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Life with your husband is perfect. But when subtle changes start to surface, the warmth you once knew starts to feel different. The man you love is still by your side devoted as ever. But beneath the surface, something isn’t right. And deep down, you’re afraid to ask why.
CW: murder, stalking, general obsessive behaviors, self-deprecating ideologies, implied masturbation and voyeurism
series masterlist 𒌐 prologue 𒌐 chapter two
𒌐
Mornings were always the same.
Miguel arrived at the lab just past six. Earlier, if he couldn’t sleep, which was often. He preferred the quiet. The hum of the generators, the faint blue glow of the monitors, the sterile chill of air that hadn’t yet been touched by anyone else.
The lab recognized his retinal scan before the door finished sliding open. Lights blinked awake in waves as he stepped inside. One of the most advanced research facilities in the known multiverse, and still, it reeked of disinfectant and artificial air.
Screens lit up along the walls as he approached; dim blue holograms pulsing with quantum reads, dimensional overlays, real-time feeds from dozens of Earths’ he no longer cared to memorize. Routine had become second nature. Badge swipe. System diagnostics. Field report reviews. His fingers moved on instinct, pulling up simulations, patching glitches, recalibrating tech. He didn’t speak much during the day unless necessary, and no one questioned it. They knew better.
It was a comfortable rhythm. Efficient. Controlled.
On paper, his life was structured. Honorable, even. He was doing good work. Important work.
But he was growing tired.
He swiped through reports with short, impatient flicks of his fingers. Another ripple in Earth-142’s continuity. Another code collapse in 615. Another breech warning from 217 that someone else could deal with.
Lyla chimed, interrupting his spiral.
“You’ve been awake for forty-two hours, Miguel.”
He ignored it, continue to flic through the countless tabs. She’d said that yesterday too. There were no windows in his lab. He found it to be too much of a distraction, all the hustle and bustle of the city. He never noticed when the morning turned into the afternoon. Or the afternoon into the evening.
It started the way most anomalies did; quiet, buried in the noise.
Miguel scanned through a cluster of new dimensional activity flagged overnight. Dozens of variants popped up across the system: some familiar, some barely registering on baseline parameters. Most of them were garbage. Nothing threatening, nothing useful.
He pulled up a map of the multiversal stream, tabbing through familiar patterns, reconfirming clean pockets, filtering red zones. His fingers hesitated over a blip; Earth 529-B.
Not flagged. Not marked. Just a clean little speck, sitting between threads. Stable. Normal. He tapped into it out of habbit more than interest.
The static cleared, the screen refreshed.
And there he was.
It wasn’t unusual, but it was uncommon. It wasn’t everyday he strolled across variants of himself, and he could never swallow the curiosity the bubbled inside him when he did.
Miguel stared, unblinking, at the version of himself that looked, at first glance, completely unremarkable.
No suit. No enhancements. No visible signs of trauma. He looked… rested. A few years softer in the face. A slower gait. Comfortable.
He didn’t even notice her at first. The angle was off—one of the auxiliary spider-bots had perched too far back, catching a wide-angle view of a small living room. Evening light spilling through gauzy curtains, a girlish coffee mug left out. Slippers by the couch. The hum of a world too still to be dangerous.
Then the door opened.
She stepped into frame like a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Laughing at something off-screen. Hair damp from a shower. No makeup. Soft. Barefoot. She carried a bowl of popcorn and sat beside the other Miguel like she’d done it a thousand times. Like her body knew exactly how to fit against his.
Miguel blinked.
She reached up without looking, fingers sliding into his alternates hair. Lazy affection. Thoughtless, practiced tenderness. She murmured something, and he smiled—this slow, sleepy kind of grin—and kissed the side of her head like it was second nature.
Miguel sat there, stone-still in the flickering dark of his lab, watching as this version of himself leaned back on the couch with the woman wrapped around him like gravity. They didn’t do anything extraordinary. They talked, teased each other. She stole a bite of his food, and he let her.
They looked happy.
Not that fragile, pretend kind of happiness people chase with noise and distraction. But the real kind. The quiet kind. The kind you build in slow, uneven steps until one day you look around and realize you’re home.
He shut the feed.
Forcefully.
The screen blinked black, and he sat back in the chair like the screen had burned him.
It doesn’t matter.
It’s not his life. Not his problem.
There were reports to file. Patrol routes to coordinate. A dimensional rift opening up three sectors down. And of course; his very own city that needs him.
He suited up without looking at his reflection. The suit gripped his spine, sealed across his ribs. A perfect fit. Calibrated to his exact vitals, responding to every breath and shift of weight. It felt like a second skin—one he hadn’t taken off in years, even when he wasn’t wearing it.
The lab faded behind him. The city opened up.
Night hadn’t fully settled yet. The sky above Nueva York was still bleeding orange and violet, city lights flickering to life like neurons firing across metal bones. Below, the world moved. Hovercars speeding between towers, neon bleeding across concrete, every surface alive with motion.
Miguel moved through it all like a ghost.
One webline shot clean across the gap between buildings—his body followed, weightless for half a second before momentum caught him and flung him forward again. He landed in a crouch on a vertical wall, pushed off, flipped into a dive.
The wind tore past him.
It always felt like this; violent, cold, almost too loud to think.
Perfect.
Because thinking meant remembering.
And tonight, he didn’t want to remember her face.
So he buried himself in the city’s demands.
A robbery in Sector 4. He took down four armed thieves in under thirty seconds. Disarmed, webbed, dropped them off for enforcement to collect without a word. One tried to run. He didn’t get far.
A dimensional disturbance near the lower market—just a flicker, a pressure glitch from a collapsing pocketverse. Miguel stabilized it with two drones and a pulse anchor. The rift spat static and tried to pull him in. It failed.
He helped clear a mag-lift derailment after that. A family had been trapped in the last car, one kid clutching a holographic plush and shaking so hard her fingers were white. Miguel ripped the door off with one hand, pulled them out with the other. The parents thanked him. The child cried.
He didn’t say a word.
Didn’t stay long enough to make it awkward.
He was gone before they’d stopped blinking.
It went like that for hours.
Problem after problem. Crisis after crisis.
And through all of it, the same feeling followed him like a shadow.
Emptiness.
It had been easy before. Easier, at least. You could survive anything if you gave enough of yourself to the work. You could build armor out of purpose. Convince yourself that saving the world meant more than having one of your own.
But now he’d seen it.
What his world could’ve been.
Miguel landed hard on the edge of a rooftop. The ledge cracked beneath his boots. His heart thudded behind his ribs. Not from exertion, but from something else. Something bitter.
The sky had gone dark. The city pulsed below. The wind was sharp, stinging across his exposed jaw.
He stayed there a while.
Looking.
But there was nothing to see.
Just lights. Just noise. Just another night in the city that never looked up.
He didn’t want to look out at the city anymore. He knew every corner of it. Knew how the people screamed when they were afraid and smiled when they thought someone else would save them.
He was always saving them.
The world called him a hero. But in every version of the world that mattered, he was alone. He knew what it meant to save a city. But not what it felt like to be missed when he was late for dinner.
Eventually, he made his way home.
He disengaged his suit and it peeled off like skin, slow and mechanical, then stepped into the low light of the adjoining room. The walls were bare. The furniture was functional. The kind of space meant to be lived in by someone too busy to live at all.
He ate standing at the kitchen counter—a protein bar, coffee, silence. No music. No laughter. No one calling from the next room asking if he remembered the groceries. No messages waiting on his communicator unless they were urgent.
They always were.
It crossed his mind then; that this wasn’t a home. It was a holding cell.
A place to sleep, to recharge. To rot.
He exhaled through his nose.
He told himself it would be the last time.
Just a quick look and he’d forget all about it entirely.
Just some… surveillance for work.
Miguel tapped in the stream manually again; Earth-529-B. He let the image unfold across his home monitor. No spider activity. No anomaly. Just an ambient feed. Quiet, domestic, uneventful.
She was in the kitchen this time. Hair pulled back. Pink slippers. Humming under her breath as she moved between cupboards, making something warm. The spider-bot’s proximity sensors recognized cinnamon and he could almost imagine it. The weight of it in the air. The heat. Her presence.
His other self walked in halfway through. Said something low. She grinned.
It was so small. So stupid. But it pulled at something sharp inside his chest.
The sound of her voice softened when she spoke to him.
The way she leaned into him without thinking. The way he knew where the mugs were without looking. The way she filled the silence, and the silence welcomed it.
Miguel watched his variant press a kiss to the back of her neck before settling at the table with a datapad. Her hand rested briefly on his shoulder as she passed.
Natural.
Unremarkable.
Unfair.
It hit him in the chest like a falling building.
Because this Miguel—the one on the screen—wasn’t saving the world. Wasn’t wearing a mask. He wasn’t even tired. He was just loved. Fully. Softly. Without having to earn it.
And worse?
He looked like he deserved it.
Miguel scrubbed a hand down his face, throat tight. He should’ve looked away, closed the feed and labeled it as irrelevant. But his fingers hovered over the controls, frozen.
Her laugh looped back. The way she nudged the other Miguel’s knee. The way her eyes lit up when she teased him. She said his name, not just like it was familiar, but like it was sacred.
She was laughing at something his alternate said. Miguel replayed the footage ten times before he realized what it was that unsettled him—he wasn’t trying to be funny. She just loved him that way.
He sat back in his chair, the glow of the feed washing pale across his face. His apartment around him was still. Stark. Quiet. No warmth. No scent. Just glass, metal, and silence. The screens on the far wall dimmed automatically, sensing his stillness.
There was a moment where he could’ve shut it off again.
But he didn’t.
He leaned forward instead.
Zoomed the image slightly. Enhanced the audio.
She was talking about her day, rambling about something she read. Her mug clinked softly on the counter as she turned to lean on it, still facing her Miguel. Still smiling.
He doesn’t deserve that.
The thought came sudden. Fierce.
Miguel frowned.
He pulled up another data set beside the stream, basic file info on the variant. Not a Spider-Man. No mutations. Same genetic base, but untouched. Unchanged. The kind of man who never clawed his way through blood and glass to survive.
So why does he get this?
He wasn’t extraordinary. And yet everything around him felt like it had meaning. Including her.
His jaw tensed. He watched them a moment longer, then minimized the screen.
Didn’t close it. Just… minimized.
He’d definitely seen it.
A life he could’ve had. A version of himself that hadn’t burned everything down to be a hero. A woman who loved him for reasons he couldn’t understand; because this Miguel didn’t need to be impressive. He was just hers.
And Miguel wanted that.
He just didn’t know what to do about it yet.
𒌐
He didn’t mean to make it a habit.
It just happened.
Miguel started waking up earlier than usual. Not because of alarms or patrol rotations. Not because the city needed saving.
Because she was making breakfast at 6:12 a.m. on Earth 529-B and he wanted to be more than prepared to eat with her.
He memorized the time. Memorized the robe she wore. The way her hair was always half-wet from the shower. The color of her socks, mismatched. The soft rasp of her voice when she asked the other Miguel what he wanted in his coffee, even though she already knew.
She knew everything about him. All his tells. His rhythms. His moods. And Miguel watched it all.
The moment he stepped into the lab—before diagnostics, before reports, before even Lyla’s first dry-witted greeting—he pulled up the feed. Habitual now, like muscle memory.
The screen blinked to life in the quiet, low light of the lab. No one else around yet. Just him. Her. Him.
He was sitting at the breakfast table reading something on a tablet. She was making eggs. Plain, domestic.
Miguel stared.
She always cooked the eggs the same way. Over medium, yolk just barely soft. He’d watched her flip them with a practiced hand, adding a pinch of seasoning, sliding them onto a ceramic plate that didn’t match the rest of the dishes. His alternate liked toast with honey, no butter. Coffee. Black, no sugar.
He made note of it without meaning to.
She watched with fond eyes as he began to dig in.
Miguel sat at his console, empty stomach curled in on itself, and watched the version of himself eat breakfast with a woman who would never look at him like that.
Except… she did. Didn’t she?
In the feed. She smiled at him.
Just… not him.
He realized he’d been leaning forward, chin balanced in one hand, watching like it was a memory. Something half-remembered. Something his.
When Lyla flickered into view, mid-sentence, he shut the feed off too fast.
“…You good?” she blinked, cocking her digital head, a pixelated brow lifting. “You didn’t even run the scans. That’s unlike you.”
“I was thinking,” he said.
“Uh-huh. About what?”
He didn’t answer.
Just turned away, pulled up system diagnostics, and dove headfirst into the next distraction.
He had started telling himself it was observation. Research. That he needed to understand the variables. How a version of himself had ended up like that. Soft. Loved. Whole.
But the truth was ugly. And it sat heavy under his skin.
He watched because he was starving.
He didn’t stop thinking about it.
Later that night, after patrol, after another series of city-saving acts that left him more bruised and empty than fulfilled, he stood in front of his bathroom mirror. His hair was still damp from the rain. He looked at himself for a long time.
Then he shrugged into an old t-shirt.
Not his usual black compression gear. Not the suit. Just a soft, worn thing he hadn’t touched in years. Something he’d seen the other Miguel wear. Something she’d smiled at once and said looked “comfy.”
He didn’t even remember owning it until he tore through storage earlier that week.
Now it was the only thing he wanted to wear.
He stood there for a while, studying his reflection. Adjusting the way he held his shoulders. Softening his mouth. Lowering his chin. Trying to remember exactly how the other him looked when she kissed his cheek that morning.
He tried it.
Tilted his head the same way. Smiled.
It felt wrong. Mechanical... hollow. Like wearing someone else’s skin.
But somehow, it felt right.
He didn’t know which one scared him more.
Eventually, he moved to the kitchen. Made himself toast with honey. No butter. Coffee. Black, no sugar. Just to know what it tasted like. Just to feel what he felt.
He sat at the counter, chewing slowly.
It tasted like nothing.
He finished it anyway.
𒌐
It was late when he watched again.
She was sitting on the floor this time, curled up beside the coffee table, scribbling notes in a book with a pencil tucked behind one ear. Her hair was messy, pulled up lazily. She was in socks and an oversized hoodie. One of his old ones—his variant’s, technically.
Miguel stared at her for a long time.
She didn’t do anything special. She scratched her head. Took a sip of tea. Pushed some stray hairs out of her eyes.
But for a moment, he could pretend. Pretend that she was just… there. With him. That he was in that apartment instead. That he could walk over and kneel beside her and ask what she was working on. That her soft expression was meant for him.
Miguel didn’t blink.
He could watch her like this for hours. No performance. No pretense. Just her in the quiet. Her existing. Breathing. It made him feel like there was still time to change everything. Like he could still be good.
But then, he heard the door.
Saw it swing open in the background.
And just like that; she smiled.
Her eyes lit up. Her entire posture changed.
The other Miguel walked in, pulling his jacket off. Tossed keys in a bowl by the wall. Said something that made her smile sweetly—he couldn’t hear what it was. But Miguel didn’t need it.
He saw it. Felt it. That subtle shift. That warmth.
The moment shattered.
It was no longer hers. No longer theirs.
The man, his alternate, walked up behind her and bent down to kiss her cheek. She tilted her head into the touch without thinking. She reached back and pulled him down beside her.
It was his again. His double’s. The man who walked through the door and made her smile like nothing else mattered. Who dropped a kiss to her cheek without thinking. Who made it look so easy. Effortless.
Like it wasn’t a miracle every time she looked up and smiled at him.
Miguel’s jaw clenched.
He watched them settle into the couch together, side by side like puzzle pieces. She laid her head on his shoulder, and he curled his fingers into hers.
It should’ve felt romantic. Instead, it felt like a knife.
Miguel leaned closer to the screen.
He watched the way the other him touched her; easy, like it came naturally. The kind of ease that was earned over years. That couldn’t be duplicated or hacked or built.
That kind of intimacy had to be lived.
It made something sharp twist in his chest.
Miguel sat back slowly in his chair, arms crossed tight over his chest, eyes never leaving the screen.
In that moment, he stopped watching like an admirer.
He started studying like a thief.
𒌐
Miguel stood at the edge of his console, fingers resting on the metal rim, eyes locked on the monitor like it was a lifeline.
The man on the screen was getting dressed.
Simple button-down. Rolled sleeves. Loose slacks. He adjusted the collar, checked his watch. Normal. Human. Soft in all the ways Miguel had learned not to be.
He took a mental note. Third time this week he’d seen him choose light blue. Casual neutrals. No sharp edges, no commanding presence. Just… approachable. Like he never had to prove anything to anyone.
Miguel pulled the video feed back ten minutes. Watched it again.
And again.
Watched how he brushed his hair back with one hand while balancing a cup of coffee in the other. How he kissed her forehead in passing like it was nothing. How he laughed—real, full, and easy.
He didn’t just observe anymore. He documented. He had files now. Data folders.
“M. O’Hara – Earth 529-B”
Subcategories: Daily Routine. Speech Patterns. Work Habits. Dietary Preferences. Social Relationships.
He took note of everything.
His walk; slower, more relaxed.
His voice; slightly lower, but warmer in tone.
The way he always paused before answering a question, like he cared about getting it right. Like he was thinking not just about what to say, but how it would make her feel.
It infuriated Miguel.
And still, he watched.
He studied the man’s commute.
Mapped his route through the city. The exact time he left the house. The bakery he stopped at every Thursday. The woman who waved at him from the florist shop on Main. The coworkers he chatted with at the office. Their names. Faces. Jokes.
Every relationship cataloged. Every line of familiarity between them recorded.
There was a man named Elias he seemed close with. Taller. Sharp sense of humor. They got lunch together sometimes. Miguel watched himself make him laugh once. Saw the alternate Miguel bump his shoulder and mouth something like, “don’t even try it.”
He paused the feed there. Rewatched it.
That face he made. That casual confidence.
Miguel tilted his head. Tried to replicate it in the dark, reflection faint in the black of the monitor.
It didn’t look the same.
Then there were his hobbies.
Books he bought. Music he listened to. Shows she made him watch and he actually did—and liked. He remembered one night watching the variant clean the kitchen while humming something quiet, something old and half-Spanish. Something Miguel hadn’t heard since he was a boy.
It hurt more than it should have.
He made a note of it anyway.
Food preferences. His caffeine intake. The way he always took off his shoes before stepping inside the door. The way he sat with her on the couch, never on the other end, always close, always touching.
He memorized it. Not because he wanted to be like him. Because he wanted to be better.
Most disturbing of all was how naturally he slipped into it. The mimicry. The daily rehearsals.
He started adjusting his posture. Relaxing the tension in his shoulders. Practicing speech inflections alone in his apartment. Saying the same phrases over and over until he could say them like him.
He hated how easily it came to him. Like he’d always been waiting for an excuse.
The only thing he couldn’t replicate was the light in his eyes.Because that man, his alternate, had never seen what he’d seen.
He hadn’t lived in blood. He hadn’t watched whole worlds collapse. He hadn’t woken up every morning with no one.
That man got to live softly. Easily.
Loved.
𒌐
Miguel pulled the hood low over his forehead, the soft fabric shadowing his eyes, and tugged the mask up over his nose. The chill of the morning air bit at the exposed skin of his neck as he stepped out onto the sidewalk, his breath a faint cloud dissolving in front of him. The world smelled sharp with the scent of damp pavement and brewing coffee from nearby cafés.
For months he’d been trapped behind glass and glowing screens, a ghost tethered to a life he only observed from a distance. Watching her laugh, watching her move—never close enough to feel the warmth of her presence, never close enough to breathe the same air.
This isn’t enough. The thought clenched his chest like a vice.
He wanted to reach out. Not just through pixels, not just through data feeds—but to actually see her. To witness the small, unguarded moments. The way sunlight caught in her hair, the curve of her smile when she thought no one was watching, the softness in her eyes when she looked at the world with quiet hope.
