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giorno-plays-piano · 1 year ago

Text

Hold On To Me

Pairing: mob!Steve Rogers x reader

Warnings: home intrusion, hostage situation, noncon, Stockholm Syndrome, smut.

Words: 3.9k

Summary: Swallowing a lump in your throat, you grow silent, anxiously watching the guy smile at you. He's that type every girl would be eyeing in the club, looking for an excuse to talk to him, to attract his attention, and then, very likely, to get him into bed. Steve seems popular, the I-will-eat-your-heart-like-cereals type, but you can say he isn't. Something in his eyes betrays his nature.

P.S. I rewatched The Hostage again (when I did it for the first time, this was the result), and here we are.

____________

Staring at a little black Ikea table as if your life depends on it, you sit, your body aching from being in one position for too long, but you can't move. He's watching you. It seems he doesn't even blink, his eyes on you since the moment he pushed you into your room and locked the door behind him. He's so close you can hear him breathing.

You know this look. You're not that young and innocent to be unable to recognize interest in man's eyes. It both scares and - unfortunately - makes you a little flushed, and you berate yourself for the latter because this isn't the right way to react to a man who broke into your house and took your family hostage. God knows what's happening to your stepfather right now: the man wouldn't be able to protect himself even if he was inside a tank, and his enemy attacked him with a plastic knife. You're as much worried about your little brother. He was always a bit of a brat, but the second you realized he was in danger, you felt so overprotective over him you covered his body with yours like you were a shield.

Your brother is in his room now, being watched by the youngest guy in the gang, the one who looked the most reluctant when their leader decided to take hostages. Your brother must be safe. The other kid won't hurt him, you don't think.

You, on the other hand, are stuck with Steve. From the moment you saw him move and heard him talk, you realized he was running the show behind the curtains. He's dangerous. The third guy, the one who claims to be the leader, is impulsive, angry, shouting and kicking things, sweating like a sinner in church because of the police cars surrounding the house, but Steve is calm and collected. He smiles with his perfectly white teeth and talks to the boys as if he's relaxing in a bar after work, not in the middle of armed robbery.

He's really, really pretty. Steve has perfectly blond hair and proper facial features like a slightly chiseled jaw, full lips, and that sort of blue eyes that make girls swoon over him the moment they see him. He's perfectly tall, well-built, with wide shoulders and strong, muscular arms and legs: he look like he belongs in those Armani commercials or, perhaps, on the catwalk, but not with the kind of guys your mother warned you about. How did he end up on the darkside? What made him so good at using a gun? He didn't fire it even once yet, but you see it from the way he handles it he knows too well what to do with it. It makes you anxious, thinking that he might point his gun at you and then pull the trigger.

Except he won't. Or, it's rather unlikely. Not when he looks at you like this, always moving so close to you he steals a touch whenever he can as if he is unable to help himself. Besides, Steve is kind to you: he gave you water when you asked and loosened the rope tied too tightly around your wrists; he brought you a pillow so you could rest against it, not the cold wall, and shushed you gently when you cried, saying he wouldn't let anything happen to you or your little brother. You don't know how much of his promises are true, but you think him unlikely to harm a child. He doesn't seem the type.

Your poor little boy. He's only a kid, all alone in his room, forced to face one of his kidnappers as he waits for the police to finally make a move. Since you don't hear him crying - your room is just below his - you think he does his absolute best to hold on, to keep calm and not irritate his unwilling jailer even though he's frightened to death. He doesn't deserve to be caught up in this mess. If only they agreed to let him go... Not that anyone would listen to your pleas, though. He's a valuable hostage, just like you. As long as the gang has you, police won't make a move, you're pretty sure.

But maybe you can still help your brother. Ease his worry a little, give him a bit of hope. That is, if you play your cards right and press the right buttons of your handsome, terrifying warden.

"May I bring some food to my brother, please?" You whisper, gathering all your courage to turn your head to face Steve, look him straight in the eyes. "He must be so hungry."

Swallowing a lump in your throat, you grow silent, anxiously watching the guy smile at you. He's that type every girl would be eyeing in the club, looking for an excuse to talk to him, to attract his attention, and then, very likely, to get him into bed. Steve seems popular, the I-will-eat-your-heart-like-cereals type, but you can say he isn't. Something in his eyes betrays his nature.

