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lullabies-blue · 4 months ago

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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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bitter-me · 10 months ago

Note

Hello!! Before I leave a request, I would like to ask how are you doing? Are you sleeping well? I also want to say that I really liked the fic with Jin Yuan!! Thank you very much!

Regarding my request! -What about Argenti with the Knight of Beauty! Reader? I’ve been thinking about this for a very long time, but only now am I deciding to write!

It's the same as always - if you don't like it, ignore it!

(I apologize for any mistakes if there are any)

-Anon 🌾

Beauty in All

Argenti | M. Reader

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"Although my sleep schedule's a mess, I'm a-okay! When I read your request I was taken aback because I actually was thinking of writing for him. Did you read my mind?"

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"You're so beautiful!"

"So handsome!"

"You're very pretty!"

"You look like a doll!"

Those are the worlds he constantly hears, all those compliments, those honeyed, flowery words. So sweet he could have diabetes. They always compliment him on his looks, how elegant he is.

They asked him---no, bombarded him with questions.

"What's your skincare routine?"

"What shampo do you use?"

"Do you use make up?"

And the questions goes on and on with no end to it.

Of course he doesn't deny it either. He knows he's beautiful.

But is beauty all that matters?

They say "I love you" they say "I think I'm in love with you." But is all of that true? At first he was flattered but as time goes on, he began to believe their nothing but lies. They love him yes but do they truly love him? Or are they simply obsessed?

It's clear that they only see him as a doll meant to be placed inside a glass case. To admire.

He's not human to them, but a doll.

When he met Argenti, he was simply indifferent to the other's flowery words. They're mere flattery after all. He didn't mean it... not one bit.. Even though he smiles and thanked him for the gifts, flowers, and compliments. He can't help but feel a little... angry.

Who does he think he is? Some doll he could play with? So what? He's going to leave him once he's bored? Is that it!? He's merely an entertainment for him?! When the Knight said those words with a charming smile. Doubt began to cloud his mind. Is he truly sincere?

He wanted to believe him... he truly wanted to believe him...

But...

"I love you, my dove." The Knight said sweetly as he gave a charming smile.

What a wonderful, loving, and gentle smile... and it was directed to him too... and yet...

"Argenti.." He began slowly as he looks at the other with a stern expression. "Please focus on the mission." He sighed pinching the bridge of his nose as if he's trying to get rid of a growing headache. Unlike the rest of the Knights of Beauty [Name] doesn't do any fighting, instead... he's their navigator.

How should those hooligans know where to go without a navigator? They'll be lost in space! Floating in the endless vast of the universe.

Honestly... it's almost as if he's the only one with a brain amongst their blind worship. Yes he's with the Knights of Beauty... Yes [Name] worships Idrila... but he knew for a fact that their Aeon has fallen... if she is how benevolent as the others claimed it to be.. then wouldn't she be answering their calls then? Answering their worship?

Sometimes he wished he could lend the other Knights his thoughts, and... sometimes he hopes for a savior to come, one that got what it takes to convince everyone. To let them see. They could worship her yes, heck! [Name] still worships her even after he knows the truth! But... to blindly follow her Path? To blindly put your own life in danger? For someone who had longed past?

"You're next destination is close to Penacony so..." He began to brief Argenti on his next "expedition."

....How could this happen..?

This isn't supposed to happen... HOW IN THE AEONS NAME DID THEY GOT EATEN BY THE GIANT STING!?!? AND HOW DID HE GOT ROPED INTO ALL OF THIS?!

Without much to do... he merely sticks with Mr. Yang and Miss Himeko as [Name] isn't that much of a fighter himself. He applaud Miss Himeko for being able to do so. As a fellow navigator, she earned his respect.

As the crew continue to investigate they soon discovered Juvenile Stings, and Lesser Stings inside the train. At one point, [Name] was caught in the crossfire.

Just his luck, huh..?

Argenti... being the "Knight in shining armor" he is... decided to put it upon himself in treating his lovely navigator.

The two didn't say a word as [Name] let Argenti treat his wounds. The once smooth skin now turned bloody. Looks like he won't be receiving any more compliments after this... and just like that... he'll be left to rot as their "toy" is now damaged and had lost it's appeal..

Then after a long silence, [Name] spoke up in a quiet tone. A question. One that's been plaguing his mind ever since the Knight confessed his love to him. "Argenti... will you still love me... when I'm no longer young and beautiful..?"

At first, Argenti was taken aback by the sudden question as his smile falters but soon, his smile returns to his face. Even more gentle and loving than before. "Of course, there's beauty in everything. The sight of you being old and wrinkly... your hair that had turned white..."

"It's a look that makes you feel the traditional and history. Even if you were covered in mud, or turning into an old and thin appearance..."

"It's not just the outside, but also the inside... you will grow and become more wiser..."

"It's proof of how time makes you even more beautiful."

"Beauty isn't just about the outside.. but also on the inside.."

"There's beauty in all."

#seme male reader #top male reader #x male reader #honkai star rail #honkai star rail x reader #honkai star rail x male reader #hsr #hsr x reader #hsr x male reader #hsr argenti #argenti x reader #argenti x male reader #🌾 anon

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honeycombhank · 7 months ago

Text

Some reminders for us all!

Before I say anything I would like to say that I have had pet rats for over 20 years but I should not be your only source of information for rats and make sure to read from many different sources to learn about rats and what they are like and what it takes to have them, these are my thoughts and opinions on rats and I hope that’s okay to share.

If you have rats or you are thinking about getting some, these are some good reminders

Rats NEED ATTENTION

Rats need to get out of their cage for cuddles and your full attention every single day no less then an hour at the very minimum amount, do not get rats and leave them in their cage for days on end.

I like to think of my rats cage as a safe place where they eat and poop and can build nests if they like, think of the cage as their bedroom, as humans we spend time in our rooms and enjoy our space but we all need to go on adventures, see new things and meet new people and of course learn new things along the way, rats are unable to open the cage (that keeps them safe) and get food and fresh water for themselves, so that is completely up to you! It’s important to check their water and make sure that the water bottle is not leaking but also check to make sure the ball at the end of the water spigot that they lick isn’t stuck as well, both of these issues can lead to deadly dehydration, rats should be drinking water after every meal but it should be available to them at all times of the day and especially after time out of the cage.

Rats need you, they are very smart and curious and so if you are looking for a pet to truly love and adore you back these are amazing creatures to have IF you are fully willing to put in the work.

They can be messy sometimes, love them anyway! They are not trying to make you mad.

Rats must be fed every day! Do not go days without feeding your rats!!! Everyone needs food in their bellies and nourishment!

Rats need a well ventilated area to live a healthy life , rats are highly sensitive to smoke and other debris in the air, they have very tiny lungs and airways and should be provided with air flow in the room that is not directly on them, they should have natural light as well but not hot direct sunlight because this can lead to over heating, rats are susceptible to getting respiratory diseases and infections, this means cage cleaning is a very important factor in having pet rats!

Cages should be cleaned at minimum once a week depending on how many rats you have, it could be as often as every three days to every day, put your nose down close to the bedding and take a good whiff, that is the world your rat is living in, do you need to adjust the environment? Does the bedding need to be changed or cleaned?

These are great questions to ask yourself.

Rats cage be litter trained this can be more difficult then some animals but it’s worth a try and can really be wonderful if they stick to it, some rats will even teach others how to use the litter box once trained themselves and feeling comfortable with it

I would suggest that while cleaning cages you might leave a few pieces of Pooh behind in a corner to remind them that they do not need to fuss, it is still their home and they do not need to overcompensate to feel they have the upper hand around here if that makes sense.

Over all I guess I think having rats and caring for them properly comes with an amount of putting yourself in their shoes, because they are so intelligent and should not be treated like they are less then a human, they are different but they have been shown to have compassion, true Empathy and regret the way we feel it and there is truly a whole world that we are only just beginning to understand and learn about going on with our sweet little companions.

Don’t underestimate the power of a true friendship with a pet, take care of them and they take care of you.

#honeycombhank #my pets #rats of tumblr #my rats #dumbo rats #cute rats #ratblr #my thoughts #pet rats #how to #how to have pet rats

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azrielgreen · 7 months ago

Note

can we get a pov of what was going through eddie's mind, when steve arched his brow and said "there's a good boy" 😩🙈

#prism

Steve swallows.

Eddie watches the motion, the slick contraction. He wonders what that feels like, to be inside Steve Harrington for purposes of consumption. He thinks about that sometimes. If they were alone and trapped, what circumstances could ever combine to convince Steve to eat Eddie to survive? Silly shit, he should focus. There are people everywhere and he can't let anything slip. Not with the Chief in the room.

‘So good,' Steve says. 'Try it?’

Eddie opens his mouth and takes what Steve gives. Cake is overly sugary, it's sickly sweet and not what Eddie would usually like but he knows his boy adores cake so he affects bliss. ‘Oh my fucking god. OK, if you won’t dive in, I will!’ he declares, pulling Steve in to dance.

Steve likes that, he responds so well to silly. ‘How about we let others have a slice before you Scrooge McDuck yourself into it?’

Eddie drops his voice low, silky and soft. 'Yes, Mommy. Whatever you say.'

To know Steve Harrington... to really, truly know him is an experience unlike any other an watching the ripple effect of those words going through Steve is unparalleled. Exquisite and achingly sexy, Eddie wants to rope his wrists and make him come until it fucking hurts and Steve can only say his name, voice cracked and broken.

But to know Steve also means understanding that this beautiful, mercurial boy often surprises people, even himself.

Which is exactly what he does next when he leans in, nose to Eddie's own and whispers, ‘There’s a good boy.’

And Eddie's world is eclipsed by the slow blink his body pulls without permission, it goes dark and velvety where he's weak for it, weak for this game, for this creature only he could ever love the way he needs.

Only he could ever see and know.

Somewhere deep inside, in the knotted pitch black of locked doors and trees grown too close together... something snaps like a twig in the woods. Something small and inconsequential, but it breaks all the same. Eddie's control is not a singular thing, but rather comprised of thousands of experiences, strings and strings and sticks and snakes.

Something breaks.

A prelude.

Just a small one.

He smiles wide, closes his eyes and swallows much more than the last remnants of cake. He swallows and refuses himself the kiss they both want, he swallows the urge to fuck this boy through the floor, all the way down until they're in the molten beauty of the centre.

Eddie wants to play.

He wants.

It can wait.

But not for long.

#prism fic

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vapemaster42069 · 10 months ago

Text

“Why is Cub peeling grapes?”

Impulse shrugged, toeing off his sneakers. “Shrooms, prolly.” He flopped onto his side, socked feet and cargo-short-ed legs flung over the back of the couch. “Cubby, you good?”

Cub, wonder in his eyes, looked back. He seemed not to be glancing over, but to be watching the world pass in front of him like a rat looking out a bus window, wind in its fur and streetlights in its eyes. “I’m wonderful.” He looked back to his plate, adoration plain on his face. “I love grapes.”

Impulse tossed him a thumbs up. “Good to hear, man.”

Bdubs nodded. Sometimes, Cub was better left to his own devices. “I brought the goods.”

“Did you remember the sauerkraut this time?” Skizz, who was determinedly not looking away from his Mortal Kombat game on the tv, cocked an eyebrow in a preemptive, judgemental jab.

“Get your own sauerkraut, man.” Bdubs tossed a tinfoil-wrapped hotdog to Impulse, one into the kitchen to his right where Tango was attempting to fix the leaky faucet, his legs sticking out from under the sink into the middle of the tile floor, and one vaguely towards the couch between Skizz and Impulse. “Hotdog Guy sends his regards.”

Impulse raised a brow. “Does he actually, or are you relying on your weird cute-boy-senses again?”

“It’s not a cute-boy-sense! It’s my incredible rizz!”

“Oh, my god.” Impulse groaned, to Skizz’s cackles.

Bdubs grinned, nudging Impulse’s head, which was resting on the ground, with one of his sneakers. “I could show you, if you need any tips…”

“Broooo.” Impulse threw an arm over his face, his ears reddening. “You’re the worst. And– and you!” He half-glared at Skizz, who was still idly giggling at his reaction. “I have plenty of rizz!”

“Yeah? When are we gonna get to meet your boyfriend then?” Bdubs sang, drawing out ‘boyfriend’ as long as he could before losing his composure to a chortle.

“He’s– Hey! He’s not my boyfriend!” He swatted at one of Bdubs’ calves. “He’s just a friend.”

Tango, ever with good timing, emerged from his hazard site that was the kitchen. “Oh, are we talking about Impulse’s boyfriend?”

Bdubs wrinkled his nose. “Why do you smell like fire? Aren’t you fixing the plumbing?”

Tango shrugged, attempting to push up his glasses with one elbow, hands full of assorted tool boxes. “It happens.”

“It– what happens?”

“Oh, you know. This, that.” He gestured vaguely with his head.

Bdubs blinked. “O–key. Weirdo.”

Tango bumped him with a shoulder. “I hear Cute Hotdog Boy said hello this morning… When's the wedding?”

“Well, he didn’t say hello, exactly, but I could sense it.”

“With your cute-boy-senses?”

Bdubs groaned, a traitorous smile quivering over his lips. “Fuck off with that! But I’m totally going to ask him out tomorrow.”

“You said that yesterday!” Skizz piped up, still intently focused on his game.

“Is he into you?” Impulse, still hiding his face, poked at Bdubs’ ankle.

“Oh, he’s so into me. I can tell these things.” Bdubs scratched at his neck idly, cheeks reddening.

“Oh, my god.”

“He’s gone off the deep end.” Skizz signed, mock-mournfully.

“I’m serious!”

“You’ve never talked to the guy.”

“So? He doesn’t talk much! And, I said hi this morning, and he nodded at me, and he already had my order ready.” Bdubs crossed his arms, leaning back in what Skizz would later describe as a swoon, and what Bdubs then imagined was a badass, cool-guy lean.

“I think he’s just learned your schedule, man. You’re there at the same time every day.”

“But he basically said hi today! He doesn’t usually do that…” He hummed.

