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the distinction of want and need - lucas (yandere oc) x reader (6.5k)

he thinks he is helping. you know he is not.

cw: nsfw. dark content; dubious consent. yandere character, cannibal oc. bondage; ropes, handcuffs. kidnapped reader. mentions of death, cannibalism, violence. fem reader using fem pronouns, pet names, lucas' ideas of 'domesticity'.

a/n: this is a direct sequel to bonds. same reader, same commissioner (who i'm thankful to as always for letting me play in the sandbox of my own characters!).

For a little while, it is better.

Lucas isn't the most emotionally intelligent man, but he begins to catch the warning signs of you starting to lose yourself; he begins to be able to tell when the static is threatening to overwhelm you. When your hands shake more than usual, or you snap back at him a little too quickly in a way he doesn't find cute, or when it takes him having to ask you twice or even more when he gives a command.

It's almost nice; in someone else, you think, these things might be enough to get Lucas to lose his temper completely. But because of what you've already shown him, and the way you've found that calms that insistent panic, Lucas' eyes just go a little soft and tender when he notices.

"Oh, darlin'," he'll say, in that slow, sweet, Southern way of his as his fingers find your chin and tilts it up so your gaze can meet his own. "Is it all gettin' too much for you again?"

And all you need to do in response is swallow and bite your lip. You don't even need to ask him anymore; he knows what it is you need.

"Yes," you'll whisper, in a soft breath, and Lucas will smile at you like the two of you are sharing a secret and rub his thumb along the apple of your cheek.

"Well," he'll say to you, and a frisson of excitement will zip down your back. "We know how to deal with it when ya' start gettin' too fussy, don't we?"

And you and he will - when the clock allows it, of course, because Lucas likes a loose schedule and the domesticity of knowing what a day will bring - retire to his bedroom. And he'll go in his drawers and he'll find the rope, and he'll manoeuvre your body like a ragdoll until you're nice and tight and restrained, and all of the thoughts will drain out of your head as he works on you.

He's not free with information on his past, but you know he grew up on a farm, and sometimes you think of yourself like an animal being prepared. He's so efficient about it, knows exactly what to do in order to have you be pliable and helpless and bleating at him like a helpless little lamb in search of a shepherd. He knows exactly how to drain you of the bad thoughts and the fear and the anxiety until you're an empty vessel - and you will smile dutifully and play your role and be perfect for him until he needs to do it again.

(And you don't think he minds it, either. Not really. He likes you underneath him with nothing at all binding you, of course; likes it when you cling to his shoulders and murmur his name and he has you like a husband has a wife and can pretend this is normal - but there's a glint in his eye when he ties you up, too. A satisfaction that oozes like syrup from his honeyed syllables when he tests the tightness of his bonds and gives you a pat on your rump and tells you that 'you won't be wrigglin' out of that any time soon').

It grounds you, in between what feel like immeasurable days doing the same thing. Waking up in the morning and getting dressed and showering and helping with breakfast, doing your cross-stitches by the window and kissing Lucas on the cheek and collecting eggs from the chicken, cuddling on the couch and letting him take you to bed and convincing yourself that this is right and this is normal and this is fine and this is a life you'd have chosen if you'd been able to choose it--

Reminds you that you're solid and real. And Lucas does it for you. Lucas keeps you grounded, too. And he does it because he loves you.

(He does. You have to tell yourself he does. You have to look in his eyes and smile at him and remind yourself that, for everything else you've sacrificed, at least he loves you).

And then he stops waiting for your little tells to whisper to him that it's time that he emptied your head for you. He discovers the art of pre-empting.

And that . . . that makes things worse.

The first time, you go along with it. It's not so bad. Maybe not waiting until it all gets too much will be better for you, you think, as Lucas' calloused hands fasten sure knots around your wrists. Maybe he'd noticed before you'd noticed, even.

The second time, you make a soft little protest - tell him that you're not sure if you need that right now when he goes into a drawer - and he turns to you with a look of surprise on his face.

"Sweetheart," he says to you, all softness and sweetness, the low, cooing voice of a doctor talking to a child who doesn't realise that they're just trying to help her get better, "c'mon. Don't you think I know you by now? This is gonna help. Be a good girl for me, now."