He's not a guy winning girls over with his looks. Steve is a deviant, an outcast. His face can't buy him what he wants, and that's why he's here, in your house, holding your family hostage.

Maybe, just maybe, you can use it to your advantage.

"Can you do me a favor, please?" Your whisper is barely audible. "Can you take me to my brother so I could feed him? If you want, you can tie my legs so I won't run."

Not that you would, anyway. You know perfectly well you can't outrun this guy even if your life depends on it, literally. Overpowering him is even more unlikely unless his muscles are just cotton stuffed in his clothes, which is a ridiculous suggestion.

His eyes light up at the word favor. "Happy to oblige," he muses, and your heart starts beating wildly before he continues, "but how will you return my favor?"

You are puzzled. You haven't thought this far. Dumbly, you thought he'd just say yes. It's a small favor, really. He knew you wouldn't give him any trouble, so it was just quickly checking up on your scared to death brother. Why would he want something from you in return when you couldn't as much as move without his permission?

But of course, he would.

"Anything," you blurt out hurriedly as if the words burn your tongue before you realize what you are actually saying.

Steve laughs with delight, his features softening.

"You should work on your negotiation skills," he declares with a wide smile as you tremble, understanding what you just offered. "You shouldn't give up your everything because people will take anything there is to take. Choose just one thing at a time, and choose carefully."

Suddenly, he gets close, and you immediately avert your eyes to the floor, unable to keep his gaze, trembling.

He nuzzles your cheek affectionately as his knife works through the rope around your wrists, and you pray he isn't going to stab you because you really know nothing and all judgements you made of him might be false. "But I'll be nice and choose just one thing for you. You'll feed your brother, and then I'll feed you, alright?"

You blink, your eyes on your warden again. Feed you? He wants to give you food?

Okay, it sounds strange. But who cares when you can finally see your brother? You'd say yes even if he proposed something improper because what else can you do? Steve has a gun, and even without it, you feel like he's a very dangerous person to oppose to.

So you say yes, and he takes your hand in his - so you won't be nervous, he says, but you know he wants to remind you who's in control - and then you two march to the kitchen in awkward silence where you grab whatever you can find. A cheeseburger from that little family café your family goes to every weekend, a pack of yogurt, a toast, a bottle of water... Steve even helps you to carry it all.

When he opens the door to your brother's room, you forget how to breathe for a second. The little boy is safe, sitting on his bed with his hands already untied, his eyes red from all the crying, and you rush to him, forgetting there's another man in the room. Or, well, a boy, because he's surely younger than you, perhaps still at school. His eyes are suspiciously red, too, as if he's scared and doesn't want anything but leave this place for good. For a moment you think it'd be better if he was guarding you, too, because then, perhaps, he'd agree to let you go if you helped him run away from the house without police catching him, and then things would be so much easier.

But the boy leaves in a hurry when Steve enters, and you remember who's a true ringleader. You can never escape on your own.

Your brother cries when you hug him, his little hands wrapped around you as he sniffle, and you rock back and forth to calm him down, whispering words of comfort, like everything's going to be alright even if you don't know where your stepdad is and what Steve is going to do to you if police doesn't do what he demands them to. You tell your brother he needs to eat because it's dinner time, and he nods, suddenly a well-behaved boy he'd never been, and takes a cheeseburger. You don't leave until he eats everything even if it's probably too much for a kid his size, but he says nothing, and you want him to be completely full: who knows when he'll eat again.

Then you give him a hug. It'll be fine, you say, and he does his best not to cry. Just do what they say, be a good boy, and everything's gonna be alright.

Steve smiles at the child when your brother doesn't want to let you go. "Listen to your sister," he says in a tone as if he's playing the role of a big brother, "and things will be fine. She'll be safe, too."

You don't think you'll be safe, not with someone like Steve, but perhaps your brother will be because his jailer is a kind kid, and he isn't cut out for violence. It's enough for you, even if your hair stands on end when Steve gently nudges you into your room, locking the door behind himself again. Once you two are completely alone, you start to panic, your breathing growing uneven, your hands shaking. What will he do to you? Will he rape you? Torture you? Kill you? If you could think rationally, you'd realize at least the last two are unlikely to happen, but you're a hostage, and he has the power to do any of these things. Even if you're unbound, you're helpless against him, a man so big and strong he'd overpower you in a matter of seconds.

