#don't rag on me i was like... a child

[uncanny-tranny]

What some people don't realize is that some trans people don't know they were trans as kids, but not for the reasons you might think...

Like when I was a kid, I would watch movies with women in them and I'd be like, "okay, I guess I'm a straight guy. These are very heterosexual feelings," and that was the end of it. What I didn't think was that that made me trans, because as far as I cared, I started life as a straight little boy.

[subaru-meteorlight]

I thought I made good progress today but checked a video and what the fuck I'm not even halfway through. God bless. On one hand yesss I have SOOO much phainon content to look forward to on the other hand dear god that is a lot. Not complaining at all tho I'm excited... tho to be fair a good chunk of my progress today was spent exploring the city and I got all the chests... huge sprawling cities are always my fav maps, penacony golden hour is still peakest of peak cities to me but okhema is lots of fun too~

I gotta lock in... in preparation for maxing aven I had cleared all the content in the game up until when shackling prison released where aven stopped getting screentime and I was like what's the point of anything anymore BUT with phainon coming dear god I need to get back on the damn grind

[nsharks]

bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part thirty-five —other parts

pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader words: 5.8k tags: death. blood and gore. zombies of course. AFAB reader. single dad ghost. enemies to lovers. menstruation. harm to a child. summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival.

Jagged rock burns into your palms. Slapping a hand up, you feel for the grassy ledge, barely visible in the darkness. You heft the backpack over it before managing to pull yourself up, landing on your stomach with a grunt through your teeth. The sneakers you scavenged from the closet are tight around your toes—better than Salome's thin shoes, but still far from pleasing as you stand and press on towards the road.

Moonlight guides you north. 

Not long until sunrise, judging by the sky.

Small white clouds puff around your mouth as the chilled air brushes the damp spot on your too-big jeans, the cuffs rolled and the waist cinched to keep them from slipping. You couldn't leave in the middle of the night, so you held a mug of water as a makeshift alarm. The moment sleep tried to steal you, the splash on your thigh ended it abruptly. 

You'd woken Blue up to tell her. At first, grey eyes scolded you in the dark. She looked away, ready to argue, before quietly reciting instead: the house they kept her in, the layout, any hiding places she may have seen.

"What about her?" you had asked. "Anything important to her. She probably saw antibiotics as a gift from God or something."

"Yeah. She would've," Blue muttered. "She liked to knit. And, um, talked about birds. Her husband owned the whole place, but he died. I don't know if any of that helps."

"It does. It's better than nothing." You gave her hand a squeeze. "Make sure he eats again. And check his back. You might need to drain it. You know how now, right? Nereida could—"

"I've got it." She slipped her hand away. "Just—don't do anything stupid, okay?"

"Of course not."

Sneaking out had been easy—only because Nereida was on watch. You slipped out the back and wove through the tall grass, barely stirring the stalks. Price would've caught you for sure. But you made it across the creek with nothing more than the slow unrolling of your jeans to slow you down, the cuffs dragging in the water and soaking through. You rolled them back up, but a kilometer up the road, they've slouched back down, heavy and clinging to your legs.

Time is an enemy you've already lost a day to. With a sigh, you drop onto the hood of a rusted car, pull the knife from your waist, and hack at the fabric’s ends. A serrated blade would make this easier. The hems are jagged, but at least they won’t get in the way.

Ghost’s fever is bad, but the real threat is sepsis—the blood poisoning, organ failure, the things you haven’t told Blue. At best, he has a week. At worst, another day. The thought has you scrubbing a hand over your tired eyes before pushing off the car. You toss the cut scraps into the grass just as a disturbance prickles the back of your neck.

You whirl around, dropping the knife in favor of the pistol. 

"Just me."

"Jesus. Kyle. I was ready to shoot."

"Honorable of you to give me a quick one."

You huff, bend for the knife, and slip it back at your waist.

He closes the gap, rifle and backpack slung over his shoulders. 

"Why wouldn't you tell anyone?" His brows lower. "I went to feed him, and Blue said you’d gone back. Hell of a surprise."

You give him your back. "I've already wasted time. I knew what you'd say."

"And what exactly did you think I'd say?" A hand on your shoulders pries you back around.

Your eyes drift up to his, narrow, then veer to the side. "That it's a long shot."

"Yeah, it is." His hand drops. He brushes past you with a sigh, long and ragged, adjusting the rifle on his back. "Come on, then. You're not the only one who gives a shit about him."

There isn't anything to be said as you trudge beside him, no argument able to form. You know his company is invaluable. Gratitude is still hard to find, even when he prevents you from going the wrong way. "We turned here last time." Apparently you hadn't paid much mind. The road fills the gaps of silence, dawn breathing life into the buzz of cicadas. Long drags of air fill your lungs: sweet flowers only, until, something else. A waft of charred meat.

"You should eat."

Kyle extends a piece of squirrel. Despite the twinge in your stomach, you brush him off. "While they were starving you, we were getting stuffed. Fatten the mares, get a strong foal—all that."

His jaw ticks. "Ah."

"Damn good food, too."

"Lucky you."

"Lucky us."

Conversation shrinks to a brief exchange of what Blue said. He doesn't look convinced it'll help much. The stench doesn’t sour the air until the first sign for Fleurbaix rises at your right—like a breath in your face. Humidity clings to it, thick and unmoving, until there’s nothing else to breathe. In the sunlight, familiar stone walls and red-shingled rooftops repulse you, almost more than the sight of aimless Greys—some weaving between clotheslines, most trapped within the fenced pasture. The cows, however, have already fled through a broken gap, eager to escape uphill.

"They should've lost interest by now. The blood isn't fresh," you mutter.

"Humidity. Less evaporation, more smell." He nods the tip of his rifle. "Over there. That one has a wraparound porch like Blue said."

The view vanishes behind overgrown trees as you crest a hill, descending toward the commune. Kyle motions you forward, weaving through structures, keeping clear of the Greys. As long as they can’t scent you, they will stay distracted. You step over a few stray bodies, faces picked apart by crows that scatter at your approach. Clinging to a stone wall as you follow, a bony hand bursts forth from a window—Kyle knifes its skull before it can grab you.

Other than that, there aren't any close calls.

You reach the house that fits Blue's description.

The door is wide open.

Kyle sweeps in with the poised rifle.

You are greeted by an already ransacked interior. Tipped chairs, half-yanked cabinets, tossed couch cushions. A sick understanding settles at your fingertips, curling them around the gun. 

"They were here. The women. They knew she would've hidden them."

More signs that this is just a dead end; a waste of precious time.  

Kyle lowers the guns and presses forward into the hall. "That doesn't mean they found what they were looking for. Check the rooms."

Maman's house is as expected, even in disarray. Quiet and balmy. You kick open the first door. Polished wood, gold-embellished hinges, a closet stuffed with white gowns. A knitting bag catches your eye. You sift through it, tossing out balls of red yarn. Nothing.

More nothing under the bed. 

You tear the painting from the wall, only solid stone behind it.

A family photo thrashes to the floor beneath a swipe of your fist. You find Kyle in the other room, where a smaller bed is tucked beneath a window—the sight makes it hard to breathe for a moment. The blood stain on the sheets. Somehow you know whose it is. Your stomach rips at itself. You force yourself to look away before you lose it. 

"The floorboards. They didn't look under them. Help me."

He raps the butt of the rifle against the wood. A hollow echo near the doorway offers promise. A knife jammed between the planks pries them apart. When you sink to your knees, all that fills your hands are stashes of faded euros. No pills, no vials. 

You rip up the notes and let the shreds feather through the air, leaning back on your palms as a quiet hiss leaves your teeth. "Where did you put them you vile, ugly, goddamn hag."

"Maybe her son kept them," Kyle murmurs, threading a hand through his hair. "He had the guns."

"No." Your voice is firm. You stand and pace. "She would've wanted them close to her. Antibiotics—she was saving that for the women. The births."

You reach for your knife and stab the mattress, slicing it open. Springs and foam. Books maybe. You run back to the shelf in the hall and rip them one at a time, flipping them open to see if any were hollowed out. Even the Bible is just a book. 

What else?

What else?

"How much time are we willing to spend looking for them, Twix?" he asks lowly behind you. "Maybe we check somewhere else. A town."

"They'd have picked them clean years ago." You toss the Bible to the floor with a thud. "This was our best bet. We had them. We fucking had them."

"And now we don’t. We can’t keep tearing this place apart. We focus on keeping him stable—keep the wounds clean, use what we’ve got. He’s made it this far without them. We just need to buy him more time. There might be another stash in one of the other houses."

You lean against the wall, eyes fluttering shut briefly. A deep inhale. "There's just—something I'm missing."

"Twix—" He sighs, running a hand down his face. "Alright. Let's do another sweep. I'll check the floors in the living room."

Thoughts race. A frothy tide refusing to settle. You press your thumb to the scabbed cut on your wrist, the sting sharpening your mind. Back in the cell. Morning sun slanting through the window. Obsessively studying what’s around you. Replaying everything you learned about that woman. A dead woman. If you could’ve told the Greys to hold off, let her speak before they tore through her neck, you would have.

In the midst, a dove’s call breaks through—three notes, too close in your ear. You must be imagining it, but Alexandre’s voice stirs in your head: La tourterelle chante pour toi.

He said that when he heard the dove.

Why?

Birds.

She talked about birds.

You push off the wall and follow the sound to the room where they kept Blue. The coo draws you to the windowsill by the bed, where the glass is cracked just enough for the curtains to stir, the stench outside seeping in. Twin beady eyes snap to yours, a mechanical tilt of its neck. A collared dove, you think. Paul used to rise early to listen to them.

"Where are they?" you press lowly, accusing. "You know, don't you?"

The bird doesn’t answer, only flutters down from the sill.

Your fingers grip the edge of the window as you kneel on the ruined mattress. Below, the bird perches in the flower box—no flowers, just dried weeds and a nest of twigs.

"Tell me." It watches the whisper curl from your lips. "Tell me, or I’ll rip apart your home."

It flutters off. Your arm lunges after it, clawing at the nest in blind retaliation. Twigs snap. Dirt kicks up into your eyes. You blink hard to clear it. A strangled sound catches in your throat—half a curse, half a cry. Then, something strange beneath. Sharp rust that makes you freeze.

You sweep debris off the top of a—a lock box—loosely buried within the soil. A breath lodges in your throat as you claw at the dirt, dragging the rusted metal loose, launching backward on the bed with it clutched in both hands. It can't be real. You give the box a sharp shake. Something rattles inside, and your chest tightens.

"Kyle!"

Thunderous slaps of his boots echo down the hall. He rushes in, scanning you with a sweep of his gaze.

"No, I'm—this is locked." You tug at the bolted metal. "Can you open it?" 

He doesn't question it. Relief flickers across his face, quickly replaced by grim determination. He raises the rifle and slams the butt against the lock. A sharp clang echoes, metal chipping but holding. Exhaling through his nose, he adjusts his grip. You meet his eyes and nod—keep going.

He hammers at the lock, pausing only to yank at it, testing for weakness. You wipe dirt from your jeans, watching. Whatever she buried here—it mattered. It had to. A dove lands on the windowsill, but movement beyond it sends your pulse spiking above the sharp cut of metal.

Greys.

When did they—

"Shit, shit, shit." You lurch from the bed. 

He stops, yanking up the rifle to jut it toward the window, shooting a snarling one that clambers up on the porch. It flails back, revealing more alike behind it—many more—shambling out from wherever they'd been lingering. "Fuck—how!" He tucks the lock box under his armpit and grabs your wrist. "Come on."

The living room windows reveal just how many have begun to close in around the house. Faster ones are already at the front door, clawing at the wood. Kyle swears, yanking you toward the bathroom—higher ground, a window above the porcelain tub. He slams it open with the rifle, then hands instantly find your waist to lift you. You shed the backpack, pulling it through behind your feet to squeeze through blindly.

"Anything to climb?" he barks.

You look up. "A gutter!"

You grab it and tighten your core, hoisting yourself up as your sneakers scrape against the siding, the moans below growing louder as they round the corner of the porch. Your palms press into exposed rafters, the gutter serving as a shaky foothold, but the last push onto the roof eludes you.

A firm shove at your thighs sends you over. You scramble up, steadying yourself before glancing back.

Kyle is halfway up, rappelling fast—until a bony hand clamps around his ankle, yanking him downward. Disoriented from the rush, you slap for the gun at your waist, firing wildly—two bullets wasted before one lands, shattering the Grey's skull with a squeal.

He throws the lockbox. You catch it just as he hauls himself onto the shingles.

Your head reels as you watch Kyle drop to one knee and start picking them off. Four, maybe five drop with ease, but the rest move erratically—jolting, frantic. He slows, trying to track their unpredictable movements, each shot requiring more precision. If you had your bow, you could help. But the pistol? You don't trust yourself.

He grunts in frustration, adjusts his stance, then reloads as he circles the perimeter of the roof. That’s when you feel it—not a hunger pang, but a deep, familiar ache, piercing low in your gut. Then something wet. Warm. A slow gush down your leg. Your breath stutters as you glance down at the stain blooming red across your thigh.

"It's me," you say.

"What?"

"Fuck, it's me they smell. My period."

His gaze drops to your body, widening when he sees the evidence. You should feel exposed, but you don’t. The thought slams into your brain at the same time your hands move—unbuttoning, yanking at the fly. The moans below swell.

"We can use it. Look away."

His eyes snap back to yours, then dart away with a sharp exhale. "Christ."

You’re already shoving them down, tugging at the loose, borrowed underwear clinging to your hips. Gathering the fabric, you swipe at the blood slick on your thigh, pressing it deeper into the fabric. "It can buy us time—but not much."

You yank the jeans back up. You roll the underwear into a ball. Kyle looks over.

"There—throw it toward that house. The door’s open. If enough go inside, it might trap some. Then we run back to the hill."

Just as quickly as the plan is formed, you hurl back your arm and launch the decoy as hard as you can. It lands in front of the next house, far enough to release the breath caged in your lungs as heads snap toward it, bodies lurching away. Kyle slings the rifle over his shoulder, grips your waist, and helps you down—but the moment he lets go to steady himself, your foot slips on the gutter.

You land roughly on your side and lose hold of the lockbox. All of the breath leaves your body as you scramble to grab it. A strong hand beneath your armpit tugs you back up, and then you're sprinting. A quick glance back shows most are drawn away, but a few still trail you. Kyle snatches the handgun from your waist mid-stride and fires, dropping two before they get too close.

You duck beneath clotheslines, weave through wash bins still brimming with water. Trample roses. The pulse pounding in your neck drowns out everything but the next shot Kyle fires—enough to throw off your step. You don’t see the one lunging until it slams into you from the side.

You feel the jolt of the fall before you fully register the thing wrestling on top of you. Hair whips into your mouth, rancid breath spilling hot across your cheek. The strength is wrong—too fresh, too human. The hands grabbing at you are still strangely soft. A distinct bulge presses you down. Then a glob of dark-tinged saliva splats onto your eye, blinding you before you can make sense of it.

It's only a second of fight before a shot to the skull sends pulpy blood and brain onto your face. 

The weight is torn away as you scrub at your eyes. Part of you already knows before you look at the limp corpse. Time congeals. Blonde hair fans over the grass, framing a pale face with white eyes. The slip dress—the same one you pulled over her head.

Her swollen belly.

You go rigid. Kyle has to yank hard to get you upright.

"Come on!"

"They left her."

The words spill numbly from your lips.

When he shoots another Grey, your wooden, puppet legs move. You leave the body of her behind, adrenaline numbing you. After what is realistically only minutes but feels like hours, the thick trees envelop you once again, and when you finally steal a glance, you can't see them anymore. They've lost your scent for now. Enough for you to pause against a tree, swallowing air to catch your breath. 

You walk deeper into the vegetation until Kyle feels satisfied enough to stop and retrieve a canister of water from his backpack. He offers it to you. It takes a moment to steady it at your lips, then your throat allows some down. But your stomach spasms almost instantly, and you are wrenching it back up at the base of a tree, crumpling to your knees.

"Shit."

Hands collect your hair.

A few more dry heaves consume you, until you're breathing harshly through a hanging mouth.

