#And looking as he does it makes things so much harder

[ahqkas]

Can you please write dumb/subtle/random/cute things batboys will do while they are crushing on reader?

♯ FEEL YOUR LIPS CRUSH . . .

— gn!reader, fluff

© ahqkas — all rights reserved. even when credited, these works are prohibited to be reposted, translated or modified

BRUCE WAYNE

becomes overly observant but awkwardly obvious

bruce wayne is a master of observation—trained to notice the smallest details in a room, a person, or a crime scene. but when it comes to you, this skill becomes more of a curse than a blessing. his crush transforms his usual precision into something downright awkward as he hyper-focuses on the tiniest parts of your life.

it starts innocently enough. you’ll be in the middle of a casual conversation when bruce interrupts, his deep voice breaking through your train of thought.

“you’ve switched your coffee order recently,” he says matter-of-factly, his piercing blue eyes locking on yours.

you blink, momentarily confused. “uh, yeah. i wanted to try something different.”

“it’s good,” he replies, his tone completely serious, as if your new preference for caramel flavored coffee over vanilla is a critical observation.

sometimes his comments catch you so off guard that you don’t even know how to respond. like the time you came into the room wearing a pair of old sneakers. bruce, who was leaning against the kitchen counter sipping his coffee, glanced down and said, “those laces are frayed. you should replace them.”

you laughed nervously, unsure if he was joking. “uh, thanks for the tip?”

but bruce wasn’t joking. “i’ll send alfred to pick up new ones. you don’t want them snapping mid-step.”

he tries to play it cool, he really does, but his constant streak of seemingly random observations only makes his feelings more obvious. one afternoon, you find him glancing at your notebook while you jot something down. without even looking at you, he says, “you press harder with the pen when you’re tired. your handwriting’s smaller today.”

you set your pen down, giving him a skeptical look. “do you . . . keep track of my handwriting, bruce?”

his face doesn’t change, though you swear his ears flush the faintest shade of pink. “no,” he says smoothly, taking a sip of his coffee. “it’s just. . . noticeable.”

it’s the way he says it—quiet and genuine—that sends your heart fluttering. he doesn’t realize how much he’s revealing, but his small, awkward comments and laser focus on the details of your life make it abundantly clear.

the funny thing is, you’re not the only one noticing. alfred, who’s known bruce wayne longer than anyone, often raises an eyebrow or hides a knowing smirk whenever bruce starts one of his “random” observations.

( “perhaps master wayne should focus on his own handwriting.” bruce glares at alfred, but his lack of a comment only makes the butler’s smirk grow wider. )

finds excuses to be helpful

bruce’s wealth is something he wields with the subtlety of a battering ram when he’s crushing on someone. his intentions are good—he genuinely wants to help—but it often comes off as over-the-top or hilariously unnecessary. for someone as logical and composed as the bat, using his money to make your life easier feels like a no-brainer, but he doesn’t realize just how obvious it makes his feelings.

it starts small at first. you might casually mention needing to replace something—your laptop is acting up or your phone is outdated. the next day, without fail, a box will mysteriously appear at your doorstep. inside, you’ll find not just a replacement but the absolute best version of the device, meticulously selected and clearly expensive.

“bruce,” you say, holding up the latest model of a WE laptop you can’t imagine ever affording on your own. “did you do this?”

he looks up from his work, his expression calm and unbothered. “it’s practical,” he says, as if that’s a reasonable excuse for gifting you a piece of technology worth more than your rent. “your old one was slow. it’s inefficient to struggle with outdated equipment.”

when you try to protest, he waves it off, as though spending thousands of dollars on you is no more different than buying a cup of coffee.

but it doesn’t stop there. one morning, you’re sitting in the kitchen with him, absently complaining about how your car keeps breaking down. it’s an offhanded comment, something you don’t think twice about, but bruce takes it as a challenge. by the time you’ve finished your coffee, he’s already pulled out his phone to make arrangements.

“wait,” you interrupt him, narrowing your eyes as you catch him murmuring something to alfred over the phone. “what are you doing?”

“nothing,” he replies too quickly, but later that day, you’re startled to find a sleek new car parked outside your home, the keys and a handwritten note from the butler sitting on your counter.

“bruce!” you exclaim, storming into the study to confront him.

he doesn’t even look up from his computer. “your old car was unreliable. this one is safer.”

“that’s not the point!”

“it’s just a car,” he says with a small shrug, though there’s a hint of amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth.

despite his attitude, it’s clear he’s putting an incredible amount of thought into everything he does for you. his gestures are less about showing off his wealth and more about making sure you never have to struggle, even in the smallest ways. because to him, it’s just logical—he has the resources, so why wouldn’t he use them to make your life easier?

DICK GRAYSON

finds excuses to touch you

for someone as physically expressive as dick grayson, touch comes as naturally as breathing—but when he’s crushing on you, it’s a whole new level. he’s not even aware of how much he does it at first, but the moments start to add up. it’s little things at first: the way he always seems to find a reason to brush his hand against yours, the casual way his shoulder bumps into you when you’re walking side by side, or the way he’ll lean close when he’s explaining something, his hand ghosting over yours as he gestures.

but then, it becomes less about the accidental and more about the intentional. when you’re sitting on the couch together, he’ll sling an arm over the back of it, his fingers close enough to brush against your shoulder. he’ll offer his hand when you’re stepping out of a car or climbing over something, even if you don’t need it, the contact lingers just a second longer than necessary.

“careful,” he’ll say, his voice soft and teasing, even though the step you’re taking isn’t remotely precarious.

“you know i can walk, right?”

he grins, squeezing your hand briefly before letting it go. “just being chivalrous.”

and then, there are the moments when he gets so wrapped up in the conversation or your presence that he doesn’t even realize what he’s doing. like the time you were sitting together, and he absentmindedly started playing with the hem of your sleeve. it wasn’t until you cleared your throat that he looked down, startled, his ears turning pink as he quickly let go.

“sorry,” he mumbled, a sheepish grin spreading across his face. “didn’t realize i was doing that.”

but the blush on his cheeks told you everything you needed to know.

for dick, touch is a way of expressing what words sometimes fail to say. every hand on your shoulder, every playful nudge, and every lingering hug is his way of saying, i like being near you. i like you. even if he hasn’t quite found the courage to say it out loud, his actions make it impossible to miss.

teases you relentlessly (but gets flustered when you tease him back)

teasing is how dick shows affection, how he keeps things light, and, more than anything, how he tries to get your attention. when he’s crushing on you, though, his teasing takes on a new level. every little thing you do seems to give him material to poke fun at, not in a mean way, but in a way that makes it clear he’s paying attention to everything about you.

if you trip over a word while talking, he’ll immediately smirk. “careful there, shakespeare,” he’ll quip. “do we need to enroll you in a public speaking class?” or if you drop something, he’s ready with a dramatic gasp. “wow, butterfingers, do you need me to carry everything for you? i could be your personal assistant, but i charge by the hour.”

it’s playful, yes, but it’s also consistent. he’s always looking for ways to make you laugh, even if it’s at your own expense. like the time you were struggling to open a stubborn jar of jam, and he swooped in, popping the lid off with ease.

“guess i’m just the stronger one here,” he said, flexing his biceps with an exaggerated grin. “it’s okay; not everyone can have these guns.”

but if you so much as raise an eyebrow or fire back with your own jab, the tables turn in an instant. one day, after he’d spent a full five minutes teasing you about your choice of coffee ( “a triple-shot vanilla latte with almond milk? fancy. are you sure you don’t need a royal escort to carry it for you?” ), you finally snapped back.

“oh, and i suppose you’re the coffee expert, mr. regular black coffee? real creative. i bet the baristas have your order memorized.”

the grin on his face faltered for a split second, his eyes widening just slightly. then came the blush—the faint pink hue creeping up his cheeks as he tried to recover, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.

“hey, black coffee is . . . classic,” he mumbled, suddenly unable to meet your gaze.

and that’s the thing about dick grayson: as much as he loves dishing it out, he can’t always handle it when it’s directed at him. the moment you tease him back, especially if it’s about something he’s sensitive about (like his perfectly styled hair or his need to one-up everyone), he turns into an awkward, flustered mess.

“you spend how long on your hair every morning?” you asked him once, teasingly ruffling his carefully combed locks after he made fun of the mismatched socks you were wearing.

he froze, his hand shooting up to fix the damage. “it’s not that long,” he protested, his voice defensive but light.

“oh, come on! i bet you use at least three different products. don’t tell me you don’t have a favorite brand of gel.”

his cheeks flushed crimson as he stammered, “i—you know, it’s just . . . maintenance! can’t all of us roll out of bed looking flawless, okay?”

you laughed, and he groaned, muttering something under his breath about how you were “way too good at this.”

JASON TODD

acts nonchalant but is always nearby

jason todd is many things—brash, sarcastic, sometimes even reckless—but when it comes to feelings he doesn’t fully understand, he defaults to keeping his distance . . . or at least pretending he’s keeping his distance. the truth is, when he’s crushing on you, he’s drawn to you like a moth to a flame, always finding an excuse to be wherever you are without making it obvious. or so he thinks.

take your quiet sunday afternoons, for instance. maybe you’ve settled on the couch with a book, enjoying the rare peace. jason walks in, all nonchalant, like he’s just passing through. he glances at you—just a quick flick of his eyes, like he’s making sure you’re still there—and then he settles in the chair across from you, a spot he never uses otherwise.

“what are you doing?” you ask, watching as he pulls out a book of his own, the same one he’s been pretending to read for weeks.

he doesn’t even look up. “reading.”

you roll your eyes but say nothing, knowing full well he’s barely getting through a page. you can feel his gaze on you every few minutes, like he’s trying to memorize the way your brow furrows in concentration or how you chew on the corner of your lip when you’re focused. and if you catch him? he quickly snaps his attention back to his book, pretending obliviousness.

“didn’t know you liked this spot so much,” you tease, gesturing to the chair.

a smirk plays on the edge of his lips, though there’s a flicker of defensiveness in his eyes. “what, i can’t sit here now? thought it was a free country.”

it’s always like that—his attempts to mask how much he cares come with a side of sarcasm. but the truth slips through in the little details. like how he never actually leaves the room until you do. or how, even when you’re sitting in silence, he finds a reason to linger. maybe he’s scrolling through his phone, flipping through a magazine, or staring at the ceiling like he’s deep in thought. but really, he’s just soaking in your presence.

and then there are the times when he doesn’t even bother pretending. like when you’re sitting in the kitchen, finishing up some work, and he wordlessly sits down across from you, arms crossed and chin propped in his hand.

“what?” you ask, glancing up at him.

“nothing,” he replies, though the slight curve of his lips gives him away.

it’s not that jason is afraid to admit he likes you ( although there is a possibility he is but we don’t talk about that )—it’s just that he doesn’t know how. so instead, he hovers. he sticks close enough to feel like he’s part of your world but not so close that he risks giving himself away. so while he might act nonchalant, the truth is, he’s anything but. every glance, every lingering moment, every excuse to be near you is jason’s way of saying he cares—he just hasn’t found the words yet.

fixes things you didn’t even know were broken

jason’s way of showing he cares is a little unconventional, but it’s always in the small, unspoken ways. he’s the type to notice things that no one else would—things that have been lingering for ages in the background of your life, just waiting for someone to fix them. but because it’s jason, he’ll never bring it up. he’ll just do it, no questions asked, and then act like it never happened.

it starts with the little things. your chair in the living room? it’s been squeaking for months now, but it’s not something you’ve gotten around to fixing. it’s one of those annoyances you’ve learned to ignore, a piece of background noise that doesn’t really bother you enough to take action.

until one day, it suddenly stops.

you sit down in the chair, and for the first time in ages, it’s silent. your eyes narrow. you didn’t fix this—so who did?

“jason?” you ask, glancing toward him as he lounges on the couch, pretending to be deep in whatever he’s doing.

he doesn’t even look up. “what?”

“the chair. it’s. . . quiet now.”

he pauses for just a moment, but it’s enough to catch the shift in his demeanor. he shrugs, barely concealing the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “must’ve gotten lucky. or maybe it fixed itself.”

you know it didn’t. but before you can press him on it, he’s already back to whatever he was doing, like the whole thing is no big deal. it’s almost as if he’s trying to play it off, hoping you won’t notice that he’s been quietly fixing things in your life, one at a time.

the next thing happens a few days later. you walk into the kitchen, only to find that the light above the sink, the one that flickers every time you try to use it, is now working. perfectly.

you stop, standing in the doorway and just staring at it. there’s no way you fixed it. and it certainly wasn’t broken enough to need replacing. so once again, you turn your gaze to jason, who’s now sitting at the kitchen table, eating a snack and acting entirely uninterested in your investigation.

“jason, did you—?”

“no,” he interrupts and continues watching the video essay he turns on every time he eats.

“uh-huh,” you say, narrowing your eyes, walking toward the light and testing the switch again just to make sure you’re not imagining things. it stays steady, glowing without hesitation.

he’ll never say it out loud, but each fix—each thoughtful act—speaks louder than any words could. the broken things don’t matter, because jason is here, fixing them in his own way, piece by piece.

TIM DRAKE

gets shy when you’re too close

tim drake is usually the picture of composure. he’s calm, collected, and can handle himself in just about any situation, but when you’re too close, all that confidence seems to slip away. it starts small. you’re sitting beside him, maybe sharing a space while working on something, and without thinking, you slide just a little bit closer to him. maybe your arm brushes against his, or your knee nudges his under the table.

it’s enough to throw him off, just for a second. his heart rate picks up slightly, and he tries to hide it behind the screen of his laptop, pretending to focus harder than he really is. but he knows, deep down, that he’s hyperaware of you now—of the way you’re sitting, of the way your presence seems to fill the space between the two of you.

his eyes flicker toward you, but quickly dart away, like he’s afraid you caught him staring. it’s an involuntary reaction, the nervous little shift in his posture as he tries to seem as casual as possible. he clears his throat, his voice slightly quieter than usual. “uh, sorry, was just—just making sure the laptop was charging.”

it’s obvious to you that he’s not really talking about the laptop. he’s trying to act like it’s no big deal, but every time you’re too close to him, tim’s body betrays him. the way his leg shifts a little away from yours under the table, or how he tries to subtly angle his body so there’s just a little more space between you and him, even if he doesn’t want there to be.

you might not notice the subtle movements, but tim does. and every time you get close to him, whether it’s by accident or on purpose, he feels a flutter of nerves that he can’t quite explain. it’s not that he doesn’t want you near him—far from it—but the proximity messes with him in ways he doesn’t understand. his thoughts get jumbled, and his usual calmness slips, replaced by the flustered feeling he’s not used to.

if you ever catch him looking at you, his gaze quickly drops, and a soft blush creeps up his neck. “i—i didn’t mean to—uh, just making sure you’re not too cramped.” he mutters, his fingers fidgeting with the edge of his laptop, anything to distract himself from the fact that he’s suddenly very aware of you being so close.

sometimes, when you get too near, tim will just freeze for a moment. it’s like his body can’t process the closeness, and the little awkward silence stretches between you two. it’s not uncomfortable—far from it—but it’s a vulnerable thing for tim, this closeness he doesn’t know how to handle.

but if you keep talking, or even just touch his arm gently when you lean over to look at something, tim’s composure slips even more. he shifts in his seat, trying to act like he’s calm, but his hand might twitch toward yours for just a second before he pulls it away like he’s afraid you’ll notice how he’s reacting.

follows you around during patrol

it’s late at night, the moon casting faint silver light across the streets, and the only sounds are the hum of city life and the occasional rustle of leaves in the wind. you’re out on a walk, maybe trying to clear your head or just enjoy the quiet, unaware that someone is watching you from the shadows. tim, clad in his suit, has been tailing you for a while now. it’s not that he’s trying to be creepy or intrusive, but rather, he’s just . . . concerned.

tim is the kind of person who can’t turn off his instincts, and tonight, for whatever reason, they’re telling him to stay close. he’s perched high above you on a rooftop, watching you walk along the street below, trying to remain unseen. his red robin suit blends into the darkness of the night, the shadows making him nearly invisible to anyone who might be looking.

he’s not sure why he’s doing it—it’s not like you’ve asked him to keep an eye on you—but there’s something about the quiet stillness of the night that has him on edge. maybe it’s because you’ve been a little distant lately, or maybe he’s just worried something might happen to you in the dark. either way, he’s got his eyes on you, and he won’t stop until you’re safely back where you belong.

he’s quick, agile, moving like a shadow himself. you might hear a faint creak of a fire escape ladder or the flurry of footsteps just out of your line of sight, but when you look, there’s nothing there—just the empty street, the soft glow of streetlights, and the ever-present hum of the city.

it’s when you stop for a moment, distracted by something—maybe you’re checking your phone or admiring a nearby storefront—that he’s closest. in that moment, tim takes a chance, moving closer to you, just a few feet away in the darkened alley. he’s not trying to startle you, but there’s something in his gut that tells him he can’t let you out of his sight, especially when it’s this late, and the streets feel a little emptier than usual.

he’ll hover just out of view, giving you space but never quite leaving you alone. if you keep walking, he follows, keeping his distance but staying close enough to ensure you’re safe. when you stop at a crosswalk or glance around, he’s already a few rooftops away, peering down at you from above, making sure you’re not being followed.

the closer you get to home, the more relaxed tim feels, but he never lets his guard down entirely. even when you reach the safety of your doorstep, he lingers just out of sight, making sure you get inside without any issues. he’ll remain in the shadows for a moment longer, watching as you lock the door behind you, ensuring you’re safe before finally letting out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

only then does he disappear into the night, his heart still racing, his mind replaying the images of your walk. he’ll retreat to his hidden vantage point, slipping into the dark corners of gotham once more, but the small weight of relief that you’re safe settles deep in his chest. even though he doesn’t want to admit it, there’s a part of him that feels content knowing you’re okay—even if you’ll never know how closely he’s watched over you.

[sceletaflores]

well, all right i’m bad, but then you’re no prize either…

pair: joel miller x fem!reader

wc: 8.6k

contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, no ellie, general violence (only referenced), age gap (56/26), swearing, so many spacers lmao, not quite friends to lovers and not quite enemies to lovers but a weird other thing, kinda mean!joel for a good sec, dressing wounds, joel miller TUMMY, loss of virginity (reader is a virgin but she's not completely oblivious and weirdly infantile about it lmao), fingering (fem!receiving), p in v, unprotected sex whoops, size kink, belly bulging, pussy pronouns, porn with a tiny plot, no use of y/n.

nat’s note: well, i finally caved y’all. baby’s first tlou fic! this literally took me forever to write and even longer to post cause i was so terrified LMAO so please give me some grace if it’s shit and he’s ooc and timelines are a little fuzzy cause i barely know what i’m doing. thank you chickens love you mwah mwah mwah. kisses!

dividers by lovely @saradika-graphics!

joel found a lodge house…

You don’t know what you did to make Joel Miller hate you so much.

He's never outright said it, but you know it’s there—in every sharp glance, every clipped word, every deliberate avoidance.

Besides, his silence is worse than anything he could say. A quiet condemnation that settles in your chest like stone.

You tell yourself it doesn’t matter, that you don’t care what he thinks, but the truth is harder to swallow.

You do care—more than you want to admit. His approval, his respect, hell, even a sliver of kindness from him feels like an impossible prize you’ll never win.

And you hate yourself for wanting it. For needing it.

It's not just the weight of his disdain that eats at you, it's the not knowing why. God, do you wish you could ask him why.

What did you do to make him look at you like you’re some necessary evil he has to tolerate. Why does he hold some unspoken grudge that's manifested itself into something you couldn't dream of ever comprehending.

But the thought of confronting Joel feels like standing on the edge of a cliff, staring down into a void that might swallow you whole.

So instead, you do what you've always done. You keep your distance, try to match his indifference with your own, and tell yourself it’s better this way.

You were young when the outbreak hit, six years old.

You’re sure that’s part of it. That that’s how Joel sees you, as some bumbling, naive child who’s more of a hassle than anything else.

Another mouth to feed, another back to watch, baggage.

You've been with him for almost seven months now, traveling side by side when you may have well been miles apart. Trekking through abandoned cities, overgrown highways, and every godforsaken patch of wilderness in between.

In the beginning, you did everything you could to prove him wrong.

You pushed yourself past your limits, hunted, scavenged, fought, kept up. You did everything that needed to be done without hesitation.

All to show that you were more than what he made you out to be. It never seemed to matter much.

After you lost your parents in the early days of the outbreak, it was just you and your sister. She taught you everything you know, taught you how to survive.

It's because of her that you know how to shoot a rifle, how to skin a rabbit, how to start a fire with nothing but sticks and dried moss, how to snap bones and locate which vital arteries bleed out the quickest.

It's because of her that you've been able to hone some sick skill in the maiming of clickers.

A skill you never thought you'd need to use on her.

You were supposed to be safe in the QZ. You weren't supposed to be fifteen years old, aiming a gun at the one person you had left.

Your own flesh and blood wasn't supposed to be the very first in a long list of red tallies under your belt.

It’s been years and you’ve still never forgotten that day. December 19th, 2012, the date burned into your brain like someone took a branding iron to the tissue.

You can’t count the amount of times you’ve been ripped from your sleep drenched in a cold sweat with the tail end of a scream tearing at the skin of your throat.

The image of what was left of your sister, slumped on the ground lifeless as her blood painted the wall behind her flashing behind your closed eyelids. The sound of her last labored breath ringing in your ears louder than any shotgun blast.

You ran that same night, with the weight of her death on your shoulders.

Your entire world spinning out around you as you clawed through barbed wire fencing, not caring where you were going or what would happen to you—just needing to escape.

There was nothing left for you to do after that but survive. And that’s what you did, for years, scraping by in a world that had already chewed you up and spit you out a mangled mess.

You learned how to be ruthless because of it.

How to harden yourself against the loss, the pain, the brutality. But there were cracks, too. Cracks you hid well, buried deep beneath layers of stubbornness and distance.

The endless days blurred into each other. Empty houses, hollow streets. A life reduced to scavenging, hiding, and the occasional, fleeting moment of human connection that inevitably ended in loss. 

And then you found yourself with Joel.

