#there are no words to describe what he does to me and how he makes me feel

[lazyjellyfish300]

Ohhhhhh my darling...

salaryman

[whereisloe]

my angel ໒꒱

“come from way above” ❀ sevika x reader 𓆝. 𓆟

Got this idea while writing a Silco fic and realized not enough people are writing for this fine ass woman OHMYGOF

I miss my wife, tails. i miss her a lot.

“This doesn’t hurt, does it?” you’d ask as you treated Sevika’s wound, carefully watching every faint expression on her face as you did so. She only grunted in response before letting her head fall into her hand. Considering the positions you both assumed, the woman had been towering over you as you sat comfortably between her legs dressing her abdominal wound. “Aaw , we’re almost done. Just keep being good for me, yeah?” You’d tease with a passive pat to her thigh as you prepped yourself to wrap her waist.

“Shut up” She’d force through a wince as you applied pressure to the deep cut, wrapping it as you did so. “You talk too much”

Once you finished the wrap your hands were quick to roam. Snaking up her chest, and latching onto her neck as you pulled your lips onto her jaw. “Keep getting hurt like this and I might just have to give Silco a little visit for all the trouble he keeps putting you through” Sevika scoffed, half-amused at your wit as she leaned back into the chair. “That man would eat you alive, sweetheart” The petname came off more condescending than endearing as Sevika undermined your words, even brushing off the genuine concern behind the joke with a bittersweet smirk.

“Oh, you promise?” Now it was your turn to laugh as you watched that smirk wipe clean off her face when her expression grew darker. You ignored her very obvious mood change and continued cleaning up your gear. “Y’know, maybe I could get you that pay raise. What do you think?” You’d stand from your crouched position and slowly spin around, flaunting your body at the woman. You even grabbed her rugged hand and bring it to your hip as you knelt into the seat of the chair that had been exposed between her legs.

“Hilarious.” She wouldn’t even half mind you as her hand quickly replaced your hip with a cigar. You rolled your eyes at her passiveness before returning to the ground to clean up your mess. At some point you even walked away allowing Sevika to smoke in peace as you cleaned your equipment.

Once you reentered the room, you’d find Sevika casually reclined on your couch with an unlit cigar still hanging out the side of her mouth. As you got closer her eyes locked on to you, roaming you up and down but once they reached your face, they softened. Just two gentle, big eyes admiring from a distance as you admired back. You were snapped out of your trance when she threw a lighter at you. You caught the metal with ease and examined it. “You forgot to light me” She said plainly, attempting to hide the sentiment she held toward the action. It was reminiscent of the first time the two of you met outside a brothel. Long story short, Sevika was quick to describe you as a huge distraction to her mission that day despite your short interaction that even you barely remembered.

“How cruel of me” You knelt down in front of the couch, now back to admiring your partner from below as her half lidded eyes met your wide ones. Her hand, rough as it was, gently held your cheek as her thumb brushed over your bottom lip. You felt yourself melt into her warm palm as the contrast between her calloused hand and your plush skin sent chills down your skin. You sparked the lighter twice before bringing it to the end of Sevika’s cigar.

She watched you. Allowing the flame to illuminate your soft expressions, and in her eyes, manipulating your features. Making you resemble yourself that night many years ago. She wasn’t any less taken by your more aged features if anything she appreciated them. Glad to see you grow older alongside her than having to admire your beauty from an ageless photo. You would notice her unwavering stare once you tossed the lighter aside and decided to make brief conversation. “You know, I don’t remember much of the first time we met” Sevika took a puff of her cigar before nodding urging you to continue. “But I remember without a doubt the second time”

“I’d be more concerned if you didn’t” She chuckled under her breath as the memories came flooding in. You took note of her already flaking cigar as she held it between her two fingers. Quickly, you placed your ceramic tray gently to her stomach just in time to catch the ash. “That guy had a lot of nerve putting his hands on you, you’re lucky I was there. Otherwise, who knows the things he would’ve did—” Sevika cursed at the thought.

“Well, you were there and I am forever grateful for you,” your voice was low as you rub senseless shapes across her wrist with the pad of your thumb. “my angel” the words were hushed as you kissed the base of her palm, then her wrist, down her arm, and back up her shoulder until you reached her nape where you took a moment. In this time, you pushed yourself onto her, feeling her shift to a more seated position to accommodate for you, you straddle her hips as you tossed your arms carelessly over her shoulders. The ceramic tray had fallen out from under you meeting the concrete with a shattering sound as the shards dispersed. “Damn it” You sighed as you began shifting away from your partner only for her to rest a heavy hand on your waist.

“I’ll clean it, later” Sevika gently guided you back into herself only to latch onto your neck. A shaky breath left your agape lips as you laid helplessly above Sevika. The heat in your cheeks only spread as she shamelessly left those sticky love bites all over your neck.

The sounds that fell from your lips only further egged her on as she found herself getting lower and her hand higher as it slid up your stomach. Eventually, you grew fed up with her slow teasing and brought your fingertips to the seams of your shirt and watched as Sevika’s gaze grew harsh with anticipation. You were ready to lift the cloth but quickly felt your blood run cold as three heavy knocked fell against your front door. You practically jumped out your skin as Sevika scowled at the source of the noise. “Fuck, I’ll get it” You held a hand over your heart as your slowly opened the door, meeting the eyes of a man who seemed to be one of Silco’s goons.

“Sevika, boss needs ya” The man completely disregarded you. You huffed under your breath and glanced up noticing how she was already behind you, prying the door further open. “Gotchu, now get the hell out of here before somebody sees you” Sevika’s voice was cold and harsh as she talked with the man, her tone almost foreign to you as you waited behind the door for Sevika to finish. Once she did, the door was shut with a frustrated grunt as she leant up against the door contemplating her next move.

“You need me to kill him?” From behind, you brought both your arms around her, pressing your face against her shoulder, you felt her laugh. “I’m sure you could.” She turned around and pressed a brief kiss to your temple. “Drinks on me next date to make up for this”

“Drinks are always on you” Your thumbs rubbed anxiously against her waist as you become increasingly aware of how much you hated when she left.

“Guess I need to stop fucking up, then” She gave your cheek on last stroke before turning to leave only to be stopped when you grabbed her mech hand. “You’re off to a bad start if you’re just gonna leave like that” You pulled yourself into her chest, standing on your toes as your lips locked with hers. Moving in tandem, Sevika fell against the door as you cupped her face in your palms and grew warm as her hand fell on the small of your back. Toward the end of your kiss you felt that warm, genuine smile of hers form against your lips as you fell back onto your heels.

“Be sure to fly back home to me, my angel”

god punishes me by making my wives fictional :( also have yall read that hexstrap fic??? sevika please just the tip 🙏😩

[hwaslayer]

wildfire (cs) | seven.

—spotify playlist | series masterlist

—summary: assistant professor in bioengineering, incredibly attractive, lonely and divorced; that’s how most people describe san. but despite the events that have happened in his life, san has a lot going for himself. he’s a successful, sought out professor due to his brilliant contributions to science at just an early age of 32. he worked hard to get where he was now; head deep into his research, his publications, building his lab and creating a name for himself. everything was good and smooth sailing— until it wasn’t. because when he meets you, a bioengineering grad student interested in rotating in his lab, he finds himself ready to risk all the blood, sweat and tears he put in throughout the years just to keep you close— his need for you spiraling out of control like a wildfire.

—pairing: asst. professor!choi san x grad student!f. reader

—genre: (18+ - minors dni) strangers to lovers, grad school au | fluff, angst, smut

—word count: 5.3k

—chapter content/warnings: cussing, mature language/sexually implied content, girlies we are lying straight through our teeth.. 😭, we also got door code privilege so we can talk to professor choi about neuroscience papers in private more often!! 😙, making out, a shower together ouweeee, blowjob, handjob, swallowing his cum, more cute affectionate moments, watching a movie together and being domestic af basicallllly

—a/n: i just wanna say tysm for being down bad for prof choi as much as i am <33 ily!! there will be a 7.5! & tsbut!yunho will make his debut soon.. 👀

—FLASHBACK

The walk back to your building isn't that bad, especially when most people aren't quite up and about just yet. San drops you off in the same residential area, watching through his rearview mirror as you make the trek back. When he sees you enter through the side door, he pulls off and drives around to the usual garage he parks at for the day.

You make it back to your studio unnoticed, slipping in with ease and heading straight to the shower to get ready for your day. The events from last night replay over and over again in your head and you can't help but smile to yourself knowing how well San took care of you.

You long for him.

After a good, long shower to soothe your body, you try your best to go about your morning as normal as possible. You quickly dry your hair and dab on some blush, mascara, brow gel, and lip gloss— keeping it light before throwing on some baggy straight jeans, an oversized crewneck and a pair of 530 New Balances. The moment you slide your laptop into your bag, Felix comes knocking on your door.

"Morning sunshine!" He smiles. "What time did you get back from lab last night?"

"Not too late. Sunwoo dropped me off before heading to his place." You give him a toothless smile, hoping he'd buy it. And he does.

"Oh, cool. Glad it didn't seem too bad and that he was there to accompany you." You sling the strap of your back over your shoulder, swinging your door shut before locking it. You follow Felix down the hall and head down to the dining hall to grab breakfast; except, you aren't hungry.

"Eunchae and Jurin are still asleep, huh?" You nod.

"Yeah, they won't get up for breakfast anyway." You laugh, knowing the two will probably get up right before class, giving themselves enough time to grab coffee on the way over at one of the cafes. 

"Yeah, Jiung is fucking knocked out." You giggle. "Anyway, wonder what special they have for breakfast today."

"I'm actually not hungry."

"Not hungry? For breakfast?" Felix looks at you weirdly. "Since when? It's your favorite meal of the day."

"I dunno, I'm still full from last night. I ate pretty late." Felix shrugs.

"Well okay, then. I'm just gonna grab something real quick and eat it on the go."

"No, we can stay and eat. I'll probably just grab some fruit." Felix looks at you with a brow cocked up, watching as you fiddle with the strap of your bag.

"Are you sure you're okay?" He presses his hand to your forehead gently. "You're not feeling sick, are you?"

"No." You look at him with a small, reassuring smile. "I promise."

"Okay then." He shrugs, no longer questioning you about your appetite this morning even though the tiny change in mannerism is enough to have Felix wondering what's been going on with you. Maybe it's just a phase, maybe you are just overwhelmed like Jiung says. 

He won't ask, though. He'll let you come to him if you need him. 

At least, you look happy. There's a certain glow to you that he can't pinpoint.

—END

"School is awful." Jurin puts her head down to rest her eyes for a second. "I feel like I'm a robot, moving nonstop."

"Tell me about it." Felix yawns. "I have to TA in a few." Felix looks at his watch and hums. "Hm, I'll leave in like.. 5 minutes."

"You know, I actually enjoy TAing!" Eunchae pops a grape into her mouth.

"Honestly, I do too. It's pretty fun." You chime in, taking one of her grapes.

"Same, especially when the class knows how to interact. Otherwise, I kinda just stand there and look dumb." Jiung snorts. At this moment, your phone dings from an email. You furrow your brows when you notice it's coming in from the department, stating that your TA hours were gonna be split with Jeong Yunho's class.

To: yn@atz.edu From: bioeng@atz.edu Hi Y/N, Hope this email finds you well! I'm emailing you to let you know there's been a change with your TA assignment. Half of your hours will be split between Professor Hsieh and Professor Jeong, effective immediately. Professor Jeong's TA needed to take leave for a family emergency and will not be returning for the remainder of the quarter. He should be emailing you soon to discuss a little further, but please feel free to reach out in the meantime if you have any questions or need any clarification. Thank you, Erika

"What's wrong?" Jiung looks at you as you read through the email.

"Uh. Speaking of TAing, I just got an email saying some of my hours are going to Professor Jeong's class. His TA needed to take leave for the rest of the quarter cause of a family emergency."

"Oh, damn. Hope they're okay." Jurin says. "Isn't that cool to be helping him now too, though?"

"Yeah, I guess." You lie because no, it's not. You'll obviously keep it civil and do what you need to do. But at the same time, you don't respect him the same way you used to. You don't care if you're biased over San— you just don't do that to people you claim to love. "It'll be interesting." There's a slight pause in conversation until Felix chimes in again.

"It'll be fun, I'm sure you'll learn new things from him just like you're doing with Professor Hsieh and Professor Choi." Your heart skips a beat thinking about San, and you realize you really need to keep yourself under wraps better before you slip up and start smiling like a fucking idiot around your friends.

And knowing them, they'd never leave it alone if you give them even the slightest hint of something going on.

"Mhm." Is all you manage to say.

"What're you guys doing this weekend?" Jiung squints at all of you. "Should we head out if you're all here?"

"I think I'm gonna be gone on Sunday during the day, but I'll be back later that evening." Jurin says.

"I'm gonna head home tonight and just hang out with my mom for the weekend." You poke at your salad before forking it and taking it a bite. You also avoid eye contact because it's a lie, and you won't be seeing your mom. You'll be at San's.

"Okay, so we aren't hanging out this weekend." Jiung snorts.

"Yeah, I think my cousin is gonna come down to visit and sleep over." Eunchae says. "We'll probably go out and head around."

"Just us boys again! We should throw a little kick-it at the apartment and keep it lowkey." Jiung adds, with Felix nodding. "Eunchae, you can bring your cousin if you guys aren't too tired." 

"Yeah! We'll swing by if we have the energy." She turns to you. "What're you gonna be doing with your mom?"

"Just hanging out, relaxing." Jiung nods.

"Nice you're spending more time with your mom." You give him a toothless smile and quietly nod.

"Alright, I gotta head out. I might even be a little late." Felix laughs. "See ya'll for dinner later? Y/N if I don't see you before you go, please drive home safely and enjoy your weekend with your mom!"

"Thank you, Lix." You smile and tuck your things into your bag. "I should probably go too, actually. I should wrap things up sooner than later." Jurin, Eunchae and Jiung begin to pack their own things as well, waving their goodbyes as you all split to different ways; some going back to lab, to class, some going to the library to finish some assignments before the weekend rolls around so they don't have to worry about it.

You walk to the Harvey Center with a slight pout, unsure of how to feel being thrown into Yunho's class. Truthfully, it could be worse. You don't know what you'd do if you somehow had to work alongside of Iseul. You're still praying and hoping you don't ever have to collaborate with her, and this is probably all sorts of fucked up because it's based on your feelings for San. You can agree that they are both great professors— their work and contributions are widely known. You don't doubt that you'd learn something new from them. However, you just can't get past the idea that they did what they did to San. You can never fathom betrayal like that.

You sigh.

You can't wait to tell San about this.

As promised, Yunho emails you and asks if he can set up a time to talk and catch you up on everything that's been happening in class so far. He asks if he can see you before the day ends so that you're good to go by the time next week comes.

To: yn@atz.edu From: jeongyh@atz.edu Hi Y/N, I think you might've received the email from Erika already about the change in your TA hours. Thank you in advance for your help, and I'm excited to have you onboard! Do you have some time before end of the day to quickly meet and go over the course? I can bring you up to date on where we're at. I'm on the east wing of the Harvey Center, room E122. Let me know what's good for you and I'll carve out the time. Thanks! Yunho

"You look unhappy." Sunwoo says as he plops down in the empty chair next to your desk, watching as you stare at the email through your laptop. "What's wrong?" You snap out of it and chuckle.

"Nothing." You pause. "Well actually, I'm short on time today so I might not get much done. I'll come in over the weekend if needed."

"Dude, it's fine. Take your weekends." He chuckles. "Why, though? Is everything okay?"

"Mhm. My TA hours are just getting rearranged."

"Oh, more or less?"

"Hm. I'm cutting down on Professor Hsieh's since she has two other TAs, and those hours will go to Professor Jeong instead."

"Oh, cool. That'll be a fun class! I've heard good things about it."

"Yeaaaah. I have to go meet him before the end of the day." You start typing your response to Yunho, letting him know 4:30pm was the best time for you— that way, you still have time to get through some of your work before heading out. Coincidentally, at this point, San walks into the office area, along with three other people. They're conversing in good spirits, and they make a turn towards your direction to head to the small conference room situated near your desk.

"Yo, what's up Professor Choi!" Sunwoo nods.

"Hey Sunwoo." He smiles at him before looking at you. "Y/N." He subtly licks his lips and smirks, returning his attention back to the group as if it never left. You almost forget about Yunho entirely.

He'll be the death of you.

"I'm going to work on some data analysis before I see him. I don't think I'll have time to slice and image today." Sunwoo shrugs.

"All good. We have time next week in between surgeries."

"Don't remind me." You smile at him playfully.

"Assuming you'll listen and take my advice about not coming in on the weekends unless absolutely necessary, what do you have planned?" 

"Mm, just hang out with my mom. What about you?"

"One of my good friends is visiting so I'll be taking him around and letting him sleep on my couch." You snort.

"Sounds fun." 

"Alright, I'm gonna finish some imaging from the slicing we did earlier in the week." You nod and wave. "Have fun at your meeting with Professor Jeong, and have a good weekend!"

"You too, Sunwoo." You give him a toothless smile before returning your attention to the data on your laptop. You spend a good few minutes typing out your analysis, only turning when you hear San's voice as he passes by. He gives you a small, tiny smile before returning his attention to the group, walking out of the basement to who knows where. 

You continue to keep your head down, bouncing between small assignments and your data analysis up until the very end. When 4:20pm hits, you quickly pack up your things and head out, giving the basement one last look. San hasn't returned after leaving with the group, so you assume he's busy for the rest of the afternoon until he heads home. You let out a small sigh, power walking over to the east side of the building. You tap your badge and hold your breath, hoping the badge reader will turn green and pop the door open; which, to your luck, it does. You follow the room numbers until the end, finding Yunho's office in the corner towards the back end of the first floor. You press your ear to the door, making sure there isn't an ongoing meeting before you knock. Once it's clear, you give his door a good, hard three knocks, not even having to wait for Yunho to respond with a 'come in!' 

"Hey!" Yunho smiles at you as you walk in, and you give him a simple, toothless smile. "Nice to see you again!" He's standing, just about to slip a book back onto the shelf next to him.

"Hi Professor Jeong. It's nice to see you again, too."

"Please, take a seat. I'm just kinda fiddling through books right now."

"Are you working on something in particular?" You gently set your bag down and watch as he grabs another book off of the shelf and sets it down on his desk. The book has different images of the mouse brain— the anatomy, from different angles.

"Ah, I'm just trying to make sense of some images, that's all." He smiles again at you. There's no denying that Yunho is also very attractive. He's charming in his own way, very witty and outgoing. You see him bouncing around campus pretty often, with or without Iseul in tow.

"I see."

"How's your day been?"

"It's been alright. Had two classes before I finished up work in San's—" You pause. "Professor Choi's lab."

"That's right, you're rotating in his lab this quarter?"

"Mhm." 

"How's it been?"

"Amazing." You tilt your head and he nods.

"That's good. He's a good guy. If it's anybody you'll learn the most from, it's him."

"Yeah, I agree wholeheartedly." You chuckle to play it off a bit. "So.. I'm sorry to hear about your TA. I hope things are alright with them."

"Hope so, too. I'm just glad they're taking the time they need." He pulls out a copy of his syllabus and slides it over. "You're probably familiar with the format since Professor Hsieh follows a similar one. I usually do about 4 lectures and take care of finals at the end. I've got about three other professors doing guest lectures, and one of our postdocs handles the hands-on lab portion and some other classes." You skim the document. "My TAs usually handle journal club-led discussions. I'll pop in for a few if I can, but I let my TAs have the floor." You nod.

"Oh yeah, this is similar to Professor Hsieh's class. Shouldn't be too bad." You continue to flip through the syllabus.

"No. It shouldn't be." He chuckles. "I may need you to assist with one of my lectures and labs, too."

"Okay, no problem."

"I'll send you the journal club papers and add you to our discussion board. They'll submit assignments and post any questions there, and we can upload lecture or reading material there as well. You can set up office hours for however you'd like, whatever works easiest for you. Just let me know what day you decide to do it."

"Sounds good." You look at him, and he looks at you. You can see the way his brow subtly cocks up before he lets out a small laugh. He's probably unsure why it feels a little tense when trust, you're trying your hardest to not let it slip.

"Any questions? Feeling overwhelmed?"

"No, I'm—" The door suddenly swings open and it's Iseul. Her eyes land on you for a quick second before she diverts her attention back to her husband and apologizes for interrupting. "I'm good, I think we're all set here." You stand and grab your bag. "Thanks, Professor Jeong. I'll see you next week?" He nods. 

"Alright, well feel free to reach out if anything comes up. Have a great weekend, Y/N."

"You too." You give him a short and curt bow before slipping past Iseul. You feel her eyes on you as you pass by, up until the very moment you slip out the door.

And finally, it feels like you can breathe.

"Is that your new TA?" 

"Y/N, yes." He stands to give her a hug and kiss on the top of the head. 

"She looks familiar."

"Well, she's in the bioengineering department and has rotated in Christopher's lab. She's in San's now."

"Hm." She hums. "Interesting." There's something about you that rubs her the wrong way and she's quick to trust her gut. It's not that she doesn't trust you around Yunho, no. But, she doesn't know you and something already feels weird.

"So, hungry? Where should we go for dinner?" He sits back down while Iseul leans against his cabinet behind him, scrolling through her phone.

"I'm feeling sushi tonight."

"That sounds good. Let me finish this up real quick and I'll get you out of here, okay?" He squeezes her hip before returning his attention back to the images on his screen.

After you meet with Yunho, you walk back straight to your studio to pack up for the weekend. You wash up and grab a few things, changing into comfier clothes per usual. When you leave, you shoot San a quick text, waving goodbye to a few friends you run into on your way out.

you: i'm about to head to your house!

san: sorry baby, just wrapping things up but i'll be there ASAP. feel free to get comfy and do whatever you need to do. code to the door is 9583.

you: waoow i have door code access now 🤭

san: lol you sure do, pretty girl. i'll see you soon, okay?

you: mmkay, hurry ☹️

San smiles to himself as he sets the phone down and powers through a few more tasks. When you get to San's house, you park off to the curb and head straight inside, hoping to avoid any confrontation with neighbors at this moment. You slip in and step out of your shoes, sighing a sigh of relief when you've made it safely. You head upstairs to drop your things, noticing San's bed fixed nicely. Rings spread across the drawer, cologne lightly lingering in the air. 

