#Do you know how weird it is to write a POV change?

[lurkinglurkerwholurks]

Oh oh I can tell you how I handle this!

First, I must acknowledge that epithets are hard. When writing in a specific character's POV, you have to be careful about describing another character only using descriptors that they would use or it'll feel awkward and weird. (I don't generally think about my sister's height relative to mine and therefore wouldn't refer to her as "the tall one" or even "the taller one", for example, unless it's relevant in the moment. Talking? Not relevant. Her hitting her head on a ledge that I missed? Relevant. That wouldn't be true of someone I just met. If you're tall[er than me] I'm probably noticing it and don't have other ways to differentiate you from other strangers.)

Luckily, I don't usually have to resort to epithets in writing, because readers can generally follow pronouns and support way more proper name uses than you might expect! Pronouns by definition are placeholders for proper names. Where writing gets confusing is when it feels like the pronouns are floating free and unmatched. Reconnecting the proper noun and the pronoun is all you need to reset.

Within a paragraph, use a proper noun enough to be clear. Vague, I know, but it really is an art instead of a science and largely comes down to personal taste. Refining your personal taste can help a ton, and one way to do that is to look at works by people who you feel write these kinds of scenes clearly and cogently. I'm going to use my own writing as an example, just to make it easy for myself.

Structuring your writing so the subject is fairly consistent will help a ton, as will "checking in" with a proper noun when it feels like you've checked in on the other person more recently.

[alt: The muscles in Bruce’s face, Jason realized, were good at going completely still when surprised. That was useful. He had said intervened like Jason had done it on purpose, throwing himself into this nightmare to save Bruce instead of acting like a petulant, stomping child. He had just a moment to wonder if the look from Bruce was meant as gratitude or as an apology when Bruce turned his attention back to the others. “It should reverse in a few days.”]

In the snippet above, because I'm moving tightly between two he/him characters, I use their names just enough to stick into place who's being reference at any given point. If I had wanted to be extra careful, I could have changed "He had just a moment to wonder" to "Jason had just a moment to wonder."

Over multiple paragraphs, when you're sticking with one person, reconnecting (or what I mentally refer to as "checking in") can happen once a paragraph and really shouldn't be needed more than that.

[alt: He really didn’t have much of note to say. Dick narrated his way through the canned goods and the dry goods, making jokes about Wally’s Skittles stash and the cans of Spaghetti-Os Roy demanded be kept on hand but no one else ever touched. He talked about a TV show he had been watching and made a joke that elicited a hrmm from Bruce that would have been a laugh from anyone else. And the more he talked, the more he remembered little stories from his week that he had tucked away with a mental note to tell Bruce.

At last, though, Dick had finished his final story and let the call lapse into a pause that stretched into silence. He bit his bottom lip and fidgeted with the rolls of gauze, stacking them into pyramids outside the gutted medical kit. He could never tell with Bruce whether the silences were contented or an interrogation technique, the patience of an investigator applying pressure to a reluctant witness. In the end, it didn’t much matter.]

But really, truly, the TL;DR of it all is you don't need as many epithets as you think; as long as you don't go crazy with your subject and object switches and check in on your connections regularly, you can lean on pronouns way more than you think; and readers can handle way more uses of names than you might suspect.

Me writing a scene with two or more people of the same gender and trying not to get the readers confused, while also trying not to overuse the characters' names or epithets

[glitter-stained]

I know some people argue that robin!Jason and Dick were never close post-crisis pre n52 because they only interacted a couple of times in canon and I understand that due to Dick living away when they first met they wouldn't be as close as the relationship Dick has with some of his other siblings, but I would also wish we would take in account that for all three of Jason's years, we have like 30 issues of Jason's run. That's exceedingly small. We have batman #416, we have that one moment in teen titans (i forgot the issue) of jason working with the team, and i think the ski trip we found out later about was included in the same canon*. (also, i do feel like even if you didn't know/like eachother before going on a ski trip together by the end of the ski trip this will have changed, and the picture definitely felt like they were getting along even though Jason's face in the picture was comically weird.) I'm not sure if there were other interactions shown or mentioned, but hey, 2-3/30ish isn't a bad score at all! If we're going 3/30, that's a whole tenth of Jason's robin era.

(And I'm talking about their relationship from Dick's pov since it's the one in question here but it's clear to me in Jason's run, even post-crisis, that Dick is often on his mind and important in his life (with a certain inferiority complex the little siblings of very cool people know well) with stuff like I think Batman #410 or Jason is Legends.)

And even more importantly, 30ish is extremely short for three damn years. That's ten issues per year! Do we assume that Jason was sitting on a shelf for the whole time he's not working with batman in the comics? Do we assume batman was sitting on a shelf twiddling his thumbs all that time during those three years he appears, either? It's perfectly logical to make the assumption that Bruce and Jason were still going out as goddamn Batman and Robin even when it's not shown on screen and having a relationship and interacting together even when it's not seen. In fact it's the most reasonable and logical assumption even. It's obvious Jason and Bruce's interactions extend past what was shown on screen so why wouldn't Dick and Jason? We know from Dick's relationship to his death that Dick cared about Jason. We know how much his death impacted him. Regardless of the (now retconned) terrible mess that was their relationship after Jason came back, they had a relationship, and it was good, and how deep it went is up to interpretation but it doesn't cheapen or lessen any of Dick's relationship with his other siblings to acknowledge that (like, seriously, even though some of them might view it as such in the story, dick's love isn't a prize that can only go to the one blorbo to win the competition. Personally I don't see Robin Jason being his favourite, and that's fine. Probably since, as I only have one sibling to be weird about, this is one aspect of Dick and Jason's relationship that I don't project onto them.)

There's a difference between saying "those are the only canon interactions between Dick and Robin!Jason that we know of" and saying "those are the only interactions that happened between Jason and Dick when Jason was Robin", especially if the next sentence is going to be something like "read a comic". I want to insist that I'm not saying that they have to have been super close. All I'm saying is I don't see, with the knowledge I personally have of canon and the retcons I choose to disregard (because of terrible writing), why considering that they were close wouldn't be canon compliant.

Leeway, nuance and up to interpretation stuff are fun and should matter for evaluating the level of canon compliance of your own headcanons, and I think it's especially important when trying to police other people's interpretation of canon: are you certain their interpretation is fanon and you're correcting it with the right canon, or is it a case of two headcanons clashing in the blank space between comic pages?

I just found it strange to never see it taken in account in the sometimes pretty emphatic takes I saw on the debate around their relationship, so those are my two cents on the matter. All this to say, [theatre joke in coming], when it comes to Dick and Jaybin, we could all stand to be more chill.

* btw i'm excluding dixon's nightwing year one from this conversation because I hate how it manages to shit on every one of the characters i've seen him write in it so violently and also fuck dixon, my jason comes from post-crisis not that crappy weirdo retcon.

[absolutedestinyapocalypsse]

i love how as you read more into tlt, the ninth house seems more and more normal. Like if i'm at an immoral evil government competition, and i use human fat as soap and animate skeletons to do menial labor, i'm gonna LOSE if my competition is the third house, represented by ianthe "who HASN'T eaten human flesh and fucked a corpse" tridentarius. My weird skeleton thing seems normal, suddenly. Well-adjusted, even. It's recycling. They're using resources in a sustainable way. Normal and regular and productive for a post-climate change apocalypse universe.

People go on and on about how Muir drops you into gtn hearing from the person who knows the least about whats happening, and does not hand hold the reader through the crazy shit that occurs, and that's all true. It truly is a crazy writing decision to make your first pov character come from the universe's equivalent of amish fundamentalists. But the reader is actually done a huge favor being dropped into the ninth house first, because we already understand that space is cold and what catholic nuns are, and what goths look like, and what lesbians are. Very little time is wasted in the first chunk of gtn ripping hair out of your head wondering what the fuck is going on, because for all of its strangeness, the ninth house is already the most familiar thing we're gonna get.

Because THEN we learn that this whole universe's medieval chivalry system is designed to groom people from CHILDREN to not only be exploited and used as human batteries for necromancers, but to LIKE it. to wax poetic about it. to confuse it for love, to write fucking academic papers about it! Then we learn about planet flipping, an act so horrific and violent it turns the planet's soul into a massive vengeful monster capable of killing GOD. Like what do you MEAN the animals "change"? Is this why noodle has six legs? I would MUCH prefer to wear skeleton makeup and repent forever if the alternative was to witness my family dog grow TWO EXTRA LIMBS because the planet he lived on fucking died. Suddenly, living in the asscrack of a planet where no light gets in seems like a sweet deal when the whole solar system is lit by a sun that MAKES YOU GO CRAZY. The ninth house's WORST sin, killing 200 babies to make Harrow, a waste of resources and an act so terrible it haunts Harrow for the entire span of her life, is like a BLIP compared to the death count Jod's empire. God even hears about it and he's like, no big deal! The cohort probably kills that amount of people in a DAY.

And its ALSO tragic because you realize that all of this trauma and abuse that Gideon goes through is not really because of the ninth house at all. It's really just an individual skill issue that she wasn't treated with compassion. Nobody hated her because she's jesus or a bomb, nobody even KNOWS she's a bomb. It's just Priamhark and Pelleamena being deeply guilty and scared people that motivates her treatment, and absolutely nothing else.

They did something bad, and they know it, and Gideon survived it, and they can't kill her to cover it up, and that's IT. They killed themselves for pride, because they were afraid of the consequences of their actions (both the baby killing and Harrow opening the tomb) coming back to bite them. You can argue this is the catholicism of it all, and I wouldn't say you're wrong, but compared to the cavalier system, where exploitation is in the very lining of the house's institutions, the ninth house is really removed from the space empire's blood factory. This is compared to the fourth house where they have tons of children to be CANNON FODDER to join the cohort at fucking 14, compared to the eight house uncle nephew fuckery, even the fifth house which actually does seems nice to live on but also seems to have the fourth house in some sort of fucked up political bear hug??? (maybe the fourth house has so many kids in order to fight the fifth's battles? which is EXACTLY what jod's whole empire is about; politely stirring your tea and acting nice while you destroy everything) compared to ALL OF THAT, the cruelty that Gideon faces is really more a bug of the ninth's system than a feature.

There's nothing baked into the culture and everyday life of the ninth house that necessitated that cruelty; in fact, for such a pragmatic and resource-scarce place, it's WEIRD that a strong able-bodied young person was treated like a waste of space and resources. It could just have easily not happened, if Harrow's parents had been different people. Maybe they were products of their environment, but so was Harrow, and she values Gideon's life SO MUCH that she'd literally rather carve out parts of her own brain than exploit her. Gideon grows up knowing really NOTHING about cavaliers, so remote from the horrors of the empire that she develops an idea of what the cohort is from porn magazines. And in a lot of ways, that upbringing was desolate and terrible, and in a lot of other ways it literally DID NOT HAVE TO BE.

Gideon's MAIN THING is that she wants to be useful, to be needed, to be loved and it SUCKS that she couldn't even get it in the one place where she was actually an invaluable resource, where the death empire had the weakest reach. Gideon can't even blame her lack of love on the fucked up chivalry system like everyone else can because it JUST WASNT REALLY RELEVENT!?!?! This is like if i rolled up to the trauma competition and everyone else was raised in a nuclear warzone by wolves or something and i grew up in like, the suburbs and was raised by teachers and i somehow STILL WON. truly what the fuck guys.

[heywriters]

Rescued Writing Links!

When cleaning out the HEY, Writers! Pinterest I moved some links here. The internet has changed a LOT since I started collecting these, so some links may include outdated info. All were still active when I made this, but it's been in my drafts for a hot minute.

Protip! In Firefox, check to toggle reader view when reading these (mobile: the page icon in the url bar; desktop: same icon or hit F9). This removes popups, ads, screen clutter, and often has an audio option.

Survivors of Internet Decay Award!

These active sites featured most often in my collections so they get the top of the list.

Helping Writers Become Authors

Mythcreants

Bryn Donovan

Getting Started (Ideas & Intros)

How to Start Writing a Book: Learn One Writer’s Process | Marian Schembari

How to Start a Story: 30 Opening Scene Examples | Bryn Donovan

Don’t Panic! What to Do When You Have Too Many Story Ideas | Faye Kirwin

How to Write a Killer First Chapter | Rae Elliot

How To Write A Captivating Opening Sentence

Outlining

How to Create a Flexible Outline for Your Novel | Faye Kirwin

Protagonists

How to Write Believable Characters | Bridget McNulty

4 Ways to Write a Likable Protag at the Start of the Character Arc | KM Weiland

5 Tips for Writing a Likable "Righteous" Character | KM Weiland

I Hate Your Protagonist! Want to Know Why? | KM Weiland

The Secret to Writing Dynamic Characters: It's Always Their Fault | KM Weiland

A Protagonist’s Moment of Realisation

Antagonists

Blurring the Lines: What Are Anti-Heroes and Anti-Villains?

Antagonists: Inner & Outer Demons | Kristen Lamb

How to Write Multiple Antagonists | KM Weiland

Character Building

The Epic Guide to Character Creation, Part 1 | Kylie Day

Pick Up A Bad Habit | Maggie Maxwell

How To Write Characters from the Opposite Gender | Rachel Poli

Top 4 Tips for Using Backstory in Your Novel | Diana Anderson-Tyler

Depicting Background Characters | Chris Winkle

Scene Building

The 5 Elements Of A Good Scene | Amanda Patterson

A New Way to Think About Scene Structure | KM Weiland

2 Ways to Make the Most of Your Story’s Climactic Setting | KM Weiland

8 Things Writers Forget When Writing Fight Scenes | Lisa Voisin

Descriptions

Master List of Facial Expressions | Bryn Donovan

Master List of Words to Describe Voices | Bryn Donovan

Master List of Physical Description for Writers | Bryn Donovan

Writer’s Guide to Serious Injuries and Calamities | Bryn Donovan

How to Ground Your Reader (in the setting) | Rachel Craft

The Forgotten Fifth Sense | Writer's Relief

Never Name an Emotion in Your Story | KM Weiland

Show, Don't Tell: How to Write the Stages of Grief | Ruthanne Reid

100 Words for Facial Expressions

Dialogue

How To Write Good Dialogue: Ten Tips | Irving Weinman

Seven Dialogue Don’ts | Jason Bougger

10 Keys to Writing Dialogue in Fiction | Katherine Cowley

Points-Of-View (POV)

What Every Writer Ought to Know About the Omniscient POV | KM Weiland

Motivation & Support

What New Writers Need To Know About Fear | Bryan Collins

How to Discover Your Writing Process with Gabriela Pereira | Kirsten Oliphant

Editing & Revising

18 Overused Words to Replace When Writing | Oxford Tutoring

An Easy Way to Immediately Improve Your Character’s Action Beats | KM Weiland

Want More Depth to Your Writing? | Sacha Black

How Much is Too Much Backstory? | Ellen Brock

Why Your Writing Sounds Weird (And What You Can Do About It) | Joe Brock

Self-Editing for Fiction Writers | Jenny Bravo

Favorite Revision and Editing Tricks

Short Stories & Flashfic

How to Write a Story a Week: A Day-by-Day Guide | Emily Wenstrom

How Flash Fiction / Microfiction Can Help With Your Writing | Rhianne Williams

Worksheets & Downloads

Writing Worksheet Archive

If anyone out there loves making lists and wants to transport this to another site, you have every right to do so! Just let me know in a reblog so I can share it here again :)

---

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[songofwizardry]

fun fact: there is an episode of Tom Scott's language files where he mentions this exact thing, and he even touches on the using of epithets common in slash fic! I got very excited the first time I watched it.

(be warned, however, that if you watch this you may be struck with a bit of shock at how quickly the landscape around AI and particularly how we talk about it has changed.)

One of the hardest parts of writing gay anything is that they (often) use the same pronouns. Balancing names and pronouns so that I'm not overusing either of them is maybe THE hardest part of writing for me, because if you use 'he' too many times in a row you'll lose track of who's doing what, but too many names is repetitive and awkward to read!

[euphoria-looney]

Credits to the idea:

Batfam X Neglected Reader ( Squid Games)

Creds to the dividers: (?)

The Winner Takes It All by ABBA

When do humans get so desperate they give up their own lives for that small chance of money?

Money is a category in your history class dedicated to why money is the basis of your life. Economy.

I first witnessed someone leave everything had for money, my mother. When I was 5, I didn't know why my mother was leaving the manor with a huge suitcase, filled with cash.

My mother engaged to Bruce Wayne who only allowed her in as they procreated me. In her words, both sides should take responsibility, it takes two to tango, and why should she be the only one to deal with the consequences.

Which now is very hypocritical as she ran away taking everything but me.

I didn't want sympathy, but I didn't want to be treated like dirt for a mistake I didn't make.

For the next 13 years of my life, I tried to stay on the down low, no matter how many dirty looks, and the insults, not even when Damian would hurt me.

I just hoped they wouldn't mind if I stayed with them a little longer until I could find a stable way to leave.

That hope burst when Alfred came to my room and told me “Master Bruce has decided to kick you out and disown you, I'm so sorry, [name].”

I tried to somehow make it, promising myself, it was going to be okay.

I got into college, and the debt collected from that was massive, so I had to go get loans at the bank, and then get into a part-time job, but every day seemed like we were always getting robbed. My manager had no choice but to let me go.

“I'm sorry, sugar, but we aren't pulling in enough customers and I can't afford to keep too many employees, there's no easy way to say this but, you have to quit. I don't want to fire you, it'd look bad for any job you'd apply for next.”

I held onto her hand like a lifeline I begged and pleaded with no avail.

I tucked my tail in and went to the Wayne manor.

"Um, It's [name], could I... um..." I swallowed my words, afraid to say them, I mean, this was humiliating, 13 years since I'd seen them and the first thing I asked for was cash? "... borrow some money."

No surprise I was rejected, but that didn't hurt me it was the comments, how I was so much like my mother.

I waddled to the train station, if I was lucky, the train wouldn't be hijack or filled with gas tonight.

"Hey, you want to earn some money?" A guy next to me.

"No, thank you."

"10,000 dollars. Just a child's game"

I lifted my head to stare at him. I couldn't see his face, hidden behind a mask.

"It's a Korean game, visited it a few days ago, so would you mind playing it with me?" He gave an authoritative vibe, it made me want to back away, his aura was sinister.

I had already hit rock bottom, what could be lower? I hesitantly nodded my head.

I don't know how many times I lost, but I finally did it!

Handing me the cash and then handing me this weird card.

"If you ever need more, contact us." with that he walked away.

Third POV

“B, are you sure this is the right spot?”

‘Positive. Are you sure you want to join on this mission, Dick.”

Despite what anyone might think Batman, otherwise known as Bruce Wayne cares and loves his kids.

Changing into suits and golden animal masks, they went to the VIP room, make some bets on random numbers.

Oracle was doing the background work, hacking into everything, it wasn't like the movies and the stress was on.

The court of Owls was not just one villain working but a cult that was not only wealthy but influential, with their own members, called Talons who were armed and ready.

On the screen 456 players appeared.

“Today, we have prepared the game red light, green light. A child game.” The frontman introduced the V.I.P’s at the start of the first round.

[name]’s POV:

Waking up, the clothes I was originally wearing changed into the tracksuit outfit with a number on it.

A person caught my eye, it’s Astro! From the law department, I couldn’t help but approach him.

“What are you doing here?” Word got around that he was an academic genius, and many had hope for his bright future.

I could only remember how fond his mother was when talking about him, I thought I saw her the other day working.

“Oh, [name]. It’s been a while hasn’t it? What are you doing here?” He dodged the question.

“I… couldn’t afford college and took out a loan, eventually I got a lot of debt.” Our conversation got cut short as we headed to this random room.

Going to this machine it said ‘smile’

I gave a gummy like smile before making my way to the field

Playing red light, green light.

After explaining the rules everyone started running, nothing was wrong until a person got spotted moving during the red light, poor guy, going home penniless after making it here-

Spat

Oh.

There’s blood on my shoes.

It was like a stampede of people running to the door, stacking on top of each other. I was frozen out of fear.

Wha-

What do I do?

I’m afraid.

Someone tell me, what do I do?!

Before I knew it, I made it to the end.

Third POV:

Thankfully no one found the bat family suspicious or they would’ve noticed how they tensed up seeing as their daughter/sibling had the first contestant’s blood splattered not only on her shoes but also on her clothes.

A break had ensued as the game was over and everyone made their way to their individual rooms.

“What are they doing there?!”

“Should we stop it now?!”

“How?!”

“Quiet down!” Bruce had stopped the panic, but in reality he, himself didn’t know what to do either.

[name]’s POV:

Going back to the room, I felt like a doll and everyone sat on the floor.

The sickening feeling of seeing the gold lighting illuminating the clear pig, with money dropping down into it.

I could feel my stomach drop just thinking about it.

I didn't know what was happening until Astro got up and rebutted the guards.

“Clause three, The games may be terminated upon a majority vote, right?”

Thankfully, ending this sick and twisted game.

That didn’t last long though as a day had passed and I was back in this building. I think everyone who left was.

I talked to new people, especially this one old man who reminded me of Alfred.

“I could say the same to you. You’re young, and your debt is lower than most people here, so why continue risking your life for this money?” I shook my head, my face holding a sad smile.

“No matter how hard I try I just keep gaining then losing debt. But it’s different for you sir. Doesn’t the government give insurance and medicare for the elderly?” I held his hands in mine.

“The government isn’t as nice as you think, corrupt up in their high-paying jobs, but still greedy for more.”

As the games ensued I could feel myself deteriorate.

Third POV

Gripping onto the couch arms, and bouncing off one's feet could symbolize when someone is... anxious.

Or it could be showing anticipation.

So let's pretend that's what Bruce Wayne is feeling right now.

And if we asked his opinion on number ###, [name] [lastname]...

