#or maybe an us vs them mentality
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I get that some tropes can feel tiring to read, especially when it's a common trope in a genre (or even multiple genres), but something isn't bad just because it uses the trope. And writers likely aren't using it because they think it's the most realistic outcome. More likely, there's a thematic reason, but yeah this can all depend on how well said trope is implemented, or if the writer even realizes thematic reasons behind using said trope (b/c I'm aware there are writers who only write something for the aesthetic or b/c it's popular atm).
#which trope am i talking about? pick one thereâs often a few being complained about on this site at any given time#the one that prompted this post tho#was one complaining how it's unrealistic that in an actual apocalypse humans would turn on each other#when#often in post-apocalyptic and dystopian (b/c there's usually overlap w these 2 genres) stories#the big theme is often commentary on society TODAY#something this kind of trope could be commenting on?#oh idk how about ultra individualism (anti-maskers are a good example)#or maybe an us vs them mentality#that's a very common thing dystopians (from what i remember when i used to read them) would comment on#(tho again how well the commentary got across varied book/series to book/series)#love triangles are also a common trope that gets harped upon but i'm tired and in pain rn so i'm going to rest#the curtains are blue
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uh huh yeah youre the special-est bean in the world. you Never did anything wrong. you totally arent a hypocrite. you're just so sad and everyone should bend to your whim or [they're whatever diagnosis will make them the problem, even if it contradicts everything you claim to believe with regard to the mental health system]. no one is capable of forgiveness grace or change unless they self-flagellate to every single person they meet about every wrongdoing they've ever done, So Help Them God. if their world doesnt revolve around you they are TOXIC. if they arent performing shame and self hatred ACCOUNTABLE for their behaviors you're so justified to call them out because you arent a predator who is using everyone like they are are one of the GOOD guys
#what it feels like reading these vague ass armchair psychology posts yall rb that moralize & pathologize every human behavior#wow didnt think i had to add this so fast but DO NOT ASK FOR CONTEXT ABOUT THIS?!?!?#this is (1) a vent. a complaint. my anger (2) not about one specific person or post but the phenomenon of Validity Culture#and how validity culture enmeshed with purity culture and has created a cesspool of âpositivityâ posts that moralize every single facet of#human existence and takes the worst possible lens every time#like maybe that person not answering is avoiding you! but maybe they're also just BUSY?!?!?#maybe that person who looked at you was hating - OR MAYBE THEY WERE JUST LOOKING?!?!?#fucking us vs them mentality where the Us is morally pure (however thats defined in this post) and the Them is Bad Guys Intentionally Acting#In Bad Faith. and there is a GIANT difference between âits okay if these behaviors hurt you#and âpeople who do these things that others have done to hurt you in the past are Bad Peopleâ#and if you cannot tell the difference between those two statements PLEASE STOP FUCKING MAKING THESE TYPES OF POSTS
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Honestly i really do know im being annoying with this but the logistics of swapping out Avon and Raistlin and watching what theh do is the greatest form of Playing With Dolls I've ever ever had. Its a serotonin treadmill. You've heard of watching a brilliant, dark tortured genius asshole slowly create his own downfall what about landing in the middle of such a slipperyslope and starting to turn it into an entirely different one. AND THERE'S PVP ALLOWED, one of my main options rn is Avon-as-Raistlin starts planning how to re-open the connection and either undo this or pass some more things between the worlds- and Raistlin-as-Avon is like FINDERS KEEPERS BITCH. Paying It (The Lichdom Curse) Forewards, im staying in your life and im winning at it, fuck off. And Avon's like, ex-fucking-scuse me?
#what if. in this route avon is repoening the connection through magic raist-as-avon is gonna start regaining the capscity for magic too.#and it can be a Metaphysical Wizard Duel AND like an emotional climax whhen their parties catch up#and like. avon coming back for his friends carried on a storm. the fact that despite dverything he would fight for it-#even if hes doing it for an Incredibly Specific Way he wants to benefit power from merging both worlds that STILL a level of#coming back for his friends and lives and such yknow. its gonna affect them.#and raistlin possibly seeing caramon again-#i dont think avon would be as desperate to strike out on his own thats a raist psychological thing-#and maybe trying to appeal through the barrier like. hey! if you want what's good for me. GET HIS ASS. I want to stay here!#and that classic kind of tension between them. caramon wanrs his brother back and raistlin thinking of it as caramon wanting him Weak#and Dependant on his protection. the whole aspect of like body and strength swap is very. interesting and a bit#yuck politically but thats part of the fun. this isnt a cure narrative this is game of thrines musical chairs over resources-#the bodies the magic the many differences in Circumstances that seperate the two wars-#not just genre but straight up strategical details. the privileges of space age comforts vs having an almost even chance at victory. etc et#YOU SEE ME. IM HAVING FUNNNNN#THIS IS SO FUN. IT SHOULD BE A NOVELLA LENGTH ZINE FROM THE 90S UNFORTUNATELY ITS JUST ME IN MY HEAD. BUT#cally can probably sense something is wrong from the start. mentally....#the grudging respect raist would have for blake vs unlike avon he is entirely capable of backstabbing the hell out of them all.#avon would find the Expanded DL Party loud and weirdly social and annoying and pass off as raist through that easily#but also just. as i said i think he's way less likely to actually Act to further only himself like raist would#especially as Not Native to this setting like. no use aloanating possible resources. hes just gonna steer them All As A Group towards#paths of survival and advantage in the war that are Also to his personal magic based benefits i think#im having FUN#yknow what i might make this my Pinned. im Going Through A Moment.#dragons of the sad embezzler
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[Start ID. A drawing of two scavengers from Rain World, one labelled Sanic and the other one Shrek. Sanic's fur is light brown, with darker extremities, a messy row of pale green spines down its back, and bright blue eyes. They sit contentedly, staring at the screen, with a couple grenades by its feet. Shrek has pale fur, a green head, hands, and feet, and brown eyes. It's facing to the right, with their arms splayed out and an explosive spear on their back. Beside each scavenger are a few woefully-compressed screencaps of their in-game appearance. End ID]
An ode to these silly beasts, who accompanied me on my second visits to Industrial and Chimney
#peridots-art#rain world#scavenger rain world#...usually only draw set characters of games and not. creatures. so that's new for me#absolutely love specbioing these guys though!! buggifying them scratches the right itch in my brain especially when they could reasonably#be buggy in canon!!#bugs#clarification on the ''shrek is maybe two guys'' thing ahead. first we'll argue for One Guy#1. both found in the same region at the same time 2. remarkably similar coloring and mannerisms (seemed to be the pack leader)#and now evidence supporting the two different guys theory:#1. travelled with a different pack of scavengers the second time vs when i found it 2. second time had slightly duller colors and noticably#longer horns (without the little gradient at the end)#so now you see why i didn't notice anything wrong until after reviewing the screenshots. BUT!!! secret third option!!!#the first one with the short horns was found first when i was using the entrance-to-industrial shelter#and the one i mostly relied on for reference was near the higher shelter. shrek numero dos. the canon shrek.#but i have a screenshot of shrek 1 in the place shrek 2 was found. hanging out with one of shrek 2's pack members no less.#conclusion: ???#ok now that that's ''settled''. don't let this all distract you from the fact that the simple act of SWITCHING TO THE SHADING LAYER#got me out of a four-month-long mental rut. i can't say that it was depression nor that i know anything about depression in the first place#but even if it wasn't very serious? it Sucked. even if it was just a nagging thought at the back of my mind my life was duller somehow#i started to feel a little unmotivated. lonely. anxious. like the days blend together. the things i liked weren't bringing as much joy#and all of that got worse recently. the main reason i haven't posted any art for like a month? art stopped being fun.#which is a TERRIBLE thing for someone like me who loves to draw so so much. so when everything that's been building up over the past months#just vanished completely? without warning? you better believe i teared up over a doodle of a scavenger for making me feel right again.#i'm overjoyed to be free of it. i'm hopeful again! i love myself again! i can fall in love with the world all over again!!!#i have no idea how this happened. but i have motivation and determination and i feel like i can change my life for the better now. if i try#maybe this was my normal but it's the striking opposite of what I've been feeling--i'm finally proud of my accomplishments! and of myself!!#which was something i couldn't say in earnest even before december.#and reader? i call you tag-wanderer for i have no way of knowing who you are. maybe a treasured mutual or maybe a stranger. but i love you.#and i hope you make your way out.