You can't wait for him to get home.

You head back downstairs and turn on the tv for background noise, lighting up a candle on the island. You take a few moments to snack on some fruits before you [slowly] start prepping ingredients for dinner, scrolling through Instagram and getting lost in the social media rabbit hole. You lazily walk over to San's fridge and quickly skim the shelves to see if there's any ideas that'll pop up for dinner. He's got just enough groceries, but nothing too overwhelming. You walk over to the pantry, also taking your time to skim the shelves. The TV is unexpectedly playing a show on unsolved mysteries, which distracts you to a great extent as you hang out beneath the door frame of the pantry.

"Hm." You pull up random recipes in between glancing at the tv. It isn't long before you hear the garage door open, the soft, muffled audio creeping through the walls. San walks in shortly afterwards, airpod in one ear while taking a meeting on Zoom through his phone. 

"Yeah, I know. I agree. Maybe they should work on it together and try a different approach? Have you asked Russ to try some computational analysis on their data?" Is all you hear him say as he walks into the kitchen with a smile on his face seeing you there. You reciprocate the smile and wrap your arms around his neck, waiting for the right moment to kiss him and welcome him home. "Mhm." He says before muting himself. "Hi baby."

"Hi." You tippy-toe to kiss him, allowing San to deepen the kiss despite his Zoom call still going on in the background. "San." You giggle in between, pointing at his phone.

"They don't need me right now." He chases after your lips, hands sliding from the small of your back down to your ass and giving it a good squeeze. You squeal, indulging in a few more seconds of kissing San— fingers tangled in the ends of his hair, gently biting onto his bottom lip and causing him to hiss in response just as you pull away.

"Go finish up your meeting."

"Tease." He mouths out before unmuting himself. "Yeah, I'm here. I hear you." He keeps his eyes on you with a small smirk. He points upstairs, mouthing out a quick 'i'll be in my office.' You nod, giving him one last peck on the lips before he disappears up the steps. You rummage through his fridge to grab those mushrooms, bokchoy, and tofu he had sitting around to whip up a quick udon stir fry. Before chopping up your ingredients, you let the udon sit in a hot water bath while you pop in some shrimp tempura you found in his freezer in the air fryer. Once the noodles are ready, you toss them in as you fry the vegetables, along with your wet ingredients— whipping everything up in a matter of 25 mins. 

After his meeting, San quickly finishes some emails and follows up on a few pending items before calling it a day. He's trying to balance his time better now that you're around because the last thing he wants to do is make the same mistake again of unintentionally pushing someone he cares about away. And it's a little scarier this time, a little different, because San feels himself falling deep [and fast] for you. He doesn't wanna run you off or scare you in any way, and he surely doesn't want a repetition of his last, but he truly cares about you and wants this to work no matter how tough it might be.

He just wants you.

He sighs when the thoughts flood his head, locking his computer and setting his things aside. Since he hears you whipping up dinner, he heads to the room to change and quickly shower. He tosses his clothes into the laundry and steps in, leaving the bathroom door cracked open. When you head up the stairs after making dinner, you find San drenched underneath the piping hot water. Steam is rising out of the shower and into its surroundings, fogging up the mirrors. You watch for a few moments through his bathroom mirror— catching 'lil peeks and admiring his pretty, honey-dipped skin, wet black hair. You find the sudden urge to join him, to just be with him, and before you can even think twice, your feet are already taking you to San. You tread over in front of the shower door, San curiously looking at you with a small smile on his face. His eyes are glued to you while he watches you strip down in front of him, beautifully bare and raw. He pops the door open for you to step in, hands instantly coming to your waist to pull you flush against him.

"Wasn't expecting you to join."

"Thought we could save some water."

"Yeah?" He laughs. "I'm not mad about it." You tippy-toe to peck him on the lips. He doesn't let you go, though. He deepens the kiss, tongues fighting for dominance slowly, sensually. His hands are roaming all over your body, giving your breasts a good squeeze. You moan, the need, desire, to please San becomes overwhelming. He lets out a small sigh when he feels your hand wrap around his hard cock, his breathy moan causing goosebumps to rise on your skin. Your lips press chaste kisses down the column of his neck, tongue swiping across the surface before you gently nibble. You're careful not to leave any marks, softly sucking on the base of his neck, collarbone; just enough to make him feel a way without having the proof littered on his skin.

"Fuck, princess." He chokes out. "Feels so damn good already." You pick up the pace as you continue to stroke him, slowly crouching down to come eye level with his member— kissing and sucking away at his angry, red tip to start it off. Your tongue swipes from the base upwards, pressing tiny kisses across the surface. "Don't be such a tease." He pouts as he watches from above. You smirk, taking half of him inside your mouth. You work your hand at the same time you bob up and down, pulling back with a pop. The string of saliva connecting your bottom lip to his tip drives him insane, his hand coming to the back of your head to slowly guide you down his length the next time you've stuffed your mouth full of him. "Doing so well, love. You can take all of me, yeah?" You nod. He feels you gag when he eases it all down your throat, causing San to groan a little louder— the tone echoing off the bathroom walls. He keeps his cock down your throat, determining on his own terms when he'll give you time to catch your breath, take a breather. When he pulls your head back, you look up at him with those doe-eyes. And it goes from one moment of sticking his cock back down your throat, to the next moment of you constantly bobbing your head; sucking him off so fucking well. 

"Aw—fuck—" San hisses before moaning loudly. "So fucking sexy, baby. Made just for me." He breathes out. "Fuck, fuck— gonna cum—" It takes that one last moment of taking him fully before San keeps your head there as he shoots his cum down your throat. When he's finished, you slowly pull back and wipe at your mouth, throat feeling all sorts of sore and battered but you could careless.

As long as you made San feel good, that's all you wanted.

"Okay, maybe we need to finish up in here."

"Do we have to?" San smirks, hands rubbing at your waist. "Can I help you with anything?"

"Just wanted to make you feel good, Sannie." The nickname rolls of your lips so naturally San feels his heart soar. It just feels like you were meant to say it, like you're the only person on this Earth that is deserving of so. San doesn't even realize he's still smiling down at you until you kiss him on the lips tenderly and finally taking the lead with getting washed up.

When you get back downstairs, San still can't keep his hands off of you. You sit on the edge of the counter while San washes a few of his containers from lunch. After he finishes, he slots himself in between your legs, admiring you from where he stands. You wrap your arms around his neck while his hands are resting on your thighs. He presses cute, repeated kisses along your chin and jaw, causing you to giggle.

"So, I forgot to tell you. I got an email from the department today about my TA assignment."

"Is everything okay?" 

"I think so."

"You think?"

"I, um." You look at San. "Some of my TA hours are going to Yunho. I had to meet with him really quickly earlier."

"Oh. That's cool, baby." You shake your head and he chuckles. "No?"

"No."

"Don't think about the things that happened. He's still a great professor and someone you'll learn a lot from." You scoff.

"Like what, how to be a bad, homewrecking bestfriend?"

"Baby." He smirks a bit and gently pokes your nose. "Don't do that."

"You're right, sorry." You roll your eyes playfully. "He is cool, I guess." He chuckles.

"Promise me you won't let your feelings get in the way, hm? Look at him as a professor, not from what you know about me." Truthfully, San is a little afraid that you'll be working closely with Yunho now. Not because he's insecure, no. But, working with Yunho meant there was a chance he'd learn more about you. And obviously San wouldn't hide your relationship if he didn't have to, for the sake of rules, policy, his lab, Namjoon even. The fear is stemming from his past, coming back to haunt him all over again. He doesn't trust either of them one bit.

"I should be looking at you as just a professor too, you know?" You tease.

"Oh yeah? Wonder what happened there."

"Kinda like you better like this, though." You giggle, allowing San to swoop you into his arms. You cling on, wrapping your legs and arms around him while he walks you to the couch and sits you on his lap. 

"Damn, so the whole professor charm didn't do much?"

"Kidding." You laugh.

"Your laugh is so cute." San says, looking up to you all smitten. He rubs at your sides, kissing you sweetly before he's back to just smiling at you.

"What, no?"

"Yeah."

"Why do you keep looking at me like that?"

"You're just so beautiful, that's all." You smile. "Hm, so. What do you wanna watch? What do you wanna do this weekend since I have you all to myself?"

"Well, we can watch something cute? Because I've been watching this and it's making my mind work overtime with all the possibilities." You look back at the TV and San chuckles.

"I thought you liked stuff like that, baby."

"I do, but tonight, I just wanna relax."

"Fair enough. I'll watch whatever movie you wanna watch."

"Even if its A Walk to Remember or The Notebook?" He nods, bottom lip poking out.

"I don't mind."

"Wow, you're a little too perfect." He laughs.

"Far from it, actually." 

"And, I don't know. I'm down for whatever this weekend."

"I'll take you around some places away from here."

"Sounds good with me."

"Let's grab our dinner and watch a movie?" He kisses you once more before tapping you on the hip. "Thank you for making dinner, angel."

"Of course." You smile and hop off his lap. You fill your bowls with the udon stir fry and tempura you made, laughing and joking around mid-convo with San as you both walk back to the couch while he's telling you about his day. You pop on the classic Titanic, not really in the mood for anything else popping up on Netflix. San compliments you on dinner, smothering you in more kisses all over your face. You joke about how he didn't have much to work with, so maybe grocery shopping needed to go on your list for this weekend's festivities.

When you're done with dinner, San cleans up in the kitchen while you continue to watch away on the couch, answering to a few texts in between until San comes back to keep you company. Mid-movie, his phone dings, signaling a text coming through.

It's Jongho.

jongho: trying to play tennis this weekend? me and yeosang were thinking about going to the courts then hanging out at his house after. 

jongho: chris is gonna be busy with his sister this weekend so he's out 

jongho: and i asked mingi but i don't think he wants to play lol

san: sorry my guy! sounds fun but i'll be occupied with some things this weekend.

jongho: like what??

san: i'm just behind on a few things, needa wrap it up before the NAS conference.

jongho: hm ok, well the invite is there if things change!

san: thanks! have fun lol

And with that, San locks his phone and continues to watch the movie while your head is on his lap. He looks down at you and smiles a bit to himself, his hand coming down to thread through your hair and give you a gentle head massage. He feels a bit guilty for lying to Jongho, but at the same time, he doesn't.

He's content, he's happy.

Right now, things couldn't feel any more perfect and he'd be damned if he did anything to mess it up.

—read 7.5 here

—taglist: @asjkdk @interweab @woojirang @svintsandghosts @cheolliehugs @persphonesorchid @mxnsxngie @jycas @cowboydk @vcutparis @chngbnwf @struggling101 @sanhwalvr @angelqueendom @barbielibra @brown88 @choisansplushie @yunhoswrldddd @hyukssunflower @vickykazuya @lucid-galaxys-world @jaytheatiny @pommelex @thespiffynerd @vixensss @santineez @nopension @domfikeluva @in-somnias-world

[maxarchive]

How are the emotions on this Saturday evening in Las Vegas? Is it an overriding relief? Is that the main thing?

An immense relief, but also a little bit more emotional than I was expecting, actually. Both from Max on the radio and I let Christian give him, well, let's say carry out all the complimentaries on the radio, because I choked up a little bit as well, and I think it just comes down to that relief at the end of what has been actually quite an intense year. Not quite as intense as 2021, but it at times ran it close.

Why is this one so special?

They're all special, don't get me wrong. Last year was special for very different reasons, but this one's special because of the effort and commitment that not only Max, but the whole team has had to put in to make it happen. Ok, the first half looked like it was a bit of a cruise, but actually we entered quite a difficult period, as everybody knows. But we had to work day and night to really try to understand the source of the problems and I think we've started to come out the other side, which is great news for the team, but it's also meant that our performances on track have improved and we saw the combination of that in Brazil as well.

Tell us a little bit more about the job that Max Verstappen has done this year. Would you say it's his best season so far?

The worrying thing for the grid is that Max is improving every year, which is frightening really because he's at an incredible level as it is, but in all areas he's working hard with the team, his racecraft on track, his qualifying laps, his consistency and also his ability to give up when you need to give up, and we saw that today, you know, he raced for what matter today rather than the final place on the podium.

In all of those areas you've just described, where has he made the most progress this year?

I think ultimately it just comes down to maturity and experience. Having been there three times before, I guess 2021 laid the foundations and now he's just becoming a very, very, very complete driver.

Since Miami, McLaren have been running you close. They've quite often been faster than you. Has there ever been a moment this year where you've doubted that you were going to win this championship?

I wouldn't say doubted, but certainly you don't take anything for granted. And as I said earlier, we took one race at a time, there was bit of a trend towards the middle of the year where things weren't going our way and we could see that other teams, not only McLaren, but other teams were making progress on us, relatively speaking and we had to do something. We had to make some changes and the team has come through on that. So kudos to them.

And how is your bond with Max evolved this year because it feels like this is the first time since you've been winning championships that you've been under a lot of strain together. And we did hear a few flare ups along the way, didn't we? Has it always been all sweetness and light or have there been-

Hungary springs to mind. We had actually a very quiet week after, I don't think there was a word spoken in the 3/4 days after the Hungary race, but we had a really good meeting in Spa together with Christian and Pierre just clearing the air. Not that there was ever any animosity, but I think sometimes when adrenaline is running that high, it's best just to leave things alone. Max and I are very similar in that respect. We're not one to bow down and give in very easily. So, yes, definitely that portion of the year springs to mind. But for the rest, again, it's a relationship that's grown over nine seasons. So we know each other very well. We work together very well. So long may that continue.

Well, let's throw it forward to 2025. It looks on paper like it might be incredibly close. Does that actually help someone like Max Verstappen because he makes no mistakes?

I think it helps him knowing that he has the ability to pull off results that perhaps aren't always there. And I think at the same time that maybe hurts or dents some of his competitors psychologically, not all of them, but perhaps some of them. But, you know, 2025 is a few months away. Now, I think more importantly, we need to finish the year on a high to keep morale in the team up over the winter because again it's been a really hard, hard year. And I think this was a bit of a unique, as everybody knows, it was a bit of a unique event with the temperatures and the tyres behavior, et cetera. So I don't think it's a true reflection of the car performance out there today. We'll do our best to finish Qatar and Abu Dhabi on a high and hopefully grab another win or, or two. And then, yeah, next year is next year.

[dira333]

Mom Friend - Kenma (Angst-ish)

“You don’t love me and I’m being really brave about it.”

-

The air is soft and cool, like a blanket made from silk. You take it as a good sign, smile up at the traffic sign above you like it’s a flower or an ornament. 

How silly that love can make ordinary things bloom.

Tonight you feel good in your clothes. No need to worry about tomorrow. 

Your phone buzzes in the pocket of your jacket but you don’t want to pull it out right now. You want to stay in the moment, right here, enjoy that buzzing feeling inside of you.

Maybe tonight, you think. Maybe tonight something will happen.

You’re not insecure, not questioning, not doubting anything. 

Just waiting, patiently, for something that sure will come.

-

You spot him first, head buried in his hoody, eyes on the phone in his hand. 

Knowing Kenma, he’s playing a game to pass the time.

You don’t wave, but keep your eyes on him as you come closer. It’s rare that you get to enjoy that sight for yourself, that you can watch without being watched.

He’s pretty. Always has been, you think, even though you’ve only really had a chance to befriend him lately. But you’ve seen the pictures, and besides, you can’t imagine him being anything but.

Just a few more steps to go but he raises his head and spots you without hesitation, the pupils of eyes growing smaller.

You’ve read about it, you can’t help but think. How the size of one’s pupil tells about their attraction. 

A first seed of doubt begins to sprout but you push it down with a well-practiced smile.

“Hi,” you greet him, your voice weirdly breathless. You’re not that out of shape, he just does that to you. Do you shake his hand? Hug him?

He makes no move to greet you other than a quiet nod so you think that’s it and push down the disappointment. Kenma hugs Hinata. 

Well, everyone hugs Hinata, you tell yourself, and look for something to say.

“Are we early?”

“No,” he dips his nose deeper into his hoody. “Kuroo’s not coming.”

“O-oh,” you pull out your phone to check. He’s right. The message is there, in the group chat. Right below it is another one, from Hinata.

“Can’t make it tonight, sorry guys. Rain check?”

“Should we-?”

“I’m going to watch the movie,” Kenma interrupts you, voice level. He doesn’t sound angry, or annoyed, or even bored, he just… sounds. Is flat the right word for it?

“Okay?”

His eyes, big and round and golden, move toward you and back to the sign above the door. “You can join me if you want.”

-

The movie isn’t bad. You like action movies, even the dumber ones. There’s a reason why Hinata still invites you to these hangouts, after all.

But you know you’re missing a crucial part of knowledge about the game this movie is based on.

There are jokes you don’t get that leave Kenma chuckling to himself and you can’t help but wonder what he thinks of you. Does he know you’re- Well, he has to, right? 

You know he’s a little more on the shy side. Or, not shy, but more… private? 

Maybe this is his way of getting a date with you?

The thought electrifies you.

But no. Kenma’s not acting like a guy on a date. He’s not sharing his food with you, has not even tried to pay for yours or initiate any conversation so far. 

If you’d have to describe it, it would be like… getting to come along with your big brother.

Your face twists into a scowl. That is not the kind of thing you want to associate with Kenma.

-

“Do you wanna eat something?” You ask once you leave the cinema, dust your clothes off and get rid of the last remnants of popcorn and stray skittles. 

Kenma hesitates for a second.

“Yeah, why not?”

You follow him out of the Cinema and down the street.

The wind is soothing on your warm cheeks. A couple walks down the street, facing you. Your heart squeezes tight when the guy swings their joined hands.

As they pass, Kenma steps out of their way, bumping into you. 

He does not apologize.

It feels like a sign. A different one this time.

-

The restaurant is small but private and Kenma finds a booth at the back, orders like someone who’s been here before. You need a little longer to figure out what you want but then there’s nothing else to do but wait.

Kenma pulls out his phone, looks at the unlit screen and puts it face down on the table.

“Do you have a crush on me?”

His voice is even, like he’s reading from the menu and it takes you a second to register the meaning of the words.

Your mouth opens, but you can’t bring yourself to say it. 

Nonetheless, your silence is answer enough. Your eyes fall back down to the table.

“I’m sorry,” Kenma mutters and there’s almost warmth to his words now.

He says nothing more for a while and you swallow a bout of tears that’s threatening to spill.

Silly you, you think.

Doubts and insecurities raise their ugly heads.

“Kuroo thought you might be into Shouyou,” Kenma starts anew. When you look up he’s staring out the window. “Cuz you’re always mothering him.”

“I’m not-”

“You’re like Kuroo, in that way,” Kenma adds on, as if he’s not hearing you. “Always bothering people. You bring extra water bottles and extra pain killers and a snack in case someone gets hungry and you remind them of their appointments.”

Your fingers clench around the utensils that are useless without any food but you need to hold onto something real if you want to survive this.

“Why are you telling me this?”

Golden eyes turn back to you and you wonder how it has taken you so long to realize that gold is not warm. Gold is a metal, heavy and cold, and not at all made for cuddling.

“Shouyou is my friend,” Kenma points out. “He doesn’t mind being mothered.”

“So?”

“You’d do better with a partner that likes that part of you. We all want-” He stops for a second, the first time you’ve seen him hesitate. “It’s not good if you have to change who you are for a relationship to work.”

“You could have just said you’re not interested,” you point out, petulance winning over the hurt. Or maybe the hurt is triggering it.

Kenma blinks slowly. “I am trying to be a good friend here.”

“Who’s friend?”

He opens his mouth to answer but the food arrives and he pulls back again, stares at you silently, like a cat stalking its prey.

“I’m not good at verbalizing my thoughts,” he begins again when the server has left. “You remind me of Kuroo in some way. I think-” He hesitates again. “If you want a partner that you can mother, you should try dating Shouyou.”

“I don’t want to date Hinata.”

Kenma sighs. “You could try Kuroo but I think-”

Your chopsticks dig into your hands as you interrupt him, pointing them at him like a weapon. “Stop it,” you hiss. “You’re not interested and that’s it. You don’t need to push me into someone else's arms like I’m something too valuable to throw away but not valuable enough to actually cherish.”

His face goes slack. He tries to speak again but you turn your face away and begin eating, stuffing your face with a pace that can’t be healthy but you just want to get out of here, out of this conversation.

Quiet settles. Your cheeks sting as if sensing the coming tears. But you don’t cry.

You finish first and get up, squeezing the handle of your purse so tight in your hand that it hurts. 

“The bill is on me,” you tell Kenma. “Have a good night.”

-

part 2 is coming tomorrow

Taglist: @notsochillnerd

@kaykaystrings @alienaiver @alexxavicry @tsxkishimx @stellar-haikyuu

@fuzztacular (for the angst)

[dreamscapeee222]

You're Hurt

Masterlist

Jake Sully, Neteyam, Lo'ak, Aonung, Tsireya

Warning: Kinda serious injury although it isn't described.

Jake Sully:

The second Jake sees you’re hurt, his heart stops. He goes from warrior mode to pure anxiety.

Once he’s by your side, Jake’s hands are all over you, but not in a rushed way—more like he needs to make sure you’re real, that you’re still here. His grip is gentle, but there’s urgency in the way he’s checking your wounds, tracing the lines of pain like he wants to take it all away.

Jake’s never been a healer, but when it comes to you, he tries his best. His movements are a little awkward as he bandages you up, but his heart’s in the right place. “I promise I won’t let you down,” he whispers, brushing hair out of your face. You chuckle, feeling how much he cares despite the shaky hands.

If you were hurt because of something he didn’t catch, he will feel so guilty. His usual confident demeanor is gone, replaced with this soft, almost pleading look in his eyes. “I should’ve been there. I can’t lose you, not like this.” It’s raw, and you can see how much you mean to him.

When he’s holding you, Jake’s all tenderness. He’ll kiss your forehead, your hand, anywhere he can reach. His love for you is the kind that wants to heal—not just physically, but emotionally, too. “I’m not going anywhere,” he whispers, kissing you again, even if it’s just a gentle brush of his lips against yours.

As you lie there resting, Jake curls up beside you. He’s careful not to hurt you but keeps you close—his body heat, his gentle hand on yours, and his low voice murmuring sweet things as you drift off. “I’m here. Always.”

