#the man was processing so much he could not move

[lilyrosedeppsforehead]

All Time Favorite Drarry Fics

Because it's 2025 and I'm not over Drarry and people deserve recs.

My google doc keeping track of my favorite drarry fics is 13 pages so for this post I'm just shouting out my absolute favorites. Category-specific recs will come at a later date. Enjoy!

~

Mind's Eye: (by Galadriell)  https://www.fanfiction.net/s/6675009/1/Mind-s-Eye

After five years of silence in a mental institution, Harry speaks. "Malfoy," he murmurs. Why would he speak the name of his Slytherin counterpart? So begins the treatment with Draco in the forefront of it all. 

Okay okay okay real talk- this is my favorite Drarry fic of all time. It’s basically about what would happen if the war had taken a bigger toll on Harry’s mental health and he ended up shutting down. He’s been living at the hospital for years in a zombie-like state. His friends visit (I especially like when Rose Granger-Weasley stops by), but still nothing’s yet to snap him out of his ‘funk’ where he hasn’t spoken to anyone or even acknowledged the presence of another person standing right in front of him in years. Mute and unresponsive, alone yet not alone, his progress is going nowhere... that is, until his doctors decide to try triggering him back to reality by taking a new approach and doing something that should definitely draw a reaction out of him: bringing back his old school rival. Draco’s forced to visit and his behavior is just so realistic to how someone in his situation would react. The story is essentially about him bringing Harry back to life and somewhere in the process they fall in love.

Excerpt from one of my favorite scenes: (chapter 4)

Draco was bored out of his mind. He was staring at the wall with Harry. “I really don’t understand what you find so exciting about watching white walls, Potter. At least add some color to it,” he muttered, flicking his wand. The white turned to green. “Much better,” he said. “Mother made me learn that spell last week because she’s redecorating. Which really means that I’m doing all the grunt work.” 

Harry tilted his head towards Draco, narrowing his eyes that were still searching the wall. Draco didn’t notice as he was brushing invisible lint from his slacks. Harry’s gaze flicked from the seam of the wall and the ceiling to the dark wood floors where the wall ended. He got up unsteadily. Draco tsked, getting up with him. “What are you doing?” he asked, shaking his humb legs. Harry shuffled towards the wall, stopping a meter from it and sitting down again. Draco ran his eyes over the wall. “You like green?” he murmured, kneeling beside Harry. “I should probably get Lily.” He was too lazy to get up again. “Or I could just keep you entertained.” He waved his wand at the wall again, coloring it red.

Harry blinked at the new paint. He reached out hesitantly, brushing his fingertips on the wall. “There’s still life in you yet,” Draco said, smiling. He changed the color to blue. Harry scooted forward, pressing his palm against the blue. “Ugh, you’re determined to make me get up again, aren’t you?” Draco complained, standing upright and stretching. “Don’t do anything until I get back,” he added, walking to the door and sounding the charm for the Apprentice.

Lily arrived in the corridor a minute later, looking immensely concerned. “He’s fine,” Draco said before Lily could freak out. She was looking unconvinced as she walked into the room after Draco. She blinked at the blue wall, staggering back.

“What did you do?” she asked accusingly. Draco huffed, pointing at Harry. Lily seemed to have noticed just then. “Oh...” she breathed. The man was moving his head along the wall, scanning the entire expanse of blue that he had discovered. “Wow.”

“You always assume the worst of me,” Draco groused. “You and Mother would get along quite well.”

Temptation on the warfront: (by alizarincrimson)  https://archiveofourown.org/works/4373594/chapters/9926705

Draco Malfoy is forced into hiding with the Golden Trio and dragged into their search for horcruxes. What ensues is a journey of redemption, unexpected friendships and an unwanted, turbulent romance with Harry Potter. Warnings for swearing, sexual content, and dark themes.

I know I said the last fic was my favorite Drarry fanfiction of all time but this is one of the BEST fanfics of all time! That may sound dramatic, but I promise you, as someone who’s an irl avid reader, has read hundreds (if not thousands) of fanfictions, and is a literal editor for actual real-life books, this is one of the best things I’ve ever read PERIOD. In my head it’s tied with Hollow Edge (an Elu/Skam France fanfic) for the best fanfiction of all time to ever exist and that ever will exist ever ever ohmygoditsjustsogood. Really keep that in mind by the way... one of the top two fanfictions of all time (in my opinion) is in THIS fandom, meaning you have actual reason to read it you lucky duck! In this, Draco ends up going with the Golden Trio on their hunt for the horcruxes. It’s a long fic and EXTREMELY slow burn, but oh my god is it worth it! It’s sad, it’s heartwarming, it’s enlightening, it’s romantic, and it’s hot as fuck (jesus). Just a warning for anyone who’s sensitive: I do think I need to say that as someone who almost never cries, let alone gets triggered to by a piece of fictional media, this is one of the only things I’ve read that’s ever made me cry. So yes, it’s a tear-jerker. But definitely not the whole thing! It’s not a SAD fic, it just has sad parts, as any good (and long) story tends to. But even it actually drawing a reaction that strong out of a reader just further proves how powerful and amazing this fic is. For your own sake, read it!!! And if you're still not convinced, consider yourself triple dog dared.

Excerpt from one of my favorite scenes: (chapter 29)

“Draco, listen to me - you have to -”

“I’m not leaving you!” Draco says it through his teeth, his steely eyes determined and bright, and his cheeks flushed, but his words are as good as a confession. And Harry loves him, god, he loves him so much -

“I love you,” it bursts out, as natural as breathing, and Harry never wants to take it back. Draco’s eyes widen, and his fury flees from him as quickly as it came. Harry says it again because it’s the truth , and because Draco needs to believe it. “I love you Draco, and I swear I’ll come and I’ll find you, after all this is over - I promise you -”

Draco definitely moves first this time, and his lips taste like smoke and sweat and something deliciously unyielding as they part beneath Harry’s. Harry pours everything he has into the kiss, gives Draco everything he wants him to remember, and everything Harry wants to remember for himself.

Draco is first to pull back as well, his hands uncurling from Harry’s shirt as he catches his breath and rasps, “see you soon... Harry.”

And then he’s standing, his lips tugging up at one side, and he looks so invigorated that in the next second he’s wearing a full-blown grin that makes Harry feel warm in all of the right places. “See you soon, Draco.”

They share one last look of longing, before Draco takes a step back and disappears around the corner, Zabini following him without a word.

Ron clears his throat. “That was one of the weirdest fucking things I’ve ever seen.”

There’s a noise that sounds suspiciously like Hermione giving Ron’s arm a slap, and Harry’s lips twitch into a smile.

Right hand red: (by lumosed_quill)  https://archiveofourown.org/works/3178065/chapters/6903855

Harry felt Malfoy's breath on his lips as they came together over the bottle, hands firmly planted on the floor as though they each needed their familiar soil, refusing to cross into enemy territory. Except that Malfoy no longer felt like his enemy. Malfoy felt inevitable.

This was the first fic I read that included a Drarry/Jilly-patronus situation and let me tell you it does not disappoint. Eighth year. Party games (spin the bottle, twister, other things that could result in feelings both emotional and sexy-times physical). Harry owns a car. Artwork. Harry tutoring Draco. Amazingness. It’s beautiful, it’s hot, it’s romantic, it’s sweet. I’m not doing a good enough job at describing it because I don’t even know where to start. I can picture everything when I read it - I feel like I’m there in the moment with them feeling their emotions and touching their surroundings. It’s just so lovely.

Excerpt from one of my favorite scenes: (chapter 3)

“EXPECTO PATRONUM!”

The thing leapt from his wand, huge and brilliant. It’s four legs spindly and fast, it’s eyes large.

It’s antlers, majestic.

It was a stag.

It was a stag, just like Harry’s.

Oh my God...

For a moment, Harry thought Draco was going to be alright. He looked a little faint, but that was to be expected. Harry gave him a reassuring smile. Seeing it, Draco’s own face fell. Happiness wore down to disbelief, to something like disgust. To rage.

“What have you done to me?” Draco wailed. “What have you...?” The Patronus diminished. 

Draco shoved his wand away, threw down his broom, and ran.

Salt on the western wind: (by Saras_Girl)  https://archiveofourown.org/works/879835

When the war isn’t quite as over as it first appears, a guilt-ridden Harry is sent to a mysterious safe-house. Among sandwiches, insomnia, and Mills & Boon, he discovers something quite unexpected.

Homeward Bound: (by Cheryl Dyson) https://www.fanfiction.net/s/8684511/1/Homeward-Bound

Harry catches the Knight Bus one evening when other travel choices are unfeasible. When he discovers Draco Malfoy employed as the Conductor, he decides Malfoy is up to something because Malfoy is always up to something. His suspicion has nothing to do with the way Malfoy fills out the tailored lines of his purple uniform. Nothing at all.

Dreaming of You: (by Laurasauras) https://archiveofourown.org/works/12789237/chapters/29185539

After stealing the locket, Ron and Hermione get their act together, meaning that Harry spends a lot of time trying to give them space. When the Horcrux takes shape of his school enemy, Draco Malfoy, in order to torture him, Harry can't help but rise to his taunts, like he always has. But the Horcrux can read Harry's mind, as it's basing it's model of Malfoy on him, and so it knows that Harry's feelings towards Malfoy haven't always been as platonically hatey as they should have been. And Harry finds out that there's more than one way to torment someone.

Bond: (by Anna Fugazzi)  https://www.fanfiction.net/s/2493456/1/Bond

Yet another one of those Harry And Draco Are Forced To Be Together By Something Beyond Their Control And Then Stuff Happens Leading To Two Wuv stories.

This fanficiton is phenomenal. It's funny, the characters feel so real to how if this bizarre situation actually happened to teenagers in a magical world, here's how they'd react. It's so so so so so so so hot. It's really interesting just mystery and magic wise - world building and narrative is VERY well done. But my favorite piece about it is how natural it feels. Drarry are bonded, so they're forced together. What does that look like? It looks like silencing charms for when their friends come over and they want to hang out without having to listen to a group of people they don't like goofing and gaffing. It looks like going through a sheet of therapist-perscribed get to know you questions and doing things like saying each others' names out loud for the first time, eating sandwhiches together, missing classes from the condition and having to spend even MORE time together. Lucius Malfoy is so well done. I'm rambling (4am alert) but it's good. It's really really good. I reread it an absurd amount.

Oxytocin: (by: WouldItWere) https://archiveofourown.org/works/23636362/chapters/88796452

Draco Malfoy cannot sleep. If he keeps going like this, he will go mad, or die, or both. For some reason, though, he can sleep whenever Harry Potter is with him. And Harry Potter is nothing if not a helper to those in need.

Excerpt from one of my favorite scenes: (chapter 3)

He wasn’t even looking at Draco. He was walking over to Draco’s bed and—what on earth?—sitting down on it.

Draco blinked. “What are you doing?”

“Sitting. Come on, you should try it.”

“I know what sitting feels like, Potter.”

“Then you’ll know it’s very enjoyable. Come on.”

Excerpt from one of my favorite scenes: (chapter 6)

“You held him?”

“It made sense in the moment.” He cringed.

“Do you usually touch him like that?”

“Let’s not talk about this, Hermione.”

“You do, don’t you?”

"Please stop."

"Harry."

“I—yes, okay, fine. I hold him every night and stroke his skin and tell him everything is going to be okay. There. Are you happy?”

She stared at him. A long pause stretched between them. Then, “I don’t know. Are you happy?”

Excerpt from [another] one of my favorite scenes: (chapter 14)

“Okay. You can go back to staring at him in silence now.”

His relief was so instant that he got halfway to turning back toward Potter, before he realised this might not, in fact, be the wisest reaction to her words. He drew himself up and scoffed offendedly instead. “I was not staring at him.”

“Oh, hush. Of all the hills to die on, Draco, that is not the one.”

Excerpt from [yet another] one of my favorite scenes: (chapter 30)

“Draco” had become synonymous with “I love you” in his head. 

12 Days of What The Fuck: (by bixgirl1) https://archiveofourown.org/works/16659685

When Potter starts paying unusual amounts of attention to Draco as the holidays draw nearer, Draco can’t figure out where it’s coming grom - possibly because he’s gone stupid from all the fantastic sex. But what happens when he finds out that there may be another motive behind Potter’s sudden interest?

Or: A fic in which Potter is hotter than Draco ever let himself admit, Draco didn’t fill out that fucking form, and Pany may or may not lose all of her hair.

This. Fic. Is. So. Funny. And. Charismatic. Basically, Hogwarts does a secret santa thing. Draco’s doesn’t plan on participating, but Pansy and Blaise fill out a wishlist for him where each present request involves something Harry-related (touch his hair, have him fall in love with him, see him naked in the showers again cause he can’t stop thinking about last time, etc). Little did anyone know Draco’s gifter would be more than complicit. Also for some extra incentive: there is in fact a sex scene where they wear each others’ house ties and nothing else.

[wingfleur]

# — dick grayson as a desperate ex.

man, it’s my first time posting on tumblr in years, y’all... make some noise! but seriously, i hope y’all enjoy. more notes at the end. :) | wc: 1.5k words.

cw: suggestive content under the cut mdni (18+), gn!reader, implied childhood-friends-to-lovers-to-exes-to-fwb(?) energy here, reader is holding a mean ass grudge, i kinda leaned into fuckboy!dick grayson for this so it's a little toxic? (its rlly not that bad though)

thinking about dick grayson as a desperate ex. 

i find this scenario so incredibly amusing because, god, he would do nothing but push your buttons. he knows juuust what makes you tick, even if you two weren’t together for all that long. seriously– dick’s that one ex that you cannot get away from, and trust me, it’s not for lack of trying!

a few days after you two break up, you follow standard protocol and block him on everything. his socials, his number— even his email, in case richard.grayson@hotmail.com wants to get any bright ideas— but your mission still proves to be difficult. 

you find it quite hard to ice him out completely.

much to your chagrin, all you two share is mutual friends, and dick likes to act like he’ll die if he leaves you alone, so you never get to know peace at any group function. each time, you find yourself split between two urges: 1) the urge to enjoy yourself and cause no problems at all, or 2) the urge to absolutely kill the vibe and brutally rip out your ex-boyfriend’s jugular. at this point, you’re convinced it’s a humiliation ritual: whenever you and your friends hang out, you make an effort to pointedly ignore him, and you wish he’d at least act like your nonchalance deters him, but because he knows that’s what you want, he doesn’t. instead, he sports this stupid, boyish grin while hovering around you like a fly, boldly occupying your space because he knows you won’t go in for the kill. 

for your sake, and the sakes of those around you, you try to focus on your friends, but dick is on a mission to be distracting. unfortunately, he’s incredibly capable of whatever he puts his mind to; he waits until you start to get antsy, searching for the right moment to take a second to yourself and ease your nerves. the escape route you choose is the kitchen, and you quietly excuse yourself to go and get some water. unbeknownst to you, though, the moment you begin to move is the moment dick springs into action, trailing quietly behind you until the opportunity to cage you in against the counter presents itself. in actuality, all he wants to do is whisper in your ear– to whisper that if he stops bothering you like you’ve asked, you’d last only a few days before you start to miss him. 

but before you can say anything, dick’s presence is gone before you can process that it was even there, and the cup he grabbed while reaching over you sits delicately next to where you’re leaning against your palms. the worst part is that, objectively, he’s right: you would start to miss him, because despite the fact that he was a pretty shit boyfriend, and you want nothing more than to wring his neck, you and him have history and were thick as thieves first. 

you’ve been in the picture long enough to see most of his past relationships go up in flames, and weirdly enough, dick grayson is a charming enough guy to end even his most tumultuous relationships on decently amicable terms. it’s why when you started looking at dick like, “i want to be more than friends, if that’s okay,” and dick started looking at you back like, “we can give it a try, if that’s what you want,” you stupidly thought that you would be the exception to this rule and you two could make it out of this unscatched. you thought that because of your history, you’d be okay with the secrets, and the no-shows, and the sneaking around that seems to have only gotten worse by the time you two called it quits. you thought that even if it didn’t work, you two would make it out and still be friends on the other side.

but now, as you pull open the fridge and grab the pitcher to pour yourself a glass of water, you find yourself thinking, of course it didn’t work. the moment the two of you found yourselves alone, dick unable to ignore the way your his t-shirt slips off your shoulders, and you, the warmth of his body pressing into your side, it was over. 

you were doomed to be like the rest, you realize, naive enough to think that this time, things would be different. you bitterly down your glass of water as if it would dull the sour taste in your mouth, and for good measure, you pour yourself one more to take with you for the road. as you finally step back into the living room to rejoin your friends, meeting all their beaming faces with a smile while you pointedly ignore dick’s burning gaze, you tell yourself that all you need to do is make it through the night. then, you can put this nightmare of a scenario behind you and have a good night’s rest at home.

fortunately, you make it back home in one piece, but the unfortunate part is that you aren’t back home alone. you aren’t sure when the hell this happened– was it when he challenged you to a game of mario kart, leaning into your side to sabotage you like he did when you were friends? or was it when the drinking games came out and you took enough shots to allow yourself to freely laugh at his jokes? whenever it was, you have no time to figure it out because five seconds after your door clicks shut, dick is on you, greedy hands grabbing at your waist and his tongue slipping into your mouth.

“thought you hated me,” dick sighs against your lips, hands shamelessly sliding down your back to take two fistfuls of your ass. you gasp into his mouth and tangle your fingers in his hair, tugging sharply enough to make his scalp burn, which causes a low groan to reverberate in his throat.

god, you forgot this freak’s a fucking masochist. 

“i do hate you,” you spit back, sinking your teeth into his bottom lip as if meant to punctuate your reply. you can feel dick grin– a fact you want to make fun of him for, because despite his high and mighty act, he just wants to get bitched in bed– and slides his hands further down to grab at the back of your thighs to pick you up as if you weigh nothing at all. 

“clearly not enough to keep you from fucking me, though." 

dick’s voice is irritatingly sing-songy, holding eye contact as he runs his tongue over his lip. there’s a metallic tang to the taste– a result of you biting down hard enough to break skin and a series of cuts in the midst of healing you’ve disturbed on his lips– but dick finds that he quite likes how this feels– likes you, to be exact. dick grayson likes you, even when you act like you don’t like him, because he knows you better than you’d like to admit, and he knows your breakup isn’t enough to keep you two apart.

“it’s because i hate you that i’m fucking you,” you admit, bestowing upon dick a surprising shred of honesty as he walks you two down the hall. he knows your floor plan like the back of his hand because he’s spent more nights here than he can count, and that fact tugs at something inside of you that you’re currently too scared to identify. luckily, you’re quickly distracted— when dick gets to your room, he wastes no time in dropping you onto the bed, letting you settle on your back as he busies himself with taking off his shirt.

“i’m fucking you because i can’t get your stupid face out of my head, or get over how fucking good it feels when you touch me.” your eyes follow the trajectory of his shirt as he tosses it onto the floor, calloused hands reaching down to grab at the fat of your thighs. he unceremoniously tugs you down toward him. “this,” you hiss, gesturing quickly between the two of you, “is purely selfish. don’t get any ideas, grayson.”

dick snorts at your visible irritation and rakes his nails across your skin, watching as an involuntarily shiver wracks your body in reply. “mhm,” he hums, “whatever you say,” and his hair falls handsomely in his face as he busies himself with your jeans. one hand keeps your thigh anchored to one of his hips, and the other skillfully pops open your button, the zipper following soon after. “i believe you. love that my baby’s finally being honest, actually.”

you’re bristling with irritation long before those patronizing words come out of his mouth, but when dick finally looks up at you, he smiles so brightly that it’s almost blinding. you want it to make you sick, how charming and utterly him that grin of his is, but it’s precisely because of those facts that it’s inherently difficult to get mad at. 

“but opinions change all the time.” dick lifts your hips off the bed, pulling your jeans down your legs. “so i’ll be sure to ask again after i fuck you.” 

“you know,” he adds, a sly grin settling on his lips, “for good measure.”

a/n: i’ve had this blog set up for a week or so now, and i’ve been working on a longer project i wanted to use to launch it. alas, i simply couldn’t take the wait anymore (i’ve been getting drabble and thirst ideas nonstop and they’re beginning to pile up!!!) and had to do it now! but honestly, i had my mind made up about launching this blog and saying "fuck it" days ago, but i needed to wait until i got a dick grayson-shaped drabble one-shot idea since most of my drafts may or may not be about jason todd…

thanks for reading this far! your time is appreciated. <3

# — navigation

[chrissonnyangel]

➤ the heels stay on

You stumbled into yours and chris' shared apartment with exhaustion written all over you. Today had been a lot, well, work had been a lot. Chris sat sprawled out on the couch tiredly. He looked over his shoulder towards your figure. Your boyfriend didn't get a chance to see you leave for work this morning, you snuck out not wanting to disturb his much needed beauty sleep.

