#so i need to clean out my library from the top down and fix their sims | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

ashintheairlikesnow · 6 months

Text

For She Was Afraid

CW: Magical whump, nonhuman whumpee, creepy whumper, it used as pronoun for nonhuman whumpee

"You have had this power a year," Atabei hissed as soon as the door to the study closed and the two of them were alone. Her hand around his arm felt like claws digging in to his skin, she had gripped on so tight. "And you have killed two people?"

Gilly swallowed, looking around to avoid having to face Atabei directly. The study had a large wooden desk - Eliza's late husband's apparently, from the old-fashioned design, the masculine weight and size of it. Correspondence scattered across the top, with a few books at one corner, and comfortable chairs on either side.

The walls were lined with bookshelves. There must have been two hundred books in this little room, and this wasn’t even the library.

Being the young widow of a very rich man had its benefits, Gilly supposed, and it seemed Atabei’s lady love had made the most of all of them.

“Guilford!” Atabei snapped her fingers in front of his eyes, making him jump. “I asked you a question!”

"I know! I know, my sincerest apologies-... it’s just, I didn’t kill two people…. Well, I did, but it was only one done with purpose," Gilly admitted, shamefaced, stopping to touch the spine of one particular tome. This shelf held Atabei's books on magic, carefully inconspicuous in a study full of reading material. In golden relief, the title read An Uncertain World: A Treatise on the Toa Volcano and Its Magical Properties as Befits the Pursuit of Certain Sciences. He was nearly asleep from boredom simply finishing the title. "The other was… well, very much so an accident."

Atabei stood with her back to the door, arms crossed. Here at home, her hair hung loose in its thousand braids, a glimmering waterfall of black, and she wore pants much like his own and a loose white shirt.

"An accident?" Atabei huffed an irritated sigh, fixing a glare on him he could feel even without looking up to see it. "I am not as stupid as you must think me to be, Guilford."

"No! No, Beibei, not at all. I'm not lying to you." He went to her, but she did not look at him directly. Her jaw was set with the stubborn distaste he knew so well, but had almost never seen aimed at him. "The ship's captain had a weak heart. When I commanded the siren to make him too afraid to tell what he was, it gave out. I did not mean for him to die."

“And why did the captain discover what the siren was in the first place? Hm?” Her changing accent was heavier here at her home, too, the low drawl more pronounced. Her eyes flickered to his and then away again, but it wasn’t weakness.

Not with Atabei.

“You did not keep him clothed?”

Well, no. He hadn’t. But Gilly didn’t think that was relevant. “He… misunderstood the nature of my connection to the siren. He thought it was a young man, and that…” He trailed off, face burning with embarrassment merely retelling the conversation, the captain’s sly accusations and subtle threats. “Well, the captain thought… he thought…”

Atabei’s voice was desert dry and even less forgiving. “He thought you were fucking him.”

“Beibei!” Gilly’s mouth dropped open in shock. “I’ve never heard you speak so vulgarly!”

“And yet now you have, and I am the same Beibei I was when you first made me flower crowns,” Atabei said, and there was a gentle teasing softening her voice that made him think perhaps she wasn’t truly angry, or not so angry he could not break through it anyway. She took a deep breath. "I can see now. He threatened you, threatened to expose you, and you thought the siren could help wipe his memory clean.”

Atabei didn’t need to know any of that.

“Yes, yes exactly.” Gilly leaped on this lovely lie, so much kinder than the truth. Better than telling her about the captain suggesting he might make good use of such a fine young man with such a lovely face and strong, lithe body. Better the softer lie than the truth of Gilly’s answering negotiation into sitting in the corner and watching it happen. Better than admitting that the captain had been pushing the siren down onto the bed in his quarters when the creature had sung him into fear. Or that Gilly had made sure the ship believed fully that the captain had died in flagrante delicto with a pretty passenger, which the crew had seemed… unsurprised by.

In any case, she swallowed, keeping her eyes on the windows with their heavy drapes on the other side of the room. "Fine. I can understand the accident. And the other?”

“Not an accident. The widow Neumann, who let me the rooms I was staying in?”

“Yes, the sweet little old lady.”

“... right. That one. Well, her death had a purpose. She left me everything, you see. I am… a wealthy man these days. If I had small ambitions, I would have enough to live on in comfort for the rest of my life.”

Atabei’s eyes searched over his face. “You have larger ambitions.”

“I do. This is only how I begin, Beibei. I’ll be a king, or more, before I am done.”

She nodded. There was a distant sadness in her, as if she mourned the gift he had asked of her, that she had given him. “You want that more than anything. I am happy I could help you take the first steps on your path.”

She moved away from him to sit behind the massive desk in a well-loved leather chair, leaning back and putting her feet up, crossed at the ankles. She was so very different here at home, with the coastal breezes fluttering over the drapes. So much more herself, more like how she had been when they were children. “Is there evidence? Can they trace it back to you?”

“No, no.” He waved away her concern, taking his own seat on the other side, wishing he had a glass of liquor in hand, but… Atabei was not one for alcohol here at home, and he knew there would be none unless this mysterious Eliza enjoyed it. “I was with her, but… she signed with her own hand, steady and strong. You couldn’t possibly have said it was forged. I mean, it wasn’t. I watched her sign each and every one.”

“Hm.” Atabei looked a little confused. “And then?”

“Then she drank a glass of strychnine mixed with wine, and died.”

“I didn’t know she had such a fondness for you as all that,” Atabei said, her expression of confusion deepening, although her wry humor was still intact. She even smiled, just a little, as he head tipped back against the back of the chair. “It is a great love one must feel for one’s downstairs tenant to drink deadly poison simply to expedite the tenant's inheritance.”

“Ha! I hated her more than any other soul and I daresay she did nothing but pity me, but it didn’t matter. I brought my sea creature up with me, and had it sing to her. After a while… she began to see things my way. I did her a kindness, really, if you think about it. She would have died in terror eventually, alone in her gigantic house, her little dog chewing on her toes-”

“Guilford, please,” Atabei said, face paling. “Let’s not talk about that.”

“Right. Anyway, this way she had someone she adored with her at the end, and I even gave her little dog to a friend of hers.”

“You hate that dog.” Atabei’s eyebrows raised again. “You used to joke about tossing it into the ocean for the sharks.”

“And you will yourself note that while yes, I did say that, it was a joke. It wasn’t the dog’s fault it was bred and born to drive me absolutely raving mad with its noise and that it had to be the size of a small tea kettle. The stupid thing is living a life of sheer luxury with the widow’s oldest and wealthiest friend, who has a dozen servants on hand at all times and a granddaughter who will no doubt adore the dog’s decidedly ugly smashed-up little face. And the way it breathes…” He shuddered.

“I… all right. Well, that is reassuring.” She tapped her fingernails on the desk, utterly at her ease in here. It must be her study and hers alone, now, if she kept her books on magic in here and felt them secure. “But… wait, Guilford. You said you had the siren sing.” Atabei’s eyes widened. “The siren’s song doesn’t work on women. It is well known. Only men can be fooled by their voices.”

“I know, I know, but it did work on her. And it’s worked on… three other women besides, since then. I’ve tested it.” At Atabei’s thoroughly nonplussed expression, Gilly flushed and hastened to add, “Simply to make them forget they had seen its markings, Beibei! I’m not a monster.”

Besides which, he had the siren itself to slate his lusts on now. Something about the way it still sometimes wept with his hands around its neck or dropped its human glamor to bare rows of sharp teeth without any ability to use them on him did more for his desires than any woman’s softness ever had.

The siren was a creature who should have torn him limb from limb, but Guilford controlled that power, that ferocious rage. It took real effort not to have arousal overtake him just thinking about it.

“Good. I will not aid a man who uses such a power to do harm to women.”

“I am not a man who has any intentions of doing any such thing,” He said, a little soothing, leaning forward. His elbows rested on his thighs. Downstairs, somewhere outside and presumably sitting under a tree or something, the siren began to sing. It was nonsense notes, something trifling, without any power to it.

Guilford had been pleased with it, and given it leave for the occasional making of merry tunes to pass the time, as long as it only cast a spell with its voice when Guilford commanded. He enjoyed seeing its pathetic gratitude at these small mercies, ones he could remove at any time for any reason or even no reason at all.

Sometimes he did, and forced the siren to debase itself all the more in order to earn them back.

Atabei looked over to the window, tensing slightly until she could tell there was no new magic in the air, nothing to try to override her own. Then she sighed and looked back to Gilly, nodding slowly. “Perhaps it works now because it is your will and not his? Since it’s not his magic any longer, only yours, that must go through him. Maybe that’s why… Hm. Fascinating. I will have to read more on this, try to understand…” She trailed off. “One wonders why no one has captured a siren for these purposes before.”

“Who says they haven’t?” Gilly raised his hands in question. Half-hidden by a stack of books that had never been placed back on their shelves back behind Atabei, he saw a small portrait that had been set on the floor, sticking half-out. In it he could see a woman, a man, and a little girl.

“Remember the Verenni king, a few hundred years ago?” Gilly spoke while looking over the portrait, letting his thoughts wander as he considered the family of three. “He came from the Sea Peoples, from nowhere, and it seemed like he took over every land he touched for half a century until he was killed in battle. Maybe he had a siren who sang what he wanted, and someone killed the siren first. It’s possible.”

The man in the portrait was older, hair already silvered, with a prominent beard. The woman clearly decades younger than her husband, and with the solemn look of those who must pose for hours in heavy dresses. The little girl looked very much like her, but for her nose.

“True. But why haven’t we heard of it? It should be in every history book…”

“Unless, of course, the people who come up with how we remember our histories don’t want anyone to know sirens can be so used-”

Outside, the sound of a carriage, and the siren’s song stopped. Atabei all but leapt to her feet in a sudden panic, interrupting Guilford. “Eliza! She won’t know not to talk to him-” She ran for the door and down the stairs, Gilly pushing himself up to follow her.

Atabei darted like a silverfish through clear water - he could hardly have hoped to keep up with her speed. He heard her cry, “Eliza, watch out!”

By the time he made it out the front door, huffing and puffing, Gilly saw quite the tableau.

Atabei, holding the siren’s arm with a grip so tight Gilly knew he would have lovely new bruises to appreciate before he slept tonight, was speaking in a rush to a lovely woman wearing a simple dress and tilted, wide-brimmed hat that kept the sun off her skin, with a little girl standing beside her dressed in the pantaloons and shirt common to the young.

“-was only saying hello,” The woman - who must be Eliza Howe - was saying, affronted. She had the heavy molasses accent of the northern colonies, as if she considered every word before she spoke it. “I can handle a simple polite greeting of a guest, Bei.”

There was a tremor to her voice, though, that suggested she had been relieved Atabei appeared so quickly.

“He is not a simple guest, ‘Liza,” Atabei said in return, her tone apologetic even if her words weren’t. “Remember I told you about Guilford Wentworth, and why I had to go visit him in the islands?”

Eliza turned back to the siren, who was trying subtly to pull himself free of Atabei’s grip, and failing. The monster looked away from her, confused and uncertain. Gilly felt himself think strange, strange thoughts - it has no idea what’s going on. It meant no harm. He shook himself and strode forward, catching up to the little group. The siren cringed away from his very presence, and he ignored the stir of desire that roused in him.

The little girl hid herself behind her mother, peering out with wide eyes.

“This is the thing that Guilford Wentworth captured? This? Bei, this is clearly a man,” Eliza said, and then caught sight of Gilly. Her expression pinched. “Oh, and here is another. Who... is this, then?”

“This is Guilford,” Atabei said, with a smile, gesturing to him. He bowed to Eliza, and she inclined her chin just barely to him. “Guilford Wentworth. Guilford, this is… my wife, Eliza Howe, and her daughter Sirene.”

“Siren,” The creature said, speaking words aloud for the first time. Its had an accent after losing its ocean-tongue, something that sharpened each syllable. Its eyes went to the little girl, who looked at it in something between anxiousness and wonder. Its expression was much the same. “The young are called siren?”

“Sirene,” Eliza corrected, uneasily emphasizing the differences in pronunciation. “It’s her name. She’s a girl, a-a human girl.”

“A girl, yes, this I see,” The siren said, and Guilford blinked. Had it-... used the same wry humor that he and Atabei had always enjoyed, in that sly tone? He would beat it for the pretense later tonight. Beat it black and blue and bloody and begging. “Siren is… human name, then? What I am, siren, is a name given to human girls?”

The monster stepped forward, leaning down to look more closely at the little girl even as Eliza grabbed her arm and held tight.

Its gaze reminded Guilford of his visits to the Royal Zoo, the way sometimes the great apes of the Largest Continent would watch the visitors to the zoo right back, with much the same expressions of awe and delight. Gilly thought about how deeply uncomfortable that sight made him, the bars that separated them from the people only a few feet away. The identical expressions. The reality of the strength and power the bars held in check.

“Sirene,” Eliza repeated, stepping back, her eyes flickering between Atabei, Guilford, and the siren. She looked more nervous and uncomfortable with every passing moment. “It isn’t the same.”

“Oh. I see. Hello, Sirene.” The siren emphasized the name now, too, the same way, although it didn’t seem mocking. More like it had simply decided that this was the way to pronounce the sounds, to mimic Eliza’s humanity. “I am a siren.”

“Hello,” The little girl whispered, without coming out from behind her mother's skirts. “It is very nice to meet you, Mister Siren.”

The siren’s face changed. Gilly realized, with a start, he had never seen it try to smile before. The siren tipped its head to one side. “It is very nice to meet you. Is that what humans say?”

The little girl frowned. “When they are polite it is.”

The siren made a sound - Guilford felt irrational fury when he realized it was gentle laughter, musical and melodic. "Polite is good?"

"Yes." The girl nodded, solemn as the grave. "One should always be polite, Mama says."

The siren's seemingly gentle smile faded slightly. "Mama," It repeated, voice low. "Sirens call ours mama, too."

The girl nodded, as if this made all the sense in the world. Eliza, though, gave Atabei a look of something like panic. "Bei-... What have you done?"

