#there's more that bothers me but I don't feel like rambling in tags now

[laugtherhyena]

Sometimes i think about udon comics Karin, why was she like that.

[lover-of-skellies]

Tried searching the word "ads" in my tumblr blog search bar so I could add these to the compilation of horrible ads I've had shoved in my face (and ads that also, have likely been seen by children), but surprise, surprise, nothing came up. According to the search results, I've never posted anything with "ads" in the tags before in my life. Not sure if that's just tumblr being stupid and broken, or if someone who runs this hellscape very subtly nuked those posts. ANYWHO—

Starting a new collection of horrible ads, purely because I'm spiteful and because I don't see how it's ok for ads like these to be allowed ANYWHERE, but heaven forbid someone shares a spicy fic they wrote, or posts drawings of anatomy practice that show too much skin

The werewolf one just sounds really dumb and weird, which. Whatever. Not a crime to be weird, so that one is kinda sorta ok if you squint, but then the other one is literally a woman getting her tit groped by her best friend, as said friend is licking her neck. I didn't get a screenshot of it, but in the same little ad segment as the groping bit, there was also a guy in bdsm gear standing behind a woman who was in a compromising position

[oneiricazalea]

Happy 5th birthday to my dear OC, Sei ♥

[aromanticannibal]

The pattern is that people straight up do not read™. or they read a 3-5 tweet summary of what happened and treat it as if they did. or because shonen expectations based on "the classics" is bullshit and significantly rotted people's brains when deciding wether an ending is good or not.

Which could be nothing right

yeahhh. i will forever regret reading the last chapter through leaks because it was a dreadful experience, and watching everyone ever shit on it for like a week after genuinely made me want to just get off the internet forever or something because i felt like an idiot for liking the ending (all this is my fault for getting too invested in both tumblr and mha etc etc).

All the "it's rushed" and pacing complaints barely matter to me at this point because you just cannot feel the pacing of something correctly when you're reading it exclusively through leaks. you can't absorb info like that. And don't get me started on the number of complaints and criticisms I've seen of the last chapter that are just provably bullshit (I saw someone say Izuku didn't get a statue lmao. yes he did, you just read the fucking leaks and watched twitter drama unfold instead of reading the actual chapter i fear).

[celestialmancer]

As much as I can take pride in how I can draw mouths well & how fun it is to do like unique stuff w that, I always am antsy that it'll end up getting me looked at weird for drawing them or get me weird unnecessary comments.........

[acid-ixx]

update and story excepts

guys i swear if i post chapter 4 sooner for my series: again &. again, soon, will that revive the yandere batfam/dc tag because i swear i've been consuming less content of it both lately and sadly 💔 like it's a bit dead ngl. ill reply to asks once i'm done with ch.4 istg

and yes, i'm back from my short hiatus again to announce this. and it's 3:30am but i dont care teehee. anyways, if i do post a new chapter expect it to be this week and that's final for once, since i've kept all of you guys waiting so long, i'm so sorry :(( i swear it's me trying to gain confidence through my writing and i don't know if i like chapter 4 or not. all i do know is that it's one of the most emotionally draining chapters so expect triple the angst, yippee!

anyways, excepts from the chapter below the line break:

DICK'S THOUGHTS:

he sighs, resigning his thoughts all to himself as he checks his phone every minute for a simple ring of notifications just from you. he prefers to leave his phone in silent mode from the multitude of other contacts bothering him, but god forbade if that means he'd scroll past to a single reply of yours, then he'd rather burn in hell.

dick doesn't know it. why he's suddenly obsessed with you. you? yes you, his stupidly precious sibling, the one who looked up to him, frail and wronged by the world, with so much drive behind that stare. third child of bruce, yet second youngest in the family. the one that got away, the one he has never once saw outside that one memory of glinting, awe-inspired eyes that told more stories than poets, drew more emotions than artists.

CONNER'S SCENES:

"you're hot," and if you were sober enough, you would've felt sheer embarrassment and shame from eyeing the boy, but you're not— and because you're not sober, or any bit sane, the next few sentences you spewed out were all coherent, yet wonkily pronounced utterances paired with teary eyes and sniffling nose, as you can't seem to control the feelings of melancholy in your heart and the sudden emotional burst from your ramblings.

"thank you, you too, actually— but are you alright-"

"haha! is it strange to say that you look so cute whenever you look at me with wide eyes in the short span of time we just met?"

"it's conner, conner kent. call me kon, though. or yours if it's you."

BATHROOM BREAKDOWN P.T.2 PRIOR TO CLUBBING

you don't remember the last time you looked in a mirror, looking healthy, fresh, and proud of yourself for dressing up in your style. in the back of your mind, there will always be hatred, resentment for how you look. and right now, you hate how you every bit of your appearance because...

because you look exactly just like an image of your mother and bruce wayne. a reminder, your punishment for your parents' beautifully tragic affair with one another. a billionaire who courted.the lowly dirt-class slut of gotham.

(spoilers: expect shit to go down with jason todd with you, and him with the family, and a good 4k words of you flirting with conner before actual shit goes down)

leave comments down below if you do like the direction this story is coming to! otherwise, thank you all for reading my series and supporting it from the start !! <33

[livwritessometimes]

I LOVE YOU!

: Part 11 (Oscar's Version)

: It's bout time Oscar comes clean about his feelings

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: Series Masterlist

: Main Masterlist

: author’s note - I almost had a heart attack!!! this fic was scheduled and it did not release and it wasn’t showing in the scheduled section and I almost lost it

…

“Oscar??” Y/n said, confused, as she made her way towards the man in front of her. 

“What are you doing here?” She asked as she finally got a better view of the comp science major standing under the lights that cast a soft glow on his face. 

"Y/n," Oscar said, a hint of nervousness laced his voice. "I'm glad you came!" he said.

"Wait, are you the one who left that message??" Y/n asked. Not bothering to wait for a reply, she continued, "How did you even do that? Wasn't Mr. Stella working on it? So how did you even get the chance to change that? Unless you were working on it with him. Is that what you were doing? Why? First you ignore me, keep on making excuses, ditch me to hang out with another girl, and then when I get someone else to help me with this, you go behind my back and work on it?? How does that even make sense? Osc-" Her ramble was cut short with Oscar suddenly shouting, "Stop! Y/n, would you please stop for the love of God and let me explain?" 