So he came here.
A quiet observer cloaked in the mundane. A man in a hoodie and mask, drifting like a shadow through her world.
At the corner café, he lingered just out of sight. She was there, her fingers wrapped around a steaming cup, eyes closed for a moment as if savoring a secret no one else could touch. His heart ached with the ache of absence, the desperate hunger to cross the divide.
Later, the grocery aisles became his sanctuary and his prison. He moved beside her, unseen, his eyes tracing the gentle arc of her movements, the way she paused to read a label, the faint glimmer in her eye when she caught sight of something familiar. Every small detail seared into his memory.
On the train, he shifted his stance, changed his coat, lowered his cap. Every time she boarded, his pulse quickened. Her presence was a balm and a torment all at once. He watched her lose herself in thought, the faintest crease of worry lining her brow, the delicate sigh she let out when the train rattled on.
And then; the collision.
Sudden and raw.
Their bodies met in a careless stumble. Papers scattered like startled birds. She looked up, eyes wide, catching his gaze through the dark mask.
For a heartbeat, the world fell away.
Her voice, soft and real, broke through the haze.
“I’m so sorry!”
His voice was a rasp, barely more than a whisper.
“Sorry.”
Her eyes searched his, a flicker of recognition maybe—or just curiosity—before she stepped back, melting into the crowd. He stood frozen, heart pounding, breath shallow, the ache of longing crashing over him like a wave.
But she was already gone.
And he was left with nothing but the hollow echo of a moment that almost was.
Miguel told himself he wouldn’t do it again.
One time. Just once. Just to see her in real life, to breathe the same air. That was the lie he fed himself the first time he crossed over.
But he did it again.
And again.
And again.
He told himself it was harmless. A passing shadow, a phantom in the periphery of her day. No interaction. No interference. Just… presence. Just proximity. Just proof that she was real.
The next time was at the park.
She sat alone beneath a canopy of trees, the late afternoon sun catching in the strands of her hair, turning them gold. A book rested in her lap, pages fluttering gently in the breeze. Every few minutes she looked up. At the sky, at passing strangers, at the world as if she was quietly falling in love with it all over again.
Miguel sat across the path, half-hidden by shadows and the angle of his hood. Every breath he took felt like a sin.
She looked beautiful. Unbearably so. In a way that made his ribs ache. The kind of beauty that asked for nothing and gave everything. She wasn’t performing for anyone. She was just being. And it devastated him.
He couldn’t look away.
Her expression shifted with the story she read; smiling faintly at one page, frowning at another. She bit her lip absently, unaware she was being watched. And Miguel, who had seen thousands of worlds, who had bent time and science to his will, who had saved entire cities—felt like a boy with his face pressed to glass, begging for something he never had the courage to ask for.
Why, when he was the better one. Smarter. Stronger. Sharper. He had built everything from nothing. Sacrificed. Bled. Lost. He deserved—
No.
He didn’t deserve her.
No one did.
But he wanted her. In the deepest, most ruinous way a man could want someone. Not just her smile. Not just her voice. But the quiet of her presence. The safety. The soft understanding in her eyes when she looked at him like she saw the real version of him—even if it wasn’t him at all.
Later that week, he followed her through a bookstore. She drifted between shelves, fingers dancing across spines like they were sacred. She stopped in front of a display and tilted her head, studying a cover, her lips moving softly as she read the blurb.
He imagined walking up beside her, leaning in close, asking if she’d recommend it. He could almost feel the warmth of her shoulder beside his.
But he didn’t move.
He just watched.
And when she left, he followed her out into the dusk, vanishing into the crowd like a secret.
Each time, it became harder to leave. Harder to remind himself that this wasn’t his life.
But each time, he told himself the same thing.
Just one more glimpse. Just one more moment.
Just one more lie.
And still, it was never enough.
𒌐
He holds the door open for an old man, says something with a soft smile, just loud enough for the man to hear, quiet enough not to draw attention. The man laughs. Claps him on the back. Says something else as they part ways.
Of course. Of course he’s friendly.
Miguel watches from the edge of the sidewalk, tucked behind a half-wall of vines and brick. Close enough to hear the echo of the exchange, even if not the words.
The alternate walks with unhurried steps, shoulders relaxed, hands tucked into the pockets of a worn jacket. Not stiff. Not guarded. Not anxious.
Just comfortable.
At ease in his body. In his place in the world.
Miguel’s mouth is dry. He stares, unblinking.
There’s nothing performative about the way the man greets people. No need to impress. No show.
He’s just… good.
And it’s not the loud kind of good. It’s not grand or noble or remarkable. It’s quiet. In the way he stops to help a kid reattach a fallen shoelace. In the way he slows his pace to walk beside someone older. In the way he speaks; low and steady, with warmth in his voice like there’s never any rush.
He’s the kind of person people relax around.
The kind who makes the world feel safer just by existing in it.
And Miguel hates him for it.
He can’t even explain why, not in a way that makes sense.
Because how do you hate a man who’s done nothing wrong?
Who’s never hurt you, never lied, never cheated his way ahead?
You don’t.
You resent him. Quietly. Fiercely.
The man hasn’t done anything wrong. That’s what makes it worse. He’s just… good at being himself.
Good in the ways Miguel never was.
He doesn’t talk too much, but people listen when he does. He doesn’t demand space, but people make room for him anyway. He doesn’t need to be loud, because people lean in when he speaks.
He connects. Effortlessly.
Miguel watches him pause to greet someone across the street. A familiar face. A light laugh. A hand briefly on the other man’s shoulder. Friendly. Natural. There’s nothing guarded in his eyes, no second-guessing behind his expressions.
It’s like he was made to be liked.
He is softness. And that softness is winning.
People smile at him on instinct. Dogs trail him with their tails wagging. Children glance up and then don’t look away. He doesn’t have to try.
And Miguel? He has spent his whole life trying.
Trying to be better. Trying to be enough. Trying to keep from slipping into the part of himself that sees everything as threat or strategy or obligation.
And still, this man… this version of him… lives with ease. With love. With connection.
Like it was simple.
Miguel turns away, heat crawling up the back of his neck.
It’s not fair. It’s not fair. It’s not fair.
It’s not fair that this man gets to be seen as kind, as safe, as good—
When he’s done nothing to earn it.
He’s not pretending. That’s the problem.
He’s not some polished mask Miguel can tear off. He’s real. And every inch of that truth burns. Because it means Miguel is not the best version of himself. Not the one that got it right.
He’s just the one who’s watching.
Wanting.
And waiting.
𒌐
The lights in the lab were low.
Too low for work.
But this wasn’t work.
The feed played silently. No sound, no alerts, no Lyla. Just her, wrapped in steam, behind fogged glass that barely concealed anything. She moved with ease, arms raised as she dragged wet fingers through her hair, and he watched—staring like a man starved.
She was showering.
It was mundane. Private, normal. But God, that made it worse. Her movements were slow, absentminded. She was massaging conditioner into her scalp, neck tilted just slightly as the water ran down her back in rivulets.
“God, you’re beautiful.”
It wasn’t the first time he’d seen her like this. It wasn’t even the first time today. He’d memorized the curves of her spine, the tilt of her neck, the little breaths she took when the water got too hot and made her shiver. It was a ritual now. One he had no right to, but couldn’t stop repeating.
Miguel sat back in his chair, legs spread wide, hands resting on his thighs like anchors holding him in place. The screen before him glowed dimly— soft, intimate. A warm yellow hue spilled across the feed, and steam drifted along the lens like a curtain being drawn.
And she had no idea she was being watched.
He knew it was wrong. Knew it with the kind of clarity that should have stopped him.
But his hand hovered near his waistband anyway.
His breath had started to deepen, not quite heavy yet, but close. Like something was pulling at the edge of him. Drawing him in. The intimacy of it. The innocence. The quiet of her movements. She was humming and he could almost feel it vibrating in his chest like something secret, something not meant for him but taken anyway.
He watched the water slide down her collarbone, the way her lips parted as she sighed. His breathing slowed, then hitched. The warmth in his gut bloomed into something heavier. Hungrier. His hand twitched at his thigh.
I’d treat you so well.
The thought struck him suddenly. Loud. Undeniable.
He shuddered as he palmed himself through his pants.
“Hey, Miguel?” Lyla’s voice snapped into the room like a live wire.
Miguel flinched.
Hard.
He sat bolt upright, breath caught, the moment shattered like glass beneath a boot. His screen scrambled. The feed cut out. Hands clenched into fists at his sides, jaw tight, chest rising and falling like he’d just been caught mid-crime.
Lyla’s projection hovered in the air beside him, glitching slightly as if sensing the tension. She paused, blinking at his sudden shift.
“Uh… you okay?” Her voice was light, but her tone was cautious.
Miguel didn’t move. His eyes stayed forward, cold, burning.
“System flagged some unauthorized data feeds. From an untracked Earth,” she added, slower this time. “Miguel, you’re pulling visual from a domestic node… in a private residence. That’s—”
“Turn off.” His voice cracked out like a gunshot.
Lyla hesitated. “Miguel… just tell me what you’re—”
“I said turn the fuck off.” His head whipped toward her, eyes blazing.
Lyla disappeared. No protest. No glitchy sign-off.
Silence returned to the room.
Miguel sat back slowly, breath still jagged, shame licking at the edge of his consciousness but unable to cut deep enough to matter. Not anymore. Not when it came to her.
His screen stayed dark for a long time.
But not forever.
Never forever.
𒌐
It had been months.
Too many, maybe. But he stopped keeping track a long time ago. Somewhere along the line, slipping into her world became less like a trespass and more like… returning. Like syncing with something he was always meant to be part of.
He’d perfected it; watching her from just far enough, never close enough to distort the image. She didn’t know he was there, and that made it easier to pretend she could know him. That if things were different, if everything hadn’t splintered when it did, she’d look at him the same way she looked at the man she thought was Miguel.
The man who wasn’t him.
At first, he hated that version of himself in a dull, detached kind of way. A quiet ache in his chest that flared whenever he saw her kiss him goodbye. It was envy, sure. But something more complicated. Something like curiosity.
What made that version of him worthy of her? What did he have that Miguel didn’t?
It gnawed at him.
The variant laughed more. Talked softer. He didn’t drag ghosts around behind his eyes. He didn’t flinch when she touched him. He didn’t correct her absentmindedly or talk over her when he got excited. He was steady. Gentle in the ways that mattered.
Good, in the ways Miguel wasn’t.
It didn’t hit him all at once. No, realizations like that rarely do. They come slowly, like water seeping into a cracked foundation. A week ago, he watched her fall asleep on the couch with her head in her Miguel’s lap. And instead of anger, he felt… small.
Like he was the shadow in the doorway. The leftover.
It felt unjust.
He was the one who had sacrificed. Who had bled, and lost, and clawed his way through timeline after timeline trying to make something right. He was the one who saw the truth, who understood how fragile it all was. He earned respect the hard way. Through grief. Through discipline. Through control.
The question kept circulating in his mind. Why did this version of him, this soft, sunny, undeserving echo, get her? Get this life?
Tonight, it crystallized.
He hadn’t meant to follow them. Or maybe he did. He was just… there. The rain was light, barely misting, but it clung to his skin and like static. They were just returning home. Grocery bags in hand. Her hair tucked under a hood. She bumped her shoulder against him and said something that made him smile.
He smiled.
Not the tired, closed-lipped version Miguel practiced in glass reflections. No, this one beamed. It stretched his face into something warm. Familiar. Easy.
And she looked at him like the sun lived in his chest. Like there was nothing else in the world she trusted more.
Miguel’s hands curled into fists, nails biting into the skin of his palms.
He hated him.
He hated him.
But not for the obvious reasons. Not just because he had her. Not just because he was living the life Miguel couldn’t touch.
He hated him because… he was better. Not stronger. Not smarter. Not braver.
Better.
There was ease in him. Softness. A gentleness Miguel had long since ground out of himself.
He doesn’t even know what he has.
He wanted to believe that. Desperately.
But deep down, in the part of himself he never looked too closely at… he knew that wasn’t true.
His variant did know. He did deserve her.
He had spent all this time hating the other man. Cursing him. Fantasizing about tearing the life out from under him.
But he had never once stopped to ask why.
He watched her lean into his chest, soaked hair falling over her cheeks. She said something low, and his alternate laughed. A full laugh, unguarded. Miguel flinched.
Now he knew.
He stared at them, frozen in place as they climbed the steps to her building, their building, he had started calling it in his head. His throat felt dry, as if the air had thinned out around him. The moment kept going, and he didn’t move. Couldn’t.
Because suddenly it wasn’t him he was looking at anymore.
He saw the version of himself he could never become.
Everything he had tried so hard to become.
And she loved him. Because of it.
She clung to him.
Because he wasn’t Miguel. Not really.
How could she know that the broken thing watching from across the street ever even existed?
The thought cracked something open in his chest.
That was the moment it shifted.
No more pretending it didn’t matter. No more half-truths and fragile fantasies. This wasn’t just some stolen life. It wasn’t just about love.
It was about being seen. Being chosen. Being enough.
And he never would be, not while that man existed.
He felt it settle in his bones, cold and final.
There was no room for two of them.
Only one could have her.
And now, at last, Miguel knew who deserved that life.
He let out a breath through his nose. Slow. Shaky.
He’d been living in the illusion that he could wait this out. That the universe would hand him a door. But the universe didn’t owe him a goddamn thing.
If he wanted that life, his life, he’d have to take it.
And it wouldn’t be easy. Wouldn’t be clean. But it would be final.
He looked up, eyes locked on the window where they’d just disappeared inside. The light flickered on. Shadows moved across curtains.
There could only be one Miguel O’Hara.
And it would not be the better one.
It would be the one who wanted it more.
𒌐
It happens on a late Wednesday night.
The kind of late where the world’s gone soft at the edges. Where streetlights buzz quietly, casting long, amber shadows that stretch out like reaching hands. Everything’s hushed. Still. Like the night is holding its breath.
Miguel’s been following him for three blocks now.
No mask. No tech. Just himself. Plain clothes and silent, drifting through the shadows like he belongs there. He knows the route, the tempo. His alternate always walks home alone on Wednesdays. Always takes the scenic streets. A small indulgence. He likes the trees, the quiet. Always did.
His alternate walks with a relaxed posture, one hand in his coat pocket, the other clutching a thermos. That same stupid thermos she bought him—green, dented at the rim. He’d complained about the color when she gave it to him. She laughed, told him it matched his soul. He doesn’t know he’s being followed. Of course he doesn’t.
He’s never had to look over his shoulder.
Miguel keeps his distance.
He’s not rushing. Not yet. He doesn’t want to rush this.
He wants to see him.
Miguel watches the way his head tilts when he passes by the bakery, the way his eyes flick up to the apartment windows above, like he’s checking on something he loves.
Someone.
He watches the way his alternate looks up at the leaves above him, lets the wind touch his face. There’s something unguarded about him. Open. Like he doesn’t believe anything bad could ever happen to him.
Miguel trails him down the long sidewalk, past the park, toward the alley shortcut. He’s calm. Focused. No nerves. No panic. That ugly truth was beginning to rise up, something awful and gut wrenching. The decision was made long ago. Long before he’d ever admit. Tonight is only the execution.
Miguel’s steps are slower now. Heavy with purpose. Measured.
He waits until the alternate steps into the alley across their apartment. The shortcut he always takes on nights like this.
Miguel closes the distance.
He’s silent as he approaches. Precise. Controlled.
When he grabs him, it’s with full force—one arm around the neck, the other locking down his shoulders, pinning his arms before he can react.
It’s not elegant. It’s brutal. Quick and decisive. A real, human chokehold.
The alternate jerks hard, but Miguel’s already behind him, taller, stronger, prepared. His legs kick against the sidewalk. He drops the thermos. Miguel kicks it away without looking.
There’s no weapon. No blade. No blood.
Just pressure and silence.
The struggle is fast and ugly. Miguel’s breathing stays even, arms locked in place as the alternate thrashes, confused, panicked. His body fights before his mind catches up. It always happens that way.
Then it shifts.
Then he starts to understand.
He makes a low sound, a choked-off, hurt question.
The alternate’s hand reaches up weakly, fingers brushing Miguel’s coat like he wants to hold onto something, anything.
Miguel tightens his grip.
Deliberately.
There’s no rush. No anger. Just the inevitable coming home.
The logical conclusion to a flawed equation.
“I know,” he mutters against the back of his ear. “I know.”
The alternate’s legs weaken. One arm flails, then fails. He collapses slowly in Miguel’s hold, knees buckling under him. His mouth is open but no sound comes out. His chest heaves. And then, at last: he drops.
Miguel lowers him to the pavement gently. Not because he cares. But because it’s his body now. His life. His clothes. His name.
The alternate gasps once, still conscious. His head rests against the concrete, eyes fluttering open. Trying to focus. He sees Miguel, really sees him, for the first time.
“You…” he breathes, voice cracked and small.
Miguel crouches beside him. Doesn’t answer right away.
He just looks at him.
It’s strange, how much they really do look alike. Same face. Same frame. But his alternate feels smaller now. Softer. Even dying, there’s kindness in his eyes.
That makes it worse.
“I’ve watched you,” he says, low. “For months.” A small shudder runs through the alternate’s body. “I used to think I hated you,” Miguel says quietly. “But that’s not it.”
The alternate coughs, the motion barely registering. His hand twitches against the pavement. Miguel leans a knee into his larynx, just hard enough to keep him from breathing.
He leans in closer. Their shadows overlapping.
“You were good. Better. You made it look so easy. Loving her. Letting her love you. You didn’t have to earn it. You just breathed and it was enough.”
The alternate blinks slowly. The light in his eyes starts to dim.
“You don’t deserve this. But I need it.”
There’s a beat of stillness.
And for the briefest second, he feels the ache of something worse than rage: pity.
“She won’t even know,” he whispers. “She’ll never have to.”
Miguel sits there for a long moment. Still crouched beside him, hands pressed to the ground like he’s anchoring himself to the scene.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers.
It’s not sarcasm. It’s not bitter.
It’s genuine.
But then—it’s done.
The last breath slips from his lips. The eyes go still.
It’s almost poetic, he thinks. He’s died to himself.
But the thought is flitting, and it’s not long before he moves.
Quickly and efficient. He drags the body deeper into the alley across the complex, props it up just long enough to strip the jacket, the undershirt, the boots. The alternate had been wearing a clean layer underneath: thermals, fresh.
Miguel pulls them on.
They fit. Of course they do.
He wipes down his own prints. Folds his old clothes. Shoves them into a canvas bag he’s already packed with the portal device. Thumbs open a thin, glowing portal: unstable, temporary, tethered to coordinates he picked at random weeks ago. An empty stretch of barren wasteland on a dead Earth. No civilization. No life. No trace.
He drags the body into the open mouth of the portal. Careful not to leave marks.
He stares at the body one last time. At the man who had everything. Who was everything.
Then he closes the portal.
Gone like he never existed.
He died believing he mattered, and that was more than Miguel ever had.
He's always been good at cleanup. At control.
All that was left, was to go home.
𒌐
The walk up to the door feels longer than it should.
His legs move, but the rest of him stays caught in the moment before. The scrape of the pavement under his knees, the weight of the body going still beneath his hands, the faint sound his duplicate made as the last breath rattled in his throat. Miguel keeps replaying it in his head, trying to hold onto the clarity that pushed him this far.
But now?
Now there’s just silence. And the dull thump of his heart in his ears.
He’s climbing stairs that have never belonged to him but somehow feel familiar under his boots. He knows the chipped edge on the third step. He knows the loose tile by the door. He’s memorized them. Watched them. He lived outside this life so long he started believing it was already his.
But it wasn’t.
Not until now.
