#it also takes next to NOTHING to make him start hitching he'd be like-

[glitterrosesnzz]

thought that won't leave me alone: L/ucifer, during the Eden Era, trying to claim that angels just. don't sneeze. like at all.

so L/ilith challenges him to not sneeze while she induces him- which he fails at of course. he hides behind his wings when he sneezes and then tries to claim that he didn't actually sneeze at all but like. L/ilith isn't believing that shdlfkjsdlfkds

and to add insult to injury. she's using one of L/ucifer's own feathers to induce him.

[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.”

[melloncreamsoda]

Hi! Can I request how Idia Floyd and malleus reacting to you being in a near death experience where your heart stops briefly but starts again?

Floyd + Idia + Malleus when MC is in a near death experience

TW/CW: Mentions of death, GN!Reader, not proofread

extra; thank u for requesting!! I thought this was a pretty neat idea. I hope you enjoy amywyah(ʃƪ＾3＾） also hehe tried out . New theme

synopsis; It was supposed to be a peaceful day, but of course in NRC, no such thing existed. You were out and about, and eventually landed under a tree to do some silent reading, a good distance away from where you could spot Savanaclaw's up-and-coming student athletes training for a match. Unfortunately for you, one thing lead to another, and next thing you know, you're in the infirmary fading in and out of existence.

★☆Floyd Leech

Damn, shrimpy really couldn't take a hard blow to the head, followed by full-grown sized men tumbling after?

All jokes aside, he's scared shitless. He's never been in a situation like this, where for the first time, he is genuinely helpless — nothing he does now can help increase the possibility of you waking up, and it's just a matter of playing the waiting game.

That is until he hears your heart rate monitor begin to flatline. His head shoots up in utter disbelief, with the other surrounding nurses doing their utmost to revive your body — limp and pale.

His sanity is only flying into a downward spiral — did he seriously, actually lose you to something so fucking stupid? He wanted to punch the nurse in the face — you didn't do your best; Isn't your job to make sure they don't die? Why are you so incompetent? He was going to make sure those Savanaclaw students would shiver from the mere idea of stepping into school grounds; beat them into a pulp, is what his resolve was.

However, all that was put on hold when the steady beeping of the monitor was revived, and that was when the waterworks began.

He began bawling his eyes out, even continuing to cry when nothing came out. His grip on your hand was so tight, you swear your circulation almost cut off. He'd never leave your side after this incident, while his resolve still stands strong.

★☆Idia Shroud

He only found out because word spread and Ortho got his hands on the information, eventually relaying it to Idia; and to say he felt beyond guilty was just touching the surface.

By the time he found out that you flatlined, he'd only reached the entrance of the infirmary. To see the nurses working frantically on your fragile, limp body — he'd rather get hit by a car, twice. He doesn't know whether to blame himself or the one who got you here in the first place, but one thing's for sure: he's too afraid to do anything about it.

So he'd end up blaming himself, for not being there to protect you and throughout. And even though the rhythmnic beeping of your heart rate monitor continues.

You can hear his breath hitch, before it turns shaky again. He slides his hands around your torso, resting his forehead on your lap. He doesn't say anything, but it's a wordless exchange that you can hear him say the words: "I'm so sorry."

He doesn't say anything, remaining silent throughout. You feel a puddle seep through your coverup, and end up having to comfort him instead of the other way around.

★☆Malleus Draconia

He's had alot of people come and go throughout his lifetime, but for god forbid the thought of having to live without you cross his mind. So he sits, patiently, your hand encapsulated by his tight grip, because he knows that he cannot do anything to change the outcome.

He merely prays to the higher beings that they'd offer just a shred of humanity to him, that even though wanting you to himself was selfish, they'd sympathise with him.

So when you flatlined, he felt something inside of him crumble — like spackle falling off bit by bit, to reveal an emptiness inside him he'd never knew he had. All he could do now was beat himself up about it — even being such a powerful mage wasn't enough to stop a death? He truly wasn't good enough.

His teeth grinded his nails to no end while he watched the nurses try to get your heart going again, and once the nail was broken through, he'd just simply switch fingers. A frown landed on his face, and you could almost see the anguish and anger boiling inside him through his porcelain white skin, almost transparent.

Milliseconds after an abnormal beep rung throughout the room, he knew his pleas had made it through this universe and the next. He's quick to grab your hand and plant a kiss on it, and you swear you can feel just how cold he was even in your deep slumber. Careful with how he handled you — almsot as if you'd shatter with the tiniest impurity — he was going to make sure you were in tip-top condition as you recovered, and he wasn't going to be leaving your side anytime soon.

[wrencatte]

I don't know about you, but that "I'm so scared." panel is haunting me....

Please excuse all the weird errors of all kinds. I once again wrote this on my phone in tumblr drafts...at work (😅😅).

I won't know how many words this is until I can get it in a doc and clean it up for ao3 posting

Bruce closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, steeling himself.

Dick had a tendency to go high. Jason's tendency is to go low. He tucks himself under tables and in small spaces that adults usually can't fit into. The Cave has a lot of places to hide under (and has a lot of places to climb onto, high into the sky where fear is just a memory and your parents bodies seem so far away) and Bruce has scoured the more obvious places before finding this one: the work table, where he dismantles and fiddles with gear.

And where Jason has taken to messing with his own gear, absolutely fascinated by the intricate mechanisms that made it all work. The kid is an absolute gearhead along with his love for literature, several books on different engines and vehicles have started to migrate to his room.

So Bruce crouches on his knees and peers under the table. The table is deep for toolboxes and a set of drawers on top, and Jason has managed to shove himself in the darkest corner, curled up in the smallest ball possible. He's hit a slight growth spurt in the last few months, leaving his elbows and toes sticking out from the shadows. His face is tucked into his knees. His breathing frantic and hitching - but still so impossibly quiet, like he's spent years teaching himself to cry silently and Bruce's heart breaks all over again at the reminder

(This isn't the first time Jason's cried since he came to live in the Manor, and every single time Bruce never knows unless he's right there when he starts or if he walks in on him mid-sob. And Bruce hates it.)

Bruce's broad shoulders block the light, and Jason flinches into a tighter ball, toes disappearing in the shadows.

"Hey," Bruce starts then stops and doesn't continue for a long moment. Jason stills like a rabbit caught in a fox's gaze, barely perceivable quivers. He exhales slowly. His knees ache on the worn thin rug that's meant to keep dropped things from rolling away. He settles down, legs crossed, hands up on his knees to show he's unarmed, though who knows what Jason's actually seeing. "Want to come out from there?"

Jason shakes his head.

"That's alright," Bruce assures him even though it can't be comfortable down there. "You don't have to so anything you don't want to do."

Jason's next breath is the loudest thing he's ever heard since he got hit with the fear gas. A new batch, more potent than the last. Half a dose could give an adult a heart attack. Jason got one-eighth of a dose via a broken mask and a second too late realization. Hell, they didn't even know he'd actually gotten hit until they made it to the Cave and Bruce turned around and he was gone, the analysis beeping behind him with the announcement that their current anti toxins would be ineffective.

He has a new anti toxin slowly being pieced together by a program and under Alfred's watchful eye, but that does nothing for him right here, right now, with Jason too terrified to make a sound.

Bruce doesn't talk much - he's never needed to - but he sits there and he starts talking. First about a case, of a long ago Rogue that had a funnier gimmick than most and did surface level property damage more than anything else - but eventually he found himself talking about the Justice League, about their unprecedented expansion, about various antics some of the newer heroes get up to.

He doesn't know if Jason's listening or even hears what he's saying. The boy doesn't uncurl. Doesn't make a sound. He hopes that he's breaking through the living nightmare somehow, but he also knows that hope doesn't mean anything.

But he keeps talking anyway.

During a lull, when Bruce's mouth is dry and his throat hurts and - Jason shifts just the tiniest bit. He peeks out from behind his knees, eyes glittering in the dark, and stares at Bruce with pupils blown wide from fear and drugs, chin trembling. Bruce feels like the kid is looking into his soul and finding him lacking, but he opens his mouth anyway and croaks out,

"I'm scared," soft and wavering, thick with tears and the type of brokenness that lends itself to helplessness.

It's a little bit like a confession. An admittance he doesn't want to make but he has no choice but to make it.

"I know," Bruce says gently. "We can fix that, though. It may seem like it, but you don't have to be scared forever."

He holds out a hand, warm and inviting in that same way he did towards the kid sitting across from him at a rickety outdoor picnic table, one who'd just finished inhaling a subpar batburger and fries, one who'd just fifteen minutes ago had even caught jacking the batmobile's tires and had the moxie to whack Batman in the stomach with a tire iron.

The kid then had eyed it warily. And didn't take it, just took a sip of his drink and quietly agreed to let Batman set him up in a warm house with warm meals and clean clothes and the most comfortable bed ever with the 'person I trust the most' - which isn't Bruce Wayne, but one Alfred Pennyworth.

The kid now eyes the hand warily. And takes it. Lets Bruce help him from under the table and lets Bruce fold him into a tight hug, his face tucked against the man's neck, breaths sobbing and hitching.

"I'm so scared," Jason repeats.

"Not for much longer, Jaylad. I've got you."

"I'm so scared," he says out loud, but there's no one around to hear it.

Jason's both grateful for it and collapsing inward when there's no assurance that'll all be over soon, that it won't be forever, that dad's got him. He drops to his knees with a gasp, heart thudding so hard he can feel it in his throat.

He's alone.

He's alone and there's a fear in his chest, invading his lungs, burrowing in his bones. It's going to be there forever. Forever and ever until he dies from it because this isn't a new life, this isn't a gift or love. This is a death sentence. Jason puts a hand to the ground to heave himself up but the thought of walking onto those streets makes him gasp and choke and the fear cycles in on itself from fear to adrenaline to fear fear fear. Never ending. Ramping up bit by bit the more Jason breathes and trembles and, fuck, he's terrified.

Jason scrambles backward on his hands until he hits a shelving unit that rattles. It feels like a knee to the spine, holding him down, driving in, and he sobs quietly. Quiet like he always is when he cries because there's never been a point in being loud about it. Being loud just got attention and attention was always bad.

And he's back to where he was fifteen minutes ago before Marquise - Scandal - showed up and dismissed him and walked away before he could explain. Knees tucked to his chest, arms around his legs, trying to convince himself to stand up, to just go already. His chest heaves. The space gets humid from his tears. He feel like he's going to pass out, dizzy and nauseous.