Atabei cut her eyes at Gilly and he cleared his throat, stepping forward, blocking the siren from the little girl's line of sight. “You don’t have to say hello to it, Miss Howe, and it is not a mister. It’s not a person. I know it looks like one, but that’s a silly little trick it plays on people. It’s more like… a dog, maybe.”

The little girl looked up at him, eyebrows furrowed. Her face - and voice - held a faintly hostile accusation he didn’t understand. “I say hello to dogs, too."

“Right. Well. Hm.” Gilly blushed, and wished he could order the siren to sing this whole moment out of existence for them all. It only made him angrier. “Perhaps not the best example…”

Eliza swallowed, stepping back, the girl moving with her in a stumble, slightly surprised. “Ah… Bei-... can you-... he’s very… very close to me, you see-... the sea thing is, I mean… but also your friend..."

“I understand.” Atabei pulled the siren backwards and shook its arm. “Don’t move. Let my wife go inside. Be still, sea creature.”

The siren stood, even without the magical compulsion, and watched as Eliza ushered the little girl away and back down the stone path to the front door of their home. She glanced a few times over her shoulder as she went, waving to the siren. "Goodbye, Mister Siren!"

"Goodbye, Sirene!" The siren called out. Guilford smacked it on the back right over some new marks from the belt he'd used on it last night and it cried out, stumbling before it caught itself.

"Silence!" Gilly hissed, and hit it again. And again. And again-

Atabei caught Gilly's arm in her hand and clicked her tongue against her teeth. “Not here, Guilford. Eliza fears the anger of men. Her late husband was… unkind, when upset. Unkind to her."

“Of course.” Guilford nodded, already breathing hard. He pushed his glasses back up his nose instinctively. “We won’t trouble your beautiful wife with this nonsense. Simply show me where I can put it and it will not be seen by anyone other than you and I."

Atabei found a smile for him, and he smiled back, and for a moment - the two of them out in the grass of a front yard, with a rope swing tied to a large tree branch off to one side and a herd of cows lowing somewhere just beyond sight behind a hill - it felt like they were children again.

Atabei looked over the siren, who didn’t meet her eyes in return, staring down at the ground in the way Gilly had painstakingly taught it to. Her smile faded into a frown. “So, two deaths-"

"One by accident, remember!"

"... and wealth. What comes next? Where do you go after you finish your visit here?"

“Oh, that’s an easy question to answer,” Gilly said, watching as the siren, ignored again, crouched down and stared openly at a line of ants crawling along within the grass. “I’m heading to the northern half of the Largest Continent, back to visit my... mother. Where we will become significantly less estranged, thanks to this thing.” He kicked the siren lightly in the thigh, watching it wince without moving, attention still focused on the insects below it.

“Returning to the line of inheritance,” Atabei said, nodding, crossing her arms before her. “I see. And after she no doubt dies quite a tragic and well-mourned death?”

“Well… then maybe the next time we see each other face-to-face, I won’t be Gilly Wentworth, down on his luck sailor surgeon any longer. I’ll be… King Wentworth, or Emperor…”

“You aim high,” Atabei murmured. “You want to be like the Virenni King, the conqueror. They killed his siren, Guilford, if your theory is true. They killed the power he used and then slaughtered him as well, on his own battlefield, with one blow.”

“Right, well. I’ll be careful.” Gilly reached down, gripping into the siren's curls - he never tired of its soft hair, the way it tensed and shivered every time his fingers moved along its scalp - and pulled. It immediately tipped its head back, knowing the command by instinct without even needing to hear it by now. Its breath caught, and he knew if he touched beneath its jaw its pulse would be fluttering, like a horse about to bolt.

But it couldn’t go anywhere at all.

His mouth felt dry, just thinking about it.

“Your magic worked, it worked so well, Beibei. I can make it do anything I want, make anyone do anything I want, and no one who isn’t under its spell is ever going to know about it.”

"Except me," Atabei murmured, a strange tremulous quality in her deep voice. "Except for me, and mine."

Gilly, for the first time, looked into the eyes of his oldest friend and realized that if he could use the siren's power on women too, then even Atabei was not safe from him, not truly, and she knew it.

Atabei was afraid of him.

Gilly's eyes went back to the siren, who was looking up and watching the wind rustle leaves on a nearby tree. The creature's lips were parted, just a little, as if at any moment the song would begin.

Gilly smiled.

"Let's go inside," He said, smoothly, "And have tea."

Tag list: @grizzlie70 @burtlederp @finder-of-rings @theelvishcowgirl @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @bloodinkandashes @squishablesunbeam @mj-or-say10 @apokolyps @wildfaewhump @shrimpwritings

For @whumptober prompts 19, 21, 22

57 notes · View notes

oreharuuu · 1 year

Text

éta ritual (5)

Summary: Meeting San's two friends was an interesting experience yet...you can't help but hide your suspicion about them.

Warnings: none

A/N: I'M SORRY I WAS LATE POSTING THIS! I've rewritten the whole thing because I wasn't happy with it, but I'm satisfied with the whole thing now so ENJOY :)

"Oh, please. You think the library is swamped on a Monday?"

"Oh, (name). You don't have to say sorry for taking a few days off," Suho hummed as you placed your phone on your shoulder. You huffed, dragging the trash bag outside of your apartment. "I feel bad because you only have Mark working at the moment."

You shrugged before realizing Suho can't see it. "It might. You never know."

Suho sighed. "Well, don't worry. You better finish that problem sooner or later. Are you staying with someone?"

"Yeah, my neighbor."

San was an angel for letting you stay on his couch for the meantime. It's only been a day since the incident but you're trying to clean up at a faster pace because you don't want to bother San anymore. He's adamant that he's okay with the whole thing but you don't want to stay longer because that man is a menace.

You only stayed one day at his apartment to calm yourself down and relax before doing any work, but damn did San not know the term 'personal boundaries'. You slept on the couch because your heart's going to burst if you step into San's room. The one morning you woke up to the smell of bacon, you sat up only to go eyes wide when you saw San shirtless. He's only wearing pajama pants but the pants are down to his hips, showing the top of his underwear? Boxers? You don't even know because your mind isn't working right.

Laying back down you only stared at the ceiling as you tried to erase the image from your mind. You could've sworn you heard a growl somewhere nearby, but your heart stopped literally when San appeared smiling, his dimple showing.

Fuck.

"Morning, (name)! Breakfast is ready, come eat it before I eat everything," He smiled as he walked away again to grab a plate for himself.

That morning you looked everywhere besides San's godly body, not noticing how he's hiding his smirks as he purposely stretched and flexed his muscles.

Thankfully San needed to run some errands before working tomorrow. But that didn't stop yourself from ogling at how his clothes fit nicely to his body like a glove. "I'm gonna go now, you sure you don't want me to buy anything?" San asked.

"No thanks," You smiled. "I'm good."

San smiled before waving goodbye, closing the door before you huffed and screamed into the pillow you slept yesterday.

"—So I'm guessing this neighbor is also helping you?"

You snapped out of your head, coughing lightly before answering Suho. "No, actually. His friends are willing to help though because he's busy with work."

"Hmm, what a nice man."

You sighed. "Tell me about it."

You and Suho kept talking over the phone as you mindlessly cleaned what you can in your apartment. As Suho was talking about a cute dog he saw yesterday, a knock stopped you from grabbing the trash. "Suho, can I call you later? I think his friends are here."

Saying goodbye, you turned off the call before making yourself presentable with the hoodie, joggers, and messy hair. You're too lazy to change anyway and you're cleaning. Fixing your glasses you walked to the door before opening it.

What a sight it was.

Both of the men were tall. One with brown hair and one with bold coloured hair. You've never met anyone with hair of neon yellow and orange make it look so good.

"Hi, are you (name)?" The man with brown hair asked, making you nod. "Yeah, I'm (name). I'm assuming your San's friends?"

"Yup!" The other man cheerily replied. "My name's Mingi, this is Yunho. Nice to meet you."

Your tense body slowly went lax, smiling at how cute Mingi is. They both have golden retriever energies so you don't sense any bad things from them. Although their height is still making you a bit uneasy because of how short you are compared to them.

"Nice to meet you too! Thank you really for offering to help."

Yunho waved you off. "It's fine, besides we don't really have anything to do. And we've been dying to meet the girl San was gushing over."

Hearing that you tried to hide the rising heats on your cheeks by coughing, hiding behind the door before appearing back to them. "Thank you! But sadly San never told me about you guys. Are you guys close friends or...?"

"Oh!" Mingi smiled. "Let's say we've been together for a long time."

"Very, very, long time," Yunho smirked.

"Hmm, must be good friends then."

Mingi and Yunho only nodded, so you opened the door wider to let them in. You're embarrassed as both of the men looked around your apartment with an unreadable expression, shifting uneasily when Yunho turned back to look at you.

"I presumed you already cleaned this already?"

"Well yeah, not all though. Just started cleaning a few hours a go," You shrugged helplessly.

Mingi and Yunho exchanged glances before Mingi asked back. "So...the apartment is actually more cleaner now?"

You nodded.

Yunho smiled but you know it's not a pleasant one, while Mingi scowled before shaking his head with a sigh. "San told us the girl is your friend?"

"Was," You snarked back. "After the stunt she pulled I'm not sure I'll be able to hold myself back from punching her. But then again I'll probably just think about it instead of actually doing it."

"I'm supporting you to punch her. If my Cas—uh, apartment was trashed like this or even worse, I'd say kill her," Yunho shrugged, Mingi nodding along in agreement.

"Yeah, not taking any chances here," You huffed before making your way towards the mess on your kitchen. "I believe you both came here to help me?"

Both of them grin, separating as they make their way towards the mess inside. You huffed before grabbing the trash bags outside before deciding to clean your bedroom next. It's not as trashed as the living room, but still messy nonetheless.

"You need help here?" Yunho popped his head inside your room, carrying a trash bag over his shoulder. You looked around before shaking your head. "Nope. I'm good here."

You noticed how Yunho lingers around the door, noticing how he's shifting his gaze around your room. Before you could ask him what's wrong, a knock from the door interrupted your question.

You swore you heard a growl from Yunho but you ignored it. It sounds too...inhuman for it to come from an actual human. "Someone visiting you?" Yunho cocked his head towards the door.

"Actually...no."

You heard the door open, instantly thinking that Mingi opened the door. You heard talking so you brushed off any dust from your clothes before walking towards the door, Yunho following behind.

"Mark? What're you doing here?"

"(name)!" Mark smiled happily. "Wanted to visit you before going to work, Suho told me what happened. So I bought something for you."

"Aww, thanks. You really didn't have to," You walked up to grab the bag from Mark's hand, noticing the delicious smell. "Damn, right on time. Thanks for the food!"

"Wanted to eat with you, but it seems you have company..."

"Oh!" You forgot Yunho and Mingi were here, looking back at them before pointing. "That's Yunho, that's Mingi. They're actually my neighbor's friends, they wanted to help me."

"Oh, hi!"

"Hello," Mingi replied with a smile but you noticed how it didn't reach his eyes. Yunho only nodded with a tense smile, making the atmosphere awkward before you cleared your throat. "Wanna come in? I mean you did buy the food."

Mark opened his mouth before closing it. You frowned when suddenly his eyes looked blank, almost empty. "Mark? You okay?" You waved a hand in front of him, but no response.

"Actually," He started. "I remembered I had something to do before I go to work. It's best if I work on it."

Weird. He sounded like a stranger to you with that kinda of language and tone, but you shrugged before hugging him. "Alright, hope it goes well. Take care Mark!"

Mark's body was lax so you thought he didn't want any hugs right now, but his blank gaze was still etched on his face. Glancing back at Mingi and Yunho, you noticed the subtle yet annoyed smirk Yunho had while Mingi straight up looked scary as he glared at Mark.

"Uh...anything wrong here?"

Mingi glanced at Yunho before his face melts from any tension, smiling at you before grabbing your back gently. "All fine, love. Maybe Mark's a little...tired. Let's leave him be."

You frowned but nodded nonetheless. Mark did mentioned how his professor seems to have a grudge towards him, always making him revise a few assignments. "Maybe. Bye, Mark! I'll see you at work!"

Mark didn't even wave before Yunho closed the door, a bit strong in your opinion. You saw how Yunho was hunched, huffing softly before looking back at you with a smile. You hold back the shiver that just went through your body, slowly inching away from Mingi; not noticing his gaze always looking at you.

You swore his eyes was red but in an instant it vanished. Jumping back to Mingi, you didn't even notice Yunho already standing in front of you.

"So," He purred. "Shall we continue were we left off?"

#poly ateez x reader #yandere ateez #ateez imagines #ateez x reader #ateez

155 notes · View notes

mggpleasedontlookhere · 2 years

Text

a glimpse of maybe

summary: spencer never really got over maeve - no one can truly forget their first love... that doesn’t stop his best friend, y/n, from trying.

word count: 1,464 reading time aprox: 6 mins

warnings: themes of unrequited love, angst (my specialty)

a/n: first fic back! This can be read by anybody - no specificity in features, gender, etc. Please let me know if I’ve made any errors regarding this.

masterlist

Jealousy is described as a white hot anger that burns behind your eyelids, paralyzes every muscle, and turns you as green as a swamp. Well, whoever said that must have been a complete idiot… or a lucky fool who has never experienced the depth of longing for someone you can’t have.

Instead, coldness surrounds you and bites at your veins with ferocity. What they don’t tell you about is the constant emptiness that fills you whenever he looks behind your eyes to try and get a glimpse of her - if there even is one.

Spencer disguised his grief well; longing stares that I believed were for me, but in truth, were the remnants of her. When he started to reach for my hands and suggested we hang out more, I should’ve known then. Maybe it’s partly my fault - maybe I fell in love with the idea of a blissful tragedy that was bound to happen.

“Spencer, may I remind you that I’m the one with the PhD in Chemistry here. Don’t try to tell me about my own dissertation…” Spencer takes his bottom lip under his teeth with a sly smile, a subtle tell that he was about to protest. “...and just because I technically haven’t received physical proof of my degree, doesn’t mean I’m any less knowledgeable than you, Mr. 187 IQ.”

