big rat

-

Something about that day didn't feel right. From the moment you opened your sand-covered eyes, to the moment you waved your uncle goodbye. There was something off in the air. A heaviness. Perhaps it was the heat, dry and thick. Blistering as it dragged its way in and out of your lungs.

Leaned back against the side of your uncle's old truck, you stood, shoulders slouched with a menthol cigarette wedged in between your dirty fingers. White smoke from the kindled end swirled and danced up toward the dimming sky.

It’s too hot, you thought. Much too hot for this time of day.

Raising the cigarette to your cracking lips, you took a long, methodical drag, not helping to ease the weight of the burdening air that oppressed you. But you had been driving all afternoon, and your addiction escaped you, only to return with vengeance the second you stopped for gas.

What time is it anyway?

A loud clunking sound pulled you from your absent-minded thoughts. Your gas was finished pumping, and your cigarette had been burned down to the filter. Probably shouldn’t be smoking at the pump, you thought as you glanced down at the glowing dregs of tobacco in your hand. Shrugging, you turned around and tossed it on the blacktop, stomping it out with your used-to-be-white shoe.

You jumped back into your truck feeling sated, still vibrating from the lingering buzz of the nicotine. It was a long drive back home. Not long enough for the sun to catch you, though. Fifty miles to merge onto the interstate, then it was a straight shot. You would make it by morning. But something was off in the air, and you should’ve seen it coming.

An hour jones to the next town, then a little over one hundred miles on the interstate. That would soak up the rest of your daylight. Most were understandably weary about driving on I-40 after dark. The number of people who went missing along the endless stretch of road was enough of a deterrent for anyone who still had their wits about them, but you had made the drive dozens of times before.

You left the grimy gas station parking lot with your head held high. Mark Kozelek’s voice ricocheted off the walls of the truck like a spray of gunshots blasting from the old speakers. Harsh and grating, much too loud for the occasion, but it kept the buzz alive. Your heart raced as you cranked the knob to roll down your window. Feeling the hot air lash at your face and watching the dust kick up beneath the tires as you sped down the old road had your skin tingling. This is probably what doing coke feels like, you laughed to yourself.

You were about thirty miles down the old back road when fate revealed its conspiracy against you.

One day god’s gonna pop that swelled head of yours like a balloon.

Your daddy told you that once. About a week before he kicked the bucket. You thought it was funny back then. You distinctly remember having to hold back your laughter at the wake. But even in death, he still had to have the last laugh. The fucker.

All hubris you had evaporated from your body the moment you felt the truck sputter. It was only a matter of time before it broke down for good, and in the back of your head, you knew it. Cursing under your breath, you slowly steered the giant piece of scrap metal off to the side of the road and sat defeated as you longingly listened to the staticky voice of Mark Kozelek fade away and die alongside the truck.

“Fuck,” you deadpanned, lazily unbuckling yourself and reaching into your glove box for another cigarette. Maybe he made a deal with the devil, you wondered, shaking your head and fumbling around in your pocket for your lighter.

You didn’t know jack shit about cars. Propping open the hood to figure out the problem was practically like asking you to perform brain surgery. So, you lit the end of your minty cancer stick, slouched back against the torn-up seat, and wallowed. Smoke filled the stiff air inside the truck as you picked apart every single mistake you had ever made in your life, one cigarette at a time, and rolled them around in your head until your brain was mush.

You were an idiot for dropping out of college, you were an idiot for ever thinking that your momma would somehow get better, and you were an idiot for driving alone so close to dark.

An hour of misery and a half a pack of menthols later, the sky shifted from blue to pink, and you were about ready to sign your life away to the man in the clouds. Slipping out of the hotboxed truck in defeat, you felt the cooling desert air bite at your exposed skin, and you sighed. “If you take me now, I promise I won’t scream,” you prayed, leaning against the side of the truck bed. You waited with a bated breath, half expecting a white light to descend from the sky and smite you, but after a few minutes of waiting, you exhaled. “Ain’t no way I’m gettin’ into heaven,” you chuckled cruelly, rubbing your chapped lips together and nervously biting the skin off.

Half an hour later, when the sky became orange and streaked with red, you sat on the road beside the remains of your truck, gravel stabbing into your skin with every shift of your legs. Your last cigarette was wedged between your fingers, and you finally let your tears fall, salty and painful as they burned their way through the cracks in your dry skin.

Fucking pathetic. Useless.

The hopelessness hit you all at once like a bomb. A nuclear explosion that eviscerated your being until you were nothing more than a shadow carved forever in the asphalt. You understood then and there why your daddy drank so much. You would have given a limb for a bottle at that moment. You could have drank yourself to death, just like he did.

The air stilled for a moment, and your parliament burned the last of its life away.

Then the earth shook as if it were shattering.

Snapping your head up, you discovered the force that moved the earth to be a motorcycle. A man on a motorcycle. A real living person with a working mode of transportation. Clumsily, you scrambled onto your feet, tossing the corpse of your cigarette on the ground in a pile with the rest of them, and waved your hands frantically. “Hey!” You cried, yelling as loud as you could muster, just loud enough to be heard over the roaring engine. For a second, you were sure that he would pass you. Leave you on the side of the road to fend for yourself. But by the grace of God, he slowed.

The engine of his mechanical steed lulled to a rumbling purr, riding down the road like a horseman with a thick layer of miasma cloaking him.

Behold the pale horse. Its rider's name was death.

The large man killed the engine after he parked the bike behind your truck, and you bound over to him on shaky legs. Friendly, you reminded yourself. All men are the same.

You approached the man, softening your eyes as he glared back at you. Well, you were almost sure he was glaring. Most of his face was concealed by a large helmet with a skull design intricately painted on it. You were just barely able to make out his eyes. They were a deep hazel, framed by thick, blond eyelashes. He had a smell to him as well. It was pungent, and distinct like nothing you had smelled before. It was industrial but earthy all the same, like car grease and wet soil. Gross.

“Sorry, um, my truck… there’s somethin’ wrong with it. Uh, could you maybe gimme a ride to a gas station? If it’s not too much trouble, of course!”

The man looked conflicted by your words. He ran his gaze over your shaking frame. “Hm, that right?”

“Yeah…” you trailed off, darting your eyes away from him. “Been out here for an hour. Haven’t seen anyone else…”

His eyes gave you the chills. They were dark and calculating, almost hungry, and certainly unimpressed. He gave an annoyed huff and shifted his shoulders. “Your askin’ for trouble out here, kid,” he grumbled in heavily accented English.

Appalled, you fought to keep a straight face. The last thing you wanted was to argue with him. “C’mon, please,” you pleaded, dropping your shoulders. “I just need to get to a gas station or the next town… I ain’t got no service and it’ll be dark soon.”

He narrowed his eyes and gave a gruff, “Get on, then.”

Your breath hitched as you processed his request. He met your eyes with an impatient stare. “Oh! O—okay, lemme grab my bag,” you stammered, quietly clambering into the passenger side of your truck and pulling your bag over your shoulder.

You hesitated for a second as you paced back to him, digging your nails into your palms. His goliath-like body hoarded up most of the seat. “Don’t waste my time, girl. Get on.” Reluctantly, you obliged him, offering a meek thank you before squeezing onto the seat behind him. You knew better than to trust a stranger, especially one like him, rugged and seedy. But beggars can’t be choosers.

The engine of the beast roared back to life and rattled beneath you, sending vibrations surging through your legs and up your spine. You jumped at the sound, gasping and locking your arms around his abdomen as he revved the engine. “Hold on,” he shouted, clutching the gas. You obeyed without a second thought. Falling off a motorcycle seemed like a nasty way to go, and you had no helmet. The vivid mental image of your corpse sprawled on the road with your brains splattered like roadkill had you holding on for dear life.

As you sped further down the road, you said a mental goodbye as the truck faded from view. Leaving the cigarette graveyard behind, you closed your eyes and ducked behind the man’s towering frame to shield your face from the wind and dust. You prayed that the devil or your daddy had an ounce of mercy left for you.

-

Once the sun goes down in the desert, God shuts his eyes and buries his head in the dust.

Another one of your daddy’s drunken sonnets. For a man who had never read a book in his life, he really did have a way with his words. Your daddy was no savant, not by a long shot, but he was no fool either. He always had a knack for people. He knew exactly how they worked and how to sway them, whom to avoid, and whom to keep around. It was astounding, really. You never understood how he did it. How he made people believe that the mask he wore was real. How he could see through the masks of others.

As you sat across from the brutish monster who plucked you off the side of the road in a shabby, moth-eaten diner, you spitefully wished that you inherited your daddy’s superpower.

The man sat uncomfortably still in the rickety booth, thick arms folded over his equally thick chest as if he were trying to show off. Like you suspected, his hair was blond like his eyelashes, buzzed nearly down to the scalp. His eyebrows were blond to match, nearly unnoticeable in the dim, flickering light of the diner. His face was stone cold and undecipherable, features sharp but with visible signs of age. Scarred and grim with a perpetual scowl, surely he was the same age as your uncle. Objectively, he was handsome, but there was a certain dreadfulness about the man. His mere presence was foreboding. Your heart rattled against your chest harder as you waited.

The two of you sat in vigil for minutes. The silence that surrounded you began to close in, crushing you under its weight. “So,” you tested, clearing your throat. “Is there a gas station… or like a motel nearby? I’m just tryin’ to get back home, so—“

“Have you got any idea where you are, girl?”

The question stunned you. You blinked and bit the flesh of your cheek. “Yeah, course I do.” It was a half-truth, but you were no good with people. The man saw right through you.

“Hm, alright,” he nodded. “Where’s home, then?”

“Albuquerque.”

His face remained unchanged, eyes never faltering. “You’re a long way out.”

You looked away, fixing your eyes on the paper menu on the table in front of you. “Yeah, I—“

“What can I get started for y’all?”