The girl instantly fell silent, waiting for the boy to continue. "Yes, I changed the form so that you could get the coordinates. I had gone to Mr. Stella and begged him if I could work on the form and finish what I had started with you," Oscar said.

"Why? Why would you do all that? Because I told you I don't need your help? Is that why you decided to call me here late at night? and for what?" Y/n said, feeling herself get teary-eyed by the sudden outburst of emotions. "Do you not want me to do well in the assignment? Is that what this is because if that is why you are doing all of this Oscar Piastri, I swear to god?" 

"I did this because I LOVE YOU," Oscar blurted out; he could not take it any longer. He could not keep his mouth shut and watch the girl he loves think he did all of this out of spite.

Y/n felt her heart stop. This was not what she was expecting when she left her house today in hopes of finding the person behind the mysterious message. "What??" Y/n said, in fact, that was all she could get herself to say.

"I love you; I have for a while now. Daniel had texted me one day saying that he's happy to see me happy with you, and I freaked out. I know that this was no excuse for me ignoring you, and I'm really sorry for that. But I didn't know how else to react," Oscar said, staring down at the ground, refusing to look at Y/n. 

"I've never felt like this; all my life I never felt like the need to be with someone, and so I never bothered with it. But the more time we spent together for the project, the more I realized that I did not want it to end. And so I started to make excuses just so we could spend more time working on the project. But I didn't realize that doing so would make it end sooner," he said. "Lily was just working with me on one of our assignments; I never thought you'd think that I was dating her. I never meant for things to get so complicated between us. I understood your decision to work with my professor, and I'm sorry I went behind your back to work on the project. Please don't get angry with him; he was very hesitant to let me do this in the first place. I just hope that we can still be friends." Oscar finally finished and looked up at Y/n.

Both Y/n and Oscar had taken a seat at one of the chairs kept outside, and for a good five minutes no words were exchanged between the two. Suddenly, Y/n got up and said, "I'm sorry, Oscar, but I have to go," and without waiting for him to reply, Y/n walked out of the cafe.

Leaving a confused and heartbroken Oscar behind.

…

Tags: @regalbanshee | @be-your-coffee-pot | @mrsbrxkkxr | @princessria127 | @moonraysandstars | @prettiest-at-the-party | @theblueblub | @magixpracticality | @slytherinholland | @overlyexcitedoutlaw | @marvel-at-stucky | @crumbssss | @a-beaverhausen | @felicityforyou | @gigigreens | @jas0nluvr | @khaylin27 | @imsiriuslyreal | @cwiphswmwasohmm | @wobblymug | @e-nonsense | @raizelchrysanderoctavius | @brekkers-whore | @vintagefucksstuff | @aexitizen-ln4 | @redstappen | @iamred-iamyellow | @tsireyasgf | @ghost-of-student-sufferings | @saachiep81 | @lozzamez3 | @ravisinghs-wife | @elizamoe133 | @anthonylockwoodandco111 | @formulaal | @luvsforme | @annabellelee | @a-disturbing-self-reflection | @emryb | @grovelingmen | @illicit-affcirs | @iwilleatyourgod | @youre-on-your-ownkid | @originaldreamerdragon | @landorris | @mountvesuvu | @chezmardybum | @littlegrapejuice | @spitesfvl-blog | @juleshadalittlelamb | @vicurious28 | @niyu2208 |

[lullabies-blue]

Thomas Hewitt/ Reader

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 Was she scared?

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

Would she scream?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He did not like her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

She was messing it all up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Would she taste as sweet as she smelled?

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

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

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

“Do you think Luda Mae is getting suspicious?”

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

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

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

“Right. If you’re not worried, then I won’t be either. I just don’t want her to think that I’ve been a horrible guest- running off in the middle of helping her with dinner.”

He shakes his head again and this time its to reassure her that Momma wouldn’t think that. At least he hoped that she wouldn’t. The thought of Momma angry at the woman made his chest burn uncomfortably. An ache that slithered in the tight spaces between his ribs- hot and uneasy in its slickness.

“Well, what’s done is done, lets just get your arm bandaged. I might need your help facing her again.” The woman likes to talk with a smile, he’s noticed. It was as if her mouth had no other way to rest- the corners turned up towards the heavens, towards her eyes that liked to seek him out- unafraid of what she saw, of what others liked to look away from.

He wondered if she was joking- if she was just talking in order to fill the silence. He knew people who did that- people like Hoyt and his old boss at the Slaughterhouse, who had to keep their mouths moving or they would stop existing all together. He liked to think that if he had a voice, he would be like that too- not quite as annoying, but loud enough that people were forced to look at him, to listen to what he had to say.

He would tell the woman that he would keep her safe. That he wanted to go down with her and show Momma that she had done nothing wrong. That if anyone was to blame, it was him. It was his fault that she had stayed away for so long. He would hide her away from Momma’s anger- keep her tucked behind him- safe.

If he was being honest, he wasn’t sure that he wanted her to leave just yet. They could stay here a little longer- everything behind that door non-existent. He could make believe that Momma was still at work, busy with too many customers- outsiders who were just passing by, headed for more than the meat hooks in the basement of this house. That for a bit his uncle’s Monty and Hoyt didn’t exist. That the world was just for him and her.

That would be enough for him. He was almost tempted to ask God- to check and see if he was still paying attention to him after all that he had done.

The woman moves from in front of him and takes a seat on the edge of the tub, her knees rubbing against the outside of his thigh as she grabs his arm and places it on her lap. He can feel the buckle of her belt against his knuckles- his arm suddenly a solid weight as he feels the warmth that radiates from the space between her thighs.

 It crawls along his skin- up to his shoulder and through the space in his chest. It reminds him of the times that he’s stayed in one spot for too long, his limbs falling asleep. Though there was no uncomfortable pain this time- Instead it felt like a million little bugs were crawling around inside of him- a buzzing under his skin that he was unused to, but not disgusted by. It was something that maybe he could get used to.

It settles in his belly- thick and heavy and hot, stirring awake thoughts that felt too uncomfortable to focus on. Shamefully, he raises his eyes from the woman’s lap, trying to think of something other than the way her jeans clung to her thighs or how close his fingers were to the space between her legs- somehow hotter than the rest of her, the back of his hand burning pleasantly. He wanted to keep it there- to soak all of himself in her warmth until he knew nothing more.

He pushes the indecent thoughts from his mind, suddenly growing paranoid that the woman would find out what he was thinking about her. He didn’t want her to think that he was disgusting. Rotten just like Uncle Hoyt, who was obsessed with playing with their food.