As you recover, expect him to spoil you. He’s constantly showering you with affection, words, and gestures of love. “You’re my everything. Don’t ever scare me like that again.” The intensity of his love shines through in every little action—he can’t help but show you just how much you mean to him.

Neteyam:

Neteyam’s heart drops the second he sees you hurt.

He rushes to your side, eyes scanning you like a worried parent checking for any injury.

“What happened? Who did this? Tell me now.” He’s trying to stay calm, but you can see the way his hands tremble.

He’ll carry you if needed—no arguments, no questions asked.

His touch is featherlight as he cleans up any cuts or bruises. He doesn’t want to hurt you further.

“I should have been there. This wouldn’t have happened if I’d been there.” His guilt hits hard. You have to remind him it’s not his fault.

When you're safe and resting, he stays close, brushing your hair from your face or holding your hand.

Later, you might catch him training harder than usual. He’s determined to protect you better in the future.

Lo’ak:

Lo’ak panics—like full-blown panic mode.

“What the—? Y/N, are you okay? Can you stand? Does it hurt bad?” His questions come rapid-fire.

He blames himself immediately, even if he had nothing to do with it.

You’ll have to calm him down before he helps you because he’s running on adrenaline.

He’s incredibly gentle when patching you up, though his hands shake a little.

“I swear if someone did this to you, they’re done. Done.” He’s ready to throw hands for you without hesitation.

Lo’ak hovers over you like a protective shadow until you’re fully healed.

He’s also the type to press a kiss to your temple or hold your hand reassuringly, muttering, “You’ll be okay. I’ve got you.”

Aonung:

At first, he tries to act calm and collected when he sees you hurt—but you can see the fear in his eyes.

“What happened? Who did this to you? Tell me their name.” He’s not asking for fun; he’s ready.

Aonung has a surprising amount of medical knowledge and quickly works to clean and bandage your injuries.

He’s oddly quiet as he works, his jaw tight, and his hands surprisingly steady.

Once he’s sure you’re okay, his emotions finally catch up with him. “You scared me, Y/N. Don’t ever do that again.”

Expect him to hover—checking on you every hour like clockwork.

He’ll sit beside you, arm slung protectively around your shoulders, muttering soft reassurances.

If someone else caused your injury, they’ll regret crossing Aonung. He won’t tolerate anyone hurting his people.

Tsireya:

The moment Tsireya sees you hurt, her eyes widen, and her voice softens. “Oh, my… Y/N, what happened?”

She drops everything to tend to you, her hands steady as she carefully examines your injuries.

She’ll hum soothing melodies while she works, her voice calming your nerves.

Tsireya’s expression is soft but focused—she’s trying her best to hide her worry to keep you calm.

“You’re going to be okay. I promise,” she whispers, her thumb brushing your cheek affectionately.

Afterward, she stays by your side, holding your hand or running her fingers through your hair.

If someone hurt you, she’s not afraid to confront them, though her approach is more diplomatic than aggressive.

She’ll check on you frequently, making sure you’re comfortable and have everything you need.

Requests may be made. Only SFW. Surrounding BTS and Avatar (The Way of Water) only at the moment.

[muffinsin]

Hey, it's platonic anon again, I hope you don't mind me asking, as I have been feeling a little bit insecure lately, if you do one with alcina + daughters separate reactions to a fem head maid reader slowly getting deeper in depression because she has a little pudge that she doesn't like, but it just makes he look like a teddybear, and the maids have been making fun of her recently, and then she stops showing up to work all together, staying in her room and only eating one meal a day?

-platonic anon

Awhh, this is hella adorable, absolutely! :) Imma have to remove Alci though, hunny, I don't write for her though might occaisonally include her in pieces when I feel like it

Also oops, this got way longer than I thought it would, so imma have to split it into 3 parts. This one’s Bela’s

Let's get into it! :)

Masterlists found at pinned; rip, my linking is busted

Bela

Being involved with the maidens by far more than her sisters, professionally so even, Bela notices when you don't show up for work immediately

And at first, she's willing to turn a blind eye to it, thinking that maybe you're simply too tired too work, or in need of a vacation

She does admit, there isn't all that much of that at the castle

But, she likes you

And as such, she's willing to ignore that you aren't working as you should be

That is, for the first two days, at least

She is sure: you know to come to her when in need of a break

It's not like she won't grant you one, so long as it isn't harvesting season or the beginning of winter and all staff members are needed

But it isn't, and your disappearance starts to feel a little...odd

Now, she wouldn't describe herself as someone caring for the maids, head maiden or not

But, she likes you

A kind, loving, hard working woman

Someone she finds: she enjoys spending her time with, and someone she has enjoyed getting to know

Not showing up to work is so...unusual for you. So out of character

And as such, despite what she's sure her sisters would say, she seeks you out

Knocking on the door to your room- despite not having to knock at pretty much any door in the castle due to her status- she waits patiently until you open the door for her

What she takes in has her gasp in surprise and take a step back momentarily

Your room is warm, yes, but the air has adapted a strange scent that has her scrunch up her nose. She never thought she’d want to open a window

You’re curled in bed, underneath the blankets, but she still sees the thick clothing covering you

Briefly, she worries this might be too warm for a little human, but drops the thought again

- temperature wise, you seem well and healthy enough

She takes a step closer again, her golden eyes finding yours at last

You seem…off

Yet now that she stands in front of you, she seems at a loss for words, unsure what to say

It’s not like she’s used to cheering up anyone but her sisters

Glancing to the side, she sees multiple plates by your nightstand

One for each day you spent in your room

Is that all you’ve eaten?

In her mind, she recalls: humans are supposed to eat three days a meal. Especially those hard at work

You don’t speak, only stare at her, as if too tired and drained to do much

For once, she doesn’t mind the lack of respectful bows and what not

For once, she supposes she can let this be a casual, friendly conversation

Still unsure of what to say, she sits by your bed, her flies buzzing anxiously

You look up for a moment, your eyes trailing across her face, down her neck and to her exposed collarbone, her chest and slim hips and waist

You can’t help but fiddle with the blankets, can’t help but compare her build to yours

Normally, you don’t care

But the words from the maidens, the mockery aimed at you, hurt recently

You almost wish you could be like Bela, so confident, so strong, so strikingly beaufiful

You only ever want to be that, you think

“Did…something happen?”, she asks eventually, frowning slightly, as if unsure about her words

She really isn’t sure about this, or how to go about this, and just hopes her awkward words come out right

For once, she wishes she was a little more like Daniela and could effortlessly keep this conversation up and ask whether you’re alright without this awkwardness

You gulp, pulled from your thoughts

It’s a little unusual to see her like this- so…out of her element, almost

Still, you treasure her company, and see what she’s doing

“I’m fine”, you lie, pressing your eyes shut and refusing to whimper

You don’t want to lie to her

You want to tell her all about it, want to even throw your arms around her and cry

Bela’s just always had this aura about her that made you seek her favor and praise

At the same time, you don’t want to drive her away now, don’t want to “bother” her with your problems

She frowns, confused. Hearing your heart quickening and picking up the scent of your sweat, she’s hardly fooled by your answer

Only does she not quite understand why you’d lie. Especially to her

Instead, she does what she often does when her sisters lie to her and she sees through it. She stays quiet

You whimper as her golden eyes stay on you, a gentle gaze, but one that tells you she’s awaiting your response and giving you the opportunity to correct yourself

And, wise enough, you do so

You feel tears welling up in your eyes as you pull away the blankets and pull the hoodie covering you up just slightly, just enough to show her the small pouch at your belly from under your top

Alas, she doesn’t react, unsure what this means

While having been taught to express herself always, Bela is almost a stranger to insecurity- at the very least as it comes to her body

She’s never felt worried about the way she looks, paying little mind to it

You envy her

Then, just when you cover yourself up again, she asks again;

“Did something happen, little one?”

You crack

The nickname is enough for tears to run down your cheeks and- to your surprise- you feel her arm wrap around you

You’re pulled to her, sniffling

You pick up her scent, her elegant perfume and the metallic scent of blood lying underneath, only picked up this close to her

And briefly, just briefly, you have a dark thought, wishing she could just kill those that treated you so unfairly

With her arm around you, you feel impossibly safe- likely unlike most others that are this close to her

You begin to talk, begin to tell her of everything

Of the mockery, of the laughter

Of the little, stabbing comments made here and there

Of the looks

Of the mean glances and words

Of your insecurities and the growing feeling of anxiety and emptiness in you

And Bela?

She doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t talk. She only listens to you, humming occasionally to let you know you have her full attention

It’s a wonderful feeling

As you elaborate and cry a little more, she holds you tighter

She seems a little less awkward now, as if used to hold someone when they cry, and briefly you feel a strike of envy, wondering if there’s other maidens held by her and comforted like this. Then, the feeling fades when you figure; it must be Daniela, her younger sister, who you know cries easily from own experiences of holding and comforting the young woman after one of her episodes

You find, Bela offers the best hugs, though, and likely quite the rare ones

You stay close to her, breathing out a sigh of relief when you finish talking

It’s almost like speaking about it helped

She doesn’t quite understand their behavior, writes it off to the general behavior of scum

She finds, as such, they deserve to be treated just as certain way, too

You’re granted another day of staying in your room until Bela insists you return to work

More surprisingly, though, you find a maid, one of the newer ones, a little shy, but friendly, bring you a meal three times a day that day

She doesn’t say a thing, too nervous in the castle still, but you’re certain she was tasked to do so by Bela

And when you do return to work, anxious and dressed in slightly bigger clothes than normal, as if you could hide away, you find no trace of those who mocked you

Perhaps wickedly, you wonder what happened to them, whether they’ve been dragged away, killed, mauled, toyed with my the sadistic Dimitrescu sisters

Whether Bela in particular killed them. Is killing them. Is hurting them

But it’s like they never even existed, instead

You hear no screams at night. No whispers of what might have happened at all

It’s almost like your problems dissolved into thin air…

And you know you have none other than Bela Dimitrescu to thank for it

[fashionteahouse]

The pack finds out Paul and reader slept together the thing is Paul is with Rachel and reader with embry. The pack then make an “intervention” to tell embry and Rachel about what their imprints have been doing. But the thing that nobody knows is Rachel and embry are always in the room with them. Smut included please

ooo okay ! hope you enjoy :)

L$D - reader x embry and paul x rachel

It felt like a rush. You were sure that if you took drugs, it would feel like this moment. You were only a bit tipsy.

You look up to the body that was towering over you. The hunger in his eyes made your stomach do backflips. It was intense.

“You don’t have to be shy.” Paul says to you with a grin.

You allow yourself to feel comfortable as you lay back on his bed. He never would forget the sight.

He would never forget your taste as you squirmed on his tongue. His tongue flicked up as he gathered your juices that you kept producing.

You were panting and breathing hard as you plead and beg him, “Please, just please.”

“Please what?” he says as he circled your sensitive nub, staring down at your flushed face. He was going to drag this out as long as he could.

You groan at his teasing.

“Repeat after me?” he asks you. You nod a little.

“Paul.” he says and you repeat him, “Paul.”

“Please.” he says and you repeat him, “Please.”

“Fuck me.” he says and you repeat him, “Fuck me.”

He held you close as he held your sides in a strong grip. The sound of skin slapping filled the room as you both belt out noises of pleasure. He let you know how wet you are and you let him know good he feels.

Sam let his presence be unknown. Fluidly, he unphased as he couldn’t believe what he saw. Slipping onto his shorts, he ran back to his home.

Emily sensing his distress, she’s at his side, “What’s wrong, Sam?”

“I.. I have to speak to the elders. I have to question the pack.” he says and Emily’s face is full of concern.

“Sam, why?” she tells him, he barely panicked and this made her feel uneasy.

He looks up a bit to see if he could hear anybody is near, he then quiets his voice as he sits himself and Emily down.

“I was checking on the boys while they were patrolling. Y/N and Paul slept together.” he says and Emily’s eyes grow wide in shock. At first, the feeling of denial sets in for her.

“No way. Are you sure?” Emily asks.

“Emily, I’m positive.” he says seriously.

“But, how? How can imprints cheat- ?" Emily says but Sam placed a hand on Emily’s mouth as he holds a finger to his lips.

She heard the boys come in. She followed Sam to where they were. Paul and Embry was missing.

Sam finds out that they went home.

“Good. I need to talk to you guys for a second.” he announced.

Their eyebrows shoot up in disbelief as they receive the news.

“Does he know that you know? Does Embry and Rachel know? Quil asks. Sam answered both questions, “No.”

“Damn. So, what’s going to happen now? We have to tell them.” Jared says.

“We are. We’ll hold an intervention.” Sam decides.

They did just that. They all sat at the table as Sam called a “pack meeting”, the following day. This time, imprints were to come.

You and Embry were the last ones to come in. You held his hand as he opened the door. All eyes were on you as you were confused by the silence.

You look to Rachel for answers but she discreetly gives you the same look, shrugging her shoulders slightly.

Sitting down, Sam begins.

“Paul, Y/N, do you have anything you need to say for yourselves?”

You look at Paul and back to Sam. Confusion was not even the best word to describe how you were feeling.

“Um..I don’t-“ you say and then shake your head.

“What is this about, Sam?” Paul asks with his arms crossed.

“I was going to give you both the opportunity to come clean. Yesterday, I saw what you and Y/N did. How could you do this to Rachel? How could you do this to Embry?” He asks you and Paul.

“Saw us do what?” Paul asks.

“You both slept together.”

“First of all, they were there.” Paul says with gritted teeth. Pissed off that his buisness was now out in the open.

“Who were there?” Sam asks. The pack watched closely as they wanted to know the end result of this situation.

“Me and Embry were in the room with them. We know what happened.” Rachel says clarifying, trying to keep Paul calm. She rubbed her hand up and down on his arm.

“What-?” The entire room says. Paul gets up and leaves out, pissed at the situation and how it transpired.

“Great, now everyone knows.” Embry mutters next to you.

No words could be said as Embry rises up and takes you with him out of the door. Rachel follows after you both.

[thehollowwriter]

I've always found it so interesting how Vil describes himself and his actions as ugly, not his appearance. I'm tired af rn so I can't really put it into words, but it's very striking that Vil, at least to me, doesn't seem to believe in outward ugliness. In fact, he simply calls people potatoes. Not ugly. Potatoes. As some analysis' pointed out, it seems to be because he seems them as spudlings who haven't yet reached their potential. Like Quartz said, he doesn't want to change everything about you. He wants you to be the best you can be.

He is, as also Quartz said, a very selfless character and he seems to strive to be more than what he's been typecast as. That's part of why he had such an extreme breakdown from his actions and called himself "ugly." He was a villain. He was behaving just like others assumed he would. And if he's no more than the roles he's been trapped in, how could he possibly defeat Neige?

But in book 6, he had his "hero" moment. What he did was a huge sacrifice to make, especially when you consider what Vil risked. He risked literally his entire future and his reputation.

There are some fans who poke fun at him for being "shallow" crying about his appearance, but... wouldn't you?

Firstly, there's Vil's career. Remember, Vil is an actor and a model. He works in two industries that are centred around beauty. You can't have wrinkles, you can't be fat, you can't be unappealing for even a second. You must conform to beauty standards at all times. That includes not just your appearance, but what you eat and what activities you partake in, since certain eating habits and hobbies are associated with certain appearances (e.g ugly gamer).

Now that he's like this... who's going to want him as a model? Who's going to want to cast him in any role outside of an evil old hag, if they want him at all? How will his fans, the faceless masses who fixate on his appearance, react? Is there any guarantee they'll stick around?

Vil's entire future has potentially gone up in flames. He's been acting and modelling since he was a small child. What else could he possibly do?

Secondly, there's the fact that Riddle just got white hair, while Vil got all of his youth sucked out of him. He was not old just in appearance, his body was old. That's his entire future suddenly severed. He's human, and humans don't live for very long compared to fae.

From Vil's perspective, the decades of life ahead of him are gone. Now, in this frail body, who knows how much time he has left? Who knows what health problems might start ailing him and taking him early?

Well gee, no wonder he's crying! He might lose everything and he might also die much sooner than expected. I hardly find that shallow.

I find the comparison of Vil to a stereotypical mean girl overall very weird. Mean girls purposefully bully and tear down others to lift themselves up. When they insult people's fashion or appearance, it's not because they think they can improve. It's because they view those people as below them. Sometimes the outfit itself isn't even bad. It's just "poor people clothing."" Mean girls are also very manipulative and will tear others down to climb up the ladder and come out on top, even if they have to cheat and lie to do so.

Vil isn't like that at all. He doesn't insult, he criticises. And like I said, he sees people's potential and wants them to live up to it. His goal is not to tear them down and make himself feel better. As far as fashion goes, Vil knows different styles work on different people, and with how his character is, he's most certainly not going to hate or bully someone for using a "poor brand" or whatever.

Vil literally refuses to cheat!!! He does not want to win against Neige through cheating, because he knows that's not truly a win. He wants to earn that win. When he tried to poison Neige, that was a complete mental breakdown and he immediately regretted it.

So yeah. Vil is a harsh, but nurturing and actually very kind and selfless guy. Leave him.

(If I got anything wrong pls forgive me I haven't read book 5 in a while. @v-anrouge you're the Vil expert pls lmk if there's anything to add or correct)

Vil yap session

[laswells-ashtray]

It's me yet again. I need me some slightly tipsy Kate and John in a lighthearted sparring match while her wife and Nik stand off to the side and gossip about their respective partners. (Again, take your time. Don't burn yourself out )

Now, because I can't describe movement for shit. I'm an internal dialogue like the Green Goblin voice or a banter typa muppet this interaction will mostly be between Nik and Laswell's wife. and I'm using my interpretation of her whom I have called Sarah if only because typing out Laswell's wife so many times makes the words stop looking real

"I cannot see this going well in the long run." Sarah Laswell, very proud wife of a certain Kate Laswell. It's not often she sees Kate get tipsy in front of anyone who isn't her, she'll indulge in a drink or two but never to the extent of this. However, it'd be dumb to assume that combining Kate, John and alcohol that Nikolai, bless that man, was paying for would lead them anywhere else.

"And yet you make no move to stop it." Nikolai doesn't bother pretending that he isn't amused, it's deeply humorous to watch two of the most fierce people he knows spar each other.

"Neither do you, don't think I can't see you staring at his ass."

"You haven't stopped looking at your wife's chest since she took off her jacket."

Okay, they're both deviants.

John is in what are probably his nicest jeans, not very suitable to a lot of movement given that they must've been painted onto his arse.

Kate is wearing a dark blue tank top that Sarah bought her absentmindedly last week and for the briefest moment, she considers just dragging Kate to the nearest closet and hoping it's soundproof.

The two move in such fluid ways that it's clear they've sparred together before. Even with a few drinks in both of them, it's the most gracious violence she's ever seen.

When John narrowly avoids Kate's elbow to the face Nikolai does little more than chuckle, he clearly isn't worried about his partner and he enjoys the smug grin on the other man's face.

"Tempted to video this." Sarah mutters, watching them both in awe. Even if her main reason for watching was to shamelessly admire her wife in all her glory, she can't deny how impressive Kate is. She throws a hit with enough force that Sarah almost pities John and she takes an equal hit with such little care. God, if there was to be a walking advertisement for lesbianism it would be Kate Laswell.

"That would involve taking your eyes off of them."

"Nevermind."

Nikolai understands, he truly does. His three favourite Johns are fucked senseless John, John when he's asleep and purring against Nik's chest like a cat and John when he's fighting just for the fun of it. Watching his biceps flex, testing the tight stitching around the sleeve of his t-shirt is a damn near biblical fucking experience.

Maybe the greatest bit of their little sparring match is how happy the two look to be there, throwing hits at each other while simultaneously muttering their banter in a way that neither Nikolai nor Sarah can hear. Carefree for once in their lives, it's no secret that their jobs weigh down on the both of them and to see them in a position so laid back, it's endearing.

"Those the socks Kate bought him for his birthday last year?"

"Да."

"Thought so, I picked them out."

"I assumed so."

"What gave it away?"

"The word cock printed on the soles." Sue her, she thought it was funny and given the expression on Nikolai's face so did he.

She watches John swipe out Kate's legs from under her and feels pride settle in her chest when the other woman immediately pulls the Englishman down with her.

She spares Nikolai a knowing glance, it would appear the both of them are going to be enjoying their nights when they head home.

Kate moves so quickly that Sarah can't help but think of one of their cats back home as she pins John to the mat, their sparring might be lighthearted but she wouldn't make the mistake of thinking Kate would let herself move.

Her muscles are taut as she holds the struggling Englishman in place, her back arched and a downright gleeful smirk on her face. Strands of hair fall into her line of vision, fallen loose from her typical bun and they frame her face in a way that can only be described as angelic. If angels were the single most fuckable woman that Sarah has ever interacted with in her entire fucking life, Jesus Christ.

As much as John is losing, he does so proudly. Who better to lose to than Kate of all people. And Nikolai isn't complaining, John's t-shirt is riding up and he's offered the perfect view of the happy trail he has every intention of running his face over later.

Their little sparring match comes to an end, with both participants walking over to their respective partners before heading to grab their shoes and the jackets that had been dumped carelessly on the floor.

It's only when Nikolai catches the two sharing a look that he realises they've been played. Kate and John are both too smart to start a friendly spar for no reason. And it isn't a coincidence that both Sarah and he are desperate to drag their partners away for the night.

They were putting on a show. Sly bastards.

[pinkpastels113]

Tell us how you feel about arcane. Use your emotion words! Use a visual aid if you must, too lol.

you want some visual aid? i'll give you some visual aid:

that describes perfectly ab how i am feeling rn

first of all the LESBIAN SEX SCENE????!! I-??!! i knew that something was bound to happen (esp after meljay and the rated for sex warning in season 2) and i celebrated when they (finally) kissed but oh my god?? an actual lesbian sex scene? in a prison?? in vi's sister's prison?? after a parallel about how cait is always finding her in a prison and expected her to be there?? (with dramatic music and banter and soft giggling and the ANGLES and HAND PLACEMENTS??) I AM NOT OKAY

just that scene alone is enough to nudge me off a cliff. but moving on

how is JAYVIK more homoerotic than now-100%-canon caitvi?? that's all i have to say. (what do you MEAN that love conquers all?? that he loved and admired viktor for all his imperfections and that was what made him special and beautiful?? GET OUTTA HERE)

i did not know that i needed timebomb until this season but HOLY FUCKING SHIT why must you make ekko fall (surprisingly, even to himself) in love with jinx/older powder and have that ripped away from him not like two days later?? WHYYYYY (the dance. the "can we pretend it's like the first time?" the "oh and he's got lines." the nervous wave after he fucked up in that scene with dead vi and powder was like hmp and he goes :(. the mural. im sent. im gone. nobody speak to me.)