His hand lingers on the doorframe. It’s painted white, slightly scuffed near the bottom from careless shoes. His other hand drifts to the keys in his pocket, warm from the heat of his body. His keys now. The ones he pulled from a coat that still smelled like detergent and clean skin and comfort.
He pulls it out slowly, stares at it for a second. A stupid little piece of metal. But this is the final gate. The last threshold.
He can barely breathe.
His fingers tremble as he fits it into the lock.
The sound it makes as it turns—soft, familiar, welcoming—nearly undoes him. His stomach flips. His skin prickles. There’s sweat at the nape of his neck and on the backs of his knees. He feels like he’s about to walk into a dream, or a memory he was never allowed to have.
The scent hits first. It’s warm. Domestic. Like detergent, candle wax, and the faintest trace of something cooked earlier in the evening and now gone cold. It’s not just a smell, it’s a feeling. Familiar. Intimate. It curls around him like steam off a hot plate, sinking under his skin.
And she’s there.
His heart almost stops.
She’s in the kitchen, back turned, curls tied up in a messy knot, sleeves pushed above her elbows as she rinses a glass in the sink. She’s wearing one of his shirts—his shirt now—and humming softly to herself. The sound is quiet. The kind of sound you make when you trust the walls around you. When you believe you’re safe.
His eyes adjust to the dim lighting, and his breath catches when he sees her.
She turns at the sound of the door shutting.
“Oh—hey,” she says, blinking in surprise, but it melts into a smile that’s so natural, so casual it almost knocks the air from his lungs. “You’re home late.”
His mouth goes dry.
He can’t move. Can’t speak. He just stares.
Up close, she’s more than he imagined. More real. Her skin has texture. Her eyes aren’t perfect, they’re tired, a little puffy from the day. Her shirt is wrinkled. Her nails chipped. She is breathtaking.
She’s a person.
Not a fantasy. Not a memory. Not a silhouette behind glass. She is here. Breathing. Blinking at him. Waiting.
She sets the glass down, drying her hands on a towel without taking her eyes off him. Her expression softens, concern flashing briefly across her face. “Everything okay?”
Miguel just stands there.
His jaw works, but no words come out.
She’s looking at him. Not through him, not across the street, not behind a pair of sunglasses. At him. Like he belongs there. Like she knows him.
And he realizes then—this is the first time she’s ever really looked him in the eye.
He nods, stiffly.
“I—yeah,” he says, voice a fraction too low. It’s thick. Dry. It doesn’t sound like him.
Not yet.
Her brow furrows. She tilts her head the way she always does when she’s trying to read someone, and it terrifies him for a moment—because what if she sees it? What if she sees him?
But she doesn’t.
She crosses the room and wraps her arms around his waist like it’s second nature, like she’s done it a thousand times. Her body presses into his and he freezes, his arms hovering awkwardly in the air, breath caught in his chest.
He gasps, quiet, involuntary, and stands stiff as her cheek presses against his chest. Her skin is so soft he almost flinches. Her body is warm, heavy, trusting. She smells like lotion and shampoo and sleep.
There’s a giddy feeling that bubbles in his chest.
This is it. This is what he stole. What he earned. The life he fought for, crawled toward, tore open with his bare hands.
And now she’s in his arms.
A soft sound leaves his throat. He doesn’t know what it is. Relief. Shock. Joy. It almost sounds like laughter, but it’s broken at the edges.
She hums lightly, content against him. Like this is just another Wednesday night. Like nothing’s changed. Like she doesn’t have any idea that the man she’s wrapped around isn’t the man she married.
“I missed you,” she murmurs into his shirt.
He closes his eyes.
He’s dizzy.
“I know,” he says, quietly.
His arms move on instinct now, wrapping around her slowly, pulling her in closer. He feels her melt into it, sighing softly as she relaxes into his chest. Her fingers curl against his back.
He almost says I missed you too, but the words won’t come.
It’s too much.
He’s never felt anything this close before. This real. The giddiness in his chest shifts into something else entirely—something messier, sharper. Not desire. Not quite love. Something like belonging, but sick at the edges.
Her home is his now.
Her arms, her voice, the quiet of her body against his—it’s all his.
Finally.
She hugged him like nothing changed, and he smiled.
Because she didn’t know it had.
“I’m home now,” he whispers.
And he means it.
please let me know if you’d like to be added to the SDILLH or ATSV taglist to be notified everytime i post, xx
Life with your husband is perfect. But when subtle changes start to surface, the warmth you once knew starts to feel different. The man you love is still by your side devoted as ever. But beneath the surface, something isn’t right. And deep down, you’re afraid to ask why.
SERIES WARNINGS: sexual content, non/dubcon, abuse, toxic relationships, abuse of power, manipulation, mentions of violence, mentions of murder, mental health, stalking, perverted behaviors, trauma bonds, baby trapping, etc. you are responsible for your own media consumption. heed warnings, be safe!
Life with your husband is perfect. But when subtle changes start to surface, the warmth you once knew starts to feel different. The man you love is still by your side devoted as ever. But beneath the surface, something isn’t right. And deep down, you’re afraid to ask why.
CW: paranoia, implications of ptsd
series masterlist 𒌐 chapter one
𒌐
Love just didn’t seem to do it justice.
What you felt for your husband was deeper than that; than a word. It was something you felt to your very core, something that willed you to get up every morning. Something that made you stare off at him in the utmost admiration and respect. Something that something that you knew you’d never be the same without.
You couldn’t put a name on it, just yet.
He noticed you long before you ever noticed him; before you even spoke, before he ever got close enough to hear your voice. He’d see you across the campus courtyard, tucked into a corner of the library, laughing with your friends outside the lecture hall. You weren’t the loudest or the flashiest person in the room, but you had this presence, something that pulled him in before he could stop himself.
He thought you were pretty. Too pretty. Distractingly so. The kind of pretty that made him stare longer than he should, that made him forget whatever the hell he was supposed to be doing. And that annoyed him.
Miguel was focused—always had been. School, goals, the future—that’s what mattered. Not distractions.
But somehow, you became the exception.
It started small. A few stolen glances, a few chance encounters. He never meant to hover, but he found himself sitting a few seats away from you in class, lingering in places he knew you’d be, listening when you spoke just to learn the way your voice lilted at the end of your sentences. Making excuses for why he was walking by the science building when his classes were on the opposite side of campus. He knew you’d be passing that way.
You were just constant. sitting a few rows ahead of him in lecture, showing up at the same campus coffee shop, appearing in the library at the same ungodly hours he did.
By some lick of fate, as he would call it, you ended up semester long partners for your chemistry class, and it was smooth sailing from there.
Late-night study sessions that turned into deep conversations about life. Coffee dates that weren’t technically dates but still felt like something more. You stole his hoodies, and he let you, even when he grumbled about it. He carried your books when your bag was too heavy, always acting like it was no big deal.
You became his person. And he, yours.
You balanced him. Where he was intense, you were easygoing. Where he was too serious, too focused, you reminded him to breathe, to live. You challenged him in a way no one else dared to, never letting him get away with his usual brooding, always pushing back when he got too cocky.
And Miguel? He kept you steady. He was your anchor, your protector before you even realized you needed one. If someone gave you a hard time, Miguel was there, looming, intimidating, making it very clear that no one messed with you. When you got overwhelmed, when life felt like too much, he was the one who sat beside you, grounding you with his quiet presence, his steady, unwavering loyalty.
By the time your freshman year ended, it was obvious to everyone: friends, professors, even strangers, that you and Miguel O’Hara were inseparable.
And by senior year, he knew he was going to marry you.
And in the going-on eight years you’d known Miguel, you’d begun to know him like the back of your hand.
He was an early bird.
More often than not, you’d find yourself waking in an empty bed. Mornings in your home were never rushed, but they weren’t lazy, either. They started early, usually before the sun had fully risen. He’d never been the type to sleep in, no matter how long he’d worked the night before or how much you’d pester him to stay in bed. He’d be up before the sun, every morning. Sometimes you’d frown, approaching him with a small complaint, wanting to have just one quiet morning with him. He’d always say, “We already did, quierda.” Which wasn’t exactly a lie. He did enjoy quiet mornings with you; his arms reaching for you instinctively to pull you close and hold you a while before he got up.
It’s not like you could've known or indulged in it though, too busy sleeping like a rock at the bottom of the ocean.
He had a habit of checking on you every morning, especially when you were still in bed. His footsteps would approach softly, the creak of the floorboards almost imperceptible, before he’d pause at the doorframe, leaning casually against it, eyes taking in the scene. It wasn’t out of insecurity, but rather a quiet affection. He wanted to see you safe, to see you at peace, even if his restlessness didn’t allow him to be.
His first action of the day was always the same; a cup of black coffee, strong and bitter. You knew this because you’d wake to the smell of it every morning, your own warm mug placed on the nightstand, a small gesture that showed he was thinking of you. You knew he didn’t need the caffeine— his body was accustomed to early mornings and long days— but it was ritual, and you knew he valued that. Some form of routine to keep him grounded.
And when you finally aroused, you’d find him sitting at the kitchen counter, fingers curled around his own mug— a cute little one you’d found shopping one day— staring out the small window thoughtfully.
Sometimes, he’d make you breakfast. Scrambled eggs, pancakes, or something simple yet comforting. The kind of meals he thought you would appreciate, even if he wasn’t a chef. When he would hand you a plate, he’d hover for a second longer than necessary, a soft “Here” leaving his lips, his gaze unwavering as if waiting for your approval. When you thanked him, he’d nod, but there was always a subtle tension in his posture like he was uncertain if it was truly good enough.
You’d have to swallow a whole bite first before he relents.
He’s handy.
What was once a slow, occasional plink had turned into an incessant, irregular patter, a maddening little reminder that the kitchen sink was in rebellion.
“Otra vez con esto?” He’d muttered under his breath, staring down at the persistent drip-drip-drip of the kitchen sink. It’d been leaking on and off for a while. Most of the time you tried to fix it yourself, but he would always chide you if caught.
You watched as he crouched beside the sink, pulling open the cabinet doors to inspect the pipes. He reached under the sink, fiddling with the shut-off valve. The stretch of his back was unfairly attractive, the way his muscles flexed under his shirt as he reached in making it very difficult to focus on the issue at hand.
You heard a soft grunt of effort, followed by a quiet “Mierda” when something rattled loose.
You sat on the counter, watching as he turned his back under the sink, muttering under his breath. His broad shoulders barely fit in the cramped space beneath the cabinets, and his long legs stretched out awkwardly as he worked.
With a quiet grunt, Miguel adjusted the faucet, tightening the connections beneath the sink. Every movement was deliberate and controlled, he was always like that, hyper-focused when solving a problem. He muttered to himself in Spanish, something about cheap pipes and how everything these days was built like basura.
“You okay down there? Do I need to call a plumber?” you asked, biting back a smirk.
“A qué? No—you don’t need some guy coming in here overcharging you for something I can handle.” He replied dryly. “Hand me the wrench,” he muttered. You huffed, grabbing the tool and placing it in his waiting palm. His fingers brushed against yours, warm and rough from years of hard work.
You smirked, twirling a strand of hair around your finger. “You know, this is kind of a Handy Manny situation.”
He paused slowly, peeking his head out from under the sink. “What?”
“You know, Handy Manny? That kids’ show?” You grinned. “With the talking tools?”
He blinked at you, unimpressed. “Me estás comparando con un muñeco animado?”
“Well, you are handy,” you teased, swinging your legs playfully. “All you need are talking tools.”
Miguel exhaled sharply, turning back to the pipes. “Por favor, the last thing I need is a wrench that talks back.”
“You mean, besides me?”
He let out a short laugh, the sound low and warm in his chest. “Exactamente.”
You watched as he tightened a bolt, his forearms flexing with the movement. It was unfair how effortlessly strong he was, how easily he fixed things like it was second nature. There was something almost soothing about the way he worked, focused, precise, completely in control.
After a few more adjustments, Miguel sat back on his heels, wiping his hands on a rag. He reached up to turn the faucet handle— no more leak.
“Y ya.” He stood, towering over you, smug as ever. “Fixed. No talking tools necessary.”
You clapped dramatically. “Wow, amazing. You’re so strong and capable.”
Miguel rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “Dame un beso,” he ordered, tapping his cheek.
You leaned in, pressing a soft kiss where he pointed. But before you could pull away, his hand found your waist, tugging you closer, stealing another kiss—deeper, slower, filled with that unmistakable Miguel arrogance.
When he pulled back, he smirked. “Eso is the proper payment.”
You huffed, rolling your eyes.
Handy Manny never charged for his services.
And how could you forget the bed frame?
The bed had been getting worse.
At first, it was just an occasional creak when you shifted in the middle of the night. Annoying, but bearable. Only causing noise when you exert too much force. Then, it turned into an insufferable symphony of squeaks at the slightest movement. Shifting? Squeak. Rolling over? Squeak. You knew it was tearing up his nerves, no matter how he tried to ignore it. You could see the telltale furrow of his brows and the very slight roll of his eyes into the back of his head. And finally, the last straw: Miguel had sat down on the edge one night, and the entire frame wobbled so violently that you both went still, exchanging a look.
He exhaled slowly. “No. Absolutely not.” He’d muttered. “I’m fixing this. Right now.”
So, you’d sat cross-legged on the mattress, watching as Miguel crouched at the foot of the bed, tightening bolts with the kind of intense focus that made him mutter to himself. His shirt was slightly damp from exertion, clinging to the defined muscles of his back, sleeves pushed up to reveal the thick lines of his forearms. Every time he tightened a screw, you could see the strength behind the movement— the ease with which he handled the stubborn metal.
“Should’ve done this way sooner.” He grumbled.
“I told you it was getting bad.”
Miguel shot you a look. “Sí and I was too distracted to care.”
Heat licked up your spine at the implication. “Well, maybe if you weren’t so rough—”
“No empieces,” he warned, but his smirk gave him away.
You bit back a grin, stretching out on your stomach, propping yourself up on your elbows. “It’s true, though. You don’t know your own strength.”
He huffed but didn’t argue. The room fell into a steady rhythm of quiet metal-on-wood sounds, Miguel’s large hands moving with ease as he tightened, adjusted, and reinforced the frame. You let yourself watch him— how his brows knit together in concentration, how the muscles in his forearms flexed as he worked.
It was almost too attractive, watching him fix things, watching him take care of something just because you needed it.
A few minutes later, Miguel gave the frame a solid shake. It barely moved.
“Should be good now,” he said, rising to his full height. “Ya no se va a romper.”
You blinked up at him innocently. “No squeaking?”
“No squeaking.”
“No wobbling?”
Miguel’s eyes narrowed slightly as if sensing where this was going. “No wobbling.”
You hummed, rolling onto your back, and stretching out luxuriously on the mattress. “Mmm. We should probably test it, just to be sure.” Miguel let out a short laugh, running a hand down his face.
“What? Quality assurance is important.”
He sighed, stepping closer, bracing a knee against the mattress. His large hands pressed into the bed on either side of you, caging you in as he leaned down.
He’s a geek.
You both had been no stranger to the distressed whirring of your old laptop. Every time you powered it on, it wheezed like it was taking its last breath, the fan groaning under the weight of existence. It was a surprise that it hadn’t started smoking. It was a keepsake, you’d always have to remind him when he shot a telling look your way, eyebrows raised insinuatingly as he glanced between you and the old thing. You failed to mention that the only reason you’d bought it was because it was your favorite color.
That night he’d been sat comfortably on the couch while you opted for the floor, laptop sat upon the coffee table. Originally, he’d been reading a novel but it was long discarded after you distracted him with typing. He crossed his arms, staring at your ancient laptop as if it had personally offended him. He had been so patient, but that night, as you casually clicked away at the screen, seemingly unbothered by the relic you were using, he finally snapped.
“This thing is hideous, I just can’t.”
“It still works, Miguel.” You’d dismiss, waving him off as he loomed over your shoulder. You’d have to, otherwise, he’d get all in a stupor about GPUs and CPUs and—
“Do you even know how computers work?” he blurted, leaning forward.
You didn’t bother to look over your shoulder, “Mmm, vaguely.”
“Vaguely?” He scoffed. “Okay, let me enlighten you. See, inside that fossil you call a computer, there’s a CPU—” See. “Think of it like the brain. Now, when you ask it to do literally anything— open a file, load a webpage, breathe— it sends instructions through circuits at high speeds. But your CPU? It’s so old, it probably needs a walker to get those instructions across the motherboard. And don’t even get me started on your RAM—”
“Oh, please don’t get started on the RAM,” you teased, still typing.
He ignored your teasing; he was on a roll now. “Random Access Memory, cariña. It’s supposed to help your system multitask, but yours is so outdated it’s like asking a goldfish to remember where it left its keys. And that hard drive? I’ve seen abuelitas move faster than that thing. Every time you save a file, I swear I can hear it groaning.” Though he was behind you, you knew he was speaking with his hands. “The thermal paste has definitely dried up by now, which means the heat distribution is trash—”
You smirked, finally turning to look at him. “Oh… So what you’re saying is… it’s still working.”
“Are you even listening? Barely, Bebè, it’s barely working.” He dragged a hand down his face, exasperated.
“Right, right. The… thermals and the… heat…”
He groaned, pinching his nose, “That’s the same thing.”
You turn back to your laptop with a small grin, “Miguel, if you wanted to lecture me about computers you could’ve just asked.”
His jaw clenched, and to someone who didn’t know him, they’d think he was upset. “I wouldn’t have to if you would just get a new one.”
“A new one?” You hummed sweetly, “I dunno… this one has character.”
He threw his hands up, you know because you could feel the waft of air hit your neck. “It has lag! It has artifacts! It has a death wish!”
You laughed softly, turning to peek at his expression, “You’re a cutie when you nerd out.”
He huffed, looking away— not before you noticed the very slight red hue on his ears. “I’m not nerding out, I’m being practical.”
“Uh-huh… So, tell me more about heat distribution?”
Miguel groaned again, but he could already feel himself giving in, because despite his frustration, despite the fact that he knew you were messing with him on purpose; He’d explain it all anyway.
“One of these days, I’m just going to build you a new one while you sleep. And when you wake up it’ll be too late for you to argue, and I’m going to make sure I personally burn that damn thing.” He chided, but you knew it was in good spirits.
He’d kept his promise. Well, partially.
He hadn’t waited until you fell asleep like he said he would, but he did build you a new one. Hustling into the house with a large box in his arms, placing it onto the living room floor carefully. Ironically, you’d been on the couch, typing away at your precious laptop when he brought it in.
Without a word, he rolled up his sleeves and began to build the computer from scratch. He paid no mind to the instruction manual, tossing it carelessly to the side. He’d built furniture, fixed appliances, hell, even rewired the kitchen lights without so much as a passing glance towards instructions. It amazed you every time.
Within a few hours, he was done. He’d powered it on and crossed his arms, waiting a few moments. He shot you a glance over his shoulder, “Hear that?”
You scoffed at his antics.
The computer was silent.
He’s the sweetest thing.
He’s not overtly romantic, or eccentric in the way he expresses himself. While he does buy you gifts, he’s not especially flashy either.
But he is sweet, so sweet, in the ways that matter.
He’s sweet in the way he takes care of you without being asked.
Miguel notices the little things. If you sigh too much, rub your temples one too many times, or let your shoulders droop after a long day, he’s already moving before you can even say a word. He kneads at the knots in your back with those big, careful hands, pressing just right. He makes sure you eat, cooking something warm and filling even if he’s not hungry. If you fall asleep on the couch, he carries you to bed like it’s nothing, tucking the blanket around you with a tenderness that contradicts his sharp edges.
The way he always adjusted things to fit your needs— your favorite mug always within reach, the blanket already warm before you curled up on the couch. The way he memorized the way you liked your food, how you took your coffee, the exact moment in a movie where you’d start to get sleepy and lean against him.
He’s sweet in the way he worries about you.