“Is this uncomfortable for you, Tommy?” maybe it was because the silence had gone on for too long, but the woman whispers her question- her voice only for him, distracting him slightly as she reaches for the things she had given him, plucking them from his hand before he even had a chance to register the movement- her hand too fast that he barely feels the way her fingers skim his palm.

She’s already twisted open the bottle of ointment by the time he shakes his head- the cap balancing on the edge of her knee. With a hum she nods- her eyes focused on her own hands even though he wants her to look at him again. He wanted her to ask him more questions- her voice tender and sweet whenever she spoke to him. He wanted her to distract him for his thoughts that liked to pull him away from her- and right now he wanted to stay right here, to not miss a single moment.

The ointment is cold against his skin- the woman squeezing a light amount right above the wound. He can feel it cleansing away all of his wickedness- her finger swiping at it until it’s in the deepest layer of his flesh, leaving nothing behind but an oily residue that coated her thumb. Without a pause she sticks a piece of gauze on top- taping it up until the gauze is well hidden under flesh colored medical tape.

He had found it in the pocket of one of the first of Uncle Hoyt’s guests- setting it aside for Momma along all of the jewelry he had collected. Maybe it was for a reason that he had second guessed his decision to throw it away. Maybe that had been a sign from above that you were on your way- that God hadn’t abandoned them after all.

The woman is gentle as she pats the covered wound and leans back a bit to meet his expectant eyes. What does she see in them- in him- that makes her look at him so sweetly?

“You’re all set. How’s it feeling? It’s not too tight, is it?”

[weirdsht]

Hello, a cale x reader lunatic here 😭

They meet a fortune teller pre-relationship and pre-war

They're idiots

FT: you're going to have 10+ kids

Cale: uhh...

Reader: wtf is you spouting? /*Terrified

Ohn, Hong, Raon, and the wolf children: 🫂

Selective Vacuous - Cale/Reader

notes: I made it a 4+1 since I had several scenarios but didn't know how to connect them all hehe

tags: female reader, established relationship (except the first one), reader is mentioned to be a spearman, GoD priestess prophet (it'll make sense in the end), vague to mild novel spoilers

English isn’t my first language so there will be grammatical errors

Pls don't repost my work anywhere without my permission

Constructive criticisms and any kind of interaction are more than welcome

Requests are open and welcome

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“You will meet someone. A male. They will mean the world to you, and will bring you both trouble and comfort.”

“Miss priestess, you’re from the church of the God of Death, right? Don’t you think things like fortunes are for the God of Fate?”

_____ listened to the priestess’ ramblings. Yes, ramblings. Because that does not make sense to the spearman in the slightest. She was already married to her spear. There’s no way someone, especially a man, will suddenly become her whole world.

It just didn’t seem possible possible.

That was why the spearman did not understand the painful feeling in her chest when she saw Cale’s plate breaking. She couldn’t understand why her heart hurt for a person she just regarded as her employer.

“Everything is going to be fine soon young master. So please hold on a little longer.”

She couldn’t understand why her hands were softly wiping the blood on the redhead’s chin. Can’t understand why the sight of her employer in pain makes her heartache when she knows he's going to be alright.

She just can’t understand it.

+~+~+~+~+~+

“You have thirteen children. Whom you all love equally despite not seeing some of them often.”

“Do you think this is an elaborate prank?”

“I’m not sure but this the second time someone from the Church of the God of Death has given me a prophecy…”

“But 13 children? Really? If they're going to try and scam us at least make it sound believable.”

“I can’t even imagine having one child. Let alone more than ten.”

_____ shivered at the thought of having that many children with her significant other Cale. Turns out their chest pains were because she was in love with the redhead.

It took a whopping 5 months for the two of them to realise their feelings.

Another 2 for them to make a move and finally get together.

While the two are already in agreement that the priestess who said that might be a swindler, a certain silver kitten has another opinion.

She thinks that there’s a misunderstanding.

The priestess didn’t say “will have” but rather said “have”, meaning they already have thirteen children. However, she didn’t say anything and opted to keep her thoughts to herself.

'I’m pretty sure that priestess was talking about us and the wolf children…'

+~+~+~+~+~+

“You are destined to be with a powerful man with a very powerful family. Someone whose family has a long history.”

What now?

Does this mean one day _____ and Cale must break up?

“The family with a long history part checks out since the Henituse family are known to guard the Forest of Darkness.”

The spearman puts her hands underneath her chin as she thinks.

“But a powerful man? You have the weakest plate in existence. A powerful family? The Henituse family is a county. Not a Marquisate or a Duchy…”

Besides her Cale grumbled.

“Have you not learned anything? Just tune it out. This isn’t the first time we’ve heard such bullshit.”

“That’s true… I guess this one bothered me a bit since they implied we’d break up.”

“We won’t”

After the reassurance, _____ and Cale went back to eating their food.

What they don’t know is that a few days later, the Henituse County will be promoted to become the Henituse Duchy.

But at that time the prophecy told to _____ is already forgotten.

+~+~+~+~+~+

“Forbidden love is ahead of you. There will be a time where your own significant other will feel uncomfortable to show you affection.”

Great now the fortune teller scammers from that stupid church are targetting Cale too.

“But we’ve had great communication since the start of our relationship.”

Cale nodded in agreement as he thought about what could “forbidden love” and “uncomfortable with affection” could mean.

Sure they weren’t the most PDA couple but they don’t shy away from showing affection towards each other. They have also had their fights but they are always quickly resolved.

“Forbidden love is also a weird thing to say… Oh my god, Cale don’t tell me you’re planning to cheat on me?!”

Cale was so flabbergasted he said his true thoughts without filter.

“What the fuck?! You’re literally the love of my life??”

The sudden confession got the two of them to shut up. Both were shocked at what the redhead said.

“...You’re the love of my life too.”

“If you love me then you would not remind me of the embarrassing thing I said not even 5 minutes ago.”

As the two laugh, the words of the priestess slowly leave their minds.

However, maybe they shouldn’t have forgotten it when Cale had to disguise himself as Naru von Ejellan, a 12-year-old kid in human years. If they did then maybe they'd understand the priestess' words...

+~+~+~+~+~+

“You troublesome punk! I knew you’re dense but I didn’t expect you to be a blockhead!”

