#you x reader

Love Quinn-Goldberg looked up from behind the counter, and something flickered across her face—recognition, pleasure, maybe something else you couldn't quite place. Her smile was radiant, the kind that made you feel like you were the only person in the room.

"Back again?" she said, wiping her hands on her apron. "I'm starting to think you're stalking my desserts."

"Can you blame me?" You settled into your usual seat, dropping your bag on the chair beside you. "Everything here is perfect. I keep trying to pick a favorite, but..."

"But then you'd have to stop trying new things." Love finished your sentence with a knowing look, already moving toward the display case. "I have something I think you'll love. Just finished it an hour ago."

She returned with a slice of what looked like chocolate cake, but the texture seemed impossibly delicate, the layers visible through the fork marks on the plate. When she set it down in front of you, you caught the faint scent of espresso and dark chocolate.

"Opera cake," she explained, sliding into the seat across from you without asking—something she'd started doing on your third visit. "It's French. Notoriously finicky."

You took a bite, and the flavors unfurled across your tongue in perfect harmony. The coffee buttercream, the chocolate ganache, the almond sponge—it all melted together seamlessly.

"The moisture's perfect," you said, genuinely impressed. "How do you keep the layers from getting soggy but still this... tender?"

Love's expression shifted. Her eyes fixed on you with an intensity that made your skin prickle, though you couldn't say why. She leaned forward slightly, her fingers drumming against the table in a rhythm that seemed unconscious.

"It's all about timing," she said softly. "Knowing exactly when to add each element. Too early, and everything falls apart. Too late, and..." She trailed off, her gaze not leaving your face. "Well, the moment passes."

You laughed, breaking the strange tension. "You make it sound like a relationship instead of a cake."

"Maybe they're not so different." Her smile didn't quite reach her eyes. "Both need the right balance. Both need... protection."

Something in her tone made you glance up, but she was already standing, smoothing her apron with quick, efficient movements.

"More coffee?" she offered.

"Sure, thanks."

Over the following weeks, your visits became routine. Love always seemed to be watching for you, new creations ready, your favorite tea already steeping before you'd even ordered. She'd join you when the shop was quiet, and you'd talk about everything—books, cooking, the strange little moments that make up a life. She asked questions about you, seemed genuinely interested in your answers. It felt good to be seen like that, to have someone pay attention.

You didn't think much of the way her jaw tightened when you mentioned going on a date. Or how she deflected whenever you asked about her husband, the man you'd only glimpsed once or twice, always in the back, always seeming distracted.

"Joe's busy with his own projects," she'd said once, waving a hand dismissively. "We give each other space."

You'd nodded, thinking how mature that sounded, how evolved. Your last relationship had been suffocatingly codependent, so Love's approach seemed refreshing. Aspirational, even.

One evening, you stayed later than usual. The October sun had already set, and A Fresh Tart was empty except for you and Love. She'd locked the door, flipped the sign to closed, but waved you back to your seat when you'd started to gather your things.

"Stay," she'd said. "Keep me company while I clean up."

So you did, chatting while she wiped down counters and put away ingredients. The conversation turned to your childhood, and you found yourself sharing stories you didn't usually tell—the messy, vulnerable ones about feeling invisible, about always being the friend but never the choice.

Love stopped moving. She turned to face you fully, her expression unreadable in the dim lighting.

"You're not invisible," she said, her voice low and certain. "Not to me."

The words sent a warm feeling through your chest, the kind of validation you'd been craving without realizing it. You smiled, grateful for the friendship you'd found in this unexpected place.

"Thanks, Love. That means a lot."

She crossed the space between you, and for a moment you thought she might hug you. Instead, she reached past you to grab your empty mug, her arm brushing yours.

"Let me make you something special," she said. "A new recipe I've been working on. You'll be my first real taste tester."

She disappeared into the kitchen, and you heard the sound of the espresso machine, the clink of glass against metal. When she returned, she had two small cups of what looked like affogato—vanilla gelato drowning in espresso.

"To friendship," she said, raising her cup.

You touched yours to hers, the ceramic making a soft clink in the quiet bakery. The dessert was incredible, the bitter and sweet playing against each other, the temperature contrast making each bite interesting. You felt pleasantly tired, the warmth of the shop and the comfort of the evening settling into your bones.

"This is amazing," you murmured, taking another spoonful. "You're amazing. I don't know what I'd do without this place."

Love's smile was sad. "Sometimes caring about someone means making hard choices."

