Local Pathetic Man Lover

You rolled your eyes, and wordlessly, you stuck your head back down and nuzzled it into his lap, your hair sliding through his fingers as he babbled out some plea that soon melted into nothing more than a cry of pleasure. The moment your lips touched his cock, all thought was out the window.

"Please, baby!" He cried hoarsely, desperately begging with every stroke of your tongue on his spit-soaked length. "I-I'm gonna die! Lemme cum, please, ple-hease!"

As much as you wanted to remind him "You're not gonna die from getting sucked off" it wouldn't make a difference anyways. Tsung's fingers tightened around your head, he bucked once, and he was in your throat--miles and miles deeper in than he could handle without creaming it up like a milk carton exploding.

"Glk-!" The sound of your gagging only made him stiffen up more as he came. While your nails digging into his thighs surely hurt, Tsung's grip just tightened on your head and he wouldn't let you up--in the heat of the moment, apologies spilled off his lips for his terrible indiscretion of holding your head down while he beat your poor throat raw with needy thrusts. All that filled your ears was the wet shlucking of his cum filling your throat, lubing him up to glide with relative ease despite how tight you were clenching around him. "It's like fucking one of your other holes. It hurts. It feels so good. I love you!"

Over a minute later, you finally managed to pry yourself off of his lap with a bout of coughing and gasping desperately for air. The slime that coated your mouth all the way down tasted of nothing but salt on your tongue, while Tsung laid back as gutless as ever, pale thighs shaking gently as his cock continued to spurt little jets of milky-white pearls all over himself.

"F-Fffelt so good..." He gasped as if risen from the dead, though Tsung could still barely move since he was still--still!--cumming. And he wondered why you made him wait for his orgasms. Because of this.

"Making a goddamned mess." You muttered with a hoarse throat, yet your mouth started to wet as you watched his jerky thrusts into empty air. Salivating. Drooling over a preppy freak that you found humping your pillow, and just took ownership of him since he praised the ground you walked on anyways. Tsung was a million walking red flags, and he was a creep that obsessed over you so much he basically developed a crazy sex habit cause of you. Because you're so "perfect" in his words.

You laid your head on his thigh and watched his quivering slowly draw to a close, the cum stop bubbling up, and his breathing finally even out. A series of sticky little puddles soaked into your sheets below him, the dip of his stomach, the tip where it all collected--you leaned in to lap it up and wriggled your tongue against his slit, which earned you a yelp and a desperate hand on your shoulder like he wanted you to stop. As if. The sensitivity was just a bit much.

"C-Can't do another-"

"Yes you can." You gripped his thick shaft with slick fingers, each one wetted with your spit as you let a glob of it drool out of your mouth. "You ruined it for me, try it again."

"Nooooo-" He moaned weakly and squirmed, but wouldn't pull your wrist away from him. It was all just an act, a show, and loathe as you were to give him a compliment he was an incredible actor. He could even turn your focus away from the gleam in his scarlet eyes at the thought of being touched again, of being forced to cum again, but as good as he was at pretending nothing could hide how easily he grew stiff in your hand again. Tsung shed tears as you started your strokes and began the process anew...yet you were certain that the second he got the chance, he would take over and cum in your mouth without permission, again. Again, and again, and again--that's how it always went, right up until he couldn't take your magnificent torture anymore and passed out cold and sticky.

This little freak was so fucking dead--once you worked up the stamina to punish him properly, that is.

(cws: gn!darling, brat taming, cockwarming, choking, lazy sex, extra spicy teasing)

Mel Mimiya

Mel had so little pomp and circumstance in matters of carnal pleasure--if he hadn't explained his reasons to you, you would've thought he simply couldn't be bothered to put in the same effort with you that he gave to his clients at the hybrid club. For them he would purr, and stretch, and jingle around in that little bell collar, tending to every one of their needs with a smile and a sweet voice.

But at home he was an animal, and nothing more. He humped your face with urgent vigour some days, while others he laid back and let you bring yourself to all the heights you pleased while he watched. Though no matter what, he always looked at you as though you held the world. Today was no exception.

It had been quite the long day, however. Mel was tired. Lazy. Hadn't gotten enough of a nap on his break. Now, he was taking it out on you--his adorable partner that really missed him while he was out.