Cale was shocked at Team Leader Lee Soo Hyuk’s irritated voice. One moment they were talking about passing on one of the team leader’s abilities then suddenly he was yelling at Cale.

“Don’t look at me like a gaping fish out of water. I did so much to help you with your love life only for you to disregard my messages!”

“What messages..?”

Cale remembered all the times a priestess from the Church of the God of Death had told them a “prophecy”. 

“That was you?”

“You disrespectful punk, yes it was me.”

“Oh…”

Oh indeed

[simp-ly-writes]

Can you do a Spencer x reader sickfic bc I’m sick rn and it’s bothering me :/

Under the Weather

─────── · · A Smosh Sick-Fic

Pairing: Spencer Agnew x gn!Sick!Reader

─ · · TAGS: gender-neutral pronouns, fluff, sick-fic, comfort, mentions of flu.

─ · · MASTERLIST | TAGLIST REQUEST | WORDCOUNT: 767

─ · · A/N: I'm so sorry that you got sick so soon after your birthday 😔 wishing you health hope you are feeling a bit better now though, dear reader! 🫶

─────── · ·

You wanted to die. Not in the literal sense but it did feel like you were. Through your blurry vision you made out some number over one-hundred on the thermometer before burrying yourself back under the covers as a cold chill ran across your hot and acheing skin.

Fuck, I was supposed to go out today, the notification on your phone blaring through your already pounding head as you groan and look for the off switch before going into a concussive sneezing segment.

"Hey, I grabbed some groceries from the store-" your boyfriend, Spencer mentioned opening the bedroom door as you groaned, throwing your phone to the end of the bed so you could cover your face within the pillows.

"Don't come any closer, might get you sick," you warn, throwing up a hand to wave him away like a white flag yet a dip in the bed has your arm falling back down to your side, the hair getting brushed out from your face as you huff back a cough.

"Have you taken your temperature yet? You're really burning up, honey," Spencer speaks more softly now as you press your head into his cold hand in a cat-like fashion. You can hear the actual cats chasing themselves around the apartment in the background as the air condition comes back on with a subtle hum.

"Yeah, came out to a hundred-something," you mumble out from the pillow, "texted in sick, I feel like shit." Spencer hums out, listening to your words as he takes in your state.

"Can I get you anything? Medication, water, tea, soup, juice? Another blanket-" Spencer rambles, looking at you intently for an answer. You knew he was not going to leave without one.

"Some juice would be great, I think I already drank the rest of it last night through, I'm really sorry if I ended up getting you sick last night, Spence," your tone horse as you cough in between breaths, eyes closing and eyebrows pinned together as another wave of pain radiates through your bones, you feel pathetically limp.

"Hey, none of that. If I get sick, I get sick. Let me take care of you," Spencer leans in, kissing your temple and letting out a small sigh to the subconscious smile you try and fight.

"Mmm-kay," you hum out, falling asleep to Spencers soft caress, his fingers scraping against your scalp, fingers gracing your cheek as you fall into a deep sleep from his touch.

─────── · ·

You did not remember when you feel asleep, what time of day it was or even if a month had passed. Your eyes peeled themselves open, your bones cracking with a satisfying stretch and you smile seeing the cats laying by your feet moving slowly to greet your recently awakened state.

"Its good that you ended up sleeping, I got you some more medication from the drug store and those that lausange flavour you like. I'm making soup too if you think you're ready for it?" Spencer comments, leaning against the doorframe as he observes the cats circling around your lap and the way your hair sticks up in all kinds of directions.

"Only if you eat some with me, and watch the new Dropout episode," you bargain to a playful eye-roll that has your heart racing and not from your sickness. "I'll be back, one sec," Spencer mentions, turning back down the hall as you move yourself to a side of the bed and take the next dose of your medication.

Spencer comes back into the room with a tray, two bowls of piping hot soup and and a few slices of bread and fruit sit next to them in a thoughtful display. "Thank you, honey. You really didn't have to do all this, I would've just been fine with canned soup-"

"But I want you to get better, not just be fine," Spencer cut you off with a smile, placing the tray on your lap before crawling over the bed and reaching to take his own bowl in his lap.

"That was kinda cringe," you mention, but by the way you refuse to make eye-contact with him, staring intently at the bowl of soup in front of you. Spencer chuckles, hand reaching over to rest on your thigh as he rubs small circles into the sore muscle.

"You like cringe, we wouldn't be dating otherwise,' Spencer observes. "I guess you are right," and you both chuckle at that before you begin chocking on your soup as Spencer pats down your back.

"I love you, Spence."

"I love you too."

─────── · ·

─ · · A/N: wheres a Spencer when I need one? lol

─ · · SPENCER AGNEW TAGLIST: @lisiliely @missflufffanfics @little-stitious-studios @thejourneyneverendsx @sibsteria @lizzylynch1

[http-tokki]

i will- katsuki bakugou

~ bakugou katsuki x fem!reader ~ tags/cw: aged up bakugou, angst, established friendships, finally katsuki says something about his feeling, mentions of euthanasia ~ wc: 1.5k ~ final part to the drunk walk home collection part one part two

Saturday 9:13 pm You: hey, are you free?

Saturday 9:15 pm Katsuki: Yeah. Is everything okay?

Saturday 9:15 pm You: yeah, i was just wondering if you were in the area. i kinda need a ride home.

Saturday 9:15 pm Katsuki: Send me the address.

Saturday 9:15 pm You: only if youre not busy, i don't want to bother you. actually, i'm sorry it's okay, ill call an uber. sorry to bother again.

Saturday 9:16 pm Katsuki: Send me the address. I'm coming to get you.

Saturday 9:16 pm You: thank you

----

“I feel like I need to open a tab with you.” You mutter a joke as Katsuki slides into the once-empty seat opposite you.

Now that his large frame occupies the space, humiliation crashes down upon your already slumped shoulders.

You had been stood up.

Left waiting in a restaurant long enough the wait staff had caught onto the situation and slid a complimentary drink onto your pathetic table with a sympathetic grin that is often reserved for stray dogs. You were the human equivalent of a stray dog now if only euthanasia was an option, the mortification would be a little more tolerable.

“A tab for what?” Bakugou asks, hand rising to grab the waiter’s attention.

“You’re always taking me home,” there is a joke there but your spirits had already been crushed beyond belief, you don't need to have your saviour laugh in your face at the insinuation of the two of you together.

Katsuki stares, brows furrowed.