So you don't try anything. You go sit down on the floor near your bed with a pillow resting between your back and the wall and then stretch out your arms for Steve to bind them again. He doesn't.

"You've been a good girl so far," he muses, sitting down in front of you, and then you see a couple of fruits in his hands that you somehow missed completely. "Now, let me feed you."

You still when he takes out his knife and peels a big red apple in a single strip before cutting it into even pieces. When he brings one close to you, you try to take it from his hands, but he tuts, tilting his head. "Open your mouth," he says simply instead, and your face grows hot.

Of course, there was a catch. There always is with guys like him.

But you say nothing and do as he says, and then he carefully pushes a piece of apple into your mouth. It's delicious, juicy, just your favorite sort of apples. You try to concentrate on the taste, not Steve's delighted expression when he watches you eat. Soon, he pushes one more piece past your lips, and then one more, and one more until there's nothing left of the apple. He's nowhere near finished, of course, because then starts to peel an orange. It's messier than the apple, but Steve doesn't seem to mind when he brings a slice close to your lips and lets you swallow it. His smile grows wider the closer you are to finishing the orange.

When you're finally done, your mouth full of acidic flavor, he suddenly clicks his tongue.

"My hand is all dirty from orange's juice," he says, eyeing you when you finally register what it is he asks you to do.

You bite down on your lips, eyes round as he brings his hand to your mouth.

"Lick it," he whispers so close to your face you can feel his breath on your skin.

You want to say no, to tell him he's out of his mind, but you don't. He's been kind to you so far, and it'd be stupid to provoke him. Even if he won't stop at this... maybe he'll stay kind, anyway. It's better than having him put a gun against your forehead for refusing to do what he says.

You open your mouth, taking his fingers in one at a time. They taste almost the same as the orange, sticky with juice, and you do your best to lick them clean, making shameless little noises when you suck at them. Steve doesn't seem to mind. On the contrary, he looks at you with a delightful expression on his face, like he's happy you're so good at whatever he asks you to do. He slips finger after finger inside your warm, wet mouth, playing with your tongue, smearing juice and saliva against it as he laughs with joy.

When you're done, he kisses you, sharing the sour taste of the fruit.

You knew it would come to this. It's no surprise, really, with the way he looks at you. But you still tremble and wish for all of it to end when Steve licks your tongue, sucking it into his mouth.

"Open your legs, baby," he commands in a sweet voice, and you shudder but do as he says anyway, and his lips part in a smile. "Yeah, like that."

His hand is already between your thighs, cupping your pussy through the clothes, and you freeze, blood pounding in your ears. It feels surreal, being in this situation, in the hands of someone who might make you cum or shoot you in the head instead. Your heart beats wildly in your chest, but your body is petrified, limbs turning to stone, your tongue heavy when you whisper. "Please, don't hurt me."

It's a plea, a cry, and tears slip down your cheeks as you look him in the face, his eyes dark and perceptive. Then, all of a sudden, he softens. "You're safe with me," he promises, his breath warming your face as his hand lands on your head, stroking you gently like a little girl, and you feel like you're going to cry from the intimacy of his touch. "You'll always be safe with me."

His other hand is already in your jeans, caressing you through the silk fabric of your panties, but as he pats your head, taking your hair away from your face, you lean into him, seeking any comfort he's willing to give. Steve purrs, landing a kiss to your brow, his fingers slowly spreading your gentle folds as you shudder. "Good girl."

You let out a shaky sigh as he circles your clit: surprisingly, he doesn't start pumping his fingers in and out like most guys do, too eager to have their dick inside. No, Steve just draws more sighs from you, makes you meek and pliant and wet as his fingers work your clit just the right way, and you squirm into the fabric of his t-shirt as he caresses the back of your head, pressing you into his chest.

It almost doesn't feel like he's forcing himself on you. It feels like... like he comforts you. As if he wants you to feel good, to be fine with him doing it to you.

"I'm... I'm-"

Your knees tremble as you sense the orgasm coming too soon, snuggling against your captor as his hand closes against your shoulders, his fingers working your clit even faster, circling, pinching, pressing on it like a button, making you squeeze your eyes shut. The coil tightens in your belly and, then, then... you become undone. Disintegrate in Steve's hands when he praises you tenderly for being good to him, kisses your cheeks wet from tears, and craddle you to his chest like a baby. He's painfully hard, you can feel it through his jeans when you lean onto him, but Steve doesn't seem in a hurry for his own release. He waits till your orgasm makes you all too soft and takes your face in his hand, giving you a deep kiss, his tongue coiling around yours.

