#because my hands were covered in dog shit and bleeding and numb from the cold ans being bit

[fiinalgiirls]

I’ll be on tomorrow !! I was bit by a dog I was trying to rescue ( and succeeded ) today so my hands hurt and I’m just tired in general.

#also that dog got shit all over me and i loat my keys chasing him #and so i had to call my spouse for help #because my hands were covered in dog shit and bleeding and numb from the cold ans being bit #after a 13 hour shift #what a day lmao

[emmy-writes-sometimes]

Surprise?

           You attempt to make Tom’s favorite meal after he’s had a bad day, but it doesn’t end up like you expected it to.

           Pairing: Tom Holland x reader

           Word count: 1, 137 (this is much shorter than what I usually write, so I’m calling this more of a blurb.)

-

           “How’s your day been so far?” You asked your boyfriend as you balanced your phone on your thigh, using your other bare thigh to paint one of your nails. He’d left that morning before you could even say good morning to him, and you knew part of it was because he was stressed about a hard scene he was going to have to film. You could hear in his breathing that he was still stressed out.

           “It’s going?”

           “So it’s shit?”

           “Yep.” You sighed, feeling bad for him. You wished you could give him a hug and feel his worries melt away, but he was a few miles away and you were just on your lunch break from work.

           “I’m sorry, babes. But, hey, don’t eat dinner on your way home. I’ll get it tonight. You deserve some home cooking.” You could tell his face lit up. You almost never cooked, you usually got delivery or he picked something up on his way home, but maybe a home-cooked meal and a movie night would make him feel a little better and help him get a head start for the weekend since he was going to have to memorize a new set of lines before the next week.

           “You don’t have to. I know you’ve got a lot of work.”

           “I wanna make you feel better, Tommy. Just text me when you’re almost done and I’ll have it ready for you. And we can take a bath and watch a movie, too, if you’re not too tired.”

           “That would be amazing. You’re the best, love.”

           “I know. I love you.”

           “I love you too.” You let him hang up first and scrolled through Tik Tok, waiting for your nails to dry. Then you got up, made yourself a cup of soup for lunch, and went back to work. Eventually Tom texted you that he was almost done so you signed yourself out and went downstairs.

           You decided on pizza, since it was one of Tom’s favorite things ever, and you had some dough that needed to be made before it went bad. So you started getting all of his favorite ingredients and slapping them on, and eventually you were putting it in the oven. You set it for twenty minutes like you were supposed to and sat down in front of the oven, petting Tessa and playing with her ears as you waited.

           It was time to take the pizza out and you grabbed a glove, opening the oven. Your other hand went to turn it off. Tessa surged forward, smelling the pizza, and you attempted to push her back. At the same time, your forearm touched the oven’s seal. Oh, shit. You screamed and the dog ran away, and of course you felt bad.

           You looked down and your arm was blistering, rapidly turning a different color. There was even a little bit of blood, and of course your whole arm went numb. That you were thankful for – you’d been burned before and it wasn’t the greatest feeling in the world. This was definitely a big burn.

           “Hey, darling!” You heard from the other room. That was the same time when you started crying, yelling out just as you heard the lock click. Tom rushed over, grabbing your arm, and of course he grabbed the burn.

           “OW!” You yelled, jumping away from him. He saw the burn and his eyebrows furrowed. Your arm was starting to be the opposite of numb. It was probably the worst pain you’d felt in a long time. You breathed through gritted teeth. Your vision started to go dark, just at the shock running through your blood.

           “Ice, ice,” you heard Tom mutter to himself. He grabbed a clean rag and grabbed a few ice cubes from the freezer. He turned around and plugged up the sink, put the ice in, and turned the water cold.

           “What are you doing?” You asked as you felt the heat surging through your body. You were still crying, but only because it hurt. You weren’t shocked anymore. You understood what had happened.

           “Dip your arm in the water, now,” he ordered you. You didn’t have time to argue. You stuck your arm in the filled-up sink and tried not to yell again, biting down on your lower lip with your two front teeth so hard that you felt it bleeding, too.

           “This isn’t…” You started to tell him it wasn’t helping, but the pain started to subside just a little bit. He wrapped his arms around you from behind, laying his head in your shoulder and kissing the bit of bare skin that your shirt didn’t cover.

           “Just calm down for a minute,” he said in a soothing, quiet voice. You stood there, arm under the sink, as Tom went up the stairs to the bathroom. He came back in a minute with the box of first aid tools you had. The both of you were extremely accident prone, so of course you had a massive first aid kit. He also had jelly in his other hand from underneath the bathroom sink. You turned the water off and stood there for a second as he got the softest towel you had.

           “I’m gonna dry this off,” he said, gently pressing the cloth on your arm. You sucked in a heavy breath and he looked at your eyes, wondering if he should stop, but you shook your head.

           “Surprise, I guess?” You said tearfully. That made him laugh as he kissed your forehead.

           “I appreciate the effort. How did you even do this?” He looked at the oven that was cooling and making a loud noise, and then at the dog who had wandered in the room at the sound of your crying.

           “Trying to get Tess away,” you explained as you sniffled. Tom removed the towel from your arm, accidentally taking some skin with it, and that hurt more than touching it in the first place. You started crying a little again and he lifted you up with his arms onto the counter. He turned the extra light on so he could see it better and carefully put the jelly on before putting a big bandage on it.

           “Was the pizza done?” He asked as he looked toward the dark oven.

           “Tom!” He giggled.

           “You’re more important.”

           “I’m sorry. I tried to do something nice for you and you end up taking care of me. As always.”

           “Think of it as payback from when you had to see if I got a concussion because I fell down the stairs the other week.” You leaned your head onto his shoulder, putting your non-burned arm around him. “I love you. No matter how many times you burn your arm making my dinner.”

           “I love you too, Tommy.”

Taglist: @an-adventureland, @firstangeldragonranch, @ssebstann, @winterreader-nowwriter

#tom holland x reader #tom holland x female reader #tom holland fluff #tom holland imagine #tom holland blurb

[lordiedams]

So, I just like posting fanfics

AO3

Fandom: Left 4 dead 

Warnings: guns, gunshot, blood, hunter. 

Audrey is a girl just trying to stay alive after the outbreak of the green flu. Everythings ended up so much weirder after meeting a new unusual friend.

Sleeping comfortably wasn’t a normal think on her life anymore, and for the last five weeks, she was almost fine with that, the safest place around was an old house by the south of the town she was currently stuck in. Her current makeshift bed was just a bathtub with her backpack as a pillow, the comfort of the apocalypse.

Her day started at 5AM, sitting at the same bathtub that also served as bed, brunet dirty hair messily wrapped on a very short and out of place ponytail, while counting the supplies on her backpack a landing sound came to her ears.

Audrey held her breath, trying to concentrate on the noise, but whatever it was, decided to be quiet now. Instinctively grabbing her pistol, putting backpack on one shoulder and stepping slowly and carefully on the wood floor of the room and out of the tub.

The soft creaking noise of the upper floor kept the attention, her eyes on the ceiling trying to follow the steps, with heart pounded on the chest and a pistol to defend herself.

A simple infected was easy to take down, but she was in trouble if something bigger or stronger than that decided to pay a visit.

Slow and steady steps took her upstairs, the room of someone that, on Audrey’s book, could be dead by now. A big chunk of the wall in front of the staircase was missing, and she could see the street below. Soft growls brought the attention to the far end of the room behind the bed, the hooded infected distractively scavenge for something that Audrey wasn’t sure it would find.

Maybe, she thought, walking very slowly back downstairs would keep the infected attention away from her, the hunter could keep doing its thing and just leave her alone.

 Crack.

 Audrey stopped breathing again, she didn’t move, it wasn’t her. The hunter seems to have stepped on an old pen on the ground, it wasn’t important or even threatening but put him on edge, his nose in the air tracking for whatever was close. She needed to get out of there right now.

She kept moving backwards downstairs, shooting the hunter would be a big mistake, it would attract any other infected in the area and she was more than sure that the pistol didn’t had enough bullets to all of them, the best shot was just getting out of there stealthily.

