#ao3 original fiction

[satcnus]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ       𝐒𝐘𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐓𝐑𝐘

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆. ex-military widower ✖ runaway stray

𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐒. older protective male x vulnerable teen fem. widower x runaway. paternal elements within romance. male saviorism. size differences. opposites attract. ride or die. hurt, comfort, healing. v-rginity loss. dead dove do not eat.

𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐆𝐄𝐑 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆! The following original fiction contains potentially triggering content, including: extreme age gap, homicide, child and spousal death, kidnapping, s-xual as-sault (background only), r-pe recovery, child abuse (background only), post-traumatic stress disorder and disabling mental illness, and mild ddlg themes (clothing, nicknames). Read at your own discretion.

𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓. 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃 𝐎𝐍 𝐀𝐎𝟑. — EARLY RELEASE 𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐈𝐌𝐄𝐑.

Freefall.

One thousand feet above sea level.

Metal nose downturned. What comes up, must come down. 

Mayday. Mayday. Mayday.

The purgatory between consciousness and death, where chemical makeup, tight-woven, breathes with electricity—life—and the next natural conclusion. Cause and effect. Fifteen years ago, he stared into the pale, unseeing—lifeless—eyes of his children. This morning, this windy, cool morning, he felt their presence in his chest, sitting atop his diaphragm, compressing, choking, suffocating. 

A broken mind works dutifully for its homeostasis.

A little girl who bore the same eyes, same nose, same lips as him—throwing her arms around his neck, curling in for comfort, for the comfort that only her father could provide. 

A young woman, brunette and doe-eyed in all the most deceiving ways, throwing her arms around his neck, curling in for comfort—for the comfort that only he could provide. 

It was all sick, you see. It was all pitiful, depressing, and sick, even in those moments where they could not stifle down the bliss that had overtaken their features. Beaming at one another, laughing, light as a feather. Untouchable. In those moments where it seemed neither of their pasts could reach them, because here they were, on this little island of safety together, where they didn’t quite match the molds of their respective voids, but they fit the silhouettes well enough to fill out most of the darkness and give it shape. With only gaps around the edges, it was easy to fall into the solace of one another as a projection of who they had once needed, and who had never arrived. And now, only now, finally had arrived.

For the girl, that was a beacon of masculine certainty; a maturity greater and more set-in-stone than the kind she had needed to force from the world, slapped together with desperation; shoddy work. 

A man who ticked the boxes. A man who provided her, so effortlessly, with all of that horrible sweetness she had been convinced she had never deserved in the first place. He was everything she had never known, and everything she had ever needed.

She had gone seeking out his arms because, and only because, they were his arms. 

Had they been anyone else’s, surely Elnara would have cowered away in full force; surely she would have felt the pound of danger closing up around her throat. Violin screech. Pin drop. Run. 

But Reuven Aronov’s embrace did not follow the rules that she had grown so very attuned to; those rules that had been engraved into her mind and her skin by the repetitive carving  of violence and violation and neglect and—

There he was: gentle, and respectful, and attentive, and—

Now she was addicted.

Elnara was dizzy with it. Dizzy and floaty and her broken mind, it sought out its homeostasis as a form of survival. It sought out Reuven’s secure, tender touches as a form of survival. Touch me here. Rewrite the story. Replace the last hand that hurt me. Show me my body is deserving of beautiful things. That I was not made only to withstand the ugliness of the world. 

Touch me. Touch me. Touch me. 

Orbital planes were not just reserved for planets.

Sometimes people, too, had gravitational pull. 

This was not of anything rational or pliable. This was something physical—on the same level of changing states of matter, chemical reactions, and the revolution around a burning orb of heat, and life. A fact. A law. 

His calloused touch upon her skin was heat, and life. Fact. Law.

As the moon completes one iteration around the Earth’s circumference every twenty-four hours, Reuven Aronov and Elnara Chae found themselves locked in a tidal symbiosis, where neither was quite certain when it had begun or how, or if the other was even there orbiting them in return. 

They found one another as the furthest planet in the milky way found its sun—accidentally; without warning; hopelessly tethered and so close to escape all at once. And if it were—to escape—it would wander aimlessly and without purpose, always seeking out that sun for one last dance on its gravitational plane. 

Elnara basked in the warmth of her older flame and stretched out, belly up, like a warm-furred feline. 

Such had been the affliction of the both of them for the past several weeks, steadily richening in complexity and nuance, and all these blissful feelings that had never been experienced before and thus had no names. Simple terms like attachment and affection just didn’t capture the lived experience with any eloquence. It was much deeper than that. It was much more fundamental, and shockingly so.

Fundamental for each of them in some sort of overlapping venn diagram. Where they met in their filling of one another’s voids, Elnara’s attachment strayed into romance, while Reuven’s strayed into something paternal. Something misguided and hopelessly clinging all the same. And what was attachment, truly, if not just tethering perceived in different casts of light? Just as the heart pounds, flighty, in the chest when witnessing a predator and when witnessing a lover, this attachment did not discriminate. Tomato, tom-ah-to. At the end of the day, they both were sick with dreams of one another while they slept just one hallway’s length in separation.

Now that man Elnara ideated in her slumber stirred against his own purgatory, dreaming of parallels. Dreaming of his daughters, his baby boy, and of Elnara. Dreaming of what could have been. Dreaming of what currently was.

Elnara in a backpack, slumped into her petite frame with the density of hard-bound knowledge. His misguided acknowledgement. Who was she? Converse sneakers. Coming home from school. Where was the school? Somewhere off in the forest. Where the fairies and the hobbits roamed. She descended the horizonless coppice until she made her way back home. Back to him. All buoyancy and flapping wings.

Dad, I’m home.

Hey, baby girl. Hey, sweet thing. Hey, honey bun.

Can you show me how to—?

I can show you anything you like.

Can I have a hug?

Chedva. Elnara. Kuna. Elnara. Ezra. Elnara.

You can have all the hugs you want, —

His eyes snapped open with a grunt. 

Freefall. One thousand miles a minute. 

Mayday. Mayday. Mayday.

Impact.

The sunlight squeezing through the gaps between black, full-length curtains was stinging; blinding. Reuven squinted against it with a grimace. His head pounded behind his ears. That grunt in his chest returned as he stretched his neck, all of that insight into what really hid below all of this unbecoming now dissipated and gone just as quickly as it had been conjured up under the surface. 

The broken mind seeks homeostasis. Ignorance is bliss. Awareness is agony. 

Thick muscularity swung off the edge of the king sized mattress, his skin slightly more bronzed than the day previous, leaving less of a contrast against the black sheets he ruffled as he departed them. An overtaking yawn. A knot in his shoulder. A tucking of bedding, meticulously, into the edges of its frame. Habit cemented so deeply it was performed without consciousness; was sought by his fingers on their own accord. 

A bare, hairy torso was replaced with a t-shirt. Some old, faded Queen tribute that he’d owned longer than he’d owned this plot of land.  Deep green boxers were concealed by a pair of draw-string sweatpants, drawstring pulled tight at the narrow of his pelvis. Against the windows, the early spring howled its winds, groaning, like the sea moves its waves. 

Insurmountable. Unmalleable. A fact. A law. 

Routine flooded back in. A tired mind remembering that someone who filled out all the edges of his void was waiting there, right below the threshold of steps. The fatigued memory of last night, just that brief moment before bedtime, where she had come to him, asking for his affection, returned to him. Whatever it was that pivotal gesture had conjured up inside the man was now swirling, centrifugal, in the drain of his mind. She was light on water droplets and saplings reaching for air and contagious in all the ways that no one else could sing to his disjointed, fever-stricken heart.

A residue of quiet excitement lifted through him as he descended, his mind zappy with dopamine and ready to enjoy the echo of his cardinal wound healed yet another day. Reckless, avaricious, sick. 

The staircase’s bottommost step was abandoned and from the archway of the foyer, he could see past the living room, where the kitchen displayed, still and devoid and liminal.

Reuven’s features softened.

Disappointment, and… a twinge of concern. That got stifled down quickly with some silent disputing. She had not missed breakfast since she’d moved in. Sure, typically, she rose earlier than he did, but she occasionally slept in a bit and joined him at the tail end of the meal. Lord knew she had a lot of physical shit to recover from. Even if she did miss breakfast, it did not mean the end of the world. It did not mean something was severely wrong. He wasn’t going to start letting his anxieties run astray, no matter how unhinged that nurturing, paternal part of him was frenzied to fix it before it’s too late. 

That was not rational. That was not condign.

Through this silent mantra, he coaxed something less disjointed from that rugged flume he called his mind. A practice that he had been noticing himself slowly becoming more capable of doing again. Reframing had been an essential tool in the arsenal of staying sane while he was working as a SEAL, witnessing the horrors of the world first hand, allowing them to weigh down into his understanding of reality and unveil the well-rounded truth of how evil the human race truly was. Mental fortitude. Resilience. It had all been lost to him when the one thing he was told to anchor to—those he loved—had been evicted and repossessed by the world like some cruel, sadistic joke. 

Perhaps that was why it had been trickling back in now. He had someone to anchor to again. Someone that could contrast all of the darkness, and he could stare at her arc, and ignore the way the blackout pressed in with uncomfortable density against his every nerve. 

That disappointment of his had been a knee-jerk reaction; an immediate sinking of his hopes, and he stacked them back up quickly with the reminder that this was what he wanted. He was grateful that she was resting. Relieved that she was up there, warm in bed, healing, even if doing so meant he would have to tolerate missing her for just a bit longer. It was not a bad trade-off, and she would likely join him by the time the air became fragrant with the heating food. It was not a big deal—he should not get so beside himself. This was his design—he embodied, fully, the juxtaposition of wanting her close all the time, enough to wait around like a lost puppy for her, and wanting to avoid her concomitantly, if only for the same reason. 

Just as had been the reality every other moment they spent apart, the man found himself preoccupied with thoughts of her even in her absence. He wondered, absentmindedly, what she might be dreaming about as he got to work on some more of that nurturing. In his mind, the concept that she might be just as afflicted with preoccupations of him as he was her did not cross the realm into anything substantiated. Instead, he wondered if she dreamt of the forest, like he did. If she dreamt of bears and deer and rivers. It, also, did not occur to him that her dreams may not be dreams at all, and that what she was locked within upstairs might be of the more harrowing variety. He was much too stuck on this amalgamate he’d mixed up in his own head within his own dreams, of routine and parental nurturing and Elnara.

Routine, lost to him so long ago, now returned and comforting. 

Mornin’, pretty girl! You want some breakfast? I made eggs.

Soft patter feet, scrambling on hardwood. Squealing, innocent joy. A new day. A swooping embrace. 

A toddler giggling against his neck, happy just for the hell of it. Happy because she was awake, finally, to be held by her papa again. Her papa, happy for the hell of it, for the same exact reason. 

A content little sigh. A puffy cheek against his shoulder. Pacifier soothing. Two big, brown eyes that matched his own, watching him scrape eggs into oil. 

How does a man heal from that being ripped out from under him?

A broken mind seeks homeostasis. 

Before Elnara, his psyche’s pursuit of stability was turbulent. It was fought for with bared canines and gnashing jaws. It was siphoned from some of the most vile actions a man could commit. All bets off. Where your life ends, mine renews. Selfish. Selfish. Selfish.

He wondered, if she knew of what he had done, what would Nara think of him then?

Would she think him some monster?

Would she be afraid of him?

Surely.

Perhaps… Perhaps he was some monster. 

This coveting he did of her, projecting his lost children upon her silhouette, mixing her up in that vat of acid until she was still herself, but calling, deeply, upon the instincts that comprised him—righteous men did not do such things. 

Good, honorable men did not do such things.

Was he so sick that even his acts of love were blackened in soot?

The time ticked by, and the eggs fried, and Elnara did not join him.

This heaviness in his gut told him something was wrong. He told that heaviness that it was wrong. 

A chair was scraped out against hardwood and a knee tapped as breakfast was eaten. A plate sat, piled, uneaten, across from him, waiting for her company. Company that never came. 

Slowly, whatever sense of reason he’d been able to conjure earlier began to leach out of him into his surroundings.

Her continued absence struck Reuven like a dagger. He did not expect the way it constricted around his throat; pounded wretchedly against his rib cage. It was not just an empty seat at the dining table. It was years of empty seats at the dining table. Four empty seats. Silence. Solitude. Agony.

His dark gaze fell into the glazed ceramic of his plate, between specs of food too tiny to stick a fork through. He stared into it, feeling an unease settle in on the back of his neck. His knee jumped, fidgeting, for another half a minute, before he rose and cleaned up. 

Her plate was placed in the fridge. 

The back door thudded closed behind him. He didn’t bother with a jacket. 

Anxious hands found vice-like hold around the handle of that axe. His liberator. Every muscle in his upper body flexed as it slammed down, splitting through lumber, severing. Violence. Trembling, unraveling violence. Meditative violence. Not because her absence made him angry, but because it left room for the rest of reality to trickle in again. He chopped through wood as a means of centering himself. Clearing his mind.

She could not know of all the ways he had already tethered to her. Neither could he. 

See, it had not been malicious. It had not even been intentional. Reuven anchored to Nara out of no fault of his own. Still, despite its intrinsicality, or perhaps in spite of it, the consequences of such entanglement could not be avoided, no matter how many jobs he took on, or how often he went out of his way to distance himself from her. Out of no prompting of his own, the man had grown… used to her. He had grown comforted by her company, and missed her when they we’re separated. So perhaps that was why this anxiety rose up in his chest. Not only because it echoed a time when his solitude became his death warrant, but because this lack of company was not borne from his own doing. Quite the opposite. He had been expecting her, and she was not there, and, to Reuven, it felt exactly like that morning he was sat up waiting for his best friend, sitting on that passed-down sectional sofa in New York. Checking the time. Missing them. Missing his babies. 

A long weekend without them.

Unaware.

Ignorance was bliss.

Awareness was agony. 

That same foreboding lingered in his sides now. That same instinctual feeling that something wasn’t right. 

The sun craned to its highest point in the cloudless sky. Cool wind was offset by warmth. He chopped wood and tended the garden and cared for the chickens, letting them out of their coop so they could roam in the warm sun, pecking bugs and seeds from the dirt. Being productive was how he kept himself distracted; how he fought back against that feeling in his gut, and reassured himself that it was not the truth; that he was overreacting. 

But then afternoon began to expire, and Reuven stepped back inside, intending to share lunch with her. Still, she was nowhere to be found. 

He swallowed, retreating back outside onto the deck, drinking a glass of water, staring out into the forest. 

What if she was sick?

What if she was in pain?

What if something had happened overnight, and her injury had taken a turn for the worst?

His palm dragged down his face. 

Was it inappropriate to knock on her door? Just to check on her?

Was it theatrical? 

Overstepping? Desperate?

Twenty minutes of tapping his leg as he sat in the wicker chair out back, twenty minutes of internal debate, much like the one he’d had the night she hadn’t woken at the gas station, before he suddenly bit the bullet and made his way back inside, grabbing that untouched plate of waffles and eggs as he went. So similar to that first day after he had picked her up off the side of the road, his knuckles rapped against the door, and he waited for an answer, brandishing his gift of now-cold breakfast.

Nothing. 

“Nara?” he called, gently, through the door.

Nothing. 

That morose sunk even further into the pit of his stomach. He inhaled a deep breath  His jaw tightened. He cleared his throat. 

“I made breakfast,” he continued, unsure if his words even had an audience. “I’m just gon’ leave it right here. Just in case you—step on it,” he murmured, bending down with a soft grunt to place the dish on the floor. 

Square one. Round two.

“I’m gonna be outside. If you need me.” 

No answer.

He swallowed, his calloused palm finding the length of his beard and smoothing it down in some half-compulsive self soothing gesture. His footsteps carried him down, away, against his better judgement. There, at the bottom of the steps, he debated. What was the right decision here? What was the most respectful?

Surely he shouldn’t encroach upon her personal space. That was out of the question. But… if she didn’t answer him, how long did he wait until he sought out an answer more forcefully, just to confirm that she was even still alive in there? Was it hyperbolic to consider that a possibility at all? Was it reasonable and justified, given the circumstances? Or would that be a massive overstepping on his part? Would he be crossing a hard and fast boundary, drawn in the sand, as a means of soothing his own anxiety about it? About losing her? About waking up one morning to find that his babies—his roommate—the only person he had allowed himself to let in in fifteen years—was dead.

Reuven dragged his hand down his face again, grimacing into the sandpaper grooves of his skin.

The unraveling of his mind had begun, and that centrifugal force in the man’s head was now picking up speed. Circling the drain. Spiraling. He bounded back upstairs, not to appease that overwhelmed part of him with a forced reassurance, but to grab a garment that he had not worn since the last of the Summer season. 

A pair of black swim shorts. 

The lake had unfrozen, just barely, but just enough. He had waded in colder waters. He had suffered more violent discomforts.