You barely recognize when he lifts you up, feeling too comfortable and warm, pressed to him like that, but then you feel cool bedsheets behind your back, and then you're scared again.

Steve coes tenderly, giving you a peck on the lips, "Do you want to ride me, baby? Or do you want me to take you on your back, like a princess?"

The way he phrases it makes warmth creep into your cheeks, and you avert your eyes, mumbling, "On my back, please."

It doesn't even register that he forces himself on you right this minute. It feels like... something else. Something not so scary, not so violent. Something... tender.

"Like a princess, then," your captor smiles, hands trailing your jeans as he carefully slides them down, taking them away, living you half naked. "Alright. You'll be my princess."

Your face feels disturbingly hot when he says it, his hands on you as he tugs the fabric of your blouse up, lowering his head to drop a few kisses to your tummy, murmuring something you don't quite catch, his breath hot against your skin. Soon, you are completely naked in front of him, and you'd feel ashamed if he wouldn't caress your head again like you're a little girl, eager for his praise.

He gives you a kiss before inching away, taking his t-shirt off ever so slowly to give you a good look at his undoubtedly perfect body. But you don't look at his muscled arms or wide chest. Your eyes are trailing his scars, so many scars of different shapes and sizes that cover his skin. Many of them are long, undoubtedly deep, as if someone... as if someone stabbed Steve with a knife.

Your eyes water. Even if it's you who's a victim, a hostage, you feel a sharp sense of guilt as if it were you who hurt him.

He blinkes, a little surprised, perhaps, but you can see there's someone else in his eyes. Something like shame. Like self-loathing.

"A princess' knight is supposed to have a few scars here and there, right?" He gives a quiet laugh, getting down again to cage you with his body, but he freezes when your warm hand lands on a long, ugly line on his side, between the ribs. It is long healed, but the touch makes him stop, nonetheless.

You look him into the eyes, and your face is tight with worry. "I'm sorry," you whisper like it's your fault, your palm warming his skin, and Steve becomes alive again under your touch, his lips partying in a smile once more.

His hand caresses your nipple, pinching it between two fingers as he draws a breath from you, watching you intently, his hard, leaking cock heavy on your tummy. Then, suddenly remembering something, he bends over to grab something from his jeans, and you realize he's putting on a condom. You sigh in relief, and he catches that.

"Anything for a princess," he grins, sliding his hand over your thigh, and you still beneath him when he positions himself at your entrance.

You're scared. That moment you're back into your room, with a man who can shoot you hovering above you like a monster eager to eat you alive, and you forget how to breathe. You're not a princess in the care of your faithful knight. You're a hostage, and your captor can do anything he wants with you.

Steve feels the change in you in a moment, and he stops, his hand back to the top of your head. Even though you can feel how painfully hard he is, he waits, caressing you like a little girl, smiling to you, tenderly brushing your hair away from your face, repeating you'll always be safe with him. And then you're a princess again, and he's your knight.

He pushes into you, and you bit down on your lip, trying to relax: he's not monstrous, but Steve is still a bit too big for you to take him comfortably. Thankfully, he doesn't split you on his cock, giving you time to adjust, and with every moment the subtle pain grows weaker before it finally lets go, and you nudge your warden gently, your hands gripping his shoulder and your face in the crook of his neck. It doesn't hurt anymore. It almost feels good to be so full of him, to know what it's like to have him inside of you.

Steve says it's hard not to cum when you clamp down on him so much, gripping him like a vice. Pleasure softens his features, and you brush a strand of blond hair away from his face before you even register what you do. He does, though, and he likes it. He finally starts to move.

Sweat drips down your bodies when Steve keeps slamming inside of you, making all sorts of soft noises while you pant and choke beneath him, snuggling against his form, your legs wrapped around him tightly. His cock is pressing against every right spot of yours, making you forget who he is and what he does to you. You're his princess, his good girl, he repeats over and over again, and you feel safe in his embrace, inhaling his scent, taking his cock till its head presses into your cervix, leaving a pleasant ache and making you whine. It feels good to be in his care when he rolls to the side and presses your head to his chest, his other hand lifting your leg to reach a different angle, and you kiss his jaw, his neck, making it even harder to hold on, he says.