“He’s lost in the sauce, bro. Or the hotdog water.”

“Lost in the ketchup, more like. ”

“He’s a hotdog dude, man.” Skizz redirected to Bdubs, “How great could he be?”

“He’s awesome, you don’t even know. Plus, what do you have against the hotdog industry, Skizz?”

“Nothing, but what’s a hotdog cutie have in common with an optometry major?”

“He’s in herbology, I saw his bag one time! It had a bunch of band patches, too, and pins– He’s so cool, his hair is dyed this crazy white and he’s into plants and nature and indie rock–”

“Homie. “

“–and he always smells so nice, too. Like … “

“Like hotdogs?” Tango supplied.

“Yeah…” Bdubs sighed dreamily.

“Dude. Bro. Man. Have you ever asked him about this stuff?”

“No, but–”

“And he’s never said hi to you?

“Well, no, but–”

“Homie, I think you’ve just developed a pavlovian response to this guy.”

“Have not!”

“Bro. You always see him when you’re hungry, right?”

“Well, yeah.”

“And he gives you food?”

“Yeah. It’s his job!”

“It’s also his job to make you feel good, man.”

“Is not! You’ll see, I’m asking him out tomorrow.”

“Yeah, okay, buddy." Skizz smiled softly, looking away from his game. "You do that."

“I will!” Bdubs looked down at his half-wrapped hotdog. “I will.”

#my writing #in my docs this is titled “freaks”#ethubs #if it's not clear Cute Hotdog Boy is etho #pt 2 is sitting in my drafts but i haven't decided if i like it or not lmao

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final-fantasy-imagines · 2 years ago

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The gift of the goddess - Genesis Rhapsodos x gn!reader

Synopsis: You live in a world where everyone is destined to meet their soulmate at some point during their life. The twist: You can only recognize them on Valentine’s Day, no matter how much time you spent with each other before. However, meeting your soulmate at a work party is the last thing you expected.

Pairing: Genesis Rhapsodos x gn!reader

A/N: This is the first drabble I've written for Genesis, so feedback would be greatly appreciated. Also, it would mean the world to me if you could reblog this because I worked really hard on this fic. Thank you. <3 (This fic is part of my Valentine's Day Event.)

February 14th, the calendar on the wall says. Valentine’s Day is what’s printed beneath the date.

It’s not a secret that everyone who lives in this world has a soulmate. No one can say when they come into your life or when you’re destined to meet them but it’s a well-known fact that people can only recognize their soulmate on one particular day – Valentine’s Day, the day of lovers.

Total nonsense, you think. If two people are truly meant for each other, why put unnecessary obstacles in their way? But it has always been like this. And if that’s the way of the world, well, who are you to question it?

With a sigh, you turn your attention back to your best friend who’s lounging around next to you, scrolling through his mails.

“Shinra’s hosting a party this evening,” Zack tells you without looking up from his phone. “Should we go?”

You huff. “Why would I want to spend my spare time at the company?”

“It’s Valentine’s Day,” Zack says and wiggles his eyebrows. “There will be lots of people at this party – your soulmate could be there, too. As someone who has already found theirs, let me tell you that it’s the best feeling in the world to meet them. I’m almost tempted to call it magical.”

“No need to talk big, Fair,” you scold him and nudge him with your elbow. “I know very well that what happened with Aerith last year was just a chance meeting. If you had left a couple of minutes later you still wouldn’t know she exists.”

You have heard the story of their first meeting countless times, teasing Zack about it just as often. He had been on his way to buy a gift for another woman – Cissnei, member of the Turks – when he bumped into Aerith, on Valentine’s Day, as chance would have it. Of course, it only took them a split second to recognize each other, and the rest is history. They’re still so in love that sometimes, it makes you want to throw up. And you’re quite sure it’s only a matter of time until you’ll get the invitation to their wedding.

“Yeah, okay,” Zack says, interrupting your thoughts. “You have a point there. But who says that the same thing can’t happen to you, too? Wonders never cease, you know.”

“You’re just trying to convince me to accompany you and Aerith to this stupid party.”

“Yes.” He beams at you. “Is it working?”

With a deep sigh, you close your eyes and pinch the bridge of your nose. You’re going to regret this, you can sense it. But Zack is your best friend, and you have never been able to tell him No when he looks at you like this. “Unfortunately.”

----

The party itself is more of a formal get together than an actual party but you honestly haven’t expected anything else from a company like Shinra. But at least they offer drinks, and the Skyview Hall, usually a magnet for tourist, offers a great view over your hometown that’s still enough to take your breath away for a moment. But still, nothing can gloss over the fact that the atmosphere in the room is far from exuberant.

“I’ve seen funerals where people were more cheerful,” you whisper to Aerith who’s standing right next to you. She covers her mouth with her hand to hide her smile but her eyes give her away anyways. “You shouldn’t say that.”

“But it’s true.”

“We only got here,” Zack chimes in, optimistic as ever. “Stop naysaying.”

You have to resist the urge to stick out your tongue at him. (Not because he doesn’t deserve it but because this is your workplace and you don’t want to embarrass yourself in front of your coworkers.) So, instead, you just roll your eyes and smile. “Not even you can pretend that this is not the saddest party you’ve ever seen.”

“Yeah, fine. Maybe it is.”

“See.”

Aerith laughs. “Stop it, both of you. We’re here to have fun, no?”

“You’re absolutely right. How about some drinks?” Zack replies, looking at his girlfriend (who nods), and then at you. “Do you want something, too?”

You shake your head. You’re not in the mood for a drink yet. “Perhaps later.”

“Okay. We’ll be right back.”

You watch as they make their way over to the bar before you let your eye wander. When you spot a familiar figure, your heart skips a beat. You haven’t expected Genesis to be here, too. He’s deep in conversation with Sephiroth, and so it seems safe to dart a glance at him, and then another because he looks ridiculously handsome in his casual outfit.

Wait. You probably shouldn’t think stuff like that about your friend. But then again, you would be lying if you said you didn’t have a stupid little crush on him. But with this stupid soulmate thing, it’s foolish to fall for someone because there’s always the possibility that they’re not the one you’re meant to find. You’ve seen it countless times before and you’re not sure you want to experience that kind of heartbreak. So, instead of confessing your feelings to him you have learned to cherish your friendship because it’s honestly better than nothing – and it’s not like he has ever acted like you’re more than a friend to him. (Or maybe he has, and you just haven’t noticed.)

In that moment, his attention shifts away from the conversation, almost as if he senses that someone’s watching him, and you want to turn your head away, pretending like you haven’t stared at him like a lovestruck teenager for the past few minutes, but it’s already too late. He has figured you out.

Genesis’s gaze meets yours, and you freeze. It feels like time around you slows down to a point where everyone except you and Genesis seems to move in slow motion, the noise surrounding you fading into a distance. You want to look away, you really do, but no matter how hard you try, you just can’t.��

And then, you suddenly find yourself taking a step towards him, then another one, and another one. You’re pretty sure you haven’t consciously decided to do that – it’s like a supernatural force pulls you towards him until you’re suddenly standing right in front of him.

“Hi,” you say, nothing else. But you still can’t help but notice how breathless your voice sounds. Goodness. You’re making a fool of yourself, you know it, but it’s too late to get out of this situation now. “Um… I- I just wanted to say Hello. And…” You don’t finish your sentence because Genesis, that smug bastard, has the audacity to smile, and your thoughts go up in smoke.

It’s only when Angeal and Sephiroth share a knowing look that the realization hits you like a brick. Genesis Rhapsodos, 1st Class SOLDIER and one of Shinra’s most valuable fighters, is your soulmate. And judging by the expression in his eyes and the way he’s still smiling at you, he has figured it out, too.

But this is ridiculous. You have spent so much time with him over the past few years, talking and laughing and wondering if the legends were actually true and not just some pipe dreams people came up with to make them feel better about not finding love. So, how is it possible that you never noticed the bond that’s obviously connecting you? Why didn’t you recognize your soulmate sooner?

“Oh.” You let out a tiny, barely audible gasp when you understand. Yes, you have spent countless days with Genesis before – but never Valentine’s Day.

“We should go somewhere else to talk,” Genesis suggests in that moment, snapping you out of your thoughts, and when you nod, he turns to his friends and adds, “please, excuse us for a second.”

“Sure,” Sephiroth says, not quite able to hide the smile that plays around the corners of his mouth. But at least, his amusement is subtler than Angeal’s who doesn’t even try to hide the grin that’s spreading on his face. Genesis rolls his eyes at him. “Not a word, Angeal.”

“I wouldn’t dare. See you later.”

Genesis’s hand rests on the small of your back as he guides you to the observation deck – another tourist magnet during the summer months but at this time of the year, the outside platform is still closed. You can see your reflection in the floor to ceiling windows, as well as the lights of Midgar, the city that never seems to sleep.

“So,” you say.

“So,” Genesis replies.

“We’re soulmates.”

He smiles, one of these rare genuine smiles that always make you a bit weak in the knees. “It truly is beyond me why we didn’t notice this sooner.”

“In our defense, there’s only one Valentine’s Day each year.

“That much is true.”

There’s an awkward silence, then, until you clear your throat and ask, “Do… do you think that’s the reason why we’re friends?”

Genesis shakes his head. “No. We’re friends because I like you. I actually like you a lot, (Y/N).”

It sounds like a confession, and your stupid heart starts beating faster again, but maybe you’re imagining things. Maybe it’s wishful thinking that makes his words sound like a confession.

A brief smile flashes over his face, almost as if he can read your thoughts. “I know I have never told you but you’re very dear to me,” he says softly and cups your cheeks. “And us being soulmates is just further proof that I fell for the right person.”

Your breath hitches in your throat. With him standing so close to you, cradling your face in his hands like this, you fear you’ll forget how to breathe. “Genesis, I- you – we-“

“Shh. I know.” His gaze travels from your eyes down to your lips before resuming eye contact. “… may I?”

You don’t know how you do it but you manage to nod, and that seems good enough for him.

The kiss is nothing like you presumed. You have expected Genesis to kiss passionately, with a hint of impatience maybe, but instead, his lips press against yours in such a soft and sweet manner that you feel like you’re going to melt right into the floor. It’s the kind of kiss that leaves you wanting more, and you wrap your arms around his neck to pull him closer.

When the two of you inevitably pull away, you’re pretty sure you have hearts in your eyes, even more so when Genesis smiles at you again. And then he says “I love you.”, and you know this moment will be etched into your memory forever.

Valentine’s Day has never been more perfect.

Thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed it please consider liking, reblogging and/or leaving some feedback. I'd really appreciate the support! <3

Taglist: @sixdaysofsilverashes @theimaginaryheir @thevoidwriting

#genesis rhapsodos x reader #genesis rhapsodos x you #genesis rhapsodos fluff #ff7 x reader #final fantasy x reader #ff7 fluff #reader insert #gn!reader #gender neutral reader #soulmate!au

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twoidiotwriters1 · 7 months ago

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The Curse of Oenone (Leo Valdez xFem!Oc)

A/N: Sometimes you just need to suffer an hallucination to get your shit together -Danny Words: 1,949 Series' Masterlist Previous Chapter // Next Chapter Listen to: 'Pray' -by Sam Smith

XLIV: Stupid Decisions Require Stupider Consequences

Ara concludes that she hates not only the cold but also the intense heat. The feeling of her clothes sticking to her body, and how every time she breathes it feels like she's inhaling steam.

"What was that with Hedge?" Ara nudges Frank's arm, the boy hasn't let their protector come along.

Frank makes a face. "You know his girlfriend?"

"Mellie?" Ara raises a brow. "Gods, yeah. Did something happen to her?"

"She's pregnant."

"No way!"

"Yeah," He sighs. "Ara, isn't it cruel to keep him around? It was bad enough before, but now..."

"Poor Hedge," the girl cleans the sweat off her brow. "He looked after me when I didn't have anything, I should return the favor."

Frank smiles. "He talks about you like a coach would talk about the students that grew up to be professional athletes."

Ara chuckles. "He's proud of me for all the wrong reasons."

The boy laughs tiredly, the heat is getting to him too. "I wouldn't be so sure..."

Nico stops and turns to the group. "From here, it gets tough."

"Sweet," Leo is sweaty, but he sounds okay. His time in Ogygia seems to have bettered his condition. "'Cause so far I've totally been pulling my punches."

"We'll see how long you keep your sense of humor," Nico scowls. "Remember, this is where pilgrims came to commune with dead ancestors. Underground, you may see things that are hard to look at, or hear voices trying to lead you astray in the tunnels. Frank, do you have the barley cakes?"

Ara's ancestors... does she have any? When she thinks about ancestry, she pictures her past lives. She doesn't know a thing about her current mortal lineage, and she's never talked to her dead loved ones, not even on accident.

That's why she always thought she was too unimportant for her death to matter—she isn't ending a bloodline that's lasted for centuries, it's just her. Nemesis's words are accurate, she doesn't see value in what she represents.

Her sacrifices hold no weight in the eyes of immortals. For that to happen, Ara should hold onto something within her and love it like it means the world, but the people she loved and died faded away, to think there is something inside her worth safekeeping makes no sense to her.

"I've got the cakes," Hazel steps forward.

"Eat up," Nico tells the group.

Ara recoils with displeasure and gawks, scrunching up her nose. "Tastes like satyr medicine!"

"Don't remind me," Nico groans, forcing the last bit of cake down his throat. "That... should protect us from the poison."

"Poison?" Leo coughs out. "Did I miss the poison? 'Cause I love poison."

"Soon enough," Nico brushes off his teasing. "Just stick close together, and maybe we can avoid getting lost or going insane."

Leo grabs Ara's hand. "Another fun date, huh?"

They make their way in, her hand is so sweaty she feels the need to pull away, but Leo's grip stays firm as he looks around waiting for monsters to pop out from every corner.

"This wasn't part of a temple," Hazel informs them. "This was... the basement for a manor house, built in later Greek times."

"A manor house?" Frank questions. "Please don't tell me we're in the wrong place."