"No… They didn’t—" A hard swallow. "They let her out. She was in the cell."

"What?" His voice brushes your neck, touch halting at your shoulders. Realization softens his tone. "You knew her—the pregnant one."

You wipe your mouth and stand. His hands stay at your arms a beat too long, grip firm, like he’s waiting for something—an explanation you don’t give. You don’t meet his eyes. "We need to move."

Your stomach still aches, but you don't vomit again. You walk quickly out of the trees and to the road. 

The walk back is spent scanning more closely to see if you've drawn more with your smell. By the time you reach the cliff, midday swelters. Lightheadedness teeters your first attempt down. Kyle tosses the box and rifle to the bottom, then carries you on his back, your fingers interlocking to keep you secure like the backpack that hugs his chest. 

A stop at the creek allows a shaky handful of water to splash your face. Taking off your jeans to wash your blood-stained thighs feels too much of a task. Instead, you watch Kyle finally finish striking the lock, the metal giving way under his relentless grunts. 

"Do you want me to open it?" He glances at you.

A slow shake of your head. Your knees sink before it. Fingers hesitate at the latch. If this isn’t it—if it’s empty—you don’t know what comes next. What fills the space where the smallest sliver of hope has wedged itself in.

The scrape of rusted metal.

At first, all you see is cloth. A yellowed shade of white. A beat of nothing. Then, your hands move on their own accord, unwrapping the contents, brushing hard plastic. The faint rattle of capsules makes you inhale before you even read the first label: amoxicillin. You go still. Dig through for more. Four, five vials. Even more than what you had on you.

The run back to the house is a battle against your own legs.

The smell of blood hits first—thick, metallic. Not human. A quick glance confirms it, Price carving up a hefty cattle he must've found.

He's saying something, to Kyle maybe. You don’t pause.

The front door swings open.

Blue—

She slams into you, arms locking tight, breath knocked from your lungs.

"I saw you from the window."

"You shouldn’t be on your feet," you manage.

She looks down. At your hand. At the pills.

Her voice trembles. "You… you found it?"

You nod.

Up the stairs. Blue tugging at your sleeve. Kyle's steps audible behind you. The bedroom waits. Stale air. Ghost—he's lying on his stomach the way you left him, but a smother of something sticky glistens on his back. 

"Honey," Blue mumbles, wincing as she lowers on the bed. "Ari... he found a hive. I was just about to put clean bandages, too. It helps, right?"

"Not as much as this should help."

Kyle begins lifting him.

"He was up for a bit, but he was... talking weird," Blue whispers as you kneel at Ghost's side, fight the shake in your hand to unscrew the cap. "He asked if you were sleeping outside—like, out loud, to himself. Then he kept saying ‘sparks’ and ‘Washington.’ Do you know what that means?"

The words barely register anything but confusion and the fact that he is even worse. It's Kyle who answers under his breath. "No clue." His gets Ghost upright without disturbing his wounds, steadying a hand at the back of his skull. 

When your thumb presses at his bottom lip, the dry, cracked skin resists. As you try to pry it apart, his eyes flicker open—unfocused. Dilated pupils shift to yours.

"I need you to open," you whisper around the tightness in your throat. "It's amoxicillin. We've got it."

Overgrown hair clings to his forehead, thick and unruly. Sharp stubble scrapes your hand as you try again to open his mouth. Labored breaths hit your knuckles, unnervingly hot, along with a release of words he murmurs through his teeth. "There you are... again. 

Your teeth graze your cheek. "Here I am. Now open, please."

He does—barely. The chalky pill makes it to his tongue. The rest blurs.

Waking up on edge is nothing new.

At first, you keep your eyes shut—squeezing them until the backs turn red. Then, true consciousness jolts through your limbs, setting a heavy heartbeat between your ears. Light floods your vision. Soft cheeks. Pink lips, pursed. Brows knitted tight.

"You make the strangest faces in your sleep sometimes."

"I..."

"Water?"

"Please," you croak.

Pins and needles prickle your fingers as you lift your head. A mug presses to your blistered lips, gentle fingers stroking the greasy hair at your temple. The gulp of water almost makes you moan. You're ready to down the entire things until it's pulled away.

"You're gonna throw up again if you keep going."

You lick your lips. "What?"

"You've been passed out for two days," Blue explains. "Except for when we tried to get you to eat and drink, but that was a fucking struggle. Nereida says you overworked yourself. Not enough sleep and water can kill you, you know." Her brow arches. "I told you not to do anything stupid, but I guess you've been doing that."

Two days.

You inhale through lungs that feel primitive. 

"He—"

"Before you ask, yes. We've been giving him the meds. Morning and evening. His fever finally went down last night. He's been out since."

Your eyes finally drift to the other side of the bed. A steady rise and fall presses warmth into the sheets. You scramble up, reaching over—his cheek meets your palm, warm, but not alarmingly so. Normal, almost. A faint flush dusts his skin, the color creeping back in. His back is freshly bandaged, but his eyelids still bear the violet tinge of exhaustion.

"It's helping." The words press into your teeth. 

The rest of the day passes in gentle fragments. 

A bowl of fire-braised beef pressed into your hands. You eat without tasting, slow chewing through lush fat, while Price and Kyle pore over a more detailed almanac they found in the house. The food settles heavy, to the point of discomfort, but stays down. 

Later, you wade into the creek with Nereida. She was the one who changed you while you were out—scrubbing the dirt from your legs, tucking fresh towels and a new pair of underwear beneath you. You only realize she added rosemary when a sprig falls out as you undress.

You listen to her talk. You don’t tell her about Salome. No. You keep it to yourself. The water is warm. At first, you don’t feel it. But as it swallows your shins and carries away ribbons of dried blood, the gentle current soothes, taking the edge off the sun, which turns the rocks along the bank scorching hot. Birds call from the trees—you don’t know what kind. Worm-like minnows tickle your sore toes.

Back at the house, you sit on the porch to wring out your hair. You catch Ari carrying Blue through the garden, her head tucked against his shoulder, bandaged feet dangling over the arm that hooks under her knees. They whisper about something. His steps are slow, pausing by a beautiful patch of flowers that, apparently, smell rancid by the way she leans in and recoils, making a face. When you look away, Kyle is staring at you across the grass as he hangs strips of beef over a tree branch to dry. 

You should thank him. For not letting you do the stupid thing alone. But instead, you shift your gaze to the sun and watch its slow descent on your own, studying the way it casts an orange glow across the wild growth. It's the sudden assault of dark clouds that send everyone inside. A summer rain that bursts down without warning, without mercy. 

It hasn't relented by the time you fix a bowl of meat for Ghost. He has yet to ingest anything but bone broth and some plum juice according to Blue and Nereida. You chew off little pieces of the least fattiest parts into a bowl and give it to Blue. You go with her to feed him but stop short, keeping your distance. You simply watch from across the room as he manages to sit up on his own despite swaying, brushing away Price's helping arm, and chewing slowly with great effort. His eyes, focused and clear, flit upward to yours. You hold them for a moment, until the pull in your chest turns intolerable, and you look down at his bandaged shoulder instead. 

"Tastes good?" Blue murmurs, brushing the hair from his forehead.

He hums. 

"How do you feel?"

He swallows, then lifts a hand to her hair, thumbing at it. "Young again."

She places her hand over his, biting a smile. "You're so annoying."

She wipes at her eyes. 

Instead of easing, the rain intensifies as the night deepens. Distant thunder rolls closer, flashing into overhead lightning that only sharpens your edge. Blue spends the night with Ari in the living room, where Kyle helped them set up a small fort of blankets and pillows—a small distraction, but one she could use. It takes a nudge from you to push past her hesitation, to convince her it’s okay to leave Ghost’s side, just for a little while.

"It's good to have some space, if you need it."

That leaves you alone in the bedroom with him. He knocked out again after eating. You redo his bandages, relieved to find the wounds free of pus. New scabs have begun to form, fragile but promising.

But you can't lay down. You try—perch at the edge of the bed, press your palms into the mattress—then you're back on your feet.

The walls feel too close. The air too thick. His steady breathing should ground you, should ease something inside you, but it doesn’t. The storm is unyielding, pressing against the house, rattling the windows. It drives your nails into your palms, into the raw skin around them. A string ties itself around your ankles, pulling one foot in front of the other until you're in the hallway, hand blindly skimming the wall to guide you to the spiral staircase.

Upward.

The library. You don’t even realize you’ve come here until you freeze at the top of the stairs, staring at the wreckage left behind by your hands. Books lie scattered across the floor, pages severed and crumpled. A curtain rod rests askew, displaced in the quiet ruin.

When you finally move, it’s a mindless ordeal. The motions of putting the room back together—guided only by the stray flash of lightning—steal any thoughts before they can form. You kneel, gently stacking books against your chest, slotting them one by one back onto the oak shelves. Embellished spines offer familiar titles, even in French. A lot of Jane Austen.

"No Hemingway, huh?" you whisper, swiping a finger through the blanket of dust before bending for more books. You reach the last shelf, lips twitching. "I'm fixing you. Happy now?"

Of course, no answer. Only the faint slide of leather against the wood. 

He’s in the room before you notice.

The presence registers as a skim along the back of your neck.

But you don’t turn, hand freezing after you release Le Comte de Monte-Cristo, then dropping limp at your side. You know it’s him. You feel it in the shift of the air, the weight of it settling differently around you. More so in the slow, deliberate footfalls, each one measured, as if testing the ground. And if none of that gives him away, the warmth of his breath—heavy, uneven—spilling over your scalp does. It sinks into your skin when he reaches you, winds through your veins, curls your toes against the floor until they hurt.

You try to inhale, but the breath snags, fracturing in your throat. "You shouldn’t be up."

"I shouldn't."

His hand lifts, knuckles skimming the flannel draped over your frame before grazing your neck with a slow, unhurried sweep of his thumb. It trails down your arm, pausing at the last book in your grasp. He takes it from you—or maybe it slips from your weak grip. You can't tell.

With a deep breath, he reaches the shelf above you. The book doesn't fit at first, his hand unsteady, struggling to align it. A final rough shove of his knuckles forces it into place. He’s close. You knew he was, but now his scent wraps around you—mossy, salty, earth that you fall face-first into. His chest skims your spine. An elbow grazes your ear as he finishes.

And then he turns you.

His fingers curl around your shoulder, guiding you until you're facing him. Your feet slide to follow, reluctant and all too willing. Storm-filtered light catches on the sharp cut of his jaw, casting it in shadow. You brace yourself. An unformed breath fills your chest. You're unable to meet his eyes—though you feel them, tracing every inch of your face.

Wordless, he takes hold of your wrist. You don’t understand why until he cradles it in his rough palm, between your chests. His chapped lips lower to the tail-end of the healing cut, light enough not to stir pain.

His lips move.

But you don't.

It's as if every function of your brain is funneled into the nerves beneath each kiss he trails up your forearm. Soft, unwavering, yet each one lingering for a beat longer than the last. The next one lands at the crease in your elbow. A breath finally rushes out of your nose when he reaches the top of your shoulder, close enough to the pounding artery in your neck to invite heat over your cheeks. A strange heat. The same temperature of the moisture that begins to cloud your vision. 

You tremble. "Ghost, I—" 

You make a last-ditch effort to clutch the hem of his jeans before your knees can waver, his mouth finding your throat. He kisses the part of it that bobs. Then pulls away just enough to cup your face between his hands, forcing your gaze to his. What you are met with is twin, black eyes. They unnerve you. Like the ground beneath your feet, it feels like they might swallow you whole and spit you out. 

You can't breathe. The shaking is uncontrollable. Rapid blinks dispel the moisture in your eyes before you're gasping, pressing into him. "Please... please. Ghost, I—" you choke, "Please, I just—"

You sound scared, even to your own ears. Like you might get hurt if you he doesn't give you what you're asking for. But you don't know what you're asking for—don't understand why the soft kisses he places on your forehead and cheeks feel like too much and not enough at the same time. You clasp his wrist to pull his hands off your face, nails piercing into the skin there. He allows it—you hurting him—even when almost his entire upper half is swathed in bandages. 

"You're shaking," he murmurs.

"I'm fine." You exhale, but it’s uneven, shaky in its own right. "I just need—"

His thumb presses under your chin in attempt to still you.

A swallow forces down the lump in your throat. The ghost of an inhale. Then you lunge, kissing him. Not gentle or hesitant. But with a desperate growl, bursting forth from your mouth into his, your hand threading into his hair and holding tight onto his skull.

[begtopush]

The Cult Breeder

Word count 2980

Tw: Dark Topics, kidnapping, pushing baby back in, hard birth,descriptive birth, cult vaguely referenced

The cruel captor smirks wickedly, his eyes glinting with malicious glee as he sees Emily suffering in the throes of labor. He leans in close, his putrid breath hot against her ear as he whispers in a sinister tone.

“Aww, listen to you moan and cry, you pathetic slut. You want this baby out so badly, don't you? Too fucking bad.” He chuckles darkly, trailing a finger along her trembling jawline. “I'm in charge here, remember? You don't get to make demands.”

He steps back, folding his arms across his broad chest as he watches her writhe in agony, a sadistic grin spreading across his face. “Beg for it, whore. Beg me to help you deliver this bastard child. Maybe if you grovel enough, I'll consider it.” His laughter echoes through the room, cold and merciless. “Go on, entertain me. I'm all ears.”

“Please" she whines out weakly but it was not nearly good enough for him and makes him a bit mad with her lack of effort.

The captor's grin vanishes, replaced by a scowl of anger and disappointment. He grabs Emily's chin roughly, forcing her to meet his icy stare as another contraction wracks her body.

“Please?” he sneers, his grip tightening painfully. “That's all you've got? Fucking pathetic!” He shakes her head like a rag doll, his fury mounting. “You think a meager 'please' is enough to make me lift a finger to help you?”

He releases her roughly, letting her head thump against the wall as he steps back. He begins to pace the small cell, his boots thudding heavily against the concrete floor. “I should leave you to suffer, you ungrateful bitch. Let you scream and wail until you pass out from the pain. That's what you deserve for your half-assed begging.”

He spins on his heel, jabbing a finger at her as he leans in close once more. “You want this baby out? Then beg like you fucking mean it! Beg until your throat is raw and your lungs burn. Beg until I believe the desperation pouring out of you. Only then, and only if I'm feeling generous, will I even consider letting you push this brat out of your worthless body. Now fucking TRY!”

She groans "please god pleaseee” the contraction building again making Her whimper trying to grip onto the chain to squeeze it.

The captor's eyes narrow as Emily's groans reach a desperate new pitch, her voice cracking with the anguish of her labor and his cruel torments combined. He leans in closer, his face mere inches from hers, his breath hot and noxious against her skin.

‘Please god pleaseee…’ he mocks in a high-pitched, whorish imitation of her voice, his lips curling in a sneer. “Still not good enough, you miserable slut. You want the big man upstairs to hear you? Then fucking SCREAM IT!”

He slams his fist against the wall beside her head, making her flinch and cry out in fear and pain. His eyes burn with sadistic fury as he growls, “Beg me, you fucking CUNT! Beg me to end your suffering and deliver your bastard spawn. SCREAM my name until it's the only prayer you know. Until the echoes of it are seared into your goddamn soul!”

He grabs a fistful of her hair, wrenching her head back and forcing her to meet his wild, deranged eyes. His face is a mask of cruel intensity, his voice a vicious snarl.

“DO IT, YOU DISGUSTING BITCH! BEG ME LIKE YOUR FUCKING LIFE DEPENDS ON IT. BECAUSE IT FUCKING DOES! NOW SCREAM! SCREAM MY FUCKING NAME LIKE THE ONLY HOPE YOU HAVE IS IN MY FICKLE MERCY!”

She begs and whines for a bit but he still isn't satisfied she tries to disobey him and push she lets out a yelp as he forces something in to stop the descent and locks on a chastity belt so she can't push as she screams.

The captor's eyes blaze with rage as Emily's feeble attempts at begging still fail to satisfy his sadistic cravings. He watches in disgust as she tries to disobey him, attempting to push the baby out on her own. A vicious sneer twists his lips as he hears her pathetic yelp.