You blinked at her, trying to focus on her face, but your vision had gone slightly blurry around the edges. "What do you mean?"

"Nothing." She reached across the table, her hand covering yours. "Just... be careful, okay? The world isn't always kind to good people."

You wanted to ask her what she meant, why her voice sounded so far away, why the room had started to tilt slightly. But your tongue felt thick, your limbs heavy.

"Love?" Your voice sounded strange to your own ears. "I don't feel..."

"Shh." Her hand was on your shoulder now, steadying you as you swayed. "It's okay. I've got you."

The last thing you remembered was her face, close to yours, her expression caught between tenderness and something that looked almost like grief.

The cold woke you.

Your cheek was pressed against rough asphalt, your body curled on its side. Every muscle ached, and your head pounded with a vicious intensity that made opening your eyes an act of willpower. The sky above was that particular shade of pre-dawn gray, stars fading but the sun not yet risen.

You pushed yourself up slowly, your hands scraping against gravel. A road stretched in both directions, empty and unfamiliar. Trees lined both sides, their branches bare and skeletal against the lightening sky. You were at least twenty miles outside the city, based on the complete absence of lights or buildings.

Your phone was in your pocket, its battery at three percent. No missed calls. No messages. You checked the time—5:47 AM. The last thing you remembered was... Tuesday evening? But your phone said it was Wednesday.

Hours. You'd lost hours.

Panic clawed up your throat as you tried to piece together what happened. The bakery. Love. The affogato. And then nothing, a black void where memory should be.

Your hands trembled as you called for a ride, relief flooding through you when a driver accepted despite the remote location. While you waited, you noticed your clothes were clean, your bag still on your shoulder with everything inside. Your keys, your wallet, even the book you'd been reading. Nothing taken, nothing disturbed.

Except you'd woken up on the side of a road with no memory of how you'd gotten there.

The driver arrived thirty minutes later, his eyebrows raised at finding you alone on an empty highway. You manufactured a story about a party, about drinking too much, about friends playing a stupid prank. He didn't look convinced, but he drove you home without too many questions.

Your apartment was exactly as you'd left it. You showered, scrubbing at your skin until it was pink and raw, trying to wash away the feeling of wrongness that clung to you like smoke. The water revealed a small bruise on your inner elbow, the kind left by an IV or a blood draw, but it could have been anything. Could have been nothing.

You couldn't go to the police. What would you even say? You'd gone to a bakery, had dessert with the owner, and then woken up on a road? They'd ask if you'd been drugged, and you'd have to say you didn't know, that you'd drunk something the owner had made special, and then it would become a whole thing—accusations and investigations and your face plastered across local news.

And maybe you were wrong. Maybe you'd had some kind of episode, a fugue state or something medical. Maybe this had nothing to do with Love at all.

But you didn't believe that. Not really.

The next day, you walked past A Fresh Tart without going in. You could see Love through the window, arranging pastries in the display case, her movements graceful and practiced. She looked up as if she'd sensed you, and your eyes met through the glass.

Her expression was unreadable. Not guilty, not worried. Almost... relieved?

You kept walking.

Your phone buzzed an hour later. A text from an unknown number:

Sometimes the people who care about you have to make choices you won't understand. Stay away from the bakery. Stay away from me. It's safer for you. I'm sorry.

You stared at the message until your screen went dark. Your hands were shaking again, that same panic from the roadside crawling back up your spine. What had she saved you from? What had she protected you from that required drugging you and abandoning you miles from home?

Or had she been the danger all along?

You thought about responding, about demanding answers, about going back to confront her. But something in the message's finality, in the word safer, made you hesitate. There was a warning buried in that apology, a boundary being drawn in sharp, unmistakable lines.

The next week, you drove past the bakery on your way to work. There was crime scene tape across the door, police cars parked out front. Your heart seized in your chest, and you pulled over, hands gripping the steering wheel until your knuckles went white.

You searched for news on your phone, and there it was—a body found in the woods near the bakery. A woman you didn't recognize, her photo smiling from the screen. The article said she was last seen at A Fresh Tart two weeks ago.

Two weeks ago. Right around when you'd started visiting regularly.

You sat in your car, pieces clicking together into a picture you didn't want to see. Love's intensity, her questions, her interest in your life. The way she'd looked at you that last night, like she was memorizing your face. The strange sadness in her voice when she'd talked about caring for people.

Sometimes caring about someone means making hard choices.

She hadn't been talking about herself. She'd been talking about you.

