#Wells Barrens Preserve

[cricketchirp]

Plains and Barrens and Bogs, Oh My!

Places new to us and those so much more familiar rounded out the week as My Guy and I made time to explore. Our first journey found us driving over an hour and a half south and only getting fake lost as we searched for routes and a place to eat lunch. Mike’s Diner won, a hearty ham and cheese sandwich for him, and grilled cheese with tomato for me. Comfort food. And then we headed along a few…

[nihiltism]

ok thats less of a soil type question i think because disturbance like being covered in toxic goo can happen to any soil? soil types are more based on parent material than anything. that said the closest analogue i have here is an acid rain regime (though i dont know what ph magical goo would have?) which would lead to leaching of nutrients in the soil. it really depends on the properties of the toxic magical goo though

it’s easy to forget, so I’ll remind y’all: you can make fantasy versions of anything. yes even things you might not think about. like soil types. I am thinking of fantasy soil types right now

[demonicbaby666]

Find Me Under the Sycamore Tree

One shot | Marvel Masterlist | Masterlists

Fandom: Marvel

Pairing: Agatha Harkness x fem!reader

Genre: smut

Words: 4.4k+

Warnings: 18+, minors DNI, kidnapping (kinda), blood play, degradation, asphyxiation, fingering, oral sex, pain play, restraints, orgasm denial, overstimulation, branding, sub/dom dynamic, sub!reader, dom!Agatha, dubcon

Summary: You’re scared and alone, running through an endless forest with no idea how you got there. You know you’re being followed. You know Agatha is hot on your trail, but what you don’t know, is what she will do when she finds you.

A/n: THIS IS A DARK FIC. The themes of it can be triggering and will not appeal to some. Read at your own risk, and please avoid if you believe anything in the warnings will negatively affect you.

In the darkness of the witching hour, you find yourself hurling through an endless forest. The trees are barren of life–corpses after winter stripped them of their leaves and, with it, their colour. Branches wack against one another as though they’re trying to huddle together to stave off the cold and preserve what life force remains at the core of their brittle roots. The sound carries. It crackles and follows your every step. 

From the very start, you knew this was a battle you couldn't win. But your defiance, your refusal to accept defeat, fuels your relentless pursuit of freedom. You race through the darkness, ignoring the pain of broken twigs and shrubbery alike as they cut at the underside of your feet, each step a declaration of your unyielding rebellion.

You’re cold, shivering and praying for a miracle in nothing but a slip, its fabric sheer and virgin white, providing no comfort against the brittle bite of clouded mist. The air is thick and wet, sticking to the growing sweat on your forehead as you race against the unseen presence of powerful magic. Your lungs, straining to steal air, make a desperate plea in the silent forest. But the air is too damp to replenish the dwindling fuel left in your chest, and every breath remains a fight with no reward, a constant reminder that the struggle you now face may very well reap the same futile fate. 

You know she’ll find you if she hasn’t already. The chase excites her–watching her prey struggle as each step leads them further into her nest and closer to their death. It won’t be quick and no less painful. Agatha will make sure her eyes are the ones that haunt you in your grave. 

Scattered burrows concealed by darkness leave the earth uneven. Caution is not something time affords you, and so you are left at the mercy of the woodlands, at the divots that seek to knock you off kilter, at the tree roots that jut out of tarmac mud, angry and unruly, cruel to use their network to ensure your pace is broken by constant stumbling. 

Is this it? Is this how it ends? Only an hour ago, you were in bed, sleeping sweetly, blissfully unaware of how unencumbered your life had been. The TV is likely still on, reruns playing in the silence of a bedroom that may never see its occupant again. The candle on your bedside table is probably burnt down to its wick, the last dying embers of its flame flickering behind its glass prison. What you would do for some light now. 

Despite the sweat marking your forehead, the constant burn of your hamstrings and exertion keeping your blood hot, you bristle against the unnatural frost marking the air. It's sharp and travels up your nose like a vine, stabbing its thorns into your head till all you know is the constant ringing of a migraine. Between the cold and adrenaline, the goosebumps raised on your skin stay with you during your every move. It’s a comfort—a reminder that you are still alive and human, and your body is still fighting. 

But it's all for nothing. 

Pessimism is one thing. Rationalism is another. Logic tells you Agatha is closing in, and your best option is to hide, but your head is ringing, and you can’t make out right from wrong or left from right, so instead, you keep forward. Condensation has bruised the forest soil, forcing it into a slippery, sponge-like substance that gathers in clumps above your ankles. It weighs you down and makes navigating through uneven terrain unmanageable. You slip and slide, forcing your eyes ahead, below, anywhere but behind you, too scared you'll see the lurking figure that marks your end like a bad omen. 

A bird flies overhead, a sign of life in the desolate forest, an allying companion trying to flee. Hope. You avert your eyes upward, tuning your ears to the sound of fluttering wings and calls to freedom. You’re choking on the stench of death and moisture by the time you see a clearing. The moon’s silvery light is untouched by the forest there, peeking out from beyond tangled treetops and illuminating the dirt path to sanctified land. 

Stupidly, you freeze, awestruck by the sight. Your body betrays you for only a fraction of a second before rebooting with the intent to sprint. But it’s too late. You’ve made a mistake, and the unforgiving woodland closes in. The open walkway is drowning in darkness as branches twist, shift and interlink. It doesn’t matter that you’re running faster than you have your whole life; the exit is sealed like a vault when you make it to the end of the forest tunnel.

The last embers of hope are snubbed out from beneath you, burying themselves in the hollow pools of earth your collapsing knees create. You can feel her, smell the sandalwood clinging to her skin, but there is no adrenaline left, no fight left in you to get up, to cower, to beg. Instead, you stare at the tiny cracks between branches and freedom, biting your tongue when something blunt and heavy hits the side of your head.

“Poor thing,” Agatha cooes, crouching beside you to gently pull sticky, bloodied hair off your face. Her wicked, toothy smile is the last thing you see before unconsciousness swarms you. 

Everything that happens next comes to you in flashes. You register the bindings over your wrists and ankles, aware that no manufactured material can offer this phantom sensation, leaving magic the only culprit. The murky brown landscape around you spins, transforming into more of the same as you’re dragged forward, feet hovering above the ground. You can see Agatha. She’s about a yard away, one hand to the side, trailing ever so slightly behind with a bright cord of purple connecting your restraints to the emerging tendrils of magic gleaming off her fingers. 

Your blood is molten copper, tangy and hot on your tongue. The metallic zing that lingers over your tastebuds keeps you present for the rebinding of your limbs. Your back presses against rough bark, sap oozing through the thin cotton of your slip, and you shiver against the cold, sickly substance as it sticks to your back. An incantation is whispered into the breeze, and roots peeking out from the dirt below take on a life of their own. They wind over your body till your arms are forced behind you, around the large sycamore tree, and your ankles are spread shoulder-width apart and held close to the base of the trunk. 

A single swing of Agatha’s finger and your slip is torn clean down the middle, falling to each side of your shoulders and exposing the entire length of your body. An angry red line marks the travel of magic from your sternum to your sex, inked in red droplets. What had you expected? To be gently undressed and appraised for your naked form. No, that wasn't how this would happen. This wasn’t about you or for you. 

Agatha hums quietly, looking you up and down as her fingers dip into the scarlet liquid pouring from your wound. Around you is more of the same: dirt paths littered with fallen leaves, tree carcases disfigured, withering away to winter, and beyond the horizon, peeking through branches, is the moon. Its light does not shine down on the woodlands. This place is unworthy of anything that could contribute to the sustenance of life. It is a no man's land, and anyone unfortunate enough to wander through its endless trails will surely discover the resting place for their last breaths. 

“You’re quiet,” the brunette remarks, looking away from the gauged flesh of your stomach to your face, which she inspects speculatively. Her fingers remain focused on painting your stomach red. 

You stare at her blankly, giving nothing away. If Agatha’s goal is to revel in your fear, she will find not a lick of fright from your trained features. The pain is more challenging to mask, especially when a sharp fingernail digs into your cut, tearing the flesh anew, intent to never let it clot. You make no sound, clenching your teeth together, flaring your nostrils and forcing yourself to breathe steadily through the pain. 

Agatha tuts and, always one for the dramatics, has a sizable pout on her face, feigning upset, “You’re no fun.” 

When you remain silent, Agatha’s mock sadness shifts into something darker, curious and unexpected. Her usual victims must have all begged, cowered and cried. Alternatively, they may have responded with anger, relying on brute strength that could only take them so far in the face of the unnatural. In the end, they all gave her the same. They all showed her how fragile and fickle the human mind is. They allowed her to penetrate their defences in one way or another, letting her sink her claws into their foundations and find what lies beneath bravado and tears—fear. But anyone given too much of the same gets bored.

“There is no one but us here. What good would screaming do?” You ask, levelled and calm. It’s tricky to tame the tremors of your jaw and the chattering of your teeth, but allowing them to disrupt your question's pace and timbre would paint a less-than-idyllic picture of your already declining resolve. 

Her grin is one of triumph, and whilst the song it sings is laden with satisfaction, you can see the underlying relief trickle through the harsh bite of her smile, intrigue burning brighter behind her coral-blue eyes. 

“It speaks,” she announces to an invisible crowd, arms wide and spread. “And you’re right, sweetpea. Screaming wouldn’t do you any good.” 

In the following silence, you allow yourself to take Agatha in fully. Her plum slacks are clipped at her ankles, revealing only the tips of her black boots. A navy blue overcoat is draped over her white blouse, freshly pressed and framing her figure perfectly as it sinches her waist and falls seamlessly down her body. Her hair, wavy yet tame, is loose, falling over her breasts in layers of chestnut brown streaked with shades of dark caramel. 

Time will always know Agatha’s name. Her murderous ways are etched into the fabric of history, tales of her unique powers passed down from coven to coven, witch to witch, and for you, mother to daughter. But one thing history has failed to highlight is the beauty of her treachery. She basks in her reputation like a conqueror holding their crown, surveying fallen bodies and foreseeing their gluttonous future in the reflections of pooled blood. The power suits her, even if she fails to wear it humbly. 

There’s a pleased look on her face when you meet her eyes, and she says, “Ogle away.” 

You scoff, looking anywhere but at the witch and willing the cold to taper the heat emanating from your cheeks. The sound of leaves being mercilessly crushed under Agatha’s boot is crisp. The clean crunch sounds once, twice, and you stiffen, hating how your feet beg to scurry and hide. You’re better than the fear and the cowardice urges, but at the end of the day, you’re only human, and your body acts without the restraints of your mind in perilous situations. You reign in the jitters, force your limbs to remain still, and your face stoic. 

She’s close. Her breath is tickling your face ever so gently, her finger and thumb pinching your chin to force your gaze forward, and it’s increasingly becoming more challenging to ignore the electric sensations that are zapping about in your stomach. It was a stump of wood that knocked you out, magic that tethered you to Agatha as she dragged you through the forest and the vines that are now what keep you bound. Leaving this, the first time you’ve felt Agatha’s touch. 

“I quite enjoy the attention.” Agatha grins, staring directly into your eyes, keen to sink her nails into the steel armour that holds your tears at bay. 

It’s odd. Where her fingers should be imbued with murderous intent, they are far from roughspun on your skin. Her grip is harsh, but her thumb is feather light as it grazes the underside of your lip, and her finger soft as it brushes the length of your jaw, catching wisps of sodden hair soaked with sweat, blood and condensation. It sends another jolt of something sharp and hot down your spine.

“Don’t,” you whisper through a shaky breath.

There’s no reason the older woman should heed your command, and there are no consequences if she doesn’t. She’s in control and knows it—is unafraid to show it. 

The shivers are back with revenge, but it isn’t the cold or fear that fuels them; it’s the weight of a palm resting against your stomach, warm and heavy as it meanders over your ribs. With no preamble, her hand comes to lay over your breast, and her fingers tighten around the globe of flesh, squeezing before they move down to circle your hardened nipple. 

“Stop,” you whisper, miserably aware of how your voice is weakened by lust and holds no authority. 

It shouldn’t feel good. You know it shouldn’t. But your body disagrees, chest arching forward into the heated touch of Agatha, and much to your chagrin, there’s a trapped moan tickling the sides of your throat that you vehemently fight to keep at bay. 

Your refusal to submit only makes this more fun for her, and your submission would guarantee your imminent demise, so you’re left walking a tightrope, fine-tuning your responses in a waking effort to remain alive. It’s that awareness, that constant cycle of methodical thoughts, that helps you realise a moment too late you’ve chosen the wrong course of action. 

“I said stop,” you shout, slamming your head forward to collide with Agatha’s nose. 

The older woman’s smile corrodes with anger, momentary but fierce as fire and hotter than the blazing end of a poker stick. When you blink away your fears, the fury is gone, but its effects are lasting. Agatha grabs you by your throat, cutting off your airways with her powerful grip, and slams your head back with a quick shove that has you seeing stars. 

“That wasn’t nice.” Something is alarming about her smile. It’s plastic and appears false, but beneath its exterior, there’s some sort of maniacal truth to it, like she’s overjoyed by the prospect of seeing you dazed at her hand, which isn’t hard to believe. 