So you do, because you are a good girl. Bad girls, of course, meet the sharp end of an axe. Their corpses meet the even sharper end of a meathook. It's always better to be a good girl if Lucas is kind enough to offer you the chance.

The third time, though, he comes back from a trip to town with a tuneless whistle pushing out through his teeth and a grin that curls up the corner of his mouth in a way one might even call boyish.

"Got a little somethin' for us to play with while I was out," he says to you. "Can hardly wait to show you it later, darlin'. But for now - should we start gettin' dinner ready?"

You think it must be lingerie. Lucas has never shown any inclination in bringing any kind of aids into the bedroom - you get the impression he's the kind of man who'd think his prowess was in doubt if you brought it up, and to be perfectly fair to him, he never comes unless you do - and you can't think of anything else it might be. Lucas usually prefers modest things; frills and lace and layers. You are not even remotely frightened of what it is that Lucas might have brought back until you two get in the bedroom and you see the shine of something metallic silver and it feels like your blood runs cold in your veins.

You force yourself to return to your thoughts, away from the panic that's flaring dully in your brain: remind yourself that there is no way that Lucas will be showing you a weapon. Not with that smile on his face.

(He wouldn't want to get blood on the bedding, soaking into the floorboards; despite everything, the man is surprisingly houseproud).

"What do you think?" He asks you, a smile that's equal parts affection and hunger tugging at his mouth. You breathe slowly, and let your eyes take in the full scene.

Handcuffs.

Alright, alright. You can do this. These are not so frightening. You wonder where he got them; they're not fluffy play handcuffs, the kind you've seen as gag gifts in some novelty shops before (and you can't imagine Lucas going into one of those kind of establishments without blushing red to the tips of his ears and turning right back out, muttering about kids these days being utterly shameless). They're rather more solidly built than that.

"Just been thinkin'," he says, casually, as he approaches you and with the hand not holding onto the cuffs, runs a palm over your bare arm. You haven't yet changed out of the pretty dress he'd chosen for you from the wardrobe this morning, though there's a cotton nightgown laid out over your pillow. "It gets me worried, all those ropes on ya'. Rope burn and blisters and the like. Wouldn't want to rough up your pretty soft skin, would we? Thought it might be easier with somethin' like these, that we can just click on and off . . ." And he smiles again, with a strange light in his eye. "And it's a different kinda bond, don't ya' think? Different way of bein' constrained."

You tell yourself that Lucas was thinking of you, when he brought home the handcuffs. That his own hands and fingers probably got chapped and sore from tying all of those knots, as well as your wrists. He wouldn't understand if you explained that part of the catharsis is the physical sensation of rubbing against your skin, the fact you can look at the marks afterwards and tie them back to that feeling of being real--

If you said that, it would probably upset him, that part of the thing that has you coming back to him over and over is the fact that it hurts. Other than the few times he's punished you, he hates it when he hurts you - gets all apologetic and maudlin, kissing the bruises better, telling you he never meant to do it. You can't bear to rock the boat when things have been going so well.

"Okay," you say, swallowing back your protestations and your fears and giving him a smile that you hope comes across as sunny and unforced. "Let's try it."

He cuffs you to one of the bedposts, on your stomach with your cheek against the pillow and your arms above you, the cold metal biting into your wrists like a warning - and immediately, your body panics.

This isn't like the rope. This isn't like the calming repetitive motion of Lucas' fingers tying knots, of him checking their security, of his hands patting at you and gently pulling you into place. This is something cold and cruel and hungry. The very sound of the metal against the post makes all of the hairs on your body stand up. The sound of the key clicking in the lock almost makes you start begging him.

(What if he drops the key? You wonder. What if it falls between a crack in the floorboards and you never see it again and he keeps you here, chained to his bed, forever and ever and ever? What if he leaves you here? What if, what if, what if--)

But you squeeze your eyes tight and you press your lips together and you whimper only sweetly when Lucas presses kisses to the back of your neck and covers your body with his, and when it is all over and the key clicks in the lock again and you are free, you sag against him as he hums a contented noise into your hair.

"So much quicker," Lucas says, pressing a kiss to your forehead. You don't know if he has noticed that you're trembling more than usual - if he can tell how frightened it made you. You burrow against his broad chest. "I'm gettin' old, darlin'. It's a nice change'a pace for me, too."