Most people would think, "Yes, he must be anticipating her death, how the blood would splatter, whether it be from losing a game or betrayal from another contestant." That's what most people would think of that entire family.

How could you not?

They shamed her, bullied her, and scorned her away from their home.

Wouldn't even provide financial aid much less.

Isn't that why she's here in the first place?

It was like they wanted her to grovel and die, die a death that would have no meaning, not even to this unforgiving world.

However, you'd be shocked that's not correct.

Anxiety is a scary thing it makes you make rash decisions. Good or bad.

It was nothing new to these vigilantes.

But oh. seeing her tired eyes, sweat dripping down everywhere, from her head to her legs. Her trembling form.

If you didn't know the context you'd already think she was a corpse.

No! That's wouldn't couldn't be true.

They couldn't allow it to be, she was going to be safe.

She had to be.

She was forgotten, but now, everyone's eyes were on her.

Anxiety is a scary thing, and with the current event, situation, there was nothing they could do but hope for the best, bounce their legs, and grip the couch.

-

It’s time for the next game.

“For this game we’ll be playing the marble game.”

—

There will be 2 endings choose which one. (I'll be making both.)

-> Thank you… for playing with me.

-> Astro!

Also, I love the idea and from fic from both @jellyfishmoon97 and @not-weirdoshrek

@holysoulsweets @sh4rk-k1d @sillysealsies @loomspuddle @cantfindmelol @alwaysholymilkshake @leitor-sonolento (I think these are all the ones that wanted to get tagged idk though 😍)

[riacte]

Unconventional format / mixed media / meta / epistolary fic ideas:

Script format but the characters slowly break fourth wall until they grow self aware and scream to leave but the script confines them.

Mock up notes of an author's fic outline only for a "fan favourite" / "author's darling" character to gain sentience and influence the story. The character changes the outline to suit their own agenda, and their changes are marked with a different colour whereas black text means it's the author's will. Maybe another character using another colour gains sentience. The different colours fight for dominance. Mom says it's my turn with the keyboard hey what the fuck man excuse me I'm literally trying to save my family can you guys let go and let me write your character arcs in peace OH FUCK OFF

Recipe fic. The story is told via those unnecessarily long backstories on a recipe blog in which you learn about someone's grandma or a breakup or literally anything. Bonus points if the actual recipe deals with worldbuilding (what ingredients are available? What utensils are used? How to serve this meal? Woohoo Dungeon Meshi) or in-cheek recipes (eg. "Recipe for making up with your estranged mother - Step 1: Mix patience, nostalgia, and filial piety and let it marinate for ten years. Step 2: Throw that shit into the trash because you're better than that")

Travel fic. A character is lost and trying to find their way somewhere. GPS directions, googling "x place to x place", tickets and dates, train station maps, leaflets. It gets weirder and weirder. You never get closer to your destination. You're walking around in circles. It's always 10 meters away. Where are you going and where have you been?

Receipts. Try to infer what a character is doing judging from the weird things they buy together. Also yipppee inflation tracker. On the other side, maybe it can be about a cashier/ shop owner getting to know their customers and what they order.

Written from the pov of an non-native English speaker, all the English words are italicized whereas their native tongue are the only words not italicized. Inspired by Kupu rere kē by Alice Te Punga Somerville. This is because I got salty about people from Ao3 Reddit saying they won't read a fic in all italics.

Murder mystery / "Among Us" style impersonation fic strictly using the chatfic format. Characters and readers will have to figure out which character has been killed and replaced from the way they text and use emojis. This is also because I got salty about Ao3 Reddit being a wee bit pretentious about emoji usage in fics. Maybe emojis can be important plot devices! Some people prefer to sign off messages with a heart emoji of their signature colour, so won't it be weird if they use another coloured heart? How about someone using lapslock suddenly using proper capitalisation and full stops? Can you tell if someone's phone has been stolen? What if someone's mother is pretending to text like their child? Why is someone suddenly only using UwU speak? Is it a bit, or have they been replaced?

Innocuous second person POV until the last line where it's suddenly revealed to be first person POV all along and the "I" has been stalking and narrating "you".

Other fun bits / Easter eggs / secrets to hide:

Decoding within the text itself. Maybe we get given instructions to find a word in x chapter on page y on the nth line. And when we as readers collect all the words, they form a sentence that spells out an important fact which the characters are oblivious to. Or maybe the in-universe characters find a book with the same title as the irl fic with a bookmark in it, and if you go to where the bookmark is stuck irl, you'll find the murderer plainly stated. The rest of the fic is about the readers having hard confirmation of who the murderer is while characters don't know.

A phrase is subtly repeated throughout the text of the fic and is spelled out with the letter that begins a sentence. It gives off the effect that the narrator is screaming and crying into the void (to the readers in the fourth wall) while trying to avoid detection. Bonus points if the same word is repeated for pages and pages to the point the lack of sentence variation feels weird and clunky.

Morse code!! I love morse code! Using onomatopoeia to convey the dots and dashes! The sound of rain pattering on the tin rooftop— drop, drop, drop. A low whistle of a train rumbling in the distance. He slowly sharpens his knife, creating a shiiing sound. A lengthy, high pitched squeal from his kettle. A dog barks. A sharp knock. His heart thumps. Dot dot dot, dash dash dash, dot dot dot. SOS. Maybe a character's death scene spells out the name of their mysterious murderer. Maybe a character is reminiscing their deceased loved one and the scene spells out what the deceased person would've wanted to tell them— "LIVE ON" or "I LOVE YOU" or something.

[starlightandfairies]

Hiii 🫶🏼 I hope you're still up for doing an Elijah request! 🤗 I can't get this man out of my head haha

Soo it would be an idea where they met somewhere in Mystic Falls and immediately felt some bond between them, so it happens that they start falling in love (she's human but knows about vampires) but she's too afraid to get hurt so she also tries not to get too close to Elijah. One night he sees some stranger following her home from the Grill and even starts attacking her, Elijah is immediately there saving her and taking her home with him to treat her wounds (mostly some scratches) and he's just super worried. There she realizes that Elijah would never be the one hurting her and they finally share their feelings with a lot of kissing and cuddles afterwards and he holds her, telling how much she means to him.

Oh I hope this is not too weird at all 🙈❤️

Description: Upon meeting Elijah Mikaelson, the feelings start to come but in fear of being hurt, the reader decides to keep her walls up to protect herself. This changes after Elijah protects her after being attacked.

Warnings: fluff, small angst, physical assault (mild), she/her pronouns, maybe swearing?

*Requests are open, please send through as many requests as you want, check my character list and requesting rules.*

Thanks so much for making this request! I can never get sick of Elijah, this man is always on my mind and please feel free to request again if you wish :) I really enjoyed writing this, thank you again :D

Key: Y/N = Your Name, POV = Point of view

Word Count: 2,125

First Person's POV

Tonight at the Grill was a ‘live acoustics’ night, some of the performers were good and others were quite frankly not that great. Bonnie, Elena and Caroline were off on the next big adventure for the vampiric save-the-day business and while I knew about all the vampires, witches, werewolves and all that extra fun stuff. Besides Matt, I was the only human in the group and somehow I was pushed aside to be kept ‘safe; despite Matt always being dragged into the whirlpool of drama even if he didn’t want to be. 

“The music is wonderful for the atmosphere tonight, don’t you agree?” That voice would haunt my dreams, haunt my every thought, I couldn’t fathom how gentle and warm a voice could sound. I glanced to the side, shooting a polite smile to the impeccably dressed man and nodded in agreement. 

“I do agree, I feel like I’m in like a cute little romance story, the warm lighting and the music-“ I cut myself short, realising I was babbling to a random stranger who more than likely did not care for my ideas and thoughts. 

“I can see how you would see that.” Oh, gosh- those eyes! That smile! This man would haunt me forever, picture perfect and everything I would want in a man. I continued to share a polite smile with the man, fiddling with the straw in my chocolate milkshake and turned myself slightly to face the man a little better. 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you…?” Realising that he was waiting for my name, I placed my drink down and took his hand. 

“Y/N L/N” He softly cupped my hand, shaking it and proceeded to share his name.

“Elijah Mikaelson.” I wish I could’ve hidden my reaction better, my eyes went wide, and my smile flattened for a moment before I quickly made sure to continue to be nice and polite. Elijah carefully rested my head on the bar, took a small sip of whatever his drink was and gazed at me with a quizzical look. 

“You know who I am…” His tone was neither harsh nor hurt, Elijah seemed to have suspected my knowledge of his name and he even seemed curious by the idea of my knowledge. 

“I know of your brother Niklaus… Elena told me about you, I think she might have exaggerated a bit. You don’t seem like the antagonist she kinda painted you out to be. From what I’ve heard, you’re the nicer brother… the noble one and I'm sure first glances can be deceiving but… I don’t know- you don’t seem like a bad man.”  He briefly licked his lips, eyes shooting up to the ceiling and seemed to be contemplating his next moves. 

“I suppose you know-“ 

“That you’re a…” I leaned closer to whisper so people passing by wouldn’t hear. 

“An Original.” 

“You don’t seem to be phased.”

“Team doppelgänger has built up my immunity to supernatural beings.” I let out a weak chuckle, cringing internally and turned my focus back on my drink. I wanted to keep speaking with him, I really did want to keep speaking with him but I knew the world that I happened to live in and I didn’t fancy the idea of being bait or hurt as collateral damage. 

“It was really nice to meet you Elijah but I have to go.” He nodded, that handsome smile appearing once more, his actions made me gush and brought butterflies into my belly as he grabbed my jacket and assisted in placing it back on. 

“I hope that you have a good evening, Y/N” 

“Same to you Elijah.” He seemed to have a thought pop into his head, I stopped in my tracks, allowing for him to have the benefit of the doubt and give him the chance to speak his mind. 

“May I have the pleasure of seeing you again?” 

“Maybe… There’s always tomorrow.” I knew I had given myself away, I could feel my heart skip a beat, I’m sure he could hear it, his facial expression didn’t change but I could feel that he knew what I was feeling. 

“Have a good evening,” I whispered, brushing past him to carry on my way. 

+++++++

I had seen Elijah a couple of times since our first meeting, we had small conversations and I tried my best to conceal my heart, I didn't want to get close to this man despite enjoying his presence, his voice and the true appearance of his gentlemanly ways made me fall into a daydream greater than any story or dream I could ever have or read. 

The next time I saw Elijah was three months after our first meeting, as I said we had multiple different meetings and they were all the greatest moments of my life despite how much I tried to protect my fragile heart. I had left my home for the park, I wanted to read outside of my home and get some fresh air away from the stuffiness of my bedroom. I rested the picnic blanket underneath a large tree, I read three chapters of my book before I felt a presence looming nearby, I placed the book to the side and stood up, surveying the area for a figure and jumped in my skin seeing Elijah approaching me. 

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to frighten you, may I join you?" I nodded, smiling at the man, watching as he unbuttoned his shirt and sat down with me on the picnic blanket. He gently picked my book up, staring at the cover with intrigue, I observed him with butterflies growing in my stomach, a blush wanting to form on my cheeks as I continued to drown in what was possibly a huge crush for the Original Vampire. 

"Ignite Me by Tahereh Mafi... I'm not sure I've heard of this one before." 

"I doubt you would've, I don't exactly picture you reading a book like this?" He smiled, tilting his head slightly, a deep chuckle leaving his mouth and he handed me back the book. 

"Why is that?" 

"Well... I don't know, I picture you reading older books nothing from the late 20th century to the early 21st century." Elijah briefly nodded in agreement, I smiled proudly at my guess and fiddled with the tassels hanging off of my bookmark. The vampire took off his suit jacket and began rolling up the sleeves of his button-up, I bit the inside of my cheek, begging myself to remain calm and avoid giving away any kind of emotions being revealed. 

"Enlighten me, will you though, please? What's it about?" I cleared my throat, leaning closer to him with joy forming, giddy that he was showing interest in something that I liked and enjoyed. 

"It's the third book in the series, I've read it before, and this one is one of my favourites. Essentially the series is all about control some people have these powers and the leaders are trying to control these people. The relationship of the main characters is what I happen to enjoy the most about it, I love how Tahereh created their bond from..." 

"Why did you stop?" Elijah gently questioned, his face furrowing in concern, I wanted to cringe but I forced the words out before I could let that show. Taking a deep breath, I turned my gaze back to him, scrunching my face up briefly and proceeded to explain to Elijah what was going through my head. 

"Whenever I ramble on to the Salvatores and all that, it's clear that they don't care and I'm not wanting to force that onto you. I'm sorry." Elijah tutted, shaking his head and holding out his hand for me to take. Hesitating for a moment, I finally rested my hand in his, holding my breath for a moment and kept my eyes focused on him as he rested his other hand on top of mine. 

"You do that too often, Y/N, I can see you trying to protect your heart and you have a wide range of information waiting to come out and you shut yourself down because you expect everyone else to do that. I hope you find someone... someone who makes you realise you don't need to do that." 

"Could possibly end up being you, Elijah," I whispered.

+++++

When someone unknown came into Mystic Falls, it was always a concerning event, the vampires were always the most suspicious of strangers and most of the time they were typically right for not trusting the stranger. It was late when I left the grill tonight, Elijah was growing on my mind more and more, and I would be hit with a wave of memories at random moments. 

"Up ahead, there's an alley to your right, walk down it. Try anything-" 

"Okay... I understand." I whispered, complying as I walked a little quicker and turned down the alleyway. I cried out as I was instantly shoved against the wall, my head ached and the world spun around me, I bit back a sob as I hit the ground and hissed as the gravel bit into my skin. I kicked off my heels, not fancying a broken ankle and lept to my feet running towards the street but missed as the man tackled me to the ground and which resulted in blood slightly trickling down my forehead and more cuts forming against my skin. 

It felt like something out of a vampire movie, I heard a whoosh and then a light thud. Elijah appeared, holding the man against the wall effortlessly with one hand and easily compelled the man to walk off and not commit any sort of crime again. I let out a few sobs as the pain sunk in and the adrenaline started to fade away.

Elijah swooped me into his arms, effortlessly taking me to his mansion and rested me down on his obnoxiously large bed. He crouched down, gently cupping my face in his hands, observing my facial features and swiftly disappeared somewhere before running back. 

"Are you okay?" He questioned, focusing on grabbing the things from the first-aid kit to treat my wounds. 

"I'm okay..." I whispered, hissing as he wiped an alcohol wipe across the graze on my palm and watched as he apologised profusely for inflicting any added pain onto me. Elijah was so attentive to my needs, he cleaned the blood and dirt away from my cuts and grazes. Covering them with bandaids, doing what he could to assist in caring for me. It was as he was lingering for a moment, observing my form that I realised that Elijah Mikaelson would never hurt me. He would never cause any harm to me, Elijah Mikaelson would protect me and I knew that I wouldn't need to worry any longer. 

"You wouldn't hurt me..." I whispered, staring at the vampire as he grasped my face and held eye contact with me. 

"Y/N L/N I would never dream of hurting you, you... you're perfect... Y/N you are the epitome of perfect, I haven't met someone as intelligent, kind, sweet, and funny in a long time. Y/N I love you and I hope that you'll allow-" I pushed myself closer to him, carefully cupping his face to kiss the man who had possessed my dreams too often. 

"Elijah, please, never let me go, I can't keep guarding myself-" 

"Shhh, I've got you." He kissed my forehead, pulling me into his arms and pushing himself to lay against the headboard of his bed. I inhaled, holding onto the warm and mesmerising smell of his cologne, I curled into his chest and hummed gently as he rested another kiss on my forehead. 

I felt protected, Elijah was my guardian angel, and he made me feel warm and gooey. Made me giddy and the butterflies a constant swarm in my belly, I fiddled with his hands, staring at the family ring that rested on his finger and glanced to him as he pulled my face to meet his. I hummed as he rested a kiss against my lips, sucking in another deep breath and curling in closer as he strokes my hair, his touch comforting and loving. 

"Can I stay here? Just in your arms? Where I'm safe and with you, you Elijah who looks after me and takes the time to listen and know me?" Elijah's smile made the butterflies come to life, my cheeks flushed red and his simple words reassured me for an infinity of time. 

"Always and forever." 

[lullabies-blue]

Thomas Hewitt/ Reader

𝔚𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔦𝔰 𝔩𝔬𝔳𝔢, 𝔱𝔬 𝔰𝔬𝔪𝔢𝔬𝔫𝔢 𝔴𝔥𝔬 𝔥𝔞𝔰 𝔫𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔯 𝔥𝔢𝔞𝔯𝔡 𝔬𝔣 𝔦𝔱? 𝔑𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔯 𝔱𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔡 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔰𝔴𝔢𝔢𝔱𝔫𝔢𝔰𝔰 𝔬𝔣 𝔦𝔱𝔰 𝔫𝔢𝔠𝔱𝔞𝔯?

Written in third-person limited POV, focusing on Thomas. Content tags: Neurodivergence, Cannibalism, mentions of rape, Canon typical violence, self harm, Mommy issues, child abuse (mentioned), good vs. evil with nothing in between, religious trauma. Author notes: I honestly intended this to be short and to the point- but here we are. I read a lot of Thomas/Reader stories where Thomas is portrayed as neurotypical and I don't know why it bothers me so much- it's just fanfiction after all, but I wanted to write a short "love" story where Thomas is violent and scared and lonely. He's nonverbal, he's mentally disturbed but not 'slow'. His world is very black and white and full of violence, so that got me wondering- what would love look like for him? What would happen if this man, who has only ever known darkness, met someone who was nice to him? Fair warning, lots of rambling ahead. I also just want to say that I am Autistic and that influenced a lot of this story- from the way that I write, to how I portray characters, to certain interactions. So if anything seems weird to you, I apologize- my mind works in weird ways. If I need to clarify anything, just shoot me a message. I would love to talk about the writing process and why I included certain things. Important: This is about 15k words and NOT even half of it. I had to cut it into pieces, will update the rest in another post.

Thomas brings the axe above his head, his breath ragged as he swings it down and cuts the piece of firewood in half with a low grunt. He’s hot, even though it’s the middle of winter- the weather low even with the sun that hid behind the clouds- and his shirt is sticking to him uncomfortably, the sweat doing nothing to cool him down.

He lodges the axe into the tree stump, grabbing the two pieces of wood and throwing them in the wheelbarrow before he wipes his forehead with dirt covered hands. It was the last chore of the day, and he was tired and sore- a tightness in his shoulders that seemed to spread all the way down to lower back and made him want to get in bed. His mask is damp and tight against his face, the skin underneath irritated. He wants to go inside and change, the thought of taking a shower was frustrating but he knew that he needed one. He could smell himself- bitter with sweat and the slightly suffocating scent that seemed to stick to chickens now clinging to him from when he had cleaned out the chicken coop. His nails were lined with dirt- hands and arms caked in grime. It made him feel heavy and slow.

Uncle Hoyt would drag him to the back and hose him off if he saw him, and he hated that more than he hated cleaning himself off- the feeling of water on his skin something he had never got around to liking. He could handle other things- blood never seemed to churn his stomach, or when Momma or Uncle Hoyt used to ask him to go clean out the pig pen- back when they could afford to have pigs, they were empty now, the whole farm seemed to get emptier and emptier as the months passed- he hadn’t thought that shoveling pig shit into a bucket was all that bad. But he had trouble smelling sometimes, especially with the leather pressed so tight against the place his nose had once been.

He takes the handles of the wheelbarrow, filled with enough dried out wood for the weekend- maybe Monday, if the weather stayed where it was at- and began to haul it towards the house. Momma would need some in the kitchen, to boil water and heat the ovens for Supper when she got back from town. He’d have to check the fireplace on the main floor- sometimes even on the coldest days of winter that room stayed warm enough that if they were to turn on the fireplace it’d be too uncomfortable to sit in. He would wait until Uncle Monty asked for more- he didn’t like it when any of them made decisions for him, more so now that he was stuck in that wheelchair.

There were no fireplaces upstairs, just piles of blankets to layer and hope they did enough to keep them warm. Sometimes it would be enough for him, but there were nights that even with two or three of the ones Momma sewed together for him; he would still lay awake, teeth chattering from the cold. It’s why he hated the cold- he could manage the heat, but winter was unpredictable even in the deep south of Texas.

Uncle Monty is in the living room, asleep in his chair as the TV keeps playing, almost as loud as his snoring. He walks past him, noticing the almost empty fireplace. His footsteps are heavy and loud from the metal on his shoes as he carries an armful of wood into the kitchen. He sets it down on the dining table, right on the white plastic cloth momma had set out before she had left, dirt falls onto the floor and he makes a low, grumbling noise of frustration, hoping that she didn’t see it when she got home.

He had forgotten the plastic mat last time and gotten her favorite tablecloth dirty -the mud staining the light blue cotton forever. He didn’t see why it was such a big deal, Momma had once told him that life was messy, that’s how one knew that they were living it, but she had been so angry at him then- sending him out with the bucket and soap, shouting about the mud he had tracked inside their house. Supper had come late that night- Hoyt growing angry at him. He liked it when it was ready and waiting for him when he got home- shouting at momma that working men weren’t supposed to wait for food.

He had gotten into an argument with him that night- he didn’t like it when people were mean to momma. Uncle Hoyt had called him a bad name- making his blood boil.

He didn’t want that to happen again. He didn’t like how badly he had wanted to hurt Uncle Hoyt at that moment. Momma said that family fought all the time, but he had to be careful not to do anything that he would regret. Maybe he would regret it when his blood stained his clothes, but part of him wasn’t so sure. He liked him better when he was Uncle Charlie. Uncle Hoyt reminded him of the bad men.

He tries not to think about it anymore when he heads back outside to grab a few more pieces of wood for the living room. He didn’t like thinking back on the things that made him angry, sometimes he couldn’t come back from them, and he’d end up doing something bad.