He needed to clear his mind, and clear it fast, before he did something he would regret. Not just to Nara, but to someone else entirely. A stranger. A nobody, forever forgotten on the side of the road, buried in thicket, all because he didn’t do what he was supposed to. What he knew he needed to do. Get a handle on the memory of it now, before it transformed into that hideous, gargoyle anger that he was so weakened to, and his meditation came in the form of bloodied knuckles and digging thumbs. Homicidal urges stirred up in the eye of some emotional hurricane not only as a means of placating a chagrin that had no other remedy, but for an even simpler, more primitive reason: an echo of a time when his heart pounded so quickly in his chest he couldn’t even feel its overwhelm anymore. Rather, he became razor sharp. Focused. Lethal. And the second that target came into view and was neutralized—some enemy of the state, some terrorist, some fascist, one moment yielding terrible power over the vulnerable, the next gone, gone forever, with one curl of his finger against a rifle trigger—that rushing relief, his heart rate calmed, and the ease came solely from murder. 

He was not aware of it. Why he did this now. Or, rather, he was completely aware of it, but confused about its logistics. He believed that somewhere in his past, when he donned a midnight black tactical uniform and dropped from helicopters straight into the ocean to swim in a pack onto the shore of an enemy state in the middle of the night, that he must have, in some sick way, loved the kill. That he must have enjoyed it. 

The truth was something far less sinister, and far more innocent. 

He craved the relief.

The only comparable height of emotion was in those final moments, where his own life hung in the balance, and he needed to stay rational, and sharp, and clear, else it would not be the target that was neutralized. It would be him. And his wife, and his babies would wake up to the news that their father was dead. The weight of the world had been on his shoulders, and towards the end, he’d become so masterful at resilience that he’d moved up in the ranks and led his SEAL team. Reuven had become exceptionally adept at maintaining poise under pressure. At withstanding. At maintaining his mental fortitude. But when that relief came—that bullet, propelled into the skull of some evil motherfucker, and it was all done, and it was all over, and the silent chaos stilled into wading waters—it rushed down his entire body from the inside out. 

That was why he found himself on the other side of the coin now, depending on who you asked. Of course, it was all perspective. To Reuven, he was a vigilante. Hitting two birds with one stone. These people he killed—they were going to kill innocent people if he didn’t get to them first. He was doing the world a favor, in his eyes. 

But such justification only withstood so much.

It could not continue steadfast beneath this new reality: this girl. Her perspective. 

Disillusionment had been sitting there, at the base of his neck, since the moment he abandoned his carnage in favor of its opposite. Saviorism, without the gore. Protection. 

She had shifted something in him, and he didn’t dare admit it to himself.

But his actions… they admitted it to the world.

It was why he chose this—yanking on swim shorts with the desperation of impending doom—instead of that. Instead of grabbing his keys, cutting out of the enclave, and finding some poor motherfucker who spent all his days drinking and feeling sorry for himself and doing him the favor of ending his life for him. 

The water—it knew Reuven better than he knew himself. Every inch and every pore of his flesh, mapped out by its enveloping, casting his body in its body. In the water, Reuven Aronov ceased to exist. Man became universe, and in its macrocosm, he was rebirthed. The pressure of its atomic structure spoke to him in a language that could not be manifested in a throat or on paper. It was metaphysical. It was the aftermath of death, and the prelude to birth.

His bare footsteps hit the wooden dock with explosive bounding, long strides, accepting the anticipation before collision. A percussion of his body, before he launched himself off, into the hands of the uncontrollable, and became nothing and everything all at once.

Suspended, mid-air, for just a millisecond, before Newton’s first law captured him by the throat, and tore him down. And Reuven—he accepted it. He welcomed it.

Freefall.

Mayday. Mayday. Mayday.

Impact.

A thousand icy needles.

A wild, stinging gasp.

Lungs automatic, primitive, powerless.

Baptized.

Every high, screeching violin in his mind suddenly muted. The tension of the water broke as he plummeted into its volume. 

His mass became its mass. In symbiosis, when he moved, the water moved. When the water moved, he moved. 

His limbs shivered, and as he broke back through the proclivity of its suffocation, he inhaled a slow, relieved breath, cascading, ice-cold water rushing down from his dark curls to his beard. Dripping with subzero water before he dove back under, allowing the water’s insurmountable force to consume him. Pressure against eardrums, pressure against limbs, pressure against nerve-endings, rendering him deafened to everyone and everything but the water and its symbiosis with his body. Lungs ached gently for another breath that would be staved off to force his heart to relax. Reuven waded with an elegance that gave testament to how it had been his second home all his life. Sometimes, he felt he knew how to exist in the water better than he did on dry land. 

The ocean and all its subdivisions held no secrets. 

It washed everyone who entered of theirs. 

Carried their sins away, fragmented them until they were soluble, until they disappeared. 

There was no violence the water held that it was not up front and warning of. A mirror of the force behind chemical reactions and human love. Fact. Law. 

He propelled forward by shoving the water behind him, diving deeper and deeper, farther and farther. Until his heart thudded its anxiety to a different tune—a more immediate, life-threatening tune. The ultimate grounding method. 

With explosive force, he darted back up towards the sun, breaking the lake’s surface, shaking the droplets from his hair, inhaling tempered gulp against the screaming of his cells for oxygen—. His skin pulsed from head to toe with the subdued thud of his heartbeat. Where carbon dioxide filtered from his flushed lips, perspective flooded in. 

The world was turning on its axis.

He was just one lonesome existence in a universe of relativity. 

Staring out into the surrounding forest, where the lake broke against its towering barricade, Reuven felt himself return to the present. Thoughts of his children were left down at the bottom of this sea. The memory of them, the psychosis it brought, dissipated from his skin and into the water. In its place was an awareness of every nerve ending. Of the here, and the now, and the reality not of yesterday, but of today.

He glided through its resistance in a lazy side stroke, inhaling deep, slow breaths with every pivot of his head, feeling alive. Feeling renewed. 

Another deep inhale, and he was pushing back under the water, this time with less urgency. 

His strokes became meditative as he swam. Just as the movement of the axe allowed him to breathe again, traversing through the water allowed him to think. Or, rather, not think at all. Calamity slowed. Cortisol tempered. His skin acclimated to the cold. His heart rate lowered. And he became synergistic with the lake once again, like an old friend. Nice to see you. It’s been awhile. 

Just as the birds and the wind moved together, he and the soft swaying water did too. 

---

When he pulled himself up onto the dock, water cascaded down off his form, clinging his swim shorts flush and unforgiving to his skin, which now blistered with goosebumps against the ambient temperature outside of the lake. A quick jog back up to the cabin allowed for him to swipe that towel he left hanging over the deck’s railing and nestle into it for its warmth, cupping his hands around his mouth for a moment to breathe hot air into his frigid skin. His heart rate was significantly more slowed. It felt like he could see again. Hear again. Contemplate again. 

As he entered back into the cabin, scrubbing at his waterlogged ears with the towel, he mentally prepared himself for the continued absence of the girl; made peace with it, and cleared his throat, strolling past the kitchen and into the living room in a beeline towards the fireplace, to get some real heat going and dry off, but was stopped in his tracks.

Hair still slick and hung down around his strong profile, those brightened eyes of his fell immediately onto girl’s lithe form. 

His heart hiked.

So much for clearing his mind.

One look and he was already lost of every thought in his head. 

“Hey, you…” he began, light, sweet. I missed you, he wanted to say. Where you been all day?

If not for the way she did not even glance his way, Reuven might have immediately abandoned all concept of investigating why she’d stayed in her room all day, and dove head-first back into their playful rhetoric. Excited to see her. Relieved she was finally in his way again.

But she didn’t. She didn’t glance in his direction. And whatever lifting of his spirits finally laying eyes on her had brought, it quickly lowered back down, somber. Ebbing and flowing. She wasn’t moving. She was still. Tense. 

Staring, expressionless, into the unlit fireplace. Her features slack. Her lips parted, curled ever so slightly around a frown.

That same nauseated, uneasy tension knotted up in his abdomen again, twofold. 

The older man stared at her delicate profile without a trace of anything joyous or elated. Instead, he stared cautiously, analyzing the lax in the skin around her eyes. His voice, roughened, broke through the unsettled silence in ginger intonation.

“Nara?” he asked. 

She didn’t answer.

He, suddenly, became aware of his heartbeat again.

With careful, intentional footsteps, he approached, soft against the hardwood, leaving damp imprints as he went, until he was standing adjacent to her, peering down upon her blank features with heaving breaths. 

She didn’t even look up at him then.

Something wasn’t right. 

She was postured so still, so rigid that her chest was hardly lifting with her own breaths. Her irises, lined with a chocolate brown, were wide and glazed over. She didn’t even look his way. She didn’t even realize he was there.

“Nara.” He repeated himself, this time more firmly. Not a question. A demand. Look at me. His voice cut through the air with the same force as a boot stomping in gentle warning. Not out of anger. Never out of anger. Out of concern. Look at me. Where are you?

Her gaze suddenly snapped up from the fireplace, finding obligatory root into his, but even then she wasn’t there. She was still somewhere else. Far away. Looking past him, into herself. Upon her features, he could see clearly now, was a lilt of fear. Terror. 

Reuven’s heart rate bounded quicker in his chest. 

“Nara,” he repeated again, softening, searching her eyes. He attempted to take one step closer, and then suddenly she was there again, back in the living room, with him. Though, not in the way he expected. 

She inhaled an elongated, feeble gasp, shifting automatically further down the sofa’s leather, away from him. He stopped. That ache in his chest festered, kindling around its fuel with licking, threatening flames. 

“Are you okay?” he whispered, his tone now completely softened for her. His adam’s apple went bobbing up and down beneath his skin as he swallowed. They had shared eye contact every day since she had emerged from the guest room but today it felt different. Something in her eyes was different. Reuven stopped, navigating around her like he was navigating around explosives. He ignored that pulsing in his throat that told him something very, very terrible had gone on while he was off, continuing his life without her. Guilt flooded in from nowhere. 

She swallowed at her tongue, her voice so soft he could barely hear it, her eyes distracted. “I’m… gonna go take a bath.” She gripped, wrists postured, at the edges of her sweatshirt’s sleeves. 

He held her unseeing gaze for a long moment, before murmuring, “Alright.” Something in him told him that it was not alright. That it was not alright at all.

When she got up, her poise was almost… cowering as she navigated around the living table, avoiding him, avoiding his eyes. 

Uncertainty rammed, full force, through every inch of the man’s being.

He watched her with concern contorting into confusion.

What happened?

Last night everything had been fine. She’d asked him for a hug, and he’d given her one. Told her she could have all the hugs she wanted.

Today… she was…

Why?

As she disappeared past the threshold of the steps, Reuven found himself staring out past the window at the lake, his eyebrows etched inward. His mind desperately trying to convince itself that nothing was wrong, while everything in his body told him otherwise. 

With quick retreat, the man navigated out to the outdoor shower, intending to clean himself of the lake’s residue, but now his mind was alight with anxiety again. He fumbled with the curtain’s rod, hooking it into the shower’s wall, and yanking the plastic curtain closed. His height would have it that he stood a bit taller than the shower’s walls, and found himself staring past the piping and into the forest.

Up above, he heard the upstairs bath’s faucet squeak on, and then the rush of water pounding into the tub.  He swallowed, looking down and staring blankly at the knobs of the outdoor shower, confusion racing through his mind at a thousand miles per minute. He had never seen her like that, except… except the night he picked her up. That look she’d had on the side of the road—hollowed out, haunted. Dead inside. 

As the warm water pooled down his body, a horrible feeling nestled into the man’s form. Something that spoke of feasibility. That spoke of inadequacy. The need to save her. The incapacity to do so. 

Was it something he’d done? Was it something he’d said?

He groaned, quietly, trying to ground his anxiety again as it lifted through his chest, constricting around his sternum. The shower halted with a squeak, and Reuven wiped the water from his face with a dragging hand down his features; one that gripped at his own skin, trying to massage the worry from his flesh. 

Maybe it was nothing. Maybe she just needed a little time to herself.

He could do that. He could give her space.

He could ignore everything in him screaming at the top of its heights to go up there and comfort her. 

His original plan of filling up the fireplace was resumed, only this time he sat down on a towel on the couch, drying off with a beer in his grip. As if it were a lifeline. Some IV full of benzos. Calm down. It’s okay. She’s okay. Stop overthinking. 

Telling himself as much wasn’t enough to make himself stop. 

He worried about her well into the night, even after the sun had set and the sound of the faucet upstairs had halted. He stared into that fireplace now, thinking only of her, thinking only of his concern for her. Resurrected, full force, from this morning. All of that waxing and waning in the lake was gone now. An awful feeling struck him as he remembered breakfast. His curiosity, along with his dread, carried him up the steps. At their landing, he stopped, staring down the hallway towards her bedroom. 

A plate, full of food gone cold, was pushed to the side, untouched. Not a single bite. 

She hadn’t eaten all day.

His attention was torn from it only by something that took higher precedent.

From beyond the closed bathroom door, he heard a faint noise. A choking, pitiful noise that seemed to sink down right into his own chest. The sound of her crying. Hiccupping and trembling and whimpering. 

A soft exhale ghosted past his lips. His eyebrows etched inward. His shoulders fell.

Just as careful as his footsteps had been earlier, he approached the door, intentionally letting them make noise. His knuckles hesitated, just a moment, before they found the hardwood, and tapped gently against it in a count of three. “Nara?” he called, an inflection of something desperate beneath her name. Please, he wanted to say. Tell me what’s wrong. She didn’t answer. Her crying stifled, almost as though she had slapped her palm over her mouth, or dove under the water to quiet herself. “Are you okay, Nara?” he asked, softly, to no avail. Shutting him out. Quieting herself. 

The silence spoke everything. It brought a surge of tingling through his nostrils one second before his own eyes took on a tearful glaze. Knowing she was in pain, knowing she was hurting so horribly, and that he was powerless to help… it stuck a dagger through his chest.

He tried to ignore the way it ached as he let her be, stealing off to go take a piss out in the forest, rather than hound her for use of the bathroom. 

By the time he’d come back into the house, back upstairs, there was still an eerie silence from behind the closed bathroom door. He waited outside of his own bedroom door, just a few feet down, listening, staring over at its hardwood. Wanting to say something. Wanting to say the right thing, but he wasn’t sure he knew what the right words were, and was more afraid of saying the wrong thing and making it all so much worse. The door to his bedroom thudded closed behind him gently, and the weight of Elnara’s agony carried with him as he swapped out his shorts for boxers and sweatpants, and lay down in his lonely bed. 

For several hours, he stayed awake, staring at the far wall past the bedroom door, trying to listen for her, trying to gauge whether she was still unraveling. Remembering how his own breakdowns always played out. How something would feel off, for several days, maybe weeks, and then suddenly it would all boil over. The guard would break. The nightmare would come flooding in. And, all at once, he would be helpless to escape it. 

Was that what undid Elnara, right now, right beyond the wall? Was she suffocating on her own memories? Was she lost, drifting down a bank, with no body, no life raft?

His empathy did him in that night. It dragged him down, fitfully, into his restless slumber. Every few hours, he would jolt back awake with a thunderclap of anxiety after just barely managing to dream of Nara, and every time it would be some increasingly more dangerous scenario. Her on the side of the road and his brakes going out, tires swerving. Her stuck in that shelter, being attacked, the doors locked. Her jumping off a cliff, plummeting into choppy waters, where he jumped after her with no hesitation, and still could not save her. Watching her drown. Reaching, reaching, reaching. Helplessly. Futilely.

At two in the morning, he rolled out of bed, needing to piss again, exhausted, anxious, nauseous. 

The second he opened his bedroom door, he knew the bathroom was still occupied. She was sobbing. She was wailing so hard every few seconds her gasping breaths would gradate into some soft scream that was then cut off at the throat and silenced by her own body. Reuven exhaled, some heavy sigh, briefly glancing up as if the big man upstairs could give him some answers here. 

His chest ached. It took everything in him to not knock again. To just… leave her alone. Let her work through it by herself, like she so clearly wanted to do. To not play savior. To not beg her to let him help her. To not lead her to water and force her to drink. 

The night was cold, the wind ripping through his warmed pores as he stole off into the woods, just a few feet, to piss against a tree again. As he did, he stared out through the darkness, distinguishing shapes of branches and bark and allowed that solemn feeling to nestle in right under his dermis. 

He scrubbed his hands at the kitchen sink again. He returned to his bedroom and lay in bed, staring at the ceiling again. 

This time, he listened to her cries. He witnessed them. He didn’t let her pain go ignored and unacknowledged, even if she wanted it to be. He stayed up for the rest of the night, listening as her pain went through revolutions. From whimpers to shuddering sobs to quiet and again. As the sun began to rise once more, a new day reared and neither of them had slept. Nara’s voice, he could faintly hear, high and strung, had become raspy from the sheer amount of weeping her vocal chords had endured. 