With a drawn-down motion of her free hand, another cut marks your flesh, and pain overwhelms your senses. It's blinding and oddly familiar—something you can hold onto like a crutch to keep you planted in the present. You bite down the weak urge to vocalise your suffering, swallowing down a strained cry that feels much too similar to sandpaper. 

If Agatha is unhappy with your lack of response, she doesn't show it. In fact, not even a second is spent surveying you or her work before she’s three fingers knuckle deep inside your cunt, stretching you out over and over as she pumps with both speed and vigour. 

“Tell me to stop,” she growls. “I dare you.” 

You mutter a quick, “Oh fuck,” under your breath and try to focus on the blood trickling down your stomach and dripping onto Agatha’s wrist instead of the way she’s playing your body like a fiddle. It’s all-consuming; the pleasure swarms you from every angle, turning your legs to jelly, leaving you at the mercy of the vines that hold you up and Agatha, who keeps you upright with her unrelenting grip over your neck. 

“Come on, pet. Tell me how much you hate this, and I’ll stop.” 

The wet sounds emanating from your sex seek out the deep-rooted shame that lives in the pit of your stomach. It’s the realisation that some sadistic part of you enjoys this that hits you like a ton of bricks, and you want to deny it; deny Agatha the victory points, but your mind and body are bending to her will with the curl of her fingers and another gush of arousal. 

“You like this, don’t you?” Agatha purrs, her hot breath clammy as she bites down on your earlobe. “Your cunt was practically begging for my fingers.” 

All hopes of refuting her statement are stolen by the myriad of kisses and bites Agatha trails down your neck, halt over your pulse point, where she takes the beating flesh between her teeth and marks you with a bruising imprint of her savage affections. At a loss for words, the only thing you can focus on is the maintenance of your restricted airflow. The pace at which Agatha is overturning your body makes it hard to sustain a regular breathing pattern, but you force the minimal oxygen into your lungs and heave it out through crackled gurgles. 

Slender fingers carry you to the edge till all you feel is the pent-up pressure in your abdomen, overpowering the anguish and anger directed towards Agatha. 

The distraction lasts for a brief second. 

Your release is not what floods your body. Instead, there is only searing, blistering pain. Agatha’s fingers, previously nestled within the walls of your pulsing cunt, now lay over your fresh wound, skating through the dark oozing red liquid, pressing into your abused flesh.

It’s one too many times you’ve had to hold in your agony, and this time, you can’t control your blood-curdling scream. It’s not directed at Agatha. Instead, you fling your eyes up to the sky, begging it to produce a single star bright enough to peek through the twisted branches above. 

There is nothing but darkness and gloom and no break from the constant torrent of flooding stimulation as Agatha drops to her knees. The image should have you feeling superior, yet all you feel is the steady thrum of nerves and residual pain, ghastly aware that the older woman is probably the most in control out of the two of you. Even if the way she’s staring at your slickened pussy can only be described as crazed. 

When the first swipe of her tongue glides through your slit, something breaks in you. Your crippling hold on your restraint wavers, and the foundations begin to crack. You know you can hold on, but for how long, you are no longer sure about. Your body is betraying once again, hips cantering forward to push Agatha further into your sex, moaning through your clenched jaw and humiliatingly writhing as pleasure floods every nerve ending in you. 

Agatha buries herself into you, tongue fucking your pussy with scornful ease till you’re hanging on the precipice of another orgasm. Then, she stops again, pulling back with a smug smile and rising to her feet to say, “God, you’re needy.” 

You want to cry, and you want to scream and shout and demand she touch you again. But you can’t. You can’t because that’s precisely what the older witch wants. She wants you pliant and pleading, easy to manipulate in the palm of her hand until she tires of your compliance and gifts you to death. 

It doesn’t make sense. Nothing does anymore. Not until Agatha is back inside you, pulsing her fingers in and out so fast you can barely breathe, hitting spots deep inside you that haven’t been touched in years. You’re screaming, and you’re yelling and screaming and screaming from the ever-mounting pleasure that feels like it will never reach its peak, and the pain—biting, sharp and constant as your muscles tense over and over again, and your limbs wrestle to be free. The presence of your blood is everywhere, shooting through veins, racing in your ears and dribbling down your stomach. It’s heaven and hell, ecstasy and delusion, breathing and drowning all at once. It’s too much. It’s not enough. 

Your fight against the vines keeping you restrained doesn’t go unnoticed by Agatha. She’s dipping her eyes to and from your face to your wrists, trying to figure out something beyond your grasp. The witch maintains her grip around your neck, crushing your wide pipes, and oxygen deprivation is beginning to take effect, but it’s not so all-consuming that you fail to feel the pressure ease around one of your wrists. 

It’s a risk on her part and an opportunity on yours. You can feel the warm allure of your magic dance over your fingertips and the chance to strike with a closed fist and brute force. 

You do neither. 

The trees are becoming blurred, the ground beneath you clouds and your pain a lullaby to your mind's erratic pleas to resist. For once, everything is silent, and in some kind of moronic fucked up sense of gratitude, you move your hand up and curl your fingers over Agatha’s, strengthing her grip over your throat. You can feel your pulse beat between both your fingers, see the pleased smile Agatha is wearing, and hear the beauty in your unrestrained moans of pleasure. Maybe, just maybe, dying like this - after this - wouldn’t be so bad. 

“I need,” you stammer, removing your hand from Agatha’s, placing it on the back of her neck and pulling her forward. It’s bubbling inside you again—the ardent need to cum. It lives in your muscles that are tension-bruised and exhausted. “I need to-”

“Oh, sweetie,” she coos before her lips come crashing down on yours in a demanding kiss that’s all teeth and tongue. 

The roots wound around your body remain the only thing keeping you up, and at Agatha’s behest, they disappear, burying themselves back within the earth, where they belong, leaving the push of her body against yours the only thing that keeps you upright. She takes her role in earnest, removing her hold on your neck to hoist your legs over her hips and keep you steady, continuing to drive deeper into you at this new angle. 

Bark has all but torn through the thin material of your slip, and in an effort to move away from the brittle sting of microscopic splinters, you tangle your arms around Agatha’s neck and lean forward, burying your moans and whimpers into her shoulder. The position would not be far from intimate if it weren’t for the way your body bounces over the fingers fucking into you and the force at which they do so. 

The presence of a thumb is featherlight over your clit, teasing you with its potential. And, of course, nothing comes free. Not when tiny remnants of your dignity remain intact that need removing. You let free a whine, and when that doesn’t work, a meek ‘please,’ and instantly, the older woman’s touch becomes crushing. She’s rubbing quick, consistent circles over the bundle of nerves, fueling the engine that carries and dishes out sparks of pure, unadulterated heat down your spine, filtering through your veins and capillaries till it reaches your head and manifests into burning need. 

You’re being pushed back into the harsh surface of the sycamore tree, yet you can’t find it in yourself to care, not when Agatha’s hand is back over your breast, her mouth on your neck, and you’re on the cusp of a long-awaited orgasm. 

There is no interruption to your peak this time and Agatha revels in every second of it alongside you. She pulls back to watch like you’re a performer, and she’s waited a lifetime to secure a ticket to this show. Every jut of your hips, shake of your jaw and cry from your mouth is reflected back at you in her spangled eyes, drinking you in a breath of fresh air.

You’re so taken by the pull of euphoria you don’t register the heated touch over your breastbone. You can hear your skin sizzling and see the scorched initials of her name when you glance down. Still, all you seem to feel is your never-ending orgasm as the stimulation continues, throwing you headfirst into another release and even then, Agatha doesn’t stop. She’s consumed with the sight of your bliss, hungry to live in it forever as she keeps fucking into you with her fingers, circling your oversensitive clit till it stings, and you’ve got tears swimming in your eyes. 

You’re unsure how long it goes on for, how long she pulls orgasm after orgasm out of you. You’re dipping in and out of consciousness, and with the emergence of every new blacked-out spot obscuring your vision, you’re dimly aware the forest around you is beginning to take on a new life.

Branches are illuminated by the balmy glow of the emerging sun, and the frost coating their exterior thaws under its warmth, turning thin layers of ice into water droplets. Dirt paths littered in corpse leaves are no longer a muddy brown. Now, they are canvases splattered in the tawny colours of autumn. The smattered shades of honey and marigolds are a welcome sight as Agatha pushes your legs off her and leaves you to stand alone, breathless and weak. Dignity was something you lost between the baring of your skin and branding of your flesh, so you allow your knees to buckle beneath you and welcome the soft embrace of dirt. It is kinder to you than bark. 

“What will you do with me?” you ask, keeping your eyes levelled with the changed woodlands. Conviction bleeds through your demand, even if the silent wracking in your chest and the crack of your voice slightly diminishes it. 

“Come,” Agatha beckons. 

You fail to stop a full-bodied shiver from tearing through your body. Its shadow echoes in the clattering of your bones as you look up to see the older woman hovering above you. She’s staring, scrutinising you before coming to a hasty decision. She removes her jacket and crouches down so she’s at eye level, and your straining neck thanks her with a quiet crack. Then, satin material is over you and Agatha’s body heat - still embedded into its lining - sinks through the cold outer layer of your bare skin. 

“Now,” she begins with a quirked brow, slapping her knees as she rises, “up you get.” 

You cringe at the crippling pain that shoots up your legs, but you’ve swallowed your discomfort for too long now to show yourself incapable of doing something so simple as standing. 

“I don’t understand.”

Agatha smiles, delicately tracing a finger over your heart, along marred skin marked ‘A.H’, “You belong to me now, pet.”

Tags: @stayevildarling | click here to be added to my taglist

[oleander-nin]

The Coldest Heart(Yandere Future Rise Donatello x Reader)

A/N, not important: Any criticism is welcome, constructive or not. This is supposed to be a gender neutral reader, so if I screwed up somewhere, please tell me.

-Ollie

CW: Apocalypse, kidnapping, freezing, dark themes, yandere themes.

Words: 1291

Summary: Donnie cuts off the heat

Winters were always frigid in the apocalypse, the broken terrain and weather making the places that have never seen a snowflake now completely frozen over. The “snow” that covered the barren wasteland outside the base’s doors was a poisonous brown, bubbling when it touched the ground instead of sticking. It may be frozen, but it was nothing like the fluffy white snow you held dear in your memories. You shiver under the blankets you were given, your body curled up in a weak attempt to preserve the heat trapped under the blankets with you. You were exhausted, sleep pulling at your eyes and trying to coax you under, but the cold biting at your fingers and toes was unrelenting. Your ears and nose burned, keeping you alert as you try to keep out the frigid air. The small amount of heat Donnie allowed in his lab was gone, the furnace broken and vents turned off. Cold had seeped into every crack and was now trying its best to choke you out as well.

You turn your head towards Donnie as he types onto a monitor projected by his ninpo, sticking your face into the bitter cold. His outfit amazed you, the mutant only being dressed in a thin sweater made to stretch over his battle shell and sweats that were a size too small. You look at him in envy, not understanding how he could withstand the freezing temperature in the thin clothing he had. Donnie turns his head at the feeling of your boring gaze, his eyes meeting yours and his tridactyl hands leaving his keyboard which causes it to falter, then disappear. For the first time in the months since he had stuck you in his lab in claims of protecting you, you don’t break your gaze. Whether it was from exhaustion or the cold, you no longer cared about such a simple thing as keeping your eyes off the man you hated most. If he was truly upset with your staring, he could come and close your eyes himself.

“You’re shivering.” Donnie muses, his voice teasing and airy as if the frostbite creeping over your nose was a mere tasteless joke. You scowl, burying yourself back into the plethora of blankets that covered the cot Donnie had you share with him. You hear him chuckle at your childish display, driving in the belittled feeling he had sunk into your heart.

“Fix the heat then.” You grumble at your captor, not caring for niceties. You can hear his chair shift and you look back at him through a crack in the blankets, seeing his eyes averted downwards as he chews on his cheek. His knuckles are now digging into his teeth, his eyes looking everywhere but you as he seems to be debating himself over something. His shoulders are more hunched, like he was a little kid who got caught stealing cookies late at night.

“You know I can’t.” Donnie says, like he was trying to be firm but his voice falters. He still refuses to meet your eyes, only staring at the floor as he chews on his knuckles. Your eyes narrow, your knees pulled closer to your chest as another cold burst breaks through the blanket barrier.

“You’ve already fixed it.” You accuse, the chattering of your teeth breaking up the sentence and making it sound more pathetic than you hoped. Donnie finally pulls his fist away from his mouth as he stares back at you, crossing his arms and protesting with a loud, “indignant scoff.” If you could feel your feet, you would run over there and strangle him.

“If you’re cold,” Donnie starts, his voice tight as he dodges your accusation to try and quell your thoughts, but ends up confirming it instead. “You can grab a blanket and come sit with me. I’ll keep you warm.”

You sneer, diving back under the blanket den you had created around yourself. Even if you wanted to cuddle up to the person who was holding you hostage in the name of ‘safety’, you couldn’t. Your feet were so frozen you couldn’t feel them more than a dull pain, and your fingers couldn’t close around the thin material of the blankets anymore. Silence stretches through the lab, and you’re sure Donnie had given up and turned back around.