Her hand touched the cold knob, turning it and pushing it to open the door, Audrey winced at the unexpected loud crack, it didn’t made so much noise when she came in the night before, the growling got louder and soon the hunter was jumping for the staircase, sniffing around for the intruder, with a loud growl, it was obvious he had tracked her.

 Audrey ran as fast as she could, her steps tapping against the concrete while her lungs ached for oxygen, not even daring to look behind her. But it wasn’t needed, the Hunter let out a blood chilling screech from the rooftop before jumping to the next one, maybe to let her know that he was going to get her.

 Her desperation took her to a dead end, her eyes darted around the alley, hoping for a place to escape by. But it was too late, the creature growled loudly behind her, she turned around to be face to face with the hunter.

─ Shit. ─ She cried, her trembling hands holding the pistol and pointing at the infected.

The hunter didn’t seem to fear the gun, he kept growling at her, his body lowering to the ground, ready to pounce her.

 ─ I’m going to blow your fucking face, don’t you dare. ─ Audrey mumbled audibly, pointing the pistol at the hunter’s face.

 The hunter screeched again even louder, her ears ringed and her head hurt, enough to distract her for a second for the pounce. Her back and head banged against the concrete and she drop the pistol that slide away from her.

Audrey’s head hurt from the impact; it was almost impossible to a young skinny woman to get up with a 120kg Hunter on top of her. His claws were ready to rip through her clothing, but with all that struggle, it was hard to keep his balance on her.

─ Get of me you fucker! ─ Audrey screamed, holding her backpack and slamming against the infected, stunting him enough for a change to get pushed away from his victim.

Crawl away, she managed to grab the pistol in time for his next pounce. With another screech the infected tried again.

 Bang.

 One shot on his shoulder was enough to make it fall backwards. He got himself up fast, the adrenaline pumping through his veins was enough to numb the pain now. Audrey was ready for another pounce, but it never came. Instead, the creature bounced on the wall, grabbing her backpack with his mouth before jumping on the rooftop of the next building.

─ Wait! No! ─ She screamed, getting up as fast as she could. ─ That’s my backpack you mother fucker!

With a loud growl she ran behind the hunter, trying to follow the drips of blood, that backpack was precious, it was everything she had left. The infected jumped from a building to another, making a trail of blood, the backpack in his mouth until he disappeared around the corner.

 The rain came a few hours later, and never leaved, Audrey just kept walking, the trail was still there, and with all her strength hoped that the water didn’t wash it away, wet brunet hair stubbornly getting on her face occasionally. The streets have been quite silent the last couple of hours, one or two infected would appear stumbling and get a shot on the face if it decided to try its own luck on the survivor, but nothing else seems to be wanting a big bullet on its forehead today nor even wanting to get a little bit of what sunlight they had left for the last bit of day.

The brunette has been tracking the hunter for quite a few hours now, following the bloody path down the street, it stopped after a few more buildings, meaning that it decided to go up again, Audrey decided to just keep going forward, it was possible that the hunter already had got away with her only supplies but it was worth a shot to keep looking.

 She eventually got to an old church, looking abandoned like all the rest. The big colored windows, that Audrey had forgot the name of, were broken beyond repair with blood sprinkled on it, like if something had come in with a bloody wound.

 Her head kept moving her forward with the excuse that she needed that backpack, it wasn’t a yes or no situation, she needed it and couldn’t just let the creature take it from her.

With the last bit of courage and stupidity that she still had inside her body, pale hands slowly pushed the door open, the creak from the old door was the only thing echoing inside the place.

 The main entrance was carnage, now she knew what happened with the last survivors of that city, bodies were scattered all around the place, painting the wood floor with that vibrant red. The smell was putrid and disgusting, no sane human would like that.  

The girl examined some of the bodies, most of them had big scratch marks and lacerations through all the body especially the chest and stomach.

 - Hunter... Definitely Hunter... – Audrey whispered in disgust, she saw the creature doing that same marks on living survivors before, but couldn’t be sure if that was the same hunter.

 - Fuck. – Another whisper when she heard movement coming from the small room in the back of the small stage.

She kept the pistol in hands while making her way to the room, the noises weren’t loud, more like a soft and quiet whimpering, it wasn’t a witch, didn’t sound like a woman.

With a quick motion, Audrey opened the door, gun pointing at the very first figure she saw in there.

 There he was, the hunter, the backpack thief. There was blood around him, and the brunette was almost sure it was mostly his. The bullet had hit him in the shoulder, it soaked his hoodie around the wound and by the whimpering, she could presume it was hurting quite a bit.

 The infected growled upon seeing her, but didn’t move, the backpack by his feet, some things scattered around, but most importantly, the only med kit. By the looks of it, he tried to open it up.

─ Can’t do it, huh? ─ She asked sarcastically. ─ Will put you out of your misery.

The pistol was pointed to his head, the hunter didn’t fight back, it looked weak from the blood loss and maybe even wishing a end for the pain.

Click.

…

ClickClick.

 ─ Shit. ─ Audrey growled, putting her gun down.

The hunter put himself in a pouncing position for a couple of seconds but awkwardly stumbled back into a half laying down. It didn’t have enough straight to attack.  

Audrey had to think, the creature was weak but would fight if threatened too much, she was sure.

 ─ I…I can make it better. ─ She blurted out, putting both her hands in the air to show that she wasn’t a threat, maybe it was crazy but at this point any idea was worth a shot.

 The infected looked up, she didn’t know if just because of her voice or if he understood what it was said.

 ─ I can… I can heal you, but for that I need my backpack. ─ She softly explained, pointing at the brown backpack at his feet, the hunter didn’t respond.

 ─ I can help you, will stop the bleeding and you can live… ─ For the first time, she took a good look at him. He wasn’t the biggest hunter she has unfortunately met, but that didn’t make him less intimidating, with a dark grey hoodie and blond hair covering his eyes and a bit of his nose. Her eyes would go from the backpack to the hunter a bunch of times, the infected looked like it was thinking about it.

 It was so weird seeing one so vulnerable. It looked almost like a tired old dog, just waiting for the death. It almost looked human.

Then he moved.

#l4d #l4d2 #l4d hunter #l4d survivor #fanfic #first chapter #After the end of the world

[maxbradley]

Crash

***[Mature Content]***

"Get outta here, Brad." Shoving him off. The humidity must have shortened brain circuits because the next thing the black dog knew was that his muzzle was pressed against a nearby locker—swollen hands blocked the horizontal fall, and were made numb— "Listen, Goof boy." Turned him 'round and jabbed straight at the face—"Hrr-” — A bit of blood and sweat trickled down Maximilian's bare chest. Livid eyes burned holes through Uppercrust's contorted face, "Listen to what?!" The hands slammed themselves up to the other's chest to thrust him back into another metal object, which clattered and shook violently. The sophomore stormed off down the narrow pathway, waist towel in hand. He had barely gone ten feet when a rough arm gagged the neck, putting him into a lock— "Brad!-” Coughing— "Let go!!”— The yell became a scream "As you wish you little fucker!" A strong kick to the back sent Max reeling to the stone floor. The blood from the initial attack slithered onto the cracked surface. The only thing that ran through his brain was revenge—A near killer instinct that never gave halfway during that triathlon of an event—

