#the book tends to wander far more

[kedreeva]

did u read the good omens book? if so, what are your thoughts on it compared to the tv series?

i followed u for the steddie posts but fell in love with ur meta too 💜

I did, but honestly they're separate entities unless I want to steal something specific for a fic. They're both good, for different reasons and in different ways. They are written by different men, literally and figuratively, about different subject matters, for different reasons. You can compare an apple to an apple blossom, but even though one became the other, and came from the same tree, doesn't mean they are the same thing anymore, nor does it mean one is better than the other.

That being said, I've only read the book once, and I've watched the show over a dozen times, most likely because I saw the show first and read the book second. I enjoyed the book, but I think it was probably a better read in its day, by people who were the target audience at the time, and who didn't just read about or know the context, but understood and lived it. I can't be that, I can't go back in time and read the book before the series, I can't go back and read it in a time where it would have meant what it was intended to mean to the world it was born into.

[she-posts-nerdy-stuff]

So there’s something about Pekka Rollins that has bothered me literally since I first read the books and I think about it every time I read them okay and it’s this line:

“Who is Pekka Rollins?” Matthias asked, turning the ridiculous syllables over in his mouth. Kerch names had no dignity to them.

And this catches me out every single time because Rollins is Kaelish. As far as the reader knows for definite, “Pekka Rollins” is a Kaelish name, not a Kerch name.

Now, don’t get me wrong, we’re of course aware that Matthias is very sheltered from understanding the global scene and may simply have assumed that Rollins is Kerch because he lives in Ketterdam and runs the Dime Lions (this is the only piece of information he knows about him at this time) but I think this is unlikely considering that it was on a mission to the Wandering Isle that he met Nina and we know that, although he doesn’t speak Kaelish, he knows how to recognise it well enough that he knew Nina was speaking Kaelish and not Kerch or Ravkan (at the time he was monolingual, as he would later only learn Kerch by necessity in Hellgate).

And thinking about the name “Pekka Rollins” it doesn’t sound all that Kaelish… does it? Our examples of Kaelish names include “Fianna” (Nina’s Kaelish pseudonym at the Ice Court), “Colm”, “Eamon” (Dime Lions member), and “Harshaw”, but not many others to my recollection. Kaelish names are inspired by Celtic languages and Celtic names, as far as I can tell usually with more Irish and Scottish Gaelic influences than Welsh, Cornish, or Breton (but please note I am by no means an expert and I sadly do not speak any of these languages), and we can see this trend in our examples. But can we see it in “Pekka Rollins”? Or does this name favour the structure of Kerch names? “Kaz”, “Per”, “Wylan”, “Alys”, “Hiram”, “Gert”, “Henrik”, “Jellen”, and so many many more examples, we are overflowing with examples of Kerch names (if you are wondering about more examples I’d recommend checking out the Grishaverse wiki there’s a full list on there of all the characters mentioned from each country, but note it doesn’t include any pseudonyms as far as I’m aware), that tend to favour more separated syllables and harsher consonant sounds than, say, “Fianna” where the name runs quickly together, pronounced to have two syllables when it would probably be said with three by someone Kerch who only saw it written down, with more emphasis on the “yah” sound of the “ia” than the double “n”?

So is it, in fact, possible that “Pekka Rollins” is a Kerch name? A chosen name, by a man who fled his home to restart his life in a new city, with a name that matched it? Is this supposed to imply yet another parallel between Pekka and Kaz?????

I have no idea, this is purely theoretical, but considering that they are narrative foils and we can draw many, many parallels between them and this line is always on my mind, it’s personally my favourite solution. If you agree/disagree or have a different theory, let me know! I love stuff like this so much, it’s so interesting to see what different people think or how we might have read certain details differently

[verstappenf1lecccc]

Bf lando core would be 🫶🏻

you never thought you would be with someone like Lando Norris.

It simply didn’t make any sense to you, you were shy quiet not nearly as outgoing as your other half but fate had tied the both of you together and there was no escaping it.

Things would get hard sometimes especially with how far away lando would be for races, but seeing him dominate and excel at what he does best made it worth it.

Looking at your relationship from an outsiders perspective it almost looked one sided. You always chasing after your superstar racer boyfriend, always being in the backseat while he gets all the fame and glory.

Fans often suspected that lando had been paid to date you it always made you laugh and cry at the same time.

Little did they know that the man they call Lando Norris and the man you call lan were two different people.

It was a mutual decision to keep your relationship private but not a secret. Just like how Oscar and Lilly had done it. It was something based off the amount of hate wags often received and lando didn’t want to risk it with you.

There were often times where you’d wander down the rabbit hole of what fans perceived of you and it often left you more than upset. You knew it was silly and immature but you tended to inflict it on yourself.

When lando learned of this silly habit of yours he made it his personal mission to make sure that you’d never get worked up over the fans ever again.

The man you called lan went out of his way to make you feel seen and heard in your relationship.

It started off as little things such as little post it notes places randomly for you to find while he was off racing or doing promo.

it then would be random items he saw that reminded you of him.

Once lando had ended up being a stuffed baby hippo he had seen it reminded him of your obsession with moo deng. that one holds a special place in your heart.

Often times when lando was on planes he would annotate your favorite books often placing little bookmarks on the parts he thought you’d enjoy or moments where you and the main character were similar.

He was the most thoughtful person you could have ever met, and you wouldn’t let outsiders perception of the both of you ruin it.

[hauntdoesthings]

The Vees with Niffty-Sized Reader

A/N: trying to get back in the groove of writing with some headcanons featuring my current fixation my favorite overlords!

CW: Valentino, manhandling, minor objectification(reader is used/referred to as a doll and pet), implied manipulation and possessive behavior bc it's the Vees, that's their schtick

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Velvette

✧You are literally doll-sized for her, good luck. ✧Dress-up is not an option and she will be throwing you in very cutesy or cozy clothes regardless of your preferences. ✧”They’re just too perfect on you, doll.” OK but where did she even get a bear onesie in Hell? ✧The entire thing is her personal stress-reliever, she gets to do you up however she likes while bitching about whatever faux pas her assistants came up with that week. ✧If you are as high-energy as Nifty, she has a very low tolerance for that. ✧You may be able to get away with running around her department while she’s occupied with prep work, but you better sit still while she’s playing with you unless you want to receive a very harsh reminder that, while she may be the youngest, she is no less than an Overlord, or have you forgotten that, doll?

Valentino

✧*cough*Size kink*cough* ✧Moving on, I actually don’t think shorties are his usual thing. We tend to see him more with taller, lanky people, legs for days kinda energy, but he can’t say your size doesn’t have it’s charms. ✧He absolutely loves to just hold you. Can’t keep up with his tall-ass strides? Wandering too far for his liking? Literally just existing nearby? You’re getting scooped up like nothing at all. Mans has four arms for a reason, so he’s just carrying you around like a handbag or purse pet. ✧Also uses it as a chance to show you off like the pet you are because who else can say they have such a little cutie at their beck and call? ✧Do not mention that you’re shared amongst the Vees or he might just forget he’s holding you as he focuses on holding back a tantrum.

Vox

✧”Jokingly” puts a tracker on you. He doesn’t like that you’re small enough to easily hide in his cameras’ blind spots. ✧Man is so anxious over and protective of you. You could literally be chewed up and spit out by anyone down here, wouldn’t you rather just stay where he can keep you safe and keep a watchful eye on you? ✧Doesn’t really pick you up to hold you like Val but will just grab you by the scruff of your neck to basically manhandle you around. Dragging you away from cables you could trip over, moving you to where he wants you to just sit and wait for him, that kind of thing. ✧Someone help you if you ever run into Alastor. Vox practically turns into a football player or something the way he just yoinks you up and books it. You’re stuck under house arrest for two-weeks at least, it doesn’t matter if you were talking with him or just existing with eyeshot. ✧And no, he doesn’t mean whatever shithole you’re staying in. You’ll be staying in the Vees’ Tower, where they can keep you out of the trouble you always seem to find yourself in. It’s really all for your sake, so he’s really doing you a favor, ḏ̴̉o̵̗͊n̷̜͛'̴̹̓t̷̞͐ ̷̯́y̶̹̒ỏ̷̥ų̸͠ ̴͇͆a̵̢̎g̴̪̈ŕ̴̲e̷͈̅ę��͠?̵̀ͅ

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

my girl 1

Warnings: this fic will include elements, some dark, such as possible age gap, noncon/dubcon, and other untagged triggers. Please take this into account before proceeding. It is up to curate your online consumption safely.

Summary: your brother's friend from work starts hanging out a lot more often. (short!reader)

Characters: Captain Syverson

Author’s Note: Please feel free to leave some feedback, reblog, and jump into my asks. I’m always happy to discuss with you and riff on idea. As always, you are cherished and adored! Stay safe, be kind, and treat yourself💜

The curtains stir in the summer breeze, the smell of pollen wafting in and tickling your nose. You scrunch your face, resisting as sneeze and flip the page of the book, your eyes racing across the letters, devouring them. After another year of academia, you’re all too eager to spend your summer devouring your ‘to read’ list. 

The flick of pages marks the passage of time. You don’t sense how the sky sifts from a beaming yellow to a gentle blue. Not until the knock comes at the door and draws you from the world built of prose. You blink and lift your head, mark your page and leave it on your pillow. You push yourself across the low bed and yawn. Only as you don’t have words to read do you feel the fatigue in your eyes. 

“Peanut,” your mother calls you by the childhood nickname you can’t seem to shake, “gonna help with dinner?” 

You open the door to her and step out, “yeah, should do something.” 

“You should,” she chides playfully. “I already got the roast beef in, just need you to do sides.” 

“Great,” you shuffle down the hall behind her and rub your eyes. You don’t know if it’s allergies or reading that has you so dried out. 

Downstairs, you go into the kitchen and the aroma of the roast has your mouth watering already. In your delve into the land of fantasy, you may have forgotten to feed yourself. It’s not an uncommon occurrence; during the school year, you often studied until your head pounded and your stomach roared. The human body tends only to get in the way of the mind. 

You work at peeling potatoes as your mom takes out a medley of vegetables to put in a roasting pan. She seasons as you chop, the low murmur of her outdated music filling the hazy summer air. You can hear the children next door running around and the bristle of trees swaying in the wind. 

“Oh, make sure to throw in a few extra, pea,” she says as you go to curl over the top of the bag, “your brother’s bringing his friend.” 

“Friend? Johnny?” You wonder. 

“That man from his work, Syverson,” she corrects, “with the beard.” 

“Uh yeah, I remember.” 

You’ve met Syverson, or Sy as he prefers. Your brother, Isaac, started his apprenticeship last summer with the man down at the metal shop. There are vague instances in your mind when you recall the large bearded man sitting at the table across from you. He’s older than your brother, you too. Probably closer to your parent’s age. He doesn’t say much either but he’s polite. You think. 

You shrug and pull out some more potatoes to add to peel and cut. You do so quietly, your mind wandering back to your book even as the real world threatens to wipe it away. You’re so swept up in the fraught quest to reclaim a forgotten world that you can hardly focus on the blade. 

You blink as the knife hits the board, too close to your thumb. Pay attention. Often your mom comments that you look far away and just as often you are. Existing in this world can be so boring. Potatoes and roast beef. 

You rinse off the spuds and put them on to boil. You’ll mash them like you always do and add your mother’s ‘secret’ ingredient; herb and cheese sour cream. You’re pretty sure every mother on the block claims that as their little revolution. 

As the water starts to steam, you hear a car pull up and a louder engine behind it. Your mom checks the beef, letting out a gust of savoury air. You are starving. 

As you toss the peels in the bin, the front door opens. Isaac’s voice carries through the house as he chatters on about sparks and some work thing. Your mom’s head pops up as she waits eager for his appearance. 

He peeks into the kitchen as a pair of footsteps follow behind him. You mom greets him with a kiss, “hello, bubby, how was your day?” 

“Mom,” he scowls and wipes his cheek, “it was fine. Burnt myself pretty good.” 

He shows a bandage on his forearm and shrugs. Your mother gasp, “oh, honey!” 

“Told him to put his gauntlets on,” Syverson stands just beyond the doorway, his shadow looming like an evil orc in a cavern, waiting to pounce. You shake off the comparison as he comes into the light of the kitchen, a case of beer in hand. “Brought something for dinner,” he puts down the six-pack and shifts as you notice the red cap and label poking out from under his arm. He catches the bottle before it can slip and presents it to your mother, “and for the ladies.” 

“Oh, Syverson, you’re always so sweet.” 

“Mm, least I can do, y’all having me, feeding me,” he reaches to rub his neck. “Mind if I use the bathroom? Gotta wash my hands.” 

“Course, dear, you know where it is,” she preens. 

He leans on his back foot and his eyes glint in your direction. Despite his gruff exterior, his shaved head and thick beard, and his work-stained tee shirt, his eyes seem to sparkle, “evening,” he nods in your direction, as if he’s only just noticed you. 

“Hi,” you murmur and turn back to wash the starch from the cutting board. 

Having company is always awkward. You’re the only member of your family who isn’t very social. You have your classmates and a few friends you’ll hang out with on occasion but your parents and your brother always seem to have someone with them. If it isn’t one of your mom’s HOA accomplices, it’s one of your dad’s neighbourhood buddies arguing over the barbecue. 

You continue to tidy up as you wait for the food to be ready. You take out some plates and cutlery, wanting to distract yourself by setting the table. You stack the plates and the utensil slides around on top as you carry them into the hallway. You have to stop short as you nearly collide with Sy.  

“Sorry,” he apologises and backs up, “need help?” 

He points to your armful and you smile and shake your head, “all good.” 

“Don’t mind,” he says as he puts his large hands around the stack of plates. They’re pretty thick and heavy on their own but he takes them from you easily. 

“Um, right, then I’ll get... cups.” 

You turn back and flit into the kitchen. Your mom hums as she strains the potatoes. She doesn’t notice you counting glasses from the cupboard and balancing them all in your arms. You go down the hall, this time without obstacle, and into the dining room. You angle awkwardly to put down all the glasses at once.  

Sy lays out the plates and cutlery one at a time, certain to have each perfectly centered and straight. He focuses on the task intently. The sight of his earnest effort contrasted by his burly figure is almost silly. You plunk down the glasses at the corner of each plate, staying on the other side of the table from him. 

“Your back from school,” he says as he finishes, stepping back to cross his arms, making himself even larger. Most people are big compared to you. 

“Mhmm,” you nod with a rigid tight-lipped grin. 

“You graduate?” He asks. 

