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littlemissmentallyunstable · 5 months ago

Note

HIII OK SO THIS IS A REALLY SPECIFIC REQ SO IF U CANT DO IT THEN ITS ALL GOOD

COULD U DO AVERY X BESTFRIEND!READER (PLATONIC OFC) WHERE HER BESTGRIEND IS LIKE A SINGER / ACTRESS

MAYBE THE READER JS GOING THROUGH A ROUGH SPOT W JAMESON AND AVERY COMFORTS HER.

JUST SOME BESTIE LOVE YK

hi!! I’m SO SO SO SO SO SO INSANELY sorry it’s taken me so long to respond to this request it was literally requested on the 20th of august and I feel so bad!! but I finally finished and I hope you enjoy

title: she’s always there

pairing: avery x bestfriend!reader (platonic)

synopsis: after a fight with jameson you know you need avery at your side to make things right again

warnings: mild swearing

a/n: three months too late but I didn’t forget you, hope you enjoy anon :))

taglist: @lovethornes @whatsamongus @wish-i-were-heather @inmyheaddd @never-enough-novels @fleuriosa @midiosaamor @sweetreveriee @emelia07 @f4iry-bell @zaraaaabear @thoughtdaughter3 @benny1989fredd @elysianwayy77 @maybxlle @sheisntyou @anintellectualintellectual @aleatorio1234 @adalia-jaycee @off-to-the-r4ces @lyra-kane @reminiscentreader @lyrakanefanatic @imaseabear @elizaa31 @loveinalocket @lanterns-and-daydreams @hermesenthusiast

The door slams shut. The sound echoes through my ears, bouncing around my head, a painful reminder of all that had just exploded. I stumble forwards, my fingers shaking on the doorknob. I want to run to him but my legs are stuck in an invisible cement. So my body gives way and I crumble to the floor.

Tears blur my vision as I shake in a pathetic heap. My chest hurts with each ugly sob. I hate fighting, but I hate this even more. This pain, this agony. I sob harder until my throat is so raw only cracked sounds come out.

I stay there for what feels like hours, maybe even days. I’m heavy with exhaustion and grief. I know I need to get up but I don’t move. I can’t will myself out of this position. Fear flickers in the pit of my stomach. Why can’t I get up? I have no energy, no motivation.

Nothing, I feel nothing.

But even the dread of feeling nothing doesn’t even pull me from the numbness. My skin is thickened with a layer of senselessness. I’m too weighted by my own sadness to move. This happened before, this happened last time, this couldn’t happen again.

I could hear my heart thumping in my ears. The sound almost deafening. I’m taking sharp jagged breaths that I can’t control. I need Avery.

I need her more than anything right now. She promised me if things got bad again that she would be one call away. And she made me promise that I’d call her. I couldn’t break my promise, I’m not a person who breaks their promises.

But I haven’t seen her in weeks and what if she only thinks I call her when I’m struggling? What if she thinks I’m using her? What if she gets tired and just walks out like everyone else?

I usually block out ‘the before’. But I can remember snippets, like how I couldn’t to get out of bed, to get off of the floor, to move, to eat, to take care of myself and how I felt then I’m starting to feel now. An icy coolness is pulsating through my veins, so sharp that I can’t feel it anymore.

My phone is next to my face. I can see it. But my finger feels like they’re being dragged down my a large iron ball and chain. I can’t even reach my phone for my emergency contact. My hollow chest begins to throb.

“Call Avery,” I whisper to my phone, “please call Avery. I need her.”

One ring. Tw-

“Ave,” I murmur, my voice shaking.

She replies almost instantly, “what’s wrong?”

She’s sharp, she’s ready, she’s immediate. She’s going to help me pull myself together, I tell myself.

“I need you,” I whisper, not knowing what else to say other than the truth. I can’t sugarcoat anything now. I’m not fine. I can’t move.

“I’m coming,” Avery tells me.

“It’s getting bad again,” I snivel the words just blurting out before there’s enough time for them to be filtered

I feel her freeze for a moment, “bad?”

“I’m stuck on the floor,” I mumble, my throat hoarse and sore, “I can’t move.”

“Just wait there okay,” she comforts, “I’m coming.”

“My life is a mess,” I ramble, not being able to stop myself. I’ve lost control, over my mind, over my body, over my words.

“I’ll be over in two minutes okay, stay on the line with me,” she says urgently.

“I’m sorry,” I say choking out another sob, “I’m so so sorry.”

“Don’t you dare apologise,” she says firmly but with kindness behind her tone, “just sit tight and I’m coming.”

“Okay,” I exhale, trying to ignore the lump growing in my throat.

“What happened?” she asks so softly I just want to melt into even more of a puddle of a human being. I’m halfway there, my limbs sprawled every which way, my tearstained face covered by a curtain of hair.

“Everything went wrong,” I tremble, not knowing how else to describe it. The scene plays out in the mind again and again, a pitiless record of pain on loop.

“What’s everything?” Avery asks, her voice so mellow, so gentle, so calm.

“Jameson.”

His name sends a twinge of pain across my chest.

“Oh sweetie I’m sure it’s okay,” she says, “it’s normal for couples to fight.”

“Not like this,” I shake my head as if she can see me.

“Let me in and we’ll talk about it,” she says.

“You’re outside?” I ask my voice opting for the tone of a vulnerable child. She’d arrived faster than I thought she would.

“Yes,” she confirms.

“Door’s unlocked,” I murmur, the words kind of slurring into one another as I said them.

“I might get a speeding ticket tomorrow but it’ll be worth it,” the door opens, “besides Alisa will probably be able to get me out of it.”

“Mmmm,” I respond, feeling tired, each of my limbs weighing me down as if they were made of lead.

“Sweetie you need to stand up,” she tells me gently, I can feel her hand running up and down my arm rhythmically.

“I can’t,” I wheeze, everything was so heavy it ached.

“You can,” Avery replies, “I’m going to help you.”

“I’m tired,” I groan, my vision blurring as my eyelids fall shut.

“Then we can go to bed,” she says.

My lips quiver, “Avery?”

“Yeah,” she murmurs.

“I can’t stand up,” I whisper, the ghost of my voice vibrating against my throat, “I can’t do it.”

“Here then let’s sit up first,” she says.

Slowly she helps me into a sitting position. The world feels a little hazy. My head rolls backwards and thumps on the wall, it’s too heavy to hold up.

A flicker of pain spreads across the back of my head, the first real feeling in my state of numbness. She wraps her arms around me and I fall into her softly crying. I don’t know if it’s the pain in my head or the pain in my heart endorsing the tears but I don’t care.

She holds me tightly and tenderly as if she might never let go. I fear if she does I’ll fall apart and break into millions of pieces on the floor that can never be put back together again. My entire body shakes as my tears dampen my best friend’s shirt.

“Come on,” she says slowly, helping me to my feet after a long bout of silence.

I don’t want to move but my legs are willed too having obtained pins and needles from my static state. I don’t know how she managed to get me thinking about something other than my absence of feeling, allowing me to walk, but she did. We slump down on the sofa together and I curl up into her grip. I don’t want to let Avery go, not when my mind is retelling the story.

“What is your problem with me?” I scoff, putting the dishes into the cupboard not really meeting his eyes.

He’d been offish all through dinner, the one chance we actually had to spend time with each other and of course he picks that moment to be mad.

“My problem?” he says, with a bitter laugh, “you want to know my problem?”

“That is what I just said isn’t it?” I quip back, a bit snarky.

“Where are you half the time?” he asks, a degree of hurt in his voice that makes my heart twist.

I stare at him, dumbfounded as my brain registers the question, “what?”

“I never see you anymore,” Jameson tells me, “I mean any longer without you and I feel like I’m going to forget your face.”

“You do see me,” I reply curtly.

“No I don’t and you know it,” he snaps, a wild looking shining through his emerald eyes.

“Jamie I can’t help my schedule,” I sigh, putting my hands on my hips, “I didn’t choose this.”

“Maybe you didn’t but you’re not trying to do anything about it,” he accuses me.

“I am!” I exclaim, throwing my hands up into the air.

“No you’re not,” he shakes his head, “you’re not doing anything and it’s not fair.”

“Give it a month and-“

“No! I’m tired of waiting,” he says, desperation bleeding into his voice, “it’s always next month this and next week that, I’m sick and tired of waiting for us.” he runs a hand through his unruly hair, “isn’t love meant to come first?”

“I need a job,” I say in a low voice, “I need money Jameson.”

“I’ll give you money,” he groans a pleading look in his features.

“You don’t understand,” I yell, “I need to make this for myself.”

“Why?” he shouts, “I could give you anything you ever wanted!”

“I wanted to earn something, not just be given it,” I try to explain.

“You’ve earned everything you need to,” he presses on.

“Acting is what I love to do Jamie,” I tell him, the passion seeping into my voice, “these auditions are what I love to do.”

“I thought you loved me,” he shoots back.

“I do,” I exhale, “you know I do.”

Jameson shakes his head with a bitter and slightly pained sort of smile, “it feels like all you care about is this stupid work of yours.”

My eyes are squinted shut. I’m trapped in a memory I hate, held captor in a prison of my mind’s own making.

“Talk to me,” Avery whispers, “I’m here.”

“Jamie hates me, I barely see you, I overwork, I can’t sleep, all my auditions are going horribly and I’m just messing everything up-“ I ramble, my voice becoming thicker and thicker with emotion with each word.

“Hey,” she says softly, “just breathe.”

“I can’t, it’s like everything is coming at me all at once and I can’t handle it,” I choke, “I feel like I’m drowning Avery and every time I kick up to the surface another wave takes me out again. It’s this cycle that I can’t make my way out of.”

“Oh sweetheart,” she soothes, “just try for me and ignore all of it for a second and just look into my eyes.”

I meet her gentle hazel eyes, but they blur as tears fill my vision.

“Think about us,” she says, “right now. Me and you together, talking to each other. Focus on the present, stop thinking about the future and the past.”

My mind quiets a little, the raging storm of black clouds and loud sounds begins to dim down into a low hum. It’s still there but less. It’s better. A feel a spark of hope pulsate through my veins, previously darkened by hopelessness.

“Feeling a little better?” she tilts her head to the side.

“A little,” I nod hesitantly. I don’t want to speak too soon, there is still time for things too get much much worse.

“That’s good,” she smiles, “that’s really good.”

I exhale slowly, a little shakily. I lean further into Avery and her arms naturally wrap around me. I’m in the safety and warmth of her arms, her soft touch.

“I’ve got you,” she reminds me, “and when you’re ready, just talk and I’ll listen.”

“I don’t know where to start,” I laugh, buts it’s a forced laugh that I soon regret as if makes my throat ache.

“Do you want to talk about what happened between you and Jameson?” she suggests.

“You’re being so pathetic,” I snap, rolling my eyes.

“And you’re being selfish,” he exclaims.

I stop in my tracks and spin to face him, “for wanting to make something of myself for my life? I’m not you, Jameson. I didn’t get everything handed to me on a golden platter.”

Hurt flashes across his face.

“You think I haven’t worked for what I am today?” he barks, “you think I was just given all of this?”

“I’m just saying it’s not as simple as you think it is,” I groan, trying to walk away.

He stands in front of me, looking deep into my eyes, his tone softens, “I would move the sun and the stars just to spend time with you,” anger clouds his features, sending an overcast of fury to his eyes, “but I don’t see you trying to change anything to see me.”

“I have tried,” I tell him, “but it’s really difficult Jameson and I’m exhausted,”

“Exhausted of what? Of this, of our relationship,” he snaps, quick to jump to some ridiculous conclusion.

“Are you drunk?” I laugh.

“Why do you always think I’m drunk?” he shoots back, venom on his tongue.

“Because you’re spouting nonsense,” I reply, raising my voice a little.

“Of course, of course,” he rolls his eyes in his bout of sarcasm, “I’m the one who’s spouting nonsense.”

“What do you want me to do Jameson?” I ask, a lump growing in my throat, “drop everything for you?”

“Love comes with sacrifices,” he shrugs in response.

“So what I’m meant to sacrifice my entire passion?” I scoff.

He couldn’t be serious.

“No I’m just asking you to at least attempt to make more time,” he says, “I mean don’t you miss me like I miss you?”

“Of course I miss you,” I sigh.

“Then why don’t you show it?” he asks and I can see how much it wounds him, “you’re a closed book around me now. I used to be able to read you so well but now it’s like a blank page.”

“How would you know, I thought you didn’t see me anymore?” I bite back.

“We got into a fight,” I whisper, memories flooding back.

“A bad one?” Avery says carefully, like she’s treading on eggshells.

“He left,” I shrug.

“Asshole,” she mutters in my defence.

“No,” I shake my head, sitting back up to face her, “I was horrible, I would’ve left me.”

Beat.

“But he was horrible too,” I sniff.

“People say things they don’t mean in fights,” Avery points out, reaching to touch my arm.

“Or they say what they’re really thinking,” I blurt out, my mind is too consumed by my own thoughts to filter what I’m saying.

“More often than not it’s things they don’t mean, trust me,” she says, a tenderness in her voice that makes my heart squeeze, “besides Jameson can be a real impulsive idiot sometimes.”

“I love that about him,” I chuckle snivelling slightly, “but… it’s just that lately things haven’t been the same between us.”

“How so?”

“I’m leaving,” Jameson snaps. He’s finally had enough, he’s finally walking out on me. Of course. How could I possibly think someone could really love me as much as he said he did.

“Where are you going?” I ask, a sudden panic clawing at my chest overriding all of the built up anger and resentment.

“Why do you care?” he shrugs, grabbing his keys swiftly.

“Because I love you, you idiot!” I yell.

He stops and slowly turns around. Our eyes connect and for a split second deja vu washes over me and we’re meeting for the first time. I’m falling in love with his enchanting green eyes.

“Do you?” he asks, “really?”

“You’re being such an idiot right now,” I scrunch up my face as I shout, “I hope you know that.”

“If you’ll excuse me I’m going to go and get drunk and spout nonsense like I usually do,” he says, “according to you.”

“Oh come off of it,” I scream, a sudden surge of pure rage appearing.

“What?”

“Stop acting like mr high and mighty on your high horse,” I snarl, “it’s not fair.”

“You know what’s not fair, what you’re doing to me,” he barks, “I’m in limbo here, I don’t know whether you’re coming or going, the only time I see you is when I leave this house and you’re asleep.”

“Then wake me up,” I deadpan, arms folded.

“And make you even more exhausted?” he scoffs, “fat chance!”

“I’m giving you solutions and you’re just deterring them,” I exclaim.

“Because you know they’re stupid solutions,” he explodes.

“Well life is just keeping us apart. I’m always at auditions, he’s off with his brothers, then when I come home he’s asleep and I can’t sleep and then when I finally sleep, he wakes up,” I blubber, “we’re not getting enough time to be with each other and I’m trying so hard to make time, but I don’t have the energy because I’m so exhausted from everything else.”

“And that’s okay, that’s understandable,” she reassures me, “he’s probably just frustrated because he doesn’t get to spend time with you, that shows he loves you, right? Someone who didn’t wouldn’t experience these feelings.”

“I suppose,” I shrug, “but Avery you should have seen him. He was so mad when he walked out. It’s the biggest fight we’ve ever been in.”

“I’m sure things will get better, they always do,” she soothes, “I mean think about to your last fight, how long did that last?”

Barely a few hours, I recall. Jameson and I had never fought for long in our relationship. It was so hard to stay so mad at someone I loved so much.

“What if it’s different this time?” I murmur, imagining the worst.

“It’s not,” Avery says, “trust me.”

“He was just so mad,” I say, biting my lip, “I’ve never seen him look at me like that.”

“Hey, it’s gonna be okay,” Avery tells me gently, “whatever the outcome is, I’ve got you the whole way.”

“Thanks Ave,” I try to smile but it doesn’t quite reach my eyes, “he doesn’t get it, he thinks he does, but he doesn’t.”

“Maybe that’s why he’s getting so angry,” she suggests.

“I wish he would just let me explain,” I groan, putting my head in my hands.

“Why don’t you just communicate that to him?” she says.

“Because I have no time to!” I exclaim, not meaning to sound so defensive and snappy, “I just need to get through this month and then everything will be back to normal.”

“Sweetheart, I think you need to make some time to talk to him,” Avery says earnestly, “in this month. Explain this all to him, otherwise he’s going to keep building up all this anger for no reason and things are going to get worse.”

“Why is he so angry?” I ask in frustration, meaning for the question to be rhetorical.

“Because he doesn’t like not seeing you,” she replies, “he loves you.”

He love me. He loves me. He loves me. The words echo around my head relentlessly.

“I’m stupid,” I say, letting my head hit Avery’s shoulder.

“You’re not stupid,” she replies, putting her arm around me and rubbing small circles on my shoulder with her thumb.

“He hates me,” I mumble into her.

She shakes her head, “he doesn’t hate you.”

“It’s always the same with you, you always want more-“

“I want to see you,” Jameson yells, “is that so much to ask?”

“I will never be enough, you can’t just take me for who I am, what I am, what I need,” I shout back.

“What about what I need?” he questions, “I need to see you and it’s driving me crazy when we’re apart.”

“You need to find a coping mechanism then,” I reply, snarky and spiteful.

He looks at me with a look I’ve never seen in his eyes before. Pure unadulterated hatred. Like he wants me to burn on a thousand spikes after a session of torture.

“Fuck you,” he spits at me, his face so close to mine I can feel his anger.

