#whether it be love that makes you pull the trigger or stops you

[lilianne-tarot]

Pick-A-Card: What Makes People Secretly Jealous of You✧˖°.

How to Pick Your Pile: Take a deep breath, clear your mind, and look at the images above. Which one pulls you in the most? Trust your gut! Once you choose the image, The number below your chosen image is your pile. If more than one catches your eye, that just means there’s extra tea for you, go ahead and read both!

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⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ˚ PILE I

cards pulled: 5 of swords, 4 of swords, page of wands, 6 of swords, knight of swords, 3 of swords

Okay PILE 1, UHM… instantly, you’re giving main character energy in a way that intimidates the sh*t out of people. Like you’re not even trying to be the center of attention, but somehow you always are? You enter a space and people are like, “Who do they think they are?” while also copying your stuff three days later. You walk with a silent type of confidence, very “don’t test me” energy. People sense you’ve had hard times, and even if they don’t know the details, they can feel it. You’ve got this inner toughness that’s kind of scary hot tbh. Your vibe is a whole psychological thriller. Like, folks don’t know whether to admire you, kiss you, or block you for their own emotional safety 😂

You probably learned the HARD way not to overshare. You likely had friendships that ended weirdly, conversations that drained you, people who twisted your words. And now? You’ve mastered the art of being unreadable but piercingly observant. This group is in their “🧠 > 🤡” era( I SAID WHAT I SAID😭) . You don’t argue. You just watch, process, distance yourself, and transform yourself in silence. THIS. This is the part that has people frothing. You’re unbothered. People can literally throw tantrums, shade, or even subtle digs at you, and you’ll be doing your own shit and minding your own mental health. You’re the kind of person who pulls back, protects their peace, and doesn't give people the satisfaction of a reaction. And bestie, THAT is maddening to people who need chaos to feel relevant. You choosing silence? You choosing yourself? You resting instead of people-pleasing? People cannot handle how you don’t chase or cling or overexplain. Your energy says, “If you cross me, I’ll just go leave, idc.” And that’s more threatening than any clapback. Them not feeling worthy enough is what piss them off

Ugh, I love this for you 😭 i sense this is youthful fire. Like, your curiosity, your passion, your spark, it’s infectious. Even when you’re figuring life out, you make it look like an adventure. People wish they had your sense of excitement, your ability to find beauty in the unknown, your passion projects, your spontaneous glow-up moments. You still believe in magic, and you chase it. People see that in you and lowkey get anxious sometimes which in turn leads to anxiety. You remind them of who they used to be or who they wish they were. You’re like their inner child’s inspiration and trigger at the same damn time 😭

 If you ask how this jealousy shows up? Okay bestie, here’s the deal, they LEAVEEE. that's it....Like, people who get too jealous of you will slowly drift, ghost, or distance themselves. And it’s not because you did anything. Nope. It’s literally because your energy is a mirror, you unintentionally expose what they’re running from in themselves. So when someone exits your life out of nowhere? It's not always shade. It’s often that your growth, your self-protection, your refusal to settle… it gets too loud for their comfort. And some of them might even act like you’re "too much" or “hard to connect with” but that’s just projection, babe. They’re mad you're moving on, moving forward, and not looking back.

AND THIS is your sign to stop holding back. You’ve got things to say. Projects to create. Movements to spark. Opinions to express. And the universe is screaming at you to stop playing nice just to make insecure people feel comfy. You’re meant to lead. You’ve got clarity that cuts through the fluff, and people NEED that. You’re not here to be palatable; you’re here to be powerful.

Okay  big hug 🤍 because this tells me your power didn’t come from sunshine and luck, alteast not always. It came from heartbreak, betrayal, disappointment. Like… people don’t get that your confidence is built on grief. You’ve transmuted pain into power. And while they’re busy watching your highlight reel, they have no idea you cried yourself into this version of you. That’s the hidden jealousy no one talks about, how you kept going when others would’ve collapsed. That’s the real intimidation.

 I’m getting an oddly specific message: some people from your past (school friends? old internet mutuals?) STILL stalk you online. Like, they swear they don’t care, but they’re obsessed with the way you keep evolving. I even saw someone in my mind writing a note like “they always bounce back.” LMAO not them studying you😭

Stay sharp, baby. You’re meant to trigger AND inspire 💅🔥

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⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ˚ PILE II

cards pulled: the world, 9 of pentacles, ace of pentacles, ace of wands, queen of wands, 3 of swords

OMG okay wait PILE 2??! Babe… you’re not even walking into rooms, you’re making whole room shift when you show up (okay maybe a little exaggeration but i feel that way so i said it) 💀 but honestly, to me, This pile is aura-too-bright-for-this-world energy. The cards here?? ICONIC. 

So right off the bat, with The World as your “vibe that catches attention instantly,” I audibly gasped. No, seriously ’m seeing someone who’s got that complete package aura. Like… when you walk into a space, people instantly sense that you’ve seen life, evolved, and you’re not here to play. You feel like someone who's been through seasons, leveled up through pain, and came out looking expensive, composed, and unbothered. There’s this whole “I’ve arrived” energy that surrounds you. It's not cocky it’s earned.

And paired with Nine of Pentacles + Ace of Pentacles + Ace of Wands + Queen of Wands, like… WHAT EVEN IS THIS POWER COMBO?? Bestie, you are literally the embodiment of “I’m secured, unshakable” I’m seeing you as someone who might have had to glow up alone. People ditched you during your struggle era.People are so jealous because you make independence look luxurious. And this isn’t fake rich aesthetic energy, it’s like… you actually worked for the stability you have now. Financial glow-up? Check. Confidence glow-up? Check. ENERGY glow-up? Baby, it’s off the charts. For people who havent yet received any of these, just wait lovelies, you are soon reaching that level! You come off as someone who doesn’t need anyone, but also, anyone would kill to be needed by you. your creative spark is lit as hell right now. You probably have 10 ideas swirling in your head at any moment. You’re the kind of person who creates something new out of nothing, and just have oodly specific magnetic quality. People can’t stop watching you like they’re not even sure why they’re drawn to you, but they are. You might post the most random thing on social media and get a hundred saves. It’s THAT type of energy. You intimidate people without trying. You could be in sweats and people are still clocking you like, “Who is THAT?” You walk in like a flame in a room full of plastic candles. I’m not gonna lie some folks deadass want your confidence, your glow, your ability to just own yourself. And they try to copy it, but it doesn’t hit the same because theirs is curated. Yours? Authentic AF.

BUT THEN… BOOM. We get hit with Three of Swords and oof. That changes the whole flavor of this pile. This is the secret ingredient in your power. People don’t realize that the reason you shine so hard now is because you had to crawl through heartbreak, betrayal, rejection, and emotional hell just to find your light again. Like, this is NOT surface-level sadness. This is “I had to rebuild my damn self when everyone left” energy. Your glow comes from grief you survived. Your confidence was carved out of loss. And people feel that even if they don’t consciously get it.

Let’s talk about how this jealousy shows up in behavior. Some people act fake supportive. You’ll notice them almost hyping you up, but it’s giving “I’m clapping, but I’m also watching to see when you fall.” Others might straight up ghost you the moment you succeed at something. Like, why is it crickets when you’re winning?? 😭 Some people are so triggered by your glow-up they pretend they don’t see it. You’ll post something huge and they’ll scroll past like they’re blind, but you know they saw it. Oh, they saw it. They’re LURKING. I’m picking up on past friends or even family members who remember you before you knew your worth, are mostly jealous. They don’t know how to deal with you now that you’ve stepped into your power. Also I’m feeling online strangers too. People who watch you, feel inferior, and try to tear you down in petty ways, shady energy, maybe even copying you to feel closer to your vibe. But it never lands right. Because your essence? It’s not copy-paste.

Babe… you’re not meant to be digestible to everyone. Your energy is big, your aura is blinding, and not everyone has the emotional range to celebrate that. Some people will see your light and clap. Others will squint and get mad that it hurts their eyes. That’s not your problem. The World card is reminding you: you’ve already completed one of the hardest chapters. You don’t need external validation. You ARE the moment. Keep planting those seeds (Ace of Pentacles), chase that inspiration (Ace of Wands), stay in your fiery power (Queen of Wands), and remember you’re glowing because you healed through hell. And that’s the real flex.

People aren't just jealous of what you have. they're haunted by the fact that nothing could break you.

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⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ˚ PILE III

Cards Pulled: ace of cups, 9 of wands, judgement, 10 of cups, the sun

OH BABY. PILE 3??? This one has me emotional chaos in the best way possible, like, I’m laughing, crying, cheering you on, and lowkey feeling jealous myself 😭✨ There’s just something so undeniably rare about your energy, and I’m gonna be real with you, people don’t just notice you… they get emotionally activated by you. 

So right off the bat we open with the Ace of Cups as your “vibe that catches attention instantly.” GIRL. The softness. The emotional depth. The actual divine femininity (this quality is not restricted to one gender, it’s about the energy here) . People sense that your heart is open, your energy is healing, and you’ve got this naturally receptive, magnetic glow that pulls people in like you’re the human version of a warm hug and a deep exhale. You give off big “safe space” energy but also romantic, ethereal, dreamy vibes. It’s like… being around you makes people want to open up, cry, confess their life story and then fall in love with you. You’re that person.

And that’s exactly why the Nine of Wands shows up next because people have no idea how hard you’ve worked to stay this soft. You’ve been through so much emotional wounding, maybe abandonment, betrayal, family drama, heartbreak but instead of turning bitter, you became even more radiant. Bestie, you are literally the definition of a wounded healer. Your boundaries are firm now, but you still love so hard. You protect your peace(AS YOU SHOULD), but you’ve also never lost that softness. THAT is your power. You didn’t get cold. You got clear.

Now here’s the fun part: people are jealous as hell of your emotional fulfillment and the fact that you are so deeply in tune with yourself and others. The Ten of Cups and The Sun together?. This is “I’m manifesting the life of my dreams and I will protect my joy with my whole damn soul” energy. Whether or not you have the full picture yet (some of you may still be building it), people look at you and feel like: “Ugh. They’ve got it all.” The dream relationships. The emotional clarity. That sense of “I know what I want, and I will not settle for less.” That triggers people who feel lost, disconnected, or stuck in superficiality.

THIS is the energy that freaks people out the most. Because it’s the card of awakening. You’re someone who constantly reinvents yourself, levels up, and literally triggers people’s consciousness. Like, someone will meet you and a week later be in an existential crisis just from how your energy reflected back all the places they’re asleep in their own life. You don’t even need to say much, your presence alone forces people to confront their emotional blind spots. It’s that deep.

Let’s talk about how this jealousy actually shows up in behavior, because oh honey, it’s sneaky. Some people will love-bomb you at first. They’ll worship you, obsess over you, and tell you that you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to them. But as soon as they realize they can’t match your depth or keep up with your light? Boom. They either ghost you, emotionally shut down, or try to project their pain onto you. Some may even subtly compete with you emotionally, like copying your vibe but making it weirdly performative. Others might act overly critical of your emotions like “you’re too sensitive” or “too idealistic” but deep down? They wish they could feel as deeply and freely as you. I’m picking up on exes, old crushes, emotionally unavailable people, and even spiritually bypassing fake-deep people. They once had access to your love, your softness, your radiance, and now they’re haunted by the fact that they fumbled you. Also, I feel like some parents or authority figures might’ve been emotionally intimidated by how “different” you were growing up. Maybe you felt misunderstood for being so dreamy or sensitive. But look at you now turning your heart into a damn superpower.

Do not water down your light or dim your joy to make others comfortable. The Sun says your happiness is holy. You’re meant to shine, radiate, and live in color, even if that makes other people squint. And Judgement is reminding you: keep rising. Every time you outgrow your old self, people will fall off, and that’s okay. They were never meant to go where you’re headed. Your emotional depth isn’t a weakness. it’s what makes you a fckin force of nature. Keep protecting your peace, pouring love into people who deserve it, and curating a life that feels like poetry. The right ones will meet you there. You’re not just powerful because of your light, you’re powerful because you chose your light after walking through hell. And people will always be a little salty about that.

So go ahead and keep shining, crybaby angel warrior 😭💛 You’ve earned every drop of your joy.

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Note: tarot cards provide guidance and possible insights into what could happen based on current energies, thoughts, and actions. the cards can highlight potential paths or outcomes, but they do not fixedly predict the future. this is a general reading so take what resonates!

[sttoru]

.⌇ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒. it’s late at night and you try to cuddle with sukuna. keyword; try.

wc. 1.2k

tags. true form!sukuna x female reader. fluff, angst (+comfort). heian era. size difference (readers referred to as small). sukuna’s a bit mean, but he also has a soft spot for you. miscommunication ? it gets solved. reader gets called ‘woman, doll’.

“what are you trying to do?” sukuna sighs. you’re up to something again, he figures. his red eyes follow your body as it crawls up to him on the bed.

you’re both tired after a long day of fulfilling some duties here and there around the estate. all you need is a big beefy man wrapping his arms around you to keep you warm and safe.

the perfect man for that is sukuna. those four arms of his wrapped around your small body feel like heaven.

“it’s called cuddling,” you retort. the sarcastic tone you used triggers a deep sigh from the sorcerer. sukuna holds back the urge to say something sarcastic as well.

he doesn’t utter a single word once you snuggle up to his chest. you’ve taught him how to cuddle during the first time you asked him to hold you. sukuna was awkward with showing any type of affection back then.

. . he still very much is.

“hug, please,” you remind him. the cold-hearted man scoffs, though listens to your polite request. all four of his arms imprison you against his chest, your small body nearly disappearing behind his limbs.

that’s what you like most about those cuddles you share together; how you fit so perfectly in his strong arms. it’s much more comforting than you thought it would be.

a pair of hands rests on your waist, the other pair on your hips. sukuna glances down at you and immediately notices that smile on your lips. even after all this time, he still cannot fathom why you’re so carefree around a monster like him.

and that inability to understand you and your love for him is accompanied by an urge to push you away.

“you got your hug, now get up,” sukuna interrupts the silence. his voice is cold and devoid of emotion—he uses that voice when he talks to other people. not with you, “i have better things to attend to.”

thus, it hurts. when he talks to you like that. like you’re not the person he secretly cherishes most. though, you remind yourself of sukuna’s own words. the ones you heard him say a while ago.

‘love is meaningless’, he said. you remember. and yet you kept hoping that he’d change his mind about that statement. you hoped and eventually saw exactly that: your presence and your affectionate gestures mellowed his heart of steel.

but all that effort seems to go down the drain every time sukuna pushes you away.

you know it’s because he’s unfamiliar with the feelings of love. he may not say it nor show it, but you know that sukuna’s afraid of hurting you. so, he creates a gap between you two every now and then.

you know and yet you’re patient.

“oh, ‘kay,” you nod in understanding. you pull away from his embrace and get up from the bed. your bottom lip trembles.

sukuna is not gullible. he’s anything but oblivious. especially if it’s about how you feel and act. he notices every single change in your mood; whether you mask it or not.

you walk to the sliding doors—ready to open them and step out into the hallway. your eyes are a bit watery, but you quickly blink the tears away and take a deep breath in. you reach for the door.

“come back here, woman.”

sukuna’s booming voice makes you stop. you glance at his form over your shoulder. he’s leaning against the headboard of the bed, arms crossed and eyebrows furrowed.

is he. . . upset?

“why? you said you had better things to attend to.” you answer with a shrug. you try your best to not make it seem like his earlier words had effected you. you turn your head towards the word with a huff, “go on, then.”

sukuna narrows his eyes. he sucks at communicating what he actually desires—what he actually wants. right now that want is for you to stay. even though that completely contradicts his previous words.

the sorcerer doesn’t know what to do. when you’re with him, he pushes you away out of guilt. when you’re away, he wants you back with him.

love is complicated.

“you. . .” sukuna grunts in frustration. all those feelings for you inside of his heart are playing with his rational thoughts. he doesn’t like seeing you upset. he wants the usual you back, “tsk. fine then.”

silence, followed by the creaking of the bed frame. seems like sukuna’s getting up to do whatever ‘business’ he needed to attend. at least, that’s what you thought.

you slide the door open and set a foot outside of the chambers. before the other could follow, you’re suddenly lifted up in the air by a strong pair of hands. your vision turns upside down as your body is effortlessly hoisted onto a shoulder.

“woah!” you gasp and feel the blood go to your head. your eyes are fixed on the back of your lover. you kick your legs in protest, but only get a smack to your ass in response. you whine at that, “put me down!”

“watch it, doll,” sukuna hisses at your fierce demand, a warning to fix your tone. he puts you back down on the soft mattress. he’s surprisingly gentle when he settles you in place—not throwing you on the bed or anything similar, “should’ve listened when i told you the first time.”

your eyes meet sukuna’s and you notice how much they’ve softened. that alone makes the lump in your throat disappear. your love for him isn’t one sided—you’ve always kept that in the back of your mind—yet your thoughts made you overlook the little things he does for you.

his actions speak louder than his words. that’s the kind of man he is.

sukuna’s trying to open up more, though that process is slow. you’re fine with that.

especially when there’s that faint pout on his lips as he stares at you. his eyebrows are still furrowed, his crimson eyes sharp yet warm.

“oh, you want me back in bed this bad?” you tease once you get the opportunity. the man in front of you clicks his tongue and grabs your cheeks with one hand, turning your head up to face him.

sukuna’s eyes are focused on yours. the eye contact is intimidating, but you’re hypnotised. you physically can’t look away. he leans in and bites your lip with his sharp canines, “shut up.”

that raspy whisper alone confirms your assumption. you giggle at his attempt of refuting your point. you’re used to all those intimidating words and actions he pulls to get you to stop your teasing.

those empty threats—it’s becoming rather cute with how hard he tries to deny everything. he fails nearly every time, however.

“come,” sukuna lays back against the pillows after placing a quick and sloppy kiss against your lips. he pulls your body against his and presses your head against his chest, right where his heart is beating, “continue with your.. ‘cuddling’ thing.”

he put your ear right above his heart, because he remembers listening to his heartbeat calms you down. you told him that a while back. sukuna doesn’t understand why you like it, but his fingers massage your scalp either way.

that’s also something that brings you comfort.

you’re surprised by how much he knows about you, but appreciate it anyway. he remembers both the big and small things about you. ‘that’s how he probably shows his love,’ you conclude silently.

[bridalribbon]

　𝜗𝜚　a woman with ocd tells you how to finally stop checking　.

(　✶　)　so, you want to unshackle yourself from the 3d. you want to be free as a bird, living it up in paris, or hogwarts, or wherever the hell you should be right now instead of scrolling endlessly through tumblr at 2am like some kind of digital ghost. guess what, that's completely possible to achieve. here's how i managed to do it, coming from somebody whose brain loves to sabotage itself with obsessive – compulsive disorder. to explain this properly, i have to pull back the curtain on ocd itself, and explain specifically how an ocd episode ( or spike ) works, and how to survive when your mind decides to stage a full – scale rebellion against your peace. or, at least, how i manage to do it.

first, there's a trigger — something feels off, wrong, like a note played slightly sharp in an otherwise perfect symphony. it could be physical, mental, or that sickening combination of both that makes your skin crawl. second, this trigger activates an obsession, a thought that digs its claws into your brain and refuses to let go, feeding on your attention like a parasite. you can't look away from the car crash, you can't pull your brain away from it. the obsession is all – consuming and devastating. third, the urge to perform a compulsion crashes over you like a wave — you have to do something, anything, to fix this wrongness that's eating you alive from the inside out. this action becomes an obsession in itself, performed repeatedly to soothe the original obsession. this is why people with contamination ocd often overwash their hands, to use a well – known example. as you can imagine, living like this isn't just exhausting — it's disabling in ways that people who've never experienced it can't fathom. your life becomes a series of rituals and checks, a prison built from your own desperate attempts to feel safe in your own skin. there are many kinds of ocd therapy, but one of the most effective is erp — exposure and response prevention. it's exactly as brutal as it sounds: deliberately exposing yourself to situations that trigger your obsessions while simultaneously forcing yourself to sit with the discomfort, to resist the magnetic pull of your compulsions however, it's effective. erp is oftentimes hailed as a saving grace for recovering from certain compulsions, and not without reason.

now, here's where it gets interesting for shifters. the way i see many people on this app approach shifting — constantly checking for symptoms, analyzing every sensation, refreshing their awareness of the 3d to see if anything's changed — you're triggering yourself into obsessing over whether you've shifted yet, then compulsively checking your current reality to either confirm or deny your progress. you're stuck in the same exhausting loop, just with different stakes. the solution? apply the same principle that helps people with ocd. stop checking. stop monitoring. stop treating every moment like a test you might be failing. when the urge to analyze whether you've shifted hits you, when that familiar anxiety starts crawling up your spine because you're still aware of this reality, sit with that discomfort instead of feeding it with more checking. let yourself sit with it for longer and longer. accept the feeling is there, acknowledge it, then move on. you are not the exception to the rule, nobody is, you just need to learn to stop checking constantly. practice this, get good at it, erp is a skill developed over time and doesn't come instantaneously — the same is true for not constantly affirming the 3d and your current reality.

assume you've already shifted and then leave it alone. don't interrogate the assumption. don't poke at it looking for proof. don't turn it over in your mind like you're an archaeologist with a particularly interesting piece of pottery. just let it exist, solid and unquestioned, while you go about actually living as the person you know you are. your desire follows you, not the other way around. the more you resist the compulsion to verify and re-verify your reality, the weaker its hold on you becomes. your brain will scream at you to check, to make sure, to gather just one more piece of evidence. this is normal. this is expected. this is exactly when you need to be most stubborn about not giving in. because every time you check, you're telling the universe — and yourself — that you don't actually believe you've shifted. you're reinforcing the very doubt that's keeping you stuck.

break the cycle. stop checking. trust the process enough to leave it the hell alone.

[moontabi]

YANDERE! SU BONG/THANOS ALPHABET

choi su bong/thanos x fem! reader

warnings: DARK themes including dubious consent, hard drug abuse, forced drugging, kidnapping (thanos keeps reader locked in his apartment), accidental physical assault, murder, talk of suicide and death, sexual content, angst, stockholm syndrome, mind breaking, misogyny, mention of baby trapping/breeding, some fluff if you’d call it that, etc. this can be triggering content proceed with caution. do not engage if you’re under the age of 18. takes place outside of the games

a/n: darkest thing i’ve written by far. took me a bit but i’m happy with its outcome. potentially could start an alphabet series (not just yandere) so if yall have any suggestions lmk!

Affection: How do they show their love and affection? How intense would it get? 

Affection with Su bong is sweaty and overwhelming. There’s nothing tender or soft about it—every action he takes is laced with urgency and possessives. His hands are always on you—he can’t resist touching you, not even for a second.

Su bong holds onto you tightly, as if you’re the only thing anchoring him to this world, whether his palms are gripping your ass, your waist, your throat, your hair, he’s always touching you in some way if he’s with you.

Even in public, he crowds your space, fingers splayed low on your hips, tugging you back into him whenever you try to step away. He talks close, voice a little slurred, teeth dragging against your ear when he calls you his.

Sometimes a warning more than a term of endearment.

“So goddamn beautiful, señorita.”

“You’re my girl. All fuckin’ mine.”

Su bong marks you up without shame. Hickeys bloom like bruises across your throat, your collarbones, your stomach, the insides of your thighs—trails of ownership, reminders for you and anyone else watching. If someone stares too long, he’ll tighten his grip, jaw tense, nails biting into your skin like he’s daring you to entertain the idea of anyone else.

And when he’s high, spun out, or paranoid, it only intensifies—his affection multiplying by a thousand percent. He kisses you too fiercely, too often, speaking rapidly, his breath heavy between slurred declarations and possessive whispers. He craves to feel your desire for him. He needs evidence that you’re still his. Because if he senses you pulling away—even just a fraction—he’ll become manic.

He’ll weep into your neck after making love, demanding you promise repeatedly that you won’t leave. And if you hesitate—if you flinch—he’ll interpret it as betrayal.

“Say it again. Say you’re mine.”

“If I lose you, I’m nothing in this bullshit world. Don’t you get that?”

His love is a suffocating grip. And he thinks that’s romantic.

Blood: How messy are they willing to get when it comes to their darling? 

Su bong isn’t a fighter by nature—but when it’s about you, he snaps fast. One wrong look, one hand where it shouldn’t be, and he’s already swinging. Wild and twitchy, eyes red, knuckles already raw, lip split open, high as hell in the middle of the night. He’d absolutely kill for you—then crash hard after, vomiting from the rush, crouched in an alley with shaking hands and your name slurred into the phone.

“Fuck…I think I killed him.”

“Bastard thought he could touch what’s mine.”

“Did it for you, baby.”

If you react in a negative way, he’ll blame or threaten you.

“Don’t play innocent now. You should’ve stopped him from puttin’ his hands on you.”

“This? this is your fault too.”

“You want that on your conscience? Huh?”

You’d pause—stomach twisting with guilt.

“That’s what I thought.”

“You’ll stay with me right doll? you have to stay…if you know what’s good for you.”

Cruelty: How would they treat their darling once abducted? Would they mock them? 

He mocks you, but it’s gentle—twisted affection coated in sugar. “Still tryna be tough?” he croons, crouched next to the bed, eyes wide, lips forming a lazy smile. He caresses your hair as if you’re something fragile, something that belongs to him.

“That’s cute, princess.”

It started the night he didn’t let you leave his apartment after a hook up.

Su bong gripped your jaw, fingers pressing just hard enough to sting. A sleeping pill sat on his tongue before he pushed it onto yours.

“Open up, my girl.”

“Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

And when you tried to turn your head away, he just laughed and forced it in anyway, hand clamped over your mouth until you swallowed.

Su bong kisses your tears while you sob and beg to leave. He calls it love, unwavering, as if your pain is part of the promise.

“You just don’t get it yet, my flower.”

“Gonna take care of you. Gonna fix everything. Just gotta stop fightin’ me, baby.”

You recoil from his touch, and he just stares at you, wounded—like you’re the one being cruel.

“You’ll understand soon.” he murmurs, brushing your cheek with ring-heavy fingers.

“You need this, you need me.”

Darling: Aside from abduction, would they do anything against their darling’s will? 

You don’t get a say—not really. Everything’s on his terms, his timing, his rules. You cry, you beg, you fight, but it doesn’t change a thing. Su bong only pulls you closer, murmuring in that slurred, syrupy voice while your body stiffens under his.

“I know flower, I know.” he breathes against your face, his grin sleazy, high, fucked-up.

“You don’t think you need this yet, but you will.”

He calls you his little addiction. His favorite high. Says nothing hits like you do—not the pills, not the coke, not the girl’s he used to waste time on. Says they were just noise. You’re the fix. The one that sinks into his bloodstream and stays.

Says being wanted like this should turn you on.

That it’s love—pure and raw.

“You keep me fucking alive, girl. I couldn’t quit you even if I tried.”

At first, you cried. Fought. Told him no. But it didn’t matter. He wore you down with kisses, drugs, and slow-spoken promises, feeding you just enough comfort to confuse your fear. Then he started getting you high, too.

Whispering love into your skin while your body melted into his, needy and too dazed to run.

Now you don’t know where the dread ends and the craving begins.

“Told you baby. You need me. You feel it now, don’t you?”

Exposed: How much of their heart do they bare to their darling? How vulnerable are they when it comes to their darling? 

At first, he’ll act like he doesn’t give a shit. Shrug off the look in your eyes with a muttered, “Don’t get all soft now, girl. I just like the way you bounce on my dick.”

But it’s a lie, and not even a convincing one. Especially when he starts getting more possessive—goes tense when you pull away, grabs at you after sex, refusing to let you leave the bed.

Once things are official between you two, it only deepens. His touches grow heavier, his stares longer. Something in him shifts, making him more dangerous now that you’re his.

Su bong doesn’t talk much when he’s sober. Not about real things. But when he’s high, when the drugs are still hot in his chest and the world finally shuts up, that’s when it spills—messy, slurred, honest.

“You don’t even know what you do to me, baby.”

“My girl. My fuckin’ girl.”

He says it like a spell, over and over.

His. His. His.

“I’d be straight up lost without you, pretty girl.”

So no, he doesn’t hide it. Not really. His actions say everything you need to know.

Fight: How would they feel if their darling fought back? 

At first, resistance doesn’t scare him—it thrills him.

You shove at his chest, spit curses through your teeth, and he just laughs—breathless, pupils blown, high as hell. “There she is,” he pants, catching your wrists and pinning you down.

“Knew you were a crazy bitch.”

He’s already grinding into you, hard and needy, his breath hot against your jaw.

“Keep yellin’ at me.”

“Shit just makes me wanna break you more.”

“Actin’ like you don’t love this. Like you don’t melt for me every time.”

But when you pull away one too many times, the switch flips. The high crashes down all at once and suddenly the adrenaline turns to ache.

His face twists, something raw flashing behind his eyes when you flinch. “What’s with that look, girl?” he mutters, quieter now.

His grip loosens, but he doesn’t let go. Just trails his hands down your arms, fingers shaky,

“Why are you crying, flower?”

Then softer, voice breaking right against your lips,

“I love you. I’m sorry.”

Game: Is this a game to them? How much would they enjoy watching their darling try to escape? 

To Su bong, it’s not a game, it’s a test.

A very fucked up one.

He wants you to try and run. Not because he’s letting you go, but because it gives him a reason to chase. A reason to drag you back and remind you who you belong to.

There’s a sick thrill in it for him watching you scramble, breathless and panicked, slamming your fists on the door he already locked.

He lets you hide and run just long enough to get your hopes up. Then he corners you, catches you like it’s all part of the dance. And when you cry, when you scream, when you claw at him with shaking hands, he just laughs, breathless—eyes glazed, almost high off of your fear.

“You’re cute when you’re desperate, doll.”

“But you’re not goin’ anywhere. Never were.”

The more you try and escape, the more it proves how badly he needs to keep you his.

Hell: What would be their darling’s worst experience with them? 

It happens on one of his worst nights—when the drugs have him half-gone, eyes glassy, mouth hanging open. He’s twitchy, pacing, rambling under his breath like the walls are closing in. You try to calm him, but he’s already spiraling, too far from sober to recognize your voice.

“You’re lookin’ at me weird,” he says suddenly, heavily slurring his words.

“What—you scared now, baby? That it?”

You shake your head, but it doesn’t matter. Su bong isn’t really seeing you in this state.

“You think I don’t know what you’re planning?” he growls, stepping in closer, grabbing your wrist hard—too hard. His fingers dig into your skin, and when you cry out, he jerks you forward.

“You gonna leave me? That what this is? Gonna run off while I’m too drugged up to notice?”

You try to pull away. That only pisses him off more.

Then—he shoves you. Not across the room. Not dramatic. But hard enough to send you stumbling into the table. Your hip hits the corner. The pain shoots up your side. Your breath catches. You look at him, stunned.

And he stops in place.

The rage drains from his face all at once, replaced with wide-eyed horror.

“…Shit.”

He’s on the ground before you can even back away, on his knees, hands ghosting over where you’re hurt.

“I didn’t mean it, flower. Please. Please don’t look at me like that. I didn’t—fuck, I didn’t mean to do that.”

“I’m sick, I know I’m sick. You’re the only one that makes me feel real.”

“I’m trying so hard to love you right,” he whispers. “I’m sorry Im such a monster.”

He keeps apologizing, crying now, calling you his girl, his flower, his everything, holding you so tight it hurts. He tells you he’s nothing without you. That he’ll die if you leave. That this is love, even if it’s messy.

And the worst part? He believes it.

And maybe, in your lowest moments, part of you does too.

Because hell isn’t just the pain he causes. It’s the part of you that still reaches for him.

Ideals: What kind of future do they have in mind for/with their darling? 

Su bong doesn’t just want to keep you—he wants to build a life with you. Twisted, drug-hazy, obsessive love, yeah, but real to him. A future where he doesn’t have to beg you anymore because you’ve finally stopped fighting it.

He talks about it when he’s high (which is always)—muttering about kids with your eyes, a world where you wear his last name and never even look at another man. Not like he’d let you now anyway.

He wants that picture perfect family with you so bad it rots him. And yeah, he knows deep down it’s a fantasy—kind of hard to raise kids through the haze of pills and powder.

But that doesn’t stop him. Doesn’t dull the way he clings to you, convinced you’re the only thing holding the dream together.

He says he’ll clean up. Says he’ll be better for you.

“Soon.”

His hand rests on your stomach like he’s already put something there.

“Gonna tie you to me for good. Dont you want my babies, flower?”

Baby-trapping isn’t a threat—it’s a plan. The fantasy he spirals into when he’s got you pinned beneath him, mumbling about love and forever. Breeding you is how he makes sure you stay. But honestly, he wouldn’t let you go either way—kid or no kid. If you’re his, you’re his completely.

He wants forever. Not just loyalty, but devotion. Not just control, but your heart. And if he has to get you addicted to him first, break you down and build you back up again—then so be it.

Jealousy: Do they get jealous? Do they lash out or find a way to cope? 

Jealousy for him is a blaze—intense, uncontrollable, and impossible to ignore. He doesn’t just get jealous; he wears it like a badge, showing it through many behaviours.

When he lashes out, it’s unfiltered—sometimes words, sometimes actions, always a warning that you’re his and no one else gets to have you.

When pushed, he won’t hesitate to do whatever it takes—crossing lines most wouldn’t even think to approach—to keep you tied to him. It’s not just rage; it’s a brutal, all-consuming need that drives him to destruction, pain, even death. In his mind, you’re his, and nothing else matters.

He’ll do anything to keep you close before someone else gets the chance. Even if that means beating a man bloody or bashing his skull open without a second thought.

Kisses: How do they act around or with their darling? 

We already know about Su bong’s clinginess—how he sticks to you like glue—but there’s a softer edge to it sometimes, too. When the drugs mellow him out or he’s had one of his rare moments of peace, he gets sweet. Almost boyish. Puppy like. Kisses all over your face, muttering half-coherent praises.

“Prettiest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever seen,” he’ll coo, mouth brushing your eyelids, your cheeks, your jaw. “Can’t believe you’re mine.”