The feminine voice of the waitress made you jump out of your skin. You snapped your mouth shut and raised your head to meet her eyes. She was a Diné woman, made obvious by her long black hair and intricately beaded earrings. You shot a look at the man, unsure of what to say. He ignored you, focusing his attention on the waitress instead. A look of familiarity crossed his face. “An omelet,” he answered, polite but direct.

The woman nodded, jotting down his order on her notepad. “Your usual?” He nodded at her, no unnecessary words needed.

The woman then turned her attention toward you, smiling with her eyes. “And you?”

You sputtered, unsure of what the correct answer was. “Oh, I’m not—“

“She’ll hava short stack. Two sausages.”

Astonished, you whipped your head to the man, opening your mouth to protest. But he beat you to it.

“Thank you, Audrey,” he said, handing her his menu.

The woman smiled again. “No problem, Simon,” she replied, taking your menu with her as she left to put in your orders.

Simon, you thought, tossing the name around in your head. It suited him.

“You’re not very sharp, are ya?”

You furrowed your brows. “Excuse me?”

“Makin’ a drive like that at this hour, in that old banger. Dead stupid decision, that.”

He was right. You knew that. You were a fool. How many stories had you heard about girls going missing along the highway? Too many to count. Girls just like you, alone and desperate enough to accept help from a stranger. You wanted to sink into the floor. “I’ve done it plenty. Never had any problems.”

He scoffed, lifting his marred lips into a smirk. “Yeah, and now you do have a problem.”

“I know. I just—“

“Askin’ a bloke like me for help… Daddy never told ya not to talk to strangers?”

What a fuckin’ creep.

“Stop tryin’ to scare me.”

“M’not doin’ anythin’, love.”

You couldn’t have asked for a better time for the waitress, Audrey, to return with your food. The heavy ceramic plates clanked against the table as she gracefully placed them in front of you. A short stack with two sausages for you and a loaded omelette for him. “Can I get y'all anythin’ else?”

Simon shook his head. “No, Audrey. I think we’ll be alright.”

“M’kay,” she hummed, turning on her heel. “Just let me know.”

Simon didn’t wait a second before he started eating. He snatched the tarnished silverware, dwarfing the utensils with his enormous hands. He held his fork like a toddler, shoveling eggs and meat into his mouth like he had never eaten a day in his life, huffing and smacking. It was abominable. He didn’t notice you staring until he was halfway finished. “Somethin’ wrong?” He asked, grease smeared on his lips.

“No! Nothin’s wrong. I’m just not really hungry,” you mumbled, staring down at your steaming plate of fat and carbohydrates.

“Hm, that’s bullshit.”

“Huh?”

“S’bullshit, love. You haven’t eaten anythin’ for hours. Could hear your stomach. Stop bein’ mousy and eat your scran.”

Your leg bounced under the table against your will, fear clawing its way to the surface. “You shouldn’t have brought me here. Just wanted to get to a gas station.”

“It’s my dinner time,” he declared, mouth full of food. “Not gonna let some little girl disrupt my dinner time.”

“Simon—“

“Eat your food, girl.”

You decided it would be best to play along, not wanting to set the man off. He could strangle you blue if he wanted to, but his motives remained a mystery. Men like him didn’t take strange women to dinner for the hell of it.

Picking up your fork slowly, you carefully cut a chunk loose from the stack of sugar-laden bread, grinding your fork back and forth against the plate. You raised the food to your awaiting mouth with a trembling hand, wincing at the sickeningly sweet flavor of the syrup. It was Mrs. Buttersworth. The too-rich flavor was unmistakable. It was then that you began to sweat. “Is it hot in here?”

“No,” he grunted, mouth still stuffed to the brim.

“Right,” you quipped, shifting in your seat and forcing another mouth full past your dry lips.

He rolled his eyes, sat up straight, and haphazardly wiped his face clean of food debris. “Audrey,” he called, paging the woman from behind the counter.

She practically teleported back to your table. “Need something?”

“Just some water,” he said, throwing a look at you. “And the bill if you don’t mind?”

“Not at all. Be right back with that.”

You needed to get the fuck out of that diner.

You took a deep breath, hooked the strap of your bag over your shoulder, and shuffled to the edge of the booth. “I— uh, think I’m gonna go to the bathroom—”

“Sit down, girl,” he scolds, a warning look in his eyes. Audrey whisked by the table, slipping Simon the check and setting an overfilled glass of water in front of you before disappearing for the final time.

“I really have to pee,” you pleaded desperately.

“You can later.”

“Simon, I—”

“Fuck sake, just drink your water, girl. The whole lot. Won’t say it again.”

You were fucked. Damned in every which way. There was no other way of looking at it. You gripped the slick water glass with a shaky hand and chugged, gulping loudly as the smooth liquid emptied itself into your gut. You shuddered at the coolness of it as some of it escaped your mouth and dripped onto your chin.

Holy fuck, you thought, finishing the last of it and slamming the empty glass back on the table. I don’t wanna die.

“Alright, c’mon,” he urged, slapping two twenties on the table and exiting the booth. He rose to his full stature, towering over you like a god casting judgment.

The chances of finding a victim drop by ninety percent if they’re taken to a second location.

You heard that on the television once.

“Um, actually, I think I’ll be okay. Uh, if you could just point me to a motel or somethin—”

“Have you even got any money for a motel?”

Maybe I could make a break for it. Surely Audrey would help, or maybe screaming would be easier?

“Yeah… I got plenty.”

He stared down at you unmoved. “So, you’re skint.”

You buffered, left without a rebuttal.

“You’re a terrible liar, love,” he tisked, rolling his eyes. Then his hands were on you like flies on roadkill.

“Wait! No! Get off—”

“You want me to leave ya here, girl?” He fumed. You could practically see his face turn red. “I’m doin’ ya a fuckin’ favor, love. How d’you think you’re gonna get to Albuquerque with no money, hm?”

He jostled you by the arm, attempting to wrangle you out of the booth, though not without struggle. “I don’t care! Just get the fuck off me!”

With an unrelenting pull, he yanked you by your bicep, pulling you onto your feet. He started toward the door with you unwillingly in tow. The two of you were halfway outside when another feminine voice stopped him in his tracks.

“Simon, everythin’ alright with y’all?”

You snapped your head toward the woman. She was short, her hair unnaturally blonde with pink nail polish you could have spotted from across the room, and she wore an apron just like Audrey’s.

You were about to open your mouth when Simon spoke over you. “Yeah, everythin's alright. She’s just a bit out of it.”

The woman raised a perfectly groomed eyebrow. “Uh-huh. You alright, sweetheart?” She then asked, shifting her eyes to you.

Thank god.

“N—no, I just— I’m not from here, and I need to get home, but I don’t have enough money, and—”

“Picked her up off the side of the road, Georgia. Was gonna let her stay at mine. Take her to Roy’s place tomorrow. Fix her truck, n’ all that.”

“Oh yeah? That’s tough luck, sweetheart. I’m sorry ‘bout all that. Roy’ll fix you up good though. You’ll be back on the road by tomorrow.”

You tried to keep your tact about you. Showing apprehension with men like Simon only incentivized them more, made the chase more thrilling. Men like him hunted for sport, not necessity, but all of your composure was shattered by the nonchalance in Georgia's voice. She was going to let him have you. An ignorant bystander.

“No, no!” You yelled, flailing in Simon’s grasp. “It’s not okay! None of this is okay! I don’t— I can’t—”

“Fuckin’ hell, girl,” he groaned. You could practically hear his eyes roll. “Calm down. Some fresh air’ll do you good.”

He hauled you out of the diner before you could vomit out another word. You caught a final glimpse of Georgia as the New Mexican night swallowed you for good. She stood there, stiff as a board. Her eyebrows knitted together in a pattern of confusion before she eventually turned around, letting the reaper drag you further into the night's maw.

You almost felt bad for her.

What would she think to herself when she catches news of a body found in a ditch?

“What the hell is wrong with you, girl?” Simon seethed. His biting eyes were blown black in his fit of rage.

“Get your fuckin’ hands off me!” You wailed back at him. The sound of your voice echoed and dissolved into the empty void, solidifying your near solitude.

“Get on the fuckin’ bike,” he growled deeply, malicious warning coating his words. “Tryin’ to fuckin’ help ya.”

With the meanest look you could muster, you glowered back at him. “D’you think I’m a fuckin’ idiot?”

He tilted his head. “S’cuse me?”

“D’you think I’m stupid?”

He breathed out an airy laugh. “Don’t think ya want me to answer that.”

“Fuck you. I know what happens next,” you muttered, salty tears rolling down your face. “I know what men like you do.”

“Men like me? How d’you know what kinda man I am?”

I don’t need to know.

“Girl, if I wanted to hurt ya, I wouldn’t have brought ya here. Too many witnesses. You’d be buried out in the dust by now.”

“You talk like you’ve got experience.”

He rolled his eyes. “Get on the bike, girl. Y’can stay here if ya want, but good luck gettin’ your truck fixed with no money. Roy’s not generous like I am.”

You swallowed deeply, letting the thick saliva slither its way down your tight throat. He looks at you, still perturbed, but with a hint of calculated smugness. No where to run.

You nodded, face still sticky with the remnants of your tears. The bike wobbled a bit as you swung your leg over. Simon kept his eyes on you, watching until he was satisfied. To your surprise, he slipped his helmet over your head, securing it tight. Your head bobbled like a toy at the sudden weight.

“Hang on,” he repeated, starting the engine, and ushering you away to your death once more.

-

Simon’s house was small. Quaint and compact, with minimal decor. It was unfitting for a man of his stature. He seemed to tower over everything, like he was a giant forced to live in a human's home. You imagined him ducking through doorways and napping with his feet hanging off the edge of his bed. Unexpectedly, he had a cat as well. Her name was Minnie.

