cw: strongly implied nsfw (non-con and dub-con) implied violence, obsessive & possessive tendencies, mentioned stalking, captivity; darling is not having fun, and the toxic ex bf agenda as usual !!
genie’s notes: finally posting this after edging you guys for ONE YEAR. tell me what you think after the wait and see if you can notice some oc lore i sprinkled in lolol. comments + rb’s mean the world 2 me xoxo (how do we like the purple aesthetic? i feel like it fits val so well,,) this is fr 8k words of ‘what the fuck is going on’ but in, like, a hot way.
TWO MONTHS AGO.
valentine is sprawled over the chaise in his lounge, facing the wide windows that span the entire wall. from floor to ceiling, they provide a spectacular, uninterrupted view of the sparkling skylight of merit, a colourful array of dazzling lights flashing from skyscrapers that sit on the horizon, constantly living and laughing and breathing — a city that never sleeps.
you haven’t slept much in the past week either. maybe that’s why you’re too tired to do anything but sit silently on valentine's lap as he absently runs his fingers through your hair, massaging your scalp in repeated, circular motions. there’s a strange softness to his touch, but you don’t dare question it.
tonight, the skyline is as dazzling as ever. even more so because one of the smaller buildings, a love hotel two streets away from valentine’s, is on fire.
sitting in silence, save for the sirens of tens of fire engines in the streets below, the two of you marvel at the sight, and your darling boyfriend hums contently. he breaks the quiet with a soft, almost wistful, sigh, “don't you find it beautiful?”
the building is enveloped in bright, brilliant flames that seem to scrape the starless sky, as it comes crashing down in itself. it casts a warm glow that emanates against the darkness of a tuesday night. a heavy, and you imagine stifling smoke, billows from the structure. you briefly wonder how many people have died inside - catch yourself thinking it, chastise yourself for the complete lack of compassion.
you suppose being with valentine all this time has taught you one or two things.
“in the way chaos can be.” you mutter, though your eyes are transfixed to the sight, and you know he knows this, because you can feel the weight of his heavy gaze briefly flicker to you. you pretend not to notice; you know exactly how he's looking at you right now.
“yeah?” he muses, “and which way is that, sweetheart?”
his hands are still playing with your hair, wrapping strands around his fingers and marvelling at the softness of it. you think he's enjoying this a little too much, but you'd rather his hands stay occupied and stay where they are than start wandering to other places.
“from this high up, it's lovely.” you admit.
the notion of it all leaves a bitter taste in your mouth, because if it had been you on fire, you know nothing would have changed.
you know your lover well enough to know he would make no attempt to put the flames out, would have only watched with a glass of wine in his hand. you imagine that you'd have to fall to your knees and beg, tell him how much you adore him and love him and can't live without him and he may consider putting the fire out for you.
in this moment, like a million others, you hate valentine vuong.
you hate the way he says your name, sometimes like a revered prayer, and other times like a promise, but always, always, you hate when he speaks, and your eyes fall to his lips, reading them like you can’t hear him perfectly fine, wondering what they’d look like, sewn shut and then realise that without him, you’d really have nothing.
you hate how his hands always have to be on you, hate how close he always needs to be. you hate the intricate butterfly tattoo on his neck, the way its delicate wings curl around his throat, like you know your hands do when he sleeps, always hovering, but never quite pressing down because you realise that without him, you’d really have nothing.
you hate his sharp eyes behind those sleek, expensive glasses, how their attention is always trained solely on you. you hate the way he always looks at you as if he knows something that you don't, lets his gaze wander up and down you so shamelessly, lingering on his favourite parts of you, but always coming back to your face. you dream of placing them between your teeth and biting down, before waking up in a cold sweat, trapped in his embrace, realising that without him you’d really have nothing.
you shake yourself out of your thoughts, and come back to him.
"do you honestly believe that if we'd been inside, trapped underneath silk sheets and struggling to breathe, that we'd still find it beautiful?" you turn in his lap, and his hands instinctively move from your hair to your waist, "what about the people that died in that fire? do you think they'd thought that the chaos had been anything but absolutely horrific?"
what you really want to say goes unsaid, because when you're nothing but an observer to destruction, it's always bound to be fascinating.
nevertheless, your answer seems to satisfy him, yet perhaps not in any way you’d necessarily prefer. the initial curiosity on valentine's face gives way to a small, cruel smile, accompanied by those dimples you've come to despise, and low laughter falls from his lips.
you scoff, a wave of self consciousness crashing down over you as you fight the urge to shrink into your clothes, "why are you laughing?"
