#a man with a really fucking scary dog made me have a full blown panic attack at the register!!!

[bountybossier]

Until Dawn | Morgan & Nic

Takes place the day before the sun yeeted itself. Vampires, snowglobes, the family business.

with: @mor-beck-more-problems

The diary Morgan had borrowed from the Scribe archive had lead to some interesting revelations. First, that the scriptwriters for Final Destination might have been casters with a mean sense of humor, and second, that one of Agnes’ nieces had buried a chest under the homestead shortly before she met a gruesome end in an accident with some clothesline. The homestead had been lost some six years later, of course, but it was entirely possible that the chest remained, and with it, some dirt on what Constance’s deal was, or some artifact that explained why they had been targeted in the first place. And so,scuttling straight from a staff networking dinner at the University, still in her skirt set, Morgan found herself back in the bend at sunset, traipsing through some overgrown grass in search of a magic answer.

The tracking amulet in her hand tingled hot in her hand, leading her towards one of the glorified shacks along the street and around the back. Morgan crept awkwardly into the overgrowth and began to dig, unaware of anyone else nearby. The sooner she got in, the sooner she could get out.

The hunter treated himself to a small six-shooter of whiskey before he left to deal with the night’s bounty. It wouldn’t be a complicated one from what he read over. A palate cleanser in comparison to the other fuckery that poked about in White Crest’s moldy and sea-cured corners. It didn’t surprise Nicodemus that most of the bounties came for shit out in The Bend. The rundown motel he stayed in was somehow the safest, yet still one of the shadiest fucking buildings in that particular godforsaken corner of White Crest. He checked himself over subtly as he walked. Vest on, stakes in jacket, guns on hips, knives in boots and one strapped around a thigh. Holy water in a nice iron flask. The dark didn’t matter to him as he took back alleys and precariously hopped over decaying fences. The place indicated wasn’t too far and when he finally got to it, he nodded an affirmation.

Yup, sure looked like a fucking vampire drug den. Quiet. Foreboding. Sounded about right. He was just in it to get some dust. Except it wasn’t all entirely quiet. He stopped walking and listened. Something digging? He didn’t smell dog or any other type of critter. His senses would be no help. He stepped into the overgrowth with a crunch. If he knew that someone else was there, only fair that he did the same? He continued until he reached the end of the overgrowth and stood in a disgusting backyard. A brow rose as he made a slow 360 turn. He spoke up, voice low and level.

“This your shitty house?”

Morgan yelped at the sound of another voice and wheeled around, shovel raised high. “No!” Wait--that made her sound like she was trespassing. Which she was, technically, if this place belonged to anyone still. But the large scary man in front of her didn’t need to know that. “I mean, it’s not shitty, it’s--rustic! And what are you doing here, exactly?” She positioned herself over the hole she was digging. Until the stranger had shown up, she’d been sure she was almost there. “Weird time of night to be wandering around with--” She eyed the gear bulging from his sturdy frame. Shit. “--all that. Could be dangerous.”

“Rustic’s just a fancy way of sayin’ shitty,” Nicodemus grumbled out as he looked at her, a curious brow lifted ever slightly. At her question, he frowned and glanced up at the house. “...Scavenger hunt.” Was the only explanation he gave, flimsy and half-assed. He didn’t have to explain anything and who knew, maybe she was one of those sympathetic types like Orion? “What are you doin’ diggin’ around then?” Given his own shit explanation, he didn’t expect much from hers either. And that would be fair. What wasn’t fair was the crunch and rustle that had his nerves immediately on edge. Something hostile was getting closer and wasn’t likely to stop. “Yeah, likely could be.” He grabbed for one of the three stakes he had brought with him and immediately lunged, body slamming into a vampire that had started to run up on them. From behind them, he heard more. A hell of a lot more, maybe eight or so. Shit. “God fuckin’ damn it,” he grunted as he wedged the stake in the vampire’s chest, the body poofing. A young and dumb one. Hopefully the rest were like that. He turned to look at the woman and gestured to the house before he started to head up, not moving too far from her. “Fuckin’ A, come on! They ain’t happy!”

“Scavenger hunt,” Morgan repeated, voice shrill as she found herself caught between fear and incredulity. She didn’t exactly feel like doing anything to upset the big scary man with too many weapons on him, but his excuse seemed even thinner than her own. Morgan shifted and tried, discreetly, to reach down into the earth for the chest. “What? Don’t you ever bury things for safekeeping ever? That’s like one of the safest oldest ways in the book.” And if the chest really was just there beneath the surface, if she could just picture the simplest, most obvious way it looked, and pull-- a shape appeared out of nowhere, lunging her way. Morgan stumbled backwards with a sharp cry of fright. Big Scary Man took out a stake and wedged it into the chest as if he’d been doing it his whole life.

She followed his gaze into the dark and-- Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Better to be with the big scary man with the stake than the big scary vampires with the teeth. Morgan sprinted as best she could behind him. This wasn’t how she died, and it wasn’t going to be how she got maimed again either. She scampered up to the house and skidded to a stop, digging her fingers into the dirt and pressing down with her forearm until her cuff was firm in the ground as well. Morgan pushed with all the ‘I really don’t wanna get maimed today’ energy she had brimming at the surface. The earth in front of her dipped and sandy bricks walled the space between the vampires and the ramshackle house. Morgan closed her doors before she could form a whole perimeter. Bricks would never hold for long in the first place, but maybe she’d have a few extra minutes to come up with something better. She darted inside and shut the door, kept running. How many ways to get in were there? “So! Uh, how many of those stakes do you have? And uh, how many doors in this place do you think we got?”

Nicodemus glanced back in time to catch the dirt shift and pull at the woman’s beck and call. Alright. Infinitely in a better spot than he would have been had it just been a regular person digging in the dirt for whatever fucking reason. “Nah, not a scavenger hunt. Sure I had you goin’ for a second,” he deadpanned, a less-than-pleased frown on his face as he started to move through the house. “Lookin’ for treasure then, huh?” The bricks would do what they could, but hungry vampires could get through anything when they wanted to. He grumbled angrily to himself as he pushed open a weak door and it collapsed right off the hinges. Fucking fantastic. “I got…” Fuck. He’d left the one he used outside. “I got two.” He took out one and handed it to her as he checked corners. The house was much larger on the inside than it was outside. He swore in French. Listening, he heard the bricks breaking apart against each other. “Looks like three. One front, that back door, and a side door. Maybe a...” He rattled off the information to her as he pulled open a basement door. “Yup, a basement. That’s not countin’ every goddamn window.” They were shuttered and planks hammered over them but still. He shook his head and looked at her. “I’m thinkin’ basement or upstairs. Funnel ‘em.”

“Two! Okay! One for me, and one for you! That’s fine, that’s totally plenty, definitely not gonna run out and wish we had more!” Morgan was rambling with panic. She was getting distressingly familiar with tumbling headfirst into near death situations; if she barrelled on determinedly enough, her mind and body might not catch up to each other in time for a full blown freak-out to set in. “There wouldn’t happen to be anything super special about stakes would there? Like could you rip the floor open with your big scary hands and use that in a pinch? Is that a stupid question?” Bricks crunched outside as the vampires burst through her wall. Morgan’s brain flitted between her options. Upstairs: a long way to fall. Basement: a lot of house to collapse. Not much of a way out either way. The house trembled. Glass rained down overhead, unseen. Some of them were coming in from above. Morgan gave the Big Scary Man a horrified look. “So, Scary Basement?”

Whatever it was that compelled the world to spin, it truly was testing Nicodemus. He didn’t know how to deal with panicking people. That was the main reason he tried to keep things out of sight, out of mind. A month or two in White Crest proved that trying to keep up with that method would be useless. “Just don’t fuckin’ lose it and you’ll be fine,” he said to her, expression grim. There wasn’t much confidence behind that statement but it was something at least. “Nah, if it’s wood and got a stabby point, it works.” He glanced at his hands, brow furrowed. Yeah, he supposed they were big and scary. Big and scary enough to work against potentially drugged out vampires. He stared at her. “Ease up there, you ain’t gonna die. Probably. I don’t plan on dyin’ so just...stay by me or some shit.” His gaze flickered up at the crash of glass and windows. To the side at broken brick. “Basement, come on. Probably got shit down there too!” He opened the door and gestured in. As he stepped down, a minute-long stretch of French swears flowed out of him at the sight of empty coffins. “Well, that’s just real fuckin’ groovy.” He thought back to her question about stakes. “Lose that, use that.” The basement door cracked open and the first of the vampires started to filter down. The hunter didn’t wait and barreled at the first as soon as they came down, stake in hand.

“Who said anything about dying? You think we’re gonna die?” Morgan shrieked. Footsteps thumped overhead, sending dust down on them. Don’t lose it. She wasn’t losing it. This was only the what time she was questioning fate and mortality in the past month? Was this why her mom hadn’t wanted her in a supernatural hotspot? Because freak falling accidents could turn into chased and maimed by vampires in the hands of the curse? But Morgan wasn’t losing it! She scampered down to the basement, her mind only thinking a few seconds ahead. Don’t trip on the stairs and break something! Don’t run into the terrifying coffins! Morgan didn’t have time to say, we’re totally cornered, before there were vampires coming down the stairs. 

“Fucking stars!” She squealed, jumping to the ground. The big scary man was handling things on his own just fine, with all the punching and slamming and staking. She looked at the stake in her hand. She wasn’t sure how she could work up that much force in her arms to make that happen, but then again, there was one jumping the rail and coming at her, fang bared and eyes blazing. “No!” She put out her hands and pushed, not with physical force, but with the energy around her, with her fear and her exasperation. The vampire flew against the stair railing, hard enough to crack the wood. Morgan looked uncertainly at the big scary man. At least she hadn’t been hit yet, right? Then again, the vampire was already getting to its feet and looking several kinds of unhappy. Morgan moved her attention to her stake. How much force would she need to use that again?

“Fuckin’ Christ, no! We’re not gonna fuckin’ die.” His hearing and her shouting forced him to flinch. Nicodemus was preoccupied with the vampire quite literally at hand. The hunter a year ago wouldn’t have thought much of the swarm of vampires, alone or not. But now? White Crest opened something in him, or maybe it tried to put something messily back together with schoolhouse glue, that he had left well enough alone in him. He glanced over at the stranger as the vampire underneath him burst into ash and dusted the basement floor. His heartbeat was slow and steady in his chest even as the swarm of--ten, he counted--fell in line on the stairs. What he wouldn’t have given for a big fuck off spear. 