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I need to go to bed Iâm just gonna shout a lil
#ice hockey needs to chill the fuck out#I had such a good night tonight!! was ssosososossososososo happy#but afterwards people started shouting in the group chat#and they all have very valid reasons for being angry but my god the us vs them mentality is STRONG#I am concerned abt how much people want to escalate things and how quickly theyâre moving to do that#I am aware I am a doormat and a people pleaser or whatever but#I mean for one this is a tense political situation and we donât wanna burn bridges#(there is no real politics i am being dramatic to be clear)#two clubs. alike in dignity. in fair Verona where we lay our scene#and I am personally managing at least 4 fragile egos that are all highly volatile#as well as an internal divide thatâs threatening to cause problems very soon#I also should not be part of this anymore! and yet.#also why are specifically men who play team sports so dramatic when you get them all together#like thatâs a whole shitstorm that is so easy to set off#anyway with my club I canât blame the committee for being dramatic (different way to what I just said theyâre not the same people)#bc I sure as fuck was overdramatic which fed into other people ramping up BUT that normally snapped me the fuck out of it#so I tempered the worst of it yknow. but I donât think this new committee has that#/is not willing to listen to the person who would play that role#anyway if people donât play nice itâs going to start some actual shit which will be deeply unpleasant for everyone#particularly the people who are in both clubs and do not deserve this bc theyâll be getting it from both sides and theyve done nothing wrong#anyway! bedtime now <3 Iâm just frustrated bc the person who maybe wouldâve calmed everyone down is out of commission#and I should not and am not willing to have the power to tell people to stop even though I probably still could#itâs whatever. sleep#luke.txt
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Is this about [war happening right now that people (wrongfully) call a genocide], or maybe [LGBT political issues], or perhaps [racial tensions blown out of proportion], or maybe even [right wing vs left wing of whichever country you're reading this in], or dare I say [religion you have unfounded beef with that haven't outgrown]
No you don't get it, I'm a Good Person. You don't understand. I'm a Good Person which makes it okay for me to think violently about the Enemy, who is Bad Person. I'm commenting "you should be violently murdered" because I'm Good Person and you're Bad Person. You think saying that to someone is fucked up?? You should be violently murdered, you're probably Bad Person anyway
#the us vs them mentality is an annoying beast#maybe if people bothered doing good rather than having the label of good we wouldn't be in this situation#oh well#such is life
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saw a post on here tht was a radfem comic abt how women are often "put in charge of men" which, yes, that is a very prominent and easy to find problem in the world, but the first panel was literally just a crying boy being punished for being disruptive and his punishment was to be sat next to a quiet and unobtrusive girl who then had a devil on her shoulder saying "you're in charge of him now" and let me tell you as a person who is both autistic and traumatized by my early teachers intentionally singling me out and causing worse meltdowns until crying caused actual immediate full fucking shaking panic attacks I feel there might be a bit of untested ableism in that panel. idk
#like yeah maybe I'm reading too much into it#but I feel like it highlights how fucking obviously they have an us vs them mentality#even when the situation is clearly much worse for the other person you decide this is the worst thing to ever happen to you#being next to a person in distress. the comic made a point to have the girl be obviously cringing and upset at the boy. for crying.#fuck off.#the other points were fine just your average fucking rattle which yes#those were genuine feminist concerns#but that one felt like hitting a really old spike back into my god damn brain with a mallet
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I sometimes wonder if a lot of people on the left just don't let themselves be consciously aware that yes, the people who back authoritarianism, fascism, and generally n*zi bullcrap will be voting. On all levels, local to national. All the time.
Because like, people who aren't authoritarian in leaning will argue. Will point out that there's cons and be depressed sometimes easily that there is no perfect candidate.
But- the very point of being an authoritarian is that once they choose their authority, they do what they are told.
They are told to vote by one politician they decided is on their side to vote for another one and will do it without many, if any, questions.
They're told to vote (illegally if it's during a service) by their pastor, by their boss, by their parents, by their spouse, by someone in authority over them that they have accepted as the authority, and they'll go out and do it.
Some of them can snap out of it if it really goes too much against some spark inside, but the whole thing of their wanting a simplistic us vs them world view where they can just sit back and do what they're told and feel better, comfortable, or even superior for doing it means that they'll go do as they're told and then feel good and superior about doing it.
This is how they've long-gamed the GOP to where it is today, that's what is meant when people say "the Republicans just go out and vote". They do that! And they vote without putting any thought into it, without stressing much about imperfections.
Non authoritarians/non-fascists are more likely to give up, or argue against candidates, or just be contrarian, and thus might rather shoot themselves in the foot when it comes time to just doing what is a civic duty to try and prevent the rise of what the other side will always, always turn out in their full numbers to back.
Even if they live in an area where theoretically they would be outvoted 20 to 2, they will show up 'defiantly' and cast their votes for the person they have been told by someone they have decided to trust told them to vote for. Even if they don't know a damn thing about the candidate other than two talking points from a campaign ad or that were talked about at the church social.
This doesn't make any voting at all useless, it doesn't make anyone who votes sheep. It makes voting absolutely required by anyone opposing them. Not 'instead' of community action and protests and letters or whatever the fuck else, but along with.
It means as long as there are any elections, yes, to avoid fascists winning elections 'fairly' (not gonna get into gerrymandering here,) people have got to show up and vote against them, because the fascist voters aren't going to take a mental health day or write in a joke or go third party. Some person whose authority clicked a little circuit in their brain on, who maybe got them riled up about <one thing> told them to vote for <whoever> and they are going to vote for <whoever>, regardless of whatever <other things> are out there being ignored as less consequential.
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I shifted and manifested with your Morphics challenge !!!!!
I am sharing this on an alternate account because I donât feel comfortable posting on my main account. I want to continue using my main account so, I hope thatâs okay.
Iâve been in the LOA community for a while and have consumed every piece of information. You know how it is.. I had a Reddit and TikTok shifting account and was literally helping people shift with my advice. But aside from maybe slightly hearing or seeing my DR, I had never succeeded, and even that was years ago.
Iâve gotten lazier yet more somehow ambitious since 2020 when I first started this journey, which is insane because you know how when you first find out about shifting, you have a lot of symptoms and almost do it, but then months and years pass, and youâre more desperate yet doing the same useless things. It was like that. I was enlightened; I could spew every method to you backwards, studied many years from teachers like Neville Goddard, Joseph Murphy, Florence Scovel Shinn, Wayne Dyer, Earl Nightingale, Louise Hay, Esther Hicks (Abraham-Hicks), Albert Einstein, Thomas Edison, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Wallace D. Wattles, Rhonda Byrneâokay, everyone and their teachers. I also spent so much money on paid subliminals, meditations, teacher personal subscriptions, witch spells, lucid dreaming supplements, etc., but there are some things money canât buy, so really, donât waste your money lol.