"you, darling." valentine looks at you with adoration etched into his golden eyes and simply shakes his head, as if you've merely said something so utterly stupid that it has amused him to no end. he presses a soft kiss to the top of your head. "god, i fucking love you," he laughs - and as always, you seem to shrink in size, for if there is one thing your darling boyfriend excels at, its making you feel smaller than you are.
you turn back to watch the fire, without another word. this is no competition, but both you and valentine knows he's won. it's evident in the way he pulls you into him and rests his head on the top of yours.
you wish he had been in that building, more than anything, because maybe then you would enjoy the sight of its demise more.
you imagine dousing him in oil, and taking that lighter - the hot pink one that you'd given him when he'd first visited you at work, the one he always keeps in his pocket, despite having an array of more expensive and impressive lighters.
you think about reaching out, so that the lighter's flame meets the base of his throat where his tattoo is, and finally, for the first time since you'd seen him on that train back home, since you'd met him, and thought you'd loved him, since he ruined your life, you revel in the thought of being the observer to his destruction, for once.
you would make no attempts to put the flame out, only watch and marvel at the lovely sight, with a glass of his best wine in your hands.
the thought alone is enough to calm you down, provide you with some sense of solace, and then hope. for the first time in months, you see a way out, can make out a path that will take you back to some semblance of normalcy, the remains of your own life.
oh, how you miss it.
your mother, calling you every night after an exhausting shift. you wanted to tell her you were coming home, but you would only reassure her that, yes, everything was fine and that no, she didn't need to worry. you wished she would walk through the door with some slices of your favourite food, even if it wasn’t yet the season for it - you’d eat rot from her hands if it meant she could just take care of you again.
but with responsibilities to see to, and old promises that couldn’t be broken, you would hang up and lie on your mattress, staring at the ceiling of your shitty apartment for hours and hours, listening to the traffic pass by, and wondering how you were going to pay rent this month when your boss was such a dick, slashing your hours at the gas station.
it wasn't the best life, but it had been yours.
and when was the last time you’d felt that something belonged to you?
you turn around, and before valentine can ask you why you're laughing like that, so careless and happy, for the first time in what must have been months, you reach for his glasses, perched low on his nose, and set them aside as carefully as you can given how dizzy you are. "just shut up," you barely manage to breathe, "and don't say a word."
he obliges, if only to see how this strange demand of yours plays out, and you let one hand cup his jaw, to tilt his chin up. the other works on slipping under his shirt, fingers grazing his toned body, warm touch, flat against cold, sculpted skin. you kiss the wings of his butterfly tattoo, soft and fleeting. his breathing is shallow, now, and neither of you pretend not to notice why when he shifts beneath you.
good, you think, watching him through your eyelashes, as he looks down at you. down at you, still, infuriatingly so, as if he was the one in control right now. he looks like he's about to say something, so you scoff, push your thumb into his mouth like a pacifier, with more force than you'd needed to.
he blinks, caught entirely off guard, and you tilt your head to the side like you’ve seen him do to you so many times, use that tone of his that never ceases to work on you. "i thought i told you to shut up." you see his levity by way of those dimples, deep in his cheeks, as he lets himself relax, goes so far as to lean his head over the back of the chaise, allowing you easier access to his body with the air of a man who knows he's about to be taken care of.
you give in to his desires, just this once.
but he’s solely mistaken if he believes that when you kiss him tonight, it is out of love.
as a building is on fire behind you, the soft glow of the rising flames drapes your intertwined bodies in a warm, flickering glow that is accompanied by the sound of sirens from the city right below you, yet so many lifetimes away. this is something much less complicated than love, and yet far more powerful. you think hatred is a good enough word, and though it doesn’t entirely encompass your motivations, it is similar in that it is unforgiving and brutal.
you wouldn’t ruin his life with that precious lighter of his—no, you were going to be exploiting his most shameful weakness, the guilty pleasure he couldn't help but indulge in, to keep coming back to every single time - you.