Both rough hands pulled back at sandy brown hair as the standing figure's thick eyebrows raised as he inhaled deeply, letting the adrenaline slide— "Max, Max, Max. Do I really have to remind you why I'm like this?" A small chuckle. "No, you don't." By now Max had gotten himself up again, wiping off the bodily fluid from the side of his mouth. The left side sported a purple bruise. The humidity—the warm water vapor helped in nothing to control his shaky intake. "Let go of it, Brad. What's done is done. Shut the hell up and get outta here. I have no time to deal with a loser like you— The brows on the jock were still raised. Max had expected a sudden fury; the face showed little to no emotion, but the next actions spoke volumes. Again wheeled around to the side of the lockers, banging at the side and back of the kid's head—Every blow more sickening than the last—violent, unforgiving—hot loathing to the core. It was soon making contact with one of the shower poles and the protruding knobs. The white dog was never done and threw the victim onto the tile wall coming back with a supernatural grasp giving even more thrusts of the head and body on the white plane. All this time the boy screamed—shrieked in fury and pain. Convulsions didn't cease until the scarlet liquid seeped into his gloves. Max Goof was choking on his own flesh and blood— "You IDIOT! Do you have any idea what you and your team did to my reputation?!" No sympathy. No pride. Undiluted hate. "You- you've deserved everything that happened to you." The boy was murmuring down at the waist cloth sprinkled red and white. He didn't dare make eye contact this time; he was afraid to face the very thing that undermined his being back in high school… back when he—himself—was the loser. A cough let the coagulated blood fall between their feet. Bits touched the predator's toes. Dark blue eyes peered down before returning to the crooked head. Fingers wrapped themselves around the kid's neck and forced eye contact— "Today, Goof, you've lost." Words could not describe the darkened features of the young man's countenance. Once so full of emotion and life, Brad seemed so subdued that the enigmatic smile was all of a sudden more than just a show of pride. A heartbeat shot Max's emotions to the stratosphere— Humiliation, hatred, and insecurities broke into sobs. This change of pace took the sports fanatic by surprise, releasing the grip on the kid's windpipe, letting him sink down to the reddened tile. Salty tears washed away the gore… From the blue a fresh towel was thrust into his lap, "Shut the fuck up. You're a man—Now, get up before I make you." The black dog buried his wet face into the cloth, soaking up as much of the excess as he could. The stained gloved hand pulled at dark hair and stayed there, while the other did pull weight together to get himself up. The waist towel loosened, nearly fell off—but was saved in the nick of time. This little wardrobe malfunction startled Brad—flesh tone changed color and made him turn around to scan the locker room to see if anyone had heard in on anything that occurred. Splashes of a crusted red umber decorated the number of impacts given for the poor bastard. Against his will, the human side bounced back, not helping to stop the guilt that scorched his soul. The breathing had become just as shallow as the other. What the hell have I done? – A bead of sweat rolled down his neck. Am I really that angry? Dammit! Why does he have to be so cute?! Why is he so determined to make a fool of himself; and so full of life, friends—Family! Shit! I'm a jealous bitch! "Brad…-- Whipping his hair back—"What?!" Abnormal and hollow; eyes wild. "Don't even get near me anymore. Don't talk to me— Uncontrolled feelings flooded into fleshed strong arms—One on the shoulder, one on the waist. Both canines were shaking, and the overbearing humidity did not aid one bit in finding their sanity— "Don't touch me." Pink attacked the boy's cheeks as the reality struck him cold. Bleeding and all, a tongue rammed into the warm crevice and nearly sucked out the feeble life he had left. The boy was about to crash down and burn again when the other arm took an iron clamp up and down the exposed back pulling him forward, closer than ever before. Bellies were touching—Max grabbed a strong hold wrapping himself around the man's shoulders for support in partial fear of dragging Brad down with him. The lip lock broke for an instant, "I want your fury—I want your spirit. Give me everything it took to win!" The command injected newfound energy. The hands on Brad's neck dug into the nerve, onto the shoulder blades and onto his back—leaving imprints wherever the gloves made contact with the bare skin as their mouths clasped onto each other—traveling down the forehead, bruised cheek and eyelid down to each other's neck and collarbone—varied to each other and never in sync. The jock wanted to break the boy's vertebrae, ribcage—arm—anything, just to get a whimper or a yelp of pain— The expression that played on both faces was not that of bliss, but of incessant rivalry, mixed into that of confused pleasure and stimulation— "Stop—we should stop—please, Brad," panting. "Bradley." Another deep kiss led to a fumble of hands rubbing at bare chests, up and down Max's slender sides, finally reaching that last cover, "You won't be needing this anymore— The sudden refusal knocked the senior down, slipping on the slick tile along the way. Head fell with a thunk— "Ohh—what the hell-!!" Massaging that little bump, which was nothing compared to the blood loss at the back of the Goof boy's skull. Max, as satisfied as he was, only displayed a show of disgust… Or, was it a longing for something other than the lying body at his feet? "Maximilian—we got a good thing going here—why stop now??" "Roxanne." "… what.. ?" A phlegm-filled gulp—"Roxanne." How was it possible, after all the times he suppressed her very existence, hitting it off with other girls—her image was all of a sudden as vivid as death? "Your first time?" Brad was leaning forward in curiosity in an all-too-casual sitting. His neck bent back to try and find the answer in the kid's reddened eyes. "…. No." ~~ "But, what do you mean I can't see you again?" "A lot's been going on, and I can't take you with me." "Roxanne, please—I'll even transfer out of this campus— Slapped away, "Come back to your senses, Goof!"~~ As the name rang like mad in his ears, the 19 year old peered over the guy in front of him again. No, Roxanne was not his first time—she wasn't even a lover. No one ever was… His weakened heart suddenly ached for some pure form of affection. And now, it seemed that his last chance at true happiness had flown away… The only thing left was an empty shell of lust—a primitive desire. All he ever knew was school, friends and sports… Roxanne and his dad. The last fence to hurdle, separating him from selling his soul to the devil, who took advantage of his hesitant stature, "Relax, Goof, everything's gonna be fine— Everything's gonna be fine. Everything was thrown back to a sharp clarity. What the hell was he doing? What would happen if his father found out about this? The expression of worry was blatant. "Oh, Max. Nobody's gonna know what we did here. At least, I won't tell." "… Yeah." The gloves were removed. The last spark of innocence was extinguished, "Sure you won't, Bradley." There was no sense of letting his one chance of humiliating the X-Games King get away. "I might as well make the best of it." A low growl to his now darkened features. All the senior could do was let out a small gasp. The eyelids drooped to indifference. Not a smirk, not a frown. The movements were brutal—towels were ripped off, exposing themselves to each other. Max slammed his body full-length over the other, letting Brad's head fall to the tile again— And again as the black dog took his turn—ramming his mouth into the other while strangling him with both hands—"What the hell are you doing?!—” Hacking The pressure tightened, "Please!" and suddenly gave way, I'm supposed to hate this person— "Remember?! I'm supposed to hate you! Despise you—" Fever attacked as the boy manically pressed forward—"fuck you." Bradley's eyes widened until only the pupil was seen, at a loss for air and for words. As the words sank in, something clutched at his own heart. Out of fear, he let Max do exactly as he threatened, letting those ebony fingers grab at his crotch and pull and tug, and squeeze at everything—Loud moans were all the crazed boy could perceive—but he wanted something more out of this jerk— The legs went up in the air, massaged ferociously before letting a throbbing organ inside. A little howl, "Ha ha—Max, you look different… " a nervous chuckle. "Well, you told me to give it my all." It was now obvious that something in this kid's mind had snapped—that childish spirit had gone only to be replaced by a somber mannequin. The senior's breathing came in abnormal intervals; he could only utter this, "No—wait—Maximilian—-!!" This boy of no sexual talent dominated over the leader—going in deeper and deeper with each thrust. All Goof boy could imagine was revenge, torture. He already regretted not being close to a power tool—As the blood attacked his reddened cheeks and down his fur in drying clumps with all the sweat rolling down his body and biting his tongue to not join the chorus below him, all he wanted to do was go even further— To the point when he began to rock in all directions to find the place where the jock was most vulnerable, "Haa! Haa! M—Max. Max… ! Ngh—nggh—MAX!— A hand wrenched onto the other member and with a strong thumb tortured it at the same time the sophomore delved in again. The multitasking was doing the trick—"STOP!”—Pain-filled howl— Eyes flared as a corner of the predator's mouth jerked upward, "Everything!!" Both figures arched forward, backward, inverting against each other and grinding. Vapor, sweat on each and every part of their bodies. Bradley realized that he'd been ignoring every plea. Max could no longer contain his innate desires, pulled out and bit the tip before swallowing the organ whole, "Agh! Do you want to rip it out of me?! Stop it!" Up the naked fingers went from behind, legs high in the mist— The jock went beet red. Nearly fainting, he felt the final strokes of the tongue and thrashing of teeth before moaning aloud, "You goddamn Freshman!" A burst of semen went up in the boy's mouth— Horrendous flavor. He spat it right in the guy's face. Never had a feeling over him been so foul—A wave of nausea only fed into the boy's anger, fury, loathing for the man under him. The black eyes finally took a good, long look over the surface of that lean, toned… Before going down any further, Maximilian's eyes snapped back—locked to blue orbs, which were half opened before making contact. A dominant fear of the new predator ran circles in the jock's mind. He didn't know what to say—what to do—Usually, he would set the ground rules when it came to sex. I've laid more men and women than anyone on campus! "And now this-" inaudible whisper. Goof didn't even flinch. It took this long to come to terms with the fact that he was smiling. Smiling, not for the pleasure of either one of them, but because he was so close, "And… I'm about to win, Brad." The young man's state of mind shifted gears—the shallow breathing that carried the fear soon returned to its normalcy, and then a crease formed down the middle of his forehead. It was lethargic at first—And then those elements of bigotry and pride which he had always thrived on flooded into him like before— "Shit!" a shout of frustration and a fist at the cold tile. The boy was within him again. Max gave him no time for a comeback— The next thrust was one of the strongest, knocking the air out of him, and again—once more as the boy screamed out, "This is for you, Brad!"—Eyes livid—entire body shaking—fists clenching and unclenching before settling on slugging the brat in the face— "This is for everyone who ever tried to break me, whenever I was down— "ALWAYS, BRADLEY! ALWAYS!!" Maximilian was becoming either deaf or blind to whatever he spat out in the current situation, because the screams had gotten harsh and blood-curdling—more blows, bruises quick to form—Claws dug into flesh and pried open ridges— "BUT WHY?!" The bloodied hair matted over his face "Max!" Ill attempts at spitting out the copper "WHY?!?" Max Goof had lost himself to years of literal and imagined persecution—Faces flickered for milliseconds on end as the hardened member dug even deeper, tearing at the entrance's sides— "You motherfucker! You're gonna kill me!!" No generous amount of unsettling bodily fluids was enough to conceal the same exact being that had tried to kill this same kid much earlier. Legs slammed straight down. There was no room left for that foreign object to budge— "Shit!! Sh—it! Fuuuck—!" The other writhed in pain at the height of his anger, to be so close only to be shut out… Again. "Get—" Brad's laid back attitude scorched off. The boy's inferiority complex kicked in with bitter disappointment. "Brad… ley?" "Get, the hell, out of me.” Another sickening heartbeat was accompanied by a tearful gasp. The worm pulled out. Before he could even begin to apologize the pissed jerk jutted his arms right into the broad shoulders, rocked himself up and over the ex-predator, causing him a near concussion, grabbing at a leg and twisting the whole body down to the ground— "oof!”—Backside in full view—"Bradley, I'm sorry!" All the pain and pleasure had reached its peak, and was about to be released. The leader's aid consisted of rough slides up Max's ass, ramming into the zenith, All those suppressed shrieks and moans of the obscene belted out getting lost within all that jungle rhythm in the mist—that whitewashed rainforest— "Agh—Bradley! Haa—ha!—Nggh! Please, Bradley—" The slamming continued, frantic. The one last ill hold onto his dying rage as the same image of the same girl emerged, then realizing who was actually over him now, "I hate you— I hate you!" Roxanne!! "I HATE THE WHOLE WORLD—!!— Ah!—Tension released from his own cock right before the crazed jock let out his second wave of cum, "I want to die." Both expressions were shattered with scarlet. Both were hard of breathing, unable to understand the void of time. The boy's hand fell limp on the tile; his body sank to the floor in a puddle of their own sweat, blood, and tears. A splash of cold relief washed away all existence of what happened here, in this unnecessary lovemaking—lust. A strong limb pulled the dead weight up to its feet. Out of the void was a warm, sturdy shield, pressed against the swollen cheekbone. Eyes barely open, the loser shuddered and let out a withering sigh as the cascades fell on the embrace. Bradley, finally eradicated of all his hatred toward this naïve individual, planted a firm, prolonged kiss on his head, face buried in his bloodied hair… "Oh, Max, I hate you too. So much." His arms wrapped even tighter with the energy he had left. "Roxanne." The demon turned child wept at his grave loss… "Maximilian Goof, no matter what the hell happens next, I won't let you die—Promise of an enemy." Saddened in the heart, face down—hidden in his rival's chest, this loser couldn't help but attempt a smile.

