#Your silly little man!

[sallymew4]

anime Mob not being as sassy as manga Mob was truly a loss

look at these

it even looks like he’s kind of grinning

[bunnieswithknives]

Creepy old guy

[myungheartz]

Stubborn kitty. // Leona Kingscholar

Leona’s reward for you helping him was trapping you in his arms.

tags: gn!reader, fluff, sfw, leona being a housekitty, a small mention of an injury

Recently, Leona got injured. It wasn’t anything serious, just needed to limit his arm movements to not worsen his state. Today, he just needed to wash his hair and despite your suggestions about helping him, he refused and insisted on doing this himself.

Now, he walked out of the bathroom, his hair soaking wet, a frown on his face. He let out an exasperated sigh as he sat down on the couch you were sitting on. You lifted your gaze from your phone and met Leona’s slight scowl.

“…Can you help me?” He asked, clearly not happy about needing help, a towel laid on his shoulders, preventing his wet hair from getting water on his clothes. Your eyebrows furrowed for a split second before realizing that he was asking for help with getting his hair dried up.

“Yeah, of course.” You nodded, putting your phone down on the coffee table next to the couch. “Does your arm feel too sore?” You asked genuinely as you started to dry his wet hair.

Your touch was gentle, almost massaging his scalp with your movements, he closed his eyes and leaned his head back a little.

“Maybe.” That was his answer. Surely it must’ve hurt, otherwise he’d still be stubborn like a donkey and do everything himself.

After drying it you quickly went to the bathroom to grab a brush. “I’ll brush your hair too, ‘kay?” You said softly, sitting behind him.

“Whatever, just— Make it quick.” Otherwise, his heart will beat too fast and he’ll start liking all this even more, and he doesn't want that at all.

You started brushing his long soft brown hair, the braids that were usually by the sides of his temples were not there, it wasn’t all that surprising since he’d just gotten out of the shower. When his hair was all loose and wet he looked softer, his hair, despite being wet, still managed to look fluffy.

His ears were wet too, but you only gave them a few gentle dabs with the towel, not fully knowing if that’d be okay with Leona.

As you brushed his hair, you also gently undid any knots that were in his hair. You felt his body leaning in a little more into yours as you kept brushing his hair. At first, you thought it was just an instinct to lean into a comfortable touch, but as it turned out, he fell asleep.

Soft breaths and occasional grunts left his mouth as he slept. You were conflicted about whether to wake him up or not. He looked so at peace that you just didn't have the heart to wake him up.

You attempted to get out from behind his body and not wake him up, but it was quite the challenge as his back was pressed against your chest. It was quite baffling — How did he even manage to fall asleep in this position?

“Crap.” You whispered out as he twitched when you moved. You tried it again, and this time you succeeded in escaping from his sleeping form.

You carefully yet a little awkwardly positioned his body to something that wouldn’t make him feel sore when he woke up, hoping it wouldn’t get him out of his, usually heavy, sleep.

You heard something being uttered out just as you tried to take a step to leave the room to let him rest. “Stay...”He sleepily grabbed your hand and swiftly pulled you on top of his body, wrapping his arms around you as if you were a plush toy and not a human being. “Stay… F’me…” He whispered, his breath hitting your skin as he cuddled up to you, his tail unconsciously wrapping itself around your leg as if to keep you in place.

I guess that’s your fate now. Sleeping with him. It would be more comfy if not for his still slightly wet hair, but I guess no one really gets all their wishes fulfilled, right?

“G’night..” He whispered.

“It’s 2 PM.” You commented.

“Shush.”