He shrugged his shoulders and immediately raised his hands in defense. “I never said that,” he argued while I stared at him pointedly. “I’ll just take my three PhDs elsewhere–”

“Here we go again with your smart-ass attitude,” I scoffed playfully, burying the smile behind my unimpressed visage as he took pleasure in making me laugh - a ghost of a satisfied and happy glint in his irises. I haven’t seen him so… normal until now.

A butterfly stretches its wings inside my stomach as Spencer begins to regain a youthful color to his skin. A comfortable silence washes over us as our laughter dies down into nothing but warm glances shared between us. A much too familiar bubble swells in my chest and engulfs the space in my lungs, preventing air from reaching it.

One. Two. Three new freckles strayed from the top of his eyebrows to the tip of his slightly tanned nose. The amount of times I’ve told this persistent man to put on some sunscreen is incredulous - I can already see the breaking of DNA from the abundance of UV exposure.

At least he’s getting more sun - he’s going out more. That’s good. Yes… it’s good. You know what’s not good though? Skin cancer.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Spencer broke me out of my trance, throwing an old crumpled up post-it note at my face.

He really needs to start cleaning up this place. His living room had turned into Oxford’s long lost library archive or a Barnes and Nobles’ recycling dump. Spencer hasn’t really fixed up the place since…

I make a mental note to help Spencer spruce up the place once he’s ready - and to get him some SPF 1000 while I’m at it. What are best friends for?

“I was actually just thinking about how much you must be begging for skin cancer,” I teased, taking the crumpled up note and setting it on the side table to cast to the garbage, later on. “But of course, maybe that’s something your three PhDs can defend you from too.”

“Who’s the smart-ass now, Y/N?”

“You’re right… we can’t have two smart-asses now, can we?” I sighed, relaxing further into the loveseat I sat in, tracing the stitching that lined the leather material. “Is that offer of you taking your business elsewhere still up?”

Tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek, he leaned forward with a cheshire smile and a look that was out-of-character for him. “Is that what you really want, Y/N? Cause half of my business practically includes you in it,” he admits.

I suppressed the blush that was threatening to bloom on my cheeks. Averting my attention from his prying gaze. “I get it, Spencer. I’m the most interesting part of your life,” I half-heartedly joked; a part of me longing for it to be true.

His lips quirked at my quick response, that bright glow in his eyes making another appearance.

Maybe this time, it can be true.

“You look good like that, Spencer,” I commented with underlying hesitance.

“Like what?”

“...happy. Like you're happy.”

‘I love seeing you happy… happy with me’ was what I really wanted to tell him.

“I am happy,” his eyes subtly trail down from my eyes, to my nose, and finally, to my lips. “I feel nothing else whenever I’m with you.”

My lips parted slightly in desperate need for air. In that moment, the mess of the room was gone, the sunscreen forgotten, and the mental barrier lifted. Heat swirled in my stomach and crept up my throat. The butterflies raced inside me with grace, leaving me lightheaded in the moment.

“You’re only saying that because I’m the only one sane enough to keep hanging around you.” I attempt to brush off his suggestive tone, fearful of mistaking it for genuine interest. I tucked my hair behind my ears, grounding myself back to bleak reality.

“You know for someone who’s almost has their PhD–”

“–does have.” I interrupt.

“...who DOES HAVE their PhD, you’d think you’d figure out to stay away from a guy who can only handle one person in their vicinity. What if I was a psychopath?”

“I never said you weren’t,” I cut in.

“Smart-ass.”

“Such a smart-ass,” we retorted simultaneously.

We broke out into a gleeful fit of laughter, amused at our telepathic nature. The bubble in my lungs only continued to grow, only this time I wasn’t suffocating. I guess living for the hope of it all was enough to feel this way. It was then I decided that maybe the wanting was enough.

I wish you were my smart-ass. Mine.

“You’ve always known what to say, Y/N,” he teased with a doting tone.

I didn’t bother to hold back the loving grin that graced my lips and the admiration that poured out of me because in that moment it felt like he was mine to lose - and only mine to love.

“I love when you smile like that - your dimple shows up just at the surface of your right cheek. That’s how I know I’ve really made you happy.” He presses into his own cheek, leaving a temporary impression of his finger. Something deeper settles into his eyes as his smile cracks subtly. “...Maeve had the same indent on her left cheek - one of her prettiest quirks.”

And just like that, reality sets in.

He may have been mine from the start… but I never really was his, was I?

All at once, that warm bubble shriveled into nothing but a cold and sharp cacophony of hope that had been stricken down. My esophagus constricted around the razor-sharp words threatening to slip by my lips - a stinging sensation imprinting itself on the walls of my chest.

I lost all focus, swimming around desperately in the concaves of my mind for some sort of solace. My mental attempts bore fruitless to the sharks, that were his words, endlessly tailing me. The emptiness and despair threw my body into an indescribable numbness - a contrast from the searing wetness that hid behind my eyelids.

…silence.

All my impulses, insecurities, and irrationality formed into one, throwing away all sense of decorum and decency. I bit my tongue, immersing myself in the taste of iron to distract myself from the unpleasant thoughts.

Why would you say that, Spencer?

I wanted to scream, claw, and fight. I wanted to feel anything - anything else but this.

Why is it never me?

But I also wanted to bring Maeve back. I wanted Spencer to truly be happy again. Not just for a moment of happiness… of love.

Am I too hard to want (like the way I want you)?

Sometimes I wish I can turn you back into a stranger, Spencer. Only then I wouldn’t be yours just to hurt. But you were right though… I never want you elsewhere. I want you here, a blissful wound that I will willingly carry any day just to get a glimpse of ‘maybe.’

But I didn’t dare to say those words, not to him - never to him. My tears retreated back into their sockets as I embraced the numbness that came with reality. I flicked the post-it back into the expanding mess in the room, where it knows its place.

“...of course, Spencer. I feel nothing else when I’m with you.”

taglist: @rexorangecouny @howdycharlie @honeymilk-4 @linthebinbag @andreasworlsboring101 @ssareidbby @kyleetheeditor @fanofalltheficsx @jimilogy @lulwaxim @jhillio @m3ssytrash @haylaansmi @meowiemari @ashwarren32 @codyf3rnsupremecy @goldentournesol

404 notes · View notes

stray-kaz · 1 year

Text

The Flower and The Serpent : a Walt De Ville x reader FF : six

A/N: I have taken artistic liberties with this fanfic. For example, I have given Walt some different mind abilities and have removed the canon vamp claws because I find them distasteful and overkill, pardon the pun.

18 and up, y’all.

You spent the next couple of days receiving scandalised glances from the maids and even Mr. Field due to the blossomed bruise on your neck, the identical holes in the centre now gone. Mrs. Swift eyed you with obvious concern whenever she saw you, and even cornered you on your way out of your room one morning. You met her gaze with caution, stretching your neck out slightly.

“Miss Alexander, you must be careful” she insisted in hushed tones. “He may act human, but he is not. If you push him too far, he might very well kill you, whether he means to or not.”

You shook your head, a small rueful smile twisting your lips.

“I do not think so, Mrs. Swift” you assured her. “I have been pushing him rather hard lately and he has not taken a single liberty I have not given him. I know what he is, I promise, and he is still honourable. I do not fear him.”

The older woman sighed and hastened away, leaving you alone. You spoke the truth.

You had many hours alone, but whenever Walt had a spare moment or two, he found you and either talked or kissed, often kissed you breathless, kissed the thoughts from your mind.

In a hidden alcove, mere inches away from where Mr. Field stood waiting for him to return.

Against any wall he could find, and there were many.

On top of his library desk, you sitting on the blotter, Walt standing between your legs, his hands on your jaw, your back, in your hair.

Always, always the scent of blood on you drove him away hard, panting, wild eyed, needing, teeth sharp.

He whispered love in your ear in Romanian, Hungarian, making you shudder against his chest, leaving you longing for when he’d murmur it in English.

Viktoria even caught you once, lying on a chaise outside the ballroom, Walt draped over you with his mouth on your pulse and his fingers up your skirt between your legs, damp and slick with blood. He caught her looking and waved her off with his bloodied hand, returning his attention to your neck without even waiting to see that she had gone.

“It is nearly eleven” he murmured into your feathering pulse. “You should get some rest.”

He sat back on the chaise and eased you up using his clean hand. He kissed your lightly, his lips barely touching yours, his teeth softly nicking your flesh as he pulled away with a hint of a smile.

“Goodnight, my love.”

Long after midnight had passed and you were still not asleep, your mind a riot as you lay back on the oversized four poster bed in the semidarkness, when a quiet knock on the bedroom door drew you slowly out of your reverie.

“Come in” you said, and sat up.

You pulled your knees to your chest as the door swung inward on a soft creak and Walt padded inside on bare feet. He closed the door at his back, keeping his silver blue eyes fixed on you.

“You wanted me, love?” he asked, moving slowly towards the bed.

You eyed him over the tops of your knees, confused.

“I didn’t call for you” you told him. “I didn’t touch the bell pull. Nothing.”

He just smiled and tapped the side of his head with one slender finger.

“We are this close to being bonded” he replied. “I can feel what you want and hear your thoughts if I’m close enough.”

You rolled your eyes and dropped your knees down so you were cross legged, just as he reached the end of the bed to look down at you, nostrils flaring slightly.

“When will this damned bleeding stop?” he wondered aloud.

You felt hot and flushed under his stare as he sat down near you and reached out to touch your knee, sliding his hand up to the top of your thigh and back down.

“Does it bother you?” you asked softly, curious. “It hasn’t seemed to before.”

Walt shook his head, dark brown hair flopping untidily in his eyes. He pushed it away impatiently.

“Not particularly. I’m not hungry anyway.”

His lips pulled into a smirk that tightened your core and sent an extra ripple of heat through you. He leaned in to press his lips to your temple, moving his hand up and down your leg again.

“I know this is what you have been preparing for for more than a decade, but I did not expect you to become as eager as you have so quickly.”

Walt’s gaze was intense.

“What can I do for you? Sex is off the table until our wedding night, as you know; your father made that abundantly clear to me” he said, his tone amused and a half smile tugging at his mouth. “So what is it that I can do for you?”

You felt your cheeks heat and his smile grew.

“Miss Alexander, my love” he purred, his fingers reaching to tug at the hem of your lacy baby doll nightie, the material rustling over his fingertips. “We are about to be married. What do you want? Tell me.”

You bit your lip and his eyes caught the movement, his teeth baring for just a sliver of a moment before his lips closed over them again.

“Can I show you instead?” you asked, tugging at his hand that rested on your thigh.

“By all means” Walt answered, nodding.

He climbed onto the bed at your insistence and went willingly, deceptively pliable, to be pushed up against the headboard, long legs extended. He cocked a graceful eyebrow as you settled yourself down on his right thigh, your knees to either side.

The insatiable tingle between your legs spread outwards as you pressed gently down, just enough to feel the muscles in his thigh drag up against your heat. Walt dug his fingers into the flesh of your thighs and tilted his head back so he could watch your face. His gaze was distracted on the way up, though; your lace nightie was almost entirely sheer and as you ground against him, your nipples pushed into the fabric and he could see them, as if they were waiting for him.

“Ah, my love” he said in a hushed tone. “Were you thinking about me?”

“Mmm” you mumbled, shutting your eyes to avoid the intensity of his.

Then you felt his fingers grasp your chin and shake it slightly.

“Look at me” he commanded gently.

Without protest, your eyes flashed open again as you dragged yourself over his thigh. His fingers gripped like steel on your thighs, and you were certain there would be bruises in the morning.

This man, this monster among men, was drawing you out, out of the cocoon you had wrapped yourself in, knowing you were always for him and nobody else. With a sharp smile, taunting kisses, soft speech and strong hands, he had made you fall in love with him.

Incoherent clouds of thought in your mind, your fingers clenched red nailed at Walt’s shoulders, twisting against his bare skin and the cotton of his white tank; he had been sleep mussed but listening out for you.

Your breath came in pants, soft and unrelenting as you moved on him, jaw slackening and high colour staining your chest and cheeks as you chased the relief the animal part of your brain knew only he could give to you.

Walt watched you rut desperately on top of him, the heady scent of the blood between your legs bullying his senses until he was ready to snap his last gossamer thread of control, throw you down on the bed and sink into you right then and there.

And then a whimper left your lips and he couldn’t take it any longer. He scooped you up, ignoring your startled squeak, and tossed you onto the feather down mattress on your back. He ground against you once, then groaned and tore himself away from your softness and warmth, almost flying to the door. It slammed shut with a loud crack and one of the hinges fell onto the carpet.

You propped yourself up on your elbows and stared, pink and panting, at the now empty space Walt had only just occupied. When he did not magically reappear, you rolled over onto your stomach and groaned loudly, muffled, into your pillow.

Pressed against the wall inches from your bedroom door, Walt stood breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling rapidly. He winced as he bit into his lower lip, his pointed canines piercing the fine skin. He tasted the bite of liquid copper on his tongue and shoved away from the wall, uncomfortable in his own skin, his trousers too tight. He had come so close to ruining you. Too close.

He pictured you as you had been moments ago, wild and wanton and flushed, unbearably divine. He strode towards the stairs, picking up speed on his way down, desperate for blood.

Tagging: @hellomadamebutterfly @sky0401

#walt de ville #walt de ville x reader #the invitation #walter de ville x reader #liss writes

134 notes · View notes

into-crazy · 1 year

Text

Derry’s Secret Pt. 3

Pennywise x Female Reader series

Warnings- mature language, stalking, violence, dark themes, ages 18+

Other parts can be found RIGHT HERE and through the "Derry's Secret" tag🎈

The vibrations from your phone had woken you. The alarm displaying 9:30 am as you dismiss it.

Yawning deeply, you look over at Gabby who's still sound asleep. She looks so comfortable. Her dark locks are sprawled all over her face and the pillow, soft snores emerging with each rhythmic breath she takes, and there's a patch of dried drool on the corner of her mouth.