#max goof #bradley uppercrust #bradley uppercrust iii #an extremely goofy movie #fanfiction #yaoi #shipping #oh noes #bad mojo #rival ships #since 2011

[sebs-anxiety-and-insanity]

TW: Implied self harm, implied suicide, c!thomas is a sad mess, cussing

Viewer discretion is advised

Here is the song by city and colour

The way it used to be/ ThVi (its sad)

-------------------------------------------------

This is the story of a man

Thomas sat on his couch, scrolling through Twitter, replying to mentions here and there, just sitting. He felt Virgil lay down on his lap, going seemingly limp against him. Thomas put down his phone to turn his attention to his boyfriend. "You good there, Virge?" He nodded, smiling. "Having anxiety is just exhausting." Thomas sighed. "Why didn't you come get me?" Virgil shook his head. "Didn't wanna bother you, and besides, it wasn't even that bad. Now I am here with you." He turned on his side wrapping his arms around Thomas's waist. Thomas sighed in content. He knew this would be the rest of his life and he was completely happy with it.

Who took for granted everything he had

"I- I'm sorry okay? Please calm down!" Virgil said harshly not wanting to scream anymore than Thomas already had. "NO! WHAT THE HELL?!!! YOU KNEW THAT WAS IMPORTANT TO ME!!! THAT COULD'VE BEEN MY BREAK!!" Virgil shrunk back a bit. "I- I know, but-but I can't help it! Its literally my job!" Thomas huffed. "JUST LEAVE ME ALONE ANXIETY!!!!" Virgil flinched. He called him anxiety instead of his name.... Right as Thomas began to opened his mouth again, Virgil teleported to his room, locking the door.

And how he let it all just slip away

From then on, Virgil didn't act the same, flinching away from touches, hardly speaking and never wanted to be touched really. And a few months after a few more fights and awkward encounters he finally came out of his room he only grabbed a book, one Thomas had never seen before, and left. Returning hours later to say quietly that it would never happen again. And he left. Thomas would've gone after him but he had to go somewhere, and he would always be here when he gets back. Waiting for him since there isn't no where else to go.

Never to return again

He arrived back home sad? He hadn't had any anxiety which was unusual since he was surrounded by a bunch of people, bombarding him with a bunch of questions. He decided now was the time to go check on Virgil, say he is sorry and figure out why everything seemed gloomy. He went into the mind palace, and even the living room which was a neutral space was sad, not as much as everything else but still sad. He walked up the stairs, immediately noticing the bright blue door that had dogs and cats with a couple of frogs, was deepened and cracked, similar things done to the other doors. He walked down closer to Virgil's room, when he heard sobbing. Panic seeping in he ran to Virgils room only to stop dead in his tracks. Patton was crying, and was being cradled by Logan. Janus was in tears on Virgils bed, cradling a piece of fabric. He looked in the bathroom and his blood ran cold. Roman had tears steaming down while harshly talking with Remus, who was in the same state. He couldn't make out what they were saying since they were not audible from where he was. And a single limp arm dangled from the bathtub, red streaks streaming down said arm. Rushing in Roman immediately tried to stop him from seeing, but it was too late. He already saw Virgils lifeless body in a bathtub of red from his bleeding wrists. Tears streaming down his face. He faught against Roman to get to his boyfriends lifeless body. Why did this happen?

Now twenty years have come and gone

"Yeah, well fuck you! You shouldn't still be mourning him! And even if you weren't you still can't pretend I am him!" Anxietys distorted voice rang throughout the room. Thomas flinched. It's been twenty fucking years and they still didnt know anxietys name. And he still looked like Virgil which didnt help shit. He looked up to notice that Anxiety had disappeared. He sighed sitting back down on the couch, head in his hands. god what happened?