“Piss off,” I hiss back.

“I will thank you very much,” he replies, swinging the door open.

“And don’t come home,” I snap, “I don’t want to see your face.”

“It’s not like you’ll notice, you don’t see my face anyway,” he calls, slamming the door shut behind him.

“What if this time he doesn’t come back,” I murmur, frightening myself more and more it’s each drastic thought that pops into my head.

“He will come back,” she soothes, continuing to rubbing small circles on my arm, “he always comes back to you.”

She has a point. Jameson always came back, he just needs time to cool off. I hope…

“You’re stronger than you think,” she whispers in my ear, like she can hear the doubts screaming in my brain.

“I don’t feel it,” I grumble.

“That’s what makes you even stronger,” Avery says.

“I’m crying over a boy,” I deadpan.

“Who hasn’t been there?” she smiles, wiping my tears away, “now come on, I’ll get the ice cream tubs, you grab the endless flow of blankets and pillows and we’ll have a movie night.”

I crack a small smile and nod as we stand up. She begins to walk while my legs struggle to follow.

“Avery,” I say, taking a small step forwards.

She spins around with a bright smile, “Yeah?”

“Thank you,” I exhale, “so much.”

sorry there haven’t been a lot updates lately I’ve been super busy 🤍🤍

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pastelwitchling · 4 months ago

Text

Michael helps Alex breathe.

tw: depression

***

Alex woke up feeling heavy. There was a weight in the pit of his stomach that left him nauseous, a tingling in his throat that made drawing deep breaths difficult, his tongue felt like it weighed a million pounds, his heart seemed to slow and beat hard against his chest, wracking all of his ribs.

He didn’t want to move. He couldn’t move. He felt Michael pressed against his back and wondered if he would have the strength to turn over, to wake him up and tell him he felt wrong. Then he thought about having to move, having to speak, having to explain when Michael inevitably panicked that Alex was physically hurt.

He wasn’t. He’d learned that much over the years. He might’ve felt like his heart was caving in, he might felt like he was going to throw up, he might’ve felt like it was hard to breathe, but it was in his head, all in his head. He was fine, he was fine, he was fine. It was all in his head, all in his head, all in his head . . .

He knew that, he knew it, and yet the second he felt Michael stir against him, the second Michael arched into him, the second he murmured Alex’s name, probably not expecting a response, only wanting his husband’s name to be the first thing he said when he woke up, Alex whispered, “Help.”

Michael tensed at once, and then he was leaning up on his elbow, peering down at him. “Alex?”

Alex’s whole body scrunched. He’d wanted Michael’s attention, but now that he actually had his eyes on him, he felt smothered. He buried his face in his elbow, not knowing how to respond to Michael’s inquisitive eyes. He didn’t seem to need to; hiding away seemed to have told Michael everything he’d needed to know.

“Okay,” Michael sighed, and kissed Alex’s shoulder. “It’s okay, baby.”

But Alex didn’t feel okay. He didn’t feel right. He glanced at the door, lowering his arms at the same moment a tear had fallen. Had he been crying? When had he started? He hated not noticing his own tears before it was too late to hide them. Michael felt differently, brushing Alex’s eye with his thumb like there was nowhere else he’d rather be than right here, taking care of him.

“I’m not sad,” he murmured.

Michael pressed another kiss to his cheek. “I know.”

He felt Michael stretch behind him, heard him groan as the early morning sleep faded away, and something about the ease with which he moved around, like there was no reason to worry, no reason to be scared, made Alex’s chest calm down the slightest bit. If Michael wasn’t scared, there was no reason for him to be scared. He kept repeating that in his head, kept telling himself over and over that Michael wouldn’t be calm if there was anything bad happening.

Was that the problem? Was he scared of a threat that would never come? No . . . no, he didn’t think so. Something else was wrong, but . . . Alex had no idea what it was. He had no idea what he was feeling, he had no idea what the source was. If he didn’t know the source, how would he ever fix it? Maybe he couldn’t . . . maybe he was just fundamentally broken . . . maybe all those times he laughed and felt any semblance of joy, maybe that was the fluke. Maybe this, this shattered, dying, numb version of him, maybe this was his truth—

“Turn over,” Michael told him, cutting through his thoughts.

Alex turned deeper into his blankets. No, he didn’t want to turn his back on the front door, he didn’t know if it would make this hollowness worse.

“I’m right here,” Michael told him easily, running a hand down his arm, down his waist, down across his stomach to his other side and hooking his fingers around his hip, readying to physically turn him. “I need you to stop worrying about the door.”

“I need to see it.”

“Not when I’m here,” Michael told him. “Out of sight, out of mind, baby. C’mon, turn over for me. If it gets worse, we can turn back.”

So Alex, feeling as though he had blocks of cement tied to each limb, forced himself to turn over, and the second he did, Michael brought the blanket up to the back of his head, pulled down at his front so that he could cuddle in close against Michael’s chest. He was in a cave of blankets and Michael, protected from all sides.

“Let me worry about the door,” Michael murmured against his crown. “Just close your eyes, okay? Try to get some more sleep.”

Alex closed his eyes into the quiet, warm darkness between their bodies, his forehead against Michael’s collarbone as he breathed in and out, flooding his senses with Michael’s rain smell as Michael rubbed his blanketed back. Yet sleep would not come.

“Do you think I’m broken?”

Michael hummed. “Absolutely.”

Alex couldn’t help the tug at his lips. “But like . . . in a bad way. Like . . . this is it, this is my whole life. Moments of this that just . . . stretch until there’s nothing left. Until I’m just like this forever.” Any semblance of a smile vanished with his shuddered exhale, and he whispered, “Do you think I’m going to die like this—”

“No,” Michael said before Alex had even finished asking the question. He sounded calm, but his arms tightened around Alex, pulling him in as close as possible. Alex knew Michael didn’t like it when he used the ‘d’ word, but there were times, times like this, when the bleakness of his thoughts overwhelmed him and he had no filter. His need to voice the worst of his thoughts was necessary. He didn’t realize he needed Michael’s reassurance until his husband slid a hand into his hair and tugged roughly on the roots, grounding him.

“Alex, if I tell you something, will you believe me?”

I believed you were an alien without a second thought, Alex thought, but didn’t have the energy to say. Too many words, and humor was not in his ability right now. “Anything,” he managed instead.

“Before we got together . . . back when you were . . .” he cleared his throat, clearly forcing the words out now, “with Long . . . I felt like the world was caving in every second. It was like . . . I was watching myself move around, getting things done, but it wasn’t me doing any of it. Then I kissed you outside the Pony, and . . . I could feel again.” He hugged Alex tighter like he was worried Alex was going to pull away at the news. “I’m not saying you’re my medicine, Alex, and I’m not saying I expect to be yours. I know that . . . what’s happening to you right now . . . it’s outside of me. I know I can’t fix it for you, no matter how much I wish I could.”

Alex sniffled. Was he crying again? He croaked, “Then what are you saying?”

Michael ran a hand down the back of his head, smoothing out the earlier sting. “I’m saying I know what it feels like to feel like this is it. Like this is what the rest of your life is going to look like, but . . . but I think the truth is that . . . this is only part of your life, Alex. Maybe you’ll always have moments like this, but you’ll have really good ones too, and then this . . . it’ll feel more far away. It might not stop, but it’s not all there is.” He hugged him tighter. “And I’m going to work so hard to give you as many of those good moments as possible, and it might not always be enough, but it’ll be enough to fight for. I really believe that.”

Alex shut his eyes, a tear falling down the bridge of his nose, and he sniffed again. “I’ll work hard, too,” he promised. He meant it, he did, but . . . “Just maybe not right now?”

“No,” Michael agreed, running his other hand down Alex’s blanketed back again and holding him closer. “Right now, just let me hold you. Take a breather, and let me be the one to fight.”

So Alex, knowing that Michael would always help steady him, did as he was told. He closed his eyes, and breathed.

#alex manes #michael guerin #malex #malex fic #roswell new mexico #roswell nm #tyler blackburn #michael vlamis

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guesswhojusttt · 6 months ago

Text

I have spent all my life resisting the desire to end it

Summary:

"I wanted to be chosen, maybe loved. I wanted out of my life, out of my skin, and his offer seemed like the best someone like me could hope for." - Susan Abulhawa, Against the Loveless World

someone, somewhere, can you understand me a little? (love me a little?) BTD Ren x reader

Chapter 2

AO3

The bell chimes cheerfully as you step out into the night- a black-gray sky, starless and empty and hollow, light pollution long since blanketing any chance of a pretty view. Streetlights stoop over the sidewalks, warm orange bathing the cement and the gravelly, winding streets and the black trash bins. Cars occasionally drive by, wheels crunching scattered pebbles, a window rolled down so their music blasts and slams the air as it whizzes by. A cool breeze settles over your skin, between your pores, ruffles Strade’s brown curls as he walks beside you.

"Where's your ride?"

"Oh, I'm heading to the bus stop."

"That's at least twenty minutes from here," he dismisses, that blinding grin plastered on his face, "I can just drive you."

"No, no," you say hurriedly, remembering the rule to never go to a second place with a date. It might not have been a date, sure, but the same principle applied. Getting into a car with someone would essentially give him the power to take you whenever he wants, to trap you as long as he wants, to- "I'm fine. I love taking the bus."

But he's leading the way, you realize- it had felt like you'd been wandering aimlessly, but really, you'd been trailing beside him. He hadn't been walking directionless at all, but leading. Guiding. "Public transport is spotty at best here, you know. It’ll take hours before you're home." He pops open the passenger door for his rust-orange car, expectant.

You purse your lip. "I don't just give out my address. Nothing personal, sorry."

"No problem, buddy! I'll just drop you off at the bus station." He’s so cheerful. He’s been cheerful since you met and hasn’t stopped since. Surely his cheeks hurt by now, straining from the perma-smile?

You lean against the door, making no effort to enter. “Look, this really isn't a you thing, okay? It’s just not safe to get in a car with a stranger, so I’ll- just be going, now.” You move to leave, but he grabs your upper arm in a vice-like grip.

“You’re always like this, aren’t you? Never accepting support, always doing everything alone?”

“Let go of me.”

“Isn’t it isolating, growing up too fast? Being so responsible, so independent, even as a child. There’s nothing wrong with asking for help.”

“Right, but this isn’t help, this is-”

“A friend offering a friend a ride home.”

“A strange man coercing a woman into his car. Strade, let me go.”

“Why? You’ve already opened up to me, you haven’t scared me off.”

“No, but you’re scaring me-” when you yank yourself from him, you know it’s only because he let you. The indents of his thick fingers tunnel welts into your skin, and you glare. Just who did he think he is? “This isn’t about- about me being lonely-”

“But you are, aren’t you?”

“That’s not-”

“You are,” Strade emphasizes firmly, “aren’t you?”

“Yes, but this isn’t about being unable to accept support-”

“But you don’t let others help you, do you?”

“Stop it-”

“When was the last time you asked for-”

“Are you kidding me?” you snap viciously. "Just leave me alone."

His eye sort of twitches, and you know, the way you always could tell with your mom, that he was losing patience. But his smile is ever-present. “And you’re uncomfortable because…?”

“I don’t know you.”

”And?”

”You’re not taking no for an answer.”

”And?”

”I know what you want me to say,” you begin kneading at the pressure point at the base of your thumb. Once you opened your mouth, it all came tumbling one after the other, a domino spiral, blocks knocking the other over until it all fell down. “That I can’t accept help, that I’m uncomfortable because I’m not used to kindness. That I feel guilty when my coworkers all chip in to get me a cake for my birthday. That it's a self-fulfilling prophecy, because I'm scared I'll be abandoned so I push people away so I can leave them first. I just... don't know how to handle support. But that's not what this is. Is it?”

"It is. I just want to help you, buddy." He pats your shoulder. Comforting.

(And his hand is heavy, on your shoulder, big and warm and strong and real and so, so comforting. No one had ever touched you affectionately, had touched to comfort, not to hurt- no one had ever been proud-

But he is. Proud of you for listening. For complying.

You find yourself thinking you'd do just about anything to feel the weight of his hand validating you again).

Gently, he steers you, and this time, you enter. And when you- when you willingly got in the car, willingly entered through the door, without making a break for it, and he patted your shoulder- large fingers curling over your bones- you sort of (couldn't help it) leaned into it, the warmth and strength and reassurance of it all. It felt like conditioning a pet with positive reinforcement- twice he'd done it, each when you'd given in a little more: the vanilla milkshake, now getting in without protest. He shuts the passenger door for you, as a gentleman would.

The interior of his car smells a little like machine oil, of the cheap beer bottles and crumpled aluminum cans at your feet, a pair of matching, cute hammers dangling from the rearview mirror. He switches on the radio- neat, blunt nails fiddling with the black dial till some FM station came on. Upbeat German folk music, low and dull and enough to both fill the silence and not drown out any conversation.

You rationalize your decision. Well. You do get winded from five minutes of walking, your legs do get sore from 10 minutes of the most basic stroll. Shoving down any apprehension, any discomfort (never go to a second location! Never ever go to a second place with a date! You wanna end up on the news with an ugly headshot?), you buckle your seatbelt with a satisfying click.

You probe the dangling, weightless hammers, watching them bumblingly sway and swing. "The machine oil and these- you're, a mechanic or something?"

"Or something," he agrees. His large hands smoothly steer the black wheel, turning the corner. When you don’t respond to his non-answer, he elaborates in a low, smooth baritone. "Most of my income is from working remotely- freelance. It's nice to be my own boss, work my own hours. It's a niche market, but I have a bit of a steady stream from loyal clientele. You?"

"Me?" You blanch. Working at a suicide hotline might've been meaningful, but it was a call center, and eventually, like everything else, it was boring. "Well, I- it's a bit complicated."

"Come on, isn't there something you'd love to do? A dream, maybe?"

"A dream," you repeat thoughtfully. Mulling the word over, syrupy and strange. Foreign, even, invasive the way a virus is. The way a disease is. "Well, I've always- hey, you missed the bus station."

"Did I?" He says airily.

"Yeah, you just passed- hey, quit driving- go back-"

"Buddy, you've gotta live a little. Relax."

"Stop the car. Where are you-? " Your hand scrabbles frantically at the door- there's no handle on your side, only his. "I'm serious. Stop the car."

(It’s your mom driving past your job all over again. Were you a magnet for maniacs?)

"Why? It's not like you have anywhere else to go. No family, no career, no friends. No one will come looking for you. You really are perfect." He drums his thick fingers on the steering wheel. Scuffed, leather fading and peeling into flecks in sporadic patches. "And the best part is- you don't have shelter, or food. You need me."

"I need help," you admit, attempting in vain to yank up the black little car lock that just wouldn't budge, "but not from you. Let me go."

"Or what?"

You unbuckle your gray seatbelt, yanking at it to make it longer and longer- you could strangle him, you think madly, can noose it round his neck and pull and pull till his face is white and his brain is dead and-

He laughs, giddy. Like he knows what you're doing, like he wants to see you try. The upbeat music still thumping from the radio is mocking, now, mean. "Do it. Let's crash, let's push and pull and fight and struggle while the car is still driving in the middle of the road, where we can hit a pole or any of the cars driving by- oh, wouldn't that be decadent? Look in front of us, is that a little kid in the back? Oh! A big dog with her, too. Go on, go on, wave hello to them and choke me, let's see how many others you can take out." His rambles are that of a mad scientist, of a maniac, of a...

Of a serial killer.

He's right, though: there's a smattering of cars on the streets, left and right and behind you all, and even if you do kill him, the struggle alone- the loss of control on the gas pedal, the wheel- would T-bone any of the cars around and, well, would it be so bad to be grievously injured or killed?

Yes, if it means you'll be killing bystanders whose only sin was being on the road too.

You lower your hand, still clutching the seat belt. “So this is what you do? You find little broken dolls, fix them up only to break them again?”

"Not much fixing," he chuckles heartily, “now. You’re a little less compliant than I like them, and I’d like a peaceful drive home. So you’re going to open the glove compartment, take out a rag, dowse it chloroform, and smother yourself with it.”

You snort, “why would I do that?”

“Because if you don’t,” he’s getting thrilled, now, like it’s a rare treat, a guilty indulgence (except he doesn't appear guilty at all), “I’ll do what I usually do: grab your neck and pull your hair and bash your head into the door, a nasty concussion and maybe a skull fracture or two. I’m stealing you either way, engelein, but it’s your choice how much pain it’ll cost.”

“What’s to stop me from using chloroform on you?” You spit scathingly.

“You’re a big girl. Tell me, why won’t you use it against me?”

“Because…” that stupid car is still in front of you, with the little girl and the oversized dog. She’s in pigtails and is petting his golden fur, his tongue eagerly licking her cheek and his tail thumping on the car seat. The car next to you is a slug bug, low and yellow, with a sticker reading MY OTHER CAR IS THE ARGO II. A pretty girl with too many tattoos bobs her head to some song as she drives it. You sigh, “because if you pass out, you’ll crash us. And someone will get hurt.”