"Sleeping beauty." You quietly snicker standing up and getting a good stretch.

Last night's events still freshly lingered on your mind. After coming literally face to face with this scary being and so close to being devoured, that's not something you could easily shake off. Without trying to wake your friend, you quietly head into the bathroom to get ready for the day. Took a quick shower, brushed your teeth, and fixed your hair. You put on a pair of high-waisted mom jeans and a long sleeved top. A comfortable fit for the day.

Walking back into the kitchen, you see Gabby starting to arise from her slumber.

"Good morning!" You shout out, getting to work on cleaning last night's mess.

"Morning," she yawns deeply. "You're up early."

"It's after nine," you acknowledge while getting a start on the dishes.

"Yeah, but it's Sunday."

"I know."

She goes into the bathroom to briefly freshen up then comes out to help you. She folds the blankets and throws out the trash. When she comes back inside, she goes over to the couch to check her phone. "Ah man, I forgot.."

"What?" You ask making your way over, drying your hands off with a towel.

"Brian and I are meeting up for lunch, but I need to go home and change. Damn, I should head out." She fixes her hair in a quick ponytail, a look of annoyance on her tired face.

You laugh, "why the face?"

"My phone was on silent and he's called about six times. I have to go." Grabbing her bag she gives you a hug. "I'll call you later, bye."

"Bye, drive safe," you see her out.

Well at least now you could stop for some breakfast and head straight to the library afterwards. Making sure everything was off, you grab your phone and bag before locking the door behind you.

Getting around on foot wasn't an issue. You have a vehicle, which you use to get to work and on other occasions. However most of the locations were close enough for you to walk, which you prefer over driving and wasting gas. It saves you money, plus it's good for your legs.

You come up to your location- Derry Public Library. This building must have been here for years. It looks as though it's one of the oldest structures still standing in town. Heading inside, you see that it is noticeably empty. There's only two or three people sitting at the desks with their heads buried in a book. At the main counter sat an older woman.

"Hello," she greets as you draw near, "is there anything I can help you with?" Her glasses are noticeably large, and she wore a baggy dress that reaches down to her feet in length.

"Hi, yes," you return, "I need help with finding something regarding Derry's history."

"Anything in particular?"

"Tragic incidents and events dating farther back." You imply hoping that it is enough information for her to work with. Not wanting to go much further into detail other than that.

"I have a few books on that." She replies fixing her lenses. You follow her to the shelves towards the back that contained a relatively scarce selection. There were books on each event, and even thicker ones that contained multiple. She pulls out two of the bigger books, handing them to you. "These will contain what you're looking for."

"Thank you," you praise looking over the covers. "I was wondering if you could help me with something else?"

"Sure. Like what, dear?"

"I was hoping to maybe get a deeper, more detailed look into these events. Like actual reports, maybe?"

She ponders for a moment, "oh well, we might have something downstairs located in the archives. It is a lot. Would you like to take a look?"

"Yes please, if you wouldn't mind." You light up.

The librarian leads you downstairs into the records area. It was more like a dusty basement, rather. Boxes and boxes filled the shelves, ranging to the back of the dimly lit room. At the very end, you find the 'missing children' section. Your chest tightens with the sight of many bins containing the cases. There is a desk with a lamp directly under a small window peeking outside. You set your belongings down there.

The woman began searching around the corner on another shelf. "May I ask why you're interested in researching these events?" She asks curiously.

You shrug, "oh it's just for a small project. I'm writing an essay for college, it'll be a report on Derry's tragic incidents."

You felt guilty lying to the old woman. But it's not like you could tell her the truth.

Oh, yes. I'm really here to find some information regarding this inhuman clown that broke into my apartment and almost fucking devoured me! By the way, he goes by Pennywise. You know him?

Yeah, that would sound pretty crazy.

"I see," she says walking over. "Our town certainly has a history of misfortune. I should know, I've lived here all my life." Her saddened tone immediately changes when she comes back over carrying a large box in her hands. "Here you are, you can start with these." She places it on the table beside you before pointing to the area from which she came. "The shelves over on that side contain some more files. I need to head back upstairs. Will you be alright down here by yourself?"

"Yes ma'am, I'll be fine." You assure, much preferring the solitude anyway.

"Please, my name's Margaret, dear. I'll come and check in on you."

"Thank you, Margaret." You call out to the woman, waiting for her to leave before turning around and pulling a box of missing children files off the metal shelf.

Seated at the desk, you skim through as many files as you can. It appears there has been a drastic increase in numbers from the late 80's. Then it seemed to calm for a while, before picking back up recently within this year. Come to think of it, you do recall seeing more 'missing kid' fliers in town lately. Also located on the shelves remained some old police reports on the children that had been found. You were hesitant on opening these files, knowing that they probably contain very gruesome details. However, you suck up the nerve to go through them. Strangely, it turns out the cases from the 80's had similarities. Many of the children were found without limbs and displayed obvious chew marks. As if an animal attacked and fed on them. A few of the current found children's cases corresponded as well.

It had to be Pennywise. It had to be.

You might have just found out what caused the disappearance of children throughout the years. However, this doesn't exactly tell you what that thing was. A creature? Demon? Perhaps a real life vampire? All this information yet still nothing on Pennywise!

It's even mind boggling how this hasn't even been made out the way it should. With this many cases, why wasn't there an ongoing investigation? Why isn't there anyone taking this seriously? It seems like way too big of an issue to blow over, especially with Derry's own residents. How can they be so oblivious to what's happening?

Maybe Pennywise has some kind of control over them as it feeds on them. Yes, it physically consumes their bodies. But telling by the way it smelled your skin seconds before trying to eat you, it was definitely searching for something else. Fear. That's what it muttered against you in a rabid frenzy. Pennywise wanted you to be afraid- scratch that- needed you to be afraid. So it could feed from it. But why?

Tossing the papers down, you message your aching temples. An hour has gone by, and your lower body has fallen asleep in the chair. You stand to rub the feeling back into your legs, wincing when you run over the bruise under your thigh. Reports of all sorts scattered over the table. This is ridiculous. You hadn't intended for this to turn into a full blown research project. It's too much, you're investing too much time into this. You're not a detective. This isn't your job or your concern for the matter. So why should you care about it? Since clearly no one else in this town does. You need to let this go, there's no reason for you to keep digging into this.

Deciding it was time to leave, you pack everything away and put the boxes back in their respective places.

You lift the last box and walk it over to the shelf. It was the one Margaret had pulled out, you hadn't even looked through its contents. The spot for this one was slightly higher and the box was heavy. While attempting to push it up, a sheet slips way through the cracks. Leading a way for a few more to fall out onto the floor. You let out a loud huff and set the bin down. Collecting one of the papers, it's a copy of an old photograph titled- Easter Egg Hunt 1908. Examining it briefly, something in the photo catches your eye. Behind the crowd of kids there was a circus wagon. It's clearly labeled- Pennywise the Dancing Clown with the portrait of a clown on the side of the carriage.

You shake your head in confusion.

No.. No, no, no, it can't be.

"This isn't right," you mumble frantically as you gather the rest. Different pictures with the same wagon in the back. This has to be a trick. These aren't real photos.

You throw the papers back in the box then hurriedly proceed to the table to gather your items. Immediately pausing when you spot something that wasn't there on the desktop before. A single, red deflated balloon. In utter shock, you pick it up, shakily bringing the rubber material closer to your face.

At that moment, the air around you suddenly feels thicker. A quiet chuckle rises not far from behind. You whip around, inspecting the shelves which surrounded you. Shit, I hope that isn't him. The lights start to flicker and you hear the familiar sound of bells. Please, not here. You are completely alone down here, with only one way out. Unfortunately that's were the sound came from. A few of the lights ahead go out, leaving the space gloomier. The one bulb and the window above you barely keeping the tiny area lit.

Speak of the devil, emerging from the darkness was Pennywise himself. Eyes glowing amber yellow as he comes into your view.

"Find what you were looking for?" He hints motioning to himself.

You gulp backing into the table, keeping your focus ready for his next move. Seeing how this encounter didn't go so well for you the last time.

"Pity I didn't get to eat you last night." He smiles widely. "Frankly, it seems as though everyone enjoys interrupting my meal times."

You continue to back up around the desk. Your sides are closed off by the shelves, and he's blocking your only path to escape. "Or maybe you just didn't want to eat me yet?" You counter his words.

Dropping his smile he tilts his head. "Oh! And why would you think that?"

"Because I wasn't scared enough. You had the chance to do it but you dragged it on. You feed off of people's fear, sucking out as much as you can before sinking your teeth into their flesh." You spit at the entity closing in.

"Clever girl," Pennywise acknowledges. "To believe you've got it all figured out." Backing you into the wall, he towers above you.

"Woman." You challenge, entirely unsure what came over you. But for one, you sure as hell aren't going to let it belittle you like this. "And I won't give that to you. I'm not afraid of you."

He growls at your words with claws tearing through his white gloves. Vigorously grabbing your throat, he lifts you up the wall. "You should be."

Damn it, not again! Should've already seen this coming.

You try to steady yourself on the wall with your feet, but to no avail. He laughs mockingly at your helplessness, squeezing tighter. You grab at the clawed hand, trying to loosen his grip, trying to find a way out of this. No one is here to help you this time, no one's coming to your rescue. There's no way you're going out without a fight, though. Not this time. But your opportunity is fleeing fast. You need to act now.

Think y/n!

If fear is what he seeks, then perhaps you should give him something else. Something drastic. Exaggerated enough for him to release you in an instant. But what? Suddenly, you get this idea. This crazy idea that no one else in your position would even think to come up with.

You manage to suck in some air, "fuck it."

Grabbing ahold of his costume, you unexpectedly tug him in. Clashing your lips onto his in a kiss. In total shock, he releases his grip on your neck. But you wrap your legs around his waist to keep from falling, moving your hand behind his large head to deepen the kiss. His lips are large and wet from the constant salivating. You couldn't help but cringe a little at the feel of them.

Stumbling back, he detaches your limbs. Causing you to fall and crash back onto the wall. You watch as Pennywise recedes, frantically wiping his mouth. Spreading his red stained drool all over his cheeks. Rapidly shaking his head as he shrieks of utter horror and confusion. Not even looking at you while he disappears into the darkness, leaving behind the echoes of his screams.

Looks like it worked. Safe to sense he's gone, you breathe out a sigh of relief. Who knew the big scary clown was so terrified of a harmless little kiss? And you didn't even use tongue, now imagine if you did. He would've been mortified!

You swipe your sleeved wrist across your lips, removing the drool he left. It's thick and slimy. Pain shoots up under your thigh as you attempt to stand. How many times have you been knocked down within the last 24 hours? Should probably start tallying them up at this point.

Collecting yourself, you make sure to rush out of there. Quickly leaving the library, not wanting to interact with anyone. You need to process what happened. And sure, you might have repelled him for now. But what if he decides to come back? Gabby's not coming over again later, so you're going to be alone all night. And tomorrow. And the night after that. And the one after..

Knowing you weren't going to sleep tonight, you decided to make a stop at the pharmacy for some sleeping pills. You figured Pennywise probably can't terrorize you and feed off of your fear if you're asleep.

The older man that rang you up noticed the distress in your face and asked if you were okay. "I'm fine," you simply implied. "Sleepless nights." No one ever shows any real concern beyond that anyways. So what would be the point?

It turns out you were right on getting those pills. You take two of them before bed and they allow you to rest for work in the morning. Hopefully work will get your mind off these recent events and things would go back to normal. But here's to hoping.

You'd hate to overthink, only to have your thoughts wander elsewhere they shouldn't.

End of Part 3.

#Derry's Secret #pennywise #pennywise fanfiction #pennywise imagine #pennywise x reader #pennywise x you #pennywise x female reader #penny posted

121 notes · View notes

scholastic-dragon · 2 years

Text

Broken Filter

Warnings: kissing Abe. Just some romantic fluff. One bed trope.

Summary: After the filter in Abe's tank broke, you offer for him to sleep in your room. To your surprise, he agrees.

Word count: 1.5k

Your jaw went slack.

You were joking. Merely making a funny comment.

Never did you think he'd agree to it.

"...really?" You tilt your head at him, he nodded, flipping through one of his favorite books.

You'd gone to visit him when you heard the loud bang coming from the library. When you got there, you found several B.P.R.D agents running around Abe's tank.

The filtration system broke and caught on fire, leaving his pool filled with smoke and the water turned gray.

It simply wasn't safe for Abe to go in there, much less sleep until it was cleaned and fixed.

So you offered your room.

"Well, I don't have many other options," Abe mused, gesturing behind him at the gray tank.

Abe seemed completely unbothered by the fact that his tank was smoking or that your face was red. He simply flipped through his books, barely looking at you.

"Right, yeah, yeah. I mean- well I guess I could always put you in the bathtub,"

Abe dropped his head, chuckling softly, he still didn't turn toward you, but you could see his large smile.

"Jokes on you, you have the best tub in the facility,"

"And how do you know so much about my tub, Agent Sapien?" You mused, nudging his arm with your elbow.

The nickname and joke, caused him to lift his head toward you. Big black eyes staring deeply into your own. A hint of mischief swirled in his voice.

"I have a life outside of missions, you know," He pushed off of the table, standing to his full height. You had to lift your head to keep his gaze.

"You have a secret double life with my bathtub, oh I expected this from HB but not from you Abe," You clicked your tongue, putting your hands on your hips and lowering your eyes to the floor.

He was about to give another remark when an agent walked up to you both.

"Abe, we need your help removing the filter," He smiled curtly at you before going back upstairs.

"Yes, I should go help," Abe placed a bookmark on his page and gently closed his book. He turned to you, slightly fidgeting with his hands. "Were you serious about your...offer?"

"Yes, can't have you sleeping in that thing," Despite the redness in your cheeks, you maintained eye contact, smiling brightly.

"Then, I'll see you tonight," He returned your smile and turned to the spiral staircase that led to the second floor and the entrance to his tank.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Which is where you found yourself now throwing everything off of your floor. Clothes were all shoved into the hamper or into the bottom part of your wardrobe.