And still he wonders what he did so wrong

The next week he stayed in his room, refusing to do anything. Yeah it was twenty years ago but seeing anxiety made it yesterday. He soon created a sick little world in his head, where Virgil never died. And they just broke up. But Thomas knew there was hope of getting Virgil to get back together.

And how that he can win back *his* heart

Anxiety was now scared to be anxiety. Patton always trying to be happy, but failing from time to time, but still always vowing to protect him from such awkward encounters with their host. Anxiety would walk down to get a snack and Thomas would have a date set up for the both of them. Always calling him 'Virgil' and ignoring him saying that he wasnt this 'Virgil' he kept speaking of. And even though he failed, Thomas would always try again. He just had to win Virgils heart back. Ignoring Logan who was trying to get him to stop this behavior.

And finally step outside of the dark

Thomas sniffed the Roses he had bought which was purple, contrary to Anxietys black clothing. Satisfied with the purchase he left, waving goodbye to the owner of the shop, who had remembered his name and a few things about him, since he was in there every day.

He buys fresh roses every day

He offered the flowers to Anxiety once again, who awkwardly pushed them away and teleported out of the situation. He felt horrible, only being known for the past him, and not- ... well, him! Who even said he liked roses.

His favorite flower- so he used to say

It was the middle of the night, and Thomas was sobbing into the covers. The only time he wasn't stuck in his fake world since he was on medication which often made him forget his fake world for the night. He was sobbing, going through various memories of Virgil wearing roses in his hair. He reached over to take another swig of liquor, the all too familiar taste calming him a bit. And anxiety had to watch, since he never slept.

And now the memories are all that he has left

His drinking got more prominent, and even Remus was worried, usually his sticking thoughts and jokes would be there no matter what, but he was drained and focused on his host, not knowing what to do, but watch as this got sickening, even for him. Anxiety was on the same page as Remus, just at a lower volume. But he was the one who had to watch it 24/7 and he couldnt bare to look at his host like this.

I'm afraid he'll drink himself to death

While Thomas kinda creeped him out, Anxiety still felt bad for him, and it was still his job to protect his host. He decided to tell Logan about the rising intake of alcohol each night, slowly turning into spiked coffee, and other things. He really needed to stop...

This is the story of a man

Patton set Anxiety down, preparing himself. "Hey kiddo... I know you know that Virgil, our previous anxiety and friend, has passed... away. But I don't think, we ever told you how.... And for you to fully understand why Thomas is the way he is now, you need to hear the story, and I'm forced to tell it as Roman and Logan have been losing their minds, you know because of Thomas pretending that Virgil is still alive..." tears gathered in his eyes as he continued, telling the story as best he could.

Who took for granted everything he had

Anxiety felt bad for his past self and everyone else... he completely understood what Virgil was going through. But hearing it from his father figure made it twice as hard to pretend to be unphased by the information. This is one sad and frustrating story...

And how he let it all slip away

Anxiety didn't know how to feel for his host, anger? Or pity? He really tried to understand what had happened, but the relationship between Virgil and his host was really confusing, how could it not be? Especially towards the end...

Never to return again

Tears were now forming in Anxietys eyes as it became harder to understand Patton who was sobbing. He had lost his 'son' after all... And Anxiety felt like he lost a brother.

It's clear he moved on long ago

Thomas spiraled even further as he realized that his efforts to get Virgil back with him were futile. And he hated it. He hated it so much. He took another sip of his spiked coffee. Hoping to calm his nerves however he could. But always no matter what, when his meds arent making him somewhat sober minded, he always goes back to believing that he could somehow still win Virgils heart...

But still he clings on to the distant hope

He never slept now, even before he got atleast two hours of sleep. But that didnt happen anymore.. Thomas just stared at the ceiling as flashes of them together played through his mind. They looked so happy... Virgil looked happy...

That he'll come back and make a happy home

Everyone was spiraling as Thomas did, but it took more time for some of them. And Anxiety couldn't help because that would hurt his host even more. Anxiety decided to stop watching his host at night. Staring at the ceiling. He felt utterly useless, and he hated it. He sighed sitting up, the TV turned off, so it was playing footage of what Thomas was doing, and unsurprisingly he was still drinking and crying softly...

And now its him and the bottle all alone

As he spiraled he seemed to remember that his world was fake. And this made him unpredictable, and the others were spiraling with him, anxiety was spiraling the slowest. Which forced him to be the one always watching him. Sometimes he would look over at the TV to check on him and see him under a cherry blossom tree that had a swing hang on it. It was there he seemed the most sane. And numb, which kinda made it terrifying.

Sometimes you'll see him in the yard

You could tell by just looking at him sitting in the swing he was broken. Tears falling slowly, smiling to himself while he mumbles things to himself, something about how beautiful the imagination was. Clutching what seemed to be a purple hoodie.

A wounded man with a desperate heart

It seemed to be all he ever was, anxiety sighed sadly watching as Thomas pulled weeds from purple roses in the imagination. It seemed to be more of a calming thing, but it was still sad to watch.

He kept his Roses (hedges) trimmed nice and neat

Janus was watching Thomas with anxiety one day. Sadly noting that Thomas had replaced the area around the cherry blossom tree to replicate the way it looked when they first got together.

To keep them the way that they used to be

Thomas sat there in the swing admiring his work.

This is the story of a man

He sighed swinging back and forth a bit.

Who took for granted everything he had

After that day he seemed to be getting better, going to see a doctor about his spiraling.

And he let it all just slip away

Thomas was in fact getting better. He had stopped drink as much as he did, but it was a work in progress, and he even got a bit more comfortable around anxiety.

Never to return again

Thomas hung up the purple hoodie on his bathroom door. Just... admiring it sadly.

A single dress hangs on it's own

He would often would often smell the hoodie, it still smelled like him...

A scent of perfume all he has to hold

He remembers fading to his final sleep that night, clinging to the hoodie...

A wasted life waiting on a dream

As he closed his eyes one final time he saw him and Virgil sitting on the swing. Having fun and talking, just enjoying the others presence.

Hoping for things the way they used to be

He was happy, finally. Gone from the world he knew as pain. And he smiled.

This is the story of a man, who took for granted everything he had. And how he let it all just slip away, never to return again...

-------------------------------------------------

Not really proofread so sorry for any mistakes!!!

But uh yeah hope you enjoyed!!

#sander sides #virgil sanders #Anxiety sanders #sandersides #c!thomas #song fic #sadness #Youtube

[sheeshanimegirl]

[SHIFTED] Chapter 01

Levi Ackerman x Reader

Sinopse: Did you ever think about coming home and meeting a person that doesn't meant to exist? No? Well... but it happened.F/N is an Musical Producer who just got fired, and her only comfort are spend the time watching Anime and writting fanfics, until the day that HE appeared on the floor covered in blood and bruises.

What is he doing there? Is she going insane?

I guess not.

Warning: BLOOD.CURSING.

------------------------------------F/N POV:

After getting fired, I started giving up on that silly dream of mine: Becoming a huge music producer. I knew that things were hard on real life but fuck.... being unenployed crashed my energies.

I was going home after shopping some groceries to fill up my sad belly - LOL - and continue to write some fanfics and stuff.

" Where are the keys? " I cursed harshly in my mind while my hand tapped every single place of my bag.

- HERE!

I opened my front door happily and threw my shoes away, today was the day of the new chapter of Shingeki No Kyojin manga and, of course, I would finally think about something more interesting than my life.

Without turning on the lights, I felt some squishness(?) on my foot.

- Did Saphira threw up? Ewwww - I jumped to the light swicht to turn it on and looked at the floor.

And well, it wasn't puke.

- OH MY GOD SOMEONE ENTERED MY HOUSE AND KILLED MY DOG.

I runned into the kitchen and then i saw.

It was a man. A fucking dead man lying on the flor. Saphira was beside him looking confused, I tapped her head and in shock I shooked the corpse.

- Hey.... are you... possibly... alive? - Yeah, of course i asked a bloody body, but, who knows?

- Hnnn - The man arched a little making my heart jump out off my chest.

- Oh god... ok. I will help you. Just try to...AHHHHH!!!!