When he cums, you're already far too gone. The pleasure is too intense, and for a couple of minutes you say nothing to each other, panting, his hands still on the back of your head as he caresses you absent-mindedly, your bed a mess of damp and crinkled sheets. You wish to stop thinking. To forget everything. Just being here, being safe, is enough for now.

Until he speaks again.

"You'll come with me," he whispers feverishly, his hot palm on your cheek, almost burning you. "I'll take you away, and we'll go on a big adventure together, princess. With dragons, swords, and gold."

You're quiet against him, staring into his chest as he caresses your head.

You're not a princess. You're a prey.

___________

Tags: @finleyjayne @helenaeisenhower @inlovewiththefictionalcharacters @rosalynshields @lookiamtrying @soleil-dor @cosicas-cuquis @buckybarnesplumwhore @lux-ravenwolf @stupendouslovegardener @what-is-your-wish @eralen @magnificantmermaid @typewritersworld @stcrrjoon @sweetxime @imrandomstuffsblog @gachawipes133

#dark steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers #dark steve rogers #yandere #captain america #mcu fanfiction

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fantasticsandwich · 2 months ago

Text

Stockholm in Oslo

au/short story from a series I have

tw: suggestive content, implied drugging

You keep running the numbers, re-tallying the sums, but all the signs point to the fact that somehow, you're barely scraping by. Well, more accurately, Kit is. Not you; you don't pay a dime to live here. In this tiny apartment at the heart of Oslo, your days begin atop crumpled sheet in your shared bedroom. The other side of the bed is always cold. The floors are cold on your bare feet, and the halls are arctic maws spitting you out into the kitchen, where an even colder breakfast awaits you in the fridge.

Shoving articles aside, you find a plate balanced atop another. A sticky note attached to the top designates it as 4 AM's omurice. Kit finds cling wrap redundant, so instead of removing a filmy sheet, you set the other plate aside and dig into the meal, too tired to bother to heat it up. What have you done to be so exhausted? Yesterday, you'd completed your household chores early, so your day consisted of channel surfing and intermittent naps, snacking on prepared meals. Even if Kit insists you don't lift a finger, you're ashamed that you can't even bother to wash the dishes most days.

As you sit and spoon cold leftovers into your mouth, your phones pings, alerting you to an email, from someone from another life. Kiko must be doing well these days. From the message's contents, you learn that he has a foundation now, offering aid to underprivileged minds in Haiti. He has contacts across the globe to make their dreams possible in the same way you almost let yours. If only you hadn't fled the States, then Spain...

But it isn't too late for you; he dangles an opportunity like fertilizer, bonemeal to your mincemeat soul. One of his dream-making contacts wants your creative spirit to thaw on a residency where it all began. A summer-long retreat to the wilderness of New York, just you and a handful of peers, if you can still call them that. Maybe if you could, you would've jumped at the chance, but now, the prospect of leaving your new life and return to a fragmented version of the old is obscene.

Can you leave for that long? Survive or thrive? Kit won't be there to make your breakfast. You'll dine on instant meals, peel the cellophane, then wrap leftovers in cling wrap. In your search for something beautiful to paint, you'll trail a bird to your demise.

Your finger hovers over the reply button. Before you can even dream up a draft, your phone pings again, this time, with a message from Kit. He wants you to take inventory of the produce. He'll go shopping on his way back from the office today. Maybe you can ask to join him.

Yawning, you close out of your email. Somewhere, in a corner of your mind, the concept of a draft lingers, waiting to be ensnared by cobwebs. Drawing up the notes app, you inspect the barren pantry and hastily type a list. Before you can permit your tiredness to make you forget, you promptly take a screenshot and send it to him. Bored again, you fish a feathered fan from a cupboard beneath the sink to do some dusting, but there isn't much surface area to clean. In the city center, everything is compact, apartments included. An Ikea bookshelf houses an array of trinkets that gather dust.

Staring at those exotic destinations, you think about going outside, but the winter is far too cold. The room is cold, too. Shuffling to the thermostat, you crank up the heat. Feet padding across the frigid surface of the laminate floor, you venture to your shared bed to swipe the comforter. With it bunched into your arms, you plop onto the couch. When the day began, you'd thought about all the productive things you'd do, but even washing the plates leaves you feeling groggy.