"Use your tongue," He murmured amongst his nest of blankets, all laid out like some prince on his royal bed. "Lick it slow, sweetie. Had a long day."

Only half-listening, you proceeded with your plan of working him right down your throat--while his day was long and full of exertion, yours was long and occupied with nothing but thoughts of going home and going to town on your catty boyfriend. He put you in your place the minute you had him in your mouth, though. Mel flicked your forehead gently as you choked down all his inches at once, forcing you to start and pull back off with a cough. "Slow, I said. You're such a little shit-stirrer." He chided, laughing in that breathy, nearly hoarse voice of his that made your stomach twist in knots. "So needy."

"You like it." You pouted, flicking out your tongue to at least get a taste of him, which he would've paid for dearly if he hadn't allowed it.

"I do." Mel reached down and ruffled your hair with a loving, gentle touch. God, his smile could spin gold, undoubtedly. "But I'm tired, baby."

"Then let me help you relax." Your fingers squished as they wrapped around his length, your slow strokes coaxing a whine out of his throat that made him tilt back his chin in pleasure. You watched with giddy glee at his lithe tail coming alive to loosely wrap around your forearm as you did so.

"You don't even know the meaning of the word," Mel gasped, but once again, you weren't listening. Your attention was zeroed in on the way his slit pooled with a clear liquid, the little puddle atop his cock gleaming in the dim lights you turned down to set the mood. "Don't ignore me. I know you can hear me."

His stern tone really didn't do as much when he could barely keep his voice from cracking, nor his hips from squirming away from the stimulating touch of your hand. The second flick of your tongue sent him reeling, and his ringed fingers grasped at the sheets with the softest, whiniest "myaow!".

"Good kitty." Your moan rumbled right through his lap, your lips far too eager to take him in despite how squirmy he was already.

"B-Bad human," Mel gasped right back. The glower on his face right then would scare off any prey--but you had something you wanted, and only the utterance of his safe word would keep you from getting it. He so rarely used it though, because he really just liked being a tease. "You need a leash." His last syllable ended on a groan that sent delectable shivers all down your spine. "A muzzle, too."

Just to show him what you really needed, you twisted your grip at the base and made his hips buck, incidentally plowing past the roof of your mouth with a deep hiss. Mel's tail flicked to and fro while he squeezed his eyes shut, only for one of those violet irises to squint down at you with a growl at the sight he beheld. Your lips pressed right against the flattest dip of his belly, thin, dark hairs tickling your nose where you'd seated yourself. Mel couldn't help but watch with held breath as your face grew darker and hotter the longer you kept yourself down; yet you wouldn't come up for air until the very last moment you had to.

Both his furry ears twitched with delight and a sense of pride, to say nothing of the utter heat you brought on by enveloping his entire length in such a tight, soft hole that kept spasming and pulsing around him the longer you warmed him.

Mel's fingertips brushed the hair from your eyes to see you better. The vision of you like this, for him, would never fail to remind him of all he had to be grateful for--even when the moment was broken by you frantically yanking your head back and coughing as he slid out from your lips, your head obviously spinning from the deprivation as you immediately took a minute to clear your throat--and catch your breath, of course. You knelt there with a hand on your chest, huffing and puffing ad nauseum, until a peal of clear laughter rung out and Mel flopped back into the sheets.

"You're way too cute. Try again--take a deep breath this time, sweetie. Let's train those lungs of yours, ah?"

(cws: gn!darling, size difference, bondage, cock worship, soft -> rough, selkie heat cycles in action)

Seóirse Braonain

"Baby, you're gonna break the bed."

Seóirse was aghast. How you could blitz him with one of the wettest, sloppiest, bone-rattling orgasms he'd had in his life, and expect him not to start going numb and dazed and flailing about when you started back up all over again...it was criminal. It was foul.

But it was something he needed desperately, as humiliated as he was to admit it. He was a creature that desired pleasure, as many were, but more particular he was than that--he needed pleasure from you, or else what was the point of even living? If your attention wasn't on him, what the hell did he even wake up in the mornings for?

There were caveats to that, though. For one, Seóirse was big. Like, big. So in order to make sure he didn't rip a hole in your throat, or choke you to the point of collapsing one of your lungs...