You try not to show your surprise. You’re not sure you’ve ever had a conversation with him. It’s just nods and grunts sent in your direction. Just acknowledgement. Just courtesy. 

“One more year,” you say, “erm, I’ll go help mom.” 

“Right,” he drops his arms and grips the back of the chair in front of him, “don’t let me keep ya.” 

You inch backwards and spin around, trying not to run away. It isn’t him. It’s you. It’s easier to read dialogue on a page and pretend it’s coming from your lips than it is to hold a conversation in real life. You would rather go back and finish your chapter then sit at the table and eat with your family, especially now that you’ve made it awkward. 

[yaksha-lover]

cw: yandere, stalking, imprisonment

Malleus is locked in the castle - a mild territory dispute nearby, but his grandmother insisted he stay inside for the duration - when he sees you for the first time.

When you’ve spent as long as he has staring out the tall stained glass windows of his chambers, you learn to recognize the faces which roam your garden.

You are new.

He doesn’t think too much about you at first. Your novelty is the only thing that stands out to him; he doesn’t even think to ask Lilia where you’ve come from. Surely, you will be gone soon enough and his inquiry will have been pointless. Time proves him wrong.

Over the next few days, Malleus finds time between his magic and history lessons to watch you wander across the greenery. Perhaps you wouldn’t put in it such terms, you are working after all, but the fae can’t help but see it in that light.

He’s jealous, in a way. Perhaps that’s why you’ve captured his attention. He’s the one with wings, and yet, you are more free than he will ever be.

His grandmother- all his ancestors would surely scoff if they knew the heir to the Draconia kingdom was jealous of a human gardener.

That’s another thing he’s noticed from watching you. You’re human.

If your features weren’t enough to give it away, he’d also overheard Sebek complaining to Lilia about having more humans around the castle. His guardian had replied something about this being the exact reason he’d hired you, and then Lilia walked too far away for Malleus to hear any more of his explanation.

Even once he’s allowed to travel beyond the stifling stone walls of the castle, Malleus chooses not to approach you. It’s become part of his daily routine to watch you go about your caretaking of the bushes and the flowers; he would loathe to disrupt your genuine behaviour by making it known someone was watching you.

His eyes search for you as soon as he peers out his window. It’s second nature, an unconscious habit that’s begun to take hold in him.

As he watches you tend to the roses, Malleus can’t help but wonder how you would look dressed in an expensive silk of the same dashing red instead of your usual brown corduroy uniform. He’s sure you’ve never even dreamed of wearing fabric so expensive.

He thinks it would suit you. You might not have the look of the typical nobles he interacts with, but he certainly believes you have your own charm.

That’s another reason he’s become…interested in you. You’re so far removed from his own world, from any of them who sing his praises or whisper worries behind his back.

Of course you must know of him, but Malleus doesn’t know what you think of him. That, in of itself, is tantalizing and terrifying.

Malleus watches you until the sun sets upon the grounds and you’re forced to retire to your lodging at the corner of the property.

He falls asleep wondering what you dream about.

This habit of his goes on longer than it probably should. Although time doesn’t mean much to him, Malleus knows a couple months would be a significant amount of time to a human.

What would you think if you knew the crown prince was watching you day after day? Would you be flattered? Afraid?

Part of him knows it’s not right, but that doesn’t make it any easier to pull himself away from the window.

He feels as though he knows you.

He knows that tulips are your favourite by the way you take your time when trimming the stems, going much slower than he knows you’re capable of just to spend a little longer taking in their smell.

He knows your favourite foods, having watched what you bring for lunch. On the days his grandmother is too busy to dine with him, he prefers to take his food in his chambers, so that he can eat with you.

He knows that you love to read, your breaks spent sat by yourself with a novel instead of with the other staff. He finds himself reading alongside you sometimes, picking up the same book he noticed you had with you. It’s almost as though you’re truly doing it together.

It’s during one of these breaks that Malleus notices someone talking to you, interrupting your reading.

A blond man kneels down beside you, clearly trying to start a conversation with you. You smile politely as you look up at him from your place under the tree, book face-down on your thigh.

You’re too far for even his superior hearing to catch your words.

He doesn’t miss your giggle at the man’s chatter.

Malleus lets go of the document he’s holding. He’s accidentally crushed it in his grip.

-

You and the other staff have been on edge since Edric got fired. It seemed so random - one day, he was managing the grounds and chatting with you about your novel, and the next he was gone.

The crown always had a good reputation as an employer - it was one of the many things that drew you to the castle. There was gossip about Edric after he left, rumours about things he’d done to deserve getting fired. You didn’t want to believe it; he was the only one kind enough to try and befriend you after the others had all but shunned you for being human.

He hadn’t even said goodbye.

There was nothing much you could do but continue your work as usual.

A couple days later, one of the castle guards approaches the garden while you’re working. Everyone pauses their tasks with held breath as the man walks past everyone and stops in front of you.

You can feel the stares of your fellow staff burrowing into your back; you’re next and they know it. Despite the fact that they’re probably happy to finally get rid of you, you catch a glimmer of sympathy in some of their eyes.

Silver has been friendly in passing before, but this time his face is serious as he speaks to you: “Please come with me, MC. The crown requests your presence.”

The walk is long and tortuous - you’re no longer afraid of being fired, more like getting struck down by lightning. You trust Silver, but you know his kindness ends where his duty begins.

You’re not taken to the throne room or in front of the queen like you expect.

You’re taken to the chambers of the prince.

Malleus Draconia sits cross-legged at the head of the wooden table in his room. There’s two steaming teacups, one sitting in front of him and the other at the opposite end of the table.

You’ve seen glimpses of him here and there around the kingdom, but this is the first time you’ve been able to take a good look at him. His presence is more intimidating than you’d even imagined, his tall stature and broad shoulders making him seem imposing even if you didn’t know his magical capabilities.

He smiles when he sees you, but his expression looks wrong. It makes something in your gut twist.

You don’t smile back.

“Thank you, Silver,” he says, his tone steady and revealing nothing. “Please, leave us.”

You want to beg him to stay, but he nods at his prince and does as he’s told, shutting the door and trapping you in.

Malleus motions for you to sit at the single empty chair.

“Please,” he says. “I’ve had them brew some tea for us to share.”

“…Thanks.”

“Do you like the centrepiece? I picked it out just for you.”

A glass vase full of fresh cut pink tulips sits in the centre of the table, on top of a dainty, white lace place mat.

“Yes…thank you.”

“I’m glad to hear.” He leans slightly forward across the table. “I want to make you happy, MC.”

“No offence, your majesty-”

“No need to be formal with me, my dear.” He continues to smile. The grin unsettles you further; as though he’s attempting to lull you into a false sense of safety, just waiting to sink his teeth into you.

“Why am I here? Why did you…set all of this up?”

“You’re here because you’re my beloved. I’ve watched you for months, you know.” Your stomach drops. “I wanted to stay away, to leave you be. I know now I was wrong. I should’ve brought you here much, much sooner, my love.”

“Watched? What do you mean? Why-” Your voice rises as you become more panicked.

The thorny vines growing around your wrists and tying you to the chair stop you from standing up.

You never even noticed them begin to bloom.

“Shh, there’s no need to have a tantrum. It’s all okay, MC. I know you will need time, but soon you’ll fall for me, as I have you. We belong together.” He stands from his chair, walking over to your side and placing his hand on your forearm as he kneels beside you.

“Please let me go,” you whisper, wetness pouring down your cheeks, despite how you try to hold in your tears.

His expression darkens as his grip on your wrist tightens to a level of discomfort. “We all have a role to play in the kingdom. It’s treasonous to not play yours.” He tilts up your chin to face him. “You wouldn’t want anyone else to end up like that little friend of yours, would you?”

[parkerluvsu]

okay wrote a request for chiropractor!art or some type of body worker!art a few nights ago very late and stoned so sorry if it was messy or phrased impolitely. if you would be so kind as to bestow some of your artistic talent upon the proposed concept, i would be very grateful, obviously no pressure or rush. please and thank you!

if you’re open to it, picture art being immediately smitten upon seeing you. you’re a little taken aback by his appearance and charm, but resolve yourself to focus on tending to your long aching body and focusing on pain management and healing to whatever capacity you may achieve.

little do you know, art is growing exponentially enamored. he was initially smitten by the way your eyes met his, your voice when you greeted him, and countless other little wonders about you.

he is the picture of professional, externally. no one needs to know he anticipates your sessions all week. schools himself into not losing his composure over the forced proximity prompted by the setting. he grows obsessed with trying to untangle and pinpoint the layers of your smell when he’s all up in your space. he’s being so normal about pushing up your legs as far back as they can go, slowly gaining more and more ground. he definitely doesn’t think about the ways he can bend and fold you right here right now, or the positions he could use his profession to help you work up to. he doesn’t feel his ethics hanging by a thread every time another lovely sound is pushed out of you. tells you to breath makes intense eye contact while coaching you through breathing in spite of overwhelming pain when addressing a tight spot. tenderly talking to you through any pain. touching every inch of you, to get to the root of any discomfort only, of course. he has immense respect for you, especially considering you’ve been carrying immense pain so gracefully for so long.

he knows he can’t date a patient but that doesn’t mean his mind can’t wander…

wonder what he thinks about… gets up to…

anyhow, thank you for entertaining this ask and full respect however you choose to engage with it or not.

thank you good sir.

holy fuck 😭😭 i mean what can i add to this perfect ask?!?!

im imagining that you didn't exactly know that your chiropractor would be a man.. i mean all your previous ones weren't, so when you walked into the clean, organized office and were met with the most gorgeous man you've ever seen.. yeah, you were a little surprised.

but you tuck those feelings deep down and try to be professional, telling him how it hurts when you raise your arm too high, and how your calves keep cramping no matter what you do. and art listens, nodding his head every once and a while and taking little notes on his clip board. but despite trying to he professional, you can't help but look away when his pretty blue eyes meet yours.

then he gets to work, telling you to lay on your stomach while he digs his thumbs into your leg muscles, and you're fighting the urge to make absolutely embarrassing sounds, but art couldn't even notice that if he wanted to.. he's in his own world, letting his hands massage and bend your legs gently, the soft skin sending him almost into a trance, sometimes interrupted by thoughts of rubbing lotion into other places on your body.. wondering if you're this soft everywhere.. wondering how far he could take this without you noticing his erection in his pants.. but art is a professional.. he wouldn't put his job on the line just to get his dick wet.. but that doesn't stop him from thinking about it..

in the next session you two have together (which art has been not so subtly preening himself for), art works on your shoulders, asking you to sit up while he presses his palms into your shoulder blades, biting his lip when you make a noise of discomfort, torn between wanting to comfort you, and wanting to hear more..

after he books your next appointment, art sends you on your way with his signature sweet smile, before shutting himself in his office and cancelling all of his appointments for the rest of the day.. definitely not because hes rubbing the sweet lotion that he always uses on you at your appointments into his hands.. groaning and spreading his legs in his chair to grant himself better access to shallowly thrust his hips into his hand.. the pink head of his cock peeking out of his fist every once and a while.. when the thought of your noises from earlier that day pop into his head.. arts a goner, shooting white rivulets onto his navy blue work pants.

cleaning himself up, art sends you an email insisting that it would be in his best interests if you would have a session with him 2 times a week.. of course just to help you feel better quicker, not because he needs more inspiration for those lonely nights alone at the office <33

[hulhudhonado]

your work is fucking amazing.

hey! hi, hello, how are you? :)

may i request wanderer, (scara, whatever his goofy ahh name is rn), alhaitham, ajax and kaeya reacting to reader, who’s usually not a fan of physical affection, coming up to them and snaking an arm around their waists while resting their head into their neck?

thank you!! 🩷

CW: swearing in wanderer's part because I believe he would say fuck

HC: Reader is gender-neutral, Reader does not have a vision.

Characters: Wanderer, Al Haitham, Ajax (Childe), Kaeya [Seperately]

Note: Thank you so much! I apologise for the late upload as I am currently studying. I got some time for myself so here you go. I hope I do this justice. Please make sure to interact with the post and enjoy it!

Al Haitham

Al Haitham tends to be prepared for whatever is to come, however, the sudden feeling of an arm around his waist was not something he thought he would ever need to prepare for. 

Kaveh was finally out of the house, preferably looking for a job rather than complaining about everything Al Haitham did. This also gave Al Haitham the luxury of inviting you over without Kaveh taking your full attention. He wouldn’t say he was jealous, but Kaveh knew how to take care of company far better than he could. It was the one thing that left a sour taste in Al Haitham’s mouth, but he would never let Kaveh know about that.

You both were enjoying the quiet atmosphere of the room, nose shoved in books and lounging in your chairs. It was clear you both had chemistry which didn’t need to involve spoken words or gestures, Al Haitham liked your quiet company and you enjoyed his.

It didn’t take long but he finished his book, a little too fast it seemed because he could still see you weren’t done with yours. Not wanting to bother your reading, he closed the book and stood up to get another one. As he tried to quietly navigate the bookshelf, he didn’t realise your eyes slowly lifting off the pages to look at him.

Al Haitham, back turned, looked through the shelf thoroughly. It was clear he had pretty much read everything else on the shelf. He either had to reread another book or go out to find another one. Didn’t seem like a bad date idea to take you out book shopping with him. However before he could reach a decision, you began your attack.

An arm reached around his waist, followed by a gentle head on his shoulder. Al Haitham tried his best not to flinch but the shock of such an unexpected gesture made him shudder a bit. He turned to look down at you, who had slyly made their way to him without him realizing. You had a gentle smile on your face, happy to catch him off guard.

You both were typically not physical. It wasn’t something Al Haitham was against but it was pretty clear to him that you were not someone who indulged in that sort of affection. So seeing you make the first step was not something Al Haitham had prepared for. He looked back at the bookshelf.

“What are you looking for?” You perked up, trying to stifle a laugh. You knew what you did and you were fishing for a reaction from him. “ A book.” He answered, almost robotically.

“Hmm… I’m certain you read everything on this shelf” You could see the corner of his mouth twitch. It was small but he was reacting, you could feel your ego getting bigger. “Yes, you’re right.” Was all he could muster.

It never occurred to Al Haitham that he would enjoy such proximity to another human being. He tended to avoid any type of physical touch from most people. However, the way you held him just made him feel so warm, especially knowing you would never typically do something like this. He knew he would never recover from this, only wanting more in the future.