He's too exposed like this, Jason thinks. Realizes. Fears. (And that fear feeds back into itself, and he hates, hates this so much, but that's not enough. The hate isn't enough to override it.) The room is half trashed and covered in rubble, and he's a whole foot taller than he'd been as a kid, but there, right there -

Jason fits there. Here, under a metal table that has his mask sitting innocently on top. It got wedged against a wall, propped up slightly by some concrete. He tucks himself under it and stays there.

And thinks about - nothing. Because if he thinks about anything - like Batman across the rickety picnic table, offering him a warm house and warm food. Like Batman scolding him for doing something reckless and scaring the shit out of him. Like Bruce sitting on the floor, so patient and understanding and telling him that this fear is only temporary.

Like Batman throwing batarang and the thick spray of blood. Like Batman throwing a punch hard enough to shatter his helmet. Like Batman ripping the insignia off his chest and dragging him across a rooftop.

Jason can't help the whimper. He tips over to lean against a table leg and gasps around the vice around his lungs.

He won't make it out of here. He'll hyperventilate himself into unconsciousness and someone will find him, wearing most of his Red Hood suit, and that person will kill him. Or they'll call the cops and he'll end up in Arkham and he'll die there. There is no normal life. No identity in Metropolis for him. Even if he did make it there, he'd be dead at the first villain attack, unable to defend himself as his aderenaline surges and the fear sets in.

He never expected Bruce to be this so fucking naïve. Cynical idealism? Sure. But not this.

"Hood?"

Jason doesn't acknowledge his name, or the voice. Purposeful footsteps crunch on debris, announcing their path from the hole in the wall to Jason, getting closer and closer.

And closer.

Until there's a shadow of legs blocking the scant light. Until the figure crouches down and there's Nightwing, peering under the table with wide, concerned eyes. He's not wearing his domino, Jason notes almost distantly. His body doesn't feel like his own anymore for all that he can feel the cool metal table against this temple and the rough feel of his pants in his clenched fists.

All there is, is the fear.

"Jason," Dick says with his own kinda fear.

He's reaching under the table, not holding a hand out for Jason to take, for Jason to choose for himself - and the man doesn't know the significance of that, but something in Jason settles anyway at the stark difference.

Dick goes all the way, cupping Jason's face like he does with them all - a pinkie under the jaw for the faint hint of a heart beat, a thumb across the cheek for comfort, his palm to lean into and let him carry the weight. And Jason does lean into it, trembling and shuddery, wet eyes closing.

"C'mon, let's get out from under here." He guides Jason forward until he's spilling into his brother’s arms, face pressed into his shoulder. The Nightwing suit is too tight to grip so Jason wraps his arms around Dick instead, clinging to him tightly. Dick hugs him back just as hard, rocking back and forth.

"I'm scared," Jason whispers - an admittance he has no choice but to make.

Dick hugs him tighter, pulling him into his lap like he's a child. Under a difference circumstance it would be comedic - Jason is broader and taller than Dick - but right now he's just small.

"I've got you," Dick says gently.

He doesn't know why, but that juat makes Jason cry harder.

[hornyhornyhimbos]

pov: you and aaron know exactly how to spend your night off together ♡

18+ obvi, afab!reader, soft dom!aaron hotchner x sub!reader, male masturbation, thigh riding, allusions to oral m!receiving, reader licks cum off of aaron, aaron sucks reader's nipple, slight ball play, explicit language, aaron is a musical theatre geek bc i said so, not beta read, color coded speaker tags, based on this post by @canuck-eh, 1.3K words!

filthy fridays | ask box

any night spent with aaron was a good night in your book.

nights spent watching television until you fell asleep in his lap, nights spent at the new italian restaurant in the next town over, nights spent with him buried deep inside you and making each other cum over and over again. no matter the activity or setting, if you were with aaron, it was a good night.

this night had started out like the first aforementioned setting. his legs spread with your body in between them, your head on his chest while you intently watched the musical playing on the television. most people didn't know aaron was actually a musical theatre nerd, but you had learned very quickly. now, a couple years into your relationship, it was a nearly monthly tradition to take a train to dc and watch plays at the kennedy center.

the musical played quietly, and you weren't a hundred percent sure that aaron was still awake. you thought you heard the familiar puffs that escaped his lips when he'd fallen asleep after a long day, but something about the sound seemed different than usual.

you turned your head to look up at him, being met with the sight of his lips parted and a slightly pained look on his face. it was when you registered the slight shift of his hips behind you that you realized he wasn't snoring… he was moaning.

you looked up at him through batting eyelashes, your own lips parting ever so slightly. "aaron?" you called, innocence coating the word. despite your feigned innocence, your hand slipped up from your lap, traveling to his broad thigh, dancing delicate circles over the already-uncovered skin. you secretly thanked the heavens above that aaron made a habit of lounging in nothing but his boxers.

"yeah?" he said, clearly struggling to get the word out. his hips shifted again, almost as if he was trying to nudge your body away from him.

"something on your mind?" you inquired, your eyelashes fluttering. your fingertips continued to skate nonsensical shapes across the breadth of his thigh, slowly inching toward his ever-growing erection.

his breath hitched in his throat when your hand stopped at the middle of his boxers, palming him through the thin material. "please," he all but whimpered, shoving your hand away.

you weren't sure whether to be offended or aroused when he pulled his hardened cock out of his boxers, his much larger palm wrapping around the shaft. he bucked up into his hand, moaning at the feeling.

normally, you'd have your mouth around him by now, whimpering as he slowly worked the length of it to the back of your throat. his hands would be gripping your hair, telling you to take all of him, reminding you what a good girl you were for pleasuring him like that. but tonight, he seemed focused on doing all the work himself, and you couldn't say it didn't turn you on.

you also couldn't say you weren't curious as to what got him in this shape or if this happened more regularly than you thought. you knew aaron masturbated, it was a fact of life, given that more often than not, he was away on cases. but you also found yourself curious about his habits, how often he jerked off without your knowledge, what he thought about when he did it.

your eyes flickered up from his dick to his eyes, your voice thick with want as you asked, "what made you feel like this, sir?"

his head fell back into the couch cushion, working his hand up and down his length. "y-you, baby. watching your pretty ch-chest rise and fall. feeling your p-pretty hands on my legs. all you, baby."

now he had your breath hitching. your eyes went glassy as you watched the way he moaned your name, the way he licked his lips as he stroked himself particularly roughly. you managed to ask, "what do you think about when you touch yourself?"

he mewled, his eyes screwing shut. "y-you getting yourself off w-while you watch me. riding m-my thigh and letting m-me bury my face in y-your breasts."

your cheeks went hot at the thought, though you didn't hesitate to ask, "would you like to try that now?"

he groaned, his head falling impossibly further into the couch cushions. "shit, baby, i'd like that a lot."

you nibbled his thigh, tantalizingly close to the head of his cock, earning you a quiet groan. "don't have to be quiet, sir," you reminded him, "wanna hear how good it feels."

you made quick work of your pajama shorts and panties before sinking yourself onto his massive thigh, eliciting a louder moan from the man as he felt how wet you were just from watching him.

"shit, baby, d' i make you feel that way?" he managed to ask, flexing his thigh beneath you. this time you were the one eliciting whimpers, working your core along his skin and surely soaking his leg.

"always, sir," you answered, your chest heaving as you humped his leg, the friction of all his little hairs absolutely intoxicating. "only this wet for you."

you both worked yourselves faster, aaron surely on the brink of cumming by now. though you weren't quite there yet, the thought of him cumming while watching you perform his fantasy nearly had you there.

aaron moaned pornographically loud as he took one of your breasts in his mouth, suckling on the bud as he thrusted up into his hand. your hands had settled on his chest to steady yourself, but he moved one of them down to his balls, showing you exactly how he needed your touch.

your head fell back as you rode him harder, your unoccupied hand gripping his chest for support, crescent moon shapes surely being left behind in its wake. his name tumbled from your lips like a record stuck on a loop, music to aaron's ears.

"baby, i'm g-gonna-" he mewled, his strokes becoming sloppy and his thighs beginning to shake. profanities and groans tumbled from his lips in some incoherent mixture as he reached his orgasm, his seed spilling all over his hand and stomach.

watching him fall apart underneath you had your orgasm following quickly, your pussy fluttering on his leg as you rode his thigh in sloppy thrusts. the friction was all too much and not enough at the same time, your head falling back as you let out a soft, "oh, aaron."

you both stayed like that for a long moment, catching your breath and coming down from your highs. you leaned down, colliding your lips for an intoxicating kiss, your hands moving to his shoulders for support as he deepened it.

you forced yourself to pull away, taking his cum-coated fingers up to your mouth. moans escaped his mouth as your tongue swirled around the digits. there were many things you were unsure of, but there was one thing of which you were absolutely positive: his taste was decidedly your favorite.

his head fell back again as you finished licking up the mess he'd made on his fingers before moving on to the seed that had spilled on his tummy. "shit, baby, are you trying to go for round two?"

your eyelashes batted again as your tongue swiped over his happy trail. "maybe," you said with a smirk, your hands slipping down the expanse of his chest and ending at his thighs. "maybe i just want a real taste of you, sir."

if aaron knew better, he'd tell you no, because he knew once you both started, neither of you could stop. luckily for you though, aaron didn't know better. "sounds like a plan to me."

-> taglist: @reidsbookclub @broken-stardust @dungeons-are-too-cold @theghouligan @sadgirlml

[solomons-poison]

One More Time

Toji Fushiguro x reader

: ̗̀➛ A/N: While on vacation, I dreamt that I was writing a really steamy Toji fic and scrambled to write down what I could remember as soon as I woke up lol. Haven’t written in ages besides one paragraph drabbles so sorry its trash, it is very self indulgent. Also didn't know how to end it whoops

: ̗̀➛ Tags: @venulus @peachsayshi I know its not what you expected to be tagged in but hope you enjoy

: ̗̀➛ Warnings: straight up smut with zero plot; no pronouns used but reader has breasts and a vagina, mention of edging, overstimulation, pet names (precious, kitten, baby), dacryphilia? I guess, vaginal sex, creampie, little bit of breeding and size kink if you squint, little bit of fluff at the end

: ̗̀➛ Word count: 1.1k

Masterlist

You were falling apart under Toji for what felt like the 10th time that evening while he continued to pound into your poor abused cunt. He always made it a point to have you fall apart on his fingers and tongue at least a few times before getting to the main event, and this particular evening, Toji took his time edging and overstimulating you until you were begging him for mercy. You're not sure what possessed him tonight, but you were on the verge of losing your mind if he had kept up his teasing. He would stop, of course, if you had told him to. He could be mean sometimes and very dominant, but he knew how to rock your world and never left you wanting, in bed at least.