You drove home and deleted her number, blocked the unknown contact, and started taking a different route to work. You never went back to that neighborhood, never searched for more information about Love Quinn-Goldberg or what happened at A Fresh Tart.

Because some answers were more dangerous than questions. Because sometimes being forgotten was the kindest form of love. Because you'd been chosen—not for romance or friendship, but for survival—and you were lucky enough to be naive enough that she'd let you go.

The bruise on your arm faded within a week, but you still found yourself touching the spot sometimes, remembering the cold asphalt, the empty road, the hours you'd lost. Wondering what exactly you'd been saved from, and what price someone else had paid in your place.

You'd been invisible once, desperate to be seen. Love Quinn had seen you, all of you, and decided you were worth protecting.

Even from herself.

Especially from herself.

I already knew what kind of guy Joe was, I had my eyes on him before he even noticed me. Joe thought he was so slick when he was stalking me but I was already on to him. I know he took my phone that night on the train, I know he sneaks into my apartment when I’m not home, I know he licks the wet spots on my panties, and I know that he jerks off on my bed while sniffing my pillows. Him doing all of that is sick, sure, but I love it. No one has ever been that in love with me before.

There’s secret security cameras set up around my apartment, which means I have several videos of Joe fucking his hand with my panties in my bed. I at least watch a video a couple times out of the week. It turns me on.

Joe and I have been taking things slow these past few weeks. I had asked Joe to go to Ikea with me and help me pick out a bed..I think it’s only fair and I repay him for setting the bed up. We were now laying in my bed just talking about random things and I decided to make a move. “Has anyone ever told you, your curls are so cute?” I asked as I ran my fingers through his hair. His lower half jolted at the touch, it was quick but I definitely noticed. “N-Not at all.” He stuttered. His stuttering made me giggle, if I didn’t know the crap he did behind closed doors I would’ve thought he was such a sweet innocent man.

“Well I think they’re cute.” I stated as my fingers trailed down to his stomach. Joe was stiff, he didn’t know how to react, and his boner was poking through his jeans. “Thank you!” He quickly said with a high pitched voice. I smirked before pushing his shirt up some and placing a kiss on his happy trail. I guess I’ve done enough teasing for the day. “W-What’re you doing?” He asked as his cheating was hastily rising up and down. “Thanking you for the day.” I softly say before moving between his legs and unbuckling his belt. Joe’s eyes were focused on me the entire time as I moved his jeans and boxers down to his ankles.

I was now face to face with his cock, I blew some air on it just to tease him a bit more and his hard cock twitched at the feeling. “Please!” I begged. He was already so desperate for me. I immediately when for it, I took him down my mouth whole. Joe moaned which made me even more motivated. I bobbed my mouth up and down on his cock as his hips jolted and the muscles in his thighs tightened. His hand flew to my hair, making a makeshift ponytail, guiding my head up down. “Fuck! Just like that!” He grunted. I could taste his pre cum in my mouth, it was warm and salty.

I took my mouth off his cock which made him let out a whine but it quickly turned into a moan when I started sucking on his ballsack. “Y/N!” He moaned as I looked up at him with innocent eyes. As I was sucking on his balls I jerked his saliva covered cock and he was moaning back to back and his hips was thrusting through my hand. “Shit-feels so good!” He groaned with his eyes closed. His moans turned me on even more. I know he’s close to finishing because in the videos his cock always twitch.

My tongue swirled on his balls as he slammed his head into the pillows beneath him. “I’m gonna cum!” He shouted. I hollowed my cheeks and started sucking on his balls again while slowly stroking his cock. Cum spurted out his cock as it flew to my hand on his stomach. “Just like that, baby, keep humming.” I lowly said he groaned and his eyes were shut. “Ahh!” He moaned as more cum oozed out of him. I moved my mouth from his balls and began to lick his cum off his stomach and some that drizzled down to his happy trail.

He mindlessly babbled as I was cleaning him up. After I got done taking my time licking his cum up, I was now face to face with him. “That was-amazing.” He breathlessly said as I smirked. “I know!” I cockily responded before deeply kissing him. He kissed me back and as one of his hands were in my hair and the other was jerking his cock that became hard again. Our tongues were fighting for dominance but he eventually won. I moved his hand from his cock and placed it on my waist as I began to straddle him. He broke away from the kiss, he was breathless, he couldn’t believe what was about to happen. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this for.” He gawked.

