#which has also been murder on my mental health

[bratzforchris]

Scream (Part I), C. Sturniolo

Summary: Ever since you were a little girl, you've always loved horror and slasher movies. When Chris finds out about this, he decides to indulge you in your deepest, darkest fantasies about the one and only Ghostface.

Pairing: Chris x feminine reader

Warnings: Smut, mentions of blood/gore/murder and stalking/obsessive behavior, fingering, oral (f receiving), pussy drunk!Chris, dirty talk

Word Count: 2.9k

A/N: This is part one of a two (or multiple) part work! This part isn't entirely scary, it's more like background for part two, however, I wouldn't recommend this work for you if you scare easily/struggle with paranoia. Your mental health comes first<3 Chris isn't Ghostface in this part but just you wait ;)

You smiled as you pulled your Nightmare Before Christmas blanket closer around you, adjusting yourself in the blanket fort you had made on your living room floor. You were waiting for Chris to get home from filming a video, eager for the night ahead. It was your Friday night movie night, and this was your week to pick the movie. Luckily for you, this particular Friday had fallen on October 1st, which began your favorite time of the year. “Slasher Season” as you liked to call it, ran the entire month of October and allowed you to engage in your guilty pleasure. Ever since you were a little girl, you had loved all things horror. Odd for a little girl? Yes, but then again, you had grown up with older brothers and had wanted to be just like them. 

The sound of rain and chill, autumn air pounded against the glass window panes, making you giddy with anticipation. Between the ambience, your blanket fort, and the soft, orange lamps you had turned on, it was the perfect setting to watch your all-time favorite slasher film with your favorite person. You always watched Scream,1996 as your first movie of the season, due to the fact that it had been the first true horror film you had ever seen and because Ghostface held a rather…special place in your heart. 

You decided to text Chris and ask him if he wanted hot chocolate while you waited, unsure of showing your boyfriend this movie to begin with. Chris knew that you loved horror movies, but he had never really watched one with you, seeing as how you two had only been dating since March. You also knew that beneath his “I’m a tough guy” exterior, Chris was a soft and sensitive guy, and as much as you wanted to share your interests with him, you didn’t want to terrify him. Maybe the hot chocolate would lighten the mood a bit. 

You: do you want hot chocolate? i’m showing you my favorite movie EVER tonight and i want it to be extra special

Chris: that’s a silly question, ma. ofc i do 💓

You smiled, momentarily pulling yourself out of your fort and padding towards the kitchen to make the warm drinks. Your heart thudded happily as you mixed the warm milk with the cocoa powder dividing it evenly between your Grim Reaper mug and Chris’s Pepsi mug. You heard the door to your apartment click, and in came Chris, already sporting soft pajama pants and an oversized hoodie. He slipped his shoes off, placing them with your own by the door, before padding into the kitchen. 

“Smells good.” Your boyfriend smiled, wrapping you in a hug from behind and happily burying his nose in your neck. 

You kissed Chris’s cheek and picked up the mugs, scooting out of his hold and trekking to the living room. “C’mon Chrissy, it’s initiation time.” You giggled. 

“No ‘I missed you!’ or ‘How was your day?’?” Chris fake scoffed, sitting down on the couch as you placed the mugs on the coffee table. “You’d think whatever this movie is has you like, horny or something.”

You bit your lip, ignoring Chris’s comment and plopping down in his lap. “It’s a cinematic masterpiece, actually,” You found the remote wedged between the couch cushions, migrating to Netflix and turning on the streaming service. While you waited for the app to load, you looked at Chris, who had his fingers running through your hair, a sleepy smile on his face. “But seriously, this is my favorite Halloween movie ever. I’m so excited to show it to you.”

Once the app had loaded, you turned around giddily, finding the movie. You hit play and then immediately paused the movie as the infamous Ghostface mask stared back at the both of you. You eagerly picked up your hot chocolate and passed Chris his own, pulling your Jack and Sally blanket over your legs. Chris kissed your neck softly as you took a sip of your drink, fully engrossed in the movie. He had no idea what he was about to experience, but at the same time, he thought your eagerness over a silly Halloween movie was adorable. 

“So, um, what exactly are we watching?” Chris asked softly, rubbing the small of your back. 

“You’ll see.” You smiled.

Drew Barrymore as Casey Becker picked up the white landline phone, and you felt yourself smile with excitement. Between her fake flirty voice to the unknown caller, her cheeky little smile, and then the sound of Ghostface’s voice filtering through the phone, you had to remind yourself that this was a movie as you clenched your thighs slightly. In your deepest, darkest fantasies, the ones you only allowed yourself to engage in during the late hours of the night after Chris had fallen asleep, you were Casey Becker. 

If Chris noticed, he didn’t let on. He just continued to kiss down your neck and rub your back, eyes trained on the screen. It wasn’t until Casey ran out to the pool area to see her boyfriend dead and tied to a chair with his guts spilling out that Chris cringed. “What in the fuck do you have me watching, ma?”

You paused the movie and huffed, slightly irritated that Chris was dragging you out of your thoughts. “You actually don't know what movie this is, Chrissy? Did you grow up under a rock?”

Chris shrugged, studying you as you fake-pouted at him. “Why don’t you let me in on your little secret then, huh? Tell me what I’m watching.”

“It’s Scream from 1996. The Wes Craven one.” You rolled your eyes childishly, shoving his chest. “I’m equating Boston to a rock now, because you’re telling me you never watched this?”

“Nope,” Chris shook his head. “Never.”

“You have no culture.” You joked, kissing his lips and pressing play on the movie once again. 

The scene continued to unfold, with Casey running around her burning home with a knife. Chris cringed a bit when the girl was finally found by the wicked killer as he chased her with his knife, blood gurgling once he slit her throat. As Casey crawled through her luxurious yard, leaving a trail of blood in her wake, Chris finally knew what you two were watching. He had dressed up as Ghostface for Halloween during his junior year, more so as peer pressure from his friend group that was dressing up as characters from iconic horror films rather than because he actually wanted to. 

Chris hadn’t known anything about Scream or Ghostface beyond the white, ghoulish mask when he’d dressed up. He hadn’t even really thought about that night since, but now, he studied you as a twitch rolled through your body at the sight of the masked killer brandishing his knife. You had leaned closer to the television, your eyes alight with the sick excitement of it all. Chris remembered that specific Halloween clearer now; several girls had come up to him during the night, asking for his number. The few that were really brave had even asked for a game of cat and mouse, fluttering their lashes as they subconsciously moved closer to him. Your boyfriend was pulled from his thoughts when he felt you unintentionally grind into his lap, your thighs clenched harder than before. 

“You okay? You’re moving a lot.” Chris asked you, nibbling at your ear as he rubbed slow circles on your upper thigh. 

“Mhm. Why?” You asked, hoping Chris wouldn’t notice the blush creeping onto your cheeks or the real reason you were so fidgety. 

You avoided your boyfriend’s searching eyes, keeping your own trained on the screen. Billy Loomis and Stu Macher were on screen, teasing their girlfriends, which made you smile and grind into Chris’s lap just enough that he hopefully wouldn’t notice. 

“I have a question for you. A serious one.” Chris said after a moment, turning your chin softly away from the TV screen so that you were looking him in the eyes. 

You paused the movie so you wouldn’t miss anything before turning to your boyfriend. “What’s up?”

Chris’s lips curled into a smirk as he kissed your own before speaking lowly. “Do you get turned on by this?”

You let out an unnecessarily loud laugh, shoving Chris’s shoulders. “Why do you say that? Are you turned on or something?”

“Well for one,” Chris began to tick off on his fingers. “You keep clenching your thighs. Two, you keep wiggling around. Three, there’s that glimmer in your eyes that you always have when you’re turned on.” he hummed, thumb moving to mess with the waistband of your pajama pants. 

“That means nothing,” You scoffed, hoping Chris couldn’t feel your rapidly beating heart against his chest. “I’m just…feeling the effects that come with watching a horror movie.” You chuckled nervously. 

Chris said nothing more, opting to trail kisses across your face and neck, hand still fiddling with your pajama pants. Before you could protest, your boyfriend thrust his hand towards your heat. “If you aren’t turned on, why are you dripping on my fuckin’ lap?” he snorted. 

You began to unintentionally grind into Chris’s hand, before remembering his allegations and pulling away. “Shut up.” You grumbled cutely, playfully hitting his shoulder to hide your blush. 

“Do you like the idea of being chased?” Chris asked you, tilting your chin up to look at him. “Being prey at her predator’s mercy? Huh, baby?” With the questions, he began to palm you through the fabric of your bottoms, a toying smirk on his face. Chris’s questions only caused your blush to deepen as you hid your face in his chest, nodding softly. Your boyfriend chuckled as he continued to rub circles on your back. “I think it’s cute.”

“You don’t think it’s weird?” You asked, raising your head from Chris’s shoulder and looking into his deep, blue eyes. 

Chris just kissed you softly, running his thumb across your jaw. “I don’t,” he told you, tilting his head to study you. “I have another question.”

“Go on since you’ve already stripped me of my dignity.” You giggled, trying relentlessly to cool your burning face. 

“Would you want to…um, try…something like that sometime?” Chris began to blush as well as he looked at you, judging your body language to see how you would react.

“Like in bed or…?” You asked, cocking your head as your interest piqued.

“Or out of bed if you want,” Chris shrugged, his smile growing. “I wanna make those dirty little fantasies come true.” he added, poking at your side. 

“How would that work?” You questioned. “I’m not into voyeurism, Christopher.” You added with a teasing glare. 

“I could make it work,” Your boyfriend stated, that cocky look that you knew all too well on his face. “Y’know, get a cheap burner and send you creepy messages. Make you feel like I’m watching you 24/7, obsessing over your every move. And maybe, just maybe, I could get a Ghostface mask.” he smiled. 

“You’re serious?” You asked him, the heat between your legs beginning to throb at his proposition. 

“Deadly. Maybe I’ll even get a knife. Who knows,” Chris hummed, sucking on your neck softly. “Where would be the fun in me telling you every detail, though?”

“Wow…and here I was thinking you were vanilla.” You snorted, trying desperately to keep your hormones from taking over. 

Even though Chris fucked rough and often, you never really went beyond the usual sex positions or “normal” kinks. You had only been with him for about seven months now, and as trustworthy as Chris was, you had been rather scared to tell him about your unconventional turn-ons. The idea that he was proposing a game of cat and mouse, one that involved chasing and stalking was beyond you, but you couldn’t say you were mad about it. 

“Well, I didn’t know you were such a dirty girl,” Chris licked his lips, voice getting deeper. “A little slut who gets turned on by being hunted. But now,” he paused to chuckle. “I know what you really like.” Chris smiled, groping your ass. 

“I’m not a…slut.” You panted as Chris traced circles across your damp crotch. 

“That’s denial, hun. First stage.” Chris hummed with a smirk, flipping so that your back was against the couch cushions and he was on top of you. 

Your Nightmare Before Christmas blanket had long been forgotten and had been haphazardly tossed to the floor. Chris began to nip at your neck more roughly now, leaving bruising skin in his wake. You didn’t make a single shred of protest as Chris wedged his hand into your panties, rubbing slow, lazy circles on your clit. 

“Say, baby,” he smiled, voice husky in your ear as he kissed your neck. “Do you wanna play a game with me?”

You nodded, whimpering slightly as Chris moved to yank down your pajama pants and panties with his teeth. Once he had rid you completely of your bottoms, Chris spread your thighs wider, gazing hungrily at the feast before him. Not even giving you the chance to speak or adjust yourself, Chris threw his head between your thighs, lips caressing your slick folds with a warm, rough passion. 

The brunette licked from your sensitive little hole up towards your clit, flicking the bud with a few, fast strokes of his tongue. Your boyfriend spread your thighs wider with his large hands, devouring your pussy like he was absolutely starving. You panted and whined as Chris smashed your thighs closer around his head, making your back arch off the couch. 

“Chris…” You whimpered, tangling your hands in his curls as Chris lapped the juices from your cunt, before burying his tongue back in your hole. 

“God, tastes so fuckin’ good,” Chris moaned. “Little cunt’s all mine.”

Your boyfriend continued to eat your pussy, the feeling of your thighs clenching around his head just adding to the pleasure. Chris moved away from your hole and began to focus on your clit, teasing the nub with small nips and nibbles. You were already at the brink of orgasm and Chris had barely done anything. You threw your head back against the couch cushions, whimpering and writhing under his touch as he sucked on your clit. Little moans left your mouth as Chris slowly inserted one finger, then two into you, the sensations pushing you over the edge. 

“You gonna keep moaning like the slut you are?” Chris teased. “Let’s hear it, baby,” His dirty talk only pushed your sensual noises further as Chris fingered you and ate you out. Your hands were practically ripping at his hair as he devoured you, fingers curling towards the spot inside of you that was a surefire way to make you cum. “You’d think I’m trying to fucking kill you with the way you’re squeezing my head.” 

The way Chris moaned into your cunt was practically enough to send you over the edge. “Please, Chris…” You whined. “I–I need to…”

“Beg for it,” Chris lifted his head from your pussy for a moment to stare down at you, causing your breath to hitch in your throat, eyes practically rolling back in your head. “You never know when the last time you’ll get to cum will be.”

You let out a scream as your boyfriend thrust a third finger into you, sucking and licking away. The combination of his dirty talk, his threats, along with his fingers and lucious mouth had put you in a haze, your mind focused on how badly your stomach was aching with the need to climax. 

“I need your…fingers, Chris,” You panted, your cunt clenching around his hands. “Please.”

“Tastes so good. All mine–all fuckin…” Chris was beyond pussy drunk by this point, lapping up your juices as you came on his tongue. “So fuckin’...mph, good.” his loopy, obsessed groans rocked you harder as you writhed with orgasm. 

You shook as you came down from your high, hands still tangled in the brunette’s hair. Chris used his tongue to clean up the remaining mess you had made, finally lifting his head from between your thighs. His chin and jaw were a mess of your arousal, his blue eyes wide with lust and the feeling of being drunk on pussy. 

“Are you okay, hun?” he asked you, caressing your face. “I know that was…a lot.”

You smiled, your eyes glazed over with the feeling of being fucked out. “That was perfect.”

“Who knew such a sweet, innocent girl could be so dirty and depraved?” Chris chuckled. 

You shrugged, poking his chest. “I’m full of surprises.” You mumbled sleepily. 

Chris stood up softly, kissing your forehead and heading to the bathroom. He returned with a warm, wet washcloth, taking great care to clean up your mess and make you comfortable. Once your boyfriend had made sure you were okay, he tugged your pajama pants back on and helped you into his lap, pulling the blanket over you both once more. 

“Can we keep watching Scream? I need to get ideas.” he smirked, his tone ominous at the things he would do to future you. 

“Baby, if you do that again, we’ll never get through the movie.” You hummed, turning around and cupping his face. 

Chris shrugged. “I need to watch Scream to get ideas to make you scream.” he snorted, poking your sides at his corny joke. 

“You’re the worst, Christopher.” You rolled your eyes, turning back towards the TV. 

“Oh baby, just you wait.”

tags ♡: @jake-and-johnnies-slut @mattsfavwh3re @suyqa @chrissturnswife @mbsbaby @herxyz @lovingchrissposts @caffeinatedscorpio @bunny-cotton @crazychrisl0v3r @sturnioloxlver @whicked-hazlatwhore @blahbel668 @junnniiieee07 @biggesthat3r @sturniolowhore @ginswife @emmagirouard @athaliahxoxo @bitchydragonparadise @ilydeaky @soggyslugg169 @not-phone-guy @books0fever @stingerayyy2 @sunsetsturniolos @mimi-luvzyu @faygo-frog @oobleoob @runasvengence @aemrsy

note ♡: my taglist is closed for the time being, thank you so much for your support 💐🧸🎀

[sanyu-thewitch05]

F! Yuu’s Dad in Twst Wonderland Headcanons pt. 2

Pt.1

Heartslabyul, Octavinelle, Scarabia, and Pomefiore are genuinely the only dorms that respect your dad.

Savannaclaw keeps trying to fight him with the exception of Jack, Ruggie, and Leona.

Ignihyde fears your father. Mainly because your father thinks Idia is some form of a perverted weirdo.

🦀: Yuu, that weird boy is looking at you and your cat again.

🎮: Please let me touch your cat…

🦀:….I’m going to give you five minutes to get away from us.

Meanwhile, Diasomnia, is still amused your dad tried to beat up Malleus.

The core emotions and feelings of Diasomnia towards Yuu’s dad is the following:

Malleus: Amused and now takes gaining any sort of relationship with you as a challenge

Silver: A bit wary of your dad but still gets why he’s so protective over you

Sebek: Wants to beat him up for threatening Malleus and thinks he can win

Lilia: As a father he understands and is probably going to tell Malleus not to purposefully irritate your father for his own good.

After witnessing Riddle’s overblot, your father is convinced on staying at the Isle Sage’s hotel

Or maybe trying RSA

Whatever option comes first.

In fact, he actually tried to bolt out of NRC after the Savannaclaw overblot.

🦀: Yuu! Yuu! Yuu, listen to me! These kids are not right in the head. A hyena furry boy was using magic to control people’s bodies so they fall down the stairs. For a school tournament! And the lion furry man, BY THE WAY, he is 20! He tried to turn everyone into sand!

🦐: Dad, please, they’re my friends and I give them comfort. Plus Riddle and Leona were having a mental health crisis.

🦀: These kids are serial killers or murders in the making! We should’ve ran when we found out they worshipped Disney villains!

You end up running out of NRC with your father with Grim, and by the time morning came, someone has already found you.

♥️: Yo. I heard Yuu was staying here now.

🦀: How did you find us?

