Average sudoku player

it's so small of a movement that you might have imagined it, but you're too busy imagining how hard he must be to have to readjust like that. what must be going through his mind... listening to the two of you fuck like you're trying to get over something. he's either torturing himself with want right now or drafting up a letter to the higher ups in his head. maybe both.

"he's either awake," satoru reaches down and lifts your leg a little to reach sweet new depths inside of you. "or having the nastiest wet dream of his life."

something churns in your stomach, apprehension if you were a better person, and you part your lips to tell satoru to stop being an ass, but what comes out instead is a breathy moan so desperate it makes both men stiffen.

and nanami exhales. loudly. not in the sleeping man sense, this is choked out and heavy with something you don't dare name.

"oh nanamin," satoru sing-songs. "if you're going to cum in your boxers, come here and do it with a better view."

“satoru—” you hiss, mortified, melting at the same time, “stop—”

divine intervention is the only explanation. you must have some serious karma point stacked up and pocketed for a rainy day because, just as your breath hitches again, kento nanami is sitting up and planting his feet on the floor, eyes set dead on the two of you.

his pyjama pants are tight. when you let your gaze fall from his messy hair to the complete and visible outline of his hard cock, you think your heart stops. this is unseemly, and unprofessional, and everything that could be considered inappropriate. and if kento decides to walk out and complain, you and satoru are fucked, special grade status be damned.

“…you’re both ridiculous,” he says flatly, voice sandpapered. "this is wrong. abhorrent. foul."

he sounds exhausted. morally affronted. except his dick is so hard it must hurt and his eyes haven't once left where satoru's cock disappears inside of you. his gaze is heavy on you like a second set of hands. it's ungodly. you feel blasphemous, like maybe if nanami just looks at you a little longer you'd cum from that alone.

satoru thrusts deeper into you, but speaks to nanami. "you're hard."

"and you're loud." nanami exhales slowly, like he's giving himself a full ten-count to resist the urge to murder or run or maybe both. then he stands, finally meets your eyes, and softens his gaze a little. "you want this?"

your body answers for you, hips rolling back and pushing yourself deeper on satoru's cock. your thigh trembles where gojo holds it up and your voice comes out breathless and wrecked. "yes."

satoru groans, of course, and makes a show of squeezing one of your boobs in his hand. nanami doesn’t even look at him. doesn’t need to. his attention is all on you now, laser-focused and reverent like you’re a fucking sacrament. he reaches for your jaw, guiding your face up until your lips part just from the force of his presence.

“good,” he murmurs. “because i’m going to fuck you, both of you, until i can think straight again—and if i have to hear your voice even once during it, satoru, i will be gagging you."

your heart-eyed boyfriend cums inside of you at the implication alone.

and that is how you end up on your hands and knees in a twin hotel room in the dead hours of the night. kento nanami fucks his cum back inside of you for the second time that night, fingers digging so tightly into the fat of your ass that you don't doubt satoru will be teasings the marks left behind for days to come.

you splay your fingers over your boyfriends thighs, which is the only touch he's been granted since cumming inside of you. you stare up at him, he's got lidded eyes and this desperate look on his face as he watches nanami fuck you from behind, each thrust pushing your face just that little bit closer to his painfully hard cock.

though he can't complain, not with nanami's tie rolled up and stuck between his teeth. he tries, though, guttural moans and half-discernible pleads for more can hardly be heard over the sound of flesh hitting flesh.

nanami is girthier than satoru, stretches you out in a way you haven't felt in forever. you feel a little guilty for the volume at which you moan and beg for more, but satoru doesn't seem to be taking it to heart.

you don't know why you never thought of satoru as a cuck. oddly, he's the type. still, that pretty look of desperation on his face is enough to have you squeezing around nanami's fat cock.

"tell gojo how you feel," nanami says lowly, and though you can't see him, you're sure he's eyeing your boyfriend something smug. "now. go."

