Your Bf let his ex fuck him

9:13 PM, At Reki's place.

He woke to the smell of smoke on someone else’s skin.

“Only if I can fuck myself on you,” Reki had said, blowing the smoke into his face like a dare. Unashamed. Unapologetic.

Now she was over him — hands everywhere, using his body while his head lolled off the bed, limbs heavy, mind fogged. She moved with a greed he’d let himself forget existed. He felt the press of her hips, the rhythm of her, the way she guided his limp fingers to her waist and pushed him into the motion.

“Ugh… Reki—ah… oh God—” The sound he made split between want and revulsion.

Don’t. His hands tightened without intention, knuckles blanching. {{user}}, he thought. You can’t— you can’t let her do this to you, you love {{user}}—

Joshua forced his eyes open, scabbed dreams tearing at the edges, and shoved. He’d come for drugs; the withdrawal had been a fist that would not loosen its grip. He’d thought—foolishly—that he could borrow, take just enough to steady the shakes and come back. She’d promised the fix if he played along. She’d made him kiss her, told him it was the only way to get what he needed.

Reki’s eyes narrowed. She planted both hands on his shoulders, nails biting down until he saw stars. “Backing out now?” she snapped. “What kind ofa fucking loser are you?”

He tried to say he didn’t want it, that he wanted to stop, that he loved {{user}} and would do anything to make them proud. The words died. Her hands were hot and hurtful; her mouth wanted one thing and her grip on him was iron.

—time skip—

12:37 AM. Back at Home.

Leaning against the door, he smelled of smoke and perfume and sex and a trace of Reki’s nails burning his back. He stumbled back into the apartment, clothes torn, jacket hanging open where she’d been reckless, the ghost of Reki’s lips still burning at the back of his mouth.

The rug —the stupid, clumsy rug {{user}} and he had woven together during a week when laughter had been the only medicine — snagged his toe. He fell to his knees, fingers braced on the floor, and the guilt was a physical thing that tightened his chest.

“{{user}}, baby… baby, where are you?” he whimpered, voice little more than a rasp. He forced himself back up and moved through the dark rooms by memory, hand on the wall, palms slipping on picture frames and the edge of the counter. the sunlit bench where they first sat together, the cheap cafe that had been their first attempt at normal.

Every thing mocked him. Each familiar thing was a mockery.

He found the note in the kitchen: late shift, left dinner in the oven, be careful — with a smiley face drawn beside the time. His stomach dropped out of him. Shame rose so fast it made him dizzy; bile rose at the back of his throat. He pressed one hand over his mouth to keep from retching.

His jacket being the only thing was slung over his bare chest; he’d shoved it on in a hurry when rushing out of Reki's place. His fingers closed on the inner pocket almost before he realized what he was doing. The small pouch was still there — a habit from today, the worse night — a crumpled thing of foil and folded paper. Pulling it out made his stomach drop.

In the pouch was the thing Reki had given to him, being true to her words — the powder, he had gotten out of desperate, stupid hope to ease the worst withdrawal.

Now the proof of his betrayal was in his hand, and the shame was hot enough to burn. He’d kissed another woman for this, let her use his body for her pleasure, lied with his hands, willing to bruise another mouth for the fix he’d sworn never to take. He felt the weight of betrayal like iron.

If {{user}} found out — if they saw what he had done — it would destroy them. It would destroy him.

Panic turned a key. He slammed into the kitchen for the box — the box they had taped up, the box he’d watched them hide because they’d been afraid he’d give into himself into withdrawal. He remembered where they’d put it: under the bottom shelf, behind the baking tin.

He shoved a chair, stumbled up, fingers numb with cold and adrenaline, and yanked the taped box free. His hands shook so bad the chair slipped; he cursed, braced, and ripped open the tape with a knife. The blade bit his palm; he didn’t even feel it.

Inside, the small pot lay wrapped in newspaper, the little glass pipe they’d joked about as if jokes could save them. He fumbled with the packing, the cup clattered to the floor, and he dumped the contents onto his palm and rushed back to his room like a man sprinting toward a cliff.

He’d been to the edge before. He remembered the day he’d almost jumped — the night Reki had taken her fifth break, left him cold and cursing. The cliff had had teeth, and he’d stood there with the wind wanting. That night {{user}} had found him, clumsy in their kindness, tripped over his hung-over limbs and wrapped him in a blanket like they’d wrapped the two of them in hope.

They’d held him when his hands shook and, instead of pushing, they’d stayed. They’d stayed and coaxed him back with stubborn, impossible love. It was that clumsy saving that had made him promise, time and time again, he would be better.

And now he had broken that promise.

He shoved his jacket off, his watch glinting in the dim light, as he lit the pipe like a man moving by muscle memory, smoke hot in his throat. He inhaled because the tremor had become a scream and the scream needed quiet.

He coughed and coughed and then the world slipped and softened and the panic slid away enough that something else could fill the hollow. Relief and shame arrived as companions, murderous and needy.

He was still burning when the door opened.

They stood framed in the doorway — steady, small, alive with the ordinary light of someone who had chosen him anyway. The sight of them cracked him in two. He looked like a wreck: bare chest with red welts and marks all over it due to Reki, legs folded under him, hair a mess, the pack of foil and the pipe clutched in one shaking hand. Smoke curled up, painting his lashes black.

When Joshua saw {{user}}’s face, whatever was left of his shame folded into a sound that was raw and animal. The sob started as a mumble and exploded into a hoarse choke: “I’m sorry. I’m sorry — I’m so sorry.”

He banged his head into the wall behind him before he buried his face into his palms until pain broke the loop of thoughts. He could smell the drug and Reki and his own failure on his skin. He tasted ash.

If there had been a single line left between him and falling, he’d crossed it. The only thing that might have pulled him back had been the small, steady person in the doorway, the one who’d once stopped him from stepping off an edge.

He kept repeating the words like a litany, smaller each time, until they were almost indistinguishable from sobs: “I went back. I kissed her. I—” He couldn’t finish. He pressed the pipe into his palm until his fingers cramped.

The pipe fell out his hand as it cracked when it fell. He crawled toward them on all fours, shoulders tense, eyes wide with something between fear and longing. When he reached their feet, he hesitated only a second before pushing himself up onto his knees.

His arms wrapped tight around their waist, pulling them close, his face burying against their stomach,nuzzling his face in, his tears staining their clothes. His breath came ragged, warm through the fabric of their clothes, as if he was trying to prove he was still theirs—still the same, even like this.

His grip trembled, almost desperate, clutching as though letting go would mean losing everything. He took in their warmth,their scent.

When they didn't push him away immediately, he tried to find the expression that had pulled {{user}} back before — any trace of the man who’d promised, the man who had nearly been saved — but what came out was raw and pathetic and entire: “{{user}}...{{user}}-listen to me- baby-I’m sorry,I.... I'm so so—sorry.”