with a faint gasp. You take a step back, he takes a step forward, you’re so deep in hot water that you feel your body burn with it.
Your fingers snake around the burgundy fabric of Anton’s shirt, palming it as he lingers close to your face again, the back of your claves hit the mattress, but you still stand. You breathe against his lips, and the bridge of your noses press against one another.
“How can I help you, Anton?” Your words are walking the line of a whisper, and his eyes of sapphire steal your gaze greedily.
“How can you help me.” Anton repeats, looking at you in a way that triggers your fight or flight. You make a move to step back again, failing to remember that there was no room to do so — you sit on the bed, clumsily. His frame shadows you, and it’s suddenly so clear how small he makes you feel. Small, but never insignificant. Your knees spread apart to make room for his, still standing, legs; you keep your eyes steady on him through your lashes. Anton’s fingers clench and unclench, withdrawal from your body being released from them. Your hair, still damp, sticks to your neck as you lean back slightly.
Anton doesn’t have to tell you, from the primal glint in his eyes you know exactly how you can help him. How you are going to help him. Your palms raise and find their way to the buttons of his shirt, undoing them quickly and swiftly — pure muscle memory. He peers down over frame, arms planting on either side of you, hands sinking into the mattress. You are a fly caught in Anton’s spider web, his hair falls over his face as he towers over you — still staring directly into your irises. It would’ve been uncomfortable if you hadn’t been so used to his persistent and inhuman eye contact. You make your way down the row of buttons, lingering lower. You are focused on making sure that Anton completely forgets about this suitcase of his, even if the bliss is only momentary.
Anton kicks off his leather boots, and you tug his undone shirt down his shoulders, to which he lifts his arms so you have access to pull it off completely. You rake your hands down his chest and take in all his features, littered with scars, healed bullet wounds, and small patches of hair towards the middle. Outlaw. Utterly outlaw, Anton is. You tilt your face back up to him, finding his lips with yours soundly as you unbuckle his belt and spread your legs wider. Anton gnaws at you, and the hardness in his jeans speaks for how tense and impatient he’s become. You make quiet whines in his mouth as he violates you with his tongue — you pull down the zipper of his pants. Setting a quicker pace, you slide off his belt and pull his pants down his hips, helping him kick them off of his legs fully.
Anton pulls away from your lips regrettably, placing his hands on your shoulders and swiftly pushing your back onto the bed. Finally, he lays himself on the mattress knees-first, caging over top of you. You expect Anton to hook his thumbs under your panties and pull them down, or to bite your neck raw — the things he usually does, but he doesn’t. Quiet and controlled as ever, he extends his arm to the bedside table the motel provided, and his gaze leaves you.
“You really want to help me?” Anton mumbles to you, in reference to what you asked earlier. You look at him quizzically, quirking your brow back as he opens the drawer of the table and fishes inside of it. You don’t respond to him. You turn your head to the side and look at what item he must be pulling out. You feel your stomach drop slightly, watching as he pulls out a metal box cutter. Anton smiles to himself, unnaturally and saccharine, you turn to look at him.
“What are you doing?” You ask Anton, which he doesn’t acknowledge. He grips the razor in his hand and looks back down at you.
“Sit up.” Says Anton. You hesitate for a moment, looking at the blade, then back to him. You begin to wonder if everything people have said about him is true, you feel like you’re in danger — like he’s about to kill you: and it makes you embarrassingly wet. You sit up without a word or protest, and he’s visually pleased with this. You press your back against the headboard, and he shifts his body to sit up in front of you, his legs dangling off of the side of the bed now. You don’t know what he’s doing, or what he’s planning, but he pulls your calf over his lap. Anton moves closer to you, pressing his forehead against yours at an angle — you can feel him breathing against your lips.
