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moondirti · 4 months

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𝐂𝐀𝐁𝐈𝐍 𝐅𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑, 𝐈𝐈 [18+]

familiar! ghost × witch! reader

you are a witch trapped at home by a devastating blizzard. ghost is the demon that answers your call. ( 2 of 3 /PREV )

DEAD DOVE. RATED E. HORROR EROTICA. 9K. – AO3 heed the warnings below and proceed at your own discretion.

warnings: NONCON. graphic depictions of gore. injury. cannibalism. blood licking. slaughtering + ingesting animals. violence. degradation. body horror. hypothermia. isolation. manipulation. corruption kink. religious imagery. dark!ghost. female reader. i know i said 2 parts total but now it's a 3er.

additional tags: groping. tit fondling. rough oral (male receiving). face-fucking. cum guzzling + eating. it’s all a little disgusting and not in the good way i fear.

𝐈𝐈.𝐈

The cottage is halfway buried under snow when you run out of firewood.

It should come as no surprise, though you stare down your emptied closet like the ground opened up and swallowed your remaining reserve. Out of body, you fail to confront the cold reality that has already seeped into your walls, freezing the splintered wood of your floors, instead standing stock-still as your mind sharpens its critical edge.

Only there is no one to direct your reproach to but yourself. Weeks ago, your rune casts had predicted a crippling whiteout, thus you set out to collect enough fuel to last you the season. Yet as night waxed on the third day of your efforts, and your hands started tearing bloody from splitting hardwood all on your own, that resolve debilitated rather quickly. Like sugar steeped in tea; your will to live was already in a decrepit state, and indeed, eagerly unravelled at the first sign of adversity. Suicidal, with hindsight. A passive play at death of which you were too fearful to try and seek for yourself.

It did not seem like that at the time, of course. Rather, you justified the fatuous decision to stop (after cutting down a mere three trees) by concocting an estimate of how long it would be before you could venture out for more. Based on absolutely nothing but a desperation to curl back on your couch, sore but sheltered, you gave it one month. One month until the storm would abate. Of restlessness, fermenting in a prison you call home. To your distorted sense, four-hundred pieces of firewood seemed plenty enough to get you through it, despite admittedly lacking even a basic working knowledge of wood arithmetic.

Counting the days now, you’re almost tempted to laugh. Almost. The shroud of horror that newly accompanies death since Ghost’s lesson triumphs, after all. You are more terrified than you would have been a week ago. Still, you were not wrong – the firewood had lasted a month – only the weather does not seem to be looking up, and you’re trapped inside a quickly cooling cottage with no source of heat to get you to the thaw. The possibility of fatal hypothermia looms closer, more dangerous. Eerily relevant–

(Just a year ago, you watched a man die from the warmth of your ancestral home, face down in fresh snow outside the parlour room window. Your ageing mother had invited the pastor’s son over to help repair the stairs left unattended since your father’s death, and the man had called your fascination with the corpse morbid, nail between two teeth as he hammered down a wooden plank.

No use starin’ at a dead man, lass. Not for a bonnie thin’ like you.

But you could not tear your eyes away from his mottled skin, the blue-black ends of his fingers. Even at his burial several days later, his face displayed the same, blank expression, perpetually cast by that winter’s frigid storm.)

You imagine yourself passing in a similar vein. It will take longer, you think. You’ll be dying for weeks as your blood courses slower through you, iced by the winds that howl down your chimney. Protected, but not enough, by these walls you have been banished to live within. Unable to get even a glimpse of sunlight before shutting your eyes for the last time, the snow packed up to your windows effectively burying you without ceremony. A forgotten tomb.

You wonder if Ghost would intervene, yet your speculation is brief. His words echo like he uttered them only moments ago. Fight or die. He has long established the volitional aspects of your relationship – he owes you nothing unless you ask, and if you do, then you would rather wish you were dead in lieu of what he asks for in return. No. He will merely watch as you take your last breath, satisfied that he was right, then scavenge your carcass for his next meal. Fated to wet his mouth like the picked off crow. A long-awaited feast.

Curling in on yourself, it is all you can do to bury yourself in clothes. Your vulnerability is often a fickle thing, you find, ebbing and flowing like seawater tides gradually gorging on their shore. There are periods you feel invincible; a being made of eternal magic, unmoved by the shifts in nature bid by time. Some sequoia, whose roots pierce deep into the earth and drink from freshwater wells unacquainted with human touch. A thing truly deserving of the title witch.

Other times – these times being of increasing occurrence since the arrival of your familiar – you cannot help but to shrink back into a girl again. Raw and tender and emotionally volatile. Naked, sore lungs, as you’re pulled from your mother’s womb and forced to embrace the harsh cut of air. Ghost watches from his usual corner, a spectre practically pulsing with this voyeuristic game he likes to play. You know he’s figured out the predicament you’ve put yourself in, can feel yourself quailing at the discredit his judgement affords. The layers serve a dual purpose, then – for warmth, and to grant brief reprieve from his gaze on your shivering form.

Three pairs of socks. A tunic, a fleece, a cardigan, and a coat. Skirts over your trousers. Gloves and a woollen hat.

By the end, you have a hard time moving at all. Certainly not enough to cook, or to try tunnelling a way out of the window. No point in reading if you can’t practise your magic, either; so you mutter a quiet ignition spell over the charred firewood from last night, hoping it lasts even half as long, before collapsing on the couch and willing yourself to sleep.

Only sleep does not come.

Or, it might. Yet your mind is so occupied with your condition that it does not allow you to fully lose consciousness. You’re attuned to every particle around you, overstimulated in the worst sense, still subjected to an unsettling sequence of half-dreams. Brain flickering through pale mirages of dead crows, ice floes, of capsized rafts in arctic waters, their hulls resembling slabs of marbled meat. As you drown, you shout for help and pique at the sound of it echoing in real life, tangible enough that it shakes you awake. You nearly strangle yourself trying to wind your quilt tighter around your shoulders afterward, burying your nose in a pillow and cupping your cheeks with frigid hands.

Eventually, time joins the distortion, and you have a hard time discerning whether it’s been hours or meagre minutes. The only indication is the way in which your body starts to ache with a pain so profound, it is as though you’ve been beaten. If you weren’t frustratingly cognizant of your surroundings the whole night, your first bet would have been to blame Ghost, or at least the threadbare couch you’ve been using as a bed erring too long now. Unfortunately, the true cause of your affliction is hard to misdiagnose; a violent, merciless shivering, your muscles made to tremble as if compelled to by electric shock. The teeth chattering kind – and it is exactly the rattle of ivory against ivory that serves as a makeshift timekeeper.

Click. Click. Clickclick. Click.

It must be two hours later when you bite your tongue and jolt completely awake from the pain, swathed in your quilt like the nesting doll that sat on your windowsill back home. Though the appendage bleeds, spreading metallic bitterness onto your teeth, you wonder for a brief moment whether you are alive at all. Foggy vision. Taut skin drawing lines down your cheeks from either corner of your eyes. When you squint, it tugs tighter, and you realise at one point you had started crying. It’s hard to tell without your nose hot and runny, or your lips swollen like overripe berries. Instead, you’re rendered to a shrivelled reflection of yourself, dried tear tracks setting the image in stone. The shadow looming above you seems to agree.

“Not dead yet. But only just.”

You wish you could say his voice is any softer than standard. That the stars aligned, or that this is an ideal world where the antediluvian creature occupying your home has tapped into his small pool of pity. But he nudges your knee with all the detached amusement he prescribes to most things, like he can’t understand why you’re so easily affected by the cold.

“Ghost?”

“Almost exclusively.” He mocks.

The couch dips near your feet. You do not register why until he scoops an arm into your quilt, pulling you from warm refuge and onto his lap instead. It isn’t in you to fight, merely mewling like a feverish cat as you reach a hand out to the cushion where you once lay. Wiggling your fingers, kicking your heels.

He swats your arm until it flops back to your side.

“If only y’could see yourself like this. Bloody pathetic, pet.”

“I’m c-cold.”

“Not doin’ yourself any favours, then. This,” He tugs at the coat barely hugging your shoulders, stretched taut over your bulky layers. “off.”

When you fail to listen, he takes the initiative for you, pulling it down your arms and towards some distant corner. You don’t miss it, necessarily – it hardly did anything to keep you warm – but you protest the loss as you would have done anything else; noisily, sniffing to suppress the fresh bout of tears spooling over your vision.

“Think you exhausted every option, hm? All you can do is curl over and cry?” With his hands now at your cardigan, thumbs hooked under the lapel, you search his eyes for indication of what he intends to do. Ghost is difficult to appreciate even on the best of days, but now, without the handy glow of fire or direct stream of sunlight, he’s practically impossible. Like two mountains stood tall with no valley in between them, no line of logic exists that can explain his actuality.

(And you’ve never been the logical type – there is no precise science to why goat fat and cumin work together to lure someone into love, or why you knew to stay away from the pastor who kept your mother company. Some things exist solely in magical proportions; limiting yourself to rational thought would be doing a great disservice to what they have to offer.

But confronting Ghost on a plane where he has the upper hand is a daunting task, so you stick to what rationale can place.)

“What are you–you doing?”

“Shut it.” He folds the cardigan around your hips, clasping a colossal palm onto the back of your neck. Though you’re used to being scruffed when he’s less than pleased with you, the purpose of this is far from dissatisfaction. You know it immediately. His skin, flesh, is warmer than anything you’ve felt in a long time. A quality of comfortable, penetrating heat that sinks into your nape and slowly works to defrost your marrow, your limbs, the icy film clinging to your brain. Your eyes roll shut almost instantaneously, body slumping forward to sink into his chest. Somewhere in the recesses of your mind, where the relief of warmth has not yet reached, you worry that he’ll push you off.

He does not.

Instead, his other hand slips under your fleece and tunic, smoothing over the knots of your spine to reach between your shoulder blades. There, his heat sinks to swathe your chest, and the weakly heart somehow managing to do its job, pumping blood that tickles your toes and fingertips. It drips down to your tummy too, where it weighs heavy like a tangible mass, and brings your pulse to the bud between your legs.

His touch there doesn’t last long; he pulls away only moments later, a tightness newly lifted off your sternum. One hand still kneads your nape, effectively keeping your face against his broad shoulder, but the other moves to collect your slack wrists together. It strikes you as unusual, sure, yet you’ve since surrendered your inhibitions for sake of survival. A cavewoman tradeoff. Your body purrs at the satisfaction of your baser instincts, happy to resort to this primitive state of impartiality, if only it means you’ll stay snug throughout the winter.

Yes. If anyone were to ask you right then, you would have seen it as not only plausible but entirely necessary to stay like this for the months to come. Sated and secure and just a hint impassioned, content to doze off on the lap of your tormentor. Already halfway there, lashes fluttering as you battle complete oblivion.

Only that isn’t what Ghost has in store, and he seems eager to break the illusion you hold in such high regard.

He releases your neck, guiding you to sit upright upon his tree-trunk thighs. When you object by reaching for his hands again, you find that your own are securely fixed behind your back. Completely immobilised.

Sensation slowly trickles back to you. Once numb, your skin now comes alive with frayed nerve endings, crackling, hair standing on its ends. What you find, alarmingly, is your place within a twisted example of the lesson Ghost has been attempting to teach. The lightness on your sternum not as metaphorical as you had assumed – rather, the bandages binding your breasts have been unwrapped to treacherously hitch your wrists together. The rough fabric excoriates the surface of your forearms.

Your breathing accelerates. If you’d been freezing before, you’re thoroughly iced now. Shock races through your system and persecutes everything that lulled you into this position. Stupid, stupid, stu–

“Ghost.” You hiss. “Ghost. This is-isn’t funny.”

He doesn’t respond, rolling your top to reveal the soft stretch of your navel. It involuntarily retracts when he flits over your belly button, dodging the unwelcome spread of his fingers. Your body's way of protesting, for all you lean into his touch. Too tempting not to, really. Something in him burns; perhaps a furnace in place of his heart, or a piece of hell he takes with him wherever he goes.

That primitive voice grows louder, whispering deceptively in your ear that it’s fine, let him touch you. So long as you stay warm.

You shake your head as if to jerk the instinct off your crown. Lips pursed tight now, the hand on your belly slowly climbing up. Up.

“Stop it. Stop this, I d-don’t want it.”

“I know.” He says, pressing his thumb into your waist. It digs until it hits a rib, tenderising muscle. You’re a lamb on a spit, spun slowly, roasted over an open flame. How silly of you to lean into the burn. Short-sighted to decide that it’s better than the cruel press of winter. You’ll be eaten like this.

“Then g-get the fuck off me!” You yelp, swaying on your haunches in a bid to knock yourself off his lap. Your arms are useless, but that does not mean you cannot fight. “I order you!”

That pulls a laugh from him. Or, what sounds like a laugh. As with everything, it’s his estimate of a human one, like the cicada mimics the bird; not as melodic, rather striking you with disgust so potent you feel your nausea reawakening. You might just hurl.