In an instant, he's on her, one hand clamping over her mouth to stifle her cries, the other grabbing a Length of coarse rope. He forces her thighs apart, his calloused fingers roughly shoving the rope between her legs and tying it tightly around her upper thighs, just below her swollen belly.

He cinches the makeshift chastity belt with brutal force, cutting into the soft flesh of her thighs until she whimpers into his palm. Satisfied with his handiwork, he releases her mouth and admires his cruel creation with a wicked grin.

“There, now you won't be trying to disobey me anymore, will you, you stupid fucking cow?” He chuckles darkly, giving the rope a sharp tug that makes her gasp in pain.” You want to be a stubborn bitch? Fine. But you'll suffer for it.”

He steps back, folding his arms as he watches her writhe against her bonds, her belly throbbing with the need to push. His grin widens as he sees the desperation and anguish etched into her features.

“Keep fighting it, whore. Keep resisting me. It'll only make your suffering that much sweeter.” He laughs cruelly, relishing every second of her torment. “You're not going to birth this brat until I allow it. Now, beg. Beg like you fucking mean it, you pathetic cunt. Beg until the only word you know is my name!”

“PLEASE OH PLEASE OH PLEASE” she cries and screams begging his name for 3 hours as the head pushes against the belt just to make no progress.

The cruel captor watches Emily with sadistic glee for three interminable hours, relishing every second of her desperate, anguished begging. He listens to her voice grow hoarse, her pleas becoming more and more frantic as the pain of labor consumes her. But still, he remains unmoved, his heart as cold and hard as the concrete walls of her prison.

Only when her begging reaches a fever pitch, when her words dissolve into incoherent, pain-wracked wails and cries, does he finally deign to respond. A wicked, triumphant grin spreads across his face as he leans in close, his putrid breath washing over her.

With deliberate, agonizing slowness, he reaches down and unties the cruel chastity belt binding her thighs. He drags it out, letting the rough rope scrape against her sensitive skin, making her flinch and whimper.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity to the suffering woman, he tosses the belt aside. He leans in even closer, his lips brushing against her ear as he whispers in a voice dripping with mocking gentleness.

“There, there, my pet. You've begged so very prettily. I suppose you've earned a small reward.” He chuckles darkly, his hand coming to rest on her swollen belly, feeling the tightness of her uterus as it prepares to push.

“Push, you fucking slut. Push this bastard out. And remember, you only get to scream for me. Now, PUSH!”

She pushes and screams it wasn't long before she gets the head out she screams out "OH GOD PLEASE IT HURTS" this pisses him off he's not God he said she could only scream for him. He comes up to her gripping the head and with deliberate slow movements he pushes the head in very slowly as she screams and begs.

The captor's eyes blaze with fury and outrage as Emily screams out her desperate plea to a higher power, completely forgetting his cruel command. A vein throbs in his neck as he fights the urge to strike her for her disobedience. Instead, he leans in, gripping the newborn's head with deliberate slowness, his fingers sinking cruelly into the soft, vulnerable flesh.

He glares at her, his voice a low, menacing growl as he forces the baby's head back inside her with agonizing slowness. “YOU WANT GOD TO HELP YOU, BITCH?” he snarls. “THEN PRAY TO THE ONLY GOD WHO MATTERS HERE!”

He grinds the baby's head against her cervix, making her shriek in agony as he continues to force it back inside her. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING THAT HURTS?” she cries. His other hand comes up to wrap around her throat, squeezing just hard enough to make breathing a struggle.

“I am your god now, you fucking whore. The only one who can grant you mercy or suffering. And you just pissed me off.” He leans in closer, his eyes burning into hers with sadistic intensity. “Now, scream for me. SCREAM MY FUCKING NAME LIKE THE ONLY WORD YOU KNOW. SCREAM IT AS I FORCE THIS BRAT BACK INSIDE YOU. SCREAM IT LIKE YOUR LIFE DEPENDS ON IT. BECAUSE IT FUCKING DOES! NOW PUSH, YOU DISGUSTING BITCH! PUSH HARDER! PUSH LIKE YOUR VERY SOUL IS ON THE LINE. BECAUSE WITH ME, IT FUCKING IS!”

"STOP STOP DONT OWOWOWOWOW" She screams trying to close her knees on him her hands still chained above her head forcing her into a standing position as he's slowly forcing the head into her body.

The captor's eyes widen with vicious amusement at Emily's desperate screams and futile attempts to close her knees, to protect herself and her unborn child from his cruel ministrations. He chuckles darkly, a sound that sends icy shivers down her spine.

He leans in closer, his grip on the baby's head never wavering as he forces it even deeper, making Emily wail in agony. “Stop? Don't push it in? Oh, I don't think so, you pathetic slut.” He snarls, his voice dripping with sadistic glee.

He uses his free hand to grab her thigh, his fingers digging into the soft flesh hard enough to leave livid bruises. He forces her leg open wider, exposing her most intimate places to his ruthless violation.

You don't get to tell me what to do, whore. You don't get to make demands. He grinds the baby's head harder against her cervix, drawing a blood-curdling scream from Emily's throat. “I decide when this baby lives or dies. I decide when you live or die. And right now, I decide that you're going to take this brat back inside you, whether you want to or not.”

He starts to push the baby's head back in with brutal force, ignoring Emily's desperate screams and pleas. His eyes glint with cruel, twisted amusement as he watches her suffer.

“Fight it all you want, bitch. It won't change a fucking thing. You belong to me now. This baby belongs to me. And I say it goes back inside your worthless cunt until I say otherwise. NOW STOP STRUGGLING AND PUSH, YOU FUCKING WHORE! Push this brat back where it belongs, or I'll make you fucking regret it!”

But her respite is short-lived. He reaches for the discarded chastity belt, his lips curling in a wicked grin as he holds it up, letting her see the cruel device that will once again deny her the right to push her baby out.

He leans in close, his voice a sinister whisper against her ear. “You want to play the stubborn bitch? Fine. You can earn the right to push this brat out. But you're going to fucking work for it.”

With brutal efficiency, he forces her shaking legs apart and shoves the belt between them, cinching it tight and cruelly around her thighs. He grins at her whimper of pain and protest.

Next, he reaches up and unchains her wrists from the restraints above her head. She massages her red, aching wrists as he grabs her roughly by the arm and hauls her to her feet.

He drags her stumbling and groaning form out of the small cell, not caring about her labor pains or the baby's desperate need to be born. He forces her to walk, to move, as he marches her through the house.

He sets her to work, making her clean, making her scrub, making her cater to his every whim and demand. All the while, he watches her with a cruel, mocking smile, enjoying her anguish.

“Clean this fucking toilet, you disgusting pig.” He growls, shoving a scrub brush into her hands. “Keep begging if you want to, but you won't push until I say you can. Now fucking work, you worthless cunt. Work for your brat's life!”

She cries and begs pushing every contraction just for the head to reach the belt and recede again making her cry “PLEASE LET ME GET IT OUT PLEASE"cries screams

The cruel captor watches Emily with sadistic amusement as she stumbles through the house, her belly heavy and aching, her body wracked with the pains of labor. He listens to her pitiful begging and crying, his name falling from her lips like a broken mantra between each agonizing contraction.

He forces her to clean every inch of the house until it gleams, until not a speck of dust or dirt remains. All the while, he hovers over her, criticizing her every move, demanding perfection and punishing any perceived shortcomings with cruel words and harsher actions.

Finally, when the house is spotless and Emily is exhausted and shaking, he drags her back to the bedroom and throws her onto the bed. She lands hard, a grunt of pain escaping her as another contraction seizes her, the urge to push overwhelming.

The captor watches, his eyes glinting with wicked anticipation, as Emily's body instinctively starts to push. He sees the baby's head begin to crown, stretching her poor abused flesh to its limit.

He leans in close, his lips curling in a smirk of cruel satisfaction as he growls, “Damn, I put a big one in you, didn't I? And I'm not sorry. Not one fucking bit.”

He reaches down, his fingers sinking cruelly into the flesh of Emily's inner thighs, spreading them wider as she screams and pushes against her bonds. “You want this baby out so badly, don't you, you filthy whore? Well, keep pushing. Keep screaming. Let me hear how much it hurts. Let me hear how much you need me to give you permission to birth this fucking brat!”

She pushes screaming as the head crowns “IT BURNS OH IT BURNS SO BAD GET OUT GET OUT” she cries

The cruel captor throws his head back and laughs, a harsh, grating sound that echoes through the room as Emily screams in agony, her voice raw and hoarse from her labor and begging. He grins down at her, his eyes alight with sadistic glee as he watches her writhe and push against the burning, stretching pain of her cervix yielding to the baby's passage.

He leans in closer, his breath hot and foul against her face as he snarls,” ‘OW, OW, OW, IT BURNS?’ You think that hurts, you pathetic slut? You haven't seen anything yet.” His fingers dig harder into her thighs, his nails leaving livid red welts in her soft flesh.

He watches, enraptured and cruelly amused, as the baby's head pushes out a little further with each of Emily's agonized screams and pushes. He reaches down, his fingers sinking into the baby's slick, compressed head as it emerges inch by excruciating inch.

He chuckles darkly, his voice dripping with mocking sympathy. “Oh, you're doing so well, my pet. Your body was made to be bred, made to be used for pleasure and pain. And I'm going to use you for so much more.”

He leans in, his teeth sinking into the fleshy part of her shoulder, biting down until he tastes blood on his tongue.” Keep screaming, my lovely little fuck toy. Let me hear how much it hurts as this big, beautiful baby destroys your pussy on the way out. You've earned it. Now, PUSH! Push this brat out and maybe, just maybe, I'll go easy on you. Maybe.”

She pushes and the head pops Out with a squeal she doesn't stop though she just keeps pushing “GETOUTGETOUTGETOUT” she was so delirious

He watches with sadistic fascination as Emily pushes with all her remaining strength, her face contorted in agony, her voice raw from her screams and cries. With each push, her body strains and convulses, her muscles taut and trembling as they work to expel the large baby from her tight, abused channel.

Sbee can feel the baby's head emerging further with each contraction, stretching her cervix to its limits and beyond. Emily's screams reach a fever pitch as the burning, searing pain of the baby's head crowning becomes too much to bear.

With a final, agonized scream that echoes through the room, Emily pushes one last time, pouring every ounce of strength and willpower into that final, desperate effort. And then, with a gush of fluids and a rush of relief, the baby's head slips free, followed immediately by the broad, sturdy shoulders.

The captor catches the baby as it emerges, lifting it up and holding it aloft, letting Emily see the fruits of her labor. He grins down at her, his eyes wild with cruel triumph.

He leans in close, his voice a sinister whisper against her ear as she collapses back onto the bed, exhausted and shaking. “Look at what a good little breeder you are,” he growls. “Breeding a big, strong boy. I'm so fucking proud of you.”

He sets the baby down roughly on the bed beside her, not caring about its cries or needs. His attention remains solely focused on his broken, defeated prisoner as he sneers down at her.

“You did well, whore. You've earned a small reward.’ His grin turns wicked, his eyes glinting with dark promise. “I think it's time to start working on giving me a little girl next. What do you say, my pretty fuck toy? Ready to be bred again?”

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Idia Shroud: The Daily Grind

Oooh, his limited-edition shirt (from a live performance, implying he actually may have attended a concert in-person??) has the Fates on it! Idia also talks about getting birthday messages from his mobile games… True Gamer rep... though I cannot forgive him using an all-in-one cream for his face don’t let Vil hear—

THAT GROOVY IS TAINTED 😭 The less I say about it, the better…

Rise and Shine!

Idia Shroud lived by numbers. Measurements, code, games. They were dependable things, easily controlled and predictable, unlike the fleshy meat sacks called humans. The most improbable creatures of all.

The luck of the draw had been unkind to him this year. A test ("In person attendance is required, Shroud," Trein had told him sternly), on his birthday! If a higher being existed out there, Idia was certain he was their least favorite child.

Touching grass? Tch, so annoying.

Idia drew out a ragged groan and rolled his neck, which still ached from having slept upright in his gaming chair. Clasped in his hands was a rectangle, its screen glowing as one of his many mobile games booted up. He had a list to run through, missions to complete--all a part of his routine.

Another day. Better do my dailies before heading out.

He sighed.

A familiar home screen unfolded before his eyes. It was a lounge, newly refurbished and dipped in a neon glow. Balloons clouded the ceiling, banners and streamers were strung up, confetti dusting the floors. Jewel-colored flowers in crystal vases and sumptuous dishes crowded the avaliable space on tables. On special occasions, the background was automatically decorated in honor of the holidays.

A grinning anime girl faded in. She was dressed in a fluffy cloak and hat, keeping her cozy for the winter season. This particular version of her was a SSR he had dumped money into to max out (no expense spared for the best girl).

"Happy birthday, Gloomurai!" she chirped, parroting the same phrase that she did to all players once a year. "Geez, did you sleep in again? Wakey, wakey! How are you going to enjoy your birthday if you're only half-awake for all of it? ... Wh-What? You're wondering if I prepared anything for you? Don't be stupid. I-It's not like... I... like you or anything..."

"Hihihihi... Aaaah, the way she runs hot and cold is so cute, just the best! This is peak content!" Idia chuckled to himself. Here, in the comfort of his private quarters.

Beep, beep, beep!

Idia yelped and leapt up in his seat, nearly dropped his phone. He squinted at the blinking envelope icon that had overtaken the screen.

"... What? A new message?"

Who's it from? I-I don't talk to any of my classmates enough for them to contact me out of the blue like this... C-Could it be Riddle-shi shouting at me to attend the next dorm leader meeting?

Idia cautiously opened the message. He winced as he braced himself for the redhead's shouting (all caps) from the other end.

A cheerful jingled played, followed by pixelated fireworks popping off. Ortho exploded forth from the envelope with a giggle, the words HAPPY BIRTHDAY blinking on either side of him. The video message began to roll.

"Gooood morning, nii-san!" his little brother cried. "Did you get a good night's sleep? I hope so, because you'll need all that energy for your exam--and your birthday party afterwards!"

"B-Birthday party? When did I agree to attend that...?" Idia mumbled, running a hand through his fiery hair.

The prerecorded Ortho continued. "But I know you. You're probably thinking, 'Birthday party? When did I agree to attend that...?' ... Right?"

H-He got me nailed word for word!!

"We can't have you shut away in your bedroom as soon as you're done with that test! So to make sure you don't try and squirm out of socializing, I've recruited a guest character for an escort mission to your class and then to the birthday party afterwards. They'll be by to pick you up at 7:30 am. See you then, nii-san!"

Ortho waved farewell before he blipped out of existence. Idia sprung out of his gaming chair, slick with sweat from a freshly sprung, anxiety-induced leak. He stared at his phone in disbelief, his eyes wide and bugged out.

"D-Did I... Did I hear that message right?! S-Someone's coming to escort me to class?! But the time right now is…!!”

Knock, knock, knock!

“E-Eeeep!!”

This time, he did drop his phone. Its fall was cushioned by the mountain of cardboard boxes, opened chip bags, and volumes of manga loitering on the floor. The impact restarted the video message: “Gooood morning, nii-san! Did you have a good night’s sleep?”

“Idia-senpai?” a voice called out, joining Ortho’s. Your voice. “Are you there? I’m here to grab you for class.”

Th-Them?! He turned paler than Death, even as his cheeks and the tips of his hair burned bright pink. Why… wh-why did Ortho have to choose THEM for this?!

“H-Hold on a minute!” Idia called out.

He crumpled to his knees and gathered as much of his junk as he could, shoveling it into convenient hiding places to create the illusion of tidiness. His closet, under his bed, empty boxes and bookshelf space.

“How much longer?” you asked worriedly from the other side of the door. “You might be late at this rate—and you know how Professor Trein can be about tardiness.”

“A-Almost…!!”

Idia grabbed his phone and got back up, glancing at himself in the reflection of his monitor. His bangs had gone awry, covering one eye in cobalt bangs. He hurriedly brushed them away, trying to get his hair to behave as best he could, then attempted to straighten out the creases in his pajamas.

Screw the school uniform. There was no time left to make himself any more presentable than this. He’d have to deal with the disapproving shake of his teacher’s head when he slumped in. If was preferable to keeping you waiting.