By the time he’s pushing past the double front doors, Momma’s car is pulling into the dirt path off to the side of the house. It’s an old one- rusting from the heat of too many summers, but momma didn’t mind it.

 The car comes to a stop as he picks up another armful of wood and takes it inside.

Ever since Hoyt became Sheriff of the town, things had gotten better for them. There were never days where they went to bed hungry, the meat freezer down in the basement always seemed to have enough for them. If it ever ran low, a Hoyt always seemed to find a way to get it restocked. Momma had taken over the shop in town after the owner had passed away and Hoyt made sure that his son- one of the bad men- went right along with him. He had filled the bellies of those who still stayed in town, too hungry to care enough to question them. Sometimes she brought back what didn’t sell that day and they’d have themselves a little feast. There were days Uncle Hoyt brought a guest with him- always a woman-, other times he’d ask momma to bring his food up to his room- the muffled screaming drowned out by Monty’s TV show.

He liked to stay in the basement on those days. It was harder to hear the pleading and begging as Hoyt played too rough with them. He would always get stuck with getting rid of them afterwards and he was starting to dislike the chore.

By the time he finishes stacking the wood, Momma is calling out for him, the front door swinging open. He freezes- his shoulders squaring and his breath suddenly heavy as he looks up at the hall, hidden between a wall and the fireplace. There was someone with Momma. He could hear the footsteps- Momma walked with a purpose, heavy and loud like him. She said that she did it so God would hear her better, but he wasn’t so sure that God was with them anymore. The ones that came after her were lighter, nervous.

He didn’t like guests. Didn’t like that Momma and uncle Hoyt had developed a habit of taking in strays that would just end up in the basement with him later. They would scream when they saw him- call him those names that made the anger come. Some of them liked to hurt him, momma taking him to the bathroom afterwards and stitching him up.

“You’re going to love my Tommy. He’s a little bit shy but he’s got the sweetest heart.” Momma says and he hears the other person laugh. It’s a soft noise- gentle in a way that manages to make his heart race faster as he tries to crawl deeper into the tiny space. “He’s here around somewhere… but let’s get you set up in your room then you can come down and help me with supper, okay?”

Another laugh, his heart racing uncomfortably in his chest. He didn’t want Momma to find him, he was already so tired.

“Of course,” the stranger says, and she- the thought of a woman in the house irritates him- doesn’t talk like Momma or Hoyt or Monty. Her voice is quiet, it doesn’t drawl out. He’s heard it before- she must be from out of town. “I would love to!”

For a moment, he feels bad for the woman as he hears them go up the stairs. He always feels bad for them at first. Momma said that his heart was too kind. Hoyt called him a pansy boy, in need of toughening up. He doesn’t know why he feels bad, the guests were never good people- he’d always come to learn that, but it never seems to do anything to make the twitch of guilt go away from his heart. The steps grow quieter the farther up they go- until he hears Momma’s muffled voice and then her footsteps coming back down.

She spots him, curled into himself in that tiny, dark space and she sucks her teeth, shaking her head. “Thomas Hewitt, what in the lords name are you doing there?”

He feels embarrassed all of a sudden, getting caught like this. He makes a low noise in his chest, pointing to the firewood.

“Come on and get on out of there if you’re done then, we’ve got company.” She comes down the rest of the steps and makes her way towards him. When she holds out her hand he takes it, a comfort that has his heart slowing down.

 “I need you to go and grab the rest of her stuff from the car- poor girl don’t got no power in her home.” She says with a shake of her head as she pulls and helps him to his feet. “She’ll be staying with us until her electricity gets put back up.”

He shakes his head, this time the noise he makes is in protest, a deep groan of anger. He didn’t want to. He didn’t want her in his house.

Momma frowns, crossing her arms over her chest. “Now listen here Thomas, not everyone is as lucky as we are. Sometimes we have to help those in need.”

He wants to believe her- Momma wasn’t one for lying, after all- but this isn’t anything new. He knew how this would end; with the woman in their bellies and her screams in his head, keeping him awake at night. She would make a mistake and then she’d end up in the basement, begging for her life.

It was like Momma had set her up to fail, like a game that promised a prize that would never come, and Thomas didn’t want to play. Not this time. He shakes his head again, his way of telling her no.

Momma and Uncle Hoyt have a lot in common, no matter how sweet and gentle Momma tried to be, her anger was almost as bad as his. He doesn’t like it when she gets angry at him- everyone was always angry at him- and he can see it in her eyes, making him bend his chin against his chest as he let out a whine, glancing down at the ground. She never hit him, but she would ignore him and that hurt a lot more.

“Then you go on upstairs and tell the poor girl that she’s got to leave. I won’t be the one to break the bad news.” Momma huffs, stomping over to the kitchen. “Tell her you would rather see her freeze than offer a small kindness.”

There it is, that harshness in her voice that makes him tremble, his heart picking up its pace until he feels like he can’t breathe. He shakes his head again, digging his fingers into his arm. He didn’t want to have anything to do with the woman. Didn’t want to be forced to deal with her later but if this is what Momma wanted, then he would do it. He would make her happy.

He lets out another noise, smaller this time and turns towards the door. Part of him is angry- angry that he wasn’t allowed to be angry without being punished. Angry that sometimes it seemed like he wasn’t allowed to have a say when it came to things. He felt as if momma sometimes liked to hurt him on purpose- pushing and pushing until he snapped.

As soon as the thought crosses his mind, he feels the guilt settle in his stomach, hot and suffocating. Momma wasn’t like the bad people. She wouldn’t hurt him. Sometimes he just made her so angry- he knew that. He knew that he was difficult and stubborn and sometimes she got tired of dealing with him.

It wouldn’t be long before the woman disappeared anyways- Hoyt will see her at supper and he’d take her upstairs. The screaming will start, and everyone will act like they couldn’t hear it; Momma would knit, and Monty would turn the volume on the TV up until it was too much. He’d end up sleeping in the basement again, picking at his skin until it was raw and bleeding- the crying twisting his stomach and threatening to swallow him whole.

He just had to wait until then. He would be good until then.

The trunk of the car was left open for him, and he finds the woman’s things waiting for him. It’s not much- a simple backpack, filled with so many things that it ballooned uncomfortably. He grabs it, grunting at the fact that it was heavier than he thought, and slams the trunk close. The car shakes and squeaks at his aggression as he carries the bag inside. He doesn’t like the fact that he’s touching the stranger’s things.

He’s dirty- his fingers staining the bag- but he’s also dirty inside. Rotten from the anger, the bad he’s done. The bad he was going to do. He can feel himself soiling the items inside- turning them just as dirty as him as he walks into the kitchen and sets the bag down on the floor. Momma had taken the firewood he had left and put away the mat. He could feel the warmth of the fire even from where he stood across the oven- filling the room with the scent of smoke. He grunts, wanting Momma to turn around and see that he had done what she asked. He wanted her to smile at him- to ease the way his heart still hammered in frustration.

She turns, but the softness in her eyes isn’t directed at him- she barely looks at him and his heart sinks further down into his stomach, tension building in the back of his neck. He can hear her footsteps now- the creaking of the staircase as she came downstairs. He’s standing in front of a wall, the staircase on the other side. For now, he was hidden- but it wouldn’t be long until she stepped into the kitchen, and he couldn’t hide anymore.

“We’re in here dear,” Momma calls out to her. “Tommy here’s got your bag for you.”

He sees her for the first time out of the corner of his eye- spotting her before she spots him, her eyes on Momma. She’s short- shorter than momma by a bit, and clean and well dressed. Her sweater is thick and colorful, the cuffs of her sleeves neatly folded against her wrists. Something there catches the soft yellow light of the kitchen- a thin golden bracelet halfway hidden beneath the fabric. Her jeans look like they’ve been around for a long time- a different shade of fabric stitched into one of the knees. Her boots are old and worn out, reminding him of his own.

He doesn’t like this. He doesn’t like this feeling that runs through him as he inspects her.

“I really like your house!” she says- voice light and full of excitement that made his mood worsen. “Its-” whatever she was about to say dies in her throat as she turns her head to the left and spots him for the first time.

He doesn’t let her look at his face- turning his head to the side as he folds into himself, chin against chest. He doesn’t like this- doesn’t like that she stares at him without saying anything. He can feel her eyes on him- inspecting him- an animal on display. His chest rises and falls painfully, his breathing hard and loud in the silence. He can feel his hands twitch- his thumb nail grazing along the length of his finger.

“This is my son,” Momma’s voice is tight as she talks. “Tommy this here is our guest. Don’t you want to say hello?”

He shakes his head, his hands trembling. Something wet lands inside the sink and he startles. He hears Momma suck her teeth and he can see her in his mind- shaking her head like she does whenever he does something she doesn’t like.

He doesn’t like this. Doesn’t like that Momma is getting mad at him, that the woman still stands there, watching him tremble in fear. He could already hear it- her laughing as she called him an idiot. They always called him something. They always laughed at him.

“It’s okay,” her voice shakes a bit as she breaks the silence, and she coughs and clears her voice. “I, um, I’m a little shy myself so I know how hard it can be sometimes.” She speaks slowly, her voice almost a low whisper. She tells him her name. Tells him that it’s nice to meet him.

He doesn’t say anything- not that he can, he’s never spoken a single word- but he nods his head, his eyes quickly glancing over at her. She’s still looking at him and his heart almost beats through his ribs. He expects her to be looking at him like they always look at him- filled with disgust and hatred, looking for any excuse to leave, to get as far away as possible from him- but he doesn’t find that in her face.

He finds her mouth twisted downwards and her eyebrows pushed together just a tiny little bit, her eyes gentle and wide. She looked at him as if he was a dog out by the side of the road on a hot summer afternoon refusing help and she had been chasing him with a bowl of water.

She looks at him like there was nothing scary about him. Like he was a man, dirty from a long day at work and not a freak- poor and disfigured- a monster. He had never seen that look from anyone who didn’t live in this house, and it scared him. It terrified him that someone would decide to look at him like that.

But as soon as he met her eyes she looked away, towards Momma- a smile in her voice.

“What are we making for dinner?” she asks, stepping farther into the kitchen and pushing her sleeves up towards her elbows- ready for whatever Momma tells her to do.

The tension disappears just like that, Momma laughing lightly as she places her hand on the woman’s back and pulls her close. “You’re such a darling, helping me out like this. How about you start getting out the pots and pans? They’re over there by the pantry.” She pointed to the cupboards by the fridge and the woman nodded and went straight towards them.

With her back to them- Momma turned and looked at him finally. He could still feel his heart hammering away at his chest, but this was more manageable. He was still waiting for the names to come, for the screaming and the disgust to appear in her eyes. Sometimes when Momma was around people hid it a bit better, but he knew that it wouldn’t be long until they couldn’t hide it anymore.

He expects Momma to still be mad at him- blue eyes dark with anger- but instead she sighs and puts her hand on his shoulder, a silent apology that has his muscles relaxing. The woman pays them no mind- bending down to inspect the cupboard down there.

“Go on and take her bag up to her room and get yourself cleaned up, okay?” She tugs on the collar of his shirt before fixing his hair out of his face. It’s damp from his sweat, but she doesn’t flinch. “She’s a good girl- try to handle her with care, alright?” Her voice is a low whisper- something the woman wasn’t supposed to hear. It unsettles him as he nods along with Momma- not quite understanding what she meant. He doesn’t know if he’s supposed to nod along with her or shake his head, but Momma doesn't wait for an answer, patting him on the cheek before she turns her head and calls out to the woman.

“Honey, Tommy is going to take your bag up to your room- is that alright?”

The woman rises from the ground, two pots neatly stacked in each other in her hands. “Yes,” she says softly- her eyes meeting his. “Thank you, Tommy.”

She smiles at him shyly and his heart begins to hammer against his ribs again. He feels his skin begin to burn- his flesh raw and exposed to her. Even underneath his mask he can feel himself heating up as he looks away, scrambling to grab the bag.

He needed to get away from her- from Momma and her words that he couldn’t understand. He felt like he couldn’t breathe with her here. He stumbles up the steps- feet so heavy against the wood that he swears he can feel the house tremble underneath him.

Momma gave her the room across his- the empty one where she liked to keep the extra bed sheets and towels. But it’s cleaner now as he turns the knob and goes inside, the curtains pulled open to let in the bit of light that still shone from outside- the sun close to setting. The piles of blankets that were on the bed are gone- the sheets neatly tucked into the space between the mattress and the boxspring. There’s a jacket thrown on top- red and faded, the cuffs ripped up on one arm.

He sits the bag right next to it- on the floor, wiping his hands on his jeans. It topples over and he lets out a grunt- fixing it so it sat upright again. He decided that he would stay up here until Momma called him for supper. He wouldn’t go down to the basement while the woman was here- he was worried that she would be stupid enough to follow him down there. That would be the end of her. Blood and flesh and sinew torn from her bones for them to feast on.

He’s careful when he’s leaving the room- closing the door gently so that it doesn’t slam before he hurries off into his own- locking the door behind himself.

Here it’s dark, his windows covered in greased up newspapers. He didn’t like it when it got too bright- when the sun shone through and reminded him of the mess around him. His room is small and cramped and full of things that he had hauled up from the furnace room so that he wasn’t stuck going up and down all the time. Uncle Monty said that he sounded like a ‘goddamned bulldozer,’ stomping around the house when he was trying to sleep. So, it was better this way- even though sometimes he got irritated that there were too many things. But it meant not being bothersome, so he tried not to mind much.

He checks the door again- making sure that he had really locked it, pulling and twisting at the doorknob just to be safe. He knew that no one would come up here and go into his room- Monty was stuck on the first floor, Momma was with the girl in the kitchen preparing supper and Uncle Hoyt wasn’t home yet. But he was always a little paranoid, just the tiniest bit afraid that someone would knock down his door and see everything about him that he had tried so hard to hide. Not even Momma was allowed in here. This was his- the only place where he could hide from everyone, where he didn’t have to worry about anyone disturbing him.

He takes his mask off and it’s not quite the relief he was expecting- the leather inside has gone stiff, his face raw and tender and aching from all the sweat and dirt that had managed to get in. He can feel it as he runs his fingers across his face, a cut on the corner of his lips that wasn’t there last time. It blends into the sores and scarred tissue already there, his skin long ruined. It shouldn’t bother him- but as he opens his mouth and feels the skin stretch and crack, a drop of blood welling up and rolling down his chin- he gets upset, grunting in frustration. He had wanted to clean the mask and add some petroleum to try and soften it up so it wouldn’t bite at his skin anymore- pinching and scratching and making the pain worse. It would have been something to do, something to keep him busy and distracted until he had to face the inevitable, but now it was something that he no longer wanted to do. Why would he? What would it change?

It was never this bad- but ever since his nose began to fall away, it only ever seemed to get worse- no matter what he did or how hard he pleaded for it to just stop and go away- nothing ever changed. There was no one there to listen to his pleas.

With a low groan of frustration, he tears his hand from his face, wiping the blood on the front of his shirt. He hates himself. Hates everything about himself. Momma liked to say that the bad people were liars, that people who were hurting only ever knew how to hurt others- but he knew that wasn’t true. He was a monster. He saw it, looking back at him in the mirror- wild and ugly and evil, everything that he did not want to be. He hated taking his mask off- hated knowing that the man that existed underneath it was the same man that he was trying to escape from.

Coming here was a mistake. He should have stayed downstairs, should have gone out back to the barn- there he would have found something, anything, to do.

He takes a breath like Momma showed him, trying to push the anger away- down, down, down, until he couldn’t feel it slithering through his veins and pounding in the back of his head. He just had to focus on something else-he liked it when he had chores, things to do that kept him busy and away from the bad thoughts. He takes another deep breath through his mouth- dirt and salt on his lips as he picks up the mask and tries to clean it off on his clothing. It does nothing but lift the dust off into the air as he places it on his face, tightening it too much across his head, leather digging into tender skin. He would take a bath, change his clothes, then sit in bed and wait. Uncle Hoyt would come an hour after the sun disappeared and then he would have to go downstairs. He didn’t want to go downstairs.

He didn’t want to feel the bad feelings anymore. The fear, the anger. The woman would look at him and his throat would tighten, and his heart would beat painfully. He hadn’t liked that feeling- trapped in his own skin, unable to get away. Yet at the same time, he wanted her to look at him. No one ever looked at him.

He could still feel her eyes- soft and warm on his skin, simultaneously calming and worsening his anger. He was half embarrassed- covered in dirt and sweat stains, his clothing old and faded- Did she think that he was disgusting? He was always messy in everything that he did- always having to teach himself how to do things. Filth had never been a stranger. Had never bothered him. But he finds himself wanting to wash the grime and sweat from himself- even if he was just going to put the same clothes back on.

His stomach growls, empty and needy as he unlocks the door and roughly pushes it open- he finds the woman outside of it.

The door swings open, the gust of wind pushing her hair around as the door barely manages to miss her. She’s looking up at him, eyes wide and mouth slightly open- her arms up by her chest. It scares him, seeing her there and he makes a messy, garbled noise of surprise.

“Sorry!” she speaks fast, her words all pushed together. “I was just trying to find the bathroom!”

He feels his heart beating in his throat, muscles tense and solid as he stares down at her. She’s so much shorter than he thought- he could reach out and crush her throat in his hand and it wouldn’t take much force to do so. He’s almost tempted to, his fingers twitching at his sides. Momma would get mad at him when he dragged her body downstairs- but she would forget eventually.

“I’m in your way- I,” she takes a step back, her eyes finally releasing his. “I’m sorry, I’m just-”

He grunts. Low and short- his way of telling her to stop talking. Nothing she says is making any sense to him and the sound of her voice makes his heart hammer at his chest. Thunderous and loud and painful. It scares him how easily she does that to him. Such a small thing like her, carelessly walking into a house where God was nowhere to be found without a single ounce of caution. He could take her to his room, and no one would hear her scream. He could scare her more than she scared him.

She squirms in the silence like a rat stuck in a trap. She tugs at her sleeve, at her collar- his breathing loud as he watches her- watches her chest rise and fall with every breath, her eyes on the space between them.

 Another grunt and she startles backwards, looking up at him. This time, when her eyes meet his own, he doesn’t cower even though his body tenses and he can already feel her pulse beneath his hand.

 His body is stiff as he steps out of his room and moves out of the way of the door- he has to turn his back to her and for a split-second, panic runs cold and fast through his veins as he remembers the woman who had stabbed him. The door slams close as he turns around quickly, eyes wide and wild as he looks down at her hands.

He expects to see a knife pointed at him- the scar on his shoulder aching from the memory of being sliced apart, the pain still there even after all the months that have passed since. He hadn’t done anything to deserve that pain- the woman and her friends had attacked first, had tried to hurt his family. Uncle Hoyt had told him, so had Momma with tears in her eyes and blood splatters on her dress. They were bad people who wanted to do bad things to them, and it was his responsibility to protect them- to keep them safe. It hadn’t mattered that his hands shook so hard with fear, and he could taste vomit at the back of his throat, vile and burning, he had to protect them. They were all that he had. He couldn’t- wouldn’t- lose them.

He was panting as he searched the woman and finds nothing in her hands, her eyes widening as she takes another step away from him.

 Was she scared?

Did she finally see it? The evil that radiated off of him that others seemed to see- always scared of getting too close to him- He was a disease on this town. A burden. Did he finally scare her?

Would she scream?

Was she going to hurt him- just like everyone else? Drive a knife into his flesh- a pain that would only last for so long before it faded into a memory that he refused to think of. A pain that wouldn’t be so bad compared to the shame that churned his stomach whenever a stranger screamed when they saw him.

He waited- teeth clamped together as he stared her down in the heavy silence.

He watched as her lips part, lower lip trembling slightly. If she screamed, he would hurt her before she could hurt him. If she screamed, she would be nothing but a pile of bones, tossed into the fire by the time the sun rose tomorrow.

Scream, he thought, fingers twitching at his sides. Scream already and let this end already.

“You’re scared of me, aren’t you?” she whispers and her voice trembles even as she keeps talking. “I can tell- you’re looking at me like I just pulled out a gun on you or something.” She lifts her hands towards him and moves them back and forth, as if she was showing him that he had nothing to worry about. “But my hands are empty-”

She lifts her hands, palms facing him, and wiggles her fingers. “If it makes you feel better, apart from a kitchen knife I don’t think I’ve ever held a weapon.” She smiles oddly at him- as if she wasn’t sure how to do so, her eyes still wide and unblinking. As if she was worried that he would lunge at her at any second.

He doesn’t like how his body seems to let go of its worries and fears so fast, his shoulders drooping and his heartbeat slowing down until it’s no longer pounding against his ears as the ringing slowly starts to disappear. He unclenches his teeth, the pain still lingering in his jaw and neck, and suddenly, he’s no longer thinking of hurting the woman- of how easy he would have snapped her neck. He still could, part of him even ached and begged for him to do it. To get it over with.

But he doesn’t listen to that part of him that never truly seemed to go away- always begging for blood, for a voice that would finally be heard. He’s staring at her hands instead, focusing on the tips of her fingers that are flushed pink. He notices the birthmark on her left middle finger- a tiny dot right underneath the crease of her knuckle. He notices all the tiny little lines that make up her palms and the way her thumb trembles lightly.

He did not like her.

He did not like the way something as simple as her hands was enough to draw his attention- his eyes seeking out the tiny little patterns between her fingers. He did not like how her voice could soothe him so easily when he wanted nothing but to crush her- to take her, to taste her flesh on his tongue and her blood on his lips.

He did not like how she called out to him as he just stared at her- stared through her, voice gentle with his name. It wasn’t the same as when Momma said it though. This felt like a spell, a bad omen- Satan’s own voice whispering temptation in his ear. Sweet and gentle and unfamiliar.