Iâm not here to be wise and do nothing with that wisdom, so I realized maybe instead of trying to do everything so mighty and intricate and be pretentious in my intelligence, let me try something so simple I would be shocked if it worked. Then I came across a post that was like, "Everyone is going to shift in September," and I almost cried because I have been trying for almost 5 years. Iâve given everything, and I was starting to think LOA is a cult because, letâs be real, it checks off all the things of a cult:
1. Charismatic Leaders: Many LOA teachings are popularized by charismatic figures who attract devoted followings, similar to leaders in cults.
2. Promised Benefits: LOA often promises significant personal benefits, like wealth and happiness, which can be enticing and lead to strong adherence.
3. Community and Belonging: Followers of LOA often form tight-knit communities, sharing experiences and supporting each other, which can resemble the communal aspect of cults.
4. Us vs. Them Mentality: Some LOA teachings might create a divide between "believers" and "non-believers," fostering an exclusive mindset.
5. Simplistic Solutions: The idea that simply thinking positively can solve complex life issues might be seen as an oversimplification, similar to some cult ideologies.
Itâs almost religious, but most people are religious, and you know what? Without faith in something, people might have probably just (TW) killed themselves. Everyone has some kind of cult behaviorâreligious, politics, loyalty to family who donât love or respect them. At this point, if it was a cult, I guess I was okay with that. Hopefully, the belief would at least give some sort of false comfort. Because having awareness and enlightenment and still suffering is even worse. Ignorance is bliss, as they say.
Then I came across your challenge, and tbh I had tried every subliminal, meditation, binaural beat, etc., so at first, I thought, how will this be any different? But then I saw the LOA Bella success story, and I just felt this was my calling because I had never related to a success story so much. I wanted to cry because it felt like a sign.
This isnât a very exciting or good story, but all I did was:
Morningâ¨https://youtu.be/gOpZAPo8VvU?si=FA2oxWQkR6l2KU_M
During the day (together)â¨https://youtu.be/67T-wX2iqfM?si=-f-TvsYyQ_D-od1Lâ¨https://youtu.be/xwaSBZFucGg?si=8-XLLROuoIypBSu0
Overnightâ¨https://youtu.be/uBHMmHbQwa0?si=h01rp0Ngdl7Xhv9C
Basically I had a lucid dream and woke up in my waiting room because I had used lucid dreams to get into the void state, but they were also fake voids, and it was annoying to think, "Wow, Iâm going to wake up with my dream life," and then fail. So I was taking no chances. I had a dream I was at work, and this lazy girl was being lazy as usual but an actual nuisance. We were outside, and I was like, "Wait, I donât work outside," and then I got too excited, so I started jumping around and did a backflip because I heard that helps stabilize the dream. Then I commanded my annoying coworker to take me to a portal, and she did. I envisioned my waiting room and set the intention that when I close my eyes and enter the portal, I would wake up in my WR. I walked through, and then I fell. I was scared to open my eyes, so I affirmed just in case as I fell, and I heard the beach waves, and I knew it was there.
I only did this for manifesting purposes because then I intended to shift back to the same reality but where I had my dream life and master shifting abilities and void ability.
Honestly, I was so depressed at that point I didnât particularly have any dreams or aspirations, so I didnât know what would make me happy, as sad as it sounds. But I just slid into my WR bed and set the intention because I knew anything is possible in my WR and fell asleep. When I woke up, I woke up in a brand new house with a brand new family in a beautiful room.
Now, like I said, I didnât have any intentions, so for the last few days, Iâve been having so many surprises and things happening that I now realize, of course, I would want this. I am just very happy, and I canât believe it was so easy after almost 4 years.
I donât have any stupid enlightenment advice that I would have thought I would have when I finally succeeded. As stupid and cult-like as it sounds, donât give upâsomething will click.
That's amazing! I'm so happy for you and your success :)) and I am even more happy that youâve found happiness when you donât even know what you wantedand that it worked out.
I had a very similar experience and what I took from this is to be open to experimenting with different methods because what might not work today could be the key tomorrow and it can seem random.
I wish you the best with your dream life and I hope you continue to find happiness in different ways
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The fact that so many of us grew up undiagnosed autistic and socially isolated to the point where we couldn't have a normal interaction with our average classmate, were forced into learning philosophical and psychological theory just to understand what the fuck was wrong with us, kept having our interests shamed by the mainstream and our natural form of existence being seen as a turn-off for almost everyone in our fucking lives, kept being told that we were being inappropriate and unacceptable because the rules of society were stupid, had our entire life fall apart because everything was harder than it was supposed to be, developed multiple mental health issues in the process and had to cling to the insights we gained about society from the outside and to the things we were passionate about as our only forms of stability and power, only to then be told that we're "not better than everyone else for liking different things" and "should stop trying to win over male approval", just because we also happened to live through all that as girls and God Forbid we let the self-importance of an isolated dysfunctional teenage girl without social support blow out of proportion, will probably continue making me angry for as long as this doesn't stop. And maybe a bit after that too.
What I need some of you to understand is that "haha other girls wear makeup and date guys while I listen to indie rock and have no love life" is not necessarily a takedown of wearing makeup and dating guys. Sometimes it's just attempting to joke around at how terrifyingly isolating it is to be the only one who is the latter and WOULD NOT BE ABLE TO MAKE YOURSELF ANY OTHER WAY EVEN IF YOU TRIED, while everyone in your life is the former, and seem to relegate you to the category of "unsociable weirdo". Do you really think that this causes people (and by people I mean TEENAGE GIRLS for fucks sake) to believe they're genuinely better than everyone around them? Do you think people who went through this and made "other girls vs me" memes on Facebook were the ones who left the "other girls" of the world with unresolved personal trauma from highschool? That the outcasts joking about being edgy and cool because they can't get along with anyone are the ones who made gender-conforming girls with mainstream interests and a friend group and a love life feel like they are lesser? Give me. A fucking. Break.
#not like other girls#feminism#autism#undiagnosed autistic#mental health#isolation#social isolation#the trauma caused by growing up as a social outcast#uniqueness
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Instead of yet another stupid apocalypse, you know what the final âbattleâ of Season 4 actually shouldâve been?
The Umbrellas (including Ben) vs. Reginald.
No Cleanse.
No Keepers.
No durango.
NO REGINALD REDEMPTION.
None of that nonsense.
We shouldâve had all of the Reginalds merge. So in the end, he remembers all the events of the previous seasons. Including the original timeline. He is the Reginald who raised and tormented and abused the Umbrellas.
The same shouldâve happened to Ben; the Umbrella and Sparrow versions merge, and he has the memories of both versions. He is the Ben they once lost.
We shouldâve learned the full extent of Reginaldâs alien powers. It shouldâve turned out that he is in fact a one-man army when he wants to be.
We shouldâve seen Reginaldâs plan backfire - the âtoolsâ that he created in a selfish plot to get his wife back rebel and take back their autonomy from him. All his years of child abuse come back to haunt him as he is given no choice but to acknowledge that the Umbrellas are actual people, that they have found the real meaning of love in each other and his efforts to control them have truly failed. That there is more to these people than his own selfishness. All of his teachings come back to haunt him as their powers are used against him.
We shouldâve had the siblings - plus Lila since sheâs part of the family and also hates the man who abused her beloved Diego - finally face off against Sir Reginald Hargreeves. Both a physical and verbal battle.
