#tw: references to past violence

[adamprrishcycle]

Here is Kavinsky’s POV of the 4th of July as promised! It’s a year old but I’ve been through and tidied it up a bit so I hope you like itttt (and sad things in general)

Tagging @ottobean and @allywrites360

[sarcasticdolphin]

New chapter :)

[ohdeerfully]

Spoilers ahead for the final episode!

Imagine reader being a healer for others but is cursed to not being able to heal themselves.

Like during the final battle, their skills are heavily relied on while they also fight along side them. Afterwards they rush to find their lover Alastor to heal the wound on his abdomen. Poor thing was so worried about healing him that they forgot about patching up themselves.

hello everybody im alive........... hello hold your applause /j

i got two very similar requests so i combined them into one! hope thats alright with the two anons! hugs and kisses

Stitches

alastor x reader (fluff) TW: nothing serious, just some briefly graphic(ish) descriptions of violence/gore, reader referred to as female but doesnt influence plot

join my discord!

◈ ══════════ ◈ ══════════ ◈ ══════════ ◈

It was supposed to be “no big deal” for him; that’s what he had promised you. You worried, of course, but knew better than to pester and beg for him to change his mind. Plus… of all demons to hold back Adam, Alastor seemed like the most capable. You had to trust him. He promised.

You were in the midst of slaying an Exterminator of your own, cutting it down with a sword lined in angelic steel, but you couldn’t help that your train of thought kept returning to the Radio Demon, who was currently on the roof of the Hotel maintaining a forcefield that prevented more angels from joining the battle.

You allowed your eyes to glimpse up towards said roof even though you knew it’d be impossible to see him from your position on the ground. You had looked just in time, however, to see the shield that surrounded the battleground begin to dissolve, an opening blooming around the figure of Adam. 

A sickly cold feeling of dread churned down your spine and into your stomach, but you forced yourself to stay focused. Alastor would be fine, surely. It’s not like he said it was an invincible shield. You had other things to worry about, anyway, when you realized a wasp-like swarm of Exterminators had made their way in from the dissolving forcefield, their glittering white wings and shining angelic weapons molding together in a blur.

You fought along a small group of demons from Cannibal Town, providing aid and healing when possible. It seemed to go on for hours; stab an angel, tear one away from a companion, heal, stab, save, heal… it somehow began to feel monotonous and repetitive. Your whole body stung, littered with wounds ranging in extremity, but you couldn’t stop. Not if you were going to win this thing.

That monotony was broken when the chaos halted for a brief moment—not even a second. You had seen Charlie looking up in… fear? Shock? So, you looked, and your breath hitched. It took you a moment to process.

Why was Adam flying above, looming, grinning, analyzing… Why, when Alastor was supposed to be keeping him occupied? The immediate answer that came to mind brought back that sickening feeling from earlier, but increased a hundredfold. It seemed that Charlie also had a similar idea.

You couldn’t ignore the feeling this time and, against your better judgment, took off towards the crumbling Hotel, abandoning your position as healer. They could wait, honestly. The pounding in your ears and anxiety in your body clouded the sensation of angelic spears grazing past you, filling your already burdened body with more gashes.

You were halted by a powerful beat of wings, wind pushing you backwards onto your back. You scrambled into a sitting position, leaning on your arms. All of the aching, stinging pain from the night seemed to rush in all at once because of the interruption, and you could barely keep your eyes steady on the man in front of you.

The first man, at that—standing all too high-and-mighty above you, a twisted grin curling up his mask. 

“Hey, bitch,” He said almost casually, grabbing you by the hair and lifting you up to be eye level with him. You stifled a pained cry at the sensation, though your eyes filled with tears, betraying both your fear and pain. You hated yourself for looking so weak in front of Adam, but you were almost too exhausted to mask it.

“The fuck did you do to Alastor?” You talked through a mouthful of blood. You spat some out in his face, to which the grip on your head tightened but he seemed otherwise unbothered. You did see a glint of madness in his eyes, though.

“So you’re that fine babe of his?” Adam mocked, looking up and down tastelessly. You didn’t expect much more from the ‘dickmaster’ but you couldn’t help but feel disgusted. “Satan’s daughter told me all about you when she was trying to tell me you gross fucks could be redeemed.”

He started rambling out a multitude of insults and curses. It seemed fitting, you thought, that the stuck-up first man would be too full of himself to keep his guard up and just start going off on a tangent about how cool and awesome he is versus how gross and weak your kind is.

“I mean, the fuck? You all sucked ass at being alive, so why the shit would we let you up into heaven? And, quite frankly, too fucking ugly to live up th—” He choked on the last few words he had, his eyes widening in shock and pain. He dropped you to the ground.

During his rant you had managed to use your heel to kick up a stray spear from beneath you. His tirade had given you enough time to balance the weapon between your feet, aim, and jam it forward into his stomach. The robe he wore darkened, glistening gold seeping into the fabric and from the hole you punctured into him.

“You–” He spat, hovering his shaking hands around the impaled spear. He gingerly pressed a hand against the wound, lifting his bloody palm to his face to look at the mess. He looked up, down, up again, and took a quivering step towards you. There were a million expressions in his eyes all at once; rage, fear, pain, disgust… 

“You fucking bitch,” He took another step, reached a hand out towards you. “You can’t kill me! Nobody can kill Adam! You’re just a worthless, sick, good-for-nothing sinner that couldn’t—fuck!” He stumbled and fell forward, and you jerked away as his fist nearly closed around the hem of your shirt. As much as you hated the guy and wanted him dead, you still cringed at the sight of him falling onto the spear and impaling it completely through his body.

You heard a distant cry of his name, but you didn’t hesitate to see who it was. You took off into the hotel, albeit slowed by a painful limp, and made your way up the stairs towards the radio tower.

There was an ominous feeling in the air as you ascended the ladder into the nearly demolished tower, slowly opening the hatch into the room. An intense, static-y feeling smothered your senses, hair raising and skin prickling at the sensation. You ignored the uncomfortable feeling and peered around the dark room. 

Claw marks and a trail of blood caught your attention, leading your eyes towards a corner where the demon you wanted to see most sat against. He had been wordlessly watching you with glowing red eyes since you entered.

“Al,” You said almost breathlessly as you rushed forward, ignoring the way your leg shot pain throughout your body in protest. You fell gracelessly to your knees in front of him.

“I don’t want you here,” He said rather plainly, a hiss in his voice as he spoke through his teeth and a grimace of a smile. You ignored the comment, eyes traveling over his body before settling on his palm, which was pressed against his abdomen. There was a still-growing patch of dark blood seeping through his shirt and between his fingers.

You reached your hand out towards him, flinched to a halt for a moment when his claws tightened around the fabric of his shirt, but continued. He made no move otherwise to stop you, but you could feel the tension in the air growing as the static ambience got louder.

“I can take care of myself,” He said, his other hand suddenly snatching your wrist. His grin widened, but his eyes narrowed. You frowned at him.

“Yeah, but it’d be a lot easier for me to just fix you now,” You retorted, trying to jerk your hand away from his grip. He didn’t yield. “If you stop being so damn stubborn.”

“I’ve dealt with much worse, my dear,” He continued to convince you to leave him alone, his voice smooth with that manipulatively suave voice he put on sometimes. Unluckily for him, though, you were just as stubborn as him.

“But I’m here this time to help you,” You finally managed to free your wrist from him, your sharp expression unwavering from his own, which seemed equally aggravated. Maybe he was too weak to actually stop you, or maybe he actually did want your help and just wouldn’t admit it, but he didn’t stop you from lifting his bloodied hand from his wound.

You pursed your lips at the grizzly sight, but said nothing. You ignored the stinging smell of blood that flooded your nose. You hovered your hands over the wound, channeling the energy in your body that granted you the ability to rapidly heal others. A faint light flowed from your palm and into the gash across Alastor’s torso, forming glowing stitches that weaved throughout the damaged skin.

Periodically glancing up at his face as you worked, you watched for any sign that told you to stop, but it never came. He stayed silent the whole time, which was… rare, from him. You would never admit this out loud, but Alastor seemed almost… pitiful, in this silent, weakened state. The Radio Demon himself, reduced to a bloodied, passive husk of himself.

After healing so many demons during the battle outside, you had spent so much energy. You were already so weak and exhausted, but you pushed yourself to force just a bit more—

“There,” With a weak sigh, you sat back, admiring your own handiwork. Even though it was magic, it did take some mental ability to know how to use your power. “Was that so hard?” You chided him jokingly.

He gingerly drug a clawed finger down the stitches, analyzing it for himself. 

“I have to admit,” He began, looking up at you. “It would have been nice to have you in my early years as— dear?”

You barely heard what he was saying as all of your senses seemed to get foggy all at once. Your vision blurred and speckled, you ears felt muffled, and you swayed with lightheadedness. You pressed a hand to your face, trying to steady your breath.

“I’m good,” Your voice came out in a quiver. “I think I just—”

You don’t necessarily even remember fainting, but reason that you must have as you stared at the ceiling above you. You woke up ten minutes ago, and spent the time piecing together everything that happened. How much time has passed since then? A couple hours? Days? It was hard to say. Though, you thought as you looked around. The hotel looks… damn good all things considered. 

The door creaked open and your ears perked at the sound of a familiar voice humming some tune that you couldn’t recognize. Considering the atmosphere wasn’t tense, you actually welcomed the prickling, static-like sensation that Alastor’s presence brought. 

“Ah, the sleeping beauty awakes!” He announced pleasantly, setting a plate rattling with two neat little glasses of warm liquid on the bedside table. You eyed them and quirked your eyebrow.

“Seems you were ready for it,” You said, commenting on the fact that he brought two cups.

“Well, what kind of man would I be if I wasn’t au fait to my darling’s status?” He explained, clasping his hands behind his back and leaning over you. He would never admit that he brought up two cups every time he checked on you just in case. 

His overall demeanor seemed appropriately confident and indifferent, but his eyes held an uncharacteristic look of tenderness and worry as he looked over you, analyzing your condition. He sat at the edge of the bed, picking that plate up again and offering you a cup.

You sat up against the headboard and took it with a light smile, warming your hands on the smooth surface. You enjoyed the aroma of the tea, and you realized it was your favorite. How sweet.

The room was silent, save for the quiet sound of a radio that seemed to just… radiate from him… but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Now that you were sitting up, you took the chance to look down and over yourself. Bandages were wrapped tightly over your arms, chest, stomach, legs… basically everywhere. You were suddenly all too aware of the dull ache that afflicted your entire body.

When you looked up, you noticed Alastor had been looking at you rather intensely. His expression was weird and unreadable. You tightened your lips awkwardly at the strangely passionate look in his eyes, looking into random directions to try to ignore it. You tried to concentrate on taking another sip from the cup in your hand, bu, to your dismay, it was already empty. You sat it down on the plate.

“How’s my stitchwork holding up?” In an attempt to dissipate your own awkwardness, you reached towards his abdomen. He caught your hand gently, directing it away from himself. But he didn’t let go.

“No doctor in all of Hell could have done better,” He complimented. He still had a hint of that weird expression. “If only you could fix yourself up the same. Fortunately I have some experience from my time alive…” He trailed off.

You couldn’t contain yourself anymore, jumping forward and tightening your arms around his neck. The static in the air sharpened for a brief second, matching the tenseness in his body, but slowly returned to a normal frequency. After a few more seconds, you felt him slide his own arms around your waist, pressing you against himself.

“You scared the fuckin’ shit out of me,” You said, voice muffled by his coat. “I thought Adam killed you. I thought I was going to find your body buried under the rubble.”

“So you avenged me by killing Adam yourself? I appreciate it,” He remarked lightly, a slight chuckle rumbling from his chest. His voice was low, breath tickling your ear as he held you with a feather-light but somehow still firm grip. 

Alastor was quiet for another moment, and you realized the static in the air had completely dissipated. You also realized the pressure of his arms wrapped around you was getting increasingly tighter.

“You worried me as well,” He said finally. “You were out like a hibernating bear for days. You worried everyone.” You pulled your head out from the crook of his neck and met his gaze.

“Can’t a gal get her beauty rest?” You joked softly, bumping your shoulder against him playfully. He swayed for a moment at the contact, but the eye contact never broke. Wait, was he getting closer? 

Instinctually your eyes closed, and the briefest kiss was placed on your lips, then your nose, then your forehead. Before you could open your eyes, Alastor placed his hand on your head and pressed you back against his chest. He then began rubbing his hand gently on your back in a soothing motion.

Despite being in bed for apparently days, you still felt tired. You sank into him as his claws drug gentle shapes against your skin, careful to avoid bandaged spots. He hummed a quiet tune, and you noticed his microphone of a cane, which was laying against the bedside table, emitted an accompanying song.

“Maybe redemption isn’t all that,” You commented with a sigh, lazily picking at the hem of Alastor’s collar.

“Hmm?” He prompted you to continue.

“Is Hell really so bad if you’re with your favorite soul?” It felt corny to say, but you couldn't really find a better way to phrase it. Plus, you couldn't take this rare moment of tenderness for granted.

His hand paused for a moment, and he gently squeezed your arm in response. You felt him press another light kiss to the top of your head.

“I know, now,” He finally replied. “Just the feeling.”

[luveline]

𝐰𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐢𝐭 𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐥 | 𝐚𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐧 𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐧𝐞𝐫

when internet trolls poke fun at your appearance while working on a case, hotch is there to make you feel better. fem!reader, 3k

tw cyberbullying, poor eating habits, criminal minds typical violence

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

You're not a media liaison or anything close, but with JJ off for maternity leave and Penelope in Quantico, there's a face needed for the press announcement on TV, and you offer to step in. 

You aren't particularly eager to do it, but Hotch doesn't have the time or wherewithal and such a high intensity case, not while Spencer is at half-mast, migraines rendering him ineffective and stubborn. You're trying to keep the ship sailing smoothly, doing your part of the profiling while juggling media and supporting the police sergeant that's heading the tip line.

You're not expecting to become a joke. After a red-eye, three sleepless nights trying to find a missing woman in Oklahoma —the domestic violence capital— and a full day without something to eat, you're aware you don't look your best, but you aren't sure what that has to do with your missing person. 

The FBI — fugly bitches International. #FindDanaLangley

Damn, are they not letting those agents sleep or what? She looks terrible ! 

she should be less worried about Dana Langley and more concerned with the dead woman in the mirror, ew 

hope theu find her just so they stop putting this creature on TV #FindDanaLangley

"Well," you murmur, wondering if it would be inappropriate to burst into tears, "these aren't especially helpful." 

Derek looks at you, his gaze measured, and you know he's not sure how to react to you or what's happening. He settles on his usual loving encouragement, because he's a very good friend. 

"Don't listen to all that," he says, throwing his arm around your shoulder, "those trolls wouldn't know beautiful if it hit them in the face. But we could always try it?" 

You sink into his hold, needing the reassurance even if you wish you didn't. "No hitting," you say, covering your mouth to hide a large and possibly fugly yawn. Your head is racing with regurgitated insults. "It doesn't matter, Derek. Promise. We have bigger stuff to deal with." 

The door opens and Hotch and Emily step inside, Rossi just behind them. You're thinking Hotch is going to agree with your sentiment, no time for comfort when a woman's life is at stake, so you move away from Morgan to sit in front of your laptop again. 

"Is something wrong?" Hotch asks. 

You meet his eyes just long enough to smile at him. "Nothing. What did Amandla have to say?" 

Emily retells the alibi of Dana's ex-girlfriend and is clearly suspicious but without proof, you're forced as a team to move on to the next lead. Spencer returns shortly afterward and you try to brainstorm your next step. 

It's Penelope that pulls through. "You asked me to cross reference the neighbours at Dana's previous address with people crossing state lines, right, after that one guy ended up being kinda icky? Well I did that, and nothing came up, which was–" 

"Garcia," Hotch interrupts. 

"Right. Long story short, one of the neighbours recently had an extreme falling out with Icky Guy after a years long friendship, his name is Justin Mantova, he has extreme PTSD with documented episodes of confused aggression, and he's been seen coming in and out of a storage unit in Paseo Storage Solutions for the past four days." 

"Address?" Hotch asks. 

"Already sent to your phones." 

"Thank you, Pen," you say. 

"Just go catch the bad guy, pretty girl," she says. 

Ah, so she's seen the tweets too. You frown rather than smile, reminded again of what's been said and wishing you could be anywhere else. 

You get your wish and forget all about personal grievances for a while, concerned with the safe location and extraction of Dana Langley. The operation is clean, and she's hurt but has a great chance at a full recovery. It's quick, it's professional. 

You're falling asleep in the SUV on the way back. Hotch at the wheel, Spencer in the backseat, you rub your eyes from the passenger side and try not to look suspiciously morose, but it's impossible. Hotch is too good at his job. 

"Are you sure everything's okay?" he asks. With Spencer's window open and the wind whipping, it's hard to hear him. 

"Hm?" 

"Is everything okay?" 

"I'm just tired." You don't look at him. It's rude of you, but if what they've said is true —you'd seen the photographs, and you looked tired, sure, but you still looked like you. "Just tired," you say again. You snap your mouth closed when your voice wobbles. 

Hotch is regularly too sweet on you. Most of the team say it's a crush. Emily calls it 'character development. Whatever it is, he's nice to you. He warmed up to you near immediately when you first joined the team, and he's been as welcoming months later as he was in your first week. 

Maybe he feels sorry for me, you think, submerging yourself inch by inch into self pity. 

The three of you regroup with the others at the police station to pen immediate recounts of what happened before you can forget, tying up loose ends. 

Finally you're able to go back to the hotel. Another half an hour and you're in the lobby.

"We'll go home in the morning. Nine AM flight, meet in the lobby at eight thirty," Hotch says. "Get some rest." 

You disband. They've squeezed you in all over the place, and you're lucky enough to be next to the elevator on the second floor. Hotch is the third floor, and everyone else the sixth, so you say goodbye to your colleagues and exit the elevator, stepping onto the second floor with a parting smile.

You can't know it, but Hotch notices the way your smile falls before the doors have well and truly closed. Your shoulders slump in defeat. 

You trudge into your room and don't bother turning on the lights. The door closes behind you and the mask you'd been holding up starts to crack. You put your laptop in the closet despite temptation to boot it up, knowing no good can come of looking at the tip hashtag again. 

You head into the bathroom to pee, and you're confronted with your appearance as you wash your hands. 

You stare at yourself. 

You look tired. 

Tears well as you look at yourself. You're not those things those people said. You're pretty, and when you smile everyone knows it. There's nothing so beautiful as a smile. You can't summon one, but you know it's the truth. 

Or, it should be. 

A single tear falls down your cheek, quickly followed by a second, and a third from the other eye. You ignore them, tracing the line of your bottom lip, the texture of your skin on your cheeks, the slight sunken effect of your under eyes. 

A knock makes you flinch. "Fuck," you say, wiping your cheek with the back of a hand, twisting on the spot like looking into your room might reveal whoever it is at the door. Probably one of your team. "Hello?" you call. 

"It's me. It's Hotch. I know it's after hours, but I wanted to speak with you."

Whatever reassurance he has to give might actually make this all much worse. You don't want any pity from anybody, you just want today to be over. Still, you wiggle your toes into the plush hotel carpeting, debating only for a moment about the pros and cons of pretending to be asleep. 

"Hey," you say, opening the door. You wipe your eyes and hope he takes it for a tired gesture rather than a method of hiding the glassy sheen at your waterline. "Hi, Hotch, how are you feeling?" 

"Fine. Tired. Thank you for asking." 

"Do you want to come in?" you ask. 

"Please." 

Hotch follows you into your room. There's an armchair across from the bed next to a desk and an old TV sitting atop it. Your suitcase is still open on your bed, your pyjamas crumpled in the shell. You close it before Hotch can see. That's another thing to add to your list: being a slob. 

"It's very clean in here," he says. 

You startle. "What?" 

"It's clean, considering how long we've been here. Have you ever seen Spencer's room at the end of a case?" he asks. 

"No, is it bad?" 

"It's like a paper hurricane."

You look down at your knees, hyper aware of his gaze on your face, tired of feeling uneasy in your skin. 

"I wanted to say thank you for doing the press release yesterday. You did an amazing job. It's something to be proud of." 

Of course he's talking about the press release, the one thing you need to not think about. 

"Did Derek tell you?" you ask. 

"Tell me what?" he asks, voice sharpening.

You look up. Hotch is a picture of concern, professionalism slightly off centre. 

"Nothing." 

"Something's been bothering you. Something Derek should've told me, I'm guessing." 

You chew over your words. "Uh. Hotch, it's really nothing, it's a hiccup. The press release, I…" You really don't want to have to say it. The words get stuck at the back of your throat.

He leans forward. "What?" 

"I looked sick. On TV. I looked really unwell, and it– it actually–" Why are you stammering? What's wrong with you? You laugh and it's not your laugh but it's better than your nonsense stuttering. "Sorry. On the press release, I didn't look my best, and it was a hot topic. That's what I thought Derek told you about. But I don't need anyone feeling sorry for me, Hotch." 

"I don't feel sorry for you." 

You wince, "No, of course not." 

"Two seconds," he says, putting his hand forward in the air between you. "A hot topic? I don't understand." He looks genuinely apologetic. 

"The tip line got clogged up with comments about my appearance," you say. You phrase it as a professional error rather than the embarrassing event it represents in your personal life.

His lips curl downward. "Saying you looked tired." 

"Saying I looked unagreeable." 

"As a friend," he says, tone softening, "could you tell me what they said?" 

Heat blooms in your cheeks and behind your eyes, your throat aching as you scratch at a nonexistent itch in the crook of your elbow. "Um. Well, there was a lot of them, and they weren't all about me, but the ones I saw, they seemed to think I needed more sleep. That I–" 

Hitch rarely interrupts, but something in your voice must impel him. "What did they say?" he asks again. 

"That I looked like a creature. That they hoped Miss Langley would be found, so that they didn't have to see my face on TV again. Hotch," you say, your throat sounding as tight as it feels, "it was pretty bad, but it really doesn't matter." 

"I think it matters if it's upset you," he says. 

He has the warmest voice when he wants it to be, so dulcet, almost melodic. You'd think it was a practised phrase, but he speaks freely. 

"It didn't," you lie. 

Pointless in your line of work and automatic anyways. Hotch doesn't deny you the safety of your untruth, but he doesn't entertain it, either. 

"You're beautiful when you're tired," he says. 

You don't mean to, but you hold your breath. The silence that follows his remark is deafening. 

"You're beautiful," he says, again, as though you could've missed it the first time. "Regrettably, you're very tired, but you don't look any less pretty. Don't think what was sent in to the tip line has any merit." 

"Are you saying that as my friend or my boss?" you ask. It's meant to be a joke that lightens the mood. 

"Neither," Hotch says.

You gawp, and then falter. "Why…" 

Hotch is close enough to offer a hand, and you're feeling stupid enough to take it. He squeezes tenderly, looking you straight in the eye. "I'm sorry about what's being said. I had no idea. We can pull the video, and the tipline should stop now Dana's been found, but it doesn't erase what's already happened. I'm so sorry. It's not right, and it's not fair." 

"It's a hard job, right?" you ask.

His hand is so so big, and not as soft as you'd pictured. It doesn't make a difference, not when he's touching you like you might shatter. 

"That's not the job," he says.

"It's silly to care, though. About what other people think." 

"I hope you care about what I think. The merit of an opinion comes from the person, and the relationship you have with them. Anyone who knew you would know that you're beautiful." 

"Inside that counts," you say, not fully comforted, but trying to give him an out. 

"You're beautiful on the outside," he says, giving your hand a small shake. "You're an amazing woman, of course. But I, for one, enjoyed seeing your face on TV."

You try not to smile too hard, directing your gaze at your joined hands lest he get a read on you.

Hotch must know how you feel about him. He'd be an awful profiler if he didn't. You fawn when you're around him even now, months down the line from your very first meeting when you were sure your heart would ricochet from your chest, the intensity of your instant crush like nothing you'd felt, not even as a schoolgirl. He'd been tall, striking, classically handsome and completely unaware of the fact. Now he's sitting across from you and he doesn't seem so tall, nor so striking. His caring side shines like a gem. It's blinding, and it really does make you feel better. 

"I cried in the bathroom," you confess, rubbing your thumb against his in minute, near imperceptible circles. "I wish it didn't matter to me, how I looked. I know I was doing something important, and there wasn't time to freshen up. Maybe I should've just asked somebody else." 

"You did it perfectly. You were perfect. No one else could have delivered the profile to the public that professionally, and that astutely." 

Hotch stands up, and you don't know what to do. You decide to look up at him just as he takes your face into his hands. 

"No crying in bathrooms, okay? It would… it breaks my heart thinking about it. You come to me."  

Such a dramatic statement, yet Hoch lays it out like it's an unquestionable truth. No bravado, only a sincerity that makes your throat hurt. His frown slides back into place as his palms warm your cheeks. 

"You're so busy, I could never," you say, shaking your head. 

"Time and place, sure, but. I will always try to make time for you. I hope you know that by now." 

You nod dazedly. Hotch's hands drag with a pressure down to your neck, your shoulders, leaving tingling skin in their wake. He looks at you and time stretches, a few seconds pulled out of order. It's his closeness, and his affectionate, empathetic smile. 

You nod again. 

He relaxes. 

"Try and get some rest, okay? You need to take care of yourself. I know it's hard to ignore how you feel, I know today was hard, but you're one of the strongest people I've ever met. I have faith in you." He gives your shoulder a final squeeze. "Are you alright?" 

"Yeah," you say. It comes out much more quietly than intended.

"Rest, honey. Call me if you're upset again. I mean it." 

He smooths your cheek with the back of his forefinger and you wonder if this is some weird fantasy. Hotch makes for the door, and you know for sure it's real when he says, "And no more caffeine tonight." 

"No more caffeine," you agree. 

He doesn't realise he's twice as bad as a coffee. Your heart races all by itself, his phantom touch on your cheek. 

—

"Hi, beautiful," Derek says. 

"There's the girl of the hour," Rossi says. 

You roll your arm in a bow, eyes stinging from the bright lobby lights but otherwise quite happy. Hotch called you beautiful last night. Hotch called you honey. People on the Internet who have nothing better to do thought you looked gross, but Hotch thinks you're pretty. It's hard to focus on the negative with a positive that good. 

"Good morning, my favourite boys," you say sweetly. 

Spencer looks up from his book. "Hey." 

"You didn't say hello," you say, "you excluded yourself." 

Spencer frowns and goes back to his book. You offer him a mini cookie from your pocket and he perks up, better when you whisper, "You know you're my favourite, Reid." 

"We all know that's a lie," Emily says, rolling her small suitcase to your left and nearly trampling your foot. 

"Unfortunately so," Rossi agrees. 

"I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about." 

"Hotch looks chipper this morning, doesn't he?" Derek asks, nodding. You follow his nod too quickly and give yourself away, earning a scattered round of laughter from your tired team. "Got you."

"Laugh it up," you say. You're on a high that can't be killed, even with their collective teasing. 

"Why are we laughing?" Hotch asks from behind you. 

You jump half out of your skin. 

"We were laughing at Y/N's swift observational skills, but we spoke too soon," Emily says.

Hotch takes a moment to smile at you. "Hey, you look a little more rested. Feeling better?" 

A flush rises to your cheeks. "Much," you say, sounding foreign to your own ears. 

Hotch gives a pleased nod and clasps your shoulder gently before manoeuvring around you. "Let me go see where JJ is." 

He walks around the lobby corner and into the hotel restaurant. You have your face in your hands before he's gone, harassed by quiet whistles and giggling. 

"She's so embarrassed!" Rossi cheers, like a proud dad. "How hopeless, young love." 

"Someone please shut him up," you beg, rubbing your aching eyes. It's an excuse to hide your smile a moment longer. 

"Are you still tired?" Spencer asks. "You look tired."

"She does not," Derek says severely. 

You raise your head with a smile. Tired or not, Hotch thinks you're beautiful. He liked seeing you on TV. You lavish the memory.

"I'm genuinely exhausted," you say eventually, a smile stretching from cheek to cheek as you stand tall again.

"I want whatever kind of tired you're feeling," JJ says as she arrives, Hotch a step behind her. 

You meet his eyes. You think he might not acknowledge what's been said between you —it wasn't strictly professional to have held your face in his hands like that, after all— and the beginnings of disappointment creep in, until he stands at your side, his fingertips brushing yours. It cannot be accidental. 

"She wears it well, doesn't she?" he asks the group. He gives no time for an answer. "Everyone ready?" 

You practically vibrate your way to the SUV. Not a bad case, as they go. 

 ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

thank you for reading, so much! I hope you enjoyed! if you did and you have the time, please consider reblogging cos it makes me happy <3

[trippinsorrows]

looking through your eyes + four

authors note: hi! thank you so much for everyone who has left such kind words for this story! i'm so appreciative for the support and interest!

this one, i think, depicts a lot of contradicting thoughts and feelings for our two favorite characters. that's intentional.

i also take some creative liberties with medical and wrestling shit. let's just go with it, friends, por favor.

if any cw/tw’s are missed, please let me know, and i will add them!

cw/tw: language, violence, sexual harassment, hints at past self-harm, allusions to past suicide attempt, references to traumatic pasts

song inspo: ‘looking through your eyes’ by leann rimes

words: 10k

Roman has spent years coming home to a dark, empty house. It’s been his preference for just as long, enjoying the isolation following day after day of shit that needs to be handled. Because that’s usually how shit plays out for him. Roman’s always calling the shots, always figuring out how to navigate difficult, sticky situations. 

It's just what he does.

It’s why he’s been able to advance the Bloodline as much as he has. Because Roman is a man playing professional chess among a group of elementary checker players.

And he’d never voice or admit it to anyone, but the weight does sometimes get to him in one way or another. So, he’s learned to appreciate solitude. 

But he’s not met with solitude upon entering his home, which is both surprising and irritating considering it’s pushing 2 o’clock in the morning.

The only sound he should hear is the sound of his heavy footsteps from the front door to the bedroom. Instead, his feet carry him into the source of said sounds that are more pots banging and dishes being washed.

That’s how he immediately knows who it is without needing to check. But, Roman is more curious as to why she’s in the damn kitchen at this time of night instead of sleeping than the noise itself.