Some time after the sun had risen, he ventured downstairs to make breakfast again. Knowing that she very likely would not be coming down to join him, he finished up feeding himself, and set aside hers for later, once again. Before retiring to bed, though, he did try one last time. A gentle tap on the door. “Nara?” he murmured. “Nara, you have to eat, honey.”

Silence.

He sighed. Half an hour later, there was an encore of whimpering. Nasally hiccups. Gasping sniffles.

Deep, sunken bags lined his eyes as he listened, bearing witness until sleep had dragged him down against his will. When he awoke, it was to another full bladder. An urgent one. Damn his body and its aging. The one thing nobody talked about was how hitting fifty meant he couldn’t hold his damn bladder while he slept anymore. 

He didn’t want to disturb her. Back out to the woods it was.

He only made it halfway through his opened door when he was stopped in his tracks.

She was there. Apparently leaving the bathroom in the same second that he was leaving his bedroom.

They both halted like deer in headlights.

He stared, jaw slack, searching her eyes. 

She stared, wide, trembling, regarding him with a fear unlike anything he’d seen directed towards him since that first moment he’d left his truck and stepped towards her. The same fear she’d held at the doctor’s office, when the man’s fingers had coasted near her throat. 

“Nara—” he whispered, but she was quick to cut him off.

Cowering into the nook of the doorframe, where the doorknob rest unlocked, the girl heaved her gasping little breaths, face flushed and eyes puffy, barking at him like a cornered dog. 

“Get the fuck away from me!” she screeched, her teeth clenched. Defensive. She sunk back, into the safety of the corner.

Reuven, shocked, lifted up his palms towards her. 

“Whoa. Nara, I—”

But she didn’t give him a chance to finish, or ask questions, or reassure her. 

She went scrambling back into the cracked bathroom door, diving behind it, slamming it shut. He could hear the knob being locked. A second later, she was sobbing again. 

His shoulders fell. 

A harrowing, solemn feeling nestled down into his stature. Where confusion danced, it now had dejection as a waltzing partner. 

What had he done?

He wracked his mind frantically for answers as he set out towards the forest, still in his boxers—he hadn’t bothered to change, he hadn’t anticipated she was going to be attempting her great escape at the same moment he stepped out to take a quick piss. Was it that? Was she uncomfortable with him having accidentally walked out in his boxers?

Was it something he’d said last night? Was it how he’d held her? Was it how comfortable he’d gotten with her? The jokes he’d made? Had he crossed a line? Had he tarnished this permanently?

A panicked sort of frown overtook his features as he descended the steps again, this time stopping to dress himself properly before attempting to make contact with the girl again. Like probing the intergalactic atmospheres for life, he sent out his words and could only hope to receive something back. 

Another short knock on the door. He reached out to her with his hopeless nurturing, begging her to take his hand. “Nara… I’m sorry. I don’t—” he captured a tense breath in his chest, and then exhaled it. “Are you thirsty? You should drink something. I can get you water—” he offered through the door, but her voice came back to him, biting, shrill.

“Why? So you can fuckin’ piss in it?!” she snapped. In her voice, he could hear the nasally remnants of her barely-resolved cries. The image of her face, reddened with stress, lashes wet, eyes rimmed rosy, sclera lined with irritation—it imprinted in his mind as she barked at him.

He spoke to the closed door like it was a wall. His hands outturned as he gave some defensive shrug that she could not see. “What? W-Why would I do that, Nara?” he asked, pointedly, his tone offended; wounded. “I would never do something like that to you. Just… open the door. Talk to me.”

“Fuck you—” she gasped, one second before her sobs overtook her again.

His shoulders fell. Defeated. A deep sigh lifted through him, his concern for her now tenfold. 

“Fuck you! I’m never letting anybody—��� she continued, unexpectedly, but her tirade was cut off by the devolving of her voice back into whimpers. 

His forehead found the surface of the door. He was so concerned he was almost trembling as his hand, absentmindedly, went gripping at its surface. Heavied breaths lifted his chest as he wracked his mind, trying to find the words, trying to figure out what he could say to mend all of this. He’d never been good with emotions. Mitigating emotions. Life was so much easier in terms of concrete, mathematical cause and effect. Pull a trigger, bite a bullet. Emotions were mystifying. Even his own. Especially his own.

But if there was one thing he knew about emotions, it was that barricading oneself in their solitude would kill them eventually. It almost had him. As an act of defiance, an act of love, he cleared his throat, and lowered himself down to sit on the floor, his back pressed up against the wall, his feet inches from the railing. His legs took the length of the bathroom’s entrance and only exit. 

“Well, I’m not leavin’ you,” he desisted, clearing his throat. His head tipped back against the wall, and he stared up at the ceiling, his voice rumbling in his chest as it carried up his throat. “No matter how much you want me to. I’m not leaving you to just die in there, so…” His tongue swiped at his lips, his jaw tightened. 

She didn’t answer him.

He didn’t need her to.

As the silence between them continued, Reuven remembered his baby girl. How as her preteen years crept up on her, she’d begun to shut him out. Lock her bedroom door. Give him sass.

He’d had to be firm with her. He’d had to all but force her to let him continue being her father, continue supporting her, continue loving her. She’d moved on from the phase, for the most part. All that remained of it, at the end, was that snappy irritation she delivered back to him every time he made it known she was still his baby girl. A kiss on the forehead, a big bear hug, a teasing nickname. Cheddar. Cheddar cheese. Kraft macaroni. Every variety of cheese he could think of, until she was laughing and annoyed, and reminded that he loved her to pieces, and that she shouldn’t take him too seriously. 

Maybe… maybe this, in some strange way with Nara, was an echo of that. Maybe this required that firm, non-negotiable putting his foot down. You’re not shutting me out, because I’m gonna be here caring about you whether you like it or not. 

And he was.

He stayed there the entire day. Skipping out on meals. Listening to her crying. She didn’t speak to him all day. Still, he didn’t leave. He lifted his knee, propped up his forearm on it, stretched his neck, shifted his posture, but he didn’t leave.

Behind that locked door, she had continued her mourning. Reuven couldn’t be sure of what. The only trauma he was aware of was that she’d been homeless, and he wasn’t sure for how long, because neither of them was in the business of pressuring each other to share shit that hurt so much it felt like it would do them in. But something… something at that doctor’s office told him that something worse than homelessness had happened to her. And as he sat there, all day, remembering that visit from last week, he couldn’t help but viscerally recall the way she had repeatedly told Dr. Barr no. How her voice had become stronger, and concomitantly more terrified, with every iteration of it. 

Had someone stolen her agency from her?

Had someone ignored her objections in the past and taken what they wanted from her, regardless of her consent?

Reuven had this sick, unconfirmed feeling that something like that had happened. It pursed his lips. It tightened his jaw. He didn’t want to know, because if he did, he’d kill someone. There was no doubt about it. Whoever it was, whoever had hurt her, he would hunt them down, to the ends of the earth, and murder them in broad daylight if he had to. 

He was trying to calm those homicidal thoughts of his when nighttime rolled around again. Once more, neither of them had slept more than a wink here and there. His mind, foggy and dulled, relaxed in its inhibitions, and Reuven became a bit less reserved, a bit more reckless. 

He was staring up at the ceiling, acutely aware of Nara’s presence beyond the door, marinating in their shared silence, when he suddenly broke it. His voice gentle, hoarse, intimate as he spoke to her.

“I’m not gon’ hurt you, Nara,” he murmured, unsure if she was even listening. At this point, he needed to say it whether she was or not. If even just to let the universe know. To solidify it. To make good on it. “What you’re feeling right now… I know that feeling.” He paused, inhaling slowly. “Like everything’s crashing down. Nothin’ makes sense inside…” he shook his head slightly, swiping at his lips with his tongue, remembering all those days he lost his own mind in that bathroom. In this cabin. “I know what it’s like. I know how much it hurts.”

His voice trailed away on that last syllable. Its baritone holding testament to its words. He did. He knew exactly how much it hurt. He didn’t know what she had gone through, but he knew agony. He knew it like the back of his hand. 

As he continued, his voice became roughened and deeper with something emotional, barely stifled down. He felt his tired eyes prickle with tears. “I ain’t gon’ hurt you, sweetheart. I don’t… I don’t ever wanna hurt you. So please, just tell me what I did.” He inhaled a shaky breath, swallowing. His shoulders felt tense with the anticipation of her confirmation that he had mis-stepped somehow. 

“Was it yesterday? When I… when I held you, while you were sleeping? On the porch? Cause I—I should’ve asked. I should’ve woke you up. I’m sorry.”

Silence.

His mind buzzed. His heart pounded.

“A-And… all those jokes I made, bout you bein’ short and—a bad swimmer, it was just jokin’ around. I… I respect the hell outta you, Nara. I don’t-I don’t wanna hurt you. I don’t want anyone, ever, to hurt you.” he swallowed again, the truth, his vulnerability, all pouring out of him like a waterfall. “Especially not me, so…” he inhaled, slow, preparatory. “If… if this isn’t what you want anymore, if you don’t wanna stay—all you gotta do is let me know. I’ll… uh, I’ll get you uh, a room down at the motel in town. And we’ll figure it out.” He tried, even though his heart felt like it was breaking just at the prospect. The reality of just how attached to her he had grown suddenly here, front and center. He stared out past the darkened hallway into the high, paneled wall across the way, feeling dejection sink down deep. Resigning to it. Because this wasn’t about him. This was about her. About her well-being. About her happiness. And if her happiness was not with him… then he needed to accept that. And he did. 

Not without sadness.

No. A tear darted down from his bagged eye and nestled down into his beard. 

“You don’t… you don’t owe me nothin’, Nara. You don’t gotta stay if you don’t wanna stay. I ain’t gon’ force you to do nothing.”

His final word of negotiation, or perhaps proclamation, fell heavy in the air between them.

It was silent for a long moment. Long enough that it pressed uncomfortably into his eardrums, humming. 

Then, the door creaked open.

[kazik-bitch-ass-motherfucker]

CHAPTER UPDATE!!! 24!!!

GO READ IT!!! MATTHEW DISCOVERS NEW MAGICK!!!

All my followers! @feministthembot @kylokirenly @fonfabrefan,@yaoihancock @starbound-jupiter @lezpanic420 @honeyfrost @thiswillbetheusername @redemption-under-constructi-blog @magicalcollector @jonathan-greer @21panda-cakes @viobagetke1988-blog

Surely, I'll get at least 3 rb's right!?!!

[theaftersundown]

the holy grail types of fanfic

[gothamite-rambler]

Duke meeting Talia for the first time

Duke (in his Signal suit): Whoa! You're Talia?!

Talia (stepping out of the shadows, her jade eyes striking in the dim light): You know my name? That’s good.

Duke: Daaaaamn! You are hot!

Bruce burst into laughter, catching everyone off guard. Talia’s eyes widened as her usual frigid demeanor shifted to one of surprise.

Talia: What?

Duke: I’m sorry, it’s just—respectfully—you’re stunning! You were with Bruce? No way! Where’s your mother? There’s no way someone as gorgeous and young as you could be with him. Your mom must’ve done the dirty tango with that guy!

Ra's (raising an eyebrow, clenched jaw): The dirty tango?

Talia (placing a hand on her flawless cheek): I… um, I’m Damian’s mother, and yes, I was with Bruce. I haven’t been complimented like that since him.

Bruce laughed even harder, much to Ra's annoyance and Talia's irritation.

Damian walked over to Duke, glaring at his brother and teammate. His brows were furrowed as he tapped his foot angrily.

Duke: Ignore him. You could be a model or actress; you’ve got that commanding aura that could shoot a diplomat down.

Talia (flattered and grinning): I have shot down a diplomat. Thank you! Damian, your brother-friend is so sweet.

Duke: What? I’ve never seen her up close before! The way you all described her, I thought she’d be an old crone or something like her father.

Ra's (enraged): I’m not a real demon! Just get out and don’t spray me with that water bottle!

Duke (walking away, shaking his head): I can't with this man.

Damian grumbled, crossing his arms as his mother hugged him.

Talia: Calm down, tifl.

[hatterpillar-author]

"i am a writer" i whisper as i use the word 'abhorrent' in a petty text to describe my dismay at seeing a speck of dirt on the carpet

[elijahstwink]

i also have the fantasy of fucking elijah in red door mode yooo 😳 ... but if you ever feel inspired and want to write smut abt it , Im interested in reading it ofc,, and there is also just so few red door elijah shit out there 💔

𝓛𝓮𝓽 𝓖𝓸

(I’d let him punch me holy this gif is hot)

Your boyfriend is going through a rough time. You help him feel better ;)

Thank you for the request anon! I always feel like writing dark!Elijah smut so this was so fun! It’s also the freakiest thing I’ve written lol. I hope you enjoy - Dex

Warnings: Blood play, Spitting, Choking, Slapping, Oral F!receiving, Dom!Elijah, Sub!reader, Elijah’s pretty mean, overstimulation, blood drinking, degradation, use of slut, whore etc

Seperate warning for this one. This has CNC! (Aka Reader consents for Elijah not to stop when she asks him too)

Your white dress billows behind you as you sprint down the hallway and towards the red door. Your bare feet burn at each step on ragged tile. You glance back to see Elijah turn the corner. His stone cold face and bare chest are covered in blood, all emotion void from his expression. Desperation fuels your speed, your legs burning and your lungs screaming as adrenaline courses through you. Elijah follows at a steady pace, his deliberate steps echoing, his breathing animalistic. He could catch you in an instant, but he prefers the thrill of the chase. He wants to savor your fear, your pain.

His footsteps are unnervingly close as you near the door. Just a little farther…

You slam into the red wood, pain shooting through your arm as you grasp the brass doorknob. It’s locked. You pound on the door, scream, and glance back in terror as Elijah approaches.

“Elijah, please!” you plead, but he keeps coming. This isn’t your Elijah, the kind and noble man you loved. This is a monster.

You turn back to the door, pounding and screaming for help, but it’s too late. Elijah’s hand clamps onto your upper arm, yanking you toward him. You struggle, but his grip is unbreakable. His eyes darken, veins pulsing as he opens his mouth, revealing sharp fangs glinting in the darkness.

Elijah jolts upright in bed, his body drenched in sweat and trembling. Nightmares of hurting you plague him every night since the incident with his mother. The red door haunts his mind, and he can no longer ignore it.

Breathing deeply, Elijah clutches his hair and turns to watch you sleep. Usually, this sight calms him, reminding him that he isn’t the blood-covered man in his dreams. That red door Elijah is just a fragment of himself, a dark fraction everyone has.

But tonight is different. The dreams are more vivid, leaving him feeling feral and dangerous. Every small sound or touch threatens to make him lose control. He needs blood.

Elijah carefully slips out of bed, pulling on grey sweatpants. He moves silently through the dark compound, descending the staircase to the large kitchen. He rounds the island, opens the blood fridge, and light floods the dark space. He grabs three blood bags and rips into one.

As the blood overtakes his senses, veins web below his eyes. He grips the marble countertop harder, ripping open the second bag, anger rising. The taste of blood makes red door Elijah creep to the surface.

“Lijah?” you call from the doorway, wrapped in a silk nightgown. Elijah’s head snaps up, his red eyes meeting yours as the marble edge crumbles in his hand. You rush to him, but before you can reach him, he grabs you by the neck, pinning you against the wall.

Despite his aggressive state, you’re not scared. You’ve been worried for him since he returned, his personality flipping randomly between normal and red door Elijah. The worst was on Bourbon Street, when he tried to rip out a man's heart for bumping into you. Red door Elijah is possessive, never letting you out of his sight, fearing that if you walk away, he’ll start chasing you like in his dreams.

Elijah's grip on your neck is firm but not painful, and you see the conflict in his eyes.

“Hey, it’s okay, my love,” you say softly, cupping his cheeks and tracing the veins with your fingertips until they fade.

Elijah’s eyes return to their regular onyx shade, guilt washing over him as he releases your neck and drops the empty blood bag.

“Shh, you’re alright, I’m alright,” you comfort him, wrapping your arms around him as he breathes heavily into the crook of your neck.

“I- I don’t know what to do, I crave you,” Elijah growls into your skin, his fangs gently scratching along your pulse point. Your eyes shut at the contact, but an idea pops into your head. A crazy, probably stupid idea... but an idea nonetheless.

“Perhaps you need to release all the pent up anger.” You suggest carefully. Elijah pulls away from your neck and stares at you in confusion.

“What do you mean?” He places his hands on the wall either side of your head, keeping you trapped against him. You can tell by the look in his eye that he definitely knows what you mean.

“I mean,” You rest your hand flat on Elijah’s bare chest, sliding it down to cup him over his sweatpants. “Let go, take it all out on me.” You gaze up at him innocently, something you know drives him nuts. Elijah swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the movement.