"feel good," you try, but a sour taste lingers on your tongue at your lack of truth. no, you don't just feel good. "i feel dirty, but in a good way. feel like you're... fuck, seeing a part of me i couldn't show you otherwise. and i... i feel so fucking full."

there's no exaggerating just how full you feel. the curve of nanami's cock inside of you reaches points that gojo would otherwise miss. you think that, if you were to somehow manage both of them inside of you at the same time, that you'd never ever be able to cum without the pairing again.

at your words, gojo groans around nanami's rolled-up tie. he jolts his hips up, tries desperately for any sort of stimulation, and squeezes his eyes shut in desperation when it doesn't work.

nanami, however, only speeds up. his hips are brutal as they piston into you, and he reaches around to find your clit with the tips of his fingers. the electricity of your umpteenth orgasm of the night courses through you, and you're right on the edge when gojo breaks and fists his cock, stroking maniacally.

he grins around the tie, thinking he's gotten away with his bid for release, until nanami slows down his thrusts and stops circling your clit entirely.

"if you don't stop, she won't get to cum."

what the fuck? your eyes widen, and you're about to retort when gojo does it for you. spitting the now drool-covered tie from his mouth and whining like a bitch. "come ooonn, i need something."

"hands off, or i stop."

unfortunately for you, gojo weighs the merits of jerking off to the sight of you being denied like this, but he must decide your wrath is worth avoiding, because he groans and releases his aching cock. "fine."

00. 𝙣𝙚𝙬 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙚𝙣𝙜𝙚𝙧

01. 𝙣𝙤𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙡𝙜𝙞𝙖

02. 𝙗𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙙

03.𝙞 𝙝𝙖𝙩𝙚 𝙢𝙮 𝙗𝙤𝙨𝙨

04. 𝙘𝙖𝙧𝙡 𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙠𝙨

06. ??-??

07. ?????? ?????

08. ??? ????

more to be determined

ꉂ ᵎᵎ tag you're it! list: @msbyswife @igotanainhistory @dabi-luvr @kvtsvkis @iyearndeficiency @smolivin @hikariiyaps @shotorizawa @junkie05 @wham-stars @yandereei @juiceeypeach @aika-3 @mysteryfem @melonia17 @redgie-69 @amberr0ckz @tr0pic4l-p3ach3s @sugarnte @effrvscntt @leemoniceteaa @himikotogareal @yuzu-kun123 @girlyglues @allformidoriya @luvhza @sweetsify @nina-from-317 @rosemarysgardens @mldori-ya

in order to be added to the taglist, leave a comment! however, you must be following me; otherwise, you will be ignored. also, please specify for a specific series/part two or for everything i write.

College hockey player!Jason Todd who made sure to earn his place on Varsity. He was scrawny compared to the rest of the guys and needed to work his way off the bench. Everyday before school, one was sure to find Jason Todd in the weight room. And every moment after school too, if there weren’t practises. But it wasn’t until his coach began paying for extra food at lunch for Jason that the boy really began to bulk up. Freshman to sophomore year he shot up like a tree and the coach put him on the starting line up. The football coach practically begged to have him on the defensive line, but Jason was smitten with hockey through and through. By the time he was a senior, numerous universities were scouting him, many with full rides 

College hockey player!Jason Todd wasn’t supposed to know you. You were in completely different social groups and hardly had any classes together. It was by pure dumb luck that he found you — or rather, you found him. Jason, in his hurry to pack up from class one day, had left his notebook behind. The notebook wasn’t for any class he was taking, but instead for hockey. It had stats and drills in there, all the way from his freshman year. When he realised he didn’t have it, he almost had a panic attack

College hockey player!Jason Todd had luckily written his phone number in the front corner of the notebook. When he got a call from an unknown number, he almost didn’t pick up. For years to come, he thanked the heavens he did

College hockey player!Jason Todd thanked you profusely over the phone, to the point you thought the notebook contained illegal information. A quick peek through it — because if he didn’t want you looking in it, he should’ve kept better track of his stuff — left you disappointed when you only saw lists of numbers and little doodles of hockey sticks