Joe’s eyes were full with joy and excitement. I had on loose shorts with no panties on so I moved one of the leg wholes over some and sank down on his cock. His cock was wet, cold, and hard..but it felt so good. We both let out the most satisfying groan and the feeling. “Oh fuck!” He moaned as his hands were gripping my waist. I started to bounce up and down. Moans were flying out of my mouth and wet sounds filled the room. “Joe!” I whined as his eyes were glued to me. “You’re so wet!” He moaned as my pussy squeezed him due to his compliment. “Only for you!” I replied. I was still bouncing on him but his cock twitch. He’s almost done already?

“I’m sorry!” He grunted as his cock twitched and he started thrusting at a fast pace into me. I stayed still and let him do the work. He ended cumming inside me and I laid my face into his chest. “I couldn’t control myself.” He whispered as he was still inside me. I giggled at his comment.

"What if I need to go to the bathroom?" You spoke up suddenly, as you soon realized upon inspecting the inside of your new home that there wasn't a toilet. There was, however, a bucket.

"Well..." He awkwardly rubbed the back of his neck as he avoided the question. It didn't take much for you to put two and two together.

You gave him a look that was a cross between disgust and disbelief. "I can't pee in a bucket, Joe."

"I'm sorry, but I can't just let you out." He felt bad, sure, but he had to do this. He had to make sure that you were safe, even if it meant making you a little mad at him.

Crossing your arms, you turned in the opposite direction, refusing to look at him. Clearly you weren't too fond of your new living arrangements and were choosing to pout.

"Oh, come on, it isn't that bad," he lied upfront as he watched you. It was that bad, actually. Using a bucket to go to the bathroom was pretty gross.

And now he was starting to feel bad for putting you in this kind of situation. Anger was one thing, that he could handle. He could brace himself against that, or he rationalize away your worries or fears, but you seemed less genuinely upset and more annoyed than anything else.

He let out a heavy sigh as he contemplated his options. You were ignoring him, and he just couldn't have that. "If I let you out, you have to promise not to run away from me or anything like that. Understood?"

As if on cue, you turned back to face him again, a look of hope in your eyes. "Really?"

Joe tried not to let out a laugh when he saw you get close to the glass and press your face against it. "Yeah, really. Just- you have to move in with me. I don't want you living alone anymore. And I have to know where you are at all times."

Sure, he knew he could just follow you like usual, but he wanted you to be able to trust him. "And there's certain people that I don't want you hanging around anymore. Deal?"

Oh, god, what was he saying? This was going to be too much to put on you all at once. He should've just started with one small thing and gone from there, he shouldn't have given you an entire list-

"Deal."

Your voice instantly cut through his thoughts. Part of him wanted to believe you, even if he was a little suspicious that you'd agreed so quickly. Then again, you seemed so sincere, trusting even, observing him the same way anyone who truly loved their partner would: like he was the only thing that mattered.

"Could you let me out now? I really need to go pee."

Rolling his eyes, he made his way over to the door of the cage and unlocked it, letting you out. "Remember what I told you, alright? I don't want to have to put you back in there," he tried to make himself sound stern, to show you that he wasn't playing around when he said that.

To his surprise, you responded by giving him a hug. "You're such a sweetheart, caring about me so much," you muttered affectionately.

He couldn't stop himself from melting into your touch. If this was an act, it was certainly working.

"I'll never, ever leave you."

God, you were going to be the death of him. "And I'll never let you go," he promised in turn.

He really meant it when he said that. He was never going to let you go. Not that you seemed to mind.

End notes: I don't know if this is any good or not honestly. I really wanted to write something for Joe but I was kind of at a loss for what exactly to write about so 🤷 send me some ideas though if y'all want

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—————————

It starts with your sleeve.

A white knit sweater, oversized and worn thin at the wrists, pulled over trembling fingers as you linger by the poetry section at Anavrin. You’re always here late—past the lunch rush, before the after-work crowd. You drift between aisles like you’re afraid to disturb the air. Like you’re made of glass and the world might shatter you just by looking too hard.

But Joe looks anyway.

He notices the stain before he notices you. A rust-colored smear, barely dried, half-hidden beneath the cuff of your sleeve. Too dark for coffee. Too heavy for paint. And you keep glancing at it. Touching it. Like you don’t remember how it got there.

Like you do.

And then—then he notices you.

The pretty girl with the faraway eyes. The nervous hands. The way you speak in near-whispers at the register, never quite meeting his gaze, always fumbling your change.

You don’t flirt. You don’t linger. You thank him like you’re afraid your voice might break.