Luther uses his super strength. Diego uses his trajectory tricks. Allison uses her rumoring for mental torment. Klaus conjures ghosts as backup. Viktorâs energy blasts bring Reginaldâs worst fears to life. Fiveâs teleporting and time manipulation make their victory inevitable. Lilaâs mirroring only doubles the effects.
And, through teamwork, the family win the battle and kill Reginald. (In Guardians of the Galaxy-type fashion.)
Together, the traumatized children finally conquer their abuser together.
Maybe they kill Abigail too, or maybe she sides with them and expresses disapproval at the atrocities that Reginald committed because of her.
Maybe Reginald is holding Sloane prisoner on the moon in Abigailâs place, and the final battle also operates as her rescue.
But definitely, the climax needed to be a confrontation between Reginald and his âmarigoldâ children.
At least that wouldâve been an actual emotional payoff to the 3 seasons of buildup and character development.
#the umbrella academy s4#the umbrella academy#tua s4 rewrite#tua s4#tua#reginald hargreeves#luther hargreeves#diego hargreeves#allison hargreeves#klaus hargreeves#five hargreeves#ben hargreeves#viktor hargreeves#lila pitts#sloane hargreeves#sir reginald hargreeves#abigail hargreeves#tua s4 spoilers
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Crush series - Compatibility test : your kinks vs their kinks (18+)
Minors do not interact.
Group 1
For you my group 1 I intuitively channeled the song Alibi as I picked your picture on Pinterest. Maybe some of you have struggled with intimacy in the past and/or were surrounded by abusive people. You may have struggled with finding beauty in yourself, feeling cared for and valued, setting boundaries. If that is your case, first of all I am sorry that you had to go through all of this. Second of all, then this could be a confirmation you picked the right group.
Your kinks - The World, The Hierophant, The High Priestess
You like to be adored, to be put on a pedestal. In the ideal version of how your sexual life should be, you want to feel powerful and in control of what is going on in the bedroom. You would rather keep your sexual life private. So exhibitionism or sharing your intimate moments online are definitely out of the equation. You want to feel safe and nurtured. But most importantly you want to see in your person's eyes that not only are you important to them but you are their world. You want your partners to keep their eyes on you and treat you as a goddess. You want to be pampered, to be praised, to be venerated. You like to be courted. Your kinks involve being fully clothed or wearing expensive outfits and jewelry. Things that your partner would have provided for you. You likely want to be on top physically or feel like you are on top of things. You want your partner to answer your every request. You would definitely instore a safe word. Also, some of you may be reliigious. So you would want your partner to keep their distances until marriage/commitment. You want to be romanced, wined and dined. You want your partner to be respectful of your boundaries and also adaptable. You would best be compatible with someone that is open minded, that likes to explore new things in the bed room and shares your values and desires. You would want your partner to read you like a book. Some of you may enjoy travel sex, car sex.
Their kinks - 3 of swords, 9 of swords, The Emperor
I think it is safe to say that this person's priority wouldn't be their partner's pleasure. They don't like giving up control. They want to possess and to dominate. This person is into BDSM, fast and rough sex, mind games, dirty talking. They honestly enjoy torture. They would probably overstimulate their partner or keep going even if the person was exhausted and couldn't handle it anymore... They care about their own pleasure more than that of others. They are a taker. They are an abuser. I don't know how to put it any other way. They enjoy mental anguish. They would enjoy keeping people guessing, flirting through texts or phone calls. They are the type to take their partner by surprise or in their sleep. They litterally view their partner as a toy. Do I need to elaborate or you get the picture? I really don't like this person's energy. I can't think of any positive thing to say about their kinks.
Compatibility test result : 0%, this person would make you so unhappy and you deserve better than that.
Group 2
Since I had picked up intuitively on songs for the other two groups, I asked my guides to point me toward a song that could be relevant to you. Punching bag is a song that expresses the tiredness and frustration we may feel when the people surrounding them aren't being mindful of their words and actions, when they are either subcounsciously or consciously walking over us and disrespecting our boundaries, when they are being harsh on us and belittle or bring us down. If that is something you relate to, then this is your sign you picked the right group.
Your Kinks - Ace of swords, 2 of swords, Emperor
Communication and spiritual/mental connection are major factors in your relationships. Your ideal version of intimacy involves words of affirmation, praising, dirty talk, mental stimulation. Foreplay matters to you more than the actual act. You are the type of person that enjoys sexting, teasing phone calls and possibly sending nudes to your partner. For you, sex must be aerial, lighhearted and make you feel like you are touching the sky. You enjoy trying risky positions or positions that are somewhat artistic, that need a good balance. You also enjoy switching roles and positions, though you prefer to be in control. You enjoy giving and receiving oral. You have a fascination for the genital area and this is likely to be the part of the body you would be focusing on the most or would like for your partner to focus on. Breathplay could also be a thing you're into. The throat and the mouth seem to be significant to you. Those could be erogenous zones you enjoy teasing or being teased. Hickeys also. You may like to leave marks on your person's body and have them leave marks on yours that show who you belong to. You could tend to be a bit possessive and jealous. For you, sex could be a way to keep the upper hand in a relationship. If you are the type to be rather submissive in your daily life, you tend to balance that out by being more controling and demanding in the bed room. You are the embodiment of the saying "lady in the streets, freak in the sheets". You could like mind games to some extent. You could also be into blindfolds. You may prefer a partner that is a bit dominant and challenges you for power without being forceful about it.
Their kinks - Page of cups, 7 of cups, Knight of wands
Your crush is a major giver and a romantic at heart. Nothing to them matters more than feeling a deep and meaningful emotional connection with their partner. To them, sex is first and formost an demonstration of love. Thus, their main priority is for their partner to enjoy the experience as much as possible and to feel cared for in their arms. They are quite the charmer. They ally a good mixture of cockiness and gentleness that makes intimate moments feel like a moment of bliss. This person has a thing for fluids of all kinds. Obviously, that includes saliva, semen, even sweat. They could be into shower/bath/jacuzzi/beach sex. This person could also enjoy having a bit of liquid courage before doing the deed. When they are sober, they may be extremely shy so getting a little buzzed could help them channel their inner fire. I don't see this person getting drunk to the point of not being conscious and forgetting it all afterwards. On the contrary, they want to remember every single detail. They also enjoy their partner being vulnerable and emotional. One of their kinks could be to be intimate with virgins or people that are younger than them. They like the "damsel in distress" type of people. People that seem very innocent and submissive. They tend to be more of the dominant type but they would definitely be willing to hand over some control if that makes their partner happy. If they're dominant, they're a soft dom. They like passionate sex that makes them lose their breath and be all sweaty. This person tends to get a bit hasty when they are aroused. They could be the type to whine or moan, maybe even cry of happiness at how good they feel with their partner.
Compatibility test results : 80 to 95%, this person would want to put you first no matter what, they feel genuine and communicative but they maybe wouldn't be as mentally and verbally stimulating as you wish.
Group 3
I have no idea why but upon seeing the picture I picked for you on Pinterest, I immediately thought of The Grinch lmao That might be one of your favorite animated movies or your crush's favorite. Definitely tell me in the comments if that is your case!