College hockey player!Jason Todd who set up a quick little meet up where he could just take his notebook back, but that instead turned into a three-hour date

College hockey player!Jason Todd who still didn’t know how that managed to happen, but wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth. You two had just got to talking and to thank you for returning his notebook, he had offered you a drink of choice at the cafe down the street. You agreed

College hockey player!Jason Todd was appalled when you didn’t automatically share his deep-seated love for the game. You understood hockey and had watched a couple games, but you didn’t breathe it as Jason did

College hockey player!Jason Todd who needed to fix that (not that there was anything to fix about you — he was growing more and more fond of you each passing moment)

College hockey player!Jason Todd who practically begged you to come to one of his games. You had to see it for yourself. You wouldn’t regret it, he promised. Meanwhile, you were so caught up in wondering how this mass of a man seemed to be a giant teddy bear inside

College hockey player!Jason Todd was ecstatic when you hesitantly agreed. The next day, he sent you online tickets for right by the bench yes, you had exchanged numbers

College hockey player!Jason Todd who, when he skated out in his red Gotham City Robins jersey, was already looking for you in the crowd. He utterly beamed when he saw you sitting there with a friend and he couldn’t help but wave

College hockey player!Jason Todd was quite embarrassed to be doing warmups that day. You know the warmups where the players stretched out their hip muscles by practically grinding on the ice? Yeah, that one. When he glanced over at you, he was incredibly pleased but also very flustered to see you staring at him

College hockey player!Jason Todd who skated up to you before the game and tapped on the glass. You laughed and gave him a wave. He pointed at you and made a thumbs up, asking if everything was okay. You nodded happily. Not much verbal communication could be made because of the noise in the arena, but that didn’t matter to him

College hockey player!Jason Todd played extra hard that day. He scored two goals and got another assist. He poured water down the back of his jersey, hoping he was catching your attention. He didn’t know what girls liked because he had never liked a girl before. It was always hockey, hockey, hockey. But now there was you. And there was this weird, instinctive need to impress you bubbling up in his chest

College hockey player!Jason Todd got asked by his teammates, “who’s the girl over there?” Before he could even think about the words, they just slipped out, “my girl.”

College hockey player!Jason Todd who had to ask you out soon otherwise his teammates would realise he was lying

College hockey player!Jason Todd who asked you out that very same night

College hockey player!Jason Todd got a lot more confident while you two were dating. If he had managed to have you on his arm, he could do most anything

College hockey player!Jason Todd who got used to you spending a lot of your free time at the rink, watching him practice. He gave you his windbreaker and scarf and hat to keep you warm because he couldn’t have his girl freeze, now could he?

College hockey player!Jason Todd who also made sure to cheer you on in whatever you were doing. Pottery? He had your art on his dorm desk. Dance? He was coming to all the shows. Badminton? He was learning the rules right away

College hockey player!Jason Todd loved to have you on top of him. His roommate, Tim, got used to seeing you in Jason’s bed. You were Jason’s personal own weighted blanket

College hockey player!Jason Todd gave you his jersey to wear, obviously, because of how his last name was splashed across your back, but he also just liked to give you his sweaters. He “accidentally” left one at your dorm after the first couple of dates and from then on you had claim to his closet

College hockey player!Jason Todd was such a loyal man. He took pride in being your boyfriend and he made sure everyone knew it

College hockey player!Jason Todd had this odd aura around him. Since he was so big and muscular — especially with his pads on, people automatically assumed he was a little rough around the edges. After he got his nose broken from a wayward puck, that wariness doubled. However, he was also so damn attractive that people were naturally drawn in. But the thing was, Jason was naturally standoffish. His childhood left many scars on him, though they all seemed to be forgotten whenever he saw you. The switch was instantaneous. He would go from being a bit moody to absolutely beaming even if you just walked in the room

