literatureatthebowofnails

[literatureatthebowofnails]

Therapy homework: Take floating smut, attach to a fic, and post.

[literatureatthebowofnails]

Think you could take a 10x10 inch cock? Asking for a friend 👀

like is it a cube or am i misunderstanding

[literatureatthebowofnails]

"there's a guy in the walls" movies exist in a universe that I fucking WISH was real. imagine how easy it would be to install stuff in walls if the space behind a wall was not 3.5 inches/8.9 cm deep and I could get my whole self in there. of course that would mean a guy could get in there too, but what are the odds.

[literatureatthebowofnails]

a wonderful ao3 author note

[literatureatthebowofnails]

I love this one so much. The swirling confusion of dreams, meds, and magic keeps the question of reality up in the air while this creeping wraith is just so hot

Once Upon a Dream

Warnings: this fic includes dark content including rape/noncon, somniphilia, medication, insomnia, and other potential triggering elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Your sleeping pills have some unusual side effect.

Characters: Loki

Note: This if for @cocoamoonmalfoy​ Jack o’ Lanterns in July Writing Event. I chose the song Once Upon a Dream by Lana Del Ray and for my horror trop I was inspired by the legend of the sandman.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. Thanks to everyone who reads this one and thank you for all your energy.<3

Love you all like Rumpel love Stilskining. Take care. 💖

The world is fuzzy with the aura of your exhaustion. Your hands move in a jittery slideshow, vision flickering as you fumble the orange bottle. Push down and twist.

Keep reading

[literatureatthebowofnails]

The way she views him is just so sweet. For now at least

All Things End 2

Warnings: non/dubcon, mentions of loss (death, miscarriage), and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Characters: Arvin Russell

Summary: Newly widowed, you take a job at the local grocer to make end’s meet.

Part of the Backwoods AU

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

Your shoulder only gets worse. When you tell your supervisor about it, he’s unfazed as he sends you to restock the cans of tuna. Those are small, he suggests. No matter, the repetitive motion only tweaks the knot firmly lodged beneath your shoulder blade. 

When you finish your shift, you’re almost in tears. You still need to haul your own groceries home as you spend twenty minutes collecting the bare essentials. Even the light load feels like pushing a boulder up a hill as you leave through the front doors. 

You wince as you cross the lot, searching out the beaten up Volkswagen. You stop as you see the bumper sticker, heart dropping at the reminder. You remember that road trip and how you rolled your eyes at Ben when he slapped the sticker onto the car. You tried but it wouldn’t peel off. 

You stop and lean the bag against the hatch. Ugh, just the thought of driving makes your muscles roar. It’s not far. 

You lift the bag again and a pang ripples up your neck. You cry out and drop your armful, the can clunking heavily as the brown paper splits and sends your groceries scattering. You slap a hand on the car and reach to shakily rub your neck. 

You quiver out a gasp as you look down at the mess. You slide your hand down the metal and groan as you reach for the can of mixed beans. It’s scooped up before you can get your fingers around the dented tin. 

“You alright?” Arvin asks as he gathers up the smattering of groceries. 

“Yeah, I… tripped.” 

“You know,” he stands, hugging the loose goods, “I told you to take it easy.” 

You look at him in exasperation, he means well. Still, good advice isn't always practical. You have to work. You need the paycheck. 

“I know, thanks,” you reach for his armful. 

“Let me,” he insists as he steps closer, “pop the trunk.” 

You groan and turn to shove the key into the slot, pulling up the hatch halfway until it opens all the way. You drag the empty box from the corner for him to put the groceries in. He puts them into the cardboard as you lean on the bumper and cradle your shoulder. 

“You think you can drive like that?” He asks. 

“Really, I’m fine,” you insist through gritted teeth. 

“Is that true or just something you say?”  

“Look, I appreciate it but you don’t need to worry that much. Enjoy not having to while you can,” you say. 

“I see someone who needs help and I help,” he shrugs, “it’s what my ma taught me to do. If she was still around, I hope she’d be proud of that.” 

You wince and look away. It can’t be easy losing a parent young. You regret being so defensive and over what? Your bum shoulder? If she were alive, his mother might be around your age. Maybe that’s why he’s so concerned. 