You had just changed the sheets the night prior, so you didn't need to worry about that.

You exhaled, spinning in circles, looking around the room.

You couldn't help the excitement that you'd get to spend a while night alone with Abe. Anytime you'd try to talk with him, someone would interrupt.

You'd harbored feelings for him for about three months now, and you were hoping he felt the same.

He'd return all your jokes, sarcastic comments and even the occasional flirt, but it was so hard to read him.

After 30 minutes of cleaning every dirt spec from your room, you changed into some nice pajamas. A smile navy blue tank top and shorts set.

You stood in your bathroom, brushing out your hair when you heard Abe's timid knock.

"It's open!" You yelled, hearing the door creak open then shut.

Abe had a duffel bag with him that he gently set down on the floor next to your wardrobe.

"I hope you don't mind, but I brought a few books and things with me," He looked around your room, this was his first time actually seeing it.

"It's fine, I hope you don't mind my snoring," You both chuckled softly. You finished with your hair and leaned against the door frame, watching him look around the space.

"Don't worry, I shouldn't be able to hear it from the bathroom,"

His words made you stop and think, brows furrowed you stepped closer to him.

"Wait, did you think I was serious about making you sleep in the bathtub?"

"Yes?" He gave you a confused look. "Where else would I sleep?"

"In the bed!" You tried your hardest not to laugh at his scared and flustered expression.

"With you?"

"Yes, with me," You confirmed with a curt nod.

You rounded the bed, coming to your side and pulled back the covers. Abe stared at you silently from across the room.

You flicked on your nightside lamp and turned off the big room light. Everything now covered in a warm golden glow.

"Are you getting in?" You sat down on your bed and looked at him. He still hadn't moved. "If you truly don't want to, you can go to the tub-"

"No!" He quickly interjected, stepping forward and clearing his throat. "No, it's alright, I'll just go get changed,"

He quickly grabbed his duffel bag and went into the bathroom, shutting the door tightly.

You rolled your eyes with a small laugh, laying back and looking up at your concrete ceiling.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Abe paced in your bathroom.

He didn't know how he was supposed to remain calm when you had just offered to sleep in the same bed with him.

He'd liked you for a few months now and didn't know how to covey his feelings. But this could be his chance.

He slipped out of his black swim shorts and pulled on a pair of Hellboy's shorts that he let him borrow.

He exhaled sharply, opening the door and putting his bag back by your wardrobe. Then he came to the opposite side of the bed.

You pulled the covers back for him, offering him a silent invitation.

Very slowly and with calculated moves, he sat down, then layer back on your bed. His throat bobbed as he tried to swallow the nervous lump in his throat.

He'd never slept in a bed before. The feeling was strange, he could feel gravity pulling his limps into your plush mattress. His bones and limbs felt heavy, like he could sink through the floor.

"You okay?" You whispered gently, watching for any discomfort in his handsome features.

"Yes, it's just..." He trailed off, turning and looking at you. You were laying on your side, leaned up on one if your elbows to look down at him.

Your hair was down, and brushed through, making it look extra silky. Your skin glowed in the golden light, he could see freckled and moles that other lights washed out. He saw little crinkles in your forehead and in the corner of your eyes. All things he'd never seen from this angle before.

You were truly beautiful.

"Abe?" He hummed softly at your voice. "You were saying?" You urged him to continue, smiling softly at how he was looking up at you.

"I've never slept in a real bed before...it's different," He spoke softly.

"Good different?" You asked, admiring how the warm light of the lamp reflected off his eyes and scales.

"Yeah, it's better cause you're here," He couldn't stop the words before they left his mouth.

You laughed softly, lowering yourself onto your side fully, looking deep into your eyes.

"Here, it's even better when you snuggle up in blankets," You reached your hand out of the sheets to grab some right at his chest. Pulling it gently, until it stopped under his chin.

Feeling a small boost of courage, you ran your knuckle along his jaw, making him turn and look to you. He swallowed hard, but didn't stop you.

Following his jaw, you ran it from his jaw down his neck, to his gils. They moved softly as your fingers grazed past them.

You cupped his cheek in your hand, he closed his eyes and leaned into you. Your thumb ran back and forth over his cheekbone.

He sighed contently. Feeling, for the first time, at complete ease. Never had he felt so safe and relaxed.

You leaned over to him and placed a small kiss to his cheek. He gasped, eyes snapping open, looking at you with wide eyes.

You chuckled softly, removing your hand, from him. But he was quick to grab it, he looked into your eyes for permission as he brought your wrist to his mouth.

You gave a small nod, and he placed three gentle kisses to your pulse point. Feeling it jump with each peck.

As you did, he reached forward, knuckle traving your jaw. You both stared at each other for a moment before leaning in.

You closed your eyes as your lips met, his lips were slightly cold, but melded perfectly with yours. You sighed, finally feeling him in your arms.

He pulled back, feeling slightly overwhelmed. He chuckled, hand cupping your cheek.

"I was worried you wouldn't feel the same," You say, closing your eyes and basking in this peaceful moment with him.

"I was worried you wouldn't have wanted to kiss me," Abe whispered, kissing the tip of your nose.

"Couldn't you have just read my mind?" You giggled softly, enjoying the feeling of his webbed hand on your warm cheek.

"Whose to say I didn't?" He joked, making you quirk a brow. "How else would I know about your tub?"

#hellboy #abe sapien #abe sapien x reader #abe #abe sapien imagines #fluffy #romantic #abe sapien headcannons #one bed trope

300 notes · View notes

ikesenwritings · 2 years

Note

Okay okay okay, this isn't really a request, just a question for opinion, or... A fub little something? No idea.

You know how people generally tend to have some weird little habits? Say, some people need to clean things in one particular order, or have items only they can use, or have a little song they sing when nobody watches? That sorta stuff.

Do you think IkeSen and/or IkeVamp guys have some?

My personal headcanon is that, although Masamune is ambidextrous, he can hold knife only with his right hand. Chopping stuff while holding it in his left one just feels clunky??

Oh, and for Mitsuhide 👀 He strikes me as a person who'd sing quietly once it's dark? You know, it's late and he's coming home, and humming to himself to kill the time...

Ohohoho this was too fun but not sure if I can call these habits per se?? 😸😸 here’s what I figure:

Kenshin

He walks every inch of the castle alone either very early in the morning (like before sunrise) or late at night before he goes to bed. I mean, he’s just so bored. But! While he’s patrolling, looking for a reason to fight someone or something, he actually comes to find that maybe, he really enjoys this! Hooray! While everyone else can see why a walk can be a great way to meditate or alleviate stress, Kenshin is just a tad bit confused as to why he’s compelled to incorporate these walks into his busy schedule.

Yukimura

Okay, as much as he feels affronted that Shingen has him selling women’s accessories, he still wants to do a good job and refuses to give anyone trying to do honest business a bad rep, and so, without fail, Yuki will always arrive to his post early (irrespective of his spy duties) and take his time arranging all the charms and whatnot so it’s all presentable—presentable in a way that makes sense to Yuki, so we’re not talking about organizing it by color or accessory type, but rather in size order lol. All with a determined look on his face. (Maybe his tongue is poking out a bit because, of course, arranging the accessories in such a way requires concentration.)

Hideyoshi

Now, this is specific to Mitsunari and MC. As the mother hen he is, I think if he sees one part looking out of place (obi, a lock of hair, etc.), he feels very compulsive and rather than fixing that one part first, he’ll go from the bottom up (or top down) and scan your person and will fix anything that needs to be fixed in that order so Mitsunari and MC will always look prim and proper.

Mitsuhide

I agree, he definitely hums a little diddy when he’s by himself, whether it’s walking back to his manor in the middle of the night or getting out of the bath and getting dressed for bed. Something very traditional and maybe even a melody he considers to be really beautiful and sweet. I also like to think that if ever a performance happens at the castle (traditional Noh theater for example) he’ll find himself mumbling the words later on.

Mozart

I believe that whenever there’s a family dinner with all the residents and Mozart undoubtedly finishes first so he can go back to practicing, he will always dab his mouth with a napkin, refold it, and set it on the table; he’ll place all the utensils the way they were before he began eating; and if he’s grabbed the salt or pepper, he’ll put it back in the exact position as he found it. Everything is spotless, everything looks the way it did before dinner was called. It’s almost like he was never there. No one bats an eye at his behavior. But Sebas has tried to tell him time and again that it’s unnecessary but Mozart, for all the times he’s been a bit rude or short with Sebas, this was his way of helping out by making his mess as inexistent as possible. Though he would never say it aloud.

Isaac

I think Arthur and Dazai tease Isaac about him only reading books about philosophy and science and that he should be adventurous and dive into fiction, but little did they know, if Isaac can spare the time, he’ll check out books from the library—all titles the two of them have said in passing conversation, and he’ll make little notes on scrap paper since he can’t annotate in the margins, and he’ll have conversations with himself about the plot as he’s reading before bed. And he has to resist the urge to talk about the book he’s currently reading lest he be teased even more for giving in to the authors’ previous jests.

Jean

I think this is more of a recent thing where he never really minded a messy station or working area whenever he was in town at his job, but now he’d like nothing more than to have everything in its own place and it definitely makes life just a tad easier. And ever since MC started teaching Jean how to read and write, he’ll label anything he can and is really proud of how organized he can be. And I think Jean would do that with anything else that can be labeled as long as he knows he’s not being a disturbance to anyone in the mansion. He’d probably start in the kitchen with jars and spices (under supervision from Sebas, of course).

Theo and Vincent

I think they both share similar nervous ticks. It could be tugging at their ear, bouncing their leg up and down, checking their wristwatch—all simultaneously. It never makes sense to anyone in the mansion to see them like this cause they’re almost never nervous wrecks but damn, once you see them so anxious, they look like two boys again. Usually, everyone is quick to console and/or help tackle the problem at its source. For Theo, it’s whatever gallery he’s secretly holding next. For Vincent, it’s usually because Theo has lost his cool.

104 notes · View notes

gender-trash · 2 years

Note

any advice for people who want to sew/fix their own clothes but can’t afford to spend $150+ on a sewing machine? the only machine i have access to is the one at my university library, which is older than god and jams if you so much as breathe on it wrong

honestly i’m going to recommend you do it by hand — that’s how people made and repaired clothes for nearly all of recorded human history! and for small repairs i find that it’s not all that much slower, especially when you factor in machine setup time etc. i prefer to use a big embroidery needle because my eyes suck and it’s still sharp but easy to thread and use; i also like to use thicker thread or even 2-3 plies pulled off of 6-ply embroidery floss, since most machine thread is thin and can be snapped in your hands and i just don’t trust it :p (specifically what i use for thick thread is a spool of “mercerized” cotton thread i inherited from my grandma’s quilting supplies, and i have *no* idea how old it is or where to get more… but that’s a problem for future me!)

other than a needle and thread, you honestly don’t need all that much other stuff — a metal thimble, maybe, if you’re working with thick fabrics like denim, and fabric scissors if you find that your normal scissors are driving you up the wall. maybe a few pins? i dunno, i can almost never be assed to pin stuff. also “sewing kits” are a scam and always come with the world’s worst thread, just grab a pack of needles and some thread separately and stick em in a pencil case or something if you want a nice little bag.

if you care about colormatching you’ll want at least a spool of white and a spool of black or dark blue. im not going to go into too much detail here, but bernadette banner has some nice tutorial videos on hand sewing technique if you’re not familiar! anyway it *does* feel painfully slow at first but the more you practice the faster you get, and the equipment is definitely cheaper and easier to store than a whole sewing machine. plus if you’re already doing the other repairs by hand it’s easier to do more decorative/embroidery type stuff like satin-stitching over the worn edges of pockets (and even darning holes!) than it is to do that kind of thing by machine.

satin-stitch to reinforce a worn pocket edge at left — all my watch pockets wear like this because i use them to store a small multitool with a keyring dangling out the top of the pocket :/ and at the right, blanket stitch used to kinda-decoratively attach a green patch. i think i literally sewed this patch on while the pajama pants were on my body. (the base fabric is ridiculously worn bc this is my Pajama Pants of Theseus project, in which i will continue to patch and repair these stupid pants until no part of the original fabric remains.)

also from the pajama pants of theseus project — you can kinda just tuck under raw edges and whipstitch over them, when you’re hand-sewing a patch over a hole. (i guess on a machine you would replicate this with a zigzag stitch.)

on the other hand, if you don’t want to hand-sew and have the space for a machine but not the money, i’d recommend stalking craigslist for a while, and potentially going to some estate sales if you have the time — people often get rid of machines for free or cheap when the family member who sews has died and they don’t really know what it’s worth. (i got a serger for free off craigslist a while back!! not even from an estate sale — a sewing studio was shutting down and getting rid of all their stuff.) i guess if you’re not familiar with mechanical stuff like that it might be hard to tell if they’re in good repair or can easily be restored to full function, but as a rule of thumb, if it has a metal casing/all-metal gears you can probably just blow the dust out and clean + oil it (materials needed: compressed air, mineral spirits, sewing machine oil, maybe some grease for the gears) and it’ll be back in business.

let me know if you’d like me to elaborate on any of this stuff, or want any more advice! i can talk about sewing and sewing-adjacent topics ALL day, but this is an Advice Post so i’d like to stay at least *somewhat* on-topic.

#i also really really really want to take a look at your university’s machine and clean and oil it >.<#but thats not really. relevant to your question #the trashcan speaks #sewing machine go brrr #i CANT overemphasize enough that you can literally just grab a needle and thread and go ham on some pajamas #it can be super half-assed!! do stupid projects at 1 am! embrace hubris!!#it’s all Good Practice! and every modification makes your clothes more unique and personal to you

29 notes · View notes

inkstone-dragon · 1 year

Note

Hello~. May I ask for a bouquet of azalea, iris, crocus, poppy, tigerlily, and freesia, please and thank you?

Why, of course my dear~ I'll pick out only the freshest of flowers~

azalea— what is the most recent song you listened to? how do you feel about it?