A quick padding of socked feet breaks the silence and two arms wrap around your covered self, lifting you from the cot and into Donnie’s arms. He mumbles a swift apology as you flail and curse, quickly moving back to his chair and depositing you in his lap. He shifts the blankets around, helping you pop your head out so you could see. Donnie cups your cheek with one hand, the other still firm around your lower back so you couldn’t squirm away from him and escape. The feeling of his hand on your face is one you always hated, but the burning head of his warmth makes you hiss in pain rather than disgust. He was an oven, his hand slowly heating your cheeks and bringing color back to your face. You melt into him after a minute, nearly crying when his warm hand leaves your cheek to cup your ears.

“You are cold.” He mutters, mostly to himself. He continues to try and warm you himself for a small while, attempting to bring your body temperature up from the dangerous levels it had fallen to. He eventually signs and gives up, summoning a projected screen with numerous switches and buttons. He clicks a few things before closing the screen and pulling you closer, easing open the blankets you clung to so he could pull your whole body against him and try to warm you up.

You hear the vents above slowly whirr to life, the room slowly being filled with a strong heat that makes your head spin. You blink at Donnie, your limbs unstiffening as you try not to cry.

“You fixed it…” You mumble, letting your head hit the dull point of his plastron. Donnie nods, rubbing your back beneath the blankets. Anger pools in your chest for only a moment, the relief of the heat taking over and the exhaustion pushing through once more.

“I fixed it within minutes of its breaking. I wasn’t going to let the base freeze.” Donnie pulls you closer, kissing your temple with a smug smile. “You, however, weren’t letting me touch you, so I turned off the heat to try and convince you to let me touch you more, but that seems to have backfired.”

You scowl, hitting his shoulder with your forehead. You wanted to scream, to bite him, to do anything to make him suffer like he had you for the past few days, but you don’t. You were terrified he would turn the heat back off. His lab was obviously able to be isolated from the other parts of the base, which horrified you. For all you knew, he could leave and seal the doors before shutting the oxygen off for a couple minutes, just to let you suffer.

Donnie continues to rub your back, his quiet humming not showing any bit of remorse for the torment he had put you through. He seemed happy with the outcome, and you figured he was. Here you were in his arms, just as he wanted. Maybe once you could feel your fingers again, you’d try and fight him, but for now, you had given up. The heat was too much of a reward for you to risk losing it now. Even Donnie’s arms were a price you were willing to pay to not freeze. His plan had worked, and now nothing would stop him from doing it again.

[love-toxin]

Trapped - Harley Kunuk

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

word count: 25.8k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Thank you. I'm really sorry-"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Uh…Harley, hey! Wait!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I don't see him."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-nine."

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

"Kinda. Just helped out."

"Do you have cows?"

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

"Yeah. Chickens, too."

"You do?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Or?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You're really sweet, Harley."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Well…what about rent? And-"

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

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

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

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

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

"Okay. Yeah, I'll…I'll stay."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Wh..What if someone comes by?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh."

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

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

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

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

"What if I hurt him?"

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

"H-Harley, if Elias-"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"...He's been nice to me, I just…"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Gun? What gun? Elias-"

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

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

"Down!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's you.

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

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

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

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

"Ever eaten bear before?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"...That's it?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Do I make you feel that way?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Stay.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Harley?”

“Yeah?”

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

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

“...You look even better naked.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hi.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I love you.”

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

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

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

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"L-Like how? From beh–nnh–behind?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I can try.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Crunch.

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

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

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

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

Drip. Drip. Drip.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[callmecrazy4u2]

Aventurine x Reader x Sunday

My Jewel, My Dove Series

My Jewel Side - Childhood friends! Aventurine x Reader

Caught in the Facets

Preserved in memory shining bright like jewel Aventurine could not forget as he twirled his crystal glass that encapsulated the familiar yet so different view of his childhood friend singing on stage.

The clattering of casino tokens gave way to thrown dice. Aventurine mused over his past when porcelain dice on a ritzy casino board gave way to wooden dice thrown on wooden board in dusty desert as a child. Where he was pronounced the winner of child's game on a dusty windblown world.

A desert that stormed but never rained. The avign and katicans homeland where harsh winds blew and the tribes were outcasts to wastelands. The avign were constantly feuding with the Katicans for the few resources imperative for survival in harsh conditions like thiers.

Savagery and stereotypes abounded. It was whispered that the avign's sweet cravings could lure people in with dashing good looks and hypnotic eyes with shady caravan dealings. That the katican tribe was a warlike and brutal race that razed tribes to the ground for resources. The sand smudged the truth on both sides and was worsened by the constant fight for survival in barren land, while the elites stood safe on the sidelines protected by bountiful, richer, and greener lands.

In every village, if one was a blessed child there must be a cursed child.

However, to two small innocent children those were adult problems. Both prepubescents were bright eyed and golden haired and were currently concerned with a game of dice on the dusty ground.

"Aha I won again" crowed Kakavasha

"You must've cheated" the girl pouted stamping her foot and puffing out her cheek in consternation.

"Nah It was my blessing" cheekily put Kakavasha's eyes shining.

"Or your curse" rudly put in a group of bullies that had

Excuses curses don't exist silly don't listen to the bullies

The outcast y/n was the one dubbed as a cursed child as she had no blood family . Her mother died in childbirth and she was taken in by Kakavasha's family welcoming her as one of their own.

"My luck will drive the bad luck away don't listen to what they say" Kakavasha promised grasping her hand in solidarity as he pulled her alongside him into their family tent.

"Don't worry about that silly superstition. we are still standing after all " teased his older sister while their mother more wary of superstitions shsuhed her.

"By the grace of tricerotops may it not be true ....but a blessed child can surely counter a cursed one." Mama fugue spoke as she was superstitious. However his mother was still softhearted and couldn't leave a child alone so practically adopted y/n her as her own

They were the closest of companions since Kakavasha defended her from bullies,

" Ew don't hang around her she cursed your better than that because your blessed Kakavasha" coaxed the kids crowding around him

"Yea she has eyes that can see into your soul " spat another.

"I heard thats why the katicans keeps attacking us the cause of her cursed eyes." whispered even some of the adults from whom some of the children heard the rumors from.

"How spooky I heard she sees a future full of flames" gossiped the superstitous elders in hushed tones.

"Don't listen to them and even if it true my good luck will balance out your bad luck" promised Kakavasha convinced of his mother's daily assertions of his luck.

They were side by side doing chores and playing games. Whether it be brushing a camel, drawing water from a well or exploring the desert.

One of their favorite pastimes was hiding behind flapping laundry ,that was hung up to dry and playing hide and seek among the sheets.

It was peaceful life quirt with some night rumbling stomachs but overall a happy childhood were they knew no other life than dry derst sand. With activities that ranged from Counting the milling birds in the air, rolling their dice for made-up games, sitting by camp fires for stories, and watching the merchants haggle over goods.

Then the Katicans attacked.

War had broken out for the scarce resources for basic survival food water clothing goods that the avign traded.

Kakavasha's sister even headed out the warfront saying "We have to fight or lose everything "

The tent was engulfed in flames. Fights broke out mayhem waged and screams rang out.

"You are a blessed child so you must survive. RUN!" with a push Mama whispered grasping his head tenderly with a kiss before running in the opposite direction to face their enemy.

Small Hands grasped each other tightly together but were lost when confronted by an enemy warrior. To avoid the blows they were forced to split their hands apart and separated by falling debris and a world on fire. The two children in terror both ran lost in the chaos

only to be later to find shelter by allies, caught by enemies

bound by slavery, chains,

sent to the IPC, to jail

meeting, topaz, diamond, jade the ten stonehearts

meeting gopher wood, robin, sunday, the family

only to rise, to fall.

Aventurine defending himself in court against the ipc,

y/n participating in penaconys prison riot

losing old names to be reborn as new

Kakavasha rising to become Aventurine one of the stonehearts

Y/'n becoming Dove a star on the Penacony's stage part of the family

The blessed and cursed child were separated but who really was cursed or blessed? Both? None?

In the turmoil of the avign massacre both having slipped by and somehow survived to live different lives

Only to meet again in Penacony.

A singer on a stage and a gambler in his den.

Hypnotic eyes caught each other and could not look away.

Reunited at last for the start of a play another game.

Who will win this time?

[worldstarz]

persona 3 spoilers (part 2!)

pairing: shinjiro aragaki x fem!reader

tags: angst

a/n: continuation of this post. i will edit this as soon as i wake up in the morning but i told myself i will not go to bed until this leaves my drafts bc it’s been marinating for like five days. also what is the title of this two part thing??

HUGE SPOILER WARNING FOR OCTOBER IN PERSONA 3 !!!

———

it still smells like him.

the room is barren. shinjiro never wanted to leave his mark on the world, trying to erase his own existence. but, as you lie on the sheets that have yet to be changed, the subtle musky scent engulfs you.

“it still smells like him,” you repeat your thoughts aloud, as if by addressing it would make it permanent.

maybe this was weird. if he were here, standing before you, he would be staring down at you with a quirked brow. “what the hell are you doing?”

why did he come to your room that night? what purpose did he have, knowing his own fate?

you try not to cry. you’ve cried enough already, and the image of shinjiro in your head would certainly scold you, telling you to just get up and get some food with him.

but he’s not here.

sure, it’s not what he would’ve wanted, but you make yourself comfortable on his bed. it’s the least he could do after confessing his desire for you, knowing he would die the same day.

lying on your back, you allow your mind to wander. why does it feel like you’re the only one stuck in the past? how has everyone been able to bounce back so quickly? hell, akihiko is basically his brother and he’s already moved on. speaking of moving on, amada’s completely—

fuck, what is wrong with you?

for the past few days, you tried to block these festering thoughts. being open minded was what lead you to be so close to shinjiro. akihiko just processes his grief differently, while amada was just a kid blinded by revenge.

but still…

you sit up abruptly. he wouldn’t want this.

you swing your legs over the edge of the bed and plant your feet on the ground. he wouldn’t want this.

you stand up, smoothing over your clothes. he wouldn’t want this.

but what the hell do you even know about him? how do you know what he would want? you couldn’t even become close enough to figure out what plagued his mind during his every waking moment. maybe if you did, you would’ve been able to stop—

no. he wouldn’t want this either.

just like how he would want akihiko, amada, and everyone else to come together and move on. he would not want you beating yourself up over something you weren’t involved in.

you take a deep breath in, then out. in. out. okay. you’ve got this. this is your last day to be in his room before everything is moved out. all that will remain is the memory of him. everyone else already got a turn a few days ago, so this is your last chance to preserve whatever fragments of him are left in here.

the drawer to his desk is slightly ajar. out of respect for his privacy, you begin to shut it, but something oddly familiar peaks out.

is that…?

with wide eyes and shaky hands, you reach in.

it’s a photo of the two of you, back when shinjiro still went to school, before you had any ideas about why he came to class everyday all beat up.

you’re smiling, holding up a peace sign, while shinjiro glared at the camera. it was a picture taken to commemorate the end of junior high school—one that took a lot of convincing for him to agree to.

on the back, sprawled in your handwriting, you wrote;

“shinjiro,

i found this picture of us from the last day of junior high! it’s weird how much time has passed.

have you been eating well? how is your sleep? are you still growing out your hair? i know you’re not feeling well, but as soon as your health improves, we should hang out again.

also, i miss seeing you in class. hurry up and get better! i need someone to talk to!

-[name]

11/04/08”

it takes you a second, but you do remember writing this. judging by the date, it was roughly a month after he took his leave of absence, citing medical issues. you didn’t have much contact with him outside of school, so you relied on akihiko to transport the photo to him.

you crouch down, trying to get ahold of your emotions. you’ve done enough crying. he wouldn’t want you to waste so many tears on him.

but haven’t you been ignoring his wishes already?

you bury your face in your hands in a pathetic attempt to muffle your sobs. physically, nobody was in here. but for you, shinjiro was everywhere. in this room, in the hallways, in the lounge, on the streets, at school—he followed you everywhere. your morale bent under the weight of his memory.

only now do you realize there will come a day where you will have known the grief longer than you have known him.

but this pain is better than never knowing him in the first place.

shinjiro, who secretly cooked meals for koromaru.

shinjiro, who never let you go to bed on an empty stomach.

shinjiro, who tried to push you away, but failed.

shinjiro, who held you close hours before his death.

shinjiro, who didn’t want to leave his mark on the world, but left a mark on you.

the grief will never go away. you will carry it with you wherever you go, and the weight of it will never diminish. but, you can grow around it. you will grow around it.

because that’s what he would’ve wanted.

[reverieparacosm]

Could i perhaps request what it would be like to be in a relationship with the witch-king during his reign of Angmar? F!Reader please! (Also hello hope you are well!)

Headcanons what it would be like to be in a relationship with the Witch-King of Angmar

Witch-King of Angmar (Lord of the Rings) x F!Reader

Warnings: manipulative behavior, toxic relationship, possessive behaviors, worshipping

Note: Hiii! I am fine. :D I am happy that someone finally wants a Witch-King fanfic! There are not enough fanfics about him! :3

Living in Angmar, you would be surrounded by a desolate and barren landscape. The realm itself reflects the Witch-King's malevolent influence, adding to the overall sense of despair and hopelessness

You become a source of light and hope for the Witch-King

You see beyond his dark exterior and recognize the flicker of humanity that still resides within him. Your presence challenges his beliefs and makes him question his allegiance to Sauron

"You are mine, body and soul. No one else shall lay claim to what belongs to me."