“Do you want to go out and get some new books then?” You ask, your head nuzzling closer to his neck. “That would be preferable.” He answered. You let out a chuckle, arm slipping off from him. But before you could pull yourself away, Al Haitham reached out his arm, forcing you to stay in your place, both of you now wrapped in each other’s embrace.

You let out a laugh. “Enjoying this much?” “Can’t say I don’t. “ His response only made you laugh more. “ Well it’s up to you, we could go get new books, or, we could just stay like this. What do you say?” Before Al Haitham could respond, a creek from the door could be heard.

“I’M BACK, OMG YOU WOULDN’T BELIEVE THE THINGS I HAD TO DEAL WITH- Oh you have company.” Kaveh burst in, welcoming you the minute he saw you. Luckily for Al Haitham both of your reflexes were fast enough to pull away before he had seen you guys so close to one another.

Standing in front of the bookshelf, barely an inch apart, you both stood trying to seem as normal as possible. Al Haitham couldn’t believe he was getting embarrassed by almost getting caught by his roommate.

Al Haitham wasn’t prepared for what had happened today but he knew you planned to do more of this in the future. Hopefully, he would be prepared for the next time you did attack, and maybe he should find ways to kick Kaveh out for longer. He definitely did not want Kaveh to walk into whatever you both had planned for the future.

Childe (Ajax)

The closest that Childe has ever been able to touch you was probably during your friendly spars. You loved your distance and tended to keep a lot between the two of you. Even though you both had been together for quite a while it seemed you were not the type to get touchy with others. So Childe himself was amused when you decided to wrap an arm around his waist.

“What’s the occasion?” He asked, trying his best to focus on what was written in front of him. It was like you had calculated it. For once he was at the bank properly reading documents at his office when you decided to pop by. Now here you were slithered next to him, wrapped around him with your head on his shoulder.

He tried not to react, but he honestly wanted to throw away whatever he was reading just to return the favour. It was bold of you to do something like this so suddenly at such a random time. You never came by when he was working, even though he insisted. Paperwork was not fun for him but you were a rule-abiding citizen when you weren’t on a battlefield. He just had to know what was going through your mind for you to do this.

“No particular reason. Just felt like it.” You answered, nonchalantly. Your tone was dull and meek, escaping your throat like a whisper. Your usual fighting spirit was not there and he could sense it the minute you spoke. He finally looked at you and it was clear as day that you were not feeling well. Your hair was dishevelled and your eyebags were very noticeable.

Every single scenario flooded his mind. Was it because of work? Was someone rude to you? What happened to the person who would maniacally laugh whenever they got a scratch on him? He wanted to bombard you with questions but he stopped himself. Maybe it was because he was using his brain at this very moment rather than his instinct to fight, but he knew asking questions was not going to make you feel any better. So he reacted instead.

Shifting the documents to one of his hands, he let the other one wrap around you, engulfing into his side, closing any gaps between the two of you. You only responded by letting him do so, completely enveloping yourself in his arms and him in yours.

“Are you sure nothing’s wrong?”He asked, giving you one more chance to answer if you wanted to. “I’m alright. Just let me stay like this for a while.” Even if he was disappointed by your response he wouldn’t show it. Instead, he responded with a hum, not prodding you with any more questions and letting you enjoy the warmth he could provide with the embrace.

So you both stayed together, wrapped in each other's arms while he worked. It didn’t take long for you to fall asleep but that didn’t stop Childe from keeping you by his side. Even in your sleep, your arm refused to let his waist go which did make him chuckle, maybe he could tease about this when you were feeling better.

Honestly, he expected the first time you held him like this to be in a more romantic setting but he was not going to complain about what he was getting. It was already a big step that you decided to come to his side for comfort. Your usual method of letting go of bad feelings was always sparing so it was a nice change of pace.

Maybe next time you do feel bad and need his comfort he will be able to get some words out of you. For now, he’s going to let you do whatever you want, even if it means catching him off guard with an arm around his waist.

Kaeya Alberich

“Cheers for a happy 6 months!” Kaeya chuckled. You both clinked your glasses, giggling tipsy from the alcohol. You both had been dating for half a year now, which was unbelievable in Kaeya’s mind. Kaeya always had a one-sided crush on you ever since you both had done academy training together. Who knew you felt the same? And now here you both were, celebrating together.

Kaeya could see Diluc roll his eyes yet he didn’t care. He knew it was considered cheesy to celebrate every month of a relationship, but you were the type to enjoy such things so he couldn’t say no. He began to love these silly celebrations with you, it felt special.

“You guys do know this isn’t the most romantic place to celebrate right?” Diluc piped up, as he organized the wine shelf behind him. Kaeya stuck out a playful tongue at him before taking a sip, which only made your tipsy self giggle some more.

“Yeah yeah, but it’s the place where we first confessed! It has special memories, you should be glad your tavern can create such happy moments.” You say, words a bit slurred but still understandable.

As you spoke you could hear the other tavern people cheer, which only made you cheer along. Kaeya could only stare at how stunning you looked at this moment. He still couldn’t wrap his head around the fact he was dating such a wonderful individual.

Diluc sighed, preparing you both another glass. He slid the glasses over. “Here then, for a successful 6 months.” He mumbled, rolling his eyes as you and Kaeya once again cheered.

Kaeya took the glass without hesitation, ready to down it in an instant, but he wasn’t prepared for what you had planned. An arm wrapped around his waist, pulling him and his chair closer to you. Kaeya had already begun to drink but the sudden action caused him to choke on it.

He coughed so much, that the drink spit out of his mouth. Diluc looked in disgust while you only could worry. “Are you alright?” You ask concerned, but Kaeya couldn’t hear anything. It was unbelievable, you had wrapped your arm around his waist! You both have never been this close before!

You tended to always stay in your own space and Kaeya wasn’t going to push it, especially since you guys were still freshly dating in his mind. He wasn’t going to risk ruining a relationship he dreamt of for years. Maybe it was the alcohol but it seemed that you had the confidence to pull such a sneaky trick.

“I’m fine i’m fine. It went down the wrong pipe for a second.” He tried to laugh it off, wheezing between sentences. He hoped you didn’t notice his panic, he didn’t want you taking your arms off him anytime soon. You smiled at himy placing your head on his shoulders which only made his head spin more.

Diluc looked at Kaeya in amusement. He got front-row seats to see his brother who was typically cocky completely speechless. Kaeya looked as a devilish smile crept up on Diluc’s face. “You know, it really is such a special day. Here, more drinks. On the house.” He slid you both more drinks. Kaeya could only stare in disbelief as you continued to chug them down like nothing.

“You’re being kind today Diluc! Thank you!” You gleefully exclaimed, setting the glass down and wrapping another arm around Kaeya. Your head that was on his neck pushed closer, and Kaeya could feel your hot breath on his neck, which only made him feel hotter.

The alcohol wasn’t helping, he could feel the dizziness get more intense as you pushed yourself closer to him. He was certain you were going to melt and mould him into slime with all the heat he was accumulating.

He could see Diluc prepare another drink, a sly smile still on his face. If this was how you acted tipsy he wasn’t ready to face you when you were a complete drunk. He stood up from the chair, pushing the glasses away from you which only rewarded him with a whine.

“we had enough for tonight. I’ll take you home.” You pouted but mumbled an OK, standing up yourself. However, you refused to let go of his waist, forcing him to stay close to you at all times. He tried to control his shyness but it was hard when you were so close.

“Hope you both enjoy the rest of your anniversary!” Diluc called out, a smile on his face as Kaeya glared, guiding you out of the tavern. He hoped the next time you decided to pull a stunt like this, you both weren’t as drunk anymore.

He also planned on never having anniversary celebrations at the Angel Share ever again. Or at least not on Diluc’s shift. He wasn’t ready for what other PDA you had in store, knowing Diluc would fan the flames to embarrass him. Maybe next time you guys can go drinking at each other’s houses instead. You’ll have to see on your seventh anniversary.

Wanderer

“What the fuck?” That was the first words that came out of his mouth when you decided to wrap an arm around his waist, placing your head on his shoulder. 

“Shut up I’m trying to rest here.” You mumble, closing your eyes, enjoying the icy sensation from his porcelain-like skin. The Sumeru desert was hot, unbearably hot. You didn’t want to come here but when you’re working in the Akademiya you didn’t have a choice in what you had to do to progress your research.

Lucky for you, you were accompanied by a walking ice pack. It was a shame his attitude wasn’t as cool as he was.

“No, I won’t, get off me.” He hissed, trying to push you off himself. You just rolled your eyes, gripping him a bit tighter. You knew he could easily toss you aside if he wanted to get you off. He had a vision that allowed him to blow you away in an instant, so him being so meek was an act.

“Yeah yeah, good luck with getting me off, i’m quite persistent.” You continue to mumble, pushing your head into the crevice of his neck. Wanderer had a very peculiar scent. A mixture of grass and freshly picked kalpalata lotus. It was such an odd smell but you honestly have got a bit addicted to it. It also helped his frosty exterior enhance it. Either way, the smell felt clean and cool, a refreshing scent during such hot weather.

You could hear him scoff, the sound ringing in your ears a bit since you were so close. You were close enough if you just turned your head you could peck him on the lips, you would have done so if you weren’t so tuckered out.

“Whatever, I’ll let you off this time. I won’t let you pull this shit next time.” You could only chuckle. This wasn’t the first time he tried to threaten you. To be honest he seemed to dull down a lot more compared to everything that happened before. You both weren't usually touchy, actually, you were not touchy at all, so whenever when you do shit like this it always ticked him off. You were honestly surprised he hadn’t gone into a swearing fit like when you first held his hand. It was almost as if he was slowly getting used to your touch, which you didn’t mind.

However today you were just out of it, too tired to mess around with him or worry about touch. The shade of the cave you both sat under accompanied by his cool refreshing self attached to your side made you drowsy. You could feel your brain finally go into shut-down mode.

“Hey, don’t you dare go to sleep… ” You would think he was trying to stop you from falling asleep but his intentions were clear when you could hear how softly he whispered those words to you. You could feel his arm, which was nowhere to be seen until now, finally, wrap around you from the side. 

“If you fall asleep I’m going to leave you here to fend for yourself…” He continued to whisper. It almost sounded like a lullaby but you knew the sun would be rising from the west if that was the case. “Yeah yeah, at least bury me in the sand before you do.” That was the final words you said before you finally got knocked out.

- - -

To no one’s surprise when you did wake up, he was still at your side. Both of you were unmoved from the original position from when you had fallen asleep. The only difference was that the sun had set and the stars littered the sky.

“Good morning to you.” He grumbled which you answered with a yawn. “ What happened to leaving me alone to fend for myself?” You asked, trying to let go but as he remained unmoved you could not.

You huffed, trying to push him off but he finally decided to use his given strength to make sure you couldn’t. He didn’t turn to look at you, instead focused on the sky. You sighed, giving up and following his gaze up to the sky. Was the sky always full of that many stars?

“I changed my mind.”

[icrypop]

yandere headcannons for sbg gang? Maybe a few for their parents(platonically for the parents tho since reader would also be like 14 or smt), reader also went Savanah with the sbg gang and is experiencing the same as the rest of the gang, (if you don't mind, could you also put how the yanderes feel about your parents, you can choose what the readers parents r like, I would prefer it if readers parents lean on the dysfunctional/abusive/neglectful side, but at the end of the day I'm fine with anything! ty!^^)

Yandere HC's School Bus Graveyard

Ashlynn, Taylor/Tyler, Ben, Aiden, Logan + parents(ish)

WARNING: Yandere Themes, violence, manipulation, harsh and controlling themes, the all around yandere per say just not intensely descriptive

I love this request, I did bullet points and everyone has separate hcs except towards the end where its an all together type thing but regardless you can read this as platonically or romantically, however you'd like! (Parent HCs are platonically, almost like over protective parents) The reader is Gender Neutral!! Hope you like it!

-Writer Icy<3

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Ashlynn:

- Protective: Will go to any lengths to keep the reader safe, especially from their own parents which can sometimes get violent but refuses to let you know about it. With her stealth, she’s able to get rid of any competition outside of the group. That crush you had last week that broke your heart? Oh, they’re missing? What a shame…

 Possessive: Sees the reader as her special friend/partner and doesn't like sharing their attention with others so whenever in the halls, tends to have scary dog privileges and stands close to the reader, scaring any other friends outside the gang away.

- Controlling: Likes to dictate who the reader can talk to and what they can do, under the guise of "protecting them." She can tend to become stalker-ish and since she had good hearing, if she were over at your house she’d overhear the shitty things your parents were saying so she could eventually bring them up to you in conversation and make you turn to her for a source of comfort.

- Manipulative: Uses the reader's need for safety and stability to bind them closer, often playing the role of the "savior." Since the 7 hour nightmare is a shared experience, she likes it better when you stay at her house so she can be there through it all and also to comfort you whenever you both wake up from it. Often offers for you to stay with her and not return home so she can watch over you at night, mostly just watch you.

Tyler:

- Obsessive: Constantly thinks about the reader and wants to be with them all the time. Keeps his eyes on you, don't wander to far from him when you guys are outside of the protective walls, he’ll go berserk. Also uses scary dog privileges and stays very close behind you, similar to Taylor but more so with you and doesn’t let you out of his sight. Ever.

- Jealous: Gets extremely jealous if the reader shows attention to others, even their own friends but learns to deal with it, knowing the group cares just as much as he does but never more than him.

- Idealizing: Puts the reader on a pedestal, believing they can do no wrong. He’s very attentive to their needs and desires. He praises them but in an aggressive, love-bombing type way. “Maybe I'm not smart enough…” He’d scoff and cross his arms ``Oh shut up, you know your grades are better than ours. Stop whining.” But he means well.

- Aggressive: Will lash out at anyone who he perceives as a threat to the reader’s well-being or happiness, including the reader's parents. That mean group of popular kids who laughed when you dropped your books? Yeah now they steer clear of you after Tyler caught them after school and lashed out severely, scaring them shitless.

Taylor:

- Charismatic: Uses charm to gain the reader's trust and affection. She always offers kind words and a big smile so its hard not to believe every word she says, shes so soft and gentle with it all. Is the main source of comfort, especially with the way every night for 7 hours has been going so she puts an arm around you and lets you rest while she watches. Watches the surroundings but also the way your breathing slows down while your near her..

- Stalkerish: Keeps tabs on the reader's whereabouts and activities, often without their knowledge. Literally had taken her and Tyler’s saved allowance to buy a cheap computer and now both take turns on days off from school. Are you at home? Oh your at the store with your shitty mom?? Time to go.