And he goes to ask as such when he gets even closer and realizes there’s more to the sound than clanging pots and running water. A soft, melodic, almost soothing voice singing in a language he doesn’t understand but recognizes as Spanish. 

Solana is singing, and she’s singing well, beautiful even. So much so that he finds himself leaning against the wall closest to the kitchen, watching as she moves about, earbuds pressed in her ears making her oblivious to his presence.

There’s a sense of relaxation to her, an almost smile as she sings. She doesn’t seem nervous nor skittish….just at peace.

That is she turns around and realizes he's standing there, watching her.

She snatches her earbuds out and immediately jumps on the train of unnecessary apologies. “I’m sorry! I didn’t—-you said you’d be back late.”

He chuckles, calmly pointing out, “it’s almost 2am.”

Her face is flushed red with unnecessary embarrassment. “I thought—I guess I figured that meant you’d come back in the morning.”

“I sleep in my own bed, if I can help it.” It’s a comfort thing, a nod to his preference for solitude. He’s never even stayed the night with Samantha, mostly because he knows her ass would see that as a damn marriage proposal.

Well, maybe not anymore.

“Why are you still up?”

“I—I couldn’t sleep.” It’s a simple answer he’s certain also includes a very real, dark backstory as to why she can’t sleep. He’s been there.

He gets it.

“I’ll be done soon—"

“You can stay up as long as you want. I don’t care.” And it’s true. The house is big enough for her to be making as much noise as she needs, and he probably wouldn’t hear anything from where his room is. He also recognizes the misery that comes with wanting but not being able to sleep, so if being in the kitchen is her distraction, then he’s good with that.

Of course, she continues with the apologies. “I’m sorry about the music—I just—the house was too quiet. I—I don’t like the quiet.”

“Solana.” He has to interrupt her. Roman’s not in the mood for her apology tour. Granted, he does hone in on the part of not liking the quietness of the house. Of course she would be the opposite of him. “I don’t care. Do what you want. Shit doesn’t impact me.”

Roman can see she’s unsure of how to take his words, most likely wondering if there’s some catch, if it’s followed up with a stipulation. But, there is none. As long as it doesn’t impact him, she can do what she wants.

“You have a nice voice,” he compliments, because again, it’s the truth. He’d never taken her as the singing type, but gradually, Roman is starting to see there may be more to Solana than meets the eye. 

Her unsure expression remains unchanged with the exception of her blush deepening as she mumbles a quiet, “thank you.”

Compliments of any sort seem to bother her, or maybe it’s less they bother her and more she’s unsure of how to respond because she’s not used to them.

He’d lean more on the side of that being the case.

Nevertheless, Roman decides to leave her be. “I’m going to bed.”

“Okay,” she says almost sheepishly, adding a quiet, “goodnight.”

Roman takes her in, the quietness and passiveness no longer as irritating as he once thought and believed it to be. It might still irk him, but the level of irritation isn’t as high as it used to be.

Whatever that means.

“Goodnight, Solana….”

————

From day one of moving into Roman's mansion, Solana has noticed the watch dogs that occasionally patrol the premises along with the armed guards. And while she’s always been tempted to ask to pet one, she’s also always decided against it. These dogs, like their handlers, are trained killers, not emotional support animals.

They’re not there for her to treat like objects.

But it’s when she walks outside, ready to head off to work, that she notices one guard with a dog Solana hasn’t seen before, a puppy, that she finds it in her to approach. With a couple minutes to spare before she has to leave for work, interacting with a dog seems like a nice way to start off the day.

Hand on her purse strap, she shoves back her anxiety about approaching this strange man, asking in a soft voice, “i–is he new?”

The guard sizes her up and down, answering with a gruff, “yeah.” 

Solana looks down at the dog who’s also staring up at her with just as much curiosity. Smiling gently, she carefully crouches down and waits for him to move closer. There's a generous leeway of his leash that would allow him to do so. 

Sure enough, the dog walks over to her, ears down. Giggling, she cautiously moves to pet him. “You’re so sweet….” And he is. Solana wonders if he’ll retain that sweetness once he undergoes his training. Unlikely. “Good boy…”

“He’s not a fucking pet.” The guard harshly scolds, giving a tug on the leash that makes the dog start to growl. Solana frowns, recognizing he’s annoyed with her interruption.

“I’m sor—”

But before she can finish her sentence, there’s a flash before her that seems almost too quick for her vision to process. But, when she does, she realizes Roman is now present, directly in front of the guard, hand wrapped around his throat. 

“Speak to her like that again, and I’ll cut your fucking tongue out your mouth.” His voice is as menacing and terrifying as the fire in his eyes. Roman shoves the man forward and demands. “Apologize. Now.”

The man is coughing, struggling to regulate his breathing but still manages to cough up a muttered, “I’m sorry.”

Solana feels and probably looks stumped at hearing such a thing. She can’t recall the last time someone has ever uttered those words to her. Understandably, she doesn’t know how to respond or react. 

“Leave,” Roman demands. And Solana isn’t sure she’s seen a man haul off as quickly as he does, guiding the dog along with him. 

Roman takes in her appearance as she stands up, nervously brushing any invisible lint off her pants. “You good?”

She nods, still not quite knowing how to take this. How to take Roman seemingly defending her. Or maybe he’s just defending what belongs to him. It has to be the latter of the two, because why would he care about defending her?

Red-faced, she tries to explain her actions. “It—it was my fault. I just—I saw the dog, and I just—I wanted to pet it.”

“Why are you apologizing for someone being rude to you? Does that shit make sense to you?” When he says it like that, no, it doesn’t. But it’s clearly meant to be rhetorical, as he then asks, “you like dogs?”

Nodding, she clarifies. “Small dogs, mostly. Big ones, umm, they kinda scare me.” As do most things. This, she’s sure, he’s noticed by now. “Uhh—what time do you want dinner ready?”

He shakes his head. “Don’t worry about that. I’ll be back late tonight.”

“Oh.” Solana is unsure why there’s a strange sense of disappointment in her belly at this. Late….

In her experience with her dad and brother, that usually means they won’t be back until the next day, most likely in the morning. 

This should make her feel a bit relieved, not having to be on edge, feeling worried about upsetting him. 

Even if the only thing regarding her that she’s seen upset him is when he perceives she’s being disrespected.

She’s not quite sure what to make of that either.

“Ayo, Lil’ Soso.” A new voice enters the conversation, one she’s gradually growing comfortable and used to. Jey walks out with a rubbermaid container in his hand, chewing obnoxiously as he approaches Solana and Roman. “What are these things? They’re pretty good.”

There’s a couple of things to process in that one interaction, starting with the nickname Jey has used to refer to her in the times she’s run into him in the house. The twins, along with Paul, seem to be at the mansion often. The interactions though, have allowed her to feel less tense around him. Around Jimmy too.

She hasn’t had enough interaction with Paul to feel that way about him, and she’s certain that won’t change. He seems only concerned with Roman and no one else, which is valid and fair considering his role as Roman’s chief advisor.

Going back to his question, she answers, “conchas.”

“Con what?”

His expression and delivery make her smile. “Conchas. It’s a Mexican pan dulce. Sweet bread.”

“I don’t know half of what you said, but this shit good as hell. You got any more?”

“Don’t you have fucking food at your house?” Solana would never show or admit to it, but it’s sometimes funny to her how Roman seems almost always annoyed with his eccentric cousins. There’s no doubt in her mind though that he wouldn’t hesitate to kill for them, that he’s probably done so. And vice versa.

But they also seem to get on his nerves just as much. 

“Man, Nicki on that shit again, talking about she ain’t cooking until I start treating her right. Me and the kids been eating out.”

Kids? That surprises her. She didn’t know Jey was a father. 

“Solana! When you train with Naomi, can you exchange some recipes with her or something?” Jimmy also joins in the conversation, walking over while rubbing his stomach. “Cause I don’t know what that meal was in the blue container, but shit slapped.”

It takes a minute for her to remember which one that was. She’s always been a bit meticulous about separating her meals accordingly. “Carnitas Huevos Rancheros.”

Jimmy hesitates. “Yeah sure, that.”

“Am I running a fucking food pantry?” It’s hard to tell if Roman is genuinely annoyed. Something tells her it’s that type of irritation he naturally gets with the twins but won’t actually do anything about. “It’s not her job to feed you idiots.”

“I don’t mind,” she offers, adding. “I–I like to cook.” And it’s the truth. It reminds Solana of her mom, of all the times she’d spend in the kitchen learning from and spending time with the one and only person on this planet who ever loved her. 

“See, Uce, she likes to cook,” Jey points out, wiping the crumbs off his fingers on his pants and tucking the now empty container under his arm. “I’ll just take this off your hands.”

Solana’s watch vibrating, reminding her that her shift starts in half an hour, is the perfect reminder that while this conversation is comical, it’s also interfering with her schedule. She’s also certain Solo is waiting patiently, or impatiently, by the SUV for her to jump in so they can get a move on. “I—I’ve gotta get to work, but I can have the food ready by tomorrow. I’ll just come home and cook after training.”

“If you feel like it,” Roman adds, and she knows better than to push back and tell him cooking is one of the few escapes she has. It’s become even more of an escape without the anxiety and pressure of her dad and brother demanding the food always be ready in sometimes unrealistic time frames and lashing out when that doesn’t happen.

To Roman’s credit, if he’s ever been annoyed with waiting a few extra minutes for meals, he’s done a perfect job not showing as such. 

She simply nods, acknowledging his stipulation, offering a quiet ‘bye’ as she jogs off to the SUV with Solo ready to escort her to work.

It’s when she’s gone that Jimmy walks up beside Roman. “Man, she can cook, she don’t got a smartass mouth, and she got a body? Shit, Uce, ain’t you glad I told you to go with her?” Roman doesn’t offer a reply, but he definitely gives Jimmy that look that lets his cousin know to get away from him. Roman’s always been big on personal space.

“Does she cook every night?” Jey comes up, asking with an almost level of excitement. “Shit, me and the kids finna start coming over here.”

“Shut up.” The hell they will. Roman is still adjusting to living with someone. The last thing he needs is his cousin and his spawns running around his place, making noise, breaking and touching shit. Not going to happen. “Is Paul already at the office?”

“Yeah. He’s got the updated figures for you to go over. And the RKO proposal was sent over as well for you to review.”

Nodding, Roman starts to create a mental agenda for tasks he needs to complete for the day. And it goes without saying that he’s forever impressed how his cousins are easily able to slide back and forth between professional bag and bumbling morons. 

It’s one of the reasons he keeps them around and as high up in command as they are.

“Good,” Roman acknowledges, sliding his sunglasses over his eyes. “Let’s go.”

————

“Hey!”

Naomi’s smile is just as bright and genuine as the first time Solana met her, and that’s something she doesn’t know how to take. A part of her figured Naomi was just being nice to her because Roman was around, because she was given an order, and no one defies the Tribal Chief’s orders.

And maybe she could even chalk this up to being an order as well, Roman tasking her with training Solana on how to fight, hence the continued kindness.

Regardless of the motivating factor, this woman is clearly a capable and trained fighter. A killer. 

Solana would do well to stay on her good side.

“It’s good to see you. We didn’t really get a chance to talk much, but obviously, I’m Naomi. Jimmy’s wife.” For some reason, Solana can see it. Can see these two together, even if she’s only been around both less than a handful of times. “I train a lot of the new recruits, mostly women, some men.”

“Men?”

Naomi chuckles. “That’s typically their reaction too. Right before I remind them who I am and what I can do.”

Solana isn’t sure she wants to know the answer to either of those. 

“Just out of curiosity, do you have any kind of combat training? Fighting knowledge in general?” It’s a valid question that only has one embarrassing answer. Solana guesses that Naomi picks up on this embarrassment, adding gently, “it’s okay if you don’t. It just gives me a baseline on where we should start.”

“No—I—I’ve never done anything like this before.” And she’s still not sure if she wants to, not sure what Roman thinks she will get from this. Him, along with everyone else around her, learned how to shoot a gun at the same time they learned how to walk. She doesn’t think she’s ever even held a gun. There’s no way humanly possible she could ever be even a fraction as good at this. 

And Roman has to know this.

So, why is he making me do it?

Again, either Naomi is insanely perceptive or Solana is much worse at hiding her emotions than she initially believed. 

She’d bet on the latter of the two.

“He doesn’t want you to be like us. He just—”

“He wants you to stop being so damn weak,” a new voice interjects. Solana recognizes the tall, intimidating woman from before when Roman had taken her to the Warehouse. She hadn’t had any direct interaction, but just the mere fact alone that she’d simply looked at Solana with disgust told her all she needed to know. “Wants you to grow a backbone.”

“Nia.” Naomi’s smile is dropped, traded for an intense stare. “Lay off her, okay? You heard what Roman said.”

“Oh yeah, we have to be nice to her.” Nia’s smile is mocking, her unimpressed gaze taking in Solana from head to toe. But Solana focuses on what Nia just said versus her judgmental countenance. Did Roman really tell them to be nice to her? Why? Why would he do that?

Nia walks over, crossing her arms over her body. “Well, here’s some kind advice, I can tell from one look at you that life hasn’t been very nice to you. But that doesn’t make you special.”

Naomi steps in. “Nia!”

“Bad shit happens to people all the time. At some point, you have to stop allowing yourself to be a victim.” If not for the fact that Solana knows Nia can’t stand her, she’d almost think Nia is offering what she believes to be genuine advice vs judging her. “You’re here. You survived it. Make that survival worth something.”

Naomi pushes Nia away from Solana, saying something to her that appears to be in defense of Solana, which she’d appreciate if not for the fact that she’s now in her head.

Nothing Nia said is inherently wrong. The world is undoubtedly both good and bad, perfect yet imperfect, wholly and incompletely balanced. These are all facts she’s well aware of, but what Nia doesn’t know or understand yet is that a person still being here doesn’t mean they survived. 

Solana is already broken.

There is no survival.

There’s just existence.

“Don’t listen to Nia,” Naomi advises. Looking around, Solana sees that at some point in her dissociation, Nia departed. Naomi continues with that same warm smile. “She can be a bitch sometimes, but she does mean well…..occasionally.” Hands on her hip, Naomi brings the attention back to the whole reason Solana is even at the Warehouse. “How about we just start with flexibility and mobility? Most of us are smaller than the men, and you definitely are, girl.”

Small……

That’s a word Solana has never thought to use to describe herself. 

“Being smaller means we can move around faster, can navigate around an attacker in a bit of a quicker way. But, you also have to be able to move in a way that’s lithe. Don’t worry. I gotchu, girl.”

They are reassuring words, words that Solana is grateful for, especially as they begin and she feels completely out of her element. Because she is. Solana isn’t the least bit lithe, and she’s certain her hand eye coordination is straight up shit.

But regardless of all that, Naomi remains kind, patient, and even makes conversation with her.

It doesn’t feel like she’s being made to do this, but more like something she gets to do. And Solana is grateful for that interaction, for the space to not feel like she’s burdening someone. That feels nice. So, so nice.

But equilibrium is a hard thing to achieve and even harder to maintain, so while one safe space is being created, another unsafe space is gradually forming in the midst of her oblivion.

Austin Theory and Grayson Waller, two upcoming, arrogant, fighters and wannabe heads have used the Warehouse for their training space for the past few months after finally proving and gaining access to the elite training grounds. 

And while the initiation and acceptance process was brutal and would ward most off from fucking up their membership status, Austin and Grayson have always been hardheaded, too blinded by their own hubris to recognize when they’re about to shoot themselves in the foot.

And shooting themselves is the least of their worries when Grayson is casually surveying the gym to see who’s present, his eyes landing on a woman in particular who catches his interest almost instantaneously. 

“Well, who do we have here?” Austin is confused initially, Grayson motioning across the way to where Solana completes her cooldown with Naomi. 

Immediately, Austin scoffs. “Since when does this place offer a weight watchers class?”

Chuckling, Grayson still pushes back. “Hers is in the right places though, mate,” Grayson again advises Austin to watch Solana as she happens to be leaning back, palms flat on the ground making her top hug against her chest.

Austin makes a face. “Decent.”

“Who is she?” Grayson asks again as Austin notices a semi-familiar face walking nearby.

“Melo.”

Carmelo shifts his Beats headphones so they’re no longer covering his ears. “Whassup?”

Austin subtly gestures to Solana, asking, “who is that?”

Carmelo follows the line of vision and almost immediately snatches his eyes back to the duo. “Yo. You fuckin’ crazy?” 

“What?”

Carmelo repeats himself, a sense of urgency in his voice. “Do you know who that is?”

“Pretty sure that’s what we just fucking asked you, dumbass,” Austin slaps him upside the head. “Now who is she?”

“Solana Miller. Well, Solana Reigns now, I guess.” Carmelo lowers his voice, as if speaking too loudly will attract too much attention. And he’s not entirely wrong. “Roman’s wife.”

Grayson makes a face, looking between Carmelo and Austin for elaboration. “Reigns got married? Bullshit. That bloke is the last man to ever walk down the aisle.”

“You two would do well getting your head from up your asses every once in a while. It’s a recent thing, but still a thing. So unless you want your insides literally ripped from out of you, it’d be best to leave her the fuck alone.”

Austin, the most smug of the two, is the first to protest. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those. Everyone makes Roman out to be this big bad who can’t be touched. He defends, what, once every six months?” Austin scoffs. The fear that the “Head of the Table” seems to have over everyone has never made sense to him. Sure, he’s heard things, even seen some things, but that’s always been because Roman called the shot. He’s not the one actually taking or making them. “Everyone knows he has his heron boys do his dirty work for him.”

“Plus, isn’t the guy pushing 40? What the fuck is he going to do?” Grayson laughs.

“Break his fucking hip trying to chase us.”

Carmelo shakes his head as the two dipshits laugh at their unfunny humor. “I’m telling ya’ll. Messing with her is a death wish. Plus, I heard she’s not even like that. That’s she’s like….shy and shit.”

If intended to ward the two off, it does the complete opposite. Theory smirks. “Those are always the freakiest.”

Carmelo backs away, lifting his hand in a surrender motion. “Can’t say I ain’t warn you. Dig your own graves.” With zero interest in having any part of what these two are clearly planning, Carmelo puts his headphones back over his ears and jogs off to start his training. 

And it’s a wise decision as Austin and Grayson, forever the patient predators stalking their prey wait for Naomi to walk off, time it well so that there’s an appropriate enough time for Solana to walk off to the showers, get clean, and walk out at the same time they happen to be lurking in the halls that lead to the locker rooms. 

That’s exactly how it plays out too, Solana looking down in her bag to grab her phone and text Solo that she’s done and ready to leave when a voice nearly knocks the wind out of her.

“Hi there.”

Solana gasps as loud as the sound of her back colliding with the brick wall behind her from how startled she is.

Instantly, she’s met with a set of cold blue eyes and wicked smile. “Solana, right?”

Breathing feels like it’s an optional thing, her hands still gripping the brick wall behind her. She can only nod her answer.

“Austin.” He then nods to the other man that Solana realizes is leaning back against the wall opposite her. The anxiety intensifies. “This is my buddy, Grayson. You must be new around here?”

Solana doesn’t want to speak, doesn't want to be near these two who have her practically cornered. But, she also doesn’t want to piss them off either. “Y—yeah.”

Austin’s eyes twinkle with nothing that seems good. “You really are shy, huh?”

“They make the best.” Grayson comments from his propped up position. Solana doesn’t allow herself to think too much about what he’s implying. She just wants to get the hell away from them. One look, and she knows they’re up to no good.

It makes her sick to her stomach.

The idea of walking past these two brings a visceral, physical response that has her mouth watering. She feels like she’s going to throw up, but she also knows she needs to get the hell away from them. “I—I have to go.” From where the next thing to come out her mouth stems from, she doesn’t know, but it’s blurted with all the nerves in her body. “R-Roman is waiting for me.”

He’s not. She actually has no idea where he is, but there’s a part of her that wonders if reminding them of who she is, who her husband is will make them back off.

“Of course,” the one with an accent speaks, motioning with his arm for her to leave. “Don’t want to keep the Chief waiting.”

The mockery in his tone unease her even more. Does he not realize just who Roman is? What he’s capable of. 

Regardless, the second Austin backs away a bit, she’s darting through the hall, trying to put as much distance between herself and the two men, but she’s not far enough to miss the ominous departing statement from Austin.

“See you around, Solana.”

Something tells her this won’t be the last time she runs into them, and it leaves a deep, disturbing feeling in the pit of her stomach.

This isn’t good. 

It’s not good at all. 

————

Dear Mom,

I’m still alive. 

That’s a good thing, I guess. Life with Roman has been….a strange experience. The most important thing is that he hasn’t hit me yet, but I’ve been trying really hard not to upset him or get on his bad side. I do my best to make sure all of his meals are ready and on time, which I guess helps. 

But to be honest……he kinda confuses me. 

He hasn’t been unkind, and I don’t think I’ve ever experienced him really yelling at me. Not like I’ve seen him yell and scream at others. So, that’s also good. It’s a bit of walking on eggshells, just waiting for him to snap and hit me, but not as much as I was thinking.

I don’t know….it hasn’t been as bad here as I thought it would be. For the most part, he just leaves me alone. We don’t even eat dinner together, which is fine, cause I can’t see why he’d want to spend time with me anyway. 

But, he confuses me because it feels like sometimes he’s defending me or something, which doesn’t make sense because why would he do that? That would mean he has to care to some extent, right? I keep trying to remind myself that it’s probably not me he’s defending but his pride and standing, because I think being mean or disrespecting me is like disrespecting him? I’m not sure, but it’s definitely a new experience.

I haven't spoken to or heard from Wes and dad. Roman made me get a new phone with a new number that I’m not sure either of them have. I don’t know if I want to think too much about how bad it’s going to be when I finally do see them again…..

Wes made it clear I was supposed to be keeping in contact with them, but that hasn’t happened. Truth be told, I try not to think about that. Think about the fact that I’m somehow supposed be figuring out a way to…..to kill Roman. I could never do that. I could never kill anyone. You know that, mama. 

Even more….I feel like Roman is growing on me, like maybe he’s not as bad as I thought, like maybe there’s more to him than meets the eye.

I think….I think that I could learn to like living here.

—------

“WarGames?”

To Solana, it’s a simple question, because it’s definitely not an everyday term. But that’s clearly not the case given the startled expressions on both Bayley and Naomi’s face.

It’s becoming something she is slowly starting to enjoy. Not necessarily the training part, but the socialization. It’s something Solana has been deeply deprived of over the years, so to have someone to talk to, someone who wants to talk to her means a lot. 

Even if it’s technically a job she was assigned by Roman, Naomi has never made her feel like their interactions are forced. 

Moreover, it was just in last week’s training session, Solana was thoroughly and pleasantly surprised to find out Bayley is also a member of the Warehouse and friends with Naomi, that reunion almost giving Solana a sense of giddiness. 

She’s wanted to reach out since the wedding but never followed through based upon her fear that she’d be bothering Bayley. 

Clearly, that’s not the case. 

Solana is certain she’ll never forget Bayley’s kindness on a day where she really needed to believe in something, believe that there is always at least one reason to keep breathing, to be alive.

But, it’s when Solana asks about this topic Naomi and Bayley were discussing that attracts confounded expressions. 

“You’re kidding right?” Bayley is the first to speak, glancing between herself and Naomi. “He didn’t tell you?”

Still confused, Solana presses, “tell me what?”

“I’m not surprised Roman didn’t, but someone definitely should have.” Naomi shakes her head, shifting into an explanation.. “War Games. It’s an annual match. Super big deal. It’s a show of strength and dominance for the Bloodline. Kinda hard to explain. You’ll just have to see for yourself.”

It sounds….intense. “I—I don’t think I’m invited.”

“Your hubby has clearly been a bachelor for way too long for him to realize that he has to tell you these things.” Bayley rolls her eyes but protests Solana’s belief that she would somehow not be invited to one of the Bloodline’s most important yearly events. “You’re definitely invited. As Roman’s wife, you have to be there. It would be seen as a sign of great disrespect to him if you didn’t.””

Disrespecting Roman…..never a good idea.

“When is it?”

Naomi seems to hesitate before answering. “Tomorrow night” And before Solana can panic at such short notice, Naomis is reassuring her that it will all work out. “Don’t worry. Bay and I will help you get ready.”

“Hell yeah.” Bayley already goes into strategizing mode. “I’ll handle your hair and makeup, and Naomi can find you a kickass dress.”

“Red, of course. That’s the only non-negotiable. Bloodline thing, ya know.” Solana figured as such. She also briefly wonders if that’s why Roman has been coming back home late the past few weeks, because he’s been training? “But, I will say we usually dress….well, like we’re going clubbing for these kinds of events, so it’s gonna be short, tight, and a tad bit revealing.”

That is something that gives Solana pause. None of those things scream appealing to her at all. She doesn’t have the body to dress like that. Not with the rolls, stretch marks, and scars that mar hers. 

“I—I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” she finds it in herself to voice her opinion. A rarity. “I don’t—I don’t think I’d look good in something like that.”

Both Bayley and Naomi cast her confused expressions, Naomi being the first to speak. 

“Why?” Naomi presses, gesturing up and down. “Girl, you have a nice ass shape. You would fill out a bodycon dress nicely.”

Solana has a hard time digesting what Naomi is saying. She would look great in a dress like that. Naomi is both fit and curvy, the perfect amount of curves in the right places without unnecessary fat. Same for Bayley.

For Solana, the less skin she’s showing the better, though she wonders if the kind of attire they’re describing is some type of dress code, meaning there is no room to protest. 

The last thing she wants is for it to get back to Roman that she’s being “difficult.”

Defeated, she murmurs an ‘okay’ as the two of them engage in more conversation about this WarGames as well as fashion options. To be fair, they try to include her in, but Solana is too into her head about what this alleged night is as well as what it could include.

—---

Naomi wasn’t lying when she said that Solana would have to see WarGames for herself to understand it. That’s the absolute truth. 

It’s a spectacle, to say the least. 

For one, it’s a ton of people packed around the ring, the massive room where fights take place. The noise is boisterous, almost deafening, people drunk, swearing, placing bets, most of which are on the Bloodline.

And thankfully, Solana and Co. are seated in the upper area, a VIP box of sorts, away from the unruly crowd. She’s thankful for this for a lot of reasons, one of the biggest being the fact that she feels extremely uncomfortable in her dress. And just in general, but mostly with how much scarred skin is showing.

The dress is exactly as Naomi said it would be: short, red, and a bit revealing. Thankfully Naomi picked out a dress with a halter neckline that prevents any cleavage from showing, but there’s a split high up on the thigh that she finds herself trying to constantly adjust.

“You look great, Solana.” Bayley wears that same friendly, encouraging smile from Solana’s wedding day. “And I get that you’re self-conscious about your body, but I can guarantee these men would line up by the dozen for a chance to go home with you if not for your psycho-killer husband.”

Bayley playfully nudges her shoulder, and while Solana can emit a chuckle, she can’t bring herself to laugh. That line of men would be just as disappointed as she’s sure her psycho-killer husband was on their wedding night.

But, this isn’t the time and place for that.

“You look nice,” Solana compliments, partially a deflection technique but mostly the truth. Bayley, Naomi, and Nicki, who she met earlier that night and learned was Jey’s wife, all look exceptional in their numbers. Bayley is the only one not wearing red, for obvious reasons, but the jade green compliments her complexion well.

“We all look nice,” she says loud enough for the other two to hear.

Nicki opens her mouth to respond when the lights in the arena start to shift.  “Ugh. This bitch again.” Nicki’s scowl and expression of irritation draws Solana’s attention to the woman in the ring, who now has the spotlight on her, a woman she immediately recognizes as being there that night Roman woke her up from a nightmare.

The woman is tall, curvy in the right places, beautiful, bouncy curls cascading down her back. If she has a lot of makeup on, Solana can’t tell because it’s painfully obvious she’s been blessed with natural beauty. Everything about her is just so gorgeous.

At the time, she didn’t think anything of it, too caught in the haze of trauma. But now, curious and believing she can receive an answer, Solana asks, “who is she?”

“The most annoying person ever,” Nicki answers, taking a swig of her drink. In only knowing Nicki for less than an hour, Solana both does and doesn’t understand the compatibility between herself and Jey. They seem very much alike yet dissimilar. It makes sense why they fight as much as they do.

“That’s Samantha.” There’s no way to misinterpret the disgust in Nicki’s voice even as she pronounces Samantha’s name with undeniable distaste. “She does the announcements for events, but her daytime job is being a professional hooker.”

“Nicki!” Naomi shakes her head. “I think she’s a paralegal for a lawyer or something, but she’s mostly known as a pain in everyone’s ass. Always has been. Ever since we were in high school. She thinks because she’s light skinned with ‘good hair’ that she’s better than everybody.”

“Don’t forget about Roman,” Nicki chimes with her nose upturned. “She really thinks she’s hot shit though because she’s number one on his ‘I want my dick sucked’ list.”

This causes Solana to pause for a second. “What?”

She’s not stupid. Why else would this Samantha have been over at the house that late at night? And with Roman? Solana figured early on that if he isn’t getting any from her, then he has to be getting it from somewhere. Truthfully, even if their marriage did involve sex, she’s not sure he still wouldn’t find his way in between the legs of another woman.

But, there’s something about having it confirmed, hearing for herself that he gets around, that he clearly has a high sex drive that adds a whole new layer of insecurity.

She’s known from day one she could never be anyone he wanted or needed, and he expressed as such that day at the library, but this conversation makes it feel more…..real.

And she’s unsure why or just what makes this bring on a sense of sadness.

“Come on, I get you’re quiet and innocent and shit, but everyone knows that man is a hoe. If you’re black or black–ish with a vagina, fat ass, and big titties, he’ll fuck you. Cause none of them fools fuck with white girls.” She glances at Bayley, almost sympathetically. “No offense.”

“I’m Mexican.”

This serves as a brief, nice distraction for Solana. She suspected that Bayley wasn’t entirely white, but hearing that she’s Hispanic, Mexican, makes Solana feel a small slice of excitement. She makes a mental note to ask her if she speaks Spanish. 

Solana hasn’t been able to communicate in the language her mother made sure to teach her in secret given Xavier’s protest since her murder. So, the idea of being able to communicate with another person in that language makes her feel a bit excited. Maybe more than a bit.