His temperature spiked again. Pink became red. He waved frantic hands at his hair, urging them to cool off back to blue.

Calm down. C-Calm down, you’ve got this!! You’ve played so many dating sims, summon that main character charm!

But in real life, there were no clearly defined routes to head on. No dialogue options to choose or love flags to trip. No resets, should he fail miserably. He was left on his own to fumble through social interactions—and their consequences.

He shambled over to his door and, swallowing hard, cracked it open. A sliver of light poured in from the outside, along with your smiling face. He was a monster crammed into a gap, and you were his savior.

“There you are!”

Idia tried to picture a brazen male lead. The sort of guy that leaned against doorframes with a cocky smirk and casually went, “Hey, you.”

Nope, nope, nope!!! WAY too cringe! I-I can’t say that like I'm a confident alpha dudebro…! I can’t…!!

Idia froze, his mind defaulting to a 404 error. Even his heart seemed to stop, seized by clawing panic.

“H-Hey,” he said meekly.

"Happy birthday, Idia-senpai.” You blinked, slowly taking him in. "Did you sleep in again?"

E-Eh…? What is this weird sense of deja vu? They sound almost exactly like the birthday login lines from earlier... e-except it's a real person this time, not a fictional character...

The pace of his heartbeat quickened.

S-Something’s wrong with me. Th-This reaction’s definitely not normal!!

He flushed again, fervid as a flame. Short circuiting, overheating.

“Er… Idia-senpai? Are you feeling okay? Your hair, it’s going haywire, shifting colors like a lava lamp,” you vaguely gestured. “And you’re still in your pajamas. You hardly look ready to leave your room."

“I-I’m fine!” he squeaked. “I wasn’t expecting a guest, s-so… I didn’t prepare to receive… any... one…” Idia trailed off.

"Hehe. How are you going to enjoy your birthday if you're only half-awake for all of it?" You extended a hand to him. "Come on, it’s time to wake up.”

Just like the greeting from the mobile game.

Idia shyly ducked behind his door, hiding his burning face.

Is this a dream? If it is, I don't know if I want to wake up from it.

[shushmal]

Robin has a love-hate relationship with Steve-and-Eddie. Love, because those are her best friends and her best friends are in love with each other and they never leave her out of anything. Hate, because sometimes she wishes they would because she keeps accidentally third-wheeling herself.

She doesn't hate it that much though, if she's honest. It's just fun to complain, especially because it riles the both of them up.

But right now, she's being quiet so she can witness one of her secretly-favorite Steve-and-Eddie rituals—of which there are many, but this one is silly and endearing.

It starts like this:

The waitress sets down their drinks, lemonade for Robin, coca-cola for Steve, and a cherry soda for Eddie.

"Don't you dare," Eddie says, even as Steve reaches for Eddie's drink, slipping his straw in next to Eddie's and slurping obnoxiously. Eddie doesn't even pretend to stop him anymore. "Unbelievable."

"I just want to taste it!"

"You could just get a whole glass of it! All for yourself!!"

"It's too sweet, I don't want a whole glass."

"What, so you think you can just help yourself to mine?"

Steve's grin is far too smug, even for Robin, even when Steve slides it to her so she can take a sip. Steve is right, it is really too sweet and she wrinkles her nose, but it's worth it for the offended gasp Eddie makes when she slides it back to him.

The diner is their favorite, because everyone who works there has given up on understanding their weird dynamic: Robin and Steve squished into on side of the booth while Eddie's spread out on the other, Robin making gagging noises whenever Steve brushes against her, even though they never sit in any other configuration. The staff has long since stopped asking which of them was her boyfriend, and that's perfect for her.

Besides, she knows that under the table, Steve and Eddie have their ankles locked together like the disgusting love-sick dorks that they are.

The Steve-and-Eddie show continues when their meals come out. Chicken fingers and fries for Steve because he's an actual child, and breakfast for dinner for Eddie because he likes to be contrary. And then the real performance begins.

They "fight" over the ketchup bottle, which really means that Eddie picks it up and Steve snatches it out of his hands—only for Steve to spread it over Eddie's scrambled eggs (gross) for him before he adds a disgusting amount to his own basket.

Eddie makes a game of stealing Steve's fries when he thinks he isn't looking (Steve is, he's tallying each one up in his head, Robin knows this because she's doing it too), and when he finally "catches" Eddie in the act, he steals Eddie's last piece of bacon—the one that's sat untouched for the last five minutes for this very reason.

Then, Eddie's "forcing" Steve to try his grits, like he does every time, and game eats a spoonful of it, every time, and then complains at length how much he hates it (and he actually does hate it, the texture is just not for him, Robin knows because it's the same for her too).

And then they do the worst, most disgusting thing ever: they split the pancake in half. Without fail. Without argument. Every time.

Robin, slurping on her strawberry milk shake that she will NEVER share with anyone ever, thinks that stupid pancake is like the symbol of their love or something. Sh's sure if they weren't in public, they'd be feeding it to each other.

"What?" They say it in unison, and Robin hates when they do that to her.

(Eddie complains about it right back at her, because she and Steve do the same thing to him all the time. They should blame Steve, since he's the common denominator, but he just looks so pleased about them both that they can't rag on him for it, so Eddie remains Robin's sworn enemy and vice versa.)

"What what?" she sneers at them, voice quiet. "You two are disgusting, it's like you're making out right in front of me right now."

"What are you, homophobic?" Eddie hisses back, just as quiet. "I'm in love with your best friend, Buckley. I'm making out with him in front of you for the rest of your life."

"Ugh! I hate you so much."

"Right back at you."

And then they start kicking at each other beneath the table, no doubt catching Steve's ankles in the crossfire. He doesn't tell them to stop though, and Robin can see that pleased, sappy smile on his stupid face out of the corner of her eye, so she lands an exceptionally harsh blow to Eddie's shin in retaliation for making her best friend so happy. He digs his heel into her toes in return.

[7seas-of-ryy]

Crestfallen - Part 2

Author’s Note: I hope everyone has a great New Years!!

Overall Summary: Although you were born in the Day Court, you've been living in the Night Court for a century. You're close with the inner circle but what will happen when a new healer is brought into the picture?

Part 2 Summary: Gaslighting and harming patients is not what a healer is supposed to do!

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Warnings: talks of injuries

Waking up, your entire body felt like it was on fire. You couldn't remember what happened so you did what Az and Cass had trained you to do. Taking a deep breath, you assessed your surroundings. You were laying in someone's room, Azriel's room. That's a relief. One other thing you notice was you were naked and wrapped in ice cold, wet rags.

Hearing footsteps approaching, you closed your eyes and pretended to be asleep still.

"Azzy, you don't have to have her sleep in your bed. I can keep her down in the recovery room of my shop." Clara's sickly sweet voice broke the silence.

Azzy?? She has a nickname for him? She's barely known him. All these thoughts kept running through your head while you waited for his response.

"No, she's staying here. It's the least I can do for her. I should've checked on her sooner, I was just so caught up in my work that I didn't realize no one had seen or heard from her for two days." Azriel responded.

"Stop beating yourself up. She's a big girl and can handle herself. Plus, you're such an important piece in the Night Court, you don't need to be worrying so much about her." She told him.

Before she could keep going, you made it known you were awake by softly clearing your throat.

Az ran to your side and kneeled down next to you, grabbing your hand.

"You're awake! I was so worried. You've had a terrible fever so Clara wrapped you in these rags to cool you down. That cut on your back looked really bad too, why didn't you let Clara help you the other night?" Azriel spoke softly to you, and by the looks of it he hadn't been sleeping much.

"What? Clara told me-" You choked out but your throat felt so dry it was hard to talk.

"Don't you remember? I offered you the salve and wrap for your cut, told you it looked infected? You told me you just wanted to sleep it off. I didn't think that would be good but I can't force anyone to get better especially if they don't want to." She talked down to you like you were a child.

You felt like you were going crazy. Maybe Clara was right, maybe in your exhaustion you refused help and ended up getting worse. But you could've sworn she told you everything was fine.

"Water." it was all you could choke out.

"I'll get it for you." Clara offered but you didn't trust her. Especially with your mind as foggy as it was right now.

"No!" You shouted, well tried to shout.

"Ok, ok, calm down. I can get it for you, would that be ok?" Azriel asked as he gently pushed the hair out of your face.

You nodded your head and he got up to get it for you. Once he was gone, Clara started fumbling around in her bag and pulled out a powder.

She walked over to you, opening the substance and put a little bit of it in the cap.

"Wha-?" You started to say as she blew the capful of powder straight into your face.

The most intense pain took over your body. It was like your flesh was being torn from your bones. Your body writhed in agony and you were screaming out in pain. The shadowsinger came running in the room straight to you.

"What happened? Help her!" His voice was booming.

"I don't know, she was fine then all of the sudden this happened. I think I have something that can fix her!" She sounded panicked and worried for you.

Pulled a liquid out of her bag, she looked pained towards Az like she didn't want to give it to you.

"What're you doing? Hurry!!" He shouted.

"This is going to hurt her a lot, I need you to hold her down." Clara told Az.

He quickly grabbed his belt off and slipped it in your mouth so you could bite down on it and held your arms down.

"I'm so sorry," He whispered to you, "She's gonna help you, it'll be over soon."

Clara grabbed a dagger and cut down your side. She grabbed the liquid and dropped it into the cut. However bad you thought the pain was, was nothing compared to this. You thought you were going to die, the last thing you saw was Azriel' hazel eyes before passing out once again.

"She needs some time for that to kick in. Her cut must've been worse than I thought. I needed to treat the infection, the liquid I poured into the cut will do that and it will work faster the way I did it." Clara told the spymaster, walking over to him and rubbing his shoulders.

----

The next time you woke up, Az was sitting on the ground with his back against the bed. You didn't see Clara anywhere so relief instantly flooded your mind.

Sensing the change in your breathing, Azriel's head shot up and he stood up to see you.

"Hey, how are you doing?" He whispered.

"Where's Clara?" You asked, partly out of fear.

"Why? Do you need her? I can call for her-" He started

"NO" You immediately shut him down, "Please keep her away from me. I'm sick because of her!"

Azriel looked at you as if you grew a second head.

"You have to listen to me. She has been horrible to me since the second she met me..." You were pleading with him.

"Stop." He whispered but you kept going, speaking over him.

"She didn't even assess me the other night, which is why my cut is infected and then she blew some powder in my face which caused everything earlier. She is purposefully making me sick." You were rambling, trying to get him to understand.

"Enough." Azriel spoke in a stern voice, "Listen, I don't know if it's because of everything you're going through but Clara is the only reason you aren't in agony right now. You cannot pin something like this on her. She has been very essential these past 2 weeks and she is extremely kind. There is no way she could possibly do something like that."

Those words were like a punch to your gut. How could he not believe you? You've been best friends for over 75 years, known each other for a century. This is the male that you were in love with, siding with Clara.

"You don't believe me." You whispered, feeling a tear slide down your cheek.

"I'm not saying that. I'm saying you had a long, tough first solo mission and I think it's taking it's toll on you. Your mind might be playing tricks." He tried to make it better but the look he gave you was full of pity.

"Please leave now." You mumbled and turned your head away from him.

Without saying another word, you felt his shadows settle over you and as quick as they were there, they left along with their master.

------

A few days have past now with you showing no signs of improvement. You haven't gotten worse but you definitely haven't gotten better.

Mor and Nesta visited you quite a bit, Nesta even read to you every night. You asked Rhys to have Azriel stay away and even though he thought that would be counterproductive, he respected your wishes.

For 75 years, you have been in love with the Spymaster. Of course, you never told him out of fear of rejection but also because you knew he would never feel the same and it would ruin your friendship. You knew the feelings were unrequited when he didn't believe you about Clara.

It felt deeper than him not believing you, in a way it felt as if he chose her over you and that hurt far worse than any of the physical pain you went through.

As you were deep in thought, Nesta and Mor both came into your room. Well, Azriel's room. You were still too weak to move anywhere else.

"Hey, you're awake!" Mor greeted you with a smile.

"I brought a new book for us to start, if you are up for it." Nesta added.

She was always kind to you because you were there for her with everything she went through. Nesta was grateful for your unrelenting friendship and you were happy to have her as a friend.

Right as you were about to respond to Nesta, you felt the cut on your back heating up. Searing pain started shooting through your body and you thought you saw tendrils of light swirling around you. Confused and in agony, you threw your head back.

"Get Clara." Mor told Nesta as she tried to help you.

You were too weak to tell her no, the light seemed to be getting brighter. A high pitched squeal was getting louder. Suddenly, your body was being lifted in the air by the beams of light but it was as if you were paralyzed.

Clara winnowed into the room, her eyes going wide as she witnessed what was happening to you.

The noise was so loud that Nesta, Mor, and Clara were all covering their ears. Your body was convulsing, the light becoming so bright you thought you were going to explode.

"DO SOMETHING!" Mor screamed over all of the noise.

The fear in Clara's eyes was evident and she stood there not moving.

"..uh...I...I didn't do this one! I don't know how to fix it! I'll see if Madja is close by." She stated and winnowed away.

Nesta's head snapped to Clara but she was already gone. Mor ran to you but there was nothing she could do. Rhys, Azriel, and Cassian all ran into the room to see what was happening but there was nothing they could do either.

"What happened?!" Az shouted but no one responded.

A few moments passed before Clara winnowed back into the room, this time with Madja, who calmly made her way to you and hovered her hands over your form. She started mumbling some words and your body slowly laid back down on the bed.

The beams of light slowly went away and you weren't screaming in pain anymore.

"All of you. Out now. I need space to work. You need to go too, Clara." Madja spoke without looking up, "Except you, High Lord, I might need you."

Cassian, Mor, Clara, and Nesta started to get out and Azriel stayed, he couldn't leave you. Cassian grabbed him and forced him out as they all made their way down to the living area.

They all stood worrying about you, the Spymaster's shadows swirling like mad when Nesta broke the silence.

"Hey Clara...what did you mean when you said "You didn't do this one" earlier?" She spoke, her eyes narrowing on the female.

Taglist

@rcarbo1 @acourtofbatboydreams @bravo-delta-eccho

[lavender-bun]

Always There For You

REQUEST | HIRT/COMFORT WITH RAFE CAMERON PLSSS

PAIRING | rafe cameron x maybank!reader

WARNINGS | allusion to child abuse, luke maybank, bruises, blood, angst, hurt/comfort, love confession, kinda enemies to lovers?

A/N | my first ever Rafe fic so bare with me 🙂

            ◃◦---------------●--------------◦▹

Rafe was sitting in the living room, in the middle of rolling a joint when he heard rapid knocking on the front door. At first, he ignored it but the knocking got more aggressive. He groaned, getting up and marching to the front door.

"What?" He snapped the second the door was open. He expected anything but you standing before him, arms wrapped around yourself and clothes drenched from walking through the pouring rain. "Maybank? What are you-" He trailed off when he finally noticed the state you were in.

The bruises that lingered on your face and the bloody nose had Rafe already silently fuming. You and Rafe have an unspoken friendship if you dare to say that. Yes, you shouldn't like him. He's your brother's enemy, but Rafe was never actually rude to you, he does the usual bickering but in the end, you would both smile at each other and just go your ways.

Rafe himself doesn't understand what draws him to you. Maybe it's the way you're always smiling at him or standing up for your friends, even delivering a few punches when needed. Seeing you now, teary-eyed and hurt has him clenching and un-clenching his fists.

You sniffled, rubbing your arm nervously. "I'm sorry, I just...my brother's at a party and I didn't want to worry him. I...I didn't know where else to go..." you looked down at your feet. "Sorry, this was a stupid idea-"

Rafe didn't respond, you were about to turn around and leave but he quickly pulled you inside the house and into a hug, kicking the door shut with his foot.

The second you were in his embrace you broke down, sobs ragging through your shivering body. You wrapped your arms around him, your hands gripping tightly onto his shirt and face pressed into his chest.

"Shh, it's okay," he whispered, his hand resting on the side of your head, with the other he rubbed your back soothingly.

He pulled back to get a better look at your face, brushing a stray of hair out of your face and wiping the tears away.