He reached for the iron flask on his hip and took a swig of it before he swiftly closed it back up. Another vampire crashed down on him and took him off balance. Fangs tried to close around his neck but he spat holy water straight into the vampire’s open eyes and mouth. Undead skin sizzled and in their momentary daze, Nic shoved the stake up and into their still heart. Alright. That made two. He felt eyes on him and he snapped up onto his feet. “In and up! Leverage it.” Ah hell, the vampire she’d shoved away was pissed and he was dealing with another one bearing down on him. “Fuckin’ A, take this! Holy water!” He passed over the water to her and quickly knelt down to grab one of the coffins. With his strength, they weren’t too heavy and he flipped it toward the closest vampire to smash them against the wall along the stairs that led up into the main house. Broken bits of wood burst everywhere. He grunted and rolled his wrist that held the stake. His expression grew slightly more enthused. “Yeah, they ain’t gon’ make it easy, huh?”

Morgan had the stake in the air, primed to thrust. When the vampire she’d thrown lunged, she sent it in, full force--in and not quite up. For an awful moment she and the vampire looked at each other, expecting something very different. Fortunately, a small scary bottle of holy water came her way. Morgan popped it open and swung, letting water arc over the vampire and turn its flesh into something much less stable than marbly skin. This was her chance. Morgan knew it. Still, she couldn’t help but whine wordlessly as she rushed forwards and worked the stake upwards as the man had instructed. She kept her hands fastened on the stake and shoved it upwards. The writhing vampire turned to dust. Morgan didn’t have time to contemplate her victory, a vampire was grabbing her by the arm and shoving her against the wall. Morgan cried out and shoved the stake in again. She had to get out of this corner. Morgan reached with her power for one of the coffin splinters and sent them outward to the next one chasing her as she scrambled to join the hunter (he had to be a hunter, right?) on the other side of the basement. At least one had to land, right?

As the vampire on her collapsed to dust, Nicodemus breathed just slightly easier. He wasn’t getting tired but he was concerned they’d run out of goddamn resources. Fuck, this was why he didn’t commit himself to the hunter mentality of protect all from certain, supernatural death. He shook his head, cracked his jaw as a vampire slugged him. He knocked the vampire in the nose and scraped his knuckles on sharp teeth, but managed to use the shock to his advantage as he burrowed the stake in with cold calculation. He laughed with bloody teeth. “Good shit,” he grunted out as she came to stand by him, both equally covered in vampire ash and dust. The splinters of wood she sent out seemed to pepper the remaining vampires and one gave a sharp scream of an inhalation as a particularly large one dug into their chest. He would need to look into some kinda stake launcher if he kept this shit up. 

Either their numbers were starting to slow down or they were doing a decent fucking job for a ragtag team. And just when he almost started to feel good, another showed. He glanced up, to a small boarded up window. If that was blown open, they wouldn’t be able to hide from the dawn that would steadily creep up. “Got an idea. Gonna need your help, alright?” He flexed his fingers around the stake and reached with a free hand to grab the handgun on his hip. “Gonna bust that fucker open--” He gestured to the window. “And block that door. A few hours, sun’s gonna come. Take care of this shit. Can’t go anywhere.” He spoke fast as he shifted and glanced back. “Plenty of wood and shit we can barricade with back there, I think. Keep ‘em back.” He glanced at her. “Sound good?”

There was something strange about the Big Scary Man as he spoke to her that made Morgan uncomfortable. Something that was almost warm. It was out of place in a room full of vampires and their dust. But this wasn’t time for uncanny epiphanies or evaluating the guy as anything other than the person helping her to not die. “Block the door,” she repeated. “Got it. Easy enough! Y-you’ve done this before, a lot, huh?” She began to inch towards the door. If there was any metal in the lock, it would make a good start. There was still the wall. She was feeling kinda tired, almost spent. Again. But not getting maimed was always a good reason to blow the magic piggy bank. She braced herself for the sound of his gunshot and tensed to run.

“Yeah, more than I fuckin’ care to admit. Just punchin’ in time,” Nicodemus muttered to her before he spat blood. Without much of a warning, he free-aimed at the window and blew five 9mm holes into it. In the basement, the gun was loud and he braced against the impact of his sensitive ears. The wood was old and hadn’t much give to it, the way that it fractured and splintered outward. Moonlight spilled in. He grunted and turned on his heels, eyes between her and the undead that stood between them, their gazes unsure of where to look. Bracing his gun hand underneath with the hand that held the stake, he spent the rest of his clip hitting skulls as he backed up toward the small room at the back of the basement that could be made into a temporary safe haven. Behind the smoking gun, he peered over at her and loaded another clip. Bullets wouldn’t put them down but they’d be enough to stun. “You got it?”

Morgan sprinted as soon as the bullets were done flying. Guns. Of all the fucking things, it had to be guns. Worst of all, she was relieved he had one so they didn’t have to separate. Once inside the smaller room, a storage cupboard, by the looks of it. There were even some questionable looking cans still on the rotted shelves. She reached for the table by the door and shoved it in front of them. Then the shelves. “Help me!” She said. When there was a sizable pile, Morgan reached down with a ‘this is seriously not the time to get maimed or die’ push and turned it all into a heavy mush of wood and metal that was definitely not supposed to exist but would, in all events, keep them safe. “So,” she said, backing to the end of the room, breathing hard from the rush, “You um, have a name?”

“Give me a fuckin’ second.” The hunter followed close behind and followed suit in stacking as much heavy shit as he could against the door. A grunted string of Cajun French happened under his breath as Nicodemus gently tested the barricade just to be sure. If that’s what it could be called. Yeah, it’d hold for the next… He scrubbed vampire dust off his watch and squinted. Couple hours. Christ. At least by the end of it, the sun would be out and there’d be more dust than he or the client ever asked for. To little success, he tried to clean his bloody and dusty face. With ash stuck in his eyelashes, he turned to look at her with a frown. “...yeah, fuck it, might as well start a damn campfire…” For all his grumbles and French swears, he was too tired to be genuinely bothered by the circumstances. It worked itself out. He sat down heavily and tipped his head back against the wall. “Sure do. Nicodemus. You?” He peered over at her. Fuck, his head was killing him. “Magic, huh?”

Morgan sank down to the floor and sent a quick message to Cece about a change of plans for the evening. She didn’t want her falling into the same vampire trap she and Nicodemus were in, and if this was the brand of fuckery her curse wanted to throw at her now that she was on a hotspot, she should get used to handling herself without her help anyway. She tucked her knees up to her chest and forced herself to breathe evenly. In. Hold. Out. “Morgan,” she replied at last. “And, yeah. Not usually like this, but yeah.” She offered him what she hoped was a winning and ‘don’t hurt me’ smile. “I have an Etsy store, but I can do real things too. Not healing, unfortunately, but if you need to turn stuff into other stuff? Um, I do a lot with rocks.” In. Hold. Out. “What, um, what do you like to do, Nic? When you’re not, um, doing this? O-oh, Is it okay if I call you Nic or do you hate that?”

It didn’t take much to piece together that Morgan, as Nicodemus now knew her, hadn’t exactly seen shit like a vampire swarm before. “Shitty meetin’ like this an’ all, but hell, it fuckin’ worked. Can’t complain.” The fact she had an Etsy store sealed his prior thought and he nodded, a sound of affirmation coming from him. At her smile, he offered a slight frown and a slight dip of his head. “Reckon it takes a lot of you but I don’t know a lot about that whole thing.” The hunter was content to sit in silence but that wasn’t an option. If talking might keep her from assuming the worst would happen, if she even did, a momentary sacrifice could be made. “Can do my own healin’ so I got that bit covered,” he offered gruffly. It was likely she had pieced together what he was and he never felt particularly compelled to cover it. “What’s that? Ain’t that--Shit.” He paused to find the word. “Alchemy? Nicolas whatever his fuckin’ name is?” He snorted and shook his head. “Me? I make snowglobes and…” He trailed. Shit, he really didn’t have any other hobbies. “And Nic’s fine. You good?”

“Alchemy, yeah. And I’m not totally spent, but when we get out of this, you’ll probably be the one dismantling uh...all that, once I zap it loose.” She offered him another smile. “And you’re thinking of Nicolas Flamel.” Stupid Harry Potter, spilling all the wrong secrets and getting everything in a twisted, backwards blender for the world to eat like candy. “He wasn’t that special, you know. Most everyone in my family could do this stuff, for starters. But not many people know even as much as you do, so.” She shrugged. This was way more information about a hunter than Morgan was comfortable with. Granted, Nic’s gear seemed pretty vampire specific, and Morgan didn’t have any reason to protect them. If anything, under better circumstances, this might be the time to ask if he knew anything about pretty blondes who liked to hurt witches. But she couldn’t not think of Remmy. Would Nic be kind if they were in this room with him, instead of her? And yet… “Snow Globes?” Really?  “...How do you make those?” She asked gently.

“Yeah, think I can do that,” Nicodemus said with a small nod. He shifted to sit cross-legged, elbows in the bends of his knees as he used a hand to crack his neck. That fixed one issue. He looked at the floor as Morgan talked, not keen on eye contact, but continued to listen. “‘Fraid I only know the name, that’s about it. I don’t deal with, uh, magic much. More that shit and other shit.” He gestured to the noise beyond. Given the circumstances, he didn’t mind offering that information freely. Didn’t care all too much either. Just about everyone he had met so far knew what he was in some way or other, for better or for worse. Magic made him slightly uncomfortable but seeing how she used it, how it had helped… His gut instinct wavered some as logic came through. Morgan could have crushed him with a wave of her hand, mashed him between stone, wood, and dust. But she didn’t. He didn’t want to think further than that. Not right then. The hunter smiled to himself, small and only barely hidden. “Yup, snow globes. Ain’t too hard.” Oh shit. He was actually excited to talk about his snowglobes. That was fucking weird. Morgan might have been the first to ask him that in...awhile. “Do the, uh, lid part first. Glue all the shit down and let it set, then water, glycerin, and whatever fancy shit you want in the mason jar. That’s what I use. Put ‘em together and let it dry overnight. Sometimes use holy water too.”