You hadn’t exactly found him, though. More like crashed into his orbit by accident.

A few desperate days spent scavenging through the ruins of a small town, a chance encounter that left you both wary and unwilling to turn your backs.

But, inexplicably, you somehow became part of his traveling routine.

He wasn’t like any of the others you’d met before. At first, you thought he might be different. A man who seemed broken, but different nonetheless.

As the days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, you began to see the truth. Joel Miller wasn’t concerned with you. He didn’t need you. And, more than that, he didn’t want you around. 

You didn’t know what to do with that.

It’s a bitter kind of irony. You’ve survived all this time completely on your own, fought tooth and nail to stay alive, but with him, you might just crumble.

Joel found a lodge house. It's a small, weathered place tucked away in the dense trees of the wood surrounding it.

He only deemed it suitable after an extensive perimeter check and a thorough sweep of the interior.

It's not much—just another run-down place in the middle of nowhere—but for the first time in what feels like forever, it’s a roof over your head for the night.

The walls are sturdy, though the windows are cracked and half of the floorboards creak like they're about to give out at any moment.

You explored the second floor alone, creeping through the desolate rooms and taking in all that was left behind.

Old family photographs covered in thick layers of dust, worn clothes riddled with holes still hung in the few closets you stumble across.

The oddest of all was an old jewelry box tucked away in a dresser draw, tarnished silver dull and muddy.

The sound of familiar footsteps comes from somewhere behind you. The door creaks open slowly.

Joel. Of course.

He clears his throat, the sound abrasive in the quiet of the house.  

“Fire’s low,” he says, voice rough from its lack of use today.

You don’t turn around, not yet. You take the box in your gloved hand, running your fingers across the intricate design of the lid, touch trailing over winding vines and small roses.

“Okay,” you mutter, your voice coming out quieter than you intended. “I’ll grab some more wood later.”

Another beat of silence. Then, “It’s gettin’ cold out, I’ll go.”

Your fingers pause their ministrations, moving to flip the lid open. Empty.

“Suit yourself,” you reply after a moment, your tone just as neutral as his.

Joel doesn’t leave right away. You hear the floorboards groan beneath his weight, his presence lingering in the doorway. 

You wonder what he’s waiting for, or if he’s waiting at all.

Finally, he speaks. “Don’t touch anything.”

With that he turns and leaves the room, you wait until you can’t hear his footsteps trailing down the stairs anymore to let out the scoff festering in your chest.

You snap the jewelry lid shut with a little more force than necessary. “Asshole.”

Joel's been gone for a while now. Longer than it takes to chop a few logs for firewood.

You came down from the upstairs a few minutes after hearing the tell-tale sound of the heavy door opening and closing. The main room is quiet, save for the soft crackle of the dwindling fire.

You're perched on an old armchair near the entrance, peering out the dirty window that has the best view of the treeline as you nervously pick the skin around your nails.

You tell yourself not to worry. He’s probably fine, he’s been doing this a lot longer than you. And if Joel is anything, it’s annoyingly competent.

Still, a nagging doubt itches at the back of your mind. It's been at least half an hour, maybe more.

You’re just about to grab your own pack and go looking for him when the front door creaks open.

Joel stumbles inside, the frigid evening air rushing in behind him before he slams the door shut. At first glance, he looks fine—no more haggard than usual. 

But then you notice the way he favors his left side, the way his free hand is pressed against his ribs, blood seeping through his fingers and staining his torn undershirt.

You’re on your feet in an instant.

“Fuck,” you say, voice sharper than you expected. “What the hell happened?”

“Raiders.” Is the only explanation you get as he tries to brush past you like it’s nothing. The stiff way he moves and the tightens of his jaw betray him. “S’just a scratch.”

“Bullshit,” you snap, stepping in front of him and blocking his path to the fire. “Sit. Now.”

He gives you a look, one of those deep, withering glares you’ve seen him use to intimidate countless others into submission. But you stand your ground, chin raised and jaw set–defiant. 

His stubbornness finally meeting its match in your own. 

Finally, with a low growl of frustration, he drops onto the couch. “Happy now?”

"Not until you let me take care of that." You motion toward his side, where the blood is still spreading.

“I’m fine,” he mutters, lolling his head back to rest more heavily on the couch.

“Sure you are,” you snap, crossing the room to rifle through your bag. “And I’m the fucking Queen of England.”

"Said I’m fine," he bites through gritted teeth, but you’re already moving, heading back to him with the first aid kit from your pack.

"You want to bleed out on this ugly-ass couch? Be my guest," you shoot back, dropping to your knees in front of him. "Otherwise, shut up and let me help."

Joel surprisingly doesn’t argue any further, just sighs heavily and reluctantly sinks further into the couch cushions.

You push the front of his jacket open to slide it off his shoulders as gently as you can, peeling back the layer of his flannel next.

The smell of blood hits you immediately.

The gash is about five inches long, trailing the span of his ribcage. It’s deep—but not fatal—just an angry red and oozing blood.

Definitely not the simple 'scratch' he made it out to be.

Your stomach churns at the sight, but you push it down. No time for that.

“Jesus, Joel,” you mutter under your breath, reaching for the alcohol in your kit. “You really know how to underplay a situation, huh?”

He doesn’t respond, just watches you with those dark, calculating eyes of his. Always watching, always assessing.

It’s unnerving, but you focus on the task at hand, grabbing a clean cloth and soaking it with alcohol.

“This is gonna hurt,” you warn, though there’s a part of you that doesn’t mind the idea of causing him a little discomfort.

A petty, vindictive part that still stings from all the scorn he’s thrown your way.

“Just get it over with,” Joel grits out, his voice low and gravelly.

You don’t give him any more warnings as you wipe the soaked cloth over the wound. He flinches, a harsh curse slipping through clenched teeth, but he doesn’t pull away.

You work as quickly as you can, wiping away the blood and dirt with steady hands, your movements as gentle as possible given the situation.

You let out an annoyed huff when the torn fabric of his shirt gets in the way of your hands for a second time.

You lean back on your heels, glancing up at Joel. “You need to take your shirt off.”

Joel raises a brow at you, his lips pressing into a thin line. “That really necessary?”

“Yes, it’s necessary, Joel,” you huff, already losing patience. “Unless you want me to sit here and cut around every thread of this ratty thing while you bleed out, then by all means—”

He sighs heavily, cutting you off as he shifts forward and grabs the hem of his shirt. He tugs at the fabric, grunting in pain each time it strains his ribs.

You roll your eyes at how slow he’s moving, and your patience—already worn thin by the day's events—snaps.

“Jesus Christ, let me help,” you huff, reaching forward and grabbing the fabric.

Joel jerks back slightly, his hand shooting up to stop yours mid-motion. “I got it,” he growls, a sharp edge in his voice.

You glare at him, your hand still caught in his grip. His palm is calloused, his hold firm enough to make your pulse jump unexpectedly. 

For a moment, the two of you just sit there, locked in a silent standoff.

Then he releases your hand and pulls the shirt over his head himself, wincing as the movement pulls at his side.

You wait with your arms crossed, trying to ignore the awkward flutter of nerves in your stomach as the fabric peels away to reveal his chest.

Joel’s broad, solid frame isn’t new to you. You’ve seen him shirtless before—brief glimpses when bathing in rivers or changing in run down houses between stops.

But this time feels different, more intimate somehow.

You’re staring, and you know it.

The firelight cast shadows over his skin, illuminating old scars, faint lines of muscle, the barely there jut of his stomach over the hem of his jeans.

You had been getting more game kills recently, two hunters are always better than one.

Joel clears his throat, dragging your focus back to the present. “You gonna gawk all night, or can we move this along?”

You snap out of it, scowling to cover your embarrassment. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t get your panties in a twist.”

You finish cleaning the gash and grab the small needle and thread lying next to you.

“This’ll hurt worse than the alcohol,” you say, threading the needle easily.

Joel snorts, a rare sound. “Figures.”

The needle pierces his skin, and this time, you catch the smallest hitch in his breath. He doesn’t make a sound, but his jaw tightens, the veins in his neck standing out like cords.

His hands grip the edge of the couch hard enough that his knuckles turn white with it, but he doesn’t tell you to stop or slow down.

He’s too damn proud for that.

You shift closer, your knee brushing against his leg as you position yourself to work from a better angle. You feel his eyes on you, that intense, scrutinizing stare that makes your skin prickle.

“You’ve done this before,” Joel says after a moment, his tone less sharp than before. It’s not quite a question, more of an observation.

You shrug, keeping your hands steady. “Of course I have.”

“Who taught you?”

The question catches you off guard, Joel’s never shown much interest in what your life was before you met him. You glance up briefly, catching his gaze. There’s no malice there, no judgment—just curiosity.

You swallow hard, dragging your eyes back to stitches, half way done now. “My sister.”

You don’t elaborate and Joel doesn’t push.

Maybe it’s the sudden tightness in your tone or the look you know must be clouding your face that keeps him quiet.

You finish off the stitching, tearing the thin strand of thread with your hands before you’re leaning away again.

“Good as new,” you say, dabbing some more alcohol on your own hands to disinfect. “Try not to tear these open anytime soon.”

Joel leans back, strong arms spread across the back of the couch, his face unreadable as he peers down at the fresh stitching on his side. 

“Could’ve done it myself,” he mutters, but the edge in his voice is gone, replaced with something softer, almost resigned. 

You roll your eyes with a scoff, not even trying to hide your irritation as you rise from the floor. “Sure you could’ve, right before you passed out. You’re welcome by the way.”

You gather your supplies and turn to head back to your bag, but Joel’s voice stops you in your tracks.

“You’re always like this, y’know,” he says, and the words carry that same gravelly drawl, but there’s something new there—something heavier.

You pause, your hands tightening around the kit in your grasp. “Like what?”

“Pushy. Stubborn,” he replies, his tone cutting, though it lacks the usual venom. “Like you’ve got somethin’ to prove all the damn time.”

You whip around, your patience officially gone. “You think I’m stubborn?” you shoot back, your voice rising. “Coming from the guy who would rather bleed out on a fucking couch than admit he needs help?”

Joel’s jaw tightens, and his hands flex against the couch cushions, but you don’t stop. Not now. Not after months of this.

“I’ve been busting my ass since day one to prove that I’m not dead weight to you. I’ve fought for us, for you. And for what? Just to get more of your bullshit attitude?”

“You don’t know what the hell you’re talkin’ about,” Joel snaps, pushing himself upright despite the obvious strain it puts on his freshly stitched wound. “You don’t know a goddamn thing about me.”

“Because you won’t let me!” you fire back, stepping closer, your voice rising. “All you do is look at me like I’m some burden you can’t wait to get rid of.”

Joel’s glare sharpens, his lips parting as if to respond, but you cut him off.

You really can’t stop yourself now that you started, all the anger and frustration reaching a fever pitch hot enough to burst the tight lid you’ve kept on your emotions.

“If I’m such a hassle, why didn’t you just leave me back there, huh? Why didn’t you just walk away like I know you wanted to?”

Joel’s breathing is heavier now,  his broad chest rising and falling as his dark eyes bore into yours.

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. Then, he stands, and the sheer size of him forces you to tilt your chin up slightly to keep your glare fixed on his face.

“You think I wanted this, kid?” he growls, his voice low and strained, like he’s barely holding himself together. “You think I wanted to be responsible for someone else? To have someone else’s fuckin’ life on me?”

“Don’t call me kid,” you spit, shoving a finger into his chest, ignoring the way his jaw ticks at the contact. “I’m not a fucking kid.”

He scoffs, casting his eyes to the ceiling disbelievingly. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“Fuck you, Joel,” you growl, fists clenching at your side. “If you hate me that much, why the hell are you still here? Why didn’t you tell me to fuck off the second you met me?”

“Because I couldn’t!” Joel snaps, booming voice filling the small space.

The confession slips out like it pains him. His fists clench at his sides, and for a moment, he looks like he might break something.

You’ve never been scared of Joel, even though you’ve seen first hand just how scary he can be.

Now, as he looms in front of you, eyes blazing and jaw working furiously beneath his skin, it’s the closest to scared you’ve felt.

“I’ve seen you out there,” he continues, tone low and dark. “You’ve got a fuckin’ death wish. You’re too damn stubborn to just stop, and I’m not gonna let you go so you can run off and get yourself fuckin’ killed.”

Your heart pounds in your chest, his words hitting far too close to home.

“I’m just trying to survive, Joel,” you snap, your voice shaking. “That’s what we do, isn’t it? Survive.”

“Survive,” Joel repeats bitterly, his gaze burning into yours. “That what you call it? Throwin’ yourself into every goddamn fight, gettin’ stabbed and shot right fuckin’ in front of me and expecting me to brush that shit off?”

You let out a humorless laugh, nodding your head exasperatedly. “Yes, yes I do expect you to just brush it off, because that’s what you always do.” 

“Well I can’t,” he grates out, taking a step closer. “I can’t ‘cause despite whatever it is that you may think about me, I don’t hate you. I care about you too damn much and that's my goddamn problem.”

That shuts you up, your mouth snapping closed with a sharp click of your teeth as you stare at him, shocked.

Joel holds your gaze, lips pressed into a thin line. “That what you wanted to hear?”

It’s in that moment that the fire finally fizzles out, the dull hiss of it the only sound left in the room.

You’re quiet for a beat, stunned into silence. The heat of his anger, his frustration, it radiates off him, and you realize suddenly that this isn’t just about you. 

It never was.

“Then show me,” you challenge softly, your heart pounding in your chest. “Show me that you don’t hate me.”

Joel’s eyes darken, his head cocking to the side as he searches your face for a sign. You don’t say anything, you only square your shoulders and raise your chin, your eyes just as hard as his own.

“I want you to prove it.”

The tension snaps like a rubber band stretched too far. 

You shouldn’t—this shouldn’t—happen. Not like this. Not after everything that’s been said.

But when Joel’s lips crash against yours, hot and desperate and urgent, it makes everything blur into nothing. 

It’s not gentle, not soft—this is anger and longing and frustration all wrapped into one. It’s messy, frantic, like a fight that’s been brewing for too long.

He grips your arm, pulling you closer, almost too roughly, but it feels like it’s everything you’ve both been avoiding.

His other hand moves to cup the back of your neck, grounding you as his lips press harder against yours, like he’s trying to pour everything he can’t say into this single moment.

You respond just as fiercely, nails digging into the skin of his shoulders as you kiss him back with all the pent-up emotion that’s been simmering beneath the surface.

The coarse hair of his beard scrapes against the skin of your chin deliciously, the scent of blood and firewood filling your senses as his arm wraps around your waist, dragging you impossibly closer.

Close enough that you can feel the wild beat of his heart booming against your chest.

You pull away for a second, breathless, both of you looking at each other, your eyes wide and pupils blown.

“Goddamn it,” Joel mutters, his voice thick with frustration and something else you can’t place. He presses his forehead to yours, the deep brown of his eyes dark than before. “What the hell are we doing?”

You don’t have an answer. You’re not sure if you even want one.

You reach for him again, arms looping around his neck to drag his mouth back to yours.

This kiss is nothing like the first, it isn’t a clash of frustration–it’s filthier, rawer. A near feral thing, all teeth and tongue, a surge of hunger and need that borders on violence. 

Joel groans into your mouth, a low, guttural sound that sends a shiver racing down your spine. His teeth catch your bottom lip, pulling just hard enough to make you gasp.

He takes advantage of the sound, his tongue sweeping into your mouth to slide against yours with wet, messy desperation, like he’s trying to claim every inch of you.

The taste of him—salt and iron and something distinctly Joel—makes your head spin. 

Your fingers knot into the chocolaty curls at the nape of his neck, surprisingly soft to the touch. His own hands roam the soft curves of your body, rough and insistent, like he can’t decide where he wants to touch you most.

“Joel—” His name spills from your lips like a plea, and he answers with a deep, guttural noise that sends heat pooling low in your belly. His tongue follows the path of his teeth, soothing the bites with lazy, deliberate strokes that make your knees weak.

You’re moving before you even realize it. Joel dragging you across the room and down onto the couch with him, using the strength he’s built up after all these years to manhandle you until your thighs are spread wide on either side of his lap.

“Joel,” you gasp again, rearing back enough to break the kiss. “Your stitches–”

He cuts you off with a sharp nip to the sensitive spot behind your ear, tearing a high whine from your throat. “Can hardly feel ‘em.”

You make a displeased sound, but it’s undermined by the way you tilt your head to give his wandering lips more room. His hands find a home on your hips, one slipping beneath your shirt to press against the soft skin of your stomach. 

His fingers splay wide across your skin, his palm callused and rough. His pinky just barely brushes the underside of your breast, and you’re suddenly rearing back. 

“Wait,” you say, your voice barely a whisper.

Joel’s hands immediately loosen their grip on your hips, his brows knitting together in concern. “You okay?”

You nod quickly, your heart pounding in your chest. “I just...I need to tell you something.”

His jaw tightens slightly, but he stays quiet, waiting for you to speak.

You take a beat, chewing at the skin of your bottom lip nervously.

“I’ve never...” You pause, swallowing hard as your cheeks heat up. “I’ve never done this before. I mean, I’ve never been with anyone like this.”

Joel pulls back slightly, his expression unreadable as he processes your words. For a moment, you think he might pull away completely, but then he exhales a long, slow breath.

“Christ,” he mutters, scrubbing a hand down his face. “You’re tellin’ me this now?”

“I didn’t exactly plan for this to happen,” you snap back, crossing your arms over your chest defensively. “It’s not like I had the luxury of a high school sweetheart to pop my cherry out here.”

Joel’s gaze softens at your tone, and he reaches out to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing against your skin. “Hey, hey, I didn’t mean it like that.”

You glance away, suddenly feeling self-conscious under the weight of his stare. “I just...I wanted you to know. But I want this, Joel. I want you.”

His thumb stills against your cheek, and he swallows hard, his adam’s apple bobbing as he considers your words.

“I don’t...” He pauses, the most hesitant you’ve ever heard him. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

It’s the most vulnerable he’s been around you, round eyes shining with something so raw and so earnest it makes your heart ache in your chest. 

“You won’t,” you insist, your voice steady despite the nerves fluttering in your stomach. “I trust you.”

Joel’s jaw clenches, and for a moment, he looks like he’s going to argue. But then he nods, his shoulders relaxing as he cups the back of your neck, pulling you closer until your foreheads touch again.

“At least let me do this right,” he murmurs, his voice so soft you almost don’t hear it. “Not here. Not on some goddamn couch.”

You blink up at him, surprised by the tenderness in his tone. “What?”

“Upstairs,” he says, his thumb tracing lazy circles against the side of your neck. “There’s a bed up there. It ain’t much, but it’s better than this.”

You can’t do anything but nod, your pulse racing beneath your skin fast enough to combat the cold night air seeping through the walls.

“Okay,” you say softly, voice barely above a whisper. “Upstairs.”

Joel stands, gently pulling you to feet and taking your hand in his. He leads you upstairs, each step feeling heavier with anticipation. The small bedroom is dimly lit, the faint glow of moonlight filtering through a broken blind. 

The bed isn’t much—an old mattress on a worn frame, covered with a patched-up blanket—but it doesn’t matter.

Joel shuts the door behind you, the sound of the latch clicking into place sending a shiver down your spine.

“Last chance,” he says, his voice a low rumble. “You say the word, and we stop. No questions asked.”

Your throat tightens at the sincerity in his tone, the way he’s giving you an out even though you can see the strain in every line of his body, the way his hands flex at his sides like he wants nothing more than to reach out and touch you.

But you don’t hesitate.

You step closer, placing your hands on his bare chest. You bite back a smile at the goosebumps that break out all along his skin at your touch. 

“Jesus, Miller,” you mumble teasingly, nails lightly scratching through the salt and pepper hair scattered along his chest. “How long are you gonna drag this out before you get it through your thick skull that I want to fuck you?”

"Christ." Joel huffs, shaking his head as the corners of his lips turn up in a small grin. “Like I fuckin’ said,” he starts, big hands kneading the meat of your hips. “Pushy.”

Joel walks you backward until the backs of your knees hit the edge of the bed, and you fall onto it with a soft gasp.

He follows you immediately, crawling over you, his body covering yours, his weight a comforting pressure. “I’ll take care of you,” he murmurs, his lips brushing yours. “I’ll make it good for you, I swear.”

His fingers are everywhere, unbuttoning your shirt with a practiced ease that has your pulse racing. His lips follow the path of his hands, each touch a branding mark, each kiss leaving you wanting more.

“Pretty girl,” he mutters softly, pressing a kiss right between the valley of your breasts.

You feel his cock stirring against your stomach, and it makes the ache between your legs flare to life, the weight of it, the hardness of it, driving you crazy with need. 

You want him so badly you can barely think straight, but when his lips graze over your collarbone, you can’t stop the quiet whine that escapes your throat.

Joel growls in response, a sound that resonates deep in his chest, and you know then that he’s as far gone as you are. His hands slide down to the waistband of your pants, tugging them down your legs with urgency. 

As your skin is exposed to the cool air, you can feel the heat of his gaze on you, like he’s memorizing every inch of you.

“You’re fuckin' perfect,” he mutters, his voice thick with desire.

Joel's hands find your thighs, parting them with a deliberate slowness that makes your breath catch in your throat. He positions himself between your legs, his body weight pressing you into the mattress, his chest rising and falling with the same frantic rhythm as yours. 

The anticipation is almost unbearable as his fingers trace the line of your panties, the fabric damp with want.

“Jesus, she’s drippin’ for me already,” he mutters, voice rough, as he slides the material to the side, his thumb brushing over the sensitive swell of your clit.

Your body jerks at the contact, a desperate sound escaping your lips, but Joel doesn’t relent.

“You touch yourself down here, baby?” he asks, working tortuously slow circles over your clit.

"Please," you beg, your hands grasping at the sheets, pulling at them as if they can anchor you to the moment.

He looks up at you, his gaze dark and filled with an intensity that makes your stomach tighten. “Asked you a question, honey.”

You whine, high and loud in your throat as your thighs clench desperately around his wrist. “Yes, I touch myself.”