“Hope you’re not allergic,” he huffed and shrugged off his jacket, revealing his massive biceps. “She likes attention.”

You watch him, eyes wide and churning with awe. The muscle he packed onto his body was something you had only seen in movies. Fibers rippled and veins bulged underneath his tattooed skin as he casually strolled around the small space. He’s a beast. Blood rushed to your face and neck as he locked eyes with you, anticipating an answer to his question.

“No,” you rushed out. “I’m not allergic.”

He loosened his belt buckle and pulled it through the loops, throwing it carelessly on the couch along with his jacket. “Good,” he hummed and meandered his way to the kitchen. He looked completely out of place, offhandedly rummaging through cabinets and drawers until he found what he was looking for. A box of tea and a mug. “Ya just gonna stand there?”

His words startled you. You hadn't moved an inch since you arrived, only observed him quietly. A spirit that had wandered into the wrong house. An unwelcome guest. “I wouldn’t wanna impose.”

He looked up from his task, meeting your eyes with a dead stare. “Well, I’m gonna have a cuppa. You want one?”

“A what?”

“Tea. Do you want a cup?”

You tilted your chin back in acknowledgment. Of course. Tea.

“Sure.”

The sound of running water clanging against his old tin kettle fills the room, causing Minnie to lift her head off the countertop to identify the source. “Sit down then,” he insists, nodding his head at the small kitchen table. “Take your shoes off first.”

Apprehensively, you obeyed, kicking off your shoes and biting the inner flesh of your cheek until you drew blood.

Autocannibalism.

You learned about it in psychology class.

It didn’t take long for the water to start boiling. Simon had cranked the burner to the highest setting. Even so, he watched it impatiently like he had something better to do.

“It’s chamomile,” he states, plopping two tea bags into two mugs, one larger, one smaller. “It’s good for sleep. D’you know that?”

You shook your head, pulling the old chair out from underneath the table. It made a horrible shrieking noise as it slid along the tiled floor and an even more unsettling groaning sound as you sat your weight on it.

“Here then,” he deadpanned and handed you the steaming mug.

You took it by the handle and set it in front of you, watching the plant particles dance around in the water, tinting it a deep orange.

“I’ve not got a TV,” he called, drawing your attention back to him. He switched on a timeworn radio sitting like a monument in the corner of the kitchen. It was something that you would find in a pawn shop, bulky and impractical, likely meant for industrial use.

He expertly flicked through the channels, turning the knob back and forth until he landed something satisfactory. Country Classics, made apparent by the Willie Nelson song flowing through the speakers.

Cowboys Are Frequently Secretly Fond of Each Other.

He sauntered his way over to the table, setting his mug down and sitting himself in the chair across from you. You were impressed that the chair was able to hold his weight. “I like this channel,” he remarked, leaning back slightly. “Not fond of a lotta the shit people are puttin’ out these days.” You nodded along to his speech, watching him blow the steam away from his cup and take a large gulp. After a few seconds, he caught you staring. “What d’you think?”

At first, you shrugged, glancing sideways.

He wasn’t satisfied with your silence. “Can’t have a conversation with myself, love.”

“You don’t normally have conversations with yourself?” You snarked back. It was blatantly obvious that he lived alone and lacked basic social etiquette. How many friends could he possibly have?

“Usually just talk to Minnie,” he shrugged, taking another drink. “But I‘ve got company now, haven’t I?”

Misery loves company.

“I like this song,” you eventually answered. “I like Willie Nelson.”

“Good. Don’t trust anyone who doesn't."

Under normal circumstances, you would have smiled. If he had asked you on a date and brought you back to his place after, perhaps the butterflies in your gut would have been caused by excitement and not dread.

Without saying another word, you awkwardly took a loud sip of your tea. Despite letting it remain untouched, the substance was scorching as it coated your mouth. The wound on the inside of your cheek tingled with unpleasant fury. The taste didn’t make up for it either. It was earthy, like drinking perfume with a slightly bitter afterthought. You physically shriveled in on yourself, closing your eyes and scrunching your nose in dismay.

Your spectacle earned you an unsavory grimace from Simon. “Not a fan, then?”

You frowned and slid the cup away from you. “M’sorry.”

“Eh,” he grunted, pouring the remnants of his cup into yours. “Suppose you’re tired, then…” he trailed off, mumbling to himself. “Y’can use the bathroom to wash up. Round the corner, left side.”

You took his cue of dismissal without a second thought, rising up off the rotting wood chair and scurrying away, unremorsefully leaving the man abandoned with his thoughts and a full cup of tea.

-

You were unsure how long you stayed in the bathroom for. It could have been two minutes, or it could have been two hours. Time seemed to stop in the enclosed space, like a portal between dimensions covered in chipped, decorative tile. The lights above the sink glowed a primeval light, bathing you in a sickly yellow as you lost yourself in the smudged mirror.

It was quiet, so quiet, in fact, that the only sound that could be heard over the electrical hum of the lights was the sound of your own breathing. In the enclosed room, you were the only being in existence, floating in a universe all your own.

Stop lookin’ at yourself in the mirror so damn much!

You could practically hear your mother’s words as if she were in the room with you. She never really made much sense, even before her screws came loose.

Vanity’s a sin, y’know? What d’you think God would do if he could see himself in the mirror?

“Girl, you alright?”

Simon’s bellowing voice and firm knocking instantly shattered your mirage. No longer were you a god in an empty void. You were a simple girl trapped in a creepy man’s bathroom in a tiny, backwater town in the middle of the New Mexican desert.

“Yeah, m’alright,” you called, voice watery.

There was no response from Simon on the other side. Only a faint groan of the floorboards under his feet. For a few heartbeats, you waited with your shoulders tense. Then the door knob rattled, and terror lapped at your feet like fire. You took an instinctual step back, inadvertently making way for the door to swing open.

There, your judgment stood waiting in the blackened void of the hallway, only illuminated by the unsightly yellow emanating from behind you.

Nothing on earth or in heaven could have prepared you for the sight of him.

The man stood in the doorway in all of his brutish glory, half-nude with only the thin fabric of his boxer briefs to cover his bulging manhood. At full stature with his shoulders pushed back in a manner that accentuated his hairy chest, he leered down at you with daggerlike eyes. He had the build of a war god, muscular with a healthy layer of fat around his midsection, an indicator of his age.

Your throat closed up and your body shook, trembling under the weight of his oppressive presence. The yell that you had been mustering stayed trapped at the base of your neck. This man is fucking deranged, you thought, looking him in the eye with a sick grimace.

“I— I locked the door,” you sputtered, fear stealing the proper words from you. You took another step back, and he reciprocated with a step forward.

“Broken,” he told you, raising a hand to fiddle with the knob.

“You still shouldn’t be in here,” you gritted through your teeth.

Simon knitted his brows together. “S’my bathroom,” he maintained, callousness layered beneath his words.

Surely this man was raised by dogs.

“You were takin’ too long. I’ve gotta piss, haven't I.”

Your head was buzzing, skin driven numb by hypoxia. You spiraled as you fought to get a breath in.

“Left some blankets on the couch for ya,” he continued, pushing his way to the toilet. His mass was much too large for the small room, and you were subsequently pushed to the corner. “I’m a light sleeper, so try not to make too much noise at night. I’ll be mardy in the morning."

Even if you could speak, you had no words for him, and the moment you caught sight of his hand reaching for the hem of his underwear, you legged it.

The sound of Simon’s urinating seemed to fill the entire house. You could hear it even when you made it to the living room, piss splashing against water, echoing off the ceramic vacuum. A taunting reminder of the graveness of your situation. Nowhere to run.

You couldn’t even pin the blame on your daddy or any other unseen malevolence. You could have ditched him at the diner. You should have.

Second Location. Stupid girl.

-

It was the witching hour when you gained consciousness again, sprawled out on the couch with a rough, quilted blanket haphazardly tossed over you. The living room was dark, save for the soft light of the kitchen peaking through the archway. Darkness weighed down on you heavily like you had woken up at the bottom of the ocean. Wet and hazy. You physically cringed at the slickness of your skin. Too fuckin’ hot for this shit, you thought deliriously.

You squirmed, achingly uncomfortable with the state you found yourself in. Digging your fingers into the cat-torn cushions of the sofa, you wrenched yourself up into a sitting position. “Fuck,” you slurred, mouth dryer than the desert air, letting your heavy head fall slack against the supporting cushion. You could barely recall falling asleep in the first place. You didn’t have time to dwell on that thought for long, though. An icy chill ran straight through your veins as you felt the all too familiar pang of a full bladder.

Holy shit, you panicked. Should’ve pissed when I had the chance.

Cursing yourself for your negligence, you crossed your legs and clenched your thighs, desperately attempting to banish the unwanted sensation. It was an idle endeavor. You slowly reared your head towards the lightless hallway, twisting your neck in an unnatural manner. The unsettling thought of using the bathroom again crossed your mind but only for a moment.

I’ll be mardy in the morning.

Another chill down your spine, another pang of need between your legs.

Fuck me.

Sucking in a deep breath, you slowly stood up off the couch and stalked your way to the front door, guided by the light of the kitchen. The floor was like ice against the soles of your feet, sending more electricity through your already agitated nervous system, causing the urge to relieve yourself to exacerbate by the second. You contemplated making a run for it, but Simon’s gruff warning played in your head like an evil mantra.

I’m a light sleeper.

With careful steps, you made it through the kitchen and past the threshold, catching the time displayed on the digital clock on the radio. 3:24 am. The devil’s hour.

Face to face with the door, you gripped the handle, knuckles white and hands clammy. You twisted it slowly, millimeter by millimeter, until you heard the telltale click of the lock. Keep it together, you scolded yourself.