You swallow, and bring yourself to whisper;

"I like the ropes better. M-maybe we could save the handcuffs for . . . special occasions?"

A moment in the air; it shimmers there, charged and pregnant. Anything could happen. You've seen Lucas turn at the drop of a hat. One big hand pets through your hair whilst he considers the question, and you do not dare look up at him.

"Hm," he says, eventually. "P'raps."

It's the closest to an agreement you're going to get, and you look up at him and press a kiss to his bare collarbone and win a low chuckle from Lucas and you hope that he leaves the key somewhere that he'll never find it again before the next time the mood to cuff you to his bed strikes him.

But life is rarely ever so kind.

Not to you.

It starts out as a morning much like the rest of them. You've fallen into such an easy routine that you sometimes forget you live out in the middle of the woods with a cannibal and a murderer and a kidnapper. If you close your eyes, you can romanticise your life, and that makes it all so much easier - right up until the moment that Lucas speaks, and the illusion shatters like spun glass.

You're brushing your hair in front of the mirror before Lucas wakes up that morning, concentrating on tugging out the tangles, wondering about if he'll wake up before you and if that means you'll get to choose your own dress for once, when Lucas' hand lands on your shoulder.

A squeak of surprise falls from your mouth before you can stop it, a little jump on the seat of the dressing table as you turn to look at him with your eyes big and wide.

"Ah, you're just the cutest thing," Lucas says, looking down at you with a smile on his face and then leaning in for a morning kiss. He still tastes just a little like his toothpaste, his stubble scratching at your sensitive skin, your senses heightened from being surprised. You hadn't even heard him wake up!

(You think of him stalking silently through the forest with his weapon in hand).

It's not the normal kiss he bestows on you in the morning. You wouldn't call his kisses perfunctory, ordinarily - there's a pleasure in them that he takes that makes them feel anything but. But there's something hungrier in this morning's kiss, something that presses against you as his tongue teases along the seam of your lips and you give in and let him plunder your mouth. A mounting excitement.

"You're . . . enthusiastic, this morning," you say, skin flushing, as you pull back from his kiss and you see the blood that's rushed to his cheeks and the half-lidded look in his eye.

"Why wouldn't I be, when I've got you to wake up to?"

You look down at your lap in embarrassment at the compliment. That's what Lucas likes; you to play a little bit shy, a little bit surprised at how much he wants you. You must do a good job with your expression, because Lucas lets out a little huff that you've come to know as excitement.

"Tell you the truth, darlin' . . . I had a bit of a racy dream last night - starrin' you, of course - and I'm feelin' all kinds'a riled up this mornin'."

Oh. That's not so bad. It's far from the first time it's happened. Usually he's not quite so verbose about it - Lucas prefers to kiss you and pin you under him in bed and sigh and pant out compliments in between working off his morning wood - but maybe he's about to confess something to you. Maybe last night's dream had something unusual about it.

"Oh?" You look at him from under your lashes. "Is there anything I can help with?"

He chuckles, reaching forward to chuck your chin fondly.

"I thought you'd never ask. First thing you can do is get that nightgown off for me."

You force yourself to give a girlish giggle. Play to what he wants, you remind yourself. It's not so bad. Hopefully, he's just going to want you to ride him or to spank you or something, and you can deal with that kind of thing. You wiggle out of the thin cotton with only the slightest blush, and Lucas' eyes hungrily trail up and down you as if he hasn't seen your naked body a hundred times.

"Prettier every time I get to see you," he says, hunger apparent in every syllable of his words. You sometimes wonder if he ever does think about cutting you into pieces and feasting on you, when he talks like that - when he kisses and bites at your bare skin, you wonder if he thinks about how easily a carving knife would cut into your flesh. But his hunger, for now, is satisfied by your body bare and open for him - and you know that you have to be grateful for that.

Better to be trussed up in rope in his bed than trussed up in rope in his shed, after all.