“No y/n. I wouldn’t be myself, I could hurt you.” Elijah shakes his head, already feeling his alternate personality taking control as his cock thickens under your touch.

“That’s the thing, you won’t hurt me. And as soon as you prove that to yourself, you can start to move past this.” You explain, slipping your hand under his waistband and taking hold of his erection, his length warm in you grasp.

You completely believe what you’re telling him. You know that he would never hurt you if not for pleasure, but that doesn’t stop you feeling like this may be a mistake. After all, Elijah is pretty dominant in bed already. If normal Elijah can edge you for hours or make you cum so much you’re begging for him to stop. Who knows what red door Elijah will do.

“Do you kn-“ Elijah interrupts himself with a deep groan as you push his pants to his feet and bring your unoccupied hand down to play with his balls, rolling them between your fingers. You can’t tear your gaze from his swollen cock and the bead of arousal gathering at the tip as wetness builds between your legs. You could mentally pat yourself on the back right now for not dropping to your knees and licking it up.

He suddenly grips your wrist, rough enough to leave a mark, making you gasp in surprise and release your hold on him. When you look up, you see that his eyes have returned to that crimson shade with veins underneath them. He grabs your neck with his free hand and leans down till your faces are inches apart.

“Do you know what you are asking for?” He breaths against your lips, tightening his hold when you nod. “Words.” He commands sternly.

“Yes, Elijah.” You squeak. He smirks at you, the veins flowing under his eyes.

“And you are aware that if you say stop, I won’t.” Elijah growls. You can tell he’s holding back, needing your consent before doing anything more.

“I know. I want you…” You murmur, bravely grabbing at his crotch again before whispering in his ear, “to ruin me.”

You can visibly see when red door Elijah fully takes over, any apprehension within him vanishes as he suddenly rips your night gown off your body and steps out of his pants, leaving you both naked.

“I didn’t mean here!” You whisper, looking around anxiously. The kitchen is one of the main rooms of the compound. If anyone were to wake up it’s highly likely they’d come to this room.

You squeak as Elijah lifts you onto the centre island and pushes you to lay flat on it. The cold marble countertop against your back sends chills down your spine as Elijah stands between your legs. His eyes are clouded,

“What if someone walks in?” You ask as Elijah bends your knees so that your feet are on the counter and your core is exposed. Elijah doesn’t respond, instead grabbing the last blood bag and holding it over you with a smirk.

You don’t have time to even question what the hell he’s planning before he rips the plastic in half with his hands, drenching you in blood. God this man is lucky you love him because no other human would still be turned on while covered in blood. Elijah leans down so you are face to face, his chest is getting covered in blood now as well.

“If anyone walks in here,” Elijah dips a finger between your breasts, “I’ll snap their neck.” He growls, sucking on his now bloody finger, moaning at the taste.

Red door Elijah doesn’t seem to be the slow and steady type. His movements are rough and almost crazed as he grips your thighs and pulls your legs over his shoulders. Now eye level with your blood covered cunt, Elijah doesn’t hesitate to practically devour you. The filthy sound of his mouth slurping up the mix of blood and arousal between your folds echoes throughout the kitchen. You release a choked moan as he sucks harshly on your sensitive bundle of nerves.

Normal Elijah usually starts soft and gradually builds your pleasure to its peak. So this unfamiliar pace fills you with an uncomfortable sensitivity, causing you to grip his hair in both your hands and try to push his head away. Elijah releases a disapproving grunt at your actions. He moves his grip from your thighs to your wrists and pins them straight down at your sides. Your hands clench helplessly at the sleek countertop in an attempt to find something to grip as you squirm with oversensitivity.

When your wrists are tugged on slightly, you lift your head for the first time to watch the man between your legs. Elijah’s face is coloured crimson and veins are moving beneath his skin. A whimper passes your lips when his tongue thrusts inside you and his red eyes meet yours. His gaze is intense and demanding, practically shouting ‘behave’. You throw your head back against the marble with a loud moan as Elijah starts fucking you with his tongue. The feeling of the pointed muscle curling against your sweet spot has you arching your back. Sharp stabs of overstimulation are turning into waves of pleasure, causing you to clench your thighs around his head.

“E-Elijah I’m so close.” You wail, all your pleasure knotting together, building up in your lower stomach. Elijah hums in approval, his tongue working faster. and his nose nudging against your clit. Your moans increase in pitch as you’re brought closer to the edge, your hips jerking and your legs starting to shake. It doesn’t take more then a few thrusts of Elijah’s tongue against the spongy spot inside you before you’re coming, wailing in pleasure and practically grinding on your boyfriends face as you get lost in the euphoric feeling. Your legs are almost vibrating with the intensity of their shaking and your walls are pulsating around Elijah’s tongue as you come down from your orgasm.

Elijah pulls away quite suddenly, releasing his bruising grip on your wrists and dropping your legs from his shoulders. “Stand up.” He orders, taking a step backwards. You would have given him a ‘are your serious right now?’ type of look, if you weren’t too out of it. Instead you stay lying across the counter, trembling as you come down from your high. After a moment of silence you manage to speak out, “Elijah, Can’t.”.

“I said,” he grabs you under your arms and hauls you upwards so you are standing on shaking legs, all your weight being supported by him, “stand up.” He seethes, releasing his grip.

Your knees instantly buckle underneath you and you fall into Elijah’s chest. You would have hit the ground if not for him wrapping an arm around your waist, holding you against his chest and smirking at your feeble state.

“My naughty girl,” Elijah tugs your hair so that your head swings back, your eyes meeting his, “can’t even follow a simple task, hm?” He taunts.

His face has returned to normal, and he seems to have wiped the blood from around his mouth at some point. Elijah’s eyes are clouded with more than lust and you can see the red door version of him staring back at you. He usually talks much more during sex, and you can’t deny that you miss the comforting praise.

That thought is literally smacked away as Elijah’s palm meets your cheek in a light slap. You probably look like an idiot for a split second as you process what he just did.. and how much you liked it. You release a drawn out moan as he repeats the action before grabbing your jaw, holding your head up to his and smirking.

“Do you like that?” Elijah chuckles as you flush in embarrassment.

“If you wish to act like a slut, then I will treat you as such. Open.” He growls, pulling at your jaw as you open your mouth. Red Door Elijah is seemingly full of surprises, as he lines up his mouth with yours and spits. The feeling of someone else’s spit in your mouth would likely make you throw up. But this was Elijah, your boyfriend and the love of your life so of course it feels good. A rush of arousal wets your spent cunt as you gurgle slightly.

Elijah clamps your mouth shut, grinning like a maniac as he instructs you “Swallow,” The slide of his spit down your throat makes you moan, absolutely loving the filthiness of his actions, “Good girl.” He praises you for the first time, giving your jaw a light squeeze before releasing it.

The praise is gone as quickly as it came when Elijah spins you around, bending you over the counter. You gasp at the coldness against your sensitive nipples. He holds your hip with one hand, the other guiding his erect cock through your shiny folds. The pleasure of Elijah nudging your clit with every upstroke distracts you from the feeling on blood slowly drying on your skin.

Your mouth drops in surprise, screaming out as Elijah suddenly enters you in one bruising thrust and with no warning. The stretch is painful, but you’re wet enough that he slides in easily. Your hand shoots behind you on reflex, pushing hard against his torso. Elijah only chuckles at your pathetic attempt of pushing him away, grabbing your wrist and holding it behind your back.

“Too much Elijah, please just wait!” You plead when you feel him starting to move inside you, blood smearing the whit marble underneath you.

“Shh, take it.” Elijah shushes, not waiting for you to adjust before slamming into you again, his tip pressing against your cervix and causing you to sob out a moan. With every battering thrust of his hips, the loud clap of skin meeting skin fills the room.

It doesn’t take more than a minute before the pain dulls into a numbing ache and the pleasure overwhelms you. You’re moaning like a whore, taking every inch of his thick cock inside you, your walls fluttering around him. The way his shaft glides across your g spot makes you jerk with pleasure.

“That’s it, such a sweet little slut falling apart on my cock.” He coos, releasing your hand and pulling you up till your back meets his chest. He wraps his arm around your neck so your chin rests on his bicep and keeps working his hips back and forth, fucking into you in long, brutal strokes. The base of his cock throbs every time he bottoms out, and his balls slap against your slit with wet, filthy noises. His animalistic grunts mix with your cries of pleasure.

“Still too much for you?” He teases, laughing when his only response is a gurgle of incoherent words that you didn’t even notice came from your mouth. “Yeah?” He murmurs, pounding into you at an inhuman speed.

Elijah rests his other hand on your blood stained lower stomach, sending a jolt of warmth through you.

“Who do you belong to?” Elijah whispers, his breath tickling your ear. “Who owns this cunt, y/n?” He runs the tips of his fingers over your clit.

“Y-you Elijah!” You sob, tears forming in your eyes from the intense pleasure this man is giving you.

“That’s my girl.” Elijah praises before bringing his hand down hard on your clit. Surprisingly it wasn’t painful at all. You heard the smack before you felt it and suddenly you were gushing around his cock, the mix of his cock rubbing at your walls and the sharp pleasure to your clit plummeting you into an unexpected orgasm. Your eyes go blurry from tears as you squirt all over the counter and floor. Euphoria runs through you in a single wave as your walls uncontrollably pulsate around Elijah.

“Look at you, cumming on my cock like a good little girl. Making such a mess.” Elijah’s groans, pulling out of you suddenly. You whine at the loss, feeling your slick cunt clench at the air. Elijah turns you to face him before bending down and hooking his arms under your legs. You squeal as he lifts you up, essentially folding you in half as your knees touch your shoulders. Elijah’s hands cup your arse, and you wrap your own around his neck. He shows no strain as he holds you in mid air, turning you both so he can lean slightly against the counter.

You throw your head back and clench your eyes shut as Elijah pushes inside you again, the sensitivity of having just cum causing you to claw harshly at his back.

“Elijah, stop!” You call out, the overstimulation feeling like too much. He doesn’t listen, not that you were expecting him too.

You’re absolutely helpless as he starts moving you up and down his length, using you like some type of fuck doll. You fidget and squirm relentlessly in an attempt to make him stop.

“Look at me!” Elijah barks. You use the little strength you have to lift your head, meeting his intense and feral gaze. “You are going to shut up, take my cock and you’re going to fucking enjoy it. Do you understand?” He sneers, slowing down so you can catch your breath and come up with a coherent sentence. You’ve never heard Elijah speak so vulgar before and it strangely turns you on.

You know that if you put up enough of a fight, your Elijah would come back and stop immediately. He’d probably beat himself up with guilt while he holds you and apologises way too many times. But you don’t want Elijah to feel bad, you asked him to do this in the first place.

“I understand, wanna take it.” You rush out before crashing your lips onto his, you can feel his grin as you try to shove your tongue into his mouth. He parts his lips for you and you whimper when he sucks heavily on your tongue.

Elijah thrusts his hips up erratically, his thrusts reaching vampire speed as his climax steadily approaches. You break the kiss to bury your face in his neck when you feel your own rising in your gut.

Elijah lifts one hand to grip your hair and pull your head back to present your neck. Searing pain rushes through you as his fangs pierce your skin, mixing with the pleasure of his thrusts. Your vision goes black as your third orgasm of the night crushes you. The feeling of Elijah’s cum filling your tight cunt only prolongs your pleasure. You feel Elijah retreat from your neck as his moans fill the air, mixing with what you realise is your own screams.

Elijah slips out of you when his cock stops spurting, feeling the aggressive, lust filled haze of red door Elijah dissolving with every passing moment. He sits you on the counter momentarily to unhook his arms from underneath your legs. Then he lifts your trembling form back into his embrace, one hand holding your bum for support and the other cradling your head into his neck. Your grip around him loosens as you continue riding the waves of pleasure, shaking like a leaf in his hold.

Elijah chuckles endearingly as you moan into his neck. “Still coming baby?” He grins, kissing the top of your head. You manage a small whimper of agreement as you feel him start to walk somewhere.

Thank god for vampire speed, because Elijah has you in a warm shower within the minute. You rest against him, half asleep, as he washes the dried blood off your skin. After you are both clean and dry, you settle under the covers of your bed, cuddled up to the love of your life.

“Please tell me you don’t regret it.” Elijah mumbles into your hair. You release a tired laugh, your face pressed against his chest.

“No my love, I don’t regret it at all. Did it help?” You yawn, cuddling further into his comforting embrace.

“Definitely.” Elijah sighed, his mind feeling a lot calmer and his body tired. You tilt your head up, capturing his lips in a sweet kiss.

“Love you lijah.” You smile into the kiss as you speak. Elijah copies your grin as he responds, “Love you so much baby.”. He gives you one last peck before leaning back into the pillow and closing his eyes, waiting till he hears your cute snores before drifting into a dreamless sleep.

The couple are passed out cold by morning, still recovering from their late night. Klaus however, is very much awake as he stumbles into the living room, where Freya and Kol are engaged in an intense game of chess.

“Do not go into the kitchen!” Klaus gags, collapsing onto the couch in a dramatic heap. “And remind me to kill both Elijah and Y/N.”.

T A G L I S T (msg or comment to be on it)

@b1tchy

[cat-writes-sometimes]

Me Editing: Who wrote this trash, so cringe, terrible, I will burn my computer to exorcise it from the demons that wrote this.

Me reading the exact same thing a month later: Wow, who wrote this masterpiece of a story. Such detail and pacing, amazing. I need to find who wrote this and give them my first born.

[animasola86]

F o r g e t f u l 🎀 1 / 4

Your roommate has a dirty secret - you. The only problem is: you can't remember anything about that. And there might be even more problems when you realize just what kind of relationship you have with her.

a dominant woman X a submissive girl with a memory problem

WARNINGS: F!Reader-insert! NSFW! Explicit sexual content. Mistress/pet. Domme/sub. Memory loss. Manipulation. Gaslighting. Praise kink. Dubcon elements. Fingering. Sex toys. Object insertion. Bondage. (More tags on AO3.) WORDS: 5.5k

A/N: Remember: if these tags are not for you, you better turn back now! If you know my other stories, you may be used to my very explicit writing style, but this is still some of the darker stuff, somewhat. It's rough, but there is an actual wlw story buried beneath the depravity, I swear! And: THIS IS FICTION! Nobody got hurt in the making of this series. (By the way, the header is just for aesthetics, it's up to you to decide how Mistress looks like and obviously Reader looks however you want to insert her. I tried my best to keep her neutral.) Another note on the fandom tags: I write characters who could be anyone, so I thought about some kick-ass ladies who may fit the role here. I'm sorry this is not about your favorite character, but maybe it can still somewhat fit? Give it a try :)

1 🎀 2 🎀 3 🎀 4

You're staring at the pictures with your lips parted and trembling, your cheeks warm, a strange tingle in your nape. Your hands are shaking as you file through the prints. They look weirdly professional, good lighting, even better angles, the background is blurry while the focus lies directly on...

You.

It's you in those photographs, you in various positions, you in different outfits... or with nothing at all hiding your curves. Some pictures are just showing certain body parts, some angles you've never seen of yourself, some more flattering than others.

But whatever you see, you can't hide the fact that it arouses you. It's not the subject, you're usually quite self-conscious about taking nudes of yourself (even though you gotta admit that these look quite well made, so surreal that you feel almost proud of yourself), it's actually two things that make your core throb:

One: you are in clearly compromising positions, bent over with your legs spread wide, on your back, bound to the bed with cuffs around your wrists and ankles, or tied up with soft-looking rope in intricate patterns, your body composed in ways you haven't thought possible (or comfortable).

And two: you are always stuffed. There are various objects sticking out of both your cunt and your ass, sometimes there's even something in your mouth that's held open by a spider gag. It varies too, not all holes are occupied all the time, all at once, in some pictures it's just one and it's particularly stuffed and stretched (is that an eggplant?).

Your body reacts more and more as you flip through the thick printed paper. The worst thing about it all:

You can't remember a goddamn thing!

Shame and arousal course through you as you stare at yourself. But you can't put them down, can't stop. In this photo, you're wearing a black leather harness that accentuates your breasts. You're standing, with wide legs, a spreader bar attached to your ankles. You're blindfolded, your arms tied behind your back. It's a series of pictures, you realize.

First from the front, then from the back (your ass cheeks look great with how they're pushed up by the leather straps). You notice something shiny between them: a butt plug with a sparkly diamond base. It's glowing, or blinking as you see in the next picture where the light is gone.

Your insides convulse a little, your muscles clenching around nothing. It's like looking at porn, but you can't ignore the familiarity about the body portrayed. It is undoubtedly yours.

But then again: you've never had anything up your ass, not in your conscious state at least. But here (and in those other pics) you have, and the next print even shows a close-up of the plug in your ass. It's a strangely aesthetic photo considering the unflattering motif and angle, but it certainly does things to you. Though you can't be sure if the tension in your stomach comes from embarrassment, excitement or sheer terror at the revelation that somebody took these pictures of you – and you can't even remember it.