Your kinks - 2 of pentacles, 6 of wands, 9 of cups
You enjoy having to work for it. But you also like when your partner is being encouraging and reassures you. You're into praises and pet names. You enjoy switching roles and positions. You are fine with being both dominant and submissive. You're a bit of an adventurer when it comes to intimacy. You are curious and daring. Foreplay is definitely a thing that turns you on. You also like to feel a bit foggy or dreamy during sex. So maybe you could enjoy getting drunk with your partner before. You want to feel emotionally connected to your partner. You're into body fluids as well as water or other liquids. You may enjoy a partner that's a bit resistant, that doesn't show affection easily in their daily life but would be vulnerable only with you, in the most intimate moments. You like to get under your person's skin. 69 might be a position you enjoy. Missionary as well. You might enjoy to be woken up with sex in the middle of the night or to have sex when you've just woke up. You could be into tantra and other sensual practices that could help you connect with your partner through dreams. You enjoy fantasizing about your partner more than you enjoy being intimate with them. The waiting phase or the uncertainty before the moment is something that turns you on. You may be into orgasm denial. You may also like to go back and forth for several rounds until you are sleepy. I feel like you would go with whatever your partner wants as long as they are pleased with you and the connection.
Their kinks - knight of pentacles, 9 of pentacles, King of pentacles
Your crush is both a taker and a giver but they lean more on the giver type. They are quite reserved and uptight but when it comes to intimacy they go all out. To them sex is essential to a relationship for it to be prosperous. They give it a lot of care and importance. They view it as a duty and an honor. They take this responsibility very seriously. They tend to take their time and increase intensity gradually. They enjoy sex that is deep and rich, very earthy and sensual. For it is a grounding step in a couple's life. They may enjoy riding, whether they are the one on top or their partner is. They may have a breeding kink. They are not very communicative during sex. They envision sex as a dialogue between two bodies. Touch is really important to them. Through touch they express their satisfaction, their passion, their needs. They have a tough exterior that is hard to break but once you get under their skin they give you their all. Their arousal would mainly be seen in their eyes, through their fast movements or the tension in their body. They are the type to grunt, to grab and hold on tightly to the sheets or the bed. They want their partner to do the same. They enjoy positions that are stable and simple but efficient. So they are not the type to try out super flexible positions, though they could definitely carry you around without any problem. They enjoy chair sex, desk sex, work sex. Also travel sex, car sex. They could enjoy outdoors sex. They definitely are a hard worker but they also like to make their partner work for their attention.
Compatibility test results : 75 to 80 %, I feel like this person would satisfy you to some extent and make you feel safe but they seem a bit too rigid and old school for the curious spirit that you are, also they maybe wouldn't be able to provide as much emotional satisfaction as you need.
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Thomas Hewitt/ Reader
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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. Heâs hot, even though itâs 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 hadnât 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. Heâd 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 itâd be too uncomfortable to sit in. He would wait until Uncle Monty asked for more- he didnât 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. Itâs 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 didnât 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 didnât see why it was such a big deal, Momma had once told him that life was messy, thatâs 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 werenât supposed to wait for food.
He had gotten into an argument with him that night- he didnât like it when people were mean to momma. Uncle Hoyt had called him a bad name- making his blood boil.
He didnât want that to happen again. He didnât 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 wasnât 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 didnât like thinking back on the things that made him angry, sometimes he couldnât come back from them, and heâd end up doing something bad.
By the time heâs pushing past the double front doors, Mommaâs car is pulling into the dirt path off to the side of the house. Itâs an old one- rusting from the heat of too many summers, but momma didnât 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 didnât sell that day and theyâd have themselves a little feast. There were days Uncle Hoyt brought a guest with him- always a woman-, other times heâd ask momma to bring his food up to his room- the muffled screaming drowned out by Montyâs 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 wasnât so sure that God was with them anymore. The ones that came after her were lighter, nervous.
He didnât like guests. Didnât 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.
âYouâre going to love my Tommy. Heâs a little bit shy but heâs got the sweetest heart.â Momma says and he hears the other person laugh. Itâs 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. âHeâs here around somewhere⌠but letâs get you set up in your room then you can come down and help me with supper, okay?â
Another laugh, his heart racing uncomfortably in his chest. He didnât want Momma to find him, he was already so tired.
âOf course,â the stranger says, and she- the thought of a woman in the house irritates him- doesnât talk like Momma or Hoyt or Monty. Her voice is quiet, it doesnât drawl out. Heâs heard it before- she must be from out of town. âI would love to!â
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 doesnât know why he feels bad, the guests were never good people- heâd 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 Mommaâs 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. âThomas Hewitt, what in the lords name are you doing there?â
He feels embarrassed all of a sudden, getting caught like this. He makes a low noise in his chest, pointing to the firewood.
âCome on and get on out of there if youâre done then, weâve got company.â 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.
 âI need you to go and grab the rest of her stuff from the car- poor girl donât got no power in her home.â She says with a shake of her head as she pulls and helps him to his feet. âSheâll be staying with us until her electricity gets put back up.â
He shakes his head, this time the noise he makes is in protest, a deep groan of anger. He didnât want to. He didnât want her in his house.
Momma frowns, crossing her arms over her chest. âNow listen here Thomas, not everyone is as lucky as we are. Sometimes we have to help those in need.â
He wants to believe her- Momma wasnât one for lying, after all- but this isnât 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 sheâd 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 didnât 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 doesnât 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.
âThen you go on upstairs and tell the poor girl that sheâs got to leave. I wonât be the one to break the bad news.â Momma huffs, stomping over to the kitchen. âTell her you would rather see her freeze than offer a small kindness.â
There it is, that harshness in her voice that makes him tremble, his heart picking up its pace until he feels like he canât breathe. He shakes his head again, digging his fingers into his arm. He didnât want to have anything to do with the woman. Didnât 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 wasnât allowed to be angry without being punished. Angry that sometimes it seemed like he wasnât 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 wasnât like the bad people. She wouldnât 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 wouldnât be long before the woman disappeared anyways- Hoyt will see her at supper and heâd take her upstairs. The screaming will start, and everyone will act like they couldnât hear it; Momma would knit, and Monty would turn the volume on the TV up until it was too much. Heâd 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 womanâs things waiting for him. Itâs 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 doesnât like the fact that heâs touching the strangerâs things.
Heâs dirty- his fingers staining the bag- but heâs also dirty inside. Rotten from the anger, the bad heâs 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 isnât 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. Heâs standing in front of a wall, the staircase on the other side. For now, he was hidden- but it wouldnât be long until she stepped into the kitchen, and he couldnât hide anymore.
âWeâre in here dear,â Momma calls out to her. âTommy hereâs got your bag for you.â
He sees her for the first time out of the corner of his eye- spotting her before she spots him, her eyes on Momma. Sheâs 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 theyâve 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 doesnât like this. He doesnât like this feeling that runs through him as he inspects her.
âI really like your house!â she says- voice light and full of excitement that made his mood worsen. âIts-â 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 doesnât let her look at his face- turning his head to the side as he folds into himself, chin against chest. He doesnât like this- doesnât 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.
âThis is my son,â Mommaâs voice is tight as she talks. âTommy this here is our guest. Donât you want to say hello?â
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 doesnât like.
He doesnât like this. Doesnât 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.
âItâs okay,â her voice shakes a bit as she breaks the silence, and she coughs and clears her voice. âI, um, Iâm a little shy myself so I know how hard it can be sometimes.â She speaks slowly, her voice almost a low whisper. She tells him her name. Tells him that itâs nice to meet him.
He doesnât say anything- not that he can, heâs never spoken a single word- but he nods his head, his eyes quickly glancing over at her. Sheâs 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 doesnât 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 didnât 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.