"Hey baby." He smiled over to you, running his eyes over your body. All you needed right now was chris. He could sense that you were feeling down, so he tried to lighten your mood by saying, "I like your outfit." Your eyes darted over to him with need as you picked up your pace to stand in front of him.

"Okay, then take it off." You dropped your bag in front of him. Chris shifted uncomfortably in his man spread. "What?" He didn't think he heard you correctly.

"You heard me, take it off." You accentuated your words seductively as your heels clicked against the floor, walking closer to chris' body. "Well shit, whatever you say babe."

He smirked and started to unbutton your shirt slowly, his hands cupped over your boobs swiping your hardening nipple over your shirt. Was he seriously trying to tease you right now? "Chris, no teasing. Today is not the day for teasing." You said sternly, taking your hair out of your tight ponytail. Every sound of a button popping, zippers unzipping and the groans coming from chris' mouth made you even weaker and wetter for him.

"Hurry up chris, I need your cock so bad." Your hands went down to finish taking off your skirt, discarding it on the floor next to your now creased button up. Chris' hands rushed to your panties, dragging them down your thighs while locking eyes with you the whole time. Your hands reached behind you to unclasp your bra. The intensity mixed with intimacy in the moment was exhilarating. You bent down to take off your perfect heels. But before you could, chris' fingers grabbed your chin, lifting your gaze to him.

"If i am getting told what to do, then i'm allowed one request. The heels stay on."

His smirk grew wide, he was intoxicating when he was turned on. Without another word your pulled chris' aching boner from under his sweatpants. It leaked with precum, waiting for any piece of attention. You straddled him and swiped it across your glistening pussy a few times, gaining moans from both of you. "You're so fucking sexy, y/n, my god." Chris grumbled in a horny haze. You finally sunk down onto chris' girth, his tip kissing your sweet spot almost instantly. You placed one of your legs up onto the couch, giving chris a great view of your heels he desperately wanted you to keep on, and giving you a better angle for both of you to feel more pleasure.

"Oh my god chris. y'don't know how much i wanted this today." You yelped, snapping your hips up and down with need. Chris threw his head back at your patterns, drunk over your control over him.

You reached behind you to grab chris' tight balls in your palm, increasing the pleasure for him as your fingers ran intricately over them gently. Chris' eyes screwed shut as he let out a choked moan, making your eyes widen with surprise, he never moaned like that for you before. His hands rested on your hips, moving down to your ass and gripping it tightly. He helped you guide yourself up and down his cock, your wetness had dripped down onto your boyfriend creating a make shift lube to speed up the process.

"Fuuckk y/n, your so perfect for me. This pretty pussy was made for me, god." Sweat began to form on your forehead at the intensity of the moment, your thighs trembled around chris' waist. Both of you nearing your orgasms. The room became thick with lust and need as the smacking of you against chris was music to your ears. The coil in your stomach threatening to snap any second.

"Cum with me baby, cum." Chris announced, you let go with a loud more and chris with a sharp groan. He guided you down from your highs. Your boyfriend leaned in to press a soft kiss to your cheek, saying he was proud of you without having to say anything.

"Fuck y/n, maybe we should do that every time you come home from work."

taglist - @whore4chris @courta13 @cherrystainss @leila-marie4 @csturnioloswifey @l0s3rhaha @starryfursturniolo

[icallhimjoey]

I just reread all of Double or Nothing because it's genuinely one of my favourite fics of all time SO GOOD

But I was wondering how do R and Joe reconcile their wake up routines once they're together? Snoozer v non-snoozer

bet!joe's back! turned himself into snooze!joe (not by choice lmao) thanks for the request, hope you enjoy! Wordcount: 2.4K

---

Before Daybreak

Joe doesn’t understand how your brain works.

Can’t phantom how it’s even possible that you don’t just... wake up. The sound of your alarm was meant to wake you up. That’s how it worked. People sleep in silence and then a loud noise wakes them up. It’s how the world had been designed.

How can you, barely awake, turn it off and doze right back off to sleep again?

Joe’s brain works different. Joe’s brain doesn’t work like yours.

He hears an alarm and he’s... up. Just... awake. Groggy, and tired still, sure... but definitely awake. Unable to just go back to sleep. He thinks if you were both cavemen still, you probably wouldn’t have survived very long. You’d sleep right through a bear sneaking in. It’d eat your face off and you’d just sleepily murmur, “Nooo, five more minutes.”

And it’s not like he hasn’t tried.

For weeks he’s tried, because if you loved snoozing so much, surely there’s bound to be some amazing secret to it he just hasn’t discovered yet.

So far though, he’s come up empty.

Your phone explodes into the darkness. Cheerful, chirpy, loud and fucking merciless.

Joe’s eyes fly open instantly.

Boom.

Awake.

He turns his head, finding you a soft lump under the covers, one of your arms flung across your face whilst your alarm keeps chirping on the bedside table right next to you.

“Babe…” Joe tries, voice hoarse and low. A hand wanders over and taps you on your hip a few times. Turn that shit off.

You give no audible response, but simply move a hand over to find your phone, groaning slightly as you press snooze. The second sweet, blessed silence takes over again, you sink back into the soft fuzzy brain space that exists between the night and the morning. Joe tries joining you there, eyes still closed, face pressed into his pillow, but, alas. It’s of no use.

A couple minutes later, your phone jumps alive again, and even though Joe knew it was coming, he still jolts and sits up in bed like a man possessed.

You’re on your back, serene as a Disney princess, not stirring at the shrill noise or even the movement in the bed. Joe frowns at you for a full ten seconds before you reach for your phone again.

He sees you press snooze in real time.

Through gritted teeth, Joe says your name, a low warning to his tone that you miss entirely.

“Mm, five more…” you muffle an unfinished sentence, face rubbing into the soft warm fabric that surrounds you.

“How many five more’s will there fucking be?” Joe grumbles, moving the covers aside and getting out of bed. It’s too early still. He should’ve been asleep still.

“It’s part of the process.” you reply, eyes still closed.

“Yea, well,” Joe stands up, turns and leans over to slap what he thinks is your bum under the covers. You softly groan to it, eyes remaining firmly shut. “My process is called sleep. Yours, for whatever reason, is called torture.”

And Joe couldn’t lie.

You look super peaceful, all soft and cosy, hair a halo of chaos that surrounds your face… you look lovely. So comfortable. Relishing the mental stretch of the early-morning-ritual you’d carefully crafted for yourself. He could watch this for hours.

Just… maybe not at 6 in the fucking morning.

Joe doesn’t like how he’s deeply affected by disturbance and broken sleep. Where you prioritize emotional softness, he needs to prioritize physiological necessity.

He needs to sleep until he needs to wake up.

No weird in between lull that has very quickly turned into a point of daily friction for the two of you. It shapes his whole mood. His energy for the day.

Joe stares at you until your phone, once again, interrupts him, another alarm you’d set rather than the previous one you’d just his snooze for, disturbing the peace and quiet.

“Why does it have to sound like a fucking fire drill as well?” Joe swears under his breath. “Can’t you set it to one that sounds like… a breeze?” Joe thinks of anything he’d rather hear the sound of. “Or like, a hug, maybe?”

“Too soft,” you reply, barely awake. “I’ll sleep through that… this one works.”

“It works on me, too.”

Unfortunately, that doesn’t get much more out of you than a slight hum. Joe supposes he’s lucky that you were friends before you became something else together, and that bickering has been a solid constant that brings the two of you together rather than pulling you apart.

He can just tell you that he’s annoyed without being scared of offending you beyond repair.

That reminds him… surely Izzy must hear all of your alarms too. It’s not often that she chooses his side in any of your little spats, but he’s certain that in this case it’ll be two against one in his favour. He’d bet on it, should someone challenge him.

Joe’s already finished most of his coffee when you stagger into the kitchen. He jokingly checks a wristwatch he’s not wearing and says, “Good afternoon!” like you’re a teenager who hadn’t left her bed all morning.

To retaliate, you take his mug from his hands and finish whatever’s left of his coffee before you shove him aside to make yourself a fresh new cup.

You’re lucky he really likes you.

When Izzy shows a sign of life, sort of glaring at the two of you as she shuffles into the kitchen already dressed, but definitely not warmed up to the idea of having to be awake yet, Joe doesn’t wait to bring up the issue.

“Maybe she’ll listen to you…” he begins, turning to face your flatmate. “You can’t tell me the... the fifty alarms that you can hear coming from her bedroom every morning aren’t fucking with your sleep.”

Izzy gives Joe a deadpan stare.

Oh yea, he’s totally right. Joe’s already smirking slightly, ready to tell you how unhealthy snoozing is and how you should listen to your poor flatmate who you’ve been torturing for years.

But then Izzy speaks up and says, “It’s not the alarm. It’s you, Joe.”

Oh.

What?

It catches Joe by surprise so much so that it makes you snicker softly as your eyes don’t leave the two mugs of hot coffee you’re preparing.

��Me? But I—”

“Your alarm monologues. Your Shakespearean betrayal speeches— your deep-breathing despair.”

Joe really thought Izzy was going to agree with him. Instead, he unexpectedly finds himself in her direct line of fire. And she’s not done yet.

“I don’t even hear her alarm anymore, but it’s you, every single time, like you’ve just been drafted into a war you didn’t sign up for.”

You’re full on giggling now, and Joe can’t believe the position he has found himself in.

“Do you know what it’s like to be woken up by the slow, rumbling tragedy of your soul trying to process that she likes to snooze in the morning? Your voice is like a fucking foghorn married a cello and  now they run an emotional support podcast together every time her phone goes off.”

It’s to early for this, Joe thinks.

“Izzy,” you warn, but your laughter completely kills the effect.

“You get so fucking narrative in the morning.” Izzy squeezes her eyes shut as she says it, her forehead etched into a deep frown.

And Joe knows that he can yap, that he’s good at finding a lot of words to describe how he feels, but, he thinks it’s for good reason.

“I’m expressing my distress!”

Izzy pushes past him and grabs a full mug of coffee, the one Joe thought you were making for him, and says, “Well, consider expressing your distress with your inside thoughts, Hamlet. Just once, I want her alarm to go off and not hear you cry, ‘Why does the world hate me.’ because it’s honestly getting a little boring.”

Before Joe can even reply, she disappears into her bedroom again to finish getting ready for work.

He’s left sort of perplexed.

When he turns to look at you, you’re looking at him with a little amused half smile that he doesn’t appreciate.

“I mean…” you start, speaking into your own morning brew, “You do turn a little into a Victorian widow about it, don’t you? She has a point.”

Maybe she does, but so does he! He has a point too! If you don’t have to get out of bed until the clock hits 7, then why would you set eighteen alarms that go off at various intervals from an hour before?

Without Izzy backing him up, Joe is forced to find different ways to ease this stupid habit out of you.

He gifts you a gradual wake-up light that is meant to replace your alarm.

It doesn’t work.

Well, it does work, because it easily replaces all of the snoozing alarms, but Joe kind of forgot that... he also has eyes. A light turning on in your bedroom doesn’t just wake you up. And even though it’s definitely a more peaceful way to start the day, Joe is still left to stare at the ceiling, fuming in silence for an hour before he needs to get up.

Next, he tries a pillow-based vibrating alarm, one that’s marketed towards heavy sleepers, but he runs into the same issue. He had been unaware and had come to learn the hard way how often you ended up sharing a pillow together. Very cute. Almost romantic enough to feel a little embarrassed about having to tell his friends about it. But when that pillow is also your vibrating alarm clock, not so great.

It’s unfortunate that he likes you so much.

That he still wants to come and sleep over so badly.

That he genuinely misses you when he spends the night in his bed on his own, convincing himself in those moments that your snoozing isn’t actually so bad, that being on his own is definitely worse.

He wishes he still felt that same way when he jolts awake from your alarm, set to a softer volume now as you tried to compromise, and he’s wearing fucking earplugs.

He wakes up from your alarm whilst he’s wearing noise-canceling earplugs.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake…” Joe grumbles. He had been so determined to out-sleep the snooze siege, had been so sure that this was actually going to work.

And yet...

Joe wakes up inside of his noise-cancelling cocoon and can’t fucking believe that you haven’t.

“Are you fucking joking right now?”

Joe’s voice pulls you from your slumber more than your phone does.

“You cannot sleep through that when I can hear it through these high quality too fucking expensive new noise-cancelling earplugs. Not a fucking chance!”

He’s angry enough to feel the itch to reach over and turn your phone off entirely, even though he vividly remembers how angry you’d been when he’d done that once before, and how awful he’d felt after.

But he still wants to.

He really, really wants to.

Joe continues swearing loud enough to prompt a barrage of pounding from the other side of the wall where Izzy’s fists bang in protest.

“Fuck off, Izzy!” Joe’s tone is laced with that raw, unfiltered annoyance that slips out when exhaustion wears down restraint. He’s done. So, so done. He could’ve had another full sixty minutes of blissful sleep that you’ve now ruined for him.

However, the shouting across the flat before the sun’s even dared to edge the horizon, shadows still speaking in full voice, quickly stops when you let a hand snake over Joe’s bare chest. You somehow find an answer to the issue without even thinking. The simple solution just sort of... happens, completely organically, underneath the thick covers of your bed.

He starts to speak once more, but the breath he draws turns into a shudder, and he goes still beneath your hand which slides across his soft skin until it curls around his side and pulls.

Something in the air changes.

The early morning shifts.

Joe easily lets himself be pulled into you, and whilst his warm body curls around yours, your other hand finds your phone and turns chiming the alarm off.

Off.

Then Joe watches as you squint at the bright screen of your phone as you unlock it and turn off all other alarms, one by one. Next, it gets dropped next to your pillow and you turn around to face him. You groan softly with the movement, pulling him closer until your bodies fit together like they were always meant to.

“Can you make sure I get up at seven?” you mumble, voice thick with sleep, nose tucked somewhere near his collarbone.

And... oh.

Yea.

Joe can do that.

Joe can... yea, Joe can be the alarm.

Your alarm.

He can be part of your snoozing if this is what snoozing is, absolutely. So he nods, barely a movement, and presses a kiss into your hair like a promise.

Suddenly, snoozing turns into something gentler— not a battle against the day, but a shared quiet wrapped in warmth and, more importantly, each other.

Suddenly, all frustration slips from him in an instant, melting into the slow hush of your breathing and into the tangle of your limbs.

Suddenly, Joe is gifted with a whole hour of hands that roam lazily beneath soft linen sheets and over sleepy skin, fingers tracing the familiar curves of comfort.

After a moment, Joe shuffles down and buries his nose into your chest, snuggling into the space as he inhales deeply before dragging his face up and into your neck. He finds he doesn’t actually care about the time so much if he gets to spend it like this, right here.

He feels like an idiot for not working that out himself sooner.

When the clock ticks past seven, he murmurs your name against your temple, and you grumble something unintelligible, nuzzling closer. And really, who is he to complain about a frivolous thing like snoozing when playing a part in it means he gets to kiss the curve of your shoulder and feel your fingers comb sleepily through his hair for a bit?

Snoozing, as so it turns out, isn’t really about sleep.

It’s about these soft, golden minutes before the day begins, where nothing matters but bare skin, and comfortable warmth, and the sleepy weight of love.

Joe thinks he might have just learnt how your brain works.

Finds that his brain actually might work the same.

If this is what mornings will look like from now on, then maybe snoozing isn’t so bad after all.

---

The Taglisted

@almightywdm, @alwayslindie, @capricornrisingsstuff, @chaoticgood-munson, @dailyobsession

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@ferfan14, @figmentofquinn, @gri959, @hazelenys, @joesquinns

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@xxladymjxx, @yunirgo

add yourself

[unlikeable-female-character]

In which I kill off Logan

Sort of gave the game away there with that title...Have been trying to write and this came to me a while ago. I hope it's something.

Set in some AU where you and Logan are married and have lived a long and happy life together.

tw: character death.

Outside, the sounds of joy, laughter, splashing and excited screaming is a wonderful soundtrack to the day. Logan, tired out by the whirlwind of grandchildren climbing over him wanted a few moments of peace and so after planting a kiss on your cheek, had taken himself inside.  You see him through the window, sitting on the couch, eyes closed, a faint smile playing upon his lips.

When you enter the lounge an hour or so later, you know.  When you look over at Logan, you know. He is gone. The how of it will remain a mystery. Just that he was here and now he is not, a long overdue peace and a quiet end to a long and violent existence. You and he, and the children, had long since come up with a plan, what should be done should this happen and should you out live him. It was unanimously agreed that he did not need to be cut up and examined and studied. He’d suffered enough of that in life and if you could offer him nothing else in his death then you could offer him the dignity of being buried quietly and not put on display as a specimen. No one else needed to know the why of him. You knew the why of him and that was enough. You’d known it for over forty years now. This mutant. This monster. This man. Who you loved and who loved you back.

You sit down beside him and take his still warm hand in yours, pressing it to your lips, smoothing back his now nearly white hair. You couldn’t remember how old he was now. Too old he always said. Too old and too tired and ached too much. The stick he has taken to using over the past ten years or so was propped up against the arm of the couch, the handle worn smooth from use. As you moved your hand down over his face, still unshaven, you sighed at the thought of all that pain having gone. He was still handsome, to you at least, he refused to believe that you still thought so.  He looked younger now.  You wished you could have done something more to remove the pain in life for him but you both knew that was impossible. All you could do was love him. Love him and hope that love was enough to make him forget everything else, for a while at least.

You hear footsteps behind you and look up to see Laura. She stops in the doorway for a moment, staring, before coming to sit on his other side.

You watch as Laura takes his other hand and gently touches the scarred knuckles, the claws within not having seen the light of day for so many years now. The last time you had seen them was when Logan had sat your four children down, all of them then adults, and shown them who he really was. You hadn’t wanted him to, mutants no longer being anything but a long dead myth by that point, but he felt that they needed to know the truth.  His truth. He unsheathed his claws because it was necessary to make them believe. Having Laura to back up his story helped but seeing the dull metal jutting out from their father’s knuckles was a shock it took them a while to process. To see the hands that had cradled them, picked them up, held them so tenderly concealing such weapons. They watched as you cleaned and dressed the now almost impossibly slow to heal wounds, gently wiping away the blood that lingered there.  They had questions, of course they did, and Logan did not shy away from any of them.  It took time, but they accepted who he was, where they themselves had come from.  Both you and he made sure to let them know that whatever else, they should never doubt how much you loved them.  How much he loved them and how much they had transformed his life into something that he never felt he truly deserved. They had all held him, wept with him, told him that he deserved every second.

After that Logan would never show his claws again. After that he was another man.  Possibly released from a burden he had carried for so long and he was not required to hurt anymore.  He was just required to be Mr Howlett, the kindly but grumpy man who lived at the end of the quiet cul-de-sac.  The man who would sit on his front step and watch his children and eventually grandchildren learn to ride their bikes around and around the small turning circle in front of the house.  A father, a grandfather, with no reason to ever unleash his claws again.  You knew his hands ached and often saw him unconsciously clenching and unclenching his fist.  Sometimes you would take his hand and gently massage them, his fingers and his knuckles, hoping to ease whatever pain he felt there.  To anyone who saw you were just helping to alleviate his arthritis (which you thought he likely did have by that point) and no one else would ever know.  

Both you and Laura knew that you would need to go out and tell the others, let them know that Logan was gone. This man who would get down on his hands and knees even though they creaked and ached and let his children tumble over him, this man who would carry his grandchildren on his back like little monkeys. This reader of innumerable bedtime stories, builder of dens and fixer of flat bicycle tires.  They would mourn that man.

You and Laura alone would also mourn the other man.  The one who fought the world that made him but didn’t understand him.

As far as the world was concerned there were no more natural mutants being born. You weren’t so sure. Laura existed but she was made to be the way she was by men and while she had children of her own now none of them has exhibited any signs of mutation, neither had your own children. Your grandchildren however. James, your first grandson named for his grandfather, seemed to have the ability to bounce back after any bump and tumble with an ease that his brothers didn’t posses. He never seemed to suffer the same roll call of childhood illnesses, and any he did contract never lingered for more than a day.  You had tried to talk to his parents about it, but they didn’t want to.  Whether they feared for him or feared him, you didn’t know, and you weren’t sure their attitude of ‘lets just pretend this isn’t happening and it will go away’ was the right course of action.  Clearly his grandfather didn’t either. You had once found him and Logan huddled together once, talking in low whispers, the boy’s small hand in his grandfather’s huge one. Did he also have claws, you had wondered. Had Logan shown him his? So far you had seen no sign of them.  You watched them talking but didn’t listen in.  Whatever Logan had to say to the boy was for his ears only.  You had watched James stand and throw his arms around his grandfather’s neck, holding him as tight as a small boy could.  Logan’s big arms enveloped him and squeezed him back.  They stayed like that for a while before parting and James ran off to join his brothers.  As far as you knew they never spoke about it again.  