Nicki is dismissive, though there’s a hint of humor there. Like she knows and is just messing with the other woman. “Sure you are, Bay.”

Bayley rolls her eyes and assures Solana. “Don’t listen to her.”

“Ya’ll, don’t lie to this girl.” Nicki seems dead set on stressing this point, and Solana can’t figure out if it comes from a good place, a drunk place, or somewhere in between the two of them. “If it wasn’t common knowledge he don’t fuck none of these bitches raw and makes most get on birth control, I’d tell you to not let that fool touch you with a ten foot pole.”

Bayley is watching Solana, sees the discomfort growing at this conversation and moves to change the conversation. “Why don’t we talk about you and Jey and why I literally saw him flirting with Sasha the other day?”

At that, Nicki drops her drink, cussing loudly, “man, fuck him! I don’t give a fuck about him or that bony heifer! I’ll beat the shit out both of them.”

“Nicki. Shut the fuck up. You may beat her ass, but you gon be right back to drunk spilling about how good Jey’s dick is when it’s all said and done.” Naomi dismisses, and something tells Solana she’s not wrong. Nicki and Jey seem to have a bit of a…..tumultuous relationship.

“I mean it this time!”

“Uh huh, sure sis.”

“And if you don’t give a fuck about him, why are you here?” Naomi challenges. 

All eyes on her, even Solana’s slightly curious gaze, Nicki falls back in her chair and mumbles, “cause that’s my man.”

Naomi and Bayley are a chorus of laughter and whooping and hollering, roasting Nicki for her contradictory statements.

Flashing blue lights illuminate the arena as everyone immediately moves to their feet followed by opening music that almost instantly brings chills up Solana’s arms. The lights then transition to a combination of red and blue, the sound of cheering intensifying as she redirects her focus back to where the first group entered. 

Solana’s eyes instantly, maybe even naturally, land on Roman. He stands first among the men, shirtless, ula fala around his neck, championship belt around his waist, a look of fierce determination and stoicism painted across his handsome face. 

And that body…..rippling muscles glistening under the heat of the lights.

It’s a strange and miserable experience. Feeling all of the sensations and attractions a human typically has to another human being but having an almost inability to act on them. It’s not that Solana isn’t attracted to Roman. She finds him to be sinfully attractive. The issue is that whenever she thinks about what physical acts take place when two people find each other attractive is when her head is swarmed with vivid memories and flashbacks of being violated in the worst way possible.

And the attraction is stumped by fear and trauma. Fear of being touched. Fear of being with anyone in that way. 

It’s like Roman said. He can get that from anyone, so why would he bother with her?

When he has someone like Samantha, prettier, smaller, easier, at his disposal?

It brings a wave of sadness over her that she’s grateful isn’t noticed by the other ladies who are focused on the start of the match.

And to her credit, Solana tries to pay attention, grateful and thankful for Naomi and Bayley occasionally pointing out certain aspects of how it works, why the two groups are separated, individual members from each side periodically being sent into the line of fire.

“Roman always goes last,” Naomi explains at one point.

“Save the best for last type shit,” Bayley adds, finishing off her beer and asking for another. 

“More like once he gets his ass in there, it’s a wrap. Everyone left getting smashed.” Solana believes this wholeheartedly. She’s just not sure if she wants to see that, see that side of him up close. 

It exists, obviously, but it’s hard to compare the killer she knows he is to the man he’s been to in the short duration of their marriage.

Almost….almost kind. 

The fighting, brutal and bloody, all occurs in the ring, but Solana constantly finds her gaze falling back to Roman. He remains seated, patiently or maybe impatiently waiting for his turn, never once ripping his gaze from the match. She sees Paul outside the cage, occasionally speaking to Roman, advising as he always does. 

Solana can tell he’s completely immersed, focusing solely on the match before him. 

And it’s when there’s some type of in-ring argument between the twins and the other member-in-training of sorts, Sami, she thinks Naomi called him, that she turns to the ladies. “What are they doing?”

“Sealing a death wish,” Nicki answers with a shake of her head. “Roman gon’ have all they asses for this.”

Naomi sighs loudly, advising Solana after the bickering results in one of the men from the other group getting the upper hand, landing a particularly brutal looking kick to Jey. “There’s been some….contention between Sami and the twins, mostly Jey, but Nicki isn’t entirely wrong. They should know better than to let that shit interfere with a match. Roman will most likely make them stay after and……yeah.”

Solana doesn’t need a detailed explanation. She has a good idea of what Roman making them pay will look like. It’s also not something she wants to see.

The match, in and of itself, despite the excitement and pure interest of everyone around her, isn’t necessarily something she wants to see. Solana has seen, been exposed, and experienced enough fighting violence to last her a lifetime. 

This is entertainment to them, but for her, it’s been her lived experience.

So, she doesn’t feel any sort of adrenaline rush watching grown men beat the crap out of each other, blood, sweat, and bruised, battered bodies putting themselves through hell. It gives her some relief to see that the Bloodline, for the most part, remains with the upperhand. Even with their in-house argument earlier in the fight. 

But, it’s when the timer that ends with another man joining the brawl moves to a ten second countdown that her interest grows a bit more. It grows a bit because Roman is finally about to enter the ring.

She watches him, has mostly just watched him this entire time. He’s just as unbothered as he was the minute he walked in. Adjusting his gloves while Paul clearly tries to bestow some last minute wisdom before he makes his entrance.

It feels a bit redundant. She’s certain this man doesn’t need anyone helping him with anything.

And as soon as the timer winds down to zero, Roman gradually making his way to the ring, Solana knows she was right. Knows he doesn’t need help, because he’s been studying and planning for the past almost 45 minutes. Strategizing.

It shows the minute the men, all 10 of them go at it. It’s hard to keep track of all of the mayhem, fists flying, kicks landing in areas that are sure to require a couple days to recover. But, it’s Roman who still manages to catch and hold Solana’s attention. He moves with such precision and accuracy, blows every bit as barbarous and violent as his reputation warrants.

There’s a small part of her that experiences something she can’t quite label or understand when he takes a hit, especially when a member of the other team manages to catch Roman off guard, sending him into the table, the weight of him snapping it in half.

At that, she nervously starts to move her fingers up and down the side of her dress. But, Roman, while clearly impacted from the blow by the blood starting to stream down the back of his arm only seems further enraged. Like being attacked has somehow refueled him, recharged his already pre-existing rage.

“They are in trouble now….” Naomi murmurs, shaking her head, as if she knows what’s about to come. “Roman hates getting hit, and they made him bleed too?”

It’s the blood part, maybe, that bothers Solana. It’s silly given who he is and the fact that he’s clearly holding his own just fine, but Solana wonders why he doesn’t or can’t have that tended to. It has to hurt.

But, then again, it all hurts, so maybe the pain just numbs itself out.

And maybe Roman is clearly caught up and consumed in adrenaline, in the mad rush of the battle, because it seems from the table slam on out, no one is touching him. He’s all over the place, strong blows resulting in grown men crying out in pain. She’s certain those closer to the actual ring can hear the sound of bones crunching, an inevitable thing given the abnormal distortion of limbs she sees on the other team.

He yells and taunts his opponents, one by one, laying them out with the somewhat assistance of the rest of the men. Truth be told, Roman could have probably tagged out the other four men and handled the other team all on his own. 

He’s just that effective.

And when there’s only one man standing, barely, Roman moves to the other side of the ring, face turned up in rage, watching and waiting for the perfect moment for him to dart across, laughing into a spear so forceful that it knocks the man unconscious instantly, guaranteeing an instant, easy pin.

The crowd erupts in cheers, Roman’s music sounding as Samantha formally announces the Bloodline as the winners.

There’s a strange sense of relief that Solana has at that, at the fact that this is all over, that the fighting is done. That Roman is done, because her mind keeps going toward the fact that he probably needs some level of medical attention and when said attention is going to happen.  

But while she expects the Bloodline to start their exit, she’s instead met with security dragging the unconscious bodies of the losing team outside of the ring.

“What’s happening?” Solana asks Bayley, realizing that the women are starting to pack up to head out. “Isn’t—isn’t it over?”

“For us, yes.” Her eyes set on the twins, Solo, and Sami. “For them, it’s just beginning.” Solana reflects back on their in-ring argument and Naomi’s foreshadowing about this happening, about this punishment.

And one glance at Roman, his hulking shoulders lifting and lowering with his heavy panting. His eyes are flaming with a fury he clearly intends to take out on his team.

“Come on.” Naomi draws Solana’s attention. “I’ll ride home with you, cause Solo ain’t gon be free no time soon.”

None of them will.

Solana recognizes this and agrees, but it’s not without a sense of disappointment at not leaving with Roman.

And that confuses her. It confuses her a lot.

She didn’t arrive with him, so why would she leave with him?

More importantly, why does she care that she’s not leaving with him?

—----------

“I–I can do that for you.”

There are some things meant to be thought and some things meant to be said. This is one of those things that should have stayed in Solana’s head instead of rolling off her tongue the way it does. 

She was only supposed to ask him if he wanted her to make anything in particular for breakfast tomorrow, not offer to freaking suture stitches for him.

Well, that’s not entirely true, because as it’s almost damn midnight, she could and should at least be in bed trying to sleep. She’s been home for almost two hours, showered, changed into her oversized shirt and sweats. 

She shouldn’t even be standing before him, but there was some type of unease she had at trying to fall asleep without making sure he made it home, without seeing to it that he tended to any injuries he sustained tonight.

Solana almost feels like that’s what she should do, like she should make sure she’s available to assist him with anything he may need. Like it’s just another thing that could keep him from directing his anger from earlier towards her. 

And it’s slightly less stressful for her in knowing that he’s more likely to harshly dismiss her, maybe even chastise her for unintentionally implying he’s somehow incapable. However, instead of a rebuff, he simply looks at her, asking, “you know how?”

Solana doesn’t know why, but she takes this as a sign that he’s accepting her offer. Walking over to where he sits at the kitchen island, she sees he already has the supplies laid out. “I—I’ve had a lot of experience.”

Some of it from patching up her dad and brother but most of it from patching up herself over the years, from watching and learning from her mother tend to her wounds after sustaining beatings from Xavier. “My mom was also a nurse. She—she taught me a lot.” Like the proper way to suture. “Did—did you already disinfect?”

Solana is slightly nervous when he says no. That means she’s the one that’s going to have to inflict that brief but potent burning pain.

Lovely.

Nonetheless, she readies the cloth, holding it over the cut before warning, “this—this might sting.”

“I don’t care.” And she believes it. Seeing him in the ring tonight, his prowess, his brutality, she’s not sure if anything could hurt him.

Solana proceeds to clean and disinfect the area before grabbing the sutures to start stitching him back up.

Roman suddenly asks her. “Did you want to go into the medical field?” Roman recalls from the file he read on her that she never pursued any higher education beyond high school, something else he marked against her at the time. Education and knowledge have always been important to him.

But meeting her and slowly learning more about her backstory, he wonders if that was of her own choosing, hence his asking.

Solana, meanwhile, can’t figure out why he’s even talking to her in the first place. He seemed, justifiably, annoyed with and not wanting to be bothered with any and everyone post match. Now he’s asking her questions about things she hasn’t thought about in years. 

Still, she answers with the truth. “I—I wanted to be a nurse. Like my mom.” 

This doesn’t surprise Roman as he follows up with, “why didn’t you?”

A lot of reasons. Many of which she has very little desire to share, not that she could or would even want to ever voice as such to the man sitting in front of her. 

That’d be an instant death wish.

“My—my father. He, umm, didn’t want me to leave home.” It’s a version of the truth, the unabridged version being he didn’t want her to leave home because he wouldn’t be able to control her if she did so.

And Solana has a feeling that she doesn’t need to share all that, that Roman already knows this.

“Why didn’t you just leave?” Roman’s delivery, like most of the time, is insensitive. But, he genuinely wants to know. For what reason did she stay there all those years, in a house of horrors instead of just leaving and never looking back?

It’s a fair, simple question with a complex, layered answer that she greatly simplifies. 

“I tried. It—it never worked out.” And it’s when Roman hears the sudden sadness in her voice, sees the way her eyes temporarily shift to her inner forearms, horizontal faded scars that he’s just now able to see from how close she is to him that he gets it.

He realizes that she tried in more ways than one, none of them being successful.

And in a truly coincidental way, Solana notices he’s also cut on the back of his bicep. It’s also in her being so close to him that she realizes underneath the intricacies of the tribal tattoos on his forearm, there are scars. Burn scars, nothing severe, but visible enough for her to notice. 

It makes her wonder about where he got them, how he got them, not that she’d ever have enough bravery to ask.

She instead clears her throat and gestures to the cut. “Do–do you want me to do that one too?”

It takes a second for Roman to think about what she’s asking. “Is it deep enough?”

Without thinking about it, she brings her hand to finger to lightly feel the cut that was clearly poorly and in a rush patched up post fight. Nodding, she explains, “it’s deeper than about 1/4th an inch, so yeah, I—you should let me.” And in realizing she’s touching him, like she isn’t doing the same thing while suturing, she snatches her hand back, apologizing quietly.

He doesn’t think he’s ever had a woman apologize for touching him.

“Okay.” 

And that’s it, he doesn’t protest, doesn’t chastise her for making it seem like he doesn’t know or understand injuries. He just allows her to work on him, Solana doing her best to ignore the fact that he’s so close to her, his big, strong body, even while seated, overwhelming her. 

But while this would typically cause Solana to go into panic mode, being so close to a half dressed man, she doesn’t feel that with Roman. She doesn’t feel anything at all. No anxiety, no fear, just some nameless emotion that doesn’t evoke her typical nervous responses.

“Okay.” Finishing up, Solana moves to clean up the supplies, discarding what is no longer usable. “Just….don’t get it wet for next few hours, and apply the ointment as needed, but—I’m sure you know all this already.” She feels silly for speaking to him as if he hasn’t patched himself up or been stitched up countless time before. “I’m gonna—I’m gonna go to bed now.”

Not wanting to risk embarrassing herself further, she turns on the heel of her foot and starts walking off, only to stop when he calls for her. 

“Solana.”

She turns around, and Roman is briefly caught up in how she presses her lips together, trying to suppress a frown. She thinks she’s done something wrong.

One more sweep of her frame from bottom to top, remembering the stunning complement and contrast of the red dress against her complexion. He compliments, “you looked beautiful tonight.”

She looks absolutely taken back by what is an obvious statement. Taken back and confused. “M—me?” She’s pointing to herself, brows arching together. And for a second, there’s a small hint of a growing smile as she asks, as if he could have made a mistake. “Really?”

He didn’t.

Roman doesn’t make mistakes

Solana has a lot of things fucked up about her, but one thing not a damn person can deny is that she’s absolutely gorgeous with a body to match. That’s just a fact, why he felt the need to express said fact is a bit beyond him, but Roman doesn’t allow himself to think too much about it. It’s not a sentimental thing at all, just a plain fact being stated, if anything.

“Thank you,” she finally says as he notices the reddening of her cheeks. “Umm, good night.” Solana’s hand is on the banister, her finger squeezing tighter than the coils in her stomach. “Roman?”

It would be a hell of a lot easier if he would have just ignored her, but he doesn’t. His gaze snaps up to her from the phone now in his hand.

The same hand she witnessed just tonight pummel grown men, just as muscular and intimidating as he is to a bloody pulp. The same hand that could easily take her life, could have her clinging onto life with just one beating. And that’s all she can see at the thought of telling him about Grayson and Theory messing with her, that it’s now happened twice, they’ve caught her off guard and alone, sexually harassing her. 

Nia’s words from the other day return to the front of her mind.

“He wants you to stop being so weak.”

He’ll blame her. He’ll blame her the same way her father blamed her for what they did to her. He’ll blame her for being so weak. That’s what Solana knows will happen. Knows he’ll say she was leading them on, that she must have done something to garner their interest in her. And he’ll be angry.

He’ll be angry at her.

And nothing good ever comes out of Roman Reigns being angry.

She’s seen it for herself firsthand tonight.

Determine to find a way to deal with this on her own, she shakes her head, “nothing. S–sorry.” She’s turned back to the steps when he says her name this time. His tone clear and authoritative.

She jumps, immediately turning back around to face him. He’s now standing near the steps where she stands, halfway between rescue and ridicule.

Something flashes in his gaze at her obvious nervousness, but he quickly refocuses on the topic at hand. “You have something to say, so say it.”

A deep layer of regret and anxiety settles in at the realization that there is no lying to Roman. He’s adroitly skilled in reading between the lines and seeing through bullshit. Or maybe she’s just that bad at lying.

Hopefully not the latter because another lie is about to roll right out.

“I was just—I was gonna sleep in tomorrow, but I have to make your breakfast, so I’ll just—”

“You don’t have to do anything, Solana.” 

Roman knows she’s lying. Knows she just pulled that out of her ass instead of sharing whatever it is she initially wanted to say. It’s probably something stupid too, something he won’t give two shits about, but something she thinks he gives two shits about. And he’d push her if not for the fact he can tell she’s getting all nervous and shit on him again. The last thing he needs is her having another panic attack. 

“Sleep in,” he directs. This is a conversation, much to his chagrin, that will have to take part in sections. And it’s too late in the evening to hash out one of those sections. And to be fair, there is a part of him that recognizes she probably does feel like she needs to be up at the ass crack of dawn like him to have his first meal of the day ready to go. And his lunch. And his dinner.

Granted, Roman can’t and won’t complain about all of it, because the girl can cook her ass off.

But, it’s not necessary.

He’s more than capable of taking care of himself.

He’s done so since he was 10 years old.

“Thank you.” She does that thing again where she smiles like he’s just told her she’s won the lottery or been given the cure to world hunger. It’s the simplest things that seem to make her happy. Considering the bar has already been set so low, it makes a bit of sense.

It makes a lot of sense.

“Goodnight.”

Roman is certain she’s intentional in the way she turns on the heel of her foot to move up the stairs, putting as much distance between the two of them to avoid a follow up question. Her avoidance behavior is a bit impressive, irksome, but still impressive, nonetheless.

And it would be remiss of Roman to not sneak a peak of her retreating form moving up the steps, his eyes glued to the sway of her ass, again remembering that short, red dress that momentarily distracted him when he laid eyes on her at the match.

Roman would never deny his physical attraction to her. That’s just a fact. She’s shaped in a way that makes his dick hard at the thought of having that body underneath his, writhing, begging for him to not stop fucking her in all the ways he would if he could.

But, that’s a fantasy. It’s a fantasy because the reality is that he can’t even touch this girl without her freaking out on him, something that would annoy him greatly if he didn’t realize there’s a reason behind her jumpiness.

Something that’s beyond just her shitty father and brother. 

Roman doesn’t allow himself to travel down that path, to see what it might lead to because just the thought of what might be the reason she doesn’t like being touched has his fist forming at his side, nostrils flared, and anger brewing at an accelerated pace that doesn’t make sense.

It also doesn’t make sense when he grabs his phone, navigating to the desired thread, sending a text he doesn’t think much about.

Roman: Get me a list of dog breeders. Small dogs. Preferably local. We can travel if necessary.

Paul: Sir?

Roman: Just do it.

Paul: I’ll have it to you by tomorrow morning.

[hp-hcs]

on a slytherin high rn so I'd be interested to see your take on yandere enzo berkshire? (on his own or poly with mattheo or theodore because there's no such thing as too much of the theo's) or just any sort of enzo x male reader.

~yanxidarlings; why you should make your writing blog a primary blog (case study)

poly bc i love my theo boyos ☺️

i tried real hard on this one i swear, just none of my words are wording right 😭

really? nobody has a single request? 🤨🤲

detention — yandere! poly! lorenzo berkshire & yandere! poly! mattheo riddle & yandere! poly! theodore nott x male! hufflepuff! reader

TWs: possessive/obsessive/toxic behavior, referenced homophobia, implied past repeated homophobia, homophobic slur, implied past bullying, references to past violence, graphic threats of violence, sexual innuendos, implied sexual activities

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

“…really, I don’t know what you were thinking. Here, this is the detenti- Mr. Riddle! Mr. Nott! Get off of those desks!” McGonagall scolded, snapping her fingers and casting a wandless spell that made them both fall off of their desks and safely into their chairs.

You hover awkwardly at the doorway of the classroom-turned-detention-room, feeling the sudden piercing eyes of three Slytherins on you.

McGonagall huffs in disappointment, pats your shoulder, and leaves without a word. The boys all share a look you can’t quite decipher.

“Well, well, well. What’ve we got here?” One of them drawls, putting his feet up on his desk and crossing them at the ankle. “A pretty-boy Hufflepuff got in trouble?”

You rock back and forth on your feet, biting your lip nervously.

“Aww, he’s nervous,” another Slytherin cooed patronizingly. “What’s wrong, little badger? Afraid of a few snakes?”

The first boy stands up, sauntering over to you with an obnoxious smirk. He holds his hand out for you to shake.

“Mattheo Riddle, darling.”

You slowly take his hand and shake it, your grip loose.

“Nice to meet you,” you say softly. “I’m Y/N.”

“Y/N,” the second boy purrs, joining the first, Mattheo. “Lovely name for a lovely boy. I’m Theodore, sweetheart.”

You swallow thickly, the two taller boys standing over you.

“Leave ‘im alone, guys,” the last boy speaks up. “I’m calling dibs.”

“W-what?” You squeak, your eyes darting between the three as they all share another wordless look.

“Come along, little badger,” Theodore grins widely, predatorily, slinging an arm over your shoulders. “We don’t bite.”

“Unless you ask us to,” Mattheo adds on, joining your other side and wrapping an arm around your waist.

Your cheeks burn with the innuendo and all of the attention. “Er…no, I’m alright. Thank you.”

“If you ever change your mind…” Mattheo shrugs, leaving the offer unspoken.

The third boy finally stands up, swatting away Mattheo and Theodore. They both, surprisingly, acknowledge him and step away from you.

“Ignore these idiots,” he says fondly. “They think only with their dicks and never their brains.”

The Theos™ immediately break out into loud protests at the accusation. The third Slytherin rolls his eyes.

“I’m Lorenzo, but most people call me Enzo.”

“What do you call yourself?” You ask, voice still soft and almost getting lost in the clamor of the two other boys.

“What?”

“You told me what people call you…but what do you call yourself?”

He blinks.

“Uh, Lorenzo, I guess.”

You nod. “Lovely to meet you, Lorenzo.”

“I have a feeling that it’s lovelier meeting you, Y/N.”

~~~ “So why did you get detention?” Theodore asks, looking up at you from where he lays on the floor of the library, the spot you four had chosen to further converse at after your sentence was served. “You don’t seem like the type to really do…anything wrong.”

You wince, closing your book and relaxing further into the comfortable couch. “I uh, tried to ask this guy to Hogsmeade this weekend-” The boys all sit up at this, a dark look passing over each of their faces. “-but he uh…did not reciprocate,” you laugh humorlessly, running your fingers along your orbital bone.

They can barely see it—it’s still too early—but a definite bruise is starting to form. It’s going to turn into a hell of a black eye by tomorrow.

“He hit you?” Theodore asks, his voice low.

You shrug. “Comes with the territory of being the uh, ‘Puff Poof’, as they call me.”

“Creative. Put a lot of work into that one.”

“Tell me about it,” you grumble.

“Wait, how did you get in trouble then? If you were the one who got beat up in the first place?” Mattheo asks, his face scrunched up in confusion.

“Oh, I called Dumbledore a uh…‘batshit crazy abuser with a sanctimonious attitude and a god complex’. As it turns out, he did not like that.”

They all stare at you for a moment before bursting into laughter.

“Holy shit.”

“Talk about misjudging someone, damn.”

Your laughter eventually dies off and the conversation comes back around.

“So, Y/N, uh, what was this guy’s name?” Lorenzo asks sweetly, innocently. “Just..curious, is all.”

You huff, rolling your eyes. “Cormac McLaggen.”

They all collectively grimace.

“I know, okay? No need to rub it in.”

“You have terrible taste,” Mattheo scowls. “Asking out fucking McLaggen when we’re right here.”

“Yeah, don’t need to worry about him anymore, sweetheart,” Theodore says, sitting up from his spot on the floor and moving over to settle between your thighs and rest his chin on your knee. “We’re enough, aren’t we?”

Your cheeks burn at their words.

~~~ “What’re you all doing, bringing a Puff in here?” A fourth year jeers as the boys lead you through the Slytherin common room to the dorm they all share.

Theodore stares at the kid with his dead eyes; unnerving to everyone in the common room.

“If you even so much as look at him again, I’ll carve your eyes out in your sleep.”

The threat comes not from Theodore, but Lorenzo.

You gape, bewildered, as Lorenzo leads you down the hall, humming to himself like nothing happened.

“Same goes for you, you know,” Mattheo leans down to murmur in your ear. “Don’t even think about looking at another boy, got that, lovely?”

You reach their dorm and are roughly pulled inside, the door being slammed shut behind you all. Theodore pushes you up against the wall, pinning you in place.

“Ours, understand?”

[da-rulah]

I hope you are having a wonderful day.

I humbly request some jealous cardi spice ♡

Thank you lovely! My day is going well, I've done nothing today other than write this filth.

So, listen... An idea came to me with this one... and I ran with it. I bloody love jealous tropes, as you may know if you've read Day 5 of Rituale Septem... But this one gets a little... sacrilegious.

Darling, this became feral. And I'm not sorry.

18+ MDNI! Papa Emeritus IV x f!reader.

TW/ Jealous themes (ofc), ex-boyfriend returns, mentions of past life in a christian church, violence, blood, fingering, rough sex, references to Satan and the Devil, possessiveness, breeding kink, ownership kink, creampie.

"Are. You. Mine?" artwork created by the incredibly talented @honimello!

Thank you so much, it's incredible and exactly how I pictured Copia's face in that scene...

If any artists are ever inspired by anything I write, please please do share it with me - I'd love to see what your mind's eye sees when reading my work. And this fandom is full of incredible talent. I love it here.

Frantic knocking on the door to Papa's quarters jolted you from the trance your book in hand had you in. Copia had been drifting off, his gloved fingers mindlessly playing with your hair as you read in his lap but he too startled to sit upright.

In a fumble of clumsy limbs, the two of you stood, Papa heading straight for the door to find Rain out of breath and panicked.

"Rain? What's the matter, mio amico?" Papa asked, waiting patiently for him to get his breath back. Clearly he had run as fast as he could to find Papa.

"Th-there's... a man... he's shouting about Sister ______ on the steps of the Ministry, Papa!" he explained frantically, waving his arm in the direction of the front doors.

Your eyes widened, Papa's head flinging around to look back at you. You had a sinking feeling in your gut. You know who it was... He'd found you.

"I-I'll go... I'll take care of it," you said, stepping around Copia and walking a little ways out into the hall when he grabbed your elbow, stopping you.

"What's going on?" he asked, "This sounds dangerous, why don't you let me..."

"He's not dangerous. He's just an idiot. I'll deal with it," you told him firmly. "Stay."

Copia let go of your arm and you continued to walk down the hall. He nodded in your direction at Rain, telling him to follow you and make sure you were in fact safe. Rain nodded and trotted behind you - you didn't mind him being your backup, but it was Copia you wanted to keep away from the situation.

As you got closer to the doors, you could hear the ramblings of the idiot on the Ministry steps, shouting at the top of his lungs.

"_________! Hey, I know you're in there! I know what they've done... They've stolen you away, told you lies and made you fall in love with the devil!"

You groaned to yourself, turning to Rain with an eye roll.

"Ex-boyfriends, eh?" you scoffed, before wrenching the door open and standing on the top step.

"Elijah, you sound like an idiot," you said, monotonous and feigning boredom.

"Oh, see? I knew you were here! Cavorting with heathens and the Devil! I need to take you home, _______. To bring you back to God!"

You knew your past in a Christian community would come back to bite you on the ass someday, but you'd hoped to be a little more prepared for it.

But no, here was your ex-boyfriend, now more religious than you'd ever known him when you were together, trying to... win you back? That was laughable.

"God only knows what you do within those walls... Filthy fornication, sacrifices to Satan..."

"That's rich, Elijah. I seem to remember you had no problem with fornication when we were together. But hey, one rule for you, another for the rest isn't it?" you laughed. Elijah saw read, stomping up the steps and standing on the one beneath you.

"I have seen the error of my ways, and I'm repenting every day for them, whore! You must do the same, come with me. Now!" he grabbed your arm, attempting to drag you down the steps and go back to the life you'd left behind many moons ago.

No way in hell were you going back there again.

You began kicking and yelling at him, flailing your arms as you panicked - he was strong, but Rain was behind you. No doubt he'd be jolted into action as he saw you being dragged away by this lunatic.

"I think you'd better let her go," a thickly-accented voice behind you stopped Elijah in his tracks, his head snapping around to look behind where you both were halfway down the steps.

Papa stood at the top, his hands behind his back and surrounded by three of his beefiest Ghouls - and Sodo. But Sodo was growling like the feral little raccoon he was.

"Or what, old man? You gonna take her from me?" Elijah challenged, pulling you against him with you back against his chest. He was scared, using you as a human shield. Pathetic. "She doesn't belong here, in this... this... vile place."

Copia laughed, stepping down the steps and holding a hand out to his side to keep his Ghouls at bay. He pried Elijah's hands off you, taking your hands in his and checking you were okay.

"Go wait up there with Rain, amore mio," he told you, his voice soft and his palm caressing your cheek to calm you. You nodded under his touch and headed back up to the top of the stairs, the Ghouls parting to let you stand behind them for safety. Rain came to your side, holding your hand.

Copia squared up to Elijah then, in a way you'd never seen him square up to anybody. He scared you, with how silent and yet, clearly livid he was.

"You're not taking her anywhere, stronzo." His voice was dark and commanding.

"Oh, I get it now..." Elijah began to laugh, cackling to himself as he doubled over at something so hilariously amusing to only him. "Are you... are you fucking him?" he asked you, pointing at Copia and dismissing him. "This weird, old guy? Really?"

You wanted to defend Copia, but the way he looked over his shoulder at you had you staying put and squeezing on Rain's hand.

"She's found her place here, able to live a life where she's not judged and vilified for living her fucking life. You people are all the same.. damning souls to Hell for the things you wish you allowed yourself to do. But oh no, they're sins, eh? You couldn't possibly..." Copia scoffed.