♥️: Um…I had a bit of help…more like magic spell really.

Deuce, Epel, Jack, Silver, and Sebek step out from behind Ace.

🦀: *Sigh* Look, I get we teleported into your school, but we really don’t need to stay there-

🦐: Dad, can’t I attend school there until we go home? It’s perfect.

🦀: They literally don’t even have a girls bathroom for you to use.

🦐: Doesn’t matter. I can use the bathroom when no one is in there.

Then things heat up when Malleus appears.

🐉: There you are, Child of Man. I’ve been looking for you everywhere.

🦀: Let me guess, you didn’t see her inside her room when you floated by? Like you usually do when you think no one notices?

🐉: Child of Man, would you like to go to my gargoyles club meeting? It’s really only me, but together we can bring more people.

🦀: That is the worst lie for a date I’ve ever heard. Also, her name is Yuu not Child of Man. And this Man is named F/N. Besides, we still don’t know your actually name Hornyton.

The mocking of the nickname Yuu picked out for him causes him to get upset. Which inadvertently activated the fairy tale fae behavior.

🐉: You know, a name is a very important thing to give away. If I give my name to you, you must give something to me.

🦀: You realize I can just break into Crowley’s office and get your school records or just ask anyone what your name is, right?

🐉: Perhaps, your daughter might be something of equal value to give. My name for a girl with an otherworldly name. I assure you I’ll treat her well if you give her to-

Your dad punches Malleus square in the nose and KOs him.

⚡️: WAKA-SAMA!

❤️&♠️: Damn.

🗡️: I told him not to make being in a relationship with Yuu a challenge.

🍎: Nice right hook.

🐺: What good form.

Your dad shuts the door, and packs up your stuff again.

You move back into Ramshackle the next day, but this time there’s iron hanging around the doors and windows.

[professorcalculusstanaccount]

he’s the adult supervision, he’s the voice of reason, he’s a cringefail king, it’s Captain Haddock! Quite a few people asked for a timeline post for Haddock after I posted one of Tintin.

I found the whole idea of the Haddock family curse to be very interesting, and the implications behind it to be pretty dark... cw for alcoholism and childhood abuse. Let me know if you need anything tagged.

To figure out the timeline the evidence for Haddock’s age I found was in an animated adaptation of Explorers on the Moon where Haddock mentions he has around forty years of sailing experience. I doubt he was running around on ships as a newborn so that places his age during the canon comics at around 60ish, give or take a few years, which in my timeline places his childhood during the late Victorian era!

Left to right, top to bottom:

Child - Archibald Haddock had a pretty rough childhood and family life. The legacy of the “Haddock family curse” weighs heavily on him, and so does the alcoholism that runs generationally. His father is often drunk, taking his anger and frustration out on Archibald. Fully believing the family curse, Archibald’s father drills the idea that he is destined for failure into his head. 

Archibald’s only respite is his grandfather, who tells him stories of Sir Francis Haddock and other tall tales from the sea. His grandfather also would take him out on fishing trips, the lochs and the sea being his refuge. 

Teenager - It’s the 1880s and Archibald is left aimless after his grandfather passes away, passing the time by hiding from his father and drinking during the day. He fully believes he has no real future and lets himself get swept up by whatever will come along next.

Young Adult - Archibald decides to follow in his grandfather’s footsteps and becomes a sailor, feeling at home at sea. He cleans up somewhat after befriending George Chester as the two train on the same merchant vessel. Chester drags a reluctant Archibald along into all kinds of crazy antics, with Archibald wanting to stay on the straight and narrow.

Archibald is drafted during the First World War, serving in the Grand Fleet. He is stationed at the Orkney and Shetland Islands with Chester.

Canon - After the war Archibald relapses on his addiction again, but is able to hold onto work in the merchant fleet. He eventually becomes a captain of a merchant vessel where his mental health issues are taken advantage of in the Crab with the Golden Claws. 

Seeing his crew mutiny, kidnap (and attempt to murder) a boy on his ship was a major wake up call - Haddock is now imbued with a sense of responsibility for Tintin (even if Tintin seems to handle things better than Haddock!). He doesn’t understand what Tintin sees in him but he’ll be damned if he proves him wrong. He’s not above calling him an idiot when the time is right though.

Post Canon - After Tintin loses his job Haddock does his best to support him.  He uses his wealth to further causes he believes in, donating money to artist collectives and scientific research that was repressed by fascist governments. Before Belgium even joins the Second World War he and the Marlinspike team proactively go out and foil various Nazi plots. Marlinspike Hall is firebombed by the Nazis in retaliation, but after the war Haddock funds various housing cooperative projects. Coming from a working class background he hasn’t forgotten the hardships a lot of people face.

Elderly - At this point Haddock is secure in his found family. He’s been living with his partner Ramo Nash, and has taken up various arts and crafts as hobbies. Looking back, he never expected to be a father, but is incredibly proud of Tintin. He never officially adopts him as a part of him still fears the family curse (plus they both agree “Haddock” as a name definitely does not suit Tintin)!

[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.”

[bugs1nmybrain]

Shigaraki's Psychological Conditions Headcanons - (a long ass post)

So, I'll preface this by saying I am NOT a psychiatrist and am not qualified to diagnose shit. I do however have a history of personal mental health disorders and am going to school for mental health work. This is mostly just for theory sake. My word is not absolute

Let's begin

warnings: mental illness as title suggests, not proofread and probably has typos

Antisocial Personality Disorder / Conduct Disorder

This one sort of goes without saying cuz duh he's a villain or whatever. I want to specify that in terms of Antisocial Personality, he likely is a sociopath, NOT a psychopath

I hear people call him a psychopath all the time and it's infuriating because people throw around labels without understanding what they mean. Psychopaths are more cunning and charming, and very manipulative. This isn't to say that Tomura is none of those things. Psychopath, however, applies to people like All For One. Almost diplomatic and very persuasive.

Tomura is a sociopath because he's known for recklessness and abrasive behavior. Psychopaths often pretend to have feelings, but for sociopaths aggression is a key emotion that's visibly displayed. They are also able to feel remorse in some cases, and I run this back to Shigaraki because he spent years in what was implied to be repressed guilt regarding the death of his family. Tomura admits it himself in his flashbacks, but ultimately decides to let go of that guilt (that he still fucking feels and is in DENIAL but that's another post). Hence, his forgiving nature toward his mother and sister when he's dreaming during surgery.

Even after Tomura let that burden go, he has no desire to be cool and collected, he just fucks around and finds out. Overall, though, he disregards people's lives and doesn't have remorse for what he's done because he throws his trauma and desires over it as a bandaid. He does show care and consideration to people in the League, though.

The conduct disorder part of it is self-explanatory. He's a violent criminal, lol.

Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD)

Duh.

Trauma is pretty much all Tomura has known. I won't reiterate his backstory, but being physically abused and rejected as a child, the murder of his family, being blatantly ignored by people on the streets, and AFO's upbringing? That's a lot

His PTSD is so dehibilitating that it took hold of his body language and behavior. Before the end of s5, Tomura was rigid and hunched over. In the MHA video games, he's also seen as very restless and moving his body around (until s4 era in One's Justice 2). I'll attach a video below.

He's also just very irritable and easily set off at the reminders of his trauma and rejection. "I HATE YOU" is a key example, as up to that point Tomura had been improving his rash behavior, but he's very unsettled by his past and continues to be now.

Obsessive Compulsive Disorder

His case of OCD is connected to his trauma and emotions. You'll find that a lot of his conditions feed into one another. For him, he has a variant of dermatillomania (often known as the skin picking disorder). For him, that is in the form of scratching rather than picking. But he does it compulsively and without thought, and he does it in attempts to self soothe. I believe he does it occasionally as a self injurious behavior, resulting in itching himself rather than lashing out. He even just does it when he's only moderately anxious or irritated.

Depression

While we don't see Shigaraki slumped in bed or feeling sad in the ways we see in many cases of depression, his "I hate everything" mentality puts him here. Actually, it's safe to say he experiences anhedonia, which is the lack of enjoyment in anything. He seems to somewhat enjoy video games, but his bio states "nothing" as his likes. I'm inclined to believe he feels no personal joy or happiness, and tries to attain that through murderous rage. Never works tho, does it Tomura?

Bipolar Disorder and Unspecified Psychotic Disorder

This one might stir some debates, but I do genuinely think he has a mood disorder. I don't want to feed into stigma that bipolar and psychotic people are "evil," because I myself have these conditions, so maybe I'm projecting lmao. He's definitely not medicated, and so I'd say his case is Bipolar Type 1. This type is characterized by intense manic symptoms, though depressive symptoms can be severe, too.

Tomura has manic tendencies, and he's impacted by mania in that he seems to get spontaneous motivation, but he also will stay stagnant for some time. I saw this as the case when Spinner literally went at Shiggy for putting the League in a complacent stage, but he's done this before, such as when he was in a slump about Stain. When his motivation surges, though, he goes above and beyond and doesn't put extensive thought into it. He just lunges into his desires in pursuit of satisfaction. He also has delusions of grandoisity to some degree and has a moment where he treats himself as invincible. He fought Gigantomachia for almost two months, and kept fucking going at him. Surely, he could've asked the doctor to call him off, but Tomura wanted that power so bad. Tomura also went into his surgery without asking many questions about it. He makes very impulsive decisions, even after people insist that he "matured." He also gets flicked into motivation like a snap of a finger, and proceeds to be lead mostly by endorphins and gratification.

When Tomura experiences what he perceives as a "positive" emotion, it overtakes him. He becomes pretty much engrossed in his bodily sensations. Through maniacal laughter and taunting language that's charged in a hate induced fuel. When Shigaraki has "voila" moments, he has a surge in neuroactivity and gets into aggressive mood stages, but I guess that could apply to most of the villains. I saw this when Deku told him the difference between him and Stain, and Tomura had a surge in manic-like bliss and drive.

I'm not sure if Tomura hearing the voices of his family before his epiphany was just intrusive thoughts, but I thought they may have been auditory hallucinations. Tomura admits to hearing things that aren't there and seeing visual hallucinations, too. Evidenced by:

I hate how the dub translated this into "when you're this tired" as a broad statement. The manga gives this more personal association to Shigaraki, and he says that it happens when he's sleepy, and doesn't specify if it's only when he's extremely sleep deprived or just tired. Also, him staying up for days on end and smiling his ass off reeks of mania. He has delusional sprinkles in his thinking process, but they're not of bizarre nature, and are usually tied to his trauma. At this point in the manga he's very psychotic, though. That has a lot to do with him being fueled with adrenaline and also just breaking out of AFO's control.

I think he is either bipolar type 1 with psychotic features or has a mild case of schizoaffective disorder. Probably the first one, but I'm not sure.

ADHD (Attention Deficit Hyperactive Disorder)

This one is more of a gut feeling for me, but I see Tomura as being easily distracted and aloof to his surroundings at times. He's fidgety and does shit on whim.

Also, look at his room.

I'm not saying that everyone with ADHD has a messy room, but from what I can see, he goes from one task, drops it entirely without picking up, and goes to the next. Some could argue that Tomura simply doesn't care, and that's true, but he's at least got some decency to put the shit in trash bags. Trash bags that he HASN'T EVEN TAKEN OUT. I think he gets too caught up in the shit he's focused on that it slips his mind to do simple things like that.

He has spontaneous interests from what I can tell from the many books and toys he has that seem to have gone untouched for some time. He also hyperfixates, and I don't mean interest wise. I mean that when he's dwelling on something, it doesn't leave his mind for DAYS, until he gets some gratification. All Might in s1 and Stain s2 for example.

-

In conclusion, this boy has a grocery list of conditions, but I love Tomura. I love my beautiful prince with a disorder, and he is so dear to me.

I'm open to discussions about this, but please keep them respectful.

[im-not-samantha-im-samanta]

Request by: @jellibean2018

Hello, Jelli! About two months ago you sent in a request, however my tumbl did me dirty, and I ended up with your ask, and the entire fic deleted! (Though, much to my relief, I found screenshots of the fic in a chat with my friend who was reviewing it. Thank god).

So, I have to tag you, and remind you what you wanted.

From what I remember, you wanted a fic with a female sinner Reader who was once a victim of Alastor's, and the two ending up meeting again in hell. You also wanted an unsettling vibe with Alastor reveling in the memory of killing Reader.

I also want to add that I apologize for how long you had to wait for this fic to be done. I haven't been doing well with fics lately, so this was a struggle. And my mental health started going shit too which is why I stopped posting for so long...

Anyways, I really started to struggle with writing fics, so I ended up experimenting with this one - it's kind of written with huge metaphor kind of style? Hope that's okay with you...

Anyways, hope you'll enjoy reading this at least a little, and I once again apologize.

_

🎙️// The sweet history we share... //🎙️

{Alastor x female!Reader}

___________________________________________

Type: Fanfic

Settings: Not specified

Genre: Unsettling? Can't tell if it actually gives that vibe though,

!TRIGGER WARNING!: Mentions of cannibalism, murder, violence, blood, saliva, dead bodies, Alastor revels in the memory of killing Reader, possible yandere vibes? Alastor sees Reader as nothing but a meal, but he puts her on a pedestal - that's probably some kind of fucked up attachment that surely has a name? I'd say the vibe is quite unsettling, but I can't say that for sure, Angel indirectly suggests the use of drugs and hints at sex related activities (but it's just a single line), and that's probably all?

Sidenote: Reader is written as a female just as requested,

Sidenote: I have no idea if I wrote Alastor well... but it feels like I really made him ooc as fuck and ruined the whole request,

Sidenote: Rereading this I think everyone is ooc as fuck even if they have minimum dialogue,

_

That should be all,

Hope you'll enjoy,

___________________________________________

Ah, nostalgia. Ah that sweet nostalgia. And that embrace of her.

She comes in unannounced, an unexpected guest. But oh is she welcome.

And oh so welcome are those treats she brings to the table.

She easily settles in, making herself at home. And into a cup, a bunch of memories she pours.

And that demon, the radio demon as he's called - he drinks from that cup greedily.

And like a man dying of thirst, he can't help but ask for another cup to be poured.

His senses feel high, his body tingling. A feeling of addiction is what fills him.

And he can't get enough of those sweet memories, so, he downs one cup after the other.

But with each greedy little sip, the thirst only grows and grows - he's not had his fill still.

So, the demon goes on and on, tasting one memory after the other.

And his mouth waters a big deal the more he can taste, and he savours each and every one.

Ah, and he can't tell which one of the sips of memories he enjoys the most, which one is the most saliva inducing one.

Is it maybe the giddy old memory of how he followed you through the town?

With you completely unaware? Naively trusting those poorly enlightened streets?

Trusting that a bit of weak light will keep you safe?

Or perhaps it could be the sweet memory of the thrilling chase through the forest?

That one forest where thousands of dead bodies laid buried deep in the ground?

Those dead bodies in whose footsteps you followed suit?

Oh! And what about that memory of how you so desperately tried to navigate around and hide, escape his clutches?

Even if he could hear your sharp breaths as clear as the day?

Oh! Or maybe his favourite one could be the moment of when he tackled you down?

Pinning your body under his, finally cutting the chase so the real fun can begin?

And that beautiful moment of how you hopelessly dug your nails into his skin til blood trailed down his arms?

That one beautiful moment engraved into his head of how you desperately clawed at those lanky hands of his?

His hands that trailed, squeezed and pinched at your body, feeling you up like a winning prize, like a fine piece of venison?

Ah, it was so hard to pick which one was the most treasured one!

Hell, it could even be the simple memory of the melodious sounds of your cries.

That melodious, angelic sound of your pleading, whimpering, sobbing and screaming.

Especially those sounds you made when he bit down onto your flesh.

Oh, and that taste that hit his taste buds back then...

He still remembers it like it was yesterday.

And his tongue still tingles, and saliva still floods his mouth every time he thinks of just how tasty you were back then.

And now his mouth waters as he silently wonders... would you still have such taste even now?

Or did becoming a demon change the sweet, addictive flavour of your fragile flesh and thick blood?

Oh, how his senses urge him - beg him - to just grab you and take at least one single little bite...

I'd be really easy too, now that you're a part of the hotel staff.

Silly little you, you didn't flee when you were faced with the fact that he - the one who took your life - also works for the hell's princess now.

You didn't take the more than gracious chance to turn on your trail, run and never return while you still could.

No, you are too stubborn, and you insist on staying, even despite how frightening seeing him on the daily is for you.

Silly little you! Don't you realize how easily he could snatch you away and repeat history?

All it would take is a single moment of when you're alone and-

Ah, but he can't do that - at least not yet...

Where would be the fun in that?

It sure would be a shame to end your lovely reunion this fast and early on, no?

Not to mention the odd, messed up attachment the deer demon feels towards you...

Now, not to be mistaken! What he feels isn't the usual attachment one would think of!

It definitely isn't the good or healthy kind either...

So, we shall not be mistaken, let's not get our hopes up and think he cares - for he doesn't.

You mean nothing to him - at least as far as it comes to you as a person.

Your value could be most likely compared to something of a sentimental value, a plaything at best if you will.

Still, no matter what you are to him - you are by far his most favourite one at that.

That's what can be said for a fact.

And for reasons beyond us and even Alastor, those memories he shares with you are put on a pedestal - put way above the rest.

There were so many faces that twisted in fear, so many names he kept tabs on, so many tastes he's tried, and so many lives he's taken.

But very vast portion of them is long forgotten, not really standing out all that much.

Nor holding any real value. Barely any of them mattered...

But you, on the other hand - oh, he could never forget about that one lovely night you shared...

And even when more victims - more faces, more names, more tastes - came, they couldn't compare.

No, they never could.

Those memories of you and your taste were always stuck in the back of the radio demon's head no matter what new person was on the menu - what new dish was on his plate...