“I said you were taking me home but you’re just driving me home, it’s not like you and I are… or that you’re even-" you shake your head, clearing the shameful attempt at humour from your brain,

His expression does not falter as you ramble so you attempt to clarify again despite wanting to shut up forever.

“It’s a joke about you-“

“I get it but I’m not taking you home and fucking you so why do you need a tab?”

You note the detached way he spits out the words, as if their meaning has no effect on him and you have to fight the frown that tugs at your mouth. Of course, he wouldn't react to that image, why would he? So why are your cheeks flushing and skin prickling with heat that is bubbling beneath the surface?

“Um, I need a tab 'cause you’re like an Uber…” you stumble through the sentence, dejection evident despite your terrible attempt at realigning your posture to appear unbothered.

Bakugou continues to stare at you, unblinking in his visual assessment before he lowers his guard the tiniest inch. His lips lift at the corners as if he wants to smile but can't.

A moment of silence before your apology whooshes out of you in a defeated breath. “I’m sorry, I should have called someone else; I can’t keep doing this to you.”

He shakes his head, eyes following the line of your shoulders as you lean further down. “No, I liked that you called me.”

Whether it was intentional or not, you can't ignore the emphasis on the pronoun and how the smile he had been trying to suppress was beginning to slip out.

“I'd rather you call me than find out you walked home or some stupid shit.”

Oh. Okay.

You smile back, tight-lipped and polite at the correction.

Silence fills the air between you, growing like a gas cloud that threatens to envelop you both with the promise of a dreary and awkward death.

“So, what was his excuse this time?” Katsuki asks.

You debate lying, making up some excuse that didn’t make your current situationship look like a complete and utter asshole, that you hadn’t called said ass in the morning to double, and triple check that he was indeed going to show for the dinner tonight but that would do nothing but embarrass you further and Katsuki would figure it out through his complex web of sources, so you tell the truth.

“There is none.” You shrug, slipping your hands under your stocking-clad thighs, the way you used to upon being scolded. “I just feel stupid.”

“You’re not stupid.” Katsuki comforts, voice gentle as he smiles at you. The softness doesn't last long as he catches himself and reigns it in. “I don’t know how many times I have to tell you that.”

“Why do you do that?” You ask and nod your chin in his direction.

“What?”

“You give me a compliment and then you follow it up with some backhanded comment that makes me feel like you don’t really want to compliment me.” You explain and watch the colour rise in your classmate’s cheeks. “If you don’t want to be nice to me, you don’t have –“

“I want to be nice to you.”  Katsuki cuts in, the confession rushed.

“Then just be nice?”

Bakugou pulls his bottom lip, teeth gnawing on the plush flesh as he thinks of what to say next. You know he can be. Experienced it first-hand a few times now, the most recent being the way he cradled you as you sobbed, stroked your hair from your face and wiped the tears that streaked your face. Despite the brutal armour that surrounds his entire being, there is kindness and warmth simmering just below the metal.

“Am I allowed to be nice to you?” The question is soft, reserved and laced with apprehension.

Your heart squeezes. “Yes, you’re allowed to be nice to me.”

-----

Katsuki drives you home the way he always does.

His phone in your hands to allow for easy DJ duties, watching you from the corner of his eyes as you babble useless facts about the artists or songs, the latest book you were reading, class assignments, or anything else that came to mind. He does occasionally pipe up, offering small topics and opinions but for the most part, he sits and enjoys your company. He likes your company, likes you, and wants to spend more than with you outside of a car, on a date, every day, all day.

"Can I ask you something?" Katsuki’s voice stops you as you reach the door to your apartment complex.

He had insisted on walking you to your door.

“Sure.” You turn back to him, smiling despite the frown pulling at your lips. 

For a moment, his eyes land on you. The usual intensity in his gaze softens for a tenth of a second before he quickly shifts attention to your shoes.

"Why do you keep going back to him?" genuine concern and questioning fills his tone. 

"I... it’s easy and something I know." you shrug. "I’m not sure why. I just...I don't know." You can’t look at him either, heat flooding your cheeks at your inability to answer such a simple question. Why were you continuously going back to a man who disrespects you time and time again, embarrassing you each time?

"You deserve better, you know that right?" a small step forward, closing the already small space between you. "You deserve someone who will actually show up when you need them and hold your hand in public and not just at some party and call you every day and pick you up from work and take you home. Not their home, your home. You deserve someone..."

"Like you?" you offer, hoping he'll say yes and make this easy on you. 

He is quick to answer, suddenly very afraid of where he is taking this conversation. "Not me but someone, not him."

"Ohh, okay." you nod, cheeks blazing in shame. The keys in your hand all too interesting now you had been given an answer to the very much spoken question. "Well, I'll umm...I'll think about it, yeah?" 

Katsuki nods, averting your eyes. 

"Well, thanks again Katsuki. I promise this will be the last time, it's not fair on you but thanks again." you smile, readying yourself to turn and all but sprint into your apartment. "I really mean it, thank you, Bakugou."

You're halfway turned around when you feel a hand on your wrist keeping you from spinning away. Katsuki's hand slides along your waist, gripping the satin on your dress in a white knuckle grip before he presses his lips to yours. You freeze, shock stilling your brain and body for a moment before reality sets in and you're dropping everything to wrap yourself around him. Katsuki loosens his grip, hands reaching up to cup your face with the same gentleness he had held you with all those weeks ago. Your mouth opens beneath his, his tongue swiping along your bottom lip and you pull back, chest heaving as you race to catch your breath. You don't want to not be kissing him but the lack of oxygen was causing your head to spin. Fingers trail along your cheek, curling at your jaw before sliding into your hair.

"Is this you being nice to me?"

Katsuki huffs a laugh. "This is just the beginning of me being nice to you."

----

a/n: not my best work but i feel like i need to post something im sorry

[thoughtsfromlayla]

Destined Dreams of Love: Prologue

Summary: As no stranger to arranged marriages, your parents excitedly marry you off to the king at his request. He is contradictory, cold yet caring, strict yet liberating, it's all too much! He could never love another for reasons you do not understand either, didn't he just meet you? Perhaps in time, you can learn to love him, too.

Warnings: ~1.3k words. Arranged marriage trope, slow burn, alternate universe, eventual smut, miscommunication, general palace drama, no i don't know the rules of royalty, ANGST (It's my specialty)

Tag list is open, just let me know!

Main Masterlist | Series Masterlist

Next

Everything was too much.