James was outside now leaning against the tree he had fallen from inumerable times (the one that had claimed many a broken arm but never one of his) and he was growing into a fine young man, his face almost a carbon copy of his grandfather’s, his hair as unmanagable.  You had asked Logan once if that was what he looked like as a young man.  He smiled softly and nodded.   

You stare out of the window, watching him and the others.  Your two boys and two girls, their many children.  You close your eyes and feel the first of a lifetime of tears falling down your cheek.    

‘God I’m going to miss you,’ you whisper, bringing his hand to your lips again and kissing each scarred knuckle in turn.  You could hear Logan’s voice as clear as day, telling you not to worry darlin’, feel the ghost of his calloused thumb wiping the tears away.  You were not actually sure how to carry on without him.  When you and he had first met, you could never have imagined that this would be your futures together.

Some years ago Logan had started to write down his story, what he could remember. He was beginning to worry that his mind was starting to fail him as well as his body. You agreed that it likely was, but you both just carried on and pretended things were fine. The children expressed concern that maybe he should see a doctor and maybe he should have done but you were both terrified of the spectacle he would become. They reluctantly saw your point. Their love for their father was too great to go against his wishes, the fear they had for the doctors and scientists who would use their father - had used their father - for their own means.  Logan never said who he was writing his story for - himself, you, the children maybe.  Those thick leather books were sitting on the desk in the corner.  One day you would read them.  One day you would open them up and flick through the pages.  One day your hand would still on the message that he had written to you and as you read it your tears would fall and the faded ink would spread and blur.  One day.

You didn’t notice Laura leave the room.  When you felt the couch next to you dip, and a pair of arms encircle you, you knew then that she had told the others.  You watched as your children bent to place kisses on their father’s forehead, to grip his hands, to hold him for one final time.

[queef-of-fortune]

Marionette (Doflamingo X Reader)

Chapter Forty:

Plot: When the Straw Hat crew got separated, Kuma sent her to the kingdom of Dressrosa. Unfortunately for her, she caught the eye of none other than the king himself. Donquixote Doflamingo.

AN: I just wanted to thank all of you who have been commenting and liking my story, it means a lot. 🩷

The first thing that crossed (Y/N)’s mind the next morning was regret. Before her eyes even opened, she was sick to her stomach. She wasn’t hungover. She was mortified and shameful. 

Doflamingo was still sleeping happily behind her. One of his big arms was draped around her much smaller torso. His fingers dug into her waist firmly as if he was afraid, she’d leave. His face was buried in her mess of hair on the pillow, his glasses off and on the nightstand. 

She wanted to slip away without him noticing but he held her so tightly it was near impossible. She managed to gently wiggle herself free from his grasp, slipping silently from under the sheet and onto the floor. Doflamingo grumbled in his sleep and rolled over. The sun hadn’t even fully risen yet, so she still had some time. 

(Y/N) snuck into the bathroom, softly shutting, and locking the door behind her. What had happened last night was evident. Their robes strewn across the floor, the tub was still filled to the brim with now murky cold water. She quickly picked up the silk robe from the floor and fixed it around herself. She was so ashamed she didn’t even want to look at herself right now. Nor did she want him to see any more than what he saw last night. 

As images from last night began to flash in her mind, her heart pounded against her ribs and her breath quickened almost to a pant. She couldn’t believe what she had just done. How could she allow him to do that? She said yes. She wanted it. Why? He was an awful man, vile even. 

(Y/N) sat down on the toilet to catch her breath and just think for a minute. 

“Never again…” She mumbled to herself, 

���Never.”

He’d want it again surely. Want to go even further. He’d expect it. Soon probably. She practically just signed her own death certificate. How could she survive fucking someone his size? He was at least ten feet tall. She stood at his hip. And not to mention his dick was almost as big around as her wrist, and damn near a foot long. How would it even work out? 

She exhaled deeply, her hands trembling as she did so. 

‘It’s fine. Don’t worry about it. We don’t have to do it ever again.’ She told herself mentally, trying to soothe her nerves. She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath and held it in for a moment. She then exhaled and repeated the process over and over again to calm herself and regulate her breathing. 

Just as her nerves began to settle, there was a soft knocking on the door. Not loud or demanding but enough to jar her. She already knew who it was. There was no other option. Doflamingo. He didn’t say anything, but he did knock again when she didn’t reply. 

“Just a second.” She called out to him, flushing the toilet.

She quickly washed up and splashed some water on her face, taking one last look at her frazzled self before opening up the door. Doflamingo stood, glasses on again and in a pair of underwear now. She was thankful that he wasn’t nude. She didn’t need any more reminders of what she had done. Nor did she want to be face level with his dick.

“Everything alright?” He asked, a sly smirk on his face as if he already knew she was a nervous wreck.

“Yeah fine.” She replied, pushing past him and into the bedroom. 

She could feel his eyes on her, yet he never moved away from the doorway. She made her way to the windowsill where Karma laid curled up. The sun was now slowly beginning to peak over the horizon. Karma sensed her mother's presence and blinked slowly, opening up her yellow eyes. She mewed in greetings and stretched in her spot as (Y/N) stroked her sleek, black, fur. 

Doflamingo watched for a moment before swiftly locking himself away in the bathroom. (Y/N) didn’t think much of it. She just continued to pet Karma while he did his business. She didn’t really want to talk to him. She was too embarrassed. She fought so hard to keep him from out between her legs just to let a couple glasses of champagne and a joint slide her out of her panties.

(Y/N) tried to distract herself from her self-loathing thoughts and get dressed for the day. Something he didn’t like. Her hands trembled as she undid her robe, letting the silky fabric slide from her shoulders and hips onto the floor. She wiggled herself into some comfortable pajama pants and an oversized T-shirt. Something he was reluctant to buy her. 

The shopping trip they had taken when she first arrived here consisted of him taking her to the most expensive stores in all of Dressrosa.  She however, insisted on getting herself comfortable clothes to wear as well. He was hesitant but allowed her to pick out some clothes that suited her personal style rather than his. 

Once dressed in her lazy clothes, she flopped down on the sofa, sprawled out on her back, legs over the armrest, just dangling there. Doflamingo was still in the bathroom, mainly just processing what had happened the night prior. As he washed his hands at the sink he glanced at the water filled tub, just as she had. The only difference was the reaction. A smug smile spread from ear to ear, teeth bared. He was proud, triumphant. 

He walked over to the tub, staring at his reflection in the cloudy water. He reached inside, the water that once steamed was now icy against his skin as he released the plug, letting the tub drain. Doflamingo stood over the bath, watching as the remnants of last night's events disappeared before his eyes. He stayed for a moment longer, staring at his discarded robe on the floor. Hers was gone. But he already knew that. 

The image of her crying out for him was enough to send a spark of arousal through him. He was even reluctant to brush his teeth. He could still taste her on his tongue, and he didn’t want to erase the last bit of proof that he had of their intimate encounter. He exited the bathroom to see her laid out lazily on the couch, her legs hanging freely over the arm. He strode over to her, standing arrogantly overtop of her. The window where Karma sat was now empty as she was now curled up on (Y/N)’s chest as she snuggled into her chin, purring loudly. 

“Look at my girls,” He said, “How sweet.”

(Y/N) ignored him. She didn’t even bother to look up at him. Just stared up at the ceiling as she petted the cat. Doflamingo looked over her conservative attire. Her long baggy pajama pants and shirt that was too big, left plenty to the imagination. Not that he needed to imagine. 

“Don’t be shy now.” He teased, placing a hand on her knee.

She yanked her leg away, both of them actually, just so he couldn’t move to the other one. She placed both legs underneath herself as she sat up, removing Karma from her chest. Doflamingo’s arrogance was fueled by her actions. He placed both hands on the arm of the couch as he leaned down close to her face. 

“Don’t run away now, it’s too late for that. How about we—” Before he could finish his statement she huffed loudly, rolled her eyes and stood up, and stomped off to go hide in the bathroom once again. 

“I was just going to say how we should get ready for breakfast.” He called out to her as the door shut, obviously lying. 

As she hid, he got dressed. He could tell she was embarrassed. He was the opposite. He felt like the richest man in the world. He finally had everything he could ever want. Money, power, a kingdom, and now a lover to rule by his side. Even if she didn’t see herself as his life partner, she would eventually. It was only a matter of time

(Y/N), however, was pouting in the bathroom. She sat on the lid of the toilet, arms crossed and hunched over in defeat. Doflamingo wasn’t going to allow her to pout. He pounded on the door with his fist before jiggling the locked handle. 

“You’re not hiding from me are you, little bird?” He mocked from the other side of the door. 

She didn’t answer so he continued to taunt her. “Oh come on, I’m only teasing. If you come out now maybe, I’ll play with you again.”

“FUCK OFF!” (Y/N) yelled from inside; she had finally had enough.

As she put her face in her hands, she could get the images out of her mind. She could practically feel his oversized hands gripping her hips while he shoved his long fingers inside her. The thought alone made her shiver and every hair on her body stood on end. She could hear him laughing at her from beyond the door. He rattled the handle again. 

“Come on out, love. Let's talk.” She could hear the smirk in his tone. 

(Y/N) sighed in defeat, staring up at the ceiling for a moment before standing and making her way towards the bathroom door. She couldn’t hide forever; she’d have to confront him eventually. She could see the shadows of his feet from underneath the door. He was still there. Still waiting. Without hesitation, she ripped the door open with enough force to cause him to jump back, still grinning of course. 

“There she is.” He jeered, leaning down so that he was level with her face. “You finished with your little tantrum?” 

“Eat shit.” She hissed, pushing past him. 

Doflamingo of course found her jibe amusing and took no offense as he watched her stomp off towards the window. The sun was now just barely above the horizon, peeking through the curtains and dancing across the floor. She stared out at the beautiful city below as the townspeople were just beginning to start their morning routine. 

“Are you going to get dressed for breakfast or are you going to sit around and pout all day?” Doflamingo said, interrupting her thoughts. 

He was leaned up against the wall, just outside of the bathroom as he took in her outfit. She just shook her head ‘no’ without looking.

“I am dressed.” She said simply. 

Doflamingo’s smug grin faltered and fell from his face as he eyed her through his lenses. He straightened up, pulling himself away from the wall and walking towards her slowly. 

“That’s what you’re wearing today? Pajamas? You can't be serious.” He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Apparently I have to do everything for you.” 

Doflamingo made his way to the dresser where her clothes were and began to rifle through the drawer, mumbling things incoherently to himself. But before he could pick her out an outfit—

“No. I’m not changing. I’m wearing this today. I don’t feel like getting all dressed up for you to stare at my tits all day.” She protested. 

Doflamingo snapped around, squinting under his shades at her, clearly unimpressed with her attitude. 

“I’m not asking you. I’m telling you.” He snapped, continuing to pick out her clothes. 

Before she could continue, he pulled out a tight pair of black leather pants and an intricate shirt to match. He turned and tossed them onto the bed before pulling out a pair of boots from the bottom of the closet and tossing them at her feet. 

“Put this on, and don’t argue.” He demanded, pointing a long slender finger in her direction. 

“No.” She snarled, still facing out the window and refusing to look at him. 

He let out a long, dramatic sigh as he rubbed his temples. 

“I can’t have you running around the palace looking like a little hobo, how do you think that makes me look?” He said through gritted teeth, stepping towards her as he animated his speech with his hands. 

“I don’t give a shit to be honest.” (Y/N) said, finally turning on her heel to make eye contact. 

Her arms were firmly crossed and her eyes squinted, jaw tight. The two were locked in a stare down before he finally threw his arms up in defeat before stomping out of the room, no other words spoken, just the sound of his childish footsteps down the hall as he slammed the door behind him. She felt rather successful. Even if it was something as stupid as an outfit. She felt like she regained some of the power she relinquished last night. 

(Y/N) wasn’t happy however. How could she be in a place like this? She sat down on the couch, resting her elbow on the arm and her face in her hand. Karma sat on the other end of the sofa, purring happily as she always did. Nothing seemed to faze her. The cat had been taken and brought inside against her will and yet she just accepted it. She knew it was the best option she had. She could live her best life here. 

As those thoughts crossed (Y/N)’s mind. She wondered if the best thing for her to do would be to take a page out of Karma's book and just learn to be happy. Doflamingo was right, there were plenty of women who would kill to be in her position. Maybe she was taking it for granted. 

He bought her clothes, fed her the best food money could buy, and of course he absolutely adored her beyond words. Yet she found that last bit hard to believe. And yet she wanted none of it. She just wanted her crew and her freedom and that was the only thing he couldn’t give her. 

(Y/N) felt the guilt of her ungratefulness seeping through her skin and poisoning her body as she stared at the clothes he laid out off her. She was so close to just giving in and putting on the outfit he’d chosen and walk down to breakfast like the good little pet she was supposed to be. But a surge of pride flared within her as she stood. 

“No.” she said out loud to herself. “I’m not gonna play his little games. I don’t care how many times he goes down on me. Not happening.” She shook her head as she stormed out into the hall, slamming the door behind her just as he did. 

[theotherrookie]

Willow worked with her usual precision on unfreezing her arm. Yes, there were better alternatives, but the situation called for her to make do with the next best fire mage available.

"I'm satisfied of your services." Her fingers had almost recovered their mobility already. "Not that this would be an appropriate time for me to complain."

She still meant that as a compliment. In any case, they had to deal with the consequences of Five's idiocy now and there was no telling what he was going to do now that he had broken his most precious rule, not even by his own accord as well. Unfortunately, Willow expected him to only double down now that he had crossed his personal rubicon and they had to be ready for it.

She would deal with the consequences of Frosty's attack on the rest of her body later.

Something seemed to have broken inside Five. He understood he had been tossed at a wall like a ragdoll, but his brain had become frozen much like the rest of the room as it struggled to accept what he had just done.

"This wasn't supposed to happen…"

While he still felt no remorse for his actions, his repeated attacks and his tricks, and definitely for planning to take Rook's powers away, his ego had been knocked down a notch.

Though that wasn't the only thing about to get curbed. Erica was staring at him with an uncharacteristically hostile expression, ready to take matters into her own hands. Her many tails slowly swayed from one side to the other as her own shadow started stretching towards him.

"Erica, help me up." The abyss quickly retreated when Rook spoke up. Erica briefly looked back to Five, before turning away to help her double.

Veronica's eyes shifted to red as she placed herself across from Leofric. She had rarely seen damage this extensive. She simply couldn't believe to what extent Five was willing to go to get what he wanted.

Rook all but flopped down by her side, already in the process of taking her gloves off. "What can I do?"

"Nothing. Now stop moving so much, it'll only make the toxins spread further."

It was harsh, but it was the only way to get through to Rook while she was distraught.

Lucien, in the meantime, looked as calm as ever as he stood there, hands in his pockets and staring Five down. The complete lack of emotion actually intimidated the hunter a little as he stared back. He could take a bit of verbal abuse. Hell, even he was cursing himself for doing the unthinkable. But that grey barrier before him made him feel genuine unease.

Five raised his sword when Lucien broke eye contact to start playing with a silver coin. That wasn't normal behavior of a man who had just lost his best friend at all.

"What do you want now?" Five snapped.

Lucien caught the coin in his fist. "Revenge."

Five gasped as a light beam struck him square in the chest with enough force to shove him back into the wall again. Before he could fully grasp what was happening, a large ethereal hand was already prying his shield off his arm. Five watched as it was crushed like a piece of paper, then caught a glimpse of Lucien raising his arms to summon a swarm of flaming rings that took off in his direction.

That was a really unfortunate situation, especially since he had no idea the half fae could do all that. The answer to his question soon presented itself. Some leftover flames from the rings started eating at the sleeves of Lucien's hoodie, revealing a pair of arm bracers. The studded leather had been decorated with an intricate pattern that started glowing every time a new spell was cast.

Lucien chuckled as more rings spawned around him, "Come on, hunter. Show me what you can do."

Five decided to show off his running skills.

With the ice trap coming apart, the second round looked like it would end in their favor after all. Frosty's ice blade, while sharp, wasn't going to be very effective unless any of them decided to walk into it on purpose. With his only direct attack foiled, he had proved once again Five had picked his allies based on their ability to be a shield for him.

And that icy shield was going to stop being a threat soon enough. While he was still willing to fight to his last breath, Frosty was starting to feel increasingly weaker as if the fire Five's potion had ignited inside of him was about to run out of oxygen.

It didn't help that it felt like Antonio was glaring right through him. The mask actually contributed to the creepiness of it significantly.

"It doesn't." Willow looked between the two of them, then gently grabbed one of Antonio's wrists, placing his hand directly on her frozen arm. "But I know when I must rely on others. Feel free to keep using Mean Look in the meantime."

Her coat only provided some protection but while her skin would heal, she couldn't risk her implants being damaged.

But even as she had to make do with the next best heating source while Veronica and Rook busy, her concern was entirely on her double and her fight. Willow had a bad feeling about it even before Five could pull out another of his deadly cocktails. When Rook fell, the cyborg tried to force her way through the ice blocking her legs, but the price of protecting one acquired brother was letting another dive at danger.

Willow didn't often contemplate the concept of souls but in that moment, she could feel in hers the moment Erica panicked and the way Rook's heart sank.

Russell had done it at last. He finally got himself killed. Willow wished she could hang onto hope like her elf counterpart did as she lunged at Five and tossed him across the room. Being half frozen almost felt like a luxury.

Frosty fell over dazed as Travis all but ran him over. Veronica was already digging in her bag as she hurried over and even Rook was dragging herself over to offer what little healing she could.

Unfortunately, the damage was done. Lucien shut his eyes, wishing he could take Russell's place.

"Figlio di..." Rook tore the mouthpiece off her helmet as she turned to Five. A trail of smoke escaped the corner of her mouth as she glared at him, "Look what you've done! Was it worth it? Tell me! Speak, you bastard!"

In an unexpected turn of events, it seemed like Five was also upset by Russell's death. In fact, he looked genuinely horrified at the thought of having taken his life.

"No– That wasn't supposed to happen!" He scrambled to stand up. "Do something! You can't let him die!"

"I'm going to rip you apart." Rook paused when Lucien placed his hand on her shoulder, then proceeded to help her up. The two exchanged a look, before he kept going in Five's direction.

[brewing-mischief]

Imagine you finally meet up with the guy who stole both your wives from you

And his first threat to you is "now it's your turn"

Like Adam sure did hesitate with his attack for a hot minute there and can you blame him? Man was having his world wrecked before the fight even started.

[mochi-kitty]

Alright now that I’ve finished Yj 98.. and what an abrupt ending it was… (another post for another time) I gotta admit a hot take here.

I did not like how the girls were handled in #38 with robin and barts departure.

I understand they were upset and dealing with what happened on apokolips in their own way but arguably I’m peeved at their shitty attitudes. No one trusted robins judgement, fought him every step of the way even though he’s team leader until it actually became a physical fight, leading to their split, which led to their capture. Imo he had every right to leave. What’s the point in being team leader if this is how they treat him in a disaster? And even if he hadn’t up and quit, if he stayed team leader or even let someone else take the role earlier than canon… how could he stay on this team knowing they wouldn’t listen to him no matter his position? Or stay knowing that this same fight will absolutely start again if he rolled over and they didn’t talk about it? Then there was the “guilt by his association to Batman..” Was it shitty to break his promise to Greta? Yeah sure, but her bringing up her one sided delusional cat fight with spoiler like some jealous ex even though robin had no idea how she really felt? Shitty. As if spoiler had anything to do with this AT ALL. And don’t get me started on Cassie’s “apology.” That was downright disrespectful. Downplaying the situation and his feelings about it just so she can get him to stay for their own gain… Shitty.