“And wha’ will I be granted in return? Nothin’ you have that’ll convince me to unhand you, pet.” Ghost rucks your tunic to your shoulders at last, exposing your bare breasts to bitter air. Though he gives them no time to pebble up, large paws enveloping both mounds and squeezing until your breath syphons from your lungs. “Haven’ seen a pair of tits in decades. Suppose you humans do have somethin’ going for you.”

Your words startle in your throat. Nothing about it is pleasurable, nor does he intend for it to be. His fingers take your nipples; rolling, tugging, pinching. Nails dig crescent cuts into the darkened skin there, perhaps searching for blood. He certainly treats it as though blood is the aim, and you wonder whether you’re to be hung from your bust to drain onto his waiting tongue. Just as one might press olives, no care for their pulpy bodies but only the rich oil they produce. Grease to slick their pans, to moisten their mouths.

You’ll be eaten like this.

“Stop, please.”

“Wonder what y’would look like plump with milk. Nursing my litter, rounded out with another dozen.” He sucks his teeth, contemplative. “Body wouldn’t handle it, f’you ask me. Stronger women than you ‘ave tried.”

Have. It hurts to think about. Hurts more when the insult of his words truly resonates. Stronger women. That is to say you have been exiled for nothing. That with a year of solitude and occult practice, you are just as feeble as before. Is this why he ate your crow? To prove to you that he could?

The tide pushes back out. In a great swell of loam and brine, your hatred crashes vengefully onshore. You muster all of it, dipping pails into the water and letting it weigh heavy on your shoulders. It is almost negligible, you find. You scarcely feel its burden when fuelled by a focused point to your antipathy. Your teeth stop chattering. You glare daggers.

“Let me go.”

Your final plea rolls over him like all the ones before it. “But you’re a witch, aren’t ya? Brew up a little elixir to pull yourself through the whelping. Maybe then you’ll realise how much you long to stay alive.”

Your neck snaps back. Before you can think it through, you thrust your head towards his face. There’s a crunch, a dizzying moment of choked silence, then a hot burst of moisture down your face. For a naive moment, you think you must have struck gold. You imagine drawing back to find his mask sticky with blood, or tar, or whatever demons have thrumming through their veins. A raw testament to your resolve, if he should ever underestimate it again.

But the mirage is as naive as your mother. Eventually the pain catches up to you. You realise the iron-tang at the back of your throat is not the dreg of satisfaction. The tears slipping past your lashes no longer wrought from misery. Everything, rather, an immediate response to the sore condition of your nose. Misshapen and swelling already.

Ghost hums. You hoped to see him grovelling in pain by now. The battered expectation somehow makes his condescension worse.

“Good to see y’find your spirit,” His head tilts, bullying yours into remaining still, fingers knitted firmly in your hair. “but it’s misplaced.”

Given his derision, you know not to rejoice when his other hand leaves your chest. Your shirt slumps lamely back over your figure as he lifts the edges of his mask, folding it over his mouth. In the dark, it’s difficult to map the nuances of his exposed jowls. There’s a pale curve there, a disfigured line here. Your sinuses twinge when your stare narrows, cutting through murk to place the shape of his lips.

It’s futile. You have no way to jam the gaps; no way of knowing whether he’s all man, all demon, or a foul mix of the two.

The one thing that glimmers with definition is the string of spit when he unlatches his jaw, long tongue striking like a wound-tight cobra. You would flinch if you could, eyes pruning shut, but his grip keeps you steady in place as he laves a forceful path up your chin. Tasting the metallic leak of blood, all the way up to its source.

You see it coming. Still, you can’t help but scream when he works his tongue around your nose. Loosed bones shift under your skin, steadiness fractured, cartilage support dipping inwards against the assault. He groans, and in spite of your impaired sense of smell, you get a whiff of rot-hot breath. It must all be a terrible dream, you think. The hardened muscle pressing against your inner thighs, the viscous web of saliva stretched across your face. It’s cold and you’re sweaty, and everything about the past month – the past year – seems like it has been especially curated to torment you. You would wake from this any second.

He gathers the salty drips off your eyes, the blood, every grief coating your skin. Agony blinds you – so profound it takes shape, colour. You squirm in your binds, ragged shrieks ripping from your throat.

It echoes even after he breaks away. If it weren’t for the sudden coolness of spit drying within your cupid’s bow, you would think he was still making a feast of you.

“Tha’ got you to settle, hm?”

You shake your head, exhausted. “You said–”

“I said fight, or die.” He huffs. You let silence swathe your lips, pursing them as thin as you can manage without exacerbating your injury. “Yer fighting to die, pet.”

“I just want to be left alone.”

“‘N’ what d’you think will come of that?”

“It shouldn’t m-matter.” Your conviction sound hollow when spoken aloud. If he hears it, he uses it as an incentive to strip your top back over your chest. Like a hot wire pushed through your ribcage, his warm hands toast you from the outside in. It is in your best interest not to shiver in delight; though you are still dreadfully cold, and your injury makes it difficult to pigeonhole any alleviation to your pain. “You can’t-t-t defile me on the grounds of greater good.”

Ghost laughs again. “Ain’ pretending this is for the greater good, pet. The world will thank me if one more witch freezes to ‘er death.” You’re yanked further up his lap. “I let you go, you’ve got four, five hours tops ‘till your heart fails. You wan’ to live?”

You shake your head, fervent tremors batting your pout. A nonanswer seems the only manner of resistance, now. “Not like this.”

“Clever. Tha’ still tells me you do.” He pinches the knotted peaks of your breasts, twisting until you buck wretchedly onto his pelvis. “And I wan’ to spend my evenin’ playing with your tits. A fair compromise, then.”

What sort of familiar makes the demands? You contemplate berating him out loud, lunging for the dirty insult to beat at his status like he did yours. With no room for taking the high ground, you will do anything so long as you can later say you bared your claws. So you do not wonder, for countless sleepless nights, if there was something more you should have done. You will be mean. You will go low. You will condemn him to a fate of eternal dissatisfaction, so that no matter how much he eats or kills or takes, he will always feel his stomach a gnawing pit.

Though something tells you he will not succumb to scrutiny against his honour. There is no code for creatures like him, who floss their teeth with crow meat and pluck the nipples of girls who grant them shelter. Nothing to hold them to expect the conditions of their summons.

Perhaps that’s just it.

You stir. It feels much like magic, when an incantation rolls off the tongue just right and the air shifts to accommodate it. Your heart vibrates behind your sternum, power bloating your veins, ricocheting within your skin. If Ghost feels it, he doesn’t falter.

“Be sure, demon.” You rasp, drawing your intent taut in your chest like a bowstring. He hums but does not stop, kneading your flesh to conform to the creases and calluses of his hands. “Be sure that’s what you want. I could give in without further fuss and be like a docile rabbit on your lap. That way, you will have taken two things from me tonight.”

The liquid of his eyes shifts quick. You catch its gleam in the little light, and it pleases you enough to deliver the rest of your covenant.

“By the spell that brought you here, you are bound to do what I sacrifice for.” You pause a moment. “In exchange for the blood you have ingested off my face, you will dig this house out of the snow. And for my virtue, this one evening allowance of which you have already taken upon yourself, you will collect my firewood until the season clears.”

Ghost makes an indiscernible noise from underneath. You can not tell if he is peeved or pleased, and the ambiguity shakes you. You expected some sort of acknowledgment or counter to your trick. Instead, he does not speak on it. No pitch or complaint, protest or taunt.

He just sits there, pawing at your chest like a satiated dog.

(And come morning, when your breasts are raw and tender to the touch, he tunnels the snow around your cottage and returns hours later with a hundred cedar logs for the kindling.)

𝐈𝐈.𝐈𝐈

She prefers him in the daylight

Sun floods her little home when it rises and keeps it bright until it sets. Whereas the dark plays tricks on mortal eyes, oil lamps flickering, casting shadows that always resemble something else. She likes training an eye on what he does in his usual corner; but come night, she can’t trust what she sees. Thus, her confidence strains. She flinches at every sound. Any movement will have her tucking deeper under her quilt. His empty-eyed stare glows more sinister, if anything is to be assumed by the way she will crack her grimoire open and mouth protective spells like prayers.

Perhaps she’s afraid she caused offence, that he mulls over a punishment to teach her not to make a fool of him again. Perhaps it plagues her that she cannot stop him if that is the case. He does not tell her that, already, the worst possible thing that can confront her has. Though of course she isn’t privy to it, it’s been a month since he decided against making a meal of her. Everything he does now is moderate in comparison. He’s being good.

Good, yes. In the evenings, he will venture out to do her bidding. The timing grants her a few hours rest, then, and him an opportunity to hunt for his dinner.

Good, because he waits until he’s a mile out to transform to his truer self. It is easier to strip trees of their branches and snap their spines when he stands over two metres tall. Not so easy to mend the fragile tolerance she’s gained for him, which is sure to shatter if she catches sight of his monstrosity. He eludes the possibility entirely, then.

Good, because Ghost refrains from agitating her more than he already has. And his intention in doing so does not change that decency.

That is to say, he hasn’t grown a heart. He does not care for the girl. But the passivity that necessitated his savagery has since come to pass. She’s grown claws. She fights for her say and punches through life with guile. Any more and he would be faulting her for it, like burning the meat he tumbled through mud to slaughter. It is down to him to take it off the roast, now, to revel in the succulent bite. He’s got her right where he wants her.

With some brief tampering on his part – laying out the temptation like a breadcrumb trail into the woods – she broke her invisible vow not to ask him for anything. Has it not made her life that much simpler? Her hearth burns bright and warm everyday; she does not have to worry about keeping it lit for the remnants of winter. He picks cedar for its aroma, it's even char, and she would not have access to that if it weren’t for his ability to tackle the sturdy tree. All it took was her debauchment, the vitiating of character to match his.

(And really, how debauched was it if she only endured his groping for one night?)

It isn’t too much to want, he thinks.

She thinks so too. Or otherwise decides it's worth the risk.

It is late into the evening and his dinner sits fresh in his belly, fire chewing away at the split logs he emptied into the pit earlier. The air is thick with cloying cedar and the mephitic scent of potion-brewing, his pet crouched over a bubbling pot. She has been at it for hours, the same nightly routine since she broke her nose. Tadpoles and feverfew and sage, chanterelle and wishbone and sand. Stirred, brought to a boil, thickened with spit. Then scooped out and smothered over her sore face. A modest poultice, turned cast, to help her mend correctly over weeks.

He wonders if she considered bothering him to heal her. He certainly can. But it appears as though she enjoys keeping her hands busy. Toiling through time, grinding away like water does the earth. In the aeons he’s been around, he’s seen mountains chipped away, rocks change shape, rivers bend over time – and it is always the same eternal petulance. Stubborn mediocrity built into something larger. Endurance over brute force. He doesn’t pretend to understand it, but he can recognise a reflection of it in her craft.

But she is not eternal. Every mortal has their limits.

Ghost sees the iron grow filigree in her eyes, calculations imprinting onto her resolve. When she stands and turns to him, he almost expects it. The past quarter hour has built up to this ambitious ask, whatever it may be, and he’s mapped every battle she’s held within herself over the course of it. She does not want like he does. It is only extraneous circumstance that would lead her to his service.

“I started it later than I usually do.” She mumbles, lips twisting like maggots. The hollows under her eyes are prominent, both exhaustion and hunger trimming her down to a sorry state. “I need sleep, but this can’t be heated beyond a boil.”

His cock chubs up in his trousers, aching as an array of possibilities occur to him in that second. Would he split her cunt on his fingers? Would he make her set it down atop his tongue? Her skirt leaves much to the imagination, but he imagines it bright and faithful in his head. Darker on the outside than in, glazed with pellucid slick, and shrouded in a matting of hair. The thought alone funnels salivate to the underside of his tongue.

He meets her eye, shoulders curving inward, poised to pounce.

Then, her brow spasms, and the wolfish instinct unravels as fast as it materialises.

No. He cannot push it too far, not when she asks for something so little. It took all her energy to come to him now. She will never consider it again if he exploits that beyond equal measure.

So, Ghost stands, stalking over to the cauldron and his pet. He often forgets how small she is until she cranes her neck to look up at him, all owlish blinks and delicate fingers latticed together, anxious for his response.

“I’ll wake you.” He says. The tension in her forehead ebbs immediately, eyelids sagging now that he confirmed her ingredients will not waste. Though she doesn’t move, and he makes her stand there until he determines on an appropriate return.

Moments later, he wraps an arm around her. His hand finds the jut in her skirt, where it protrudes to lap over her arse, and squeezes around the fat of one cheek. Even with the layers separating them, she is supple like softened butter. She makes a sound like a trapped mouse, jumping to the balls of her feet. The noise doesn’t deter him; he holds it there until he’s satisfied his grip will bruise.

“There we are.” When he releases her, she stumbles backwards to find her bearings against the cool press of the wall. Puts a safe distance between them. Yet her stunned silence is intoxicating, and he has to actively suppress the gluttonous urge for more. Nothing is sacred when he gets like this. “That’s us even, then.”