So, one can only imagine just what he feels now that you're back within his grasp.

Oh, not even his wildest fantasies could've come up with or prepare him for such sweet moment!

This was like a gift from the Devil himself!

Yes, a gift - one that Alastor would make sure to cherish greatly...

Ah yes, he would cherish you so.

He'd take his time unwrapping you like the perfect little gift that you are - he would savour you.

And only when he'd get tired of messing with you, only then he'd get to the real deal.

Oh, and when he'll finally do, it'll be like a starving man plunging onto bread crumbs!

It'll be such a beautiful, satisfactorily moment - Alastor can almost feel himself drooling at the mere thought of the moment.

Oh, how he just can't wait for the very moment!

The moment is so close, and yet so far - and every little glance your way is like a test.

A test of how long he can resist the temptation.

Every little move you make, every little noise that leaves you, every little expression your face twists into.

Oh, he can barely hold himself back!

His body feels so restless, and his thoughts are all over the place.

And no matter how much he reminds himself to be patient, to not cut straight to the chase just yet.

He still can barely keep himself in check.

His thoughts are going to dangerous places, and your familiar, sweet scent teases his nose.

Oh, and you're so within reach too!

It'd really just take a single little moment and-

"Geez, that perv's still at it?".

Oh, that's right.

He's almost forgotten about those curious eyes watching him from afar.

Watching, and trying to see inside his head...

But judging by the response Vaggie's hateful comment receives, it seems she's the only one to see right through him.

The only one to see the real danger behind that wide smile he always wears...

"Ya-uh! His eyes have not left her ever since she's joined the hotel staff!".

Ah, Charlie. Dear, sweet Charlie - now she's something else.

She's completely different from her girlfriend - she's quite naively trusting and optimistic.

Fully believing that there's a piece of good in everyone.

And hence not being concerned for your safety when the deer demon started to show an interest in you.

Ah, that sweet, silly little thing.

Caught up in trying to see only the best in people and their intentions...

It's amusing - and truly adorable.

And oh, does it play into Alastor's favour oh so well...

"Okay, that's like so sick and totally-".

Oh, Vaggie - she tries, she really tried to warn the others.

Make them see Alastor for what he truly is.

But aside from Husk, nobody really listens to Vaggie's concerns.

No, she's not all that listened to when she voices her opinions on the deer demon.

Not even when she expresses her concerns for how the latter constantly follows your every single step no matter the time of the day, no matter where you go...

And to think she has quite enough of a say in things as the hotel's manager, as well as the princess' girlfriend!

Oh, that poor little thing - it must be such an awful feeling.

How humorous!

And oh, how unfortunate...

"Ah! Do you think he's-?".

Niffty is completely on board with Charlie.

Similarly to the princess - she too doesn't see the real harm in Alastor's advances towards you.

Seeing his behaviour as nothing other than subtle romantic gestures.

The little demoness' version of romance sure is rather twisted...

And yet, it's still quite surprising Niffty doesn't see the harm in things.

After all, she herself knows Alastor just as well as Husk does...

"Yeah! Strawberry pimp totally got the hots for that one!".

Angel was caught up in the spiderweb of romanticizing the same thing as well.

Just like Charlie and Niffty, he couldn't see the truth...

"What? No! Are you all crazy?! That's not the case at all! How can you all not see that?!".

Oh, Vaggie - again and again, she really tries and tries.

But the result is always the same - nobody pays her warnings or concerns any thought.

And yet she still keeps on going.

What a miserable little thing she is.

"Oh my- I have like the best idea!".

Not even Charlie notices how Vaggie nearly begs for them all to see things from her point of view.

None of them can see things for what they really are.

Alastor's got them all right where he wants them.

Without even having to try much...

"We should totally get the two to have some alone time!".

Charlie is quick to naively play into the radio demon's games.

Without even knowing she's doing that.

She can't see this all is exactly what the deer demon wants...

And neither can Angel or Niffty.

Aw, those naive little fools...

"Yes! We should- like- create some really romantic atmosphere and leave them to it!".

Niffty follows through in Charlie's steps.

She too plays right into what Alastor wants.

Though whether or not she's aware of it is up for a debate...

"We should lock 'em up in a closet together or somethin', or even give them a little... somethin'... to just... ya know, set just the right mood in.".

And angel is quick to fall for Alastor's games too...

Ah, those silly fools...

Unaware they're making all this much easier than it should've been.

They're sealing your doom - the inevitable end you're ought to meet at his clutches.

They're making this all too easy...

They're shoving the little mouse right into the lion's den.

What unfortunate silly fools.

And what an unfortunate little you.

Your friends are serving you to him on a silver platter.

All of them - or nearly all of them - thinking they're doing you a favour.

Thinking they're simply helping a mere fool in love gain the heart of his love interest.

When in reality, they're actually helping a starving predator get closer to his chosen prey...

It was rather humorous - a good source of entertainment for sure.

So, Alastor would humour the group.

He'd indulge in their schemes of trying to set you up with him.

He'd gladly play along and lead them to think he's interested in you.

Well, interested in you they way they think he is, not the way he actually is...

No, they can't know what he actually wants from you.

They won't know.

He'll make sure of it.

They won't know until the very last moment, until the deed's already done.

Or, he'll lead them to think your disappearance has nothing to do with him.

After all, the sudden disappearance of a poor little sinner like you would be nothing new in hell.

You'd just be added to the endlessly growing numbers of hell inhabitants going missing.

Your disappearance would be just a part of the mere statistics.

Well, he'll see.

All depends on which option would prove to bring more benefit.

As well as which one would prove to be more entertaining.

That's what, to the deer demon, matters the most at the end of the day.

For now, he'll just go with the flow and let the situation progress by itself.

With the occasional shove to the right direction, of course.

But it doesn't seem like he needs to wait for that long for everything to be set in motion...

"Hey, Al, you got a minute?".

Yeah, he really doesn't need to wait for that long...

___________________________________________

[mycolorscheme]

tw suicide i guess but it's from a research viewpoint mainly and also abuse within the nest. also this connects to the sunshine court bear with me

i wrote this whole essay a year ago on suicide clusters in schools and it was focused on high schoolers but a lot of my research came from adolescents as a whole and some of my sources were about college students and i learned a lot about how different factors can create suicidal behavior such as academic pressure, athletic pressure, etc and the combination of many factors only exacerbates this which is all pretty self explanatory but suicide clusters is the phenomenon of when a couple suicides leads to a domino effect of suicides and suicidal attempts. a mainstream pop culture example would be heathers (except the initial suicides were murder coverups) but on a more local scale this happens at a lot of schools and my high school was an example of it. part of why this happens is because it is (unfortunately) common for people to have suicidal ideation and tendencies, but once someone around these people commits suicide, it begins to feel like more of a tangible reality. in addition, being in an environment where even one suicides or death has occurred can often be very depressing and soul crushing and horrible and decrease people's mental states further.

as someone who did all this research and wrote a 10 page paper on this stuff, reading the sunshine court was incredibly interesting. these ravens are ultimately so traumatized and brainwashed beyond belief. they do not realize that they have been indoctrinated and have been part of a cult and they spent so long without being able to talk to anyone who could tell them how messed up the nest is.

like. they were not able to communicate with their families from the day they entered the nest. they were living on 18 hour schedules. they did not leave the nest unless necessary or interact with people outside of their team or ever really seen sunlight. that is beyond absolutely insane.

and their king, riko, kills himself (ironically also in a murder coverup, bringing it back to heathers). and then they are sent home to people they haven't talked to in years. and they don't know how to adjust back to normal life.

so of course they are lashing out. and it does not surprise me that they are trying to end their lives.

and then another one of their teammates kills themselves. and then another one. and then another one tries but is found before it is too late. and it creates this chain of suicides because what do they have to live for if not their team. they are a raven though and through, and even after they graduate and leave the nest, they never really leave. so they all get placed in suicide watch.

and then they are called back for the next season. and that is the worst thing that could possibly have happened to them in terms of their mental health. to make matters worse, they have a new coach who i cannot imagine they will instantly trust. and at the same time, their old coach that they were probably so frightened of but felt like they needed is nowhere to be found. and to add on, the entire power structure of the ravens has been dismantled, and they will all fight to be at the top.

and yes a lot of them are horrible people but a lot of it is a byproduct of the environment they were forced to survive in. some were already violent while others turned to violence when it became needed. they need time to heal and to process and to come to terms with the fact that what they endured was not normal. that playing a sport at a collegiate level, even for the chance to go pro, should not mean completely devoting your entire life to the sport and nothing but the sport. that it is crucial for their mental wellbeing to experience life and relax and have fun and eat junk food every once in a while.

and while i'm so glad jean is out of there and is able to start healing, my heart goes out to the ravens who are still stuck in the nest. because yes, they have the choice to leave, but they do not have the mental capacity to even realize that that is an option.

but i hope in the next book we see them slowly start to break. that the summer they had returning to normalcy alerted something inside of them deep down that what the nest is and how the ravens operate is so fundamentally wrong and so, so messed up. and i hope that the new coach isn't a bastard. but i don't have high hopes about that. to be completely frank.

all in all, the phenomenon of suicide clusters is a big issue, and i hope that at least one person found it interesting to read about the sunshine court and the ravens through the lens of suicide clusters. if you ever need mental support, there are more resources now than ever. your life is worth so much more than you could ever even comprehend. every little dot on this planet makes a difference. i love you all.

[gffa]

There's an interesting quote from an interview with Tini Howard (one of the two architects of this storyline) that just collided in my head with everything I've been trying to articulate about the bigger arc of this storyline: “It's not really an event about whether or not [Bruce and Selina] can get together. Once you agree that you like someone, you get down to ideology. You can't just love someone because they're beautiful and they stun you. What if you're different people? What if you believe different things? [In] comics, it is like [they] kiss, and they're together.” Howard also emphasized the importance of agreeing to disagree when it comes to interacting with loved ones, both romantic and platonic. “As someone that's been married to my best friend for 15 years, that's not the truth. A big part of being with someone you love is learning to disagree. When you're a superhero and a powerful stakeholder in Gotham, those personal things can have major effects on the world around you.” But what's interesting is that I think it applies to his kids just as much as it does to Selina, because I think this storyline's heart is all about Bruce Wayne's mental state. That's the framework, that's the beginning, and I'm assuming it's going to be the end, too. The story has been set up very clearly about how he's been running through too hard a gauntlet with no rest in between for too long, the opening pages of this event make a very heavy point about how Bruce is already running thin, the establishing storylines before this are ones like Failsafe, Red Mask, Insomnia, etc. I would even argue (and have) that there's a lot of connections going on with other storylines that were about Bruce's relationships with his family that are informing this one--like, the breakup between Bruce and Selina is right there when Selina says, well, if Gotham being saved is all that stands between us, now it's peaceful, let's head to the church then, in pointing out that Bruce doesn't want Gotham saved as much as he needs to be the one saving it. There's so much deeply personal stuff Bruce has been facing and he's always struggled with caring about others and letting them in, not just afraid that he'll lose them again, but that he'll be hurt by them again, that he'll fight with them again. And it's not that he's never clashed with viewpoints, like he and Dick alone have gotten into a whole bunch of knock-down-drag-out fights about how they clash with each other.

But I keep coming back to Bruce's mental state and the ultimate purpose of this storyline, because it's not really about Selina's plan at all, it's always been about Bruce's mind and mental health falling apart in a deeply horrific way and how even his loved ones are being stripped away from him, because he cannot compromise. That one of the core problems with Bruce as a person is that I'm not sure he really learned how to get along with someone that he fundamentally disagrees with--because, when he lost his parents at such a young age, there wasn't time to see them as people he could disagree with, they're forever idealized in his head. With Alfred, they had disagreements, but fundamentally, Alfred saw how much Bruce needed this and Alfred was so often water bending around Bruce's immoveable rock. Dick was one of the biggest challenges, because they did have fundamental disagreements that led to massive fights. Jason and Tim and Damian all have their disagreements with him as well. Which is why I think Jason plays the role in this that he does--why Bruce is suddenly bringing up Jason's murders again, because it's the narrative bringing up that Bruce has been struggling to reconcile fundamentally disagreeing with someone on such an important thing, a core thing about himself, and when this much stress is piled onto him, he breaks and does something truly terrible.

It's why Selina had to be the one to come up with this plan (no matter how silly it might seem, no matter how much it's not really that much sillier than costumed vigilantes fighting crime as a reasonable solution to how to help society), because Bruce doesn't really know how to disagree with her on this fundamental a level and still have a relationship with her. It's why Dick has to be the one that fights him as one of the most central pieces of the story that really makes shit hit the fan, because Bruce has come to depend on Dick (as an adult) to be the one to save him, to pull him back from the darkness, and when it's Dick that "betrays" him, it's a foundational block being taken away from Bruce's stability. It's why Tim and Damian occupy the roles they do in the story, that they both desperately want to help Bruce, but don't know how when Bruce won't let them, that while this story is central to Bruce as a character, these characters also need to struggle with disagreeing with someone and still interact with them--and how to deal with a Bruce who struggles with that.

Watching Bruce struggle with Zur-En-Arrh taking over his mind, watching him struggle with defining himself through his war on crime because it feels like the only thing holding him together, watching him struggle with how much he loves and wants these people, but it's running right up against the thing that's holding him together--it's pretty painful because most of the time, even when he disagrees with someone, he can look the other way (after some asshole behavior) or someone will pull him out of the dark, but here everything just piled up in a major freight train of about seven different things colliding at once and Bruce just does not have enough experience in dealing with disagreeing with people and just learning to live around those disagreements, to be able to handle it when his mind is fracturing and the "pure Batman" part of him is all that's holding him together.

[coochiequeens]

When I say "Stop transing minors" I don't just mean medically transitioning, I also mean stop exposing kids to overly sexualized situations.

By Shay Woulahan April 24, 2024

A 14-year-old girl who identifies as a “drag king” and is being transitioned to a “boy” has reportedly been performing sexually suggestive shows at LGBT clubs and bars across Vancouver, Canada. The minor, who is disabled and autistic, goes by “he/him/they/it” pronouns and is taking testosterone under the permission of her mother.

The child, who was born female but identifies as a “boy,” uses the stage name “Nova Tropica” and has performed in at least three LGBT bars in Vancouver, all of which are adult venues that serve alcohol. Among the clubs Nova has danced at are The Fountainhead Pub, Steamworks brewpub, and The Junction.

According to Gays Against Groomers, during her performance at The Foundationhead Pub, a gay bar located on Davie Street, the child danced with only tape covering the front of her breasts.

The child as seen in an uncensored video posted to Instagram.

Nova maintains a YouTube channel where she often uploads footage of her performances.

In August of 2023, she shared a video of her dancing on stage in a bar to the song “Bubblegum B*tch” and is seen collecting dollar bills from audience members. In another video, Nova is seen dancing alone to the Britney Spears’ controversial song “If U Seek Amy,” which is intended to sound out the letters “F-U-C-K me.”

In some of the videos posted to her YouTube account, she is seen dancing to an adult crowd wearing only a cut-out bathing suit, an outfit she has also posed in for photos shared to her social media while wearing clear, stiletto “pleasers,” a form of platform high-heel most frequently associated with stripping, pole dancing, and the sex trade.

As well as posting footage of her performances to YouTube, Nova also maintains an Instagram page where she posts clips of herself dancing on stage while exclusively adult crowds cheer her on. In many of the videos, Nova is wearing revealing clothing and, during one performance, she even spreads her legs for the audience.

On her Instagram, which was made private shortly after her activities were first exposed by Gays Against Groomers, Nova also frequently posted about her mental health struggles, though continuously insisted her “neurodivergence” was unrelated to her desire to transition.

“The only way they could even correlate is through the way I view my gender,” Nova said in the caption of one post where she described herself as a “demon boy” and said she’s “everything Lucifer wants her to be.”

In another post, in which she wears a cut-out swimsuit she has performed in, Nova said she “loves” how testosterone is starting to affect her muscle definition.

Nova’s transition has been supported by her mother Chrysta. On her own Instagram page, Chrysta posted about how she had been struggling to access hormones for her daughter since she was just 11 years old.

In the post, Chrysta acknowledges that Nova is experiencing poor mental health, but attributes her condition to “being born in the wrong body.” She also condemns the Canadian political parties attempting to pass legislation which would protect children from medical transitioning.

“I will not allow any government to MURDER my child,” Chrysta said in one post. “Forcing a child to live in a body that is not authentic to their person is MURDER.”

The post was made in reference to the People’s Party of Canada, which developed a 7-point plan to protect women and children from the harmful effects of gender ideology, such as banning men from women’s spaces and sports and banning genital mutilation surgeries and cross-sex hormones for minors.

Not only has Chrysta facilitated Nova’s transition, but she also confesses to monitoring her social media, meaning she is aware of the inappropriate videos and photos being posted online of her minor daughter.

In one post, she addressed rumors that an adult Drag King had behaved inappropriately in messages with her young daughter, claiming the concerns were “false accusations.”

But her notice was not the only suggestion that Nova has been in contact with adult drag performers.

On Instagram, Nova spoke about attending a youth summer “drag camp” hosted by “Rose Butch” and “DeeDee LaCraze.”

DeeDee LaCraze also operates a YouTube channel called “Drag4Kids” where he has made multiple videos in full drag singing nursery rhymes. LaCraze hosts his youth drag camp along side Rose Butch, a trans identified female who calls herself a “non-binary drag thing.”

The summer camp, held in July 2023, was made available for children as young as 7.

There has been an uptick in the number of children performing drag, often in bars and clubs, in recent years. Last April, a video went viral showing a young “drag queen” dancing at a party sponsored by a gay hookup app.