Then there’s Bart. Fresh off losing Carol and his mom again, watches AND feels his scout get obliterated, falls into shock and then is immediately captured and put in a VR nightmare illusion by granny where he relives the same moment of death over and over on a loop. When they break him out he’s still in shock and goes comatose for an entire week and even with his speed healing, “takes a few weeks to get back on his feet.” After that he can’t even get himself to put on his costume, much less run even casually with Max. So he quits and the girls reactions are pretty much: “you’re being a coward after 1 bad event and we won’t have it.” Like??? Cissie quit when she nearly killed a man and yeah they fought that decision too but they didn’t question her judgement or god forbid make her feel bad for it and let her go while still keeping in the loop with her. HELL BY THIS POINT SHE’S STILL RETIRED!? But no it’s “you’re leaving because you’re a coward. We’re not afraid of dying so you quitting because you ACTUALLY saw and felt yourself die, a trauma explained by max to be more than the word could be defined, is unsupported.” AND THEN LITTLE LOBO, WHO CAN’T ACTUALLY QUIT THIS TEAM BECAUSE HE’D HAVE NOWHERE TO GO BEING THE WEAK END OF THE GENE POOL,,, HIS OUTBURST AND WANTING TO BE LEFT ALONE IS SUPPORTED BY ANITA EVEN THOUGH ITS FOR LITERALLY THE SAME REASON AS BART?? They both want to be left alone because they both died and now are scared of their own mortality but only 1 is supported because….why?? Is it Anita’s crush on lil lobo or what? Bart “can’t quit” because being impulse is “who he is,” COMPLETELY contradicting the years (by this point) of lessons Max has been trying to teach Bart about enjoying some normality outside of his hero life. I am 100% sure that when he said “I’m trying out a new lifestyle” he was thinking of Max. Implying that he can’t be ANYTHING other than Impulse, erasing Bart and his feelings as a whole person, is so shitty.

Idk I usually love the girls but this issue man. They had me wanting to jump the screen.

[dykedvonte]

If Ulysses has a million haters, then I'm one of them. If Ulysses has one hater, then I'm THAT ONE. If Ulysses has no haters, that means I'm dead. If the world is with Ulysses than I’m against the world.

[zyntifada]

thinking about the fact that Austin can unironically identify Hasan's autism and then go "of course he likes trains, he's autistic lol but i'm not, i don't like trains" while being absolutely OBSESSED with planes... this man needs to be studied. i mean, that's hilarious, but come on man 😭

[catboygirljoker]

i think about xigbar too much and often find myself wondering how many of his lives he ended up in a serious relationship/marriage, whether out of genuine feelings on his end or convenience or "my vessel was close to them, it'd be too suspicious to cut it off" like on one hand he doesn't strike me as the most monogamous or traditional-relationship loving man and like he has no issue faking his death to get out of things. on the other, when you live for centuries, what's a few decades with someone you like? i am also looking at him with rose-tinted glasses because i am horngry for that old man

YEAH i get you.... like, xigbar seems like a dick who wouldn't be interested in that kind of close relationship with someone, but xigbar is luxu after centuries of life, and also not long after the events of Dark Road—i think it's perfectly reasonable to imagine that when we see him as xigbar, luxu is at the end of his downward arc as a character, and that earlier in life he might have been a nicer person who was more open to those kinds of relationships!

however i have also joked before that if luxu has always had trouble getting close to people, and if he determined early on that it's not worth the effort to try to stay "in character" as his vessel...that maybe xigbar has gotten divorced more times than he's gotten married

[zeco5000]

All of this, but I do want to talk about the overall wear on the body that multi rotation jumps causes.

Viktor would very likely not attempt a 4A, and it's not just because of the possible risk of a singular catastrophic injury that could end his season early; there's also the strong likelihood that Viktor would prefer to keep some of his knee cartilage for the remainder of his life.

Multi rotation jumps require enough air time to achieve full rotations. Which means you need to achieve both enough jump height to get that air time and enough rotational speed to get all rotations in those few seconds of air time. Which means hitting the ice with a lot of force on the landing.

And while your landing position should be carrying the inertia of the lateral component of that force, and proper checking should help cancel the rotational, all of that gravitational energy has to dissipate somehow. And the path for that is going to be through the landing leg.

Now as far as that landing leg goes, you have the ankle which is being held rigidly in place by the stiffest skating boot ever made (if you're jumping quads), two rigid bones, and a bent knee. Which part of this structure is going to be absorbing and dissipating this impact force? There's only one place for it to go, and that's the knee.

Now if we go back to physics 1, we know that Force = mass × acceleration. Which means that the heavier a skater is, the more landing those quads can hurt/wear out your knee cartilage faster. So an adult man slamming down on the ice after 4.5 rotations from significant height and wind up speed is going to cause a lot of strain on the body, and they're only going to be able to do it so many times before their knees can't handle it anymore. It's one of the reasons that Viktor refused to train Yuuri until he lost weight.

The impact stress of landing multi rotation jumps is also why the highest level of adult skating, Masters Division, is subdivided into age ranges. Masters Division is the category that adults who skated as children matriculate into once they have aged out of standard track if they have passed the standard track tests for novice/intermediate (Masters Novice/Intermediate) or junior/senior (Masters Junior/Senior)*. The upper age subdivisions of Masters shift points density away from jumps and into spins because most high level skaters as they have aged have put a lot of impact stress on their bodies from when they were younger, and adult skating is a lot more focused on safety and having fun than standard track youth skating. The judges in adult competitions are a lot more laid back and would much rather see a well executed lower level move over an unsafely executed higher level move.

So if Viktor has a history of injury, and knows he's at the tail end of his senior level skating career, it'd be unlikely that he sees much point in learning the 4A only to be able to jump it for maybe one season at best, assuming he doesn't severely injure himself in the learning process. JJ and Yurio totally would tho. Yuuri might.

*note: skaters who begin their skating journeys as adults can still get into Masters Division by passing the standard track tests required to qualify. It's just very uncommon since most adults don't have an interest in learning multi rotation jumps. The standard track tests do map onto the adult track tests up until novice and still allow an adult to compete at adult levels throughout their entire skating journey.

quad revolution in YOI

I'm still thinking about this discussion about quads in YOI and which character would attempt a 4A or generally add more quads to their portfolio.

By the time, YOI aired, the first ratified 4F and 4Lo had just been landed in competition by Shoma Uno (4F, April 2016) and Yuzuru Hanyu (4Lo, Autumn Classic, the week before episode 1 aired). While the 4F remains special with Viktor and later Yuuri being the only skaters who can land it, the YOI creators went ahead by including a quad no one had ever landed in competition by the time the storyboards and the fs programmes were created: the quad loop. In YOI, JJ, Emil, and Seung-Gil jump the 4Lo in competition like it's nothing, and Viktor once jumped it at a gala, which is a whole different level of badassery due to the lighting conditions.

Figure skating is constantly evolving as athletes challenge themselves, pushing their physical limits and the boundaries of the sport. Once triple jumps became the new normal, quad jumps become next frontier. As a piece of fiction created by two avid figure skating fans, YOI anticipated the quad revolution. Comparing the history of figure skating to the fictional world of YOI, I expect some characters adding more and more quads to their programmes while others focus on artistry, and the first skater landing a ratified 4A in competition some seasons before Ilia Malinin landed the first ratified 4A irl.

Of all quad jumps, the 4A has the highest difficulty because it's the only quad that has 4.5 rotations. If I think about which skaters would join the race for the 4A, JJ, Yurio, and Emil come to mind. All three are young enough to take up the challenge. JJ and Yurio have ambition and Emil would be in for the fun of it. And I think of Yuuri for three reasons:

the Axel is his best jump

he is physically resilient due to his high stamina and rarely ever suffering from injury

his ambition: by including the 4A in his programmes, he could beat Viktor in score and technical difficulty.

So, what about Viktor?

By the time Viktor picks up his career, he is 28. In competitive singles skating, that's bordering geriatic. Coming back to competition after a hiatus is hard and his admiration of Yuuri’s stamina and physical health suggest that he struggled with stamina and injury in the past. Getting back to his old shape and being able to compete at the top would be his priority. Staying in the air for four-and-a-half rotations? Maybe not so much.

Of course, we have no information on whether Viktor practised the 4A in the past. Many skaters practise jumps they don’t show off in competition to play it safe. Being able to quadruple all the other jumps, he might have been tempted or even jumped the 4A for funsies. However, Viktor wouldn’t have won worlds and the GPF five times in a row if he hadn’t played it extra safe during those seasons, even more so if he is prone to injury. Injury just has the potential to mess up a skater's entire season. Viktor seems too considerate to embrace the risk of adding rotations, whereas I can totally see younger and more reckless skaters like JJ or Yuuri eventually go for the 4A. And because of that I don’t see Viktor pursuing the 4A as a real goal, especially not post-comeback. I’d rather expect him surprise the audience with a 4Lo than endangering his comeback by going for four-and-a-half rotations.

[dropespeon]

i truly think that if ginzou learned how to do magic it would do sooo much good for him

[reignpage]

In Sheep's Clothing

Synopsis: in which you're alone in a cabin in the woods during a rough snow storm and an enigmatic, sexy wolf hybrid!Toji turns up at your door providing much more than his handyman service Warnings: plot with a side of porn, cunnilingus, unprotected sex, creampie, knotting, degradation, exhibitionism, voyeurism, masturbation, praise kink, rough sex, manhandling, cowgirl, thigh fucking, hair pulling, slight anal play, biting, dom!toji, blowjob, allusion to shower sex, dirty talk, dry humping, pussyjob, fingering, panty sniffing, cum eating, spanking, titty slapping, pussy slapping, biting, dumbification, primal play to the extreme, !!dark themes!! beware cannot emphasise this enough people (dw there's no gore or noncon or anything, it's just the nature of the plot), acts of violence, angst, fem!reader, romance, barely proofread Word Count: 19.9k (it's a lot I know I know sowwy)

Perhaps running away to the mountains and hiding in the woods wasn’t the greatest idea you’ve ever had. But it was the only one you had at the time. Your grandmother’s cabin is a little run-down, though that was expected considering how many years it had been since she passed, still, it has solid bones and you can’t complain.

It’s a two bedroom bungalow — spacious enough for a family, what with its generous kitchen and hearty fireplace, but far too small for you. Dust has settled on all imaginable surface and it took hours to remove the coverings on every sofa, chair, table, and bed, and even longer to wash everything that could be washed by hand, since the washing machine and dryer in the back room have long since given up on themselves. 

Most of your days since whisking yourself away here is spent dusting, washing, wiping, and cooking. You’ve yet to feel the dent you’ve been chipping away at. There’s still a draught coming from the front door, the main heating system isn’t working, and somewhere, in every corner, is an odd creaking that keeps you up at night. 

Sighing, you glance out of the window, curled up underneath a mountain of blankets, and watch the snow fall. It’s always snowing here. It was barely possible to trek up here as a snowstorm was creeping in; the townspeople were less than eager to even hear you out until you flashed an extortionate amount of money. 

A nice, elderly man took pity, though, upon discovering your last name. He knew your granny. Said she was a sweet soul with a real talent for baking. Having ordered one of his sons to drive you up, he gave you his telephone number, insisting that if you ever needed anything, anything at all, they would come at the drop of a hat. 

That warmed your heart a little. The kindness of a stranger is not something you’re familiar with and thought you’d never get to experience, but there he was, smiling, and waving the cash away like it was the silliest thing in the world and it had no real consequence. 

It had been four days since and you won’t lie, you have considered phoning in that favour. You’re way out of your depth here. With a sigh, you pull a blanket, red and knitted by your grandmother, up to your chin and continue to watch the snow fall. Even though you’re at your wits end with all the scrubbing this cabin needs, you couldn’t possibly call it quits now and beg the man to come up just to take you down. How embarrassing would that be?

You hear knocking. 

There’s someone at the door, pounding. Your heart begins to beat fast. You must have mistaken the sound of the wind howling for a knock at the door. After all, you are miles away from the town and the snow is far too thick for anyone to have gotten up here. Would it be wise to get up from the warmth of your sofa to be sure?

The knocking gets louder, more adamant. Okay, so you weren’t, in fact, mistaken. Something about that noise, unyielding and firm, pierces your heart. You can’t imagine being out in this weather. You’re at the door faster than you can even process the speed at which your feet moved. 

When you fling the door open, the freezing wind attacks, stinging your cheeks and nipping at your skin. Arms rushing to hug the blanket you thoughtfully to drag with you tighter around your body, you squint up through the blinding white of the snow at a hulking beast. 

Broad shouldered and glaring, he watches you cower beneath his gaze. He’s dressed in a simple, fitted t-shirt and baggy joggers, and you feel impossibly colder just by looking at him. His face is hidden behind a disheveled beard, rough and scratchy. He’s a very hairy man. 

“H-hello. Can I help you?”

His nose twitches. He jerks his chin to something behind you. “You’re cooking. I’m hungry.”

Without waiting for a reply, he pushes past you. Pressing yourself close to the door frame, you just about avoid the graze of his arm against you. This turn of events has your head spinning. Who does this man think he is? 

The wind howls harder. You slam the door shut. “Excuse me! You can’t just walk in as you please. This is my home. Get out.”

He doesn’t look back, doesn’t even register what you say. Instead, he crosses into the kitchen and lifts the lid of the pot of stew you’ve been working on for hours and grunts. When he fixes himself a bowl, you’re left speechless at how he seems to move on autopilot, opening cabinets and drawers for what he needs without so much as a glance. 

Now he’s sitting at the table, scarfing down your stew and you’re bewildered, spluttering. You’re being Punk’d. 

“Who do you think you are? I told you to get out. I’m gonna call the police if you don’t within the next five seconds!”

He snorts. 

“The police?” His voice is gravelly, seemingly from lack of use. “Ain’t nobody getting up ‘ere in this state.”

That’s what every serial killer says, and you should be afraid, should be running for help. But there’s no hint of malice or cruel intent in his words, only amusement, the way one responds to a child’s whims. 

“Well, you should still afford me the decency of leaving my home when asked.”

“Your home? Didn’t know the old lady gave it away.”

You gulp, clutching the thick blanket even tighter. “You knew my grandmother?”

He grunts. 

Well aware you really ought to kick him out, you’re ashamed at the realisation that you can’t bring yourself to. It’s awfully terrible outside and there’s no doubt the elements would claim him if he he’s left out with no shelter. Though, that really shouldn’t be your responsibility and there is still, of course, the glaring concern of his ability to kill you. One sweep of his figure and you know this towering man, tall and muscular, could snap your neck with one hand. 

Or worse.

Not to mention, he’s a hybrid. You can tell by the twitching of his ears and his nose, like he’s hearing and smelling things inscrutable by the human senses. You wonder what he is. He has no triangular ears or fluffy tail like a dog, he doesn’t have eyes like a cat, no scales that you can see, but his teeth, when he scrapes them along the spoon, you know they’re much sharper than you’d like to ever find out. 

If he wanted to kill you, he could have done that before. And at any rate, it’s too late to do anything about it now. He knows you’re alone and there’s nowhere you can run to before the snow freezes your limbs. 

Settling back down onto the sofa, you just watch him eat. He’s grabbed a second helping, enjoying the meat more than the potatoes and carrots in there but that’s expected of a man. It does mean, though, that he’s not a herbivore hybrid. You wonder if he likes the taste of a woman’s flesh. 

“Is it good?” You ponder. 

There’s something oddly peaceful about observing him — the way he only chews once and twice before swallowing and shoving another spoonful, the way his throat contracts, how his huge hands grasps the bowl and spoon like they could be ripped away from him before he’s finished, and even the way his foot taps, impatient and tense. 

He throws you a cursory glance. “It’s good.”

A second helping disappears. So does a third.

“It seems like you haven’t eaten in days. Or showered. Or rested.”

Huffing, he leans back in the chair, full perhaps. He scratches his stomach under his shirt and you look away at the flash of skin. In a drawl, he concedes, “Y’r right on the money.”

You note how he doesn’t offer more. And you know by the way he’s observing you in return that he’s expecting you to ask for more. You don’t. It’s stupid. Suicidal even. But a little company to weather this snow storm might not be so bad. 

“I’ll allow you to stay here until the snow passes but no longer than that. There’s a second bedroom in the back, you can use that. The boiler’s broken or something so the radiators aren’t working, neither is the hot water in the shower. So, unfortunately, this isn’t going to be a stay at a five star hotel but we’ll both get along just fine if we maintain boundaries and do our part.”

He grunts. That seems to be his preferred way of communicating. Fine by you. You never liked talkative people anyways. “I want a hot shower. So do you by the looks of it. I’ll go down and check the boiler out.”

Startled, you laugh. “You know how to fix things?”

The look he gives you is answer enough and with no further words exchanged, he marches down the hall, obviously all too familiar with the layout of the cabin — did he stay here after she died, when the house was empty and unused? 

Or maybe he stayed with your grandmother and that was how she got along just fine on her own after your grandfather died.

After thirty minutes or so, he emerges, some grease smeared on his face, and he presses the back of his hand to the radiator by where you sit. He’s standing very close. And from your position, hugging your knees under all these blankets, he looks so much bigger and stronger. 

“It’s fixed. For now. Shit’s old so might need regular maintenance,” he explains. “Ya wanna shower first or what?”

Considering he fixed the damn thing, he should have the first go, shouldn’t he? Especially as he’s been out in the cold for goodness how long.

“I’ll shower first,” you say. 

He nods. 

Unfurling yourself from your cocoon, you stumble to a stand. He doesn’t move, doesn’t give you space. Your chest brushes against his. Tingling rushes down your spine at the graze of your nipples. You hastily move past him, embarrassed and suddenly nervous. 

“I’ll be quick. Um, feel free to have more stew and I don’t know if you have any clothes or anything, but my grandmother kept some of her husband’s clothes, you’ll find them in your room — the second bedroom, I mean. Just down the hall, by the bathroom.”

He doesn’t reply and you don’t wait for him to . 

In your rush to save face, you just miss the way his lips twitch in one corner. 

You had forgotten how wonderful a hot shower is. The way you’re enveloped by warmth and your tense muscles loosen and relax under the barrage of water. You take much longer than you usually do, intent on thoroughly enjoying the water like it could grow legs and make a run for it. Eventually, you’re bathed and fresh. Much fresher than you’ve been in the last couple days since you didn’t have to hurry through your routine or curse under your breath at the burning chill of the water, mocking your ineptitude and foolish spontaneity. 

When you come out, dressed in a sweater and joggers, you’re pleased to find the house much warmer than before. The fireplace is even lit, the orange and red flames dancing with as much joy as you feel. More cozy and welcoming, the cabin has completely transformed in what feels like a blink of an eye. Before, the clinical white lights overhead flickered on its last legs, completely and utterly useless, now only the fireplace sheds light, covering the living room and kitchen in a snug ember. 

It feels reminiscent of Christmas evenings you never had. 

Your guest doesn’t look surprised when you approach — he probably heard you every step of the way — but he does push off the sofa and give you a look over, nodding as if satisfied to see you out of the blankets you wore like a second skin. 

Just as he brushes past you, you grasp his arm. Nerves light up. You drop it like it burns. “Sorry. I, um, just wanted to say thanks. And uh, I guess we should introduce each other. Sorry I didn’t do it sooner. I’m not really sure why I didn’t. Maybe I was just mentally prepared to not speak to another person for a while or something.” 

Tilting his head at you, he releases a huff of air through his nose and says, “Name’s Toji. You’re y/n; the old lady talked about you.”

“Oh.”

Likely sensing that’s as much as you’re going to say, he disappears into the bathroom with a pile of clothes and a towel in hand that you didn’t even notice — maybe because you were far too distracted by how handsome he looks under the glow of the fire or how his skin felt nice, all hard and soft and heated the way only a man could be. 

Or maybe, just maybe, it was because the first thing you really noticed upon entering the living room was not the way it had been transformed or how normal it looked for such a big man to be taking up space here, but rather how this ‘Toji’ was sitting in the exact same spot you’d been making your little home when he came. 

When you awake the next day, you’re surprised he’s still asleep. It was almost midday and there’s no sign of him having walked through the cabin before you. There’s no way you’ll knock on his door. Truthfully, you were surprised, pleasantly so it must be said, to find yourself alive and untouched. You don’t guilty for thinking the worst and you’re not naive enough to think better of him for not being a serial killer, that’s simply the bare minimum. 

But it does mean he’s a man of his word and you can let down a little of your guard. 

Instead of worrying more about what he’s doing in his room, you busy yourself  with breakfast. Toji had finished the stew when you came out of the shower and you were impressed by his appetite, albeit also concerned for your stock; at this rate, your food will run out much faster than you had planned and there’s no telling when the weather will get well enough to call out the old man for help.  

You bake a sourdough, fry up some eggs and sausages and put the kettle on for some coffee — instant, unlike the ones you’re used to in the big city but it’ll have to do. You’re careful not to make too much noise, although you feel a little embarrassed at how thoughtful you’re being. 

Just as you put the plate down, he emerges, shirtless, hand scratching the trail of hair low on his stomach. His hair is mussed up, sticking at all angles, and the plaid pyjama bottoms he must gotten from your grandfather’s box of old clothes hang low on his hips, distinct v-lines peeking in a terrifyingly sinful way. He has fairly thick hair on his arms and chest, the very definition of unkept and wild. 

You clear your throat. 

“Good morning. Sleep well?”