College hockey player!Jason Todd made sure to tell you he loved you regularly

College hockey player!Jason Todd who, when your last year of university was ending, laid you on top of him and mumbled out his worries. He wanted to play hockey professionally, but what if he was shipped to the other side of the country? What about away games? Did you even want to become a WAG? The thing was, Jason wasn’t sure if he could play hockey without you cheering on the sidelines anymore. It had become such an intrinsic thing that he hated the thought of you not being there

College hockey player!Jason Todd who felt the stress melt away when you scratched his hair lovingly. “I can find a job anywhere,” you told him. The words came easily, especially when you knew that Jason would voluntarily start out in the lower division if it meant you were happy. That would never happen, though. Jason would have his choice of team and do anything to make sure you were happy anywhere

Coyote eyes, he calls 'em. Hungry and dark and seeping so much sin you'd have to pray for forgiveness just for lookin' at 'em.

Sheriff Grayson's got coyote eyes.

He's sweet and he's kind, but it's a dangerous sort of kindness, a too-sugary sort of sweetness; the kind what lingers, what bares its razor-sharp teeth at ya and asks for somethin' in return.

He don't ever say it out loud, but you can tell he's thinkin' it.

You can tell with the way his gaze rakes all over you, moving from top to bottom as he greets you with an all-too-familiar friendly tip of the hat. "Afternoon, sweetheart."

"Afternoon, Sheriff."

His lips curl up, blue eyes glinting under the desert sun. "Where're you headin' off to?"

His voice is light, playful, but there's something there, hidden under all the fun, somethin' what follows your hands a little too closely as they move to fiddle with the skirt o' your dress.

"Oh, just the store. Daddy wants me to buy eggs."

His eyes drag back up, slowly, heavily, 'fore that smirk on his face widens, and that tongue o' his curls with a sly sort of drawl. "That so?"

"Mhm."

"Well we better get goin' then, huh?"

You raise a brow. "We?"

"Sure"—he shrugs, hooking his thumbs 'round his belt—"why not?"

You don't find it in you to argue. The Sheriff may have coyote eyes but he's got a nice, charmin' grin and he's the Sheriff for a reason, right? If you weren't safe 'round him, who else would you be safe 'round?

'Sides, he's a lawman, not a cowboy. He may ride around on a horse but he don't do it to herd sheep or cure cattle, he does it to rein in the kind o' men your daddy don't want you nowhere near; the kind o' men you don't wanna be nowhere near.

If that ain't a man you can trust, what is?

"I thought your daddy runs a saloon," the Sheriff asks you, shoulder an inch from your own as you walk side-by-side through town.

"He does."

"Then what's the use in eggs?"

You fix him with a look, one what don't even bother to fully face him with how pointed it is. "I don't know if you're messin' with me or not."

The Sheriff laughs, and it's hearty and loud and paired with him clearing the gap between the two o' you to knock his shoulder 'gainst your own.

He hits you light, you're just a lady after all, but he's also just a man—and light for him is a tad rough for you, so you can't help the bit o' pain what shoots through your shoulder; can't help the way you reach to rub it just like your pa taught you to back when his mustang threw you straight off its back.

'Cept unlike that time, you ain't able to rub the pain away.

You ain't able to 'c the Sheriff don't make that gap between you two again, no. He stays close. Close enough where your hand won't fit. Close enough where he's a whole lot closer than he was before.

Your gaze moves from his shoulder up to his face, and a lidded ocean of blue stares right back at you.

"Yer real pretty, y'know that, [Name]?"

The air shifts.

His voice is low, heavy, seepin' with something almost secret, like he ain't s'posed to be sayin' this. Not out loud.

You gulp down nothin' but air.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Your mouth is dry, the look in his eyes like the heat o' the desert itself—hot and firey and capable o' rinsing you of all the water left in your system in just a second.

It ain't kind, that look. But it ain't mean neither. Just... intense.

The Sheriff leans closer.

Your eyes flicker down.

He keeps coming.

But just before anythin' can happen, just before any other gap between the two o' you can be cleared, a voice breaks through the silence.