His hands were next to your head, keeping you caged in while your thighs were forced far apart and up against your torso to make room for his hulking body. It was captivating, how powerless and small you seemed beneath him, and you'd be lying if you said it didn't turn you on how he handled you, knowing all your weak spots and using his strength to mold you to his own wants. It was remembering this that pushed you towards your end. Your mouth opened in a silent scream, breath hitching, as you tipped over the edge into another mind-breaking orgasm.

Toji grunted above you, feeling you clamp down on his cock, and it took everything he had to not go over the edge with you. He powered through, continuing to slam his hips into yours, desperate to feel you cum on his cock one more time, always one more time, before he'd succumb to the pleasure. As much as he wanted to cum with you and flood you with his seed, nothing was more addicting to him than watching you fall apart on his cock. You writhed beneath him as he continued his onslaught, the overstimulation making you scrabble to grab onto his forearms that were next to your head, trying to hold onto something to ground yourself at least a little.

"Fuck, Toji, please..." you panted, tears starting to stream down your face. You weren't even sure what you were asking for, if you wanted him to speed up and break you all over again or if you wanted him to give your poor cunt a break already. The pleasure was overwhelming, feeling like your orgasm was never ending, and you weren't sure you could handle another. But Toji was determined to draw it out of you regardless, made it his mission to get you completely drunk on him and the way his huge cock carved your insides to fit him exactly. He could probably get off on just the sight of your tears and flushed face by itself, the way your tits jiggled every time his pelvis smacked into yours.

"C'mon, precious, I know you can take it. Just cum for me one more time," Toji growled out, sweat dripping down his face.

He moved up, away from your body, and readjusted his position to grip your thigh to keep you close. The change in position let him reach a little deeper, the head of his cock rubbing against your sweet spot, drawing out louder moans and whines from your lips. Meanwhile, his other arm reached to squeeze one of your breasts and pinch your nipple before detouring, trailing his fingers down the length of your torso until he reached your mound, leaving a tingling feeling in its path. Your eyes widened as you realized too late what he intended to do.

"N-no, wait, Toji, I can't, s'too much--" you started to protest, but Toji brought his calloused thumb down on top of your sensitive clit, immediately pulling a whine from your swollen lips and cutting you off effectively. Your hands reached down and grabbed his thighs, gripping and pushing against them as if your body wasn’t sure either if it wanted to stop or continue.

As he continued railing you into the mattress, he started rubbing small circles onto your bundle of nerves, your whines turning into a loud moan from all the pleasure. Your thighs started shaking, the walls of your cunt fluttering around him as his cock continued to bully its way into you and Toji knew you were just moments away from breaking apart beautifully for him.

"That's it, kitten, cum for me, baby. I wanna see you cum for me, I need you to milk me again, " he groaned. "Let me fill that tight little pussy up, fill you 'til you're dripping with me for days."

Toji's filthy words always had away of being both your start and your end, forever stoking the fire he was so good at igniting within you. Your body seized up a moment before the dam broke, convulsing hard. A loud moan ripped out of your mouth and Toji couldn’t help but smirk, stretching the scar across his lips. However, the smirk quickly faded as he felt your walls hugging and milking him, and his hips stuttered as he let his own long-awaited orgasm finally wash over him as well.

You could feel his warmth start to fill you at the same time he groaned out in pleasure. Toji leaned forward and wrapped his strong arms around your waist, burying his face in your shoulder and holding your shaking form close as he continued thrusting and helping both of you ride out your orgasms. He made a few more deep thrusts, both of you shivering from the overstimulation, before finally stopping and granting you mercy for the night. You could feel his body relax against yours, not pulling out yet, and despite his large mass, it was comforting, being in his arms and his warmth as you tried to catch your breath.

Your hands snaked up and threaded your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, basking in the afterglow. You felt a soft pain on the side of your neck as Toji made a mark on you to join the many others he’d inflicted during this evening’s session, followed by soft kisses along your neck up to your lips. He always got like this at the end of your trysts, as much as he'd never admit to it openly. He was addicting that way, his initial roughness paired with the sweetness he showed only you as he held you close. Showing affection was new for him, but as awkward as he was, it was endearing, and you wouldn't have it any other way.

╚═══*.·:·.☽✧    ✦    ✧☾.·:·.*═══╝

Comments appreciated, let me know your thoughts!

[msmargaretmurry]

Do you have thoughts on Quinn Hughes/Matthew Tkachuk ?

oh, friend, do i!!! i feel like something not everyone knows about me On Here is that i'm a voracious multi-shipper, so obviously even though i love matthew/leon and brady/quinn a lot, i have a whole bunch of other ships for all of them that i love to rotate in my mind.

matthew/quinn is high on the list because: a) i love both of their mama's boy eldest siblingness a lot and think that would make it fun to mash them together, b) i'm such. SUCH. a sucker for a "crush on my best friend's older brother" scenario, and c) ooooh the brady of it all. feeling like they have to sneak around because it feels weirdly like they're betraying brady by hooking up but feeling equally weird about keeping it a secret from brady? oh yes. telling themselves it's fine to keep the secret because it's ~nothing serious~ and then whoops at some point it got serious? brady finding out about the secret relationship at the worst moment possible? the possibilities for family drama and friendship drama in addition to romantic drama are RICH. or, something where it starts out with quinn having some unrequited brady feelings but matthew is the one available? i have told a few people that i've always felt there was an alternate timeline version of head above water where leon doesn't come to toronto to train but matthew winds up going to boots with the hugheses anyway, and he and quinn hook up there and wind up on their own long dramatic journey to falling in love. it would have been a completely different story from HAW but i HAVE pondered it.

that all being said, i do feel a little feral about this pairing whenever i see these pictures or think about jack referring to matthew and brady collectively as "quinn's boys." i don't have a link, but that interview where quinn says that between matthew and brady he likes playing against brady better, because he loves getting to see brady and matthew is SO annoying to play against? also fuels me.

a while back i wrote this little snippet for someone on twitter — i can't remember what the prompt was, it was one of those 'give me a pairing and one word and i'll write a tiny fic' things. anyway i think it's the only matthew/quinn i have actually written, but i'm quite fond of it, so please enjoy:

"So," Quinn says, leaning against the bar next to Matthew. "Is it weird to see your little brother get married before you?"

The bartender is making Matthew yet another of the 'his' option from the themed his'n'hers cocktails, even though Brady’s drink of choice is a little too sweet and it’s starting to make Matthew’s teeth hurt. Matthew waits until he's finished, thanks him for the drink, then joins Quinn in facing outward toward the reception. It's in full swing, joyous and messy. Brady, of course, is in the center of it all, sweaty and beaming, his tie nowhere to be found.

"Nah, " he says. "We always knew he'd get hitched first. You know him, he's a fuckin' romantic."

"He’s a sap," Quinn agrees. Quinn is drinking a beer, and he’s only a little sweaty. His tie is loosened but where it’s supposed to be, his groomsman's tuxedo (sans jacket) still in good shape. Better shape than Matthew’s. Matthew does know where his tie is, it’s just not on his person. His shirt is half-unbuttoned; his waistcoat is fully unbuttoned. He is almost as drunk as he looks. Judging on the same criteria, Quinn is not nearly drunk enough.

"You look like you need to party harder," Matthew says, bumping his shoulder to Quinn's.

"Working on it." Quinn holds his beer up.

"These are stronger." Matthew counters with his cocktail.

"Those are gonna give you the worst headache tomorrow," Quinn says, but he takes the glass out of Matthew’s hand and drains half of it anyway.

Matthew grins. "Atta boy."

"Ugh."

"Yeah."

"Why are you even drinking that?"

Matthew shrugs. "I’m being supportive."

"There are better ways to show Brady you love him," Quinn says, but he says it with a laugh, so Matthew is pleased with himself. Quinn’s not an easy guy to make laugh, unless you’re Brady or one of Quinn's brothers. He offers Quinn the rest of the drink, but Quinn waves him off to go back to his beer, and they’re quiet for a moment, watching the crowd on the dance floor bounce along with an Imagine Dragons remix.

"I think it's gonna feel pretty weird," Quinn says. "When Jack and Luke get married before me."

"You’re so sure they will?" Matthew asks. Quinn gives him a look like he’s a little bit stupid.

"I’m not dealing with that while I’m still playing," he says.

"Right," Matthew says, indeed feeling a little bit stupid, because, you know, same hat. "Yeah. Yeah, I know, but I’m also like, it’s not like I have someone waiting in the wings to meet me at the altar or whatever. I’m not even close."

"Yeah, that too." Quinn finishes his beer, then looks back out at the dancing mob, his expression pinching. "I kinda wanna get out of here for a little bit. Don’t tell Brady I said that."

Outside, by moonlight and lamplight, it's easier to see the pink flush of Quinn's cheeks, the sweat staining his collar. The summer air is sticky, but it’s somehow refreshing anyway. The wedding venue is surrounded by gardens and vistas that are beautiful in the daytime but unnotable at night. They walk in silence until the thump of bass from inside fades, and Quinn clears his throat.

"I won’t," Matthew says, then, his mouth running ahead of his brain, "Yeah, come on, let's go." At Quinn’s dubious look, he sets his glass down and gestures grandly toward the door.

"I didn’t mean, like," he says, his face scrunching as he puts the innuendo into the next words. "Let’s get out of here. You know?"

"Yeah, I know," Matthew says quickly. "Me neither."

"Okay," Quinn says, and the acknowledgement somehow makes it easy not to know, a minute later, in the dark spot between lamp posts, who kisses who first. Makes it easy to recognize that the way Quinn kisses like he’s starving has nothing to do with Matthew himself, and easy for Matthew to just let himself fucking have something for ten whole minutes before they slip back onto the dance floor like they never left at all.

[black-aurora-nora]

How would yanderes Naruto and Itachi(Separate) react to the reader running away from her own wedding? Like the vows are being said and stuff and reader manages to slip away from them and hitches her dress and starts to make a run for it? Would they find her and if so, what would they do to her?

He would be really confused and distraught.

Why would you leave him? You had been all smiles up until the vows and now you just up and leave?

He doesn’t get angry, he can’t.

He has to remind himself that weddings are very stressful and that must’ve been the reason you ran away. You were just scared, right?

You wouldn’t leave him because you didn’t love him, right?

No, no. That couldn’t even be a possibility.

You doubted his skills, but he finds you. You didn’t get very far, so it wasn’t difficult you take you back.

Naruto shushes you as you scream and plead, telling you that there’s nothing to be afraid of and that he’ll take care of you. You’ll both be so happy together once you get over your little hysteria.

There’s no real punishment, just a little scolding when the special day is over and you’re both laying in bed. He has his arm latched around your waist in case you try to run again.