NOW.
red finds you asleep at their computer.
they take in the sight for a moment, just silently leaning against the doorframe and soaking you in. you’re resting your head down on your arms, one hand still wrapped around the mouse, cursor still on the screen, emanating a soft glow that is the dark room’s only source of light.
they realise, after you shift, uncomfortable in the position you’ve fallen asleep in, that they should probably move you back to bed. even now, they can hardly believe the domestic bliss the two of you live in. not because it’s something they’ve wanted for so long, that finally being granted it feels unbelievable, but because they had honestly thought it would never last this long in the first place.
when you had first left valentine, and called them, being the only real friend you had in this big city, they’d shown up right away. forget the fact that you’d been ghosting them for months, and that the last time the two of you talked, it had ended in a horrible fight neither of you was sure you could ever come back from -
the truth was simple, when all the circumstances were stripped away. you called, and red would always come.
they didn’t expect to find you shivering in the streets, your arms wrapped around your cold body, and your clothes stained with blood. but red never asked questions. they took one look at you, and ushered you into their car, drove you back home, and without you even asking them to, started helping you leave this city behind.
they think you’re growing impatient, now. a glance to the computer screen shows you’re looking up flights to cities red doesn’t even think you know the pronunciations of. in a way, it would have been endearing, if this was a voluntary vacation the two of you had been planning to take of your own will, but red knew better; they knew you better.
several lifetimes in love with the same person could do that.
they knew you felt it, too, but what more could be done? they’d been saving for a while, now, and had applied for visas too. it came down to waiting, in the end, even if red was worried that the waiting was what would get to you. the silence from your ex’s end was far too loud to ignore, and neither of you were stupid enough to believe he was just going to let you go so easily, nevermind the fact that you’d tried to kill him.
any chance their mind wanders from thoughts of you, red always weighs the possibility of going down there and killing the man himself, and he would have done so already, too - if it weren’t for you.
you couldn’t live without red. valentine made sure you’d grown accustomed to codependency.
the risk of going after a man like him was too great, when they evaluated it, and red would do so often. even now, seeing you so utterly exhausted and anxious, they can’t help but hate themself once again, for a greater man would have seen to the threat your ex posed long ago.
but red was no great man, even as he picked you up gently, and laid you on the bed the two of you shared, tucking you into the blanket. a greater man didn’t steal. a greater man didn’t lean down and kiss you only when you were asleep, and unable to push them away, unable to lean back; unable to reject him.
red leaned away, and brushed the hair that fell over your face away from your eyes. they always felt so guilty after, but that didn’t stop them from doing it again and again, night after night.
this time, you shifted beneath them, letting out a soft sigh, and they felt miserable yet again, but red had lost any semblance of shame when it came to you; grown accustomed to taking what they could get, and it seemed, most of the time, this was the extent of their affections, the private touches they stole from you in your sleep.
and so, they laid down right besides you, without a word, and watched you until the sun rose.
TWO MONTHS AGO.
he's in his office when you walk in. you close the door behind you, and make a show of fidgeting with your fingers, nervously looking out the window behind him instead of straight at him. it's early in the morning, around four. as such, the sky is still dark, and so candles illuminate the room as he crosses out entire paragraphs in the papers beyond him, the smooth sound of an ink pen gliding over paper.
"what are you doing out of bed?" valentine asks, without so much as looking up at you. "you should be asleep right now."
"you woke me up," you quip, before taking a few tentative steps closer. there are no extra seats in valentine's office, given he’d rather you not sit here while he works (he insists he couldn’t get anything done if you did) but you do appreciate the feeling of the plush, persian rug beneath your bare feet. you look down, and perhaps it's because nobody ever displays that much interest in carpets, no matter how intricate and detailed they're designed - but he instantly seems to know something’s strange.
"i knew i didn’t wake you up," he sets down his pen on the papers in front of him, some script he'd been writing for a new movie of his brother's. you don't know much about it, and because he doesn't tell you, you never ask. valentine looks up, and you realise he isn't wearing his glasses. “well?”
he looks so much younger like this. so much more vulnerable.
briefly, you wonder what his childhood was like. you know he was born in hanoi, before he and his brother were sent abroad to live with an uncle. you know that even after their uncle died and they graduated, they'd never gone back, and yet, both of them had turned out to be so twisted in their own ways.
but he doesn't often talk about himself, choosing to focus on you instead.
that’s nothing new, though. it's always been about you, hasn't it?
it’s valentines words that break you out of your reverie and have you come back down to his office. "come on, sweetheart." you blink, and he only smiles knowingly, as if he knows exactly why you're standing in his office at four in the morning. "have i not told you to use your words when you want something?"