ISHA NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO (she was just trying to be like jinx and copy everything that she does and is and looked up to her as a hero STOP WHY MUST YOU DO THIS TO ME. also the song?? IM CHINESE BRO AND I WAS SOOOO EMOTIONAL OVER THE LYRICS like hit me where it fucking hurts why dont you)

i cried at how vander suffered a fate worse than death. @becasbelt can attest to that

caitlyn adfshjk i knew she would come around and she was and always has been my blorbo (even if she stayed evil) MWAH my female rage filled, slightly wild, grief clouded, confident, "im an excellent shot," sexy, " i am a decorated officer, leader of house kiramman, address me with respect, or keep your mouth shut." dictator, vampire, badass, mofo. YES

the way she said "no amount of good deeds can undo our crimes" hit me bc she's acknowledging that she went off the rails and did some pretty bad things to justify and achieve (which she didn't. not really) her goals

i LOVED jinx in this season. she single-handedly made it a comedy show and was the sole focus of a lot of the emotional damage the storytellers and animators wanted to convey

the way jesus came to be and then quickly became evil SDFHSDKJ i was legit like WEEO WEEO ABORT ABORT JESUS HAS TURNED EVIL (also want to point out the "no you wont" sky dialogue bc DAMN she really called you out huh viktor)

that alternate universe timebomb episode had me gasping so much (like SILCO?? WHAT ARE YOU DOING THERE?? WHERE DID YOU COME FROM?? what do you mean everyone is well and happy but at the cost of vi's death???) i think i had asthma for a split second there

MELLLL MY GODDESS MVP PLAYER you saved cait's ass so many times it's not even funny and ugh the way you finally stood up to your mom (very cleverly too, i might add) ugh i applaud

EKKO MY KINGGG the way he hurts himself so bad turning back time and specifically saving jinx from offing herself BYE

HEIMERDINGER MY TINY ANNOYING/affectionate FURBALL WHYY

no but yea i am ruined and my emotions have faded away into numbness and i hope this post was relatable to the people in the arcane fandom and i also agree that this season was way too condensed and rushed and the last episodes in particular needed at least a couple more to drag out the events and character development bc at times when i am supposed to be cheering i am crying and at times i am supposed to be crying i am screaming and at times i am supposed to be screaming i am Horny and at times i am supposed to be Horny my heart is wrenching but only a few tears slip out bc IT IS CUT TO THE NEXT SCENE AGAIN??? does that make sense??

(also do we think jinx is actually dead or no. im still not sure but obv i would hope/am hoping that she is lmao)

[primulagoldworthy]

Proof that Lucien knows that Helion is his father / that he is the heir of Day:

I'm always wondering how so many assume that Lucien, the smart-ass fox of Prythian, wouldn't know that he is the heir of a court. That would be a major plot hole. His Day Court powers have to be way stronger than the fire he inherited from his mother.

So let's dive into some possible evidence:

Helion was a minor noble before the previous High Lord of Day and his family were killed by Amarantha. Which makes me guess that Lucien obtained his heir powers the same time Helion became High Lord and finally had a name to the male who was likely unknown to him until then.

1. The first clue is that Dagdan used the words "who cleaved" instead of something else, suggesting that someone actually spell-CLEAVED them. I highlighted the (very revealing) words that were used to describe Lucien that moment- sunlight and gold. Which made me think that it was Lucien who cleaved those holes. Everyone else was trapped UTM. He was the only one who could have done it.

Lucien knows the details by heart. Because he walked and cleaved that border, probably for years.

We later learn about Helion's title and that he's Lucien's biological father.

2. The biggest proof is this line:

There's no way a female in Dawn can glow like Helion himself (Edit: unless he has a daughter we don't know of or the Day fae there generally possess that ability, that's not confirmed yet). Either way I found it suspicious that he avoided the term "Day" and chose to say "Dawn". Lucien very obviously meant himself, but mixed truth with lies.

3. Another hint: Tamlin's words to Helion. I think he referred to Lucien with this one.

Neither Tamlin nor Lucien were surprised when he spell-cleaved in Hybern. They might have figured his powers out together back then when everyone was trapped UTM. Tamlin likely witnessed him cleaving the wall, it was the only way to reach the human lands. They needed the holes.

4. Let me quote Eris again. Always mix truth with lies.

That's exactly what Lucien does. He uses his mechanical eye as a disguise to explain his abilities to see through spells and glamours. There's no way that eye can provide him with Helion's powers. It might be able to enhance his abilities, but it's not the cause of it.

I wanted to do this for a long time - let me know what you think. 😁

[say-hwaet]

That's The Way it Is

Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three: Secrets Kept Summary: Arthur takes you to Horseshoe Overlook, where your supposed family for the last fifteen years has been. Who are these people? And what will you learn about yourself along the way? Warnings: Mature themes, mild language, interrupted cursing Word Count: ~8,400 words Author's note: This is an Arthur Morgan x You story, but I do have some character design/creative license. I wanted to experiment with the element of pretending to be someone else, so the MC does have a given name and character descriptions. Just wanted to give you a heads-up in case it doesn't fit your vibe. I hope you'll decide to give it a chance anyway!

You wish you had a paper and pencil. So many names, though slow and steady they come, and your head hurts too much to keep track of them all.

Arthur has gone down the list. John. Hosea. Dutch. Susan. Pearson. Strauss. Javier. Bill. Abigail. Jack. Uncle. Mary Beth. Tilly. Jenny. Mac. Davey. Charles. Karen. Sean. Molly. Micah. He gave his perspective on how you met them, how they've treated you, and their role in the gang.

You try to hang on to each name, each story Arthur spins, a thread you’re desperate to weave into the fabric of your lost memories. But it's overwhelming, like drinking from a firehose, and you feel the familiar ache behind your eyes intensify with every new piece of information.

"Slow down," you plead as you hold onto him. The scenery passes by you at a steady pace, but with the tender knot building on the side of your head, it’s almost dizzying. “I can’t remember them all.”

“Sorry,” Arthur replies. “I got carried away.”

You find yourself clutching tighter to his jacket. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

“You can, Kit,” Arthur’s voice softens as he reassures you. “We’ve got time.” His gloved hand gently pats your hand. His touch is comforting, familiar in a way you can't yet understand but makes you feel safer nonetheless. “We’ll take it slow,” he continues, “If people start crowdin’ ya, I’ll be there to ensure they back off.”

You manage a smile. “Somehow, I don’t doubt that.”

The rest of the ride is quieter, your head resting against his back as the landscape shifts around you. The endless stretch of dusty roads, framed by the occasional group of trees, seems to mirror your fragmented memories — vast and somewhat desolate. You close your eyes and try to focus on the warmth Arthur provides, the color under your eyelids changing as shadows cast down on you over the trees.

And soon, you leave the train tracks and enter through some trees, going down a soft slope.

And suddenly, you hear a voice, quickly recognizing it as the drunken cackle you heard during the fight in Valentine. “Who goes there!”

And Arthur answers back. “It’s me! Arthur!”

You open your eyes, but try to remain hidden behind Arthur’s back. You’re here.

“Welcome back!” the man replies, almost cheerful. And you hear his voice draw closer as Arthur continues to ride.

It is then that the man sees you. “Ho-ly sh—!”

“Shut up, Bill, you want the Pinkertons to hear us?!”

Drunken Cackle, now identified as Bill, fits how Arthur described him. Brutish, boarish, with a thick beard, leather duster, and plaid shirt. He looks like he had just rolled in some mud, and you wouldn’t want to be in his sights if he wants to fight. He quickly runs back into camp, rifle held tightly in his hands. “Hey! It’s Kit! Arthur has Kit…!”

Here it comes.

“I can’t tell if he’s happy or not,” you say under your breath.

Arthur clearly heard you, for his warm laugh rumbles his body beneath your cheek.

"Either way, we'll handle it," he assures, his voice a low murmur as he steers the horse smoothly into the heart of the camp.

As you enter the camp, a wave of curious and astonished faces turn toward you. Some of them you recognize from Arthur's descriptions—like raggedy-faced Uncle with his sluggish posture.

“Oh! It is Kit!”

“Kitka’s alive!”

Arthur pulls Montana up by a hitching post and dismounts first. Tying him off, Arthur approaches you and lifts his arms. You accept his gesture and placing your hands on his firm shoulders, he helps you down.

You remain close to him, as he wraps a protective arm around you and escorts you further into the camp.

You see several tents pitched, and a couple of lean-tos. There is also a large chuck wagon and a cauldron over a fire, cooking some kind of stew.

These aren’t the wagons and tents that were in your memory. Maybe Arthur was right. A different time, when you were younger.

You look at all their faces, most smiles and bright eyes as they begin to gather around.

One woman steps forward, her graying hair styled atop her head. "Well, if it ain't a ghost," she says, her voice surprisingly tender. "Welcome home, Kitka."

You try to place her, but struggle. So many names and descriptions to sort through, and your brow pinches.

The woman, seeing the vacancy in your eyes, looks at you with worry. “What’s wrong, girl?”

You feel Arthur pull you closer to him, and while this would normally concern you, you prefer it in the midst of this confusing sea of faces. "Nothing's wrong, Miss Grimshaw," Arthur answers for you, his voice steady but filled with an undercurrent of concern only perceptible to you. “She just…don’t remember us. She got shot really bad and, erm…forgot everything up until Blackwater.”

Susan. This is Susan.

The woman’s eyes widen and she looks at Arthur with concern. “What? How the hell does she forget us?”

A woman, full-figured and blonde, scoffs at the old woman. “Can’t you just be happy she’s alive? For all we knew, she was dead!”

Susan scowls at her. “You watch your tone there, missy…! I missed her just as much as you did, if not more so! I’ve known her since she was a girl!”

Another woman, honey-blonde and slender, comes between them. “Let’s not fight, please!” She turns to you, offering a soft smile that twinkles with empathy as she steps forward. “Kit, I’m Mary Beth, it’s really good to see you standin’ here.”

Mary Beth, a kind soul, as Arthur described her. It was clear by the way he spoke that you and her had a deep friendship. And by the way she takes your hands, there is a true fondness that she has for you. No ill will or misgivings. Maybe someone you can trust.

“You were my friend,” you say, trying to will a memory into your conscious mind.

Her eyes brighten at your words and she squeezes your hands. “Yes, we often shared stories we’ve written. You were teaching me some Czech phrases.”

You remember some words that were spoken to you in your memories with that tongue. You hope that you will learn to speak it again.

Arthur's hand tightens around your shoulder, grounding you as your mind whirls with the fragments of the life you once lived. The words Mary Beth mentions stir something faint within you—a distant echo of laughter and whispered secrets under starlit skies. "Maybe," you venture, hope threading through your tone, "we could try that again.”

Mary Beth nods, and gently backs away.

Another woman, young with dark hair in a tight bun, holds the hand of a little boy.

You smile, deducing who they are. “Abigail and Jack…”

The little boy, with a twinkle in his eyes, beams at the mention of his name. “Aunt Kit!” And breaking free of his mother’s grip, he rushes to you and hugs you at the legs. “I missed you…!”

“Oh!” you gasp, more so at the name rather than his gesture. You look at Arthur. “Am I…?”

He shakes his head. “It’s…kinda hard to explain.” Arthur’s eyes are filled with that old, familiar pain—the unspoken torment of truths too tangled to unweave in a moment. Abigail steps forward, her expression soft and understanding, as she gently retrieves Jack, allowing him back into the safety of her arms.

“Sorry,” she says. “He’s just excited.”

You look at her apologetically, imagining the restraint she must feel to know you and not react similarly to how the boy had. “Don’t be,” you say.

And suddenly, come in a flock of questions, by voices you can’t yet identify.

“Where have you been all this time?”

“Did the Pinkertons get you?”

“Have you seen Mac? or Sean?”

“We thought Arthur was crazy!”

“Hey, hey!” Arthur barks. “Didn’t you hear a damned thing I said? She don’t remember!”

“And that includes you, don’t it, Cowpoke?”

There is a hush over the flock of voices as they turn to look at the one who just posed the silencing question. Your eyes fall on a man. Blonde, with a long mustache, white hat, and pot belly. He’s leaning against the table in front of the chuckwagon, eyeing the sharpness of his knife.

The feeling he gives you is evidence enough. Micah Bell.

Arthur remains still, his eyes narrowing. “Just say it, Micah.”

Micah laughs, a slick, demeaning laugh, as though he has all the cards in his hand. “Must be real hard, watching your plans fall apart, Morgan. The woman you love wandering back from the grave with no memory of any of us, especially you.”

The tension could be cut with a knife. Arthur’s jaw tightens, his fists clench at his sides. You feel an inexplicable urge to defuse the situation, yet you are more curious than anything. Love? What does he mean by that?

“I don’t know what’cher talkin’ about, Micah.”

Micah lifts his chin, like he isn’t worried about having his neck slit. “Oh, I think you do. You really thought you could keep that under wraps? All that sneakin’ off and…whisperin’…you were plannin’ to leave us, weren’t you, Morgan?” And he points the blade of his knife at you. “With that…circus whore.” And he cackles. “Must be real good…all flexible under them sheets.”

And the next thing that happens is a blur. Arthur leaves your side, a blur of brown, black, and green, as he body slams into Micah.

Fists fly, a dance of anger and old grudges, playing out under the heavy gaze of the setting sun. Dust swirls around them as your heartbeat echoes the rhythmic thumping of boots against the dry ground. You stand frozen, watching as each punch from Arthur seems to carry a year's worth of suppressed fury as he lands punch after punch at Micah’s face.

There are several cries from the women and you watch as Charles and John try to break them up.

Arthur roars with a rage that sends goosebumps up your spine. “I’LL KILL YOU, YOU SONOFA—!!!”

“ENOUGH…!!!”

The command rings loud enough for Arthur to pause for a second, just long enough for Charles to pull him off of Micah. Arthur doesn’t resist, but the fire in his eyes does not leave.

You feel gentle hands on you, and you whip your head to see Mary Beth on your left, and another girl, Tilly, on your right. They try to escort you away, but you remain planted, your only concern being for Arthur.

And that is when someone steps out of the largest tent. Tall, imposing, with dark hair and a dark vest with a gold chain. Rings on many fingers.

Dutch. It is Dutch Van Der Linde.

He doesn’t look in your direction, immediately walking over to the restrained Arthur and downed Micah. “What the hell are you doing, Arthur?!” he roars. “Is this what we do now? Start fights? Nearly beat our own men to death?!”

“Micah started it, Dutch!” A young man says. “He was saying things about Kit!”

Your name seems to do something to Dutch, as his eyes widen and his body tenses. “….Who, Lenny…?”

Lenny nods and points at you. “Kit! She’s back! She’s alive!”

“Didn’t you hear the commotion, Dutch?” Susan asks, almost perplexed that he didn’t hear it.

Dutch turns, his gaze finally landing on you. For a moment, the world seems to hold its breath. His eyes remain intense, a mix of disbelief and confusion washing over him. "Kit?" he murmurs, his voice barely audible over the murmur of the crowd.

You nod, feeling a tightness in your chest. This is the man you wanted to see. He was on that boat. He may know what happened to you. He was there. “Yes, Dutch. It is me.”

And suddenly, there is a shift in his demeanor. His body relaxes, and he opens his arms. “My child, you’ve come home…!”

Arthur looks on, confused, and Charles lets him go. He remains still and watches Dutch carefully as the leader approaches you.

Unsure what to do, you make your way over to him and accept his embrace as he holds you tightly. “We thought you were dead!”

“It is a miracle I am alive, Dutch.” You come away from his embrace and look him in the eyes. “I’ve been in Blackwater all this time.”

“Really?” Dutch asks inquisitively, his eyes reflecting a sudden interest. “And how did you find your way here?”

You look over at the still-seething gunslinger. “Arthur found me.”

Dutch's grin widens as he turns to face Arthur. “So, he did.” He turns back to you and places a firm hand on your shoulder. “Too bad Hosea had gone off to Emerald Ranch for a score, he’d love to be here while we celebrate!”

“But what about Micah?” Bill interjects, breaking the jovial atmosphere. “You still have that fight to deal with.”

Dutch's smile fades as he narrows his eyes. “I’ll deal with that, Bill,” he says in a low voice filled with determination. He looks back at everyone else gathered around him. “But for now, we’re going to have ourselves a party!”

There is a collective cheer and people begin gathering around you, their faces a mix of curiosity and joy. The sense of community, something you've been missing for so long, wraps around you like a warm blanket.

“We’ve missed gossipin’ with you, Kit!” Karen says, a laugh bubbling out of her lips. “We got so much more good stuff over the last month or so.”

Tilly, still holding your arm, escorts you to a place to sit down. It is a large log, lying in front of a small fire. Mary Beth and Karen sit close by, giggling like school girls.

Music starts somewhere in the distance and looking over, you see Javier playing a guitar, and he comes over to you. “Mind if I join you, ladies?”

Tilly giggles and that seems to be permission enough.

Javier settles down on the ground near the fire, his fingers already caressing the strings of the guitar, pulling a melodic tune into the air that gently swirls around the growing firelight. The song is a soft, happy thing that somehow carries a thread of love through its core.

But the soft moment is quickly ended when Uncle comes lopping over. “Play a good one! One I can actually sing to…!”

Javier rolls his eyes moaning, “Ay, way to ruin a moment, amigo!”

Uncle doesn’t seem to care, waving his bottle of beer in the air. “This is a party, not a soiree!”

“Dios Mio, fine! What do you want to sing?”

“Ring Dang Doo!” he cackles and by the reaction of the girls, it is clear that it is very undesirable.

Amidst the groans and laughter, Javier strums a few hesitant chords, his expression a blend of amusement and resignation. “Alright, Uncle, just for you,” he mutters, and the first notes of “Ring Dang Doo” echo into the night, bringing with it a raucous cheer from some of the other men who are in the vicinity.

The words are rather distasteful and you are relieved that you don’t know the song at all. As the laughter rises and falls around the flickering flames, your mind drifts, tugged by the playful mockery in Uncle's voice and the indulgent frustration in Javier's strumming. It’s moments like these that sharpen the edges of what you've lost—memories that feel just beyond your grasp, lingering like shadows at the fringes of the firelight. You feel a pang in your chest, a dull ache, as if your heart knows what your mind cannot remember.

The stars above twinkle with an indifference that feels almost cruel in its beauty, the vastness reminding you of everything that is missing. As the song ends and the laughter dies down, you find yourself wishing for a melody that could carry you back through the years to the moments that are now just ghosts in your mind.

Then, as if summoned by your longing, Javier switches tunes again, this time to something slower, more melancholic. The notes are deep, resonating with the unspoken sorrows.

And Karen, bobbing her head softly, begins to sing the tune.

I ain't got no father

I ain’t got no father

I ain't got no father

To buy the clothes I wear

And Pearson, the gang’s cook, joins her.

I'm a poor, lonesome, cowboy

Poor, lonesome, cowboy

I’m a poor, lonesome, cowboy

A long way from home

You swallow hard, the lump in your throat growing as the words seem to amplify your own sense of displacement. How aptly they resonate with the tide of confusion that has been your companion since waking up in this unfamiliar life. The song, meant for others' longing, mirrors your fragmented memories, flickering like the campfire before you.

And you look at these faces, faces you should know, and you realize that one of the most important is missing.

Arthur. Where is he?

You sit up straight, looking around, but you don’t see him at the table, or by the chuck wagon. You slowly rise to your feet and begin to leave the group.

“Hey!” you hear Uncle call. “Where you goin’?”

You don’t care to answer, as the music and light fade away from you as you leave. You walk back toward Montana, he’s still here. Arthur must be—

“...And I need you with me on this, son. You and Micah need to get along.”

You freeze. You have just started walking by Dutch’s tent, and no doubt he doesn’t expect you to be listening.

And you hear Arthur, speaking with great agitation. “You know how I feel about him, Dutch—”

“You went and got him out of that jail, and I am thankful, but now is not the time for grudges. Kit is back now, but I can’t have any distractions.”

“She ain’t a distraction, Dutch, but—”

“But what?”

“You—you said she drowned, Dutch.” And there is a sudden silence. “Why did you tell me she fell off the boat and drowned?”

Drowned? He thought you drowned? Can you swim? You don’t know, you can’t remember, but you’d think by living in California, playing in tide pools, you would have such a skill.

Dutch stammers and you can hear the growing frustration in his voice. “Well—well—a lot happened that day, son! Some did fall off that boat, and I didn’t see her after that! Was I to go into that water lookin’?”

“Well, no, but—”

“But nothing! She’s here now…” And then Dutch’s voice lowers, bordering threatening. “…and if what Micah said is true about you—”

“It—It ain’t true! I weren’t gonna leave, and she and I—” He stops mid-sentence and sighs deeply. “I said I have your back, Dutch. Always will.”

There is another pause and Dutch speaks with a deep satisfaction. “Good. Now go and join the party. I’ll make sure Micah lives to fight another day.”

You hear heavy footfalls draw near you, and you take a few steps back until they stop again.

“Just for the record, Dutch, I don’t regret punchin’ him.”

And Dutch replies with a great agitation, exhaling deeply. “Just go.”

You motion to hide, and you do just in time to see Arthur head off not toward the party, but into the trees. You are tempted to follow, but you can’t risk Dutch seeing you. So, you decide to return to the party. It’s best you find Susan to find out where you will be sleeping.

As you weave your way back toward the lively sounds and flickering lights of the party, your mind replays the troubling conversation. Why did Dutch say you drowned? And why would Micah say that he was planning to leave? With you? The uncertainty muddles your thoughts, mixing with things you know and what you are trying to remember.

Micah said Arthur loves you and that he tried to keep it a secret. Is it true? Or, more importantly, do you want it to be true?

You don't have a solid answer, and the gnawing uncertainty fuels a dull ache in your chest. As you approach the periphery of the gathering, laughter bubbles over from the crowd, mixing with the clink of beer bottles and the strumming of a guitar. It seems alien, almost surreal, given the storm brewing within your own mind. The warm, yellow light from the lanterns dances across the faces of the revelers, casting long shadows that sway with the music. You feel detached, an observer of their joy rather than a partaker.