Joel’s lips curl into a satisfied grin, sliding his thick index finger through the messy wetness to slip inside your clenching hole, making you gasp. Your hands grasp at the sheets, pulling at them as if they can anchor you to the moment.

“Good girl,” he breathes, eyes darkening at the broken moan that bursts from your lips. “When’s the last time you touched yourself?”

Your brain feels hazy as you search for the answer, pleasure clouding your mind slow and sweet as molasses. “A–a few nights ago.”

Joel hums idly, slipping a second finger alongside the first. The stretch has you whining, his fingers a lot more to take than your own.

Your hands come up to claw at his shoulders, relishing in the way his broad muscle ripples and shifts beneath your greedy palms.

“Joel,” you whine, hips canting down against his hand impatiently.

He just shushes you softly, free hand brushing soothing circles along the skin of your inner thigh. “I know, honey,” he mutters, the pace fingers speeding up. “But I gotta get her nice and ready if you wanna take my cock.”

The gush of your pussy around his fingers is loud in the stillness of the room, a filthy wet noise that burns your ears each time he plunges them into your aching hole.

“I am ready.” Your breath hitches as your body begins to tremble beneath him. “Please, Joel—fuck—please, I need—”

“Need what?” His voice is thick with dark amusement, but there's a hunger in his eyes that has your stomach twisting. “Tell me, baby. What do you need?”

“I need you,” you rasp, your nails digging little crescent moons into his skin, your body pleading for release. “I need you inside me.”

Your hands grab at his hair, pulling him back up to meet your lips in a feverish kiss. 

The pressure of his body on yours, the way his hard cock grinds against your trembling thigh, drives you to the brink of madness. 

Your hands trail down his chest, past the waistband of his jeans, finally reaching the bulge straining against the fabric.

Joel groans when you rub him through his pants, feeling his cock twitch in response. He pulls back, breathing heavily, his lips curling into a smirk. 

“Yeah?” he asks, his voice thick with lust. “You want my cock in this pretty pussy? Want me to show you how good it feels to be fucked?”

“God, yes,” you answer, desperation lacing your tone as your hand moves to unbuckle his jeans. “Want it so bad.”

He lets you push his pants down just enough to free his cock, and you gasp, your eyes drawn to the way his length stands, thick and hard, just waiting for you. The tip flushed an angry red, drooling pre-come onto the scratchy sheets.

Joel pulls his fingers from you, using his hands spreading your legs wider, positioning himself between them with such careful precision that you can barely stand it.

The head of his cock drags through the mess between your legs, slipping all the way down till it catches on your soaked entrance.

Joel pauses, looking down at you, waiting for your signal, but the only answer you give is a pleading whimper, your hands pulling at his shoulders, urging him to move.

His mouth captures yours once again as he slowly slides into you, the stretch of his cock filling you steadily, making you gasp into his mouth. 

The slow burn of him carving a place for himself inside of you is almost too much, your body trembling as you adjust to the feeling of him.

“Fuck, baby,” Joel mutters against your lips. “You’re so tight, so fuckin’ perfect for me.”

As he sinks deeper into you, his thick cock finally buried to the hilt inside of you, the feeling is overwhelming. You gasp, nails digging into his back as the pain slowly shifts into pleasure.

Joel groans into your mouth, his hands moving to your hips, guiding you as he rocks gently against you. 

The rhythm is slow at first, deliberate, as if he's savoring every inch of you. Your body quivers beneath him, every inch of your skin tingling with sensation. You clutch at him, your legs tightening around his waist, needing more, wanting more.

"That's it," he murmurs, his voice thick with desire. "Take it, baby."

You screw your eyes shut tightly, trying to steady yourself as he thrusts deeper, harder. The angle shifts just enough to make your breath catch in your throat. 

Every stroke feels like it’s hitting the deepest part of you, sparking heat in places you never knew could burn so hot.

"Fuck," you gasp, the sensation too overwhelming, too much in the best way. "Joel... please..."

"Please what, sweetheart?" He pulls back slightly, teasing you with a slow roll of his hips before driving back in with a grunt.

Your nails dig into his shoulders, urging him to move faster, harder. "Don’t stop," you breathe, your voice trembling. "I need you to fuck me, Joel. Faster. Harder. Please."

The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room as Joel finally picks up the pace, each thrust harder and deeper than the last.

Your back arches off the bed, chest pressing flush to his as your body coils tighter and tighter, already so close to the edge.

Joel reaches up to take your wrist in his, dragging your hand down to press flat against your lower stomach.

“Feel that?” he asks breathlessly, the speed of his hips knocking the dingy bed frame into the wall with every thrust. “You feel how deep I am?”

His own hand blankets yours, pushing down so you can feel the way his cock punches up against your palm on the next thrust.

Your pussy clenches desperately around him at the feeling, your slick lips dropping open on a loud moan.

You can barely hold on. The heat in your stomach tightens, coiling painfully as your free hand scrambles to find purchase on his skin. "I can't—I'm gonna—"

He grits his teeth, his jaw clenched as he drives deeper, pushing you closer and closer to the edge. "Come for me, baby," he growls, his voice dark and commanding. "Let me feel it."

With a strangled cry, you finally release, your body clenching around him, every nerve igniting in a white-hot explosion of pleasure. 

You’re lost in it, your world spinning, your senses overwhelmed by the sensation of Joel’s body pounding into yours, the way his cock brushes against that sweet spot behind your clit enough to make sparks go off behind your eyelids.

Joel pulls out of your velvety warmth, hand coming up to fist his dripping length until he’s bowing over you tightly and coming with a deep groan of your name.

His release paints your stomach with milky strands of white, rope after rope of warm come claiming you in a way no one has before.

He finally collapses against you with one last shuddering breath, both of you breathing heavily, your chests rising and falling together in the quiet aftermath.

For a few moments, neither of you speaks, the only sounds are the soft creak of the bed and the quiet hum of your racing hearts. 

Joel rests his head against your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin, and you can feel the tension begin to slip away, the weight of everything that’s happened between you both settling into something new—something different, but still there.

Your hand slips down the sweaty expanse of your stomach, your fingers swiping through the sticky mess of his release curiously.

“Christ, quit that,” Joel groans, tearing his eyes away from the sight to press his forehead against your shoulder.

“Why?” you hum, brow raised in amusement as you drop your hand back to the mattress. “Can you even get it up again?”

Joel pinches your side hard enough to make you squeal, your body flinching away from him as a surprised laugh bubbles from your chest.

“Watch it,” he warns, though there’s no bite to his tone. You only laugh in response.

The two of you settle into a comfortable silence, wrapped in each other as crickets chirp from outside the window.

Then Joel clears his throat, fingers idly tracing different shapes on the skin of your hip as he gathers the courage to speak.

A circle, a square, a diamond, a circle, a heart, a heart, a heart.

“I’m…” he starts, trailing off softly. “I’m sorry. I’ve been a real fuckin’ prick, and you didn’t deserve it. You never did.”

You turn your own gaze to his chest, hand coming up so you can trail your fingers along the jagged scar decorating his shoulder. Your touch featherlight over the rough patch of skin.

All the anger seeps from your body, a heavy weight gone until you feel so light you could float off the mattress and into the cold night air.

“It’s okay,” you whisper softly, so soft you think it gets lost in the quiet darkness of the room. “I understand now.”

And for the first time in what feels like forever, you both just lay there, tangled in each other, not worrying about the world outside, about the chaos that waits. 

Just you, him, and the soft glow of moonlight.

tags are now in the comments! if you want to get tagged for any of my works just fill out this form!

mini nat's note: should i add joel to my taglist...i do kinda want to write more for him in the future but i'm not sure yet...lmk chickens <3 bee tee dubs sorry the ending absolutely sucks i could not for the life of me figure out how to end this LMAO

[embbarnes]

Stop because what compelled me to write this.

Logan & Breeding. 18+ MDNI. Warnings for breeding kink duh.

"Yeah...you want me to cum inside ya? You wanna get pregnant with my babies? Nngh....I'm gonna fill that womb. I'm gonna make sure you are leakin'..." he snarls at you while he's completely buried in your stretched, swollen cunt.

Can you barely register his words?

Yes.

But you don't care.

You want his cum, you want him to fuck you senseless...which he has been. You were no better than a bitch in heat for him and he fucking loved it.

"Gonna be so damn full, gonna get you pregnant," he groaned and grunted hard, his instincts flaring with the possibility of actually impregnating and breeding you. It drove his hips faster and harder into you, like he couldn't control himself or stop.

His hips thrust so hard into you, the impact on your plush ass began to grow sore, you knew that your backside would be bruised and it wasn't even from spanking. He continued to pound into you, he bent you in all sorts of ways, positions you didn't think you could bend in.

Your body was covered in love bites and dark bruises, your nipples swollen from his teasing and sucking and they had a sting that enhanced all your pleasure with every thrust.

"Damn, look at you writhing. Such a good thing for me, sweet girl," he laughed as his dick kissed your cervix over and over, precum coating your inner walls. "I'm gonna fill you, princess...make that pretty little womb full." his hips continued to snap into you, biting your neck as he let out muffled growls against your skin.

You feel yourself crying with nothing but the overwhelming feeling of your orgasm, what number is this? You don't know.

All you know is the rough pad of his finger is playing with your precious bundle of nerves and you can barely feel anything besides the raging fire of your climax shooting through you.

When he does cum, it is so much it overflows out of you, the sheer amount of it is insane. Your eyes widen, feeling the hot seed filling your precious, fertile womb. If you're ovulating don't even think about running. Logan will literally hunt you down and bend you over until he is completely empty.

So...yeah.

Maybe I'm ovulating? Not sure but...there you go. Maybe I'll turn this into an actual fic one day.

[thevoidstaredback]

I don't have it in me to do a whole thing rn, but a heartbreaking piece of dialogue just popped into my head for this:

"Danny!" Nightwing yelled over the crashing wind, "Danny, stop!"

"'Danny'?" Phantom scoffed, his grip around Batman's throat unrelenting, "Danny doesn't exist anymore."

Somehow, the world fell quiet. "What?" Red Robin whispered.

Growling, Phantom repeated, "Danny. Doesn't. Exist. Anymore."

"I don't... I don't understand." Nightwing said, "What do you mean he doesn't exist? You're standing right here!"

The grip Batman had on Phantom's wrist fell loose, but not away, his body starting to fall slack. Was this how he dies? He'd never feared death before, not since he was a child, but the black creeping along the edges of his vision, the air leaving his lungs and not returning- To be killed by his own son? Robin would've ribbed at him about patricide. But Robin isn't here anymore...

Phantom's fist tightens around Batman's neck. "He killed him." Louder, he repeats, "He killed him!"

"Who?!" Red Robin demands, desperation colouring his entire being. He tries to step forward, but his leg collapses under him, his shattered knee unable to hold his weight.

Batman finally falls limp, his eyes closing as the last of his air finally leaves his lungs. There's a loud snap of bone before he falls from Phantom's grip, unmoving and laying awkwardly.

"Dad!" Nightwing screams. Red Robin sobs.

"He killed him!" Phantom's red eyes bore into Nightwing's own, glowing and powerful and vengeful.

"I'll kill you, Danny!" he screams, charging at the thing that was supposed to be his brother, "I'll fucking kill you!"

"Don't!" Red Robin cries, unable to stop him, but it's too late and he goes ignored.

Phantom doesn't so much as flinch as he swats Nightwing aside. The vigilante flies across the battlefield, crashing through a tree before landing in a heap on the group, dead upon impact.

"Dick!" Red Robin screams, dragging himself forward, reaching for his brother. His arms shutter and he falls, sobbing into the dirt. "No... No, no, no, no! Bruce... Dick... I can't- I don't-" He looks up, locking eyes with Phantom. "Why. Why did you kill them!"

"Because he killed Danny!"

"Bruce didn't kill anyone!"

"He killed them!"

"Who the fuck killed who?! Bruce hasn't killed anyone!"

"He killed them!"

"Who!?"

"My family!"

"We were your family!"

Phantom fell quiet, the battlefield silent behind him. "No," he whispered, "If you were, you would've been there. You would've stopped him. You would've-" his voice broke, "Danny'd still be okay and they'd still be alive, but they're not and he's not and you're not and I'm still here and everyone else is still here!" He panted a moment in an effort to regather himself. "Everyone has to die because the world promised to protect them. You 'heroes' failed and this is the consequence."

Slowly, Red Robin pushed himself to stand, ignoring the pain the throbbed across his entire body. "We didn't even know about Danny until-!"

"You should've looked harder!" Phantom shouted, cutting him off.

"We can't be everywhere at once!"

"Then do better!"

"We're human!" The admittance fell heavy across the battlefield of corpses. Red Robin inhaled deeply. "I'm sorry that your family is gone. I'm sorry that Danny's gone. But this? This isn't going to fix it."

"Maybe not," Phantom agreed, "But it sure does make me feel a hell of a lot better."

Bruce rubbed a hand down his face. "Just once," he mumbled, "I'd like someone in this family to not be a hero."

Tim continued typing in one window, narrowing the search, as he read an article in another. "Might be your lucky night, B. Because if Danny is Phantom, he didn't go the vigilante route. He went rogue."

DP x DC idea where Damian recognizes his brother, only its Dan on his way to bulldoze the world.

[onlinedolly]

SAVIOR COMPLEX

au where leon is a normal cop at raccoon city and you’re a pretty little thing he’s obsessed with ^___^

cw: stalking, kidnapping, drug use, dubcon, dry humping (?), hard language, dead dove do not eat, i think that’s it!

not proof read cuz i’m lazy lol

Leon, in his mind, was a good man.

He’d done a lot in his career, saved countless lives; so when he sees you he thinks it’s no different, not really. You were a young thing, pretty and too naive for your own good. Didn’t you know the world now? How cruel it could be? It made Leon sick to think about it, he’d only seen you once — pretty and smiling and all he could think was how the world was going to fuck you up eventually.

He began watching you then, like a good man does. Following you to your small apartment complex (on a side of town that put a sour taste in his mouth) every night, watching you from your window until you fell asleep, it was all precautionary really, he told himself. Had to make sure you were safe. That nothing bad would ever happen.

It’d been this way for a few weeks, maybe around a month or so until he witnessed the incident that really made his blood boil over. A man, taller and creepy, had been following you around the store for a while now, looking for his way in. Leon definitely couldn’t interject, not now, not when you didn’t know him, bound to just make the situation worse. So he watched, clenching the cart he had in his hand so tightly his knuckles turned white.

He almost interjected when he saw the man put his hand on your waist, watching as you cowered away as he grabbed something for you on a higher self. You poor, sweet thing, so naive and stupid. Leon decided then he had to do whatever it would take to help you. That’s what it was really, helping.

Leon was a good man.

-

It was harder than he originally thought taking you, you had a lively group of friends and supportive parents he would no doubt have to figure his way around. But, oh how the heavens must of listened to his prayers when he’d seen you (followed you for more than two hours) stumbling out of a bar drunk and alone.

It was divine timing really, Leon thought to himself. You were stumbling around to a back alley, fiddling with your phone in an attempt to order a ride share to pick you up, no doubt. How stupid were you really, Leon thought. Drunk and alone and ordering a car from a stranger to make sure you got home safe? You really truly knew no better, huh? What if you got hurt, kidnapped, assaulted?

Leon made it his mission all those weeks ago to protect you, help you at any cost, so when he sneaks up behind you placing the rag over your mouth until your body goes limp he’s simply doing it out of protection, out of love.

When he drags your limp body into his car, making sure no one saw, all he can think is how much better off you were in his arms. He was a cop after all, right?

Leon was a good man, he truly honestly believed that.

-

“You’re home now,” He’d explained when you came to in Leon’s apartment. You were scared, huddled in the corner of your pretty pink room ( which Leon had spent a lot of time on in decorating), and Leon really was trying his best to make you comfortable.

He sauntered over to you, and you couldn’t help but notice how he looked like he was a predator stalking his prey, leaning down and reaching his hand out to you in a kind gesture you hadn’t expected, “Let’s talk on the bed, why don’t we baby?” He spoke softly, kindly.

You were still frightened as hell, way too frightened to resist him, so with shaky fingers and sweaty palms you grasped his much bigger one and let him help you up. Leon moved you two to the bed, it was soft and had a pink floral bedspread, and sat closer to you than you wanted.

You had some strength, and you were confused and nervous, “Why?” stumbled out of your lips, hoarse and soft.

Leon nodded his head, “I knew you’d ask that, that’s okay—“ He leans up, brushes some hair off your forehead causing you to flinch, “— I wouldn’t expect you to understand at first, any how.” He spoke like he knew you, how long had he been watching you? Days? Months?

“I saved you.” He spoke matter of factly, it sent a chill down your spine. Saved you? From what?

“I-I don’t need saving,” You found courage to speak, still soft, still so hoarse, “I think you have the wrong p-person I-“

Leon’s jaw clinched as you cut yourself off. Of course you did, Leon’s not fucking stupid. Are you really so goddamn dumb to not realize how scary the world is? What it can do to sweet little things like you? But no, of course you didn’t know that, how could he expect you to? He pushed the rising anger down, Leon was a good man and really only got angry sometimes and he was going to control it if it meant making you like him. Getting you to love him.

“Pretty thing,” He spoke, moving closer to you so your knees knocked together, “I don’t expect you to understand.”

-

Despite everything, you just weren’t seeming to adjust to your new surroundings. Leon had saved you a little over a week ago, and despite trying to make you as comfortable as possible you still just seemed to want to leave.

After your first conversation Leon tried and tried to interact with you, form a relationship with you. He brought you three meals a day, each time watching you struggle to find a new way to escape. First it was the sealed window, the lock picking of the dead bolted doors, even trying to attack him like Leon can’t over power you in seconds. He couldn’t figure out why he couldn’t get you comfortable here.

Why couldn’t you see everything he was doing was for you? You can’t escape, not when the world is just going to eventually eat you up and leave you as broken as him. He was doing the right thing, keeping you here, why couldn’t you see that?

After another week of escape attempts and dry conversations over take out he had gotten you, you finally let up a bit. More open, more willing, the conversation was still dry but at least you weren’t trying to escape anymore.

“Sweet girl,” He spoke kindly,like he always did, as he entered with a tray of food. “I brought your food.” He entered the room, locking the various locks behind him as he sat on your bed. Leon had been nothing but kind in the past two weeks you’ve been here. It made you confused how someone who could so viciously take you was so kind hearted. You walked over to the bed, inspecting the food.

“You didn’t put anything in it, did you?” You asked, just like you always asked.

“Would that make you easier to manage, pretty thing?” He joked. It wasn’t funny, instead it made you feel sick how he could even joke about a topic like that. “No,” He reassured after seeing your fast twist up, “I didn’t put anything in it.” He leaned down, taking a bite of the food to show you it wasn’t contaminated, and only then did you feel safe enough to bring the fork to your lips.

Leon watched you eat for a few moments before speaking, “I was working today—“ He loved these stories, you thought, the ones that make the world seem bad. “— And we got a call. A guy shot his girlfriend. Can you believe that?” He moved to place his palm on your head, smiling at you bright and kind, “Thank god you’re here, right? Not with a sick bastard that could hurt you.”

You could almost laugh, did he not see who he was? A sick bastard in his own right, twisted and fucked up, just kind about it. You simply nodded, it was easier to give in, easier to please him. “Right.” You spoke softly.

-

It was another two weeks and you, embarrassingly so, had gotten more comfortable here. Sleep came more easy to you and Leon was slowly becoming a more comforting presence in your life.

He brought you food, just like always, telling you about his latest work story as you sipped your water. Unfortunately, the stories were starting to scare you, make your hair stand on end as he tells you about a man who murdered his family.

“Make sure to drink it all,” Leon dotes on you, tapping your glass with a big finger, “Need my pretty girl hydrated, hm?” You nod sweetly, just like you’ve been doing the past couple weeks and drink it all in three big gulps.

And okay, Leon was a good man!!! But he wasn’t always honest. He hadn’t been feeding you drugs, but that didn’t mean you weren’t taking them. He’d put them in your drink, mix them up until they were dissolved and make sure you drink it all. It wasn’t anything bad, what he gave you just made you a little sleepy and maybe a little more pliable to what he wanted from you. It didn’t hurt and he wouldn’t keep you out his stuff forever, just until you were ready to be weened off. When you were ready to love him back sober.

When your meal was done and he could tell you were feeling hazy, he leaned down like he always did and placed a soft kiss to your forehead mumbling what a good job you did for him. And you couldn’t help but admit how it made you feel, giddy and comforted.

Leon really wasn’t an awful guy, you caught yourself thinking as he exited the room. He fed you sufficiently, gave you the best clothes and softest towels to shower with, and he really wasn’t that terrible of company. Another 10 or so minutes passed and you were exhausted, falling into a slumber full of Leon.

-

You’d been here two months now, Leon kept you more drugged up than sober these days, but it made you so kind and needy. That’s right he said needy. A couple weeks ago your demeanor began to change, excitement filling you when he’d enter the room, telling him how much you’d missed him while away. He could get used to this.

He’d come to visit you before bed, you were in a pink pretty night gown with your hair in two messy braids when he’d came into the room.

“Leon,” You smiled softly at him, big doe eyes focused on the man by the door way.

“Hi sweetheart,” He spoke, locking the door and walking over to your bed to sit next to you, “Have a fun day, hm?” He pet your hair, giddy in the way that you lean into it.

“Had a good day, watched movies.” Ah yeah, Leon had gotten you a small box tv and some dvds from a resale shop, he was glad you were enjoying those.

“Good, good girl,” He spoke, not missing the way you purred hazily at the nickname, “Little girls deserve to have fun, yeah?”

You nodded at him happily, leaning more into his touch. You’d been such a good girl these past couple weeks, he pressed a kiss to your cheek and he felt how warm you got underneath his touch.

You were so affectionate tonight, would he test the waters more? See what else he could get away with?

“Baby, could we do something different tonight?”

“Different…how?” You spoke softly, flinching a little out of fear. Ah, he expected that to still be there. The thought of something new in this situation was bound to be scary.

“You’ll enjoy yourself angel,” He promised, pressing another sweet kiss to your cheek. He moved so he was laid on the bed next to you, sitting up with his head against the headboard. “Why don’t you give me a kiss first, hm?”