[justa-moth]

dead (gay) boy detectives text posts again <3

pt 2 ! bc of course i made more

pt 1 - pt 3 - pt 4 - pt5 - pt6 - pt 7

[ohnohelpitsagain]

so, not to be insane about it on main again but a bard’s lament is one of my favorite episodes and i really think it’s gonna happen this season so i’m just gonna get into it again.

so, i like things that are emotional and messy and difficult because they can be incredibly human. and a bard’s lament is one of these things! however, i also think there’s, a lot of times, a sort of inherent misunderstanding about what is actually happening there. and to be fair, i think it’s totally natural to misunderstand on instinct and that’s kind of the point.

it’s easy to get caught up in what scanlan’s saying because sam delivers it all so well, but i think what gets missed a lot is why scanlan is actually saying it.

i think most people’s instinct is to say “oh it was vox machina’s fault for being bad friends, they reacted poorly” and “oh it was scanlan’s fault for only ever lying or joking when they questioned him” but the thing about situations like this is that both things can absolutely be true. no one won in a bard’s lament because no one ever wins in a situation like that.

scanlan was in a situation where he says most of what he says because he’s in an absolutely awful place mentally. everything has been building up and has lead to this exact moment and it was a perfect storm of across the board miscommunication and emotions and confusion. he says things that he knows will hurt the others because he’s angry and embarrassed and deeply depressed and the safe thing for him to do in that moment, in his head, is to push everyone away.

and yeah, vox machina react somewhat poorly to his outburst but at the same time why wouldn’t they! they were terrified they were going to lose their friend and now they also feel extraordinarily shitty and guilty and they’re faced with a reaction that none of them have the tools to handle. depression is an extraordinarily powerful and immensely illogical force sometimes, so yeah! scanlan said stuff about situations that he was interpreting in the WORST possible way and yeah the group didn’t know where to put that. so it’s not really about them not knowing his mother’s name. and it’s not even fully about the pudding or the prank. it’s about how it, to him, reiterates what he feels about himself. that he’s embarrassing and useless and no one really cares about him. BUT THAT’S WHAT MAKES IT SUCH AN INSANE PIECE OF RP!

because logically, of course they care about scanlan even if they aren’t perfect at showing it. there are MULTITUDES of examples of that! but scanlan doesn’t care about scanlan right then. and not much can get through that level of self loathing in that moment.

[foundfamily-connoisseur]

Punch Out Drawing Collection RAHHHHHHH

Close Ups and Translations in alt!!!

The last thing they see before the lights go out

[starry-bi-sky]

Clone^2 - Separation Strikes

"Why do I have to go?" Damian asks, surly and accent-thick, it sounds more like a demand and a whine at the same time. Sitting on the kitchen table with his arms crossed, in a green t-shirt that Danny bought him at a whim when he was at a thrift shop, and black shorts, he's never looked more like a kid. There's a little backpack leaning against the table leg, Damian begrudgingly picked it out when they went shopping.

His English has grown in leaps and bounds since Danny found him -- er, or more accurately; since Damian was spat out in front of him. -- and very little did they have to use the translator on Danny's phone these days.

Which meant one thing: Damian can start attending school comfortably now. And 'go' was the Amity Smiles Child Care Center. Danny and Jazz went as kids until they were twelve, and Mom and Dad actually managed to convince the center director to let Damian enroll for the summer.

And it was summer; Damian starts today.

"Because," Danny says, trying and failing to hide the smile pulling on his face, his heart warm and soft, and also laughing at Damian's expense; "being cooped up in the house all day isn't good for you, and you're starting school in the Fall. And, in Jazz's words: you need to have interactions with other kids your age for the benefit of your social development. And besides, it's only for the morning."

Damian's nose scrunches up, and his eyes roll so violently that for a moment, Danny thinks about joking that he'll get his eyes stuck like that. He holds his tongue; his little brother already looks like he's five seconds away from committing an act of violence.

"I don't need social interaction." Damian sneers, his cheek in his hand; a neverend pool of pride. "I am--"

"The Blood of the Demon Heir, better than everyone else." Danny cuts off, waving his hand in dismissive circles, his voice mockingly deep. Damian's brown skin darkens in embarrassment, and he scowls at Danny. "I know, bud. But Jazz is right, -- don't tell her I said that, -- you should be around kids your age."