"The House of Hades is below us," Nico shakes his head. "But Hazel's right, these upper levels are much newer. When the archaeologists first excavated this site, they thought they'd found the Necromanteion. Then they realized the ruins were too recent, so they decided it was the wrong spot. They were right the first time. They just didn't dig deep enough."

They find a wall ahead stopping them from going forward.

"A cave-in?" Jason wonders out loud.

"A test," Nico clarifies. "Hazel, would you do the honors?"

The girl touches the surface and it crumbles before them. Ara holds Leo's hand tighter and takes cover behind her cloak, getting dirt all over it. Before them lies a large, almost infinite set of stairs, the walls are decorated with images of cattle.

"I really don't like cows," Piper groans.

"Agreed," Frank replies.

"That's you, Neeks," Ara points at one cow with legs too long for its body.

"Those are the cattle of Hades," Nico scolds her. "It's a symbol of—"

"Look," Frank interrupts, pointing at a cup set on the first step.

"Hooray, I suppose that's our poison," Leo points out plainly.

"We're standing at the ancient entrance of the Necromanteion," Nico picks it up. "Odysseus came here, and dozens of other heroes, seeking advice from the dead."

"Did the dead advise them to leave immediately?" Leo presses.

"I would be fine with that," Piper agrees.

Nico glances at them annoyed and then at her as if saying See what your jokes cause? Then he offers the chalice to Jason. "You asked me about trust, and taking a risk? Well, here you go, son of Jupiter. How much do you trust me?"

Jason almost snatches the cup out of his hands. He drinks, then passes it to the next person.

"So dramatic," Ara grabs the cup and drinks from it, again making disgruntled noises. "Yuck!"

"Yeah, so dramatic," Nico glances at the group and nods briefly. "Congratulations. Assuming the poison doesn't kill us, we should be able to find our way through the Necromanteion's first level."

"Just the first level?" Piper asks with dread.

Nico opts to ignore all the witty comments starting now. He looks at Hazel. "After you, sister."

From this point on, the dead are stronger than the living.

That's what Hazel says the moment they enter the second level. Ara doesn't like the sound of that. Personally, her ghost sheet is packed, and if she runs into any of her dead friends, things will go downhill fast, and they'll get ugly.

In her life, the dead have always been stronger than the living. Her deadbeat father is the reason she considered herself hard to love for most of her childhood, her deceased friends constantly remind her she's useless. And now everyone will get to watch and hear her trauma in real time.

"Where are the monsters?" Frank asks. "I thought Gaea had an army guarding the Doors."

"Don't know. At this point I'd almost prefer a straight-up fight," Jason mumbles.

"Careful what you wish for, man," Leo summons fire on his free hand, and Ara feels comforted by it. "Personally, I'm hoping nobody's home. We walk in, find Percy and Annabeth, destroy the Doors of Death, and walk out. Maybe stop at the gift shop."

"Yeah," Frank huffs. "That'll happen."

"If they don't have a guide," Ara comments, "they're probably roaming this place, lost and waiting to hear us so they know where the food is."

The ground shakes as if agreeing with her comment. Everyone looks at her with a scowl to which she responds with a grimace, deciding to keep her thoughts to herself.

"That was close," Hazel sighs. "These passageways won't take much more."

"The Doors of Death just opened again," Nico announces.

"It's happening like every fifteen minutes," Piper points out.

"Every twelve," Nico frowns. "We'd better hurry. Percy and Annabeth are close. They're in danger. I can sense it."

His words motivate Ara to pick up her pace. As the rooms get taller and wider, she feels a presence watching her, their gaze so heavy on the back of her neck that it starts to hurt.

"Offerings?" Piper asks as they walk past some coins on the floor.

"Yes," Nico nods. "If you wanted your ancestors to appear, you had to make an offering."

"Let's not make an offering," Jason moves away.

"The tunnel from here is unstable," Hazel points out. "The floor might... well, just follow me. Step exactly where I step."

Leo drops her hand, and immediately Ara feels less nervous. She's been absorbing most of his anxiety without noticing. They walk in line for a while until the group suddenly stops.

"Frank?" Jason asks quietly. "Hazel, hold up a second. Frank, what's wrong?"

"Nothing," his voice shakes. "I just—"

"Ara."

The girl looks around wide-eyed, the darkness seemingly getting worse as she does. "What?"

Leo looks at her over his shoulder. "You said something?"

"Remember your tapestry."

Ara speaks with a choked voice. "Silena."

"Frank, Ara, don't move," Hazel warns them. But both teenagers are busy holding conversations with the air.

"Lead where?" Frank speaks.

"Lena, is it you?" Ara frowns. "What about the tapestry?"

"Uh, guys?" Leo's flames grow in size. "Could you not freak out on us? Please and thank you."

Frank and Ara lock eyes and they understand. Their ghosts have found them.

"It's my sister," Ara's hands are shaking. "She's trying to tell me something..."

"We're okay," Frank gulps. "Just... voices."

Nico speaks up. "I did warn you. It'll only get worse. We should—"

"Wait here, everybody," Hazel disappears for a few seconds, then returns looking pale. "Scary room ahead—Don't panic."

"Those two things don't go together," Leo groans.

As they enter the bone cathedral, the voices get a little too loud for Ara's liking, but she suspects they're this way now because she's looking for her dead friends in the noise. To think her friends have watched her fail time after time, wasting all their sacrifices... it's not a pleasant notion.

"Touch nothing," Hazel warns them.

"Wasn't planning on it," Leo goes back to Ara's side.

"Which way now?" Jason asks.

"This should be the room where the priests invoked the most powerful spirits. One of these passages leads deeper into the temple, to the third level and the altar of Hades himself. But which—?"

"That one." Frank points.

"Why that one?" Hazel asks.

"You don't see the ghost?"

"Ghost?" Nico raises a brow.

"I see it," Ara mumbles, giving a step forward.

Leo pulls her back quickly. "Okay, let's take a moment to make sure Frank and Ara aren't having some kind of shared hallucination—"

"We need to get to that exit," Frank says urgently. "Now!"

Hazel pushes him back with all her strength. "Wait, Frank! This floor is not stable, and underneath... well, I'm not sure what's underneath. I need to scout a safe path."

"Hurry, then," Frank brings out his bow.

As soon as they huddle closer together, they hear the voices of a monstrous army approaching quickly. "Hazel, don't stop!" Nico reaches for the scepter of Diocletian.

Ara opts for her flintlock and starts shooting as soon as the Earthborn shows up at the end of the passageway. Leo stays near her, protecting her by tossing fire at the monsters.

The floor cracks under them, and Ara retreats in panic colliding against Leo and Hazel. Frank grabs the trio and drags them to another corridor. "Go, go, go!"

"The others!" Leo exclaims. A crack has divided the room they were previously in, one side full of monsters, the other with their friends, and a considerable amount of cyclops and hellhounds.

"We have to help them!" Hazel says desperately.

"Your tapestry," Silena repeats in her mind once more, this time more urgently.

Arachne's tapestry showed her exactly as she looks now. Ara locks eyes with Frank, seeing the determination in his as they fall to similar conclusions.

"Protect my army, Frank Zhang," she says.

"Nico!" Frank shouts. "The scepter!" Nico summons the ghostly army and Frank nods at her. "You keep going."

"What?" Hazel tries to reach him. "No!"

"You have to find the Doors. Save Annabeth and Percy."

Ara grabs Hazel and Leo and drags them away from Frank. He rushes away, and just when Hazel's getting a bit hard to control, the wall crumbles. Ara lets go and Hazel falls to her knees, the girl hits the rocks trying to move them, but they're unbothered by her tantrum. Ara gives her a single minute to scream, then lifts her from the hard floor.

"Frank is one of my bravest soldiers," she absorbs Hazel's anguish while she speaks. "You'll see him again. Alive." The girl looks like such a little kid, that Ara feels guilty for forcing her to go on. "Don't waste his efforts."

For the first time, Ara prays to her departed friends asking them for strength, but most of all, forgiveness.

Next Chapter –>

Taglist.

@siriuslysirius1107 @ask-giggles1303 @asnyox-the-hoarder @im-planning-something-look @bandshirts-andbooks @coolninjapaper @thewaterlily @whenisthefall @1randomcomic @you-bloody-shank @sunflowergraves @owlalex44 @taylordaughter @typicalsolangelolover @writingmia @espressopatronum454 @slytherinnqueen @orbitingpolaris @obxstiles @ellipsisspelled @thepixiechicksh @ebony-reine-vibes

#twoidiots writing #pjo fanfic #leo valdez fanfic #doo #leo valdez x oc #heroes of olympus #percy jackson and the olympians

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daidonzo · 2 years ago

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Chapter 18 - Brown eyes, I hold you near [Chishiya x Reader]

"You broke your nose. It happens."

"To who?"

"Boxers?"

"You didn't just say that."

"What?"

"You are telling me "ohhhhh, it happens" as if breaking my nose was the most normal thing in the world and when I ask, my dear, my love, my sweetheart, light of my life, my moon, my stars, who does that happen to… You say people who literally punch each other's faces for a living!?"

Chishiya chuckled, and Kuina burst into laughter. But you were not laughing at all. Your nose was broken, which meant it was crooked, which meant you looked ugly. And one would believe looking ugly should have been the least of your concerns in a place where you were doomed to die if you didn't play stupid, psychotic games. But they would be really, really wrong.

The blonde man was holding your face between his hands, examining your now officially declared broken nose.

"You never called me any of those things."

"What do you mean?"

"Dear, love, sweetheart. Light of your life, your moon, your stars."

You were shooting daggers with your eyes. Kuina was almost on the ground, wheezing and squeaking from laughing so much.

"It's not that bad. You still look very pretty."

"You used to say beautiful before."

"You still look beautiful. But…"

"But!?"

"You are bruised under your eyes. It will go away, but you look slightly bloated. Your lips too."

"Have you ever seen anyone getting a nose surgery?" The woman with dreadlocks intervened, still wearing her blue bikini, but now also wearing jeans on top. You had all changed outfits - Chishiya was wearing grey sweatpants, a darker grey t-shirt and a grey and white cardigan (the man knew his color theory and was sticking to it). You were wearing jeans as well, although not bedazzled like Kuina's and a funny graphic t-shirt in your favorite color.

"Kuina!" You cried out.

"Your lips tho… You look like Angelina Jolie."

Both of your friends (was Chishiya your friend? Was he something more? What was he? Sometimes you thought you were lovers, sometimes merely very good friends) were having fun, and you were glad for it. But, did the punchline need to be your face?

You were on your way to a subway station, Chishiya had said. He had found a drawing, even before you met, in the jacket of a player who had tried to kill them in the game he had shared with Arisu and Usagi, that he just recently realized was a map. To you, it looked like a circle with a million lines.

"Do you keep and carry with you every little piece of paper you find?" You had messed with him.

"No. Just this one. Ah, and your drawing of a tree." He got the piece of paper out of his pocket, unfolded it, and showed you. And there it was.

You honestly hadn't been paying too much attention after that moment, lost in his brown eyes as you were while he was telling the story, but you had gathered that the person in question had been wearing a horse mask and that Chishiya thought he had been the dealer of the game, just like Asahi was of the ten of hearts.

You, of course, wanted to know what the deal with the dealers was, as redundant as that sounded. But, just for a day or two, you needed a break. The three of you had days on your visa, all of the numbered cards and were alive. So you had decided not to think about it.

It wasn't working out well, since your friends kept bringing it up. They were not like you, they didn't like to use ignorance as a coping mechanism.

But… Now at least they were focused on your nose. And whole face, apparently.

"Don't worry." The blonde man said, pressing for a second his lips against your forehead. "You will heal."

"Will it look crooked?" You asked in a tiny voice, wondering if he would feel pity for you and it would earn you another one of those kisses.

"No."

There were no more signs of affections, but at least the news were good.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------- You cussed on your mother tongue.

You had finally reached the place in Chishiya's map. It was, indeed, an incredibly tall and futuristic-looking room that one would access through subway tunnels.

It was… Hard to describe. It almost reminded you of a beehive. Or of a betting house. Both, actually. There were plenty of computers and screens, maybe even hundreds of the latter. Headphones, pens, papers, chairs and other office materials were scattered around. And corpses. So many corpses.

People that were killed by the laser in the sky, judging by the hole on their heads and on their chins. And not long ago, as they hadn't begun to rot.

You were about to say something, but Chishiya grabbed you by the arm. "Come, someone else is here."

And he was right, of course, because no less than five minutes later Arisu and Usagi entered the room. Chishiya's posture visibly relaxed, making you realize just now he had been tense since he had heard footsteps. What was going on inside that beautiful head of his, and why couldn't he let you and Kuina know?

"So you finally found this place, as expected from someone I have high hopes for." Chishiya said, letting you go and walking towards Arisu, and you almost had to contain a laugh. You literally, had arrived maybe 10 minutes ago. Maximum. The smile on your face lingered for a few seconds until all the corpses came into your peripheral vision. It faltered, then. "We meet again." The blonde man continued.

"Probably Arisu and Usagi are not excited as you since you betrayed them." You thought to yourself, but said nothing, not wanting to bring it up. You had avoided talking about it, as well, trying to tell yourself that if you were to love Chishiya, you had to love all of him. Including his Machiavellian manoeuvres.

"Thanks to you guys, I have all the numbered playing cards with me. So, thank you." The blonde man showed them the cards, curving his lips upwards.

"How did you find this place?" Arisu asked.

Instead of answering, Chishiya showed him the drawing he had found in the body of the horse-faced dealer. "Took me some time to realize this is actually a map, of a subway station." He put in back into his jacket, walking aimlessly around the room, hands in his pockets. "What happens when we collect all the playing cards? I thought I would know the answer after I came here. But there's only one thing I discovered."

"That makes one of us." You whispered, low enough none of them could hear you, looking at Kuina from the corner of your eye, who seemed as clueless as you. You had your own theories, of course. One of them and your particular favorite was that you were actually in something like The Truman Show, a reality television program, and there were hidden cameras everywhere, broadcasting your every movement to the whole world. Hi mum, hi dad! But it was not plausible.