“Someone’s getting hurt either way, but you get to choose: and if I’ve read you as well as I think I have, and I always do, then you’ll obey like a good-”

“Of course I will,” you snap, “it’s literally my job to save people. I'm not about to let others die just because I was dumb enough to get in this-”

“No,” he says calmly, eyes on the quickly-passing road, “you’ll listen because that’s what you do. The texts you showed me, everything you’ve told me- did you know, some people have personalities that are just more susceptible to abuse? Usually it’s a consequence of past abuse, which is why those with abusive parents often end up with abusive partners, too. How many times, in those texts, did you apologize to your mother? I counted upwards of a dozen. How many times did you grovel, say it was your fault for being ungrateful, promise to make it up to her- when she changed the password on your bank account and spent the money on the most obscenely useless garbage, you apologized for not supporting her interests. When she made you take a week off of work because you ‘weren’t spending enough time with her’, even though you told her you need to give your supervisor two week’s notice before taking that much time off, you ended up doing it anyway. Then she yelled at you for not spending time with her the right way, for acting like it was a chore rather than something that you actually want- that you’re treating her like a roommate, not a mother, though if anyone sane had a roommate who treated them half the way she treats you, they would’ve been evicted by now- then your supervisor was angry at your time off without sufficient notice. So you quail and cower before them both, not because you’re weak- though you are, make no mistake- but because you’re clever enough to know that the best way to avoid being fired, avoid being hit, avoid conflict, is to swallow your pride and just give the other what they want. And you’ve swallowed it so many times, buddy, that you don’t have any dignity left in you. You’ll listen to me, because you’re the type to.”

Well. Damn.

You swallow. Defend yourself, you can't let him get away with talking about you like that. “You're wrong: just the other day, I was hungry, and was going to eat- but then my mother says, I want my daughter to eat. She does that a lot, says ‘my daughter’ instead of ‘you’, because- because she views it as two different concepts. If I stay up late, she tells me to stop hurting her daughter. It’s never me she’s concerned about. So anyway, I tell her I’m an adult, I can eat when I want. Later, when I get up, to get food- she again tells me to eat, and so I tell her I’m just going to the bathroom, and I do. Another hour passes and I’m starving, but then she gets on my case that I haven’t eaten since I got home and I should really eat, and I tell her again that I can choose when to eat, she doesn’t need to decide it for me.”

“So you went to sleep hungry.” Strade concludes.

“I just… it’s the only way for me to have- to have some semblance of control from her constant commands. Even if I’m sinking the very ship I’m on, at least I get to sink the captain, too.” You click open the glove compartment. There really is a rag, hastily shoved in, and a clinical white bottle of chloroform. “When you’re… in a cage, your whole life, simply choosing not to run on the stupid hamster wheel is the closest thing you get to freedom.”

“Which is why you’re going to knock yourself out.”

“No,” you say flatly, unscrewing the blue cap, “I’ll pass out so I don’t have to hear more of your incessant, victim-blaming drivel.”

You regard the bottle- a square base, a stinging smell, a skull with crossbones warning TOXIC and a neat font instructing for professional dental use ONLY. You feel the weight of it in your palm, and it’s- not that heavy. How many times has he used this? “Inhaling this… can cause mild to severe respiratory or brain damage. It says right there on the label.”

“Yes,” he chuckles, “as will grabbing your head, bashing it into my dashboard, and scrambling your brain until its gray matter stains my car mats. Like I said, it’s completely up to you.”

Your finger twitches, index tracing the rim of the bottle, considering. You could drink it. It would be a much easier, more painless death than whatever this serial killer had in store for you.

Suicide is a sin, you remind yourself firmly, you’ll go to Hell, and that’s worse than whatever this serial killer has in store for you.

You want to. You don’t want to. You…

“Pour just a little, and go from there.” He instructs, and somehow, being given a clear direction helps- makes you automatically move to follow it. Like he'd said, obedience and defiance had paradoxically both been carved into you, woven into your DNA so thoroughly you couldn't extract it without losing yourself entirely. You tip the bottle, but can’t force your hand to do it. The same way that you can’t tickle yourself, same way you can only hold your breath for a little before your body forces itself to breathe, you can’t do something that you know will lead to torture and agony and a slow, awful death.

“I know you can do it, schatzi. For me.” He encourages. You huff. Dunk the chloroform on the rag until the wetness seeps right through the fabric and right into your palm, just as period blood soaks right through a too-thin pad to stain your pants. The smell is sharp, acrid, terrifying-

“Are your eyes watering because of the smell or because you’re scared? ”

You scoff, “you gonna tell me I don't need to be scared?”

“No, you should be. But you shouldn’t be sad. I’m not going to do anything to you that you don’t deserve.”

You simmer. You can't believe you'd liked him even for a minute, even for a second. “You’re a terrible person.”

“I know. But most people are, too, and don’t admit it. At least I’m self-aware, no?”

“No.” You shove the rag over your nose just so you can end the conversation, so you don’t have to respond, so you can avoid letting his (blatant, not even attempting to be subtle) gaslighting seep between the cracks of your brain. You smother yourself, clutching the white cloth tight and letting the scent stab into your nostrils- you gag, hack, body’s natural self-preservation kicking in to make you lurch back in the car seat-

“I'm so proud of you.”

So you keep the stained fabric on your nose till you pass out, after all.

When you stir awake, you’re- achy. Sore. Your neck isn't sitting right and there's an awful crick in it, so you swivel it left and right and try to blink the sleep out of your eyes. You don’t panic, because honestly, living with your mother means being shoved in this musty old basement isn’t even in the top 10 scariest things you’ve experienced.

And it is musty. The basement has a mildewy tang in the air, copper (you tell yourself it’s copper) staining the cold concrete floor.

Blindly, you feel for the pressure point at the root of your thumb, and knead it idly as you steady your breathing and think. Think. You try to be smart, be reasonable. What's the logical thing to do here? How can you get out of this?

On the other hand... Why should you? What did you have waiting for you?

It didn't matter who you talked to on Reddit or Discord or Tumblr, you didn't make the close friendships you so desperately craved. Even when going to the library's writing club, and the anime club at the downtown center, you didn't quite click with anyone. And not for lack of trying! You exchanged phone numbers, you went to movies you didn't even like with this person or that, and you never- just never hit it off. No one would miss you, and... you wouldn't miss anyone.

Whatever dreams you had were rapidly shut down by the reality of the housing crisis, of needing to pay a 200 nonrefundable fee for any apartment you apply for, to pay the security deposit and for the first month's rent upfront- so 3000, easy. And proof of employment. And a salary that's 3 times the monthly rent. your fantasy of a perfect apartment- with big windows flooding the room with sunlight, the walls covered with your own grand paintings, fairy lights draped in every corner-

But you weren't even able to afford gross fast food without a kidnapper/serial killer/kinkster gone too far to buy it for you.

No career, no friends, no- no love. You'd read so many posts and poems about how love is the center of life and the most important thing and that everything is meaningless without it. When you think of it that way...

Why were you fighting Strade so hard, anyway?

Okay, you decide, okay. This was good. This was great, actually. You've always wanted to die, wanted to commit suicide, but it's a sin. It's forbidden. All murder is wrong- taking someone else's life or your own is a grievous sin, so no matter how deeply you ached for it, no matter how many nights you picked up a kitchen knife and hovered it over your wrist, your throat, you could never bring yourself to plunge it. Because it's wrong.

But... if he killed you... it wouldn't be suicide. You'd be an innocent victim, and how could you be blamed for it? You'd be guilt-free. Sin-free.

This is the best thing that's ever happened to you.

The basement. The stench of rotting meat, rancid blood, and rusted metal flooded your nostrils as you took it in. Though you'd been unconscious when he brought you in, some part of you think that when the heavy door clanged shut behind you, the sound rung and echoed in the hollow basement as a knoll- final, like a death bell. You doubted you'd see the door ever open for you.

While the rational part of your mind, with its built-in survival instincts, panicked and twisted with anxiety, the deeply suicidal part was giddy, thrumming with excitement. You'd die. Your loneliness, your abusive mother, your dead end job- you'd be free. It would be over, permanently done with, and you'd never have to put up with life ever again.

Staring at the closed basement door, you almost wanted to thank Strade for being your saving grace.

Maybe he was the answer to your prayers: "None of you should wish for death because of a calamity befalling him; but if he has to wish for death, he should say: "O Allah! Keep me alive as long as life is better for me, and let me die if death is better for me. ' "

It had been comforting, in a morbid sense. Even then, 1400 years ago, people had still wished for death, had still found a way to ask for it outside of committing it themselves.

Bizarrely, neither your arms nor legs are restrained. It's almost insulting that he doesn't see the need to tie you up, to ensure you don't escape. The wall is lined with wrenches and crude pliers, heavy-duty drills and hefty hammers, a circular, electric saw and a- mini fridge?

Maybe torturing made him hungry.

When he stomps down the stairs, your shoulders jolt- footsteps are always the first sign your mom’s about to come and open your lockless bedroom door.

You almost want to laugh. Being forced to drug yourself to aid him in kidnapping you wasn’t what scared you, being locked in a cold basement where the concrete was stained with blood of victims past didn’t scare you, but footsteps did?

"Hey. What's in the fridge?"

"Human hearts. Want?"

“You’re sick." You observe idly.

He cocks a pearly white grin, eyes bright and eager to get started. “I prefer to use the word interesting.”

He ambles leisurely through the expanse of the basement- opening a drawer, pulling out a knife with a wickedly sharp point. One thick thumb lovingly caressing the black hilt, backing you into a corner- a pipe behind it you imagine you'll be cuffed to at your first sign of disobedience.

You sink. Sit. Look up at him.

Let's just get this over with, you want to say, and in that moment decide on the battle strategy that’s gotten you through the worst moments of your life: humor. "Scared?"

You shrug. "I guess? You're kind of hot, in a scary way. Can we make out a little before you-?" You make the quick slicing motion across your throat, universal sign for death. His laugh is a small, short, aborted thing- but it's like he peeled off a gold star and presented the sticker to you as a reward- good job, you're funny. Bonus points for being a cool victim. I am going to get a good grade in victimology, something both normal to want and possible to achieve.

When he dashes the knife across your cheek, you wince, but you're- not sure how to react. Like there’s static in your head, or the Wi-Fi’s gone out: there’s no service, just a pixelated dinosaur with too-small arms and a too-big snout, and you’re lagging. Loading.

(When your mother yelled at you, you'd experimented with all sorts of ways to respond, trying madly to find what would be the appropriate thing to say or do to make it stop. You'd decided from a young age not to react. She'd call you robotic, scream until she was red in the face and hoarse in the throat that you're not even human, that no normal kid, no sane kid, would be so calm while their mother scrapes her nails into your skin until it bleeds. She gets the most satisfaction when she makes you cry, which is precisely why you never cried for her- even when it would've ended the fight, even when it would've been in the interest of self-preservation- you refuse to cry. To spite her, to prove that you really are coldblooded and subhuman.

But this is different. You don't want to make him angry, or hate you- just want to bore him enough to kill you quick and easy. You'd become so good at looking at someone, knowing what they want from you, and shifting all your pigments like a good little chameleon to suit them. One suicide caller wants you to sympathize with them, the other to talk like a friend, the other to talk like a therapist. Some days your mother wants you to hug her and others she wants you to cry.

You’ve been a performer your whole life. You can do this).

"It..." What would he like to hear? Have you ever spoken without trying to decide what the other party wants? "Hurts." You manage.

"It hurts? Well, I think you can take it."

The way one peels the skin off an apple, peeling it into little ringlets, he bullies the knife into your shoulder. You scream, because he looks like the type to enjoy screams.

But do you want him to enjoy it? If he enjoys it, he might make it last longer. You want a death as soon as possible, hadn't lived this long just to drag it on when it was so, so close. Just within reach.

You endeavor instead to glare at him.

"Don't give me that look, engelein.” He scolds, caressing the knife almost lovingly, “I'm doing this for your own good."

This gives you pause. "What?"

"You need this, the way I need this," the knife goes deeper. You wince harder, even let out a little groan just to please him (holy- you really are pathetic). "You're not built for love, for affection, for basic kindness. Like an animal that evolves to be most fit for its environment, you've evolved to take abuse, and take it well."

"That's literally not how evolution-"

"But aren't you? Made to take it- no protests, no complaints, just a pretty smile. You're the first kumpel I haven't had to tie up, did you know? And most I have to knock out against a wall or the floor, I’ve never gotten someone to do it for me before. You know how pathetic that is? Don't you at least value your life a little? "

“No, not really.” You shrug, keeping your voice a bland monotone. He plunges the knife into your shoulder again "Well, uh, this really hurts. considering I get all squeamish about getting a vaccine from a friendly nurse, this is like. Really bad. I hate it, actually. Can you stop?"

"I would... if you didn’t take me so well.” He twists the knife a little deeper, watching the hot blood gush with idle fascination. He was a little bored, you could tell- could see it in the pinch of his brows, the coil of his shoulders. A few more minutes, at worst, and like a petulant child tired of a new toy, I'll toss you in the dumpster and never pick you up again. Maybe you should scream louder, just to spice it up a little. He'll like that, you think.

Hm. You really are good at taking abuse.

"You're not reacting normally."

"Sorry." You blurt, instinctively. "I'm kind of just waiting for you to, you know, kill me. Though like I mentioned I wouldn't complain if we kissed. Wouldn't be non-con, really."

He tosses the knife to the ground- it clatters, blood splatters- and he returns to the Wall of Tools, plucking something else, turning it over in his thick fingers as he strolls back to you. "Teeth or nails?"

"What?"

"Should I yank out your teeth," he nudges the pliers at your lips, "or your nails?"

"Neither. That would take a while for me to die, like at least an hour from blood loss or- I don't know, can't you just stab me?"

"Only once I've come up with something more fun."

"Like?"

He ponders. Corrects himself. "Only once you've come up with something more fun."

You'd signed up to die- a guilt-free suicide that was technically murder so it's not a sin, really- not for agonizing, excruciating torture. You could lunge for the knife- stab him or yourself, but if you killed yourself, it would be suicide...

Why did this have to be so complicated?

"I think we should play a game."

"No thanks."

He leans in. "The louder you scream, the more I hurt you."

"But I'm not screaming?"

The pliers pinched your thumbnail. Strade grinned wide and wicked and white, eyes flooded with mania and, at your little pathetic whine as he pinched the pliers tighter, his face flushed pink with pleasure.

"Shhh... it's okay." One large, open palm cups the cheek he'd cut earlier, nails digging in to widen the wound. It's calloused and rough, as you'd expect, but the warmth it exudes is sickeningly, paradoxically soothing. "Be good and just let it happen- and don't hold out on me. I want nothing more than to hear you cry, so feel free to show me just how much it hurts."

Tears prickle your eyes- instantly, your mind switches to your dream apartment, your dissociative happy place, its twinkling fairy lights and warm sunlight and everything else you conjured to mind when your mother hit you. It was an almost Pavlovian response at this point- kept you from screaming, kept you from crying, kept you cool and calm even when you're bruised as a peach tumbling down the stairs.

"Scared yet?" You feel your nail fissuring, sickening crunching as the metal crushed the flimsy nail like thin chips.

"No. Disappointed since you've neither killed nor kissed me, which are literally the only two things I've asked for. Bit rude really."

("Stop whining or I'll give you something to cry about!"

You snort, "clearly, you already have.")

Yeah. Joking always helps.

He tugs at the nail, pulling at the cuticle, extracting the nail right from the root and it hurts. Actually, funnily, hilariously hurts. It's the awful pain of-

(She yanks your hair, slams your head against the wall- even when you crumple to your knees, she doesn't let up, keeps banging your skull against the wall until you believe she'll kill you, actually kill you, all these times she's threatened to kill you and she's finally gone through to it like she swore she would- your brain must be damaged, you're getting a concussion, it's all hazy and foggy and- the fancy apartment and its scented candles are destroyed, out of focus like looking through a bad camera-)

"Please stop- I'll be good- I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-"

"You look so pretty when you cry."

You hiss between your teeth, sucking in a breath as he pulls and pulls at your nail and- he could do it nice and quick, like ripping off a bandage, but he's making it slow, making it hurt -

"Strade, please, I'm so sorry-"

"What are you apologizing for?" He says it so soothingly it takes you aback. You blink dumbly, seeing him blurred and doubled. "This was always going to happen. Whether you took the easy way or hard way, your fate was sealed when you walked into that restaurant. Nothing you said or did could've saved you."

"So it's... not my fault?"

“Well. I wouldn’t have done it if you didn’t make it so easy." His contradictions are muddling your mind. A shard of your nail breaks off, separating entirely from your finger. He's baring his teeth like a feral dog, cornering a pathetic little rodent, going in for the kill- egging you on like a kid at a playground. “You know you deserve this. Go on, tell me you deserve it. I want to hear you say it.”

You don’t understand him. You don’t think you’re supposed to, either. He’s so caught up in his own ecstasy, as if drunk, as if high, nonsensical blissed-out words slurring together.

The other half of your nail chips off- the metal pliers soaked in oozing blood and- nails don't grow back if you remove them entirely, do they? Would the blood loss be enough to finally kill you, or will you have to put up with this nine more times? What if he really does go for your teeth next?

Bits of your nail still cling to your cuticles, stubbornly, desperately. He sets the pliers aside, cupping his palms under your gushing hand like a supplication, dragging it up to trace the pad of his thumb over your lips, like painting lipstick. He smears the blood along your cheeks, and smiles proudly. "Aren't you just the blushing bride, all dolled up? You should see how you look. Oh, how I want to preserve it in time. But, there’s this last stubborn bit of your nail that just-” tug, “won’t-” tug, “budge.” You don’t think that’s true. You know full well he’s strong enough to overpower some puny splinter of a nail, that he’s drawing it out the same reason you’d slow down a walk, turn it into a stroll, just to enjoy it a little longer. “Would you mind getting it out for me?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“Yes, I would mind ripping my own nail out. Obviously. What kind of dumb question is that.”