âWhat are we making for dinner?â 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 womanâs back and pulls her close. âYouâre such a darling, helping me out like this. How about you start getting out the pots and pans? Theyâre over there by the pantry.â 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 wouldnât be long until they couldnât 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.
âGo on and take her bag up to her room and get yourself cleaned up, okay?â She tugs on the collar of his shirt before fixing his hair out of his face. Itâs damp from his sweat, but she doesnât flinch. âSheâs a good girl- try to handle her with care, alright?â Her voice is a low whisper- something the woman wasnât supposed to hear. It unsettles him as he nods along with Momma- not quite understanding what she meant. He doesnât know if heâs 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.
âHoney, Tommy is going to take your bag up to your room- is that alright?â
The woman rises from the ground, two pots neatly stacked in each other in her hands. âYes,â she says softly- her eyes meeting his. âThank you, Tommy.â
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 couldnât understand. He felt like he couldnât 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 itâs 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. Thereâs 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 wouldnât 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.
Heâs careful when heâs leaving the room- closing the door gently so that it doesnât slam before he hurries off into his own- locking the door behind himself.
Here itâs dark, his windows covered in greased up newspapers. He didnât 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 wasnât stuck going up and down all the time. Uncle Monty said that he sounded like a âgoddamned bulldozer,â 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 wasnât 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 didnât have to worry about anyone disturbing him.
He takes his mask off and itâs 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 wasnât there last time. It blends into the sores and scarred tissue already there, his skin long ruined. It shouldnât 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 wouldnât 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 wasnât 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 couldnât 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 didnât want to go downstairs.
He didnât 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 hadnât 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. Sheâs 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.
âSorry!â she speaks fast, her words all pushed together. âI was just trying to find the bathroom!â
He feels his heart beating in his throat, muscles tense and solid as he stares down at her. Sheâs so much shorter than he thought- he could reach out and crush her throat in his hand and it wouldnât take much force to do so. Heâs 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.
âIâm in your way- I,â she takes a step back, her eyes finally releasing his. âIâm sorry, Iâm just-â
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 doesnât 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 hadnât 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 hadnât 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 couldnât- wouldnât- 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 wouldnât 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.
âYouâre scared of me, arenât you?â she whispers and her voice trembles even as she keeps talking. âI can tell- youâre looking at me like I just pulled out a gun on you or something.â 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. âBut my hands are empty-â
She lifts her hands, palms facing him, and wiggles her fingers. âIf it makes you feel better, apart from a kitchen knife I donât think Iâve ever held a weapon.â She smiles oddly at him- as if she wasnât 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 doesnât like how his body seems to let go of its worries and fears so fast, his shoulders drooping and his heartbeat slowing down until itâs 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, heâs 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 doesnât 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. Heâs 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 wasnât the same as when Momma said it though. This felt like a spell, a bad omen- Satanâs 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 hadnât made a single noise as he watched Hoyt undo his pants and pull the womanâs legs apart. He hadnât 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.
âTommyâŚ?â she asks again, not understanding his plea.
He whines again and it takes him a second to realize that heâs 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.
 Itâs supposed to just be the four of them- Momma, Hoyt, Monty and him. Itâs always been just the four of them. There wasnât 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. Heâd 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 wasnât 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 doesnât feel the pain as the blood begins to gather underneath his dirty nails. He can see it, even in the dim light- but he canât feel it. Canât 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 didnât, 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 wasnât good, she wouldnât 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.
Heâs 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.
 Itâs 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 womanâs 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.
âItâs okay!â she says, her voice panicked as she keeps repeating it over and over again, almost as if sheâs trying to convince herself- or maybe she thinks that if she says it enough times itâd become true.
âItâs okay, youâre okay,â she repeats, her eyes on his as she pulls his arms towards her. âWe just have to get this cleaned up and itâll be okay.â
He doesnât 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.
âWe need to get this clean,â sheâs pleading now, tugging at him to get him to move. âItâs going to get infected if we donât and thereâs no doctor in town anymore-â the more she talks, the more hysterical she begins to sound, her voice growing higher. âI donât know where the bathroom is, but we can go down to the kitchen, Luda M-â
He doesnât let her finish, easily pulling his uninjured arm free from her. He didnât 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. Â But he knew that Momma wouldnât 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 wouldnât 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 couldnât possibly be bad when Mommaâs blood ran through him, sweet and caring.
He couldnât 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. Sheâs 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.
âNo, Tommy we have to go downstairs. I donât know what to do.â Her voice is shaky as she takes a couple steps forward before planting her feet and refusing to keep going. âYour mom might me better at this than me, please.â She pleads even as she begins to walk again when he refuses to stop.
He tries to tell her that Momma couldnât find out. That if she did then he wouldnât 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 didnât 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 heâs 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 didnât 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 wasnât concerned with the open wound dripping blood down his arm.
Right now, he needed to get the woman to understand that Momma couldnât 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.
Heâs 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 sheâs not understanding him, that now that heâs 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. Sheâs 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 didnât let go of her even though his brain was yelling at him to stop touching her. He couldnât. 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 couldnât 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 heâs 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 heâs also warm and electric through her veins. He wants her to tell him that a real monster wouldnât feel the way he did- that if he really was a monster, the softness in her eyes wouldnât 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.
âYou want me to follow you?â 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- theyâve 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 doesnât 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. âNot safe,â he tries to tell her, âTake care of it here.â
Realization makes her eyes brighten, her features smoothing out. âYou donât want Luda Mae to find out?â
Itâs 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.
âTommy- I donât know if I can do anything about thatâŚâ 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 canât 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 donât- she stays silent, her eyes glued to his arm.
The damage isnât 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 hadnât 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 wouldnât 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 Satanâs 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 hadnât 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. Itâs why he didnât 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. Sheâs too trusting- doesnât she see the danger that sheâs 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 wasnât strong enough to stop his desires.
âIt looks a lot worse than it is, doesnât it?â she asks him, but he doesnât answer- too busy watching the way she touches him- her touch making his breath deepen.
He likes the way she doesnât mind that his blood is on her hands- twisted into the tiny cracks of her bracelet. Sheâs careful and slow as she traces the tip of her index finger above the crater he had created in his flesh. Heâs 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.
âOkayâŚâ she sighs, not letting go of him. âShow me what to do.â
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 womanâs hand. She shivers and he wants to know if itâs from the cold or the fact that heâs 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 womanâs skin look sickly- washing her out as she blinks and tries to get used to the light.
âWe have to clean it,â sheâs already walking around him, towards the sink. Itâs a small one, too low for him to reach without having to bend his knees uncomfortably. Maybe thatâs 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 heâs never experienced before.
âWhere are the towels?â she asks, turning around to face him. âIf we lay some down on the floor it should keep the mess down a bit, right?â
He doesnât tell her that itâs 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 doesnât 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 wasnât like Hoytâs 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.
Heâs 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 didnât seem to understand that he didnât want to make them suffer- that he was being kind- taking their lives quickly so that they didnât 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 wasnât 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 couldnât 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 werenât going to live long- even if the world around them didnât seem to care for them- they werenât 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 wouldnât 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 wasnât 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.
âCan I?â she says- and sheâs 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 wasnât 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.
âDoesnât that hurt you?â she asks- and thereâs 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 wasnât 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.
âThis will feel much better,â she holds her fingers under the water, and once itâs at a comfortable temperature she lets it run over the washcloth. âTell me if Iâm hurting you, okay?â
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 thereâs 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 isnât 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 sheâs 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 didnât 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 wouldnât 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 womanâs 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 thatâs choking him- but she doesnât say a word, dropping her eyes as she picks up the bar of soap thatâs 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 thatâs doesnât sit right.