"Who did this to you?" he asked and you closed your eyes shaking your head. "Hey, Hey, you're safe here. Okay?"

You open your eyes again. You could see in his eyes that he was truly concerned for your well-being.

Taking a shaky breath you muttered. "M-My dad...it was my Dad."

You watched him taking a deep breath before he goes to grab his keys. You quickly took hold of his arm.

"Wait! Please don't go... don't leave me here alone." you whimpered, bottom lip quivering and your grip tight. "Please, Rafe."

He sighed, placing the keys back in their designed bowl. "Come, let's get you fixed up." he grabbed your hand, leading you upstairs to his room. He made you sit on the edge of his bed, before going to the attached bathroom.

While he was gone you could take in his room, the luxurious furniture and pictures that probably cost more than you will ever archive in your life.

A few moments later Rafe came back with a small first-aid kit, a damp rag, and fresh clothes for you. He kneels before you, placing the stuff beside you, and starts to gently rub the dried blood off your face.

You hissed a few times when he graced a sore spot but you couldn't focus on the pain right now, more on how beautiful his eyes were. You developed feelings for Rafe for a while now, but never made a move because you knew JJ wouldn't approve of this at all.

At this moment you couldn't care less about your brother or the pogues. Your only focus is on Rafe and how gently he's with you. "Thank you..." you mumbled after he put the rag aside.

He flashes you a little smile. "No need to thank me. I've barely done anything."

"You could've just slammed the door in my face." You remarked, smiling a little.

"True. I would've to everyone else, but never to you," he confessed, continuing to fix you up.

"And why is that?" you asked in a teasing tone.

Suddenly he stopped what he was doing, his hands falling to rest on your knees, his eyes locking onto yours. "Because I like you. I like you a lot, actually."

"Y-You do?"

"How can I not? You're fucking amazing," he said, his hands now reaching up to cup your face, smirking. "For a Maybank."

You hit his arm playfully. "You're a jerk."

"Probably, but I still fixed your beautiful face." he teased, leaning forward to press his forehead against yours. "I'm sorry I wasn't there to protect you..."

"It's not your fault." you reminded him softly and he pulled back again.

"And neither is it yours, it's him, it's all him, you understand?"

When you nodded he grabbed the clothes next to you, placing them on your lap. "You should go take a warm shower. Don't want you getting a cold now."

You got up and made your way to the bathroom, smiling when you realized he gave you some of his clothes and closed the door behind you.

Rafe was patiently waiting on his bed, planning in his head what to do when he pays good old Luke Maybank a visit tomorrow. There's no way he will get away with this.

He gets pulled out of his thoughts when he hears the bathroom door unlock, smiling at the way his shirt almost reaches your knees. His smile faltered when he saw the bruises that formed all over your legs.

"Feeling better?" he asked, getting up to pull you into another hug.

You nod against him, mumbling softly. "Just tired."

Nothing more had to be said and Rafe swept you off the ground. You yelped in surprise, your arms instinctively wrapping around his neck. He carried you to the left side of his bed, lowering you onto it with utmost care.

He pulled the covers up before smoothly jumping over you on the free spot, savoring the way you laughed at him and hoping to hear it every day.

You were both lying on your sides, facing each other so close with your nose almost touching his. You reached a hand up to caress his face while he was tracing his finger up and down your arm.

"I-" Before you could speak his lips were on yours in a captivating kiss that had you closing your eyes and your head spiraling.

His hand went to the back of your neck to pull you closer, if that was even impossible. He only pulled back to let you breathe, smirking at your flustered expression.

"You don't know how long I've waited to do this," he said and you chuckled, having waited for an opportunity like this yourself for too long.

"I can imagine." you smiled at him, shuffling closer to snuggle against him.

He wrapped his arms around you, kissing the top of your head. He's glad he could finally confess his feelings for you, the situation could have been a better one though, but a situation like that would never happen again now that he's got you safely in his arms and you can be sure he'll never let go of you again.

            ◃◦---------------●--------------◦▹

Taglist

For everything:

@lokigirlszendaya @buckymydarlingangel

[bunny-jpeg]

baby trapping (vol. 3) - nanami kento

pairing: nanami kento x fem!readerrating: 18+ summary: Nanami, Nanami, Nanami. Always such the gentleman. He brought you flowers, he drove you home from work. He was almost husband material! Except three months ago you rejected his proposal and since then he had been trying to get you pregnant.

So far had had been unsuccessful. tags: smut, pwp, baby-trapping, love hotels, dark themes, breeding/pregnancy kink, love hotels, unprotected smut

Vol. One (Toji), Vol. Two (Geto & Gojo)

join my discord!

Nanami, Nanami, Nanami. Always such a gentleman. He brought you flowers, he drove you home from work. He was almost husband material! Except three months ago you rejected his proposal and since then he had been trying to get you pregnant.

So far it had not been successful.

-

The blond drove to your work in the expensive car he owned. He was on his way to pick you up from the dead-end job you somehow loved. He thought your talents could be useful elsewhere. Like the importat role of a stay-at-home mother to two beautiful children. But he hoped you'd at least have four children. Make the large empty house he owned into a home.

But you were so determined to be a young professional. You wanted to be working in an office. You wanted to go out for drinks and have a good time. There was a lot you wanted to do before you settled down. But Nanami was tired of waiting.

If you wouldn't accept his ring, then you'd have to accept his baby. Or rather babies.

You left work on time and met Nanami in the parking garage. You spotted the expensive car right away and quickly headed over to him. Your heart was in your throat as you got closer. You had a deep love for Nanami, you thought he was so perfect.

You were under the impression that he took the rejection well and was going to wait till you were most established at work before you got married! You got to the car and happily knocked on the passenger window then waved at him.

He smiled at you before he unlocked the door and opened it for you. His eyes darted to your legs where you gave him a flash of your panties under your business skirt. The sight made him tighten his grasp on the steering wheel.

He soon patted you on the thigh before he watched you buckle yourself in. He leaned over to kiss you on the lips, ”I was thinking, maybe, we could check into a hotel before dinner.“ He placed a hand on your thigh, ”I've been thinking of you all day and I don't think you want to be fucked in a resturant bathroom. I know you love a nice bed.“ He softly chuckled before he tucked hair behind your ear, ”How does that sound?“

You cupped his face as he gazed at you, ”Nanami.“ You giggled, ”Am I really that irresistible?“

He leaned in for another kiss, the way a dutiful boyfriend was, and replied, ”Yes, you know I look at you and can't get enough.“ Then kissed you once me. His hand grazed your inner thigh briefly before he pulled away. He watched you nod to his earlier question before he put the car into drive and headed off towards the nearest love hotel.

The hotel was nice, it blended rather nicely into the other buildings in the neighborhood. It wasn't hard to get a room and before you knew it, you were being tossed onto the bed like a rag doll.

He grabbed you by the hair as he pulled you in for another searing kiss. His cock twitched in his slacks at the thought of your beautiful form. You would be so beautiful pregnant, round with his child.

You would be so perfect with tender breasts filled with milk, a sore back and a heavy belly. He believed you'd be happier as his wife, he didn't know what got into your head about being stuck working at  a job that would get you nowhere!

But you were so simple at times, sometimes women couldn't see the bigger picture. It wasn't your fault, Nanami would help you with that. He started to unbutton the front of your blouse.

  “You look amazing.“ He said, ”You look more beautiful than anyone else on this earth.“ He could feel the heat in his face as he exposed your breasts to him, ”Fuck.“

You looked away, ”They're not that impressive, Nanami.“

He kissed down your neck, ”It's more than impressive. It's perfect.“ Then he started to leave marks on your skin and down to the tops of your breasts. He felt you start to loosen his tie.

He didn't let you throw it off the bed. He wrapped it in his left hand while he continued to give all his attention to your breasts. The marks were dark and could be seen easily. The notion of having his marks on you made you wet.

  ”Nanami.“

  ”You're perfect.“ He rubbed his clothed cock up against your clothed pussy. You could feel the weight of his erection against you, ”Let me take control tonight. Don't worry. I'll keep you safe.“

  ”Nan-“

  ”Trust me.“ He said softly. It was time to put his plan into action. Make you unsuspecting of him orgasming deep inside of you. To fill you with his cum until there was zero choice but to get pregnant.

All it took was one cell to find home with another. The thought aroused him, he didn't have to be sneaky with holes in the condom. He could easily impregnate you tonight, all you had to do was put your full trust into him.

You looked up into his eyes, there was a look of worry. There was even a crease in your brow that he smoothed out with his thumb. He smiled at you softly. Play the sheep until he could become the wolf.

  ”Alright, honey.“ You said as you reached to unzip your skirt, ”I trust you. I'll always trust you.“ Then gave him a broad smile as you unzipped the article of clothing.

He looked at you for a moment, there was a glint in his eye that you couldn't put into words. But it made an unfamiliar feeling rise up in you. Your heart raced as you both got undressed.

His gaze was tense, he wanted to see every curve on you. You wondered what he was thinking about as he observed you. But you would've never guessed it was the idea of getting you pregnant. To trap you with his baby.

He knew better than you, he knew what you needed. And that was a Nanami brat running around. And if he was lucky there would be multiples. He put the tie over your eyes, ”Trust me.“ And you had no choice but to trust him.

  ”You brought a condom right?“

He chuckled softly, ”Of course I did, the thin ones. Just the way you like it.“ He dipped his hand between your bare thighs and touched along your pussy. His thumb brushed against your clit and you shuddered. He smirked to himself, such a vulnerable young woman. So gentle and sweet.

You'd make the perfect wife for him. He wondered if they sold wedding dresses for women who already had their honeymoons. He smirked, knowing you wouldn't see it.

He played with you gently. You got more wet the more he played with you. Your hands dug into the sheet on the bed.

Maybe this wasn't the ideal place to make a baby, but it would have to do. He'd make sure the delivery was somewhere nicer. Maybe at home where he could take care of you. The thought made his cock bob, he may be a pervert but at least he could take out all the sexual frustration out on his soon-to-be wife.

  ”I'm going to move you now, my love.“He said with his voice close to your ear.

You nodded, ”Okay, honey.“ Then felt yourself being put on all fours. You dropped your front half into the soft pillows and kept your hips up so he could reach you. You wiggled your ass to entice him. Which was soon followed by a harsh slap. You made a small ”eep“ noise from the pain but it only made your pussy wetter.

  ”Such a beautiful sight.“ He said, ”I love you, I want you more than anything. I look at you and think of no one else. You're mine,  my love. All mine.“ His words made your heart flutter.

He rubbed your cheeks as he got behind you. His grip was rough which made you roll your hips in an attempt to get out of it. But there was no escaping him.

  ”Nanami.“ You whimpered.

  ”What did I say? You need to listen, I need you to trust me. Be a good girl and spread those legs a little more. I want to see your beautiful pussy.“ He was excited that his plan was working. That you so easily fell into it. It was as if it were destiny that you were meant to get pregnant tonight. And if not tonight, then he'd keep trying until you ended up with a child.

He situated himself behind him and he reached between your legs to your stomach which he playfully touched. His cock leaked pre-cum from his imagination going wild over the idea of you pregnant with his child.

He shakily exhaled to compose himself before he pulled his hand away to hold onto your hip while he guided his hardened cock into you. He groaned out loud as he felt your heat consume him.

  ”Honey!“ You whimpered, ”You're so big. I can feel it so deep!“ You gripped onto the pillow under your head as you tried to relax. His size was impressive and you knew it was his even without seeing.

You held onto the pillows and moaned into them. You knew the rooms were soundproof but you were worried about being too loud. The sound of sex filled the room as he started to move.

  ”Please, honey! Ah, it feels so good!“ You whimpered as you held onto the bed to keep yourself steady. Your heart was racing as he thrusted up into you.

  ”Does it feel good?“ He asked, he smiled to himself. The idea of you succumbing to pleasure. You just let him finish inside of you, get you pregnant and become his wife. It was a dream for him.

  ”It feels amazing!“ You moaned as you rolled your hips in time with his thrusts. You held onto the pillows tightly as he started to move faster. Your heart was racing and you knew your face was flushed. You panted heavily into the covers.

  ”Good, good." He said softly to himself as he kept thrusting up into you. Your pussy clenched around him as he kept going. The feeling was erotic, it made his whole body warm. To be so close to you.

He wanted you so badly, he adored you. He was obsessed with you. He wanted to make sure that no one else could ever have you. His breathing became heavier as he moved.

The whole room grew hotter with each passing moment. Two people together, creating something beautiful even if one person didn't know it yet. The bed creaked under you as your bodies moved.

You felt hot all over as you two fucked in the centre of the bed. You panted heavily into the pillows as you tried to keep up. The feeling was amazing, it was like mini sparks were going through you. Your gut twisted with excitement over being so intimate with him.

He was a perfect lover.

Your head became cloudy the closer you got to orgasm. You felt like you were running off hormones as you felt so close to climax. You held on tightly as arched your back as you came. You groaned into the pillows, your voice was loud and almost got stuck in your throat from the feeling of the blond's cock so deep inside of you.

  “I love you, honey.” He said. 'you're all mine, wife,' he added in his head as he watched you go limp on the bed. He pulled you up by the hips and fucked into you even harder.

He was thrilled that he could finish inside of you. Your head was so fuzzy you'd barely noticed if he came with zero protection. It was simply nature telling you it was time to be a mother.

With one more hard thrust, he finished inside of you. He held onto your hips tightly as he gave a final thrust. He leaned a little to make sure that all of it got to its intended destination. He could feel his blond hair sticking to his forehead. He felt hot all over as he pulled out and laid down beside you.

You rolled into his arms, your mind was still blank from the intense orgasm you had. You didn't notice the cum that was oozing out of your poor cunt, but that would be cleaned up soon. As when Nanami came to, he made sure to clean up any trace that he finished inside of you.

You'd know what he did when that test came back positive. He wiped your clean, even the sweat on your forehead. He kissed the warmed skin. He had broken your mind with an intense orgasm and hopefully impregnated you.

The thought made him smile as he said, ”Let's get you in the shower.“ As he approached you. He had to be a husband and father now, which meant protecting what was his.

-

  ”That's it.“ He moaned, ”That's it.“ His wedding ring gleamed in the afternoon light, ”We have to be quick before Misao wakes up.“

You held onto his chest as you rode his cock. Your heavy breasts bounced as did your swollen belly. Two babies in two years, it could almost be a record.

Nanami rubbed your swollen middle, ”My beautiful wife. All mine.”  And you moaned in response. His cock twitched inside of you. This was all he ever wanted, but he'd only be truly satisfied with more than four children. He really wondered if he could break the record within a few years.