“It-”

“Has anyone ever said they don’t mind? Don’t answer that: of course they have, masochism and all. Although this is horrendous BDSM etiquette since we haven’t established a safeword. We can do the traffic light system, if you’d like?”

“This isn’t BDSM.”

“Oh? You’re saying this isn’t blatantly Dom/sub?”

Strade lowers the pliers. “You’re sort of ruining this for me.”

“Really?” You lean forward, “I must be getting on your nerves. Wouldn’t it be nice just to pick a knife and kill me? It must’ve skipped from fun to annoying to infuriating. Maybe you should just finish me off.”

But he’s nothing if not relentless. He shoves the pliers into your hands. “Either rip out the rest of this nail, or I get started on your index finger.”

“How about we do literally anything else. Or, if your patience is wearing thin, why not just do what you really want and end me already? Come on. You know you want to.”

He cocks an eyebrow, but his smile's all gone. Good. “Tear off your thumbnail, or I have nine more to go. Now.”

It’s a forked road. You have to make precisely the right dialogue choice to ensure your death is as quick and painless as possible. He’s got to stop dragging this out. But nothing you do seems to be working, and while it might’ve been frustrating to him, it was nothing short of infuriating to you. You wanted only get it over with but he just won’t kill you.

Yet you’re pretty sure he really will follow through on his threat, and you’re quite literally attached to your nails, so you grumble and complain and rip off what remains of your thumb’s nail anyway.

He doesn’t praise you, like before. Doesn’t assure you or soothe you or even touch you affectionately, like earlier.

(Somehow, that’s the most upsetting part yet).

The knife he'd used on your face, on your shoulder, is still within reach. If you could just...

When he's satisfied, when he leaves you, you decide this wasn't worth it. You'll just- be homeless. Get shot by a cop for loitering. Quicker and easier.

Wildly, you grab for the nearest pressure point you can reach and push at it and it just doesn’t work. Your arteries are pumping wildly, blood gushing from your shoulder, from your thumb- where your nail should be, and- it’s not on the floor. You don’t see it. Did he take it?

Of course he did.

Your muscles and every vein and sinew beg for relief and in your haze of pain, of desperation, you manage to crawl to the stairs. Consider your chances. Maybe he’ll push you down the stairs, that’ll be nice.

Or maybe he went out and you can sneak into the kitchens and- and-

The door, of course, is locked when you reach the top of the stairs. But there's... talking.

"If you really loved me, you'd understand why I have to do this." Strade's voice answers. "Prove to me that you're worthy of my love, and maybe I'll let up on you a little."

"I do! I swear, I do! I love you more than I love anyone-! How can I prove-?"

"If you behave and do as I say, maybe I'll believe you." Strade's voice is- strange. Taunting, but the sort of affectionate patronization of a parent to a baby. "You'll earn my affection when you start acting like you deserve it. Until then, you're on your own."

"I'm sorry, it's... just- well." The voice is walking on eggshells but it’s not at all the same panic you have: panic is new and in the moment, but his fear is practiced, familiar.

You press your ear against the cold metal door. "What is it? You know you can tell me anything, right? I'm the only one who'd bother listening to you anyway."

"I just get a little bored, that's all. I would- I finished the manga you bought me, read it again and again- I'd just like something new to read. That's all." This voice is weak, almost indecipherable in its shyness.

It's terrifying to think Strade would keep any of his victims alive. The thought of enduring one more hour- let alone weeks, months- of this, nearly pushed you to despair. To the knife that's still waiting to be put to good use.

He sighs like he's all inconvenienced and put-out and you hate that sound, recognize it from your own life, how one breath translates to: you're demanding and entitled and your very existence is a burden to me, and to everyone, and how dare you be so ungrateful as to ask for more? You feel a fierce need both to help whoever is on the other side, and a scorching loathing for Strade. "You’re lucky you’re so special; wouldn’t tolerate you being such a spoiled brat otherwise.”

But after some more mutters and sniveling, Strade's strong, steady footsteps recede- he's going shopping, you think. An opening to escape from this maniac and get killed in a more efficient, painless way. You wait till you no longer hear him at all.

When the metal door opens, you startle- stumble, would fall right down the stairs and break your neck- when a frail hand catches you, steadies you.

"I could've died," you say breathlessly,

"Sorry, I didn't mean to startle-"

"I could've died,” you repeat, furious, “quick, easy, and free- no torture, no suicide, just a tumble down the stairs- but you just had to save me."

“S- sorry? I think?”

“You should be. It would’ve been such a good way to go.”

“Let’s uh, try again,” he clears his throat, “hi. I’m Ren.”

#ren hana #ren hana x reader #btd ren #ren x reader #boyfriend to death strade #boyfriend to death #ykmet ren #fanfic #ao3 #strade #btd strade #btd #boyfriend to death 2 #btd 2 #angst #tpof #tpof fox #tpof ren #the price of flesh

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mrsoharaa · 8 months ago

Text

𝑪𝒐𝒓𝒏𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒅

characters; Sukuna Ryomen x Reader

cw; predatory/prey dynamic, Sukuna being Sukuna, slightly suggestive (hints of being/getting hard).

"Running away will not get you very far, you impervious woman..." he talks in a deep graveled voice, taking one, two large strides in each languid step as he backs you into the darkest corner of the abandoned alleyway. Your back flushing flatly amongst the cold bricks of the building preserving behind you, stopping you in your feeble attempts of scouring for an escape.

Sweaty palms frantically surfacing along the rugged cement, legs trembling and heavy shorten breaths stammering at the depths of your throat, pupils completely blown out in terror and frenzy, gazing directly up at the overcasting bulk of his stocky, abnormal stature. The languid dark ink that kisses and entails all over his rough flesh, bringing out a tinge of beauty from the monstrous figure looming before you.

Broad shoulders proudly jutted out, wide chest blocking your view of the dead city that laid in utter, deathly silence — enmity eyes that beamed with such collecting bloodlust and insatiable desire to hunt you down completely into his deadly arms.

A croon, twisted smile perks it's way onto his solid features, consuming the pitful sight of you cowering in the darkest and dimmest corner of the trashed alley. Devours every delectable taste of your quivering, terrorized aura emanating from your smaller figure.

Feels a hot, stringing sensation resonate all through his burly physique.

Specifically, in one general area.

He firmly snatches your beautiful face with a vice grip of his long, monstrous digits. Holding onto each cheek with a solid grasp, pulling you forward to his looming body. Meets your horrified, adoring gaze. Smiles and tilts your head up formerly to get a good look into the four pair of searing rubies peering directly down at you.

A simple long drag of his tongue lubricates his lower lip, the touch of your pretty warm skin titillating that ignited heat gathering in the midst of his pulsing groins. A low growl stirs deep within his rumbling, vast chest.

"Though it is a futile effort...seeing you struggle for mere moments of what little freedom you may find, with such dire desperation gnawing deep within your tittering bones..." he ensues, a malevolent and eerie drip, keens into his deepen tone. His already perched, hollowed grim smirk stretches his cheeks, eyes boring directly down into your shuddering stature. Simply consuming the delicious taste of your impending fear within the dreary, dense air.

"Only makes me want to devour you that much more, little lamb"

#currently having (true form) sukuna brain wormies 😵‍💫🫠❤️‍🔥#sukuna ryomen x reader #sukuna ryomen #jjk

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especiallythewomenandthechildren · 1 year ago

Text

As If Destiny (part eleven)🌹

Part Ten🌹

the games are not only played by the tributes.

warnings: hunger games.

any and all interaction appreciated!!

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The air was clear. The sun was shining. The smell was beautiful and oddly familiar.

Coriolanus looked around and noticed he was surrounded by glistening white roses. The field was endless with them, a never-ending sea of floral beauty. But among them all lay Coriolanus Snow's greatest desire. Dressed in a pearl white gown, there you stood, capturing the essence of beauty.

Even surrounded by similar shades, you stood out, colored in with an unexplainable emotion. The scene looked as though he was staring straight at a magnificent painting. Coryo began taking slow and cautious steps toward you. You faced the blonde boy, but your eyes weren't focused. Your gaze went through Coriolanus instead of on him.

"Y/N?"

The confused young man stretched his hand out to you, beckoning you over to him. You stood frozen in place, not a single hint of emotion on your face. Coriolanus analyzed your appearance in a frenzy and noticed the growing red beneath the lace of your dress. He took the movement upon himself and, as he took one step, panic began setting in. The sound emerging from his feet was not the sound of grass but rather the crunching of rubble. The scenery was no longer the picturesque floral field but rather dark woods; dark woods that were only lit up by wicked flames licking up the bark of the surrounding trees. Coriolanus's eyes frantically locked back to yours and were met with what he could only describe as otherworldly horror.

"Y/N! COME HERE, PLEASE!"

Your body was cemented in place; your being completely oblivious to the danger fuming around you. When Coryo took his eyes off of you to analyze the rapidly shifting surroundings, you shifted with the trees. In those few seconds, your face hollowed, and the dress was no longer the billowing white gown. The growing red patches had overtaken the fabric, painting the entirety a crimson red. Your once pristine skin was beginning to show black and blue bruises along your arms and neck. Coriolanus snapped out of his frozen horror and began sprinting full force toward your sickly being, a being that was suddenly hidden by the vast amounts of crashing and burning trees that now blocked the determined young man's path. The burning fire intensified, and the smoke began burning his eyes, granting even more obstacles to Coriolanus.

"Y/N! I'm coming! Please, say something!"

The only sounds that grimaced in his ears were the cackling of the burning wood. Wait.

A low, solemn hiss was nearly muted by the chaos surrounding it, but it was there. Slithering through the small cracks between the fallen tree trunks appeared a black and orange snake. It came from the direction of your position, a direction he was certain of when he heard your blood-curdling scream.

Just like your mother.

Coriolanus felt the sweat sliding past his brows, and it wasn't from the fire's heat. The heir of House Snow didn't care that the tree trunks were on fire. He didn't care that with each step he took, more and more snakes appeared. He didn't care that as he grabbed the top tree to jump over, his flesh began melting and boiling.

The second his knees crashed onto the ground, the alluring blue eyes that you loved so much were frantic to find you. In a mix of relief and hysteria, Coriolanus flung himself to your fallen body. Surrounded by a field of glass, skin charred, and dress now transformed into an ink-black color—a color caused by your seeping blood. Coriolanus realized this as he put his hands on your shoulders in panic and began moving upwards to your bruised and pale neck to check for a pulse. Your eyes were open, and once you saw the face of Coriolanus Snow, all the fear of the situation came alive in your gaze.

"Y/N! Please, please stay with me, okay?!"

Your response only consisted of heavily rapid breaths and a cascade of tears. You weren't like how you were when you got stabbed with the bottle. You were frantic and desperate, a desperation matched by the boy who now tried to lift you up. A futile attempt as your body was now tied down by a colony of snakes.

Coriolanus now had a matching face filled with tears and terror as he grabbed a flaming branch and began fighting off the slithering reptiles. A fight he was losing as only more appeared and began making their way to your neck to cut off airflow. You hazily realized this, and you began wailing with your few moments left.

"Coryo! Please, Coryo!!"

Coriolanus, not seeing straight from emotion, threw his full force at the snakes with the flaming wood. A hit that didn't land on the serpent but rather your midnight gown, setting it aflame.

"CORYO!"

No. No. No.

Coriolanus patted the dress down in an attempt to stop the flames, but it kept burning; burning right through the fabric and onto your flesh. The frantic boy threw himself on you, trying so desperately for the flames to connect to him instead, but they were unwilling. Not a single flame touched the blonde's skin or clothes while your hair was now starting to burn as the embers traveled upwards.

Your hands were somehow freed by the snakes as you placed them on Coriolanus's lower arms. They were so severely burnt that several layers of skin were melted through and charred.

The sight made Coriolanus want to vomit, but every moving atom froze at your pained eyes and scratched voice.

"You made a promise. You made a promise, Coryo. Why didn't you keep it?"

"Why didn't you save me?"

Coriolanus began choking on emotion as he watched your eyes flutter back. "Open your eyes. Open your eyes."

"Y/N? Love, please, open your eyes."

A suffocating silence overtook the woods. No longer did it burn. All the snakes retreated. The light from the burning trees now replaced by the silver shimmer of the moon.

The man in the moon glowed down on the scene of heartbreak in front of him. Coriolanus became hysterical and overcome with emotion he didn't know how to translate.

"WAKE UP! I beg of you! I'm on my knees, love, PLEASE!"

Coriolanus shook your corpse so violently, it was cruel, but he was in a dire need for any sign of life. The sobs of his were crushing and deep as he was, for what was truly the first time in his life, helpless. His intelligence and cunning could not help. Did not help him. Every skill he perfected failed him in saving the love of his life.

That was when the rage trickled in. Coriolanus could not be stopped as he smashed the glass around you over and over again. Even as the shards scraped his face and cuts were so deep, they reached the bone, he was unstoppable in his destruction.

Why couldn't he save you? Why couldn't he be in your place? Hands gushing with crimson blood, he put his hands out in prayer.

"ME! LET IT BE ME! I BEG, LET ME TAKE HER PLACE!"

It was irrational, a word never synonymous with Coriolanus Snow, though there he was, the heir of House Snow Begging for death.

"Why didn't you save me?"

The echo of your last words surrounded Coriolanus. They rang through his ears and rattled his bones.

"Why didn't you save me?"

"WHY DIDN'T YOU SAVE ME?"

"WHY DIDN'T YOU SAVE ME, CORIOLANUS?"

"CORIOLANUS!"

"CORIOLA-"

Your chants were no longer filled with ire. They were softer. Concerned even. Coriolanus took a look around the woods and realized the moon had abandoned him, plunging him into consuming darkness. There was no difference between his eyes open or closed, so the boy chose the latter and laid back on the bloody and broken glass. Next to your corpse and fully took your haunting chant of his name. He laid there until a shake rattled his body. He opened his eyes in surprise but was not met with the dark environment. To his utmost confusion and relief, his eyes opened to your beautiful face staring back at him.

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The two of you were in the Capitol hospital again, but roles reversed. Coriolanus now lay in the very same bed that you had only slightly more than twelve hours ago. Your face and hands had a few minor cuts from the bombing, but you were in far better shape than many of your peers. Not only tributes to the dead but classmates. Peers. Familiar faces you will never see again.

If the rebels wanted the Capitol to feel like the districts, they did a wonderful job.

Your concern, however, was fully taken by the sobbing blonde in front of you.

"Coryo?"

The mention of his nickname only seemed to fuel the misery tears. Coryo wrapped his arms around you and pulled you fully into him, ignoring the pulsing pain from his back and legs. He could handle any burns or cuts as long as you were in one piece and in his arms.

You were shocked but had no hesitation as you cradled his neck and began rubbing soothingly. You had just been finally allowed to see Coriolanus when you entered the room and saw him sobbing and struggling. The initial fear of yours was that his burns had somehow gotten worse, but his writhing wasn't one of physical pain. It dawned upon you that Coriolanus was deep in a nightmare, one you couldn't seem to wake him up from. After countless moments of calling out to him and even beginning to shake him, he finally woke up.

Coriolanus's eyes were a deep red and sore, while his whole body shook, hanging onto you for dear life. You were more than worried but it would be of no help to push him.

Time passed as slowly as Coryo's breathing became when he finally pulled away from you. His eyes were glossed over and lips chapped, but you still thought he was the most beautiful thing you've ever seen. A soft smile was sent his way in an attempt to comfort him into talking. You snuck your pinky beneath the skinny one on Cory's right hand. The small gesture brought waves of solace to the shaken man.

"Are you okay?"

Your shock caused you to struggle to hold a giggle that inevitably was let free.

"Coryo, you do know you are the one in the hospital right? With burns?"

His blonde curls swayed back and forth as he shook his head in disregard of his well-being. The pale fingers of his softly brought themselves up to the sides of your face, pulling you closer.

"But are you okay, love?"

Oh, you were certain his ice-cold hands could feel the firestorm beneath your cheeks at the use of the name and concern. You wished to avert your gaze, but his captivating eyes locked you in. With all the power within your being, you forced an answer out of your numbing lips.

"I am totally fine, I promise. Just a few cuts. What I'm not fine with is not knowing why you are so worried."

His face was fully etched in disbelief as you snuck your own hands to mimic his position. Your voice was soft, like the pretty smile on your lips.

"Hey, I am fine. You are fine, right? We are fine, okay, love?"

Coryo visibly calmed beneath your palms. Whether from your touch, words, voice, or just presence, you don't know. His heart rate slowed while yours rapidly picked up as you noticed his eyes flicker down to your lips. The small beeping of the machine surrounding you became white noise as you watched Coriolanus's blue hues disappear as he shut his eyes. The hands cupping your face became firmer in their hold as he leaned forward.

The panic from the hallway only mere days ago came rushing back. You really didn't have to do anything more than tilt upwards to catch his lips, but you were paralyzed and could only watch as the man of your dreams was only a mere inch away from you. Why you could not make the same effort, you were answerless. Yet another unanswerable question along with when will you two actually be able to have your moment in peace as the door of the hospital room was swung open and two perky voices entered.

"Coryo, you're awake!"