"C'mere," he says, and he takes your hand and leads you over to the bed you just recently vacated. He pulls the coverlet back up so it lays flat, and then urges you onto the bed onto your back. So far, so normal. He takes your wrists in his hand and leans down to kiss you again, hungry enough to devour you whole, and it all happens so quickly that the first time you're aware of what he's done is when he pulls away and your back arches to follow his kiss and you're stopped by the freezing cold kiss of metal on your sensitive wrists.

He gives you a crooked smile at the look of confusion that crosses your face, and then he shows you the tiny key that he's still holding.

"In my dream," he says, as if he can't tell that your heart is pounding like a heavy metal drumbeat, "I left you all tied up for a coupla hours, and when I came back you were . . . well. Let's just say that all that time on your own really got you needy for it, darlin'."

"Lucas? I don't--"

"Aww, don't worry, darlin'. I'll keep the key with me. Ain't nothing bad gonna happen to you here."

"Please," your voice comes out thin and reedy. You tug helplessly against the cuffs, until they dig into your skin so hard you're certain that you must be cutting into flesh. "I don't want . . . It's scary--"

"I said nothin' would happen." His voice comes out a little sharper, now. You see the flinty spark in his eye and you sag helplessly against the bed, and then Lucas delivers the final blow: "Unless . . . you don't trust me?"

There it is. There's only one right answer to that question. You force yourself to breathe in - one, two, three - and breathe out again. One, two, three.

"Of course I trust you," you whisper into the charged air. You swallow. "I love you."

A satisfied smile.

"I love you too, sweetheart. Now, be a good girl for me, and when I come back . . ." Bare fingers dance against your calf, trailing up to your knee and then over your thigh. You force yourself not to flinch from his touch, even when the calloused tips of his fingers brush lovingly against the seam between your thighs. You hope that there's some lingering wetness from last night so that he doesn't realise how terrified you are - and his smile doesn't fade, so he must find something that convinces him that you want him back.

"You'll see," he says, with that crooked smile again. "Time'll fly right by."

He only leaves you for an hour, that first time - but that hour crawls by like it's dragging itself through time, and by the time Lucas comes back you're trembling violently when he covers his body with yours and stifles your whimpers with kisses.

He mistakes your desperation to be untied and your relief to see him as enjoyment of your predicament, his mouth hungry when he presses it against yours, his hands searching and finding you slick between your thighs with sweat from panic that he pretends is arousal.

"We'll do it again," he says, with a grin, when he's used the key to unlock your bondage and is laid next to you, basking in the warmth of his own pleasure. "I could really tell how much you liked that one, darlin'."

You're too afraid to tell him the truth.

The time he leaves you lasts longer and longer and longer.

One morning, he clicks the cuffs into place despite you trying to tell him you wanted to bake today, you had plans, and he chuckles and drops a kiss on your forehead and looks down at you with fondness.

"No, angelface," he says to you, with that sweet smile on his face that says he thinks that what he's doing is for your own good. "Don't think I haven't been noticin' you gettin' all kinds of frustrated recently. This is gonna help."

He leaves you there whilst he gets dressed, whistling through his teeth, occasionally turning back to look at your bare body where you're helpless on the bed. Your breath catches in your throat when he reaches into one of the drawers by the bedside and pulls out his hunting knife. He only usually carries that around in tandem with his axe, if he's going out into the woods proper--

"Lucas?" You whisper. "Sweetheart?"

"Mm?" He runs a hand through his hair, checking himself absent-mindedly in the mirror to make sure he's decent. "Darlin'?"

"A-are you leaving the cabin?"

Lucas chuckles under his breath.

"Nothin' for you to worry about, I told you," he says. "You just lie there lookin' pretty and lookin' forward to how good it's gonna feel when I come back, yeah?"

"I don't . . . Please don't leave me like this if you're going o-out--"

Lucas tilts his head to the side, turning and approaching you on the bed. There's always that frisson of fear when he comes at you when you're at his mercy, and this time is no different. Breath caught in your throat and heart pounding.

"It's gonna make it better," he says to you, instead, his voice a soft, low, almost musical reassurance. "Imagine how much of a relief it's gonna feel when I come back. You can handle it. You're my good girl."

A hand on your cheek; a thumb stroking the soft skin, down and over your jaw, fluttering over your pulse with that small smile not leaving his mouth. You swallow back the protestations.