Especially when he starts First Grade in the Fall. Honestly -- Danny was a little nervous to send him to the center. Damian's long since cut the habit of trying to kill or otherwise maim people, his palms ache-burn with gentle reminder, but his tongue was as sharp and as cutting as his sword. He still struggles with trying to quell it when he's upset. Vicious child-weapon that he once was, and will never be again.

Danny knows that it comes from a place of fear and defense, that Damian lashes out because that's what he's been taught. That at the end of the day, he doesn't really mean what he says, and he's learning to express himself better. But the other kids don't know that, and kids can be unforgiving and cruel.

Danny just...

His slow beating heart sighs, melancholy settles behind his lungs.

He doesn't want Damian to be outcasted. He doesn't want him to be alone.

Not like he was.

Damian sneers again, but says nothing, his shoulders crawling up to hide his ears like a turtle receding into his shell. Danny watches him silently, leaning against the kitchen counter with his own arms crossed. The clock hanging on the wall ticks in their ears -- it's almost time to go.

He watches Damian, careful, and so he sees it when his little brother's stone-shell pride and petulance shudders, and cracks. The darkened furrow of Damian's brows weakens, and for a moment, slants back.

Ah, Danny thinks, his own shoulders slumping. Epiphany washes over him, and his sad-heart soothes in warm understanding. So that's what it is.

His head tilts, and his hair spills over his shoulders, messy and fluffy, tickling his neck. Some of his bangs fall into his face. "Hal 'ant easabiatan ya habibi?" He asks, voice low and soft. Just as Damian's English has improved, so has Danny's Arabic. He still stumbles over himself some days, and Damian says his accent is trash, but they can have whole conversations now in Damian's mothertongue.

(Danny was incredibly proud of himself for it.)

Damian's face darkens, his blush spreading across the rest of his face, and he ducks his head down. Grown-out curls, black-brown and springy, falls over his eyes. "La!" He yells, loud and indignant, and not at all convincingly. "La 'asheur bialtawaturi!"

He was nervous. Danny can see it now, in the hunch of his shoulders and the tightness of his face, and faintly, he can feel it too. In the ecto-rich air of the Fentonworks House, it thrums, barely-there, like a hummingbird behind his lungs.

Danny can't stop the little, fond smile that forces itself across his lips and upticks the corner of his mouth. "It's okay to be nervous, little brother." He says, he sounds like Jazz when he says that. He doesn't think she'll mind him borrowing the nickname.

He pushes himself off the counter, and Damian refuses to look at him, hiding behind his hair and in his shoulders. It takes three long strides for him to reach the table, and Danny turns, plants his hands on the ledge, and hoists himself up. Right next to Damian.

Damian leans into him easily when Danny's arm wraps around his shoulders and tucks him close to his heart. He can feel his ear against his ribs. Danny hunches over him, resting his chin on Damian's head. "It's so okay to be nervous, actually. I was nervous, Jazz was nervous." He tells him, scratching the blunt edge of his nails across his scalp. "Everyone gets nervous."

"'Ana last aljumiea." Damian mumbles, as small and feeble as he was the night on the OPS Center balcony, realizing that his mom and the League weren't coming for him. Realizing that he was replaceable.

Danny's half-working heart squeezes; in grief, in rage, and his faucet eyes sting. He breathes in carefully, and presses his nose into Damian's hair in a loving faux-kiss. "You're right, you're not everyone." He says, steady and strong, because if he's not a pillar for his family, who else is he?

He can feel Damian's eyes flick up to him, and Danny smiles into his black-brown curls. Tilts his head to squish his cheek against him instead, hand dropping to thumb below Damian's lashes. "You're Damian Fenton," Because the adoption went through a few weeks ago, and he's still riding that high, "You're my baby brother. O' Artist Extraordinaire, Kickass with a Sword, Vegetarian and Wonderful Co-Ghost Hunter."