He’ll act annoyed when you forget your jacket, but later, you’ll find it draped over your shoulders, without a word. If you so much as shiver, he’s pressing his body against yours, wrapping you up in his warmth like it’s second nature. When you go out, he walks on the side of the street closest to the cars, and if a crowd gets too thick, his hand finds your lower back, guiding you through it instinctively.
He doesn’t tell you to be careful outright. Instead, it’s “Call me when you get there.” Or “Text me if you need me.” Or the simple way his jaw tightens when you do something reckless because he’d rather die than see something happen to you.
He’s sweet in the way he listens.
Miguel remembers everything you say, even the things you don’t expect him to. You’ll mention once that a certain dessert reminds you of your childhood, and weeks later, he’ll bring it home like it’s no big deal. If you ramble about something you love, he listens, really listens, even if he doesn’t fully understand it, because it matters to you.
He’s sweet in the way he lets you see him.
Miguel is used to being strong, to keeping things locked up tight. But with you? He lets his guard down in ways he never does with anyone else. He lets you see him tired, lets you see the worry in his eyes when he thinks you aren’t looking. He lets you run your fingers through his hair when he’s exhausted and lets you press sleepy kisses to his jaw without pulling away.
He lets himself need you, and that’s the sweetest thing of all.
Because for all his strength, all his stubbornness, your husband loves fiercely.
And when he loves you, he loves you entirely.
He’s caring.
It was past midnight when he’d rolled over in bed, reaching out instinctively.
His hand met empty sheets.
Frowning, he blinked himself awake, his senses sharpening as he scanned the dimly lit room. Then he heard it; The faint shuffle of movement from the living room.
With a quiet sigh, he pushed himself up and padded toward the soft glow of the lamp.
You were curled up on the couch, blanket wrapped around your shoulders, staring blankly at the TV. A show played in the background, forgotten. The glow cast soft shadows on your face, highlighting the tired slope of your expression.
Miguel leaned against the doorway for a moment, watching you.
Then, without a word, he walked over and crouched in front of you. His hands found your knees, rubbing slow, grounding circles through the blanket. “Otra vez?” he asked, voice quiet.
You nodded, not needing to explain.
Miguel exhaled through his nose, then shifted, sliding onto the couch beside you. He didn’t press, didn’t ask questions. He simply opened his arms, a silent invitation.
You hesitated for half a second before sinking into him, letting his warmth pull you in. His chin rested atop your head, his large hand smoothing over your back in steady, rhythmic motions.
“Estoy aquí,” he murmured against your hair. “Siempre aquí.”
You sighed, closing your eyes, the tension in your shoulders easing just a little.
And in the steady, quiet comfort of his presence, you knew. Miguel didn’t need words to remind you that you were loved.
He’s very considerate.
His anger, like everything else about him, is intense. It’s a wildfire, quick to spark, quick to burn, leaving behind charred remains if he isn’t careful. It has always been his curse; this need for control, this frustration when things slip through his fingers, this deep, unrelenting fury at the world when it doesn’t bend the way he wants it to.
For a long time, he didn’t care to control it. It was just a part of him. People knew to stay out of his way when his temper frayed, and if they didn’t—well, they got what was coming.
But then there was you.
Suddenly, his anger wasn't just his problem. And the thought of that anger, his anger, hurting you, even unintentionally, terrified him.
So he tries. For you, he tries.
It’s not perfect. He still clenches his jaw too tight sometimes. His hands still curl into fists when things don’t go his way. But now, when the fire flares up in his chest, when frustration threatens to spill over, he doesn’t let it consume him. He takes a breath. He walks away if he has to.
“I’m not mad at you,” he tells you, voice strained but careful because he never wants you to think it’s your fault. “Just—give me a second, amor.”
He takes a moment to collect himself, push down the fire before it can burn too hot.
And he comes back every time.
He never storms off and doesn't return. He never lets you go to sleep upset. He'll always approach you after he's cooled off, placing a hand on the small of your back and speaking to you softly. He'll talk. And that's how you know he's trying.
"Lo siento," he murmurs sometimes, pressing his forehead against yours. "I'm trying."
And you see it. You see the effort, the restraint, the ways he's learning. Not just for himself, but for you.
He attends therapy and has been for just over five years. Initially, he had been reluctant, having mixed feelings about being so vulnerable to a stranger. But over time, he grew to value the information he learned about his anger and himself. Though he's made great progress, he'll continue to show up because he believes it to be a good thing.
"Mi amor," he began once, his voice low and measured, “I know sometimes I... I let my anger get the best of me." His eyes searched yours, apologetic and sincere. "Pero, I'm working on it. I don't want to be the kind of man who scares you. I don't want to be the storm, the one who tears things apart. I want to be the calm after it, the one to build you back up.”
He’s upheld that’s promise all these years.
So, Love just couldn’t possibly do it justice.
He’s been too good to you over the years. Loved you just right without you having to teach him. He learned. He teaches himself how to be everything he needs to be for you. And in return you do the same. You’ve learned his mind, his quirks, his voice, his body, all engraved into your brain like a map. You know him, down to his very bones.
Indeed, you know your husband like the back of your very own hand.
But…
Lately, there’s something amiss about your husband.
It started with little things. Fleeting moments that didn’t hold any substantial significance, ones you could almost swear you imagined.
Miguel has always been a creature of habit, that no one could deny. You knew his routines just as well as your own. Him happening to pick up a new habit here and there wasn’t innately strange. But the frequency was just weird.
He always takes his coffee black. No cream no sugar— just bitter and strong. Always has since the day you met him.
The first time, you don’t even catch it. You make his coffee, just like always, and hand it to him with a kiss to his cheek. He mutters a tired “Gracias,” brings the mug to his lips, and—
He pauses.
It’s so brief you almost miss it. His grip on the mug tightens just slightly, his jaw tensing for the briefest second before he takes a careful sip.
You don’t think much of it. Maybe he’s just tired. Maybe work is wearing on him more than usual. But you catch a glimpse of the look on his face, one you could only thing of as masked disgust.
But then it happens again.
And again.
And again.
One morning, you catch him subtly tipping his mug just a little too far when he brings it to his lips—but instead of drinking, he only lets the coffee brush his mouth before lowering it back down.
You frown. “Not thirsty?”
He blinks, looking at you as if he forgot you were watching. “Hm?”
“You barely drank any.” You nod toward the still-full mug in his hand.
For a second, his expression is unreadable. Then he exhales, shaking his head. “Just… thinking about work.” He takes another sip, this time actually drinking, and sets the mug down a little too quickly. “It’s fine.”
But something about the way he says it makes your stomach turn.
It’s fine.
Not good. Not exactly what I needed. Just… fine.
Miguel never cared too much about food or drinks, but when it came to coffee, he had opinions. He used to say that putting sugar in coffee was “a crime,” that he could tell when a café used cheap beans just by the aftertaste. He loved his coffee the way he loved his work; strong, straightforward, and absolutely not up for debate.
But now, he’s treating it like a chore. Lifting the mug every few moments like he’s on autopilot. Like he’s drinking it out of pure obligation.
So the next morning, you test him.
You make two cups of coffee; one black, one with cream and sugar. You set them both down on the counter without saying a word, waiting to see which one he reaches for.
Miguel steps into the kitchen, rolling out the tension in his shoulders. He gives you a tired smile before reaching out—
And then he stops.
His eyes flick between the two cups. There’s a look on his face, he contemplating something. But what? He shouldn’t be hesitating. Miguel knows which one is his.
Then, slowly, he picks up the black coffee.
You watch closely as he brings it to his lips, taking the smallest sip possible. His throat moves as he swallows, his expression neutral, too neutral.
Then he smiles, setting the cup down. “Thanks, cariño.”
It should reassure you. But it doesn’t.
You try again.
So the next morning, you prepare two cups of coffee—both with cream and sugar.
You set them on the counter like usual, forcing yourself to act natural, even as your suspicion rises.
When Miguel walks into the kitchen, He leans in to press a kiss to your temple before reaching for the cup.
And he doesn’t hesitate.
Your fight not to furrow your brows.
He takes a sip, a real one. Not the barely there brush of his lips against the rim. A full, deep swallow, like he’s been craving it. There’s no sign of discomfort, no hesitation, no barely-contained grimace like when he drinks his usual black coffee. If anything, he almost looks satisfied.
He hums. It’s barely audible. But it’s unmistakable.
You stare at him. “Is it good?”
He hums in response, already reaching for another large sip.
Your fingers tighten around your own mug. “You like it?”
Miguel sets the cup down, licking a stray drop of coffee from his lips before glancing at you.
And that’s when he notices.
You’re staring.
You’re staring at him, your own coffee untouched in your hands, something unreadable in your eyes.
His face remains carefully neutral, but you catch it—that flicker of something, that half-second of realization.
Miguel glances at you, his brow furrowing slightly at the odd tone in your voice. “Yeah. Why?”
Miguel never drank sweet coffee. The first time you ever stole a sip of his years ago, you’d nearly gagged at how bitter it was. “How do you drink this?” you had complained, nose scrunching. “It’s like burnt regret.”
He’d smirked, smug. “That’s how coffee’s supposed to taste.”
And one the one occasion you’d make his coffee wrong, he’d pulled a face, set the cup down, and complained about how it was “ruined.” He grumbled about it the whole way to work and forced himself to drink it just so it “wouldn’t go to waste.”
So why was he so keen to it now? Why did he just wake up and suddenly detest his very specific preference?
You’re pulled from your thoughts as he utters, “Everything okay, cariña?” His voice is smooth, unbothered, but there’s an edge to it now.
You swallow, forcing yourself to nod. “Yeah.”
“Good.” He picks up his coffee again, this time taking a slower sip. Deliberate. Controlled. When he sets it down, his eyes meet yours, studying you as intently as you’re studying him.
You try not to think about it too much.
Whatever, it’s just coffee.
But he stares.
Miguel as always had an intense gaze. It was something you loved about it him. His eyes were so expressive and warm when they danced over you, you could tell exactly what was on his mind with a simple glance.
He’d always watch you softly when you’d do leisure things like folding laundry, or washing dishes, a soft smile tugging at his lips.
But now, there’s… something behind his eyes.
You’ve got a habit of waking up in the middle of the night. It’s not unusual for you to have nightmares, dreams haunted by old memories that you’d rather not speak about. And Miguel knows this; he’ll usually awake to your shuffling, immediately going into comfort mode.
The first time, it’s unsettling. The second time, it’s terrifying.
Something rouses you from sleep—not a sound, not a touch, just a feeling. An eerie awareness that prickles at the edge of your subconscious, urging you awake. Your body stirs before your mind fully catches up, a slow drift to consciousness, your limbs heavy with sleep.
But the moment your eyes flutter open, you realize you’re not alone in your wakefulness.
Miguel is sitting up beside you.
At first, you don’t understand. You blink against the dimness of the room, your vision hazy from sleep. The bedside lamp is still off, and the only light comes from the moon filtering through the blinds, casting faint silver lines across the bed.
You shift slightly, your brow furrowing. “Miguel?”
He doesn’t answer immediately.
His body is angled toward you, broad shoulders hunched forward slightly, one arm resting against his knee. His face is mostly in shadow, but his eyes catch the faint light, dark and unreadable. His gaze sweeps over you; slowly, deliberately, like he’s committing every detail to memory.
Something in your chest tightens. You feel scared.
“…Can’t sleep?” you murmur, your voice still thick with drowsiness.
A pause. Too long of a pause.
Then, finally, he blinks. “Yeah,” he says, his voice low. “Just thinking.”
It’s the same answer he’s given before, but this time, it doesn’t feel right. There’s something too careful about the way he says it, something too measured in the way his lips form the words.
Your sleep-heavy mind tries to reason with itself. Maybe he’s just stressed. Work has always weighed on him. Maybe he had a bad dream. Maybe you’re just too groggy to read him properly.
And yet…
The longer he sits there, the more your skin prickles.
He’s still watching. Unblinking. Unmoving.
Normally, when Miguel couldn’t sleep, he’d get up, rub at his face, sigh like the weight of the world was pressing on his shoulders. He’d lean over and kiss your temple, tell you to go back to sleep while he went to the kitchen for water.
But tonight, he does none of that.
Tonight, he just sits there. Watching.
Your hand shifts beneath the covers, reaching out instinctively. His skin is warm when your fingers brush his, but there’s something wrong about the way he reacts. He stiffens slightly, as if he wasn’t expecting it.
As if the sensation of your touch was something new.
Your heart does something uneasy in your chest.
“Miguel,” you say, a little more awake now. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
Yeah,” he says. And this time, you realize—he only looks away after he says it.
Like he’s remembering that he’s supposed to.
Something cold slips down your spine.
“Just go back to sleep.” He murmurs.
You should press further. Ask what’s wrong, ask why he’s sitting there watching you in the middle of the night a weirdo. But you don’t.
Because suddenly, you don’t want to know the answer.
So instead, you let out a quiet hum, pretending to be reassured. You squeeze his hand once before turning onto your side, facing away from him.
You can still feel his gaze on you.
Even when you squeeze your eyes shut, forcing yourself to breathe evenly. Even when minutes pass, stretching into something too tense, too unnatural.
You don’t know how long it takes for him to finally lay back down.
But when he does, you don’t sleep for the rest of the night.
That wasn’t the only occasion.
It’s early in the morning, the kind of groggy, half conscious moment where your body moves on autopilot. You’re standing at the kitchen counter, stirring your coffee, when you get that feeling again; that creeping sensation of being watched.
It pricks at the back of your neck, a faint shiver running down your spine.
You glance up.
He’s standing across the kitchen, holding his own mug, but he isn’t drinking from it. His posture is easy, like he just happened to pause mid-step, but his eyes, his eyes don’t match.
His eyes trace over your face, your hands, the slope of your shoulders; again, slow and meticulously.
Studying.
It’s not a soft, affectionate gaze. Not the kind of look your husband gives you when he admires you absentmindedly.
It’s closer to analysis.
Like he’s taking note of how you move, the way you hold your mug, the way your fingers tap lightly against the ceramic.
Your stomach tightens.
“…What?” you ask, forcing a small smile, voice still heavy with sleep.
He doesn’t answer right away.
Then, too slowly, too carefully, he exhales through his nose, the corner of his mouth lifting in a faint smirk. “Nothing,” he murmurs, tilting his head slightly. “Just watching you.”
Just watching you.
You let out a soft chuckle, brushing it off, but when you turn back to your coffee, your hands feel clumsier than before.
His reactions are… off.
It happens on a lazy afternoon, the kind where neither of you have anywhere to be. The house is quiet except for the distant hum of the city outside, the low murmur of a movie playing in the background.
Miguel is stretched out on the couch, one arm draped lazily over the backrest, while you sit curled up beside him. It’s the kind of day that’s comfortable, familiar.
You’re scrolling through your phone, half paying attention to the screen, when something catches your eye. It’s an old photo, years ago, back when you and Miguel had first started dating. A messy kitchen, flour dusting the countertops, Miguel standing behind you with his arms wrapped around your waist, his face buried in your neck as he tried to stifle his laughter.
You smile at the memory and turn the screen toward him.
“Baby, remember this?” you ask, nudging him lightly.
Miguel looks over, his gaze settling on the image.
And then; there it is. That same, almost imperceptible pause.
It’s quick, so quick that you might not have caught it if you weren’t paying attention. The slight narrowing of his eyes, the way his lips part just barely before he smooths his expression over.
Then, just like before, he recovers.
“Of course I do,” he says, flashing you a small smile. He shifts, pulling you closer, his fingers grazing the curve of your shoulder. “You got mad at me for getting flour in your hair.”
Your stomach clenches.
That’s true. That did happen.
But it’s not what you expected him to say first.
He should have groaned first. He should have rolled his eyes and said, “Don’t remind me,” because you had absolutely destroyed him in that flour fight. He should have playfully griped about how he was still finding flour in his hair days later, how you had gotten it in places flour had no right being.
Instead, he chose a safe detail. One that’s accurate, but not instinctive.
“That was a mess,” you say, studying him carefully. “You were the one who started it, though.”
Miguel huffs, shaking his head. “No, that was you.”
No.
It was him.
It happened again that same day when you were watching a movie. It’s one of your favorite traditions; watching an old movie together, something you’ve both seen a hundred times. The kind of film where you already know all the lines, and you’re watching just for the quality time.
And Miguel has always been the worst about it.
He loves to mumble the words under his breath, just to annoy you. Sometimes he’ll even beat the characters to their own lines, reciting them before they can, smirking when you groan and shove at his shoulder. It’s a game. One that’s been going on for years.
So when the movie reaches that scene,the one he never fails to ruin, you turn to him expectantly, waiting.
But he just sits there.
Silent, with a soft smile playing on his lips.
You hesitate. “You’re not gonna say it?”
Miguel glances at you, confused. “Say what?”
You laugh, thinking he’s joking. “The line. You always do.”
There’s a pause. A flicker of something in his expression—not confusion. Not entirely. More like… recognition delayed by just a second too long.
Then he smiles, like it’s no big deal. “Guess I’m giving you a break today.”
Your stomach knots.
It’s such a small thing. Something no one else would think twice about.
But that’s exactly why it sticks with you.
Because Miguel has never just forgotten to do this. He does it every single time. It’s part of the routine. And he’s very big on routine.
And yet, this time, it didn’t.
You don’t say anything else. You let it go, pretend to focus back on the movie, but your mind keeps circling back to the same thought.
He’s become eerily possessive.
The night air is crisp as you and Miguel walk home together, your fingers laced with his, the city alive around you. The streets are quieter in this part of town, the hum of traffic distant, the glow of streetlights casting long shadows on the pavement.
It should be peaceful. It should be normal.
But something is off.
Miguel has been quiet for the past few blocks, his fingers curled a little too tightly around yours, his jaw set like he’s working through something in his head. You don’t think much of it at first. He’s probably had a long day, he’s likely tired—
“Who was that man?”
His voice is low, cutting through the quiet like a blade.
You glance up at him. “What?”
Miguel doesn’t look at you. His eyes stay fixed ahead, unreadable. “The man outside your office,” he clarifies. “The one you were talking to.”
You blink, caught off guard. It takes you a second to even remember what he’s talking about. Then it clicks—Ethan, a coworker from your team, just exchanging a few words as you left work.
You almost laugh, but something about Miguel’s tone makes it die on your lips.
“Oh, that was Ethan,” you say, tilting your head at him. “He’s a friend from work. We were just talking about a project.”
Miguel’s grip tightens.
Just for a second. Just enough for you to notice.
“Ethan,” he repeats slowly, like he’s testing the name on his tongue.
You frown. “Yeah. Miguel, it was nothing. Just small talk.”
He stays silent for a moment, and for the first time tonight, you feel it. The shift. The tension thickening the air, coiling in the way his shoulders stiffen, the way his grip on your hand doesn’t relax.
And then—
“Did he touch you?”
You stop walking.
Your breath catches in your throat, your pulse ticking just a little too fast.
Miguel takes two more steps before realizing you’re not beside him anymore. He turns back, his expression still unreadable under the glow of the streetlights.
You shake your head slightly, trying to make sense of the question. “What?”
A chill runs down your spine.
His face is calm. Too calm. “I asked if he touched you.”
“What the hell kind of question is that?” Your voice is quiet, but firm.
Miguel doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t break eye contact. “Answer me.”
Your stomach knots, heat rising to your cheeks—not in embarrassment, but in anger. “No, Miguel. He didn’t touch me. Why would you even ask me that?”
Something flickers in his eyes, but it’s gone before you can place it.
He exhales through his nose, his expression still carefully composed, but there’s a sharpness to him now—a barely restrained tension in the set of his jaw, the way his fingers flex at his sides.
“Bueno,” he mutters, as if that settles it. As if that should reassure him.
It doesn’t reassure you.