She made him feel the same way he had felt that one night he had snuck upstairs to watch Uncle Hoyt and his new friend. He had pushed the door open just enough so that he could see but still stay hidden from the light. He hadn’t made a single noise as he watched Hoyt undo his pants and pull the woman’s legs apart. He hadn’t been able to see much from his hiding place, but what he heard had sent a shock of electricity through his body- blood boiling with need as he listened to the crying and the begging and the sound of something slick being hit over and over again. His stomach churned the same it had that night- tight and hot and restless for something that he could not give it.

He lets out a whine- deep and guttural and full of frustration. Go away, he wants to yell at her. Go away before you ruin everything.

“Tommy…?” she asks again, not understanding his plea.

He whines again and it takes him a second to realize that he’s scratching at his arm- digging his fingers into the old scars there and agitating the skin. It hurts. But that pain is familiar and calming and helps him focus on something other than the panic rising in his throat.

She was messing it all up.

 It’s supposed to just be the four of them- Momma, Hoyt, Monty and him. It’s always been just the four of them. There wasn’t enough space here for her. She was too much of a change to get used to- too loud, too much. Even if he went and hid in the basement until Momma got tired of her, he knew that he would still be able to feel her through the walls, a choking weight in the air that would only poison him until he forgot what it was like to be ignored and cautious even in his own home. He’d be able to hear her- hear her laugh, her steps, the tiny little noises she would come to make the more time went on. She would fill this house with her until she soaked the walls and filled in the foundation. Until everyone forgot that she had a stranger at one point- a spontaneous good dead in all the bad they dealt in.

And even then- what would stop Hoyt from taking her to the room where almost all of the women ended up in? From the emptiness of their bellies that might make them remember that she wasn’t one of them- that she was the answer to their starvation?

He's sinking his nails in harder- the thin skin underneath breaks and he itches at the spot as if there was something alive and buzzing under the flesh. He doesn’t feel the pain as the blood begins to gather underneath his dirty nails. He can see it, even in the dim light- but he can’t feel it. Can’t stop. He digs and digs and digs, hoping for the thoughts to stop- for the voices to stop telling him that he had to kill her. That if he didn’t, he had to make sure that she never left- that this house swallowed her whole and kept her from running, from leaving them. Leaving him. If she tried to run, he could keep her in the furnace room; could tie her up and warn her that if she wasn’t good, she wouldn’t be able to stay.

He could be good to her. He would learn if he had to, would ask Momma to teach him to be gentle and kind. He would not make her angry, would not make her cry or scare her away as long as she listened to him. As long as she stayed with him.

He’s lost, stuck in the farthest corner of his mind, in a future that would stop existing if he simply reached out and touched her. All he had to do was cover her face with his hand, she would be too surprised to fight him off when he pressed her against the wall and kept her there-the weight of him against her back. He could already feel her as she squirmed against him- her body unable to stand still as her lungs began to burn. He could already feel her warmth through his clothes, feel the way his heart would race as she sank her fingers into his skin, drawing blood from fear and desperation. His fear would seep into her flesh, make her lash out more. Her pain would become his and they would be inseparable in that moment.

 It’s when he feels her- fingers cold and desperate as she prods and pulls at his arms, forcing them apart that he returns to reality- to the dimly lit hall, the heat of the fireplace already seeping through the cracks in the foundation. He can feel the way her arms tremble, her fingertips burning holes into his skin.

The woman’s eyes are wild when he looks at her, all wet and round- something in them, in the way she looks at him, makes his heart fill with lead- knocking against his ribs painfully.

“It’s okay!” she says, her voice panicked as she keeps repeating it over and over again, almost as if she’s trying to convince herself- or maybe she thinks that if she says it enough times it’d become true.

“It’s okay, you’re okay,” she repeats, her eyes on his as she pulls his arms towards her. “We just have to get this cleaned up and it’ll be okay.”

He doesn’t budge when she tries to pull him towards the staircase- instead, he watches as she stumbles over her own feet, her hands sliding down his arms.

“We need to get this clean,” she’s pleading now, tugging at him to get him to move. “It’s going to get infected if we don’t and there’s no doctor in town anymore-” the more she talks, the more hysterical she begins to sound, her voice growing higher. “I don’t know where the bathroom is, but we can go down to the kitchen, Luda M-”

He doesn’t let her finish, easily pulling his uninjured arm free from her. He didn’t want Momma to know. To see the mess that he made of himself. She would yell at him if he was lucky- tell him that he was sick in the head, hurting himself like a damn fool again.  But he knew that Momma wouldn’t be kind like that- she would take one look at him, dripping blood on the floor and she would blame the woman for his pain.

He could already hear her yelling, the shrill sound bouncing through his head. Momma wouldn’t care to listen, to see anything other than what she wanted. Momma was like that- kind and sweet and quiet until someone was stupid enough to go after the family. He was like her in a way, protective of them all. He liked to think that he got it from her- that he couldn’t possibly be bad when Momma’s blood ran through him, sweet and caring.

He couldn’t let Momma find out. Not now- not when he had decided that the woman standing in front of him was worth more to him alive than chopped up into pieces that would fit into the deep freezer.

 With a grunt that shuts the woman up from her rambling, he grabs her arm. She’s soft and small under his touch- her sweater itching at his palm as he begins to pull her deeper into the hallway, into the darkness. Away from Momma. Away from a future he wanted no part in.

“No, Tommy we have to go downstairs. I don’t know what to do.” Her voice is shaky as she takes a couple steps forward before planting her feet and refusing to keep going. “Your mom might me better at this than me, please.” She pleads even as she begins to walk again when he refuses to stop.

He tries to tell her that Momma couldn’t find out. That if she did then he wouldn’t be able to protect her- to keep her safe. Momma would tell him to get rid of her and he always did what Momma wanted, even if sometimes he didn’t want to.

He loves Momma. Loves her more than Uncle Hoyt or Monty. He loves her more than anything or anyone- even himself. He could suffer through any pain as long as Momma was with him- as long as she was happy with him.

He tries to tell her that he knows exactly what he’s doing, but all his words come out as a garbled mess of a groan, the muscles in his throat too weak to form any actual words. It frustrates him- hearing himself talk in a way that no one would ever understand.

He lets out a low howl, that frustration growing when she stops walking again. He has to be careful not to hurt her- he didn’t want to accidentally pull her arm too hard if she was going to make this a habit. He just needed to get her to the bathroom. She had to wash off the blood on her hands before she went back downstairs. He could take care of his injuries himself- Momma had taught him how to clean and bandage cuts and bruises. Though he wasn’t concerned with the open wound dripping blood down his arm.

Right now, he needed to get the woman to understand that Momma couldn’t find out about this. That if she went down those steps, stained with his blood, then there was nothing he could do to keep Momma from lashing out. Facing her, he points to himself- finger beating against his chest twice before he points at her.

He’s watching her- his eyes on her as she watches him repeat the action two more times. Her face is flushed, her eyebrows pushed together, and he begins to worry that she’s not understanding him, that now that he’s let go of her, she was going to be stupid and try to push him back towards the stairs.

Letting out a small whimper, he grabs at her wrist. She’s pliant under his touch- her skin cool and soft. Touching her reminds him of the Cattle fences that were used back when the Slaughterhouse had been open. He had touched one by accident, not fully understanding why they had so many warnings signs- and just like back then, something hot and quick ran through him. Back then, the muscles in his fingers and arms had tensed and burned, taking away all his strength. But touching her, feeling the way his scarred thumb slid against the thin skin on her wrist- felt like a shockwave of warmth had run through him- intense and disorienting and addictive.

It scared him, but he didn’t let go of her even though his brain was yelling at him to stop touching her. He couldn’t. He had to keep her safe. Slowly, he began to raise her hand towards him, his mouth opening as he made a noise from the bottom of his throat.

He looked at her face as he pressed the back of her hand against his chest. She was already staring at him, her lips twisted into a frown. He couldn’t look into her eyes for too long, something in him ached when he did, so he kept his eyes on her mouth as he tapped her hand against his chest. That same warmth that was spreading through his arm poisoned his chest. He could feel it in his throat, in the depth of his belly- It knocked around in his head until he was dizzy.

For a moment, with her hand on him and his eyes still glued to her lips, he forgets about the bad people who called him all those bad words. He forgets all of the evil that he’s done, all the screams that haunt him, all the blood that he can never wash off.

He finds the confidence to raise his eyes to her own and part of him is scared that in them he would find disgust at having to touch something like him. A smaller, quieter, part wonders if she feels it too- the electricity that flows out of her and through him. He wants her to tell him that she feels him in her- that he’s also warm and electric through her veins. He wants her to tell him that a real monster wouldn’t feel the way he did- that if he really was a monster, the softness in her eyes wouldn’t be affecting him so much.

Dropping his eyes, he taps his chest with her hand twice before pointing it towards him. He does it one more time before he lets go of her. He expects her to pull her hand away, but instead she lets it linger on his shirt, the dirt and stains not bothering her. He wonders if she can feel the way his heart knocks against his ribs.

“You want me to follow you?” her voice cracks a bit as she takes her hand away.

He nods, grunting as he motions to a door off to the side behind him before he lifts his bloodied arm and runs his hand over the scratches- they’ve stopped bleeding already, his arm a mess of blood stains and dirt. Pointing behind here, towards the staircase he shakes his head, bringing his hand back towards his arm and covering the mess he made.

She doesn’t say anything as she tries to piece everything together- her face twisting into itself as she thinks. He repeats the movement, groaning when he points at the staircase and once more when he covers the cuts. ‘Not safe,’ he tries to tell her, ‘Take care of it here.’

Realization makes her eyes brighten, her features smoothing out. “You don’t want Luda Mae to find out?”

It’s not exactly what he was trying to say but he lets it be, seeing as it was close enough. She could have thought that he wanted her to go down and grab Momma- and he was worried that with how small she was she would take off running before he could stop her. In trying to help she would run straight into her end.

The thought made his stomach drop- a sudden chill rocking through him.

“Tommy- I don’t know if I can do anything about that…” she pauses, and he watches as she reaches for him, taking his arm in both of her hands. Her touch burns him again, and this time he can’t stop the small whine of delight from escaping his lips. Her mouth twists down as she inspects his arm- and he tenses, waiting for her to start yelling at him, for the bad names to come. But they don’t- she stays silent, her eyes glued to his arm.

The damage isn’t bad- compared to the collection of scars that line both of his arms, this was nothing. He had scratched a small hole in his forearm- breaking the skin and tearing apart the bit of muscle and fat there. He was lucky that he hadn’t hit anything vital- that he had stopped when he did.

When he was younger, he had taken to cutting- tearing flesh from his body and slicing himself open as a punishment for his mistakes, for his bad thoughts. He had done a good job of keeping it from Momma until the night he had cut too deep, and the blood wouldn’t stop. He had ran to her, howling in fear- bloody arm pressed against his chest. She had made Uncle Monty hold him down while she stitched him together, only a glass of whiskey to keep the pain away. She had yelled at him the entire time-first with tears in her eyes then when they had dried up and she had finished sewing his skin together- she had taken the belt and beaten him raw. When she got tired of beating him, she had told him that this was all Satan’s fault- that she had no choice but to beat the devil out of him. God was gonna soothe his pain, his fears, his anguish. He would see, Momma liked to say. She had kissed him on the forehead, and he swore he had seen the devil on her shoulder, laughing at him.

The pain hadn’t convinced him to stop- he simply learned how to hide it better, how to keep things clean, how to stitch himself together on those nights that he fantasized about finding peace in death. He learned where to cut and how deep to dig- and eventually, Momma made herself forget it ever happened at all. Sometimes, he thought that she was afraid of God- of making him angry, of him turning his back on her. It’s why he didn’t tell her that every once in a while, he could feel the devil itself pumping through his veins. Taunting him.

The woman gently turns his arm, and he pulls himself from the memories, watching as her fingers caress his skin. She’s too trusting- doesn’t she see the danger that she’s in? How easily he could overpower her? This was a Godless house, no matter what Momma and Hoyt thought- he knew the truth. He knew that they were all rotten, inside and out. She would be ruined by them all if she stayed. He would ruin her with his sins-but his guilt wasn’t strong enough to stop his desires.

“It looks a lot worse than it is, doesn’t it?” she asks him, but he doesn’t answer- too busy watching the way she touches him- her touch making his breath deepen.

He likes the way she doesn’t mind that his blood is on her hands- twisted into the tiny cracks of her bracelet. She’s careful and slow as she traces the tip of her index finger above the crater he had created in his flesh. He’s almost tempted to push her hand down- to feel her flesh against the inside of his own, to have her hurt him before he could hurt her- but she moves her hand away before he can make up his mind.

“Okay…” she sighs, not letting go of him. “Show me what to do.”

He grunts in satisfaction, the weight of Momma finding out and the woman being punished lifting from his shoulders. Slowly, he turns the arm she cradled in her hands so that he was grabbing her instead- his hand swallowing hers.

He tries not to think about it too much as he tugs gently and finds no resistance in her steps. He almost smiles- lip twitching against the leather on his face as he leads her to the bathroom. Inside him, the devil starts to dance in glee.

The room is cold as he pushes open the door and pulls her inside before he follows. He can feel the cold seep into his thin shirt, see it with every exhale when he turns on the light and shuts the door, dropping the woman’s hand. She shivers and he wants to know if it’s from the cold or the fact that he’s no longer touching her.

The light flickers and dies for a couple seconds, leaving them in darkness before it turns back on- low and yellow like all the others in the house. It makes the woman’s skin look sickly- washing her out as she blinks and tries to get used to the light.

“We have to clean it,” she’s already walking around him, towards the sink. It’s a small one, too low for him to reach without having to bend his knees uncomfortably. Maybe that’s why she pauses mid-sentence- was she trying to picture him, hunched over as he scrubbed the dirt and blood and sweat from his arms?

The thought of her thinking about him- caring about him- splits him in two, a feeling that he’s never experienced before.

“Where are the towels?” she asks, turning around to face him. “If we lay some down on the floor it should keep the mess down a bit, right?”

He doesn’t tell her that it’s not a good idea- that a pile of soaking towels would raise questions that need to stay buried instead. So, he shakes his head, already closing the small distance between them.

The bathroom is small- all of them are. The tiles on the walls are a faded green color, some of them cracked- some of them are separated by mold- the caulk so old and weathered by age and neglect. He hopes that she doesn’t see them- his blood warming in embarrassment as he tells himself that he would fix them later, before she realized that this house was falling apart right under their feet.

The toilet and sink and the bathtub are old- not quite as stained, but still the same faded shade as the tiles that surrounded them. Under the harsh yellow light, it all looked a mess. At least it wasn’t like Hoyt’s bathroom- with too many colors and carpet all over the floors that trapped the smell of tobacco and sweat and soap, the steam that seemed to linger and stick to the walls doing nothing to lessen the stench.

He’s careful as he walks around her- suddenly aware of just how close they were. In here, with the door closed, being near to her seemed almost intimate in a way that he could not quite grasp.

He was used to being alone with people- usually they were screaming and begging, or already half-dead, delirious and confused from the pain and the blood loss. He was used to them thrashing and running and fighting back- hitting him with their fists, kicking him, throwing whatever they managed to get ahold of. They would always scare him when they did that- the pain eventually making him mad until he lashed out and hurt them on purpose.

They didn’t seem to understand that he didn’t want to make them suffer- that he was being kind- taking their lives quickly so that they didn’t have to be so afraid.

He was used to the screaming, the name calling- no matter how scared or afraid he got, he always knew how it would end.

With the woman, he had touched her- she had touched him- without screaming, without her begging or flinching or trying to run away. Out in the hall there had been enough space for him if he needed to get away, but here it was just the two of them- existing in a space that no one else seemed to belong in.

It terrified him just as much as it thrilled him. It made him feel the same way as when he had to chased down someone that had slipped out of his hold- but this time his mind wasn’t telling him to kill. This time, as he stood besides the woman, her eyes on him as he turned on the faucet and waited for the water to warm, something inside of him was telling him to chase her down in a completely different way- to keep her at his side.

Even if he had to chain her and train her- he did not want her to leave. He would not let her leave.

He remembers when he had first started at the Slaughterhouse, when he had been put to work with the cows- separating the babies from the mothers as soon as they were born. He would take them- carefully scooping them up in his arms, a child at the time, not knowing better, not knowing what it was that he was doing- and carry them to another part of the barn where he would drop them into cages so small that even he couldn’t fit inside.

They would cry and shake, unable to stand, unable to realize what lay ahead of them. He would feed them scraps he had stolen from the feeding center- oats or barley or even handfuls of grass from outside- shoving his hand through and letting them eat from his hand. They would calm down, even though they could not stand fully- their heads hunched over and pressed against the metal. He would show them that even if they weren’t going to live long- even if the world around them didn’t seem to care for them- they weren’t alone.

She did not have to be caged like them- though if he had to, he would keep her locked up if it meant keeping her beside him. Down in the basement where no one would hear her- where no one would disturb them, he would get her to see that he was a kind man, that he only wanted what was best for her.

She was already so much like the calves from back then- stupid and small and too trusting of him. It wouldn’t be hard to break her, to convince her that it was all her fault- that there was nothing left for her outside this home.

When the water heats up- steam rising and filling his lungs- he runs his fingers under the stream. Dirt and blood stain the sink, the hot water turning his fingers pink. It hurts, but not enough for him to stop. He rubs his hands together, the water turning pink as it drains. He can feel her eyes on him as he scrubs the grains of dirt from his skin.

For some reason, it embarrasses him- having her watch him do something so mundane and ordinary. He almost swore that he could feel the warmth from her eyes on his skin- hotter than the water. It makes the simple task suddenly seem foolish, makes him feel as if this was the first time he was doing it and he wasn’t sure if it was right or wrong.

With a grunt he tries to push the thoughts from his mind- cupping his hand and filling it with water before he splashes it onto his arm, onto the wound he had given himself. It makes a mess- water splashing onto his rolled sleeve and onto the floor, the sink too small to prevent the mess.

“Can I?” she says- and she’s suddenly closer than he had thought, her body pressed against his side. He can feel her through his shirt, through the thick fabric of her sweater. He swears that he can feel the softness of her body, the beating of her heart, the blood rushing through her veins on his very skin. It makes his heart leap into his throat- the sudden touch making him want to push her head into the glass of the medicine cabinet or pull her closer- he wasn’t sure which one he wanted to do most.

He stands still, body tense as she reaches for him, grabbing his arm and lifting it closer. She must have found the linen closet- an old, red washcloth in her other hand which she places underneath the running water. She hisses, pulling her hand away and opens the cold water.

“Doesn’t that hurt you?” she asks- and there’s no anger in her voice, no underlying judgement that has him tensing up, muscles rippling with dread that he had done something wrong. Momma liked to talk to him like that sometimes. She liked to ask questions that made him feel bad, that made him regret coming to her- guilty that he had bothered her. Hurt that she saw him as something bothersome.

He shakes his head, his way of telling her that no, it wasn’t hurting him. If he had a voice, he would tell her that his skin is so damaged that he could barely feel it, that some days he even preferred it- he liked the way his skin turned red and pulsed in a way that was almost comfortable, soothing.

“This will feel much better,” she holds her fingers under the water, and once it’s at a comfortable temperature she lets it run over the washcloth. “Tell me if I’m hurting you, okay?”

He nods sharply and she smiles at him- the corners of her mouth lifting. He expects her to rub the wound directly, desperate to clean it off before infection sets in. Instead, to his surprise, she wipes around the length of it- scrubbing gently at the blood matting the hair on his arm. The hand holding his arm is gentle, her fingers sinking into his soft flesh and holding him still.

He watches her- watches the concentration on her face that has her eyebrows knitted together as she wipes and rinses, repeating those two motions over and over and over again until his skin is cleaner- until the dirt is gone and there’s nothing left to hide the many sins he carried on his skin.

She pauses- and he can almost read her mind at that moment. He can see it in the tension in her wrist, feel it in the way her fingers tremble just a fraction of a second before they dig a little deeper into his arm. The feeling of her nails scratching at him isn’t painful, but it startles him just the same as if it were- a warmth growing in his chest that travels down to his belly and pools there- filling him with a different sort of sin.

He expects her to say something about the hundreds of tiny little cuts and bruises that she’s unearthed- he can feel it hang heavy in the air- his lips tingling from anticipation. From the worry that she would open her mouth and ruin it all.

It would either be disgust or pity- and he wanted neither. The scars were his to carry- his own punishment for his terrible deeds. Uncle Hoyt always cringed and acted like he didn’t see them- even though his mouth and face twisted as if he had eaten something sour. The pity always came from Momma- her hands on his as she prayed to God to take away whatever burdens he seemed to be carrying around in his heart. She wouldn’t touch them- maybe out of fear, or anger, or maybe just like Uncle Hoyt, she was disgusted as well- scared that if she touched the scars, they would somehow ruin her as well.

The corners of the woman’s mouth are still twisted down when she glances up at him- her eyes too dark to read. He wonders what he looks like in her eyes- what is it that she sees in him that no one else seems to see?

He waits for her to talk- to break the tense silence that’s choking him- but she doesn’t say a word, dropping her eyes as she picks up the bar of soap that’s been there for months. It almost slips out of her hand, and she lets go of him completely- his arm frozen in place, his body already missing hers. The tension disappears, as if nothing had ever happened, as if it had never been there to begin with. It rolls from the points of pressure that she had left behind on his flesh and up his arms. It moves in his veins, thick and syrupy- coating all of him in a feeling that’s doesn’t sit right.

Maybe he did want her to speak- to pity him after all. But the moment is gone, and he doesn’t have a voice to bring it back- to tell her what he was feeling, so he lets the discomfort drown him just a bit as he watches her act like nothing wrong had happened.