She nods. It is a wonder she manages to sleep at all.

(Unfortunate that the potion to heal her broken nose steals stock from her kitchen shelves. Day by day, he’s watched her sacrifice her fungi and herbs to the cauldron, prioritising recovery over sustenance. Unfortunate that she is still unable to go out for more. The winter whips cruel and merciless winds for anyone who dares step out into its storm.

Unfortunate. But not moving enough.

It is intentional silence on his part, then. For the day will come where she opens her cupboards to eat and finds them lined with dust.

And on that day, he will be there.)

𝐈𝐈.𝐈𝐈𝐈

Ghost takes his meals outside.

That is, when he comes back lugging a dead beast and a tree behind him. You’ll watch from the window as he places the latter to the side, sinking to his knees to feast on whatever he caught that day. It always varies: hares, owls, rodents. An elk if he’s lucky. Today, it is a fox.

Your heart knots with pity, mourning for the mammal who cannot grieve itself. Eyes blank and jaw swung open. Its fur, which typically strikes as a vivid red, can only look dull when set by the blood it leaves in its trail, tangled in the entrails bursting from its belly. The demon never minds the hair, nor the carnage. He balances on his haunches and pulls his mask up, sinking his teeth into the softest parts of his spoils.

Though no one holds you to the frosted glass – chanting look, you have to look – you insist on bearing witness. The gore never grows easier to behold; everytime, it is the same revulsion that stews nausea at the sight. But you sit and suffer it anyway. If anyone were to ask you why, you would be hard-pressed to find an answer.

Perhaps it is to build a tolerance for nature’s brutality. Ghost’s lesson with your crow has carved an irreplicable torment within you, revealing the jeopardy you face should you continue down your meek path. Exposure therapy is good justification, then, when your personal improvement thus far has only wrought merit. Your magic begets greater effect. You feel your self-possession flourish your spirit. Even your familiar has staved off the trouble, and you can not ask for a greater success.

But that does not capture the core of the matter. Perhaps that is to be found in him, instead.

Because when Ghost eats, his visage will fluctuate. You do not think it is something he’s mindful of. None of it looks intentional – he does not bid whetted talons or teeth, features that would aid him in gutting the fox. Rather, they appear like fish beneath a rippling brook. Swift, transient flashes of another form.

He sucks down an intestine, and his burly legs stretch so the joints are equidistant. They snap backwards, digitigrade heels extending, before you blink and they’re human once more.

He laps at a puddle of blood, and his mask parts to reveal two ivory prongs that steadily grow from his head. They curl, winding around his temples as ram horns do, only to disappear as your arid eyes burn.

He tears into cartilage, and his exposed skin flakes like charred wood. The liver; his torso extends and thins. The brain; his breath condenses to black ash, as yours would ghostly vapour in cold air. None of it permanent. All of it haunting.

The first time you saw it, you chalked it up to phantasm. Lack of sleep, insufficient nutrition. Searching for monstrosity that would better connect to the horror unfurling before you. So you set out to observe. Incessantly. Again and again and again – validating what you saw, though you received confirmation upon the second instance long ago. Sure enough, each day he reveals different parts to a whole. Excrescent spines and lofty feet. Things that have been urging for a spot in the sun, pressing under his skin.

It’s the nesting doll all over again. Little matryoshka faces, each opening to reveal a smaller version of itself within. If you are the innermost one, then Ghost is the sisyphean effort to close them over each other in descending order. Unfeasible. Too large to comfortably remain within his confines. The wood will eventually snap in your struggle, and all the painted pieces will scatter across the floor.

(You remember him just then. Craggy charm and blue eyes. Crafty hand – the same to restore your mother’s staircase – whittling the doll when you suggested he couldn’t. He wore a cross no matter the day, a habit of his father’s doing, and the silver pendant would sway with the paring motion of his hands. Lustrous against tanned skin. No doubt forged by him, too.

He used to call you macabre. Though it was footling fun at the time, you can’t help but grasp at what he meant as you track the steaming slaughter outside.)

“Do you like it?”

Water rushes into a tin basin, its metallic clang a forceful, echoing percussion. The noise is insufferable, grating on your ears, but you would rather it than have Ghost tow the pungent smell of death into your home. With his back turned to you, he washes his hands and mouth of dinner’s remnants, faucet spitting frigid reserves into the kitchen sink.

His head twists a fraction, pupils coasting to assess you in his peripheral. Small talk is not commonplace. In the weeks you have coexisted, you can count your conversations on both hands. They always seem to prefer the path of internal dissection instead, judgments flung at one another through glares and body language and not much else.

“Be more specific.” He grunts, facing his task again. From your place on the couch, you can see the way he picks his nails for stubborn shreds of fat.

“Fox.”

A sliver of pale skin, bared where his mask ends at his nape, twitches. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Ammonic. Greasy. Tough all ‘round. Slippery little fucks, too.” His voice is softer when he isn’t being caustic. Skipping over enunciations, the typical rumble in his chest quieted to a hum. “There are easier, more rewardin’ meals.”

You imagine what he may be referring to. Of every creature on this earth, only one does not have the benefit of evasion. Predators are sheltered by hierarchical canopies, demons like Ghost so powerful that they do not have to watch their backs. Birds of prey have their wings, fish their slippery scales. Even deer – slender and pregnable – are granted fleet-footed instincts rivalled only by the Pantheon’s messenger himself. It is only you, human, that is condemned to spindling, slow inelegance. Perhaps it is why so many are intellectuals, worshipers, terrors – why you yourself are a witch, sapping nature for her wares of which you do not come by naturally. That is the way things turn. Assuming the offensive to offset one’s shortcomings.

And turn back again; your effort has only imperilled you further. There is a cannibal, a monster, a man inside of your home. And you beckoned him here.

Even as the revelation occurs to you, you can’t stave your ambition. Of course you do not parley with Ghost for the sake of it. There is nothing this new knowledge grants. But since he left to do his day’s errands, your stomach has made its presence known. Opening up like an early grave, emptiness gnarled beneath a soil bed as with roots of a tombstone tree. Every moment, every word, you are reminded of its cavity. Too long, it says, you’ve ignored the pangs of hunger that seized this trench in an iron fist. Priorities, you would reply, as you surrendered food to brew your poultice. And so your nose is healed, great, but your shelves are empty and your head is faint. Hunger surplants the cold as your imminent killer.

“My mum taught me how to fix a good stew.” You begin, rolling your sticky tongue and tucking both hands beneath your bottom, cautious not to set this mousetrap off yourself. The pressure is grounding, at least; you match your breathing to the pulse you feel in your fingertips. “I trust it would be better than raw meat.”

A pause. Ghost’s spine straightens. Then, a panic. You’re thrown off your conviction when your chest flutters and you feel it in your brain. Where is that wily being? The woman who cheated her familiar into a season’s worth of labour? You feel as though you have regressed; screeching infant, lungs flaring with a rush of new air. You cannot face this, you think, but you’re already halfway out into the world. The sink squeaks off.

You just pray your stomach doesn’t make noise in the new silence.

“Is tha’ so?” He says, though does not turn to look at you just yet.

“I could try.” The words bubble like bile in your throat. It is in your best interest to stay quiet. Say no more. He’s being ambiguous so you will reveal too much in turn. The game is transparent. You can see the water-worn rocks on the river bed, so clear it’s like they’re clasped between your hands instead. Yet– “If I had the ingredients for it, ‘course.”

There. The lip of the cliff. How odd of you to see it only as you plummet towards a frothy scree. Ghost snaps, live lightning in heated air, or otherwise like the rocks that impale you on landing. In two strides, you’re cornered by a creature with scorn harrowing the space between its brows. You were stupid not to plan an escape route, stupid to arm yourself with nothing but flimsy subtlety. There was always the risk of it coming to this, you knew that.

“You think y’can rummage for loopholes, hm?” He leers, eyes searing holes into yours. “A trick is only charmin’ on the first go, pet. More than once and y’start to stink of stale piss.”

“I don’t–”

He snatches your jaw, thumb and ring fingers digging an aching grip onto either side. Your protest warbles pathetically, dies, chokes you with its rot. It’s difficult, no– impossible to decipher what he's mad at. A small, fresh part of you actually hoped he’d see your cunning as artful. But it seems your station has come back to haunt you; another mortal whose brain cannot keep up with her heart. Even if one is in the right place, you will go about chasing it in the wrong direction. Artful is too shiny of a laurel, then. Trick, too, is being charitable

“Do not play coy with me, girl. I do not take kindly to underhand deals.” Snarled right above you, spit spattering across your face. Your mandible squeaks, bone-deep pain flaring where he tightens the pressure around your face. Fox blood flavours his breath. There is a ringing in your head – shrill, like water in the tin sink. “If you need something from me, you will admit it and cope with the terms I have in turn.”

“I-I’m sorr-eeeee.” Your apology wheezes thin when he thrashes your head in place. It is either that or the relentless force on your jaw that tears a new world of pain down your neck. The tears are reactionary, then. Hot and foggy and not at all a sign of fear. “Ah- I’m sorry! I won’t– I didn’t mean to offend y-you.”

“S’too fuckin’ late for that. You’ll follow through, before I take wha’ I want anyway.” He shakes his head. “Ask nicely for what y’need then, pet. Go on.”

“Nothing! Nothing anymore, please. Jus’ let me go, Ghost.” Perhaps the universe disdains your insincerity, because in a hand dealt by its inexorable irony, your stomach buckles and purls a foul sound. Like it heard your words and protests the withdrawal, gurgling out loud to whoever will address it instead.

And he does. He does.

“You’re hungry, hm? That it?” He shoves your limp body onto the floor, dismissive of the pleas you now regulate to your feet, thrashed wildly to strike at his shin. Everything he does is callous, mean, agitated like the sulphur and magma that run thick beneath the earth’s crust. And though it is not your first encounter with a creature of that ilk – you have had your run-ins with over-excited men – the intentionality behind it has never been more flagrant. Ghost does it to hurt you. “Yeah, been neglecting you, haven’ I? Forgot pets couldn’ feed themselves.”

“I’w scrounge somefing up mysef.” You struggle, speech impeded as he crushes your cheeks inwards. Pearl dust flakes your gums.

“Should ‘ave thought of tha’ before. Even if I end up breakin’ every bone in that fine skull of yours, I won’t let up. Say it, then, you daft thing.”

The scaling of your options is instantaneous. Even as your immediate conscious lags behind, activity lights the back of your head and cracks its way out of your mouth before you can catch it. It took weeks for your nose to heal, much less your skull. You’re consuming fuel quicker than you can replenish, running on a backlog of quick-burning fat. And all of it can be taken care of if you just give in, to what will likely only be a few hours of degradation.

(Cavewoman. Primordial. Primitive impartiality, or survival of the fittest. The world has only come so far since then, and even within its concentrated civilizations, there is no aegis but for those who come up on top. You cannot expect your liberties to be met anywhere. That, you know too well.

But here, in this feral forest, at least you can use the violation to your benefit. At the very least, you will not be exiled, cast as witch for taboo of saying the greater word.

You are already macerated on rock bottom. And at the barren abyss of all leasts, Ghost will not hang a cross pendant above you as he stomps it in.)

He must see the surrender wet your eyes, for the grip on your jaw lessens.

“I am hungry.” You cry, finally, lashes fluttering shut so as to guard your tears. “I am hungry. This winter has dashed my garden and I do not know how to hunt. The cushions jab into my ribs when I sleep. I feel as though my stomach will consume me from the inside out, and I’m desperate. I am desperate, and I am so, so hungry. And I am asking for your help. Please.”

If there was any part of you that still believed he would choose pity, it is muffled and killed. You hear the scratch of fabric as he undoes his pants. Final, failing. Rustled hand behind confines, stench of musk stiffening the air. For a few seconds, you opt to remain blissfully ignorant – keep your eyes closed and imagine that the presence before your face is something different. A purifying flame, tender cut of meat, a smiling face before things fell downhill. It all sounds too good to be true, and they are. Sooner or later, you tell yourself, you have to face the misery.

So, you force yourself to behold it before he takes that upon himself.

His cock is heavy. Fat and oversized, length not having suffered for its breadth. Ruddy where the head peaks from an uncut tip, hard already, but bowed under the weight of itself. If you had anything to expel, you would’ve done so by now. A thicket of hair fledges his groyne – a shade of dark that pales his scarred skin in comparison – and it reeks of sweat and miasma.

He taps it on your cheek, prespend sticky and warm. You flinch as though you have been beaten.

“Just one thing af’er the other with you, pet. Think this’ll give y’something to fix yourself on.”

“I don’t– I’ve never–” His thumb hooks over your bottom teeth, prying your trap as wide as it can go. Drool slicks the cracked hinges of your lips. “Don’ know how.”

“Not what I’m lookin’ for.” He purrs, cruel humour gracing his tone. Somehow, it is not a reassurance as much as it is a snub. “Jus’ keep your teeth out of the way.” Humiliation washes your neck and ears, rush of blood like white river rapids behind your ears. It is the final swatch, trumpet to armageddon, before your ruin. You suck in a breath and bring your mouth to him.