He throws you a look, full of amusement, before he sits down at the table. He must have smelt the food and known somehow you were meaning to share. How presumptuous of him. “Slept fine.”

You serve him his portion, larger than your own, and pour him coffee to which he doesn’t say no. “Not going to ask me how I slept?”

He snorts. “Don’t hafta. You tossed and turned the whole night.”

“You have really good hearing, don’t you? What kind of hybrid are you?”

He eats much slower than yesterday, mulling the taste over rather than scarfing it down, and he seems pleased enough with your cooking skills. For reasons you don’t want to think too much about, you’re feeling pretty proud of yourself. 

“Wolf,” he replies. 

You’ve never met a wolf before. But they are an infamous breed — they needed constant medication to keep their animal instincts at bay, they stuck by their own kind, were aggressive to outsiders, and are known for being fiercely loyal and protective. Toji doesn’t seem to match the description. He’s alone for one and he moves with grace like a deer and not like a clunky predator. 

“How did you know my grandmother, if I may?” You ponder. In all of the letters she’s written to you, she had never mentioned knowing a hybrid like Toji, or any hybrids for that matter. 

He lifts one shoulder in a shrug and shared, “Helped her around during winters just like these. She was too old to get down by herself and there were always things needing fixing.”

“She gave you warm food in return?”

He grunts. 

“How did you know she died?” Raising a brow at your question, you explain, “You said she ‘was’ too old.”

Barking a sudden laugh, you find the noise tickling your skin and you can’t stop staring at the way his face softens for just the quickest second and ever so lightly. You’re ashamed to admit the noise makes you warmer inside than it should. 

“I come sniffing around soon as snow starts to fall. It’s routine. A habit. I was the one who found her. Notified the townspeople and went on my way.” He takes a sip of the coffee, green eyes never leaving yours. “Haven’t been back in years.”

His voice is gruff and now that you’re sat face-to-face with him, it’s clear as day that he’s not used to the sound of his own voice; he furrows his brows and stumbles upon certain words like they’re foreign, as if he’s struggling to reconcile the reality that those words are coming from him. 

“So what made you come here?”

No answer. 

The rest of breakfast passes by in relative silence, the distant moan of the wind outside providing enough noise to wash away the awkwardness of eating with a stranger. You want to tell him you’d prefer if he didn’t walk around so bare but that seemed too big of an ask since it’s likely he runs hotter as a wolf than you do. Eyes falling to your neck and your chest unashamedly, he doesn’t shy away from eye contact. 

You do though.

Then he stands, taking both your and his plate over to the sink. He begins washing up. That actually takes you by surprise. This Toji fella didn’t strike you as the type to partake in house chores. Rather, he seems like the type to firmly believe the kitchen is a woman’s domain. Interestingly enough, his back is marked up, full of scars, and they ripple with his muscles. You want to ask about them but he’s not a man who offers answers and you’re not the kind of woman who should poke and prod. 

“Right, well.” You stand too. “I was wondering if you know how to fix a washing machine. And a dryer. Neither are working and washing my sheets and panties in the bath is a pain. 

His eyes flick to you as you wipe away at a spot on the counter dirtied by flour. You probably shouldn’t have used the word ‘panties’ in front of a man like him but you thought it would be funny. He doesn’t seem to think so. He gives you a half-nod and you feel satisfied enough from that interaction to pad over to the sofa to read a book. 

Toji begins working around the cabin — he heads over to the laundry room and you hear the clatter of metal and thumping against the floor. Upon emerging and giving you the look that says ‘it’s done’, he also starts looking for something in the basement. He carries up a box of lightbulbs in one arm and a ladder in another. 

When you jolt up, to offer help, he cuts you another look that says ‘don’t you dare’, and you sit back down. He seems to have his own way of doing things and he knows you’ll only get in the way. Maybe he noticed that your nails are long and clean and he can somehow, with his wolfy powers, sense your hands have never touched dirt.

Still working on this and that around the house, you serve him his lunch and you eat separately. If this becomes your routine then that’ll be ideal. He does all the cleaning and fixing and you cook. Sure, it might be setting back the feminist movement just a little but things like that don’t matter up here, where it’s freezing and you have no idea how you managed for days without him.

Much more quickly than you could have ever expected, the day ends and night falls.

“Thanks for the help,” you say, handing him a glass of your grandmother’s moonshine. You remember where she kept it from your childhood and now, soon after dinner, just sat by the fireplace, feels as good a time as any to bust it out. 

You’re both leaning against the sofa, right by the fireplace, choosing to be on the rug rather than on the soft couch. You can’t remember who followed who, but you suppose it doesn’t matter. In just one day he had solved most of the problems you’ve nearly cried over. 

Toji grunts. 

He’s wearing a shirt now, thin and plain. Your grandfather was a much smaller man so this shirt is practically bursting at the seams on his huge bicep but he doesn’t seem to mind. You do, though. It’s rather distracting actually. His skin brushes against yours and neither of you move away. 

The flames are the only light here and you feel its warmth settling on your face, lulling you to comfort. Stronger than any alcohol you’ve ever had, the moonshine burns your throat, lighting you up inside. Your companion appears to be unimpressed with the concoction, downing the cup in one gulp. 

Slightly embarrassed by your inexperience, despite being an adult, you ask, “Where were you staying before? You said you come here for winter so where do you stay for the rest of the year? Same place you’ve been staying at since my grandmother died? Or somewhere different?”

Throwing an arm on the sofa, right behind your head, he admits, “Nowhere. Everywhere. Just moved around a lot.”

“Why didn’t you just stay here? If you talked to her enough to know about me, then surely she must have told you no one ever visits since everyone in the family hates the cold. You would have had the place all to yourself.”

“I never stay in one place for too long.”

You skim the rim of your glass, watching the clear liquid swirl with the glow of the fireplace. “Why not?”

He waits until you can’t bear the silence, until you feel that itch to look up, to meet his gaze. And when you do, there’s some intensity in his eyes that seems to make the alcohol in your stomach burn just a little more. A finger of his twirls a lock of your hair and he murmurs, “Never had a reason to.”

Nodding, you settle for watching the fire. 

And when the bottle of moonshine was depleted, you left to sleep and he stayed, a scalding brand marking your back and you couldn’t bear to look back to know if it was from the fireplace or from him. 

That was how your first day went. 

On the second day, you repeat more or less the same routine: you make breakfast, you eat together, he goes and fixes something else, you make lunch, you eat separately, he fixes some more things, you make dinner, and you share a drink or two, and sleep. 

Occasionally, you’ll run into each other and you still struggle to meet his eyes, having to crane your head so far back to get a good look. Sometimes when you do gather the courage to look up at him, he’s already looking at your chest, green eyes slowly rising up to your face. His brow rises in challenge just as hip lip twitches. He doesn’t care at all. The man had no manners. 

But he washes the dishes after every mealtime and he doesn’t really make a mess, so you can’t complain when he takes his visual fill of your body. There’s no harm in looking, only a priest would ever know that you do the same thing; there’s always a sizeable bulge in his trousers that you can’t keep your eye off, totally only out of curiosity. 

The day starts off with an exchange of ‘g’morning’ and a ‘g’night’.

The third day tells the same story. 

On the fourth day, however, only one thing out of the ordinary happens and it isn’t anything to write home about but you can’t get it out of your mind, as you lay in bed wide awake. The wolf hybrid had needed to get past you to get something from the fridge and on his way, he gripped your hips, lightly and barely a whisper, but his finger had brushed a sliver of skin where your shirt had risen up. 

His touch was startling, petrifying, making the hairs along your body stand on edge, but more than anything, it was completely and utterly exhilarating. 

When your hand wandered down into your panties that night, you tried your best to stifle your moans with your pillow, chasing the high that followed you the entire day. You fell asleep sticky, sweaty and unrepentant.

The fifth day goes by just fine too. Appreciative of the little song and dance you two have choreographed, you find yourself less and less anxious about the snow and the world beyond. There’s just something about this Toji fella — he’s quiet in a way that would be off-putting from anyone else, but you find it comforting. It’s different from the way everything worked in the city, where silences are this obscene monstrosity that must be filled with the clattering of a busybody. 

Here, with him, you can just breathe in the hot cocoa and the smoky ash burning in the fireplace as you sit by him, shoulder to shoulder, on the rug and not on the sofa. He doesn’t ask questions about why you never visited your grandmother, why you haven’t talked about your family or your friends, or why you don’t ask him questions. 

You like to think too that he appreciates you keeping your curiosity at bay. 

Maybe that’s why he lets you rest your head on his shoulder, why he doesn’t nudge you off when your breath begins to even out and your lashes flutters shut, and maybe, just maybe, it’s why he carries you to bed and lays you down so gently you dream of solid arms, green sparkles in the snow, and fluffy clouds that brush your hair back. 

What you weren’t prepared for, however, is the sixth day. It started off just like any other day: breakfast, reading on the sofa whilst he fixes something or the other, and then lunch eaten separately. 

But, the hybrid must have gotten oil spilled on him when he was tinkering with something in the cellar because he went to shower during the day, instead of at night like you both do. This fact wasn’t known to you. It really wasn’t even on your mind. And that’s why disaster struck. 

Walking into the bathroom to grab something — you can’t even remember what it was and why you were so focused on retrieving it, you hadn’t registered the sound of running water and the fact that the room was steamier than usual — you were met with a sight no HR training could ever prepare you for. Because, there, right in front of you, was your roommate, buck naked with water dripping down his chiseled body, catching on the curly hairs on his chest and lower abdomen. He was leaning with one arm on the glass of the shower stall, forehead pressed onto his forearm whilst the other made slow, leisurely strokes somewhere low, somewhere the steam gravitated towards. 

Forward and back, forward and back, forward...and…back. 

All while his eyes, like freshly cut grass, stayed unmoving, watching you watch him. Feet sinking deeper into the tiles, you were stuck where you are, heaving chest matching his as he let out a grunt, wrist jerking faster, splashing so much water everywhere you could almost feel them land on your skin through the glass. 

Your phone pinged from your hand. You didn’t realise you were holding it. That was just about enough to break the trance he had you under. Wordlessly, you turned back and left, the door clicking shut behind you, and you busied yourself with preparing for dinner. 

When he walked out, dressed, you could see from your peripheral, you grunted in acknowledgement after he let you know he was going to get some wood from outside. 

Dinner was eaten separately too. 

Instead of watching the fireplace, side by side, sharing whatever drink you’ve prepared, you’re settled comfortably under your blankets, hand rubbing furiously in your panties and eyes shut tightly, chasing flashing images of something sinful, delicious, the very source of your delirium. 

Your orgasm is shallow. It’s why you’re conscious enough to notice, through the gap between your door and the floor, that the hallway light is still on and just as you exhale your last lust-induced moan, it disappears, leaving your senses focused solely on the sound of feet padding away.

You don’t get any sleep. 

“G’morning,” you chirp. 

The kettle is boiling and you’re serving the last of the eggs and bacon onto pancakes you made from scratch. There are still some meat frozen but the vegetables and fruits are almost gone and there’s no other way about it — you’re going to have to go down to get some more food. What had supposed to last you comfortably, at least two weeks, is now on its last crumbs before the first seven days had reached its end.

His green eyes flick to yours and with a small smirk, beard twitching, he asks, “Sleep well?”

Biting the inside of your cheek, you try to ignore the burning of your face and the sudden shake in your hands. Of course he had heard. Of course! Because, lost in the haze of the shallow pleasure, you had forgotten that you’re living with a man that is far from ordinary. 

So is his hearing. 

“Oh, great,” you grit out. “And you?”

A snort of what you can only guess to be amusement is released from him and when he brushes past you, his heat only sets those embers ablaze again. He doesn’t answer. 

Once sat down and eating, it’s your roommate who suggests more food is needed — as he should, considering it’s because of his insane appetite that things have turned out so hopeless so quickly. 

“How could we possibly get more food in this weather? No one can get up here and walking down is not an option. I mean, just looking at all that snow makes me feel like death is creeping in.”

“Don’t gotta leave,” he says with a grunt. “I’ll go.”

Spluttering, you practically shriek, “You? Are you insane? You’ll die.”

His green eyes glint. “Will the pretty little city girl be sad if I do?”

“Will the big, bad wolf listen and stay if I say yes?”

Toji barks out a laugh. Breakfast ends soon after. 

An hour passes and, as you read a book, you think that that’s the last of that. But of course it isn’t. Just as you finish a chapter, the wolf in question comes out of his room in a worn out coat too small for him and a firm look on his face. He can’t possibly be serious. 

Ignoring your protests, he heads over to the door and doesn’t spare you a glance. It’s only when you tell him he needs money that he does pause. Typical macho men, thinking with their muscles and not their heads, you grumble in your mind. He waits for you to grab your purse and shove it in his hand. 

“Are you sure you’ll be okay?”

Your question is met with an eye roll. 

“Yeah, quit worrying. I’ll be back before you know it.” He sounds so sure. You’re inclined to believe him. Something about how sturdy he looks makes him sound convincing enough; Toji’s built like an oak tree, with deep-reaching roots and a thick trunk that could withstand the harshest storms and mightiest blows. But all trees can be felled, if one tries hard enough. 

He must have smelt the doubt pouring out of every pore because then he’s making a sound of pure exasperation. “Alright, listen. I’m a wolf, yeah? I’ve been through worse.”

Eyes darting from the snow and to his deadpan face, you mutter, “Just because you’ve been through worse doesn’t mean you should go through more. You can just stay and keep warm. With me. I can’t help you if you’re out there.”

There’s a silence, like a sudden gust. And then a sigh. 

In less than a second, you find your jaw being gripped with one large hand and your head is pushed to the side just as his face buries itself in the crook of your neck, the rough hairs of his beard tickling your skin. The growl that escapes him pulls a gasp out of you and then he’s gone. 

With the speed at which the door flies open and closes, you barely feel the sharp sting of the cold. Or maybe you do feel the full brunt of it, but it’s overshadowed by the envigorating rush that came from that big man inhaling your scent before he left. 

You wonder if he liked what he smelt. 

Before, it felt like time was passing at a snail’s pace, but now it’s like time isn’t passing at all — you’re stuck in some sort of pathetic limbo where you spend every meaningless second switching tasks. From brushing the floor to rearranging the books on the shelves in the corner to dusting every surface to lying in bed and so on and so forth. It feels somewhat akin to engraving tallies into the walls with a paperclip.

Alone, truly alone, you can do nothing but focus on the feeling of ice creeping into your bloodstream. The heaters are on and you can very easily set the wood burning in the fireplace if need be since he taught you. But you don’t want to; you’re lazy. That’s the excuse you’d tell Toji if he asks, biting down the real reason and never spitting it out.

The shivers wracking your body is what you deserve for letting that man go to get food on your behalf. The quivering of your lips is due to the fact that you could have — should have— gone with him, should have bundled him up in something thicker and warmer, and yourself maybe, so you two could trek together to the town. At least, if one of you were to be injured, there’s someone there to pick you back up. 

Who will pick him up?

Gnawing on a nail, your eyes dart, for the millionth time, outside the window, fuzzy socks rubbing against each other as you shuffle on the floor. Night is falling and he still isn’t here. You’re beyond worried. 

How long does it take to hike down and up anyways? It took about an hour by car, so surely it wouldn’t take longer than a day at the very most, right?

But spending even just an hour in this snow, wearing just a coat, would be fatal for anyone, wolf hybrid or not, right? And he’s attempting to bring up groceries? 

Oh, God. 

You’ve allowed that man to walk right into his death. No, you’ve sent him off to die. You’re a killer. Or maybe he’s not coming back. Maybe this was just a ploy to leave without an awkward goodbye. He got what he wanted — roof over his head, a bed, food, warm shower and even a stupid girl to tease. Now that he’s exhausted the supplies, maybe he’s off to try his luck at another cabin. 

Is this what it was like with your grandmother? 

Did she make sure to stock up as much as possible for the winter to ensure he’d stay the entire time so she can have someone to look after her?

Is that what you’re going to turn into?

A food bank?

You shouldn’t have come up here. You should have stayed in the loud, stifling city in your miserable office job, with your stuffy pantsuits and your overbearing boss. You should have accepted your family’s manufactured smiles and cold hugs. You should never, ever have dared to want more. There is nothing in your entire life you have done, or could have ever done, to deserve more. 

A knock comes on the door. 

You jerk up. 

The blanket falls from your shoulders. Stumbling to a stand, you wipe your hands down your front, trying to steady them, and without waiting for a second knock, you twist the knob that had just been above your head and you flung it open. 

“Could hear ya sniffling from miles. You good?”

In front of you is a very hairy man, broad shouldered, coat darkening with the dampness that weighs him down and flakes of snow litter his beard like an upside down tree. He’s scary, hulking and tense, like a wound up toy, ready to explode at any given moment. An ear twitches when you sniffle, just as he said. This man could kill you. He’s strong enough to have been carrying two big, heavy bags, one in each hand, up the mountain. And he knows the exact layout of the cabin, knows there are no hiding spots, no locks in the basement, knows where the axe is, and that the stoker is leaning against the fireplace, too far to get to in time from where you’re standing.

You jump onto him. “Oh my god! I thought you died. Or that you left me!”

He grunts with the force of your body meeting his, but he doesn’t stumble. Bearing the burden of the bags of groceries and your entire weight as you wrap yourself around him like a koala bear, he walks in with ease, kicking the door shut. He saunters over to the kitchen where he deposits the bags on the counter and leaves just enough room to sit you down, untangling your awkward limbs from his torso. 

“Ya think too much.”

He pats the wetness, that had transferred from his clothes onto you, down with a tea towel. Your shaky hands reach up, threading your fingers through his beard and his hair, and you brush the snow away. He’s still here. And he’s warm. 

“I was so worried something happened to you, Toji,” you whisper. 

Stilling, his green eyes flick up to yours, searching, and when he finds the tears threatening to fall he sighs, and presses his forehead against yours, letting you feel the firmness of his presence. He smells like burnt cedar, the musk of the earth, and the saltiness of sea air. With a gravelly voice, he reassures you, “I’m here. Got enough food to last us another week, and by then the snow will stop falling. We’ll be fine”

Your ‘thank you’ stays in your throat when he pulls away and falls on a chair by the dinner table with a grunt so deep and loud you’re snapped back into action — he must be starving and exhausted. Toji did his part and now you must do yours. 

Sneaking glances at him, you work as fast as you can, cutting this and boiling that. You know as soon as the onions and garlic hit the pan with the sizzle his nose will start twitching. If it smells delicious to you, you wonder how it must smell to him. Maybe the anticipation of a warm meal was what pulled him home. 

You won’t disappoint. 

Every second or so, your eyes drift to him, mostly to make sure he’s still breathing, but also because you can’t help it. He’s snoozing, you surmise, when his chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm and his eyes are closed. You move around as quietly as you can. 

Plated, you set the steaming soup, fried meat and loaf of bread he had brought down on the table. It’s not the most appealing of all appearances but you know the recipes like the back of your hand so you know he’ll love every thing. Or at least, you hope he will. 

Checking all the necessary silverware are on the table, you try to gently coax him awake with a call of his name. He doesn’t answer. You look up with a sigh, ready to jostle him from whatever dream is so beautiful he’s in deep sleep, only to find those frustratingly alluring eyes already on you. 

“Smells delicious,” he says, making no effort to gesture to the food. 

You gulp and with a weak smile, you sit down and allow him to serve you. “So, how was it? Is the situation bad?”

Toji rolls a shoulder back. He answers, “Snow’s definitely too thick for a car, but the town hasn’t been too badly affected. No one can get in or out but they’re all making do.”

“And you? Was it a difficult journey?”

There’s a pause as he swallows the spoonful he’s shovelled in his mouth and then he’s shrugging, remarking, “Ya think so little of me? Told you, I’m a wolf hybrid. Wasn’t easy but was hardly difficult, ma.”

Warmth pools in your stomach. 

“Good.” You sip some water. “But you definitely need to get some rest. That’s a non-negotiable, I’m afraid. No manual labour of any kind tomorrow. I’ll handle everything. So, just let me know what I can do for you. It’s the least I can do, after all.”

He snorts. “Yeah? Y’r gonna take care of me?”

“I’ll do whatever you need me to do.”

His fork and spoon clatter on his frighteningly empty plate and when you meet his gaze once more, you’re knocked back by the sheer challenge in them. There’s a glint, like light off a knife’s edge, and it slices from your heart down your body, leaving you open and electrified. 

“Careful, little girl,” he taunts, jaw snapping with a laugh, “when I take you up on that, y’r gonna be whining for days about how sore you are.”

There’s no way you’re going to argue with him, not when he sounds so certain, like you’re missing out on some inside joke. So you finish up dinner, with him having three servings, and after, with the dishes in need of cleaning up, you practically have to shove him in his room when he insisted he’s fine enough to stay up. 