Tigris quickly rushed over and enveloped her cousin into her arms as she mulled over his well-being. You slowly, and hopefully subtly, moved further away from the injured boy. Your feet touched the shiny floor of the hospital when your hand was grabbed and you were silently urged to stay by the pale boy, who was now being caught up on the latest events by Sejanus.

The death of the Rings twins, Felix being hospitalized and in critical care, the dead tributes, Lucy Gray saving Coriolanus, and most painful for Sejanus, Marcus. You both hoped he was able to run far, far away, but the probability begged to differ.

You met Tigris's eyes for a split second and couldn't miss the smirk on her pink lips.

Coriolanus really needs to pick better places to make his move.

Your eyes drifted to the small TV across from the hospital bed and saw it was now Jessup's turn to perform an interview. Jessup was far dirtier and in dire condition due to the rapid effect of the infected bite. Any questions and urging by Lucky Flickerman were unheard by the struggling teenager.

After countless silent or aggressive interviews, Flickerman was over it and let out an exasperated breath while asking if there was anything Jessup wanted to say.

You expected Jessup to continue with his stoic behavior and for the interview to end, but to the surprise of all, the boy stood. His deep chocolate eyes were glazed over in a daze, but they focused in on the camera as he lifted his hand proud into the air. Three of his cracked fingers stood straight as if to test any judgment while his pinky and thumb connected over the palm.

The three of the Capitol-born youth of your group turned towards Sejanus in confusion. He nodded his head firmly toward the boy and grumbled, never taking his eyes off him.

"Must be a sign of resistance from his district."

"They will kill him for that!"

Tigris panicked as her heart went out for the sick and now stumbling boy as he was dragged off by peacekeepers.

"Can't kill him if he already beat them to it."

The three heads of your friends turned towards yours, completely in the dark of your meaning. Any further inquiry was quelled as the now well-known brunette singer appeared on stage. She looked beautiful, slightly shaken with nerves, but radiant, nevertheless.

"Good evening, Capitol. Districts. I wrote this song about a boy back in 12, and I hope he hears it."

When I was a babe I fell down in the holler

When I was a girl I fell into your arms

At the lyrics, you couldn't help yourself but turn to look at the very boy who held your hand and secretly, your heart. When your eyes met his, you swore you could see them shine and glisten.

We fell on hard times and we lost our bright color

You went to the dogs and I lived by my charms

It’s sooner than later that I’m six feet under

Your palm was squeezed, and you could feel the sweat appearing on Coriolanus's hand in fear.

It’s sooner than later that you’ll be alone

You squeeze back in reassurance but one look at his paled face tells you it isn't having an effect.

So who will you turn to

Tomorrow, I wonder

For when the bell rings Lover, you’re on your own.

Oh, Lucy Gray. As her song continued, you had a battle occurring in your brain. One part of you was reasonably panicked and torn up that a girl of her age had to suffer her fate. Though, there was that small promise between you and Jessup that kept hope alive. You knew the chances of him keeping that promise, unintentionally, were slim. But you were more than determined to keep the promise for the both of them, and the hard stare of Coriolanus told he was willing to do more than his share of effort.

Shortly after the performance ended, familiar nurses cleared Coriolanus to go back home. Tigris thanked them immensely while Sejanus waited on the side for you. After the harsh fight between you and your father, you decided you would stay with Sejanus and the Plinths. Ma Plinth was more than happy to welcome you, but there was a part of you that wished to go back home. Back to the Snows.

You tried to help Coriolanus out of the hospital, but he refused all but your arm intertwined in his. You shuddered down a giggle as the memory of the late-night walk from the library came back. Side by side in the late of night. In sickness and health.

"Where are you going to stay?"

Coryo was straight to the point, even though he assumed where with the curly brown-haired boy who was waiting patiently.

"The Plinths for now, until I can secure some sort of paid position. I might try to sneak back into the old apartment to get some of my stuff to sell."

As soon as the words escaped, you instantly felt regret settle just as much as the clear stress settled on Coryo.

"Hey! No, no! I can deal with this myself. You don't need another responsibility, m'kay?"

Your hands cupped the rosy cheeks of his once more as you emphasized your ability and sufficiency. Coriolanus, whether he intended to or not, always tried to take on the role of savior. A hero. For better or worse, it was the position he saw himself fit for.

You saw Tigris return after finishing up some paperwork and took that as your sign to cut the conversation before Coryo could refuse you. Your slightly chilled lips gave a swift peck on Coryo's cheek and flashed a smile to Tigris in invitation to sweep away her younger cousin.

You tried to think of something witty to reassure the overthinking eighteen-year-old, but there wasn't much light on the last night for more than a dozen kids. You wondered what was worse, having a sudden death like the academy mentors or waiting around to die like their tributes.

Your feet led you to Sejanus. His position against the wall, and you both began your trek to the Plinth penthouse.

Strabo had a car ready to escort you both home, though, as always, Sejanus preferred to walk. As he would say: "It's one of the few similarities the Capitol shares with the districts. We can walk around and safely! Of course, he would try to take that away."

The sudden thought that the car could be used to transport the limping Coriolanus was quite belated, and as you turned around to call out to the blonde, he was already gone. The feeling of disappointment and regret was clear as day to Sejanus, and the little shoulder bump he gave you was needed to regain your attention back to reality.

"Already did it."

Sejanus didn't need the moon or streetlights to go home; your smile shone enough for the both of you.

"I knew there was a reason I kept you around, Sej."

You've missed seeing Sejanus's smile. The boy has been walking around with a cloud over his head the past few weeks, understandably so. You knew the smile wouldn't last long, but you relished it as much as you could. Even in the safety of being outside of the arena, he was going to suffer just as much as his district-born counterparts.

"Yeah, well, for your information, your boyfriend is my friend too."

And the blinding smile of yours was swiftly replaced with a scoff and dramatic eye roll. Sejanus knew exactly where this path would lead, and he was definitely not going to let you refuse what he (and everyone with eyes) knew was only a matter of time.

"Oh, and by the way,"

"Hmm?"

"You missed his lips, went too far to the cheek."

The harsh slap to his arm earned you a very satisfactory yelp from the teasing boy. Teasing that followed you all the way through the Capitol streets on your journey. Some of the very streets taken less than an hour later by one injured, yet ever scheming, Coriolanus Snow.

Lucy Gray will not lose. You will not lose. Coriolanus will not lose. House Snow will not lose ever again.

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The golden designs of the ceilings were drawn over by your eyes endlessly as you bided your time. All mentors were required at the academy in half an hour, and you were still not ready. You had more than your share of excuses not to attend. You were still suffering from your injuries. And more grimly, you had already lost. Jessup would likely be gone by sunset.

The thought brought more than enough weight to weigh you down in the plush bed for eternity, but what good would it do to mourn? You must remind yourself that this was his act of resistance. He saved Lucy Gray on the train; now it's your turn.

Cleaning your face up and dressing in the infamous scarlet uniform, you left the safety of your temporary bedroom. Your senses were instantly hyper-aware.

Your nostrils were filled with the smell of freshly baked bread, ears rang with sobs, and eyes bore witness to Ma Plinth sniveling and cradling her son as if he was the one to be sent to the death arena.

Your eyes met his warm ones, now hardened with the upcoming reality. You sent him a sympathetic smile and walked over to give a slightly awkward side hug due to her position, to Mrs. Plinth.

“Morning.”

Your gentle greeting was left to mingle with the sullen silence as Sejanus untangled himself from his mother's embrace to ready himself to depart. Now fully available to you, you enveloped her in a comforting hug. You felt guilty for slightly using her as a substitute mother, but she never minded. She always wanted a daughter and gave her heart no small amount of joy to know that she was cared for by someone else besides her son and husband. If Sejanus had a small circle of friends, Ma Plinth was merely a dot in the populace of the Capitol.

You anxiously checked the time and realized that you really needed to get going if you didn't wish to start off with a bad impression. It may not have mattered to Sejanus, but you still wished to have a successful career and life with the powers of the Capitol. A final teary-eyed hug to the Plinth matriarch, and you two were on your hasty way.

The academy was always an impressive institution in its rigor and size, but today, it looked more intimidating than usual. Walking up the grand stairs felt like walking up the top of a mountain. A challenge added to by the heavy stares of the numerous attendees. The adults stared as the still somewhat prominent injuries lacing your neck, and fellow students gawked at your companion.

As you entered the hall that would be your home for as long as Jessup could survive, you and Sejanus split off. He found his designated chair first then spotted the ever-fimilar head of blonde curls. You wished to meet up with them before this whole thing started, but your attention was taken by a now-friendly (at least to you) Arachne.

“The big day, huh?”

“Please don't refer to this like a wedding.”

The girl huffed a bit but didn't add any further insults. You both stood at the farthest edge of the circular platform where the mentors with live feed of the tributes were stationed. Your eyes analyzed your fellow competitors and inhaled shakily. Arachne followed your eyes and your apprehension.

“I just want this to be over already.”

Your head whipped back to hers in surprise. Even with her slight softening, you expected Arachne to wish the tributes to suffer as long as possible. The Games were seen as a punishment and in her eyes, they deserved to pay for the deaths of the bombing victims. The fact that their fellow tributes were also of those dead didn't seem to matter to most of the Capitol anyways. Arachne took note of your confusion and elaborated in a matter-of-fact tone.

“The Games were a mess. I don't even know who got hurt the most, us or them.”

Lucky Flickerman sauntered in and began ordering everyone into their places in preparation to go live.

“I guess we will see now, won't we?”

You nod to Arachne as she takes the hint to locate a seat in the audience section. The seating was organized by the tribute district, so unfortunately, Sejanus was a far distance from you. Though you were given a bit of hope for the rest of the day as you sat next to Coryo. No conversation or words of affirmation were allowed to sprout between you two as the dramatic host droned on at a paid pace about rules and expectations. Your eyes stayed glued to the screen even as Lucky made his introduction to the now watching audiences.

“Good morning, I’m Lucretius “Lucky” Flickerman. A man who needs no introduction. Weatherman, amateur magician, and today, I’m honored to say… first-ever host of the Hunger Games.”

His enthusiasm was met with thunderous applause, yet no movement was made by your hands nor Coriolanus. The two mentors of District Twelve were earnestly watching the screen for the glimpse of their respective tributes. The dirt, grime, and fear present on all of the young faces was predictable. But there was a tribute that stood out from the rest, most notably because he was not with the rest.

Tied up and left for dead, Marcus hung limply. The sight of the boy's beaten body caused you to tear your eyes away and towards Sejanus. Your gaze was quickly followed by the rest of the live audience as the fuming anger with the boy became too much as he flung his desk and turned his anger towards the gawking Capitol elite.

“You’re monsters! All of you!”

Sejanus left briskly, and an offended, gossiping crowd followed him with their eyes. You watched his departure and half-heartedly ran after your friend to comfort him, but your eyes met Coryo’s, and the slightest head shake cemented you in your seat, bracing yourself for the carnage.

You easily spotted Lucy Gray, but you were just as frantic in her search for Jessup, who you could not see anywhere. Surely, he isn't dead, right? If he was, they would have told you. Right?

As the haunting bells chime, your heart drops. So many children are murdered instantaneously, and in the bloodbath, the rainbow girl flurries to find her friend. Come on Jessup. Give her a sign. Keep the deal.

As you internally begged for your tribute to keep his half of the promise, Coryo was quietly urging him to keep hers. Nearly skidding around death more than should be possible within such a short amount of time, Lucy Gray finally spotted Jessup.

The poor boy was so dazed and disoriented that he was on all fours and had no semblance of reality. As you watch Lucy Gray pull the, as much as it hurt to say, useless Jessup down the tunnel system, you felt a presence behind you.

“I wouldn’t get too comfortable. You will reunite with your friend shortly, Miss Vaun.”

The ever-arrogant Casca Highbottom leered at you, and you could do nothing but keep silent and watch the screens as they shifted from tribute to tribute. You may have already lost, but Coriolanus hasn't, and you know that his victory would be Highbottom's greatest dread. Even more reason to aid in any way possible.

Lucy Gray finally brings herself and Jessup to safety, and you can feel your heart bursting. The loyalty of this girl. She is going home, no matter what you must do.

The rest of the day continues with little more violent action. Since the bell ringing, your mentor pool has sized down a good amount. As the night comes closer, you knew most would likely go home to rest, and by sunset, much of the live audience has returned back to their lavish apartments. You had been examining the now scarce audience section and noticed Arachne was still in attendance. In attendance and alert, unlike many of the slightly dozing crowd. Her brown eyes followed the actionless screen, clearly awaiting something. Not like how the mentors were waiting for a fight, but a patience for an expectation. You were unsure of what the expectation was but if it was the appearance of Lamina, she was spot on.

The District Seven girl slowly approached the hanging body of Marcus. In her hand was a hatchet, and her face was adorned with such guilt she was unworthy of. The tired audience began perking back up at the movement. She was slow and clearly unsure. But the soft cries and pleas of the suffering boy set the action straight for Lamina. You wondered if Sejanus witnessed the death of his former classmate. A death of mercy in the merciless arena. You took a deep breath of solemn realization.

These are the characters of the districts. Loyal, merciful, and honest. Why is it that they had to die while shallow and hollow beings were thriving? If only you had the courage like Sejanus to call out the Capitol in its ways. But then again, you were secretly sitting in safety and luxury. Would you really give that up for a land of authenticity and unfamiliarity?

The night dragged on, and sleep began to call your name. You settled as comfortably as you could into the chair and felt the world slip away. Coriolanus had taken his eyes off the screen every once in a while, to check in on you, and when he had done his round again, you were fast asleep. He got up for the first time in hours and placed his uniform jacket on top of your sleeping form, which you naturally snuggled into.

His heart ached at the thought of, yet another night spent in a place that you couldn't call yours. If he wins, when he wins, he vows to never let you be in this situation again. That you never have to wake with aches and rats crawling at your feet like him. That you never have to rely on anyone else again.

“A damsel in distress.”

The ever-unwanted voice of Dean Highbottom found its way to Coriolanus’s ears, unfortunately. The words sparked concern, and his blue orbs zoomed to the screen, which was still darkened and still. Huffing in annoyance to whatever game Highbottom seems to be playing, Coriolanus sharply replied.

“Lucy Gray is clever; she will figure out whatever comes her way.”

“Who said I was talking about her?”

Slightly reluctantly, Coriolanus moved his body to face the resentful man. On instinct, his eyes flickered back to your still slumbering being. Was Dean Highbottom threatening you?

“What do you want from Lucy Gray?”

“Nothing. I want her to live.”

“And the Plinth Prize would be a happy coincidence, I suppose.”

“I believe I’d be entitled to it.”

“Of course you do. Of course you do.”

The displeasure was so obvious in his tone it made Coriolanus wonder why Highbottom bothered to talk to him if it angered him so.

“Do you believe you are also entitled to the girl?”

Confusion laced Coriolanus’s features as he figured out which girl Highbottom was referring to. He replied with what he considered, the safer choice.

“Why would I be entitled to Lucy Gray? She deserves to live the rest of her life with her family in her district.”

The click of his yellowing tongue, the shorter man clearly displayed his obvious disapproval.

“You and I both know that is not the girl you desire.”

“If you win, I assume you will spend the riches on fixing your peasant and broken family up to your facade, no? But with the rest of the money, I wonder. Surely, you will have enough to protect young Miss Vaun.”

Coriolanus sat up straighter in his chair, apprehensive at the Dean’s next words. What exactly was he trying to imply?

“You would be entitled to her, no? Protect her from the lowest point in her life. You were there when she was vulnerable after her mother, after that oh so tragic attack, and single-handedly saved her from what is, essentially, absolute poverty and abandonment.”

The offense and surprise on the heir of House Snow’s face brought despicable levels of satisfaction to the older man.

“Swoop in to be the savior of the girl. Naturally, she is yours. The ever-charming Snow wins again.”

When will jabs at Crassus Snow and his offspring ever get old to Casca Highbottom? An incalculable question in truth. No matter how often they occur, they will always cause a stir inside of Corio and even more so when you are brought into the fray. However, any rash action was prevented by the appearance of an arguably, to some, a more dislikable presence.

“Am I interrupting something?”

The overly sweetened tone of Arachne Crane was a warning enough to cause, with slight hesitation, the departure of Dean Highbottom, likely to take another gulp of Morphling. Watching him storm off to intoxicate himself, Arachne turns back to her peer.

“Guy has problems.”

She moved to lean on the table holding the boxy computer, oddly relaxed. Then again, when did Arachne Crane ever have a normal reaction in any given scenario?

“Why did you do that?”

With a shrug, she met his analyzing eyes. The red head began inspecting and picking her nails while absent-mindedly answering.

“Your veins looked like they were gonna burst. Besides, I heard the things he said.”

Horror began to implement itself on Coriolanus's handsome face as he realized the revelation told by Highbottom's remarks. He wasn't sure how long Arachne had been listening in for, but if it was enough, it could ruin everything he had worked so long for when he was so close.

“Don’t worry, whether you believe me or not, I won’t say anything. Not because of you though. I know y/n would hate me if I did.”

She mumbled the last part as her yearning eyes focused on your peaceful figure. Ah, so that's why she interrupted.

Taking in a deep inhale, Arachne pushes herself off of the table and gets ready to leave when she pauses.

“You better win this, Coryo.”

And she continues on her way, leaving yet another thing for Coriolanus to ponder over. At least he has until morning light to get some semblance of peace of mind. Or so he thought.

Thanks, Sejanus.