Because this is not normal.
A few weeks ago, he would have laughed, teased you, maybe thrown an arm around your shoulders with that smug, boyish smirk and said something like, “Should I be worried, cariño?”
But now?
Miguel just accused you of something you don’t even understand.
Your chest feels tight. “Miguel, what’s going on with you?”
“Nothing,” he mutters, shaking his head. “Olvídalo.”
“No, I won’t forget it.” You take a step closer, searching his face. “Where is this coming from?”
Miguel exhales sharply. And then—before you can say anything else—he turns away.
The motion is too abrupt, too unnatural. He moves a few feet ahead, his back to you, hands braced on his hips as he stares down at the pavement. His shoulders rise and fall, deep and measured.
You don’t follow him.
You just… watch.
Because this is the second time.
The second time you’ve seen him struggle to control something he shouldn’t have to control.
The second time you’ve seen a flash of something unfamiliar behind his eyes—anger, frustration, something almost obsessive.
And for the second time, you think:
This isn’t right.
The street feels eerily quiet now, the air thick with something unspoken.
Finally, Miguel exhales again. When he turns back around, his face is calmer—but it’s wrong. It’s not the calm that comes with genuine relief. It’s forced, practiced.
Like a man trying to fix a mistake before you notice it.
“Sorry,” he mutters, rolling his shoulders like he’s shaking something off. “Long day. I shouldn’t have—”
He explains himself.
You don’t say anything.
A few weeks ago, he would’ve never asked you a question like that. A few weeks ago, he wouldn’t have reacted this way at all.
And… his anger.
Miguel has always been quick to frustration, but never with you.
Before, when things got too overwhelming, when the weight of his responsibilities, his past, his guilt became too much, he used to snap at the world, but never at you. And when he did let his anger slip in your presence, it was never like this.
Because he goes to therapy. He works to control it. He promised you he would never let it hurt you.
But tonight, you saw something else.
He’s late coming home, later than usual. By the time he finally steps through the door, you’ve been sitting at the dinner table alone for nearly an hour, his food gone cold. You hear the lock click, the sound of him sighing as he enters, but before you can even call out, he’s already heading straight for the kitchen, barely sparing you a glance.
You frown. “Miguel?”
Nothing.
You try again, softer this time. “Hey. Everything okay?”
He moves with a tension you can’t quite place, reaching into the fridge for a drink. You watch as he grips the handle of the bottle a little too tightly, his shoulders stiff, his movements sharp.
Something’s wrong.
“Bad day?” you ask gently, standing from the table. You don’t touch him yet, but you hover close, waiting for him to let you in.
For a moment, he doesn’t say anything.
“Yeah,” he mutters, taking a long drink. “Something like that.”
His tone is clipped, and it throws you off. Miguel has had bad days before—plenty of them. But he usually lets you in, even just a little. Even if it’s just a sigh, a tired confession against your shoulder, a quiet “Te necesito, cariño.”
Tonight, there’s none of that.
You try to lighten the mood. “Well, you missed dinner. And I worked hard on it, you know.”
A joke. Something small. You expect him to exhale, maybe roll his eyes fondly and kiss your temple like he always does.
Instead, he slams the bottle onto the counter.
The action makes you flinch.
Your breath catches in your throat, eyes snapping to him as he turns toward you, expression stormy.
“Do you think I fucking planned that?” His voice is sharp, cutting in a way you’ve never heard before. “You think I wanted to stay late at work? That I like coming home to—”
He stops himself. His hands clench into fists. His chest rises and falls, his breaths unsteady. He’s seething.
Your stomach twists.
“Miguel,” you say carefully, stepping back just slightly, “I didn’t mean—”
“Then what did you mean?”
It’s not just frustration. This is anger. Not the controlled kind. Not the kind that he’s spent years learning to manage, to restrain, to never direct at you.
This is something else. Something raw. Something that doesn’t belong to the man you know. It’s simply not like him to go up over something so minuscule.
The silence stretches between you. Your heart pounds, your hands gripping the fabric of your sweater, and for the first time, you don’t know what to say to him.
Then, just as suddenly as it came, it’s gone.
Miguel exhales sharply, running a hand down his face. His whole body sags, as if he’s just realized what he’s done. When he looks at you again, his gaze softens—but it’s too late.
You’re still staring at him, lips parted, awestruck.
Not in admiration. Not in love.
But in shock.
Because in all the years you’ve known Miguel O’Hara, in all the times he’s struggled to keep his temper in check. he has never looked at you like that.
Like he could hurt you.
He takes a step forward. “I—”
You step back. It’s instinctive.
He stops. Something flickers across his face.
It looks almost like fear.
“Cariña,” he tries again, softer now. His voice is low, pleading. “I didn’t mean—”
“Y-You—” Your voice catches. You swallow hard, the pounding in your chest refusing to slow. “You promised.”
Miguel freezes.
“You promised me.”
When he started therapy. When he confessed how afraid he was of his own anger, how he never wanted it to touch you. When he held you in the quiet of the night and swore he would never let himself become the kind of man who made you flinch.
He knew of your background, and he knew he didn’t want to create a space anything like for you.
His lips part, but no words come. He looks at you like he wants to fix this, like he wants to erase what just happened.
You lie awake that night, staring at the man beside you.
Miguel sleeps soundly, his broad chest rising and falling in the dim glow of the city lights filtering through the curtains. His face is peaceful, relaxed, familiar.
This is Miguel.
The man who kisses you slow in the mornings, who holds you a little too tight when he thinks you’re upset, who whispers mi vida against your skin like a prayer. The man who promised you, again and again, that he would never let his anger rule him. That he would always try. For you.
And yet…
Your gaze traces over him, soft but heavy with something you don’t want to name.
There are things. The way he forgets small things he should know, the way he stumbles on certain memories. The way he looks at you like he’s meeting you for the first time. He jumps at your touch, like it’s foreign.
The way his temper flares too quickly now, sharp and poorly controlled, a stark contrast to the man who spent years learning how to keep it in check.
The way he looks at you like he’s afraid of something you don’t understand.
Your chest feels tight.
Because you love him. You love him.
And this is still Miguel.
But at the same time…
Something is different. Something is wrong.
Your fingers twitch against the sheets, aching to reach for him—to press against his skin, to feel the warmth of him and let it chase away this feeling creeping into your bones.
But you don’t.
Instead, you just watch.
Watch the slow, steady rhythm of his breaths. The way his lips part slightly as he exhales. The crease between his brows that never truly fades, even in sleep.
You love him.
But for the first time since you met Miguel O’Hara, you don’t trust what you’re seeing.
There’s something amiss.
You couldn’t put a name on it, just yet.
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could u possibly do dom/soft sevika head cannons ?😋
𝐒𝐎𝐅𝐓 𝐃𝐎𝐌 𝐒𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐊𝐀
steamy shower with sevika
WARNINGS: established mommy kink, lots of praise, petnames, knee riding, fingering, brief mention of squirting, orgasm denial, spanking, implied dacryphilia, mean! sevika but i swear it’s subtle, don’t we all want sevika to dote on us
from roselí ᡣ𐭩: i know this was supposed to be hc’s but ialwaysgetcarriedawayimSORRY. very minimal plot, we dive RIGHT into it. i miss you guys! been busy with work and school lately, trying to find more time for this blog. xx
Somehow she’d managed to convince you to shower with her again— which was always a mistake. You’d never get to show on account of her touchiness, and insistance on doing everything but showering. Pure insanity, that you thought you’d have a different outcome this time around.
Sevika grabs you by the hips, pulling you against her body as she closes the shower door and traps you right up against her. She's significantly taller than you, having to tilt her head down slightly to look you in the eyes.
"You're so pretty, you know that?" She murmurs almost mindlessly, holding you tightly against her as the hot steam from the shower fills the room. Her large hands wander your body, appreciating your soft skin.
She takes a moment to just hold you, enjoying having you in her arms. Her bare skin feels nice against yours, arms firmly wrapped around you as she just takes in your presence for a moment. She gently begins to rub your back, giving you a small peck on the forehead.
Sevika looks down at the loofa and soap in your hand before taking it from you, beginning to lather the soapy cloth. “I can do it myself, you know.” You smile up at her sweetly, but she shushes you, shaking her head dismissively. “Nonsense, baby.” Her eyes never once leave yours as she works, her other hand still continuing to massage and run over your body.
Once she decides the loofa is sufficiently sudsy, she begins running it over your bare skin gently. Her gaze finally leaves yours as she looks down at your body that she is now softly scrubbing, making sure to get every inch.
She doesn’t miss the gasp you let out as she scrubs in between your legs, huffing when you grip her arm softly.
She pays you a soft chuckle, hand moving a little rougher and faster. "This good, baby?" She inquires, eyes flicking up to meet yours. Her other hand continues rubbing your stomach gently, large fingers pressing into your skin ever so slightly.
“Sevika—” You only let out a airy moan in response, gripper her arm a little tighter. It was enough for her to understand. “We can’t do this— fuck— everytime—” You try to hold a firm ground but the way she’s looking at you— you resolve can’t help but crumble. “We need to shower.”
She hums softly in response, the loofa now dropping completely from her hand so she has both hands to work on your body. She begins to slowly push you further back until your back hits the shower wall, hands never leaving your skin. Her left hand massages your hip as her right hand makes firm, slow movements in between your legs. "But you look so gorgeous for me, pretty girl..." She murmurs, eyes once again glued to yours as she watches your expressions with an intensity that can’t be matched.
Impossibly so, your body seamed to heat up, even noticeable under the hot water.
"So sensitive for Mommy." She praises, hand beginning to work faster. She leans in, kissing across your cheek to your mouth. Her lips brush against yours, and then move down slowly to your neck. She starts to suck and lick lightly at your sensitive skin, nibbling and biting gently at the spots that have you moaning.
She sucks her teeth briskly, shaking her head when you— ridiculously— try to move her hand away from your pussy.
Sevika pulls away from your neck, grabbing you by the wrists and pinning them both against the shower wall above your head. "Oh no you don't, darlin'." She drawls, lips attaching back to your throat as her fingers press firmly and rub between your folds. "You're gonna take what Mommy gives you, yeah?" She murmurs against your skin.
“Mommy!”
She continues rubbing roughly between your thighs, pressing firmly into your clit as her other hand moves from your wrists to hold your waist again. "Yeah, just like that, pretty thing." She praises. "I know you’ll take it for Mommy…” She coos with a light nip to your earlobe.
You wrap your arms around her shoulders, clinging to her loosely as you feel that familiar coil bubble up in your stomach, bucking your pussy back into her hand feverishly.
“I’m gonna cum, mommy!”
And just as you feel yourself on the edge, Sevika pulls away, ceasing her movements immediately. "Look at me, babygirl." She says firmly, wanting your eyes to meet hers. "There they are." She murmurs softly at your eye contact. "My pretty girl." She coos, pressing her forehead against yours.
She chuckles as you whine at the loss of friction, your orgasm effectively ruined. "Oh, C'mere, darlin'." Sevika murmurs, gently moving you with her hand still firmly planted on your waist. She sits you down on the marble shelf in the shower, pushing aside your large assortment of soaps and salts she’d bought you. She turns you around so she can stand behind you. "Bend over." She orders, voice a mere whisper.
“Yes, Mommy.”
She runs a hand through your hair, admiring how you were so ready to comply with her. "Good girl." Her praise comes in a low murmur as she pushes you down so your upper body rests against the shelf.
Sevika's hands begin to explore your back, gently massaging and caressing any skin she can touch. Her face lowers to your neck, pressing light kisses at the back of your neck and your shoulder. "Such a pretty girl." She murmurs against your skin.
“Mommy, please—”
She hums against your skin, pressing one last kiss to your shoulder before standing back up properly. One hand is placed on the nape of your neck, the other moving to hold your waist.
She leans forward a bit, pressing her hips up against you, her pubes brushing softly against your ass her knee rubs back and forth against your core. She stared down at your bare back, watching the water roll off— almost in a trance. She wants to mark you, she thinks, and she wants to make sure everyone can see it.
You let out a choked moan, inching onto your tippy toes to better meet her knee. Your eyes roll shut at the feeling, the friction hitting your clit perfectly. She grins at the sound "How is it, hm? Tell Mommy." Sevika murmurs teasingly, leaning down to press her lips softly against your back.
“S-S’good~” You can’t help the way it drawls out of your mouth, the friction of her knee, the kisses down your back, the heat of the water, the cold marble— your senses are in a whirlwind and she isn’t helping.
She hums against your skin as she moves her lips to a different spot, starting to kiss and suck there too. "Can't have my pretty girl walking around unmarked, now can I?" Sevika murmurs teasingly, pressing her lips softly against your new bruise as presses her knee into you more firmly.
And there it is again, right at its peak. That knot in your stomach ready to snap. Your legs shake on your tippy toes, hands gripping tightly at the marble. “Ah—! Mommy, I'm gonna—”
"No, darlin..'." She denies you, knee ceasing its movements as she goes still. "Not just yet.” You whine in frustration, huffing softly and kicking your feet. It was childish, yes, but you wanted to cum so bad, and you knew when she got into moods like this it would be a while before you did.
"Behave, yourself." She orders firmly, hand leaving your hip as she delivers a firm slap against your ass. You let out a yelp, your feet stilling at the harsh sting. Her hands were so large and heavy, it was never a treat to be spanked by her.
"That's better." She purrs in praise, her knee beginning to press against your core again, slowly this time. "Gonna behave for Mommy, pretty girl? Fussings’ not gonna get you what you want, you know that."
“Yes, Mommy… m’sorry… jus’ wanna cum.”
Sevika coos sweetly at your tone, picking the pace back up. "Look at you, being a sweet little thing... you make it hard to say no." She murmurs, moving her lips back to your nape as she begins to kiss, bite, and suck at the sensitive skin.
It doesn't take long for your orgasm to build back up, her knee rubbing against your clit at a steady pace. She could tell, of course she could. She noticed the way your eyes shut close in concentration, your hands starting to grip the marble shelf tightly once again. Sneaky little thing you were.
And she brings you right to the edge again, meticulously this time, before pulling her entire body away from you, ceasing all contact.
"No." She warns, voice firm. "You aren't allowed to cum yet. Her tone is teasing as she watches your frustration build back up. Your eyebrows furrowed, your pouty lips set in a firm frown. It was cute. You audibly cry out this time, your body flustered and hot. “God!” Small tears pebble in the corners of your eyes.
Her hand comes back down hard on your bottom, spanking you once again. "What did I tell you?" Sevika warns, leaning down so her lips are level with your ear, "Be. Good."
You sniffle, tears blending in with the water from the shower head “Yes, Mommy...” You say, albeit a little reluctantly.
She offers a curt nod at your obedience, though you can’t see it. She looms over you again, pressing light kisses all over your wet skin. "Go ahead, grind your hips against me, darlin'." She encourages, knee moving back between your thighs.
You reach your hands under you and between your legs, grabbing at her thigh, trying to lock her in place while you buck your sopping pussy against her knee. You’re positive you looked somewhat pathetic, but it’s neither here nor there.
Sevika watches you grind against her knee for a moment before letting out a low groan. "Look at you… poor thing." She coos, the hand that she has planted on your hip aiding you, helping to push your body against her knee faster. "So desperate, aren't you, babygirl?" She questions with wide, lustful eyes.
She feels you shudder, moaning shakily, the build up seemingly intense. You continue to rock your hips into her knee rhythmically, your mosns growing shorter and shorter until they start to die in your throat. “Momm— Mommy! Can I please cum?”
You hear her hum considerately, and you just now she smirking down at you behind your back. “Hm… I don’t know. You've been awfully impatient…" She murmurs condescendingly, beginning to help you move your hips faster against her thigh. She hums once more, a short, guttural sound.
"Go ahead."
She freezes momentarily as you push her away, unsure of your next move. You sit up, turning around to face her. Her eyes widen as you spread your legs lewdly, showing off your pretty cunt. “Fuck me…” The most fuckable expression etched on your pretty face. “Please… I want your hands, Mommy.”
She quickly makes a move of pushing you backwards, your back pressed flush against the cool tiles of the shower wall. "Shh, shh, shh." She coos at you, gently wiping your baby tears away. "It's alright, darlin'." She presses her lips to your cheek, and then your lips. "I got you. No more whining. Mommy's gonna take good care of you." Sevika murmurs, left hand moving down your body.
Your eyes follow her hand in anticipation, breathing become a bit more labored in the steamy shower. “Y-yes, please…” It was said more to yourself than anything, you weren’t even sure that you had said it out loud.
She shushes you again, the teasing expression from before replaced by a soft, sympathetic one. "I know, sweet thing. I know." Sevika whispers as her hand reaches your soaked pussy. "M’gonna make you feel good, baby'." She says softly, looking you directly in the eyes as she rubs your aching clit.
Your hips meet her hand almost instantly, bucking clumsily against her fingers. Your wrap your arms around her shoulders again, grounding yourself.
She leans down and presses her lips softly against yours before letting her eyes leave yours to look down at where she's touching you. "Pussy’s so wet for Mommy." She murmurs, eyes wandering back up to yours as she watches your expressions. "Look so pretty when I rub your pussy..." Sevika coos, leaning down to press her lips to your throat.
“Fuck! Mommy— I’m coming!”
She watches you as your eyes grow in size, mouth gaping open, chest rising and falling quickly as you pant. “Good girl… That’s my good girl.” She stops rubbing at your clit to plunge two thick fingers into your cunt, curling her fingers meticulously and rubbing against your g-spot in a steady rhythm. Your pussy’s letting out lewd squelching sounds, just barely heard over shower.
“F-fuck!” You throw your head back, leaning weakly against the wall. "Looks like someone just hit the jackpot." She says teasingly, smirking against your throat. She groans feeling your pussy tighten around her fingers again. "She’s so eager." Sevika murmurs against you before attaching her lips to your neck.
She begins to suck a large mark on your skin, that primal urge of hers to mark shining through once again. She bites and nips at you, making little noises against your skin. Her fingers keep their steady rhythm, pressing her palm up against you to hit your clit simultaneously.
“You gonna come undone again, sweet thing? Gonna grip Mommy’s fingers with your pretty pussy?” You pant lightly, mustering the energy to weakly nod your head, it was becoming harder to stand in your own two feet.
She hums softly, running a free hand back through your wet hair. "Good girls ask for permission first." Sevika coos lightly, pressing teasing kisses to your jawline. "Can you be a good girl for me?" She whispers in your ear, rubbing her nose against your cheek.
“Please,” You let out weakly, “Please let me cum, Mommy.”
"How could I say no?" She coos, slowly and smoothly slipping a third fingers into you, stretching you deliciously. "Mommy's got you, pretty girl." She presses gentle kisses to your cheeks, nose, anywhere on your face she can reach. "You're so good for me." She murmurs, pressing her forehead to yours.
The pace of her fingers quicken, thumping against that spongey spot in your walls. You let out moans like a mantra, bucking your hips where her palm meets your clit. "Go ahead, darlin'." She encourages you, watching as you tense up.
You let the build up snap when she gives you permission, squirting a mess all over her fingers. “Shhiiiiiiiit—” It comes out as a tiny whimper, but she hears nonetheless.
"Aren’t you just the cutest thing, my sweet pretty girl." She coos, pressing a kiss to your throat. She breathes out on a heavy exhale, fingers sgill curled against your g-spot, rubbing and stimulating it continuously. "Think you can give Mommy s’more?" You haven’t even showered yet.
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Bully!sevika with reader and the fawn response. Reader that instead of fighting tries to appease sevika. Instead of trying to run away clings on harder. That does everything she's told. Reader that internalizes sevika's insults can even predict them before she even says them, calling herself useless and a waste of space. Reader that doesn't even raise her hands to shield herself anymore.
bully! sevika
when reader has a fawn response
WARNINGS: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT. mentions of harassment, bullying, manipulation, general abusive themes
from roselí ᡣ𐭩 : anonnnnnnnnn. i love your brain.