His possessive and manipulative nature would drive him to do anything to have you and keep you away from others

You would be the first person to evoke unfamiliar emotions within him, and he would be determined not to let you slip away easily

The Witch-King has high expectations regarding your appearance in public. He will not tolerate you dressing like a slob, and he will react strongly if you challenge him on this matter

Prepare to be lavished with an extravagant amount of jewelry. The Witch-King will spare no expense in adorning you with opulent accessories

He would give you your own servants

His love language for him can be quality time together, although sometimes he can leave his comfort zone and be affectionate with physical contact

Despite the darkness that surrounds him, the Witch-King has an insatiable desire to make you happy

"In my arms, you shall find ecstasy that transcends the mortal realm. I will show you pleasures beyond your wildest imagination."

He may go to great lengths to fulfill your desires and shower you with extravagant gifts and grand gestures

He treats you like an absolute Queen

Living with the Witch-King would likely require you to isolate yourself from the outside world

Your relationship would need to be kept secret, and your interactions with others would be limited to ensure your safety and the preservation of the Witch-King's image

The halls of Angmar would be populated by monsters, serving as the Witch-King's loyal minions. These monsters would add to the sense of dread and foreboding within the realm

Being in a relationship with the Witch-King would expose you to constant fear and danger. His enemies would view you as a potential weakness to exploit, making you a target for their attacks

A deep sense of loyalty binds you to the Witch-King. Despite the challenges and dangers, you find yourself drawn to him, captivated by his enigmatic presence and the intensity of your connection

He is quite interested in what you like, and he is willing to learn things you like just for the fun of it

Occasionally, he may refer to you as his pet. However, it is crucial to note that anyone else who dares to use that term in reference to you will face a painful death

"My love for you is an eternal flame, burning brighter with each passing moment. No distance or obstacle can extinguish it."

Having the Witch-King as your protector ensures that no one with a functioning brain would dare to mess with you. The mere thought of crossing him fills people with unimaginable fear, and some individuals are even afraid to look in your direction due to the consequences they may face

He becomes fiercely protective of you, willing to defy Sauron's orders to keep you safe

Sauron would be jealous of the Witch-King's divided attention and suspicious of your influence on his most trusted servant. He would closely monitor your interactions, trying to discern any signs of disloyalty or betrayal

"I am the shadow that protects you, my love. With a single command, I can bring kingdoms to their knees and shape the world to our whims."

[ideavian]

Every time you post I just wanna know more about EE and Rarity. This is your excuse to just talk about it, I wanna read whatever you say

Ahhh that means a lot! I’m glad you like them :D I’m just going to use this ask for general trivia alsjsksk thanks for the opportunity to ramble!

1. EE was heavily inspired by Ludwig II of Bavaria and his architectural projects! EE takes after a lot of the aesthetics and elements associated with him in both the puppet and the superstructure. He also shares his idealisation of past eras and focus on preserving beauty, to the point of neglecting functional/material concerns.

2. Originally my idea for the campaign was supposed to revolve more around Rarity’s purpose as a mobile memory conflux, so it was more about going to different areas and documenting the environment. Each area successfully documented was supposed to symbolise a corresponding tie with the world, so that Rarity would essentially carry the world within its cells. This would mean that it wouldn’t be able to ascend after entering the void but would simply continue to record until it returned to the material plane with its newfound knowledge. Anyway I scrapped this idea because I had no idea how it would work gameplay wise and also couldn’t come up with that many unique areas :’)

3. The pearl garden region was a result of EE trying to create Rarity. His first attempt of merging biological tissue with pearls was successful but uncontrolled, and the result was too unstable to be any useful in retaining information. The material has high reproductive capacity but an extremely short lifespan, so it infects any living being and basically turns them to pearl statues. Over time, the material spread from the test site and covered the island EE is situated on, wiping out the ecosystem and beginning to strangle the superstructure. EE appreciates the aesthetic value of the infection even though he is very dying.

4. The echo which gives Rarity max Karma, Ten Chimes over Deep Water, was a member of EE’s maintenance crew and also EE’s favourite musician. They were very attached to EE and admired his artistic capabilities, but didn’t share his philosophy that beautiful things should be preserved forever, alive or dead. Chimes was, like other Ancients, used to the world, and they found its lack of novelty tiring. They were therefore enthusiastic about ascension and curious about the world beyond. Nevertheless, they were the last to leave EE’s superstructure for mass ascension. EE viewed their departure as a betrayal and forbade them from ever returning, so Chimes’ echo lingers on the far shore.

5. Rarity is solar powered and well adapted to the barrenness of EE’s surroundings. It likes sleeping in the sun :3 The rain in the region is gentle but floods are common due to poor drainage, so hibernating is still occasionally necessary.

That’s about all I’ve got for now! Might add on more if anything comes to me aldjsksk thanks for the ask!! Also feel free to ask question from here if there’s anything you’d like to know :D

[indie-fanfics]

Pondering J Oneshot

CW Mentions of death and body horror, Standard MD stuff

J stared out. Out at the cold, barren landscape of Copper 9. She stared out, thinking. She was doing more of that lately. Especially about the past. She normally refused to think about back then. What was the point? But now, there wasn't much else to think about. Her and "Tessa" were on the down low, trying to figure out where the cabin fever labs were hidden. And she'd done enough thinking about that, about "Tessa" and her orders. "Tessa," yeah right. J knew it was Cyn, she'd known for years at this point. The horrible little thing kept her believing, hoping, praying even that Tessa was still alive and that's who J was communicating with over the relays. But eventually, as the little things added up and the contradictions complied on themselves like a pile of bounced checks, things clicked for J. She spent weeks agonizing over what she would do, even to the point where V started to get suspicious. In the end, it didn't even matter. Cyn didn't care, it only threatened to do anything if J told the others, and only because that could serve as a memory trigger. And while N had no memories of before. V had just enough to keep her loyal. She paused in her thoughts for a moment, glancing around the perimeter for any potential threats and checking her oil level. She'd need to feed in a few hours. There was only strong winds around her, blowing her hair every which way. J took a few deep breathes before going back to her thoughts. V, poor unsuspecting V. She remembered only a few things from Earth, mainly their time as worker drones and Cyn's "promise," honestly it was a lot more of a threat. But all V focused on was making sure things didn't get worse. N didn't know anything, of course, the idiot would just try to find some stupid way of fixing things that would only cost them time and Cyn's patience. J would know, after all. This was the second exo-planet they had been sent too, the first being somewhat of a test run for Cyn to train her little puppets. Both N and V had near equal memories of earth, minus the killing Cyn had them do when it destroyed the planet. It was a relatively barren planet when they got there, having been one of the first planets and mined almost entirely bare. Full of older drone models too. Programed, like almost all drones, with little sense of self-preservation. It was easy to take out almost all of them, as well as the few humans there that were managing the drones. However, the memories soon started to get to the other two. N became somewhat obsessive with getting back to Earth, wanting to help save Tessa and defeat Cyn. Still naive and stupid as ever. V backed him up on that, surprisingly, but was smart enough to agree that they should at least pretend to follow orders. J rolled her eyes at their plan, but a seed of hope remained that she couldn't quite kill. Cyn, however, found out, turned out the thing was able to listen in on them while they talked. It took control of N and broke his body open from the inside as the Cyn-controlled core forced it's way out, using the material of his corpse to create the an eldritch monster. It forced J to watch as it killed V. Saying that the she should see what happens when the job isn't done right. J still saw those memories whenever she went to sleep. Maybe it was Cyn, maybe it was her guilty conscience. Not like she knew either way. J had to watch as her friends coworkers were killed in front of her. She had to watch what happened when she didn't take control of her team and force them to follow orders. She wasn't going to let that happen again. Every time they tried something, it failed. Every time they failed, they were punished. Every time J didn't do what she was told, she was punished. She didn't care if Cyn tricked her at this point, it was too late for her to try to switch sides again. She was done.

[basicallyjaywalker]

All I Know

Good evening everyone, the time has finally arrived

@someloserinajaywig for you I present, the final fictravaganza fic: Zane angst. Zangst, if you will. I will admit this is not the best bc i'm not super familiar with writing a Zane POV BUT. I hope it is an enjoyable read regardless

Also, I didn't know if you had an AO3 handle but if you do and would like to have the fic gifted to you, lmk!

Prompt: Zane, The Run and Go by Twenty-One Pilots, and temporary amnesia

AO3 Link

Fic under the cut as well!

His throne was a glacier, built with his own powers, his energy, his essence. 

His throne room was the frozen ocean, vast and inhospitable. The only living beings that dared pass through were himself, his advisor, and the guards that made their rounds. Their punctuality was the only way he kept time anymore.

His empire was barren, overtaken by the ice. His ice. His subjects either learned to cope or succumbed to it. Their preserved bodies littered the tundra, a warning spread through whispers amongst the people. 

He was an emperor. A symbol of might, of terror, of strength. He was an iceberg. He was an all-consuming blizzard. 

He dreamed. 

He hated his dreams. He was always in a vast forest. There was always a snowstorm swirling, obscuring his vision. The air was always crisp, and if he focused he could catch something between sickly sweetness and earthiness clinging to the world around him. He was always acutely aware of the absence of something, though exactly what eluded him. He simply always knew there was always an emptiness within the world. 

Sometimes there were beasts with long limbs and hollow eye sockets, but they did not disturb him. They simply passed by, their towering bodies stretching up into the gray sky. 

Sometimes there was someone with him. 

A man with messy hair, white like fresh snow, dressed in the same color. He wore something over his eyes. The emperor felt he knew what they were called, once, but that couldn’t be true. Nothing like them existed in his empire.

Whenever he saw the man, the emperor would just watch him as he went about menial tasks. The man spoke, but the emperor couldn’t hear him, as if wind was constantly rushing right past his ears and drowning everything out. 

The emperor awoke from these dreams agitated. He tried to get his advisor to tell him who the man was, but he insisted he had never seen nor heard of him before. 

“A figment of imagination, your eminence. Do not let it trouble you.”

And so he did not. His advisor was always right. He had rescued the emperor from certain death after being ousted by the traitor. He restored his throne. He reclaimed his throne room. He returned the emperor to his glory.

---

Zane still had those dreams, even after his return. 

They weren’t uncommon before his tenure as the Ice Emperor. He often dreamed of his father and him wandering the Birchtree Forest where they lived. However, something felt wrong about the dreams he had during and after his time in the Never-Realm. He couldn’t explain it. It was like watching a different cut of a film he’d seen a  million times before. There were details missing, but he couldn’t remember them. 

He tried to reach into his memory banks for them, but was met with nothing. The previous version of his dreams didn’t exist anymore. All that existed was the incomplete, glitched version.

Every time he woke up from that dream afterwards, his face was wet. He hated it. He missed something that seemed to have never existed. More than that, he knew, he hated that he felt like it was his fault for forgetting. His own memories were obscured by a horrific episode of megalomania in which he had no choice. At least, that’s what the others said. Truth be told, Zane tried very hard not to dwell on the thought too much. He wanted to imagine he was forced into that role by the manipulation of Vex, but it was fifty years. He was a conqueror, a destroyer, for fifty years, and never thought anything of it? He’d crushed dissent at Vex’s suggestion, but it was still him who brought the hammer down. He froze the changelings because he was worried they would usurp him. Did it matter that Vex told him a lie and he believed it? Would it have been different if they did want to usurp him, destroy him? 

Perhaps that was why he tried not to delve too deep into his memories of that time. They remained only because he couldn’t wipe them without wiping everything else about himself, but sometimes he wished he could. Originally, his father built him with his memory switch to provide that fresh start, to allow him to forget inconvenient histories like his father’s death and their life prior. He built it to protect Zane from pain. He must’ve believed it was worth the cost, since he refused to remove it despite Zane’s request upon their reunion. At the time Zane believed it wasn’t worth it to avoid the pain if he had to forget all the good that came before, but sometimes, in the dark and cold nights where he couldn’t sleep because of the visions of Ice Samurai and innocents encased in bergs that plagued him, he wondered if his father was right. 

Then he would remind himself of his friends. He thought of Pixal and her warm smile, Jay and his neverending bad puns, Kai and his fierce loyalty, Cole and his firm reassurance, Nya and her cunning wit, Lloyd and his unconditional love, and Master Wu’s constant support and guidance. He thought of them and he knew he could never forget. Even if he could build a new life with them, flip the switch, remove it, then make up some grand lie about what happened, those memories were irreplaceable. 

The unfortunate consequence of wanting to remember his friends meant he had to remember every time he failed. 

He had to remember finding Pixal disassembled in the labyrinth beneath Chen’s Island.

He had to remember when Cole fell off the Bounty and into the uncertain shadows of the Oni invasion.

He had to remember Lloyd’s face as he begged, pleaded with Zane to remember who he was.

Every time he failed and someone got hurt. Maybe that was another reason he couldn’t just forget and start over. They couldn’t just reset. They still had to live with the consequences. 

So Zane would lay there in the morning, face wet with tears. If he was unable to forget, how come he couldn’t remember? His father’s voice and the look and feeling of his home when he was young were fading. What was the point of having a computer for a brain if it just lost memories like a normal brain?!

Then one night, he ended up in that place again. His home. 