Leon had gotten you to kiss him a couple days prior, you’d been so nervous and fumbling when he’d held your head with his big hands explaining that he deserved a kiss for everything he’d done for you. He was too mean to be the one to kiss you first, waiting for you to stand on you tippy toes and place your lips against his. After a few minutes he’d grown impatient until you did just that, a small peck and turned into a heated session that had you panting into his mouth.

And now you loved kissing him, all hazy and dumb as you would beg him for goodbye kisses everytime he left you. So asking you for a kiss now was nothing out of the ordinary, and it wasnt out of the ordinary for you to climb into his lap and kiss him sloppily and sweet just like you were doing now.

And Leon *loved* it, the patience, the drugging, the kind sweet words was all worth it to lead to moments like this. With you licking at his bottom lip messily until he opened up to shove his tongue down your throat.

He was so happy it wasn’t some punk ass guy doing this to you, a man you didn’t deserve. It had to be him, he was everything you needed. He tested the waters, moving his hands to grip at your waist, he felt you jump beneath him, flinching at the new action. He pulled away smiling at you kindly,

“I told you something new, baby. You gotta trust me,” He gripped your hips tighter, feeling how you shook under him. It was exhilarating having you like this, inexperienced and scared under his touch.

“L-Leon,” You stuttered out, readjusting in his hold, making him groan out softly.

“Be patient, sweet thing.” He demanded, moving you around his lap, releasing another low groan from him.

You could feel something hard under you, hard and big. You gasp, trying to lift yourself off of him and he pushes you back down. “We’re gunna have s’much fun together, ain’t we sweet thing?” He slurred out until he found a good position for you to be in. Leaning his head against the headboard. “Gunna move your hips yeah? Be real weird at first, ‘kay baby? But I’ll make you feel real good sweet girl.” He spoke, leaning up to kiss the shell of your ear.

You’d gotten to the point where it was hard to refuse him, out of fear? Maybe. Or maybe it was something more. So you just nod eagerly, overwhelmed tears filling up your eyes as you wait for his instruction or his motion.

He begins rocking your hips against what you assume is his cock, you gasp softly, the feeling new and foreign to you.

Leon lets out a deep groan, he was loving this. He couldn’t believe he was here with you like this, rocking against his cock. He grips your hips harder, picking up the pace as your clothes cunt rubs against his cock. “God, aren’t you glad I took you, hm?” He’s rambling as you gasp and whine and cry under his hold, “If you’d done this with anyone else baby, I would’ve had to kill them, yeah? Aren’t you glad I rescued you.”

“Y-yeah,” You whine out, over come with this new feeling. The only things separating your cunt and his hard cock was your think panties and his rough pajama pants that rubbed deliciously against your pussy. You’re crying, overwhelmed by the feeling, lashes wet and tears dripping onto Leon’s cheeks (not that he gave a fuck), you move your hands up, shakily wiping the wet from his face as he moves you all at a fast pace.

“Enjoying yourself little girl? Yeah?”

“Uh-huh,” You hiccup, hazy and high, “T-thank you..” You whisper out.

“Dirty thing,” He groans out, moving you faster against his cock. He could only imagine what it’d be like to finally sink himself inside of you. He knows for a fact how wet you’d be, how he’d have to work you on his fingers before you take his big dick. The thought could make him cum in his pants.

“L-Leon I feel funny I…” You trail off, gripping his shirt in your smaller hands. He was so muscular it was almost breath taking.

“Yeah sweet girl I bet you do,” He laughed softly, trailing one of his hands down to press against your panty clad clit. You yelped softly, letting out multiple soft moans at the new sensation.

Your body was on fire, lit from the inside out as you gave up and indulged yourself in this new feeling. Your cunt was soaked leaving a dark stain on Leon’s pajamas as he roughly rocked you back and forth.

“God, fuck you’re such a good girl,” Leon grunts out, he was close, with the dry humping and the thoughts of fucking your sloppy cunt until you couldn’t think no more, he was ready to fucking explode. after a few more minutes he’s soaking himself, his pajamas a dark stained mess as he cums all over himself and your pretty panties. He makes a noise that’s almost like a growl as he grips your hip in a bruising hold.

You yelp out at the pain as he is circling your clit in a rough fast pace, you felt like you had to pee, the build up inside of you getting stronger and stronger as he mumbles sweet praises and tells you how he saved you over and over again, rubbing your clit in fast circles.

Finally the coil inside of you snaps as you yell out, a sobbing mess as you twitch and convulse and rut yourself against his big hand. Leon could cum again almost looking at you fuck your wet cunt against his hand.

You were overwhelmed but you couldn’t stop, you were shaking and sobbing at this point as you fuck yourself fast and hard against his hand.

“Baby let’s stop, yeah?” He spoke, pressing his hands on your tummy and back and slowing you to a stop, kissing you on your cheek as he stares at your blissed out face.

Leon Kennedy was a good man, Leon was your savior.

[catsukkii]

shoto has a staring problem.

dating shoto was…an experience. you were his first everything and you had to teach him a lot about relationships, not that you minded, sometimes he would just do odd things in your relationship.

one of those things, was he would constantly just stare at you. it was cute sometimes, but other times it was downright creepy the way he’d make eye contact all the time. Even when you’d shy away from his gaze, everytime you would look back he was right there with those damn eyes.

it was honestly starting to creep you out. what was his obsession?

once again, you were sitting at a nice little coffee shop, the environment was cozy and it was raining outside; how much more romantic could it get?

apparently not romantic at all.

“shoto…” you sigh as he stares into your soul again, “what is up with you and staring at me?” it seems he snaps out of his daze and looks at you, confusion evident on his face.

“what?” he questions quirking a brow. “It’s just..your always staring into my soul y’know? It’s a little creepy sho.” his mouth slightly parts and he nods in understanding.

“oh, I’m sorry. I thought that’s what people did in relationships? hold eye contact?” you furrow ur brows, eyes narrowing in confusion at him. where the hell did he here that?

“sho…who told you that?” at this point you have a borderline concerned expression on your face, he averts his gaze sheepishly, flustered and embarrassed by his upcoming answer.

“well…before we were dating..” he sighs and his face scrunches at the thought of admitting this to you outloud. “I made a tiktok, a secret one.” you’re nodding along, but this did catch you off guard considering shoto never used social media, especially tiktok.

“I obviously found your account and went through your…reposts.” you cut off his brief explanation with confusion. “okay but—wait wait, what does this have to do with your staring problem?” you express your point with your hands, moving them from your face to infront of you in an outwards confused motion.

“well…you reposted a video, and it said something like..” he pauses to think for a moment, recalling what the video said. “oh yeah, ‘when he holds eye contact’. so I’ve been trying to do it to impress you but..I suppose it backfired.” he cleared his throat and sheepishly avoiding your eyes, now because of embarrassment.

but this made your confused face turn into a fit of giggles, “aw sho, it’s cute to hold eye contact but not all the time and you’re also supposed to blink, silly.” he awkwardly laughs along with you, he’s slowly realizing how creepy he probably came off..he just wanted to impress you!

“yeah..I apologize.” he places his elbows on the wooden table and places his head in his hands in shame, you’re still giggling over the whole situation. “and I do mean to blink..I just get distracted by you and your voice.” he mumbles into his hands, causing your cheeks to flush and your heart to swell even harder.

“awww…you’re so sweet sho!” you laughter continues, you reach over the table and pull his hands away from his face to give him a sweet peck to the lips; which he quickly reciprocated.

you loved your emotionally constipated boyfriend with a staring problem.

a/n; had to post smth so have this draft while I suffer w dpdr !!

[soobnny]

it takes two — hyunjin x reader ; comfort fic where he helps you shower due to ur inability to after you’d accidentally wounded yourself (1.1k words)

prompt is very specific but i hope u enjoy

You’re starting to get annoyed.

The gash on the palm of your dominant hand has been keeping you idle. You stare at it with bitter eyes, and while hard to admit, there is self-awareness that you’d done this to yourself.

Had you listened to Hyunjin, this wouldn’t have happened in the first place, but no. You just had to think that cooking at midnight would be a good idea.

It’s a hard pill to swallow. Your best friend was right, you shouldn’t have done it, but you do not want to live in a world where Hwang Hyunjin is right. The ringing of his “I told you so’s” is already echoing in your ears, just like they’d done before, and just like they will in the following years.

But, right now, you’re really starting to get annoyed.

It’s your second fruitless attempt at a shower, but no matter how hard you try, the sting on your hand is too painful to bypass.

The bathroom tiles are tauntingly cold against your feet, and there’s frustration squeezing at your sternum and clenching your chest.

You feel like crying.

It’s how Hyunjin finds you half an hour later, still fully clothed, knees pressed to your chest and face twisted in a sob. Forgetfulness is a feat you’d always had (Hyunjin always had to set up reminders on your phone so you’d remember), and you were too upset at not being able to do anything to recall that your best friend was coming over.

“Hey, hey, why are you crying? What’s wrong?” There’s a prominent furrow to his brows as he rushes to sit beside you, voice laced with concern, yet soft enough to not startle you. He knows it’ll only make you cry more.

“I know I should’ve listened to you. I know.” Your voice wavers. “But I just want to shower. I haven’t been able to do anything today because of this stupid wound, and I just… I just want to shower.”

Hyunjin scoots towards you, taking your hand in his. He’s careful not to touch your scar, and your face twitches at the sight. “Have you cleaned it? Does it hurt a lot?”

You nod, bowing your head to press against your knees so you won’t have to look at him. You prepare yourself to be scolded, but it never comes. Instead, he finds a way to pick you up. You’re overwhelmed by his sudden scent.

“What are you doing?” You say through sniffles and quivering teeth.

“Are you okay with your clothes being wet?”

“What?”

He sucks in a breath. “I’ll wash your hair for you.”

At his words, you only weep harder. Hyunjin’s never been the type to do anything remotely close to this. Disdain has always dripped down his tongue when his friends would ask him to do anything that involved levels of intimacy, but here he was.

That usual disdain is absent.

“Hey, stop crying.” He whispers, lips fighting a frown at the sight of your droopy nose and your red, puffed out eyes. “Please.”

He carefully sits you in your bathtub, circling around your bathroom so he can collect the things he’d be needing. It doesn’t take a minute before he’s squatting right in front of you. “Is this okay?”

You can only nod.

Hyunjin starts running your bath, making sure your injured hand is out of contact with the water. “Just keep it out here for now, okay? Just so it doesn’t sting. I’ll clean it again after I wash your hair.”

He’s gentle with you as he wets your hair, fingers threading through the strands. He does this for a while until he’s smoothened it out. He knows how much it can hurt when it tangles.

You hear the sound of a bottle uncapping, and then his hands are back on your scalp, massaging the shampoo into your hair. It feels nice—contrasting to the frustration you’d felt earlier. You’ve almost forgotten why you were so upset. You can only feel his fingers through your hair and the comfort that is distinguishably the presence of your best friend.

“Does that feel better?” Hyunjin asks, eyes soft as he looks at you. His fingers don’t stop digging into your scalp, but it seems that everything else in the room stops when he looks at you like this, when there’s nothing else to hear but your heartbeat and the water running.

There’s a twist in your stomach that had been in your chest earlier. You don’t know what it is.

“Better.” You mumble, and there’s a faint smile on his lips when he hears you.

When enough time passes, he uses your dipper to rinse the foam from your hair. It feels vulnerable, sitting in your bathtub while Hyunjin washes your hair. You’ve never done this before, and there is warmth sitting where shame should be.

You never feel embarrassed around him.

Similarly, Hyunjin faces his own dilemma. He didn’t think about it when he made the offer. All he knew was that his own heart felt like breaking when he saw you crying, and he’d do anything to alleviate your pain. It came over instinctively, like it was the right thing to do.

Ah, my feelings are a lot more than I thought, he thinks.

It was inevitable. It had grown little by little. A smile here, a laugh there. He just never thought he would willingly give up his indifference for the touch of someone else so easily. But it was you, and it will always be you. You are the first introduction of what craving feels like. Every small touch from you is electrifying, and Hyunjin feels himself allowing more room for intimacy as long as it was you.

“I’m gonna wash your face now, okay?” Smooth hands cup your cheeks, moving your head from side to side so he can spread the cleanser evenly on your face. He mirrors the way he applies it on himself, fingers moving in circles and rubbing as gently as possible. “Close your eyes.”

He’s a lot closer now, and Hyunjin feels his breath hitch as he rinses the foam from your face.

“This might hurt a little, okay?”

He dips a cloth into some water, taking your hand and letting it rest on his palm before dabbing it on your hand. You wince at the contact, the sting is as sharp as you remember it being, but the contrast in which Hyunjin treats it dulls the pain a little. While his hands are firm, there’s a softness to his touch that you can’t quite explain.

Your pupils blow up when he meets your eyes. “How are you feeling now?” He asks.

You know it’s over, but you want to stay in the water a little longer.

“Thank you.” It’s not the appropriate response, but it says everything it needs to. There is still that unidentifiable feeling at the pit of your stomach.

He can only smile. His brain hates to bear witness to the romance that’s playing in his head.

So, he lets his heart beat instead.

[zara-renata]

Before you came, things were as they should be | ao3 | masterlist

Summary: You spend a lot of time wrestling with questions of morality, there's more poetry because the author has no self control, you may or may not burn out Mephisto's eye optics with your antics trying to provoke Sylus, Noah and the twins drag you to the club.

Notes: Sylus x gn reader, Sylus x mc, second person POV This story contains: profanity, alcohol use, mc with self esteem issues, nudity

This is how it goes.

You watch Sylus as he moves around the kitchen, the dark marble counters gleaming in the soft light, the fire crackling in the huge fireplace, his fortress a yacht in a sea of desolation.

His hands are strong, sure, as they slice vegetables, as they slice meat, as they flip colorful medleys of ingredients in the carbon steel wok.

He leans over the corner of the island, where you’re perched on one of the black leather barstools, offering you his pinky dripping with sauce. “Taste.”

You watch him as you lean forward, wrap your lips around his finger, let your tongue run along his skin, obeying him and tasting the sauce. When you’ve sucked it clean, you continue watching him, the sweep of his soft white hair, the flush in his pale cheeks, his eyes on your lips, your lips wrapped around his finger.

You’ve been focusing on all the wrong things. You’ve been paying attention to all the wrong things.

Sylus has all but admitted that you are his beloved. That you are the one he adores, the one he has been trying to win over. You would be mad about his manipulation, if you didn’t also recognize that you wouldn’t have believed him, three days ago, that you are who he wants to convince of the sincerity of his intentions. You wonder if Sylus’s evol can manipulate time—every second here in his home feels like the equivalent of a year in the outside world. You wonder if the changes you feel in yourself, the changes in the way you’re looking at him, are a result of time being sped up somehow without you realizing it. 

You’ve been so wrapped up in your pain, in your fear, that you’ve let your fear of the end, your fear of rejection, your guilt, your unworthiness—you’ve let all these things distract you. It’s easy to wallow. It’s much, much harder to open your eyes and look.

You should have died when Caleb died.

You probably should have died before your memories begin—who knows what caused you to lose your childhood? What accident led to you being taken in by your grandmother’s lab, your heart fodder for experimentation, because you shouldn’t have lived anyway?

Expendable. Your whole life, expendable—your mangled heart the byproduct of that expendability—and yet Caleb is the one who is dead.

But you didn’t die. You didn’t die in whatever calamity took your parents. And if they weren’t killed, then you didn’t die when your parents abandoned you—what do you know? You know only fear, guilt, a lack of memory, and now—with Sylus playing records for you, playing the piano for you, providing you with poetry in his library—now you’re full of, if not memory, then familiarity. What do you know? 

Nothing. Too much. Not enough.

You watch Sylus. You want to see him, without fear, without awe, without judgment. He said he’d give you time. You weren’t ready to acknowledge that you are who he wants, despite the mounting evidence that he has never lied to you. But he also hasn’t told you the whole truth, has he? Sylus, the master of the fine print.

The question is: if you are Sylus’s beloved, why?

And if you are Sylus’s beloved, what are you willing to accept in order to return his feelings?

You think of the executioners singing their joyful songs.

The refugees going nowhere.

The ships whose fate is salty oblivion.

You watch Sylus, whose lovely finger slips from between your lips. You watch his big hands, and think of them letting blood diamonds carelessly clatter to the floor as so much of the world starves.

What does it mean to love a man like Sylus Qin? What does it make you, if you want to be loved by a man like Sylus Qin?

You watch him as he pops his finger into his own mouth, despite it being clean from your tongue. His nostrils flair. “The verdict?” he asks.

“It’s good. Not too salty. Nice umami,” you murmur, honestly. Sylus is a good cook. You wonder where his chef is. Why you haven’t seen any other staff that he has to have in order to maintain a house of this size in the clean, meticulously kept state that it’s currently in. Not like when you first met him, with dust coating everything.

“Oh, nice umami, huh?” he teases you.

“You’re not the only one who can say pretentious shit.” You lean over the counter, stretching your body, resting your cheek on the cool marble. You watch him watching you, his eyes tracking your chest, your waist, before they slide back up to meet your eyes.

You don’t feel worthy of his eyes on you. This feeling is compounded by the fact that this man is opposed to everything you’ve spent your career working to fight. You aren’t worthy of the man and wanting the man, makes you more unworthy still.

What would Caleb say, if he saw you with Sylus’s fingers in your mouth? His wealth wrested from the hands of the dead, clothing your body, filling your belly, soothing your tired, hurting soul?

But Caleb’s dead too. He doesn’t have anything to say at all, anymore.

“A penny for your thoughts,” Sylus says, watching you watching him. He must see something in the expression of your face.

“Only a penny? Why are the rich the stingiest fuckers of all?” you ask without heat.

“I don’t know the value of your thoughts. What if I offer my heart in payment, only to find out that you’re thinking about indigestion, or the latest plot twist in Super Hunters?” he asks, turning away, spooning fluffy, fragrant rice into a pretty little black bowl, heaping the stir fried meat and vegetables, with the delicious sauce, over the rice.

“I would hope that even my most inane thoughts are worth more than a penny to a person who properly values me,” you say, taking the bowl and the chopsticks he offers you. You say this, while not believing it. You don’t dare hope for the knowledge of your indigestion to be of value to anyone but yourself. But for the people you care about—you would want to get Xavier Tums if he had a stomachache. Get Tara a hangover remedy if she’s too hungover to move. Make Rafayel a snack while he whines melodramatically on the couch in his studio after having been so wrapped up in completing a painting that he forgot to eat.

Sylus pours sake into little cups, slides one over to you before turning and plating food for himself. “Ah, kitten is in a contemplative, belligerent mood tonight. How about I offer you a tour of my favorite part of the greenhouse in exchange for your current thoughts?” he asks serenely, joining you at the counter. 

“You already promised me that,” you say, just to vex him.

“Driving a hard bargain tonight, darling.” He sips the sake, closes his eyes, savors. “What can I do to cheer you up?”

“Just tolerate me when I’m like this,” you say honestly. It’s not his fault that he is who he is. That his wealth, his manner of approaching the world, his appreciation of the mutilated world poses such a conundrum for you. You suspect that he has his reasons for doing what he does, for how he does it. You think of the sense of loss you felt hearing The long and winding road. The piano piece he composed. The sense of familiarity that his touch brings when his fingers are gliding along your skin.

You wonder again what he was like as a little boy. What he must have survived to be this bored, cynical, cruel man.

You already feel unworthy of the good things in life. Of the accolades of being a successful hunter. Of having lived, when Caleb died. It’s not Sylus’s fault that you look at everything he has to offer and wonder what you will have to sacrifice in order to fully accept him. You're unworthy, and ungrateful.

As you watch him watching you, as you revel in the glow of his eyes, the uneven slope of his nose, his big lovely mouth—but more importantly, the softness in his gaze as he watches you watching him—you already know how it ends.

This is how it goes.

You sleep the sleep of the dead. One of the things you cruelly, unfairly, envy Caleb for. Because he’s at peace. He’s not hurting anymore. All the sorrows and cruelty of surviving in this world are behind him. Or they had better be. You can’t bear to believe in a universe cruel enough that even the dead know no peace.

You sleep the sleep of the dead. Sylus provides this for you, most nights. Wrapped in his arms. Underneath him. Spooning his big body, your arm thrown over his waist, when you wake in the middle of the night and find that he's too far away. You fall back asleep almost instantly.

As the days pass, as Sylus follows you like a shadow, and the nights which are actually days slip by without another night terror, without the endless hallways of your gran’s house, without falling to your death, you feel that you’re steadily growing stronger. Rested. Your broken pieces knitting back together, if a little jaggedly.

You know that there are some wounds that will never heal.

Your guilt that Caleb died, while you survived. Your jealousy that Caleb died, while you have to live. Your jagged pieces still rub against each other unpleasantly at times, even as you physically heal. But you feel more alert. Physically, you are stronger than you’ve been in months.

You’ve only been here a week, but already you feel like you’ve been gone from your normal life for months, years.

Your feet heal. Whatever balm Sylus rubs along your soles each night must contain something priceless with how quickly your skin knits back together.

You try to give Sylus space. You don’t want him to tire of you too quickly, after all.

Every time he gets a phone call, you leave the room. You wander to other parts of the house. Mephisto follows you each time. And each time, Sylus finds you again. No matter what you’re doing, he joins you. In the theater room, starting a film that you plucked from his collection. He stretches out on the couch, pulls you alongside him, spoons you from behind. The film is in black and white, and it takes its time telling the story. You don’t mean to, but you fall asleep. He’s there when you wake up.

One time, you drift to the gym and find the twins in the boxing ring, pummeling the shit out of each other. You have a feeling the twins chose the decor in the gym, because it looks like a video game streamer’s ideal setup in terms of lighting. The twins are shirtless, well-muscled torsos slick with sweat reflecting the LED lighting ringing the edges of the ceiling which changes colors every few minutes, a constantly morphing rainbow. Screens line the walls showing various athletic competitions as well as video game tournaments. 

You turn and find Noah on a stair stepper facing the boxing ring. She’s sweating, her braids pulled back and up and held in place with a wide colorful cloth headband.