Other had to do with George Orwell's 1984… Wait, that one actually made sense.

"Judging by the fact that they were all killed after our victory…"

"There's someone above them." You said, out loud, everyone in the room looking at you. You felt cohibited all of a sudden, but after seeing the proud look on Chishiya's face, you decided you were going to share your conjectures in public more often, crazy as they seemed.

Big Brother was still watching, then.

"But who could they be?" Usagi wondered.

"Who knows? They could be aliens. Or God himself." Chishiya was still looking at you, and you tried to hide a smile by pressing your lips together. You knew he was messing with you. You had told him about those two theories.

The screens around you started to flicker, and power turned on in the building.

SPECIAL URGENT BROADCAST.

"Congratulations to all players!" A woman's voice exclaimed, excitedly. You got closer to Kuina, who had the best vision out of the five of you, but also placed yourself as near as possible to Chishiya, suddenly feeling scared and wanting the comfort of his presence.

The woman was nothing but a blurry figure at the beginning. When the image focused, you all saw Mira. One of The Beach's Executive Members.

Big Brother was not only watching, he had been infiltrated between you. All this time.

"With the exception of the face card games all of you have cleared all of the numbered games so far, and emerged victors. A sweet victory achieved by sacrificing numerous lives. I wonder… how many of your comrades have died?" Her face was so innocent, so pure. She looked like a person who wouldn't even hurt a fly.

"Try remembering… Those that were shot dead with a gun." You didn't need to think too hard, as images of players getting shot started to play on the screens. "That girl you burned alive." One of Arisu's games, in which him and four others were screaming in panic, the body of a girl burning in front of them. "Those struck with the lasers, and those who drowned." This time, you saw yourself, chained by your legs to the bottom of a glass container, screaming guesses to stupid riddles in agony. "Those whose heads were blown off. Those comrades of yours." Images of the massacre at The Beach. Of other games.

"The despair you've felt so far and those dying moments that you can never forget. I'm extremely touched!" No, what she was, is a psychopath. "We would like to give you a present."

"Are you returning us to the original world?" Kuina deadpanned.

You knew the answer before Mira said anything.

"There will be new games!" Please, no. "Let's play together! You'll fight for face cards!"

"I don't dislike the idea." Chishiya whispered, but he was looking at you. His hand finding yours once more.

You were surprised at how calm and collected you were. The realization that you had absolutely no power or control over your life hadn't affected you at all. And you knew why.

You had been expecting it.

You had been hopeful, yes, but no matter how much you liked to play dumb, you were not stupid. You sighed, and to Chishiya's interrogating look, you simply nodded.

You were fine.

You would play the games.

You would survive.

"The next stage will commence tomorrow at noon." Mira announced.

"At least one thing is different…" Arisu hadn't taken his eyes off of the screen. "Now we are seeing our target."

You left the building to appear at the centre of Shibuya, where all of the screens were showing "NEXT STAGE" in all caps, as if it was the more exciting thing to ever happen. Giant zeppelins were flying through the city, each of them displaying one of the remaining cards.

"We are going to get through this." Chishiya's voice. You realized you hadn't spoken a word yet.

"I know."

"I am not going anywhere."

"I know."

He smiled.

"I love you."

You were this close to saying "I know" for a third time, just like Han Solo did in Star Wars. But that was not like you. You looked at him in the eyes, feeling butterflies, wasps, bees, fireflies, beetles and every fluttery-insect in the animal kingdom inside of you. He loved you.

Everything was going to be okay.

"I love you, too."

And then, the noise of an anti-tank rifle being shot.

#chishiya x fem!reader #chishiya x reader #chishiya fanfic #chishiya angst #chishiya #chishiya fluff #chishiya fic #shuntaro chishiya x reader #chishiya x you #chishiya x y/n #aib chishiya #chishiya alice in borderland #chishiya shuntaro #shuntaro chishiya #Spotify #as much as you want

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jaxteller87 · 1 year ago

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Different Directions 1

Jax’s POV

I was in the bathroom, trimming my neck. Everything’s been going great lately, but it seems like with each passing day, I find myself at the opposite end of the spectrum when it comes to Clay and the direction he wants to take the club. I know Thomas and him were brothers, club brothers, but I still can’t help but wonder what my old man would say if he saw how Clay’s been running the club lately. Not sure how’d he take to his club brother knockin’ boots with his ol’ lady either. The more I’m alone with my own thoughts, the more I feel like a prisoner in my own head. To alleviate the mounting stress, I decided to head into the living room, where I found my beloved, Amber, engrossed in a book.

“Is that an important read?” I asked, a mischievous smirk playing on my lips.

Amber smiled, setting the book aside, implying that it wasn’t particularly crucial. With that response, I scooped her up in my arms, carrying her bridal style back to the bathroom, and gently placed her on the sink.

Early on in our relationship, I learned that Amber’s disability made it challenging for her to engage in sexual activities. At first, it could be rather difficult at times, learning how to dance her, so to speak. In the beginning, I knew I had feelings for her, but with the club and everything else that comes with the responsibility of being a member, I wasn’t sure if I could balance at all. There was a time when I would have said it would have been easier doing a half-ass planned gun run with a man down than it was finding a happy medium with Amber. We had to explore alternative ways to foster intimacy, and one of those ways was through our shared grooming rituals. Fortunately for us, our chemistry is so strong that everything seemed to fall into place, and we’ve been inseparable since. To say it plainly, Amber is my anchor to everything I love and to what’s real for me in this world. If not for her, the club would consume me completely, and if that were to happen, I could see myself becoming everything I hate about Clay.

Initially, Amber had reservations about accidentally cutting me while shaving, but she eventually overcame her fears. As she delicately applied shaving cream to my face, I couldn’t help but smile.

“Don’t you dare, Teller,” she playfully warned me as I mimicked putting soap on her face.

“Oh, come on, just a little,” I teased, lightly dabbing some foam on her nose.

Amber chuckled at me, “If you do, just know that you’ll regret it.”

Another minute passed, and she had let her guard down, so I went for it. Before she even knew what her, I had placed a baseball size amount of bubble foam on the tip of her nose, and it was all she could do to try not to laugh while looking me dead in the eye. I did my best to keep a straight face, but when she tilted her head and saw her reflection in the mirror, I let loose on the laughter.

“Perfect,” I declared, a wide grin spreading across my face. I lovingly attacked her face with kisses before she could say anything, and her laughter filled the room. Once we finished cleaning up the remnants of our soap-fueled interaction, we spent the rest of the day relaxing on the sofa.

Amber’s POV

A few weekends later, I found myself outside the club amidst the chaos of a SAMCRO throwdown. Sometimes, I needed to step away, catch a breath of fresh air, and escape the overwhelming presence of the stick-thin girls clinging to Teller. Lost in my thoughts, I jumped when I felt lips grazing my neck, pulling me back to reality.

“There you are, my love,” my husband’s smirk greeted me.

“Hi,” I giggled. Jax’s half-cocked smile still had the power to captivate me. I patted my legs invitingly, and Jax carefully settled himself on my lap. Within seconds, his lips were teasingly nipping at my neck.

“Easy, Jax. I don’t have any concealer, and we’re going to your mom’s for dinner tomorrow. I don’t want a massive hickey on my neck,” I smirked, playfully warning him.

“Wait, where are you taking me?” I laughed as Jax began to roll me into the club.

“Dorm room, to show you who I belong to,” Jax declared with a mischievous laugh.

And show me, he did. He had me uttering those three precious words more than once. It was delightful to be entangled in the arms of my badass biker throughout the night.

The next morning, I woke up to the warm sunrays streaming through the window. Turning over, I realized I was alone in bed. This wasn’t uncommon, especially if there was club business to take care of, but even so, I never got used to it. Every time I woke up alone, I would lay my hand on his side of the bed, looking at his pillow, trying to imagine how shitty my life would be without him in it. After I fill my head with these horrible thoughts, I think of everything I can do to keep our bond as strong as it is so that I never have to face that horrifying reality.

“He must be getting coffee,” I eventually told myself, stretching and yawning. Seconds later, my ol’ man returned with two cups in hand, a smile illuminating his handsome face.

“Good morning, love,” he beamed, handing me a cup. He gracefully shed his clothes and joined me on the bed, naked.

“Morning, Teller,” I smiled, pressing a soft kiss against the back of his hand.

He tugged at the blanket I had wrapped around my bare body, and as his eyes fell upon my chest, a wide grin spread across his face. He looked like a kid who had been dying for candy all year long, and it was finally Halloween.

“Admiring your handiwork, I see,” I laughed, observing his gaze fixed on my breasts.

“Sure am,” he chuckled. Setting his cup on the bedside table, he gestured for me to come closer, pulling me onto his lap. He buried his face in my chest, just as he had the night before, eliciting a whimper from me. It was one of those things Jax did that drove me wild.

“Please tell me there isn’t a club full of people around,” I moaned as Jax gently began to rock me in his lap.

“No, you can scream my name, and no one will hear you, my naughty girl,” he moaned into my ear.

“Oh goodness, big papa,” I breathed against his shoulder, succumbing to the pleasure.

After that exhilarating start to the morning, we enjoyed a beautiful day together. We embarked on an exciting ride, taking the Dyna out for a ride. The roaring engine echoed through the streets as we weaved through traffic, the wind whipping against our bodies. Little did I know, Jax had made some subtle adjustments to the bike, enhancing its power and performance, and with each twist of the throttle, I could feel the added surge of adrenaline coursing through my veins. I was terrified and thrilled at the same time.

As we rode, the world became a blur, and all that mattered was the exhilarating sensation of freedom. We navigated through the winding roads, Jax’s skilled hands effortlessly controlling the motorcycle while I held on tightly, feeling the vibrations of the engine beneath me. It was a testament to his love for the open road and the bike that had become an extension of himself.

After savoring the rush of the ride, we decided to pull over for milkshakes, and then with our sweet tooth satisfied and our spirits lifted, we continued our journey, eventually finding ourselves at Gemma’s house. The aroma of a mouthwatering pot roast wafted through the air, instantly triggering a sense of nostalgia for Jax. Gemma, the family’s matriarch, had prepared the meal with love, knowing it was her son’s favorite.

As the day drew to a close, we returned home. “I had a wonderful day, Amber. I hope you did, too,” Jax whispered, kissing my temple as we lay in our moonlit bedroom.

“I did, very much so. Life may pull us in different directions, but moments like these make it all worthwhile and put everything into perspective.”

#jax teller imagine #jax teller x oc #jax teller fluff #jax teller x disabled reader

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heart-of-copper-dog-training · 6 months ago

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It's the small things sometimes...

Had a wonderful session with two clients (married couple) and their intradog household problems. It is a complicated case, to say the least, and we've been mostly doing management while working on tiny things to help bring the household into peace.

Today, I went over to give a "dog body language 101" slideshow I made specifically for them (and now will be able to share with others since it took me WAY longer than anticipated to do) and it went astoundingly well.

When I took them on, I could see some of the issues with the dogs was simply a lack of understanding the body language the dogs would give. One dog would give a submissive grin and be called the aggressor when the second dog only barked at her in response, forcing the first dog to feel the need to escalate.

There are a lot of moving pieces in this case and it would take so long to go over it, but we had some great small victories today.

What started as a slideshow to discuss the different signals dogs can give turned into an amazing discussion about THEIR dogs and the signals they are now recognizing on them. I could see the metaphorical lightbulb over their heads as they recognized things they'd misunderstood in the past.

They asked questions and were able to point out specific things they'd seen, looked at the provided pictures with keen eyes and were able to identify different contexts of different signals.

It was just a really great session and I wish I'd done it sooner with them. They even identified when one of their dogs was reacting out of trigger stacks (uncontrolled by them, a series of thunderstorms caused additional stress that put her on a short fuse) and we talked about strategies for times like this when things are out of our control.

I've been working with them for almost three months now and the progress has been slow. It has to be, with what all is going on. But we are seeing the progress.

I am seeing their understanding grow. Their faith in the program and their determination to do what is necessary to help BOTH of their dogs.

They have seen looser bodies at home more often than before. Both dogs have begun to relax more at home. One dog who was terrified of the crate has now started to curious stick her nose in and willingly enter it as long as she chooses and the door remains open. They are seeing of the dog's reactivity to strangers go from full barking and backing up to a simple look and disengage.

I know it was a hard sell. They weren't sure there were solutions. They were worried their dogs were "broken" and would never be "fixed", but only managed. And while we are not at a point where we can say whether or not management will ever truly go away, we are seeing some of the smaller issues resolve as we wait to work on the harder ones. We've even (working with their vet) identified a previously unknown medical issue and are waiting for the "all's clear" from the vet to continue work with that dog. A medical issue that was most certainly causing discomfort and a low level of stress at all times.

When we do behavior work, we need to appreciate our small victories. And sessions like this one remind me why I love to do this. It's not about the dramatic results seen on many tiktoks and youtube videos that get all the engagement. Behavior work is slow. It's boring. It's not dramatic because we don't want to encourage our dogs to practice these behaviors.

But it works. Given enough time and effort, the results will come. And seeing that, and more importantly, my CLIENTS seeing that, is one of those things I will always cherish.

They feel confident and reassured. They are not bad dog guardians, their dogs are not broken. They are doing something right and they feel good about it.

Like I said before, I don't train dogs, I train people. And when I see the people finally clicking with it, there is almost nothing in the world more satisfying because it tells me I am doing something right. I am helping them in their time of need, and because of that, I will be able to make a difference in their and their dogs' quality of life.

As always, be kind to yourself, to others, and to your dogs. It's free to be kind.

#dog training #dog trainer #positive dog training #dogs #behavior modification #dog reactivity #dog

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eigwayne · 9 months ago

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Today I watched a couple eps of a handful of shows I'd been working on. I want to finish one or two so I won't feel bad about starting Witch From Mercury or Parallel World or something else on my backlog. But man, sometimes finishing a show is a slog.