They’re sloppy, lingering kisses—his hands never still, always pawing at your waist or winding into your hair. He wants to feel you fall apart, wants you pliant under his mouth, some kind of proof he’s doing something right.

It’s dark, too—his love more dependence than anything else—but in those moments, it’s almost unbearably gentle. And maybe, just maybe, you genuinely believe he can love you soft.

Even if the next minute he’s gripping your throat and whispering loving threats into your skin, he still ends it with a sweet, tender kiss.

He even gets your name tattooed on him—permanent proof that you’re his girl.

And his shitty rap music? Every verse is soaked with you—his inspiration, his addiction.

Love letters: How would they go about courting or approaching their darling? 

Su bong doesn’t court you—at least, not in any sane or traditional way. But he tries, in that cracked, chaotic way only he can.

When you first started hooking up, it wasn’t just a good fuck for him—not really. Even though he couldn’t say it to you at first. He was already obsessed.

Already writing for you. Lyrics scribbled on receipts, club bathroom stalls, even across his forearm in Sharpie when he’s too high to care.

Filthy bars and bleeding verses, some so raw they sting to read. Every line circles back to you. He didn’t hide it either—rapping them at you in that teasing tone, smirking as you roll your eyes.

He brought you things, too. Offerings. A silver chain, lipstick he swore was your color, one of his rings still warm from his finger or even an earring pulled right out from his ear while you were lying in his bed.

“Here,” he said, pressing it into your hand with vape smoke curling from his lips.

“Suits my girl.”

After he has you, though—really has you, locked away from the world—Su Bong’s idea of romance only gets more warped.

He still thinks he’s wooing you. Still thinks he’s earning your love.

He still raps for you—sometimes plays your old favourite songs, even plays them loud through blown-out speakers, watching your face for a reaction.

“See?”

“Every word I spit, it’s always been you, girl.”

He still brings you gifts too, band tees he’s worn to death, a scratched-up mixtape he burned himself, even pieces of your old life he swiped long before he took you away from it all. Your perfume. A dress he liked on your curves. Something you left behind. Things he calls treasures.

The greatest treasure to him though is his devotion to you. He presses your hand to his chest, forcing you to feel the frantic rhythm beneath.

“Feel that? That’s yours. Always was yours.”

To Su bong, courting means proving no one else could ever love you like he does. No one would bleed, starve, or burn for you the way he already has.

Mask: Are their true colors drastically different from the way they act around everyone else? 

Yes and no.

To everyone else, Su bong appears to be nothing more than a washed-up ex-rapper with a bad drug habit. He’s loud, brash, full of talk and tattoos—easy to underestimate, even easier to overlook. Just another washed up loser with too many rings and not enough hits.

But when the doors close and it’s just you two, he’s even more unstable. All the madness is channeled into you, into this distorted version of possession he believes is true love.

His true self is ready to tear through everything—himself included—just to keep you near. The world sees a mess, a punchline in silver chains.

But you see the man underneath and he doesn’t care who else sees it, so long as you’re his.

Naughty: How would they punish their darling? 

Punishment, to Su bong, isn’t just consequence, it’s intimacy. If you lie, disobey or try to leave him he takes it personal. He says he’s teaching you a lesson. Reminding you of your place.

Sometimes it’s emotional. The cold shoulder, days of silence, him pacing the room high out of his mind while you beg him to talk. He’ll ignore your tears until he breaks—until he’s dragging you into his lap, saying you made him act like this. That you need to stop scaring him.

“You think I like being like this?”

“You scared the fuck outta me. Had me thinking you were gonna run off with some weak motherfucker who doesn’t even know how to keep you.”

“Just be a good girl and stay put.”

But other times, it’s physical. A grip too tight, fingers around your throat, fucking you like he’s trying to erase the part of you that ever defied him. He’ll call it “reclaiming what’s his.” A reminder. He doesn’t stop when you’re begging him to, only slows down when he sees your fear.

Apologies slur like usual, kisses trembling against marked skin.

“You made me do it,”

“But I forgive you, flower. Don’t make me have to punish you again.”

Oppression: How many rights would they take away from their darling? 

Su bong doesn’t chain you to a wall, but he does keep you cut off. No phone. No internet. No way to reach the outside world. He says it’s for your safety, but it’s really about control.

“You don’t need all that shit,”

“You’ve got me. What more you want?”

He’s not strict about everything—he lets you move around the house, pick what you wear, even blast music if he’s in a good mood. But the second you act like you miss the world he took you from, He’s immediately pissed off.

“What, you miss the people who didn’t give a fuck about you?”

“I took you away ‘cause I care. ‘Cause no one else ever did.”

“I saved you.”

Patience: How patient are they with their darling? 

Su bong’s patience is a ticking bomb.

At first, he tells himself he can take it—grinning through that hazy, too-high smile,

“S’alright, baby. You’ll get it soon enough.”

But his patience is also paper thin.

The second you push too far—pull away, snap back or even look at him with anything but surrender—it starts to crack a little bit more. You’ll hear it in the sudden stillness, in the way his voice drops into something colder

“I’ve been so fuckin’ patient, flower. Why are you making me beg for what’s already mine?”

Quit: If their darling dies, leaves, or successfully escapes, would they ever be able to move on?

If you leave or die, the pain would consume him entirely. The weight of losing you would crush him, twisting his mind into dark, desperate places. He wouldn’t find relief in drugs alone—he’d spiral faster, drowning in his own torment until the only escape he sees is a final, irreversible one.

In his broken state, he’d likely throw himself off a bridge—an act born not from courage, but from the unbearable ache of losing the one thing that tethered him to life. It wouldn’t be about giving up; it would be about ending the pain that no drug or time could ever heal.

Regret: Would they ever feel guilty about abducting their darling? Would they ever let their darling go? 

Never. Su bong doesn’t feel guilt—he rewrites reality until he’s the hero. In his mind, he saved you. Isolating you wasn’t a crime, it was love.

“You don’t get it now, but you will one day and you’ll thank me.”

He counts on Stockholm syndrome—waits for the shift, that slow collapse from resistance to reliance. And it doesn’t take much. You give in so easy, let him crawl into your head and make a home there. He ruins you with such commitment it’s almost beautiful.

Stigma: What brought about this side of them (childhood, curiosity, etc)? 

You guessed Su bong’s got some kind of mommy issues, with the way he talks about wanting to make her proud—like he was only ever worth something when he was making her look good.

Maybe that’s why he thinks love has to be earned. Or taken.

It’s like you aren’t just someone he wants—you’re proof. Proof he’s not useless. That someone can need him enough to stay.

To him, that’s not wrong. That’s how he was taught love works after all.

Tears: How do they feel about seeing their darling scream, cry, and/or isolate themselves? 

Every moment you shut down feels like a failure to him, like he’s losing control. He’ll snap at first, call you dramatic, tell you to stop acting like a brat.

But almost every time, it ends the same—with him holding you close, voice low and eyes glassy.

“Didn’t mean to make you sad, baby.”

“You know I just want you to love me back right?”

Unique: Would they do anything different from the classic yandere? 

Su bong doesn’t fit the mold of a traditional yandere—he’s not quiet, calculating, or sweet on the surface. He’s messy, loud, chaotic. His obsession isn’t hidden beneath charm; it’s smeared all over him in the form of impulsive gestures, erratic behaviour, and drug-fueled declarations of love.

He’s the kind of yandere who overshares instead of hides, who gets your name inked into his skin instead of whispering it in secret.

He talks too much, brags too much, posts unhinged things online about how you’re his girl and always will be. If he’s jealous, you’ll know—because the other guy’s probably bleeding or dead in a ditch.

Vice: What weakness can their darling exploit in order to escape? 

Drugs are his weakness—but they’re also what make him scarier.

When he’s too high, too far gone, he slips. Forgets to lock a door, passes out with the key still in his pocket, leaves his phone unlocked. That’s when you think maybe, maybe you could get away.

But his highs are unpredictable. One second he’s all jokes and kisses, the next he’s got a fist around your wrists—or he’s breaking down in your arms.

He’s fragile like that. Breakable. But that fragility cuts both ways.

Because drugs are also when he’s most obsessive. Most raw. That’s when he clings to you hardest, begs, threatens, worships—all in one breath.

If you ever manage to escape, it’ll be when he’s strung out, unable to move. But surviving the consequences? That’s the real risk.

Wit’s end: Would they ever hurt their darling? 

He wouldn’t hurt you on purpose—at least, that’s what he tells himself. But when his world spins out of control and the anger takes over, his hands can do damage before his mind catches up.

Xoanon: How much would they revere or worship their darling? To what length would they go to win their darling over? 

He puts you above everything. His obsession swallows up any sense or mercy. He worships you in his own twisted way, rough and desperate to own every inch of you.

Especially in the bedroom when he’s buried inside of you.

“My girl always takes my fat cock so good,”

“Your pussy was made for it.”

“I’m never pulling out.”

or when he’s got his head between your legs, tongue working like he’s starving.

“Could live here, baby. My girl’s got the sweetest little cunt in the world.”

“Keep your eyes on me while I’m on your clit like this, princess. Wanna see you lose it for me.”

“Don’t lie—this pussy’s been begging for me. For my mouth. For your man.”

“This is mine. You hear me? Thanos’ fuckin’ pussy. No one else touches it but me. No one else makes it cry like I do.”

Yearn: How long do they pine after their darling before they snap? 

It was instant. The second you met, you were already in Su bong’s bed. It wasn’t long before you two started dating and he decided he didn’t want you leaving him alone ever again.

Zenith: Would they ever break their darling? 

Su bong doesn’t just want your love—he wants all of you. Your thoughts, your fears, your soul twisted around his name. Breaking you is the goal if that’s what it takes to keep you.

He’ll do it Slowly, tenderly, violently. Until you forget who you were before him. Until your world starts and ends with him.

And when you finally surrender—eyes dazed, voice barely there, calling him yours with what’s left of you—he’ll press a kiss to your forehead and say,

“I’ve been saying it from the start, flower. You and me? We were always meant to be.”

⋆.˚ ☾⭒.˚ tags: @mashtatosworld @loveesiren @szonyix6277 @seungttttop @xxtoptaexx @tabibabib @numeroun01 @heartubeatusalon @breakmeoff @gdinthehouseee contact me if you want to be added to or removed from my permanent taglist

[gyaruhana]

Hiiiii! If it isn’t to much of a bother could I maybe request Yandere Niragi headcanons?

-🧸

Suguru Niragi - Yandere!Niragi Headcannons

Synopsis: yandere niragi headcannons !!

A/N: may have made this a little dark but it's niragi there's no way to make him bright..

Warnings: NIRAGI, non-con elements (it's niragi what do you expect), yandere content, smut content

➠ First things first, I think it's pretty clear he'd be one of the more scary yanderes

➠ the moment he sees you, you're all his no matter what

➠ given his reputation at The Beach, no one stops to help you whenever Niragi clearly makes you uncomfortable

➠ they honestly just ignore and avoid you

➠ Niragi doesn't hide his obsession with you and his behaviours either

➠ He's super touchy with you and always planting kisses on your neck regardless of if you like it or not

➠ don't even try push him off because he'll get really annoyed and warn you not to fuck with him

➠ If someone is stupid enough to even breathe in your direction, he'll shoot them dead in front of you immediately

➠ If you have the audacity to talk to someone else, he will hit you and then shoot the person you talked to before blaming their death on you

➠ if you don't return his forward advances, he will just force himself on you

➠ whether he drugs your drink or just drags you away depends on how he feels and if your the type of person to put up a fight

➠ he will tie you down to the bed if necessary

➠ fighting back is not recommended because he gets violent fast

➠ Reaaaally into choking you

➠ his hand is on your throat the whole time he's fucking you

➠ he will carve his initials into your body to stake a permanent claim on you

➠ If you cry about it, he honestly gets turned on more because he loves your tears

➠ calls you every degrading name in the book as well

➠ his goal is really to fully break you so he can mold you into 'his perfect bitch' (as he puts it)

➠ After the first time he fucks you, he's always dragging you around and keeping you close to him

➠ there's really no chance of escaping given that everyone will snitch if they see you out of fear Niragi might hurt them otherwise

➠ Niragi stopped fucking other girls after you but that just means he's always on you since he has a high sex drive

➠ During games, he goes out of his way to keep you alive because he wants you with him forever

➠ If you're in a situation where you'll die and there's no chance of saving you, he'll fuck you and then kill you with his own hands

➠ he is absolutely into gunplay for the record

➠ finds it so hot to shove a gun in your mouth or even into your tight hole to watch you cry out

➠ of course, the gun is never loaded because he's not trying to accidentally shoot you

➠ he doesn't tell you that though because he likes the fear in your eyes when he threatens to pull the trigger and kill you if you disobey him

➠ big on hair pulling too

➠ he loves pulling your hair to pull your head back or dragging your around by your hair when you misbehave

➠ he keeps you inside his room most of the time because he really doesn't want anyone else to see you

➠ especially in the swimsuit/bikini you have to wear on The Beach

➠ when you have to go to play a game, he doesn't let ANYONE look at you

➠ the moment they do, a bullet is shot right between their eyes

➠ overall, very forceful yandere who hides nothing from you and proudly destroys you

"You fucking slut. Fighting me for what? You're clearly enjoying this," Niragi says as he fucks his cock into you roughly. He had his gun in your mouth so it's not like you could protest his words. All you could really do was cry and hope for the best. Niragi let out a cruel laugh at your tears as his free hand wrapped around your neck and squeezed it slightly. He loved seeing you like this with every fiber of his being. You were so pretty and, although you tried to fight him at first, you were finally submitting. He loved how your body went limp and you just gave into the way he was thrusting his cock in and out of you quickly with no proper rhythm. He was having too much fun destroying you. "Fuck, I'm gonna fill you with my seed, yeah? You'd like that, wouldn't you? To be fucked full of my seed and turned into my bitch? Yeah.. yeah, you would,"

[maladaptive-daydreamer-23]

Ode to Vixen

Part 1 • Part 2

A/N: If anyone needs me, I’ll be sitting in the corner doing penance and reflecting on the chaos I’m about to unleash.

Love,

Mal ❤️🖤🩶

P.S. THANK YOU @cringeiknow for betaing this!!

Warnings: 18+ beyond this point!! MDNI!!! I mean it! If I catch a minor in this bitch I’ll block you! Now that that’s been said: Canon typical violence, gun violence, age gap playfully mentioned but never specified, The dirty talk is thigh clenchingly DIRTY, again Hotch likes to watch, dirty jokes, slight strip tease, there’s a bit of a SWITCH vibe going on in this one I think, oh reader gets cuffed briefly (not by Hotch ya nasty), so much teasing, now for the good stuff; oral sex both fem and male receiving, 69, vaginal fingering, vaginal sex, cowgirl position, some hair pulling if you squint, after care, morning sex. IF I MISSED ANYTHING PLEASE LET ME KNOW!!

Pairing: Hotch x Bau!Reader

WC: 9.6k

AO3

Back to Mal’s Masterlist

When you’d given the signal—multiple times, just in case they missed it—you’d immediately gone to the locker room to get yourself out of the way of any over enthusiastic SWAT officers.

It was late, nearly closing time and other than a few night owl patrons, only employees were left in the building. You heard the flash bangs, the shouts of “FBI EVERYBODY ON THE GROUND!” You heard the screams of the girls and the gunfire that inevitably ensued.

That made your heart stall in your chest.

Your team was out there. Hotch was out there.

If you knew him half as well as you thought you did, you could almost guarantee that he’d been leading the raid. First one in, last one out. That was his style.

A leader through and through.

An incredibly sexy leader.

You knew the drill, the plan that the team had agreed on. You were to wait in the locker room until they came to get you. Given that you were unarmed and half naked, you couldn’t really complain.

Unfortunately, when the shooting started, all the other girls came running back to the locker room in search of safety as well.

Screaming their goddamn heads off.

So you could no longer hear the voices shouting in the main room of the club. Couldn’t make out the familiar ones from the strangers. Couldn’t hear him. Only screaming and gunfire. Pure chaos.

“QUIET!” You shouted, loud enough to get the attention of the crowd of trembling strippers. “They’re not after us, obviously, or they would’ve followed us back here. I saw a SWAT vest, the last bar I worked at got raided once. They’re trigger happy, the best thing we can do is sit along the wall with our hands on our heads. Make it clear we’re not a threat. Okay?”

The girls all stared at you wide eyed for a minute, then slowly nodded and began to do what you said.

“They’re probably gonna cuff us all until they figure out whether or not any of us are involved in… whatever it is they’re here about. Don’t fight and don’t panic. That’s a good way to get shot.” You continued. “Just cooperate and you’ll be fine, that’s what happened to me last time anyway.”

They nodded again and then silence fell over the locker room. The gunfire had died down, either they were all dead or the “bouncers” surrendered.

“The girls all ran this way.” You heard a familiar female voice out in the hall.

Doors started banging open one by one, until Emily and Derek finally came bursting in, followed by three members of SWAT. Guns raised, they scanned the room. Both their eyes showed a glimmer of relief as they passed over you, not daring to stop and show any more than a hint of recognition.

Emily was the first to holster her weapon and step further into the room.

“I’m SSA Emily Prentiss with the FBI.” She said, “You’re probably not in trouble, we just have a few questions and then you’ll most likely be free to go home. But you’ll probably need to find a new job, because this place is not going to reopen anytime soon.”

The girls all started to murmur amongst themselves, one named Star even leaned over to you and tried to whisper something. You shushed her gently and looked back toward Em and Derek.

“Ladies, please.” Derek quieted them, his weapon now holstered as well. “The first question we have is: who told you to sit like this if this ever happened? Was it your boss?”

As one, every woman in the room—except Em and yourself—pointed at you.

Derek raised a brow.

“Didn’t wanna get shot.” You muttered distastefully, shrugging as though being on this end of a raid was a normal occurrence for you.

“Take that one to the van for more questioning. Be gentle with her though, she’s not in trouble, yet.” He instructed one of the SWAT officers. A woman. Thankfully. “And tell Hotch where you put her.”

And suddenly you could breathe again.

He was alive.

The officer cuffed you—not a great feeling, especially in lingerie—then she led you out through the club.

“Sir!” She called out to someone across the room, you followed her line of sight and found Hotch, Reid, JJ and Rossi on the other side of the room in a huddle.

They all looked over and saw you, cuffed.

“What have you got?” Hotch asked, doing his best to avoid eye contact with you. To seem disinterested.

“Agent Morgan said to take her to the Van for further questioning. He said to tell you where I was taking her.” She explained.

Hotch nodded, then broke off from the group.

“I can take it from here, thank you. Go back and help Morgan and Prentiss.” He instructed her.

“Yes sir.” She simply walked away.

Hotch took your arm gently and led you outside.

As soon as you cleared the first line of SUVs—out of sight of the doors and windows—he stopped, looked around, and uncuffed you. Being as gentle as he possibly could.

“Are you alright?” He asked anxiously as you rubbed your wrists, even though you’d only had the cuffs on for less than five minutes.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” You murmured, glancing back toward the building where you had spent the majority of the last month and a half.

But then your back was against the closest SUV and Hotch’s mouth was welded to yours.

He devoured you.

His hands were framing both sides of your face and his knee had slid in between your thighs.

You’d been so surprised by the kiss that your mouth had opened of its own accord and he had taken advantage of that, his tongue delving in to taste you.

Then you got ahold of yourself and kissed him back. Fisting your hands around the straps of his Kevlar vest, and wrapping your leg around his. You pulled him closer until there wasn’t any space left between you.

His hands started to move then, one sliding farther back into your hair and tangling in it, the other going to your waist with a firm grip that made you whimper softly and sink your teeth into his bottom lip.

That pulled a groan from him, and he pulled away gently to look at you. He was smirking slightly as he pulled something out of the waistband of the lacy red panties you had on and held it up between two fingers in front of you.

“A hundred, impressive, someone must’ve really enjoyed your last performance tonight.” He teased, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “I know I did.”

You snatched the bill from his hand, face flushing—and not from embarrassment—as you leaned back further against the SUV and let him look at you.

“Yeah?” You purred, surprising yourself at the sensuality of your voice. “Take me home and I’ll do it again naked.”

He chuckled softly, then leaned in and kissed the tip of your nose.

“As soon as this is all squared away, I promise.” He murmured, and then kissed your lips again softly. “I think this case aged me six years. One for every week you were in there without a weapon.”

You took his face in your hands and turned his head side to side. Squinting at his temples.

“What are you doing?” He queried.

“Checking for greys.” You mumbled as though distracted, and not as if that was a well aimed joke.

He was a bit older than you, you weren’t sure how much.

He reached around and pinched you lightly on the ass, making you squeal giddily then cover your mouth. Looking up at him in wide eyed surprise.

“What!?” You asked defensively (but not really, you were grinning ear to ear) “Grey hair is sexy, can’t a girl like what she likes?”

He laughed, just a soft little huff, but it made butterflies stir in your stomach.

“Well, if you find any, just know that you caused them.” He joked, running his fingers through your hair and tucking it behind your ear.

You giggled, opening your mouth to respond but you were interrupted.

“Hotch!?” Derek’s voice rang out through the night air. “Where are you?”

You stepped away from Hotch, not quickly, like you’d been caught with your hand in the cookie jar. Just tactfully, slowly. You weren’t sure how he would feel about the team finding out about… whatever this was…

“We’re over here.” Hotch called back and then he reached around you and opened the SUV door, grabbing a suit jacket off the center console draping it over your shoulders. Then murmured, “You looked cold.”

You laughed softly as his eyes flicked down to your chest pointedly, your nipples were definitely hard and visible.

“Sure, we’ll go with that.” You joked, earning a smirk in return as you put your arms through the sleeves and pulled his jacket tighter around you.

Hotch couldn’t shake the overwhelming feeling of relief that had flooded his chest the moment he saw you after the raid was over.

He also couldn’t seem to keep his hands off you.

Your waist, arms, shoulders and back nearly constantly had a hand on them, connecting him to you in some way. He couldn’t help himself. It’d been two weeks since the last time he’d been close enough to touch you, he was taking every opportunity he got.

You were standing next to him in the van, still wearing his jacket and not much else, when you yawned. You tried to hide it, but in a room full of profilers…

“You look exhausted.” JJ murmured softly from across the small expanse, and he was inclined to agree. “One of us should take you home.”

You shook your head in protest, and he fought back a smile.

“No, I'm fine, really!” You insisted. “I’m not even *yawn* tired.”

He shot you a look over his wrist as he checked his watch.

“Yes, that was very convincing.” Hotch teased, smirking at you as you yawned yet again. “It’s nearly four in the morning. Come on, Vixen. I’ll take you home. In fact, we should all go home. Get some rest everyone, and I don’t expect to see you until noon tomorrow.”

A pathetic little cheer went up around the room and everyone began packing up.

To your credit, you tried to stay awake to keep him company on the near hour drive to your apartment, and he appreciated the nervous chatter, but you only lasted 20 minutes.

Soon, your soft snores filled the cab. He smiled each time your head lolled to the side and you jerked it back upright.

He used the time to work up the will to stay in the car, because he knew, if he went up to your place… he wouldn’t be leaving you there alone.

You were clearly exhausted and it would be selfish of him not to let you sleep. Even if he knew you would ask him to stay.

When he pulled into the small parking garage under your building, you startled awake, like your body recognized the motions of the car and knew instinctively that you were home.

“Mmm…” You groaned, stretching your arms and rolling your neck. “Home already? That was fast.”

He chuckled as he put the car in park and threw you a teasing grin. “You would think so, wouldn’t you? Considering you slept almost the whole way.”

Your cheeks turned so red he could see it in the dim light and God did you look beautiful.

“Sorry, I guess I was a little more tired than I thought.” You murmured. “I haven’t had a goodnight’s sleep in six weeks. So I guess I should’ve been expecting that.”

“Well, as glad as I am that you got a forty minute nap, you should go upstairs and get some real rest.” He tried to keep the reluctance out of his voice. “Actually, why don’t you take the day off today? We made a great bust and the case is making great progress toward the outcome we’re hoping for, but you can’t go back to the club with us until we’re sure no one will recognize you and know that you were the UC. Which is all we’ll be doing today anyway. So just rest. There’ll be plenty for you to do tomorrow.”

You gave him a look that he couldn’t quite read and then nodded your head.

“Okay, I’ll take the day off…” You agreed… too easily… “If you do.”

There it was.

“I can’t, Sweetheart. If the team goes in I have to go in.” He shook his head.

“Then give them all the day too. It’s hardly fair if I get to sleep all day and they don’t.” You pointed out.

“You were the undercover agent, doing physically and mentally demanding work while undercover, and you just told me you barely slept the whole time.” He disagreed. “It’s perfectly fair and technically it’s required by the bureau.”

“I also know that you all took turns sitting outside the UC nest in your cars so I was never actually completely alone.” You revealed and he frowned. The others weren’t supposed to tell you that, and they better not have told you- “and Spencer said that you took way more than your fair share of turns. Including the night before last which means you haven’t slept in nearly forty eight hours.”

Spencer…

Hotch sighed.

“Fine, I will give everyone the day off. Look, I’m texting them right now.” He conceded, pulling out his phone and going to the group chat.

Don’t come in today, get some rest. -A.H.

He showed you the text as he sent it.

“Happy?” He asked.

You grinned in response.

“Perfect, now my bed is calling.” You said as you opened the car door and slid down to the ground, closing the door behind you.

When he didn’t follow suit, you walked around to his side and crossed your arms with a frown.

He rolled down his window.

“You’re not coming up?” You asked, trying to seem nonchalant, but your entire body was giving you away. He hated to disappoint you.

He took a deep breath and sighed. “I really shouldn’t sweetheart. You need to rest.”

You shrugged.

“Okay.” You said.

That was easy.

Too easy.

You shrugged your way out of his suit jacket and handed it through the window.

“Thanks for letting me borrow it. See ya tomorrow!” You chirped and started to strut away.

In bright red lingerie, that once again, barely covered anything.

“What’re you doing?” He called after you, two parts panicked and one part amused. He knew exactly what you were doing.

“Going to bed, like you told me too.” You answered over your shoulder.

You were an indecent exposure charge waiting to happen, and he knew that you knew it.

“Sweetheart…” He warned, but you didn’t stop. Just kept on heading toward the elevator. Stilettos, half bare ass and all.

He sighed, got out of the car and followed you.

Jogging to catch up as you held the elevator door with a smug little grin, he went over and over his new plan.

He wouldn’t go past the threshold. No matter what tricks you pulled. You had to get some sleep, it wasn’t healthy to be this exhausted.

“Put this back on, would ya?” He said as he made it inside the elevator, draping the jacket back around you without waiting for a response. “You’re gonna catch a charge, or a cold.”

“It’s summer, and it’s a good thing I know a decent attorney.” You gave him a sly look as you let the doors close and hit the button to your floor.

Did you mean him? He scoffed and rolled his eyes.

“I don’t practice and seeing as I witnessed the crime, I wouldn’t be able to do a very good job of defending you without perjuring myself.” He pointed out, holding back a smile at the thought of trying to defend that in court.

“Who said I was talking about you?” You asked sassily, and then grinned. “Besides, Hotch, it’s not even five o’clock yet. The only person in this building who’s ever up at ungodly hours like this, is me. So I think I’m safe from that exposure charge.”

“Aaron, and did you consider the fact that you’re on camera?” He countered.

You opened your mouth to respond, took a breath and then closed it again. Scrunching your face up in thought for a moment.

“Shit.” You muttered under your breath, and he could not help but laugh. Then you shrugged. “Well, the security guard on duty is probably having the night of his life right now and wishing the jacket would fall back off so he can get his rocks—Wait, what did you say?”

He smiled softly at you.

“Aaron, when we’re not working, you can call me Aaron.” He explained. “It’s nice to hear it sometimes from someone other than Dave. Especially if that someone is you.”

He knew his plan was fucked the second he said the last part. He could see it in your eyes, in your stance, in the way your breath pattern had quickened. He could feel it, in his own pulse, and sweaty palms. The way his chest felt a little too tight. He could swear the temperature in the elevator rose ten degrees from one floor to the next, and his heart was pounding out of control.

He felt himself being drawn into your gravity, moving closer to you without consciously deciding to do it. If he kissed you… he wasn’t leaving here tonight. This morning actually, but semantics.

“Okay, Aaron.” You said it so sweetly, yet so enticingly all at once, and he was so close to his breaking point.

Then the elevator chimed and the door slid open. A cool draft washing over you both and snapping him out of it.

He cleared his throat.

“After you.” He murmured and he could hear the desire in his own voice so clearly that there was no way you had missed it.

The smirk on your perfect lips told him you’d indeed caught it, and were going to exploit it.

He followed you a short way down the hall, until you stopped in front of a door with a keypad on the front.

“This one’s mine.” You said as you punched in the code and pushed the door open.

The familiar smell of home hit you hard as you stepped over the threshold into your studio apartment.

You hadn’t been here in six weeks and you’d missed the place. Your bed was waiting for you on the back wall, and was so tempting.

But not nearly as tempting as the man hesitating in the hall behind you.

You turned and looked back at him with a very coy smile.

“You gonna lurk in the doorway, or are you gonna come inside?” You teased.

“I really shouldn’t.” He murmured, looking all broody and conflicted. Hot.

“I could make you some coffee for the drive home.” You offered, not caring at all for coffee because you knew he wasn’t going home.

“We both know that if I go in there, I’m not leaving.” He reasoned, sticking firmly to his guns. “You need to rest, I can get coffee down the street.”

“Oh I intend to… eventually.” You purred, beckoning him towards you with one finger. “Sure you don’t want just one cup?”

“And there’s really a whole conversation we should have, before… anything happens.” He continued to act like he was actually going to leave, even though you both knew he wasn’t. “I’m a firm believer in informed consent, sweetheart, and I already crossed that line once.”

You nodded with your face pinched dramatically like it was the most serious thing in the world.

“You mean the conversation where you tell me: ‘There has to be balance in this relationship for it to work, because I’m your boss and you’re my subordinate and even if I didn’t intend to, I could take advantage of you. I would never do it on purpose but just in case there would need to be provisions in place…’ blah blah blah… I completely understand and agree.” You mimicked his expressions and his speaking cadence and then you couldn’t help yourself, you cracked a smile. “I’m not naïve, Aaron… consider me informed and consenting.”

He was holding back a smile of his own and you knew you’d won, he just needed a little push.

“You really should be in bed, baby.” He tried one last time.

You chuckled softly. He just kept setting you up so perfectly.

“If you insist.” You purred.

Slowly, you let his suit jacket slip off your shoulders and fall to the floor.

“Sweetheart…” His voice held just a slight note of warning, possibly pleading?

You weren’t sure because you weren’t looking at him. You’d turned around and started toward your bed.

Shedding your lingerie as you went.

You’d gotten very good at taking off your clothes on the go.

“Don’t mind me Aaron, just getting a little more comfortable for bed.” You cooed.

First, went the babydoll top, up over your head and thrown somewhere in the vicinity of the couch.

You took a few more steps and down came your panties. Making sure to give him a good eyeful of ass and pussy as you bent down to step out of them and toss them to the side.

“There, that’s better.” You sighed contentedly, and continued towards your bed. “Ya know, these shoes are pretty hard to unbuckle on my own… I might need a little help.”

“Fuck it.” You heard the door click shut, the lock engage and then there were warm hands on your bare waist, turning you to face him.

You smiled victoriously.

“The shoes stay on.” He murmured, and then he tossed you onto the bed with no more effort than if he were throwing a pillow.

You propped yourself up on your elbows and watched as he rolled up his sleeves, his eyes roving over you like he was starved and you were a feast he couldn’t wait to dig into.

But, God, was he taking his sweet time.

He stood over you and studied you, like he was memorizing every little detail of your body—or deciding where to start.

Your ankles were apparently the winner of the internal debate.

He knelt on the floor in front of you and took them both in his hands, placing a kiss on the inside of each one.

Then he laid kisses on your calves, and the insides of your knees, he trailed kisses up your thighs until you could feel his breath on your pussy.

You tensed in anticipation of his mouth finally finding its mark, but it landed on your hip bone instead. And then the other.

A frustrated whine worked its way up your throat and he chuckled at the sound.

“I know patience isn’t your strong suit, sweetheart, but I’ve been thinking about this for so long… I’m going to take my time with you.” He murmured against the soft skin just below your belly button.

He dropped a kiss there and then skimmed his lips up the plain of your stomach, his warm breath sending goosebumps scattering in its wake. His hands had traveled to your ribs and he stroked them with the tips of his fingers, dragging them down as though he were plucking the strings of a guitar.

Which was ironic, because he’d barely started and yet he was playing your body like a finely tuned instrument.

He kissed, nipped, and sucked his way over the curves of your breasts, drawing small gasps and moans from you as he went.

His hands wrapped around your upper arms and caressed the length of them as he drew them together at your wrists above your head. Clasping them in one hand and running his fingers through your hair with the other. Then down over your shoulder, gliding over your collarbone with his thumb, skimming the top of your breast with the backs of his fingers.

“Stunning.” He murmured, drinking you in before bringing his lips to your neck.

Leaving you completely breathless as he licked and sucked at your most sensitive spots. How he was finding them so effortlessly, you didn’t know, and frankly did not care. Until he sank his teeth—ever so gently—into your throat, his tongue laving at the place where your pulse thrummed.

You didn’t have time to wonder if he could feel it.

Pounding, thundering, racing out of control.

Because now, he was tracing up your jaw with the tip of his nose, leaving soft kisses in its path. He kissed the curve where your jaw met your neck and then tugged lightly on the lobe of your ear with his teeth.

“Aaron, please, I can’t take it anymore, it’s been two weeks of waiting for this. Give me something.” You pleaded on a shaky breath.

You felt him smile against your cheek.

“I think we both know it’s been a lot longer than two weeks…” His soft voice flowing over you like lava. “Hasn’t it, sweetheart?”

His hand, which had been resting just beneath your breast, skimmed the bottom swell of it with his thumb before trailing—so slowly you thought you’d die before he got there—down your abdomen.

You couldn’t fucking breathe, so you weren’t sure how he expected you to speak, but he didn’t seem to mind. He just continued to drive your heart rate through the roof with his voice and the trajectory of his wandering hand.