Damian tries to stifle a smile, and fails. Score! Triumph gathers in Danny's gut, his smile grows wider. He squeezes Damian tight, and only releases him so he can look him in the eyes. "And if anyone gives you a hard time at school, and I mean anyone--"

Danny has bad memories of the teachers looking the other way when the other kids were bullying him, all because he was a Fenton.

And Danny, bleeding heart, bleeding hands, loves his family more than he will ever love himself, will never let Damian experience the same injustice. Not if he can help it.

His eyes narrow, and the buzzy-film of ectoplasm covers his eyes, making them glow, "--You tell me. And as your awesome great big brother-and-technically-dad-but-only-biologically, I will handle it."

Damian, wonderfully made, full of light, his little brother Damian, giggles weakly at him. A sound that's worth it's weight in gold. The scary eyes dissipate, and Danny matches the sound with a cock-eyed, impish grin, dragging Damian into a soul-crushing, too-tight hug. The kind that only annoying older brothers can give. "Got it?"

That gets a proper, if short, laugh out of Damian. He wriggles in Danny's arms, trying to break free. But Danny does calisthenics, his arms are as big as Damian's head, so it doesn't work. "Understood, now, daeni 'adhhab ya 'akhi!"

Danny laughs, loud and bright, and loosens his hold just a smidge, only so he can adjust his grip and hop off the table with Damian still in arm.

"Never!" He crows, hoisting Damian slightly. One eye flick at the clock, and in one quick move, he secures Damian under one arm like a football, and hooks his foot under the strap of his backpack. Kicking it up, he tosses it into the air and catches it with his free hand, and slings it over his shoulder. "Now, to the car, my boy! Before we're late and Mom and Dad get charged."

Damian groans, childish and dramatic and long, but his face is all squished up with a wide grin and glee. Danny can taste his joy beneath his tongue.

"And, if my little pep talk didn't encourage you," He says, reaching the door to the garage, flipping Damian up onto his hip instead. "If you have a good day today, I'll make you bal mithai when you get back."

Like all kids at the promise of sweets, Damian's eyes widen and glitter. Danny loves seeing Damian be a kid, it's his favorite thing in the world. "I will!"

[arsenicflame]

It's a time-honoured tradition- every time Sam comes across Izzy (and Ed) in their travels, he asks Izzy to marry him. And every time, Izzy turns him down.

At this point, Sam is asking more for the sake of it than any belief Izzy will ever say yes, a remnant of childhood dedication touched with 30 years of heartbreak and regret- though even now, a small part of him still holds out hope. Sam's promises have only got more extravagant over the years, from a job as his first mate, to a captaincy, a fleet at his command, a whole fucking island if that's what Izzy wants- but he knows it isn't though, not really. If Izzy was ever going to agree to marry him, to leave his life and go with Sam, it wouldn't be for anything Sam could offer him. Izzy never did care for flashy shows of wealth, for a ship or to be captain. The only thing that ever mattered to him was loyalty given, and loyalty shown in return. 

It all comes to a head after Stede left and came back, after Izzy lost a toe, lost his leg. Sam hasn't seen him since before things with Ed started to really slide off the rails, before stress permanently set into the lines of Izzy’s face. So, when he sees a dishevelled man with a hoof for a leg in a no-name port, he doesn't even consider the idea that he might know him. It's only when he turns towards him, and Sam catches a glance at those oh too familiar tattoos, he realises this is Izzy, his Izzy, that stands before him.

Knowing Izzy's discomfort with pity, he doesn't treat him any differently than he would in years gone by, positioning himself in Izzy's line of sight before approaching and sweeping him up into a bone crushing hug. 

“Israel-goddamn-Hands!” he exclaims, as Izzy grumbles back a begrudging “Samuel-fucking-Bellamy”, a tradition almost as old as their friendship itself. Izzy might not hug him back, but he can’t keep the corner of his mouth from twitching, just for a second.