⋆✦⋆⋇⋆✦⋆⋇⋆✦⋆⋇⋆✦⋆⋇⋆✦⋆⋇⋆✦⋆⋇⋆✦⋆

a/n: i know i take a long while between my posts now and i am so sorry, but i want to be real for a quick second. i am a junior in high school who is in a lot of hard classes and i have pretty bad anxiety and a big reason why i started this was as an escape from everything in my life. but lately, it has been a source of the stress, so i started putting it off. i am trying to work on myself and hopefully, this will translate to my work, but i felt i owed that to you guys. thank you for reading and supporting :)

@emma-andrea1 🌹@notyourwildestdream 🌹@darktrashsoulbear🌹@fantasylovestoryme 🌹@nekee-lilac02 🌹@a-avengerparker 🌹 @queenofshinigamis 🌹@darlingisntit 🌹 @scarletstarrs 🌹

#coriolanus snow #coriolanus x reader #the hunger games #snow lands on top #tbosas #ballad of songbirds and snakes #reader insert #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #coriolanus x you #hunger games #sejanus my beloved #sejanus x reader #sejanus deserved better #sejanus plinth #coryo snow #corio #arachne crane #thg #thg series

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steviewashere · 1 year ago

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WIP (Eventual Minors DNI)

Here's a little snippet from my Dom Eddie/Sub Steve fic from this post! It's coming along rather slowly and I'm reworking the introduction bit, but I'm enjoying where it's at right now.

CW: Panic Attack

🫂—————🫂 He had an extremely rough night. Between night terrors, waking up with a raw throat, and pacing the length of his bedroom—Steve was already over what the day would bring. Then, the day was even worse. Every little sound made his skin crawl. His brain a whir of noise and stress and panic. His shoulders high by his ears and his feet weighed like solid cement blocks. And by the time he was supposed to see Eddie, he was exhausted.

The ride to the Munson’s was no small feat. His stomach was knotting. He wanted to lay his forehead against his steering wheel. A sore ache held tight to his chest and arms. If anything, all he wanted was to be out of his own body and mind. Any sort of reprieve would be welcomed, in any way he could get it. Maybe it’s time to take Eddie up on that offer, he thought, pulling up next to Eddie’s parked van.

Forest Hills wasn’t exactly a place of dreams and rainbows. Steve stood outside of his driver’s side door. Eyes roaming over the trailers and debris left by the “earthquake”. A subtle tingle spiked through his neck like grits. Sharp and small and plenty. He couldn’t stomach the way he could reimagine the brown-red stain of blood where Eddie’s body had been—granted, in the Upside Down.

There was bile stagnant in the back of his throat. Tongue salivating with need. His hands shook with immense force. And his chest ached something raw and awful, as if a clawed hand was reaching inside of him, scooping out his precious insides. Hollowed.

He didn’t knock before he entered Eddie’s. Slid right through the door. Chucked his sneakers by the pile of other shoes. And collapsed sideways onto the sofa, face squished against the left armrest. Arms crossed and tight against his chest. He closed his eyes and attempted to push away the slick, squelching memories of his real life and the night terrors of last night. There was more than unease and trepidation flowing through him. And he dared not move. It was something new inside of him, building and building and pressing against his skin as if it wanted to break free. He was slimy with it. Cold and shivering, too.

Eddie saunters into the living room mere minutes later. He’s excited to see Steve, loud and talkative. But stops in his tracks the moment he spots his boyfriend on the couch. He comes closer, settles softly on his knees to be in front of the sofa, and places a tentative hand on the cushion.

There’s a twisted arch to Steve’s spine, the way he’s curled and laid horizontally. And a slight tremor that’s visible to the naked eye, which Eddie feels he’s peering in on something he shouldn’t be privy to. Like he’s some creep hiding behind a bush, nose forward and eyes darting between branches. He’s never really seen Steve like this. All vulnerable and cowed and quite literally shivering out of his skin. It’s as if the only thing keeping him safely tucked on the cushions was the harsh hold on his own arms. Eddie’s stomach churns like the way spoiled milk pours from the mouth of a jug.

He makes his voice careful and small, “Steve?” He calls out. “You doing okay, baby? Is there a way I can help?”

Steve sniffs noisily from where his face is hidden in the armrest. “Need,” he breathes out, the sound cowering and shaking, “need you to take control right now.”

Gentle surprise dawns on Eddie’s face. His eyes widen, eyebrows shooting to just under his bangs, mouth twisting downwards. He hums. “Control?” He checks, “Do you need me to guide you out of your head?”

A soft nod. “Yeah,” Steve croaks. “I don’t know how—But I can’t—Something’s wrong.”

“Okay,” Eddie whispers, “okay, sweetheart.” Steve lets out a shuddering breath at the pet name. “Sweetheart,” he murmurs again, calculating the way Steve preens slightly. “Let’s take a couple deep breaths before we do anything else, okay? Think you can…can you be good for me and do that?”

He doesn’t have a whole lot of experience in this realm, being the more domineering person. But, he’s got some. And he knows gentle words. Knows praise and pet names. With the way Steve reacts to his voice right now, he’s sure that he’s doing something right.

Steve sucks in sharp through his nose, but releases slow through his mouth. Not a very long breath, but a gust, nonetheless.

“Good,” Eddie murmurs, “that was great, baby.” He shuffles his hand, fingers inching closer to Steve’s radiating body heat. “Do another one for me,” he lightly commands. “I know you can do it.”

Another sharp inhale with a slow exhale. A manual breath, which Eddie’s hoping will shift automatically. But he’s gleaming proudly at the way Steve’s arms carefully begin to extract from his chest. His next deep breath is gradual and mindful.

“I’m so proud of you,” Eddie coos sweetly, “you’re doing so well.” He smiles softly at Steve’s relaxing face, his closed eyes softening and his mouth untwisting. Another small shuffle with his hand. “Is it okay if I run my fingers through your hair? Might make you feel a little better.”

🫂—————🫂

#wip #fic wip #stranger things #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #dom/sub #dom eddie munson #sub steve harrington

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awildaspenappeared · 6 months ago

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Day 4 of @traumas-tmntober-2024 Desperation

When in Doubt, Hug a Mikey

Raph didn't understand Donnie and as the oldest, his little brother's not functioning is his failure. Raph can't handle failure so he lashes out. It's not a recipe to repeat.

ROTT kids (9, 8, 8, and 7) don't yet quite grasp Donnie's autism and Raph ends up shouting at him at the worst time possible and he runs off. Raph then has to navigate the sewers as guilt weighs over him to find his brothers.

Word Count: 1614

Raph was fine, he thought, his tail scratching against the concrete, his teeth chattering nervously when they didn't catch his lip. He didn't like being alone and it was just dangerous to leave Mikey behind as he searched for the twins. Mike was tucked in his shell and dozing in Raph's arms, squished as close as plastron on plastron could get.

His breath fogged in a thick cloud. The cold of the sewers seeped into his bones and the walls surrounding him seemed like they were closing in. Every echo only cemented just how lost he was. Even the scratching of Raph's scales on Mikey's carapace as he rubbed it to keep his baby brother warm sounded ominous and unfamiliar.

The guilt gnawed at him. He could still hear his own voice from hours ago, cutting through the air like a blade.

Thoughts flooded him from just before sundown where Donnie had refused to come and eat the food Dad had left out. Raph had taken it upon himself to make Don come and eat his food. He hadn't known how bad of a day he was already having and had only made it worse.

Donnie had sat hunched in the corner, hands pressed tightly over his ears, his glasses discarded and broken on the floor. He had retreated into his shell—both figuratively and, to some extent, literally. His breath was ragged, as if the weight of the world was pressing down on him.

Raph paced in front of him, his fists clenched at his sides. His voice was already raised, trembling with frustration and hurt.

"Donnie, stop acting like this! You think ignoring us is gonna make anything better? You think hiding away is the answer?" Raph’s tail thumped against the ground with every step, a physical manifestation of his barely controlled rage.

Donnie didn’t respond. He only tightened his grip over his ears, shutting everything out, his eyes squeezed shut as if trying to block out the world.

Before Raph could shout again, Leo stepped in, his hand on Raph’s shoulder.

“Raph,” Leo said quietly, his voice calm but firm. "That’s enough."

Raph jerked away from Leo’s touch, turning on him with blazing eyes. "Stay out of this, Leo. You don’t get it!"

"I do get it," Leo replied, his voice unwavering, but there was a softness in his little brother's eyes. "You're angry because you're scared. You're scared for him. But yelling at him isn’t going to help."

Raph’s chest heaved, his fists still clenched at his sides, trembling with the effort of holding back. "You don’t know how hard it is, Leo! Donnie won’t listen, he won’t talk to us, and I—" His voice broke for a second, raw emotion spilling through the cracks. "I don’t know how to help him."

Leo’s gaze softened further. "I know you’re trying, Raph. We all are. But this isn’t about you. Donnie’s not shutting us out because he wants to hurt you."

"I know that!" Raph snapped, but it sounded hollow, almost like he was trying to convince himself. "But what am I supposed to do? Just not help him? He won't eat, Leo!"

Leo took a step closer, his voice dropping to something more understanding. "You don’t have to do nothin’. You just have to stop trying to fix everything with your fists and anger." He glanced at Donnie, who was still curled up, barely holding himself together. "Right now, he needs us to just be there. Not to force him to do anything."

Raph growled in frustration, running a hand over his face. "Really? That’s your answer? That’s all you’ve got?" He turned away, pacing again, his anger bubbling up, but now it was directed inward as much as outward. "I’m supposed to just sit back and let him fall apart?"

Leo’s voice remained calm, but there was an edge to it now. "Raph, he’s already struggling. You can’t fight that for him. It can't be yelled at or beaten up. What you can do is be there when he’s ready."

Raph stopped in his tracks, his shoulders tense. His eyes flicked to Donnie, then back to Leo. His voice came out low, dangerous. "You think I haven’t tried that? I’m always there. But every time I reach out, he pulls away. He acts like he doesn’t need us. Like he doesn’t need me."

Leo's expression shifted slightly, a hint of sympathy deepening in his eyes. He understood now what Raph wasn’t saying directly. This wasn’t just about Donnie shutting down. It was about Raph feeling helpless, useless even, in the face of something he couldn’t control or fix.

"You’re not the problem, Raph," Leo said gently, "And you’re not useless. Donnie’s always done stuff we don’t fully understand. But pushing him harder only makes him withdraw more. Remember?"

Raph opened his mouth to argue, but then closed it, biting down on his lip, his snaggletooth almost cutting in. His eyes flicked again to Donnie, who still hadn’t moved. The sight of his brother, so small and broken, made something twist painfully in his chest. He was scared. t

Terrified, even. And he hated how small he felt even when he was the biggest and strongest. But the more he pushed, the more it felt like Donnie was slipping away.

Leo watched him, his voice softening even further. "We can’t force him to open up, Raph. He’ll.. snap out of it when he’s ready. But right now, you need to give him space. We're practically smothering him with togetherness right now." He joked poorly.

Raph’s breath hitched, his voice dropping to almost a whisper. "What if he doesn’t come back? What if we lose him?"

Leo’s face softened but he remained calm. "We won’t lose him. We just have to trust him to find his way through this, and be there when he does."

Raph looked at Leo, his eyes searching for some kind of answer, something that would make all of this make sense. But there wasn’t anything, only the uncertainty that came with watching someone you love struggle, knowing you couldn’t fight the battle for them. Couldn't shield them: take the punches. Just forced to wait.

Before Raph could say anything more, there was a sudden movement from Donnie. He stood up abruptly, his hands still covering his ears, his eyes wide and unfocused. Without warning, he bolted toward the door, stumbling in his panic, barely able to see without his glasses.

"Donnie, wait!" Raph shouted, his heart leaping into his throat. But Donnie was already gone, the door slamming behind him.

Leo reacted immediately, sprinting after Donnie without hesitation. "Raph, stay with Mikey! I’ll find him!"

But Raph stood frozen for a moment, his heart racing, his mind spinning with guilt, fear, and frustration. His anger at Leo, at Donnie, at himself, all felt meaningless now.

When he finally scooped up Mikey, the weight of everything felt like it was crushing him. He had let his temper get the best of him, again. And Donnie was gone.

Now, as the slow hours of night stretched into dawn, Raph trudged through the sewers, his limbs heavy with fatigue and guilt. Every shadow felt like it could be Donnie or Leo, but they weren’t. He had been searching for what felt like an eternity.

The cold seeped into his bones, each breath a reminder of how long they’d been gone. He could only hope Leo had found Donnie by now, that maybe they were huddled up somewhere safe. But there was no sign. Only the occasional plip of water and his own heartbeat drumming in his ears.

He stopped to catch his breath, shifting Mikey slightly so he wasn’t as squished. He stared down the tunnel, difficult even with his enhanced vision.

“I’m sorry, Donnie,” Raph whispered, though no one could hear him. The weight of his own words felt like they might crush him. He hadn’t meant any of it. He was just scared. He didn’t know how to fix things. Donnie's the one who fixed things! For the most part.

Suddenly, a sound – a faint shuffle in the distance, barely audible over the drip of the sewers. Raph’s heart skipped a beat.

“Mikey,” he said, more to steady himself than to wake his brother, “I think we’re close.”

He trudged forward, muscles tense, his grip on Mikey’s shell tightening. He strained his ears, listening for any sign of life. It was hard to tell in the dark, but the movement grew louder, the sound of feet scuffling through water.

"Leo? Donnie?" His voice came out rough, desperate. He waited, holding his breath.

Then, a shadow appeared, moving toward him.

"Raph?" It was Leo’s voice, weary but unmistakable. Relief washed over him like a wave.

"Leo!" Raph’s legs moved on their own, carrying him toward the shadow. As he got closer, he could see Leo, soaked, exhausted, but standing upright. His face was a mask of determination, but beneath it, there was relief too.

And there, behind Leo, was Donnie, eyes red, trembling, but alive.

Raph nearly collapsed, his chest heaving with emotion. He wanted to say something, to apologise, but all that came out was a choked sob.

Leo was the first to speak, his voice soft. "We found him, Raph. He’s okay. Let’s all go home." His grin was clear even in the near pitch black tunnel. “Before Dad notices it's been too quiet.”

Donnie had given up fighting and in fact let Raph hold him gently, Leo now holding the still asleep Mikey. The blubbering was just starting to quiet down when Leo quipped. “What are you crying for? You know I always find my twin.”

Hiiii!! Thanks for reading this.

Today's prompt was difficult because I had so many half baked idead and couldn't commit to any one. I decided to do another Rise fic too even though most of the ideas ended up with 2012 like the desperation felt in the early s3 or with Mikey in Into Dimension X.

I decided I'd written a lot of hard hitting angst lately and wrote something eadier to figest with a much fluffier ending and giving Raph his much needed spotlight. He's underrated by the community!!!

I'd love comments both good and critical of my work. I struggle with dialogue and making the turtles sound the ages I've decided so any help on that front would be greatly appreciated!! Toodles!

#tmnt #rottmnt #save rottmnt #unpause rottmnt #unpause rise of the tmnt #unpause rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #traumas tmntober 2024 #tmntober #tmntober 2024 #Raphael centric #mentioned michelangelo #mentioned splinter #the twins are used as plot points #author needs to start prewriting these

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ultrablocks · 1 year ago

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#concrete block manufacturer in mumbai/thane #hollow blocks manufacturer in mumbai #cement block manufacturer in navi mumbai #photography

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patheticbatman · 8 months ago

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(This post was supposed to come out in April but better late than never!)

The 48th Win A Commission post was Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH! If you’d like to see my pictures with the first three chapters, please

Chapter One

The Sickness of Timothy Frisby

Mrs. Frisby, the head of a family of field mice, lived in an underground house in the vegetable garden of a farmer named Mr. Fitzgibbon. It was a winter house, such as some field mice move to when food became too scarce, and the living too hard in the woods and pastures. In the soft earth of a bean, potato, pea and asparagus patch there is plenty of food left over for mice after the human crop has been gathered.

Mrs. Frisby and her family were especially lucky in the house itself. It was a slightly damaged cement block, the hollow kind with two oval holes through it; it had somehow been abandoned in the garden during the summer and lay almost completely buried, with only a bit of one corner showing above ground, which is how Mrs. Frisby had discovered it. It lay on its side in such a way that the solid parts of the block formed a room and a floor, both waterproof, and the hollows two spacious rooms. Lined with bits of leaves, grass, cloth, cotton fluff, feathers and other soft things Mrs. Frisby and her children had collected, the house stayed dry, warm and comfortable all winter. A tunnel to the surface-earth of the garden, dug so it was slightly larger than a mouse and slightly smaller than a cat’s foreleg, provided access, air, and even a fair amount of light to the living room. The bedroom, formed by the second oval, was warm but dark, even at midday. A short tunnel through the earth behind the block connected the two rooms.

Although she was a widow (her husband had died only the preceding summer), Mrs. Frisby was able, through luck and hard work, to keep her family - there were four children - happy and well fed. January and February were the hardest months; the sharp, hard cold that began in December lasted until March, and by February the beans and peas had been picked over (with help from the birds), the asparagus roots were frozen into stone, and the potatoes had been thawed and refrozen so many times they had acquired a slimy texture and a rancid taste. Still, the Frisbys made the best of what there was, and one way or another they kept from being hungry.

Then, one day at the very end of February, Mrs. Frisby’s younger son, Timothy, fell sick.

