#░:: the sass when you know death means nothing

[roanofarcc]

ONE DANCE, PLEASE?

pairing: trevor lefkowitz x ghost bride!reader

summary: since your death, weddings at Woodstone have been a source of bitterness for you but that doesn’t stop trevor from attempting to cheer you up with a dance

word count. 1.6k || masterlist

warnings: fem!reader, mentions of death, dead!reader

a/n: this is my first ghosts fic so please be gentle! I love the idea of a ghost bride and debated on making it into an OC or reader story. I think I like having it be in little one-shots! it’s a crime more hasn’t been written for trevor (or any of the show’s characters). feel free to request for trevor or any other ghosts characters <3

“Are you going to mope around for eternity?” Sasappis asked you, standing arms crossed in front of a beautiful garden decorated to the nines. The backdrop to your sulking was stunning flowers tied in bunches and pastel dresses moving around the patio-turned-dance floor. 

“Is that not the point of being a ghost?” you replied, jutting out your feet forever stuck in kitten heels and skin-colored pantyhose. Sass lightly kicked your foot with his and nodded his head to the corner just off the dance floor where the rest of the ghosts danced and laughed. A part of you was jealous of how easily they enjoyed themselves at weddings and how they were not plagued with an eternal hatred for them and what they represented. 

It always felt like a cruel joke, even though it never had anything to do with you, when Sam and Jay hosted a wedding at their B&B. As much as you loved the couple, you couldn’t stand what most considered a joyous event. The union of two people in love, not tainted by tragedy, grew your restatement each time. Weddings were a part of the business and helped Sam and Jay bring in the money they desperately needed to fix up the mansion, but that didn’t mean you had to enjoy yourself. Instead, you spent each event sulking on the sidelines, ignoring the pang in your chest, and avoiding your ghostly counterparts' advances to cheer you up. The only thing that would’ve cheered you up was a do-over of your big day that was ruined by a strike of unluckiness, resulting in your untimely death.  

Sass narrowed his gaze at you but decided against saying whatever he wanted to. Instead, he turned on his heel and headed back to the ghosts. You adverted your gaze back down to the beads sewn into your dress, picking at them with the wish you could pull the garment apart with your hands, but since it was what you died in, it would forever stick to you. 

A slow song played through the DJ’s speakers as the sun slowly began to set over the yard. Strung lights glittered warmly, bathing the attendees in a golden glow. The bride had looked radiant since she arrived at the mansion days ago, and all day you had to watch her and her husband’s love run circles around you. Your malice wasn’t aimed directly at the happy couple, but rather at what they represented and the reminder of what you almost had. 

Someone appeared beside you, their presence clouding your solitude-sulking. “What a bunch of losers,” the person said, causing you to turn your head and meet Trevor. “I mean, seriously, this song was lame when I went to weddings and people are still dancing to it? I get the appeal of throwbacks but let’s pick this snooze-fest up a little, am I right?” 

You rolled your eyes. “What do you know about weddings?” 

“I happen to have been invited to a lot of them, thank you very much. Well, the receptions and bachelor parties, usually. Those weddings had a lot more alcohol and single bridesmaids.” You said nothing in response, hoping your dimly lit mood would shoo Trevor away. You were mistaken, though. If anything, your silence only encouraged him further. He moved in closer to your side, standing with his hands on his hips as he gazed out across the crowd. “I think they may need some help livening things up a bit. Care to join me?” 

He often tried to do that, brighten your mood by offering to dance with you. And every time you turn him down, not because you didn't want to, but because you’re worried that the second you start to enjoy yourself at a wedding, tragedy will follow a second time around. You liked Trevor and couldn’t stand the thought of enjoying yourself only to hurt yourself, again, or him. In your head, as long as you moped around, everything would stay the same as they were, which you loved more than you’d admit aloud. You liked your ghost-mates and you liked Sam and Jay. If you somehow brought some unfortunate curse upon any of them because you enjoyed yourself just as you had on your own wedding day, you weren’t sure you could cope with that a second time around, not when you hardly coped with it from the first time. 

“Trevor…” you sighed, defeated and slumped-shouldered. 

Normally, he dropped it after that. He usually sat quietly at your side until his excitement and urge to join the party overwhelmed him and he resumed dancing with Flower or attempting to play pranks on the livings with Thorfinn. That time, however, he took you by surprise. He moved directly in front of you, face set with a certain tone of seriousness that was odd. 

“Nope,” he said, simply. “You are not moping for eternity. I won’t let you.” 

“That’s not your choice.” 

He smirked, cheekily and annoying but stupidly charming. Those three words suited him too well. Trevor extended his hand out, making a grabbing motion with his hand. “One dance, that’s all I’m askin’. That’s all I need to change your mind.” You tightened your grip on the skirt of your dress, unbudging at his request. “One dance. Please?” His voice was a little lower, pleading almost. 

One dance. You never got to dance at your wedding. Something bad could happen, it probably would. 

Trevor’s fingers grazed your knuckles, tapping them lightly and looking at you in a way, underneath the golden light, that made you consider it. He noticed your hesitation and dropped his hand back down at his side. 

“Okay,” he said after a beat before he turned away with a little frown on his lips that made you feel even worse. 

There was something wrong with you, maybe it was some kind of ghostly side effect of dying on your wedding day; perhaps you were doomed to live in the murky waters of what-if and why. 

The bride and groom were in the middle of the patio dance floor, spinning each other around in quiet fits of laughter and bodies pressed as close as they could get with the bride’s fluffy dress. They were married, dancing as two halves of a whole with nothing bad lingering over their heads. There was no impending doom, aside from you sitting on the outskirts. The doom was you and your mind, rippled with jealousy, sadness, and a million questions of what exactly you could have done differently that day. But the truth was, there was nothing you could have done. Fate was fate, as Flower had once said in one of her more insightful conversations. Fate was messy and included bear attacks, arrows in necks, and accidents. Fate found you there, at the Woodstone mansion forever a fiancee but now entangled with the fates of your ghost friends who also found themselves there forever. 

Forever was such a long, made even longer with eternity hanging on your shoulders. How many more weddings would you sit there, watching and sulking in your own unhappiness that others wanted to fix for you? 

Something between a groan and a sigh left your lips as you stood up, letting your wedding dress fall back down to the ground in the pristine condition you had died in it in. “Trevor,” you said again, louder as you called after him. He stopped, slowly turning around with a confused quirk of his brow. You nervously picked at the beads again, but that time wasn’t to pick them off but rather settle them back in place in a similar way to how you had picked at them awaiting your turn to walk down the aisle. A dance was not nearly as monumental as that, but it carried a weight that pressed down on your chest. 

“One dance,” you said. He stared at you for a moment like he wasn’t sure he had heard you right. It wasn’t until Thor punched him in the arm with a hardy laugh and Hetty pushed him forward towards you. 

Trevor approached you, smoothing out his tie. “Really?” he asked. 

You nodded. “If anything bad happens, I’m blaming it on you," you said only half joking.

He smiled, wide and toothy and the way that made you subconsciously want to copy it. “The worst thing that’ll happen is me stepping on your feet. I haven’t slow danced since prom.” Despite that, he dramatically bowed and extended his hand. “May I have this dance,” he said in a terrible accent. You couldn’t help but laugh lightly, some of that weight lifting from where it hurt your chest. 

Once you accepted his hand, he all but dragged you to a quiet corner of the dance floor, away from where any livings would walk through you two, and away from the other ghosts and their suggestive smirks and comments pointed at the two of you. 

When you danced, with his feet clumsily trying to avoid stepping on yours and hands rested on your waist, nothing bad happened. You did not die a second time around, nor did tragedy strike in the way you feared. The only thing that occurred was dancing, peppered with occasional laughter and a quick apology when Trevor stepped on your skirt and halted your movements. You recovered with a shake of your head and a slight lead in the dance, which he didn’t voice but silently appreciated.

[shojizbae]

Yeehaw!

Spencer Reid x reader

Warnings: This is spicy! Use of alcohol, behind drunk/drunk sex, Oral fem! receiving, cowgirl position

Everyone could tell with just one look at you that you were Southern. That being said, anytime there was a case in the South, everyone knew to take a step back and let you lead. This time, there was a string of murders in Aiken, South Carolina, and the team knew that you were all over it.

"Weren't you from a Carolina?" Derek chuckles as we board the jet.

"Yeah, I spent most of my time on Camp Lejeune with my daddy, then I went south for college in Charleston."

"So that means Hotch has been demoted for this." Emily snickers

"No, I just know the South, and I'll get a little gun-happy when I'm back home. It wouldn't be no different had we gone to Chicago, Derek."

"Wow, mama's go home heat today." We settle on the jet, and Hotch and Rossi debrief us. I take a nap as we head south, and unfortunately, the power of the state takes me over. I march up to the sheriff and flash my credentials.

"So, how's it happen?" The sheriff speaks in an accent so thick it makes grits look like juice. I glance at the team, and they seem to sigh in relief when they realize I can understand him. Tirelessly, we worked the case for 73 hours. We met at a fresh crime scene every morning. The unsub seemed to be in a frenzy. He was dangerous and mixed with a high concentration of amphetamine addiction in this area. It was likely he had no clue he was killing.

But, due to the trace amounts of meth, we knew that he was unstable and would trip up eventually. We got some sleep after the fourth body, and there was a trip up in the morning. A fifth, but he had left some of his powdered sugar at the crime scene.

I put a glove on and lifted the little baggie, showing it off to Reid.

"Hey, Spencer, check this out."

"Hey, I've been clean for years," He mopes

"Aw, I'm sorry, sugar," A detective approaches me with an evidence bag. "Here, swab it and run this through CODIS." Spencer and I kept sweeping the crime scene for any molecule of evidence. Nothing all that exciting. The killer left the knife in her this time. Indicative of the fact that they were out of control. I squat next to the body and ghost my fingers over the entrance wound.

"Hey Spencer," He perks up like a gopher, "If you were going to kill someone and you were going to stab them to death, how'd you do it?"

"Are you sure that's an appropriate question?"

"I'm just curious."

"I'd probably use something with a curved blade. It would do the most damage and be the hardest to remove." His eyes go kind of dead, as he explains. An awkward air hangs between the two of us as we survey the wound.

"Damn, Spence, that's messed up."

"You asked." He sasses

Not later that evening, a woman called to suspect a strange man was in her house. We move in immediately and find a man pacing in circles in the bathroom. He's violent and angry, and his nose is bleeding. He tried to swing a knife at Morgan, but I grabbed him by the wrist and slammed his head into the wall. I use my hips to push him forward and cuff him while Emily helps the woman safely out of her house.

I march him to the car while he screams that I'm a bastard whore. Finally, I shoved him into the police car and muttered a good riddance. I even patted my hands like a baker getting flour off.

"I need a drink." I put my hands on my hips

"I could use something to cool off, too. This southern heat can be beat." Derek wipes his brow

"Hotch you think we have the leeway to spend the night here?" Emily asks

"That's all up to JJ, anything pressing enough that we need to get back to Quantico?"

"Well, nothing too scary that we couldn't cut loose after working for six days straight." She smiles at the team

Hours later, we showered, ate a full meal at a steakhouse, and put on the nicest clothes in our go-bags. The team was shocked to discover I had a cowboy hat in my bag. We moseyed our way to the bar, a small dive bar with a pool table. A mechanical bull is in the center of the room, and my eyes light up at the memories. Rossie buys us a pitcher of beer, and we all unwind from the stressful week.

As we knock 'em back slowly and let college stories fly, the team starts to forget what we had seen. Rossi tells us some funny stories about going to college during the summer of love, and Reid accidentally brags about going to Cal Tech.

"Well, what about you? Didn't you go to school nearby?" Emily says as she refills her glass.

"Uh yeah, in Charleston, South Carolina." I clarify

"So you must have spent most of your nights like this." Derek motions around the bar, playing honky-tonk music. Pool balls clack around us, and there's a thin layer of dirt around the edge of the bar.

"Well, most nights I spent in my dorm or the library. Every other Saturday, my roommate and neighbors would go to a dive named Fat Daddy's. We would make bets with the alcoholic dads about being able to ride the bull, and if we stayed on longer than they said so, they'd buy us all a drink. I didn't pay for my own liquor for three semesters." The team stood in shock. Hotch's jaw was agape and Rossi just nodded his chin in acknowledgement.

"Well, now, baby girl, I have to see you in action." Derek almost commands

"No, I ain't dressed right. And ain't nobody betted me."

"I bet you won't last seven seconds on the mechanical bull," Spencer interjects "If you do, I'll buy you that coconut margarita that you've been eyeing."

"Alrght, there's my bet." I march up to the bartender "I'm'onna ride that bull." I point at it and he looks me hat to boot.

"Alright," The bartender seems disinterested. He hits a button, and lights around the bull flash like a carnival. I draw the attention of the whole bar as a pre-recorded announcer calls me a brave challenger.

Big men with fat beer bellies gather around, and I readjust my top. If I play my cards right, I might get more than a coconut margarita out of this. I'm not wearing anything too special—just one of my combat scoop-neck tees and low-rise daisy dukes. The bartender offers his hand, and I use it to mount the big plastic bull.

"You ready, little girl?" He asks

"Yes sir." I grip onto the handle at the 'bull's nape and a bell rings. Slowly the bull starts lurching forward and back while exciting music bounces around the bar.

one Mississippi

The bull speeds up

'ride it, cowgirl!" Derek yells from the edge of the bull enclosure

two Mississippi

It starts going sideways

three Mississippi

I fake with my appearance that I'm struggling and readjust my grip

four Mississippi

I use my hips to grind with the rhythm of the bull as men whoop and cheer

five Mississippi, six Mississippi

My heart starts to thump against my ribs

Seven Mississippi, I win.

The team cheers for me. I keep going, getting bold enough to grind more dramatically. I hear more whoops and hollers as I lift my arms and squee. Someone yells, and another man whistles. I hold onto my hat as the bull speeds up, and I feel my shirt lift.

'Yeehaw!' I hear, and the bar just erupts. I feel so full of life, and I jump up on the bull, riding it like a surfboard. I drop down and sit backward on the bull. I twist around and ride the bull until the bartender slows it down.

"You done broke our record. 39 seconds on the highest speed." The bar screams in glee, and the team closes in on me, handing out high fives. Reid hangs behind the group, and I see him ask Derek a question

"Did you know that (Y/n) has a stomach tattoo?"

"Wow (Y/n), that was incredible." Emily looks starstruck

"I told you I didn't pay for a drink for 18 months." I give JJ a hug, and Reid emerges from the crowd

"I guess I owe you a drink." He smiles, and I fidget with the hem of my shirt

"One coconut margarita, please, sir." He leads me to the bar, where the bartender makes one for me. I hold the glass up to his face, and Reid takes the first sip.

"No, that's fine," He pushes the glass from his cheek

"C'mon, you paid for it."

"Listen, you know that coercion isn't a great thing to do. Most serial killers are more coercive than a skeezy lawyer."

"Aw, you're using my metaphors." I coo and step closer to his chest

"When did you become so flirty?" he braces me on the hip

"All that shaking around must have got the beer movin' in me." I giggle and sip on my glass. "I saw you askin' Derek 'bout my tattoo. y' wanna see it?" I start to roll up my shirt

"No, no, that's fine," He holds my wrist to stop me. "Why don't we get you some water."

"No, this is yummy." I smile and down the cup. He grimaces at the action and tries to walk me over to our table

"Hey, Spencer, you wanna know why I'm so good at riding that thing?" I halt to play with the button of his shirt, and he stops, too.

"Uh sure," He swallows

"Ever the curious doctor," I slur. I'm good with the bull because I love riding," I whisper drunkenly in his ear. He swallows hard and tries to shimmy us back to our table. His hands shake as he grips my tricep.

"Why're you so nervous?" I ask the side of his jaw. My voice swings up an octave, but I snort as I survey the team.

"The liquor got to her quick. I'm gonna get her back to the hotel."

"Oooh, why don't you take me someplace fancy," I tease

"Well, make sure you use protection." Derek snorts as he lifts a brown bottle to his lips

"Aw, you ain't gotta worry. I've got an IUD." Spencer soothes my sentence with a pat on my shoulder, and I slide a hand down his back

"That won't be a problem. I'm just going to ensure she has water, Advil, and comfortable clothes." He jumps away as I make an attempt to grab his butt.

"You sure you don't want either of us to take her?" JJ offers and points between Emily and herself. I rest my head on his chest. I can feel his heart pounding against my temple.

"You gonna take good care of me, Doctor?" I smile up at his concerned face

"I'm not that kind of doctor." He scolds. He helps seatbelt me into one of two FBI SUVs. Slowly and carefully, he drives me to the highway motel we were placed in, and he marches me into my room.

"Alright, are you sober enough to shower?" He sits me on the bed, and the mattress shrieks beneath me

"Yeah, so long as you help me get my shirt off."

"No, I won't be doing that," He finds a glass and fills it with water. He digs in my go-bag and finds the bottle of Advil. He drops two in his hand and gives them to me as well as the cup. "Drink this," he tucks some hair behind his ears.

"My feet hurt," I whine and put the pills in my mouth.

"Well, you're wearing those ridiculous boots," He stressfully tucks some hair behind his ears

"They ain't ridiculous." Stick out a foot and twist it to see the whole design, "Maybe a little flashy." I tuck my foot in and look up at him. "Will you calm down if you held me out of these sugar?"

"Yeah, sure." He kneels down and tugs each of my boots off, and lines them up with the rest of my shoes.

"Aww, you're so caring. C'mere sugar." Reluctantly, he finds me on the mattress, and I pat it next to me. He's hesitant, but he sits, and I lean against him. "Hey, Spencer?"

"Yes, (Y/n)?"

"You wanna ask about my tattoo?"

"No,"

"Really, because you keep glancing down at my stomach. I may be a drunk one, but I am a profiler. What about it? Gets you going so much?"

"What?" He scoffs in shock "It doesn't 'get me going'." I hold onto his arm

"Really? Because I'm pushin' my tits against you, and you're still lookin' at my stomach."

"I uh I'm not." He's distracted enough that I can swing my legs across his lap "(Y/n), this is really inappropriate conduct for coworkers."

"I ain't on the clock," I slowly drag my shirt up to reveal the design. Two big blossoms of overlapping lavender and olive flowers. Any protests he tries to make are halted as he studies the image.

"These ones, "I guide his apprehensive hand as hi pointer finger traces my stomach "Are olive blossoms, they stand for peace. and these are lavenders."

"They mean feminity and grace." He clears his throat

"I've got more," I whisper playfully

"C-can I see them?" He swallows. I cross my arms at the hem of my shirt and pull it off, lifting the hem of my bralette.

"There's some text under my boobs."

"te amo para siempre." He reads without an accent, so it sounds stilted. "Did you get that for a boyfriend?"

"No, it's something my grandpa used to tell me." he runs his thumb over the cursive, "And on my collarbones." I guide his wrist to my right clavicle.

"'An eye for an eye,' I guided him across my chest, and he traced like he was reading braille.' leaves the whole world blind.' He connected his eyes with mine. His pupils were real big.

"Aw gee, I just realized I'm a little underdressed."

"Of course," he shifts around to encourage me to get off

"Uh uh, it could be you're just overdressed," I hold onto the knot in his tie

"No (Y/n),"

"You know, darling, your mouth is saying no, but your body is saying yes." I slide my hips forward and feel him suppress a shudder. I direct his head to look at me with blown-wide puppy dog eyes. "Maybe we should tell your mouth to let your body take over." I sink my lips against him, and he melts into me. Our lips smack as he pulls away

"(y/n), no, this isn't professional," he tries to disable my arms as I slide his tie knot apart

"Well, that's good. If I were professional, you get a hotel in a local jail for soliciting a prostitute." I get the knot loose and free his neck, making headway on the buttons. He shiftsbutI kiss his complaints away. Soon, sounds of complaint turn to moans as he succumbs to his body.

"Hey, Spencer," I pull away briefly and chew on my lip at the view. His hair is fluffed, and the top half of his shirt is flipped open. "I've got one more tattoo, and I think you'd really like it."

"I would?" he pushes his hair back "Why." I give him a peck as I reach for the button on my shorts. He grabs my hand and undoes the button himself. I guide his hand to the zipper, and he tugs it down. Instead of shimmying out of the shorts, I hook his finger in the elastic of my underwear. He pulls it down just enough to read the black text that slowly faded to show green.

"C6H12O6?"

"Yeah, you remember what that means?"

"It's the chemical formula for sugar." He snaps the underwear back into place, and I jump at the sensation, "Why?"

"Because I'm so sweet." I dive back in and kiss him. Heated aggressively like he's got the last cup of water on his tongue. He reaches into my hair to steady me, and with his second hand, he grabs my hip. I continue to unbutton his shirt until he shores it off into the distance.

"Well, look how handsome you are," I watch him blush, but I run my hands up his chest and over his collarbones. He blushes but guides my hand to his belt buckle. I love the sound a belt buckle makes. Before I can get his pants off him, Spencer surprises me. He picks us up and twists us, so my back slaps against the squeaky mattress.

He slithers down my body, kissing down the various tattoos. Gently, he slides his fingers into the waistband of my jeans. He slides them down and separates each of my knees. Almost entranced he licks up the gray cotton panties I wore.

"Spencer!' I moan in shock

"Please, this is my favorite part." He pulls the underwear off and tosses it to the side. I don't protest any further. It's rare to find a guy willing to go down on me, much less one that initiates. He wraps his arms around my thighs and places my knees at his shoulders. He wastes no time diving in.

With every man I've slept with, I've never felt someone go down on me with such fervor and skill. I'm taken down. He clings onto my clit with desperation. He drops my right leg so that he can trace gentle circles around my pussy.

"Spenc- Uh"

"Sh-sh -shh, just relax." He soothes me and rubs my inner thigh. I try to look down at him, but as he continues his ministrations, I lose my strength and flop my head back. Slowly, he sinks his pointer finger in, and I take a sharp inhale.

"Spe-EUUh!" His skill is shocking as he slowly moves his finger in and out. Once I was acclimated, he pulled out and put both his pointer and middle in. I do my best to suppress it for the comfort of the surrounding guests.

"Don't hide from me." He comes up and looks my face over

"There's other people around, Spencer."

"Then let them hear." He places a kiss on my forehead and sinks down to continue devouring me. I don't hold back as much as I'm embarrassed. He starts a 'come hither' motion and I roll my hips up into his face. He braces a hand on my hip.

"Sit still." He commands

Steadily, I felt a climax rising in me. I felt the muscles in my stomach clenching and tensing. I feel like yellow waves of pleasure ripple through my body.

"SPE—Spencerr, I'm gonna!" I desperately reached around and threaded my fingers into his hair. With my other hand, I felt around for the disheveled comforter. I balled my hands into a fist around what I held: his hair and the blanket. I climaxed faster than I had expected. Accidentally, I locked Spencer in with my legs. Desperate to keep the pleasure close to me.

It took me a moment to catch my breath. When I came to, I released my legs, and he resurfaced, wiping his mouth as he checked on me.

"How are you doing? Was that any good?"

"Good?" I gaped, and I saw him crumble a little in insecurity. Spencer, that was the best head I've ever had." He chuckled boyishly as I held his pants so he lay on top of me.

"Spencer?" I ask slowly

"Yeah," He kisses me on the side of the mouth

"I'm gonna fuck you now,"

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," I sit him up and unzip his pants and pull them down. His legs are ridiculously long, and it feels like an eternity to get him naked. I geek at his boxers. His cock is jumping against the fabric, and there is a small precum stain. I rub over the fabric, and he keens into my touch.

"Aww, so you're all talk," I tease

"S-shut up, you were just writhing under me." He leans back on his arms. The veins in his forearms are bulging, and I can see his stomach shift as he shifts under my pawing.

"Yeah, and now you will be."

I slide my fingers under the elastic, and he lifts his hips to help me free him. Gently, I stroke him, and he gulps back and moans. I mount him, letting Spencer guide himself into me. I sigh as I feel him slide in, and his hands gravitate to my hips.

"Woah," he grunts. It's probably the strangest reaction I've gotten, but I appreciate being such a stunner.

"How are you doing, Reid?"

"I-I'm sublime. How are you?" I shift my hips in contemplation, feeling my eyes pool in the back of my head.

"Oh, I'm doing-g just-" My sentence cuts itself off as the head of his dick kisses a sweet spot inside me. "Can you just give me a little boost?" He holds each of my hips and drags me across my lap.

"Oh fuck," I sigh, and I pick my hips up. We fall into a sensual rhythm as the world disappears around us. "Spencer, that feels so..." My forehead collapses against his collarbone. There's something about his dick that itches a scratch I didn't know I was feeling. Similarly, he mews below me.

"(Y/n)," he groans out below me "Don't stop." and I don't. Instead, I pick up the pace. I brace myself on his shoulders and slam my hips back and forth until my thighs burn. And when the sensation becomes overwhelming I keep fighting.

"Oh my- uh," He groans beneath me "(Y/n), (Y/n), I'm gonna cum." He sounds desperate. "(Y/n) you have to get off." He whimpers

"No, I'm gonna cum too. I won't-" I keep my hips galloping against his thighs, "PLEase- fuck, I'm gonna." I feel his cock twitch inside me, and warmth spreads through my thighs.

"Uh, nice and deep." I halt myself for a second," Spencer I gotta keep going."

"M'kay." I ride with such speed that I'm scared the legs on the bed will snap. Finally, I feel the point of no return—like watching a slow vase fall over, knowing you're too far away to stop it. I came. My knees buckled, and I fell chest-first onto Reid.

"Are you okay?" He holds my back steady and gently rubs my spine, and I catch my breath.

"Yeah, I'm okay." I sit myself up, and Spencer tucks some frizzy hair behind my ear. "Probably some of the sex I've had in... ever." His face lights up. I use his shoulder to stand up, and I feel it slide down my thigh.

"I'm gonna need a shower, but there's always room for two." I smile and trot off to the ensuite. It's not long before Spencer is chasing me behind the vinyl curtain to wet his hair and press a kiss to the back of my shoulder.

[crow-aeris]

Part 1 is here!

More content from my brainworms 🤭

=====

Jason sneaks out in the dead of night with the pendant in his right hand, three fives in his hoodie pocket that he’d picked from Willis, and determination in his chest. He wasn’t sure how he was going to do this, but he’ll manage.

He walks to the nearest bus station, hyper-aware of all the people around him, some of which he recognizes as his future goons, and others as the people who've been pushed to the brink and resorted to working with the rougher rogues to survive and make ends meet. Jason wants to desperately help- to talk to them and warn them about their future- but it wouldn't do anything. As he was currently- a kid- he wouldn't be able to get anything done. No one would listen to him.

Jason sits down on the bus's perpetually sticky seats, trying not to grimace as he waited for the stop.

He mentally plans the route he'll be taking.

He could've gone for Dick first, but Jason doesn't think it would've worked. It's been a few days already, and if Dickface had retained his memory, then he would have already came knocking on Jason's door. Tim too, knowing that little genius stalker brain of his, nothing could've stopped him from accomplishing anything he set his mind to. Damian probably could too, but the brat’s barely concieved, and Jason doubts the league would let a literal infant out of their sight.

So, that’s why he was on his way to Timmy’s manor. Not only is Tim most definitely alone, he’s the easiest to reach.

As the bus halts at the stop closest to Bristol, Jason ignores the driver’s suspicious gaze and rushes off. He brushes his hand against his pocket knife (He’s not stupid, even in Bristol, Gotham was Gotham and the chance of death will never be less than 20%) and he begins walking.

He’s almost forgotten how- peaceful wasn’t quite the word- less terrible Gotham was earlier on in Bruce’s tenure as the Bat. Not only can he make out a few constellations, the sounds police sirens didn’t constantly fill the night… It moght’ve been after his death when everything started to go to shit.

Jason takes a deep breath, marveling at the cleanliness of the air. Sure, it wasn’t as clean as the country, but compare to Gotham when Damian became Robin, the atmosphere might as well be pure oxygen!

Halfway to the Drake Manor, Jason feels his legs grow sore and cramped. God, now more than ever he wished for his Robin training and post-death stamina. Was he ever this… weak?

Distantly, Jason hears the sound of the Batmobile rushing through the streets and shakes his head.

He was almost there. Tim’s bedroom lights were on and a shape was moving around.

Jason groans and breaks into a sprint despite his legs aching in complaint. Tim was, as he said, a creepy little stalker, and even at the ripe old age of six, he was already stalking the bats. Which, props to him, but Jason would rather not follow that weaselly little bastard through the roofs of Gotham.

“SHIT!” Jason curses, misjudging his momentum and slamming into the Drakes’ front door.

God, it hurt so fucking much, and- shit, his nose was bleeding…

But, silver lining and all that, because the door swings open to reveal a harried and panicked-looking Timothy Jackson Drake dressed head-to-toe black, with his hundred-dollar camera hanging around his neck.

God, Jason hates rich people.

“Are you okay?!” the six year old squeaks, lurching forward to stare uncertainly at him.

Well, that proves Jason’s theory. If Tim had all his memories, he would’ve pointed and laughed at him for being an idiot, and Jason would’ve tackled him, dick would get involved, they’d break a few things, and the cass would work with alfred to get them back in line…

(God, Jason wished they’d never gone on that stupid trip.)

“Do you think i’m fine?” Jason huffed, guilt filling his chest as he watched Tim’s face fall. God, sometimes he forgets that then younger Tim was still so… bright. He hadn’t grown into all his sass yet. “I didn’t mean that, kid-”

But it was in the small moments where he’s reminded of his little brother’s spirit.

Tim puffs up in offense, almost like a little cat of sorts, and narrows his eyes, “I’m not a kid! I’m six, and you’re not that old either!”

“Sure, buddy,” Jason rolls his eyes before reaching up with a bloodied hand and pinching his nose, careful to stick the pendant in his pocket where Tim couldn’t see it. “Can I get a little help now?”

“Oh!” just like that, the Tim Jason was used to dissipates, and the kid was back to his shy little self, “Right, sorry. Come in! I’ll go grab you some napkins- are you hungry? It’s really late, and- oh, we have some juice too! We have passion fruit, dragonfruit, starfruit, strawberry-”

“I’ll take passionfruit,” Jason interrupted with an amused smile, “if you have the time, add a dash of lemon juice, ice, and honey.”