Morgan nodded along to Nic’s explanation. “Kinda glad to know you don’t deal with magic much. This uh, would’ve been a really bad time to find out you moonlight as a witch hunter.” She couldn’t help but laugh nervously. There was a decent amount of scuffling outside as the surviving vampires got up to stars only knew what. She needed to think about something else. Like the snowglobes. Snowglobes out of jars. “Holy water? No way. Isn’t that hard to come by?” Maybe not if you killed vampires like Nic did. Morgan didn’t know what to make of it, putting his weapons into something fragile and pretty to make it happen. “It sounds like really delicate work,” she said thoughtfully. “Do you have any pictures on your phone? I’d like to see what kinda stuff you put in them.”

Nicodemus snorted and shook his head, ran a hand over his face. Dust fell out of his hair and joined the must of the rest of the room’s mustyness. “Nah. Ain’t for me. Other assholes do that. ‘Sides, magic’s...You said you don’t do healin’, but--” He might as well ask while they had another half hour or so to kill before dawn arrived. “--Know anythin’ for headaches? Excedrin ain’t doin’ shit for me.” With his hand, he made a so-so motion. “Just need a faith healer and some water. Ain’t much to it, I don’t think.” Sure there was more to it, the holy logistics or whatever the fuck, but he didn’t pay attention to that. “It can be, yeah,” he looked at her, waited for her to laugh at him. She didn’t. Slowly, he slid his phone out and unlocked it. He showed her a recent one. One with a tombstone and a small raven on top of it. Small skulls hung in the water, along with black glitter. “That, uh, kinda stuff. Whatever shit’s around.” He raised a brow by a slim margin. “Your store...what's it, uh, got?”

“Not really,” Morgan said apologetically. “But  my mom had a lot of herbalist recipes. I don’t know if they work harder than Excedrin though. I can brew you a mean tea from her recipe to find out. Give you the card of an acupuncturist who knows a thing or two about this sort of thing.” She took the phone into her hands and looked at it. Deirdre must have been rubbing off on her, because the skulls in the graveyard looked kinda cute. “Do you make them for other people too? I’d like to have one like that. With the little tombstone, and some bones?” She handed it back, almost warmed by the careful craftsmanship. “Oh, nothing like that. Crystals and candles, mostly, and I started working in bath salts. They’re good for easing your muscles, if you’ve got some tension and time for a good soak, but there’s nothing special about them.” It was all so normal, so nice, and yet Morgan’s skin was crawling in the wake of these revelations. Kaden all over again, except worse because Nic wasn’t much of an asshole. He was rough around the edges, a little scary looking, but all he’d done since they met was help her. “Nic, can I ask you a weird personal question? You don’t have to answer, obviously, but… how did you get sucked into this?” She nodded towards the vampires at the barricade. “Why do you do it?”

“Tea’d probably work better than the fuckin’ whiskey I’ve been nursin’,” Nicodemus admitted. “If it...ain’t weird after this whole damn mess, yeah, that’d be...nice, I guess.” He watched her face as he showed her the snowglobe. Still, she didn’t laugh. Morgan actually seemed to appreciate it. Unlike some assholes that laughed it off as something stupid and a waste of time. Early in his life, he hadn’t counted on snowglobes keeping him sane, yet there he was. Stuck in a supply closet with a witch, discussing business tactics while covered in the remains of even deader vampires. The hunter might even consider it surreal but nothing fucking surprised him any more. Might as well be getting too old for that shit. “Bath salts? Be careful with that shit if Florida’s got anythin’ to say about it…” he trailed off as he listened to the vampires outside. They seemed to grow increasingly restless. Good. Sun would be up soon enough. “Never thought about makin’ ‘em for other people but...could give it a shot or somethin’.” Never had anyone around to make them for, admittedly. He didn’t expect his life to transition from bounty hunter for hire to professional snowglobe maker anytime soon, but it was a funny thought to entertain. As soon as he heard the words personal question, he had a feeling what it might be. “Ain’t weird, Morgan. Most people ask the same shit,” he said, words harsh but tone less so. He was too tired for that and he sighed heavily before he spoke. “Same way as most hunters. Family business an’ all. Pays like anythin’ else.” Monotone and straight to the point. From the corner of his eye, he looked at her. “That bother you?”

“I would get one from you,” Morgan said, risking a look Nic’s way. She wasn’t sure what her face was doing, if he could see that she was scared, or that she was trying to understand, to reconcile his hard-edged kindness with the deeds that had brought him here. “I’d pay you, or at least offer a fair trade.” He could be capable of more than just hurting people. That was the strangest and saddest thing of all. She turned her attention back to the barricade. Family business? LIke he’d been raised into it, without a chance to know better, or be better? Morgan was starting to understand a little, but the picture didn’t make her feel any less sick. “Do you like it?” She asked. “Is it just all you know, or--” She shook her head, unsure how to finish her thoughts. “I ask because I know people. They just want to be good, and get from one day to the next.  They just want to get to be themselves, to be known by people, and be safe. And back home--” She hesitated. “I mean, that’s all I want too. I want a nice, small life. But back home, there were a times where that was unnecessarily hard, because of laws, and casual cruelty, and because I knew if I tried too hard--” Well, her curse might snatch that up for one thing. But for another, “Someone might decide to hurt me. Or kill me, just for that. And so I just...I can’t help but feel for them. These people I know. Does that make sense…?”

“Holy shit. Really?” The response was immediate, completely unfiltered. Nicodemus blinked, stared straight ahead at the mess ahead of them. Her face was moving but he couldn’t tell what way she was looking at him. “I mean, fuck. Yeah, sure. Whatever.” He kept his gaze straight ahead at her question, but his fingers started to tap against his thigh at an unsteady rhythm. Damn it. It would have been better to not say anything. In his experience, it usually was. His jaw worked, teeth quietly rubbing against each other. He didn’t have to look at Morgan to get a sense of how she might be looking at him that time. “Ain’t about likin’ it,” he said stiffly as he back stepped into nigh-unbreachable stoicism. “If I liked it, I’d be dead.” Young hunters always got too zealous, too in over their heads with the black-and-white morality that older hunters tried to peddle. Like Samson tried and nearly succeeded to do with him. He didn’t say much else as he listened to her talk. It was a strange place, a strange situation, to be discussing morality or how one went about surviving. Or maybe, with vampires trapped behind a blockade of their own making, it wasn’t. What the hell did he know? He remained impassive as she talked. When the quiet settled, he checked his watch. The dead would be burning soon. 

“Yeah...Yeah, it’s what I know,” he finally said as he looked at Morgan. “I decide what I do. What, who, I go after. I used to not. I’ve met...people too. Here.” The worst part of it all? Maybe, somewhere, he was starting to feel for them too. Every fucking day. Every person he met took slim shards of him away. Even after this, she likely would too. And still, he kept on how he did. He didn’t know how to cope. Didn’t know how to be without that torch he carried, the bonfire he promised to start all on his own. “Sometimes I decide not to. I could’ve decided not to tonight,” he said as he ran a hand through his short hair and sat up straighter. “Best that I did, huh?” It wasn’t the right time to laugh, but he did in a hollow sort of way that didn’t dig deep. In a few minutes, his watch would chime. The laugh faded fast and he rolled his head back against the dirty wall. “I ain’t gonna hurt you, Morgan. Want you to know that.”

“Yes, really,” Morgan said softly. “They’re beautiful. And that one reminds me of someone I care about. I’d either give one like it to her, or keep it to think about her. And aren’t snowglobes meant to remind you of wonderful things anyway? It’s perfect.” She wondered if Nic saw his potential beyond death, or if all the blood and this, what was it hunters told themselves? The word of some god? Another fucking duty to break their souls into pieces over? Nic, at least, had some kind of code, some kind of discretion. He said he knew people and Morgan wanted to believe him. Someone who could use their hands to make beautiful, fragile things out of the ordinary should be the kind of person with at least a little kindness, and the awareness to exercise it. “I am glad you decided to, since it’s the only reason I’m alive right now,” she admitted. There wasn’t much relief to be had there however. “And I am, still alive and breathing and not a vampire or a zombie, so I do feel safe enough with you. And I do…” Shit. She couldn’t stop and change her mind now. “...I do think you want to be a good person. That counts for something. And, I mean, sometimes being big and scary can save the day. But sometimes what makes things better is more like a snow globe. You can do lots of things, Nic. I hope you know that.”

The hunter thought of the one kept right on his nightstand. All purple, green, and gold. That dumb alligator looking at him every morning. Discomfort rose up in Nicodemus like sickness. Morgan was kind, impossibly so, to him. She could have just as easily not said a fucking word to him, sit it out in silence and wait for the dust to settle. But she didn’t. She got him talking, even got him to show a snowglobe. The things he felt so peculiarly protective over, even if his rough hands fumbled the glass and there were slim nicks in his skin to prove it. He chanced looking at her as she spoke. “Yeah, might’ve been dead myself,” he said with a shrug. “Here’s to buried shit, huh?” His gaze went to the mess ahead of them and his head cocked some as the infernal screaming started. An awful sound to most ears. Nic just wanted it to be over. How that stacked up against her statement of him wanting to be a good person, he didn’t know and he grunted. The line of his jaw softened by a thin margin as he stood up. Being big and scary is what would get them out of their makeshift sanctuary and as the vampiric screaming startled to dwindle, he cracked his neck. Later, he could consider the depth of her words. How they didn’t just stick to his skin like burs but instead, burrowed. “Got all that from a snowglobe?” The hunter forced a faint smile as he braced himself and started shoving against the mass, pushing until it started to give under his own weight and hell-given strength. “...Guess I do, yeah.”

Morgan didn’t laugh. There was a horrible, too real sound coming from the other side of the door. She wouldn’t have done anything different. They’d given chase, and attacked, trying to take her life. This was fair. And sometimes, fairness wasn’t pretty. Morgan breathed slowly, carefully, and waited for it to be over. She shrugged at his question. “More like from you, but sure,” she said. She got up and waited for Nic to move her barricade out of the way. He was so strong, she didn’t even have to zap the parts loose after all. “Um...I’m glad, that you do. Don’t forget anytime soon, okay? You’re not a thing. You’re more.” She exhaled with relief when the door opened. Ash and sunlight, and a way out.