- Deceptive: May present a friendly and supportive facade while subtly isolating the reader from others. Often takes up on getting interested into your hobbies and things you enjoy just to pull you away from the others to talk to you about them and then keep you away for long periods of time.

- Overprotective: Will intervene in the reader's life, especially when it comes to their parents, believing that only she knows what's best for them. Calls on Tyler for brute force if ever needed while she holds you and tells you your safer with them. With her.

Aiden:

- Calm and Calculating: Observes the reader's life and plans ways to integrate himself more deeply into it. Very sneaky  about it but if you were to notice, it’d probably just look like his usual creepy behavior and would brush it off with his signature smile if you brought it up.

- Emotionally Manipulative: Uses the reader's vulnerabilities, like their troubled family situation, to create dependency on him. The phantom realm puts alot of stress on your shoulders but its okay! Aiden is right there to help you. Call him crying about it or show up on his doorstep and he’ll draw you in with love-bombing and telling you that he is all you need.

- Possessive: Feels a need to be the most important person in the reader's life and will remove any obstacles to that. He is one of the more skilled yanderes aside from Ashlynn and probably Ben. He’s got the good “I can play Psycho Killer’ tendencies and works well when he’s got the energy to take out any person he deems a threat to the reader. He singles out everyone else and inserts himself into situations or conversations often so you think about him more.

- Devoted: Will go to extreme lengths to "rescue" the reader from their abusive or neglectful parents, offering a new family with the gang. Can and will buy you things that you want or need so you rely on him and slowly come to him more. Constantly sticking close and trying to protect you from any Phantoms wandering near you. You get a scratch though? Yeah they won’t be around once he finds them.

Ben:

- Fixated Has an intense focus on the reader, wanting to know everything about them. Has a separate notebook full of pages about things he knows about you and everything you’ve told him. Its literally an unhealthy obsession at its finest.

- Unpredictable: His mood can swing between loving and harsh, depending on how close the reader is to him. Since he’s usually quiet, he likes to stay closer to you, especially in the phantom realm. If anything, humans and phantoms alike, were to become a threat to you? Its like his past hits like whiplash and he’s killing whatever threatens you in the first place. Now, with people he's more discrete but he tends to seek comfort after he manages to kill a Phantom and you happen to see it.

- Guilt-Inducing: Often makes the reader feel guilty for trusting their parents.’’ Why believe all the lies they tell. Is what I’m doing for you not good enough?? I thought you trusted me..’ would be the message you receive after venting about your parents but claiming they still loved you and you loved them. 

- Self-Sacrificing: Will do anything, even put himself in harm's way, to protect the reader from their parents and others. Countless times has he gotten caught in the cross-fire of trying to keep Phantoms from grabbing you. Gets fired up easily over anything getting too close to you but tries to keep his cool. He doesn’t want to scare you..

Logan:

- Gentle but Firm: Appears kind and understanding but can be strict about keeping the reader close. He keeps a soft tone but makes sure to be strict when the reader starts to sway back to their parents. “No it’s not safer there, I promise we can keep you safer..”

- Loyal: Deeply loyal to the reader and expects the same in return. Can become upset if the reader tries to distance themselves. Proves to be loyal by helping you with anything whether it be schoolwork, chores or even tasks before going into the Phantom realm.

- Protective: Has a strong desire to shield the reader from their dysfunctional family, often offering a "better home" with him and the gang. Constantly tries to persuade you by talking about how peaceful the garden is and all the plants and everything he helps take care of that you could see.

- Secretive: May hide his more intense feelings and actions, presenting himself as the "voice of reason" among the group but alerts the brutes if he notices things are off with you. He sees someone bothering you in the hall? Reports to Ash and that person is gone. Someone tripped you and laughed? He barely nudged Ben before it was taken care of. He’s like the messenger and is like your guardian to keep you safe, so safe from everything.

~The Group's Parents as Yanderes (Platonically)

Ashlynn's Parents:

- Overbearing: Makes jokes about wanting to "adopt" the reader into their family, offering them a better life than their own parents provide and stating it was a worriful joke.

- Invasive: Often pry into the reader's personal life and family situation, justifying it as concern so your not suspicious about the questions.

- Possessive: Believes the reader would be better off with them and might try to convince them to stay over more frequently, roping Ashlynn into trying to convince you to stay so your safe.

The Twin’s Mom

- Supportive: Offer emotional and sometimes financial support, wanting to become the reader's new support system.

- Manipulative: Subtly encourages the reader to distance themselves from their own parents, painting them as unworthy.

- Controlling: May attempt to take over the role of the reader's guardian, believing they know what's best for the reader so small acts of service like packing lunch or getting small articles of clothing since yours has blood stains or tears in them.

- Charismatic: Are friendly and welcoming, making the reader feel at home with them, constantly wanting you to feel comfortable and at home.

- Judgmental: Often criticize the reader's parents, emphasizing their own family's superiority just to change your mindset and how you see them.

- Encouraging: Pushes the reader to confide in them about their family issues, offering to "step in" whenever necessary.

Aiden's Parents/ Ben’s guardians

- Calm and Nurturing: Provide a stable and peaceful environment, contrasting with the reader's chaotic home life, explaining whats theirs is yours.

- Possessive: Feel a need to "rescue" the reader and integrate them into their family permanently.

- Protective: Actively works to shield the reader from their own parents' influence, sometimes through legal means.

- Loving: Shows an overwhelming amount of affection towards the reader, wanting to make up for the love they lack at home wether its through acts of service or gift giving.

- Overly Involved: Want to be involved in every aspect of the reader's life, including their relationship with their parents.

- Persistent: Keep offering the reader a place in their family, even if the reader hesitates and tries to rope Ben and Aiden to help do the same, pressuring you in a loving way.

Logan's Grandparents:

- Gentle and Understanding: Present themselves as a safe haven for the reader, understanding their struggles, offering gentle nature and helping hands to the reader's chaos.

- Supportive: Offer help and guidance, often encouraging the reader to stay with them so they can help and be there for them more.

- Protective: Will go to great lengths to keep the reader safe, including intervening in their family situation and acting as messengers to the group, including their guardians as well.

~Yandere Group's Feelings Toward Reader's Dysfunctional Parents and How They'd Help

~ General Feelings: The gang collectively despises the reader's parents for being neglectful, abusive, or dysfunctional. They see the reader's parents as unworthy and harmful, and they feel a strong desire to protect the reader from them.

~Helping the Reader:

  - Ashlynn: Would try to physically remove the reader from their home, offering her own house as a sanctuary.

  - Tyler: Would aggressively speak harshly about the readers parents, Taylor helping alongside him to alter your way of thinking so highly of them.

  - Taylor: Would manipulate situations to make the reader's parents look worse, encouraging the reader to rely more on her.

  - Aiden: Would provide a calm, safe space and work on legal ways to help the reader distance themselves from their parents.

  - Ben: Would emotionally support the reader, offering a listening ear and trying to become their main source of comfort.

  - Logan: Would offer practical solutions, like helping the reader find a new place to live or getting them into counseling, all while subtly keeping them close.

Each member of the gang would take a different approach to help the reader, but all would be united in their determination to remove the reader from their harmful home environment and keep them close within the gang's protective circle as their parents/guardians act as the protective outer circle.

[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.”

[innerfare]

Sabo Fluff // Angst Compilation

Summary: A compilation of Sabo angst and fluff from my multi character posts (You're Wounded, Brushing Your Teeth Together, Flowers, Type of Date, You See His Cabin, Fighting and Making Up, Paradise, Nightmares, I Love You, You're Jealous).

Genre: Fluff // Angst

CW: None // SFW

———

You’re Wounded: 

Makes a light joke, inspects the wound himself even if there’s a doctor present, will help bandage you up if you need it. Pretends to be nonchalant about the entire thing, is panicking inside. Fully realizes the depths of his affection for you, is terrified to realize it’s love.  

Brushing Your Teeth Together: 

He didn’t get his pearly white smile by slacking off. When you’re brushing your teeth together, he’ll pause to inform you he’s better at it than you, that he has the best technique, that his dentist always compliments his teeth. Doesn’t explicitly challenge you like Nami and Luffy, but can’t help but get competitive. 

Flowers: 

He’s gone for very long periods of time, so when he returns, he’ll bring you a bundle of peonies or calla lilies, but he also bought you a cherry blossom bonsai tree so you can have flowers even when he’s away. The bonsai tree ends up becoming his baby, and when he is home, he spends quite a bit of time tending to it, to the point you get a little jealous. But it brings you lots of comfort when he’s away, a symbol of your love that’s firmly rooted and eternal. Side note, he will most definitely use flowers to seduce you. 

Type of Date: 

Takes you to the aquarium or zoo, the two of you wandering around hand in hand, pointing at different animals and saying, "that's you." Also takes you on a lot of picnics (far less elaborate than the ones Sanji plans) that you spend either in silence or editing his manuscript. And he knows the lay of the land in terms of hole in the wall restaurants, quiet little nooks where you can cozy up to one another and not be disturbed. Will occasionally risk it all to take you to water parks despite being a wanted man.  

You See His Cabin For The First Time: 

His bedroom at the Revolutionary Army’s base is a total bachelor pad, and when you see it for the first time, it wasn’t planned, so he’s a little embarrassed by the state of it. He has some dirty dishes he forgot about, some dirty laundry on the floor, and a pile of books on his bed. He spends virtually no time there and probably wouldn’t even have furniture beyond a mattress on the floor if it wasn’t provided by the Revolutionary Army as part of his living quarters. That being said, he did pin Luffy’s and Ace’s wanted posters to his wall, and he has a couple of different lotions and skincare products on his bathroom counter. 

Fighting and Making Up: 

Sabo can be pretty hypocritical. He takes so many risks and claims he wants a partner who can keep up with him, but if you take risks without him to back you up (the way he constantly takes risks without you backing him up), he’ll get mad at you because it triggers him so deeply; he has nightmares about you dying, but he normally hides them from you. It usually devolves further when you accuse him of not living by the egalitarian ideals he espouses by trying to control you. Other times, you fight because he was shamelessly flirting with someone else (flirting is an instinct for Sabo and he's so naturally charming that sometimes he really just can't help it). But you two have a special spot (a pink peach tree on Momoiro Island) and whoever is ready to make up first goes there and waits for the other; he once waited two full days and nights for you. When you get there, he’ll offer you a pink peach and a sheepish grin. 

Paradise 1: 

Wandering through a flower field and picking some of the more beautiful blooms that catch your eye, sprawling out on a picnic blanket in the late morning to bask in the sweet scent, enjoying the breeze as it ruffles your hair, weaving some of the flowers you picked into a delicate crown that they wear proudly while the two of you share sweet kisses. 

Paradise 2: 

Meandering through the woods in search of the tallest, most impressive tree, him giving you a boost up to the first branch to get you started before climbing up himself, staying behind you the entire time so he can catch you in case you fall. Finally piercing the canopy and poking your heads up above the forest, his hand on your leg to keep you steady, the two of you grinning as birds fly by, basking in the afternoon sun. 

Paradise 3: 

Escaping the chaos of life and climbing a desolate hill, sharing a late afternoon snack as you stare up at the clouds and point out different shapes, saying, “that’s you,” when you see a funny one. Arguing over which one of you gets to be the dragon cloud, your argument turning into roughhousing and the two of you accidentally rolling down the hill, him laughing and kissing your cheek when he knows you’re okay and then starting the argument again. 

Paradise 4: 

Waiting until late evening to meet beneath a peach tree, speaking at first in hushed tones, worrying someone is on to the two of you, eventually forgetting about all of that and settling into easy conversation about nothing and everything simultaneously, him jumping up to pick a peach for you to have as an evening snack, you taking advantage of the last bit of light to carve both of your initials into the tree trunk. 

Nightmares: 

You’re on stage in an auction house being sold off to the highest bidder. He’s there, but he can’t get to the stage, as if he’s trapped behind invisible glass. He’s screaming his head off and throwing himself at the glass, but everyone just ignores him, the slave auction continuing as though he’s not even there, Sabo completely powerless against the injustice of it all. You’re crying and struggling in your shackles, but it’s no use. He wakes up thrashing, ready to fight anyone who stands between him and you. When he’s met only with darkness, he doesn’t relax but instead gets dressed and wanders off to find some work to do, the sound of your shackles clanking as you struggle against them stuck in his head like a sick song, the sight of Celestial Dragons bidding on you like an object lighting in him a fire that will burn down every auction house in the world. 

Wearing His Hat: 

You and Sabo were supposed to be sparring, but he wasn’t taking it seriously. You could tell by the way he kept looking over your shoulder, the way he pawed at you instead of striking when you gave him an opening. You considered complaining, but you knew better than to nag a man like Sabo. He would just ignore you like he did everyone else who tried to get on his case about something, the Army’s Chief of Staff being an expert at tuning out voices. 

So, you decided to get creative. 

The next time his eyes left your person, you swooped in. His arms went up to block you, more out of habit than anything else, but you didn’t strike him the way you normally did. Rather, you snatched his hat off his head with a victorious laugh. 

“Hey!” His eyes widened, and suddenly, his full attention was on you. “That’s mine.” 

“Is it?” You placed his hat atop your head with a mischievous smile. “If you want it back, come and get it.” 

Sabo’s expression lit up as you issued your challenge, and as he positioned himself back in his fighting form, you had to wonder if you would regret riling up the Chief of Staff.  

I Love You: 

Sabo is always taking risks. He lives a dangerous lifestyle as the Chief of Staff of the Revolutionary Army, and on top of being one of the most wanted criminals in the world, he is an incredibly reckless individual who thrives when his life his threatened. He does not, however, thrive when your life is threatened. So accustomed to being the one others are fretting over, so used to Koala telling him off for taking this risk or making that dumb decision, he is completely blindsided by the anxiety he experiences when he finds out you’ve been captured. Naturally he launches a rescue attempt, and when it succeeds, he wraps you in his arms and tells you how much he loves you. He always makes sure to say it after that, telling you in the morning when you wake up and at night when you go to bed together, the memory of not having you there to hear it all too fresh. 

You’re Jealous: 

Sabo is a flirt, and you knew that going into your relationship. It actually doesn’t bother you when he flashes that charming smile of his at someone else or swoops in to save a damsel in distress (a speciality of his) and even serves to entertain, especially on the rare occasions his flirtations are rebuked. What does bother you, though, is his tight relationship with Koala. You know it’s ridiculous to be envious, you know Koala would sooner saw off her arm than kiss the man she considers her irksome big brother, but they’ve known each other since they were little kids, and Koala has been through so much with Sabo that the pair have such a close bond. It’s not the angry kind of jealousy that bubbles up in you when Koala mentions something about Sabo’s past that she assumes you know but you don’t, just the sad kind that you try to keep to yourself. Surprisingly, Sabo notices, though you don’t realize until he hugs you from behind and mumbles in your ear that he’s glad you’re the only one who knows he has a skincare routine, his silly words diffusing your mood and acting as the exact affirmation you needed. If it’s not enough, though, he’ll happily prove his loyalty to you by challenging Koala to a karate match, though.  