...You had to come to this humiliating conclusion. He had to be tied down like an animal, bound at the wrists and ankles--subdued--and only then would you get down on your knees and service him as if it were your only job in the world.

And the worst part was that you were right. Deep down, when you had your hands on his thighs like you did right now, and you were teasing his third leg with those dastardly kitten licks? All Seóirse wanted to do was grab your head in his enormous hands and thrust. He wanted your belly pumped so full of cum he could see it swell. He wanted you to cough out his seed for a week after he was done.

But he wanted to be a good boy, and he didn't want to hurt you. So he let you tie him up to the bed, and he tried, god, he tried not to let his strength overwhelm you as you played with his cock in your soft hands.

"Mwah," Another kiss pecked so delicately to his tip, which had already flushed so dark it was nearly purple. The blood that rushed to his privates in heated moments like these always made his mind fuzzy--it made it so much harder for him to think straight, which was why he usually tried to enter you when he was only half-soft. That was....lower down, though. Your mouth was different. Much different. He could stand completely at attention and not hurt you, not even have to worry about stretching you too much or going too deep, especially when he was tied up as he was right now.

But the problem was you. When he could see that determination in your eyes, the grin on your lips, the way you poised yourself over his legs and looked at him like he was a treat?

Oh, he was completely done for.

Your lips pressed together in a soft line, glossy and wet from your own spit and the water wetting his skin from his latest swim. You always teased that he tasted of saltwater, but it never seemed to bother you--nor did the sudden, weighty shift of his erection as it twitched, excited from the warm air you puffed against it. You laughed and your eyes sparkled, and your kiss...it soon turned into more.

Seóirse watched with wide eyes as you moved to swallow the tip, how your lips managed to stretch around the blubbery flesh without pause. You were getting good at this. Your nostrils flared with a soft inhale to prepare, and you bobbed your head down--far enough that it was only an inch or two, but enough for his arms to strain against the buckles in an instinctive desire to ensure you were okay.

"M-My love?" He tensed, fist closing and releasing suddenly at the pulse of your heart around him. You merely glanced up at him and winked with a soft stroke to his inner thigh. I'm okay. That's what your gestures told him, though could he be blamed when his own size was the reason you had to train yourself to take him? He knew he would see a bulge in your throat soon, and once you fit a little more in it appeared, and he suddenly started having a much harder time just staying still.

His left foot yanked on the leather cuff around it as he writhed, the material squeaking wretchedly against his skin as his body jerked of its own accord. Your mouth was just so warm. Your tongue slaked over each vein with loving precision, every sensitive cell in his body crying out in the face of your unwavering worship. He wished so badly to be half the size just so he could ravish you without restriction, so that these damned restraints could be thrown out and he could fuck you and ravage your body like-

Cree-aack!

Seóirse's eyes flitted from you, to his left wrist, and back to you again. The cuff, once attached by a chain and padlock to the corner of the bedframe, still hung snug and tight around his giant wrist. However, the wooden pillar of his bedframe had snapped off completely, leaving the broken piece to fall and tumble to the floor by the bed with a clatter, leaving the chain to dangle uselessly from his cuff.

What possessed him to then reach down and grab your head was pure, unadulterated selkie lust, and nothing more of his reasonable mind. Seóirse yanked your mouth up and off his cock with whatever self-control still remained, and in an insatiable heat, pulled you by the back of your head to smush those pretty lips against his shaft.

Thank god you were so understanding. You would understand his desires--hell, you had a dopey grin on your face the moment he took control, and ground his dick against your face in long, deep strokes. The spit and water and precum that dribbled and soaked him down to the balls was all that could save you from the immense friction of him thrusting that monster against your face, his attention especially focused on those lips that kissed and licked and suckled around whatever spots you could manage to latch on to. This was the only way to fuck you without injury, without permanently scarring his one true love--and with the giddiness that came over you as he climaxed faster and harder than he ever had before, and painted your face with pearls of creamy, thick seed like he'd never have the courage to do when he made love to you before...

Well, maybe he would just have to make this new way of lovemaking a guilty pleasure habit.

(cws: gn!darling [w/ one unserious mention of 'princess'], dirty talk, facefucking, rimming mention, degradation, mild humiliation)

Makoi Azumako

"We literally just fucked."

"And?"