"Are you, though?" You whisper. It feels like you need to know: that if Lucas loves you and respects you as much as he pretends to, he'd at least give you the courtesy of telling you if he's going to abandon you. "Going out?"

His face shifts; a minute twitch of annoyance, a shuttering of those green eyes.

"I told ya'," he says, his voice short now. "Ain't nothin' for you to worry about. All you gotta do is stay here and wait for me. Now--" His eyes flicker to the window. Your curtains are half-shut, to protect a little of your modesty, though there's nobody out here to see you. "I'm running a mite late. I'll see you later."

He doesn't say goodbye, as he leaves the bedroom, and the door shuts with a solid thunk that makes your stomach churn in fear. He wouldn't, would he? Go out and into the woods and leave you like this? Risk getting hurt and having you be trapped here?

He's playing with you, you try and tell yourself. Trying to make it more exciting.

And then you hear the front door. The creak of it opening. The thud of it closing. And though you cannot see it through the window from your position, your mind conjures it anyway:

Lucas.

Walking away from the cabin.

Leaving you exactly like this.

It's amazing, the things that one's brain will do when confronted with a terrifying situation. You'd learnt some of those things the night Lucas had first taken you; discovered that you were one of those people with a fawn response, who cried instead of trying to solve problems. You'd seen how many of your friends had taken flight and how many of them had chosen fight - but in the end, only you had survived.

Fawning is not going to do anything now. There's nobody left who could listen.

So all you can do is stare helplessly up at the ceiling (too familiar, from too much time spent on your back in Lucas' bed, and too much of it bound). All you can do is try not to let yourself hyperventilate as your breath comes in short panicked pants. All you can do is try and convince yourself that Lucas is coming back.

All you can do is try and calm your mind, as it careens at a thousand miles a minute through all of the possible paths that your life could take from here.

And even when you stop that, even when you bring yourself back to the present with a hard tug of your wrists so that the pain blossoms all over and the shock reminds you of where you are, you cannot stop your mind from wandering places you do not want it to visit.

What if he likes you better like this?

It's hard not to think about. He's been more and more enthusiastic about tying you up and immobilising you recently; has been the one to suggest it, sometimes, when before he'd wait for you to come to him and ask. What if he likes you better now that you're unable to fight or squirm? What if it's put an end to his paranoid fears that you might be lying to him and are ready to run away from him at any moment?

And if he does prefer you incapacitated, what's to stop him from making this more permanent?

He knows field medicine - he's told you that much, in his gruff, short way. He's set your broken bones when he's had to punish you with them. He's talked to you about tourniquets. It's not out of the question to imagine he's had to perform a battlefield amputation, and if you didn't have legs to run on then he wouldn't have to worry about you trying to abscond. And if he took your arms as well--

He wouldn't have to tie you up, either; you'd be helpless, relying on him to take you from place to place. He could leave you on the bed all day and you'd be able to do nothing about it, even if you did have the handcuff keys. You'd be no better than a toy.

And, naturally, thinking of him doing that makes you think about the storage shed you never go in; the meals he's served you made of a meat you'd never tasted before you came here. You don't mention that you know what it is, but you're not stupid, and Lucas surely must realise you know--

Does he tie those people up like this? Does he use rope, just in case they kick out at him? Does he kill them first, or does he take their meat whilst they're still conscious? You've never heard screaming, but you've never been in there either, and there's no reason he couldn't have soundproofed it--

When he ties you up and his hands move over you in that considering way, squeezing at you and patting at you and pinching your softest parts, is he imagining how he would butcher you?

Is he thinking about it even now, as he wanders the woods for helpless lost hikers and campers? Is he going to come back and hack you into pieces?

You're trembling. How long has he been gone now?

It feels like hours.

You try to crane your neck to get a look out of the window. The shadows have lengthened; the air has taken on a warm golden-red cast. Evening is coming, and you know it was morning when he left.

Another thought, almost too horrible to contemplate.

What if he doesn't come back?

What if he leaves you here? What if he lets it stretch on and on and on, until you're helpless and starved and dying right here on the bed, and when he does come back you're so grateful to see him you let him do anything you want?