———

Hope you enjoyed it! If you want more, you can check out my masterlist here!

[alexsoenomel]

Silly Little Nightmare (Dean Winchester x Reader fluff)

Summary: You have a nightmare and you go to Dean's room

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Warnings: death and fluff (sounds about right, eh?)

Word count: 1.1k

Note: Found an old fic I wrote years ago. It was horrible so I did I little editing. Enjoy!

Like/ reblog or both if you like it :)  

Not being able to sleep was a must in your book every night.  You struggled with insomnia, nightmares and exhaustion your whole life and now living with two brothers in a cold bunker in the middle of nowhere didn’t help your situation whatsoever. The bunker was your home during the day, but a fucking nighmere during the night. The water in the pipes circling around your room made it almost impossible not to focus on the damn sound and cold air was trying to creep into your bones no matter how thick your blanket was – sometimes you hated it.

One night it got the best of you, it almost tore you apart completely and drove you to the brink of madness.  When you decided to forcefully get yourself into a deep state of sleep by taking melatonin there it was: the dream – your worst nightmare. It started off as a pleasant scenario set in the late 50’s for some unknown reason. You and the older Winchester were on a mission to kill a creature who happened to have the ability to time travel. The younger brother wasn’t there; your brain was clever enough to take everything you love away from you – step by step.  It made everything too real; every sound, every touch and every damn emotion seemed enhanced. It took you and Dean to a dark alley, similar to the ones where the worst killings and robberies would happen in real life. It made you think that Dean was the bad guy; it drugged you to the point where you couldn’t see nor hear straight. How the fuck did your brain manage to do that? You were a fucking masochist so maybe that was your answer. You couldn’t hear his voice, begging you to believe him and you didn’t see the expression on his face when you first took out your sharp knife. He looked like someone else – a monster in a human form with sharp teeth and yellow eyes, but it wasn’t Dean. He tried to run, but you were faster; he tried to fight you, but you were stronger in this universe. When you stabbed him it felt like cutting a piece of cake – surprisingly easy. You didn’t hear his hard groan but as soon as he hit the ground it was time to wake up and see what you had done. Your eyes were yours and true again as well as your ears, but you…you were far from yourself. He was laying there, blood all over his shirt and mouth, he was already far away from you. His eyes were open and empty. He was gone.

“Dean?” You got on your knees. “DEAN?”

Nothing. His groans and short breaths stopped. He wasn’t moving anymore.

“DEAN PLEASE?! Wake up?!”

“DEAN?”

“DEAN?”

The tears seemed so real and yet so foreign. Like a few drops from a cold autumn’s rain on your cheeks, but at the same time that familiar feeling of sorrow and emptiness hit you. Your body became weak, he wasn’t moving. He was gone.

You woke up. Sweat. Tears. The anger…everything hit you all at once. Shaking your head, desperately trying to pull yourself together and catch your breath, you got up and went to the hallway. It was pitch black; the darkness was overwhelming making you frantically wander. He was your first love, and first loves we tend to not forget nor get over it easily. Love sometimes wasn’t what poets make it to be; all happy and sweet as candy – it sometimes left scars, sometimes deep and more painful than any other childhood trauma you may have experienced.

No one knew about your love for Dean besides your heart. Sam was a friend, or even the brother you never had but Dean was the other side of the coin. If you could explain why he made your heart work faster you could but that was the thing about love, it was unexpected and unexplainable. The life you lived, the things you had seen, you couldn’t risk losing the friendship you had so you just buried it deep in your mind. 

His room was the first one to the left. You gently opened the door and the silence was immediately replaced with soft snores coming from the bed.

“Dean?” You whispered, closing the door. “Dean?”

The sheets started moving in the dark as you sat next to him. “(Y/N)?”

“I’m sorry I-I…” You remembered the dream again. You saw his lifeless body again. “I had a nightmare.” With your sleeve you whipped the tears trying to not sound as pathetic as you thought you did. 

“Hey, comere!” He pulled your arm and moved to the other side of the bed. You went with him under the covers feeling his warmth on your skin immediately.  He smelled like mint with a dash of alcohol plus something that screamed Dean – a mix of leather and gunpowder. He wrapped his arms around your small frame pulling you closer to him.

You would hug here and there, but never like this. This was intimate and yet familiar. 

“It was about you.” You said pressing your forehead against his chest. 

“The nightmare?”

“Yeah, I killed you. I thought you were a monster and I killed you.” The tears started creeping in again as you tried your best to keep it together. 

“It was just a dream, sweetheart.” He said softly. His chin was resting on top of your head. 

“I’m sorry I woke you up. It’s just…” You couldn’t see him and you didn’t want to, you felt stupid. A grown ass woman crying over a bad dream – even worse a hunter. 

 You lifted your head up and feeling bold you placed a kiss on his cheek. “I’m sorry.” He was still a silhouette but his eyes were on you while he was trying to restrain himself from kissing you. You weren’t the only one who had deep buried feelings in the pits of your mind. He was hooked the minute you two jammed to Ramble On by Led Zeppelin in the Impala one gloomy Sunday night after a successful hunt. 

“It’s…It’s okay.” You couldn’t see but he was flustered. 

“Can I stay? Please?”  

Something in his gut punched him, so he went for it. He kissed you. Not in the sweet ‘I have wanted to do that for a long time’ way, but ‘please never leave me I love you’ way. At first it felt like someone pushed your face into a candy bowl but with the sweetness and a light minty flavor there was also the pleasure that came with it. It literally took your breath away and you couldn’t help but moan a little.

“Stay and never leave.” He said.  

[krysalla]

smoke break.

bo sinclair x gn!reader

word count: 1k

read on ao3

warnings: smoking

You and Bo take a smoke break.

You spend the day tending to the yard. The hydrangea bush you planted beneath the porch is teeming with life. The mopheads burst with rich blues and purples. It had been near death when you found the parent, all of its branches cracked and dying, except for one. The branch almost escaped your notice, but you caught the shimmer of green, it was faint, almost yellow in color, but it was still alive. You came back with a pair of shears from the house and brought the small bundle back home with you. 

From that small cutting, it’s grown like a weed under your love and care. 

Your garden is your pride and joy. Before Ambrose, you knew nothing about gardening, could barely even keep the monstera you were gifted alive. Now the wild, unruly lawn is a paradise. One of the homes on Main Street had dozens of books on gardening. Between that and Bo’s collection of old sci-fi and western novels, it was an easy choice to make. You devoured the books, aching to fight the mind-numbing monotony of being trapped in the same cycle day in and day out. Cook, clean, laundry, rinse and repeat. You’re not some homemaker and you were never built to be one.

Bo is strolling up the hill that leads up to the house, hands shoved down the side pockets of his black coveralls. He whistles a happy little tune, a smile playing at his lips as he comes closer to you. He always wanders back up to you sometime in the afternoon, bored of tinkering with the shitty old Mustang he’s been working on since before you showed up here.

“Hey there, hot stuff.” You shade your eyes as you look up at him.

“What’re you up to?” Bo asks. He’s got a cigarette between his lips.

“Mm, just making sure everything’s okay.” You turn back to your plants. This particular bush of amsonia is worrying you–the leaves are starting to turn yellow and the flowers wilted. You hold out your hand to him blindly, index and middle finger spread in a V-shape. “Let me get one of those.”

He snorts, “These things’ll kill you.”

“You quit and I’ll stop bumming smokes off you.”

“Fat chance, sweetheart.”

“Then don’t tell me not to smoke.” You turn back toward him. His eyes are crinkled in fondness and his responding scoff is more playful than offended. 

He takes the cigarette he’d been puffing on, already half smoked, and slots it between your middle and index fingers and you can’t help but wrinkle your nose when he lights up a new one for himself. As always, nothing gets past Bo, he barks out a laugh and smirks. “That’s a compromise, baby.”

You scowl at him but begrudgingly accept the cigarette. You take a drag. The taste of mint an odd surprise. “Since when did you start smoking menthols?”

“Ran out day before. Didn’t feel like going into town to pick up a carton.” 

You hum. You can see past his vague statement. You know where he got these–the sugar mill is rife with suitcases and backpacks, most of them completely untouched by him and Vincent, it’s not the first time he’s gone through the sugar mill ripping through the dead’s belongings in search for cigarettes or beer or whatever other little vices he can get his hands on so he doesn’t have to drive the forty miles to town. He must be desperate to even be smoking these. Did he get lucky on his first suitcase or did he tear through them with a manic edge trying to find a pack of non-menthols before giving up. He doesn’t like the mint taste, says what’s the fun in smoking if you aren’t going to taste the tobacco and smoke. You think he sounds pretentious.

“What’s for dinner?”

“Hadn’t thought that far ahead. Got any requests?”

“Whatever you want, baby.”

“You’re no help, you know that?” You push yourself up from your squatting position and slide up against his side. His arm slings his arm low on your hips, hand wandering down to grab at the fat of your ass and jiggle it in his grip. You laugh and swat at him. “Bo, knock it off.”

“Can’t help myself, sweet thing. You look good enough to eat.”

You have serious doubts about that. Your hair is plastered to your face and neck, you smell like a lawnmower and your very sensible overalls are smeared in dirt. But you won’t put up an argument, if a man as handsome as Bo tells you he thinks you’re attractive, who are you to say otherwise? 

He takes the cigarette out of his mouth and angles for a kiss. You step out of his arms, avoiding his kiss completely.

“Not happening, I’m busy.”

Bo furrows his brow. “Busy with what? Thought you and I were taking a smoke break?”

“If you haven’t noticed,” you start, “I’ve already finished my cigarette.” You flick the butt on the ground and grind it with the toe of your shoe. “Get going, there’s leftovers in the fridge for lunch.”

“Startin’ to think you love those flowers more than me.” 

“My flowers don’t talk back.”

He growls and wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you back into his chest. Bo kisses your cheek, breath fanning out over your skin. “Watch that mouth of yours.”

Bo buries his face in your neck. You feel him take a deep breath through his nose, sniffing at you and trying to swallow up your scent. He’s so pathetic sometimes it hurts. Jealous of some silly flowers, as if they could replace him. If you acted the same way when he went down to work on his cars, he’s laugh in your face and mock you to no end. You bite your tongue, he’s much too sensitive–not that he would ever admit that–to tease like that and you’re not in the mood to get into a screaming match right now, not when he’s all sweet on you.

“Go on, Bo. Get yourself something to eat.”

“Only if you come with.”

You suppose it wouldn’t hurt to take a longer break. It would be better to water your plants when the sun starts to set and the air begins to cool off a few degrees. You nod and let him drag you into the house.

[marzipanandminutiae]

You talk a lot about the (tragic) lack of love for female characters we typically see in fandom spaces. Did it always come easily to you to prioritize/be super interested in female characters or did you have a journey to reach that at some point when you were younger?

When I was about 3 years old, my father took me to the book store (mostly to look at the pictures, of course) as was our usual habit. apparently, after wandering around a bit, I said to him very seriously, "Daddy. There's a problem."

"What is it?" he asked.

"Not enough books about girls."

He took me to look around the kids' section again and see. Afterwards, he turned to me and said, "Marzi, you know what? You're right. What are you going to do about that?"

To which I'm told I responded, "Write some."

So yeah, it goes back pretty far.

And to be clear, I don't think focusing on female characters is some kind of moral imperative or sign of superiority or anything else more than just...really liking female characters. Some people do, some people tend to have a more balanced array of faves gender-wise, and some seem to end up gravitating more toward male characters. Which I do get! For me, female characters just have this...undefinable Shine about them. They're almost always the most interesting and compelling to me. Maybe it's because I'm a woman; maybe it's because I'm a lesbian. I don't know. It's just always been like that, and no other gender of character can compare (though I can of course find them interesting to some degree as well).

And of course :) this includes trans female characters :) because those are also Women :) just in case anyone gets any ideas that they absolutely fucking should not :)

It's more the widespread attitudes and trends one sees writ large in fandom that can irritate me at times. there's a difference between "yeah a lot of my faves are male" and "I just think femslash is only good when it's a genderbend of two male characters" (which is a real hot take I've really seen) or all the shows I've seen clogging up my dash with GIFs of pretty male couples and learned exactly nothing about the female main characters in the process.

[jayaury]

Mistress of the Pale

Another short story from my patreon backlog https://www.patreon.com/JayAury.

Enjoy!

***

Ravel had considered himself fortunate to get an apprenticeship with Madame Moora. Every young wizard had been hoping to be selected to study under the mysterious mistress of the Ivory Tower, but it had been him she’d chosen and sent for.

Yet now, he wondered if it had been a blessing.

He wasn’t sure when the seeds of doubt had first sprouted, but perhaps it had been the very first day he’d arrived at the Ivory Tower, when he’d been greeted by the servitor. He still remembered that pale beauty. A woman of lovely proportions, her figure pale like she’d been carved of marble, and her only attire a loincloth with a belt of silver thread.

He’d stared, shocked at the topless woman, who merely bowed, her eyes lidded and dull as foggy mirrors. “You are Ravel?” she’d said.

“Uh, y-yes.”

“The mistress shall see you. Come.”

The servitor had turned, her perfect ass swaying as she walked away, leaving Ravel to jolt back to the present and hurry to catch up. They’d walked through marble halls so pure white they seemed to glow with an inner light. Other near naked servitors, men and women, wandered about, their expressions empty as they went about their tasks tending the grounds. Any question Ravel posed to his guide was met with blank silence, as if she never heard him, or even noticed him, but merely walked like some automaton along a set path.

They’d moved up through the tower and to a door framed with golden ivy. The servitor knocked twice, and then opened it without a moment more of hesitation, stepping aside and bowing. Taking the hint, Ravel entered.

The study of Madame Moora was a large room filled with tall, narrow lines. The thin windows rose along the back wall and tall bookshelves like pillars were here and there. Madame Moora herself sat in a rounded chair like a tilted ball cut in half, and at the sight of her, Ravel realized he had never seen a more beautiful woman.