He watches as the kid freezes before nodding. Passionfruit with lemon and honey… that was one of Tim’s favorite drinks as an adult, and he’d constantly bugged Jason to make him some. Honestly, rich people shit.

“Okay! Uhm, do you want to shower first? You- you’re covered in blood, and i don’t think that’s too comfortable…”

“Yeah, sure,” he shrugs, “Lead the way, Timbo.”

“Timbo?” the kid faltered and blinks in confusion, but continued to lead Jason toward the bathroom before handing him a change of clothes.

When he was alone, the sound of running water filling the room, Jason took out the pendant and stared at it… The urge to bash the stupid thing against the wall was near overpowering, but he didn’t know what would happen if he did, and Jason would rather not try his luck.

He quickly washes, scrubbing himself down and reveling with how the warm water soothed his aching muscles. While he was at it, Jason scrubs at his scalp and washes his hair with tim’s fancy-ass shampoo snd conditioner. God, he misses the good shit.

When he finished, jason picked dried himself and shoved the pendant into one of the pant pockets (batman themed. why wasn’t he surprised? wonder woman would be leagues better than bruce. Nightwing too, he’s kinda surprised- oh. yeah. shit, he forgot…)

He stretches, humming at how his back popped pleasantly before sauntering down the steps. Sometime during the shower, his nose had stopped bleeding. Thank god for that.

“Tim!” Jason called, yawning briefly as he saw the kid staring into the humming microwave. The kid startled before smiling, “Did you have a good shower?”

“Yeah, I did,” Jason nodded, “What are you making?”

“Food,” the kid replied easily, “they’re leftovers, do you want some?”

“Yeah sure, why not.”

As they ate, Jason wondered how the hell he was going to get the kid to remember. He hummed, feeling exhaustion pulling at his eyes as he finished with his portion of leftover spaghetti.

Tim looks over at him, “Are you tired?”

“Yeah,” Jasonsighs, “it’s been… a long couple of days.”

“Alright! We have a spare guestroom you can use, is that okay?”

Jason nodded. It’ll at least give him the time to think over how he’ll continue with his plan, “Yeah, sure. That’s fine. Lead the way, Tim.”

A few hours later, Jason was awaken by a shape pressing a knife to his throat.

He froze. His mind running through hundreds of different scenarios before he recognized the shape hovering over him.

“…Tim? What- what is this? Put the knife down, and we can-”

“How,” the kid interrupts with narrowed and blazing eyes, “do you know my name? I never told you who I am, and only the people who’ve worked with my parents know that I exist. Did someone send you to kidnap me?”

Jason blinked, running over the last few hours in his mind before realizing that yeah, oh shit, Tim was right. He never did tell Jason his name, did he?

“Okay, kid. I’m…” and then he sees a hint of golden scales peeking from the collar of the kid’s robin-themed sleep shirt, “My name is Jason Todd. You are Timothy Jackson Drake, the third Robin. I’m the second Robin, and… I come from the furture.”

Tim jolts away, taken aback by Jason’s words before becoming instantly suspicious, “You know my name, and you know I like Robin. Prove to me you’re from the future, and maybe i’ll trust you.”

Jason smiles despite the situation, because this was Tim. Tim wasn’t some scared and timid kid, he was an independent little narcoleptic gremlin who drank too much Monster, somehow caught the eye of Ra’s Al Ghul, lost his spleen, and could lie to Batman and get away with it.

“Here,” Jason said, gesturing for Tim to shuffle back before grabbing the pendant and tugging off his shirt. When Tim laid his eyes on the skeletal bird resting above Jason’s heart, his hand automatically drifts to the marking Jason was sure he had, “can i see your…”

Tim gave him an uncertain look, but Jason wasn’t too surprised. If some random creepy guy told him to take lf his shirt. Jason would’ve stabbed him and ran off.

“You have a knife, kid. If i tried doing anything, you could always stab me.”

“…Fine,” Tim bit out before shrugging off his shirt.

A golden snake stretched from the inside of Tim’s elbow, beautiful scales woven from gold coiled along the span of Tim’s arm before resting it’s head atop tim’s coller bone. Honestly? It was breathtaking, beautiful in a way that Jason envied, but it summarized Tim’s entire character pretty well.

The pendant in Jason’s hand glows as it nears Tim’s golden snake.

“I want to test something,” Jason says, “i’m gonna touch this to the head of thr snake, and we’ll see what happens.”

Tim narrows his eyes, his grip on the knife tightening before he nods.

The pendant presses agasinst Tim’s collar for a brief second, and then everything begins to glow.

Tim’s eyes, the snake’s outline, the fucking pendant- literally everything was fucking glowing.

Jason clenched his jaws, forcing himself to remain still as his brother gasps in pain. Tim’s hans twitched and jerked, but, it was as if some- some force was holding him still.

Eventually, after a few agonizing seconds, the gold fades and Jason hurriedly yanks it away. He surges forward, pulling the knife out of tim’s hand before tossing it to the side, off of the bed and out of the way.

“Jay…”

“Yeah, timmy?” Jason leaned back, pulling his brother up before carding a hand through his hair.

Tim was quiet for a few moments before finally speaking, “We need to get Dick, and then Damian.”

“So,” Jason allows the amusement to fill his tone, “are you gonna hold a knife to their throat, too?”

“I will grab that knife and actually stab you,” Tim huffed, “leave you with a scar that matched Red Hood’s.”

Jason scoffed, but he couldn’t help the smile rising onto his lips, “Language, kid. Who taught you to say these things, baby bird?”

“Fuck off,” Tim hissed, “i’m tired, and I miss the big bird…”

“Yeah,” he sighs, “i do too… It’s whatever though. Go to sleep, Tim. We’ll try and grab him tomorrow.”

“Okay… Goodnight, Jay.”

“Night, Tim.”

And sure, it may be lonely with the rest of his siblings at his side, but at least he no longer had to spend this new (old?) life all by himself.

-----

part 1, 3, 4

and the directory

[love-toxin]

Trapped - Harley Kunuk

(cws: fem pronouns, stalking, 3rd party stalker, yandere elements, blood, gore, animal death, guns, murder, injuries [burns, punctures, bruising], graphic smut, mental illness [depression/anxiety], dismemberment, DDDNE)

word count: 25.8k

(A/N: ALSO PLS LOOK @ THIS HEADER ART BY @the-zipper <33!!)

This whole "get out into nature" thing really hasn't panned out for you so far, has it? It's a little embarrassing to be honest. All you wanted was to inject a bit of fresh air into your daily diet, all with the hope that it might improve your mental health–maybe your physical health, too.

Yet here you sit in the dirt, your scraped hands held close to your chest while a total stranger helps you out of the prickly situation you've stumbled into. Made even more humiliating for the reason that this particular stranger is….well, he's not any run-of-the-mill good Samaritan. Those types don't generally trek through stretches of wooded areas with no paths, armed with a hatchet on his belt and all manner of hooks attached to it to carry back the catch from his traps.

When you'd first spotted him through the trees after stepping in one of those rabbit traps (currently still clamped around your ankle) you figured he was a lumberjack or something. Maybe a serial killer with those dead eyes and stoic expression, but you'd prayed not. You could see his wild, unruly black hair tied back in a thick ponytail to keep it out of his face, his huge frame that stood hulking and tall next to the barren trees, his worn-in flannel under a heavy leather coat and jeans permanently stained with dirt and who knows what else…he gave off the impression of what you imagine a giant would look like, although the pale smattering of freckles over his slanted nose and the gleam of brown in his dark eyes as he turned had sent a strange shiver down the back of your neck. In fact, your cries for help had almost instantly died down when you caught him in your peripheral, because you feared he might be the type of person to take advantage of your suffering–he just looked mean, and you distinctly recall the way your breath hitched in your dry throat when he started walking towards you.

But you've learned your lesson to not judge a book by its cover, and quickly, because he's been nothing but helpful so far–with just a dash of sass in the process. You did step in his trap, after all, which he'd supposedly been looking forward to checking for a nice, fat rabbit to make a stew out of. And based off of how deep it's buried itself into your skin, it probably won't be any good for other rabbits with your blood all over it.

"You really shouldn't wander out here blindly. It's dangerous." His muttering like he's not even addressing you would otherwise put you off, were he not so close and handling your leg so gently as he pries the blunt claws of the trap off. He's been trying for the better part of twenty minutes, but without any tools aside from his hands it's been slow-going. He tends to be gentler when the touch trap scrapes against you or digs in deeper, so in a bid not to hurt you further he's abandoned the idea of trying to preserve the trap itself–now the aim is just to get it off you by any means necessary, and based off the blood from his own hands and from your leg, it's not going nearly as well as he would've liked. "Not just cause of my traps. There's animals out here, too."

"I didn't think it would be," You admit bashfully, a heat further rising to your cheeks. He glances up at you as stone-faced as he was before, but something in his expression flinches like he's intentionally trying to keep a wall up. The sounds of the forest around you luckily keep you grounded as you adjust your position, your hand tentative as it grasps his shoulder for balance. Does he work out? His muscles aren't that noticeable at first glance but you're positioned in a weird way, he probably looks a lot bigger when he's not so close you're practically breathing on him. Then again he kind of has to be, considering the snare is giving him more trouble than he expected and snaps back to dig into your ankle for the nth time–eliciting a pained yelp from you in the process–but with a gruff "Fuckin' piece of trash-" grumbled right next to your ear, he finally manages to wedge his fingers between your flesh and the steel and wrenches it back down with harsh, brute strength.

A sharp twang echoes through the forest, the sound and his hard motion startling you enough for your nails to dig into his shoulder through the leather. You'd be surprised if a big guy like him would even feel it, and you think that especially so when you cast a glance down and feel your heart skip at the carnage lying before you. You almost feel worse for the trap than you do yourself–you've got some stinging dents, scrapes, and punctures in your skin from the teeth clamping down on them, but with his bare hands Harley's bent the steel jaws back so far they've snapped off the base of the trap completely. One of them lies shattered in pieces in the dirt, the spring holding it all together looks completely bent out of place, and by all accounts it's completely unsalvageable. And completely your fault.

"Thank you. I'm really sorry-"

"For what? This?" He cuts you off by holding up a handful of his snare's remains, but only shows some remorse after the fact, like he's not used to the normalcy of human interaction…it's a big leap considering you don't know him from Adam, but you can only make assumptions about some strange man you've never seen who dresses like a lumberjack but can barely string a few words together at a time.

Harley tosses the mangled trap aside, completely oblivious to the way you flinch at the way it flies and tumbles to the soil in a discordant symphony of rough clanging. "It's garbage anyways. Hasn't caught squat…just you."

As he says that, his eyes draw over from the pile of junk back towards you, quietly creeping upward until they meet your own. Maybe you're imagining things, but you feel some odd sense of kinship with him…you feel like he's looking deeper into your soul than you realize, right up until he coughs and gets back up to his feet with a grunt.

"Don't step in my traps again, unless you turn into a rabbit."

All things considered, your nose scrunches a bit as the unexpectedly gentle giant towers over you once more. The snare had been covered in leaves and all manner of brush, plus he'd set it up right next to a rotting log that you'd stepped over and subsequently fallen down when the snap and the pain threw you off balance. Only a hawk could've spotted such a well-hidden trap in the midst of an otherwise empty forest, and you release a huff from your chapped lips as you struggle to stand with the help of his outstretched hand.

"If I'd seen the trap, I wouldn't have stepped in…uh, what was that? Was that supposed to be a joke?" Harley flushes at once, faster than your eyes can manage to process since he turns around so his back is facing you. He's already taking steps away, his nerves showing through his facade as he nearly stumbles over a tree root before steadying himself against the trunk.

"I mean it. Watch your feet around here."

"Uh…Harley, hey! Wait!"

To your surprise, he actually stops and turns back around to face you–this time with concern written clear on his features at how urgent your tone is. Wisps of black hair fly free from his ponytail and whip against his cheeks as a breeze suddenly blows through the empty trees, and more than ever you draw your arms tight around yourself to keep out the cold. You didn't dress for this weather most certainly, and part of you knows you don't want him to leave partly because you're losing that warmth that had made you feel so secure.

"Um…I, uh, don't know if I can make it back. I'm kinda far from home, and my ankle.." You glance down at the exposed patch of skin above your sneaker and Harley's eyes flicker before they follow, a trail of fresh blood dripping down your goosebump-covered skin as you put pressure on it. "...I-It really hurts."

You fully expect him to tell you you're fine, that you don't need any help, or that you're just being a baby and want more sympathy. But he comes back, draws closer slowly like he's approaching a wounded animal, and gestures behind you towards the stump you'd been leaning back against. When you sit yourself down on the cold, mossy wood, he rolls up his dirty sleeves and crouches down in front of you–this time with his face right near your knee, and you have to look anywhere but at his concentrated expression while he pulls your ankle into his massive grasp. It looks and feels so tiny in his hand, like you're a doll compared to him, and as much as your fingers itch to touch his hair now that it's so close you keep digging them into the stump below you. He just keeps observing the wounds, gently pressing a finger around the area of each while easing off when he feels you cringe in pain.

"...Hurts? Can you feel that?"

"Yeah, it…yeah, hurts. It really hurts. Sorry-" Somehow the touching, the eyes on your wound, they choke you up before you even know what's happening. The pain runs deeper than the physical sores and you know that, or you did, you just didn't expect it to well up so much that you find yourself shedding tears in front of a complete stranger. Your pitiful sniffles and wiping your nose with your sleeve are what finally attract his attention. Harley peers up from his deep concentration and you can hear his breath hitch in his throat, clearly unsure of how to proceed in the face of this unexpected development. If he were you, he might've just gotten to his feet and scurried away from the scene.

"...Wait here. I don't live far, I'll go get my kit and come back. Don't cry."

The way he says it doesn't feel patronizing, not like it should. You hadn't noticed until his face draws closer that through your tear streaked vision, his brow is set low and his brown eyes soft with a gentle glimmer of care. You catch a glimpse of his hand hovering near your cheek out of your peripheral, the warmth soaking into your skin–but before it can make contact, he's sucking his teeth and tugging it away before he stands for the second time. He repeats that command to stay where you are, and with a step back and a turn on his heels he's headed back in the direction he came from. He's out of sight in less than a minute, which is somehow oddly comforting as you dry your puffy eyes with your sleeves and sit there in wait, sniffling all the while in the cold. Hopefully he won't be long…hopefully he'll actually come back. You've got a good feeling he will, even as the minutes tick by and you hug yourself tighter when the cold of the late day sets in. It'll be dark before you know it, and on this leg you won't be getting far even if you'd brought a torch with you.

It's probably been a solid few minutes before the sounds of snapping twigs alerts you to someone else's presence. The angle confuses you though, because Harley left in the direction you're facing and the noise is coming from behind you. A whisper of something in the back of your head begs you to turn around, and just when you do, your line of sight aligns with a stranger who stops in his tracks as soon as you catch him in your vision. You're on your feet as quickly as you can be with one of them incapacitated, your heart jumping into your throat at the sound of him mumbling something incoherent in your direction.

He's definitely not Harley. Definitely not somebody you recognize either; older, squirrely, raggedy-looking but somewhat put together. A white coat sits on thin shoulders with sleeves that inch down over knobby hands worn with age, aside from that he's dressed just as any other trail walker you would see–at the actual trails at least, not this patch of forest that's further out of town and has a reputation for being bear country. You'd probably never even notice him if your eyes passed him on the street or a walk where the couples and families go on the trails, he seems like the typical older man you'd see anywhere. Except for those eyes that feel like they're bulging out from behind thick-rimmed wire glasses, roaming over you from head to toe and giving you an intense, icky feeling of being sized up like meat.

"Is that guy your boyfriend?" The staredown continues as he throws that strangely accusative question your way, hands shoved in the pockets of his jacket so you can't see what he might be holding. What you don't know he is holding.

"Uh, what? Do I know you?" You shake your head in disbelief, taking great caution to step back slowly enough that you don't slip on your weak ankle.

"I've seen you walking here alone. Is the big guy your boyfriend? Is he your dad?" He still has his hands in his pockets. Your brain won't stop imagining all the things he could be hiding in there–and the disjointed way he walks and the questions he's asking unnerve you to your core. And did he just admit he's watched you walking around here? This area of the woods isn't even remotely near a trail and you picked it for that very reason…unless it's an odd coincidence, it's forcing you to think back to every moment you've spent here and all the times he could've been watching. As if things couldn't get worse, your only reprieve is still nowhere in sight, Harley's footsteps nowhere near close enough for you to hear them. Who knows when he'll be back, either? It might be too late by then.

"I've got a lot of money. I can pay him." He steps forward and you take a huge one back. Your options are dwindling and you didn't have many in the first place. You can't possibly think he's harmless now that you're this far–he clearly has some creepy imagination and the only person who could save you, the only person who even knows you're here, definitely isn't close enough to hear you scream for help if you tried.

"H-He's coming back right now," You search for those words in the deepest pits of your stomach where your hope has fallen flat. The man glances around, his head turning in big, sweeping arcs to search the woods for any sign of said rescuer. Your heart hits the wall of your ribcage so hard you feel like you're gonna sink to your knees, or at least be sick all over the ground. You're not safe and you know it, and he knows it.

"I don't see him."

He takes another shaky, measured step towards you and you stumble back to take your own, but all you manage to do is trip and fall back on your behind in the mess of leaves underfoot. Those next few steps he takes towards his prey are quick and heavy in your ears, and in a burst of panic when you can finally get your voice out you sob Harley's name in a shaky, tremoring pitch that breaks with frantic desperation.

The doomed silence that follows is cut by the sound of wind whipping harshly through the trees–and in a matter of seconds, followed by the violent thwack that echoes throughout the woods as a blade flings itself across your vision and embeds itself in a tree trunk before you.

The hatchet marks a degree of separation between you and the man you hadn't realized had been stalking you for a while, landing barely an inch away from his nose. He staggers back out of shock and nearly falls over a root himself, but upon turning his gaze towards the source of the attempted assault, his bug eyes widen and he scrambles to run away with his tail tucked between his legs. No sense of relief washes over you until you spot your savior, his gait tense as he steps out from the trees and into the clearing–you only inhale a shaky breath when you see that long hair trailing down his back, the softness of his flannel sleeves rolled up to his elbows as he reaches out to grasp the handle of the hatchet. With a deft, one-handed tug, it dislodges from the dead tree with a rough crunching sound and falls to hang down at his side. He doesn't move to look over his shoulder at you until the man has disappeared from his vision, but when he does he finally sets the tool back on his belt and crosses that short distance to kneel in front of you, his first-aid kit dangling on a clasp on the opposite side.

You'd expect him to be upset by that rather violent reaction even if it's not directed at you, but he's cooled down already, enough that his touches are gentle on your skin. At least on the outside. There's a storm brewing behind his eyes that you thankfully won't have to witness, because all that awful business he's cooking up as revenge won't be for your precious, pure eyes.

"You okay?" His deep voice couldn't be more soothing than it is in this moment, your eyes filling with a fresh set of tears that, this time, he's quick to brush away for you with his calloused thumbs. His shushing and soft, sweet crooning don't fit the scary vision of the man wielding that frightening weapon, yet his soothing touches and words are so comforting you just end up melting into his warmth. Not a word of protest escapes you when he suggests taking you back home, nor when he carefully leans your crying self into his shoulder so he can slide his hands beneath you, and lifts you off the ground and into his arms with a grunt.

Your legs dangling over one arm and your back supported by the other, Harley bridal carries you away from the scene and through the forest down a path only he can see. One still filled with roots to trip him up and dry leaves to crunch underfoot, but he barely stumbles at all with you perched delicately in his arms.

"Did I scare you? I'm sorry." You shake your head and lift it from where it's buried in his neck, a trembling hand wiping your face for what feels like the millionth time today.

"No…no, he scared me, Harley. Thank you, I.." You whimper, your words falling apart as you hesitate briefly–but in the next moment you're clinging to him, his taut biceps pressed to your soft flesh and your arms pulled tight around his neck, warming his face in the process. Maybe that dark flush is just the cold, but maybe it really is something else after all. "Please don't leave me."

A shake of his head is enough to sate you, some loose strands of his hair tickling your skin as he readjusts his grip to keep you upright. Every time he moves, even encumbered by your weight, he does so with so much ease you feel like you don't weigh an ounce in his arms.

"I did catch you, so I guess I get to keep you." A smile curving against his skin goes unnoticed but the tug on his shirt as he steps over a fallen log doesn't, your instinct to grip him tighter when he's unsteady is what leads him to brace you closer to his chest. Safer.

"So I am a bunny now? You'd better not turn me into rabbit stew, then." You chuckle, a sniffle peppering your breath.

"You do look tasty." You tuck in your arm before elbowing him in the chest, not like it really does anything but tickle when he's built like a brick wall. But it's out of shyness and embarrassment because those words sound devious out of his mouth, that slowly-spreading grin and rumbly voice sending a palpable shiver up the back of your neck like he's speaking to your thoughts directly. Does he know? He acts coy, but is it that easy for him to tell that you like him? Because you do. You really, really do.

It takes everything in you not to press your lips to his cheek in thanks, because while it would be quite sweet you don't exactly want to cross any boundaries of his. You just enjoy the ride for what it is, Harley's strong arms cushioning you every step of the way until the shade from the trees overhead disappears and the ground evens out. By the time you lift your head to look, he's crossed the grassy field that separates the land between the forest and his home, and is already slipping through the side door to a decent-looking farmhouse by the road. A soft couch lies beneath a grand window facing the open yard and it's where he sets you down, supporting your weight right up until the moment you hit the cushions and release your tight hold on his shoulders.

It's a little embarrassing to be treated so delicately for an injury that isn't terribly serious, but that's exactly how Harley addresses it. He slips your mud-caked shoes off for you and drops them on the doormat outside, tosses the kit on his kitchen counter you're facing, and excuses himself for a moment to wash his hands and search for some stronger medicine in his bathroom cabinet around the corner. The room itself is wide with the kitchen on the far side and the living room on the other, an archway sitting opposite to the side door that leads to a hallway, at the end of which lies the bathroom next to a set of stairs you can't quite see from here, but you can only imagine are there since there's clearly a second floor above you. As kitschy as it is with the creaky wood flooring and a few minor patches of water damage against the 70s-esque wallpaper, it's the definition of cozy–a fireplace sits near you along with a coffee table and two armchairs, along with a rug that looks thick and soft with age. The cabinets in the kitchen all look like similar wood to the floor, the linoleum just as old but well-scrubbed and clean of any muddy boot prints or grass, and the cream-coloured vintage fridge hums quietly with a dozen or so notes tacked to it, with scribbly drawings of things to memorize rather than actual words. Even from here, you can make out things like a certain number of eggs to bring somewhere and a particular part of a machine that somewhat looks like it belongs in a truck. And with all the natural light filtering in from the huge windows, one by your head and the other facing out above the kitchen sink, the whole first floor of the house stays warm and comfy-looking even as the sun begins to set.

"Is this where you live?" You call out and he hums loudly in agreement, busying himself with digging around the shelves through the open door. You crane your head to peek outside again, curious about the odd little hatches you can see from here and the fences around some big, grassy open areas. You just barely manage to catch a glimpse of a larger, more impressive building a little further off that looks like it could be a barn, and suddenly the weight of the cushions shifts as Harley takes his seat by your feet with a tube of something clutched in his hand. With relative confidence he squeezes a dollop on to his finger, hands you the tube to make sure you're not allergic to whatever it is, and gently presses the cream to your skin and swipes it right over your wounds.

The hiss that erupts from you at that first touch halts his progress briefly, but he's back to rubbing it in once he's given you a look and probably realized that it's not that bad. It just stings–but as he explains, it's disinfectant, so it's important to apply before you're exposed to a nasty strain of bacteria.

"How–ow! H-How long have you lived here?" Wincing, you sit up higher against the arm of the couch to get a better look. One glance at the blood staining his hands turns your stomach, however, and you're quick to peer back out the window in the hopes of shifting your focus elsewhere.

"The farm?" He queries, gaze sliding towards those same structures out the window before he finds an answer. "...Long time. Twenty years, maybe?"

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-nine."

"No kidding." You crack a wobbly smile, the burning sensation having slowly run its course through your poor, abused ankle. "We're not too far apart. So you grew up on a farm?"

"Kinda. Just helped out."

"Do you have cows?"

Shhhrup. He snips off a length of gauze and pins it to your ankle with a warm finger, slowly rolling the band around it in wide, careful circles. On each pass around he pulls it taut to tighten it and stem the bleeding, though it doesn't mean it doesn't make you flinch each time.

"Yeah. Chickens, too."

"You do?"

"Of course. See the building there? That's my coop." Once he's finally finished with pinning the dressing into place, he helps you lean up with his palm held out, your fingers grasping it firmly to steady yourself as you peer out the window towards the direction he's pointing. The way he talks about it gives off a sense of pride, but that alone is clear by the smile that breaks his stoic facade when you ask if you can see the cows and the chickens.

"When your ankle's better we'll go outside and feed them. You can ride one if you want, if you promise to be gentle with her."

"I can ride one?" Your eyes sparkle with hopeful excitement, glimmering like sea glass and crystals among the sand. You're assuming it's not that detail that has him quirking up a brighter smile than before, but you would be wrong.

"Mhm. Marnie likes giving rides–we can bribe her with some celery I've got, too." He speaks with a hand on your wrapped ankle, neither of you even really noticing the gesture until it dawns on both of you, and you break your shared gaze and the touch in somewhat flustered fashion. Yet, even though he sits like a golem above you with hands retracting back to his own lap, you still can't help the thought that he's just so…soft.

Maybe not on the outside necessarily, but Harley gives off a comforting, warm energy that seems completely natural to him. You've seen the itchy discomfort and awkwardness of men who would strike fear into your heart by presence alone, the unintentional fidgeting that betrays bad thoughts and cues towards what they've really got on their mind–things that they would gladly do or say if nobody was around and the chance of getting caught was low. Passing comments that just barely scrape the surface of impropriety, gestures masked with kindness but bleed through with the expectation of something in return. Harley isn't like that, or at the very least he doesn't seem like that.

"Something to drink?" He stands up and off the couch in a swift motion, the remaining roll of gauze pinched in one giant hand along with the balm and the scissors. They look almost toy-like in his massive grasp, it's actually pretty cute.

"Water?" He nods, brisk in his actions but not in the movements themselves–he takes your orders like a soldier yet moves along in a relaxed gait, the path to the kitchen like a sixth sense and the air in the house so familiar he's breathed himself into every inch of it. If you asked something of him, he could say no. Yet his willingness to do so prods at you with the thought that maybe he never has said it.

From the cupboard he produces a tall, well-worn glass, and the tap shudders to life to spit a strong jet of water straight into it once he turns it. It squeaks with age and potentially the need of some upkeep, but when he circles back around the edge of the tabletop and brings it to you, it sits clear and cool as it meets your hands and desperately refreshing when you bring it to your lips for a sip. If you knew how many cracked glasses he owns, you'd probably be twice as grateful that the one you hold stays intact as you drain it. You've never been one to remember the necessities when out for a stroll, a water bottle being one of them–the stuff he's given you now, though? It could well be the ambrosia of the gods to your parched throat, your tongue having sat so heavy and dry in your mouth that the unpleasant feeling has become a nuance and not an irritant. Maybe it's his pipes or maybe it's him, keeping a close eye and taking the glass back when it's empty to refill it again–but tap water has never tasted so good, you could swear it on your grave.

"So.." He murmurs, handing back your drink and waiting for you to down another greedy sip before he continues. "It's getting late, and you should really rest that leg. If you're okay, I can take you back home. Or…" The way he trails off lifts a brow from you, curiosity overcoming you in a gentle wave.

"Or?"

"...Or you can stay here for a bit. I mean, you can come back if you really want to, and we can see the animals then. But if you want to stay–and, uh, I can keep an eye on yo–y-your wound–you can."

You lower the glass, now half-empty, into your lap. As much as you want to let your smile peek through at how sweetly he's asking the question, you can't help but wonder about the possibilities. Is this a ruse? Does he want to get me alone? Will he flip out if I say I want to go home? Part of you wants to test him, wants to say that you do and then change your mind to see how he reacts…but another part of you trusts him, maybe errantly, but you so rarely get the opportunity to just take a chance with fate. Maybe this time, things will be different.

"I don't really have anyone to check on me, honestly, and I live alone. Maybe…if it's okay, maybe I can stay? There's not even an elevator in my-"

"Okay," He breathes suddenly, but follows it up quick with an apology for cutting you off. The enthusiasm tweaks your anxiety just a little bit, but you try your best to smooth it over. There's no going back now. "Yeah. I'll set up the spare room for you."

Within moments he's up, but before he gets to that particular task, the labour of food dawns on him and he makes a detour into the kitchen. Despite insisting that you've already eaten before you left for your walk, Harley imparts upon you a bit of homemade jam and some kind of fried bread before he takes you up to bed, the former quite sweet and tangy while the latter is a bit doughy from a day in the fridge but still delightfully warm off a pan that he heats it up in. That and a cup of fresh, warm milk and honey is what sends you upstairs to bed, the steps creaking twofold as Harley carries you there like a lame calf that needs constant tending. Belly full, sleepy, and comfortable–things could certainly be worse than this, especially when you consider what could've happened if Harley hadn't been around to rescue you today. Things could be much worse, you've found.

The spare bedroom sits just off the top of the staircase, as the second door from the end of the hall with another diagonally adjacent to it. The moment he carries you in, you can tell this used to be someone's room–the bed has been flipped and fitted with newer sheets and blankets, the walls have been scrubbed clean, but there's still shadows of frames that once hung against the honeycomb-like wallpaper and a closet nearly bursting with boxes of old belongings. Once he sets you down on the bed, the doors of which Harley's quick to close after stacking them higher and sliding them back to fit snugly inside and hopefully make you feel a little more comfortable. His disappears for a moment, but returns with what looks like a long, thick maroon shirt in his hands that would probably drape so far down on you it would act as a nightgown.

"Here. I'll wash your clothes for you tomorrow–this should do for you tonight." He waits patiently outside the door while you change, takes the clothing through the crack when you open it, and you notice that he's completely turned away when he does so even when he could probably be sure that you're decent. He bustles away with them like a rabbit, and returns just when the crickets have started chirping to show you the door–literally.