Ghost meets you halfway, treating the crown of your head as an anchor to thrust forward. Immediately, you let slip his only rule, teeth snapping reflexively at the intrusion. You expect to be backhanded, have your hair ripped from your scalp in relation, or worse. It is a relief, then, when the only force you receive is a knock against your jaw. The rapping shakes your cotton-lined skull, snaps you out of your stupefaction, and you slack all muscles to accommodate his demand.

The mass feeding down your throat vibrates, an appreciative hum coursing through his body. “There you are, little jezebel. Look a’ you takin’ my cock so well.”

You make no effort to glide your tongue along his veins. To make this pleasurable for him beyond what he takes for himself. True to his word, your familiar does not punish you for it. He knots his hands around your head and fucks your face, careless, cock rearranging the anatomy of your neck as it bludgeons a straight path down. You sway, ragdoll with the motions, knees rubbing abrasively across the floor as he slides you back and forth over it.

Hypoxia spots your vision, lungs clenching furiously at the obstructed flow of oxygen. You would fasten it all shut, close yourself off from the world, but your eyes bulge a little at the edges, stagnant blood keeping them arid and open. It’s hard to dissociate. Hard to pretend that the steel-wool friction at the tip of your nose, the pendulum-consistent slaps on your chin, are not his pubic hair and balls searing unmistakable marks on your skin. And your series of gags are sloppy, lewd out in the confined air of your home. How could they be anything but damnation? There is no deluding the Maker.

(No matter how fervently he tried. Marry me, proposed down on both knees. It’ll set this whole fankle right. We’ll hold hands an’ seek penance at the kirk before th’ceremony. My pa will officiate. Yer ma will be thrilled.)

Snot bubbles from your nose, cheeks slick with tears and wayward spit. When he batters forward, it amalgamates in the soft palate beneath your spasming tongue. When he draws out, he takes it with him, viscous strings of saliva bridging the gap. It streams down to your neck, glosses your lips, webs your lashes together. You feel buried beneath its stifling coat, set down into your grave at last. Maggots worm their way into the soft matter of your brain, eat away at the tissue until there’s nothing left but suffocation. Death. Throttling void.

Your hands flail out, seeking an end to it, but all you find is Ghost.

He slows down once he nears his end.

The bruising pace he set stutters, balls tightening against your submental. It catches you off guard because, for the past ten minutes, you accustomed yourself to the patterns of his push and pull. For every plunge, there is a retreat, where you will greedily feast on fresh air before being choked back down on his cock. It is a break of tide, an opportunity to paddle your way above water to clear sea-salt from your hollows. A bay to hold onto so you do not drown.

Until now; his forearms twitch and you’re kept in place, forehead squashed onto his mons. You panic, hold on your breath breaking. The heady scent of sweat sweeps over you, laced with the tart products of your mouth – saliva and blood from where your canine pierced your cheek. Prespend, too. The undiluted stink of him. Hair tickles your lips. Your cunt flares, sudden, slickening the chafe of your thighs, but the unwelcome arousal does nothing for you.

He holds your head down and spurts his load into your gullet.

There is no room to swallow. It goes in the wrong direction, then – upward – and out your nose. You squeeze your eyes shut, disgusted scream gargling around his throbbing appendage. Distress bloats your head, temples feverish and sweating, nails digging deep impressions into your palms. It’s futile. Useless. Nothing thwarts him but the last dregs of semen spitting out onto your tonsils, pumping himself dry until finally, finally–

Ghost pulls out. You collapse onto the carpet and hack up cum until your throat bleeds.

The silence afterwards is mortifying, tension palpable enough to writhe up against. Drained, you’ve since pressed your cheek into the puddle of filth, urging pearlescent spend to seep into the fibres below. It'll be a nightmare to clean later, you process slowly. Perhaps you’ll use the bleach, and take the same sponge to your lips.

The monster above you tuts at the display, crouching to your level when you exhibit no interest in rising to his.

“C’mon, sweet. Wouldn’t want to waste your dinner now.”

But you’re too weak to lift your head. So Ghost gathers your hair, puppeteering – in a manner rather gentle for your assailant – until you can lap his essence off the floor.

It tastes like raw venison. You snivel your thanks, and imagine it is exactly that.

i do not have a taglist. to be alerted when i update, please follow @moondirti-archive and turn on post notifs.

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hedgehog-moss · 1 year

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Here are 7 little facts about my donkey and how his summer is going :)

1. I received an anon the other day asking if Pirou was still a working donkey who carries my firewood for me, and the answer is yes. I've been cutting some branches from the big cherry tree that fell down the other day, and Pirlouit has been valiantly carrying them to the woodshed—fun fact, for this activity he likes to wear his ears like this:

Probably because this T position is reminiscent of Jesus' sacrifice on the cross, which is how Pirlouit perceives himself as he carries heavy logs for me. He's willing, but his martyrdom should be acknowledged.

Here's Poldine acknowledging it with a nose kiss, because Poldine.

I stopped so they could have their little chat.

2. Pirou has been chatting with a lot of new friends lately—we met these horses on a walk and he was so happy to stop and touch noses with them while making equid noises. Llamas are good with the nose-touching but their llama noises are just less interesting to Pirlouit. He had such interested ears here! "Finally a serious grown-up conversation"

We also met this goose during the same walk and Pirlouit was a lot less eager to go say hi to her. The goose was yelling threats at us and we prudently stayed away, and Pirou was clearly thinking "this bird is doing a better job at protecting her home from intruders than Pandolf ever could" (it's true, Pan assumes intruders are friends until proven otherwise)

3. You'll notice that there are houses in this pic! Our walks got longer and longer until one day we went all the way to the village (it took 1 hour 20min at Pirlouit's leisurely pace). I was so proud of him. I've been trying to convince my friends to go to the village on donkeyback (this requires two people, because you can ride Pirlouit but you can't tell him where to go unless there's someone holding his rope and leading the way)—my friends were reluctant because they still sort of perceive Pirou as the feral animal terrified of everything that he was when I got him. They know he's made a lot of progress but going to town on donkeyback still seemed foolhardy.

So we've been riding Pirlouit in the woods, in familiar environments, and we also went to town with him but without riding him. He was amazingly calm and brave! There's a river that cuts the village in two and the first time we went, we stopped before the bridge, since it's pretty narrow and cars would have to drive very close to Pirlouit, we didn't want to risk it. We just went to say hi to the librarian who lives on the right side of the river, but since Pirlouit was very serene, we did cross the bridge the second time.

He did not care at all about cars driving very close to him (he had one familiar human on either side of him and the drivers were very considerate and went slowly), which emboldened us to stop for a drink on the terrace of the coffeeshop on main street (< also a narrow street with cars driving by quite close to Pirlouit). There was just no problem at all, Pirou let total strangers rub his forehead and was more interested in iced tea than main street traffic.

It was a hot day and we gave him all the ice cubes from our drinks and he chewed them enthusiastically.

4. We made a stop at the pharmacy on our way home because we had another 1 hour 20min walk ahead and I had a blister, and the pharmacist noticed my donkey parked outside his shop and in a determined tone he said, "I want to try something." He took one of the donkey milk soaps from the overpriced-Provence-soaps-for-tourists display and opened the door and offered it for Pirlouit to sniff.

... I'm not sure what he was expecting—for my donkey to go "ohhh this smells like Mother's milk and aloe vera 🥺"—but unfortunately nothing happened.

(4. bis—Sorry, this 4th fact was anticlimactic.)

5. Pirlouit is now the proud owner of a surcingle. Not for equestrian vaulting and not for his log-carrying job because I don't know if it would be solid enough for the weight of a bag full of logs, but I'd like to tie bags or baskets to it to take Pirlouit grocery shopping, now that I know he's okay with going to town :) He even seems to enjoy the adventure, and the attention he gets from children.

And actually I shouldn't write off equestrian vaulting because Pirou is also remarkably chill with weird things happening on his back. I used to be very careful to climb on his back in a quick & fluid way so he wouldn't spook (because he used to! a butterfly flapping its wings in Brazil used to spook him!) but now that my friends are riding him I can confirm we've reached a point where you can climb on Pirlouit's back in any way you want and he'll just be like "...... sure"

6. I almost forgot to mention that Pirou turned 15 last month, according to his ID papers :) Donkeys have a longer life expectancy than horses, they can live 30-40 years on average so he's still a young lad really. Happy 15th birthday Pirlouit :)

7. I wanted to conclude with a nice aesthetic pic of Pirou's shadow on the road during all those walks, like I did with Poldine, but unfortunately donkey shadows do not have the chic je-ne-sais-quoi of llama shadows. Pirlouit looks like a hammerhead shark wearing a tiny fez and that's not his fault.

#crawling along #i am so proud of him!#4 years ago i couldn't even touch him let alone halter him let alone... any of this #he's a great donkey. very curious and interested in the world around him especially iced tea bottles

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ashasdiary · 2 months

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Sukuna's Aversion to Toys

Pairing: Ryomen Sukuna x fem!reader Synopsis: Sukuna really doesn't like your toys. CW: trueform!sukuna, sexual themes, fire WC: 437

“What the hell?” You stop in your tracks when you step into your living room and find Sukuna tossing your sex toys, one by one, into the fireplace.

He looks up at you briefly, all four eyes looking unbothered, before he returns his gaze to the task at hand. “Evening.”

His nonchalance irks you, especially as he’s tossing your beloved rose into the fire. “Sukuna!”

“Woman,” he quips, not looking at you.

You let out an exasperated sound as he watches with satisfaction how the silicone melts in the fire. You hold your hands up in question. “Why are you— why are you using my toys as firewood?!”

“I would have burnt them with my own hands but I exercised a great deal of mindfulness to that white contraption in your kitchen,” he responds coolly and juts his chin over to the ceiling of the open plan kitchen.

You turn and look and then turn back to him. “The smoke alarm?”

He hums in agreement, “Yes. That. It is quite a pointless device, I think, and m—” but you cut him off.

“Allow me to rephrase, just why are you burning my toys?” Your brows knit together in annoyance.

“Fool. For what reason do you need these silly, childish contraptions when you have the presence of me?” He snaps, shooting you an incredulous look.

You can’t believe this. The king of curses…jealous? Of a few sex toys? You cross your arms over your chest. “I’ll have you know, I had all of those before we met!”

“And? Why keep them in your possession?” He presses, red eyes shining.

“Wh…Sukuna. Please, be serious,” you sigh.

“I am.” He deadpans, “Deadly.”

“Me having toys before I met you really shouldn’t be an issue,” you rage, stomping over to him and grabbing the bullet that was in his hand. But he doesn’t let go.

“It is. Having me should suffice,” he shrugs and maintains his grip on the vibe.

“Who said having you was not sufficient?!” You bite back.

“Keeping these damned things implies just that, brat. It is simply greedy that you have me in this form, with twice the number of everything, yet…you still keep these ridiculous gadgets.” He takes the bullet back and throws it into the flames.

You let out a small scoff as you watch him. “Heaven forbid a girl have possessions,” you huff, “and what when you’re away? How am I supposed to satisfy myself then?”

He stands and faces you, feeding the last one to the flames with a toss over his shoulder.

“Simple. You do not.”

Divider by cafekitsune

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metanoiahh · 3 months

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Get off my back - Daryl Dixon

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Summary: A great fascination for the youngest Dixon took over you ever since the Quarry. Daryl notices and in fear of reciprocating your feelings, he continuously pushes you away. After Andrea shoots him, you don’t leave his side with the excuse of keeping an eye on him.

Warnings: Implied age gap (reader early 20s, Daryl late 30s) Fem!reader, Usual TWD gore, mentions of injuries, angst, yelling, mean!Daryl, failed-ish attempts of comfort, slightly medically skilled!reader, cigarettes, Daryl being a little too abrasive.

Era(s): Quarry, Greene farm.

Word count: 1.7k

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Your eyes were trained on him the second you got to the group. As days went by, he seemed to have cast a spell on you, hypnotised you with something only he had. You saw beyond his mean persona, his rugged ways only making his vulnerability shine through. How you treated him didn't go unnoticed, not by him, certainly not by the rest. Always ensuring he had everything he could use before leaving for a hunt, sparing him extra food because 'He needed the extra energy', even small insignificant details like leaving his folded clothes at his tent door were starting to get to him. He felt like you could read him better than he could himself, which made him want to hate you.

Daryl kept everyone at a distance, but you were kept even farther. It bothered you and occupied your thoughts like a plague, you were practically living with the sole purpose of showing him he was worth everything you'd ever do and more. He had pulled something within you, although it was beyond your comprehension, you let your instincts and desire take you over. You were anything but pushy, you didn't try to force yourself onto his life, content with giving and not receiving even a glance your way in return. The archer hated that he couldn't bring himself to hate you.

