Sleep is simply impossible. Every worry from the last day circles through your mind, never pausing long enough to get a good grip on it before the next one takes its place.
Aaron. Puerto Rico. Victor's childhood. Period sex. Victor avoiding you. Being his girlfriend. Broken ribs.
Over and over they filter through your thoughts like some nightmarish PowerPoint presentation, keeping you just awake enough to add "can't sleep" to the list of worries.
There's a familiar restlessness rising inside you, that inescapable impulse to leave. To run, to drive, to walk alone at night until your mind and body are exhausted. Something, anything that will remove this suffocating feeling in your throat, like a scream prickling up your airway that you're simply too sane to let yourself release. Too sane to scream, too scared to walk, too predictable to drive. That's the worst part of it, how much you comprehend that you are your own jailer.
All you'd have to do is get up. Just push yourself slowly off the mattress and escape Victor's arms without waking him up. You mentally practice the movement, over and over, yet you can't quite find the will to accomplish it. What would be the purpose? There's not like you have anywhere you can go that will calm your agitation. There isn't a single place you could drive to tonight that would make any difference.
You want to see Victor's house. That used to be your distraction, walking around that cul-de-sac and looking for a sign of life in those dark windows. But now it's a normal, single family home, with pumpkins on the porch and a welcome mat, and it won't satisfy. You're already in Victor's house, in his bed, in his arms, and there's no way to get any closer.
"Can't sleep?" Victor asks quietly, somehow not scaring the crap out of you by suddenly breaking the silence. You tense, not wanting to admit that you can't sleep because then he'll ask what's wrong, and the last thing you want to do right now is talk through all the things you are powerless to change.
When you don't answer, he says, "Your heart is pounding."
Fuck, of course it is. You've probably been keeping him up all this time with the endless anxiety coursing through your body.
"Sorry." You lift your head, finally giving your muscles the command to get up and let him sleep in peace, but his arms possessively tighten around you.
Trapping you.
You fucking panic. There's not even a second to process what's happening before your instincts kick in, and you just start thrashing. Gasping, frantically clawing at his forearms and kicking off from the mattress in a sudden explosion of every ounce of strength you possess.
"What the–" is all Victor has time to get out before he's letting you go, so suddenly that your momentum has you tumbling off the side of the bed.
You instantly pop to your feet, panting and practically vibrating with the aftershocks of the mental violence you just experienced. Even while your mind is screaming at you to stop, to just calm down and deal with this like a rational person, your body is still telling you how unsafe you are. You were feeling trapped, and then you were trapped, and now all that matters is the exact location of the door and the distance to reach it.
Victor's breathing is discernible from the general area of the bed, heavier than normal, but he doesn't move to grab you. He just stays there, silent and still, and lets you decide if you need to run for the door, or if you can afford to stand here for a little bit and calm down.
It takes longer than you'd like. Your civilized brain begins to oust your lizard brain, and with it comes a heavy wave of guilt and humiliation. You step backwards until your shoulders hit the wall, covering your face with your hands and racking your brain for some way to explain what just happened. The thing is, there's no good explanation. You don't deserve to have that reaction. Victor is the one who should get to be like this, not you.
"I'm sorry," you say, finally lowering your hands. "I don't know why I did that."
"It's alright, baby." He's saying that like someone soothing a child, and it irritates you because it almost sounds like this breakdown comes as no surprise to him. As if, no matter that you've managed to lock it down tight, he somehow guessed how fucked up you are and was just waiting for this to happen. You just shake your head and flatten your palms against the wall, working to calm your inhales.
"I followed you home," he tells you, "the first time I ever saw you."
For some reason that confession has icy dread squeezing your chest, and you're so far gone in the panic spiral that you're unable to understand why.
"Just got back from a job, and you walked by, lookin' so pretty and sad, and smelling like someone I hadn't thought about in fifty years. I needed a distraction that night, so I followed you."
There's an audible click, and all of a sudden you have to squint against the blast of lamp light illuminating the room. Victor settles back in place, shirtless as usual, propping himself up on one arm and eying you with unnerving calm. You're trying to remember that night, what could have possibly made it worth a story, but everything except spotting Victor seems to be erased from your memories. You just stand there in growing unease, steeling yourself for whatever mortifying thing he heard Aaron say to you.
"You went home and started watching TV with your husband," he continues, speaking quietly like he's afraid you'll freak out again. "I was able to jump to the top of that bay window on the back of the house and watch you from there. There was something on TV that tickled you the right way, and had you laughing for a long time. Real, happy kind of laughs that made me smile."
Victor extends a claw, looking like he's about to rough up the blanket but then thinks better of it. "And then your husband made this stupid fuckin' noise, like there was nothing more annoying in the world than you bein' happy, and you stopped laughing. Didn't even say anything to the dick, just watched the rest of the show without even smiling."
"Why are you telling me this?" you ask, shame scorching through you, wanting to be anywhere but here right now.