"i don't want anything," you respond, too quickly.
instantly, you can sense you've caught his attention. now he's curious; that's what he's always been like. these past two years, what you've been to valentine is the equivalent to what insects are for little children. in their own world and infinitely smaller, so fascinating at first, until the children realise it's much more fun to scatter salt over snails and watch them die than it is to put them in your pocket and collect them.
your own thoughts amuse you endlessly. first you compare yourself to a house on fire, and now you liken yourself to an insect. on some level, you’re aware of how ridiculous they are, but that doesn’t stop you from indulging in them.
"don't lie to me, sweetheart. you're terrible at it," valentine sighs dramatically, playing at a faux display of disappointment. "i thought we could be honest with each other," he says, and yet there is only shameless glee in that stygian gaze of his, "but you're breaking my heart."
"oh, am i?" low laughter slips past your lips at his words, "well, maybe you deserve to have your heart broken," you cross your arms defiantly, "it's cold and you left me in the bed all alone, so clearly you don't care about me as much as you think you do."
"you take me for such a bad boyfriend, don't you?" valentine muses, still with that look painted on his gorgeous features, "come here, then. you could have said so earlier, i know more than a few ways to warm you up, my love."
oh, those fucking dimples.
"it's four in the morning.”
"exactly," he responds, a hand finding your waist like it always seems to. "so tell me what you're really doing up." you think he's going to pull you onto his lap, but when he uses his other hand to push all his papers and pens to the side of his desk, he sets you down on the mahogany surface in front of him. "did you miss me that much?”
you know he wants you to tell him what you want, the reason you'd seek him out voluntarily at a time like this, but you've always felt shameful for wanting something, for being caught in the act of desire. it's so vulnerable, especially in front of him, you don't like baring yourself - and the things you truly want that extend beyond hedonistic pleasures - to a man like this.
it's not a question of whether he'll grant you what you want, the problem is that he will always grant you whatever you want, within reason of course; you can't ever want him to leave - but that when valentine gives, he expects it returned back to him in tenfold, and not always in the ways you'd like.
but this request is far too important, and even if it means abandoning the dignity you have, even if it means giving yourself to him, by means of a favour or a promise or sweet words that mean absolutely nothing, you'll bite your tongue and do it.
"my mother," you confess. “i haven't talked to her in a while, and i miss her." it seems that once you begin, the words fall from your lips involuntarily. “since i moved in, i haven’t had a proper conversation with her, and i just really want to see her face again.”
“darling.” valentine hums, “when have i ever stopped you from speaking to her?”
“no, i know, i just—” you turn your head to the side to avoid meeting his amber eyes, so intently watching you as his thumb runs gentle circles over your hips, grazing the skin beneath the hem of your silk pyjamas. “i meant that i wanted to see her. go down to her house and visit her, i mean. she moved to a smaller place by the sea, says she found old memories from my childhood when she was packing and i really just want to—”
“i get it,” valentine smiles at you, though the lighthearted mannerisms he’d teased you with minutes ago were no longer to be found. “you want to leave.”
“no. not leave. i’m not going anywhere,” you shake your head frantically, still trying to appease him. “just taking the train down to the beach and visiting her. you’ve met her before, you know i won’t tell her anything about you, because her heart can’t handle it and—”
“oh, that’s cute.” valentine cuts you off again, and you can tell that he finds your desperation utterly amusing from his wry laughter, low and, given the context, incredibly worrying. “you won’t tell her anything about me? tell me, bunny, what exactly is this secret you’re doing me such a favour by keeping, hm?”
“well,” you swallow, wipe your hands on your clothes because they’re all clammy. “you know, how you, um, kidnapped me.” this conversation has not gone the way you meant it to. “or anything about our… relationship.” at the bemused look in his golden eyes, all of your confidence from earlier gets weaker with every word. “…unless you want me to tell her?”
“that’s funny,” valentine muses, in a tone that indicates he finds it anything but, “because i remember so well you were the one who asked to move in with me.”
“well,” you fluster, “yes, but i— you—! it’s not like you let me leave after so isn’t that technically—”
again, you aren’t given the chance to speak properly before the man before you hums curiously, leaning in. “and i think you know why you’re not allowed to be outside, sweetheart. don’t you remember what happened the last time you were left to your own devices?”
“that was none of my fault.” you say, almost immediately. you’re not sure if that’s what you truly believe, or if that’s what you’re trying to convince valentine of. “you know that, and i know that.” almost as an afterthought to console yourself, you hastily add on that “the police know, too.”