That day began with a dry, bright, icy morning. Mrs. Frisby woke up early, as she always did. She and her family slept close together in a bed of down, fluff, and bits of cloth they had gathered, warm as a ball of fur.

She stood up carefully so as not to awaken the children, and walked quietly through the short tunnel to the living room. Here it was not so warm, but not really cold either. She could see from the light filtering down the entrance tunnel that the sun was up, and bright. She looked at the food in her pantry, a hollowed-out space lined with small stones in the earth behind the living room. There was plenty of food for breakfast, and lunch and dinner, too, for it was the same tiresome fare they had been eating every day, every meal, for the last month. She wished she knew where to find a bit of green lettuce, or a small egg, or a taste of cheese, or a muffin. There were eggs in plenty not far off, in the hen-house. But hens and hens’ eggs are too big for a field mouse to cope with; and besides, between the garden and the hen-house there was a wide sward of shrubs and grass, some of it grown up quite tall. Cat territory.

She climbed up the tunnel, emerging whiskers first, and looked around warily. The air was sharp, and there was white frost thick on the ground and on the dead leaves at the edge of the wood across the garden patch.

Mrs. Frisby set off over the gently furrowed earth, and when she reached the fence, she turned right, skirting the border of the forest, searching with her bright round eyes for a bit of carrot, a frozen parsnip, or something green. But there was nothing green at that time of year but the needles on the pine trees and leaves on the holly, neither of which a mouse - or any other animal, for that matter - can eat.

And then, straight in front of her, she did see something green. She had reached the far corner of the garden, and there, at the edge of the woods where it met the fence, was a stump. In the stump there was a hole, and out of the hole protruded something that looked a little like a leaf, but was not.

Mrs. Frisby had no trouble at all going through the wire fence, but she approached the hole cautiously. If the stump was hollow, as it seemed to be, there was no telling who or what might be living in it.

A foot or so from the hole she stopped, stood still, and watched and listened. She could hear no sound, but from there she could see what the green was. It was, in fact, a yellowish-brownish-green: a bit of sweet corn husk. But what was a sweet corn husk doing there? The cornfield was in a different part of the farm altogether, away beyond the pasture. Mrs. Frisby hopped closer and then, carefully, crept up the side of the stump and peered inside. When her eyes got used to the dark, she saw that she had found a treasure: a winter’s supply of food, carefully stored and then, for some reason, forgotten or abandoned.

But stored by whom? A raccoon perhaps? Not very likely, so far from the stream. More likely a squirrel or a groundhog. She knew that both of these felt free to help themselves to the new corn each year, and that they were strong enough to carry ears a way and store them.

But whoever had done it, why had he then abandoned the store? And then she remembered. Back in November there had come from near that edge of the woods the sound that sends all of the animals in the forest shivering to their hiding places - the sound of hunters’ guns shooting, the sound that is accompanied, for someone, by a fiery stabbing pain. And then he never needs his stored food again.

Still, since Mrs. Frisby, did not even know what kind of animal it had been, much less his name, she could not shed many tears over him - and food was food. It was not the green lettuce she had longed for, but she and her children were extremely fond of corn, and there were eight large ears in the stump, a noble supply for a mouse family. Down under the corn she also could see a pile of fresh peanuts (from still another part of the farm), some hickory nuts, and a stack of dried, sweet-smelling mushrooms.

With her forepaws and sharp teeth she pulled off a part of the husk from the top ear of corn and folded it double to serve as a crude carrying bag. Then she pulled loose as many of the yellow kernels as she could easily lift, and putting them in the husk-bag she hopped briskly for home. She would come back for more after breakfast and bring the children to help.

She backed down the tunnel entrance to her house tail first, pulling the corn after her and calling cheerfully as she went:

“Children! Wake up! See what I have for breakfast! A surprise!”

They came hurrying out, rubbing their eyes in excitement, for any kind of surprise in food was a rare and festive thing in the cold dead of winter. Teresa, the oldest, came first; crowding close behind her was Martin, the biggest, a strong, quick mouse, dark-haired and handsome like his father. Then came Cynthia, the youngest, a slim, pretty girl-mouse, light-haired and, in fact, a little light -headed as well, and over-fond of dancing.

“Where is it?” she said. “What is it? Where’s the surprise?”

“Where is Timothy?” asked Mrs. Frisby.

“Mother,” said Teresa, concerned, “he says he’s sick and can’t get up.”

“Nonsense. Martin, tell your brother to get out of bed at once, or he’ll get no breakfast.”

Martin ran to the bedroom obediently but came back in a moment alone.

“He says he feels too sick, and he doesn’t want any breakfast, even a surprise. I felt his forehead, and it’s burning hot.”

“Oh, dear,” said Mrs. Frisby. “That sounds as if he really is sick.” Timothy had, on occasion, been known to think he was sick when he really was not. “Here, you may all have your breakfast - save Timothy’s - and I’ll go up and see what’s wrong.”

She opened up the green carrying bag and put the corn on the table, dividing it into five equal shares. The dining table was a smooth piece of lath supported on both ends by stones.

“Corn!” shouted Martin. “Oh, Mother. Where did you ever get it?”

“Eat up,” said Mrs. Frisby, “and a little later I’ll show you, because there’s a lot more where this came from.” And she disappeared into the little hallway that led to the bedroom.

“A lot more,” Martin repeated as he sat down with his two sisters. “That sounds like enough to last till moving day.”

“I hope so, ”Cynthia said. “When is moving day, anyway?”

“Two weeks,” said Martin authoritatively. “Maybe three.”

“Oh, Martin, how do you know?’ protested Teresa. “What is it says cold? Anyway, suppose Timothy isn’t well enough?’

At this dreadful thought, so casually raised, they all grew worried and fell silent. Then Cynthia said:

“Teresa, you shouldn’t be so gloomy. Of course he’ll be well. He’s just got a cold. That’s all.” She finished eating her corn, and so did the others.

In the bedroom Mrs. Frisby felt Timothy’s forehead. It was indeed hot, and damp with sweat. She took his pulse and dropped his wrist in alarm at what she felt.

“Do you feel sick to your stomach?”

“No, Mother. I feel all right, only cold, and when I sit up I get dizzy. And I can’t get my breath too well.”

Mrs. Frisby peered anxiously at his face, and would have looked at his tongue, but in the dark room she could see no more than the dim outline of his head. He was the thinnest of her children and had a dark complexion like his father and brother. He was narrow of face; his eyes were unusually large and bright, and shone with the intensity of his thought when he spoke. He was, Mrs. Frisby knew, the smartest and most thoughtful of her children, though she would never have admitted this aloud. But he was also the frailest, and when colds or flu or virus infections came around he was the first to catch them and the slowest to recover. He was also - perhaps as a result - something of a hypochondriac. But there was no doubt he was really sick this time. His head felt as if he had a high fever, and his pulse was very fast.

“Poor Timothy. Lie back down and keep covered.” She spread over him some of the bits of cloth they used as blankets. “After a while we’ll fix you a pallet in the living room so you can lie out where it’s light. I’ve found a fine supply of corn this morning, more than we can eat for the rest of the winter. Would you like some?”

“No, thank you. I’m not hungry. Not now.”

He closed his eyes, and in a few minutes he went to sleep. But it was a restless sleep in which he tossed and moaned continually.

In mid-morning Mrs. Frisby, Martin, and Cynthia set off for the stump to have some more of the corn, and some peanuts and mushrooms (the hickory nuts they would leave, for they were too hard for mouse jaws to crack, and too tedious to gnaw through). They left Teresa at home to look after Timothy, whom they had wrapped up and helped into a temporary sickbed in the living room. When they returned at lunchtime, carrying heavy loads of food, they found her near tears from worry.

Timothy was much worse. His eyes looked wild and strange from the fever; he trembled continuously, and each breath he too sounded like a gasp for life.

Teresa said: “Oh, Mother, I’m so glad you’re back. He’s been having nightmares and shouting about monsters and cats; and when I talk to him, he doesn’t hear me at all.”

Not only was Timothy not hearing with his ears; his eyes, though wide open, were not seeing, or if they were, he was not recognizing what they saw. When his mother tried to talk to him, to hold his hand and ask him how he felt, he stared past her as if she did not exist. Then he gave out a long, low moan and seemed to be trying to say something, but the words would not form properly and made no sense at all.

The other children stared in frightened silence. Finally Martin asked:

“Mother, what is it? What’s wrong with him?”

“He is terribly ill. His fever is so high he has become delirious. There is nothing for it - I will have to go and see Mr. Ages. Timothy must have medicine.”

Chapter Two

Mr. Ages

Mr. Ages was a white mouse who lived across the farm and beyond, in a house that was part of a brick wall. The wall lined the basement of what had once been a large farmhouse. The farmhouse itself had burned down so many years ago that nobody could remember what it had looked like nor who had lived there. The basement remained, protected from the wind and snow, numerous small creatures lived. In summer there were snakes, but there was no need to worry about them in winter.

Just the same, it was a long, hard journey and could be risky unless she was extremely cautious. It was so far, in fact, that Mrs. Frisby would not ordinarily have set out so late in the day, for fear that the dark would catch here before she got back. But Timothy obviously could not wait until the next day. So only five minutes after she announced that she must go, she was gone.

If she had been able to follow her nose, that is, to take the shortest route to where Mr. Ages lived, her journey would have been easy enough. But since that would have led her close to the farmhouse and the barn, and since the cat stalked those grounds relentlessly, she had to plot a much more roundabout way, circling the whole wide farmyard and sticking to the fringe of the woods.

She loped along briskly, moving in the easy, horse-like canter mice use when they are trying to cover ground. Her progress was almost completely noiseless; she chose her path where the earth was bare, or where grass grew, and she avoided dead leaves, which would rustle and crackle even under her small weight. Always she kept an eye out for hiding places - logs, roots, stones, things to scurry under if she should meet a larger animal who might be unfriendly. For though the cat was number one, there were other things in the woods that chased mice.

And as she did all this, she worried about Timothy and hoped that Mr. Ages would know something that would help him.

———

It was more than two hours later that she saw she was getting close to the brick wall where he lived. Though her husband had been a great friend of Mr. Ages and had visited him often, Mrs. Frisby herself had been there only once before, and that had been in summer. Still, she remembered the place clearly. It was an odd sort of clearing in the woods. Long ago, when the old house had been burned, there must have been a wide lawn around it. Over the years this clearing had grown over with a strange mixture of high, rank grass, tall weeds, berries and wild flowers. In the summer it was a wild and beautiful place, bright with blooms and full of the smell of blackberry blossoms and purple clover. There were harsher plants as well - spiny thistles and poisonous nightshade, and bees droning everywhere.

But in winter it had a bleak and almost ghostly look, for the blossoms and the green leaves were gone, and only the dry skeletons of the weeds stood, hung with stalks and seeds and pods that rattled in the wind. It was from these seeds and others, and from the flowers and roots beneath them, that Mr. Ages made the draughts and powders that could sometimes save the sick from dying.

The time she had been here before - that was for Timothy, too, when he was only a baby, scarcely bigger than a marble. He had wandered, while playing with the other children, a little way from them and had been bitten or stung by something poisonous. They did not know what. When the others found him, he lay curled in a ball, paralysed and scarcely able to breathe.

That time her husband Mr. Frisby had been alive, and between them, taking turns, they had managed to carry Timothy to Mr. Ages’ house. It was a sad and frightening journey, and when they arrived they had been afraid he might already be dead. Mr. Ages looked at him, examined his tongue, felt his pulse, and found a small red lump near his neck. “Spider,” he said. “Not a black widow, but bad enough.” He had forced a few drops of milky liquid into Timothy’s mouth and held him upright so that it could trickle down his throat, for Timothy could not swallow. In a few minutes his small muscles had unlocked, and he was able to move his arms and legs. “He’ll be all right,” said Mr. Ages, “but weak for a few hours.”

The trip back home had been a happy one, and the other children were wide-eyed with joy to see Timothy alive. Yet Mrs. Frisby thought that this had been the beginning of his frailness. From that time on he tended to stumble a little when he walked, especially when he was tired; he never grew as big or as vigorous as his brother Martin. But he thought a great deal more, and in that he resembled his father.

———

Now she reached Mr. Age’s house, a hole in the brick wall where one end of a heavy floor beam had once rested. It was about two feet below the top of the wall, and one reached it by climbing down a sort of rough stairway of broken brick ends. She knocked on his door, made of a piece of shingle. “Oh, let him be in, please,” she thought, but he was not. There was no answer, so she sat down to wait on the narrow ledge of brick in front of his door.

Half an hour passed, the sun sinking lower in the west all the time, before she heard a slight scratching noise up above, and there he came, carrying a cloth sack bulging with some kind of lumpy material. His fur was a soft grey-white, and so glossy he seemed almost to glow. Mrs. Frisby had heard that Mr. Ages was not truly a white mouse; that is, he had not been born with white fur, but had turned white from old age. Whether this was so or not she did not know. Certainly he seemed very old, and very wise; yet he walked nimbly enough.

“Oh Mr. Ages, I’m so glad you’ve come,” she said. “I don’t suppose you remember me, Mrs. Frisby.”

“Of course I remember you. And I was sad to hear about poor Mr. Frisby. How is your young son - Timothy, was it?”

“It’s about him I’ve come to see you. He’s taken terribly sick.”

“Has he? I was afraid he might turn out to be not as strong as the others.”

“I hoped you might be able to help.”

“That may be. Come in, please, so I can put down this sack.”

Mr. Ages’ house, somewhat larger than a shoebox but about the same shape, resembled the house of a hermit. It was bare of furniture except for a bit of bedding in one corner, a stool made of a piece of brick, and another piece of brick worn smooth from use as a pestle with which he ground out his medicines. Along one entire wall, arranged neatly in small piles, stood the raw materials he had collected: roots, seeds, dried leaves, pods, strips of barks and shrivelled mushrooms.

To this row he now added the contents of his sack. It held a number of small plants, all of them the kind, with stringy roots and dark, veined green leaves that looked like mint.

“Pipsissewa,” said Mr. Ages. “Botanically, Chimaphila umbellata. It stays green all winter, and makes a very useful spring tonic. Most people use only the leaves, but I have found the roots even more effective.” He arranged the plants in an orderly pile. “But that’s not what you’re here for. What’s wrong with young Timothy?”

“He has a very high fever. He’s delirious. I don’t know what to do.”

“How high?”

“So high that he feels burning hot to the touch, runs with perspiration, and yet he shivers with cold at the same time.”

“Keep him wrapped up in a blanket.”

“I do.”

“And his pulse?”

“So fast that you cannot tell one heartbeat from the next.”

“His tongue?”

“So coated that it looks purple.”

‘How does he breathe?”

He breathes very rapidly, and the air rasps in his chest. He said, at first, that he could not get his breath.”

“But he does not cough.”

“No.”

“He has pneumonia,” said Mr. Ages. I have some medicine that will help him. But the most important thing is to keep him warm. And he must stay in bed.” He went to the back of his house, and from a ledge formed by a projecting brick he took three packets of medicine, powders neatly wrapped in white paper.

“Give him one of these tonight. Mix it in water and make him drink it. If he is still delirious, hold his nose and pour it down his throat. Give him the second one tomorrow morning, and the third the next morning.”

Mrs. Frisby took the packages. “Will he get better?” she asked, dreading to hear the answer.”

“He will get better this time. His fever will be less on the second day, and gone the third, after he has taken all the medicine. That does not mean he will have recovered; his lungs will still be terribly weak and sensitive. If he gets the least bit cold, or breathes cold air - even a breath or two - the pneumonia will surely come back worse than before. And the second time he may not recover. This will be true for at least three weeks, and more likely a month.”

“And after that?”

“Even after that he should be careful, though we may hope by then the weather will be warmer.”

By now the sun was getting low in the west, settling into the high mountains beyond the woods. Mrs. Frisby thanked Mr. Ages and set out for home as quickly as she could go.

Chapter 3

The Crows and the Cat

Mrs. Frisby looked again at the sun and saw that she faced an unpleasant choice. She could go home by the same roundabout way she had come, in which case she would surely end in walking alone in the woods in the dark - a frightening prospect, for at night the forest was alive with danger. Then the owl came out to hunt, and foxes, weasels and strange wild cats stalked among the tree trunks.

The other choice would be dangerous, too, but with luck it would get her home before dark. That would be to take a straighter route, across the farmyard between the barn and the chicken house, going not too close to the house but cutting the distance by half. The cat would be there somewhere, but by daylight - and by staying in the open, away from the shrubs - she could probably spot him before he saw her.

The cat: He was called Dragon. Farmer Fitzgibbon’s wife had given him the name as a joke when he was a small kitten pretending to be fierce. But when he grew up, the name turned out to be an apt one. He was enormous, with a huge, broad head and a large mouth full of curving fangs, needle sharp. He had seven claws on each foot and a thick, furry tail, which lashed angrily from side to side. In colour he was orange and white, with glaring yellow eyes; and when he leaped to kill, he gave a high, strangled scream that froze his victims where they stood.

But Mrs. Frisby preferred not to think about that. Instead, as she came out of the woods from Mr. Ages’ house and reached the farmyard fence she thought about Timothy. She thought of how his eyes shone with merriment when he made up small jokes, which he did frequently, and how invariably kind he was to his small, scatterbrained sister Cynthia. The other children sometimes laughed at her when she made mistakes, or grew impatient with her because she was forever losing things, but Timothy never did. Instead, he would help her find them. And when Cynthia herself had been sick in bed with a cold, he had sat by her side for hours and entertained her with stories. He made these up out of his head, and he seemed to have a bottomless supply of them.