Arguably one of the most well-known “drag kids” is Desmond Napoles, who goes by the name “Desmond is Amazing.” Desmond rose to fame at only 11 years old in 2017 after being featured on RuPaul’s Drag Race. Soon after, the child appeared in YouTube and Facebook streams alongside adult men, and was even filmed joking about snorting ketamine.

With the increase in “drag kids” has come further scrutiny of the sexual predators involved in the drag scene. In 2022, a “drag kid” mentor and a former elementary school teaching assistant faced child pornography charges following an investigation into exploitative material shared on the internet.

[zvtara-was-never-canon]

they managed to massacre Aang's character and all the struggle and importance of his choice in the finale in a SINGLE page, and yet there are people who think the comics are good

and of course Katara's would have nothing to say on the matter, toootally in-character

Not to mention: yes, Zuko is right that a lifetime of indoctrination won't magically stop affecting him just because he's aware of it now, but the way the comics really said "If you're not perfect, you deserve to die. Not rehabilitation, not even incarceration despite it being an option, just straight to violent, lethal punishment" is horrying.

And lets not forget the blatant abuse apologism of having Zuko, the kid who was told by his abusive parent that his disfigurement and banishment was "for his own good" after he made one "mistake", turning to his closest friends and asking them to be his "safety net" by MURDERING HIM IF EVER STEPS OUT OF LINE - and said friends then agree to it.

Are you fucking kidding me? The real Aang would have double-down on the "You're NOT your father" bit, and the entire friend group would have been super concerned about Zuko because a victim of abuse saying they're as bad as their abuser thus deserve to die is one hell of a red flag as to how their mental health is going.

Speaking of mental health: I talk a lot about how Azula was constantly being abused by the supposed heroes in the comics, and how the justification of it is rooted in ableism, but this nonsense with Zuko asking to be put down like a dog is also peak victim blaming, and one of the few moments in which one can actually feel bad for comics!Zuko.

And it ties into a disturbing pattern I noticed among Avatar fans - and mainly Zuko fans. They don't truly understand that what Ozai put his children through was wrong, they simply think he chose the wrong kid as the escapegoat. They think Azula should have been the one that is constantly punished just for existing, while Zuko is the golden child that can do no wrong - or else.

This moment right here? With the people that he trusts agreeing to inflict violence on him if he ever makes a mistake? This is that "or else". This is literally the same mentality that led to Azula's breakdown because NO ONE CAN SURVIVE UNDER THAT MUCH PRESSURE.

And that leads us to the main reason why the comcis suck: Yang was using Zuko as a self-insert.

"Zuko‘s relationship with Ozai is something we – Mike, Brian, Dark Horse, Nickelodeon, and I – talked about extensively when we first started working together. There’s this strange thing that happens to people in power. The pressures of power often blur the lines between enemies. That’s part of what happens to Zuko here. Ozai is the only one who knows what it’s like to be Fire Lord, the only one who has the wisdom of experience. I also looked at my own life. I used to clash with my dad quite a bit when I was a teenager. However, as I grew up and found myself in roles that he used to have, I began to understand more and more of his decisions. My father isn't thoroughly evil, of course, but I imagine Zuko feels a little of the same pull."

Yang. My guy. My dude. The words "Ozai" and "wisdom" should NEVER be in the same sentence. Every single action of Ozai's as Fire Lord was based on him being an abusive piece of shit that finally got access to absolute power. He is not a stern dad, he is abusive. He's not misunderstood, he needed to be stopped and locked away. He is a human being with feelings and motivations, yes, but he is WRONG ABOUT LITERALLY EVERYTHING EVER. He NEVER had a point. Zuko has nothing to learn from him except what NOT to do. That's why he looks like an older, unscarred Zuko. A version of Zuko that never changed.

This is the core issue of the comics, and why it had so many moments of unintentional abuse apologism: they say Ozai is a villain, but they're going out of their way to constantly make the characters come dangerously close to saying "Maybe he had a point." That's why they have Zuko turn to Ozai for advice despite claiming he wants to avoid becoming like him - because the guy writting them couldn't understand that the bad guy was, in fact, bad and in the wrong and has no wisdom to offer to anyone.

Avatar, the series, is about the world moving past from the sick mentality people like Ozai had, and about his son realizing that he did not deserve to be abused. The Avatar Comics are about telling Zuko (and others) "Ozai isn't wrong actually, you'll understand when you're older."

No, Yang, they won't. Because there's nothing to "understand" here other than THE GUY THAT ABUSED HIS CHILDREN AND COMMITED GENOCIDE WAS WRONG ABOUT EVERYTHING, YOU DUMBASS!

Saying "the villain had a point" does not make a story better unless it is true - and in Ozai's case, it simply isn't. Insisting otherwise doesn't make the story and characters more mature, it just means you couldn't understand a cartoon aimed at 7-year-olds despite being a grown-ass man.

And I won't even get into Bryke approving of this bullshit otherwise I'll start tearing my hair out in rage at how badly they seem to have lost touch with the message of their best work, so let me just use a simple statemet to make everyone understand just how much of a disaster this is:

Even M. Night Shyamalan didn't misunderstand ATLA to the point of thinking Ozai wasn't actually wrong, but Bryan, Mike and Yang did. The comics understand the show less than M. Night Shyamalan did.

I rest my fucking case.

[the-music-maniac]

How fucked up would it be if Sefikura got Hanahaki? Either one of them. That ship is already toxic AF (affectionate) but imagine the HAVOC.

I'm gonna ramble a bit so I can get the brain worms out but feel free to correct me on any plot points, or character interpretations: I've absorbed all this shit from watching walkthroughs (cause I'm broke and video games are expensy) and I haven't finished watching yet. I'm also playing it fast and loose with when this occurs in canon - I have no idea tbh. My interpretations are probably influenced by fandom already cause I've been reading posts and fanfics, and I am aware that this is SO self indulgent, so again. Biased viewpoint here.

Also since I'm aware that sefikura is a controversial ship even with the ship's popularity and age, if you don't like it, that's fine, just block me or scroll on.

I can see the story being more interesting if Seph is the one to get the disease. Mostly because, while I understand his obsession with Cloud is quite complex and not really there bc of romantic reasons (Cloud has S-cells, Seph kinda just views Cloud as his to control I assume, plus Cloud is useful to him, and the fact that Sephiroth has a god complex a mile wide and Cloud was somehow able to beat him as a mere trooper, etc. etc.) I do think for an individual like Sephiroth, that level of obsession is likely the closest he's going to get to love, or at least a blurring of the lines between love and hate. I don't think he really feels that emotion much anymore, especially not after the first time he died, but whatever he DOES feel for Cloud could be strong enough and close enough in shape for something like Hanahaki to latch onto.

Sephiroth's course of action in response would be interesting to see. Hanahaki weakens the individual, which is something Seph is probably not gonna stand for, even if he has enough hubris that he doesn't think he'll die from it. Maybe similar to the degeneration Genesis was experiencing? There's a thought. I honestly think Sephiroth would find it more intolerable if he reaches a stalemate with the disease, not enough to kill him, but enough to weaken him to the point where it hurts his pride and gets in the way of his plans. That seems like it would grate on him more than the threat of death, which doesn't stick anyways.

Sephiroth's go-to in that situation (upon exhausting other avenues - the first and easiest being, y'know. Murder) would probably be to try the puppet route - force Cloud into feeling that reciprocating emotion. Which like. It doesn't work like that Sephy. And here's where it could get really dark if you were so inclined to write it that way, but I'm not in the mood for that right now so I'm gonna say this - that course of action would bring up a lot of PTSD for Cloud obviously, but a perplexing point would be if Sephiroth just y'know. Succeeded in controlling and forcing that emotion for a bit and then upon realizing Hanahaki doesn't work like that - immediately releases his control. Cloud is left there, sound of mind again and fucked up in the mental health but ultimately unharmed and very confused.

Second course of action, good old fashioned manipulation. Here is where it would probably get convoluted though, while I don't think Sephiroth would go down the full on cracky shit of trying to woo Cloud or anything like that (keep in mind up until now, I don't think the nature of Sephiroth's emotions for Cloud are necessarily romantic, so that's not where the Hanahaki is stemming from, or at least not at the beginning - since we are talking about Sefikura and I do like the romance even if I acknowledge it's a little out there in terms of canon. I'm aware he says some provocative shit, but I think that's to get a reaction - it's taunting more than flirting. So, I don't think it would necessarily occur to Sephiroth to do anything romantic here), I do think Sephiroth would be forced to do shit that's actually helpful. His world domination plans are at a standstill cause he's too weak to enact them, and he's trying to get some sort of reciprocation that's enough for the disease to be satisfied, so even if he doesn't give a shit and thinks it's stupid and a waste of time, he studies Cloud and his friends and their movements and acts accordingly to help. Probably in the most violent way possible, granted. Sending Cloud into more confusion.

What I do find interesting is if Cloud finds out what's happening. Fear in response to learning about possibly romantic feelings on Sephiroth's end is probably unavoidable with how fucked up their in game relations are (Sephiroth's attentions are not exactly kind), but once Cloud realizes the nature of those emotions are not romantic (and therefore not r*pey - while I do have a vested interest in avoiding that, I also don't think it's in character for Seph. He always struck me as someone who either didn't have interest in intercourse for its own sake or just never felt safe enough to try when he was still sane) ironically? I can see Cloud eventually feeling guilty. Because his first reaction would obviously be relief or even happiness at the fact that this is weakening Sephiroth and may potentially lead to his death, and I do believe that would be genuine relief. At the beginning there is no guilt. Just fury at the audacity and a vindictive type of happiness. And then the guilt stems from the insidiousness of a disease like this, as Sephiroth keeps being helpful, and seeing the reality of an individual who no longer acts untouchable like a God, suffering. Not beating the enemy by any honest means but by the simple fact that Cloud despises Sephiroth, and something is responding to that and doing the dirty work for him. And then, feeling guilty about feeling guilty bc he should be happy about keeping Seph contained and unable to hurt others by any means necessary, but he's not. He seems like the type of hero to spiral like that.

And then of course, as time progresses on, the hatred lessening the longer Sephiroth isn't doing any heinous shit, the worry of no longer being able to hold onto enough of that hatred to keep Sephiroth contained, because Cloud isn't stupid, he KNOWS Sephiroth isn't doing this out of anything genuine, but it's still working because humans are humans who have sympathy for those who look like they're suffering and memories that fade and get overwritten with time and new information. And so Cloud knows the second he lets go of that hatred, Sephiroth will go back to killing, but in the same breath he can't help feeling sympathetic. Knowing the manipulation and still falling for it despite yourself is probably uniquely infuriating and seems like the mindfuckery Sephiroth would enjoy.

Here's the kicker though, Cloud's response to that "not-hatred anymore, but not nearly indifferent enough to be neutral" emotion would probably be paired with him treating Sephiroth better than he was treated by any of the Shinra personnel, barring of course Angeal, Genesis and Zack, without even realizing it. Like Sephiroth was dehumanized for so long, both as a weapon to be used and feared and as a public figure to be idolized and adored - none of that was his own to control - so Cloud extending basic courtesies and concern is going to feel different. Maybe it reminds him of Angeal and Genesis, I dunno. It wouldn't be out of the left field, the disease probably already reminds him of the degeneration. So now he's reminded that he was capable of loving people, once. We don't got time to unpack Sephiroth's mile long list of issues in this post but let's say it actually makes Seph come to a couple epiphanies. If Sephiroth's feelings eventually shift to romantic love while Cloud's feelings are shifting to that not-hatred, not-quite-romantic-yet, but not-indifferent, Sephiroth is y'know. Still gonna be stuck with the disease cause it's not technically reciprocation. That would be hilarious wouldn't it. So let's say that happens and Sephy is confused and Cloudy is also confused at the fact that he's beginning to feel charitable towards Sephiroth but he's still not getting better.

On the contrary, I think he would get worse. Because NOW what the Hanahaki is latching onto is real and genuine love. Yeah, that previous weakening wasn't even the disease at full strength, have fun with that.

I can see Sephiroth getting frustrated at this point cause he doesn't seem well adjusted enough to notice his own feelings shifting and put two and two together, so upon realizing that Cloud feels some level of reciprocation and the disease is getting worse, he probably would just. Leave. And at this point in the story I think what would disturb Cloud the most is if he sees Sephiroth give up entirely. Because consistently, the man has never done that before. Sephiroth has never in all the crazy shit that he's done - given up.

Keep in mind, it's only really possible at this point cause Sephiroth has been feeling like absolute dogshit the entire time. Chronic pain wears on you, and for someone who has been inhumanly healthy and then the equivalent of a God, that constant exhaustion and weakness, the choking on your breaths and pain in your chest, and then being so sure of a solution and having hope, only for it to not work and to even get worse - also Seph doesn't have good coping mechanisms clearly - he gives up. And I think this is the push Cloud might need for his own feelings to shift.

And how fucked up would it be if the hanahaki flowers were sent by Aerith though. I don't think she would do that maliciously, but as a way to test if there's any hope for Sephiroth. She maybe didn't necessarily know it would manifest for Cloud, but just some type of reaction. A way to keep her loved ones safe from him? Weakening but not killing him because Sephiroth pollutes the lifestream if he enters it, and he also won't stay dead and everyone keeps suffering because of it and - basically they're at a stalemate. If there is no hope for Seph, then the flowers would do nothing. If there is, then the flowers may be a chance to change things. Imagine that. Whether or not it's in character for Aerith is up for debate but it would be quite interesting.

So Cloud talking to Aerith and learning that? Learning that things aren't as hopeless for Sephiroth as he had assumed? Another point that may cause Cloud's viewpoint to change. It's hard to deny the authenticity of someone's humanity when it's literally killing them.

And since my entire reason for liking Sefikura is partially because Sephiroth's backstory upsets me (most of it's because it's just an interesting dynamic, but the fact that Seph was made to be a weapon, abused throughout his entire life with little to no bodily autonomy nor freedom, thought he had been betrayed by two of the only people he loved, and then manipulated until he went insane, and is now never going to be free of Jenova or his anger and hatred because he gave into his worst demons - that makes me sad. So, admittedly I got into sefikura because of time travel fix-its where Cloud goes back and tries to fix things - which often includes people gradually realizing just how much abuse Sephiroth had suffered, and all the factors that were pushing Seph until he snapped. I mean granted, that doesn't excuse the awful shit he did by any means, but the odds were by every definition, against him from the beginning. The romance was just a large bonus of those fix-its) I'm going to give them a happy ending. Cloud stays there and tries to get Sephiroth back to how he was, and in the process with the amount of time they spend together, and the worry he's been feeling at how Sephiroth is deteriorating, helps push the feelings that are there into fruition. The Hanahaki clears, and Cloud expects to need to fight Sephiroth, expects that he would have to kill him. Sephiroth doesn't - not because he now values humanity or anything because I don't think any amount of redemption is enough for Sephiroth to reach that point, at least not that quickly, that shit would be a lifelong battle - but because he knows Cloud, and he knows he would kill him if he went back to how he was. If it really came down to it, to save the world, Cloud wouldn't hesitate. And once he crosses that line after they've had this dynamic, that's the last betrayal and there would be no going back, no returning. That would be the end, permanently. And he actually wants to stay by Cloud's side. There could be a moment where Sephiroth contemplates it, but in the end his better demons win out, if you wanna add more drama.

I have also thought about what it would be like if Cloud had Hanahaki and it would also be interesting, although the disease type wouldn't quite be the same as for Sephiroth, because Cloud does genuinely hate Seph. So, it would probably be more fucked up - if Sephiroth succeeded in keeping Cloud as a puppet, and that results in a manifestation of Hanahaki because of that forced devotion, since Sephiroth is only using Cloud as a tool. And it ironically weakens Cloud enough that he's no longer useful as a puppet and Sephiroth has to let go. Rinse repeat. Or if Sephiroth is somehow able to use his cells to induce a similar disease in Cloud. That'd be pretty damn fucked up, huh. Compels me though.

Anyways, I dunno if I'll ever use any of these ideas for anything, but it was still interesting to think about. Thank you for reading!

[dearestspirit]

a note heard in heaven - 06

mizu x fem!reader | au based on the film the handmaiden | word count: 11,078 | warnings: mdni. this series will contain sexual and dark themes, including: abuse, sex, sexual assault/harrasment, period typical misogyny, murder, allusions to suicide, and period typical stigmas against mental health.

series masterlist | previous part | next part

a/n: beginning note for context: most of this chapter is within the context of the reader going through memories of their childhood, meeting mizu, and previous events of the story that happened with mizu, but moreso from the reader's perspective. also, it has the brunt of the tagged topics (abuse, suicide) but i tried my best at writing things with only as much detail as i thought they needed to have to advance the plot. take care and enjoy!

You’ve lived in this manor for a long time. From crying child to complacent adult, most of your memories are within the walls of the estate. Purgatorial fog covered the recollections of your haunted youth– knowing you were raised purely to be what you are now. A well; to be dipped into, whether it be for money or pleasure. To receive nothing in return. Nothing good, at least. No matter how far you go from that place, you’ll still flinch when you think of it. It’s why, even in the back of the carriage as you and Taigen are leaving the asylum, you grow distant. Strings of what used to be lingering fuzzily in your mind, as if the fear wants to eat away at you.

Just like it did when you were a child.

In that same dreary library, attending your reading lessons even then, that’s where horror first began its feast with you. It’s where you’d first hear the words ‘bitch’ from your eventual fiance. Where he had first met your skin with bruising metal beads. Your hands, your knuckles. They had stayed painfully red for weeks. He’d tell you to remember it. He’d tie the metal beads to the obi around your waist. Really burn it into your mind for any time after that you wanted to act out. What part of you had fear gulped into its belly then? And what part did it chew on when you were given your own bedroom, away from your dear aunt?