In a fucked up world where the dead roamed, injuring oneself with the simple task of carrying firewood seemed flat-out stupid. Angry mumbles escaped the man as the log fell with a thud. "Goddamnit." Your eyes lifted from your task of shaping branches as stakes, at the sound of Daryl's grumbles. Blood dripped down to the ground as the blue-eyed man fixated on his newly obtained cut.

"Sit." You pointed to the nearest makeshift seat, marching your way inside your tent to look for your precarious medical supplies. "Wha' " He growled, squinted eyes now settled in your back, as he obeyed your command.

"You heard me." You replied in a quiet mumble, carrying alcohol, iodine, and bandages in one hand. You accommodated yourself on the ground at his feet, hands grasping his injured one in one swift but gentle motion. "Won't need stitches." You assured. Worried demeanor showed through your actions and on this occasion, he couldn't look away.

His stare changed from your face to your working consistently, as you finished wrapping the bandage expertly he looked at you through his eyebrows. "Ya' a doctor 'fore all this?"

A nostalgic smile crept up your face, usually content eyes now clouding with sadness. At your change of aura, he wished he could take back the question, even if he didn't understand what was wrong in his doing. "Sorry." He spoke barely above a whisper, raspy voice making him nearly unintelligible

"Third year of med-school. 'bout to start my fourth." He nodded, now wrapping his mind around your medical knowledge, you did look too young to be a doctor.

After that evening he stayed even further from you, which you didn't think possible. Still, you abstained from offering to look after his wound, knowing he was capable of doing that himself, and knew it would bother him to have the obligation of holding a conversation with you every day. The archer hated that you knew all that, proving his point of you being able to read him like your favourite goddamn romantic novel. If his mind stayed too much upon it, he would drive himself insane.

The next few weeks were hectic, in a matter of days you were already starting to get settled in a new location, a family farm that was lending you the place till the shot kid, Carl, healed and the lost kid, Sophia, whom Daryl frantically looked for, resurfaced from god knows where.

You paced around camp, Daryl had left earlier that morning and while that wasn't odd, the unsettling feeling in the pit of your stomach was. "He's fine." Carol smiled at you, laying a comforting hand on your shoulder. Your brows furrowed, answering your own silent question as to how she knew what was on your mind. Being sly was never your strength.

"I know." You smiled, rubbing her back up and down in a reciprocation of her action. You admired how she stood strongly, after the death of her asshole husband and the disappearance of her daughter, she had survivor written all over her face. The calm atmosphere faded at the series of unfortunate events that continued to unfold before you. A shot, screaming and a bloody, limp archer being carried inside the house.

As Hershel worked on the wound at his torso, which you were relieved to know was not a walker bite, you got your hands on the bullet graze at the side of his head. The youngest Dixon would be fine, back on his feet in a few days time, that didn't wash away your anger at the blonde now standing behind you. "Oh my god, he's going to be fine, right?" Andrea questioned for the billionth time.

Your eyes travelled back to her. "You won't be if you don't shut your mouth." Attention back on your stitching, you mumbled an unintelligible cuss, anger practically bubbling out of you.

That night you slept curled up in a chair next to his sleeping form. He had woken up multiple times, only having the strength to look around the room and then doze off once again. You kept constantly waking up to check for a fever, maybe a broken stitch, anything putting his life at stake, your mind could not rest easy. Andrea had apologised to him and even to you, but you brushed her off, too angry to hold a conversation on the topic still.

The idea of not having the archer around made your heart sink. His rough hands that you ached to hold, blue eyes that got smaller the brighter his surroundings got, the unsympathetic yet very empathic personality that made him so fucking special, and his fear of being loved which pulled you close to him. Losing Daryl Dixon would've made you wish you stayed at the CDC. That would've been the day when you wouldn't be grateful at Doctor Jenner for giving you a shot at life.

"You need to stay in bed!" Exasperated, you grabbed both of the brunette's shoulders, pushing him down on the bed. The morning of the second day after his accident, Daryl wanted to get back on his normal doings. He glared at you sideways, the corner of his mouth lifting up before he spat out the words.

"Get off my back, bitch. Don’ need ya’ pesterin’ me like you’re ma’ goddamn babysitter.” He pushed you off him with a strength he couldn't seem to control under his rage spell. The volume of his voice grew louder by the second. “Always ´round ‘ere. Big brown eyes starin’ like I’m bein’ exhibited. I ain’t your pet. Sure as hell ain't your boyfriend.” Now on his feet, he held the bedsheets to his torso as he looked over the room for his clothes.

You stared at him, not a sign of emotion on your features, though you wished you could yell back, maybe even shed a tear or two, but you knew it would be uncalled for. Same way everything you had been doing was.

You extended your hand holding a pile of folded clothes, his folded clothes. The brunette snatched them from your grip without care, launching them onto the mattress behind him.

His body caged yours, one of his hands gripped your forearm as you were backed up into a wall. Your free hand went to rest against his bare chest, no pressure inflicted nonetheless. “Dar..” You whispered, chin pointing towards the ceiling to look into his eyes.

“Don’ call me that like I’m your friend. Ya’ could be gone tomorrow ‘n I wouldn’t give a goddamn shit.” His grip tightened as his face inched closer to your own, so much his breath fanned over the tip of your nose. "Yer so desperate t'be loved it shows how ya never have been before, but I don't do charity, so go bother somebody else and leave me the hell alone!."

He stood like that for half a minute, keeping you in place with his hand clutching your skin tight, though his grip fell the second he noticed a hint of pain in your eyes, though you weren't sure if it was for his grip or his words, implying you weren't worthy of anything. Making you feel small. He pushed himself off you, taking a good few steps back. "Get the hell outta 'ere." He yelled, pointing with his uninjured side to the, hopefully empty, hall behind the bedroom door.

You had vanished. Completely erased yourself from existence for the rest of the day. You grabbed the pack of cigarettes you had kept after your last run, a lighter, and climbed up the tree furthest away from everyone. You sat on the wide branch with your knees to your chest, the stilled bike belonging to the man you had pestered all this time staring right back at you, yelling the same words he had hours ago. He was right, couldn´t argue against anything he said, as much as it hurt, it was the truth.

You were down to the last two tobacco sticks, an unlit one being hugged by your reddened lips from all the nervous biting. "Hard as shit lookin' for ya in this state." His grumble woke you up from your daydreaming, eyes landing right on his as you brought the fire to your cigarette. "Wha's doctor doin' with a smoke? Don' tha' kill you?" He tried to joke around after being met with radio silence on your part. Attempting to rip something out of you.

A small smile formed on your lips, shrugging. "Gonna die sooner or later." You weren´t big on it, but ever since you were sixteen cigarettes were a habit of you that was embarrassingly hard to let go of. His head was at level with your legs, you weren´t too far up and he didn't lack height. Hence why he easily reached for the last cigarette and the red lighter beside you, lighting it up swiftly.

" 'm sorry." He whispered. The view you had was one you wanted carved onto your skin. The sun setting behind the archer, his dirty blond hair being lit up by the orange beaming from the large figure. Cigarette between his lips, as well as your own, and a shy hand, going to rest on your calf in an awkward comfort-inducing mannerism he wasn´t too experienced with.

" 's fine." You smiled, hand enveloping his. "i'll get off your back."

"Don'. I like ya' pesterin' me."

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚꩜ ➴

i kinda hate it but i got it done lol

Anyway, my requests are open! please leave me anything you'd want to read and with no promised deadline I'll get it done :)

#twd #daryl dixon #daryl twd #the walking dead #daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl dixon the walking dead #daryl dixon fanfic #daryl dixon twd #daryl dixon x female reader #daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon x you #daryl x reader #the walking dead daryl #twd daryl #twd daryl dixon

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stormsandfoes · 3 months

Text

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?”

#texas chainsaw massacre #thomas hewitt x reader #leatherface #thomas hewitt #slasher fandom #slasher fanfiction #slashers x reader #slashers #slasher community #leatherface x reader #the texas chainsaw massacre

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slu7formen · 6 months

Text

MDNI. luke x drunk!reader

luke decides to take care of you when he notices how drunk you are a party, you didn’t know how much you needed him until he showed you so.

warnings: drunk!reader, protective!luke, lil violence, use of yn, allusion to s3x

reminder: english’s not my first language so I apologize for any spelling mistakes

₊˚⊹♡

The melody from a stolen radio emerged through the humid night air, barely audible over the loud laughter and shouted conversations of the older campers reunited in the woods. The stars offered little illumination, replaced by the flickering glow of a bonfire fueled by firewood. The air was heavy and hot, filled with the scent of chips, spilled beer, and teenage rebellion. This was a rare ocasion for the senior campers, a chance to forget about monstrous threats and drakon training for a night.

Luke nestled in the shadows of a nearby oak tree, holding a way too warm can of beer to drink now, and listened to his friends, trade their usual brand of mischievous gossip. A comfortable camaraderie settled over him, a welcome respite from the weight of responsibility that pressed down on him as a counselor.

"Did you see Lucy practically drooling over Malcolm after Ally dumped him?" Travis snickered, nudging Connor with his elbow.

Connor snorted, barely containing his laughter. "Ouch, sister drama. Ally must be thinking about drowning her in cheap perfume"

Luke chuckled, shaking his head. The Aphrodite cabin drama was always entertaining, even if a little predictable. He glanced around the clearing, his gaze sweeping over the other campers. A group of Ares cabin warriors were engaged in a play-fight, throwing each other to the ground as they groaned and laughed. He spotted Katie Gardner, daughter of Demeter, tending to a small patch of wildflowers. Even at a forbidden party, Katie couldn't resist nurturing something green.

"Hey, Luke" Chris nudged him, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "You gonna tell us your big secret yet? We all know there's something going on between you and yn"

Luke's smile faltered slightly. "There's nothing to tell" he replied noncommittally, taking a swig of his warm beer, the taste bitter in his tongue. “We’re just friends”

"Oh, come on" Connor pressed, a sly smirk spreading across his face. "We see the way you look at her. Like she's the only girl alive."

Luke rolled his eyes, but a blush crept up his neck under the teasing of his friends. Suddenly, a melodic laugh cut through the din, a sound that sent a jolt through him. It was your laugh, bright and carefree, a stark contrast to the usual reserved demeanor you displayed around camp. He followed the sound, his gaze landing on you amidst a group of campers near the edge of the clearing. But it wasn't your presence that triggered a tightening in his chest. It was the hulking figure of Ares cabin resident, Mark, who stood far too close to you, his arm draped around your shoulder as he leaned in to whisper something that caused another burst of laughter from you.

A sting of jealousy pierced Luke´s insides. He knew it was silly. He and you were nothing more than friends. But still, that doesn’t mean he’s gonna like it when he sees you with some other guy. He watched as you swayed slightly, the red plastic cup clutched loosely in your hand a clear indication of your intoxicated state. Your usually sharp eyes held a glazed look, a vulnerability that made his protective instincts flare.

He saw you and Mark detach from the group, heading deeper into the shadowy woods. There was a part of him that urged him to let you be, to let you enjoy your night. But another, more primal part couldn't shake the image of you, intoxicated and unaware, disappearing into the woods with someone like Mark.

Sighing, Luke pushed himself off the tree trunk. “I´ll be back in a minute” he says to his friends, leaving his can on Travis´ hand. He weaved through the tight and large group of campers, his purpose hardening with each step. You stumbled on a protruding root, giggling at your own clumsiness. Mark steadied you, his hand lingering on your waist in a way that made Luke’s right eye twitch.

"Hey, yn" Luke's voice cut through the air, catching your attention. You turned, your face splitting into a wide, drunken smile.

"Luuuke!" you slurred, swaying towards him with open arms, nearly knocking him over with the force of your hug. Ignoring the glare Mark shot his way, Luke enveloped you in a hug, his nose crinkling at the distinct scent of fruit punch and something a little stronger.

"Whoa there" he chuckled as you wrapped your arms around his neck. He could smell the sugary sweetness of your lip gloss. "Easy, tiger."

You giggled, your head lolling against his shoulder. You mumbled something nonsensical, giggling at a private joke only you seemed to understand. Your mascara, usually neatly applied, had smudged slightly at the corners of your eyes. Despite the obvious effects of the alcohol, you were undeniably beautiful, the firelight casting warm shadows on your face. "M'so happpy you´re here! Dance with me!" you yelled as you lift your arms, your voice thick with intoxication. Luke felt a pang of worry. You were far too drunk to be alone in the woods with a boy you barely knew.

"Seems like you've had a few too many tonight, huh?"

"Just having a little fun, Luke" you pouted, the way you said his name sounded funny. "Don't be a all couns-, counselor"

He glanced over your shoulder towards Mark, whose jaw was clenched tight. "Yeah, well, maybe a little too much fun" Luke countered, his voice gaining a hint of firmness, but as softly as possible. "Maybe it's time for you to head back to your cabin, yeah?”

"But Mark was showing me…" you began, but were cut off by Mark's snide voice.

"Mind your own business, Castellan" He growled. Luke narrowed his eyes at the Ares camper, a dangerous glint flickering within them. “This doesn´t concern you”

"She's clearly not in control of herself" Luke retorted, his voice low and cold. "Someone needs to make sure she gets back safely. And it won't be you."