(If Sam holds Izzy a little tighter and a little longer than usual, well. That's his business)

By the time Sam lets go, most of the crew has appeared in the town square, drawn in by the commotion. They may have given Izzy his leg and welcomed him as one of them, but still there’s an underlying tension, with nobody quite ready to set aside everything that happened before the Kraken. Seeing him cosying up to an unknown man sets everyone on edge, unsure whether to come to their first mate’s aid, or to assume that they've been betrayed once again.

When Ed sees that the yelling was Sam, his hand goes tense where it's held in Stede's. He knows the routine, has seen it more times than he can count, but as he watches them part he realises that this is the first time in a long time he's unsure of what Izzy's response will be.

Knowing that something’s different, knowing that Izzy's feeling vulnerable already, Sam doesn't go for the same flashy proposal he’s been giving for years. He doesn't promise Izzy the world, he doesn't cause a scene (or, any more of a scene than he already has, anyway). He looks at the fractured man in front of him, takes his face in his hands, and says the exact same thing to him he said when they were little more than boys. “Israel, I have to ask you. I know what you'll say, but I have to try. Come with me. Marry me and sail away with me. I'll keep you safe”

And Izzy… hesitates. He glances over at Ed, at Stede, and says to Sam “...We’re staying in port for a week. Ask me again then”

That's the moment Sam knows there is something deeply, horribly, wrong. He's not just looking at an Izzy who got seriously injured in a fight and is struggling to cope, this is something so much bigger than that- and that Ed has something to do with it. Izzy wouldn't even be considering leaving if he didn't. Whether it was negligence or something more sinister, Sam doesn't yet know, but he intends to find out.

[pettyprocrastination]

Leg Day

Pairing: Art Donaldson x Female Powerlifter!Reader

Summary: You first catch Art Donaldson's eye in the university gym when all you want to do is hit back and biceps before class, the tennis player finds himself quite caught in your physique.

Warnings: foul language, smut, oral (f receiving), Art eats pussy and likes your thighs a whole lot. Reader is described as muscular. One line describes reader as not looking like Tashi in terms of physique.

Word Count: 1k

Author's note: Forcing myself to get back into writing at the same time im forcing myself to get back to the gym :') take this lil ficlet as a sign of my love for those who still follow me on here lmaoo.

Art adored your thighs. 

You didn’t look like Tashi. Not that there was anything wrong with that in his mind, of course. But the physiques differed greatly. The star tennis player of Stanford had a lean build from her years of training and perfecting her sport. Long legs that covered the court in smooth strides and toned arms that delivered a vicious backhand. 

The same body he and Patrick had nearly shared that one fateful night in a dingey hotel room when they should have been sleeping before their match in the morning. The same body he had found his gaze lingering on a touch too long to be appropriate for his best friend's girlfriend. 

And the same body you called him out for drooling over in the campus gym when all you wanted to do was a simple arm workout before your 10 am. 

“So are you actually going to use the bench or are you just gonna sit on it and stare at her like a fucking creep for another twenty minutes?” 

You were not Tashi Duncan. 

Strong arms crossed over one another as you waited for him to either say something or move, neither of which his brain could comprehend as you stood before him expectantly. A powerful, if not a tad intimidating physique supported by thick, muscular quads built from years of lifting heavy in sweat-filled weight rooms since you were a little girl that grew tired of soccer. 

Then cheer. 

Then volleyball. 

The gymnastics. 

Powerlifting was the one sport that finally stuck. 

“It makes me feel strong.” You had explained your love for the sport to him one night. With his head laying in your lap, the textbook he had carried with him to your dorm under the excuse of needing help studying now laid discarded on your floor as he listened to your story. “Seeing how much I can lift, how it feels to finally make a weight you’ve been struggling with for so long. It feels like you’re proving something, you know? Especially when you’re one of the only girls in the weight room.” 

Art could feel the testament to your craft under him. The thick corded muscle of your quads beneath his head as your fingers carded through his hair absentmindedly. Legs that were hugged by every pair of shorts you wore or hidden beneath the same pair of Stanford sweatpants whenever you felt a chill in the air. He found himself dreading the coming of winter as the two of you began to spend more time together. 