Tall birchwoods towered into the cloud-speckled sky. Small rays of sunshine peeked through gray clouds, turning patches of snow on the ground into clouds themselves. Dr. Julien sat on one of these patches, with Zane beside him, shaded by the skyward stretching trunk of a tree. He could hear animals going about their lives around them. Squirrels scuttled through trees, cardinals flew through the air, and even a few bees came up and settled on the sparse greenery around them. 

Zane heaved out a single word. “Father.”

“Hello, Zane, isn’t it such a pleasant morning?”

“Father, it’s been so long.”

The doctor tilted his head. “What do you mean? I only left you and Falcon alone for a moment.”

“No, it’s that… Never mind. I simply missed you.”

“Well, that is sweet of you. I’m glad you decided to join me. Spring is almost here, you know. It’s always nice when a bit of life returns to this place. The primrose will be blooming soon.”

“Yes…” Zane took a deep breath. “Father?”

“Yes, Zane?”

“May I ask you something peculiar?”

“Of course, son. What’s on your inquisitive mind today?”

“What should I do if I ever start to forget things?”

He paused. “What do you mean?”

“I mean if years go by and I forget days like this, where we both sat together and talked? What if one day I forget your voice or your face? What if one day I forget… you?”

“Well… that won’t happen for quite a few more years. Why does it worry you now?”

“I’m simply curious.”

Dr. Julien hummed. He pulled his glasses off and painstakingly cleaned the lenses. Zane locked onto his every motion, inscribing it into the artificial synapses of his mind. If he knew how to in the dream, he would motion capture the process so that he could recreate it. 

“I suppose it’s something we all have to deal with. Our brains can only hold so much information. There are days I find myself slowly forgetting the details of my friends' faces, the voices of those I loved…”

“So what do you do?”

He shrugged. “There is nothing you can do. You can swear to yourself you will never forget, that you will commit every minutiae to memory, you will remember a person or place or story over and over until one day it’s simply… gone. I suppose that’s why they invented photographs. You can never forget if it’s preserved, but even those will fade over time, or you can forget the when and why and who of their taking. There are photos in my scrapbook of people I know I once knew, but whose names I can no longer recall… Zane? Are you alright?” Julien reached over, turning his son’s face and seeing the fresh trails coasting down his cheeks. He wiped them with the sleeve of his white overcoat. “I’m sorry, son. I didn’t mean to upset you. I believe I must’ve gotten too wrapped up in my own melancholy.”

“I don’t want to forget you, father. Never.”

“Zane…” Dr. Julien shook his head, his deep brown eyes full of softness. “One day, you will, and it will be okay. You may forget the details of my appearance, or all of our memories together, but you will always remember who I was to you. You will always remember your father.”

Despite the fresh tears still replacing the old ones on his face, Zane nodded. “You will always be a part of me.”

“Yes, I will, son.”

Zane woke up, the wetness of his face following him to consciousness. He sat up, wiping his tears with the sleeve of his pajamas. From the half-closed blinds, a beam of golden morning light shone directly on his bed. 

“I will never forget, father.”

[ilguna]

☼ comfort (Katniss Everdeen) ☼

summary; when Greasy Sae's unable to take care of Katniss, you volunteer to step in for the day, expecting Katniss to ignore your presence.

warnings; swearing, death mention, murder mention, the usual.

wc; 3k

–

The moment you step foot into Victor’s Village, it feels like a wet blanket is thrown over your head. The weight of the air here is unbearable, and you stop walking a few steps in, trying to get used to the feeling before you even think about continuing any further.

You’re not entirely sure what you expected when you agreed to come here for Greasy Sae, but you weren’t expecting to see a barren neighborhood without a single trace of color. The grass is dead, it might as well be dirt. The concrete fountain is dry and cracked. And the houses are grey and black, if you didn’t know any better, you think you’d be walking into a funeral home.

All the times you were told about Victor’s Village, you couldn’t help but to picture a paradise, because that’s what they advertise it as. You win the Hunger Games, you get a nice neighborhood, with bright green grass and flowers lining the sidewalk in front of the houses. You’ve pictures white houses, or even the colorful ones that they show in the Capitol.

It should not look like this.

If any of the victors of Twelve are expected to make a speedy recovery, then that means they need to be in an environment that inspires that idea. A nice garden out front could act as an excuse to get out of the house, sit on the grass and read, have people over—anything.

You’re almost surprised that the volunteers that are rebuilding the district didn’t start here first, since it’s such a small project. It’d be so easy to spread seeds, plant flowers, and call someone to fix the fountain. You suppose that they’d rather focus on jobs, farms, and getting houses built and whatnot for families. If it were you that were in charge, you’d start with the reason why they’re able to work freely in the first place.

The truth is that none of you would be here if it weren’t for the sacrifices that Katniss, Peeta, and Haymitch made.

You let out a breath, rolling your shoulders slightly, before continuing around the fountain, off to the right. Katniss’ house is the first one, perfectly preserved from the war.

You go up the few steps onto the porch, adjusting the handle of the basket in the elbow of your arm. You recite the vague instructions that Sae gave you before she had to leave. She told you to knock on the front door to alert Katniss that you’re coming in, but not to expect her to answer. The door should be unlocked.

You knock a few times, pausing briefly, and then reach for the handle to open the door.

Immediately, you’re hit with a smell.

You go back a step, turning your face to the open air behind you, trying to ease the pained look off of your face. It’s a mix of smells, the primary one being rotten food. You wonder if any of them bothered to help her clean what was left in here, or thought of doing it. Surely not Haymitch, because having his own struggles across the street. If Katniss has to be taken care of, then shouldn’t have either. The only person that would’ve been able to is Sae.

You shake your head, going inside of the house anyway, reminding yourself that you’ll get used to the smell as time goes on. You slip out of your boots to leave next to the door, watching as a few bits of snow fall off the bottom and land on the hardwood floor. 

You shut the front door, cutting off the breeze from chilling you any further. You take your time navigating your way to the living room, passing by a staircase and a hallway with several rooms. You catch a glimpse of the fireplace first, and find that it is lit, but the flames aren’t very high.

Katniss has herself positioned so that the back of her chair is to the corner of the room, making it impossible for anyone to sneak up on her, giving her full visibility of the room and the only entrance and exit. The fireplace is to the right, which is why she’s turned in that direction, trying to suck up all the warmth that emits from it.

When Sae was talking to you, she told you that the fire is a pain in the ass to get started, but sometimes Katniss has enough energy to do it herself before she comes to cook breakfast.

Even though the entire house is dark, curtains pulled shut to hide the winter light, Katniss manages to sense your presence. Her eyes snap up from the floor, lifting her head. In the next second, she’s on her feet.

You stop moving, “Sae couldn’t make it today, she had to make plans last minute for her granddaughter. She asked me to come instead.”

She doesn’t move from where she’s standing for a minute, eyeing you up and down, deciding if your story is real. She must figure that it’s not worth the fight, because she slowly sits back down in her chair, but doesn’t return back to her relaxed state from before.

“I’m (Y/n).” You tell her.

You know who Katniss is, for obvious reasons, but also because you both frequented the Hob. While she went to sell what she caught, you wandered around as an extra help to the busier stalls, catching thieves and making little to nothing in payment. It wasn’t perfect, but it was better than the alternative.

There’s also the fact that you went to the same school that she did, as well. The two of you weren’t in the same groups, of course. She either kept around Gale or to herself. You had your own friends, the few you could make.

Katniss doesn’t respond, Sae warned you about this, so you’re not all that concerned about it. You head into the kitchen, where the smell seems to worsen the further you go inside. There’s a part of you telling you to open the fridge, despite knowing full well that the smell is coming from there.

You set the basket onto the counter carefully, pulling the top cloth off, and folding it neatly. You then reach inside for the second cloth, thinner and smaller in size. It’s slightly damp from the steam coming off of the muffins, they weren’t able to cool properly before you left. It’s all you could do last minute after Sae told you that she liked baked goods. She was never specific about what type, though. 

You could always cook her, that’s what Sae does. Only, this is the first time being inside of Katniss’ house, the first time that you’re officially meeting her, too. Sae tried to tell you to make yourself at home, but it feels impossible when you don’t know where to start. 

It was better than showing up empty handed, because you came late. 

There’s three types of muffins inside of the basket, two of each, because you couldn’t guess which one Katniss would like better. You pull one of each variety out—a chocolate chip, a blueberry, and a banana nut. You manage to go through three cabinets before you finally find where the plates are.

When you go back to the living room, Katniss seems to have managed to get some of the tension out of her body. You watch her eyebrows twitch together slightly. You can’t imagine she’s thrilled with you being here instead of Sae. Sae’s familiar, she traded with her in the Hob all the time, and she’s the one that’s been taking care of Katniss.

“I made muffins.” You tell her, as if it’s not obvious. You set the plate on the coffee table, and then take a seat across from her on the couch. The heat from the fire begins to eat away at the goosebumps on your arms. “There’s two of each, I’m not sure which you’d like more.”

She doesn’t move, you lean back against the cushions, looking around the room, finding a thick layer of dust at the corner table. You press your lips together, because it’s similar to the state outside. It’s cold and depressing in here. You can’t imagine there’s much healing going on. 

Katniss reaches forward, taking the chocolate chip muffin. You make an effort to try not to watch her eat, because that has a tendency to put people off. You play with your fingers, wondering exactly how long it would take for you to clean this place from top to bottom, if it’d even make her feel better.

Of course, you’re not stupid enough to believe that it would magically clear her of all the feelings she has about her life. She’s been through a lot in the past three years, volunteering for the Hunger Games twice, killing people, losing Peeta, being the face of the rebellion, getting Peeta back, only to find out that he’s not really hers anymore. She lost several more of her friends, her sister, and her mom won’t come back here, either.

Sae tells you that Katniss hasn’t showered since she got here, that’s why she tries not to sit too close. There’s letters that you noticed, piled up on the dining room table. And Sae tells you that Katniss lets the Head Doctor call her the same time every week, trying to get a progress update on her, but she never answers the phone.

Cleaning her house wouldn’t fix any of her problems, or come close to doing it. You remember what it was like, though, being in that position. When you sat at home for two weeks, unable to pull yourself out of bed after your mom died, leaving you to take care of everything.

A small gesture can go a long way.

Katniss eats all three muffins, leaving the wrappers on the plate to make it easy to clean up.

“Are you still hungry?” You ask, watching her shake her head.

You take the plate, heading to the kitchen to throw the paper away. The sink is empty of dishes when you get to it. Sae told you everything should be caught up for the most part. All you’d have to do is come in and cook, and come back at dinner to do it all again. 

After setting the plate into the sink, already deciding that you’ll do it later, with the rest of the dishes you’ll end up with, you head back to the basket. You drop the cover cloth back inside, spreading it over the tops of the muffins. You press your lips together, this is the part where you’re supposed to leave.

You have to try, at the very least. You head over to the living room, Katniss doesn’t look up from where she stares, hands in her lap.

“Katniss?” You call, her eyes flicker to you in the doorway. “I know Sae normally leaves, but I wouldn’t mind sticking around. We could go for a walk, draw a bath, bake?”

She stares at you wordlessly, shaking her head.

“A book, game, puzzle?”

There’s no answer, she turns her body away from you, ending the conversation with that one move. You watch her for a few seconds, not entirely surprised by her behavior. This is exactly what you were expecting to receive, anyway. 

Unfortunately for her, you’ve still got more questions to ask.

“That’s fine. I do need to know what you’d like to have for dinner, though. I don’t want to cook you something that you don’t like.” You say, no response. “Anything you could possibly want, Katniss. From here, from the Capitol, maybe something from another district you tried on the tour?”

Silence.

You suck in a breath, thinking, “How about lamb stew?” You ask, gauging her reaction. It works, her eyes find your face again. “And I think I remember Haymitch mentioning cheese buns.”

Katniss narrows her eyes, face twisted. You can’t tell if this is a good expression or not. If she’s mad that you’ve somehow managed to figure out what her favorite meal is, or the fact that the cheese buns that you’re referring to are Peeta’s specialty.

“You can’t.” She finally says.

“Can’t what?” You challenge.

“Replicate either of those.” Her tone is matter-of-fact, “You’ve never been to the Capitol, and I doubt you’ve ever had the chance to buy one of Peeta’s cheese buns. It won’t turn out right. Why bother?”

You let out a laugh, “Is that right?”

She shrugs, “Am I wrong?”

“I guess we’ll find out tonight, won’t we?” You ask.

—

Honestly, there was a second while you were in the middle of making the stew where you had yourself convinced that you weren’t going to make it. You have the handwritten recipe for it, with all the instructions on how to cook on the back, but the further you got, the more complicated it would get.

You knew that the Capitol was outrageous with their ingredients. You just weren’t expecting for them to throw a little bit of everything they could possibly think of into the recipe. They had to have done it to make sure that the taste would be impossible to bring back into the districts by the victors. It truly is an evil thing to do.

And you admire them for it. 

It’s a good thing that you’ve never gotten a recipe wrong in your life, and now that the sanctions are gone between the districts and the Capitol, it means that all ingredients are fair game. It wasn’t easy by any means to track down the lamb and the specially dried plums, but you have your ways for a reason, and your own pantry full of brand new foods you’ve been dying to try.

You carefully ladle the stew into a bowl you brought from home. You think Ksatniss’ dishes are nice, they don’t have that same polished look. As for you, if there’s one habit that your parents successfully instilled on you, it’s a nice appearance for dinner, even if there’s nothing on the place. 