“Thanks, Arvin, that’s considerate, I’m sure she would be,” you force a smile. “I can drive, I got another arm--” 

“Isn’t safe like that,” he shakes his head, “please, I can give ya a lift. I’ll walk back into town--” 

You open your mouth but stop yourself from repeating that mantra ‘it’s fine’. Your mouth slants and you tilt your head one way then the other. You sigh through your nose. You really just want to lay down with some ice. 

“You’re not going to let me go, are you?” You ask. 

He grins and shakes his head, hair flopping, “’fraid I can’t.” 

You nod and hold out the keys, “shifter sticks, make sure you give it a wiggle.” 

🌲

Arvin drives confidently up the country roads. Everyone knows where everyone lives around here, even as the roads wind into the thicker brush. He slows as he comes onto the gravel road that leads to your marital homestead. Each time you see the arch of branches that crest the clearing, you’re reminded of the day you moved in. With Ben. 

There’s not much else left of him there. The pieces you did keep of your happiest years are all hidden away. More sore reminders of the lost. Aside from the stubborn rose bush. The petals are just as bright and pink as when Ben put it in. Your first year anniversary gift; it would be almost twenty if he was here. 

Your shoulder tweaks and the pain stokes the tears behind your eyes. You wiggle your nose and shake off the grief. It’s just this damn knot. It’s got you all twisted up. 

Arvin stops gently, the axle grinding loudly with the worn brakes, and he turns the engine off. You unbuckle your belt as he frees the keys and does the same. He’s quick but most people are quicker than you right now. 

He comes around to open your door before you can. You thank him as you get out, your purse dropping off your lap. He bends to pick it up first 

“Get yourself inside,” he hands you the keys, “I’ll get your things.” 

“You really don’t--” 

“I can hear it in your voice, just like those whiny brakes. I’ll have a look at those too,” he insists. 

“Arvin,” you utter, awash with embarrassment. 

“That shoulder won’t get any better if you keep being stubborn,” he grips the top of the car door. 

“What would you know? You got some years before you gotta worry about all this?” You kid as you slump your injured shoulder and touch it daintily. 

“I know pain when I see it and I know you’ve had enough of that,” he says, “go on. Let me get my good deed done for the day.” 

You nod and can’t help the tug in your lips. Right. He sees an old lady in need. You’re under no illusions. You know your age, you know what you’ve lost, you know what other people think. They pity you. Somehow, you hoped he wouldn’t share that. 

You sniff and step past him. You make your way up the front steps with tunnel vision. You try not to see the empty flowerboxes or the broken bench. The things Benny would have taken care of. 

You let yourself in but aren’t fast enough to keep the screen door from clattering into your shoulder. You cry out and stumble, catching yourself against the bigger inner door. You drop the keys. You don’t even need them. No one in Hammer Ford locks their doors. 

“Woah, hey,” Arvin’s footfalls rush up onto the porch, “everything okay? What happened?” 

You cling to the door hand and shakily look back at him, “nothing,” your voice is brittle, “the door... hit me.” 

“Ah gee,” he frowns, “come on,” he urges you in with his hand on your lower back, “you needa just relax, miss.” 

[literatureatthebowofnails]

I think this reader might be my favorite. She is trying to hard not to hit her patrons, but hell if it's not tempting

Crossed Wires 1

Warnings: non/dubcon, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Characters: silverfox!Andy Barber, Cole Turner

Summary: you try to balance your work with your private life as your boss and a new client try to blur the lines. (short!reader)

Part of the Backwoods AU

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

The gravel mulches loudly under the tires of the truck. You grip the ridged wheel as the seat belt strains against your shoulder. You make yourself sit back, the seat slid up as far as it will go. Still, the bumper shortens your perspective.

You figured you’d get a call to the old Orson place when you heard it sold. That was months ago though and the new owner finally set down roots there. You haven’t seen them, you’ve only heard the whispers that accompany any happening in Hammer Ford; from a new recipe to the juiciest of scandals. You pay much attention to any of it.

You keep your hands at ten and two as you follow the long gravelly drive to the farmhouse facade. There’s a single car parked outside the garage. It’s a sleek white SUV, luxury by the looks of the hood ornament. It’s not what you expect around here. That paint job will be dusty in now time, if not scratched by errant pebbles.

You pull in and shut off the engine. You undo your seat belt and check your watch. Right on schedule. You open the door and step on the rusted step below the door, letting yourself down with a hop. Your tan work boots kick up dirt as you round to the passengers side and swing the door open to retrieve your heavy work bag.