Susan finally comes into view, and as she turns her head to the rhythm of the song, her eyes catch you.

You smile and approach her. “I am getting tired. Where can I sleep?”

She clicks her tongue and rises to her feet. “Say no more, girl.” And she begins to lead you away from the gathering. “Come with me.”

As you follow Susan through the throng of dancers and revelers, the smell of tobacco and whiskey mingles with the evening air, heavy with the scent of pine and earth. The sounds of the party fade as you walk further away, replaced by the soft crunching of leaves underfoot.

Susan leads you to a lean-to with other bed rolls lying there. “This is where you’ll be until we can get you a separate tent. Mary Beth and Tilly also sleep here.”

You look at her, with saddened eyes. “I left none of my things here?”

Her eyes soften and she shakes her head as she explains. “When everything had gone to hell, we didn’t have much time to pack. We took what we could, and when we thought you had died…” She shrugs her shoulders. “It didn’t make much sense to grab those things.” She rests a hand on your shoulder. “I’m sorry, hon.”

You nod. It makes sense. You can’t begrudge them for fleeing for their lives. As far as they knew, you were dead. Why would they bring a dead person’s things when they needed the bare essentials first?

Susan bids you goodnight, and calmly walks away. Alone for the first time this evening, you go to your knees and take hold of one of the blankets. Wrapping yourself in it, you bury your nose in the wool, taking in a deep breath through your nose.

It doesn’t smell like tobacco, leather, and pine, and you can’t help but feel greatly disappointed.

You curl up under the blanket, your mind swimming with fragmented memories and fleeting emotions. The night air is chillier than expected, seeping through the gaps in the lean-to. Stars peek through the slits above, a stark reminder of how small your problems seem under the vast, indifferent sky.

Despite the comforting warmth of the blanket, you shiver, the cold seeping into your bones as if chasing the warmth of the memories you strain to recall. Somewhere deep within, a flicker of familiarity stirs each time you close your eyes—visions of firelight dancing on a rugged face, laughter mingling with the crackle of burning logs, and the solitude of just two bodies being intertwined together.

Who? Is this you? What memory is this? Your head starts to hurt, but you try to push through it, follow it, will it to make itself clear to you.

Yet, as vivid as these flitting images are, they dissolve into the crisp night air before you can grasp their meaning. A frustration builds within you—a yearning to remember, to understand who you were before the world turned its back on you. The shadows of the past loom larger in the darkness, your heart beating in sync with the slow, methodical drip of a leak somewhere outside your temporary refuge. Each drop sounds like a clock, each tick marking a moment lost to the fog of your forgotten life.

***

It’s morning and you find yourself the first to rise. Sitting up you see the sleeping form of Mary Beth next to you, eyes closed and peaceful. You wonder when everyone has turned in for the night, and can only imagine that it will be a while before they join you. 

You carefully rise, pulling the blanket away from you as silently as you can. Finding your footing, you rise to your feet, and coming out of the lean-to, you stretch out your arms and arch your back. 

You feel muscles relaxing, tempting you to bend backward farther than would seem natural.

…all flexible under them sheets…

Micah’s voice rings in your ear, and you quickly straighten, feeling uneasy and disturbed by his suggestive language. 

You move quickly as your mind goes to what happened. The look on Arthur’s face, like a protective wild animal, as he showed no restraint in beating Micah’s face in. You haven’t seen Micah since, and you didn’t hear where he was taken to recover from the ordeal, or how bad the damage was. You’re curious, the temptation to explore and find out for yourself pricks at you, but you decide against it. 

You walk deeper into the camp, sneaking by sleeping figures and passing the chuck wagon and the table, which has poker cards scattered all over its surface. 

As you continue, a soft, glowing light gathers your attention, and following it, it leads you to the edge of the overlook. You see the rising sun, the glowing orb rising into the sky as it paints pastel colors behind it. 

And you see Arthur sitting on the edge. 

A soft “oh” escapes your lips, loud enough for him to notice and look over his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” you say. “I didn’t know anyone else was awake.”

His eyes meet yours and you feel a small wave of relief wash over you. His gaze is warm, and it's almost as if he understands your unspoken struggle. "I've always been an early riser," he says with a gentle smile.

"Even after the party last night?" you tease, trying to break the tension.

He looks away for a moment before meeting your gaze again. "I didn't..." He trails off, looking pensive. "It's not that I didn't want to celebrate," he explains. "I just...”

“I understand,” you say softly, sensing the tension emanating from him. “It was a long day for both of us. It must not have been easy to see me and find that I didn’t remember you.” You see him tense up even more at this and you recoil slightly, giving him space. “About Micah…”

“Don’t worry about that,” he interrupts.

You blink in surprise. “Why? He may be slicker than an oil slick, but his words clearly affected you.” You take a cautious step closer. “What he said was either a pointed deception…” your voice trails off as you nervously swallow. “Or it could be the truth.” As you study the back of his form, the sound of birdsong fills the air and the leaves rustle gently in the breeze. “Which one is it, Arthur?” You wait anxiously for his response, searching for any clue in his stoic posture.

A heavy silence hangs in the air, broken only by the sound of your own breathing. You stand there, rooted to the spot, as each second ticks by with agonizing slowness. Your heart pounds against your ribcage, almost audible in its frantic rhythm. A million thoughts race through your mind, but you push them away, focusing on the one burning question: What is the truth?

You try to keep your voice steady as you ask again, "What would you rather have it be?" Your words hang in the air, filled with uncertainty and hope. If it’s a lie, then everything stays the same. You have friends who know you and a plan to stay with them until things calm down after the events in Blackwater.

But if it is the truth...

Then the man in front of you is keeping something from you. Something between you two, something that happened. 

Arthur scooting away from the ledge, rises to his feet. After a moment he turns around to face you and you eagerly search his eyes for an answer. He takes calm steps toward you and offers his hand. “Come with me.”

What? No, you don’t want him to change the subject. “Arthur…”

“C’mon, I forgot to introduce you to someone.”

You feel miffed but he’s piqued your curiosity once again. And the temptation to hold his hand is greater than you thought it would be. 

And just like that, you slip your hand into his calloused palm and he begins to lead you back into camp. 

You’ve made the inference that Arthur doesn’t share anything he doesn’t want to. If he’s as secretive as Micah implied, then he isn’t going to give you an answer until he’s ready. 

But are you willing to let it go?

For now, you will. Just long enough to see what he’s on about. 

Though his stride is broad, his footfalls are quiet and steady. You try to keep up, but your feet shuffle too loudly in the grass. 

He looks back at you and places his forefinger over his lips. “Shhh….”

Your brow furrows, how dare he tell you to be quiet, when you have a reason to be upset? You are about to slap his arm, but a golden color up ahead catches your eye.

He’s led you outside of camp, near a patch of grass where some horses graze. In the center of them, is a golden palomino American Saddlebred mare. Her coat shines in the sun, her legs strong and graceful, her mane is braided in unique plaits and her tail is long like a bridal train. 

You know it. In your gut, you know it. She’s yours. She’s your Odliv. 

“Say somethin’ to her,” Arthur whispers softly. “You used to have a tune you’d whistle to her.”

You shake your head. “I don’t know it,” you whisper back, an emptiness filling in your stomach. 

That’s when Arthur leans close to you and his lips close to your ear, hums the tune only soft enough for you to hear. 

Your ear begins to ache, triggering a memory. 

Your dark hair wildly dancing in the wind, riding bareback across a field, hands held out like wings of a bird. 

“I’m flying!” you cry. “Arthur, I’m flying!”

You hear a second set of hoofbeats catch up with you and you look to your right to see Arthur, younger and more carefree as he rides beside you on a beautiful blood-red mare. 

The memory fades and out from your lips, comes the soft whistle. 

And in an instant, Odliv’s head perks up and she knickers curiously. When her eyes fall on you, she pounds the ground excitedly and whinnies loudly. 

You feel Arthur nudge you toward her. “Go to her before she wakes everyone up!”

You hurry your steps, maneuvering between the other horses who have also lifted their heads. You reach her and as soon as your hand rests on her forelock, she calms down, her whinnies turning into soft snorts. 

She’s soft to the touch, and you’ll let your fingers spread out and fold in, scratching her softly. She brings her head closer to you, communicating her desire to be loved. 

"She missed you," Arthur says, breaking the peaceful silence that had enveloped you. You turn to face him, but your eyes are still drawn back to the majestic creature in front of you.

"She was red, wasn't she?" Your voice is soft and filled with awe.

Arthur blinks, slightly taken aback. "Who?"

"Boadicea," you reply, barely able to tear your gaze away from the beautiful mare standing before you.

With a quiet chortle, Arthur corrects you, "Liver Chestnut."

You shrug nonchalantly. "No matter, at least I remembered."

After a brief pause, Arthur clicks his tongue and begins to walk away. "Well, I guess I'll leave you to it then." The sound of his footsteps recede as he leaves you alone with the horse, the only sounds now being the gentle rustling of leaves and the steady breaths of Odliv.

You flip around, nearly spooking Odliv, and he is walking in the direction of Montana. “What? Where are you going?” You leave your mare and hurry to catch up with him. You still have your question that needs answering. 

He doesn’t answer immediately, reaching Montana and slipping him a sugar cube. “How’ya doin’, boy?” And he gives the stud a good pat. 

“Arthur…?”

He mounts Montana and looks down at you. “I gotta meet up with Hosea. Was supposed to already…but got a little sidetracked.”

Meaning you. You are the distraction, just like Dutch said last night. Is that what he means?

You don’t want to see him go. But you don’t want to get him in trouble. “Can’t I…can’t I go with you?” You’ve come to find that you can hold your own, albeit quite suddenly, with those makeshift explosives you threw at those bandits.  

His eyes soften at that, but he shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Kitte—erm—Kitka, it’s probably best that you take it easy for a while. Spread your wings, as they say. Maybe once you get back on your feet.”

Your brow pinches. “But I’m already on two legs.”

He shakes his head, chuckling to himself. “You did take things too literal sometimes.” He takes the reins and spins Montana around, the horse’s broad muscles moving in powerful ripples. “I’ll be gone a few days. Hopefully, you’ll be meetin’ Sean before too long.” And before you can say anything more, he makes a clicking sound with his mouth, and Montana canters on out of camp. 

You watch the wake of his departure, feeling an unsettling mix of frustration and abandoned hope gnaw at your insides. Left standing alone amidst the camp's morning bustle, you wonder if your past will ever truly circle back to embrace you, or if it is destined to keep galloping ahead—just out of reach like the dust kicked up by Montana's hooves. You let out a breath you didn't realize you'd been holding and turn away from Arthur's fading silhouette.

The camp seems full yet oddly hollow as you meander back into camp, still silent while everyone sleeps. You feel rather peckish, and you remember that there were some canned goods in Pearson’s chuckwagon. You suppose it won’t hurt to have a bite, after all, you haven’t eaten in over 24 hours.

You go towards the back of the wagon, an area of camp you haven’t explored yet, and as you look around.

You stop in your tracks.

A young man, bent over and head down, is tied to a tree.

You gasp loudly, which stirs him to awaken. He lifts his head and when his eyes meet yours his eyes widen.

“Please…” he begs. “I need some water.”

You know that you are amongst a gang of outlaws, but you couldn’t imagine why a young man would be tied to a tree with a rope.

He has long, brown hair to his shoulders. It looks like it hasn’t been washed in days. His eyes are bloodshot, either from crying or fatigue, perhaps both.

You think through all the names and descriptions that Arthur gave you, and none seem to match this stranger. You take a quiet step forward. “Who are you?”

He replies with a lilt in his voice, true panic as he whispers. “Nobody! I ain’t done nothin’!” Then his head hangs low. “I am so thirsty…”

You aren’t above helping someone, regardless of why they may be tied to a tree. You see a water bucket with a ladle and walk over to it. You fill the ladle with cool, clear water and bring it to his parched lips. He drinks greedily, water dribbling down his chin and wetting the dust at his knees. After a moment, he seems somewhat revived and lifts his head again, his eyes meeting yours with a mixture of fear and gratitude.

"Thank you,” he gasps. “I thought I was going to die…”

“Who tied you here?” you ask. “Why?”

“Dutch had me tied. I…was with Colm, but I ain’t never liked that feller…!”

Colm. You don’t recognize that name. But you can only figure he’s an enemy to Dutch. But why?

“Hey…!” A bark comes from around a lean-to, and you whip around. It’s Bill, grumpy and hungover, and he’s caught you helping his prisoner. “What do you think yer doin’?!” Bill stomps over, his heavy boots stirring up small clouds of dust with each step. His eyes are narrowed in suspicion and anger as he peers at you, then at the ladle in your hand. You feel a shiver of apprehension, but your grip on the ladle tightens slightly, a defiant gesture you can't quite explain yourself.

"He needed water, Bill," you say calmly, meeting his glare with a steady gaze of your own. The air thickens with tension, the only sounds the distant calls of crows and the soft rustle of the dry grass underfoot.

Bill snorts, his mustache twitching in agitation. “Dutch says no food or water ‘til he talks!”

And you suddenly bristle, memories of unkindness shown to you your entire life flooding in quick flashes. What would you have given for just a bit of water or food when your brother was sick and dying? Despite your headache, your fist clenches around the ladle and you swing it to hit Bill hard.

The ladle connects with a satisfying thud against Bill's temple, and he staggers back, more from surprise than pain. His hand instinctively goes to his head, and he scowls fiercely at you. "Kit, what the hell—?"

"Blázen! You know as well as I do that a man's got a right to basics!" you spit out, your voice thick with emotion. "Water is not a privilege. It’s a necessity…!"

Bill stares at you, his anger simmering down into something resembling grudging respect or perhaps confusion. He rubs the spot where the ladle struck, eyes never leaving yours. "Yer memory ain’t all there, so I am gonna spell it for ya…” And he leans close, snarling a threat veiled thinly behind a whisper. "Dutch's orders are law here, Kit. Don’t forget your place, or you’ll find yourself out there with nothin’ and no one."

You swallow hard, the sting of his words biting deeper than the chill in the air. How many times had you been cast out before, left to fend for yourself in the harsh world of indifference and cruelty? You don’t know, but the thought sends a cold wave through your spine. And yet, at the same time, there's a flickering flame of rebellion within you that refuses to be smothered.

"Maybe my memory isn’t fully restored, Bill," you reply, your voice low and steady, "but my sense of what’s right hasn’t faded one bit." You hold his gaze, unflinching, the intensity of your conviction casting a palpable sensation in the air between you.

Bill's eyes narrow as he assesses you, the standoff drawing a curious crowd from the nearby tents. Whispers weave through the other members as they’ve woken to your row, the poor prisoner in the middle, shaking in his boots.

Finally, with a snort, Bill turns away, dismissing the gathering with a wave of his hand. "See to it that he don’t drown," he mutters under his breath, loud enough for only you to hear. There's something akin to admiration in his tone, albeit reluctantly given.

As the crowd disperses, you sigh deeply.

You feel a sudden hand on your arm, and you turn to see Mary Beth, her eyes a mix of gratitude and worry. “I’m glad someone else feels the same way.” And she begins to lead you away from the prisoner. You walk beside her as he links her arm with yours and she leads you around the tents. “I’ve been sneakin’ Kieran some water and scraps since he’s been here.”

Kieran? That’s his name. And since Mary Beth has been helping him, she must know more about it. “Who is he?”

“An O’Driscoll,” she explains. “They are a rival gang. Dutch and Colm go way back, been fightin’ for a while.”

“Oh. Who is Colm, exactly? Why are they fighting?”

“You were there, when it all started. You are one of the original ones.” Mary Beth stops by the horses and you eye Odliv while she grazes. “I wasn’t there, but from what I’ve been told, Dutch killed Colm’s brother and he killed Dutch’s lover, Annabelle.”

Annabelle. You think hard about the name, but it doesn’t register. You shake your head.

Mary Beth continues, “Colm is evil. He’s killed innocent women and children, and shows no mercy, like we do.”

Your brow furrows. “How is tying Kieran to a tree mercy?”

Mary Beth hesitates, her gaze shifting to the ground before she meets your eyes again. "It's not, I suppose. But sometimes..." She trails off, searching for the right words. "Sometimes we have to make choices that don't sit well with us. You know that better than anyone, Kit."

You nod slowly, unsure of what she means.

She sees the confused expression on your face and offers to enlighten you. “When there was plannin’ for the ferry robbery in Blackwater, there were conflicting ideas. Hosea and Arthur were working on a con of their own, some sort of trick on some real estate brokers. And then there was Micah and Dutch, talkin’ about the ferry. You wanted to help Arthur and Hosea, you have always been good with costumes and performances. You can distract the strongest-willed of men…!” She giggles, most likely thinking of a specific instance. “We have always been a great team.”

But you want her to continue about Blackwater. “But what happened? Did I go with him?”

She shakes her head. “Dutch said he needed you with him. To act as a hostage when he robbed the ferry.”

Your eyes widen. “That sounds…dangerous.”

“That’s what you had said. I remember you telling me how worried you were about the whole thing. You said that something didn’t seem right…” Her eyes fall. “You…seemed different. I wish there was something that I could have done, maybe took your place.”

You shake your head, patting her arm. “No. It is as it was. You can’t change the past, Mary Beth.”

There’s a long pause as the air between you thickens with unspoken thoughts, a tangle of regrets and old wounds that no amount of talking can undo. But the soft smile returns to Mary Beth’s face and she pats your hand that rests over her arm. “Let’s do the wash. Us girls always do the wash in the morning, to let the clothes dry. Miss Grimshaw gets on our tails if we aren’t busy come sunup.”

You nod. “Okay, it will be good to keep busy.”

Together, you and Mary Beth gather the worn fabrics and soiled garments scattered around the camp and find the other girls by the washboards and buckets. The fresh morning air is crisp, pinching at your cheeks as you find a place to sit among them.

The chatter among the women is light, yet it carries a weight of shared history that you can't fully grasp. You try to focus on the task at hand, scrubbing at stubborn stains that mar the fabric. As your hands move in rhythmic motions over the washboard, snippets of conversation float around you.

"Molly’s lookin’ at her face in the mirror again…” Karen says while gnawing on a long blade of straw.

The girls look over near Dutch’s tent. Molly, with red hair more blazing than fire, eyes her own reflection as though it were an unfamiliar face, one she's trying to understand or maybe memorize. You can't help but notice the way her brows furrow together, crafting a silent narrative of self-doubt and contemplation that seems all too familiar.

"Molly always did take to heart what Dutch says about appearances being as important as a loaded gun…” Tilly snarks. “But I always thought looks weren’t everythin’.”

“It’s different when you got a man to please,” Karen argues. “I should know. The better you look, the better the pay.”

Mary Beth gasps at her brazenness. “Karen!”

“What? It’s true! Any woman who has had a man knows that.”

You remain silent, the conversation drifting over you like fog settling on a meadow. The practicalities and pitfalls of love seem a distant concern to your current predicament. Yet there's an ache inside that resounds with their words, a ghostly echo of a love you can scarcely remember but feel profoundly.

As you scrub on the shirt in your hand, you notice its color. Blue. The same blue shirt that Arthur had worn when you saw him in Valentine. Your heart skips, caught in the clutches of your most vivid memory, flitting at the edge of your consciousness like a shy bird. The fabric under your fingers suddenly feels heavier, soaked not just with water but with the weight of unspoken words and a past life that might as well have been someone else's dream.

You swallow thickly, thinking about how to word your question. “Did we…Did we talk about a lot of things…like secrets?”

Karen’s eyes sparkle at your question. “Oh yes! Not much gets past us girls!”

And Mary Beth, sweet and sympathetic as ever, can sense what you are getting at. “Is there something you want to know, Kit? Something you told us and want to remember?”

You feel your hands trembling, the words building in your body making it nerve-wracking. “Am I…Am I a virgin?”

There is a sudden stillness when the girls pause their washing.

Tilly is the first to speak, her voice raised higher than her normal range. “What?”

And Karen gets to the meat of the matter. “Why do you wanna know? You pregnant or something?”

You shake your head, you feel instant regret for even asking, but you can’t back out now. “No! I just…been having these dreams…”

“Oh…? What dreams?” Karen asks with a gleam in her eye and a mischievous grin.

“I don’t know…I think they’re memories, as that is how they usually come to me, but I can’t seem to put it all together.”

Mary Beth still looks softly at you, as she wrings a flannel shirt. “You always told us you wanted to wait until marriage.” And before you can doubt her answer she adds, “You were very adamant about it. You said being a performer taught you that.”

Performer? You remember being called circus trash, and also what Micah called you yesterday. 

It lines up. If you had your heart set on waiting…

You let the shirt go for just a moment to look at the ring on your finger. “And I’m not married.”

Tilly shakes her head. “No, Kit. You ain’t.”

“It’s strange,” you laugh. “Being 29 and still…” You work on scrubbing the shirt again, tucking your chin to hide your face behind your hair. “Oh, I suppose it doesn’t matter.”

“There ain’t no shame in waitin’, Kit.” Karen says, her voice more gentle than her usual teasing. “It’s better with the right person than the wrong one.” She laughs. “I should know.”

Mary Beth sighs, lifting her head and looking all dreamy. “I’m still waitin’ for mine, too.”

At that, Tilly chortles. “Mary Beth, the right one ain’t never gonna happen for you unless they come flyin’ right outta them books you write!”

The laughter that bubbles from Mary Beth is light and unburdened, a stark contrast to the heaviness of your own heart. "Maybe I do expect too much from a man. But a girl can dream, can't she?"

Your thoughts spiral back to your own dreams, fragmented and shadowy as they are, filled with fleeting touches and whispered names that dissolve as you awaken. There's a haunting familiarity in those hallucinatory moments, a sense of belonging that you can't yet place. Perhaps, buried deep within the cobwebs of your memory, there lies an answer. They feel so real, yet so far away, making you wonder if even you kept secrets from these girls who you call friends.

You girls finish the laundry, hanging the linens on nearby branches and a line strung up between two trees. You’re surprised to see the day half gone, and while you are grateful for the passage of time, you wonder what else you could possibly do.

And as you walk past Susan, she sees you and eyes your skirt. “Just a minute, girl!”

You freeze, and brace yourself. From what the girls have told you, you prepare to be given another chore to do.