“yeah, and the police are always right, aren’t they?” valentine asks sarcastically as his hands fall from your sides, and he leans back in his chair. for a moment, he just watches you, and you think he’s going to give you the permission you’re so desperate for, only to have your hopes crushed when he just shakes his head. “i think you’re not sleeping enough, sweetheart. you should go back to bed. in fact, why don’t we lie down together so i can keep you warm?”
you frown, dig your nails into your own skin until it hurts.
you can’t help the tears that well up in your eyes at his blatant dismissal of the topic you’d been mustering the courage to speak to him about for a week. it makes you feel even more upset than you already do when he wipes them away, presses a kiss to your wet cheeks.
valentine’s amber eyes are etched with conviction when he speaks, and perhaps that’s the worst part about this; that he truly believes what he does is right. that the way he treats you is something you deserve. "sweetheart," he says slowly, as if speaking to a child. "you know i do all of this because i love you, right?"
you want to call him out on his bullshit and tell him that he doesn’t love you. you want to tell him that this is control and obsession; a corrupted version of genuine affection which leaves you hating him. but your throat is dry, and your tongue refuses to move, your entire mouth feels like it’s been stuffed with cotton.
you only look down, so that when the tears keep coming, at least he can’t see them. but he doesn’t take well to that, instead moving your face back to face him, even going so far as to tilt your chin up with his thumb and index finger. “look at me, love.”
you shiver beneath his touch, a few sniffles between tears that you haphazardly wipe away with the back of your hands. “hm,” it doesn’t go unnoticed by valentine. “are you still cold?”
you nod, if only to shift the topic at hand. you don’t like the way he looks at you when you cry, and perhaps that’s why you choose to ignore the way his touches have grown from innocent and consolatory to firmer, almost inquisitive.
you know instantly what he’s going to ask you for, because you know him well, even if you wish you didn’t.
when he speaks, his voice dips an octave, and you swear the candles that light the dim room with their flickering flames grow stronger, burning with the same energy that seems to overcome valentine as he spreads your legs. you try to keep them pressed together, but he’s got the willpower of a starved man, with his favourite meal in sight, and you realise that he’s already made the decision for you, but that doesn’t stop him from asking anyways.
“want me to warm you up?” he breathes, lowering himself to his knees before you. you lean back, elbows on the table, only watching in silence because you still don’t trust yourself to speak. he’s being kinder than he usually is by giving you the illusion of choice, and you don’t want to ruin that.
valentine runs his palms up your legs, before pulling down on the flimsy fabric that’s keeping him from what he wants. “can’t leave,” he murmurs, kissing the soft skin of your inner thigh. “you can’t go anywhere,” without missing a beat, he hoists your legs up so that they’re thrown over his shoulders, pulling you closer towards him, shooting you a dark smile that doesn’t reach his golden eyes, “if you can’t walk.”
on the walls of his office are dark frames of butterflies pinned to a canvas and hung up on a wall. dead, pretty things, that have been preserved to be adored; their lovely wings range from a deep cerulean shade, to the most brilliant vermillion—
and sometimes, especially in moments like these, you feel no better than one of them.
NOW.
you pick up the seventeenth time the phone rings.
red’s in the shower, and you’re lying in bed. the sun has risen, and you bask in its warm glow. at first, you’d been ignoring it, because whoever was calling red had nothing to do with you. later on, though, it became harder to tune out the incessant ringing. you leaned over, the blankets still cozily wrapped around you.
red’s phone was left to charge on their bedside table, and though you felt bad, you couldn’t help the natural curiosity that came over you, as you wondered who was trying so hard to reach them, and why he hadn’t even saved them as a contact.
at first, your mind jumped to conclusions and you imagined some clandestine lover, but you pushed the idea away as soon as it came to you. all of red’s time was spent with you, and they were literally going to move across the continent for your safety and wellbeing; there was no other lover. you suppose old habits die hard.
nevertheless, a sense of unease followed the initial curiosity. the unknown number kept on calling, and so, because the shower was still running, you picked up.
in your head, you rationalised your decision by telling yourself that if someone called sixteen times in the span of five minutes, they probably had something important to say, and that you would be doing your friend a disservice by not picking up such a call on their behalf whilst they were preoccupied.
the line is quiet for a moment, and so you let out an apprehensive “hello?”
the person on the other end of the line shifts, and you think for a quick second that this must be a prank call, albeit a determined one, before they speak.
and your heart sinks when they do.