"You don't have to pretend with me. I saw it. I know."
A humorless laugh barks out of you, even though you have to raise your eyes upwards to keep tears from spilling out. "Oh yeah, I'm totally so happy that you saw me at my most pathetic point in life."
"You think I take any pleasure in it? I didn't come back for a long time 'cause I was afraid if I saw him, I'd do something you wouldn't like very much."
You do laugh then, a weird cry-laugh that you force out until it sounds insane. "Oh, yeah," you say in a poor imitation of his voice, "'I'll just wait a year or two, she'll be nice and fucked up by then.' Well guess what? I fucking am."
"That's not–" Victor starts to say, but you cut him off in a raging torrent.
"You wanna know why I'm nervous about period sex? Because my ex couldn't stand the idea. Went years giving him head on my period because that's the kind of pathetic slut I am, until one day he was suddenly super into anal."
You huff miserably. "He wouldn't touch me when I wasn't absolutely perfect down there, but fucking my ass was A-okay! I didn't want to do it, but he kept pushing it for months, and finally I caved in, because it felt good to be wanted for once. And surprise surprise, I liked it. But the funny thing about someone only wanting you for kink is you start to feel a little used. So now the idea of anyone fucking my ass makes me want to blow my fucking brains out."
His face is grave. You're crying freely, chest heaving up and down, but for some reason actually shocking him into silence is just sobering enough to get a tiny grip on yourself.
"I'm not mad at you," you tell him, wiping your nose on your shirt. "I'm yelling at you, but I'm mad at myself."
He's just sitting there patiently, waiting to see if there's anything else you need to tell him, and when there isn't he says, "Come here, baby."
You do a quick assessment of your body and find that the confessions and the crying have successfully wiped away all that agitation from earlier. Now you're just an insecure wet mess, and you actually do really want some comfort, so you jerkily push off from the wall and crawl into bed again.
Victor wraps you in his arms without hesitation, tucking the side of your face against his while you try to unstuff your nose as quietly as possible.
"Today sucked ass," you mumble.
"Yeah it did."
His fingers are running through your hair, playing with the strands like it's solely for his enjoyment, and you're just glad he's not trying to soothe you because you really don't deserve it.
"Want to talk about it some more?" he asks.
You instantly shake your head.
"Think you can go back to sleep?"
You make a complainy noise in your throat and tug on him, pulling and leveraging him with your legs until he lets you roll him on top of you.
"Just smush me," you instruct. "Eventually I'll pass out from lack of oxygen and, voila, problem solved." But the bulk of his weight sadly remains on his elbow, and one of his knees pushes your legs apart so he can settle between them.
"Or," he offers, nuzzling his scruff against the sensitive skin of your jaw, "you can let me take your mind off things for a little while. Get you nice and sleepy."
"That seems like a lot of work for you when smushing is on the table."
"Maybe I've had a hard day, too." He pulls back enough to slide his hand up your shirt, dragging the bottom hem with him until your breasts make contact with his bare chest. "Maybe I don't want to think about anything but you for a little while. Maybe I like work."
He takes your wrist in his enormous hand, planting it into the mattress right above your head and running his thumb along the inside. There's no way he can't feel your pulse beating fast there, or notice you minutely pushing your tits up into his chest, or smell what he's doing to you.
"I like this," you say, grateful for the lamp so you can actually see his warm eyes looking down at yours. "I like that you're not so careful with me now."
"If you wanted me to be rough, all you had to do was ask."
"I meant more like, not asking for permission. I don't think you realize how much I trust you with my body."
You said that unthinkingly, not meaning anything by it beyond the obvious, but you can feel the effect of your words right between your legs, when he's suddenly rock fucking hard against you. It makes you wonder what that kind of trust means to someone as sharp and dangerous as him.
"Baby," he breathes, tightening his hold on your arm just shy of pain.
"Will you put your claws on me?" you ask, the rush of having this effect on him making you suddenly ravenous for more. "Please?"
"Fuck." He leans down and brushes his lips over yours, lingering to worry your lower lip between his teeth. "So hard to kiss you when your mouth is busy sayin' such nice things."
You murmur against his lips, dropping your voice slow and soft, "Do you like to keep my mouth busy, Creed?"
He pulls himself up, letting go of your wrist to flatten his palm over the side of your face and turn it until you can't see anything but the wall and one of his fingers draped across the bridge of your nose. "You trying to make me nut in my fucking pants?"
But a delicious shiver runs down your spine because he's got his claws out, and his other hand drags them up your stomach, to the sensitive skin of your exposed breasts. You can see yourself quite clearly in your mind's eye, one hand still above your head where he left it, face forced to the side, goosebumps rising across your skin at the wickedness of his claws while you subtly clench your thighs together.