“Hmm? How many months has it been since you even thought about another man? Three? Four? Five? I won’t flatter myself and say six… not even when I’m just as guilty…” He purred, that hand steadily roaming south. “Not when I’ve been thinking of you for seven at the very least. I can’t even pinpoint when it started. Or maybe I can? Maybe it was the first time I saw you in red? A pretty silk blouse that hugged your curves so perfectly. You were radiant. I haven’t been able to get it out of my head since. Thinking about all the ways I could take it off of you was torture.”

He started to follow his hand with his mouth, slowly.

“What was it for you, baby? What caught your attention?” He asked, kissing his way down the opposite side of your neck, and letting his tongue explore the hills and valleys of your collarbones around the base of your throat. “What do you think about when you’re alone? Is it my hands? The way they would feel on your skin?”

The hand in question had finally made it to the rise of your hip bone, where it started to turn so that his fingers were leading the way.

You were practically shaking in anticipation, every erogenous zone on your person was throbbing, begging, for contact as he had deftly avoided them.

“Is it my voice? The way I might speak to you? You definitely seem to like that…” He continued, and he was right.

His voice was driving you crazy, the low, smooth rumble that you heard in your sleep every night for the last two weeks.

“I’ll tell you mine…” He whispered, his hand inching so slowly toward your clit. “It’s the little details that haunt me the most. The way the sunlight catches your hair and the way it moves in the breeze. The way your hips sway as you walk, the way you furrow your brow when you’re confused, the way you bite your lip when you’re thinking about something. God, how I’ve longed to bite that lip myself.”

He paused, his hand hovering just a fraction of an inch away from where you desperately wanted him, and pulled back to look you in the eyes.

“I know there’s something you think about, there has to be… do you know why?” He asked, and this time he waited for you to answer him. So you shook your head no, because you didn’t know why. “Because I heard the way you said my name when you came on my thigh. Like you’d said it just like that a thousand times. So tell me, pretty girl. Do you cry out my name when you touch yourself at night?”

Holy fucking hell, he was going to kill you with his silver tongue.

You couldn’t come up with a coherent response, your brain had once again abandoned you. As it seemed to do whenever this man was so close to you.

“I’m waiting on an answer, sweetheart, yes or no, do you say my name as you make yourself come?” He repeated himself. “Tell me the truth and I’ll give you what you need.”

“Yes.” You whispered, unsure that you’d be able to say more if you tried.

“Yes what, baby?” He teased, tapping his finger once against the skin just above your clit, making you squirm. Annoying you just enough that you suddenly regained control of your tongue.

“Yes, I say your name when I come! I’ll fucking scream it you want me to, just touch me!” You begged and he smiled.

“Now there’s an idea…” he said smugly.

You opened your mouth to respond, just as his fingers finally met your clit. The response fled your mind and a moan came out instead.

He smirked down at you like the smug bastard you were starting to realize he was. (Though somehow it suited him and only made him hotter???)

“Oh I’m sorry, Honey, were you gonna say something?” He snickered as his finger finally started rubbing your clit in perfect little circles at the exact pace you would have done yourself. “I can stop if that will help you get the words out?”

“No! Please- Don’t- Don’t stop!” You gasped as he added a little more pressure.

“Okay…” He murmured through a sly grin. “As long as you’re sure? Definitely wouldn’t want you to think I did that on purpose…”

He started to move then, lowering himself so his face was over your chest instead of your head.

“I’m fucking sure!” You whined as he sucked your nipple into his mouth, drawing on it hard. “God, just- I- please don’t stop!”

He huffed a soft laugh and as he moved to the other nipple he muttered, “Didn’t plan on it.”

He took his time, leisurely going back and forth between your nipples. Licking and sucking as he continued to work your clit with precision, until he had you writhing and whimpering beneath him all over again.

You were aching to touch him, to feel the firmness of his chest and the strength of his arms. You wanted to know what it would be like to bury your hands in his hair, and maybe pull a little.

Alas, he still held your wrists firmly in his grip.

“Aaron, can- um- can you let go of my hands?” You asked quietly, awkwardly, and then tacked on, “Please?”

He paused and sat up, releasing you immediately.

“Was I hurting you, sweetheart?” He asked, concern written all over his face.

“What? No!” You sat up as well, reaching for him but stopping yourself just shy of grabbing his shirt. “No, that’s not- I just- I just wanted my hands free so I could touch you.”

“Oh.” The concern melted away and you could tell he was holding back a smile.

He reached out and cupped the side of your face, and the way he was looking at you…

“Kiss me.”

You almost didn’t even realize you’d said it— it was a breath, a whisper, barely audible—until he gathered you up in his arms and his warm lips landed on yours.

It was frantic and desperate, a little sloppy, and so passionate it would have knocked you over had he not been holding you up.

The fabric of his shirt was soft against your bare skin, but it was an unwanted barrier between you. You started fumbling with the buttons, the top two already undone from when he had ditched his tie hours ago.

It turned out that it was slightly harder to undo buttons you couldn’t see with shaky fingers. Especially when you were so anxious to get to what was beneath them.

“Help me- mmm- get this off.” You demanded, barely breaking away from his lips as you kept fumbling with the buttons near the top.

He—much more calmly than you—began working on the ones at the bottom meeting you in the middle. When your hands bumped into each other, you decided he was taking much too long. Batting him away from the last button, you hurried to undo it, then forced the sleeves down his arms and tugged at it frustratedly when they got stuck at his elbows.

Aaron laughed, shaking his head, and helped you get the shirt off completely.

“No patience…” He murmured in quiet amusement.

You didn’t see what was so funny, but you couldn’t find a single reason to care now that you had skin to explore.

You let your hands—and lips—roam, his chest, his arms, his back and stomach. You counted every rib and kissed every scar, until you had him memorized.

He let you, sitting on his knees in the center of the bed, he patiently watched as you made yourself familiar with his body.

Until you kissed your way up his chest and neck, all the back to his lips and then settled yourself on his lap. Wrapping your legs around his waist and your arms around his neck, you threaded your fingers into his hair and kissed him like he was the center of your universe.

And in that moment, he wasn’t just the center, he was the force that held it together.

You had almost forgotten the endgame you had been so desperate for, so caught up in learning him that your urgency had faded into the background.

His urgency, however, was waging a war with the zipper of his pants, and was making itself known to you by way of pressing up against your very bare, very sensitive pussy. You rolled your hips against it once, and the sound that he made was so carnal you couldn’t wait to hear it again.

So you repeated the motion, and sure enough the sound made an encore.

“Fuck, sweetheart, if you keep that up…” He groaned against your lips.

“I have a better idea.” You murmured back, then kissed and nipped your way down his throat, then his chest, climbing off of his lap and continuing your way down his stomach.

Your hands slid down the same path until they found their intended target; his belt buckle.

This time there was no fumbling, and the only shaky fingers were his as he tilted your chin up. Looking down at you with a mixture of excitement, trepidation, and adoration.

“You don’t have to-”

“I actually think it's vital to my sanity.” You disagreed, working on his button and zipper.

He scoffed at your dramatics.

“In that case, by all means, carry on.” He quipped, but his voice sounded more and more strained by the second.

“Lay down.” You murmured, moving back to give him room and pointing where you wanted him to go.

He obeyed without a word, and as soon as he was settled you worked his slacks down over his hips, stripped them down his legs—gently taking off his shoes—and tossed the whole pile to the floor.

His boxers did nothing to hide what was so clearly standing at attention beneath them.

Holy…

The man was packing…

You tried not to react, not to let your face show anything you were thinking, but goddamn, a girl had to wonder where all that was gonna fit.

And of course, since he was the best profiler you’d ever met…

“You don’t have to sweetheart, really, I’m fine to just take care of you.” He offered one more time but his voice cracked and there was a tiny wet patch growing on the front of his shorts.

You cleared your throat, snapping out of your little trance and grinned.

“What? You don’t think I can handle it?” You joked.

He held back a grin of his own and raised a brow at you.

“Baby, you look like you don’t think you can handle it.” He replied.

And you took that personally.

“I’m always up for a challenge…” You smirked, crawling from his feet to his waist.

He watched you with heated eyes as you reached for the waistband of his boxers and slid your fingers beneath the edge.

As you pulled them down, you made sure to take your time, dragging them lightly against the length of him and earning a sharp gasp as a reward. You paid little attention to where the shorts landed as you threw them behind you.

It stood tall and—from the look of it—was a bit more than you could wrap your hand around, but you would not be deterred.

You also decided to get a little payback, given that he’d teased you for ages. Granted, you didn’t have near the patience that he did (which is probably why you still hadn’t came), but still…

You laid a hand on his thigh, running it up his leg at a torturous pace and when you finally reached it you gripped the base and pumped it even slower.

Once, twice, three times.

He groaned, a sound you knew you’d hear in your dreams for the rest of your life.

You were going to be the death of him…

Of that much he was sure as you pumped your pretty hand up and down his shaft. He’d thought about this a thousand—maybe even ten thousand—times in the last two weeks.

Scratch that, the last several months, that was a more accurate description.

Yet, somehow, the real thing exceeded anything he could’ve imagined.

Your hand gripped him so well, and the way you looked while doing it… well, he wasn’t sure he was going to last.

Then you leaned forward, and he watched in awe as you stuck out your pretty pink tongue and licked the bead of precum off the tip, just as it started to drip down the side.

“Fuck…” He hissed out a breath, your tongue was hot and wet and it had him on the verge of begging.

“That’s the idea…” You murmured, a sly little grin forming on your lips for a brief moment… before you wrapped them around his cock and took him all the way to the back of your throat.

Your mouth was made of silk, he was certain, and—God help him—he was already addicted to it.

“You feel so perfect, pretty girl. You’re incredible.” He praised, reaching over and stroking your calf with the back of his hand.

You drew yourself back off of him, until only the head was in your mouth, and then you wrapped your hand around the base, using both in tandem to make a rhythm that was purely meant to torture him.

“That’s my girl, just like that, baby.” He could hardly get the words out but he knew how much you loved for him to talk you through it. “Look at you… You’re taking me so well, sweetheart, and you look so pretty doing it.”

He knew that there was not a world in which he ever recovered from this. There was no going back to the ignorant bliss of not knowing what it feels like to have your mouth on his cock. He would never be able to forget the perfection that was the sight of your lips—still red with faded lipstick—bobbing up and down it. It was the second most beautiful scene he’d ever witnessed.

The first, was the face you made when you came, and he intended to see it several more times before this was over.

“Such a good girl, sucking my cock like you can’t get enough.” He trailed his fingers up your leg and then over your ribs. “So fucking beautiful.”

He fisted his hands in the bedding, and clenched his jaw as you moaned around him, and he knew he needed something to distract him from the pleasure or this show would be over.

He looked around and his eyes landed on your ass— high in the air—and at this angle, he could see your pussy too… and it was nearly dripping. He groaned just at the sight of it, and knew exactly how he was going to keep himself busy while you had your fun.

“Baby, I have to taste you or I might lose my mind.” He warned you, right before he took you by the thighs and hauled your legs up, so your knees rested just above his shoulders. Making you squeal. Your pussy hovered just above his face now.

“But I wasn’t done yet!” You protested.

“I never said you had to stop.” He smiled to himself as he pulled your hips down so that you were firmly sat on his face.

He would happily die, just like this, if you’d let him.

Could he breathe?

Barely.

Did he care?

Not one bit.

You tasted exquisite, just like he knew you would.

He lapped at your entrance as though he were starved and you were the finest meal he’d ever eaten.

Nothing could convince him you weren’t.

He sucked your clit into his mouth and kept light suction on it as he flicked it with the tip of his tongue.

You squirmed against him, and while he didn’t mind you rubbing your perfect cunt on his face, it made his job a little difficult…

So he placed one hand on the small of your back and held you down tightly to his mouth. Then, because his other hand was free, he slid a finger into your pussy and thrusted it in and out slowly.

You moaned around the head of his dick and clenched around his finger so tightly, he couldn’t wait to feel it with his cock instead.

But first…

He really wanted to make you come on his face.

He hated that he wouldn’t be able to see the look on yours when it happened… but that was a sacrifice he was willing to make.

So he doubled down.

Adding a second finger to your pussy, and sucking just a bit harder on your clit, he worked his tongue with an eagerness he could feel you reciprocating with your own mouth.

And if you could still do that, then he wasn’t doing a good enough job.

But then he found the sensitive spot, maybe two inches inside the entrance, and he rubbed the pads of his fingers against it in time with the flicking of his tongue.

“Fuck, Aaron, don’t stop.” You whimpered, having released him from your mouth, pumping him with your hand instead but he couldn’t have cared less about that. “I’m so fucking close.”

He didn’t dare change a thing.

Not when his wrist started to ache.

Not when his jaw locked up.

Not even when his tongue began to cramp.

Your walls started to flutter around his fingers, your thighs started to shake, and your cries got louder and louder, until finally you collapsed against his face with nearly a scream of, “Aaron!”

He’d never heard a more beautiful sound.

He was smiling proudly as he licked at your sensitive clit until you recovered enough to move away on wobbly legs, and collapse to your belly next to him on the bed. Your knees resting by his head and your feet leaning against the headboard.

He laid his dry hand on your ass and gave it a firm squeeze as he licked the product of your orgasm off the other, savoring the taste of you. Then smirking to himself when you hummed in contentment.

“I think I just saw God.” Your voice—muffled by the comforter as you were laying face down—made him laugh quietly. “Everything went white, but then I closed my eyes and there were tiny little spots of color everywhere. It was pretty.”

He smiled, rolling his eyes fondly at your antics. Then he sat up, got to his knees, and gently rolled you over onto your back, settling between your legs. But he made no move to fuck you.

Not yet, even though he was aching—throbbing—to be inside you.

“Are you okay, pretty girl?” He murmured, gently brushing your hair out of your face.

You smiled up at him, eyes full of adoration and a bit of mischief.

“I’m so okay, that I want to taste myself on your lips while you fuck me.” You said, so boldly it nearly gave him a heart attack.

He dropped his forehead to your chest and groaned, “Sweetheart, you’re killing me.”

You giggled as he peppered your breasts, chest and neck with kisses.

Kisses that grew more and more heated the closer he got to your lips.

“You can have whatever you want, as long as I get to see your pretty face the next time I make you come.” He promised quietly in your ear.

“I think I can live with that.” You breathed, your hands snaking around his back and pulling him closer.

He grinned against your cheek, pressing another kiss there and murmured, “Oh you do, huh?”

You nodded and then…

“Aaron?”

“Sweetheart?”

“Fuck me, now please.”

He finally kissed your lips as he lined himself up and gently pressed into you until he was buried to the base inside you.

Time stopped—you knew that beyond a doubt—when Aaron finally slid into you.

You moaned against his lips, where you could taste the remnants of your own pleasure, and wrapped your legs around his waist.

Your red bottomed heels pressing into his lower back as he bottomed out inside you.

He paused then, letting you adjust, or maybe just basking in the moment, you weren’t sure…

“Are you okay?” He asked again, solving that internal debate for you, then kissing you softly again.

“I’m perfect.” You sighed blissfully, kissing him back and threading your fingers into his hair at the nape of his neck.

“Yes you fucking are…” His voice rumbled through you, making you clench around and arch up into him. “Fuck…”

And then he started to move, slowly thrusting in and out of you, like he had all the time in the world…

Or at least all day.

The stretch was like nothing you’d ever felt in your life, and the faster he moved, the better it got. Until he found a steady rhythm. You matched him, thrust for thrust, and each time he hit just right inside you.

You could feel every single inch of him, and it was pure magic, you swore. It was everything you’d dreamed it would be and more.

Just because it was him.

No one had taken such care with you before, and not a single man would ever hold a candle to him again. It wasn’t even over yet, and you already knew that as fact.

You were completely ruined.

Spoiled even.

And you would’ve been content to lay there, and let him fuck you into the mattress until you were both completely sated… but you remembered something he said to you in the private room two weeks prior.

Something that made your heart rate skyrocket.

“Look at you, looking so beautiful like this. I can’t wait to take you home and let you ride me, pretty girl.” He’d said.

You felt yourself get even wetter just thinking about it.

You kissed him again, biting his bottom lip, and then you used his hair to pull his head gently back so you could see his face.

“I wanna ride you.” You murmured.

He smiled and did not hesitate to roll onto his back, with you still impaled on his cock, simply taking you with him so that you were straddling him.

You kissed him thoroughly again, getting another taste of your cum on his lips, and moaned.

Then you sat up straight, even leaned back slightly, taking him so much deeper at this new angle, and you both moaned in unison as you rolled your hips slowly, let your head fall back and closed your eyes.

“I wish you could see yourself right now, pretty girl, riding me like this… you look like an angel or a goddess.” He gushed, sliding his hands up your thighs to your waist. “Taking my cock so well, like you were meant to ride it.”

His words got your blood up, racing through your veins like acid.

That familiar knot started to tighten in your core again.

“Fuck, Aaron, I love it when you talk like that.” You groaned as you slid yourself up and down his shaft.

“Hmm, and I love the way your pussy drips for me when I do.” He spurred you on, using his silver tongue like the lethal weapon it was. “Such a perfect pussy too, so wet and tight for me… so fucking perfect.”

You whined and involuntarily clenched around him, pulling a moan from him as well. Then his hands were traveling up your stomach to your breasts. Taking both in his hands and squeezing, rubbing his thumbs back and forth over your nipples.

“And look at these tits, fitting in my hands like they were made for them… so beautiful.” He rasped, and you wondered if he was as close to the edge as you were.

The furrow in his brow and the tightness of his jaw told you that he was. One hand slid down your stomach, his thumb easily locating your clit and rolling it in time with your hips.

You cried out, the tightness in your core expanding and contracting until you almost couldn’t take it anymore.

“I know baby, it’s okay, I’ve got you, you can let go.” He soothed. “Come on, sweetheart, you can do it.”

You gripped his shoulders tightly to leverage yourself, as your knees started to get weak.

“I’m so close.” You whined, desperately throwing yourself up and down his cock. “Aaron… I- I need…”

He didn’t need to hear the answer, he just started to thrust up into you. Matching your speed perfectly.

“You’ve got it, pretty girl, just breathe and let go. I’ll catch you when you fall.” He promised, his voice like velvet to your ears. “Come for me baby, come all over my cock, I wanna feel every pulse.”

And that was what sent you spiraling into oblivion.

It was like every nerve ending in your body exploded and your head was full of clouds. You could feel tears running down your face and you didn’t even know why, because you felt euphoric. This had to be the hardest you’d ever come in your life, your pussy spasming so hard around him that if you’d had the mental energy, you might’ve worried that it hurt him.

“Aaron!” You gasped, unable to breathe let alone scream.

“I know, sweetheart, I know.” He gritted out, trying to be comforting, but his own orgasm was barreling toward him, and you were pretty sure he was doing everything he could to hold it back. “I’m about to come, pretty girl, where do you—“

“Inside.” You blurted, without thinking twice about it. “Inside me, please I wanna feel it!”

“Fuck, sweetheart, I’m- ahh”

You couldn’t hold yourself up anymore, collapsing in a heap on top of him as warmth spilled into you.

You didn’t even have a moment to process what had happened before exhaustion overtook you, and you passed out cold on his chest.

Hotch was pretty sure he was in a state of mild shock as he laid there, panting beneath you.

He couldn’t move.

He couldn’t speak.

He just was.

Or was he?

He was almost certain he’d just had an out of body experience.

It took him almost five minutes to regain the ability to function like a normal human being, but he wasn’t in any hurry. You hadn’t moved yet either.

So he wrapped his arms around you, content to let you lay there as long as you needed, simply stroking your back and murmuring soft, nonsensical words of comfort in your ear.

It took him several more minutes to realize that you’d fallen asleep. With him still inside you.

“Sweetheart?” He tried, not really having the heart to wake you but knowing you needed at least to use the bathroom before you passed out. “Baby, wake up…”

You whimpered softly and he stroked your cheek tenderly with the backs of his fingers.

Then sighed.

You were exhausted… and so was he, but the least he could do was clean you up a little before he fell asleep beside you.

Trying his best not to jar you too much, he rolled you gently off his chest and onto your back on the mattress.

The separation was almost painful as he slid out of you, but he bit his lip and didn’t make a sound. Not that it mattered, you were out cold.

He stood up and really took a look around the apartment for the first time since he’d been there. It suited you, he could see your personality everywhere he looked and it made him smile.

Considering this was a studio apartment, he could only assume that the one other door in the room led to the bathroom.

He took a few minutes to rinse himself off, and then he got a warm washcloth and went back out to you.

He carefully cleaned you up as best as he could without waking you. Taking the time to make sure he got all the remnants of himself off of you. Well… the fluid ones anyway.

As it turned out, he may have left a few marks here and there with his mouth.

The exhaustion was weighing heavily on him, but he still took the time to make sure he’d locked the door when he’d finally given up on leaving and came inside. (He had.) Then he moved his pistols from where he’d left them, on the entry table by the door, to the nightstand beside the bed. On his way back to the bed, he noticed his boxers hanging off a lampshade. He gave a little chuckle and collected them too, putting them back on once he’d situated his sidearms.

Lastly he dug his phone out of his pants pocket on the floor, intending to silence it so it wouldn’t disturb you.

He discovered, however, that it was already on silent.

Not only that…

But he had seven missed calls.

With an eighth ringing through.

This one was Morgan.

He answered quickly, thinking it was an emergency.

“Hotchner.” He said, stepping back towards the bathroom and closing the door behind him so he wouldn’t disturb you.

“Man we were about to send a search and rescue out for you! Where have you been? We’ve been calling for an hour!” Morgan demanded.

“At home, sleeping.” Hotch lied. “What’s happened?”

“You tell me!” Morgan returned. “The bureau called Garcia and said your SUV had never made it back to Quantico. They said they called and you didn’t answer, so she called and you didn’t answer. Then she called me and I called you, no answer. By that point, she’d already texted the group chat and the others took turns calling you, none of which you answered. So here I am, calling for the last time, before we were all gonna gear up to come find you two!”

“Two?” Hotch asked.

“Foxy Loxy isn’t answering her phone either, and the last time we saw either of you, you were together in the missing SUV. You do the math.” Morgan said, a little more sarcastically than Aaron cared for, but he was too tired to deal with it.

“We’re fine, I left her securely locked inside her apartment, with the alarm set, and then I came home. I’ve been asleep. Just like I’m sure she is.” The lies flowed off his tongue easier than he’d like to admit.

“Then why does the SUVs GPS tracking system say it’s still at her place?” Derek sounded more amused than suspicious at this point.

“Because I was exhausted, so she called me a cab and I left the SUV in the gated parking garage under her building.” Hotch thought of the easiest way to explain that without giving himself away. “She’s gonna take it back when she wakes up, and I’m taking a cab to the office tomorrow.”

“You sure?” Derek asked one more time, his inflection giving clear indication of amusement.

“Yes, I’m sure! What is wrong with you? Can I go back to bed now?” Hotch snapped, a little harsher than necessary.

However to be fair, it was nearly eight in the morning, which meant you and he had been at it for nearly three hours… and he had been up since eight the previous morning, so he was beyond manners.

Derek cleared his throat.

“We pinged your phone, Hotch…” He explained.

“Fuck.” Aaron muttered.

“You wanna explain why you’re still at her place? Or should we connect the dots?” Morgan teased.

“I’m hanging up now.” Hotch said.

“But we’ll discuss it later right?” Morgan asked, already laughing. “Hotch? Hotch, come on man!”

Aaron disconnected the call and drug his hand down his face.

This was tomorrow’s problem.

He turned his phone off, walking back out into your main room.

He stood there for a moment, studying your soft form laying on the bed, and he smiled.

You were worth the headache waiting for him tomorrow.

So he leaned down, unbuckled your red bottom heels, sitting them on the floor and he crawled back into bed with you. Pulling you close and burying his face in your neck.

It took him less than a minute to fall asleep.

Tag list:

@newtomofgods @ghostskilledmyaddiction21 @misacc08 @mystargirl-interlude @arhaenyra

[minxipinxi]

#LADsMultiBoycott: Enough Is Enough – It’s Time to Stand Together

“We don’t hate the game—we love it enough to want better.”

Over the past few weeks, the community has been buzzing over translated leaks and rumors surfacing on Xiaohongshu (小红书) and Twitter that point to a disturbing trend in Love and Deepspace (LADs). The upcoming multi-banner—whether it turns out to be the anticipated Spring or Wedding multi—will once again feature long hairstyles separated from their outfits. Yes, again. After all the outcry. After all the feedback. We're here once more.

Let me be blunt: we can’t keep going like this. We can’t keep hoping CN girlies will save us every time. We can’t keep spending in good faith when Infold continues to exploit our loyalty and silence our voices. We can’t keep pretending that fan art and cute trailers make up for broken promises and paywalled aesthetics.

It’s time for us to join together, across servers, communities, and fandoms. It's not about Sylus mains vs Caleb mains vs the OG3. We're all getting burned by the same fire.

💥 What We Know From the Leaks

According to reliable sources:

The upcoming banner after Sylus’s Birthday Event might be another multi-banner format, either Spring or Wedding.

Long hairstyles will be separated from the outfits and placed in a separate crate—again.

This structure mirrors gacha mechanics where full outfits demand 140+ pulls, stretching across 5-star parts like socks, pants, accessories, and hair.

These decisions appear to be influenced by monetization models similar to Infinity Nikki, prioritizing profit over playability or fairness.

📢 So What Are We Doing About It?

We are organizing under #LADsMultiBoycott to push back against these predatory changes. This isn’t just a tantrum. It’s a coordinated protest.

🔥 Our Demands:

Six-month roadmaps to ensure transparency and accountability.

Higher resource drops from the highest-tier Bounty/Core Hunt.

Stop separating hairstyles from outfits in banners.

New sources of diamond income (no more stagnant gem economy).

No spending for the first 3 days of the banner. Use only your saved-up diamonds.

File official complaints to show Infold that this matters. Email:

loveanddeepspace-en@infoldgames.com

support-EN@infoldgames.com

🧠 Strategy: What You Can Do

Here’s what our global LADs family is doing:

1. No Spending for Entire Banner Period

Even if you have funds set aside, hold them. Don’t top up. Don’t feed the system that’s disrespecting your playtime and wallet.

2. Delay Your Pulls

Do not pull in the first 3 days. Choose your LI in the pool, then log out. Let the data show decreased first-week participation.

3. Minimal Screen Time

Yes, log in for dailies, but keep your session short, especially for iOS users. Play Store and App Store algorithms track usage data. Reduced screen time:

Hurts engagement metrics.

Lowers game ranking.

Cuts ad revenue.

4. No Banner Fanart for First Few Days

As painful as it is to hide our beautiful boys, let’s not unintentionally trigger FOMO. Fanart drives hype—hold off until after the peak revenue period.

5. Only Use Android if Possible

App Store rankings are disproportionately influenced by iOS user engagement. Reducing iOS traffic matters more than you think.

🌎 A Global Movement: We’re Not Alone

Our fellow players in China have already shaken Infold’s confidence.

CN revenue dropped by 42.2% from Nov 2024 to March 2025 (from $100M to $57.8M).

Global rankings dropped, while games like Genshin and Wuthering Waves soared.

Their success in the "stop-spending-money" campaign proved one thing: boycotts work.

If they can do it, so can we.

✊ This Is About More Than Just One Banner

Infold believes that as long as they release a sexy card, we’ll cave. They believe we don’t talk to each other. That we’re divided by LI bias and language barriers. But what they don’t see is how deeply connected we’ve become as a fandom.

We aren’t asking for perfection. We’re asking for respect.

If we let this multi go unchallenged, it sets a dangerous precedent:

Separated hairstyles in multi-banners like this become normalized.

Resources remain stagnant.

Paywalls keep climbing.

F2P and low-spenders are permanently excluded.

💡 Why Minimal Playtime Matters

Some of you might be thinking, “But this won’t work?” And here’s why it will:

“Why Cutting Screen Time Works” – The Breakdown

Engagement metrics tank. App Store/Play Store ranks games by DAU, session length, etc.

Revenue drops. Less screen time = fewer ad views = less money.

Rankings slide. Visibility goes down, leading to even fewer players.

It sends a message. A sharp drop in playtime can’t be ignored by business analysts.

💬 “But What If Infold Cancels the Game?”

They won’t. That’s just fear-mongering.

If a company is willing to kill its own cash cow just because fans want better—then it was never worth our support to begin with. But more importantly: they won’t kill it. They’ve seen that the game can pull millions. They’ll just need to earn it now.

🧱 We’re Building Something Bigger

This isn’t just about LADs. It’s about every gacha game that’s begun preying on its fans. If we roll over here, what message are we sending to WuWa, HSR, ZZZ, GI, and the rest?

We all have that one game we ride or die for. But loving a game doesn’t mean blind loyalty. Criticism is love in action.

🧩 TL;DR: How You Can Help

❌ Don’t spend money on the next multi-banner

🕒 Log in for dailies only, pick your LI, then log off

🎨 Hold off on banner fanart for a few days

📉 Reduce iOS activity as much as possible

💌 Email: loveanddeepspace-en@infoldgames.com support-EN@infoldgames.com

🗣️ Spread awareness under #LADsMultiBoycott

Even if you’re the only one on your server, know that you’re not alone. We’re tired, we’re frustrated—but we’re not powerless.

Let’s stop funding our own oppression.

No fair treatment = no money. Let them earn it.

Resources:

Revenue Trends: Ennead Data

Reddit Info Post: Sylus Girlies PSA

XHS Links: Source 1, Source 2

[ixloom819]

Showdown (P3)

Here’s the next part of the Yan!Sylus series! Please look at past posts for trigger warnings :)

The next few weeks have felt like hell for you, more than usual.

You wanted to stay in ignorance. You wanted to pretend that murder wasn’t happening outside the walls of the base, murder that wasn’t brought to pass by your information.

But you needed to make sure Sylus kept his word. You needed to hold him accountable. And maybe it was a way to keep yourself accountable too, to make clear to you your sins. Sylus protested at first, but you two shared the same weakness: you couldn’t say no to the other for long.

It didn’t take long for Xavier to confront Sylus. He had approached the base, clad in the visage of Lumiere. You had watched the scene through the camera feed. Sylus tried to persuade you from it, but it was the only way you could be sure what happened. You didn’t dare leave it up to your imagination.

Xavier demanded to know what happened that day. You couldn’t decide whether it was kindness or cruelty that led Sylus to tell Xavier the truth.

But to his credit, Sylus didn’t taunt him like he could have, given the knowledge you had given him. He did offer him mercy: a chance to walk away and live the rest of his life the way MC would have wanted him to.

But you both had known he wouldn’t take that offer. A man with an unfixable deadline doesn’t fear death, and Xavier didn’t run from this fight.

It was one thing to see the love interests fight against Wanderers with MC. It was another thing to see two different love interests fighting against each other with the intention to kill.

There were some things that Xavier did that you hadn’t known about and you did feel a spike of anxiety when he seemed to get an upper hand on Sylus.

But Sylus was stronger now than he was in game. What he didn’t know from you, he was able to improvise on the spot. Watching him in a fight helped you realize how Sylus ruled the N109 Zone.

At the end, Sylus was victorious, Xavier on the ground and unable to get up. You had watched the video with bated breath. Would Sylus break his word? Would the video cut out, leaving Xavier’s fate unknown to you?

But no. Sylus had pulled out his phone and minutes later, Luke and Kieran had come with a stretcher, loading Xavier on it and carting him away.

Sylus explained to you that they had flown Xavier back to Linkon to receive medical attention. He even showed other video footage and records of the helicopter flight and medical bills.

At that moment, your heart swelled for him. Sylus truly was going against his violent nature to appease you, even if it might make problems later. How could you doubt that love, no matter how twisted it may be?

Caleb’s elimination was more subtle. Sylus had contacts and important figureheads under his influence within the Farspace Fleet (of course he did). Not only that, but Onychinus helped provide weapons, both by legal and illegal matters. It wasn’t difficult to get the higher ups in the Fleet to dismiss Caleb’s concerns and demands for action.

Sylus would get reports regarding Caleb; incident reports about his increased aggression, unauthorized use of surveillance equipment, and his increasing insistence to reopen the case on Onychinus. Though you could only see it through an official filter, the conflict seemed to grow and climax-

Until it stopped. According to the reports, Caleb went from being incredibly unstable to the perfect soldier, doing every mission effectively and not diverting his attention anywhere else.

That scared you more than the previous reports. An outwardly hostile Caleb could be taken into account. But a Caleb where everything seemed normal when it shouldn’t be? That spoke danger to you, something that seemed like it would hit you when you least expected it.

It didn’t help your paranoia that Rafayel didn’t seem to be very active either. There’d be sightings of him, sometimes very near the base, but they wouldn’t last long, and he’d be gone before anyone got to him. You knew he wasn’t going to let this go - the only exception to Rafayel’s hatred for humanity was MC after all. So that meant he was either playing a long game, or he was much better at going undetected than he’d have you believe.

You had a constant creeping feeling, like there were eyes on you. It wasn’t hard imagining Caleb watching you through whatever spyware he used to keep track of MC. Every flickering shadow caught your eye and took the form of a silhouette, making you tense up each time. It got to the point where you avoided the windows and all but clung to Sylus when he wasn’t busy dealing with security threats or regular business.

You considered this place your new home, the safest place for you in this world. Yet even that didn’t feel safe now.

Sylus easily caught on to your fears and was always there to reassure you. He’d spend any time he could afford in your company. He’d constantly reassure you of the base’s security and any progress he and the twins had made. He even joined you in some activities, like making treats and cuddling during a movie.

It had been hard imagining things going back to the way they were when Sylus had told you that he had killed MC. Such a thing should be unforgivable, especially for the one he had waited lifetimes to be with again. Yet, when he looked at you with such tenderness and love, when everything he did was for the purpose of protecting you, when he went against his violent nature and what he thought would best eliminate the problem for your peace of mind? You found it nigh impossible to hold a grudge against him, to avoid melting into his embrace.

Somehow amid all the chaos, you found yourself loving him more than ever.

There was nothing to signify anything happening today. Sylus and you were on your way to the kitchen, hand in hand, to get a little snack after he’d been on his computer for a few hours. It was a brief moment when nothing weighed on your mind.