She rubs the bar between her hands, underneath the stream of water and his heart sinks at the thought of her cleaning all traces of him from her skin- he wanted to coat her in all that he was- his scent, his hatred, the bitter taste in his mouth that never seemed to go away- he wanted her to have it all, to carry him even if they were apart for a split second. An extension of him- equally as fearsome.

“Come here,” she motions for him to bring his arm towards her hands, letting the bar fall into the sink. Her hands are covered in soap as she takes his arm in between them- gently scrubbing from his wrist to the inside of his elbow, where his rolled-up sleeve sat. At first, she doesn’t touch the wound- and he can feel the hesitation in her fingers as she scrubs at his arm, circling around it. She scrubs at his skin, at the spaces between his fingers, taking his hand in her own and gently massaging it.

It's the first time anyone has done something like that to him- and while he can’t understand why she was being so thorough when it would have been easier to just hand him the soap and let him do it, he has no intention of stopping her.

He simply watches and enjoys- his mouth twisted into the closest thing of a smile that he could manage underneath his mask.

“Tell me if I hurt you, okay?” she says quietly, and it takes him a second to understand her words, his mind lost even to himself- her fingers lightly press against the cut as she speaks, drawing him back into reality. He tenses as she begins to clean it out, rubbing soapy water into it. It doesn’t hurt- not with how light and slow she moves her hand, her finger dipping into the hole he had scratched open. He expects it to hurt or sting or startle him- but pain doesn’t come. Instead, he groans in delight- enjoying the way her finger seems to be tearing into him, stretching his skin open. It’s like she’s making space for herself inside of him- forcing herself into the parts of him that held him together, sinew and muscle and blood- now poisoned with whatever sickness the woman had inflicted in his heart.

“Sorry!” she says quickly, pulling her hand away from him. The once white bubbles between her fingers are now a soft shade of pink, mixed with his blood. It all disappears down the drain as she rinses her hand, drying them on the front of her jeans.

He grows frustrated at the fact that there’s no way to tell her that she hadn’t hurt him- that he wanted her to do it again. That the pain she caused him was almost addictive- sweeter than the whiskey Uncle Monty sometimes let him have whenever he was in a good enough mood to share.

The woman motions for him to rinse his arm, already cupping her hands together under the faucet and letting the cool water pool between her hands. He angles his arm awkwardly into the sink and she lets the water trickle from between her fingers over his arm slowly. He watches as she repeats the motion, rinsing his arm- it’s so trivial and boring, yet he’s in awe as she takes care of him.

Without a second thought, the woman is already devoting herself to the mundanity of life with him. He could see it as she turns the water off and tells him to wait- as if he would leave her side, as if he could do something so absolutely stupid- subjecting himself to an agony he had no intention of experiencing firsthand.

He hears the closet door open behind him, making him turn around and look at the woman as she rummages through old fitted blankets, washcloths and towels until she finds what she needs. With one hand pressed against the pile of folded towels she pulls one free, tossing it over her arm. “I don’t know how long this has been here for-” as she talks, she moves onto her toes, stretching her arm out as she reaches for something on one of the top shelves.

He almost moves to help her, his body already swaying in place, eager to move, to make himself useful to the woman. But he spends too long trying to decide- her hand closing around whatever it was that she had seen earlier. She lets out a small noise of delight as she drops down to the balls of her feet, and it wracks through him, sending a shiver of warmth up his spine that spreads across his chest- tightening the muscles in his lower belly.

“Expired medicine and antibiotics are better than nothing, right?” She asks as he turns and faces him- lips curved up into a smile and he almost finds himself mimicking it- the corners of his lips twitching. He catches himself, hot embarrassment forcing his eyes to drop from her face- down to the small plastic medicine bin in her hands. It did not matter that he had his mask to hide behind, the way she looked at him made him feel as if she could somehow see through it- his face exposed for whatever ridicule and insults she would eventually throw at him.

 There are bottles of pills stacked on top of one another- the type that Momma used to give him when he was feverish. It would take his sickness as well as his hunger- leaving him too heavy to do anything but lay in bed until the heat of his body burned through the drug. There are other things as well- gauze and bandages, silver packages of pills he couldn’t identify, the label worn off a long time ago- a bottle of Vaseline, faded from the years sits next to a glass jar of Vapor-Rub. Looking at it, he swears that he can smell it even with how far away from the jar he was- even though his nose hasn’t worked properly for months, he feels the ghost of it wrinkle as he cringes from the offensive smell his mind reminds him of.

Momma used to slather him with it when he had first started working at the Slaughterhouse. He hadn’t been used to the smell of it back then and every day he went back had been miserable. The scent of death and blood and shit had soured his stomach until he had gone and thrown up the oatmeal Momma had made for breakfast all over his worktable. All over the slab of meat he had been told to break down. He can still remember the taste of animal blood on his tongue after he had wiped his mouth- forgetting that his hands and arms and chest had been covered in chunks of offal. His boss had called him every bad word under the sun-some were words that he had never heard before, now fully engrained in his mind, tearing at his heart once Monty had told him what they meant.

When he had gone home that night, after scrubbing his station clean- the blood mixing with his waste underneath his nails, in the strands of his hair and in between the cracks of his boots, Momma had slapped him. She had been waiting for him on the porch, her face twisted down in anger, the blue of her eyes dark and cold behind her glasses.

She had called him a great big idiot- uncaring of how dirty he had been, of how hard he had silently prayed to God for the day to hurry up and end so that he could leave and go home. At one point, when the bell for Lunch had rung and he was forced to stay and catch up to everyone else- his boss throwing what Momma had packed for him in the garbage before spitting on it with a laugh- he had wanted to die, his chest burning every single time he brought the cleaver down. He had wanted to die right then and there- to stop existing all together. To be nothing but the air around him- free from the bad people, from the stares, from feeling like all that he did was somehow inherently wrong. No matter if it was an accident or not, no one ever seemed to care enough to listen to him.

Momma had gotten a call from the Slaughterhouse- telling her that because of his careless mistake he would have to be let go. Momma had told him, as she dragged him to the hose out back, that she had begged and begged and begged for them to give him a second chance. They couldn’t lose his income, not with Uncle Monty getting less hours at his job and the Government cutting Uncle Hoyt’s veteran checks so suddenly. They were barely making ends meet as it was- this would ruin them.

She had yelled and shouted, spraying him with cold water until he was a shivering mess, the blood no longer crusted over on his skin. He could feel the cold water pooling in his boots, making his socks stick to his toes. It hadn’t even mattered to him then, his heart hammering away at his chest at the thought of never having to go back. Of not having to wake up so early to walk all the way to the other side of town in a place that he hated.

He didn’t even mind when Momma had beat him, welts forming on his wet skin from the belt she kept exclusively for punishments. The pain was nothing in comparison to when Momma had told him that she had made sure that he had kept his job.

They were going to cut his pay, a little every check, until he paid off the cost of the half cow he had puked all over. But he still had a job, he was still able to help the family out- wasn’t that good? Momma asked him, smiling at him like she hadn’t just beat him tired.

 Momma warned him that he couldn’t mess this up again. That there were no more chances after this- sending him up to his room with no dinner, his stomach already empty and rubbing against itself.

The morning after, when she had woken him up- his body sore from all the walking that he had done and the bruises forming on his back and legs- Momma had twisted open the jar of Vapor-rub for the first time, filling his room with the slightly sweet- minty smell.

She had bought it last night, right before the shop closed- with the bit of lose change she had managed to scrap together. It’s gonna help you from making another mistake she said right before she shoved a finger full of it into his nose. It was thick, and cold, burning the inside of his nose as he moaned in pain, trying to push Momma away before she shoved more into the other nostril. She had smacked his hand away, telling him that this was for his own good. That this was only until he got used to it.

He had moaned as tears began to form, shaking his head- trying to empty his nose, the burning crawling up into his head and making his eyes water painfully. Every inhale he took through his mouth burned its way to his lungs. Momma only slapped him again- telling him that this was his fault. That he had to do this for the family.

“You’re so selfish Thomas!” she shouted at him, holding his jaw and shoving another finger into his empty nostril. “There’s no room for useless boys in this house, do you understand?”

He couldn’t remember anything after that. His memories about that day lost to the pain he had put himself through. He remembers bits and pieces- the hunger. The burning. The anger.

He always seemed to remember the anger. Flashing through him- hot and cold, boiling his blood.

Something outside of his thoughts rattle and he’s once more standing in the bathroom, a man three times the size of the child that he had once been. Beside him, the woman had set the medicine bin on top of the toilet tank and was rummaging through it- the source of the noise that had brought him back.

He’s tense, the muscles in his neck thick and tight. He doesn’t like how he seemed to live more in his memories- constantly remembering all the things that he just wanted to forget. He didn’t want to remember, to be reminded of the pain he carried.

The woman glances at him, holding a small yellow squeeze tube and a roll of self-adhesive medical tape in one hand. Their eyes meet and she smiles at him, even though he can feel the way his face is twisted down into a scowl- his eyebrows heavy over his eyes.

He doesn’t mean to glare at her- to make her smile falter slightly as her eyes widen just a fraction. He could almost see himself in her eyes and he doesn’t like the him that he imagines. Large and imposing- a thing that only knows how to hurt, how to cause fear. He waits for the woman to realize her mistake- to realize that she was trapped in a small room with a monster.

“Give me your arm?” she asks him, holding out her right hand. “Let’s get you all wrapped up, okay?” her smile is still small, and he can see the wariness in her eyes, but when he places his arm in her hand she doesn’t flinch, she doesn’t rush him- wanting to get this over with.

She pulls him towards her instead, slender fingers wrapping around his forearm as much as possible. She tugs, and he moves- lightweight in her hold.

He’s aware of the muscles in his face- of how, even if he’s partially hidden behind his mask, his face sits. He makes himself relax- something that comes easy with the warmth of her hand on his body, easing the tension that he still carried from his memories. Her touch burned into him, filled him until he swore that he could feel her in his blood- pumping through his heart.

Her eyes don’t leave his as she pulls him closer, and motions with her head for him to sit down on the toilet. “It’ll be easier, that way you don’t have to keep your arm in the air.” She explains, shuffling out of the way to make space for him.

Underneath his weight, the toilet squeaks and shifts as he does as told, awkwardly sitting down. She’s taller than him like this, his head at the same level with her chest, making him have to tilt his head back just a bit to meet her eyes.

Her smile had grown in the time he had looked away- and he can’t help the heat that spreads across his face, his ears growing hot. Could she feel it? The warmth that she caused him? The uneasiness thrumming through him that had the tips of his fingers aching to touch her? To hold her like she held him?

“Can you hold this?” she asks, already dropping something into his expecting hand. It had been resting on his lap, calloused covered palm open and waiting- a beggar’s pose. The ointment and tape weren’t what he had been waiting for, but he takes them, closing his thick fingers around them.

What he didn’t expect was for her to lean over him with a mumbled “sorry”, her hand falling onto his shoulder as she reached for something behind him- inside of the medicine bin.

He doesn’t know what to do- his body freezing underneath hers as her neck grazes his mask covered face. It doesn’t last long- maybe a fraction of a second before she’s pulling away and dropping the hand from his shoulder, but it was enough.

Enough for him to inhale the light scent of her- woodsy and sweet and nutty- just the smallest hint of sweat underneath that. It reminded him of the baked goods Momma used to make for him on his birthday when he was small. It was comforting in the same way that it twisted his stomach with the pain of remembering something that used to make him so happy, something that had been taken from him so abruptly once Momma decided that he was too big to celebrate his birthday. Too old to be cared for.

The woman had been so close that he swore that he could almost hear the blood pounding through her veins. He had almost been tempted to turn his head and feel its pulse with his lips. To scratch her skin with his mask- the scent of her tainting it the same way it has already ruined his senses.

He could picture it- his teeth sinking into the warm and thin flesh she had so stupidly given him access to. It was almost scary- the way his mouth began to water at the thought of her blood on his tongue, raw flesh between his teeth. He wanted to fill his belly with it- to make her a part of him in a way that no one could take from him.

Would she taste as sweet as she smelled?

He swallowed down saliva, clearing the bad thoughts from his mind- scared that if he kept focusing on them, he would do something that he didn’t really want to do.  Something that he wouldn’t be able to take back, no matter how hard he begged and prayed and tried to undo.

He didn’t want to hurt her right now. No matter how hard his mind was telling him to do it- replaying all of the times that he could have done so. Showing him all of the ways that he still could.

He feels ashamed of his thoughts, of the temptation that he was barely keeping at bay- and finds himself unable to look at the woman as she rips open a piece of plastic, tossing it in the garbage can between the toilet and the sink. He keeps his eyes on the space between his legs, on her beat-up boots as she stands in front of him- sweet and unaware of what a horrible person he truly was. Of all that he was struggling to not do to her.

“Do you think Luda Mae is getting suspicious?”

The question startles him, reminding him of the world outside of the bathroom, outside of the woman in front of him.

“She’s probably thinking I ran away; don’t you think?” the woman’s laugh is small, feathery light. He doesn’t know how to answer- not knowing how long they had been up here. There was a possibility that Momma had grown suspicious, or maybe she thought that he had snapped and taken care of her in the only way that he knew how.

Vaguely, he shakes his head. Whether it’s to disagree with her or to tell her that he wasn’t sure- he let’s her decide on which one he’s trying to communicate. If Momma had been concerned, she would have come upstairs to check on her already, so he wasn’t too worried. He shrugs, and her laughter fills his ears again.

“Right. If you’re not worried, then I won’t be either. I just don’t want her to think that I’ve been a horrible guest- running off in the middle of helping her with dinner.”

He shakes his head again and this time its to reassure her that Momma wouldn’t think that. At least he hoped that she wouldn’t. The thought of Momma angry at the woman made his chest burn uncomfortably. An ache that slithered in the tight spaces between his ribs- hot and uneasy in its slickness.

“Well, what’s done is done, lets just get your arm bandaged. I might need your help facing her again.” The woman likes to talk with a smile, he’s noticed. It was as if her mouth had no other way to rest- the corners turned up towards the heavens, towards her eyes that liked to seek him out- unafraid of what she saw, of what others liked to look away from.

He wondered if she was joking- if she was just talking in order to fill the silence. He knew people who did that- people like Hoyt and his old boss at the Slaughterhouse, who had to keep their mouths moving or they would stop existing all together. He liked to think that if he had a voice, he would be like that too- not quite as annoying, but loud enough that people were forced to look at him, to listen to what he had to say.

He would tell the woman that he would keep her safe. That he wanted to go down with her and show Momma that she had done nothing wrong. That if anyone was to blame, it was him. It was his fault that she had stayed away for so long. He would hide her away from Momma’s anger- keep her tucked behind him- safe.

If he was being honest, he wasn’t sure that he wanted her to leave just yet. They could stay here a little longer- everything behind that door non-existent. He could make believe that Momma was still at work, busy with too many customers- outsiders who were just passing by, headed for more than the meat hooks in the basement of this house. That for a bit his uncle’s Monty and Hoyt didn’t exist. That the world was just for him and her.

That would be enough for him. He was almost tempted to ask God- to check and see if he was still paying attention to him after all that he had done.

The woman moves from in front of him and takes a seat on the edge of the tub, her knees rubbing against the outside of his thigh as she grabs his arm and places it on her lap. He can feel the buckle of her belt against his knuckles- his arm suddenly a solid weight as he feels the warmth that radiates from the space between her thighs.

 It crawls along his skin- up to his shoulder and through the space in his chest. It reminds him of the times that he’s stayed in one spot for too long, his limbs falling asleep. Though there was no uncomfortable pain this time- Instead it felt like a million little bugs were crawling around inside of him- a buzzing under his skin that he was unused to, but not disgusted by. It was something that maybe he could get used to.

It settles in his belly- thick and heavy and hot, stirring awake thoughts that felt too uncomfortable to focus on. Shamefully, he raises his eyes from the woman’s lap, trying to think of something other than the way her jeans clung to her thighs or how close his fingers were to the space between her legs- somehow hotter than the rest of her, the back of his hand burning pleasantly. He wanted to keep it there- to soak all of himself in her warmth until he knew nothing more.

He pushes the indecent thoughts from his mind, suddenly growing paranoid that the woman would find out what he was thinking about her. He didn’t want her to think that he was disgusting. Rotten just like Uncle Hoyt, who was obsessed with playing with their food.

“Is this uncomfortable for you, Tommy?” maybe it was because the silence had gone on for too long, but the woman whispers her question- her voice only for him, distracting him slightly as she reaches for the things she had given him, plucking them from his hand before he even had a chance to register the movement- her hand too fast that he barely feels the way her fingers skim his palm.

She’s already twisted open the bottle of ointment by the time he shakes his head- the cap balancing on the edge of her knee. With a hum she nods- her eyes focused on her own hands even though he wants her to look at him again. He wanted her to ask him more questions- her voice tender and sweet whenever she spoke to him. He wanted her to distract him for his thoughts that liked to pull him away from her- and right now he wanted to stay right here, to not miss a single moment.

The ointment is cold against his skin- the woman squeezing a light amount right above the wound. He can feel it cleansing away all of his wickedness- her finger swiping at it until it’s in the deepest layer of his flesh, leaving nothing behind but an oily residue that coated her thumb. Without a pause she sticks a piece of gauze on top- taping it up until the gauze is well hidden under flesh colored medical tape.

He had found it in the pocket of one of the first of Uncle Hoyt’s guests- setting it aside for Momma along all of the jewelry he had collected. Maybe it was for a reason that he had second guessed his decision to throw it away. Maybe that had been a sign from above that you were on your way- that God hadn’t abandoned them after all.

The woman is gentle as she pats the covered wound and leans back a bit to meet his expectant eyes. What does she see in them- in him- that makes her look at him so sweetly?

“You’re all set. How’s it feeling? It’s not too tight, is it?”

[faerievampling]

Miracle

Summary: Years after the defeat of the Netherbrain, Astarion and Tav discover they are pregnant.

link to ao3!

Part 2

Pairing: Spawn!Astarion x Female Tav/Reader

Word Count: 1.8k

Warning: 18+. Mention of breeding. breast milk. pregnancy. Astarion being very horny for all these things. body worship. angst. changes in POV focus. brief mention of abortion.

A/N: I'm totally going to write more about these two. I need a pregnant adventuring Tav and protective Astarion.

You had been cleaning off your armor after a long day of running errands for Jaheira and the Harper’s when you notice Astarion’s eyes on you.

You could feel his stare, and as you turn to meet it, the look on his face is peculiar, somewhere between shock and amusement. 

“Darling?” You ask, stopping your task to fully soak in his expression. “Astarion -“

“It’s nothing, my love, nothing,” His voice is dismissive, waving his hand as he tries to push beyond whatever he has been thinking. 

You notice his ruby eyes don’t leave yours for the rest of the evening. You can’t help but feel as though your vampire is avoiding you. 

But you decide to give him his space: this was often the remedy for Astarion’s mood swings. 

***

Astarion couldn’t figure it out. 

You had rarely left his side for the past few years. When would you have had the time to steal away with another man? 

Astarion wondered who he was, what he looked like. 

He curses. Why hadn’t he ever picked up the scent of this mystery man? His smell would have been all over your body.

And Astarion knew his nose was working just fine: your change in smell had been the very first thing he picked up on. Astarion certainly thought it strange, but he chalked it up to a weird diet. The two of you had been running through the wastes of Rashemen, and you had eaten a questionable animal that one night. 

No, it wasn’t that, Astarion was certain. That little flutter of a quickening he had heard earlier couldn’t be denied. Even though you were just on the other side of the wall, Astarion could hear the gentle thrum of two heartbeats. 

He sighs, running his hands through his curls. He’s certain that you don’t know. You weren’t good at hiding things, and you rarely attempted to lie anyways because you are such a sweetheart that it didn’t make any sense at all for you to have bed with another man and cause Astarion pain like this.

Astarion knows he just needs to talk to you, but for the unlife of him, can't figure out where to even remotely begin. Pregnancy and childbirth was…he didn’t even want to think about it.

A child? He can’t even really fathom having one around.

Astarion sits up, having found the resolve to finally confront you, and finds you on the porch of Jaheria’s estate, your eyes mindlessly scanning the streets of Baldur’s Gate.

Astarion takes your image before interrupting whatever thought you were having: you were a vision, a rare beauty that Astarion was so lucky to find. 

He swears his heart flutters for you sometimes. “Do you like being back in the city?”

You nearly jump, startled by the question. 

“Sorry, darling,” Astarion murmurs in apology.

You smile, laughing a bit as you collect yourself. “I do. It’s nice to see it all back together. The rebuilding efforts took longer than expected,” 

Astarion fears you’re going to keep talking about the mundane when all he can focus on is the beat of that little heart and how round and plump your breasts look beneath that blouse.

Astarion swears you’ve never filled out before; not like that.

“You’re staring again,” You say, your voice barely above a whisper. Astarion can see the worry in your face. “Just tell me, Astarion.”

Astarion swallows. “Well,” Astarion stumbles, rolling his eyes at himself as he tries to find his words. This hurt more than he thought it would. “You’re with child, Tav.”

***

You’re speechless. 

“I’d rather like to know who the father is.” Astarion’s eyes are round, wet, tears already lining them. He blinks them back quickly, trying to compose himself. He almost seemed surprised by his sudden lack of control of his handsome face.

“What?” You ask incredulously. 

“I’ve been trying to imagine him, to think about when you could have…” He stops himself, swallowing his upset before continuing to ramble: he keeps talking, stumbling while you’re still processing what he just said.

You interrupt him.“You’re saying that I’m pregnant?” 

“Yes.”

You’re silent for a while. You can feel Astarion’s nerves fraying at the seams, his emotions emanating through him, producing an aura that has encompassed you both. It made time feel slow.

“How do you know?” You ask a bit stupidly. You hardly had missed your monthly bleeding, only being a few days off, which was very normal for you.

“I can hear it. The heartbeat.” His voice is low, guarded. There is a thick moment of silence.