Your head poised over his lap, your hand resting at the base of his hip. Makoi had barely caught his breath before you were shimmying down there, your body still wet with sweat and spit so your skin gave off a sheen in the dim light. He'd only lit a few lamps in the paper lanterns around the room, though the futon was soft enough not to make much noise in the night as you shuffled around. The last thing you wanted was to wake up one of his relatives in the house, especially after just getting away with being all cozy under the covers.

"You want me to suck you off, or not?"

"Well...shit, I won't say no." He sighed, and folded his arms back to rest his head against them. "You're really a fuckin' freak, though."

"I'll bite you."

"Fuckin' do it." Makoi grinned down at you. He could never let you get the drop on him--he was always so smug. "Show me those teeth, kitty. Bet the blood turns you on. Freak."

"M'not actually gonna bite you."

"Good, or I'd have to beat your ass." He narrowed his eyes and reached down. His fingers slid with confidence around his soft knob of flesh, the limp appendage stirring as his grip tightened around the base. "Now get to work. Ain't gonna lick itself."

"Asshole." You muttered with a huff, easing your tongue out to swipe a lick over the warm mound of muscle. It still tasted of you from earlier.

"Wanna lick that too? Then keep the tone, brat." Just as he spoke, a gasp that was too soft for his attitude fluttered off his lips, and he settled lower into the pillows to enjoy himself.

"...Maybe a little bit."

"Freak." He groaned with an arch of his back as your tongue met the base of his shaft, his fingers fisting into the pillows under his head. "Tell you what, you can shove your tongue up there if I get this kinda head every day. Ffffuuuuck..." His voice slurred, eyes rolling back the second your lips met his sack. "Goddamn angel mouth. Give it a kiss, princess."

You rolled your eyes at the nickname, the exact one that he used to tease you more often than not. Makoi guided his cock by the base to tap the head between your eyes, and with little provocation--despite how degrading his command was--your sticky lips met his tip and you flicked out your tongue to lap up the salty, bitter taste of precum. He urged you on all the while, watching greedily as you swallowed inch by inch his thick, veiny cock, up until your nose was buried in a bush of black hairs at the base.

"Mmh." He laid back again, one hand perched behind his head while the other gripped yours through your hair, just to make sure you stayed in place. Just to tease, he tilted your head in a slow circle to watch how your throat bulged with his length, to see how your eyes watered until you beat once on his thigh and he let you pull off and sputter before you choked. Makoi laughed, and in the midst of you huffing out another insult, he gripped your hair again and shoved you down open-mouthed on his dick again, ensuring you took in every last inch again like the good cockwarmer you were.

"Just shut up for once, babe. Sound so much cuter with a mouth fulla dick." He humped his hips once just to see your reaction, and at the sight of you braced to take him without gagging he couldn't help but let out a pleased sigh. "Yeah, you like that? Bet you love suckin' on this fat fuckin' cock. E'en more than you love humpin' it, right?" He cackled wickedly as his hips slowly started to pump against your face, voice slurring at a faster pace now that he had a warm hole to plunge into. He was always like that. Cockdrunk, but it was almost always his own cock he got high off of.

Shluk, shluk, shluk, shluk--the sound vibrated in your ears with each thrust, the tip of Makoi's dick making a distinct smack each time it kissed the back of your throat. His hips forced your head to tilt back each time, like every buck was a strike to the face, and the feel of his balls smushing against your chin when he paused and slapping the skin wetly when he didn't was just plain degrading. Mako loved to embarrass you in private, but maybe you also just liked to be embarrassed, too.

"Fuckin' like that?" You could just slap that smirk right off his face, whether it got you off or not. Makoi's chest heaved over your face with long, laborious breaths; whether he liked it or not, he couldn't keep up a pace this dirty for long. Not with you. Not when you were just an absolute angel for him. "Suck dick so fffuckin' good, christ-"

A cord snapped in your boyfriend--something deep and primal, no doubt--and in a matter of seconds, his hands were gripping your shoulders and he was throwing you over on your back, his cockhead just barely smearing your own spit on your lips before he plowed his way back in; now with his knees by your head and his body hunched over you from the neck up. With one hand gripping the back of your head and the other glued to the floor by his totally sweat-soaked futon, Makoi's voice rumbled through your body with a string of vile comments one after another: "G'nna fuck you fuckin' stupid after", "Don't you dare goddamn spit", "Lessee that fuckin' gag reflex"--each word vibrated through your very bones and had you moaning around the bulge wedged deep in your throat, in exactly the spot where Makoi pounded in his last thrust before there's a groan that you're sure resonated throughout the whole house.