"I have sinned in the past, but I repented. I sinned plenty," Elijah's voice dropped so only Papa could hear, "I sinned with her..."

Copia's hands balled into fists at his side. Jealousy, no matter how warranted, flooded his veins like poison.

"I remember, too... I know what she likes, what she's into. Have you found that spot on her collarbone yet? She likes that..." Elijah was smirking, and you didn't like the look on his face as he whispered in Copia's ear. Copia remained still, fists clenched and staring straight ahead.

"I was her first, you know... Gave her her first orgasm, made her cum over and over... Can you do that, old man? One night with me again, and she'd forget your name if it was tattooed on her arm. She'll always be mine..."

A green mist descended in Copia's mind, and he couldn't help himself. He swung for Elijah, his fist connecting with his cheek with a sickening crack.

The Ghouls sprang into action when Elijah pounced on Copia, shoving him to the floor and trying to get a few punches in himself, but Copia was too strong for him. A man you thought would never hurt a fly, wouldn't be able to hold his own in a fight on account of his own awkwardness and his tender nature and yet... you were seeing a whole new, angry side to him. And it made your chest tighten, knowing he was fighting for you...

The Ghouls sprang into action, quickly restraining Elijah and dragging him to the parking lot around the side of the front building to the Ministry. You saw them throw him into the back of a van, two of them and Sodo joining him in the back whilst the remaining Ghoul got in the driver's seat.

You ran to Copia's side where he stood up, dusting himself off.

"Copia! Fucking hell, are you alright?" you asked, your hands pulling his face to look at you but he couldn't look you in the eye. Instead, he gripped your wrists in his and pulled you back up the steps, marching you back to his quarter's and ignoring Rain's protests he should go to the infirmary for the blood dripping from his forehead and lip.

You tried to slow him down, to tell him to stop and breathe but he ignored everything you said to him until he had you back in his living room, slamming the door behind him. He let you go, practically throwing you into the middle of the room as he stalked towards you with dark, hungry eyes.

'C-Copia... what did he say to you?" you asked him, terrified he was now angry at you for some lies Elijah may have told.

"You're mine, sí?" he asked, his voice deep and forced through grit teeth.

"W-what?" you asked; how could he ask that of you. He knew you were, body and soul.

"Are. You. Mine?" he asked, slowly. You took a step back.

"Of course I am!" you yelled, "Copia your head, your lip... Let me clean you up, okay? Just... Just take a breath, calm down," you told him, taking another step back as he took one towards you.

He ignored you, backing you up until your legs hit the couch behind you. He was in your space now, glowering down at you. The look in his eyes both terrified and excited you. With such a dark expression, the blood from his lip and forehead only served to add a menacing and yet, enticing air of danger to your predicament.

"Calm down? I am calm, amore mio. Why wouldn't I be calm, eh?" Sarcasm dripped from every word.

"Copia, please..." you lift your hand to caress his cheek, trying to check the damage to his lip and head but he catches your wrist in a tight grip, earning a gasp from you.

"I am a better man than him, sí?" he asked. You creased your brow in confusion for a minute, before remembering to answer him. Every millisecond of silence his grip on your wrist tightened.

"Y-yes, of course you are. Copia, you're scaring me..." Only half true, of course. He was absolutely a better man than Elijah ever was, and you were only... slightly scared in that moment.

"I love you more than he ever could, sí?" he asked.

"Y-you do, yes. And I love you, so much..." you told him, trying desperately to get him to just calm down, to snap out of whatever hex he was under.

"And..." he steps forward again, his foot between both yours as he presses his thigh between your legs. You can feel his hip against you, his groin pressing into your own hip bone. Was he... hard? "I fuck you better than he ever could, sí?"

Your cheeks warmed under his gaze, and you stuttered an incoherent response. You hate to admit it but his anger was having an effect on you; his jealousy. Whatever Elijah had said to him, it must have riled him up enough to make him jealous in some way. And honestly, the thought of Copia being jealous should have had you angry at him, because how could he be jealous of that asshole?

But instead, it lit a furnace inside you. This incredibly powerful, wonderful man, who would rearrange the nine circles of Hell for you if only you asked, was jealous for you.

"Answer me," he growled, and you stammered again, unable to form a two words to string together. He took your silence as a no; severely misinterpreting the situation.

"Perhaps you need reminding, amore mio?" Copia grabbed your other arm and twisted you to the side, pushing you down to the couch with your back shoved into the corner. He knelt between your spread thighs, hands on the arm and backs of the couch and hovering above you.

"Ti scoperò finché non dimenticherai che quel tuo dio infernale ha mai fatto parte della tua vita, (I'll fuck you until you forget that that infernal God of yours was ever a part of your life)," he growled, his jealousy and anger at your past life bubbling away inside him. You didn't know enough Italian to know what he'd sad, but you recognised enough to know he was growling about God in your life? Whatever it was, it sent a flood of arousal to your core.

Before you knew it, his lips were pushed bruisingly hard against your own. You could taste the metallic pang of blood on your lips, but you had no room to care at that point. You let him consume you, his tongue working against your own with no contest as your gripped onto the lapels of his tattered jacket.

Copia's hands came to grip onto your habit either side of the buttons, and with one sharp tug he ripped it open, the buttons pinging off in different directions. he pulled again, lower, exposing your body to him where you lay.

You felt so desperate already, needy beneath him as you scrambled to push his jacket off him, then pulling on the knot of his blue neck tie and lifting that over his head with a brief separation of his punishing kiss.

Like he had to you, you pulled on either side of his shirt to try and rip it open, but you simply weren't strong enough. Copia chuckled, sitting up between your legs.

"My poor toppolina, let me help, hm?" he mocked, before ripping into his own shirt in one fell swoop. You ran your hands over his chest, marvelling at the structure of a well exercised man, his chest covered in an expanse of salt and pepper speckled chest hair. You traced the '666' over his heart, earning you a low growl from him.

"His mark, toppolina... You pledged yourself to Him now, sí? And to me..." You had, yes. Completely.

Before you could reply his lips were on yours again, licking and sucking at your bottom lip, biting down and earning a whimper from you. You bucked your hips against his thigh, already beginning to soak through the panties on display to him.

He noticed the damp patch, and his head twitched with a smirk. Without hesitation he was ripping them down your thighs and pulling them off your legs, exposing your glistening folds to him.

He swirled his gloved fingers through the mess a few times, before immediately sliding his ring and middle finger inside you. You took him with pleasure, back arching from the couch and a moan ripping from your throat.

"Tell me, amore mio, who makes you see stars every time he touches you, eh?" he taunted, hovering above you as you writhed, his fingers pumping and curling inside you bringing you so much bliss already.

"Y-you do, Copia... Fuck," you gasped when his thumb came to draw circles over your clit. "Don't stop, please..." you begged.

He had no intention of stopping, dragging you further and further towards a climax until finally, the gasp rising in your chest got stuck, and your orgasm burst inside you.

"C-Copia!" you stuttered a scream, hands flying to grip onto his wrist while his hand continued it's onslaught on your core until he was satisfied he'd got every ounce of pleasure from your orgasm as possible.

Your grip on him loosened as you came back down, and he took this as his chance to manhandle you, flipping you over onto your knees and bent over the corner of the couch lazily. When you gazed dreamily behind you, still hazy from your orgasm, you saw him unlacing the front of his tattered pants, pushing them down just enough to release his cock. He leant forward, gripping onto your hip with one hand and lining his length up with your folds with the other. He dragged the tip of his cock - an angry shade of red and leaking precum - through your juices.

"You're mine, amore mio," he growled through grit teeth, his bare chest pressed against the habit he'd bunched up around your hips, "I claim you as such."

In one swift motion, he slid home, filling you to the brim as his hips came into contact with your ass. He grunted when he bottomed out, the warmth of your inner walls sending a pleasurable shiver through his body.

Before long his hips were smacking into your ass over and over, his cock filling you deliciously while he angled himself to hit your g-spot over and over again. The slew of nonsense tumbling from your lips had him chuckling to himself between deep breaths as he exerted himself.

"So good you can't even talk, amore mio? Sí, no one can fuck you like I can, eh?" he taunted. "Say it. Say 'no one can fuck me like you can, Papa'!" he ordered.

"No one... can... fuck me... like you... Papa!" you cried, his titled coming out as a scream at a particularly hard thrust.

"Mine... you're all mine," he claimed, "Gonna fill you up, amore mio... Give you my seed to carry, make sure everyone sees you and knows you're claimed."

If his thrusts weren't already enough, his words were turning you on above and beyond anything he'd ever said to you before. Whilst you were your own person, and proudly so, you couldn't help the way hearing how possessive he was in this moment made you clench on his length.

"G-gonna... cum... Papa!" you yelled again, dangling on the edge, just a little too far from where you needed to be. He sensed you needed a nudge, his hand snaking around between the both of you and his fingertips rubbing over your sensitive clit once again.

"You'd like that hm? If Papa fucked you so hard, filled you so much with his seed everyone could see it? Everyone would know... They'd know I'd bred you so good, amore mio..." He was spewing utter filth, and it was having the desired effect on you...

"Papa..." you cried.

"Papa's here, amore... Papa's fucking you so good, eh? Fucking the damn antichrist into you!" he growled.

You lost control then, your cunt spasmed around him as you violently came around his length. He wrapped his arms around your chest, heaving you back against him with a hand gripping your chin. His hips continued to rut into you, fucking you through your orgasm as you gasped and reached for something, anything...

"That's it, eh? So good for me, cumming on Papa's cock like that... Just for me, hm?"

All you could do was whimper weakly as your body spasmed in his grasp. He held you so tightly against him, owning you, fucking into you over and over as he whispered filth into your ear you could barely pay attention to in your haze.

Before long, he was moaning wantonly in your ear and stuttering in his pace, a sure fire sign he was about to finish. With a little more clarity now, you figured you'd help him along.

"I-I'm yours, Papa..." you told him, "Devoted to you... Cum inside me, Papa. M-mark me... as yours..."

A fierce growl erupted from his chest, his fingers digging into your flesh as he tightened his grip, hips slowing but remaining powerful in a final few thrusts to prolong his climax. He filled you with his spend, so much you could hear the way it leaked from you with every last thrust he gave.

When he stilled, he buried himself deep and stayed put, tumbling onto the couch with you in his arms and holding you still so close to him. You stayed like that for a while, content being full of him and wrapped up in him all at the same time. Both of you needed a moment, just to catch your breath and come down from the immense high you'd experienced together.

After a while, Copia began to press kisses to your neck, little hisses in pain each time he did where his lip was bust and swollen. The blood on his head had dried but now the ache of the wound was starting to set in.

You turned your head back to him, assessing the damage finally and sighing.

"You should let me help with that," you told him softly. He nodded quietly, both of you now moving and separating from each other. Killing two birds with one stone, you decided a shower for the pair of you was the best idea, and so you both removed the remaining clothes you had on and stepped under the hot water together.

In a comfortable silence, you washed the blood and paints from his face, dabbing at the wounds while he took care of washing you too. You felt the stark contrast between the way he'd taken you earlier and the tenderness of this moment; in their own ways both made you feel wanted, loved, needed.

"Copia..." you whispered to him, wrapping your arms around his waist and stepping into him. "You know I'm yours, don't you?"

You hoped he really did, part of you was terrified he doubted your loyalty to him in any way at all.

"Of course, amore mio... And I'm yours," he told you, wrapping his arms around you too and enjoying the warmth of the water cascading over both of you. "Perdonami, I fear I was too rough, eh?" he chuckled insecurely.

"Not at all... I can't pretend it wasn't hot as hell to see a side of you so angry at the idea of me being with anyone else..." you smirked up at him, resting your chin on his chest, just above his '666' mark.

"That stronzo... I can't believe you dated that fucker," he scoffed, pushing your wet hair from your forehead.

"A past life, my love. I was under a spell back then..." you sighed. He hummed in thought.

"And now, you're under mine..." he smirked. You giggled happily as he leaned down, pressing his lips to yours in a far sweeter, tender kiss.

[depravitycentral]

Yandere! Uvogin General Profile

Yandere! Uvogin x fem! reader

Tw: kidnapping, violence, mentions of non-con, stalking, theft, mentions of masturbation, mentions of assault, reader is referred to as tiny and small but let's be honest everyone is small compared to Uvogin, brief neglect/being ignored, mentions of Stockholm Syndrome, manipulation, threats, isolation, Uvo is a bastard and is somehow charming even though he's obsessed with you, fem reader, MDNI

I do not condone any of the actions described in this post - this is fiction and should be treated as such. If you or a loved one is in a similar situation to anything contained in this post or my blog in general, please seek help. You're in charge of your internet consumption; please make responsible choices. With that, enjoy!

WC: 12K

DARLING PROFILE

Easily flustered

In many ways, Uvogin desires a darling who is the opposite of him.

He likes the idea of a darling who is more innocent, and while this doesn’t have to manifest as being literally naïve or just not being a mass murderer like him, he finds it endearing.

There’s just something about having a darling who is a little softer, a little weaker, a little cuter that just makes him smug.

He likes thinking that his darling is just so damn cute, and he isn’t afraid to tell them as much; he’s teasing them constantly, every other word slipping past his lips a mixture of flirtations and cheeky compliments, and the minute his darling looks bashful or flustered?

Well, it’ll only embarrass them more when he starts laughing, enjoying the sight of them all frustrated and embarrassed, a big hand coming down to playfully scruff up their hair.

 He’ll tell them that they’re cute, that he likes their smile, that they’re probably the prettiest woman he’s even seen, and the moment they freeze up a bit, their eyes going slightly wide before scowling and trying to hide how flattered they are, he’s only falling harder, loving the way they try to fight the effect he has on them.

And really, that’s what it comes down to – he likes to see the way their body betrays them, his compliments getting a rise out of them even when he’s got them stolen away in his modest apartment, touting all this big declarations of hatred towards him.

(Yet they fall apart at a simple compliment of their tummy or thighs – he knows these are spots of insecurities, and is it dirty to be playing the card of focusing on the area he knows his darling is sensitive about? Maybe, but he’s never exactly been ‘clean’.)

He just loves the idea of his cute little darling being a flustered mess with just a few touches and words, and he’s capitalizing on this personality trait as often as he can get away with – smacking their ass or kissing their knuckles or winking at them or even just telling them in that nonchalant voice that they look hot as hell in his clothes.

They’re just endearing, and he’s always been honest – so don’t get too upset when he speaks his mind.

Creative

There’s something about a darling with a hobby that he likes.

Maybe it’s the product of seeming they become genuinely passionate about something they love, or perhaps it’s simply just seeing them concentrate and put energy into creating something.

Uvogin doesn’t know, but regardless his ideal darling has some sort of creative hobby that he’s more than willing to help nurture. It can be anything, really – perhaps they draw or paint, or maybe they write or cook. Maybe they knit or sew, or perhaps they sing or play an instrument.

It doesn’t really matter what the hobby is – Uvogin just likes that his darling has an outlet for letting out all their energy, and he’s more than willing to sit through any kind of performances or viewings or anything at all where his darling can show off all their hard work.

He’s already spoiling his darling once they’ve been kidnapped, but he’s stealing supplies that pertain to his darling’s favorite hobbies, making sure they have a lifetime supply of paints or yarn or paper or cloth or anything their little heart desires.

He likes to see them smile, to watch them get all starry eyed and passionate, and often he'll simply plop down and watch them go at it, staring at them as they indulge in their hobby.

He'll even be willing to learn if his darling is willing to teach them – having massive hands makes most creative pursuits difficult, but he likes the way his darling’s hands cover his own as they teach him how to make the brush strokes or press down on piano keys, the skin soft and warm and perfect against his own.

He just likes the attention of it, the idea that they’re sharing something intimate and personal with him, and it only makes his possessiveness flare up, satisfaction swimming through him because obviously his darling is warming up to him, because why else would they spend so much time with him, teaching him and being patient as he purposefully messes up just to get them to show him again, to touch him again?

Snarky

Uvogin likes the idea of a darling who can dish it out back at him. He’s teasing by nature, always throwing quips and little one-liners at his darling, and the idea of his darling returning this teasing energy or even initiating it makes him feel a little weak in the knees, both impressed and aroused by their quick thinking and wit.

There’s just something attractive about being put in his place, and although the power dynamic between him and his darling is unquestionably in his favor, there’s something sweet about pretending that they have any semblance of control in the relationship.

He likes the idea of having a more ‘normal’ relationship with his darling, and the tendency they have to throw little comments at him help to make the relationship feel less like captor and captee, less like lovesick freak and victim, and more like two people hopelessly in love, enjoying one another’s company and never, ever leaving each other.

Of course, this trait can be pushed too far – Uvogin doesn’t want someone mean. There’s a fine line between teasing and rudeness, and he wants his darling to perhaps occasionally toe the line, but be firmly on the side of the former. He’s not interested in being critiqued or judged – it should be fun hearted, light, loving, even if he pulls information out of the blue that he really, really shouldn’t know.

(Like their banking information, or their biggest insecurities, or anything at all, really.)

He just wants someone he can banter with, his booming laugh filling the room when his darling catches him off guard with something funny and unexpected, and he’ll return the favor tenfold.

(And if he can’t think of a witty enough retort, he’ll just push them over the nearest surface, rip off those pesky shorts, and bury his face against their cunt until they’re crying and sobbing his name – the best comeback of all, he’d argue.)

Compassionate

Because he wants someone opposite of himself in many ways, a darling who is more compassionate and considerate of others is oddly attractive to him.

He can’t quite pinpoint why – he’s always believed it’s a sign of weakness to be so attentive to the needs and desires of others, but there’s something different about it when it’s his darling who’s stopping and worrying about how others feel.

It’s annoying, he’ll admit, because it stirs up his jealousy; why should his darling care what other people think and feel?

All that really matters is him – he’s all they need, so why are they wasting time on thinking of how someone on the news must be scared and all shaken up because they got robbed last night?

(It wasn’t even a real, meaningful robbery – just some low level thugs looking to make a quick buck, so why are they sympathizing with the woman crying on the TV about how she can’t afford rent now because the robbers stole her stashed away cash?)

Why do they waste precious energy into worrying about how strangers on the bus are feeling when they’re crying or clearly upset, their expressions clear as day as they stare down at their phone or bite their wobbling lips?

He thinks it’s a waste of his darling’s time, frankly, and instead would prefer all of this energy and care to become channeled towards him. He wants to take up every free thought his darling has, to be constantly on their mind as they are his, and he gets equal parts angry and jealous when there’s someone or something else taking up the precious space he’s claimed as his own.

It’s frustrating, but it’s one of the things he likes most about his darling – they’re just so sweet and soft and pure, even, that it makes him feel like he’s ruining something angelic, like his darling is his own personal bit of heaven all for him him him.

GENERAL YANDERE TRAITS

Possessive

Can he really be blamed?

He’s spent his adult life being a thief, stealing from anyone and everyone he’s told to, and Uvo sees absolutely no problem with it – you’re his, after all, and he’s never been especially great at sharing.

In his mind, you’re something that he’s claimed, something that is completely and utterly his, and once he’s set his mind to something, there is absolutely nothing anyone can do to sway him.

He’s stubborn to a fault, and when it comes to you this trait is only increased – so really, when he slowly becomes more and more controlling, more and more needy for your attention, don’t fight it too much.

Don’t be too surprised when his question of whether you’d like to hang out on Saturday morphs into you don’t have anything going on Saturday night, right? Shit, of course not, how could you when you’ll be spending time with me on my couch, eating pizza from that place downtown you love?

Don’t be too surprised when he starts gently but firmly grasping the phone out of your hand when someone calls you, dark eyes appraising the caller ID before he scoffs or rolls his eyes, muttering out a some people are real pieces of work, huh and quickly declining the call and blocking the number, all so quickly that you don’t even really get a chance to see who even called you.

Don’t be surprised when he cheekily asks you if you’re wearing matching a matching set of panties and bra, and if you answer an embarrassed yes and tell him about this date you’re going on that you’re nervous for, absolutely do not be surprised that the ceramic mug you’d given Uvo with a cup of steaming coffee in it is shattered in his grip, the grin on his face just a bit too tight, his form suddenly much larger than you consciously remember as he growls out a strained who’s this ‘date’, pretty girl?

Frankly, Uvogin has a talent at passing most things off as a joke at the start of his infatuation with you – he’s just charming and friendly enough that he can make most things seem funny, like teasing, like you’re just overreacting and blowing things out of proportion.

He’ll make you believe he joking when he pats your head and calls you his good girl, because that’s just a term of endearment he’s always called his friends – don’t let it make you uncomfortable, that’s just how he is!

(It most certainly is not – he’d never call Shizuku or Pakunoda or Machi that, too terrified for his own well being to ever have the guts to try something like that. Plus, he’d never want to – you’re his woman, and why should he give a shit about any other female on the planet? You’re all he’ll ever need, just as he’s all you should ever need.)

Surely you’re reading too much into it when he wraps his burly arms around you and spins you around in the air, his lips against your skin as he rambles praises of you, the hickey that forms later that night just coincidental to the location of his rather eager ‘talking’.

(He’s just a passionate man – he didn’t mean to give you a hickey. Don’t you know that he gets animated when he talks, his lips moving quickly, and it’s all just one big coincidence that it happened to be right over your jugular, a sensitive, intimate area reserved for lovers.)

You must be mistaken when he lunges at another man who dared to compliment your hairstyle, the oddly sincere threat of get your eyes off of her before I rip them out myself, you hear me making your blood run cold.

(He’ll tell you that he and the guy who’d complimented you were actually long time friends, and that this sort of threatening and joking around is typical for the two of them – he’ll shrug and tell you that boys will be boys, hoping you’ll take him at face value and not mention how the man seemed to be equally as shocked as you.)

It’s easy to let him talk you out of whatever doubts about him you have, his insistence that he was just playing around, trying to get a rise out of you convincing you much easier than it should.

And really, your willingness to believe him can stem from your own naivety, but if you’re being really honest you know there’s some selfish part of you that almost likes the attention Uvo gives you, the way he’s always touching you and smiling at you, making you feel precious and valued and wanted. You’ve just never felt so wholly seen and understood, almost as if he has this innate ability to understand you, as if you’re connected in some deeper way.

(He always seems to just know things about you, always guessing your favorite things correctly, and if he didn’t have such a bright smile and convincing laugh, you’d almost be unnerved and afraid of how eerily accurate his guesses are. Stalking is the answer, of course, but it’s best that you remain in the dark about that until the time is right.)

It’s a slippery slope though, because as soon as Uvogin realizes that you’re sweeping things under the rug, he’ll get more and more aggressive with his possessiveness, feeling more and more justified as he threatens and fights others, his passing remarks about you being his becoming more specific and explicit, his jokes about just whisking you away one day becoming more and more frequent, more and more detailed and well thought out and terrifying.

He’ll push the boundaries, but the minute he senses he may have crossed the line, there’s that familiar laughing man you think you know, that smile and calming voice telling you that you’ve got it all wrong sweetcheeks, I’m just giving you a good time, of course I don’t own you – I don’t have enough money to buy something so gorgeous!

It’ll work, frankly, until you suddenly realize that you haven’t seen or talked to another person aside from Uvogin in over a month, his face and voice all you’re met with as the days fly by, other people becoming more and more scarce as he slowly begins taking over your life.

Everything with him is a slow process, a gentle yet unstoppable path under which Uvogin will slowly become more and more obsessed, and less and less willing to simply share.

After all, being a thief has its perks – he’s just never had to work so hard for something so easy to simply steal away. 

Protective

Uvo is extremely aware of his own strength; it’s a point of pride after all, being the physically strongest member of the Troupe. His muscles are beyond noticeable, bulging and standing proudly even when he’s relaxed, even when his arms are covered with layers of fabric.

He’s just huge, giant and powerful, and you’re just not.

You’re so very small compared to him – small and sweet and fucking adorable, so completely opposite of himself.

And to Uvo, it’s incredibly endearing but also incredibly nerve wracking, because what if he one day slips up and hugs you too tight, grabs your wrist too strongly, or accidentally breaks a limb?

The idea of hurting you is something that makes him physically ill, his stomach churning in vile knots while a cold sweat breaks out as his hairline, if only because the idea of you crying, bruised or bleeding and staring at him like he’s some sort of monster would be enough to break him.

He wants you to love him, not to fear him. You’re the one person on this planet that he wants to look at him with adoration and reverence, like he’s some sort of god, just as he looks at you. And if he were to injure you, to accidentally go too far and leave a bruise or scar or break something?

He would never forgive himself, and he’s sure you’d never forgive him – and that would simply be unacceptable, a huge setback in the love he’s trying to very hard to create between the two of you.

He doesn’t want to hurt you on any level, and as a result he’s developed the habit of treating you as if you were made of glass, a lovely porcelain doll that’s his job to protect and keep pristine.

It doesn’t matter if you’re a skilled nen user yourself or whether you’ve never even punched someone before – Uvo will be keeping his place at your side, ready to step in at a moment’s notice in the case of anything or anyone trying to harm you, to which he’ll ruthlessly beat down and murder because no one fucking touches you.

He will be carrying you around your ‘shared’ home, wrapping you up in his arms and snuggling your face into his neck while he brings you from the bedroom to the couch for a movie marathon of those cheesy sports action films he seems to love.

He will be forcing you to sit still while he has Machi do a quick check up on you every few weeks, making sure that you’re healthy – though he never leaves the room, always hovering and staring at you, making sure Machi doesn’t get too comfortable with you.

(And no, the pink haired woman will be absolutely no help to you to escape – while she and Uvo aren’t particularly close, she’s still happy to see her troupemate in love, happy to see that he himself is happy, and surely he isn’t treating you badly if you come up perfectly healthy and bruise free every checkup, right? Machi honestly won’t even talk to you much – simple, curt answers to your questions, and not a single smile in sight. You’ll almost prefer talking to your kidnapper over her as time goes on.)

He wants you to be completely safe and healthy, and while he isn’t the best at cooking or any of the domestic fields he knows of, he still tries his best – expect a homecooked meal a few nights in months where he’s home, a sizzling breakfast that looks just a bit too charred on mornings when he’s spent hours staring at the sun softly glowing on your face.

The food might be overcooked, bland and a bit limp, but at the grin on his face and the way he brings the spoon up to your lips and tells you to open that mouth babe, I spent two hours making this casserole – wanna see you eat every last piece, it’s more than obvious that he’s proud, that he’s chosen foods high in proteins and vitamins, anything to make you healthy and stronger.

At first, his overbearing concern for your wellbeing won’t be too extreme – he doesn’t want to scare you off after all, and he’s able to keep most of the urges at bay aside from the occasional check over your body while you’re asleep.

He can sate himself by rationalizing that you’re with him now, that you’re safe and accounted for, that he was with you all day so there’s no way you somehow hurt yourself without him knowing, right?

And it works for a while, his paranoia growing stronger by the day but still just barely able to be quelled by this logic.

Except, as time goes on, Uvo just can’t help it – his feelings for you are too strong, too intense and overpowering to hold back, and soon he gives up completely. It’s his job to protect you, right?

He’s your lover, your man, and what sort of partner would he be if he isn’t keeping his you safe, if he’s not making sure that you’re adequately provided for, if he’s not diligently checking you over himself, analyzing every inch of your body to make sure you haven’t grown sick or somehow managed to scrape yourself without him knowing.

After all, you’re his cute little woman, his sweet baby that he’d kill everyone and everything for – is it so wrong to want to protect you, the literal light of his life?

Clingy

Uvogin has a massive problem when it comes to allotting his time with you in reasonable quantities. He really, really likes to spend time with you – you’re the best part of his day, the reason (aside from the thrill of combat and the Troupe) that he’s still living, that he still gets up every day.

You get his heart pumping in something other than adrenaline and pleasure when he’s beating someone senseless, and Uvogin’s never been good at denying himself pleasure. Being around you is like a shot of serotonin, his entire mood brightening no matter what happened previously, this ache in his chest quelling because you’re here now, right beside him where you belong.

He’s genuinely attached to you – you’re perfect in his eyes, his lovely little woman that he wants to love and spoil, and Uvogin quickly develops the desire to spend as much time with you as he possibly can.

You’re just so sweet and pretty and adorable, and fuck you make him so happy, so how can he possibly hold himself back from wanting to spend every second of the day with you?

How can he possibly be blamed for wanting to see your smile as often as he can, hear your chiming, lovely laugh, feel your soft hands against the hard planes of his muscles as often as he can?

Uvogin quickly becomes attached to you, thoughts of you taking up his mind, your face dancing behind his eyelids as your gorgeous eyes sparkle, your hair ruffled by the breeze as you laugh and reach out for his hand, telling him in that lovely sing-song voice of yours to come on, I want to see the fireworks before they end once he takes you on all those adorable, sweet dates he knows you’re dreaming of.

He’s almost a closeted romantic in that sense, and while he’s never really daydreamed about big, grand gestures between partners before, there’s just something about you that makes him want to buy dozens of bouquets of flowers, steal the most expensive, precious jewelry, wine and dine you until you’re giggling and leaning onto him for support.

That is to say, Uvogin is a complete and utter sap for you.

He wants to see you smile and look at him, to give him your attention and need him like he needs you, to the point where he’s not making any attempts to hide it.

He’s not trying to be discreet when he wraps an arm around your waist and plants a loud, dramatic kiss against the crown of your head; no, he wants you to hear it, to feel the weight of his arm around you and his lips against your skin, if only because you get so cute when you’re all flustered, when you shrink in on yourself and smack his stomach, hissing a quit it, that’s so embarrassing!

He’s not trying to be subtle when he calls your name from several meters away, waving a hand and sending you a smirk as he begins a loud, one sided conversation with you, hoping to draw as much attention to himself as possible so that you’ll be looking at him and only him, even if he gets chewed out by you later for causing such a spectacle in public.

(Not that he cares – not only does he not give a single shit what other people think, there’s something so sexy about the way you huff and yell, waving your arms around and sounding so exasperated, your voice high and irritated and saying his name…)

Long story short, Uvogin doesn’t make a single attempt to hide the way he’s always desperate to talk to you, to have your eyes on him, to just be with him, to the point where you’ll probably know that he holds romantic intentions towards you fairly early on – with how touchy he is and the way he’s always seeming to just be there when you’re in town, or the way he always shows up at your apartment, holding takeout from your favorite restaurant and giving you those smoldering eyes you just can’t say no to.