(You don't want to contemplate something happening to Lucas in the woods. You don't want to imagine that he's the one, for once, who gets the axe dug into his skull and bleeds out on the grass as a horror movie cliche of a final girl wipes her blood from her face and spits on his corpse. It's not that you want Lucas to kill again - but in the position you're in now, it is either let Lucas kill or let Lucas be killed, and only the former will ensure that you do not die handcuffed to this bed).

The jangle of a key in the door.

Lucas hates it when you shout, but you cannot help it, as a kind of all-consuming relief consumes you and you open your mouth and call for him.

You haven't drunk anything in hours, and the name comes out like a rusty creak of a hinge, but it comes out - and then you're repeating his name into the air, chanting it like some kind of prayer, begging him to come to you with tears clogging your airways so that you can barely breathe.

When the door opens, and his form is there, silhouetted and real and solid, you cannot stop yourself from beginning to cry.

His hand rubbing circles into your bare back as you hiccup sobs into the crook of his neck, whispering how glad you are to see him, how frightened you were, how much you missed him.

"Shh," he's murmuring sweet nothings of sound against your ear. His hand slips down your spine, cradling you against him, shifting your body ever so slightly so that your thighs part as you almost straddle his knee. "Shh, I'm here now, darlin'. What were you so afraid of?"

You confess to him in a helpless stream of consciousness that you were frightened he'd forget about you, stop loving you, that you'd done something wrong and he was going to hurt you, and through all of the helpless whimpers and sniffles, Lucas keeps his hands on you. A finger wiping away your tears. His mouth brushing over your cheeks. His body, hard and certain and strong, as he manoeuvres you expertly onto his lap.

You barely notice that he's unzipping his fatigues. You barely notice how hard he is, when he shifts you forward and the length of him slips between your thighs but not yet inside of you.

"You poor thing," he murmurs. "You know I'd never do that. You know how much I adore you, don't you?"

"I was s-so frightened," you whimper out, into his neck. "Wh-when I was on my own, my brain j-just wouldn't be quiet--!"

"There, there," he whispers, making a soothing noise with his tongue. "That's why we do this, darlin'. To make your brain be quiet, yeah?"

"I-it was different!" You pull back, tears trembling on your lashes, but you're too far gone to see the brief flinch of annoyance that crosses Lucas' face. "It's not the same as when you tie me up. I-it feels . . . scarier--"

"Hey," he tries to calm you, his low Southern accent remaining as gentle as he can make it. One hand fastens around the back of your head, pulling you into a kiss so that no more words can helplessly trickle forth from between your lips. "We don't have to do it again for a while--"

You nod against his chest, and Lucas lets out a soft sigh as he rearranges you and you feel him slip inside, with only the barest modicum of resistance. Your body has learnt him, now - and those soft touches, that soothing cadence of his voice, that way that he's been kissing you and whispering against your skin . . . that's enough for you to know what's coming, and prepare yourself.

"See?" He whispers, as he rocks you back and forth on him, as he delves one hand between your thighs to work you open on him until you can't think of anything other than his fingers on your softest parts and the heat that he draws forth from your insides with every stroke. "See how much better it is now I'm here, darlin'? See how much you needed me?"

You do. You do need him. You need him here, against you, with you, protecting you. You need him to be by your side and in your bed and to make sure that everything is going to work out. You need him here to be the key to the handcuffs and the one who unknots the ropes (and it does not matter if he was the one who locked you in, if he was the one who tied them to begin with). Where would you be without Lucas' tender care, without his kiss and his love and his commitment to keeping you safe?

"Please never leave me," you whisper against his sweat slicked skin, the words all edged with tears. "Lucas, please."

"Oh, sweetheart," there's too much churning in his voice for you to pull out the individual threads. Satisfaction. Pleasure. Triumph. "You know that I ain't goin' anywhere."

The addition goes unspoken.

Neither are you.

A few weeks pass, and everything is fine.

Everything is as fine as it can be, at any rate, bearing in mind your circumstances. Lucas is kind with you, and gentle, and when you two are in bed together it is soft and sweet and slow and he does not bring out the handcuffs or the rope.

He praises you. You give him a cross-stitch you've been working on, a pattern of three chickens and their chicks surrounded by flowers in a fancy embroidery hoop frame you'd found in one of the drawers in the study (the pattern had been found there, too, in a magazine that had other patterns circled. You'd studiously avoided even thinking of stitching those ones). He hangs it up in the kitchen with a grin and you catch him looking at it with a soppy smile on his face when he thinks you aren't watching.