The door was ancient. The hinges probably hadn't seen a drop of oil in your lifetime. You knew that already. You knew what to expect, but in the still silence of the house, the sound that rolled from the aged, rusty hinges was ungodly. A heart-stopping sensation, like nails on concrete. So vile, you could feel it in your teeth. Screwing your eyes shut, you continued to pull on the handle ever so slightly, inch by agonizing inch until the gap was barely a foot wide, just enough for you to squeeze through.

The moment you took a step outside and felt the warm night’s breeze, breathing in the dusty air, the feeble grip you had on your restraint slipped away, right through your sweaty fingers. Throwing all your caution to the wind, you dashed off the porch, footsteps heavy on the wood as you felt a trickle of pee soak into your underwear.

You just barely made it off the steps in time, unbuttoning your jeans, wrenching them down your legs, and squatting forward. Then you let go. The solace was near-orgasmic. Streams and streams of piss rushed out of you and pattered against the dirt like rain. You couldn’t help but moan under your breath, digging your bare toes into the soft earth as you felt your bladder empty itself.

The night fell moribund as you finished, completely silent save for the faint chirping of crickets somewhere in the distance. Your solitude was palpable. The darkness smothered you like a warm blanket. A nostalgic kind of safety.

He can’t hurt me if he can’t see me.

You would whisper that to yourself all the time. When your daddy would return home from a bender, wreaking havoc on your household like some kind of eldritch monster, you would hide yourself under your bed. Wrapping yourself in a blanket, you would pray. Pray for God to turn you invisible for just one night. The beast always found you, though. Every single time.

After all that time, you should have learned to change hiding spots.

“What the hell are you doin’ out here, girl?”

Your shield of darkness was ripped away from you as quickly as you acquired it, just as it always was, eviscerated by the orangey glow of the porch light.

You thought that you could hide?

The scream that you let out was truly one for the pictures. The theatrical, blood-curdling shriek that resonated from your mouth was enough to send any grown man running in the opposite direction, but Simon was no man. He was a monster.

“Fuck!” You yelled, frantically hoisting your bottoms up your legs. “What the fuck is wrong with you!?”

He was seething, fists clenched at his sides as he stomped his way to you. “What the fuck is wrong with me!?” He bellowed, wrapping his meaty hand around your bicep hard enough to bruise. “You’re out here, middle of the bloody night, with your pants down at your ankles, and you’re askin’ what’s wrong with me?!”

“Had to piss,” you explained, glancing at the stained dirt at your feet. Evidence of your debasement.

The look of confusion on his face didn’t waver. “Coulda used the bloody bathroom! What the hell were you thinkin’ comin’ all the way out here?!”

“You said you were a light sleeper,” you reminded him. “Didn’t wanna wake you up.”

He closed his eyes and let out a breath. An attempt to grasp at the last of his composure. “Well, you’ve woken me up anyway, haven't ya? And probably everyone else in a hundred-mile vicinity with all your noise. Stupid fuckin’ girl.”

“I didn’t mean to,” you mumbled lamely, curling in on yourself and away from your aggressor.

“Well, fuckin’ obviously,” he scoffed with an eye roll. His hand around your arm squeezed tighter at your apprehension as he forced you onto the porch steps. “Sit,” he commanded, and you obeyed, sitting ashamed at the man's feet like a child caught scribbling on the walls. You kept your head hanging and your eyes closed, obscuring your face from his view. Patiently, you waited for his wrath to rain down upon you. More silence passed, your heartbeat thumping louder by the second. No words of vitriol hit your ears, however. Only the sound of the door opening and closing.

He had returned by the time you lifted your head, still only underwear-clad, but with a pack of Marlboro Reds and a lighter clutched in his giant paws. He glowered down at you without a word, slipping a cigarette from the pack and lighting it. You let your eyes linger on him, studying him while a lump formed in your throat. He studied you in return, unfaltering in his conviction. He then sat himself on the step next to you, impudently shoving you to the edge to make way for his mass.

Huffing smoke from his nose like a bull, he sat there, bare legs spread wide enough that your thigh was flush with his. His content was threatening. The capriciousness of him made it so.

Just say something.

“Uh, Simon,” you tested, letting his name fall off your lips like you hadn't meant to say it.

He lulled his eyes toward you, giving you a lazy, unimpressed scowl.

“I’m sorry. I know I should—”

“Here,” he grumbled, cutting you off with a half-smoked marlboro held up to your lips.

Stunned, you shot a look at him, then back to the butt of the cancer stick looming in front of your face. It was slick with his saliva, the paper slightly darkened by the moisture. You sat with distaste watching the tobacco burn away in his hand, but he never retracted the gesture. You didn’t dare refuse. Reluctantly, you slowly wrapped your trembling lips around the filter, cringing at the foreign wetness of it. You then braced yourself and took a deep breath, filling your chest with the carcinogens. You fought off a gag, flinching at the taste. You only smoked menthols.

Simon brought the filter back to his own lips, inhaling slowly, and savoring the last few drags before tossing the glowing butt into the dust. Then he cleared his throat. “Were you born in Albuquerque, then?”

His unanticipated question confused you. It was the aloofness of it. Him speaking to you as if it were mundane, as if you weren’t fearing for your life.

“Yes,” you answered, providing no further details.

He continued his interrogation, not missing a beat. “Why were you on the road?”

You answered again, blunt like before. “Was visiting my uncle in Oklahoma.”

“Hm, how was that?”

“What?”

“Your visit,” he clarified. “How was it?”

“Uh, it was alright, I guess.”

He nodded, taking your words between his teeth and chewing on them. “Just alright?” He asked, tasting the bitterness.

“Well, my cousin just had a baby.”

“Good for her,” he deadpanned.

“Yeah,” you lamented, swallowing your heart. “Would be super cute, but she thinks that her son is the reincarnation of Dale Earnhardt.”

For the first time that night, a genuine laugh left Simon’s lips. Well, as close to a laugh as he could muster. “That right?”

“Uh-huh. She’s a nut case. Think it runs in the family.”

Your words were a jest, something your uncle always laughed about. Think it only affects the women, he laughed. Your clock’s tickin’ down, girlie.

You were starting to believe it was true.

“You callin’ yourself a nut case?”

You shrugged. “Maybe.”

“Bloody fuckin’ hell,” he sighed, scratching his scalp. “Would explain a lot.”

Simon’s words hit you like a comet. A white light shone behind your eyes as it all burned away and revealed itself. What the hell am I doing? You thought of your mother then, your poor, schizophrenic mother. What if you never made it back home? What would become of her then? A thread of guilt softly tugged on your heart before it snapped. It was then you realized that you didn’t have the capacity to care anymore. What was the point? You were just going to end up like her anyway. Doomed from the beginning.

Might as well set myself on fire.

“You’re not from around here, are you Simon?”

“No,” he admitted. “Manchester. In England.”

“What made you wanna leave?”

“Eh,” he grunted, leaning back against the wood. “Dad was an evil fucker. Couldn’t stay there, could I?” He shook his head. “No, had to make somethin’ of myself.”

“So you came here?”

“No,” he scoffed, as if the answer were obvious. “I enlisted.”

“In the military?”

“Yes, love. In the army.”

“Did you have any other family?”

“Yeah. My mum and brother,” he said, not a shred of guilt in his tone.

“And you just left them behind?”

“Nothin’ I could do to help ‘em. Realized that when I left. You can’t help people who don’t wanna be.”

“Didn’t you feel bad?”

“At first I did. It’s outta my hands now.”

Out of his hands. You mulled the words over, dissecting them fully. Was your mother out of your hands? A lost cause, not worth fighting for? It displeased you to think about people like that. Their lives not worth the effort. But it made sense for him to think that way. He was in the army after all. You wondered how many people thought that about you. Your uncle surely did. Your clock’s tickin’ down, girlie.

“I don’t think I wanna go back home, Simon.”

“Then don’t.”

“My mom, she’s not right in the head. Like my cousin.”

“Yeah,” he agreed. “You’d be throwin’ her to the wolves.”

“I dropped outta college to take care of her. Work my ass off to make ends meet. Should be out livin’ my life, and I’m wastin’ it.”

“Listen, girl. I’m not the kinda bloke you should be takin’ advice from, but if you wanna do something, you might as well do it.”

“Are you content with your life, Simon?”

“Mostly.”

“Even though you’re alone?”

“S’fine by me. I’ve got Minnie.”

By then, you had lost count of how many times you cried that day. More tears were shed from your eyes in the span of twelve hours than you had shed in your entire lifetime. You were sure of it. It embarrassed you. It was out of your nature, and this man, Simon, was witnessing a woeful, hollow shell of you.

“Jesus, you’re a right crybaby, aren’t ya?” He patronized, leaning in closer to your shaking form, close enough that you could feel his hot breath caress your neck. A spine-melting sensation, like a lesion in the brain. You knew you should have moved away from him, then. You should have been thoroughly repulsed. A man like him behaving this way with a young woman in distress was deplorable. It was distasteful, predatory even. You knew that, somewhere in the back of your head.

Then a warm, solid arm snaked its way over your shoulders, concrete and grounding. You leaned in closer, your subconscious id hungry for more, overriding your superego. A benevolent comfort you were neglected in your early years. Whatever it was, you never knew how much you craved it until then. His hands were gentle with you and methodical with their intentions. His body heat was blistering, melting you like soft wax in his palms, only to cling to him once you eventually cooled.

Simon’s diligent fingers soon found their way lower, wrapped around the indent of your waist, digging his short nails into the flesh. His breathing grew deeper, and yours did the same when he settled his free hand on your face, rubbing away your tears. “Cryin’ ain’t gonna make things better, will it?” You shook your head, burying your cheek into his calloused palm. “That’s right, girl,” he praised as your breathing evened out, guiding your head to rest on his chest. You scrunched your nose at the feeling of his chest hair on your raw cheek. “Just tryin’ to help ya.”

His keening hymns were music to your ears. They reduced you to liquid, splitting you open to expose a soft, pink, vulnerable inside that he could sink his crooked teeth into. You were rendered completely obsolete, brain soft like cotton, soaking up his words like water.