That’s when you felt it. The base rattled a bit. A second later, you heard something. Was that an explosion?

Sylus was instantly on high alert, head turned towards the sound. He looked back at you, and you could see the conflict in his eyes. You had the same going through your mind. You knew he needed to go there, that whatever caused the explosion needed to be dealt with. But you were also scared and didn’t want him to leave you.

Finally, he placed a kiss on the top of your head. “Go to our bedroom,” he said quietly, “I’ll be back soon.”

Swallowing your fears, you did your best to put on a brave face and nodded.

He hadn’t even made it ten steps before you felt a foreign body against you, quick as the wind, and something thin and sharp pressed against your throat. Your body froze, your breath hitched.

“C’mon, don’t do that…” a familiar voice drawled. Your heart quickened. Rafayel?!

Sylus instantly whirled around. You saw his eye widen, taking in the scene behind him, before they narrowed, resembling smoldering embers ready to set the ground ablaze.

“You’ll miss all the fun,” Rafayel finished, pressing the blade a bit harder against your throat. If his tone was anything to go off of, you’d say he was smiling. You tried to move away from it, but he kept you in place with his body.

“I suggest,” Sylus said slowly, “that you let her go. Now.” His voice seemed calm and controlled, yet you could hear the tension in it. It was the voice of the calm before the storm, a great force pressed against the barrier, ready to burst.

Rafayel hummed as if considering it. “No, I don’t think I will.” The playful tilt drained from his voice. “I’ve been watching you for a while. I’ve seen how much you care about this girl. You took my heart.” He pressed the blade further into your throat. “I think it’s only fair if I take yours.”

You felt a trickle of blood run down your neck.

You had thought a lot about what might happen if you died here. Maybe you’d go back to your own life, finding out this whole thing was a coma dream. Maybe you’d be brought to a different world. Maybe you’d go to whatever afterlife existed. Maybe you’d simply stop existing.

But in this moment, you couldn’t find yourself caring about any of that. You just knew that you were about to die, and you didn’t want to.

You were terrified.

You had to do something, anything, that would stop him.

Think, think-

“So you do remember!” you said loudly, far too loudly for the tension in the room.

Four eyes looked at you with utter confusion. It made you want to falter, to stop. But you couldn’t.

“Do you know what time it is?” you continued, hoping your voice didn’t betray your fear. “It’s been eight hundred years.” How did that stupid line go?! “Jellyfish are… walking naked, sea turtles are climbing trees, and sharks are eating grass for free. And now finally, finally you remember.”

Sylus was understandably looking at you like you had lost your mind. But if the growing tension in his body was anything to go by, Rafayel recognized your words. He pressed the knife harder against your throat.

“How do you know that?” he growled deeply.

You swallowed, which was hard with the knife against your windpipe. “…Because I was there. I can’t explain it in a way that makes sense, but I was there at the hospital. With her.”

The shift in his body should’ve told you to stop talking. But you had to keep going, had to get it all out. “I saw all your moments together. I know your past with her. I know that she was your heart and the one you’ve loved for centuries.”

Doing your best to ignore the knife, you turned your head upwards to meet Rafayel’s gaze. He was wearing his assassin’s outfit, so only his gorgeous pink-blue eyes were visible.

“I know how much you loved her,” you told him, trying to convey all your sincerity into your face and voice, “and I’m so sorry. I’m sorry because… I’m the reason she’s dead.”

You heard Sylus inhale sharply. “Don’t,” he said warningly.

Rafayel’s eyes narrowed, searching your face. “What do you mean?” he demanded.

You stood a steadying breath. “I’m… not supposed to be here. But I am. And I ended up being very selfish. I… took Sylus’ love that he had for her. If it wasn’t for me, he’d be happy with her. He also loved her in another life, and he would’ve been fine with being whatever she needed him to be as long as he could be by her side. I came and changed that.

“And that wasn’t even enough for me. I couldn’t… accept him while I believed there was another source of happiness… of love for him. So… he killed her. And I ended up taking your love too.”

The air was still, as if the fabric of the universe was taking in your confession.

“…Why tell me this?” Rafayel finally spoke. “Do you want me to kill you?”

Why were you smiling at that? “No,” you responded truthfully. “Even after knowing what I caused, I’m still selfish enough to want to live.” C’mon. “And… I think MC would want that too.”

Rafayel’s sharp breath was a warning. But you pressed on. “I got to know her for a little bit. Not super well, but enough to know she’s a kind individual. She wouldn’t want you killing me to avenge her. That’s just not how she works. So please… just set down the knife, and we can all walk out of here, okay?” Please.

A beat. Another.

“Do you really think I’d just let you go?” Rafayel spoke in a low tone, waves of pain carefully hidden. “If what you said is true, I have even more reason to kill you. You tell me you’re responsible for her death, then dare to say she wouldn’t want this? You dare beg for mercy?”

His eyes were slits of unforgiveness. “Choke on your own blood. On your arrogance.”

His hand pushed down into your neck.

Another force pushed back.

Confusion, then distress flickered in his eyes. He pushed against the force, but it was stronger. Red tendrils of energy pushed his hand away from your throat, giving you an opening to run away from him.

Sylus walked forward, eyes locked on Rafayel with his hand outstretched. “Good work, darling,” he said, walking past you. “Now turn around and cover your ears.”

Part of you wondered if you deserved to. You had purposely stalled for time so Sylus could save you. You had traded your life for Rafayel’s. Shouldn’t you face the consequences of your actions?

But you never lied in your words to Rafayel. You were indeed selfish. So you kept your back to them and closed your eyes. You pushed your antitragus into your ear canal and you hummed.

Not a melody that would distract you or sooth you, but a singular note. One who vibrates in your head and blocks out any noise from the outside world. Your entire focus was maintaining that note, not giving yourself room to wander and imagine what was happening behind you-

Something tapped your shoulder. You jumped a bit and whirled around to face it, your nerves a mess.

It was Sylus. His face showed impassiveness, but it was a practiced look, one that he put on when he didn’t want to show how bothered he was.

His wings were outstretched, blocking the view of the hallway behind him. Was that done on purpose?

His eyes flicked to your neck. His eyebrows narrowed a sliver, his gaze clouding a bit. “We should get that patched up,” he said in a purposefully calm manner.

Your first instinct was to brush off his concern. It didn’t hurt much and it didn’t feel deep. But you didn’t have much knowledge about wounds, so perhaps it was more serious than you thought.

Not only that, but it was a sign of what almost happened, what reality may have manifested if one of you had acted differently. Maybe he needed it treated more than you did.

So you nodded and let him guide you through the base. He only diverted his attention from you for a moment to order a cleanup where you had come from.

As you walked, you waited for the grief and guilt you felt when you heard of MC’s death. Yet, you reached the medical wing and you still felt nothing as the onsite doctor patched you up. Had you already become desensitized to death?

Maybe it was because you hadn’t gotten to know him. Sylus, Luke, Kieran… you knew them as game characters at first, but then you grew to love them as people. Even with the little time you had with MC you found her to be very kind and, while you were envious of her place with Sylus, you couldn’t bring yourself to hate her.

But you hadn’t gotten that chance with Rafayel. All you had of him in this world was the shadow of the knife you still felt on your neck, and pink-blue orbs of pain and hatred. Other than being your attempted killer, Rafayel was just a love interest in a dating sim. Maybe that separation made the loss mean less to you.

You hadn’t realized the doctor had left until Sylus reached out and gently held your hand. You snapped back to reality to find you were alone together. “Hey,” he spoke softly. “Are you alright?”

You took a moment to assess yourself, to make sure you would be truthful when you spoke. “…Yeah, I think so,” you responded. “I am now anyway.”

Sylus nodded and fell into a contemplative silence. You could tell he had something on his mind, but you didn’t want to push him. It had been a hard day for him too. So you waited for him to gather his thoughts.

“…Did you mean what you said back there?”

You hadn’t expected that question, though you probably should have.

You had the opportunity to backtrack. You could say that you were just saying whatever popped in your head to buy time and try to dissuade Rafayel. You had that out and he probably wouldn’t push it further.

“…Sometimes,” you admit. “It’s hard not to, knowing what your life would be like with her… without me…”

Silence, as both of you took in your words.

“…My last life with her was… wonderful,” Sylus finally spoke. “It was rough, messy, and tragic, but beautiful in its own way. And it gave me a chance to live another life. I won’t pretend it wasn’t great when it happened.

“And maybe my life with Miss Hunter would be as wonderful as you saw it in your world. Maybe I could have grown to love her despite our rough start and found a special happiness with her.

“But this is a new life for me, and that means I get the chance to make new choices. And this is a life where I got to meet and know you. And in this life, I choose you.” His grip on your hand tightened.

“You loved me despite what I’ve done. You were willing to back away for my happiness. You constantly gave love and attention, but never asked for anything in return. Even now, when you’ve been struggling with what I’d done, you never got mad at me or tried to run away.

“I choose what I do with this life and I choose to love you. You never stole anything. I freely give it to you.”

Tears pricked the corners of your eyes. How couldn’t they with such sweet, sincere words? “Sylus…”

He put his hand behind your head and pulled it forward so he could kiss your forehead. “I love you, my treasure.”

Little author’s note: this was not how I originally planned this post to go. I was going to write three peats detailing each of the love interests, where Xavier died in battle and Caleb got so unstable that Ever wiped him completely with the Toring chip. This didn’t end up happening because I can’t write fighting scenes to save my life (as you could probably tell) and I wasn’t confident enough in the hypothetical inner machinations of the Farspace Fleet/Ever to write Caleb’s part properly, so I went with this. I changed Xavier’s fate because I figured it’d be better for Sylus’ character to do his best to keep his promise, and Caleb’s ending stayed the same but hopefully I made it a more subtle presentation. The reader and Sylus aren’t going to know what happened to Caleb so they’ll still be wary of him, but I’m not planning on him being a threat anymore. I hope you’ve been enjoying the series!

[wintrwinchestr]

strangers | part 2

summary: nearly a month has passed since you agreed to go to california with joel, and you think you might love him. you trust him, and he makes you feel cared for and safe, but he hasn't been telling you the whole truth. eventually, you make a shocking discovery that makes him feel like a stranger to you all over again.

!!PLEASE READ WARNINGS, THIS IS A VERY DARK FIC!!

I've tried to label this fic as detailed and as boldly as possible. I will not be held responsible or bullied off the internet if you choose to read this potentially upsetting/triggering work of fiction anyway.

warnings: joel miller x f!reader, 18+, smut, age gap (reader is college-aged, joel is mid-50s), no outbreak au, serial killer!joel, dark!joel, DDDNE (graphic descriptions of blood, murder, and of captive/dead girls, non-con p-in-v sex (i'll say rape just in case but reader does not explicitly express non-consent), being held captive, degrading language toward victims/victim blaming, joel is implied to fantasize that you're dead while fucking you, kind of stockholm syndrome), non-con breathplay/choking, mommy & daddy issues, lying, gaslighting, coercion, manipulation, pet names (baby, darlin', sweetheart, babydoll, etc), no ellie/sarah but tommy has an unnamed daughter, somewhat inspired by "strangers" by ethel cain, vaguely set in the 70s/80s, please respectfully let me know if i missed anything and i will rectify the tags

word count: 8.1k

a/n: this is the second part. if the tags deter you from reading that's okay, just pretend joel and reader made it to california and they lived happily ever after. i understand i've written something dark and heavy and it isn't for everyone, you are welcome on my blog whether it's for you or not as long as everyone is respectful of each other <3

divider by @saradika

series masterlist/moodboard

read this chapter on ao3

part 3

As the breeze begins to carry a chill that bites without the protection of a jacket or one of Joel’s flannels, the two of you have been spending the last month or so trying to outrun Autumn altogether as you make your way to California. You’ve crossed more state lines now than you ever could’ve imagined you would, and you and Joel have even made a game out of trying to spot the license plate of the farthest state away from wherever you are. He was impressed when you had recently managed to spot an Alaska plate in fucking Kansas, of all places. 

You spend your days visiting cheesy tourist traps and collecting cheap souvenirs from their gift shops, and your nights in motels or in his truck or in goddamn gas station bathrooms tangled up in each other’s bodies, unable to keep your hands off each other. The seal had finally broken just a few days after you had agreed to go to California with him, when he had laid his hand on your knee while he was driving, and you didn’t stop him from sliding it higher and higher, his fingers eventually making their way between your thighs and gently rubbing your clit through your shorts. Joel would’ve been content to play with your pussy just like that, pinching at your little nub and dipping his fingers into your drooling hole as he drove, but the noises you were making were driving him fucking insane. He had pulled off into a wooded area and instructed you to climb into the backseat, where he had shoved himself inside of you for the first time and fucked you until you saw stars. You never made it to wherever it was you were headed to that afternoon, deciding instead to just call it a day and spend the rest of it covered in each other’s sweat and come and breathing heavily into each other’s necks. 

You’ve seen new parts of Joel in other ways, too, in the time that you’ve been traveling with him. He’s been opening up to you, slowly but surely, as the weeks go on. You did eventually remember to ask him about that song you couldn’t quite make out at Moody’s, humming the bit of the chorus you could remember for him in hopes that he’d recognize it.

“I think I know the one, darlin’. Should have it on cassette somewhere here, ‘s called Alone and Forsaken, think it’s by Hank Williams. Hadn’t heard that one in a while, ‘s a winner, though,” he’d said.

You’d rifled through the contents of the glove box and pulled it out, excitedly swapping the tape with the one in the player and pressing the button on the dash to start the song. Joel’s fingers had begun to tap against the wheel immediately, and he seemed to relax at the sound of the guitar’s steady strumming. You had just watched him as the song played, admiring the subtle movements of the muscles in his face as he’d hummed along.

But he’d noticed your staring, after a while, and teased, “Y’know, really shouldn’t look at a man like that, babydoll. Might give ‘im some ideas.”

Babydoll. That was new, too. It had become his new favorite pet name for you, bestowed upon you when he had offered you another dress to wear from the stash of clothing belonging to Tommy’s daughter that he keeps under his backseat. Joel had told you eventually that he’d fibbed about his relationship with Tommy, just a little bit, and that he hasn’t actually seen him or his kid in quite some time. “Just kinda grew apart after a while, stopped keepin’ up with each other,” Joel had explained. “Jus’ never quite got around to gettin’ rid of all that stuff, I guess.”

You certainly didn’t mind having something new to wear, especially something as pretty as the little pink dress that got you your new name. Joel had looked at you hungrily when you’d first tried it on, raking his eyes up and down your form as you twirled for him.

“So pretty, sweetheart. Look just like a lil’ babydoll in that, don’t you?” Joel had complimented.

You’d giggled at the nickname, becoming shy as he’d stalked towards you and used a hooked finger to lift up your chin, forcing your eyes to meet his own. “Like that one, do ya? Like bein’ my babydoll, all mine?”

You’d sucked your bottom lip between your teeth, your brows peaked with need as your eyes had begun to glaze over from his gentle dominance. It had never taken much from him to make you start feeling a little floaty, even early on, ready to fall into his arms so he could make you gush onto his fingers or his cock or his tongue.

You’d nodded your head all syrupy and slow, making a little whimpering sound in affirmation.

“Say it,” he’d whispered, the hand propping up your chin slowly finding its way down to your neck, where it always seemed to land in your moments of intimacy. Joel had never really asked you if you liked it there or not, if you liked it when he squeezed your throat just right until your vision became spotty and your breath came out pinched and raspy, but you had learned to like it, to crave that guidance and control from him. He’d never taken it too far, just brought you teetering over the edge of unconsciousness, then allowed you to fill your lungs with air again. 

“I like it, Joel, like being yours…”

“Yeah… ‘n you’re gonna be mine forever, huh? Never gonna leave my side, always gonna belong to me, ain’t that right?” His grip on your windpipe had begun to tighten as he questioned you.

“Forever… ‘m yours, Joel…” you’d promised through a hoarse whisper.

A growl had rumbled from deep in Joel’s chest at your choked words, and he’d quickly let go of your throat to spin you around and shove you face-first into the creaking motel mattress, flipping up the skirt of your little babydoll dress and showing you just how pretty he thought you looked in it. “Mine, mine, mine,” he’d chanted as he caged you in with his heavy form, slamming inside of your aching cunt until you cried out, shuddering around him as he spilled inside of you. 

He calls you babydoll almost exclusively now, like it’s your actual name. Your everyday clothing consists almost entirely of frilly dresses and tiny tops and tight shorts from the supply in Joel’s truck, with maybe a few items he picks out for you at the occasional Goodwill mixed in. He’s made it so that you never have to think for yourself ever again, taking care of everything for you from picking out your outfits to ordering for you at the diners. All you have to worry about is being good, being his, his perfect little doll, and he says that you deserve a life as easy as this, that it’s the least he can do for you in exchange for your company, for being so good for him.

Joel does allow you to use your brain for some things, still, like bombarding him with the questions you’d begun stashing away in your mind all those weeks ago. Some of them he still answers vaguely, like where the scar on his nose came from, or if he’d been married before, or what his life was like before he met you. But sometimes you can get a story out of him, and it always feels like you’ve won the lottery when you’re able to get him talking. After the Hank Williams cassette had finished playing that day, you’d decided to ask him what he’d wanted to be when he grew up. 

He’d thought about it for a second, and then laughed at himself. “‘F I tell you, I don’t wanna hear any gigglin’ outta you over there, ‘s that clear?”

“I can’t promise you that if I don’t know what you’re gonna tell me. If you say, like, a rodeo clown or something, I’m gonna laugh.”

Joel had just glared at you, and you’d rolled your eyes.

“Fine, I won’t laugh, I promise. Just tell me.”

“Alright…” Joel had sighed. “I wanted to be a singer, actually. Believe it or not.”

You had almost started crying right then, the visual of a little Joel all those years ago wanting to grow up and become a singer being almost too much to bear. 

“Awe, Joel… You can sing? Can you—”

“No, I ain’t gonna sing for you. Don’t even ask, babydoll.”

Joel had seemed adamant about that at the time, but just a few days later when a violent thunderstorm was blowing through the town you’d stopped in for the night, you’d woken him up when you couldn’t fall asleep, and asked him in a trembling voice if he would sing for you. He’d just grunted and rolled back over at first, but you’d kept quietly begging him, and he eventually gave in to your little frightened sounding pleas. You’d rested your head against his chest as he stroked your hair and sang Alone and Forsaken for you a few times over, until the soothing sound of his voice and the quiet thumping of his heartbeat had lulled you back to sleep. The thunder had eventually retreated when it realized you weren’t scared of it anymore, now feeling safe and protected in Joel’s arms. 

He could only take so much more questioning from you after a while, though, until he decided it was about time for you to reveal more of yourself to him, and you’d thought that was fair. You’d spent a whole afternoon in the truck one day telling him about how your dad had passed away when you were still in high school, and how you’d always wished he could’ve seen you walk across the stage at graduation and go off to college. How he was the one who’d even encouraged you to go in the first place, when you hadn’t felt smart enough or good enough at anything to ever find the pursuit worthwhile. But he’d always been supportive of your artistic endeavors, the ones your mom had always called ‘useless’ and ‘a waste of time’ and ‘nothing that could ever amount to a real job’. Your dad had tried his best to make you believe otherwise, always proudly displaying your work around the house when your mother would allow it, and even framing some of it for his office. It was devastating when he had passed, but at least you felt you could make him proud in some way, by deciding to pursue a degree in art at the nearby state school. But then your mother had ruined your chances of ever finishing the program, and, well… here you are now. 

After you’d finished your story, Joel had comforted you just like he always did, promising to find you a sketchbook and some pencils at the next town you came across so you could keep nurturing your talents. He’d made good on his word, and now your time on the road is often spent sketching Joel, his cassettes, the mountains, anything you see that sparks inspiration and demands to be committed to paper.

Today, the two of you are on your way to see the world’s largest something or other in New Mexico, and you’ve become determined to etch a drawing onto every page of your book by the time you reach California. You’ve sketched just about everything in the truck at this point, and different tries at capturing Joel’s handsome side profile already take up more than half of the pages that you’ve filled out so far. You begin scouring the cabin of the truck, searching for something new you can draw. You eventually try bending forward to look under the bench seat, just in case you can find a crumpled up candy wrapper or something, but an even more interesting object catches your eye, tucked just behind Joel’s legs. It looks like an old shoebox, maybe containing some more tapes or things belonging to Tommy’s kid. You try to reach over to Joel’s side of the bench seat to grab it, and he almost swerves the truck off the road when he notices what you’re doing.

“What’re you…? Don’t touch that, babydoll, jus’ leave it alone,” he scolds.

You sit up straight again, taken aback by his tone. “Why? I was just looking for something new to draw, thought there might be something in there.”

“It’s just junk in there, baby, nothin’ you’d much be interested in,” Joel says, his grip on the steering wheel becoming more white-knuckled.

“So? I can’t draw some old junk?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Joel sighs in frustration. “‘Cause I said so, babydoll, Christ. Just leave it be, I’ll throw it out next time we stop. Find somethin’ else to draw.”

“Okay… ‘M sorry,” you respond timidly.

“‘S alright, sweet girl. ‘M sorry too, shouldn’ta yelled at you like that. Just… tryin’ to drive here, don’t want you reachin’ behind my legs and shit, ain’t safe.”

You just nod, popping open the glove compartment for the hundredth time in hopes that there could be something in there that you’d missed before. There isn’t, so you decide to pluck out that Hank Williams tape and sketch it again, humming the song to yourself in an attempt at self-soothing as you begin to outline the shape of it. It seems like a bad time to ask Joel to sing it for you again, but if you’re good for the rest of the day and make up for your earlier mistake, maybe you could hear it again tonight.

—

You’re just finishing up your sketch a half hour or so later, when Joel decides it’s time to stop for gas. You glance over at the fuel gauge on the dash, and it looks like the truck still has half a tank left, but you decide not to say anything about it. Just like he’d said when you had first reached for the shoebox, Joel swipes it from underneath the seat as he exits the truck, tossing it haphazardly into the trash can by the gas pump. 

“Dammit,” you hear him curse to himself, and you look out the window to see him staring angrily at the empty pocket inside of his wallet where cash should be. Joel opens up the passenger side door to explain, “Forgot I used up the last o’ my cash on dinner last night. Just… stay here, babydoll, gotta head inside ‘n use the ATM quick, alright?”

You nod obediently, and watch him take long strides toward the convenience store before disappearing inside. 

He’ll only be gone for a few minutes at the most, so you know that you have to make your move now. You’ve never had Joel bark at you before like he’d done when you had reached for that beat up cardboard box, and you still feel a little rattled by it. What could possibly have been in there that he didn’t want you to see? For the first time, you feel like you might not be able to trust him, and it makes you feel a little sick. You’ve started to feel like you might love Joel, and you think he probably feels the same way, even if you haven’t said those exact three words to each other yet. Someone who loves you wouldn’t hide things from you, would they? Especially not after you’ve already bared so much of your souls to each other, after you’ve decided that you belong to each other.

There’s only one way to find out, you decide.

You exit the truck quietly, swiftly closing the short distance between you and the trash can and peering into the black plastic bag that lines it. You fish out the shoebox from where it lays on top of other garbage, and crouch down in front of the gas pump to hide yourself from view. Taking a steadying breath, you carefully remove the weathered lid from the box and begin to examine its contents. At first glance, it seems to just be full of washed-out polaroids and a few random objects—a tarnished charm bracelet, a fraying ribbon, and a cracked pair of glasses among them. What is all this stuff? You think to yourself, Keepsakes from his former life, more of Tommy’s daughter’s things that he couldn’t bring himself to get rid of yet?

You pick up a photo laying face down on top of the pile and turn it over, almost immediately dropping it back into the box in favor of clapping your hand over your open mouth. You shut your eyes tightly as they begin to water, hoping that when you open them again, you’ll find that you were wrong about what you had just seen. That it was just a trick of the light, that it wasn’t what it seemed, that you had just imagined it.

But you aren’t so fortunate.

Your heart plummets into your stomach as you peer inside the box again, a sickly feeling of dread beginning to claw its way up the back of your neck. You examine the photo more closely, and it appears to be of a girl who looks about your age, bound at the hands, gagged, and naked. She’s kneeling on the damp forest floor, staring up at the photographer with a defeated, glazed-over expression. She’s bruised, bleeding from her nose, and filthy, with her hair tangled in knots and mascara-stained tears running down her cheeks. The photo looks to have captured her last moments alive. 

One by one, you quickly examine a dozen or so more photos as your pulse hammers hard in your throat. Each of them are nearly identical, all depicting a pretty early twenty-something, either restrained and begging for her life or already dead. They all have dates scribbled on the front that are spaced out a mere couple of weeks from each other, with the names of the girls written on the backs of them. To your horror, you notice that some of the polaroids even have bloody fingerprints staining their white frames. It seems impossible that Joel could be the one who took these photos, that he could be the one to reduce these young girls to nothing more than weak puddles of tears and blood. You begin desperately trying to convince yourself that this is all part of a fucked-up nightmare you’re moments away from waking up from, until a photo containing a bright flash of white catches your eye. You can’t help how your face contorts into a grimace when you examine the photo closer, your stomach lurching at the sight of the amount of blood spilling from the back of the girl’s head as she lays lifeless on a wooden floor. All that she’s wearing are her underwear and a white tank top, the ditsy floral pattern of which you could swear you’ve seen before.

You don’t understand why it looks so familiar to you until you spread around more of the polaroids in the box, and spot one capturing a girl tied up and gagged on a motel bed, wearing a baby pink dress that grotesquely juxtaposes the depravity of her situation. She has wide, pleading doe eyes and ribbons finishing the ends of each of her braids that kind of make her look like… a doll.

The realization hits you all at once, that nearly all of the clothes Joel has given you since the day you met him had never belonged to Tommy’s daughter at all, if he even has one, if Tommy even really exists. You’d been wearing Anna’s white tank top with the delicate floral print. Elizabeth’s pink babydoll dress. Even the clothes you have on now probably belonged to some of Joel’s victims, but you don’t think you can stand to find out which ones. 

Your thoughts begin to spiral out of control, an irrational part of your brain working overtime to come up with a million reasons why this can’t be true, that there has to be some other explanation for what you’re seeing, until you pick up a final photo, where the sleeve of Joel’s drab olive flannel is clearly visible in the corner. The shirt is tattered at the cuffs in the exact way that Joel’s is, and it has the same terracotta striping woven through the plaid pattern. Emerging from the bottom of the sleeve is a tanned, thick hand, wrapped tightly around a pale, fragile neck, with some of the girl’s blonde ringlet curls poking through the gaps between his fingers. When you flip over the photo, your blood runs cold when you read the name inscribed on the back—Ruby.

Your tears begin to fall then. How strange, how cruel, that fate has led you here, lured you straight to him. Someone that you thought you knew, trusted, loved, who’s suddenly a stranger to you all over again. You’ve just been doomed from the start, haven’t you? All along, it was Joel who had been responsible for building the trap you’ve found yourself ensnared in now. Ruby hadn’t run away at all that summer, hadn’t found a place she belonged, a place to start a real life for herself, a place to see her unlimited potential finally fulfilled. She’d met Joel, and he’d restricted her existence to nothing more than a polaroid that he keeps in a fucking shoebox under the seat of his truck. All along, this is where she’d been. 

You feel like throwing up. You’re reeling, completely horrified and sick to your stomach, your life as you had just come to know it having come crashing down around you in an instant. You quickly replace the lid on the box and throw it back into the trash can, hopefully never to be seen again. You scramble back inside the truck just in time for the convenience store door to swing open again, the little bell accompanying the movement sounding sharp and sinister as it announces Joel’s imminent arrival. Your pulse pounds erratically against your ribcage as you try to act as naturally as possible, forcing your shaking hands to look like they’re busy adding the finishing touches to your latest sketch. 

You don’t look at Joel as he approaches the truck, and he doesn’t seem to pay you much attention, either. He leans against the hood casually once he feeds the bills into the pump, letting the tank fill the rest of the way up with gas. You have to come up with an escape plan now, before your poorly disguised agitation gives you away and he figures out what you’ve seen. 

When his task is finished, Joel climbs back into the driver’s seat exhales a deep breath, like he feels relieved to have finally discarded the evidence so you’d never find out the truth about him. You’re determined to keep him clueless for as long as you can.

“Ready to keep goin’, babydoll? Should only be another hour or so ‘fore we get to the next stop,” he asks, reaching over to you to gently tuck a lock of hair behind your ear. You flinch away from his touch instinctually, then silently curse yourself for already doing such a shitty job at keeping up your facade.

“A-actually, um…” You swallow hard. “I’m kinda g-getting a headache, it really hurts. And I feel really s-sick. Is it okay if we just… go straight to a motel? I just wanna… lay down,” you lie, screwing up your face into a pained wince and wrapping your arms around your stomach in an effort to make it all more convincing.

“Oh, you poor thing…” Joel coos, placing the back of his hand against your forehead. “Y’ do feel kinda hot… Sure, darlin’. Think there’s a place not too much further down the road here, jus’ hang tight.”

“T-thank you,” you reply weakly. Your voice is coming out a little uneven, but you hope it just adds to the believability of your act instead of raising suspicion. You try to cover it up with a cough and a little pained groan, just for good measure.

Joel doesn’t waste any more time getting back on the road, and you stay quiet for the short ride to the nearest motel, doing your best to hold back your tears and even out your breathing. You’ll need to be calm and clear-headed in order to have any chance at escape, lest you want to meet the same fate as the dozens of other girls who were probably also blinded by Joel’s southern charm and good looks, who were manipulated by his lies and tricked into believing that he could give them a happy ending. Was he ever going to let you see California? Or had he been leading you to your death all along?

You’re going to be the one who lives. For Ruby, you have to be. For all of them.

—

Just like the first night you’d spent with him, Joel has you wait in the truck while he checks in at the counter and retrieves the keys to your room before coming back to get you. You fake a stumble when you step down from the truck, and Joel mumbles a ‘Jesus, babydoll’ before hoisting you into his arms and carrying you across the room’s threshold, setting you down softly onto the bed.

“Whaddya need, sweet girl? Water? Some crackers, or somethin’? Bet I could ask the front desk if they got some medicine or anythin’ like that,” Joel asks, sitting on the edge of the bed while you curl up and turn away from him. You do your best not to flinch this time when he decides to comfortingly massage the back of your neck.

“Can you ask, please? It hurts so bad,” you whine, unable to tamp down your shuddering sobs any longer.

“Sure I will, my poor lil’ girl… I’ll be right back, alright?”

Joel pets your hair for a moment, and the gesture would normally flood your belly with lovesick butterflies, but it only feels predatorial now, like a lion trying to convince its prey that it only wants to play, that it won’t be torn to pieces and eaten alive. 

Your body finally relaxes when Joel leaves the room, and you count out thirty seconds to hopefully allow him to reach the front office before you make your break. When you whisper the final ‘thirty’ to yourself, you spring out of bed and sprint out the door, almost tripping over your own feet in your race to reach the payphone you’d spotted earlier in the parking lot. You figured that trying to call for help would be a smarter move than running, and you’d never make it far on foot, anyway, not in the flimsy little dress and cheap canvas sneakers you’re wearing. You’d stolen a few quarters out of the truck’s center console while Joel was letting the gas pump, and you shakily deposit them into the slot, nearly dropping them. You punch the numbers 9-1-1 into the keypad, nearly ripping the phone clean off the hook as you bring it up to your ear.

“Come on, come on, come on…” You mutter to yourself, drumming your bitten fingernails against the hard plastic handset as the mocking dial tone trills in your ear.

“911, what is your emergency?” comes a voice on the other line, female. 

“Please, I need hel–” but before you can even finish the word, he’s on you, one large hand clapped over your mouth while the other rips the phone out of your hand and slams it back into the receiver. You kick and bite and thrash, but your pitiful attempts at escape do nothing to deter him. After all, his pickup is the only car in the lot, and your room is the only one with a light on. The clerk who checked him in could have never existed at all, for all you know. There’s not a soul around to hear you cry or beg or scream, except for him. You should have known that he would see straight through you, that he would’ve anticipated you getting curious and made sure he was always one step ahead of you. Joel drags you back to the room with a two-handed grasp on your upper arm, gripped onto you hard enough you’re sure his fingertips will leave bruises.

“No, no, no, please! I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Joel!” You plead, using his first name in a pathetic effort to try to appeal to whatever morality he might have left.

“You stupid fuckin’ bitch…” he spits.

Joel kicks open the door to your room and flings it shut behind him so hard you’re surprised the wood doesn’t shatter, splintering into a million sharp little pieces. He throws you down onto the stained double bed you’ll be sharing tonight, if he doesn’t decide to use the yellowed comforter to wrap your lifeless corpse in later instead. You push yourself up into a sitting position and brace yourself for whatever he’ll do to you for disobeying him, for trying to escape. You’ve never seen this side of him before, never even come close to upsetting him like this in the time that you’ve known him. 

“Don’t know who the fuck you were tryin’ to call, but you better get it through that dumb fuckin’ brain of yours that nobody gives a fuck about you anymore except for me, you got that? Cops ain’t gonna do nothin’ about some fuckin’ runaway slut, ‘specially not one who’s got nobody to miss her in the first place. ‘S why you ran away, ‘s why I picked you up… ‘Cause we both know ain’t nobody gonna come lookin’ for you. Wouldn’t be able to find your body even if they did,” he barks at you, a huge paw wrapped in the hair at the base of your skull to keep your gaze trained on him.

“Please, please don’t hurt me! I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I won’t ever do it again, I promise–”

“Y’ know… I saved you from that hell hole, I gave you everything, and this is the fuckin’ thanks I get?!” The low gravel of his voice seems to be coming from somewhere deep and cavernous inside of him. It fills the entire room with a black smoke that penetrates your eardrums and fills your mouth with something bitter.