“Surely not,” You almost laugh. But Astarion’s face is still, eyes round and wide as he studies you. He looks devastated, and it makes your stomach drop.

You realize he’s being serious, asking you in earnest if you had been with another. You think you should say something. 

“You’ve been my only lover since the clearing, Astarion.” You want to reach out to him, but you think not. If Astarion had hackles, they would surely be raised. 

“So you’re going to chalk this up to some immaculate conception?” Astarion spats cruelly, his agitation getting the better of him as he flails his hands. “Instead of just telling me the truth?” 

You’re speechless again. You knew he wouldn’t lie about this, so you desperately try to accept the fact that you’re pregnant with Astarion’s child as he, the very man who has bred you, yells at you.

“Close your mouth, darling, you aren’t a fly trap.” Astarion quips, crossing his arms. 

The anger is rising inside you, his offense reaching a boiling point. Your fists clench, your eyes narrowing as you try to reason with him.

“Four weeks ago, we were in the Rashemen wilderness with only Minsc and Boo as our company,” Is all you can say. 

Astarion’s expression is locked in between confusion and betrayal. “Minsc has his charms.” 

You scoff. “You can’t be serious, Astarion.” Astarion’s gaze meets the floor. 

As you study your lover, your anger dissipates. You see how hurt he is, how unsure of himself he feels. He wasn’t likely to tell you that outright, but you knew.

You can’t place how you feel, anymore. You aren’t numb, per say, but there is a distinct lack of feeling within you. You hadn’t thought this a possibility. You didn’t know if you were happy or sad, or if you would even be up to the challenge.

You needed some time to think, to let this soak in. 

“You know, I just remembered that Shadowheart invited me over for tea the other day,” Your excuse is lame, but Astarion doesn’t stop you as you awkwardly walk down the steps, off to the crowded streets of the city. 

***

Astarion was a mess the whole time you were gone. He tried to keep himself busy by doing various things around Jaheira’s house, but he kept finding himself lost in thought, thinking about that little bundle of life inside of you.

He felt greatly relieved when you returned.

He waited for you in one of the spare bedrooms, the one you always shared when you two passed through Baldur's Gate. 

He was pretending to read when you came in, trying not to seem too eager to talk with you. He heard the continued thump of the little heart beat alongside your own. His anxiety is paramount, but he feels a wave of relief crash over him at the sound of the life inside of you.

Astarion tried to accept that you hadn’t slept with anyone else: you couldn’t have, it was literally impossible. And he knew you never would have, anyways. But, since you didn’t sleep with another man, that meant that he, Astarion Ancunin, impregnated you. 

“How was your date with Shadowheart?” Astarion asks, peeking over his book. You had begun to undress yourself, and Astarion couldn’t help but steal a glance. 

He noticed the sway of your breasts as you freed them; the tips of them being especially tight and a darker pink than usual. 

Gods. It was like you were purposefully wafting your scent right in his face. You were sweeter than usual, and Astarion felt a bit ashamed at his growing stiffness. 

Earlier, he had accused you of sleeping with another man, even though he very well knew you hadn’t. And now, he was ogling you, thinking about all the pregnant women he had seen in his long life: it hadn’t been very many. Pregnant women didn’t often frequent the flophouses late at night. 

But he imagined how your belly would swell, how your hips would round, and how your breasts would become even larger…the thought aroused Astarion, far more than he expected it to. He had to stop himself when he imagined your milk-filled breasts; another bodily fluid of yours that your vampire was desperate to taste.

“It was alright,” Your voice was shaky as you finally covered your breasts, to Astarion’s relief. He tried to ignore his swollen cock. “She confirmed. What you said.” 

Astarion places his book down, moving to sit at the edge of the bed, placing himself closer to you. He really doesn’t know what to do, or how he feels, but Astarion does know one thing: that he adores you, and he can’t handle the distance between the two of you. 

So, the vampire reaches out, desperate for your contact. Astarion feels much better when you take his hand, sitting next to him.

“I’m sorry for my accusation earlier. I’m just having a hard time wrapping my head around it all.” His tone is good humored, down to earth, as he wants to be sweet to you. You deserved it.

“It’s rare. Practically a miracle.” You say, but your face is absent of the smile that Astarion had expected from you.

Astarion didn’t really know how you felt about children. He assumed you didn’t want them because you chose to be with him, but he expected you to be a little bit happier than you looked. 

“There are remedies, you know. If we don’t want this.” You say, looking away from him as you do. 

“Well…it’s your body, Tav.” Astarion spoke gently, wanting to be careful with you, because you were always so careful with him. “I can’t tell you what to do with it.” 

Astarion imagined that if taking care of seven thousand vampire spawn in the Underdark was something the two of you had managed, then a child couldn’t be too difficult. (Many years from now would prove Astarion very wrong in thinking this).

“What If I keep it? Would you leave me?” You speak quietly, carefully, as if you were treading dangerous waters; asking questions you didn’t actually want to know the answer to.

Astarion doesn’t hesitate, desperately wanting to comfort you. “No,” Astarion squeezed your hand, grabbing the other as you faced each other. “I honestly can’t imagine a scenario where I would.” 

You smile a bit, and Astarion smiles back. “So, what do we do?” You ask tentatively. 

Astarion sighs, a hand going to caress your cheek, bringing you closer as he pulls you into a tender kiss. “We keep living, of course.”

Part 2!

Masterlist

[inswatiable-lesbian]

hello!! I answered in the comments of your post for asking of requests so here am i!👋🏻

OKAY SO, yk how usually readers are written to be short and they have to look up towards their S/O or get on their tiptoes and all that? While I find the idea cute and have no dislike or hate towards it (or towards short people, we love and accept everyone here🫶🏻), as a tall girlie I get S O excited when the reader is written as tall. Unfortunately, there aren't a lot of content like that soooo would it be too self-indulgent to ask for Haikyuu boys with tall!reader?👉🏻👈🏻

Thank you so much in advance and have a lovely day~♡

OMG TOTALLY!!! thank you so much for requesting, i hope you have a lovely day as well

tw/info: tall!reader (reader is about 6'1, just because I want to lol, but you can imagine it however you want), the haikyuu boys are too tall in my opinion😿, a little fluff for our soul, not proofread!! Literally my first time writing for Haikyuu.

pairings: Tobio Kageyama, Kei Tsukishima, Hajime Iwaizumi, Takahiro Hanamaki, Wakatoshi Ushijima, Shinsuke Kita, Osamu Miya, Kōshi Sugawara, Yū Nishinoya, Shoyo Hinata, Morisuke Yaku, Ryūnosuke Tanaka, Daichi Sawamura, Asahi Azumane, Tadashi Yamaguchi, Lev Haiba, Issei Matsukawa, Keiji Akaashi, Eita Semi, Tetsurō Kuroo, Kozume Kenma, Tōru Oikawa, Atsumu Miya, Aran Ojiro, Kōtarō Bokuto, Rintarō Suna, Kiyoomi Sakusa x tall!reader (sorry if I didn't add your fave)

He finds it so attractive when you are wearing high heels and you are the same height or even taller than him. Fragile masculinity? No way, not when his partner is the most beautiful thing on earth he's ever seen

"Don't worry, there's no need to rush" He speaks in a calm voice, waiting for you to finish getting ready so you can leave the house

"I'm so sorry..." You murmur as you struggle to tie your heels. And as soon as he notices, he is quick to kneel in front of you and tie them for you like the gentleman he is, stealing a kiss from you after standing back up.

"You look beautiful, darling." He states, smiling in your direction. "Now let's go"

— Tobio Kageyama, Kei Tsukishima, Hajime Iwaizumi, Rintarō Suna, Wakatoshi Ushijima, SHINSUKE KITA, Osamu Miya.

This guy is stunned. And not in a bad way, far from it, being the one who occasionally had to look up (even if it is a lot or just slightly) to kiss you wasn't a problem for him at all.

"Babe, do you know where my coat is? I can't find it anywhere."

"This one?" You turn to him, with his uniform jacket in your hand.

"Yes, thank you" He says while grabbing his jacket and looking up at you, waiting for a kiss.

"Love you shortie" You respond before kissing him

"Oh come on, I'm not even that short."

— KŌSHI SUGAWARA, Yū Nishinoya, Shoyo Hinata, MORISUKE YAKU, Ryūnosuke Tanaka, Daichi Sawamura, KOZUME KENMA.

He will always be there when you are insecure about your height, it doesn't matter if you are "too tall" in your pov, he will always tell you that you are amazing, your height won't change any of that

You invited him to sleep over at your house for the weekend, for a cute slumber party, you know? But there you were, looking in the mirror with a less than positive expression, disappointed in fact, while he made popcorn for the two of you in the kitchen.

"Is something wrong?" He asks, making you startle because you thought he hadn't come back to your room yet.

"Geez, you scared me!"

"Sorry" he says laughing, "but that doesn't answer my question"

"It's nothing, I just... I've been feeling uncomfortable, people in my class look at me like I'm weird just because I'm taller" you sigh "It's not like I care that much! But it gets frustrating after a while... you know?

He smiles calmly and goes to your side, handing you a bucket of popcorn. "You are the most beautiful, kind and fun person I know, your height doesn't change any of that, does it?"

— ASAHI AZUMANE, Tadashi Yamaguchi, Lev Haiba, Issei Matsukawa, KEIJI AKAASHI, Eita Semi, Kiyoomi Sakusa.

He brags a lot about dating someone like you, saying that his girlfriend is practically a supermodel.

"Who is she?" one of his friends asks, curious as to why he hadn't stopped looking at you since you stepped into the cafeteria.

"The gorgeous supermodel across the room? My girlfriend" He proudly states, with the biggest smile on his face as he waves at you from afar.

"Wow, you were lucky"

"Yeah, totally.. Have you seen her? she is perfect! And she-"

God knows how long he spent talking about you to his friend, but after a few minutes you were sitting at a table eating something together while he talked about practice.

— TETSURŌ KUROO, Tōru Oikawa, ATSUMU MIYA, Aran Ojiro, KŌTARŌ BOKUTO, Takahiro Hanamaki.

[mlm-writer]

Tears of Lust (Dick Grayson x M!Reader)

Pairing: Dick Grayson aka Nightwing (YJ ver.) x Demon!Male!Reader Rating: Explicit Words: 3447 POV: Second Summary: If a demon is not majority of their time in hell, they get a rut once a year. You try to keep your human boyfriend out of your ‘weird’ demon things, but Dick has never wanted to be involved more. Note: Writing so many Young Justice fics and I don’t even remember the plot anymore. Should rewatch that some time. Sequel here. Tags: smut, ruts, heavy dacryphilia, we are entering monsterfucker territory, established relationship, super long tongue, anallingus, deep penetration, bit of magic, overstimulation, degradation, slight dumbification (?), maybe a bit humiliation???, breeding, throatfucking, pleasure dom reader, begging, anal fingering, anal fucking, and still sweet I promise, reader is so in looooove

Hell could go fuck itself. The cold of Earth was easy to deal with when you had three blankets wrapped around you. Usually it took that and a thick hoodie to keep you at your preferred temperature, but as your eyes stayed trained on the TV in front of you, sweat gathered on your back. You frowned and removed one of the blankets, only now noticing your leg had been bouncing this whole time. A sigh left you as you saw what time of the year it was again. 

You had no time to think about the arrangements you needed to make. You could hear Dick fumble with his keys outside the door. From the way the keys jingled, you could tell he had his hands full of groceries again. You paused the TV with a snap of your fingers and strutted over to the door, blankets around you like a cloak. When you opened the door, you were greeted with the exact sight you were expecting. 

Grocery bags hung from Dick’s wrists. You took them all with one hand, the other holding the blankets around you. “Are we hosting a dinner party? Why did you buy so much,” you questioned as you easily carried the bags inside and put them on the kitchen island. You pushed one of the plastic bags open to peer inside, seeing a lot of ice cream inside.

“Because this year, you are spending your rut here with me,” Dick replied in a matter-of-fact tone, like you had already agreed to do that, but you had forgotten. You froze. With a slow breath you turned around to see Dick leisurely taking his shoes off. The idea alone was enough to shorten the time for your rut to arrive. 

“Since when do you know about that?” Your words were all carefully picked, spoken slowly with a weight hanging on each of them. When Dick approached you to give you his usual welcome kiss, you took a step back, not allowing him to change the subject. 

Dick looked hurt, but his patience seemed to be endless with you. He did not try to get closer and instead walked over to the kitchen island to get started on putting the groceries away. “It is kind of hard not to notice that you have a ‘business trip’ every year around the same time. I did some digging in the Justice League database…” Dick paused, staring at the canned soup in his hand as if it offended him. “Why did you never tell me?” His eyes raised up to meet yours, the look of disappointment no longer directed at the chicken soup, but at you instead. 

You swallowed and sat down at one of the barstools, unconsciously picking the one that put some distance between you and your partner. “The ruts just occur because I don’t spend the majority of my time in hell anymore. I know how much you value monogamy, so I just go back and tough it out,” you defended yourself, afraid Dick thought you were secretly fucking people on the side. Now holding a huge bottle of lube, Dick gave you the side eye. You understood immediately that you were not answering his question. “I was afraid you would think it too much. You’ve been dealing with so much. I was afraid another demon thing would be asking too much of you.” You held your head high, owning up to your shortcomings. The fact that Dick had bought all this stuff was enough proof that you had been wrong. “I’m sorry, I should have thought more highly of you.” 

Dick sighed, putting down the cup noodles he had just retrieved from one of the plastic bags. “Apology accepted,” he muttered, before looking at you again. He then paused. “But wait, you’re not gonna tell me your rut is dangerous or something? No ‘oh I might lose control and I don’t wanna hurt you’ or something? You’re just going to let me?” You chuckled and shed the blankets, so you could more easily circle the kitchen island to wrap your arms around your lover’s waist. 

Dick twisted his head to kiss you and you happily complied. After a short kiss, you started helping Dick with the shopping. “You’ll be fine. I’m centuries old now. I won’t be an unstoppable animal. 

The apartment was made rut-proof by Dick and you did not have the heart to tell him that the Justice League database might contain some anti-demon propaganda, because some of the preparations were even beyond your comprehension. Dick had stored away all breakable items. Your cabinets were full of cereal for some reason. What was up with that? 

You enjoyed the cold temperature Dick preferred for once as you lounged on the couch with Dick snuggled up beside you. You wanted him ten minutes ago, but he was so cosied up that you felt bad if you were to turn off the TV just to fuck him senseless. You thought you were doing well until Dick spoke up. “You’ve been hard since like five minutes into this episode. When are you carrying me to the bedroom?” He had said it so casually, like he wanted an actual answer like ‘oh around 10pm’ or ‘after this episode ends’. However, you knew better than that. This was your lover’s way of saying ‘take me now’. 

You did not even bother turning the TV off. In a flash, you had Dick off the couch and in your arms. With a shadow dash you were in the bedroom in an instant. Dick bounced on the mattress as you threw him onto the bed. There was no room for words as your clothes ripped and you captured Dick’s lips mid-transformation. “Sorry,” you mumbled between filthy kisses, “I can’t maintain my human form during the rut.” 

“I know,” Dick replied, hands grabbing at the muscles that tore through the fabrics. He helped rid you of the confines you found yourself in. He reached for your cock, but you grabbed his hand, gathering the other one as well to pin them both above his head. “Holy shit, this is so hot,” he said in a breathy chuckle, his face stretched in an excited smile. 

You held his wrists above his head with a single, large hand, while you took his lips between your fangs. You gently toyed with them, before sliding your long, thick tongue into Dick’s mouth. He moaned like a pornstar. You could smell his arousal, his excitement and his precum leaking inside his underwear. 

Normally you would play with him more, but not today. You had a hunger that had to be satiated, so you penetrated his throat with your tongue and with a snap of your fingers, got rid of Dick’s clothes. The textiles evaporated like water on the stove and you were pretty sure Dick had no idea you could even do that, but he was too busy deepthroating your tongue to care. You fed him your saliva, thinking he could use the aphrodisiac effects of it to get through the night. When you finally let his mouth go, Dick was gasping for air. He looked happy as he was panting on the bed.

You grabbed his ankles and flipped him over like a pancake. Dick was giggling like a school girl seeing her crush. He followed your lead, allowing you to put a pillow under his hips. Your huge hands could fit a round cheek in each of them as you pulled them apart, revealing Dick’s plugged little hole. “Why does it seem like you’re the one going through a rut?” You scolded him teasingly as you lightly tugged at the plug. You pulled a little bit out, just to push it back in. Dick was humming in reply, loving the nails that were leaving animalistic marks on his bum. 

“I am promised a whole couple of days of endless fucking. How can I not be excited?” You gave his butt a light slap as a sort of reprimand, but Dick just seemed to enjoy it. Eventually, you had enough of just watching his hole stretch over the plug and you pulled it out roughly. Dick gasped, the sound dissolving into a cry as your tongue entered his slick hole. Your senses got filled by your lover. His scent was like gasoline on the fire that produced your hormones. His cries, as you swirled your tongue around inside him, were like an open tap above a clogged sink that was already full of lust. His taste… My god, his taste was like the first time you hit the high on drugs and everything feels so good and you feel like you could stay in the moment forever, never wanting to return to normal life. 

Little by little, your tongue penetrated him deeper and deeper. Dick was humping the pillow underneath him and letting out small cries of pleasure. You did not know how long it took for Dick to take it all, but by the time you had all 20 inches of your tongue inside him, Dick was desperately humping the pillow and your face. “Feels so good, so good,” he kept muttering, body overtaken by pleasure. He seemed to be unable to think of anything else but his upcoming orgasm. You helped him fuck himself on your tongue, your claws leaving bruises on his ass. When you could feel him on the edge, you pulled him close and started violently wiggling your tongue inside him. 

Dick groaned as your tongue milked him through his first orgasm. No amount of twitching and squirming could free him from your grasp. His cum had long stained the pillow, but you did not stop, pressing on all his sensitive spots repeatedly. “Please, baby! Mercy! Please!” None of those words have ever been your safeword, so you kept going. 

Dick’s voice reached a crescendo as you kept stimulating him. He was near-screaming when you smelled it, the thing you needed most. You retracted your tongue and climbed over Dick. He fell on the bed like a puppet with its strings cut. You grabbed him by the hair and forced his head up. There they were, glistening on a line from his eyes down his cheeks. You licked the tears off his cheeks, before giving him an appreciative kiss on the lips. “Why?” Dick shuddered, eyes hooded and a quiver in his lips as he struggled with just a single syllable. 

You grinned down at him and caressed his pretty face. “I’m disappointed you didn’t study better,” you mockingly cooed at him as you moved. You sat down against the headboard, gently lifting Dick to sit in your lap. “You just read you were gonna get fucked and your dumbwhore brain just turned off, didn’t it?” You whispered as you scooted him forward until his dick was flush against yours. He was fully flaccid, but you did not need him to be hard at all. Dick nodded with his mouth slightly open, arousal painted on his face. You morphed one of your clawed hands into a more human shape, something without any sharp edges. You did not harm Dick as you inserted a single, thick finger inside him. His breath got stuck in his throat and he fell forward against you. You held him cradled against your chest as you thrusted that single finger inside him. “I’ll try to explain in a way my dumb little slut will understand,” you whispered, adoring how he had his hands in fists resting against your chest. “If I spend a rut with a human, the only thing that will satisfy me are tears produced during sex,” you entered another finger, “now most demons would choose some barbaric way to get those, but me… I have you.” You curled your digits, finding Dick’s prostate with ease. Whether it was your hellish nature or due to how well you knew him, you were not sure, but you always found it right when you were looking for it. 

Dick writhed against you as you rubbed his prostate relentlessly. “I’m going to make you feel so good, my love,” you promised, “I’m going to melt your brain with pleasure, so all that is left of you when I’m done is a pretty, mindless, little fuckslut.” Your dirty words hurled Dick towards his second orgasm. He was biting his lips until the very end, where a loud moan broke his silence. His limp cock poured his cum over your hard length, but even when that little bit of cum ran out, you held him in place with one hand, while violating his prostate with the other. 

Dick wailed in pleasure, but you could tell he was on that border of where too much pleasure was indistinguishable from pain. He gripped your shoulders, blunt nails digging in you as he seemed to hold on for dear life. He raised his head, eyes big and pleading. “Please, please, please,” he cried out. It did not take long for his limp cock to twitch in another attempt at spilling cum over you, but it was too soon and Dick had nothing to give, except the big, juicy tears that started pouring from his eyes. You leaned down, lapping them up as you continued your assault. Dick’s whole body was shaking at your onslaught. “Stop, please!” Dick eventually screamed. That was not the safeword, but you understood he needed a break, so you pulled your fingers out of him, while licking the last of his tears off his face. 

Dick leaned against you, still sobbing. You wrapped your arms around him, stroking his back gently. Everytime a tear escaped him, your tongue automatically darted out to lap it up. “Shh, you did well, rest a little,” you cooed. You waited patiently as his breathing slowed, until Dick eventually let his hand wander down to take a good grasp of you. He stroked your cock lazily, spreading his own cum over your length. 

You lifted your lover up and turned around, sitting him against the headboard. You stood on the bed, looming over him with your big cock pressed against his cheek. “Ready for more?” You asked with a wolfish grin. Dick responded by taking the head of your cock in his mouth. You let Dick ease into it on his own, watching as he went from sucking the head to licking it all over, eating his own cum off your cock. However, your patience was not endless. You grabbed him by the jaw and let a finger trace along where his head and neck connected. Dick felt the tingle of the spell that temporarily disabled his gag reflex. He understood and his mouth fell open, eyes looking up at you expectantly. 