"There's a lock here," He points towards the highest point of the bedroom door, and back down towards the bottom where a wedge of polished wood sits nearby. With a measured bump of his foot he shows you how to slot it underneath, and respectively how to tug it back out with a decent amount of force. "It looks shaky but it works. I lock both the doors at night too when I close up the barn. Windows too, but these ones are hard to open anyways." He demonstrates by crossing the floor in quick strides and tugging on the window, barely able to shift it upwards a few inches before shoving it back down with a healthy amount of grunting…and to say the sounds don't have you hot in the face would be a mistake, as benign as they are.

"I'm in the room at the end of the hall. Bathroom's next door. If you need anything, just holler or come get me." He finally offers you his parting words with a hand on the doorknob, about to step out but clearly with some hesitation lingering in the way he stands. Maybe he wants to stay with you, or maybe he's nervous about leaving you alone after today. It's endearing either way, rather than concerning.

"I'll try not to wake you up." You smile back at him, truly feeling the gratitude for his kindness, but he shakes his head.

"No, come wake me for anything. Even a glass of water–I don't want you walking down those stairs and getting hurt."

Ouch. Those words sting, they really do, but not because of his personal fault–rather because you can't recall the last time you heard something like that, the last time it was said with sincerity, and it hits you like a brick and leaves you aching with a hollow feeling that you don't know what to do with. Your hands lift to rub at your arms a bit awkwardly, shifting your weight from one foot and wincing when you attempt to do so to the other, but soon enough you find the courage to speak in the wake of concern you don't know if you deserve.

"You're really sweet, Harley."

"Sweet? I'm not sweet." His expression sours at once, a pout forming on his lips that almost doesn't fit his intimidating stature. He looks as if that word alone is an insult, yet the heat rising to his face gives him no bearing when it's so obvious that he's flattered.

"You haven't let me take a step on my own all day. You're really sweet, and really nice."

"Yeah, whatever." Unable to meet your eyes he pouts even harder to try and cover it up, turning his back on you with no better answer and grabbing hold of the doorknob on his way out. "Shut up, city-slicker. And don't stay up too late."

You nearly flinch when he doesn't slam the door closed, his bad attitude striking you more as cute than intimidating. Your ears perk at the sound of his footsteps outside, muffled through the walls and growing distant as he pads down the hall–and when his own door shuts quietly, you finally tear yourself away from the threshold and patter barefoot towards the plush bed. It's nothing special, and it's a bit old, but you certainly can't complain.

You can't help but think, however, as you shut off the lamp by the bedside and hunker down for a long night…it's just a little too cold for your liking.

Whispers hum at you in the dark, surrounding you in a blanket of voices and sensations that drench you in nothing but blackness. An incessant tapping grows in volume at the back of your mind, visions flashing by at random in a grotesque show of theatre–something burns, something hurts, and in a flash of climactic panic you shoot up awake in your bed, panting and gasping and grasping at things that aren't there.

You're alone again, but not in a good way. It takes a moment to adjust to your surroundings, reintegrate into the situation you're in, but a glimpse out the window at the farm and your hand brushing the cotton fabric of the blanket brings you right back down to earth. It was just a dream, and as you peer closer, the tapping in your head was nothing more than the branch of one of the trees whipping against the window in the wind.

You're up and out of your bed before you can really think about it, limping a little but finding steadiness as you brace the wall and the door handle before coming out into the hall. It's creepier at night, much quieter than you expected save for the noise of the wind outside, and it has you hauling yourself as quickly yet quietly as possible to get to the door on the very end; the door that creaks so softly as you open and close it behind you, but doesn't cause the warm, heavy body in the bed to stir. Even as you approach him and come round the other side that he's perched on, his breathing stays even and soft like he's nearly dead to the world.

"Harley?" Your whispers grow their confidence in the dark, the hem of the long shirt swishing around your thighs as you lean over the sleeping giant. "Harley, are you awake?"

You're wary of shaking him, but your hand just barely brushes his shoulder–when it meets his heated skin, the man in question flinches and rolls over with a groan, his arm sliding off his chest to dangle off the edge of the bed. Even in the dimness you can make out the squint of his eyes at the slivers of moonlight shining through the window, his hair tousled and splayed out all over his sheets since being freed from its ponytail. He barely tilts his head in your direction, but even so he acknowledges you with a slurred hum and a rub at his eyelids to erase the sleep weighing them down.

"I-I'm sorry–" Your fingers clench at the sight of his bare chest, the skin soft-looking and riddled with the deep edges of healed scars. "-I can't sleep. The noise-"

Without a word, Harley gropes for the blanket draped over him and grabs a fistful of it, tiredly lifting it up with a yawn. It's an idea almost too good to pursue, your brain momentarily wondering whether this, too, is a joke. But not one to give up the opportunity since he seems too sleepy to tease you, you take the bait and make quick work of crawling over his buff body to flop down on his other side. Your breath quickens in your throat as soon as you're settled, but you've got no time to dwell on the enthusiasm as Harley pulls the blanket up to your shoulder, shifts his hips up, and turns on his side to face away from you.

Is this really how fate has decided to treat you? You're not too sure you're a fan of enduring a string of so many awful things just to get one good miracle–but as the warmth of the bed lulls you in, you find your smile returning slowly as you snuggle into the sheets and relax next to the man whose hands you would gladly put your life into.

Within a few minutes of laying down beside him the space feels like it's growing larger and larger between you, the cold soaking into your veins and causing your feet to retreat further and further up under the covers. It takes a bit more time to work up the courage to search for a little more than that. Enough that you're sure he's probably fallen back asleep as you shuffle closer and closer, settling in again once your hands just barely brush his spine. That's better. Harley exudes so much warmth that you could consider him a human heater, although the chill returns when he flips over on a dime and those brown eyes are staring you down, half-open, in the darkness.

It doesn't take him even a moment to survey you, examine your intentions, think about you in any way–he mindlessly throws an arm over your body, while the other stuffs itself under your neck and loops through the space for you to rest your head on his bicep. What really kills your courage is the feeling of his warm, thick thigh brushing against your bare skin between your legs, your own clamping down around it on instinct before he brushes a place that'll really have you blushing. That wasn't his intention, but it's somehow more flustering that it wasn't. He just doesn't know what he does to you.

"Warmer now?" He murmurs, eyes fluttering closed while his fingers play with a few strands of your hair. Now, with him closer than ever, you can really feel the weight on your heart ease off. A smile graces your lips barely an inch away from his, even knowing you'll be spending the better part of your night wondering what it would feel like to kiss them. You hum your answer softly. "Good. Sweet dreams."

"You too, Harley." Your head falls back against his arm, and it's only a matter of time before the warmth of his body heat and the comforting embrace of strong arms around you lulls you into a deep, dreamless sleep. The only thing you remember waking you up is a brief time between then and the sunrise, when your eyes flutter open and you feel Harley's presence has disappeared for a time. But once slumber grabs hold of you again and you vanish into the land of unconsciousness, the only thing that causes you to stir is the distinct pitch of a rooster crowing from somewhere off in the yard, which inevitably rouses both of you into waking up.

You'd usually roll over to your side to check the time, but it dawns on you quickly that you're not in your own bed. This one is much cleaner, softer, and smells different–a bit like shampoo, cologne, and grass. Three things you haven't experienced nearly enough of in the last few months, but you've gotten more of it in the last 24 hours than you have for the entirety of the long depressive episode you've endured as of late. Your nose wakes to the smells first but you grow more alert at the heat on your back, Harley's hand pressed into the small of it to keep you cuddled snugly against his side. That tender gesture escapes you as soon as he slides his arms out and stretches them above his head, sitting up in the process for you to catch a much better glimpse of his bare torso in the sun's morning glow.

A myriad of scars mark deep, jagged edges in his skin right across the length of his back, littered by other oddly-shaped marks and bruises that look more like the result of many long years of farm work. The long strokes look more intentional, however–they almost look like flogging scars, as if from a switch or some other long, blunt object. It's unnerving, the way they cluster around one area near his shoulders where most of his exposed skin would be….and as much as you want to ask, your burning stare is enough to draw his attention to you and you don't dare to make him any more uncomfortable than you already have.

"I'll get breakfast ready." Your heart soars all of a sudden and it's a sensation that's quick to burn your cheeks, so all you can manage is a nod in reply while he gets up and quietly gathers some clothes so he can slip into the bathroom to change.

It's all so domestic; being here, the cozy house, the bed, the soft exchanges between you like it's all a part of daily life. Human connection is something you've missed these last few months, sure, but this is only something you've ever dreamed of–feeling cared for by someone who takes pleasure in your company. And Harley clearly does, because you can't imagine someone as sweet and handsome as himself entertaining another person without reason. Like you've seen before, he can be pretty off-putting and cold until he eventually warms up, but the fear that there might be something deeper to this arrangement still swirls in the back of your mind.

Harley ducks out of the bathroom fully clothed and drops the sweats he'd been wearing in the hamper on his way out, footsteps thumping down the stairs before there's a pause–and then the sounds resume with the clinking of dishes and running water. He could be a murderer, or a sex offender, or something worse, and you'd have no idea if he was until it was too late. But then again, you think as you roll over on your side and ponder getting up, he did save you from that creep.

Was it a ruse? A coincidence? Could they have been in league with one another? It's impossible to tell but you desperately want to believe that Harley's a good man. You don't want to slip into these feelings of distrust and fear again, you can't keep living like you expect everybody to hurt you. But then again, you really don't want to add more trauma to your pile or wind up dead in a basement altogether.

Frustrated and in desperate need of a distraction, you throw the covers off your legs and slide over to the edge of the bed, toes bristling at the chill of the wooden floors still cold from the night. He'd lent you his shirt, so you imagine he wouldn't mind you borrowing some more clothes–this morning you elect for a hoodie near the back of his closet, and a pair of jeans in a folded pile at the bottom from a bag labelled "Donate". Your underwear will just have to last another day but you're unfortunately quite used to stretching things as far as you can until you literally can't put it off any longer.

Luckily for you, the walls are close enough by the stairs that getting down them isn't too harsh, your hands bracing them every step until you can make it to the very bottom. Your companion doesn't seem as proud as you are when you show up in his kitchen, however, undaunted by your physical toils but still leaning on the countertop for support–the same one that he's preparing breakfast on just a foot or two away.

"I was gonna bring it to you," Harley utters softly, though his stoic expression shifts into something gentler when he catches sight of his clothes donned on your figure. "You're gonna slip on the stairs with that ankle."

"I'm okay," You insist, toeing your leg out and hiking up your pants a little to show off the bandaged wound…but your confidence falters when you realize just how swollen it's gotten overnight, the skin burning and puffy with a smattering of bruises peeking out from beneath the gauze. "...Oh."

Harley releases a sigh as he sets down the knife on his chopping block, and takes a step around the counter to brace you by the small of your back and guide you towards the dining table.

"Told you. Sit." The firmness of the gesture has your spine tingling, his warm palm like a heating pad on your lower back just from that simple touch.

"It really doesn't hurt that much," You swear as he doubles back to the cupboards and returns to start setting plates down. "Whatever you did really helped."

"Good…I'm glad." Harley shrugs and soon returns to the pan he'd been stirring, his movements calculated as he dumps in some chopped vegetables and flips the scramble over to check how far along it is. "How'd you sleep? You said it was loud."

"Oh…yeah, I think the window was cracked open. The wind got really loud and the branches started whipping against it…it just scared me a little, that's all."

"Shit," He grumbles to himself. "Knew I forgot to clip 'em.”

"It's okay," You offer him a sincere smile. "I slept much better afterwards, anyways."

For some reason, maybe nerves, Harley clears his throat and finds himself at a loss for words. He's busying himself with the finishing touches on the breakfast–buttering your toast and pouring out a bit of coffee into two mugs–but he doesn't find any until he's setting it all down at the table and coming close with the pan in one hand and spatula in the other.

"Well…er, that's good. I'm glad. I hope I didn't snore too loud." He murmurs over your shoulder as he reaches to spoon out some egg on to your plate; and keeping a close eye you can see he's separated the parts that are a little browner to fill his own plate. Aside from that, it's cooked just as you like it–and it smells amazing, and fresh. It's much harder to think badly of him when his cooking is to die for.

"I don't think I would've noticed if you did." You chuckle back at him, your fork digging into the scramble while he takes his seat across from you. "It was too comfy."

At that, Harley is rendered completely silent and fills the quiet space by stuffing his mouth full, his demeanor flat as he eats but his ears burning all the same.

And you can deal with that. It's not even really dealing, per se–you tuck into your own meals in silence, and it feels more normal than it should. When's the last time you shared a meal with someone and didn't feel the need to talk away the silence? You can't even recall, yet now with this stranger it's as easy as breathing. A bite of your toast crumbles in your mouth, the dryness reminding you of what happened the day before…and in no time at all your mind is drifting away and you're sitting, staring, eyes glazed over as you run through the events on a loop.

"...You thinking about yesterday?" Harley peers at you over his cup of coffee and peeks into your soul, your eggs barely picked at in comparison to his even though they smell better than anything you've eaten in months. It jolts you into meeting his gaze but not into forgetting what you've been agonizing over, and so you find yourself fiddling with your fork and working up the courage to just say what you're thinking.

"Yeah. It…I don't know. I feel like it's my fault."

Harley furrows his brow, his mug meeting the tabletop with a soft thud. "How so?"

"I just…I shouldn't have been walking there alone, clearly." You jut your foot out from beneath the table briefly, once again showing off the puffy soreness from underneath the covered wound. "And I guess I should've just been more careful. If you weren't there, I would've-"

"You shouldn't blame yourself." The sharp edge of Harley's voice cuts into the conversation, though his gaze flits away from yours and back again, soft as ever when he's fixated on you. "I'm not saying you shouldn't be careful, but you didn't do anything wrong. It's not your fault some people are just evil."

The shake of your head sours that look, your gentle smile probably giving him the idea that you don't believe him. That you're just humouring him. "You think that?" He looks down at you, the tines of his fork suddenly pointed in your direction.

"I think shitty people deserve whatever shit they get served. You don't deserve it just cause they're fucked in the head.” With those strong words lingering, he returns to the past few bites of his breakfast. ”Besides, you don't need to think about it anymore–I'll take care of it."

"What do you mean?" He nudges your plate closer with his knuckles, gesturing for you to keep eating. You pacify him with a bite, but you're barely done chewing when you ask again. "What are you gonna do?"

"Don't worry about it." Harley's hand brushes yours across the table as he reaches for the butter. "We're just gonna have a chat."

"About what? I know it's not gonna be about the weather."

"That's on a need-to-know basis, bunny. You don't need to know–now, eat. S'getting cold. And we have work to do." Another nudge and a scrape of your plate across the table, and you're met with a brick wall of decisiveness. But the nickname, it has you bowing your head and following his lead of swallowing down your breakfast, face warm and dark as you think about the rasp of his voice and the way that word sounds when you know he's talking about you. It swirls salacious thoughts into a brew in the back of your mind, your brain working overtime to cool the heat your heart is whipping up.

"I don't want you to get in trouble, Harley. Please be careful." He answers you with a grunt and a nod–a non answer. But it's as good as you're gonna get and you'd be a fool to try and extract any more out of his stony exterior.

By the time you're finally finished your breakfast, you've barely made a dent in your own coffee and sweeten it up with some milk he's put out to help it go down a little easier. Harley swirls the grinds he's got in his mug around, rolling a thought around his head before it finally ends up spilling out.

"So…when do you want me to take you home?"

Your honest answer is immediate, but you keep it bitten back behind your teeth. The insinuation stings a little, a lot, actually–yet you know it isn't a question he's asking because he's pushing you towards a desired answer. Looking him over and the way he's so relaxed, you know he's just looking out for you. There's something in the way he fidgets and warms up in your presence that makes you feel like he doesn't actually want you to go anywhere. "I have to feed the animals first, but I can drive you after that…or you can take a few days and see how you feel. You live around here?"

With a shake of your head, you chug back a swig of your coffee so big that it almost immediately gives you a headrush, though maybe it'll give you some courage to maneuver this conversation towards what you know you really want, rather than what you should do.

"Don't have a cellphone, but you can use the landline if you know the number. Let your family know where you are."

Family. That's a pretty pitiful word to describe what you've got. You feel your nose scrunch in disgust and you fold your arms over your chest, too wrapped up in your thoughts to notice Harley's questionable lack of confusion over your reaction.

"I don't really…I dunno if I'd count them as family." You mutter under your breath, hoping to push those thoughts back enough that they don't hurt you as much. "They're just people I…I know. I don't have many friends, either–I don't really have any. I don't think anybody's gonna be looking for me…"

Your bleak words fill a tense silence in the air, uninterrupted no matter how miserable they may be. It's unusual not to be intercepted by something like "They're your flesh and blood, they'll always love you!" or "Why don't you just talk to them, surely you can work things out!" like it's so easy to forget and forgive the things you've endured under the premise of some superficial relationship title.

"...I don't think I'd want them to."

Harley doesn't burden you with any of that. He just sits, listens, and quietly murmurs his question when you've let the silence fester long enough.

"Are you saying you wanna stay here? With me?"

Whatever you were expecting to hear, it wasn't that. Honestly you had kind of let your mind wander aimlessly and sort of forgot he was even there in the first place, quiet as he can be. You can't even begin to process that offer though, not when you're still so wrapped up in your own head and still feeling guilty for all the hospitality he's shown you thus far.

"That's crazy," You smile sadly back at him, reaching for your cup just to have something occupy your hands. "I wouldn't ask that of you. We don't even know each other."

The quiet as a whole is broken by Harley clearing his throat, another sip of coffee drained thoughtfully before he speaks again.

"It's more…if you want to. You can stay with me until your ankle heals, and then...we can see about you staying longer. Give you some time to think." As he speaks, he spots a forgotten corner of toast you haven't finished and plucks it off your plate to pop it into his mouth, swallowing it back with the help of his drink. "I'll show you around, see if you can handle the farm work. We'll go into town on Saturday to set up the booth, and you can walk the market with me."

Clearly he's been putting some thought into this, or his mind just works much faster than yours under pressure–either way, you're left almost speechless as Harley rattles off a plan like it isn't even odd to be planning a future with someone he literally just met.

"Well…what about rent? And-"

"The farm makes enough, and I already have more than I need. That's not an issue." He shakes his head to emphasize his point, draining the rest of his mug in a flash and balancing it atop his plate that he lifts to pull yours underneath. The only movement he allows you to make is to finish your own coffee, otherwise he shoos your hands away as you try to help clean up and stacks the dishes up in his hands with practiced ease, hauling them all into the kitchen to dump them into the sink.

"Won't I be a hassle?" You ask, turning in your chair to look at him over your shoulder as he rinses them with a quick hand.

"No, you'd be helping me. And…you'd be good company, too. It can get a little too quiet out here when you're alone." He only meets your eyes at the end of that thought, looking up from his damp hands with the smallest gleam of affection that you nearly miss.

Stay. You could stay, he's practically making a case for you to stay, and you want it so badly you can feel it pressing against your chest, threatening your heart to burst. You could leave it all behind and stay here, and…and, what? What can you possibly say to that now, when Harley clearly wants you here and you obviously don't want to go home? Would it be so wrong to indulge yourself, to let your past go and run after a future you've always dreamt of but never imagined you'd get?

It's decided without words, but it feels wrong not to declare it, at least for him to understand exactly where you stand.

"Okay. Yeah, I'll…I'll stay."

If you hoped for anything more you'd be asking too much, because the way Harley finally caves into that bright, rare smile is a sight for incredibly sore eyes, and it's more than enough to fill the quiet as he gently washes the dishes and passes them over the counter for you to dry.

"This is Custard." Harley cups a baby chick in his hands in the living room, having hurried out into the yard once the table was wiped and dishes put away. When he'd come back cradling something tiny against his chest, you hadn't assumed you'd even remotely know what it was he wanted to show you–but now, taking a look at him, your heart swells with adoration as if you're experiencing the feeling for the first time.

"Ohhhh!" The squeal escapes you without warning but it's completely unapologetic–your heart puddles at the sight of the little ball of fuzz, tiny chirps filling the room as it fluffs itself up in Harley's big palms.

"How about you keep him warm while I feed the hens? Here, he can eat this, too." He hands you a strawberry from the pocket of his coveralls, one he must've just plucked off the bushes that crowd around the henhouse. "One of the cows is giving birth soon, so I've gotta check if she's contracting yet."

"You're gonna have a baby cow soon?" You ask him with glistening eyes as he passes Custard into your hands, gently sliding the fluffball with legs over as it chirps in indignation. He nestles in and soothes himself once he feels how warm you are, though, and Harley rubs his tiny head with a finger that's still just a touch too big in comparison.

"Very soon. Could be tomorrow, or could be next week. You should help me think of names–the mom's name is Bea." With that he leaves you to entertain the little one while he steps out to take care of the chores, and as you sit back on the couch with the chick snuggled up in your hands, you take the chance to peer out the window and watch Harley work.

It's mesmerizing in a way. He's so focused yet you can sense his kindness in the way he moves, how gentle he is with his animals whether someone's watching him or not. The hens crowd around him the moment he approaches with the bucket, yet it's not just the food they're fascinated with–a few of them peck at his pant legs like they're trying to get his attention, vying for pats on the head or scratches down the back. One of them snuggles herself between his boots and lays there while he spreads the feed in the yard, moving only to ruffle her feathers when he steps over her to set the pail down and start reaching into the coop to collect their eggs. He's got a way with animals that you've seldom seen, and it brings a giggle to your lips when you watch him walk off out of sight and leave the hens clucking and some trying to chase after him as he heads to the barn around the back.

Custard nips at the strawberry, pecking away bits of it with a flutter of his cotton-ball wings as you hold it steady for him. The more he eats, the sleepier he gets, but even so he doesn't stop for love nor money to get every last bit of fruit and it's so adorable you can't stop watching him once you start. Soon, his belly puffs out full of fruit and tart juice, and your new friend finally settles down into a deep sleep with a flap of those tiny wings and a gentle chirp. Part of you is tempted to take the chick back to the henhouse and put his sleepy little self in the nests, just so you can have an excuse to go watch Harley work in the barn. But within the hour while you're watching the clouds go by the man himself returns, coming through the screen door with a bit of hay and dirt on his pants–and a smile once he sees Custard cuddled up in your hands on the couch. With a quiet pass off, he takes the baby bird and swiftly heads back out to put him in the coop. You're standing, waiting for him at the door once he comes back, and fortunately for him since he looks like he has something to ask.

"I have to go check the traps. You gonna be okay here by yourself?" The idea makes your throat dry up, and your heart still before beating much faster against your ribcage. Leaving? He's gonna be gone? For how long? What are you gonna do? How are you gonna feel safe? A million questions and more run through your head before you can squeeze a single one out.

"Wh..What if someone comes by?"

"People rarely do," He offers, a gentleness in his brown eyes. "But if that happens, just stay inside. I'll lock all the doors."

"What if it's the guy? What if he tries to get in?"

Harley suddenly gets serious, his breath fogging up your senses as he leans down to look at you whilst gripping your shoulders tightly in his rough hands. His warmth overwhelms you at such a tender closeness, his eyes stern and serious.

"Nobody's going to hurt you. I won't let anyone hurt you here. Can you trust me, just for this little while? I'm gonna come right back. I promise.”

Your lungs feel tight again. Hot. Your breathing isn't evening out and it's actually getting worse–you can tell you're on the brink of a panic attack but you can't fumble your thoughts into something coherent, you just cling to Harley's sleeve in the hopes that the panic will evaporate….and in that heightened, tense moment that feels like it's lasting forever, your heart sinks and your head whips around at the sound of the doorbell ringing. Harley huffs in frustration and sighs out a curse under his breath at the interruption, his hand lingering on your arm as he orders you to stay put while he heads around the corner and down the hall to answer it. You listen closely, rather than distantly as you feel the urge to dissociate, until the feeling fades as a distinctly southern accent fills your ears and breaks the terror of wondering whether that same stalker has followed you to this safe haven.

"The hell are you here for? I'm busy."

"The hell y'mean 'the hell am I here for'? It's Tuesday!"

That voice, heavy with an accented drawl, pipes up like a cat in comparison to a bear–and the shuffling at the front door only piques your curiosity more as Harley huffs and starts berating the stranger like they're more familiar than they seem.

"...Fuck. Listen–hey, not in the house! Take your shoes off, idiot!" Before Harley can stop him the stranger is suddenly standing across the living room, his golden eyes honing in on you immediately as he saunters up and barely misses your companion's frustrated grab for his collar behind him.

"Ooh," He winks. "See you've got company, huh? Hello darlin'." The young man is the picture of what you'd imagine a western cowboy would look like; a cowboy hat perches on his brown hair and his bronzed skin bears the tone of someone who spends much of their time outdoors…and that's to say nothing of the cowboy boots that clack their way across the carpet, complete with spurs that jingle with his every step. Yet his clothes seem exceptionally modern, the cream-coloured dress shirt and faux-leather pants giving off the visage of an office worker on a cowboy retreat. "Lookin’ like you seen a ghost. Elias Norwood, at your service–any way you'd like to be serviced."

Elias dips down and captures your hand in his, just barely grazing his lips over your knuckles in a chivalrous kiss before Harley appears behind him and yanks him away like a cat by the scruff of his neck. "You wanna get out, or you wanna wake up tomorrow as pig shit?" He growls, and Elias just laughs–partially in jest, and partially from genuine nerves–before he's shoved out the side door and just manages to catch his balance on the last step out to the grass. He shoots you a grin, a wink, and a wave through the window before he hustles out of view, seemingly heading towards the barn to take care of those aforementioned horses.

"I-Is he…y'know..?" You glance back at Harley with wide eyes, and the farmer shakes his head.

"Elias? No, he's not dangerous. We…we were married before. Not anymore." He's quick to qualify, even raising his left hand for you to see the absence of a ring on his finger.

"Oh."

"Yeah." The awkward silence simmers between you two as you take that in. Married? It's hard to believe Harley was married to someone so…different. A twisting and churning of your stomach bubbles your blood with unease–there's some sliver of irritation, envy, perhaps even jealousy in that moment. As hard as you try to cast the thought aside, it lingers while Harley remains so close. Yet it runs for long enough that Elias soon returns to interrupt it, that smarmy grin on his freckled face increasing the tension rather than cutting it as he pokes his head in around the screen door. "D'ya need your ears cleaned? Get out."

Harley aims that well-trained scowl back at his ex, who seems either gleefully oblivious to it or like he gets a thrill out of making your farmer friend mad. And though you struggle not to let it shine through, there's a twinge of satisfaction in your chest that foregrounds the erratic thumping of your heart.

"Naw, I can hear you. Won't hurt if you lemme know where you picked up this sweet little thing, though." It takes a second for you to understand that he's referring to you, which is just long enough for Harley to stomp over to the door and shove his fist into Elias' shirt for the second time. He shoves him backwards for the cowboy to stumble down the few steps and land on his ass in the dirt, but he looks no worse for wear even when his hat tumbles off his head and he just chuckles at the reaction. The screen door swings shut behind them but you can hear their muffled conversation from outside, not much more than a "Kidding!" from Elias and Harley's voice grunting a "Go tend your horses and fuck off." catching your attention. Eventually he returns, and in the far distance you can hear the whinny of a horse as Elias must be returning to where they're stabled.

"Here. I'm gonna give you my hatchet." Harley steps back inside with the blade at his side, the handle wooden and worn with age from many years of frequent use. When he closes your hands around the grip, your palms fill in the distinct indents of his callused fingers in the hilt. Your mind drifts to the way he threw it in the direction of your stalker, and it's even more impressive now, thinking back to how firmly it stuck in the tree and how much strength he may draw on when he's angry. Protective, rather. "Elias is gonna stick around while I'm gone–outside, mind you, not in the house. You feel scared at all, or in danger, you just swing. I'll take care of whatever happens after."

"What if I hurt him?"

Harley scoffs, his gaze pointed out the window at the barn until he swiftly returns it to you. "Nothing you could do to him he doesn't already deserve."

"H-Harley, if Elias-"

"He won't." He stares you down with a cold, stoic gaze, one that you can only imagine would drive fear and panic into those who don't know his real tenderness. "He won't hurt you. He knows how bad I'll hurt him back if he even thinks of it. As dumb as he is, he likes living–at least in one piece."

“But Harley-” Your eyes have started to water without you paying notice. But he does notice, and takes you under his arms in reply in a bid to soothe your high-strung fears.

"Listen, I swear I wouldn't leave you if I didn't have to. If I could, I would gladly spend every second of my day next to you." Your heart jumps at that sentiment, leaving your ribcage to poorly mask the desperate thumping of that fragile heart of yours against his warm chest. "But there's just some things I need to take care of. I'll be right back as soon as possible, I promise."

Though Harley pulls away from you then, electing to look you in the eyes as he makes that vow, you still find yourself comforted while his presence steadily dwindles. The hatchet hangs heavy in your arms as you watch him tug on his leather jacket and boots at the door, his trapping gear strapped to his belt and a thick canvas sack rolled up and hung in his inner pocket. With a pat on the head and one last reassurance, he's gone–out the side door and across the field into the forest, his image melding into the shadows of midday under the branches before he disappears completely.

Harley won't be back for hours, most likely. You reach a shaky hand out and click the lock shut on the screen door.

In all honesty, you weren't expecting the afternoon to be so peaceful. But somehow, even though Harley had reassured you of his vowed harmlessness, hearing the distant shuffles of hooves, whistling, and creaking of the fences as Elias passively reminds you of his presence makes you feel even less at ease than you would alone. At least you wouldn't be second guessing those noises as you keep to the living room, trying vainly to busy yourself in Harley's absence but constantly remaining vigilant for any sound out of the ordinary.

Could he get into the house despite the lock? You think, and yes, he probably could. You've caught a few glimpses here and there through the window of his tending–seen how he's tugged and calmed the horses with ease even at their rowdiest, his lean frame betraying the undiscerning eye as he's of decently toned muscle underneath. But so far he hasn't spared a glance towards you, not even checked to see if you're looking at him and hoping for an in to get him close to you. For the most part, when left to his own devices, he seems content with minding his business.