He wasn’t sure when the admiration began to shift into something deeper, slowly turning from one athlete showing respect for another’s commitment to their sport into a hormonal college freshman staring at your ass in spandex shorts each time he bumped into you at the campus gym. 

What he did know was that the night he finally found himself between your legs was one he would never forget. How quickly the pair of you shed your clothes in one anothers embrace, turning your room into nothing more than a collection of discarded study packets and kicked off Stanford merch telling the story that Art would no doubt replay in his mind for the entirety of winter break. 

The soft smile on your face as he crawled on top of you, pressing fervent kisses to every inch of your body that you would allow him access. How he memorized each microscopic reaction, that a kiss to your neck would make you giggle but turn into a shuddering gasp if he dug his teeth into the skin. How you softened in his arms when he ran his tongue along the scar lining your hip, one he would have to ask you about someday. 

But dear God, he could write poetry about your legs. 

The feeling of them wrapping around his head while he lapped at your cunt with tentative kitten licks that soon turned into devouring you with a desperation that could no doubt be heard through the walls. Your muscles twitching and trembling from his touch as you cried out his name with an arched back and scrambling hands, desperately trying to reach him until you found purchase in his soft curls, gripping just tight enough to verge on being painful. His own moans mixing with yours, poor bastard getting so lost in giving you pleasure he didn't even realize when he began to grind his hips into your mattress, desperately searching for a release while helping you reach your own. 

To hear your voice pitch into an airy whine as your thighs tightened around his head. Tighter and tighter as he pushed you over the edge of your orgasm, hips twitching against his mouth still working away against your dripping cunt in a way that verged on being gluttonous until you pulled him away with a sharp tug on his hair. 

In the aftermath, a silence settled over the two of you like a soft blanket. Spit-slicked lips laid feather-light kisses against the still twitching muscles of your thighs, pressing against the blooming bite marks that he knew would just barely peek out from the cuff of your shorts you wore during your morning training sessions. A minuscule stake of claim that he had no business branding you with given that he was too chickenshit to take you out on a real date. 

Had you opened your eyes, you’d see that his were already trained on you with a softness you weren’t yet ready to see. Admiring the rise and fall of your chest with a faint smile on his face and the desire to take you out properly. To scrounge up enough money from his bank account after the room & board payments bleed him dry to some small burger shop or maybe the local theater to see you outside of the walls of your dorm or the university gym, wearing something nice and laughing at his jokes before kissing him goodnight. To sit in the stands of his next match as his girlfriend and congratulate him on his win with an overly obnoxious kiss that he would swear was humiliating but made him preen under your praise like a peacock during mating season. To do all of the downright nauseatingly romantic bullshit every nineteen year old boy wanted to do with the girl he was too afraid to actually make a move on. 

But not yet. 

“Have you ever considered wrestling? You’ve got a killer leg lock.”

[spellboundcities]

Here's what I've been up to btw

[disco-archetypes]

VOLITION - I have bad news for you.

YOU - What?

VOLITION - You know these guys?

LOGIC - Who, me?

DRAMA - Yes, you. He's talking about you, you boring stiff.

VOLITION - You too.

DRAMA - Me? What did I do? I'm merely a master thespian...

VOLITION - These guys are compromised. She's got them singing along to her tune. The little bleeps and bloops you trust for info -- you can't trust them anymore.

YOU - Oh my god.

VOLITION - Believe it.

YOU - Which ones exactly are affected?

VOLITION - There's no way of knowing. At the moment I'm afraid it's best to assume...

VOLITION - ...*all* of them.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY - Bullshit, man, I ain't *compromised*.

VOLITION - *Especially* that guy. That guy's the most compromzised one in here.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY - No fucking way, man, I just want a drag of that sweet Menthol ziggie.

VOLITION - Really? Quick, tell me what's under her jumpsuit?