Too much fuss, too much noise, too many smells, too many textures. Your mother stands beside you as she fluffs the veil one last time and smoothes your silken dress. The corset you wore was bone-crushing, making the already anxiety-ridden day even harder to breathe. With sweaty, shaking palms, you grab the bouquet of flowers, gripping onto the fragile stems tightly as your only saving grace. 

Your mother moves the veil over your face a few moments before the large doors open. She cups at your face through the see through fabric and looks at you with teary eyes. 

“Oh, my own daughter. Married off to the king at his request,” She gushes with love. “Now, make sure you make him happy, bring honor to our family.” Her last bit of wisdom falls from her lips. 

You couldn’t help the roll of your eyes at her words. You’re no stranger to arranged marriages, it’s quite the normal in the higher social circles that you find yourself in. Your birth was that of an arranged marriage, after all. You are, however, a stranger to King Morpheus. 

That is to say, you have seen his portrait several times, and you would be lying if you were to say he is not of good breeding. He always eluded a sense of authority, even through the layers of paint. Perhaps it was the way he held his head, or his posture, or how lean and muscular shoulders meet slim waists. But then you’d be rambling - and a proper lady does not ramble, you can even hear your mother’s voice echoing the words. 

The music swells in muted harmony on the other side of the heavy doors and you hear the gregarious sound of people standing from the pews as the door slowly opens. Your mother leaves you side and it would be the last time you will feel her comforting arms around you. It takes everything in your willpower to not turn around and beg her to reconsider. But who would defy a king?

Your father stands on the other side of the doors and you walk a few paces to meet his awaiting arm. His face is as stern as always, only more groomed than normal. The crow feet and smile wrinkles are few, but some are discernable to you as you look at him one last time. You can recount each memory those wrinkles came from, few from joy. Perhaps today you will make him proud. To throw away your own dreams and desires for your family. 

He leads forward, your hand slotted to his arm, and your heart pounds louder than the choir. Each step you take, the closer you are to your future, to your soon to be husband. Each step another wish gets left behind in the vibrate but dying petals of fresh flowers. You will never know the warmth of your own bed again, nor the hearth that burns proudly in the drawing room where you like - liked - to spend your time, no more familiar faces to bother you. Your fingers will never dance across the same pianoforte’s glass keys, and they will never caress the old books in the library that talk about love. 

Your father lets go of your arm and you stand on wobbling legs to stare through thin fabric at the new outstretched hand. Pale skin is hidden by midnight black sleeves, trimmed with gold and flames. He wears a formal suit, an equally dark cape draped behind him that pools along the stairs like the night sky fell to the Earth at his feet. Your gloved hand takes his as he helps you up the last few steps. The choir stops, and it is just you and your heart against the world. You take a look at him, and the last of your breath is taken away. 

He’s somehow even more handsome in person, his portraits certainly didn’t lie about his facial structure. In fact, you believe his jawline to be stronger than the paintings. His eyes stare at yours through your veil, an enchanting mercury blue. Cold, but you think if you were to dig far enough, you would find warmth instead. 

A cough from the priest brings you back to the present and you jump slightly in your skin. His thumb runs a soothing finger over the back of your hand, but it somehow does the opposite. It makes him real, it makes the situation real. 

“Distinguished guests, esteemed family members, and honored participants, we gather here today to witness and solemnize the union between His Majesty, King Morpheus, and Lady (Y/N). In the tradition of arranged marriages, this ceremony represents the merging of two families…” The priest’s voice fades into a muddle, the monotone reading of the speech out of an old dusty book ornate with gold and jewels. 

You find your eyes wandering to anything you could see without moving. Yet they always returned to those cold mercury blue eyes. You knew nothing about this man, even the news articles the school boy brings every week never spoke of anything specific about the king. He wasn’t known to be the closest to his subjects, only ruling them from a six foot long pole. Would he be the same behind closed doors? Only calling you when he demands it? Or will he be something else, something different? 

All questions to be answered in due time, for sure, but is it wrong to ask now? Before you are tied to this man until your dying breath? 

“In the presence of witnesses and under the guidance of tradition, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may seal your vows with a kiss.” The priest finishes. 

You blink when the speech is over. King Morpheus takes a step closer to you and you think your heart is going to jump out of your chest and plunge itself into the nearby sea. His hand leaves yours and slowly lifts the veil, a slight smile is apparent on his face. A blink and you would have thought you imagined it. The veil falls behind you and you are completely presented to your king, the flimsy fabric the last of your defenses. 

His warm breath tickles across your glossed lips before he pushes forward with a kiss. Soft lips meet your own, tasting of sweet wine and berries and leaves you dizzy. You always thought your first kiss would be that of romance, something you read in your many books. Where you had run off into the forest and stolen a kiss with a forbidden lover, shared only between the two of you and full of giggles and promises to run away together. How ironic it is instead with the strictest setting possible, witnessed by the entire court of his kingdom. 

His fingers find their way to your cheek, thumb caressing the soft skin. 

“I could never choose to love another,” He hums while he looks at you. It was hard to discern what kind of emotion he was showing as he didn't show any at all.

His declaration shocks you and yet… calms down all of your nerves and never ending questions at the same time. His voice was not what you had expected it to be. Somewhere in your head, you had convinced yourself that his voice would be harsh, cold, and rough like the oak trees that shaded the river. Instead you are lulled to him by his voice, it’s soft and deep. He speaks slowly with no rush in his tone at all. It’s a voice of seduction and authority, a voice that knows its importance and will be listened to. 

Your own voice finds itself as you respond. “Maybe one day, I’ll could learn to love you, too.” 

“I will wait, my dear.” He breathes out, yet he doesn't meet your eyes quite so.

“May I present His Majesty the King and Her Majesty the Queen Consort.” The priest announces. The King drops your hands immediately as if you were made of hot iron and turns to the crowd, any sentiment the two of you shared, lost immediately.

Cheers erupt around you, flowers following their excitement as the marriage is sealed in golden ink.

☾ ✴ ๋࣭ ⭑․⋆⋮. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁⋆⭒˚.⋆⋮⋆․ ․⋆⋮. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁⋆⭒˚.⋆⋮⋆․ ․⋆⋮. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁⋆⭒˚.⋆⋮⋆․

Main Masterlist | Series Masterlist

Next

[c-u-c-koo-4-40k]

Not story more ramble but I will still tag.