Glug. Glug. Glug. Glug. The noises your swallowing made were enough to plaster a dazed grin across Makoi's face, who seemed more than satisfied with feeling your throat rise and fall with his hand cupped over it. Then, and only then, would he slowly slide his way out with a final pop and a breathy sigh at the milky trail he left down your chin. Still grinning like an idiot, he brushed his thumb over the sticky skin and licked it off, before planting a kiss squarely on your swollen lips.

"Fuckin' cutie. So lucky you're mine."

(cws: gn!darling, established marriage, hatefucking, rough sex, crying, adrian's submissive & breedable for once...sorta)

Adrian Moorwell

Adrian was barely through the front door when you jumped him.

It was a surprise attack--no particular occasion, you just couldn't help but get worked up through the day. Your husband was gone too long and you'd been fighting for the whole weekend. Part of you thought he might've been happy to get away from you and your complaining, if only for a bit. But it seemed as though he was only in shock as you dropped to your knees and pawed at him, ripping open his pants so fiercely you popped both buttons off. He'd have to sew them back on later. For now, you had one thing on your mind.

"Honey--honey, wait! L-Let me get the door closed-" Adrian stumbled, his file folders hitting the floor for papers to scatter as he fumbled with the door handle behind him. Too late. You already had his pants halfway down his thighs, and though you had few neighbors to snoop on you, perhaps the birds living in the trees that lined the walkway would forever be traumatized by your face planted squarely in your husband's crotch.

You hummed almost absentmindedly as your lips sealed around the crease in his tight boxers--you thanked god he always wore the ones close to his skin, because without even an ounce of stiffness in it, you could see the imprint of his cock in them from a mile away. You wouldn't bother with pulling them down; it was more entertaining to feel him pulling lightly on your hair when you started suckling him through the wetted fabric.

"Shit!" A rare curse exploded out of his mouth as the door thudded closed, and with a thump his back fell against it and you had Adrian in the palm of your hands--or more aptly, on the flat of your tongue. Even you could hardly believe the sheer length of him bundled up in all those tight pants his students would gawk at and whisper about, and even colleagues of his would wonder between themselves if he really was packing all that people thought he was. If you ever cared to assure them, you would say that he most certainly was.

Adrian fiddled with his fingers on your scalp for a moment before shakily speaking up. "I f-ffigured you were still-"

"I'm still pissed." You cut him off, and he flinched as if you had bit him. Honestly, you were more annoyed that he forced you to pull yourself away to answer rather than what he asked in itself. "Take it out."

"Wh--Why?"

"I wanna see it."

Finally, Adrian huffed, and his attitude started to come out as he straightened himself out--though he gave in and kicked his pants completely off his legs first, leaving him only in a pair of underwear with the biggest, darkest stain on the front.

"I'm your husband, not a whore."

"Just show it to me."

He sighed, and against his better judgement, he slid his thumbs beneath the waist of his wine-coloured boxers and slowly peeled them down his hips, the fabric rolling up in waves as they came down those long, dark legs. Even still half-soft, his cock stood out impressively against the rest of his lower half, though he stood awkwardly in his front hall still wearing his turtleneck from a day of teaching classes. Next to his spouse that he'd been fighting with all weekend, suddenly on your knees for him. You moved in for the kill, but at the last second Adrian's rough palm stopped you by the forehead and gently pushed you back.

"You're not doing this in the hallway." Ignoring your huff and the pout spelled out on your lips, he stepped past you and trusted you would scramble up to follow, which you did. "Let's go to the bedroom."

"S'too far." You replied from behind, and in the instant that Adrian stepped through the doorway into the sitting room, you let slip a smirk and started pushing him back until he stumbled and fell backwards into the sofa. Not even his scowl could mask the wide-eyed stare he gave you once you stood over him and stripped off the robe you'd been wearing since your afternoon shower. Even in the heat of an argument, he couldn't deny the power your body held over him at any given time.