I'm on episode 50 of Court Lady, a show with unlikable characters and far too many plotlines that just keep dragging on. I forgot about Ma Hainyu and the other secondary/tertiary characters from the pirate group for a while there, they appear so rarely. And it breaks the tone AGAIN from the high drama of the palace, which was gearing up to resolve, it felt like. And now it's just dragging its feet about everything and especially Lu Yingying's arc, which is the worst arc of the whole show and I hated Fu Yin's stupid not-revenge arc a lot. The more I have to see Prince Liang, the more I hate the show, so you can imagine how I am suffering through this part. Also, this is the main character who gets called a Mary Sue the most in reviews (out of the other shows in this post) but is least Mary-Sue-like, imo. She had a modicum of wisdom and sense and self preservation, and apparently that is unbelievable for most viewers, I don't know.

I hit episode 20 of Stand By Me 2021. The main character is still a moron, sadly, but the palace drama and Xuan Lu's character are keeping me interested. I don't mind at all that there's ahistorical powerful female-led organizations- I mind that the main character is the sort that should have been killed for being fresh in front of the emperor in the first episode but faces no repercussions for hardly anything at all. They want me to believe this is such a dangerous court but they let this imbecile prance around with a sword and stick her nose into everyone's business? My ability to suspend disbelief is pretty decent but I am struggling with this. And the emperor's in love with her. If I were Cheng Yi I'd throw out my back on purpose or something to get out of acting in yet another drama where I had to fall in love with a girl who is so stupid she can't hold her own in a conversation with a toddler. This is the third one. Third! The man is cursed by his pretty face- born to do comedy, forced to do idol.

Besides that, I hit episode 7 of Rebel Princess, and this show is twice as long as it needs to be already. Every scene, every plot element is dragged out past its limits, and this is coming from someone who thought the childhood arc in Minglan was fine. They keep telling me the main character is beautiful and virtuous but they show me a spoiled brat. The actress, while beautiful, is too old to believable play a fifteen-year-old, as are most of the other actors, and they should have sucked it up and gotten younger actors for this arc. I heard this is a bit of a vanity project and I'd believe it.

And I'm on ep 12 of Goodbye My Princess. I started the original version, not the director's cut, and sometimes I wonder if I made the right choice. But this is another one with an unlikable, kind of greasy male lead, plus an amnesia arc which is often a snore-fest, plus we just introduced another woman to the love polygon, so we'll see, maybe I will be glad I saved myself three episodes.

I wish I was better about dropping things, but my brain just won't let me. Never mind just these shows- every once in a while, I think about going back to Ashes of Love or Destiny of White Snake or even Hot Blooded Youth. LOL, that one would be my inability to let something go versus my gut reaction to Huang Zitao's face. It'd be a disaster. But I still sometimes entertain the idea.

#currently watching

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klynnslibrarybooks · 8 months ago

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Review - ★★★★/5

I ate this book up… I have always loved a little paranormal romance (such as the vampire diaries and twilight) and this is no different. I actually tried to read another Ali Hazelwood book before this and couldn't get through it but this I finished in two days due to how good it is (not saying the other book isn't good, it just isn't my type of book).

Misery was a really relatable character and so fucking funny, I have never laughed so much while reading a book. The humor (mostly Misery’s humor) in this book was modern and current but not in a trying to be relatable way but in a way that actually made me laugh so hard. Misery as a character was amazing, she was intelligent and blunt and tried her hardest to give no fucks which is what I aspire to be like. Her character development (though not that much) was amazing to watch her deal with emotions towards her father and her emotions towards the communities she has never felt accepted her was beautiful.

The romance was also amazing, though I didn't like the miscommunication near the end which is usually not my favourite thing I understand where it comes from and its not just something to add spice, it is connected to the characters personalities and trust issues.

The world building in this book was also amazing, there was information given when needed and it was placed so perfectly that it didn't feel like I was reading a history text book or was getting info dumped on. Really wish I took more time reading this book and didn't just speed through it cause it deserved to be savoured for longer.

Favourite Quotes: “You’re not a problem, Misery. You’re a privilege.” “I have no friends, no hobbies, and no real purpose aside from earning enough money to pay rent in order to … exist, I guess.” “I would take anything she chose to give me—the tiniest fraction or her entire world. I would take her for a single night knowing that I’ll lose her by morning, and I would hold on to her and never let go. I would take her healthy, or sick, or tired, or angry, or strong, and it would be my fucking privilege. I would take her problems, her gifts, her moods, her passions, her jokes, her body—I would take every last thing, if she chose to give it to me.” “What I am is an adult woman with agency and the tools to make choices. Feel free to, you know, treat me accordingly.” “Maybe you're not meant for me the way I'm meant for you, but I'm going to choose you anyway, over and over and over again.” “The scent is growing into more than just a problem. It invades. It swirls. It travels. It sticks to his nose. It concentrates, sometimes. They rarely touch. When they did, her wrist accidentally brushed against the front of his shirt, and he found himself tearing off the piece of fabric where her smell was most intense. He slipped it in his pocket, and now carries it everywhere. Even as he leaves to avoid her.”

Songs: Francesca by Hozier Sink by Noah Kahan Bewitched by Laufey Tenerife Sea by Ed Sheeran Wondering Why by The Red Clay Strays

2024 books - no. 05

bride by ali hazelwood

“Maybe you're not meant for me the way I'm meant for you, but I'm going to choose you anyway, over and over and over again.”

#book review #bride #ali hazelwood #2024 books #booklr

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meg-moira · 4 years ago

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The Witch Who Spoke to the Wind

Sequel to Eindred and the Witch

In which Severin, the golden eyed witch, learns that his greatest enemy and truest love is fated to kill him.

Dealing in prophecies is a dubious work. Anyone who knows anything will tell you as much.

“Think of all of time as a grand tapestry,” his great-grandmother had said, elbow deep in scalding water. Her hands were tomato red, and Severin watched with wide golden eyes as she kneaded and stretched pale curds in the basin. “You might be so privileged to understand a single weave, but unless you go following all surrounding threads, and the threads around those threads, and so on - which, mind you, no human can do - you’ll never understand the picture.”

Severin, who was ten years old and had never seen a grand tapestry, looked at the cheese in the basin and asked if his great-grandmother could make the analogy about that instead.

“No,” she replied. “Time is a tapestry. Cheese is just cheese.”

And that was that.

By fifteen, Severin who was all arms, legs, and untamable black hair, decided he hated prophecies more than anything in the world. He occupied himself instead with long walks atop the white bluffs well beyond his family’s home. Outside, he could look at birds, and talk to the wind, and not think about the terrible prophecy which followed him like a shadow.

His second eldest sister had revealed it - accidentally, of course. Severin lived in a warm and bustling house with his great-grandmother, grandmother, mother, two aunts, and three sisters. All of whom were generously gifted in the art of foretelling (a messy business, each would say if asked), and every one of them had seen Severin’s same bleak thread.

He would die. Willingly stabbed through the heart by his greatest enemy and truest love.

Willingly. That was the worst part, he thought.

Severin, who had no talent in the way of prophecies, but plenty of talent in the realm of wind and sky, marched along the well-worn trail, static sparking around his fingertips as the brackish sea breeze nipped consolingly at his face and hair.

I will protect you if you ask me to, it blustered, and Severin was comforted.

He didn’t care who this foretold stranger was. When this enemy-lover appeared, Severin would ask the wind to pick them up and take them far, far away. Far enough that they could never harm him. The wind whistled in agreement. And so it was settled.

At seventeen, he was still all arms and legs, though his eldest sister had managed to tame his hair with a respectably sharp pair of shears. The wind, who had delighted in playing with his wild, tangled locks, did not thank her for it. Severin did thank her; in fact, he’d asked her to do it. He was of the opinion that his newly shorn hair made him look older - more sophisticated. And he left his family home with a new cloak draping his shoulders and a knotted wooden walking stick in hand, thinking himself very nearly a man. He was far from it, of course. But there was no telling him that.

He set out on a clear, cool morning to find his own way in the world, and was prepared to thoroughly deal with anyone who so much as dared to act ever so slightly in the manner of enemy or lover.

He discovered, soon enough, that this was not a practical attitude to take when venturing into the world. Severin spent his first months away from home making little in the way of friends and plenty in the way of thoroughly baffled enemies.

When you meet his gaze, you’ll know, the wind chided as it whisked in and out of his hood.

“His?” Severin said aloud, lifting a single dark brow. “Do you know something I don’t?”

The wind whistled noncommittally in answer.

The wind did know something, as it turned out. At twenty, Severin stood on the warm, sun-loved planks of a dock. As gulls cried overhead, he pressed his fingers to his lips. The young sailor had touched his lips to Severin’s in a swift, carefree kiss before departing on the sea. And though the feeling was pleasant enough, Severin knew that his enemy-lover was not on the great ship cleaving a path through the cerulean waves.

“When I meet his gaze, I’ll know,” Severin said, golden eyes sweeping the horizon. The seaward breeze blustered in such agreement that the gulls overhead cried out in alarm.

What will you do? The wind asked, delighting in whipping the gulls into a proper frenzy.

“Get rid of him, of course,” Severin replied.

What if you don’t want to?

Severin thought that was the stupidest question he’d ever heard. “He’s going to stab me through the heart. Why in the world wouldn’t I want to get rid of him?”

People are foolish, the wind answered, shrugging the nearby sails.

“Not me.” Severin leaned on his stick and looked out at the sea. “I won’t let anyone get away with stabbing my heart.”

When he was twenty-two, Severin knelt at the bedside of a withered, wilting woman. She was a stranger, but the town’s herb witch was away, and Severin happened to be passing through. Though his true strength would always remain with the wind and the sky, the youngest of Severin’s two aunts had a special way with plants, and she’d taught him a fair bit about the many healing properties of the region’s hardy, windblown flora.

He boiled water, adding the few herbs he carried to make a rejuvenating tea. He helped the woman drink, his hand supporting her head and fingers tangling in her sweat drenched hair. After, he pressed a cool cloth to her head, and in the half dark room, she murmured, sharing delirious fears that she would accidentally speak cruel dying words and lay a curse upon him.

Kindly stroking her forehead, Severin assured her that he was not afraid of curses. Even uttered by the dying, a true curse was rarer than the superstitious soldier’s and barbarians liked to believe. Besides, she wasn’t going to die. Severin, who’d seen just enough of the world to have a taste of wisdom, was certain he could save her.

She died within the day.

Whether her condition had been beyond help, or Severin lacked the skills to twist the herbs to his bidding, he would never know. The wind rustled reassurances through the sparsely-leaved trees, but Severin was beyond consolation. Clouds gathered on the horizon, and by nightfall, great branches of lightning crackled across the sky.

He spent the next year and a half in the wilds. Beneath the jubilant light of the sun, he collected plants, acquainting himself with the earth. And beneath the soft, watchful light of the moon, he whispered to the wind and dared to wonder at the shape of his enemy-lover’s face. He could never seem to summon the slightest picture in his mind. Though it really didn’t matter, he supposed. Their eyes would meet, and Severin would know. And then he’d use all of the power at his disposal to send his enemy-lover away.

During this time, Severin sometimes saw bands of barbaric warriors crossing the plains. He kept his distance, but he doubted any of them were interested in either recruiting or killing a scrawny young man in a worn woolen cloak. Few he encountered ever suspected he had any great abilities, and Severin certainly didn’t go out of his way to advertise the fact that he could command the wind and sky when he wished. The barbaric companies had their eyes on more obviously lucrative targets, anyway. A handful of city states which spread across the great peninsula were openly at war with the barbaric tribes from the north.

It was when Severin was returning from his self-imposed isolation that he had his first real encounter with war. He held his sturdy walking stick in hand and carried a bursting bag of herbs, poultices, and leather-bound journals over his shoulder. Severin was so surprised by the sudden, brutal clash of metal and the primal cries that erupted nearby that he halted where he stood. His curiosity both outweighed and outlasted his fear, and after a minute or two of tense consideration, he pressed cautiously onward in the direction of the noise.

By the time he arrived, the battle was done.

It had surely been an ugly, bloody affair, if the splayed out bodies of the city soldiers and barbaric warriors were anything to judge it by. Holding a hand over his mouth, Severin gingerly navigated the carnage and valiantly resisted the impulse to be sick right there in the field. He was nearly on the other side of it when movement caught his eye. Squinting, almost afraid to look, he glanced from the corners of his eyes, sure that it was some grotesque remnant of warfare which awaited him.

Instead, it was a man.

Just a man.

The movement Severin had spotted was the rise and fall of his chest.

Only after turning a careful look around the terrible and silent battlefield did Severin approach the fallen man.

The barbarian’s eyes were closed and his pale brows drew together, as if reflecting pain. His face would probably have been handsome in a rough, simple sort of way if it weren’t smeared in dirt and blood. His light hair, braided and pulled away from his face, was bloodied as well, and Severin frowned at the sorry state of him. After a second wary look around, he knelt with a sigh.

The barbarian’s leather vest was cut, and his thick, scarred arms had earned several new slices as well. Severin, who had more than enough herbs and poultices on hand, reluctantly tore his only spare shirt into bandages. Within the hour the stranger was fully bandaged and muttering in fever addled sleep.

“Don’t worry,” Severin murmured, knotting the last makeshift bandage. “I’ve learned enough from the plants and trees to save you from both fever and infection.”

Behind closed lids, the barbarian’s eyes flitted anxiously to and fro and he mumbled something that sounded like no. Nose wrinkling, Severin leaned in. He heard the sleeping barbarian say, his voice low and cracking, “The curses will take me.”

Severin frowned down at him, unimpressed. “No they won’t,” he snapped, and yanked the bandage tighter.

The barbarian silenced then, and Severin stared at him a moment longer, pursing his lips in consternation. It wasn’t that he minded using his supplies to heal a stranger. But a part of him worried that healing a warrior made Severin responsible for whatever slaughter he resumed when he rose.

Severin abhorred warfare. It was such a terrible waste. But he supposed there was no helping what he’d already done. The barbarian was already on his way to recovery, and Severin certainly wasn’t going to murder him in his sleep. He reached out, intending to test the temperature at the man’s temple, but no sooner had Severin’s fingers touched his overheated skin than the world bled around him. In its place: a vision.