#wickedswriting #chatzy #chatzy: until dawn #c: morgan #// this broke me #kat and morgan broke me #i loved this SO SO MUCH #A GIFT AND AN HONOR

[bellarke-addict]

Of Potatoes and Psychological Warfare

Octavia leaves Chewie with Bellamy for the week, his next-door neighbour Lincoln helps the puppy unwittingly wage psychological warfare on him.

Octavia and Bellamy Blake have a large messy interconnected circle of friends.

Some were hers- Jasper, Monty, Raven, Clarke- and some were his- Miller, Monroe, Harper.

These were the ride-or-die kind of friends, if they got the call in the middle of the night that one of their own was in a hospital, you better believe that they were headed straight for the waiting room and not budging until they got the all clear. They shared clothes, meals, homes. They helped each other move everything from furniture to bodies.

Because Clarke and Miller were emergency responders, not serial killers.

So why the hell Octavia had demanded that Bellamy be the one to look after Chewie was beyond them.

Chewie the Cane Corso puppy had entered their life a year ago, when he had been found abandoned in the park, tied to a tree. Octavia had brought him home, nursed him back to health and the two had been inseparable ever since.

Everyone in the group adored him except Bellamy, who was mildly allergic to both dogs and creatures that made chew toys of his shoes and books.

But Octavia had got into a two-week summer programme at college which was essentially hiking through Yellowstone for credit and had been told that she couldn’t bring the dog because it would be too hot for creature. And Bellamy was the only one with a back yard.

He’d tried to argue that Jasper and Monty would be better for puppy-sitting because they were home all day and would give him plenty of love in between dressing him up for Instagram and the bikers next door might upset him when they revved their engines or played their loud music but she’d only handed him the bag of dog food and told him to suck it up.

Besides, it would be a good excuse for Clarke to frequently drop by, under the pretext of ‘checking up’ on Chewie.

Group Chat: The Delinquents

8:03 am

Bellamy: Did one of you bring a potato into my house?

Raven: Is this a dad joke? Are you fried up?

Bellamy Blake has added a photo

Bellamy: No, it’s a ‘Chewie just fetched me a potato and I have no idea from where’ joke

Jasper: Awwww, he brought you a present…good boy!

Bellamy: There are no potatoes in my house or yard, where the hell did it come from?!

Clarke:  Are you sure it’s a potato?

Bellamy: No Griffin, the guy who had to give a conference talk on the Irish potato famine representation in modern British media can’t tell a potato from a tennis ball. Which one is brown and which one is bright green again?

Monty: A potato can be bright green if you treat it right.

Bellamy: For the last time Monty, you and Jasper need to clean out your damn fridge

Bellamy: And now’s there another potato!

Octavia: Lol, tell Chewie I said he’s a good boy.

Bellamy Blake was an eighty-year-old man trapped in the body of a twenty-six-year-old sex god.

He loved books, refused to even think about buying an e-reader, barely understood social media, preferred staying in to watch documentaries instead of going out and when his friends did manage to force him outside, he was either home by three am or making everyone around him miserable with his grouching.

So, when Clarke comes in his door to hear him swearing up a storm, she panics, thinking he must have injured himself badly- like, hospital, blood transfusions and surgery, badly- to be uttering curse words.

She finds him in the kitchen and nearly injures herself when she doubles over laughing.

“Eight!” Bellamy shouts, gesturing wildly, “How the fuck did he find eight?!”

Chewie woofed happily, tongue lolling and tail wagging as he sat proudly amongst the potatoes.

Clarke finds herself on her knees, her right hand pressed to her stomach as she tries to catch her breath and Chewie bounds over, knocking her onto her back as he leans against her for pats.

“This, is the best thing I’ve ever seen!” she manages to gasp eventually, assuming that Bellamy's lack of response was due to his attempt to keep a fragile hold on his sanity and not because from where he was standing, he could see right down Clarke's shirt.

Lincoln wasn’t really a fan of gardening.

He could do the basics, he mowed his lawn, trimmed the tree in his backyard so it didn’t hang over into the neighbours’ properties and could keep his houseplants alive.

But growing fruits, vegetables or flowers? More trouble than it was worth.

Which was why he’d been annoyed when his cousin Luna had come to stay and insisted he should try growing his own organic produce.

She’d thought she could convert him by going ahead and planting the seeds while he was at work, but he’d spotted her preparing the soil the night before and waited until she’d gone for her evening run before sneaking out with salt from the pantry, sprinkling it over the patches so nothing would grow.

He’d almost been successful as well.

Except for the damn potato plants.

Not only had they survived his neglect, his dumping hot water on them and then a light spray of WD-40- the only toxic thing he’d had on hand at the time- but they had actually reached their harvest season intact.

And this was bad news, because if Luna found out that one plant could grow in his backyard, she’d do her damn best to turn him into an amateur farmer.

So, when he heard scruffling early one morning, and came out to find a giant dog digging into his potato patch, his only concern had been for the creature.

“Hey buddy,” he crooned, crouching down and holding out a hand, “You’re not lost, are you?”

The dog had raised its head, bounded over to knock him onto his ass and sniff him enthusiastically before going back to his digging.

He emerged with a potato in his mouth and Lincoln is smiling encouragingly as the puppy shook his head vigorously until it was free of the plant and he pads over to the fence, where Lincoln saw a hole had been dug.

Well, really, he couldn’t have stopped him even if he had wanted to.

He stretches up onto his toes to look over the fence and watches the dog head into his neighbour’s house, clearly vacationing there, obviously not lost and he heads inside to start his day.

The dog, who according to his bright pink name tag, was called Chewie, visited him twice a day, usually when his neighbour was at work and Lincoln guessed by the shouts of frustration and confusion that the dog-sitter had absolutely no idea where the potatoes were coming from.

If it were anyone else, Lincoln might have been disposed to knock on his door and explain but, even though he’d never officially met his neighbour, he didn’t like the guy.

Shortly after he’d moved in, Lincoln had had the police around about a noise complaint, and yeah, Nyko and his friends had their motorcycles parked on his front lawn, having a boozy cook-out pretty close to midnight, but they were the local chapter for BACA and had just finished a long protection stint only three blocks over.

Thing was, if the neighbour had just asked him, he would have told Nyko to keep it quiet.

And yeah, he knows knocking on the door of a guy with a yard full of bikers could be a little scary, but the second strike against the neighbour came from the noises he heard after six pm.

And no, not sex noises, Lincoln could ignore those, but the media noises.

Specifically, the documentaries that for the last six months had been almost exclusively world war two, holocaust and Nazi focused.

And Lincoln knew one thing for certain, only two kinds of people watched those kinds of documentaries in large quantity- historians or weirdoes.

His neighbour was tilting towards the weirdo end of the spectrum, not full blown ‘this was what liberals meant when they argued for mental health background checks’ but close to ‘would not be surprised if he eventually served time in the military or a federal prison’

So, if a rapidly growing dog wanted to dig up Luna’s potatoes and wage psychological warfare on his neighbour, Lincoln wasn’t going to stop him.

In fact, one afternoon he came home from the store with milk-bones to encourage the puppy.

He liked to have his front and back door open during the day, after all, anyone brave enough to rob him isn’t going to be deterred by a locked door and he liked the fresh air. So, he’s not surprised when he wakes up to find Chewie wandering into his bedroom.

“Morning, buddy,” he croaks, his voice heavy with sleep, and he flops a hand over the bed, to be head-butted and licked before the dog clambers over the sheets, marking them with dirty paw-prints.

“What’s the matter?” he asks, not expecting a response but Chewie flops onto his belly, looking mournful as he contemplates the pillow and Lincoln has a moment where he worries his next-door neighbour might have died in the night.

Except his neighbour locked up the house every night, so more likely, Chewie’s issues were on his side of the fence.

“Am I out of potatoes?” he asks, climbing out of bed and pulling on a pair of boxers, heading to the backyard to see the remains of the veggie patch.

From what he could see from the three-foot distance he refused to close between himself and Luna’s hobby, he was potato free.

He personally thinks this is a good thing, but Chewie is pawing the ground, whimpering with disappointment and Lincoln can actually hear his heart breaking.

“Okay, buddy,” He bends down and scratches his ear, “How do you feel about non-organic potatoes?”

There’s a fresh produce market a few blocks over and he tells himself that he had been planning to stock up anyway as a subtle sign to Luna that he was never going to grow his own food, so really, the ten-kilo bag of spuds he lugs into his house has more than one purpose.

Chewie woofs happily as Lincoln throws the purple vegetables into the yard, jumping into the air to catch one in his mouth and not ten minutes later, he’s chuckling to himself as he hears his neighbour’s scream.

“They’ve changed colour!”

Honestly, he’s surprised that nobody figured it out sooner.

He comes home one day- and thirty potatoes later- to find Chewie sitting on his front porch with a young woman wearing hiking gear with tanned skin but a sunburnt nose.

“Hi,” she greets, pushing herself up, a long ponytail swinging behind her,

“Um…has my dog been stealing your potatoes?”

Part of him wants to deny it, because he heard his neighbour watching The Man in the High Castle last night and he’s beginning to worry, but Chewie pads over and flops onto his back, paws high in the air and tongue lolling out.

“I wouldn’t say stealing,” Lincoln protests, trying to fight the grin creeping across his face, “Just…enthusiastically gardening?”

Chewie squirms on his back, wriggling his whole body and kicking his leg enthusiastically as Lincoln rubs his belly with his boot.

The woman watches them both with an arched eyebrow, “Well this enthusiastic gardening has been driving my brother crazy, I found him going through the house looking for a secret cache of potatoes, positive our friends were sneaking them in for Chewie.”

Lincoln chuckles, “I think that says more about your friends than it does about me.”

He holds out his hand, “Lincoln Woods.”

She takes it with a grin and a firm shake, “Octavia Blake.”

“How’d you figure it out?” he asks, opening his front door and stepping out of the way as Chewie pads inside, Octavia following after a quick glance in his direction.