“Wanna join? Are your feet up for it?” she asks, eyes flicking between you and the twins. Kieran lands a punch to Luke’s stomach that has him doubling over, laughing breathlessly.

“Nice,” he pants, before wrapping his arms around Kieran’s torso and ramming him into the ropes. Kieran shoves him to the mat, and they wrestle for a while, grunting and laughing. They sound like they’re having the time of their lives.

“My feet may be, but not the rest of me. How are you not bored out of your mind on that thing?” you ask her. You’ve always hated cardio machines like the stair stepper, the treadmill, the elliptical. You’d rather run outside, Caleb at your side. Or lift weights, loud music and the strain on your muscles distractions from the monotony of the workout.

“Knowing my fine ass is only getting finer keeps me going,” she grins at you. She glances back at the twins. “The view isn’t awful, either. Not that I’d tell them that again though.”

“Oh?” 

“Luke’s ace, and I don’t wanna creep him out.”

You stare at her.

“Don’t look at me like that. I’m a car thief, not a creep. I'm appreciating art now, nothing else.”

“I didn’t say anything,” you laugh. You watch Kieran and Luke for a while longer when a thought occurs to you. “Will you tell me now what you meant by not doing Sylus’s work for him?”

“Oh, yeah, I guess it doesn’t matter if you know now.” She pants a little, adjusts the speed of the stair stepper. “I’m not Sylus’s driver. Can you imagine that man letting anyone else drive his big ass around?”

The way she worded that sentence makes you imagine a driver just carting Sylus’s ass, and only his ass, around in a wagon. It could use its own zip code, so you don’t think the imagery is that absurd but you still have to stifle a laugh. “Not really, no. I can’t see him trusting someone enough to do the job as well as he thinks he can,” you say drily.

“Yeah, exactly.”

You gaze up at her. “So?” You prompt, when it’s clear that she’s gotten a little distracted by Kieran downing a water bottle, the water spilling over his mouth and down his broad chest and splattering onto the sweaty mat.

She looks back at you, not looking at all ashamed at being caught gawking. “You’re supposed to be a detective or some shit. So detect. Who do you think I’m supposed to be driving around?”

You think back to the argument she and Luke had while you were having a mounting anxiety attack about the bet. On standby in case the hunter wants to go anywhere.

“Sylus hired you to drive me around?” you ask, stunned.

“Ding ding ding, there’s hope for you yet.” She rolls her eyes. 

“When?” you ask, trying to wrap your mind around this fact. Sylus only ever came to your place, before the night he asked you to Amnesia. You’re perfectly capable of driving yourself anywhere, on either two or four wheels. Why would he think you need a driver?

“The other night at Amnesia.”

“So he had just hired you when I saw you for the first time?”

She nods serenely, back to looking at the twins. 

“But why?”

“I’m just the driver, ask your scary boyfriend,” she says distractedly.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” you protest. 

She looks down at you incredulously. “Does he know that?”

“What?”

“The way that man carries you around like a damned koala is not friendly. It’s boyfriendly. Or like, obsessively. Also, he hired me and hasn’t made me do anything at all. I am getting paid more than I ever have in my life, I have paid holiday, insurance, holiday bonuses, and all he asks is that I’m available anytime you need a ride or a getaway driver. Would the scary-ass motherfucking leader of Onychinus do that for just anyone?”

You just gawk at her. 

At the look on your face, she snorts. “That poor bastard must have the worst case of blue balls in the history of men who love clueless idiots. Truly, the duality of man. Sinister overlord of the N109 Zone on the one hand, a helpless simp on the other.”

“Okay, okay, no need to call anyone names,” you mumble, reeling from this information. Why Sylus thinks you would trust anyone to drive your ass around any more than he would allow anyone to drive him around is beyond you. But the thought is so fucking sweet, even if you don’t understand what he’s thinking at all.

After a few minutes of sitting with Noah in companionable silence, Sylus finds you in the gym. He nods to Noah and opens his arms. “Come, I’m hungry.” You stare at him for a moment, thinking about what Noah just told you.

You have no idea how long I’ve already waited.

But why won’t he kiss you? What if Noah is wrong too?

You walk into his arms, let him lift you and carry you out of the gym. Noah mouths Boyfriend at you as you meet her amused look over Sylus’s broad shoulder.

This is how it goes.

Another day, after yet another phone call, you wander back to the library, pull out more poetry. You stare at the twisting wrought-iron staircase. He told you to explore, didn’t he?

Before you take the first step, you test a theory. “Fire,” you order, and the fireplace roars to life. You stare into the flames. The house recognizes your face. It recognizes your voice. Mephisto watches you from a perch in the corner of the library, ruby eyes glittering. You watch him in return. You think about Sylus watching you through all those long weeks after he released you from his home after the auction, through Mephisto, through the twins. What did he see when he looked at you? The dark circles under your eyes. Your clumsiness in battle from the endless insomnia, the injuries. Your solitude, even when surrounded by people. What do you have to offer such a man? Why was he looking then, and why is he looking now?

You approach Mephisto, clutching the book in one hand. “May I?” you ask. He caws softly, a terrible little sound. You run your hand along the soft feathers along his back and he lets you. 

You step back, and he tilts his head.

The library is warm. Warmer than the rest of the cold hallways. It wasn’t this warm when Sylus first showed you the space. 

You stare at Mephisto, who stares at you in return. Sylus will use him to find out where you are, when he’s done with his phone call. As he found you in the pool.

He licked cinnamon and sugar from the side of your mouth. He bit your lip. He pushed your hand away when you touched the tie of his pants. His body responds to you, but he does not acknowledge it.

If you’re his beloved, what is stopping him, when you can’t hide your emotions from him at all? Surely he can see the want all over you when he’s near.

You think about his hands, soaked in blood. Blood diamonds clinking on a cold marble floor. His signature bombs bringing down buildings while people are inside, the collateral damage a price he’s willing to pay with other peoples’ lives.

You reach down with one hand, clumsily lift the hem of your sweater, pull it over your head. You’re wearing a tight tank top underneath.

You turn, set the book on a table in the soft pool of light from one of the colorful stained glass lamps. You shimmy out of your sweat pants. You place your sweater and your pants on the table, neatly. You turn and face Mephisto again, watch him watching you, as you stand in your underwear in the warmth of the library.

After a moment, you turn again, and softly pad up the winding wrought-iron staircase.

At the top, it’s warm. Heat rises. It’s a sort of crow’s nest, a lighthouse, a lookout. Windows in a three-hundred-sixty-degree circle, a pinnacle of Sylus’s home. You see the greenhouse sprawling into the distance below. The barren N109 Zone wasteland in one direction, its cityscape in the other. Lining the little circular room under the windows is a soft bench seat, almost all the way around. Pillows and blankets. This is a reading room at the top of the world. You can breathe. The red moon is waning, less full than when you first arrived, but its light still fills the room, blankets everything in softly sinister light. The flap of Mephisto’s wings alert you to the fact that he has followed as you knew he would. You watch him for a moment, wondering if Sylus is looking yet, and then stretch out on your stomach along the curving window seat, resting on your elbows, your legs bent and crossed at the ankles in the air. You begin to read.

You lose yourself in the poetry.

After a while—it could be a few minutes, it could be hours, time feels like it has no meaning here after all—Mephisto flutters his wings and suddenly a swirl of scarlet and ink flows up the stairs and winds around your ankles, cuffing them together. The mist flows under your elbows and stomach, and you’re gently lifted until the tendrils solidify underneath you. Where before you were leisurely reading on your stomach, now you’re draped across Sylus’s lap and he has both of your ankles in one big hand.

You just drop your head onto your open book and laugh a little helplessly.

“Well, are you going to read to me or just continue to laugh?” Sylus asks, as if him appearing underneath you is perfectly normal and requires no further comment.

“And if I’m just going to keep laughing at your theatrics?” you tease him.

He rests one big hand on the back of your naked thigh, runs his palm up, up, until it rests just under your ass. “I don’t mind this position at all. Keep laughing, see what happens.”

You laugh again, and wiggle on his lap. “Empty threats,” you taunt him. He grunts, softly, and then squeezes your thigh almost to the point of pain, in what seems to be an attempt to get you to stop moving.

Your heart sinks a little. He doesn’t want this flirtation from you. You all but invited him to slap your ass, to do something. Noah is wrong. Maybe his idea of a beloved is someone on a pedestal, whom he simply wants to admire like an interesting accessory, a collectible that he never takes out of the box. What the fuck do you know?

You give up. 

“Do you want me to read to you?” you ask, trying to crane your neck so you can look back into his face.

“Don’t strain yourself,” he scolds you, lifting you with his evol. You’re weightless, suspended before him, before you’re gently turned, spun from your stomach until you’re floating on your back. His evol sets you down again, this time with your head in his lap, and you can look up into his face comfortably. He graces you with a slight smile, one corner of his mouth lifted. “And yes. Read to me.”

You watch him, watching you. He makes no comment about the fact that you’ve taken off half your clothes. You wonder what he sees when he looks at you.

You think of how warm his lap is underneath you. How he now rests one of his hands on your bare thigh, caresses it with a calloused thumb.

You think about his trigger finger along your skin, and wonder how many people he’s killed with it.

What kind of person does it make you, that you want his hand with its calloused thumb and trigger finger to drift up, up, to where your thighs meet, and have them live there. Despite all evidence pointing to the fact that he does not want to touch you in that way.

You think about Noah saying that Luke is asexual. You wonder if Sylus is too. If he cares for you, but will never be interested in physical intimacy, can you live with that?

And how do you return to your job hunting men like him, with the memory of his hands on your skin?

What would Caleb say if he saw you now, spread out along this most wanted criminal’s lap, yearning for more of his hands, for his mouth, for his everything?

You begin to read.

Before you came, things were as they should be: the sky was the dead-end of sight, the road was just a road, wine merely wine. 

You stop. You have never read Faiz before. You wonder what the original language sounds like to a native speaker, if it’s different from the translation you’re now reciting. The translation itself is gorgeous in its simplicity.

This time, Sylus doesn’t tease. He doesn’t rush you. He just watches you as you read, as you pause, as you let the words soak into your skin.

You continue, Now everything is like my heart, a color at the edge of blood: the grey of your absence, the color of poison, of thorns, the gold when we meet, the season ablaze, the yellow of autumn, the red of flowers, of flames, and the black when you cover the earth with the coal of dead fires.… You have to stop again. You’ve never read this poem before. It’s not familiar to you in a way that the Zagajewsky collection was. But this poem speaks to you in a way that all good poetry does—describing a universal experience in ways that render the experience new to you again. You continue for a few more lines— And the sky, the road, the glass of wine? The sky is a shirt wet with tears, the road a vein about to break, and the glass of wine a mirror in which the sky, the road, the world keep changing.

The more you read, the more your heart hurts. Sylus seems to sense your distress. He begins to caress your hair.

Don't leave now that you're here — Stay. So the world may become like itself again: so the sky may be the sky, the road a road, and the glass of wine not a mirror, just a glass of wine.

“The end,” you whisper. You set the book down on your chest and just stare up into Sylus’s face.

“Are you a fan of Faiz?” he asks, still caressing your hair. You turn your face into his stomach and breathe in the scent of his warm skin, the softness of his sweater.

“I had never even heard of him until I found his book on your shelf today.”

“Do you like what you’ve read so far?”

You think about what a vein feels like when it’s about to break—you know that feeling all too well. You think about what it feels like when Sylus is not in the same room with you, not touching you with his blood-soaked hands. You think about how, no matter how this ends, you’ll never be able to drink another glass of wine without seeing him, the sky with the blood moon looming, the road littered with corpses that leads to and away from him, in its reflection.

“I do, very much.”

He just smiles down at you, faintly, watching you watching him.

“And you? Is this one you’ve read, or one for the future?”

“One of my favorites.”

“What other poems from him do you like? I can read them to you.”

Instead of agreeing like you expect, he turns his head, gazes through the windows with the night spilling into this crow’s nest at the top of the world. He squints, continues to run his hands along your hair, the curve of your cheek, and starts to recite in his low, soft voice.

When whatever you want to do cannot be done,

When nothing is of any use;

—At this hour when night comes down,

When night comes, dragging its long face,

dressed in mourning...

He shifts his gaze, looks down into your face,

Be with me,

My tormenter, my love, be near me.

He grows quiet, but his fingers still drift along your skin. “I have them memorized. You can ask me to recite them for you in the future, if you’d like.”

“I'd like that," you whisper. Clear your throat. "Is that the whole poem?" you ask.

He shakes his head a little. "No, just the last few lines."

"More surprises from the boogeyman of the N109 Zone,” you say, instead of surging up and kissing him, sucking his poetry-soaked tongue into your mouth, feasting on him, your tormenter, your—

He ignores your taunt, and probably the look of naked want all over your face. “I’m pleased, though not surprised that you like his work.” He smirks a little, as if daring you to ask why he’s not surprised.

Kindred spirits.

You don’t need to ask. 

“Did your phone call end okay?” you ask instead.

“Yes.” He doesn’t elaborate.  “Did we get bored with our clothes, kitten?” he asks instead, eyes drifting from your face to your chest, your bare legs.

“It was warm in here,” you say, watching, watching. “Problem?”

His eyes flick back to your face. He runs his fingers up, just as you had imagined, but right as they reach the edge of your underwear, they reverse direction, drift down again.

If you are his beloved, why won’t he take what you are clearly offering? He has already taken so much without asking, without permission. You are still here. You can’t bring yourself to take from him first—or to offer first, any more obviously than this. What if you’re wrong?

“No,” he says, simply.

 You stare into his eyes, and he stares back. You want him. You want more than his hands on your skin. More than his eyes on you. More than his voice in your ears. You want to be inside him. You want him inside you. You remember a kiss that never happened, and you can taste it. Your mouth waters.

He leans down, his soft hair falling over his forehead, and you resist the urge to lean up, to meet him. “Do you want to keep reading?” he asks.

You shake your head.

He leans down even further, his big body curved over you, his breath warm—coffee and toothpaste. “What, then?”

Kiss me. Swallow me. Don’t turn me away.

“Your favorite part of the greenhouse,” you say, arching your back, suppressing a whine of irritation that he’s so close, that he’s asking you want you to do, instead of doing what you’re clearly asking him to do.

“Still not ready to go out?” he murmurs, slipping a hand underneath the arch of your back, big palm splayed over and across your spine, pulling you up. The movement brings your face up, up, and he runs his nose against yours.

“Why? Getting bored?” Your heart stutters at the thought. Not yet. He can’t be bored yet. You haven’t had enough. Not nearly enough.

“Far from it.” With his hand on your back, he straightens, pulling you with him, against his chest, until you’re drawn into his lap, until his other hand slides up the back of your thigh, holds you right under one ass cheek. 

He’s hard. 

He stands, guiding your other leg around his waist, pulling you up his body, so that you’re no longer pressed against the hard length of him. You want to scream.

“You’ll want your clothes again, for the trip to the greenhouse,” he says, carrying you down the spiraling staircase.

He sets you on the table where you had set your clothes. You reach for your sweater, but he picks it up first. He spreads it in his hands, opening the bottom hem. You stare at him, and he stares back. You take the hint and lean forward—he settles it gently over your head, pulls it down your torso, adjusts the cuffs after you’ve slipped your arms through.

He then takes your sweatpants and lifts one of your legs, his hand wrapped around your calf. You lean back on your hands to support yourself. He watches your face as he works one pant leg over your foot, as he slowly drags it up your outstretched leg, as he repeats the motion with your other leg. He then steps between your legs, slides one hand under your ass, lifts you, and lifts the waistband with his other hand until the pants are settled around your waist properly. When he’s done, you are dressed again, your hips are flush with his, and you can feel his still-hard length against you.

You watch him, watching you. His cheeks and ears are pink. But other than that, you can’t see a change in his expression. You want to lean forward and bite one of his nipples faintly outlined by his thin v-neck sweater. 

You shake the thought from your head and wrap your legs around him. You told him when you first arrived that you didn’t need to be carried everywhere, but he offers every time you move from one room to another, and you can’t bring yourself to say no, to deny yourself this constant embrace.

“There’s no hurry for you to want to go somewhere,” he says as he takes you into the hallway, as the chill settles through your clothes. “But there is something I’d like to do with you, in a couple days. It’s in the heart of the Zone. Interested?”

Even if you weren’t interested, how could you deny him anything? But you are interested. You’re curious. Your feet feel better. You can’t hide in his home forever. “Yes.”

“It’s a date,” he says, pleased.

In the greenhouse, he follows one of the slate pebbled paths that leads away from the garden fuck-bed, the fountain, the bar. The heavy foliage gradually gives way to a little clearing and a smaller building, nestled within the larger greenhouse. He sets you on your feet as his phone begins to vibrate.

His brow furrows and his mouth hardens, the tension rolling off of him palpable. You turn without thinking, grab one of his hands and put it on your cheek, your own hand against the back of his.

He exhales, slowly, and he seems to relax. He lifts his other hand and traces your eyebrow with his finger. When he speaks, his voice is calm.“Go in. I’ll make this quick. Don’t touch or eat anything.”

You nod into his palm and let go, stepping back, out of his reach. His hand drops, and he flexes it at his side, before turning away and reaching for the phone in his pocket.

The greenhouse within a greenhouse's door swings shuts behind you. 

It’s much cooler in here than in the main part of the greenhouse. A tall arching trellis overgrown with what looks like ivy forms a long tunnel leading further into the building. You walk for a few minutes, admiring the fairytale feel of the tunnel, until it opens into a space that is surprisingly not so large. Slate stones, flower beds filled with plants and flowers. There are several  you recognize—foxglove, with its lovely little spotted flowers drifting down the thick stem, purple and white autumn crocus, oleander with its pinwheel petals. There are also many bushes and other flowers that you don’t recognize, but which don’t look particularly striking. Along with the vegetation, there are a couple benches, torches giving off soft light—they circle a reasonably sized, but not gigantic, still pond, ringed with stones. You can’t see anything particularly spectacular about the space, or why Sylus would favor it compared to the riotous life of the tropical part of the main greenhouse. It’s quiet. Maybe he likes it for the same reasons he likes the solitude of his library. You walk to the edge of the pond and see large koi fish swimming leisurely in the serene water.

You wonder who maintains this space, along with all the others of his sprawling home.

You turn again, and spot what you now know is a bush of datura flowers. You wander over to them, let your fingertip caress one of their sharp little pointed petals. It feels like a lifetime ago that you found a pot of datura on your kitchen island and had no idea who it could be from.

It occurs to you that you need to ask Sylus if it’s possible to have someone water your plants while you’re gone. You suddenly can’t bear the thought of them dying in your absence. You will have to return to them, and your real life, probably sooner than you’d like. You can’t neglect everything, even as you still refuse to check your phone. Your friends may survive without you, but your plants won’t.

You don’t want to think about that right now.

You turn back to the datura plant, and then look at the other plants. You recall the threatening aura of the datura before you knew what it was, what it could be used for. Hallucinogen. Poison. Aphrodisiac. Your eyes drift over the other plants you recognize—foxglove, crocus, oleander. He told you not to eat anything in here. You suddenly know that the other plants in here, like the datura, are not random, or innocuous.

Sylus’s favorite part of his greenhouse is his poison garden. Because of course the edgy bastard would have a poison garden. You don’t recognize many of the plants because they’re not common houseplants that you’ve ever looked into adding to your own collection.

You huff a laugh, put your hands on your hips. An idea occurs to you.

You walk to one of the benches near the koi pond, stretch out on your back. You let your head roll, gaze wandering over the pretty, deadly flowers. Your mind drifts to the poem you read him earlier. Before you came, things were as they should be: the sky was the dead-end of sight, the road was just a road, wine merely wine.

You think of how flowers are no longer simply flowers, but threats. Promises. Reassurances. Tools. 

A pomegranate is no longer a pomegranate, but the feel of his body underneath yours before you throw him off a bed.

A cinnamon roll is no longer a sweet treat, but the taste of Sylus’s finger in your mouth.

Feathers, wine, the poetry of your youth, a bomb exploding, Caleb’s absence, a motorcycle revving its engine, the grip of a pistol in your hand, blood dripping from your wounds.

Now everything is like my heart, a color at the edge of blood: the grey of your absence, the color of poison, of thorns.

This is how it goes.

You already know how this ends. 

You huddled in Sylus’s gem vault and bemoaned the blood diamonds piled high, and then you rolled over to him in the night, wrapping an arm around his waist, breathing in his skin, and slept like the dead.

He said that his favorite stone was whatever you’re wearing, and your heart thrilled and despaired—stones from him come at the cost of someone else’s pain. And he’ll give you as many as you want, and revel in your wearing them, and you’ll soak in his admiration like the vast desert that you are. You’ll bloom like these poison flowers under his care, your feet and hands covered in the same blood as his.

Don't leave now that you're here — Stay. So the world may become like itself again: so the sky may be the sky, the road a road, and the glass of wine not a mirror, just a glass of wine.

Even if you were to leave right this second—even if you were to move to the arctic and cut every tie to him from your life, you’d be tearing out your own veins, carving out chunks of your own flesh, in an effort to remove his talons from how deep they’ve dug into you, starting from the moment he found you in a crowded nightclub and drove you around all night just so you could finally sleep. Maybe from a moment even before that. The auction, with your hand in his pocket, clutching the detonator, his arms around you, his voice in your ear. Look at me. Look only at me.

And you did. And you haven’t looked away since, no matter how hard you tried.

It's already too late. You made your decision the moment you let him into your home when you found him wounded on the sidewalk near your home. You have known what, who he is, all along. The only way you can continue, the only way you can move forward without crippling yourself, is to find a balance. 

A balance between the horror that is inseparable from Sylus’s rough hands softly touching you, the horror inside of you that you’ve always known is there, and the goodness that you want to offer the world since you lived when you should have died, over and over again.

Caleb’s dead. It doesn’t matter what he’d say, because he’s dead and he’s never coming back, and you lived when you shouldn’t have, and he gets to rest and you have to move through each fucking day, one after the other, without him, without Gran, so that you can watch the sunsets for them, so that you can snatch lives back from death’s maw every time a wanderer attacks, and offer the world and Caleb and Gran these gifts because only you can.