Though, it didn’t really matter since he’d given you a little bit of medicine to calm those little nerves of yours.

Everything would be okay in the morning. And if not, your loving husband would be there to help you out.

Itachi isn’t surprised, just disappointed.

He knew from the very beginning that you would remain stubborn and resist everything that he did for you. Though he admired that stubbornness, it also annoyed him. All he wanted to do was care for you, like a good husband.

So when you left before the vows were finished, he immediately set out to find you. He didn't care if you didn't want to marry him right now, you'd learn to love your new life with time.

Itachi was able to find you in no time. However, he doesn't continue take you back to the wedding ceremony, he immediately traps you in a genjutsu.

If you think that being with him is torture, then he'll show you true torture.

He keeps you trapped as he drags you back home and you guys continue the ceremony the next day.

You're eerily quiet the entire day, not knowing how to process the sheer terror that you'd experienced that entire night, but Itachi doesn't seem to mind when he's finally able to kiss you without a fight.

Now all he had to do was nurse you back to health, but he'd be sure to keep the process nice and slow to ensure that you learn to need him.

[whittlore]

HHHHHH IDK WHY BUT I JUST STARTED WONDERING IF THERE’S ANYWAY TO GET HITCH OUT OF THE STATE HE’S IN WHEN HE’S FILLED WITH EMPTINESS (I mean when he drinks his vial)

or is it just a matter of time till it wears off (if so how long till it wears off)-

Alsoalsoalsoalsoalso totally unrelated but what’s the dynamic between hitch and ash👀👀?

WELLLLL IT'S A MATTER OF TIME

he has 3 phases.... the first one where impassive has the control and actually helps him get stronger and have more senses like targeting the whatever feelings he wants to manipulate it and exhagerate it blablabla [i won't spoil his powers] and win the fight OR escape..

second phase is where he fills back his vial through anyone he sees that has enough negativity to suck that up in order to have the emptiness after inflicting too much pain to the victims. [cuz like we say, after feeling too much you feel nothing.. that's what he wants]

BUT, like it's said [not literally] in the mini comic he does have a little control so impassive knows who he isn't allowed to touch [enko, shattered, and a few more]

and the third phase is after the vial is full, hitch is in his most weakest state- glitchy eyes [cuz I don't know if you remember but his eyes glitches if he forces too much on his powers] and when he's on his second phase it delays it until it's finished. so, yeah, very tired, very weak, very vulnerable, can't do shit a complete mess lol.

and, he pretty much is afraid of being hurt and stuff like that because, if he is caught like this he will not be able to do anything- like, nothing his strength is gone xdd and knowing the fact that he's temporary blind [he sees blurry and glitchy] he doesn't really know who or what is next to him which makes him panic— it takes a few days, or week to recover..

and after going thru that he's better!

[little plus >] the timelaps between phase 2 to phase 3 depends on how long he takes to collect impassive tears... I mean if he fails to find any emptiness, or it's not enough to fill the vial, he will stay in that state UNTIL he finishes his job... :D and, also you can totally have a normal conversation with impassive, he's not some uncontrollable entity or whatsoever,

he's just strange..( ͡^ ͜ʖ ͡^)

do NOT come to him though- he has to come to you if he genuinely wants a conversation or anything that needs contact and chit chat-

and the dynamic with ash... [i had this ask I never answered yet lol] he'd probably think he's a weirdo lol, definitly doesn't like how he stares, he thinks it's creepy. and I can totally see them not liking each other, and annoy each other, he does tolerate him, idk for ash but- he's definitely not as close as enko is to hitch.

probably never will ( ͡≖ ل͜ ͡≖)'.... or maybe?? depends on how ash is willing to cooperate —

[breakaway71]

I know about a lot of your WIPs, obviously, but for the WIP titles game, tell me about The Song you Sing in the Shadows because I don't think I know that one?

You might know it without realizing you know it LOL, although I haven't talked about it in some time. This was what I tentatively titled my Vampire!Reggie fic, which was basically... The boys died from vamps instead of hot dogs, Reggie got turned instead of killed, has to spend the next 25 years adjusting and trying to forget his best friends. When Julie finds their old demo album and accidentally summons Luke and Alex as ghosts, Reggie is not prepared. I still go back and poke at this one sometimes, but it turned into something really daunting and kind of got backburnered. (I also started a different vampire Reggie fics in the meantime, wondering if I should just scrap this one as Too Much, but in the end, I couldn't do it, so I keep hoping I'll go back and really give it the time and attention it deserves one of these days!) snippet:

He hears the approaching footsteps, the sound of a steady heartbeat, like something out of a dream. It drags him out of the darkness he's trying to drown himself in, makes the torrent of tears slow, then stop. Reggie has the half-hearted idea that he should move, he should run, because anybody who finds him like this is going to think he's homeless or dangerous (he guesses maybe he's both, now), but he doesn't want to move.

Let them come, he thinks. What's the worst they can do?

"Reggie?" he hears, and it startles him enough that he looks up, blinks through wavery vision to see the young woman coming towards him until she's close enough to kneel beside him. "It's Reggie, right? Your name?" Her voice is soft. Accented. He recognizes it, but it takes him a long, addled moment to place her.

"Rose?"

"Dios mío," she breathes. "I heard what happened to your friends, but you weren't with them when the ambulance came, everyone said it was just two from the band, and I feared… So I came looking." She places a hand on his arm. He blinks down at it, confused, thoughts moving too slow for whatever is happening right now. "Come, we need to leave the streets. I can help you."

Reggie doesn't know how anyone can help him now, but she's been the single bright spot since this nightmare began and at this point, he thinks he'd be willing to follow her anywhere, if only to have some sort of direction.

"I can hear your heartbeat," he tells her, very quietly, as they walk.

There is the slightest hitch in her step, something Reggie isn't even sure he would have noticed if his senses weren't dialed up as much as they are. It's easier to focus on her movements than the blinding streetlights or the blazing club signs or the cars…so many cars and they're all so loud. "I know," Rose finally says.

Reggie stares at her, the clench of her jaw and the tightness around her eyes and the purposeful way she's walking. But it's her heartbeat he notes above all, the way it remains entirely steady. "Why aren't you scared?" Because he's still oscillating between numb and terrified out of his mind, and it might be nice to have some company there.

She darts a glance at him, frowning. "You're not hungry yet, are you?"

Hungry. God, in all the time since he woke up and realized what happened, what had been done to him, he somehow never stopped to consider the connotations hungry would have for him now.

 "No…not really." The street dog dinner he'd been looking forward to feels a million years away from this moment, and the only thing he's feeling in his stomach is gut-roiling nausea.

"Then I've got nothing to fear," Rose says.

[mageofseven]

Repressed Love: A DiaLuci Love Story

Chapter 6

Tag list: @astroseuss @zarakem @brielle043 @missloserqueen

•▪︎▪︎◇°●♡●°◇▪︎▪︎•

The two men were left in low spirits for the next few days. Neither man was left with much hope that they could spare the child from his upcoming pain, but did the best they could to comfort each other. The atmosphere at the castle was heavy during this time. Barbatos did his best to raise the despondent men's spirits, but there was only so much the butler could do with amazing food and comforting words.

During these days, the depressed pride demon allowed himself to cling to his boyfriend and the redhead clung back with just as much love and comfort.

The idea of Lucifer clinging to anyone would have been considered an outrageous thought not long ago, but now...this man didn't know how he'd survive this without Diavolo by his side.

If nothing more, this difficult period really broke down most of the pride demon's barriers. Very little was off the table for what could be said and done with him. As long as he felt Dia's love through it, that's all that mattered to him at this time.

Despite this low period, the two men stuck their usual routine. Breakfast, a stroll through the garden, tea time, listening to Lucifer's favorite (non-cursed) records on the couch as they cuddled, spending time outside with Cerberus to make sure he gets his exercise (it became increasingly clear that his brothers could not properly take care of him on their own so Diavolo had the three-headed furbaby stay at the castle with them, which became a huge comfort to his pregnant boyfriend), all of those sort of activities.

This also included the bedtime ritual of Diavolo massaging the salve on Lucifer's belly in order to give the man some relief from the abused skin.

It always and I mean always ended with Diavolo kissing Lucifer's belly slowly and lovingly as the pride demon stared down at him with this tired, but soft and loving look in his eyes.

It was during such times where an important moment happened with the couple.

"You really love this child, don't you?" Lucifer asked, a soft look in his eyes.

"Of course." Dia kissed his belly once more. "No matter how this happened, this child is a blessing and such things are so rare for demons. I will always love your baby."

"...our baby."

The prince's head snapped up toward his boyfriend.

"Repeat that, please."

Lucifer sighed but gave a small smile.

"Our baby. This child is...ours."

Oh the prince couldn't help it! He launched his arms around around his boyfriend, accidentally pushing him down to the bed.

"D-Diavolo!"

The redhead quickly broke away before smiling sheepishly.

"I'm sorry, my Light. I was just too happy." He told Luce before giving a gentle rub to his belly as an apology to their son.

After a moment of silence, the two men burst out laughing. Yes. Lucifer. Laughing. This was probably the first time in...well, the last century that he's done this. Getting the pride demon to laugh was no easy feat.

Lilith used to be one of the few who could manage it, but since her exit from her big brother's life, the only one to bring Lucifer to this state occasionally was Dia himself.

Once their laughter died down, Dia joined his boyfriend on the bed and leaned over him as he went in for a kiss.

The two stayed like this for a while, kissing and staring at each other lovingly.

Eventually, their son started giving little jabs up at the men, which the prince felt against his abs since he was pressed against his boyfriend's body.

Lucifer's breath hitched before he lowered a hand to rub the sore spot on his overly stretched belly.

"Looks like our child is happy too." Dia grinned.

"Now if only he could show it in a gentler way..." The pregnant man complained, but still gave a small smile when his boyfriend kissed his cheek.

"He's just excited. This is the first time he's heard your laugh after all." The redhead nuzzled his cheek before adding with a whisper. "I know I enjoyed the sound very much as well~."

Oh this man...he was truly the Avatar of Pride's ultimate weakness. Just in the less than two weeks that he's spent with the prince, the pregnant man had forgotten how it felt to not welcome his kisses or his honeyed words.

Even when he felt the weight of the world on his shoulders, this man couldn't help but be insanely grateful for the man before him.

Things have been hard lately, yes, but at least he had his boyfriend by his side. Devil knows he'd never be able to handle this on his own.

Diavolo's smile suddenly fell a bit.

"My Light...you do know that, regardless of what happens from this point on, that you deserve to be happy?"

Lucifer's eyes darken. Almost nothing could have killed the mood quicker than the prince's question.