ELECTROCHEMISTRY - GLORY. TRUTH. SOFTNESS. PROTECT HER. SHE WANTS YOU.

VOLITION - I take it back. He's got it pretty bad, but this *next guy's* on another level entirely...

SUGGESTION - She likes you. The Crownhead is a boring condom. He's jealous. This is human nature.

[jadecantcreate]

in the whitchlite carinval. straight up “caking it.” and by “it”, haha, well. lets justr say. My chad

(some gideon exploration & little doodles)

[pathetichimbos]

childhood best friends AU but every out of towner sees the reader and Thomas and assumes that Thomas is the one they should be scared of when in reality almost everyone in town has gotten their ass beat by the reader for being mean to him aka Thomas has scary dog privileges

>>>tw: canon typical insults; aka use of r-slur - also not a tw but f!reader ok thank ily bye<<<

---

It's secret to no one. It's no surprise, no new revelation.

It's common knowledge, something no one even bothers to mention, like how the Browns got their money from a hospital scandal, or the Miller's daughter is on drugs. Just another unspoken rule, like how you shouldn't go to the desolate dirt road just outside of town after 9 o'clock, or into the woods around the farm land when the thing no one sees starts screaming into the night.

Or at least, it's common knowledge in town. So, it really couldn't be his fault, could it?

He was new, just some common Joe that had transferred over from a couple towns over to work at the slaughterhouse when demands got high.

He managed to make friendly with the older generation still running the factory and got along with almost all of the younger men that had joined straight out of high school.

He caught on quick to the unspoken social hierarchy around town, already having a similar one in his own hometown.

He knew who to stick with, and he knew who to avoid, but the one thing he didn't know, the one unspoken rule he didn't catch onto, is that no one bullies Thomas Hewitt.

He had never met him, not formally. He heard his name in passing, and it only took one look at the towering masked man to figure out who he was, and even less time to realize that he didn't want to meet him.

No one spoke to him, and he didn't speak to anyone. He was avoided, and feared. It was easy to see why.

Not only did Thomas look like he could snap a grown man in half with his bare hands, but he was quiet, and weird, nobody seemed to like him. And what better way to get on everyone's good side than by targeting the person no one liked?

So, he starts talking about Thomas behind his back. It's easy, and most people will join in after checking the corners and making sure he's no where in sight.

Damn, He thinks, People must really be afraid of him.

And that leads to another thought. Another very stupid, soon to be regretted, thought.

Let's see how tough this guy really is.

So, one day, in the late afternoon of the scorching Texas Summer, while everyone from the first shift is heading out, back to their respective houses, he sees an opportunity.

There sits Thomas, all alone, on a bench in front of the factory. He seems to be lost in thought, staring at the ground while he apparently waits. For what, the man doesn't care enough to think about.

He stops in his tracks, tapping the arm of one of his buddies, and gestures to Thomas, who either hasn't noticed them, or simply hasn't acknowledged the group.

"Look at this guy," He smirks, his voice well loud enough for Thomas to hear, "He waitin' on his Mommy to come pick him up or some shit?"

The other guy doesn't really react, seemingly uncomfortable with his joke.

"Don't tell me that retard done gave whatever the hell he has." He comments on the man's silence, failing to read the room completely.

Thomas shifts in his seat, letting out a discouraged sigh as he continues looking at the ground, this time looking farther away from the group, his fists clenching in his lap, flexing in frustration.

"What? Cat got your tongue?" He shoves his friend in the arm a bit, looking between him and Thomas, "Or you afraid that freak's gonna get a hold of it?"

"Drop it, man..." He waves him off.

"Why should I? He ain't gonna do shit--"

"Tommy!" He hears you before he sees you, looking over just in time to catch glimpse of you happily jogging over to Thomas, "You waited for me!"

Thomas seems to relax at your presence, nodding as he stands to his full height.

"How was your day?" You ask, standing on your toes to wrap your arms around his neck.

He meets you halfway, leaning down and wrapping his arms around your waist, burying his face in your neck and letting out a sigh of relief.