The last song I listened too was 'Honey, I'm Home!' by GHOST, but it was a remix in an animatic for Mandela Catalogue. Honestly, the song is both 1) super good and 2) makes me think about writing stuff which I'm trying to re-spark in myself the way I want. Even without the animatic though, the song is very good and I suggest checking it out.

iris— would you describe yourself as a sensitive person? why or why not?

Both yes and no? I wouldn't outright describe myself as sensitive, I can generally keep myself held together, but at the same time I'll cry for anything. I still remember that one Chopped episode where the guy split the winning prize with the lady at the end because she wanted to visit her family and he really only wanted the title, so he ended it by telling her he'd pay for it and me crying for that. Or basically every Restaurant Impossible episode. Basically anything that evokes emotion I'll feel it.

crocus— do you have any significant dreams that you remember? what were they about?

Oh gosh do I! There's the library in the massive tree, with the marble stairwell and the ocean sitting at the crown of its leaves; there's the one with the aliens and all the fantasy creatures being hidden away as little statuettes; and then the backrooms mall series I've got.

Then there's the one-offs I remember, the beach skateboarding race with Lucky the leprechaun; there's the one where I was in my back yard and watching all the planets fall down out of the sky; the one where I really could shapeshift into a raven. There's a lot more, I remember a lot of dreams.

poppy— out of the four seasons, which season of the year is your favorite and why?

Winter, because I am a Christmas junkie! And I love snow (to play it but recognize the jack shit of having to clean it up), the few times we ever get it here. Hot cocoa, fireplaces, baking up a storm. These are my kinds of vibes.

tigerlily— do you have any favorite quotes from any movies, tv shows, books, or poetry? (or from people in real life)

Off the top of my head I only can remember one, from someone in real life, but I know I've got more in there somewhere. But at church once a guest pastor gave us this one and it's stuck in my head since then:

"You being here doesn't fix the world and make it better, but you can make every place you go better for your presence if you remember to care."

I think about it a lot. It takes so little at times to leave wherever you're at a little cleaner, a bit nicer: grabbing a second shopping cart on the way back to the corral, saying an honest thank you to a worker, offering help when it can be offered. It doesn't take much but it's so easy to forget that. You've got to do more than just stand there and watch, 'wanting' things to be better but never pitching in.

freesia— what do you want people to remember you for? (serious or non-serious answers)

Love. I want people to remember me that I was loving and brought smiles. I don't need much, I don't chase after much, but that's what I want to be remembered for, both while I am still here and when I am long gone.

#thank ya kindly~

4 notes · View notes

peytouo · 1 year

Text

Too Smart (Ch. 1)

Tighnari, a high school student aiming to get an admission in one of the prestige schools of Teyvat. He started writing a journal as per Nilou's suggestion for him to remember events in his highschool life that he can reminisce in the future. To him, this is kinda weird, but what's their to lose? He'll only write his certificates and not much memorable events, until Cyno came to steal his academic placement. Ch. 2

It's the middle of spring in Teyvat and the exams have just passed. Students look more lively after a week break off of school. Except for Tighnari who's running late.

"Well??? Who's on top?" He scrambled on the streets while on a phone call with his best friend since he got into this school.

"Calm down~ Lemme look for my name first!" Tighnari rolled his eyes. "Probably the same place as last quarter." He could sense that his friend is pouting from the other end of the line. "Lou! I found yours. Great job! You've been consistent at placing 78th for the 3rd time." Ayaka cheered from the background. "Really? Darn it! I knew I did better. I even had Layla tutor me."

"Please tell me you didn't try her 'sleep study' method."

"I only copied what a star student does!"

"Lou, no wonder why Nari gave up on helping you."

"NILOU!" Tighnari yelled from the phone. "Oh right! I almost forgot hehe. Hold on..."

Tighnari managed to get on the train by a hair. Facing the week with no sleep and running on caffeine like a boss. He's a star student aiming for the best university in the nation and to be able to get recognition, he thought he should top every exam his school gives him. May it be extra-curricular or exams. He wishes for the latter though, he hates sweating. But whatever it takes, as long as he tops every subject, that would surely boost his records and get into Sumeru Akademiya easier.

"I FOUND IT! Congratulations Nari! Oh my goodness, I'm very proud of you!" Nilou squeals, but that's not what Tighnari wanted to hear exactly. "What's my rank?"

"You ranked 1st in 4 subjects! That's 4 out of 10!"

"WHAT?" If the little prick got to it again-

"Cyno's got 6 subjects perfect. He's a machine I tell you."

'That fucking dwarf.'

Tighnari, since he started studying, always aced all his classes. Spending his time in the library during most of his free time. Not because he was told to do so, he willingly studies on his own. It was always his forte. Until this little piece of shit came into his life and suddenly it's a competition. Well his competition. Cyno knows none of it.

"Prick." He mumbled. Forgetting that he's still on the phone with Nilou.

"Language Nari~" Tighnari pinched his nose bridge, still not over the results of the exam. "Why are you running late by the way? That is sooo not you. You okay?"

"Cuilein made a mess in the kitchen and I had to clean after her mess." He reasoned, which is a lie. Tighnari wasn't able to sleep because of this day. Overly worried about the results of the exam, Tighnari spent the night staring at the ceiling.

'Only the best of the best get admitted in Sumeru Akademiya and you're not one of them.'

Squishing his pillow, Tighnari prayed to the gods to please let him sleep. Unfortunately, he only got the same thought repeating over and over again until his alarm rang. "I'm one of them." He muttered before falling asleep. Collei, his little sister, starts her day an hour after Tighnari. She was all dressed-up and ready for school until she noticed that her brother's shoes are still by the door. To make sure things are okay, Collei knocked on his door to tell him that she's gonna leave and to message her should he need her to run for errands. And that's how Tighnari woke up in a rush.

"I'll make it in time for homeroom. I just got on the train so I won't have time to check the board for results." Catching his breath, Tighnari tucked his green locks behind his ear and fixed his appearance. He may not have sleep, but his appearance should look as if he had a perfect 8-hour snooze. "Anyway, I'll hang up now. Thanks Lou."

"Welcome! Also, Nari, I know you're frustrated about the whole thing, I'm with you. Chin up~ It's only the first quarter. You'll have enough time to reach #1! Tell you what, I'll treat you to dessert after class. Sounds good?" Nilou. The friend Tighnari could ever ask for. With some black magic, Nilou could always see through Tighnari's feelings that he's not even sure of. She's his EQ translator of some sort. "Lou, thanks for the gesture, but-"

"Scratch that. You're coming with me for desserts after class." Nilou puffed and even if Tighnari would want her to stop, she could always make him say yes. Well, volun-told.

Finally reaching the campus, Tighnari rushed upstairs. 'Whoever decided to put his class on the 5th floor, I hope they choke.' As he reached the 5th floor, Tighnari checked his watch while catching his breath, '3 minutes. Just in time.' Racing against time, Tighnari fast-walked through the hallway. 'Just a few more steps-- *thud*

"Ow." His sight is a little hazy, but there are 3 pairs of shoes in front of him. Once his eyes started functioning again, Tighnari looked at the poor student he bumped into. "I am so sorry."

'No fucking way in the circles of hell.'

Cyno. Of all people he'd bump first thing in the morning at the start of the week. It just had to be him. This shit who just makes him feel like he's born to be a runner up. "All good." He felt dark amber eyes staring down at him. 'If you do so as much as belittle me. I will bury you.'

"Ahehe, I'll take my leave then." Tighnari forced the most shimmering smile he could pull, despite how many times he already stabbed him in his mind. Without looking back, he rushed to his classroom. Luckily, his seat is just near the door with Nilou as his seatmate. "Oh!" She quickly fixed his bangs right after he got seated. "Lose strand. Pretty talented of you to arrive looking dashing despite the rush hour." Tighnari shook his head and rolled his eyes in a loving way while Nilou giggled at him.

This Monday didn't require much attention from the students. Almost all of their class hours involved discussing their scores and performance from last quarter. The teachers praised Tighnari for achieving such a high grade which means Cyno also gets to share the spotlight. Tighnari doesn't really mind sharing the spotlight with anyone. It's just that he wants his record a complete straight A's. To get that '#1' title in his records. But thanks to this, boy. He's good as 2nd. Every. Damn. Quarter.

"Why don't you start a diary?" Nilou was gazing out the window while stirring her strawberry latte. "What for?" He looked at her with a bit of a dumbfounded expression. He can keep a calendar marked full of his advance reading schedule, library stamps, when to buy Cuilein's cat food, Collei's exams or even their grocery schedule. But having a diary is definitely not his list. "You know~ So you can vent out your frustrations or celebrations!"

"I'll show you mine." She quickly took her bag out from under the coffee table and placed a well-decorated notebook in front of him. "That's very Nilou of you." Tighnari grinned. The cover was full of pink, red and blue stickers and had a big 'Diary' stamped on it. "Like this one for example," she opened her diary and flipped a few pages. "I wrote this one when I felt awful because my grilled cheese fell on the street when I was on my way to school." Tighnari gave her a raised brow, "Why would you even eat grilled cheese on the way?"

"Grilled cheese can be eaten anywhere Nari."

"You get a sticky mess from eating that while on the run."

"Besides the point." Nilou continued. "This entry is about when Ayaka and I went on a date in that pretty aquarium~'' There were photos of her and Ayaka glued on the pages as well as doodles of Ayaka's name. Tighnari smiled, "How long have you guys been dating again?" He brought the diary closer to him and closely looked at their photos. "Hmm, about a year and a half now." Nilou rested her chin on her knuckles, smiling at Tighnari taking an interest in her little notebook. "It's a sweet way of tracking events, but this is too creative. I mean, you know me. I'm not for glitter." Tighnari closed her diary and pushed it towards Nilou. "It doesn't have to be creative. It could be like a journal! Keep it plain and simple, but you can write anything." Nilou hugged her diary. "Take it as if you're lost in the jungle and you have to keep your legacy for future travelers to find."

"That's, kinda out-of-the-blue Lou." Tighnari laughed after taking a sip from his passion fruit ade. "I'll try. If I have the time." Nilou gave him a look. "What?" Tighnari giggled. "Just try it Nari! It would help you de-stress a bit. I promise!" She looks adorable in Tighnari's eyes. Nilou has always been there whenever he feels blue. She's good at figuring out what Tighnari's feelings. May it be good or not. Nilou was always there with him ever since.

Tighnari wasn't entirely fond of crowded places, so they left the cafe before it got buzzling with other students. He reached his doorstep a couple of minutes after. Collei would arrive an hour from now and Tighnari always took this opportunity to keep the place tidy. After greeting Cuilein, Tighnari removed his shoes and changed his clothes. Cleaning is something that calms him down and the place looks like a big hotel suite because of that. He turned the speakers on and connected his playlist before he started doing his chores.

"Cuilein has her bowl refilled. The plants are watered. Groceries... enough to last for this week. What else..." Tighnari was standing in the kitchen, running through his list in his head. Once he's assured that everything is covered, he turns the kettle on and makes a nice cup of tea. He took out his textbooks so he could read them at the breakfast bar. A piece of neatly folded paper fell from one of his books. Tighnari crouched down to pick it up. Written on it was a short message and a doodle of him.

Congratulations on your exams. Keep shining.

Tighnari has been receiving these notes since his 2nd year in school. Although he didn't try to look where it came from since he's clueless. He already asked Nilou if she knows the penmanship, but not even the ever so famous Nilou can figure out who. The anonymous sender kept Tighnari in his spirits though and kept every letter he got. He went to his room to pull out a small box containing all the letters he got from this person.

The doorbell rang and Tighnari jogged down the stairs to open the door to greet his little sister."Nii!" Collei jumped at him soon as she saw her. "Welcome home. How was school?" Collei squeezed him, "Usual, but I kinda almost got hit by a car..."

"What?! Are you hurt? Dear, how many times do I have to tell you to always look both sides before you cross." Tighnari held her shoulders and took a good look at her. Then he saw there was another person beside her. "This guy here saved me so I insisted the he come over for snacks." Collei smiled at Tighnari like she wanted to keep a stray cat she found. He turned to Collei's savior.

'WHAT IS HE DOING HERE?'

"You also have the same uniform so I think you guess already know each other." Collei fidgeted hiding a small blush. 'I despise him.' Tighnari wanted to say that out loud, but he has to keep a good face in front of his little sister. Cyno greeted Tighnari, "Hey. You really don't have let me in for snacks. I just wanted to make sure Collei here comes home safe." He patted Collei's shoulder. "What?! No no no-"

"I agree with Collei. Just in time for tea as well. Come in." Tighnari can't believe what he's saying right now. If only he doesn't view Collei as his everything, Cyno would've been kicked out the minute he saw him. "Yes! Nii makes the best tea and cookies!" Collei cheered as she takes Cyno's hand and got in the house.

Tighnari busied himself in the kitchen, murmuring to himself while Collei was keeping Cyno company. "Oh! You're classmates with Nii! I bet you guys are close friends."

'I'd rather die.' Tighnari answered in his thoughts as he placed cookies on the table. "We only just pass by each other often times." Cyno commented with a straight face. Tighnari would always come and go in school. He was never the type to stay in the classroom unless needed and he would always be with Nilou. "But aren't you both graduating students? Maybe having Cyno-nii here would make you friends!" Collei happily nibbled on a cookie.

Tighnari bit his cheeks. What is his sister saying? "Don't you like Nilou? She's my best friend you know." Tighnari stayed at the breakfast bar, sipping from his mug. "I love Nilou! But you could always have more friends. You're always in your room reading. Doesn't that bore you?" Who are you and what did you do to my sister? "Hey, I love my personal space and of course my books." Tighnari replied.

"Having other people could also boost your connections though." Cyno butted in. "See? Even Cyno-nii understands." How come you call him nii too? Tighnari sighed, "I appreciate it, but don't you have books to study other than telling me I have only 1 friend?" Tighnari stared at Collei who suddenly felt nervous. "W-well yeah. But it's history again. I have an upcoming test for it, but I'm bad at memorizing dates." She already sounds defeated.