"Diavolo just...not now, please." The pride demon tried to roll over to face away from the other man, but his belly kept him pinned down.

"You don't have to torture yourself over this. Regardless of how our son is born, it will not make him any happier to grow up knowing you are suffering--"

"But I need this. I deserve this, Diavolo." The pregnant man couldn't bring himself to look at his boyfriend. The prince couldn't have found a more sensitive nerve to hit if he tried. "If not for what I'm doing to this child then certainly for what I did to Satan."

"This suffering is needless and helps no one." The prince tried to persuade him. "My Light, despite what your angelic inclinations tell you, suffering needlessly is not a noble--"

"I am not an angel anymore." Lucifer spewed out, anger rising at just the insinuation.

"Yet the Celestial realm still has its claws in you, tearing you up to this very day."

Lucifer covered his face with both hands, hiding the tears in his eyes.

There was truth to his boyfriend's words. After all, the man may have left the Celestial realm, but the Celestial realm hasn't truly left him. He still aches and grieves and fights what it left him.

The pride demon felt a hand lovingly stroke his dark, messy hair. He lowered his hands to see Dia staring down at him with every ounce of love and care that this man held for him.

"Just know that I love you." Dia told him before stroking his belly and receiving a kick from their son within. "That we love you and want nothing more than for you to be happy."

Lucifer was now more vulnerable and depressed than he's ever been. No matter what his boyfriend says...he doesn't believe that he could ever forgive himself. He was about inflict the greatest pain possible on a second child...and for that, he deserves to suffer.

[soleiisit]

" Sunshine "

@soleiisit / soleiisit.tumblr.com

Warning: Ike Eveland does not belong to me but from Nijisanji! This is a Fanfiction and completely has nothing to do with the Vtuber himself!

P.s This is the First Fanfic that I wrote.

Warning pt2: ANGST ANGST ANGST ANGST, PART2 IS ON GOING, HAPPY ENDING? MAYBE.

Note: I honestly didn't know what to put as a title so it's a bit off. And I also don't know how to put designs or pics on tumblr, I've made couple of designs before but Idk how tumblr works.

..••°°°°••....••°°°°••....••°°°°••....••°°°°••....••°°°°••....••°°°°••....••°°°°••....••°°°°••....••°°°°••....••°°°°••....••°°°°••....••°°°°••....••°°°°

A strained chuckle came out of your throat as you stared at him hovering on top of you, a gentle smile plastered on your face as tears rushed down through his cheeks. You reached out to cup his cheeks with your ghostly cold hand. He held it, rubbing his face against your palm. A sob escaped his pinkish slightly chapped lips, removing his glasses as his golden pair of orbs met your E/C colored ones.

"Don't leave me..please.."

He choked out between soft sobs as his other hand trailed the stab located on your chest. Your formal dress drenched in blood that continuously seeps from your wound, forming a pool of blood all around you.

"Ikeyy.. you'll be fine.."

You broke out as you coughed, blood slipping from the side of your lips.

"No..I won't be.. You're leaving me.."

He sniffled, as he cupped your cheek while gently running his fingers through your hair.

" Well..how about this... let's meet again in another life time, yeah?"

Ike wanted to refuse but his heart yearned to believe your words. Even if it's a lie he'd still believe you. You're the only one he has left in his life and yet the world refuses to give you to him, the gods did not favor his prayers.

He gently shifted you to lay on his lap as you took your last few breaths.

"Ike..promise me. If not in this life, the next one. Let's make our dreams come true,yeah?"

You smiled at him, tears rushing down again. He cursed at himself for not being able to protect you. He couldn't protect you so how could he protect himself..protect himself from the pain, from the grief, from everything. On his dark days, you were the only light that warmed him from the harshness of the cold that the darkness brought.

Ike leaned in to press a kiss on your forehead, a bittersweet kiss of farewell. Your breath hitched the moment he pulled away, knowing that your time will end soon. You stared at him and opened your mouth to say something but your own voice failed you. He looked down at you with wonder in his eyes.

"Do..you want me to sing for you?"

He smiled, a smile that you'd like to keep, a memory that you wish to keep before you part ways. You nodded at his question as you felt your eyelids starting to get heavier.

He started humming a familiar sound, a sound that you always hummed. A song rather, a song that you used to sing. One that you use to put him to sleep.

" You are my sunshine...

My only sunshine...

You make me happy....when skies are...grey.."

He sang, staring down at you as he watched your eyelids give up. Taking slow breaths as you closed your eyes, you felt the warmth of his palm against your cheek. You can hear his whimpers as he sang.

" You'll never know dear.. how much I love you...

Please don't take my sunshine away.."

As if on cue, after singing the part. Your life had finally decided to meet its end, his hand against your cheek. He felt nothing, but the lifeless body of his lover that is laid on his lap, his fingers slowly exploring the clips tied to your hair. It truly did suit you, he silently chuckled at the memory of your bashful face when he gifted them to you. Knowing that this would be the last time he'd see you-- he had savored this very moment staring at your lifeless face, pinkish lips that were no longer warm is now painted gray. Presence that used to be so welcoming, no longer feels like the way it was. Once more he sobbed, he knew he finally lost you. You lost your battle with death, he picked your body up in a bridal style way and brought you to the nearest morgue.

Upon arriving at the said place, the staffs knew that you were murdered so they did not ask him for more information and decided to prepare you for your funeral. He instructed the funeral parlor about the rest of the customization that he wants for your funeral and went back to your shared house. As he walked down the street, face carved into a frown. The street that was once lively, is now brimmed with silence. Walking upon the doorstep of the said house, he unlocked the door. Removed his coat to put it on the laundry basket, staring at it for a few minutes only to realize he was also drenched in blood.

Days passed and it was finally the day of your burial, he wore a black suit. Fixing his necktie, he stared at the mirror. Small bags had formed under his eyes that was the result of sleepless nights, they were even puffy from crying. He walked around the house to calm himself from the nervousness and to stop himself from crying. As he was walking around, he couldn't help but to stare at the dining table on the living room. His heart broke as the memory of you sitting on the chair, he went to you kissing your forehead as he settled the food right in front of you, flashes on his very eyes. He still remembers your smile so clearly, he can still hear your voice which he assume was great since he heard that once the person you love dies. You can no longer familiarize their voice and will soon forget what they look like, he squinted his eyes at the thought as he decided to leave the house and went to the cemetery where the burial is going to take place. Bringing your favorite flower, he placed the (favorite/color) colored flower on top of your casket.

He held a box on his pocket, quietly gripping it--- he didn't know what to do with it anymore so he decided to keep it. He spaced out during the ceremonials and only realized they're finally bringing your coffin down the digged earth. He felt empty watching your casket getting burried, head empty. His lips quivered, his hands trembling from watching everything. Tears prickling his eyes, keeping himself from crying. Time flew so fast, now walking the cold cobbled streets. Following the path to the place where it used to feel like home, his eyes lifelessly glimmered on his tracks. Unlocking and slamming the door behind him, sighing, his eyes fell on the door to your shared bedroom before deciding to come in. Throwing his coat on the bedroom sofa, loosening his tie before shuffling himself on the fluffy sheets of the bed. Wrapping himself on the blanket, he took off his glasses and drifted off to sleep and yet to accept the fact that your physical presence is now gone, forever.

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[graceanne19822]

I was wondering if I could request a Jonathan x female reader fic set in season 1.

Something where all the kids love her because she is their actual babysitter and they all see her as an older sister. She has liked Jonathan since they were kids but doesn’t think he really notices her because she’s seen him looking at Nancy a couple of times at school. But really he’s in love with the reader and he falls even more in love with her when she helps him look for will after will is taken.

Since will and the other kids were at mikes house that night she wasn’t asked to watch them specifically will. Maybe instead of Nancy helping Jonathan look for the monster it’s just the reader?

It doesn’t have to be exactly like this you can always just pick and choose which parts you like or don’t. Also if this doesn’t interest you obviously feel free to ignore or delete!

Yes! I love this, Jonathan doesn't get enough love and honestly when Steve was being a whole ass dick in S1 I obsessed over Jonathan! Now we have a smorgasbord of boys, but Jonathan will always be number one to me <3 I hope this does what you asked justice!(: I changed some of it to you guys looking for Will rather than the monster, otherwise this would have to be stretched into two parts lol

"Y/N!!" Will screamed for you as he came out of his dream, gasping for air. You immediately ran to him, giving him a hug and rubbing his back. Jonathan quickly ran in behind you, helping you hold a nearly inconsolable little brother.

After what felt like forever, your alarms started going off.

"Do you think you can make it to school today?" you asked as he finally calmed down.

"Y-yeah we have D&D tonight. And you know what mom says, no school, no D&D," he answered softly. "I'm gonna go shower and get ready for school," he sighed as he got out of bed, leaving you and Jonathan there to take a minute to breathe.

"Jesus, they're getting worse. What are we gonna do?" You broke down in tears as Jonathan pulled you into a hug, kissing the top of your head.

"We'll just deal with it until it goes away, I guess," he spoke softly. "I'll go make breakfast," he stood up fast as he pulled away from you, glancing your way before going into his bedroom to change. You stood up and wiped your face before going to get your overnight bag, something that seemed to be a permanent fixture in the Byers' living room since you started babysitting Will when Jonathan started working. The three of you (and even Joyce) had gotten very close over the years, and they became like a second family to you.

Though, if you were honest with yourself, your relationship with Jonathan often felt different than the rest. Sure, you'd watched each other grow from awkward teens to now up-and-coming young adults. You'd just turned eighteen eight months ago, Jonathan just two weeks behind you. He'd been...weird lately. You weren't sure why, or if you'd done something. Or worse, what if he could tell you had feelings for him? He was so obviously infatuated with Nancy. Nothing against her, she was a great person, and you'd talked to her a lot when you'd go pick up Will from D&D from Mike's.

The rest of the morning went off without a hitch, you relishing in the accidental touch of Jonathan's hand as he handed you your plate of eggs. The eye contact in the bathroom mirror when you were perfecting your makeup as Jonathan brushed his hair made you blush furiously.

"You umm...you look really nice today," he said softly before he walked out of the room to get his backpack and keys, all piling into the car as he drove you all to school.

================================================

The next morning when you got up for school, you realized you'd left your overnight bag at the Byers'. It wouldn't have been an issue, but it had your only hairbrush and your history paper that was due Monday in it.

Sighing, you hopped in your car and headed towards the Byers', hoping you could just come in and snag it using your spare key, hoping to not wake anybody.

You opened the door, and Joyce was immediately on you, giving you a huge bear hug.

"Is Will with you?" Your heart dropped.