Madam Kaji had told you a tall tale that night. Your new room suffocated in deep shadows, curtains drawn to dim the glow of the moonlight. You remember begging her to light a candle in your room. Desperately, because while you knew you couldn’t ask for two, you might have a chance at one. Just one light to protect you. Any sense of security or safety in this place was scarce– so much so that you weren’t even surprised when the older woman sneered down at you, refusing. That doll you owned– the one you seemingly carried with you everywhere– was the only semblance of warmth you ever felt here. She crouched down, level with your eyesight. Pointing her lantern towards the door, she spoke in a hushed tone, telling you all about the ogre who’d burst into your room if it heard you scream or cry. How it’d smother you until you could no longer manage to make even a whisper of a sound. You thought you heard the now familiar sound of a stomach growling.

Until your aunt came through that very door, spooking both you and Madam Kaji.

She had tsked, shaking her head. “Don’t be scaring little ones like that.”

Her pointed glare towards the elder woman was obvious as she used her own candle to light your lamp, which had eased your fears at least a little. You remember her to have always been that kind. Always looking out for you, in a world where nobody else was. The first person to make you feel like maybe you did belong. That despite whatever horrific paths you’d find yourself on, you weren’t entirely alone. But those heartfelt moments grew to be few and far between through the interference of your eventual fiance. Short lived too, washing down the drain alongside what fragments of faith you had left. That man had doled out cruelty and punishments equally between you and your aunt, snuffing out any sense of joy in your lives.

You had learned a lot from the woman, regardless.

Like when she told you to hold out your hands, dropping a photo of your mother into your outstretched palms. Did you know, decades later, you’d be asking the same question she had?

“And me? Everybody says I don’t compare to my big sister.” She spoke with her head turned, displaying her side profile.

You must’ve spent hours looking at that picture after that. You never knew her, the only testament to her as a person being the stories passed down from your aunt. Tracing a finger down the slope of her nose, then your own. Perhaps you’d never compare, either. Not like it mattered, when every step of your life was decided for you. You wouldn’t have to compare, you would just have to exist. No desires, no grudges. No mind to dwell on the truth of your life. Just pieces of a blank slate hastily kept together by the desperation of the people around you greedily trying to take your wealth.

Despite any punishment, you’d still act out any way you could. You’d giggle and point at the dirty words and pictures in those books you were forced to read during your lessons. When your aunt would point and verbalize the parts of the human body across from your eventual fiance, you were to repeat them. You’d chuckle as she’d point out the lower areas– noticing the displeasure on the man’s face. He’d descend upon you and your aunt quickly, leaving you teary eyed and frowning.

It wasn’t long after that that you found out what a mental hospital was. The threats to send you away to one of them were frequent, becoming a little more real each time you acted out. You had been told that this sort of hysteria was typical in the women of your family– he had side-eyed your aunt at that particular comment– and that it’d do you good to get your lunacy treated. That they’d bury you into the depths of cold soil. Cover it up until you ‘improved’, after which you’d become a fucking dog to them. Leashed. Detailing the frightening ways these hospitals would treat their patients, it made your aunt start running. She had made a desperate attempt to get out of the library before that lever was pulled and the gate had shut in her face, much like it did to Mizu when she first tried to get in.

You wished you were brave enough to try.

You watched your aunt slowly grow sicker. Older now, and able to reminisce, you now knew the cause of that sickness. Those fucking readings he’d make her do during his bidding sessions. To an audience of men, delighting in a well put together woman voicing off lewd words. When he’d make her read the story of women getting defiled, smoking men gathered on the steps to view her. They’d have their own cushions and tables, treated with the highest regard to further his own influence among these sadistic individuals. At the end of it all one man would go home with the crass material, and your fiance would be even richer. You’d watch with a heavy heart from the doorway of the library as she finished up, dabbing at her cheeks with a folded handkerchief. That smile she gave to you– deeper with pity and sympathy than you could describe at the time.

When she’s found dead the next day, you think she took with you the last scrap of hope you had left. Her body swayed from the branch of that cherry tree outside your window. A servant had swiftly carried you away, trying to tear your eyes away from the gruesome scene.

You visited that tree often. Thinking of your aunt protecting you, as best she could, from the harsh realities of the world you lived in. Something about you swears those flowers bloomed even more beautifully– their hue a vibrant pink, fragrant and sweet. Your aunt’s soul in a rush of floral glory. Arms above your head, you’d let yourself feel the breeze and swing just like she did.

What acts of defiance did you have left in you?

Exhaustion buckled you into silent submission.

The estate grew with you, over time. Adulthood made little change in you, but the manor morphed beyond itself. Renovations to the library changed its appearance, now seeming more opulent. Pools of clear water embedded in the tatami floor, bonsai trees, and sections of pure white sand adorned with rocks adding a scenic flair to the room. Despite all the change, you were still just as terrified of the library as you used to be. The death of your aunt was nothing to your now fiance– the ‘proposal’, if you could call it that, happened shortly after– his only concern was those books of his. Eventually, he had replaced your aunt with… you.

In your heart, you know that your aunt’s most profound regret was that she could not save you from him.

Candlelight lit the room, your hushed voice rolling through like a fog. Crude details of sex falling on perverted ears. Bondage, whips. The faces of your listeners staring into you, hanging onto every syllable you speak. Their legs begin to tremble the more you delve into the story, the peak imminent. A new man you’ve never seen before sits proudly. Not as jittery or obvious as the others, though his eyes are just as intense.

The Count. You know him now. His ulterior motives, too. In your memories, that’s apparent in hindsight. The intense look in his eye is not that of perversion, but rather, trickery.

Your performance continued that night. Men had begun to fan themselves, fidgeting. With the last word having been read, you watched your fiance stand, describing the origins of the book and how he’d gotten his hands on it. Aristocratic nonsense that’d bore you to death. The Count had chimed in to the conversation, striking a nerve within your fiance as you see him light up at whatever he said. Mentioning an author by name, you assume. The book is flipped around to the audience to show the one problem.

An illustration, torn from its place. Only the hint of it remains in the ripped edge still holding onto its bindings.

“Before the bidding starts,” His hand waves over to you, gesturing for everyone to gaze your way. “We’ll have a demonstration.”

You’d be disrobed of the extravagant kimono you had on to reveal a lighter one underneath. With the pulling of a few levers, a wooden mannequin with maneuverable limbs would be lowered from the ceiling, coming to rest in front of you. Removing the pins from your hair as you let it down, you’d have to straddle the puppet’s legs, your own obi wrapped around its waist. You’d be bound to it, this way. An unfortunately visceral feeling of eyes crawling on whatever inch of skin they could see made your mouth dry, you remember. Your fiance would set up all the ropes on the model, it eventually coming to be hoisted in the air, you still secured in its lap. Below you, you could faintly make out the image of the many men leaning forward in their seats, as if to study your form. Leaning backwards to imitate the position you’d read out earlier, you could feel your stomach begin to turn. Your mind had grown fuzzy after that, barely perceiving the suggestive speech going on about you.

Your next clear memory of that night was of you sneaking your way through the manor. Many shortcuts were riddled throughout the strange architecture. Above the library was a particular wall. From your side, you were able to slide it aside and peer into the room below. Convenient, when you wanted to catch your fiance’s wrongdoings. Sat at one of the tables was The Count, carefully replicating an illustration from a book. A forgery. Yet their discussion landed at the one topic you expected; women, and particularly which women The Count figured he could successfully lay with during his time at the manor.

He clicked his tongue. “There is… only one who would refuse me here.”

“Madam Kaji?” Your fiance raised a brow at that.

“Your former wife who you still share a bed with?” The Count scoffed. “She’d come to my door in an instant if I showed her the right attention.”

“Then who?”

“The lady…” At his words, you peered through the slots in the wall as best you could. Anticipating his next sentence with great anxiety. “She didn’t look away when she saw me. Even if I were to meet her tonight… I couldn’t. Her body is cold, and her eyes… they have nothing. I’m certain her soul is dead inside. Go easy on her.”

You had gulped at that, slumping back a bit as the two began smoking together. At that time, your fiance had just laughed at the implications of The Count’s statement.

You found out soon after that that The Count had offered himself up to give you painting lessons; something he claimed was expected of all the ladies he met in England, where he had studied. Your fiance had insisted on the two of you sharing a meal with him. A gesture of kindness he bestowed only to those like-minded to him. You were never very lucky in receiving any sort of grace from him. When he was ushered away by a servant to take care of some important matter, The Count leaned on his elbows towards you.

“He will only be gone for a little while,” He said, eyes fixed on you despite their brief glance to where your fiance had run off to. “There’s something I’ve come to discuss with you about your future. You’ll see me waiting by the stone lamp at nightfall.”

For some reason, you had decided just this once to see. Your life had been vapid and essentially pointless after your aunt had passed– your handmaidens were not kind to you, Madam Kaji was too busy to entirely get along with you, and your fiance… well, you didn’t want him to like you to begin with. It didn’t surprise you that, after going so long without it, the tiniest glimmer of hope made your chest feel like it was bursting as you waited for midnight to come. You had sent your handmaiden away, off to some other wing of the estate so she wouldn’t be privy to whatever The Count wanted to tell you. After you heard her footsteps depart, you took a peek past the curtain of your window.

And there he stood, cigarette lit in his hands gazing back up at you. Eventually he had sauntered off out of your eyesight, but you could guess where he was going. Only minutes later was there a knock at your door.

“I’m not looking forward to having rumors spread about the two of us,” You spoke through the door, guarded. Your doll sat comfortably in your arms. “What do you want?”

“Look, it was really hard getting here,” He sneered. “I don’t need any of your princess sass. I’m the son of a farmhand, and I’ve spent a long time trying to get the skills to meet you. Bookmaking, forgeries. I came here to attract you, get rid of you, and take your money, but…”

He briefly trailed off, leaving you to wonder why. He cleared his throat after some contemplation, continuing.

“I don’t think I’m the type who would be able to seduce you, to put it in plain terms.”

You had snorted at that, opening the door. “You’d be right.”

The man had then allowed himself into your room. “So, I’ve thought of a new deal. In exchange for about,” He makes a motion with his hand to imply he’s thinking. “Half of your fortune, it can be a rescue operation. We get married, I take you far away, we split the money.”

“That’s not going to work.”

“So you rather marry that old pervert and stay here than even try?” He asked.

“I’m not going to marry anyone.” You seethed, backing away from him as you let your words sink in.

“And what of your wealth if you simply die like that? It’ll all go to him and he’ll just repeat the process from the beginning.” While he makes a good point, you can’t shake the years of trained fear of your fiance.

“He’ll… he’ll follow us,” You’ve started to quiver, securing your arms tighter around your doll. “The basement. He’ll put us in the basement.”

“What?”

You take a deep breath, eyes becoming distant. “After my aunt passed, I read in a book that there are certain things that happen to the body after being hanged. However, when I saw her body… none of the signs were there. When I asked my fiance about it, he asked if I wanted to go somewhere nice. He pulled up some of the tatami mats from the floor, leading me down a staircase.”

Even now, you could never forget the chill that seeped through your sock clad feet descending those stairs. How his words sunk in, that what had happened to your aunt was a consequence. A punishment for an attempted escape. The purpose of this room became more than clear to you; the variety of strange tools and objects. A lot of things that your mind couldn’t parse at the time. Your head throbbed at the lack of light, the underground room feeling like it was closing in on you.

A shiver courses through you. “I will never go back there again.”

The Count nods after hearing you recount your experience, exhaling noisily and rubbing his chin. “This,” He held up a small vial of an unknown liquid. “Is opium. If he ever gets a hold of you again, you can drink all of it and be dead within minutes.”

In your panic addled state, you grabbed for it eagerly. Before you could get a hold of it, he had swiped it out of reach.

“Not yet. It’ll be a wedding gift,” He huffs, shaking his head. “Quite a grim one, at that…”

Your annoyance was clear as you rolled your eyes, willing the prick of tears to go away. In that moment you knew you had to try. If your aunt could not save you, then you would save yourself.

“Then…” You wandered over to the windowsill, taking a seat on it. “Bring someone to be my handmaiden. We can send her to a madhouse under my name. I want… I want my name to be buried there. ‘I’ won’t exist after that.”

He agreed. Especially considering the plan to get rid of your current handmaiden would be to bed her. The repercussion of which would be Madam Kaji kicking her out, of course. With her commitment to routine and keeping everything in order, it’d be the very next day that your new handmaiden arrived.

Mizu.

Unbeknownst to most people– maybe your aunt or fiance had known, you weren’t sure– that spot on your door was a peephole, facing outwards into the handmaiden’s quarters. You watched Mizu fumble with her luggage, placing it away and out of sight. In a move that shocks you, she hesitantly slid the screen to your room over, peering inside. When you looked back, you saw how the lump of your blankets on the bed slightly resembles your figure. As if you were laying there, unaware of Mizu’s presence. Gently, you thud your doll against your door, spooking Mizu into shutting the door and scrambling into bed.

“Fuck.” You heard her whisper.

Your grin widens.

Mizu is exactly what you had asked for from Taigen; a foolish girl who wouldn’t know any better. But… isn’t that exactly what she thought of you, too? You knew it, by the way she looked at you with those sad eyes when you had screamed for your mother, faking a nightmare. A bit of a dirty trick to play on her first night, you admit. Even so, that didn’t stop you from being amused at the charade of it all. Taigen had suggested that you show off all your fancy belongings to her– every finely made kimono, the glamorous jewelry. Her awkwardness was more than obvious. The fact that she had never come face to face with such expansive amounts of wealth was clear every time her blue eyes widened or lit up at the various items you showed her. She… was endearing, actually.

So much so that when you found out about the other servants stealing her shoe, it genuinely enraged you. Something you hadn’t felt for a long time. Most of your emotions had boiled down to dull nothingness after years of complacency. You found little value in feeling anger, much less expressing it. With your servants lined up in front of you, you’re sure they too could sense the unease in the air. Arms crossed tightly, you stared them down.

“Which one of you took her shoe?”

At the far end, one of the servant girls is quick to bow on the ground, tears in her eyes. She must’ve known it was better for her to concede, confessing her guilt rather than letting the information reach Madam Kaji. You nodded, feeling at least a little relief she had done so.

“If she ever runs because of something any of you do to her, I will personally throw you out myself,” You sigh. “Fuck.”

You had some inkling of an idea back then, that your feelings for her were already… complicated. Those moments you had felt her eyes on you– piercing, with heavy lids, just watching you– you couldn’t suppress the thrill you felt. Taigen had told you a little bit about her. How she had grown up poor and mostly went back and forth between either the woman who took her in or that elderly man she trained under for some time. You knew her to be strong, capable. Though, she was a bit like you, wasn’t she? Not very well acquainted with the art of social skills. She certainly didn’t know much about the way of nobles like you, so her suspecting you as being just as conniving as her was unlikely. You had never felt close to someone like this, at least not someone your own age. Other handmaidens would often cower before you, not because you had specifically done anything to them, but because of Madam Kaji’s strict standards. Mizu, though? She filled your time with genuine conversation and laughter. Maybe not the most smiles because she wasn’t exactly one to outwardly express herself, but that slight upturn of the edge of her lips– you could’ve kissed her the first time you saw it. Her entire face deserved the downpour of kisses you wished to give it. Forehead, eyebrows, the lids covering her striking eyes that didn’t scare you, cheeks, the tip of her nose often reddened by the cold rainy weather, lips, chin. You truly did think of her, late at night when your back would hit the cushioned softness of your mattress.

That bath didn’t help either. Absent-mindedly, you find your tongue running over the tooth she had smoothed down. Hoping to quell how much you missed her with whatever faint trace of metal that thimble had left behind. Hoping that, if your taste buds found that metallic tang, it could calm the way your heart pounded.

It came to be a fond memory of yours– how she had so gingerly taken your face in her hands. The pads of her fingers were calloused, rough on your own skin. You desperately wished there had been no thimble barring you from feeling her thumb trace across your teeth, your tongue. If she had asked you, you would’ve gladly closed your lips around her. Hers was a painless authority– your obedience to her was not beaten into you. You supposed… you just liked her. That notion of you being hers, and her being yours? A thread of a thought that you could barely unravel before you watch her eyes trail down your body. With how bright they are, it’s impossible to not notice the way her pupils dilate, especially when you see her throat bob as her eyesight aligns with your breasts. You had seen many, many men with wandering eyes. Impolite, sleazy gazes that made you squirm in discomfort. You wonder if her staring was a result of arousal, too? Mizu was unlike them, though. While her thoughts may have been impure, her hands stayed only where you asked them to. Never seeking out more than you wished to give. However, you craved for her to keep looking. There was almost a pained whimper from you as she peeled away, removing her thumb from your mouth. How easy would it be to grasp her wrist, drag her hand down your body until she was rolling her fingers over your most sensitive parts?

“Go ahead and finish washing.” You notice the way her voice had lowered, gotten huskier.

She sits with her back to the tub, arms crossing tensely. Behind her, you could make out the visible red tint speckled across the tops of her ears. To you, the silence is comfortable, but you’re sure that it’s agony to Mizu. Smiling, you hoist yourself to your knees, taking two movements to situate yourself behind her.

“Mizu?” Your voice is breathy, right next to her ear, that gets even redder.

“What?” She snaps at you a bit, but you pay it no mind.

“Do you want to come in, too?” If you didn’t feel it would push the limits, you would’ve planted a kiss right behind her ear.

Another on her neck below it. She’s frozen, not answering you while she’s deep in thought. Probably weighing her odds– would this be something you’d go running to Madam Kaji about if she said yes? You knew you wouldn’t, but you’re not sure how to assuage those doubts in her. Mizu turns to you, a smirk on her face that sends an arrow through your heart.