He watches you leave with a book tucked to your chest like armor. Your footsteps are soft. Timid. Too careful.

But that stain stays in his mind long after you’re gone.

⸻

You come back three times that week.

Same time, same sweater.

He starts to notice other things. Your hair is never quite brushed. You chew your lip when you read, like you’re tasting the words. You fold pages even though you try not to. You flinch when the doorbell rings too loudly.

And you always, always smell like bleach.

The kind of clean that means something dirty came before it.

Joe begins to check the news.

Local updates. Crime forums. Reddit threads. Nothing at first. Then—something. A man missing. Early 30s. Last seen at a dive bar two blocks from where you’re staying. No security footage. No follow-up. No family contact.

No leads.

He knows it’s a stretch. But it’s the kind of stretch he’s always been willing to make.

⸻

He follows you home the next night.

Your apartment is above a dry cleaner, and the hallway light flickers every few seconds. You struggle with the keys before slipping inside—double lock, deadbolt, chain.

Cautious. Good.

There’s a single plant on your windowsill, half-dead and sun-starved. Curtains drawn tight. No pictures on the wall. One mug in the sink. A chipped teacup on your nightstand. Books everywhere. Piled like protection spells.

He sees the way your fingers tremble when you tuck the deadbolt in place.

He sees how you leave the window open just a little.

A whisper of invitation.

⸻

He doesn’t expect what he finds the second time he follows you.

You’re in the basement beneath the dry cleaner. No security, no cameras, just rusted stairs and a padlocked door you unlock with a key hidden inside your boot. You move like a ghost, slow and deliberate, carrying a duffel bag too heavy for your frame.

Joe watches from a slit in the door as you drag the bag across concrete.

There’s plastic on the floor. A shovel. Bleach. Something that looks like bone.

You move like it’s not your first time.

⸻

You don’t come into Anavrin for five days.

Joe tells himself not to be worried, but worry is a pretty word for longing when it festers. By the sixth day, he’s near unraveling—replaying the curve of your wrist, the softness of your voice, the way you tucked your hair behind your ear before disappearing down the street.

And then—just like that—you’re back.

Still shy. Still gentle. Still pulling your sleeves down like they’re a second skin.

But this time, you meet his eyes.

And smile.

⸻

You wait until closing.

“Can you help me carry something?” you ask, quiet as a breath, like you’re asking for forgiveness. Joe’s heart stutters.

He says yes, because he always would.

You lead him to your car—a battered thing with no hubcaps and a glove box that won’t shut. In the trunk is a tarp. Wet. Folded wrong. The kind of heavy that sinks.

You look down. You speak without looking at him.

“I didn’t mean to.”

Joe exhales, slow and measured. He crouches. Lifts the tarp.

Underneath: a boot. A wristwatch. Nothing else.

He stands.

“You should’ve worn gloves,” he murmurs.

Your head tilts like a scolded child. “I know.”

He should run. He should say nothing. He should walk away.

But instead, he looks at you and thinks: Finally.

⸻

You kiss him like you’ve never kissed anyone before.

Back at your apartment, just inside the door, barely breathing. You reach for him like you’re afraid he’ll vanish. Like touching him might burn. Your lips are tentative, uncertain, but willing.

He touches your jaw gently, then firmer, tilting your face up. “You don’t have to be scared.”

You whisper, “I’m not scared of you.”

The rest unfolds slowly.

You let him press you into your mattress. Let him slide your sweater up over your hips. Let him memorize the way your breath catches when he trails kisses along your stomach.

He whispers things he’s never meant before.

“You’re beautiful.”

“You’re perfect.”

“No one’s ever going to touch you again.”

And you—trembling, flushed, open—you nod.

You cling to his shoulders like you’ll float away without him.

⸻

Later, when the room is quiet and your body is curled against his, you murmur something that makes him smile into your hair.

“If you’re going to watch me, you should at least help next time.”

Joe exhales. Presses a kiss to your temple. Feels your fingers twist into his shirt.

This time, he won’t have to pretend.

————————

The silence after is too still.

You’re curled against his chest, body warm, legs tangled with his under the cheap cotton sheets, and your breathing is beginning to level—but Joe’s heart hasn’t slowed.

It won’t.

Not when he keeps picturing it: you, sweet and gentle, standing there with blood on your sleeve like it was just another errand. You, looking at him with glassy eyes and trembling hands, not knowing what it means to be seen until now.

You didn’t even try to hide it. You just—wore the guilt. Or maybe it wasn’t guilt at all. Maybe you just didn’t know better.