Either way, you'd only grow more beautiful. His beautiful wife, at home and caring for the growing home. Just as he wanted it.

xoxo, U・x・U

[whumptember]

2024 Prompt List

ask box | rules | tags and posting

Main Prompts

1. "Don't leave me." chains | failed escape attempt | abandoned building

2. "I can't do this alone." dried blood | begging for help | caretaker's front door

3. "You're my last chance." rusted metal | enemies teaming up | returning home

4. "Don't make me go back." white knuckles | used as bait | ballroom

5. "You've hurt them for the last time." slamming door | rescue | whumper's basement

6. "I never want to see your face here again." torn mask | reluctant villain | hero's headquarters

7. "Let me take care of you!" damp rag | whumpee turned caretaker | bathroom

8. "You'll never see me again." packed bag | secrets revealed | doorway

9. "What did they do to you?" bloodied clothes | homecoming | hospital reunion

10. "I need your help." breaking voice | secret intentions | villain's base

11. "One last favor, then I"ll leave you alone." knife | sacrificing themself | sacred ground

12. "Why did you do it?" new gravestone | confronting whumper | cemetery

13. "I never looked back, and I regret it every day." cracked foundation | city in ruin | middle of the road

14. "You changed my life. not for the better. Now I get to return the favor." blindfold | payback | abandoned warehouse

15. "I'm never going to let you go." silk ribbon | intimate whumper | whumper's bed

16. "What happened to you?" new clothes | recapture | whumpee's old room

17. "This wasn't the deal!" torn contract | betrayed | in the middle of the woods

18. "You're never going to see them again." letter on whumpee's pillow | disappeared in the night | caretaker's apartment

19. "Take me instead!" cloth gag | caretaker turned whumpee | getaway car

20. "I'm always going to be with you." worn letter | mourning | caretaker's bed

21. "I'm not okay." bruised skin | begging for help | hero's doorstep

22. "We have to go back and save them! They'd do the same for us!" drag marks | taken hostage | battleground

23. "You're nothing without me." invisible restraints | hero whumper | basement

24. "Change my mind, tell me why I'm wrong and I'll turn back and undo everything I've done." split lip | hero in the wrong | edge of a roof

25. "Stop it! You're going to kill them!" blood spattered wall | ambush | villain's home

26. "Let them go." blindfold and gag | ransom demand | undisclosed location

27. "Don't forget about me, alright?" packed bag | leaving home | secret destination

28. "I was supposed to save the world." shackled ankles | accidental villain | jail cell

29. "You're a child, go home now and I won't come after you. But if you stay and fight, I won't hold back." hand-made mask | villain mentor | bank vault

30. "What did I say about breaking the rules?" ruler stick | young whumpee | on their knees

Alternate Prompts

1. "You lied to them." 2. Broken wrist 3. "I've done things I can't even think about anymore." 4. Whispered apology 5. "You're coming back, right?" 6. Curled into a ball 7. "You make me feel like I can forget all the bad things." 8. Chained to a car 9. "This is just the beginning." 10. Villain whumpee 11. "Oh, come on, you can take more than that!" 12. Begging 13. "Don't make me."

[baby-tini]

TW: abusive relationship, implied kidnapping, hints of infantilization, brief mention of a panic attack, dabi being an asshole (like always)

Dabi hates the words "shut up"... but only when they come from you. He couldn't careless if someone else were to say it, he'd just set them on fire if they ever even thought of disrespecting him that way. But, when it comes from you, it feels like a whole new level of disrespect. The little sneer you give him as you utter his least favorite words that slip from you, you do it so easily too. Whenever he pisses you off or goes a little too far with the teasing, pushing him away with a little huff of, "shut up, Dabi." Oh, it's so much fucking worse when you use "Dabi" knowing damn well you always call him Touya now.

It pisses him off, truly it does. There's always this nasty urge clawing at his chest to grab you up by your hair and make you apologize to him. It gives him a strong feeling of sadistic-glee to see you spewing apologies of, "sorry, Touya"'s and "it won't happen again, Touya"'s until your tongue feels heavy and your eyes are lined with red as they get puffy from all your whining. That's when he truly adores you, when you're clingy and compliant, huffing when he gets up even for a second, reaching for him as he climbs into bed with you.

"C'mere baby, come give me a kiss," you know it's not a question, but a demand. You don't care though, he makes you so mad. Taunting you, pulling at your hair and slapping your ass until there's hand-shaped bruises appearing only hours later... only to demand kisses afterwards. There's a nasty little glare you give him when he glances away from the television to look at you.

With a scowl, you move further away from him, "no." At that he gets off the couch and yanks you up by your arm with a scoff, "the fuck you mean no, doll? I wasn't asking." There's an immediate thrashing coming from you, "shut up, no, let go Dabi." There's a slap to your ass as he makes you stand on your feet. "Say that shit again, I dare you to say that shit again." You can feel your throat start to close up as you fight to get him off of you. Your breathing becomes ragged as your eyes get bleary.

"You wanna go in the corner, huh? Answer me before I make the decision for you." There's a shake of your head as a cry scratches itself from your throat, the sickly taste of bile starts to become apparent as Dabi continues to squeeze your arm tighter. "I'm not a f-fucking child Dabi," you croak out, your throat becoming dryer with every inhale.

He grins so wide his staples almost pop loose, "you're not a f-fucking child, huh? 'Cause you're certainly fuckin' actin' like one." He mocks, sitting back down on the couch as he pulls you into his lap. Forcing your head into the crook of his neck, he pets your hair as he shushes you. He waits a couple minutes for you to calm down before he speaks again, "... you know I hate hurting you, baby. It tears me up, it really does. You know I got too though, right? You know I gotta teach you good behaviour?" There's a nod into his shoulder as your sobs quiet down. "Good. It'll be so much easier for both of us if you keep up your good behaviour, that way you won't get punished."

Dabi truly hates when you spit that ugly phrase at him, it makes him become this monster, one that causes him to leave blunt, cresent-moon shaped marks in your skin. A monster that thrives on your fear when doe eyes quickly turn to fear as azure flames lick at your skin, leaving ugly red splotches on soft flesh.

[kendyzzlewp]

please, I’ve been on my knees, change the prophecy

jackson avery x fem!reader

summary: you watched in horror as the bus exploded, jackson no where to be found

type: angst - love confession - friends to lovers

The world around you seemed to slow down, each raindrop hitting your skin like a heavy weight as you watched in horror. The bus, engulfed in flames, painted a terrifying picture against the dark, rainy backdrop. Your heart pounded violently, a painful rhythm matching the chaos before you.

"Where's Jackson?" Your voice cracked with fear, desperation creeping into every syllable as you searched the chaos for him. "Torres, where's Jackson?"

Calle rushed past, her face a mask of grim determination as she shouted back, "He's right behind us!"

Your feet moved of their own accord, carrying you closer to the inferno despite the danger. "Jackson!" The name tore from your throat, a primal scream of terror and love.

But before you could reach him, Owen's strong arms wrapped around you, pulling you back with a force that matched the explosion that followed. The world seemed to explode around you, the heat searing your skin, the sound deafening as flames licked at the sky.

As you fell to the ground, the world became a blur of agony. The image of the burning bus, the screams of pain and fear, all merged into a cacophony of despair. And then, as if from a great distance, you heard it.

A gut-wrenching scream, raw with agony and loss. It took you a moment to realize that the sound was coming from you, ripped from your very soul as you watched, helpless, knowing that you were losing the person who mattered most to you.

You looked up at the sky, tears mingling with rain as you pleaded with whatever higher power might be listening. "Please," your voice was a broken whisper, "don't take him. Let it be me. Take me instead."

But the sky remained silent, offering no solace as you were left to face the devastation before you, a world shattered by flames and loss.

Through the raging flames, a silhouette emerged, barely visible amidst the inferno. It was Jackson, his figure illuminated by the flickering fire, holding a little girl close to his chest. Tears welled in your eyes as relief flooded through you, mingling with the haunting specter of what could have been.

With each faltering step, Jackson battled against the relentless blaze, his determination a beacon of hope in the darkness. You watched, heart in your throat, as he drew nearer, the flames licking dangerously close to his weary frame.

As he finally reached you, his breaths ragged and labored, he gently passed the trembling child into her mothers arms. She clung to her desperately, her tiny fingers digging into her skin, seeking solace from the nightmare that surrounded her.

With tear-filled eyes, you looked up at Jackson, his face streaked with ash and exhaustion. "You're an idiot," you whispered, the words a fragile prayer of gratitude.

He nodded weakly, a flicker of a smile ghosting across his soot-stained lips. "I know," he rasped, his voice barely above a whisper.

Fury surged within you, mingling with the overwhelming relief as you looked up at Jackson, his face etched with exhaustion and soot.

"You can't just do that!" you exclaimed, your voice trembling with a mix of anger and fear. "Do you have any idea what would have happened if you didn't make it out of there?"

Jackson's brow furrowed in confusion, his gaze searching yours for understanding. "I... I needed to save her," he murmured, his voice strained with emotion.

“And what about me?" Your voice cracked with emotion as tears spilled down your cheeks. "What would have happened to me if you had died in there?"

For a moment, Jackson seemed at a loss for words, his eyes wide with realization. And then, as if a dam had burst within him, he reached out to you, his fingers brushing against your tear-stained cheek.

"I... I didn't think," he whispered, his voice choked with emotion. "I didn't realize..."

"You idiot," you breathed, your voice softening with love and exasperation. "I love you, you moron."

And as you melted into each other's arms, surrounded by the remnants of the devastation, you knew that no matter what trials lay ahead, you would face them together, bound by a love that could withstand even the fiercest flames.

[pomefioredove]

Hiii!! I was wondering if you could “I can’t stop thinking about you” with Jade? If ur prompt things are still open of course! If not that’s totally okay too!!

o7 anon

summary: "I can’t stop thinking about you" type of post: short fic characters: jade additional info: romantic, reader is gender neutral, reader is not specified to be yuu, not proofread and maybe a little ooc a part of this event

"And don't forget to lock the doors when you leave,"

Azul sighs, hovering in the doorway of the Mostro Lounge with his hands on his hips.

"Luckily, nothing was stolen last time I let Floyd take the closing shift, but luck is fickle,"

He pauses, turning to you. "I'm sure you, at least, will be able to handle something so simple."

You salute the tired-looking merman before the soft swoosh of the kitchen door interrupts the conversation.

"My, you have such little faith in me, Azul. I'm wounded," a smoother, much less tense, presence follows it.

You'd always wondered how Jade is able to sound imposing without ever actually raising his voice.

Azul huffs. "I clearly was not addressing you. Good evening to the both of you... Don't stay up too late,"

And with that, he's gone.

As soon as the door is closed and Azul's inky silhouette has vanished, you turn to look at the gentleman behind you.

"I didn't even know you were here,"

"I'm not supposed to be," Jade smiles, offering little explanation.

By now, you're sure he does that on purpose.

You don't feel like being baited into a conversation, but when your only other option is silence with Jade...

"So?"

"I was taking stock," he says. "Both metaphorically and literally. We're short on limes."

His strangeness radiates off of him like a mist. You narrow your eyes at him; he's hiding something, you're sure. But what are you supposed to do- interrogate him?

"I'll leave a note," you mutter, turning your attention back to sweeping.

This is your very first closing shift at the lounge; no customers, no Azul, no sounds except for your own breathing.

And Jade's.

He smiles again. "Shall I help? You'll be done faster with another set of hands,"

He could just leave. He's not even on the clock... if this is him looping you into some ploy to get overtime, you swear...

"If you would like,"

"Excellent,"

Jade disappears into the kitchen, taking that strange air of tension with him, and returns with a rag and cleaning solution.

He's completely silent, perusing the lounge as if it were an art museum, admiring the specks and stains on each table before wiping them down.

"You seem nervous," he says merrily, not even looking at you. "Are you afraid of the dark?"

"No," a half-truth. "I'm just tired." a lie.

"I've read that many human children develop a fear of the dark. What's more, is that it's not considered irrational. How fascinating,"

You focus on the bristles of the broom in front of you. The Mostro Lounge does get rather dark at night... all of Octavinelle does.

"It's not irrational," you mutter.

"Perhaps for you. But in the sea, a child being afraid of the dark would be as silly to us as a child being afraid of sunlight would be to you,"

You pause to look out one of the windows in the lounge, the thick pane of glass separating you from the inky depths. It's almost pitch black at this hour.

Ugh. You're letting him get in your head.

You hum. "Is that why you're here, then? Protecting me from the dark?"

Jade smiles, watching you out of the corner of his eyes. "No. I was only making conversation. You seemed uncomfortable with my presence,"

"I just was expecting to be alone,"

"So was I,"

You pause, turning to him with a questioning glance.

As vague an answer as ever, you think, though there's a certain gleam in his eye that's daring you to find out for yourself.

He meets your gaze. "You interest me,"

Jade says it plainly, his tone soft, as if he thinks he might scare you away with any sudden movements.

"I can't stop thinking about you," he hums. "And I hope you understand my meaning... I do not seek to make you uncomfortable."

You set the broom against the wall. "You're not,"

He mimics you, setting the rag and bottle aside. If you didn't know any better, you could've sworn you caught a look of relief on him.

"Good. I have no malicious intentions... This time,"

You take that as a joke. It's not very funny.

Jade chuckles. "Ah, don't roll your eyes at me. I'm only lightening the mood... I would like to get to know you better, after all," he pauses. "As a confidante."

There's something oddly genuine about this.

He's as calm as ever, but you can tell there's a current of vulnerability hiding beneath the surface.

You can't help a smile at the thought.

"Not an informant, then?"

He smiles back. "Not with you, no,"

[lullabies-blue]

Thomas Hewitt/ Reader

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 Was she scared?

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

Would she scream?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He did not like her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

She was messing it all up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Would she taste as sweet as she smelled?

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

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

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

“Do you think Luda Mae is getting suspicious?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[portraitofalinkonfyre]

You're gonna hate me but I can take Sky, Hyrule, Warriors and Twilight all at the same time. And not in a fight.

Oh my god that’s terrible /j.

Consider it written 👀

Five's a Party

Pairing: Sky, Hyrule, Warriors, Twilight x reader

Warning(s): Wrestling ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

Notes: Not my first time writing a fivesome (I've actually written a eightsome for a fic a while back), but I'm a bit new to this, so enjoy!! @skylover69 I swear you requested this so enjoyyy.

Masterlist

The sounds of metal colliding filled the clearing as you fought Warriors, sweat beading on your brow when you just barely blocked his swing, the muscles in your arms trembling from the force of the attack.

"Tired already?" Warriors called, leaning close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his chest, which was bare. He had taken his tunic off early in your impromptu training session, claiming that he needed to 'concentrate.' You thought it was a load of bull, but who were you to refuse when he was so graciously teaching you how to wield a sword with a modicum more grace than a flailing child.

"Not on your life, Captain," you bit back, a loud shiiiing ripping through the air when both blades collided once more. You held firm, locked in a stalemate that you weren't sure you'd end up winning. Warriors was taller and definitely stronger, but it didn't mean that you couldn't use a few tricks of your own.

With a huff, you pushed, using one of your feet to kick his ankle. Warriors shifted to regain his balance, grunting in surprise, and you took the opportunity to break the stalemate, sliding to the side and training the tip of your sword at his side.

Unfortunately, Warriors recovered quickly, blocking the swing with more grace than you thought necessary. He twisted his wrist and pushed, forcing the flat of your blade to the ground and kicking the sword to the ground.

"Hey!" You watched as the weapon clattered to the ground, frowning deeply at the man before you. "That was dirty and you know it."

Warriors opened his mouth to respond with what was likely an even dirtier joke that you absolutely did not want to hear when he was shirtless, but stopped when another voice broke through the clearing.

"Booo!" Hyrule called from the tree line, flanked by Sky and Twilight. The Traveler walked forward, eyeing you for any injuries before refocusing on the captain. "Aren't you supposed to be teaching them?"

Warriors shrugged, unbothered. "All's fair in love and war," he said nonchalantly.

"What love?" You snarked, sticking your tongue out at him when he gasped fauxly.

"Really, (Y/n)? After all these years–"

"–months, ya wet rag–"

"–shut up, Twilight, I'm trying to have a moment," the Captain snapped with a grin, actually flipping his hair in a way that made you slap a hand over your mouth and exchange glances with the others. "Besides, how are you going to get better if you aren't exposed to everything the enemy could do?"

He had a point–not that you would admit it this early in the game. You snapped your fingers, grinning. "Dunno, that's why I have you guys."

"Damn right, darl'," Twilight chuckled, throwing a heavy arm over your shoulder. You laughed and pushed at his chest, realizing just how gross and sweaty you probably were.

"Ew, get off! I'm all gross!"

But Twilight only held you tighter, his laughter rumbling through your body. "'M a rancher, darlin', this ain't nothin'."

You snorted, rolling your eyes. "'Ain't'? At this point, you don't even have to tell me you're from the country."

The others chuckled as the Rancher grumbled, releasing you, though not without a hearty ruffle to your already mussed hair. "Now tha's just mean, yer just as bad as Legend."

"First of all, rude, and second of all," you made sure there was at least a good three feet of distance between the two of you before making your next quip. "At least I know what a double negative is."

"...A what?"

Just like that, you were all laughing. You ended up leaning against Hyrule, one arm thrown over the Travellers shoulders while your knees threatened to buckle from the force of your chortles, while Sky and Warriors pretended to have some tact, only chuckling a bit before composing themselves. Twilight just stared on in confusion, looking between the three of you with brewing bafflement. "'M serious, what in th' goddesses is tha'?"