"Sheriff!" it calls, and you're taking a step away before you can even think of much else. "There's a fight over by the gunsmith!"

"Shit," the Sheriff cusses, and he grumbles something else under his breath before he's sparin' you one last look and runnin' off, the men what called him following after.

All but one, that is.

But you don't notice, not at first, 'c the Sheriff's warmth is still stuck to your side like a hunter to his bounty, and you're nowhere near as slippery as a regular outlaw.

Coyote eyes. He was lookin' at you with them coyote eyes again—all danger and hunger and swirlin' heat.

The Sheriff may have a nice, charming grin, but he's got coyote eyes too. And you'd do well to remember that.

You shake your head, willing yourself back to life—

"[Name]..."

—only to immediately lock eyes with yet another pair o' coyote ones.

No... no those ain't coyote eyes, those're Tim's eyes.

You squint, blinking again. But he don't go nowhere.

And just like that, the warmth stuck to your side washes away.

"I missed you..." Tim says, taking off his Stetson and pressin' it to his chest, those tousled locks of his falling almost perfectly over his face.

And maybe he did, and maybe you did too. But that don't matter no more. Hasn't for a long time.

So you scowl. You scowl like the devil's gone and offered you a pot promising gold and a spot in the big city with all them genteel folk; like he's gone and offered you a life worth the bounty o' the most wanted outlaw in your town.

But it's all just a trick.

And Tim takes a step closer.

"I—"

"Don't bother." You scoff, crossin' your arms and staying in place even as he takes another step to'ard you. "Whatever pretty words you have to say, I don't wanna hear it."

"Then don't."

You part your lips, but words don't come out, and he just keeps gettin' closer.

"Stop that!"

"Stop what?" His lips curl up, but in a different way to the Sheriff's, a softer way, a way only someone who's known you since you were just a little girl can pull off.

"Gettin' near me like that!"

He opens his mouth to respond, but you ain't done.

"Talking to me all nice-like! Like—! Like—! Like you ain't the one what up and left in the first place!"

He winces, expression scrunching like them candy wrappers you used to peel off as a kid, them same wrappers he would help you with when you couldn't quite get a good 'nuff hold to rip them off yourself.

His eyes were softer back then, kinder. Now they got the same danger in them as the Sheriff's. Maybe not to'ard you, but you know big city folk, and with the exception of maybe just one, they ain't usually the kindest.

You blink, and Tim's closer now, right in front o' you, less of a memory and more real, more grounded.

"Look, [Name]—"

"Miss [Last]."

"—I know I've gone and hurt ya," he continues with a wince, hands reachin' out to you, Stetson in one, the other free, "and I'm sorry, I am. But if you would just let me make it up to ya—"

"Make it up to me?" you spit out, and it's with all the disgust of a cowhand tendin' to a cattle's shit. "Do you have any idea how long I waited at the steps of my daddy's saloon for you to come back?"

He winces again.

"Ten days, Mister Drake," you continue, and he flinches at the title. "Ten days o' my daddy askin'—no, pleadin' with me to get back inside. Ten days o' him takin' out a chair and a rifle and sittin' right there next to me at night to make sure no outlaws come lookin' for trouble. Ten days o' him bringin' food out on a nice plate only to take it back in, barely touched 'cuz I couldn't bear the thought o' eating without you."

He takes a step back this time, your finger pressed right there against his chest, pushing down with each word you say next. "Ten. Days."

The ball on his throat rolls, and he don't say a word more, so you scoff and cross your arms, spearin' him with a look what could quiet even an outlaw.

"Don't come up to me again."

And with that, you turn 'round and walk away, your back burning all the while.

You don't usually run—your daddy raised you better than that, used to call you his little enforcer back when you were still so young and doe-eyed—but this is different. Not as much runnin' as it is leavin'. Cowardice as it is revenge.

Tim ain't the same boy you used to know, stopped bein' him the second he left you for the big city. And look where that got him. Back here again. A law-man instead of a law-yer.