Her hair was a deep black and her skin tanned a golden bronze. A slim cloth slipped between her legs from a gown cut so low it was a miracle or, far more likely, magic her curvaceous breasts did not pop out of them. Her face was strikingly beautiful, her eyes lidded, her finger slender as they held open a book before her. She looked up, and Ravel stiffened instantly at her lidded eyes. It was like her gaze had struck a silver pin through him, and a smile slowly alighted her lips.

“Ravel,” she said, rising with a whisper of her dark gown. “Finally. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. You may go, Lakia.”

“Mistress,” the pale woman said, bowing low, and Ravel couldn’t help but notice a quiver of pleasure seem to surge through her, the servitor’s thighs tightening as if she had nearly cum right there.

But he had no more attention to spare the pale woman, for in the moment Moora was moving towards him, her gown softly swishing in the silent chamber. “Let’s get a look at you,” Moora said, gently cupping his cheek and turning his head this way and that. “Hmm. Yes. Not bad at all. You are quite cute, my apprentice.”

He felt his cheeks burn at that. “M-madame, I uh…”

“Oh, but don’t worry,” she said, patting his blushing cheeks. “I didn’t decide to make you my apprentice just because you’re so adorably handsome. Oh no. I was very impressed by your new logistical theory of arcane usage. I always try and get my hands on the cleverest of new students. They have such… potential…”

Ravel swallowed hard, the way she lingered on that word making his heart race and jump. “I ah… I’ll t-try not to disappoint you, madame.”

“Good boy. In which case, shall we have our first lesson?”

“A-already?”

“We haven’t a moment to waste, apprentice. And I simply can’t wait to see what clever little ideas you might come up with.”

“Oh, well, I…”

“What’s wrong, apprentice? Shy? Don’t worry. I’ll be gentle.”

“Huh?”

She laughed, a full throaty sound that seemed to reverberate in his groin. “Don’t worry, apprentice. It’s a simple thing. A relaxation technique. Perfect for nervous new apprentices to the fold.”

“W-well…”

“Ah ah! Madame knows best. Now, let us feel the magic within you. Feel the channels of power that flow through you. Follow my finger, apprentice. Follow the sensation…”

Ravel nodded. That… that seemed fairly standard. Magic of course followed certain paths through the body, and certain techniques were common among sorcerers in order to ease the use of their powers.

But he’d never felt one like this.

His breath hitched as her finger slid along his arm, hairs rising in its wake in a wave of sensitive awareness. “Just relax, apprentice,” Madame Moora crooned, pushing in closer, her eyes gleaming like jewels. “Just relax… and follow my voice…”

Ravel realized she was easing him down, and he found himself lying back on a couch he hadn’t noticed before. Like everything in the room, it seemed strangely delicate. Tender. Like the stem of a flower ready to be snapped at the slightest force. Yet it took his weight easily, and Madame Moora’s as she knelt over him, her finger still tracing his body, drawing lazy spiral patterns that tingled and shocked through him like electric wires.

“M-Madame, I…”

“Shhh. Just repeat after me, apprentice. I am relaxed. In control. I am feeling good all over.”

“I uh… I am relaxed. In control. I…”

“Am feeling good all over.”

“Feeling good all over…”

And he was.

Ravel realized he was feeling good all over.

Feeling light, like the mana channels in his body were filled with fizzy water. Bubbles popping and sparkling and making his body tingle from end to end.

It felt good.

So very good.

“I am relaxed,” Moora said smoothly.

“I am relaxed.”

“In control.”

“In control.”

“I am feeling good all over.”

“I am feeling good all o-over.”

“Gooood,” the sorceress purred.

And Ravel sucked in a breath as he felt her hand move lower.

“Keep going, apprentice,” Moora cooed as her finger lazily traced circles around his bulge, spiraling up the swell of his pants.

“I-I am relaxed. In c-control. I am feeling good all… all over…”

“Keep going,” she murmured as her finger slid around his tip, teasing him as his balls throbbed, aching with need.

Ravel continued, his mouth moving almost automatically, all his focus trained on his cock. On how good it felt as her finger slid around and around and around. As she deftly undid the laces. As his cock sprang into the open, twitching and hard.

Moora’s smile deepened. Her delicate fingers wrapped around his length. “Mmm. It seems you still have some… tension here, apprentice. But not to worry. We can fix that.”

“O-ohhhhhh,” he groaned.

“Keep going, apprentice. Don’t focus on distractions. Focus on what matters. Focus on those sweet words. Try and resist, apprentice. Try and resist…”

“Y-yes. Um. I… I am… ah… I am relaxed. I-in con… controooool. I am f-feeling good all… mnn… all over…”

“Good apprentice. Keep going. Keep talking.”

Ravel obeyed, the words spilling out of him in a flood, gasped as her hand went up and down his cock, stroking him slowly. Drawing it out of him. And yet, strangely, he didn’t feel the painful urgency of orgasm. It certainly was there, but it was more like a dull ache of throbbing pleasure. Of teasing anticipation, relentless, constant, making him whimper and groan, wriggling while his mana channels buzzed with the clarity of the mantra.

But there was no way for him to resist forever. Not when a woman of such aching perfection was pleasuring him. Not when it felt so good. So perfect.

“I-I’m relaxed. In c-control. In… In… Ohhhhh!”

He shuddered as he came, orgasm bursting through him like a wave of heat, his mind going white with the pure pleasure that wrapped around him, squeezing him in its embrace.

He sagged upon the couch, panting, watching as Madame Moora’s eyes grew lidded, her lips parting as she breathed in deeply, almost as if she were joining him in his orgasm. She sighed, a shiver coursing through her as she lifted her hand and delicately licked his seed from her fingers. One. By. One.

Ravel watched in dull fascination as she sucked her pinky clean, then turned a radiant smile down upon him. “Mmm. Good, apprentice. I think you will make an ideal student. And no doubt a quick study. Now, I trust you will keep that mantra in mind while you’re in my tower. Right?”

“O-of course, mistress,” he said, chest heaving from his exertion of pleasure.

“Good boy,” she purred, her jewel eyes shining bright. “I think we’ll get along just… swimmingly…”

#

Training in the Ivory Tower was a strange experience for Ravel.

He didn’t have much to do other than practice his arcane currents, and Madame Moora insisted he perfect them before she trained him further.

“My methods are not to be taken lightly, my student. Your body must be prepared for my spells.”

And so he practiced.

And worked.

And trained.

It would have been dull, truth be told. But the longer he focused on his mana channels, the easier it became to just… zone out. He found himself almost floating about the tower when he focused on the mantra. It made him feel so light and empty and perfectly at peace.

But something still worried him.

Though he knew that Moora wouldn’t teach him magic until he mastered her first lesson, that didn’t mean he couldn’t study independently. Or, so he thought. But whenever he opened a textbook retrieved from the tower’s extensive library, he found the formulas so…

Confusing.

This made him uneasy. He’d always been a quick learner. In fact, it was what he’d been most praised for. But now, the words on the page just… slipped away from him.

It wasn’t that he didn’t understand them anymore. Instead, he grew bored with them almost instantly. No sooner had he read a word than his mind seemed to drift, and he would read the same paragraph almost six times before he caught himself. What was wrong with him?

Sitting at his desk, he slapped his cheeks and shook his head, scowling. He could do this. He could…

“Trouble, apprentice?”

Ravel gasped as he felt Moora’s delicate fingers on his shoulder. He looked back, and found himself staring at the firm curves of his mistress’s breasts, the plunging valley of her collar hinting the tantalizing truth of those bronzed orbs.

For a moment Ravel found himself unable to look away, as if enthralled by those perfect breasts as they gently rose and fell with her breathing, but belatedly he managed to shake it off and jerk his eyes to her face.

“M-mistress? I ah…”

She smiled and leaned over him, her finger touching the page, running along the words. The motion was slow, almost sensuous, and Ravel couldn’t suppress a shudder that seemed to reverberate in his groin.

“Hm. Studying? Now why would you need to do that when your arcane channels remain undeveloped?”

“This is fairly simple magic, mistress,” he said.

She gave him a tender smile, then glanced back at the book. “‘A demon,’” she said, reading as her finger slid along the page, “‘is that most notorious of creature. Their aim is, inevitably, to devour the soul of mortals, and they have any number of means to arrange that. They are powerful creatures, masters of temptation, and have a variety of methods to steal the souls of their victims. Once they have done so, their prey become little more than thralls to their whims. Mindless slaves to their new masters.’”

Ravel felt his blush deepen as she leaned forward, the back of his head nestling against the softness of her breasts.

“‘But though a demon is a creature far more physically powerful than any mortal, there are many ways to best them,’” she continued. “‘The most effective is a spell of sealing, which can be inscribed upon a piece of steel, and upon plunging into the demon’s heart, will banish them once more to the infernal plane.’ My my, apprentice,” she said, giggling softly. “Looking to become a demon slayer?”

“E-every mage should know how to defeat a demon,” he said uneasily. “It’s well known that demons love to devour not only the souls of mortals, but find the magic of mages delicious.”

“Putting our poor sorcerers in quite a state, true,” Madame Moora said, her hand slipping from the page to touch his stomach. Ravel gasped as her other hand joined it, her arms crossing over his chest, pushing him back and against her breasts. “Demons do love the taste of a mage’s magic. And they love the taste of a willing one’s far more. And yet, sorcerers still try and summon them. Do you know why, apprentice?”

“Because… because demons know much f-forbidden lore,” he gasped as her hands massaged his chest, her fingers teasing down him. “And can share it if… if bound properly…”

“But it’s so very hard to properly bind a demon, apprentice,” she crooned as her fingers found their way once more into his lip, teasing his cock through his pants. “So very hard. They’re so skilled at distracting. Tempting. So many sorcerers never even knew what they were doing. Do you know why?”

“I ah… I d-don’t…”

“Because they were too… distracted.”

Ravel moaned as she undid his pants, drawing out his cock and into her waiting hand. Her palms were warm as she began to stroke him, lazily pumping his cock as he gasped and quivered in his seat.

“They just couldn’t focus. Which is why, dear apprentice, we must repeat the mantras. Must ease the flow of mana. Can you do that?”

“O-of c-course, mistress.”

“Hmmm. I’m not sure I believe you. I think we should… test that… On your knees apprentice.”

“Mistress?”

“Obey.”

The word seemed to vibrate through him. Before he knew it, Ravel had slipped out of his chair and was kneeling on the floor. He looked up, dazed, only to find Moora sit on the edge of his desk, her legs parted, her finger teasingly opening the front of her slinky gown. His eyes widened as she brushed open her dress, revealing the lush folds of her pussy, her breasts nudging aside the fabric to reveal her firm, heavenly tits.

“Let’s test your focus, apprentice,” she said, smirking down at him, her finger gliding up and down her cunny, stroking herself slowly. “Show me you won’t easily get distracted. Lick me, nice and slow.”

“I… I…”

“Come now, apprentice. If you do, I’ll even teach you a binding curse.”

A binding curse? That was very advanced magic. Ravel hesitated, but then, many sorceresses had stranger methods of instruction, and learning such a potent magic would be a tremendous boon.

“Yes, mistress.”

“Good boy. Now, get to it.”

Ravel tried not to focus on how the words ‘good boy’ made him feel. He tried to distract himself by leaning in and running his tongue along her slit. Her taste tingled on his tongue, shooting down into him with a shock of ecstasy. He shifted where he knelt, his cock throbbing. He’d utterly forgotten it was jutting out of his pants until he felt Moora’s foot rubbed against his manhood.

“Goooood boy,” she moaned, the underside of her foot pressing his cock back against his groin and stomach. “That’s it. Lick mistress like a goooood boy.”

Ravel groaned as her toes slid around the head of his cock, rubbing and teasing his tip, his hips rocking to further pleasure himself against her. His face burned bright pink with the humiliation and pleasure he was receiving.

“The mantra, apprentice. Don’t forget the mantra. Keep you… mmm… nice and even.”

Oh, yes. Of course. He had to… had to repeat it. But not aloud. No. His tongue was… was much too busy. In his head. Yes. He could do that. Yes… He was relaxed. In control. Feeling good all over.

He moaned as the words echoed in his mind, his cock throbbing with new sensitivity. The words seemed to wash over him, soothing the tension in him, leaving him composed. Calm. Able to appreciate every wonderful moment of her foot rubbing against his cock. Every delicate tingle of her taste as he lathed her pussy with his tongue. He whimpered, squirmed, relishing every moment.

“Keep licking… apprentice…”

Yes.

Yes, of course. Must keep licking.

Licking mistress.

Adoring mistress.

Showing her what a good boy he was.

What a good apprentice he could be.

Because he was relaxed.

In control.

And feeling good alllll over…

His tongue lapped, loving, stroking, teasing, adoring her pussy. The mantra swirling in his mind, enabling him to focus so easily. To discover all of Moora’s favorite places. Every spot that made her gasp, jolt, quiver in sweet pleasure.

Yes.

Yes, he was relaxed. He was in control. And feeling so very good aaaaaall over.

“Yes. Oh pits yes. Apprentice. I’m so close. Cum with me, apprentice. Cum with mistress my good boy. My good toy. My… my… Ohhhhh!”

Her thighs tightened around his head, squeezing him as she came. Her juices splashed onto his tongue, the sharpness of her taste pushing him over the edge, Ravel groaning in utter pleasure as she gave him a taste of her orgasm. The sensation seemed to shoot from his mouth, crackling down his veins, bunching in his balls before… before…

“Mmmmm!” he groaned, tongue buried in her pussy as he came, his body bucking as his cock spurted, coating her toes, his shirt and his lap in his seed.

Moora cooed, lifting her foot from his lap and wiping her toes on his pants. “There we are. Excellent work, apprentice. I’m quite pleased.”

“Ohhhh…” Ravel groaned.

Moora chuckled and rose, turning about and grabbing his pen. She scribbled something on a sheaf of paper, then strolled away.

“Best of luck with your studies, apprentice,” she called over her shoulder.

Ravel wasn’t sure how long he remained kneeling on the floor, but when he finally managed to pull himself back to his feet, he found a spell of binding written on the waiting paper. He gaped at it, able to feel the power in that spell even as he held it. Remarkable! He smiled, moving back to his book, endeavoring to read once more.

And didn’t even mind that only the mantra echoed in his thoughts.

#

Ravel frequently wandered the halls of the tower when he hadn’t anything else to do. Still, Madame Moora hadn’t taught him any magic beyond the mantra and that one binding spell.

“Not until you’ve mastered the first lesson, apprentice,” she’d crooned.