It's only when you've lost yourself in tuning the radio on the counter that a knock on the side door gives you a fright, your hands coming down on the counter in search of some defense until you realize it's just Elias. Unlike before, he's quiet and polite as he requests a drink from the fridge, his eyes betraying no sense of deceit, just exhaustion. He's sweating buckets and keeping himself propped up on the doorway with his arm, soaked from belt to boots in mud that the horses must've kicked up as he brought them back to the stables.

It's that tired, worn-out image of him that's lead you to this development–the screen still firmly closed but not locked, with you sitting on the floor inside while Elias perches himself on a lawn chair by the steps. It feels a bit like a setup for two house cats trying to get used to each other…yet the bizarre nature of the interaction hasn't seemed to faze Elias yet, especially not when you graciously didn't object to giving him a beer despite it being nowhere near 5 PM. He cracks it open outside and lets the foam settle momentarily, his sip long and followed up by a sigh of relief as he enjoys his reprieve from a day's hard work. While he seems content to sit in silence, it soon becomes too tense when you have a question that's dying to come off your tongue.

"....Is Harley a bad person?"

You just end up blurting it out all at once, the context lost on him when these are some of the first words you've spoken to him. Yet you're met with a chuckle and a glance over his shoulder, before he settles back in his chair and returns his gaze to the woods off across the field.

"Mh…define 'bad'." His voice is smoother this time around, less flirtatious and coy, but his words put doubt and anxiety back into your mind.

"Does he hurt people? Is he…he's not some serial killer, o-or sexual predator, is he?" A long pause draws out like curdled milk, spoiling any optimism about your current situation the longer it drags on. But this time, the way Elias breaks the silence actually brings you relief.

"...Really haven't known each other long, huh?" Elias fishes around in his pocket, just barely tilting his can for a dribble of beer to splash out on the ground, before producing a cellphone from his pocket and handing it back to you through the crack in the door that you open tentatively. "Look him up if you wanna. Kunuk's his last name. K-U-N-U-K." He takes another sip and scans the wooded horizon for any potential threat, or perhaps just the sight of a bunny hopping about or a fox making its nest.

"I'll give you my two cents, though, bein' that we were married an' all. Har's a stubborn ass, but he's a good guy." Your thumbs poise over the cracked lower corner of the phone, the search engine open and the box blank while the cursor blinks endlessly, waiting for commands. You're tempted to do exactly what he said, yet your ears are still perked to listen to Elias' apparent wisdom…if you could call it that.

"...He's been nice to me, I just…"

"Don't trust people?" He turns his head to look at you over his shoulder from his peripheral, a pursed smile barely reaching his eyes as you nod and he takes another hefty drink. "Makes sense. Don't hurt to protect yourself, 'specially round here. Wouldn't worry about him, though–as scary as he looks, there ain't nobody you'd want more to help you if need be."

"...I just don't want to be hurt anymore." Your voice shakes with uncertainty, a bit of your inner self slipping out in a moment of weakness.

"Take it from me, sweets: he'll hurt everyone but you."

"Even you?" He scoffs lightheartedly at your quick retort, and drains the dregs of his can before crushing it flat with both hands.

"I gave as good as I got. You treat him nice, he'll follow you like a dog. Treat him bad, he'll bite ya like one." His beer can crinkles softly as it struggles to return to shape, before tinging off the side of the recycling bucket that sits further along the side of the house as he throws it. “He's honest, I'll give ‘em that.”

What more can you say to that? He's not wrong, at least not from what you've seen of Harley in the short time you've known each other. As you quietly hand Elias his phone back and slowly open the door wider in the process, your heart begs the question…is it really okay to let your guard down now? Part of you desperately wants that to be true, but the other part keeps your hand well in reach of the hatchet you've propped up beside you, just in case you end up being wrong…again.

"There's your man of the hour." Elias' cheeky tone diverts your focus from your own thoughts, your head whipping up to scan the wooded horizon for a sign of him. Unbeknownst to you, his eyes widen slowly as the scene comes into focus, his hands coming down to brace the chair as he gets up from his seat. Now, finally, you spot him and get to your feet to see him better, pushing the door open completely so you can peer out and see the outline of Harley's muscly form drawing closer into the field from far away. Yet something about the way he's staggering is…off.

"Why's he walking backwards?" Your voice doesn't seem to reach the cowboy, his gaze fixated on some point off in the distance past your companion. Without sparing you a glance backwards, he gestures at you with tense shoulders and an order to get the gun, all while you struggle to stay on your feet without putting pressure on your bad ankle.

"Gun? What gun? Elias-"

In the distance, the sound and sight of Harley cursing and stumbling as his body hits the ground causes you both to flinch. And behind him, skulking out of the woods in a predatory march, is a huge, brown bear.

Elias shoves past you in seconds, flying into the house and dashing up the stairs so fast he's almost skating up on all fours, while you duck out the screen door and slip on your way down the steps, coming to a crashing halt on your hands and knees in the grass. Tilting your head up, you spot Harley's huge frame turning over as he scrambles to his feet, and with a booming roar the bear finally breaks out of its tempered walk and into a vicious charge. For someone so tall and bulky, Harley makes quick work of the ground separating him from the safety of the cabin, but not nearly enough with a fully-grown grizzly on his heels–and especially not when he's clutching his shoulder, close enough that your heart seizes at the blood soaking his clothes and dripping off his fists while he sprints. Once his eyes meet Elias', you watch as he grits his teeth and dives into the grass at the last second.

"Down!"

From behind you Elias bellows, a quick glance back giving you the visage of his lean frame and toned arms holding up a shotgun to peer down the sights. With little courage to think otherwise you obey and clap your hands over your head, muffling the crackling boom of the gun firing overhead as your forehead brushes the grass. You're hunched over still with your eyes squeezed shut as two more shots ring out in succession, but with a stinging silence following the third blast you finally peer up and let your hands shakily falter from your ears.

Is it dead? The fuzzy lump of brown fur lays unmoving in the grass, glistening with blood, barely thirty feet away. Close enough that you can smell the forest on it amidst the cloud of gunpowder. But not close enough to measure Harley's state, as he lay facedown in the grass mere inches from the bear–tears prick at your eyes in horrified silence, your mouth left agape behind your fingers even while Elias' hand grips you under the arm and hauls you up to your feet. Whatever he's asking you doesn't even reach you through your shock until he shakes you, his gait forcing you to move with him as the two of you cautiously but swiftly approach the scene.

"Harley?" Your whimpers ring out so clearly in the tense air, your fingers trembling as you reach out to him. It's impossible to tell whether he's even breathing up until the moment he finally, finally lifts his head to look at you.

"Fuck me," He lets out a groan, dazedly pushing himself up off the ground for both you and Elias to grab an arm, somewhat helping to lift him back up on shaky feet and tower over both of you. The blood in his eyes has him squinting and moving to rub it away, but when he's got a clear picture in front of him he moves on instinct–right towards you, his arms sliding around your shoulders to bring you tightly into his warm chest. He's breathing so heavily, panting like a dog out of breath from the run, and yet all his strength pours into squeezing you so hard he's dripping blood all over your borrowed clothes.

"Y'okay?" Elias lets the gun hang at his side, somehow more awkward with it now than he was actually shooting at something, like it's too heavy for him to bear.

"Sure. Mostly." Harley pants above you and presses his palms into your back, hoping to soothe you with some gentle strokes up and down your spine as you let out your crying sobs. Meanwhile Elias steps over to the bear and nudges it with his pointed boot, surveying it from all angles until he's satisfied that it's no longer breathing. "Nice shot."

"Damn right–better than you'll ever be!" Elias smirks with pride, his ego inflating before your very eyes as he turns back to face you two. Harley couldn't care less at the moment, though, his lips brushing the crown of your head as he murmurs reassurances to you, hoping to combat the sniffles and quiet sobbing into his shirt. "Hell! Ain't had bear meat in years–this fella's gonna taste so good!"

Somehow, even though you can feel Harley's hackles raise when he's around, the cowboy's dark humour raises your spirits a bit–it's at least enough to stifle your crying, his joking around killing the tension of the situation as he playfully picks up the bear's limp paw and waves it at you, which you're a bit ashamed to say gives you a giggle through the tears. He squabbles a bit with your companion about dragging it into the shed for him to butcher, but after awhile Harley convinces him to do it outside–by himself–and dispose of the entrails afterwards. Either way he's still off to get the tools to do so, and in the meantime Harley leads you back into the house and offers some newer, cleaner clothes to change into while he gets under a much-needed shower.

It's only a matter of time before you're sitting back on that same couch by the window, listening to the muffled sounds of water hitting the tiles in the room over, and peering out into the yard to see Elias hacking away at the carcass with a saw. Every so often you get a glimpse of him getting splashed in the face with a spurt of blood, or cursing audibly when he gets some on his hat, but soon enough he's carrying off huge chunks of meat back to the shed and picking hairs off his wet sleeves in the interim. Occasionally your ears perk at the sound of humming emanating from the bathroom, and the smell of blood that permeates the dirt and Harley's clothes mingles with the freshness of soap and aftershave.

Elias pops his head in the door and bids you goodbye sooner than you expected, his work rushed along by the gathering of dark, ominous clouds overhead. With a few string-tied paper packages under his arm he wishes you luck, but for what for you don't know. He only flashes you a wink and leaves a package behind before he slips back out the door, his car starting up and rolling down the gravel driveway just before the rain hits and starts pounding the soil and the grass outside.

"Dickhead. That's gonna be a mess to clean up when it stops."

Evidently Elias just barely missed him, because as if he popped up from thin air Harley's suddenly standing in the living room; bare-chested with soaked hair, a towel strung just low enough on his waist that your eyes instantly flick away. Your cheeks grow hot at the sight of that thick, dark smattering of hair trailing down his lower stomach, the image burned into your mind while you try to force those ideas of what he looks like further down out of your head. You finally have to force yourself to meet his eyes, but he's already looking at you once you do and you can only imagine what he's thinking. But, then, his gaze shifts to the paper-wrapped package on the counter and he breathes a soft sigh.

"I'm gonna start dinner soon. Gimme a hand?"

Of course I will. I'd do anything for you. The words beg to be released but you squash them right back down, swallow them back into your throat in a lump while you nod and wobble to your feet to wash up yourself while he gets dressed.

When you come back with clean hands and he's changed into fresh clothes from his wardrobe, there's a chair sitting at the counter across from him and a myriad of utensils and ingredients spread out everywhere. When you sit, he slides a wood-grain cutting board over and delicately hands you a knife, before piling a few damp potatoes in front of you for peeling.

The quietness between you doesn't faze you, really. You're used to people around you needing to break the silence, fearful of letting the air grow stagnant and causing an awkward shuffle for conversation–but this feels normal in some strange way, just like it did this morning. Maybe it's been helped by the time you spent with Elias. Harley ties his hair back and focuses entirely on the food, he strips the meat and trims the fat before tossing it into a pot over the stove, washes the vegetables, chops and drizzles oil in his pan and adjusts the heat without ever feeling like he has to entertain you. It's like watching him go about his business as he would whether you were there or not, which is oddly comforting as you take great pains to peel the skins off the potatoes without missing a single spot.

"Is your shoulder okay?" You finally break the silence not out of necessity, but because there's a lull in activity and you can't help but let your eyes wander towards his injury. It's wrapped at the very least, albeit clumsily. Part of you wishes you'd offered to help him, if only out of the desire to see his naked chest up close as the bandages peek out from beneath his flannel.

"S'fine," He rolls it out, wincing at the sting when the muscle stretches just a touch too taut. "Just grazed me. Nothin' to worry about."

"I am worried, though." You slice off a mushy spot on the potato and let it fall into the pile of abandoned peels. "You were bleeding a lot. What even happened?"

"It just smelled the game I picked up, wasn't like it was hunting me. I dropped it, figured it'd go after it, but it caught me when I tried to get away. Just had to keep it off my back til I got home." You're the last person to have any authority on the outdoors with your habits, but even so, something doesn't seem right with the way Harley explains it all. You can't quite place it at the moment, but his whole explanation just seems…odd.

Just then, as you're lost in thought and the sound of peels shlupping off the blade fills your ears, a wince of pain from your companion catches your attention. There, just beneath the hem of his sleeve, his wrist flexes with the weight of the pot and you spot it: a bright, fleshy patch of swollen skin running down his palm, the tender redness visibly aching with the sting of what could only be a burn. Harley definitely hadn't burned himself before he left this afternoon, nor did it just happen because you certainly would've noticed him yank his hand back if he'd burned it on the stove just now.

“...What about the burn on your hand?"

The thought escapes so quickly you don't have a chance to grab it. Curiosity seems to be your never-ending folly, yet your breath only barely quickens as he turns and looks down at you to answer. As brown and warm they are, as deep as they look, those eyes feel steely in this brief pause of a moment. Harley blinks absentmindedly, perhaps processing what you just said…and he speaks, slowly, softly, as if he were inching towards a deer alone in the depths of the woods.

"I found a campfire someone left burning.” His attention focuses back on the pot, a steady hand stirring the mixture to keep it from scorching. “Probably the same people that lured that bear with their picnic. People don't know how to treat the woods.”

In and out, Harley loosens that sigh and lets it slip into the air between you. It hangs there, swinging heavy like a pendulum, and the urge to keep the rest of your thoughts to yourself wins over all else. Maybe you still don't believe that, but…maybe you're just being a little paranoid.

The cabin wasn't anything special. It's tightly packed into an invisible square; the space of the house is small and dense in the tiny lot that it's allowed, but even that much is too much in these sacred woods. This place is where he found peace growing up, the trees listened to every secret he whispered and kept each one of them to the grave.

Now there's a little shit-shack taking up a spot here, garbage strewn outwards on the driveway and the root-laden lawn like the house itself is radiating filth. There was, at one time, an old lady that lived here alone. Mom–Erika, Elias' mom–used to take him by the hand and walk here to bring her things on occasion, be it pies wrapped in warm foil or casseroles with a dish towel draped over the top to keep the bugs at bay. It hadn't been long after that that they stopped seeing her, so his memory's still foggy, but he can still feel the ache of her knobby fingers pinching his cheek and the croak of her aging voice as she asked him about school and how he was getting on with Elias’ antics.

Seeing the place as it is now after being forgotten for so long, the matches in his pocket suddenly don't seem as heavy as they once felt. It's hard to tell with how the windows are blocked over, but by the absence of sound coming from within and the missing car, the new tenant must be out.

Leaves crinkle underfoot as he slips around the tree from which he's been watching, making short work of the distance from that hill to the door around the back of the cottage. As expected for one who lives out in the sticks, this door's been left unlocked–and in he goes, expecting all manner of frights yet with no idea of what's really awaiting him, the depth of cruelty and twisted fascination that meets his eyes once the hallway gives way to a bedroom. It's so cramped there's barely any room to look around more, the floor littered with papers and garbage that he's careful to step around with his damp boots. At least, even if he leaves footprints, they'll be the first thing to go when he finishes his business here. But more pressing than that are the photos tacked up over a hobbled old desk, the blackened fade of a marker ‘x'ing out all the subjects within…except for one.

It's you.

Every picture, every day, every lens flare and obscurity captured with the fervor of someone so obsessed that anything is better than nothing. Photos of you cluster around every spare inch of that corkboard and extend out to almost the entirety of the whole wall, not to mention the ones that catch overhead as he walks by that hang on clotheslines stretched across the ceiling. They're everywhere. This room–the collection, the garbage, the soiled bed in the corner, the draped-over windows–it reeks of you, and yet there's not a hint of life to suggest you've ever stepped foot here. He was right. But that doesn't stop Harley's fists from shaking with fury, a violent inferno building up within him as he catches glimpses of you in every peripheral. Twisted images of what this freak has been up to boil him into a rage barely quenched, and the vibrating intensity of his blood pounding in his ears only makes way when he finally tunes in to the presence of someone behind him.

"Who the hell are you?!" He's turned in a flash, so fast the man flinches at the reaction. It's him. He wants to know who the hell he is, huh? He wants to know the truth? He looks so confused at the sight of him, and he will stay that way until the end.

Harley mutters under his breath, fists shaking around the axe as he raises it over his head. Those bug-eyes widen in shock, but makes way for a type of fear reserved only for the horror of realizing one has met their own end.

After the bloodbath that ensues, it's all as much as a blur in his mind. A belt buckle catching on roots, a trail of blood, sloshing, the strike of a match in an otherwise empty soundscape…it's like the forest itself extended its tendrils and cast a veil over the villa, blanketing his world in silence as the house goes up in flames.

"Ever eaten bear before?"

Your mind has wandered quite far in the silence that's followed, to the point that the sound of Harley's voice startles you somewhat as you sit there gazing out the window. The potatoes have been peeled and cut, the scraps gathered for feed, and the pot that Harley's stirring is bubbling softly and smells divine.

"No, can't say I have." You smile up at him warmly as he turns to look at you, his gentle question soothing whatever worries remain in your heart. "Is it good? Or…gamey?"

"No, no, you'll like this. Trust me." His enthusiasm at your question is adorable–he gives the pot another stir before lifting the spoon out, and offers you a taste of the broth as a preamble for the bowl. He leans in close, palm cupped under the spoon to catch the mess, and the little mountain of potato chunks, meat, and softened vegetables explode into a firecracker of flavour the moment it all hits your tongue. Sure, the bear is a bit chewier than you're used to, but it's fresh and full of meaty juices that just scream ‘hearty’.

"Good?" Even if it wasn't, which it certainly isn't, you wouldn't have the heart to crack that hopeful look in his eyes. You're beyond glad you don't have to, and that your tongue swiping out to lick your lips is not an exaggeration but a sincere compliment. It's delicious.

"I'm glad." The smile that melts those hard-cut features warms you, but it only reaches his eyes for a moment before it starts to fade. "I don't get to cook for anyone anymore. I'm not great, but…it's one of the few things I like."

"I like your cooking!" You blurt out with some passive indignation, somehow aghast at the very thought of it not being true–the idea that anyone would tell him otherwise just boggles the mind.

Harley hums in response, his prideful smile providing you a look into his heart–all you sense is warmth and kindness, both of which you've craved so deeply you'd started to believe they didn't exist at all. While he switches off the burner, you slide out from your seat to pad around the counter and pick out the plates, eager to set the table as he reaches out to try and catch you–but the stew still needs his focus as it finishes, and you get a kick out of ducking away from him in a laugh as he tries not to let you exert yourself. Your ankle's feeling a great deal better, though, and finally Harley relents once you've started fussing about with the table setting.

Two glasses, two plates, two forks and knives, two pieces of bread and two bowls for the stew. The sight of it all laid out puts you at ease, but why? Is it simply because you're happy not to be alone? Or is it entirely because it's the man you're with that makes it feel so reassuring?

Either way, you need no ushering to take your spot and sit as Harley lifts the pot off the stove, carrying it as one would carry a modest book with his total herculean strength. Once the ladle comes out and he's filled both your bowl and his, you're practically squirming in your seat in anticipation as he takes his place across from you. The day has been tiring, emotionally, physically, and otherwise. This dinner feels like a reward, and who better to share it with than him?

But as you start to eat, and you tear a chunk off the roll that Harley made a couple days ago, the fear starts to creep back in. He's got his spoon practically glued to his mouth, understandably hungry after all he went through today…but can you really accept this as normal? Can you not admit that a few too many things have been off, and that you have questions you're still dying to find the answers to?

You've long considered your inability to settle down an annoyance, an unhealthy habit that prevents you from having fun and just living in the moment. But here, now, in this strange house with this strange man, you could imagine that such a habit might just save your very life.

"Can I ask you a question?" He hums and nods quietly, engaged almost entirely in his meal. If nothing else, you have to appreciate his impartial appetite. You dip your spoon in your bowl, careful not to take a bigger bite than necessary before you ask it…after all, it could blow up in your face for real this time.

"Elias, he…talked to me about you. He said you were trustworthy, and honest, even though you can come off…elsewise." Finally Harley raises an eyebrow, but his spoon pauses only briefly before he keeps eating, eyes trained completely on you. "I know you said he's annoying, but…why don't you get along with him? Really?"

You pick your words so carefully, yet Harley stares back at you like he's listening to an alien speak. It's unsettling, the way he just stops like he's frozen in place and picks you apart with nothing but a pallid gaze.

"Those are some big words." He eventually states plainly, and downs another heaping spoonful of his dinner. He seems to have picked the biggest chunk of meat he could find just so he could chew it for an eternity while he comes up with a better answer. Now his eyes don't meet yours the whole time he does, pointed down towards the spot behind his bowl like he's thinking the hardest he ever has.

"He's just selfish." He mutters after finally swallowing.

"...That's it?"

"He only talks to people if he thinks he can get something outta them. He'd rather take things from other people than get them himself."

"Were you ever in love?" The sigh he lets out, the fingers he runs through his hair, it strickens you with a moment of panic. That's a question that could certainly cross the line–but he clearly isn't as upset as you feared as he shrugs and sips another spoonful of the broth.

"...I don't know anymore. When I was a kid? Sure, I probably thought so. But…" His brown eyes pan up to you, and for the first time he fumbles with his next thought before he can get it out. "...I think I know better now."

You flush, and quietly sip down your own spoonful of broth. The meaty taste hangs heavy on your tongue, but it shifts into a sweeter sensation as it warms your throat on the way down.

"What about you?" He lifts his glass to his lips, his tone somewhat lighter like the weight of those thoughts have finally lifted off his mind. "You ever been in love?"

"No." Your tone flattens the whimsy of the conversation in an instant. Guilt starts to filter in at the realization, knowing he just poured his heart out to you…and then you start to fumble. "I mean…I-I'd like to be. But I just haven't felt that feeling yet, I don't even know what it feels like."

What sounds like a hum emanates from your partner, his next bite filling the silence as he chews thoughtfully.

"To me, it feels like home.” The tender, sweet tone he suddenly takes on oozes a sense of nostalgia, and without meaning to you're suddenly staring him down, rapt with attention as you hang quietly off his every word. “It feels like…knowing there's someone waiting for me, that they're missing me when I'm gone. That I have someone to come home to who helps me forget that the rest of the world exists."

Someone waiting for me. Someone that misses me when I leave. Someone who never wants me to go in the first place.

"Do I make you feel that way?"

It flies out of your mouth before you can pull the thought back, your hands left empty and cold as your heart slows to a sudden stop. Even Harley himself looks taken aback by your bluntness, silent and staring you down with his spoon poised just over his bowl.

That silence is deafening. This is the moment you were dreading. This is what you've wrought after all this paranoia: you've completely and totally made an absolute fool of yourself.

"...I-I have to use the bathroom."

Your ankle barely twinges with the pain you've adjusted to as you catapult yourself out of your chair, the legs squeaking as they scrape the ground followed by the loud, harsh thud of the bathroom door slamming shut behind you. It barely felt like you moved at all, yet the panic ensured that the shock in his expression burns itself into your mind permanently.

What an idiot. What a foolish, stupid, invasive thing to ask, what an absolute mess you've made of all of this. If Harley really felt that way, would he have just said it out loud? He seems to let go of all his thoughts with refreshing bluntness, so you can only imagine that this whole time it's been a farce. All those gestures you considered affectionate, all those kind words, those reassurances, that hug and the bed you shared–they were either the expressions of an overly affectionate friend or a person that's retained only surface-level feelings for you. Not love. How could it possibly be love? You've barely known each other a day!

It's stupid. It's just…it's all so stupid. This is the first time in these last couple days that you actually want to go home–you just want to leave this all, forget about Harley and all your messy feelings, and go back to the hell that you know because at least it'll be familiar.

It takes a long, long time for you to finally creak open the bathroom door, having agonized on whether to return to the table like nothing happened or just make a break straight for the front door. When you come back to the kitchen, your eyes flit towards the table to see it's been completely cleared away. Harley's rinsing a bowl in the sink and drying his hands on the towel, his back to you as you approach with no clue how to resume the conversation, or how to break the palpable tension at all.

But when he turns to face you, he shows no sign of even remote surprise at your return. His brown eyes pierce right through you, body and all–and before you can get a word out, he's suddenly coming closer and silences you with a kiss that completely takes your breath away. Heavy hands braced on your waist, he leans into the pressure of his mouth on yours to pin you right up against the counter, his palm snaking up the small of your back to hold you completely in place, completely pressed up against him.

What the hell? Are the first words that come to mind, but saying them would give off the reaction that's opposite to what you intend. Harley's warm. He's warm and he's right up against you, holding you, sinking his whole heart into this kiss as if he fears it may be his one and only. Your body melts against his force regardless of your anxiety, but that too seems to wane in the face of lips so soft and breath so hot it prickles your skin when he finally breaks it off. Harley's panting fills your whole space while his grip reasserts itself–he brings one hand up to cup your cheek, his rough thumb rubbing your smooth skin as he stands there and just takes you in.

"You do make me feel that way. You have since the first second I laid eyes on you." That gruff, callous indifference that you've seen in him on occasion has completely evaporated here. All that remains in his eyes is devotion, pure and sweet as milk.

"Harley-" His lips meet yours again, pressing you so firmly into another kiss you feel your head tilting back to accept it–Harley kisses you like he's dying for more and it's exactly what you wanted. This is what you wanted since the moment he laid his gentle hands on you, and you couldn't even put your finger on it because you were so scared of getting hurt.

"I didn't want you to leave–I don't want you to leave. I kept asking, I…I was afraid you'd say no." He murmurs in between kisses, groping at your body to keep you close despite you not making any move to go anywhere.

"I want to stay with you, Harley." You whisper back against his lips, which somehow seems to be the thing that stops him in his tracks and sobers him into speaking eye-to-eye.

"If you stay with me," He breathes out. "I will never let you go. You hear me? I won't let anyone steal you away from me, and I'll do whatever I need to do to protect you. You need to be sure." His hand brushes by your cheek to stroke your hair, needily touching you regardless of how fresh this development seems to be. He doesn't know how much you've been needing him back, though.

“I am.” You hush in reply, your voice sure and smooth as springwater. “I've never been more sure of anything.”

“I'm serious.” He murmurs as he holds your face with both of those massive, calloused hands. “I won't let you go. I won't forget about you. I will make you mine.” Those words are meant as a warning, but all you hear are the reassurances you've wanted for so, so long. Love, protection…and if it comes to pass, obsession. It's the wrong thing to ask for, you know it is. But the closeness and the care he's shown you, and wants to show you, are more than you could ever think to ask for.

You press your answer into his lips as firmly as you can. What melts you even more isn't that he accepts, nor does it so readily as he exchanges the lock of your mouths with twice as much fervor. It's that he breaks the kiss quicker than he wanted to with a grunt, and peels himself off of you like you've suddenly grown too cold to bear.

“Shit.” He glances around, avoiding your gaze until he's of the mind to draw back from you almost completely, face hot with guilt as his body reacts to your closeness. What he means soon becomes more obvious since he's put some distance between you–you can't help your eyes wandering downwards, and suck in a breath through your teeth in shock at his…enthusiastic reaction to your acceptance of his love. “I'm sorry.”

Harley's fingertips brush down your arms, still not quite able to break himself off from your touch entirely. He's got a look about him that says something more, the quick flit of his glances at you and the cautious hesitance of his flesh grazing yours hinting towards his own shyness. Maybe it's in this moment of exposure that he's able to push that wall down that he's been hiding behind, his true feelings coming to light after sheltering them for so long. Just as he's making a hurried excuse to nip into the bathroom for a moment, you put him on pause with your warm palms pressed to his firm chest.

“Stay.”

“What?” His expression cringes with incredulity. Did you really just say that? is written all over it.

“Stay, please.” You repeat yourself, your fingers curling inward to drag your nails lightly over his tough flannel. His arousal commands attention you're not quite sure you're confident enough to tend to, but you can't let it squander now. As meek as you are about it you gently place a kiss on his chin, and allow your hips to drift indiscriminately forward until they bump against his. At once he gasps through his gritted teeth, and though he grabs you in a tight hold as if to stop you, he doesn't make an effort to move you away as your clothes catch on his tented fly. Every movement seems to stir him further, a benign hug like the allure of a siren when he's this stiff and pent up for you.

“You know what you're asking?” His breathing labours the instant you press yourself up against him. He's just barely, barely holding himself back, keeping his composure together by nothing but a thin thread. “I don't own condoms or nothin’.”

“I guess we have to get used to it.” Your answer feels so innocent, yet so decadent in Harley's current state, that he offers you only a flash of lust across his gaze before he's hauling you up over his shoulder like a sack of flour. Across the living room, up the stairs, down the hall–the air peppered with a yelp and sudden laughter from you and grunts out of him as he rushes to his bedroom like a firefighter carrying you to safety. With a careful toss he's slung you down over the bed minus any potential strain on your part, and with the door kicked closed and a heady desire in his eyes he starts stripping layer after layer off of you like he can't wait a moment longer to see you in all your glory. You'd almost forgotten his injury until he stripped his own shirt off, his shoulder soaking the gauze with blood from his effort but not enough to bother him into stopping.

“Should we be doing this?” Your voice strains in a whisper as you watch him struggling to undo his jeans.

“I don't know.” He pants softly, pausing to press a heated kiss to your mouth before he returns to the task at hand. “I don't want you to regret it. But I really…like you.” He swallows that answer like a pill. It confuses him even more to hear you giggle, though.

“No, I meant–your shoulder, you're okay, right?”

Harley's whole face flushes as he realizes what you meant, and that his awkward yet tenderly sincere answer wasn't at all something he needed to say out loud. But though he coughs and shamefully mumbles out that he's fine, you can sense the ease that settles in the droop of his shoulders when you sit up and take the place of his fumbling hands with your own. In seconds you've got his button open, and with another kiss to the corner of his lips you delight in the shudders down his spine as you slowly drag his zipper down over his bulge.

“Hey, big guy.” You tease with a gleeful smile. Your eyes roam unashamedly the moment he's got his underwear tugged down.

“Shut up.” He huffs, embarrassed but somewhat proud at the way you stare so openly and in awe. Elias always had plenty to say about his body, but he was a sweet-talker. Your words are the only ones he really believes, which makes it all the more obvious how he's trying to appeal to you more as you start exploring him with your fingers, tracing your nails down his waist towards where it really counts.