You sling the thick strap over your shoulder and snap the door as you head towards the house. You rest your hand on the side of the bag as you near the steps, searching for any sign of life. The stairs creak as you climb onto the low porch.

“Can I help you?” The deep voice startles you. 

You blink and turn to face the man sitting on the wooden boards, bolts and screws around him along with metal parts and wooden boards. You hadn’t seen him through the tight slats of the railing.

You keep your usual vague stare as you sniff, “got a call about the breaker.”

He squints at you, a squiggle forming between his brows. He’s older. His grey hair has a single bolt of its former dirty blond just above his forehead. Despite the heat and the dirt sprinkled over the boards, he wears a pair of dark slacks and a button-up rolled to his elbows.

“You’re the electrician,” he states as he sets aside the small screwdriver in his hand. He stands with a grunt, grasping his knee before he straightens.

“Sure am,” you reply flatly.

“I spoke with a man,” he intones, hands going to his hips as he looks down at you.

“That’s would be my boss. Cole.”

“That’s his name,” he steps forward, wiping his hand on his shirt, staining the light gray fabric, “Andy.”

He offers his hand and you shake it curtly. All the farmers pride themselves on keeping a firm grip and you never faltered with them. He squeezes before he lets you go. He doesn’t have the typical callouses, you even have a few.

“How’d you get into this work?” he wonders.

“It’s work. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, I don’t– I don’t mean anything,” he stammers.

“Didn’t think you did,” you sniff, “so, what am I looking at?”

“Well, I don’t really know,” he reaches back to rub his neck. The power keeps… flickering.”

“Ah, been a while, probably just need to wait for it to stabilize. City worker came out months ago for the meters,” you explain.

“Right, well, I heard sizzling.”

“Show me where you heard it.”

He nods and gestures you towards the door. Before you can reach it, he pulls the wooden screen door back and waits for you to enter ahead of him. He tells you it’s just down the hall and stop you near the basement door. You peer down the stairs and flick the light switch. There’s a low buzz.

“I don’t think you need to worry about it,” you look up, “but I can have a look.”

“Oh, okay,” he utters, “I also had another question. You might know something about it.”

You look at him. He seems put off by your expressionless stare.

“I wanted to install an automatic opener in the garage…”

“I can do the wiring, sure, long as you buy the parts,” you answer. “I can give you recommendations, odds are, you’ll need a whole new door as well.”

“Sure,” he agrees uneasily.

“Can schedule an appointment when you decide,” you turn your palm out, “I’ll just go grab my ladder and have a look then.”

You go to step past him but he’s not quick enough. You nearly collide and find yourself moving back and forth with him, trying to get by. You stop and stare. He stills himself and turns sideways, waving you by. You pass and let out a slow breath through your nose.

You stalk back down the hall and onto the porch. You hear him following you. You come down the steps as he continues his close pursuit. You don’t exactly know what he’s doing but you won’t ask. Cole says you need to work on customer service and not tell people to get out of your way.

You go around the bed of the truck and open the back. You reach for the ladder but another arm stretches further and faster. He pulls the ladder out before you can and you step back with a grunt.

“Hey, I can get it,” you insist.

“It’s okay. I don’t mind helping.”

“So why am I here?” You ask curtly, immediately knowing you asked a bad question.

“Sorry, I was just… being nice,” he says.

“Right,” you try to soften your tone, “it’s just… it’s my job. I can carry the ladder.”

“I know you can,” he looks down at you and you feel even smaller. You don’t like it when they try to play gentleman, it’s condescending. You might be short but you’re strong enough. 

“Thanks,” you grab the ladder and yank it from his grasp.

He lets go and you continue past him. He huffs and follows a few paces back from the end of the ladder. You angle it up the steps.

“At least let me get the door,” he inches past you, “okay?”

“Thanks,” you repeat in the same even keel.

You enter and take the ladder down the hall. He hovers just down the hallway, watching as he shifts his weight between his feet. He’s the worst kind of customer, the kind that have to supervise. 

You step up the ladder and look past it. “Mind holding it?”

“You sure?” He gives a trite arch of his brow.

You blink and keep your eyes from rolling, “I’d appreciate it, sir.”

He comes forward and braces the ladder staunchly. You climb up and suppress a snarl. City folk think you’re all backwards out here but they can’t wrap their damn head around a woman with a brain.