You slide a spoon into the bowl, before grabbing the plate that has Peeta’s cheese bun on it. You’re going to admit it now, you think you would’ve done his recipe better if you had more practice. He’s been a baker his whole life, he’s got an advantage on you there.

“Okay, Katniss.” You say, coming out of the kitchen, carrying her portion of the food. 

She seems more awake now than she did this morning, she’s been open to conversation, too. It’s something to report back to Sae, even if it’s not a lot.

“It smells good.” She murmurs, adjusting in her chair.

“Everything smells good when you’re hungry.” You set it down on the table. “You can’t say anything about the presentation, because I’ve never seen how they serve their stew.”

A smile hints at the corner of her lips, “Anything else?”

“You have to tell the truth.”

You go back into the kitchen, grabbing your bowl and plate, meeting her back in the living room. You find her picking apart the cheese bun first, placing a piece of it in her mouth.

“Sae tells me that she doesn’t cook you lunch, is that your preference, or is it because you wake up late?” You ask.

Katniss raises a shoulder before dropping it. “She doesn’t want to spend her entire day here, she’s got her granddaughter to watch.”

“That’s right.” You take a bite out of the cheese bun. You managed to get the softness of it down perfectly. Katniss wouldn’t tell you the other qualities of what Peeta’s is like, besides the look of it.

It may or may not have led to you cheating a little bit. You went and asked Haymitch what it’s like, but you might as well not have because he was drinking when you walked in the house. You thought Katniss’ house is bad—it’s a fucking nightmare in there. Your persistence won over, he told you that the cheese melts on top and it’s usually a little greasy.

“I didn’t see you in District Thirteen.” Katniss says, lifting the bowl to rest on her lap. “Were you with Greasy Sae in the kitchen?”

“Um, part of the time, yeah.” You move the hair out of your face. “They kept me in the hospital for a couple weeks because of the burns from the fire. When they finally cleared me, Sae vouched and they brought me to work with her.”

“Did you like it there?”

You let out a noise, “Did you? I mean, it was nice for a while, because of the meals and stuff, but not being able to go outside drove me up the wall. For a second, I thought we were going to be stuck down there forever.”

Katniss tilts her head, “That’s why I got out.”

She brings the spoon to her mouth, you watch as her face twists, and then she smiles. Her eyes meet yours, you know immediately that you’ve replicated the dish. That’s all you need to know.

“How do you do it?” She asks, taking another spoonful.

“I’m just that good.” You laugh, “And what about the cheese bun?”

She makes a face, “Close. It’s good, though.”

“I tried.” You pick off more bread, “Would you care if I came at lunch everyday to cook for you?”

She shakes her head, “Don’t you have something better to do?”

“I could probably think of a few things, but I would love to use you as a taster for the Capitol cookbook I got last month.” You sit back. “Only if you want me to, I don’t want to overstep.”

She smiles briefly, “I don’t mind, (Y/n).”

[mouwrites]

Hello! I'm uh the same person that you matched up with Jay for the matchup stuff, (It was very cute and amazing and I adored it) and I just wanted to request a reader x Jay where it's Christmas and reader is over at the monastery and they like each other but they're nervous to admit it so the other ninja (Lloyd is the mastermind because of his prankster antics) set up a plan to get them under the mistletoe and it eventually succeeds and both reader and Jay are super flustered and end up confessing to each other? Sorry if this is sorta rambly and confusing

This is such a cute request!! I hope I did it justice 🙏

Word count: 838

Ninjago - Kissing Jay Under the Mistletoe

You wiped your hands on your apron, smiling amusedly at the stark white handprints left behind. With your clean fingers you fixed the timer for the cookies to bake. In the meantime, you had to prepare the frosting.

You made a big batch, dividing it into smaller bowls and adding food dye. You set one aside to preserve the white color. In the other bowls you mixed up some red, yellow, green, purple, pink…

Blue. You stared into the rich hue, suddenly falling under some sort of spell. You found yourself frozen as thoughts of a particular boy filled your head.

Brown hair and freckles. A nerdy laugh, a lopsided smile. Enough energy to power a car—literally, if you took his elemental powers into consideration. And a name that brought a smile to your face as it slipped out from your lips.

“Jay…”

You were snapped out of your thoughts by the incessant beeping of your timer. You huffed, irked at the disturbance to your daydreams.

“Oh, quiet, you!”

“I’ll get it,” Lloyd rushed into the kitchen suddenly, donning the oven mitts before you could. “Can you go help with decorations?”

You nodded. It’d be a while until the cookies were cool enough to frost, so you figured you might as well make yourself useful in the meantime.

Jay replaced yet another bulb on the tree. It glowed with new light. Jay tossed the old bulb into the trash and followed the wires until he found the next dead light.

He plunged his hand into his pocket, swiftly replacing it with routine efficiency. It lit up, shining bright f/c and enchanting him immediately. He froze where he was, hand poised above the trash bag, bulb still pinched between his fingers.

(hair length) h/c hair and s/c skin. E/c eyes that twinkled brighter than any light on that tree. A smile that could melt the heart of anyone lucky enough to see it. Jay felt his cheeks go pink as they appeared like a vision in his mind. He sighed the name that was ever musical to his ears.

Suddenly the bulb in his finger exploded. He shook his hand violently, cursing his fickle powers.

“Why am I the one doing this anyway? Is it because I’m the electricity guy?” He complained to no one in particular.

Just then, Lloyd jogged into the room, flustered as if he had just booked it there after finishing some other task. Jay decided not to ask about the oven mitt haphazardly tucked into his waistband.

“How about you go help with decorations? I can finish up with the tree.”

Jay gratefully emptied his pockets into Lloyd’s hands, multicolored bulbs practically overflowing from his palms. “Thanks, Lloyd!”

Lloyd got a suspicious look in his eye. It reminded Jay vaguely of the look he’d get when he played pranks as a kid, but he decided to ignore it.

Jay joined you in the threshold. You were both looking at an empty room. Well, empty of people. Boxes of decorations were scattered around, and a few had been put up already. But the room was still barren, as far as decor (and people) went.

“Who are we supposed to ‘help’? There’s no one here,” you observed confusedly.

“Maybe they went to the bathroom?” Jay suggested, still scanning the area as if someone would materialize if he stared hard enough.

“Ooh!” Nya’s voice came from behind you, making you both jump.

You were about to greet her, but the look on her face stopped you. She was absolutely giddy, cheeks pink, pointing above you with a little giggle.

You looked up.

Oh no.

“It’s mistletoe! They’ve gotta kiss now!” Kai appeared at the scene, shaking his sister while announcing it as if you weren’t five feet away.

You made painful eye contact with Jay. You both looked terrified.

“W-we don’t have to! It’s a stupid tradition anyway. Plus, no way someone as awesome as you would ever wanna kiss me—”

“What? Jay, you’re the awesome one! You’re handsome, funny, smart, strong… anyone would be lucky to have the privilege to kiss you.”

Jay blinked. “Is… is that how you really feel?”

Your face went hot. You dropped your gaze down and to the side. “Um…”

“Because that’s how I feel about you!”

Now it was your turn to be shocked. You stared at each other dumbly for a second, mouths agape, unmoving until someone shouted “kiss” again.

When you pulled away, you smiled at each other, remaining in a tight embrace until you registered the sound of cheering.

You blushed deeply, separating bashfully.

“It worked!”

“What?” Jay’s head snapped up. “Lloyd! I knew you were up to something, you scheming green devil!”

Lloyd couldn’t keep himself from laughing as he took a series of smacks and light punches from Jay.

You giggled as you watched them, though secretly you were grateful for Lloyd’s little plan. He sent you a knowing wink, which you returned discreetly. It might have been Christmas, but it seemed Cupid came early.

Thank you for this adorable request! And thanks for reading, take care guys <33

[papermatisse]

Deadend || Y.JH

† genre: horror

† word count: 1.5k

† warnings: heavily insinuated murder (not explicitly shown), labyrinth, persistent predator/hunt, fear

† synopsis: he seemed nice, but then again, you should never judge a book by its cover.

† (a/n): my brother actually instilled this fear into me and I just thought the concept of it was pretty interesting ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ also now we've caught up w all of my prewritten stuff so now comes the ✨delayed writing✨ pls bear w me 🙏

† taglist: @scuzmunkie @hipsdofangirl @hydroyaksha (I forgot to tag you guys last time lol my bad)

anthology | main masterlist

The sound of her feet stamping against wet concrete filled the humid atmosphere around her. Deep and violent puffs of air expelled from her lungs as she barreled down yet another alleyway. The labyrinth-like layout of the city had proven itself nothing short of confounding, though it seemed that facet alone was the sole reason she was even still alive. Still able to outrun the man hunting her.

He had been seated at the bar as she danced along with her friends. As subtle as her friend could notify her, she was informed of a man who had been watching her for quite some time. Upon first impression, Jeonghan seemed to be the definition of charming. Handsome features with polite mannerisms, attention solely on her as they spent the next few hours of their night together. Luring her into his car was a significantly easy task, as she would have perhaps gone anywhere he went off to at this point.

Things had gone awry the further along their journey they got. Jeonghan's answers grew more and more blunt, and the momentary glances he spared her way as he drove were reduced to nothing. By the time she realized something was amiss, he had parked on the side of an abandoned road in a part of the city she had never seen before.

Before she could ask where they were, he was opening his center console rummaging for something as she watched in mystified, confused terror. His hand retracted from the unit to reveal a large butcher knife, glinting in the spare moonlight washing into the vehicle. That charming smirk that had swept her away all night long suddenly shifted with her burden of knowledge, now twisted menacingly with this sickening, psychotic undertone that had (y/n) near gasping.

"Run."

Those were his last instructions before she had all but bolted out of the vehicle in a full on sprint. She didn't know for how long she ran, but she knew he was somewhere behind her. Somewhere close. Somewhere hunting her in such a disregarding and relaxed manner. Taking his sweet time in pursuing her, preserving his energy for the final kill.

By the time she realized she was very nearly trapped in this sector of the city, she understood his motives quite well through the haze of panic muddling her mind. He wouldn't exert anything beyond his capabilities. He wouldn't reduce himself to chasing after her with the same determined vigor she retained. He didn't need to. As if it was a certainty that he'd eventually catch her at the end of the night, no matter how far she ran.

The thought alone terrorized (y/n)'s already frightened mind, though she continued to stumble through the barren streets with a determination she hadn't thought she possessed in the first. She was greeted by not a living soul, a truly desolate concrete jungle, its only purpose seemingly to be the playground of the crazed maniac looming within its shadows. The residual humming sounds of the amber lit lampposts lighting her way through the maze of dilapidated infrastructure served as the only source of feedback in an otherwise deadly silent environment, accompanied by her own ragged breaths that made her cringe with every huff. Any noise from her could be her last. A beacon to Jeonghan guiding him directly to her.

Bolting down yet another alleyway, a sudden guttural gasp was ripped out of her throat when she was met with the unfortunate sight of a brick wall, looming above her as this impenetrable barrier to her path. A dead end. Shaky hands pressed upon the fortress, seeking out any compromised brick she could use to her advantage. Whether to dismantle the structure as a whole, or use it to climb over its daunting height. A momentary scan of the area in search of any tools she could utilize had her heart dropping to her stomach. The alleyway was as desolate as the rest of the city. Like this place swallows anything which enters its grasp, and eventually will have her, too.

She went to turn around dejectedly with her only solution being retracting her steps, but she froze as her eyes landed upon the other end of the alley. A cold sweat dabbled across her skin, heightening the sensation of the chill now running down her spine. Her body trembled with unabashed fear, and her once frenzied mind suddenly went blank as she stared helplessly at the dark silhouette staring back at her.

Jeonghan stood impassively at the entry, the orange glow of the lampposts dispersing against his back and casting him in an ominous shadowed ambience, like he absorbed every ounce of light which dared to touch him; like death himself, he was brandished with the darkness of night. His features, once undoubtedly handsome to her though now warped into an imposing and deviant facade, were momentarily shrouded to her in the perspective he stood in. Though the one defining trait she could identify in all of his ambiguity was that of the knife gripped securely in his hand, glistening in the light and reflecting back to her her impending doom.

His head quirked to the side as (y/n) stood there motionless.

"You didn't get as far as I thought you would." His voice easily carried to her in the still silence of the night, however low he opted to convey his message, yet still causing her to all but tremble at his foreboding presence. "Quite disappointing."

"Please," (y/n) found herself muttering back, voice weak, words indecipherable through the rapid inhales she now took. "Please don't do this. Please."

He began walking towards her at a steady pace, and the sight of him approaching brought (y/n) into hysterics. Pleas growing louder and more desperate, knees buckling until she had collapsed on the floor, left only to crawl away desperately from the domineering figure heading her way.

When her back met the roughness of the brick wall, her fingers had clawed at the masonry, hoping for any weakness in its stature she may have missed upon first scan—anything that would guarantee her freedom and give her a chance in fleeing from the man drawing ever so closer.

Though her prayers fell upon deaf ears as she felt his hot hand grasp her face, cheeks squeeze together in his hand as he yanked (y/n) his way.