Letting the body fall again I felt my head spinning. It was not an ordinary man, IT WAS A MAN IDENTICAL TO LEVI.

- I guess i am writing too much fanfiction. Yeah, probably - With my last strenght I carried him to my bed and quick took of his shirt.

There were bruises and blood in all his body, and if he continued like that... he would die. Quickly i grabbed my medical-kit and stucked the bleeding places with towels.

" I must sew this parts as fast as possible. "

As soon as I finished doing the worst, I glanced at his face. It was identical, the black hair, the nose, lips and eyebrows. Almost like a living Fan Art.

- Stop dreaming, f/n. You need to take care of him!

I knew that Levi didn't like to be dirty or covered in blood, so with a sponge I gently tried to clean his face and body. Althought beeing very hurt, his breathing was almost normal.

- How could this possibly happen? Well, I will not complain... it's not like i didn't want to meet you, huh? - I whispered and turned off the lights.

The rest of the afternoon i tried to clean my kitchen, which was red and filthy. Saphira's fur was quite... light pink, so I had to wash her too.

As I was trying to catch the soap, something cold touched my back making me squeek and turn quickly.

- Who are you? - He said with his typical angry face.

- Calm down... I just... saw you there and tried to help. - My fingers tried to put away his knife. But it didn't work.

- And why the hell do you want me to believe that?

- Because... I cleaned you! And did your stitches and all! There is no reason for me to hurt you! Trust me, I just want to help... - I whispered the last part.

- Oi, brat. Why is your dog so fucking big and dirty? - Levi put his knife down and pointed to Saphira who was all excited and happy to see him.

- Ah, when I came here she was by your side... I don't know. Maybe she was trying to keep you alive. - I chuckled and patted her.

- Tch. Whatever. Care to explain where I am and why Zack dissapeared? - He said passing his fingers through the sweat with a disgusted face.

- Uh... Levi. It is quite hard but i will try to explain, okay? Wait a sec. - With a hush i took my notebook and opened on the last chapter of the manga.

It was an explosion which caused all Levi's injuries, but unlike the manga, his fingers were intact and there was no scar on his face.

I showed the images to him, at first his eyes almost popped out, but then a n awkward silence fell down.

- I'm sorry. I didn't want to show you but...

- That's a shit, tch. So I'm not supposed to be real in this world? Or alive? - He asked me without a shot of sadness.

- I want to think that you aren't going to die. Because look, you are... you. You've been through a lot and it won't be an explosion that will kill you. - I stood up trying to cheer him, but his eyes were the same. Cold and numb.

Before anything, Levi passed out making me worry him even more. I tried to lay gently his body on the couch so he could rest.

- Let him be. It must be very confusing for now. - I looked at Saphira and smiled - Let's wash your fur!

{ ... }

Later that night, I heard some noises coming from the living room. I stood up and switch the lights on; Levi wasn't there anymore.

Panick started to fill my body as I ran through the house, when i was about to call the police, I heard the sound of the shower.

"Thank god, i forgot he is such a clean freak"

Suddenly he opened the door. And bloody hell, what a hot body. I felt my face heat with the vision which caught his attention.

- Oi, why are you awake?

- I heard noises so I came to check up on you... and when I saw that you wasn't in the couch I got worried.

- Thank you, brat. But your place smells like fucking blood and thank hell i am tired, because otherwise i would rub this 'till it shines.

- Whatever. I'm gonna sleep. Don't run away because the police is a pain to dodge, okay? Bye.

And then I left him alone in the dark. I was tired, what could I do?

---------------------------------------------------

TADAM! Sorry for any mistakes, english it's not my firts language so... sorry again lol.

#levi #ackerman #levi ackerman #shingeki no kyojin #levi imagines #fanfic #anime #attack on titan #shingeki no kyoujin season 3 #snk

[deepseawritings]

Holy moly, it’s been roughly about a year since I started writing S.T.A.L.K.E.R. fanfic! To celebrate, I wanted to write something fun and season appropiate, but writer’s block has been plaguing me until very recently. However, I managed to write a short thing, partially inspired by the art from @cookieekun I’ve been seeing on my dash recently, partially because I wanted to write something about Strelok’s group that wasn’t heavy with angst.

The early days

It was cold. Cold beyond words. His breath flared like a cloud of smoke, quickly freezing in the air, and Strelok looked at Ghost’s scarf with longing. It was tattered and it smelled like wet dog, but at least it was warm. And Fang had the gas mask protecting his face from the chilled winds, lucky bastard.

“Are you going to admit you’re lost?” Ghost asked him from behind his woolly scarf.

“For the last time, I’m not lost!” Strelok replied. “This is a shortcut.”

“It would be great if it was a shortcut to somewhere warm, my balls have turned into ice cubes.”

Strelok could believe that. He was pretty sure his own blood was slowly freezing inside his veins.

"Well I'm not gonna help you warm them." His silly comment made Ghost snort and then start laughing.

“I feel like I’m walking inside a f-fridge guys,” Fang piped up after a long suffering sigh. “C-can we camp for the night?”

There was still a good hour of light, even with the dark clouds rolling by from the north. But they were all freezing, so the idea was received with enthusiasm. However, it's not so easy to find shelter in the middle of the wilderness, unless you're ready to settle for sleeping under a tree. So they grudgingly backtracked their steps until fifteen minutes later they reached their destination.

The building was literally lost in the woods, away from any reminder of civilization. It was similar to the farm in Cordon, but smaller. Most importantly, it would keep them safe from the cold.

"Gather everything that looks remotely flammable," Fang asked them.

Invigorated at the prospect of a bonfire, Strelok started picking up all the twigs he saw, no matter how painfully thin they were. Ghost hollered in triumph and showed them a dented can that could be a gasoline container. And Fang disappeared behind the building, only to come back not much later empty handed.

"Hope that will be enough," Fang sounded doubtful, which was no surprise since their bounty was ridiculously poor.

"It will suffice," Ghost assured him.

Strelok agreed with Fang. Ghost was either over-confident in their ability to keep a fire going or delusional.

The inside of the building was pitch dark. Anything could be lurking there. Fang's flashlight swiped across empty spaces and dirty floors. One high pitched squeal later, something bulky and running on all fours charged towards them. Strelok quickly jumped to the side, dropping the wood in the process, but the boar bowled over Ghost and threw him to the ground. Fang cursed and tried to get his weapon without dropping the flashlight, but he was still fumbling when the boar was already long gone.

Good riddance to it, although it was a shame they hadn’t killed it. Strelok could go for a dinner of roasted boar, much better than their sad and stale rations.

"Shit!" Ghost stood up, pressing his hand against his thigh. "The son of a bitch got me good."

Both Strelok and Fang crowded him, worried by the bleeding. The wavering light of Fang’s flashlight was enough to see the rivulets of red flowing through Ghost’s fingers, and this was not a promising development. Ghost moved the hand away just a little bit, enough to see where the boar had gored him, and blood quickly gushed out and covered his whole hand.

“Punctured artery, most likely,” Fang commented. The slight trembling in his voice was most assuredly not from the cold.

Opening a medkit, a simple and fairly brief action, took Strelok several tries as the damned thing would. not. open. In the end he tore the package open with his teeth, spilling the contents of the medkit all over the floor.  The flashlight was shoved into Ghost’s free hand as Fang rushed to help Strelok gather back the scattered medical supplies. And when they got it all and were ready to treat his injury, Ghost put his and away revealing an already closing wound.

A chorus of “The fuck?” and “No way dude!” ensued. However, despite their collective disbelief, the flesh was mending right before their eyes, almost too slowly to see it clearly.

“That’s... kinda freaky,” Fang said with a pinched look.

Strelok made a noise of agreement and carefully poked the edges of the injury. Felt good as new.  “Freaky but cool. And useful!”

“This suit is like having superpowers,” Ghost said with a goofy grin. “I’m like the Zone’s Superman now!”

Fang snorted in amusement and soon they all were laughing, letting go of the tension of just a minute ago. It felt good.