"I can help you with that." Cyno nudged her. "I love history. Maybe I can tutor you."

Tighnari almost spatted his tea. "I think that's asking for too much. Besides, I always help Collei with her studies." No way is he coming over again. "But Nii, you're also bad at history." Collei teased. "No I'm not! I just forget some. SOME." Collei laughed at her big brother's flustered face.

"You're also busy with your books too. I think Cyno-nii could help you with your history as well." She clapped happily. "Then it's settled. I'll give you both my number if ever you need me to come over." Collei and Cyno exchanged numbers. Tighnari wanted to bomb the whole place. WHY? Of all people, it's his sister that will put him in his misery.

"I guess it's time for me to go. Thank you for the tea and cookies Tighnari." He smiled at him. "And Collei, be careful next time okay?" He gently patted her head. 'Look at him. Going goody-goody over his sister.' Tighnari wished he would just leave already. "I will! I'll text you when I need help with history too. Please have a safe trip home!." Collei waved. "I'll see you tomorrow then." Cyno turned to Tighnari and smiled at him.

He felt something clenched his heart. 'Prick. You little dwarf. Lummox.' Tighnari imagined him strangling Cyno to death, not knowing he's blushing.

Collei hopped her way back inside the house and volunteered to clean the dishes. Tighnari marched to his room to scream at his pillow. "Fuck this day." He muttered, his face red from all the screaming he did then an idea appeared on his mind.

"Why don't you start a diary?"

"You know~ So you can vent out your frustrations or celebrations!"

'Ugh. Maybe it'll help.' Tighnari got to his feet and scrambled his belongings, looking for a notebook and luckily, there was one dusty spring notebook. He put it down his study table and ripped out all the used pages. "Okay..." He can't believe he's doing this, but maybe it's worth a try. He flipped to the second page and wrote his name.

He exhaled, not entirely sure how to start this, but here goes.

Entry #1 Hi, uhm, I'm not sure how this personal journaling works. I've only done scientific journals. But today is horrible. I performed in all my subjects, that's no small feat. But this person. Let's call him dwarf. Is making it seem that I'm never good at what I do. Much like what that 'person' made me feel before. The dwarf annoys me to the bone but what can he do? No one knows I harbor such feelings about our academic standing. I am entirely grateful that he saved my little sister and somehow, things ended up with the dwarf coming over to tutor Collei. Which made me feel incompetent. But that's no big deal, right?

Tighnari stopped writing. "I'll see you tomorrow then." Cyno's smile remained clear in his mind. 'Gravely annoying!' Tighnari tugged his hair in frustration. He ended his first entry and kept the journal under his desk. His chest felt a bit light after that. Nilou is somehow right about the venting part, but no way in hell would Tighnari read his entries again. It makes him cringe.

Night came and Tighnari fixed his bag for tomorrow and got ready for bed. Just as he turned the lights off, his phone buzzed.

"Thanks for the snacks earlier. They tasted delicious. I got your number from Collei if that's okay."

"Stop haunting me." Tighnari typed in 'Fuck off' to only replace it with 'No problem.' and hit send. Tossing his phone away, Tighnari flipped to his side, "Fuck you." he mumbled and drifted to sleep.

#cynonari #cyno x tighnari #genshin impact #genshin cyno #genshin tighnari #this will have smt in the upcoming chapters

5 notes · View notes

vergess · 2 years

Note

OH OH i am going to send you the CURSED question from the autism meme. Number 1. 👀you know why

Ugh, yeah okay, sure. You bring this upon yourself, however.

Animal abuse cw, animal death cw, child abuse cw, ableism cw, abuse cw, parental abuse cw, and generally abhorrent shit content warning.

How old were you when you found out you were autistic?

In the most literal sense of the question, I was in my early 20s. I want to say 23, but that's just because it's one of those sticky numbers that is often top of the brain for that range. Somewhere between 21 and 25.

But the answer for which you are fishing is, 6.

At 6 years old, I was diagnosed with autism, through some kind of low income healthcare program for children, possibly associated with my school at the time. The details here are vague because I was 6 yerars old and not exactly in a psychological state to internalize a lot of detail.

Developmental timeline of the human brain aside, what actually happened was my mother's friend, a summer childcare teacher of some sort, convinced her to take me to a clinic to be seen by a specialist. Afterwards, they took me home with no explanation.

I went about my business of being 6 years old. Watching Anastasia by Don Bluth for the 650th time in a row, as autistically as possible.

At some point I needed to pee, and went into the bathroom. My mother and my teacher (summer school caretaker) were in the kitchen, apparently unaware that someone too short for their line of sight was now within earshot.

So my teacher (again, a close friend of my mother) was trying to explain something about autism or something about the doctor's speech, whatever. Most of what she said, I didn't know the meanings of. But there were a few things I did: "brain damage," "tip-toes," and "euthanasia."

I will address these snippets of contextless horror in the order which my 6 year old mind processed them.

First, tip-toes.

Ever since I started pre-school or headstarter or whatever that fuckery is called, I had been getting constant reprimands for my toe walking. Teachers would constantly remind me of things like, "heel-toe, [vees]!" An instruction I would try to follow but end up gettign into trouble for "willful disobedience" when I would take one toe-step, then put my heel down, then lift it up, take another toe step, and so forth.

As you can easily see, I was a level of autistic best described as "fucking textbook." It would be several years before a dance teacher actually explained to me what a normal human gait looked like.

Second, brain damage.

I also knew what brains were thanks to my literal and unironic habit of memorizing large parts of years-old encyclopedias from the library.

6 years old. I had begun learning English a whopping 1 year prior, but I knew what a brain was, and I knew what "damaged" meant. My panic mounted.

3, euthanasia. Recently, a family cat had been put down due to a serious jaw infection or jaw cancer of some kind. So I knew damned well what euthanasia was.

I burst out of the bathroom in a panic, begging to know if there was anything they could do to fix my horrible brain disease besides killing me like [family cat name].

This is the part of the story where a normal family calms the hysterical child down or lets them calm down, and then clarifies that their diagnosis is called "autism," then hopefully get around to 1: toe-walking is a common behaviour in autistic people, and 2, it's not a "brain disease," which they had been saying.

And, rather most importantly, 3. A very famous woman named Temple Gradin had just released a book about her life as an autistic person and her career in developing kind, clean euthanasia for livestock. She was being hailed as proof that autistic people could be happy, healthy, successful members of society.

Unfortunately, what actually happened was my mother immediately threw her friend of many years out of the house, called the summer care program and unenrolled me, beat the ever loving shit out of me until I promised not to ask any more questions ever again, and assured me that as long as no one ever found out about any of this I would not have to ~be punished.~

The teacher was able to contact my public school for non-summer months and suggest that I be moved into special education classes, but such classes are only possible until age 10 without a formal diagnosis from a doctor submitted to the state by the parent, and I had no such thing.

In the overall haze of weird horrors and abuse that marks my life, I would say this is like.... IDK, it would be worth including in an autobiographical novel, but I don't think it's top 20 material.

But yes, there's the horrors!!!! Enjoy your curse!

[50 question autism ask meme]

#asks #ask answers #all-women-kick-ass #ask meme responses #life of vees

5 notes · View notes

bitchysongcomputer · 2 years

Text

Squeegee by BearTrainer

From BeefyFrat Library, before it disappears.