“Harley?”

“Yeah?”

“Can we…” Your touch halts at the precipice, just barely within a hair's length of taking this to the next level. Forced to swallow at the realization that his endowment could prove an obstacle, you find yourself more humble about all those other things you're used to fretting about…they don't seem as pressing and scary when you're with him. “Can we…take it slow? I don't, uh…I don't really know what I'm doing.” You admit it guiltily, but Harley sighs a breath of apparent relief and settles in a bit more comfortably once you say it.

“It's okay.” He smoothes a hand over your neck, brushing the stray hairs away to pull you in for a warm kiss. “Yeah, I'm fine with that. It's been awhile for me, too.” The sound of him clearing his throat fills the thick air in the room. No matter where he is, it always seems like he's far away but so close he could be inside you at the same time. Despite trying to stay composed, Harley's eyes wander in the quiet moments that linger behind, and his shyness turns to intrigue and confidence the more he sweeps his gaze over your nude figure perched on his bed.

“...You look even better naked.”

“Are you sure?” The question comes out teasing and playful even though, at the heart of it, you're really serious about asking it.

“I'm sure.” Harley's breath hitches as you move, your nervous shifting to get comfortable causing a ripple effect through his body; a feast for his eyes at the new angles and a sight that makes him twitch in excitement down below. “Really fucking good. Your skin's like…velvet.” His voice reduces to a growl as he lets his hand roam, his fingers ghosting up your inner thigh until he settles his palm flush with your skin and starts rubbing the sensitive area with a possessiveness you've seldom experienced. “...Maybe I'll finally start buyin’ condoms after this.”

As much as you'd like to fire off some cheeky reply to that, there's not much willpower you can draw on when such a massive, hot-blooded man is squeezing your inner thigh and leaning in with the intention to please. He holds your gaze to ensure you're watching, and raises his hand up to his mouth while not breaking eye contact. He gently pushes his fingers past his lips, his soft tongue catching glimpses of the light as he coats them in spit, before reaching down quickly and hurrying to nudge them between your thighs. Whatever resistance you might consider is moot and futile. Why would you resist? Harley's gotten the full picture of you from end to end, hair to hide, and he…likes you. You heard as much from his own mouth.

Emboldened by his bravery, you scooch back just an inch to get a better picture of what he's attempting. His fingers hover lightly, itching to move in while still slick, and eager despite Harley swallowing around the lump in his throat as he mentally prepares for what's next. The spastic heaving of his breath is what leads you to bury your face in his neck and slowly guide his hand to slide his knuckles down your folds.

“Fuck.” The timing of his moan is almost comical. He wasn't expecting you to be that wet, surely, nor for your hips to jump when he manages to brush the tips of his fingers against the soaked edges of your entrance. Your body wants him so badly it's practically opening up for him–and despite the way you hide and cling to him in shame, he can't help chuckling lowly as he slowly spreads you open on his fingers. You can't hide the trembling shift of your thighs, or the squeezes of desperation as your walls welcome the long-awaited visitor. “Kiss me.”

It's a trap. The moment you lift your head, Harley's lips come down on you hard enough to knock you down; you go from sitting up to laid out on your back in moments, his knee sliding over your leg to drag it open further as he slips his fingers in deeper, past every knuckle until he hits that sweet spot that has you crying out into his mouth. This way you can't hide, can't smother your noises, and can't even whine about it–Harley flops down next to you with a satisfied, almost cocky grin while you wriggle and squirm on the edge of your seat.

“You're cute.” His voice is like a purr in your ear. Accompanied by the increasingly wet squelching of his fingers buried deep within you, it's hard not to feel like your whole world is nothing but Harley when he's showering you in attention you felt like you could never earn. He nuzzles his nose into your neck and pecks you lightly with a kiss that quickly turns more possessive–his teeth make an appearance at your tender skin, and though you anticipate a bite, he only scratches you lightly on the ends before tenderly sinking in. The deep, hard suck that follows accompanies a firm thrust of his fingers deeper inside, each one working in tandem to pull you apart and press you back together like warm, sweet strings of caramel.

“Ha-Harley,” You whimper out amongst the slick sounds of desperate pleasure, your stomach twisting up and tightening with your abdomen as Harley lays into you with his hands. His hard cock has been bobbing along your thigh as he fingers you, sliding dryly against your skin yet beading at the tip with need. He's grown swollen and stiff as bricks, but the moment you reach down to touch him you're stopped–his free arm slides under your neck as a cushion and he grabs your wrist before it moves, his stare hard and piercing despite the dark tinge to his cheeks.

“Not about me right now.” He mutters against your skin and presses his lips just below your ear, just above the spot he's made a distinct mark. “Just focus on this.”

“But I-” You cut yourself off with a squeal as Harley curls his fingers inward and hooks them against some deep, rough spot inside you that you've never realized was there. His tongue peeks out to flick at the bruise on your neck, lightly massaging the wound he made in the hopes that it'll soothe your nerves, and allow you to focus on the pleasure that's racing through your veins from top to bottom. “Ah-!”

The slick sounds ring in your ears–shuk shuk shuk shuk–as he takes you apart in every measured thrust of his fingers, his dark eyes locked on the curve of your throat as your head tilts back in ecstasy. When your eyes squeeze shut to focus on gripping the sheets and whatever else is in reach, Harley's skin grazes yours in a heated descent as he kisses his way down your body, trailing each one down your belly until his shoulders are settled between your sticky thighs. He turns his hand slowly to swirl the pads of his fingers inside you, and once he's there and staring up at you through hooded eyes he leans down and laps a slow, soft stroke of his tongue through your folds. The sudden jerk of your hips doesn't dissuade him, the reaction just makes him laugh in a deep, lusty tone as he focuses the tip on circling round your clit while his other hand presses your thigh down on the bedspread.

“Harley! Harley, Harley–H-Harley, ah-!” Your cries pierce the air but don't have any urgency aside from pleasure, no warning aside from wanting the sensations to continue even if you can't bear to look down at what he's doing. Harley's tongue lazily smothers your hot button in spit, his pink muscle a brush and your body a blank canvas. Each swirl of your hips as you mindlessly grind back into him feels traitorous, sinful against the sweetness you've tried to show him, and yet Harley acts as though you're just as innocent and beautiful as the moment he started touching you. It feels wrong to be taking pleasure from him in this way and to have all his attention focused on you, but Harley couldn't look more pleased when you finally peer down at him through the spaces between your shaky fingers.

“Hi.”

He interrupts the slick silence, as the bedroom is filled with nothing but panting and the wet shlups of him fingering you into oblivion. For once, he's got an almost cheeky grin on his face that's plastered with the wet sheen of your arousal down his chin. The hand that had been keeping your thighs apart reaches over your body to clutch at your elbow, but you quiver and close your fingers over your face again before he can try to pull them away.

“Look at me. Look.” His reassuring tone eases you into peeking out again, only to whine when you feel his thick fingers slide out and watching his lips purse as he messily sucks your taste off of them. You want to hide again…but you just can't stop watching. “That's my girl.” He murmurs, and slides those same fingers up the crest of your mound to rub more pressure into your now very swollen, very needy clit. “You gonna cum?” His whisper as he kisses your thigh has you upright in a jolt, your hands flying down from your face to grip the locks of his long, dark hair.

“Uh huh..” Harley's eyelids flutter into a lower, lustful gaze at how sweetly you whimper at him. His kisses trail inward until he reaches those soft lips again, and without another word to keep his mouth at bay he seals it over your entrance and starts to suck. That devious tongue of his wriggles like a coiled tentacle inside you, completely damning you in that weak moment as your hips start jutting and humping off the bed fully while you lose your composure in hot, wild abandon. Whatever foreplay had come before this was cinema–this is pure lovemaking, Harley's grunting like that of a beast as he eats you alive, and your body wasting its clamped tensity as you just let the moment finally take you over. His fingers dig into your waist to keep you down while you shake with want. The only moments where he lets up are to drag his tongue through your folds and push it back against your clit again, to purse his lips around it like a soft candy and suck until his mouth turns flush. That's where you eventually meet your end, your walls clamping down on nothing but air as he holds you tight and drags your orgasm out of you with a nibble of his teeth and a hard, suckling dance of his tongue until you've shaken yourself into a limp, hazy stupor against the pillows.

The next moment he draws you to his presence is when he's already kissed you. His arms flex minutely as he presses his hands to the bed, he hovers over you like a mountainous wall of muscle and scars while his tongue presses soft and wet against your lips. They're moist and cool, sticky from the air against his slick-stained skin and the sweat that drips down his back.

“I left bruises,” He pants. “Hope that's okay.”

“It's fine,” You whisper in a hushed voice, hoarse from the moans of his name that you're glad nobody would be able to hear. There's nobody else for miles. Where it once would've made you scared, now it does nothing less than comfort you.

“I love you.”

“I…love you too.” Chu. He kisses you again. A little harder this time.

“I'm glad.” Harley sits back on his haunches and waits, his hands lingering on your hips and over the bruises he left from grabbing you. He still hasn't wiped his chin, but it looks like he doesn't really intend to. It takes a while for you to manage the strength to sit up, but when you do, he's there to brace you and pull you up by your elbows to come chest to chest.

“Harley…I wanna do more.” You watch his throat bob as he swallows and his tongue flicks out to run across his bottom lip. He knows what you mean, thank god.

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

“Say it again,” He breathes hotly against your lips, just barely brushing them with his own. “Say that you love me, and you want me inside you.” You shudder in response, his choice of words stirring something up inside you that you're still shy about giving up.

“...Please. I love you, Harley.” You close the gap with a gentle kiss and slide your arms up under his, the soft peaks of your chest squeezing up against him in a way that makes his breath hitch. “I want you to feel good. I wanna be the one to make you feel good.” The words come out so easily here. Somehow they don't even make you blush. But they certainly draw a rush of blood into Harley's face, who can't tear his eyes off you as he lays you back down to loom over you like he did before. Breathless, sweaty, tongue heavy in his mouth, and his eyes absolutely glazed with a combination of lust and love so thick they're indistinguishable from one another.

"Okay," Already panting softly in anticipation, he grabs hold of one of the pillows by your head and taps you on the hip to lift them up and off the bed. Once he's slid it beneath your butt, he moves you with those rough hands to flip over so you're laid on your belly, the pillow propping up your hips while he climbs over your legs and sits back on his knees to survey the sight before him. Your inner thighs glisten with slick that begs to be licked off, yet you can feel it in the rough way he grabs both cheeks in his hands that as much as he wants to, he's got what you asked for on the mind instead.

Harley's chest meets your back inch by inch as he lays himself down flat on top of you, bending over further and further until his warmth encroaches on your delicate skin and you jerk at the feeling of his weight settling on top of you. His strong arms perch at both sides of your head and a gentle kiss behind your ear is enough to soothe you that he's not going to crush you. His cockhead teases your opening, smearing precum and slick up and along your folds as he tests the resistance of your body against his frightening size.

“Are you scared?” His voice rumbles deeply through your back. Despite the slow shake of your head you're trembling like a leaf beneath him. A hand slides up your belly to cup your breast, soft and jiggly in his palm while he continues the trail of kisses down the side of your neck. “I won't hurt you. I swear.” He grazes the swollen, rubbery tip further through your folds, just barely prodding you and lubing himself up by grinding his length up and down, up and down again. He's really trying not to make it sting.

“I love you, Harley.” Your hips push back to meet him, urging him closer and hurrying his hesitation.

“I know, peaches.” He hums back, the nickname slipping out by accident in the heat of him starting to press into you, finally. “I know. I love you too.”

Then comes the stretch. The sting. The breath is squeezed out of your lungs the further he pushes, that rigid heat pulsing and scalding your every inch of tender flesh as he sinks so, so endlessly deep. Harley's hair slips down his shoulders and tickles your skin as his head hangs down over you, his stomach straining against your lower back to keep himself upright as he sinks into pure, heavenly bliss. No amount of preparation could've ensured a seamless entry with his breathtaking size, but the thickness of his fingers and the heft of his tongue were certainly worthy preludes to the goliath that Harley's managed to fit so impossibly snug inside you. He can barely keep himself present, his mind begging for him to float away on urges and primal instincts as his cock flexes inside you with need. The shakiness of his breaths against your ear make you think he's desperately trying not to cum–so do the ripples of the sheets beneath you as his fingernails dig roughly into them, his spare hand gripping your chest to the point of bruising. At the end of this all your body will be littered with Harley's possessive marks, and in some great way you feel that's how it's meant to be. It's what you really want.

Harley's position shifts up your back with a sudden jerk forward. The pressure squashes you flat against the sheets and leaves only your hips propped up by the pillow, yet it too strains under Harley's immense strength as he starts to spread you open with deep, slow thrusts. His heart, as steady and healthy as it is, beats like a rabbit's against your spine with the frenzy of lust. Shluk. Shluk. Shluk. Your body speaks for you in the sound it makes with every deep, intimate kiss he presses to your walls deep within. He fumbles with your chest with comparative meekness, his callused fingers sliding and pressing across the sweet flesh before coming to your nipple. He pinches it a bit hard with a thrust stealing his steadiness away, but at your wounded squeak he circles it with his thumb and apologizes with kisses up the side of your cheek. On top of you he resembles more a weighted blanket than a man, he covers you so entirely that he could nearly smother you.

"I like you like this." He murmurs into your ear.

"L-Like how? From beh–nnh–behind?"

"Yeah," He groans against your skin and sends a shudder down your back, another kiss lowered and pressed back to your shoulder. "But not what I was gonna say. Mnh.” His voice resonates through your bones like a lascivious vibrato. “...So fuckin’ wet.”

As he rumbles, your thighs press flat into the sheets with his weight and your skin smears with a growing puddle in the sheets–your arousal and his precum mix to trail down your legs like the puddle you feel your heart melting into. Harley's love and tenderness in his touch makes you want to throw your head back and scream as if you don't deserve it. But instead, you just feel tears coming on as all those feelings come to a head.

"Too rough?" He pants above you, breathlessly spotting kisses across the sweat-soaked skin of your neck. “Hey.” He brushes the base of your neck in a soothing sweep, his thumb coming down to rub circles into the taut skin as he listens for your little voice in the thick haze.

“No…no, s-so–so good,” Your moan echoes off his bedroom walls, barely able to reach his ears in the heat that's taken over the two of you. You're messing with a stranger, having unprotected, premarital sex–you would think this would be a moment you'd straighten up and be a good girl, but alas. You've been taken in by a wild man living on the outskirts of society, whose grin curves up against your skin as he humps his hips forward, hard.

“Gettin’ what you want,” He grunts, his thrusts papping wetly against you as skin meets skin, his body completely attuned to yours in the moment. It's like he's not another person anymore, but rather an extension of you…an extension of your pleasure as he draws it out with every movement he makes. “Makin’ me feel like–fuck,” With a gasp he shudders to a quick halt. The weight lifts off your body as he sits up and back on his haunches, his warmth still buried snugly inside you where he belongs, but he ghosts a rough hand down your spine before it comes to rest on the middle of your back. With that steadiness in place, he can keep thrusting with swift, bracing snaps of his hips and a cry of how good it feels to be inside you.

It's completely mesmerizing. There's no end to where he stops and you begin; your bodies move in erratic rhythm like dancers, sweaty and wet with arousal for each other that you can't quite place any one source on. It feels like he loves you with every ounce of his soul, and for him? Well, Harley just can't get enough of every sound and smell and taste of you, his promise to take things slow only broken once you start throwing yourself back on him with pleas for him to take you with everything he's got. You've turned into a needy thing, once innocent and anxious while now you're ready to demand what you want. And Harley can't get enough of that bossy brattiness, cause at his core, he knows it's out of knowing you can rely on him to give you everything you want. Because to you, he's enough.

What isn't enough is a measly few minutes of lovemaking. No, he isn't that type of guy–you can tell once he brings his heel up on the bed, and uses the new leverage to pound you down like dough into the bed you're melting into. Your shrieks of his name have broken past the cutesy barrier you put up; they're guttural and hoarse, your every syllable putting an even more dopey smile on his lips as he listens to you give in to your desires like an animal in heat.

"...Feel like a virgin again," He whispers to himself, breath heavy in his throat as he slides his knee down to dig into the bed next to you. In the next moment he pulls out suddenly, grips your hip in a tight fistful, and throws you over on your back just to climb over you again–this time with those brown eyes hazy and cheeks flushed as he looks down on you, palms pressed to your thighs to keep them open as he sinks back inside slowly. Your calves hang over his massive thighs as he spreads you open, the pillow under your hips helping you to arch off the bed with a squeal as he stretches you back out to let himself in again.

"Needed to see you," He moans, sweat trickling down his collarbone and sticking to your chest as he lowers himself to get closer to you. He just can't get close enough, not for his tastes. "See how fuckin' pretty you are. Gonna get me there with that dumb look on your face."

The slick, loud slaps of his bucking hips thicken the air between you, where it's already hung heavy before. On both elbows by your head he lowers himself down to meet you, and at your arms coming round his middle to scratch your nails down his back he chuckles and groans, lowering himself more until his stomach presses against yours. At your beckoning, his waist barely slides an inch from yours as he slams himself deeper, deeper, deeper still until you can't squirm any further off his shaft. The thick hairs that decorate the base grow slick and matted down as they meet your heady arousal, and the way they scrape against your clit has you spasming with an oncoming orgasm once again. Harley makes a mental note of that, his smirk as hot and seducing as ever as he pins your lips in another kiss.

“H-Harley, I-” You gasp out between his teeth.

“I know.” He grunts. “Feel it. Squeezin’ on me so tight. M'gonna give it to you–fuck–gonna give it to you, peaches.” The growl in his throat resonates through his whole body and straight into yours. The ripple effect has you straining, squirming, your body like heat and ice swirling together to make an absolute storm of ecstasy. It's peaking now, getting closer, hotter, his groans rising and growing more intense as he chokes out that he loves you-

Harley traps you in a tight squeeze as he meets his end along with you, his arms hugged tight around your throat like a chokehold while both your hips grind and fight for one another. He can barely keep his eyes in his head as they roll back ecstatically, but it's not as if you're any better–your wiggling and squirming doesn't cease until the very end, when the heat has finally started edging off into bliss and your orgasm fades into softened spots in your vision. When the two of you finally slump into each other in exhaustion, Harley's weight finally sinks in as lays atop you with heaving breaths.

The quiet that follows, however peppered with the laborious heaving of your chests, beckons you towards sleep. But you can't quite allow yourself to go there yet; there's a nagging sense in the back of your head as you lie still, unsure of where or how to move in the aftermath of such a union. Part of you wants to feign sleep for some reason, as if from some long-instilled instinct to protect your body from the man on top of you. You don't want to think of Harley that way, though. He does end up sliding off you before you can move, however…and when he shuffles towards the bathroom, you feel a whine erupting from your throat that you can't control. He mumbles something from the other room and there's water running for a minute, but you don't hear a word until he meanders back with a softness in his brown eyes.

“Shh, sh..” Harley murmurs to soothe your shaky whimpering as he returns with a towel in hand, his heat bleeding through the damp cloth as he presses it warmly to your skin. “I'm here. I'm right here.”

For the next several minutes, your partner freshens up all the spots that beg the most attention. He wipes your face clean of sweat first, up to your hairline, before moving down along your limbs and your chest to dab at the sore areas and the messes he left behind. He leaves to get a whole new cloth to towel between your legs, the warmth of the damp fabric softening the sting that's settled in after he went on a sensual rampage through your body. Once he's finished with a hail of kisses to soothe those aches he caused, he sits you on the toilet to let you go, your usual embarrassment somehow evaporated as he stands naked at the sink and splashes water on his face while you do so.

The sight of those fresh scratches down his back send a shiver of guilt through you. They're raw, red and puffy, some having left thin trails of blood from where you'd dug in and broken skin. Seeing them littered over the myriad of deep, old scars that riddle a violent past make you feel a sense of shame–but Harley only finds himself content and relaxed as he helps you up, refusing to let your bandaged ankle nor his wounded shoulder prevent him from sweeping you off your feet. He carries you the few feet back to the bed, and once you're laid down atop it, he crawls in beside you and throws the covers over your body with a promise to wash them tomorrow.

“I can wash them…” Your soft murmur is the first you've spoken since you'd finished making love. Harley chuckles lowly, and turns to lay on his back. He ushers you closer with an arm round your shoulders, and eases you in to lay your head on his naked chest and hear his slow-beating heart.

“You're not walkin’ tomorrow. Hate to break it to you.” You huff softly at him, but it comes out more like a soft sigh of air as you settle in tiredly for some rest. Maybe he's right. You certainly know these aches won't be going away by tomorrow, at the least. They might persist for days at that.

“I can try.”

“You can sleep.” He shifts a bit to get comfortable, his hand bracing your head before he starts threading his fingers through your hair. “Plenty else to do when you're better.”

“I don't want to be a burden, Harley.”

“Shut up.” He whispers softly, his words holding no edge as he leans down and kisses the top of your head. “You'll never be a burden.”

Those words, as tough as they come out, lilt you into sleepiness as your final walls break down. With nothing more to say, nothing to speak in a rebuttal to that honest and heartfelt claim, you silently snuggle into Harley's side and let your thoughts drift as he strokes you into slumber. His hand in your hair leaves a warmth down your back as he holds you, quietly urging you to rest as you feel the tension of your day slowly melt into nothingness.

Halfway through the night, you felt a shift of something growing unsettled beneath you. Still half-asleep, you remember only mumbling something incoherent as you felt the warm body slide out from underneath you. Harley had patted your head and whispered for you to go back to sleep, and before you could see where he'd gone you'd fallen right back into slumber, just as he'd asked.

You were awoken for the second time by a clacking thunk. Shooting up in bed, your head swivels from one end of the room to the other to search for what you fear might be an intruder–but as your eyes pass over the window, you soon heave a sigh and rub the bridge of your nose in some relief. The hardwood chills the soles of your feet as they hit the floor softly, and you shuffle over to the sill to grab the edge and pull it down to close with a grinding squeal of old wood. You can imagine that was Harley's doing, likely cracking the window open to let in a cool breeze and air out some of the humidity–though just like the night prior, you scowl at the sight of those same tree branches clacking against the window pane. Far be it from you to ask more of your partner, but maybe it would be in your best interest to take him up on that offer to clip the branches, if only to let you sleep throughout the night.

As you meander back towards the bed, it's then that you realize Harley still hasn't come back. His side is empty and cold, and from your recall it's been quite a while since he'd roused himself, and you by extension. Probably more than an hour, at least. With a curiosity that's likely better off going unsatisfied, you dig in his closet for something to cover with–a loose, holey t-shirt that hangs around your knees is good enough–and quietly pad through the hall and down each step, your ankle proving almost no problem at all by this point. Without any lights on and only the gleam of the moon through the windows, you wander to the first floor until you tune in to the sound of a distant thud. With each one that follows, you head towards the sound and find yourself crossing the grass in the dark, the light of the shed just outside the farmhouse glowing under the closed door. Cool dew wets your toes as you move silently, your curiosity growing at a steady pace as you hear a muffled clang and the sounds of metal hitting wood.

The moment your hand touches the loose door, and you call out Harley’s name as it opens…you know the gravity of that horrible, tremendously unthinkable mistake you made.

Crunch.

A glimpse of Harley turning his head, a step, and he's crushed something beneath his boot. Your gaze falls to the hard-packed dirt floor, and shinking beneath his sole are shards of glass. Amongst them are bent, wiry silver frames; a pair of glasses. Ones you would recognize had he not stepped on them in his instinct to call out to you, to prevent you from seeing what lay within his shed that he's tried to dispose of all day.

As your gaze trails upwards, you have to take in every stomach-churning detail of this awful scene. The first thing that registers in your vision is the blood; it's all over the walls and soaking the wooden table, the sight of it dripping off the edges being what clues you in to realize that the dirt below is swimming in it. Harley’s hair is tied up but he's got blood in it too, he's drenched in blood from the top of his collar all the way down to splatters on his boots. In his hand is a saw, one of those thin ones you've seen in butcher’s shops. On the table, lying out like the bear meat that had been cut there just hours before, is a limb. A leg, it looks like. Missing its shoe, but a leg from the thigh down all the same. There's a deep trough by the end of the table–one you recognize as the trough for feeding the pigs–but by the stench of blood and rot you can't bring yourself to peer into them. You're already feeling woozy from the humid reek of death in the air.

The coat that's lying in a heap under the table is what truly confirms the horror for you. You recognize it, even though it's no longer white–just like Harley's jeans and his bare chest, it's been stained a deep scarlet with blood. There's no doubt whose scattered parts these once belonged to. It all makes sense now why Harley was so patient, yet acted like there was something to hide.

It's when the realization hits that you finally work up the courage to meet his eyes. Harley–the reassuring, handsomely stubborn man that you admitted you love, stands with his brown eyes wide and his expression blank. He looks like a deer caught in headlights; not stoic nor angry, but just simply taken by surprise. His grip hasn't tightened on the saw, but it hasn't loosened, either. You've caught him red-handed. The silence is impenetrable.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Maybe he wants to say something. Blood dripping off the table and splashing into a puddle on the ground is the only sound that hits your ears amongst the silence. Harley stares, and stares hard, his lungs completely devoid of breath as you both hold the moment and wonder what to do. What to say. But what can be said? How can you reason out this shocking, horrific scene from a man you just laid with not hours ago? The man who loves you?

“I'll do whatever I need to do to protect you.”

The promise he made before stews in your mind like you're hearing it again for the first time. The blood, the parts of your former stalker's body strewn about, the look in Harley's eyes as he grips the saw…the breath suddenly sucks itself back into your body like you were seconds away from suffocating. You breathe in the fetid air that, by all rights should make you squeamish, but somehow…it doesn't. Not anymore.

"....Pig feed?" You query, a delicate finger pointed towards the trough piled with unmentionable chunks of flesh. With barely a breath in-between, Harley nods while never breaking his stare from you. Your hand brushes the doorway once again, eyes fixated on the saw with your nails scraping down the wood lightly, until your gaze eventually flickers back to meet Harley's. With your lips pursed tight, you offer him a nod and push off the wall to quit leaning against it.

"Okay…come back to bed, when you're done?"

Each blink from him signals an eternity in each of your minds, his grip so tight on the tool his knuckles are paling beneath the splatters of blood coating them. Harley nods back, his low voice just barely above a whisper.

"Okay." He sounds unsure of himself, but it disappears as he tries again. Much more confident the second time around. "Yeah. I'll be quick."

"Good." A smile slowly crawls across your soft lips, the sight of it sending Harley's stuttered breaths into silence again. The heat in his chest floods straight southward, and with a dry swallow his tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip. He can't tear his eyes off of you even when you slip away, your hand lingering on the doorframe as you disappear into the yard with one last, gentle encouragement over your shoulder.

“Don't take long. Bed's too cold without you.”

[brucewaynehater101]

Oh my god I *love* Silken Emperor so much. Hear me out for something though. How would the Bats feel about the fact that multiple *planets*, hell the whole GLC *including* Hal of all people, knew that Tim wasn't a human before they did? Tim refuses to tell them until he is *forced* to tell them via like in the original spider one where the poacher forced him into his true form, and then he freaked out while trapped in the cave. Of course the didn't mean to trap him by standing between him and the only exits he can get out while in this form (he'd not even going to try the stairs to the manor he does *not* want to even *attempt* squeezing through the clock exit).

Bruce asks if Tim has any other world shaking secrets that the Bats should know about and due to how stressed and distressed he is, Tim snaps, "nothing that would shake *this* world." Which means they now know that he has some kind of business on another world and Tim is mentally smacking himself for this blunder. He takes out his phone, shoots off a quick text and says, "I am to high strung from what happened with the poacher, I'm going to spend a few days with Young Justice do *not* bother me." As soon as he finishes, Kon scoops him up saying, "your uber has arrived hot stuff, let's get you out of here!" And the pair vanish in a blurry of super speed.

While the Bats spend the next few days scrambling to find out what's going on with Tim, he's just at his main castle. Sulking. He's on his special made throne that accommodates his massive spider body, curled up and sad looking. Nothing his people are doing are helping him in any way! They can't let their Baby Emperor be sad!

When they find out he's sad because he was forced to reveal his True Form to some people he held close who were scared of his species? Oh blood. They want blood. Who *dares* to force their Baby Emperor to reveal his beautiful form before he is ready?! WHAT DO YOU MEAN IT WAS A POACHER OF HIS SPECIES?! DEATH. PUBLIC EXICUTION. THEY DEMAND IT.

There is so much about this that is fantastic.

Specifically these parts:

Tim accidentally outing himself by sassing Bruce for very specific word usage

Kon popping in with a "hot stuff" (Tim may or may not feel self-conscious about his form, so the subtle reassurance and affection is nice)

Tim sulking

The throne specifically made for his spider form

The citizens demanding blood

Just Tim, his empire, and constant support ^^

[stop-talking]

So I'm stuck on this shithole island, and I can't even have a smoke? (pt. 4)

Derek Danforth x fem reader

Word count: 2.9k

Tags: 18+, Derek x fem reader, no use of y/n, angst, lots of fluff, enemies, enemies to lovers, fluff, (very) slowburn, sass, banter, misogynistic undertones, (Derek is a prick), suggestive themes, mentions of drug use, withdrawals, rehab, masturbating, caught masturbating, overall mature themes.

slight trigger warning for thoughts of death?? (except Derek isn't really suicidal he's just a drama queen)

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 5

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It's been nearly twelve hours since you accidentally walked in on Derek doing the unspeakable, and you're still kicking yourself for it.

In an attempt to make it up to him, you'd spent the morning making a nice breakfast. Unfortunately, it's almost noon now, and he hasn't left his room.

No way in hell are you going to go knocking on his door. Not after last night. The image of him finishing into his own hand while making eye contact with you is still burned into your brain. Fuck, he ended up covered in cum. And that stupid fucking face he made...

Oh god, think of something else. ANYTHING else.

You turn your attention to the breakfast you'd prepared for the two of you. The cold breakfast. Sighing, you scrape the eggs and bacon into a container for later.

Why did you even open the damn door? Obviously he was jerking off. Horny bastard. Of course, when you'd heard the whimpers and moans coming from his room, you'd assumed he wasn't feeling well.