He rolls his eyes and lets you slam the door shut in his face.

As you tidy up in the kitchen, you’re pleased to find the fridge full. There’s a lot of fruit and vegetables and all the possibilities are getting you giddy. You suppose you were a little afraid Toji, being a man, would only buy junk and red meat, but he hadn’t. In fact, he had gotten things beyond food, he had bought toiletries and sanitary products for you. Sure it was a little presumptive, maybe you didn’t have periods, maybe you’re on birth control, maybe you’ve just had it and won’t have to worry until after the snow calms enough for you to deal with your personal bodily functions. 

But, you find the act endearing, if the smile creeping on your face is anything to go by. 

Eventually, you retire to bed, feeling much lighter. There’s lots of food and he came back. He hadn’t left. He had gone through so much trouble — life-risking trouble — that it must mean something, right? 

You fall asleep very quickly. 

Sometime around two in the morning, however, you’re awoken by some dull noise outside. Blinking through the sleep in your eyes, you pad out of your room and into the living room, where the fireplace is burning and casting dancing shadows over your roommate’s body. 

“Didn’t mean to wake ya,” he grouses. “Go back to sleep.”

Finding the spark to laugh, you muse, “I think that’s my line, no?”

He looks wide awake sitting in his usual spot, on the floor with an arm on the sofa and a leg bent. Shirtless, the fire makes him look like he’s glowing, and you’re mesmerised. Clearing your throat, you retrieve two bottles of beer he had cheekily gotten, and sit criss-crossed by him. He takes the beer with a grunt of gratitude.

There’s something different in the air; silence isn’t enough tonight. All the things that have so far been left unspoken, locked away, are climbing over, ready to be shared — at least from your side. You may never know what he’s truly thinking.

Brows furrowed, you begin, “Did you ever wonder how I ended up here? Well, there’s not really a special or interesting story — I just got tired and bored of the same old thing. It felt like my life was missing substance, y’know?”

Grunt. 

“I hated the city,” you confess. “It’s awful there. Everyone treats you like their enemy even as you’re just walking down the street. No one ever smiles or even looks at each other.”

Huff.

“It’s a good thing I was a workaholic and lived frugally; I can afford to camp out here until…well, till forever, I guess. It’s also great luck that you came by ‘cause I can’t fix a boiler or anything of the sort, so I would have likely died by now.”

For a second you think he’s dozed off, as he should have been doing after dinner considering the strenuous journey he underwent to get some food, but one glance to the side up has you gulping when you find his eyes on you once more, like they never left, like there’s nowhere else he’d rather look at. What a dangerous thought. 

The eye contact has you, or him, or both of you, drawing closer, gazes flickering down and then up and back down again. With the warm glow of the fire blanketing you in the night, you feel so safe and secure; it’s you and him in this cabin and no one else matters. No one else has a say, can interrupt, can ruin this. 

Whatever this is. 

The arm he has behind you shifts and then you feel fingers skimming a lock of hair, following it down from the temple of your head, curving around the shell of your ear, and into the slope of your neck, brushing your hair back and exposing  skin to the sizzling air. 

You shiver.

“I’ve always been the kind of girl who stayed in one place. I like the security, the familiarity. But recently things have started feeling tough, like I’m stuck in quicksand, as dramatic as it is to say.”

Your voice is weak and low; you never knew you could sound like that. 

When you were brushing the snow out of his beard, you weren’t surprised to find it rough, you often catch him scratching there so you know it’s uncomfortable for him too, and yet, you find a bubbling desire within you to feel it on your skin, the way you had briefly felt it on your neck and in your hands. How would it feel in other places? 

“I just needed to get out, y’know?” You’re leaning impossibly close — close enough to see the question in his eyes. “Do something new, something exciting, something…” 

“Wild?”

Toji’s eyes flashes and at your dazed nod, he dives forward, swallowing your gasp in his rough, unforgiving mouth. He shoves his tongue in, licking and tasting, and that arm that laid at the back of your head curls around it, pulling you close by your neck. You’re left with no choice but to cling to him and try to keep up with his merciless pace. 

He tastes like alcohol with something deeper running, like an undercurrent, a ferocity only a beast could achieve. You feel intoxicated. Carrying you onto his lap, you’re overwhelmed by the feeling of something hard jutting up into your core. A growl pierces your ears when you don’t hesitate to grind down onto that hard length. He’s leaking heat hotter than the fireplace, he’s hard and firm everywhere your hands can reach, and his clutch is frightening, gripping you like you could never escape even if you fought against him. 

You’ve never been wetter. 

“I can smell ya,” he rasps. “Been smelling this sweetness every day. You taste as good as you look or what?”

Coarse and prickly, this beard is rubbing deliciously against your skin, reminding you from all angles that he’s kissing you, that he wants you just as bad as you want him, and he can’t get enough. 

Burying your fingers in his thick hair, you moan when he licks a stripe up your neck, sniffing at your pulse point. “Find out for yourself.”

His laugh is sudden and gravelly and it’s the last thing you think about before you’re being thrown on your back, legs spreading to accommodate his girth as he kneels above you, shirt going up and over before he throws it somewhere. With the fireplace highlighting the sharp contours of his face and his rippled chest, his beastly grin spikes your pulse and then he’s pinning you down with his body. 

“I don’t think you understand the position y’r in, little girl,” he taunts. 

Using his claws, he rips up your top, exposing your tits to the air for just a second before he swallows one in his mouth, flicking a nipple with his tongue, all while he’s rolling his hips into yours creating a delicious friction that has your back arching and your jaw dropping. 

“Been dreaming about these pretty tits.” He pinches the other, grinding his cock especially hard against your clit. The revelation falls on deaf ears when he smacks one. “Fuuuuck, look at the way they bounce.”

You pull at his hair and he lets you drag him back up to your lips, your nipples sore and tickled by the hairs on his chest whilst he rises up your body. “Kiss me.”

And he does, swallowing your moans he continues squeezing and groping your tits, but he leaves your lips swollen quickly after as he begins his descent, peppering a trail of kisses. 

Pressing a nose right up at the apex of your thighs, he takes a looooong inhale, a satisfied growl echoing in the darkness. Your face heats up, legs threatening to close around his head but his big paws holds them open, nails digging with the promise of pain if you dare shut them away from him. 

“You been flaunting a scent that’s got my mouth watering more than any of your baked goods,” he huffs, eyes narrowing at the wet spot leaking through. He thumbs at it, pressing down as if he could force everything you’ve got to give out. “’S not fair, ma. Waited so long for you to give in to me, heh, gonna make you regret that.”

“Toji!” 

He rips up your pyjama bottoms too and hooks his fingers into the gusset of your panties before those are flying away, shredded beyond hope, and cool air grazes your sloppy slit. 

Not a single second is wasted before he digs in, lapping up your pussy with a fearsome snarl. The tip of his long, slobbery tongue circles your pulsing clit, tweaking it when you whine. “Fuck, you taste this good and ya been holding out on me? Selfish little cunt, hmm?”

Hands flying up to grip his hair for purchase, you fall victim to his incessant licking and sucking and slurping as he flattens your thighs open, the scraggly hairs of his beard tickling your sensitive skin which grows clammier and clammier with the heat of his mouth, his body, and the fireplace. 

When he curls two thick fingers in, stretching your walls further than you could with your own, your eyes fly open. “No! Ngh, too much.”

Still sucking at your clit, he shoves those fingers in and out, dragging them on his way to really take in the squishiness of your insides, forcing out those loud squelches. You tug at his scalp and he lifts up just a little to snap his maw, missing your clit by a hair’s breadth. 

“Don’t get in the way of my meal, ‘cause this?” He slaps your pussy, juices splashing and he barks a mean laugh. “This is mine now.”

Your orgasm washes over you when his lips sucks your clit with a tongue flicking the little button at the exact same time those long digits curls up and lays successive presses against that smooth part inside of you. 

Toji’s entire mouth engulfs your pussy, sharp teeth grazing your skin whilst he suckles on your sweet essence, drinking like a man lost in a desert, his personal oasis. “Ah, y’r no good for me, ma. Gonna get me addicted on this sloppy fucking cunt.”

Panting desperately, you writhe on the floor, feverish and crazed. He doesn’t give you a break, doesn’t let you catch your breath, before he shoves his pants down and lets his cock spring out. 

Just the like rest of him, his cock is huge — long, thick, and throbbing with veins running up the length, carving a path up to his leaking cockhead which flushes a sinful dark red, promising a painful stretch. At the base, there’s coarse hair, wild and untamed like any other part of his body, and oh, God, those balls, they hang heavy, too heavy. 

He snaps his fingers in front of your face and chuckles before he orders simply, “Suck.”

As if entranced, you scramble onto all fours, crawling forward so you can nudge his length with your cheek, his slit leaving a wet trail. He smells like a beast of the earth and it has your pussy drooling, a fat droplet sliding down your thigh and you shut your legs tight in a pathetic attempt to quell that ache. After all, you are much too preoccupied with this monstrous thing in front of you. 

You peer up at him and stick your tongue out, licking from the very base, catching a little bit of his ball sac, and tilting back to reach his tip where you skim the underside. A large hand slides into your hair softly before it bundles up your hair in its angry grip pulling your head back into an uncomfortable angle so you can face his savage scowl. 

“I know y’r not deaf. Fuck did I say? Huh?” He pushes your face into his balls, smothering you. “Be a good girl and suck, yeah?”

So you do. 

Suckling on his balls, much like how he did with your tits, you try to take as much of him as you can before you can’t bear it any longer and you wrap your lips around his cock head, savouring the salty drops that coat your tongue. Everything about him is strong, from his grip to his scent and especially his taste. It’s as if he was built to dominate, to fill up every senses until you can think of and feel nothing but him.

You gag, overwhelmed by the intrusion. 

He tuts, thoroughly scolding when he drawls, “If ya can’t take me properly with y’r mouth, then there’s no way you can take me with y’r pussy. Wanna prove me wrong, kid?”

You push past the painful stretch of your jaw, gliding as much as of his length into your throat as you can, thumb being pinched by your fist. Not even halfway down, you go back up again, not letting go of his tip before you slide back down, and you repeat that motion, taking more and more of him as you go. 

When you hollow your cheeks to suck him in deeper, you see him throw his head back, his abs tensing and becoming prominent, you scrape your nails down that trail of hair before it finds his balls, massaging in the way you know not even he could resist. 

“Fuck. Tryna -ha- make me cum so soon? Naughty,” he says. 

In a flash, you’re being pulled off his cock and pushed back onto the rug once more. Your ankles are clasped in one of his hand, extending your legs high up in the air. “W-what are you doing?”

Cracking his neck slowly, the flames of the fireplace still as virile as ever, Toji looks downright sadistic with the way he grins at you.

“Just enjoying my meal to the fullest.” He pushes his cock through your thighs, right on top of your slit, lathering the underside with your overflowing juices. He groans, sharp teeth catching on his bottom lip. “We’re both gonna cum like this and then I’m putting you to bed.”

Slightly distracted by the way his cock is catching on your clit with every slide back and forth, you ask with a frown, “But why can’t you just fuck me now?”

He laughs. He fucking laughs. And then he’s bending your legs back towards your chest as he leans in close, placing your calves on his shoulders so you can see his face far too clearly. Rubbing the bristles on his jaw on your skin, he lays a soft kiss on your ankle before he scrapes the bone with a canine. 

“Because I fuck rough, city girl. Y’r gonna be bruised, sore and all chewed up and you can’t complain if you hopped on my dick willingly, no?” You can’t answer. “Yeah, glad we agree. So don’t open that pretty mouth of y’rs unless it’s to moan my name, and keep y’r legs tight for me; no one wants to fuck something loose and limp.”

“Hurry up and get it over with!”

Doing just that, he thrusts like a madman, using you like a rag doll to chase his pleasure. You’re being jostled on the floor, the rug burning your skin and your hair so close to being singed by the embers of that fire he’s been tending to, setting alight and snuffing like clockwork every day.

His balls slap against your ass, as if pounding you too. 

It’s all so dirty, so obscene, so wet any rational thought you should have been having about letting someone who’s practically a stranger fuck your thighs like you’re nothing but a slippery hole fly out the window. 

The slight sheen of sweat on his chest is making you restless — you can’t focus on one thing, not the way he’s holding your legs tight, hugging them to his torso like you might run away, the way the friction of his cock rubbing against your clit is bringing you closer to orgasm, and not how your wetness is making embarrassing squelches that you know his hybrid ears can hear in even greater clarity than you can.

“Oh! T-toji! I think I’m -ngh- gonna -ha- cum.”

He bites down hard on your calf just as his hips stutter and his scalding spurts splash onto your chest, even reaching your chin and cheeks. A drop falls into your mouth which is stuck in an O-shape as you orgasm at the same time, digging your nails into the carpet and thrashing your head around as the euphoric feeling wash over you from inside and out. 

Panting, you manage to breathe out, “Y-you made me all sticky.”

“Not fucking sorry.” Toji licks the red mark on your leg away and presses a kiss right in the centre of the two half moon crescents made by his teeth marks. Your heart beats faster. When his green eyes rove over your body, you both see and feel the deep rumble of satisfaction bubbling from his chest. He runs two fingers down your chest and your stomach, collecting his cum before he smears it on your lips. “Not fucking sorry at all.”

Your eyes threaten to shut and he grunts, realising he must have exhausted you despite the fact that it was he who pushed themselves through the elements for hours and not you.

“Alright, up and at ‘em. Let’s get ya cleaned up, kid.”

Hauling you onto your feet, the rest of the night goes by in a blur — you’re taken to the bathroom and wiped down by a wet cloth, redressed in new pyjamas, and tucked in all nice and warm in your own bed. He leaves. Even half-asleep, you find that act ever so slightly disheartening. 

It feels like you’ve been used, like the act wasn’t as intimate as you might have thought. It leaves you biting your nail and groaning inwardly. Of course he didn’t think much about it. The man looks older than you, he’s probably fucked the thighs of many girls and you’re no one special, right?

Maybe the best thing to do is to take a page out of his book and just be casual, so at least you won’t humiliate yourself by asking something absolutely ridiculous like ‘what are we?’

God, the thought makes you grimace. 

You make a promise to yourself to swear off Toji until the snow thaws enough to get down and up this cursed mountain. The mental fortitude you’ve erected seems so solid, so reliable and firm, you actually believe you’ll have a more than easy time keeping your hands, and your heart, to yourself.

That is until he returns smelling of soap and he slides right in behind you, tucking an arm under your back and pulling you into place with your head resting on his hairy chest.

“Had to cut my shower short ‘cause you’re gnawing y’r fucking fingernail off. Cut it out, will ya?”

Your bedmate swats at your hand, pulling it away from your anxious mouth and playfully bites your wrist. That hand stays in his grip. Heart ceasing its painful clenching, you make yourself comfortable in his embrace, enjoying the heat enveloping you, hotter than any fire.

Clearing your throat, you mutter, “Thanks for today, Toji. Really. I couldn’t have ever done that without you.”

He huffs a laugh, thoroughly amused.

“Wouldn’t hafta if I wasn’t eating up all y’r food.” His voice booms under your cheek, the vibrations lulling you to sleep. You’ve only just noticed how nice he sounds, it’s a captivating timbre, rough and scratchy like bark but comforting and unyielding in a way you’ve never known anyone to sound. “Ya would’ve been fine without me, anyways. Don’t sell y’rself short.”

“I think it’s you who’s selling yourself short.”

Those are the last words exchanged between you before you two fall asleep.

—————————

“Fuck you up to?” Toji grouses. 

His voice is laced with sleep and he’s rubbing his eyes, all bleary and confused. He has every right to be considering you’re under the covers, mouthing at his dick and stroking the morning wood that woke up before him. The duvet gets pulled up, revealing your less than innocent smile. 

Kissing his slit, which prompts a heavy hand to lay on your head, you ask, “Waking you up?”

An arm folds under his head, getting him into a great angle to see you much more clearly. His brow rises up, challenging, and he teases, “Yeah? Well, I’m up, ma, so what now?”

The radiators have yet to be turned on this morning so the air is chilly in your room, but still you push those covers back, showing him how you’re completely bare in the bottom, wearing only your shirt to bed. His spare hand falls on your plump thigh, squeezing and kneading. 

“Last night,” you begin, raising your hip so you can seat yourself down on his hard length, “you told me you’d only fuck me if I hopped on your dick willingly. So here I am.”

You’re rubbing your already soaked pussy up and down on his cock, coating him with your wetness just as he did last night. You feel every delectable ridge catching your clit and you grind down on him with shameless abandon. How could you ever possibly feel shame when it feels so good and he’s not even inside you yet? When he’s looking at you like that? Like you’re the tastiest prey who’s ever walked into his trap?

He pushes a thumb into your mouth, watching your lips wrap around it like you did the night before and this morning, before he drops his hand to the apex of your thighs, massaging tight circles into that bundle of nerves, forcing breathless moans out of you. “Ya gonna ride me, doll? Gonna show me just how willing you are?”

“Uhuh.” Grinning, you let him pull the shirt up and over your head, nipples pebbling immediately. He flicks one, palming the fatty globe to soothe the dull pain.

Steadying yourself with your hands on his abs, you lean forward and steal a kiss. It’s supposed to be a peck, just a polite, cursory smooch but then he stops groping your tit to use that hand to keep your faced pressed to his. Toji deepens the kiss, shoving his tongue inside and exploring your mouth. He’s stealing air from you and the longer he keeps you submerged, the more you moan. 

In the haze of the heat he’s growling into you, you fail to realise he’s let go of your head and is now slotting his cock into your pussy. 

“W-wait, Toji!”

The stretch is overwhelming; you hadn’t prepped yourself enough but neither of you seem to care. It’s hard to when his cock head is already pushing through that tight ring of muscle and is worming its way deeper inside you. 

He hisses. “So fucking tight! Fuck, gotta relax, ma.”

“I’m -ngh- trying!”

Down and down, your cunt swallows as much of him as it can. You’ve pushed yourself upright, using gravity to aid the descent. Nothing else in the room has his attention. Nothing could ever take his attention. “Oh fuck, would you look at that? Greedy pussy can’t get enough, can she? Dirty girl heh.”

You bottom out, lips tickled by the hairs at his base. 

“You’re so big, Toji.”

Both of his arms reach for you, gripping your ass and lifting you up just a little only to let go and let you drop down. You screech. He’s reaching every part of you inside, and when you look down, you’re so certain you can see the outline of him pushing through your stomach. You clench.

“Ah, fuck! Don’t do that,” he scolds you. “Start moving before I get bored.”

The threat makes you frown but you do as he says anyways. Mustering all the strength you have, you start riding him, rising higher and higher each time until you get comfortable with his size. You can’t imagine any amount of prep would ever get you to take him with ease, but the overflowing juices coming from you is certainly helping; it leaves his hairs dewy. 

Years past, or so it feels, as you grind and slide down on his length, and he doesn’t seem the least bit affected. That only fuels you harder. With a vendetta, you get up on your knees, keeping just his tip in, before you slam down. 

You both moan. 

“Fuck!”

His hands dig into your slippery flesh, careful of his sharp claws, but threatening to leave bruises just as he promised. The way he’s poking that sensitive spot inside you has you whimpering with every grind at just the right angle. You can’t imagine ever wanting to stop. Squelches after squelches echo in the room but there’s no shame you can muster, not when he feels so incredible.

The pain is quickly spiralling into pleasure and every part of him is pushing you to the edge— his strength, his length and girth, his low groans and hisses, the hairs that tickle your skin, and those eyes, scouring your features and not missing a single thing. 

Embarrassing sloshes and splats! are reverberating against the walls, just as the creaking of the bed frame, and the slapping of skin reach your ears. You’ve never heard yourself sound so dirty, so reckless, so downright pornographic. All of it is pulling you under even as the ache in your thighs from the overuse of them is making your rhythm irregular and jerky.

“Gorgeous -ha- gorgeous girl,” he says through gritted teeth.

His point is emphasised by a slap against your ass cheek, the sting makes you fall over, back onto his chest which is sticky with both of your sweat mixing and mingling. The hairs on his chest brush against your nipples, still sensitive from his rough sucking and biting last night, and you whimper. 

Growling in your ear, he plants his feet onto the bed, and oh god, he’s grabbing your ass in both hands and you know without even having to look at him that he’s grown tired of your amateurish performance; Toji is taking matters into his own hand. 

“Guess I still gotta do the -hah fuck- work ‘round here. Always such a —ngh— princess. Hold on tight, ma, ’s gonna be a bumpy ride.” His laugh rumbles under your body and an eye roll is all you can manage before you’re being pummelled into from underneath, jostling you in all sorts of directions. 