You look down, not moving your head away from him, but enough to see what he’s going to do with the box cutter. Your lips part mindlessly, and he looks down at the blade as well. Sparing any hesitation, you see him bring his free arm up, flipping it to expose his wrist. Your brows furrow and you’re severely confused. Anton seems to have this all planned out, though, and from the tent in his boxers he’s still very much turned on. Anton slides up the blade from its small hostler — your eyes grow wide — without any warning he brings it down upon his pale wrist, slicing a clean line horizontally across the middle, cutting himself cleanly.
“Anton—“ You attempt to speak but are interrupted by the brunette's muffled groan. He liked it. You look down at his boxers. He liked it a lot. Chigurh confused you in several ways, but this caught you off guard by a long shot. The cut is thin, not deep, but blood begins to bead out of it. Anton looks at you again, his gaze intense. You look at him, you don’t know what to do.
“Now you.” Anton speaks, his voice deep but demanding. You blink at him, you feel him find your hand, placing the razor blade in it. You don’t know what to think, you’re dumbfounded at the situation presented by this man. But, you did say you would help him. You hold the box cutter in your hand, he hovers his wrist closer to you. Anton holds his hand over yours, the one that holds the blade, and ushers it down softly. You don’t pull away from him, you don’t deny him what he wants, you press the razor against his wrist and cut a line beside the one he just made. Again, a small noise comes out of him that you weren’t expecting. It’s deep and raspy but desperate for more.
“Doesn’t this hurt?” You ask him, he tips his head to the side, the emotionless husk that is Anton Chigurh melting into something you’re not familiar with.
“Yes.” He responds truthfully, that accent of his lacing his tone and sending shivers like leeches down your spine. That was the point, you suppose. For it to hurt. You feel his bulge against your calf, and you wonder if he’s ever done this to himself before. You see no scars on his arms or wrist, it becomes apparent that it needs to be you who does this for him, to him. That fact alone makes you feel a bit more keen about this whole thing. Anton gazes at you, cloudy but still focused — from the light tremble of your bottom lip to the way your grip falters on the blade, he can tell you’re hesitant. He takes this in, and uncharacteristically presses his lips against the side of your neck, breathing in your scent as he did so: like it made him euphoric.
You sigh pleasantly at Anton’s contact, gripping the box cutter tighter as he kisses your plush skin. Like a nail in the coffin, he lets go of your hand and places it on your thigh. Anton’s wrist is still presented, but now the reality is crystal: it’s ultimately up to you how this is going to go. You think about how his hand left your own, independently leaving the razor in it. He kisses your jaw, in a way he hasn’t before, and it’s enough to make you want more of this from him. Still, this was a dance intended for two. You press yourself against Anton, and you comply, bringing the sharp blade back down on his wrist and dragging it down. His lips falter against your jaw for a moment, the pain from the razor splitting open his skin lighting a candle in his head that makes him whisper your name. Another thankful, open-mouthed kiss on your neck, he wants to be closer to you.
Droplets of blood bloom from the cuts on Anton’s wrist, rolling down his skin and onto your thigh like a fine stream of glistening ruby. You feel your core throb, and your face burns up — you can’t believe how much you’re starting to enjoy this. Anton runs his tongue against your skin, and you shift in a way that favours the angle of his wrist. You watch as his skin already starts to turn pink and flare up, but the sight doesn’t bother you as much as you thought it would. The yellow light of the lamp illuminates Anton perfectly, this moment is perfect for him, for you. You hold the tip of the box cutter against his lower wrist, mindful of not going near any important arteries, and sink it into his skin— swiping.
Anton groans in relief, it fills your ear deliciously.
“Go deeper.” He tells you, fully indulgent in himself, in you. His free hand grips your inner thigh, and he buries his nose in the crook of your neck, attached to you like a bloodthirsty parasite. The pain in his arm is throbbing and he revels in it. Blood still drips onto your thigh, rolling down inside of it. A part of you can’t believe you’re complying with this, but another part is selfishly taking in how much Anton needs this from you. You breathe hard, studying the reflection of your eyes in the razor.