Which was a valid assumption to make, right?? I mean, he sounded absolutely pitiful, what were you supposed to think? You swore up and down he even called out your name once or twice, but fuck, you didn't want to think about the implications of that.

And so, after knocking and saying his name a few times, you had decided to just go for it. How were you supposed to know he was doing... that??

"It's not my fault." You grumble to yourself, blindly shoving the leftovers into the fridge and trying to shrug it off.

Then again, even if the initial situation wasn't your fault, you still owed him an apology. You'd absolutely been staring. Gawking, even. It probably took a good five seconds before you'd come to your senses and slammed the door, but five seconds was enough for him to... oh god. Stop thinking about it.

You try physically shaking your head to dismiss the perverted images plaguing your mind. It works... sort of. As you make your way up the stairs to his bedroom, your stomach knots with guilt.

Just about anything sounds more appealing than knocking on his door right now. Unfortunately, that's what you're about to do.

・○・・・・・・○・・・・・・○・・・・・・○・・・・・・○・

Derek's plans for the day only include one thing, really. Rotting in bed and wishing he was dead.

He figures if he locks himself in his room long enough, the three weeks will eventually pass without him having to show his face to you ever again.

Or he'd die first. With the way he felt right now, that would honestly be fine too.

He groans into a pillow, desperate to hear something than the pounding in his head. He's been trembling all morning, a sign he really needed a fix.

The guilt has been eating away at him almost as much as his stupid withdrawals. He replays the scene from last night over in his head for the millionth time, internally screaming at himself for not covering up. Or locking the damn door.

He knows there's nothing he could have done to change what happened. The timing was just too... perfect. Looking at your pretty face while he came was literally a dream come true.

The aftermath, unfortunately, was a nightmare.

There's no way you don't hate him now. Or at least feel completely disgusted. After all, you'd slammed the door and left him.

So this is his fate. Rot in bed until he wastes away. It's all he deserves, really, for being such a fucking pervert.

"Derek? You still alive?"

He nearly falls off the bed in his scramble to make himself look presentable.

"...Yeah." He eventually croaks out, trying to smooth his curls with one hand and pull the blanket over himself with the other.

"Can I come in?"

Derek begrudgingly agrees, sitting up against the headboard in an attempt to look less pathetic.

You slowly swing the door open, looking visibly relieved when he isn't... exposed. Like last time.

Before he can even think about what he's saying, the words roll off his tongue.

"I'm sorry." You both say at the same time.

Wait, that doesn't make sense. What do YOU have to be sorry for? He's the one that fucked up. Derek's brow furrows as you take a seat on the edge of his bed.

"I- I mean it." He stutters. "I really didn't... didn't mean for you to see that."

He avoids your gaze, turning away as you place a hand on his leg. Well, on the comforter covering his legs, but close enough.

"I know." You seem equally uncomfortable, silently looking around and examining his bedroom. And it is HIS room, decorated to suit his tastes. Unlike the other guest rooms in the house, which are all decorated in shades of pastels and beach-themed paraphernalia.

He squirms a bit, starting to get self-conscious of his own design choices. The dark wood furniture with gold accents stand out against the emerald green walls. Under usual circumstances, he'd feel proud of the expensive atmosphere. Right now... It all felt gaudy.

"I love all the animal print." You say, eyeing a pelt hanging on the wall above his dresser.

Derek winces. Yeah, okay, maybe it was a bit much.

"I picked out these decorations, like, 5 years ago. Cut me some slack." He grumbles, crossing his arms and giving you a pouty look.

"It looks nice." You smile, scooting a little closer to him on the bed, your hand trailing further up his covered legs.

"Don't lie."

"..."

"Okay, It looks like you gave a redneck with no prior knowledge of interior design an unlimited budget and a kilo of cocaine, then set him loose and told him to go crazy."

Damn. He'd be pissed at that if you didn't look so... warm. Even with the harsh words, he could tell you were only teasing.

"To be fair, I probably was on cocaine when I picked all this shit out." Derek snorts, gesturing around to the clashing animal prints, gold-rimmed mirrors and paintings, and wood accent pieces.

That little comment seems to make you waver. Shit. Bad joke?

"Not anymore." He tries to assure you, putting his hand on top of yours. You still haven't moved it from his thigh. "I haven't had anything like that since I got here, and it sucks. I feel like shit."

He slumps slightly against the headboard, letting his put-together act fall. Not like it was a very good act, anyways.

"I believe you, just... I feel bad. I'm sorry for last night."

Derek winces as the topic gets turned back to last night's activities. You didn't even have anything to apologize for, as far as he was concerned. He'd let you watch him cum any day. Make a show of it, if that's what you wanted.

Fuck. Stop thinking about it.

Derek struggles to listen as you ramble, instead staring into your pretty eyes and overthinking the way his hand is still on top of yours. You're saying something about how he shouldn't stay in bed all day, how he needs to keep a routine or he'll end up in a slump.

"...so can we just forget about what happened and move on? I don't think I can stand 17 more days of awkwardness." You finish, giving him a pleading look.

Forget about what happened? Derek's heart sinks into his stomach. He doesn't want to forget. Even though he hates himself for it, he loves what happened last night. He'd re-live it over and over again if he could, minus the part where you freak out and slam the door.

"Derek?" You ask again, snapping him out of his thoughts.

"Oh. Yeah. Forget about it, please." His face heats up and he finally takes his hand back from yours, nervously running it through his hair instead. He might not what to forget about what happened, but he sure as hell wanted you to forget about it.

"Done." You give him a relieved smile and hop off his bed. "Alright, I'm gonna wait for you downstairs. Come meet me soon or I'll drag you down myself."

Derek does as asked, going through the motions of his normal morning routine. That didn't go as bad as it could have, all things considered.

At least you don't hate him.

・○・・・・・・○・・・・・・○・・・・・・○・・・・・・○・

When Derek eventually trudges downstairs, you already have lunch heated up for him. Or... breakfast? It doesn't really matter.

He refuses to eat at first. Stubborn man. He says he feels nauseous, but how does he expect to get better with no food in his stomach?

After practically forcing him to eat, you settle down on the couch with him and try to decide on a movie.

"We are not watching another stupid action movie." You grumble, snuggling up in one corner of the couch while Derek takes a seat on the other end.

"Well I'm not watching some cheesy chick flick."

"Then what do you want to watch?"

Derek shrugs.

"Oh my god, Danforth. Just pick. Comedy or Horror?"

"Comedy."

"Okay, Adam Sandler or Jim Carrey?"

He pauses for a bit, furrowing his brow in a way that you might find adorable if he wasn't being so damn difficult.

"Sandler."

"Okay then, we're watching Billy Madison." You turn your attention back to the television and smile to yourself as you search for the movie.

"I don't think I've seen that one." He starts to shift in his seat as the movie starts, looking restless. What's his problem?

"Do you want to...?" You look over at him, trailing off and patting your lap.

He nods, and immediately lies down on his side, cheek against your thigh.

"Thanks." He mumbles, looking more relaxed by the second as he makes himself comfortable on your lap.

"Mhm." You hum, turning your attention back to the movie.

Unsurprisingly, it doesn't take long for him to start getting restless again. You pretend not to notice the way he occasionally glances up at you, keeping your gaze fixed on the television.

His hand finds yours, slowly tugging it towards his head. You take the hint and run your fingers through his hair, chuckling at how needy he's being.

"Don't laugh." He groans, leaning his head back slightly and melting into your touch. "It feels nice. And I've been feeling like death."

"You'd better not die on me, Danforth. No one would come to pick me up for another two weeks, and I don't think your corpse would fit in the freezer."

"You could chop me up." He offers, shifting so that he's lying on his back, looking up at you with his head across your thighs.

God, that smug look on his face. Why did the bastard have to be so cute?

"Okay, this is getting morbid. Shut up and watch the movie." You do your best to scold him, but it's hard to keep up the façade while gently carding your fingers through his hair.

"Make me."

Without hesitation, you slap your free hand over his mouth. His eyes widen for a moment, the smug look replaced with... something else.

Muffled noises come from his mouth as he attempts to speak through your hand, but you just laugh and continue petting him.

That is, until you feel his tongue on your hand.

"You're lucky you look so pitiful, Danforth, or I'd push you off the couch." You grumble, wiping your hand off on his shirt as he smirks up at you.

"Pitiful?" He scoffs, shoving your hand away from his chest.

"Yeah, sad and pitiful. You're a mess." You taunt him a bit, but your words are just as soft as the gentle touches you've been giving him.

Derek straightens best he can while lying your lap. "I'm not pitiful." He grumbles. "Stop pitying me."

His little act gets another chuckle out of you.

"It'll be easier if you stop looking at me like that."

"Like what?"

"With those puppy eyes."

Derek's brow furrows, and he frowns up at you while you tug at his curls.

"I have puppy eyes?"

・○・・・・・・○・・・・・・○・・・・・・○・・・・・・○・

Derek spends the rest of a movie in a blissed-out state on your lap. Physically, his body is a wreck. He feels weak, shaky, and all-around ill.

But emotionally? He's giddy. The way you've been treating him lately... there's no way you don't like him.

Fuck, no, don't jump to conclusions. Just ask. Yeah. Simple.

As the credits roll, Derek finally works up the courage to speak up.

"Why do you put up with me?" He asks, shifting to look up at you while his head rests against your thigh.

You pause mid-way through stroking his hair, and Derek is scared you might be able to hear how fast his heart is beating. He can sure hear it, at least.

"What do you mean, love?" You finally respond, untangling your fingers from his curls and setting your hand aside.

That makes him groan out loud. See? Exactly that sort of thing. Always calling him love. It drives him crazy.

"You're just so damn nice to me." He sighs, tossing his head back slightly and closing his eyes.

"Oh? Should I be mean?"

"Maybe." He lets out an amused huff, but there's a twinge of bitterness in his voice. It isn't really a joke. You're just too nice. He doesn't deserve it.

You seem to pick up on his shift in attitude, because you start running your fingers through his hair again.

"It's my job to take care of you, you know. At least for the next... 17 days or so."

Right. Your job. Derek can't help but sigh. He finally finds someone who seems to be interested in him for reasons that aren't monetary... but only because his mother is literally paying them.

"Oh, don't be like that." You scold him, and start to nudge him off your lap.

Derek takes the hint, sitting up. Before he can stew over your words further, he feels you pulling him into an embrace.

The angle is slightly awkward, with his back against your chest and his head resting on your shoulder, but he appreciates it nonetheless.

"Stop... you're gonna make me soft." He grumbles, but makes absolutely no effort to stop your arms from wrapping around him. He melts back into your touch, eyes fluttering closed.

From this close, he can smell your perfume. He's caught a whiff of it a few times before, usually when you get up close and personal with him in the kitchen. It's a soft, sweet, floral scent. Extremely different than the expensive, in-your-face scents of most women in his social circle. He's started associating the smell with comfort.

"Maybe that's my plan." You muse, giving him a tight squeeze before finally letting him go.

If only you knew just how well it's working.

・○・・・・・・○・・・・・・○・・・・・・○・・・・・・○・

"Stop! You're getting sand everywhere!" You swat at Derek as he accidentally kicks sand onto the blanket you've spent nearly ten minutes arranging.

"It's a beach, sweetheart. There's gonna be sand." He scoffs, but carefully brushes off his legs before returning them to the large quilt.

After dinner, you'd realized you accidentally let him go an entire day without going outside. So, you'd dragged him out to go stargazing with nothing more than a blanket and a couple of flashlights.

"There's a difference between lying on top of it and being buried in it." You elbow him as he gets just a little bit too close. There's plenty of room for you to both stretch out, why does he have to be so clingy?

"I'm cold." He whines, grabbing at your arm.

"I told you to bring a jacket."

"I didn't think you were serious?! What kind of a beach is cold?"

You roll your eyes at him. It's not even cold, honestly. Just a bit brisk. There's a soft breeze coming from the ocean, smelling slightly of salt.

"Just cover up with the blanket."

"It's covered in sand."

"And who's fault is that?"

"..."

"Please?"

You finally turn to look at him, and you can feel yourself giving in almost immediately. God damn it. There's no way this man didn't know he had puppy eyes. Fuckin' manipulator.

"Fine. C'mere."

Derek scoots closer and you throw an arm around him, letting him rest his head on you.

You both lay like that for a while, staring up at the sky and listening to the soft crashing of the waves.

The moon is full tonight, illuminating the seemingly endless sand and water. There's a forest made of palms and ferns off to the side, and the leaves all ripple in the breeze.

"It's really pretty." Derek finally sighs, eyes still looking skyward.

"I know. You can actually see all the stars out here. In the city it's harder... light pollution or something." You shrug, making his head bob slightly as it rests on your shoulder.

Derek just hums in agreement. Poor thing. He looks exhausted, even though he slept until midday.

"Hey, don't fall asleep on me now. Not sure I could carry you back."

"I won't... promise..." He yawns and scoots a little closer, his arm reaching over and wrapping around your waist.

You should probably push him off, but damnit... he just looks so peaceful.

You rest your free arm on his, keeping him glued to you. It feels nice, all of it. His warmth, the cool breeze, the sound of the ocean, the twinkling stars... fuck. He's really growing on you.

Derek doesn't keep his promise, falling asleep in minutes.

─────────────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────────────────

Author's note: This chapter took FOREVER!! There were just so many different directions I could have taken the story from the last chapter. Hope y'all enjoyed the one I ended up with!! It was mostly fluff, I know... but Derek is just so cute. I can't help it.

Thanks so much for being patient, and for all the kind comments & asks!!! Feel free to send in literally anything, I don't get many messages in my inbox.

Part 5

[cerise-on-top]

Hi, I saw that you opened your requests again, I don't know if I misinterpreted, but it seems that you haven't been well, anyway, I hope you are better, I'm glad you are taking some time for yourself. <3

Farah, Valeria, Laswell and Price.

(My requests are always about them, they are my favorite ^^)

An incredibly young and immature reader but with such great potential, sometimes they don't even know how the reader comes back from missions alive, and even if they do know, the reader comes back very injured because they don't hesitate to get hurt, or they take risks to save the life of your teammates or to help with the mission.

I imagine the lectures Laswell could give for such stupidity.

And even if they are wrong, the reader just rolls his eyes at the sermons and makes promises of change, not knowing that he is too impulsive to keep that promise. But even if the reader is very irresponsible in combat, he is very skilled, perhaps because he is young, or very intelligent, in addition the reader is a bomb of emotions, perhaps because he doesn't know how his own brain works, it constantly changes of humor, being seen as chaotic, and sometimes he does things so stupid that he makes them laugh, and maybe that's why they keep him around, or maybe because they like to take care of the reader.

Stay well, drink water and have a great day. And as always, I'm using the translator, sorry if anything gets confusing.

Almost two months late, but I got there eventually! This is the last request in my inbox, now I can do as I please!

Price, Valeria, Farah and Laswell with a Reckless and Immature Male!Reader

Price: Oh, you’re gonna give this man a heart attack at some point. He recognizes how skilled you are, he really does, but he wishes you were a bit less impulsive and reckless. As much as he loves having you around, for your skills and the fact that he feels like a father towards you, he will continuously tell you to be more careful. I can see him making you go through more rigorous training than most other soldiers just so you would finally learn to not be so reckless. Sure, he’ll have your back when it counts, but sometimes he needs to focus on his own survival as. He’ll try to cover you whenever he can, but it’s just not always possible. You may be loyal and reliable, but a dead soldier is no good. I feel as though he might get a little loud with you if you roll your eyes at him. He’s used to the disrespect from his soldiers, but that doesn’t mean he appreciates the sass. I don’t think he’d find most stupid things all that funny, especially not if it puts you at risk. You’re definitely gonna butt heads a lot with him. He won’t give in either, though. Price is a pretty stubborn man himself when he needs to be. However, if you get too emotional, then he’ll try to calm you down. He has lots of experience with all kinds of people, so he’ll get there. Tries to be the reason to your impulsiveness and will stop you from doing things that are unwise.

Valeria: She’s probably thoroughly amused by you. Yes, you’re very reliable, intelligent and very skilled, but that doesn’t mean you’re not an idiot in other ways. I think at first she wouldn’t care all that much about you and would see you as another asset, nothing more and nothing less. Once you prove your loyalty to her, she might grow a bit attached to you, though. However, she’ll also give you lectures. Not as many as the others, but she will. Especially when you’re on the verge of death. Yes, she may know nothing she says will get through, but she can try. Will yell at you, though. She doesn’t mind you being impulsive that much, until it puts you at death’s door. You’re a very competent man, you can pull off most things that you do, which she can appreciate. However, she does not appreciate always having to come to your rescue for almost any mistake and miscalculation you make. Sometimes, when she’s fed up enough, she does consider just letting you die. Unfortunately, she’s gotten too attached to you to let that happen. If you do something stupid, then she’s probably the only one on the list to actually laugh. You’re amusing to her, which is one of the reasons she keeps you around. Does not give up hope that you will come to your senses eventually as you mature, but she does want to keep you dumb to some degree. As long as you keep being her loyal mutt, all is good.

Farah: She’s a very meticulous person when it comes to her cause. While not everything goes well, most things have to in order for the majority of the world to not interfere. Farah does not appreciate you being this reckless at all. Not only are you one of her brothers, which means she cares a great deal about you, you almost always come back severely injured. She won’t say too much at first, but she will reach a breaking point eventually. Will scold you rather harshly, if she has to. Does not appreciate the sass and the empty promises. She does threaten you with leaving you behind if you don’t stop this nonsense and start taking better care of yourself. Yes, you’re always trying to save others, but you really shouldn’t be taking this many risks. Your skills are vital, yes, but she will not sacrifice you like that. She’s lost too many people that way already. It highly depends on what kind of stupid things you do. If you’re actively being a menace towards yourself, she won’t laugh. She’ll scold you. You’re young, you shouldn’t be a role model like that for others. She’s a bit harsh towards you, but that’s only because she cares. When you’re seriously hurt, she’ll be a bit more gentle towards you, but will scold you again afterwards. She keeps you around because she cares greatly about you, but is not above taking you out of the fight if she has to. While she’s glad you wanna help her, you’re not going to lose your life just because you’re reckless and impulsive.

Laswell: She’s probably the most calculating regarding where she puts your skills to use. She gets to choose which missions you get to go on, which means she’ll try her best to minimize the risk of you actually dying. Of course, for some reason, you always come back hurt anyway. Yes, you’re highly skilled, but that doesn’t mean she won’t scold you for not taking better care of yourself. However, her words go in through one ear and out the other. I don’t think she’ll actively yell at you since you always have other people in mind, but she won’t stop nagging at you either. Also threatens to send you to an early retirement if you don’t listen to her. However, Laswell is usually a rather calm person when she needs to be. She’s capable of taking care of you when you’re being rather emotional. Like Price, she’ll be the voice of reason and make sure you don’t do anything reckless or stupid. She doesn’t find your endeavors funny either, but will tolerate them, as long as you’re not hurting yourself. She keeps you around for your skills and because she cares a great deal about you, but she will keep on telling you to be more careful. Does not send you on missions on your own since you always need someone that makes sure you come back alive. If she needs a second opinion, then there’s a chance she might come to you. You might lack the experience as of right now, but you’ll get there eventually. She just needs to make sure you will.

[artmunstudios]

Lies of P Character Analysis: P and Carlo

Spoilers for the ending of the game lie ahead under the cut!

I have been seeing a lot of people refer to P as Carlo, specifically in the Rise of P ending, and I think it is very important to think about this fact, because it kind of goes hand in hand with the themes of the game overall. And on top of that, it's important for when making theories too!

P isn’t Carlo—he never was, and won’t ever be no matter what ending you get. Not even the Nameless Puppet is really Carlo. (His corpse maybe which is,,,,, so fucked)

I'm kinda driving this home, because I think it is really important to understand the difference between P and Carlo, because despite Geppetto claiming that P inherited his personality instead of the memories, they clearly are very different people, and that is solely because of their environments.

He’s much more like a reflection of Carlo, if he was raised in a more loving/nurturing environment. P is a Carlo that isn’t solely filled with nothing but spite and anger towards his father that literally abandoned and clearly even resented him. Compare this to the people around P at the home he knew, Hotel Krat.

Sofia— Never once really says a bad word to P. Not even in the bad ending. She is that gentle guide that, despite claiming to have awakened P for selfish reasons, acts entirely selfless and is willing for her freedom to be put on hold to help P in aiding in lessening the damage in Krat. She compliments him, gives encouraging words, and I would even dare to say she teaches P the value of life.

Antonia— Grandma. Of. The Year. Can we please give this classy lady of all sass and glory more than a peaceful death? Like???? I dunno, sneak her a bottle of that good wine, Tipple Lady seemed to really dig it. If she wasn't so sick I am more than certain that she would have been doting on P more than just verbally. I'm talking that kind of grandma, and you know exactly what I mean. This lady would somehow find a way for there to be ingredients for cookies because goddammit, she may be classy but I bet you any money she makes the best goddamn peanut butter cookies and YOU CANNOT TELL ME OTHERWISE. Every time P would come back all dirty, he would get the scolding of a lifetime because how many times does she have to tell him to leave that dirty coat and boots at the entry and let Polendina get them for a wash— And finally, if she were well enough you know damn well P would have been even more classy than he already was with those outfits. She would spend an entire day going through wardrobes and having P try each outfit on to see what looks good, because no grandson of hers is going out in drabs she will not have it— Ahem. Er. ANywayyy...that grandma. she would be that grandma. And still kind of is, she just couldn't do much being so ill. And, kind of on the flipside, I think Antonia in a way taught P the importance of death, and how it can be drawing near, but you can still be full of hope like she was.

Polendina and Pulcinella — These two taught P a very important lesson, and even taught it to him fairly early on! Puppets are not inherently evil; in fact, they can be just as alive as any human. They both love the ones they take care of, and provide that sense of kinship that P really needed. In a way, P is biracial (racial....or...????bispecies???? I????? I don't know what to call it?????) so seeing both sides of each half in him is such a great influence, and helps him realize that he may be different to both, he can belong in both worlds.

Eugenie— Sweetie. Babygirl. Bestie. She was thrown into the position of big sister so fast she didn't even realize it until like. The end of the game, I think. That conversation about her big brother seemed to make her realize that she was a big sister to P in a way, I think. Which is why the realization about her own older sibling made things much harder, I think.

Lorenzini— An eccentric, but genuinely kind hearted man. A human, that despite everything, still treats the puppets as family. Hell, he doesn't even convinced that they are the villains, and he is the one to actually initiate the whole path to when the group discovers that Geppetto is the one behind the frenzy. 1000/10, coolest uncle; he probably will buy P so many ridiculous things the moment things have calmed down in Krat. What's that? Oh, yes you need a place to stay--HAVE A HOUSE. DO YOU WANT THE BLOCK I CAN BUY YOU A BLOCK-- (Pulcinella has to withhold finances because Lorenzini will NOT stop buying P shit, and the poor lad doesn't really have a concept of money so of course he's gonna accept it all and just say yes!) .... (The realization of P not really having a concept of currency suddenly startles me. WHAT IS HE GONNA DO WHEN KRAT IS RESTORED??? POLENDINA WHY DID YOU RESET HE NEEDS FUCKIN HELP— )

Geppetto— Ah. Yes. Rat bastard (derogatory). Deadbeat dad. Control freak. YOU. I will. Give him this, and I do genuinely mean this; despite everything he has done, and how manipulative he is, he, ironically, gave P exactly what he needed from a father in some ways. Specifically, Geppetto always reminded P that he was precious and important to him, and that he genuinely did not like sending him out into dangerous situations. Even though, it was for different reasons, and the majority of us were suspicious from the start, we have to think about it from P's perspective. Think about all the things he said to him, until the end at least. P had legitimately no reason to suspect Geppetto. In many ways, as far as P could tell, he was perfect. Encouraging, gentle, he made sure P was always in tip-top shape, and he told him that he was proud to see him fight the King of Puppets (yes it's fucked up knowing it was Romeo, Carlo's possible only friend, but again, P doesn't know that until the very end). In a way, he taught P his own worth, to the point that he valued his own individuality, and refused to give up his sense of self. And in the very end, I think Geppetto realized that P was not Carlo, but he loved him like a father, despite everything.

Gemini (I FORGOT GEMINI AND HAD TO EDIT TO ADD HIM IN CAST ME INTO THE FUCKIN FIRE I AM A FAKE PINOCCHIO LORE FANATIC) - Gemini, in my opinion, in this iteration is less of a conscious and more of a??? He's kinda like Romeo's replacement, in a way; he's P's best friend. He kinda also teaches P humor as well, which is honestly a take on the talking Cricket that is so unique. He's like that awkward teacher that is young but still a little out of touch with the generation he's teaching that it's like the equivalent of hearing your 30 something professor tell a fucking dad pun. Speaking of teaching, he teaches P a lot! Especially history, and cultural stuff for Krat; and I think that's also really important for development! And it is really sweet how he still, despite Krat being in disarray, tries to kinda give the city that sense of wonder and joy for P that maybe other tourists would have.

Now, contrast that with Carlo's life:

His father drops him off randomly at a place he doesn't know (a fucking orphanage dude, you couldn't even be fucked to ship him to a proper private school at least Geppetto?) at we can assume age 10-12, without even bothering to tell him when or if he would come back, based on that first memory we see. How many more sleeps until daddy comes back? Geppetto couldn't even be bothered to see his graduation, and he claims that he would not care if he just dropped over dead. And, I'm gonna be real, just based on the line delivery, as well as some personal experiences (get into that a little later with some dissection) I fully believe he means it. I'm gonna be real, the people who say stuff like that, specifically older kids edging adulthood, most of the time they really mean that shit. And, to make matters worse, it's not even just Geppetto that brushes him off, even people that you could argue are supposed to be mentor figures, brush him off. But we don't know enough yet about the Stalker Woman, so I won't go too deep into that. Right to his death (which we have to assume was homicide) it seemed like the entire world, but Romeo, rejected him.

In a way, it makes sense that the Nameless Puppet is just a rage-filled, calculating, killing machine when it gets P's heart. It doesn't inherit the personality, just the memories. And that, with the kind of life Carlo lived, makes for a very dangerous being.

Let's also think about what Giangio said, too. He calls P a new kind of human. P doesn't just magically get human guts and whatnot. He's not human, he's a cyborg, I suppose, but even that doesn't seem entirely right. It's just kinda as Giangio calls him; a new kind of human. I guess, if we want to get cheeky, P is a Legion Human. Carlo was human, and that's just how it was. Carlo never comes back, but the memory of him does seem to live on in P. He's like??? He starts off as a reflection, and ends up becoming a legacy to Carlo, in a way.

But there is one huge indicator yet that shows that P and Carlo are separate people.

I'm gonna be honest, and say potentially a bold take, but I genuinely don't think Carlo would have cried if he were there when Geppetto dies, I really don't. Just speaking from personal experience (yet again), I have an absentee parent that, the older I get, I kind of realized was never really in my life. Similar to Geppetto in a way, too, in the concept of wanting more of a concept rather than actually being a parent. So, just speaking from that perspective, if my absentee father who never bothered to get to know me or even cared about who I was as a person died in such a way (lowkey from his own hubris) I can't say it's realistic to think that someone with that kind of relationship would cry for that parent. Feel sad? Absolutely, it's not like you are heartless and just lose all sense of apathy for that person. But it's hard to really mourn for a stranger at worst, and a associate at best.

However, P does cry. More than that, when you see him curl over Geppetto's body in the true end, that right there, is fucking despair. Again, just kind of speaking from experience, your body does some weird shit to cope when you are upset over a death. You kinda revert back to that state of being a kid, wanting to coddle your precious thing because when you were at that age, you believed that things could be fixed with stuff like a hug, or cradling, etc. It's not a conscious thought, but that is part of the reflex. P holds Geppetto, the man that he genuinely sees as his father, close; because it's the only thing he knows what to do in that moment. If we think about Carlo and Geppetto's relationship, can we really see Carlo holding his father close like that?

TLDR: P and Carlo are two entirely different people; and it is almost solely because of the environments they were in.

[dianawinchester03]

Season 1, Episode 7 - Hook Man

Series Masterlist

Third Person POV

"Enjoying your coffee flavored sugar that you try and convince yourself is coffee, princess?" Dean teases Y/N who's innocently enjoying her favorite coffee order. She narrows her eyes at him and he snorts at her reaction. "With a side of sass. Just how I like it, charming" She retorts sarcastically back, winking at him. Making his heart leap as per usual.

Y/N and Dean are sitting at a table in a outdoor cafe while Sam is at a pay phone trying to call the FBI while impersonating as a agent to get any information on John and F/N. "Alright. Thank you for your time" Sam says politely before hanging up and walking back over to their table.

"Your half-caf double vanilla latte is getting cold over here, Frances" Dean calls out to his brother teasingly laughing a bit. "Bite me" Sam retorts back and Y/N chuckles. "So, anything?" Y/N asks hopefully and Sam shakes his head sighing, causing Y/N's face to drop. "I had them check the FBIs missing persons data bank. No John Does matching Dad's or Mr. L/N's descriptions. I even ran their plates for traffic violations" Sam explains frustrated.

"Guys, I'm telling you. I don't think our dads want to be found" Dean says and they shake their heads in disappointment. "Check this out" He says and shows them his laptop. Y/N adjusts herself in her seat to get a better look. "It's a news item out of Plains Courier, Ankeny, Iowa. It's only about 100 miles from here" Deans says. On the news article is the title 'Mysterious Death of a Fraternity Brother'.

"The mutilated body was found near the victims car parked on Nine Mile Road" Sam reads off the article. "Keep reading" Dean says  while taking a sip of his water and Y/N starts. "Authorities are unable to provide a realistic description of the killer. The sole eyewitness, whose name has been withheld, is quoted as saying 'the attacker was invisible' " Y/N finishes reading.

"Could be something interesting" Dean says to them. "Or could be nothing at all" Sam says. "One freaked out witness who didn't see anything does mean it's the Invisible Man" Y/N adds. "But what if it is? Our dads would check it out" Dean tries to reason.

"Really? You're gonna play that card" Y/N raises her eyebrow and Dean shrugs with a smug look on his face.