Swallowing hard, you pry your eyes from the prints, your hands still shaking, as you look around the room. Somebody can only be one person. Your gaze scrapes over the shelves around you, full of camera equipment, old-fashioned film containers next to a plastic box full of SD-cards, various lenses and other extras, and then the cameras themselves, three at least, behind glass doors, kept away, like the pictures you found in a large brown envelope hiding in a drawer.

You've been looking for some hair ties, an innocent search, knowing your roommate wouldn't mind, but now you feel as if you've stepped into a different world, uncovering secrets you should have never known about. Even if they are about you.

Taking a shuddering breath, you look back at the pictures in your hands, your cheeks positively aflame now as you trace the blurry lines of your body before the focus shifts to a close-up of your cunt, shiny and reddened, your clit swollen, with black clamps attached to your pussy lips, thin metal chains disappearing off to the sides, holding your folds open while something black and girthy vanishes into your body.

The next pictures show a white-gloved hand gripping the base of the dildo, and you flip quicker through the sheets to create the motion, seeing the toy going in and out of your cunt, guided by the anonymous hand, spreading your core, diving in to retreat with an extra layer of shine before disappearing again, and as you stare at the prints, you can almost feel it moving inside you, a faint memory as your muscles clench and unclench, your arousal building up before it drips into your underwear.

You are torn between being very horny upon seeing these pictures and utterly disturbed. If you could only remember these scenes, then it wouldn't be as bad. But you can't. There's nothing, only fog that slips through your mind's imaginary fingers as you try to catch it, as you try to make sense of this. You feel your heart beating faster while your eyes tear up from staring unblinkingly at the prints in your hands.

This can't be real. Confusion merges with betrayal, your belly feels tense, your heart clenches in rhythm with your walls, your throat closes up as the first tear spills from your lashes.

You let go of the pictures, watching them scatter over the desk and down to the floor, every angle of your body on display, every inch captured in embarrassing detail, your holes filled or gaping, your mouth gagged or stuffed or open, there's drool, there are tears, there's wetness glistening on your skin in almost every shot. Your eyes may be the scariest part staring up at you. They're either glazed over, unfocused, or rolled back and hooded, some bloodshot, some watery, and some look almost defiant, a moment captured in time where you seemingly fought back?

The ones where you're blindfolded are the least terrifying, those are the ones where you can dissociate, where you can imagine somebody else being tied to whatever surfaces there are, tables, benches, beds, chairs, artfully presented, where it's just a body, clad in sexy lingerie and high heels, or adorned with ropes, or in the moments after where the skin is dented by the intricate patterns left behind by the ties.

The close-ups are also getting to you. You've never seen your own cunt or ass up close like this, so again, it could be anyone's holes filled and spread and used by various objects. The sheer amount and variety of them is quite concerning. But it's the unconventional ones that make you shiver, that create that tension in your stomach. The cucumber pushed deep into your ass so only its thinner stalk or whatever its called pokes out. The wide eggplant parting your labia in an obscene fashion, its entire body stuffed into your cunt, creating a slight bulge in your lower stomach.

There's another stack of photos atop a large envelope (the whole drawer seems to be dedicated to just you), and your curiosity gets the better of you after all. It's a series of pictures showing different round objects pushed into your holes. From marbles to ping pong balls to actual tennis balls, they're all shown vanishing into either your ass or your cunt, pushed by a delicate finger clad in a white glove, one after the other, and you can only assume how many would actually fit. It's not a video, you can't be sure, but you can imagine whoever did this to you didn't stop at just one.

Indeed they didn't, as the next photo shows. Another set of hands, also wearing white gloves, is grabbing your ass cheeks and pulling them apart, making your sphincter wink at the camera, before, in the next shot, your hole is gaping, allowing a strange view inside, rosy flesh stuffed with white little balls (you can see at least three, but more are hinted at behind them). You feel a little sick looking at the rest of the series of pictures, where they come back out as your hole puckers, pushing and pushing.

Your body reacts in earnest, your muscles clenching around nothing, deep shivers crashing down your spine. You flip past more of these kinds of photos, until you stop when you see white-gloved fingers poking at your cunt, spreading your lips, gathering your slick that glistens on the surface of the latex gloves, and you let out an audible gasp when the next picture doesn't show them push in, but shows only a wrist (attached to a slender arm) poking out of your stretched hole, gripped by tight skin, suggesting the entire hand is stuck inside you.

Your stomach gives a nervous growl at the sight, your breath hitching in your throat. You swallow thickly, your nostrils flaring as you force yourself to breathe through your nose to calm yourself. The stack of pictures shakes in your hands as you flip through more extreme insertions, more vegetables, some fruits, an entire apple made it up your cunt apparently, while they went from using one cucumber in your ass to at least three, stretching your rim impossibly wide. The sight alone makes your asshole clench violently, and you wonder why you never felt sore after being stuffed so full and spread so wide.

But your body seemingly adjusted, returned to its former state, unharmed, giving no hints at what actually happened to you. Strange. It's almost as if this happened to somebody else after all. But it didn't. It is your body. You may not know your cunt or ass up close, but you recognize the rest, your boobs, your arms, your belly, your legs, your feet, the birthmarks that make you you. It is you in these pictures, in every single one.

Only you.

A strangled sob escapes you as you look over the desk, seeing more and more envelopes, hiding in plain sight, more prints, some smaller, some bigger, all filled with motifs of your body being used in various fashions, one more degrading than the next. Shame settles low in your stomach, like a heavy weight that makes it hard to breathe. Your head is spinning, blood rushing in your ears so loudly you are startled back into reality as you suddenly hear the creaking of the door.

Footsteps follow, before someone clears their throat.

You whip around, dropping the last pictures you were holding, more shots of your stuffed cunt, wet and glistening as it's assaulted by more household items. Your eyes widen when you see your roommate in the door frame, a smug smile on her beautiful face as she crosses her arms over her chest.

“Oh hi,” she says in a nonchalant tone, tilting her head. “What are you doing here, pet?” she adds, and you frown at the nickname, a strange sensation crashing through your nerves.

“I... uh... I was looking for...” you stammer, taking a step away from the desk and the mess you made by dropping all those prints. “A hair tie,” you whisper breathlessly, curling your shaking hands into fists as you stare at her. “What... what are these? Did you take them?” you then ask, your voice trembling as much as your shoulders while you look from her back to the discriminating evidence you found by accident.

Your roommate sighs, unfolding her arms as she walks towards you. She's taller than you, slender and still curvy in the right places, her long hair falling over her slim shoulders. You force yourself to look into her eyes and not get distracted by the cleavage her tight dress creates or how close she is. She stops right in front of you, looking down, a softer looking smile curling her full lips.

“You know I did,” she says quietly, reaching up a hand to caress your cheek with the back of her finger. You shiver under the touch, but don't flinch away. “You agreed to this, remember?”

“No,” you breathe out, blinking quickly as you feel tears welling up in your eyes.

She clicks her tongue, shaking her head. “Shh, it's okay, pet, don't worry. You did. I would never do anything to harm you,” she whispers, leaning closer until you feel her hot breath on your lips. “You wanted to be my muse, you begged me for it,” she adds, biting her lip sensually before leaning in to press her warm mouth to the corner of yours.

You stiffen, eyes widening, your heart nearly exploding in your chest. You can't remember any of this. Why is she saying that? She is just your roommate!

You moved in only a few months ago, replying to an ad you saw on the bulletin board of your college dorm. A cheap room in a good neighborhood, your own room, away from the distractions of having to live with people you don't like or know that well, it sounded too good to be true. But it was true, and the woman looking for roommates was so nice, so enticing. You met her at a neutral place, to get to know her (fall for her charm), before she showed you the apartment, and you moved in later that week.

It was perfect. Until it wasn't. Not that you noticed it right away. You just never saw her. Now that you thought about it, you can only (barely) remember going to your classes (you are still going to your classes, right?), while the rest of the day is somewhat of a blur. You can't, however, remember going to your job at the coffee shop (do you still have a job? How are you paying for this place?), and the more you try to remember, the more holes come up, black and all-consuming.

You frown as you stare at her. She leans back slowly, watching you. Her hand is on your face, the pointy nail of her thump scraping over your bottom lip as her long fingers caress the shell of your ear.

“No need to worry, pet,” she says quietly, her voice a low soft thrum, rich like honey, that tickles something inside you that you've fought all your life. Why does she keep calling you 'pet'? And why does it affect you so much? “Everything is just fine. And I'm not even mad that you just went into my room like this. I told you you shouldn't, didn't I?”

You swallow as she lowers her hand and closes it around your throat, giving it a gentle squeeze. You feel your pulse throbbing against her palm. “I'm sorry,” you gasp out.

She smiles at you, moving her hand even lower, teasing her fingertips along the neckline of your shirt. “It's okay. You know the consequences. It'll be fine.” You furrow your eyebrows, breathing harder, not understanding anything. “Not the first time, hm?” she adds, giving you a wink. Her words make no sense, your head is hurting with how tight you pull your eyebrows together, and with all the thoughts and questions whirling about in a wild dance of confusion.

“I... I don't –”

“Shh,” she shushes you, her hand gripping your chin. You freeze. “Be a good pet and go back to your room. I'll clean this up. Put on the clothes I chose for you. Wait for me when you're done. Do you understand?”

You stare at her, your body tensing up, your cunt clenching hard around nothing. Her words, the cadence of her voice, the dominant tone, it all brings you to do one thing, your mind emptying as words spill from your trembling lips. “Yes, Mistress.”

You don't even know where these came from. Mistress? Pet? What is going on? But your body moves on auto-pilot, your mind swirling, still fighting the confusion, but also easing into a strange void, triggered by words you've heard before, or so it feels, commands you've answered many times in the past.

She lets go of your chin, giving you a warm smile, even though her eyes are dark and somewhat cold, and you nod, bow your head and shuffle out of the room, your legs trembling as you make your way back into your bedroom across the hall.

For a moment you're wondering how you got here, why you're here, but then your gaze falls onto a pile of clothes on your bed. You walk closer, picking up item after item. A short black skirt, pleated, barely long enough to not be considered a belt. A tight tank top, white and almost see-through. A set of fancy black underwear, a lace bra with an intricate flower pattern, a thong of similar design. There's also a pair of sheer black stockings, a garter belt and straps to attach each piece together.

Your stomach tenses at the sight. You've seen these pieces before, in the photos you shouldn't have seen. It's a blur how you put them on, your head spinning, your hands shaking, but you still somehow manage to dress in time before you hear footsteps on the floorboards outside your room. Your heart beats faster, your chest heaving, tight in the bra and top, straining, something cold crashing down your spine before it gathers hot and pulsing right between your legs.

Before the creaking of the door announces your roommate, you suddenly fall to your knees, your feet tucked under your rear, your hands automatically finding purchase in your lap, folded neatly as you stretch your back and square your shoulders, breathing deep as you train your eyes straight ahead, waiting for the door to open. You have no idea what made you assume this position, why it feels so familiar, so safe in a way.

Your roommate (your Mistress) enters your bedroom, her high heels thudding over the carpet as she walks up to you, tilting her head as she watches you closely. “Stand,” she says, and you do, your legs moving seemingly on their own. Once you stand, stiff with your arms pressed to your sides, chest pushed out, your neck straight, eyes wandering over the tall frame in front of you, she nods. “See? You haven't forgotten. Good girl,” she says, and the praise shoots through you like a pistol shot, straight into your clit, making it throb and ache, your heart beating in the same hurried rhythm.

She walks around you then, her long fingers brushing over your bare arms, around your shoulders, down your spine, until she gives your ass a soft slap, making you gasp quietly. She repeats the motion, but this time, she leaves her hand on your cheek for a moment, squeezing it, her fingernails digging into your soft skin. You stiffen, breathing a little harder.

“You're so beautiful,” she whispers as she leans into you, looming behind you, her breath ghosting your jaw. “My perfect little muse.”

You feel her lips brushing against the soft spot behind your ear, a hot kiss that makes you shiver, while her hand gropes your ass, fingertips teasing at the thin fabric of your thong tucked between your cheeks.

Suddenly she leans back, lets go of you, and you hear her walking a few steps before she stops, a deep sigh echoing through the room. You turn around slowly, unsure if you should, but when you do, you freeze as you watch her pick up the glass of water on your bedside table.

“Baby, I told you to drink more,” she says with a tilt of her head. “You always forget, hm? So busy, head always in the clouds...” She walks back to you, holding the glass in front of you, her eyes boring into yours as she waits for you to grab it. You do, your hands shaking. “Drink up, pretty girl. You know you need it.”

She's so caring, you think as you bring the water to your lips, holding her gaze, but as soon as you feel the cold liquid running down your tight throat, an image flickers before your eyes. Your roommate (Mistress) sitting on your bed, moving a clear glass straw in a stirring motion, swirling the water, making a faint sheen of powder disappear. You feel as if you've watched her do that many times. What is that? What did she put in here? Vitamins? Or something else?

But you can't even question it further, can't find the courage to ask, when you realize you've drank the whole thing, every drop of water (and whatever else was in there) now in your stomach. “Good girl,” she praises and smiles at you, before she takes the glass from your clammy fingers and puts it back on your bedside table. “Now let's get you ready for our big night out, yeah?”

You frown, another faint memory peeking through the fog in your head. It seems to be getting thicker now. Strange. But this image, you still see somewhat clearly before you. You had plans tonight, you remember now, you wanted to go out. Where? No idea. But you needed a hair tie. Yeah. That's why you went into your roommate's room in the first place. Some details are blurry (were you supposed to go out with her? Have you done that before? Why would you? You barely know the woman...), but somehow they don't matter anymore.

She steps back in front of you, her fingers vanishing in the cleavage of her dress before she pulls something from between her breasts. You blink in confusion as you recognize the shape. It's a metal butt plug. And she stored it between her boobs? Interesting.

“Open wide, pet,” she tells you, and without even questioning it, you part your lips and let your tongue roll out. She looks pleased as she puts the rounded object into your mouth. It's warm, and the taste triggers something else in you. Another familiar sensation. It's her, you know without knowing, her taste, sweet and a bit salty, exploding on your tongue, sinking deep, causing soft shivers to crash down your spine, something hot gathering low in your gut.

You've had your face on her chest before, huh? Must be. Your cheeks burn up badly, your breaths loud through your nose as you suckle on the butt plug between your lips, your eyes scanning the pretty face looking down at you. She keeps her fingers on the base, pushing the object in and out, and you find yourself licking around it, coating it in your saliva. Like you've done before. You think.

She watches you before she lets go of the plug and puts her palm over your mouth. “Keep it nice and warm for me, okay?” she says, leaning closer until her nose brushes against yours. You give a jerking nod, tightening your lips around the narrowest part of the plug while its body rests hard and heavy on your tongue. “Good.”

You feel saliva pooling in your mouth, and the urge to swallow becomes stronger. But you focus on the woman in front of you as she straightens up again, her hands on her hips. Her whole presence, her aura, has you in its grip, you feel, it's impossible to fight it, to protest, to do anything except the things she demands of you. All it takes is a look, a word, her voice driving through you like an electric current that controls your every limb.

And so you move when she tells you to turn around and bend over, and as you rest on your forearms on the edge of your bed, she nudges your legs apart and steps between them, her hands sliding under your skirt and pushing it up. You stiffen slightly, breathing harder, your heart thundering inside your chest, but you can't object, you don't want to. You just endure.

And a tiny part of you, through the fog in your head, lights up, a growing heat that creeps down your spine, tenses in your stomach, seeps lower until it gathers in your core, scorching, wet, and it's all you feel when she pushes your thong aside and moves her fingers along your slit, dipping gently between your puffy lips and into your slick, the loud squelching noise making your ears burn.

She prods at your entrance, teases your clit, but then she moves up again, and without warning or command or reassuring words pokes right against your puckered hole, and as you gasp around the plug in your mouth, flinching slightly, she stretches your rim and pushes into your ass, a slim finger, a pointy fingernail, digging against your tense muscles. In and out it goes until there are two fingers, then three, and it burns, the friction too much, like little daggers poking at your nerves.

“Come on, pet, relax,” she says from behind you, moving her fingers deeper, curling them, pushing and prodding against protesting muscles. “You've done this before. You're a pro at this, remember?”

Her words bring up the hazy memories of the pictures you saw, of the various items wedged into your tight ass, and some just don't make sense. Three cucumbers? Really? While it already feels like too much when she 'only' has three slim fingers inside you? How did you manage that? Your stomach gives a distant growl as drool slips past your tight lips and onto your bed.

“Fine, I'll lube you up this time,” she sighs and removes her fingers with a strangely wet pop. This time? She doesn't usually? It's almost as if you can remember the pain of the dry friction, but then why can you never remember any soreness afterwards? Confusion lingers on your mind as you hear her footsteps leaving the room.