@egrets-not-regrets @bleedingichorhearts @kit-williams @sleepyfan-blog @barn-anon

Spoilers for Warhammer Fulgrim Lore.

I think the husbandry fandom has missed a profound opportunity for some juicy conflict!

So we have some general agreed upon notions for how certain legions react to Husbandry Terra. Now obviously not all of a single space marine type behave the same way but there be trends.

Salamanders, Ultramarines, Blood Angels, Thousand Sons, Space Wolves, Imperial Fists: these groups generally accept bonds and human companionship as they had decent human contact in their original timeline.

Then you've got the grumps who love the attention but getting them to admit it is like Pulling Teeth: Night Lords, Iron Hands and Iron Warriors.

But we have been missing out! On a delightfully painful side of our favorite premadonnas. The Emperor's Children.

Now they and their sire Fulgrim are often stereotyped as such. Elegant, pompous, snooty and post heresy they go completely mask off a drive full into unbound freak territory.

But their story is much more tragic than a spoiled brat leading other spoiled brats into serving the God of overdoing things.

Fulgrim isn't spoken of as much in terms of being screwed over, but looking closer he really was.

Shot to an awful industrial planet where he watched his adopted family struggle to feed him let alone themselves. It would give anybody a complex.

Needing to be useful, needing to contribute, needing to not be a burden.

And once the The Big E showed up it didn't get much better.

His sons? Suffer a geneflaw that gives them astarte cancer. He not only loses many of them, but has to make due with what he has left. Meaning no matter how well trained, he just can't conquer planets at the rate dear old dad wants him to.

His brothers? Got there own issues and probably don't take Fulgrim's struggles seriously. He's just at that spot of "Wow that sucks," and "But the others have it worse.' He probably doesn't feel like he can talk deeply to anyone.

So Fulgrim does what many unloved children do, in fact he does the same thing as Perturabo, Pushes Himself to The Breaking Point.

In Fulgrim's case, any failures he blames completely on himself. Where Perty lashes out, Fulgrim turns inward.

Until he just can't take it anymore. He decides he's going to finally be selfish. Commit fully to the pleasures and pain so he never has to remember the agony he feels, that he will Never, be good enough

Heck killing Ferrus probably cemented that feeling in him. I'm not worth anything, so why bother trying to be good. Why not just be the absolute Worst.

Heavy stuff. But this leads me to my main musing.

In 40k the sins of the father very much affect the sons.

So my proposition is...you think other space marines are clingy? They hold not a Candle to an Emperor's Child. Especially one post heresy.

If you show an EC that they can be open, vulnerable, Imperfect, around you, and you don't immediately turn tail and run from the baggage, You Will Never Escape.

They don't just crave intimacy, they crave stability, affection, LOVE.

And if you give them any indication you'll supply it, they will Never let themselves be cut off.

[thethreeeyed-raven]

Hello, I don’t know if you wrote for male readers and if you don’t please ignore this request, but I would like to request an Eloise x Prince reader, he is trying to court her ever since he saw her at a ball but she is herself so it is difficult for him to court her because of her distaste for men.

Have a good day

She will not marry me

navigation | warnings : none? | a/n : if this isn’t what you wanted then i’m sorry, let me know if you want a part two :) | bridgerton masterlist | tags : @knight-of-flowerss @lost-in-fiction-like-ur-mom

↠ part two | ↠ part three

Queen Charlotte had failed to find a match for her nephew, the Prince Frederick of Prussia, so she had decided to invite another one of her nephews into the country, you.

Since you had stepped foot into her palace, she had been forcing you to attend balls, with mama's throwing their daughters at you in hopes of a marriage proposal.

But you had your eye on one woman in particular.

Eloise Bridgerton had captured your eye at one of your Aunt's balls just a few months ago, her eccentric behavior from across the room drawing you in.

You had come to learn that the slightly smaller woman she was always with was Penelope Featherington, her mother was constantly bothering you with one of her other daughters.

And you had come to learn that the man she was always chatting with was her brother Benedict Bridgerton.

You quite enjoyed the company of her brother, conversing of art and architecture. But you had yet to have a chat with the beauty herself.

"Benedict!" You approached him with a smile on your face, ready to envelope him in a small hug.

"Y/n! How are you? Has the Queen introduced you to more of the eligible ladies of the Ton?" Benedict chuckled, you following after.

"Not yet, but the night has just begun."

As you both conversed, you had failed to notice the woman that was approaching you both.

"Brother! You must help me!"

"What is it now Eloise?" Benedict rolled his eyes at his sisters hysterics.

"Mother is trying to set me up with some old wrinkly lord! The man can't even carry an intellectual conversatio-" She exclaimed.

"Eloise."

Benedict's warning didn't stop Eloise from her angry rambling, you thought it was endearing.

"Eloise!"

"Benedict, I'm being serious-" Eloise exclaimed, before stuttering and turning her head towards you who stood waiting patiently.

She looked between you and Benedict. "Benedict, who is this?"

Benedict smiled apologetically at you, but you simply dismissed it with a wave of your hand.

"It is a pleasure to meet you at last Miss Bridgerton. I am Prince Y/n, one of the Queen's many nephews."

"Ah, yes. Lovely to meet you, yes." Eloise shook your hand exasperatedly and dragged Benedict away from you.

"You have that love-sick look in your eye." Your Aunt Charlotte ripped you attention away from the tiny intricate plate which sat in front of you. "I like it."

You peered at her from over your cup, watching the smirk on her face turn into a grin.

"So, my dear Y/n, who is making you feel like this?"

You set your cup down on the saucer, unimpressed. "Why does it always have to be someone?"

"So it is someone!" Charlotte clicked her fingers and ordered everyone out of the room. "Who?"

"I-" You wet your sudden dry lips before continuing. "I don't know if you would approve of her Auntie."

Charlotte reached over and grabbed your free hand which rested on the table. "I don't care who it is as long as they make you happy."

"She doesn't want to marry."

Charlotte's smile dropped.

"She certainly won't marry a Prince. Eloise Bridgerton will not marry me."

"Eloise...Eloise..." Charlotte said in thought. "She will marry you, with a little convincing.

She gave you a wink and exited the room, leaving you to shake your head in exasperation.

[divinesolas]

Summary: Your friend was invited to a party and she begs you to tag along. While at the party they decide to play truth or dare and your friend knowing you have a crush on the cute guy from your english class, gives you a stupid dare.

pairing: Ethan Landry × gn!reader Drabble

warnings: alternate universe where there's no ghostface or whatever. I've never seen a scream movie before but i like ethan, oc best friend, cursing, making out.

a/n: not my usual fandom but i was just inspired to write this

PART TWO !!