The remote has been consumed by the cushion. When you finally wrangle the device free from its plush depths, you mindlessly flick through channels, all spluttering in a language you haven't even began learning. Still, you see glimpses of the world you're hiding from. Some type of festival is going on downtown. Do you want to go? Before you can decide, you hear the lock turning, the jingling of keys. The door slides open and gently shuts. You hear the sound of shoes being toed off, then the impact as they hit the hardwood floor.

His voice calls out to you, beckoning, "Love? Where are you?"

Summoned from your linen doom, you arise as a gauzy-eyed phoenix. With the blanket draped over you like a shawl, you peel off the couch enough to turn and face Kit. Hefty bags dangle from his arms. Ignoring their weight, he approaches in three quick strides and snaps over at the waist to press a chaste kiss to your lips. Winter frost clings to him faintly, like a prostitute's perfume. With him leaning over the couch, you grip the canvas handle for purchase, fingers tracing each fiber.

He only goes shopping on Fridays. Ever proud to advertise, he only uses bags with your designs. Imprinted with your most recent surrealist portrait of him, this one is fresh from the manufacturer, still stiff and fresh. Your usual vibrant colors are muted and monochromatic. You painted him blue, the same color as the walls and sky. In the city center, there is only sky and its reflection on the window.

A waxy slip of paper juts out from one of the bags. Snatching it, your eyes widen as you scan the list. Only fresh produce and ingredients, your limited Norwegian tells you. Kit has made your household one of ingredients only. If you want a snack, you'll either have to muster the energy to make it from scratch or call upon him and squander his precious free time for your own selfish desires.

"How much are you spending on groceries?"

He quickly snatches the receipt back. "You don't need to worry about that," he pointedly says, crumpling the paper into a ball before tucking it into his pocket.

"But I'm hardly contributing anything to help cover the costs," you lament. Flopping over, you crush your ribs against the couch's bony spine. "I only get a few commissions here and there. I'd make more with a part time job."

You miss feeling like you were doing something with your life. Instead, you've become a glorified maid, and even then, Kit does all the shopping, deals with the paperwork, and prepares the meals most days. Your energy expenditure isn't enough to warrant lunch, so you've never touched the stove. The seasoning rack is coated in a layer of dust. Damned Kit, who has a palette becoming of someone from the British Isles. Your days are blander than his food. Your soul is empty. Simply existing is brutal and unfulfilling. Sure, you're able to pursue your hobbies. Yet while you were never a social butterfly, you sincerely miss interacting with others. You never thought you'd be one of those people, longing for those hazy college days, when you worked three jobs, only to have to take out another loan to pay your remaining fees. In a sick way, you wished you were still stuck juggling it all, barely managing to scrape by.

Unable to find the pit from which these sentiments arose, you'd never tell Kit about these strange beliefs. He works too hard for you to be ungrateful. Instead, you'll pretend to enjoy your bleak days, how the world beyond the window is a perfect, unchanging snow globe. His steady hands will ensure your vision is never clouded. Here, you are safe and protected.

From who? From what? You no longer remember. You resigned your fate and faith to him long ago.

"When you add it all up, I'm sure it covers our groceries," Kit quickly dismisses. His voice tapers as he disappears into the kitchen. You hear rustling bags, then cupboards slamming as he crams the dry groceries into place. You don't like how he organizes the pantry. He stacks boxes as if he's trying to make paper skyscrapers.

Briefly, you envision that drab outcrop as a gleaming skyline. Another diorama. Made from his toil, of course. If you can manage to sneak out of his grasp during the night, you'll reorganize the pantry, reaching your arms into that thin space, fingers brushing the edges, prying into the dark to dredge sense of the chaos.

"Could," you correct as he shuffles into the living room. "You only let me pay if we go out together, and only if it's a place I want to go."

"It's teatime," he says, setting a saucer down on the coffee table. His thigh rubs against yours as he settles onto the couch beside you. He tries to press the porcelain into your grasp, but your fingers skim the side. The heat seeps into your chilled fingers, restoring warmth.

You wrinkle your nose. "Too hot."

"Alright, but drink when it cools. You've been having trouble sleeping."

Your several micro-naps and incessant exhaustion beg to differ, but you don't want to tell the breadwinner about your pitiful qualms. "And you have trouble letting me do things for myself."