You braced yourself against the wall and leaned forward to shove your cock inside Dick’s mouth as far as it would go. Though he could no longer gag, there were still limits to his human body, so it was simply impossible for him to take you balls deep. Not that it mattered. His throat bulged and you moved back again, gently fucking his throat at first. Dick kept looking up at you with those obedient eyes as if he had accepted his fate as permanent cocksleeve. It was hard to keep the pace gentle. Before you knew it, you were fucking his throat like it was all he was, just a cocksleeve. “Look at you, just taking my cock down your throat like you’re a human fleshlight,” you grunted as you pushed in a little past what you knew was Dick’s usual limit. His eyes watered, but he could not gag. When you pulled out, he gasped for air. While he was panting, you leaned down to lick the tears off his face that had formed. 

Then you did it again and again, alternating between degrading Dick while you fucked his throat and letting him breathe while you sated your hunger with his tears. It was so hot, your lover taking it so well. However, you did not want to cum in his mouth or on his face. There was only one place your cum belonged. You pulled out and grabbed his hair, savouring the tears, before you roughly manhandled him onto his back. You bent him in two, knowing how flexible he was. Dick put his feet behind his head, hands on his ass to show you the best view. With a swipe of your thumb over his hole, Dick’s ass started producing slick based on how aroused he was. It was unsurprising that he immediately started leaking like you had already bred him full. 

“Such a good, dumb, bitch. Look how fucking horny you are, even after I made you cum 3 times. You’re leaking like a slut.” Dick had no reply, not that he would have been able to say anything while you rammed your cock inside him. The slide was easy, but the stretch was so sudden. You did not start out with gentle thrusts this time, wanting it to hurt a little. 

Dick had been prepped, but there was no amount of fingering that made taking your cock not bordering between pain and pleasure. He threw his head back, moaning and whining. “Breed me, please, please, I need to be full, please,” he begged and begged in between your harsh thrusts. The wall got a beating too as the headboard slammed against it and the bed creaked under you. Dick could not stop begging. You were tethering on the edge, but you wanted to see him cum once more. 

Dick’s hard member twitched against his stomach. Not a single touch had been required. You grabbed Dick by the back of his head and pressed your foreheads together. “Cum for me, now.”

Dick shook his head as much as he could in your grip. “Together, please,” he begged, tears already forming in the corners of his eyes. You gave him an evil smile that showed your disagreement. “Please, you’ll keep going, I don’t know if I can…” 

You cut him off with your free hand that grasped his cock. “I said now,” you growled. He howled as you mercilessly fucking him to orgasm with your hand and cock. You were impressed by the two drops of cum that still managed to come out of his cock. And then, of course, you kept going, fucking him balls deep while you stroked his cock. Dick screamed, his legs coming down, but between your foreheads pressed together and your cock in his ass, he had nowhere to go. He begged, a string of “please” endlessly spilling from his mouth. He writhed. He cried. His tears were delicious, filled with lust, desperation and pleasure. 

You could not get enough of it, the flavour consisted of the most exquisite mixture of emotions that you ever tasted. However, you were not untouchable yourself. Dick came again, his ass spasming around your cock and your knot inflated, locking you in as you spilled your seed deep inside Dick. He could feel it, crying out as his walls were even stretched more by the influx of cum. You let go of his cock, watching his belly that clearly showed the outline of your cock inflate a little. 

You wrapped his legs around your hips, trying to make him as comfortable as he could be, while waiting for your knot to go down. Meanwhile, you licked the remaining tears off him and stroked his hair. “There you go, so good for me, my love,” you whispered. You pecked his cheek, concerned by how Dick was still shaking and looking like he fought seven planets worth of evil aliens at once. His eyes were still closed, mouth open to catch his breath. “Say something, my love,” you murmured, concerned by his silence. 

Dick’s body went slack and he finally opened his eyes to look at you. “Promise me something,” he spoke softly, voice a little hoarse. You nodded and let your hands wander, giving him gentle touches all over to comfort him. “I can’t actually die from too much pleasure, right?” 

You tried to hold back your laughter, knowing that too much movement would be really hard on Dick’s ass right now. “Silly boy,” you mused as you leaned down for a loving kiss. Dick could not do much right now, but he still tried to reciprocate. “I would never let anything happen to my special human.” 

Dick smiled and nodded. “Good, good…” He clearly wanted to say more, but did not have the energy for it. You did not press; he needed his energy for later.

[grogwrites]

Stranger - O.P. 81

Part Two

part one • part two • part three

Summary: When someone returns to Oscar’s life after years apart, he has a hard time finding common ground with her to reconcile the feud between them. That is, until she signs on as a driver for the upcoming F1 season. Then he can’t seem to get her out of his mind.

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Female OC

CW: Dual POV series, but part two is all in OC’s POV. Please take my warnings seriously before continuing on. This series is not for everyone, as consistent depictions of mental health struggles are conveyed in the writing, primarily PTSD and loss of a loved one. Part two contains swearing, a shit ton of angst, mentions and depictions of PTSD and suicide, suggestive content/brief making out, alcohol consumption, Lando is a bit of a twat in this series, manipulation from OC—OC is a very complex and very hurt character so a lot of her behavior in this part is, erm, not great lol

A/N: this is part two in my three part mini series! Again, I do not use YN on my page so OC is a named character 🩵

Word Count: 5.1k

* DISCLAIMER: I do not know any of the people in this fanfiction personally, these are all just the works of my imagination.

PRESENT DAY

She knew who he was. She had done some extensive research on the current grid, as well as the other rookies for next season so she knew what she was up against. This was how she’s always operated—this is how her dad taught her to compete. She clocked Lando’s weaknesses the second he began flirting with her. For starters, she knew he was self conscious. She had seen him speak out about it in his interviews, but when he began flashing this arrogant side of him, it was tell-tale that he was overcompensating for something that he was lacking in. His boat rocked on the water behind them, and her curiosity was piqued. As she perched her sepia-toned sunglasses on her head, she stared back at him intently.

“Lando Norris,” she smiled, playing in to his behavior. She made sure she raised her voice slightly, to hint at a flirtatious demeanor, “you’ve got a reputation, you know.” Lando smirked, folding his arms across his tan, toned chest. He was attractive, Claire could give him that much at least. He just wasn’t her type, unfortunately for him.

“Remind me again?” He responded with a scoff. He took a step closer to her, leaning in a bit.

“You sleep around,” Claire remarked. She tapped her finger against her chin, as if trying to remember the artificial list that she was referencing. “You don’t call back, you can’t be tied down…tell me why I should go with you?”

“Maybe I want you to be the one to change my reputation?” Lando lowered his voice. “Has anyone ever told you that pink looks really good on you?”

The laugh that escaped her mouth was accidental, but she could care less. This had to be a joke, she thought. He was too corny—too predictable. In a weird way, it was almost endearing how he thought he had her wrapped around his pathetic finger. He didn’t, but he didn’t need to know that.

“I’m afraid I won’t meet your expectations,” she sighed as her laughter slowed. “I’m looking for commitment, Norris. Not a plaything.” She watched his cheeks slowly turn red when she referred to him as a ‘plaything’. He cleared his throat, then straightened his posture.

“One date,” Lando proposed, clearly feeling confident in his chances. “If you are still convinced I’m not serious, then you can block me and never call me back.”

Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer. She smirked, then placed her sunglasses back on the bridge of her nose. Both of them were playing a game, but she was going to win. Losing wasn’t in her book—not now, not ever.

“Fine,” Claire sighed. “But it has to be a real date.”

“Wonderful,” he mimicked her flirtatious drawl from a few moments ago. “What is your name, darling?” Already starting with the pet names? He had no idea who he was about to get involved with. She offered her hand to him innocently.

“I’m Claire Nguyen,” she introduced, keeping her tone playful and airy. Her friends snickered behind her, but they knew how she worked—they knew she was playing him. Still, the driver took her hand in his, then pressed his lips to her knuckles. He pulled away, meeting her gaze again.

“It’s a pleasure,” his smug look was devastating.

Maybe if Claire had met him in high school, he would’ve had her in the palm of his hands. But she was different, now. Her heart was hardened, and her guard was up. Her dad dying was the tip of the iceberg, and leaving Oscar sunk the ship completely. She didn’t care what bridges she had to burn to accomplish her goals in life, and she didn’t care who she hurt to get there—because life hurt her. Life killed her. Sometimes she worried that she was a sociopath, but her therapist reassured her multiple times that she was simply just traumatized. It made her laugh the first time she was diagnosed with PTSD, but now that word felt like a weakness to her: trauma. All she had in this world was herself, now that the Piastri’s were nonexistent.

Claire’s gaze flickered back to the boat, before she looked to Lando again.

“So, are you going to invite me on board,” she tightened the hold on his hand gently, “or are you going to keep gawking at me?”

“You’re quite cheeky, aren’t you?” Lando chuckled, but there was a nervousness to his presentation now. Her plan was already working. She smiled, then looked back over her shoulders at her friends, Edith and Stacy—two girls she met when moving here to Monaco.

“See you back at the apartment?” She asked. The two girls exchanged a mischievous glance, then nodded. She wiggled her fingers goodbye to them, before Lando tugged her forward. As they approached the boat, he let go of her hand briefly to climb on board. He offered his hands to her, but she pushed him out of her way, before gracefully climbing on behind him. His cheeks flushed.

“I can let myself onto a boat,” she clicked her tongue, then eyed him head to toe. “I’m not helpless, you know.” He opened his mouth to speak, but quickly became a sputtering mess. He removed the hat on his head, running a hand through his curls.

“Um, my friend is here, too,” he finally managed to choke out. Claire found it quite amusing how his ‘cool guy’ persona faded rather fast. She watched him hesitate before walking around the driver’s seat towards the cushioned chairs at the front of the boat. She took her time lingering behind him, when she saw a familiar head of blonde hair off to her left—lounging with his eyes closed. Her blood ran cold at the sight of him.

For a few seconds, it felt like everything stopped around her. He looked…different. A good different, but it made her doubt for a moment if that was actually him in front of her. But it was. She’d recognize the speckled moles and freckled face anywhere. She felt her cheeks burn at the sight of his bare chest, and silently thanked God that her sunglasses were tinted. She felt frozen in place—like she couldn’t move or else the world would collapse below her.

“Hey,” Lando’s voice brought her back into reality. He reached forward, shaking Oscar’s leg gently. She saw, now, his eyes opening and looking directly up at her. His face went pale. Lando was seemingly unaware of the situation that was playing out as he continued speaking, “Oscar this is Claire, Claire this is Oscar.”

She quickly flashed her best fake smile as she extended a hand towards him. Push it down, Claire, she reminded herself, push it down with the rest of your emotions. If she allowed herself to be distracted by Oscar, then she would get knocked off her game. He always did that to her. While she knew the weaknesses of all the other drivers, her own weakness was going to be her competition next season—her weakness was Oscar Piastri.

“Hello,” Claire stated plainly. “It’s great to meet you, Oscar.” She made sure to draw out his name only slightly, just so he knew exactly where he stood with her. He had no place in her life anymore, and she wasn’t about to let him crawl his way back in. Oscar hesitated before taking her hand in his. His touch alone could’ve made her knees buckle underneath of her. They’ve held hands on multiple occasions before this, but this felt different. This time, it felt like she was in second grade again, racing remote controlled cars with him in his living room.

“Good to meet you as well, Claire,” he grumbled. When his hand lingered in hers, she made sure she was the first to drop his. Oscar quickly turned his attention to Lando. “Can we get back out on the water, now? I was taking a nap.” Claire drew in a shaky deep breath, praying her nerves weren’t obvious.

“I like that idea,” she commented. “I’ll drive.” As she began walking back to the driver’s seat, Lando grabbed ahold of her waist to stop her.

“Nice try,” he hummed in her ear. She felt the heat of his chest against her back, and his fingertips squeezing her sides gently. She felt the anger in her stomach begin to boil. “Why don’t you let a Formula 1 driver handle that?”

Subconsciously, she dug her elbow into his gut. He retaliated, coughing as the air was briefly knocked out of him. How degrading for him to speak to her like that. Claire faced him, folding her arms. The look in his eyes almost mimicked a lovesick, teenage boy—they were laced with disbelief in what she had just done, and admiration that she had the balls to do it in the first place.

“Someone doesn’t do their research,” she retorted, placing her hand on his cheek. “Lucky for you, a Formula 1 driver will be handling that.” His eyes widened as the gears in his head seemed to begin turning, putting the pieces together.

“You’re a Formula 1 driver?” Oscar was the first to speak as he stood from his chair. Claire was quick to remove her hand from Lando’s face at the sight of her old friend—as if she didn’t want him to see what she was doing. It didn’t matter if he did, and she knew that. They were nothing to each other, but yet she still craved his approval just as much as she did twelve years ago.

“Alpine, next season,” she stated simply, keeping her expression deadpanned as she looked back at him. “They saw me racing at a gig in Seoul—said I had potential, and offered a contract.” Lando laughed in amusement, as if he couldn’t fall more in love with her than the poor thing already was. She could see Oscar’s jaw tighten at the mention that she never quit racing. There was a heavy, unspoken tension between the two of them, so she shifted her gaze back to Lando.

“God, you’re cool,” he swooned. “I mean, minus elbowing me a few seconds ago…”

“Watch where you place your hands next time,” she scolded, pointing her finger at Lando like she was lecturing a child. “And watch what kind of assumptions you make. I told you earlier, I’m not helpless. You don’t know a single thing about me, Norris.”

Claire thought for a moment that she heard Oscar laugh, but that would be impossible. There was too much hatred between the two of them for him to find anything she said amusing. But as she turned to walk to the driver’s seat, there was the faintest hint of a smile on his lips.

.

When the second bottle of wine was being thrown away, Claire knew she needed to cut herself off and go to sleep. She’d been sitting on her apartment balcony for almost four hours, just staring…watching. The busyness of Monaco had now quieted down to a soft hum of the night, with the occasional car passing by below on the street.

She had imagined her reunion with Oscar on several occasions, but none of them involved flirting with his teammate in front of him. She groaned to herself, burying her face in her hands as she leaned against the railing. Her Aunt Mae had told her multiple times that the world would work to bring them back together. Mae was adamant about the idea of karma, but Claire wasn’t too sure. Really, she stopped believing in a lot of things after her dad died. Oscar never stopped believing in her, though. Except, maybe now was different. He looked through her today like she was a ghost of some kind.

There was a light knock on her door, pulling her out of her thoughts. She sighed before grabbing ahold of her wine glass and standing. She tightened the robe around her as she walked inside. When she got to the door, she glanced through the peephole. Lando. Claire took a deep breath before finishing off her drink. She continued to hold her robe closed as she opened the door. The Brit smiled sheepishly back at her, as though he was entertained that she answered. He wore some grey sweatpants and a black t-shirt that fit snug against his torso. She leaned against the doorframe, humming lightly.

“Hello,” he finally spoke. “Um, sorry for just stopping by like this. When I dropped you off earlier, I didn’t realize we lived in the same complex.” Claire was really too tipsy and too sad to try and maintain the composure that she held at the beach earlier. So instead, she settled with a smile.

“Don’t apologize,” she replied softly. “I don’t mind. What can I do for you?” Lando stuffed his hands into his pockets, as the corners of his mouth twitched slightly while he gathered his thoughts.

“I wanted to apologize for my behavior today,” he explained slowly. Her eyes widened, not expecting this from him. Maybe she didn’t know him as well as she thought. “I just, um, haven’t had a serious relationship in a while. Sometimes I get ahead of myself.” Claire wasn’t entirely sure what to do or to say. She hesitated as she eventually stepped off to the side, silently inviting him in to her home.

She watched him closely as he walked inside. She shut the door behind him, as his gaze flickered around her living room. Claire kept things minimalistic, mostly because she couldn’t bother herself to turn anything into a home. She didn’t belong anywhere, and it had been that way since she left Melbourne. She often felt like a stray cat, just bouncing between homes—desperate for shelter, and barely staying alive. If she put decorations up anywhere, then it meant she was tied to that place. She couldn’t be tied down anywhere unless it was back in Melbourne, but she hadn’t healed enough to bring herself back there yet.

“I’m sorry for elbowing you,” she found herself admitting, even though she wasn’t that sorry. Her dad’s voice seemed to haunt her, though, any time she let her emotions get the best of her. It happened when she first met Oscar, too. She almost laughed at the thought, but she pushed it down just as she did with everything else. Lando turned to look at her, when he offered her a comforting smile. She felt her heart stutter, but it could’ve just been the wine.

“I deserved it,” he shrugged, making his way back towards her. “You do intimidate me, though.” She pressed her lips into a thin, tight line as she fought off a smile. She didn’t want to give him the justification, even if his comment was a bit funny.

“I get that a lot,” Claire confessed as she broke off to her right, towards the kitchen. Lando trailed behind. “My dad put me through anger management when I was in second grade. I just feel things very passionately. There isn’t any in-between for me.” She looked over to him again as she set her glass by the sink. She leaned against the counter as he stayed back, observing her.

“Do you, um, already know Oscar?” He asked quietly, as if he were treading on thin ice. He was unsure of the territory he had wandered in, and she saw it reflected in his eyes: careful, cautious…on edge; she was predator, and he was prey.

It was a loaded question that Claire didn’t know how to answer. She used to know Oscar, but now he was as much of a stranger to her as Lando was. She knew he had an entirely new life, but she refused to research him as intently as the other drivers. It just wasn’t something she wanted to venture into. She knew deep down that if she were to see what kind of life he was living without her in it, it would kill her.

“No,” she lied, shaking her head. “He just looked like somebody I used to know, is all.” Lando took a few steps closer. The silence was deafening in her apartment—nothing but the soft buzz of the streetlights outside.

The unfortunate thing for Claire, was that wine brought her guard down. Even though she wasn’t fully drunk yet, she could feel it slowly begin to trickle through her bloodstream. As Lando stood close to her, she felt her cheeks warm. No matter how flustered he was making her right now, he still wasn’t her type. He still wasn’t Oscar. The thought rang through her brain, pathetically reminding her of her long-time infatuation with him. Her heart ached slightly, while she turned her attention to her feet—away from Lando’s gaze.

“Claire?”

She knew seeing Oscar again—regardless of when or where or why or how it happened—would destroy her. He probably didn’t care, which pained her even more. The fact that he still held so much influence over her thoughts was comical. She wanted desperately to move on from him; she needed to force herself to move on.

Claire looked over to the boy next to her, whose eyes were laced with worry. He could tell something was wrong, but he wouldn’t ask. He didn’t think he could, and she preferred that he didn’t. She took a deep breath, bracing herself for the reckless decision she was about to make. If she wanted to move on, then there was an opportunity standing just a few inches away from her.

She grabbed a fistful of Lando’s shirt, then pulled him down. She kissed him feverishly, and he wasted no time kissing her back. She could smell his soap still lingering on him—pine and eucalyptus. He brought one hand behind her neck, pulling her closer to him. Her mouth parted momentarily for a breath, when she felt Lando’s tongue lick her bottom lip. He moved his mouth against hers desperately, pleadingly. It was obvious between the two of them that this was nothing more than surface-level kissing. That was all she needed from him was a distraction, and he was happy to give it to her.

.

Seeing Lando became a regular occurrence for Claire, though they kept it as lowkey as they were able to—no idle chatter, no small talk. Just sex, nothing more. It wasn’t until she went over to his apartment one evening, and Oscar was the one who opened the door. Neither of them said anything, they just stared. Oscar glanced over his shoulder into his friend’s apartment before stepping into the hall with her, closing the door behind him. A few more seconds of silence passed between them, before he finally spoke.

“You’re racing again.”

A simple sentence that felt like a slap across the face. She wasn’t sure what to say in response to that, primarily because she was scared. She couldn’t tell if him making conversation was an olive branch, or pouring more salt into the wound. His tone was unwavering, making it hard to decipher his intentions.

“I never stopped,” Claire finally muttered. Oscar leaned against the door behind him. He was wearing a pair of black exercise shorts, accompanied by a matte black McLaren team shirt. She hated how good he looked—how nice the years have been to him. The silence met them again, but this time it was heavy with uncertainty. Neither one was sure where they stood with the other. It was maddening.

“Now, you’re sleeping with Lando,” he observed. She felt her stomach bubble with the same familiar anger she often felt. He had no right to judge her for this. “That’s a dangerous combination.”

“What is that supposed to mean, Osc…ar?” She was quick to correct her old habit of calling him by his nickname. She kicked herself mentally for the muscle memory. He smiled slightly, which only made the situation worse. “Oscar. I meant Oscar.” He raised his eyebrows slightly before sticking his hands into the pockets of his shorts.

“You’re…” he trailed off at first. He licked his lips before finding his voice again, “you’re like fire and ice. You just don’t go together. You both deal so much damage individually, but together…I dunno.” He shrugged lightly. Claire rolled her eyes.

“In case you’ve forgotten, you don’t get to give me advice anymore,” she took a few steps closer to him. She tried to maintain her cool, but she felt like there was a storm inside of her right now. Being so close to him, she was hit with the smell of his old cologne: sandalwood, vanilla, home. It almost made her cry, as the feeling of nostalgia was quick to wash over her. “You have no influence over me.”

The second she said it, she knew he saw right through the lie. He only knew it was a lie, because he felt the same way. Thankfully for her, Oscar didn’t push the matter further. Instead, he opened the door to Lando’s apartment once more.

“It’s always good to see you, Bear,” he mumbled so softly that she almost missed it. He stared at her for a few seconds longer, then disappeared inside.

.

The bass that echoed over the club’s stereo pulsed through the building. Claire, Edith, and Stacy each sat at the bar, observing the crowd before them. Edith and Stacy were the closest thing to best friends that Claire had in her life anymore, but even then, it didn’t feel like she held a very deep connection with them. Any relationship she maintained after Oscar was surface level—she couldn’t keep people as close to her as he used to be. Maybe it was because somewhere deep in her heart, that was still reserved for him and him alone.