And that’s the part that haunts him. That makes his fingers twitch against your hip.

You don’t know better. You haven’t been taught.

You could’ve ruined everything. Gotten caught. Left him alone again. Taken from him before you even belonged to him properly.

He smooths a hand over your back, palm warm and slow. You sigh into it, like you’re melting into him.

He hates how soft you are.

He loves it.

“Wake up,” he murmurs against your temple.

You shift, sleepily, murmuring something that might be Joe or might be please.

He rolls you onto your back and climbs on top of you, knees braced on either side of your hips, his palm settling firmly against your throat—not pressing, not yet, just enough for you to know the shape of his hand.

“Do you understand what could’ve happened?” he asks, voice low and flat.

Your eyes flutter open. “I didn’t mean to mess up.”

That earns you a quiet, bitter laugh.

“You didn’t mean to,” he echoes. “That’s the problem. You never mean to, do you?”

He leans down, lips brushing yours like a threat.

“You just kill people. And leave little trails behind. And trust that no one will notice your sleeves are soaked in blood.”

You open your mouth to speak, to explain—but he shakes his head.

“No. You don’t get to talk yet.”

He slides back down your body, pushing the blanket aside. His hands are not gentle now—they’re practiced. Certain. One holds your hip down while the other parts your thighs, spreading you wide as his eyes darken with quiet authority.

You’re wet again. Already.

Of course you are.

“Look at that,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “You know you deserve this, don’t you?”

You nod, breath catching.

“Words, sweetheart.”

“Yes,” you whisper. “I deserve it.”

His hand trails between your legs but doesn’t linger. Not yet. He’s building something. You can feel it in the way his voice stays even, in the way he watches every twitch of your thigh.

“You don’t get to kill people and walk around like you’re innocent. Like you’re good.”

He leans closer, lips brushing your ear.

“But you are good, aren’t you? For me.”

“Yes.”

His hand returns. Two fingers press between your folds, slick and slow, stroking through your wetness but never dipping inside. You tremble beneath him, arching slightly—asking. He gives you nothing.

“Do you think I’m going to let you keep doing this?” he asks softly. “Wandering around like prey. Like you’re not mine to control. Mine to teach.”

“I’m trying,” you whisper.

His fingers stop. The silence that follows is heavy.

He slaps your thigh, not harsh, but sharp enough that it echoes.

You gasp.

“Try harder.”

Then he pushes two fingers into you at once—deep and unforgiving. Your back arches, your moan swallowed by his mouth as he presses his lips to yours again, this time kissing you, slow and devouring.

His pace doesn’t change. He moves inside you like he’s memorizing every inch—mapping it for himself. Claiming it.

“You’re going to get better,” he murmurs into your neck. “I’m going to make you better.”

His thumb circles your clit with relentless pressure, and you’re unraveling, your body twitching, clenching around his fingers as heat spreads low in your belly.

But right when you’re about to tip—

He pulls away.

Your mouth falls open in a silent cry, your hips chasing the friction, but he pins you with a glare.

“Not yet.”

You whimper. He smiles. It’s not kind.

“You’ll come when I say. Not before. Understand?”

You nod desperately. “Yes. Please. I’ll listen—”

“You will,” he says, pulling your wrists above your head and holding them there with one hand. “Because if you don’t—if you ever put yourself in danger like that again—I won’t be gentle next time.”

He slips inside you then. Slowly. Deliberately. Every inch a lesson. You’re so tight, so wet, so full of him, and he watches your eyes flutter shut like the feeling is too much to hold.

“That’s it,” he groans, sinking fully into you. “This is where you belong. Spread out. Quiet. Obedient.”

He fucks you like it’s a promise—like every thrust is a sentence carved into your skin.

Mine. Mine. Mine.

You cry out when he hits that spot again, and he drinks it in—every gasp, every moan, every broken apology as your body strains for release. He doesn’t stop. Not until you’re shaking under him, begging him through your tears.

Only then does he press his lips to your ear.

“Now.”

And when you come, it’s like something sacred unspools in your chest.

You fall apart around him, and he follows right after—grinding deep into you with a guttural groan, emptying himself inside you like it means something. Like it binds you.

It does.

You don’t even flinch when he pulls you into his arms afterward, when his mouth brushes your temple, when his voice lowers to something tender again.

“I’ll keep you safe now,” he whispers. “Even from yourself.”

And you—sleepy, sore, utterly undone—nod against his chest.

You believe him.