And surely he was getting close. Madame Moora was training him almost every day. At any time during his studies he might suddenly find his mistress beside him looking to test him, gently pressing him down to his knees so he might show her how good he’d gotten at… focusing.

“Mmm…”

Ravel stopped, startled. He looked around himself, wondering where he was. He’d wandered far this night, and he realized was in the Hall of Pillars, the ivory rows lining the room like a forest of petrified trees.

“Ah…”

He blinked, realizing the sound had stirred him from his thoughts. Curious, he moved among the pillars, drawn to a soft whimpering and moaning deeper in the room.

“Ohhhh…”

Not sure why, Ravel halted behind a pillar and peeked around it.

One of the tower’s servants was pressed against a pillar, their slender body quivering, their simple attire loose around them and disheveled. It was a man, his eyes rolled back, his pale skin flushed hot with lust, quivering with ecstasy.

Against him was pressed Madame Moora, the lovely sorceress holding the man’s chin, her lips locked with his and her eyes lidded, gleaming gold with a fel inner light.

But that wasn’t what made Ravel gasp, suck in a breath.

No.

It was the horns growing from her hair.

Ravel’s jaw fell slack as he watched Madame Moora hum in delight, pressing closer to the quivering servitor, her lips moving against his and… and dear gods, Ravel could see it. A wispy essence passing from him to her, sucked into her hungry mouth in fluttering wisps.

She… she was drinking his soul!

Madame Moora broke the kiss with a gasp, licking her lips, catching the last teasing tendrils of essence. The servant slumped against the wall, breathing hard and fast, glassy eyes gazing up at her adoringly.

“Good boy,” she cooed, stroking the man’s chin. “Mistress is very pleased.”

Ravel’s legs buckled, the sheer power of her words sending a shiver of delight shooting through him, his legs wobbling as the strength threatened to leave him. He gasped, and saw Moora’s head turn his way. He jerked himself back behind the pillar, heart pounding. Had she heard him? Did she see him?

He heard no sound, then a low chuckle. “You were delicious, pet,” he heard Moora purr. “Mistress is most pleased.”

“Th-thank you… mistress…” gasped the servant.

Steeling himself, feeling returning to his legs, Ravel pushed himself off the pillar, hurrying away as quietly as he could.

A demon.

His mistress was a demon!

#

Ravel took a deep breath and stroked the etchings he’d made in the dagger.

It had been a nerve-wracking few days. He’d avoided Moora as best he could, trying to think of what to do. Reporting her would be a fool’s errand. She was far more powerful than him, and could easily track him down if he tried to run. The servants would be of no help. Now that he knew what was happening, it was clear their essence was being drained constantly, feeding the hunger of their succubi master, their minds lost in the ecstasy of their servitude to her.

He’d since seen the servant she’d fed on that night. He lived, so it seemed Moora left her pets a portion of essence, only drinking enough to reduce them to mindless obedience to her. They would be of no help. A thrall to a demoness would fling themselves on his sword before they’d let him harm her.

So he’d worked.

It had been hard. So very hard. The words to magic came only with the greatest of struggle to him, but his need compelled him until, at last, he’d done it. Finally he’d managed to carve a spell of banishment onto the dagger.

He picked it up, took a deep breath. It was time. He had to slay her. To let a demoness exist in the very heart of the mage’s circle couldn’t be abided. But he could do this.

He could.

Rising, clutching the sheathed dagger in his hand, he poked his head out the door of his chamber and glanced around. The halls were empty. Cold moonlight washed down through high windows to play along the ivory stone, making it glow. Slipping out of his room, Ravel hastened through the halls.

Moora’s personal chambers were high in the tower, but were unguarded. What need had she for guards in the very heart of her power? Uneasily, Ravel opened the slender, towering doors a crack and peeked through.

Moora’s bedchamber was a strange thing. It was a large, round room of pale stone, the only furnishing a large round bed that could sleep a dozen people, but only held one. Moora lay atop the dove-white sheets, sprawled lazily upon it, utterly naked. Utterly defenseless.

Trying to calm his pounding heart, Ravel eased open the door without a creak. Even the soft sound of his bare feet padding on the cool stone floor made him flinch, fearful Moora would awaken.

Yet he reached the side of her bed without incident. His heart pounding like drums in his ears, he climbed with the greatest of care onto the bed and moved towards her. He found himself looking down on Moora, her face radiantly beautiful, hair splayed out around her head in a careless wave of silver. Her full, plump lips parted. Her firm, ample breasts peaked with dark nipples rising and falling with her steady breaths. Rising and falling. Up and down. Up and down…

No. No! Focus. He had to focus! He yanked the dagger from its sheathe, raised it up.

And found her eyes open and looking at him.

The shock of it seized him. He trembled, staring down at her as Moora slowly propped herself up on her elbows, smirking at him. She tilted her head, glancing at the knife, the runes along its length burning red with sorcery.

“My my, apprentice. Is that for me?”

Ravel opened his mouth but nothing came out.

Lazily, Moora tilted her head back, her eyelids low, her smirk growing. “Well then, I suppose you must have discovered… this…”

Ravel sucked in a breath as Moora changed. As horns grew from her head and her pupils sharpened to cat-like slits against a background of molten gold.

“D-demon!” he gasped.

“So I am, my dear apprentice. So I am. And now, I suppose you must slay me. It’s the right thing to do, after all, and you even have that delightful dagger all made up. What a pity it would be to see all that hard work go to waste. So go on,” She said, pushing out her chest. “Do it. Seal me away, my sweet apprentice.”

She couldn’t be serious. Was she mocking him? That smirk seemed to say so. He grit his teeth, drew back his arm again to plunge his blade into her chest.

Between her… her big… soft breasts…

“Why, whatever is the matter, apprentice?” Moora cooed, pushing forward more, sitting up. She raised a hand, gently stroking his cheek, sending a shiver racing through him. “Do you perhaps… not want to seal me away? Do you not want to banish your lovely mistress from the material plane? Have you, perhaps, become too… obsessed with me?”

Ravel grit his teeth and pushed the dagger towards her. But it was like he was fighting against invisible weights. He didn’t even have to try so hard. He just needed to let gravity do the work. Plunge the dagger down. Impale this gorgeous unholy beauty.

“Don’t you want more?” she breathed.

Ravel sobbed, his dagger an inch from her heaving chest, her breasts rising, falling. So perfect. So firm. He trembled against the strain of it.

“Don’t resist it,” Moora cooed, leaning in closer, her infernal gaze like molten gold, seizing his eyes. “Just relax, apprentice. Just surrender. Just do… what you need… to do…”

Ravel shut his eyes tight, his head pounding. He was relaxed. In control.

And feeling good all over…

As those words rushed through him, unbidden, but irresistible, he felt the strength bleed from his arm. The dagger fell from his loosened fingers and hit the bed with a soft sound. His eyes lifted open.

And when he saw Moora’s smile, his heart soared.

“Good boy,” she cooed, leaning in closer. “My good… obedient… boy…”

Her lips met his, and Ravel groaned at the soft sensation. The gentle press moving against his own. Her tongue sliding against his parted lips and inside his mouth. Her skill put his own experience to shame, conquering him like a master swordsman against a child armed with a stick. He shuddered, arching as she rose further, her breasts pressing against him. Firm yet soft. The perfect contrast. Just like her. Beautiful. Desirable. Deadly. A suicide of ecstasy in her arms that he couldn’t back away from.

Ravel found himself toppling back, falling among the downy white sheets. Moora loomed above him, smirking, her bronzed body faintly glowing in the moonlight, her horns glistening like onyx as she arched over him, her hands pinning his arms down.

“Poor little wizard,” she crooned as she mounted him, Ravel whimpering as her pussy rubbed against his shameless bulge. “You came so far, but it was all for naught. But don’t despair, my darling boy. You came closer than any other of my many… many apprentices. Oh yes,” she laughed, her breasts lazily swaying as she ground him beneath her. “I’ve had a great many. All the servants in my halls had sought to learn the ways of magic from me, only to discover that their true purpose was to serve me. Their mind drained away by my power, their bodies and souls snacks in which I might indulge at my pleasure.

“And you will join them,” she crooned, letting a hand brush his blushing cheek, letting him feel the cool sensuousness of her touch. “Just another of my mindless slaves. My eager, obedient playthings, your mind filled with nothing but serving me. Your body a toy for me to indulge in. Feed on. And you’ll love every minute of it, my dear apprentice. You will adore it. Helpless to it. You didn’t know it, but you were mine the moment you saw me. And yet you had the pride to think you could stop me. The idea that you might resist me.” She giggled, leaned down. “How cute.”

“I… I…”

“Shhh,” she murmured. “Just obey, my sweet apprentice. Just give in… to your lovely mistress…”

Her lips again met his, and just the feel was enough to set him off. Ravel groaned, quivering as he came, surrendering and spilling his seed in his pants. The pleasure rocked him, drained him, sucked him down into the ecstasy of surrender.

Her heard her chuckle above him as her lips broke their torrid kiss, her tongue teasing over her lips. “Good boy,” she cooed. “But a slave should never wear more than his mistress.”

She snapped her fingers and Ravel gasped, his clothes incinerating in a flash, leaving him nothing but his nudity. His cock was instantly pressed against the warm groove of the demon’s cunt as she moaned, continuing to grind him beneath her, and even though he’d just cum, he felt his balls ache with more to give the salacious succubus.

“Mmm. There it is. Oh you poor, silly young mortal. You never had a chance. It was ordained you’d be mine the moment you saw me. But that’s okay. Some women love a challenge. But I savor the triumph above all else. And it’s time… to show you what I mean…”

She leaned down, kissed him again. And as she did so, her hips rose, his cock sprang straight up, and she lowered herself, sheathing him within her.

“Mmmm!” Ravel moaned, his eyes rolling back as the glorious warm, soft tightness of her pussy swallowed him. As she lazily rocked her hips, riding atop his aching, needy cock.

“Good boy,” Moora whispered between kisses. “Surrender to mistress. Surrender your soul. Feed it to me, my slave. Give mistress what she wants.”

He groaned in despair, for he knew he could not beat her. Not now. Not like this. Her lips descended upon him once more, her kiss seeming to swallow her world.

And even the chance to fight… slipped away.

Ravel moaned, shuddering, arching beneath her as her lips moved against his own. A numbness began to seep through him. A sense of loss as she kissed him, as if she were stealing the breath from his lungs with the intensity of that kiss. His head grew light. Spun. His vision danced.

But he was calm.

He was relaxed.

Because mistress was in control.

And as he remembered this, an ecstasy oozed through him like nothing else before. The sense of loss that seemed to steal from him instead filled him with a floating pleasure. As if every cell were buzzing with a sensitive delight. Overwhelming him in a wave.

“Mmmmm,” he moaned, his eyes rolling back as Moora rode his cock, fucking him into the bed. Taking her pleasure from him in rolls of her hips. His essence flowed into her. The misty gasp of his soul seeping from his lips as he was fucked to damnation.

And he loved it.

Loved it more than sanity.

Than freedom.

Than anything.

Moora lifted her lips from his, smirking down at him. “How was that, my slave?”

“M-mistress,” he gasped. “P-please. Mooooore!”

“More?” she cooed coyly, slowing her thrusts, grinding herself atop his cock teasingly. “But my darling, if I do, I’ll turn you into nothing more than my mindless slave. My helpless, hopeless thrall. Do you want that? Do you really want mistress to claim that?”

“Anything,” he gasped, quivering with desperation, his orgasm aching on the edge. “Anything! Please! Mistress! N-need it. Need you! Pleeeease!”

Moora laughed, and even her mocking mirth was like music to his ears. “Ah, well, if my pretty boy begs for it, how could I say no?”

And still smiling, her eyes burning like polished gold, she kissed him again.

And he came.

Ravel wasn’t sure if it was when she sucked out more of his soul or his orgasm that turned his mind white. That made him shudder with the high of pleasure unlike any he’d known before.

He didn’t know.

He didn’t care.

Because it felt so good.

It was like he was floating in a heavens of endless bliss. Sinking among white clouds that cradled him. Soothed him. A void of thought. Of will. Of anything. No suffering. No anger or fear or hate. Merely perfection. Merely pleasure.

And ss he descended, quaking with pleasure back into the world of reality, his vision cleared, and he saw…

The most wonderful, beautiful, glorious woman above him.

“Did you enjoy that, slave?” she cooed.

He shivered at her words, his cock throbbing anew, already hard with desire. “Yes, mistress.”

“Would you do anything for more?”

“Yes, mistress,” he gasped, smiling dumbly.

She laughed. “Good boy. Ah,” she sighed, smirking. “I do so enjoy you wizards. Just… delicious. And you’re quite the tasty one to be sure. I can’t wait until I can snack on you again, slave.

“Mmm. But until then, I’ll have to get you set up with your new loincloth. My slaves can’t be wandering around fully clothed, after all. That would be so very wrong.”

Ravel nodded eagerly. “Yes mistress. Wrong.”

“That’s what I thought. But you ruined my nap, slave. And I know you want to make it up to me.”

He nodded even faster. “Y-yes, mistress! Anything!”

“Good slave,” she said, rose off him and turned around. Ravel stared, enraptured as her perfect, soft bronzed bum hovered above his face. “Now, get to work.”

She descended atop him, and Ravel moaned in bliss as he was buried under the softness of her gorgeous ass. Instantly his hands were on her hips, pressing her down further as his tongue delved into the tightness of her rear, his lips lovingly kissing her, his tongue lavishing her puckered star with adoration. Slowly, steadily, pleasuring her like a good slave.

Because he was relaxed.

Under mistress’s control.

And feeling so very… very…

Good…

[sluttyminghao]

fleshlights and vibrators | w.jh

♡ pairing: fiance!junhui x female!reader ♡ w.c.: 3.3k ♡ genre: smut, fluff, a splash of comedy (18+ only minors DNI) ♡ this fic contains: use of sex toys (male and female), switch!junhui, switch!reader, multiple orgasms, mention of overstimulation, penetration without protection, jeonghan is always at the scene of the crime, reader goes to a sex store, teasing, pet names (baby, angel, love), dirty talk ♡ synopsis: when you can't work out what junhui wants for his birthday, you take jeonghan's advice. ♡ a/n: happy birthday to junnie ! thank you once again to @lovelyhan for once again hyping me up with this ily

When you celebrated birthdays, you tended to go all out, and your fiance was no exception. After being together for 3 years, it was easy to figure out what he wanted, considering he was an open book. Generally, he would say something offhandedly about an item he’d been wanting, and sure enough, when his birthday rolled around it would be handed to him in pretty packaging with a bow on top.