You darn a pair of his socks and he kisses you on the forehead. You fall asleep on the couch next to him whilst he watches an old Western and he tucks you up in a blanket and carries you to bed. You drop a glass when you're washing up and he only flinches and then fusses about you cutting yourself as he cleans up instead of getting frustrated and angry about you being clumsy.

It's domestic. It's soft and it's warm and it's cosy, and if you ignore that it's not a life you chose for yourself and that the storage shed is full of corpses and that your stomach is heavy and full with human meat, you could almost call it idyllic.

Because Lucas loves you, and Lucas protects you, and Lucas takes care of you - and Lucas has honoured your wishes. It's as close to perfect as it can be, all things considered.

And then the fizzing starts again.

You try not to show it. You try to dampen it down, and ignore the fact that you feel as though all of your atoms are smashing against each other in a ploy to take one another down. You bite your lip so hard it bleeds and get Lucas fussing over you again, kissing your wound, cleaning it with antiseptic that makes your eyes water.

But you can't hide it from him.

He knows you too well. He loves you, he says, and for him . . . loving you involves learning you by heart, until he can tell what mood you're in by the twitch of an eyebrow or the sigh you let loose in the morning when you stretch. You have learnt Lucas too, in a similar way - but for you, it is a matter of survival. Walking on eggshells. Lucas does not fear you, though - all Lucas wants, he reassures you, is to take care of you.

"Don't think I haven't noticed, darlin'," he says to you, that night, when you're back in a flimsy little cotton nightgown and getting ready to go to bed. "It's happenin' again, isn't it?"

"I d-don't know what you mean," you whisper, trying to look at him with wide-eyed innocence and not give away the low burn of fear in the back of your throat. "What's happening again?"

Lucas gives you a sad little smile.

"You don't need to pretend. Not for me." He's going for the bedside drawer. The sound of the metal casters of the drawer sliding open echoes in your head.

"I'm f-fine," you say, and you summon a smile. But he's reaching in.

"No," he says, softly. "I know exactly what you need."

Your only comfort is that he pulls out the rope and not the cuffs.

You want to fight him off. You want to slap the rope from his hands. You want to run away and hit him and fight and struggle and claw at him and get away from the fact that he reaches over to you and pulls you into position and you don't so much as wriggle as he begins to tie you up in that practised, measured way he's so good at.

"I d-don't need it," you say, helplessly, your mouth full of the coverlet. "Lucas, I don't want to--"

"Shhh," Lucas gives you a fond tap on the nose. The knot he's working on is pulled taut, so you can barely wriggle. "You asked me for this, remember? Only thing that'd quell alla' that churning inside of you. What kinda man would I be if I didn't give my girl what she needs?"

He rolls you over so your bound wrists are behind you, smiling down at you - but there's a challenge in his eye. Something cold and cruel.

"You wanted it," he reminds you, and though his tone is mild it feels like he's mocking you. "You like it when we do this. You crave it. You need it."

He's waiting for you to crack. He's testing you; seeing if you'll break, if you'll show him that you don't love him after all, and you aren't willing to play his game and let him love you and cherish you and protect you and tend to you.

You're shaking. You don't trust yourself to speak. Lucas' hand slides up your bare thigh, closer and closer to the apex between your legs.

And--

It has quelled that fizzing again, just a little. Your head is swimming in a way that doesn't feel like a pounding anvil.

Maybe he's right. Maybe you do need it. Maybe you do want it, and you do like it, and all of that fear from the handcuffs was your body acclimatising to your new normal. Why would Lucas want to hurt you?

You meet his eyes.

"Yes," you whisper, and you hope he can't tell how miserable the assent makes you feel. "I need it."

Satisfaction.

"That's a good girl," he says to you.

In the morning, you'll look at the rope burns on your wrists. You'll think about rootling in the drawers and finding the keys to the handcuffs and swallowing it so he can't use them again. You'll briefly think about running away, whilst he slumbers in bed next to you.

But you won't do it.

Just in case he's right.

Just in case you do need it. Just in case you do need him.

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