"N-no. Why? Is he not here?" You asked softly, worried you were right about the answer being no. Joyce just sniffled and shook her head.

"I'm going down to the sheriff's department, Jonathan was getting ready for work, but he went to his room. Could you please check on him for me?"

"Of course," you nodded and hugged her as she rushed out the door. Sighing, you walked to Jonathan's bedroom, softly knocking.

"Come in," he sighed heavily, getting up and pulling you into a hug when he saw it was you. "I called in. Can you help me look for him today?"

"Of course, give me ten minutes to get ready and I'm coming with you," you pulled back from the hug, going to the living room to retrieve your overnight bag. You grabbed your hairbrush, toothbrush, and a change of clothes, then headed to the bathroom to get ready.

You were halfway through getting changed when you realized you didn't have a clean shirt. You only had two shirts, one had a spaghetti stain, and the other was definitely a pajama top, not suitable for public. You poked your head out of the bathroom door.

"Hey Jonathan, could you please bring me a shirt I could borrow for the day?" you called out to him.

"Umm, yeah," he digs through his closet quickly, grabbing a shirt for you before appearing at the bathroom door, knocking softly. "Here", he says as you crack open the door, reaching your hand out and taking it from him.

"Thanks," you whisper as you quickly shut the door, slipping on the shirt. Great. Now you were surrounded by his scent. You inhaled deeply, getting one second of bliss, before fixing your hair and exiting the bathroom.

"You ready?" He asked, you nodded in response, heading towards the door. He grabbed you in a big hug, burying his face in your neck before he started crying, and all you could do was hold him tightly.

"We're gonna find him," you rubbed his back a bit, trying to comfort him.

He pulled back, sniffling, and wiped his cheeks. "I know, I know, I just...I'm so worried about him," he shook his head before grabbing his keys with one hand, and your hand with the other. You blushed at the small contact as you pulled the door to the house closed behind you.

The drive out to the woods was pretty short, and his hand never left yours. He would send you small squeezes through the drive, trying to comfort you, and if he was being honest with himself, to comfort himself.

The two of you hopped out of the car as he pulled in, readjusting the shirt that didn't quite fit. He grabbed flashlights out of the back seat, then closing and locking the doors. You mumbled a small thanks before you started your trek through the small brush of woods, hoping to find something.

Obviously, you couldn't just walk around in an awkward silence, so you just said the first thing you thought of.

"So how are things going with Nancy?" You didn't even realize your brain had picked those words until you heard yourself say them.

"Nancy?" He seemed a little taken aback. "I mean, she's a good friend, but she's dating "The Hair"," he made quotes with his fingers. "Plus, I don't like her that way."

"Oh, sorry. I just assumed...you've been hanging out together a lot lately."

"Yeah, I needed girl advice," he said before kicking his foot through a large pile of leaves.

"Oh," was all you could say. Why hadn't he come to you? Who was this other girl that he was interested in? Why-

"Hello?" your train of thought was derailed when you felt your chest hit Jonathan's. "Earth to Y/n," he smiled before fixing one of your loose strands of hair. You shivered at the touch.

"Sorry, guess I was lost in thought," you bit your lip softly as you looked up into his eyes, and he nodded at you, prodding you to continue. "Why didn't you ask me about girls?"

He sighed in response, softly pulling you into a hug.

"Because you're the girl," he said quietly. Almost too quietly, if you hadn't been listening so intently you wouldn't have heard him.

"M-me?" you pull back and look up at him. "Why me?"

Jonathan groans, pure embarrassment on his face.

"Because, my brother loves you, my mom loves you, all of Will's friends love you...and I love you. You're the most amazing, kind-hearted person I've ever met in my entire life, and I'm sorry I didn't come to you first, I just wanted to-" you cut him off with a kiss.

"I love you too, I have for years," you lean in to kiss him again as he places a finger under your chin.

"We should probably get back to finding Will," he grins at you. "You're gonna need a brother-in-law someday, you know, since you're my girlfriend now," he kissed your cheek sweetly, earning a nod from you as the two of you spent the rest of the day looking for Will, not having any clue just how much danger he was actually in.

[whoreiaki-kakyoin]

okok for the writing prompt number 5 and “You’re so fucking hot when you’re mad.” with abba please?? sorry my memory is short I can't remember the number (and also I don't know the limit so feel free to choose)

Ah, no apologies for short memories here! Excellent choices for Abba... You have no idea how excited I was seeing this ask. 👀 I may... have gone a lil overboard but this one was just fun to write and play with! 💖

"No panties?" and "You're so fucking hot when you're mad" for Abbacchio

Gender neutral reader (Mista does call you doll at one point), light degradation/name calling, jealousy, confession of feelings

Leone Abbacchio could be an incredibly frustrating individual. You'd been in Passione for a while now, and you two had been dancing around each other for the past several months. Some days, his eyes would meet yours across the room, something dark and wild stirring in his gaze. Others, he'd brush past you without so much as a word. You knew he wasn't much for other people, or for asking for any sort of help or companionship. Still, you wished he would at least get his shit together and tell you what he wanted.

The last straw had come about a week ago. The two of you were catching your breath after a fight with an enemy stand user, and found yourselves ducking down an alley to assess any damage and plan your next steps.

"Glad that's over," you sighed. When you turned to look at Abbacchio, you noticed he was already staring at you intently. Your breath hitched, and time seemed to slow down as your eyes met his. There was so little space between the two of you, and his gaze drifted down, lingering on your lips.... Your heart hammered in your chest as you each leaned in a fraction more, before he— stopped. You struggled to process as Abbacchio pulled away just as suddenly as he had surged towards you, his gaze turning steely and impassive again where it had just been so vulnerable.

"We should get going.'

"Wh.... What?" His eyes stayed trained on the pavement.

"Come on. The others are going to wonder where we are."

"And... We're not going to talk at all about what just—“

"Don't worry about it," he told you gruffly. You felt like screaming, like forcing him to acknowledge you by making a scene right out in the street as you walked back to the car. Embarrassing yourselves both in public might have been worth it if it would have gotten Leone to fucking discuss his feelings. Instead, all you had gotten was a silent car ride home and a week of tense, furtive glances, and fucking radio silence.

Determined to get his attention once and for all, you decide you'll simply have to make him pay attention. Make yourself impossible to ignore. It's a slower night, not much on the agenda in terms of missions, so that means dinner at Libeccio. You smile to yourself as you look through your closet, settling on something form fitting that shows off your figure and bares some skin. A spritz of perfume, a bit of makeup.... and that should do it. When you head down to meet the others, you think their eyes might pop right out of their heads.

"Oh!" Bruno coughs, his eyes slipping up and down your figure and a slight flush rising to his cheeks. "My, you certainly look lovely." Mista whistles, taking you in with wide eyes.

"Damn," he comments with a shake of his head. "You look hot. You're gonna make the rest of us look bad!" The pistols clamor at his side, chiming in about your daring outfit, and you smile. Even Fugo gives you a soft "You do look really nice tonight." Abbacchio, however, says nothing, simply keeps his eyes glued to you as you smile.

"Thank you guys, seriously. C'mon, shouldn't we get going?" Abbacchio maintains a sullen silence as you head to the restaurant, and you laugh inwardly to yourself. Leone Abbacchio was a jealous man. He was territorial. As much as he was keeping his composure now, the night had only begun, and you were going to make him crack.

You allow things to start off calmly enough as you get comfortable at your usual table and order your food. You make a point of trailing your hand along Bruno's arm as he speaks, flashing him your most dazzling smile as you bat your eyes and laugh at his jokes. You try not to look at Abbacchio across the table, but you can see him tense out of the corner of your eye.

When the food arrives, you take a few bites with a smile before declaring, "Gio, you have to try some of mine, here." The blonde raises his eyebrows as you incline your fork towards him with a sugar-sweet smile, but he gives you a reserved smile of his own as he leans in to let you feed him a bite.

"It's good, right?" Giorno blushes as he holds your gaze.

"Yes, excellent," he murmurs, and you giggle sweetly as he offers you a forkful of his own, feeding you just as you had for him.

"Mmm." You tip your head back slightly, letting your eyes flutter closed as you hum out an appreciative noise that sounds just a bit too much like a moan. Giorno's cheeks flush a shade darker, and Abbacchio sputters as he goes to take a sip of wine. You simply bite back a smirk and carry on your conversation with the blonde like nothing had happened.

Dessert comes around, and you find yourself settled in Mista's lap, giggling at his jokes and even the more suggestive of his pickup lines. At one point, you even make a show of fawning over his muscles, fingers running over his biceps as you practically purr how he's sooo strong.

"Ah, you're too sweet to me, doll," he chuckles as your fingers tease the curls peeking out from his hat. His hands drift lower, fingers gripping at your thighs, your ass, and you can hear Leone's sharp inhale. Abbacchio's eyes linger on you for a moment, before he rises wordlessly from his chair and grabs your wrist to tug you out of Mista's lap.

"Uh, hey! We were talking?"

"Damn, Abbacchio, take it easy, yeah?" He ignores you both, ignores the affronted look you give him, ignores the way the others have all turned their attention to the three of you. Instead, he simply pulls you by the arm as he heads to the exit. Out in the street, you huff indignantly, but on the inside, you were celebrating your success.

"Drop the attitude," he snarls, stalking back towards home.

"I could say the same to you," you mutter, but you fix your face in a more neutral expression rather than your previous pout. The walk back is quick and silent, and butterflies swirl in your gut at the way Leone doesn't loosen his hold on you for even an instant. It isn't until he manhandles you through the front door and slams it behind him that he speaks again.

"The fuck was that?" You blink back at him innocently.

"The fuck was what?"

"You know exactly what I mean. Don't play dumb."

"Hmmm." You tilt your head like you're thinking. "No, sorry, I don't think I do, but if there's something you want, Leone, why don't you tell me?" He raises his eyebrows, his eyes flashing as he huffs out a laugh of disbelief.

"That's what this is all about, isn't it?" "Hm?"

"Such a needy brat. You were that desperate for my attention, you'd be a whore to get it?"

"I'm not a whore!"

"No? Oh, no, of course not." He gives a dark chuckle, pressing you up against the wall. "What else would you call it, then, the way you were throwing yourself at the others like a piece of meat for the taking, letting their hands wander as you led them on, hm? I'm waiting." He scoffs after another beat of silence, like he's unsurprised you don't answer. "That's what I thought." You huff out a soft laugh, blinking at Abbacchio.

"Shit," you breathe. "You're so fucking hot when you're mad."