She rises from the table where she has been working on sewing a patch and gestures to your skirt. “Just what do you think you’re doin’, wearin’ clothes like that?”

You look down. You had forgotten that you cut it all up for the explosives. While it is the right explanation, it isn’t the easiest one. “I…erm…must have torn it.”

“I should say so! We need to get you something else to wear.”

You shake your head. “I don’t have any money. Or other clothes.”

Susan motions for you to follow her and she leads you to the back of Dutch’s tent. On a barrel, sits a box.

“This is the money box. Everyone pitches in money from jobs and such to take care of camp needs.”

“But this is for everyone.”

“You’ve come back from the dead and are in need of new clothes.” She opens the box without a qualm, takes out five dollars, and hands it to you. “I’d say that is a good reason.”

You hold the money in your hand. It isn’t the thirty dollars you left behind in Blackwater, but you figure you haven’t really been familiar with large sums. “Thank you, Miss Grimshaw.”

“I’ll have Strauss go to town with you. Since you’ve been back, he wants to talk about nothing but resuming business with you.”

You look up, your brows pinched. “Business?”

She nods. “Just get yourself ready and meet Strauss by the wagon. He will take you to Valentine.”

Your heart hitches. Valentine. Where it all started.

Tag Requests: @photo1030

Thank you for reading! Feedback is always appreciated.

[aruanimess]

Once again, I make my grand return.. somewhat? Anyway - hi, again! I've got more to ramble about silly concepts for the Reverse AU. (I have multiple random points, which are more or less just.. cool segments that I have painted into my head, but hard to describe properly.) ALSO THIS IS GOING TO BE LONGER THAN USUAL, SO I AM SO SORRY!

Firstly, I wanted to discuss how during S4 of AOT, we see the previous Titan Shifters watching the Warriors train, talking with them and participating in some battles. Which made me ponder on the possibility of the current Marley Shifters that we know, if they possibly had interactions, discussions, (or even went to war) - with the previous inheritors? I say this, because I really do like the thought of Armin talking to one of these Warriors - (Let's call her, Nadia), and she walks with Armin on certain days around the port, to observe the ocean peacefully, despite the horrific world they both live in. (Could also be another reason while he enjoys viewing the ocean and misses the sight of it once stuck behind those Walls. Plus, I also see Nadia being a big part of his life, taking the role of a Guardian, assuming if his Family had been sent to Paradis). So, once he inherits the Titan within Evangeline, he'll visit the ocean on small occasions, holding onto the hope that Evangeline is still somehow with him, guiding him.

Next, is to do with Armin & Reiner's friendship, because it'll get somewhat wild! If we lean into the concept of the Warriors in wars before they got the chance to list who'd inherit what Titan, then I do believe their trust and friendship would blossom from there, despite Reiner being a nuisance at times to Armin. Throughout the story, we can say that Reiner does really care about Armin, helping him throughout training on Paradis, protecting him from the dangers and so on. Some may not quite agree with me on this, but I stand with the idea that I can totally see Armin taking multiple thunder-spears to the face, protecting Reiner in S3. (It's the same way of how Eren couldn't bring himself to turn into a Titan and fight Annie, because they were friends, etc.) Armin cares so much about Reiner, no matter what side they may stand on now, he wants Reiner to stand down and join them, seeing the possibility of change and freedom, seeing with how much had now changed once they arrived here, seeing how much Reiner himself, had changed. Though, what I think might seal the deal that there is no more between them, is with Reiner letting go off Armin. (For a more visual look, I strongly recommend watching Transformers One - But, here's the scene which stuck to me personally and I see both of them in it >> Video >> 1:25 - 2:25)

Now, to finally end it off, with some AruAni! (Only if it is some small crumbs of it.) In S1-EP2 of the show, with how citizens are getting food handed to the people who had to evacuate. I can see Armin sitting up against a wall, all alone, curled up and shaking from what he had just done. He doesn't want to look at the people who's home he had stolen from to serve Marley. During this, he hears footsteps of people coming and going, the murmurs and yelling of others whilst he hugs himself tighter, before hearing quiet footsteps stop beside him. Then a small tap to his shoulder, to which he raises his head to see Annie, for the first time, holding two pieces of bread in her hands. He's unable to speak, admiring the person in front of him through watered eyes, as she crouches down with a blank expression, handing him a piece of bread to which he hesitantly takes it. No words are spoken, only action. As Annie stands up, making her way away from Armin, to which he is still very confused, yet appreciative of the small gesture of kindness of someone who he had most likely ruined the life of.

AND I AM DONE!

All of these rambles, exploring more dynamics, stories and diving deeper into the character's REALLY tempts me to pick up the document with most drafts and finally start writing. But, aha.. what is free time?

Anyway, thank you for sitting down and reading through these long piles of text that I spat out. That's all, for now! - Have a lovely day!

Hello, Rux!! And welcome back!

1. Okay, first of all, I LOVE THIS! Previous titan shifters, and Female Titans in particular, are in general one of my favorite topics ever since I watched s4. 

Now, for Armin specifically, I think it would be very interesting if his relationship with the previous shifter was part of the reason he was chosen. Much like Zeke and Tom Ksaver, maybe they had a bit of a surrogate mother/son dynamic. Only, unlike with Zeke and Ksaver, Armin had no idea he was being groomed for the FT, because it’s usually given to women, so after he gets the titan he has all these conflicting feelings like: “Did you really appreciate me as a person or was it all because I’d be the next in line?” 

Too dramatic? Maybe… but well I’m a drama gremlin so…

2. Haha, I haven’t watched this movie, but I agree that Armin and Reiner would be good friends in this AU. Starting from their years as the “underdog” titan shifters, I think they’d sort of get used to protecting and supporting each other, which is a hard habit to break even if your former bestie is currently your enemy. 

The Reiner/Bertolt/Armin dynamic would probably look like a very different version of RBA than the one in canon. Which really makes me wonder if Bert and Reiner’s feelings for each other could be realized more quickly now that Annie isn’t in the mix. Also, where would Armin be in all this? Would these three have a weird homoerotic codependent friendship?

I’m inclined to say… probably, and it wouldn’t be healthy at all.

3. Damn, this last bit was fire! I honestly have no notes. This is exactly what would have happened! 

Ugh, I love the idea of an Annie, who has known friendship and support in this universe, taking care of her community through direct action 🥹

You should do it!!! Write that thang!!! 

I know how a packed schedule can impact your writing time, but hey no one says write a novel or write it fast, if you actually open this document then you do it for yourself and your enjoyment. There’s no pressure in fun! 

It’s been an absolute joy as always! Have a wonderful [timezone], Rux!!

[citrus-moonlight]

Tara, I love this chapter so much!!! The way that you manage to create such a tangible desire between the two of them even though she doesn't even know what he looks like (and as far as she knows hasn't met him yet 😏) is incredible.

Reader being able to have a different type of release first when she blocks her mother's number was so satisfying. I love how she's finally able to let go of that part of her as she realizes that it isn't worth it anymore, that she is worth so much more than someone who didn't and doesn't want her, now that she knows what it's like to have someone who does.

"You smile at your phone. Your eyes are watery, your cheeks are warm, and your lips are lopsided and trembling. You can blame all of that on the wine, but the way your heart is battering against your ribcage? You've got it bad for some words on a screen, a hand, a pair of shoes, and a ghost."

I love how gone she already is, how everything is building so intensely and she doesn't even know what he looks like yet. And then when she finally lets herself go to the thought of him, and the realization that the relief barely lasts because now the floodgates are open and she only wants more?? LORD. The tension is so good, and I love how delicious it feels as he metes out little details in pictures and words and how they're all so precious to her as she tries to form a picture in her head to focus her desire on (and I am forever screaming at "I'm not going to describe my cock to you" 😂).

"Well then. I'll keep that in mind. I really liked the maroon silk one, personally. I bet it would feel nice on my skin." >I agree, it would feel very nice on your skin.

Good lord, that man is so smooth. And I am also enjoying that she picks out a maroon one (because now I am thinking about that silk robe, and how they would go so well together 😏).

You're done hesitating. Of course you are. But when you take that step, it's going to be on your terms. You know, instinctively, that you should never give up too much power to him. Both because it would be so easy to lose yourself in him—which you don't want to do now that you've finally found yourself—and because he would delight in never giving it back.

The duality that of him that you show is so good, how he swings from >I could have you however I wanted, couldn't I? to the vulnerability admitting that he wants her to touch his face, the "but I think I will if you do it." I love that contrast between the predatory part of him, the part that's truly so dangerous (and yet so intriguing), but then you continue to show how needy he is underneath that, something he's trying to hide under his own mask (he's so pathetic and touch starved, I need him).

And then of course the smut is always so incredible, the way he talks I am just 🥵🫠😵‍💫. The >Only me. Only I can see you like this and >That's right. I'm going to make you sob my name. He's so possessive and demanding I'm going to lose it.

>It's all I've been able to think about for months. It's going to feel so fucking good to finally get to fuck you and come with my cock buried inside of you. And I'm going to do it over and over again until I physically can't anymore. >Do you understand? I NEED you. Fuck!

Ok, knowing it's speech to text makes this is so fucking hot, imagining how desperate his voice must sound, and then THE FUCKING PICTURE?? EXCUSE ME???? And her almost tipping and that feeling of freefall adding to everything when she comes, oh my god that was such a perfect parallel to this whole experience with him, LIKE JESUS CHRIST TARA THIS IS SO GOOD.

Seriously, I am always beside myself when I come back to this chapter, your dialogue and all of the interactions are always so dynamic even when their just talking and exploring. I am so excited to see where things are going to develop and evolve once she finally meets him! (truly I am gnawing on the walls, your slow burns are always so amazing, it drives me crazy and I love every minute of it!) 💖

Seriously, I am always beside myself when I come back to this chapter, your dialogue and all of the interactions are always so dynamic even when they're just talking and exploring. I am so excited to see where things are going to develop and evolve once she finally meets him! Truly I am gnawing on the walls, the way you write and and slowly ratchet up the need and tension is always so mind meltingly good, that slow burn drives me crazy and I love every minute of it! 💖💖💖

The Devil Makes Us Sin

Fandom: Luther, Luther: The Fallen Sun

Pairing: David Robey/F!Reader

Chapter 4/? (12.8k words)

->start at chapter 1<-

<- Chapter 3

AO3 Link

Summary: Your life isn't perfect, and you don't enjoy moonlighting as a camgirl for so many repulsive men, but you need the money and it's yours. You're getting by just fine. You're content.

At least you thought you were. Then you get a strange text message. And you aren't sure if you're horrified or intrigued.

Warnings: Explicit rating, smut, stalking, spying, blackmail, manipulation, dubcon, dubious consent, Dom/sub, sadism, masochism, unprotected sex, oral sex, masturbation, mutual masturbation, choking, dirty talk, praise, humiliation, possessive love, yandere, minor description of gore, minor description of violence, murder, discussion of murder, shame involving sex work, light shaming of sex work, emotionally abusive mother, troubled mother/daughter relationship, sexual harassment, workplace sexual harassment, alcohol consumption, religious trauma

A/N: To all of my fellow readers with mother issues, this chapter is for us 💖 Because those troubled mother/daughter relationship and emotionally abusive mother tags hit real hard this chapter (I'm not projecting, you're projecting). But I eventually make it up to you, I promise. (As a reminder from my notes last chapter, David uses voice to text when they're chatting 😏) Also, I changed the formatting for texting conversations because eventually there will be texting while there is external dialogue, and I don't want it to be confusing. So his texts continue to be in italics and Reader's are in italics AND quotes.

Work title is from "Paradise Circus" by Massive Attack. Chapter title is from Tanaka Mhishi's poem in Literary Sexts II. Text divider 1 is from Francisco de Goya's Witches Flight. Text divider 2 is from Caravaggio's Sacrifice of Isaac.

Chapter 4 - I am fragile and unholy. Open. Ravage. Eat.

That night, after calming down from your conversation with David, you finally do the thing that you've been putting off for far too long. The thing that causes panic to swell in your chest and your mind to recoil whenever you start to examine it. 

You think about your mother.

So you pour a glass of wine, set your phone off to the side, flop down on your couch, and you begin to metaphorically unpack.

You've always prided yourself on being an intelligent woman. You know, logically, this will help you feel better in the long run. It will help you heal. Help you grow. And right now that's what you yearn for—to know and embrace yourself as you truly are, not who you pretended to be for so long that you almost believed it. Not your mask.

The mask that you built because of her, you think. One crafted out of fear and shame. Other people may have honed it, but she laid the foundation.

You also know she's the reason you have so many hang ups and difficulties forming connections with people. You know it's part of the reason you've been miserable for so long. You know this needs to be done. You know that.

It still…well, it hurts.

You learned at a young age to be fiercely independent because you couldn't count on her for support. Or encouragement. Or warmth. Her answer was always the same: "Pray or go to confession." As if all of your problems were your own fault or stemmed from a lack of faith.

And the message was clear—The only love you'll ever get is God's love. Maybe he can fix you.

You wanted it, though. God, did you want her to gather you in her arms and tell you, just once, that she was proud of you. That she truly loved you. You did everything you could to please and placate and impress her, hoping if you were good enough or hid well enough, you might finally get all of that. You got good grades, you were well-behaved, and you went to church, even when you stopped believing. You gave up your dream of being an artist for her, for christsake!

Sure, a part of that was because she tainted the piece of yourself you turned to for expression and escape. But since you're already unpacking every horrible bit of this, you can finally admit to yourself that you also gave it up for her.

For nothing.

Because it didn't work. Getting a business degree and an office job didn't make her proud, it only created a new direction in which you were lacking. You lost a part of yourself and got nothing in return. The thought of it makes you so angry that hot tears prick your eyes.

You get up to pour yourself another glass of wine.

You don't even know why your mother treated you the way she did. You think that if you could at least know why it might be easier to stomach. Then you wouldn't feel so confused and lost. Sure, it would hurt, but it would be something solid you could sit with.

Perhaps she saw that you weren't what she would call normal, and she hated it—wanted to spurn you into changing and hiding. It's ironic, then, that her disgust just fueled that darkness within you. Gave it the sustenance it needed to grow, devoid of warmth, in the corners of your heart and mind.

Maybe all of this would have turned out differently, if only she had loved you.

Or perhaps that's just who she is, and, even if you had been everything she wanted, it still wouldn't have made a difference. Still wouldn't have been good enough. You got it from somewhere, after all.

You'll never know either way.

What you do know is this: If you couldn't count on your own mother, then why would you ever think you could count on or trust anyone else?

Why wouldn't they brush you aside eventually as well? Why bother getting close to anyone—assuming they didn't bore you in the first place? Why wouldn't they see the real you and look just as disgusted as the one person that should have loved you unconditionally? 

And people continuously proved you right by walking away when you didn't thaw under their attention or they caught a glimpse of that darkness—until David. Until he looked and saw the real you, and it only made him want you more.

Well, you're thawing now.

No.

You're melting.

You wonder what your mother would think of you if she could see you at this very moment. On one hand, you've laid waste to the life you built for yourself for a man that stalked you. She'd have a few choice words for you there, such as disappointment and embarrassment. "What will people think?" But on the other hand, you finally have someone and he's rich, which would go a long way towards forgiveness. Because, even though she prides herself on her piety, pride is her greatest sin. She would tell everyone she knew, as if it were her achievement, while conveniently leaving out the rest of it. Like the fact that you're happy.

As you're pouring your third glass of wine, you debate calling her. It's not too late. She should still be awake. You can finally ask her why. Why nothing you've done has ever been good enough. Why she cared about God and what everyone else thought more than her own daughter. 

You can ask her why you can't remember the last time she hugged you or told you she loved you. Because a daughter should be able to recall that, shouldn't she? Oh, she said it plenty in front of other people. She gave you scraps with no meaning behind the words or warmth in her eyes. But in private, where no one else was watching her performance? You got nothing. You starved for affection. Maybe you can ask her why.

But you know that's the alcohol talking.

And it wouldn't do any good anyway. You won't get the answers you seek or the apology you need. You won't get promises to do better. You won't get a mom.

This was all for nothing.

Instead, you pick up your phone and block her number.

No contact. A clean cut. Never again.

You expect that to hurt, too, but for the first time since you started this, you feel lighter. Because you're finally done looking for hope where there isn't any to be found. You're also finally acknowledging that you deserved everything she never gave you. And that isn't a failing on your part—it never was. It's her failure. Another one of her sins. Now it's her loss.

Maybe you should have done that years ago, but you're doing it now. You're moving forward and letting go, and that's what's important.

While your phone is in your hand, you check your messages to confirm that David hasn't sent you anything. You aren't surprised. You hadn't expected him to. But that doesn't mean you didn't want him to.

You want it all the time now, you realize. It's only been a couple of hours since you ended the call, but you'd still love nothing more than to get back on and talk to him again until the early hours of the morning.

You may have been able to stop yourself from angrily calling your mother, but the combination of wine and your already weakening grasp on your self-control when it comes to him means you're typing before you even realize it.

"Thank you. For everything. I can never say it enough, David, because you've done more for me than any person in my life EVER has. I mean it. Truly. I'm so grateful."

"Also, for the record, I'm certain I could pick you out of a crowd now."

You're welcome. Always.

And I'll keep that in mind the next time I need coffee.

You smile at your phone. Your eyes are watery, your cheeks are warm, and your lips are lopsided and trembling. You can blame all of that on the wine, but the way your heart is battering against your ribcage?

You've got it bad for some words on a screen, a hand, a pair of shoes, and a ghost.

The next morning, you sleep in until a gloriously late hour. Just because you can. And because last night was emotionally exhausting—you're certain the wine didn't help either. Even when you're no longer tired, you lie in bed, wrapped in the warmth of your blankets, and bask in the knowledge that you never have to go back to that office ever again.

Or speak to your mother, you think with a contented sigh.

You feel untethered, but not adrift. No, you know exactly which direction you're headed, and now you have the freedom to do so.

Eventually you resume your search for a new bed on your phone as well because you start to think about how blissful this lounging would have been on a comfortable mattress. With silk sheets. And a new nightgown... Oh, now there's an interesting thought. You could get something new and sexy. Maybe something with lace. Or more silk. Or, even better, something sheer that barely covers your ass.

You also think about how much David would enjoy all of those things.

You start off looking at sleepwear that leans more sensible than sexy, but as you begin to wonder what he would think of each one, you quickly find yourself clicking on more and more revealing pieces.

It's when you're looking at a see through, drapey number that comes off with only a clasp between your breasts that your phone buzzes with a new text message.

You grin. You wondered how long it would be before he reached out to you. Now you're absolutely certain he's keeping tabs on you and saw how racy your searches were getting. Part of you was doing it on purpose—baiting him until he couldn't resist any longer. Even if it gave him away. You know better than to trust a coincidence.

Are you enjoying your first day of freedom?

"Immensely. I haven't even gotten out of bed yet." You're smug as you hit send because now you've added the thought of you in bed to his mental image of the lingerie.

Is that so? Sounds as though you're having a lovely morning.

Any other exciting plans for the day?

"Not unless you count a date with a book on my nightstand."

Depends on what kind of book.

"Well, there are two of them for me to choose from. One is a murder mystery. The other is a steamy romance novel." It's a lie. You have two art history books and an Amedeo Modigliani biography on your nightstand.

I see. Two very different types of thrilling.

"Exactly. On one hand, the murder mystery would stimulate my brain."

It takes a minute longer for you to get a response to that.

And what would the romance novel stimulate?

"My heart, David. What else?" You bite your lip in excitement as you continue to type.

"Now tell me which one you would like best."

If I had to choose between the two, I would prefer the murder mystery.

"Of course you would. But I meant which of the lingerie you would like best. Because I know you were watching me."

There's another pause.

All of them.

"All of them?! But there were so many!"

I'm certain. I liked all of them.

Especially since you'd be the one wearing them.

A pleasant heat unfurls in your chest and creeps up your neck at the thought of him sitting there, watching you browse, picturing you in every outfit…and maybe even saving a few of the links for later.

"Well then. I'll keep that in mind. I really liked the maroon silk one, personally. I bet it would feel nice on my skin."

I agree, it would feel very nice on your skin.

Fuck.

The mental image of his hand trailing up your thigh—pushing the hem of the nightgown higher and higher while the fabric and his palm slide over your quivering flesh—flashes vividly through your mind.

You had been enjoying a morning of relaxation and contentment just a few minutes ago. Even with a bit of light teasing about the lingerie, it had been peaceful. Now? Now that feeling has been reshaped and is nothing more than a memory. Now a slick heat has ignited in your core, and you're left nearly panting and writhing in your blankets from the intensity of it.

How quickly he can send you reeling.

God, you're definitely buying that one. Later. Right now, however, you finally have the chance to flirt with him—really flirt—and you're going to take it. Because you know where this is headed. You know where it could have resolved yesterday but didn't because you were at work.

And you're so glad you're not at work right now, stuck squirming and struggling at your desk as you try to ignore the swollen ache between your legs. Instead, you're squirming in the privacy of your bed, and you no longer have to ignore anything. Now you have no intention of stopping.

This is how you want to respond to him.

You're also really enjoying feigning innocence, and you're curious to see how much longer he'll play along. Because you have no illusions that he's buying a second of it.

"I don't think I'll be getting the black one with the sheer lace top, though. It didn't look very comfortable. I wouldn't be able to wear it for long."

Before he can reply, you quickly type out, "Wait. You're not busy, are you? I should have asked first before carrying on about my online shopping. That was rude of me."

I'm not anymore.

"Just get out of a meeting?"

I just canceled my last meeting because I've suddenly found something much better to do.

"Is helping me pick out pajamas really that thrilling?"

You can stop playing dumb now. You and I both know exactly what you're doing.

"What am I doing?" You straighten up and hold your breath in anticipation. You must be getting to him. You expected him to hold out just a little bit longer. Not that you're complaining. Not when you know you have his full attention.

You're trying to get me bothered as payback for yesterday.

"Is it working?"

You know it is.

"And just how bothered are you?"

Very.

You let out a shaky breath as you sink back into your pillows and begin to settle in. "Good. But that's not the only reason I'm doing this, David."

Is that so? What other reason do you have?

"Because I want to. Because I'm enjoying having the freedom to respond to you the way that I want."

Intriguing. And how are you doing that?

"I'm sure you'll find out soon enough." You shift your phone to your dominant hand to keep it steady. Then your other hand disappears beneath your covers and continues traveling down to the waistband of your panties.