You threw the robe at his face and on instinct, he breathed in despite his annoyance at having his view blocked. The moment he yanked it off and tossed it aside, you'd already gotten down again and crept towards his lap like a lion stalking its prey. Over the arm of the sofa you clambered, and before he could sit up completely your five fingers met his chest and you shoved him back against the other arm, your eyes dark and misty with lust.

"Honestly, I wanna fuck you, but you pissed me off too much this week." You murmured as you pawed your way down his body to his lap, so your knees propped your ass up while your cheek came to rest on his inner thigh, inches away from your prize. "So I'm gonna suck you off, and you're gonna take it, and then I'm gonna find something to do while you sit here and mope."

"I don't mope." Adrian scowled down at you. "At least give me a kiss first."

For his demands, you leaned up and pecked him carelessly on the lips before returning to your position.

"See that? It's called a compromise." Your teasing earned you a roll of the eyes from your husband, who you could tell had had about enough of you dredging up your recent string of arguments.

"Why don't you just save your words and get to it?"

Oh, now he was getting spicy. You masked a huge grin and went to work almost immediately--the flat of your tongue met his tip and Adrian gasped, his hips could barely stay still on the couch and lifted the moment he felt you touch him skin-to-skin. His hand flew to your head but it wasn't to stop you this time, rather it was to hold himself in place like an anchor as you slobbed your soft tongue messily all over his lap. Thank god your nearest neighbors were all the way down the road, or you'd be subject to some noise complaints for sure--and maybe some 911 calls for the times your husband moaned like he was being fucking murdered.

“Jesus! Ssslow down, fuck, fuck-!” Adrian's voice cracked into a pitchy whine that pierced right through your ears, and if you could smirk with a mouthful of him, you would. His waist jerked sideways as his body inched away from the intense shocks of pleasure, nearly toppling you off the couch in the process. With a hand planted on either side of the dips where his hips and waist met, you used your leverage to pin your husband's body down to the cushions. No matter the hands that pushed on your head or his pitiful begging as you noisily sucked down his dick, he had something you wanted and nothing was gonna stop you from taking it. Rather than pull off to gloat, you let him see the bulge of his own cock nestled in your cheek, and teased him with the warmth you rubbed all over it in that little pouch of heat and spit.

This'll show my prick of a husband the meaning of spite. That was the thought that came to your mind in that moment, and understandably so. Your plan initially was to work him up, blueball him, and leave him hanging all night. That was what he deserved for being such an asshole during all those fights you had over the weekend, because Adrian wasn't usually so clingy and with such a bad attitude as he was then–nor was he usually so cold during whatever fights you had over your marriage. It actually really hurt your feelings. But you didn't want to tell him that.

But contrary to your initial frustrations, you knew your plan was abandoned when you peered up at him and saw the glisten of tears trailing down his face.

“Please,” He mumbled in a quiet, soft tone. “I love the way you make me feel.” He couldn't quite get those next two words out; “Don't stop”. So you decided to spell each letter out with your tongue, and watched as Adrian's head hit the arm of the couch while he shrieked with the pleasure wracking his oversensitive body. Maybe later you'd bother to ask what had him strung so tight that whole time, and he'd tell you about all those ugly reasons why he felt so possessive over you. How the voice at the back of his head told him he needed to own you. But whenever you reminded him of your love for him, he just melted into a puddle of worship and wonder why on earth you would ever love a messed-up old man like him.

Either way, he was an “old man” that was getting his dick sucked into the netherworld tonight. Adrian never had any idea how much his teary eyes turned you on, at least not until you kissed them off his cheeks and slid your ass up into his lap. Fuck leaving him high and dry–not even the worst frustrations in the world could keep you from watching your husband's eyes roll back in pleasure as you rode the professor brainless.

(cws: gn!darling, dubcon, noncon photography, exhibitionism, "i got sold to the azumakos" wattpad plotline, cum drinking, praise, pet names)

Shura Roanoke

"Would you look at that shit?" Shura's grin was like a panther's--unsettling and surely up to no good. Click. The flash on his camera blinded you momentarily, but the spots blotting your vision was nothing unusual by now. In fact, you were just getting used to it.