Shock echoed through him, because he was not like the women in his family, able to see phantoms in time. He’d always simply played with the air. The vision dancing before his gaze, however, didn’t seem to care.

Like droplets of ink spreading in water, a prism of colors twisted, threading together into nearly tangible shapes. From the chaos, rose a blond child holding a knit sheep. He was ruddy cheeked and pouting up at his mother. Then ink and water swirled and the images collapsed and shifted. Hulking shadows loomed over the child. The mother wailed her grief. The formless ink shivered, morphing from one scene to the next, nearly too quickly to follow, and Severin was swallowed up in it, overrun and overwhelmed by violence, blood, and pain. Beneath his fingers, Severin felt the movement of shifting, slipping thread.

Just as abruptly as it had started, the vision ceased. Severin’s knees ached where they pressed against the dirt and the barbarian’s skin beneath his hand was no longer overheated. How long had he been within the vision’s grasp, he wondered?

As Severin shifted back, the barbarian groaned. Severin watched as the man’s eyelids fluttered - and at once, the air turned heavy, as if the wind had drawn and held an anticipatory breath.

Dread flooded Severin and he rushed to stand. The barbarian had not yet opened his eyes, and Severin knew with a terrible nameless certainty that he must not be here when this man awoke. Severin could still feel those elusive, unknowable threads beneath his fingers, and his hands shook as he rose. Awakened by his urgency, the wind roared, lending him speed as he fled the clearing.

By the time the barbarian cracked open a single, world weary eye, Severin was long gone, heart still safely beating in his chest.

Severin endeavored to forget about the barbarian. He convinced himself that the vision had been the hallucination of an overexerted body, and that the sensation of inexorably moving threads beneath his fingers was nothing more than a flight of fancy. Severin did not think about how the threads had felt - certain and unyielding - beneath his fragile, very mortal hands. If he did, he feared he might ask the wind to whisk him away from the world altogether, and that, surely, was no way to live.

In a deep, secret place, however, Severin suspected the reason he was granted such a vision was because the stranger’s thread was woven perilously close to his own. Because of this, he set upon an easterly road, endeavoring to put a healthy distance between himself and the pale barbarian.

After nearly a month of travel, he arrived in a small village which sat nestled in foothills, tucked beneath the shadows of great mountains which stood like sentinels above. Severin hadn’t intended to stay, but when it was discovered he had some skill with plants and medicine, the villagers eagerly led him to a hut some distance from the village. It was empty, they explained, and had been for some years. A healing woman had occupied it, some years back, before she’d passed on. The villagers had been saving it, hoping the space would be enough to entice a new healer to make their isolated village a home.

Severin had nowhere else to go, and he supposed a distant, mountain village was as good a place as any to avoid a blade to the heart.

Two years passed, and Severin settled into his little hut. He spent his mornings taking long walks around the surrounding lands, collecting herbs and specimens. Returning home, he’d throw open the windows to allow his friend the wind a brief but wild rampage through the hut. With the air freshened, Severin spread plants across his square dining table and sorted them into jars to be sealed, dried, or preserved in vinegar. His neighbors in the village visited frequently, just as often for his company as for his medicines, and Severin delighted in visiting the town on market days and making the streamers dance in the wind for the children. Evenings were spent in his rocking chair, with a book in his lap and his feet pressed near to the low fire in the hearth.

He was happy, and hardly thought of the barbarian he’d found bleeding in the dirt. That is, until fate caught up with him.

One day, when he was foraging for moss on the hillside behind his hut, Severin felt the whisper-soft touch of thread against his palm. He sat upright at once, and turning and craning his neck, he absently rubbed his palms against his robes.

A company marched into the village. From up on Severin’s hill, they appeared a swarm of ants overtaking the miniature thatched roof homes. The slipping, shivering feeling beneath Severin’s palm intensified, and he stood. His heart drummed a frantic beat against his ribs, and Severin felt with a terrible certainty that fate, like a hunting hound on the scent, had sniffed him out at last.

When Severin called out, begging the wind’s help, it rushed to him, howling atop the hill.

I am here. I am here.

Cradled in the gale, he begged the wind to take him and hide him away, so that the tapestry’s relentless threads might cease dragging him toward the one he never wished to meet.

So be it, the wind said. If that is truly what you wish, I will take you and hide you away forever.

In that moment, nearly caught as he was, Severin was willing to do anything to avoid meeting this man who would kill him - until the screams rose from the pastures in the valley beneath his hut. Severin’s heartbeat was in his throat, on his very tongue, as he held up a hand to stay the wind.

“Just a moment,” he murmured, and turned bright, pained eyes toward the village. The terrified screams of his neighbors pierced him as surely as any blade, and with a mournful twist of his fingers, he bade the wind disperse.

By the time he reached in the pastures, the shepherd, the blacksmith, and Helvia’s two sons lay dead. At the sight of his friend’s bodies, grief and rage stirred within Severin, and the wind, always nearby to him, trembled in sympathy. Gaze sweeping the warriors, he marked the five whose weapons were stained red. Severin was not violent by nature, but if he was to die this day, he resolved to remove from the earth at least these five men, who with bloodied blades, uncaringly spoke of feasting upon the village’s few precious sheep.

When the warriors turned and finally noticed Severin, he lifted his chin and prayed his voice did not betray his fear. “These are simple people. They have little in way of money or goods. It wasn’t for nothing that the shepherd, blacksmith, and teenagers died. They need these sheep. And I cannot allow you to take them.”

The men glanced at one another, eyes filling with a cruel sort of mirth. They laughed at him, and Severin steeled himself for what must come next. He was friends with the wind, but to call down the heavens was an entirely more serious matter. And he’d never done it. At least, not like this.

Severin turned his palms up and glared at the heavens, daring them to refuse him now when he needed them most.

For a long, terrible moment, nothing happened.

And then, the skies erupted.

He had never felt pure, visceral power in such a way, and as it whined and crackled, Severin, with splayed fingers, used all of his strength to tear the lightning from its home in the sky. It rained upon the warriors, screaming in wild, untamable fury. Severin watched the men cry out in agony, and he felt horror and satisfaction in equal measure.

When a single figure broke from the group, agile enough to evade the lightning and charge across the field, Severin could only look on in exhausted realization. It was the pale barbarian. The man from the battlefield. The child in the vision.

The barbarian charged like a beast, his thickly braided hair bouncing. His brows were drawn down in focus and his lips poised on the precipice of a snarl. It was with a hopeless sense of finality that Severin met the stranger’s gaze.

He met eyes of icy gray, the color of hazy, snow capped mountains in winter, and Severin knew, he knew with a certainty that was sunken into his bones and twisted in his marrow, that this barbarian was the shadow which had haunted him. And he knew, more than anything, the crude blade in the man’s scarred-knuckle hand was fate’s exclamation point at the end of Severin’s ephemeral existence.

Watching as the barbarian pivoted, drawing back his blade, Severin only wished he understood why the women in his family had persisted in calling this man Severin’s truest love. If this was love, the man had a spectacularly terrible way of showing it.

Time slowed to a crawl, and sunlight flashed, reflecting off the blade. As the jagged edge touched the fabric of Severin’s robe, the wind whispered at his ear. Let me show you a piece of the picture.

The wind around him froze, and so too did the world.

Look up, said the wind, a rustle within his ear.

Severin did.

The complexly woven image was shaped by currents in the air - all but invisible to any whose eyes are untrained to look for them. But Severin had a born understanding of the wind and sky, and when he looked up, he saw bits and pieces of an impossibly complex tapestry.

He saw scarred knuckles gently shaping wood. A small child that sat upon broad shoulders. Rocking chairs placed side by side before a glowing fire. Warm hands enveloping his own. Safety. Home.

It was...everything, and Severin’s heart ached with a strange and complex longing for a future that surely could never be.

It’s not impossible, the wind whispered. But the threads will have to tangle and untangle just perfectly so.

“How?” Severin asked, and wondered if he was a fool to feel so desperate a pull towards this life glimpsed in impressions and half images.

The warrior must weep and repent. And a curse must come to fruition.

“And if these things do not happen?”

Then your soul will fade from the earth.

Severin felt torn in two.

The blade has not yet struck your heart, the wind murmured, kind and conspiratorial. There is time still for me to secret you away. I could pull your thread from the tapestry altogether.

“But there would be no hope for that life,” Severin said with a last wistful glance at the scattered mosaic above.

No, none, the wind agreed.

“Okay,” Severin whispered, “okay.” And it felt terrifyingly like surrender.

The wind stirred, and a breeze like a kiss tousled his dark hair.

The blade struck.

It was an intense pressure and then swift, vibrantly blooming pain. Severin wavered on his feet, and looked up. For the second time, he met the warrior’s gaze. And Severin saw and understood that there was no malice in those wintry eyes. Not even frustration or anger. But, instead, an exhaustion deeper than Severin could conceive.

When Severin toppled backward, it was concerning to realize he could no longer feel the grass beneath his body. The man knelt down, and Severin blinked tiredly up at him.

It seemed as though the man were waiting for something. Severin’s slipping mind struggled to think of what - until he recalled the dying woman and her talk of curses. And hadn’t the barbarian said something about curses when he was fever addled and hurt? What had the wind said? Severin was struggling to remember. As his life trickled away in red rivulets which stained the grass and soil, he thought of the boy in the vision - lost and afraid. And he thought of the man he’d become, kneeling stonily over him.

And Severin knew exactly which words should be his last.

Swallowing, he mustered the strength to whisper, “-my hut…it’s just past…the next hill over. In it, I keep medicines and herbs. For the villagers. And travelers who pass.”

For the barbarian would have to stay if he were ever to show remorse. He couldn’t very well continue going about fighting and murdering his way across the peninsula. Which brought Severin to his final words. It took all of his remaining strength to lift his hand. When he reached out, the barbarian startled, as though he expected more lightning to spring forth from Severin’s fingers. But Severin merely tapped his chest and smiled. “May you live a life of safety and peace.”

It was a fitting curse, he thought, feeling particularly clever. And there, on the field, surrounded by sheep, Severin’s heart stuttered and stopped.

It was an abrupt, slipping sensation, like losing your footing on iced over earth. Raw existence rushed around Severin, and he was battered and blown about, like a banner torn loose in the storm. This continued for a dizzying moment, or perhaps a dizzying eternity - Severin really had no way of knowing which. But it stopped when a familiar presence surged around him, blowing and blustering until the wild chaos of existence was forced to let him be.

The wind could not protect him forever, Severin knew, and so he focused his energies until, like a wind sprite, he swirled about the hillside. Below him, he saw the barbarian, his great head bent. Severin, as incorporeal as a breeze, could not resist blustering over the barbarian’s shoulder and observing himself, limp and pitiful in death. Whipping around, he beheld the barbarian - because surely this sight would bring him at least to the verge of tears.

The barbarian frowned down at Severin’s body and rubbed a scarred hand over the patches of stubble on his chin. And then he rose with a great sigh and set off down the hillside, away from Severin and the village.

Severin, who was nothing more than wind and spirit, watched him and despaired. He could do nothing more than whip and howl through the hills as his murderer left him without a backward glance.

Months passed.

Severin did not follow after the barbarian. What good would it do? In this form, it wasn’t as though Severin could speak to him. And if he was doomed to fade and dissolve from existence, he would much rather do so here in the hills he loved than in some strange land trailing after an even stranger man. The wind kept him company, at least, and Severin spent his days whistling through the black, porous stones at the base of the mountains and blowing bits of dandelions across wild tufts of grass.

One day, long after Severin had begun to feel more spread out and thin than was entirely comfortable, the wind rushed to him, carrying with it the scent of dust and dirt and faraway lands.

The barbarian had returned.

Severin was an icy breeze that whipped around the edges of town, and he watched with cool distrust as the man trudged through the streets. His shoulders were slumped and his blond head was turned down. He looked utterly defeated, and any sympathy Severin might have felt was eclipsed by petty spite. He didn’t hold any of the pettiness against himself, though. He was dead, and therefore felt he’d earned at least a little pettiness.

When the barbarian crossed the field, stopping to stand before the place where Severin had fallen, Severin swirled around him, newly curious. The man didn’t look grief stricken, but his face was difficult to read. There were dark shadows beneath his eyes and lines of exhaustion around his mouth. Mostly, Severin thought he just looked tired.

When the man approached Severin’s home after having ignored the invitation for months, Severin had a second moment of pettiness and whipped the wind up on the other side of the door, sealing it closed as the barbarian tried to open it. Only when the man shoved it with his great, muscled shoulder did Severin retreat, allowing the door to swing open.

It was with a strange sort of melancholy that he watched the barbarian’s silver gaze sweep over the room. The man looked first at the damp, unkempt hearth before slowly making his way across the room. He glanced from Severin’s well-loved walking stick to the bookshelf built into the wall. He fumblingly ran the backs of his fingers along the spines of the books, as if he was unlearned in the ways of a gentle touch.

Severin was still very much put out about the whole being dead business, but as he watched the barbarian’s almost reverent inspection, he unthinkingly twisted the air in the room, drawing out the cold and pulling in a bit of sun warmed breeze.

By the second day, the man was sitting in Severin’s chair. Severin stewed, swatting at floating dust by the window as his killer rocked to and fro in Severin’s favorite seat. Later, the barbarian stood, stretching his strong arms overhead and twisted his back experimentally. Brows lifting in pleasant surprise, he gave the chair an appreciative pat.

By the third day, Severin had no more dust to swat about. The barbarian had rolled up his ragged sleeves and set about scrubbing every inch of Severin’s little hut. When the hulking man worked open the stiff windows, the wind rushed in, delighting in whipping about the space once more.

He’s done a better job of cleaning than you ever did, the wind sang, slipping once more outside.

He was dead and that meant the wind had to be nice, and Severin told it as much. It’s reply was a soft rustling of chimes that hung from the house’s eaves, and the sound was almost like laughter.