A balance between remembering and forgetting, of living in the moment and refusing to looking away from the terrible fruit of Sylus’s labor.

A balance of walking your path in the light as the Association’s sword, of seeking refuge in the glittering night of the sanctuary Sylus is offering you.

If you are his beloved.

If he wants you at all. 

Is it so terrible, to want something just for yourself, even if that thing is a knife in the wounds of the world you struggle to save?

You huff a laugh again. You want him. You want him so much, it hurts. So what if he never touches you beyond holding you close? Biting your lip? Offering to carry you everywhere through his house, turning to you in the night and wrapping his own arm around your waist so that you mirror each other, curved towards each other. When did you become so greedy? What gives you the right to be so greedy?

You throw your arm over your eyes. Enough. Enough.  

You think about your little idea when you realized that this is Sylus’s gothy poison garden. You wonder if it’s too mean, but then you remember how mean he was to you when you first met him. You’ve forgiven him. But you haven’t entirely forgotten.

After a while—who knows how long, you hear the crunch of Sylus’s footsteps on the slate pebbled path.

You let your arm fall, your fingers uncurling against the pebbled slate path and letting a pair of little purple berries roll from your palm to the ground.

You hear his footsteps stop, and then nothing. You resist the urge to open an eye and peek, to see what he’s doing.

“Asleep again, darling?” he murmurs, quietly. So that if you really were asleep, you wouldn’t wake.

You say nothing.

A footstep, and then a creak of the bench underneath you as he settles his weight, the warmth of his thigh next to you on the bench.

He runs featherlight fingers along your neck.

“You’re not asleep,” he says, low.

You ignore him, make no move.

“I’ve been with you long enough while you sleep to know the patterns of your breathing when asleep versus awake. Feeling playful, kitten?”

You ignore him.

He walks two fingers up your neck, gently pats your cheek. “Look at me. I don’t like not having your eyes on me when you’re awake.”

You stay still.

“Sweetheart.” He pats your cheek a little harder. You let your head loll to the side. “You have terrible taste in pranks,” he tsks, but he’s starting to sound worried.

You start to hold your breath. Begin to count.

You feel one big hand come to rest heavily on your chest. There’s a pause. “Oh? Raising the stakes?” 

You’re at thirty. You keep counting.

“If you had really eaten nightshade berries, you’d be surrounded by vomit and probably would have shit your pants. You wouldn’t be lying here pristinely, looking beautifully asleep.”

You’re at sixty. Your lungs are starting to burn. You’ve never been good at holding your breath for very long.

“Your heart is starting to pound from your efforts to hold your breath, darling, you’re not fooling anyone,” he scolds, sounding increasingly irritated, but he leans over, rests his ear against your mouth.

You can’t help yourself. You lick the shell of his ear.

He jerks up like you just lit him on fire and glares down at you. You take a huge breath, struggling to both breathe and cackle at the same time.

“You were a little worried, admit it,” you pant, grinning up at his indignant expression.

He doesn’t respond. Instead, he leans down, hauls you up into his lap like a sack of potatoes, and squeezes you tightly, burying his face in your shoulder. “You can joke about anything, except the idea of you dying. It’s not amusing. It will never be amusing.”

He holds you so tightly you can hardly breathe. You feel his eyelashes flutter against your skin, his breath warm on your neck. You just sit still, not knowing what to say. You did not expect this response at all.

After a long time, he finally speaks. “What was the point of this little prank?”

“Can’t have you getting bored with me,” you murmur.

He lifts his head, looks at you with a strangely pleading expression on his face. “I will tell you as many times as it takes. I am the farthest from bored when I am with you.”

You stare at him, taken aback by his gentle reassurance even while clearly upset with your immature prank. But why are you still surprised when he is tender with you? He has been nothing but indulgent, tolerant, generous, since he secured a promise from you to use your home as a safe house. He has treated you so gently through all of your worst moments since then.

But if you say that out loud, if you acknowledge it, you won’t be able to stop yourself from asking for more. You’re so greedy. It’s not enough, to be held by him. Now you want his mouth. His tongue. His everything.

“You sent me into a poisonous garden without telling me. Rude.”

He lifts a dark silver eyebrow. “I told you not to touch or eat anything in here. Are you a pet, or a child?”

You don't know why you're arguing. “You know the fastest way to get me to do something is to tell me not to do it.” He knows this. He has used this against you before, in fact.

He finally smiles a little back at you. “A child then, I see.”

You stick your tongue out at him, remember what he has done every time you’ve done that, and immediately pull it back into your mouth.

“But you’re a quick learner,” he smiles wider, revealing one sharp tooth.

You just scowl at him.

He exhales heavily, as if letting go of a great weight, and you feel bad for making him worry. “Is everything okay with business?” you ask, trying to change the subject, to take his mind off of whatever he just went through because of you. You resolve not to prank him like that ever again.

“Business is good. Too good. Hence the constant calls. Nothing to worry about,” he says, letting you distract him. He sinks a little lower onto the bench, spreads his long legs. You lower your head, rest it on his big shoulder.

“So. A poison garden,” you say. “Your favorite part of the greenhouse. Not the lovely jungle, the fuck-bed, or whatever else you have hidden in this huge place.”

“I’ve always had a particular weakness for deadly, lovely things,” he says, running a hand soothingly up and down your back.

You feel like he’s trying to tell you something, beyond his appreciation for flowers.

My beloved is perfect to me.

The bet was about how long it will take for my beloved to realize how I feel about them. 

But how could he have waited so long for you, how could he feel so strongly for you, when you only just met? 

You think about how strongly you already feel about him, and wonder if it even matters. 

You think about his little quip, time is a construct and inherently meaningless, when you asked him about his drinking.

It was a joke, but maybe there is truth in it.

Does it even matter? Is it so bad for you to just want to take what he’s now so clearly offering? Even if he’ll never kiss you?

“Do you ever use these plants for nefarious purposes?” you ask. “Or just to admire and brood around?”

“I do not brood. I plot,” he sniffs indignantly. “And you already know that I like a more direct approach. Sometimes Luke and Kieran used plants from here for pranks, back when I had guests more often.”

Guests? More often? Do you want to know? What kind of guests? Does it matter?

You lift your head and ask a question that has been on your mind for a while now to distract yourself. “Who takes care of your house? Your greenhouse? Your pools?”

He raises his eyebrows a little in surprise at your non sequitur. “I have staff who take care of everything.”

“Where are they? I’ve not seen anyone else but the twins and Noah since I arrived.”

“I’ve asked them to adjust their schedules for the time being. They come while we’re sleeping.”

“Why?”

He gently flicks your forehead. “Why do you think?”

“Can you never just answer a question without asking another question, Socrates?” you huff.

“I’m not going to spoon feed you answers that you should already know by now,” he taunts.

“What should I already know?”

“That I know you don’t like being around people you don’t know. That you find it uncomfortable to be around people who you aren’t sure are safe. That you wouldn’t be able to prance around my library in your underwear if you feared some stranger walking in.”

You poke him in his firm stomach. “I prance about as much as you do, Mister Broody McPoisongarden.”

He laughs softly.

You close your eyes. Let his answer sink in. His thoughtfulness shouldn’t surprise you by now. But every time, the tenderness, the kindness he shows you—it hurts. What will you do, once you have to return to your real life? What will you do, if you ever fall off the pedestal he has built for you? What have you done to deserve his attentiveness?

You are trying to live in the moment. You will find a balance. Maybe it’s for the best if he doesn’t want to kiss you. If he never wants closer physical intimacy. He already has so much of you already.

Enough. Enough.

You rest your head on his shoulder again and sit with him in comfortable silence.

This is how it goes.

Another day. He receives a phone call. You wave at him, back away, his eyes tracking you as you go, until the door swings shut.

You drift to the pool room again. Its humid warmth, the bar in pale wood, the zen garden. You take a bottle from the shelf behind the bar, pour a shot. Does it matter what time it is? Not right now, in the timeless night of Sylus’s fortress. Mephisto has followed you. You toast him, holding up the shot glass, and then down it. It burns. You wonder how Sylus can drink this shit. Even the good stuff hurts.

You walk to the edge of the pool. Think about the twenty different swimsuits Sylus showed you after he found you naked in his pool the first time.

You turn, making sure Mephisto is watching. You remind yourself that he’s a robot. He doesn’t care what he sees. But the man on the other side might care. You're lying to yourself when you say you can live without Sylus ever kissing you. You remember a kiss that never happened, and the memory haunts you.

You strip out of your clothes, watching Mephisto watching you.

Look, then. You’ve been watching me since before we even met. You’re the only one I want looking, and you won’t take what I’m offering. I’m now watching you, watching me.

You don’t know what you’re hoping to achieve with your sad little provocations. Sylus has only ever responded with covering you up. You’re just being greedy. Why can’t you be satisfied with him just being near? My tormenter, my love, be near me.

You pause, watching Mephisto thoughtfully, your clothes piled at your feet. After a few moments, you turn and dive into the pool.

You enjoy the water, your empty mind as your body takes over. You feel stronger than you’ve felt in months. You enjoy the strength in your muscles, the weightlessness. You slap the edge of the pool after yet another lap, are about to turn, go again, when you glance up and see Sylus right there, standing above you.

This time, his eyes are open. He’s looking down at you, eyes fixed on your face. His thumbs are hooked in the pockets of his dark pants, the picture of relaxed, a fluffy towel hanging over one wrist.

He says nothing. He simply looks. You make no effort to conceal yourself under the water. You return his gaze, watching him watching you.

The silence stretches. You wonder what he’s thinking. “Everything okay this time?”

He frowns a little. “Worried about my business?”

“I just want you to be happy,” you say truthfully. You don’t want him to be worried about business, or your time here to cause problems for him. No matter what his business actually consists of. Balance. Balance.

“Then we’re both in luck,” he says. “I’ve been happy all week.”

You tilt your head. “Just this week?”

“Mmhmm.” He looks down at you, fondness softening his features.

You think you can live without him kissing you, if he will look at you like this every once in a while.

“Are you not happy with the swimsuits I arranged for you?” he asks, his fond look melting into a bored expression.

“I’m happy with them,” you answer, looking steadily back at him.

“And yet you won’t wear them.”

“There’s no one here.”

“Am I no one?” His gaze flicks down your body, then back to your face. 

You look at him. You look at him, and want him so terribly. You’re lying, every time you tell yourself you’ll be satisfied with a look, an almost kiss.

“You’re the only one,” you force yourself to say.

He’s too far away. You can’t see what effect, if any, what you just said has on him. His face is still impassive.

“Am I to interpret this, as well as the library the other day, as an invitation?”

Your heart is pounding. “Do you want it to be an invitation?”

He opens his mouth, only for it to snap shut again. Even from here, you can hear his phone vibrating in his pocket.

You want him to ignore it. You want him to answer your question.

He takes the towel in one hand, and reaches into his pocket with the other.

You’re already so greedy, wanting him to ignore his business for you. You suddenly feel incredibly pathetic.

You look down at yourself. Muscle and scars. What are you doing? Trying to tempt a man like Sylus Qin with what you have to offer, such as it is. A dull, scratched blade.

His beloved? 

His tormenter, his love?

It’s only been a week, and you’re this delusional.

You sink underwater, turn, launch yourself from the side of the pool, knife through the water. You haul yourself up on the other side, walk through the barroom to the door, and stride, dripping through the cold hallway.

You shower. You try to keep your mind blank. You don’t want to betray yourself, when you have to see him again. There’s nowhere to hide.

You’re relieved when you find his bedroom empty when you’re done in the bathroom.

You throw on clothes.

You slip back into the hallway. Mephisto must have stayed in the pool room with Sylus. You start to jog toward the lift leading to the underground garage. Sylus never said you had to stay in the house while you waited for him to be done with business. You’ll be back when you can trust that your face won’t give away how stupid you feel for trying to seduce him through Mephisto. 

You’ll strangle the wanting inside you like Sylus strangled you when you first met.

As you’re passing the living room, Noah steps into the hallway.

“Whoa, there. You look like you’re on a mission.”

“Maybe,” you say, trying to smile. She stares at you.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Of course.” You nod. You’re fine. You’ll be fine.

“Is this another case of we need to call the boss?”

“No, thank you.”

“Well since you ask so politely,” she smiles at you. It’s genuine. You think this is the first genuine smile she’s ever given you. “You want company?”

“I don’t even know where I’m going,” you say. 

“I’ve found that just going for a drive can make me feel better,” she says. “I am your driver, after all. Wanna put me to good use?”

You blink at her. She’s not going to call Sylus and tell on you? She’s not going to badger you with questions?

“You sure? I’m not amazing company.”

“Coulda fooled me with how Boss follows you like a lovesick puppy.”

“Huh?”

“Don’t worry about it. C’mon, let’s go.” She turns and leads the way toward the garage lift. When you pass the theater room, Luke and Kieran poke their heads out. “Going somewhere?” Kieran asks.

��We’re going for a drive. C’mon, nerds,” Noah says breezily, waving them forward.

They look at each other, seem to have a silent conversation, and then follow obediently.

“Does Boss know we’re going somewhere?” Luke asks.

“Not unless you snitch,” Noah answers.

“Is it like, a secret?”

“No. But maybe the hunter needs a little breathing room.”

Luke and Kieran turn and stare at you.

“Do you need some space from Boss?” 

You grimace. “Not because of anything he did. I just need to get a little perspective.”

“You’re not leaving him, right?” Both twins look stricken at the idea.

“Leaving him? We’re not together like that.”

“Why the fuck not?” Luke demands.

Kieran puts a hand on his shoulder and looks at you. “You don’t have to answer that.”

You squint at them. “You say that like it’s up to me if we’re together or not.”

Luke squints back. “Isn’t it?”

You shake your head. “I’m not going to discuss your boss’s private life when he’s not here.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re loyal to him, you’re nuts about him. We already like you, there’s no need to prove anything.” Luke rolls his eyes. He’s about to speak again when Kieran begins to steer him away by gently pressing on his back. “We will meet you in the garage,” he tells Noah. “We’ve got to get our masks if we’re going out.”

“Ah yes, the cosplay twins make a reappearance,” Noah grins. “See you in a few.” With that, she takes your hand like you’ve been friends forever, and swings your joined hands as she practically skips to the lift leading to the garage.

In the underground garage which is surprisingly spartan for a man of Sylus’s tastes, she drags you to the tank. You eye with longing a long row of vehicles that look like they’d be amazing to go offroading across the N109 Zone’s wastes in.

“No, nooooope,” Noah says, hurrying you along. “Boss’s orders. I have to cart you around in the Phantom anytime we’re in the Zone. It’s why he bought it.”

You let her herd you to the tank. “What?”

She opens the backseat door and makes a sarcastic sweeping gesture. “Your chariot awaits.”

You sigh. “The backseat? Really? I can’t even ride up front?”

“You’re the VIP. Get in.”

You decide not to fight her this time. You’re going to take out the beat up Toyota Hilux you saw parked amongst the other vehicles to see if you can get it to flip one of these days, and you want her on your side when you do it.

She slams the door shut after she’s ensured you’re buckled in and then swings around to the driver’s seat. She puts on some music that sounds like metal, but you have no idea what particular genre. It’s loud.

“What do you mean Sylus bought the tank because of me?” you shout over the music.

She has mercy on you, reducing the volume, then resumes tapping her long fingers on the steering wheel as you both wait for Kieran and Luke to arrive.

“What’s there not to understand? He bought something that’s advertised as being able to survive the apocalypse to protect you when you need to be in the Zone.”

You think of Sylus, vulnerable on his motorcycle. Just as vulnerable as you on yours. Okay, so he can heal quickly, but you doubt he can heal from being decapitated in an accident. “I can protect myself. That is ridiculous.”

She shrugs. “You worry about these things when you love someone. Doesn’t matter if it’s logical.”

You stare at her. She sounds like she speaks from experience.

“And the Zone is fucking dangerous. More dangerous than Linkon City. His worry is logical in this case. There’s more than just reckless driving to account for in the Zone.”

You startle when the front passenger door and the other back passenger door fly open at the same time, and both twins launch themselves in, almost in sync. They’re both wearing the masks that they were wearing when you first met them, which are probably meant to be crows but just look like plague doctor masks to you.

Noah backs out of the parking space and screeches out of the underground garage like the unwieldy tank is a rocket ship instead of a roided out SUV.

“Can we change the music?” Luke whines. “It’s so fucking… uh. Cock-cockiphinous.”

“Cacophonous,” Kieran corrects gently.

“I’m the driver, I choose the music,” Noah says, swatting Luke’s reaching hand away from the dash.

Luke just groans and then twists in his seat, poking his beak into the backseat.

“So we know you’re loyal and wanna protect our boss. Your secrets are safe with us. Blah blah. Now spill the tea, why do you need space from him?” 

You groan and cover your eyes with your hand. “Not gonna talk about it.”

“Is it because he almost kissed you and then didn’t?” Luke ignores your protest. “Or about him spying on you with Mephisto like a creep even though he claimed it was an accident?”

You drop your hand and stare at his masked face. “What?”

Kieran starts making a throat cutting gesture at Luke, as if to say Shut the fuck up NOW.

“Oops,” is all Luke says.

“Let’s talk about something else!” Noah says in a sing-song voice. She then proceeds to make a very controversial statement about the latest video game they all played together, and they argue animatedly all the way into the urban heart of the N109 Zone.

“We’re going to Amnesia?” you ask in a daze as Noah steers into the now-familiar underground garage.

Noah shrugs. “Yup. Fastest way to see how someone really feels.”

“What?” You feel like a broken record. What the fuck does she mean?

The twins look at each other and then nod in unison. “Jealousy is a powerful motivator,” Kieran says thoughtfully. “Good plan, Noah.”

“What?” you ask again, more forcefully.

“Don’t worry about it.” Noah grins. “C’mon, just get yourself a drink and dance a little. It’ll take your mind off things. I, for one, have been going stir crazy without having anything to do while you and Sylus dance around each other while simultaneously being attached at the hip.”

You’re too shocked to resist, and let yourself be dragged along by the trio of Sylus’s unruly children, past the security at the door of the lift, through the winding hallways, out into the main part of the club where the night is in full swing. The dance floor is packed, the beats organic and animalistic, and the aerial dancers still spin from the ceiling.

You can’t believe it’s only been a little over a week since you were here for the first time.

Noah pushes you to the packed bar, where you’re immediately served by one of the exceedingly attractive bartenders despite other people already waiting. “Shots!” Noah cries, handing one to you, Kieran and Luke.

“To Boss’s bizarre mating ritual!” Luke crows, and they all down their shot, the twins bringing it up to their mouths under their masks.

You look at it the neon glowing shot in your hand and grimace. Eh, what the hell. You shoot it as well.

“C’mon, let’s dance!” 

You do not want to dance. You need to think. You just wanted to get out, to find a little space to breathe away from Sylus’s overwhelming presence, and weight of your suffocating hunger for him.

“I’m fine here!” you shout.

“Fine, but don’t leave without us, got it?” Noah shouts back.

“Same for you!” 

They melt into the crowd.

You squeeze your way through the crowd to take up a spot leaning against the wall, eyes scanning the mass of dancers, the aerial artists leisurely twisting above, the lights a seizure-inducing fever dream.

You keep an eye on Noah, who finds a group of gorgeous women to dance with. The twins, who dance next to each other, are seemingly oblivious to all the attempts by various men and women to slide in and dance with them.

After a while, you head back to the bar. You’re immediately served again, as if the staff recognize you. You take your frilly cocktail and resume your place along the wall.

Mind blank. Just soaking in humanity, feeling like you have a purpose, protecting Noah and the twins in case the unlikely happens and some asshole escapes the notice of Sylus’s extensive security to fuck with them. You don’t let yourself think about anything at all.

Your meditative vigil is interrupted when a big man leans against the wall next to you, squinting out over the crowd like you are.

He’s quiet for a few minutes, and you think that maybe he’ll leave you in peace.

“What are we looking for?” His voice is deep, and close to your ear as he leans over to be heard over the deep bass of the music.

You flick your eyes up to his face, and then back over the crowd. Handsome, in a rugged way. Dark hair, dark eyes. A nose that's a little too perfect to actually be perfect. Not like Sylus's actually perfect nose.

You’re feeling loose from the drink, a little tipsy. You answer honestly.

“Possible threats.”

“You security?”

“Nah. Just a concerned citizen.”

You can hear the smile in his voice. “Those are rare in the Zone. Usually people mind their own business around here.”

You just shrug.

“Can I get you a drink?”

You look down at the drink in your hand, lift an eyebrow.

“Okay, let me try again.”

You turn, look expectantly at him. In another life, you would have found him charming. You would have responded to his obvious interest, maybe taken him home for the night. Maybe even dated for awhile, before he realized that the person he met in the club is the person you are all the time: closed off, alert, never dropping your guard even while being honest. Not like how you are with Sylus. Pliant. Affectionate. As open as you can bear to be while still not knowing what he truly wants from you.

“Dance with me?”

“Thanks for the offer, but I’m okay here.”

“You come to one of the most exclusive clubs in the Zone just to decorate the wall?”

You snort. “Don’t insult this place’s interior design.”

He gives you a slow once over. “Oh, I’d say you’re the focal point here.” Before you can scoff, he tries again. “Just one dance. I promise not to step on your feet.”

You think of Sylus holding you in at the auction's banquet.  Look at me. Look only at me. Sylus holding you in the seedy BOOM BOOM ROOM. Dancing slowly while the rapid beat shook your chest, as if only you and he existed in the entire world.

“I’d rather lean on this wall and pine,” you say.

His eyebrows shoot up, but then he smirks. “I bet I have more to offer than whoever is stupid enough to make you pine for them instead of recognizing what’s right in front of them.”

“Doubt it,” you smirk back.

“Try me. What’s so great about this person?”

“I don’t think there’s enough time to list everything,” you say.

“I’ve got time for you. Unlike this person, since they’re not here with you.”

You frown. Sylus is busy as fuck, but he has always offered you his time. Even when he’s pulled away by the near-constant phone calls, he tries to come back to you as quickly as possible.

“For one, he’s gorgeous. Tall, big.”

“I’m big and tall,” he flexes a bicep. It’s respectable. But it’s not as big as Sylus’s.