Will I?

"You will. As long as you continue to please me." You nudge the fabric out of the way to give yourself the access you need and eagerly slip your hand inside. When your fingers finally brush over your arousal, you groan with relief.

There's nothing I want more than to please you.

"Is that so? How are you going to do that?" You repeat his words back to him as you rub a little harder along your damp folds. The added pressure makes your eyelids go heavy with lust. You spread your legs wider, seeking even more of that friction.

By giving you what you need.

God, you want that. From him. The thought of it makes you ache. Your fingers move to circle over your clit, dragging some of your wetness with them, and you moan into your empty bedroom. You shakily type out, "And what do I need?"

Me.

Shit. You had planned to go slow and tease yourself. You wanted to draw out the banter so you could savor your first time touching yourself to him. Because, despite the fact that he's turned you into a horny wreck several times already, you've held off until now. But as you read his text—that single word—it's as if your body has been doused in kerosene and lit on fire. Your hand speeds up.

"You seem awfully sure of that."

I'm very sure.

Are you going to tell me that I'm wrong? Or are you going to be honest?

You quickly debate finding a way to deny it. To get him to push harder because his arrogant confidence is stoking the flame in your belly and you want more. But every response you come up with sounds so flimsy. You know it won't work. He'll just call out the lie. He knows exactly how you're responding to him now, and he won't let it go, like a shark sensing blood in the water.

Well, if he wants to circle, then you'll give him prey instead—something he can't resist.

"Honest."

There's a good girl. Then be honest for me. Tell me what you need.

You cry out and your hips roll to meet the rhythm of your fingers. Your other hand is still gripping your cell phone, holding onto it for dear life so you don't drop it and miss a single word. "You."

That's right. And are you thinking about me right now?

"Yes." You are. You're thinking about his hands all over you, driving you wild and breathless and working needy little whimpers from your throat.

Very good. I hope you're thinking about all of the things I plan to do to you when I finally get my hands on you.

"Tell me. Please." More, you think. God, you need more.

And spoil the surprise? You'll have to use your imagination for now.

You grunt in frustration. "That's a little difficult when I don't know what you look like."

That is unfortunate, isn't it?

He's so god-damned smug! Jesus, it's infuriating!

There's a responding surge of wetness beneath your fingers, and the slick sound becomes obscene in your quiet bedroom.

"I've told you, it's unfair."

Nothing about this is supposed to be fair.

Your grip weakens and your phone nearly slips from your grasp, but you frantically right it. You're getting so close… "David, please!"

I promise when we move forward, you'll find out for yourself. But only when you're ready.

Unless you're done hesitating?

You know he's dangling that in front of you, tempting you with what you want so you'll say yes. You want to say yes. You want to call him right now and let him hear you say it as you moan and beg into the phone.

But that's giving him too much.

You're done hesitating. Of course you are. But when you take that step, it's going to be on your terms. You know, instinctively, that you should never give up too much power to him. Both because it would be so easy to lose yourself in him—which you don't want to do now that you've finally found yourself—and because he would delight in never giving it back.

"I suppose we'll see, won't we? I would hate to ruin the surprise."

Now who's being unfair?

"I'm only playing by your rules."

Clever.

My clever, beautiful girl. I can't wait to see you like this. I bet you look so good for me right now. Don't you?

"Yes!"

That's right. So fucking good and needy for me. God, I want you so much.

Your grip goes slack again, and this time you do drop your phone onto the bed. But you don't stop to pick it up. You're too far gone now, and you couldn't type even if you wanted to. Instead, you redouble your effort and greedily chase your orgasm, your hand moving in rapid strokes against your clit.

It's fast and messy and desperate. You haven't masturbated like this in years, but the tension has been building inside of you. It's grown under all of his teasing, his suggestive comments, his perceptive observations, and his unrevealing photos until you couldn't ignore it any longer. Now you need to release it at last—to immolate yourself in your desire.

For him.

"David," you moan. His name rolls off your tongue for the first time in ecstasy. It happens so naturally, as if you've said it that way a hundred times before. As if your mouth knows the way to give shape to your longing.

Hearing his name, when you're already poised on that edge, is your undoing.

You throw your head back into the pillow and arch off the bed with a cry as that tension finally snaps, sending a white hot fission through your veins in its place. Your toes curl and your newly freed hand bunches a fistful of your sheets, pulling them taut while your whole body shudders with every violent swell of pleasure.

As you come, all you can think about is him. "Fuck!" The movement of your fingers over your clit becomes jerky, but never slows. You're determined to make every second of this feel so fucking good. "David!" It rolls and rolls and rolls through you, weakening and yet seemingly without end as you work every last bit of rapture from your sensitive flesh—

Until, finally, you collapse against the bed with a whimper, and your hand flops weakly down onto the mattress next to you. You lay there, gasping for breath, your eyes closed, and your limbs and your brain and your belly humming in the heady afterglow of your release.

By all accounts, this should bring you a bone deep satisfaction. It should have quelled the fire that burns for him, even if only temporarily.

But as your mind clears, you feel quite the opposite. As if something has awakened inside of you, stirring from a deep slumber in that same way he roused your darkness.

And it's ravenous.

You grope along the bedspread for your phone.

When you pick it back up, your hands are still trembling from the intensity of your orgasm.

"I think I'm rather enjoying my new freedom."

So am I.

A groan is wrenched from your chest as you glance up at his previous messages and wonder just how much he was enjoying it. You have a pretty good guess.

"God, David. I miss you."

I miss you, too. But not for much longer.

"Would you like to chat now?" There's a renewed flutter of interest from your swollen sex as you think about doing this again, but for him.

There's nothing I want more. Unfortunately, I have some important personal matters to take care of this afternoon, but I promise the evening is yours. How does 6 o'clock sound?

There's a pang of disappointment in your chest. That's hours from now! But before you can pout, you remind yourself that you're an adult. You can control and entertain yourself until then, for christsake. Besides, he said the evening was yours. You'll have plenty of time to talk to him later.

You also really want to ask what sort of personal matters because you're curious about what they could be, and about him in general, but he would have elaborated if he wanted you to know. The word personal also denotes a certain level of privacy. So you leave it be. For now.

"That sounds lovely. I'm looking forward to it."

Me too. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy your date with the book on your nightstand.

"I've changed my mind there, actually. I have a lot more shopping to do instead." You give your phone a little grin.

Oh?

"Yes. It's been so productive and satisfying thus far. Who knows what other wonderful things might result from it?"

I see.

"I hope you enjoy your afternoon."

I'm certain I will. Enjoy your shopping.

You end up purchasing some of the lingerie that gets you particularly worked up whenever you think about him—especially the maroon one. Then you spend the rest of your day purging your wardrobe of your boring work clothes and whatever else reminds you too much of your old life. The result is a sparse apartment and an even barer closet, but you like it. It's a reflection of where you are in life and of all the room you have to grow and rebuild the way you want.

You may occasionally take breaks from downsizing to browse for new outfits and dresses, but it's to figure out what you like so you can eventually replace what you're getting rid of. It's definitely not to keep David intrigued throughout the day and looking forward to talking to you again. Not when he's so busy. That would be cruel.

You can't remember ever smiling this much.

You log on several minutes early. You don't care that it's probably a little pathetic. You don't even care if it lets him know exactly how eager you are for this. You've been checking the clock since five and you were getting impatient. You can only pace so many circles in your living room before you lose your mind. Not that sitting there and staring at your own face is any better, but at least it gets you closer to him.

To your relief, he logs on a few minutes early, too. Possibly because he knows you're already here, but you hope it’s because he was impatient as well. The electronic chime makes your heart swell in your chest.

"Hello, David."

Hello, darling.

The image of you on the screen practically swoons at his greeting. There's no other way to describe the gentle tilting of your head, your dreamy smile, or how your eyes soften with affection.

You barely recognize this woman.

You're not sure you've ever made that face before now. Or if you have, it was when the National Gallery rotated Cornelius van Haarlem's Two Followers of Cadmus devoured by a Dragon back into display after you hadn't seen it in a while. Never for another person. Certainly not for a black square not even three centimeters wide.

This man is dangerous.

Getting impatient, were you?

"I knew you were going to say something," you grumble as you fight off a sudden wave of embarrassment.

How could I not? You have no idea how lovely this feeling is. It's gratifying to have such a beautiful woman wanting to talk to you.

You lean in close and lower your voice. "In that case, I was very impatient."

Hmm. I'm so very pleased to hear it.

Did you have a productive afternoon?

"I did, actually. I accomplished quite a bit."

Good. And did you have fun shopping?

"You know I did." You give the camera a heated smile. While it wasn't as risque as the lingerie, the clothes you were looking at—low cut silky blouses, high slit skirts, backless tops, skin tight pants—were still sexy, just in a more subtle way.

Do I?

You roll your eyes and ignore the obvious bait—something that would have irritated a response from you just a few days ago. "How was your afternoon?"

Also productive, despite the circumstances.

"Circumstances?" You cock an eyebrow, no longer able to ignore it. He really does know how to push your buttons, after all, much to your chagrin. "Do you mean with your personal matters or do you mean spying on me?"

Both, but I wouldn't call it spying.

"Well, I would! So it serves you right." Despite your fake outrage, you're thrilled he was still paying attention, even when he was busy.

Do you want me to stop?

You pause to consider your answer. You think you should probably be unsettled that he's monitoring all of your activity. If any other man did that, you would be furious and horrified, but he's not any other man. He's also not holding it over you, making you feel bad, or controlling what you're doing. So far—your answer would change if he were. He's simply looking.

And you enjoy knowing that he's looking. In a strange way, it makes you feel connected to him, even when you aren't chatting, as if it's just another aspect of your relationship. It also makes you feel like you're the most important and interesting thing in his life—you'll admit that particular feeling has become quite addictive. You enjoy being able to take advantage of it as well, like you did this afternoon.

However, there may be times when you do want privacy for a specific reason. He certainly doesn't need to know every detail about your hygiene purchases or your embarrassing Google searches. Well, future embarrassing searches, anyway. It also makes it very difficult to surprise him if he can see what you're up to.

"No, I don't want you to stop." Your lips curl into a seductive smile. "I like it quite a bit, in fact. I just have one condition."

What's that?

"If I do ever ask for privacy, you give it to me. No questions asked and no looking."

Of course. Then you'll have it.

"I mean it," you say seriously. "I need to trust you'll respect my wishes."

You have my word that I will give you privacy whenever you request it. You only ever need to ask.

"Alright." You relax in your chair, mollified by his response. Because you believe him. "Thank you, David."

You're welcome.

Now tell me about your productivity.

"That's not a very exciting topic of conversation, I'm afraid. In fact, most of it was quite boring."

Tell me anyway.

"Well, I went through my flat and got rid of everything that felt like it belonged to the person I was pretending to be and not me."

I see. That doesn't sound boring. You shed another one of your layers.

I bet it felt good.

"It did! It felt freeing. I didn't realize before how much my place felt like a stage. As if the performance didn't stop, even when I was alone. And when I had a roommate? God, no wonder I was always so miserable."

It's also probably why you grew to resent every roommate you've ever had, no matter how much you didn't mind or tolerated them when they moved in. It didn't matter if they were quiet or cleaned up after themselves. Their presence meant the only place you could truly let your guard down was your bedroom. It was exhausting.

"But now the set dressings are gone. No more calf length pencil skirts or tacky lingerie. No more gifted kitchen gadgets and holiday candles. No more cheap art prints of pieces that I don't even like.” Then you grumble, “God, I swear I had like, half a dozen versions of Irises.”

No more mask.

"No more mask," you repeat out loud with a sigh of relief. Even saying it feels incredible. "Speaking of, you'll be pleased to hear I've also been doing some reflecting since we talked yesterday." You can't help the smug grin that creeps onto your face.

Oh?

"Yes. I've figured out where my reflex to apologize when I think I've upset or inconvenienced someone comes from."

Have you? Does that mean you're ready to talk about your mother?

You huff out a laugh and shake your head. Of course. You should have seen that coming. "You're frighteningly good at that."

It's a gift.

You can feel his smirk through your screen. "So it is. And I'm glad to know that I'm predictable."

I never used that word.

"It's true, though." You shrug, unbothered by your own statement. "It's a behavior that's usually learned in childhood. In this instance, I'm not particularly unique."

I disagree.

"I just meant that a lot of people have troubled relationships with their parents." A lot of them developed the same issues from it as well, you think to yourself. Granted, the cliche is that women in the sex work industry have daddy issues, not mommy issues. So perhaps you're not entirely predictable.

And yet, they're not you. They didn't become what you are.

"And just what am I?" That's another thing you haven't looked at too closely. You've been so consumed with the "who," you haven't really considered the "what."

You're something entirely different. Something more like me.

"That's not an answer."

I assure you, it is.

"It's not, David," you insist. "I still don't fully know what that means!"

If you're expecting me to pathologize you instead, I'm not going to.

"Why not?" You tilt your head curiously. You weren't actually expecting him to, but now you're intrigued as to why he won't.

Because that's not an answer to your question either. Those terms and labels are just more costumes that don't suit you. You're far more than that.

Before you can object that you disagree and that it might actually help you understand yourself better, he continues on. As if he anticipated what you were going to say.

It would also imply there's something wrong with you. But there's nothing wrong with you, despite what anyone may have told you in the past.

"You really do have me all figured out, don't you?" There's more affection in your voice than you intended.

I told you. I see you.

"You do. And I'm guessing you see my text message history, too." You raise an eyebrow at the camera in challenge, daring him to deny it.

You thought a lot about what else he would have access to after he blindsided you with the knowledge of your side bank account. Reading your texts would be absurdly easy in comparison, so of course he knows about your relationship with your mother. It's also how he knew that threatening to tell her your secret would be so effective.

That as well.

"I think that's the first thing I know you've seen that I feel embarrassed about."

Why?

"Because it means you've seen the worst of my mask," you say quietly.

I wouldn't say that. I saw a daughter desperate for her mother's affection and approval.

"Oh, god," you groan as you rub a hand over your face, completely mortified by his phrasing, but unable to find fault in it. "That's exactly what I mean!"

You're not the one who should be embarrassed by those messages.

"I'm the only one that is. Or will be. Trust me, she thinks everything she's ever said to me was righteous and justified, and you can't get blood from a stone." You flop your hand back onto the desk—a little harder than you meant to—and it makes your webcam shake.

You can already feel that mixture of hurt and anger rising in your throat and threatening to spill out. You quickly swallow it down and take a deep breath to regain control over your emotions. You're not going to have a breakdown on camera because of her. You're done letting her hurt you.

It's not righteous or justified, but I'm guessing you know that already.

"I do, but I appreciate the reassurance anyway." You give him a soft, grateful smile. Then your face falls as you glance back down to your keyboard. "What else did you see?"

Most of your text conversations with her are arguments. I suspect your phone conversations are similar.

"They are," you confirm without hesitation. "I don't think we know how to communicate any other way."

But you're not the instigator, are you?

"No," you sigh heavily. "I do everything I can to avoid an argument because I'm just so tired of it, but it usually doesn't matter. She can always find fault with my tone or something I've said. And of course there's also the fact that I don't go to church, don't have an important career, haven't gotten married, and don't have or want children. You can imagine her disappointment."

I shudder to think.

What an exhausting, horrible woman.

"That she is," you can't help but laugh. Despite the heavy topic of conversation, his irritation on your behalf is endearing. "I hate calling her or answering the phone. And God forbid I need something! You'll note that when I needed money to keep my flat, I became a camgirl before I even thought about asking her for help."

I had noticed you never considered doing anything else. Then I read your messages and it wasn't difficult to understand why.

You try not to feel mortified once again at the reminder that he's seen those. Instead, you tell yourself that he saw them and he kept looking. They didn't disgust him or scare him off—from you anyway. Even after reading them, he still wanted you.

You truly understand now what he's always meant when he says he sees you. It's a very assuring, lovely thought.

"It turned out to be a wonderful decision, at least." You give the camera a coy smile in an attempt to lighten the mood.

I would have to agree. A very wonderful decision.

"She wouldn't have helped me anyway, so I knew it was pointless. The few times she did, she lorded it over me constantly. As if I should be forever in her debt because she paid for my university textbooks years ago."

Is that another reason you were so afraid to take my money? Or why you were worried about feeling as though you owed me?

"Huh…" You lean back in your chair as you mull THAT one over. You hadn't quite connected those dots yet, but now that he's pointed it out, you have always been bad at accepting any help or gifts. Every single one felt like it came with an unspoken expectation or debt of some kind that would be called upon later. Now you know why.

You briefly wonder what other sort of connections you'll make in the future. Because you're starting to realize there are still plenty of them left to be uncovered.

"I think that was part of it, certainly, but you have to admit, the circumstances were also a very big factor as to why I didn't want your money."

Of course. You thought I was trying to buy you.

"I absolutely did! And in a way, you were," you tease. "It was just my attention you were paying for."

I made no attempt to hide that what I wanted was you, but it really was a gift. I knew the money would give you the freedom to think about everything I said, and once you did, you could no longer ignore your mask. Then maybe you would finally rid yourself of it. I wanted that for you.

And I wanted to see what would become of you when your strings were cut.

"Well, are you pleased with your handiwork?"

Quite pleased. I'm enjoying seeing the real you and how beautifully you've flourished in the light, now that you're no longer hiding.

"I have flourished, haven't I? I feel at home in my own skin for the first time in my life." You arch your shoulders, stretching lazily as if to savor the truth of your statement, before resting your forearms on the desk. You look quite pleased with yourself as well. "For so long I've been afraid to peel back all those layers and confront what's underneath, but now that I'm finally realizing who I am and what I want, I can't stop picking. I like what's underneath."

So do I.

You deserve to be proud. You've been working very hard to find your truth.

A warmth radiates through your chest at his praise.

"I have." Then you smile sadly. "Unfortunately, the truth hasn't always been painless."

No. It's never that.

"But every second has been worth it to have this." You glance up at the camera and let the double meaning hang in the air.

I'm glad. And I would have to agree. Wholeheartedly.

After a hesitation, you say, "One of those painful truths was realizing that my mother probably had a big hand in making me what I am."

Darling, NO.

The only thing she had a hand in was making you feel ashamed of yourself or like you had to hide what you are. She tried to destroy something exquisite and she failed. You are what you are despite her.

Do you know why? It's because you're better than her. You always have been and she knows it. Why do you think she treats you the way she does? That woman is a monster and she doesn't deserve any part of you.

Your eyes immediately fill with tears as you read the chat box. No one's ever told you that before. You may have come to the same conclusion last night, but you had no idea how much you needed to hear it from someone else, so to speak. Now hearing it from him?

"God, David. I've never…" you trail off, your voice choked with emotion. It takes you a second to get control over yourself enough to continue. "Thank you. And you're right." You sniffle and quickly try to blink away the tears. Then with more force, you say, "I've endured her for too long. Thankfully, I never have to again. I blocked her number last night and I'm cutting her out of my life."

You did?

"I did. Once I realized there was nothing good there to hold onto, even the idea of removing her from my life brought me more peace and happiness than having her in it ever did."

Good. I hope it does.

"So far, so good." You give him a teary smile.

I'm sure that couldn't have been easy.

"It wasn't. Or at least the process of coming to that conclusion wasn't, but it was all far more anticlimactic than I thought it would be."

Is that why you sent me that message?

"Oh, god." Your face begins to burn with embarrassment as you remember texting him while more than a little tipsy. "Yes," you finally answer sheepishly while you glance up at the ceiling. 

Why are you embarrassed by that?

"Because, if I'm being honest, I was two and a half glasses of wine in when I sent that."

Were you now?

"I was. I knew it was the only way I would be able to cope with that whole process."

And did it help?

"I think it did. I got through it, anyway. I'm just glad that I didn't call or text her. God, that would have been a trainwreck." You glance suggestively up at the camera and lower your voice. "I have far less self-control when it comes to you, apparently."

You have no idea how much I enjoy hearing that.

"But we should both be grateful that I didn't send you anything messier than I already did."

I don't know, sounds intriguing.

"See, you're thinking about me sending you something sexy, but I'm worried about sending you something frantic and emotional," you laugh. "Which would have been far more likely given the circumstances."

Hmm. I see your point.

"So anticlimactic really was for the best all around. And it's done now."

Good riddance.

"Do you want to know the worst part, though?" This time there's a bitterness to your smile, and it doesn't meet your eyes. "Through all of this, I never stopped wanting her to love me. I tried so hard. I never stopped trying, but she did. A long time ago. She'll never be the mom that I want, just like I was never the daughter she wanted. I know that now and I've finally made peace with that reality. Plus, realizing I would never understand or get any sort of closure was another big catalyst for me to finally pull that trigger the way I did." Your face finally softens. "But I never would have confronted any of that if not for you."

You would have gotten there on your own. Eventually.

“Possibly. I was getting exhausted from it. To the point that everytime my phone rang, I considered tossing it out the window rather than answer it.”

I could make her life miserable, you know.

If you asked it of me.

"Tempting." You let out a chuckle and wipe away the remnants of a tear drying on your cheek. "But I'd rather her not be in my life at all, even through you. I'm making a clean cut so she can no longer use me to build herself up, and for her that will be a worse punishment than anything you could think of."

I don't know. I have a very vivid imagination.

But I will leave it be unless you change your mind.

"I do appreciate the offer." You smile gratefully. "That's twice now you've given me the opportunity for vengeance."

It won't be the last, should you ever feel the need for it.

"Is it strange that I find the thought of you wanting to make someone miserable for hurting me sweet and endearing?"

No.

I would hurt anyone you asked me to, even if all they did was annoy you.

"You would?"

I would. Without hesitation. For you.

"Fuck," you gasp as you squirm in your seat, suddenly very turned on. "I really like the thought of that."

Do you?

"I do." 

How much?

"This much." You bite your lip as you bring your hands to your top. Then you begin to slowly unbutton your blouse. The heat that started between your thighs rises to your belly. This is finally happening.

There's a pause.

You're sure?

"Yes. I'm so sure you didn't even have to ask." Your fingers continue to methodically work each loop as you speak, driven on by determination. "I'm done hesitating. I want this, David. I wanted it last night before I got interrupted, and I wanted it this afternoon."

You’ve found closure for so much of your past—all the ties to your old life, your social media, your friends, your job, your mother—and you're done looking back. All you want now is to move forward. After all the emotional turmoil you went through to get to this point, all you want is to fall into him.