Days passed, and the man began reading Severin’s books. This was probably the most surprising development yet, in Severin’s opinion. It wasn’t that he hadn’t thought the large, scarred warrior capable of reading, just - well, he hadn’t thought the large, scarred warrior capable of reading particularly well. But the man seemed to be doing just fine, and sat in Severin’s rocking chair, putting a far greater strain on the sturdy wood than Severin ever had, as he thumbed carefully through the book’s smooth pages.

When little Mykela took ill, Severin knew it well before anyone else. He’d taken a spin through town and as he rode the wintry wind past where she played in the yard, he’d felt the rattle of air in her lungs. But at this point, Severin was little more than a memory on the breeze, and though his worry was agony, he could do absolutely nothing. He spent the rest of the day roaring about the mountain peaks, sending snow flurries spilling down the far side of the cliffs.

Two days later, Severin was idly observing the barbarian, watching the crease between his brows twitch as he slept, when a great pounding broke out against the door. The barbarian rose at once, and Severin watched him cast a brief glance at the walking stick before turning instead to the candle on a nearby shelf. With warm light cupped in his palm, the barbarian approached the door.

When Dormund, Mykela’s father, entered the hut, carrying a limp mound of blankets, Severin felt a spike of icy terror. As the barbarian poked and prodded the fire, Severin carefully stirred the wind to better feed the flames. Severin would have shouted instructions, had he lungs to shout, but the barbarian already had two jars in hand. He held them up, looking a little lost, before he hurried to the bookshelf and selected a thick book. Muttering under his breath, he flipped hurriedly through pages until he found what he was looking for. And then he was kneeling before the pot of water he’d set over the fire, and Severin watched as he scooped careful measurements of Severin’s dried herbs into the roiling water.

Mykela was saved, and as the barbarian sent the girl and her father off with a bag of herbs, it occurred to Severin that he wished to know the barbarian’s name. He wouldn’t learn it until two days later, when Old Cara arrived at the hut, seeking the barbarian’s help for her arthritic knee. After supplying her with the appropriate poultice, the barbarian helped her to the door, and looking up, she patted his shoulder and asked him his name.

Eindred, was his answer.

Eindred.

Severin wished he had lips to test the shape of the name.

Months passed, and was easier now to watch Eindred move about Severin’s hut. In fact, Severin had even begun to enjoy riding the soft breeze from the windows as it wafted around Eindred’s shoulders, curiously observing whatever small thing he happened to, at any given time, be doing with his hands. One day, Severin was surprised to find Eindred’s hands at work, deliberately whittling the curved back of a rocking chair. When the chair was done, Eindred set it carefully, almost reverently beside the first. At the sight, Severin had a bright, nearly overwhelming flash of recognition, and he thought of the image the wind had shown him - of the rocking chairs before a warm, crackling fire.

Severin was fading, he could feel it. To hope was to court a greater disappointment than Severin could rightly comprehend, and yet - he watched Eindred set out with Severin’s walking stick to join the festival, and saw when Mykela took his hand. The barbarian’s stony expression softened, then melted as the girl tugged him after her.

It was the strangest of sensations, because while Severin didn’t strictly have a heart these days, watching the great Eindred meekly follow little Mykela made something in Severin’s incorporeal being ache with unexpected warmth.

Whatsmore, Eindred had been reading Severin’s journals and he would sometimes stop and stare about the hut, as if trying to picture the ghost of Severin’s life there. Once, Eindred draped a thick blanket over the back of one of the rocking chairs and ran his rough hands over it as he frowned contemplatively into the fire.

Summer had come and gone and Severin feared that parts of his soul had already begun to slip into that other-place. And so, with a tender sort of weariness, he drifted on the sunbeams cutting through the clean window glass, and watched with only mild annoyance as Eindred carefully tore a blank page from one of Severin’s journals.

Lips pressing together in focus, Eindred wrote in with small, precise letters, what appeared to be a list.

Confused, Severin drifted closer.

May your every loved one die screaming in pain.

I hope you die with your eyes stabbed out and your heart in your hands.

You will never know happiness.

Your existence will be suffering.

It was a list of curses, Severin realized. Morbid curses, by the looks of it. The last two, however, caught his attention.

May your greatest enemy rise from the grave and never leave you alone.

And,

May you live a life of safety and peace.

And Severin understood.

When Eindred set out from the hut, looking drawn but resolved, Severin began at once to gather his energy. It had been nearly a year since his death, and he feared that there might not be enough of him left to make a return. The second to last curse would help things along, but Severin knew it would be a mistake to rely on it.

And so, as Eindred entered the village, Severin stretched upward and out, calling wind and storm clouds with reckless, hopeful abandon. For his entire life, Severin had lived, certain in the knowledge that love and happiness were not meant for one such as he. How could they be? When a blade was foretold to make a home in his heart?

But Eindred had changed. And the patchwork pieces of tapestry were there, a life Severin had never dared to dream of, right there - if he could only summon the strength to reach out and grasp it.

Below, Eindred bowed his head before the townsfolk, confessing his part in the tragedy which played out on their soil. Above, Severin swallowed the skies and became the storm.

Severin felt it, distantly below, when the people in the village forgave Eindred. And he felt when Eindred’s bittersweet tears tickled the earth. He felt Eindred return to the hut, and then after pacing restlessly about, return at last to the pastures where it had all begun.

And then came Eindred’s pained voice, calling out from the fields below. “Severin!”

Eindred had never said his name before, and Severin, who was the clouds and the wind and the rain and the sky, rumbled his joy at the sound of it.

“It was my hand which ended your life,” Eindred continued. His deep voice was shaking. “And with your dying breath you gifted what I thought was a nightmare. Did you know that it would turn out to be a dream? I think you did.”

Just wait, Severin wanted to tell him, because he’d seen a future better still. The only question that remained was whether he had strength enough to reach it.

Rugged face upturned, Eindred called to Severin and the sky, which were one and the same. “Though it’s a dream, I’ll never know peace. How can I? When I live in the home of the one I so coldly murdered? I would leave, but the villagers have my heart - as they had yours. In this state, I don’t think I’ll ever truly know true rest or true peace - despite the great power of your curse.”

You will, Severin said, and lightning streaked across the sky. I will.

“Even now,” Eindred said, through wind and rain, “I’m not sure if you are my greatest enemy or ally.”

There it was.

His greatest enemy.

Severin, with every ounce of power he possessed, claimed the title. For he was the greatest enemy the old Eindred, warrior and killer, had faced. With his parting curse, Severin had forced the old Eindred to do the one thing he’d feared most of all: to live and face all he’d done.

Severin felt a rushing, coursing energy thrumming within and without and he knew that he must catch it and hold it, though he wasn’t sure how.

The tapestry threads, the wind whispered. Severin had spread so thin, his old friend was nearly a part of him now.

Severin listened, and felt for that thread which had teased and tickled his palm. And when he was sure he felt it, he wrapped himself around it and pulled. The sky around him screamed as he dragged himself forward toward something - something -

White light was all around him, and then it wasn’t. The air was cool and damp, and the evening sang with the wind’s gleeful gusts and the soft patter of rain on grass. Severin lifted a hand, and looked it over in tentatively blooming relief. Pressing the hand over his heart which beat with a strong, steady rhythm, Severin breathed a relieved, ragged sigh.

Eindred stood in the field, turned away from him. Drawing in a breath, Severin delighted in the sound of his own voice. “May your greatest enemy rise from the grave, Eindred, and never leave you alone.” He smiled as he spoke, and very nearly pressed his fingers to his lips to feel the shape they took when saying Eindred’s name.

Eindred turned. “So you are my greatest enemy then?” He sounded wary.

“I don’t think it’s so simple as that. Do you?”

Eindred’s expression shifted and he shook his head. When he next spoke, it was soft and fumbling, as if he still hadn’t fully adjusted to a world which was kind. “I made a chair,” he blurted out. “A few actually,” he added, rubbing a hand over the back of his head.

Severin wanted to say, I know. I saw. But that would require more explanation than he cared to give at the moment, so instead, he replied, “Do I get the new rocking chair or my old one?”

“Any,” Eindred stammered, “Either. Both?” He looked at Severin, and the earnest weight of his gaze held the promise of all the chairs Severin could want and anything else Eindred could possibly make with his scarred hands.

The fondness that bubbled up within Severin was so abrupt and filled him so thoroughly that he wanted to laugh with it. “Lucky for you, I only need one chair. You can keep the old one if you like it. I trust your craftsmanship.”

Severin turned then, because it was cold and every part of him felt so entirely bright and buoyant that he thought he might die if he didn’t move. However, when he realized Eindred was not following, he stopped. “Well? Are you coming?”

Eindred looked up, as if he’d been startled. “Where?” he called.

Standing there, sodden in the field, Eindred looked after Severin, as if he was afraid to hope - as Severin once had been afraid to do. And it occurred to Severin that Eindred would need to hear it said aloud.

“Home, of course. Where else?”

“Home,” Eindred repeated, as if confirming it to himself.

And when Severin turned again towards home, Eindred followed.

By the time they reached the hut, both were shivering from the cold, and as they crossed the threshold into the warm space, Severin swayed on his feet. He’d almost forgotten the immense power he’d used, and now the harsh ringing in his ears was a stark reminder. Warm, rough hands steadied him and when Severin tilted his head up, he saw that Eindred wore an expression of poorly concealed terror.

“I’m not going to die all over again,” Severin assured him. “I just used a lot of magic.” As he said it, he swayed once more, this time falling forward.

Eindred caught Severin again, one arm wrapped around his back and his other hand braced against his chest. Beneath where Eindred’s palm pressed, Severin’s heart thrummed. And Severin watched, curious, as Eindred’s expression twisted. He no longer claimed the title of warrior, Severin knew, but it was nonetheless with a warrior’s gravity that Eindred met Severin’s gaze.

“These hands will never again harm you. I swear it.”

“I know,” Severin replied, and pressed a hand over the back of Eindred’s rough knuckles. “Help me to a chair?”

Eindred did, and helped to remove Severin’s thick outer robe before Severin sank gratefully in front of the fire. Eindred left him a moment, and Severin closed his eyes.

He intended to just rest them for a second - maybe two, but when Severin next opened his eyes, the room was darker and he was draped and bundled in blankets, softer and thicker than any he recalled owning. The fire was still crackling, and the warm light made soothing shadows dance across the hut’s wooden floor. The other chair was occupied, Severin realized, and he watched as the hearth’s orange light played across Eindred’s sleeping features. Compared to Severin’s mountain of blankets, he had just one draped over his lap, though he didn’t seem cold. Nonetheless, Severin shifted a bit, and peeled a soft fleece blanket off his own pile to toss it onto him. The blanket fell short, and with a quick whispered word, the wind slipped under the door and flipped the offending blanket up onto Eindred’s chest.

“That’s better,” Severin said.

The wind played a little with the fire before tousling Severin’s hair and departing with a sibilant, save your strength foolish human. You’re still recovering, and slipped out the way it had come.

When Severin turned back to Eindred, he saw the large man was sitting up and his eyes were now open. Blinking, Eindred rubbed a hand over his face and then, stiffening in sudden shock, he whipped to look at Severin. Heaving a great sigh, he rocked back in the chair. “Still breathing,” he said.

“I don’t plan on stopping.”

Something almost like a smile twitched at Eindred’s lips and Severin was enchanted by it.

“You were dead and now you’re alive. Forgive me. I’m still trying to wrap my head around it.”

“You’re the one who believes in silly curses.”

Eindred’s brows rose. “Silly? Says the one who was brought back from the dead by one.”

Severin waved a dismissive hand. “The curse might have set the stage, but I was director, crew, and cast.”

And there was another smile, like a glimpse of sun between clouds. Severin was beginning to fear there might be no practical limit to the lengths he’d be willing to go to see another smile.

“I’ll take your word for it,” Eindred replied. “I get the feeling you know a great deal more about the world and magics than I.”

“Well Eindred,” Severin said, scooting his chair a little closer to both Eindred and the fire. “What do you know of grand tapestries?”

Eindred, looking more than a little lost, shook his head. “Nothing. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen one.”

“Well,” Severin said, and grinned. “What do you know of cheese?”

EDIT: A novel based on Eindred and the Witch and The Witch Who Spoke to the Wind is in progress! I will post news about it on my Tumblr and my Patreon as news becomes available :)

#my writing #original writing #my story #Eindred and the Witch #original story #fantasy #fantasy story #love story #eindred the warrior #severin the witch #writing #writeblr #short story #long short story #7000+ words #fantasy short story #amwriting #story

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poppy-metal · 4 years ago

Text

"The first time you hear Izuku moan your name, its with you hiding on the other side of his closet door, your hand clapped over your mouth in shock.”

A/N: im placing this before the sexual side of their relationship begins. A prelude of sorts, if you will.

Cw: voyeurism, smut, dekus secretly dirty mouth.

All things considered izuku’s room was...not as gross as you expected a staple college aged guys dorm room to be. It was cluttered but not disgusting, posters of comics and figurines and manga and some clothes strewn about, everything kind of frenzied and haphazard. It was so incredibly deku, a secret smile pulled at your lips, even though your reasons for being here were less than innocent

He’s wearing fucking pink. Because of course he is, of course izuku is humble and comfortable in his masculinity enough to pull off a bright pink t-shirt. It hugs his chest too, and you have to wonder if literally any of his clothes fit him and the tits he decided to grow in college. His image is so utterly imposing, his smile so bright, and laugh so airy, it sends butterflies flipping through your stomach at just the sight of him and that makes you want to vomit. Your lips curl in a sneer and you’re walking towards him and the group of friends he’s talking to as if on reflex.

Stupid, lovely deku. You knock your shoulder into his as you pass, hard enough that his books clatter and fall to the floor, scattering. And then those green eyes are on you, giving you his attention and your body feels alive, your blood cells buzzing under your skin even as he frowns. The dimples on his freckled face fall as he takes you in. Yes, you think, look at me, see me, want me.

Out loud you say. “Watch where you’re going, stupid deku” and you’re looking at him like he’s the dirt under your shoe. He’s not. He’s the center of your universe. Your world tilts around his axis. “Pink isn’t your fucking color by the way”. it is.