(And he is touchy – he’s always pressing his fingertips against your waist, the small of your back, your shoulder, tucking your hair behind your ear, tracing your collarbone or lips, or even, when he gets a bit bolder, dipping down to playfully smack your ass.)

You’ll know, and Uvogin knows you’ll know – that’s part of the plan after all, because while he’s a mass murderer and criminal that somehow has decided he wants you for his own no matter the consequences, he still would prefer for you to be in love with him, to enjoy your time spent with him and genuinely want him, and don’t women love men who show they care?

He won’t give you any mixed messages, but the trade off is that Uvogin will want every possible second of your time, and there won’t be a single thing that happens in your life that the taller man isn’t aware of – how could he not be, with your phone tapped, and all the trackers, cameras, and audio devices Shalnark helped provide him with?

 Uvogin wants to know every bit of your business, to be invested and participating in every aspect of your life, and he will – whether you know it or not, he’ll always be there.

Even once he’s stolen you away, he’ll be hovering and touchy, hugging you and teasing you, that grin on his face trying to pretend that you’re happy, that you’re in love with him, that you’re right where you fucking belong. 

But in the event that he’s taken away from you, forced to spend periods of time where he can’t be your shadow for the day, Uvogin resorts to other measures so as not to lose his mind from not getting to smell your scent or feel your skin or hear your voice.

That is, he begins collecting items of yours – small things, mostly, things he’s sure you won’t miss to terribly. He’s snatching away old hair ties of yours, right on the verge of snapping, still containing a few strands of your hair that he cherishes and sometimes idly plays with when he’s forced to wait for other members of the Troupe to arrive at meeting locations.

He’s got an old water bottle or two of yours that you think you accidentally misplaced while you were out, but really he stole it right from under your nose, having watched your pretty lips wrap around the straw piece, suctioning and sucking and swallowing, the sight provocative enough to be the star of many, many fantasies he’s played out in detail late at night.

Even your old toothbrushes, misplaced socks or even a pillowcase you thought the washer ate up are in his collection – they’re just things to help him sate himself when he’s forced to be away from you, things to help him stay sane. It’s almost like he’s an addict going through withdrawal – he needs your things in order to not be horribly short tempered and difficult to work with, and in many ways, your belongings are the only things keeping him functional.

So don’t worry too much when you begin realizing just how many of your things are missing – unexplained items that you swear you had yesterday but seemed to have disappeared over the course of the night.

They’re not unaccounted for, so don’t worry – besides, when you’re eventually living under the same roof as him, you’ll be reunited with all your stolen belongings.

(Just don’t mention the mysterious stains the socks and pillowcase now have, nor the way the toothbrush looks to be in much, much worse shape than when you lost it – almost as if someone has been regularly using it.)

Uvogin just loves you, and is it so wrong for him to be so needy, clingy, desperate for you?

DEALING WITH RIVALS:

Patience isn’t really Uvogin’s strong suit.

His possessiveness makes jealousy something extremely common, and in general he’s overly sensitive to any possible interaction between you and another man. He absolutely cannot stand another person looking at you, watching their disgusting eyes rake over your figure, their tongues dancing out to flick over their lips, minds surely filled with vile, impure thoughts that make Uvogin clench his fist and work his jaw.

He hates seeing others try to talk to you, thinking they’re worth your precious time, and although he rationally knows that not every single man you encounter probably has nefarious intentions, he’s very, very quick to jump to conclusions.

And frankly, why shouldn’t he?

Those he holds dear are all criminals, and while not all of them see women as objects (though, some definitely do), he’s more than aware of how filthy and dehumanizing some men can be towards women. And with the amount of people you come into contact with every day, surely some percentage of them must want something more sinister.

And so, Uvogin assumes the role of your guardian angel – just with much, much darker intentions and methodology. He can’t stand the thought of someone else coming along and trying to seduce you, and while this anger doesn’t stem from any sort of insecurity in his own ability to woo you, it doesn’t matter.

The end result is still the same – he’s still regarding every man that comes within twenty feet of you as being suspicious, eyeing them critically and watching like a hawk to see if anything they do – anything at all – is a sign that they’re paying you unwanted attention.

He’s quickly noticing any signs; glances aimed at you that are longer than the cursory appraisal of one’s surroundings, any sort of shuffling or leaning closer to you, any move to look at your clothing or the title of the book you’re reading out of on the subway car.

He’s diligent, taking his job in protecting you extremely seriously, and he’s good at it, too – the moment something seems even slightly suspicious, he has no issue making his presence known.

Frankly, just the mere sight of him is enough to ward off most men, because who wouldn’t be terrified when an eight foot tall man with bulging muscles, an intense aura, and a deep frown settled onto his face approaches you?

He’s effective, and while it may seem like overkill to you, like he’s simply imagining up these interactions he claims could end poorly for you, you’ll just sigh and roll your eyes, writing off his strange behavior as typical Uvogin, always making jokes that he takes just a hair too far.

And this is good for him – it works in his favor to have you disregarding when his possessiveness flairs up. It irritates him that you aren’t appreciating all his efforts and the care he puts into making sure no men bother you, but it's better this way – you won’t get suspicious of him this way, nor will you start becoming afraid of him when you see all the missing persons reports that always seem to feature men he’s scared off.

It just makes things easier – and Uvogin won’t look a gift horse in the mouth.

It's a nice, sunny day out, and Uvogin can’t help but be glad he’d chosen this park to take you to.

It’s near your apartment, and although there’s a lot of people here (lots of children and parents, mostly, but the occasional runner or elderly person getting their exercise), you’d managed to snag the spot most secluded, between a grouping of trees. He’d been wanting today to be a nice date – parks weren’t his thing, but you seemed to enjoy the idea of a picnic, and just the thought of you smiling up at him and getting all excited and happy and adorable was all the motivation he needed to go out and steal some snacks and a cute, checkered picnic blanket.

He felt stupid setting it all up, biting at his thumb and furrowing his brows to make sure everything was perfectly placed, but the moment you showed up, it was all worth it. You’d been so happy – beaming at him and practically jumping up and down, eagerly tearing into the basket of goodies and plopping down onto the admittedly quite small blanket.

Sure, maybe you didn’t think this was a date, per se, but Uvogin has spent the whole time watching you, gaze flicking between your lips and your eyes as you ranted about the latest drama at your workplace.

He’d chimed in a few times, telling you with a serious voice that he’s told you to quit working at that shithole; you don’t get paid enough to deal with all that crap. Plus, you don’t need to work – I can support you, I promise. I’ll spoil you, make sure you’ve got everything you could ever want.

He'll pair that with a little wiggle of his bushy eyebrows, making you snort and laugh at his - you wrongly assume – joke. That gets a grin slipping across his lips, pride and satisfaction sitting heavy in his chest because you just look so damn cute when you’re laughing like that, and even more so when you’re laughing because of him. Everything is going well – you’re smiling between bites of food (all your favorite snacks of course, down to the exact brands and flavors), and it’s not until you suddenly remember that you’d left something in your car that things begin going downhill.

It’s not a big deal, really – just a Chapstick that you offhandedly mention you wished you’d brought to the picnic with you, your lips feeling a little chapped from the crisp spring air.

(Immediately his eyes are darting to your lips, watching and having to force back a groan when he sees your tongue dart out to lick them, the sight nearly making him lose his composure.)

He’s standing up without giving you a second to think, squatting down and swiping your keys out of your pocket, sending you a wink and telling you to wait here, princess, I’ll be right back. You don’t even have time to protest and tell him it’s really no big deal (or tell him the location of said Chapstick in your car – useless information, really, because Uvogin knows exactly where you keep it, mostly because he’s used it before himself).

He can’t have been gone for longer than five minutes, spinning the keys on a finger and smiling despite himself, reliving your smile and laughter over and over in his mind, trying with all his might to keep himself from imagining the sight of you licking your lips lest he start imagining you licking other things, things that would be much bigger and harder and throbbing for you -  

Uvogin notices the man that’s approached your secluded spot a bit too late, it seems. He’s already standing next to you, chatting with you and being much, much too close for comfort as far as Uvogin is concerned.

His fist tightens around the Chapstick clutched in his left hand, nearly hard enough to crack the plastic. His brows are pressed inward, dipping down, a scowl replacing his smile, his feet moving faster and faster to bring him back towards you and this stranger.

Once he’s within ear shot, he’s immediately calling out your name much too loudly, stopping and standing on your other side with a hand on his hip and his aura heavy, the grin on his face just slightly too tight.

The man blinks, beady brown eyes staring up at Uvogin owlishly, the size difference more than apparent as Uvogin stands up just a bit straighter, making sure he’s reaching his full height. He even flexes his muscles a bit, hoping to appear bigger, stronger, better, both to intimidate this man and to have you admiring his physique.

Can I help you?

His voice is curt, not the usual friendliness you’re used to, and immediately you’re frowning, opening your mouth to speak from your position still sitting on the ground, but the stranger beats you to it.

I, uh, I was just getting some directions. Sorry man, I didn’t mean to interrupt.

Uvogin’s eye twitches. Directions, huh? What are you, stupid?

You gasp at that, swatting out and smacking his calf lightly. He makes no acknowledgement of your action, but internally he hums at the attention and the slight bit of pained pleasure that shoots up his spine.

The man looks taken aback, offense and unease swimming in those eyes of his. Listen, I’ll just go, have a nice day.

He nods at Uvogin, and quickly nods at you too – making Uvogin’s grip on the Chapstick finally crack the plastic – and swivels on his heel, taking off in a poorly masked jog. Uvogin watches him the whole way, his gaze so heavy that the man feels it even from some fifty yards away.

Eventually you bring him out of his stupor, your arms crossed and an irritated look crossing your face. Uvogin sighs, finding your attitude a bit adorable, but also finding himself a bit preoccupied. Chasing down that guy later would be a pain, but he’d manage – it’d give him something to do, after all, because he could only spend so many nights a week standing in the doorway of your bedroom with his dark eyes trained on your sleeping body, his hand sometimes diligently stroking himself.

It'd be fun, too.

What the hell was that? You’re asking him, the honest to god pout you’re giving him making him chuckle and pat your head.

Just man stuff, you wouldn’t get it, babe.

His comment only seems to anger you further, and you snatch the bag of chips he’d picked up out of his hands. Nuh-uh, you don’t get to be a dick to someone who was genuinely just asking for help and then eat all the food. No fucking way.

At that he laughs aloud, plopping down onto the blanket (much closer to you than he was before), picking up another bag of chips and throwing a few into his mouth. Get off your high horse sweetie, must be hard for a shortie like you to get up there.

You send another smack to his leg and this time he pretends to be hurt, clutching at his wound and telling you to kiss it better, a comment you only dignify with a piece of bread being flung at his face.

The picnic goes well, uninterrupted for the rest of the afternoon, but that night Uvogin stays true to his word, stalking through the backstreets of the area he’d narrowed down the man’s apartment being in.

It didn’t matter that the man hadn’t made a move against you, or didn’t say anything to make you uncomfortable – he’d approached you, talked to you, looked at you, and that was enough to warrant a punishment so severe that he may not get to even apply his newly learned rule of absolutely no contact with you.

And as Uvogin sends punch after punch flying at the man’s face when he tackles him in the man’s own living room sometime around midnight, he can only laugh, the grin spread across his face maniacal at best.

Eventually the corpse is so bloody and mangled that Uvogin finds himself satisfied, getting up off the straddling position he’d forced the man into, wiping his hands – covered with red – off onto the man’s kitchen towel, before strolling out the front door, whistling a tune and already deciding on which path is the shortest to get back to your apartment.

You should be asleep by now – and you always look prettiest right when you’ve just slipped under, your pretty face all relaxed and sweet and soft, making him sigh and slightly laugh at himself because when the hell did he get so damn soft?

Since he met you, really, because you just have such an affect on him.

TAKING HIS DARLING AWAY:

Truth be told, while there’s nothing more in the world that Uvogin wants than to have you secure at his side, in a little home for the two of you where you can be together, alone, and living a perfectly sweet domestic life, he’s hesitant to force this situation to happen.

In general, he isn’t an especially forceful or strict yandere – of course, he doesn’t like seeing other men around you, seeing you doing dangerous things or interacting with people he knows are bad for you, but Uvogin is more or less lenient when it comes to what you want, with a few harsh exceptions (anything involving your safety, or another man).

Your freedom is something that he wants to preserve as much as he can, if only because he firmly believes that once your basic rights are taken away, you’ll no longer be the woman he’s fallen in love with, the person he’s become so horribly and wonderfully obsessed with to a pathetic degree.

He’s scared you’ll become a shell of your former self, that the woman he’s so desperate to spend the rest of his waking moments with will disappear forever, and while Uvogin doesn’t have too stellar a moral compass, even he knows that erasing your past identity is a step too far – stalking you, stealing your clothing and small trinkets, threatening others and killing in your name may not be, but actually stealing you is something that doesn’t sit right with him.

That isn’t to say, however, that the possibility of him kidnapping you is non-existent – he’s hesitant, but not unwilling, and so the moment that your safety is threatened, that something sudden happens that he can’t control or hope to fix, Uvogin will feel backed into a corner, as if he has no option but to simply take you away, to bite the bullet and keep you locked up with him forever.

He doesn’t feel good about it, of course, if only because seeing you in tears and hearing you sob and curse at him makes a massive frown replace that normally bright grin, but it’s reality, and to Uvo your safety is his number one priority.

So, he’ll wince and grit his teeth as the damn Hunters tie the rope around your wrists, the nasty smirk across one’s face as they tell him they got his precious woman, what now, you murderer? You’ll come and save her, because you’re such a knight in shining armor? Fucking pathetic, you’ll rot for years for what you’ve done.

He’ll sigh and ball his fists as he quietly apologizes to you, your scared, teary eyes staring right at him as he kills each Hunter one by one, telling you to look away as blood sprays everywhere, as his fists get dirtier and dirtier.

He won’t like the way he gently knocks you out (or the way you scream through the gag placed in your mouth and squirm around, trying your hardest to get away from him), nor will he enjoy the way your weight feels so heavy in his heart as he slings you over his shoulder and carries you home, but he can’t stop now.

How can he, when you’ve been discovered by another man, touched by another man, threatened by someone?

Uvogin’s only human, and every human has a weakness – so congratulations, because your status as his only weakness just became the reason for your former life to end. 

However, as a captor Uvogin is honestly not too terrible – he’s still clingy, always desiring your attention and trying to engage you in conversations or physical touch, but considering his status as an international criminal, he’s not too bad.

You’ll quickly learn that he has a massive penchant for spoiling you to no end; there’s nothing that he enjoys more than seeing you in awe or smiling, the way your lips tilt up and the apples of your cheeks grow round, how your eyes sparkle and you make the cutest expressions.

He strives to see you happy (preferably because of him, but he’s not too picky), so expect to be regularly gifted items with the intent of seeing your smile, of seeing you enjoy something that he provided you with.

You’ll get the nicest jewels – tones to match your eyes, colors that compliment your skin, matching sets to go with the gold rings on his fingers or the silver dog tags he occasionally wears.

You’ll get the prettiest dresses, custom designed by brand names, fitting your figure like a glove and never failing to make Uvogin’s breath hitch.

(More than once he’s stopped dead in his tracks upon seeing you in a newly bought gown, clutched his heart and closed his eyes, moaning something about how you’re too beautiful, it burns my eyes! The theatrics are sweet, you suppose, and though you’ll feel dirty for it, often the praise and the honest adoration in those swirling brown depths of his will leave a fluttery, warm feeling in your chest.)

There’s just something about making you happy that never fails to leave Uvogin feeling giddy and childish, a boyish excitement coursing through his veins that almost beats out the feeling of smashing his opponent’s skull in. And so, he strives to make you smile in every possible way he can – he spoils you, of course, but he also possesses such vast knowledge on you from all that stalking that he knows exactly what you like.

He knows just how to compliment you – he’ll know if you prefer comments on your appearance or your personality or your talents, effortlessly praising you with such ferocity and consistency that it’ll leave you bashful and embarrassed but so, so pleased.

He knows what kind of men you like – he knows which TV shows, movies, books, and stories you read, which tropes you adore, and try to alter himself just a hair so that he fits that stereotype a little more.

(He won’t be willing to fully change himelf, because he does want you to love him, but he’s not above playing up his more possessive or aggressive side if you like the bad boy type, or showing off his actually decent cooking skills if you enjoy a more responsible man, or even busting out more corny, bad puns if you prefer funnier, goofier men.)

He’s pulling out all the acts of services he knows you’ll find meaningful – you hate having to shave your legs? Let him do it for you – he’s good at that sort of thing, and of course he wouldn’t mind holding your legs or putting on the lotion for you afterwards.

(Plus, you aren’t allowed to use a razor by yourself – but that’s beside the point.)

He’s even going so far as to recreate sexual scenarios and acts he knows you have a penchant for – even if you possess a kink he isn’t super interested in, he’s willing to give it a try because he wants you to want to touch him, and even if wax or mutual masturbation or anything else isn’t his thing, if it gets you eager and in the mood for him, he’ll snap to it in a heartbeat.

He is, all things considered, a good captor – he treats you well and caters to your every need, but no one is perfect, and the only major downside of being stuck with him is his touchiness.

He’s clingy, incredibly so – he’s always touching you, his hands on your body in some capacity, regardless of whether you approve or not. He won’t force you into sex, but he will force you into intimacy, whether that be a casual arm around your waste, a kiss against your lips, or cuddling you to sleep at night.

He almost views it as his reward for being so kind and considerate with you – he’s showing immense self control by not ripping off your clothes and fucking you full of his cum right here on the floor, so let him pull you into his side and wrap an arm around your shoulder while you watch the TV, yeah?

He’s showcasing just how strongly he respects your opinion of him by not pushing you to your knees and shoving his cock down your throat, so let him hum and spoon you as you both drift off to sleep, his hot breath fanning against your ear. He’s just always touching you – and while it often leads to lewd activities, the roots of why he always wants to touch you and have contact between the two of you is much more innocent.

He strongly expresses his love through physical touch, and he feels that by always having your skin touching he’s helping build the framework for your relationship, that every touch and kiss and squeeze is helping you fall in love with him, encouraging you to relax in his presence and even enjoy being with him.

So, frankly, if you can put up with his handsiness and the fact that you’ll never be allowed outside or see another human being, Uvogin’s not too terrible – it could be much, much worse, and he won’t hesitate to tell you that.

He doesn’t like to, but telling you stories of how horrible some of his troupemates can be will get the job done on making you grateful that he’s the one who’s fallen for you – at least he doesn’t hurt you, at least he doesn’t mess with people’s memories, at least he doesn’t enjoy torturing others and hearing them scream.

(He’ll conveniently forget to mention that he does enjoy killing others, but throwing Feitan under the bus and framing him in a negative light is much more conducive to the point he’s trying to make.)

So really, be grateful that Uvogin is the one who’s gone through all the effort to follow you, observe you, love you, because really, that’s all he is – just a man in love. And isn’t that so, so very sweet?

The fact that you’re stuck under the same roof, unable to escape or ignore him or deny his affections may deter this lovely image of him as a lovesick man, but eventually you’ll come around. Just wait.

PUNISHMENTS:

Because Uvogin is generally a more laid-back yandere (particularly once you’re in his custody, where he knows you can’t escape – at least, not permanently), punishments are things that actually don’t happen too often.

He really prefers to see you smile, loving the way your laugh sounds when he tells horrible jokes or makes snide comments that get you giggling.

He loves the way you smile at him, pearly teeth showing off and your cheeks plumping up, looking perfect and squishy and like the ideal spot to reach out and pinch.

He loves when you get all flustered, your bashful expression making him lick his lips and rush forward to grab at your ass and kiss you, growling in your ear that you’re too damn cute when you get all stuttery, makes me wanna eat you up.

He’s genuinely endeared by you, and because of this it’s extremely hard for him to stay mad at you. Sure, fleeting irritation occasionally licks at him, particularly towards the beginning of his obsession when you were still rebellious, still crying when you saw him, still flinching at every act of affection he tried to give you. He was irritated, yes, but never angry – you’re too sweet and small and weak to be too much for him to handle, really, and although he never would, the fact that he could very, very easily overpower you always brings him back down to Earth, managing to calm down enough to not accidentally strike you across the face or snap your neck or  bite you or any number of things.

(Besides, biting you is reserved for the bedroom, as is wrapping his hand around your neck and oh, shit, now he’s hard. Well, you caused it, so now, as he stares at you with lidded eyes and that familiar, coy smile, you have to take care of it.)

It generally takes a lot for him to get mad enough at you to actually consider giving you the consequences of your actions – mainly, he has two big triggers.

The first one is causing any kind of harm to yourself. Sure, you may not be strong enough to hurt him, but you’re so delicate and weak that he’s convinced even a particularly strong gust of wind could kill you.

(Obviously not, but anyone that can’t use Nen or anything more than basic defense is automatically as good as dead in his mind.)

He’s not as able to seamlessly and tightly control your own actions against yourself. He can limit what you have access to (no sharp knives, razors or heavy, metal items that could clause blunt force trauma), but it’s harder to prevent you from starving yourself or breaking a bone.

And frankly, that scares Uvo a bit – he doesn’t like that he can’t bar you from harming yourself, and the moment he sees even a glimmer of it in your eye, he's shutting it down firmly and swiftly, his grip on your wrist iron clad as he glares down at you and tells you think this through, babe, because I ain’t nursing you back to recovery, and we both know you don’t know shit about setting broken bones.

His second trigger is when you make attempts to contact other people. He’s possessive to a fault, and while it would be extremely difficult for you to successfully get into contact with another person aside from himself, even the mere idea gets his blood boiling, something hot and heavy and ugly forming in his gut.

He doesn’t like the idea that you want to speak with others – particularly if they’re male, even if they’re related to you. He should be enough for you; he provides for you and gives you affection and love, even if you aren’t willing to ask for it.

He gives you enough pleasure to leave your head spinning every night, dedicated and committed to making you come at least twice before he bothers with his own pleasure.

He even goes so far as to spoil you by stealing every little thing he knows you want, just to see you smile and hear your pretty voice telling him thank you Uvo, I love it!

(He’ll even steal things he thinks you’d like – he’s almost always on the money, and you’ll be surprised at how quickly and accurately he narrows down your likes and dislikes. Though, with the amount of time he’s spent stalking you, stealing your personal items, and getting your family members to talk about you - normally with his fist acting as incentive to spill your information - it’s no surprise.)

But so really, outside of trying to speak to other people past the threshold of the house he keeps you locked in and harming yourself, Uvogin probably won’t hurt you – not on purpose, at least.

(He’s so strong and massive that sometimes it just happens, even when he’s not even remotely mad. He’ll hug you too hard and leave a nasty bruise on your ribcage, or slap your ass and leave you too sore to sit down for a few hours. He’ll always feel a bit guilty, but also a bit proud – because now you’ll be thinking of him, and isn’t that just wonderful?)

And even if he does get angry, punishing you with physical violence is never an answer – it would be too easy to kill you, and he doesn’t want that. Not at all ��� actually, the thought of you dying (particularly by his own hand) is a fate worse than dying himself, and if it were to happen, Uvogin would become a shell of a man, living to kill others to an even more extreme degree than he does currently.

But when he does have to punish you, he relies more on mental games. He may be strong but he’s not stupid, and so while he doesn’t have the vast knowledge or flair for manipulation that someone like Chrollo or Shalnark might have, he’s still able to get his point across.

And so, Uvogin decides that the most surefire, successful way to get you to stop doing something bad is to simply ignore you.

Frankly, it hurts him almost as much as it hurts you – you’re so precious to him, something he always, always wants to touch and talk to and watch like a hawk, but he’s able to steel himself and hold out until he’s sure you’ve learned your lesson.

Uvogin’s jaw clenches as he takes in the scene before him; he’d just returned home from the grocery store, getting (stealing) your favorite snacks – along with some beef jerky for himself and some meat that looked particularly appetizing.

He’d been doing something nice – going all the way into town, risking getting seen or recognized, even going through the effort of choosing what he knows you like – all because you’d been looking a bit sad this morning, and you’d been out of bed much earlier than normal.

He was worried, if he was being honest, because you hadn’t returned his good-morning hug like normal, and you hadn’t laughed at one of his terrible, horrible puns, and you hadn’t even yelped when he’d picked you up by the ass, making your legs wrap around his waist.

It was concerning, and he’d hoped that maybe getting you your favorite foods would brighten your mood. He’d been hoping to have a nice night in with you tonight, comprised of a new action flick he’d been wanting to see (Phinks promised it was absolutely dismal, and Uvogin always enjoyed mocking the poorly done fight scenes in cinema), some good take-out, and, of course, ending the evening with you perched on his lap, bouncing up and down and moaning his name.

It was a good plan, but this was not part of it.

The grocery bags fall from his slackened grip, hitting the floor with a dull thud as he continues to stare. Whatever he’d been expecting when he walked through the door, it surely wasn’t you with the small bit of sandpaper he keeps in a kitchen drawer in hand.

The sandpaper was used for sharpening knives, something he very firmly kept out of your reach – they were in the highest cabinet with a padlock on them, just so that you wouldn’t get any funny ideas.

But it seems he didn’t plan quite well enough – because here you are, the sandpaper inches from your forearm, the skin rubbed raw and blood dripping down the skin. You’re staring at him, equally frozen, and there’s a certain amount of fear in your eyes that makes Uvogin’s rage only worsen.

You know this is bad, you look like a child caught with their hand in the cookie jar.

Things are still for a moment, but then Uvogin’s rushing forward, grabbing you by the waist and lugging you over to the sink, not saying a word as he forces your arm under the stream of much too hot water he’d turned on, making sure to clean the wound. It stings and you hiss, nails digging into the skin of his shoulder, but even when you try to kick him and get out of his grasp, he doesn’t budge at all.

He holds your arm under until all the blood is gone, and then he’s setting you back on the ground, his expression blank. Somehow, that scares you more than his yelling and anger does – because this is something new, something you aren’t quite sure how to navigate. Uvogin fixes you with a harsh, cold glare, and for a moment you think he’ll start laying into you about how careless you were, about how you were purposefully hurting yourself, and you prepare for the onslaught of accusations and belittlement.

But it doesn’t come – instead, he turns on his heel, picking up the groceries and returning to the kitchen without sparing you a glance. He still hasn’t said anything, and as he starts putting away the various items into the cupboard, he remains silent.

Eventually, he reaches the portion of the groceries dedicated to you, and he hesitates for just a moment before throwing it all in the trash, still not bothering to look at you. You can see the brand names and packages of your favorite snacks, and for a moment you almost, almost feel guilty.

You’d been breaking one of his rules, just trying to feel something to combat the numbness that being his captive left to you with, all the while he was out buying you surprise snacks, all for some unknown reason.

Your arm was stinging still, and soon your eyes were too. Once he finishes up, he walks out of the kitchen, stomping down to his bedroom and slamming the door closed. You’re left to stand there, holding a paper towel over your wound that was slowly starting to bleed again, utterly confused at his strange behavior.

Never, in all your time with him, had you ever been ignored like this – he was overwhelming, sure, suffocating, even, but this? The day will pass slowly as you sit down on the couch and stare at the ground, confusion eating at you as you try to make sense of what just happened. The apartment is uncharacteristically quiet, and by the time two hours have rolled around, your arm has stopped hurting and your knee is bouncing, unease making you on edge.

Uvogin’s silent – there’s no sound coming from his room, and for a moment you wonder if he’s fallen asleep, something unusual for him. (He’s never let you nap mid-day, always claiming you’re wasting the time by sleeping it away.) Finally, after much internal debate, you gently stand up and shuffle down the hallway to his heavy wooden door, tentatively knocking. Uvogin?

Your voice is small, scared, hesitant, and there’s no response from inside. Your brows furrow but you swallow, loneliness creeping up your spine because as fucked up as it sounds, you miss him.

You miss his booming voice, warm touch, cheeky compliments, even his dark eyes fixed on you. It’s lonely without him, and although you’re beyond embarrassed and disdainful of how you’d only been left alone for two hours and you’re already feeling this desperate, you push open the door anyways.

Uvogin’s sitting on his bed, his white tank top stripped off and just a pair of boxers sitting low on his hips, and even as the door creaks open and you peak inside, he makes no move. He’s staring down at his phone – it looks comically small in his giant hands, and you bite your lip. Calling out his name again, you slowly creep closer and closer, your steps shuffled and small and quiet, but he doesn’t respond to you in any way.

It’s only once you’re within touching distance that you try a different angle – you’re playing with your fingers as you tell him that you’re sorry, I shouldn’t have done that. He still doesn’t move, and a new, odd sense of panic settles into your gut.

You apologized, what more does he want? You can’t stand being ignored like this – not even the slightest acknowledgement of your presence, after months of being the apple of his eye. With a newfound urgency, you carefully climb onto the bed, wrapping your arms as far around his chest as you can, burying your face against his arm as you shoulders start slightly shaking, tears welling up in your eyes.

You’re pathetic like this, and you know it – crying because your captor won’t pay attention to you? Any sense of self-respect you’d managed to cling onto dissipates, and soon you’re speaking again, little hiccups interrupting your words.

‘M sorry Uvo, I don’t know what’s wrong with me, please help me. I don’t know why I hurt myself, and I don’t know why this is hurting me even more than that stupid sandpaper – why does it make me feel so sad when you don’t look at me? What’s wrong with me? There’s something seriously fucked up with me, why do I miss you?

It becomes a stream of consciousness, more than anything, your voice progressively getting louder and louder until you’re actually crying – big, wet tears and snot dripping from your nose, your grip on Uvogin never loosening.

He’s looking at you now, peeking at you from the corner of his eye and watching you bare your heart to him, and although it shouldn’t feel this good, he can’t help but crack a smile.

You’re just too damn cute – he’d been livid when he found you in the kitchen, but now you seem more like a scared little kitten, all tiny and weak and malleable, and what you’re admitting right now sends shivers down his spine.

You miss him.

You want him.

It makes him chuckle a bit, and immediately you’re freezing up, staring up at him with your eyes all red and your cheeks wet. He smirks down at you, and before you know it he’s wrapping his arms around your waist and manhandling you on top of him while he lays down, pressing you against his chest and peppering kisses against the crown of your head.

So it hurts to not be around me? Damn babe, almost sounds like you’re in love with me. Isn’t that something?