Maybe he did want her to speak- to pity him after all. But the moment is gone, and he doesnât 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.
âCome here,â 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 doesnât 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 canât 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.
âTell me if I hurt you, okay?â 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 doesnât 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 doesnât come. Instead, he groans in delight- enjoying the way her finger seems to be tearing into him, stretching his skin open. Itâs like sheâs 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.
âSorry!â 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 thereâs no way to tell her that she hadnât 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- itâs so trivial and boring, yet heâs 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. âI donât know how long this has been here for-â 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.
âExpired medicine and antibiotics are better than nothing, right?â 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 couldnât 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 hasnât 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 hadnât 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 couldnât lose his income, not with Uncle Monty getting less hours at his job and the Government cutting Uncle Hoytâs 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 hadnât 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 didnât 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- wasnât that good? Momma asked him, smiling at him like she hadnât just beat him tired.
 Momma warned him that he couldnât 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. Itâs 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.
âYouâre so selfish Thomas!â she shouted at him, holding his jaw and shoving another finger into his empty nostril. âThereâs no room for useless boys in this house, do you understand?â
He couldnât 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 heâs 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.
Heâs tense, the muscles in his neck thick and tight. He doesnât like how he seemed to live more in his memories- constantly remembering all the things that he just wanted to forget. He didnât 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 doesnât 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 doesnât 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.
âGive me your arm?â she asks him, holding out her right hand. âLetâs get you all wrapped up, okay?â her smile is still small, and he can see the wariness in her eyes, but when he places his arm in her hand she doesnât flinch, she doesnât 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.
Heâs aware of the muscles in his face- of how, even if heâs 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 donât leave his as she pulls him closer, and motions with her head for him to sit down on the toilet. âItâll be easier, that way you donât have to keep your arm in the air.â 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. Sheâs 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 canât 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?
âCan you hold this?â she asks, already dropping something into his expecting hand. It had been resting on his lap, calloused covered palm open and waiting- a beggarâs pose. The ointment and tape werenât what he had been waiting for, but he takes them, closing his thick fingers around them.
What he didnât expect was for her to lean over him with a mumbled âsorryâ, her hand falling onto his shoulder as she reached for something behind him- inside of the medicine bin.
He doesnât know what to do- his body freezing underneath hers as her neck grazes his mask covered face. It doesnât last long- maybe a fraction of a second before sheâs 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 didnât really want to do. Â Something that he wouldnât be able to take back, no matter how hard he begged and prayed and tried to undo.
He didnât 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.
âDo you think Luda Mae is getting suspicious?â
The question startles him, reminding him of the world outside of the bathroom, outside of the woman in front of him.
âSheâs probably thinking I ran away; donât you think?â the womanâs laugh is small, feathery light. He doesnât 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 itâs to disagree with her or to tell her that he wasnât sure- he letâs her decide on which one heâs trying to communicate. If Momma had been concerned, she would have come upstairs to check on her already, so he wasnât too worried. He shrugs, and her laughter fills his ears again.
âRight. If youâre not worried, then I wonât be either. I just donât want her to think that Iâve been a horrible guest- running off in the middle of helping her with dinner.â
He shakes his head again and this time its to reassure her that Momma wouldnât think that. At least he hoped that she wouldnât. 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.
âWell, whatâs done is done, lets just get your arm bandaged. I might need your help facing her again.â The woman likes to talk with a smile, heâs 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 Mommaâs anger- keep her tucked behind him- safe.
If he was being honest, he wasnât 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 uncleâs Monty and Hoyt didnât 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 heâs 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 womanâs 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 didnât want her to think that he was disgusting. Rotten just like Uncle Hoyt, who was obsessed with playing with their food.
âIs this uncomfortable for you, Tommy?â 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.
Sheâs 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 itâs 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 Hoytâs 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 hadnât 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?
âYouâre all set. Howâs it feeling? Itâs not too tight, is it?â
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The Vee's reactions to their platonic(parental for Val Vox maybe if you are feeling it?) pet seeking them out for affection after a breakdown? Just desperate for any comfort
Yandere Vs reaction to pet reader seeking comfort after a breakdown
Warnings: SA implied/threatened and mentioned, Valentino, panic attacks, self harm (hair pulling, using broken glass and arm scratching) hurt/little comfort, existential crisis mode, just poor Vs pet, abuse, punishments, dark content
Vox:
You didnât know what brought it on honestly
One minute you were working with Valentino in the living room of the upper level of the tower where you and the Vs resided, and the next your feet are carrying you as fast as they could away from him
Maybe it was a mixture of things, valâs hand on your knee, the inappropriate sounds you were having to edit that you could identify as angel dust, his talking about how he wanted to hurt angel
All of it just mashed together to create an overwhelming feeling of pure fear
So you did what you were so used to doing when you were alive, you ran as fast as you could from the perceived danger
You could hear Valentinoâs angered yells from behind you but your legs still carried you in the opposite direction until they took you to Voxs office
You assumed it would be empty since Vox had to be charging at this time, so you entered it knowing that Valentino wouldnât enter the office out of fear that Vox would see him
You collapsed on the floor and sobbed you heart out with painful cries as your fingers threaded into your hair and tugged painfully to get a feeling of pain that could ground you
But Vox was in the office, and he looked at the sight in front of him with a mixture of parental concern and anger that someone had disturbed his possession
He approached you carefully before crouching down to meet your eyes
He repeatedly asked you what was wrong but you couldnât answer, it was only when he touched your arm did he get a reaction out of you as your eyes snapped up to look at him before wrenching your arm away
This confused and concerned Vox but he didnât have time to decipher your reaction before you practically pounced on his crouching figure and wrapped your arms around his middle as he fell backwards
(Think when jinx and silco first meet)
He stayed still out of shock for a few moments as you sobbed into his ridiculously expensive suit before he wrapped his arms around you and stroked your arm comfortingly
He pulled your face out of his chest and held your face in his hands before wiping away your tears with his thumbs and ignoring the crackles that came from your tears seeping into his technological body
You rant your little heart out but Vox completely zoned you out as he focuses on what this situation had made him feel
He felt concern sure, but the fact that youâd come to him to seek comfort and affection gave him a small thrill
You never gave him affection willingly unless he had given you drugs beforehand to make you calmer in his presence, so this just proved to him that you needed him
He made a mental note to make you work with Valentino more, if this was the reaction he was going to get
He may be concerned, but heâs cruel enough to ignore your panicked state if it meant youâd continue to willingly give him affection
Velvette:
Velvette had been especially cruel today
It was like she was purposely setting you up to fail just for her entertainment, the same way you pretend to throw a toy for a puppy and have them look back at you confused when they canât find it
She purposely gave you the wrong coffee order for the models, she sent you into voxs office with unfinished paperwork and she had been verbally abusing you from the moment you entered the room
But something snapped in you after the two of you were alone for the night, she said something particularly cruel
âMaybe if you were a bit more useful then you could have lived to reach your twenties at least, but instead your down here because your molly infested brain was too useless to work out how to save yourself and the othersâ