Sevika would have mixed feelings about this this. Of course, there’s something wholly satisfying about the fact that you submit to her willingly— though she would make you do that regardless— even going as far as to make the job easier for herself.
But there’s a part of her that craves the fight, the challenge, the need to break something.
At first, she found it amusing.
She prides herself on being able to break people, to see them fold under pressure and end up scurrying away at aby given opportunity. But you? You never fight back. Never lash out, or run. Instead, you cling to her. Even as her harsh words cut deeper than a blade, or her hands gifted you another bruise, nothing. No scampering, no fire behind the eyes.
You fold under her like paper in the rain. When she barks an order, you dont hesitate. When she sneers at you, you nod along like you deserved it. Like a pathetic little dog.
Of corse this would arise questions in her. This wasn’t normal compliance. This wasn’t even a work of fear. There was something deeper to it. She could only wonder what could have made you conditioned this way. What poor parenting you had. But she never wonders long; that’s neither here nor there.
Regardless of who scattered your brain into this mess, you were hers to play with. And play she did. What started as amusement for her quickly turned into something darker.
She shot you a glare as you clumsily knocked her drink over, the contents spilling across the table in a way that was almost captivating. "Sorry," you mumbled, your voice so soft she had to strain to hear it.
"Course you are," Sevika shot back, her scarred lips curling into a snarl. She leaned back in her chair, her dark eyes narrowing as she watched you. "You always are."
And you were. You apologized for things you hadn't even done. If Sevika so much as raised an eyebrow at you, you were tripping over yourself to fix it, to smooth it over, to keep her from growing angrier.
Her jaw tightened as she once’s you over.
No fight. No defiance. Just desperation. You didn't raise your hands to shield yourself anymore. You didn't even flinch when her voice dropped to that dangerous tone everyone else feared. Instead, you stood there, wide-eyed and apologetic, waiting for the next insult and clinging to every word like your life depended on it.
Maybe it does.
Sevika didn't like it. Or at least, that's what she told herself. There was no satisfaction in bullying someone who crumbled so easily. So willingly. Someone who doesn’t challenge her.
She didn’t need to exert that brute force that she naturally carried. Didn’t need to use all of the hurtful remarks that had crossed her mind, the ones she’d been waiting to use. Never got to see your face scrunch up at said words. It just wasn’t pleasing.
But then why couldn't she stop? Why did she keep poking, prodding, testing to see how far you'd bend before you finally broke?
Suddenly, a lightbulb crackled in her mind.
"Do you— do you want me to leave?" you asked softly, pulling her from her thoughts, eyes downcast. Sevika stared at you, the usual sharpness in her expression giving way to something unreadable.
"…What?"
"...If I'm that much of a bother, l'll go." Your voice cracked, but you didn't look up. "I-I don't want to get in your way anymore."
Something in her chest twisted, something dark. Darker than she’d care to admit. She leaned forward, her mechanical arm resting heavily on the table. "Don't be stupid." she said, her tone gruff but quieter than before.
You blinked up at her, confused.
"You're not going anywhere," she muttered, blinking slowly. "Just... don't make a habit of spilling my drinks, yeah?" You nod quickly, a faint, shaky smile pulling at the corners of your lips. Maybe she had been wrong about you before, maybe you’ve given her a challenge after all.
She knew how to break you.
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WARNINGS: mentions of alcohol, fluff and more fluff
from roselí ᡣ𐭩 : happy new year! i hope everyone’s had happy holidays! i’d like to thank you all for the kind messages and for all of your submissions; my inbox is filled. i took a small hiatus to prioritize family and to sort out my other blog and content, but mother has returned and asks will be answered! ᡣ𐭩
Just thinking about the first time she catches you sneaking into the undercity.
You definitely weren’t supposed to be there, you or your friends; But you all had ended up feeling a little ballsy and sneaking into Zaun after a few drinks of stolen alcohol from their parents.
It was fun. One might call you shallow or privileged for ‘escaping’ Piltover to party in Zaun. Randomly appearing from your wealthy life to the common wealth; because you had that luxury.
But how could you care? It was exhilarating to get away from all the snobs of Topside and the snobby school filled with snobby teens and all their snobby parents money.
You see in Topside, nothing less than brilliance was expected of you. From a young age you were groomed to excel in every aspect of the word: your parents meticulously planning out your life. Enrollment into the prestigious school was non-negotiable, and to your parents your success wasn’t measured by personal growth, but by your accolades and connections.
It’s not enough that you’re accepted into such a narrow landing, you must exceed their expectations. Achieve feats that cement your families legacy.
And after being the top of your class, exceeding in every extra curricular, and remaining poised and graceful at all times, you’ll be expected to choose a suitor and marry into more snobby wealth.
All the rules and regulations were much too heavy a burden, and it felt nice to be at ease for once.
And so what if for once turned into every now and then…
Your friends had long ditched the idea, emphasizing that it was a ‘one time thing’ and they wouldn’t be supporting your idea to keep frequenting the ‘poor’.
Well so be it, if you had to be alone, a lone wolf you’d be. You’d navigated these streets before, you know your way there and back—
“Lost, sweetheart?”
The voice was low and sharp, cutting through the noise like a blade. You froze, your hand instinctively reaching for the small dagger hidden under your cloak. When you turned, a woman stood a few feet away, leaning casually against the brick wall. Her stance was deceptively relaxed, but her sharp gaze missed nothing.
She was larger than life, her broad shoulders and metal arm gleaming faintly under the dull glow of a nearby streetlamp. Even in the dim light, her gaze was unmistakable—dangerous and amused, like a predator catching sight of prey.
“I don’t think this is your side of town,” she continued, taking a step closer. The sound of her boots against the cobblestones echoed ominously. “Little piltie girl, right? The hell could you possibly be doing all the way down here?”
Your breath caught. You’d done everything to blend in—rough clothes, a lowered hood—but it clearly hadn’t been enough. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you said, forcing your voice to stay steady.
She just scoffed, the sound deep and mocking. “Sure, and I’m the head of the Council.” She tilted her head, studying you like a puzzle she was deciding whether to solve. “You stick out like a sore thumb. So, why don’t you save us both some time and tell me what you’re looking for?”
You hesitated, weighing your options. Lying felt pointless; she’d already seen through you. But telling her the truth? You weren’t sure if that would be better or worse. “I’m just passing through,” you said, attempting to sidestep her.
Her metal arm shot out, blocking your path with a loud clang as it met the wall beside you. She leaned in, her face close enough that you could see the faint scar cutting across her cheek. “Passing through?” she echoed, her voice dripping with disbelief. “That’s funny, because people from Piltover don’t pass through the Undercity. They either come looking for trouble, or they’re running from it.”
Her words made your stomach twist. You opened your mouth to respond, but she cut you off, her sharp gaze narrowing. “Let me guess,” she said, her tone almost bored. “You’re here for something you can’t get topside. Something dangerous. Am I right?”
You swallowed hard, your silence giving you away. “Something like that..”
She huffed through her nose in amusement, leaning back just enough to give you a moment to breathe. “Thought so. Look, Piltover girl, this place eats people like you alive.” She paused, her eyes glinting with amusement as she sized you up. “You should stay where you’re safe. Never know who might be looking to ruin something so soft.”
Looking back, it’s a bit ironic.
She’d put in enough effort to try and keep you away; told you harrowing stories and showed you the daunting realities of Zaun. She’d walked you through the slums of the place, let you see the true living conditions. True, it was a lifetime different than Piltover. Also true, you now understood the shallowness of calling such a place ‘fun’. You’d seen the truth now, and it almost made you want to make a change. She’d succeeded in making you want to stay away from the undercity entirely.
Just not her.
Of course it wasn’t anything either of you had planned or foreseen; The random attraction that you just knew was mutual. Of course attraction wasn’t enough to put a label on it, but you figured when she became your unofficial guide of the Undercity that it was enough to be called acquaintances.
The first few nights were cautious. Going directly against her orders, as she’d called it, she’d caught you sneaking through the Undercity again. She figured she’d just let you wonder around and probably get mugged or whatever. But she couldn’t— and against her better judgment, she chaperoned you.
Sevika didn't trust you— why would she? What sort of a pea brained Piltie would come down here? For fun, at that? She kept her distance, watching you as you wandered the undercity with the wonder of someone who had never known hardship. You’d asked questions, not just about Zaun but about her: her arm, her life, her thoughts. Sevika answered sparingly at first, her natural suspicion at war with a growing amusement at your audacity.
But you kept coming back, and Sevika found herself drawn to you stubbornness. Unlike most Pilties, you weren't trying to fix anything or impose your ideas of progress. You just wanted to understand. Over time, Sevika began to meet you intentionally, waiting at the same spot every night after her work was done.
She took you deeper into Zaun, showing you places most outsiders never saw: the hidden workshops where discarded scraps became innovation, the quiet corners where people found moments of joy amid the chaos. In return, the you shared snippets of your life in Piltover-stories of rigid expectations and a yearning for freedom that resonated more with Sevika than she cared to admit.
Your relationship grew slowly, almost entirely against your wills. For you, Sevika was a stark contrast to the life you’d known: a life of politeness, restraint, and pretense. Sevika's blunt honesty and strength were intoxicating. For Sevika, you were a reminder that not all Piltover elites were heartless or blind to the suffering below.
Your connection deepened in secret. Meetings in shadowed alleys and hidden corners of Zaun, far from prying eyes. Sevika, ever the realist, tried to keep her guard up. "This is dangerous. For both of us," she would say.
But you were persistent. "Everything about my life is already decided for me," you whispered one night, your voice trembling. "This... you... it's the only thing that feels real."
Sevika knew the risks. She'd spent her life surviving in a world that crushed the weak. Falling for a Piltie—a woman whose family was arranging her marriage to a wealthy, ambitious topsider— was a vulnerability she couldn't afford.
And yet, Sevika couldn't stop herself.
She supposed if she’d treated you like the liability that you were this could’ve been avoided.
"Your folks are trying to get you with some preppy boy? Damn. Just imagine the look on his face when they tell him that their daughter's in love with some thug twice her age."
She’d joke about it a lot, but you could hear the insecurity behind her ‘joking’ words.
The arranged marriage loomed over you like a storm. Your parents saw you as nothing more than a pawn in their political games, and the marriage was meant to strengthen their position in Piltover's cutthroat hierarchy. It was a hard pill to swallow. You hated it, but defying them would mean losing everything; your family, your status, your safety.
Sevika would sneer at herself privately. How could she— hardened by years of betrayal and loss, find herself wanting something she’d never thought she deserved?
Love.
With a piltie… It left a bitter taste on her tongue.
"I could run away," She recalled you offering one night, laid up in her flat, voice filled with desperation. "Leave Piltover. Stay with you." But she shook her head. "You don't belong in Zaun, and I don't belong topside. Running won't change that. Not to mention," She sat up on one arm looking down at you, “You know what type of hell they’d raise down here if you go ‘missing’?” You bit your tongue at her words, and she’d avoided your gaze. The truth was painful.
The alley was partially quiet tonight, the only sound the soft hum of the dying streetlights. You should’ve known better than to come back here. Every trip to the Undercity felt like stepping further into a fire, knowing you were already too close to getting burned.
The streetlights above flickered in the distance, casting a pale glow that barely penetrated the smog-choked night air. You tugged your scarf tighter, feeling the weight of it—of the lies you’d told, the deceit. But your heart beat faster as you heard the sound of heavy boots crunching the metal beneath them, unmistakable even in the shadows.
“You’re late.”
Sevika’s voice broke through the silence, low and commanding. You hadn’t seen her yet, but you didn’t need to. You knew the sound of her voice, the sharpness that always lingered in it.
You turned slowly, your heart catching in your throat when you saw her silhouette leaning against the rusted wall. Her eyes, glowing faintly in the dim light, locked onto yours with a gaze that was both predatory and possessive. Her arms were crossed over her chest, her stance confident and unyielding.
“I had to make sure no one followed me,” you said, your voice quiet, laced with the unease that always came with being here. Being with her. She raised an eyebrow, the corners of her lips curling up in a half-smile that never quite reached her eyes. “Do you think I’d let you get caught?” she asked, stepping forward, her presence commanding the space between you.
You stare at her with fond eyes; She’s was everything you weren’t supposed to want—strong, dangerous, and untouchable. She had a reputation that spread like wildfire through both cities, and you were well aware of the risks.
And yet, you’re drawn to her like a moth to a flame.
Her gaze softened, just for a second, and she reached out to gently push a strand of hair from your face. All of your reservations melted away. The rest of the world disappeared, leaving just the two of you.
“I hate that you come down here,” she murmured, her voice quieter now, a rare vulnerability creeping into her tone. “It’s dangerous… you’ve got no business in this place.”
You took a step closer, the pull between you undeniable. “I don’t care about that. I need to be here. I need to see you.” Her eyes darkened, and her breath caught for a moment before she let out a low chuckle. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Piltover. If anyone finds out—”
“They won’t.” You reached for her hand, your fingers brushing the cold metal of her prosthetic, the touch both thrilling and unsettling. “I trust you.”
Sevika’s gaze flickered to your hand before meeting your eyes. There was a long pause, the air between you charged with something unspoken. Then, in a move that was both tender and possessive, she pulled you closer.
“You shouldn’t.” she murmured, her voice a low growl. “Not in this place. Not when you have everything to lose.”
“But I do,” you whispered, your lips brushing against hers. “I trust you with everything.”
She hesitated, and for a moment, you thought she might pull away, that she might remember the boundaries that should never have been crossed. But instead, her hand moved to the back of your neck, pulling you into a kiss that was raw and desperate—filled with the months of unspoken longing and defiance.
The kiss was everything you both had been hiding. Everything you both knew you could never have. The danger, the risk, the lie of it all, wrapped in the heat of her lips, the fierceness of her touch.
When she pulled back, her chest rose and fell with the same unsteady breath you were trying to catch. She pressed her forehead against yours, her metal arm resting at your waist as she held you close.
“You’re a fool,” she said softly. “This can’t go anywhere. You know that, right?”
You nodded, your fingers tracing the edge of her leather coat. “I know. But I don’t care.”
She chuckled darkly, though there was something softer in her gaze now—something that, for the first time, made her look almost vulnerable. “We’re both fools then,” she said quietly, before kissing you again, deeper this time, as though sealing a pact neither of you could break.
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pitfighter vi who promises reader just the tip and then gives her the whole strap🫶🫶🫶
𝐉𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐈𝐏
vi making you take the whole strap
WARNINGS: NONCON! Dead Dove Do Not Eat, virginity loss, coercion, dacryphilia, spit play, implied corruption kink, bulging, be safe, heed warnings!
from roselí. ᡣ𐭩 : i am so in love with this idea omg omg omg— this was supposed to be a drabble and then i got carried away, so the ending is abrupt. ^^
Vi would just be going against her better judgment here, like she usually does about… everything.
"...Are you sure this is what you want, baby?"
She’d asked gently as she leaned down and whispered into your ear, her breath warm as it hit your skin. Vi's hands moved up and down your sides slowly, her body pressed against yours. She let out a something like a huff of a laugh through her nose at your whispered, ‘Yes… But— you remember our promise, right?’ It was something about that, that made you think, maybe you should’ve known better.
She promised a few nights ago that she would indulge your request of losing your virginity. She was close, trusted— you’d had no problem confessing it to her and she’d made you feel comfortable and safe in her presence. You didn’t want to lose it to just anybody, but you wanted to have the experience. “Just the tip.” She’d initially meant it as a joke. Just a lighthearted statement to loosen you up a bit, but she was taken aback when you’d eagarly nodded in agreement, holding her to that statement.
Vi chuckled lowly at you, your nervousness and anticipation was so cute and endearing. She leaned down, her body hovering over yours, her mass pressing you to the matress. She could feel your heart beating fast, it was exciting. She took a moment to relish in this moment, her lips moving down to your neck, kissing and biting at it softly. "You're so cute, you know that?" She whispered against your skin between kisses, gently biting and suckling the sensitive flesh on your neck. You could make out every strand of inky black hair on her head.
“Vi—”
“You’re nervous, huh?”
You swallowed thickly, trying to push down the nerves that were making it hard to breathe. “Yes.”
"Try to relax, it'll feel better." She murmured, finally sitting up straight, gripping the thick— almost daunting strap in her fist. She’d told you she had nothing smaller, that this was all she could offer you. She placed a large palm right above your pussy, pressing firmly to keep your hips still. “Ready for it?” she locked eyes with you, nudging the tip against your clit, slapping it there a few times. You nodded shakily, holding her gaze with anticipation.
“Words.”
“Yes I’m ready…” It came out shaky, like you were riding a bike on a rocky path. She nods curtly, her gaze falling to your pussy, all spread nicely for her. She taps the tip against your clit a few more times, enjoying the way you gasp softly before slowly tilting the tip downwards to your hole.
It started out subtle, a stinging sensation that slowly built up— but it spread quickly as she pushed further, your hole struggling to accommodate to her size. It felt like being ripped open, the girth of it pushing upwards of your blatter. Your back lifted off the bed. “O-ouch!—” You let out a soft yelp, grasping her hip tightly as to keep her grounded there.
"Shhh.. just keep breathing" She replied immediately, feeling you tense and her free hand coming up to push you back down onto the bed. "Just breathe, relax." She whispered, gently kissing along the leg she held up. You tried to do as she instructed, taking deep, shaky breaths, closing your eyes tightly. It was starting to work.
But your relief was short lived, snatched from you as you felt the searing pain of her sliding deeper. “W-wait vi— what are you doing?!” You took the hand you had placed firmly on her hip and pushed, trying your hardest to still her movement. But it was impossible— she was so strong, much moreso than you, your efforts were fruitless. "Shh... calm down, baby.." She whispered softly, trying to sooth you as she held her position for a moment, letting you get used to the feeling. Her free hand moved up to brush against your cheek and gently caress your chest, trying to get you to relax. Her voice was soft and calming, trying her best to comfort you as she felt you getting tense. "Relax. Everything is gonna be alright. I got you. I promise I'll go slow but..I need you to relax, okay? Just breathe…"
“N-no! Vi— you said just the tip!”
"I know, I know... baby, I'm sorry.." She said, her body moving still to hold herself up, one arm propped on the bed beside your head. She looked down at you with an understanding, but also determined look, trying to reassure you. "But you're doing so well for me. You're such a good girl..." She pushed her hips further, firmly this time, watching your expression closely. “Move your hand.” she commanded gently, and when you refused she grabbed it and pinned it your your side. She leaned down and pressed her lips to yours, claiming your lips in a deep and passionate kiss.
She frowned as you turned your head, a childish attempt at avoiding her affection. "Baby, please.." She begged softly, her hand reaching up and gently grabbing your chin, tilting your head back towards her so she would see your face. "Don't do that, look at me, baby. C'mon." Her voice was desperate. Her lips were so close to yours, her body leaning over you, her free hand still caressing your skin. She was aching for your taste again.
When you turned your face away from her a second time, low growl escaped her lips, her grip on your chin tightening. "No. Eyes on me, baby. I said look at me. I want you to look at me, I want to see your pretty face when I'm taking you." She commands, her voice firm yet gentle.
You felt her bottom out, your pelvis throbbing at the feeling. You felt to full, so uncomfortable. It hurt just to slightly move your hips. Tears blur your vision, a mixture of frustration and and betrayal overwhelming you. It felt like she was pressing down on you at all sides— her presence giving you a sick feeling in your tummy.
She started at a slow and steady pace, her hips meeting yours deliberately, one of her hands gently caressing the side of your face to try and sooth you. Her lips began to suck at your neck again, leaving soft, small love bites and hickeys along your skin, marking you as hers. "That's it... you're such a good girl for me, baby.... So so good... and you look so pretty like this. Taking me in... so good for me.." You didn’t bother to try wiping your tears, they would keep flowing anyways.