Afterwards, Fang managed to start a fire with the remnants of gasoline left on the salvaged can and the wood twigs. It was a small fire, but to them it was Heaven on earth, warm and cosy in the dark building. Huddled together around the flames they ate their rations, hard bread and sausages so could they could be frozen.

“Do you think the suit only works when worn?” Ghost asked absently. “Or could I heal someone by touching them? How much contact would be needed?”

“I have an idea to know if –”

“NO!” both of Strelok’s friends cut him off.

“I’m vetoing the idea,” Fang told him, “if it’s like your ideas to test artifact properties surely it will involve jumping off of a bridge or something like that.”

Strelok stared at them with a devilish smirk. Not all of his ideas were crazy like that, he could come up with something reasonable if he wanted. It was just that it was fun to watch their horrified faces when he pitched forward his most wild plans.

“I think it’s snowing,” Ghost announced just then, looking at the quickly darkening strip of sky visible from the broken window in front of them.

Strelok groaned in dismay. He hoped it wouldn’t snow much, marching through the woods in the snow was a nightmare. Last time his feet had become so numb he was sure he’d have to amputate one of the fingers.

“Remember last year, when it snowed for New Year and Doc’s hellish puppy was like a shark under the snow attacking everyone’s ankles?”

Strelok pointed an accusing finger at Fang. “You only remember it fondly because that monster beast didn’t bite you.”

“Perks of wearing an exo-suit.” Like that was an achievement! He just was tall enough to look imposing instead of ridiculous with it.

“Don’t worry Strelok, if Doc’s pseudo-dog bites you this year we’ll test if I can cure you with a hug.” He wasn’t very sure if Ghost was joking or not. It sounded like a joke but that was something he could see Ghost doing with no problem.

The conversation soon shifted towards planning how drunk they would get this New Year and what their resolutions for the upcoming year were, each one more ridiculous than the other. And when the fire eventually died down, they were already asleep, clustered together for warmth as the snow blanketed the whole Zone.

#S.T.A.L.K.E.R. #fanfic #Strelok #ghost #fang

[wine-and-words]

Fine

Hey everyone. I wanted a place to share my writing and other thoughts without judgement, so here I am. Please feel free to contact me if you have any questions or concerns about my posts, or if you want to talk. I’m always here.

TW: Self harm, strong language, assault

“I don’t know how anyone could cut,” I say as I sit on Lily’s bed, picking at the loose thread in the blue comforter. I’m sitting on her feet, but she’s not making me move because we’re both cozy. I have a blanket thrown around my shoulders. She’s underneath the comforter. “Yeah like, I don’t know how you’d ever want to hurt yourself,” she agrees, frowning. “It doesn’t make sense. Besides, I don’t like blood.” “I hate blood,” I say emphatically. At ten years old, even the thought of blood makes me squeamish. The idea that anyone could ever hurt themselves intentionally is beyond me.     * * * * * I sit on the bathroom floor with a knife in hand, brow furrowed in concentration. I make slow, deliberate cuts, watching the way the blood bubbles up with cool detachment. I’ve always hated blood. I faint when I so much as cut open my finger while getting dinner ready. But this blood is different. It’s like roses, or like the poppies in Flanders Field— the way it blooms up, promising new life. The blood is sticky on my fingertips, and I wince as I gather it all up. I smear it around on my leg in a swirling, floral pattern. It’s paint and I am making myself beautiful. I’m fucking art. I cock my head, hair falling over my face, and I smile. Sane Julia, the one hovering over my shoulder to the right, is screaming at me. She’s not actually there of course, or maybe she is and I’m the one who’s not real. Sane Julia is hovering over all this, watching me as I sit there in a black bra and short shorts and slide the knife over my skin. You’re fucked, please stop, please please please please, she screams at me as she sees the smile curl my lips ever so slightly, watching me paint myself with the blood from my thighs. Sane Julia, innocent Julia, is always wearing the same goddamn outfit. She wears an impossibly short black skirt from American Apparel and a burgundy crop top that shows off a rounded stomach. My tits were bigger back then. It’s the same outfit I wore that night, as I’ve come to refer to the night that I lost my virginity and my sanity and my youth all at once.

I call her "Sane Julia," but I realize how inaccurate that name is. I'm not sane, if I was sane then I wouldn't have the image of a younger self floating around and screaming at me while I tear my body apart. If I'm not sane, and she's just a product of my insanity, then by definition she is not sane either. Nor is she truly innocent- the Julia that she's a reflection of had already chosen a path that led far away from innocence. 

When I sit there, I think in sentences. I can hear Sane Julia’s voice in my head too. 

I think, I need a black pen to draw more patterns on my leg, I need something that contrasts the blood. She screams, don't you see what you're doing? You're sick, please stop, you're better than this. Look at the blood. Please. Bitch, I don’t bleed blood. I bleed fucking poetry, I retort. When I get like this, when my head gets dark, I’m not quiet and scared like I am in the daylight. This Julia speaks her mind, even when it’s something impossibly rude.

He’s not worth it, she screams. She’s always screaming.

I ignore her.

I never cut more than two or three times. If I know I'm going to have sex, I do not cut my thighs. If I know I'm going to wear a short sleeved shirt in the next couple of days, I do not cut my wrists. I never cut deeply enough to scar. Often the cuts look accidental. Oh, I cut my leg on something at work. I fell and hurt myself. The cat scratched me.

No one questions it. No one except my friend, Lily, and that’s only because I fucked up and cut my wrists the day we were supposed to go bowling. and the blood soaked through my shirt.

I lean back to admire my work, arching my back like those models I hate, those girls who get paid for being pretty. My eyes slip down my body, over my breasts that have grown smaller with the weight loss, and then my stomach that is still not flat, even after all this time. 

I don't usually need to stick my fingers down my throat. I've learned how to think myself into throwing up. I just think of hands on my body when I do not want them, of laying back and accepting it; I think of my dead dog who was never buried; of all of the countless baby birds who died in my hands. I buried them myself, using my fingernails to scratch at the dirt until I had dug a hole deep enough to place their ice cold corpses in. 

Sometimes, when I am too numb to feel repulsed at these thoughts, I do use my fingers. I shove them down my throat and gag until my stomach is empty and my eyes are burning. 

Sane Julia watches me do this with the same horror that she watches the cutting. She begs me to stop, but it’s not that easy.

I've lost weight since the night when he pushed me into the couch and told me he would go slow, to just be quiet. Ten, twenty pounds, maybe thirty? Who knows. Maybe if I had been prettier, thinner, I would have been enough. Maybe he would have stayed after that night instead of tossing me aside like a piece of fucking trash. I was garbage to him, a fucking disposable Starbucks cup. He had gotten what he wanted from me, used me, and then I was nothing to him except something to be rid of.

Actually, fuck that. I’m not a Starbucks drink. I’m more like shitty gas station coffee. I’m trash.

Tonight I did not need to use my fingers. I thought of his face and his sweaty body on top of mine, and I threw up until I cried. My stomach is empty, and I have a headache. I have nothing left except a burning throat, like I've been inhaling smoke. I don't feel any pain. Instead there's this weird mix of elation and despair, the two sides of me warring against one another.  

Dark times like these have come with increasing regularity since that night. It’s been three months, almost to the day.  My mother asked me last week if I was depressed. I guess she noticed that I look like shit and all I ever do is sleep. I told her no, of course. A good religious girl does not get depressed.

She asked me if I was having boy problems, and I laughed. I told her no, boys didn’t like me. As far as she and my dad knew, I had never as much as held hands with a boy. How was I supposed to tell her that I had snuck around and had a thing with a boy who ended up date raping me? That would not go over well. They would kill me a hundred times over. A good Christian girl waits for marriage. She doesn’t get depressed, because she always has God to turn to when things get bad. 

I am not a good Christian girl.

Someone knocks at the door of the bathroom. “Ju-Ju?”

It’s Lila. She’s four, and my youngest sister. Everyone says she looks exactly like me. She even has a stutter, like I did when I was younger. She’s called me Ju-Ju since she could talk. 

I grab the hoodie laying on the ground beside me and slip in on. I always make sure that I don’t get blood on anything besides myself, and that I have clothing to cover my marks up with. Living in a house with eight other people almost guarantees that I’ll be interrupted at some point. It’s late though, so I don’t know why Lila is up.