Mark scoffed, a humorless sound. "Says who? Why don't you worry about yourself, Castellan?"

The barb hit a nerve. Luke wasn't drunk, but the implication stung. He wasn't about to get into a debate about his tolerance with this ridiculously big guy.

"Look," Luke said tightly, trying to keep his voice calm, "I'm not trying to cause any trouble. I just—"

"Just what?" Mark interrupted, stepping forward, his chest puffing out in a show of dominance. "Going to swoop in and save the damsel in distress? You think she needs rescuing?"

He shot a pointed look at you, who seemed to be lost in your own world, giggling at some private joke as you covered your mouth. The sight of it only fueled Luke's simmering anger.

"Whether she needs help or not isn't the point" Luke growled, his voice strained. "The point is, she's clearly intoxicated and shouldn't be alone with someone she barely knows."

"Barely knows?" Mark echoed, a sneer twisting his lips. "We were just getting to know each other, weren't we, yn?"

He turned to you, his voice dripping with false sweetness. You blinked at him owlishly, then shrugged, a nonsensical answer escaping your lips.

The sight of it was too much for Luke. His fists clenched at his sides. He knew Mark was deliberately trying to get a rise out of him, but it was working. The implication that his concern was fueled by jealousy rather than genuine care was infuriating.

“Now if you excuse us…” Mark pointed out, pulling you to him by your hip as he tried to walk away with you.

But Luke´s had enough. That was the last straw. In a blur of motion, Luke lashed out. He lunged forward, his fist connecting with Mark's nose with a satisfying crunch. Mark stumbled back, roaring in pain, a hand flying up to his now-bleeding nose.

You, however, seemed oblivious to the sudden violence. You blinked at the scene in confusion, your brow creased in a frown as you looked at Mark. "What the-…" your words slurred, lost in the midst of your intoxication.

But before you could form a complete sentence, a wave of fury washed over you. You turned around, shoving Luke hard in the chest, sending him stumbling back a step. "What the fuck, Luke!" you shrieked, your voice laced with a venom that startled him. "Why do you always have to be all over me!?"

The words hit Luke like a physical blow. He wasn't angry at you, not truly. You were clearly out of it, the world a dizzy sight because of whatever it is that you drank. But the accusation stung. Here he was, trying to protect you from a situation you couldn't navigate in your current state, and you saw it as him controlling you.

"yn," he started again, trying to choose his words carefully. "I just-"

"Just what?" you shot back, your voice thick with slurred defiance. "Just what gives you the right to decide what I do?"

Tears welled up in your eyes, threatening to spill over. Luke's heart ached. You were upset, confused, and vulnerable – a dangerous combination amplified by the alcohol coursing through your veins.

You crossed your arms over your chest as you sniffed, walking past him fast, head down and all pouty. “You ruined everything” you mumbled, more to yourself than directly to him, but he still heard. Luke watched you go, a wave of despair washing over him. He'd messed up.

He glanced back at Mark, who was clutching his nose and glaring at him with a mixture of fury and grudging respect. "Look, man" Luke sighed, the fight momentarily draining out of him. "That was a cheap shot, I´m sorry"

Mark grunted, wiping blood from his face with the back of his hand. "Yeah, well, you got a nice fist, I must say."

There was a hint of grudging respect in his voice, perhaps because he couldn't deny that Luke's concern for you seemed genuine, or because if he recieved another punch, he'd need his nose surgically reattached.

"I wasn´t gonna do much either" he tried to defend himself. “She can´t even walk straight” Mark mumbled, ponting at you, then he turned away and disappeard into the shadows.

Luke glanced back at your retreating figure. He knew he needed to fix things with you, but for now, all he could do was hope you wouldn't hold his overprotective actions against him. He took a deep breath and started following you, determined to apologize and explain his actions once you were sober enough to listen.

Your walk was more of a drunken sashay, hips swaying precariously with each wobbly step. Luke watched you stumble away, a knot of frustration tightening in his gut. He knew you weren't thinking straight, the alcohol muddling your judgment and turning his concern into a controlling act in your eyes.

"yn" he called after you, his voice laced with a pleading he rarely used. "Wait a minute, please."

You ignored him, your focus solely on putting distance between you and Luke. He quickened his pace, catching up beside you.

"Seriously, stop it" Luke's voice was closer now. "You're going to fall on your face if you keep walking like that."

You stopped short, whirling around to face him. “Will you stop following me? This is embarrasing enough, Luke”

"Embarrassing?" Luke echoed, his voice rising in exasperation. "You're practically falling over drunk! You can't just walk around like this."

"I can handle myself" you slurred, puffing out your chest in a show of false bravery. You wobbled slightly, proving his point.

Luke sighed, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "Look…" he said, trying to keep his voice calm. "I'm not trying to be a jerk. I'm just worried about you. You're clearly hammered, and it's not safe for you to be alone."

You scoffed. "Safe? I'm not a little girl, Luke. I can take care of myself."

"Yeah, well, right now you can't even take care of your balance!" he retorted, his patience wearing thin. You wobbled again, nearly toppling over before catching yourself on a nearby tree trunk.

"Just stop following me, okay?" you slurred, your voice thick with a pout. "I don't need this from you"

He sighed as your trembling body swayed precariously, threatening to topple over at any moment. Luke knew arguing with you further would be pointless. You were a force of nature in your current state, fueled by both alcohol and indignation. He needed to take a different approach.

With a resigned sigh, he whipped his denim jacket off in one swift motion. Kneeling before you, he draped it around your waist, the familiar scent of him momentarily grounding you. You blinked at him, a flicker of confusion replacing the anger in your eyes.

"What are you—woah!" you yelped before you could finish your question. In a smooth, practiced motion honed from years of wrestling monstrous opponents, Luke scooped you up effortlessly, hoisting you over his broad shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

A surprised shriek erupted from your lips. The world tilted on its axis as you found yourself dangling upside down. The clearing erupted in laughter. A few of the campers who had been watching the whole scene unfold hooted and hollered, their amusement evident. "Careful with that one, Luke!" one of them called out, a wide grin plastered on his face. "Looks like she bites!"

Luke shot him a withering look, his jaw clenched. "Very funny" he muttered, ignoring the whistles and catcalls from the others. His focus was solely on you, the warmth of your body radiating against his back.

“You better put me down!" you shrieked, kicking your legs in the air in a futile attempt to dislodge yourself.

"Not a chance, Short Stuff" Luke called back.

"But I don't want to go back to my cabin yet! The party's just getting started!" You pounded your fists against his back, a feeble attempt at protest. "Seriously, Luke, put me down! I can walk perfectly fine!"

"Uh-huh, you´re right" he said sarcastically, walking down with your full weight on one shoulder as if you were as light as a feather.

You let out a frustrated groan, burying your face on his back. “This so embarrasing!” you cried. You hated that he was right. You were a mess, and the last thing you needed was to stumble around the woods in this state, potentially attracting unwanted attention.

Despite your annoyance, a strange sense of security settled over you as Luke carried you. The rhythmic thud of his footsteps against the earth and the warmth of his hands radiating against your legs as he held you were oddly comforting.

The walk to your cabin, however, was far from peaceful. You continued to mumble incoherent protests, punctuated by occasional swats at his back and what felt like an eternity of "Put me down!"s. But Luke remained undeterred, his jaw set in a determined line.

Finally, after what felt like an hour —but was probably closer to five minutes—, you reached your cabin. Relief washed over Luke as he gently lowered you onto the porch, careful not to jostle you too much.

You glared at Luke, your arms crossed defiantly across your chest. He couldn’t tell if your eyes were truly filled with anger of constantly trying to focus on his face so your world wouldn’t keep spinning.

"Well, aren't you prince charming himself, Mr. Castellan" you huffed, voice thick with a playful slur. "Kidnapping girls and all"

Luke, however, seemed unfazed. He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that sent a shiver down your spine despite yourself. "Just get in, sleepyhead" he countered, his eyes gleaming under the moonlight as he opened the unlocked door to your cabin.

You pouted, a childish expression along with the stomping of your feet on the wooden porch. "I could have walked!" you protested weakly, knowing full well it was a lie.

He ignored your protest, stepping past you and gently maneuvering you towards your bed, placing his hand on your lower back as you walked. The cabin was, as expected, empty. Your half-siblings, ever the social butterflies, were undoubtedly wreaking havoc at the party you were now forbidden to attend.

You felt lonely for a second, but it was quickly overshadowed by the warmth that spread through you as Luke helped you onto the bed. You wanted to be furious with him, to unleash the full force of your drunken anger. But the lingering warmth of his touch on your legs and back, the way he so effortlessly hoisted you like a defiant princess, somehow muddled your outrage. The thought was absurd and yet undeniably attractive.

He knelt down in front of you once you sat at the edge of your bed. You could smell the faint scent of woodsmoke and pine needles clinging to his clothes, a comforting aroma that filled your nosestrils instantly.

With a gentle hand, he reached out your calve and started unlacing your boots, his touch surprisingly tender. You watched him in a daze, your head spinning slightly. The world seemed to tilt on its axis again, everything blurring at the edges except for Luke's face. You watched him in fascination as he repeated the process with your other foot.

Suddenly, a wave of nausea washed over you. You squeezed your eyes shut and groaned, a weak sound that escaped your lips.

Luke, sensing your distress, immediately stopped what he was doing. "Hey, are you okay?" he asked, his voice laced with concern as he placed one hand on your knee.

You opened your eyes, blinking slowly. "Yeah, just a little…" you trailed off, searching for the right word. "Woozy" you finally managed.

Then, he stood up and looked around. His gaze landed on a package of makeup wipes on your bedside table. Without a word, he picked them up and returned to stand in front of you.

"You might want to clean some of this off" he said, holding up a wipe and gesturing to the smudged mascara beneath your eye.

You were speechless. No one had ever offered to do something like this for you before. A warmth bloomed in your chest, chasing away the remnants of your anger.

He held the wipe out to you, but you didn't take it. Instead, you found yourself blurting out; "Can you do it for me?"

He didn't hesitate. He fully unfolded the wipe as he lowered to you just a little to continue the process of taking care of you, his touch tender.

He was wiping the makeup from your face with a meticulousness that surprised you. You sat there, mesmerized, feeling strangely vulnerable under his watchful gaze even though you kept your eyes closed. The alcohol, combined with the unexpected intimacy of the moment, had rendered you uncharacteristically quiet.

"You didn't have to punch him, you know" you mumbled, the words tumbling out before you could stop them.

He kept as concentraded in his task as he was before. "Who?" he asked, though you both knew exactly who you were talking about.

"Mark" you clarified.

Luke sighed, going for your other eye. "He was… well, he was clearly taking advantage of your state" he explained patiently.

"How do you know?" you challenged, a sliver of defiance still clinging to your voice.

"Because I know you, yn" he said softly, his gaze locking with yours. "You think I would´ve done what I did if you were sober?"

His words hit you like a wave of realization. Shame washed over you, hot and prickly. You hadn't realized how vulnerable you were, how easily manipulated under the influence of your drink. “There we go” He stopped his movements eyes. “All clean” he announced as he placed the dirty wipes over your bedside table.

"I-, I'm sorry" you mumbled, looking down at your lap, playing with the edges of your miniskirt. "I shouldn't have pushed you like that."

He knelt down again, this time untangling his denim jacket from around your waist. As he spoke, his voice was laced with a quiet understanding. "Listen, I know you might be mad at me for… well, everything. But I wasn't trying to ruin your night. I was just worried about you. You were drunk… you are drunk” he said playfully, reaching out and squeezing your cheek as if you were a little kid. “and that Ares guy –, didn't exactly seem like he wanted to be nice, and I can’t handle that. You can´t go around with people you don´t know, you know better than that" his voice dropped again.

He was right, of course. You were a demigod, trained to be aware of your surroundings and the dangers that lurked in the shadows. Yet, tonight, you'd thrown all caution to the wind, blinded by the effects of vodka and fruit juice and the fleeting attention of a stranger.

A pang of guilt washed over you. You squeezed his hand, a silent apology for your earlier outburst.

He gave your hand a gentle squeeze in return, his lips curving into a small smile. “Besides, we´re friends, right?”

The word felt cold, heavy with unspoken meaning. Friends. You and Luke. The idea was both familiar and exhilarating, a spark igniting somewhere deep within you. You didn´t say anything, but Luke didn´t need you to.

He stood up again and leaned down, surprising you by brushing a light kiss on your forehead. It was a chaste gesture, meant to be comforting, yet it sent a jolt of electricity through you.

"Go get some sleep" he said, his voice a low rumble. "I'll check on you in the morning."

He started to turn away, but before he could take a step, you reached out and grabbed his arm. "Wait" you stammered, your cheeks flushing crimson.

Luke turned back, a questioning eyebrow raised. In that moment, the alcohol-fueled bravado that had propelled you through the night seemed to evaporate. You were left with a newfound shyness, a sudden awareness of the intimate atmosphere that had settled between you.