His gaze bore into her own. Dark, sinister eyes, heartless as they stared at her, uncaring in a way one would look at a pest. The lack of emotions crossing his face, the near impossible feat of deciphering what his motives and feelings truly were, had been the cause for her onslaught of tears to finally take place.

"Why are you doing this?" It was the only thing she could think to say. Limbs aching from running, muscles burning as the adrenaline which had once coursed through her veins finally dissipated, leaving her nothing more than a debilitated state of what once was.

He was silent for a moment more, just staring like he was studying her. Observing what she had been reduced to throughout the night's events. And then he smiled. A purely vindictive grin filled with malice, contorting his handsome face into a nightmarish sight. Perhaps the last thing she'll ever get to see in this lifetime.

"Because I love it." He responded, as if answering a simple everyday question. "Your fear. Your desperation. Holding the very essence of life itself in my palms. Your life. Don't you see it?"

His grip around her face grew tighter, drawing her closer to him.

"That primal beauty of struggling for survival? The raw, unbridled terror as you run for your life? Thinking you have a chance if you just run fast enough, but you don't. You never did."

(y/n) whimpered as the pressure began to grow painful, his fingers digging into her sore jaw.

"The illusion of safety being a viable option, but it wasn't. I never gave you that choice. I hold the fate of your life in my hands. And I love it."

He let go of her and she all but scrambled to the furthest corner of the alley she could manage, pressed as tightly against the wall as she could be. Jeonghan followed after, crawling her way until he was face to face again, though this time with his arms caging her in her position.

"I hold the power to end your life. The moment I looked at you, I gained full control over it all. I am the harbinger to your inevitability."

The cold tip of his knife glided across her face, and his eyes trailed after, his smile growing wider by the second.

"Please." A final attempt at sparing her life. But at this, he began chuckling.

"I let you go now, I'll just follow you all over again. No matter where you run, no matter how far you get from me, I'll eventually make my way there. I'll eventually catch you. You can't escape from me no matter how much you try. No matter how much you beg." Pressing the tip of his knife into her body, arm retracted enough for the final plunge, he pressed his mouth against her ear, breathing in her scent as she wept with reckless abandon.

"I will always be the one to end you."

[pinkwright]

true colours | shuri udaku.

ƸӜƷ

starboy set : chapter seven

pairing — panther!shuri x dj!y/n

trope — best friends 2 lovers

inspo — true colours by the weeknd

warnings —flirty!reader (she gets bitches yall!!) but she’s so soft w/ shuri, mentions of alcohol, soft like supaaa soft but cocky!shuri, confident!shuri, confident!reader, gets angsty for a bit but overall pretty soft n fluffy, fingering (reader receiving), possessive!shuri but subtle, soft dom!shuri, touchy!shuri, love as always, kissing, lots of biting action from shuri, noisy!reader, confessions, girlfriend kink (?), verbal kink, crying, reader has like diff ways of carrying herself depending on her mood but she’s only vulnerable n shit around shuri, shuri loves everything about reader don’t get it twisted incl. her diff personas, reader likes to pull away from emotions that make her vulnerable aka she’s avoidant lol.

a/n —i tried to keep the smut cutesy n lovey but idk how well i did… hope u like it anon ! <3 p.s if there’s errors its bc i could barely read it back without lowks cringing but we move !

⟢˚ @mbakuetshurisprincess @inmyheadimobsessed @letitias-fav @barkbarkbo @shurismainbxtch @verachii @rxcently @shuriszn @lppriceisright @motheroffae @naomis-daydream @vampzxi @marsolgy @mysticalmarss @abenomeiiii @6-noir @laurensmabel1 @vexoshuri @saintwrld @ilovelulu @sookiesookie @ziayamikaelson @sapphicvqmpires @locoforshuri @ventingfanfics @melanated-queens @cuddl3s4shur1 (some usernames wouldn't pick up so apologies if u wanted a tag n its not here </3)

ஜ

and i understand, baby girl, we all have a past, i'd much rather hear the truth come straight from you. so, if i love you; it'd be just for you.

shuri’s hand tenderly brushes up and down the expanse of your calf, a soft sigh escaping your lips as you relax further into the plush cotton pillows below you, eyes fluttering as you inhale the gentle scent of roses and cedar wood, her signature scent.

the atmosphere is calming, providing a gentle soothing caress to the restlessness you find only settles when it’s within her embrace, the warmth of her touch pushes your gaze to sweep the room – the cosy conversation pit mirrored the rest of shuri’s apartment by truly embodying her, a living spatial visual of her.

the space was tastefully designed, with warm tones complemented by minimal cool-toned decorative items and scattered with luscious plants, evocative artworks, and ritualistic carpets. the living space was a visual representation of shuri udaku – warm, gentle, overflowing with love and artistry that revived hibernating stars in unsuspecting gazes, and planted seeds of life in barren soils; embodying the sun that warmed the earth.

she was unaware of the depth of her influence, unaware of the unforgiving edges she eroded to make people, hardened by the cruelty of the world, delicate again. just like the space she resided in, she was a breath of fresh air, living proof of the existence of hope, but she was also an uncontrollable fire despite the tenderness; a dangerous, burning flame of courage and redemption.  

you heave out a deep breath, your eyes shutting almost painfully to attempt to alleviate your heavy heart from the pitiful weight of your despondency; she wasn’t even aware. the loss of hope, in itself, is a difficult emotion to tame, settling in the expansion of your ribcage and corrupting the pump of your lifeline, the housing vessel for dreams, with grief. that’s why you find that it was better this way, better to close off the dainty muscle before she can experience desolation like heartbreak; what is rehabilitation to preservation, truly?

“y/n?”

her voice cuts through your thoughts, halting the train of the self-preservation versus self-isolation argument your mind had begun to board and you open your eyes, blinking away the colourful spots in your vision as you allow yourself to gaze upon her. her eyebrows are scrunched in worry, her keen and dark eyes are trailing your tense figure, her hand squeezing the softness of your calf as her lips form a gentle pout, and you force your body to relax despite the intensity of emotions threatening to drag you into their depths.

“are you alright, s’thandwa?”

your lips part as the menacing ocean begins to recede, the emotional tide ebbing away at the sound of your salvation; their damnation, and you can breathe again, feeling as though you’ll be dragged into the depths of those attentive eyes instead, and as always accompanied with her presence, you feel as though you don’t mind drowning as long as it’s with her.

“i’m better now.”

the gentle smile that traces your lips, the caress of your undoubting words, calms the anxiety that had risen in shuri, the girl reaching her hand towards your own, sighing in contentment at the comfort brought forth by your hand settling in hers, her thumb affectionately swiping over your knuckles as she returns your sentiment.

you sit up from your laying position, shuri’s hand on your calf travelling with the movement until it settles on the outside skin of your thigh, your hips sliding along the couch to bring your torsos closer together, to quell your body’s craving for her intimacy in the only way that platonic boundaries allow.

shuri hums as the movement forces your legs to fall between her spread thighs, your body pressing against her side as your head dips to rest against the curve of her neck, arms stretching to wrap around her waist as you allow her scent to engulf you. the candles lightly burn on the table in the pit, the vintage player spinning the soft tune of the vinyl record around the room, and there’s nowhere else you would rather be.

“are you going to tell me what’s going on in your pretty head?”

the words are coated in the inquisitive curiosity that betrays shuri’s genius, and the sentiment makes your smile widen, your head shaking instinctually as you force yourself to lightly dodge the clear invitation for vulnerability. although you had been vulnerable with the royal countless times before, every time you let your carefully crafted persona slip, you find it harder to pull away from her embrace, and as a result the pit of your demise is dug deeper by nothing but your own hand.

“just thinking about my set last night.”

there’s a teasing lilt to your voice as the lie slips through, your chin lifting to rest on shuri’s shoulder as you gaze through the window opposite you, and the vast view kissed by the orange of the sun’s easy descent subconsciously pulls the night to the forefront of your mind.

the pink drink entering your peripheral vision has you slightly turning to trail your eyes along the arm outstretched towards you, the smirk on the girl’s pretty face causing one of your own to form as you wrap your fingers around the chilled glass, shooting a flirtatious wink as you set the beverage a little distance away from your sound desk.

“thanks, angel. here’s a song just for you because you’re so sweet to me.”

your voice is low and enticing as your gaze shifts to the board in front of you, manicured nails lifting to work your magic, your eyebrow raises in amusement when the girl practically vibrates in glee, an endearing squeal drowning under the bass of the beginning notes of your next track.

the club lit up in excitement as you fiddle with the keys, your hand lifting to wrap around your headset as you mix, your hips swaying as your lips wrap around the sensual lyrics, the gloss glittering under the strobe lights and you find yourself reaching that headspace where music is the only thing that runs through you, guiding your body in a way that had the club entranced.

a wide smirk is on your face as the crowd anticipates every bass drop along with you, your hands sliding the headset to rest around your neck as you find yourself entering a flirty dance with the crowd of intoxicated individuals, your lids dropping into a confident sultry gaze as you mix for your last track.

just as the bass drops and the mass of people lose themselves in the reverberating frequencies of the end of your set – arms are sliding around your shifting waist, warm hands pressing against the bare skin of your stomach to press your hips against their crotch and the cool of her rings against your skin makes you shiver, a sweet smile flashing from you as she pulls you away with her.

“shuri!” your voice is laced with giggles as she spins you around to grab your hands, guiding you with a cheeky smile on her face as she walks backwards to keep her gaze pinned to you, eyes swiping down your body as your hips swing against the taunting material.

the heat in her gaze makes your head spin and you avert your eyes from hers when you feel the cool breeze wisp against the heat of your skin, and shuri leans against the driver’s door of her sleek car pulling you against her, ensuring her eyes never leave your face.

her hands slide along your arms to bring them to rest around her neck as she pulls you into her embrace, her fingers pressing into the softness of the dip of your waist, her nose skimming along your neck as she exhales words into the air, tender words that caress your heated skin as her lips brand them into the organ, words you couldn’t find the strength to respond to.

“pretty girl, as much as i adore this colour of you, i’m eager to embrace the colour of you that shies beneath that complex palette of different facets of yourself; the one just for me.”

the blunt nails that scratch lightly against your skin snap you out of your daydream, your eyes flitting sheepishly from the window to meet shuri’s, the contemplative frown on her face makes your resolve break, and you find her calling forth your softening, your hand lifting to smooth the crease between her brows before dropping to her pout, placing your thumb on the corner of her lips to curl it into a stretchy smile.

“don’t like it when you’re not smiling.”

your voice is petulant and bordering on a whine and shuri finds it so endearing that her lips are twitching uncontrollably into a real smile, her head shaking as she chuckles, and her eyes are scrunching as she pushes into your space, her forehead coming to rest against yours. her laughs force a few light giggles out of your lips, your arms reaching to wrap around her shoulders as you try to shift closer to the source of your joy, your sounds wisping in the air, intertwining into the dance of two souls that find each other in every life.

shuri can’t resist the familiar urge when your fingers dig into her unruly curls to softly scratch against her scalp, so she’s lifting her hand to bring your free hand to your lap, playing with the fingers between your bodies. your hands were cold – they always were. shuri finds herself smiling when she stares at the choreography both of your hands dip into; her warmth vs your cool, her organised tattoos versus your chaotic tattoos, the instinctual way you let her guide you, the gentle relax of you into her grip – indescribable familiarity.

the small act was one shuri tried to avoid – how such a trivial action could evoke such a vicious reaction was beyond her scientific understanding; for every action there is a reaction – a physical phenomenon she could recite like mantra of hope her heart chanted to ensure her that you were within her reach, that the ocean she drowned in was bearable because it was for you.

but the law didn’t account for the imbalance between the actor and the reactor when it manifested within the boundaries of human ideology, how was it possible that she saw the oppositions between you and instead of taking it as that, a disruption in her human experience; the vessel she usually chose to ignore, saw your hard edges as tools to carve the raw edges of herself, gifts that would erode her into love but not just typical love – your image of love, the perfect embodiment to what you envision the unforgiving idea of love to look like, and vice versa.

“bast, i love you.”

if shuri hadn’t let the wave of her infatuation with you crest into the calm of the atmosphere and allowed it to fall as an uncontrollable spill of words and anxious emotions, she would’ve found the way you shot up comical, chuckled heartedly at the way your lips part on a loud gasp that echoes through her ears but she had, and the gut-wrenching twist of her stomach served as a more fitting response.

but like the damning, brittle spirit she was, hope pushed her to continue because despite the unsettling reaction, the little flickering flame of longing within her was still burning, still hoping and as a consequence, all she could think about was how much she needed you, how much her love for you carved through her restraints until it all but spilled from her lips.

at your silence, her head turns away from you, finding your gaze hard to hold so she settled for resting her head against the backrest of the couch. the hurried sentences jumble into a mess that your shock struggled to discern, but your heart caught on quickly, selfishly absorbing the words you didn’t think you were deserving of, and the muscle pumping in your chest, crawled its way up your throat, the canal tightening to control the overwhelming spread of emotion tingling through your limbs.