Izuku huffs. He’s past the point where he used to turn as red as a tomato and duck his head whenever you stood in front of him, but he’s still deku at the end of the day. An easy target. “If looking at me bothers you so much you could just ignore me.” He crouches down to pick up his things. His words make you itch, if you could ignore him, you wouldn’t fucking be here. Its because he exists too much, that you want to push him down so much.

You step your manicured foot onto his notebook right as he’s about to grab it. He tugs at it, you dont budge, and he looks up at you, exasperated. “Can i have my notebook, please?”

Why is he so fucking pretty? God, you want to throw up. You dig your heel in further, covering the flutter you feel in your chest with a practiced sneer. “I like the way you say please, deku.” You lean down a little, “Say ‘your highness’ and i’ll move”

It’s a thrill, seeing the way his jaw sets, his brow furrows, his eyes go annoyed. Sweet, sweet, friendly izuku. You’re the only one he looks at like this, like he wants to throttle you. But he won’t. You see his adams apple bob, his cheeks dust pink, even as he glares. “No”

You pause. It’s not the first time he’s gotten snippy with you, but the conviction behind it is new. You feel something in your stomach give a jump, your blood thrumming in your ears. You jerk your foot towards you, sliding his notebook out from his hands and standing completely on top of it with both your feet now. Your sticky lips, glossy and plump, spread into a mocking grin, “No? Do i need to slam you into some lockers and take you lunch money?” You feel a thousand feet tall, towering above him still kneeling, you on the high ground, looking down at him below you, where he can’t reach you. Can’t ever see the truth. “C’mon pansy, you’re already on your knees anyway”

But he isn’t anymore. He jerks to a stand, and now he’s taller than you, but you puff your chest out, not letting that affect you. It always affects you. Not that he knows or ever notices. Your eyes are widening when he steps forward so you’re practically nose to nose and chest to chest. “I don’t have time for you” he snaps, irritated. And then he’s stepping away as suddenly as he stepped up, the rest of his things gathered in his arms, he shakes his head at you, a tendril of that mossy mousey hair falling into his eyes. “I gotta get to class”

And then he’s gone, brushing by you, disengaging. You stand there, your breath stuck in your chest, not moving. ‘I dont have time for you’ over and over again rings through your head like a mantra. You step off his notebook robotically and kick it across the floor. It bangs against a wall and you feel your fists clench, nail beds digging into your palms harshly. ‘I dont have time for you’

You turn on your heel, away from the direction of your class, fury blinding you. Anger in place of humiliation, vindication in place of being humbled. You don’t know what crawled up his ass and made him think he was above you all the sudden, but you weren’t having it, not the fuck at all.

And that’s how you found yourself snooping through izukus dorm, with the intention of finding some kind of dirt, or something to hold over his stupid head. He didn’t have time for you? How dare he act like he was better than you, like he had things more important to do than to indulge you. You were still so mad you wanted to throw a tantrum, kick and scream and claw his eyes out. Straddle his stupid broad waist and shake him until all he saw was you, you, you.

You really hated him. Hated that because of him you were basically a bully because any attention from him was attention you thrived and lived under. Maybe if you weren’t so prideful, so disgusted by the weakness of your own gooey emotions for him, you would have tried to be the center of his attention in a nicer way, but as it was you were in too deep. This was the sick game you played, and losing wasn’t an option.

You hated how much that made you similar to bakugou in a way. You didn’t like that guy, and even weirdly so, you wanted to gouge his fucking eyes out for the way he treated and talked to izuku. Was it jealousy or possesivness that drove you to want to be the only one who could rile izuku? You wondered, sometimes, if bakugou felt the same way about you.

It was the loss of control, for you. Better yet, it was the way you liked the loss of that control. You had always prided yourself on being strong willed and a perfectionist. But whenever your eyes so much as grazed izukus, all your emotions went rattling around your stomach in sick twisted ways, giving you goosebumps, making you...nervous. It was a crush that had turned into an obsession, wasn’t it? And you wanted to make izuku suffer not only for invoking those messy feelings, but for not seeming to return them as well. If he couldn’t love you or want you romantically or sexually, you’d force yourself onto his radar and into his head until thinking about anyone else was impossible. Until you squirmed under his skin as much as he squirmed under yours.

Acting like you didnt exist was unacceptable. Obviously you’d slacked off on your taunts and actions, if he could just brush past you so easily, not taking your bait. You needed to even the playing field again, and by even you meant you needed to be towering above him again.

Towering over him so you dont have the time to think about how much you want to be under him, your mind whispers at you as you pick through his room, trying to find anything incripting. Someone like izuku would probably have something utterly embarrassing like a diary or some weird porn magazines, shameless, helpless guy that he was.

You huff as you open his drawer next to his bedside, nearly slamming it back shut in shock at what you see there.

You’re not stupid. You’re a healthy, young woman with an active sexual imagination and access to the world wide web, to porn.

Izuku has a fleshlight in his drawer. Izuku has a sexytoy. Izuku. And its green.

Izuku has a sex toy that he probably uses. That he probably sticks his cock into and moves-

An absurd laugh barks out of you, shocked and helpless. Because while in your head you knew izuku had to be some kind pervert, what other explanation was there for the way he blushed and darted his gaze around like a ping pong ball whenever you leaned forward and get caught a glimpse under your blouse, this is...unexpected. Imagining izuku in explicit scenarios, doing lewd things, it was something you didn’t allow your mind to wonder to often over. You didn’t like the way you got all squirmy and meek whenever you thought too long about izuku without clothes.

You feel kind of squirmy now, hot and uncomfortable as you shift around and try to gather your wits back about you. Revenge, that’s what you’re here for.

With a shaky exhale you turn away from his dresser, your thoughts flitting around your head like annoying gnats. What, who, does he think about when he…? What does he look like? What does his...c- You shake your head, slap your cheeks, trying to center yourself from the images floating around, flustering you and distracting you.

You’re in the middle of lifting the covers on his bed to peek under it, see if there’s anything there, when you hear the handle on his door jiggle. You freeze, every muscle in your body locked frozen like a deer in headlights as the knob twists, and then catches. Right. You’d picked the lock with one of your hair clips and then made sure to lock it again behind you just in case something like this happened. And by the, “Ugh” on the other side of the door, yep that’s definitely izuku. You’re shoved out of your shocked state, and bolting for his closet door as you hear the jingle of his keys twist in the lock, trying your best to close the door as quietly as possible behind you, it swishing shut barely a second before the door to his dorm opens and you hear him step in.

Class must have let out early or something, you think huffily, gently rearranging yourself into a comfortable position on a pile of his clothes as he shuffles around his room. You hear the thumb of him dropping his books, the shuffle of his feet, the clutter of him taking off his shoes and the squeak of his mattress as he plops down on it.

You tuck your knees to your chest and roll your eyes, picking at your leggings as you wonder how long you’ll have to hide before he goes to the bathroom or something so you can leave. It’s fucking stuffy in his closet already, the air hot. Your hand touches the soft fabric beneath you, realizing you’re sitting on one of his hoodies. Its too dark to see which one it is, but you imagine it as your favorite red one. Maybe you’d steal it as compensation for him making you sit and wait in his dumb closet while he probably stared at the ceiling with no thoughts in his dumb brain.

You hear him sigh, loud and dramatic, and then a muffled scream/groan into his pillow. Your lips twitch, he’s such a fucking drama queen.

Your little smile drops off your face when you hear the sound of his drawer opening.

Oh god. Oh no.

Your face feels like there are embers burning under it as you hear the unmistakable sound of clothes being shucked, a zipper and and then flop, and then….a slick wet sound and a sigh of relief.

Your eyes feel like they are bugging out of your head. Izuku is really about to fuck his fleshlight with you hiding in his closet with him none the wiser. You feel suddenly embarrassed and hot all over, hiding your face in your knees as you hear him let out a moan. A loud one.

You’re on fire, every part of you. You don’t think you can take this, don’t think you can sit through this and listen to this, think you should just burst out of his closet and use your bravado to somehow flip the situation and make him feel humiliated for getting off in the privacy of his own room, like he’s in the wrong even though you had violated so many boundaries for even being here right now.

You could do it too, you know. You’re good at twisting things, at powering through the complicated mess of flustered feelings izuku makes you feel and making it his fault, making him back down and cower. You could do it...you’re uncurling your legs and pushing your hands under you in the middle of getting up to do so when-

“Fuck. ___” Your name. You freeze, for an unholy, goldy second you think you’ve been caught, that he has acquired x-ray vision and has spotted you but no. His voice isn’t surprised or upset its...breathless, airy. He moaned it.

The first time you hear Izuku moan your name, its with you hiding on the other side of his closet door, your hand clapped over your mouth in shock.

Heat immediately shoots between your legs, your core throbbing unbidden in reflex to the sound, helpless to stop it, to have any other reaction. Your ass plops right back down. You turn slightly towards the door, pressing your side against it, your ear smooshed against the cool wood as you listen, as if drawn under a spell.

“You’re such…” You hear izuku pant, his voice deeper and more rough then you’ve ever heard it before. “A fucking brat”

Wet between your legs, seeping through your panties at his words, seemingly ripped out of him. God, he sounds pissed, wrecked. He cursed. You’ve never heard izuku curse before, never, even when you’d pushed him too far. Something really was different about today.

The slick sounds are more frequent now, steady and...and sounding like real sex you’d heard from porn before. Wet, sloppy, and slapping. Your knees knock together as you lean forward even more. There’s an invisible string pulling, tugging you forward, you want to see…

“Fucking slut” He grunts, and there’s a heavy slap, your breath catching in your fucking throat as you realize that...that must be the clap of his balls hitting the back of his fleshlight everytime he thrusts into it. “Always running your fucking mouth, looking down at me, so mean, you’re so fucking mean to me…uh..”

The sounds of sex fill the room and you can’t take it anymore, you’re burning, burning, burning, fuck the consequnces. You hesitantly and slowly turn the handle of the closet door, letting it slide open just a crack, enough for you to peek through, to get a glimpse.

His lean muscular back is the first thing you see, he’s facing directly away from his closet, thank god but oh god, that means you see..so much. The flex of his shoulder blades under his tan skin, the smattering of freckles over his shoulder, the long slender slope of his spine as it curves down his broad back, the dimbles at the bottom of his spine, flexing as he fucks his toy. His ass, because of course izuku would have a perfect round bubble butt. There are freckles there too.

Your eyes skate down, hungry to his large and heavy balls, low hanging and full, currently smacked right up against the base of the little pocket pussy he’s practically straddling on his bed.

It hits you again than, that deku is imagining that toy is you, he’s imagining fucking you in this position on his bed right now, imagining its your cunt hes pounding into, and your face he’s spitting those filthy words at.

Your hand is really moving without your permission when it slips under the band of your leggings into your panties, fingers immediately dipping between the slick folds of your pussy, silky and wet.

“-Wet” Izuku grunts, as you dip a finger just barely inside. “Fuck, i knew you’d be so fucking soft and good inside. Such a bratty girl would have a sweet cunt attached to her, huh?”

Fuck, where and when did izuku start speaking like this? His soft voice curling around such crude words is making you gush all over your fingers. You wish you could see the kind of face he was making when he said them.

“Yeah, you like taking my cock don’t you, baby?” He croons and if you close your eyes you can almost imagine he’s speaking directly into your ear, behind you. His thrusts get heavier, rougher, he lifts his leg up on the bed and you see a flash of the little green toy being fucked on his cock, big and angry looking. He’s being so brutal, hammering the thing down on his dick as he hips rut to meet every downward tug. “Milk it. Milk my fucking cock you whore. Wanna- fuck, wanna hear you say my name when you cum, want you to know who’s pouding that little pussy. The loser you fucking hate, yeah? Gonna cum for me?”

Yes, you whimper in your head in answer to him, your fingers curling deep, deep, inside, fucking yourself on them in earnest. He’s so big and you only caught a glimpse, but it was enough. Enough to know he’d fucking cleave you apart if he tried to fit that monster between his legs inside your tight little pussy. But you want it, god you fucking want it. You wanna feel him splitting you open, making you cream around him, making you beg for it. Making you bleed.

“One of these day” he says, his voice breathless but steady, even as it cracks. You know he’s close. “I’m gonna fucking snap. Im going to make you look me in the fucking eye and apologize for making me want you, and then im going to split that pussy open- fuck, im coming, fuck, fuck, fuck. Do you understand, b-bitch? Gonna fucking make you mine, yeah, take it, take your senpais cock you dirty fucking girl, ah!”

He slumps forward, hips humping into the toy and balls spasming as he pumps it full of his cum, shuddering deeply with little aborted whimpers. “Good girl, good girl” he pants, trailing off, giving one last little jerk of his hips before stilling.

You bite your lip so hard you draw blood to stop yourself from whimpering out loud. You pull your sticky fingers out of your cunt and shuffle back into the dark of the closet, curling in on yourself as izuku lays there, panting heavily for a few moments before moving.

You stay stock still as you hear him get up and shuffle around, his footsteps padding into the bathroom where you hear the door click softly shut. You spring up to your feet and don’t care if you make noise as you dart out of his room and into the hallway, sprinting like a bat out of hell as you make you way to the girls dorms.

You’ll think about how to reevaluate and recoup later. Right now you just really need to get to your bed so you can rut pathetically onto your own fingers and imagine izukus fat dick breaking you open. Never in a million years did you think he had those kinds of feelings for you, and you know it changes the whole game, is a whole other level of playing field where you now know he wants you on a physical level.

You feel powerless and lie you’re slipping again, don’t know how you’re going to point your finger at him and laugh when you know for every insult you throw his way, is another way hes fucking his toy at night, adding it as another thing to get you back for. If he ever snaps.

If. you want it to be a when, so bad, not an if.

You’ll make it a when. You’ll push him off the metaphorical cliff he’s teetering on to make it so.

#poppy speaks #my writing #deku smut #midoriya izuku x reader #izuku midoriya x reader #izuku midoriya smut #bully!reader #izuku smut #midoriya izuku smut

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