[literatureatthebowofnails]

Timmy is the only one who's willing to acknowledge how fucked this all is and it's mostly because he's being taken advantage of as well

The Farmer's Daughter 16

Warnings: non/dubcon, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Characters: Walter Marshall

Summary: You notice a peculiar change in a family friend. (short!reader, sorry size kink is out)

Part of the Backwoods AU

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

Walter helps you out of the truck, his hand firmly on your arm. As you stand on solid ground, his touch crawls around to your back, his longer fingers stretching between your shoulder blades. The residue of rain floods your nose as a coolness lingers in the air. 

He retracts his arm, shifting the folder in his other. You face the house and walk in-step with him to the porch. He squeezes your hand then waves you up the stairs ahead of him. You pull open the creaky screen door and he catches it behind you, following you through the larger interior door with a sniff. 

You put your shoes on the mat and he pauses to step out of his beaten work boots. You can smell coffee and hear the clink of porcelain. You sway in place as suddenly you’re in tunnel vision. The edges of your sight haze and you see only the doorway at the end of the entryway. 

You walk forward, overly aware of the gigantic shadow hovering over you. Walt stays close as you tiptoe into the door frame and stop to stare. You mother rubs her eyes as she holds her head and Timmy stirs a cup of coffee. 

“Mom,” you greet her and she sits up, “sorry I didn’t come back I...” 

“She got caught in the storm,” Walter nudges you and you break the threshold. 

“Oh, honey,” your mom preens, “thank you for getting her back safe.” 

“Of course. Really came down last night,” he lingers by the door as your mother watches him and Timothy barely seems to comprehend anything beyond his mug. 

You go to the counter and lean on it, making yourself smaller as you wait. Walter slides the folder from under his arm and waves it so it wobbles. He lets out an exhale. He grips it in both hands and rolls his tongue beneath his lower lip. 

“Bank approved the mortgage, we’ll have to get signatures to switch everything over,” he crosses the space and holds out the folder to your mother, “I’ll let you look it all over, of course.” 

Your mom swallows as she takes it and opens it slowly. She looks within. You barely remember everything they said at the bank. That daze remains, dulling your mind as you watch from behind a wall of fog. You put your signature all over those papers but you don’t really understand what you signed. 

“Hm,” your mom hums thoughtfully, “and?” 

She looks between the two of you. Timothy’s brow ripples as he does the same. 

“Sweetheart,” Walter prompts and Timothy’s eyes widen. 

You force out a breath, “yeah, uh, we’re... getting married.” 

“It’ll be good for collateral. You know, I know how much this place means to you all--” 

“Wait, wait, wait,” Timothy gestures from his forehead, “what? Married?” 

Walter looks at her mom and she cringes, turning it into a smile, “sweetie, I... didn’t want to get ahead of myself,” she faces him, “but it’s a good thing. You always wanted a brother didn’t you and your sister, she’s old enough now--” 

“Married?” He echoes, “them?” His voice turns pitchy, “but he’s Walter. He’s...” his eyes search the room and settle on you, “old?” 

Walter clears his throat, “I’m not gonna pretend I haven’t let some years pass me by but I can take care of this place. I can keep it all in order--” 

“But I’m... It’s my dad’s farm. I’m next in charge,” Timothy puts his mug down heavy, sloshing the coffee over the edge, “mom, what is that?” He charges forward to grab the folder. He skims the contents and confusion lines his soft features, “mom? Walter?” 

“It’ll still have you attached. When we marry. It stays in the family,” Walter assures calmly.  

“No, it’s my farm--” 

“It’s your father’s,” your mother murmurs, “Tim, please, we can’t... we can’t get the approval. We’ve spent too much already on your dad’s care and we just don’t have the equity left.” 

“I could!” Timothy insists. 

“No, you can’t,” Walter insists, “your dad’s a smart man. He’d agree. It’s the best course of action. Otherwise, all this is gone.” 

“No, you’re wrong,” Timothy snaps. 

“He’s not,” your mom sniffles, “please, Timmy, we never would’ve got the sowing done if it wasn’t for Walter, you know that. He fixed the truck, the tractor, he built that ramp. We couldn’t have done it ourselves.” 

“She’s right,” you finally find your voice, “dad put in all those years to give us this place, we can’t just let it go.” 

“Whatever,” she spits and stomps up to you, “you’re only saying that ‘cause it’ll go in your name. What will I have?” He snarls and jabs his finger at you, looming over you, “huh?” 