You almost didn’t register his hand wandering.

Almost.

“Simon,” you cautioned, throat constricted.

He held you closer. “What is it, love?”

“What are you doing?”

“Helpin’ a little girl I found on the side of the road,” he states, innocence feigned as he trailed further, resting his palm on the flesh of your ass.

“You said that you wouldn’t hurt me.”

“S’right. M’not hurtin’ you, am I, love?”

No, you thought, he wasn’t doing anything to harm you, and he hadn't the entire night. Despite it all, his presence shook you to your core.

“What’s wrong, girl?” He spoke again, as if he could read your thoughts.

You opted to tell him the truth.

“You scare me, Simon.”

A moment passed, followed by an amused huff. “Hm, do I?” He asked with wonder, acting with obliviousness, but he knew the game he was playing. You just couldn't catch on to the rules in time.

“Yes.”

He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth and craned your head to look you in the eye, picking you apart even further, until there was nothing left of you save for some gristle on the bone. “I think you like bein’ scared. Don’t you, love?”

You flinched. “No,” you spat out, rebuking his claim. “I don’t. Why would you say that?”

“S’not your fault. You don’t know any better.”

Part of you wanted to be offended, but he was right. You didn’t know any better. All you knew was fear, and you were complicit in it, comforted by it, even. You weren’t sure if you could exist without it. So, you leaned into it, let it wash through you. It turned out bittersweet.

“Just need someone to lean on, eh?”

You nodded, silently pleading for more.

Ultimately, he betrayed you.

“Alright then,” he exhaled, unwrapping himself from you with a quick pat to your ass cheek. “Should get you back to bed. You’ve got a long day ahead.”

Your chest squeezed with something you hadn't felt in years. It was something you didn’t have the words to describe, but you hated it. The way it made you feel like a little girl. A helpless child at the mercy of the world. You weren't a little girl anymore.

Simon stood up from the steps, leaving you blindsided. You watched him stroll his way to the door, making eye contact as he watched you in return, waiting on the stoop expecting you to follow behind him. “C’mon,” he beckoned with a tilt of his head. “Don’t be cheeky.” Mindlessly, you stood on shaky legs, trailing after him with your tail between your legs. He guided you inside, maneuvering you through the dark living space with a hand ghosting on your back like he had never touched you in the first place. You awkwardly shuffled your way along when you realized that he had steered you past the living room and into the hallway.

You stopped in your tracks, digging your heels into the floor. “Simon, wait—“

“What now, girl?” He grunted, shoving you forward with his size.

“The living room,” you panic. “We passed it.”

“Yeah,” he deadpaned, forcing you a few steps forward. “I know my own house.”

“Simon—“

“Don’t fuckin’ argue, girl. Can’t have ya wanderin’ out again. There’s coyotes out here. They roam around at night.”

“I won’t! I won’t go outside again. I promise! You don’t have to—“

“Just told ya not to argue, kid.”

He followed close behind, nudging you irritatingly in the right direction. You couldn’t see much of anything in the inky darkness, even as your eyes adjusted, but you could still feel how small the room was as you stepped over the threshold. The air was thicker, it smelled of him, and his voice reverberated off the walls like a prison cell.

“Take your clothes off,” he instructed, tone flat, as if he were asking you a mundane favor.

“Excuse me?”

“You’re not dirtyin’ my bed sheets. Take ‘em off.”

You could have scoffed at that. It seemed ironic, a man as grungy as him practically calling you dirty. The audacity.

“Are you serious?”

“Don’t play stupid, love.”

Despite the heavy air, you shivered where you stood, adrenaline wracking your body as you debated making a run for it. You quickly pushed the thought away. You could hardly see where you were going. You wouldn’t make it past the hallway. Your decision was made for you when you heard the door click shut.

“Quit wastin’ my time and do as you're told,” he chastised you again. “You’ve already wound me up enough. Fuckin’ hell.”

Your fingers trembled as you fumbled with the button on your shorts, pulling them down your legs for the second time. You reluctantly shed your shirt as well, leaving it in a pile next to the bed along with your shorts. Clad only in a thin, worn-down bra and your ill-fitting underwear that left nothing to the imagination, you stood there in silence, saying a mental prayer for the darkness of the room.

The sound of the bed creaking as Simon slipped under the covers snapped you out of your head. “In ya get,” he coaxed, pulling the covers back to give you space.

You lowered yourself onto the mattress, feeling the plushness of it dip under your weight. Much more comfortable than the couch. You felt like you could sink right to the floor.

Your shuffling around was halted when you felt a soft mass connect with your foot at the end of the bed, followed by a soft meow. Of course he sleeps with his cat. Her dark-colored fur served as excellent camouflage.

“Try not to kick her,” he warned. “She bites sometimes.”

You rolled your eyes, curling your legs up into a fetal position and scooting as far to the edge of the bed as possible.

This will all be over tomorrow, you told yourself over and over as sleep finally claimed you.

-

You woke up sweating. The sun illuminated the room through the cracks in the curtains. It was morning, that you were sure of, but there was no clock to tell the time. You lifted your head to find Simon and Minnie missing from the bed. A permanent dip in the mattress marked the spot where he slept.

Climbing out from the covers, you reached down to grab your discarded clothes only to find them missing as well. Your gut lurched. You had no doubt that Simon was the culprit. You could feel your eye twitch involuntarily as anger swarmed your body, stinging your nerves like angry wasps.

The bedroom door was left ajar, a mocking illusion of freedom. A trap set for a naked lamb. Once again, you found yourself cornered.

You slowly stalked your way out of the bedroom and down the hall. The comforting smell of food and the voice of a female singer grew stronger as you neared the kitchen. Your stomach flipped at the smell. Fuckin’ hungry, you thought. Anything but pancakes.

Arms wrapped around your body in a feeble attempt to shield yourself from Simon’s sinful eyes, you stepped into his line of sight. Though he seemed to pay you no mind, too engrossed in the eggs he was frying in a well-seasoned cast iron skillet, singing off-key to Golden Ring by Tammy Wynette. The sight of him was almost comical. Still only in his underwear, he held Minnie in one arm as he worked, her claws digging affectionately into the thick meat of his shoulder. He remained unflinching at the sting. It would have been a sweet moment if he were anyone else but him. The sight of a tall stack of thick pancakes sitting on a plate next to him sent you over the edge.

“Simon,” you called, tongue sharp.

He continued without missing a beat, eyes fixed on the eggs.

“Simon,” you yelled again, loud enough to be heard over the music.

He turned around then, drinking you in under the full light of the sun shining through the windows. His eyes were unreadable save for the slight dilation of his pupils. It unnerved you all the same, the way his eyes seemed to linger.

“Mornin’,” he grunted, turning away from you.

“Where are my clothes?”

“In the wash,” he states. “They needed it. So do you.”

You frowned and balled your fists. “You callin’ me dirty?”

“Eh,” he shrugged, shutting off the stove. “Food’s ready. Sit down.”

You eyed your bag sitting by the door, remembering the extra clothes you packed.

“You didn’t have to wash them. I packed extra.”

“I know. Washed ‘em too. They were rank.”

The last thing you wanted to do was provoke him, but you couldn’t help the words that left your lips. “You went through my shit!?”

“Not really, just your clothes.”

“You don’t dig through a woman’s things, you sick fuckin’ pervert!”

Minnie let out a small yelp, scrambled out of Simon’s grip, and pranced off down the hallway.

“Quit your shoutin’. You’re scarin’ the cat.”

“I don’t give a fuck about your fuckin’ cat!”

“Watch your fuckin’ toungue with me, girl,” he spat, charging you with full vigor, his imposing body backing you into the sharp edge of the stone counter. The cry that escaped you was woeful, stark in contrast to the feigned confidence you wore like armor just a moment prior. “I’ve taken you in, fed you, offered to help you back home, and all I get in return is your bitchin’.”

He had you pinned, physically and mentally, forcing himself upon you in a show of unmatched authority. That was a game you knew well. “Get the fuck off me!” You screamed, beating your fists relentlessly against his bare chest in another desperate attempt to free yourself. He proved to be unmovable. “You’re disgusting! Sick in the fuckin’ head!”

“Disgustin’ am I?” He sneered with a mean grin, revealing his rows of twisted teeth.

You looked away, utterly disturbed by the sight of him.

“No, no, love,” he chided in your ear, engulfing your jaw in his hand and twisting your head back to him. “Want ya to look at me,” he said. You obeyed, left without choice. His hazel eyes had been completely blown black, wild and frenzied. “Tell me why.”

“Why?”

“Yeah, tell me why I’m disgustin’. In your own words. Be honest.”

The answer to you was obvious, but you struggled to find the words.

“The diner,” you began, meek and unsure. “The bathroom, the porch, the way you touch me, the way you look at me.”

His eyes unfocused as he appeared to reminisce, fondly, it seemed. Then he spoke, accent thick and voice low. “Y’know, I could’ve had you last night, in my bed,” he cooed, running his thumb over your cheek. “I could’ve had you on the porch too, and in the bathroom, and on the sofa. Fuck, could’ve had you on the side of the road if I really wanted.”

As vexed as you were, in a way, you were almost thankful. He was finally saying the quiet part out loud. Another bout of tears escaped your eyes. Leaning in closer, he laid a soft kiss on your cheek, wetting his lips with your tears. “There you go cryin’ again.” Your face went hot with shame. Agonizing as it was for you, Simon relished in it. “Think you liked our time out on the porch last night.”

“No,” you denied, shaking your head. “You scare me, Simon,” you reiterated again, tone imploring as your armor cracked even further.

“Don’t lie now,” he warned. “You’re not very good at it, love.”

“Simon…”

His eyes were knowing, anticipating your next words with unbridled excitement.