________________________________

The trio pull up to the fraternity house if it's fallen brother. "One more time, why are we here?" Sam asks as they jump out of Baby and walk into the yard. "Victim lived here" Dean tells him. Y/N notices some of the frat boys wolf whistle at her, she smiles coyly and flashes them a wink before turning back to the boys.

Dean scoffs, seeing the thirsty looks college brats are throwing at Y/N. They approach a couple of guys who have their hood up on their car fixing the engine. "Nice wheels" Dean tells the young man causally and he looks at the two hunters weirdly. "We're your fraternity brothers. From Ohio" Dean thinks of a lie on the spot.

The guy looks over at Y/N, his eyes trailing over her body making Dean narrow his eyes at him. "And you, gorgeous?" He asks smirking. She inwardly rolls her eyes but keeps a pleasant smile on her face. "I'm student too. These are my friends from back home in Ohio. I'm staying at the sorority not too far from here. Told me they needed a place to crash so I let them know you might but taking in" She says sweetly.

The lie seems to work so the boys and Y/N are upstairs in the frat house, the boys entering the room where there supposed roommate would be sharing with them. When they enter they see a young man painting his whole body with purple paint. Dean knocks slightly, a little weirded out at seeing this.

"Who are you?" The purple man asks. "We're your new roommates" Dean says smiling slightly. "And you?" He turns to Y/N. "Just helping my friends get aquatinted" She says causally. "Then do me a favor, get my back. Big game today" He asks her, handing her the paint brush to paint his back.

She raises her eyebrow and points to Sam behind her with her thumb as Dean sits by the window. "He's the artist, the things he can do with a brush" She says, going to sit next to Dean while Sam lightly glares at her and looks little uncomfortable. He hesitantly takes the brush and Dean and Y/N sit by the window, trying to hide their snickering.

"So..." Dean starts, picking up a magazine and seeing a name on it. "..Murph...is it true?" He asks, flipping open the magazine and putting one of his leg on top of the other. "What?" Murph asks. "We heard one of the guys around here got killed last week" Y/N asks as if she's gossiping.

"Yeah" Murph says sadly. "What happened?" Sam asks while painting Murph's back. "They're saying some psycho with a knife. Maybe a drifter passing through. Rich was a good guy" Murph explains. "Rich was with somebody?" Sam asks as Dean flips through the magazine. "Not just somebody....Lori Sorenson" Murph says proudly.

"Who's Lori Sorenson?" Dean asks. "You missed a spot" He points to Murphs back that Sam was painting where he missed a spot. "Yeah. Just down there in the back" Y/N adds, drawing notice to the empty spot near Murphs ass. Sam clenches his jaw, glaring at his brother and best friend who look at him innocently, holding back their laughs.

"Loris a freshman. She's a local. Super hot" Murph says exaggerated. "And get this, she's a reverends daughter" He adds suggestively. Dean leans forward to ask, "You wouldn't happen to know which church, would you?"

________________________________

Y/N, Dean and Sam enter the church during the wake of the recently deceased, slamming the door behind them accidentally a little too hard upon entering, causing the congregation to look at them confused before the reverend goes back to giving his speech.

"....as a community and as a family. The loss of a young person is particularly tragic" The reverend states, as the trio take a seat in the room, his daughter, Lori, looking at Sam a little intently. They exchange looks as the reverend speaks. Sam shoots her a small sympathetic smile before Lori turns back to listen to his speech.

"A life unloved is the saddest of passings. So please, let us pray. For peace, for guidance and for the power to protect our children" He concludes to a moment of silence and everyone bows their head except Dean. Y/N peeks one eye open notices Dean didn't put his head down, nudging him a bit to follow along. He complies, bowing his head.

After the service, whilst everyone is conversing between themselves outside, the three approach her. "Are you Lori?" Sam asks her. "Yeah" She confirms, turning to them. "My name is Sam. This is my brother Dean and my best friend Y/N. We just transferred to the university" He introduces himself and them as Dean and Y/N wave saying "Hi".

"I saw you inside" Lori says nodding and smiling. "We don't wanna bother you. We just heard about what happened" Sam says sympathetically and Loris smile drops a bit. "We wanted to say how sorry we were" Y/N adds, giving her a small smile and Dean nods. "I kinda know what you're going through. I-I saw someone get hurt once. It's something you don't forget" Sam explains. Y/N and Dean look at him slightly shocked.

Before she could respond, the reverend approaches them. "Dad, this is Sam, Dean and Y/N. They're new students" She introduces them to her father. "It's a pleasure to meet you sir" Y/N says formally, putting her hand out to shake the reverends. He takes her hand, smiling "I must say, that was an inspiring sermon" She compliments the service.

"Thank you very much" The reverend says gratefully as they break the handshake. "It's so nice to find young people who are open to the Lords message" The reverend adds and Y/N smiles awkwardly at this. "Listen, uh, we're new in town, actually and uh...we're looking for a church group" Dean begins to explain, walking out of view with the reverend to chat as Y/N and Sam stay back with Lori.

"Tell me Lori. What are the police saying?" Sam asks her nicely as the three of them walk a bit. "Well, they don't have a lot to go on. I think they blame me for that" She says honestly. "What do you mean?" Y/N asks in the same tone as Sam. "My story. I was so scared. I guess I was seeing things" She says a bit pained.

"That doesn't mean it wasn't real" Sam assures her and Lori gives him a small grateful smile.

________________________________

"So you guys believe her?" Dean asks Sam and Y/N as they walk through the library. "I do" Sam and Y/N say in unison. "Yeah, I think she's hot too" Dean says and Y/N rolls her eyes, scoffing lightly, which doesn't go unnoticed by Sam.

"No, man. There's something in her eyes" Sam says. "And get to this, she heard scratching on the roof. Found the bloody body suspended upside down over the car" Y/N explains as they walk into an aisle of shelves in the library. "Body suspended. That sounds like—"

"Yeah. We know. The Hook Man Legend" Sam finishes Deans thought. "It's one of the most famous urban legends ever. You guys don't think we're dealing with The Hook Man" Dean says doubtfully. "Every urban legend has a source. A place where it all began" Y/N says.

"Yeah. But what about the phantom scratches and the tire punctures and the invisible killer" Dean says. "Maybe the Hook Man isn't a man at all. What if it's some kind of spirit?" Sam suggests.

A little later they all seat themselves at a table in the library and the librarian drops a couple of dusty boxes of files they asked for on the desk. "Here you go. Arrest records going back to 1851" The librarian dusts her hand. Y/N blows some of the dust off the box "Thanks" She says smiling looking back as the librarian walks off.

Sam dusts the top of the boxes off, "so this is how you spent four good years of your life huh?" Dean says sarcastically, cringing as he also blows some of the dust off the box and Y/N opens it. "Welcome to higher education" Sam retorts cheekily and Dean lightly glares at his brother.

Couple hours in, "Hey, check this out" Y/N says, drawing attention to the boys. They peer over her shoulder to look at the report. "1862, a preacher named Jacob Cames was arrested for murder. Looks like he was so angry over the red light district in town that one night he killed 13 prostitutes" She explains continuing.

"Uh, right here. Some of the deceased were found in their beds, sheets soaked with bloody others suspended upside down from trees as a warning against sins of the flesh" She further explains as Dean pulls out an old piece of paper with the autopsy reports.

"Get this. The murder weapon? Looks like the preacher lost his hand in an accident Z had it replaced with a silver hook" He says, showing them the old drawing of a hook. "Look where all this happened" Sam says pointing to the location written in the report.

"Nine-Mile Road" Dean says. "Same place where the frat boy was killed" Sam says and Dean looks over at Y/N impressed. "Nice job, Dr. Venkman. Let's check it out" He praises her, patting the small of her back.

As he walks off, she has a small blush on her face. Clearing her throat, Y/N and Sam follow behind Dean.

________________________________

The boys and Y/N pull up to Nine Mile Road and jump out of the Impala. They make way to the trunk of baby and Dean pulls out two shot guns, handing it to them.

"If it is a spirit, buckshot won't do much good" Sam says, cocking the hun outwards as Dean digs in the trunk. "Yeah. Rocksalt Einstein" Y/N says to Sam, also cocking her gun and he chuckles. "Salt being a spirit deterrent" Sam says.

"Yeah. It won't kill him but it'll slow him down" Dean says and he closes the trunk, throwing his duffel bag over his shoulder. "That's pretty good" Sam says impressed. "Who thought of this?" He asks.

"Mr. Winchester brought up salt grenades to my dad, then Dad came up with rock-salt shell casings" Y/N says shrugging. "I told you Sammy, you don't have to be a college graduate to be a genius" Dean says smugly as they walk. Y/N rolls her eyes jokingly and Sam chuckles.

They hear a few twigs snapping, holting in their tracks. Sam and Y/N aim their guns in the direction of the sound. "Over there, over there" Dean whispers to them and they point it towards where Dean was showing them.

Steps coming closer and closer to them. "Put the gun down now! Now!" A man in a police uniform yells, aiming his gun at them. The trio are startled by this, having been caught. "Put your hands behind your head!" He yells, ordering them. "Wait wait wait wait wait! Okay, okay!" Dean obliges.

Sam and Y/N drop their guns and Dean drops his bag. "Now get down on your knees. Come on, do it. On your knees!" The officer commands. The three hunters get on their knees, hands behind their heads. "Now get down on your bellies! Come on, do it!" The officer demands and Dean groans.

"They had the guns" He groans but they all do as told.

________________________________

The next morning the three hunters walk out of the sheriffs department. "Saved your asses. Talked the sheriff down to a fine. Dude, I'm Matlock" Dean exclaims boastfully. "But how?" Y/N asks confused. "Told em Sam was a dumbass pledge and we were hazing him. And you were my girlfriend who came cuz you were scared I'd get hurt" He says winking at Y/N who scoffs.

"Please. I'd leave your ass to get hurt" She says sassily, snorting and Sam says. "Yeah. Sure" ironically. Causing Y/N to nudge him annoyed and he looks down smiling. 'He sure loves to use that excuse..' Y/N thinks to herself. "What about the shotgun?" Sam asks.

"I said to you were hunting ghosts and that spirits were repelled by rock salt. You know? Typical Hell Week prank" Dean smirks. "And he believed you?" Sam asks surprised. "Well, you look like a dumb-ass pledge" Y/N retorts cheekily, shrugging and Sam huffs annoyed.

Dean laughs and Sam shoots Y/N his classic glare. "Bite me crack head" He huffs, holding back a laugh. "No thank you dipshit" She laughs as they walk towards the Impala. They hear the door to the sheriff department burst open.

Some officers run out, jumping into a couple squad cars in a hurry. They turn on the sirens and speed down the road. The three exchange looks before jumping into the Impala and following behind.

________________________________

They drive by where the cars stopped, the sorority where Lori Sorenson was staying. There, they look out the window to see Lori at the back of an ambulance looking distraught. Dean, however, drives past the scene and parks behind the sorority house.

They all jump out of the Impala, looking around to make sure no one sees them. Dean jumps up on the ledge, connecting to the house. Y/N follows behind as Sam does the same. They creep to the back of the garage to see some cops and cop cars in the alley.

"Why would the Hook Man come here? This is a long way from Nine Mile Road" Sam queries as they creep through the back. "Maybe he's not haunting the scene of his crime. Maybe it's about something else" Dean suggest and a few sorority girls come out the side of the house.

The three pull back a into a corner so they don't see them. Sam pulls himself into the ledge and Y/N gives him a boasts, pushing him up to the ledge. "Dude, sorority girls." Dean says checking them out. "Think we'll see a naked pillow fight?" He says perversely and Y/N taps him at the back of his head.

"Ow!" Dean exclaims, holding the now sore spot on his head. "Come on Peeping Tom. Gimme a boast" She grumbles and Dean helps her. When she gets up, she puts her hand out to help him up and he grabs on. Getting up on the ledge, they creep to the side of the house.

Sam opens the window to Lori's room and pushes his body in. Y/N follows behind with Dean getting in last. Y/N ends up falling ontop of Sam. "Crap sorry" She whispers. "It's okay" He whispers back. Sam gets up and Dean ends up falling ontop Y/N, causing her to groan in pain. "Oh, sorry" Dean apologizes a little too loud.

"Hey. Be quiet" Sam grumbles, shushing him. "Me be quiet? You be quiet" He retorts. "Fellas settle down" Y/N growls at both of them and their mouths snap shut. Dean closes the window behind them and Sam peers lightly at the door of the closet.

Outside is an officer scanning the crime scene, blood on the bed with police tape across it. When the officer steps out and goes downstairs. Sam opens the door and they quietly walk into the room. Written across the wall in blood with a symbol below it is 'Aren't you glad you didn't turn on the light?'

"Aren't you glad you didn't turn on the light? That's right out of the legend" Y/N points out, reading the quote on the wall out loud. "Yeah. That's classic Hook Man alright" Dean says, stunned. "And it's definitely a spirit" He adds, tapping his nose.

"Yeah. I've never smelled ozone this strong before" Sam agrees and Dean walks over to peek at the crowd out the window. "Hey, come here" Sam calls him over. "Does that look familiar to you?" Sam asks them, pointing to the symbol underneath the quote.

They head back outside, the three of them leaning against the front grill of Baby Y/N pulls the autopsy report from earlier with murder weapon, the hook, engraved on it is the same symbol on the wall.

"It's the same symbol. Seems like it is the spirit of Jacob Carnes" Y/N says, standing between the boys against the car. "Alright. Well let's find the dude's grave, salt and burn the bones and put him down" Dean suggests. "Hard chance there" Y/N says and Sam takes the report from Y/N and reads.

"After execution, Jacob Carnes was laid to rest in Old North cemetery...in an unmarked grave" Sam reads, flicking the paper in anger. "Super" Dean says sarcastically and they all get off of the car to head back in. "Okay, so we know it's Jacks Carnes but we still don't know where he'll manifest next or why" As Sam says this, Dean pulls a paper off of his windshield reading it.

"I'll take a wild guess why. I think your little friend Lori has something to do with this" Dean says, opening the drivers side door, Sam and Y/N pile in behind, confused.

________________________________

Later they all end up at a college party in hopes to find Lori. "Man, you've been holding out on me. This college thing is awesome" Dean says enthusiastically and Y/N chuckles. "This wasn't really my experience" Sam says plainly. "Oh, let me guess. Library, studying, straight A's" Y/N says and Sam nods.

"What a geek. Alright did you two do your homework?" Dean grumbles and Y/N laughs. "Yeah. It was bugging us, right? How is the Hook Man tied up with Lori?" Sam starts to explain. "So we think we came up with something" Y/N says, opening the paper and showing Dean.

"1932, Clergyman, Arrested for Murder....1967, Seminarian Held in Hippie Rampage.." Dean reads off of but Sam cuts him off. "There's a pattern here. In both cases, the suspect was a man of religion who openly preached against immorality and then found himself wanted for killings he claimed were the work of an invisible force. Killings carried out, get this, with a sharp instrument" Sam explains.

"What's the connection to Lori?" Dean asks them. "A man of religion...who openly preaches against immorality" Y/N says as if it's obvious and Dean nods. "Except maybe this time instead of saving the whole town he's trying to save his only daughter" Y/N finishes.

"Reverend Sorenson. You think he's summoning the spirit?" Dean adds asking. "Maybe" Sam says but something comes across Y/N's mind. "Or... you know how a poltergeist can haunt a person instead of a place?" Y/N suggests. "Yeah. The spirit latches on to the reverend repressed emotions and feeds off them...yeah..okay" Dean agrees.

"Without the reverend even knowing" Sam says. "Either way, you should keep an eye on Lori tonight" Dean tells Sam and he nods. "What about you two?" Sam asks them. Dean looks over at a hot young blonde chick with a sly smile on his face. "We're gonna see if we can find that unmarked grave" Y/N says smiling tightly.

Deans smile drops "But I-" He goes to contest but Y/N smacks his arm. "The case comes first" She says firmly and he groans disappointed. "Man you're no fun" He mumbles as they walk out of the building. "Do I need to show you how fun I can be?" She scoffs and his smile reappears. "You're on" He retorts and they laugh walking out.

________________________________

A little later they walk through the Old North Cemetery, flashing their lights at headstones. While walking through they hear some twigs snap and holt in their tracks. They begin walking a little deeper in and Y/N draws the headstone with the symbol from the murder weapon to Deans attention.

"Here we go" Dean says as they approach the grave and began digging. After some time of digging, Dean gets frustrated, "Thats it. Next time...I get to watch the cute girls house" Dean huffs as Y/N rolls her eyes. "Shut it and dig, Winchester" She orders and he groans but obliges.

Y/N hits something hard and knocks her shovel into the pine coffin, breaking the top half of it. "Hello preacher" Y/N says and they jump back above ground, over the hole. Dean gets up first and extends his hand to help Y/N out. "Such a gentleman. Guess chivalry ain't dead" She jokes and he laughs.

Y/N grabs the lighter fluid and salt and Dean strikes his matches. Y/N throws the salt all over the bones and drenches it with lighter fluid. Dean strikes the match, lighting it aflame "Goodbye preacher" He says before throwing it into the coffin. Allowing it catch into flames.

Y/N's POV

Yeah that's it. If I hear this guy talk about boning another girl one more time. I'm gonna blow my head off. I still don't understand why I'm getting all worked up over hearing Dean talk about other girls. Yeah I had a crush on him growing up but that was ages ago. I don't think it's possible I could still have feelings for him like that.

Regardless, it's freaking irritating. I need to figure this out. What I know for sure is, even if I do like him in that way. He can't possibly feel that way about me. Screw what the shapeshifter said, it's not possible for him to feel that way about me. For Christs sake, he calls me his little sister. Yeah he flirts but he flirts with everyone dammit.

________________________________

Dean and I rushed to the hospital after hearing Lori's dad was attacked, we see Sam down the hall and run towards him but some cops try to stop us. "Hold on there, kids" The cop says to us. "It's all right, we're with him" I say.

"Yeah. That's my brother. That's- Hey, brother" Dean says cheekily, smiling and waving at Sam. I follow waving at him. "Let them through" The sheriff tells the cops and they oblige. "Thank you officers" I say sweetly before me and Dean walk towards Sam who meets us in the middle.

"You okay?" Dean asks him. "Yeah" Sam assures us. "What the hell happened?" I ask. "Hook Man" He responds. "You saw him?" Dean asks. "Damn right. Why didn't you guys torch the bones?" Sam asks us annoyed. "What are you talking about? We did" I defend.

"You sure it's the spirit of Jacob Carnes?" Dean asks. "Sure as hell looked like him. And that's not all. I don't think it's latching onto the reverend" Sam adds. "Well, yeah. The guy wouldn't send the Hook Man after himself" Dean states and we look back to the room where the reverend is situated.

"I think it's latching onto Lori. Last night, she found out that her father is having an affair with a married woman" Sam explains. "So what?" Dean asks. "So she's upset about it. She's upset about the immorality of it. She told me she was raised to believe if you do something wrong, you get punished" Sam explains further.

"Okay, so she's conflicted" Dean says. "And the spirit of Preacher Carnes latching on to her repressed emotions and maybe he's doing the punishing" I suggest. "Right. Rich comes on too strong, Taylor tries to make her into a party girl...Dad has an affair" Sam puts the pieces together.

"Remind me not to piss this girl off" Dean says cringing. "But we burnt those bones. We buried them in salt. Why didn't that stop him?" Dean asks. "You guys must've missed something" Sam suggests and I shake my head.

"No. We burnt everything in that coffin. I doused the son of a bitch with lighter fluid. Whatever preacher is latching onto, it ain't in that coffin" I say firmly and something dawns on me. "Holy crap. The hook" I say in realization. "The hook?" Dean asks.

"It was the murder weapon. And in a way, it was part of him" Sam says shrugging. "So like the bones, the hook is a source of his power" Dean says in realization. "So if we find the hook.." Sam starts. "...we stop the Hook Man" We all say in unison, smiling and nodding

________________________________

"Here's something I think" I say, sitting between the boys at a desk in the library, reaching for some kind of information. Dean pulls his pen out of his mouth and they peer over to look at the book. "Logbook, Iowa State Penitentiary. Carnes, Jacob. Personal effects...disposition thereof.." I read out of the book.

"Does it mention the hook?" Sam asks. "Yeah, maybe. 'Upon execution, all earthly items shall be remanded to the Prisoner's House of Worship to, St. Barnabus Church' " I read out loud. "Isn't that where Lori's father preaches" Sam asks and I nod. "Yeah" Dean says. "Where Lori lives?" Sam adds scoffing in irony.

"Maybe that's why the Hook Man's been haunting reverends and reverends daughters for the past 200 years" Dean says. "Yeah but if the Hook were at the church or Lori's house, don't you think someone might have seen it? I mean, a blood stained silver handled hook?" Sam suggests. "Check the church records" Dean says and gets up to grab the record book.

"St. Barnabus, donations. 1862. Received: silver handled hook from state penitentiary. Reforged" Sam sighs, reading the record book as Dean sits across from him and I sit next to him. "They melted it down. Made it into something else" I say shaking my head

________________________________

We end up back at the church, hoping to find the reforged hook. "Alright. We can't take any chances. Anything silver goes in the fire" Dean says as we walk towards the church after getting out of the car. I nod and Sam says, "I agree"

"So, Lori's still at the hospital. We'll have to break in" Sam tells us. "Alright. Take your pick." Dean says to us. "I'll take the house" Sam says. "Okay. We'll take the church" I say and he gives me a curt nod before he heads over. "Hey" Dean calls out to his brother.

"Stay out of her underwear drawer" Dean says smugly and Sam scoffs while I laugh. "Not everyone is you, Dean" I say laughing as we walk towards the church. "Damn right they ain't princess" He winks at me and I felt my heart flutter a bit. "Whatever charming" I grumble laughing.

We immediately get to work after breaking in, throwing everything silver into the first. "I got everything that even looks silver" Sam says coming down from the stairs with a bag. "Better safe than sorry" Dean says and Sam hands me the bag. I put it down and me and Dean start emptying stuff into the fire.

Some floorboards creaking caught our attention, we holt in our actions, looking up into the direction of the sound. "Move, move" Dean ushers us to go up the stairs. We all creep behind, following into the church. Dean has the shotgun in hand, ready to shoot.

In the distance on one of the pew, we see Lori kneeling, crying as she prays and my heart gives out for her. Sam looks at us and walks towards her as me and Dean go back downstairs to finish up burning the silver.

"Let's hope after this he finally gets some" Dean chuckles as we walk downstairs to burn more silver. "Is sex all you ever think about?" I laugh, grabbing some silver to throw in the fire. "I'm a growing boy, Y/N. Hormones and all" He smirks at me and I snort. "Oh you're something" I retort as he laughs.

"You okay?" He asks me concerned. "Yeah why?" I ask back surprised. "I don't know. I just haven't seen you smile much in the last couple weeks and it's weird because you're always smiling. I'm just concerned" He says nicely. "Woah, Sammy is rubbing off you on there champ. Are we gonna braid each others hair next?" I joke and he rolls his eyes laughing

"Bite me" He grumbles, throwing the last of the silver in the fire. "Maybe I will" I counter and his eyes snap up to mine. My breath hitches in my throat as his eyes pierce into my (e/c) ones. Our heated gaze is once again cut short by some ruckus above us in the church. We immediately bolt into action.

Dean runs in with the shotgun in his hand and I grab my iron cuffs out of my boots, clutching it to my fingers. When we run up we see Lori on the ground, the Hook Man towering over her and Sam pulling himself out of a bookshelf.

"Sam! Run!" Dean yells as we run and Sam ducks as Dean shoots the spirit. Sam and Lori at on the ground, gasping for breath. "I thought we got all the silver!" Sam exclaims. "So did I!" Me and Dean say in unison. "Then why is he still here?!" Sam yells. "Well, maybe we missed something" Dean states the obvious.

My eyes flicker over to Lori's necklace. "Lori, where did you get that chain??" I ask her. "My father gave it to me" She says hastily. "Where'd you dad get it?" Dean asks roughly. "He said it was a church heirloom. He gave it to me when I started school" She explains. "Is it silver!?" Sam asks loudly.

"Yes!" She confirms and Sam rips it from her neck. When he turns to us, necklace in hand, we hear a scraping behind us. Turning to see the Hook man scraping the wall down the hall. Dean throws the shotgun and some rounds of salt to Sam, which he catches, while simultaneously Sam throws the necklace and I catch it. We run down the hall to go downstairs and burn the necklace.

As we run down we hear a shot fire. Throwing the chain into the fire which takes it sweet time to burn, it finally catches a flame and melts. Me and Dean cheer before hugging, he picks me up and spins around. My heart flutters when I realize what just happened. He drops me back down quickly but gently, clearing his throat.

"Sorry...got caught up in the moment" I say softly. "We're good" He nods at me winking and we run back upstairs to see Sam and Lori in the floor. Happy and sighing in relief.

________________________________

The next morning the police is questioning me and Dean meanwhile Sam is getting patched up by the ambulance. "And you saw him too? The man with the hook?" The officer asks us for the millionth time. "Yes, I told you. We all saw him. We fight him off and then he ran" Dean explains exhausted.

"And that's all?" The officer asks. "Yes sir, that's all" I say calmly. "Listen, you, your brother and girlfri- " The officer goes to say to Dean and he begins walking off. "Oh, don't worry. We're leaving town" He says annoyed, cutting him off and I hold back a laugh. Walking with him towards Baby.

As we're walking to the car I ask him, "aren't you freaked out by it?". He cocks his eyebrow at me, confused. "By what?" He asks me, leaning against baby on the drivers side while I lean on the back right passenger side. "People assuming I'm your girlfriend" I ask shrugging and he freezes.

I couldn't help but notice the tinge of pink the rose on his cheeks but I choose to brush it off as the cold weather. He just shrugs and says nonchalantly. "Cant tell people what to think" He jumps into baby before I could respond and I take that as the end of that conversation. Don't get you hopes up L/N, he will never look at you that way.

I jump in and look through the side mirror to see Sam and Lori talking by the ambulance. "You think he's gonna do it?" Dean asks me. "I think he already did it" I say back and he snorts, looking slightly disappointed as Sam walks off and towards the Impala.

Sam gets in, sighing a bit and holding his head. "You alright Sammy?" I ask him concerned and he nods. "We could stay" He says to Sam and he shakes his head sadly. Dean and I look at him worried but with that we make our way out of there.

________________________________

Authors Note:

This is once again, unedited and to whoever is reading thank you for reading and being patient with this upload. I appreciate your support so so so much.🫶

Xoxo

[lady-ashfade]

Hello love, it’s 🦂-Anon here again and I just adored your latest fics.

I have been thinking of the crows with more hybrids readers and it just clouds my thoughts. Could we get something with yandere crows giving a neko reader a collar? (Also I hope we can get more bunny reader)

Yandere Six Of Crows x Fem!Neko reader. Hc’s

Yandere Six Of Crows x Fem!Neko reader. (Romantic)

I had this exact idea too! I wanted to do it with the bunny reader but i got more plans for it! So hopefully I can finish it.

I will do so much more if you guys want. Puppy, fox, heck even a spider reader. This is just so fun.

Warnings: Collaring, Pet relationships, obsession, protective, little suggestive…So minors go away or don’t interact, but nothing bad.

You must really love being the center of attention don’t you? It was so easy to get their eyes focused on you, even when you weren’t trying to.

You could just be sitting down with a book and facing away from them, but here they are literally just loving how you breathed. The group praised every little thing you did, they are your own cheer team.

But they were so overbearing. You had no freedom at all, and I mean at all. You want to go downstairs into the club? At least one of them has to be close to you. You want to go for a walk? Two group buddies follow you.

Just think, you, their little baby were to get hurt? They could bare the thought- in fact they couldn’t fathom it.

You have a bed in all the rooms, each of theirs bedroom or offices. I mean of course you’re more then welcome to sleep with time but just encase.

Their hands constantly touch you. Or they just watch your tail wag around in whatever mood you are in. They melt when your ears flicker, like Nina almost died once. But you were a Neko, which the cat side of you just had the urge to bite back.

So they have spray bottles.

I can see them having bite marks on their hands at all times. But you did feel bad about it.

Punishment wasn’t that often because you were obedient for the most part. But when you would stare at them and just knock something over, or back sass them- Or even hiss at them.

There are a few different approaches. 1) of course the spray bottle, 2) Ten minutes in a cage, 3) Being forced to go for a walk with a leash attached to your collar, 4) Or you will be locked up for a few days in your room. Though the last one was only when you fought back. And they felt bad about it but you had to learn. But you weren’t starved or anything, you just couldn’t have any company. Just you and the room.

But let’s talk about what you asked for, your collar.

It had to be perfect just for you. It was black leather straps that wound wrap around your throat, a metal circle in the center that had a hook of a small bell. And it had room for something to be attached, like a leash.

You weren’t aloud to take it off unless you asked, or you’d be punished.

They couldn’t stop but stare each time they saw you and the collar that rested on your skin. You belonged to them, they had marked their territory. It filled them with pride to know they could be the ones to collar you.

Everywhere you went the bell rang and they could hear you a mile away. The jingle got them excited each time because you were close.

You could take so many cat naps on their laps and they wouldn’t move for hours. Kaz loved it when you would just stay with him while he works. Your peaceful breaths made him calm, even he would pet your head.

Of course they wouldn’t let anyone get to close. You remember one day when you went into the bar without one of them close too you, one thing lead to another and a drunk man found you.

He was taken away and beaten to death by Kaz’s cane. Kaz didn’t care if anyone saw, it would send out a message that you weren’t to be approached.

Kinda spicy passed this line.

You were walked at times with the leash, mostly by kaz or Nina when you’d acted up. It was embarrassing and you cried the whole time, no matter how much you struggled they just tugged you through the streets. They didn’t try and hide you, in fact they wanted people to stare at you because then you’d cry even harder of embarrassment and think twice before disobeying them.

They would hook their fingers in the loop and tug you forward to kiss you, they enjoyed your blush and purring you got.

They knew how to massage your cat like features to make you whimper out. Your tail was very sensitive and they enjoyed when your voice got high when they tugged on the fluff. You think they care if they are out in public?

No. It doesn’t matter where you guys are, if it’s just waving in front of them it doesn’t matter where they are. They are touching you. I think Jesper is the one to do it the most because he finds it fun to tease.