She took a hand and rubbed your clit meticulously, applying soft pressure. “F-fuck—!” You cursed, hands gripping the sheets tightly. Vi smirked at your reaction, rubbing just a bit faster, “Gotta loosen you up baby, you’re so tight.” She spit onto your pussy. “Relax, princess.”
“I can’t!”
“You can.” You try to bite back the yelps of pain, not wanting to edge her on any further than you already unkowingly have, tucking your lip between your teeth. You keep your eyes squeezed shut, your body rocking with every slam of her hips. "No, sweetness,” She takes her thumb and pulls your lip free. “You’re so pretty when you make little noises for me. Let me hear them, I wanna hear your pretty voice." Her eye contact was daunting and unwavering, it made you nauseous.
Her pace began to pick up a bit more, her hips moving more urgently against you. The sounds of skin slapping against skin filled the air, along with her soft, ragged breaths and your yelps. Her free hand squeezed your hip, her slender fingers digging into the soft flesh. Her mouth came down and began to gently nuzzle your neck, her breath hot against your skin as she pressed messy little kisses along the sensitive flesh there.
“How is it, hm?” She said between kisses, but you chose not to respond. You were focused on the way you could feel you pussy starting to leak, your hole embracing her now. Your body was betraying your mind. “S-shit!” You whimper quietly against your best efforts, but you know she caught it.
She sits back up and you could see the thought cross her mind before she acted on it, her hand reaching down to shove two fingers into your mouth, caressing your tongue with a perverted smirk. "Good girl.... keep those pretty lips open for me, baby..” You could feel the spit sliding down your chin. You felt your pussy throb at her praise, moaning abrubtly at her words. Her thrusts had really been working into you now, nudging your walls with a purpose. It felt good.
That one moan went straight to Vi's core, hearing you sent a shiver down her spine, her pace quickening slightly. She pulled your hips up, into you at new angle, watching in awe as you fell apart. “Hah—hah—” You didn’t even try to stay quiet anymore, her dick hitting your g-spot deliciously. "Yeah.... just like that, baby. Let it out for me.” She stuck two fingers back into your mouth, “Get ‘em nice and wet, babydoll,” Vi groaned lowly as she watched you flick your tongue over her fingers, moving them down to your clit again to rub you. “Feels s’good right, baby? My baby just needed someone to push her past her limits, huh?”
You replied with a string of moans, your feet flailing aimlessly at her thrusts. “Oh, fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuck!” She notices it before you do; the bulge sticking out of your pelvis everytime she bottoms out. “Ohhhhh, fuck me. Look at that, baby.” Her voice pulls you out of your trance, lulling your head up to look at what she was referring to. “Oh my God—” You choke up as she lifts a hand to press on it, “Bet that feels fuckin’ amazing, huh? Getting your guts dug in?”
You can hardly form a sentence, arching your back into the matress; she’s fucking you so good. “Yesss— fuck! S’good!”
“That’s what I like to hear.” She fucks you at a vigorous speed, beating into your g-spot with every thrust. “Cmon, sweetness. I wanna see your cum face.” She spits on your pussy again, taking her fingers and rubbing your clit, fast. “Cmon baby, let go f’me.”
i legit am in love with your bully sevika work 👩❤️💋👩
can you write about sevika realising she has feelings for us and decides to distance herself from ourself :3
bully! sevika analysis
a small deep dive into her character
WARNINGS: mentions of bullying, slightly suggestive themes
from roselí ᡣ𐭩 : thank you sm, i appreciate this submission! i have a lot to say about it.
So let me preface this tiny rant by saying this version of Sevika is entirely uncaring and incapable of having a romantic interest for reader. Bullyvika is solely interested in causing misfortune to her. I purposely try not to write her in a light that will give her a chance at redemption because I don’t want it to lead to romance. I wouldn’t deny that Bullyvika would have certain feelings for reader, but under no circumstances would it be romantic because it’s not meant to be romantic. It’s meant to be uncomfortable and sickening.
I didn’t want Bullyvika to be the stereotypical ‘give me your lunch money’ or ‘you better do my homework’ kind of bully we commonly see because I feel it doesn’t instill enough fear and discomfort. You can accommodate to having to do someone’s homework, or maybe even having to give up a few dollars here and there. What you won’t get used to, is being berated, extreme workplace harassment, or constantly having your self worth being stripped. I want her to feel like a real villain. Someone you literally can’t conceptualize a relationship with outside of the power dynamic she’s put in place.
Bullyvika has so many layers and I’ve put a lot of thought into how I would like to characterize her, and a lot of it comes directly from the pent up feelings that she has. Bullyvika is exactly that. A bully. It’s common knowledge that bullies are pent up with a lot of pain and sadness, and that usually manifests itself into anger when it’s not properly managed.
Sevika is tired, okay. There’s so many things that she is sick and tired of. She’s constantly left to clean up another bastards mess, regardless of if she had anything to do with it. It will always fall on her because she is Silco’s number two, she is in charge of everyone under her and if she doesn’t have it dealt with she will face the backlash.
Nevermind the fact that more than 99% of their problems stem from the only person Silco is not willing to get rid of.
She’s tired of being undermined, constantly under the wing and shadow of the person above her when she knows she’s better fit than them. Never given the proper credit, always given the short end of the stick. Tired of feeling like no one is taking her seriously when she’s making the most efforts and hard decisions.
Tired of the unfair treatment. How dare Silco hold Jinx on such a pedestal? How could he when all she does is fuck everything up? She’s a liability, but she gets all of the praise. Where is her praise? Where are her flowers?
But she can’t just respond. Silco’s got too much power, too much influence. She can’t directly cross him or he’ll have her head. That’s why she spends so much time at the brothel, it’s a nice place to detress. A little hate sex every now and then to really blow the steam. But Sevika is full of smoke. The sex isn’t enough. The roughhousing, the biting, the choking, the slapping. It’s not enough. She needs someone to feel what she feels. Sevika is angry, and someone is going to have to face the repercussions of her feelings. She needs someone to throw all of this onto because she doesn’t know how to deal with it.
Bullyvika does take her time to get to know you, but not in a romantic sense. It’s more of her studying your details. What makes you react a certain way, what makes you really cry, what subjects hit home? Any sensitive spots she should know about, who are the people closest to you? How can she victimize that?
There will never call for in instance where Bullyvika is interested in knowing reader any further than it’s beneficial to her; Therefore, she could never be romantically interested. She doesn’t want to know what makes you light up, or what you’re passionate about, and doesn’t care for your small quirks or micro expressions. Bullyvika is sexually attracted to reader though, and that will be touched on plenty of times in further parts of the collection, but that’s about as far as the attraction goes.
Sevika knows she could have potentially anyone she wants, and when the time comes she’ll settle down with someone she deems fit. But that’s neither here nor there. For now, she’s looking for something to break. And that just so happens to be you.
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WARNING: this is almost entirely dead dove content and necessary content warnings are listed with each part. made a separate masterlist for bullyvika content because my ask box is always flooded with requests for it. <3
what if she finds reader beaten up and on the brink of death in some long forgotten alley one day?
and reader be like: came to finish me off, huh?
𝐁𝐔𝐋𝐋𝐘! 𝐒𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐊𝐀
when someone touches what’s hers
WARNINGS: minor depictions of violence, mentions of abuse, implied power dynamics
from roselí. ᡣ𐭩 : anon this was suuuuch a good idea. i put my own little twist on it.
It’d been a long day.
The usual hussle and bussle of the undercity; dealing with the volatile gang ordeals, organizing shipments of Shimmer, cleaning up after Silco’s blue haired mess, and of course getting into close details with Silco himself.
It’d been a very long day.
She would frequent the brothel in her free time, trying on different bodies everytime she went. It was a good detresser— a quick nut after a long day to really end the night right. If not there, she’d be found at the last drop, sipping slowly on brown liquor while she enjoys a few rounds of poker for a bet.
It helped, it did.
But nothing compared to her little plaything.
She’d make it her mission everyday to track down her favorite little target. Her lips always curled into a smirk at the thought of you— shy, fragile, and oh-so-easy to toy with. Hers to provoke, hers to corner, hers to dominate. It was the best stress reliever.
To finally have something to really sink her teeth into. Something to break slowly over time, all in her control. It felt nice to have control. To finally not be under someone’s wing. It was relieving to take out all that anger, all that sadness, every sadistic urge. It wasn’t anything personal, you’d just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.
But today was different.
She didn’t feel that satisfaction as she navigates through the usual chaos—shouting vendors, the clatter of machinery, and the occasional muffled scream carried through the maze of alleyways. Sevika strode through it all like a storm given flesh, her mechanical arm glinting in the faint light.
The alley was dark, the harsh glow of Zaun's neon lights flickering erratically, but it was nothing compared to the storm brewing in Sevika's chest. Her boots echoed like thunder as she stormed down the narrow path, her anger a palpable force that crackled in the air. She had just gotten word that someone had beat her property to a bloody pulp.
She rounded the corner, her eyes scanning the scene. There, slumped against a dumpster, was her victim— bruised, bloodied, and barely conscious. Sevika's jaw clenched. Her heart, if she had one, seemed to twist in her chest. There was a flash of fury, and it took everything in her to restrain herself. Her fingers flexed, aching to crush the throat of whoever had dared to harm what was hers.
No one was allowed to lay a hand on her prey except for her.
You were crumpled on the ground, lip split, bruises blooming across your delicate skin. Blood trickled from your nose, staining your collar. You flinched as you tried to sit up, only to let out a pained hiss.
She marched toward you, boots echoing ominously in the alley. You peered up, eyes widening in fear as if expecting more punishment. Sevika crouched down in front of you, her jaw clenched so tightly it felt like her teeth might crack.
“Who the hell did this to you?” Sevika snarled, her voice like gravel, rough and dangerous. Her eyes scanned the surroundings, but there was no one in sight. She knelt in front of you, a hand gently— but possessively cupping your chin, lifting your face.
You stammered, trying to form words, but her sharp glare silenced them, “I said, who. Did. This.”
Her mind was a mess of confusion and rage. She wasn't supposed to care—not about you, not about the bloodstains on your clothes or the way your eyes barely fluttered open. But she did. She did, and it was making her sick.
"I-I don't know... They... they came out of nowhere. I didn't mean to... to make them angry..." You wheezed in a breath, “Why… did you come to finish the job?” You said, a little snarkily for someone in your position. Sevika's gaze darkened, lips curling into a snarl. "Why didn't you fight back?" she growled, as if the idea that you hadn't defended yourself was a personal betrayal. Her concern for your well-being was entirely overshadowed by her frustration that you hadn't done enough to prevent this from happening in the first place.
She wiped away the blood on your face with the back of her hand, not bothering to hide her disgust, "God, you're so pathetic," she muttered under her breath. "I told you to stay close, didn't I? This is why I tell you to stay put." She spat.
"You shouldn't have been here," Sevika hissed, her voice dangerously low, filled with venom. "You shouldn't have let anyone hurt you." She ran her thumb over your bruised cheek, but it wasn't the soothing gesture it appeared to be. It was possessive. Violent. "I should be the only one to do this to you."
It was daunting really, her way of thinking. How dare she? Stomping in here like she cared. Like she actually cared about your well being. Her concern was twisted—contorted into something dark, something dangerous. She wasn't concerned about your safety, your pain. She was concerned about how this made her look. How it threatened her claim on you. This was hers. You were hers. Goddamn it this was the only thing—!
Sevika's anger didn't fade. In fact, it boiled hotter now. How dare you go off and get yourself hurt like this? She had always been there to make you feel small, to bring you down to your knees, to remind you who you belonged to. But this?
This was your biggest show of audacity yet.
Sevika dragged you to your feet, her hands firm but rough. She forced you to meet her gaze, her eyes wild with fury. "Don't you ever let someone else touch you again. You hear me?" she spat, her voice thick with a possessiveness that bordered on madness. "You're mine to hurt, mine to break. No one else gets that privilege." She pulled you close, your battered body cradled against her. In that moment, there was no tenderness, only a suffocating, possessive need.
“But don’t worry,” she murmured, cracking her knuckles, “I’ll make sure they never even think about coming near you again.” Her smirk etched its way onto her face, sharper than ever. “But you? You and I still need to have a talk about how you let this happen.”
Without waiting for an answer, Sevika turned, already plotting how to make an example of whoever crossed the line. You sat there trembling and confused— you could only watch her disappear into the shadows, fearfully thinking of what that ‘talk’ would consist of.
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from roselí. ᡣ𐭩 : i tried to make this as realistic and in character as i possibly could. i rlly wish people would study characters more often </3
It’s not like you were going to say yes, Jinx just never lets you get the chance to handle these situations on your own. She’s so impulsive; a loose canon just ready to shoot at the smallest spark.
Bless the poor thing, pretty little painter you usually catch making murals on buildings and alleys— you could tell they’d spent a lot of time working up the courage to ask. There’s a telling flush on their cheeks that spreads to their ears, their shuffling nervously on their feet— they can’t seem to keep their lip from under their teeth. They’re actually cute.
But you weren’t going to say yes.
Jinx had been leaning lazily against a crumbling wall when it all took place, her bright pink eyes tracking you and the stranger near a rusty vending machine. She twirled her zap-gun idly, the manic energy simmering just beneath the surface of her carefree façade.
Her ears pricked at the stranger’s words.
“So, uh, I was wondering if you’d like to grab a drink sometime? Just you and me.”
Her heart skipped. Then it dropped. The world tilted, her vision blurring for a moment before splitting into two: one part cold fury, one part trembling vulnerability. A clawing void of rejection surged in her chest.
They want to take her from you.
Her hands stopped their idle twirl, gripping her weapon tightly. She was all jagged edges now, sauntering toward the scene with a growing, unhinged smile plastered across her face.
“Well, well, well! What do we have here? Little paint shop loser thinks they can steal my baby, huh?” she cooed dryly. The stranger held their hands up defensively, stammering, “N-no, I didn’t know she was—”
“LIAR!” Jinx’s voice cracked, her finger twitching on the trigger of the zapper. She wavered between hysterical rage and a crushing sense of inadequacy, her bipolar emotions splitting her perception into black and white. You are hers—all hers—and this person was a threat. The idea of losing you gripped her like a vice, her mind screaming.
She’ll leave you. She’ll leave because you’re not enough.
“You thought you could just waltz right up, and take her— right? She cackled dryly, “WRONG!” You could see the whirlwind of thought manifesting on her face— snarls turning into grins turning into scowls. You stepped forward, raising a hand to try and calm her. “Jinx, it’s not—”
“Quiet, cupcake,” she snapped, her voice suddenly sharp. But the moment she looked at you, her tone softened into something sickeningly sweet. “I’ll take care of this, okay? You just stand there looking all cute and perfect for me.”
The poor thing tried to back away, mumbling apologies, but Jinx was already there, her speed unnervingly quick. She was inches from their face now, her gun’s barrel resting lightly against their chest. “You know,” she whispered, her voice dangerously low and leveled, “I don’t like sharing. In fact, I hate it.” She trailed the gun upwards, letting it rise under their chin. “Of all the canvases you chose mine…” She meets their gaze with a stone cold glare, “Wanna paint the walls with your insides? Hmm?”
“Jinx!” You blurt frantically— she’s taking this way too far. “it’s fine! You don’t have to do this— I wasn’t even going to say yes—”
"No, it's NOT fine!" Jinx snapped, her voice cracking as she turned toward her you, her expression twisting in anguish. Her manic energy flipped into desperation in an instant. "Why would you even talk to someone like them?! Am I not enough? You're not— you're not gonna leave me, right? RIGHT?!" Her breathing grew ragged, and tears pricked the corners of her eyes. The admirer took a nervous step back, clearly reconsidering every life decision that had led to this moment.
“No— you’re enough. I’m not going anywhere,” you assured her softly, taking small measured steps towards her. Jinx’s wild gaze flickered to you, the raw emotion on her face breaking through the chaos. Tears welled in her eyes, but the anger didn’t leave, not fully. Her breathing was ragged as her your steady voice seemingly pulled her back from the brink.
Abruptly, she embraced you, making you flinch. She buried her face into you shoulder, her voice muffled, “I don’t want to lose you,” she whispered, raw and vulnerable. You took the opportunity to motion to the painter still standing still in fear. ‘Leave’, you mouthed frantically, still trying to pacify Jinx by rubbing her back softly.
“You won’t, Jinx. I love you.”
Jinx's head whipped rapidly up toward you, leveling your eyes. Her expression was… darkening. She was splitting again, now so suddenly, her emotions cycling too fast for anyone to keep up. “You mean that?” She asked, raising a sharp brow. She traced your face meticulously.
“What? Of course I mean that.” You stare at her bewilderingly, eyebrows furrowing. You could only watch as she processed something internally, but you could never guess what goes on in her sick mind. “Good.” She smiled, a sweet smile. She grabbed your hand gently, placing her gun into your palm, “Shoot them.”
“W-what—! Jinx— you can’t be serious?” Your mind swirled, you were so taken aback by her statement you physically reeled your head, the gun slipping in your palm. Her hand moved to your shoulder, fingers digging into your skin with possessive force, her grip tightening as she leaned in, her lips brushing your neck. "Didn't you hear them? They want you, not me. I'm the one who's supposed to be with you," she hissed, a manic fury flickering in her wide, unblinking eyes.
The sound of your heart hammering in your chest was deafening. You wanted to argue, to protest, to deny this madness, but the words caught in your throat. The way she looked at you— possessive, desperate, almost like a starving animal ready to pounce-made it clear there was no room for dissent.
"You have to choose," Jinx cooed, a twisted smile playing at the edges of her lips. She gestured toward the figure standing helplessly in the distance, "Either you choose me... or you choose them." Her voice dropped lower, darker, her breath coming in ragged bursts. "But if you choose them... you know what will happen. Don't you?"
You tried to pull away, but her grip on you was ironclad. Her fingers tightened, forcing your arm to aim at the person who'd dared to look at you with affection. Jinx's hand hovered over yours, guiding the gun slowly, insistently, until the barrel was trained on their chest.
"You're going to make them sorry, right? You're going to show them who you really belong to." The gun felt like a lead weight, too heavy for your trembling hands. But Jinx's eyes were on you, her gaze cold and calculating, burning with obsession. She moved closer, her body almost pressed against yours now, her voice dropping into a low, seductive whisper. "Don't make me do it for you. I want to see you do it. I want you to prove your loyalty. You don't want to disappoint me, do you?"
"They're waiting for you. Waiting for you to make your choice. Show them how much you care about me, darling. Show them who's the real threat here."
You could feel her breath against your ear as she leaned in, her voice almost sweet now, laced with madness. "It's simple, really. One pull of the trigger— POW! And it's all over. You and me. Forever. No one else. Ever." She snarled noticing your hesitation, ever the big heart you had.
"You know I won't let them have you," she whispered, her voice laced with a mix of fear and obsession. “Jinx—” You murmur painfully, biting back scared tears, but she hushes you instantly. "You're mine, and I won't share you."
Her smile returned, but there was no joy in it. Only the chilling certainty of someone who had already made up their mind. "Do it. Or I will," she dared, her eyes narrowing as her grip on you tightened. The world narrowed down to that single moment— the gun in your hand, the silent figure before you, and Jinx, her eyes gleaming with a terrifying expectation. There was no escape, no way out.
Only the grim reality of her twisted love, a love that demanded everything-and if you didn't comply, it would take everything away. Her voice was the last thing you heard before you were forced to make the decision.
"Choose. Me or them."