“Go on, girl. Tell me what ya wanna say,” he taunted, a sinister smile still painted on his face. You were going to apologize, but the words died in your mouth when it dawned on you that you didn’t know what you were going to apologize for. I’m sorry for being a naive fool, you wanted to say, but that wasn’t an apology meant for him. It was meant for yourself. “S’alright, love,” he soothed, knowing you had nothing left to say. “I’ve got ya. I know what you need.”

You gasp, unable to react in time as he buried his face into your neck. He inhaled deeply, pulling in the scent of you like a line of white powder. Then he moaned, almost pathetically, and swiped his tongue across your sweat-marinated skin. A shiver shot down your back at the soft wetness of it. “Simon—”

He cut you off with a chuckle, wicked and patronizing as he pushed further. He laid a kiss on the wet patch where he tasted you, then another, followed by another, open-mouthed and debauched, grooming you like a cat would until the entire side of your throat was covered in a thick layer of his saliva. You struggled through it, squirming and clawing at him. He only retaliated by pressing himself into you further, trapping you under his weight while he had his fill, allowing you to feel the omen of his growing erection stabbing you through his boxer briefs. “Feel that, girl?” He asked, as if he could read your mind. “Feel what you’re doin’ to me.” He drove his point home, rutting his hardness into the soft meat of your lower abdomen. “Little fuckin’ tease, you are.”

“Didn’t mean to,” you sniffled. “Really, I didn’t. Please, Simon—”

“I know, kid,” he consoled. “Know ya didn’t mean it. Just wanted to get back home, yeah?”

You nodded into his shoulder, hiding your face. He held you there with a heavy hand on the back of your head.

“Pretty thing, you are. D’ya know that?”

You shook your head that time.

He scoffed, dismissing. “M’not used to pretty things.”

Silence lingered between you after that, though his hand stayed planted on your head. You didn’t have the faintest idea of what he was trying to tell you. What did it matter if you were pretty or not?

“Y’can still go home if you want,” he finally said. “I can take you to Roy’s. He’ll fix up your truck. Send you on your way.” He then pulled away from you, cradling your face in his palms like he was holding a piece of treasure. “That what you want? Wanna go home?”

Perhaps twelve hours ago, you would have said yes. You would have nodded with enthusiasm. Yes, please sir, just wanna go home, you would have told him, stupidly eager to return back to the endless cycle of keeping your mother in check, work, sleep, and repeat, but Simon's words echoed in your head like sirens. Can’t help people who don’t wanna be.

“No,” declared firmly, the final nail in the coffin.

Simon’s jaw ticked, surprised by your answer. “Thought you were scared of me,” he chaffed, returning his rough hands to your bare skin, letting them roam. You didn’t move. “Thought I was disgustin’, hm? A sick pervert, s’what you called me, didn’t ya?”

His words made you shrink in on yourself. That didn’t stop his hands from slipping lower. “I didn’t—”

“Yeah, girl. I know you didn’t mean that either. You’re not a good liar. Told ya that.” Before you could get another word in, Simon unceremoniously snaked a hand between your legs, casually like he had touched you a thousand times before. Your breath caught in your throat. A strangled noise of shock left your lips. “Can’t lie to me, love,” he tutted, running his thumb along your clothed slit as the fabric of your underwear dampened with evidence of your need. “Not with a wet little snatch like this.” You whimpered and jerked your hips back, stomach flipping as he stroked you. He didn’t take kindly to it. You knew he wouldn’t. “Stop movin’, girl,” he rumbled, sinking to his knees. “Just wanna get a look at ya.”

“You shouldn’t,” you protested, attempting to wrench your legs together as he leaned in, even though your clit throbbed in spite of your will. “I’m gross.”

Your words fell on deaf ears as the brute continued on anyway, taking a deep inhale and running his nose along the moist fabric where it began to stick. “It don’t matter nothing’.”

He’s disgusting.

Simon hooked a curious finger under the lining of the garment and gave it a firm tug. You cringed, gut churning, as you could feel the fabric desperately cling to the soft curls on your mound as he peeled it away. His eyes grew more frenzied by the second. “Look at that,” he mumbled to himself. “Look how pretty she is.” His praise made your chest swell.

I’m disgusting.

Letting your underwear pool on the floor, Simon rose to his feet, but not without taking you with him. You yelped as he threw you over his shoulder, flinging you around as if you were the size of his cat. All the blood in your body rushed to pool in your head as you found yourself upside down, though it only lasted for a moment. The wind was knocked out of you seconds later. “Ah— fuck,” you wheezed, landing back-first on the couch.

You attempted to inch back, using your elbows as leverage, eyes wide on the beast above you as he drew nigh. You didn’t get far, not that you expected to. He crawled to you, going for the kill, locking his arms around your thighs and dragging your hips close so that he was face to face with your core. Anticipation chilled you. Your insides twitched at the hotness of his breath against your folds.

“Fuckin’ hell, girl,” he groaned, impudently so, nudging his nose against your clit, savoring the moment. “Need it bad, don’t ya?”

Delirious with arousal, you buried your guilt in the dust, letting the desperation of the moment surface and take its place. “Yeah,” you admitted, forcing the bile down as it bubbled in your gut. You remembered his words from the night prior. Just tryin’ to help ya. You wondered if they were sincere or if you were just desperate enough to believe them.

Simon bit his lower lip, catching the flesh on the crux of his canines. He looked like a man possessed, completely beside himself and running purely on instinct. Then his tongue lolled from his mouth, lazy and heavy as spit pooled at the tip, only to drip down and land with a soft ‘pat’ against his awaiting meal. You didn’t even have time to breathe before he sunk his teeth in.

He started slow at first, dragging the wet muscle agonizingly through your folds. He took his time ripping you apart, peeling you back layer by layer. You found yourself pulling him closer. Legs locked around his neck in an effort to egg him on. Get it over with. He didn't protest, to your surprise. He leaned into the sway, allowing your illusion of control. He dove in, tongue first, dipping the tip into your clenching slit before sliding up to latch onto your clit. Your hips twitched in his hold at the sudden onslaught, and he moaned, like you were the best thing he’d ever tasted. You moaned right back, completely overtaken by his depravity. It infected you like a disease. Terminal, you were sure of it.

Gentleness was no longer a skill he possessed, it seemed. His once methodical ministries were quickly replaced with rapture. Simon sucked cruelly on your clit, already pulsing and painfully swollen as he dragged you closer to the edge of the pit.

I saw the beast crawl out the earth! He’ll take your soul, girl! Chew you in his teeth and spit you out in the lake of fire!

For the first time in your life, your momma’s psychotic ramblings started to make sense. Too late now, you thought. You were already falling.

Your eyes screwed shut, the image of your momma’s face fading further out of view as you sunk deeper until you could no longer make out what she looked like. The shrill sound of her voice grew muffled too, drowned out by the sound of Simon’s feasting.

Then the world went still, as if it stopped spinning on its axis, and the fire engulfed you. Your orgasm rippled through you like magma, syrupy slow and all-consuming. You pulled the man closer to you, more than you thought physically possible, and thrust your pulsating cunt into his mouth. He rejoiced, digging his claws into the flesh of your legs. He didn’t allow you to ride it out, though. He was greedy with it, drinking down all you had until you had nothing, until you were nothing but a mess of flesh and blood, overstimulated and twitching beneath him as your cunt pulsed weakly under his tongue.

“Simon,” you pleaded, voice small. “Hurts. You gotta stop.”

He did, stop, that is, by the grace of god. “Shit,” he slurred. “Messy little girl, aren’t ya?”

Upon opening your eyes, you were met with the sight of him. His skin was covered with a sheen of sweat that glowed under the sun's rays. His dirty blond hair became nearly translucent, as well. He was beautiful; he was shameless like the sun.

In the midst of the glorious silence, you could hear him licking his lips clean of you, full and satisfied, savoring every last drop. “Pretty set of tits ya got on ya, too,” he remarked, looping a finger under your old, flimsy bra. He only gave it a few hard tugs before the clasp gave way. He discarded it on the floor like trash then ran his thumbs over your pebbled nipples, and you shivered. “What’d I do to get so lucky, hm?”

Wouldn’t call it luck.

You flinched on instinct as he brought his hand to your sex. Admiring his work, he stroked you, running two fingers along your sore hole, then to your throbbing clit before finally petting the hair that was thickest at the top of your mons. “Did so good for me, pet,” he praised again, and like before, you soaked it up like water. “Look how swollen she is f’me,” he said, nudging at your clit again. You couldn’t help but spasm in his grip. “Sensitive little thing,” he chuckled. “Ya came so quick.”

“M’sorry, Simon,” you lamented, watching him untangle himself from you and rise back to his full stature, eclipsing the sun with his body.

“Don’t be sorry, kid. Couldn’t help yourself, could ya?”

You nodded, eyes glassy.

“S’alright,” he reassured. “Just need some love, is all.”

Simon’s next actions stole your breath from you. Casually, almost sluggish, he reaches his hand beneath the waist band of his underwear. It was easy to see how his manhood strained against the fabric, practically screaming for attention. He hissed out a harsh string of curses when he finally freed himself. What you were met with was surely inhuman. A cock to pull all others to shame.

It was incomprehensibly large, veiny, and uncut with an impressive circumference and a heavy hanging ball sack to match, all framed by a bush of coarse, curly, blond hair.

That can’t be normal, you thought, teeth clenched as you watched him stroke himself. You had never seen anything like it, perhaps only in one of your daddy’s magazines you found by mistake. You didn’t want to believe it was real, that someone could walk around carrying a weapon like that between their legs, but the sight in front of you was undeniable, and you knew he meant to fuck you with it.

“What’s with the face, kid?”

You’re a monster.

“I— I don’t think…”

“What, girl?” He pressed impatiently, dropping his boxers to the flood and kicking them aside.

“It won't fit,” you implored, forcing yourself into a sitting position as panic struck you once more.