The pressure on your head feels so fucking good, because he's not giving you a choice. You don't have to think about how he'd want you to touch him, or about grabbing a cleanup towel from the other room, you just have to lay there and let him play with you until he's satisfied that you're wet enough to fuck.
It won't take long. He's running a sharp circle around your nipple, tightening everything up until it's all one small, sensitive nerve that he's teasing, and you can feel your pulse in your clit with how fast you're getting turned on. It's not like the first time, when he was testing your pain tolerance to see if you really wanted it. He's just sitting back and watching the scariest part of him arouse you in a way that you're powerless to hide.
Five sharp points rake back down your stomach, dipping straight into your underwear, and you gladly open your legs to give him better access. There's finally a digit spreading your wetness up your clit, but then he just holds it there, unmoving.
"Are you partial to these clothes?"
You fight the desire to rub up against his finger and ask, "Are you going to let me cum if I say no?"
He seems to take that as permission, and slides his hand off your pussy to somehow cut away your shorts and underwear with barely a rip to be heard.
Maybe you're still feeling a little of the earlier insanity, or maybe not being able to see him makes you bold, because you blurt out, "Will you let me feel it? Like, on my clit?"
You immediately regret letting your curiosity get the best of you, because the hand on your face tenses, and now all you can feel is the air of the room chilling you between the legs, an unwelcome reminder that he's still not touching you.
"You're gonna have to be really fucking still."
"It's okay if you don't want to," you explain quickly.
"Hush, baby."
Fingers slide through your folds, getting you as wet as possible, and you just lock your body obediently into place and wait for the prick.
Nothing.
He moves his hand off your face with a, "Stay just like that," and plants it firmly right above your pubic bone, fingers splayed out to prevent the possibility of any movement. It makes sense, you suppose, because one wrong move would probably ruin his chances of getting laid for a couple of weeks. Your gaze is unfocused on the wall in front of you, and you finally piece together that though he likes putting his claws on your body, for some reason he doesn't want you to watch him do it.
A lance of electricity suddenly shoots through you, straight from your clit, and you breathe out an audible, "hhhuh!" in surprise. And then it's gone, of course, because he thinks he hurt you.
You just lay there for a few seconds, blinking in shock, before you find the presence of mind to say, "Do it again," and after a moment of hesitation, he does.
Fuck, it's not at all what you expected. Your body doesn't even register the sharpness as danger, just a prickling sensitivity so concentrated that it pumps heated exhilaration through your blood.
"Whhhy does it…" you start to say, failing to fight the tremor that runs through you, and glad for his restraining hand. "Why does it f-feel so good?"
"I… don't know. No one's ever asked me to do this." He's working a tiny path across the most sensitive part of your body, barely even touching you with the point of his claw.
"Holy shit," you warn, hand blindly finding his knee, because things are suddenly snowballing out of your control, "Fuck, fuck, I'm gonna cum."
There's a quiet curse from somewhere above you, but he's intelligent enough to keep doing the motion he has been, back and forth over the hood of your clit.
"Canyoukeepmedown?" you pant out as fast as possible, because it's coming on so quickly that there isn't even time to prepare. His hand forces your hips farther into the mattress, and amazingly, impossibly, an instant later you're cumming, bolts of pure energy crackling through your body.
You've never been one to really believe in a 'screaming orgasm,' mostly because the ones in porn are fake, and you've never felt the need to scream, no matter how hard you've cum. But, okay, you do get almost there this time. Your lungs empty themselves in a cry of overwhelm, because your skin is pricking across every nerve with how good it hurts.
"Fuck, baby. What the fuck," he mutters, bringing you down slowly with just the pad of his finger, which turns out to be a really good thing because you would have jerked away from anything sharper.
"Sorry," you pant, eventually releasing your death grip on his knee, "I didn't know that would happen."
When the last of the sensation is gone and your pussy is just faintly pulsing, he finally removes his hands. You turn your head to look at him, dread clenching your chest because you're quite afraid that you've just done something too fucked up even for him.
Victor is sitting back on his heels, still hard as fuck and resting the back of his hand on his leg with his fingers held up in the air like he's showing off how wet they are. He looks down at you with a boyish grin slowly spreading over his face.
"I just made you cum with my claw."
Heat floods your cheeks, so you prop yourself up on your elbows and try to appear as unaffected as possible, though seeing him apparently so pleased is a bit of a relief.
"Congratulations," you mumble.
"You just came in like thirty seconds, and you–" he cuts himself off, shaking his head and quirking his eyebrows like he still can't believe what happened. He's still smiling, and it makes him look much younger for some reason, like you're getting a glimpse of a teenage Victor from long ago.
"Yes, I know, I was there." You're still pretty embarrassed, suddenly aware that your shirt remains bunched up around your armpits, and he probably saw your tampon string hanging out, and for some reason your inner thighs are really wet, like.. water wet.
"You are…" he starts, rubbing a thumb along his jaw, "the best."
You watch him bring his proudest claw up to his mouth and lick it.