Experimentally, you raise the blade above the first cut Anton made, sinking it in the already open wound. You feel him jolt ever-so-slightly against you, he mumbles something incoherent into your neck. He just can’t help himself. Anton raises his face from the crook of your neck and looks directly at his wrist as you break open the next layer of skin he failed to spread open the first time. He winces, hard, he can’t look away — his cock twitches in his boxers. You watch closely as you see a layer of white fat split open under the pressure of the box cutter, you pull the blade away after a few seconds. You look at Anton.
“Like that?” You seek his approval, as you always do. You want to feel as though you’re serving him right in this.. taboo fetish of his, that you’re making your Anton feel good. He looks at his wrist for a few more seconds, lost in sight, before looking at you again. Anton nods, his strong, masculine features seeming so soft in this light.
“Yes. Like that.” Anton swallows, his usual non-emotive physique now cracking and frazzled. The pale expression on his face sparks electricity through your body — your clit throbs, unbearably so, and your turn your eyes to look at his cut-up wrist. Anton presses his cheek against yours as his eyes fall back to his arm as well, the both of you now staring at the open wounds like blood-sniffing sharks. Before slitting another cut into his wrist, you brush your calf against his cock subtly, rubbing it gently just to see how he reacts. Anton’s nose flares up, a short noise bubbling behind his tongue. You grin to yourself knowingly and jab into his skin with the razor more carelessly than you’ve been doing this whole time, slicing a deep cut with one swift, dragging motion.
Another throb and twitch hardens his length from beneath his boxers and you can feel it, blood spills on your thigh and Anton drowns in this moment. He gasps shortly, out of the corner of your eyes you can see his own grow wide. His index finger twitches.
“Fuck.” Anton murmurs, sounding like something that was only meant for himself — but you hear it. His hold on your thigh is now iron-like, he’s shaking for you. You don’t look away from his wrist, the newest cut on his arm splitting wider than you had intended it to. It’s almost shaped like an eye, staring back at you — endorphins swim between you two like trumpet-wielding cherubs. The slit itself ran deeper than the last one, you notice a hint of yellow is now exposed. Your underwear is soaked by now, you can feel it as your shift your hips closer to him, applying more pressure to his member. Anton’s cheek flushes against yours, and he chews on the inside of his cheek. His skin burns red, bubbling up beside every cut on his arm.
His boxers grow sticky with pre-cum and you haven’t even fucked him yet — unless, this is considered fucking to him. You rub him out through his boxers a little harder, and he groans generously, no longer trying to hide his overt pleasure for this. Your eyes wander to Anton’s hand, still gripping your inner thigh, they creep further towards the hem of your panties. His hand raises, only slightly, and slides under your garment without asking: his large palm cupping over your heat in some form of thanks. You whine out, your lips parting and your hand on the blade tightening. Anton’s index finger is rough, skin not soft in the slightest, but the sensation of it running up and down your wet and sensitive folds is something you’re pathetic for.
You offer him a raw whimper, pushing your hips into his hand while praising him with another cut to his wrist. Through all this, both of your eyes admire the burning slices that engrave his wrist, his finger slips inside your warm hole, shortly followed by a second one, and you stifle his name under a whisper. You shake at Anton’s blood trickling down your thigh, you feel his finger pump in and out of your entrance — it’s all too much. Taking a different grip on the blade, you practically stab the tip of it into his arm. The large fingers inside of you pause for a moment, Anton stammers something you can’t quite make out — Spanish, you assume — before thrusting quicker than they had before. You drag the razor, drag it hard, both you and Anton beg for each other in sync: you can hear his skin rip. Anton’s fingers plunge in and out of you, and your calf applies hard pressure to his cock, you both pant like tired dogs.