Once you’ve finished, your top spills open, revealing the cups of your bra and your bare stomach on the screen. The chat box sits, unmoving, and you realize he must be watching very carefully. So you slide the fabric down your arms, seductively arching your chest towards the camera to make a show of it, until it comes free. You toss it to the side without looking. Then you're left in nothing but your bra and skirt.

"I want you to see me. All of me. I want to show you what you're missing, hiding from me behind that screen. You could be here with your hands and your mouth on me, instead, you know. I want you to think about that, and I want you to touch yourself while you do." You look directly into the webcam with all of the desire, need, and heat that has been building up inside of you for the past week. "Because I plan to as well. Again."

You have no idea how much I’ve resisted doing all of that. It's taken every ounce of my self-control to resist you.

"Why can't we just give in then?" You beg for the camera. "Why can't we just skip this part? Come here now. Tonight. Touch me instead."

You aren't ready for that yet.

"I strongly disagree!" You scoff, almost offended at the implication that you don't know what you want.

Besides, I get to see you like this first, remember? I get to see you in a way no one else ever has. I've earned it.

"You have," you sigh in acceptance. You knew it was a long shot, but it was worth a try. "Don't worry, I'll give it to you. Not just because I'm too fucking horny to argue with you properly right now, but also because I said I would, and I'm still going to enjoy letting go for you. Just know that it's a poor substitute for you. Because what I really want is to hear your voice as you tell me how good it feels to fuck me. I want to hear the way you moan and gasp when you lose control of yourself inside of me. I want to know your face when you do. Because I want you, David."

It takes a moment for him to reply. You're aware you'll never get to know exactly how he responded to you. You'll never get to see the look on his face or hear the sounds he made as you said those things to him. But, you think with no small amount of smugness, you can take a very good guess.

Then you'll have me. Soon.

Until then, show me what I'll have.

Take off the rest of your clothes. I want to see you.

You stand up from your chair to do as he instructed. The angle of the camera means your face is no longer in view, and it reminds you so much of your streams that it's momentarily jarring. But once you unzip your skirt, you bend forward to push it down your hips, and the sight of your own face brings you back to the moment.

The one where you're stripping for your stalker slash blackmailer, and it's the sexiest, most romantic thing that's ever happened to you.

Your skirt hits the floor with a soft thump, and you step out of it as you nudge it to the side with your foot. If you remove one more thing, it will be the most he's ever seen of you. Now each step forward is not only new, but is one step closer to getting what you really want: Him.

The thought is thrilling.

So thrilling that you waste no time. You hook your thumbs into the thin elastic of your panties and slip them—slowly, inch by inch to continue teasing him—to your knees, baring your lower half to him.

You stand there for a few seconds, letting him take it all in. That's what he wanted, after all. To see all of you. For you to show him all of you. Every moment between you has been leading to this, and you won't deny him now.

When you sit back down, you slide your panties the rest of the way off. They get thoughtlessly added to the growing, scattered pile. Then you stay there on your repurposed dining room chair, bare skin on wood, and you wait.

As you do, you're very careful to keep your legs closed. It wouldn't do to rush this and give everything away all at once. Especially not when you currently hold all of the power. He may have earned this, but so have you. And you’re going to relish it for as long as you can.

Except there's still nothing new in the chat box. You tell yourself he's probably just settling in and enjoying the view, but the silence is unnerving. You have no way of knowing what he's thinking right now, if he's even enjoying it, and that makes you feel exposed. You’ve gotten so comfortable with the back and forth—of getting some feedback—that not getting it is a sobering reminder that you can't read his expressions or hear the tone of his voice. All he really is to you is text on a screen.

“David?” You call out hesitantly.

Another minute passes and you start to wonder if he's intentionally trying to make you squirm. He does enjoy it, after all. Or perhaps he recognizes how the balance of power has shifted, and he's trying to take some back for himself. It does seem like a very David thing to do.

Then, without warning, your mind offers up the possibility that he's disappointed. That you aren't what he was expecting and now he’s—

God, you’re beautiful. I knew you would be.

Relief courses through you, alleviating the weight that was settling in your chest.

Or maybe he was just taking his pants off, too.

I want to see the rest of you.

That's all the reassurance you need to banish that momentary doubt completely.

You reach behind yourself to undo the clasp of your bra. Rather than remove it, you hug the material loosely to your chest and give the camera a coy glance.

“You mean like this?” You tease as your fingers play with the straps.

Yes.

Take it off.

You slowly lower your arms, letting it fall away from your breasts. And just like that, you're naked on screen—something you never thought would happen. Something you swore would never happen. But there you are, running the tips of your fingers enticingly up the tops of your thighs and over your bare hips. For him.

Seeing you like this was worth every second of waiting. You're stunning. Just perfect.

“Thank you, David,” you say softly, touched by his compliments. It’s sweet, but if he keeps this up, you’ll be feeling more affectionate than horny.

You have no idea how much I want to be the one touching you right now.

That's better.

"Oh, but I think I know exactly what it's like to want you to be the one touching me. Do you have any idea how much I've fantasized about your hands on me since you sent me that picture? God, if I hadn't been at work, I would have made myself come so many times."

That's why I didn't want you distracted.

"I wasn't distracted this afternoon," you say in a husky voice.

No you weren't. 

Did it feel good to finally give in?

"Yes." You bite your lip as you remember the way that growing tension in your belly finally gave when you moaned his name. "It felt so good to respond to you."

Did you think about me touching you like you wanted?

"God, yes. In every way I could think of."

Where did you imagine me touching you? Show me where you like to be touched.

You run a finger from your jaw, down the column of your neck, and then trace along your collarbone. "If you kiss me here, I'll be weak in your arms. But if I feel your tongue here, you'll have me begging."

Then I'll have you weak and begging.

Is that all?

"I was getting there." You smile playfully. “So impatient.”

You continue to run your fingers down your sternum, letting your knuckles skim against the swell of your breasts. You stop and move to cup the soft flesh with your hands.

“I want your lips and your hands here,” you moan as you start to gently massage yourself. Your nipples harden under your palms as you rub over them, causing a pleasant shiver to snake its way through you. Then you arch into your own hands as you think about what it would be like to have his hands here instead. Whether his touch would be gentle like this, or harsh as he wrenches a shudder from the sensitive peaks.

I'm going to enjoy doing just that. Especially if you'll be this responsive for me.

“More so,” you vow, breathlessly, "because it would be you. Are you touching yourself now?"

Yes.

“Fuck,” you hiss. "Are you imagining that it's me instead?"

You know I am.

"Good because I want it to be me. I'm aching to put my hands on you, too.” Your hands lower from your breasts to brush across your stomach. “Where do you like to be touched, David?"

By you? There's nowhere I wouldn't want your hands.

Intriguing, but you know he can give you more than that. "Then where should I start?"

There’s a brief pause that almost feels like hesitation.

My face.

"Your face?” You blink in mild surprise. You weren't expecting that answer, but now you understand the hesitation. He was preparing to admit something vulnerable to you. “That's very intimate."

Is it? Maybe that's why I've never liked it before, but I think I will if you do it.

Despite how sexy all of this is, your heart flutters at the sweetness of that line. He wants intimacy with you, not just the sex. You're reminded of what he said to you yesterday: ‘I want you to be mine in every way it's possible to want someone.’

“I like the thought of that.” You lean in towards the camera, letting your eyelids go heavy as you lower your voice to something both seductive and tender. "Do you want me to cup your cheeks and stroke my fingers over you as we kiss?"

Yes.

"Then maybe I could…” You drop to a half whisper, “kiss along your jaw as well."

It's like you read my mind.

There's a pleased flush in your chest that creeps onto your face as the hint of a smile. "Do you have facial hair?"

No.

"Good to know." You imagine your lips moving over smooth, tanned skin. You wonder if it will be soft, or a little rough with age.

Do you prefer beards?

"I don't have a preference. What looks good depends on the person." You tilt your head curiously. “Have you ever tried growing a beard?”

Once. It didn't suit me.

“Then I'd prefer you without one.”

You're assembling these new, small pieces together with your existing mental image of him. It's like staring at a magic eye puzzle—if you look hard enough, you can almost swear you see the shape of him. But then you blink and it's gone.

You need more.

“Where would I touch you next?”

My chest.

"Is that so?"

Yes.

"Please tell me you don't shave your chest, too. Promise me you have chest hair."

I promise I have chest hair.

"Oh, thank god,” you sigh with relief. “Because you have hair on the backs of your hands and wrists and it's so fucking sexy. I can only imagine how sexy the rest of it is."

You like that, do you?

“Yes.”

Then I think you’ll be pleased.

"Christ, I like the sound of that.” You squirm a bit in your seat. “Where else do you like to be touched?"

My cock.

You nearly choke on a whimper. 

Up till now, this felt like an exploration—or as much as it could be with only you on the screen. You were expecting a buildup of teasing and touching and sharing before you both truly let go. Instead, he sent you reeling. Again. He must be getting impatient.

As you stare at that line, there's a painful ache of arousal between your legs. You unconsciously grind yourself down onto your chair to alleviate some of it. The seat is going to be a mess by the time you're done, you think.

"I plan to touch you there a lot."

Yes you will.

"Are you circumcised?" You can't help the curiosity that seeps into your voice.

I'm not going to describe my cock to you.

"David!" You pout at your screen. "I'm not asking for numbers, here. I just want to know what it would be like to stroke you."

And you'll find out eventually.

“That's not fair.” You are completely naked, after all.

I already told you it's not supposed to be fair.

“Yes, yes, you’re very mysterious,” you huff in disappointment.

Like I said, you’ll find out eventually.

“Soon, I hope.”

Soon.

Now I want you to go back to showing me where you want my hands.

“Do you?” You lean back in your chair. “You want more to think about while you're touching yourself?”

That's exactly what I want.

“Hmm, how can I ever say no to that?” Then you lean even further back so you can caress over the curve of your hips. “You can run your hands along here as you feel your way over my body. It will feel lovely, but I'll enjoy it even more if you grab me instead. Because I want to feel how much you need me.”

That's good because I want to grab you by the hips to hold you still as I slam my cock into you.

“Fuck, David!” You cry out. Your hands reflexively grip and squeeze your own hips at the mental image, your fingers digging almost painfully into the bone. Your sex clenches in anticipation, hoping you’ll get what he said would come next.

If he was there with you and not still on the other end of the call. God, you wish he was there.

After that, you also know the teasing and buildup has come to an end. You can't hold back any longer, and he's made it very clear that neither can he.

"Do you know where else I liked to be touched?" Before he can reply, you finally tilt your hips and spread your legs wide, exposing your sex for the camera. You settle your knees on either side of the seat of the chair with your calves tucked against the wooden legs.

You like to think, if he were there in person, he would have been opening his mouth to answer as the words died on his lips. Instead, you imagine his fingers frozen over his keyboard as he gets to see the part of you he's been waiting for. You're certain he's been going slow—stroking himself enough for it to feel good, but not so much that he loses control. Not until he gets what he wants. Not until he's gotten this.

You end the exploration of your body by reaching between your thighs. Then you cup your mound and begin teasing your fingers along your folds. God, you're already so wet. "Right here. Especially by a hand that knows what I need."

Show me what you need.

You plunge a finger into your entrance and moan at the intrusion. You can't remember the last time you did this. Usually you focus on just your clit with your fingers or your vibrator, eager for the release and not caring much about indulging in the process. You didn't have a reason for it other than getting off to relieve some tension.

Now, as you slide your finger out and draw it over that sensitive nub, you want it back inside of you. You want to be full as you think of him. So you press two inside of you instead.

"I want to know what you look like so badly," you gasp as your fingers begin to work your cunt.

Do you?

"I do. And I want to know what you feel like."

You will, that I promise you.

"God," you whine and slip a third finger into your opening. "This feels so good. I haven't fingered myself in a while."

Why not?

"I haven't wanted to. I just wanted a quick orgasm."

Then I continue to keep my promise, don't I? I made you want to.

"Yes! Christ, I want to," you gasp and rock your hips up to meet your hand. "I want to touch myself like this for you. I love knowing that you're watching me, David, and that you're getting off to it. But more than that, I love pretending that it's you."

If you're pretending that it's me, you need to go deeper because I intend to fuck you properly.

You slam your fingers into yourself as far as they will go, and your head falls back with a cry. “God, I want you to fuck me. Please!”

While I grab your pretty hips and make you take every bit of me?

“Fuck! Yes, exactly like that!” You whine. “I can't believe you're going to make us wait for this! Because you don't have to. You could have me now."

I could.

I could have you however I wanted, couldn't I?

You glance down at the camera, your eyes heavy with lust. "Would you like that?"

You're not answering the question.

"That's because I know better than to say yes," you pant. Your fingers are still working inside of you, stretching you in a way that is both satisfying and not nearly enough. It's driving you crazy.

What does that mean?

"We both know that if I bare my throat to you, you won't be able to resist ripping it out."

I would never hurt you unless you wanted it.

"I believe that you would never want to, but I see you, too. You couldn't help it.” Your hand slows, and you tilt your head as you consider your computer screen. “Could you?"

There's a moment of stillness from the chat box, and you briefly wonder if you've upset him, even though you know you're right. You know there's something about him that’s dangerous and predatory. He admitted as much himself. And it’s not like you feel the need to be overly careful or afraid of him. The thought doesn't bother you. You simply know that you can never tempt him by actually offering yourself up as helpless prey. Or he might just get a taste for it. 

Because you can love a predator as long as you never forget, for even a second, that it's still a predator—no matter how much it shows you its belly and loves you back.

You know all of that. Instinctively. Logically.

And yet.

You do so love being his favorite little prey.

"It doesn't scare me, David," you say quietly to break the silence.

No?

"No. Quite the opposite." You draw your fingers out of yourself to rub over your clit with a moan. "It intrigues me."

I know it does.

Why do you think I’ve done all of this? I knew, from the moment I saw you, that you could want what I am.

“And what are you, David?”

Darling, did you really think I would answer that question? Where's the fun in that?

“But I want to know.” Your fingers speed back up against your bundle of nerves. “I want to know everything about you.”

You will.

“And I want to know every secret you keep from the rest of the world.”

Don't worry, you’ll know me completely.

Eventually.

His words feel like a promise and a threat. You shiver with pleasure.

You shift down far enough in your chair to get a better angle. Then you bring your knees up and plant your feet wide against the edge of your desk. You know this has the added bonus of giving him an even better view of your opening. It also gives him a hint of what it might look like when you finally lay back and spread your legs for him.

"Can you see how wet I am?" You drag your fingers over your clit with a gasp. “Can you see how much I want you?”

Yes. I can see exactly how eager you are.

"Good. As you're stroking yourself, I want you to think about burying your cock right here.” You move your other hand between your thighs. Without hesitation, you plunge your fingers into your entrance again. Now you’re pleasuring your clit while also getting that enticing fullness you ache for, and it feels fucking incredible. The sight of both of your hands moving on your screen only adds to the indulgence.

As if I could think about anything else.

"I wish I was watching you right now instead of myself."

You want to watch me stroke my cock to you?

Your whole body shudders, and you bite your lip to stifle a whimper. "Yes! I want to watch the way your hand slides over your cock and how it throbs and twitches in your fist. I want to see what I do to you."

What you do to me…

You drive me insane. I've never needed to fuck someone like I need to fuck you.

"Jesus!" You wail as your hips jerk forward, and your knees start to shake. “David!”

That's right. I'm going to make you sob my name.

"If you keep talking like that, I'm not going to last long,” you pant.

Good. I want to see you let go for me.

“But I want you to enjoy this!”

You think I'm not enjoying this?

I finally got to see how responsive you are to my words and hear the sounds you make when you're like this. This is everything I wanted. Better, even. Now I can't imagine how much better it will be in person.

When you're full of my cock instead of your fingers.

“Fuck!” You’re driving those fingers in and out of your cunt with purpose now. You're no longer giving him a show. This is you feeling your orgasm closing in on you and scrambling for it, desperate and needy.

Fuck, that's good. Look at you. You're so god-damned beautiful as you fuck yourself for me.

"God, yes!" You gasp as you arch in your chair. "For you."

Only me. Only I can see you like this.

Say it.

"Only you, David."

That's my girl.

Now you're going to come for me.

“I'm so close,” you whine.

And I'm going to come as I imagine your tight little cunt.

“David,” you gasp, barely able to speak now through your ragged breathing. “Please.”

It's all I've been able to think about for months. It's going to feel so fucking good to finally get to fuck you and come with my cock buried inside of you. And I'm going to do it over and over again until I physically can't anymore.

Do you understand? I NEED you. Fuck!

“Yes,” you barely whisper. You're not even sure the microphone picked it up, but you have nothing more to give. The tension building inside of you is becoming nearly suffocating as you read every word. You feel you might drown in it before you ever find release.

As you continue seeking your own satisfaction, a photo pops up in the chat.

At the top of the photo, there’s the edge of a laptop keyboard, which is sat on top of a very ornate and expensive looking wooden desk. But that's not the point of the photo. No. That's not what strangles your breath in your throat or sets a flame in your chest that licks at your cheeks.

The polished surface of the desk is streaked and splattered with come. His come.

You imagine him standing in front of his computer, urgently stroking himself until he's shuddering out his orgasm and spending himself across the surface. All while his eyes never leave you on the screen.

You made him do that.

Your hand speeds up—the circles your fingers are rubbing over your clit are becoming almost brutal and painful, even as pleasure rakes up your belly and your whole body starts to tense. You're so close. So fucking close. You didn't know it was possible to balance on that edge for so long without falling in either direction.

You can't tear your eyes away from that ruined surface or get the thought of him fucking his own fist out of your head as you keep chasing oblivion and—

This is what you do to me.

Oh.

You bury your fingers into your cunt just as your walls clench down around them, and you come undone for the second time that day. To him.

You open your mouth to cry out, to wail his name as part of your release, but it gets choked to nothing more than a thought as your climax slams into you so hard that it knocks the wind out of you. You throw your head back from the force of it. As you try to ride each pulse of ecstasy out against your fingers, the muscles in your legs tense. Then you're involuntarily pushing against your desk with your feet.

The front two legs of the chair lift off the floor.

For a brief moment, your stomach lurches and you think you're going to topple backwards. Instead, you stay like that, hovering between stability and free fall, letting a wave of fear and adrenaline wash over you. Perhaps that should have ruined this, but the additional sensations only heighten and sharpen every breathless shudder until all of your nerve endings thrum. You’ve never felt so painfully, blissfully, alive.

Once you're fully spent, you carefully let the chair fall forward, returning to its proper position on all four legs. Then you bring one of your own legs down to plant a foot onto the carpet to ground yourself and stop that feeling of weightlessness still lingering within you.

God, you're stunning. The most exquisite thing I've ever seen. You were wonderful for me.

You sit there, bonelessly draped back in your seat, sweaty, your arms hanging at your sides, with your chest heaving as you struggle to catch your breath. And you try to smile for him anyway because, between his praise and your orgasm, you swear you’re glowing.

But you didn't scream my name.

You let out a breathless sound of protest. “Couldn't. I tried. Seeing what I do to you…it was too good, holy shit." You swallow hard and shift forward into a more comfortable position in the chair. "But I thought it, David. You were the only thing I knew while I came for you."

Mmmm, that's very good. But you're still going to do better next time. I’ll make sure of it.

"With you?" You ask hopefully.

With me.

FOR me.

Your face burns, and there's a weak twinge of arousal between your legs. Even though it's a mere shadow of what you’ve already experienced today, you’re amazed it's even possible after that.

…You still don't even know what he looks like, you think.

God, he's dangerous.

Won't you?

"Yes," you moan. "I promise I will scream your name until my voice gives out, as long as you're the one coaxing it out of me."

Yes you will.

You whimper. "When?"

Soon.

There are some things I need to take care of first. Then I will send for you.

Your heart begins to pound with nerves and anticipation. This is really happening. "How long?"

Only a few days.

A grunt of shock is ripped from your throat. "Days?!"

Now who's eager?

"I can't help it," you purr, softening at his teasing as you run your hand along your still trembling inner thigh. "I want to see you. And I want you inside of me."

You'll have that.

I'LL have that.

"How many days?" You're almost afraid to ask.

I'll have a car pick you up Monday evening.

There's a heavy drop of disappointment in your stomach. "That's three days…" 

Enough time to have all of my obligations done and taken care of. I want to be able to focus entirely on you once I have you. Like you deserve.

“But that's so long!” It's taking everything in you not to pout. You realize now you’ve been interpreting “soon” to mean you might finally get to see him, say, tomorrow. Or maybe even still tonight. It never occurred to you that it might be longer and that you’d have to wait for him.

I know, darling. I don't like it anymore than you do. And I would never make you wait if it wasn't important, but I have promises to keep.

“Alright,” you sigh. You find that you're, once again, reminding yourself that you're an adult. You can be patient.

And now that you're thinking about it, this gives you plenty of time to prepare as well. You don't have promises to keep, but you can certainly think of a few appointments you should make. When the time comes, you want everything to be perfect.

Besides, after that you’ll never have to wait again. Will you?

“No, David.” You lean forward as you stare into the camera. “Once I have you, I intend to never wait again. Because once I have you, you’re mine.”

That's my girl.

Later that night, when you go to sleep, you take your laptop with you and leave it open on your dresser, facing the bed. On your side table, you prop your phone up into its charging stand and make sure it's positioned just right as well. You want to give him two angles to enjoy this time. Then you sprawl out on top of your covers, still completely naked.

On your phone, you carefully type out, “I hope you didn't think the show was over. Because I still have more I can give you, and it would be such a shame to waste it. Enjoy, David. X”

As you hit send, you reach into the top drawer of your nightstand and pull out your vibrator. Then you settle back, and—with a desire that feels nearly insatiable now—you work several more orgasms from your clit while you gasp and moan and scream his name.

All while you know he's watching.

A/N: See? Who needs therapy when you have fanfiction?? 😌 (Christine please ignore the 🚩💕) I debated about whether or not to write a phone call with her mom, but I realized I don't actually want to give her a voice. Because this story isn't about her or even the reader's past. It's about healing from trauma, moving forward as the worst version of yourself, and falling in fucked up love with a stalker/serial killer. 😌

[extravagav]

AND WE JUST DONT TALK ABOUT THIS?!?!?!!????