“He’s bigger, and taller.”

He shrugs, concedes. “All right, but that’s just the package. What’s he got on the inside?”

“He’s perceptive. Clever. Funny. Fearless. Unbearably sweet.”

“Damn. You’re not making this easy for me.” He sounds forlorn.

“Sorry, man.” You smile at him. He seems nice. But he does nothing for you. You’re worried no one else ever will again. Despite all of your fretting, all of your wallowing, your moral dilemma, you know how this is going to end. Sylus is under your skin now. You are going to do everything in your power to satisfy your greed, to keep both your job and the man who is coming to mean as much to you as your job, formerly your sole reason for continuing to fight so hard to survive. To earn your breath, your life, your having lived while Caleb died.

“So what’s the problem? Why are you here pining, instead of with this perfect guy?”

“I can’t tell if he feels the same way.”

“Have you told him how you feel?”

“He’s perceptive, remember? I’m pretty sure it’s fucking obvious. But no matter what I do, he won’t even kiss me.”

“You tried kissing him first?”

You grimace. “Can’t bear to be rejected if he doesn’t feel the same way. I’d rather just pine.”

“Here you are, badass ready to take on an entire club if a fight breaks out, but scared of just going for it with your man?” He smiles at you, slides closer to you along the wall.

“See? I’m not as great as my packaging suggests.”

“Oh I doubt that. But now I know I have something that your man doesn’t.” He turns, leaning one shoulder against the wall, and bends down toward you.

You watch him curiously. If he gets too close, you’ll sidle away, say thanks but no thanks, again. If he doesn’t get the hint, you’ll punch him in the throat. “Oh yeah?”

“I’m here, and he isn’t. And I don’t have the same self control—how could he not kiss you when you’re standing right here outshining everyone else?”

You’re about to roll your eyes at his obvious exaggeration and move away when you feel a sudden warmth blanketing your back.

“Announcing that you have a lack of self control isn’t the flex you might think it is.” Sylus’s deep voice is next to your ear, his leather-clad arm is wrapping around your waist.

You turn your head, meet his blood-dark eyes. He tilts his head, frowns at you questioningly. “When have I denied you anything?” he asks.

You’re confused until you realize he was listening to your conversation. Oh fuck. How much did he hear?

“Kitten, don’t tell me you’ve had so much to drink that you can’t remember if I’ve ever not given you what you’ve asked for.”

It occurs to you that you’ve asked for very little from him, because he has always offered you everything you could have wanted without you having to ask in the first place. But anything you have ever asked, he has promised to give. 

“Never,” you murmur.

“So if you wanted me to kiss you, you could have just asked. No need to torture me through Mephisto.”

You feel your face flush red. “Torture you?” You want to pull away, but he holds you tightly.

“Yes. Torture me. My tormenter, my love,” he says, leaning down, his lips almost touching yours. “May I kiss you?”

You can’t get over the mortification of Sylus having heard what you said to the guy hitting on you.

“How much did you hear?” you ask, wincing.

He looks smug. “I’m big, and tall, and perceptive and—” He asked to kiss you. Surely it’s okay if you lean forward, try to brush your lips against his lips. Just to shut him up.

He leans back. “No.”

Your insides freeze. What the fuck? What kind of fucking mindgame is he playing? He asks to kiss you and then rejects you in the next breath? You try to jerk out of his hold.

“I’m not kissing you for the first time in this ridiculous nightclub,” he growls, his arm a steel bar over your waist. 

What? Because there are so many people? People who might know him? And see him with… you. 

You want to crawl out of your skin, leave it behind so that no one can recognize you when you move to the arctic to escape this feeling. This is what you get for being greedy. For reaching for what you don’t deserve.

What would Caleb say, if he saw you here, an object of embarrassment for this lord of war, the antithesis of everything you’re supposed to stand for?

It occurs to you for the first time that maybe Sylus hasn’t kissed you because he’s wrestling with the same questions that have been running through your mind since you had yet another pathetic meltdown in his gem vault. You’re a hunter. A tool of the Association. A fucked up mental case. What do you have to offer him in exchange for what he would have to risk, to give up, in order to actually be with you?

A hell of a lot of nothing, aside from all the emotional baggage.

“Because you’re ashamed that the person you’re kissing is me?” you ask, watching his face for microexpressions, for the bored mask, for anything to give away what he’s really feeling.

He scowls, his frown line deep between his eyebrows, like he’s just bitten into something foul. Well that’s fucking clear. You squeeze your eyes shut. You may not be able to escape his hold, but you don’t have to endure him looking at you like he did when you first met him. Like he can’t believe how utterly disappointing you are.

“Look at me,” he demands. You want to cry.

“Please,” he says, tone softening. You open your eyes.

Suddenly the crowd, the guy flirting with you, the lights—everything disappears as Sylus cups your cheeks in his big hands, leans down, and kisses you.

Warmth. His impossibly soft lips. You feel like you’ve been here before. You’ve tasted him before—his tongue parts your lips, filling your mouth. You open your mouth wider, trying to take more of him in. You can hear soft whining noises under the loud music, and realize that you’re the one making them. He uses his hold on your cheeks to tilt your head the way he wants as he tastes you. He takes a step forward, big thigh pushing between your legs, and backs you into the wall, blanketing you with his big body.

You suck on his silken tongue. He presses his thigh with more force between your legs, and you wrap your arms around his neck, grind back against his leg. 

It’s not enough. You wanted his mouth, and now that you have it, you want more. You’re so hungry for him, even as he’s feeding you his tongue.

He tears away from you, panting, a sloppy trail of saliva falling away from his bottom lip.

You stare at his flushed face, wide eyed. 

What now? Is he going to regret it? Tell you it was a mistake? Maybe this is another dream. Another dream you’ll only half remember. Nothing that has to be undone. Nothing that will ruin the rest of your stay in his house. You’ll be better, you promise yourself. You’ll stop being greedy. You’ll be thankful for the generosity he’s already shown you, and you’ll never hope for more again. It will be enough, him holding you in his arms, him showing you precious glimpses into his lovely, complicated mind.

You’ll wake up any minute now, and maybe you’ll forget everything, including the taste of his tongue. You’re haunted enough.

He turns to the guy who was hitting on you, the aether core in his eye glowing bright. “You’ll forget you ever met my beloved,” he orders, and the guy’s face goes blank. He then frowns and shakes his head a little, like he’s coming out of a daze. He turns and wanders back into the crowd without looking back.

You gape after the poor bastard. “What did you just do to him?”

He looks at you, looks back at the guy’s retreating back. Then looks back at you, squinting. “Isn’t it obvious? I made him forget that he ever met you, so he can’t sell intel about my biggest weakness.”

You stare at him. “Your biggest weakness?”

He hangs his head, the soft fall of his hair whispering against your cheek. “Can we leave now? I really want to keep kissing you, and I’m not doing it with an audience.”

You’ll wake up any second now, you tell yourself. You didn’t just guilt him into kissing you in public despite his better judgment. You didn’t endanger him by being an insecure freak.

He flicks your forehead gently. “Whatever you’re thinking, it’s wrong. I didn’t want our first kiss to be in a nightclub. I wanted it to be somewhere romantic, like you deserve. And once I start kissing you again, I don’t want to have to stop. Any objections?”

You stare at him, feeling like you’ve just stumbled off of a goddamned roller coaster. “You want to keep kissing me?”

“Kitten. Sweetheart. Darling. Beloved. Yes, I want to keep kissing you. No, I’m not sure I’ll be able to stop kissing you, and more, once I start. Any objections?” He stares into your eyes.

You find yourself shaking your head.

He closes his eyes, exhales. Opens them. All you see is red. His big hand finds yours. He clasps yours tightly. “Resonate with me,” he says.

You look at him in confusion. “Please trust me,” he says, voice strained.

“I do trust you,” you say. “I just don’t trust that this is real. Are you sure this isn’t a dream?”

He smiles. Big. Genuine. His sharp canines gleaming in the flashing lights of the club. He squeezes your hand gently. “I promise that it’s finally not just a dream,” he says.

You stare into his beautiful ember eyes. You’re so fucking scared to believe that this is real, but he promised you that it isn't. And Sylus says he always keeps his promises.

This is how it goes.

You've already known how it ends, from the first time you willingly took his offered hand in yours.

You squeeze his hand in return, and let your power flow through you.

End note: hopefully more smooches in the next part.

[revelboo]

U h, so like, I may or may not have gotten absolutely hooked on your blog 👉👈 I absolutely adore your fics with the Seeker Trine, I don’t see much of them out there so when I stumbled upon your little series, it got me good. I am super invested in each of the stories and I really, really like the way you right!! Looking forward to more :3

Thank you!

True Romance Pt 5

Seeker Trine x Reader

• Wings flaring out tiredly to stretch out the kinks, Starscream pauses in the door to the communal habsuite he shares with his trine before closing the door behind him, sprawled on his back with his head hanging off the edge of his berth Skywarp glances at him, jaw clenching, then his attention is back on the human laying against his chassis, his servos sliding along your back. Across the room, Thundercracker is fiddling with the communication screen, so engrossed in his project that he’s not even noticed his entrance. “What is this?”

• Startling, Thundercracker offers Starscream a sheepish smile. “Movie night? I’ve been watching some of their media and it’s pretty interesting,” he says, inclining his head toward you sleeping on Skywarp. And he waits for Starscream to tell him he’s too busy, because he always does that. Knows his brother is the SIC and stays buried under reports and requests, but he just wants them all together like it had been before the war. Before the Decepticons. At least for a little bit. The ‘no’ doesn’t come though as Starscream drifts closer to Skywarp, attention on you.

• “They were cold again,” Skywarp growls, annoyed at being caught tending to you when he shouldn’t care less. But he likes the warmth of you there against him, the softness that should be off putting to him. Your little cheek is against him, knuckles against his canopy. Trusting him enough to rest under his watch and he’s not sure what to make of that or why it spreads warm through his spark.

• “Always,” Starscream vents softly, reaching to pick you up. Noting the way Skywarp tenses, but doesn’t try to stop him even when you make a pitiful sleepy sound of protest until he cradles you to him. Head lifting to look up at him, seeing who has you, and immediately relaxing again. And he can’t understand this trust of yours. That you just accept this and them instead of raging to be freed.

• Feeling that thrum in your bones when Starscream cups you to him, you know you should be trying to escape. But there’s almost always at least one of them watching over you. They’re not your friends by any means, but as he runs a servo against you, you’re not sure they’re your enemies either. Know it’s just Stockholm’s ringing your bell, because they’re always fussing over you, bringing you things, food, whatever they think you might like. Trying to keep you happy when they don’t have to. You’re still a prisoner, but it’s harder and harder to see the bars of your cage every day, they just keep blurring with every gentle touch. They’ll get bored of you eventually and let you go. And you’re not sure how you feel about that. “Everything okay?”

• Sitting on his berth, Starscream looks down at you. Seeing you watching him in return. Always asking them about their day. Trying to collect intel on them to pass along to your government in case you manage to escape? That must be it, but he still finds himself telling you. And you just lay your cheek on his servo and listen, asking questions and agreeing with him. Like you might really care. Hating that he wants to believe that, because something is very wrong with him.

Previous

[silverynight]

Tempting

Viktor gets startled when he hears rushed footsteps in the hallway, he doesn't even have the opportunity to turn around before someone runs inside and puts his broad arms around him. There's only one person who likes to do that, so Viktor relaxes immediately.

"I thought you were going to be back next month."

"I missed you, Viktor," Jayce whispers in his ear, instead of answering the question.

He tries to turn around on his seat to face him, but his partner refuses to let go of him.

"Jayce, let me see you." Viktor has learned that he responds better to words. Even thought he's not used to tell or ask people what he wants from them, this is the only thing that seems to work with his friend.

Jayce finally steps back, albeit reluctantly, so Viktor can turn around and see him. It looks like he came straight to the lab as soon as the ship arrived because he's tired, hungry, hasn't rested properly in days and it's written all over his face.

But there's something different about him. Before he can think about what he's going to do, Viktor's hands cup Jayce's face; he starts stroking the other man's beard with his thumbs. He's not sure why, but he finds the sensation pleasant and soothing.

It doesn't occur to him that what he's doing might be weird until he notices that Jayce is slightly bent towards him, but completely still. He looks like he's in shock.

"You're touching me," he blurts out, still surprised.

"I am," Viktor says back, realizing just then that he had never initiated physical contact with Jayce, in fact, he has never touched him on his own before. "I'm sorry."

Before he can take his hands off his friend's face, the other man grabs them and presses them a bit harder against his cheeks.

"No, it's fine!" Jayce assures him, looking a bit desperate for a moment. "You can touch me as much as you want."

"Thank you, but we can't stay like this all day."

"Why not?"

Viktor chuckles at that, noticing that he's in a good mood now; he was feeling down last week and he's beginning to think it was because Jayce wasn't at his side.

"I have a lot of things I need to show you," he says instead, trying not to smile when he notices Jayce's pout.

"So you like it?"

"What?"

"The beard."

"Yes, I think you look good with it," he says absentmindedly, turning around to check his notes again.

It never occurs to him, even as a few days pass, that Jayce's choice of keeping the beard might have something to do with him.

Because it doesn't make sense.

But he does notice that he touches Jayce often now, especially when he leans over Viktor's shoulder to comment on something they're working on, and his face is right next to his. It's really easy to lift his hand and place it on his cheek and stroke his chin just to feel the facial hair there so Viktor does that; it quickly turns into a habit that he does without thinking.

Jayce doesn't seem to mind, in fact, he looks a lot pleased with himself now. Viktor is not sure why he's so smug about something like that.

However, after a while, Jayce starts getting strange ideas.

"You should kiss me."

Viktor drops the screwdriver in his hand before turning around to face his friend.

"What?"

"To feel this against your face," Jayce says, pointing at his beard. "Aren't you curious?"

"I wasn't..." But now he is, unfortunately. "I don't see why kissing you would be the best way to try that."

"It is, trust me," Jayce assures him, leaning dangerously close to him.

Even though the mere thought of his partner being attracted to him is ridiculous, the excuse he just used is so stupid that Viktor has no other choice but to consider the first option.

It's a difficult choice; this will probably change everything between them, and they have to keep working together.

But Viktor's rational inner voice is not that loud that particular night; the temptation to feel Jayce's face against his is stronger than anything else.

Without a warning, Viktor gives him a quick kiss on the lips, the rough sensation of the beard against his smooth skin makes him giggle.

"Well, that was–"

"Not enough," Jayce cuts him off before pulling him into his arms to give him a proper kiss.

The idea of Jayce liking him makes so much sense now that Viktor can feel his partner's hungry lips moving against his.

But he's not going to complain about that.

At some point, they have to breathe, but Jayce decides to press more kisses against his jaw and neck. The beard rubbing on his skin sends shivers down his spine each time.

"Let's go to my room," he almost growls, desperate. "Come on, Viktor."

"Wait... we should think about this first. We have a project together."

"It's okay, Viktor," Jayce cups his face before pressing their foreheads together. "We can be life partners too. We'll make it work. Trust me."

Viktor does. He has always trusted him.

"Alright. Let's give this life partnership a try."

[emmahasadhd]

Well since yall have brought my attention back to my post, I may as well add another, and probably cooler reference. In the end, when Holmes arrives and Kitty basically comes to save the day, the background music is shortened orchetral part of the finale of Don Giovanni, which shows Giovanni's downfall and death, as he is being dragged into Hell to be punished for his sins.

(I still love the first one mentioned more as the aria is one of my favorites from Don Giovanni)

Also I would've just reblogged, but it won't let me add the clip lol

And also almost full story explained below

So the ending comes like this. Giovanni and his servant Leporello are at the cemetery. Giovanni sees the late Commendatore's statue and invites him over to dine with him. To his surprise and terror, the statue actually shows up and offers him a handshake. Giovanni accepting the handshake and refusing to repent dies, being dragged to Hell. Anna and her fiancé eventually get married, Zerlina and her husband are happy together and Elvira decides to join a convent.

Just to clarify the basic storyline of DG. The opera starts with Giovanni trying to seduce donna Anna. Well lets just say that does not go according to the plan and results in Giovanni killing Commendatore, Anna's father. Anna and her fiancé swear to have their revenge on Giovanni and not to mary until the former is achieved. Giovanni tries to seduce another woman later in the story, also while being pursued by donna Elvira one of his many former mistresses, who hopes he will come back to her. Giovanni doesn't want to, since he just wants to vontinue with his not really a boyfriend material lifestyle.

(Also reffering to the beginning, everywhere is said "seduce" I would think it is not about seducing as he is just trying to escape from her fucking house while she wants to unmask him. And I won't believe she is just "so much into him that she doesn't want him to leave". But yeah, that on your own interpretation I guess, since many stage productions put it simply like this. In my mind she just stopped her assailant and she hates his guts for everything he has done)

The subplot with Zerlina, the woman Giovanni wants to seduce and Elvira I will leave out to simplify the story, as well as some other things. But if you are interested, look it up, youtube has many excelent recordings of the whole production.

(I would reccomend an older one though, since it usually portrays the opera set in the original time period and doesn't include conceptional and contemporary direction and scenic elements, therefore makes it a good starting point for opera newbies. Nothing against contemporarily produced performances, but if you want to get familiar with the source material and don't want to pre-read everything, those can make it harder to grasp what is actually going on.)

[hippolotamus]

"Are you going to be okay?" + Bucktommy

No. No, I am not 😭 Please remember this is an angst prompt and that I love you so, so much 💞

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

your smile and the sound of your voice | T | 1.2k

“Are you going to be okay, Buckaroo?” 

Hen taps the neck of her beer against his and nudges his shoulder. 

“Yeah, of course.” He checks his phone again and sees the text he’s been waiting for from Eddie.

Be there in 5

“Yeah,” he says again, brighter and easier. Like he’s suddenly got more room to breathe.

She fondly rolls her eyes, letting him know she’s not buying it but she’s here for him all the same. 

His gut twists with nerves, like he inhaled an entire roll of Mentos and chased it with a two liter of Coke. He’s fine, though. He’s more than likely tachycardic, and he’s sweating like a pig, but he’s good. Honestly. 

Why wouldn’t he be? His family is supporting him through one of the more dramatic moves he’s ever tried to pull off. And he didn’t have to say a word for them to buy into his unhinged plan. They just- did. Albeit with many unvoiced concerns communicated in shared glances and whatever telepathy thing Hen and Chim have going on. Still, they’re here and he’s so, so grateful. He’ll want them to celebrate or if… well, he just needs them either way.

He taps his foot nervously, gripping the karaoke mic tighter and watching the seconds tick by on his watch. And then he sees him. His world stops when Tommy notices him. Their gaze locks across the room like one of those cheesy rom coms that Tommy loves. The kind they’d watch on the couch, or in bed together on a lazy afternoon. Buck wishes it was actually one of those meet cute moments where the main characters have a love at first sight experience. 

Instead, Eddie and Chim are nudging Tommy towards the front of the bar, urging him not to turn and run. All so Buck can cut his heart open and bleed out on the stage for him – for them – and hope he has enough time before his veins run dry. 

Tommy reluctantly sits on the bar stool strategically placed front and center. He’s flanked by Eddie, Chim, Maddie, Hen, Karen and Josh like a group of off kilter secret service agents. And yet he’s still looking at Buck with this mix of adoration and exasperation. Like nothing changed and he’s just here to watch his boyfriend be an idiot.

Buck’s heart pounds behind his ribcage and it’s all he can do to stay standing. He takes a swig of his beer, not that it does much when his mouth feels drier than the Sahara. Hopefully Tommy will understand needing a little liquid courage if only because he knows how much Buck hates singing in public. 

“Ready?” The DJ asks him.

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

Buck’s eyes flick to the screen, knowing his piece begins immediately. There’s no intro or lead up. Just Buck and whatever’s left of his dignity. 

“If you change your mind-” he winces as his voice cracks, “I’m the first in line. Honey, I’m still free, take a chance on me.”

Christ, it’s so off key but he’s on a roll now and gaining confidence with every note. 

“Gonna do my very best and it ain’t no lie, if you put me to the test, if you let me try!” Buck sweeps his free hand over his torso, peacocking in every sense of the word.

Tommy scrubs at his face, looking for all the world like he wishes the floor would open up and swallow him whole. Not that Buck blames him. 

“Please don’t make this harder.” Tommy sighs. Silently begs with a pleading look. 

Buck sings louder to drive the point home. “You want me to leave it there, afraid of a love affair. But I think you knoooow, that I can’t let go.” 

Even with Tommy’s palm covering his mouth, Buck can still see the smile glowing in those blue eyes he always wants to stay lost in. 

He steps off the stage, flirty and confident as his friends make room for him to circle the man he’s over the goddamn moon about. The man he’s so fucking in love with that he’s willing to humiliate himself in front of their colleagues. “You say that I waste my time, but I can’t get ya off my mind. No, I can’t let goooo. ‘Cause I love you so.” 

Buck shrugs playfully, drinking in the embarrassed smirk he’s so familiar with. Just one of the dozens of expressions he’s catalogued over their months together. And tortured himself with in the weeks since Tommy broke his heart. Both of their hearts, really. 

By now, the crowd is clapping and cheering him on as he sings his lungs out, strutting around like the lovesick fool that he is. 

“Honey, I’m still free. Take a chance on me!” 

The song fades out, coming to an end as he slides on his good knee. He stops in front of Tommy, panting and flushed, baring his soul for everyone at the badge and ladder to see. Except he only needs one person to see it. To see everything and not be terrified.

“I know I fucked up before and I- I rushed things. And I know this isn’t how any of this should have happened. But you wouldn’t answer me or- or return my calls or texts.” His jaw trembles, voice breaking as tears drip off his chin. “You can take your time, baby. I’m in no hurry.” 

Buck risks reaching for Tommy’s hand, threading their fingers together. “Tommy. Sweetheart. Take a chance on me. Again. Please.”

It feels like a truce, like a fresh beginning. Like the start of something.

“Evan.” 

Buck’s blood fizzes like champagne, bursting with hope. Tommy smiles, a lopsided thing, and oh Buck can hardly sit still long enough to hear what comes next. But he has to, he needs to be patient. Not impulsive, not like before. 