You shoulda laughed right in his traitorous little face.

"I will next time I see him," you mutter under your breath, because there will be a next time—as much as you don't want there to be. This town only has room for a few folk after all.

And unfortunately, Tim's one of them again.

"Howdy, Miss [Last]."

You look up, mustering up your best smile. "Howdy Mister Fox."

"On a grocery run for your daddy?"

Your tired eyes are answer enough for Mister Fox, 'cuz he chuckles after you show 'im them and then you're at the counter with a basket full of eggs and a small satchel holdin' green.

"How's Luke?" you ask, 'cuz it's polite and your daddy taught you all about politeness.

"Oh you know that boy, always at the ranch, tendin' to cattle and barely havin' time for his pa."

Your lips curve up, eyes crinkling a little at the corners as you watch him count the money, fingers separating each note with the precision only someone who's been doin' it as long as him has.

"Aw, don't be like that Mister Fox, you know he's only doin' it for you."

"Wish he'd find himself a wife for me too," the older man grumbles under his breath, "I'll go gray 'fore that boy gives me a grandchild."

That garners a laugh from you, and his own lips twitch up as a result, eyes softenin' a little in that way it always did when you were little.

Then they glint, and you're already reachin' for the basket on the counter.

"Y'know... he's around your age..."

"Bye, Mister Fox."

He chuckles. "Bye, Miss [Last]."

And with that, you're out the door, spirit returned like it was never even lost to begin with.

The whole rest o' your way home, you're hummin' a song you've heard your daddy hum while nursing a cup plenty times in the past, practically skippin' as you walk past eyes what wither under Stetsons and hands what twitch near holsters like it's nothin'.

And it ain't anythin'. Coyote eyes be damned.

Your eyes light up, the doors to your daddy's saloon right ahead, causin' you to pick up your pace 'til you're bursting through the wood and parting your lips to call out to your pa—

—only to immediately stumble back at a rough shove 'gainst your shoulder.

"Son of a—hey! Watch where you're goin'!"

Your lips tug down, a scowl so harsh on your face, you'd trick a Pinkerton into thinkin' you were some kind o' threat. And you might as well be with how you're imagining strangling that awful man what shoved past you.

What type o' man shoves a lady like that? Must've been a boy 'cuz you don't know no man what treats a lady all rough and tough and ragged 'nuff to have folks believin' she's some doll over a human being.

You grumble under your breath, turning forward 'fore gasping right there and then and rushing to'ards the counter, eggs forgotten on a table nearby.

"Daddy! Daddy, are you alright?!"

"Just peachy, pea," your daddy grunts out, risin' from behind the counter with a scowl that near-mirrored your own.

"Who was that?" You frown, already by his side and reachin' your arms out to steady him.

"Loan shark," he answers, plain and simple, as he uses your arms to steady himself again. "Don't worry 'bout it."

Your frown deepens, because how can you not worry 'bout it? How can you not worry when your daddy, the man who raised you on his own for damn-near your whole entire life, was just shoved to the floor and given a black eye in your very own home?

"I know that look, [Name]," your daddy growls, and then he fixes you with a real stern look, the kind o' look a rancher would give a cowhand when he's gone and let one o' the sheep run off from the herd. "Drop it."

"But—"

"But nothin', young lady. You let me worry 'bout it. All you need to worry 'bout is puttin' those eggs right where they belong."

You purse your lips but don't say a word 'cuz your daddy's a smart man, and he knows just what to say to disarm you, to have you puttin' down that gun what's your mouth and completely withdrawin' from whatever duel it was you challenged him to.

But that don't stop you from sneakin' 'round behind his back.

Your eyes flicker over to the counter, watching as your daddy scrubs the cup in his hands just that little bit harder than normal, a frown etched on both his face and his actions.

Your eyes move back to the board before you.

Posters litter the wood, papers ripped at the edges and scribbled over with haste, as though rushed to get up and on the board as soon as possible, but amongst all the inked-up squares, one seems to stand out the most.