He laughs, and you only clutch him tighter, embarrassment eating you alive, but the feeling of his hands on you and his voice crooning your name makes you not care.

All that matters is that he’s paying attention to you, seeing you, and as his hands move down to cup your ass and his voice gets more gruff and low, you’ll eagerly let him strip off your flimsy tee shirt and panties.

Anything he wants, as long as he keeps you from feeling that horrible, horrible loneliness.

OVERALL DANGER:

7/10

Uvogin is less dangerous and more overwhelming.

He’d never physically hurt you – at least, not on purpose. He’s painfully aware of how much bigger he is than you, of how much stronger and more adept at fighting and chasing, and the concept of even leaving a scratch on your pretty skin doesn’t sit right with him.

He’s wildly protective over the few people he loves, and you sit at the very top of that list – in many ways, he’s like your own personal guard dog, just much bigger and needier and touchier.

He wants you to love him back, to return the depths of his passionate, unhinged devotion to you, and he’s willing to do pretty much anything he needs in order to achieve this – he’s spoiling you with all kinds of jewels and snacks and flowers and clothing, grinning when he sees the way you get all embarrassed and flustered when he tells you just how much that diamond he snagged for you would go for on the market.

He’s handsy, always initiating affection with you, and not a moment goes by where he isn’t touching you – he’s grasping your hand in his when you’re showering together, the other hand helping lather your body up in the soap (and wandering, too, groping, squeezing, kneading, feeling).

 He’s wrapping you up in his arms, perching you on his lap while you watch a movie together, drowning in a pile of blankets while he hums in your ear and makes fun of the movie, his laughter low and his grip tightening on you when the main character and the love interest finally kiss, his voice purring into your ear that you’re much prettier than her, princess, love this smile and this fucking body.

He’s always smacking your ass or telling you horrible, dirty pick up lines, just because he wants to see you smile.

And even though you’ve been kidnapped, forced to live the rest of your life with a mass murderer, criminal, monster, Uvogin will treat you with more care, love and attention than other man ever has – he wants you, in this raw, pitiful way, and although he’s rough on the edges and scary, eventually he’ll win you over.

He’ll get you feeling fond for him, craving his touch, finding comfort in the way he wakes you up with a kiss in the morning and inhales against your neck, telling you to put on those panties you wore yesterday, baby, you know the ones, the mere command making you shiver in excitement because you know you’ll be having trouble walking tomorrow.

He’ll show up at your doorstep with splatters of blood on his white shirt and a crazed look in his eye as he kisses you, telling you that that man that used to catcall you on fifth street can sure run fast, but not fast enough, and you’ll find that you’re almost flattered that he’d gone and killed the man who’d made you so uncomfortable all those times.

He’s just oddly charming, and you may hate yourself for it, but eventually you will consider yourself his – and you’ll even be happy about it.

[waywardcrow]

Haircuts and coffee.

Summary: A little story about how Fairy and Bucky meet and how far Fairy could go to protect someone.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x F!Reader.

WC: About 1600 or something.

TW: Very poor science kwnoledge by me, a pair of assholes talking shit, language, references to Bucky’s past as the Winter soldier and the abuse he suffered at Hydra's, physical violence (don’t try this at home), goofiness, someone trips and falls, fluff and feels, reader it's pictured to don't be above 5'3 but I try to don't specify too much, let me know if I missed something.

Disclaimer: English is not my first language, please tell me if I make grammar mistakes.

Everybody talked about “the incident” for a while.

That’s what Tony decided to call when his favorite lab tech decided to blast a not tested powerful weapon at some jerk agents.

In your defense, he had it coming.

Agent Smith was rude, obnoxious and misogynistic, he smelled like instead of water he used his awful cologne to shower and he made the mistake to be rude to Sergeant Barnes in your presence.

Three weeks ago Sergeant Barnes was found innocent of all charges against him and Captain Rogers took him to the Avengers compound so he could start living there while he finished his recovery, you remembered how happy he was that morning, not even Tony’s teasing could get under Steve’s skin and you were so happy for both of them, obviously not everyone shared the feeling.

There were some people whispering, not very enthusiastic about having the former Winter Soldier living there, free, but you decided to don’t engage with them, Agent Hill made very clear you couldn’t keep getting into fights with your coworkers even if they never were physical.

You weren’t a violent person but also you weren’t one to stand and watch something happening when you knew it was wrong.

So you focused on your work.

A simple weapon that could be camouflaged like a normal glove but it had all the power of Tony’s blasters, it was a delicate experiment because the material wasn’t resistant enough to the power source so it ended on fire or the blast wasn’t powerful enough, firing some sparks that only will scare you and no one else.

Tony told you over and over again to don’t pressure perfection which was bullshit because the man survived on caffeine and impostor syndrome most of the days, just like you. You continued to work until you were sure it was good, that’s why you decided to try it in a safe environment and, it was then when it happened.

You heard a couple of agents talk on your way to see Tony, they were watching Sergeant Barnes from the hall without an ounce of shame while he poured some coffee for himself in the kitchen, what you heard made your stomach drop.

“I don’t know why they let him out, he’s a fucking freak” Agent Smith said with a vicious smile in his very symmetrical face.

“Yeah man, they should never left him leave prison” the other, Jameson, agreed.

“They actually should send him back to Hydra, so he gets what he deserves”

At that, you saw Sergeant Barnes flinch and you realized he could hear them even if he was a very good distance.

It broke your heart.

He was so polite when Steve introduced you, he had such a kind smile when his best friend told him he would take him to the best burgers in the city that night as celebration and you read some of the files years ago when Nat put out all of SHIELD and Hydra’s information, you knew things you wished that could get erased from your mind and specially you wished the man in front of you never would have to suffer them, ever.

So yeah, you threw Hill’s advice through the window and went to agent jerk and agent douchebag.

“Take that back, assholes”

You were well aware how you looked, a small nerd with very big glasses and a very short skirt facing some six foot something idiots who could kill you in a heartbeat. Your mother always told you to stop being too impulsive but your father always smiled about it, calling you a troublemaker.

“Don’t get your nose in things that doesn’t concern you, lab rat” Smith didn’t like you, not so much after you declined his offer to go out which was predictable from someone like him, beside him Jameson let out a laugh that made you see red.

“I said: take it back and apologize”

Smith got too close to you for your liking, enjoying being able to stared down at you, like you were nothing.

“Or what? Are you going to cry? Or would you ask your new friend to kill me like he used-“ you didn’t let him finish, with a flick of your wrist, he got send backwards alongside his buddy, making both of them fly across the hall to the empty conference room to end in the garden, a floor below.

You looked at your hand, the good news was your experiment worked, the bad was Maria would not like this.

That was how you ended in disciplinary action, thankfully Tony and Steve interceded for you, watching with Friday’s help the footage of the incident, Smith and Jameson had to apologize to Sergeant Barnes and you didn’t have to do the same with them. When they presented a complain, Tony swore the footage of the incident was gone and there was no way they could prove you hurt them. Also he promised them they would have nice assignments waiting for them after their recovery… in Alaska.

Maria was not speaking to you, tired of cleaning everyone’s messes. Yelena gave you lots of high fives that made you want to hide when someone else watch you both, and Steve, he was thankful for your intervention and you didn’t regret it but his friend couldn’t look at you in the eyes anymore.

It wasn’t that obvious because as part of you punishment, you had to spend a lot of time in the training facilities with Nat, Maria was convinced that it was perfect because you hated exercise and she was right, you were in hell.

Even if Nat was one of your best friends, she was a relentless trainer, tough and disciplined, all you weren’t when it came to run in circles.

“Come on, Fairy” she yelled at you from her position, very ahead of you “I need you to run like Pedro Pascal is waiting for you!”

The sweat was blinding you, your lungs felt on fire and still you managed to scream at her like a suffocated turtle.

“Don’t you dare use Pedro’s name in vain!”

The redhead laughed, running backwards like it was easy, for her it probably was and then you saw him.

Not Pedro Pascal, of course, although you were sure he was friends with Pepper and she didn’t want to tell you.

You saw Sergeant Barnes coming towards the run track, it wasn’t strange since he and Steve used it a lot but his hair, it was different. He had cut all his long locks leaving only a very modern haircut that make his cheekbones more evident.

Before you could think about closing your mouth, your foot got caught in something and you fell.

It was so embarrassing being in the med bay for this.

Sam would never let you hear the end of it, Yelena got the footage and made a tik tok reel just for you, Morgan was the only one who took pity on you and left you a bag of Sour patch when she went to see you.

You were fine with all of that, the teasing of your friends and even your sore wrist but your literal high school celebrity crush saw you hit the dust, all because you were so busy staring at him. It was a good thing he was avoiding you.

Because life loved to make fun of you, he went to see you at the med bay.

“Hi miss, Fairy, I mean miss Fairy” he wasn’t sure he could get to call you by the pet name everybody used with you even if Steve had introduced you like that. Bucky knew your real name, of course, but you seemed to like being called Fairy and if he was honest with himself, it suited you.

“It’s everything ok, Sergeant?” your first instinct was to check on him and it didn’t went unnoticed by Bucky.

“Yeah, I am” he put a cup pf coffee in the bedside table and looked at you like he wanted to run from there “I came to see how you are, it was a very bad fall”

Your cheeks burned, why did this have to happen to you? If seventeen year old you could see you right now, she would slapped you for making this impression on Bucky Barnes, your favorite Howling commando, the reason you wanted to join SHIELD and even when you couldn’t, you still tried to do something good with your life.

“Yeah, it wasn’t- I mean, I’m fine” you smiled but it looked more like a grimaced gesture.

He wasn’t convinced, your arm had scratches and your left cheekbone was red, Bucky felt bad for waiting until this happened to talk to you.

“I brought you some coffee, Steve told me you like it like this” he lied, Bucky had observed you enough to know how you liked it, which was natural since you drank it like it was water. He fought the urge to hide his gloved hands on his pockets “I didn’t get to thank you”

“What for?” you asked before taking a sip of your cup, it was perfect.

“For standing for me, that day”

His voice sounded small even being this close to you and he hated it.

He hated you heard what they said, he hated that you felt bad for him and that he found you so beautiful when he had no chance with you.

Biting your lip, you left your drink and looked at him in the eyes.

“I didn’t want you to think they represent us, they don’t, there’s a lot of douchebags but there’s also a lot of good people here and we will support you” it sounded so cheesy but it was true, what kind of superheroes organization they would be if they don’t take care of their own people?

Bucky stared at you, not wanting to believe you were real, why were you being so kind with him? And why did he wanted more?

“Thanks, Fairy” this time, your pet name sounded sure on his tongue and it made you smile.

“No need to thank me, Sergeant”

“Please, call me Bucky”

Hello! I wanted to write this so bad and I didn't care if it was very self indulgent and silly, I needed this, I love Fairy and Bucky so much and I hope you love them too, let me know what you think.

Love, Lily.

[chaoticbardlady99]

Could you please do some comforting fic? Like, Tav is crying because of stress (or maybe a painful memory) and Astarion has to console her being an absolute emotional support vampire?

Dying Star (Astarion x GN! Reader)

Your wish is my command!

Synopsis: While exploring the Shadowlands, you run into Arabella and she asks you to find her parents. Unfortunately, you don’t have good news to deliver and Astarion tries to navigate your feelings with tips from Karlach.

Character Class- Cleric of Lliira

 (I’m really obsessed with this concept because I’m a Social Worker and I refer to myself as the “positivity police” so this is a character type I have grown fond of)

TW: Grief, Trauma, Parental loss, PTSD, Panic Attacks, mentions of violence and gore.

*I really like the nickname Little Love (I know it’s for Ascended only but…..) so I will be using it as a pet name that Astarion uses for the reader.

Companion song: Dying Star by Ashnikko (feat. Ethel Cain)

     It was supposed to be easy. You had an extra skip to your step as you headed in the direction Arabella told you her parents went. 

 Finally, you had thought, I can do something good for someone. I can reunite a family. No morally gray bullshit to navigate.

 You were grinning the whole way there despite your argument with Astarion before sending him with Arabella.

 “We don’t have time to go parent hunting.”

“There is always time to go parent hunting.”

  He had expressed his disdain about finding Arabella’s parents. He told you it’s a waste of time- they were probably dead anyway. Arabella had whimpered and teared up. That was enough for you to lose your patience and you ripped into him for saying "something so awful and in front of a CHILD, nonetheless!"

You sent him back with Arabella and Wyll, telling him that if he had no desire to search and rescue, he didn’t have to. He had looked hurt and insisted he go, that he needed to be there, but you were fed up and a little girl was crying.

Dejected, Astarion had gone back to camp. The guilt sat heavily at the bottom of your stomach, but you had a personal mission to complete and nothing was going to stop you.

  You were orphaned as a young child. The nightmares had gone away (for the most part), but you still remember your father dragging you away from your mother’s cold body as Loth Drows ambushed Silverymoon. They had had a whole army and their druids had control over giant creatures from the Underdark. You remember losing your father in the haze, an arrow to your back, running and slipping into a river. Then nothing. Until a nearby Cleric of Lliira (Leer-uh) had saved you, taking you to Selgaunt (SELL-GAUNT) on the coast of the Sea of Stars. Lliira had healed your heart and saved you- you hoped to pay that debt forward and help Arabella have a better outcome than you did. 

  No one in your party knew your past and you hadn’t brought it up to Astarion. It feels so long ago and it was a topic you preferred to bring up in a more hospitable place than the Shadowlands and after you help Astarion kill Cazador. You wanted to prioritize his joy and help him finally be free, so why would you burden him with your past while he is suffering far more from his?

 It didn’t take you and your party long to locate Arabella’s parents. You found them in the House of Healing- dead.  Along with your hope and joy. 

  You had erupted in a tearful rage and you stabbed the Sister who killed them over and over. 

  You didn’t care what the Joybringer would do if she saw how senselessly you mutilated the sisters and Malus. You had made them suffer as you saw fit. Mutilating them, using more painful methods of killing (stabbing in painful, but not lethal spots), and your crying came out as painful, angry screams. 

   Gale, Karlach, and Shadowheart eyed you with concern as you walked back to the camp. Usually you were singing or whistling a tune, cracking jokes to relieve the tension. 

Instead, you were focusing on how you would break the news to Arabella that her parents are dead and she is all alone. 

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

   Astarion paces around his tent, trying to distract himself from the pit of fear in his stomach. You had never snapped at him that way- usually you just roll your eyes at him and give him a chaste kiss with a soft, “I understand if you don’t want to go, but I would appreciate it if you would come along.” 

He wasn’t sure why Arabella and her parents had been a sensitive subject or why you had insisted on looking for them when they were likely already dead. No one survives the Shadow Cursed Lands without a light source and mediocre tactical skills.

That didn’t stop him from rooting for you though- he hopes he is wrong and that you come back victorious. He wants you to be happy. Astarion enjoys seeing you succeed because that’s when you flash that brilliant grin that he has (silently) adored since the moment he met you. The reason he protested in the first place is because he knows how destroyed you would be if Arabella’s parents are dead. He doesn’t want you to hurt- for your heart to lose it’s optimism. 

 He hears you, Karlach, Shadowheart, and Gale come into camp. He steps out of the tent- hoping that you were able to achieve the outcome you wanted, that you would come parading into camp victorious.

He sees you talking to Arabella in a quiet whisper and he watches as your face contorts to hold back your own feelings as Arabella screams at you. He watches you take it- as she punches you in the stomach over and over. You just let her before she runs off. Withers says something to you quietly before you walk into your tent, closing yourself off from everyone.

 Astarion feels stuck in the entryway of his tent. He doesn’t know what to do.

 “Hey fangs,” Karlach says, offering a sad smile as she walks up to him, “you should probably know- they went over the rails after seeing Arabella’s parents.”

A look of confusion spreads across his face. What does that even mean? You were barely capable of hurting a fly!

 “Like they became upset?”

  Karlach nods with weary eyes,“They became upset and… well very, very, very violent.”

    The tadpole behind his eyes begins to squirm as he allows Karlach to show him the scene.

He didn’t think you were capable of that much destruction.  He saw angry tears slide down your face as you destroyed everything in your path. His gentle, joyful Cleric had broken in the House of Healing.

How ironic, he thinks bitterly.

He feels his own tears begin to prick his eyes as he watches you suffer through the battle- screaming and crying. He should have been there for you. He should have gone and let you be mad at him for disobeying. He hangs his head and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“She really needs you Fangs,” Karlach says to him, interrupting his train of thought.

Of course Karlach would say that as if it was the easiest thing in the world- like he hadn't been tortured and unloved for the past two centuries.

“I don’t know how to be what she needs right now,” he says in a soft voice.

It was true. He had only just expressed his feelings for you and he barely felt confident doing that to begin with. He spent two centuries seducing and manipulating whoever he could to survive. How could he be what you need right now? When he is just as much of a monster as the individuals that killed Arabella’s parents?

  Karlach contemplates this, searching Astarion’s face as if the answer to all his problems would be there. 

  “You don’t need to do anything other than being there- tell them you are sorry. Tell them you were rooting for them because I saw it in your head. Tell them that they aren't alone,” Karlach pauses before saying, “And remind them that they are a good person- that Lliira wouldn’t abandon her in her suffering.”

Despite his fear and reluctance, he thanks Karlach for the advice and walks towards your tent. 

   ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

    Your body is shaking violently as your chest tightens and painful, silent sobs come out of your mouth. You are trying (and failing) to use your hand as a sound barrier.

It’s not about you, it’s about Arabella, you remind yourself, stop being so selfish. 

Except the images are back, you are small again, helpless again, alone, and afraid. Despite your effort, Arabella has been given the same fate and in the same breath, you turned away from your Goddess. You lost yourself in the fight, you were aware of this while it was happening. You just didn’t have it in you to care anymore. 

You hear footsteps approach your tent- you do the best to rub away the tears and snot.

 It’s not about you. 

You hear Astarion’s voice on the other side of the tent flap. 

 “Little love,” he says softly, “can I please come in?”

You laugh, your voice hoarse, “Come to tell me ‘I told you so?’ To gloat and laugh? If that is your intention, then no. You will need to wait one to five business days before you can do that.”

   You don’t hear him laugh at your humorous response as he usually does. He enters the tent and you feel him sit down behind you, his legs on either side of yours. He’s tense as he puts his arms around you from behind, pulling you in between his legs. He slowly relaxes against your body, putting his face in the crook of your neck. 

 “I’m sorry Little Love. I wanted to be wrong. I just knew how much it would… hurt you if the outcome wasn’t… well.”

 You sniff, choking back a sob as he begins drawing shapes on the back of your shaking hands. 

“It’s okay my love. You can let it out. I’m here for you. You aren’t alone.”

 Despite how clumsy and awkward it was said, that sentence alone broke whatever composure you still had. You cry and scream into your hand as Astarion holds onto you as if you are about to fly away and he is your anchor. Your breath is shallow and it’s hard to breathe as you suffocate on your grief and panic. You feel him ask for access to your mind, wanting to know how to help. So, you show him and you let all your grief pour into your cries. You feel his own tear mix with yours as he cries into your neck as he endures how you feel with you- as he watches your whole life fall apart because of one ambush over and over again.  

  He continues to trace patterns on your hands, asking you to focus on him and what he is doing, reminding you to breathe as you do for him when he is distressed.

  You begin to calm as you focus on his voice, focus on his delicate fingers tracing your skin, and for once, you don’t feel so alone. You scoot forward, gently removing his arms , and turn around to face him, your tearful eyes meeting his.

He grabs your face gently and kisses your forehead as silent tears roll down both of your faces. You look down at your hands before speaking.

“I thought… I thought I could help Arabella be reunited with her family,” you say in a gravely whisper, “I had hoped she wouldn’t be alone like I was, but now…”

  You suck in a harsh breath and look at your hands, “Gods, I am naive and stupid.”

 “No- you do not get to talk about my favorite person that way,” Astarion says sharply.

 You look up in surprise at the intensity of his words. He matches your eyes with a look of adoration, guilt, and a ferocity you have never seen before.

 “Little Love, you are not naive and you are not stupid,” He pauses, to kiss one of your hands and intertwines your fingers together, “you are so good without trying because that is who you are. You experienced hardship and you didn’t let it destroy you. You didn’t become a monster.”

 He looks at your face to gauge your reaction. You sit quietly, letting him continue to speak if he chooses so he does.

 “You… you are amazing and a bright light in the darkness. You are my moon, my compass, and you have shown me parts of myself I didn’t know existed,” he clears his throat before continuing.

 “ I hate to see you hurt, but I promise I will be here to help you through your suffering,” He stares into your eyes intensely, “for as long as you will have me.” 

  You pause, taking in everything he has just said to you. You felt like a star dying, exploding in the cosmos. You feel evil and wrong for the violence you inflicted on the Sisters and Malus in your need for revenge. Your actions were not of Lliira's will.

 “I don’t know if that’s who I am anymore, Star. I engaged in senseless violence… I don’t think Lliira will forgive me- and if she does, it won’t be easy to obtain her forgiveness,” you say glumly. 

 He grabs your other hand in his and offers a soft smile. 

“Then we will work together to get you back into favor with your Goddess and I will remind you everyday who you are until you believe in yourself again,” he says before leaving a chaste kiss on your lips.

You smile despite yourself, your chest glowing with warmth as you stare into his eyes. You know Astarion detests the Gods, but the fact that he was willing to help you made your eyes tear up again. You are horribly desperately in love with him and as much as you want to tell him that, you practice restraint. There is a time and place- that time is not now, not when the relationship just began.

 “And what if I need it everyday for the rest of your Immortal life?” You say half-joking and half-afraid of his answer.

 A wide, genuine grin spreads across Astarion’s face as your words register in his mind. 

They want me to stay. They want me to be by their side-even when this is all done.

    Astarion pulls you into his lap, your legs straddling his hips as he pulls you into him and presses a soft kiss against your neck before laying his head on your shoulder. 

“Then I will stay by your side. Forever.”

[seoksgrl]

right where you left me : m.list

Loving Jeongguk has always felt like falling from a great height - palms sweating, heart racing, whole body shimmering as the wind rushes over your skin. It's only now, years and years later, that you're still picking up the pieces of yourself that burst apart once you inevitably hit the ground.

But your heart still yearns for the foolish rush anyway.

series tws: mention of emotional abuse, abusive parent/sibling, violence, vague reference to illness, death, grief, sexism, infidelity, eventual smut. warnings are stated at the beginning of each chapter.

reply if you wish to be added to the taglist!

note: chapters alternate between the past and the present within this timeline. the year and month will be the title of each chapter.

june, 1959

[the-secret-keeper]

Part 3 of Obey Me X Twisted Wonderland/Barbatos X Reader

This was requested by @sonicfangirl123 and @babyxwolfiex

TW: Very sassy demons terrifying a crow, mentions of alcohol and alcohol consumption, and canon levels of violence for Obey Me.

Reader is referred to as MC.

There has been a bit of time that has passed since the end of the last one and the start of this one. It will begin the day that the festival celebrating the finding of MC is starting.

Also, fair warning, in this, MC used to live in the House of Lamentation, but currently lives in Diavolo's castle with Diavolo and Barbatos.

Enjoy!

I shifted my bodyweight from the front of my feet to the back, as I stood beside my best friends and boyfriend in front of the mirror portal.

"Calm down, MC. They'll be here soon." Lucifer sighed.

"Sorry, I'm just excited." I laughed.

"I am too!" Luke agreed, matching my impatient movement. "I haven't met their friends before! It isn't fair that you guys got to!"

"I am excited as well, but you doing that won't make them appear any faster." Simeon agreed with Lucifer, but in a much gentler tone.

"Here they are." Barbatos interrupted our discussion. I turned and practically started vibrating in excitement as their silhouettes appeared in the mirror.

They all stepped through, getting their bearings, but I was only interested in one.

"Grim!" I exclaimed, speed-walking up to the flying cat and hugging him.

"Get off me, Henchman!" He complained.

"You got your backpack?" He nodded. "I'm so excited!" I beamed. Riddle cleared his throat. "Right, sorry." I apologized, taking a few steps back. "Welcome to the Demon Lord's Castle in the Devildom. You have all been formally invited to stay here for a few days, and attend the Welcome Home Festival that starts today."

"You get a whole festival just for coming back?" Azul questioned.

"Yeah. I'm pretty well-liked in the Devildom."

"Yeah, we all like MC here." Satan agreed.

"Yes, in fact we like them so much that once we named a comet after them." Diavolo said proudly. I nodded enthusiastically when they looked to me for confirmation.

"Wow!" Kalim exclaimed, eyes shining with glee. I smiled warmly, nodding at them.

"You'll actually be split up in where you're staying. Malleus," I paused. "Where is Tsunotarou?" My friends from Twisted Wonderland looked around. "Oh my Diavolo." I sighed. "Diavolo, come on, let's go get him. We'll only be a few minutes."

"You can't just order a crown prince around!" Jamil hissed, glancing between us.

"I don't mind!" Diavolo smiled jovially.

"Yeah, Dia is really chill." I agreed, before leaning into my lovers side, who leaned into me in kind. "Please make sure Jamil relaxes. He's a 24/7 babysitter, he needs a vacation almost as bad as Lucifer does." I whispered, and Barbatos nodded, before we both stood up straight, and Diavolo and I headed into the mirror portal.

We walked through the school, past stunned students, and straight towards the Diasomnia mirror in the mirror chamber. It didn't take us very long to reach the Dracula-esque castle. I fearlessly pushed open the front doors to see Sebek approaching the doors with a bag.

"Sebek! Good, you're already on your way, we were going to pick up the others as well. If you'd wait by the portal back to the mirror chamber, we're going to retrieve Malleus." I smiled at him.

"The Young Master hasn't arrived yet?"

"No. For someone so tall with such a presence, he is very easy to lose."

"Lillia-Sama! Is Waka-Sama here still?!" Sebek yelled into the castle.

"Child of Man." I turned around, and beamed at my tall friend.

"Tsunotarou, I was worried when you didn't show up with the others. Are you ready to go?"

"Are you certain it's ok for me to go?"

"Trust me. You are no more intimidating than him." I gestured at Diavolo who stood at my side. "Plus, it's really important to me that you're there! I want you to see where I'm from, you're one of my best friends, and I want you to enjoy the festival."

"Yes. Your presence will likely be about as noticeable as the brothers. While it may turn a few heads, most people in the Devildom will not spare a glance." Diavolo reassured.

"Now that I think about it, you'll probably stand out the least." I hummed, though didn't explain my train of thought further.

"Malleus, you almost forgot your bag." Lilia appeared upside down next to me, causing me to flinch.

I don't usually flinch at intimidating presences. But when Lilia just pops out of nowhere, it scares me for some reason. Maybe it's because he hides his presence, and I can usually sense when those with presences like Malleus or Diavolo as they approach.

"You ready to go?" I smiled at Malleus, who nodded.

"I am ready as well!" I laughed a little at Sebek's enthusiasm.

"Sorry you have to miss it, Lilia. But he's in good hands." Someone has to look after the dorms, which is why all the Vice-dorm leaders are staying back, aside from Jamil. Ortho is also staying behind, simply to watch over the dorm. But he made Idia come, somehow, so, there's that.

"Take lots of pictures."

"Definitely will!" I promised, giving him a thumbs up before whipping out my phone. I sent a quick text to the group chat containing my first-year friends, making sure they were going to meet us at the mirror chamber.

Once I got a confirmation from all of them, we all headed towards the mirror portal, which was actually in the auditorium. And we emerged in the Devildom. Everyone was still there.

"Now!" I exclaimed, causing most to flinch. "As I was saying." I smiled. "You'll actually be split up in where you'll be staying. The First-years will be staying here, in the Demon Lords castle." I said. "However!" I turned to my friends. "This isn't Ramshackle, and what Barbatos says goes, got it? Behave yourselves." They nodded. "Now, Sebek." I looked at him, placing my hands on his shoulders. "Don't panic."

"What?"

"Malleus," I turned to Malleus, letting Sebek go. "you will be staying at the House of Lamentation with the Demon Brothers."

"I will?"

"Yeah. They're pretty chaotic, and they only have the one guest room. You're the only person I felt could deal with them without completely losing your mind." I laughed a little awkwardly. "Boys, I expect you to treat my friend with respect."

"Yes! Waka-sama is the Crown Prince of Briar Valley." Sebek agreed.

"True." I nodded. "Anyways. The rest of you will be split between two halls. Solomon is in charge of one, and Simeon and Luke are in charge of the other. They will actually determine who goes to which hall."

"I want him!" Luke exclaimed, standing next to Riddle. I pursed my lips.

"Luke." I was trying not to laugh, about to ask a question to him.

"Yes," I paused.

"Nevermind. It's fine with me, Riddle likes sweets anyways." I shook my head a little. "You all can duke out who goes where. But, Jamil needs to stay with Kalim. So those two are a package deal." I explained. "The Festival starts in a few hours, so until then, I guess we can take you guys to your separate living arrangements?" I looked to Barbatos for confirmation.

"I don't see why not."

"Yes!" I exclaimed. "Alright, I'll show the first-years their rooms so that they can put their stuff down and then we can head to the House of Lamentation."

"Why don't we tour the castle first?" Vil asked.

"Because you won't be here that often." I explained. "We can always do the tour of the castle later, but the other living arrangements are a good distance from here, it's just more convenient to do them as soon as we can. Plus, by the time the tours are done, the festival will be getting ready to kick off, and there'll be just enough time for Vil to prepare. Right?"

"That should be correct if the estimations of the time his routine takes is correct." Barbatos nodded.

"Rude." Vil grumbled.

"But accurate." Belphie sighed. "If you're anything like him, then you take forever to get ready."

"Basically the alternate universe version of each other." I nodded.

"What's even going to happen at the festival?" Leona asked.

"Hmm." I hummed, squinting my eyes in thought. "I know there's going to be a lot of food booths, various welcome home themed activities, and a big ball at the end of it, but I didn't do very much of the planning because they insisted it be a surprise."

"That's right!" Asmo latched onto one of my arms, and Mammon threw an arm around my shoulders.

"We planned it all!" Barbatos cleared his throat. "Except for the ball. Barbatos insisted he do that." Mammon corrected.

"Today, tomorrow, and the day after's events will be like a steretypical festival. With lots of games, food, fun, and a few amusement park rides that Diavolo rented." Asmo explained excitedly.