“Well, I knew our friends weren’t stupid enough to piss Bellamy- my brother- off this badly,” she begins, laughing as she sees Chewie walk into the open pantry and re-emerge with a potato in his mouth, “Not when he’s the only one guaranteed to come bail them out of jail on a Sunday morning. So, I guessed he was getting them from one of the neighbours and you were the best bet.”

The two of them amble out to the yard to see Chewie disappearing under the hole in the fence and Lincoln tries to think of how to keep Octavia around.

“What about the guy on the other side of the fence?” he suggests and she snorts, crossing her arms over her chest,

“Oh, you mean Wallace? Guessing you haven’t met the guy then?”

He shakes his head, “Not a fan?”

He doubles back to the kitchen and offers her tea, secretly thrilled when she says yes and hops up on his kitchen stool. She elaborates on her issues with his neighbours two doors up, that her brother was a historian, not a burgeoning serial killer, although apparently the potatoes had been driving him dangerously insane. He also learns that she’s house-sitting for her brother next week while he’s at a conference.

He doesn’t learn if she’s single but when she notes that he uses a kettle to make tea, he blatantly lies about Luna- who he emphasises his cousin- giving it to him as a present after his last girlfriend had to move overseas for work.

They’re on their second cup of tea and chatting about her hike when her brother comes looking for her because they’re meant to be somewhere. And big brother glares at him the entire time Octavia is introducing them and Lincoln can’t resist holding his hand out to Chewie, who immediately sits down and offers his paw to shake.

It’s a toss-up as to which of them Bellamy Blake dislikes more.

At least until the day after he’s left for the conference, when Octavia comes around for a cup of tea which sits cold and forgotten as Lincoln spreads her across his sheets and they stay there for hours until Chewie comes barging into the bedroom, potato in his mouth.

“Okay,” he groans as she slowly pushes herself up onto her elbows, “I have to ask, why potatoes?”

Octavia laughs, “Not a clue.”

Bellamy gives a lovely speech at their wedding, about how Lincoln has become like a brother to him, how happy he is that Octavia fell in love with such a good man…

Lincoln almost feels guilty that he’d insisted on having his new brother-in-law served an entrée of potato gratin.

Almost.

#The 100 #the 100 fanfiction #the 100 lincoln #linctavia

[concussed-to-pieces]

Kitten; Part Ten

Fandom: WWE

Pairing: Jon Moxley[Dean Ambrose]/Unnamed OFC

Rating: Holy shit M.

AN: Happy Thirst Party Saturday everyone! Tagging our finest, @tox-moxley, @hardcorewwetrash, @oraclegazes, @actualamyautopsy and @iwannadiehere. Enjoy!

The worry started setting in about a week before Valentine's Day. She never wore pants to bed. Shit, she hardly ever wore anything to bed and now all of a sudden she was wearing more clothes than a nervous bride. To say he was confused would be an understatement.

“Kitten? Y’ gettin’ sick again or somethin’?” He asked finally after the third night of this new…interest in long sleeves and sleeping pants and the whole ‘not being naked beside him’ thing. Which wasn’t that big of an issue, really it wasn’t. They were both adults and if she wanted to wear clothes to bed that was definitely her right. It was just…it was a deviation from the norm and that was always a little scary for him.

She didn’t necessarily look guilty, but she sure as shit was cagey about the subject. “I’ve been kind of chilly.”

That was it. That was all he got. And hell, he wanted to press the matter, but at the same time he didn’t want to be that guy. So he just shut his mouth, accepted his good morning kiss (that he was still pretty sure he didn’t deserve) and headed in to work as usual. He was a good boyfriend and refrained from asking the questions that might make her upset.

Simple Mox, good Mox.

...

Callihan of all people was the one to suggest he ‘tidy up’ for Valentine's Day, wiggling his eyebrows at Moxley in a way that made Jon want to wallop him. “Chicks ain’t into body hair anymore, man. Ya’ chest is literally revolting. I would know.” Callihan gestured at his own hairless torso. “Keep a little bit of the trail, sure. Give ‘er somethin’ to follow. But get rid of that fuckin’ pelt. Trust me. She’ll be all over ya’.”

“The last time I trusted ya’ fuckin’ scrawny ass I got beaned in the back of my fuckin’ skull with a steel chair.” Mox snorted with laughter, unable to keep it in when Sami looked let down. “Fuckin’ douche, tryin’ to kill me and shit.”

“I didn’t know the chick had a boyfriend, man. Will ya’ let it go?” Sami groaned. “I said I was sorry an’ everythin’.”

Mox rubbed a hand thoughtfully over the stubble that plagued his face daily. “I don’t think she cares, Callihan. I mean, I’ll take it under…advisory or whatever th’ fuck, but I’m pretty sure she don’t care?” Mox's voice rose at the end of its own accord, turning his previously firm statement into a question. A doubt, starting to worm its way in. “Why would she care?”

“Hey I’m jus’ sayin’, man. It never hurts to at least look like ya’ makin’ an effort.” Sami pointed out.

Jon’s eyes narrowed. “Shit.” He said finally. “I always look like a damn hobo next t’ her, man. D’ya think that would help?”

Callihan shrugged. “Special occasion, ain’t it?”

…

This was a goddamn terrible idea. Shit, he didn't even know if she wanted this or not. He didn't really want to ask, either. How much of a fucking jackass would he look like if he just walked up to her, opened his mouth and said something like, “hey babe, sugarplum, apple of my eye, you ever thought about me not looking like a stray dog for once?” The wild idea of him pulling off being a dashing son of a bitch haunted him, especially while looking like that guy from the cover of that book he definitely wasn't supposed to know she had stashed in her nightstand.

She was still wearing the damn pants to bed. Shit, she wasn't even letting him put his hands in said pants anymore, usually rolling over or catching his hands and kissing his knuckles in that way that made him melt.

Finally, early in the morning on the fourteenth, after Callihan daring him for half the damn night in between fights and at least seven shots of Jack Daniels lining his empty stomach, Mox sacked the fuck up and walked into the twenty-four hour Walgreens down the street from the CZ. He'd mopped himself off a little so he wasn't a total bloody mess, just an emotional mess. He didn't know when this had turned into such a big fucking deal (but he was relatively certain it was Callihan's fault), or when he had decided that this was obviously a great idea and it was definitely what Kitten wanted and he really needed to just go through with this before he lost what little nerve he had.

So he strode in, made his way to the shaving aisle, glanced over numerous wax kits with terrifying-looking pictures, grabbed a tube of some cream that promised 'pain-free results!' and stormed the cashier like he was on the beaches of fucking Normandy. I am the man who is going to make my girlfriend happy on Valentine's Day and nothing on this planet is stopping me.

In hindsight, maybe applying the shit once he had sobered up would have gone better. Or maybe applying it after his chest had healed from the fights. Or maybe just not slathering the shit on while finishing the bottle with Sami and then falling asleep next to the sink in the CZ bathroom. He only conked out for about forty-five minutes or so, but according to the tube that was forty minutes too long. The burning sensation was what woke him and Mox flew into a drunken panic, flailing and damn near knocking himself out on the underside of the sink before he managed to stumble to his feet.

He remembered thinking oh God no, just staring at his reddened, irritated chest coated with now-flaking cream in the mirror for a few wavering seconds before tearing at his jeans and making a mad dash for the showers. He'd wash it off. It'd be fine. This was definitely not going to ruin everything and he was still a good boyfriend.

Sami full-blown shrieked when Jon threw open the door to the showers, “Christ Mox, th' fuck did ya' do?!” He looked horrified, which only added to Jon's panic because Sami never busted out that face around him.

“It'll come off Sami, s'gonna' be okay Sami.” Jon mumbled, almost losing his footing on the slick floor. Callihan caught his arm and slammed his still-clothed ass down on the tile, ignoring Mox's protests as he turned the shower on full blast, freezing cold.

“Y' fell asleep with this shit on? I mean yeah, I done pretty much th' same thing first time I tried it. At least it's up here, right? Mine was on my fuckin' balls.” Sami's rueful grin made Mox start laughing even while he shivered under the frigid spray of the shower.

“F-F-Fuck C-Callihan, m' a f-f-fuckin' fa-failure.” He managed to say through his chattering teeth, essentially climbing his friend to stand again.

“Shut the fuck up.” Sami said bluntly, his hair now lank and dribbling cold hair gel down his face. Mox suddenly wanted to cry for some reason. He couldn't do anything right for fuck's sake and it hurt, way worse than whatever the fuck was going on with his chest. “Don't get fuckin' bitchy on me now, Mox. S' just some hair. You've had way worse'n this shit, man.” Sami continued, sounding almost like he was scolding him as he rung out his shirt.

“M' sorry man, I jus' wanted t' make her happy.” Jon scrubbed furiously at the skin on his chest, trying to avoid eye contact. Most of the paste had already dissolved under the water, taking his chest hair with it, but the redness seemed to be here to stay. Patches were bleeding here and there, and his poor nipples, Christ. Mox felt raw, like someone had exfoliated his chest with a fucking belt sander. “What th' fuck'm I gonna' do, Sami? I...we have a little thing planned tom--shit, tonight.” He realized in horror.

“Fuck that, what about tonight with Gage? Are ya'...I mean, shit man, y' look like y' got skinned.” Callihan, ever the master of tact. Mox teared up and he quickly ducked his head, staring at the floor as Sami shut off the shower.

“I j-jus' wanted t' look good f' her, m-man.” He hiccuped. “She looks like a fuckin' p-princess an' m' all d-d-dirty an' disgustin' an' ugly as shit, fuckin' ruinin' her jus' like Drake s-said--”

Sami whacked him upside the back of his head, making Mox yelp in pain. “Jonathan fuckin' Moxley, listenin' t' somethin' that comes outta' Younger's mouth? Who th' fuck are you, and what the shit did you do with my partner?”

“I dunno', man!” Jon cried, “M' hurt an' still drunk an' I'm fuckin' p-panickin', fuckin' bad dog all over th' fuckin' place, what the hell am I gonna' do Callihan?!”