“I know, I know, I don’t know what I was thinking, I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you–”

“Yeah, I know you weren’t fuckin thinkin’. Dumb fuckin’ cunt.” Joel releases your hair and you collapse in on yourself, beginning to sob all over again. You know it probably makes you look weak in front of him, but you can’t help it as the dread washes over you. You’re on the verge of hyperventilating, wondering if this will be the one mistake that seals your fate, if he’ll let you live long enough to see those aching little imprints on your arm from where he grabbed you bloom into purple-red blotches in the morning. With your eyes shut tight and hot tears streaming down your cheeks, you’re heaving, trying to catch your breath as you release broken little noises that sound like sorry, sorry, sorry. The repeated apology almost resembles some kind of prayer, as if that could save you now.

He lets you run the gamut of your terror for a minute before pinching the bridge of his nose, the calloused pads of his fingers squeezing that angry red scar that adorns it. He expels a heavy sigh and sits beside you on the bed, the springs of the old mattress screeching as they dip with his weight.

“C’mere, babydoll,” he says, quietly now, and you feel too weak to fight him as he pulls you into his lap and helps you to straddle your legs across his thick waist. You can feel his hardening bulge against your core through the thin material of your panties, exposed now by the skirt of your dress riding up and pooling at the creases of your thighs. 

“‘S okay, darlin’ I forgive you.” He lets you cry into his shoulder as he shushes you, rocking you side to side and petting the top of your head as if he were soothing a spooked little dog. When you’re able to take deep breaths again, your senses are flooded with his familiar comforting scent. The combination of his natural cologne and the softness of his voice reaches inside some deep corner of your brain that isn’t completely terrorized and disgusted by him, and it’s enough for you to lift your head up to face him again.

“Y-you do?” You squeak out as you sniffle, and Joel wipes away the last of your salty tears with one of his rough thumbs, sucking it into his mouth afterwards. He lets out a soft groan before gripping your jaw so that the fat of your cheeks makes your lips pucker.

“Yeah, babydoll… But why would you try to go off runnin’ like that, hm? Thought you were mine, my girl, thought we understood each other.”

His tone, the furrow in his brows and the slight pout of his lips make you feel guilty, somehow, upset with yourself for making him feel this way, for trying to run from his care and affection. “I-I thought so, too. But then… then I…” you stutter, finding it impossible to speak coherently anymore.

“Then what, babydoll?” Joel prompts calmly, stroking his thumb along your cheek as he squeezes it.

“T-the box… I saw—”

“Yeah… You saw my girls, didn’t you, baby? That’s why you tried to run, ain’t it? Look at me, babydoll.”

Joel jostles your face in his grip, and you obey his command, nodding slowly. When you look into his eyes, you finally notice how dark they’ve become, their usual warm amber color now appearing more red.

“You… you killed her. I-it was you.”

“Which one’re you talkin’ about, baby? Collected a lotta girls over the years, lose track of ‘em after a while.”

Your stomach churns at his callousness. “R-Ruby… I saw h-her. Y-you… you were…” You can’t bring yourself to finish your sentence, your words interrupted by your hiccuping breaths.

“Oh, Ruby…” Joel shifts his hips into yours, a growl rumbling from deep in his chest as he closes his eyes for a moment, turning over her name on his tongue. “Yeah… She was a pretty thing, wasn’t she? Feisty one, though. ‘Bout broke my goddamn nose. Wasn’t gonna be so rough with her, but… she practically asked for it.” He brushes his finger across the scar on his face, and your eyes well up again when you make the connection. “What else did you see, hm? Talk t’ me about it, babydoll.” Even through his jeans, you can feel that he’s fully hard now, turned on at the prospect of reliving those gruesome scenes.

Nauseating visions of the polaroids flash across your memory—the girl bleeding from the back of her head, the one with the cut throat, the one with her neck bent at an unnatural angle. “No, please don’t make me…” you shake your head at him, your bottom lip trembling as you fight back more stinging tears. 

Joel releases his hold on your face in favor of giving your cheek a harsh smack. “Wasn’t a fuckin’ question, girl.”

You use his loosened grip as an opportunity to try to scramble out of his lap, hitting your hands against his chest as you try to push off the bed and get back onto your feet.

“Nuh-uh, I don’t think so. Quit fuckin’ strugglin’.” 

He’s got you flipped onto your back in a second, with your legs dangling off the edge of the bed. He stands between your parted thighs, and you look up at him through blurred vision, one of his strong hands now attempting to cut off the blood supply to your brain as he uses the other to free his thick cock from his jeans. His teeth are bared, and the look in his eyes is faraway, as if the Joel you thought you knew is somewhere else entirely, miles away from this dingy motel room off the side of the freeway. He’s long gone now, replaced by this monstrous version of him that you don’t recognize.

“Keep fightin’, see what fuckin’ happens… I’d take the prettiest photos of you, y’ know that? Add you to my lil’ collection, have no choice but to be mine forever… You’d fit right in, babydoll, this perfect fuckin’ body.”

He slides a hand up and down his leaking shaft as he rambles, and it’s impossible to deny how much it excites him, talking about his killing, his ritual. 

“Wasn’t plannin’ on it, promised myself I’d be done after the last one but—fuck—just can’t fuckin’ stop myself. ‘S just so goddamn easy,” Joel hisses through his teeth. His hand never leaves your neck as he flips up the skirt of your dress and yanks your ashamedly damp panties down your trembling legs. He flings them haphazardly onto a discolored patch of carpet in the corner of the room, and it makes you wince, imagining how he must’ve disposed of so many other girls before you in the same careless manner.  

As hopeless as it seems now, you won’t be one of them. You don’t have any other choice, you have to make it out of this alive, you have to do something.

“W-what… what is?” You manage to choke out.

Joel looks down at you, almost startled, as if you’re an inanimate object speaking to him, like he didn’t expect you to have a voice.

“Huh?”

“Y-you said… it’s so easy. What’s easy?”

He licks his lips as he thinks on his response, a sickly smile tugging at the corners. “Pickin’ up a pretty slut nobody’s gonna miss, takin’ her home with me and turnin’ her fuckin’ lights out. They practically do it to themselves with all their strugglin’ and bitin’ and scratchin’, just want ‘em to fuckin’—unh—behave.”

You whine as he pushes his tip inside your little hole, but try to maintain your composure. You think you understand now, why he’s acting this way. He wants you to want to be with him, and it triggers some kind of deepset anger inside of him when you fight, when you run, when you throw his affection back in his face. Killing the girls might not even be his end goal, at least not when he first takes them, more like an inevitable side effect of what happens when they try to escape his captivity and he feels rejected, hurt, tossed aside. And then he lashes out. And then they die. And then the cycle repeats. You’d lasted this long because you’d been the first to not reject his advances, because he’d seen himself in you.

If you don’t fight, if you can keep him talking, if you can convince him that this is what you want, you might have a chance at survival. It’s not much of a strategy, but it’s something, and it’s better than giving up.

“How… how do you d-do it?” you ask, a little less rasp in your voice as his grip on your throat begins to loosen, but his hand never leaves it entirely. He slides the rest of his cock inside you as you stutter out your question, and he laughs.

“You sure you wanna hear it, babydoll? Might be a bit much for you.” He’s fully seated inside you now, and the stretch of him burns. Even though the two of you have been fucking like bunnies practically every day since you’ve met, you can only fight against your body so much, and the fear you’re trying desperately not to clue him into is making every one of your muscles tighten around him.

“No! No, I-I wanna know. Tell me, please…” You bat your eyelashes up at him for good measure, and his canine grin widens some more.

“God, y’ really are just as fucked up as I am, huh? ‘S why I kept you around, ‘cause you’re like me…” He begins to piston his thick length in and out of you, affectionately tucking a lock of hair behind your ear with his free hand as he does. The other one constricts your airflow once again, and you stifle a whimper, suppressing the urge to argue and spit back that you’re not like him. “Usually strangle ‘em, little throats always fit so perfectly in my hands, jus’ like this…”

His voice trails off as he shoves into you harder, picking up his pace. Your breathing becomes broken and frantic as you claw through the black cloud closing in on your vision in your effort to keep him talking. “And then what?” you squeak out.

“Squeeze ‘em, real hard and slow,” Joel growls. “Try not to come in my jeans just from the pathetic lil’ sounds they make when they’re prayin’ to God to save ‘em. Ain’t so gentle with ‘em if they put up too much of a fight, though. Jus’ gotta cut the shit sometimes, slice ‘em open or split their fuckin’ skulls just to make ‘em stop. God, you’d never believe the amount of blood a lil’ girl like you’s got in ‘em.” He’s slamming his hips into your sore cunt now, both hands wrapped tightly around your neck as he uses it for leverage. You feel your muscles begin to slacken, either from the lack of oxygen or from his just-right strokes against that little spot deep inside, you can’t be sure. It was just a survival instinct, you’ll tell yourself in the morning.

“Yeah? It’s… it’s a lot?” you prompt, skin feeling tingly and voice coming out hoarse, sounding like it had come from somewhere else other than your own body. It could’ve just been the wind, a tractor-trailer whistling by outside.

“Yeah, ‘s a lot. Bleed so fuckin’ much, y’ think it might never stop. Just keeps—fuck—comin’...”

Joel’s voice breaks on the telltale word, his thrusts becoming frenzied and disjointed as he nears his release. A few high-pitched moans manage to squeeze past your compressed vocal chords, and they’re half-genuine, half-forced as a means to spur him on and speed up the process. The stretches of skin between his thumbs and forefingers are pressing down, down, down against your windpipe, and you plead with him as coherently as possible in your race against that darkness threatening to swallow you whole. 

“C-come, Joel, p-please, want you to—”

“Shut up, babydoll. Fuck… Eyes on me, c’mon,” he orders, shaking you by the neck to wake you up a bit, prevent your eyes from closing all the way. “Look at me. Just… lay fuckin’ still, don’t make a sound. Hold your goddamn breath, okay? Don’t even fuckin’ blink.”

He’s never demanded something like this before, but you aren’t exactly in a position to disobey. You do as he asks, and some of it comes involuntarily, anyway. With your hands laid at your sides, eyes looking into Joel’s own but somehow past them, unblinking, your mouth slack and lungs paralyzed, you almost feel like…

Like one of them. 

“Tha’s it, fuck, fuck, fuck,” he chants to himself, rutting into your limp body with abandon as he chases his high. You can’t help but let another tear slip past your lashes, and he doesn’t wipe it away this time. 

A few more bruising pulses of his cock later, and all the blood rushes back into your head at once as Joel lets go of his vice grip around your neck, collapsing on top of your still form and breathing heavily into the damp skin of your neck where your wet tears have collected. He stays like that for a while, still slotted inside you, and you let him come back into himself for as long as he needs, not daring to move a muscle until he permits you to do so. 

Joel slides himself out of your leaking hole when he’s finally caught his breath, grunting as he pushes himself up off the bed and runs a hand through his sweat-damp hair. He studies your abused form, then tuts when he notices the marks he left around your throat.

“Better make sure you wear your hair down tomorrow, I reckon. Got a decent record of keepin’ the law off my ass, I’d rather keep it that way.” 

Tomorrow. He plans on letting you live. Until then, anyway. 

“Okay,” you agree quietly.

Joel doesn’t let you out of his sight again for the rest of the evening. He’d helped you up off the bed and into the shower, where he’d cleaned both of your bodies and scrubbed the dried tears and sweat from your skin. He’d sunk his claws into your scalp as he washed your hair under the scalding water, and you wondered if the suds could carry even the intangible filth down the drain with it—the guilt, the fear, the defeat, the violation. You almost wish you hadn’t looked in the box at all. What difference would it have made, if you’d stayed with him in ignorance? Those girls are still dead. It’s not like you can save them now. You couldn’t even save yourself.

Joel changes you into one of his large t-shirts for you to sleep in tonight, instead of a frilly nightgown or something else short and revealing that he’d usually pick out for you. You suppose that the choice of clothing acts as a more visible representation of his ownership over you. He’s marking his territory, scenting you like a dog. Like you’re his bitch.

Joel holds you suffocatingly close to him in bed that night, his arms wrapped around you so tightly that it’s difficult for your ribs to expand. He keeps one hand possessively wrapped around the column of your neck, not squeezing, just to remind you what he’s capable of. As if you could ever forget. 

“Y’know what, babydoll? I think we could be partners, you and I,” Joel says in a slow, gravelly voice, right next to your ear.

“W-what do you mean?” You whisper back into the darkness.

“I just… I tried to quit, y’ know, but I don’t think I can. I don’t want to. Too damn old and slow to keep chasin’ after ‘em anymore, but… ‘f I keep you around, you’d just make the perfect bait, wouldn’t you? That pretty face, sweet lil’ smile, you could lure ‘em straight to me, they’d never see it comin’.”

“See… what coming?”

“My hands. The knife. A fuckin’ rock. Whatever, ‘s up to them.”

His words linger in the air, and you know you should say something, but how could you possibly respond to what he’s asking of you?

“You want me to… to kill—”

“No, no, ‘course not, babydoll. Wouldn’t even have to be in the room while it’s happenin’, would never ask my sweet girl to get her hands dirty like that. Jus’ gotta bring ‘em to me, tha’s all. Maybe go after ‘em if they try to run. I mean… you’d rather it be them than you, wouldn’t you sweetheart?” Joel’s hand closes in around your throat, and you understand now what he’s offering you—a deal. Your life in exchange for helping him grow his collection of victims, helping him satisfy his urges. He’s made you feel indebted to him, like you owe him something in exchange for letting you live tonight. He thinks he’s found something special in you, a victim who finally can’t run away from him, who won’t, now. There’s enough of a connection still here, although held together by fear, that he knows you won’t try escaping again. Because he saved you, the first time from starving on the side of the road, the second time from himself. And you owe him your life, now, in some form or another. 

You only nod against the pillow, but it seems to be enough for him.

Joel kisses the back of your head, breathing in the smell of your hair. “I love you, babydoll.”

His fingers press harder against your arteries, making it clear that you have no choice but to respond with what he wants to hear.

“I love you too, Joel.”

The words are still true, you think, somehow. But it just feels like you’re saying them to a stranger now.

You wish you would’ve listened to the one useful thing your mother had ever told you—not to talk to strangers, or you might fall in love.

tag list: tag list: @beefrobeefcal @iamasaddie @rebel-held @dilfgestivo @zliteraturehoe @joeldjarin @kamcrazy123 @hellowoolf @rexamongthestars @stevie75 @luxurychristmaspudding @noisynightmarepoetry @mewantpeepaw @pedritoferg @alex-does-art-things @evolnoomym @annoyingmarvelreader @k1l4ni @joelsdagger @hjzghi-blog @natalieispunk (if your name is crossed out, it won’t let me tag you!!)

[astrids-blog333]

A Ruin of His Making

Emperor!Lucius Verus Aurelius x Reader

Fandom: Gladiator II

Summary: You’re engaged to an emperor you hate. One night, in the palace halls, hatred turns to something much louder, and far more public.

Warnings: 18+ SMUT, enemies to lovers, hate sex vibes, power imbalance, semi-public, possessiveness, manhandling, dirty talk, ref to past trauma.

A/N: Set post Gladiator II, deviates from the original plot (help sorry I can't resist). All physical interactions are consensual within the story's context, despite emotional intensity and imbalance. The reader is not weak or passive; she is angry and complicated and chooses to stay. That being said, if you are triggered by cnc situations, maybe skip this one <3

MASTERLIST - REQUESTS (OPEN)

WC: 5.6k

The city smells of sweat and heat and gold-painted victory. You stand at the far end of the atrium, among garlands and silks, your fellow nobles and senators are fawning and chattering like carrion birds circling a lion.

They say Lucius Verus has returned from war.

They say he’s changed, but you never knew him well enough to tell the difference anyway.

The guards enter first, tight-faced and too tense for a triumphal return. Then comes the man himself. He's taller than you remember, broader, somehow. His cloak hangs from one shoulder, dirt-streaked and travel-worn, and there’s blood at the corner of his cuff that no one dares mention.

He does not smile. He does not bow. He does not stop. The crowd parts for him like wheat under a scythe. His eyes scan the room once and find you.

You don’t move. You don’t flinch.

Not even when he walks directly toward you, ignoring the extended hands, the simpering greetings, the half-kneeling senators who hold out rings for him to kiss.

You stand with your back straight, chin lifted. You are not some doe-eyed virgin waiting to be gifted into this marriage like a prize pig. You were someone’s wife once. And though that man is rotting beneath the stones of a family crypt, he left you with a name. And scars.

Lucius stops a foot too close.

You feel the heat rolling off him, the stench of sweat and leather and rage barely held at bay. His jaw is dark with stubble, his mouth a tight line, unsmiling.

"You didn’t bow," he says, voice rough with the weight of months spent shouting over battlefields.

You arch an eyebrow. "I am not yet your wife."

He smiles at that. Crooked. Wolfish. “Not yet. But soon.”

You hate the way his voice drags over those words, like he’s already tasted them and has decided to spit them back out.

"Did the Senate send for you?" you ask. "Or did you run back early for your wedding night?"

Laughter dances in the crowd, polite and forced. But Lucius doesn’t join in. "I came because Rome grows soft in my absence," he replies. "And because I don’t trust them to protect what’s mine."

The air between you pulls taut.

"Is that what I am?" you ask, voice flat. "A possession?"

He leans forward. Close enough that you can see the smudge of dried blood at the collar of his tunic. You don’t know if it’s his.

"No," he murmurs. "You’re a puzzle. A provocation. And they promised you to me without ever asking whether I could stomach the taste of something so bitter."

Something ugly curls in your chest, a kind of fury that never burned out properly.

"And I suppose you think I’ll be grateful to be claimed by a monster?"

Lucius tilts his head, studying you. "Gratitude isn’t required. But you will belong to me."

He says it so plainly, so calmly, as though the matter were already settled in blood and ink. Perhaps it is. You never had much say in it to begin with.

"You don’t know me," you snap.

"I know enough."

A beat. The space between you closes, breath to breath. His voice drops lower. "I know you didn’t cry at your husband’s funeral. I know he hit you. I know you learned to lie still and quiet and pretend that was love. I know that scares you more than I do."

It hits you like a thrown gauntlet, because it’s true. There is no pity in his words. No sympathy. Just knowing. You hate that he’s read your history like some battlefield report. That he’s looked at your wounds and seen something useful.

"Then you’re a fool," you whisper, throat tight. "Because I’d sooner die than lie beneath another man who thinks he owns me."

Lucius doesn’t flinch, instead, he steps closer. A breath between you. You don’t step back. Not even when his voice curls behind your ear like smoke.

"What a shame, I happen to need you alive."

You slap him.

The sound cracks across the chamber like lightning. Every eye turns. Every whisper hushes.

His head turns with the blow, but he doesn’t strike back. Doesn’t even lift a hand.

He turns back slowly, a smile blooming like blood across his face.

There’s something almost unholy in his expression, a delight and fury which you cannot decipher for the life of you.

"Careful," he says softly. "You’re starting to excite me."

You stare at him, chest rising, blood roaring in your ears. You don't know if you want to scream, cry or push him away. Instead, you step back. Only one step.

Enough to remind yourself that you still can.

The feast had barely begun to die down, but already, the guests have begun to trickle out. The heavy scent of wine lingers in the air, mixing with the distant traces of roasting meats and sweet spices. You’ve stepped away from it all, retreating into the quiet of the balcony that overlooks the garden.

Lucius had left the feast earlier, his back straight, face unreadable, no parting words to anyone but the occasional curt nod. You watched him go, and for a moment, something like relief flickered within you.

But you hadn’t expected him to come find you.

The silence on the balcony is deafening as the shadows stretch across the marble. The cool air bites at your skin, tension now gathering between you and the man who’s just stepped into the frame of the door behind you. Lucius.

You don’t turn. The weight of his presence alone makes you stiffen, your back rigid. You can feel his eyes on you, watching, waiting.

Finally, he speaks, his voice low, a whisper that still manages to echo in the stillness of the night. “Enjoying the peace?”

“I thought you’d be too busy being the hero to notice,” you say, a sharpness to your words, though you refuse to turn to face him.

“You think so little of me?” he asks, the amusement in his voice somehow making it even more infuriating. He’s close now, so close that you feel the heat of him behind you. Every inch of space seems too small for the way his presence presses against you.

“I think you’re entitled,” you mutter, fingers tightening against the stone railing in front of you. “And I think you act like you're entitled. To everything. To the power. The land. The people. And whatever part of me you can claim.”

He steps closer, his boots soft against the marble as his hand rests on the stone next to yours. His voice drops lower. “You think you’re the only one who’s been forced into this?”

You scoff, unable to hold back a short, mocking laugh. “Please. You live for this. For control. For dominance.”

His face is inches from yours now. You don’t flinch when he leans in, his breath a whisper against your ear. His voice low and venomous. “You think I enjoy this, do you? Do you really believe I enjoy being forced into a marriage I don’t want? To a woman who can’t even look me in the eye without thinking herself superior?”

The words sting, but you don’t show it. Instead, you match his venom with your own.

“If you’re so miserable, why don’t you find a way out?” The challenge is clear in your tone, daring him to try, to do anything that might make him leave you be. “But you won’t, will you?”

Lucius steps in even closer, so close now that his chest nearly brushes against your back. You can feel the heat of him, the power he exudes, and yet you still refuse to give him the satisfaction of turning to face him.

His fingers trail dangerously close to your neck, and you can’t help but shiver at his touch. “You want to make me angry, don’t you?” he says, his voice thick with something darker. “You want me to lose control.”

Then, with a suddenness that has you gasping for breath, his hand shifts, gripping your chin and tilting your head just enough to meet his gaze. The coldness in his eyes sends a chill down your spine, but there’s also something dangerous flickering there, a hunger.

For a moment, the world is silent. He holds you in place, staring at you. You barely breathe. You can feel the weight of his stare, the storm building in his chest.

“You have a sharp tongue,” Lucius murmurs, his grip tightening around your chin, his thumb brushing lightly over your lips. “But I’m starting to wonder if you really want to use it.”

You feel his thumb trace the shape of your mouth.

Without thinking, you jerk away, snapping, “I don’t want this.”

Lucius steps back, giving you space, but you can feel the tension in his movements, the anger bubbling just beneath the surface. The air is thick between you and Lucius, and the moment feels like a ticking time bomb.

The silence stretches, suffocating, but somehow neither of you seems willing to let it end. The distance between you feels impossibly small, yet you can’t quite bring yourself to move.

He looks at you like a predator eyeing its prey, and you feel it in the pit of your stomach, an unsettling pull.

“Like I said, you want to make me lose my temper, don’t you?” he murmurs, his voice dark, but laced with a wicked, almost amused edge.

You want to hate him, to despise every part of this situation. But it’s getting harder to ignore the way his eyes burn through you, the way he looks at you as though you’re the only thing in the room worth noticing.

“You think you can scare me?” You bite back, stepping forward, though the words come out sharper than you intended. Lucius watches you carefully, the smallest smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“No,” he says, voice dropping lower, just enough for you to catch every word. “I don’t want to scare you, but I know I could.”

You’re both too proud to back down. You hate him. He doesn’t like you, either. But there’s something else there, something neither of you can ignore.

Lucius takes a step forward, his eyes never leaving yours, and in a single movement, his hand reaches for your arm, pulling you toward him. The movement is swift, like a coiled spring finally snapping, and before you can react, you’re pressed against the cold railing of the balcony, his body a solid wall in front of you.

Your breath catches, not from fear, but from the intensity, the rawness of it. You’re angry, so fucking angry, but that anger isn’t enough to push him away.

You manage to fight through the fog of emotion, trying to spit out something sharp, something to cut him down to size. But the words die in your throat when he presses his thumb to your chin, tilting your face up to meet his.

“I thought you were supposed to be strong,” he murmurs, the challenge in his eyes matching the taunting tone of his voice. “Or is that just a front?”

The words cut into you like shards of glass. You try to turn your face away, but he doesn’t let you. Instead, his fingers tighten on your chin, forcing you to look at him.

“You want me to hurt you, don’t you?” he asks, his voice low, almost too soft for the sharpness of the question. “I can see it in your eyes. You want me to make you feel something, anything. Don’t lie.”

You want to scream, want to tell him to go to hell. But something in you won’t let it. You hate him for it. You hate the fact that you don’t want to pull away, don’t want to run.

You press your lips together, jaw tight with defiance, and finally you speak. “I’m not afraid of you.”

Lucius chuckles, a low, dark sound that sends a shiver down your spine. “No,” he says, his voice a mockery of sympathy, “you’re not. But that’s the problem, isn’t it?”

Before you can respond, before you can even think of another insult to throw his way, Lucius closes the distance between you. His lips crash against yours in a searing kiss, ruthless, punishing. It’s not gentle, not at all.

It’s a kiss that takes, that demands.

You can’t help but gasp, the shock of it flooding through you. You don’t want to respond. You don’t want to let him win. But as his hands move to your hips, gripping you tighter, pulling you closer, something inside you unravels.

The kiss deepens, and you’re lost in it, overwhelmed by the heat of his body pressing against yours, the way his tongue demands entrance, the way he doesn’t give you the space to breathe.

“You’re a fool,” he murmurs against your lips, his voice low and dark, laced with satisfaction. “You think you can control this. But you can’t.”

You're drowning in him, and you despise that your body is reacting to him before your mind can stop it.

You push against him, trying to break free. But he only pulls you tighter, his hands sliding down your back, pressing you harder against him.

For a moment, you forget where you are. Forget that you’re supposed to be angry. Forget that this is supposed to be a confrontation.

You barely register the first sound of tearing fabric.

Your back is pressed to the balustrade, the cold stone biting through the thin silk of your gown, but Lucius doesn’t give you the chance to think. His hands are already on the fastenings at your waist, tugging hard enough to make the seams strain.

You gasp, a noise laced with fury and arousal, and push at his chest. “Is this how Roman emperors take what isn’t theirs? In gardens, like dogs?”

Lucius breaks the kiss to laugh, a laugh so low, rough, and amused in the most infuriating way. “If I were a dog, darling, I’d have taken you by now. But I’m patient. And you’re very, very close to begging.”

Your palm cracks across his cheek before you even realise what you’re doing. The sound is obscene in the quiet night, but it only seems to deepen that look in his eyes, hunger laced with something wild.

He catches your wrist before you can drop it, pinning it to the stone behind you, and leans in close enough that you feel the scrape of his breath against your jaw.

“That's the second time you've slapped me, do it again,” he growls, eyes blazing. “I dare you.”

“You’re disgusting,” you breathe, trying to twist free. “I’d rather sleep with a beast.”

His mouth finds your throat. Biting. Sucking. “Liar,” he mutters. “You’d rather sleep with this beast.”

And then his other hand rips through the neckline of your dress, fabric tearing, your breath hitching, and suddenly you’re half-bared to the open air, marble halls echoing behind you, columns offering far too little cover.

You try to cover yourself with your free hand, but he shoves it aside easily. “Oh no, don’t be modest now,” he says, voice syrup-thick with mockery. “Not when you’re standing there like a goddess meant to be ruined.”

“You arrogant bastard-”

“You like this,” he cuts in, tone taunting. “You like being manhandled. You like me doing it.”

You want to shout. Want to slap him again. Want to deny everything.

But the heat between your legs betrays you. The way your hips press forward into him, your legs shifting restlessly, you can feel how wet you already are, and you hate it.

“I hate you,” you hiss, even as he hooks a finger under the torn edge of your bodice and yanks again, exposing you further.

“I know, you keep saying that,” he breathes. “You hate me, and yet here you are, letting me touch you like this. Moaning into my mouth. Parting your legs. Do you know how sweet you sound when you're angry?”

He kisses you again, more teeth than tongue, and your wrists are pinned again before you can react, your body arched and open to him, your gown falling in tatters around your ankles.

“I should scream,” you pant when he moves to your jaw, biting there too, as though claiming.

“Do it. Let them hear. Let them see.” His voice is low, wicked. “Let the whole palace know that you're mine.”

You hate how that word coils low in your belly, how it makes something flutter in your chest.

With one arm, he lifts you like you weigh nothing, and you gasp as your back slams into the stone column behind you, your feet no longer anchoring you down. You can feel him hard against you, thick and hot even through his tunic. He grinds into you, just once, and it forces a sound out of you that doesn’t sound like hate at all.

His mouth brushes your ear. “There’s the real you,” he whispers. “You’re dripping. I could take you right here. Against the stone. Would you stop me?”

You should. You don’t.

“Coward,” you hiss, trying to reclaim the moment. “You think I’m impressed? You’re nothing but-”

He lets go of you so suddenly you stumble, but only for a moment. He catches you again, strong arms around your waist, and then he’s carrying you, half-naked, down the colonnade.

You wriggle against him, fists pounding his chest. “Put me down-”

“I will,” he snaps. “When we reach my bed. And not a moment before.”

You bury your face in his shoulder, but all he does is laugh, cruel and triumphant.

The doors of his chamber slam open under the force of his boot. He doesn’t even pause; he strides through the room and drops you onto his bed like a prize. Like a victory.

You scramble back, shaking, hair wild, lips swollen.

He unfastens his belt, watching you all the while with that same awful, smug amusement. “Still planning to insult me, or are you going to lie back and spread those pretty legs for me?”

You launch a pillow at him. “You’re the most arrogant bastard I’ve ever met!”

“And you’re the loudest little whore in Rome.”

You gasp, half outrage, half heat, and he’s on you again before you can draw breath. He's laughing low in his throat as you claw at his tunic.

“You’re still fighting me,” he says, dragging your ruined gown off the rest of the way, “but you’re wetter than any Roman virgin. Were you always this easy to break?”

“You haven’t broken me-”

“Haven’t I?”

He’s between your legs now, and the teasing stops being verbal. His fingers slide through your slick folds, slow and deliberate, and you whine when he draws one circle around your clit, just enough to make you twitch.

“You’re trembling,” he murmurs, lips brushing your ear. “You hate me so much you can’t stop shaking.”

You try to push him again, but this time he catches your hand, kisses the palm, and presses it against his chest.

“Go on. Keep hating me.” His eyes gleam. “But don’t you dare stop moaning.”

You don’t. You can’t.

Because his fingers are slipping lower, slow, deliberate, two of them curling inside you, and the sound you make is more like a sob than a gasp. You want to turn your face away, but he’s already watching too closely, already smirking like he knows.

“You feel that?” he says low, pushing deeper, twisting his wrist. “How wet you are? It’s obscene.”

“Stop-” you manage, but it’s pathetic. Your thighs are shaking.

“No,” he breathes. “You don’t want me to stop. Say it. Say you want it.”

You grit your teeth. “I want you to choke on your own ego.” He laughs again, lips brushing yours, still fucking you slow with his fingers. “Admit it, little bride. You’d rather choke on me.”

“Fuck. You.”

His grin widens. “Believe it or not, love, but that's the idea.”

Then he slams into you with his fingers, harder now, and you arch off the bed with a strangled sound. Your nails dig into his shoulders, seeking something to hold onto that isn’t your dignity.

“You’re soaked,” he mutters. “You’d let me take you anywhere, wouldn’t you? Against the column, the floor, right in front of the Senate. You like being ruined.”

“You’re disgusting,” you pant.

“And yet you’re dripping for me.”

Every roll of his fingers is pushing you closer, making it harder to breathe, to speak, to hate. You try to close your legs, to regain even the smallest control.

“Don’t,” he snaps, pushing your thighs apart. “Don’t you dare hide from me.”

“I’m not-”

“You are.” His voice dips. “But I want to see the moment you break. I want to feel it.”

You growl, but your hips are still grinding down against his hand. You’re trying to win a war on a battlefield he’s already set aflame.

Then he pulls his fingers free, wet and glistening, and holds them up between you.

“Look at that,” he says darkly. “And still pretending you don’t want me.”

You slap them away.

He grabs your wrists again, pins them above your head, and grinds his cock against you through the thin barrier of his clothes. You moan despite yourself.

“Say it,” he breathes, teeth gritted now. “Say you want me.”

“I don’t-”

He lets go. Just long enough to shove his tunic over his head, exposing the scarred stretch of his chest, the line of muscle down his stomach. You don’t mean to stare, but you do.

“Oh,” he purrs. “You’re staring. That’s new.”

You lunge up to push him, but he grabs your thigh and flips you onto your stomach like a rag doll. You yelp, trying to twist back.

He presses your chest to the bed with one hand, pulls your hips up with the other, and drags the head of his cock through your folds.

You go still.

The moment stretches.

“Ready to beg now?” he asks, tone silken.

“I will bite your fucking throat out.”

“Then I’ll fuck you while you try.”

And with no more warning, he drives into you.

You scream. Not in pain, not entirely. The stretch is sharp, unforgiving, but it’s the invasion that overwhelms you. He doesn't ease in, doesn’t wait. He sinks all the way to the hilt in one brutal thrust and stays there, one hand locked on your hip, the other on the back of your neck.

“You feel that?” he growls. “That’s mine. All of it. All of you.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you hiss, voice trembling.

But you clench around him.

He groans, deep and unrestrained, and begins to thrust. Rough, relentless. The bed slams into the wall, your moans torn from you against your will.

“You sound like a whore,” he mutters, reaching forward to grab your throat, pulling you up against his chest.

You gasp, back arching, hair falling in wild tangles as he fucks into you from behind. Your legs tremble.

“Say it,” he growls again. “Say you want me.”

“No.”

He slides one hand between your thighs again, fingers rubbing your clit in tight, relentless circles.

You break.

Your body clamps down on him so violently that it makes him stutter. He thrusts through it, snarling, riding it out as you tremble and shake, breathless and wrung out.

“Liar,” he hisses in your ear. “You wanted this. You needed this.”

You’re still spasming around him when he flips you onto your back, fast and rough, before he plunges in again. This time you cry out with every movement, overstimulated and gasping.

“You should see yourself,” he pants, rutting into you. “Hair a mess, mouth open, legs shaking. Ruined.”

“Fuck… fuck you-”

“I am.”

He leans down, bites your lower lip, and slams into you harder. You moan into his mouth.

“You’re done pretending,” he whispers. “You can’t lie anymore.”

You claw at his shoulders. “You’re a monster.”

“Then why do you keep pulling me closer?”

You hate how right he is. Hate how good he feels. Hate the second orgasm building already, tighter, fiercer.

“You’re going to come again, aren’t you?” he says, tone mocking. “My poor little bride, soaking and speechless.”

He slams into you again. Your mouth drops open, but no sound comes out.