While staring at your best friend in betrayal all you can think about how much you regret coming.

Only just hours ago you remember sitting on your bed on the phone with your best friend mars while she ranted to you about how much she wanted you to come. "pleeeeeeeeeeeee ease." you roll your eyes, "i don't feel like it mars."

"ugh," you can hear her shuffling through the phone, "just come with me please? for me?" "mars..." "'Il write that english paper youve been dreading for you." "Fine."

You two arrive at the party and you just follow her around the whole time. You notice than is here. The guy who sits next to you during english who you just so happen to have a major crush on. You've never spoken other than him asking if you have an extra pen during class after he forgot his one time. When he gave it back to you he has this charming grin on his face and you fell instantly.

He's standing next to another guy, you think his name is chad? You cant be bothered to care when he looks in your direction and notices you and your stare, his face flushes as he looks down at the cup in his hand. You turn away and look towards your friend whos giving you a suspicious grin. "what." "go talk to him." "no way."

she shakes her head at you and turns away that grin still on her face and you dont like it.

now you know why you didn't like it. Someone had suggested you guys play truth or dare like fucking children and when it happens to be your turn and guess who happens to be the one giving you the dare. "I dare you to..... sit in the pantry for seven minutes, ill send someone into join you." Fucking mars.

You knew who she would send it, "unless you're a pussy." you glared at her as everyone oo'ed. You huff as you get up and walk towards the pantry and slam it behind you dreading the inevitable.

the closet is small yet you keep your back turned towards the door. Its only maybe a minute before the door opens and you feel another presence enter as mars shouts, "Seven minutes starts... now!" You feel a warm body press against yours as the door slams shut.

You don't turn you dont even look before you begin to speak. "Im sorry." Theres a moment of silence, "For what?" Its him. "My friend mars, she's..... She's probably making you do this im sorry." He probably doesn't even know your name and now she has you standing your backside pressed against him.

"No she isn't making me do this." Now this confuses you as you turn your body, you back side brushing against his front and he whimpers slightly as you face him. "What."

His body gets warmer as if to reflect how embarrassed he feels, "She asked if there was anyone who wants to go in there with you." no way. "and you volunteered." you look at him the best you can in the dark as he avoids your face. "Yes."

"Why?" He pauses for a brief moment, "i've always thought you were gorgeous." Your breathe gets caught in your throat. "I've always wanted to talk to you you know since we sit next to each other but i've never known how to start a conversation so when i got this opportunity i just wanted to be near you-" He's rambling so You kiss him.

Once his initial shock wares off he takes your face into his hands eagerly as he kisses you back. you press him back against the door and he hums in delight. "One more minute love birds!" Its chad voice you think. You pull back out of breath, "Ethan-" he slams his lips back against yours, when you press your body against his he whimpers and hums. you hold him against you as theres a knock on the door,

"times up lovebirds make sure you're clothed because im going to open to the door." Ethan pulls away from the door and you two look at each other in daze.

as the door opens you move to whisper in his ear "We'll finish this later." as you spin him around and walk pantry with a satisfied look on your face. "You're welcome you bitch.

[unadulterated-syd]

ethan landry x gn!reader

synopsis — a funky way of doing dating hcs

this is how i see ethan,, if u don't like it that's okay !! but this is how i'll continue to write him <3

(he's not the killer in any of my fics bc im in denial)

ethan landry, somehow the coolest guy in your eyes whilst also being the biggest loser you'd ever met.

when it came to dating him, it was a total shock. not necessarily that you'd managed to get with him, but more so that he'd had the guts to ask you out.

it started with inviting you to little hangouts, eventually managing to ask you on a real date. though he hadn't even told you it was a "date" inviting you to see a movie with you under the assumption the whole group would be there.

'i heard this movie was sooo good, dude.' you'd mentioned, walking with him as you held your ticket.

'yeah, that's why i wanted to take you..' he hummed nervously, almost fumbling at ever crack in the sidewalk.

only for him to reveal minutes into the previews that it was a date, and that no one else was showing.

'where are they, dude, always late.'

'about that...!'

nonetheless it didn't take him long to win you over, he was a loser but so were you at heart. not to mention the amount of times he'd gone on and on about random things.

rambling all night, with no clear plans for the future. it never mattered who was there, or what about, as long as he talked.

you liked his voice, and he liked yours.

'no way that'd work he'd have to have like come down and unleashed hell or something insane—'

'can you losers shut up, i can feel reddit waiting to swallow me up because of this' mindy shouted from the kitchen of sams apartment.

'shh mindy he's onto something!' you defended, rolling your hand in a gesture to continue as he let a bright smile escape.

or how at parties he wouldn't drink, because he was scared he wouldn't be able to handle it well. he didn't want to get to clingy, or whiney, he knew he'd be like a lovesick puppy.

and when you drank so much that you'd force him to slow dance inside the crowed house— to loud club music.

'y/n...' he protested, as you pressed your weight against him, hollering lyrics he couldn't be bothered to memorize.

'hush, dude, im totally dancing with my boyfriend right now.' you called loudly, over the music.

and some nights you'd sneak up his fire escape, and stay the night as you told him all about your day.

sometimes while you were over you could convince him to let you draw on his hands— as much as he complained his heart jumped whenever chad asked why he was covered in poorly drawn stars.

'my english teacher gave me a 58 on my essay today, i need you to study with me next time.' you sighed, scribbling stars on his knuckles.

'i could write it for you' he hummed, eyes trained on his phone idly, 'unless you wanted to spend time together—'

and when he could be, he was wrapped in your arms. he never really liked to explain himself, and you never asked.

and when he'd drunkily told you it was because you made him feel safe, he was in your arms even when he couldn't be— at work, in class, anywhere. because you wanted him to be safe.

'you don't think im a loser do ya' he slurred, the crown of his head pressed into your collarbone, as he looked up at you.

'no, pretty, i don't' you whispered, your eyes trained forward, watching as chad drunkily took his turn of some dumb guess who game.

'thanks.' he grinned, not looking away from you, 'your like— like a knight or something. keepin me safe..'

'yeah, okay princess.' you teased.

—

tags -> none !

send an ask to be added to the taglist + hes not in my character list bc im lazy but send in for him anyway :))