He simply laughed at your concern, shaking his head as he approached you, as if the thought were ridiculous. “It’ll fit, girl,” he said, cock still heavy in his hand. “Don’t gotta worry.” Then he pushed you back, ignoring your frantic gasps for air, forcing his body between your legs to keep them open. You laid sprawled out before him, wide open and obedient. An offering to gain his favor. No warning was given to you when he folded your legs back and dipped his cockhead into your slit, breaching your entrance with a soft squish. The shock made you jump, unaliening yourself from him. He grunted and shook his head. “Hold still, girl,” he chided, inserting himself once more. “Just gotta relax, yeah?”

You whined as he pushed deeper, slowly gaping you open inch by inch. A low rumble sounded from his chest like a purring animal. He was pleased, but you couldn't bear it. “S’too big, Simon.”

He soothed you with a soft hush, placing a hand over your stomach. “Halfway there, love. Just a bit more.”

Halfway.

“Takin’ it so pretty. Knew you would.”

More tears gathered in the corners of your eyes as you were stretched beyond what you thought possible. Inch by agonizing inch, the invader between your legs plowed through your walls, brutally molding you to the shape of him. Stars filled your eyes when you finally felt his hips meet yours. With one last thrust, he fully ruined you, damning you for good. The beast above you groaned gutterally, elated in his euphoria. You could feel the tip nudge at your cervix as he settled in like a punch to the gut. “You’re real snug, babygirl,” he breathed, gliding a finger along your cunt’s rigid edges.

You could feel yourself flutter at his words, cunt pulsing in time with your rapidly beating heart. “Too much,” you choked. “Simon…”

“Deep breaths, kid,” he said, dragging his monstrous shaft back to the tip, and with a punishing jerk of his hips, you were filled with him again. Whatever amount of air you managed to take in was quickly fucked out of you, ripped from your lungs with a gut-wrenching cry, over and over until you bloomed for him like a flower. “Sloppy little cunt you’ve got on ya,” he grunted, and he was right. The brazen squelching sound that filled the room accompanied by the slapping of skin was repulsive. “Stainin’ my damn sofa.”

“Ugh— god, fuck!” You cried, focusing your blurry vision on the sight between your legs. A mistake, you soon discovered. The sight was unbecoming, the way he had you split open, gaping wide for him with every piston of his hips, your slick frothing and leaking from your hole onto your thighs, then between your ass cheeks, and inevitably onto the cushions below. You wished you never looked. It was a sight not meant for your eyes.

Simon, on the other hand, couldn’t seem to look away. “You’re a filthy fuckin’ thing, y’know? Lettin’ a bloke like me in this pussy. You’ve got it bad, love.”

“M’not,” you cried, lying to yourself. “I’m not, I’m not.”

“S’okay, kid. Nothin’ to be ashamed of.” His rough thumb found your clit then, rubbing tight circles. “Your daddy was a bad man, wasn't he? S’why you’re such a crybaby, ain’t it? So, skittish.”

Your eyes widened, not believing your ears.

The father of lies and deception!

“Poor thing,” he crooned as your walls squeezed around him, an omen of your impending orgasm. “I was like that too, y’know? All shy, scared of the world.”

Your back arched off the couch, as if you were struck by lightning.

“I’ve got you now, girl,” he told you. It was supposed to be comforting. “Don’t gotta be scared.” It was then that you came undone for the second time by his hand, your jaw slacking at the crushing weight of it all. It hit you like a truck. Unlike before, your orgasm was a sledgehammer crashing into you at full force. It was punishing, but it left as quickly as it came.

“Atta girl,” Simon praised, laying a quick slap on your ass cheek. “Lemme see ya.” You whined mournfully when he unsheathed himself from you, your now widely stretched hole quivering at the loss while still convulsing from the aftershocks.

“Simon… m’dirty,” you gasped, watching him inspect you, fascinated by the way you fluttered and clenched around nothing.

“Don’t be like that now, babygirl,” he reprimanded, once again catching your whinges and discarding them over his shoulder. “Haven’t even filled you up yet.”

His statements offered you no solace, rather the opposite. “No no no, Simon! Please, I can’t!”

A telling look crossed his eyes, baneful and demoralizing. Don’t cross me now, girl.

You squeezed your legs back together, only for them to be pried apart by Simon’s barbaric strength. He growled as he fussed over you, fighting to keep you how you were. You put up an honest effort, kicking and squirming in his hold. You were nearly able to slip off the couch. “Where the fuck d’you think you’re goin’, girl?” He growled, ultimately sick to death of your disobedience. He manhandled you back under him, flipped face down, pinning you to the sofa with the weight of his body and wrapping his tattooed arm around your head and the other under your chin, effectively trapping you in a headlock. “No more shit, y’hear? Had enough of your bitchin’. You’re gonna be good for me now, yeah? No more misbehavin’?”

Jaw slack, you managed to force a groan from your chest and nod, face squished against his thick bicep as he smothered you.

“And you’ll say thank you when we’re finished, like a good little birdie, alright?”

You nodded again, wordless.

“That’s right,” he breathed, seemingly satisfied with your answers. “You’re a good little girl.” Slight relief filled your lungs when he loosened one of his arms, only to be snuffed out a heartbeat later when you felt his engorged cockhead prod at the entrance of your sex. He whispered something else in your ear, most likely equally as depraved and perverted as what he was saying before, but his words became lost on you as he impaled you on his shaft. No longer wasting time with formalities or soft words of encouragement, he began rutting into you like a feral dog, plowing you open to sow his seed.

The stretch was bearable that time, which you were thankful for, but the angle was atrocious. Far too deep and mind-numbingly overwhelming. All you could feel was him, incredibly hard and burdensome as he rearranged your insides around him. “Simon, fuck!” You gurgled, drool threatening to escape the corners of your mouth when his hand found its way back to your clit. He drew quick, rough circles on your oversensitive nub with the tips of his calloused fingers.

“Fuckin’ hell, kid,” he moaned in the shell of your ear. “Tight little pussy. Takin’ me like fuckin’ champ, you are.”

You let out a haggard, “Uh-huh,” feeling your stomach roll as the all too familiar licks of fire lashed their way from your core through your body. Nerve endings set ablaze, you swayed your hips in time with his thrusts to chase the end of it, an end you feared would never come.

Simon fucked like he was on a mission, lethal and determined, like it was life or death. He braced himself with his knees, using them as leverage to pound into you properly, setting an unyielding pace. Completely at his mercy, your ears rang and your skin tingled as you felt yourself lose control. The muscles in your legs grew sluggish like you drank your weight in liquor.

“She’s stranglin’ me, baby,” he gritted through his teeth. “Gonna cum f’me again, yeah? I can feel ya.”

You would have laughed if you had the energy. No , you’re strangling me. Instead, a garbled, “Ah ah ah,” left your throat as you felt your orgasm, or what you assumed was an orgasm, build in your lower gut. “Simon, Simon!” You yelled, digging your nails in his skin as a warning. “Gonna cum— ah fuck, Simon!”

“Fuck— that’s it, girl. Go on, show me what you’ve got.”

His name became a mantra in your head.

Simon, Simon, Simon.

The word echoed in your thoughts like it was the only one you knew.

“Simon—”

You cried his name, toes curling and eyes rolling.

“Shit, fuck— cum on my fuckin’ cock, kid. That’s it, that’s it, girl.”

He didn’t need to tell you twice.

Your spine bowed against his belly as you came, mouth open in a silent scream.

You gushed for him, spraying your release all over his cock, further marking the sofa with your sins.

The brute above you keened, moaning a guttural moan as he shot his hot cum inside your awaiting cunt. You fell limp in his hold as it flooded you, filling you to the brim and drooling out onto your thighs, adding to the mess. Simon’s weight nearly doubled on top of you as he finished, riding out the aftershocks. He kept his cock buried in you, though, crushing your body under his for minutes as his dick softened in the warmth of your walls. “Did good f’me, kid,” he offered, petting the top of your head. “Didn’t think ya had it in you, squirtin’ on my cock like that.” He unwrapped his arm from you and slipped his cock out of you finally with a soft squelch, lifting himself away from you.

Gasping in relief, you remained limp as you caught your breath.

You could see Simon kneeling over you from the corner of your eye. He seemed content, admiring his masterpiece. You could see his hands wandering, however. “S’alright, love,” he said, kneading the soft flesh of your ass as you flinched away from his touch. “Just lookin’ at ya.”

He pulled your ass cheeks apart, watching your hole clench at the exposure to the air, and you let him. Even as he circled his thumb around your rim, even as he gathered the mess of cum that pooled between your legs and smeared it over your taint, even when he pushed an experimental finger inside, you leaned into it, letting him show his affection in the way he knew how.

“What d’you say, babygirl?” He asked, probing his digit further in. “You remember.”

Oh, right. Of course.

“Thank you, Simon.”

He smiled. It was genuine.

“You’re welcome, love.”

-

You didn’t speak another word until a few hours later. After you were washed and fed, you and Simon laid back on the couch, sharing a cigarette, floating in a world of your own, Patsy Cline emanating from the radio. He held you close, your back against his chest as you inhaled the harsh smoke of Simon’s awful Marlboros. Minnie decided to join you too, curling herself in a ball of fur in your lap.

“Simon,” you called, watching the smoke dance in the rays of the sun.

Did you really mean what you said earlier? That you’ve got me?”

Simon hummed and took the dwindling cigarette from your fingers, pulling a drag.

The anticipation could have killed you. Stiff in his arms, you waited. In the three seconds he took to inhale and exhale, you heard a thousand different answers. Would he let you stay? Would he dump you at Roy’s and wash his hands of you? Were you even worth the trouble? You wouldn't fault him for it if he did. That would be hypocritical of you.

Your heart skipped a beat when he hummed, giving you his answer.

