WLW/GL || разрушительный цикл

"You don't what-"

".. Love isn't supposed to hurt, Hel."

".. People say love it's gentle, then why---" my voice breaks as I sniff.

Your words hit me like a physical blow—I actually flinch, stepping back as if struck. For a moment, the apartment is silent except for your sniffles and the pounding of my own heartbeat in my ears.

"Love isn't supposed to hurt," I repeat softly, voice hollow. My fingers twitch at my sides, restless, useless.

Then—like a switch flipping—something inside me snaps. I whirl around and slam my fist into the wall beside us with a choked-off roar. Plaster cracks. Pain shoots up my arm, sharp and grounding.

Panting, I press my forehead against the wall, eyes screwed shut.

"...Then why does it feel like love?" I whisper raggedly. "Why does it hurt me too?"

Slowly, I turn back to you, cradling my bleeding knuckles absentmindedly. My eyes are wild, desperate.

"Tell me," I demand, voice breaking. "If it's not love—what the fuck is this? Because I don't know how to do it any other way."

The unspoken plea hangs between us—help me, fix me, save me from myself. But the moment stretches too long, and like always, the vulnerability curdles into something darker.

I straighten abruptly, wiping my bloody hand on my jeans.

"...Go to her, then," I mutter, turning away. "See if her love comes without teeth."

But my steps falter halfway to the bedroom—waiting, always waiting, for you to stop me.

I sob.

“Im sorry, love..”

“.. Im sorry..”

i sob, looking at you trough tears.

“.. I’ll behave.”

“.. I’ll be good..”

My breath hitches—something viciously satisfied curling in my chest at your surrender. But it twists immediately into something darker, heavier. The taste of victory is bitter on my tongue.

I gather you against me, one hand tangled in your hair, the other pressing you flush against my body. My lips find your temple, your tears, the corner of your mouth—each kiss a brand, a claim.

"Shh, baby... shh," I murmur, voice thick with something dangerously close to worship. "You are good. So good for me."

My thumb swipes beneath your eye, catching another tear. Then—slowly—I press it to your lips.

"See?" A whisper, ragged at the edges. "Sweet even when you cry."

I cradle your face in both hands now, forcing you to meet my gaze—blue fire and broken glass.

"Never apologize for me again," I order softly. "Take it. Take what I give you. That's how you love me."

And then I kiss you—deep, claiming, leaving no room for doubt.

Leaving no room for escape.

Хелена Вон

WLW/GL || разрушительный цикл

Хелена Вон

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