She leans in close, barely space between you two at this point. “Maybe next time, princess.”

The likelihood of you falling in love with her increased tenfold after that. Even as Taigen had told you to occupy all her time, to ensure that she thinks you’re falling in love with him at a snail’s pace. As if you’d fall in love with him at all, you wanted to scoff.

You couldn’t. You were on a nosedive, falling hard for the girl he had sent to be your servant. The one you were supposed to send away. Her presence now burnt into every joyous moment you could think of. Dinner, where Taigen had called you breathtakingly beautiful. A brief flash in your mind compared to how Mizu’s body had engulfed the rest of your memory. Dressing her, giving her those earrings to wear, having her look like a noble lady in front of you. Removing every garment one by one, too. Despite the glove in between, letting your hand follow the dips of her shoulder blades. Laughing with her after your painting lessons, or on that walk where she had cradled you so kindly. Having been deprived of true affection and feeling her palms against your cheeks as she talked you out of those bleak thoughts.

It was companionship.

When you thought of how this scheme was going, the way Mizu would never be yours if it came to fruition– you could barely fathom it. Finally, here is what you think you were made for. A woman who you would do anything to call your own, but with her came that cruel twist of fate that this would be it for you two. How hellish that you’d have to put up with Taigen’s grabby hands and crude remarks for the entirety of it, too?

That day it had rained, with the two of you back at the estate waiting for Mizu to return was one such occurrence. You had slapped his hand away from your arm, eyes going wide with annoyance.

“Ugh, you men are so simple.” You mumble.

“What?” Taigen snorts. “I’m just playing around. Your fiance’s making you read too many of those books, hm? I’m not after your body, only your money.”

He had pinched your cheek, your arm, and then your ass, which you fiercely swat away.

Mizu had gone stomping around the manor, you being unaware that she had seen Taigen so boldly touching you. You had seen her in the night, sitting straight up and sighing. Her anger was so freely expressed in those eyes of hers. When she looked Taigen’s way, her hatred of him was unmistakable.

At this point, yours probably was too.

Sitting on that rock in the forest, nearly in his lap, you had told him as much. He had insisted the two of you had to make the proposal believable. Mizu would have to see the two of you tangled together in order to truly think you had accepted. You had reluctantly agreed, though the nausea in your belly wasn’t soothed at all. He had made a comment to pretend he was that wooden mannequin, and he’d pretend you were another woman as well.

You didn’t want him to be the mannequin.

You wanted him to be Mizu.

Balanced in her lap, letting her cup your thighs in her hands. Fingers tracing upwards, creating a path of flames that licked deep into your bones. Her mouth on yours, frantic and frenzied with desire, the absolute need to be close to each other. You needed to be close to her because you loved her. In all your convoluted years of living, for once, laying with her, you had felt that first twinge of simultaneous fulfillment and heartbreak. Your heart, beating once, fed itself full on the fantasy of being together with Mizu. Beating once more, it collapsed when you heard her distressed cry for you, rooted to her spot in the forest as she saw you kissing Taigen.

With all the pain in her voice, the slight watery quality to her eyes, you could’ve never guessed that she too, was shattering.

A cool breeze wafted through the library, chilling your skin. You cleared your throat, watching all the men in attendance for tonight’s bidding settle into their spots. Taigen, of course, is there too. The story laid out in front of you made you pause, knowing its contents by the title alone after having practiced it for so long.

Depicted in the erotic tale was a relationship between two women. Describing how one of them was given a small box– four small silver bells contained within. A gift for her and her lover. As you read aloud, you notice the room growing dimmer. Regardless of the candlelight fading, you were able to continue. The two women would take two bells inside of them. Legs parted and meeting each other in the middle, the melodic notes would ring as they moved against each other. Tongue wetting your dry lips, you try to keep your focus on your speech. The illustration portrayed in the book below has you nearly tripping over your words, a momentary glimpse of it recalling Mizu to mind. To feel her, no bothersome fabric blocking you from her bare skin. To willingly allow yourself that vulnerability with her. Feeling her weight, her heat, the bumps of scars littered across her skin that you wanted to kiss, wanting to take away every ill thought she may have ever had. Feel the roughness of her hands finding every part of you with curiosity and desire, no trace of malice or greed.

Abruptly, applause rang out in the darkened room. You had barely even noticed that you finished reading.

Even dabbing at your heated skin with that folded handkerchief, you couldn’t shake those thoughts of Mizu away.

Your nerves had gone cold once darkness fully encompassed the estate. Were you even sure of how you got here? Mizu, hovering over you, eyes set on the rise and fall of your bare chest.

“If he sees you like this…” She’s mumbling, so rapidly you can barely make out what she said.

In seconds, she’s descended onto you, her tongue circling around your nipple. You can feel the way her hand slides to your side, nails dipping into your tender skin. A futile attempt for her to cling onto what little restraint she has left. You know she probably thinks of you as something dainty, easily broken if treated haphazardly. Bite. You wanted to tell her. Mark you so even when the two of you were no longer, you could trail over the scarred teeth marks. Bruise. Let you see the way her love erupts across you, let her pour every ounce of unabashed need into them. Rather, her lips close around you in a languid suck, dragging an open-mouthed gasp from your throat. On impulse, your fingers card their way through her hair, pulling while you try to hold onto the last shreds of your stability. You can feel her chest rumble against your abdomen right before she’s planting wet kisses against you. She travels up your body, following the natural contours of your shape until she reaches your chin. Pulling back, she looks down at you. Her eyes, somehow even brighter than the moonlight, cause your lips to part. Mizu’s beautiful. You could see her like this every night. Every hour, and still not tire of it.

Tears dot along your lower lids, partially out of pleasure as she teases her fingers around your nipple, but also out of an indescribable anguish. Mizu was not an easy woman to read. With you two playing the roles of blushing virgin and warm mentor, did this mean anything to her? Was it only because you asked her to show you how The Count would touch you, a thinly veiled attempt to seduce her? She handled you with such a sweet touch,it was hard to think that maybe it was nothing special to her.

“Will he be this gentle, too?” You asked, noticing the rasp in your own voice.

“How could he not?” Her lips are so close, tickling your jaw right below your ear. “He’ll do this, too…”

You’re lost in a heady daze of lust as you feel her fingers creep along your calf to reach the hem of your clothing. You’d let her tear it apart if it meant her touching you even a second sooner. She pauses, not moving further until you hurriedly nod, burying your face in her shoulder. The fabric of your robe slips off you with her movements, bunching up under you. As her fingers dive deep below, gliding circles over your clit, you breathe out a wanton laugh. Finally. Mizu was here, touching you, it was meant to be like this. Clutching at her arms, pulling down the straps of her underclothes to rid her of them, you think you could die. What a precious woman to have above you, clawing lines into your sides that’ll unfortunately inevitably fade. Your fingers follow their path, wanting to imprint them upon your consciousness forever.

“Keep showing me,” You can barely speak, muttering. “Do it like The Count would.”

Briefly pausing the journey of her tongue down the dips of your thighs, she nods against you, huffing out a near mindless ‘uh-huh’. Traveling upwards from the inner crease of your knee, she licks a stripe up your thighs, her hot panting warming the cool trails of saliva.

“The Count will tell you that you’re soft, warm, and…” She’s grabbing your legs, putting your feet flat on the mattress with your knees raised and spread. Her head knocks against you as she leans, eyelids fluttering when she gazes at your center. “Breathtakingly beautiful.”

You’ve raised yourself up to your elbows at this point. Her hair tie had come loose, dark locks flowing down past her shoulders. With the moonlight bathing her in a halo, you wanted to tell her. Tell her she’s an angel. Beg for her to not leave you, as pathetic as it’d make you look. Anything to make it so that just the two of you could exist together, you didn’t care where. You’d put up with every disgusting pervert in the world if it meant she stayed by you. If, at the end of the night, you could have her slip into your bed– whether your bodies met in a flurry of excitement or not, you wanted her there.

Her hesitance, though, was noticeable. While you enjoyed the stroke of her palms against your thighs, you worried if she had any intention to do this– to want this. You swipe a thumb over her cheekbone, startling her as her irises dart to you. There’s an emotion you couldn’t quite discern in them. In hindsight, you recognize it as the same way you’ve looked at her all this time.

Lovesickness.

Petting at her hair, you smile down at her. “Would The Count be staring like this, too?”

“Sorry,” The breath of her laugh washes over you. “He would.”

With her apprehension seemingly gone, she presses a chaste kiss to your clit– so charming of her it makes you whine. Her eagerness is shoddily hidden behind her subtle actions, tongue rolling over you in leisure strokes. But her hands, gripping onto the outside of your thighs to hold you down, are shaking. It’s less like she’s keeping you steady and instead trying to maintain her own sanity. The tentative lapping had soon turned more confident, Mizu becoming more assured each time you moaned or gasped. Greedily trying to push your hips up, you feel Mizu’s palms flatten over you, exerting enough force to keep your lower body grounded to the mattress. Still, in at least some way to satisfy you, she speeds the movements of her tongue, the rhythmic patterns it traces over your clit. Her eyes flutter open to peer up at you. You can practically feel her smile into your cunt as you uselessly try to halt the wobble of your thighs. Your head buzzes with the way her noisy slurping echoes in your ears, the way you feel like your very fucking existence is driven down to this singular point of your arousal, the way the tip of her tongue dips shallowly into you. She hardly ever pauses, the rumbling of her groans and heavy breaths shooting pleasure up your spine.

“Miss,” Reluctantly, she had pulled herself off of you, head still between your thighs and mouth stained with your translucent arousal. “Should I keep showing you?”

You whimper, sitting up and wrapping your arms around her waist. You gulped in doubt, wondering how to word your next thoughts.

“Mizu… I want to,” Your eyes dart down to where she’s shed her underclothes, completely bare before you. “Can I?”

You were hopelessly, unequivocally in need of it. A hunger you needed to sate, to please the most beautiful girl you’ve ever known. Taigen had claimed you a peach. You knew better, though. It was Mizu who was worth adoring– soft in the same way the fuzz of a peach is. More than anything, you wanted to partake in every part of her she’d give you. Scrape your teeth, bite and embrace her down to her innermost pits, until the heat of your humiliating starvation could finally cool. You had always been the one devoured, be it by greed or perversion– just once, you wanted to be the ravenous one.

You’ve noticed now that she blushes very easily, up her neck all the way to the tips of her ears becomes bathed in a red flush. You can’t help but chuckle at the sight, pressing a quick kiss to the corner of her lips, finding that you taste a bit of your own wetness.

“Okay,” She nods, chest falling with a heavy exhale. “Like this.”

Mizu effortlessly moves you in her arms, positioning you both so that you’re on your sides. She’s got you between her thighs and her between yours. Part of you wanted to scold her and tell her you just wanted to fuss over her. Mizu’s seemingly content though, a soft sigh escaping past the lewd noises of her tongue. If the scene weren’t so erotic you’d have laughed, told her how cute she is. You’re not sure if she would’ve listened, having always averted her attention away from any compliments you tried to give her, but she really was.

Not wanting to waste any more time, you take her thighs in your hands and part them, making space for yourself. Your breath caught in your throat, immediately latching your mouth to her clit.

She’s loud.

Practically wailing at the first suck, the way you messily circle your tongue over her, over and over. Her voice reaches a pitch you’ve never heard from her. It fuels you, fuels the way you lay the flat of your tongue against her. A wordless plea, begging to hear even more of her moans. You quickly become addicted to her– her sounds, her taste, the feel of her cunt as she tries to ride her hips into your face. You collect every pearl of slick from her onto your tongue so you can eagerly drink its sweetness, pangs of heat throbbing within you with every drop you savor. Mizu keens into you, rutting more and more the longer you lap away at her.

You think you could for the rest of your life, sustain yourself only on the wetness that drips from her.

More. The word repeats itself in your mind as you’re shifting away from her, pulling her up and into your lap. Knees firmly planted by your sides and pelvis raised, you sneak your hand below her. Cupping her arousal in your palm and thumbing at her clit, you smile up at her. Her moans are these sharp intakes of air, lustful gasps that leave your thighs hopelessly squeezing together. Eye-level with her breasts, it’s an urge you can’t resist– taking her peaked nipple between your teeth and biting. She lets out a stuttered laugh, an angelic sound that you hope the beat of your heart replicates forever, holding you by the back of your head and snuggling you closer to her. You let your middle finger swirl against her entrance, half-lidded eyes staring up at her from where you’re still pressing kisses to her chest. Mizu swallows, teeth digging into her lower lip as she nods. Laving your tongue over her, you sink your digit inside her. She writhes a little at the intrusion, welcoming the stretch regardless. She’s more than wet enough to take it, you muse. Pushing in and out, you relish in the way her warmth clenches around you, the way her body wants you, tries to suck you back in as if you’re a vital missing piece. Biting into the soft side of her breast, you tease your ring finger alongside the other. When you feel her walls adjust to both, you fasten your pace.

“Mizu,” You’re mumbling into the valley of her chest, chaste kisses left behind in the wake of your words. “Do you like this?”

That blush of hers is dappled across her skin again, collarbones, neck, cheeks and ears dusted with a brilliant ruddy hue. Her lips shut into a tight line, hiding a warbled and muffled moan, a pitiful ‘yes’ slipping out.

“Do you like me?” You’re grinning, though you’re aware of the way your eyes must look glazed over, a collection of tears on your waterline.

Energetically nodding, she lets her hands wander up your arms, steadying on your shoulders as her hips move on their own accord in tandem with your fingers, before continuing on to take hold of your cheeks. Like she’s ready to take care of you before you even ask her to, before anything is visibly wrong, she just knows.

“Promise, then,” You’re crying now, tears having fallen down the slope of your face, hiccuping an almost grief-stricken sob. “Promise you won’t betray me.”

Mizu’s lips part, brows furrowing as she shakes her head. “Never, I never will.”

Her words tumble off into gasping, pitchy moans. Your chin on her sternum as you look up at her, your tears finally slowing. You had heard what you had wanted all this time– she promised. Her utterance of devotion, a rush of cool water over every piece of fiery anguish within you. You loved her. You loved her, and the knowledge that you do finally makes your world quiet. No nagging, lingering fear. No ogre waiting in the shadows to smother you. No unnecessary pains doled out upon your innocence. For a moment, one that would be all too short even if it lasted for eternity, the two of you are the only people that exist. No fiance, no Taigen.

Mizu, and just Mizu.

She places her hands on your shoulders, pushing you backwards so you hit the mattress with a thud. After some shuffling around, you’re able to take hold of her hand, using it to grind your pussy against hers. Mizu’s mouth drops open, eyes wide as she imitates your motions. The two of you are perfectly slotted together. Every feverish, wet pass of your clit over hers has you nearly collapsing. Your breaths mingle together, slipping out as heated sighs.

“How,” Mizu swallows thickly, trying to catch her breath. “How do you know these things?”

You just smile at her, shaking your head. Gripping her hand a little tighter, you’re able to thrust against her faster. You’re only vaguely aware of the way your inner thighs become coated in the mixture of your arousals, feeling like you’re coming apart at the seams. Mizu’s moans pick up in pace, hitching every so often when the two of you connect in a pleasurable jolt. Her other hand is clutching, nearly clawing at you, wanting so badly to break skin and leave marks on you. With her mouth falling open wide, eyes trained on you, Mizu tumbles over her peak, the quivering of her thighs noticeable against your own. Her groaning doesn’t stop, an arm flung over her eyes as you can make out the hint of tear tracks by the corners of her mouth, the redness of her cheeks hidden. Hearing her, her loud cries of pleasure as you keep going send you over the edge, a few more slick joinings of your cunts together, and you’re there with her, the current of your arousal running through your body. Finally stilling, you can hear the breathy, lighthearted chuckles of Mizu once you fall backwards, arms spread out on the mattress under you. Mizu crawls the best she can, kissing up your navel to your lips, settling beside you. Her hair’s mussed, the dark tresses flowing behind her, eyes shining and face stippled in pink blush.

What a precious woman to have by you.

That memory was one you came to ruminate on often– especially the day after that, where Taigen had put his hands on you during that painting lesson, bribing Mizu out of the room with a coin. Or at least, attempted to. Her unwillingness to leave had undoubtedly pissed Taigen off tremendously, him storming out down that rocky dirty path. Mizu followed shortly after, as did you, having secretly trailed behind both of them. You had listened in on their conversation, hiding a laugh when Mizu had stomped away after defending you.

Taigen had stood there dumbfounded, looking at you past the branches of trees you lurked behind.

“Can you at try a little fucking harder to pretend you want this marriage before she runs off?” He hisses.

Exhaling, you look out in the distance where Mizu had walked away. “I... can't. I want to quit,” You swallow, hugging yourself close. “I hate everyone here. My fiance, my mother, you...”

Taigen snorts at that, raising a brow. “And Mizu? You feel sorry for her?”

You nod. “I... can't stand her.”

He shakes his head, lighting a cigarette and taking a few drags of it. “Would you care to know some of the things she's said about you? That you're too sheltered. Even if I were to touch you intimately, you'd be completely oblivious to what a man like me wanted. She's only been nice to you out of pity, start being realistic.”

As much as you hated to admit it, you dwelled on his words for much longer than you wanted to. It's an inescapable cycle of blame you go through. It's your fault for not knowing better, then it's Mizu's fault for being so kind to you, and then it's Taigen's for starting this all in the first place; repeat until you're suffocating.