A man sits front and centre to the page, his hair almost all scribbled over in blank ink except for one white strand at the middle, a little curled at the edge.

The prize for his arrest sits pretty at a mighty ten thousand dollars. Ten thousand dollars 'nuff to cure your daddy of debt you reckon.

Your eyes flicker down, and a name catches your eye.

Jason Todd.

"You know 'im?"

Your spine stiffens, and you turn slowly to the side.

A man stands there, hands stuffed in his pockets and a cigar hangin' loose from his lips, its smoke waftin' through the air like it owns the place.

Your eyes rake over his figure, takin' in the way he stands all casual-like beside you, the way he scans the board with the experience of someone who's been in front o' it before, the experience of—

"A bounty hunter..."

His eyes flit to yours curling at the corners like he finds somethin' funny. "If you want a night out, darlin', all you have to do is ask."

Your features scrunch up so fast, you half expect him to scoff and lash out at you in a fit of hurt pride, only to blink when instead, all you hear comin' out his lips is laughter.

"Duke," he says, takin' a hand out his pocket to tip his hat at ya with a smile, "Duke Thomas."

You don't say anythin' in return, but he don't need ya too, 'cuz his gaze turns right back to the board, and he continues talkin' all on his own.

"Came from the next town over 'cuz a gunsmith told me he was slinkin' 'round out here.

"Didn't know I was fixin' to meet such a pretty lady 'nstead though."

There it is again. That hunger, that darkness, that sin.

Coyote eyes.

They curl at the corners again, raking up and down your form near-identically to the way Sheriff Grayson's did.

"Why, yer pretty enough to have me considerin' spending all the reward on ya." Duke's lips curl even further up, and he leans forward with eyes slitted just like a snake's. "How's about it, sweetheart?"

Lord help you, his offer actually makes you pause for a second, but not in any sort o' consideration, no, but in pure shock at the absolute audacity he has to be makin' such an offer.

"No thanks." You frown, and it only deepens when 'nstead of him threatening to pull a gun on ya, his grin turns wolfish, and he leans back with this sort of glint in his eye, hands movin' up to adjust his hat.

"Suit yourself, darlin'," he drawls, like he knows somethin' you don't, and turns 'round to begin walkin' away, but not before throwing one last glance back at you as he does. "Come find me if you change yer mind."

And with that, he's gone—disappeared like sand grains in the wind—and you're left frownin' at the place where he once was.

"[Name]! I don't see the eggs in their place!"

"Sorry, pa!"

You glance at the board one more time, that large number winkin' right back at ya, 'fore grabbing the basket of eggs and heading on over to where they're meant to be.

The rest o' your day is spent doing nothin' but chores, though in the midst of it all, you can't help but keep sneakin' glances at that wanted board—and those glances lead to you sneakin' ones at the revolver your daddy keeps under the counter—and those glances lead to you sneakin' ones at your daddy's old Stetson hung up proudly on the saloon walls.

And before you even know it, the night's crept up on you like a wolf, and you're stood before the swingin' doors of the saloon, a revolver in one hand and a hat in the other, just like them cowpoke your daddy warns you of.

You cast one last glance behind you—

"Sorry, daddy, but I'm doin' this for you."

—before slinkin' right through the wooden flaps.

Outside is quiet, the only sound being the whisperin' wind what throws taunts and jeers your way, mocking you for even thinking you have a chance out on the frontier by yourself.

And hey, maybe you don't, but that don't stop you from tryin'.

You squint, but mist clouds the streets, curling 'round the pillars holding up your daddy's saloon and fogging your vision up 'til you can barely see ahead o' you, only a few feet in front.

Still, you don't let it stop you, taking step after step into the unknown 'cuz your daddy needs you to, even if he's too stubborn to admit it.

In the day, you know this town like the back o' your hand, but at night, it might as well be a completely different place altogether, your normal inner compass all but lost in a cow's rear end somewhere.