"And you. Are such a little fucking tease. I bet you're not even sorry for your behavior tonight." His tone is unlike anything you've heard before, low and gravelly and thick with need. It makes heat pool in your stomach and between your legs as you think triumphantly that you made him lose his composure this way. He wanted you that badly.

"Why would I be sorry?" Your voice comes out breathy as his gaze burns through you. "You wouldn't fucking talk to me about it, so I gave you a push. A 'thank you' would be nice." He glares, then surges forward, his lips meeting yours roughly. He holds your chin firmly in place as he kisses you breathless, his fingers curling around your jaw sending an unspoken message: mine. He nips roughly at your lip, then moves to kiss down your neck, seeming to take pleasure in making you pant and whine. Once he decides you're sufficiently flushed and desperate, he pulls away to meet your gaze.

"Consider that your thank you. Now—“ He grabs your arm again, tugging you with him up the steps and down the hall to his bedroom.

Leone wastes no time in pulling off your clothes, his eyes widening as he looks you over.

"No panties?" His fingers dip between your legs and you let out a breathy whine. "You're so desperate, look at you... and you were practically humping Mista's lap like some common bitch at the restaurant. I bet you wouldn't care if he realized you didn't have any panties on, hm?" You whimper again at his words, trying to buck your hips into his fingers. "Do you like being such a bratty slut? You like teasing me like this?"

"Yes," you sigh, arching into him as he strokes you. He huffs out a laugh, shaking his head.

"You drive me crazy sometimes, you know that?" He works a finger inside you before you can answer, and your mouth falls open on a soft moan.

"Ahh, mm, Leone.... C...Consider it payback, then," you tell him with a smile. He swears under his breath, cheeks tinting pink.

"Can't believe anyone can look so perfect." He adds another finger, stretching you pleasantly as he crooks them just so. "You make the prettiest sounds... I want to be patient, but...."

"Then... oh, fuck, then don't."

"What?" You'd roll your eyes if you weren't so preoccupied with his fingers.

"Don't be patient. Fuck me."

"Shit," Abbacchio hisses as you start to undo his pants. He quickly gets the memo, though you whine softly despite yourself when he removes his fingers to pull his shirt over his head. His clothes quickly join yours on the floor, and you sigh as he pushes you back onto his bed.

"Are you sure you're ready?" He grabs an elastic off the dresser, pulling his hair back as he straddles you.

"Leone, I've waited months. Please, I need you." He nods. God, he looks like a painting. Pupils blown with lust, muscular chest, his hair tied up hastily... Maybe you'd died and this was heaven. Abbacchio rummages in the drawer of his nightstand, and you decide not to question who he had condoms at the ready for before you. You've made him jealous enough today that you certainly couldn't hold a one night stand or two against him.

Abbacchio pushes in slowly, and you arch your back with a low whine at the sensation. He's decently thick, and you silently wonder if you'll be able to fit all of him inside you. After a few moments, though, he buries himself snugly inside you with a groan.

"Ah, amore mio, you feel so good... You're so tight." Your hand grasps at his shoulder as you adjust to the stretch of his cock inside you.

"You feeling all right?" he murmurs, and you nod, starting to rock your hips against his.

"Amazing." He chuckles, starting to thrust into you at a slow pace as he holds you tight.

"Cazzo," he breathes, his breath warm against your skin. "Should've done this months ago." You moan as he angles his hips to drive right into your sweet spot, your nails digging into his back.

"Mm... Told you, yeah?" You wrap a leg around his waist, pulling him in closer as he trails love bites down your neck.

"Yeah... Mmf, you did." He hisses softly as your nails rake down his back. "Shit, amore... You keep that up, I'm gonna cum." You tuck your face into his shoulder with a moan.

"Ah, please? God, I wanna make you cum, Leone... Please, I'm close." Abbacchio fucks into you with renewed vigor, his thrusts deeper and rougher as his fingers establish a bruising grip on your hips. You feel a familiar warmth spreading through you as the bedroom fills with the sounds of your mingled breaths and low moans of each other's names. Leone's hips stutter, his thrusts growing sloppier until his cock twitches inside you and he cums with the prettiest sound you've ever heard. He brings a hand down to stroke you as he rides out his orgasm, groaning when you clench around him. Your climax washes over you, and you orgasm with a gasp of "Leone!"

It takes several minutes for you to catch your breath. It's Abbacchio, surprisingly, who breaks the silence first.

"I'm sorry."

"Mm?" You turn towards him, and the way he looks at you makes your stomach drop like you're in a free fall. It's not unlike the way he looked at you in the alley that day, but now, you feel fairly certain you can put a name to it. It's a look of pure, vulnerable adoration. "Y...yeah?"

"I was stupid. Caught up in my own head over... whether I deserved you. I convinced myself I'd only fuck things up, and then, well."

"You fucked things up more by trying not to fuck them up." He laughs when he sees the smile on your face, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

"Yeah. That. But, it seems like you'd be willing...?"

"What, to be official?" Color rises to his cheeks, but he nods.

"Um. Yeah. I've been an ass, and you deserve to know how I feel about you." You press your lips to his softly.

"I feel exactly the same. The answer is yes." He kisses you again, more deeply, and you let your fingers tangle in his hair. Laying there against his chest, you feel happier than you had thought was possible. Your bubble only bursts a little when you come to a realization.

"We don't have to go out and face the others until morning, right?" Leone chuckles.

"Not eager to explain those hickeys?" You shake your head, and he pulls you closer with a low hum.

"Fine by me. That's a problem for tomorrow." As you eventually doze off, you think to yourself that you can live with that.

[huneekrispee]

Where is my lover?

Pairing: c!Dreamwastaken x gn!Reader

Summary: Living outside the Dream SMP, far from the war and chaos, Dream was able to find comfort in you. One day, he leaves, promising to come back to you. It's been months, now you're left wondering... where is my lover?

Warnings: cursing, use of dream's real name, spoilers for the Dream SMP Finale, tiny bit of fluff at the start, angst

Word Count: 2.4k

A/N: I've been watching Attack on Titan recently, and the song 'Call Your Name' has me in the feels :( Sorry for being away for so long :( School has been an ass to me, I hope you enjoy it!! -Hunee <3

Also! Please don't mind the pronouns in the song! This is a gender-neutral fic, I merely just wrote the song lyrics as they are :)

She lost her brother a month ago

His picture on the wall

And it reminds me

When she brings me coffee... her smile

I wish I could be with her until my last day

In the forest, a cottage lays peacefully in a secluded meadow near a running stream. The tall trees lay their shadows onto the grassy floor, leaving marks from the sun. Water solemnly runs along, moving to its next destination through the stream. Grass rustles and a soft sigh is heard.

Stretching his arms above his head, a man clad in green slowly sits up, emerald eyes darting around. He yawns. "(Y/N)!" He's now standing up, searching for his lover. Dream's hand reaches down to grab his mask left abandoned on the grass, quickly putting it on.

Preparing his sword, his hand on the hilt, Dream slowly steps toward the cottage. He rests a hand on the door, waiting for something, anything.

A scream is heard.

He now slams the door open, netherite blade on full display, ready to attack. Looking around, he notices no one but (Y/N) in the cozy home, with a kettle on the ground next to them. Lowering his guard, sighing with relief, he sheathes his sword once more, walking over to his distraught partner.

"Are you alright?" Removing his mask, he takes their hands in his. Dream looks at them. (Y/N) looks down, taking their hurt hand out of his. Sighing, Dream quickly leads them over to the sink, running the tap. "What happened?" The coldness of the water helped soothe the burn. "I just, accidentally burnt myself with the kettle. It's okay, I'll live, Clay."

The man remained silent. The only sound heard in the cottage was the running tap water. After treating the burn on their hand, Dream leads (Y/N) to the chair on the side of the room. "You. Sit. I'll finish doing whatever you were doing. You just sit there and take it easy, you just burnt your hand." Bending down to their height, Dream stands face to face with (Y/N). He narrows his eyes slightly. He was always like this. Whenever (Y/N) got hurt in any sort of way, Dream was always on it, almost suffocating them with his overwhelming protectiveness.

They sighed, avoiding his eyes. "I- I was just... I just wanted to make you a coffee this morning. I know you're going to be busy later, so I wanted to make sure that you were energized for your work." Fiddling with their bandaged hand, (Y/N) smiled gently. "I see how you're always so dedicated to the stuff you do, and I wanted to return the favor, even if it's just a cup of coffee."

Dream's eyes softened. It was true, he was dedicated to his work. Running an SMP was hard, especially with some people interfering with his plans recently. He had plans to take power over the server again. Finding and taking everything his people were attached to was difficult, but at least he had (Y/N) to come home to. It was all for them. It was worth the hard work and pain just to see (Y/N) smile at him, showing him their love.

"It's okay. Thank you for wanting to do that, but you don't have to." Running his hand up to their cheek, he smiled. "I do all of my work for you, to help make a safe place for you. Once I sort out the rebellious people, I promise, I'll come back to you, and we can live together in my SMP." (Y/N) gazed up at him, looking into his eyes. They smiled, beaming at the idea.

"Alright! I promise I'll wait for you! I'll always wait for you. I love you, Clay."

"I love you too. I promise I will come back to you. Always."

He would do anything to see that smile on their face all the time.

She said she gave all her love to me

We dreamt a new life

Some place to be at peace

But things changed... Suddenly

I lost my dreams in this disaster

It had been two days. Two days since Dream had left. (Y/N) had since then tended to the flowers and read a few books Dream had gotten them from a faraway village.

'I wonder what he's doing now?' Looking up at the sky, (Y/N)'s mind began to wander. What was dream doing right now? Maybe he was still on his way back to his SMP? Or maybe he was trading with villagers for resources?

They smiled. Dream had been one of (Y/N)'s lifelong friends turned partner. They had met when (Y/N) used to live in a village as a child. (Y/N) was nine and Clay was ten. Dream had gotten into a rough fight with two skeletons and a zombie. He was stumbling around, trying to find help for his injuries.

That was when (Y/N) appeared. Hearing the boy's cries, they ran out of their family home, taking Dream into the house to be treated, screaming for their parents to help him.

They had grown up together as best friends after that. Meeting George and Sapnap, the group loved to go on little adventures together and play their favourite game: manhunt. Dream would always insist on running, with George and Sapnap chasing after him. Sometimes, (Y/N) would join them, but they quite enjoyed seeing the trio panic during the game. It was fun.

A couple years ago, Dream visited (Y/N), saying that he was starting up his own SMP, a place where he and his friends could have fun and just be themselves all the time. The two of them spend hours in (Y/N)'s room, talking about their big plans and ideas for the SMP. Dream wanted to build a cottage near a stream, and live there peacefully with (Y/N). They were shocked, Dream wanted to live with them? "Why?" They asked.