“What’s wrong?” I ask as I open the door to the bathroom. Lila is standing there in her pink princess pyjamas, clutching the stuffed dog I bought her last year for Christmas.

“I want a story,” she tells me seriously. 

After I’ve read Lila her bedtime story, I go to my own bedroom and lock the door. I grab my melatonin, shaking out a decent handful and shoving them into my mouth. It’s the only way I sleep these days. Too bad it’s not enough to kill me.

The ceiling is that crumbly stuff that all old-ish houses seem to have. You know, the white bumpy squares that break far too easily? My sister and I threw a super ball—one of those insanely bouncy little balls you get at the dollar store— really hard one day and it hit the ceiling so hard that it snapped one of the panels and covered my bed in a fine white dust. That was years ago, and the dust is long gone, but there’s still a hole the size of a super ball in my ceiling. At night I stare up at it and wish that I could melt away into the blackness.

Lila wakes me up for breakfast the next morning. Dad’s made pancakes, as he has every Saturday morning for the past fifteen years. We’re all here for breakfast today, which doesn’t happen as often these days. 

I’m the oldest child in the family at eighteen. Next is Jake, who is sixteen, then the twins, Lauren and Sophie, who are thirteen. Jace is ten, Lexie is seven, and Lila is four.

“Julia, will you help Lila with the syrup?” Mom asks me. Lila is trying to pour it herself and has already spilled it all over the table. Lauren and Jace are having a heated discussion on whether or not corn syrup is real syrup, and Dad is explaining the economic crisis to seven-year-old Lexie. She looks like she’s going to fall asleep in her jam-covered pancakes. Jake is playing air guitar along to the Christian rock song coming through the radio. Sushi, our mastiff, is sitting by Sophie because she knows that Sophie never finishes her bacon. It’s chaos, it’s insanity, and it’s beautiful. 

It’s a good day.

I’m getting better, I tell myself as I make a cup of tea and settle down to read. I ate today and I didn’t cut. I’m fine.

“I’m fine,” has been my mantra for a long time. A boy, one who I talked to only briefly, snapped one day and told me to stop saying it because it wasn’t true. I told you, I only talked to him briefly. 

A friend introduced us, thinking that having a new boy to flirt with would distract me from what she called my “abject bitterness at being dumped.” After I told him off, they started dating. 

He was an asshole anyways. He told me to talk to someone, a professional. Told me I was fucked in the head and needed help. I considered it for a bit, but then I realized that there was no way to explain that to my parents. Again, coming from a religious family, therapy is frowned upon. And for all my parents know, I am perfectly fine and happy. 

Fine, fine, fine. That word is my anchor, my true north. Whenever thoughts of him pop into my head I push them aside and cling to the word like it can save me. 

I am fine, I tell myself as I head off to work later in the day. 

I am fine, I tell myself as I quickly smoke a cigarette on my break. It’s a habit I’ve only recently taken up, more of a hobby than anything.

I’m fine, I tell myself again as I clock out. This time the thought is accompanied with a sign of relief. I check my phone. There are four missed calls: Two from my dad, one from my mom, and another from my sister Sophie. There’s also a text from her.

Mom and dad went snooping. Come home right away.

I throw up in the work bathroom, then drive home. My stomach is in knots. Did they find my birth control? Or maybe the untouched bottle of tequila that’s poorly hidden behind my copy of The Pilgrim’s Progress. The possibilities are endless. I suck at hiding stuff and my room is full of contraband. God, it could even be the three seasons of Gossip Girl I have on DVD. The sex scenes in that show would give my father a heart attack. One time my dad saw the melatonin on my shelf and asked me if I was a drug addict. Maybe he found them again and is too dense to realize that I’ve never done any kind of drug in my life. I walk into the house and yell, “I’m home,” like I always do.

“Julia, come on up.” Mom’s voice is strained.

My mother is a beautiful woman. She looks ten years younger than she is, and to look at her you would have no clue that she’s pushed seven fucking kids through her body. She is always calm and collected and in control, and she is the kindest person I’ve ever met. People said I looked like her when I was younger, but when I hit puberty they started saying I look like my dad. My mom and I both have green eyes and dirty blonde hair, but there the similarities end. Where my mother is tall and built slender but strong, I am short and frail. She has high cheekbones and always looks happy. I, on the other hand, have cheeks as round as an infant’s and a resting bitch face. I look like a pissed off five year old. 

I look and act more like my father. He too is tall, with dark brown eyes and a firm face. He used to smile and laugh more, when I was younger. I remember him bouncing me on his knee and chasing me through the house to tickle me. He used to be happy. Now, our whole life revolves around Dad’s mood. If he’s happy, it’s a good day. If he’s stressed, you steer clear and toe the line. It’s been like that for years. I see the same traits in myself that I see in him—I am opinionated, stubborn and proud. I am truly my father’s daughter.

Now, as I walk into the kitchen with forced nonchalance, Dad’s face is taut. 

Mom’s is swollen like she’s been crying. 

This is off.  Something is wrong.

“What’s wrong?” 

“Julia, Macey showed us something today.”

As soon as those words cross Mom’s lips, I feel my stomach heave. Macey is my mom’s friend, and my best friend Lily’s mom. Where my parents respect my privacy, Lily’s mom snoops in her things daily.

I think of the text I sent Lily last night. The one where I finally told her what went down that night. I think of what I can say, how I can explain him away and make them believe I never did anything wrong.

“She showed us the pictures you sent Lily. Of your leg and your wrist.”

The words fall like pebbles in a still pond. The relief is almost instantaneous. 

They don’t know about that night. They don’t know about him. I struggle to keep my expression neutral. I sent Lily a picture to prove that I wasn’t trying to kill myself with the cuts. Looking back, that was a really dumb idea. Way to go, Julia. Fucking A for stupidity.

I pull up a chair. The scraping noise of the legs against the hardwood floors makes Mom wince. 

I am fine.

“I went into your room to try and find the knife. I found your journal on your bed.”

Fuck. I’m not fine.

The silence grows. And grows. And grows.

I close my eyes, breathing deeply, summoning that blanket of calm that surrounds me when I cut and purge. I let it cover me, smother the anxiety. I am calm. I am in control. I am fine. I smile.

I open my eyes. Mom and Dad are both staring at me. 

“What do you want to know?” I ask them.

“I read…” Mom chokes, sounding sick. She can’t finish the thought. I can only imagine what she read. After it happened, I wrote everything down in detail. The scent of lemon Lysol in his house, to the way his brown couch scratched my body as he pressed me down into it, to the way he put his hand over my mouth when I started crying. 

Mom continues. “I- I couldn’t keep reading, so I called Lily. She told us what happened that night.”

That fucking snitch.

“She told us that he forced you, that you didn’t want it. That he’s the reason for all this. Is it true?” Her voice pleads with me, begs me to tell her that this is just a sickening story I’ve created for a class project.

I am praying to a God I’m not sure I believe in anymore, praying that my parents don’t kick me out when I tell them. Standing to my left this time, Sane Julia is crying. She’s reacting in the logical way, sobbing out the whole story. She’s responding to this confrontation the way I would have, before everything happened.

She needs to shut the fuck up so I can think.

“Yeah.”

“Julia, who was he? When? I’ll kill him.”

I’m not sure who’s saying what. All the voices sound the same, and Sane Julia’s sobbing drowns them out.

Shut up, I tell her. I need to fucking concentrate. 

Tell them. For once, she’s not screaming. She looks at me, pleading. Just tell them.

No. I can’t. I’ll think up a story.

Please, just let them in. You’re killing yourself. Why won’t you just ask for help?

I pause at this. The secret is out. What do I have to lose? I’ve already disappointed my parents in every way possible. Could I just tell them everything and let them in? I’ve spent so long hiding things from them that the idea of letting my parents know me is terrifying. 

I take a long, shuddering breath. Sane Julia is quiet. I’m quiet. Mom and Dad are quiet. And for once, my brain is quiet too. 

I am fine.

#assault tw rapetw bulimia shortstory fine