“Buck,” Tommy corrects. 

The world seems to collapse around him. His chosen name sounds like nails on a chalkboard. Like a sour note in an otherwise beautiful aria. 

A tear escapes, rolling down Tommy’s cheek, past his now wobbly lip. “I wish I could. This is- it’s sweet and no one’s ever done anything like this for me before.” Tommy looks up at the ceiling, just like he did that night in the loft, and then meets Buck’s gaze again. “You are gonna be someone’s once in a lifetime. I just know it. But not-” There’s a strangled sound between them, from god knows where. Maybe it’s Buck, maybe it’s Tommy. Maybe it’s both. 

“I’m sorry,” Tommy whispers. 

In a blink, Buck’s hand is empty and Tommy’s weaving through the crowd. Leaving him all over  again.

“No, wait! Hold on!” Buck drops the microphone, ready to chase after him this time. Like he didn’t before. Like he should have. He apologizes as he knocks into tables and past servers until he’s finally out in the cool night air. He licks the salty tears from his lips, frantically searching in every direction. It hasn’t been that long. Buck was seconds behind. Tommy has to be here. 

But he’s not. There’s no sign of him in the crowds of people walking by. People laughing and talking and living their lives with fully formed hearts. All of them ignorant to Buck and his despair. 

“Wait,” he rasps, falling to his knees in the middle of the filthy LA sidewalk. “Please wait.” 

[some-stars]

logan/wade rough sex with wade crying!!!

okay, so obviously you know the context for this but for everyone else: this is a canon-divergence AU sequel to a fic of mine that I haven't finished yet. all you need to know is that Logan and Wade hooked up during Origins, fell for each other and ran off together, and also they are both fucked up but wade is very fucked up.

content notes: consensual sex but it's fucked up, face slapping, painful sex, possessiveness, masochism, praise, spit, kind of sweet despite all that. i'm high so i might have forgotten something, read at your own risk. i don't think i did tho!

--

The only thing that stops Logan from slamming Wade up against the wall the second the last body drops is the urgent need for them to get clear of the scene before the cops show up. As it is, they make it about half a mile before he snaps and drags Wade down an alley, the simmering anger in his skull boiling over at the way Wade laughs when he does it. It's clear Wade's still riding the high from the fight, and when his back hits the bricks he grins like crazy.

"All that killing got you so hot and bothered, huh, cupcake?" He bats his eyelashes like a goddamn cartoon. "You just can't wait till we get home to take it out on me? I'm not complaining, I love a nice nasty back alley fuck. Something about getting reamed five feet from a dumpster really tickles the old pickle."

Logan would love to be able to say that his hand moves without him meaning to move it, that he slaps Wade across the face on a blind, furious impulse. But that would be a lie. He chooses to do it.

He kisses Wade right after, because the flash of hurt and fear that crosses his face is too much to look at. Too much to think about, how right it feels to put it there. Wade melts into the kiss just like he always does, permanently desperate for affection no matter how much of it Logan gives him. Logan holds his face with one hand--the side he hit, hot and flushed with blood--and kisses Wade like he's claiming him, deep and demanding. When Logan takes his lower lip between his teeth Wade tenses and whimpers, anticipating pain, but Logan doesn't break the skin. He's already smelled enough of Wade's blood tonight, enough for a fucking lifetime.

He pulls back just enough to look Wade in the eye. "What the fuck were you thinking back there?"

The slap shook him but he’s already recovering, raising his eyebrows and starting to smirk. "Well, you know how it is when that battle haze comes over you. It’s all just flow state and instinct. And a dash of horny, once things really get going--"

Logan gives him a shake, maybe harder than he means to. It shuts him up, though, so maybe just hard enough. "You still don’t give a shit if you get killed," he says, low and dangerous. "Is that why you wanted to get into this mercenary gig? You got bored of not nearly fucking dying all the time?"

"I didn’t--" 

"You got shot!"

"Grazed," Wade snaps, starting to struggle against Logan’s bruising grip. "I got lightly grazed, all those guys had terrible aim, it doesn’t even hurt anymore--"

This time when Logan kisses him he can't make himself hold back. The taste of blood sizzles on his tongue like lightning, sweet and hot, and the high hurt noise his teeth tear from Wade makes it hard to find any regret.

"You don't get to do that shit anymore," Logan growls. "You don't get to throw away what's mine."

It slides home as smooth as a skeleton key, unlocking Wade like he knew it would. His hips jerk forward and his head falls back against the bricks, already babbling an apology as he offers up his throat. Logan rewards him with a hand fisted tight in his hair to pull his head back even farther, and sharp teeth clamped down hard around the thick cord of muscle that runs from neck to shoulder. Not tearing him open, now, because he doesn't want that. He doesn't even want the blood, really, not when he's in his right mind. It's just that Wade still wants so badly to give it to him.

Logan hurts him like that until the apologies turn into begging, until his cock is as hard as Wade's where they're grinding together. "Please," Wade repeats, choked and thick.

"Yeah? You want something?" Logan kisses him again before he can answer, just long enough to feel Wade open up for him. It's not enough, though. Three fingers in his mouth feels closer to what he wants, and Wade sucks on them gratefully, moaning. Like any way Logan wants to be inside him is the best thing he's ever felt. He doesn't close his eyes, either, even though Logan knows he wants to, how hard it is for Wade to let Logan watch him like this. But Logan asked him for it, once. Before he knew just how careful he had to be about asking Wade to give him things.

"You want me to show you how you're mine?" Logan asks, and Wade nods and mumbles around the fingers in his mouth, incoherent and desperately affirmative. Logan pulls his fingers out and wipes them on Wade's cheek, leaving a thick smear of wet that glitters in the faint, distant glow of the streetlights. Wade shivers, finally squeezing his eyes shut, but offers no other protest.

(Not that he would. Logan's seen him come from being spat on, which was so nightmarishly arousing to watch that he hasn't tried it again since.)

When Wade had finally realized Logan was serious about refusing to fuck him dry, he'd become obsessive about stashing lube everywhere, including the pockets of his work clothes. Logan fishes the packet out now, and when Wade realizes what he's reaching for he almost trips over his own feet turning around so fast. With his cheek pressed to the wall, eyes closed, back arched to present himself, he looks ripped from the kind of magazine that gets sold in brown paper wrapping. The kind you have to ask for, at very specific stores. He looks obscene, and Logan hasn't even gotten his pants down yet.

It's the work of a moment to shove them down around his knees and get his own belt and fly open just enough so he can use the scant handful of lube on himself. Wade shudders at the wet sound, his back curving into an even deeper arch. A cat in heat, desperate to be put down. No matter how sweet Logan is to him it's always this waiting underneath, this shape that other hands bent Wade into long before Logan ever met him.

He loves Wade like this, because there isn't any way he doesn't love Wade; no possible shape of him that Logan wouldn't want exactly this much.

Logan pulls him open and forces his way in too fast, offering not even a breath for Wade's body to welcome him the way it always does, surely would if Logan gave him the chance, but he doesn't and Wade can't entirely swallow the little scream that slips out. His whole back tenses as his body struggles on instinct to get away from what's hurting it, but there's nowhere to go with the wall at his face and Logan boxing him in everywhere else.

Logan leans in close as he settles into a quick hard pace. Already Wade's breathing fast and scared, his hands balled into useless fists, all fear and misery, forgetting why he wanted this so fucking bad. 

"You need someone to hurt you," he rasps into Wade's ear, "you don't pull that kind of dumb shit. You come to me."

Another harsh snap of his hips makes Wade's breath hitch. For a moment he goes even more tense and tight beneath Logan, and a trembling little moan slides past his lips. Logan thinks about stopping; doesn't.

"Come on, Wade," he murmurs. He licks the hollow behind Wade's ear. The slick of sweat that dissolves into his tongue tastes like honey. "Be good for me."

More magic words. Wade sobs and the panicky all-over clench of him eases a little, and a few moments later a little more. Logan's next thrust feels more like fucking, less like cruelty. Enough less, at least.

He smells Wade's tears before he sees them. "Good boy," Logan tells him, which makes him cry harder, but he thanks Logan anyway. Can't seem to stop thanking him, even as he sobs, and it's almost a shocked kind of sound, the way he cries, like a kid with their first broken arm.

God, it feels so fucking good. He's never going to be able to make Wade stop giving him everything because he likes it so much, he fucking loves it, every single time.

Wade comes almost as soon as Logan gets his hand around him, and Logan fills his ear with stupid praise as he works him through it, how he's so good, so tight, so sweet, so good for Logan, so fucking good to him, better than anybody should be. 

Logan doesn't last long either after that, way too worked up do anything but give into it. Wade shakes as Logan fills him, his sobs slowing to sniffles and hitching damp breaths. Logan wraps his arms around him and nuzzles down into his neck, breathing him in deep, and for a minute they stay like that.

Logan waits for his cock to go soft and lets himself slip out as gently as he can. As soon as he's free Wade spins in his arms and grabs his face and kisses him, demanding. It's nothing Logan doesn't want to give him, so he does, all of it, everything Wade wants. Even when Wade breaks off and looks away, swallowing roughly, and says, "Tell me again."

"That you're mine?" Logan watches his eyes close. "You know you are."

"Yeah," Wade sighs. When he opens his eyes again he looks tender, exhausted. Soft. "So take me home already, daddy. It's past my bedtime."

"I fucking hate that daddy shit," Logan mutters. Wade falls into step beside him as he starts back down the street, so close they could be sharing an umbrella, stays soft and close and quiet the whole way home.

[brerdi]

I've been seeing a few dpxdc with a/b/o and I've had an idea in my head so I'm gonna take a shot at this.

Dp and dc are different universes. The dc universe has an a/b/o dynamic, the dp universe does not. What they do have is ghosts that have ghost speech that comes out as growls, purrs, chuffs, chirps, etc. They also have instinctual motive such as teritorialism and aggression; This aggression is its own form of communication and can be used as play, as a way the get to know someone, or as a way to tell someone to fuck off. These noises and instincts are similar to the a/b/o universe but are not a one to one translation, so a happy rumble for a ghost could sound like an aggressive growl for an a/b/o.

So now imagine Jason, who's been dead long enough to get a completely new language and set of instincts downloaded, doesn't understand why his family is so leery of him and keeps watching him like all of a sudden he's going to attack. Why they won't reciprocate his advances to 'play'. And why they keep invading his haunt territory. He doesn't understand why it's so much harder to communicate with the people he loves, it didn't used to be this hard before.

Now enter Danny, who has had to hide all his ghost noises and instincts because it would have outed him to his parents immediately. He winds up in this alternate dimension where people make almost ghostlike noises, but it's like looking in a fun house mirror. The 'words' sound similar, but they don't have the same meaning. Somehow he ends up with the Wayne's. And they believe him to be a very traumatized pup, who doesn't smell right, sound right, or act right. The therapist that they talk to has suggested a very intensive immersion therapy, that has Danny's instincts going wild and losing his everloving mind to get away from.

Finally him and Jason meet, which results in a 'friendly' brawl that has the two shrieking and growling in joy. Which terrifies the bat family member/s that witness it because it looks like their most 'unstable' pack mate is trying to beat their most 'traumatized' pup to death.

Finally after some more misunderstandings the bat pack realize that they've been inadvertently isolating Jason and driving Danny towards an insanity inducing mental breackdown. Finally things get fixed with a little angst and a lot of fluff. And some weekly fight therapy.

[reallife6anoufriev6boy6]

caldre smut fic

includes spanking, praise, degradation, daddy kink, andre being overly worried, etc.

note: this came from a post and then my boyfriend found the full video, so i decided to write this….enjoy your slop/j

calvin was situated over andres lap while he sat on his bed, jeans pulled down to his knees to show his grey boxers.

cal had wanted to try something different this time around, but andre was hesitant.

it was weird to put it simply and he didnt want to hurt his boyfriend. although, theyve done a lot worse - even before they established they were dating.

so, nonetheless he still tries.

“just do it, ‘dre. itll be fine,” cal reassures him, looking back at him “im *asking* you to do it, arent i?”

andre slowly nodded “well, yeah, but i dont want to - you know, hurt you.”

the blonde smiled, enjoying all of the others worry and care “thats the point though, andre. its supposed to hurt.”

hes not wrong, it was supposed to hurt. he just didnt want to get too carried away and hurt him *too* badly.

calvin seems to know what hes thinking, so he adds “i trust you. i know you wont make it too bad.”

with that andre lets out a sigh, flexing his hands to let his knuckles crack “if it hurts too bad youll tell me, yeah?”

calvin quickly nodded, too eager to worry about that sort of thing. he liked how much andre cared, but sometimes it would get in the way of things.

however, the brunette finally gets on with it, trusting that cal will tell him if it becomes too much for him.

andre lays his hand flat over calvins ass, lifting it before bringing it right back down. it wasnt anything too hard at first, but it wasnt too soft either.

cal lets out a short squeak, burying his face into the bedsheets. it felt good although it wasnt exactly the roughness he was looking for.

he brings his hand up again and then back down, taking note of the way the others body seemed to jolt.

he does it a third time and then a forth, now being able to feel cals erection hard against his thigh.

“do it - a little harder, please, andre.” he begged, voice muffled from the bed sheets. he *needed* it to be as hard and rough as possible.

andre hesitated again though, but ultimately obliged - he brought his hand down harder this time which pulls a whiny moan out of his boyfriend.

“was that alright?” he asked, wanting to make sure he was doing it how he wanted him to.

“yeah - god, yeah, ‘dre. keep doing it like that *please.*” his eagerness and begging seemed to take a toll on him. it was always one of the things that got to him.

andre hits him even harder, reveling in the cry he gets in return. its beautiful, really, he thought all the noises cal made were gorgeous.

he gets ready to do it again, but is interrupted by feeling the other grind down against his thigh. it makes his breath hitch and he gets an idea - an idea he has no clue if calvin will like or not, but he does it anyway.

andre slams down his hand twice as hard, getting an even louder cry from cal “dont fucking grind against me unless i tell you otherwise, alright?”

the blonde is ecstatic as soon as he says that - he loves when andre is dominant and can use his naturally commanding tone for something like this.

“yeah - yes, sir - daddy, ah, fuck,” it comes out in a string of nonsense, but hes able to catch onto what he says and it makes his erection strain against his pants.

he doesnt reply though and just lays another slap down, listening to the moaning and whining.

he decides though that he wants to change this up a little bit.

he takes a moment to pull down calvins grey boxers, exposing him fully now. he doesnt seem to mind it - only letting out a whimper from the lack of touch.

andre gives him what he wants again though, flattening out his hand once more and hitting him.

it hurts more now without the barrier and cal lets it show, pressing his hips down as if to move away from the other.

the brunette takes notice and lays down an even harsher hit “i thought you wanted this, calvin? did you change your mind?”

cal cant get over the way he says his name, whimpering again as he shook his head, but that wasnt good enough. he lets out a yelp as hes hit once again.

“yeah - i do, i want it, sir,” it comes out, almost stuttery “please - im sorry.”

andre hummed, letting his hand rest over his ass as he rubbed at the mark already starting to form “tell me how much you want it, cal.”

the blonde swallowed hard, but does his best to answer “so, so bad, ‘dre. i - i wanna feel your hands on me,” he yelped as he was cut off by another slap, but he continued “please, daddy - shit, it feels so good.”

andre wasnt sure if he was dreaming or not. this was too good to be true and he couldnt get enough of it.

he then grabbed a fistful of his silky blonde hair, yanking his head up to look at him.

there were *tears* streaking down his face and there was spit covering his mouth and chin.

he hadnt even realized he started crying and he wants to ask if hes okay - if this was getting to be too much for him, but his boyfriend already knew what he was going to say, so he gives him a short, subtle nod for him to continue.

thats all he needed.

“are you sure thats what you want?,” he questioned, yanking his head back a little further “you want me to keep hurting you like youre some *slut?*”

the blonde nodded eagerly, sniffling “please, please daddy. i need it so fucking bad - you have no idea.”

he lets go of his hair and gets ready to continue, but the other is confused when he doesnt get right back to it.

however, his confusion turns to excitement when he hears andre unbuckling his belt and sliding it out of the loops on his pants.

andre holds both ends and doesnt hesitate to smack it right down against him, hearing the string of sounds and sobs it earns.

he does it again and again - continuing to do it over and over again while he watched the area turn a pretty shade of pink and red.

it was beautiful. he thought calvin looked like an angel no matter what they were doing - even if it something as dirty as this.

“oh, oh ‘dre,” he moaned, digging his nails into the bed sheets “you gotta let - let me do it, daddy. oh, you have to.” its obvious what he means and he figured it wouldnt hurt to let him.

“only if you can behave - dont hump me like some damn dog.” before he can even finish his sentence, he was already grinding down against him like earlier. it felt good to finally relieve the pain.

at this point the blonde was panting like a dog, grinding down against andres thigh so hard that his jeans were starting to irritate his cock, but he makes no effort to stop him.

“oh, fuck, fuck - you, you gotta let me cum, daddy, please-“ it comes out in a sob - so desperate and needy to get himself off no matter what.

andre doesnt have a reason not to let him, so he agreed “yeah, go ahead, cal.” he says it all soft, contrasting from his earlier tone.

calvin takes that and grinds his hips down just about as hard as he could while andre takes the opportunity to lay another hit or two on him.

it was only a moment later that he was cumming all over his thigh with a high pitched moan - moaning andres name as loud as he could, just for him to hear.

its music to his ears, he thinks. all of this was perfect.

calvin is exhausted by the time hes finished, letting himself lay on andres lap while he comes down from his high.

the brunette sets the belt down and placed his hand back over the marks, rubbing over them gently again “that was really good.” he says it, sounding embarrassed for even being into it.

calvin lets out a breathless laugh, finding it cute how embarrassed he seemed to be.

he managed to sit up after a moment, trying to get over the stinging pain in his body “you did good too, ‘dre. youre the best at this,” he compliments him, leaning in to give him a quick kiss before pulling away “im so lucky to have you.”

the contrast between his words and what they did was amusing, but andre didnt care. he just smiled as his face warmed up.

although before he can comment, cals already looking down at his pants.

“oh, andre, your pants,” he tries to hold back his laughter “youre too easy.”

he gives him a confused look, but when he looks down he becomes about a hundred times more embarrassed. there was a wet spot right over his front, obviously from cumming himself.

“goddamnit,” he hissed under his breath “ruined my damn jeans.”

“they were already ruined anyway,” he gestured to the more obvious white spot that was from cal rather then himself “you can just borrow mine, i dont care.”

cal could say he was lucky all he wanted, but at the end of the day andre was even luckier then him.

“thanks, man,” he sighed “do you need me to do anything for you? you know - because…” he was still worried he had hurt him too much, but his boyfriend was quick to reassure him again.

“im fine, andre. dont worry so much,” he smiled as he wiped away the remaining tears in his eyes, face now tacky and dry “you did great.”

he finds it hard to believe him, but he forces himself to anyway.

“im allowed to worry, cal. youre my - uh, shit…” his voice trails off, not being able to say the word. it was all still so new so he didnt want to mess up and say the wrong thing.

“just because im your *boyfriend* now doesnt change anything,” he says it for him “im still the same person.”

he placed his hand on the side of his face, kissing him again. the other quickly reciprocated and leaned into it.

“i love you, ‘dre.”

“i love you too, cal.”

[leggerefiore]

I just got the mental image of feral hybrids who bring you prey that they’ve hunted. You don’t have claws, sharp teeth, or venom, so they feel duty-bound to provide you with food (and perhaps get some praise for their impressive hunting skills). On one hand, the gesture is sweet and well meaning. On the other hand, dead animals/Pokemon.

Galvantula Emmet definitely does this. He entirely does not understand why you fail to eat what usually falls under his prey list. Rejecting the Caterpie he so dedicatedly catches for you makes him sad… The Weedles and Wurmple you had a reason for (poison), but he is trying so hard. You eat food that concerns him far too much! Just like Ingo! He whines about how his poor, too human brother is just eating strange foods. Like burgers. And salads. What are these things? He does not understand. When you reject the harder catches of his, Butterfree and the sort, he whines more. He is debating whether to ask Elesa how to get you to consume his hunts. She usually is nice enough about these things.

He would enjoy some praise for his talents in hunting. Emmet is verrrry good at it! He knows this because he tends to startle humans with his webs, and if they walk into them, then he must be good at making them. You will have to take one for the team there and praise him. The hybrid is going to stare at you with big, pleading eyes. Ingo is begging you at one point later.

(Elesa has to fight off the urge to gag. She informs him that most humans will not participate, unfortunately.)

Sharpedo Grimsley is especially bad about this. While not necessarily feral, per se. He certainly is not one to be bound by human laws to really care about ethics. Which means your shark boyfriend is casually bringing you assorted viscera and entire fish of whatever he catches. Part of him does worry about how you are eating, but he mostly is aware and just wants to observe your reactions. Though, he would appreciate you eating it. Preferably raw, but he understands humans demand things to be cooked. (No one tells him about foodborne pathogens.)

He is doing it to be praised a bit. Grimsley is fully aware of what a good hunter he is — Truly, he adores the title bully of the sea with a passion. Yet, what he desires most is acknowledgment from his adorable human mate. You must see what a worthy mate he is, but you simply never tell him the words. It seems he will have to keep showing off to you until you do.

(A small part of his brain does worry about your diet. It is what drives him to actually bring things you might eat.)

Togekiss Volo definitely has his moments, too. Hisui is a rough place to live — And with everything that he has been through in his life, he simply knows that he has to many things to survive. And, also, just being partially a bird makes him have a simple urge to provide his mate with food. So, get ready for a menacingly tall blond man to bring you prey animals and stare at you intensely if you ask what he is doing. Volo wishes he could stop, but his brain torments him until he does. You refusing to eat the hunted prey will get a squinted look and him seemingly ruffling his feathers. It is quite a moment.

Part of him truly does want to be complimented on his skills — some sick small part of him wants praise for so many things. He knows he is entirely capable of hunting and surviving, but impressing you truly means a lot to him. Even if he despises that it does. Really, he will soak up your compliments while huffing about it to himself later.

(A confused sort of feral mixed with his training to survive.)