This year, however, you had yet to decide what to get him.

He hadn't dropped even a hint on what he was after, so you were left clueless as the days clocked over and his birthday drew closer. It had you in a slight panic, and despite messaging all your friends for ideas, no one could help you.

Until you received a message the day before Junhui’s birthday, from one of his bandmates, Jeonghan. It seemed like a saving grace at this point, and you were just hoping he would be able to point you in the right direction.

[2:04 pm] Jeonghan: are you still looking for birthday gift ideas?

[2:04 pm] You: YES im so stuck pls help me

[2:13 pm] Jeonghan: he’s been pretty stressed lately, he probably just needs a good fuck, maybe you could give him head

You stare at your phone screen, slack-jawed at how casually Jeonghan was bringing up this conversation. But then again, you could hardly be surprised considering how close the two were and most definitely shared the most intimate and filthy thoughts and desires.

[2:25 pm] You: what about a sex toy?

[2:27 pm] Jeonghan: oh yeah he mentioned maybe wanting to try a fleshlight with you… something to consider perhaps

Your heart flutters at the words on the screen, wondering what else Junhui had mentioned in conversations with his fellow band members. The thought of using a fleshlight on your fiance had definitely crossed your mind on more than one occasion, but you had never been ballsy enough to purchase one or bring it up to him out of fear he wouldn't like it.

[2:30 pm] You: thanks jeonghan, I owe you one

[2:34 pm] Jeonghan: just make sure he gets laid otherwise I'll never hear the end of it.

You make a mental note to thank him with a drink later, slide your shoes on and head out the door to make what might possibly be the most embarrassing purchase of your entire life, but you know, anything to make Junhui happy.

The sex store isn't far from your apartment, and the 20-minute walk gives you time to wade through all your thoughts and try and sort them out. Most of your thoughts consisted of this specific sex toy, wondering why he wanted it, how long he’s been wanting to try it if he would even tell you he wanted it.

Any thoughts or doubts you had were promptly squashed the moment you entered the dimly lit shop, your eyes widening at the sight of all the sex toys lining the walls and shelves. The sight of the different-sized dildos, whips, paddles, and other various toys has your heartbeat quickening, almost enough to break you out into a sweat. As you wandered the aisles in search of the fleshlights, you find a couple of other toys that pique your interest and might come in handy later. You store those thoughts for a later day.

When you finally stumble across the fleshlights near the back of the store and next to the bondage rope, you find yourself pushing your thighs together to prevent your arousal from soaking your panties (with little success). Just the sight of the devices, the flesh-coloured objects with an opening resembling a vagina, has your mind reeling. 

You think about how his pretty whines would sound when you sink the fleshlight down on his girthy cock, how his thighs would tremble as you overstimulate him and milk his cock dry as the rubber device fucks him deliciously. The thoughts running through your mind have shivers cascading down your spine, and without a second thought you grab one of the devices sitting on the shelves without even looking at it.

“Just this one for today?” The cashier’s bright and bubbly voice smacks you out of your trance and you nod with a smile. They place the fleshlight in a discreet black bag and hand it over with a wink, which only makes your breath hitch and you hightail it out of the store, just wanting to get home and compartmentalize every thought you’d had in the space of an hour.

The walk home is cool and the wind is fresh against your skin and seems to drag out much longer than your walk to the store. You hold the bag tight against your body, mainly out of fear of the flimsy bag ripping and the toy falling onto the ground into plain sight of everyone enjoying their Friday afternoon.

You breathe a sigh of relief when you finally reach the steps of your apartment and unlock the door. After toeing off your shoes and placing the bag on the bed, you open your phone and your relaxed nature is yet again, replaced with one of panic when you read the messages on your phone.

[4:07 pm] Junnie: hey babe im coming home early!

[4:10 pm] Junnie: I’ll be home in 15! Love you!

You quickly check the time, now 4:24, and realize he will be home any second. The lock on the front door clicks open and you can hear Junhui’s signature humming coming down the hallway. You panic and quickly go to greet him, forgetting all about the plastic bag on the bed momentarily.

Junhui looks tired but still manages to pull a loopy grin onto his face at the sight of you bounding down the hallway. He opens his arms for you to enter and you don’t hesitate to envelope yourself into his body warmth, his musky scent filling your nostrils and making a sense of peace and calm wash over you. He really was your happy place.

“How was your day love?” He kisses the top of your head and places his keys into the bowl near the front door, kicking off his shoes and heading toward the bedroom. You follow him like a lost puppy and only stop in your tracks when you hear a noise of confusion leave Junhui’s lips.

You’d left the bag on the bed. The bag with the fleshlight in it.

“Hey babe, what’s this?”

Upon peeking into the bedroom, you can see him holding the bag with his index and middle fingers. You step into the bedroom and feel your cheeks begin to heat up. You don’t think he’s opened the bag yet, due to the quizzical look covering his features, but your heart rate still quickens anyway.

“Oh, that! I’ll take it, it’s just something I bought when I went shopping today,” you make an attempt to grab the bag, but junhui knew how to use his size to his advantage. He holds the bag high above your head, out of reach despite trying your best to try and grab the bag. He smirks when you try to jump repeatedly, his height becoming a great advantage.

“What’s in the bag?”

“Nothing!”

“Well, why won't you let me see what's in it?”

“Because it’s for your birthday!”

His mouth opens into an ‘o’ shape and he finally relents, bringing the bag back down to your height. Just as the bag is within your grasp again, you feel the flimsy plastic begin to rip, and before you can stop it, the toy is falling out of the bottom of the bag, and landing on the floor with a loud thud.

You both look at the fleshlight in silence, the box it came in now dinted from where it fell on the floor. After a moment, you can hear Junhui swallow and lean down to pick up the box, before handing it back to you with his cheeks and the tip of his ears bright pink.

“I-”

“Is that what I think it is?” Junhui cuts you off and takes a step closer to you. You stare at the box in your hands, feeling your hands get sweatier by the second. Your heartbeat is thumping in your ears, he feels a million miles away yet he’s standing two feet away. 

“What do you think it is?”

“A fleshlight.”

Eye contact is avoided. You can’t even bear to look him in the eye because you aren't sure how he’s feeling. Your eyes are downcast to the floor, your sock-clad feet seemingly much more interesting than your fiance's reaction to a sex toy. You can see his own feet step into your vision and you gulp, hoping he won’t chew you out for buying him a sexual aid.

“I love it.”

As soon as the words fall from his lips, your head snaps up and you look him in the eye. You can see his gentle smile and when his hand comes up to caress your cheek, any ounce of common sense left in your body is thrown out the window.

“Good, because I plan to use it on you for hours.”

Your statement takes him aback, and even more so when you push him backwards onto the bed, and you walk over and get on the bed to straddle his hips. The box is tossed to the side temporarily, while you lean over and let your lips collide with Junhui’s plush ones. He lets out a surprised gasp which gives you the perfect opportunity to slide your tongue into his mouth.

For a while, you lay and make out with him, letting your cool hands run under his shirt and feel the warm, toned skin underneath. He’s letting out the cutest whimpers and moans into your mouth, and it only makes the arousal flood your panties tenfold.

You can tell he’s getting impatient, with the way he begins groping at your ass and his fingers are teasingly tracing your panty line. You pull away from his lips, a thin trail of saliva still connecting the two of you until it snaps when you move to grab the box.

“Remove your clothes, Junnie, I want to see all of you.”

“O-okay.”

He’s quick to remove his shirt, exposing his beautifully sculpted abs and torso. You lick your lips at the sight, which is quickly moved downwards when he begins removing his slacks and exposing his lower half. As he removes his boxers, you can see just how worked up he’s gotten. His cock is already hard and leaking precum, the protruding vein on the left side throbbing and his balls twitching and ready to be emptied.

“Get on the bed.”

He complies quickly with your dominant aura surrounding him, his head landing on his pillow and his hands quickly grabbing at the blanket underneath his naked body. He feels as if his head is swimming when you quickly undress yourself to the same level of nakedness as him, your body igniting a fire within his belly that can only be quenched by you sitting on his cock.

But that would have to wait.

With a smirk on your lips, you pull the fleshlight out of the box and quickly wipe it down with an antibacterial wipe, before dousing it in a heap of lube. You glance over to look at your fiance and are met with doe eyes, hands fisting the sheets and his bottom lip pulled between his teeth in anticipation.

“You’re so cute when you’re needy Junnie~” your soft voice has him whining and thrashing his head around on his pillow, which is the perfect opportunity to place the tip of his cock into the fleshlight and watch as his eyes widen and his hips buck up at the feelings.

“Oh f-fuck!” His voice cracks as you slide the fleshlight down his shaft slowly, letting the rubber envelope his throbbing cock. You can see tears welling up in his eyes as you test the waters and begin pumping the fleshlight up and down at a tantalizingly slow pace, his hands in the sheets gripping as hard as they possibly can.

You can see his body relax a little bit as you start a steady pace, his body contracting and relaxing every couple of seconds with each pump of the fleshlight. What he doesn't realize is that the toy you’d bought also came with a vibrating inner sleeve, and with just the push of a button, you could have him crying out your name.

“How’re you feeling baby? Feeling good?” You pump the fleshlight a little faster along his shaft and watch as he furiously nods and clings to the sheets like it’s his lifeline. You smirk and press a button on the side of the fleshlight, the gentle thrum sparking to life and sending junhui into a frenzy.

You can see how much this is affecting him, even on the lowest setting. He’s thrusting his hips up maniacally, head thrashing against his pillow and tears are streaming down his cheeks steadily. His moans have gradually gotten louder and by the time he’s close to cumming, his moans are laced with hiccups and sobs due to the sheer pleasure coursing through his body.

He can’t even warn you that he’s cumming because the wind is knocked out of his body but with the fleshlight feeling like a vice around his cock paired with the low vibrations, his cum spurts out quickly. It shoots deep into the fleshlight, and he cums so much that once you slow down your pumping, it’s like he’s creaming into an actual pussy and it makes your insides turn to jelly. His cum fills the inside of the fleshlight and coats his shaft, and even goes down as far as his upper thighs.

“How do you feel baby, are you okay?” Your voice is what brings him back to the Earth plane, and he stares at you with a goofy smile on his features. You place the fleshlight on the bedside table and lay next to him, stroking his messy bangs off his sweaty forehead. He leans into your touch, eyes fluttering closed and his body curling into yours.

“‘M okay…but still want more,” he whines, adjusting his body so that he’s between your legs and is hovering above you. Your eyes widen as he smirks and leans down to kiss your clavicle, and works his way down until he’s right above where you want him the most.

“You want more? But I already made you cum baby, what more do you want?” Your voice comes out breathy as he lets his tongue glide over your breasts, paying close attention to your nipples. He hums against your skin, the vibrations making you feel warm and he knows it. Fucker.

“I want to be buried deep inside you and cum as hard as I did with the fleshlight you used on me.”

He doesn’t say another word as he strokes himself to full hardness again, soft whimpers escaping him at the slight overstimulation. You can’t help but moan at the sight of your fiance jacking off right above you, and a new wave of arousal floods your cunt which doesn't go unnoticed by him.

“Oh wait, I need to grab something,” he mentions, your curiosity piquing when he moves to his side of the bed and pulls open his drawer, grabbing at some long white device before shutting the drawer and crawling back to his previous position between your thighs.

“What did you grab?”

He grins playfully and holds the item up for you to inspect, and it doesn't even surprise you that he has a vibrator just hanging out in his drawer. You scoff but feel your cheeks burn, and wonder when he had actually bought it. 

Junhui lets the head of his cock rest against your clit teasingly, the occasional twitch driving you insane. He plays with the settings of the vibrator for a few seconds, before finding a setting he thinks will work well, before lining himself up with your entrance. You bite your lip in anticipation and let out a strangled sigh when he lets the fat head of his cock push inside of you.

You loved the way he stretched you out so deliciously, how he could hardly contain his own orgasm as he filled you to the hilt, your cunt feeling very similar to how the fleshlight felt and he has to take a few breaths to not cum on the spot. With one hand, he grabs the vibrator and lets it lay on your stomach, but doesn't turn it on quite yet. With his other hand, he takes one of your hands and interlaces your fingers, the softness of that one gesture having you melt into his touch.

He starts off at a slow pace, rocking his hips gently into yours. You can feel every inch of him against your walls, the way he knows exactly how to angle his hips to hit that spongy sensitive spot inside of you repeatedly has you on edge within minutes, and he knows exactly what he’s doing.

“You’re so fucking t-tight, god,” Junhui chokes out, his breath stuttering when you absentmindedly clench around his cock and cause him to halt his movements. He quickly continues, speeding his pace up and grabbing the vibrator and turning it on. Your eyes widen as he teases you with the toy, keeping the toy on your nipples at first, running the vibrations down your body.

When he gets close to your cunt, you feel yourself beginning to clench even more around Junhui’s cock. He grunts and turns the vibrations up on the vibrator, before letting it rest against your clit. He speeds his thrusts up at the exact moment the vibrator lands on your cunt, and the intense feeling is one like no other and has you seeing stars within seconds.

You aren't even sure when you became incoherent, your mind was too busy building you up to what would most definitely be the most intense orgasm you’ve experienced to date. Junhui can feel you tightening up like you normally do right before you cum, and takes the vibrator away at the last moment, throwing it to the side of the bed.

“Cum for me, fucking cum for me, angel.”

And that was all it took, your vision covered with exploding stars as the rubber band inside you snapped violently, your orgasm being so intense that Junhui’s cock is pushed out of you. He doesn’t mind though, he just takes his cum covered shaft in his hand and pumps quickly until he’s painting your chest and stomach white, long streaks of his cum dripping down your skin.

He flops beside you, both your bodies trembling from pleasure. He takes one of your hands in his again and kisses your fingers gently, in an attempt to bring you back to earth. When you start coming back, he hums and starts tracing soft patterns on your back, the familiarity lulling you into a sense of warmth and security.

“We should shower, my love,” he mumbles into the skin of your neck, to which you promptly reply with a strained whine. Junhui can only chuckle and effortlessly pull your tired body off the bed and carry you princess-style to the bathroom.

“Let’s shower and then we can nap, okay?” he cups your face with his hands and kisses your nose softly before getting the shower turned on and warmed up. He takes a quick glance at the time, noting it’s only 8:30 pm, but neither of you had eaten dinner yet.

“Did you like the gift?”

Your voice snaps him out of his thoughts about dinner, and he turns and gives you a huge boxy grin. 

“I couldn’t have asked for anything better. What should we get for dinner?”

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