"Can you..." you began, your voice barely above a whisper, "can you stay a little?"

Luke stared at you for a moment, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. He didn't answer immediately. He stood there for a long moment, studying your face, his expression unreadable. The silence stretched between you, thick with unspoken emotions.

Emboldened by a newfound courage, you stood up from the bed. You were still a little unsteady on your feet, the remnants of alcohol making your movements slightly wobbly.

Reaching out, you stopped in front of him, his height suddenly a towering presence. You closed the gap between you two in a second. Now you were standing impossibly close, your body brushing against his.

Looking up at him, you were struck by how tall he seemed, how broad his shoulders were. A wave of dizziness washed over you as you registered the clean scent of his cologne, one that you hadn’t noticed before, a scent that suddenly seemed incredibly appealing.

"Luke" you whispered, your voice barely a breath, your eyes tracing the outline of his lips. "When did you get so tall?"

He chuckled softly, a low rumble that sent a delicious shiver down your spine. "Maybe you just haven't noticed before" he replied, his voice a husky murmur.

The playful banter momentarily broke the tension, but the air between you still crackled as heavy as it could. Your gaze drifted back to his lips, now so close you could almost feel the warmth of his breath on your skin.

They were full, inviting, and in a moment of drunken bravery, you found yourself leaning closer, your lips hovering just a breath away from his. "You smell good" you mumbled, your voice slurred but filled with a newfound confidence.

Luke swallowed hard, trying to find his voice. He was dangerously close to you, the heat radiating from your body a tangible thing in the cool cabin air. His muscles tensed, a battle raging within him between concern and a growing desire.

You reached out and toched his thigh, your fingers brushing against the worn fabric of his jean. Slowly, teasingly, you trailed your hand upward, until you reached his belt, hooking one finger to it, and you pulled him even closer to you. The movement was subtle but undeniably provocative, sending a jolt of electricity through Luke's body.

He stood frozen, mesmerized by the sudden boldness you exuded. This wasn't the girl he knew, the playful friend who teased him mercilessly. This was a stranger cloaked in the familiar, and the effect was intoxicating.

His own breath came out in a ragged sigh. Every rational part of him screamed at him to step away, to put some distance between the two of you. You were clearly inebriated, and taking advantage of that wouldn't be right.

But another part of him, a more primal part, yearned to close the gap between you, just a breath away. He had always found you attractive, drawn to your quick wit and fiery spirit. But the line between friendship and something more had always felt too blurry to cross.

Now, with the inhibitions lowered by alcohol, that line seemed to have vanished entirely.

He leaned in closer, the space between your faces shrinking with each passing moment. The scent of your coconut perfume and something uniquely you filled his senses, further muddling his already clouded judgment.

"yn" he began, his voice husky, a warning more for himself than for you.

"Stay" you whispered, your lips still hovering tantalizingly close to his. The raw need in your eyes mirrored the war raging within him. “Stay and make me yours, Luke. Please”

His hand reached up, cupping your jaw as his gaze locked with yours. You tilted your head into his touch, a silent invitation.

"We can't do this, gorgeous” he murmured, his voice a low rumble against your ear. "You're not sober”

"I don't care" you interrupted, your voice thick with a desperation that surprised even you.

Luke felt his resolve crumble. He wanted this, just as much as you did. The idea of kissing you, of finally exploring the feelings that had simmered beneath the surface for so long, of touching you, feeling you, was undeniably tempting.

But a sliver of sanity remained. He knew that taking advantage of you in this state would be a betrayal of your trust, something he wouldn't be able to forgive himself for.

"But I do" he countered, his voice firm yet gentle. "If I'm doing this with you, I want to do it right. When you're sober and can make a real choice. When you can remember"

A wave of disappointment washed over you, but a tiny voice in the back of your head, untouched by the alcohol's haze, whispered its thanks. He was right. This wasn't the way you wanted things to happen.

So you nodded slowly, a small pout forming on your lips.

"Alright" you mumbled, letting go of his belt loop. “Can you still stay a little longer, though?”

A ghost of a smile played on his lips. He leaned down and brushed a soft kiss to your cheek, the touch feather-light, sending another wave of warmth through you.

"Go to sleep, trouble" he chuckled, the sound warm and familiar.

You walked back onto the bed, a strange mix of disappointment and relief swirling within you. As you drifted off to sleep, Luke pulled a chair beside the bed and settled down, keeping a silent vigil over you.

You immediately fell asleep, your mind could be running as fast as it could, but your body told another story. He watched you sleep for a moment, then left and went back to the party.

On his way back, he couldn’t help it but smirk to himself, a gushing and warm feeling rushing on his chest as he realized how close he had you. How his feeling were not so oblivious to you, and now that he knew, he wouldn’t have to work so hard to have you, or hide any longer.

#luke castellan x reader #luke castellan #luke castellan smut #pjo series #pjo #luke castellan x you #aphrodite #luke x reader #luke castellan one shot #luke castellan fic #luke castellan imagine #pjo x reader #pjo x you #pjo smut #charlie bushnell #luke castellan x female reader #luke castellan x fem!reader #luke castellan x y/n #luke castellan imagines

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justsomerandomfanfic · 8 months

Text

What Am I Going To Do With You? - Logan Howlett X GN Reader

Title: What Am I Going To Do With You?

Logan Howlett X GN Reader

Additional Characters: N/A

Requested by Anon!

WC: 4,438

Warnings: Death mentioned briefly, X-Men canon violence briefly mentioned, italics, cursing, unconsciousness?, alcohol (beer), very brief mentions of poisoning, yelling mentioned, nightmares mentioned, confessions, strangers to friends to lovers, nicknames, banter, teasing, flirting, slight suggestiveness, slight angst, and fluff

The snow was falling softly outside, and a few puffy flakes were already starting their journey into the ground of the forested land that surrounded your small cabin in Hunter, New York. The air was cold and biting with each puff of wind that blew across the open landscape. It was early in the morning, on a Friday, when you would usually go out and cut up some new firewood for the upcoming days. It was hard work, especially in such cold weather, but it ultimately kept you warm for a week or two before you'd have to chop up some more.

In your oversized, white coat, you gathered as much wood as you possibly could fit into your arms before setting off through the thick snow, back to your back door. Kicking and knocking your snow boats against the slightly raised threshold, you shook your hair out as you nudged the door closed with your hip. The snow that had landed softly in your hair began to instantly melt into its liquid form once the warm and comforting heat of your house hit you. Setting down the wood logs on the small wooden table by your wood-burning furnace; you stood up straight, back slightly aching as you did so.

Upon looking at your wood pile, you worried on your bottom lip before deciding to go out for a couple more from the large stack you had up against the side of your cabin. You weren't entirely sure that you'd have enough, so it was best to grab more wood than you'd need. You didn't want to freeze to death during the rest of your winter, and you didn't want to go out into the freezing cold more than you'd have to.

With a short glance at your still-steaming coffee on your dining room table, you let out a sigh before stepping back out into the cold. Stuffing your mittens together to keep them tight on your hands, you rubbed at your chill-to-the-bone nose before heading back around to the side of your cabin. But right as you turned the corner, you froze, not literally. There, lying slumped in the thick and deep snow was a man. He definitely wasn’t there when you went out to get the first load of logs. He didn't move, possibly unconscious... Or worse... Dead. You couldn't have a dead man on your property... It would only bring trouble.

Hoping, praying that his man was still alive, you dragged your feet through the seven-inch snow, standing within inches from him, you dropped to your knees. Eyes wandering his large figure, you bit your lip; he was breathing, his back rising and falling slowly. This man wouldn't survive long, him facing down like that. Tearing off your gloves, you quickly pushed him over, groaning slightly from how heavy the man was. What did he eat? Rocks?

Once upon his back, you let out a short breath, a small foggy plume escaping your lips as you looked over him. You couldn't help but stare, completely entranced by the man's striking features. His face, although covered in bits of stubborn snow, was a rosy pink, with a dark beard, and brown-curly hair. And though he was unconscious, he looked at peace, even though he lay in the middle of the cold snow. He reminded you of someone, but you didn't know who... Your mind began racing as you racked your brain to figure out where he might have been coming from, why he was unconscious, and why he would be out and about in just jeans and a flannel button-up?

Feeling the biting tingling on your hands from the cold you blinked out of your thoughts. And as if on instinct, you stood back up, your knees aching in the process as you moved around to his head. Taking hold of his arms, you grunted lightly as you pushed him forward, in a sitting position. Once you were satisfied that you had him positioned as he needed to be, you began to drag him to your back door.

It took you a long time, but by the time you had gotten the unconscious - handsome - stranger inside, you were well out of breath. You had to take a moment, taking a moment to catch your breath and calm your heart rate as you stared down at the man lying on your wooden floor. Tossing your gloves onto one of your couches, you quickly tore off your winter coat, hanging it sharply on the hook near your front door. Turning back to the man, you placed both your hands on your hips, huffing lightly.

"What am I going to do with you?" You asked, mostly to yourself as you ran your hands through your hair. “I can’t call the police… They’ll only bring trouble…”

Thinking that now would be the best time to lay him down somewhere more comfortable before he woke, you grabbed the man again and pulled him over to your other couch, closest to the fire that was burning. You thought it would be easier to lay on your other couch than your bed; lifting the man was already hard enough - him feeling like he weighed a million pounds - but lifting him as you have up the stairs... No way.

Staring down at the man, you worried whether or not you should get him a change of clothes, but that would be impossible. You live a good couple of miles from the closest shops and you didn't have any clothes that would fit the man; who you guessed was around six-foot-something. But you didn't want him to catch his death, so a good couple of blankets would hopefully suffice. You didn't really know… You had hoped so. Grabbing the throw on the back of the other couch, you carefully tossed it over the man before grabbing the rest of the blankets you had around the cabin.

Upon placing the last blanket down on him, you stopped. Finally, away from the cold air and snow, you began to see the redness in his cheeks fade away slightly, and only then did you have the chance to take a better look at his face. Now that there wasn't any snow in his hair, you let your eyes run over his handsome features, noticing all the little details. From the way his eyelashes curled delicately, his short, dark brown curls became more pronounced as his hair dried, and the way his tanned skin seemed to glow under the artificial light of your lamps and the fireplace; he even had barely-there freckles upon the apples of his cheeks. Your hand twitched with the urge to stroke his cheek,.. Nope. Bad idea, bad idea... Maybe... You paused to think. Yeah, to check if he had a fever, you could do that.