Still, the company the girls provided was nice. When Claire made the decision to use her inheritance to move to Monaco, she joined a women’s racing league. Edith and Stacy didn’t race, but they volunteered for the league from time to time. Their worlds collided when Claire punched some douchebag who had Edith cornered at the very bar they were in now. Even if they only kept her around for some form of security, she felt like with them, she could at least pretend her life was semi-normal.

“Soooo,” Stacy sang before taking a drink from whatever combination she decided upon for the night, “what’s up with Lando?”

“Nothing,” Claire told her factually. “Absolutely nothing. It’s nice, really. I don’t think being tied down right now is what’s best for me.” That last part was a lie. Partially, anyways.

“He’s, like, so hot,” Edith chimed in. “What’s going to happen next season, do you think?” Claire couldn’t help but scoff. She took a long drink from the vodka cranberry in her hands before she responded.

“I’m going to win,” it was a simple statement that she believed fully in her heart. “Alpine has some new sponsors. The car is going to be good—not great, really, but better than it has been. I plan to drive that shitbox to its grave.”

Her two friends began chatting about their predictions for the next season, as Claire grew bored. She turned her back to the bar, allowing herself a better view of the crowd dancing behind them. There were a few faces she recognized of other drivers that lived here. A bit strange that so many of them were here tonight, but she supposed it wasn’t totally out of the ordinary. Their summer break didn’t end until next week, so she figured a good lot of them hadn’t left yet for their other commitments.

Then, her eyes landed on Oscar, who was currently staring back at her. This seemed to be their luck of the draw—finding each other when they had no intention or desire of doing so. Even when they first met, they kept finding each other: the race tracks, Christmas at the Piastri’s, Oscar’s first break up, Claire’s first school dance…he was always there.

Her chest felt tight. If she kept meeting him like this, she knew it would more than likely send her into cardiac arrest. She took control of the current situation as she grabbed her drink, and excused herself from her friends. She could see it in his eyes that he thought she’d be coming over to him when she began walking, but instead, she turned left and made her way out of the exit that lead to the back alley of the bar.

When the door closed behind her, she pressed her back to the cold, brick exterior of the building. As she slid down to sit on the ground, she felt tears in the corners of her eyes. Hugging her knees to her chest, she pressed her forehead to them and cried. The emotions from the past few weeks had caught up to her, and she felt like she was drowning. There was a fog in her brain since seeing Oscar again, and she was unaware how much it was really affecting her until now. She didn’t remember hearing the door open beside her, until he sat next to her.

It was like some sick and twisted déjà vu. The last time they sat like this was at the funeral. Claire couldn’t decide how to react right now. Did she scream at him? Was she supposed to just walk away, and keep avoiding him? She heard him sniff quietly, and she knew he was crying, too. So they sat there in their respective silences, each crying and working through the unspoken, unresolved questions that lingered between them. After a few minutes, Oscar’s voice broke through the surface.

“No one stayed in that room after you left,” his voice was hoarse. “Mom wouldn’t even use it for storage. It’s been untouched since…” he trailed off, but Claire didn’t need him to finish. She knew what he was insinuating: the Piastri’s never moved on.

She couldn’t bring herself to say anything. Not yet, anyways. She didn’t have the words right now to properly communicate how she felt, because she felt so many things all at once. Hurt, anger, disappointment, heart break, love…so much love. But it was the type of yearning that often did more harm than good—the type that got Romeo killed. The type that got Gatsby shot. The type that left the other half broken, and the other half dead. Claire felt dead. She had been dead inside for so long now. How was one supposed to convey such complex feelings into words?

“She still asks about you,” Oscar continued, laughing pathetically—like the absurdity of it all was comical. It was, though. It almost made Claire relieved to know that Nicole still thought they were friends in some capacity; it meant Oscar never told her the truth. “She, um, has been collecting these little gifts for you in case you ever made it back to Australia—“

“Please,” Claire finally choked out through the tears, “I can’t hear anymore, Oscar. It hurts too much.”

He went quiet, obeying her request at first. She knew it hurt him too, but he wanted so desperately to make her feel better. Oscar Piastri: always selfless, always caring, always thinking of others. This time, however, he had no intentions of letting things go unspoken. He couldn’t take another three years without the closure, and neither could she.

“I missed you,” the words left his mouth before he could think. Claire could tell, because he came to a stuttering stop. He wasn’t usually a confrontational person, so the fact he kept talking in general surprised her. “I thought about you every day for a year. I watched you post things online, acting like I never even existed.”

Claire let him talk. She sat next to him listening, as the tears continued to fall down her cheeks. She knew he needed this as much as she did—he just had the words to say right now. She didn’t. Not yet.

“When you stopped returning my calls, it felt like another person I loved was gone,” his voice was now strained as he stopped holding back his own tears. “I was worried about you. I thought that maybe your mental health had caught up to you. You stopped posting, you stopped going online. I had to force myself to forget about you so I couldn’t face the truth that I had created.”

He thought she died. She didn’t need for him to explicitly say the words to understand what he was talking about. His concerns were valid, too. He always looked out for her when she got too deep into her own thoughts. So when he couldn’t do that anymore, he assumed the worst.

“I pushed everyone away,” Claire finally spoke. Her words were slow, calculated. She didn’t want to say anything that might ruin the civility they had right now. “I didn’t think I belonged anywhere when I had to go back to Seoul. I didn’t even want to go to Seoul.”

Her words carried weight with Oscar. She never really spoke to him about her feelings on moving in with her aunt—the only time they ever addressed her leaving was the night he won the F2 championship title. Her demeanor towards it all that night told him that she didn’t care, but she did. God, she cared so much. She spent several weeks leading up to her departure arguing with her aunt about staying in Melbourne, but her dad’s will passed her on to Mae. By the time Claire was legally able to leave on her own accord, they weren’t friends anymore.

“I fought tooth and nail to stay with you,” she continued, finally gaining the courage to look at him. His eyes were red and swollen from crying, but her’s were probably not any better. “When it was unavoidable, I just…pushed everyone away. It already felt like everything I loved was taken from me; pushing people away was easier to deal with it all.”

Oscar couldn’t take it anymore. He brought her into an embrace so quickly that she couldn’t process it at first. After a few moments, she returned the hug, wrapping her arms around him in return. They sat like that for what felt like hours, but neither of them cared. By the time they eventually left, no other word was muttered between them. There was so much more that the other could say, but for now they were content. For now, it felt like maybe—just maybe—they would be okay.

.

* None of my writing is available for reposting on other platforms. Reblogs, likes, and comments are appreciated.

©️ grogwrites, 2024

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@leclercdream

[imaslutforwritingshit]

Things Ethan Landry would text- (Fem Friend Reader) PART 3

Warnings- mentions of smut, knifeplay, sexting, fearplay, confessions to murder.

If you guys like this, I’ll make an extended version, where I write a story in Y/n’s pov that happens after this texting story:)

The Ballad Of Terror

Y/n: hey loser

Ethan: Loser? that’s new.

Y/n: but true

Ethan: no good night text, bunny?

Y/n: ugh stop calling me that. I promise I don’t jump that weird.

Ethan: in PE class you look like a rodent

Y/n: shut up

Y/n: I want something else first before you get your good night text

Ethan: let me guess. You need homework answers?

Y/n: I don’t get anything in science. I don’t even know what a molecule is.

Ethan: luckily I’m smart.

Y/n: luckily.

Ethan: click to view

Y/n: thank u <3

Ethan: np.

Ethan: hey, how are you and David doing together?

Y/n: why?

Ethan: I’m just curious

Y/n: maybe being curious isn’t always the right thing to be

Ethan: I’m your friend who wants you to be happy.

Y/n: I am happy

Ethan: with David?

Y/n: why are you asking that like david can’t make me happy?

Ethan: because I don’t think he could

Y/n: he does.

Ethan: oh, yeah?

Y/n: yes.

Ethan: as in, present tense?

Y/n omg yes

Y/n: why do you care so much?

Ethan: you broke up with him last night.

Y/n: how did you know that?

Y/n: Ethan??

Y/n: who told you

Ethan: no one told me.

Y/n: then why the fuck do you know?

Ethan: I watched you get that text. You cried over your bedside table.

Ethan: don’t leave me on read

Ethan: cmon

Y/n: how do you know

Ethan: I watched you through the window.

Y/n: you’re my friend

Y/n: this is scaring me

Ethan: Don’t be scared. Remember when you told me that you loved the real me?

Y/n: yes.

Ethan: this is the real me.

Y/n: a stalker?

Ethan: For you,

Ethan: Yes.

Y/n: if you were watching me, what was I wearing?

Ethan: That Ivy League shirt I bought for you in 2018.

Y/n: what pants, then ??

Ethan: oh, that’s the best part.

Y/n: please

Ethan: you weren’t wearing any

Ethan: you hiked your thighs to your chest

Ethan: you were wearing black panties

Y/n: you’re a fucking creep

Ethan: don’t be like that.

Y/n: how long has this been going on?

Ethan: How long have I been in love with you?

Ethan: or watching you sleep

Ethan: ?

Y/n: i should call the police. do you stalk other girls?

Ethan: you’re the only one for me

Ethan: nobody makes me feel the way you make me feel

Ethan: All those girls meant nothing to me. They couldn’t replace you.

Y/n: what girls?

Y/n: you’re a manwhore now?

Ethan: don’t be stupid. I didn’t fuck anyone

Ethan: I killed them

Y/n: im calling the police

Ethan: I disconnected the system from your number

Ethan: you can’t call anyone for help

Y/n: what do you want from me?

Ethan: Don’t you want to know?

Ethan: Why I did it?

Y/n: no

Ethan: I want to hurt you. Is that bad?

Ethan: it just turns me on so much

Ethan: to imagine you begging for me

Ethan: begging me not to slice you open

Ethan: fuck your brains out until your screaming my name

Ethan: i want to use you

Ethan: and you and I both know you would enjoy it

Y/n: you’re ghostface

Ethan: oh

Ethan: what gave it away ?

Y/n: you piece of shit.

Ethan: I don’t think you should insult me right now

Y/n: why? you gonna kill me??

Ethan: don’t tempt me.

Y/n: but apparently I already am. I’m basically asking for a knife to my throat, aren’t I?

Y/n: to watch your cock enter me as you choke me

Y/n: god, it would turn me on so much!!!

Ethan: I don’t take sarcasm too well

Ethan: if your asking for it, I’ll give it to you.

Y/n: im blocking you

Ethan: you can’t hide

Y/n: I’ll lock my doors. Get my parents to call the cops when they come back.

Ethan: your parents aren’t home?

Ethan: That changes things.

Y/n: I locked everything

Y/n: leave me alone

Ethan: why did you assume I was outside your house?

Y/n: please leave me alone

Ethan: let’s play a game of hide and seek, y/n.

Ethan: you run

Ethan: you hide

Ethan: and we’ll see if I can catch you.

Ethan: and if I do…

Ethan: god, I love making you my victim.

Y/n: Ethan please

Ethan: 3

Ethan: 2

Ethan: 1

Ethan: time to run, bunny.

🩷

[catwrites9]

I saw you wanted request. You can choose either Tara or Sam. T or S break up with Reader to protect them during the Ghostface attacks but then they realize it was a mistake and not helping so they try to get R back

It’s A Bad Idea, Right?

Tara Carpenter x Fem!Reader

Warning: Violence, cussing, not proof read, change of pov, a bit of angst but a happy ending, idk what else

W/N: IM BACK GUYS, I’m rn just finishing my old asks and then I’m going to work on new things and get back into writing I’m happy to be back.

Masterlist

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It starts off like any other day, you go to your classes, see your friends but something’s off. Tara’s acting weird the whole time, even when you try to ask her how she is or what’s wrong she just says she’s fine…. It’s now night time in New York and a perfect Thursday night for the weekly horror night. You get dressed and start heading to the apartment. But the whole time you feel like your being watched. The dread fill your stomach like it always use to. Your mom then calls you, this can’t be good.

Tara’s pov

“I just can’t let her be in danger because of me” I said to the group. Ghostface is back and I can’t let just let my girlfriend get hurt because of it.

“Tara this has to be the stupidest idea you’ve ever came up with, she’s been nothing but the best girlfriend to you and I mean she was able to protect herself against the random frat guy I mean come on be a big girl and just tell her what’s happening and give her the choice to leave”Mindy said annoyingly while trying to find a movie

“I just think it’s the best option so that she stays as far away from me” This has to be the best choice right.

“For once I think I’ll have to agree with Mindy even though I was skeptical of your girlfriend at first it’s just going to put her more in risk by leaving her alone” Sam said

“Then what after, after you break her heart you’ll just beat ghost face and go back to her like nothing” I stayed silent at Mindy’s words.

There’s a knock at the door….

Your pov

I knocked and waited for a response as Chad opened it hugging you but as you entered the apartment the air was tense. Something is wrong.

“Hey guys, what movie are we watching?” You said trying to lighten the mood.

“Hey, can I talk to you really quickly?” Tara said, her body language was off.

“Yeah” You walked towards her room with her.

She shut the door”We need to break up”

“What”

“We have to break up, I'm sorry”We both start tearing up.

“What do you mean Tara, why”

“We have to break up it’s for our own good”

“What did I do Tara, what, why why are you doing this”

“IT JUST FOR OUR OWN GOOD”She yelled at you everything getting silent the chatter in the living room stoping.”DAMN IT LISTEN IT'S FOR OUR OWN GOOD”

“why..” I said almost as a whisper, she thought for a moment while crying.

“BECAUSE I DONT LOVE YOU” she yelled. The shock of the moment as even the cars outside went silent. You broke down into tears as you rush out the house everyone having a sympathetic look as Mindy, Sam, and Anika all had the saddest looks and Chad started heading towards Tara’s room.

Tara’s pov

I stayed in my room. why did I say that. I do love her, what’s wrong with me. Chad entered to comfort me but I wasn’t having any of it. I entered the living room just wanting to find my Keyes to leave the house.

“Your not leaving Tara” Sam said while holding up my keys.

“Wtf Tara” Anika said looking back at me from the kitchen table.

“What come on guys I did my plan she’ll be save now and she can’t be hurt by me anymore.”

“Tara that was the stupidest idea even you know you’ll never have her back ever again” Anika yelled getting up from the couch.

“Tara” “Not now Sam” “No you know what I’m done with this gentle parenting thing what the fuck where you thinking I mean she was the best thing for you and even you you break it off now she’s still has a chance of getting chased by ghost face because she was already seen with you Tara”

“No…. She’ll go back home probably to see her mom”

“How do you know that Tara” Sam made the best point how do I know that ghostface will just not follow her.

“It’s a bad idea,right? Right Tara I mean she’s now alone and vonerable to ghost face” I stayed silent as everyone left.

Your pov

You couldn’t understand what you did wrong. She didn’t love me?? You went into your bed and cried. The outfit you wore to her house still on you with the memories with what happend that night forever reambered with what was suppose to be a normal movie night. You cried for what felt like house until your phone rang with a no caller id. fuck… You ansered it know who was going to be on the other line.

“Would you like to play a game it’s called Sam or Tara” The voice you dreaded the most Ghostface. You imideatly got up and ran through your door, knowing you only lived just a block from Tara.

“What do you want from me”

“To Pick Sam or Tara”

“What if I don’t”

“Then they both die, a lose lose. Come on this should be easy for your ex or Sam, such a near and dear friend of yours that knows your secret.” Your heart dropped. How does ghost face know that? You heard cry’s of them both.

“What if I give up Myself”

“It doesn't work like that”

“Think of it you leave Sam and Tara and you get me and that will then lead some people into New York and they’ll fall into your trap”

“Tempting but no” you climbed up the stairs to their house running to their door which is open.

“You have 5 seconds”

5

4

3

2

1

“Times up”

Ghostface stabs Sam, while not realizing you hung up the phone they go for a stab to Tara as you tackled Ghostface. Being able to stun them and you got up and flipped the table on them. You grabbed a pocket knife from Sam and cut her hands and you go for Tara but being tacked back from Ghostface. Sam tries to uncut Tara’s hands and Ghostface punches you multiple times each blow making you more light headed. You grab a book from beside you as you smash it against their head making almost a gunshot like noise. You got up holding your head as your hearing slowly came back. You see the sisters yelling and pointing. At that moment you felt a knife through your shoulder as you looked to your left and saw the ghost face getting up. There’s two of them great.

The second Ghostface digs the knife into you, twisting it. The sharp pain subsides as the adrenaline takes over your body seeing the first ghost face going towards the sisters. You elbow the Ghostface behind you in the ribs as they hunch down in pain as you push all your strength into hitting their head on the wall next to you, knocking them out. You shoulder check the other one over the couch as the sisters help you push it over them. You run out the apartment together as you all run down the stairs into the cops.

Now in the hospital you and Sam are right next to each other, Sam being in worse condition than you, as Tara is sitting on the chair in front of you as the group is outside due to only family being able to come in.

“I’m sorry” it was all Tara said as you looked confused.”I do love you I mean fuck I love you with all my heart I’m so sorry for what I said I was just trying to protect you from this whole situation”

“Tara it’s ok I get it, I’ve done it before, I just wish you told me why so I could have explained everything I already know what was happening.”

“What do you mean” before you could get a word of my mom walks in Sydney Prescott though she isn’t your real mom she stepped in after both your parents were killed from ghost face.

“Mom, you shouldn’t be here Ghostface can get you” You said said while hugging her

“Your moms Sydney Prescott” Tara said while drawing your attention back to her.

“Yes Tara, this is why I wish you would have told me no matter what I would have been included, especially with my mom, and that’s the secret ghost face we were talking about. And yeah Sam already knew because of that whole interrogation she did to me when we first were dating.”

As time passed Sam went in to undergo surgery as it’s only you and Tara left as your mom went to stay with Sam.

“I’m so sorry I should have told you”

“It’s fine Tara really and I mean if your ok with it we can get back together, really I understand what you were thinking I’ve thought the same”

“Really”

“Yes, will you Tara carpenter be my girlfriend”

“Of course” you kissed as if nothing ever happened.

“Does this mean that we have to change our anniversary”

“I don’t know hopefully no I can’t remember dates well”

“Tara, shut up” you said while kissing her again.

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A/N Hope fully you guys liked this give me any feed back and also I’m open to requests from people from my masterlist.

[quirkyfries]

Ruin ramble because writing his pov is interesting

Do you ever notice that Ruin gets really self depreciative about himself sometimes? (Maybe not quite self depreciative, but highlighting things about himself.) Implying vulnerability in a way that can almost come off as a joke if it weren't for his tone of voice. He says he hasn't been safe in a long time, it would be nice to sleep for once, wouldn't his death be hilarious? It comes off as a cry for help, but he states it as fact, he's convinced it won't change.

He's very stubborn about what he's done. He had nothing left to lose. No, there was absolutely no other way he could've gone about destroying the creator, he'd spent years considering his options. Yes, Solar was collateral, unfortunate. Those lives were a necessary sacrifice. He had to do it. There was no other way.

To him, he chose the lesser amount of people in the trolley problem. That was the morally correct thing to do in the circumstances he was given, lives would have been taken either way. He had to do it. (He could've walked away from the lever that switched the rails, but that would be the self serving option, wouldn't it? To move on?)

The most interesting part about it to me is, why does Ruin keep on going? All he's known is pain and suffering in some shape or another, he had nothing to live for after his goal was completed. All he'd ever known was bad, bad, bad, vindictive release, a little bit more bad, and then nothing. He was ready to die, he didn't know where to go.

Then came along this new dimension, one he'd apparently accidentally created through his actions. For someone who has nothing to gain or lose, wouldn't this be a nice chance of pace? To look forward to something nice that was more or less your responsibility in a weird way, to cultivate something good for once after a life of bad? To be able to take the place of your abuser, break that cycle? This new dimension is his reason to keep going, he will see this one good thing through if he can help it. Even if he isn't particularly liked by his migrated peers.

But he still isn't secure. There are enemies he'd made, the insurmountable weight of lives on his shoulders, and a new uncertain freedom of identity. (Granted, he still has to lie to some people to get by. I more mean his own Creator, the Virus act, and Nexus + Dark Sun here. Ruin having to strike deals and bargain for his life and act against his own morals to survive. But those are gone. When had Ruin last acted like himself, truly? He had barely been able to define himself as an Eclipse before everything bad happened.)

Does Ruin hate himself? I don't know, he's very adamant about hating what he had to do, but would do it again. He believes he was right, he's even defensive about it to several people, but there is still something that's bothering him. Does he hate himself for pressing the red button? Dunno. Maybe subconsciously. He's clearly meant to parallel Puppet with how he is now, they're the same words in different font. Ruin pulled the lever to kill the smaller amount of strangers to save the greater amount of strangers. Puppet was inside the train that killed everyone she knew. She wants to repent, Ruin hasn't shown much interest in it. Does a selfless act require repentance?

I like to think he has a bit of a dissociation issue, he compartmentalizes things if you squint, a possible coping mechanism of something called cognitive dissonance (a disturbance that happens when your actions do not align with your morals/values.) He was right for what he did. What he did was bad. What he did was necessary. He deserves his fate. He doesn't like pain. There's some contradicting statements there, he'd have to separate some things into neat little boxes in order for it to make sense in his head, so he didn't torture himself thinking about what that said about himself and his values. What he did was right and necessary. What he did was bad and he deserves his fate. He doesn't like pain. Still contradictory a bit, but a little more organized. If he focused on the positive box more than the negative box, he can feel better about himself, but he's painfully aware of the negative box' existence. Maybe he avoids looking at the negative box at all times and ignores the contents, but what's inside is so over accumulated that it can't help but be constantly present and occasionally overflow in those matter-of-fact cries for help. A lotta PTSD can fit in this bad boy (pats ruin on the head)

Does that make sense? I don't know, I feel like a therapist trying to write from his point of view. What is wrong with this little british guy.