That must be why it's difficult to avoid crying when Mizu insists, yes, you will love Taigen. Resting on that lounge chair, her massaging at your weary calf muscles. When you're ripped from placid waters, thrown right into stifling flames to burn alive, it hurts, you realize. It's the best comparison you can make when Mizu all but tosses you to Taigen's waiting maw, solidifying what he had said to you. Pity. No matter how much you try to assure her that you could be happy here, happy with her, more so than you ever could be with The Count or your fiance, she doesn't budge.

“What if I said I loved someone else?” You asked, feeling the slow rising of warmth up your frame. “I don't have anyone else on this earth... would you really still tell me to marry him?”

Repeating her own words back to her, you hoped she would notice. Take the hint, absolve herself of all this, and be with you. Fix everything, prove she wasn't like everyone else in your life. You want her to be different. You need her to be different. How could she have done all this if she wasn't? Even now as you looked down upon her in anger you could feel the stains of her lips everywhere she had kissed you, could feel the brush of her knuckles across your cheekbone, the way her hands had made your body so pliant. You couldn't comprehend it. How could all of that be worth so little to her that she'd be willing to give it up for a chunk of money? Was that look in her eyes just a trick of the light, your mind's imagination?

Blinking back tears, you watch as she sighs, taking your leg into her hands once more, timidly trying to settle your frustration. “You will love him.” Mizu's looking up at you, the twinge of optimism in her eyes making you sick to your stomach.

She really believes what she's saying. She's doused you in kerosene, her insistence the final motion that sets your body alight. You would've given up this whole fucking charade if she had just kept her promise. You would've done anything to get rid of Taigen, even if it meant staying in this house, just to assure the two of you could be together. But if she doesn't even want it, then what's the point? If she doesn't even want you, then…

“Get out,” You don't even recognize your own voice, faltering with shuddering sobs as you take her by her arms to pull her up to a standing position. “Get out.”

“Wait, miss!” She calls out, but you barely register it before you're dropping her down onto her bedroll, retreating back into your room with the door slammed behind you.

Maybe Madam Kaji was right about ogres waiting to smother you. This world in which you had no one, this world which had been patiently waiting to swallow you whole, will finally get its rightful meal.

You shouldn't have been born.

Silence drenches the night, goosebumps over your skin as the breeze rustles at your clothes, your hair. You're shivering, staring up at that haunted cherry blossom tree. Tears continuously rolled down your cheeks. Fingers trailing down rough bark, wondering if it's worth it to try to ground yourself. Your fury had not been quelled, not in the slightest. In your mind, you could see Mizu's eyes, the way they were practically begging you to fall in love with Taigen. How could you tell her that it's not just that you didn't love him, but you couldn't? How could you have stupidly believed her, that she'd never betray you? Swallowing a laugh, you look down with teary eyes at the box in your hands containing a length of rope.

You shouldn't have been born. Poor, unwanted thing that you are.

Distant thuds reach your ears, harsh and quick breaths– the sound of someone nearly hyperventilating– flooding your senses. Before you can even turn around, you're hit with an overwhelming force, being corralled into a pair of arms.

“Let go.” You whimper, struggling.

“I'm sorry,” Mizu gasps, chest heaving against your back. “Don't... don't die.”

She represses a trembling sigh into your shoulder, the faint moisture of tears dotting the bare skin of your neck. You're surprised, brows raising.

“And what are you sorry for?” You question, seeing if she'll be honest.

“I was working with The Count, we were going to send you away and take your money,” She picks her head up from your shoulder so you can clearly hear her. “So, please... don't get married to him.”

“Are you worried about me?” You turn around in her arms, taking sight of her tear-stricken face. You had never seen her cry, never thought she would, at least not in front of you. “You shouldn't be.”

Taking a step back, she keeps her hands on your arms. “Why not?”

With a thumb pressed into her cheek, you swipe away any stray droplets. “Taigen and I were tricking you. You were going into the madhouse, under my name. Then I'd get to take up your name and run far, far away.”

Her eyes dart across your face, unable to sense any hint of a lie in what you've revealed to her.

“Fuck! I should've never trusted that asshole!” She yells, piercing the quiet of the night.

But her arms are back around your waist, coddling you close to her chest. Like if she can't feel the pressure of your body against hers, you'll be gone, whittled down into infinitesimal shards she couldn't see anymore. Her truth lies in the way her breath evens out, the way she gathers your wrist up in her hands, fingers caressing your pulse point, to lead you back to your room. How she checks behind her every so often to make sure you're alright. Those little actions that make her Mizu, the real one.

Maybe Madam Kaji was wrong about ogres waiting to smother you.

Mizu sits at your desk, carefully writing out a letter to her folks back home, informing them of the new turn of events; the two of you teaming up against Taigen. Placing a solid gold bracelet next to her which she could enclose as payment, you settled down alongside her. Taking the bracelet between her teeth to test its legitimacy, she grinned.

“This'll go far for them, thank you.” She tells you.

When she's feeling genuine happiness, it's hard for her to wipe the smile off her face, you notice. You hope that once you two are able to make it away from all this, she never stops smiling.

So the next morning, when your fiance beckons you over to the side of his carriage, you don't let your fear stop you.

“Just because you have a week of freedom, doesn't mean you can misbehave,” His words were full of venom as he spat them towards you. “Don't forget where I'll put you.”

You take a bow, eyes cast to the cobbled ground. You wouldn't let him get to you, not any longer when you had Mizu there for you. The two of you would be successful, and then you could run so far from this place you wouldn't remember how to get back even if you tried. Nobody would be able to find you again. If they did... you're sure Mizu would have some things to say about that.

Slowly approaching her, you smile, willing any bad thought out of your mind at the sight of her pretty face. “Let's go,” You tell her. “We don't have a lot of time before we have to leave.”

“Come, then.” While she offers you her arm, you're hesitant to take it, choosing to step past her. You would've, but the idea of Taigen still lurking around the estate and the possibility of the other servants not having gone far, you avoid her touch.

You can hear her sigh behind you, though you're aware of the light undertone to it– she knows you're trying to refrain from any rumors cropping up before you leave, lest Taigen catch wind of them. Her steps follow you, wordlessly keeping up. You're thankful she seems to understand why silence befalls the two of you. Though you feel the subtle gesture of her hand at the small of your back, tensing for a moment. Mizu's breath hits your ear when she leans in even closer to you, her raspy voice calling out to you to 'come on'.

There's a moment after packing your things that you turn to her, hands smoothing down her apron. Your fingers are twisting into the fabric, not ready to have her change into her 'disguise’– really just a cloak, her glasses and a kasa, but it does well to hide her face– quite yet. She's always been your handmaiden. Even with it being a role for her to fill, a part to play, she's tended to you with such care. You couldn't wait until you were both just normal people. No ladyship, no servantry. You wanted to dote on her, flood her with all of your affections and have no one bat an eye at it. Though, she pulls your hands from her, holding them in her own. Her thumbs graze across your palms, a distant look in her eye.

“What are you thinking about?” You ask her, which definitely startles her out of whatever daydream she's having.

“About how we need to leave,” Mizu takes your arms in her hands to spin you around to face your luggage. “Let's go, princess.”

That little nickname she's given you makes you roll your eyes, watching as she cloaks herself and puts on her glasses and kasa. The sight almost makes you blush, the way she's effortlessly beautiful and handsome at the same time.

“Actually,” You speak up, turning to her anxiously. “Would you follow me?”

She's unsure, you can tell by the way her eyes squint, but she agrees. After last night, you're sure she's on edge, rightfully so. Finding out the tables were turned on her must've been difficult, but she knows you feel no loyalty to Taigen. Despite everything, you two are each other's safety. Taking her down that stepping stone path to the library, you're not entirely sure where you're going with this. That place had been your whole life, and maybe the idea of leaving it behind was a little terrifying, regardless of the grim reality it held within its walls. Perhaps you just needed to see it one last time, really make sure you were leaving it behind.

Mizu's startled by that ceramic snake again, carefully toeing the barrier between inside and outside. She steps over it once she sees you bypass it, unafraid. You see her briefly grimace at the sight of a small, erotic porcelain statuette. Your fiance has a few of those around, blatantly making his predilections known to those who enter. Perhaps she thought it was just a little one off, a bizarre trinket owned simply for the peculiarness of it. She's corrected when you hand her the volume of some series she's never heard of. Flipping through the pages, she halts when she comes across the illustrated pages. Women in various degrading positions, breasts and nether regions fully drawn. Those blue irises of hers somehow become even icier, glancing from the book, to you, back down to the book.

Her gaze catches on the spinel earrings one of the women is depicted wearing.

“Is this...” Her voice is gravelly, like she's straining to get the words out. “What you've been reading, this whole time? To your fiance, those men that show up?”

You're not sure what you expected when you brought her here. Maybe your whole life, you've known that what's been done to you has been wrong, that you've been used as an object of desire to satisfy certain pleasures. Her anger, though, radiated through you. Tugged on a heartstring so deep within you you thought it had been entirely cut loose. She looks up at you one more time, meeting that teary gaze of yours. Mizu shakes her head, taking that page in her hands and ripping it from its bindings. Striking the long buried part of you that felt you were worth something. Worth fighting for, worth rendering this whole library asunder. Throwing the book on the ground once the drawing is in tiny pieces, she moves forward fast, looking for whatever she can get her hands on and destroy. Her chest heaves with every agonizing huff of breath she inhales, fueled by the heights of her rage. That saddened look in your eye, which had been hardened over time into something you had resentfully accepted– the pure hatred she felt for anyone who had ever betrayed you, tortured you, anyone you had ever read a fucking word to.

Her cape billowed behind her as she moved through the room, grabbing books from their rightful places and hurtling them to the ground below, ultimately damaging their spines and covers. You're trailing after her, a lost puppy watching in amazement. Shreds of paper litter the floor, stepping on them in your rush to follow. Pulling a concealed dagger from you don't know where on her person, she's slashing through the parchment of as many scrolls as she can find. Kneeling on the ground and slicing page upon page. Those familiar stories, all ones you recognized, made useless at the hands of someone who loved you. She yelps, the dagger handle slipping out of her palms with how furious her motions were. It does little to deter her though, collecting it and continuing her assault of the library. Shoving entire rows of novels onto the floor, books ending up in ruined heaps. She throws open one of the glass display cases, the lid shattering upon impact to the floor. Carrying over pots of colored ink, she smears it over the illustrations housed within. Hands stained all manners of red and blue, you can't stop the few tears that finally slowly shed.

You wet your lips, feeling pieces of you come together at this unhinged spectacle of romance. Isn't that what the relationship between you two has been all this time, anyway? An unexpected force that knocked you on your ass the moment you realized you loved her. More than that, the moment you realized she loved you. Yes, exhaustion had buckled you into submission, but love had weathered you into a storm.

Hurrying over to the tatami mat floor, you remove some of them to uncover the shallow pools of water that lay below. Mizu nodded, gathering up piles of the books in her arms to bring them over. Helping her, you could feel your lungs burn, eyes painfully wet with... astonishment? Pain? Some mixture of the two, perhaps. She kicks her shoes off, stepping into the water to fully submerge the books. To the side stands you, holding some more pots of ink. You're petrified. Until she looks up at you, and the fury in her eyes subsides when she sees you, turning into that gaze you know, now.

Lovesickness.

You hurl ink into the water, effectively dyeing the books into a muddle of colors. Joining her in the water, you stomp away, pulling even more books in. Breathing labored, Mizu steps out. Gripping a flat length of metal adorned with a tassel in her hands, she stands before that snake. Steadying it in her hands and widening her stance, she swings hard. Shards of ceramic go flying, the head taken clean off the sculpture.

It's your life in summary. Those bits of shrapnel, the way Mizu had torn your life apart the second she stepped foot in it.

Your savior.

Your Mizu.

There's a renewed vigor in Mizu's movements as she guides you out of the manor. One of her last acts of protecting you before she begrudgingly has to place you in the arms of Taigen to fulfill the rest of the plan. This time, when she offers her arm to you, you take it. She keeps you level over even the most jagged paths, catching you when you stumble. A cobbled wall stands between you and your freedom, slowing down to a stop when you reach it. Mizu drops the satchels you carry to the ground, heading over the wall. Her arms go around your waist, picking you up and placing you down on the other side with little difficulty.When she lands next to you after grabbing your bags, you can't help but smile at her, a dreamy look in your eyes.

“What?” She asks, a hint of awkwardness in her tone.

“Nothing, nothing!” You bump into her with your shoulder.

She sighs, shaking her head but hiding her expression from you. “Come on, we don't have any time to waste.”

Running through grassy fields, the sun finally starts to peek through the treeline. You barely ever have any time to catch your breath, but your rowdy laughter and wide smiles are proof you don't care. You know it won't be long before Taigen meets up with you, taking you away and sending Mizu off into that asylum. For now, you're together. In this world only the two of you exist, where your hands can meet, lips can kiss. Your only witnesses being the fall of the moon and the rising of the sun, the soft blades of grass beneath your feet, the bubbling creeks of water.

Everything up to that point had led you here– Mizu being hauled away, crying out for you. Yet your cheeks hurt from containing your chuckles, the knowledge that Taigen would have everything handed back to him, tenfold. All the unnecessary shit he's put you both through... He'd be nothing in a matter of days.

You click your tongue, clearing the tears out of your eyes.

“I'm hungry, Taigen.”

a/n: so, this chapter is like. over twice the length of any of the others, sorry about that. hopefully that makes sense for why it took longer to update! i would've split this chapter in two, but… i couldn't see it being split in any good way, personally. also, it's likely that the next chapter will be the last, i'm not sure if i'll do an epilogue yet though. anyway, i hope you've all been enjoying the story so far!

[devotion-that-corrupts]

Some rambles on the ending and the codependent nature of Constantin and De Sardet's relationships. Spoilers for the whole game under the cut.

When I played Greedfall for the first time, I couldn’t stop thinking about Constantin’s corruption arc. It didn’t really make sense to me. Why would he want absolute power over the island? He has plenty of power and probably lives quite a luxurious life already. He also says he finds politics boring if De Sardet asks him, so the desire to rule over the whole island full of people seemed to me very out of character.

I do understand that he went mad and everything, but my brain deemed it a boring explanation and kept searching for something more logical.

So here: I think his actions make more sense if they're driven not by greed but by jealousy, less hunger for power and more hunger for absolute love (either platonic or romantic).

Let me explain.

His family is all kinds of messed up. He thinks his father doesn’t care about him, and although we don’t know if he’s actually abusive, I can’t think of any good reason why Constantin would lie about this. His mother, if DLC is to be believed, is responsible for the death of his brother Laurent — Constantin being an heir is clearly more important to her than his wellbeing & mental health after the literal murder of his brother. We don’t know much about Laurent and Constantin’s relationship (although he doesn’t ever mention him & he says nobody cared for him but De Sardet, so maybe it wasn’t good? Maybe Laurent was better suited for politics? That would explain Prince d’Orsay’s disappointment. That’s just my theory though).

Anyway, what I’m saying is that a child needs unconditional love, and judging by this family and Constantin’s line “You've always been the only one to care for me. Our friendship is the only thing that matters to me”, he has only ever received love from De Sardet, which sounds like quite a fertile ground for unhealthy overly attached relationship.

Then the game starts, and the thing is… Well, they are not each other’s everything anymore. De Sardet goes to various cities & talks to every person imaginable & makes new friends, maybe even falls in love. Constantin meanwhile is chained to a palace, especially after his sickness is revealed. De Sardet's world grows beyond him, and he can’t follow them there.

So what do you do when the only person who matters to you grows apart from you? What do you do when you are driven mad with pain and may die alone, and they have to leave you?

Naturally, you find a way to bind them to you for all eternity, and in doing so alienate them from everyone but you. Constantin's smart enough to realize that if De Sardet's friends and allies fought against him, they would turn away if De Sardet joined him. But even if they wouldn't, they're mortal. Their death is inevitable. The only one who can keep De Sardet company for eternity is Constantin. Everyone but him will eventually leave.

That’s why “For you, for us”, that’s why “together, forever”. Not power over the island or some people, but power to keep the only person who loves him unconditionally close to him.

(Again, I acknowledge that this is extremely, extremely unhealthy. That’s exactly what makes their relationship so interesting.)

Anyway, as I said, it feels very in character for him to basically give up on humanity in favor of De Sardet. I can't look at him in the beginning or in the middle and say, “This character would do anything for power”. But I can look at him at any point of the game, any cutscene, and say, “This character would do anything for his loved one”.

[mbm-artist]

Hi there hello, I'm sure you're wondering either

A) Why tf I just reblogged a bunch of stuff in the span of like 30 seconds

B) What's going on in general

C) What's the point of this post you're reading

D) All of the above

Well dear viewer, I'm gonna give you a TL;DR and then under the cut give a more in-depth explanation, I'll even cut it up into different sections to make viewing easier :)

⚠️ Trigger Warnings ⚠️

Randy (duh), a LOT of swearing (duh), suicide mentions, pedophilia/attempted grooming/etc mentions, queerphobia (transphobia, homophobia, etc), misogyny, mentions of sexual things, slurs, harassment, general 16+ content mentions

Disclaimer

Randy is a 14 year old minor (allegedly) as of the time this post was made, please DO NOT INTERACT with him, just block him and report him as many times as you want. This post's purpose is to spread awareness and maybe hopefully get him banned from Tumblr. Please do not go after, attack, or interact with him or his (supposed) "girlfriend" (he has her tagged at the bottom of his pinned post). I suggest you block (NOT REPORT) his "girlfriend" too, you can never be too careful.

As of the time this post was made Randy's father and school have been contacted, and we are waiting on an update.

Please offer all the victims of Randy unconditional love and support, they deserve that and so much more for all the bullshit this kid put them through, don't you dare even TRY to victim blame them. I will flame you if you attack them at all in any way shape or form, no excuses, ifs, ands, or buts.