“Thought so.”

Your eyes roll back.

He fucks you like he’s trying to prove something, not just that he owns your body, but your pride, your defiance, every last bit of control.

When the second climax hits, you cry out so loudly he has to smother your mouth with his palm.

“Too loud,” he growls. “Don’t want the whole palace hearing how well I fuck my bride-”

But he doesn’t really care. You can see it in his eyes. He wants them to know.

You collapse beneath him, breathless, soaked, undone.

He comes not long after, hips snapping, voice raw as he spills inside you with a shudder and a growl of your name.

Silence, for a breath.

Then he shifts and leans over you, bracing himself on shaking arms.

Lucius moves slowly. And when he withdraws, you feel the thick, wet ache of it. You shift, a low hiss escaping your throat.

“Too much for you?” he drawls, brushing your hair from your cheek. “Pity. You took it well enough while I was ruining you.”

You manage a scowl, though your body’s trembling with aftershocks. “I should kill you.”

“You’d miss me.” He grins. “So would your cunt.”

He rises from the bed in a single motion, his body shadowed by the low lanterns, and you don’t expect it when he leans down, hooking his arm beneath your knees and lifting you from the sheets.

“Put me-”

“No.”

Your fists beat weakly at his chest, but you’re too sore to mean it. His seed still slicks your thighs. You’re marked, ruined, utterly dishevelled. And now you’re being paraded.

He strides from the bedchamber and out into the marble corridor of his private suite, bare, flushed, and grinning like a wolf. His bathchamber lies across the hall.

The door is open.

So is your mouth when a figure, a servant, pale and wide-eyed, turns at the end of the corridor. Sees everything.

Lucius does not flinch.

In fact, he smirks.

“Get out,” he says, not even glancing their way. The command is casual, but lethal.

They flee.

You burn.

“Scandalous bastard,” you hiss.

“Shall I drop you in the corridor then?” he offers, eyes glinting.

You don’t answer.

Steam curls from the bronze basin sunk into the floor, warm and waiting. The scent of oils hangs thick in the air, clinging to your skin even before it’s wet.

Lucius doesn’t stop. Doesn’t ask. He steps straight into the bath, water clinging to the muscle beneath as he lowers himself, and you, into the heat.

You hiss when it touches the rawest places. Bruises. Scrapes. You still feel where he stretched you.

His hold on you tightens, not to restrain, but to shield.

“I was going to warn you,” he murmurs near your temple, voice silked with cruel satisfaction. “But you just had to be difficult.”

You half turn in his arms, scowling, exhausted. “You enjoyed it.”

His teeth flash. “Of course I did.”

He reaches for a cloth, dips it into the steaming water, and wrings it out with a lazy flick of his wrist. The motion is slow, like the way a man sharpens a blade, not because he needs to, but because he enjoys the ritual of it.

Then he touches you.

The cloth slides up your thigh. Gentle. Unreasonably gentle.

You flinch. He feels it.

“I’m not him,” he says, low and close behind your ear.

The cloth moves higher, over the place where his fingers left bruises. It’s tender, the touch. Not apologetic, but… reverent.

You close your eyes. “I know.”

He doesn’t reply.

Just continues, slow, precise. Cleaning you as though you belong to him and no one else may touch. The cloth traces your waist, your belly, your breasts. Over the angry red marks blooming on your throat.

“Filthy little thing,” he says, almost absently, as if it’s a compliment. “Look what I’ve done to you.”

You shift against him, half-hearted. “Is this what passes for aftercare in the palace?”

“I could leave you filthy, if you prefer,” he offers, mock-casual, dragging the cloth up between your legs now with unbearable slowness.

Your breath catches.

He smirks against your neck. “Didn’t think so.”

His free hand is splayed across your stomach, keeping you against his chest. You’re in his lap, flushed and quiet.

When he finishes, he doesn’t speak. Just leans forward, pushing your wet hair aside to press his mouth once to your shoulder, unhurried, like claiming land he already owns.

Then he reaches for a towel, presses it into your hands.

“You can walk,” he says. “Or I can carry you back.”

“I can walk,” you mutter again, clutching the towel.

He raises an eyebrow. “You’re bleeding a little.”

You pause. Then glare.

“From me,” he adds, calm as marble. “You’ll forgive my pride.”

You turn away before he can see your face twist with fury, and shame, and something deeper, quieter, that gnaws at your ribs.

But you only make it a step before he steps into your space and lifts you again, without asking, without effort, arms locked tight beneath your knees and back. The towel shifts, slipping down one shoulder.

“Lucius-”

“I’ll carry what’s mine.”

You tense, heart pounding, as he strides from the bathchamber bare-chested and unbothered, with you cradled like a spoil of war.

And then, the worst.

Not a servant.

A senator.

A senior one, older, important. His brows lift, his jaw tightens, and for a long moment he simply stares.

You freeze in Lucius’ arms.

Mortified.

Bare legs, damp collarbone, bitten lips.

You try to twist, to cover your face in his chest, but the towel shifts again, and Lucius doesn’t even slow his pace.

“Domitius,” he says, cool and smooth as ever.

“Emperor,” the man replies after a beat, eyes still sharp with thinly veiled judgement.

Lucius only smiles.

Then shifts his grip around you, just enough to make it clear you’re not just some fleeting mistress. No, he’s holding you like a bride.

“You’re not dismissing him?” you whisper furiously as they pass.

“Why would I?” he murmurs. “Let him tell the court how you looked when I was carrying you home.”

He chuckles low in his throat. “Shall I walk slower?”

“You’re disgusting.”

“And you’re trembling. Again.”

He carries you back into his bedchamber like nothing happened.

Deposits you on the rumpled sheets with the same hands that had bruised your thighs and cupped your face like glass.

Lucius lies beside you. He doesn’t reach for you. Just watches.

The fire’s down to embers now, and for a moment, it’s quiet.

“You’ll hate me again tomorrow,” he murmurs, eyes on the ceiling.

You turn your head toward him. His hair’s a mess. A dark curl falls over his forehead. He doesn’t brush it away.

“I already do.”

There’s no heat in the words anymore. Just a strange, exhausted ache. Like you’ve both burned through something and don’t know what’s left.

You lie in silence.

Until, after a long while, you feel his arm shift and settle across your waist. Not tight. Not demanding.

Just there.

You don’t move.

He breathes, slow and steady, and just before you drift, you feel him press his forehead into your shoulder.

Almost like he’s praying.

You wake to sunlight cutting sharp across the marble floor.

The bed is warm. Too warm. Your legs are tangled in silken sheets, and your mouth tastes of salt and heat and something darker still. You shift and wince.

Everything aches.

Your thighs. Your hips. Your throat.

You drag the cover up as you sit, slowly, wincing again when the bruises sing beneath your skin. There are fresh marks on your wrists. On your collarbone. Teeth, fingers, his name written across your body in touches no one will dare speak of aloud, but everyone will know.

The door creaks.

Lucius enters fully clothed.

Hair swept back. Tunic dark and rich, imperial red. There’s a goblet in his hand and a parchment tucked under one arm.

He looks at you like a man admiring the aftermath of war.

“Sleep well, betrothed?”

You glare. “Barely.”

A slow smirk.

He steps forward, sets the goblet down beside the bed and takes the seat across from you like you’re in court again.

“I expect the palace has already heard.”

“I expect the city has.”

He tilts his head. “Let them. What can they do?”

You stare at him, this man who had torn you open with teeth and hands and never once begged forgiveness. He’s not softened in daylight.

You pull the covers tighter.

He watches.

“Say it,” you snap, before you can stop yourself.

“Say what?”

Whatever insult he’s been sitting on. Whatever cruel line he’s crafted for the moment he saw you like this, rumpled, silent, aching from him.

Instead, he leans forward, rests his elbows on his knees.

“I like you better ruined.”

Your breath catches.

And he smiles, slow and hungry, like he already knows that when he touches you again, you won’t fight quite as hard.

I'm so tempted to write a part two to this, but I have another Lucius fic idea I want to write first. If anyone would be interested in a part two to this, lemme know and I can bump it up in my priorities 🤗

[wndaswife]

Wanda returns to bad habits after her breakup with you.

Tags: references to smut, lot of angst!, self-destructive habits, toxic relationship, abuse, possibly triggering topics, unhealthy sex, cheerleader!wanda, references to fem!reader

Word count: 2439

Before being with you, Wanda didn’t know that there was any other way of having sex. In fact, she didn’t think sex was something one could even tie emotional connections to. 

You and Wanda never had sex until she was the one who brought it up, nearly two months into the relationship. Granted, in the beginning, Wanda never regarded it like a real relationship, taking your feelings for her for granted, using your love for her as entertainment. 

She was uncertain when you first had sex; you asked if she was feeling alright, if you were making her feel good, and you were gentle, taking time to run your hands over her body and get to know her in ways you hadn’t before. 

It made her feel so seen, so thought of. 

Wanda wondered about a lot of things for the first time when she watched as you kissed down her body, carefully undressing her and treating her delicately. 

When she laid on her back, her hip bone became more prominent and casted a shadow over a birthmark she had on her left hip, making it seem like it disappeared. Would you notice it while you were taking your time unbuttoning her pants and kissing her lower stomach?

She felt her bottom lip tremble and the back of her nose tingle with incoming tears when you pressed a kiss to it, your thumb brushing against it softly as you descended further. 

In some way, it felt good to have her clothes taken off of her so harshly her thighs burned briefly against the denim waistline of her jeans, to have nails digging into spots you would kiss tenderly, to know her body only ever belonged to you in the way you took her because she was only treated so harsh when she wasn't with you.

Wanda wasn’t close to the boys she slept with, though after being with you she didn’t quite have the same interest in being with as many as she used to. 

Vision was the only one Wanda had enough energy to see. He intellectualized his violence, at least — tried to explain that he couldn’t help but want to claim her and make her his. When he was able to pull at her hair, bend her how he wanted, slap her, spank her, redden her skin and bruise her flesh while he claimed her until he was fatigued, she belonged to him. 

She understood the rationale, enjoyed the distraction of being someone else’s rather than belonging to herself, or having to come to terms that she didn’t know herself enough to be anything on her own, or to be forced to realize that in her lack of herself, there was a lack of you too.

Why didn’t you fuck her until she was telling you it was too much? Why didn’t you make her question whether she’d reached either her threshold of pain or pleasure when she told you to stop?

Which she never did, because she never had to. 

It was miraculous the things you could read in her body — the twitching of her hips away from your fingers or a furrowing of her eyebrows.

You knew when she had enough, and when she needed more. 

Why didn’t you treat her like everyone else did?

“Was Y/N boring?” Vision asked, wrapping an arm around Wanda’s body and pulling her against his side. He took her chin in his hand and turned her head to the side to press a kiss to her lips. 

Wanda felt a pain in her chest when anyone mentioned you; the only role you had in her life now was when other people brought your name up. She was only able to interact with you through discussing her time with you in the past tense. 

“No,” she answered. “She wasn’t boring.”

He reasoned, “She didn’t know you at all.”

Wanda didn’t know whether she wanted to protest and give away what was special about her relationship with you to someone else. But then he added, “The CD she put together for you, the poems and all those dull gestures — you don’t like that.”

“And you know me better?” Wanda retorted, frowning and attempting to pull away from him slightly, only to be pulled back by how his arm wrapped around her shoulders completely. 

“I know how to treat a girl.”

She held back a scoff, mostly because she wasn’t interested in arguing about you; you were too precious of a memory to discuss in argument. 

You were a memory that was hers and hers only. 

But she couldn’t help but come to your defense, for a part of her did want to talk about you, to keep you in her life that way. 

“She tried her best,” she said, leaving out the part that you’d tried your best in spite of how terrible of a girlfriend she was to you, how she used you and your feelings for her to entertain her friends. “She cared.”

Some time close to the end of the first month you were together, you put together a CD of songs for her. Wanda had never been given something like that before, didn’t understand the significance nor what you were trying to do by gifting it. 

‘For Wanda,’ it said — so simple.

She didn’t think twice before giving it to her friends.

One of them put it into their laptops and they listened to it together, wanting to see what kind of things you put together for her for your sham relationship Wanda hadn’t been putting any effort into, though a part of her was curious in a way that her friends weren’t. 

After the first two songs, skipping through most of them to get a general idea of your effort, they moved onto something else, even resolving to throw the CD out. 

Wanda argued that that would’ve been a bad decision in case you asked about it or wondered where it had gone. 

When she got home, she put it into her own laptop, her chest filled with a feeling she couldn’t explain but often felt around you when she looked through the songs and found that a majority of them were ones you or she had mentioned before. She remembered you asking if she’d ever heard of some of them. 

She listened through the entire CD that evening, laying in bed as she did. 

It felt like every word was made for her, and it felt special; you listened to all of them too, picked them out, and put it together just for her. 

She loved them all. 

Vision’s expressed contorted. “Cared about what?”

“Cared about me,” Wanda spoke quietly. 

When she thought of you, the way you made her feel, the way you cared for her, Wanda wasn’t able to do it without the inevitable following of pain. 

You cared for her like no one else had ever, treated her so gently and loved her selflessly, and now you couldn’t, and now you didn’t. 

But to voice it out loud, to speak it out into existence that she had known your love, and more than that, to know that it was no more, felt different than just reminiscing, allowing her memory to form your love into a reality in which, maybe, you just didn’t love her as much as she remembered you did. 

As much as she knew you did. 

Did she ever make you feel loved?

One afternoon, the day the two of you were planning on going out for a picnic, you came to her apartment looking conflicted and confused and upset. One of Wanda’s friends had told you about how the relationship was initially meant to be a joke, that Wanda was dared to go out with you once one of her other friends noticed that you were into her.

The things you were told and then repeated to Wanda made the things she had done to you so much more real, for in the beginning, she didn’t quite take things seriously, so the terrible things she had done almost didn’t exist.

It almost felt like she had done it all to someone else.

For her, the relationship didn’t really start until she started falling in love with you.

Suddenly, you knew that she had cheated on you several times during the first month you were together, that she had shared your poems and the CD with her friends, that she repeated all the sweet and thoughtful things you did for her to them.

At the time they meant nothing to her — how could you love her, anyhow, how could the things you did mean anything to you?

They thought the dedication and feeling you put into a fake relationship was funny. Maybe they also couldn’t fathom Wanda as deserving of that kind of love either.

Wanda never thought it was funny so much as she thought it was absurd. It was as if someone was speaking a different language to her.

“How did she care about you?” Vision asked, sounding slightly defensive. “Did she treat you like I do?”

What a fucking joke, Wanda thought, for him to place himself in your likeness, even by distant comparison.

Wanda was becoming irritated, and she would’ve much rather when he told her that she was made for getting slapped around, forcing her to swallow the truth that she liked when he did. 

But her mind flooded with memories anyways in spite of her annoyance at Vision’s prodding. 

You’d called her beautiful before, so it wasn’t the first time she’d heard it, but there was once after you’d had sex for the first time that Wanda often thought about. 

She was laying on her side, cuddled close enough to you that she could lay the back of her hand against your stomach, close enough that your hair brushed against her forehead when she adjusted her head on her pillow. 

The both of you were under her blankets. She felt warm, wrapped in your body heat as your arm draped around her naked waist. 

Your arm unwrapped itself from her and Wanda opened her eyes. She hadn’t been sleeping, but she liked how it felt not to talk and not to go anywhere — just to be close to you. 

She thought you might be leaving, but instead your hand came to her cheek, your palm warm from how it had been laying against her lower back. 

You brushed her hair away from her eyes. 

She couldn’t explain the way you looked at her — it wasn’t with any sort of intention to dominate or claim or dissect her. 

You were just looking at her, taking her in. 

At that moment, she felt a sort of pressure to perform, wondering if she should smile or blush or ask what you were looking at, but she could only look at you back, in silence. 

You’re so beautiful, you said. 

“She treats me nothing like you do,” Wanda presently told Vision, slightly resentful as she spoke. She was silent for a moment before adding, “She… made me feel special, and important.”

He could only scoff. “That’s pathetic.”

How could it be pathetic, the way you made her feel? The gentleness of your hands, the curiosity in your eyes, how loving your kisses were, how you made her feel beautiful.

Wanda laid, bored and as pathetic as Vision had said, as he unwrapped his arm from around her and turned her onto her stomach. 

Maybe if she was able to hate herself enough, she could prove you wrong, recall the memories of your love and see you as a liar or as deluded, in order to deal with the fact that she no longer had you.

Vision was good at it — making her feel deserving of hatred and filth. He would hurt her and spit the most degrading insults at her, and he’d tell her how wet she was getting, how he could feel her twitching around his cock, slap her across the face and feel her tighten, pull her hair and feel her pushing her ass back against him.

She felt the hatred and the degradation and the objectification, and each time, hoping that it would recode her body, recondition her skin to know only violence and hurt. But each time it only reminded Wanda that the feeling running through her wasn’t what she felt with you.

You’d never do these things to her, never make her feel this way.

Everything that distracted her from you could only ever be defined as a lack of you.

Anything different from you, wasn’t you.

To remedy that, she tried to think of how you might react to seeing her this way. She only felt shame; you’d think she was a monster, as fucked up like Vision had said.

If you saw the things she let happen to her, listened to the words she got off on, would you still love her, think she was beautiful?

Once, Vision asked Wanda if maybe she would’ve liked you more if you’d treated her like he did. Maybe she wouldn’t have fucked around with your feelings for her if you treated Wanda as he knew she deserved.

The idea of those horrible words coming out of your mouth, the anger and the violence and the disgust, made Wanda nauseous. She remembered going home the night he suggested it and throwing up. 

You would never.

You’d never.

She tried to redefine you, thinking that maybe if you hated her you would, that you fantasized about hurting her, but even then, Wanda couldn’t imagine it. She couldn’t because she didn’t only see you as the way you loved her, but as who you were.

You were kind and gentle.

Every time she left Vision’s place, she thought every moment of her interactions with him over, trying to hate herself for things he did to her and things she let him do because she liked them. She wanted to go back to when the things you did for her meant nothing, when your love was a language she couldn’t understand.

But she couldn’t erase any of it from her memory, couldn’t rewrite it, couldn’t pretend it didn’t happen.

Anything she felt and experienced after you broke up with her was only an absence of you.

Wanda wondered if you often thought of her, or if she even crossed your mind. Maybe you were glad to have gotten rid of her. She hoped you hated her, so that way she could imagine that she didn’t cause you pain.

She hoped you might just forget about her altogether.

[who-knew-a-sheep-can-write]

Leon Kennedy General Dating Headcanons

🌙 His sarcastic quips do not stop at all when you two start dating. He has dad jokes at the ready no matter the occassion. It really gets him when he sees you try to beat back a smile.

🌙 He's a very good cook which shocked you when he invited you to his house for dinner. He didn't seem the type at the time, but he put out a beautiful and delicious meal. The only thing he can't do is bake for the life of him. Even the ready made cookie dough that just needs to be baked burns with him. It's an enigma.

🌙 He's a complete mix of the golden retirever and black cat tropes. He's all sweet and loving while being so sassy sarcastic. He balances both so well in your relationship.

🌙 He really makes an effort to be close with your family if you're still with them. He didn't have one for long growing up from his traumatic past, but it's really important that your own family accepts him. If you don't talk to your family much anymore, he's not going to stress or ask questions.

🌙 On the topic of his traumatic past, he often has horrible nightmares that wakes him up in a cold sweat. Raccoon City, Spain, it all still weighs on his shoulders despite putting on a brave face for you.

🌙 He often has a reoccuring nightmare that you somehow get infected with whatever sick virus and turn into a zombie. Those really stick with him throughout the day and really gets him to think: Could he actually pull the trigger?

🌙 He doesn't do it often anymore, but every once in a while he will drink too much just to forget about it all for awhile. He's since heavily slowed down since dating you. He doesn't like the thought of you worrying about him or even being disgusted by him when he's drunk and depressed, but there are days where it's all just too much.

🌙 He constantly keeps you updated when he's out on duty. He hates keeping you in the dark, especially when he's away for long periods of time. If he can't message you, he has Hunnigan do it for him. It's very rare to not get at least one message a day from him just to let you know that he's alive.

🌙 He likes it when you react well to him being all dressed up. Tug on his tie, snap his suspenders, let your hands linger on his blazer a little too long. He loves the tease, it riles him up and really makes the time fly, especially when he's in a meeting with government officials.

🌙 He loves having his hair toyed with. Whether you're gently scraping your nails against his scalp, brushing his bangs out of his face to look into those pretty eyes, wrapping his dirty blonde locks around your fingers. He loves it all.

🌙 Whenever he gets home, he always does the same thing. He opens and shuts the door behind him, drops his bags to the floor and opens him arms as you run right into them. Wrapping his arms tightly around you, you both just stay there for a few minutes, but it really just feels like forever to him.

🌙 He loves going on car rides with you, especially ones that can last for hours. He'll never get tired of them. He's really loves it when he holds your hand as he's driving, occassionally bring it up to kiss at it while keeping his eyes on the road.

🌙 Acts like he's not a fan of the cop puns and jokes, but he really is. Despite being a police officer for only one day- and that day involved a bunch of zombies and an apocolyptic city- he was still a cop officially for one day. Something about the way you call him "Officer Kennedy" just gets him going.

🌙 He listens to divorced dad rock. Sorry, but I don't make the rules. At first it started out as a joke but it really just became something he comfortably listens to.

🌙 He can never bring work home with him, especially reports that need to be filled out and brought back asap. He just gets too distracted by you. Even if he holes himself up in his office, just the sight of you innocently passing by his door with a load of laundry at your hip makes him suddenly want to help with the laundry.

🌙 He introduces you to Claire and she is honestly dumbfounded that Leon managed to catch and keep someone with as stupid of a personality he has. She is so excited to meet you though. She then proceeds to tell you about some embarassing moments about Leon when she met him Raccoon City.

🌙 Ada doesn't really show her face when you're around, but you do know of her. Leon was completely open and honest about her and answered all of your questions truthfully.

🌙 He has a shameless love for Agatha Christie and Michael Connelly. Say what you want, Leon loves them and often can be found reading them in the night while he tries to drift off.

🌙 He's not a fan of cop shows, though. He turns his nose at the thought. But medical dramas? Leon will eat that shit up- House is his favorite. He steals some snarky remarks from that show.

🌙 Loves it when you smell like him. You first had to use his cologne when you were out of your own body spray. It was just an innocent thing he did, but it became something that he loves doing. Every so often, Leon will mist your clothes in the closet with his cologne just a bit so the smell lingers but isn't overpowering.

🌙 The handsome hunk of man is really good with personal hygiene and taking care of himself. Moisturized skin, conditioned hair, hydrated lips. It all makes up for it when he sometimes has to go days, even weeks with bathing. He really does hate the smell of B.O.

🌙 He can be very persuasive with you when he wants to be. Leon has a silver tongue and he knows it. He often uses it when he wants to do something very personal with you. He gives you those dreamy eyes and speaks to you in a low voice. It's almost hypnotic.

[whisperofaflame]

♡ Collision Course ♡

Chapter 3: The Cat, the Witch and the Spider

WandaNat x [femme, innocent] Reader

Collision Course – Masterlist

Link to full fic (so far) on AO3

Story Summary:

After moving to New York, a collision while cycling sends you flying into the lives of Wanda Maximoff and her wife, Natasha Romanoff. Together, they teach you a new way of belonging and being loved.

Chapter Summary: You spend the rest of the day in Wanda's company, anticipating the return of her wife, Natasha.

Word Count: 6.6k

Featuring: A really cute cat, and the first appearance of Natasha.

When you pull yourself out of your daydream, you realise you haven’t been to the bathroom for hours, and you really need to pee. You stand up and hastily make your way out the bedroom and into the bathroom on the same floor. You’re so focussed on your need that it isn’t until after, when you’re washing your usable hand at the sink, that you notice the state of yourself. Starting at your chin and spreading up your right cheek is a patch of pink, grazed skin. You look awful; it’s very evident that you endured something untoward recently. It looks clean though, so you consider that someone must have seen to it at some point this morning, since it most likely came from your close encounter with the tarmac, and that must have left some residue. It’s funny, how seeing your injuries in the mirror triggers your brain to receive the pain. You can feel the sting in your cheek now that you know it is there, now you understand the signals. You wonder if it was all getting mixed up with the shoulder pain before.

You look down at the rest of you, seeing your top is worn thin beneath the sling, where it dragged along the road. Your jeans too look a little battered, but there don’t seem to be any rips or holes. You wonder what your legs look like beneath, whether there are more scrapes hidden under the denim, or any purple patches emerging under your skin. You’d really like to change out of your jeans into something more comfy, but it occurs to you that it’s going to be an ordeal to change with only one arm, and your non-dominant arm at that. Even going to the toilet was a faff. 

Looking at yourself in the mirror again, you realise there is perhaps one thing you can do to improve your appearance even a little. Your hair is sticking up all over the place, half in and half out of the bobble you wrapped around your ponytail before you left your flat this morning. No wonder Wanda keeps brushing it out your eyes. And as lovely as it feels to have her gentle touch, you’d much rather look presentable in front of her. 

You remember there is a mirror in the walk-in closet of your bedroom, which you glanced in your periphery when Wanda was showing you around. So you head back there, and wiggle your hairbrush out the toiletries bag, after wrestling with the zip a while. You’ve found it’s best to attempt everything with one hand first, and only employ the dangling fingers of your right arm in the direst of straights, since any use of that side inevitably provokes an intensive throbbing in your broken bone. So you wrangle the tool out with a single fumbling hand and approach the mirror with a grimace of determination. 

It’s clumsy work, making you really how lopsided your muscles must be in your body, but you just about manage to tame your hair with your left hand. That is, until you gain confidence and start making fast, cocky strokes — which you simply don’t have the dexterity to control. The full weight of the hairbrush, plus the momentum you’ve pushed in with your hand, collides with your collarbone, and you have to bite hard on your lip to stop yourself from screaming. You hiss out through the cracks, scrunching your eyes shut and squeezing out a few tears. A range of swear words run through your head as you try to fight the feeling with ferocious thoughts. 

It doesn’t really go away, but it does subside a tiny bit after half a minute of agony. You force yourself to take deep breaths and look up at yourself again. It’s good enough; no more hair brushing for now, you decide. 

You don’t feel particularly tired anymore; your dozing in the car seems to have been enough to revitalise you. So there’s nothing to do but go downstairs and join Wanda in the kitchen. You wonder about bringing something down with you, something to do, but you decide against it. For now, you’ll just go with the flow. 

You leave the bedroom door open as you leave, since it feels private enough tucked away at the top of the stairs, and you don’t have anything to hide anyway. Then you take careful, quiet steps down the winding staircase. Down to the level with Wanda’s bedroom, then down again to the entrance level, as the sound of classical music slowly seeps into your consciousness. 

You turn to your left at the bottom of the stairs, stepping softly into the kitchen in your ankle socks. Wanda is at the stove but she twists to face you, greeting you with an all-encompassing smile, which reaches her eyes and softens her shoulders. 

She’s so beautiful. 

“Here, sweetheart,” Wanda says, pulling out a bar stool from under the island in the middle. “Take a seat while I cook.” 

You awkwardly shimmy onto the high stool, feeling off-balance due to your rigid right side. Then you place your good hand on the counter and push against it to spin the stool, so you can face Wanda. She places a hand gently on your knee.

“I’m making a big omelette for us,” she tells you with a smile. Then she tilts her head slightly. “I hope that’s okay?”

You nod, feeling dazed. It’s hard to focus like this, when your senses are assaulted by her kindness from all avenues — her voice, her smile, her touch. Wanda gives your knee a light squeeze, then she turns back to the pan on the hob. You chew your lip and press your hand between your legs, just above your knees. It’s only now that one arm is out of action that you realise how fidgety you are, since you’re constantly initiating motions to clasp your hands or arms together, all of which have to be aborted when you remember your arm is off-duty. Instead, your feet find a little rung on the stool and you lightly bounce your left leg up and down while you watch Wanda. She’s moving so fluidly, her body responding ever so slightly to the music playing from a radio on the corner of the counter.  She hums a little too, happily occupied in her cooking. You let the sight, the sound, the smell wash over you.

When Wanda finishes the omelette, she pulls two plates out of one of the overhead cupboards and begins plating up. Your processing is so slow in the wake of the accident that it’s only when she lifts the plates and turns that the idea of offering help occurs to you.

“Sorry — can I do anything?” You stand up from the stool, and it creaks a little with your hasty motion.

Perhaps Wanda sees a certain desperation in your eyes, because she gives you a token task to do.

“Thank you, sweetheart. Could you bring the glasses over, please? I’ll come back and get the jug.” 

You nod, and wait until she’s walked past you before approaching the counter and gently stacking the two glasses Wanda took from the cupboard. Then you carry them across to the dining table with your remaining hand. Wanda passes you again on her way back, and smiles. You duck your head to hide flushed cheeks, and set the glasses down one at a time, beside each plate. Wanda turns the volume down on the radio, then fills the jug from under the tap and then carries it over, meeting your watchful eyes. She sets it down, then pulls out the chair beside you. You’re about to move to the other side of the table, sure you’ve managed to accidentally hover at her spot, but then she gestures with her hand for you to sit. 

“Thank you,” you mumble, as you obey without question. You slide in front of the chair, and lean down to pull it forward, but it moves slowly without your input. So you sit, and turn back to see Wanda smiling down at you. She briefly places a hand on your intact shoulder, then moves round the table, taking the seat opposite you. 

A warm, cosy feeling settles in your stomach. You feel a little exposed, with her facing you, but her kindness is chipping away at your discomfort and softening your demeanour. Wanda picks up her fork and flicks her eyes towards your plate meaningfully, so you lift yours too, and begin to eat.

It’s a little awkward, only having one hand, but luckily the omelette isn’t too difficult to cut with the side of your fork. The two of you eat in peaceful tandem, and you’re surprised by the ease of the silence, the lack of pressure to speak. It’s appreciated, because you can’t think of anything to say right now, and your brain probably wouldn’t comply if you were obliged to answer any questions.

The first interruption of the meal comes from the stairs, a loud and insistent meow which makes you jump. You turn to see a small white cat approaching the table with slightly skittish steps as it scopes out the two human bodies at the table.

“Oh, silly me,” Wanda chuckles. “I’m sorry Y/N, I forgot to tell you… Meet Mayakovsky. Or, Myau-kovsky, as Nat calls him. Because he meows so much.”

Mayakovsky stops a few steps from the table, tail flicking and eyes watching you intently. You glance at Wanda for permission, and she smiles. So, very slowly, you crouch down on the floor, and extend your left arm, hand in a fist except for your index finger, which you stretch out for a greeting.

Mayakovsky’s tail settles into an upright curl, and you wait patiently, trying not to move or stare at him too intensely. Soon, your patience is rewarded by his approach, cautious at first, but then confident as he begins to trust you. He boops his nose against your finger, then goes round to his right, rubbing his cheek against your fist and sliding along your outstretched arm. Your face lights up at his acceptance, and as he circles behind you, tail wrapping round your legs as he goes, you slowly turn your head to Wanda and grin happily. 

“Well, he’s taken to you rather quickly, sweetheart,” she says, laughing lightly. 

When Mayakovsky comes back around to your front, you slowly sit down on the floorboards, and offer your hand again. When he rubs his head against you, you turn it into a testing stroke, and you hear and feel him purring against you. 

“You’re very handsome,” you whisper to him. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“He is very handsome,” Wanda agrees, “but he’s also a bit of a liability.”

“Really?” you ask, wondering what sort of antics he gets up to.

“He’s deaf, but also not very coordinated, so he often falls off things when he gets a fright. If you need to get his attention or let him know you’re there, it’s best to step heavily on the floor so he can feel the vibrations.”

You nod, and look back at Mayakovsky, who’s nudging you to give him more pets. His whiskers are tickling against you, making you giggle. You stroke him a while longer, until he gets bored, or remembers what he came in for. He trots over to Wanda, and meows loudly again, like he doesn’t realise how loud he’s being. Which, you suppose, he can’t.

“OK, OK, I’ll get you something,” Wanda tells him, standing up. You return to your seat at the table and watch as she goes into the kitchen and takes a bag of cat food from a cupboard near the door. Then she pours a small amount into a bowl, partially hidden under a shelf, which might be why you missed it when she showed you around. Once the bag is away and Mayakovsky’s face is buried in the bowl, she opens the balcony door a little, letting in a welcome breeze.

“Nat thinks I spoil him too much,” Wanda sighs, coming back to you and leaving Mayakovsky to eat. “But I can’t help it, he’s just too cute.”

“He is,” you agree, taking another bite of your omelette. “How long have you had him?”

“Not long; I adopted him less than a year ago. Nat wasn’t happy at first,” Wanda laughs. “But then, it was a surprise for her — I adopted him the day I found out about him, and didn’t have a chance to warn her. It took her a while, but I think they’re quite fond of each other now, though neither of them will admit it.”

You grin, but inside you’re beginning to feel a little worried about meeting Natasha. You can’t help but feel that you, like Mayakovsky, are a surprise arrival. And you’re certainly nowhere near as cute as him, which must have helped ease the blow. 

Mayakovsky finishes his food, and trots out the slight opening of the door to the balcony. Wanda explains that there’s a cat flap downstairs too, so he can get out even if the door is closed. You finish your omelette and drink some more water, feeling the cold liquid dripping down your throat and quenching the thirst you hadn’t registered until now. 

Wanda stands to clear the table, and you help her stack the plates and carry everything through to the kitchen.

“How are you feeling?” she asks, as she loads the plates, cutlery and glasses into the dishwasher.

You shrug. “I’m okay. A bit sore though.”

“Of course, sweetheart” she nods, then glances at her watch. “You can have some more painkillers in an hour.”

Your head tilts in question, wondering how she knows this. Wanda huffs out a half-laugh, and smiles at your confusion.

“The doctor who gave us your medication, darling. She said you could take it every six hours, but we should count from the drugs you were given in the ambulance around nine this morning.”

“Oh,” you say, realising you remember none of this, despite your attempts to appear engaged in the hospital. Maybe the concussion is affecting you more than you think.