You only guffawed harder, with Hyrule snorting beside you. "It's– oh my Hylia, I can't–"

"It's okay, we know your delicate human airways need time to recover," Warriors said in a rare expression of sarcasm, and you nearly died right them and there. The fact that Hyrule was also losing his shit didn't help in the slightest.

"You–! I'll show you weak airways–"

"We'll wait," Sky grinned, and you had the urge to challenge him to a race to knock him down a few pegs, but you liked the skyloftian a bit too much to resort to that level of pettiness.

You clapped a hand over your mouth, willing yourself to calm down. "Once I stop [snrk] laughing, it's over [snort] for you."

"I'm shaking in my boots," Sky responded dryly, and it was a battle unto itself to not launch into another laughing fit, or, more accurately, him. Preferably with your sword.

Twilight cleared his throat. "Ah still don' know what tha' 'twice negative' is."

You reached over to pat his shoulder. "It's okay, Twi, we love you without it."

The rancher's eyes narrowed. "Tha's ominous, darl'."

"I know," you grinned. If he was really curious, he'd ask Time, who would either give him a straight answer or some riddled bullshit. "So, what brings you three here?"

Sky shrugged, smiling good-naturedly. "We just wanted to check on you, it's been a long day."

"You're right about that," you ran a hand through your hair, remembering the horde of bokoblins that had blocked the road a few hours prior. "Who knew Wild's Hyrule would have so many bokoblins? I thought they only travelled in groups of three."

"Me too," Hyrule shivered slightly at the memory. "At least they're easy to spot... and smell."

You made a face, as did the others, at the mere insinuation to the stench the foul creatures emitted like it was their jobs. "Hylia, don't remind me."

You all chatted until Wind came barreling into the clearing, proclaiming it was dinnertime, to which you followed the sailor to meet the rest of the group, laughing and joking like everything was right in the world.

"You can't be serious," you groaned in Twilight's direction, leaning against the doorframe of your room with an exhausted, flabbergasted expression. The weather had gotten progressively sketchier as the day wore on, which was how you ended up in an inn with your own room–a rare comfort, these days. Until a loud knock interrupted your hard-earned peace, and there were suddenly four bedroom-less men at your doorstep. You eyed each of them individually, noting how Sky and Hyrule looked rather sheepish at the unexpected turn of events, while Warriors and Twilight simply appeared done with life. "...In two rooms? Why didn't anyone get him a basket?"

"'Fraid so, darl'," Twilight confirmed, grimacing a bit at the memory of Wild's series of stomach issues regarding the moldy apples he decided to consume a few hours earlier, particularly the part where it ended up in two separate beds... in two separate rooms. "Time's tryin' t' get 'im ta settle down, but 'e's bein'... wild."

You deadpanned. "Rancher," you ran a hand through your already mussed hair, praying to the goddess to give you strength. "That was the worst pun I've ever heard from you."

The Rancher merely shrugged. Damn him for being so cool. "Won't be th' first time, won't be th' last."

Your deadpan deepened. "You say that every time and I still end up surprised."

"What can ah' say? 'M a man o' many talents," he said proudly, and you snorted.

"I think the word you're looking for is 'menace', but whatever floats your boat–" you paused, squinting a bit as you realized they were all carrying their bedrolls. Hyrule and Sky looked especially expectant at the prospect of sleep. "Well, c'mon in, unless you're just here to tell me I'll be making breakfast tomorrow?"

Hyrule winced. "I can help–"

"Absolutely not," you vetoed without missing a beat, opening the door and stepping back to allow them to enter. "The floor doesn't look too bad, but–"

"Sweet Hylia, is that a roach?!" Warriors gasped, and you immediately spun around in search of the creature. Sure enough, there was a big black roach roaming the hardwood floor, antenna waving intimidatingly in the air.

You blanched, wondering if it would be appropriate to squish the thing under your boot when they were the ones sleeping on the floor. "Uh... I stand corrected."

Sky made a noise of disgust, as did Warriors, though it sounded significantly more pained. Fortunately, Twilight came to the rescue, quickly scooping the bug up and tossing it out of the open window before shutting it. "There ya go, all gone."

"Thanks," you said, still in shock at the thought that you had been sleeping with an actual roach in the room. "Um... I think the floor's clean now."

Out of the corner of your eye, Warriors shuddered, but the others seemed to have no qualms, rolling their bedrolls down on the floor. You were just about to head to your bed when a soft scuttling noise broke through the quiet.

"Did you hear...?" Warriors' tone was edged with apprehension, and you shivered, eyes finding the chipped dresser in the corner of the room. The Captain's gaze followed your own, and he went pale. So much for the Hero of Courage–or, one of them, if you were being factually correct. "No. Hylia, no."

Slowly, you crept to the dresser. Even slower, your hand edged to the first drawer, casting a terrified glance at the group of heroes.

You pulled the drawer open.

You screamed, slamming the drawer closed with enough force to crack it, stumbling back as your companions rushed to your aid, with Sky at the forefront, Master Sword pointing squarely at the offending piece of furniture. "What is it? Are you okay?!"

"R-Roaches," you managed to spit out, trying desperately to calm your racing heart. Fuck, fuck, fuck, you knew there was something wrong with this place. "A whole colony of them... oh Goddesses, I'm going to be sick–"

"Oh, no no no no no," Warriors practically whimpered, backing away with his hands raised, palms facing outward. "Not today, Ganon–"

"Wait, there's a colony!?" Hyrule piped up, looking simultaneously horrified and fascinated. You watched in terror as he crept closer, peeking into the drawer. "Wow, I haven't seen one this large before!"

You made a disgusted face, following Warriors lead and slowly edging to the door. Twilight did the same, looking as grossed-out as you felt. You nearly jumped out of your skin when the Rancher laid a hand on your shoulder, voice shaky as your tired mind struggled to grasp the situation. "That's... that's great, Hyrule. Let's get out of here before they, uh, come out, okay?"

"Good idea," Sky murmured, resheathing his sword as he tugged Hyrule back, the Traveler shooting a sad look at the dresser whilst being pulled from the danger zone.

The door shut with a click, leaving the five of you to stand awkwardly in the hall. Sky was the first to break the silence, rubbing his temples with a long-suffering sigh. "By the three... do we know if they have any more rooms?"

"I don't think so," you grimaced, picking at the corners of your tunic, then the straps of your pack, which had managed to remain on your shoulder amidst the chaos. "The innkeeper said they're all booked when Time and I tried to negotiate."

"Well," Warriors made a face, having recovered now that the dresser from hell was out of sight. "I'm not going back in there," the terror returned slightly, and you had no choice but to agree. Heavily. "It's unclean."

"You can say that again," Hyrule muttered, crossing his arms over his chest. "But it looks like our only options are roach room or outside."

"Outside," you said without missing a beat.

Warriors nodded vigorously.

The cave was... adequate.

Damp, cold, with the faint stench of mildew that your mind and nose desperately tried to ignore. You ran your hand on the surrounding wall with a hum, only cringing when your fingers made contact with the slick moisture clinging to the rock, eyes turned skyward to inspect the dripping ceiling. Turning to Warriors, you shook your head sadly. "I hate to say it, but I think we'll have to go without a fire, Cap."

The Captain heaved a sigh, like he'd already expected that. You knew he had, because it was just the type of person he was. "Right," a hand ran through damp blonde hair because, hard as he may try, his scarf could only do so much against the storm, which currently raged outside like a pack of rowdy wolves. "We'll have to move further in, I don't like being this close to the opening."

Hyrule raised a brow. "How much further? We'll be in just as much danger from falling rocks and cave-ins as monsters and lightning."

"Ah second tha'," Twilight put in his two cents, arms crossing over his broad chest in a manner that should have been illegal. Not that you were looking. Obviously. The Rancher cocked his head in the direction of Sky, who had remained largely quiet through the journey that was convincing Time it was totally okay and safe for half the group to venture out because none of you were willing to touch the roach room. "Ya've been awfully quiet, Sky."

"Ah, sorry," the Skyloftian rubbed the back of his neck, looking slightly sheepish. "I was just thinking."

"That's dangerous," you joked, nudging his shoulder with your arm. "Cheer up, at least we're not sleeping with the roaches!"

Sky laughed, though it was more of a quiet rumble than anything. "You've got a point," he acquiesced with a friendly smile. "Onwards, then?"

"Looks like it," you grinned, cracking your knuckles. There was a collective chuckle from the rest of the group, though they were mercifully quiet as the journey resumed, you and Warriors in the lead, weapons drawn and ears perked. The dampness only increased, as did the... temperature? Wasn't it supposed to be the other way around? You glanced over your shoulder, brows furrowing when you noticed Twilight fanning his pelt, cheeks slightly pink. "Tell me if I'm going crazy, but is it getting hotter in here?"

"Ya ain't crazy," the Rancher said immediately, reaching to his collar to yank the fabric from his neck, looking just as warm as you felt. Beside you, Warriors was tugging his scarf so the looped portion wasn't as tight around his throat. Even Hyrule, who was usually one of the most temperature-resilient individuals in the group, looked distinctly uncomfortable, one finger hooked on the curve of his tunic in an attempt to release some heat. Only Sky looked unfazed, but you didn't miss the way he kept shaking his arms and tugging at his sleeves. "Hylia, this bett'r not be volcanic–"

"It's not," Warriors interjected. Out of everyone, he and Twilight were the most heavily clothed, so you weren't surprised when the Captain's ears seemed to flush. "At least, it shouldn't be. We're half a world away from Death Mountain."

"It might not be a volcano, but I've seen magma pools in caves before," Hyrule mused with a slight frown. "Maybe the roach room–"

"NO." You and Warriors hissed in unison. The Traveller shrugged unapologetically, and you wondered how much trouble you'd get in with Time if you decided to throttle him.

Sky made a curious noise, pointing towards something at the end of the tunnel. "Hey, what's that?"

Your gaze followed the Skyloftian's gaze, and you narrowed your eyes at the patch of flowers sitting innocently in the middle of the path. They were large and white, with a bell-like curve that reminded you of a mug. The only problem was that flowers typically didn't grow in caves, especially one as deprived of light as this one. "Are those... flowers?"

"In here?" Hyrule slipped past you, approaching the patch with cautious steps. They didn't appear dangerous, but it was better safe than sorry. The hero reached out, poking one. It bobbed softly. "Huh."

Warriors edged closer, with you, Twilight, and Sky at his heels. "What's wrong?"

"They're warm," the Traveller mused, poking the flower once more. Again, it bobbed, but nothing spectacular happened, so you allowed yourself to relax, sword falling to rest by your side. "Anyone know what they're called?"

"No clue," you responded, scanning the area before your gaze landed back on the patch. You'd seen your fair share of plants, and knew enough to identify bad from good, but never ones quite like this. "They don't look dangerous, though."

"Agreed," Hyrule straightened, wiping his hands on his tunic. "Let's keep m–"

CRACK!

The cave gave a mighty quake and an absolutely massive stalagmite came plummeting from the rocky heavens. You went stiff with shock, and it was by the grace of whatever Deity was out there that Hyrule managed to dodge the falling formation, swiftly rolling to the side as it came down next to the flower patch, shattering into several large pieces, one of which landed square in the flower patch, which released a large cloud of shimmery dust upon impact. You didn't bother covering your mouth, scrambling to where Hyrule lay, eyes wide as he came to terms with what had just happened. "Rule, are you okay?!"

There was another crack, and you nearly shrieked when a hand grabbed the back of your collar, yanking you back through the cloud into a hard chest, one arm tossed over your torso while the other crossed your collarbone. Twilight pulled you close just as another stalactite fell, and Hyrule's yelp could be heard when Sky dragged him to safety by the leg. "Holy–!"

The cave settled with a soft rumble. Several coughs could be heard as the cloud dissipated, leaving behind an almost shimmery layer on the surrounding rock. You blinked, sneezing softly as the dust tickled your nose. It smelled... sweet, like you expected flowers to smell, but there was something incomprehensibly spicy in the scent's undertone. Fuck, had it gotten hotter? "T-Thanks, Twi."

A hand patted your head and you shivered when the Rancher's chin landed on the top of your hair, his breath tickling the strands. "No probl'm, darl'."

Why... why was that so attractive? Let it never be said that you didn't find his accent... nice, but your hazy brain was positive that the way your thighs clenched together was most definitely not an appropriate reaction to your teammate's voice.

"Ugh..."

There was a loud thwap, and you looked over just in time to watch Warriors rip his scarf off, throwing it to the ground with a grimace. "Oh, that's it," he all but growled. Your eyes nearly bugged out of your head when his hands began fiddling with his paldon's buckle, yanking the armor off like it had burned him.

"What are you doing?" You hissed. The Captain proceeded to remove the rest of his armor and your mind went curiously blank. Was he stripping?!

"It's too damn hot," Warriors grunted back and, fuck, he was all but ripping his outer tunic off. You tried to wiggle from Twilight's grasp to feel his forehead–or do something–but the Rancher held you tighter.

"Twilight–"

Your mouth clicked shut when an actual growl rumbled from the Hero of Twilight's mouth. Or, you assumed it was him, because of the face currently shoved into your neck.

What the fuck was going on here??!!

Your eyes flicked to Hyrule and Sky, and, lo and behold, the Traveller's outer tunic had also been removed, while Sky was undergoing the arduous process of undoing the clasp of his sailcloth.

...And why the fuck was it turning you on?

A wave of liquid heat ripped through you like a set of poison-tipped claws. Twilight's nose brushed the shell of your ear, sending a ripple of shivers racing down your spine. "Hey–"

A pair of lips brushed your skin, and every nerve in your body seemed to ignite. Maybe you should take something off. They were your... friends, and friends didn't care. Right? "Hm?"

You twisted in his grip, just managing to pull yourself back, landing on the cold stone floor with a soft oof. Eyes flicking around the cave, you noticed that Warriors was completely shirtless, chest rising with each panting breath he took, and Hyrule wasn't far behind. With his hands free, Twilight joined you and the others on the floor, pulling his armor off before getting to work on his tunic and chainmail. Your own hands moved on instinct, tugging at the collar of your shirt, which felt more constricting than a thousand chains encircling your form. "Y-Ya okay?" the Rancher huffed. He was edging closer.

"What the fuck," you breathed, pulling the tunic over your head, leaving you in your undershirt and bindings. There had to be some sort of explanation to this madness. "It wasn't this hot before..."

"Yeah," Hyrule agreed eloquently, shoulders and torso slick in the fading light, and it was downright embarrassing how your eyes slid down the exposed curve of his body, down to the band of his trousers, where a large bul–

Wait.

"Fuck," you hissed as reality crashed down on you. This was bad. So, so bad. "The flowers–"

"Oh no," Warriors groaned, catching your drift, and your face went crimson when you realized that he too was sporting a bulge in his trousers. They all were, but Sky was the only one with the decency–or awareness–to attempt to conceal his... problem, though you were sad to say that a sailcloth over his lap made the fact that he was hard even more glaringly obvious. Shit, this was not good. "We have to get out of here."

"No shit," you hissed, moving to stand, but your knees immediately buckled, sending you right back where you started, ass flat on the ground as the throbbing between your legs became harder and harder to ignore. Maybe you could sneak a hand– no! Bad thoughts! "Goddesses..."

"I think..." all eyes turned to Sky, who was redder than Legend's tunic. The Chosen Hero kept shifting his hips, ears pinned back in discomfort. "We can't go back... out there," he managed to force out. "Not like this."

"Then wha'...?" Twilight asked, droplets of sweat running down his torso as his hands trembled at his sides, biceps flexing deliciously. He looked like a mess; a hot, sexy mess that you couldn't wait to–

"Oh Hylia..." Warriors whispered. His hands were on his belt, half-heartedly fiddling with the buckle. Your name passed over his lips.

"What?" you panted, seconds away from throwing caution to the wind and slipping a hand into your pants. Fuck propriety when they basically had their dicks out.

"Come here?" Asked the Captain in a tone that bordered on pleading, and you broke. Nary a second passed before you were clambering into his lap, straddling that hot, hard bulge like you belonged there. Hands found your shoulders, tracing firebrand lines down your arms, and you kissed Warriors, tightly gripping his hair as your mouths moved together. He tasted vaguely of mint, cool and clean, but it hardly registered in your mind when the hero's tongue traced the seam of your lips with a fervor that surprised even you, though you had no qualms about opening up and letting him do as he pleased because, fuck, when was the last time you had felt this way about, well, anyone.