"Smile. Oh, wait--looks like you've got your mouth full." His laugh was like the windchimes you'd heard from the neighbor's porches; clear and soft, yet it pierced through the din of the dark room you were in and the red lights that accented it. As the sound of your spit shucking as it lubed up your lips, the yakuza pressed his thumb to your cheek and implored you to open them wider. Don't wanna hurt the new toy.

That was what you were here for. Your father was a yakuza head--and a bad one at that. He'd stolen money from the wrong people many times, and made enemies of those he should never have even been in the same rooms with. But when it came to gambling, he was all in all the time. And when the Azumakos came knocking to collect his enormous debt to them, he left you at their mercy and skipped town to escape what he'd wrought. "Piece of shit." That was Shura's first comment to you when he arrived at the sketchy little hovel where you'd been left, but you'd soon learn once you saw his grin and listened to his proposition that he wasn't talking about you--but that didn't matter anymore. As far as they were concerned, you were now an Azumako with all the rest of them.

"Show me those pretty eyes, pumpkin. Wanna get a good shot, yeah?" Shura aimed his phone down and brushed the hair from your face, just in time for another click and to see his expression light up at the newest photo on his screen. "Oh-ho, Mako is gonna love you. Suck it more-" His shoulders shook when you obeyed, and his eyes rolled back in the moment at the tight squeeze around his dick, which he'd buried right to the hilt in your soft, warm mouth. "-Shiiiiit, that's good. Don't even need another hole, yeah? Think I'm fine with just this one."

Apparently growing satisfied with the album's worth of photos he'd taken of you choking down his cock, Shura set his phone aside and leaned into the kiss of his tip against the back of your throat, head tilted back in pleasure as he gripped the seat beneath him. The other yakuza that were with him had dispersed somewhat to look around for members of your father's gang, but a few hung around in casual conversation nearby as if Shura getting blown two feet from them was totally normal. You'd learn later that they weren't part of the core "family", just some low-level thugs and gangsters who needed cash and a bodyguard job. But the few pairs of eyes burning holes into you weren't unnoticed, and Shura gingerly stroked your hair as if he was trying to comfort you.

"Ignore them, sweetness. Just wanna watch the show is all--you're all mine." He dipped down to whisper that last part, before leaning back with a deep sigh as he eased your head down to bob it on his lap again. One of his bodyguards came up within a few inches of you and muttered something in his ear, which Shura didn't seem to care one way or another if you heard or not.

"...Mhm. Well, take care of him, then. Make him pay, yeah?" The other man in the suit vanished from the room, and Shura looked down on you with a peaceful smile.

"That's it. Just keep stroking me with that soft tongue. Y'know, Makoi can find whoever he wants to get him off--I kinda like the idea of making you mine." He tilted his head at you, peering into your very soul as his hand guided your head up and down, up and down his thick cock. "Yeah? You like that? Wanna be my little arm candy? I bet you'll like gettin' licked out every night. I'm a fair guy--scratch my back, I scratch yours. You can't imagine what my tongue can do."

He winked down at you, and the laugh that escaped him melted into a fuzzy, open-mouthed moan that he couldn't even try to hold in.

"That's it, that's it, that's it--more, lil' more, just--fuck--u-use your tongue on the--fffuck, there!"

The sweet spot he was guiding you to, wherever it really was, seemed to work more than wonders as Shura's voice cracked and he threw his head back against the chair. You watched with awe as his adam's apple bobbed in time with his gasps of your name, and your mouth flooded suddenly with an immense heat--one that you couldn't hope to combat, only to bear as ropes of sticky seed shot down your tongue and into the depths of your throat. Shura held you there firmly to take in every sloshing ounce of cum that spilled on to the bed of your swollen tongue, every bitter swallow until his thumb ran across your lower lip and you opened up to show him a clean mouth.

"Ohhh! Impressive!" He laughed jubilantly while tucking himself back into his pants like nothing happened. While the future ahead was still hazy and scary, at least Shura's optimism was comforting. But his smirk as he picked his phone back up, and the possessive touch of his hand as he pulled you up on his lap was...less so.

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

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

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

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

"Thank you. I'm really sorry-"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Uh…Harley, hey! Wait!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I don't see him."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-nine."

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

"Kinda. Just helped out."

"Do you have cows?"

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

"Yeah. Chickens, too."

"You do?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Or?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You're really sweet, Harley."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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