“loved you for so long, y/n.”

she exhales heavily, her eyes fluttering open as she gazes at the ceiling, “last night, when i described you as a colour palette, i meant that. you’re this bright array of colours, a spectrum of different personas and auras that are ever evolving and i can’t- i can't figure you out because of it. but i love it, bast, i love how complex and intricate you are in everything that you do and everything that you are, everything that you embody is true to yourself and your beliefs; its dauntingly admirable.”

her hand tightens its hold on you, squeezing your leg before she continues and her next words steal the breath from your lungs, “you’re everything i believe love to be, the final iteration of what everything celestial intended for love to be. i love you so deeply, s’thandwa. you breathe the air into my lungs, you spoke life over my barren grave and brought my buried soul back to life, you rid me of the burdens of my grievances in a way that provided me freedom that ceases to exist outside the world you’ve created for me, freedom this world could only conjure in the dreams its people use to escape its harsh reality.”

“my love for you made me ache, it made me hurt, it made me grow but, above all, it bathed me in a warmth bast herself couldn’t even begin to replicate.”

when shuri hears the choked sob that spills from your lips, she’s quickly sitting up to gather you in her arms, her words cutting off abruptly as she brings your legs to rest on either side of her hips and then she’s cradling you against her, holding the back of your head as she rocks you gently, careful in how she handles the only thing that keeps her racing heart, beating.

“shh, i’m sorry, my love, forgive me. i’m so sorry, baby.”

the words are whispered into your locs, the remorse coating them forces a sound of indignation to flow through your tear-filled hiccups, your arms wrapping aggressively around her neck to pull her towards you, and the grunt she lets out makes you smile lightly as you hold her against you for several moments, pulling back when the salty tears tracking your cheeks halt in their descent.

you trail your gaze intently across her face, your heart cracking at the pure desolation coating her delicate but strong features, your hands rise to cup her cheeks and your thumbs stroke the skin under her eyes, before leaning forward to brush your nose against hers, feeling the shaky exhale of her warm breath against your lips as you speak.

“you never could tell the difference between happy tears and sad tears.”

shuri can’t hide the shock from you, her jaw dropping as she gasps softly, her deep eyes widening ever so slightly, and the sight makes you laugh through your tears, the sound wet but joyful, lightly strumming the chords of the strings holding shuri and yourself to one another.

after the stunned girl seems to understand exactly what your words imply, there’s a blinding grin overtaking her face and your mind blanks on just how otherworldly she was; crafted with grace, and meticulous thought that served to prove the existence of celestial divinity, sewn together by the finest artisans the universe had to offer – she takes your breath away.

shuri’s giggling in drunken disbelief and you echo her, hearts pounding in unison, eager to escape the cages encasing them to interlace with the others; bond to complete the ideograph of affection – mirrors of one another, similar but inverted, the same with complementary differences. her hand curls around your nape to guide your foreheads together, inhaling deeply as she brushes her nose against yours.

“when i kiss you, s’thandwa, it means i’m unequivocally yours.”

she breathes the statement against your lips, your breath catching in your throat as she stares at your full lips with that unrivalled intensity, the notion of her words digging into the pit of your stomach as you hold your breath in anticipation, “no more of this dancing around each other because you would be mine too. do you want that, pretty girl, with me?”

her hands are firm in their grip, gently sliding across the heating skin of your thighs as she pins you with her gaze, you nod at her question and the familiar weight of craving is invading your touch, it forces your grip to dig into her shoulders, pressing your body against hers as you silently plead for her lips on yours. but as much as shuri basks in your barely suppressed desperation, she had to hear you say it, had to have you know exactly what allowing her to touch you entailed.

“talk to me, my love, you know how to use that pretty mouth.”

when a whimper slips through your lips, shuri’s mouth is twisting into a smirk, her hands squeezing your skin as she barely brushes her lips against yours, humming when the pleas slip into her awaiting mouth, and she’s bringing her hand to wrap around your throat, gently moulding her lips against yours, groaning at the way you fit perfectly against her.

your hands fist the material on her shoulders as a whine you let slip is swallowed by shuri’s soft lips, her salacious mouth coaxing a swell of sensations behind your chest that serve to stir a familiar warmth in your core, heat licking at the pulse between your legs.

“shuri… i-” you’re cutting yourself off with a whimper when her teeth sink into the pillow of your bottom lip, dragging it into her warm mouth with a hum, her hands greedily sliding up your loose shirt to feel the warm skin of your waist, and her touch makes you squirm, your thighs clenching on her lap as you gasp.

“what do you want, my love?”

her voice is taunting, and it makes your hips buck against her, your eyes shutting when her lips pull away from yours to let you breathe, pressing a few languid pecks between your needy gasps before sliding down to glide her swelling lips against your neck, sinking her teeth into the line of your pulse, coaxing the warm liquid to the surface of your skin.

your hands are frantic as they slide beneath the oversized silk shirt sitting on her strong shoulders, your nails dragging down her skin, and digging into the curling warm muscles of her back, a grunt pressing into your skin as shuri detaches her lips from you. your head spins as she pulls back to look at you, her blunt nails scratching against your waist as she sighs in restraint and you whine the words out, eager to have her touch you again.

“touch me. touch me, please, shuri, i need you.”

the sadistic part of shuri wants to drag you mercilessly to state specifics but her tenderness and desperation for you overpowers the desire, so she slides her fingers along the hem of your loose pants, her eyes gauging your reaction and humming in satisfaction when your hips buck up and you slip your prettily bruising bottom lip into your mouth.

your breath hitches as she slips her hand over your bare ass, squeezing the flesh before she’s barely brushing her fingers over your entrance, moaning at the sheer wetness that coats her fingers, your awaiting hole clenching viciously in anticipation, and the moan that slips passed your lips is filthy, needy, laced with desperation that makes shuri coo at you.

the thoughts in your mind are spinning at her soft, gentle coaxes, your hips stuttering when she slips her fingers into you, pumping through the soft velvet as her eyes bore into yours, your eyelashes fluttering as your hips cant against her ruthless fingers and you find yourself whimpering at the way she effortlessly tears you apart.

“been aching to love on you, angel, aching to claim this pretty pussy." she curls her fingers to press into your spot, your gasp getting her drunk on you and your pathetic little noises, "bast, you’re so needy baby, this cunt needed me just as bad, hm?” she tuts in faux sympathy.

“please. i need more, please, please.”

the air in your lungs is burning hot as your hips stutter, and the pump of your blood is reverberating through your ears, shuri’s deft in the way she works you, the way she wears you down until you’re putty in her hands. the girl lets out a dark chuckle, her lips moving to press against your open mouth as she slides her free hand down the front of your pants, the slim fingers pressing firm circles against your throbbing clit.

"you're so pretty like this, my love, look like a dream when you let me between these pretty legs."

the daze in your head build as you shut your eyes, your hips fighting between fucking back onto her fingers or pressing forward into the firm press against your bud. you gasp wetly into shuri’s mouth, the smirk on her lips intensifying as she brings her teeth to sink into your lips to make you see stars. the slight ache from her teeth on your lips paired with the way her hands are set to ruin you, makes the fire in your stomach burn violently, and you can feel your limbs begin to tremble atop her.

the sight makes shuri hum, before she releases your lip with a soft ‘pop’, “are you going to come, my love?” your pretty eyes shoot open to meet her dark ones, and at your frantic succession of nods, she’s shaking her head at you, laughing at the pathetic cry that flows through your lips at her denial.

“you gotta tell your girlfriend to make you come, baby.”

her words are cocky laced with a taunting depth that drowns your ability to think beyond her, think beyond your girlfriend, her eyebrow raises, and she grunts deeply when your aching pussy clenches around her fingers tightly, your hips stuttering dangerously as you force the words from your panting mouth, feeling the wash of obedience over your shaking figure, the precipice too close for even a sliver of hesistation.

“want my girlfriend to make me come, please, please.”

shuri lets out a dizzying sound at the confession, her cunt clenching as her hips buck up into you, her teeth cutting into your lip enough to draw blood, viscous liquid that has the panther moaning out as her pussy drips at the taste of you, the whimper of pain from your mouth, coaxing a growl from the predator.

and then she’s curling her fingers to drag heavily against the rough tender patch inside you, eager for you to come while she tastes that part of you on her tongue, her other hand harshly circles your sensitive clit before quickening her pace. a sob shoots from your throat, your nails digging into the back of her shoulders as she works you through your orgasm, speaking soft loving words to you, running her lips along your cheekbones, imprinting them into your skin.

“that’s my good fucking girl, coming so prettily for me.”

she’s kissing away the tears running down your cheeks, the buildup of the consuming emotions finding solace in the release brought out of you by your new lover; you dazedly blink up at her as she stares at you, her arms rubbing your quivering thighs in a soothing caress that prompts you to lean forward to lay a soft kiss against her nose, one that has her scoffing in fondness.

“you’re my girlfriend now, s’thandwa sam’. so, stop trying to keep me in the dark when you know i can truly see you, yeah?”

you stare at her intently before nodding shyly, once again, pressing your lips against hers, and the stars that burst behind your eyes and the colours, that paint the expression of your ever-changing being, sing that it’s okay to let your true colours show for her.

paint me a picture with your true colours, these are the confessions of a new lover. true colours, true colours.

ஜ

[yrrtyrrtwhenihrrthrrt]

Goldenheart choices

1. Pirate or surfer Ambro and mermaid Bal au

2. Tinker fairy bal and human ambro childhood friends au

3. Fae Bal and Hunter ambro, (if you want smut? Top ambro, bottom bal with vines as bondage)

4. Riririkinzi's little mermaid au drabble (angst, fluff, or smut)

Ok so I chose Pirate/Mermaid (movie ver.) And let me tell you this was SO much fun to write!!!! I might continue it into something more long-form on my AO3, is that something anyone is interested in?? Thank you for the request anon! I hope you don't mind all the creative liberties I took ❤️

--

Ballister lifted himself up onto the rocks and sang, his brilliant black tail flicking the water beneath. It was the curse of the sirens that they should be forced to sing, forced to lure the sailors who would linger among them, enraptured, until succumbing to starvation on the barren seabanks of their island. The sirens did not wish to see their beloved muses suffer for them, but if any ship was able to resist their call and pass them by, or if any sailor managed to leave their island, they would all dissolve into the salt of the ocean. So he sang with his brothers and sisters, as beautifully as he could, desperate to lure any ship that came within earshot of their island, to preserve his family. Siren voices carry for well over a mile.

Just as usual, the ship crashed on the rocks and the surviving sailors were thrown to the sea below. They would need to retrieve them. Of course it would be easier to just allow the sailors to drown, but just as the sailors were enraptured by the sirens, so too were the sirens captivated by the sailors. It was nice, sometimes, to have their company, but in addition to that, sirens could not reproduce with one another. To keep their island alive, they needed to rescue the humans.

Diving below the sea, Ballister saw what appeared to be the Captain, based on his attire. He was young to be a captain, with blond hair that whipped and floated in the water. Ballister wrapped his arm around him and carried him to the surface, ushering him to the rocky shore.

Canals ran through this island of boulders, allowing the merfolk to interact with their human pets for however long they had. There was some freshwater springs, but no food. Sirens didn't need to eat.

He rested his hand on the Captain's chest and pressed until all the water was out of him. The man coughed and sputtered. He met Ballister's eyes. "You. Were you the one singing, with the beautiful voice?"

Ballister cradled his head and smiled. "I was singing with my brothers and sisters. We each have our own song. They harmonize when we sing together, but each one is a melody on its own."

The captain blinked. "What was your song?"

Ballister opened his mouth to sing softly. The man's eyes widened. "That's it! Your song is the one that I heard!"

Ballister blushed. "You only heard mine? We were all singing."

"I heard the harmony when we got closer. You all sounded lovely. Are you a mermaid? Or a siren?"

"I'm a merman," Ballister said with an annoyed albeit amused lilt. "But I am also a siren. They're the same thing, you know."

"Oh." The man looked over the stones and into the water, his eyes widening as he caught a glimpse of Ballister's tail. "You don't look like you'll try to eat me."

Ballister laughed. "We don't eat sailors! We don't need to eat. We live forever, unless we are killed or captured. I am a Guardian, I protect the island. You seem to be a pirate, but you don't look like you're going to brutally pillage me."

"Heavens no!" The Captain laughed nervously. "We aren't those kinds of pirates. I was the heir to a corrupt, powerful fishing company. They were exploiting their sailors and stealing from the public, so I rounded up some sailors and now we take down their fishing boats. We don't hurt anyone, we recruit those who want to join us and bring the rest home. Anyway, do you all have names?"

Ballister snorted. "Yes, and mine is Ballister."

"My name is Ambrosius. Hello, Ballister." Ballister just smiled and nodded. They weren't supposed to remember the humans' names. It made things too hard.

The siren's eyes widened when a warm hand, with a skin far more textured than his own cupped his face. "Has anyone told you that you are so beautiful, Ballister?"

He blushed and sank a bit deeper into the water. "I am frequently told I have a lovely voice."

"No," said the human-- the Captain-- Ambrosius. "That's not what I mean. Your voice is beautiful, but that's not what I mean. Something about your eyes. You're just the most gorgeous person I've ever seen. Not something I thought I'd ever say washed up on a boulder to a half-fish man, but I mean it."

Ballister laughed, but something inside him twisted. The siren's seductive magic lies solely in his song. He cannot keep a human captivated unless he is singing. He wasn't singing, but this man still looked at him with that look in his beautiful almond eyes.

Ballister had already decided that this human was going to be his. But now, he was starting to feel sure that he didn't want to let this one go.