“Ya' gonna' fight with a shirt on! No shit, genius! Ya' gonna' fuck ya' woman with a shirt on! No shit, kinky! She's gonna' love ya', you ain't gotta' tell her shit, an' you'll be fine!” Callihan was fucking roaring at this point, obviously still pretty hammered himself. “Ya' dick is fine, ain't it?! Chest jus' looks like ground fuckin' burger, y' waited too long an' shit! Now go to sleep, sleep off Jack and then we'll be ready t' fight. Ya' totally got this man, no worries!” The encouraging slap on the back he gave Jon almost knocked him over.

…

Fighting was fucking agony. Mox should have known from the second he stepped into the ring that Gage would take him to task.

“What's with the getup, street dog?” Nick had circled him, taking in the white t-shirt he wore. Jon's prayers that he wouldn't notice the tiny spots of fresh blood seeping through the front of it apparently went unanswered as Gage's opening move was winding up for one hell of a chop. And yeah, he'd fought hurt before. Fought really hurt before, much more hurt than this bullshit chemical abrasion across his chest. Like when Gage had whacked his arm open with a dinner plate, or when Damage had Powerbombed him on the cement beside the ring.

But the shirt just made everything worse. It rubbed and clung to his raw skin; Jon felt trapped and he wanted to fucking scream. There was a damn reason he didn't wear shirts in the ring, too easy to get grabbed or hung up on the wire or whatever the fuck else guys would do to one another. If there was one thing Mox was sure of, it was that he didn’t like it when his opponents got creative.

As he rammed his knee into Nick’s midsection Moxley found himself wondering whether anyone in the crowd was here for Valentine's Day. Like this was someone’s idea of a hot date. “Hey babe, wanna’ watch a human dog fight? Bet that’ll get your motor running.” Jon shuddered, cringing in pain when Gage landed another slashing chop across his chest. But he forced himself back up, forced himself past the next one to wrap his fists in Nick’s worn basketball jersey and hoist him high, almost tipping them both out of the ring. Gage strangled the ropes, kicking wildly and knocking Mox flat on his back.

Nick lunged on top of him and Mox could barely hazard a guess at how fucked he might have been if he hadn’t gotten his feet up in time. As such he ended up catapulting the other man over his head, and Nick slammed into the plywood on his back. Mox got up, wiping the blood from his split lip off with the hem of his shirt. The collar around his neck jingled quietly, and Jon felt some of the tension ease out of him. She’s waiting for me.

“Gage, can we speed this up?” He rasped, slumping back into his corner. “I got a cute chick dyin’ t' see me at home, man.”

…

He was lucky. He knew he was lucky. Lucky to be alive, lucky to have a friend like Sami, lucky to have his Kitten. Jon showered, shaved and changed after the fight, stripping off the now-pinkish white shirt and putting on a fresh one beneath his button-up. Hopefully it would keep the blood from soaking through and staining his (somewhat wrinkled but very clean) dress shirt. Normally Mox was master and commander of all things Band-Aid, but there was just too much surface area for him to fix this problem efficiently. Gauze was out of the question, too bulky and obvious. She would ask, or worse she’d be fucking worried about what had happened and he’d kill any mood that might have already existed.

Jon let Sami help him fix his hair a little, Callihan clearly holding back his laughter at how slowly and carefully Mox was moving. “Ya’ like a grandma or some shit man, loosen up.”

“Can’t help it, Callihan. M’ sore. Nervous.” Jon admitted. “I mean, she’s been actin' funny. Wearin’ more clothes and stuff. I just don’t wanna’ wreck what good thing I have here by showin’ up looking like I-”

“Th’ fuck do you mean, ‘wearing more clothes’?” Sami asked, tipping his head to the side. “Is this like that shit from before where ya’ were both bein’ fuckin’ idiots when you coulda’ been idiots fuckin’?”

“No no, she still lets me hold her and shit. She’s…I mean she’s a hot sleeper, y’know? It’s just weird, all of a sudden she’s wearin’ pants t’ bed an’ long sleeves.”

Sami ‘hmm’ed softly, looking like he was thinking hard. “Shit man, I dunno’. I’m assumin’ you ain’t, y’know, asked her about why she’s doin’ it, right?” He snorted when Jon nodded. “’Course not. Ya’ prefer drivin’ y’self fuckin’ nuts.”

“It’s harder than that, Callihan.” Mox said, annoyed. “I don’t wanna’ look stupid. I already look like a fuckin’ deadbeat. If she catches on that I don’t know what I’m fuckin’ doin’ when it comes t’ her, I’m fucked. I never had t’ do any of this fuckin’ Valentine's Day crap before man.”

“Oh yeah, I’m sure you ain’t never whipped out a little TLC on a chick before, Mox.”

“Bein’ soft…isn’t really somethin’ that I am, Sami.” Jon mumbled. “I pretend for her, but I’m always lost n’ shit. I thought it’d get easier, fake it ‘til I make it. Everyone else before her, it’s usually been a contest t’ see how quick they can get what they want outta’ me. My mouth or my dick or my fists, whatever the fuck. An’ I went along with it because shit, I was poor an’ lonely so fuck it.”

Callihan had gone strangely quiet. His fingers fidgeted in Mox's hair. When he spoke again, his voice was a little kinder than Mox was used to. “I didn’t know, man. I always figured y' had a kinda’ normal love life, aside from the weird collar bullshit. I’m…I’m sorry ‘bout that, Mox.” After a second he punched Jon in the shoulder, that familiar grin back on his face. “Sorry I been sweet-talkin’ all them chicks into my pants, that is!”

Jon smiled gratefully at his friend. There was only so much sugary-feel-good bullshit he could take from Sami at one time. “Yeah yeah, someday you’ll find a nice girl an’ she’ll take ya’ V card an’ leave y’ heart in the dust. Don’t cry t’ me Callihan.”

“Take my fuckin’--how dare y’ fuckin’-” Callihan sputtered with rage. “Insinuatin’ that I ain’t--the balls on you, Moxley!” He finally managed to say, tossing Jon his hoodie. He then grabbed him in a headlock and gave him a vicious noogie, thoroughly ruining any work he had put in to the other man’s hair. “Y’ lucky we’re friends, you fuckin’ cocksucker.”

...

The bus ride over to the stop near her apartment gave Jon ample time to worry and half-crush the bouquet of orange roses he’d picked up. They were out of red ones, go figure, and the orange ones were the least ragged-looking in the group. So orange it was. He wished for a second that he knew what orange roses meant in that flower language bull, before deciding that it was probably better that he didn’t know. I hope she likes them, shit.

Keeping the roses safe until he got to the apartment was priority number one. He ended up cramming them under his hoodie so they would stay a decent temperature while he made the slow, slippery walk from the bus stop to the apartment building. It had been raining most of the day and now everything was covered in a sheen of ice. Mox breathed a sigh of relief when he finally got in out of the elements, carefully knocking the ice and slush off his boots then heading down the hall.

Upon opening the apartment door, he was confused for a second at the lack of lights on. Was he too late? Too early? Shit, did he get the wrong day? His panic was short-lived however, once he caught sight of the candles flickering in the living room. Oh. Why the fuck didn’t he think of that?! Nothing was more romantic than fucking candles. Christ, he was awful at this.

Jon struggled out of his hoodie and boots, clutched the flowers a little tighter. He had to swallow a few times before he could speak. “Kitten? Y’ home?” He rasped.

“In here, Jon.”

Of course she was in the bedroom. Stupid, stupid! Jon half-wished he was still drunk, at least to give his body a fucking reason to be so slow and clumsy. He didn’t want to open the bedroom door. He didn’t want to be the one to ruin the little daydream life he had, the one where everything was okay and he wasn’t fucked up and helpless when it came to this romance bullcrap. So much for looking like the guy on the cover of that book that I’m not supposed to know about, he thought wryly.

He had to fight the urge to knock before he pushed the door, hearing the latch click softly as it gave way. He felt almost like he was a stranger, like this was the first time he'd ever come home. Maybe even like the first time he'd seen her laid out on the bed, as if she was a beautiful surprise just for his greedy body to devour, for his stupid, weak fucking heart to latch onto.

There were a few more candles placed here and there in the room, but it was the sight of her that caught him. She was on her back, arched in a way that his brain quietly informed him was probably pretty uncomfortable but did absolute wonders for his dick, wearing a little see-through number that Jon had never seen before. His mouth went bone fucking dry. “Ki...”

“I've been waiting for you, Jon.” She murmured, and God damn, if she didn't sound every inch the sultry fucking vixen. “Missed you. Happy Valentine's Day.”

“H-Happy...I g-got. These.” Jon forced the words out, extending the bouquet. “F-For you.” She rolled over onto her hands and knees (that was a wince, that was definitely a wince, what the hell?), accepting his flowers with a happy noise that shot through his body. “Kitten, y' look fuckin'...wow. Christ.” Jon said softly, hoping that the fucking reverence he felt was properly vocalized. “You're so fuckin' pretty, I...” He wasn't sure what happened inside him. It was like something broke, shattered into a million pieces. The next thing he knew he had lurched toward her, hands shaking as he pressed her back to the bed and drew them over bare skin that seemed so hot, fever hot and smooth, smooth like silk.

Kitten squirmed and whimpered under his touch. Normally that would have lit Jon up like a firework, but something about her reaction seemed...wrong. Too sharp, like she was in pain. “Kitten, y' alright?” He asked cautiously. Did something happen to her? Is there a bad reason she's been wearing all those clothes? His stomach twisted in fear. Did I hurt her somehow? Does she not feel safe around me anymore? “Sound a little iffy.” Don't you dare fucking start bawling, Moxley.

“I-I just missed you.” The hesitation, the fucking hesitation in her voice hit him like a punch to the gut. Jon really wanted to cry.

He sat back on his haunches, running a hand through his hair and sucking in a breath. “Kitten, if y' don't wanna' do this anymore, all you have to do is say it. I...you ain't been lettin' me do much lately, an' that's fine, but draggin' this shit out hurts me. I love you, Kitten, but if y' don't wanna' do somethin', if you don't want me around anymore, ya' gotta' let me know.”

Kitten's fists clenched at her sides. She grabbed a pillow and covered her face with it, screaming into the thing with a vengeance. Mox watched, wide-eyed in confusion. She finally seemed to be finished, chucking the pillow at the wall. Her face was wet with tears, but she didn't look sad, she looked fucking livid. Jon swallowed hard, unsure of what he had gotten himself into. “Kitten...?”