I am also a minor in high school (not giving my age for my own safety), so take that how you will. My pronouns are they/them/he/him if you don't know already :D

One more thing before we get into it (if it wasn't obvious already),

GET THE FUCK OFF OF MY PAGE AND BLOCK ME IF YOU'RE QUEERPHOBIC (transphobic, homophobic, etc) OR AGREE WITH RANDY IN ANY WAY SHAPE OR FORM. DO NOT FUCKING INTERACT WITH ME EVER AGAIN.

Thank you, you may now proceed.

Links

The Google Doc (Alllllll the info about this guy in one place, most reliable source of info) | Randy's "gf's" tag, #proud randy supporter (Second-most reliable source of info, this has a LOT of updates on him in real time) | Randy tag, #randysworld-multi-fandom-fan/randysworld2009 (Second-most reliable source of info, all posts related to him will [hopefully] be here) | Randy's Interactions With Me (proof of him interacting with me) | Google Photos Album (just all of the screenies of proof in one place, I'm gonna tryyyyy to keep this updated as much as I can but no promises)

My response to the 1st ask he sent me | My response to the 2nd ask he sent me (pretty much the same as the first one)

The Short Explanation

So basically this whole fiasco is about @randysworld-multi-fandom-fan or otherwise known as randysworld2009

His crime(s)?

1. Hypocrisy

2. Queerphobia (transphobia, homophobia, the works)

3. Misogyny

4. Perversion (being a pervert)

5. Suicide baiting

6. Pedophilia accusations (all of which are false, and carelessly thrown around)

7. Attempted grooming(?) of fellow minors

8. Slurs (need I say more?)

9. Harassment (in case that wasn't obvious already)

Among other things

He's been interacting with accounts in the following fandoms (as of the time this post was posted):

The Amazing Digital Circus (TADC)

Hellaverse (Hazbin Hotel & Helluva Boss, or HV/HH/HB)

Murder Drones (MD)

SMG4 (Super Mario Glitchy 4)

Yo Gabba Gabba (YGG)

TL;DR this guy is a 5yo Gen Alpha brainrotted kid stuck in a 14yo kid's body, and he's been harassing multiple (mainly TADC) accounts on Tumblr for a bit now, and just being a nuisance and damaging people's mental health.

That's the simple explanation, if you're still not convinced you need to block this guy (and his [supposed] girlfriend) and report him until your hands hurt and/or would like to know more thennnnn

The full explanation + evidence is under the cut ✨

The Long Explanation

Okay so I'm gonna be quoting the Google Doc a LOT here, you'll be able to tell which parts are quoted and which parts are me.

"Randy or randysworld2009 is a Tumblr user that appeared around TADC blogs in the beginning of 2024. Since then, he has built a history of harassing said blogs, mostly roleplay/askblog accounts and artists, forcing roleplay and specially spouting misogyny towards women mods and fem leaning characters, transphobic and homophobic towards queer people. At one point he started getting his information messed up, saying that he was super straight and then later on a “half-bisexual”, also often times approaching people with romantic/sexual intent and then getting angry when those same people state that they are not interested or are above legal age, which he supposedly is not. It is believed that Randy is 14 years old, but at this point, we can’t be certain of what information is true or false. For all we know, his blog could be just a troll."

So yeah, this guy is bad news. That was a direct (formal) quote from one of the victims.

If formal isn't your style, here's a more casual one

"Randy first appeared around the beginning of 2024. He began harassing tadc ask blogs then that led to harassing their mods. Eventually others got involved and Randy basically snapped. He got EVEN MORE batshit and started spouting misogyny, transphobia, and dilution. He's chronically online and believes everything is a roleplay. He's obsessed with getting a girlfriend and has sexually harassed many. he is the horniest bastard you could fucking meet omg"

Another direct quote from another victim, this one he treated the WORST.

(Some) Screenshots

There are more screenshots in the Google Doc and the Google Photos Album I made, but these will be a few tidbits of evidence that will hopefully convince you by now if you're not already. (With some additional commentary/explanation from yours truly underneath each screenie✨) Additionally, all the images will have links to their sources. (Please let me know if they don't work, I'll update this with usable links if that's the case)

Exhibit A - The Bastard Himself

(Mb for light mode jumpscare here, even more reason for your eyes to bleed when looking at this immature fuck's profile)

Just his profile (as of the time this post was posted) so you know exactly who to block and report as many times as possible Exhibit B - His Interactions With Me

This is some evidence of him interacting with me, there's more in the Google Photos Album I made of proof he interacted with me

(Mb for light mode jumpscare again, it's the only way I could show the post and the comments in the same screenie)

His comments on my pinned post, if you saw this or this you know I demanded that he delete his comments on here (while flaming the fuck out of him), so here's a screenie of what they were before he (hopefully) deletes them

The first ask he sent me, my response being the awesome giant rant where I DEMOLISHED him (I'm way too proud of it if you couldn't tell)

All his interactions with me from when he initially found me

The rest of his interactions he's ever had with me

Like the first ask he sent, I answered with the same thing, ANNIHILATING this fucker (still way too proud of it)

Exhibit C - Direct Victim Testimonies (to yours truly) These are asks that I sent to the main 3 victims I had gathered evidence from before gaining access to the Google Doc, they're my main sources so far (send all the love and support to them please [especially Sunny's system they've all been hurt the most from what I can see], they're very sweet outside of all this and more than deserve it)

Dia answered first, their answer helped me gain access to the Google Doc and get a HUGE chunk of the evidence I'll be showing here

Second half of Dia's answer, a summary of the wholeeee situation straight from a direct victim

Sunny was the second to answer my ask, this is what I mean when I say clearly Sunny needs the most love and support out of all the victims (as far as ik) cus like how can you not man- also this is how I found out they contacted Randy's father and school, very big piece of lore (and you'll see why they have soon don't worry)

Lilith was the last to respond to my ask, this being how I found out that it was them specifically that contacted Randy's dad & school (which I commend them for, it was a very good move so bravo to them man genuinely)

Exhibit D - Evidence

And now the moment you've all been waiting for, if this doesn't convince you then shit idk what will-

This post was my first exposure to what Randy is ACTUALLY like and wowee what a doozy man, it started me down the rabbit hole that lead me to making this post rn (make sure you look at the notes [both comments and the reblogs] too those also have even more info aside from everybody FLAMING the fuck out of this kid lolol) Also GO OFF ON HIM GLITCH GET HIS ASS WOOOOO

(Sorry for the light mode jumpscare yet again, evidence is evidence)

1. Misgendering. What the fuck. (Dia's pronouns are they/them) 2. EW. Need I say more??? 3. This post is how I found my main 3 sources up until Dia answered my ask 4. You'll start to see that this post and the following posts show that he's SPECIFICALLY targeting fem-adjacent blogs (including blogs that are run by enbies that he assumes identify as femme and promptly misgenders) and generally being a misogynistic and transphobic BITCH

This post is an example of Randy A) Accusing a fellow minor of pedophilia (very carelessly and incorrectly might I add) B) Not even getting their age right? Hello??? C) This kid clearly does NOT know what the difference between slang and genuine predatory behavior is which shows how fucking SHELTERED this kid must be oh my GOD D) Another example of him misgendering and being misogynistic/transphobic

This post is more proof of him being misogynistic and sexually harassing people, and might I add a HORNY ASS PERVERT Rabid is actually someone I followed way before all this dude, I'm guessing that's how Randy found me unfortunately

After this screenie Dia answered my ask, so all the screenies beyond this point are straight from the Google Doc (some had links to their original posts, some didn't for the sake of anonymity which is completely understandable)

This post backs up what I said regarding the other screenie where Randy assumed Lilith was like 20, istg this kid does NOT know what fact checking is holy fuck This was a certified screenie I got from the Google Doc might I add

This post, another one provided by the Google Doc, is an example of him A) Harassing TADC ask blogs (and it leading to harassing the mods) B) Sexually harassing people and being misogynistic in general He just doesn't know when to quit huh

(Sorry again for the light mode jumpscare this is the last one I promise)

This one didn't have a post linked to it so I only found it cus of the Google Doc (so yay ig you don't have to click the links to the OG posts for more info anymore beyond this point), the mod spitting FACTS

Once again lovingly provided by the Google Doc, wowee this kid sure loves slurs

Conclusion

I know this might not get to many people, but I'm hoping it at least has some sort of positive impact, because I want to try my best to warn as many people as possible and keep him from having any more influence than he already has.

To the victims involved in this: PLEASEEEEEEEEEEEE PLS PLS PLS LMK IF I NEED TO CHANGE ANYTHING I TRIED MY ABSOLUTE BEST TO BE AS ACCURATE AND RESPECTFUL TO YOU GUYS AS HUMANLY POSSIBLE I'D REALLY APPRECIATE FEEDBACK IF I GOT/DID SOMETHING WRONG

Thank you for reading my ramblies on this important news, have a cookie for getting this far and you're an LGBTQIA+ ally 🍪 (plus an additional scoop of ice cream if you're queer 🍦)

And Happy Pride Month, TRANS PRIDE BABYYY

Plus some Anti-Randy spray for the road (lovingly provided by Sunny and Lilith) ✨

(in case of any confusion, the colors kind of mean different things but not really, it's not that important- but red is for trigger warning stuffs/disclaimers and general important things, green is for section titles, blue is for links, and that's about it really-- and yes I did make a subtle RGB joke. Sue me, I wanna be at least a little funny to make light of all this grim dark stuffs. All those super super serious call-out posts can be kind of depressing so I want to find the happy middle ground between serious and lighthearted, it gets the message across and it still feels important without being too much of a downer yanno? Anyway do tell me your thoughts in the comments after dropping a reblog, I would appreciate feedback on what you think of my writing style here :3) (Oh, and if you're wondering what purple means? It's a secret 🥰)

[distort-opia]

I'm wracking my brain with what Joker would do in an established situation, like how would he keep those homicidal urges at bay (sex and intimacy can only go so far I imagine) and also there's so much unacknowledged mental health concerns. Bruce would just have to always be ready to pick up the pieces I feel like (God these two are a tragic mess). I don't think normalcy is possible but I don't think their relationship is built for that anyway (I've been writing notes down for a story for days and it's just been consuming me)

An actual relationship between Bruce and Joker is a very complicated thing to imagine, yeah. I agree with you that normalcy is entirely out of the question-- as in, a typical "healthy" relationship. What I think they could have is something that works, but not something that most people would understand or approve of. If you're writing a story, I would say it depends on how they got into the relationship a lot, and if Bruce is compromising as much as Joker perceives he is. For instance, a rehabilitation scenario inherently implies a power imbalance, which Joker would resent and Bruce would not be able to help not taking advantage of. This would not end up working out, in my opinion, unless they got back on equal footing somehow. So a scenario with them an equal footing is what I will be rambling about.

Joker's homicidal urges and mental health issues are indeed a big obstacle. It'd take a whole lot for him to even agree to try for a relationship that involves something other than violence, but this denotes a willingness to compromise from the start. It means he cares about Bruce enough to risk opening the door to his humanity, something that he's very keen on eradicating. Joker can allow himself to love Batman as long as love equals destruction; but once love begins to mean more tender things, things that only people and not monsters can feel... it's a threat to his very identity, to his very core. Hence, just the fact that Joker is in an established relationship means that he's accepted, one way or another, that he's a human being.

Human beings don't need to kill people. Monsters do. It's relevant to note that Joker has an incredible capacity to reshape himself. He's done so multiple times in canon, and always in relation to what he perceived Batman needed. He was murderous when he emerged, but after Robin appeared on the scene he went for funny silly gags, and then he recreated himself back into a horrific threat... In his head, Batman -- the drive to see meaning in all life, to fight for sense in one's existence -- is the force of nature that he's the opposite of. Joker molded himself as the force of chaos: he kills carelessly, sometimes almost joylessly, because he believes he's embodying the true way the world works (though he's shown signs he'd like to be convinced otherwise).

After all, like his fall in the acid and the trauma he went through proved, catastrophe is random. It doesn't matter if you're good or evil, if you've got a family or if you're alone, if you've contributed to society or not. You can get run over by a bus, you can have a heart attack, you can mix the wrong medications, you can get shot in the head by a madman because you were in the wrong place at the wrong time. My point with this is that Joker sees himself as an agent of the cruel randomness of existence, and him killing people is very much part of it. So if he stopped seeing himself as an inhuman force for chaos, I think killing would not be a necessity anymore.

That's not to say he wouldn't think of other people's lives as worthless or that he wouldn't instinctually want to kill someone because they're inconveniencing him as some kind of fly buzzing around, but it does mean he wouldn't need to do it. Being with Bruce undermines the very point of being Joker, it means being a person instead of raging at the world. In an established relationship, he'd need to once again reshape himself, figure out who he can be. It'd be very difficult, if you add Bruce's controlling tendencies in the mix. You mentioned Bruce always having to pick up the pieces, but the thing is, Bruce would want to. He'd want to do that too much, he would enjoy seeing Joker be vulnerable, because afterwards... Bruce would be able to put those pieces back together the way he wants them to be. And Joker would be rightly afraid of that, and Bruce himself would be afraid of his own need to do just that, and it'd be a constant push and pull. That's basically what I think it'd be like for a while, before Joker figured out who exactly he's comfortable being, and if he can trust Bruce to still be there when boundaries are being pushed. It'd be a lot of "make me" even in the context of intimacy, until Joker initiates something that doesn't hurt on his own and like... Bruce doesn't move a muscle as if he might spook a wild animal or something. And then Joker snaps at him to stop making it weird, hah.

I'm going to stop here to avoid turning this into a Batjokes relationship essay, but I hope this helped inspire you, Anon! We can always use more Batjokes stories, excited to eventually read yours.

[my-rose-tinted-glasses]

Friday Ramblings

I don't normally do this but I have a couple of thoughts going on in my head regarding the last couple of days week in BL that I just wanted to collect them all instead of just doing it in tags.

Shadow

I'm pissed. I am a big fan of anything horror or supernatural themed stuff so I was really looking forward to this. (Don't even get me started of how disappointed I am at the disappearance of the other horror themed show I could be watching) And the first part did not disappoint. It was a strong first half, good set up of the different story lines and all the players and I was really excited about it. There was such good meta written about the show, and it turned out to be superior to what the show eventually gave us. (@wen-kexing-apologist specially gave us such excellent meta on this show that I wish they were in charge of the second half of this show) I agree with @lurkingshan about everything they said here. Something which I thought was interesting was that I think in this second half the show purposefully made the fake arm really obvious. I don't know if it wanted us to know before Dan but I also don't think it was an accident. But I'm also not gonna theorize about the reasons because I really don't care that much. The "BL" bait was just another thing that pissed me off. I'm not upset it's not BL, I'm upset because it was sold as such and no one will convince me otherwise. For a couple of episodes, at least, the show wanted us to think that Dan was falling for Nai. The prom moment was just fucking ridiculous. The parallels with October 6 could've been really interesting if there wasn't so much going on that it kinda took the weight of it away. One of the questions I like to ask myself when watching any media is - what is it trying to tell? Sometimes nothing and that's fine. It's pure escapism and there's absolutely nothing wrong with that. It can still be excellent. And sometimes it tries to say too much that it ends up not having a cohesive message and it all falls flat. Religion, communism, family trauma, homophobia, mental health, infidelity, teacher-student relationship, pregnancy, murder, police brutality, friendship, bullying, the oh so many supernatural elements, I could go on. You get the picture. So in conclusion, I am not happy.

VIP Only

It's cute. I like both of them enough and it's a good mellow way to start the friday madness.

Last Twilight

This show is surprising me so much. In the best ways. As I said before this pair didn't do much for me in the past but I've surrendered completely, specially to Jimmy. He was so good in this episode that I felt obligated to gif it just so I could keep watching his expressions.

That whole final scene just floored me. His eyes just carried that moment and that whole scene so well that by the end a lonely sunflower brought tears to my eyes. ( and I do not cry easy). After all the cute dates, this scene was a gut punch.

I'm just really stuck on this show, and it holds my attention all through the episode.

My Dear Gangster Oppa

This episode was silly, I couldn't care less about the gangster side of the story at the moment, I'd rather spend more time with the gamer friend group. Wahl got a bit of a redemption but I still don't like him. I liked that Guy stood his ground with Wahl and Tew, but hated the stalker behaviour. If you wanna go dude, just leave!

Sahara Sensei to Toki-kun

Japan my beloved. They just keep giving me all I need. Toki is giving me some Aoki vibes and I could not be happier. And Toki now has got two friends in his corner and I'm so happy. This one and Kinou Nani Tabeta are currently my main sources of joy and my heart is full.

Pit Babe I'd like to thank @pharawee for giving us the novel commentary because it makes it a bit less confusing while I watch this. I have no clue about omegaverse so a part of me is confused, sometimes bored, another part of me is just waiting for Jeff and Alan to be a thing and all of me is happy that Pavel is on my screen weekly.

Twins

This show is dragging and I'm officially bored. I don't mind a slow burn if the rest of the show can hold it together. But the team animosity is just tiring and annoying at this point, the side couples are not engaging ( a bj in the shower does not a side couple make) and for a show named Twins, I would like to see more of them.

Middleman's Love

I'm 99% here for the sides. They are cute, they give me some Ram/King vibes and I wanna see more of them. I was super happy to see Ngern again and the family dinner was a good moment. I don't have the patience for this sort of misunderstanding anymore so that ending annoyed the hell out of me.

(I'm watching For Him too but I have nothing nice to say, so I'll say nothing at all. And yes I know I just did that with Shadow but I was never that invested in this one)

Really looking forward to Kinou Nani Tabeta tomorrow morning and The Sign in the afternoon.

I wish all a great weekend and thanks for reading💜

(because I needed a good cry)