“hello, sweetheart.” valentine says. “i didn’t expect you to pick up.”
you freeze, and you’re sure you look like a deer caught in headlights with the way your eyes go round and your lips part to let out a soft ‘oh’ that doesn’t go unnoticed by the man on the other end of the phone.
“hm,” the man you’ve been having frequent nightmares about hums, “and it sounds like you didn’t expect me to be calling, either. that’s interesting. did your new boytoy not tell you?”
ignoring the obvious insult thrown to clearly get a rise out of you, his words strike you as odd. “tell me what?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper. “what are… what are you talking about?”
“forget it,” valentine sighs, and you think you can hear the low hum of his coffee machine in the background. “i’m not going to waste my time with you talking about him.” you remember his espressos, how the dark liquid inside so starkly contrasted the white mug that would sit on his desks most mornings, and on the late nights, too. you’ve never liked coffee, though. you used to, but that was before it only brought with it bad luck.
“how have you been, bunny?” you think there’s an edge to his voice when he adds on that “it’s been awhile since i talked to you. didn’t end so well last time, i remember.”
at that, an incredulous laugh slips past your lips. “you’re unbelievable.” you let out, bringing the phone back so that you can stare at its screen in disbelief. “you’re actually insane.”
maybe it’s the fact that valentine’s presence, which used to terrify your ever waking and sleeping moment so much has been reduced to a string of random numbers on a phone, or maybe it’s because he’s always had a way of getting under your skin, but the anger that had been boiling inside of you for the past thirty days bubbles over.
“i hate you.” you confess, the words like nothing else you’ve ever said before.
“oh, sweetheart.” valentine clicks his tongue, voice dripping with mocking sarcasm. “you take me for some sort of fool, don’t you? telling me things i already know like it changes anything.” he sighs, and you think he sounds disappointed, “you’re beginning to sound like a broken record. tell me something nicer.”
“stop calling me. stop calling red.” your grip on the phone tightens until your hands physically ache with the amount of effort you’re spending to refrain from hurtling the device at a wall and watching the screen break into millions of tiny fragments. “why can’t you just leave me alone? please just stop. i hate you. i don’t want you back in my life, and i never wanna see you again… so if you ever loved me, please just leave us alone.”
a pause that doesn’t bode well with you, has you stammering to get him to say something— anything to ease the anxiety that’s going to eat you alive. “i’m serious! if you try to find me, i’ll never forgive you,” he hears your voice waver, the way that it does when you’re about to cry. “and despite what your sick mind may think, i will never love you.”
“why are you doing this?” you ask, and he can hear the effort in your voice to keep it quiet, wonders if red knows you’re speaking to him, “why can’t you leave me alone?” the idea that you’re on the phone with him without red’s knowledge only further compels him to slip his hands down his sweats.
“do you really want to hear me say it?” the man asks, and you notice that the coffee machine’s gone quiet, but you can hear every heavy breath he takes on the other side of the line. “i’ll tell you the reason if you just say please, bunny.”
“please,” you whisper, hearing the shower stop. your heart starts racing more than it already is.
“because even if you don’t like thinking about it, sweetheart, that doesn’t change how you’re the loveliest and most pathetic thing i know, and i can’t get enough of you.” he groans, “you’re such a darling, thinking you could get away from me when you could run to the other side of the world and i’d hunt you down.” he hums, “you could stab a knife through my heart and i’d find you.” a pause that’s followed by short, wry laughter, “ah, but you already did — and i still came back, didn’t i?”
“stop, just stop. i-i know we used to… you have these feelings, but they’re not normal or healthy, and they hurt me, and i just don’t love you back. can’t that count for something? i don’t want you to find me, again. please you ruined my life, i won’t forgive you for it just because you say you love me. that means nothing to me.”
“oh, this is fucking good, bunny. please enlighten me on how i ruined your—! ruined your life,” he demands, through gritted teeth, and you’re horrified by how nonchalant his breathless voice sounds, “when i gave you everything.”
for years, you were kept locked away from the rest of the world and your own family and friends, isolated from all that you knew except for him, depraved of the joys of life, and used as some sick stress reliever for a man you thought you’d loved. he had betrayed your trust, and he had ruined your life; and no matter how much you claimed to have moved on from it all—those two years belonged to him, and they always would, even if you convinced yourself you didn’t.
you think you’re going to start sobbing, the way your bottom lip trembles, but you realise he probably wants that, and muffle a cry with the palm of your hand, as you imagine valentine, in a building that reaches the clouds itself, watching your tears stream down your face, with long, lithe fingers curled around himself, as the sight of you brings him closer to salvation.
you refuse to indulge him. “i— i have nothing more to say to you.”