"Your money is yours. If you feel bad about it, then just get me flowers. Or keep painting for me. Paint me. You never used to do that."

Who or what else could you paint when he is all you see? He has become the anchor to your ship, your sky and horizon, the bringer of dawn and daylight. You'd go mad without him. You're going mad at his side. He floods your head with sweet, gentle delusions.

"But I want to be useful, too. I could... I could make and sell more art," you offer. Cold and unfeeling, you'll transform into an industrial machine. You need to be useful before you break and are discarded. "Or I'll apply for a residency program. Kiko sent me the information to one, and I'm sure I'll get it if I apply. In the meantime, I could get a part time job bagging at a supermarket or even cleaning—"

"Y/n," Kit sharply says, bringing a hand to rest on your shoulder. His touch is gentle, almost a caress. He slides his hands down to cradle your elbows. In a single, swift motion, he draws you closer until your chest presses against his. You feel his heart beating in tandem with yours. "If this is something you want of your own volition, then by all means, pursue it. But if you're trying to find a reason to leave me, then I simply cannot allow it."

Your voice sounds leagues, lifetimes away, like you're a ship rotting at the ocean floor.

"It'd only be over summer," you say, shivering as his hands clamp over your thighs. "I'll come back to you."

"You have to," he says. "I fought to have you at my side, so don't you know that I'll do anything to keep you here? If money's such a concern, then let's review our budget."

"But..."

What if you're just a burden? What if having you here is ruining his life? Keeping him from being successful? You couldn't even support yourself working two jobs back home. You crashed and burned, and in the fallout, paralyzed your taste for life. Kit is still young and lively. He should be out on a Friday night, not consoling his pathetic girlfriend because you can't cope with your own incompetence.

Fortunately, you don't need to speak. He hears the implications in your implicit silence.

"Y/N, I chose to make you my priority. If that means that I need to pass on things, then I don't care as long as you're taken care of. Missing a few meals here and there won't do any harm, but if I don't have you..." Drawing in a sharp breath, he pins a piercing gaze to you. "To me, that simply isn't an option. You came here, knowing I'd be taking care of you as long as you stayed."

"But did you know I'd be such a mess?"

"Yes. And I still accepted you because I want to love you. Now, you'll just have to keep your end of the deal and let me do just that."

Tears sting the corners of your eyes. Kit has already done so much for you. Removing you from that wench's clutches, rescuing you, sweeping you off to a foreign land where the painful memories of what she did couldn't follow. He is permitting you to be free.

"But..." Blubbering, you wipe at your face, unable to meet his gaze, "how could you still want me? I can't ever repay you for everything you've done for me. I'd still be in a terrible place if it weren't for you. I wouldn't be here without you. That's impossible to repay."

Kit sighs, fingers ghosting across your cheeks to wipe away your tears. Once satisfied, they dance lower and lower, slipping down your sides, eventually intertwining with your frostbitten hands. His smile is innocent, but the thoughts it conjures should be enough to condemn you to hell. You feel an unwelcomed heat flood your face, a gentle lurch in your stomach when his head plops onto your shoulder, hair tickling as teeth rake across your neck. The low rumble of his sultry tone echoes against your collarbone, melodic with your heart as a metronome.

"It isn't about transactions, but if it makes you feel better, I'd be more than glad to show you one way."

His words rouse something fearsome in you, sending a chill down your spine. But you look up and accept that manic gaze, the pleading, linen-clad look. Your eyes are circled by rings of cotton as you caress his cheek.

"I love you."

Pleasantly surprised, Kit momentarily relents control as you kiss him, but not for long. Pressing you down into the cushions, he quickly regains it, looming over you. Your heart thumps furiously in your chest. His eyes bear into yours as his hand crawls beneath your shirt, up your torso.

"Good. Wanna see how badly I need you?"

an: again, unfortunuately not cillian, but I'm a bit out of practice and needed to write something. and although i love writing him, cillian isn't the yan i'm most fond of, so i wrote about kit, a character from my other series. the lore is heavy with this one, so i won't explain it, but i hope that doesn't stop y'all from enjoying it.

#yandere #yandere oc #yandere x darling #yandere x reader #yandere male #pigmo #x reader #reader insert #tw dubcon #suggestive #cw suggestive #cw dubcon

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