Your death was a particularly sensitive spot, and usually the Vs stayed away from that subject because of your volatile reaction when you had to recount the story after hours of interrogation
And velvette had just pressed on it like it was a fresh bruise
Your breakdown started out of anger as velvette turned her back and you grabbed a tray of champagne glasses before throwing it against the closest wall
This shocked velvette to her core, sheâd never seen you show such extreme and violent anger before
So she watched on as you destroyed furniture and glasses around the room before you knelt on the ground and sobbed
You were kneeling directly on the smaller shards of broken glass as you cried and grabbed handfuls of the glass and held them tightly in your palms
Velvette tried commanding you to stop in various ways but you just kept crying as the blood spread onto the floor
After ten minutes of watching you cry, velvette sighed and stomped over to you before slapping you harshly across the face
You stopped crying as you held your face in shock, but what shocked you more was the feeling of velvettes hand petting your hair in a similar fashion to how youd pet your dog
You felt yourself lean into her palm, desperate for the contact despite it coming from one of your abusers
Velvette hand trailed from your hair to your face as she gently traced the musical note markings that ran down your cheeks
You leaned into her palm before she grabbed your chin harshly and moved your head to observe the destruction youâd caused
âClean this shit up immediatelyâ she commanded harshly âthen meet me in my bedroomâ
You cleaned the room for hours and ignored the pain that it caused before you met velvette in her room where she removed the glass from your hands and knees before bandaging them and commanding you to sleep in her bed for the night
As she watched you sleep, she couldnât help but think about what she had observed from you today
And she quickly worked out that one day she could use your anger to her benefit, and she planned on doing just that when the time was right
But sleep peacefully for now, pet
Valentino:
Your breakdown had happened the minute he forced you into his studio
Vox had put strict rules in place stating that you werenât to go on there, but Val felt adventurous today
But thatâs not what caused the breakdown particularly, it was the unedited video of angel dust playing on the screens
The video that showed his pained and fearful expressions
And the cherry on top was realising that the two of you were alone and that the camera was on and facing you
You mentally tried to prepare yourself for what you thought was going to happen, and you tried to dissociate from your body to avoid feeling his touch
But you couldnât, panic filled your entire body as you bolted for the door but it was locked
Val just grinned his evil fucking grin
He hadnât brought you here to assault you, even though he engineered the situation to imply that
He brought you here because he wanted you to capture your breakdown on camera after being told about them from Vox
He thought it would be funny to show the next time he and the other Vs had time to watch a movie, he knows both of them get so fascinated by the complexities of your emotions
You had started to violently bang on the door to see if you could free yourself but it was useless
Val simply sat on the chair near the door and watched as your fawn ears became pinned to your skull and you fell to the ground out of fear
Tears filled your eyes as you hyperventilated through the fears, and you brought your nails to the skin of your arms and dragged them down harshly to give yourself some pain to distract yourself from the panic
âStop thatâ val commanded harshly when he saw the harm his toy was doing to herself âcome hereâ
You walked forward cautiously as you sobbed and hyperventilated while holding your arms protectively over your body
âSitâ Val had commanded with a grin as you followed his directions
He grabbed your head surprisingly gently and laid it down on his fluff covered shoulder
You say crying and preparing yourself for the worst on his shoulder and Val just grinned into the camera
Until you did something unexpected and you wrapped your arms around his shoulders and cried into his shoulder
Valentino sat there stunned as you cried into his shoulder until his hand came up to rub your back in what he thought was a soothing manner
You sobs increased at his touch but all he did was hold you for a few moments before getting up and turning the camera off
He then went and grabbed the bandages and wrapped your scratched up arms, all while having an expression of concern mixed in with confusion
âIâm sorry princesaâ he said quietly as he wrapped your arms âit wonât happen againâ
He gets up and unlocked the door and watched as you ran out and locked yourself in your room to likely continue your breakdown
Val watched his toy self destruct and it wasnât nearly as fun as it was when he watched his actors do so
He almost felt embarrassed, shameful even. The same way he would feel if he accidentally damaged his expensive car in a way he knew couldnât be fixed with a simple paint job
Maybe it was your touch that made him feel this, the touch of someone he didnât have any romantic or sexual interest in
He looked at the camera and felt a deep sense of disappointment hit him
He wanted anger like you had with velvette or emotional pain that you had with Vox
But all he received was fear and all it filled him with was a sense of boredom and shame
He was bored if fear from you, he wanted a more complex reaction
And heâd get it out of you somehow
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emotions do not matter.
! this post was highly inspired by former loa blogger aphrodite apprentice !
emotions and feelings, the way neville coins these words, are of different nature. when speaking of emotions, we are speaking of unconscious emotional experiences. feelings, however, are a conscious act and usually a reaction to our emotions â which, according to neville, are the secret to help us manifest.
emotions vs feelings.
an emotion is an immediate reaction to your emotional state of mind, whereas a feeling remains a lot longer and is felt for a longer period of time. emotions could be joy, fear, anger, lust or sadness. the counterparts in feelings would then be happiness, anxiety, bitterness, love or depression. if something unpleasant happens in your life, you will react to it emotionally first. only later, you will be able to form a feeling. as you can see, an emotion is a lot more intense and often manifests in a physical reaction (ex. facial expressions), not based on any reasoning while in contrast your feeling is based on logical reasoning. you could say a feeling is a way of explaining an emotion with thoughts which you have felt due to external experiences. this also means that not every feeling will always be accurate enough to explain an emotion and how you actually feel emotionally.
emotions cannot manifest ...
once again, a feeling isnât the emotion itself. your feeling has nothing to do with our emotional state of mind but rather your mental state of mind. that means that your feelings, longterm, are more concerned with what you feel to be true or false, right or wrong and real or unreal.
mental ¡ relates to the mind; thinking process.
emotional ¡ relates to emotions; feeling process.
... only feelings can.
especially because a feeling does not necessarily have to correlate to an emotion, it is entirely up to you to define your feeling. you could replace feeling with what you accept, know or believe to be true. it's a thought. and an emotion isn't. you may not help the way you emotionally feel â and you shouldnât! you should never suppress an emotion and feel sad, angry, etc. â but you can make the conscious decision to define your feeling. and since a feeling is a state, after all, you can manifest anything you'd like while feeling like you are at your lowest (or highest). your emotions will not manifest!
emotions arise.
as i was saying, an emotion is a pretty much sudden response. you may lose something and feel bad about it, maybe you had a fight with your friend or perhaps you were told some unsettling news. whatever it is, you will always feel some intense type of way from time to time.
emotions fade away.
the thing is, emotions come and go. you may feel super joyful one minute and then feel super sad the next. thatâs totally normal, and we are definitely not trying to fix our wonderful human nature in any way.
emotional responses.
emotions are a response. when manifesting, when changing your feeling, you might also experience emotions of some sort. you may feel euphoric of manifesting something that has always felt very prestigious or hardly available to you.
but the same way, you could not feel anything at all. some manifestations arenât going to move you the way some manifestations do, but thatâs not an issue! the premise is, you donât HAVE to feel excited. you donât have to jump out of happiness whenever you think about how you manifested to find your keys you had lost the other day. remember, emotions come naturally. you donât have to force them.
accepting and persisting.
the only thing you really have to do is to accept your desire as yours and persist in that assumption. feel it to be true, to be real, to be factual. thatâs what feeling the wish fulfilled means. the feeling of your assumption to be realty.
with love, ella.
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Reminder that, no matter what, if you ever find yourself reducing an issue to "Us vs Them", you need to stop right there and take a look where you're heading. If you genuinely can't think about something without dehumanizing people in some capacity, maybe you shouldn't be thinking about that thing.
Dehumanization is the single most powerful justifier of atrocity and hatred there is, and the one thing you should never tolerate is intolerance. There is no good or justified form of dehumanization. Ever.
We fall into it because it's easy. If you think you're somehow above falling for the temptations of taking that mental shortcut, you're more susceptible than ever.
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