It's strange. Usually, there are quite a few folk up and about at night, some cowpoke even electin' to come to your daddy's saloon to get drunk enough to puke their guts out the next day.

...So why's no one around right now?

"Well ain't you just a pretty little thing?"

Your eyes widen, head whipping around and barrel o' your gun pointin' straight ahead into the mist, right where you heard that voice.

A figure emerges from the dust, a shadow hidden amongst the embers.

"Careful now, that thing's dangerous."

You keep your gun pointed right at the figure, even as your arms struggle to stay straight, even as your hands fight to keep still, even as your finger battles with all its might to stay right over the trigger.

A chuckle rings through the air, deep and daring.

Then the figure steps closer, and you see that familiar black hair with a white streak, and you're speakin' 'fore you can even help yourself.

"Jason Todd."

The most wanted man in town's lips curve up.

"So you've heard of me."

Yeah, you've heard of him. Him and that ten thousand dollar price tag on his head.

"You got a name, doll?"

You don't say a word, glare hardening.

"That's fine, I'll just stick to callin' ya doll."

With a frown on your face, you readjust your grip 'round your gun, finger pressin' harder 'gainst the trigger.

His hands go up in surrender, but he keeps takin' steps to'ards you like they didn't.

"Here for my head?"

You purse your lips.

His grin widens.

"Don't blame ya." He shrugs. "I fetch for a nice price."

He keeps comin' forward. Why does he keep comin' forward?

"Y'know, I ain't never had a lady come after me before. 'Specially not one as pretty as yerself."

There it is again. Them damn eyes every single cowboy's been givin' you today.

In the dark, their hunger seems to grow; their sins—multiply. Unlike with the Sheriff and Tim and Duke, Jason's coyote eyes don't just unsettle you, they consume you. Eat you right up 'til you're nothin' but bone—bone and bites and quaking terror.

You take a step back, and it's only then that you can find it in yourself to talk.

"Are you crazy?" your words, though mean, come out shaky. "Why do you keep coming to'ards my gun?!"

His smirk widens, and within the next second, he's right in front of you, chest pressed up 'gainst the barrel o' your gun and hand holdin' it there, making sure you can aim it no place else.

"Oh sweetheart, you really think you have it in you to kill me?" He tilts his head to the side, eyes glowing at you in the dark.

You don't respond, finger only tightenin' against the trigger.

His eyes swirl, starin' at you with an intensity like no one else. "Go ahead, do it."

Saliva rolls down your throat, your gaze trailing to where his hand holds your gun in place, to where his fingers brush against your own, almost tenderly, lingering like he's savouring this, savouring you.

"Well go on then," he pushes, those swirling eyes starin' at you with something so much more than what the cowhands who've had crushes on you before did. "Here, I'll even do it for you."

His finger curls 'round your own, slowly pushing down before—

—a 'bang' rings through the air.

You blink, once, then twice. Then another time just to make sure the world isn't messing with you.

But amazingly, Jason still stands before you, alive and well.

Though maybe not, 'cuz instead of bleedin' out his chest, he's bleedin' out his shoulder, blue eyes aimed at something to your left before he's cussin' and running off like he was never there to begin with.

And it's only then that you let your legs finally give out from under you—

—only for a pair o' strong arms to catch you 'fore you can even hit the ground.

You blink again, recognisin' the man holdin' you so sweet.

"Are you alright?"

"Mister Wayne..."

"Please"—he scoffs lightly—"just Damian is fine."

You blink again, parting your lips to respond, only to close them again like a fish out of water.

Damian's lips turn down.

"I should never have let him get so close to you," he whispers, brows furrowed and gaze far-off. "I was incompetent today, forgive me."

You squint up at him, dazed and now a tad confused, but he only shakes his head at you and picks you up like you're wearin' a white gown, feet immediately headin' to'ard the Sheriff's office.

"Rest assured, it won't happen again," he promises, and you can only blink back at him, 'cuz your mind is still plagued—