“J-Jon, I got...I got f-fucking waxed. And it hurt. My skin is apparently really sensitive. I'm all...I'm all red and everything from the waist down feels like it's on fire but I just wanted this t-to be good so I figured I could suck it up because it's our first Valentine's D-Day.” She made an infuriated sound. “I hate this! Why can't one thing go right?!” Jon was helpless to stop his raspy laugh, quickly holding up a hand to deflect the pillow aimed at his face. “This isn't funny, Jon! I spent most of today with a fucking ice pack between my thighs just trying to bring down the swelling!” She snapped.

“Kitten, m' so sorry. I ain't laughin' at you. But y' gonna' laugh at me when you see what I did to myself like a fuckin' doofus.” Jon struggled to unbutton his dress shirt, nervous giggles still escaping his mouth. “Oh my God, you ain't even gonna' fuckin' believe this, Kitten.”

“What's those spots on your...Mox are you bleeding? Did you fight today?”

“Jus' wait.” Jon hauled his undershirt over his head, tossing it to land on the abandoned pillow.

Kitten's anger appeared to evaporate, her hand reaching out shakily to touch the raw skin of his chest. “Jesus Christ, Jon, what happened? Who did this to you?”

“Y' gonna' fuckin' cry laughin', Kitten. I...I did this. Callihan told me that girls don't like...they don't like hairy guys. S-So I got some stuff that y' rub on an' it eats th' hair. I figured I'd surprise ya'. I fell asleep with it on though.” Jon was startled when Kitten seemed more upset than amused, the tears streaming down her face. “I was so worried about tryin' t' hide this shit from you, an' it turns out y' pretty much in the same fuckin' boat. God I'm a fuckin' idiot, Kitten. M' so sorry. I ruined Valentine's Day.”

“I think we both did, Jon. I mean, I spent the whole week not shaving so this wouldn't happen, and it still did!” Kitten huffed. “I didn't want to gross you out, that's why I started wearing clothes to bed. I felt like a fucking hairball, it was revolting but I wanted it to be a surprise and everything I read said that I should have at least a week's worth of growth and...and now I look like one of those hairless cats, all pink and pissed-off.”

“Oh my God, Kitten, I don't give a flyin' fuck whether ya' shave seven days a week or seven days a year, or if ya' got more fuzz than a fuckin' Wookie. I just missed the shit outta' touchin' you. How fuckin' dumb are we?” Jon snorted. Kitten laughed through her tears after a minute, cupping his face and kissing him. “M' so sorry, Kitten, fuckin' Christ I'm sorry. Let's get y' outta' that tight little number an' into somethin' of mine, okay? Nice n' loose.” He offered.

Her legs were almost scorching to the touch. Jon was thankful for the dim candlelight of the room as he carefully helped her peel off her clothes. He wasn't sure if he actually wanted to see the full extent of her damage. Couldn't trust himself to keep from bawling his eyes out. He definitely didn't want her to see the full extent of his damage, especially the undignified, patchy remains of his happy trail. More like happy fucking hopscotch.

She finally seemed comfortable, curled up on his side of the bed in a loose, hole-filled shirt and nothing else. Jon made sure that all the candles in the living room were extinguished and then slowly trekked back to the bedroom, pleased to find that she'd dragged her laptop up onto the bed and was scrolling through it looking for something to watch. Jon didn't even mind when she picked a mushy romance flick, too preoccupied with how she essentially laid her tits on top of his arm and kept making little noises in the back of her throat whenever he would play with them.

He nodded off with her head in his lap, his fingers stroking through her hair gently while she mumbled something about a, “do-over...”

“I wish you'd just asked me.”

The soft words eased into Jon's consciousness, into the mundane dream he was having. Was it even a dream? He didn't feel achy. He must be dreaming. But all he was doing was being cradled in her arms, one of her legs flung over his and her chest pressed tightly to his back. Jon relaxed against her. It wasn't often that he indulged himself as far as being held went, still a little uncomfortable with letting his guard down. He was the badass, he was the one who protected, and he was the one who did the spooning around here, thank you very much.

“Wish you could talk to me. I promise you won't scare me.” Kisses landed on his shoulder blade. “My poor mutt. I should have told you what I was doing. Just wanted it to be a surprise.” Fingers toyed with his collar. “Why are we so bad at this?”

She sounded sad. Jon wanted to say no, wanted to take all the blame for himself. None of this would have happened if he wasn't such a coward, if he'd only been able to speak to her, like all those normal couples did. But his tongue refused to cooperate. So it was a dream, then. Not much could keep him from talking if he so desired to shoot his mouth off. And if it was a dream...

He burrowed further into the warm cocoon of blankets, securing her arms around his waist and making her snuggle even closer. No harm in indulging a little.

…

Four days went by. Four long, tender days of her wearing as few clothes as possible (mostly his shirts), curling up against him every chance she got and fussing over his chest. Jon had never thought of himself as a man with a great deal of patience, so he considered it a personal triumph that he had lasted this long without bending his sweet, beautiful Kitten over the nearest surface and railing her until she begged for mercy for being such a God. Damn. Fucking. Tease. The best part out of the whole thing (and honestly, this was what really got him going) is that it seemed entirely unintentional. She was no more forward than normal, but her being sweet and gentle with him coupled with her pretty consistent lack of underwear or pants was fantastic.

Shit, maybe he had gone soft and, in turn, maybe he wasn't as bad at this as he thought. He certainly had never refrained from fucking someone out of fear of hurting them before her, that's for sure. He recalled with a wince a few of the marks he'd left on women past, when they would demand or urge him out past any sort of reasonable boundaries, “be rough with me, Mox!” They wanted something different from him, something that their boyfriends apparently weren't willing to give. The crazy, rabid street dog. They didn't want Jon. Not a lot of people did. Getting shoved into that dark, fighting mindset while he was fucking was always a terrifying experience because Jon was never quite sure what he might come back to.

He knew he was lucky, leaving a trail of nothing more than crisp-edged hickies and the occasional too-hard bite that made chicks squeal in pain or ecstasy.

He knew he was lucky because Kitten was still pressed to his side, fingers ghosting over the almost-healed skin of his chest. There was food in his stomach. He was warm and safe, camped out on a couch with the woman he loved. She never pushed him, never forced him past his boundaries. And yeah, he'd fucked up Valentine's Day but they'd had a pretty good Christmas, a few fun birthdays between them.

“Kitten, d'ya think we can try again?” He asked, hand rubbing over the smooth skin on her calf. She had been more and more receptive to touch as the days went on, slowly returning to some semblance of normalcy. Which was a damn good thing. “For Valentine's Day, I mean. Maybe next week or somethin'?”

She shook her head, suddenly swinging her leg over his thighs. “I was thinking maybe...” She trailed off, biting her lip.

It had been almost two weeks between the build up to the almighty V-Day and the subsequent healing time. Eleven days of not being able to stroke his Kitten, eleven days of keeping his hands to himself. But here she was now. Offering without words, straddling his thighs and shifting her hips back and forth. No panties, nothing between them but his jeans.

Jon swallowed hard. “Are you sure, Kitten?” He had to ask. God only knew how bad it could be if he didn't.

She nodded eagerly, taking his hand and pulling her shirt up (technically his shirt) so he could touch her thighs. Jon's eyes narrowed and he grabbed a handful of the shirt, dragging her in for a hungry kiss. “Lean over the couch arm.” He demanded breathlessly, thrilled when she obeyed. Easy. There she was. Spread out, waiting for him. Jon wasted no time, all but pouncing on her and quickly breaching her cunt with two fingers.

She cried out, arching her back against him and circling her hips as he curled his middle and ring fingers roughly inside her, his index coming up to tease her clit. She was already wet, already fucking soaked and so damn tight around his fingers and Jon wondered briefly how long she'd wanted him to do this but hadn't asked. The idea of her needy and achy made his dick all but crush itself against the zipper of his jeans, his brain (as usual) going into fucking overdrive and imagining her whimpering and fingering herself on the couch, wishing it was him the whole time.

He groaned and pressed his chest to her back, pinning her to the couch arm. “Jon's got you, Kitten.” He whispered in her ear. “Y' little tease, walkin' around with no panties on like you don't know what you fuckin' do to me. Makin' me hard as a fuckin' rock, makin' me wanna' bend your naughty ass over an' fuck ya' until y' can't see straight. It would be so fuckin' easy, so fuckin' easy. Just tug this shirt up a little, slide this fat fuckin' dick into you. You'd love that shit, wouldn't you?” Jon asked, spreading her pussy lips to tease his middle finger over her entrance in a mockery of penetration.

“Y-Yeah-” Kitten sounded almost frantic, her hips rocking up into his touches.

“Y' like me when I'm desperate, don't ya' Kitten?” Jon leaned back and unzipped his jeans, lazily stroking his cock and winking when she looked back at him. “Y' like it when I just say all the shit that's on my brain, instead of keepin' it in. Shit, y' might even like me bein' in charge, huh?” Kitten whimpered pitifully. “Jesus Christ Kitten, you made me so fuckin' hard, damn. Could come just from this. What would y' do if I came right now, fuckin' coated y' stomach?” Jon cupped his cock and pressed it to her slit, rubbing himself slowly back and forth across her dripping opening.

Kitten dug her fingers into the couch, moaning needily and trying to shift her hips so he would slide his cock into her.

“Mmm, someone's been a naughty fuckin' Kitten. I think y' can wait me out.” Jon murmured. He'd never gotten himself off quite like this before, but it definitely had merit. He really was too wound up, the waiting and her willingness completely ruining his endurance. Jon felt no shame though. He was  perfectly willing to go multiple rounds, if that was what it took for him to satisfy her. He pressed his forehead to the small of her back and came with a soft grunt after a few more tugs on his dick.

Kitten made a whining noise, seemingly in disbelief that he'd come so soon. “J-Jon...?”

“I toldja', y' been fuckin' naughty.” Jon panted, smirking. “Gettin' me hard all the time, rubbin' ya' tits on me like y' trying t' titfuck my whole fuckin' body. Can't tell me at least some of it wasn't intentional, Kitten. Y' must like me all riled up an' achin' t' fuck you.” The blush that spread over her body was answer enough.