Plunging his cock at an incredible speed, you feel him in your stomach, in your lungs, God it’s like he’s in your head, filling every fold and crevice with his beastly intensity. “Toji! No! Ngh, s-stop! I can’t, fuck it’s so good! Yes! Oh! Oh! Nooooooooo.”

“No, yes, no? Make up your mind, ma. Use that city girl head for me,” he growls out, punctuating his mean question with a cruel laugh. 

Bundling your hair into a careless fist, he yanks you back from his chest, forcing you to confront him. He’s not flushed, his face isn’t crumpled in desperation, he isn’t even out of breath. In fact, there would be no sign he’s enjoying this —you, being inside you, holding you — except for the bead of sweat trailing down his temple, drawing your attention to the way those jade beads are flickering between your eyes and your swollen lips. 

“Kiss?” You ask, breathlessly. 

Toji furrows his brows, something flashing in his gaze, something that resembles confusion, conflict, or hesitation. It’s so quick you wonder if you imagined it but there’s no time to ponder longer because he continues his incessant assault on your poor pussy, kissing your cervix with every thrust, practically rummaging your insides with the way he’s using you like a toy once again. 

It’s filthy, it’s carnal, animalistic and oh so good.

“Yeah.” He licks his lips, pearly white row of knives for teeth on perfect display. “Give me a big wet kiss, baby. Make it worth my -hngh fuck!- t-time.”

He doesn’t give you a chance to stretch forward, he slams his face to yours, smacking his plump lips, gobbling you up despite your moans of surprise. He shoves his tongue in with as much ferocity as he’s thrusting his cock inside your poor battered pussy. That tongue licks and explores like he can’t get enough, like he wants to memorise every curve and edge.

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

A huge hand lays consecutive slaps against your ass again, the flesh rippling and burning. He times it with every thrust, heavy balls smacking your skin too. It’s all too much too soon and you feel an orgasm bubbling from your throat and your cunt. 

“W-what is that? Oh my god!” Something thick is attempting to enter your sloppy pussy, round and threatening. You squeal when it pushes in after a particularly merciless thrust and grind from Toji. The extra stretch brings about a sharp pain. You tear up. 

A hand that’s clutching an ass cheek ventures deeper, trailing a finger to a hole you’ve never touched. Smothered in his chest, the onslaught of stimulation from all angles is killing you. There’s nowhere to run, nowhere to breathe, no one to turn to for help from the man making good on his promise to leave you bruised, sore, and all chewed up. 

“’s my knot, babygirl. Fuck, you really don’t know shit about hybrids, huh? Well, y’r gonna be educated soon.”

The dark, sadistic tone of his is making you dizzy. In a panic, you hastily say, “N-no! I can’t. Really, Toji! I r-really can’t. Pleaseeee.”

With your hair still in his grasp, your head’s tilted back once again, but this time to bare your slender neck. In one fell swoop, that bulge gets shoved inside your cunt, plugging you up, and his maw clamps down on your neck, so close to puncturing you with his savage teeth.

“Oh! I’m gonna cuummmm! Toji! T-Toji! Stop!” Your jaw drops, eyes rolling back, and your nails dig into his meaty pecs for purchase. It’s like electricity is wracking your body, sizzling every hair strand, tickling your nipples from inside. Grinding against his pelvis, your oversensitive clit is caught in his hairs, creating a remarkable friction you can’t escape. “Oh, fuuuuuuuuuck!”

Broken chuckles emerge from his sinful mouth, “Go on, ma. Cum on my cock, milk me, just like that, oh shit, such a good girl, fuck!”

His brutal pace splutters as he follows suit, balls clenching whilst your walls attempt to push out the invasion of his cock and his knot. A crazed laugh echoes right by your ear, you don’t know what’s so funny but stuttered moans are the only sounds you can make as you chase your high. 

“Ah, fuck, y’r so fucking tight. Practically -ha- choking me heh.”

You feel hot cum paint your insides, drizzling down your walls with nowhere to go. He’s thoroughly filled you and when you attempt to lift your hips to get up, you realise, he’s not letting you go any time soon. 

“Nice try, ma. Unfortunately for you, y’r stuck with me for about twenty minutes or so till it goes down. Probably should’ve bought condoms heh.”

“You should have given me a warning, Toji,” you mumble, pouting. 

Goosebumps litter your arms; the chill of the morning air is settling reminding you just how bare you really are. Thankfully you don’t have to suffer for too long because he’s shuffling so he can throw the covers over the both of you. With his natural body heat, you’re more than warm and cozy, especially as his burning cock is still inside you. 

He licks a dried trail of tears on your cheek. “Sorry. Thought you knew.”

“Well, I didn’t. This is my first time with a hybrid.”

Grunt. 

A beat or two passes, a comfortable silence humming between you. He’s so big and meaty it feels like you’re going to melt into him. Now that you’re not so distracted by cock and cum, and the morning light is shining through the curtains, you can see his scars much more clearly. He’s littered in them, some like slashes and others just scarred-over holes.

You have so many questions, none of them leave the tip of your tongue. 

“Ask.”

You pause. “Can I?”

Huff. 

“Okay,” you trail off. “Why do you have so many scars?”

Tickling your spine with his callouses fingers, he skims your back absentmindedly. You lay your chin on his chest, watching him look at somewhere in the corner of the room, clearly falling fast in an endless hole of memories. This is a rare opportunity to more about the enigmatic wolf-man who showed up at your doorstep in the middle of a snow-storm, claiming to have known your late grandmother. 

More silence fills the air. His fingers have stopped.

You nuzzle his jaw with your nose, burying it in his beard. It seems to snap him out of his daze. He grunts once more, licking your cheek, not to taste the salt on your skin, but as if to say ‘thanks’. 

“Been on my own for a while. For as long as I can remember, actually. It’s…tough out there. Not everyone is as nice as you and your gran.”

Carefully, you hazard a guess. “Were these from people? Hybrids or normies?”

He gropes your ass like a stress ball. 

“Both.”

“I mean, I’ve heard stories of the kind of abuse and discrimination hybrids face from normies, it’s quite prevalent in the city despite recent equality laws but why would your own kid hurt you? Aren’t you all in the same boat? Isn’t there some kind of…camaraderie? Sorry, is that insulting to assume?”

Spanking your ass, he huffs a laugh. “You’re adorable. No, don’t look at me like that, kid. It’s cute of you to think that’s how it works.”

“It isn’t?”

You don’t take offence to his patronising tone; you had expected to be wrong about aspects of hybrid life. Normal, average humans outnumber hybrids at a ratio of four to one. Some hybrids are lucky enough to be passing, kinda like Toji, but others carry visible signs of their anthropomorphic genes. The latter are rarely treated well despite the fact that they’ve existed just as long as normies have. They used to live in their own continents, building large civilisations far more expansive than humans have achieved at that time. 

But war is a cruel mistress.

For many reasons, humans and hybrids stayed away from each other. It was only relatively recently they’ve begin co-existing, even inter-mixing. The change has been hard for many people. Perhaps not most of society, but enough to make the idea of living as a hybrid make you grimace. 

“Nah,” he says, almost finishing his reply there until he sees your inquisitive eyes and he continues, “there’s lots of different kinds of hybrids. We don’t all like each other. And not all of us running the same race. There’s a lot of competition, suspicion and hatred. ’s always been the case.”

Nodding, you prod further. “And your scars? Did they come from bar brawls or something?”

“Some, yeah. Others from professional fights.”

You perk up. 

“Professional fights?”

In a flash, the cover is falling onto the floor and you’re upright once more. Toji’s pushed the both of you up and off the bed, holding you in his arms with his softening cock slipping out of your pussy. You scramble to gain better grip of him.

“Oh my god! Give a girl a little warning. God, Toji! It’s cold.”

He licks your ear. 

“Sorry.” He doesn’t sound sorry at all. With ease, he carries you out of your room and into the bathroom. “Let’s wash up and start the day. ‘m starved.”

Rolling your eyes, you let him have this one chance at evading your question; you’re just pleased to have learnt a little more about him. It feels like he’s letting you in, presenting himself openly just for you. For a wild man like him, whose solitary despite his nature, this is the greatest gift he could give you.

Toji’s a thorough washer — he shampoos your hair better than you ever have and not a single crook or cranny gets overlooked. But as soon as you get clean, the so-called day doesn’t get started anytime soon when he falls to his knees and shoves his face into the apex of your thighs, making a loud sniifffff before he growls and laps up the mixed juices of his and your cum. 

In next three days that pass, you notice the dynamic between you shifts. 

For one, he no longer sleeps in his own room but rather in yours. He follows suit after dinner and removes his shirt, freshly showered and completely bare, and hands it to you wordlessly. You wear his shirt, and only his shirt, to bed. 

Lunch is no longer eaten separately. He joins you wherever you are, whether that’s in your room, all warm and cozy under a mountain of blankets, or on the sofa, also all warm and cozy under a mountain of blankets. You watch movies on your laptop and he never argues with your choices. Sometimes he just eats in silence, right beside you, as you read a book or stare out the window. 

Toji’s much more touchy now. Before, he was sneaking in grazes and quick gropes, now he’s lost all reservation and politeness. When you’re cooking, stirring something as you hum to music, he creeps up behind you, pinning your body to the counter with his hips and he wraps an arm around your torso to weigh a breast in his palm, squeezing and massaging for his own pleasure. 

He’ll tweak a nipple, pushing your hair back to skim his nose against the length of your neck, inhaling deeply and stopping to mouth wet kisses on that bruising around the teeth marks he’s left there.  Most times he’ll let you be after he’s had a fill of your softness, but sometimes he kneels behind you and tears apart your pants with a resounding SSSSSNAP! Before he laps up your pussy from behind, food coming out just a little more cooked than you’d like, though he never seems to mind. 

And it must be worth mentioning that the sex is constant. 

Every night and every morning. It isn’t a stretch to say that you eat, sleep and breathe sex with Toji. Which you honestly can’t complain about. It’s always so rough and so good every time. 

However, his insatiable appetite is making it ever so slightly hard for you after — there’s a perpetual soreness in your joints and in your pussy, you find yourself looking behind you to make sure that when you bend down to pick up whatever it is you’ve dropped he won’t be there playing with your cunt with his fingers and/or mouth. 

His hearing is incredible. 

Sometimes you hide just to time how long it takes for him to find your hiding spot. Longest time was three minutes. The cabin isn’t the biggest in the world but there are plenty of places to hide, like closets, under the bed, behind sofas and doors. 

Still hard at work fixing bits and pieces around the cabin, Toji somehow always knows when you’re up to some mischief. Maybe it’s because your heart starts beating faster or because you let out some giggles, envisioning that glint in his eyes and in his teeth when he grins at your pathetic attempts to escape him. 

Or maybe, just maybe, it’s because your panties get soaked with anticipation for his rough, calloused hands throwing you over his shoulder and onto a bed, his or yours he doesn’t care, and fucking you into a drooling mess. Sometimes he even gets so impatient, so riled up, he just takes you wherever you are, your face smothered in a pile of folded clothes or against the wall with your panties dangling from an ankle. 

Everything has been great. So great in a way you’ve never known greatness to manifest. It’s somewhat akin to, what you can only imagine to be, the completely liberating sensation of flapping your wings and cruising high up in the sky or running through a stream, chasing a fish with no end in sight. It’s the kind of greatness men strive for all their lives but never reach because it’s a greatness they were already born into and never realise. 

The routine, the mundane, the ordinariness. 

It’s all so great. 

At night, you trace nonsensical words and shapes into his skin, smiling at the soft snores that vibrate under your head. You’ve always thought living every day the same as the day before and the day before that as a labyrinth you’ve been sentenced to die in, a cage or a prison of your own making. But now, you can’t imagine ever wanting more. 

Of course, it hasn’t been perfect.  

You still find some moments a little too boring but those are usually when he’s busy fixing a wobbly chair or grouting the tiles in the bathroom. And you do crave the feeling of driving through a long, empty road, or eating fast food. Those moments, thankfully, are hastily washed away once you feel his calloused hands tethering you back to him.

One other problem you’re having is his beard. As attractive as it is, it’s scratching up your thighs a little too much. You’ve noticed the rash forming between your legs; he has a penchant for eating you out at the drop of a hat and he’s not gentlemanly about it. At. All. You don’t ever want him to stop and the threatening snarl he makes every time you attempt to push him away from your swollen and overstimulated pussy never fails to halt your movements. 

So there’s only one solution.

“Toji?” He lazily drags his gaze up your bare legs, stopping by the hard nipples poking through shirt, and then he meets your gaze with a brow raised. “Would you ever consider shaving your beard?”

The growl of ‘no’ comes before you could even finish the word ‘shaving’. His jaw clenches and a muscle ticks. 

“But I can shave it for you. Being a woman, it’s kinda part of my existence. I’ll do you up real nice.”

“Hell will sooner freeze over before I let anyone put something sharp against my neck again. Even if they’re you.”

You drop it for now. 

At night, after hours of mind-blowing sex, you lay all sweaty and sleepy on his chest once more with a heavy arm slung over your waist. You twist the hairs on his face, rolling a couple strands between your fingers. They’re quite long and thick. You wonder when the last time he had shaved was. 

“Please?”

“No.”

You sigh. 

The next morning, you’re in the bathroom, sitting on the bathtub and attempting to rub some soothing ointment meant for your face onto the irritated skin of your inner thighs. It’s getting worse and you’re at a loss. Making it hard to walk, you’re cursing every god out there for doing this to you. 

Is his aversion to sharp objects near his head because of some trauma or an animalistic instinct? It’s hard to tell with hybrids, as the internet forums you’ve explored lecture — hybrids are both governed by human complexity and base biological instincts. Studies that have been done on them over the year have put forth some credible results but people are quick to put a disclaimer that animals in captivity rarely behave the way they would in the wild.

You sigh again.

Maybe you’ll have to tell him to stop eating you out. You cringe. That won’t go down well, pun intended, and you don’t want him to. Frowning, you carefully massage in the ointment, hissing at particularly sensitive spots. 

“Fine. You can shave it off,” he grumbles. 

You hadn’t even realised he was standing in the doorway, watching, and scratching his beard like he’s noticing, really noticing, the hairs on his face. One glance at the mirror across the room and he’s furrowing his brows, perhaps baffled at the man staring back at him. 

His tone is hostile, but his acquiescence makes you smile. 

About ten minutes later, you’ve sat him down on the edge of the bathtub, right where you were before, and you’ve assembled everything you need: razors, scissors, a comb, shaving cream, towels, and a tub of aloe vera to soothe any razor burns. Everything but the aloe vera is pretty pink, and you can’t help but giggle a little as you take a step back to admire this big, burly man surrounded by utterly feminine products. 

“Alright, I’ll start by trimming it, okay? I don’t want to come at it straight away and spook you, so let’s take it nice and slow.”

He huffs. “Don’t gotta talk to me like I’m a kid. Do what you gotta do.”

With the scissors and the comb, you cut away at his beard, snipping here and there and trying to get it all even. It’s not an easy job — he growls when you venture too low, past his jawline and closer to his Adam’s apple and when he makes that throaty sound, you’re met with images of him biting into your throat, the way a dog does when you step on its tail.

Terrible as it is to compare a biological human male like Toji to an animal, it’s a fair comparison considering his reliance on his animal instincts. It’s been abundantly clear in the way he uses his senses to gain his bearings, how he never expresses a desire beyond eating, sleeping and fucking. There’s no vanity coursing through his blood, he doesn’t stare at himself in reflections, doesn’t fix up his hair or put on clothes that fit or match, and even how he doesn’t ever say pretty words, only what he means, no more and no less. 

It’s nice. 

So used to the way people sugarcoated their complaints or hid ulterior motives in every sickly sweet words, adjusting to Toji’s matter-of-fact way of speaking had been somewhat difficult. 

But change is necessary. Just as the seasons change, so do animals, even humans. With how they adapt to the change in the wind, the drop in the temperature, the quake in the earth, you know without needing to ask questions or to have more time with him, the hybrid in front of you, part wolf and part man, has never had the luxury of being stagnant. 

It was clear when he showed up at your door with no bag, just the clothes on his back and the muddy, worn down boots on his feet. Even fully fed, lounging on the sofa by the fire with his feet and torso bare, you sense the tension freezing his body; he’s always ready to run. 

He snarls and flinches when he feels the cold blade of your scissors touch his skin. And then his hand grips your thigh, both in warning and to tether himself, perhaps to remind him you’re not a monster thirsting for blood, his blood, but rather just a woman. A woman he’s seen completely bare, a woman who’s crawled on all fours and nuzzled her face against the seam of his jeans when he returns from fixing a tile on the roof, and a woman who’s laid it all out for him, starting from what led you here and ending to where you want to be. 

Uncomfortable and on edge, you already know you’re not going to get very far with the way he’s being. He needs a distraction. 

You kiss him. He growls for a different reason this time. Fingers threading in your hair, he holds you down to him, tasting the sweetness you’re offering. He laps it up. “Toji, I’m not going to hurt you.”

Face burying into your neck, he takes a long inhale there. “I know.”

“I’m gonna get started on the shaving cream, okay?”

His grip on you tightens and you know he’s aware that razors are sharper than scissors, much like how his teeth are sharper than yours. You don’t want to know what events he’s lived through to be so hostile against the act of shaving but he isn’t an animal, not fully, anyways. 

He’s also a man. 

And men conquer. 

Even when they shouldn’t. 

You slide your panties down, dangling it in the air for a second, hesitating but you see the appraisal in his eyes, always so suspicious like he’s thinking of all the ways one could be killed with a scrap of lace. Dropping it on his face, you tell him, “I don’t see why only one of should be vulnerable here.”

Rumbling a pure sense of bliss, his eyes flutter shut and he sniffs at your panties. His hand flies up to your slit just as you’re smearing shaving cream all over his jaw, pulling the panties away from him for a second. 

“Seeing me all tense is getting you soaked?” His lip twitches. 

“Hey, now, let’s not even get started on that seeing as you’re pretty hard for someone suffering some internal battle.”

He gives you a rare grin. 

The rest of the torture goes on in relative peace — you shave him bit by bit, going slowly and keeping your touch gentle especially as you near the softness of his neck and when you go over it with the razor, he takes a deep inhale of your panties, trying to shake off that unnatural acceptance of something so dangerous, so compromising, so utterly unlike him. After every slither of skin you’ve rid of hair, you give him a kiss which he insists on deepening, shoving fingers into your cunt just to feel you clench down on him. 

Soon, he’s completely smooth and it’s only when you step back that you take it all in. He was handsome with the beard and he’s just as handsome now. He also looks more youthful, more boyish, and free. 

Toji comes to a stand, staring at himself in the mirror. He doesn’t say a word, neither do you. A barrage of thoughts pass through his mind, flashing and flickering. His fingers feel his skin, jerking at the complete bareness of it all. You can’t tell if he likes it, if he regrets his choice, and if he even recognises the man under all that wild and untamed hair. He had been running so long as a wolf, perhaps he’s forgotten how to walk as a man. 

That’s what you think, until he makes some gesture with his hand and he says, “Got no reason to push me away now, so spread those legs, ma. Let’s go for a test drive.”

You don’t leave that bathroom until hours later, sore, wet, sticky and thoroughly blissed out.

The next day, just before lunchtime, Toji goes to chop up some more wood for the fireplace whilst the snow has stopped falling just for today. You’re watching him through a window, bundled up in a blanket holding a steaming cup of hot chocolate, and not at all envious of him, what with the chilling weather and his lack of a coat. 

You really have to buy him one. He doesn’t look the least bit cold, which you don’t really understand, but still, something about the picture looks off. It’s not fair you get to be all comfortable, lazing around, and he’s hard at work. 

The phone rings. 

Your head snaps to the coffee table which your phone lies on, vibrating against the wood. A new number. When you answer, you’re surprised to recognise the voice immediately. 

“Hi. Yes, I’m managing quite fine.”

The old man sighs. “How glad am I to hear that. The storm has made it rather hard to get a hold of you and I certainly couldn’t make the journey up.”

“That’s quite alright. I really appreciate the thought, it’s very sweet of you.”

Exchanging pleasantries and talks about the various favours he owed your grandmother, over five minutes pass, and you’re itching to urge Toji back inside, fearing that he could drop dead at any second from the chill.

Eventually, and thankfully, the conversation nears an end with him insisting that as soon as the snow thaws enough you come on down for dinner at his home. He says his sons and their wives all love a good, hearty meal as a family. There are even grandchildren for you to play with should adults not be your speed. “Yes, yes, of course. That sounds great, thank you.”

“Alright, bye, dear. I’ll call back again to check up on you and please remember you can always call on me and my kids for help.”

Humming, you’re about to end the call when his tone changes. 