Walter moves subtly but decisively. He comes up beside you, then steps forward and puts his hand on Timothy’s shoulder, moving him away from you as he stands between you. 

“Don’t talk to her like that. Ever,” Walt says evenly, “you will get exactly what you earn. I’m not kicking anyone out. Got it? If it’s better your dad stays and gets a full-time nurse, that’s what we do. If he needs a facility, well, I’ll make that work too. Thing is Timmy, you can’t figure any of this out alone, otherwise, you would’ve.” 

Timothy is quiet. There’s electricity in the air. A tension with teeth. You feel it gnawing down as your brother huffs like a brat. 

“Mom?” He whimpers. 

“Dear, please, you can stay, keep doing what you’re doing, nothing’s gonna change--” 

“What about me? What about when I get a wife? Have kids?” 

“Lots of land,” Walter insists, “we can make it work. We won’t be staying in the main house. I’ll clear that patch to the west, build us our own. If you read,” he taps the folder in your brother’s hands, “you’ll see we got a subsidy for the building materials too. I got buddies from the yard, they’ll help me get it up too. You’re welcome to put in, might do to learn how to build.” 

Timothy stammer and you hear the slap of the folder on Walter’s chest but he doesn’t flinch. He bends his arms and takes it as your brother stomps away. He scoops up his coffee and shakes his head, “well congratulations to the happy couple,” he barks, “hope you’re happy, sis, with the old fucking man.” 

Walter growls but says nothing. Your mother whines and covers her mouth. Timothy storms out the back door as you lean to see around the larger man. It’s just like him. As much as it’s all a mess, they’re all right. He can’t handle the farm on his own. 

“I’m sorry,” your mom says, “he’ll come around. He’s just... surprised.” 

“Mm,” Walter nears your mother again and offers the folder back to her, “he’s young. Got a lot of growing up to do. Pity it has to be this way.” 

Your mom nods and looks down at the paperwork. She slowly raises her head and peers over in your direction, “I’m so happy for you two,” she snivels as her eyes gleam, “it’ll be nice to have something to celebrate.” 

“It will,” Walter backs up to put his arm over your shoulders, “we’re gonna go into the city and find a ring. Afraid I didn’t do it right.” 

“Oh, that’s so sweet,” she flicks away her tears, “so lovely.” 

“Would you like to come?” He offers, “I’d love to take my future mother to lunch.” 

“Pat’s nurse isn’t here yet and I can’t go even if she is,” your mother gives a bittersweet next time, “no, you two, you have fun. Maybe next time.” 

“Next time,” Walter agrees and turns to you, “why don’t you go freshen up,” he tugs at your sleeve, “rain’s got you all crusty still.” 

[literatureatthebowofnails]

It's always the "nice" guys

The Farmer's Daughter 9

Warnings: non/dubcon, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Characters: Walter Marshall

Summary: You notice a peculiar change in a family friend. (short!reader, sorry size kink is out)

Part of the Backwoods AU

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

After the tense morning, you don't speak to Walter again that day. Or the next. When he arrives, he stays outside with his thermos of coffee and waits for Timothy. At the end of the day, he gives your brother an excuse about chores at home. Maybe not an excuse. He has been spending a lot of time around here.

Nearly a week after it happened, after everything changed, your mother appears in the kitchen with a crease in her forehead. You offer her a cup off coffee as she rubs her eyes. She yawns and and shakes her head.

“We'll grab a cup at the hospital,” she says, “you're father has a check-up. Timmy's taking us.”

“Oh?” You pour yourself a mug and lean on the counter, “I forgot.”

“Lots going on,” she sighs, “can't blame you for being distracted.”

“Uh, yeah, I guess,” you shrug.

“I called Walter, left a message,” she checks the clock hung above the door, “wouldn't be too bad if he did swing by, huh?”

“Hopefully he doesn't waste the time,” you grumble.

“Honey,” she chides playfully, “you know, I think your dad would approve… if he could. He always liked Walter.”

“Mom,” you frown, “please, I have enough to worry about.”

“Oh, I'm sorry,” she whines, “I'm just… looking for a little sunshine through the clouds.”

You wince, a pang of guilt between your ribs, “I'm sorry, mom, I just… Walter's nice. He helps so much and I think… I think maybe it's too much.”

“Don't I know it.  He is so generous. I gave him some money and I found the envelope in my purse,” she tuts, “you could do much worse. He… he could take care of you.”

You exhale, “mom.”