You remain in your bent-over position, your hands clawing at the sheets as you suckle mindlessly on the metal plug in your mouth, trying to make sense of it all. You come to no conclusion whatsoever when she eventually returns, and you hear the squirt of some liquid before you can feel it. Large dollops of something cold pressing against your tight hole. You groan against the object between your lips as she pushes deeper, her fingers, slick and cold, sliding in and out again.

This time she stretches your hole by scissoring her fingers, knuckles digging into your tense muscles, and you hear another squirt and something cold lands on your hot skin, slipping right into you. You shiver, goosebumps breaking out on your exposed skin. She keeps doing that, filling you up with more and more lube, you assume, her fingers pushing it deep, coating your insides. It's a strange sensation, but again, this feels somewhat familiar, and triggers more memories you seem to have suppressed before, or forgotten.

You see yourself strapped to a reclining chair, your legs raised up in some sort of stirrups, ankles tied and wrists bound to the armrests. You're naked, and she is kneeling between your wide open legs in front of a large plastic bucket or something like it, and there's a tube inside your ass, something cold (water?) pressing through it and into you, and you see and feel it filling you up, your stomach bulging, and you feel sick, your insides cramping, but you can't say anything, there's a gag in your mouth, so all you can do is squirm in your restraints, until you feel a different sort of pain as she slaps your mound with a force that makes you cry out, makes you flinch remembering it, and she keeps at it, hitting your clit with precise blows until it's all puffy and throbbing badly, and you throw your head back and whine helplessly, your belly still bulging, filling up, while her voice coos into your ear:

“You want to be clean, pet, don't you? So we gotta clean you up properly. You don't want to be dirty for our guests, now do you?”

You frown deeply as those words echo in your cloudy head. Guests? But the question vanishes slowly, replaced by the sensation of her fingers digging deep into your ass, spreading more lube, and in the back of your mind you're just glad she isn't giving you another enema. A strange thought to have, but it makes sense in the dizziness that holds you hostage. Breathing harder, you press your forehead into the bed, swallowing hard around the plug in your mouth.

As she works on (in) your ass, you start to feel a tingle in your neglected pussy, a spasm deep within, a little clench, a needy little urge, and instead of holding still, you find yourself grinding your rear into her hand. She stops immediately, a deep sigh escaping her as she pulls her fingers out of your ass and grips your nape with her wet hand. You shiver and stiffen, holding your breath as she pulls you into a standing position.

Her free hand grabs the base of the plug and pulls it out of your mouth where it clangs against your teeth, causing you to flinch. You swallow the excess spit and take a shuddering breath as you feel the warm metal pressing between your ass cheeks. With how she worked you open, it slips in easily enough, and your muscles clench slightly around its narrow neck, but it's only after she smacks your soft cheek a few times in rapid succession, making you whine and shudder as your skin tightens, that you're tensing up enough to hold it in place.

She lets go of you and spins you around, then holds out her hand to you, her fingers glistening in lube and your own wetness. “Clean,” she says, and even though your stomach makes a loud grumble of protest, you find yourself leaning in and closing your lips around her slim fingers. A strange taste of artificial strawberry and something else, something tangy and your own, floods your senses, but you close your eyes and flick your tongue around her digits, focusing on the task and not on the taste and the origin of it.

Eventually she pulls her hand away and pats your cheek, leaving a trail of saliva on your warm skin. Your eyes flutter open as she leans around you and adjusts your thong, pulling it back in place, then pushes your skirt down again. Her eyes meet yours, the gaze intense, creating another soothing wave of heat that rolls over you gently, that makes you clench around the plug in your butt. A smile grazes her full lips, and you find yourself smiling back.

“Alright, now put your hair up, get your shoes and your coat, and wait by the front door,” she tells you as she steps away, holding your gaze until you nod obediently. Your mind is reeling at this point, confusion and arousal warring inside of you. What is happening?

You don't know, and you don't seem to care too much either as you start moving, following her orders. You end up on your knees again, right by the door, waiting like a dog, and the image couldn't have been more fitting when you see her approaching with a strange leather band in her hands. You blink when she crouches down before you and fixes what you can only assume is a collar around your neck. It sits tight enough to notice it, but you can still breathe freely and swallow against it without it restricting you in any way.

You're still confused why you need this (and why you accept it so easily). Your roommate (Mistress) cups your face and looks at you with a warm gaze that makes you bite your lip, her hands rubbing over your cheeks before she tugs her thumbs under your chin and lifts it so she can lean in and press her lips to yours. Your eyes flutter shut as you part your lips and meet her tongue, the kiss deep and soft, gentle gliding of tongues and lips, a warm gesture, sending sparks through your nerves that make you throb with a need that feels both familiar and eerily unknown, frightening.

A single thought ricochets through your empty head: You would do anything for this woman.

“My beautiful pet,” she whispers against your tingling lips, the tip of her tongue tracing the corner of your mouth. “Are you ready?”

Without thinking, without wondering what for, you nod eagerly, a breathless “Yes, Mistress.” leaving your swollen lips. She gives you another peck and stands up then, snapping her fingers in a way that leaves no room for interpretation. You stand immediately, swaying slightly on the high heels you were told to wear. You're still smaller than her, but having to look up only amplifies the sensation coursing through you. Your devotion for her.

She grabs a large bag and shoves it into your hands, and you know by the weight and feel of it, that it holds camera equipment. A distant memory shimmers behind your glassy eyes, of stumbling into her room, finding those envelopes in the drawer of her desk, of flipping through countless pictures of your naked body, of your holes being stuffed and stretched, of being tied down, of letting her do with you whatever she wants. What has disturbed you earlier is barely worth a flinch now.

It's what you do. It's what you are. Her muse. Her pet. She chose you and you obey. It's what you do, it's what she does. She's your Mistress, after all.

1 🎀 2 🎀 3 🎀 4

End notes: Yes, our dominant lady here is indeed inspired by a character from my other (m/f) Dom/sub story: Infatuated: Mistress.

By the way, a little disclaimer at the end here as we go to the next (heavier) chapters: I am not a BDSM professional or expert, I am a writer with a dirty mind and access to the Internet. This is fiction, gaslighting people is bad, consent is very important, but when a hot lady tells you to do something, you gotta do it, that's the law (jk). Please see this as what it is: a fantasy and nothing more.

Thank you for reading! Next chapter on Saturday!

MASTERLIST // AO3 // ORIGINAL WORKS

[inkandpaperqwerty]

Need a Number?

I don't know if this will actually help anyone, but if you have a hard time coming up with numbers in your writing (like an ID, a SSN, etc.), you might like this.

I literally just pick a word and then travel up my keyboard to the left.

So, like, in The Intelligence Control and Analysis Program, a Criminal Minds AU where geniuses are used as government resources (among other things), I needed IDs for them. So...

SPENCER-REID = 2036334-4383

Later on, I introduced Penelope, and...

PENNYGA-RCIA = 0366651-4381

And it just so happened the first three digits of each suffix were really similar, and that actually led to a whole aspect of the conspiracies around the government agency because something was off with the 4380s geniuses, and they wanted to know why.

But yeah. Most of you probably already do this, but I find it very helpful, and no one ever taught it to me, so I thought maybe it wasn't as widespread as I thought?

(Shifting is also great for making passwords, btw)

Enjoy your not-so-randomized numbers!

[klaroveins]

Was it casual when he allowed her to drink his blood straight from the vein while she was dying?

Was it casual when he came all the way from New Orleans for her graduation in Mystic Falls?

Was it casual when he allowed Tyler Lockwood to come back to Mystic Falls even though he was in love with Caroline but understood she was in love with Tyler and only wanted her to be happy?

Was it casual when Tyler was her first love but he intended to be her last?

Was it casual when he offered to show her anywhere around the world, Paris, Rome and Tokyo?

Was it casual when he drew a beautiful picture of her even after she insulted him and didn’t give in to his charms easily?

Was it casual when he let his guard down with her considering he was a paranoid person and she hated him?

Was it casual when he constantly pursued her even when she hated him?

Was it casual when he sacrificed one of his Hybrids that he’d spent centuries working to create, just for a single date with her?

Was it casual when before his death, they shared one final kiss?

Was it casual when she believed he was worth being saved?

Was it casual when she always knew he was never the villain in her story?

NOTHING ABOUT KLAROLINE WAS CASUAL.

[animasolaoriginal]

I n f a t u a t e d ♦️ONE

CHAPTER ONE TWO◾THREE◾FOUR◾FIVE SIX◾SEVEN◾EIGHT◾NINE◾️TEN ELEVEN◾️TWELVE◾️THIRTEEN◾FOURTEEN◾FIFTEEN SIXTEEN◾SEVENTEEN◾EIGHTEEN◾NINETEEN◾TWENTY

A chance encounter under the strobe light. Hips swaying to the thumping bass. Dark eyes following her every move. Gazes meeting through the crowd. She came to him. He took her away. Changing her life forever, guiding her into submission.

ruthless nightclub owner ❌ innocent young woman with a crush

WARNING: NSFW! Explicit sexual content. Age gap. Size difference. Noncon/dubcon elements. Roofies. Abduction. Dom/sub dynamic. (For more tags, check it on AO3!) // WORDS: 3.9k

A/N: Please remember: This is fiction! As much as I enjoy writing fucked-up characters, this is not real. I do not condone this behavior! Men, be nicer to women! Girls, always check your drinks! Be mindful of strangers, no matter how nice they seem and how hot they look. And be careful what you wish for! So, technically this is a modern AU of my original story Innocence Lost, picks up on some themes, but it's basically just a fucked-up man abducting a girl (it's not stated in the beginning, but she's over 18!) and having fun with her (and then things may escalate a little!). Be mindful of the tags! This may be my darkest piece yet. (Dead dove, do not eat, as they say, right?) Also pretty self-indulgent, but there is some plot between all the filthy smut that is to come, I swear. > There are no names, no physical descriptions other than a size and age difference, so you can imagine any character here! <

ONE 🟥 TWO

Innocent.

She's been innocent, the sweetest little thing he's ever seen. Laughing with her friends, oblivious to her own beauty, blind to the leering stares of every single male around her. And he's been one of them, staring, watching her, looking her up and down as she moved her fragile little body to the beat of the thumping bass, motions contorted and jerky in the strobe light, hair swinging, hips shaking, lips curling into happy smiles.

So innocent.

Probably just a mask, an act. Or maybe she's really been as pure as she looked back then, he'll never know. Because as soon as he's laid his eyes on her, she's been corrupted, tainted by his dark desires. He wanted to corrupt her, ruin her, and he always got what he wanted. He lured her in, kept watching her until she noticed his stares, the darkness in his gaze, the hunger within him. And she came to him, drawn to his mystique, his persistence.

Curious little thing, clueless to the monsters around her.

He smiles at her, rakes his eyes over her body, over that outfit she chose to impress without realizing what might happen, whose attention she might attract. The tight top, squishing those small breasts (pert little nipples standing proud under the shifting breeze of the AC), showing off the flat of her stomach, the flutter of her belly after she's danced her heart out, chest heaving, sweat on her brow, beads rolling down her pale, untouched skin. Slim naked arms holding the drink between her fingers, the soft rattle of cheap jewelry on her wrists, around her neck.

Girly, cute, pure.

And that skirt, mid-thigh, tame when she's standing still, scandalous when she's moving, the fabric flowing around her legs, bending down (bending over), accidentally showing off those cute little panties beneath. Giggling when she realizes her mistake, small hands trying to cover up, but people already saw, and she's aware. She's been aware he saw everything of her. Eager eyes, big and fucking innocent, following his every move.

He takes the drink from her, stares down at her, no longer smiling, and she looks up, chin tilted, so tiny in front of him, innocent, expectant, excited. Putting the glass down, he grabs her wrist, frail cheap jewelry bending under his grip. For a small moment she's hesitant, notices the strength in his fingers, the determination behind the gesture. But she still follows him as he pulls her away from the bar, into the shadows.

How do you break an innocent girl? Show her what's what? What may happen if she steps into the lion's den wearing that skimpy top and maybe-scandalous skirt? So naive. Swinging her hips to the blasting music, bouncing those tiny tits, laughing like nothing else matters, enjoying herself. A little light in the moving darkness. A light he wants to savor before he'll let her burn out.

If she'd be any other girl, he'd have her pinned to the wall, skirt flipped up, panties ripped down, his belt open in seconds before he'd sink his cock into her tight little cunt, to ravage her, ruin her, use her like she's supposed to be used. But she's too pure to be railed against a wall, in the dimly-lit club, for everyone to see.

He still pushes her against the wall, inhaling that little gasp she issues when she hits it, looking up at him, lips parted, eyes wide, gaze blurry, pupils already dilated, the thrill of the encounter and adrenaline of the night (and possibly some drinks she was mysteriously gifted) pumping through her body. Grabbing her face with his big hands, he holds her firmly when he leans closer, takes his time, gives her time to push him away (what a rare treat, girl), but she just stands there, looking at him, a little glint in her eyes, her lips curving up ever so slightly.

She wants this.

And he gives it to her. His lips meet hers, one hand holds her cheek, thumb guiding her chin, while the other hand slips into her hair, fisting it, a tight grip to hold her as he kisses her, a soft beginning, quickly turning rougher, more hungry, desperate. And she kisses him back in the same way, mirrors his motions perfectly. Such a quick learner. Their tongues slide against each other before he pushes deeper, tastes the inside of her mouth, that sweet taste, of some sugary drink and her, so much of her, and it's intoxicating.

So sweet. Innocence oozing from every pore.

He cages her in, pushes her against the wall, feet on either side of hers, knees around her legs, and she's that tiny thing in front of him, standing there, kissing him back, but her body seems frozen, hands at her sides, immobile. Petrified? A doe-eyed thing caught in the headlights? Not for long. His hand moves down to her waist, fingers digging into soft skin, warm and smooth, slipping up under the hem of her shirt, teasing at the little mound beneath.

No bra. Too innocent (and small) to need one.

Her hand comes up then, closing around his wrist, but she's not pulling him away, she's pushing his hand higher until his rough palm closes around her breast. Tiny tits, usually not his preference, but it's cute, that little squishy flesh under his big hand, warm and soft, and the longer he kneads it, the harder her nipple pokes into his palm.

And then she moans into his mouth. His eyelids flutter, and he stares at her, lips hovering over hers, heavy breaths mingling, head spinning, the tension in his stomach making it so hard to keep his composure, to stick to his decision to spare her his usual treatment. He gropes her small tit once more before he pulls his hand back, sliding it down her side, watching her closely.

He grabs her ass cheek harder than intended and leans in to capture her mouth when she yelps quietly in response, swallowing her noises, the thump of the music vibrating through his tense body. In his mind he's already ripped her clothes off, run his hands all over her smooth, untouched skin, fingers pinching her nipples, teasing between her legs, slipping deeper, into her tight innocent warmth –

A grunt escapes him. She's gripping the front of his shirt, her small hands clinging to him while she kisses him back, eagerly, completely lost in the unexpected encounter. Eyes closed, humming against him, body inching closer, searching for his warmth. The hand on her ass pulls her against him, a little thud that makes her mewl into his mouth, before it slips lower, cups her rear, pushes her up, fingers brushing against that little damp piece of fabric, and it's enough to make him hoist her up onto his hip.

Her hands claw at the collar of his shirt while her legs wrap around him almost automatically, conditioned, programmed to submit. A deep-rooted thing she isn't aware of yet. Her pelvis presses into his hipbone as he balances her, back pressed to the wall, both of his hands now on her plump cheeks, holding, groping. He can feel her warmth, that hint of wetness, arousal she's probably confused by.

“I'm gonna take you with me,” he rasps into her neck as he leans in to shower her soft skin with hungry kisses, lips closing around her fluttering pulse, sucking the blood to the surface with a determination that surprises himself.

“What?” she breathes against his cheek, a sweet little sound in his ears, so pure, a soft hum in the atmosphere.

“Don't worry about it,” he mumbles, licking over the bruise he's created on her neck. She shivers in his hold, chest moving against him. He leans back, licking his lips, meeting her curious gaze. “You need another drink,” he says with a smirk. It's not a question.

He sets her down again, grabbing her hand, leaning over to brush his lips over her temple until she looks up at him. Then his other hand is on her chin, holding her as he crashes his mouth against hers for another searing kiss. A little whimper escapes her. She's confused, he can tell, overwhelmed by whatever is happening.

Pulling her towards the bar, he nods to the barkeeper, a gesture often used. She's leaning against him, caged between his hard body and the counter, looking up at him with those big eyes. He smiles down at her, caressing her soft cheek with the back of his finger. He's got her, he knows. She doesn't even care about her friends anymore (and they seem to have forgotten about her too, he can see them dancing on the other side of the room). All she does is look at him, mesmerized.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the bartender sliding the drinks over the counter top. He takes the prepared drink (something sugary with a special ingredient) and hands it to her, then takes the little vodka shot for himself, eyes fixed on her as he clinks the glasses together. She smiles shyly and takes a cautious sip, while he downs the shot in one go, feeling the liquid burning down his throat. The music thumps around them, the air thick and heavy with alcohol and sweat, and a tension that's just between them.