Wylan is however the softest one, but the clingiest. He would steal you away all the time so you could just be with him, one time the others had to drag you out his lab because he didn’t want you to leave. He also likes it when you would listen to his music or curl up at his side.

I can see you trying to climb matthias all the time because he’s so tall and you know he finds it a bit annoying. But don’t let the tough man fool you, he fucking loves it. Don’t tell the others but he hides treats for you all over.

Inej can take hours of her day just watching you and kaz has to remember her she has a job to do. I think she might kill anyone that looks at you, her mind thinks they would steal you away and put you in the menagerie. Making her go feral and protective . She isn’t as bad as the rest with the touches and she likes it when you come to her first. She would never pull on your trail or ears for fun, unless you asks for it of course but she doesn’t want to hurt you.

But even she can’t stop herself from pulling you around by your collar to hear you squeal and have to follow her around.

[in1-nutshell]

Hi again. I’m on a real kick of beast Wars characters as parents.

Can I request Rattrap as a dad?

Because Rattrap would make a few mistakes but he’d love his sparkling to death. I think he would teach them to be sneaky because he’s a spy.

I also think it would be funny if the sparkling were to bite Dinobot, Rattrap would laugh and be like “Heh kid, you and me are gonna get along just fine.”

Hahaha, yeah these requests about the Maximals as parent are fun to write about. Here is our Rat Dad in action.

Hope you enjoy!

Rattrap finding an abandoned Sparkling

SFW, Familial, platonic, Cybertronian/ Bot reader

Beast Wars

The sparklings beast mode is a chameleon.

Rattrap, for all his worth, has the most self-preservation of the entire team. If he finds out that there is danger, he is out of there…unless his moral compass and orders are taken. And if it involves Dinobot then there’s a 50/50 on that.

“Oh, well we tried.”--Rattrap

“Where’s Dinobot?”--Optimus

“…so who’s ready to get back to base?”--Rattrap

“Rattrap…”--Optimus

“Rodent! You tripped me down the stairs!”—Dinobot

He may seem selfish and mean… but he is loyal and stubborn in a good way. Nothing bad is going to happen to his friends on his watch and is not afraid to speak or sass anyone out. It can however backfire with his temper, especially with Dinobot.

Which is where the story begins.

Rattrap had stormed out of the base after yet another argument with Dinobot. This time the wound was still a little sore and he decided to take a walk and maybe do some patrolling before coming back to the base. His team knew that taking some time off was a big deal, especially when he wanted to go out alone during the night. Rattrap never liked doing night patrols, especially alone. But they let him off so he could cool down a bit.

“Stinkin’ mouth… stinkin’ Dinobot…”—Rattrap

Now Rattrap was on one of the patrol trails when he heard something in the air. He quickly hides when he hears crashing and a lot of angry screaming. It sounded like Terrorsaur. But the sound of the Predacon slowly went away, as if he just flew off.

“Now… to look at what made the sound in the dangerous wilderness by yourself without any back up whatsoever. Or go back to base where its warm and safe with Chomperface waiting for you…”--Rattrap

“I must be crazy for doing this. I think I’m hanging out with Cheetor and Silverbolt too much to be doing a stunt like this.”—Rattrap

Rattrap, despite every single hair on his body screaming to get back to the base, decided to check out what made the noise. He found the pod with the hatching opening. Carefully he comes closer and was soon looming over the case and was stunned.

It was a little sparkling, and what it looked like, had scanned a beast mode already.

“What in the name of Cybertron?”--Rattrap

Sneeze

“Yuck!”--Rattrap

Giggling sparkling noises

“Oh, you think that’s funny?”--Rattrap

Laughing sparkling noises

“All right, all right kiddo, let get you out of here.”--Rattrap

“Hey everyone Rattrap’s back!”--Cheetor

Shhh!”--Rattrap

“Rattrap… What’s that?”--Optimus

“Oh well I found this cool looking wrench on the way back—“--Rattrap

“He means the sparkling!”--Dinobot

“Shh! Buddy doesn’t like loud noises too much Scale belly!”--Rattrap

“You already named it?!”--Dinobot

“What part of shh! Don’t you understand Lizard lips!”--Rattrap

Dinobot tried to get the sparkling from out of Rattrap’s grasp to give to Rhinox when they sneezed and disappeared.

“What in Great Aunt Arcee did you do?!”--Rattrap

“I don’t know it just disappeared!”--Dinobot

"Spread out and find them!"--Optimus

After 5 minutes of searching for them again, they were right next to Rattrap the entire time. That was one exciting first impression. The sparkling starts getting raised by everyone on base as no one had time to solely to focus on them with the Predacon’s still attacking.

The sparkling, thanks to their camouflage keeps everyone on edge. Rattrap is the one who manages to get the sparkling and help master their ability of hiding and stealth. Which may not have been the best idea.

“It’s been 20 minutes and still no sign of them!”--Dinobot

“Eh. Don’t worry about it.”—Rattrap

“How are you not worried?”—Silverbolt

“Are you going to call them and think they’ll show up? We’ve been doing that already, its not work—“--Cheetor

“Easy. Buddy time to come out now. Come to Rattrap.”--Rattrap

Buddy appears behind Dinobot’s tail.

“Gah!”--Dinobot

He had an epidemy on parenthood when one day the sparkling went missing for hours after a nasty fight broke out between Rattrap and Dinobot.

“Brontobrains!”--Rattrap

“Cheese lips!”-- Dinobot

“Hey where did Buddy go?”--Cheetor

“What do you mean where is Buddy?”--Rattrap

“They where just here…”--Silverbolt

“Buddy! Buddy come to Rattrap!”--Rattrap

…

“Oh Primus…”--Rattrap

“Sparkling on the loose! Everyone watch your step!”—Silverbolt

Everyone was looking around the base. Looking through every crevice and corner. It seemed as if the sparkling truly had disappeared out of thin air.

“They’re not in the CR Chamber”--Rhinox

“Not in the top cupboards.”--Silverbolt

“Not under the table in the main room.”--Blackarachnia

“Not in their room.”--Tigatron

“Not in any escape pods.”--Airazor

“Not in the weapons room.”--Optimus

“Not in Dinobots room.”—Cheetor

“Not in Rattrap’s room.”—Dinobot

“… outside…”--Rattrap

“What?”--Dinobot

“The hatch is open… Oh Primus they’re outside!”--Rattrap

Everyone was sprinting towards the door and fanned out across the area. Rattrap ended up finding them near the place where they first met.

“Buddy? BUDDY!”--Rattrap

Happy little sparkling noises

“What were you thinking kid?! You could have been kidnapped out here! Or a Pred could have scrapped ya! Do you have any idea how worried—“—Rattrap

The brick of parenthood has struck once again.

He brings them back to the base where everyone comes in surrounding them all making sure they were okay.

The next day he announces that he would be the sparklings permeant guardian. He is full on ready to sass back anyone who opposes the idea. To his surprise Dinobot is the first to congratulate him for taking him so long.

Congratulations Vermin. Maybe now your attitude and smell will go away with the Buddy here.”--Dinobot

“Oh, that’s it you overgrown stinky iguana! Come here!”--Rattrap

Rattrap always keeps the sparkling close by him, blame his paranoia. If he had to go out on patrol, Dinobot is his first pick for babysitting. If he can’t it’s usually between Rhinox or Silverbolt.

He might accidentally give the sparkling some bad influences, but he is trying his best to make sure that they turn out all right. He installs honesty in this little guy down to their core…unless it came to their Uncle Dinobot or any other Predacon.

[juniette13]

Can you explain your reasons for not liking Scaramouche's redemption? I'm also not a huge fan of how he was written.

Of course!

One of my biggest reasons is it comes off to me as if Genshin is too scared to make characters who are blatantly evil and against the traveler playable

Which to me…honestly I don’t understand their mentality with it

IMO I think it’s perfectly fine to have characters who are evil and/or against the traveler to be playable! It brings a contrast, a flavor of sorts to the playable cast of characters

I was hesitant at first to say Genshin was too scared to make morally questionable/wrong characters playable, but considering La Signora’s dead, Ei’s EGREGIOUS redemption arc, and Scara’s redemption arc, I’m seeing a very blatant trend here, one I’m not a fan of

Now I know Arlecchino got released and is playable, I, however, stopped playing the game awhile back, I honestly don’t even feel like returning to it because all the content is wearing me out, along with the writing decisions and how I personally think the writing is just getting extremely convoluted, so I can’t really speak on Arlecchino’s matter because honestly I don’t know if her personality was watered down or not

My biggest issue is I feel like the redemption arc not only butchers what could’ve been a great character, I remember the days of when Scaramouche was just an asshole and that’s all he was, just an evil person, and not when he was some uwu little guy who does nothing wrong, but the arc also honestly ignores all the things Scaramouche has done and would rather pin the blame on other characters Like traveler why on Earth are you teaming up with the guy who killed Teppei??? You know, the NPC that died in the Inazuma arc, the NPC who’s death enraged the traveler so much that the traveler just ran headfirst into a dangerous situation without a second thoug-Ohhhhh right his death was just for shock value and doesn’t really hold any weight on the traveler! Right!

Scaramouche was also responsible for getting La Signora killed, however this is never addressed and just swept under the rug It’s writing decisions like that that just makes me so frustrated

I think it would’ve been fun if Scaramouche was just some blatantly evil guy, not every character needs some sob story, a whole plot point where they just whine and whine, and then some half-baked redemption arc where now he’s completely woobified and just an entirely diff character, minus the sass

Like he’s just sassy now, he’s not even mean anymore 💀

It disappoints me because there was so much potential to him and I would’ve been perfectly fine with him just being plain evil, I’m at that point where Dottore, a character who is just straight up evil, has no reason behind it, has no remorse for his actions, is a breath of fresh air and the only harbinger I enjoy because of that I do hope Pantalone also just ends up being a blatantly evil character, albeit not as extra as Dottore, and it would be fun if he monologued like Bedman from Guilty Gear XRD (I might even draw him to some of the monologues LOL)

But anyway yeah, just to sum everything all up in short bullet points

-Characters doing heinous things and then turning around, spewing a sob story, and becoming completely watered down woobified versions of themselves is overdone and tired in Genshin

-Scaramouche would’ve been great if he just stayed as an evil character, not every character needs to be morally in the right or on the traveler’s side, let the traveler have more significant enemies instead of nameless NPC #928291 ISTG 😭

-Scaramouche’s redemption was not earned

I know people are going to disagree with me, that’s fine, just make sure to keep it civil if/when interacting with my post

Anyways thanks for the ask! I can also do a post on Ei’s botched arc if needed or anything of the sorts, I like ranting about this stuff!

[late-to-the-party-81]

Coming of Age

AN: A little something for @steverogersbingo and sort of a late birthday fic for Stevie.

Unbeta’d

If you would like to be added to my tag list, click here.

Moodboard by me and dividers by @firefly-graphics

Likes are loved, Reblogs are golden

Master List | SRB Master List

Challenges and Bingos:

SGR Bingo Square B4 - Coming of Age

Summary: “Alright,” said Steve with an expression so grumpy it looked totally put on, and probably was. “I’ll come over later. Just for your Ma. And the girls.”

Bucky grinned, hands in his pockets and leant back on his heels. “Just for the Ma and the girls? What am I, pal? Chopped liver?”

Relationship: Steve Rogers & the Barnes family, Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes

WC: 1k

CW: Mild Angst, reference to Sarah Rogers’ death, Bucky POV, confusion about feelings, pining, Fluff, Jewish Barnes Family.

“You don’t have to do this, Buck. You know that.”

Bucky rolled his eyes at Steve. “I know I don’t have to, but the thing is that Ma wants to.” He saw Steve’s expression change and knew that he had him with that - there was no way on earth that Steve was going to disappoint Winnie Barnes.

“Alright,” said Steve with an expression so grumpy it looked totally put on, and probably was. “I’ll come over later. Just for your Ma. And the girls.”

Bucky grinned, hands in his pockets and leant back on his heels. “Just for the Ma and the girls? What am I, pal? Chopped liver?”

Steve broke into a smile and he elbowed Bucky sharply (and given his sparrow-like frame it was always sharply). “Jerk!”

“Punk!”

Bucky pulled Steve into a hug, one that would have been classed as a few seconds too long if either of them had been other people. “Don’t be late,” he muttered into Steve’s mop of hair.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” came the reply, somewhat muffled by Bucky’s own clothing.

Several hours later and there was a knock at the door to the Barnes’ apartment.

“I’ll get it!” shouted Becca as she sped past Bucky, eager to be the one to answer. “Steve!” came her excited exclamation as she opened it and barreled into Steve, almost knocking him over. Bucky looked on, amused. It wouldn’t be long until Becca was taller than Steve, a fact that Becca liked to affectionately tease him about. Steve liked to retort that it was because her body had to grow to contain all her sass.

Eventually, Steve managed to untangle himself from Becca’s embrace and the other two girls as well, who’d gathered around him like bees around honey. Bucky gave him a lazy smile over their heads and Steve returned it with a bashful one of his own.

“Bucky! Steve! Girls!” Winnie called from the kitchen. “Time to come eat.”

They all walked down the hall and squeezed into the small kitchen-diner, Bucky and Steve sharing a bench that could only just fit the two of them, their elbows pressed together. Neither of them cared - this is where they always sat when at the Barnes’ supper-table. When they were all sat, George Barnes recited a blessing for the food they were about to eat and then they all dug in.

Bucky liked the way that Steve just seemed to ‘fit’ with them all here. He’d been so worried about how Steve would manage when Ma Rogers had passed away. He’d even invited Steve to come and live with them all, stating they could put the couch cushions on the floor for him, but his best guy was nothing if not stubborn - boy was he stubborn - and Steve had insisted that he could manage on his own. It hadn’t stopped Bucky, or his Ma, from stopping by with a ‘surplus’ of food every now and then, or offering to do his laundry because they were doing some anyway and the addition of a few more shirts and under-things wouldn’t make much difference.

Now this day had come for Steve, Bucky was hoping that he could convince Steve it would be a good thing to live with someone else, and not just on his own. And that maybe, that someone else could be him. Steve deserved to not be alone - he deserved happiness. The fact that it would mean he wouldn’t be under his parent’s thumbs anymore would just be a bonus.

Steve’s laughter at his side from something his father had said, caught Bucky’s attention and he turned to look at his friend, the light bouncing off his blonde hair and catching the sharp edges of his cheekbones. He knew he wasn’t supposed to notice how handsome Steve was, but he couldn’t not notice it either. Because despite his short stature, wiry frame, bad heart and substandard hearing, Bucky thought that Steve was the most captivating fella he’d ever seen. He wished out of the pair of them he was the one with artistic talent so he could capture what he saw so that other folks could see it too.

As the meal came to an end, Bucky looked over at Winnie. “Ma? Can Stevie and I have our dessert out on the fire escape?” Why did he sound more like a small boy asking for permission than the grown man that he was?

Winnie smiled at the pair of them indulgently. “Of course you can. I suppose you boys want some quiet time.”

He could see Steve’s blush as he smiled at his ma. “Thanks, Mrs Barnes.”

She shoo-ed them off with a smile and a wave of her apron. “When are you gonna start calling me Winnie, Steve?”

“Ask me next time I’m round,” Steve teased back. Bucky took the opportunity to cut a large slice of the dessert, plate it, grab a fork and a few extra things and then he and Steve walked through to the back bedroom and climbed out onto the fire escape. Steve had grabbed a couple of pillows from one of the beds so the hard metal plating wouldn’t dig into their backsides. 

They were just getting settled when the first fireworks lit up the sky in a riot of colour and sound. Bucky sometimes wondered what they looked and sounded like to Steve, with his colour-blindness and partial deafness. However, Steve seemed to like them enough and Bucky used the moment to stick a small candle in the top of the slice of apple cake and light it with a match from his pocket.

“Happy twenty-first birthday, Stevie,” he said, a lump of emotion forming in his throat. Steve smiled up at him, face shrouded in darkness except for when an exploding firework reflected in his eyes, and then leant his head against Bucky’s shoulder. The pair of them watched the candle burn down for a few moments, before Steve blew it out. 

“Thanks, Buck,” he replied, obviously trying to hide his own welling of emotion. Bucky allowed him that dignity.

“I’m sorry you couldn’t celebrate this with your Ma.”

“I know. But she’s still here. Somewhere. And it’s not like I’m alone. I’m still with family.”

On that warm night, on July 4th 1939, two best friends traded bites of apple cake while watching the fireworks, neither knowing what was to come.

Tag list: @km-ffluv, @wheezy-stucky, @kmc1989, @kombatfather1796

@christywrites, @alexakeyloveloki, @doasyoudesireandlive, @galactusdevourerofworlds,

@crayongirl-linz, @mightstill, @nicoline1998enilocin, @starrkermarvel, @king814318

[just-a-bit-of-a-nerd]

Idk if you take requests, but if you do I think it would be cool to do a part 2 on your Captain Jack Sparrow x daughter reader if you feel like it. Have a good day 💙

Stolen maps and hurt hearts

(gif not mine)

Warnings: talks of dead mother, boys being mean, and like one curse word

Summary: You get in a small fight with a few boys but when they say something that hits a nerve you dad is there to comfort you.

Parring: Captain Jack Sparrow x daughter Reader

M/N= Your middle name

Enjoy!

You and your fathers crew were making their way to the Faithful Bride Tavern to take a small break from sailing the seas. Your father sat in the corner of the room drinking his rum while you sat at a bar not to far away, talking to some random person you didn't know before today.

All was going quite well until you heard a voice from the entrance.

"Y/N M/N Sparrow," a young boy who you knew as Harry shouted and once he did it seemed the whole place went silent and your fathers eyes were on you.

Before anyone could do anything you got up and ran for the back exit while whispering "Buggar buggar buggar," under your breath.

As you were just about to make it out, one of Harry's friends, Arthur grabbed you by the waist and swung you face to face with Harry who slammed you against the wall.

"Now now lads, that is no way to treat a lady," you joked but no one was in a laughing mood.

"No games Y/N," Harry started, "what did you do with my map?"

So it may be true that the last time you saw Harry you did indeed steal the map to a treasure you and your father were looking for but you sadly no longer have it.

You bit your knuckle as you answered, "Oh yes that map, I'm afraid it was destroyed," you explained with a fake nervous smile, "not that it'd be any use for you now for I've already collected the treasure."

Harry's eyes turned a shade darker in rage, " You little witch!" he shouted in your face.

"See again with this talk, is this how your mother taught you to speak to women?" you smart mouth.

"Well I suppose mine did better than yours, it's a shame yours isn't around to teach you how to be more of a lady," Harry sassed back taking you off guard for a second not long enough for him to notice, but long enough for your father.

"That's quite enough," Jack speaks as he walks out of the watching crow.

"I see," Harry starts, "to much of a daddy's girl to fight her own battles-"

You then cut him off with a swift punch to the jaw and that's when Arthur wrapped his arms around you once more but you managed to aim a kick right for his groin making him fall back in pain.

"Would anyone else like to tic me off?" you question as you look around the crowd and everyone goes back to what they were doing.

You look at your father and you see the worry he has in his eyes and before you could do something you'd regret you walk right out of the bar as your father follows not far behind.

You walk out to the ship where one of the crew mates take watch, "you go have fun, I'll watch the ship," you explain and he just agrees. Everyone takes orders from not only Jack but you as well.

"Have a nice night Miss. Sparrow," he says as he walks into town.

The quite you longed for didn't last long as you saw your father walk up to the boat.

"What?" you asked as he got aboard ship.

"You know what," he stated as he leaned on the railing that you were sitting on, "you have the skills to hide what you feel from everyone in that room but you cannot hide your sadness from me," he explains, "do you want to talk about it?" he asks.

"Not really," you say honestly.

"Alright then I'll just drink this rum until you do," he states as he takes a swig of his bottle.

You and your father have talked about your mother before, it's not a subject either of you like to discus considering it's a sad topic for the both of you and neither of you like feelings. Though every time you have the talk about your mother Jack reminds you that you had nothing to do with her death though you simply cannot believe that. It's not entirely a regret you have because there's no point in having those, the past is past and you cannot change it so don't wish to. But you do wonder where your mother would be if she never had you. At least she'd be alive and at the end of the day you were the reason she died. Not only that but it was hard for you to grow up without a mother. It was a learning curve for you father needing to learn about all the ladies things and you never had anyone to get first hand advice from, everything Jack knew he had heard or was told.

That's what sent the tears running down your face. You never liked to cry, not even alone and never the less in front of your dad. You've only cried 3 times in your life besides when you were in infant, and every time it's been about your mother, this was the third time and only the second Jacks ever seen you cry.

He takes notice as soon as your first tear falls and he pulls you into a hug as you sob in his chest. It was only you and him, which you did love but sometimes you wished you could see how it felt to have a lady to look up to all your life. And by no means did you strive to be your mother, you knew the kind of person she was and you knew the kind of person you wanted to be. And it sure as hell wasn't her.

"It's alright love," your dad comforts you, "fate can be cruel sometimes."

"Am I really that bad?" you ask feeling waves of insecurities, "Am I in desperate need of a mother?"

"Trust me love I've met odder women than you," he jokes, "you're just stronger and braver than all the women Harry have met, and that's good because those kind are the fun ones," he explains.

That makes you giggle, Jacks not always the best at comforting but he's learned how because of you and he's gotten much better at it over the 14 years he's had with you.

"Anyway, you did good dealing with those two, amazing shot on the big one," he congratulated as you wiped your tears, again neither of you liked feelings that much and it was time to change the subject.

"Thank you, I remembered you teaching me that one."

"That's my girl," he said as he put an arm around you, "do you wanna go back in there?" he asked.

"Sure, lets see if Harry wants a round two," you said with a smirk.

Jack made a face at that, "Yes I'm not sure about that, I wasn't to keen to the way he was grabbing you," he said worry and annoyance in his tone.

"Really? you're afraid he's flirting?" you sarcastically asked.

"That's how I'd do it," he says honestly as he takes another swig of rum.

"You have no need to worry," you reassure, "I'd go on a date with the Kraken before I go on one with Harry."

"Well I'd rather you go on a date with no one," he deadpans.

"Of course you would," you sigh.

[isalisewrites]

Listen, it's that time of the year again! The biannual bullshit in the form of 10 hours over the course of two days called the Mormon General Conference has begun and I'm forced to watch since I'm a PIMO Mormon (physically in, mentally out). This means a bit of an interruption to my usual writing, fandom, Tomarry, Legend of Zelda, and general gay shenanigans.

However, this is the first time where I'm emotionally and spiritually in a powerful, stable place and I'm officially unaffected by these talks. (I still like to bitch about them, tho, haha) They don't wound me like they have done before. They hold no power over me now. I remember how deeply affected and spiritually wounded I felt in April 2022, weeks before my "shelf" would break and my faith finally deconstructed to its end. But even General Conferences afterwards, I would still feel sickened by the talks.

I'm free of their spiritual shackles on my heart and soul.

I'm sorry, but it's become glaringly obvious that these men have nothing truly good to say. When you're in it, you don't see just how vapid and empty their words are. There's nothing of substance. There are no solutions. No. Reading scriptures and praying and "following the covenant path" are NOT solutions.

These men have no power and no authority. They are too old to make true change, just like the politicians in our government. We're taught they have the power of god, but they don't. Sorry, gentlemen, but you're nothing in comparison to my own uterus, which ACTIVELY wants to kill me. I don't fear you. I have no fears. You are weak in the face of my unwavering strength and peace as an unbeliever, who has no absolute answers about the nature of life and death.

I have peace you can't comprehend.

After all, if there is an afterlife where we must face our actions with our fellow humankind, I'm confident in my personal integrity. I am filled with sass, but I am kind and loving. Those who know me know this.

You... however... there is need for concern.

After all...

Where is your integrity when you protect and hide the vast variety of abusers?

Where is your integrity when you actively suppress women, demoting their status to ONLY wives and mothers?

Where is your integrity when you hate and turn on your LGBTQ+ siblings and deny them access to your heaven?

Where is your integrity when you lie and hide the dark truths of the origins of Mormonism?

Where is your integrity when you point blank lie about the wealth accumulated, to the point the American government FINED you for it?

Where is your integrity when you use that wealth to buy commercial properties?

Where is your integrity in the lack of building homeless shelters, schools, parks, or whatever could enrich and protect the local communities?

Where is your integrity when you spend millions of dollars on gilded temples in favor of the dead when the living sit homeless, exposed to the elements and without food, in the streets a block from those doors?

True integrity is a strength of self. My integrity demands of me to call out the bullshit and the lies; it tells me to remain calm in face of those who refuse to see my true heart, who claim that I am the one without light. I remain unaffected when those I love lash out at me because I no longer align with their thoughts and beliefs.

If you cannot see my heart, then it's clear you're the blind one.

"Christian kindness is not a substitute for integrity."

This is a contradicting statement. True integrity cannot be without kindness and love. No kindness? No integrity. No exceptions.

True integrity is NOT where you avoid "criticizing the doctrine or the culture" or the leadership in Mormonism.

What hypocrisy.

[rae-raewrites]

Hi! First off I love you're writing your very talented! And second how do you think the riddlers would react to finding out they have a teenage daughter they never knew about (how inherited there smarts and sass)and something happened to the mom so they have nowhere to go so they track him down.

Oh geez it’s dad angst time😂 this is just a bunch of boys dealing with the younger versions of themselves. Also sorry this took so long anon!

The riddlers finding out they have a teenage daughter

Warning:mentions of death

Arkham

It was out of pure annoyance when he actually answers the phone after 13 missed calls from Jonathan crane.

So when Jon casually invites him over saying he needs talk to him he’s even more miffed. And then he finds this kid having tea with the dr, who the hell was she-?

“Ah Edward so nice of you to join us,this wonderful young lady has been trying to find some way to reach you.”

The her in question was a rather well put together 16 year old girl who was like a mirror of his younger years. She certainly had his eyes. Eleanor,her name was Eleanor

He’s not stupid and he puts two together quite easily.

Mom gone to cancer,the youngster was left in Gotham to survive on her own with only the understanding that he was her father. Her mother had apparently kept his tie from the fateful evening.

Apart of him him tells himself to just not bother with her,the other stronger side tells him not to be his father

Things are tense at first with moving in. He’s never really shared a space before with anyone so he’s avoidant at first. Not thinking she’s going to be much help with his projects

He is completely surprised when he finds out she knows her way around electronics

But then he realizes the kid has his photographic memory. And his sass……

“When was the last time you took a shower?” “Please explain to me a how a shower will improve any of my plans.” “Simple: you’ll stop me from dying from gross sewer dad smell.”

It irritates the hell out of him but when she start’s jabbing at the other rouges he’s a proud man.

They bond over getting work done,so much time lost yet there making up for it real quick

She created a rather wacky Rubik’s cube that left Batman puzzled for at least two days

Of course he got a kick out of taunting the dork knight while also genuinely being proud of his daughter

It’s hard to get used to hearing the word “dad” in relation to him but it’s a title he “humbly” accepts in the end

BTAS

He received a knock on his door one extremely sunny morning

Gina found him after his “reformation” and partnership with wacko toys was announced to the public. It wasn’t hard tracking down a man in the spotlight

Edward is of course absolutely stunned by the realization.

To his understanding the girl from metropolis knew the basics of his criminal career. The off traps and puzzles were something well known outside of the city.

He feels out of obligation to take her in,I mean he’s a villain but not a monster. Kid gets say down with some hot coco

Of course when he is brought back to Arkham the poor kid is quick to go and visit him and calm him down as well as work on a way to get him out

He’s rather surprised when he get broken out by jervis and Jonathan and they have him a letter from his prodigy with little xoxo’s and detailed escape plans

When he does get home he pretty much is dead set on teaching her everything he possibly can,how he got the virtual reality set up to work,his more simple traps

Of course just like her dear old dad she’s quick to design some of her own.

“A nothing machine that actually does something……. Out of the box but I adore the ingenuity.” “At least it’s more safe than the vr incident”

BTAA

It was another day of Eddie not being able to figure something out using the box method,unfortunately sticking two nuclear bombs and a tricycle and an old Macintosh in the box just wasn’t cutting it that day.

Cue Tuesday getting a phone call from Miss autumn at the behest of scarecrow

“Hey Eddie do you have any kids you forgot to tell me about?? “No….why?” “Oh geez”

He’s basically the surprised pikachu face meme when he meets Tina,kid was smart enough to get the drug king pin of Gotham to listen to her.

She looks so much like him!!

Of course he’s still skeptical! I mean any kid can just say there his! (But still!)

That completely disappears when the kid creates her own gizmos that rival her fathers

Of course rivaling his intellect means also rivaling his ability sass and make fun of everyone else

“A toaster with a tv screen?” “I know,I know not my best work.” “Well duh coulda thrown it in Gotham harbor and it would be more useful.”

Of course him and her quickly put their collective mind brains together and craft some rather complex new plans

Tuesday is totally chill with her around especially considering she’s able to chill him out when he’s suffering from writers block

Really Edward just got another child on top of already having miss Tuesday. He loves his two daughters from their two different origins

Zero year

Moira visited his cell at Arkham shortly after his defeat at zero year

He was already not in the mood for visitors until the determined teen calls him an idiot in a lime colored pimp suit

Hey! He doesn’t need some red headed brat coming in to his cell like she owns the place!

Oh wait…….

Let’s just say that he smartens up real quick to what’s going on.

Initially wants to tell the kid to bug off,he’s got a criminal career to succeed in but she’s quick to point out he doesn’t have anything right now

So they come to an agreement: get him outta there and he’ll maybe let her crash with him for awhile

So color him surprised when she gets him out safe with minimal bruising

Hell she’s pretty damm smart he has to admit,she certainly didn’t get it from her mother

He does ask eventually what became of his ex,a car crash left the poor kid with barely much. He was kinda her best and only option go figure

He’s snarky with the kid for awhile,of course she’s very quick to throw it right back at him

But they quickly start to getting together quite well especially when they DO get into a fight and quickly realize how stupid it was to begin with

I mean c’mon,kid could probably rule Gotham in less than a week. She’s not someone he wants to scorn

She’s a pretty smart kid he guesses (he totally loves her he’s just got an ego)