"Oh, Tommy you stink." There's a playfulness in your voice as you scrunch your face, hit with the stench of the slaughterhouse that will most definitely linger on your clothes.

He lets out a small chuckle as the two of you pull away, looking down at you.

The man is stunned, completely caught off guard by the sight of someone like you even associating with a man like Thomas.

"Holy shit," He looks back to his buddies, "Who the hell is that?"

"That's Thomas'." His friend simply replies, already knowing what's going through the man's head. He doesn't seem to catch the underlying warning that came with those words.

"What is someone like her doing with something like him?"

"I'm tellin' you man, drop it. She ain't worth the trouble."

"Oh, yea? What's that big freak gonna do? Stop me?"

Finally having enough with his antics, the other men dismiss him, heading back to their own vehicles to head home after a hard day's work.

He, however, takes it upon himself to saunter his way over to your side.

"Well, hey there, Missy..." He starts, clearly ignoring the way Thomas' hands are currently resting on your hips, and yours on his chest, "What's got you so far out this way?"

You blink for a few seconds, looking at the guy is disbelief. Was he really asking why you're here?

"...To walk home with my husband." You deadpan, not missing the way Thomas' grip tightens on you, or the small growl that escapes him.

"Husband?" He raises an eyebrow, looking between the two of you, "Come on, girl, you don't really expect me to believe you actually married a thing like him." He paints his last word with disgust.

It's your turn to raise your eyebrows, tilting your head as you look at him, "A 'thing'?"

"Well, yea..." He seems caught off guard by your reaction, "Don't tell me you actually like him?"

You let out a sigh, your hand tapping Thomas' chest once as you look back up at him, "Thomas, baby, can you go inside and call Charlie? I think I'd like to get a ride today instead of walking."

He gives you a knowing look, shaking his head a bit.

"No, no, it'll be fine, I promise. Just go call him for me please?"

Thomas looks between you and the man, and pulls away with a sigh, walking back into the slaughterhouse.

Now even more confused, the man watches Thomas walk away, completely bewildered by what just happened. Was he missing something, or did he just get really, really lucky?

"Let me ask you something," You catch his attention, your hand coming up to brush over his hair briefly, "...Did your Mama ever teach you manners?"

Thomas isn't even surprised when he comes back outside to find the man sprawled on the ground, crying out as you stand bent over him, his ear caught between your fingers.

"Don't you know it's rude to call people names?" You ask him sternly, "Do you want me to call you names? Is that what you want? Do you want me to start calling you names too?"

"Let me go, you stupid bitch!" He yells, gripping at your wrist, each move he makes only twisting his ear harder in your grip.

You push down a little more, rubbing his face in the dirt, "That's not what I asked."

"No, no, I don't want you to call me names--!"

"Exactly! So what made you think it was okay to start calling him names? Did you think it was funny?"

"Y-Yes, I thought it was funny--!

"Do you think this is funny?"

"No!"

"Say you're sorry."

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, just let me go--!"

"Like you mean it."

"I'm sorry--!"

A hand on your shoulder catches your attention as you look up, seeing Thomas giving you a deadpan look.

"Okay..." You sigh, letting the man's ear go and standing up straight.

"Oh, you fucking bitch..." He clings to his burning ear, pushing himself up.

"Did you call Charlie?" You ignore him, turning back to Thomas.

He nods, looking back to the man still seething on the ground.

"Ok, let's walk up the road til we see him." You take his hand, pulling his attention back to you.

He nods again, giving your hand a squeeze as you start walking away, continuing on with your day as if nothing had happened.

After all, it's common knowledge, right?

[recareels]

getting emotional over the fact that mr reca really would guide you, just as a good director is supposed to, but would still retain the authority to make executive decisions if he felt your choices were not beneficial to your film (life) or your growth as an actor (person)

[trickclouds]

I think you like Isabeau

I don’t know what you’re talking about dear sibling [:

[fluentisonus]

chiens-loups