Reaching out, you softly brushed some of the stray hairs from his forehead - in awe from how soft they were from just the brief brush - your mind searing into you that having this unknown man in your home was dangerous. He could be dangerous. He was tall, obviously strong; he could easily break you in two with those large hands of his, but you ignored it. Finally, you pressed the back of your hand on his forehead, only to sigh in relief. No fever. Quickly, you pulled your hand away, making sure that he was breathing once more before you headed to the kitchen, grabbing your coffee from the dining room table as you did so. Maybe you could make some soup, for you, and possibly for the man that was in your living room.

~~~

It had been a couple of days since the mysterious man had come into your life. And for the past couple of days, that mysterious man was still unconscious. You had been doing your best to take care of him, not really knowing what to do; though you read up on the few First Aid and Nursing textbooks you had found three years ago at a thrift store, but never got around to reading. Sitting next to the fire, in your old rocking chair that you got for the amazing price of seven dollars, a book in your hand, you decided to catch up on some reading. As you rocked, turning page after page, you occasionally looked up to make sure that he was still breathing, in turn, not fully paying attention to the words on the page. Looking over to the clock on the wall, you let out a sigh before standing and setting down your book on the rocking chair seat; the book was a bit boring anyway.

Walking over, you sat on the ground beside the couch. Resting on your knees, you stared at the man, your mind wandering. Who was he? He looked so familiar. Like you had known him or had seen him before. But you hadn’t been out and about in - quote on quote - ‘the real world’ for years. You had been sort of living off the grid for the past couple of years.

Reaching out, you went to feel his forehead for a fever again when his hand suddenly reached up, gripping your wrist. You gasped, eyes widening as you watched the man's eyes open, a small but gruff groan reverberating from his well-built chest. Slowly, he sat up, bringing your wrist with him, tightening his grasp slightly as he stared down at you with hard, dark brown eyes. You couldn't look away, both scared and lost in those eyes that were locked onto yours.

"Wha' happened?" He rasped, his voice rough and hoarse, "Who are you?"

You swallowed down your spit, trying not to let the nervous feeling overwhelm you. "Uh, I'm Y/N... Uh, I found you outside my cabin, unconscious." You spoke in a hushed tone, your voice quiet as you stared up at the man with wide eyes.

The man stared at you, his brows furrowing as he tilted his head slightly, clearly confused though he never dropped his slightly threatening demeanor. "Where am I?"

"You're- You're in my cabin... In, uh, Hunter, New York." You answered as you glanced from his dark eyes to his hand on your wrist, "Uh, could you please let go of me?"

His own eyes snapped to his hand, tightly wrapped around your wrist before quickly dropping your hand. Without another word, he stood, the pile of blankets falling to the side as he made his way quickly to the closet door. Staggering to your feet, you made your way to him, grabbing his flannel sleeve without really thinking.

"Wait! You can't go back out there! It's freezing!" You exclaimed, his eyes staring down at your hand sharply before meeting your worried gaze once more.

"It don't bother me." He spoke, voice deep, sounding irritated, "I don't care 'bout no damn weather."

"But you have no jacket, gloves, or hat... Or- Or anything! You'll catch your death out there!" At that, the man clicked his tongue, pulling his arm from your grasp, "Besides, the nearest town is miles away. Fifteen to be exact. You won't be able to make it. Especially after being unconscious for five days!" The man said nothing, walking the rest of his way to the front door, his large hand grabbing the door handle. Becoming slightly irritated, you grabbed his arm again, using enough strength to turn him towards you a little. "Listen here. It's freezing out, you just woke from some sort of small coma-like sleep thing, haven't drunk or eaten anything, and you expect me to just let you leave?" You growled, tightening your grip slightly, "At least stay a couple more days until the storm calms down. I have soup on the stove and a few drinking options in my fridge. Though, if you have a death wish, by all means, I can’t stop you, go on out there."

You stared up at the man as he stared down at you, his eyes moving around your face before he huffed, "Got any beer?"

"Beer?" You asked, slightly deadpanned, as the man looked back down at you and nodded, "Yeah... Uh, yeah, I got beer. Uh, just follow me, please." Breaking away, you turned and made your way to your kitchen, the sound of the man's heavy footsteps following close behind you. Reaching the stove, you grabbed a bowl from the cupboard before grabbing the large spoon and pouring a bit of mashed potato and onion soup into the bowl. Turning to the fridge, you grabbed one of the Coronas you had next to your hard lemonades before shutting the door with your hip.

Turning, you found the man sitting on the stool, his lower arms resting on your counter. Clearing your throat, you set the beer and bowl of soup down before him before you grabbed your own soup. "Thanks," You heard him mutter slightly as you turned your back.

Leaning against the corner of the counter, you stirred your soup around with a spoon, feeling very awkward. Glancing over as the man took a long sip of his beer, you spoke up once more. "Uh, may I know your name?" You asked, watching as he froze, spoon halfway to his mouth, "I mean, it's only fair. You know my name, and I've most likely saved your life and all. Nasty storm."

The man took another sip before setting the glass bottle aside, running his hand through his hair before glancing over at you, "... I'm Logan."

"Logan..." You repeated the name slowly, testing it out, "Well... What were you doing in my woods before you fell unconscious?" You asked, raising an eyebrow.

Logan shrugged, glancing away at the picture of a moose on your wall before taking another sip of his beer. Silence followed the question and you wondered why he hadn't answered. What was he hiding? Was he even hiding anything? Could he even remember? What did he know? What did he know about you?

"You live 'ere?" He suddenly asked, making you pause eating this time.

"Of course I do. What kind of question is that?" You asked, looking up at the man once more with an eyebrow raised before pushing off of the counter and tossing your empty bowl in the sink. You quickly rushed away from the kitchen, Logan watching you as you grabbed your winter coat from the hook and shrugged it on.

"Where ya goin'?" He asked as you slid on your gloves and grabbed your old messenger bag.

"Out to grab more wood for my furnace and fireplace." You answered simply. "It'll take a bit. So, if you're not here when I get back, I'll understand. But you should at least stay until the snow dies down and I can get you a ride into town."

Logan pursed his lips, finishing off his beer before speaking, "'nd ya think ya can trust me? Some stranger?" He asked as you made your way to the back door, shuffling your boots on.

You paused at the back door, hand on the door handle, "Yeah. I can trust you." You said confidently before turning to look at the burly man with a slight grin, "There's more beer in the fridge if you want it, and water too if you're still thirsty."

And with that, you opened and shut the door behind you, a waft of cold air hitting you in the face before you started walking along the thick snow to the side of your cabin.

~~~

"Logan! Could you help me in the kitchen for a moment!?" You called out aimlessly in the cabin from the said kitchen, hands covered in dough and flour.

Needing the dough, you smiled as you heard the familiar heavy footsteps make their way to you. Logan huffed, pulling his hands from his jeans pockets as he made his way over. "Wha' do ya need me fo'?" He grumbled, leaning against the counter.

You rolled your eyes playfully, gesturing to the bag of flour on the counter beside the both of you, "Could you pour me some of that? I miscalculated how much I was going to need."

Logan grunted, grabbing the bag and dumping a small pile onto the dough, "That good?" He asked and you smiled with a nod.

"Yep! Perfect, thank you, Lo." You replied, smiling up at him as he stepped back, eyeing you curiously.

"What're ya makin'?" Logan asked, peering over your shoulder at what you were doing.

You grinned lightly, "Pie dough." You stated, glancing up at him.

"Pie dough?" He asked, "What kind of pie?"

"Cherry."

He stared at you, his eyebrows furrowed. "No kiddin'?"

"Yup." You giggled, grinning brightly at the man. "Didn't I tell you about it last night?"

Logan shook his head, "Nah, ya didn't mention it. Didn't say a thin'."

"Well," You began, "I'm making cherry pie. It'll be ready for dessert tonight. Just have to make it, bake it, and give it enough time to cool down a bit." You glanced up at him before finishing, "Wanna help me with this?"

Logan huffed, "I don't know… I ain’t good at bakin’." He began, watching as you tried to blow a couple of stray hairs from your face, "I was goin' to go out and get more wood for the fire." He answered, bringing his hand up to brush the stubborn hairs away from your face and behind your ear, making your face heat up as you smiled sheepishly up at him.

"We already have enough firewood in here to last us a few more days, Lo." You laughed out, looking back down at the dough on the counter.

"Fine. But ya owe me a beer," Logan answered, pouring a bit more flour over your dough before you could ask him to do it "And an extra slice of the pie."

Your smile widened, chuckling lightly, "It's not like you take the beer anyway." You teased as Logan scoffed softly, rolling his eyes. "But, you may have an extra piece, maybe three pieces, since you're helping me and all."

"Fine by me," Logan muttered, "Whaddya want me to do?"

"Oh, uh, could you cut me up some of those cherries, and make sure the pits are out of them? Cherry pits have amygdalin."

“Amy-wha’ now?” Logan asked, walking over to the fridge and grabbing a beer.

“Amygdalin.” You corrected, “It’s what’s in cherry pits. Our body converts it into cyanide.” You answered as Logan took in what you were saying, his lips just pressed onto the glass rim of the beer bottle as he paused.

Logan hummed deeply before finally taking a sip of his drink, grabbing the see-through bag of pre-washed cherries with one hand. Glancing over at him briefly, you couldn't help but smile. It had been a little over a month since you found Logan in the snow. And the past month had been pretty amazing. After the initial awkwardness passed, Logan became really nice to talk to and even began to become a little fun to be around, though he was still quiet and kept to himself for the most part.

The only thing that ever seemed to truly change was when he would wake up in the middle of the night screaming from inside his guest bedroom. The first time it happened, you had rushed over to his room across from yours and came face to face with a set of claws. He didn't hurt you, but he apologized to you as if he did. He didn't really talk to you much after the first nightmare, and it took you a mighty long time to get him to open back up to you again. Though he was rather stubborn, so were you, and with a lot of reassurance, you finally cracked him out of his shell enough for him not to run away into the snowstorm. And after a long conversation by the fire, and with warm coffee filling your stomachs, you finally got some of his story.

And though you feared that he was going to leave you, Logan stayed.

And the longer he stayed, the more you began to fall for him. Under that gruff exterior, Logan was actually a softie. A sarcastic, sarcastic, softie. It was one of the many things you loved about him. And you were sure that he might've felt the same, or at least something close to it. From lingering glances and the less-than-accidental touches, he was certainly getting close to you, or closer than he usually let himself get to anyone. He had thought about leaving, in the middle of the night, or in the early morning before you woke up. But if Logan had left, he would’ve felt guilty, leaving you all alone, only for you to wake up and not find him there. That tension was there. And that fear of accidentally hurting you was still there. And it scared him. It scared him at how close he was actually getting to you.

"Bub," Logan called out, making you jump slightly and look up at him as you snapped out of your daydreaming. Logan stared down at you, his eyes narrowed slightly, "Are ya okay?"

You nodded slightly, wiping the flour off the best you could before going over to wash them in the sink, "Yeah, I'm fine. Just lost in thought."

Logan watched you carefully, "What 'bout?" He asked and you tilted your head slightly as you thought.

"Hmm… Nothing really... Uh, it happens when I bake." You mutter sheepishly, reaching out for the dish towel on the oven handle only to find it right in front of your face, in Logan's hand. Giving him a thankful smile, you take the small towel, drying your hands off. "Thank you, Logan. Are those cherries ready?" You asked, looking over past his figure to take a look at the cherries he directed for the pie.

"They're ready," He answered, grabbing your attention again, "There's somethin' buzzin' around in that pretty head of yours."

"Hm?" You hummed, raising a brow curiously. "Somethin’ buzzin’ around?" You repeated questioningly with a smile.

Logan chuckled dryly, stepping closer to you, smirking, "Don't play coy with me, Y/N. Whatcha thinkin' 'bout?"

You flushed lightly, biting your bottom lip and shifting your weight uncomfortably under his gaze. Your heart fluttered lightly at his closeness. He looked so gorgeous today. Hair all clean from a fresh shower, washed-out jeans, and in his new flannel that you bought him. And that look upon his face, eyes narrowed playfully, filled with mirth; the chocolate brown speckled with hints of green. And that grin, encompassed by his freshly-trimmed beard. Why did he have to be so handsome... And smell so nice? And how did he shape his hair in that way, all cute and pointy? It truly fascinated you.

"Uhhhh," You stammered intelligently, unsure of whether you should answer him. Or just keep thinking. Yeah, thinking sounded nice. Suddenly, you felt Logan's hands on either side of your body, your hands instinctively coming up to latch onto Logan's shoulders as he picked you up and onto the flour-free counter. "Logan..." You breathed out in slight shock and surprise. His hands wrapped around your waist, standing between your knees.

"If ya don't wanna talk, ya don't have to." He murmured lowly, his dark eyes scanning your features, making you shift in your seat slightly under his intense gaze. “I ain’t gonna force you to talk if ya don’t wan’ to.”

"And let me guess, it'll help if I talk about it?" You questioned with a chuckle, shaking your head slowly.

"It might." He answered confidently, nonchalantly.

You gave him a look, crossing your arms over your chest, "And what if I was just daydreaming? Is it so wrong to daydream?" Unable to stop the corners of your lips from twitching.

"Depends. Do ya daydream 'bout me?" Logan asked in response and you sighed exasperatedly, shrugging your shoulders slightly.

"Do I daydream about you, Lo?" You asked yourself as if you were thinking it over. "I don't know. What would you think if I did?" You then asked, gaining the courage to make eye contact.

Logan raised a brow, his grin widening. "I'd be flattered, bub." He answered, as he watched you roll your eyes playfully.

"You would." You agreed, giving him a teasing grin.

"I probably would tease ya a bit." He continued, "Daydreamin' 'bout me and all."

"You would." You repeated, lowering your voice slightly with slight annoyance, glancing off to the side, right at your unfinished pie. You really needed to finish that pie… Maybe in the end you’d have enough leftover dough for smaller pies… That’d be cute…

"I'd probably kiss ya." Logan then said.

"You would-" You paused, blinking before turning to look up at him, eyes wide and face flushed. "Wait, what?" You asked, a confused look forming on your face. Did he really say what you thought he said..?

Logan's smirk dwindled, "Do you not want me to?" He asked, and you quickly responded by shaking your head.

"No! I mean, yes! I mean... Um…" You trailed off, trying to think of a way out of this embarrassing mess. "Um… I'd kinda… Like that…" You mumbled the last part, trying to hide how embarrassed you suddenly felt. You never expected him to say anything like that.

"Really?" Logan said, seeming genuinely surprised as he watched you nod.

"Yup." You replied quickly, hoping that he wouldn't hear the faint squeak in your voice.

"You sure, bub?" He questioned. "Because, if this is gonna make you uncomf-"

Rolling your eyes, you uncrossed your arms, "Oh, shut up and kiss me, Logan." You growled, grabbing the collar of his flannel, and pulling him towards you, pressing your lips harshly against his own, making him pause for a moment before kissing back. Your hands went from his collar to tangled in his hair, tugging gently, while his grip on your hips tightened slightly. His fingers slid a bit under the hem of your shirt, burning against the small portion of your cool skin that he had found at your waist. After a few moments, you pulled back, panting slightly. "You taste like cherries." You muttered breathlessly.

"I may have snuck some when ya weren't lookin’." He grinned a toothy grin, looking down at you mischievously.

You chuckled slightly. "What am I going to do with you?" You commented, feeling his warm fingers brush through your hair as they rested on the nape of your neck before he leaned forward, capturing your lips once more.

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