“Just listen,” her tone turns dire and her eyes gleam, “your pa can't. He's not gonna be able to ever again. I already know what the doc's gonna day and you shouldn't fool yourself. Walter won't help forever, not for no good reason. And next year, your pa won't be back on his tractor…” she sniffles and dabs her nose, “those days are behind us.”

“Ma, you don't know–”

“I do,” she utters solemnly, “I see the man I married but he's hollow. He's… a shell, honey. He's there but he's not really.”

“Oh, ma–”

“I'm just saying… we need to weigh our options. I'll look into selling if we gotta and Timmy, maybe he can go work with Walt–”

“Aren't you getting ahead of yourself?” You cross an arm around your middle.

“We shoulda been talking about this a week ago,” she shakes her head.

“Well, I can apply at the grocer or–”

“You do that,” she says, “but you think real hard. You got options,” she steps closer and cups your cheeks, “you're a pretty young thing. That doesn't last forever.”

You don't say a word as her greyness seeps into you. She draws away and you bow your head. You wait for her to go as you stare into the black depths of the coffee. You take a sip to try to chase away the ice in your veins but it only sends a shiver through you.

🌾

Your parents go off with Timmy in the truck. You set to sweeping the porch to keep yourself busy. Your mother's words ring in your ears. She can't be serious, there's more out there than the farm. Pa always said as much and you don't think he meant Walter.

As you get to the steps, the distant rumble of an engine rolls over the ground. You turn as gravel grits under treads and Walter's large truck lazily rocks along the bumpy road. You still the straw broom and grip the handle as he pulls up. Did he not get your mother's message?

He lingers in the truck as you squint against the sunlight. His door pops open and he jumps down, sending up a cloud of dust. He goes around the bed of the truck and opens the back.

He slides out a sheet of wood and drags it towards you. You watch in confusion as he stops and leans it against the side of the porch. His eyes meet yours and his brows furrow.

“Morning,” he checks his watch, “barely.”

“Morning, Mr. Marshall,” you eke out.”

His eyes flash and he nods. He turns and marches back to the truck, pulling out several planks before carrying them over. You watch him as you lean on the broom.

“What are you doing?” You ask.

He stops and looks up at you. He points to your feet and flicks his finger up, “building a ramp. For your dad.”

You look down at your slips flecked in dirt and stray strands of straw, “oh? Didn't ma call–”

“She didn't ask,” he says bluntly. 

Your lips slant and you tilt your head, “that's real nice.”

“Yeah well, I'm a nice guy,” he huffs and spins on the heel of his boots, stomping away once more.

He goes back to the truck and retrieves his toolbox. His agitation roils off his tense shoulders and the stone set in his jaw. You're too afraid to ask but you do need to. He has been avoiding you.

“Well, I'll stay out of your way,” you lift the broom and back up the stairs. “If you need anything–”

“Not in the way,” he says curtly as he takes out a measuring tape.

“Oh, I know but I wouldn't wanna bother–”

“I don't mind,” he shrugs as he steps onto the stairs and measures the angle over them.

“Right, of course, do you need anything? A glass of water or–”

“Seems like I'm the one bothering,” he stands and lets the tape retract harshly.

“No?” You bat your lashes at him, “I didn't say that, Mr.--”

“Walt,” he growls, “you know what I like best in a woman. Honesty. So why don't you be honest and tell me what you really feel?”

“I…” you gulp, “Walter, er, Walt, I… I'm just… confused.”

“Don't act like a child. We both know you're not,” he crosses his arms over his broad chest. You've seen him angry before but it's never been aimed at you. 

“I… I don't know what to say. I'm sorry.”

“Sorry. Okay,” he shakes his head and unfolds his arms, going back to measuring, “I'm open to talking when you wanna be an adult.”

You flinch as you watch him. He grits his teeth, ignoring your presence as he focuses on his work. You turn, hiding the hurt deep in your chest. You never meant to hurt him but you really don't know. As much as you try to wade through your feelings, you only feel as if you're drowning in them.

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*dreamy sigh* fruit juice :]

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you found it disgusting and immoral i found it sexy and arousing that’s why i’m happier than you

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They just found out about gingerbread people.

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— Frank Bidart, from “Half-light: Collected Poems 1965-2016; ‘The Third Hour of the Night’", published c. 2017.

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hey. don’t cry. you’re not a Harry Potter adult

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Matt Murdock "Playing" Blind vs. Being Blind