"Well, because of... I'll just show you."

That was the day Clay had kissed (Y/N) for the first time.

I'm crying

Missing my lover

I don't have the power

On my side forever

A month had passed. Nothing from Dream. Usually, he'd send a message through on their server communicator, asking how they were and informing them of his journey and new discoveries. But that didn't happen, not this time.

It was hard. Clay had been such a big part of their life that sometimes they found it hard not to worry about him. They knew he was strong, he could take down armies of people, but everyone had their limit.

Raising the iron hoe, (Y/N) swung down, making way for the new seeds of crops that would grow over the next few months. Wiping their forehead with their sleeve, they sighed.

All they wanted was for Dream to be safe, and for him to come back home once he finished his business in the SMP.

Oh Where is my lover

And I got no power

I'm standing alone, No way

Calling out your name

Heavy pants of breath echoed throughout the underground bunker. He was panicking. It wasn't supposed to go like this.

The plan was to kill Tubbo and make Tommy give him his disks.

It all went to shit when Punz showed up with backup, showing the people of his SMP that had turned against him fully.

"W-woah! Okay! Tommy, calm down!"

The blonde boy didn't listen, hands gripping the axe of peace and lifting it high above his head.

"Tell me why I shouldn't kill you Dream, right here, right now."

Dream silently gulped. For once, his plan failed. It backfired on him and blew up in his face. 'Sorry (Y/N). Guess I'm not coming back tonight.' He just wanted this to be over. He just wanted to be back in the cottage near the stream, sitting with his lover.

His green eyes darted around to everyone in the room. They looked disgusted, some disappointed, others angry. He knew this would never change. He would never get his SMP back. They hated him. Wanted him gone.

"Does Y/N know you're like this?"

His breath hitched. Eyes went wide.

Sapnap had stepped forward, sword out, pointing it threatening at Dream. "Do they know just how bad you are? How corrupt you've become?!" He was yelling at this point. Sapnap was upset as well. It was hard to believe that his best friend would do all of these bad things, it hurt to betray him, but he had to do what was right.

"S-stop. Stop talking about them."

For once, Dream was vulnerable. He hated it. He was always so soft when it came to them. When it came to (Y/N). Sapnap knew that. He had seen it when they were together, how happy dream was when he was with them, following them around like a lost puppy, longing for their love. It went both ways, (Y/N) was the same.

"Who the fuck is- Nevermind. Dream. Give me one good fucking reason why I shouldn't-"

"Tommy stop." Sapnap stepped in again. "This is important to not just me but for another person as well." Tommy stepped back, axe still prepared to lash out just in case. Tommy kept muttering to himself, something about a green bastard.

"Dream. Where is (Y/N)? You said they would join the SMP with us, but they're not here, nobody has seen them, probably besides you. You said that they changed their mind about the SMP, or was that a lie too?"

Dream gulped, words caught in his throat.

"Tell me, you bastard! Where is (Y/N) and do they know?!"

"No. They don't know. All I wanted to do was protect them from something I knew would happen. The wars, the chaos of the SMP. They didn't need to be a part of that. I didn't want them to get hurt."

It was almost like a plea. Dream's voice was quiet like he didn't want them to hear what he was saying. Sapnap stepped back, somewhat satisfied with his answer. He was also upset, he hadn't seen (Y/N) in years, not since before the SMP started.

Tommy finally stepped forward.

"Now. Tell me why I shouldn't kill you, Dream."

"I can bring people back to life. I can bring Wilbur back."

I said I gave all my love to you

We dreamt a new house

Some place to be at peace

But things changed... Suddenly

I lost my dreams in this disaster

Three months. It had been three long months without him. (Y/N) would spend every other night crying in their bed, missing him. They missed everything about him. No messages from him on their communicator. No death messages about him either.

They had never thought that three months could feel so long.

Surely he was busy doing stuff that would mean the world was safer for them. That's what he always said. He said that he worked for them and that he promised that they could settle down and make a new cottage near a different stream, closer to the SMP.

He said he needed to dig out the rebellious people and make his SMP a better place.

All (Y/N) could hope for was that he was safe and doing okay.

We don't know what is wrong tonight

Everybody's got no place to hide

No one's left and there's no one to go on

All I know is my life is gone

Dream was not feeling safe and right now he was feeling anything but okay.

Tommy had just broken his mask. Split down the middle, from the axe of peace.

He didn't want anyone to see his face, no one but (Y/N) and the people who had already seen it before he started wearing the mask.

His mask was his safe haven. A facade he could hide behind. With it gone, there was now no place for him to hide.

All he had done was tell Tommy that he could bring people back to life. When he mentioned Wilbur, Tommy seemed shocked, but then he seemed to come back to his senses after remembering what Wilbur was like before he died.

He went crazy. Insane. All because of Dream and his stupid motives. He only fueled Wilbur's change, encouraging him to blow Manburg up after Jschlatt took over. Thank God for Karl destroying the button the first time. The second attempt was successful and sealed Wilbur's fate as a psychotic, destroyed ex-president swayed by the masked man into committing destruction.

Tommy was angry at that. At the fact that Dream would even think about bringing back Wilbur.

Enraged, he brought the axe down onto Dream's cowering figure.

I'm crying

Missing my lover

I don't have the power

On my side forever

Sitting up, (Y/N) slowly looked around the room. It was the same as always; no Dream insight. They woke up every day with a feeling of hope that they would turn around and see Dream at the door, back from his trip.

The situation was too much. (Y/N)'s breaths quickened, eyes blurring up with tears, the salty water slowly dripping down the sides of their cheeks. They let out a dry laugh, bringing up their sweater paw hands to their face, wiping the tears.

They stared at the sleeve of the hoodie they had on. It was green.

It was his.

He always left a spare here, just in case.

It always came in handy when (Y/N) missed him.

They sighed, flopping back down onto the bed, curling into themselves and the hoodie. It smelt like him. He always smelt like a run through the forest, with a hint of saltwater and citrus.

It was comforting.

He was comforting.

The tears wouldn't stop. Every time (Y/N) wiped them away, fresh ones would keep coming. Where was he? Was he okay? It was all they could think about.

(Y/N) hugged themselves, hoping to recreate a hug like his. It didn't work. It never worked.

Nothing could ever compare to his hugs.

Still sobbing, (Y/N) cried themselves back to sleep, despite it being morning.

Not like they had any motivation to do anything without the assurance of him being okay anyways.

Oh Where is my lover

And I got no power

I'm standing alone, No way

Calling out your name

Beep.

(Y/N)'s communicator went off.

Dream was slain by Tommyinnit.

[ao3-deviance]

Pity Party

"God fucking dammit!"

Bakugou clenched his eyes shut, trying to breathe. Inexplicably, he felt a burning behind his eyelids as water seemed to want to spill over. He exhaled slowly, holding the tears at bay.

I will not throw a temper tantrum. I'm a grown-ass man. Shitty things happen. Today has been a shitty day. I will not let this set me back. 

(Therapy had been good for him.)

"Hey, babe! I'm home!" 

Bakugou found it a little easier to relax, tension dropping off his shoulders as Kirishima poked his head around the corner. The redhead immediately looked concerned though.

"What's wrong?" 

"Nothing," Bakugou denied. 

"No, something is," Kirishima argued. "You're tense. And you look sad. Talk to me, sweetheart. What happened?"

Bakugou opened his mouth to deny it again, only for his voice to crack. He paused, hating that he felt the water returning to his eyes, this time stronger.

"'T's stupid," he mumbled, sight blurring. 

"Talk to me," Kirishima said again, pulling him into a hug.

Bakugou sniffled. "I overslept and was three minutes late to work this morning. I didn't have time to make lunch, so I had to go to the cafeteria. They were out of mapo tofu and I had to eat a quick ramen. Since Deku was on time this morning, he got to go out on patrol and I had to stay in and do paperwork all afternoon. And I got a text that the hoodie I ordered came in and I was looking forward to it, but I just opened it and they sent me the wrong one and I just–I–It's pathetic, nothing bad happened, I just–"

"Hey, hey, shhhh," Kirishima soothed, rocking him back and forth slowly. "It's okay to be upset. You had a bad day. I'm so sorry, baby."

"But nothing happened!" Bakugou cried. "I'm being stupid!"

"You know what I think? I think it doesn't matter what happened, you're upset and that's the important part." 

"I don't need a pity party," Bakugou denied, pulling away and wiping at his face furiously. "Let's just forget it. How was your day?"

"It was alright, better now that I'm with you." Kirishima smiled, leaning forward to kiss his forehead. "Go pick out a movie, okay? I'll order some food to be delivered and we can cuddle."

Bakugou squeezed his wrist once before letting go, not arguing as he made his way to the living room. He dropped the hoodie on the table to deal with a return later, turning on the TV.

"Order's in!" Kirishima sat beside him, snuggling close. His smile softened when he saw the romantic-comedy queued up on the screen, and he urged Bakugou to sit in his lap so they could start it. 

Bakugou hid any chuckles that wanted to escape against Kirishima's shoulder, already feeling better with the other's warm hand brushing up and down his back. He felt silly for his reaction earlier. Today hadn't been awful, just maybe not like he'd wanted it to be. 

There was a knock at the door and they paused the movie, Kirishima rushing to get it. He came back with their food and Bakugou felt something warm squeeze his chest as the smell hit him.  

"Mapo tofu?" 

"Yep! From the place you said is the best," Kirishima confirmed, getting out the utensils for them to eat. "I also got you an extra serving so you could take some for lunch tomorrow."

Bakugou immediately burst into laughter that soon broke into hitching breaths, tears finally spilling over. 

"Fuck, I love you," he gasped, not sure if he was crying or laughing or smiling or what exactly. He was just feeling Too Much. 

Kirishima leaned over to kiss him softly, brushing his hair behind his ear gently. "Love you too, Katsuki."

They ate quickly, their feet curled together under the table, occasionally catching each other's eyes and giggling. Bakugou felt like a kid again, even if they'd been together for over ten years and were nearing thirty at this point. Kirishima just had that ability, to always make him feel safe and loved and happy. 

"Next time you want a pity party, I'm spoiling the fuck out of you," Bakugou teased him, after they'd finished eating and he was curled back up in Kirishima's lap. Kirishima chuckled.

"So your pity party was a success?" 

Bakugou hummed, any remaining tension melting as he smiled softly, watching the protagonist of the movie finally kiss the guy she'd been wanting the whole movie. Kirishima nuzzled his hair and Bakugou was surrounded by him, heartbeat in his ear, arms around him, warmth and scent enveloping him. 

"Yeah." 

"Good."