"And booze too!"

"Just to be clear," I added quickly, "the alcohol from the Devildom doesn't affect humans, unsure about beastmen and fae." I made sure they were aware. "If, there is alcohol from the human world, it will be marked. And there will also be nonalcoholic substitutes for those like Luke who are too young, yet will be affected by alcohol from the Devildom."

"Will you be partaking?" Azul asked.

"Not without several powerful demons around me." I smiled knowingly at him. "Don't try it."

"Noted." He nodded.

"Partaking in any alcohol, from the Devildom or otherwise, will be optional, so don't even worry about it." I shrugged.

"That's good to know." Riddle nodded.

"Yes, dealing with over a dozen drunk humans would probably be more chaotic than the actual festival."

"Probably." I agreed with Lucifer cheerfully. "I will be right back, do not leave without me." I waved for the first years to follow me, showing them to the guest quarters.

Though each of them technically had their own room, I knew my friends well enough to know that they were going to spend the majority of their time in each other's rooms or in my room. I left all of them with maps, as this castle can get kind of confusing.

But I marked several places as "Do not go. This place can and will kill you." While that may have been a bit of an exaggeration for some of these places, I also wanted to make sure they didn't cause too much trouble, for Diavolo and Barbatos, but also in case they ever wanted to visit.

I also marked the room I was staying in while they were here. Normally I'd share a room with my lover, but I knew he needed sleep and that my friends would be coming to my room in the middle of the night. Like the little gremlins they are.

After making sure they were aware of the different areas they were not allowed to go under any circumstance. I made sure to really pound that into their heads. I know that they're chaotic, but it's for their safety.

Of course, I'm not an idiot. I know my friends. They're going to try to go there anyways, despite my warnings that it could put their lives in danger. But none of them are nearly as powerful as Barbatos who put up a barrier around the areas that they aren't allowed to go into. Even combined, they won't be able to break a barrier put up by him. If my warning isn't enough to deter them, the fact that they will be physically unable to enter it should.

I made sure that they were all set up in their separate rooms. That everything was where it was supposed to be, and that they were comfortable. And then I made them change out of their dorm uniforms into more casual clothes.

No point in wearing them when not at NRC or their dorms.

All of this took about 20 minutes because they're slow. But once the entire process was done, I led them back to the entrance hall, where everyone else was as well.

"Now that that's done." I sighed approaching the group. "Let's go! I can't wait to show you all around my home town!" I beamed, as I began to lead them all out of the castle.

[trippinsorrows]

looking through your eyes + sixteen

authors note: healing is not linear. regression, sadly, is a part of the process. and ultimately, if someone wants to hurt themselves, they will find a way to do so.

*this chapter contains extremely triggering content. please ensure to read all content/trigger warnings to make an informed decision regarding your mental state and ability to consume the following work of fiction. your mental wellbeing is forever and always more important than any story.*

cw/tw: heavy angst, violence, torture, ptsd episode, victim blaming, reference to childhood sexual assault, thoughts and urges of self-harm, suicide attempt

gentle reminder that you can call or text the free, confidential 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline at 988 anytime, 24/7.

song inspo: ‘looking through your eyes’ by leann rimes

masterlist

words: 8k

“I–I just want to see him. Please—”

It’s got to be the third or even fourth time she’s tried to ask, pleading with her husband’s Wise Man to let her see her husband.

It was hard enough to get Solo to agree to take her to where Roman is, a medical clinic that’s clearly only open to tend to him and any other Bloodline member injured in the shootout. That’s evident by the lack of anyone present outside of an impressive number of Bloodline security. 

An uninjured Bayley and Naomi met her at the house shortly after she arrived with Solo, and while she was pleased to see they were okay, to hear that Jimmy and Jey also made it out uninjured, the man she cares about the most is ironically the man she seems incapable of checking on.

She can’t find a way to settle her anxiety, continuing to play the scene of him shot, outside of her head. 

That’s why she needs to see him. 

She has to see him.

Paul sighs, and there’s irritation evident both in his tone and facial expression. “Solana, I don’t think—hey!”

Fuck it.

He’s silenced by Solana rushing past him, nearly knocking him over in the process. Eyes wide with shock, he stammers, looking just as bewildered as the security guards around him. “Well, don’t just stand there, stop her!”

The men rush to run after her, Solana well aware of the fact that the likelihood of her outrunning them is slim to none. 

Doesn't mean she can’t try. 

It’s a silly thought though because of course security would be up and down every hall of the clinic, sets of hardened eyes falling on her, ready to attack when they realize who she is. It changes the dynamic a bit. Expressions still stoic and lethal but also confused.

Solana freezes only for a bit as she forces out her request, a poorly delivered demand, really to the guards that line the hall that she suspects house the room Roman is being treated in. 

“I need to see my husband.” No one says anything, two of them sharing an expression as Solana decides to try her luck again, knowing that they wouldn’t actually shoot her, trying to sprint past them.

She’s unlucky this time though because one of the guards catches her, restraining her. This makes her tense up almost immediately, fear rising up yet again for the thousandth time tonight. 

“Let go of me!” Solana tries to wiggle her way out of the iron grasp, eager and almost needing to get these strange male hands off of her, such a stark contrast to the comfort and safety she feels when it’s Roman who has his hands on her. “I need to see Roman! Please!” 

The man holding her and probably pulling her away from the direction of Roman’s room says nothing, just continues to ignore her demands to be released.

“Man, what the hell you doing!”

Solana’s head snaps to the side as she lays eyes on an enraged Jimmy who stalks over, his mere presence and tone causing the man to release her. Solana gasps a bit as Jimmy grabs the man by his collar and slams him against the wall. “Don’t you ever put your fucking hands on her again! You lucky it’s me here and not Roman cause he’d already have a bullet in your head for touching his wife!”

Jimmy looks around, shouting, “that goes to all of ya’ll asses!” He points to Solana. “She asks for Roman, you take her to fucking Roman, alright?”

Bowed heads of shame and a sudden focus on the laminate flooring of the clinic, Solana is relieved when Jimmy walks over, voice calmer, motioning her to follow him. “Come on, Soso.”

Solana wants to ask Jimmy if he’s okay, inquire about Jey, make sure that they’re okay. Bayley and Naomi already told her as such, but they don’t know that. It’s just what’s most polite and appropriate, but all she can think about is Roman and laying eyes on him.

She needs to see him.

And as awful as it may sound, she cares more about making sure her husband is okay before anyone else.

Caught up in her thoughts, she misses when Jimmy knocks on a door in a rhythmic pattern, followed by Jey cracking the door open.

Jimmy sucks his teeth. “Man, open the door. It’s Soso.”

Solana, however, has no desire to wait any longer and finds herself, pushing on the door, forcing Jey to stumble back. “Damn, girl!”

She’s not listening though, uninterested in apologizing because she’s focused on something else. 

Focused on someone else. 

An older man with blonde hair pulled back, dressed way too casually to be a medical professional seems to be finishing up bandaging her husband who stands only feet away, shirtless, revealing the shoulder tourniquet that conceals the wound. The place where he was hurt.

Where he was shot.

Emotion renews, and a new set of tears reload as she finds herself moving over to him, pressing her body into his, doing her best to avoid touching his left shoulder. Her eyes shut, tears spilling over when she feels Roman’s hand on the small of her back.

“Get out.” It’s directed to the twins and who Solana would guess is the doctor who treated his wound, that last thing being what causes her to pull away, to look over at the stranger.

“No. You—you have to help him—”

The man chuckles and removes the blue latex gloves from his hands. “Lil lady, that’s a job only the big Man Himself can handle.” She frowns a bit as the man with striking blue eyes and an almost country accent explains, “He’ll be fine. Bullet went straight through. Didn't hit any bones, artery, or organs. If he takes it easy for a couple weeks, he'll be good as new. That’s assuming, however, he actually follows the doctor’s orders for once.”

It’s that last sentence that makes Solana wonder if this is the same doctor who diagnosed Roman with high blood pressure and medicated him for it. It makes sense. 

But, it’s when they’re alone that the waterworks seem to really come out, Solana unable to hold it in any longer. “I’m sorry—this—this is all my fault.” She cries, Roman gently cradling her face as she shakes her head. “You–you got hurt because of m-me-.”

Roman looks thoroughly confused, asking, “what are you talking about?”

There’s such a heaviness in her stomach and on her chest. She doesn’t want to do this. God, she really doesn’t want to. But, it’s her not doing this in the first place that landed them where they are. 

“Roman…..” She closes her eyes. This is so much harder than she thought it would be, and she never thought it would be easy per se, but she also didn’t think it would be this damn painful. “My—my father. He…he wanted our marriage to happen so—so that I—” It’s like knives splitting and slicing the back of her throat as she forces out, “he wanted me to kill you.”

If Roman has a strong or visceral reaction to her dark confession, he doesn’t show it. His expression remains unreadable, maybe a bit of concern, but that was present the minute he laid eyes on her. 

“And he said that if I didn’t do it, then he–he would kill me, and that’s w–why you got hurt tonight, because—because of me, because I didn’t say anything.” A fresh set of tears generate as she desperately tries to help him and make him believe her as she explains, “but, I—I was never going to—I could never—I’d rather die than do anything to h–hurt you.”

And it’s the truth. 

She would have rather him let the bullet hit her than him. 

It’s not fair he had to pay for her actions. Or lack, in this case. 

“Solana.” He cuts her off, gentle, voice much calmer than she anticipated in response to such a confession. “I already knew.”

And just like that, she’s back to not breathing again, rendered nearly incapable of speech as she stammers out a response, “w–what?”

Roman sighs deeply, thumb caressing the apple of her cheek. “I always knew your father was up to something. I’m far from stupid. He was too eager and pushy to make the marriage happen. It was obvious he had ulterior motives.” His eyes squint a bit, as he asks her, “why you think one of the first things I did when we got married was cut off contact between the two of you, huh? Whatever he was planning, I wasn’t gonna let him use you to do it.”

Roman’s words together make a logical, sensical sentence, but it’s the processing of it that she struggles with. Roman knew. He knew all along that her father was planning something. 

And yet he said nothing.

He has no reaction. 

He continues, admitting, “I didn’t know specifically what he had planned, but it doesn’t really make a difference. Murder. Coup d'etat. He wasn't the first, and he won’t be the last.” It’s the casual way he says it that Solana feels so conflicted about, so stunned how he can be so calm about constant threats against his life, against his empire. “This isn’t the first time I’ve been shot, and it probably won’t be the last time.”

“Don’t say that.” She whispers. The trauma and shock of seeing him shot was bad enough, and seeing he appears okay is relieving, but the thought of it happening again feels almost unbearable.

“Solana, you know what I am and what I do. But, it’s like I told you before, I have a tendency to not die, which pisses people off.” His delivery towards the end manages to make her smile. It’s small and sad, but a smile nonetheless. “There it is….” His thumb brushes away some of her tears. “Don’t cry, baby. You know I don’t like seeing you upset.”

She noticed. The same way she doesn’t like to see him hurt. For him to be anything other than okay. 

Roman’s eyes shift into something softer as he asks, “why didn’t you tell me?” It’s a question born from curiosity versus the accusatory nature she would expect from someone who was just told their wife was sent to kill them. 

It’s a bit of a difficult one to answer too. “I was—I was scared. At the beginning of our marriage, I—I was scared what you would do to me if—if I told you.” 

There’s an almost pained look that flashes across his face as he vows, “Solana, you know I would never—”

“I know. I know that now.” She stresses, gently cutting him off. There’s not a doubt in her mind that Roman would never do anything to intentionally hurt her. “But, I—I didn’t then. And….I think I just—I didn’t want to think about it, because things were going good and—and I hadn’t seen him in so long, but I was wrong—and I should have said something sooner—”

“It doesn’t matter.” He’s the one to cut her off this time, shaking his head. “But Solana, your father has crossed a line this time. He tried to kill you.” Roman’s eyes are blazing with with the flame of anger and fury, a desire for vengeance clearly dancing at the forefront of his mind. “I know I told you I wouldn’t kill him until you told me—”

“I don’t care,” she affirms, voice darkening into something also angry. “He—he tried to take you from me. I don’t—I don’t care what happens to him anymore. Him or Wes.” 

Because while she doesn’t know the status of her brother and his recovery, Wes was just as involved with the evil plan, so what went down tonight had to have some influence from him in one way or another. It makes him just as guilty. 

Roman nods and kisses her temple. He then calls out, “Jey.” It’s loud enough for his cousin to hear, opening the door and asking, “what’s up?”

Roman doesn’t hesitate. “Get me Miller. Just Xavier.” Solana must look curious as he explains, “your brother isn’t well enough yet. I want him back to health, so I can prolong his torture.” It paints a picture of a brutal, gruesome ending, but she can’t find it in her to be repulsed. Whatever hope she had for her brother is clearly long gone, if it was ever there.

“You got it.” Jey nods and closes the door as Solana places her hand on Roman’s forearm, drawing his attention down to her. 

“I—I want to talk to him before—-” She swallows, asking, “please?”

Roman nods. “Of course.” She’s thankful for his agreement but not entirely surprised. He breaks away from her, countenance shifts into something stoic and determined. 

“This ends tonight.” 

________

Solana’s introduction to the place where her husband has probably taken and ended more lives than she’d like to admit is definitely a one and done thing. The atmosphere alone is so dark and depressing that if not for her hand in his and him walking closely alongside her, she might even find herself a bit scared.

But his presence along with her determination to get in her final words to her father manage to carry her over. 

She’s also both surprised and relieved when she sees Bayley and Naomi also present. She’s unable to ask them about their presence because Roman is already explaining, “I know you don’t want to be home alone tonight, and I’m not making it back anytime soon.”

She nods, not needing to know why. The edge in his voice is all the telling she needs.

Solana’s stomach drops a bit when she’s taken to her father, strapped to a chair, hands and wrists tied. His face is bruised up, cut, and bleeding. Her eyes must give away her curiosity, Jimmy answering, “he fell.” 

Jey suddenly punches him in the side of his head. “Ain’t that what you said when you and your boy was beating on your own fucking daughter?”

Solana swallows. Yes. That’s often what he said to cover up the result of their abuse.

Solana drops her hand and steps a bit closer to him, Roman not once moving or ripping his eyes away from them. It’s virtually impossible for Xavier to do anything to her, but she understands her husband is not willing to take any risks, regardless. 

She ignores the weapons and items around her, no doubt intended for unspeakable acts of violence and torture. She just focuses on the man before her, taking in the fact that this is the last time she’ll ever stare into his dark eyes and have to look at his evil face. 

“All—all I ever wanted….was for you to love me.” She hates the emotion that chunks up the back of her throat, making it a bit harder for her to speak. “But you never did, and you never will, and—and that’s okay.” She recalls one of the many powerful, profound quotes from her book, reciting it boldly and confidently. “Your inability to love me is not a reflection on my ability to be loved.” She’d like to say she witnesses some type of emotional reaction in her father at her powerful statement, but there’s nothing there.

There never was. 

Stepping back, she takes one final look at him, accepting this is the end of this road. The end of all the hurt and pain he’s ever caused her. After tonight, it’s all over. “Goodbye, Dad.” 

Solana is back by Roman, taking her hand in his as Xavier’s small, dark laughter draws her attention back to him. 

“Didn’t you ever wonder how they bypassed the security system? Both times?”

Solana’s brows are furrowed, confusion dancing in her eyes. Before she can say anything, Roman barks a rough order to the twins, “gag him!” 

One glance at him, and she sees something unfamiliar, something that looks strangely close to nervousness. 

To fear. 

“No,” she finds herself calling out, stopping Jey who was halfway close to doing just that, bandana in his right hand. “What—what are you talking about?”

“Solana, he’s just trying to fuck with your head.” She hears Roman, feels his slight tug on her sleeve as he tries to pull her away, but she also detects something else.

Avoidance. 

Roman is intentionally trying to divert her away from this conversation, topic, whatever it is.

Xavier chuckles cruelly, coughing up a bit of blood. “I warned that bitch. I told her what would happen if she tried to take Wesley away from me.” 

Now…now he has Solana’s full attention. 

She steps toward him, asking again, “what are you t–talking about?”

“Solana, please—”

But, she continues to ignore Roman and instead focuses on whatever it is her father is about to drop on her, something she feels is about to change everything. 

Xavier’s bloody smile is cruel and taunting as he reveals, “I was the one who ordered the hit on your mother.” And before she can even sit on that, another bomb is dropped. “And you.”

Solana staggers back, jerking away from Roman as he reaches to touch her. Her mouth is dropped, her heartbeat erratic. She all of a sudden feels dizzy, but it doesn’t stop her from asking again, “what—what did you just say?”

“Shut him up, Jey!”

“No!” Solana shouts both at her husband and his cousin. “I want to know!”

“Your mother was planning to take you and Wesley away from me, and truth be told, if she left Wesley and just took you, I probably wouldn’t have given a fuck. But no, she wanted both of her children. She was a problem, so I got rid of her.” Each word that leaves his mouth has Solana wanting to sink further and further into the ground. “The hit was for both of you, but of course, you fucking survived.” The venom in his voice and hatred in his eyes is almost palpable, further deepening the pain of this betrayal. “I refused to pay them the full amount since they botched the job and didn’t kill you, but that still left the balance for your mother….the balance you paid for me.” And with the most vile smile of all, he adds on coarsely, “who’d have thought a kid’s virginity would sell so high?”

And it’s that statement. That cruel, vindictive statement that breaks her.

Hand to her stomach, Solana almost collapses to the floor but Roman is behind her, catching her fall. 

Now that she can focus on him, on anything other than the millions thoughts racing through her mind. Random facts and statements finally coming together, painting a horrific, grim picture.

The failure of the security system both times.

The failed pin entry of her mom’s shaking hands and two years later, Solana’s shaking hand, as they desperately tried to enter the panic room, only for it to flash a red rejection notice.

It was him the whole time.

He killed her mother. He was the one responsible for her rape.

All of it. 

Emotions erupt to the surface as Solana tries to break from Roman’s embrace and lunge for her father.

“I hate you!” She screams, unable to think and see beyond her pain. “I fucking hate you!” She can’t stop trying to break Roman’s solid grip on her. She wants to hit him. Wants to stab him. Burn him. Anything and everything that can make him feel just a fraction of her agony. “How could you do that to me!” She cries, wanting, needing an answer. Needing to know why. “I was a child!” She’s never felt something so heavy, so painful. “I was your child!” 

As her physical resolve breaks, more diminishes than anything, Solana feels Roman trying to guide her away.

But it’s a mistake, it’s a mistake because she uses that slice of an opening to break away from him and snatch one of the guns on a table, pointing it at her father’s head. But then, she’s not. She’s not because Roman is suddenly standing between her and her target.

Her resolve falters for a bit, as she shouts at him, “move!”

Jimmy’s furious voice calls out. “Man, let her do it, Roman!”

Roman’s gaze is fiery as he silences his cousin with a shout. “Shut up!” But just as quickly as he was enraged, his expression softens almost inhumanly quickly as he pleads, “Solana, listen to me—”

She’s not trying to hear it though. She can’t hear it. “He killed my mother! My mother!”

“I know,” his expression softens into something solemn and sympathetic. “But you don’t want to do this—“

She snaps, her fingers on the gun tightening, her grip firm and focused. “He needs to die!”

“And he will, I promise you that. Slowly. Gradually. In the agonizing way that he deserves, but that can only happen if you let me do this for you—”

Solana cries, shoulders dropping but her aim still intact. “He let them rape me.” Her body trembles, a combination of her heartache and inconsolable rage. “He took her from me! She was my mother!”

If not for the severity and all around heightened tensions, Solana would notice the heartbreaking and furious expressions of the twins, Bayely, and Naomi who now know the exact horror she has experienced. The reason for her disposition. The source of her trauma.

Roman, however, remains focused on de-escalating the situation. “I know, baby, but you’re not a killer, Solana, and I’m not about to let you become one.” If she was thinking straight, capable of thinking clearly in this moment, she’d know he’s only protecting her. Only trying to save her from the thing she told him not even a week ago she could never forgive herself for. Taking someone’s life. “Once you do this, there’s no turning back.”

Solana’s eyes shut as another round of tears makes its way to the surface, heavier and harder to manage with the gun in her hand.

Roman notices this and takes a tentative step forward. “Please, Solana.” His tone is almost desperate, borderline begging. “Give me the gun.”

Eyes still closed and with a weakness she hasn’t felt in years, Solana relents, loosening her grip, allowing Roman to take the gun that he quickly hands to Jey. He moves to catch her as she falls into his chest, sobbing again. Roman cradles her head and kisses the top of her hair while Jimmy and Jey move to jump Xavier, taking that opportunity to get blows in on the old man, both careful to avoid any that could be lethal.

It’s obvious this son of a bitch is in line for a world of suffering that will extend far past tonight.

“Oh, we finna take our time killing you, motherfucker.” 

Everything sounds a bit distant. The sound of the twins yelling obscenities at the demon she called a father. Roman trying to comfort her, to settle her. It’s all too much. Too overwhelming. The crying settles into something sullen and solemn, silent tears streaming down her face as she murmurs against him, “I want to go home.”

The emotion is there, but her presence and awareness of everything is diminishing. Solana knows what’s coming, has experienced this state of separation, of dissociating. 

She needs to get away.

Roman says something she can’t make out, and before she realizes it, there’s another set of arms around her. Bayley. Naomi is chatting with Roman, the only thing she’s able to make out, 

‘Don’t leave her alone.’

Alone.

She’s not sure she’s ever felt that as strongly as she does at this moment.

________

It’s all such a blur.

Such a separate thing. Emotions separate from her. Emotions that are dark, heavy, confusing, overwhelming. Fleeting. There’s an oscillation of all the feelings. Tears that accompany heartache. Sobbing that accompanies grief. Nothing that arrives with nothing. 

It’s a brutal, miserable experience of feeling the weight of the world but also the emptiness of the void.

It’s obvious that Naomi and Bayley don’t know how to help her, don’t know how to comfort her, just continue to sit with her, letting her cry when she needs to and scream when she has to. Even Dulce sits by her side, whimpering every so often and licking her.

It’s appreciated. So appreciated. 

But….it’s not enough.

Losing her mother was heartbreaking. Losing her in the way she did, so violently and graphically was torture.

Being held down and gang raped by two grown men at twelve years old nearly killed her. They nearly killed her.

But, there’s something about finding out that her father, her biological father, was responsible for those two things that’s almost impossible to believe.

She knew her father was cruel.

She just didn’t know just how cruel until this very evening. 

Escape.

Her mother was trying to escape, trying to make a better life for herself and her children. And he killed her for it.

Tried to kill Solana too, and when that didn’t work, he traded her virginity in exchange for payment. 

Flashes. Glimpses. Images. 

They’ve been hitting her nonstop since the truth came out. Playing in her mind like some kind of sick horror film. It’s torture. It’s painful. It’s unbearable.

It’s too much. 

She places her hands on the bathroom counter, having finished using the bathroom after waking up yet again from night terrors.

Her eyes shut.

Solana is tired.

So so tired. Tired of the pain. Of the lies. Of the betrayal. Everything hurts. Everything feels so heavy. She tries to escape in sleep, but the memories haunt her and suddenly, she’s reliving it all, but now with the horrific knowledge that the first man who should have ever loved and protected her was responsible for her biggest traumas.

And it’s impossible to escape those flashes, those thoughts and flashbacks becoming more frequent and intrusive by the minute. She’s suffocating.

Drowning in her own head.

Drowning in her own body. 

Solana’s eyes open and fall over to the shower where her razor would have been available if not for her earlier strength and ability to hand it and the brand new box of them over to Bayley and Naomi.

Just an hour or two ago, she was able to do that much. Able to resist that temptation and not break years of sobriety.

But, now…. now she can’t. 

She doesn’t even want to.

That would only provide a temporary escape.

She’s just….just so tired.

She wants….needs something longer.

Something more permanent. 

Unable to escape the mental anguish, Solana leans down and digs through a toiletries bag from the trip she hasn’t unpacked. 

And she pulls out the bottle of sleeping pills. 

Roman’s request from months ago returns, smacking into her. 

“Any of those thoughts come back, you tell me. I don’t care if you have to paint it on the fucking wall. I want to know.” His intense expression is set right on her, needing to make sure she understands what he’s asking of her. “Understand?”

Her eyes water.

Roman….

Even with his lack of being honest with her, of somehow knowing but not telling her the truth, there’s never been a person that she’s loved more than him. Not since her mom.

It’s why she can’t call him. Can’t continue to burden him with having to deal with all her shit.

All she’s done since entering his life is make shit difficult. She’s done it with him. Bayley. Naomi. Jimmy. Jey. 

All of them.

They’ve had to adjust so much just for her, and for what? For her to end up right back where she started?

She can’t….she can’t do that to them again.

She can’t do that to Roman again.

She loves him too much for that, loves him too much to continue to hurt him.

She just….she just needs to remove herself from the equation.

Needs to remove herself from all of their lives. 

Forever. 

Shaking hands twist off the cap as she dumps a handful of pills into her trembling palm.

There’s the briefest second of a delay, a moment where she reconsiders, where she wonders if she’s making the right decision. But another flashback hits her, the feeling of the knife slicing through her mother’s lifeless body and entering Solana ripping her away from that reconsideration.

Another thought of Roman and her friends having to help her yet again.

Save her again.

She can’t do it anymore. She doesn’t want to do it anymore.

There is no saving her anymore.

This is the only way. 

And she swallows, using the water bottle on the counter to force the excessive amount of pills down her throat. A brief glance at her reflection brings on another set of silent tears. Broken. Empty. There’s nothing left for her to do, no reason for her to exist anymore.

Not even bothering to put the pills away, Solana walks out of the bathroom and into the dark bedroom where Bayley is the first to ask, still sitting in the chair in the corner of the room, dedicated to staying awake for her ‘shift’, completely unaware of this being the last time they’ll interact. “Do you need something?”

Solana shakes her head and climbs back onto the bed. Grabbing her phone, ignoring the tears that blur her vision, she types out a simple text to the one person she’ll miss the most. 

She’ll miss them all, but none more than him.

Solana: I’m sorry. 

Sent and delivered, she locks her phone, placing it on the nightstand, closing her eyes. 

Solana just wants to go to sleep.

And this time…..not wake up.

________

Rage. 

Fury.

Wrath.

And any word synonymous to anger, yet none of them adequately describe what’s coursing all throughout Roman’s body. Years. It’s been years since he’s felt this much anger, held so much of it that he has a hard time thinking and feeling.

He’s incapable of escaping the sound of Solana’s sobbing, the way she literally fell apart in front of him, breaking before him.

And it’s all because of the son of a bitch currently underneath him on the receiving end of  devastating blow after blow of Roman’s brass knuckled fists. How long he’s been hitting the old man is beyond him. Not long enough.

It’ll never be long enough.

Never painful enough. 

Not for what he’s done.

A hand on his uninjured shoulder temporarily pulls him away from his newfound life mission to make this piece of shit feel every type of pain imaginable before he takes his last breath. 

Roman’s roar bounces off the walls. “What!”

Jey looks unfazed by Roman’s irate tone and instead advises, “he’s unconscious, Uce. Let up or you gon kill him.”

That’s the fucking goal.

But not yet. Death is too sweet for Xavier to receive at this point.

Huffing and suddenly aware of all the energy expended as well as the blood splattered all over his clothes and face, Roman tosses the knuckles to the side and issues an order to Jey even while walking, refusing to acknowledge any appreciation for his warning, “let me know when Jimmy has them.”

Them.

Them being the two men who have no idea what kind of horror awaits them. Men whose names were tortured out of Xavier pretty easily by Roman.

Rapists.

Solana’s rapists. 

Reaching the locker room  in the back, Roman easily strips himself naked and steps in the shower, allowing the water to rain down his body, red mixing with clear and disappearing down the drain. Hands against the shower wall, he shuts his eyes.

He can’t escape the sound of Solana’s wails. He’s never heard or seen her so upset. Never wanted to. It’s the exact reason he settled on not telling her the truth, because he knew this would happen.

Knew this would destroy her.

It’s just the extent of the destruction that worries him.

Just how far back this has set her that has him feeling something he hasn’t felt in years but has now experienced twice tonight. Once when he saw the hand raised and gun lifted in Solana’s direction and now her breakdown.

Fear.

It has him scared.

And Roman doesn't know what to do with that emotion, doesn’t know how to handle it outside of beating the shit out of and torturing her father and rapists. But even that only does so much.

It doesn’t do enough, because she’s hurting, more than she probably ever has, and he can’t do shit about it.

Because making the fuckers who hurt her suffer doesn’t do shit for the pain she’s experiencing now.

And he hates that shit. Hates that she’s hurting and he can’t help her, take away that pain from her.

With all the frustration in his body, Roman slams his fist into the shower wall, forcing himself to calm down just enough to get cleaned up.

He uses a fresh set of clothes in the lockers to redress himself, redoing his bandages and using a towel to dry off his hair as best as possible. 

But, it’s when Jey comes and seems to interfere with Roman starting his next round of torture, a thought of starting to skin the old man sounding more than desirable, that his frustration multiplies.

“Not now.”

Roman continues to walk when he feels Jey forcefully grab his arm, forcing him to turn around. Roman looks at his hand and then back at Jey. “Have you lost—”

“Roman.” 

But, it’s the tone that stops the Head of the Table from issuing out his threat. In all the years he’s known Jey, he’s never heard his cousin use such a heavy, spooked tone.

“What?” There’s hesitation, and that only pisses Roman off. “What!”

Jey swallows, answering with an almost pained countenance. “Solana’s at the hospital.” Jey’s frown, sadness seeped and imbued into his usual gregarious voice. “She tried to kill herself, Roman.”

________

Three.

There’s now been three separate occurrences in a single day that have caused Roman to experience the emotion most unfamiliar to him.

Fear.

And this third time, it’s the strongest it’s ever been as he marches into the hospital floor where he was informed she was.

“Where is she!”

And when his gaze lands on a clearly disturbed and crying Naomi and Bayley, the anger only grows as he moves over to them. “What the fuck happened!” Roman doesn’t give them time to respond, too consumed with his anger that’s truly a mask hiding his fear. “Why weren’t you watching her! I fucking told you to watch her!”