“It’s okay honey, I can keep track for you until you’re feeling a bit better.” Wanda reaches over and squeezes your hand. “I can’t imagine how confusing all of this must be for you, but you’re doing just fine, alright?”

There’s a tensing, twisting feeling in your chest; you feel so comfortable and self-conscious at the same time, and you don’t know how that can be.

“Now, what would you like to do this afternoon? I wondered about watching a film downstairs, to let your body rest a bit. What do you think?”

You shrug, then nod very slightly. You don’t have any other ideas, and a movie sounds nice. Internally, you wonder if she will join you. You hope that she will join you. 

“Alright,” she says, closing the dishwasher. “Let’s go down, then.”

You scoot out of the way to let her lead, still not confident enough to initiate anything. She smiles at you ask she passes, and looks over her shoulder to watch you tiptoeing behind her. When you reach the stairs, you’re able to use the banister on the left side to reassure yourself on your descent. You still feel off-balance with your right arm strapped tightly against your torso, and as the painkillers begin to wane inside your body, the bruising impact of the crash is beginning to emerge in your legs too. Wanda watches you the whole way down, glancing back and pausing when you slow.

“That’s it honey,” she encourages you softly. “Take it slow.” 

When you reach the bottom, she grants you a quiet “good job”, and you bite your lip in an attempt to restrain the blushing.

Wanda leads you to their living room space, sitting down on the sofa and patting the cushion beside her. You sidle behind the coffee table and perch down slowly, lowering yourself with your good arm on the sofa and leaving an appropriate gap between you. Sinking in to the sofa and surrounded by cushions, your jeans suddenly feel more restrictive and uncomfortable on your body. The denim grating against grazed skin, digging in to your tummy as you sit. You begin to regret leaving them on and not changing when you could. You’ll just have to bear it, and hope that you can be distracted from the feeling.

“What would you like to watch?” Wanda asks, picking up the remote and turning the TV on. 

You shrug. It’s silly, and a little rude maybe, so you force yourself to find the words. “Don’t know.” Still, it feels insufficient. “I’m sorry, I can’t seem to think…”

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” she reassures you, interrupting your babbling explanation. “Let me think for you. Just let me know your thoughts if and when you can.” 

You nod, with a small smile of relief. It’s a welcome reprieve, to be given the opportunity to rest. Leaning back against the cushion, you feel your muscles relax, making you realise how much tension you’ve been holding in them for hours. Wanda watches you, and smiles at your contentment. 

You look up at the TV screen, your breath slowing. Wanda navigates to Netflix, and flicks through some options. You find it hard to keep up with the changing images, so you let your eyes wander a little, turning slowly to face her and gaze at her intent expression.

“Hmm,” she hums, thinking. “When I’m feeling under the weather I like to watch something relaxing, like a Studio Ghibli film.”

You perk up at that. “I love Studio Ghibli films!” you pipe up, eyes jumping back to the screen.

“Have you seen this one?” Wanda asks, highlighting Kiki’s Delivery Service. You frown, and shake your head. “It’s one of my favourites,” she tells you, and you turn back to her.

“Can we watch it then?” you ask, realising you’ve assumed she’ll stay, but hoping she intended to anyway.

“Of course, sweetheart. Let’s see if you enjoy it as much as I do.”

You smile, sinking deeper into the sofa, happy that she seems to be settling down to stay too. She starts playing it, and tucks her feet up so that her legs are crossed on the sofa beside you. Her knee is very close to you now; you can feel the heat of her body. But you force yourself to focus on the screen, which doesn’t turn out to be hard. You’re very quickly transfixed by the gorgeous animation, the gutsy young witch and her doleful cat companion, Jiji. You’re so engrossed that you gradually forget where you are, and who you’re with. In the scene when Jiji the cat sticks his tongue out and blows a raspberry into the air, you giggle and pull your feet up onto the sofa, forgetting Wanda’s proximity. Your foot bumps into hers, and you’re brought back to earth at once, blushing at your clumsiness and the level to which you have become invested in the film. You tuck your feet underneath you a little tighter, so your crossed left foot can’t bump into her right. And you stare back at the screen, determined not to look at Wanda and show her your burning face.

After a while, Wanda puts her feet down on the floor and shuffles to the edge of the sofa. 

“I’m just going to get your meds, sweetheart,” she whispers in explanation. “I don’t want you to leave it too late and get more sore.”

You blink at her, thoughts still occupied by the film. As she stands, your brain finally catches up.

“Thank you,” your murmur, and she gives you a little smile before passing in front of the coffee table and returning to the stairs.

In her absence, you shuffle back into the left corner of the sofa so that you can rest you legs out without intruding into Wanda’s spot. It’s a little uncomfortable though, because you need to stay at a certain angle to avoid pressing your bad side into the sofa.

When Wanda returns, she is carrying a glass of water in one hand and the pill bottle in the other. She sees your shifted position, and frowns briefly. 

“Honey, switch over to my side,” she directs you gently. “It looks uncomfortable, having your shoulder against the cushions.”

Because she’s phrased it as an instruction, rather than a question, you feel obliged to obey without offering an initial polite refusal. You swing your legs to stand, and sidle between the coffee table and the sofa to sit in the opposite corner instead. Indeed, when you sit down it is a lot more comfortable. With your right arm facing out you can lean back fully, and relax your core muscles. Plus, there’s still the hint of warmth on the cushion, the ghost of her body heat left behind.

Wanda crouches down beside you, and holds out the glass of water. You have to sit up again a little bit, afraid of spilling, before taking it in your left hand. Then she opens the pill bottle, pressing and twisting with both hands to undo the seal and overcome the child-lock. She shakes one pill out into her hand, then twists the lid back on with the tips of her fingers and places the bottle onto the table.

“Ah,” she says, realising at the same time as you that you now don’t have a hand to take the pill with. A wild, imagined image of her placing it on your tongue leaps to the forefront of your imagination, and you’re suddenly gripped by the terror that she can somehow see it, read it on your rubescent face. You hand back the glass, averting your gaze, and let her swap it for the small white pill instead. You open your mouth just a little to let it in, then take back the glass and wash it away with the water. It gets a little caught in your throat, and you pull a face without meaning too, grimacing as you try to flush it down with more water. Finally, it relents its grip and disappears down the pipe.

Wanda takes the glass back from you in her right hand, and simultaneously brushes your hair behind your ear with her left, making you catch your breath at her soft, whispering touch.

“Hopefully this will help your pain a bit,” she says, frowning at you sympathetically. You lean back again, looking into her grey-blue eyes, blinking stupidly. Then you nod, because she doesn’t seem to be moving, and you’re not sure if you should be doing or saying something. She smiles at this, and shuffles in front of you to sit on the other side of the sofa, where she’ll surely also feel the warmth of your body beneath her. She’s also chosen to sit right beside your feet, and you can almost feel the charged space between your toes and her thighs. 

“Do you want me to go back a bit?” she asks, gesturing to the screen when you look back at her in confusion.

You shake your head. “It’s okay,” you say quietly. She smiles, nods, and turns back to watch the film. And you do the same, tension evaporating as you focus on the story again, letting the music lull you. You’re so comfy, and the movie is so calm and comforting with its soft colours and gentle music. It gets a little blurry and harder to see, but you don’t really notice, and you definitely don’t mind. Slowly, your eyes flicker and begin to close, as you drift off to sleep.

When you wake, you find a soft blanket draped over your body. Turning to face the screen, you see it has been turned off. Wanda is sitting at the far end of the sofa, tucked into the opposite corner, legs crossed and hands rhythmically knitting between them. She glances up, and her face breaks into a smile.

“Hey, sweetheart. Good sleep?”

You have to think a moment, still catching up to where you are and what has happened. Finally, you nod. 

“How long was I out for?” you ask quietly.

“Just over an hour,” Wanda tells you, her voice gentle, like she’s trying not to startle you so soon after waking. She leans down and places her knitting on the shelf beneath the coffee table. “I was just thinking I should wake you up soon actually. Nat should be home from work shortly, and I’d better start making us some dinner.”

You sit up, eager not to hold her back from her daily routine. The blanket falls away from you a little, reminding you that she must have tucked it in around you while you were sleeping. The thought makes you feel a lightheaded, giddy kind of joy. But then you realise that this fuzzy, cosy state you are in is not how you want to be when you’re introduced to Natasha, who sounds capable and serious and discerning.

“Is it okay if I go upstairs and get changed? You ask, feeling there is finally enough incentive to justify the inevitable pain of removing your scuffed clothes. 

“Of course, darling. Do you want any help?”

“No thanks,” you say hastily, terrified at the notion of her seeing your body when you’re trying so hard to contain (and deny) all your haphazard emotions. “I appreciate the offer, but really, I’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure?” she asks, fixing you with a look that makes you feel like you’re being x-rayed. “It might be tricky with your sling, honey. I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

“I’ll be careful, I promise,” you assure her, trying to sound confident, despite fully agreeing that yes, it will be tricky.

“Okay,” she relents. “But I’d prefer to wait outside your room, and then you can call me if you get stuck, alright?”

You nod, biting your lip as you consider the premise, imagining getting stuck halfway through changing and having to desperately call for aid in such a compromising position. The thought makes you shudder. 

You peel back the blanket, attempting to fold it but hardly managing with one hand. Wanda smiles at you though, so you think it will do. 

The two of you walk up the stairs together, climbing the three flights to your — no, the guest — bedroom. Once there, you take a deep breath, summoning all your resolve to complete this task. Wanda waits, as promised, outside, and you close the door over most of the way behind you. 

It’s an almighty ordeal: even just shimmying out of your jeans and pulling on a loose pair of joggers feels like a marathon effort, and involves a lot more painful leaning than you expected. With your lower half sorted, you immediately realise how stupid you were to assume you could manage any of the next part by yourself. It dawns on you just how dependent you are now, at least until your collarbone heals enough to move your arm without excruciation. Throwing caution to the wind, you attempt to undo the sling, breathing heavily in wheezing pants of pain. But then you are stuck, crying out as the weight of your arm is released and you are forced to tense it in position, the energy rippling through your bones. 

“Y/N, honey, can I come in?” Wanda asks, sounding desperate. 

You can’t reply verbally, you’re expending all your effort on trying not to scream. But the door opens anyway, and she’s rushing to you, hushing you gently, hands taking over with reassuring efficiency. You close your eyes as she supports you, checks for your consent. When she asks what you want to change into you open your eyes just enough to gesture at the baggy t-shirt you laid out on the bed. You nod pathetically whenever she asks if she can proceed, desperate just to get it over with, no longer worried about your dignity since it’s already gone, deserted from your body along with your tears.

“Sweetheart, I don’t want to be too forward, and you can absolutely say no if you’re not comfortable, but do you maybe want me to take your bra off? I just wonder if it’s adding pressure to your collarbone…” Wanda asks, cautious and gentle.

You really think about this. It occurs to you that it will have to come off at some point tonight, and maybe it’s better if you get it all out of the way now, rather than having to rehash this undignified sequence again later today.

“Um, w-would you?” you ask, very quietly. “It’s just, it is kind of uncomfortable, and I don’t… I can’t…” You tail off, but she is quick to reassure you.

“Of course I can, sweetheart. This must all feel so awkward, hm? But it’s okay. I’m happy to help, you just need to let me know if you want me to stop at any point.”

“Okay,” you whisper, and duck your eyes down again. 

It’s embarrassing, yes, but Wanda is very careful and respectful as she helps you undress. She focussed her attention entirely on keeping you right arm at the least-worst angle, and averts her gaze expertly from the source of your self-consciousness. Slowly, so as not to jar you, she slips the t-shirt through your sore arm and then over your head, letting you contort your left arm through the sleeve yourself. Then she gently reassembles the sling on your body, making sure it’s sitting right and the fabric of your t-shirt is smoothed out underneath.

“There,” she whispers, “all done.”

You breathe out a deep, relieved breath, and cautiously look up into her eyes.

“Thank you,” you tell her, really focussing on holding her gaze, since you are desperate to communicate the full extent of your gratitude. Your collarbone aches something rotten after all the contortion of changing, but you feel infinitely more comfortable now that you’re out of the clothes your body was violated in.

“You’re so welcome,” Wanda assures you, placing a hand on your head and smoothing down your hair in a light stroke. “Now, I’m going to go downstairs and start cooking. Do you want to join me, or would you like some time to yourself before dinner?”

Her touch is like a drug, one that leaves you desperately wanting more. You feel a tugging sensation inside you, one that yearns to stay near and languish in wait for more of that feeling, of her fingers against your skin, of her soft lips smiling nearby.

“Can I come with you, please?”

She smiles, and the small glint of her white teeth between her lips is like the glint of heaven’s gates breaking through the clouds. 

“Of course, sweetheart. Such good manners,” she hums approvingly. You blush, and take her hand automatically, which you think she was holding out for you, but now you’re not sure. She doesn’t let you doubt though, because she squeezes your hand gently in hers, like she wanted it all along, even if she didn’t.

Back in the kitchen, you offer to help but Wanda distracts you with a recipe book, somehow convincing you to flick through and find something to bake tomorrow, and making you forget you ever asked to assist her. You’re gazing avidly at a photo of some expertly iced cupcakes when you hear a door opening in the distance, and turn around with a hint of trepidation. 

Through the open-plan level, past the table and the armchairs, you can see a woman has entered the main door, and is putting her shoes away.

“Hello, my love,” Wanda calls out. “We’re in the kitchen.”

Your body cools at once in anticipation of meeting Natasha. Does she even know you’re here? Has Wanda told her to expect you?

Natasha approaches, her gait confident and casual. She’s maybe slightly shorter than Wanda, and her body is more lean. You can see the muscles in her arms as she walks, and you notice her posture is straight and strong. When she nears, you observe her face. She has dyed red hair, glossy and clean in a tight french-braid at the back. She’s also beautiful, in a striking, slightly intimidating way. She fixes you with an inquisitive stare, and you again have the feeling that you’re being x-rayed, though this time, it feels a little less friendly.

“Nat, did you get my message?” Wanda asks, walking over to her and giving a chaste kiss in greeting. Natasha reciprocates, but quickly returns her gaze to you, frowning slightly as she answers her wife.

“Only just,” she says shortly.

“Well,” Wanda smiles between you and her wife. “Nat, this is Y/N.”

“Natasha,” she says, nodding her head to you. And you’re caught between thinking that she’s introducing herself, versus instructing you to call her by her full name.

“It’s nice to meet you, Natasha,” you say, but it comes out in a little squeak which rather diminishes the formal impression your were going for.

Natasha gives you a very brief smile, then takes a breath in and looks to Wanda.

“Right, I’m going to take a shower, if that’s okay. When will dinner be?”

“No problem, my love. It should be ready in fifteen,” Wanda tells her, turning slightly so you can no longer see her expression, only the slight cocking of her head from the back. You think Natasha might give a small nod of her head, but it might have been a meaningless movement. Then she gives Wanda a quick kiss, and departs upstairs. 

You watch her go, feeling a little crestfallen, and mentally chastising yourself for letting it get to you.

It doesn’t matter, you tell yourself. Maybe she’s had a bad day. And besides, she’s entitled to feel a little taken aback by you, you’ve essentially gatecrashed their lives.

“Don’t worry about Nat, sweetheart,” Wands tells you quietly. “She… Well, it takes her a while to warm up to people. It’s not personal, okay?”

You look up at Wanda’s face, furrowed with concern like she yearns to make sure that you aren’t taking her wife’s behaviour to heart. Her words are a bit reassuring, though they don’t quite go all the way to assuaging the worry that you’re not wanted. But you nod, forcing a smile, because somehow it pains you more to see Wanda worried, and you desperately want to be a good guest for her, since she’s going to all this trouble to help you. So you try to reassure her in a casual manner.

“It’s okay — I hadn’t really noticed it anyway,” you say. It’s a lie, and perhaps an obvious one, judging by the way Wanda’s lips curl into a somewhat pitiful smile. But you don’t pay it much mind; your focus is stolen by her hand reaching out and taking hold of your left hand. She clasps your fingers from below and wraps her thumb on top to draw light circles on the back of your hand, watching as your body reacts unconsciously, eyes fluttering in hazy delight.

“Just give her some time,” Wanda hums, her words echoing in your brain like a mantra. “Soon she’ll be as taken with you as Mayakovsky and I are.”

You blush, and smile to yourself, looking at your lap as she squeezes your hand and lets you go. She returns to her cooking, and you turn back to look at the recipe book. But you’re not reading or looking at the pictures at all. None of the pages turn, as you’re engulfed by the giddy feeling that maybe, just maybe, you are wanted after all.

Eventually, Wanda pulls you out of your haze and asks you sweetly if you can set the table. You nod quickly, and almost fall off the stool with your eagerness. She chuckles and catches you with an arm at your waist.

“Careful, honey,” she laughs, and you grin bashfully in return. 

You set the table in a slow, laboured manner, since you only have one arm to carry things, and Wanda gives you a light warning not to stack things when she sees you attempting to balance three plates in one hand. So you go one item at a time, trying to get the right balance between speed and stability. Natasha appears as you’re finishing, her hair loose and damp on her shoulders, watching you as she attempts to dry it with a towel. You avoid her gaze, feeling uncomfortable at being perceived so intensely by her. You wonder what Wanda told her in the message; you wonder what she thinks of you. 

When Wanda calls for you both to take a seat, you wait for Natasha to sit first, scared of taking her place and causing a greater rift between you. She looks at you for a moment from her seated position, observing your body swaying slightly on the spot in indecision, before she pulls out the chair beside her. You bite your lip, and force yourself to smile at her, before travelling round the other side of the table and sitting down. 

“You look a bit rough,” Natasha says bluntly. “What happened?”

“I, um, don’t really remember,” you say, in an awkward, stilted manner. “Wanda says I was hit by a truck at the intersection.”

Wanda carries over a big pan, filled with the sweet-smelling apricot and chickpea tagine she told you she was making. 

“She was, Nat; it was awful,” Wanda explains, brow furrowing sympathetically at you as she relates the story. “It hit her from the side; I was right behind her, so she was flung onto my bonnet. I only just stopped in time — she could have been crushed otherwise.”

“Broken collarbone?” Natasha asks you, and you blink in surprise.

“Yes,” you respond, surprised by her quick and accurate diagnosis. “H-how did you know?”

Natasha shrugged. “Broke mine a few years ago. It really sucks, I’m sorry.”

You give her a small, grateful smile, which has to double up for two kindnesses when she takes your plate for you, serves you a portion, and places it down again.

“Thanks,” you murmur. She just nods simply, and focusses on serving herself. 

Wanda asks some general questions about Natasha’s work day, and Natasha offers some vague answers in return. You’re not really listening though, you still feel a bit groggy from the pain and the meds and the sleep. Plus, you’re concentrating really hard on eating your tagine without spilling it on you.

The quiet sounds of chewing and light scraping of cutlery against plates is disrupted by a loud meowing from the door. Mayakovsky strides in, and you watch as he approaches Natasha’s chair, then opens his mouth to release a black, eight-legged mass which wriggles as it falls to the floor.

You and Wanda both jump in surprise, but Natasha just laughs and rolls her eyes.

“Of course you would save this for me, malen'kiy negodnik,” she says with a dramatic sigh.And she confidently scoops up the spider in her hands, nimbly avoiding Mayakovsky’s desperate swipes and standing up with her hands cupped around his prey. You watch as she walks to the balcony door, opening it wider with her elbow, then steps outside and releases the spider into one of the plant pots. Mayakovsky stalks behind her, but then scarpers down the steps, abandoning his prey in search of something better. 

Natasha comes back in, closes the door behind her with one of her toned arms, and walks to the sink to wash her hands. 

“What would you do without me, ladies?” she calls out cockily.

And, hearing her husky voice and watching her self-assured movements, you realise with a jolt to your stomach that you may now have more than one crush to contend with.

Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed the introductions of Natasha and Mayakovsky. Here is a photo of the cat that inspired him (the real version belongs to my friends; this beautiful boy is also deaf and he has a crooked tail so he's not very coordinated. He is blessed with pretty privilege, however). ♡

[antoimne]

Like Him

Dark!Toby x gn!Reader - Relationship AU (sorry if it’s ooc, notes at the end).

“You loved him — messy, complicated, heartbreakingly and beautifully fragile. You really thought you could hold him together. Assemble his pieces one by one, shard by shard. But in the end, those same pieces became sharper and sharper. They’d started to cut you, deeper and deeper, until there was nothing left to bleed.”.

TW: violence, swearing, toxic relationship (also mentions of past trauma but it’s Toby so you can guess).

(art in the header by @/shatteredankles).

Rain scraped violently against the window, the sound almost putting out the indistinct voices from the small TV in front of you.
Your eyes, empty and unfocused, followed the flickering scenes, trying to grasp what was happening on screen — but your thoughts were elsewhere. Anywhere, really. Anywhere but on the man sitting across from you.

Toby’s eyes twitched downward. His knuckles turned white, trembling hands gripping the couch like it was the only thing keeping him grounded. The way he held on looked painful — fingers clenched tight — but if it hurt he couldn’t know, nor did he seem to care.

You didn’t want to look scared. Or anxious. He was your boyfriend, after all. You’d known him for years — through high school, through the ups and the deep downs.

But lately you’d been asking more and more whether or not did you really know him at all.

Your leg bounced involuntarily, a silent signal betraying the tension in your body. You'd been questioning everything — how much of him you ever actually understood . He’d become aggressive. Spiteful. Cruel.

He wasn’t always like this… or at least, you didn’t remember him being like this. Not with you. But recently, things had gotten worse.
Fights over nothing. Walking on eggshells. Constantly on edge, waiting for something — anything — to set him off and trigger his inevitable meltdown.

You’d reached a point where you knew leaving was the right choice. It had gotten toxic. Suffocating.
Maybe you could still salvage yourself from the cycle you were stuck in. Maybe he could heal too.

But whenever you tried you simply couldn’t leave. Not really.
Because every time the storm passed — when calm, broken Toby reemerged, the awkward boy you’d fallen for — it pulled you right back under.

He hadn’t said a word for minutes. The silence was unbearable. His fingers tapped against his knees, quick and frantic.

You kept asking yourself what you’d done. Was it something you said? Something you didn’t say?
Or was it just one of those days where the past came hunting him, merciless and loud?

“Why won’t you look at me?”

The words snapped through the air, cutting sharp and sudden.

“What?” you asked, startled.

“I said fucking— fucking look at me!” His voice cracked. “Dammit! Fucking loud-ass box—”

He launched the remote at the TV. The screen cracked with a sickening pop, glass shards scattering across the floor. Where just moments ago a couple had been holding hands on screen, now was just a hollow void.

“…Are you okay?”

Big mistake.

“I am. Stop treating me like I’m some kind of fucking idiot,” he snapped, pacing around the room.

You watched him warily. He didn’t even know why he was like this. Something in him just… snapped. Mind and body out of sync, like a guest in his own skin. He could almost see himself from the outside, watch his action with no way to intervene.

“I’m sorry,” you offered gently, cautious as if approaching a wounded animal. “It’s just—you’ve been on edge all evening. I thought maybe—”

A sudden punch to the coffee table made you flinch. The wooden surface shook under the impact, making a terribly loud sound.

“Then stop thinking. Stop dwelling in your bullshit.”

He saw your involuntary movement. Just like a reflex, he stepped closer.
Your fear only seemed to fuel his rage more.

“You’re scared.”

You didn’t answer. Just closed your eyes, let out a deep sigh, and prayed this wouldn’t escalate. Not again, not now.

“You’re scared of me.”
A hollow, bitter laugh escaped his lips.
“You think I’m a monster, don’t you? Just like everyone else does!”

Another punch — this time to the couch’s headrest, just a few inches from your head.
You jumped up, backing away instinctively.

“Toby, you need to—”

“No! I’m sick of this. I’m not the monster everyone says I am!”

“I’m not speaking to you until you calm down,” you said, voice low and steady — as steady as you could manage.

But he kept coming. Careless and angry.

“You think I like this? You think I enjoy losing control?” His voice broke. “Because I don’t! I’m tired. Exhausted. When will this fucking end?”

You kept backing up, the room feeling smaller, tighter. Like a cage. And he was the predator ready to jump at you and eat your very core until there was nothing left.

“You said you were different,” he hissed. “But you’re just like the rest. You said you’d stay—but you’re a fucking liar!”

“I am staying,” you snapped back, voice trembling. “I’ve always been with you. But I’m tired too, Toby. Give me a break.”

He froze. Something changed in his eyes — the fury folding into pain.
Raw, exposed, unbearable pain.

The kind of hurt not even his condition could soothe. The kind that never got easier, no matter how many hits he took.

“You’re lying,” he whispered.

You raised your hands almost in an act of surrender, trying to steady your breath.
“Look, I’m not feeling safe right now. Let’s just… save this for later.”

“No. Why won’t you talk to me? Why are you scared?”

“Because you’re acting like your damn father, Toby. It’s fucking scary!”

Silence.
Your hands flew to your mouth. The words had slipped out — and there was no way of taking them back.

“Don’t you fucking mention him,” he growled.

“I’m sorry…”

“Oh no, you’re not.”

His face went blank — cold, terrifyingly empty.
And then he struck.

A loud slap, hot and fast across your cheek.

You cupped your face, the sting nothing compared to the hollow ache swallowing your heart.

“What did you make me do?!” His eyes widened, panic settling in.

He suddenly felt his skin again. He looked down at his hands- up at you and then back down.

“I’m not—” He stumbled backward. “Don’t come closer,” you warned.

“I’m not like him… I’m not…”

He kept muttering it, as if trying to convince himself more than you, clutching his own hand like he couldn’t believe what it had done. His eyes refused to meet yours.

“Don’t come closer,” you repeated, voice sharper now, cutting sharper than a knife could.

He stopped in his tracks, panic struck on his face.

“I’m done, Toby. I love you—but it’s not enough.”

Your voice cracked as you grabbed your jacket, moving toward the door.
Silence settled — heavier than all the previous shouting.

You had seen the signs all along. But you had chosen to ignore them. You loved him — messy, complicated, heartbreakingly and beautifully fragile. You really thought you could hold him together. Assemble his pieces one by one, shard by shard.

But in the end, those same pieces became sharper and sharper. They’d started to cut you, deeper and deeper, until there was nothing left to bleed.

“No… don’t leave. Fuck! Please…”

The door closed behind you in a loud thud.

Notes:

Hello!:)

So I’ve been missing my Wattpad creepypasta/fandom writing phase for some time now and I was like, why don’t I try something? So here I am!

This is kinda a way to practice for an original story I’m writing and it’s currently 00:30 am and I’m sleepy so sorry if it’s not the best (also English is not my first language so sorry in advance for spelling mistakes 🙏🏼).

Anyway, this is a small something for a au with Toby (he might be ooc but wtv) and I really don’t know if I should continue? We’ll see. In the meanwhile, take this as a first post from me on here! :D

[softnwonderful2]

NSFW Alphabet: Joel Miller - The Last of Us

Pairing: Joel Miller x Gn!Reader Word Count: 2.9k Rating: Explicit Warning: Straight up filth. Sexual Content obviously, Canon-Typical violence, mention of Cum Marking, Creampie, Somnophilia I guess (idk how to discribe it but it's non-con, skip letter D = Dirty Secret if you don't want to read that), Daddy kink, Inocence Kink, Orgasm Control, Voyeurism, mention of Face Fucking, Cockwarming (oral), Dirty Talking, Exhibitionism fantasy. As always, let me know if I'm missing something.

Author's Note: This applies for both Pixel Joel and HBO Joel, but definitely pre-Jackson because i think a few things would change as he gets older. Some of the letters are too long, some too short, it's 3am and I'm tired; enjoy.

SEXUAL CONTENT UNDER THE CUT. YOU ARE RESPONSIBLE FOR YOUR OWN CONSUMPTION.

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex) 

He’s big on physical contact, so he goes for some cuddling if the context allows it. He loves to have you use his chest as a pillow and your body curled against his side. He even enjoys the sticky feeling of the thin layer of sweat over your skin, mixed with any remaining bodily fluids. He will put some effort on looking for a damp cloth to clean both of you up if you prefer, but if it’s up to him he won’t move a muscle.  

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s) 

He’s a pretty simple man, so of course his favorite part of his body has to be his dick. But I don’t blame him, he has reason to be proud. He’s never bragged about it, but he was definitely pleased with the amazed look in your eyes the first time you saw it and took it in your hands. If his dick weren’t an option, he would say his hands; they do a lot for him, from playing guitar to pulling a trigger.  

When it comes to you, he adores your hips. It’s not so much about shape or size, but rather functionality. Being able to grab you intensely and manhandle you to whatever position he pleases, controlling the pace and strength of every thrust with his hands digging in your sides, it makes him feral.  

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically) 

He cums an impressive amount, not enough to be concerning or anything, but it is quite a lot.  He’s also a nasty old man about it, he won’t make you swallow it if you don’t want to, but he will make it his mission to use it to mark as many parts of your body has you allow him. His favorite thing to do with it is fill you up to the brim, so when he pulls out, he can collect any drop that flows out of you and shove it back in with his fingers.  

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs) 

He never told you this and maybe never will but, when his attraction for you was on its early stages and he was still unsure whether he should approach you in a more insinuating way or not, he had trouble keeping his impulses at bay.  

This one time, you had been walking for hour towards your next destination, when the sun started to set and decided to camp on a little corner in the wood that seemed relatively safe. It was a humid night of summer, so you didn’t need to start a fire and barely made use of your sleeping bags, simply laying on top of them to avoid touching the soil beneath you. Joel took the first shift of surveillance while you slept by his side, but he couldn’t stop himself from staring; the way your clothes hugged your body and the expression in your face looked relaxed like never before, it made him feel important to know you trusted him enough to let your guard down completely like that.  

Soon enough, he found himself getting lost in the slow movements of your shallow breaths and the soft noises you made in your sleep, and by the time he realized he already had his hand down his pants, massaging his growing erection. He jerked of to the sight of your slumber body that night, with his cock in hand so close to your face he almost painted your lips with his cum.  

E = Experience (how experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?) 

He had his fair amount of adventures when he was young, and most of his experience comes from that. After he settled down and later on became a father, he didn’t have enough time or energy to keep on “improving” his abilities. So even after years had passed since the initial outbreak happened, he kept the number of hookups as reduced and shallow as possible, using them only as a distraction to cope with the circumstances he’s up to live in.  

The point is: he is pretty experienced and know what he’s doing, but he might be a little rusty at first; he’ll compensate with enthusiasm and some really good dirty talk.  

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying) 

Missionary and the Flatiron are his go to, he gets off on the idea of being on top of you, pinning you down with his weight while covering you from view. He loves to feel big and strong. Of course, he’s open to try any other position you’re curious about, he’s not picky.  

He’ll let you get on top in very few occasions, only when he feels comfortable enough to let his guard down and have you completely exposed riding him. 

And for the days he feels particularly feral, he likes the Mating Press, to keep your ankles by your ears while he takes you like an animal. 

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? Are they humorous? Etc.) 

He usually reflects the common emotions someone would feel during an apocalypse, that means sex with Joel ends up being very serious and intense, always tinted with the underlying fear of losing you or the uncontrollable anger towards anyone who makes his job of keeping you safe harder.  

But in the rare cases you can allow yourself to overlook to the societal collapse all around you, he can get a little giggly and teasing. 

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? Does the carpet match the drapes? Etc.)  

Before the outbreak he used to be pretty well groomed, always keeping things tidy. But obviously that's not an easy habit to maintain when you have more important thing to worry about, like surviving the day. Let's just say que trims his pubes very occasionally.  

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? The romantic aspect) 

Aside from the times he fucks you like a beast, he’s actually super gentle. When you have the time, he likes to patiently caress you all over and enjoy every little touch, he doesn’t go straight to fucking. And even when he gets there, he’s really passionate about it, like every time you do it might be the last (because it could be) and the end of the world is near (you are literally living through it). 

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon) 

Almost never did it before he met you, only few times when bored and needed to pass the time. In moments like those, he would stroke himself really slow and even edge himself a couple of times to make it last as long as possible; he liked to squeeze every last drop of pleasure out of it.  

After you entered his life though, it felt like a curse; he didn't remember struggling so much with his urges since he was a teenager. When you spent time together, he would have to tear his eyes away from your body after promising himself that he wouldn’t stare. And even when he managed to get some alone time, your image invaded his thoughts, and he just had to relieve some tension. 

When you finally got together, he had the urge to do it but didn’t see the point; he had you now, so he didn’t need to.   

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks) 

He’s not a very eccentric man, so he goes for simple concepts. Don’t get me wrong, he can be kinky, just don’t expect him to be into anything too unusual like idk clowns. 

Joel prefers to be in charge, you know, what he says goes (he is willing to surrender control, but you only get a glimpse of that once you get to Jackson, and he allows himself to relax). So, naturally any type of power dynamic that includes you calling him names like Sir or Daddy drive him crazy. He also enjoys knowing he’s more experienced than you when it comes to sex. Maybe he’s your first, or you are younger and didn’t get much of a chance to experiment before the outbreak happened; whatever the reason may be, it pleases him in a dark and selfish way. Expect him to whether edge you repeatedly or make you cum over and over again, he likes controlling your orgasms as well.  

On the times you end up having sex to release stress after a particularly difficult day (by this I mean: days where he thought he would lose you to the hands of infected, or had to torture some guy that wanted to hurt you), he goes quite primal without even realizing. The sounds that come out of his mouth are no other than growls, and he eagerly humps you like there's no tomorrow.  

I also think he might have some fantasies he doesn’t act on because they’re just too impractical for the apocalypse, like bondage or fucking in front of a mirror. Getting tied up is extra dangerous in case you happen to get attacked by surprise, and finding a mirror that’s still standing after 20 years of chaos is not an easy task.  

L = Location (favorite places to do the do) 

Again, not picky as long as it’s safe enough. He does like to fuck you standing more than he thought he would, so not having a bed it's not really a problem to him.   

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going) 

Might sound creepy but: watching you when you're not looking. Seeing you relaxed and happy or doing somewhat domestic tasks makes him feel like his doing a good job at protecting you and keeping you safe.