“Speaking of help,” he begins, clearing his throat. “How have you been managing to get on so well?”

Toji’s still chopping wood, swinging that heavy axe back behind his head and down in one smooth strike, cutting the log in a perfect half. You press your legs together, unable to take your eyes off his bulging biceps. You love when he shows off his strength, it comes so effortlessly to him, unlike the men where you’re from whose muscles are all for show, satisfying their own vanity and quelling their insecurities momentarily before they’re inhaling steroids like air. 

“Oh, you know, this man my grandmother befriended over the years came by and has been helping me out since. He’s quite familiar with the ins and outs of the cabin so I really couldn’t have done any of this without him. I’d like to bring him along to dinn—“

“A man?”

You frown. “Yeah, Toji. Surely you must have met him at some point since he and my grandmother were quite close.”

“I knew it! I knew I saw him here days ago. Oh, goodness. I’m so sorry you ran into him, but please stay away from him.”

What the hell is this man talking about?

“No, it’s Toji, he helped my granny during the winter months. He fixed things up for her and helped her get around. He was like a friend to her in ways me and my siblings should have been. He’s really nice, you’ll like him.”

The man in question is scratching his jaw, still getting used to being so bare, and he’s rolling his head around as if bothered by some crick in his neck. He’s got an impressive pile of logs waiting to be fed to the fireplace and you know he’s going to head back in any second now. For some reason, you feel guilty, like you’re doing something you shouldn’t be, talking to someone you shouldn’t talk to. 

“Y/n, listen to me. Please!” The urgency, the insistence, and desperation in the old man’s voice is palpable, a hand reaching through the screen and choking air right out from your lungs. Your heart begins galloping. “That man is a criminal. He’s wanted, a fugitive! H-he’s a killer.”

Confused and somewhat exasperated, you argue, “No, you’ve got the wrong man. I’m telling you, we’re talking about different people here.”

You can’t shake off the abrupt shift in his voice. From caring old man with a shaky baritone to a firm, military like precision. It’s as if you were talking to a completely different man.

A beat passes and you think he’s hung up, that this odd conversation is over and done with but one glance at the screen tells you differently. He doesn’t say a thing, and all you can hear is the rushing of the wind and grunts and thuds outside. 

Irritated by this entire farce, your thumb moves to press the end-call button but then you hear him on the other line.

“Does he have a scar on the corner of his mouth?”

The blood drains from your face.

“H-how did you know that?”

A noise of death and despair reaches your ears. He’s shouting something to someone else, you can hear their alarm, can feel the anxiety, the dread and terror in their voices, muffled as they are. “Get away from him. Get away from him now! Do whatever you can. You mustn’t let him get his hands on you. H-he’s one of them. One of those abominations. A hybrid, a dangerous kind.”

“What are you talking about? Just tell me what’s happening, please, you’re not making sense right now.”

“He killed your grandmother!”

You drop your mug. It shatters by your feet. The creamy chocolate milk pools into a puddle, soaking your socks. There’s ceramic chipping littering the floor and you can’t move, can’t go anywhere without taking a big leap. 

Slowly, you look up from your phone screen, hearing subdued questions of fear and panic on the other end. Through the window, you meet Toji’s eyes. 

He’s looking right at you.

You hang up. 

It takes three seconds for him to get to the door, pushing it open. He shakes off the snow off his boots, banging them against the doorframe, and the axe he had been holding is set down by the shoe rack, the metal clinking, as he enters. Light from the ceiling bulb reflects directly off the sharpest point, shining in your eyes. Are necks harder to cut through than wood?

“Ya alright?”

Plastering a cheerful smile, you nod. 

He doesn’t look convinced. 

In a blink, he’s in front of you, cradling your face in one cold hand. He tilts your chin back and searches your eyes. He doesn’t seem to find what he’s looking for so he sniffs the air and his eyes darken. Slowly, like you’re a deer, he asks, “What are you so afraid of?”

“Oh, nothing. Really. I was just reading the news online and stumbled across articles about the war in that country in the East, y’know, the one with the hospital bombing. It’s terrible, isn’t it?”

“I didn’t read it,” he says. “Show me.”

Your heart beats impossibly faster. You know he can hear it. There’s no way he can’t with his wolfish hearing and with a finger on your pulse. Maybe that’s why his other hand, just as cold, wraps around your wrist and he tugs it towards him. His nails scrape against your skin and his hand eats up your wrist entirely, middle finger folding over his thumb. At any given second, he can snap the bone there and not bat an eye. 

Laughing nervously, you tug your hand back, to no avail. With a forced nonchalant tone, you inform him, “I wanna get all cleaned up. I feel a little icky, and all sweaty and sticky from this morning so I’m just gonna take a nice long bath.”

He lets you shake him off but only after he’s taken the phone out of your death grip. He can’t unlock it, he doesn’t the password. But that was never his intention. He doesn’t even look down on the screen. As fast as you can without looking panicked, you stumble away from his reach and towards the door. 

“Y/n.”

Your smile shakes.

“What did they tell you?”

Your smile falls off altogether. 

“Toji,” you begin, “p-please, let’s not do this.”

His scar twitches and when he makes a step towards you, you step back. There. You almost missed it, almost blinked and lost your footing. But his eyes unmistakably flicker from you and to the side, by the door, at the shoe rack. You don’t need to turn back to know what exactly he’s eyeing. Calmly, he asserts, “You won’t last an hour outside. You won’t even reach the forest’s edge before I get to you. You don’t know your way down. And if it ain’t me, it’ll be the elements that’ll kill ya. Be wise, kid.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

With the scarlet blanket still hanging off you, you dash towards the door, pulling the shoe rack behind you and the sound of clattering and a thud forces your legs pumping. 

You run. 

You run and you don’t look back, you don’t stop, not even for a second, not even when your socks are soaked with snow and not melted chocolate. The trees welcome you as you dash in between trunks, lunging over thick roots and dodging low hanging branches. You don’t know where you’re going, where you can go. 

A sob rises from your throat, clawing its way out. 

He was right. You don’t know your way down and the freeze is creeping in, frosting over your veins and seeping into your bones. The movies show the power of adrenaline all the time, how it’ll wash away any and all feelings that aren’t helpful for survival, but it’s not enough. 

Your muscles are aching, your cheeks are burning and your fingers are beginning to itch and tingle. You weren’t meant for survival. You weren’t meant to put up a fight. 

When he gets to you, he’ll snuff the light right out of your eyes with one swipe of his arm. You’ve seen what he can do with those hands, you’ve felt the way they wrangled you into position, hell you’ve drooled over the bruises he’s left on you. And you never once thought you’d be running from the hands that dragged you over a cliff of pleasure, that carried you around, and touched you so soothingly.

Without needing to hear heavy footfall, you know he’s after you. You have animalistic instincts too. 

A dead woman running is what you are. You were dead as soon as you picked up that phone call. 

No. 

You were dead the moment you opened the door. 

“Fuck!” You scream. Ignoring the ache in your legs and the pain in your ankles, you sprint as fast as you can. Your body’s being pushed to its limits; you’ve never ran like this before. Granted, you’ve never been chased by a murderer either. 

The absurd turn of event make you laugh, deranged and broken, and it echoes around the forest. As far as you can see, there’s only trees and snow, perfectly white, pristine snow. There are no roads, no houses, no people. No one to help. No one that can hear you scream. 

You should have stayed in the city, should have never left, should have never gotten bored. Spontaneity isn’t your thing and you’re learning it the hard way. There’ll never be an opportunity to put into practice the moral of the story that’s being engraved into your DNA right now. No one will even notice you’re gone — you aren’t close with your family, and you don’t have friends, not really anyways.

There will be no mourning, no grieving, there won’t even be a goddamn funeral. 

Heart threatening to tear through your body, you collapse against a tree. You’re panting, chest heaving as you gulp down as much air as possible. The bark scratches your forehead but you can’t muster a shred of care, not when every limb is shaking both from the cold and the effort.

There are an array of shallow cuts all over your arms and face from where low hanging branches have whipped against your skin, attempting to get you in their clutches, to slow you down. The forest isn’t your friend. This isn’t your domain, It’s his.

“Y/n!”

You smother the startled cry with the palm of your hand.

He’s near.

Tears stream down your face, falling onto the snow beneath you. Numb, you briefly worry you’ve lost your feet altogether. One glance down disproves that but you’re still not convinced. You hug the blanket closer around you; it does absolutely nothing to keep the warmth in and the cold out. And yet, you can’t bear to let it go. 

“I can hear you.”

Lips quivering, you bite down hard. Iron lays on your tongue. There’s nowhere to go. He had found you so quickly and he knows the forest better than you. How many times had he made the trip to that cabin? How many times had he sought out your grandmother? Had smiled at her, chopped up wood for her, had collected groceries and medicines? How many times had she let him in every time he knocked, every time he emerged from the shadows and soaked up the warmth of her kindness?

What were her last words? 

No, please, don’t! Spare me?

Or why, Toji, why?

What will be yours?

A flash of movement catches your eye. He’s not panting like you, he’s not even sweating. When he steps forward, brushing his hair back, you don’t fail to notice he didn’t come empty handed. 

His eyes glint, sharper than the axe he carries, and he’s roving over your features, watching you tremble. One sniff and his scar is stretching. 

“Y’r afraid.”

“Yeah, no f-fucking kidding!”

Even as he keeps his voice deceptively soft, much like how it is when he’s lulling you to sleep, you can’t stop staring at the axe. That stupid fucking axe he just had to bring with him. You sob. 

“Just leave me alone, please.”

Scoffing, he steps closer once more. “Not even gonna ask if I did or didn’t?”

You shake your head. 

“Don’t do this. Please, don’t do this.”

He lunges, pinning you to a tree with a forearm to your throat. Radiating heat, your body betrays you and presses closer to him, desperate to envelope yourself in that warmth. You want nothing more than to be back in bed with him, oblivious to the rest of the world. You want to go back to before that phone call and make it so that you never found out, so that you never picked up the damn phone. 

Teeth snapping a hair’s breadth away from your nose, he demands, “Ask.”

“Did you?” You scream at him. “Did you kill my fucking grandmother? After everything she did for you? After she showed you kindness and hospitality and gave you friendship? Did you kill her even after she begged? Did you watch the life fade from her eyes knowing she never got to say goodbye to me? To any of us?”

His glare softens. There’s a tenderness swirling in those green eyes, a fervour and understanding that thaws your heart. He looks like the Toji you know, or rather, knew. He looks like the Toji that had pushed himself to trek in the snow for hours so you can be fed, the Toji that kept you company every day, that fixed things without needing to be asked, the one that made you coffee and knew just how you liked it, the one that traced patterns you had drawn him on your skin when he thought you weren’t awake. 

“Did you kill her?”

Scar grazing your lips as he inhales the shampoo from your hair, you feel his answer just as well as you hear it. 

“Yes.”

A gunshot resounds in the air. It’s sharp and startling, cutting through the crisp silence with a violent roar. The sound lingers in the air, echoing and rattling your bones like it had been fired inside you. 

“Get the fuck away from her, beast!”

You turn to the side. A man you don’t recognise is standing metres away holding a shotgun. His face is contorted in rage, creating deep shadows and wrinkles that make him look infinitely older than he likely is. Smoke wisps away from the barrel of his fun, pointed at the sky. A warning shot. 

Toji pushes you behind him as he growls. 

“Fuck off. She’s mine.”

You trip over your blanket. Through his legs, you see that man lower the gun till it points in your direction. You’re frozen in place. 

“Let her go and turn yourself in. An animal like you needs to be muzzled and put down,” the man spits, venom flooding his words. He looks at you. “Come here. My father sent me. You know him.” 

Stumbling to a stand on shaky knees, you back away from Toji, going around the tree and making your way to the other side. He doesn’t stop you, just watches every move you make as if you’re standing in a field of landmines. His grip on the axe doesn’t loosen and he makes no sign he’s going to give himself up. 

“T-Toji, don’t fight, please just come with us. If you give yourself up, maybe they’ll go easy on you,” you plead. 

He growls, grimacing. He’s contemplating it. That means everything to you. In some sick, pathetic joke, you actually pity him. There’s still a huge part of you that cares, that wants what’s best for him, that loves him. But that part needs to be extinguished because he’s a cold blooded killer and he’ll turn those murderous hands on you. 

Leg jerking, he makes a step towards you. It feels so right, you mirror his movement, like this one act, one sacrifice makes up for everything, like it erases the sins of his past and washes away the blood on his hands. 

“Ahh!” You’re yanked back by your hair. 

“Don’t get near him, you stupid bitch! He’s a fucking mongrel.”

The snarl that ripples from Toji’s throat pierces through haze, rustling the branches up above and forcing a flock of birds up and away. He charges towards you, axe raised up high and you shake yourself from the man’s clutches, jumping out of the way just in time before bodies collide and they both fall. 

Rolling away, you bundle up the blanket you’re shielding yourself with and cry into it. The sound of bodies being beaten, arms bent, stomachs kicked and necks bitten into make you cringe. You cry harder. You don’t dare look at who’s winning, you can’t bring yourself to look. It’s because you don’t want to see the violence, don’t want to see blood, but there’s a voice screaming that it’s because you’ll die if the one who walks away from this isn’t Toji. 

“Don’t fucking touch her!”

“Get the fuck off me! You filthy mutt!”

You’re digging your nails into the bark of a tree, flinching with every blow. You hear fists slamming into flesh, each punch a blunt weapon bruising and breaking, bone-crushing swings whistling through air followed by sharp exhales of pain and vomit-inducing cracks and pops. The struggle is relentless, blow after blow, and you hear the gun clatter as it’s kicked to the side. 

SNAP!

“You should have never come back! You should have died on the side of the street after what you did to that woman”

POP!

“Ahhh! Fuck!”

SMACK! 

“Ya don’t know shit!”

The trees are spectators, moaning and whistling in protest at the unholy sight, at the splatters of blood contaminating their ranks. The branches shake in warning but no one is listening.

Whimpering, you hum a song, trying to block out the repulsive sounds of senseless violence. You should have never been here. You never visited because you couldn’t stand the isolation of a cabin in the mountains, couldn’t stand the unconditional love your grandmother gave you, of which you knew then and you know now, you were never deserving of.

If you had been dutiful and even had a fraction of her selflessness, you would have taken care of her so that she never relied on a man with sharp senses and a dangerous smile.

If you had been a good granddaughter, that man would be roaming the world, unburdened by material possession and human attachments. He wouldn’t be beating a man black and blue, wouldn’t be tearing flesh from bone, wouldn’t be debasing himself for your sake, or his. You don’t know anymore.

You turn to yell at him to stop, for him to run instead. But your words are swallowed by a gunshot. 

A body falls to the floor in a dull thud. Crimson dyes the snow, puddling into a shade so dark you could always persuade yourself it’s not what you think it is. Time slows. You can see every flake of snow pause in the air, you can count them, can collect them in your hands. The wind has disappeared, leaving behind a stillness in the air that’s suffocating, choking you from inside. Even the trees have stopped their moaning.

Your heart stops beating.

Someone stands over the body, holding a smoking gun, and it isn’t who you wanted it to be.

“Toji!” You scramble over, hands shaking harder than ever before. 

He’s clutching his chest. Hot liquid drenches your pants. You didn’t realise fresh blood would be so warm and you wish so badly it wasn’t because it means that the warmth that should be inside him is leaving, being absorbed by the ground, by you.

Green eyes, dulling, meet yours. He smiles. “She asked me to. She was in pain. Couldn’t make it down through the snow. She asked me.”

“N-no, stop it. Save your breath, please.” Through your sobs, you turn to the nameless man, pale under the cuts all over his face as the snow and shuddering from the shock of what he had done. “Call the ambulance! Call somebody! Please!”

“C-car. I-it’s in my car.” Staggering back, he drops the gun and fishes out his keys, muttering frenzied apologies under his breath. He limps his way back, weaving through the trees.  

Despite having less cuts and bruises, he’s in much worser state. His chest heaves and you’re trying to press down on the wound like you’ve seen in the movies but you don’t know what you’re doing. You don’t know whether you’re supposed to be smothering the hole with a dirty blanket or if you should be performing CPR. No one had ever trained you for this. This wasn’t covered in any of those HR meetings. “Oh, god, Toji. I’m so sorry. This is all my fault. Oh. God. I’m so so sorry.”

Lifting a limp hand, he brushes a tear away only for it to be replaced by a hundred more. He huffs a weak laugh at the blood he smears on your face and he tries to brush that away too.

“I’d always wanted to meet you. She spoke of how beautiful, how kind and generous you are. Her favourite. Didn’t believe her, y’know? I thought, no one could possibly be that nice if they never even visit their gran. But I’d always wanted to know for myself.”

You shake your head. He shouldn’t be speaking. He should be saving his breath, should be focusing on keeping awake until help arrives. “Stop. Please, just stop. Don’t waste your energy on me. I-I don’t deserve it. I should have listened, should have heard you out. Oh, god, Toji.”

He huffs an amused laugh. He sounds so clear, so loud, so alive you could actually convince yourself he doesn’t have a bleeding hole in his chest. But you can’t because you can feel the blood flowing out, it’s caking your legs and your hands. 

“You wanna know what I think, ma?” Pulling you close, you don’t fight his grip. Through your whimpers, you press your ear to his lips, holding him close like you could will your own warmth to him, like you could jostle you both back to consciousness. “I think y’r even more beautiful than she said. My gorgeous gorgeous girl. Mine.”

It’s unclear if he said anything else after that; you could only hear your own pleadings and sobbing as his arms fall limp and his body grows cold. There came rustling from all over the forest like they heard a tree fell, a mighty and sturdy tree. They warned you. There are consequences to dirtying the snow’s purity, to upsetting the balance. That’s a lesson all animals know. But the battle that had gone on here wasn’t committed by preys and predators. Just men. 

And men never learn their lesson until it’s far too late. 

The trees cry with you.

For you.

When the marching of people came some time later, all yelling and barking orders to each other, they found you lying on his chest, just as you had for many nights and had imagined you would every night after, with a red blanket pulled over the both of you. 

There, silent as a lamb, you slept. 

A tear-stricken city girl and her big, bad wolf. 

Neither of which would ever live again. 

[sweetteaanddragons]

I have been thinking lately about a universe where Bruce Wayne killed the Joker.

I want to be clear here, since there are so many longstanding debates on this topic: I do not think Bruce Wayne should kill the Joker. I have just been wondering what would happen if the circumstances aligned in such a way that he did.

And to be clear on a related, yet slightly different topic: when I say I have been wondering about what if Bruce Wayne killed the Joker, I do not mean as the Batman. I mean Bruce "Brucie" Wayne.

Maybe it's kind of an accident? Like, he definitely did intend to hit the Joker, but he's Brucie right now, so he's trying not to look like he knows what he's doing while still doing enough damage to keep the Joker from killing someone, and meanwhile the Joker makes just the wrong move and -

And here we are. Brucie just killed the Joker.

Bruce's reaction here is one thing; he has his one rule for a reason, he's just broken it, he's determined to turn himself in -

His family's reaction is a whole different story. How does Cass feel about this?

How does Jason? Bruce has killed the Joker, just like he wanted, but it wasn't for him, not really, and -

And meanwhile, this happens in front of, say, a gala full of people, so now all of Gotham gets to react to it too.

Average Gothamite, seeing the words BRUCE WAYNE, JOKER, and KILLED in the same headline: OH, NO.

Average Gothamite, once they've processed the order those words are actually in: . . . I did not have that on this year's bingo card.

The city's most famous mass murderer has just been publicly killed by the city's biggest employer/philanthropist/source of tabloid harmless nonsense! Three days before Brucie was making tabloid headlines by tripping into a fountain and somehow losing his shirt in the process! Two weeks before, the newspaper was running a retrospective on the Wayne murders and what donation Brucie was making to help the families of victims this year! The article mentioned how one of his adopted sons had also tragically become a murder victim!

Now this has happened, and Bruce is having a breakdown over breaking his one rule, and the rest of Gotham just assumes that this is because poor Brucie thinks this somehow makes him like the man who killed his parents. They send a huge outpouring of support his way. This in no way helps Bruce's actual breakdown.

Ninety percent of Gotham is sure Brucie didn't actually mean to kill the Joker, and pretty much a hundred percent of them support him whether he meant to do it or not. No one wants to have anything to do with prosecuting this mess. Bruce is trying to make it as clear as possible that he will fully cooperate with the justice system and meanwhile an entire gala full of people is suddenly acting like they could in no way have possibly witnessed events that took place ten feet in front of their faces. Did Bruce kill the Joker? Is the officer sure? That doesn't seem like him. Maybe the Joker just tripped on his own. Marble floors, you know. Very slippery.