“I...I like it when you take charge. I've missed you.” Kitten said quietly, her honesty surprising Jon. “God, Jon, please. Please.” Her fingers slid down her stomach to touch his dick, stroking him gently. He hadn't exactly wilted when he came and she apparently realized that, if her sharp intake of breath was anything to go by.

“Oh that's right, I'm still good t' go.” Mox grinned, softly biting her shoulder blade through the shirt. “I've been fuckin' waitin' for this, Kitten. No one an' done tonight.”

“Yes.” She sounded thrilled and it made Jon laugh.

He spread her legs open even wider, taking a moment to appreciate the effort she'd put in. “I know y' probably ain't too keen on waxin' ever again, so if y' don't mind I'm just...” Jon paused, thrusting his fingers back into her and then mercilessly hooking them over her spot. Kitten's back arched, the woman pressing her cheek to the couch arm while she moaned and writhed underneath him. “Mm, Kitten y' sound a little close t' creamin' all over my hand. Smooth little pussy tryin' so hard t' come on me.”

“Please, Jon, I--” She begged, her voice cracking as she came. “It's been awful, could tell I was making you hard but I couldn't do anything about it, wanted to fuck you so bad but I was too sore.” Kitten admitted jerkily when she could speak again, “wanted you so much, so fucking much, Jon, please.”

Her confession hit him like a sack of bricks. Even though she'd been in pain, she still wanted him. Him! Jon was a little exasperated with how quickly his eyes welled up. How fucking soft could he get, really? But for her...

Shit, for her he'd fucking melt away if she asked for it.

“No more waitin', Kitten.” Jon rasped, blinking the tears back. “No more hidin'. I'll be careful. I promise. Won't hurt you. Good Behavior.” He felt a shudder roll through her body that had nothing to do with her orgasm. He vaguely recalled coaxing her onto the worn-out mattress he'd had at the CZ warehouse with those same words and a fervent promise of no biting.

Good Behavior, Best Behavior.

It felt like a lifetime ago that he'd been that guy, the one who'd wanted to go dark because it was usually better than being around inside his fucked-up head. A lifetime since she'd been so small and scared, willing to do anything just to feel safe for a little while. She'd hauled him out of his destructive cycle and he'd slowly given her a sense of security.

They'd come so far together.

Jon shook his head and pressed another kiss to her shoulder blade, easing his fingers out of her. “Hey, turn over, okay?” He asked softly. She had a shy expression on her face when she obliged, tugging the shirt down like it would cover her completely. He caught her hands, mouthing soft kisses on her knuckles. “No more hidin' from me, Kitten. My beautiful fuckin' princess.”

“Only if you promise to do the same.” She replied, her voice just as soft. The protest was on the tip of his tongue, he didn't hide--

But he recalled the hellish week he'd spent agonizing over something as pointless as whether she liked his body hair or not, and he finally nodded. A smile lit her face and she slid a finger through the D ring on his collar, pulling him into a kiss that was so tender it hurt. “My strong mutt.” She crooned to him when they finally parted. “I love you so much.”

Shit, he might be totally fucking broken at this point. He quickly ducked his head and began fumbling with his jeans in an effort to keep her from seeing how hard those words still hit him. She cupped his chin though, tipping his face back up so he could meet her eyes. “I'm serious, Jon. I know it's difficult for you. I don't expect one night of me tying you up to be enough to work through a lifetime. But...I'm going to keep saying it until you're okay with it.” She whispered.

He had no idea why she was being so quiet. All it did was add another layer of intimacy to the situation. Jon could handle yelling, frantic movements, demands and orders and hits that landed. When it came to the gentle stuff though, the romantic shit like they had in the movies she liked to watch, he was at a total loss. It always sat heavy in his chest and made his throat tighten, his longing quickly slapped down by the reality of who he was.

“M' sorry Kitten, I don't mean to...I jus'. It's jus' a hard thing for me to handle. M' okay.” Jon mumbled, “Bad at this shit.”

“Do you still want to, or should we stop?” She asked cautiously, searching his face. “I totally understand if you would rather just snuggle.”

Jesus Christ, Kitten, you aren't even fair. Jon shook his head, not trusting his voice as he laid his head on her chest and wrapped his arms around her. He could hear her heart rate pick up while he slowly, slowly slid his cock into her, could hear the moan she tried to bite back. Her hands cradled his head. “Who says I can't do fuckin' both, huh?” Jon challenged shakily, biting down hard on his lower lip when she whimpered. “I'll snuggle the fuck outta' ya', Kitten.”

“Mm, yes-” She sighed, stroking his hair. “God I love you. Love you so much.”

Jon couldn't answer, just gripped her as tightly as he dared. He may like to talk, but his words failed him at times like these. His body would have to do the talking for him. No candles here, no cute lingerie or bouquets of roses (though not for lack of trying on either of their parts). Just all his damn feelings, all his soft fucking bullshit feelings that he couldn't articulate so he had to resort to this, holding her close and easing their bodies together like he was never going to do this again so it had to last.

Maybe she'd get an inkling. Maybe she'd hear the 'I love you so much' that was what he meant when he clumsily said she was beautiful. Maybe she might understand he had never done this with anyone else and it was fucking terrifying and he didn't know what the fuck to do.

“Kitten, I...” Jon's voice petered out and he cursed inwardly. Dammit, fucking dammit. She just started stroking his hair and it made some of the strain leave his body. “Fuck.” He muttered, torn between comfort and being more aroused than before. She was so fucking warm around him, whole body wrapping him in an embrace that he never wanted to leave. “I missed you.” He finally said softly, voice muffled by her shirt. “Fuck, did I miss you.” He sloppily licked and nipped at one of her peaks through the shirt, hoping to distract her from how choked-up he sounded. “N-Not just this, obviously.” He cursed the tremble in his voice. “Everythin', everythin' about you. I'll try not t' hide anymore. Don't want ya' t' feel like I do.”

“God, Jon...” She was being so damn tender with him, like when he came back to her walking fucking wounded and it killed him because it meant she was worried. Her fingers buried in his hair, her hips rising to meet his own so gently, her sweet voice moaning praise as he made love to her. He found himself breathing every word that got tangled up in his stupid mouth, pulling energy from all the times he'd fucked up, broke off, never said what he wanted to. All his stupid machismo was shoved aside, like what had happened the first time he'd met Kitten.

The only thing left was that raw love ache that hurt sometimes, burned a little too bright sometimes and left him feeling defenseless. But Jon would do it for her. He would do anything for her. “Oh God, Kitten, please open your eyes.” He begged, propping himself up over her. “I gotta' tell ya' somethin'.” Please, please, before I lose my nerve.

She half-opened her eyes, her hands moving to cling to his midsection. Her breath was coming in shaky little sobs, wanton noises making their way out as he continued to fuck her slowly. “J-Jon--” She gasped, her nails digging into his skin in that way that let him know she was close.

“God, I love you!” Jon fairly exploded, forcing the words past the lump in his throat. “I love how y' say my fuckin' name, my real name. I love the way ya' fuckin' curl up around me, the way y' take care of me. I fuckin' love ya' happy fuckin' face an' th' kisses you give me an' the ways y' make me laugh and I hate that I had to fuckin' slog through all my hangups jus' so I can fuckin' finally gush 'bout how fuckin' great you are!” The words poured out of him, hot and messy and maybe a little more than he'd intended to share as he felt her walls tighten around his cock. “Y' my Kitten, you're th' most precious thing I fuckin' have, most importan' thing in the fuckin' world t' me an' I love you so damn much, so fuckin' much--”

She grabbed his collar and jerked him down to her face, kissing him for all he was worth. Jon cupped the back of her neck and refused to let go, the two of them locked in a race for completion while he continued to mumble against her lips, all the soft shit he'd always been too scared to say.

I love the way you make me feel, I love the way you touch me, I'm so sorry for making you wait for this, please forgive me, I love you so much, I'm so sorry he hurt you, thank you for letting me love you, thank you for trusting me...

“I love you too, Jon, I love you so much--” Her reply made his heart swell and he swallowed hard, bumping his forehead into hers and looking down at where their bodies joined.

“Come with me, Kitten. Come with me, please. M' fuckin' beggin', can't last much longer.” He pleaded urgently.

She cried out, the sound sending shivers down his spine that went straight to his dick as she came around him. Jon slowed his pace to a gentle rocking, brushing her hair back from her face while she gasped for breath. “O-Oh, Kitten...” He moaned, his own orgasm rolling over him in an all-encompassing wave that nearly made his arms give out. “Fuckin' Christ, Kitten.”

She quickly struck one-two at his arms, successfully dropping him on top of her with a startled 'oof!'. Kitten didn't seem to mind being almost-crushed though, wrapping her arms around his neck and holding him tight while she ran her hand through his hair and made soft noises of content. Exhaustion dragged at his body like a dead weight, but he couldn't in good conscience just doze off after saying all that stuff to her.

“Are y' alrigh', Kitten?” He asked warily, after she hadn't moved for several minutes. Her breathing had evened out, heartbeat still coming back down. She'd fallen asleep underneath him. Jon barely kept from snorting with laughter. So much for being worried about how she would take him essentially fucking his feelings into her, seemed she was handling things better than he was.

He carefully untangled her arms from around his neck, standing and twisting back and forth to work the kinks out of his spine. His whole body ached but in that warm, pleasant way. Jon looked down at her, thoroughly tousled and sound asleep without a care in the world. “Y' have th' best ideas, Kitten.” He said quietly. “Let's head t' bed.”

Her head lolled against his chest when he picked her up and her fingers sleepily traipsed across the bare skin. “Miss your fuzz.” She mumbled as Jon laid her down on their bed.

Jon hushed her, trying not to laugh while climbing under the covers and tugging her close. “It'll grow back, Kitten.” I hope.

“Mm, good.”

Jon laid there silently for a few minutes as she moved around, finally seeming to get comfortable with her face tucked into his neck. “Damn, but ya' sure do know how t' make a first impression on a guy.” He said softly.

Good Kitten.

Epilogue

#jon moxley smut #jon moxley #Jon Moxley/OFC #thirst party saturday #wrestling #this made me laugh and cry at different points #enjoy! #happy valentine's day you lovely folks #what a wild ride this story has been