And he loves the view of you in your most natural, sometimes quite vulnerable, state. Like when you take advantage of some clear river to wash yourself as he sits there, alert to any danger, while still getting lost in the sight of your naked body dancing around the water, showing your back to him and looking over your shoulder as if you had something to hide to the eyes that have already seen it all.  

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)  

Hurting you physically or causing you any type of pain is out of question. Even things like hard spanking or light choking would take a lot of convincing for him to give in to even try once. He doesn’t see the point on causing each other pain when you already live in a world where you are constantly trying to avoid it at all cause.  

Also, no Cuckholding or Swinging, so basically no sharing, the thought alone has him raging.  

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.) 

Big oral giver (I'm trying to stay gn! here), loves a good earthy smelling bush to shove his nose in. He’s so filthy about it, too. He’ll be locked in, drowning in between your legs, lost savoring your core while grinding against whatever he can make use of, without even trying to make you cum but making you shake from pleasure nonetheless.

He also loves when you give him head, but feels guilty to want to force fuck your face. He knows how it feels to have you gagging on his shaft, and he’s scared of how much he likes it. He’s terrified of losing control and hurting you accidentally. If you are into it though, some talking and setting boundaries might convince him of doing it more often. 

HIs favorite way of having you is sitting down, with you on your knees between his legs, slowly licking and tentatively taking more and more in your mouth, following his instructions with no rush while he plays with your hair. It’s not about cumming, but rather enjoying the warmth of your mouth as long as he can.  

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? Slow and sensual? Etc.) 

He can do both fast a rough or slow and sensual, but why not slow and rough; that’s his favorite pace. Keeping things sensual while still making you feel each deliberate thrust, having you beg for every single inch of him until you feel you’ll snap in half. 

We all know the line: You squeeze the trigger like you love it; gentle, steady, nice and slow. 

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.) 

He prefers to take things slow, so not the biggest fan. But beggars can’t be choosers, so he makes the best out of any situation.  

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? Do they take risks? Etc.) 

He takes risks only as far as the context allows it. Prefers to play it safe most of the time but, whenever you discover something new you want to try, he can’t resist your puppy eyes and ends up giving in almost every time.  

And when he’s the one who comes up with some new idea to try out, get ready because, more likely than not, it’ll be something wild.  

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? How long do they last?) 

He’s erections can’t keep up with his horniness sometimes. The first one stands proud and high until he comes, after that it’ll take a bit to get it back up. But he’ll have to hold himself back from continue fucking you with his soft dick because he just refuses to accept he has to pull out and recover before a second round.  

With enough time and rest he can put up with 2 or 3 rounds of penetration and, if you still need more after or in between, he has plenty of energy and determination to satisfy you in different ways.  

T = Toys (do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?) 

Doesn’t really like dildos, he doesn’t get it. Why would you what to use a piece of plastic when you already have more than enough of the real one in from of you? Any other type of toy would be more than welcomed, as long as they don't become a safety hazard to use in your bodies for lack of proper cleaning and care. And you could only bring a few with you, to avoid carrying extra weight around (I know, living through an apocalypse can be a real bummer).  

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease) 

A LOT. God, that man loves to drive you crazy with it, and he’s extremely patient for it too. He'll take any opportunity he gets to place his hands on your hips as he walks past you or have you sat on his lap even if there’s more than enough space to avoid it. He’ll caress your hair, tilt your face up to look at him by gently grabbing your chin, scatter soft kisses on your temples and forehead; he knows exactly what he’s doing and will pretend like he has no idea while still being smug about it.  

His teasing doesn’t even begin with touching, oh no. It starts even before that, with soft words whispered to your ear when you least expect them: a “you’re doing so good, baby” while shooting practice or a “play with yourself for me ‘til I get back, will ya’” right before he leaves for an important mission for a couple of days.  

I’m telling you, he'll drive you mad.  

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.) 

He’s not the loudest, really. His moans tend to sound more like growls or heavy painful breathing. He’s huge on dirty talking, though; he literally won’t shut up. The closer he gets to his orgasm, the obscener his words become and the looser his tongue gets.  

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character) 

He has fantasied about fucking you in front of the next guy he holds captive for trying to go too far with you; he’s done way worse than that before. I mean, he has tortured people for hurting those he loves, I think tying them up and forcing them to watch him take you (after beating them up a little) would be nowhere near one of his biggest sins, right?  

He gets so much pleasure from thinking about showing them who you belong to, and how they’ll never be able to please you, or touch you like he does; like the possessive asshole he is (affectionate). 

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes) 

Two words: Horse Cock. Hanging heavy, more girthy in the middle and slightly leaning to the left. Just glorious.  

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?) 

He tends to yearn for intimacy more that sex itself. Most of the time he craves the physical contact, the closeness and the pleasure that comes from your mutual understanding of each other, more than the plain orgasms. Other than that, I'd say he has a pretty average sex drive. 

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards) 

Immediately. The man is old, he’s tired, he’s whole body hurts and has been through a lot. If a bed is available, he’ll make sure you’re ok and comfortable, to then fall asleep the next second while keeping you as close to him as humanly possible.   

Likes and comments are always welcomed and appreciated <3

[hivemuthur]

Nothing's New - Ch.5.

viktorxfem!reader explicit!

modern AU, lovers to enemies to lovers, getting back together, angst, smut present

Ch.1. | Ch.2. | Ch.3. | Ch.4. | Ch.6.

word count: 6,2K

warnings: angst, unsafe sex, dacryphilia, orgasm denial/forced orgasm, d/s undertones

tag: #nothings new

author's note: The next update will be on Sunday. Other than trigger warnings, I can only say that this chapter is mostly conversation and 'conversation'. @rennethen beta read 🖤

Cross-posted on AO3

—

You stay. And the longer you do, the more awkwardness seeps in. At first, it’s all tender—Viktor bathes you with hesitant hands, silent until you gasp at his fingers between your legs.

“Sore?” he asks, expression a mix of worry and fascination.

You nod, and he nods back, placing a kiss on your temple. “It’s okay,” he murmurs constantly as your fingers clutch his arm.

You get dressed in his boxer shorts and sweater. The further the two of you move from what just happened, the more alien everything becomes. His smiles grow more rehearsed. His touch turns hesitant. Your hands fidget as the familiar feeling of being a guest creeps in. You want to say so many things, but none of them will pass the barrier of your mouth.

By the time you both sit on the couch, the distance between you feels vast, every grunt and uncomfortable cough echoing within it. You hug your knees and pull his sweater over them. Viktor winces, knowing this will stretch it into a shapeless rug, and passes you a blanket instead.

You glance around, but the empty shelves glare back at you, so you keep your eyes low. Viktor exhales slowly, rubbing his fingers together as if debating whether to speak at all. When he finally does, his voice is quieter than you expected.

“I don’t really know where to begin.” The sentence sounds pointless to his ears, but he needs it to hear his own voice and confirm it’s still present in his throat. You watch him carefully, searching for any sign of certainty in his expression, yet all you find is measured restraint.

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. For everything,” he says, avoiding your eyes.

Your chest tightens, but you force yourself to keep your tone steady. “That sounds very finite.”

His lips twitch, not quite a smile. “That’s not what I was intending it to sound like.” He shifts slightly, fingers tightening where they rest on his knee. “But if I were to apologize for every single thing, you wouldn’t get out of here for a week. So… I’m sorry for making you feel like you had to run. And for making you uncomfortable… later.”

Your stomach knots. There’s something unsettling about how carefully he chooses his words, how he holds himself so still, as if afraid of what he might do if he lets go. A stark contrast to what was barely an hour ago. God, I love you, falling from him, unfiltered and unguarded already feeling like a stranger.

“Are you apologizing for dating Julia?” you ask, forcing yourself to look at him.

He doesn’t flinch. “No. It felt natural when it happened. So I’m only sorry for being a… dick about it.”

You press your lips together, fingers curling into the fabric of the blanket. His tone is frustratingly even, revealing nothing beyond what he wants you to hear.

“Is that why you broke up?” you ask, your voice quieter now. “Because it stopped feeling natural?”

His reaction is small but noticeable—a brief clench of his jaw, the subtle shift of his fingers as if suppressing an impulse. He hesitates, his silence stretching long enough that your heart starts beating harder against your ribs.

“Yes,” he finally says, but there’s something else there. His throat bobs, his poise wobbles and you could swear you saw something. Having your eyes drilled into him, he adds, “And… I technically cheated on her.” His voice doesn’t waver. “With you.”

Your breath hitches, but Viktor doesn’t move. He’s watching you now, studying every flicker of emotion that crosses your face.

“And?” you press, barely a whisper.

For a moment, he does nothing. His fingers twitch, his lips part, and then he exhales through his nose, shaking his head—as if at himself, as if he already knows that you know, but it has to be said anyways. “And… it felt like the right thing to do.”

Your pulse stumbles. “Breaking up with her or cheating?” You wince at yourself, so fucking needy and stupid you have to get everything spelled out for you. But the moment is so cramped, you cannot pack it with a bunch of half-truths—there has to be one, honest-to-God truth or you will burst.

His eyes lock onto yours, and this time, he doesn’t hesitate. “Both,” he says. His voice is quiet, but firm, like a confession that for once he isn’t ashamed of. “Both felt right when they happened.”

You tear up, but will your eyelids to hold the wetness in. Your hand shoots up to rub your face in a weak attempt to disguise how your feelings are threatening to overspill again. Viktor takes notice but continues, voice measured.

“How did it feel for you? To break up with him?” He will not say that name again, he decides.

“Awful. But necessary,” you admit, the words scraping your throat. Then, before you can stop yourself, you add, “You hate him, don’t you?”

Viktor exhales, his fingers pressing briefly into his knee. “Oh, I hate him, yes,” he says without hesitation, his eyes flick to yours, sharp with intent. “But would I be wrong if I said you hate Julia too?”

You hold your breath. The air inside you compresses into a void. “N-no,” you manage, voice smaller now. “I suppose not.” And it’s not rational nor fair, but hating her allows you to not hate Viktor.

He shifts, just barely, like he’s testing the distance between you. His gaze lingers, dark and unreadable, before he speaks again—softer this time, uncertain. “So… it means we still care about each other then?” Lots of breaths taken between the words and Viktor settles on one, unsteady inhale at the end.

You swallow, hard. If the kissing and the sex and all the crying hasn’t been enough of a testament to your shared sentiment, then this definitely gives it a final weight that tips the scales. You nod, and with the movement, a tear slips out of its prison and rolls down your cheek, to your chin, falls onto your hand.

“Why are you holding back?” Viktor asks, his gaze following the tear to where you try to hide it. Eyes glimmer and his expression falls apart from composure to wonder. He will have to check it a million times before it’s confirmed, but the feeling is undeniable. A sharp pang, there, where his cock grows out from his groin and the cramp starts low under his stomach and it’s so uncanny that the sensation of being cried for wakes it, he almost scolds himself. But his gaze doesn’t waver, and his fingers grip his knee tighter.

“W-what?” A hiccup distorts your voice, as the fear of being seen creeps back in. Your breath stumbles, hands tightening on the blanket. Your body tenses as Viktor’s relaxes. There’s a shift in his posture, a quiet but undeniable pull in the way he looks at you now. His expression isn’t one of pity, nor discomfort. His breathing slows, his eyes—sharp, fixated—drink in every trace of wetness clinging to your lashes, every twitch of your mouth as you try to keep it from trembling.

“You want to cry, I can see that. Why are you holding back?” His voice is gentle, but his question digs deep with genuine curiosity.

“Oh, I… I don’t know, I just… I’ve cried so much today already,” you murmur, blinking rapidly as if that alone could chase away the evidence. You sniffle, wipe at your cheeks with the sleeve of his sweater and look anywhere but at him. You feel stupid, falling apart again.

“It doesn’t matter. If crying will make you speak, then cry.” He says too fast and winces. Too much. Too revealing. His stomach knots, chest tightens with something weightless and hot, making his head feel lighter than it should. He doesn’t move, but he feels it—the way his breath shudders through his ribs, the way warmth pools at the base of his spine.

“Oh, Viktor,” you sigh, voice fragile, burying your face in your hands.

He moves before he can think better of it. A slow drag across the couch, the hesitant pull of his body closing the space between you. He reaches out—not to comfort, not exactly—but to uncover, to claim. His hands slip over yours, peeling them gently away from your face, and before you can protest, he leans in. His forehead brushes yours, then the damp curve of your cheek. His breath is warm, uneven, as he nuzzles into you, his skin meeting the slick, salty trails of your tears. A sigh leaves him, quiet, almost relieved, like something inside him has settled. In a whisper, sounding dangerously close to hopeful, he asks, “Are you crying for me?”

Your lips part, a sharp inhale caught in your throat. “I’m… scared that I will blow this somehow,” you admit, the honest-to-God truth slipping free. “I miss you. Every day I miss you and chase you away and then miss you again.”

He’s so close you can whisper now. So you do and each one of those confessions gets progressively quieter, progressively bigger as these are the truths you wouldn’t say out loud even to yourself. “I am… so lonely without you.”

“Do you want to try again?” Viktor asks between heavy breaths. His face doesn’t leave yours as when bathes in your tears and his cheeks are warm and hands already grab your neck with thumbs pushing into your throat. His lips catch against yours and brows knot and he knows that he is begging but he doesn’t care.

“What if it doesn’t work again?” You say, nodding, eyes squeezing shut at the thought of what it would feel like to be there again. Chests ripped. Hands scratched, stomachs aching.

“We will survive,” Viktor lies through his fucking teeth. “We will be better,” he vows. “I will be better, you will be better. Promise me, we will be better and that we will try harder, because I can’t—” he cuts as he takes a breath.

His lust confuses his sadness. The simple act of being cried for makes him feel so clean. As if he is not replaceable. As if the fact that he is difficult to love won’t stop you from loving him anyway. As if choosing him means you truly are choosing him over something secure, something easy and comfortable and it makes him grow a little taller, a little broader, a little better.

“I will be better,” you say quietly, even as your insides are crying, screaming, kicking for him.

“I missed you,” Viktor sighs, pulling you closer to his chest. Your legs swing over his, and your arms cradle his waist. His palm rests on your thigh, the other snakes beneath your hair, fingers wrapping around the back of your neck. He breathes in deep, measured breaths, trying to calm himself.

You let your tears dry as you rise and fall with the steady rhythm of his chest. “I’m sorry too,” you finally say, and Viktor squeezes your neck in recognition.

“Hmm, whatever for?” he asks, brazen. His fingers tangle in your hair, tugging gently, coaxing the tension from your forehead in a familiar gesture.

“God, I’ve missed this,” you hum, and Viktor takes the cue, pressing his thumb between your brows and tracing a firm line across your arch to your temple. He repeats the motion on the other side, and slowly, you feel the tightness in your face and throat begin to ease.

“I’m sorry for being such a coward,” you confess, and for the first time in what feels like forever, your voice doesn’t waver. You feel safer. “For disappearing. And I mean before I actually disappeared.”

“And what else?”

You swallow and blink. “What else?” you echo, hesitant. “What else do you want me to say?”

Viktor exhales through his nose. “Anything that you are holding back.” His voice is steady, rawness lingering beneath it as if he is asking for something he is not exactly ready to hear.

You bite your lip, shaking your head. “I thought leaving was the only way to make you see me. To make you care enough to stop shutting me out.”

His fingers tighten at the base of your neck. “So you left to punish me?”

“No,” you whisper, but you don’t sound convinced. “I—I left because I didn’t know what else to do. You wouldn’t let me in.” Your breath catches when you force yourself to meet his eyes. “I was always waiting. For you to look at me, to see me. And when you finally did, I—” You huff out a bitter laugh, pressing your forehead against his chest. “I didn’t want to hear it. I was so angry. I wanted you to feel how I felt.”

“And did it—” he asks, low and measured. “Did it make you feel better?”

You squeeze your eyes shut. “No,” you admit. “It didn’t. It just made me feel alone.”

Viktor is quiet for a long moment, fingers tracing absently against the back of your neck. Then, finally, he speaks. “I was selfish.”

Your head snaps up, startled. “What?”

“I was selfish,” he repeats, a mirthless smile tugging at his lips. “Not because I shut you out—I did that out of habit and complacency. But because I still expected you to wait.” His hand slides from your neck, settles against your cheek. “I thought you’d understand. That you’d know without me having to say anything.” His thumb ghosts over your skin. “But that is not how love works, is it?”

Your breath shakes. “No,” you whisper.`

He nods, and you feel the need to trade one confession for another. “Sometimes... I was so angry with you that I would make you start a fight,” you offer quietly. His fingers still, a silent question painted on his face. “I would go out of my way to piss you off. Just so you would interact with me. And so it would be your fault that we had a fight in the first place.” You recoil as you hear yourself saying it.

“Was it intentional?” He gives you a window. And he sounds so hopeful that it twists your guts.

“Not really. I realised it once I did it to… Paul,” you mutter, cringing at the admission. Pieces fall into place—you uncover something about yourself, and Viktor is the first person to witness it. “God, that’s just awful, isn’t it?” you sigh, clasping a hand to your face.

“Eh, a little awful, yes,” Viktor chuckles, trying to pry the hand away. “But also weirdly insightful of you.”

For a moment, he looks like he wants to say something more. He wants to tell you about the note but bites his tongue—too much in one sitting. He speaks your name softly and sinks down a bit. “I’ve done awful things to forget you as well.”

“Like what? Save for the obvious, like changing the locks,” you shift, grateful for the change in attention.

“Ah, that,” Viktor sucks in a breath and scratches his head. “I… haven’t changed the locks exactly. Just made a new set—” He trails off as your eyes drill into him in disbelief. You shake your head, but smile tugs at your lips.

“And what else?”

“Well, you already know I sold our bed.” Your heart jumps at our. “What you don’t know is that I might have ended up burning a first edition of Naked Lunch in the whole process of the bed exchange,” he blurts in one breath, bracing himself for a smack. But you only stare, your mouth hanging open. You sit up to kneel next to him.

“Viktor—” you speak more to yourself, shock colouring your voice. You search his face for any sign that he’s joking. He’s not.

“I’m so sorry,” he says with a small, embarrassed smile, his brows knitting together in apology, hands reaching for your face.

You seize them and kiss his knuckles, startling him. He doesn’t realise what he’s just admitted—a confession worth more than any I love you. “Please, forgive me. I had no idea,” you whisper against his skin.

Viktor laughs, trying to cup your face, but you don’t let him. To do something so desperate, so romantic—to try and rid himself of you in such a way—makes you ache with shame.

You climb onto his lap and kiss his face, over and over, murmuring I’m so sorry between the pecks.

Viktor laughs through it, surprised, embarrassed by the sudden surge of affection, yet something blooms in his chest at the familiarity of the gesture. “Are you not angry?” he asks, bewildered.

“No,” you half-chuckle, half-sigh. “I love you so, so much,” you breathe out, and it’s the first time you’ve said it out loud.

Viktor’s face does something utterly strange—like he’s about to cry—but in the end, he doesn’t. Instead, he kisses you. Grateful. Deep. Full of breaths and tongue. And it feels like coming home.

You sit there for a while. Kissing, laughing, fetishizing each other’s flaws until your stomach gives away a loud growl and Viktor chuckles straight into your mouth. “Food, yes?”

“Such thing was promised,” you smile and allow him to take your hand. And he keeps it in his as he abandons his cane on the sofa and leads you into the kitchen, his thumb absently stroking over your knuckles. The warmth of it lingers even when he lets go, moving toward the counter. The space looks the same, mostly—same chipped tiles, same half-broken cupboard door that never quite shuts—but the air feels different. Lived in, but not by you.

You hesitate near the fridge, gaze flicking over the notes tacked haphazardly to its surface. His scrawled handwriting crowds the scraps of paper—grocery lists, half-legible reminders, a date circled twice with no explanation. Your stomach clenches when you skim over them, hunting for something, anything. Another Miláček meant for someone else. A new name creeping in where yours used to be. But there's nothing. No Julia. No stranger. Just Viktor’s usual chaos.

“Tea?” he asks, already filling the kettle.

You nod, slipping onto a stool, watching him move. He retrieves bread, some cheese, and a tomato from the counter, methodical but oddly cautious, as if remembering how to exist in this rhythm with you. It should be simple—slicing, assembling, waiting for water to boil—but something about it feels… off. The gaps of silence stretch too long. His hand hesitates on the knife.

You rub at the edge of the counter, feeling the grain of the wood beneath your fingertips. “You eat like a student,” you remark, a weak attempt at normalcy.

Viktor huffs a small laugh, shaking his head as he plates the food. “I am a student.” He sets a mug in front of you. “Still. Always.”

The steam curls between you. You should reach for his hand again. You don’t. It’s awkward. He passes you the sandwiches and a cup and you both eat in silence.

Once your plate is clean, the weirdness settles deeper—there is nothing left to do, at least not for now. The wise thing would be to bid Viktor goodnight and go home. And as if reading the thought, watching it write itself across your forehead in glaring letters, Viktor beats you to it.

“Will you stay?” he asks.

“The night,” he adds, in case you thought he was already pleading for forever. “Will you stay the night?” His voice is steady, like he’s just confirming something with himself.

You nod, and he smiles, muttering okay under his breath, again and again. Then Viktor limps toward you, takes your hand, and gently urges you to stand. When you do, he wraps his arm around your shoulders, leaning into you like a secondary cane.

You walk together to the bedroom. A tiny flutter of fear stirs in your chest at the thought of what’s in there—what has replaced your beloved, cursed bed. The empty shelves, the hollow spaces in the cabinets where your things used to be—little signs of your absence foreshadowing the dread.

As if he feels it too, Viktor’s hand tightens around your shoulder when you step through the door, stopping you when he sees your eyes wide and wandering.

“Is this alright?” he asks quietly.

You study the bed before answering. The words aren’t fully formed until you take in the dark wooden frame, the still-crisp mattress, the sheer size of it making the room feel significantly smaller. It’s just an object, you tell yourself. It’s probably not worth mourning every single bit of the past, playing a game of sentimentality.

“What do you think?” Viktor prompts, and your bubble bursts. This is all very silly, but his anticipation warms you—his silliness matches yours.

“It’s just a bed. It’s all good, Viktor,” you say.

He exhales, visibly relieved. His chest sags, and fingers loosen their grip on your shoulder. He presses a kiss to your temple, then walks you gently to the edge. Your calves meet the frame, and you sit before he presses his hands on your shoulders, urging you to lie down.

Then he clumsily crawls on top of you—needy, grateful—his keen fingers tracing your skin, sharp hip bone diggs into your side until you wince. But the awkwardness is gone. It’s almost as if your bodies speak better than your mouths, and your mouths are only useful for kissing apologies and remorse into each other’s throats. The wound keeps sealing and opening, each next rip smaller and smaller, the scar uglier and uglier. But still, a testament to healing.

Viktor mumbles a lot of sweet things to you—half-words, all of them cut off by your mouth invading his. His voice grows harsh, dropping into a breathy whisper as he repeats your name over and over. His lips grow impatient, wandering down your throat. His hands slip beneath the sweater you’re wearing, tracing your stomach, cupping your breasts—so full of wanting that it clouds your mind.

And soon, it’s only Viktor there.

His toes tickling the soles of your feet, his thighs between yours, one pressing there, where you are already soaking through his briefs. Stomach bellowing into your ribs, breaths catching against each other in stutters, his drool leaking into your mouth with a lewd sound of wetness spreads around the room. And his fingers, hooking beneath your waistband and yanking the underwear down with one hand, other resting firmly around your neck. Keeping you in place, as he disconnects from your mouth with a loud smack. The string of saliva stretching between you finally breaks off, once his head hovers over your stomach to place a kiss there. And then lower, on your hip bone. And then a lick across your navel, as he shimmies himself down to splay his chest flat between your spread thighs, knees bent, his ankles playfully bumping against each other. He rubs his palms on your abdomen and gently kisses your clit.

Your body jolts, you almost kick him in the head, but he catches your shin, bites it and licks it before throwing it back in its place. His tongue parts you lazily and you feel yourself buzzing, the urge to grab a fistful of his hair and guide him overwhelming, but Viktor is faster again. When he notices your fingers creeping toward his face, he grabs them, entwines them with his and pushes your palms into your lower belly, making a soft sound of, “Mm-mm” to scold you.

To know that this man’s worship of you ever became doubtful in your heart—it’s unthinkable. Having him here, now, completely devoted, quite literally kissing your feet and your cunt, humming, makes everything else feel distant. And you wonder—had you only imagined the distance between you? Or is it a fluke that you found your way back to each other with so little sacrifice?

Which, of course, was anything but little. And yet, compared to how monumentally love swells in your chest right now, it seems like nothing but dust.

It’s strange, sharing something so grand with only one other person—one who also recognises it as grand. Both of you are just specks in the vast web of the universe. And yet, there is nobody else to witness this.

Only you and Viktor know how this feels—to be like this, with each other.

Your own thoughts distract you, when he is torturing you with the slow pace of his flat tongue, his mouth occasionally sucking, lips easing your sore. You feel yourself gradually melting, dripping straight into his throat. He murmurs and chuckles into your core when you give him strangled whimpers and he finally allows your fingers to tug at his hair when he sees you need to hold onto something.

When you can almost touch it, when the cramp in your guts is an inch from release you curse yourself for all the corny thoughts that swept through your mind a moment ago. Because Viktor retreats. And you whine, the sound stretching your neck, close to ripping it in half.

“Fuck, why?” you almost growl, and he dares to smile like a five-year-old.

“Just… trying something out,” Viktor says, resting his chin on your pubic bone, an innocent grin tugging the corner of his lips down. It’s an experiment. Well, of course.

“Now? You’re trying something out now?” Completely exasperated you glare daggers at him. Having your orgasm dangled in front of you only to be snatched away at the last minute is, to say the least, a dick move.

“Shh, lásko, patience,” he tuts, placing a peck on your clit. “Can you trust me?” he coos, throwing you the bedroom eyes to die for. That look from under his lashes—no bad bone in his body—the let me love you plea that leaves you with your mouth hanging open.

So you groan and nod obediently.

“Good girl,” he hums, eager, and your skin prickles at all the pet names. Amongst the hums in your head, you’re thankful he hasn’t dropped the one that was tainted.

Then, his mouth is back on you again. Hot breath washing over you as his tongue resumes the work and soon he joins one finger to tease you from the inside. So delicate, to keep you there on the edge of pleasure, he drags it and curls it to explore every crevice. A bunch of pretty whimpers drip from your lips when you try to push your hips lower to meet his hand, but he holds you tight.

He whispers sounds of appraise into your flesh: so wet, so good for me, good girl, trust me. And when you finally do and let your hands fist the sheet and your head fall back—eyes squeezing shut as your breath hitches and stomach curls into another cramp—Viktor fucking stops.

“Viktor, I hate you!” An undignified cry escapes, your body jolts upright, eyes wide in disbelief with tears prickling in the corners.

“Ah, and whatever happened to trust?” He fixes you with a glare.

“This… this is cruel.” You gasp for breath, almost hyperventilating at the audacity of his behaviour. Something crestfallen flickers across Viktor’s face—like he’s disappointed you didn’t just trust him blindly.

“No, my heart. This,” he murmurs, crawling back up until his face is level with yours. You feel his cock pressing against your entrance, his breath tickling your cheek.

“This is mercy," he says, voice low. "Because I really want to fuck you again, and I don’t want to hurt your poor pussy further. So you see how important it was for me to prepare you.”

And just like that, shame washes over you. What kindness was that, that you so eagerly discredited.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble, the words spilling out faster than you can think. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, trying to pull him into a kiss of apology. But Viktor tilts his head just enough that your lips land on his chin.

“We’ll see about that now, won’t we?” he murmurs, dipping lower. His whisper fans over the shell of your ear, his breath burning. “Because as far as I’m concerned, I don’t have to make you cum tonight,” he chuckles darkly as the head of his cock slides inside you with ease, and indeed, you are so wet it doesn’t hurt.

“Viktor, I’m sorry, ah—” you gasp when his cock hits the spot. A tear rolls down from the corner of your eye, and you catch something in Viktor’s expression. As soon as it happens, he presses his sweat-slicked forehead to yours and begins licking into your mouth. His tongue pushes past your lips so greedily you could choke, hips roll into yours, making a lewd sticky sound each time he retreats to push back again, and again.

His arms cage around your face, fingers anchor into your hair as he tilts your head up to look at him, eyes drawn up to yours with a gaze full of intent.

“Will you behave now?” He states more than asks. The world becomes soft at the edges, when he looks at you like that. When he fucks you like that. When his fingers curl around your hair and his thumbs press gently into your temples.

“Yes,” you breathe, voice nearly absent. Your eyebrows knit together more and more with each slow slam of his hips between your legs and the tightening in your stomach comes back, stronger than before. You spread your legs further apart, lifting your pelvis to meet his. Toes curl and muscles tense up around him.

“And will you do as you are told?” he asks, voice giving way to something hopeful and needy.

“Yes,” you reply, this time audibly with a full vocal moan and try to snake your hands between the two of you to cradle his neck, cup his face. He keeps the angles fixed, slapping your clit with his pubis in a steady rhythm.

“Good,” Viktor coos, giving you a wet drooling kiss. And then another, before he thinks for a bit. His lips brush yours, when he whispers, “Be my good girl and cum on my cock.”

And if that wouldn’t break you completely, the bite on your neck would and it does. You feel it down to you marrow, surging through, as your cunt clenches around him and Viktor pants and grunts into your skin. You come pressing your nose against his with a loud fuck, knuckles paling on his arms. Tears start pushing themselves through the corners of your eyes again and when you think he will come too and stop, he doesn’t.

He sucks his stomach in and snakes a hand between your sticky navels, fingers finding your clit when he rasps, “Again.” You yelp, startled, your cunt going numb before you feel his touch and try to jolt away, hypersensitive and swollen.

“One more time, for me,” Viktor mutters into your ear, voice dripping heavily from his tongue. You can feel he is close too in every little spasm of his cock, but he holds back. He batters your lips with his, swallows the heedless sounds you make. Like a reward for your struggle, coms a caress to the hollow of your cheek and whispers of quiet praise in between kisses.

When you regain the feeling in your womb, a new tension builds itself on top of the previous one, ready to snap you in half. You clasp your thighs around him, fingers digging into flesh to the point of bruising and when you cum again your vision goes blurry from all the tears welling down your cheeks, and Viktor, oh, he rubs his face against yours, purring, as if you have just given him the most precious of all gifts. The orgasm lasts forever, fucks you out completely, breath rips out of your lungs when you finally find a way to grab his neck and moan everything straight into his wet mouth.

He swallows all of it and seconds later gives it back with his own completion—a couple of ragged hard snaps against you, while he spills himself inside with a strangled groan. Before you can say or think of anything, he jams his tongue back into your mouth and kisses you deeply, gratefully, moaning and whimpering at the last twitches of your cunt milking him dry.

Then, he nuzzles into your neck and takes a deep breath, belly pressing against yours. In this soul-crushing moment, all words feel like strangers to you, and Viktor grants you another little mercy when he asks, “How are you?”

You swallow before replying. You have no idea. Fucked numb? Sad? Happy? Full? Empty? All those things at once? In the spirit of trust, you say quietly, “I don’t know.”

A warm chuckle reaches you as he pulls out and comes up to cradle you. You look at his face, convinced the exact opposite of his expression is painted on yours, when he tries to soothe you with a quiet, “It’s alright.”

Gentle hands bring you closer, and he places a kiss on your temple, breathing in deeply. “Just tell me if anything aches.”

“It doesn’t,” you say. And then a stupid question pops into your head, bounces around, and rolls out through your mouth. “Did you plan for this?” This could mean so many things, but Viktor, by some uncanny intuition, knows.

“To sleep with you? Oh no,” he laughs, shaking his head. “My nearly perfect plan to really tell you and then see you out failed miserably,” Viktor murmurs while stroking your hair. You wrap your arms around him tighter—both happy and sad. Happy that his plan failed, sad that he had one in the first place—and it wasn’t about winning you back.

“But that’s not new,” he sighs, and you raise your eyebrows in question. “We haven’t done the best job keeping away from each other.”

“Viktor,” you start, disbelieving your own voice. “I am terrible at keeping away from you. I think if I have to do this again, I’ll die of cancer. I won’t survive if we do this again, I swear,” you mumble, wincing at how pathetic you sound. But you maintain, reinforcing your confession with a nuzzle into his touch. At least it’s not awkward anymore.

Viktor’s fingers trace absent-minded shapes on your shoulder. His voice is soft when he finally says, “Some things will need to change.”

You shift, tucking your face closer to his neck. His warmth is comforting, but the words sting a bit. “What do you mean?”

His hand stills. “We cannot fall back into the same rut. We have to—” He exhales, shaking his head like he’s unwilling to phrase it too neatly. “Do better.”

You swallow around the lump in your throat. It’s the answer you expected, but still, something in you balks at the finality of it. The If not, then nothing feels heavy. “Do you want to forgive me?” you ask, voice quieter than intended.

Viktor hums, considering. “I already have.”

Relief floods you—but before you can lean into it fully, he adds, “That does not mean I trust you.”

Breath caught, you lift your head to look at him. His expression is unreadable, and you search his eyes for something that might tell you how deep the wound still runs.

“Do you trust me?” he asks, gaze steady.

You open your mouth, then hesitate. You do. But not fully. Not in the way you used to. Not in the way that feels effortless. The pause speaks louder than words.

Viktor smiles, not unkindly. “Exactly.”

A prickle of shame rises in your throat. But he doesn’t pull away. His hand finds your back, rubbing slow as if he knows you need reassurance.

“It’s good,” he murmurs, and it’s a promise rather than a question. “We’ll take it bit by bit.”

You nod, pressing your forehead to his. It’s terrifying, starting over like this—unsure, tentative—but then again, when have either of you ever done things the easy way?

So you take a breath. “Alright,” you whisper. Things have already changed, and Viktor is already someone else compared to a mere week ago. So far, so good. Your mind swells with thoughts of the last four hours, and you catch yourself staring at him, searching his face for answers to questions you haven’t yet put into words.

He opens one eye and cocks a brow. “You’re still trying to figure me out,” he murmurs, more amused than accusatory.

“Yeah,” you admit.

He huffs a quiet laugh and closes his eyes again. “Good.” And holds you closer.