The innocent girl, sipping her drink, staring up at the man, who watches her with a predatory smirk. His hand is heavy on her hip, warm and comforting, holding her in place, thumb rubbing over her fluttering stomach. She finishes the sugary concoction and wipes her mouth, glass empty on the bar. He leans down and brushes his lips against her ear.

“Come with me,” he whispers, and she shivers, her hand finding the front of his shirt again. He steps back, his hands running along her arms until they close around her slim wrists. The bass sits low in his guts, and he can't help but move his body slightly to the music as he leads her backwards. She laughs softly, a little sway to her hips as she follows him. But they leave the dance floor and walk back into the shadows.

He watches her closely, she blinks more, eyelids heavy, lips parted, that cute little tongue out to lick them, once, twice, again, almost obsessively. He takes her to the back, past the office, the music becoming that thick beat in the distance, a deep thrum in the air, through the walls, muffled as if the world was made of cotton. He leans her against the wall, a body too easy to move by now, his hands on her shoulders as he leans down to rub his nose against hers.

“Be a good girl and stay right here,” he tells her, waiting for her to understand.

She nods slowly, licking her lips again, and he presses his mouth to hers, capturing that sweet little tongue, sucks on it, kisses her deeply, tastes the sugar and her and more. Dangerous move, but he can't help himself. He leans back, moves his lips down her jaw, along her neck, swipes his tongue in a broad stroke over that soft skin. She mewls in response, and he grins against her before leaning back.

“I'll be right back,” he says, his eyes boring into hers, making sure she does what he tells her. She nods again, biting her swollen lip.

He hasn't planned to take her, but he'll adapt, as always. It's a risky move, but he somehow knows it's going to be fine. He has an eye for these things, knows what to do if situations (opportunities) like this present themselves. Just a few calls, some more ominous nods to his employees, no problem, just a few minutes of his time to sort things out. Somewhat. He doesn't even know why he's taking her away, it just feels right. The temptation is too strong to ignore.

He shouldn't have left her.

When he returns, they are there, crowding her, two guys, frat boys probably, drunk out of their minds, slurring and stumbling, but determined to take what is now his. He's on them in no time, hand ripping them away from the frightened but still confused girl, frozen in place as hands gripped and groped her, slipping under her clothes, going places that are reserved to him.

His fist lands hard against a jaw, one of them tumbling to the floor with a howl, the other, too drunk to react, just stares at him, and he doesn't wait for him to realize what is happening. There's blood on his knuckles when the second guy goes down as well, two crumpled guys on the floor, holding their bloody faces. He grabs the girl with his left hand, carefully pulling her against him. She's swaying, legs trembling, arms wrapping around his waist helplessly.

One of the boys stirs, and he steps on his hand and kicks him back, another howl swallowed by the distant thump of the music. He takes a few steps, raps his fist against the door. A bouncer opens it, and he tilts his head towards the mess behind him. “Take care of this,” he orders, and the burly man nods, slipping into the club while he maneuvers the girl out of it.

The night is cold, semi-fresh air, but the noises are no longer muffled. The city breathes around them as he guides her to his car, parked in the back. She clings to him, barely able to function on her own anymore, eyes heavy, lips parted. He leans her against the trunk, hands holding her soft face, looks her over. She looks at him from under her lashes, too out of it to realize anything anymore. He gives her a soft kiss to her warm cheek, a little giggle escapes her.

She falls into the passenger seat, a frail little body unable to move on its own. He leans over to buckle her in, feeling her deep breaths on his chin. A short side glance shows him she has her eyes closed, chest rising and falling, head lolled to the side. His hand is on her cheek as he kisses her gently, savoring the warmth, already imagining what he could use her for. But he has to be patient.

When he rounds the car to get behind the wheel, his morals flare up, a rare occurrence, but the sight of her slumped into the seat, helpless and fucking innocent, makes him wonder how it's come to this. He's seen her dancing, in that tight top and short skirt, a laughing little light in the darkness around her. Pure. Ready to be soiled. He inhales the cold night air and slips into the driver seat, shaking his head to get rid of those damn doubts, flexing his bloodied knuckles on the steering wheel as he turns his head towards her small form.

In the end she is just another body to be used, like she should be.

They arrive at his place, and it's a blur for him to get her into the elevator, a little breathing bundle in his arms, so light and heavy at the same time. Temptation. He puts her down on the bed, watches her, how she curls up into a ball of limbs and hair, breathing softly, skirt bunched up around her hips, that sweet round butt on display, cute panties he wants to rip off her immediately. But he refrains, sighs, turns away to wash the blood off his hands.

Unbuttoning his shirt as he returns, his eyes are on her, taking in every detail. He keeps his pants on, keeps his hard erection in place for now, no matter how difficult it is to hold back. The urge to just take her is strong, push those panties aside and impale her on his thick cock. It'd be so easy. She wouldn't even feel anything, wouldn't remember a single thing. And there's the problem. He doesn't want to fuck a lifeless body, no matter how cute she looks.

He wants to see the fear in her eyes, the pain when he penetrates her, stretches her, deflowers her, possibly. Maybe even the lust growing in her pupils, that dilated look of pure bliss. Who knows, she might be into this. She followed him so willingly, she came to him, after all, approached the monster that kept staring at her. She made the first step. He just watched.

She stirs on the bed, soft little noises tumbling past her lips. He leans over her, rolls her onto her back, turns her head to the side so she won't choke on her own spit. There are other things he wants her to choke on. Later. It's almost caring how he brushes her hair out of her face, caresses her cheek, flushed and warm from sleep. Thumb finding the contours of her lips, soft and wet, pushing between them, into her mouth, searching for that sweet little tongue.

He pulls back with a deep sigh. Watching her for another moment, he decides to undress her after all. At least the skirt has to go, so he moves his hands under her body and fumbles for the zipper, then pulls it off her slim legs, nudges her shoes and socks off in the same move. He even removes her cheap jewelry, the soft clanging sounds of the thin metal filling the quiet room. She stirs slightly, smacks her lips, but doesn't wake. Not that she could, not yet. He folds the skirt and puts it on the nightstand, the sneakers he leaves under the bed, socks tucked into them, then turns his attention back to her sleeping form.

So fucking innocent in her tight top and those cute panties. A soft pink with little white bows on it. Childish almost, a girl caught in that awkward phase between adulthood and innocence, right on the verge. He doesn't know how old she is, but he trusts his bouncers to only let in girls of age. They're experts in finding fake IDs, good judges of character also. To be honest, though, it wouldn't change anything anyway. She is here now, on his bed, ready to be used, soiled, ravaged. He can't fucking wait.

But he has to, so he leans back and inhales deeply, ignoring the strain in his pants. His hands are itching to touch her, feel that warm smooth skin, pure and untouched. Almost. He can see the bruise on her neck that he worked into her. His mark. The beginning of many more, he's sure. He leans in, braced on one arm, one knee denting the mattress, his other hand tracing her jaw until he feels the little thump of her heartbeat in her jugular. His fingers curl around her neck, thumb pressed to her throat, as he stares down at her.

His mind floods with images of soft lips strained around his cock as he forces it down her throat, the tears in her eyes, the desperate grip of her fingers, trying to push him away as she struggles to breathe, spit and cum on her face, dripping down her chin, down between her tiny tits, chest heaving, throat bulging, a small body shuddering under the assault. He leans back with a groan, his stomach tensing in anticipation.

His hand trails down her side, teases those soft mounds under the top, scrapes over the hem of her panties, down her inner thigh, a little nudge and her legs open, a body to move how he wants to, so pliant. He's tempted to throw his plans overboard, the urge growing to just take her and relieve the throbbing need in his pants. His fingers are shaking as he brushes them between her legs, over the soft, slightly damp fabric of her underwear.

He can't help himself any longer, he slips a finger under the hem, feels her warm skin and the slick gathering between her soft folds. Biting his lip, he traces her slit, from the little hidden nub down to her entrance, and he can already tell she's never been touched here before, tight and pure. Maybe she's had her own little fingers in there, but she'll soon find out that it won't compare to anything he's planning to do to her.

A grunt escapes him when he pushes the tip of his finger into her hole, a little squelching sound accompanied by a little whimper. He looks up, but she's still gone, head turned to the side, drool gathering in the corner of her parted lips. He watches her as he dips his finger deeper, feels the tight grip of her cute little cunt, so warm and squishy, barely able to accommodate one of his digits. This will take some work if he wants to keep her.

He's used virgins before, broke them, ravaged them until their blood mixed with his cum, their pained screams like music in his ears, but this girl... she's too innocent to be treated like that. It's a strange feeling he's never had before. It's warm and somewhat comforting, as smooth as her tight little pussy. He pumps his finger slowly in and out, noticing the wetness gathering around it. Her mind may be clouded, but her body reacts nonetheless.

Why not start her training while she's unconscious? Might make it easier for her once she comes to. He settles next to her, pushing her panties aside more to allow his thumb to find her clit. Pumping his finger, he rubs it gently, draws tight circles around that sensitive bundle of nerves, feels it pulsing under his touch. His cock twitches against the fabric of his pants, and he grits his teeth to ignore it.

Her body shudders, little uncontrollable twitches in her thighs, her stomach fluttering, her soft breaths slightly faster as he keeps working his finger into her tight warmth. His eyes on her face, relaxed in sleep, but there's still a little twitch to her eyebrows, a little furrow, a quiet whimper falling from those plump lips. He fingers her faster, thumb pushing harder on her nub, those sweet squelching sounds making his head spin.

A tiny moan erupts from her throat, a quiet “Ah...” humming in the atmosphere, and he feels her tensing up, her walls gripping his finger, but he works it in and out still, knuckles-deep, thumb assaulting her clit. He wants to lean in and taste her so bad, but somehow he holds himself back, another trait he's new to. Instead he watches her small body convulsing under his touch, hips jerking against his hand, cunt clamping down on his digit, and when he pulls it out, her wetness seeps out of the tiny hole, trailing down to the other, dripping onto the sheets.

He inhales deeply, takes in that sweet scent of her orgasm, and wipes his hand on her inner thigh, spreading her release on her warm skin, before he leans back and brings his finger to his lips, unable to fight the urge to taste her after all. He prefers to have his face between soft thighs, drinking directly from that intoxicating fountain, but for now it'll do. His tongue laps around his fingertip, and he closes his eyes, taking her in, that sweet, sweet taste.

Before he leaves her be, he adjusts her panties and throws the blanket over her sleeping form. Then it's a short trip to the bathroom, shower turned on, clothes discarded on the floor, and he's barely in there when his right hand closes around his angrily throbbing cock.

Fuck. This girl will be a challenge. An exercise in restraint.

🟥 TWO

End notes: So, I guess the slow burn of Innocence Lost got to me, big time. I have no idea from what dark and ugly depths I pulled this story, but it is here, at least the first 10 chapters of it, the first season if you will. (And there will be more!) I'll upload a new chapter every Monday!

I hope the tags didn't put you off too much, but if you are reading this, maybe you pulled through, and I thank you for it! Thank you for joining me on this wild ride! I appreciate you very much!

By the way, this all came to be, somehow, because I've been listening to a lot of Electric Callboy recently (strangely enough, iykyk) and their video to Hate/Love kinda brought this all down. Or at least started it all. Sometimes inspiration strucks in the weirdest forms.

Thanks again for reading! Next chapter on Monday!

AO3 / / / MASTERLIST

CHAPTER / / / ONE◾TWO◾THREE◾FOUR◾FIVE◾

SIX◾SEVEN◾EIGHT◾NINE ◾️TEN

ELEVEN◾️TWELVE ◾️THIRTEEN◾FOURTEEN◾FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN SEVENTEEN EIGHTEEN◾NINETEEN◾TWENTY

[satcnus]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ       𝐒𝐘𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐓𝐑𝐘

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆. ex-military widower ✖ runaway stray

𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐒. older protective male x vulnerable teen fem. widower x runaway. paternal elements within romance. male saviorism. size differences. opposites attract. ride or die. hurt, comfort, healing. v-rginity loss. dead dove do not eat.

𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐆𝐄𝐑 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆! The following original fiction contains potentially triggering content, including: extreme age gap, homicide, child and spousal death, kidnapping, s-xual as-sault (background only), r-pe recovery, child abuse (background only), post-traumatic stress disorder and disabling mental illness, paternal elements within romance and and mild ddlg themes (clothing, nicknames). Read at your own discretion.

𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓. 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃 𝐎𝐍 𝐀𝐎𝟑 - EARLY RELEASE. 𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐈𝐌𝐄𝐑.

Overnight, the wind howled with the wolves, and the forest hushed. In this mountainous range, there was little to contrast oneself with. Yes, indeed, Reuven Aronov often ventured into the asylum of evergreens and found his body slowly, meditatively, ceased to exist. He would become breath and heartbeat and witness and nothing else. 

On mornings like this, where the unforgiving climate of this asylum offered just a bit too miserly a reprieve, Reuven would remember the sea, and its unending power, and the force of the waves. Insurmountable, and yet, pregnant within its density with lessons of relativity, and impermanence, and letting go . The water was, had always been, and would always be, his true sanctuary. A surrendering to the world and its forces. Speaking in hymns with its ebbs and rolls. See, he had had to learn that lesson as a young man—teeming with excitement for what was to come, and much too overzealous for his own good—the ocean was not forgiving; it was not exonerative. It demanded respect, in exchange for the continuum of his life. He and the water: combined they were symbiosis, in its most elemental form. 

Reuven was stood staring out at the lake, opaque with frost, wondering when its molecules would reanimate and return the ice to its fluid counterpart.  There was not much time left in this January. Just a few more weeks and he’d be able to strip himself of his clothing and baptize once again. 

His attention was only momentarily occupied with this recollection of sparkling water and rich green vegetation. Another storm was coming, this one predicted to be even more imprisoning than last night’s, and he would need to get more work done today to make up for it all. Especially now that he had another mouth to feed. There was this nagging, prickly voice in the back of his head, repeating some cruel mantra of his failure in fatherhood. How he would, by proxy, not be able to take care of this girl, either. That, somehow, the Earth would open upon its crust, and swallow her whole, right before his eyes. 

He threw down the blade of his axe more forcefully through the next chunk of wood. 

        The rest of the day meandered along, with him prepping the chicken coop to sustain the storm, and finishing up butchering that deer he’d killed the night previous. Meal times came and went, and he played this tango with the girl. The passing of a plate back and forth—like waltzing, hand on her hip, her’s on his shoulder. 

The day had not ended for him until long after dark had come, but there was that reward at the end of the tunnel: a bit of relaxation, knowing the second deep freezer was stocked with meat, and there would be enough firewood to heat the house, and the water heater, with some left over for the following days as well. And she—that stray girl of his in the guest room—was fed and resting.

It was on the third day that their half-removed tango faltered. 

Reuven was outside, shoveling a pathway through the eight inches of snowfall that the storm had brought. He’d been outside for hours. Long enough to redden his cheeks beneath his beard, and flush his nose and lips, and heavy his breaths. His jacket—that brown firehose-style garment he’d offered to the girl that night he’d picked her up—was crusted in its corners with snow. It clung to its zipper; it melted against his pockets.

The man was focused. Too focused to realize that at exactly 5:45 in the evening, he’d gained company. 

Unrealized to him, the girl was in his kitchen, tipped onto her bare toes, reaching up towards a cabinet shelf with all her might; reaching for the only can in the bunch with a pull-open top. Her glances had darted, every few seconds, to the door, through the kitchen window, and at his posterior silhouette, ever oblivious to her thievery. 

Was it thievery, truly, if he wanted her to eat? In Elnara’s mind, it was. Yes. Without a doubt. No matter the circumstances, no matter the raging appetite she had built over the past few days, and the small amounts of pudge beginning to fill out the bony structures of her figure, Nara could remember nothing but Hunter and Tyler and Poppy, and their jeers, and their abuse, holding her hostage with her own hunger. It all lay dormant, just barely concealed, beneath the heart-bounding composure of her flighty anxiety. 

She could remember nothing but the violence and the cruelty and how hungry she had been, and how quickly she had learned from her punishment that she did not deserve food. That food was a pawn in a game of chess. That her belly was meant to go hungry, and if she dared to behave otherwise, there would be hell to pay.

But being fed again had not only resurrected her appetite, but her drive as well. She felt more capable, more assured in herself, and it had taken her three hours of watching the stranger through her window to decide that she could get away with it. She had already snuck a shower while he was out there. Why not this too?