Taking a firm grip on her packets of medicine, Mrs. Frisby went under the fence and set out towards the farmyard. The first stretch was a long pasture; the barn itself, square and red and bug, rose in the distance to her right; to her left, farther off were the chicken houses.

When at length she came abreast of the barn, she saw the wire fence that marked the other end of the pasture; and as she approached it, she was startled by a sudden outburst of noise. She thought at first it was a hen, strayed from the chicken yard - caught by a fox? She looked down the fence and saw that it was no hen at all, but a young crow, flapping in the grass, acting most oddly. As she watched, he fluttered to the top wire of the fence, where he perched nervously for a moment. Then he spread his wings, flapped hard, and took off - but after flying four feet he stopped with a snap and crashed to the ground again, shedding a flurry of black feathers and squawking loudly.

He was tied to the fence. A piece of something silvery - it looked like wire - was tangled around one of his legs; the other end of it was caught in the fence. Mrs. Frisby walked closer, and then she could see it was not wire after all, but a length of silver-coloured string, probably left over from a Christmas package.

The crow was sitting on the fence, pecking ineffectively at the string with his bill, cawing softly to himself, a miserable sound. After a moment he spread his wings, and she could see he was going to try to fly again.

“Wait,” said Mrs. Frisby.

The crow looked down and saw her in the grass.

“Why should I wait? Can’t you see I’m caught? I’ve got to get loose.

“But if you make so much noise again the cat is sure to hear. If he hasn’t heard already.”

“You’d make a noise, too, if you were tied to a fence with a piece of string, and with night coming on.”

“I would not,” said Mrs. Frisby, “if I had any sense and knew there was a cat near by. Who tied you?” She was trying to calm the crow, who was obviously terrified.

He looked embarrassed and stared at his feet. “I picked up the string. It got tangled with my foot. I sat on the fence to try and get it off, and it caught on the fence.

“Why did you pick up the string?”

The crow, who was very young indeed - in fact, only a year old - said wearily: “Because it was shiny.”

“You knew better.”

“I had been told.”

Birdbrain, thought Mrs. Frisby, and then recalled what her husband used to say: The size of the brain is no measure of its capacity. And she might well recall it, for the crow’s head was double the size of her own.

“Sit quietly,” she said. “Look towards the house and see if you see the cat.”

“I don’t see him. But I can’t see behind the bushes. Oh, if I could just fly higher.”

“Don’t,” said Mrs. Frisby. She looked at the sun; it was setting behind the trees. She thought of Timothy, and of the medicine she was carrying. Yet she knew she could not leave the foolish crow there to be killed - he surely would be before sunrise - just for want of a few minutes’ work. She might still make it by dusk if she hurried.

“Come down here,” she said. “I’ll get the string off.”

“How?” said the crow dubiously.

“Don’t argue. I have only a few minutes.” She said this in a voice so authoritative that the crow fluttered down immediately.

“But if the cat comes … ” he said.

“If the cat comes, he’ll knock you off the fence with one jump and catch you with the next. Be still.” She was already at work with her sharp teeth, gnawing at the string. It was twined and twisted and twined again around his right ankle, and she saw she would have to cut through it three times to get it off.

As she finished the second strand, the crow, who was staring towards towards the house, suddenly cried out:

“I see the cat!”

“Quiet!” whispered Mrs. Frisby. “Does he see us?”

“I don’t know. Yes. He’s looking at me. I don’t think he can see you.”

“Stand perfectly still. Don’t get in a panic.” She did not look up but started on the third strand.

“He’s moving this way.”

“Fast or slow?”

“Medium. I think he’s trying to figure out what I’m doing.”

She cut through the last strand, gave a ug, and the string fell off.

“There, you’re free. Fly off, and be quick,”

“But what about you?”

“Maybe he hasn’t seen me.”

“But he will. He’s coming closer.”

Mrs. Frisby looked around. There was not a bit of cover anywhere near, not a rock nor a log; nothing at all closer than the chicken yard - and that was in the direction the cat was coming from, and a long way off.

“Look,” said the crow. “Climb on my back. Quick. And hang on.”

Mrs. Frisby did what she was told, first grasping the precious packages of medicine tightly between her teeth.

“Are you on?”

“Yes.”

She gripped the feathers on his back, felt the beat of his powerful black wings, felt a dizzying upward surge, and shut her eyes tight.

“Just in time,” said the crow, and she heard the angry scream of the cat as he leaped at where they had just been. “It’s lucky you’re so light. I can scarcely tell you’re there.” Lucky indeed, thought Mrs. Frisby; if it had not been for your foolishness I’d never have got into such a scrape. However, she thought it was not to say so, under the circumstances.

“Where do you live?” asked the crow.

“In the garden patch. Near the big stone.”

“I’ll drop you off there.” He banked alarmingly, and for a moment Mrs. Frisby thought he meant it literally. But a few seconds later - so fast does the crow fly - they were gliding to earth a yard from her front door.

“Thank you very much,” said Mrs. Frisby, hopping to the ground.

“It’s I who should be thanking you,” said the crow. “You saved my life.”

“And you mine.”

“Ah, but that’s not quite even. Yours wouldn’t have been risked if it had not been for me - and my piece of string.” And since this was just what she had been thinking, Mrs. Frisby did not argue.

“We all help one another against the cat,” she said.

“True. Just the same I am in debt to you. If the time ever comes when I can help you, I hope you will askhme. My name is Jeremy. Mention it to any crow you see in thesehwoods and he will find me.”

“Thank you,”said Mrs. Frisby, “I will remember.” Jeremy flew away to the woods, and she entered her house, taking the three doses of medicine with her.

NIMH Explanation

This is a meme you should only look at if you read the whole book and/or see the movie ↖

As with many older children’s stories, I saw the movie version of ‘Mrs Frisby and the Rats of Nimh’ called ‘The Secret of Nimh’. Released in 1982, they changed Mrs Frisby to Mrs. Brisby to avoid issues with Frisbee. As well as dramatizing the story, they added magic - but I’m quite fond of the movie all the same. Again, I saw it first, so that helps. Coincidentally, it was the directorial debut off Don Bluth - pretty much every memorable big budget children’s cartoon movie from the 80s or 90s that was NOT Disney was by this guy. He did a wonderful job, especially with the scurrying movements. The kind of stuff that made me dream of being an animator. That being said, the book definitely has its own merits and I think you should try it out. That’s why I included the first three chapters!

Art! The title was ‘stylized’ as I said in your introduction, as just The Rats of Nimh. That was partly because I forgot the ‘Mrs Frisby’ bit (whoops!) and partly because I wanted to emphasize the NIMH part. While NIMH (based on the real National Institute of Mental Health) doesn’t exactly make a direct appearance in the story, it looms in the distance, affecting many of the decisions and characters throughout. So, I sized both the rats and the institute appropriately. Also, to be honest, I thought the smaller letters being ‘carved’ out of the bigger letters looked cool.

The second picture was definitely the one where I tried my best to draw actual mice. I tried to combine the movie’s look with my own style and I think I did pretty well. The babies all wear clothes, but they’re curled up like actual mouse babies in a nest. The nest, btw, ended up looking a bit like a bird’s but oh well. And one of the kid’s is upside down! On the original book cover I had, Mrs Frisby is very well dressed up, with even a Sunday hat upon her head - but I like the slightly more realistic movie version. She just wears a raggedy cloak in that one. I made mine even more tattered but oh well.

The third picture, I tried to draw what I thought would be a slightly better house than described. Mr. Ages doesn’t have any canon shelves to put all his piles of spices and herbs upon, but I don’t think he’d have enough space on the floor to not kick them over! Hence, the spaces where bricks should be. And the nails with little bags upon the wall. And I just had so much fun trying to figure the little space out I realized it would kind of ruin the look if I drew the mice right on top. So I drew them on another piece of paper, cut them out, and pasted them! That’s why they might have funny outlines.

The cat was a bit irritating to draw. SEVEN TOES? Jeez. I wanted to make him look a bit scarier but eventually decided to move on. He looks a bit scruffy, but I'm sure to a mouse, he’d be absolutely frightening.

Lastly, Mrs Frisby banking on Jeremy. Honestly, crows are fun to draw, and mice on the back of crows are terrible. But, thank goodness, it is done. Just as a little tidbit, that’s how the farm I work at on used to look like a couple decades ago! We don’t have that truck though.

Please let me know if you decide to watch the movie or read the book!

#mrs frisby and the rats of nimh #the rats of nimh #Robert c O’Brien #nimh #wac

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slaasherslut · 2 years ago

Text

Completely His

Ava Walker OC x Bo Sinclair

Summary: “Why are you mad?” “I’m not mad, I just think you can choose better people to kiss.” from this post

Warnings: Female OC x Bo Sinclair, female anatomy, forcible confinement, forced kissing, blood, possible allusions to stockholm syndrome, mentions of sex

1.7k words

Ava shoved her hands in her jacket pockets as she approached the gas station. The muffled sounds of the metal music mix she left in Bo’s stereo from the night before was blasting through the hollow looking station, indicating that Bo was inside and probably in the basement. The slight chill of the wind on her bare legs felt lovely compared to the string of hot summer nights that had plagued Louisiana for a few days now. It was a relief to not be sweating through every article of clothing again. Her cotton pyjama shorts did nothing to block the cold breeze but she didn't mind, the gas station would be warm anyways.

A muffled cry for help was barely heard as Ava walked between the two rows of gas pumps right outside the building. A few steps forward past the second row of pumps gave way to confirm her suspicions. Her dark green eyes went even darker as she approached the small metal grate in the cement at her feet, her gaze downcast. Ava watched as a young woman roughly her age was restrained in her darling Bo’s “work space” just below her. Wisps of dark hair encircled her as she fought her restraints. The tears that ran down her cheeks reflected the light of the fluorescent bulbs above her. The familiar coverall clad man stepped into view. He grabbed her cheeks and squeezed, causing her lips to form into a forced pucker. Small whines left her mouth as Bo licked his lips. Ava couldn't see it but she knew that the look of animalistic hunger flooded his eyes. It was a look from him she knew well. He squeezed harder once again before pressing his mouth against her pursed lips. Ava felt a harsh drop in her gut as she watched. It was normal, and she was aware of his debaucherous escapades down in the basement. The wall next to the door was like a time capsule of photos of all the girls who have seen the inside of his shackles. One standing out of herself that she marked with a dark lipstick coated kiss.

She just couldn't help but feel queasy knowing what he was doing to other women down there. The jealousy and spark of anger in her chest made her feel heavy.

The girl in the chair squeezed her eyes shut as attempted to turn her head to avoid Bo’s kiss. She cracked open her eyes and looked up through the grate above her, no doubt feeling Ava’s glare. She made eye contact with Ava through the thin metal slits and her eyes blew wide open. She began to thrash harder and try to scream louder through Bo’s mouth. Her cries for help would fall on deaf ears as Ava nonchalantly finished her trek into the gas station.

As Ava threw the door open, the bell above her head dinged. She couldn't hear it though over the loud music that blasted even louder now that she was inside. The music grew and faded as she walked through the station and down into the sublevel. The screaming and growling of the music was now being replaced with the screaming of the young woman and the growling of Bo. Her heavy boots trudged through the short hallway, she could spy the door on the left at the end of the hall that led to Bo’s secret hideaway. It was no secret to her though. It was left open a crack and she could see skinny jean clad legs thrashing in the chair. A gravelly loud yell echoed throughout the basement as the music started to drift farther as she went deeper underground.

“FUCKING BITCH!” Bo yelled from his hidden place somewhere in the room behind the old door. Ava couldn't see him but she knew he was back there. She swung the door open the rest of the way with a loud creak and stepped inside. Bo was rummaging through a drawer in his work bench just next to the chair. She watched as he angrily took out a roll of duct tape that was nearly gone and tore off a piece of the tape with his pearly white teeth. He winced as he pulled the tape back from his mouth. His bottom lip was covered in blood and the sticky side of the tape also had a small smear of his blood. He harshly slapped the sticky, blood slicked tape over her mouth. A guttural “shut the fuck up” slipped through gritted teeth as he rubbed the tape into the flesh of her sore lips.

“She's tasting his blood.” Ava thought as she walked deeper into the room. Her silent words were full of envy. “I'm the only one who deserves to spill his blood and have it gush down my throat.”

Bo was now in a sour mood. He cursed loudly as he brought his rough fingertips up to lightly touch his lip. He winced slightly with a growl as he pulled his finger back to find his own fresh blood on the pad of his finger. Bo looked up at Ava, flashing her a quick glance at his blood covered finger.

“She fuckin bit me,” Bo seethed. He turned his attention from Ava to the other woman. “The stupid BITCH!” He shouted with a harsh frustrated kick to the bottom of the chair. His burst of anger made her scream louder behind the tape, Bo didn't seem to care.

The blood on his finger started to slowly drip and Bo popped the finger in his mouth, sucking the digit clean. The strong taste of iron, sweat and oil swirled through his mouth as his tongue lapped at his bloody finger before popping it out of his gore coated mouth. Blood from his busted lip dripped down his chin and left tiny crimson droplets on his white undershirt that barely peeked out of his coveralls. It stood out even more against the fabric as it soaked in. Ava knew she would have a bitch of a time scrubbing those stains out later. He brought his arm up to wipe the blood from the bottom half of his face. His long wet tongue, dampened with the other girl's saliva, ran across his opened lip where the bleeding was now starting to slow. His dark eyes flickered up and towards his doll across the room, his girl. The chair with the trashing girl still in between them.

“The fuck is that for?” Bo sneered. Ava could practically feel her eyes rolling into the back of her skull.

“What?” She asked with the same amount of malice he gave her. She stood facing him with a hip cocked, her arms crossed under her breasts in annoyance. Bo’s eyes subtly travelled downward to her pushed up breasts in an old faded band tee of his that she had cut up and made her own. It belonged to him as a younger man and no longer fit. She always claimed them instead of the trash bin. His eyes quickly flicked away.

“That stupid fuckin look yah got on yer face.” Bo lazily pointed toward the annoyed expression across her pale face. ”The fuck are yah so mad for?”

Ava glared at him. “I'm not mad,” she turned away. She stared at the occupied chair and restraints, the same glare still across her face. ”I just think you can choose better people to kiss.” Bo stared at her for a moment, listening to Ava grumbling about how "she wasn't even that cute". A wicked grin slowly worked its way up his cheeks.

“I think someones jealous.” His voice was husky as he raised an eyebrow at her. His boots were heavy against the cement floor as he slowly stepped towards her.

Ava scoffed. She was indeed jealous, she always was. She wanted his lips and body to belong to her and her alone but that just wasn't the case. She wanted to be greedy with him. To be the only one to kiss his teeth and suck his bones dry of marrow. She wants him to be fully hers like she was completely and utterly his.

“I'm not jealous!” She dropped her arms to her sides. Bo stood before her and stared down at her lying form. He knew she was lying but his blood rushed knowing just how infatuated she was with him.

Bo smirk never faltered as he reached around to grab a fistful of her bleach blonde hair tightly in his fist, yanking her towards him and smashing his chapped lips against hers. Ava felt the air being knocked out of her lungs at the force of his kiss. She felt a sick pride swell in her chest knowing that the other woman was watching her man kiss her with such puissant vigor. Bo immediately pushed his tongue past her lips in a wet tease. Ava’s fingers roughly gripped his mechanic coveralls as their heated kiss continued. Bo’s hand still being in her hair, he tugged her back. Ava finally took in a deep breath once her mouth was exposed to the dusty basement air once again. Her wet lips parted in a heavy intake.

Bo swiped his thumb along Ava’s top lip, circling around to the bottom, collecting the saliva and the smear of his blood that had transferred from his lips to hers during their forceful kiss. He began pushing his thumb past her plump lips and Ava eagerly opened for him, wrapping her lips around his thumb and moaning as her tongue lapped at the digit. Bo tugged at his bottom lip next to the open wound with his teeth as he watched her take him so well. Ava giggled around his thumb before Bo slipped it out from between her lips. He delicately pressed his wet thumb to the underside of her chin and made her look up at him.

“You shouldn't be jealous. She aint got nothin' on you dollface.” The two lovingly smiled at each other. “You know she ain't stayin’, Vince has got plans for her anyway.” The two looked over as the woman's thrashing became louder. Bo laughed while Ava rolled her eyes. First she kissed her man and now she's ruining their soft moment? Ava wasn't pleased.

“Wanna show her that you're mine, doll?” Bo asked, his devilish smirk darkening his eyes as he turned back towards her. Ava looked back at him and nodded excitedly. Bo chuckled at her excitement as he began unbuckling his belt.

“C’mon then, show ‘er that you can bend over and take my cock like a good bitch.”

☾ notes: You guys have no idea how absolutely feral these two together make me. I've been thinking about them constantly and don't be surprised if there's more in the future. I wanna be sandwiched between them like some subby meat between two slices of hot bread. Like a sexy panini.

☾ tag list: @rottent33th, @damien-mlm, @vincent-sinclair-deserved-better, @the-pinstriped-hood, @allthingsblood, @25bohemianmoons, @devil-doll13, @goldrose-star

message me if you want to be added to my tag list!

#bo sinclair #house of wax 2005 #ava walker oc #slasher #slashers #slasher fandom #slasher fucker #slasher community #bo sinclair x oc #bo sinclair fic #house of wax fanfiction #house of wax

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