A quiet groan filled the cave, and you jolted slightly when another hand cupped your chin, pulling your face over to allow Twilight to press his own lips against yours. Unlike with Warriors, this kiss was all tongue and teeth, saliva dribbling from the corners of your mouth to drip into the Captain's lap. Your hips jerked when he nipped your bottom lip, pulling a groan from the Hero of Warriors when your core ground against the thick bulge of his cock. "Yer perfect," the Rancher murmured, tone husky with what you could only assume was lust, and your stomach positively broiled.

A pair of arms encircled your torso, pulling it back just enough so that your back was resting against Sky's chest. The Skyloftian's head bent, and yours turned, lips meeting in a fierce kiss. A large, calloused hand gripped your hip, moving you to grind more fully against Warriors, and the two of you moaned in unison. Goddesses, you couldn't remember the last time anyone had touched you like this, much less three–

But it wasn't three of them.

You broke the kiss with Sky, using the last of your brainpower to address the brown-haired hero still lingering on the cold floor, face practically crimson as he fisted his tunic. "R-Rule?"

Hyrule's eyes snapped to meet yours, and he flushed darker, averting his gaze. "S-Sorry," he mumbled, like he expected you to be mad. "...I didn't mean to stare..."

"You c-can stare," you huffed, thankful that the others had paused long enough to let you speak. "You can join, if you want."

Like a switch being flipped, Hyrule's ears shot up, and he seemed to be in disbelief. Silly boy, you weren't going to help the others and just leave him like this. "R-Really?"

"Mhm," you nodded, biting your lip when Warriors' hips began to rock once more, while Twilight took your whimper as a cue to run his hands up and down your stomach, fingers occasionally grazing the soft flesh where your undershirt rode up. Hyrule practically scrambled over, sitting on his knees by your unoccupied side, and you had to wonder if this was his first time. "C'mere," you said, sitting up a bit so you weren't laying quite so firmly against Sky.

This time, there was only a single beat of hesitation on the Traveler's part. He moved closer, cupping your face in his battle-rough hands, and brushed his lips against yours. Unlike the others, there was something deliciously precise in his movements, like he was afraid of hurting you. Definitely a virgin, but it was far from a problem. "Is this... okay?"

He was asking for all of them, you knew. You also knew that they would stop in a heartbeat if you voiced even a hint of discomfort. It came with the territory, but that also implied that you wanted them to stop, which was obviously not the case. "Yeah," you murmured against the Traveler's lips. "It's okay."

You kissed Hyrule again, and, suddenly, Twilight's fingers hooked beneath the hem of your undershirt, carefully moving the fabric upwards until it bunched snuggly at your collarbone, revealing the wrapped swell of your chest to their hungry gazes.

Warriors was the first to reach your chest, sitting up slightly as the hand on your hip moved to cup a breast; gently, like he was testing the weight of it, memorizing the feel of bandages against rough flesh. You shuddered when his thumb stroked the width of it, leaning back against the Skyloftian, who seemed more than happy to support you, if the cock prodding your backside was any indication. Hylia, this was not how you intended the night to go, but, by the Three, you were not complaining.

"Tha's it, darl'," Twilight rumbled in your ear, and you were sure your underwear would be ruined by the time they were through with you. "Jus' relax, we'll take care 'o ya."

Oh god, oh fuck, you were not going to survive if he kept talking like that. Fortunately, a slightly aggravated growl from Warriors, fingers sliding over the tightly-wrapped masterpiece that were your bindings, provided an adequate distraction from the wildfire burning in your pants. "Din in– how do you...?"

You broke the kiss with Hyrule long enough to give him an incredulous look. "You," you paused to catch your breath, all the while wondering if you were truly seeing what you thought you were seeing. The self-proclaimed 'ladies man'... unsure of how to undo some simple chest bindings? What was the world coming to?? "You've got to be shitting me. After all that big talk about your time in the capital?"

"–It's different in the capital!" the Captain defended, but it was weak, and his ears were beginning to redden. "No one– hardly anyone wraps their chest–!"

"Tha's weak an' ya know it, cap–"

You cocked a brow, cooly unimpressed despite the fact that you were currently sitting on his dick. "So you're saying I'm the first person in the capital to do that?"

"No–"

"Golly, I'm a trendsetter!" you grinned, thoroughly amused by this turn of events. Beside you, Hyrule cringed for reasons unknown. "But I guess I can show–"

At least, that's what you would have said had Sky's hands not moved up to slide along your chest in the Captain's stead, then to your back, where he found the loose end and deftly undid it, the others watching as the cloth loosened, falling from your chest in strips. You blinked, both impressed and turned on.

"–wow, Sky! Where'd you learn that?"

You felt his shrug before you saw it. "Zelda taught me when we were kids," the hero explained, and you perked up when his tone took a distinctively deeper lit, a grin breaking across his handsome features. "Don't worry, Captain, I'm sure you'll get the hang of it eventually."

"You smug bastard," was Warriors' growled response. Your lips parted to tell them both off, only to slam your mouth shut when Warrior's mouth closed around your nipple, the Captain giving you a fierce look, as if daring you to tease him further. A short whimper escaped your lips, and you found that it was getting harder and harder to hold yourself back when Hyrule's lips suctioned to your neck, tongue darting out every once in a while to taste the salt forming on your skin.

The hand on your other breast kneaded softly, thumb flicking over your now pebbled nipple. Sky made a pleased humming noise, pressing himself more firmly against your back, while Twilight busied himself with your trousers, eyes trained on your face to detect even the slightest indication of discomfort.

"Doing al'right, darlin'?" the Rancher questioned, fingers hesitating at the junction where your skin met the thick hem.

You nodded to the best of your hazy ability, feeling a spike of desperation shoot straight through your belly. Right, those flowers. Those fucking flowers. "Please touch me."

His hand was in your pants before you could blink, or, really, do anything but bite your lip when a large, warm hand slid into your underwear.

Unfortunately, I'm going to have to cut this in half because Tumblr is being finicky and we're at 5k words LOL.

[earlysunshines]

secret rhymes - 39. victorian child (half-written)

a/n: fun fact i have been sick for the past WEEK. my voice has been so so so raspy and dead and i literally sound like im gonna die and or smoked thirty packs of cigs AND im also coughing like a bitch. yeah. ik a bowl of congee HATES to see me coming (I made a whole pot... i finished that pot in less than two days...)

hanni shuffles a bit and groans, stirring weakly beneath the covers. you’re worried that the rag on her forehead might slip off, so you hold it in place as she groggily blinks.

“what…” she nearly croaks. “i’m gonna be… late…”

“han, it’s okay. the rest of your group talked to the managers and called me here. i’ll take care of you for now, okay?”

“hyein?” hanni questions, pulling her blanket closer.

“…close?” you nearly chuckle.

“yunjin is that—“ hanni finally opens her eyes fully, taking in the sight of you—half amused and half worried—staring down at her. her eyes widen slightly. “y-y/n? what are you—“

“you’re burning up. you have a really high fever, one-o-one.” you sigh, looking at her with pity. “everyone was worried sick.”

“one hundred one degrees? how is that even possible—“

“—fahrenheit. you're not dead yet, don't worry.”

her face is already flushed from her fever, but when she fully registers you—the slight scrunch of worry in your brow, your hair cutely clipped behind your ears, and the loose koala graphic t-shirt you have on—her face is even more flushed under the cloth.

she can barely react, too exhausted and feverish to do anything more than stare and breath. she closes her eyes then, defeated, and sinks deeper into the bed.

meanwhile, you sit beside her, adjusting the cool compress on her forehead that slipped off while she had woken up. her skin is burning up, her breathing slow and heavy, and the way she barely stirs at your touch only makes your concern deepen.

the rest of her members had left her in your care, all of them thanking you like you had saved their lives.

("you're the best, seriously." minji says as she hugs you tight, pulling away and patting you on your shoulder. "I wasn't sure what we would've done... this album is really important and especially the song we have to record today."

"it's nothing." you say casually. "i feel bad that hanni can't go and record with you guys, but i feel even worse because she seems pretty unwell."

hyein gives you one last big hug, and then the rest of the group joins in to trap you. you giggle and hug them back, surprised and amused by the gratitude of the situation.

"i'm sorry for calling you so suddenly, you seemed really tired." hyein mumbles.

when she called you at nine in the morning (five minutes after you had to fight to wake up) you were more than just tired. an unknown caller id called you three times, the same amount of times it took you to respond with slight annoyance until you heard the familiar voice and realized it was hyein calling.

"it's fine." you respond, because after figuring out that you had to wake up for hanni, it was more than fine. "I'll take good care of her, thank you for trusting me with her and also with... uh, being in your dorm."

danielle shakes her head, then smiles. "after hearing about hanni talk about you so much and meeting you in person; you're very much welcome in our dorm anytime."

you smile even wider at that comment before ushering everyone out. "okay, go, go. i know how recording's can be, and how the schedules are, so go. i don't want you guys to get in trouble or anything." you urge. before they leave, they make sure to give you all their contact information to give and receive updates.)

you glance at your phone to see no messages from any of them, then back at hanni, watching as her lips part slightly with a soft breath. you sigh, adjusting the blanket so it sits over her shoulder before shifting to sit on the floor beside her bed, your back against the frame. it's quiet, other than the faint hum of the heater, occasional rustle of the sheets, and soft groans as she shifts slightly in her fevered sleep.

every few minutes you reach up to check the cloth, replacing it with a freshly dampened one and alternating between the two cloths four times. you don't mind waiting—watching over her like this, making sure she's okay.

and even though hanni is barely conscious, barely functional to form a thought through her exhaustion, she notices the way you linger and the feeling of the temperature on her forehead changing here and there. she notices every quiet action showing that you care.

—

a little over thirty minutes pass and you switch the rag on hanni's forehead one last time, brushing a few stray strands of hair from her damp skin before standing up. she barely moves, lost in her sleep, but you hesitate for a second before deciding to head out to the kitchen.

"i'll be back, han." you say softly, placing your hand on her shoulder.

the dorm is quiet, save for the occasional hum of the city outside. you roll up your sleeves as you get to the kitchen and unpack your tote bag, taking out each ingredient carefully. you begin chopping ginger, mushrooms, garlic, and pre-cooked chicken—staples for the congee you're making. the sound of the knife against the cutting board fills the space as you work, focused yet extremely mindful of who's resting in the other room.

fifteen more minutes pass and you've already started boiling the rice with your chopped ingredients. you're nearly done as is. suddenly, you hear soft, unsteady footsteps and turn, catching hanni in your sight as she emerges out from the hall.

she's wrapped in a crewneck and blanket draped over her shoulders, her eyes still heavy with exhaustion. she blinks at you, sluggish and dazed, before speaking tiredly,

"y/n, you… why are you... here?"

you immediately lower the heat and rush over to hanni, your hands hovering uncertainly between steadying her shoulders or guiding her back to bed.

she tilts her head slightly, looking at you through half-lidded eyes.

"you didn't answer me." hanni mumbles, giving in and leaning against you to support herself. "how did you even... get here?"

"you're going to pass out, you should've stayed in your room." you sigh, guiding her toward the couch gently. "hyein called me. she said you were sick, and I was worried." you adjust the blanket around her as she settles into the cushions, still looking up at you with something unreadable in her expression. "I came as soon as she called."

"but—"

"no." you interrupt, kneeling in front of her to get her comfy. "I only have a few online things for a class, so don't worry. i basically have a free day, why not spend it on you? just focus on getting better, han."

hanni doesn't argue. she just watches as you stand and return to the kitchen, resuming your work.

the warm scent of whatever it is that you're cooking fills the air while you season further. hanni pulls the blanket tighter around herself, gaze locked onto your back as you move. the way you check on her between stirring the pot, the way your brows knit while adding a few more mushrooms—it's like you were made to do this, to care and be attentive to even the smallest things.

something tugs at hanni's heart.

once the congee is finished, you ladle some into a bowl, letting the steam rise before setting it on the counter to cool. you run to hanni's room to grab the bowl with damp rags and return to her side, setting it on the coffee table as you sit next to her. you place the rag on her head against and she lets out a small sigh at the cool relief, her eyes barely open as she looks at you.

"the food is still hot," you murmur, reaching out instinctively. your hand finds its way to her cheek, brushing against her heated skin as you check her temperature.

hanni leans into your touch. it's barely a movement—soft, fleeting, and she probably isn't aware of it either—but you feel it like a spark. the warmth of her skin lingers against your palm longer than it should and your thumb brushes against her on its own. you swallow, but she doesn't seem to notice, too tired to register the weight of the moment.

you drop your hand after a second and she turns her head slightly on the couch, still watching you through drowsy eyes.

"thank you," she mumbles. "really... you didn't.. have to.. have to do all this."

you shake your head, leaning back slightly and meeting her with the same look she has in her eyes. "it's nothing."

"no, but i mean it," she insists, her voice barely above a whisper. "you took..." she breathes in slowly, sinking deeper into her blanket before continuing, "time out of your day just to come all the way here—to take care of me."

you let out a small laugh, shrugging. "well, you're a friend I care a lot about."

hanni blinks, something unreadable flickering in her tired eyes before she lets out a quiet hum. "i— thank you. I'm glad we're... friends."

you don't know how to respond to that. the way she says it feels like there's something more beneath the surface, but she's also terribly sick so you could just be overthinking everything. before you can dwell on it further, hanni shifts, resting her head against the couch.

"lucky me." she says softly, already halfway to sleep.

you exhale, watching as her breathing starts to even and her blinking get slower. "right," you start, "you have to eat something. i think it should be cooled." you look away from her, breaking the tension filled with something uncertain but not unwelcome.

hanni watches you grab the bowl and sit up, scooping a small bite and blowing on it a few times before holding the spoon towards her. she hesitates before finally parting her lips, eating without a complaint despite being sluggish.

"good?" you ask quietly.

she nods, chewing slowly. "mhm. you're a good cook."

"i know," you tease, earning a weak chuckle from her.

you bring up another spoonful, but before she takes it, you notice a bit of rice stuck at the corner of her lips. without thinking, you reach forward, brushing it away with your thumb.

hanni stills. her eyes flick up to yours, surprised, but she doesn't pull back. neither do you.

"you're being extra nice today," hanni mutters, voice tinged with something unreadable.

you huff a small laugh, reaching for a cup of warm water. "you're sick, hanni. what kind of person would I be if I wasn't?"

she lets you tilt her chin up slightly even when it earns a weird turn in her stomach. she also lets you assist her in sipping the water, wiping away at the drop that rolls down to her chin.

"i, uh, um. there was this, um, time." you start nervously, trying to break the dreadful tension in the air. "my friend back in new york, he... he got sick and his parents were away. i had to take care of him like this. so don't worry about... me taking care of you. it's nothing. i just want you to be okay hanni."

"you're lovely, y/n." hanni sounds and looks drunk with a mix of just completely tired. it's almost amusing how cute she looks.

for the next hour you sit beside her and finish some assignments on your laptop. every so often you glance her way, checking her temperature and switching out the rags. hanni doesn't say much, just watches you everytime she wakes up, eyes flickering between your hands on the keyboard and the quiet concentration on your face.

"i feel a lot better now," she finally says, breaking the silence and halting your typing.

you glance at her and smile. "yeah?"

she hums in confirmation, her eyes fluttering closed as sleep starts to take over.

hanni motions for you to scoot over, and if this were any of your other friends you'd tell them to back off because of their sickness—with hanni, you shift closer. and then she leans on you a bit, the weight of her head pushing against your arm. you don't say anything else, just watch as she drifts off, her features relaxed, her breathing soft and even.

she looks peaceful—so pretty even while she's overheating and feverish.

carefully—without moving your arm—you reach for the rag again, switching it out for a colder one. you do it over and over, making sure she's comfortable. even though the room is quiet, and even though she's asleep; you don't feel alone.

if anything, you feel closer than before. your heart can't decide if it likes the feeling or not.

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