It was not as though her strange roommate had not been feeding her. Quite the contrary, he had been piling more and more food on the plate every time it showed up before her door. And he had even left her a pack of some sort of meat jerky that she’d chewed on all night, waking up every few hours from her hunger. This hunger was so much stranger than the hunger she’d grown used to. It did not settle in her stomach with a cramp, but was rather this mammalian, unconquerable need for more food. Like something, somewhere, was aching for more sustenance from the very depths of her existence.

Her hand was shaky as it prowled. Her target was a can of chicken and dumpling soup. Her fingertips were so close to being able to anchor onto its lip that she was convinced that if she could just… stretch… a *little bit* more… 

Her efforts were futile, but Nara was determined to knock it down, so she could go darting off back upstairs to her hiding place, and settle that need for carbs and protein. That primal part of her brain had finally won. The hem of that baby yellow t-shirt pulled up over the small of her back as she tried to jump while reaching. Of course, the stranger must have had the cabinets fitted to a height most comfortable for him, which was significantly less of an attainable reach for her. Last time she’d been to the doctor, before she’d ran away, they’d assured her she might still go through a growth spurt, and surpass the barely-five-foot height she was currently at. Suddenly being starved and sexually abused might have thrown a wrench in that whole process.

Still, Nara, at her core, had always held a certain bravery that defined her perpetuation. The willingness to walk away from home. To stab Hunter in the chest. To reach for a can of Campbell’s.

Perhaps that bravery was reckless. Perhaps it afflicted her in the same way that curiosity did cats. Because she had only just captured the can of soup, her victory exploding with quiet thrill in her chest, when the back door suddenly opened, with only a half-second of the doorknob’s turning to warn her that he was coming. 

Like fawn before headlights, the girl cemented. All input from her mind, screeching to run, sprint, book it , had no route to her limbs. Just as suddenly as he stepped into the kitchen, Nara became paralyzed from the throat down. Her eyes widened so automatically with the intensity of a fear reborn; her entire body began to tremble. No, it was not just a mental recollection of being thrown down by the chain on her throat and defiled so violently it’d made her entire body numb. It was the physical memory of it. She could feel Hunter’s grip, unforgiving, on her throat. She could feel his thighs, forcing hers open. She could feel that terror, that agony , in her chest, like it was all happening again.

She didn’t know how to stop it. She was suddenly sobbing, recoiled into the furthest corner of the inner counter, pressing herself hard into its butcher block edge. Nara was trembling from head to toe, tears darting hard and fast down her cheeks, as a stream of desperate, pleading apologies left her mouth. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! I’m sorry!” she wept, dropping the can of soup like it was a wad of cash and she was a bank thief. Her shaky, thin arms, automatically came up to protect herself, and in the same moment, she sank down against the lower cabinets, her chest falling into her bent knees, where she could curl up and ready herself for the assault. 

The violence of a hot flash of regret dawned upon her. And her breaths came in ragged, trembling just the same as her limbs and core, and she sobbed against their hiccuping tyranny over her body. 

Above her, the cabinet still hung open on its hinges, painting so clearly the evidence of her crimes. 

She sat like that, curled into herself, sobbing, for what felt like eternity. The purgatory before hell. The waiting room before eternal damnation. 

“Hey,” his voice, baritone, tender , cut through the pounding rush raging against her eardrums. “I’m—I’m not gon’ hurt you, sweetheart.” 

Her mouth felt tacky as she swallowed against her laborious breaths, and dared to peek up, from the safety of her cowering. He was still standing by the door, his palms lifted up her way. His boots were shiny with melting snow. His jacket, darker in splotches with the same. He was so much larger than she’d realized. Now, up close, she could see—she had been undeniably correct when she had assessed that she would not be able to fight back against him. His shoulders were broad and strong, and he carried a thickness to his musculature that widened his torso and legs and forearms. A horrible thought flashed into her mind, behind her eyes, of how easily he would be able to choke her and kill her. How horribly at his mercy she would be if he so decided to do the opposite of what he reassured her. 

Nara was wary to believe him. Only when he stooped down, with an assisting grunt, to grab that can of soup as it rolled his way, did her eyes flicker from his. Then they followed his stature right back up to those dark, brooding eyes. So clearly full of something , and yet it was all hidden away. 

“Were you hungry?” he continued. He spoke to her carefully. Like navigating around an IED. Carefully, thoughtfully, gently. “I was just about to come in and make dinner.” She stared into the deep, black pools of his irises. He did the same in return. “You can eat this soup if you want. I don’t mind. Not much of a meal though,” he tried, with a huff of a chuckle. Trying, desperately, to calm the girl’s anxiety. 

He watched as her shoulders fell, relaxing, slowly. She swallowed, and then nodded, carefully climbing back to her feet with the assistance of gripping onto the countertop. 

They watched one another carefully. As lions of different prides might, in the wild. 

She was still in Chedva’s clothing, Reuven noticed. The girl was so much smaller than he’d originally thought. Small enough that the shirt, a middle-schooler’s medium, hung loose about her frame. Her limbs were still trembling, ever so slightly, as she stood, hands interlocked in front of her belly.

It made his heart sink. In the same way, it brought forth a surge of anger, for whomever had done something so treacherous to her that she had reacted so intensely to his presence. And then, to not lose himself in it, Reuven quickly reprimanded himself; reflected on the ways in which she looked better . Healthier. Her hair was wet, her flesh was pinked. Her eyes were wide, awake, attentive.

Yes. She looked much better. “You’re looking healthier,” he commented, offering yet another smile. A bit forced. His eyes fell from hers as he did so. His palm found hold at the back of his neck. God, when had he become such an awkward man? He wasn’t sure how to do this—any of it. “Uh—I’m not sure if you have a preference for what you want to eat… I was gonna make some mashed potatoes. Maybe venison? Or, uh… I think I still got some turkey in the deep freezer?”

Nara stared at him, still wide-eyed, still holding her breath in short pauses. She nodded, wordlessly, and then tried her own voice. It came out of her strained. Small. Pitiful. To Reuven—stronger, smoother, less worn. “Yes,” she whispered, before clearing her throat. . “Yes—um—either is fine.” The truth was that she had never even heard of venison, and she wasn’t sure what kind of meat it was, but she was grateful for whatever he would give her. 

Still, Nara felt this blaring chorus of gut feeling behind her every nerve ending. Her apprehension to be around him was palpable, and she could tell he could feel that emanating off of her. The truth was that this was all very confusing and bewildering for Elnara. She had gone from being chained up to a stake in the desert to almost dying on the side of the road in the snow and now… standing in front of this strange man, who embodied everything she should be afraid of. And he was telling her he was going to… make them dinner? Asking her what she wanted to eat?

She had not had the opportunity to eat so freely in so long, she couldn’t remember what it was like to even have a craving or choose one food over another. For Nara, her starvation dictated what she ate—which was everything. Anything. Anything at all.

Reuven moved slowly in his approach towards the sink, pulling up the sleeves of his flannel to reveal deeply hardened forearms hidden beneath a layer of dark hair. His hands, alone, were large enough to fit around the circumference of her thighs, surely. She readied herself to run, taking automatic steps back and away from him as he got closer, until he was washing dishes in the sink, and she was staring at his back, not a few feet away, silently watching him. 

She wasn’t sure why she was still rooted there. Whether it was some innate, yet unrealized feeling of safety with this man, or whether it was purely out of the fear of what would happen should she defy what he outlined as their agenda for the night, she could not be sure. All she knew was that when he had his back turned to her, she felt just minimally more relaxed than when he was facing her. 

“Alright. Venison and potatoes it is,” he commented. His voice had this edge to it. Like he was uncertain of the words that were leaving his mouth. 

Reuven wasn’t sure why, but he felt this pressure to make a good impression. Now that she was finally out of the guest room, and out in the open, he wanted to make sure she knew she could trust him, and that he had no intentions of harming her. He wiped at his forearms with a small towel, and turned a knob on the six-burner propane stove. It clicked three times before a flame burst to life. Its light was quickly hovered by the base of the slick black cast iron that was sitting on its rear counterpart. 

“Do you, uh… you got a name?”

Do you got a name? What kind of question is that? He chided himself internally. A small, dejected scowl graced his features for a moment as he slapped a tab of butter into the pan from the edge of a butter knife. 

Behind him, Nara was still standing, still staring, boring a hole into the musculature of his back. It was a long moment before she spoke. In that moment, she frantically pondered over whether or not to lie to him. Ultimately, she decided that telling him her real name would fare better than an alternative. At least, if he were going to violate her, she wouldn’t have to withstand the humiliation and disrespect of being mocked with a different name than her own. 

“Nara,” she murmured. “Elnara.”

Elnara. 

It was a beautiful name. His great-great grandmother’s name had been Elnara. 

“Reuven,” he answered back, with a clear of his throat, as he reached for a knife from its block, and began roughly chopping fresh thyme and rosemary. 

There was another long silence between them. 

“I’d say it’s nice to meet you, but…” his joke fell flat, and even he couldn’t find humor to anchor to within it. In the cast iron, the butter sizzled until it grew tan and fragrant. In a steel mixing bowl sat two servings of frozen deer meat, thawing amongst cool water. Beside the cast iron, he’d filled up a large pot with the same, and was slowly bringing the potatoes to a parboil. “Is… is your fireplace out of wood?” he asked, to her quiet surprise. He cared about the fireplace in her room being full? Nara’s eyebrows pulled inward in her confusion. Her captors had never cared about whether she was too cold or too hot. She was left to suffer against it, no objections allowed.

She hesitated to answer, but then remembered how Tyler had once grabbed her face so forcefully his nails dug imprints into her skin, because she did not answer a  question of his promptly.  “Yes.” Nara felt like she was watching herself interact with Reuven from outside of her own body.

Reuven wanted to prompt her, on why she hadn’t told him or given him some sign that she was cold up there, but thought better of it. Surely that would only come off accusatory, and not with all the care it truly held behind it. He was not socialized enough anymore to level out his tone. It held this dry bite to it, that often rubbed others the wrong way, and he hadn’t given even a single fuck about that until just right then, when it became imperative that he was able to soften the edges of his tone to convey what he truly meant with his words. Instead, he offered a solution. 

“Once we’re done with dinner, I’ll come up and refill it.” He paused, remembering that it may perhaps be upsetting to be told what he was doing. Surely, with her reaction earlier, somebody had to have reigned unjust power over her at some point. “If that’s okay,” he added, and behind him she spoke another small yes .

The rest of the cooking went forward with much the same tension between them. This awkward, uncertain waiting. As though each was anticipating the other to do something betraying. Reuven, anchored to this lost feeling of nurturing, less so. Still, by the time the food was plated, they still hadn’t spoken another word to one another. 

He cleared his throat as he set down her plate on the dining table pushed up against the far wall of the open-space kitchen. She watched him, from the same spot she’d stood in while he was cooking. He took a heavy seat down into the wooden chair; it creaked beneath him, as he an automatic groan against the pressure releasing from his aching knees. Beside the two plates were two sets of cutlery, two tall glasses of ice water, and some paper towels masquerading as napkins. 

So quickly, numbly, did she fall into this sort of obligatory submission to him. Just like she had with Hunter. In Nara’s mind, she was still under the trio’s cruel rule. Not allowed to speak unless spoken to. Not allowed to sit until told to. Not allowed to eat until given permission. 

His eyes found hers again, seeking, as she stared in patient waiting back at him. Reuven was confused for the first half of the moment, unsure why she wasn’t sitting down, and then he pieced two and two together, cleared his throat, and gestured, gently encouraging her to take a seat. “You can… you can sit down. It’s okay.”

She did as she was told, and then sat, with her legs crossed beneath the table, her shoulders tense and tugged inward, as if unconsciously trying to protect herself. Again, she waited, staring his way with big, doe’s eyes. Even despite the resurgence of her painful hunger against the horribly inviting smell of warm meat and gravy mashed potatoes. 

He had already begun to eat, and she glanced at his lips, moated by a long dark, graying beard, longing to do the same. 

Reuven spoke through his chewing, his tongue swiping at his lips. “You can eat,” he reassured, his chest aching with something akin to pity but not quite. Why was she so afraid to eat? Why did she need his permission? He cleared his throat, glancing back down into his food, if only to avoid her eyes. “Please. I’ll be offended if you don’t.” It was delivered casually, and he meant it as such, but with the hopes that she would eat if not for herself, then for him. 

Nara did not resist. In fact, it took her several ravenous bites to realize how she must look to him, and start to back off with a blooming red embarrassment in her cheeks. He must have thought her an animal. 

Much to her relief, he seemed to eat just as quickly, though not with the urgency her own eating held.

“Can I have more?” she asked, quietly, when her food ran out much sooner than she might have liked. Even this mere question was a mountainous act of courage on her part. She had never dared to ask Hunter for more food. Strangely, she didn’t think Reuven would hurt her for doing so. 

“Sure,” he responded, his tone restraining back some small delight at this progress in her eating. It took no hesitation for him to rise back to his knees, with another small grunt, and refill her plate high with the last of the mashed potatoes, and generous spoon-scrape of gravy from the bottom of the cast iron. 

Something strange—dazing—had come over Reuven. He could not comprehend it, much less articulate it, but it felt distinctly nourishing . The context clues of Chedva’s clothing, the young girl, her bashful countenance, the act of making her dinner. It all amounted to some swell of comfort in his chest. The same comfort he felt when taking care of his babies. 

“Do you got somewhere to go? Somewhere you want me to take you?” he asked, watching her casually as she ate. Her cheeks puffed with the spoonfuls of mashed potatoes; her pout glistened with saliva. 

A defeated look struck her chocolate brown eyes. And she shook her head. Then, after swallowing: “Nowhere.” The word hung heavy in the air. There was nowhere she wanted to go back to. Nara couldn’t even imagine returning to her father’s home, no matter how much she truly did desperately miss her siblings. And she certainly would rather die than go back into those deserts. No… it seemed she had no home anymore. And she hadn’t for a long, long time. 

Reuven nodded slowly, dissecting what that meant. And then, he gave her a gentle, supportive half smile. “We’ll go down to Neilton tomorrow. Get you some clothes. Check out the shelter. I think they take priority for women and children.” He traced the silhouette of her face with his gaze, lingering upon the delicateness of her nose, and the muted freckles that lived across its bridge. The rosiness of her lips. The plumpness of her cheeks. She was looking so much healthier. So, so much healthier. The man felt relief iron out all the lingering tension in his chest.

A shelter didn’t sound too bad. At least she could maybe get a job somewhere close in that town he’d mentioned, and have a bed to go back to. Not nearly as bad as sleeping in freezing cold sand. “Okay,” Nara nodded, chewing again, and feeling oddly relaxed. So much so that she didn’t realize it until just then, when he spoke of leaving this little island of solitude. Her heart jumped in her chest again, only at the prospect of leaving the safety of this cabin.

Safety.

Was that what this feeling was? This warm, placating blanket around her shoulders? 

Nara looked back into Reuven’s eyes, finding solace there, and anchoring to it. 

Yes. 

Yes it was.

[spookygibberish]

I made a terrestrial AU of Zeta that I’ve been having a lot of fun with lately

[gothamite-rambler]

Game Show Host: All right, we asked both couples what is their oddest nightmare? First couple—

Bruce (doing this game show not by his choice): We're not a couple.

Talia: We're twin flames that can never truly be together, but our love will forever burn.

Bruce (frustrated, voice low): That's herpes, not love! Just answer the question!

Talia held up her cue card.

Host: He worries that his bedwetting will return and he'll lose his reputation as the strong, handsome man he is, leading to his downfall. And he wrote down this answer assuming I’d get it wrong so he could pretend it was a lie.

Bruce sighed, holding up the cue card with the answer: 'Bedwetting at my current age and ruining my reputation. This is a totally lie.'

Host: That's another correct answer from the Al Ghuls!

Bruce (enraged): You used your last name?!

Talia: We can combine ours when we get married, don't worry, baby.

Bruce: I hate you so much!

Talia (mischievously sweet tone): Do you want me to help you find the you-know-what, or can we leave? Your choice.

Bruce growled, biting his card while Talia kept up her winning smile. The game show host smiled, blissfully unaware of the obvious disdain Bruce had for Talia. The other couple watched the two, with the husband turning to his wife.

Husband: Why aren't you like that with me?

Wife (flatly): I'm not insane, for one thing.

[theaftersundown]

has this ever happened to you?

[esamastation]

If you could choose a world to be isekaied into, you probably wouldn't choose the videogame Age of Tales.

It's a painfully generic mediaeval RPG with a very generic "farm boy becomes a hero" storyline. Or farmgirl, if you go that route. There's some moral choices, but overall the story is very linear from start to finish, and no matter how evil you try to play it, the game inevitably ends with the chosen farmboy (or girl) saving the world. Age of Tales has a very generic cast of characters with very generic backstories, even more generic villains with very basic evil plots, and side quests right out of early free to play mmorpgs. Overall the game is just very… mid.

Upon release the game was a massive flop.

And Katie has happily sunk nearly six hundred hours into it.