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She’s so hot and cold. One minute, she's acting like she wants you back, showering you with unsolicited affection— a hand lingering on your lower back, or wrapped comfortably around your ankle. Which is weird. You two are broken up. But before you even have time to try and rationalize it, she's cold and dismissive, reminding you of why the relationship didn't work in the first place.
It’s constant mixed signals with her— texting you at odd hours with something cryptic like, Just thought of you. Hope you're okay. Or remind you of cute little moments the two of you shared, only to leave you on read when you respond. The messages make you stare at your phone in bewilderment because— she broke no contact for this? It’s weird.
You notice that everytime you make an effort not to respond, she’ll show up unannounced at places she knows you’ll be at, flaunting whatever little situationship she’s got for the week. She’s trying to make a show of how “replaceable” you are. You’ve learned not to take it personally. After all, she’s none of your concern anymore.
Or she’ll show up outside your job or school, parked right in front of the building saying she’s “Here to pick you up.” She’s so weird.
She looks tired. Unusually so, she isn’t put together like she normally is. She’s noticeably more irritable as well. It makes you snicker every time you see her. You suppose that’s just how it is; she breaks up with you and immediately after becomes a complete wreck. Serves her right— it wasn’t your idea to end the relationship.
She gets so angry if she catches wind of you with someone else, which is weird. You’ve never made a scene over her with anyone else, so why is she? She’s made it clear that she’s done with whatever the two of you had, so does she feel so strongly about your new partner? Again, she’s weird.
She’s targeting that relationship, sabotaging your happiness in any way she can. It could be a silly rumor, it could be her cutting off your cards, hell it could be her flirting with them in front of you. You’ll never understand her dedication to literally ruining your personal life.
And honestly neither does she. It’s not that she wants you back; she just doesn’t want you with anyone else— and she’ll do everything in her power to make sure that doesn’t happen.
ur ambessa hcs were soooo rgrhth ttib—can i pretty please get anything with manhandling and ambessa? i NEED her to toss me around 🙏🏾
𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐀𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐀
WARNINGS: just thoughts with a lot of words, slightly suggestive, nothing too explicit
from roselí. ᡣ𐭩 : pairing this with another ask about ambessa with a size kink… two birds, one stone, anons ^^
Ambessa’s physical stature and her quiet authority could eeeaaasssilllyyy feed into the fantasy of being overwhelmed by someone much larger and more dominant than you.
Can you imagine being caught in a situation where you’ve underestimated her or opposed her will?
Ambessa would approach you with a calm, assured presence, her movements measured and controlled— like she’s sizing you up in the battlefield. With a single, confident step forward, she would close the distance between you, her gaze locking onto yours— a silent warning of her strength and authority.
And when she grabs you, it’s not the hurried, aggressive lunge of someone desperate to overpower you. Instead, it’s a firm, calculated grip—a hand at right at your wrist or your shoulder, just enough to show you that resistance is futile. Her touch is unyielding, her fingers strong, a reminder that she can control your movements with ease. There’s no struggle in her grip, no wasted energy; just a quiet, forceful assertion of her dominance over your body.
If she needs to move you, her actions are swift and efficient. She might spin you around, pushing you into a position where you’re forced to face her, or shove you over a surface, pressing her hips into your ass shamelessly—the pressure of her hold ensuring that you can’t escape. She would handle you like a chess piece, placing you exactly where she wants you, without hesitation or mercy. Each touch would feel purposeful—reminding you of the vast gulf in strength between you.
Her manhandling you can feel especially unsettling at times. It’s how she can make it feel almost effortless, as though you are a mere object in her path. It makes you feel weak, small. She doesn’t need to shout or threaten. Her sheer presence and physical control are enough to make you realize the danger of underestimating her.
There’s always a look. It’s sharp, but it’s warm. Moments like these fufill Ambessa, moments where she can use her brute strength, moments where you challenge her authority so she can humble you in the best way possible. It excites her, to see you pinned— unable to move or even wriggle under her weight.
Even in her most physically dominant moments, Ambessa would never lose her composure. Her movements are smooth, deliberate, and elegant, embodying a calm yet chilling sense of power. But they’re assertive, forceful— even though she’s hardly applying as much pressure as you both know she could. When she exerts her physical dominance, you would feel not just the weight of her strength but also the cold, unspoken reminder that defiance is a costly mistake.
There’s an intensity in her gaze, a knowing look that communicates she is fully aware of the size difference between you, and that she will use it to her advantage. It doesn’t matter if your five feet or six, she’s massive. Tall and wide, full of muscle. And besides that, her looming presence is always enough to set you straight, an unspoken non-nonsense vibe radiating off of her. Ambessa doesn’t need to make grand gestures to assert her dominance, the way she stares you down like a hawk commands attention and obedience.
In this dynamic, every touch, every movement would be amplified by the contrast of your sizes. Her hands would feel impossibly large as they wrap around your wrist, your waist, or even the back of your neck. She could effortlessly pull you closer to her, her body pressing against yours, leaving you feeling fragile, and utterly under her control. Her touch would be firm, almost possessive, reminding you of just how much stronger and larger she is than you.
When she speaks, it’s with a quiet authority that sends shivers through you. Her words are calm but carry weight, and she might lean down, her breath warm against your ear, reminding you that no matter how you resist or struggle, she’s the one in control. The size difference plays a powerful part of the interaction, where her stature makes every action feel deliberate, slow, and incredibly overpowering.
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can you pls write more about yandere vi🙏😭 i love your writing
𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐋𝐄𝐓 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐔𝐄𝐃…
WARNINGS: possessive behavior, implied threats, toxicity, forced proximity if you squint. be safe, heed warnings!
from roselí. ᡣ𐭩 : we’re pushing out this vi content ^^
Her presence felt suffocating tonight. Her scarred knuckles tapped impatiently on the table as her piercing blue eyes drilled into yours, unblinking. You knew what would follow was inevitable, but you’d do the best you could to pacify the beast.
“Who was it this time?” she demanded, her voice low, almost calm—but there was an edge beneath it that set your nerves on fire. “Vi, it wasn’t—” You started softly, but she was having none of it.
“Don’t lie to me.” She stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor. Her imposing figure cast a shadow over you. “I saw the way she looked at you. I saw the way you smiled at her.” Her words were sharp, cutting through any protest you might’ve had. You swallowed hard, unsure of what to say. The truth wouldn’t satisfy her, and a lie would only fuel her fire.
“She was just being polite,” you murmured, trying to de-escalate the situation. But that was the wrong move. Vi’s jaw clenched, and her fists tightened, the veins in her forearms flexing. “Polite?” she repeated, her voice dripping with disbelief. “No one looks at you like that out of politeness.”
You flinched as she stepped closer, her movements deliberate and slight erratic. She crouched slightly, bringing her face level with yours. There was an unsettling intensity in her gaze, a mix of love and possessiveness that made it hard to breathe.
“Do you think I’m stupid?” she asked suddenly, breaking the silence. Her voice was calm, too calm, and it made your chest tighten. “Do you think I don’t notice the way people look at you? The way they talk to you, like they have a chance?”
It was upsetting. It was like she was never pleased, never satisfied with what you said. “No, Vi, I don’t think that,” you replied quickly, hoping to placate her. “It’s not like that. No one’s trying to—”
“They are, though,” she interrupted, her voice rising. She turned to face you fully, her hand tightening around yours. “They think I’m not paying attention, but I see it. Every glance, every smile, every time someone gets too close to you.” Her lips curled into a bitter smirk. “They must think I’m weak, that I’ll just sit back and let them try to take you from me.”
“I’m here with you, aren’t I—“
“For now,” she muttered, her gaze darkening. “But people like them, they’re never satisfied. They’ll keep pushing, keep testing me, until I—” She stopped herself, exhaling sharply. Her free hand clenched into a fist, and you could almost see the storm raging inside her.
“You don’t get it, do you?” she said the words softly, but it came off condescendingly, and there was nothing tender in her tone. “You’re mine. Mine to protect, mine to love. And anyone who thinks they can take you away from me—” Her hand shot out, gripping your wrist firmly but not enough to hurt. Her touch was paradoxical: both gentle and possessive.
“I would do anything for you, you know that,” she continued, her voice barely above a whisper now. “But if someone threatens what we have… if someone so much as touches what’s mine…” Her words trailed off, but the unspoken promise hung in the air like a storm cloud. The look in her eyes was honest and dangerous, you wouldn’t dare to test the theory.
“Vi,” you began, your voice trembling. “You’re scaring me.”
Her expression softened, but only slightly. “Good.” she said, cupping your cheek with a calloused hand. “I love you too much to lose you. You’re the only thing in this world that makes sense to me. Don’t you see? I’d tear this whole city apart if it meant keeping you safe.”
The ferocity in her confession left you speechless. She leaned in, her forehead resting against yours. Her breath was warm against your skin, and for a moment, you almost believed she was calm. But then she whispered, “Tell me you’ll stay. Tell me you won’t ever leave me.”
Her tone wasn’t a request—it was a command cloaked in desperation. Your heart pounded in your chest as you nodded, knowing there was no room for argument.
“I’m not going anywhere,” you said, the words feeling heavier than they should. It made you feel unsettled—like you were signing a contract you weren’t sure of.
“Good,” she murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Because if you did… well, let’s just say no one else could ever love you like I do.” The implication lingered, unspoken but clear. In Vi’s world, her love was both a sanctuary and a cage—and you were the only one who could decide which it would be.
The tension between you and Vi didn’t ease, even as she pressed a gentle kiss to your temple. Her grip on your wrist lingered, and though it wasn’t painful, it was unyielding—a silent reminder of her control over the situation. The air between you felt thick, charged with an intensity that was hard to name but impossible to ignore.
She moved to sit beside you, pulling your hand into hers. Her fingers, rough and scarred from years of fighting, traced lazy circles over your skin. The contrast between her touch and her earlier aggression sent a shiver down your spine. You wanted to believe this was her way of calming down, but the gleam in her eyes told a different story.
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from roselí. ᡣ𐭩 : THE AMOUNT OF ASKS FOR THIS. y’all are depraved… i’m here for it ^^
The dim, oppressive atmosphere of The Last Drop seemed heavier tonight, or maybe that was just the weight of Sevika’s gaze boring into you from across the room. You’d been foolish to come back here— it wasn’t exactly a safe haven for someone like you. And Sevika? She’d made it her personal mission to remind you of that every chance she got.
You didn’t notice her approaching until her mechanical arm slammed onto the table, the impact making your drink slosh over the rim. You froze, feeling her looming presence before you dared to look up. You suppose now that thinking a secluded table in the corner would’ve been enough to conceal you was silly. She’d always had this weird sixth sense when it came to you— somehow always knew of your presence before you were made aware of hers.
“Still showing your face, huh?” she drawled, her voice dripping with mockery. “Maybe I’m not making myself clear enough.” You forced yourself to meet her gaze, but the smirk tugging at her lips made it hard to hold. She loved this, the little game where she chipped away at your composure like it was some cheap toy she’d grown bored of.
“I’m just here for a drink,” you muttered, closing in on yourself, voice quieter than you wanted it to be. “I’m not here to cause trouble,” you tried, but your voice cracked slightly under the pressure. She scoffed tilted her head, her sharp eyes scanning you from head to toe like she was appraising a broken machine. “No… you know better than that.”
Sevika smirked, sliding into the seat across from you. The motion was fluid and unnervingly casual, like she wasn't even trying to intimidate you-she just was. "You look worse than usual. Rough day? Or did you just wake up that way?"
Your chest tightened, but you kept your eyes fixed on the tabletop; you knew better than to rise to her bait. You tried to focus on your drink, anything to avoid meeting her gaze, but her sharp fingers grabbed the glass and slammed it back down on the table.
The ice rattled in the cup.
"Don't ignore me," she spat. "You're not that special."
The ice rattled in the cup.
Her presence loomed over you like a storm cloud, heavy and oppressive. You couldn't breathe with her so close, her mechanical arm casting shadows on your face as it clicked ominously beside her. She leaned forward, resting her chin in her human hand as her metal fingers tapped rhythmically against the table. “You’re pathetic.” She snarled, noting the way you avoided her eyes.
You clenched your fists under the table, trying to steady your breathing. "Why do you even care?" Her grin returned, wider, predatory now. "Care?" she repeated, her voice dripping with a mixture amusement and defensiveness. She sat up straight, towering over you and blocking out the flickering neon light behind her. "This isn’t about caring, idiot. It’s about entertainment.”
"Oh, you've got a drink," she said mockingly, plucking the glass from your hand before you could react. Her metal arm shot out, grabbing the edge of your drink and sliding it toward her. She held it up to the light, inspecting it like it was beneath her. "What is this? Some watered-down piss? Figures. Suits you."
"Give it back," you said, your voice low but trembling.
Her laugh was sharp and cruel. "Give it back," she mimicked, her tone dripping with condescension as she placed it back on the table. She sniffed it, then shoved the glass carelessly, the contents spilling onto the table with an exaggerated flourish. The room seemed to grow quieter, the other patrons glancing your way before quickly returning to their own business. No one in Zaun was going to stick their neck out for you.
“Oops,” she said flatly, her grin morphing into an ice gold glare. “That was unnecessary,” you said, your voice trembling despite your best efforts. Sevika’s expression darkened, and she leaned in so close you could feel the heat of her breath. “Unnecessary?” she echoed, her tone low and dangerous. “Let me make something clear: You might think your voice matters, but it doesn’t. Someone as weak and useless as yourself doesn’t get to decide what’s unnecessary.”
“I’ll tell you what is necessary though,” She offers, gesturing towards the spill on the table, “It’s necessary that you clean up your fucking mess.” It wasn’t a suggestion. You felt your blood boil, but you knew you couldn’t do anything about it. That just served to make you all the more irritated.
“But, I didn’t—” She raised a single eyebrow, a look that said: Are you questioning me? You heeded her warning, reaching over for the tub of napkins placed conveniently on the table.
The sting started slow, but it picked up rapidly, a feeling like fire washing over your cheek. You barely had time to register that she’d slapped you. “You should know better than that.” She spat, shoving your hand away from the napkins. “You think you deserve anything that dignifies you?”
You distinctly remember feeling small when she’d shoved your face into the table, your nose crashing onto the wood painfully. The drink was cold as it met your face, making your eyes sting as it slid through your eyelashes. Her grip in your hair was excruciatingly tight, your scalp burning where her hand held you. “This is how you deserve to clean up your mess. You lick it up.”
You physically grimace as she rolls your face around in your own drink, a choked sob finally rolling from your throat. The one you’d spent your own money on. The one you just wanted to sip slowly and enjoy.
You didn’t need to hear her snickering to know that she was, but you could.
You struggled to free yourself from her grip, but her fingers were like iron. She pulled your head up by your hair, dragging your face closer to hers, her words searing your skin.
"I could snap you like a twig if I felt like it," Sevika purred, her mechanical arm moving with precision as it hovered over your shoulder. "But no... that would be too quick. You don't deserve a quick end. No, I'll drag it out. I'll make you beg for mercy before I'm done with you."
The words twisted like knives in your gut, but you couldn't look away. Fear rooted you to the spot, and that made it worse. "You're lucky I don't find you too boring yet," she added, releasing your chin but running a finger down the side of your face. It was cold, and you flinched at the touch, but she didn't care. "Maybe you'll earn some of my respect. Maybe you'll fight back, or maybe you'll just keep looking at me like a lost puppy."
She took her free hand and smeared the drink over your face some more, "But probably not. You'll just keep letting me walk all over you. And I'll keep enjoying it." She turned to leave, offering you one last once over, her eyes glinting with what looked like satisfaction.
"Now," she patted your cheek, "Why don't you do yourself a favor and crawl back to whatever hole you came from before someone decides to make an example out of you?"
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WARNINGS: mentions of cheating, coercion if you squint, kinda steamy
from roselí. ᡣ𐭩 : see part one here. ^^
“You gonna answer that?” she asked, her voice low and teasing.
The smell of whiskey and faint smoke lingered in the room, the soft glow of a lamp casting shadows on the walls. You hadn’t meant to come here—not again. Yet, your feet had carried you across the city, through dimly lit streets, and to this place that held so many secrets.
A single unread message glared in your mind, though you hadn’t dared to open it. It was from him. Your boyfriend. You shook your head, feeling the burn of guilt prickling at your chest. “I shouldn’t even be here,” you murmured, but your words lacked conviction.
Sevika stood by the window, her broad shoulders silhouetted against the pale moonlight. Her cigar burned lazily in her metal hand, the smoke curling upward in lazy spirals. She turned slightly at your rebuttal, her sharp gaze settling on you with that same unreadable intensity.
“But you are,” she replied simply, taking a drag from her cigar before stubbing it out in the ashtray. She stepped closer, her boots heavy on the floor, the sound reverberating in the quiet room. “And this isn’t the first time, is it?”
Your breath hitched. She was right. Despite every promise you had made to yourself—and to him—you were here. Again. The memory of the first encounter was still vivid—fleeting moments of passion, stolen in the shadows.
That night had been a mistake. At least, that’s what you told yourself. But the way she had touched you— the heat of her touch, the way she made you feel alive in a way you hadn’t in months. It was a mistake, you remind yourself. A one-time thing. But as the days stretched on, you couldn’t stop thinking about her, about the pull she had over you.
“Guess that boyfriend of yours isn’t enough for you.”
Her words hit a nerve, and you flinched, guilt and shame swirling inside you. “Don’t,” you whispered, but even to your own ears, it sounded weak. You swallowed hard, your resolve wavering as she closed the distance between you. She stopped just a breath away, her metal arm glinting in the dim light as she reached out to brush a strand of hair from your face. Her touch was deliberate, teasing, and it sent a shiver down your spine.
You glanced up at her from your spot on the couch, your head eye level with her hips. “It’s not right,” you whispered, more to yourself than to her. Her metal hand brushed your cheek, the touch cold but strangely grounding. “It’s not right…” she murmured, repeating your words. “Doesn’t stop you from wanting it, hm?”
The question hung in the air, daring you to respond. You looked at her—broad shoulders, sharp jawline, the dangerous glint in her eyes that drew you in like a moth to a flame. She leaned in, and your breath hitched as her fingers traced a slow path down your arm, sending shivers through your body. “You don’t have to stay,” Her voice was calm, almost mocking. “But if you do… you know how this ends.”
You hated how true her words were, hated the way your body betrayed you as she she pulled to to your feet, backing you into the wall. “I…” you started, but the words died on your lips as she leaned in, her scent—smoke, leather, and something distinctly her—filling your senses. Her lips brushed against yours, “Tell me to stop.”
You should have. You knew you should have. But instead, your hands found their way to her chest, clutching at her shirt as if holding on to her could steady the chaos inside you. “I shouldn’t—”
“But you will,” she interrupted, her voice firm, her tone leaving no room for argument. Her hand moved to your waist, pulling you closer until you could feel the warmth of her breath on your lips. “You didn’t come here to say no.”
Her hands, one warm and human, the other cold and unyielding, gripped your waist as she pulled you impossibly closer. You shouldn’t be doing this—not again. But the way she touched you, the way she made you feel like the center of her world, was impossible to resist.
Your chest tightened with guilt, but it wasn’t enough to stop you. It wasn’t enough to keep you from leaning into her, from letting her lips claim yours in a kiss that was just as intoxicating as you remembered. All the guilt, the hesitation, the promises you’d made melted away under the heat of her kiss. Her hands were firm and possessive, pulling your hips flush against hers, as though daring you to regret this later.
You knew you wouldn’t be leaving when she hiked your leg over her hip, gripping your ass with an almost aggravated slap.
When you finally broke apart, breathless and trembling, Sevika chuckled, her voice dripping with satisfaction. “Second time’s the charm, huh, Baby?” You didn’t answer, couldn’t answer. The weight of what you’d done—again—settled heavily in your chest. But as her fingers trailed down your arm, lacing with yours, a part of you wondered if you’d ever be able.
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