Bayley is the first to shoot up from her chair, eyes watery but scowl intact. “We were! She—”

But, he’s not trying to hear shit what she has to say. Not when they’ve failed him in the worst way possible. “Obviously you fucking weren’t because we’re standing in a goddamn hosptal–”

Jimmy, who Roman had completely forgotten came along with him, Jey as well, does his best to diffuse the situation, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Roman, you need to calm—”

But the Head of the Table is too far gone, harshly shrugging off his cousin’s innocent attempt at calming him down. “Don’t fucking touch me!” Roman removes himself from their presence, not even wanting to see these useless bitches as he calls out once again. “Where is she!”

It’s only then he sees a blonde woman walk out from the back, dressed in a white coat, clipboard in hand. She looks irritated which only pisses him off because how the fuck do you work at a fucking hospital and look annoyed. But, when she sees him, or maybe sees how irate he is, her gaze softens. 

She steps in his direction as Roman also steps toward her, putting some distance between himself and the group. “Mr. Reigns, can—”

“Where is my wife?” It’s the same question he will keep asking until it no longer needs to be asked because he’s taken to her.

The woman, doctor, probably, frowns, motioning to the back. “Can we talk in private?”

Roman pinches the bridge of his nose, doing his best not to violate his code of never putting his hands on a woman. But, this bitch is really fucking pushing it. 

He just wants to see Solana.

He needs to see her. 

“You’ve got three fucking seconds to take me—”

She scoffs, relenting and “Fine, we’ll do it here. Your wife is in recovery. We were able to successfully pump her stomach, but we had to sedate her because she was inconsolable upon waking up. I suspect she’s in the midst of some sort of psychotic episode.”

There’s so much in that sentence to process. Roman doesn’t even know where to begin to dissect it, so he starts with the part that pisses him off the most. “She tried to overdose on pills and your solution was to put more fucking medicine in her?”

The doctor, however, seems to show no sign of backing down. “My patient needed to be stabilized, so I stabilized her.” Her voice softens a bit as she adds, not necessarily as something to throw in his face but rather an important note he shouldn’t ignore. “If you had seen how upset she was, you would have understood.”

Roman, however, can’t think about that. Can’t think about how upset and terrified Solana must have been. Somehow a level calmer, he expresses once again, “I want to see her.”

“I understand, but—”

Right away, Roman knows his brief respite from level 10 rage is about to be broken by whatever she’s about to say. “What?”

She takes a deep breath, informing, “I’m putting her on a 5250 hold.”

Roman looks from side to side. “What the fuck does that mean?”

There’s no sign of hesitation as she explains, “it means I’m keeping her here in the hospital for two weeks on a legally mandated psychiatric hold.”

Yeah….he was absolutely right. 

Level fucking 10. 

“Like hell you are!” Roman is seeing red. Who in the flying fuck does this bitch think she is to say Solana is staying in the hospital? “She’s coming home with me. Tonight. The minute she fucking wakes up.”

And that’s a fact.

“How much do you know about Solana’s psychiatric history?” A lot, and that’s why he knows she doesn’t need to stay here in this forbidding, sterile place. She needs to be home with him so he can take care of her. “This is her second suicide attempt. Now, I don’t know what the hell happened to trigger this psychotic break, but your wife is severely and actively suicidal.” She lowers her voice, softly and almost sympathetically sharing with him so only he can hear. “She was inconsolable because she was upset we saved her life. She was upset she was still alive.”

That’s it.

The thing that makes Roman’s anger crumble almost entirely. 

He wanted to believe it was a mistake, an accident of some sort. Didn’t want to believe that she truly intended to take her life tonight.

But this woman has no reason to lie, and beyond that, he’s innately adept at deciphering when someone is lying and when they’re being truthful. 

She’s not lying. 

Solana wanted to die.

Solana wanted to actually die.

And he doesn’t know what to do with that information. 

At all. 

The crack in his harsh exterior must be evident, because the doctor continues to try to convince him what he now knows probably is the right thing to do. “You can get her to sign an AMA and take her home, but I guarantee you that she’ll end up right back in this hospital for another attempt…..and the next time might be too late.”

He can’t.

Roman can’t lose her. He can’t even let himself think about what he would do if he lost her.

Especially if it was because of her own actions. 

She continues, desperate, “let us get her stabilized. On a medication regimen. As I said, this presents as a brief psychotic episode, which we can help her manage and treat but only if you let us keep her here to monitor her.” 

Roman tilts his head back, eyes closed as he scratches his beard. There’s an unfamiliar weight in his chest and stomach at the thought of having to leave this hospital tonight without Solana. But this isn’t about what he wants, it’s about what’s best for Solana. 

It’s about what she needs, and he’ll do whatever he has to do to make sure she gets the help she needs. 

“Jey.” His cousin steps up, previously keeping a respectful distance. “Get with security. I don’t want a son of a bitch that’s not Bloodline or Bloodline vetted to step foot on this floor while she’s here.”

Jey nods. “You got it.” 

Roman overhears footsteps followed by the woman speaking again, “Thank you.” She takes another deep breath and informs, “Now, it’s standard practice that we not allow visitors the first couple days—“

And just like that, the anger has returned, even more intense now that he knows Solana isn’t getting released tonight. Or anytime soon. “I don’t give a fuck about your standard practice—”

Bayley’s voice suddenly enters the conversation, Roman aware that the remaining group has stepped forward, obviously wanting to be aware of the plan and what happens now. “Roman, can you please just let Dr. Stratus do her fucking job? This isn’t about—”

Bayley, however, chose the wrong time to fuck with him. Because any filter he ever acquired because of Solana certainly won’t be used until she’s back home, with him, where she belongs.  “Like you were supposed to? Solana wouldn’t be here if you were watching her like I fucking told you to! This is your fault!”

There’s a small, minute part of him that feels bad when he sees the devastation on Bayley’s face, but it’s short lived, vastly overpowered by his tremendous anger. 

And fear.

Bayley is quick with the response though, ready and willing to aim just as low as he is. “Fuck you, Roman! You don’t get to blame this on us! You should have fucking told her! You had no right to keep the truth from her! She’s here because of you!”

The dark irony in her accusation is that It’s nothing he doesn’t already know.

Nothing he doesn’t already hate himself for.

Bayley is absolutely right.

This absolutely is on him. 

His attempts to save her only damned her. 

“Stop it! Both of ya’ll! This don’t do shit to help, and Solana wouldn’t want ya’ll fighting!” Jimmy suddenly jumps in, moving between the two highly emotional people, even if both are only expressing it as anger. He turns to his cousin first, as Naomi tries to pull Bayley away, also working to de-escalate an already tense situation. “Look, Uce, I know you want to see her, but—”

“I’m not leaving without seeing her.” Roman’s gaze is on his cousin but it’s directed toward the doctor who either takes some type of mercy on him or recognizes that Roman will literally kill everyone who gets in his way if she doesn’t give in to his demand, because she’s switching her tune.

“A couple of minutes,” she relents. “But only you.” 

Roman doesn’t care about the rest of them anyway. They can see her whenever they fucking see her. 

He’s the one who needs to see her. 

But, it’s in seeing her that a part of him wishes he didn’t. Because this isn’t right. She shouldn’t be laid up like this, unconscious, pale, such a sad expression on her sleeping face.

He hasn’t seen her like this since that first night he overheard and woke her up from her nightmare.

A nightmare. 

He’d give anything for that to be the case again. 

“I can’t lose you, Solana.” It's the first thing to leave his mouth, a plea and prayer. There’s nothing but vulnerability in his voice, and he doesn’t give a fuck. He’ll be as vulnerable as he needs to be for her. He’ll do anything for her. “I need you. I told you that, but I don’t think you understand how badly I need you.”

If there was any doubt before, it’s completely destroyed now. He doesn’t know how honest or comfortable he could be outside of these four walls, if it wasn’t just the two of them, but right now, with nothing but her steady breathing and rhythmic beating of the machines she’s plugged up to, he’ll pour his heart out.

“You can’t leave me, alright?” Roman’s hand moves to her forehead, thumb caressing her skin that feels too cold, doesn’t feel like her. “I don’t care what it takes, what you need, what I have to fucking do, but I need you to get better, and I’ll do anything to help you.” 

And he will. It’s why despite how much he hates this notion of having to leave her, the almost anxiety he has at having to leave tonight without her in his arms, he’ll do it. He’ll do it because he just wants her to be happy.

She deserves that, and he’ll do whatever it takes to get it to her. 

His voice is thick with emotion. “I just need you to stay with me, baby, okay?” Not being able to see her pretty brown eyes, the curl of her full lips as she smiles, his favorite fucking thing in the world, it’s torture.

He never wants to see her like this again. 

He can’t. 

He won’t.

Roman kisses her forehead and forces himself to walk out of the hospital room, one of the hardest departures he’s ever had to do. Dr. Stratus is waiting outside the door, and just like that, the infamous stoic, unreadable expression is back.

With Solana, he’s just Roman.

But for everyone else, he’s the Tribal Chief. 

There is no other option. 

“No men on her care team. Women only.” If she’s going to be here, he’s going to make sure she

has everything she needs. “I want daily updates. Anything happens or changes with her status at all, I want to know. You understand me?”

Dr. Stratus must have also read the section in Solana’s medical records that alludes to her sexual trauma, because she doesn’t object. “Understood.” She swallows, bringing the medical chart to her chest. “You know…I head an inpatient women’s psychiatric clinic about an hour out. It’s not uncommon for patients like your wife to transition there following dis—”

“You can keep her on your two week hold, but she’s coming home with me as soon as that’s up. Try and get in my way, and I’ll fucking kill you.”

She’s wise to not push, smart to not try to stop him from leaving, because as far as Roman is concerned, there’s nothing and no one he’ll stop short from torturing, killing, and maiming if they try to get in his way of being with Solana.

He can’t live without her.

He loves her too much to live without her.

[gunnrblze]

pls yandere keegan hcs....🙏🙏

Sorry this took so long my dear! I’ve not written yandere shit in a millennia, so if it’s corny I apologize💀 also this turned into a little drabble rather than hc’s. MDNI, 18+, dark fic

big TW below the cut: obsessed,possessive Keegan, reference to violence/murder, stalking, manipulation, reference to sexual activity (no actual sex/assault), home invasion, kidnapping, drugging, mentions of being tied up/caged. it’s dark & fucked up, that’s the warning, please heed it don’t come for me

He sees you one day, his heart melting and his cock throbbing in his jeans. You’re so pretty, so precious, and he feels something light him up from the inside out. He wanted to have you. All to himself. He figured you probably didn’t even know how lost you were, not until he stepped into the picture. He was retired from the forces now, he’d been looking for a new project anyways. This would be your rebirth, that’s the way he saw it at least when he decided to follow you home that day.

Scoping out what he’d be working with, your home, how many entrances and exits there are. The neighbors, if you have any roommates/family, pets, alarm systems, etc. To his sheer pleasure, you lived totally alone. He’d change that soon. Don’t worry, honey.

You had a couple ring cameras set up, child’s play, nothing he couldn’t get past. Not that he really cared, of course. He’d have you any way he could get. He’d just hate to have to involve anyone else with his affairs, lest he need to find a more permanent solution. Cop killer isn’t a good look, but if they sniffed around, they’d get what they’d get, he figured.

Taking you would be easy, that wasn’t a problem. He was a silent, experienced man, you hadn’t even noticed how he’d been following you home for the past week anyways. How he’d sit in his truck across the street and watch your figure move around from behind those curtains that were way too sheer. Hell, if he wasn’t planning to rehome you, he’d have to get you new ones. People could see you like that, sweetheart. People that don’t deserve you. Ones that you don’t belong to.

It didn’t matter, really, when exactly he took you, you’d be living a new life with him anyways. He’d already set up such a nice, cozy little spot for you in his basement. He’d snuck in one day while you were at work, he had to know more about you of course. And he knows your favorite color now, so all the blankets and pillows he bought just for you will suit those tastes. He knows your favorite snacks and drinks, he’ll want you to be comfortable of course, especially when you resist at first.

He made sure to memorize all your products, too. So when he helps you wash your hair, you’ll be using the right shampoo. And when he lets you bathe, you can have your favorite scent of body wash. He loves the way you smell anyhow, that scent was wafting off you when he accidentally bumped into you at the grocery store a few days ago.

All the things you enjoyed, he made sure to make a mental note of them. Music, clothes, books, games, any and everything that you filled your space with. He couldn’t believe how lovely you were. Such a beautiful soul, no? You’d be the best addition to the new home and land he’d purchased after retiring, the acres and acres of property, free of any imposing neighbors.

He’d left your home in the exact condition it was in before he broke in, of course. He’d disabled your cameras through your WiFi router, not the best home surveillance, he reckoned, but he had something much more up to the task on his property. Thank god for military training, no? You didn’t even seem to be too concerned when he watched you come home that evening and check them out yourself. Going back and forth between the app on your phone and the camera near your front door in an attempt to figure out why the connection had cut out for a couple hours.

It almost killed him to watch you get so frustrated before finally giving up, going back inside to simply fix your WiFi. He wished he could tell you that sooner rather than later, you wouldn’t have a problem in the world. He’d take them all from you, give you any and everything you need.

He was expecting a fighter, of course. From what he learned, you had an attitude, didn’t take much shit. That asshole in the mall parking lot got an earful when he almost rear ended your car last week, fucker tried to blame it on you. Thankfully he didn’t, but Keegan took care of it anyway after you left.

Had you noticed the missing man on the news was that same guy? Did you realize what he’d done for you? Nobody would ever get to speak to you like that again, sweetheart. Not when he’s around to take care of you.

He packed extra rope in his truck just for you, just in case you were a smarter cookie than you looked. You can never be too careful, always underestimate your enemy, some of the lessons he’d learned during his career seemed to apply here too. Not that you were an enemy, god no, but you’d certainly consider him one for a while. He was just thinking logically, of course.

Thankfully you still had that spare key in the planter next to your front door from when he’d checked for one the first time he went to your house. He thought it was cute, really. How you figured putting it somewhere else, rather than under the mat, was safer.

He wasn’t stupid enough to take you during the day, but he could’ve. He just figured the darkness would hide his figure more easily. It was almost pathetic, how he walked right into your house without making a sound. He knew you were in bed already, part of your night routine. He felt a little bad for turning the WiFi off again when you were in the middle of your show, but it lured you out of your bedroom, thankfully.

Although it was for the best, he understood that you were scared when he silently cupped a hand over your mouth and locked an arm around your waist from behind. So he made sure to replace his hand with the rag very quickly before you fainted in his arms.

It took him a bit longer to get you into his truck than he’d initially planned. Finally getting his hands on you, laying your limp body down on the living room floor to brush the tears off your cheeks, he almost couldn’t stand it. The sight of his sweetheart, finally in his arms, looking too peaceful for words. He wasn’t one to get distracted, certainly not during a time like this either, but he didn’t account for the time it’d take him to get himself under control.

He had to excuse himself to your bedroom for a moment to jerk his rigid dick off into a pair of your dirty panties. He’d hate to drive with a hard on of course, especially when you’d be waking up around the time he arrived home. He didn’t want to be distracted while he brought you inside, considering you’d no doubt be more combative.

And it’s a good thing he knew how to think ahead, because your wrists were already raw against the rope as he dragged you through his front door. He hated to see you cry, hated the way the gag was soaked with your tears and saliva, but he tried telling you it was okay. You didn’t listen of course, flailing like a fish in his arms as he walked down the basement steps. But he’d wait. He’d wait until the day you thank him, until the day you reciprocate his love.

Until then, you can stay shackled to the wall. Please, just don’t make him put you in the cage again. Really, there’s no need to bite, sweetheart.

[cannedpickledpeaches]

Insert Your Name (10)

Mafia!Jade Leech x Mafia!Reader

Link to series masterlist!

Notes and TW: You have a conversation with a "god." This series will have mentions of blood, violence, crime (kidnapping, attempted assassination, extortion), and harassment, as one might expect from a mafia AU. Please enjoy!

Tags: @guava-enjoyer @itszzmoon @twstsandturns @myteacupisempty @rou-luxe @chikitasmol @night-shadowblood-writes2 @haveneulalie @owodi

You thought as much for a while—that this world exists inside a story. This world is created for “(Y/N),” and you are Friend A, according to that manuscript. But after all this time, your own thoughts and Jade’s persistent questioning has led you to doubt it. Jade was the one who said you aren’t a character, that the two of you have “thoughts and feelings that go beyond ink on paper.”

But a god? It isn’t a common word in Twisted Wonderland. The Seven are legends, but they were real mages who lived millennia past. Some religions exist, but they’re mostly local. To see someone proclaim themself as a god before your eyes seems like a joke.

The man notes your skepticism and chuckles.

“I only mean it in relation to your abilities. It will become clear as I explain.” He takes another sip of tea. “Twisted Wonderland is a place made from stories, for stories. Broadly speaking, it is a ‘story setting.’ And my purpose is to make stories come to life.”

You try to make sense of his words. Referring to himself as a god, talking about what he does to stories . . . . “Are you the author of that manuscript?”

“No, I’m afraid you have come to the wrong conclusion. I make stories come to life, but it has been a long time since I’ve penned one onto paper. As for the matter of the identity of the author, you would not have to look very far, as she has spoken to you only moments prior.”

You inhale sharply. Your eyes drift to the window as your thoughts start to whirl. That can only be (Y/N). She was the author all along? It would make sense since she’s the main character. But nothing else adds up. Her odd behaviour, her breakdown, her supposedly lost memories of you. You’re also pretty sure she has never met Jade prior to the events of the manuscript playing out in real life. How could she have written it before that? Furthermore, you don’t believe (Y/N) could ever be the type of person to imagine harm coming to anyone, even in a fictional story, even if it’s to Jade’s parents whom she has also never met.

“To clarify, that person is not the one you’ve known for some time.” He chuckles at your bewilderment. “(Y/N) was a character created to be a placeholder. Tell me, do you recall her appearance?”

“Of course I—” You cut yourself off. The only things you can think of are adjectives. Pretty. Dainty. A messy bun. A slim waist. Gorgeous, sparkling eyes. You can’t even remember their colour.

“(Y/N), which stands for ‘Your Name,’ is a placeholder. A blank space where anyone can insert their name.” The teacup clinks against its saucer. “It is supposed to be a one-size-fit all. However, the (Y/N) you know was created for a specific person. The name that was intended to replace this placeholder is that of a girl who lives outside this story setting—a girl who did not exist in Twisted Wonderland. That is the true author of this story.”

You don’t understand what he means by “placeholder.” But you know what he means by people who live outside your world. You recall the twins and Azul mentioning something similar. Shrimpy. Prefect. That human from their high school days, someone who supposedly came from another world. Someone who did not exist in Twisted Wonderland before coming here.

“Were there other cases of . . . well, people from other worlds?”

“Certainly. Like I said, Twisted Wonderland is a place made from stories, for stories. Seeing as tales of strangers in strange lands are the foundation for many stories, from folklore to modern novels, it is not strange to believe someone could be the protagonist of a story where they are pulled from another world to this one.” He pauses when he sees your furrowed brows. “I must apologize again. I am often chastised for my long-winded deliveries.”

“Yeah, you talk too much. Cut the fluff and tell me.”

He chuckles. “Yes, of course. The most recent prior to this case was one named Yuu, although that character was not under my jurisdiction. Your author, however, is under my jurisdiction. She was a fan of Yuu’s story. Once it ended, she sought to extend the story. Essentially, she wrote a fanfiction, which is the very manuscript you stumbled upon. The setting is Twisted Wonderland years after Yuu's story, and the main character she created is an idealistic version of herself—the person she wished she could be.”

It makes sense why you could only think of positive adjectives when describing her. (Y/N) was indeed, like you’d thought from the start, created to be perfect.

“Day after day, she wished with all her soul to insert herself into that story, to live out that fantasy. Eventually, I heard her wishes and decided to grant them. I gave her the opportunity to enter (Y/N)’s body.”

“You can do that?”

“My dear,” he says pleasantly, “there was a reason why I likened myself to a god from your perspective.”

So they weren’t empty words or narcissism. This man has powers you have never even heard of.

The first thing you feel is a wave of relief. So the person who came screaming at you with the intent to kill was not (Y/N), after all. It was someone who took over her body. A stranger took over the body of your beloved friend, took over her life, her relationships, her autonomy . . . A stranger. The second thing you feel is anger. How dare they. How dare they waltz in and ruin everything? You keep quiet and listen to the man’s explanation, resentment bubbling in your gut.

“So the author abandoned her previous life to enter your world. It came with a few caveats: she must lose her name and run the course of the story as (Y/N). Only after the story’s conclusion would she regain her name. Another caveat was that she did not have access to (Y/N)’s memories. I imagine it was a point of curiosity for you—why she seemed to forget everything about who you are.”

You narrow your eyes. “It wasn’t Walrus?”

“I am afraid not. She has never encountered Walrus.”

Deductions and contemplations can be wrong. You know this better than anyone. Yet, you can’t help but feel cheated. With all the information you had, how could you possibly have known? It’s as though you were blindsided by a truck. Looking back, it makes sense. The elusive identity of the author. How the manuscript contains insider knowledge about events concerning the Leech family. Of course it does, the author was the one who wrote those details into existence. Even her reaction to seeing you on the beach, which must have been her first time meeting you. Of course she was confused when Jade mentioned you to her. You don’t have a name in the story. How could she possibly know the name of Friend A?

“Walrus is a character who ties up inconsistencies from the original plot. I had to work hard to ensure it all fell in line.”

“Aren’t you a ‘god?’ Can’t you just, I don’t know, make it happen?”

He laughs. “I am not omnipotent. I can only influence factors that make the story more likely to happen. As in, I can create ‘events,’ which influence ‘responses and actions.’ Characters are defined by their base character traits and then shaped through events; this is what is called character development. I design and set into motion events that will most likely produce the desired characterization. Notably, I cannot control characters or their emotions. I must say, that young lady did not understand this concept very well. Her events were heavily focused on what her favourite characters could do for (Y/N), as opposed to building a foundation so they would wish to do such things. It was rather difficult to make sure the pieces fell in place so those events could occur.”

Several things connect in your mind like a line of dominoes tipping each other over. The manual first appeared in that attic with no clear origin—he must have planted it there because you, Jade, and Floyd are the only people who enter that room. Jade fell asleep in (Y/N)’s apartment because he was busy to the point of exhaustion after taking up the mantle as the leader of the mafia. (Y/N) did not become Floyd’s mood stabilizer. Jade did not fall in love with her. When she—the author—confronted you on the beach, she blamed you as the reason why Jade would not love her. But that isn’t entirely true, is it? Her “events”—Jade cooking for her, sleeping in the same bed—relies on Jade already having feelings for her. But to Jade, she was a stranger he met in an alley. You understand a crucial fact: actions and emotions cannot be manipulated.

“I admit that I panicked and caused you alarm when I tried to send you and Jade away from that beach. That whole debacle was not an event in the story, so I caused some factors that led to Floyd accidentally breaking one of Jade’s terrariums. It was not a serious emergency.” He grows pensive. “But now that the story has gone completely off the rails, I must figure out how to proceed. The author is quite upset with me, especially since she thought with my help, the story was guaranteed to go exactly as written.”

“You were communicating with her?”

“Periodically, yes.” He sips his tea, looking directly at you. “But she was terribly hard-headed and refused to listen to my words.”

What a waste. She had a god on her side, yet she couldn’t use her brain to take advantage of it? Perhaps it’s your bias against her, but you can’t think well of the author.

“Why did you decide to grant her wish, anyway?”

The man lowers his gaze with a soft smile. “I am a storyteller at heart, and she had a story she desperately wanted to become her reality.”

You grit your teeth. “So what? It’s only made things difficult for everyone. Is that shitty story even worth telling?”

“What do you use to judge a story’s worth? The number of people who read it? The number of critics or fans? These are all irrelevant.” His eyes, though gentle in the warm light of the fireplace, hold silvery clarity and resolution from the moonlight. “All that matters is that one person found enjoyment in it. Even if the only person who loves a story is its author, that story has served its purpose. There is no such thing as a meaningless story. Every writer sets out to write a story for a reason, be it wealth, fame, personal satisfaction, a creative outlet . . . . Why do you think this author wrote hers?”

It doesn’t take a genius. Her obsessive, near delusional insistence that Jade loves her. Her breakdown from seeing the two of you together on that beach. Her malice towards you, perceived to be standing in the way of her love. Of her happiness.

“She wanted to be loved.”

She wrote a story where she could project herself onto a perfect, infallible main character. In this story, her favourite character would love and spoil her. They’d overcome trials and eventually live out their happily ever after, blissfully in love, even past the story she wrote. She wanted to be loved fully, completely, and unconditionally.

You feel a little sorry for her. But if you were to be honest . . .

“Why the fuck should I care?” You slam your hands on the coffee table, glaring at the man sitting across from you. Your hands curl into fists. “I don’t give a shit about her personal life. Jade and Floyd’s parents are in a coma. They’ve been worried sick. And that’s just fine? Because she wanted to live in her little fantasy of being loved? If I believe everything you say, then she’s the one who wrote that assassination into our lives. Without her, Mister and Missus Leech would be perfectly fine and running everything as usual. Jade and Floyd wouldn’t be missing sleep and meals. Jade could go study terrestrial plants and fungi like he’s always wanted instead of working himself to the bone for the mafia. You’re telling me I’m just supposed to accept it just because she’s got a sob story? And even worse, none of this would’ve happened without you.”

The assassination attempt is mentioned in the story as an offscreen event. In order for it to be true, the man across from you most likely manipulated events so that the attempt would be carried out. Just like he’s been doing for every event, all this time.

You want to lunge across the coffee table. You want to wrap your fingers around his thin throat, dig your thumbs into his carotid arteries, punch his nose in. But you don’t. You restrain yourself, your hands shaking on the table. With his abilities, he could easily make your life impossible.

“Fanfiction is fine. People can write what they want. But her fanfiction has very real consequences on my life and the people I care about. Why would you even help her knowing the harm she’s causing?”

Hypocrite, Floyd has once called you. That author is selfish in that she’s chasing her own happiness at the expense of what she considers minor characters. You’re selfish in that you’re ensuring happiness for yourself and your loved ones at the expense of the author, a stranger to you. You’d be a hypocrite for condemning her, but you don’t mind. You haven’t gotten this far by sacrificing yourself for strangers.

“Why, of course.” The man tilts his head as though it’s obvious. “No story can progress without conflict. You are a supporting character, as are the main male lead’s parents. Forgive me, but such characters are expendable for the purpose of the plot.”

It suddenly dawns on you. You should’ve realized sooner. This man doesn’t see you as a person. He only sees you as another character within a story, a particularly troublesome one who has messed up the plot beyond repair. You might wholeheartedly believe yourself to be a fleshed out human being with thoughts, feelings, and everything else, but he will always think of that as you being a character. His powers and knowledge of the world make him vastly different from you. He cannot talk to you on equal terms.

It’s like if an ant gained sentience and spoke to a human. Even with the ability to communicate perfectly, the ant would never be able to understand why humans enjoy roller coasters or haunted houses, no matter how much either side tries to explain. Similarly, you would never understand this man’s desire to turn stories that are destructive to “characters” into reality. So, you won’t try. You’ll work with his rules.

“I may have a solution to the derailed plot.” You look at him with determination quietly burning in your eyes. “It’s pretty simple if you can do it. Make me the main character.”

[hp-hcs]

HEYY I SAW U WANYED SOME THEODORE REQUESTS SO I WAS WONDERING IF YOUD WRITE SOME ANGSY W FLUFF AT THE END?

promise — theodore nott x gn!reader

Requests open

‼️ TWs: references to past domestic abuse & violence: emotional, financial, and physical ‼️

U.S. National Domestic Violence Hotline: 800-799-7233

Text line: Text START to 88788

YOU DESERVE SAFETY. YOU ARE NOT ALONE.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Theodore Nott had his suspicions.

You’d never told him about any of your past relationships, but some of the odd things you did helped him draw his own conclusions.

Like that one random Tuesday night, when you were making dinner together in the kitchen, just chatting and laughing like usual. Theo had finished washing the dishes and shook his hands dry while reaching for the hand towel hanging from the oven handle, when you violently flinched back.

He froze, looking at you with wide eyes. You’d just laughed and patted his shoulder, apologizing for startling him.

Or that one time Theo had been trying to organize some bank statements, and had innocuously asked you if you’d bought something from a certain store when he couldn’t remember having made the purchase himself. You immediately froze up at the question, staring with a deer-in-headlights expression. You had timidly apologized, looking meek and like you were playing dead, to protect yourself, Theo had realized.

Or that time when you were going to a group get-together at a friend’s house and assured him there’d be no other men there.

Or when you couldn’t find your house key before work and panicked.

“I’m working from home today anyways,” Theo had reassured confusedly. “I can just let you in when you get back. I’ll be here all day.”

“You won’t lock me out?” You had asked, genuinely bewildered.

Theo hadn’t known how to respond to that.

But when you had accidentally been decked in the mosh pit at a punk show and rushed home in hysterics, Theo opening the door at your frantic knocking and finding you in the middle of a panic attack, he knew he needed to find out the truth. While trying to calm you down from the attack, you accidentally called Theo the wrong name, pleading with him to not hurt you further.

Theodore’s lips thinned and the blood drained from his face as his suspicions were only solidified. “I’m not going to hurt you, Y/N. Did somebody use to hurt you?”

You had nodded shakily, still beside yourself with anxiety. Theodore skimmed his thumb across the knuckles of your hand, shushing you gently.

“It’s alright, darling. What’s the bastard’s name?”

You mumbled it quietly, your sobs slowing to just shuddering breaths. Theodore had nodded in response, making a mental note to kill the motherfucker at his earliest convenience.

He helped you up from your spot, collapsed on the floor in the entryway of your home, and led you over to the couch, where he hastily tucked a fluffy blanket around you and all but sprinted to the kitchen to make tea. He came back with a warm mug and an ice pack for you, sitting down on the couch near you—but not next to you, so that you wouldn’t feel trapped or boxed in.

You rolled your eyes, taking a sip of your tea before tugging him over to your spot, untucking part of the blanket so he could climb under it. Theodore wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into his chest and sighing comfortably. He kissed the top of your head and whispered in your ear,

“I swear I’ll never lay a hand on you, darling. I promise.”