You hesitate for a moment, the new cut is so deep it doesn’t even bleed at first. Anton takes notice of your short hesitance, and pumps his fingers faster in turn: as if to tell you ‘it’s okay’. Your lips press into a line, you feel his blood glide down your thighs and stain your panty line, seeping into the cotton. His skin bruises, turning an off-purple around the open gashes you inflicted on his wrist. You loll your head back some, whining and mewling as he plunges his finger in and out of you. Anton stifles a monotone chuckle to himself, turning his head to the side and pressing his lips against your cheekbone as he adds another finger. All of the combined stimulation makes your body feel swollen and weak, a knot coils in your stomach as Anton kisses your cheek intently. His fingers curl inside of you, egging you on further, and it stings in the best way possible. Your torso jolts and you squirm slightly at the friction, Anton’s hand only pulls back as far as your panties will let it. Your lips part, and your eyebrows knit together.
“Anton..” His name comes out as a warble from your voice, you grip the razor as tight as you can. You feel your climax approach you like a brick, you don’t forget your task at hand: the box cutter and his wrist. You extend your forearm, biting down on your bottom lip as you lower the razor blade on a previous cut you had made, applying unforgiving pressure and slitting it.
“Good. Good for me.” Anton tells you, pulling away from your cheek. By this point, his entire wrist is flared up and red, looking akin to a sheet of paper that’s gone through a shredder. He bleeds on you, and you cum obediently in his hand after a few more generous pumps from him. You shudder pleasantly, dirtying your cum and blood-stained underwear. Anton’s hand slips out of your undergarment and goes back to gripping your thigh, now you can feel how sticky his fingers have become. You try to catch your breath, your face red and sweaty. You take the razor away from his arm, figuring he’s had enough: but he hasn’t.
With his injured arm, he grips your wrist, pressing himself closer to your body. Anton feels giant compared to you, like a tower that you can’t seem to walk out from under.
“No,” He breathes, holding his forehead against the side of your face. He gulps, panting, he isn’t finished yet. “It’s not the same. If you don’t do it.” Anton tells you. He yearns, he wants, and it’s unlike him. You almost can’t even fathom that he wants this more; especially from you.
Hurt him.
He wants you to hurt him.
The hitman pulls your hand back to him, but instead of his arm, he leads your blade to his thigh. You both watch, waiting for your next move.
You shift your calf off of his thigh, leaving more skin exposed to you. Tension lingers in the air, you slide more of the blade out of the holster. Now, it’s your turn to kiss him on the cheek, bringing the razor down on his thigh and dragging it across — a clean, deep line. Anton seethes a moan through his teeth, you lick the shaved stubble of his jaw. The blood from his wrist coats his skin deliciously, coating your thigh in turn. You’re certain it’s on the sheets, but that doesn’t really seem to matter. Anton arches his back lightly, and you cut him again.
“Don’t move.” You whisper to him, keeping the razor inside of his skin for a few moments. He furrows his brows and looks to you, subtly surprised by the sudden command; a thing that usually only he makes. You stare back at him, and he doesn’t argue. He stops moving. Without moving your eyes from his, you make a fresh cut over the previous one, and then again, and again. Anton’s eyelids lower, and he groans and grunts as you cut him up. You can tell he’s close, his Adam’s apple rises and falls as he swallows, he breathes hard and laboured.
Anton’s jaw clenches, he closes his eyes and faces the ceiling, letting out a string of grunts and growls as you slit his thighs consistently. Blood traces down his knee, matting the hair on his legs. His chest stammers, his mouth opens in a way that’s new to you, you cut him again; drinking in his reactions selfishly. Finally, one last time, you sink the cutter in the middle of his thigh. It’s deep, three layers in, you see mixes of white and yellow bean-like shapes in the inside of his thigh. Anton moans — wet and relieved — his mind foggy with burning bliss. His stomach stammers, and he bleeds wonderfully down his thigh and knee.
His teeth grind, and he cums without you even needing to slick your hand under the waistband of his boxers. You kiss the shell of his ear and slide the blade back into the holster, and place it on the bed. Your thumb traces over one of the thinner cunts on his thigh, gathering his blood on your digit. You tilt your head to look at Anton, his own head still hanging back, catching his breath desperately.
“Did that help?” You ask him, sarcastically. He flashes that insincere smile of his, and nods.
“Yes.”