“is that so?”
silence, save for the sound of a blow dryer from your end, as red finishes up their shower.
“such a shame you can’t run your mouth when i actually want you to, and i was just beginning to enjoy myself.” valentine scoffs, and you imagine him running a weary hand—his free, clean one—down his face in irritation. “it’s been longer than i’d like since i’ve done this with your voice. usually, it’s just some dirty clothes.”
valentine looks down at the painful problem you’ve caused, and it’s one that won’t be solved by just his hands. he throws his head back and sighs, wishing he could feel your warm mouth wrapped around him right now, have his fingers tangled in your hair as you look up at him through your lashes, your mouth stuffed to the brim, as it should be.
and instead, you’re in some other man’s apartment, thinking you’re actually safe now, because he won’t be able to find you. the thought of it makes another indignant scoff slip past his lips, as he gets up to take a cold, cold shower.
he doesn’t want to go, having gotten the chance to talk to you after so long, but he knows he’s pushed you far enough for now. he can continue this charade with you, later, before he inevitably drags you back home to where you belong with him.
“i,” valentine breaks the silence, his words tucked between shallow breaths, “will see you very soon, bunny. please send my loving regards to red, and tell him that life is so, regrettably short, and i truly do hope he manages to enjoy what he has whilst it lasts.”
“no, please!” your eyes widen at the implications of his words, “you promised—”
“i made no promises.” he cuts you off, sighing in disappointment at your stupid assumption. “now, you should really get out of that stuffy apartment more, my love. get some sunlight and fresh air from the balcony and extend me the mercy of letting me at least watch you every once in a while,” he smiles as he hears the phone drop from your hands, fall into the blankets.
“ahh, sorry.” he manages, feeling the little gasp you let out go straight to his dick, “we were pretending that you’d managed to actually get away, right? pretend i never said that. also pretend i never told you to get new security. the locks you’ve got on right now are pitiful, and there are some sick people in this marvellous city of ours who would love to break in and get their hands on you, bunny. and i really want to get you back in one piece.”
you can hear the threat in his voice; laced with venom, and you let out a shuddering breath in response, barely able to form a coherent thought, let alone a legible sentence, “i—”
“i know, i know. you hate me. i just don’t care, sweetheart.” velentine states simply, “ the fact of the matter is that you still belong to me, and whilst this little vacation may have been enjoyable for you, it’s only been irritating for me, so you should start packing now.” he smiles, “i’ll be seeing you soon.”
the call disconnects as he hangs up first, and it’s all you can do not to throw yourself off the balcony as his words replay over and over in your head.
you don’t know how long you sit there, wallowing in your own misery, wishing you could turn back time and fix all of your mistakes; every choice you made that led you to pursuing a better life in this vast city, that caused you to stumble right into his arms.
all you know is that you feel more miserable than you ever have before, even as red, who’s finished moisturising and completely drying their hair, steps out of the bathroom, a towel hanging low on their waist.
you realise, once again, like a slap to the face, how your suffering and misery means nothing to this man.
for years, you were kept locked away from the rest of the world and your own family and friends, isolated from all that you knew except for him, depraved of the joys of life, and used as some sick stress reliever for a man you thought you’d loved.
he had betrayed your trust, and he had ruined your life; and no matter how much you claimed to have moved on from it all—those two years belonged to him, and they always would, even if you convinced yourself you didn’t.
you don’t think about what you’re doing, can’t stop yourself from taking the step forward and finally, across, a thin line you didn’t remember which one of you had first drawn. you reach out and hold on to the fabric of their towel.
you look up at red with pleading eyes, and past their expression of surprise, beyond the fact that they make no move to come closer, seemingly rooted to the spot where they stand, watching you.
but you’re no stranger to begging — valentine made sure of that.
“i need you,” you let out, barely recognising the ugly sound of your own desperate voice, as you cling to your best friend, who feels like your lifeline right now, but in all the wrong ways. “i need you to make me forget.”
it’s not a simple demand but red, as always, obliges without a word, and as he closes the gap between you, you can’t help the fleeting thought that passes you by, gone as soon as it came.