You started dating Simon 2 months ago. Not very long, but you've known him for years as your neighbor. He just got back from a mission, you're not sure where he went or what he did. He said he needs more time dating you to get comfortable enough to tell you the details of his job. Either way, you looked way worse than he did getting off your most recent double shift. He was waiting by your door, a bouquet of flowers in hand.

"Hey, Simon," you said tiredly, dragging your heavy feet to him to accept the flowers and give him a peck on the cheek. When the door was unlocked, you pushed your way into the dark living room, leaving all of your belongings on the floor and taking the flowers to the kitchen to put them in a vase of water.

"Goddamn, lovey. I'd assumed you came back from war with the way you look," he said, coming to sit next to you on the couch. You laid your tired head on his shoulder, eyes shutting to relieve the pain from them straining all day.

"I've been working like a dog, Si. It's nice to see you back, though. How long are you home for? My next day off is in 3 days."

"Couple of weeks. We can just spend the day relaxing, don't have to do anything special," he offered. The thought of doing nothing almost made you cry.

"That sounds perfect, but I have to clean. I haven't been able to really clean my house for god knows how long," you said, following it with a yawn.

"Alright. I know you're tired now, so I'm gonna let you get some sleep and we'll talk more tomorrow, okay?"

"Okay."

He helped you stand up and walked you to your bathroom to shower, kissing your head before he left.

"It's nice seeing you, too."

The next three days are even more painfully tiring than normal, knowing Simon wanted to hang out and knowing you had other responsibilities to tend to. It was the morning of your day off when you woke up early than usual for days off and gave Simon a call.

"Good morning, early bird," he greeted, clearly having been up for a while.

"Good morning! What are you up to today?"

"Well, I made a reservation for us at the spa downtown. A couple's package or something. I figured you and I both deserve some relaxing time."

"Simon! You did not have to do that," you said, stunned that he made such an extravagant purchase for you.

"Yes, I did. The appointment is at 10 and they recommend wearing comfortable clothes and bringing a bathing suit for their therapy pool."

"You are amazing and ridiculous and I am paying you back!" The phone call was disconnected before he could reply. You jumped in the shower and made a quick breakfast before heading over to Simon's place. You were neighbors, but you still made sure you had your space and he had his. He answered the door a few seconds after you knocked, not surprising considering the fact that he could walk through the whole apartment in less than a minute.

"I have everything you told me to bring, plus some cash to pay you back for my portion."

"I'm not taking your money." You two had moved into his dining area now, since he was finishing up some tea at the table.

"Please, Simon. I'd feel so guilty if I let you pay all that money."

"It's really no trouble. We're dating now and part of that is buying things for each other. If you really want to pay me back you can pay for our lunch after the spa."

"Fine. Are we taking my car or yours?"

"I'll drive. My truck needs to start getting some miles on it."

"Lead the way."

The drive was smooth, Simon let you pick the music and you held his hand the whole way there. The entire experience felt luxurious, from the private heated recovery pool, to the sauna with infrared lights, the couples massage that had both you and Simon melting simultaneously. Seeing him nearly naked almost made you pass out, your face and chest burning. When the experience was over, you felt like the past few months of working nearly 80 hours a week was massaged out of you.

"Wow, Si. I haven't felt like this since before I picked up my second job."

"I know. I think they worked out knots I didn't even know I had. Worked up my appetite, though. Mind if I pick where we eat?"

"Sure."

He drove you to a cute little cafe that was in a more quiet part of town.

"Why'd you pick this place?"

"The staff is always nice to me, even though I'm not the most sociable person."

"Oh, okay."

They sat you at a booth and you and Simon both ordered fairly quickly due to the small menu. When it was time to pay, you asked for the check.

"Oh! Simon prepaid earlier this morning, tip included! If there's anything else you need, feel free to let me know, otherwise you guys are all set!"

The sweet waitress left and you turned to Simon, squinting.

"You sneaky man. No wonder you said I could pay for lunch!" Your cheeks felt hot, from feeling guilty for Simon paying for another thing and because it was so incredibly considerate it melted your heart. He just smiled and chuckled at your reaction.

"Come on, let's get you home. I know you said you needed to clean."

You thanked Simon a million times in the car ride home, kissing the top of his hand each time you did. You saw a blush creep up his neck and onto his cheeks.

There's one more surprise I have for you, Simon said, as you walked to your front door. Confused, you opened the door to see your apartment spotless.

"I had one of your friends come by to tidy up. I paid them, of course, but I wasn't sure if you'd be comfortable with a cleaning company, so I asked them."

This was your breaking point. You turned and shoved your face into Simon's chest as you cried. You had never known anyone to be so giving and expect nothing in return. He wrapped his strong, warm arms around you while your body shook.

"You didn't have to do all of this, Simon." You couldn't meet his eyes.

"I know, but I wanted to. I know how hard you work and we're still in the early days of dating, so I didn't want to scare you with talk about finances and stuff, so I did this instead."

"Thank you, Simon. This is probably the best day ever." You sniffled as you spoke, wiping your tears.

⭐︎ Bruce feels like he did a good job when you walk over to kiss him. He hasn’t had too much contact with you for a couple days since he was keeping his distance so he welcomes your touch like a man starved.

“What is this for?” You ask after pulling back from kissing him. “Did I miss something?”

Bruce blinks down at you in confusion, “You were upset with me about arriving home late, I am sorry for worrying you.”

A look of confusion crosses your face before you start laughing.

“The whole time you thought I was upset with you?” You stop laughing to give himself something a soft look. “I’m sorry Love, I was busy with work so you must have thought I was ignoring you.”

Bruce feels sheepish now that he got the situation wrong. “You don’t need to apologize for my misunderstanding-”

You kiss him mid sentence, cutting him off.

“The flowers are perfect don’t apologize.”

Dick Grayson

⭐︎ Dick would like to think that you don’t argue often and you agree except for the constant back and forth of him stretching himself too thin and putting everyone’s needs over his.

⭐︎ The fight happens when he misses a date because they needed his help in Gotham. He had left you a note and a text about it. There was a lot of apologies in both. But when he got back to his apartment all the lights were off and you were gone.

⭐︎ Your fights are usually conversations, there isn’t yelling involved unless it’s really bad. You always wanted to talk things out rather than just leaving them lie. So you leaving without talking about it made him scared.

⭐︎ Dick is a little desperate when he feels like he is being left. There’s an involuntary coil of dread that settles in his stomach every time. He always needs to make it right as soon as possible, he can’t wait because he is afraid of never seeing you again.

⭐︎ So he runs down to the 24 hour convince store a block down from his apartment to get, admittedly, a lot of your favorite candy. Then he breaks into the florist shop across the street to grab a premade bouquet of flowers, he makes sure to leave them money plus a little extra because he broke in.

⭐︎ He is stressing himself out the whole way to your apartment. The thought that you won’t have the window unlocked like usual crosses his mind. He imagines you locking him out and refusing to even see him.

⭐︎ When Dick knocks on your window at 2am you open it up with sleep still in your eyes. You look beautiful even half asleep, confused and in one of his old tee shirts. Your eyes eventually focus in on the bag and flowers.

“Dick? These are wonderful,” You take the flowers from his slightly trembling hands. “but why are you bringing me flowers at 2am?”

Dick pauses midway through climbing through your window, “You are mad at me for missing our date so I thought getting you flowers would help.”

Your expression softens as you take a deeper look at him, seeing the anxiety in his rigid posture and the desperation in his eyes as he takes off his domino mask.

“Oh baby.” You says softly and pull him into a hug. “I am so sorry my friend had to rush her pet to the vet and had no car so I drove her. In all the rush I forgot to text you that it was fine.”

Dick exhales, all the tension in his body leaving with the air. He slumps a little as the adrenaline from crime fighting and this whole debacle evaporates.

“Thank god.” He whispers as you guide him over to your bed and gently pull him down onto it.

“I will always tell you if I have an issue,” You press a kiss to his brow, “promise.”

Jason Todd

⭐︎ You and Jason try not to fight often. It reminds Jason of darker days and you just don’t enjoy the conflict.

⭐︎ But when it happens it’s loud. Jason doesn’t start out yelling, he doesn’t enjoy it. But that’s usually what it devolves into, the two of you yelling over each other over something you can’t even remember.

⭐︎ Jason always needs time to cool off after. He leaves the apartment so he can get some air, climbing up to the roof or going on patrol early depending on what time it is.

⭐︎ This time was a little different, there wasn’t yelling or raised voices, just a slow sigh and you leaving the apartment.

⭐︎ The fight started over a bookshelf. You were insistent that you could put it together yourself while Jason wanted to help. After a couple minutes of him trying to help you told him that you wanted to do it yourself. He left the room then a few seconds later you were grumbling, putting on your shoes and slamming the apartment door.

⭐︎ Jason knew that you enjoyed doing things yourself so him trying to help must have made you angry with him. He didn’t leave like usual, instead he began to clean. It was a nervous habit that stemmed from needing control over something. He left the book shelf alone because it was the source of the argument but everything thing else he could clean was.

⭐︎ You came home an hour later to a spotless apartment and dinner ready. Jason was moving around the kitchen silently when you set the bag you got from the hardware store on the counter.

“Thanks for making dinner Jay.” You walk over to wrap your arms around him.

He tenses a little and you pull back immediately.

“You are sending me mixed messages.” Jason says with a furrow between his brows.

You frown in confusion, “What do you mean?”

“You left earlier because you were angry and now you aren’t upset.” Jason points out to you.

Your eyes widen with realization then soften, “Jay, I didn’t have the right screw for the bookshelf.”

Jason feels the tension bleed out of him at your words. You hug him again and he won’t say it out loud but he holds you tighter than he has ever held anyone else.

“If I am angry at you believe me you would know.” You laugh.

“Good.” Jason breathes out in relief.

“Now,” You pull away and walk to the bag. “do you want to help me put this together? I am way past the point of having any pride to defend.”

He grins, “It would be my pleasure.”