There I was, minding my own business, which, as it happens, means listening to the raft of morning reservation calls and changes on the Au Pied de Cochon voicemail system—"I know I said six, but my mother-in-law's catsitter's nephew's goddaughter and her fiancé will be joining us, so I'm hoping you can find a place for us, oh please, pretty please" and "We're going to be there tonight and I'm wondering if the pastry chef could make the pecan tart with macadamia nuts instead, since my husband loves macadamias and it's his birthday and all"—when, over the rim of my first cappuccino, what should I see but a Tuesday morning vision of male beauty, at least by my standards. Tousled, sleepy-faced, and very blond, he lumbered out of the pickup he just parked in the white loading zone in front of the restaurant and carried what looked like a large dishpan toward our front door, snug white tee displaying a good solid set of shoulders, biceps and forearms, dusted with fur and sporting a workman's tanline. Maybe 25, older, younger? I wondered. He was too bulky to be much younger, and he was wearing a resentful, pouty mug on his face—clearly not a morning person—and moved with a heavy, masculine deliberation that had clearly left his light, care-free impetuous youth now far behind. As he put the pan down in front of our bank of floor-to-roof picture windows and turned around to get the rest of his equipment, I carefully put my own coffee down, lest I spill all over myself, for there it was, in plain sight: all the gymwork of the upper body on him setting atop a bunch of sweet pudge, poured into a cheap pair of brown, pin-striped dress pants from Walmart, big asscheeks wriggling under the shiny fabric and what couldn't be less than a 34 waistline tugging on a pair of lovehandles. What kind of workout routine was this that built him so nice and hard upstairs and left the rest of him deliciously neglected and soft below? From my perch, thoroughly unabashed, I simply continued to stare, motionless, eyes riveted upon him, as he trundled back from his truck carrying a gallon jug of Windex and, mystery revealed, a thick, wide squeegee mounted on a six-foot broomstick. He was the window-washer. Ah….. And so, I watched as the final part of my morning treat was delivered to me. Dipping his long pole in the pan, he began, oh so carefully, to wipe, wipe, wipe from top to bottom, the action of which, naturally, made his shirt ride up oh so sweetly, oh so unself-consciously, oh so inevitably, until a luscious white bulge of beginner Buddhabelly pooched out over his pants, visible through the blur of the wet window like some kind of high-toned encourager-porn dream sequence in that DVD I wish someone someday would take the time to make. Renny's voice startled me out of my reverie, stage-whispering "Gagliardi's nephew," in my ear after creeping up behind me without warning. I literally gasped. "Give me a fucking heart attack, will you? Shit!" And then catching my breath, I spun about to face our resident kitchen wag and my partner in crime at what all of us in-house called---with deep affection, of course--Piggyfeet. Eyebrows raised, I burbled, "No way. We're not going to be having our windows cleaned by this bo-hunk every day, are we?" "Oh yes. Got the whole story last week from Darlene, of all people, who wormed the story out of Frank Gagliardi who felt he needed to give us a heads-up. Paragon of morality that he be." I noticed that Renny himself, for his being all casual and whatever, was, nevertheless like me, breathing a little heavier himself and had a glassy, unmoving eye fixed upon the window as well. "He told her that he was sending Byron to us, just in case we wondered. And, well, isn't he up your own personal one-way alley." Renny paused for effect. "Fresh out of County, on parole for the next two years, needed a job." Down came the squeegee and crystal clear, the heft and breadth of Byron was again before us. What a delight? And to think, I thought I was going to have just another humdrum Tuesday catering to the bourgeoisie. "County, eh? Hence…the physique." "Oh yeah." Renny made his trademark know-it-all moue and nodded. "Yeah. One has to presume it's a lovely train wreck of recovery from wicked crystal habit, jail weight-lifting and greasy, starchy 3-squares in aluminum tins. Twelve months in the lock-up will do that to a guy." He licked his lips. "I'm actually a little impressed he's in the shape he's in, aren't you? Usually they really let go. He's just, well, healthy-looking. At least for now, I'd say." "You are such an expert on jail trade, can't believe I forgot," I couldn't help saying sarcastically. In the end, though, Renny was right. Byron was no light-weight, that was for darn sure, his broad, sullen face plump and almost jowly, large pecs with thick nipples rounding out firmly enough to cast a shadow. There was, all the same, a youthful vigor about him even with the poundage and I could see in how he moved a kind of fire to get things back on track for himself. Knowing his backstory, I could see all of he had gone through, reflected, stroke by stroke, as he cleaned our windows: used to the good life of carefree partying, with the drugs keeping him nice, tight and lean, plenty of friends and money and sex, and then, busted, confined for a year to what ended up being an adult male feeding pen, abundant food dished up on schedule, grinding inactivity, the uselessness of lolling about the dorm and yard. Desperate to keep his looks and his sanity after about piling on about 25 pound of chub, he starts to hit the weightroom, jogs a little now and then, and tries, best as he can, coming off amphetamines, to stay away from hyper-sugary institutional desserts, doing his time and hoping against hope he won't end up looking like the rest of soft, blowsy self-pitying cons in their jumpsuits, doughy, white and prematurely middle-aged. Now, he's back on the outside, dependent on his uncle's charity for a lowly minimum-wage gig as squeegee, an arrest record, meth habit and 30 extra pounds following him around, an unshakeable ballast of misspent youth. No wonder he looked sullen, or was this his particular version of grim determination? Shit, you could tell the guy was one of God's great eaters, flashing his sweet rolls of firm newfat, a broad bubble of an ass shifting restlessly, stretching the back seam this way and that, as he worked up more than a little bit of a sweat doing his job in front of the two of us. After sharing a few hypnotized moments of admiring lust with me, with a click of the heels Renny laughed lightly and turned. "Got to get back to stuffing my andouille sausages, baby. So sorry I can't stand here and blab and drool all day as you make your plans." "Plans?" I said, with mock naïveté. He snorted loudly. "I may not know jail trade, but I know you. How many poor hapless waistlines have you sabotaged, while here so far?" "You need to remember that Danny came here heavy. I always get blamed but…." "There is heavy and then there is HEAVY." Renny waved his hand. "Yeah, yeah, yeah, don't say it. 'I didn't put a gun to his head to eat himself up over 300 on Frances' napoleons and tiramisù.' Ring me in the back if you want Squeegee to have a good solid country breakfast, ok?" "Poor guy is scowling he's so hungry," I murmured. "Anyone can see that." Renny was going to leave, but we stood for a few more moments, boring holes into the plate glass with our gaze. "Anyone could see that. He needs a meal." "Something substantial. He's got a long day of hard work." "But plenty of protein too." "He can always work on definition later." "Much later." "How about a nice generous pile of French toast with a goat cheese scramble on the side, and fresh orange/grapefruit." Renny walked to the kitchen. "You have ten minutes." "Love a challenge." Squeegee. My new project. In the first stages, there are usually a couple of prime considerations. Managing their self-consciousness is always an issue, as is the general wariness of straight guys in the Bay Area who know the score and can't really be tricked the way that some carefree, mindless fuck fiction would have it. So, like a soufflé, rich but light, it requires a light touch. That day I had to improvise, so pulling one of the fresh baguettes out of their Semifreddi bags by the front busboy station, I slathered it up with honey butter and chopped off a theatrically large piece and then, paying him no attention whatsoever, I passed by as he did his work and dashed out to my car in the lot across the street, in order, of course, to do nothing in particular. I made sure to take my sweet time coming back, though, sauntering, nibbling a little on the end of the fragrant tartine as I paused at the door and gave him a little encouraging smile. "Great work. Thanks. Especially on sunny days like this, the windows make all the difference." He politely smiled back and mumbled, "Thanks." "Frank probably didn't tell you but if you want some coffee or lemonade or something, let me know," and then, making as if not waiting, I swung open the door, ready to stop if there was even a moment's hesitation on his part. And there was—he raised his eyebrows adorably. "Oh, coffee," he sighed. And I stopped. "Very good coffee, too. Special blend exclusively for the restaurant from Kona growers." He smiled more broadly. "That would be great." I very deliberately took a large bite out of my baguette prop and chewed long and hard before answering with all the officiousness of professional waitstaff, one foot in the door. "Cream? Sugar?" "Yeah, both. If it's not too much trouble." Hmm. He seemed polite enough. Nothing like the discipline of "yessir, nossir" on the inside for a year to make a fine bit of overfed beefcake nice and docile. "Well, you just come on in, when you finish up that panel." Even without the a/c, the restaurant was cool and dark this early in the morning, and I pretended to be all wrapped up complicated table arrangement charts, when the soon-to-be-conquered Byron tentatively opened the door and peeked inside. "Hey, there," I said, and pointed my thumb over to the bar, where I met him and poured out a cup of the fresh brew we all kept on hand for us, setting it out for him as if he were our first honored customer of the day, my own large and quite unfinished, heavily buttered baguette right there on the counter. "I'm Grant, by the way." The way he was looking at the polished zinc bar counter, the china cup and saucer, the gleaming steel sugar bowl and creamer, the stylish demitasse spoon made me think that it had been a long time since he had had a cup of coffee in anything but a styrofoam 7-11 cup. "Byron," he answered, between sips, after adding more sugar, more cream. "You know my uncle?" "Yeah, for years now. Has done great work with the maintenance for us. I myself didn't intend to end up as assistant manager here, just wanted the maître d' job, but dealing with the contractors now and then comes with the territory." He continued checking the place out, the damask linens, the crystal glassware, the ultra-modern lighting system sleekly running about the ceiling and cunningly focused on the artwork and flower arrangements, a laboriously effortless chiaroscuro effect creating that "dining environment" for which Au Pied was, justifiably, known and lauded. "Quite a place," he said as he settled in on the barstool to drink his coffee, resting his thick forearms on the counter on either side, out of prison habit, to protect his food. I munched further down on my baguette, mostly so as to have an excuse to wave it around and tempt him with the fragrance of honey. "It can be a big pain in the ass, you know working with the public, especially rich people." I pretended to organize the garnishes at the bar, figuring he wouldn't know that that was probably the last thing someone in my position would ever get involved with in a high-toned establishment such as this one. And right on cue, the bar phone rang. God bless Renny. "No," I said, looking around. "I have no idea….he did?.....well, he's not here now…..me?.....no…." I caught Byron's curious glances for a second or two, absorbed in my phone conversation, and then, said, "No…..not really….but…." holding his eyes this time and putting my hand over the receiver. "Have you had breakfast? Renny from the kitchen said that the manager asked for breakfast but seems to have disappeared." "Breakfast?" Byron's eyes lit up involuntarily but his expressionless, guarded face didn't change. "Nothing fancy, really. I've already eaten," I gestured at my excuse of a tartine on the counter, "And those guys back there are too busy to take the time." He looked over toward the windows, he only had a couple left to do, and then at his watch. It was a good sign, this long hesitation, the way that the very concept of breakfast was stopping him in his tracks. Did he mean to rub his stomach with his big paw, or was that his sexy, child-like way he had learned to communicate to his feeders that he was hungry? A sheepish, grateful smile appeared. "I got time." I hung up quickly and with all the naturalness in the world, hustled off to the kitchen, saying on the way, "For all the food we serve here and throw out, I just hate to see any of it go to waste." As I knew he would, Renny supplied a high mountain of French toast on a large plate, adorned with fresh fruit, with a tasty scramble big enough for three, with hefty slices of buttered toast—bread to go with your bread, sir?—and a pot of warmed nutmeg syrup, the smell of which was fairly intoxicating. Byron drew back a little at the generosity of what he was being served, crisply folded napkin offered as if it were only to be expected, and seeing his reaction, I tried to mitigate the impact, by explaining, "As you can see, our manager is used to being pampered." I would have loved to stand right there and watch every sweet, carbo-rich morsel disappear into that pouty, kissable mouth, watch the sugar take effect and glaze his eyes over with food bliss, watch him dig in quick and then slow down until he had a hard time sitting forward and yet, continue to plow through till the plate was clean. But it was neither polite nor strategic to make my Squeegee too aware of the web being woven around him. So I tapped the bar, said, "Take your time. Might be the only break you get today, huh?" and moved back to my desk behind his back, where, unbeknownst to him, I had nevertheless had a clear view of him in the big wall mirror. I didn't miss a moment of any of it--the way he dipped a spoon in the syrup to taste it first and actually licked his lips with his pink tongue, how he folded the slices in half, cut through, taking large mouthfuls, enjoying how filling it was, how sweet, how comforting to eat in a cool, quiet place, not rushed, food prepared with style, and lots of it, all for him. He buttered his toast from the tub I had left on the counter, spooned the eggs on it to make little scramble sandwiches for himself which he devoured like French-toast chasers. He mopped the syrup and butter off the plate, using his big fingers to nudge the food on to the fork, and half-way through, I could see him realize that there was no need to rush. That was when the full potential of him became clear to me, for he suddenly relaxed, a big sack of a musclechub lost in the good food spread out, all the tension gone. The mirror gave me the frontal view of his greedy mouth and porky face, but the back-side view, from my desk, was all the confirmation I needed for my plans: soft belly roll folded over into a spare tire of flab ringing him, his plump tits sagging nice and round now that he wasn't sitting up straight and holding himself high, scooting back a little to make room for more eats which made the breadth of his ass, hips and thighs all the more obvious, waistband low in the back as his overfed bubblecheeks pulled it down, crotch tight in the front between a pair of spreading hams, all the seams taut as 250 pounds settled into 200 pounds of pants. And he still ate, in a world of his own gourmet table, unstinting, civilized breakfasts, followed by long lunches and siestas, festive suppers, late night dinners of many courses, where he could be and would be encouraged to indulge in all the good things of life, fill up, relish, soak up the sweetness, engage in the overnourishment he had come to crave. He let his eyes flutter shut now and then, letting the soft animal of his big, burgeoning body love what it loved. He'd sigh occasionally, and the best part was how, at the end of it all, when every scrap of toast and eggs had found its place on him and the plate was squeaky-clean, he cast a surreptitious glance about and took my half-eaten baguette that I had left there to finish off on his own. What a fatty food-sneaker! That was the moment when I knew I had him good. I gave him a few moments to digest and then joined him back at the bar with the dregs of my own coffee. Up close it was erotic to see him flushed with a sugar high, those solid shoulders and arms propping him just enough so all the firm, well-fed fleshiness of plump pecs and bobble-belly could hang loose. He was breathing heavy, more because he scarfed it all down so quick than because it was all that much for him, and I could see that tell-tale glitter of incipient food frenzy in his eyes, probably what he looked like on the way to score tina and do a run, but now turned full-force on to what I hoped would be his new, legal addiction—overeating himself into obesity. Clearly, if I were to bring out another breakfast, he'd eat it. He didn't have it in him to stop himself. I smiled sweetly as I took his plate. "Guess you haven't eaten for a while." "Not like that, no. Did Frank tell you…?" I nodded, the soul of understanding and compassion. "Yeah. Whatever. No one's perfect." Then, intentionally changing the subject, "How about that nutmeg syrup, huh?" Beneath long eyelashes lashes, he rolled his baby blues back in his head and smiled a chubby smile. "Wicked good." "I've seen some customers literally drink it out of the pourer." "Yeah?" He winced at the thought and then, picked up the container, peering into it. "Pretty sweet." Which was when he caught me by surprise, stopping me dead with a look of sheer, penetrating, utterly unexpected directness, switching in an instant into a full-grown, fierce-looking ex-con. The air was electric with tension as he leaned forward toward me. "There better be more where that came from. I'm going to want more." The baby-blues had turned grey and steely in a flash, and he took one of his thick sausage fingers, wiped it around the inside of the syrup glass, and sucked on it hard. "I like that stuff, a lot." I was completely taken aback. Good thing dealing with aggressive customers for many years now at least let me preserve the outward trappings of good manners. "Don't worry, Byron. There's plenty. I'll make sure of that." But to tell the truth, watching him pack up and leave that day, walking slower with a belly jut and the flush of some attention, I couldn't help but feel a slight shiver of fear. Don't get between him and his fix—I guess that was the moral of the first part of Squeegee's story. Not that I had any intention of depriving Byron of his breakfast. Of all the insipidities I could spend my pathetic tip money on, paying Renny $15 under the table every other day to accustom this scrumptious ex-junkie window-washing parolee plumper to a good solid daily feed at the PiggyFeet trough until some serious results began to show---let's just say I have spent a lot more on a lot less fun. As it turns out, we were only scheduled to have our windows shined up every other day, which frankly was OK by me. It'd be a little much, I thought, to be lavishing breakfast on him daily anyway. He might catch on, and then how would I get my evil kicks then, huh? Plus, alternate days gave me time to put my head together with Renny to plan a nice, satisfying menu for Squeegee, something that would appeal, compel, seduce Tubby into making damn sure he never called in sick. He was there bright and early all right on Thursday, and Mother Nature herself, who from what I can tell has long been a big fan of all things excessive, appeared to have smiled on the inauguration of my new project: unseasonably warm weather for a Bay Area July meant it was in the high 70s, even at 9 a.m. And that meant a wonderful treat for me which I espied over the edge of my podium. Byron was in cargos and bright orange tank top, all of which probably did fit in the baggy way they were supposed to when he bought them a year ago but which now grabbed the overblown chunkiness of him in all the right spots—bowing out nice and round in the middle, belly flab and deep navel bouncing with every ponderous step, hunky-chunky thighs and bubblecheeks hefting and wrestling about under the tight khaki, all his smooth pink skin flushed with the heat. He waved at me inside and smiled shyly, setting up his stuff on the sidewalk, and wanting him used to being treated with respect and graciousness, I waved back and glided forth effortlessly, carrying a large, almost bowl-size cup of coffee, set aside for lattes which some especially gauche customers insist on slurping down after a fine repast. But, this morning, just for B-man, I tucked in about a half dozen of those super-sweet amaretti we use to garnish the ice cream sundaes. Baby likes sugar. Baby gets sugar. Baby gets nice and fat. "Man, thanks!" he said, loving the coffee but peering at the odd biscuits. "Never had these." He crunched away and opened his eyes wide at the pure aromatic impact of them. "They're Italian. We use them for desserts here." He gobbled them down, confirming my well-trained instincts at discerning the weakest spots in diet resolutions such as the hapless victims of my ministrations might be so bold as to entertain. Squeegee, however, seemed to be walking very willingly to the House of Ruinous Delights. I could smell the almond paste on his breath when he said, "Yeah, it's almost like I need to keep my blood sugar up these days. I mean, you go from doing jackshit in jail to, all of sudden, having to work a regular schedule." "And active physical work, too." "I've been trying to skip breakfast, you know, I don't want to get too big now that I don't have time for the weights, but…." He paused and I could practically hear the gears turning. "But…?" "Don't take this wrong, I'm not asking for charity, but the other day that breakfast was, like, the best thing I had ever eaten. I've never been to a place like this, you know, to have dinner, lunch, whatever." "It's pretty over-priced actually, but I can at least say that the food is great. I'm not sure I could afford to eat here either. And," I laid a fraternal hand on his shoulder, "No need to apologize. Feeding people is what we do here. That breakfast might have been the best you ever ate but fact is, Renny my bud in the kitchen whipped it up in, say, three minutes, takes no time at all to cook up some eggs, griddle some French toast, make it look pretty on the plate, when you are used to doing it fast and quick in a restaurant kitchen." Was Byron's mouth-watering? Probably the after-effects of the sugar bombs. "You hear about breakfast being so important and all, and Tuesday was really a lot easier for me after that." "Well, that's good to hear. So plan on having breakfast—on us. We're more than happy to help guys like you get back on your feet, and it's not a problem on our end. In fact, Renny was thinking you might want to be our taste tester today." He laughed, flashing big dimples and softening chin. "The guinea pig." The flirtatious cheek of him! Darn good thing I wasn't my own snug cargos that day. "Get your work done and come in, when you are ready to help us out." Was it my imagination or did our big old Squeegee work at record-pace that day, making that bank of windows glitter like nobody's business in ten minutes? Would the day ever come when he might actually wear that "Will Work For Food" I still have in the drawer, bought a few year back during a hot and heavy dalliance with a previous feedee who, alas, never really went the distance? Hope springs eternal. In any case, he was inside lickety-split, it seemed, all moist and panting from bending over and from, I imagined, the eagerness to "help us out." Sexy as it was to have seen him wiggling his width about awkwardly on the barstool the other day, if he was going to be irresistibly brought down by my secret encourager machinations, better to give the growing guy all the room he needed to spread out and relax and enjoy himself. So, I waved him over to the banquette along the wall, where, not coincidentally, a pair of corner mirrors gave me a three-dimensional view of his girth, and, voilà, out came Renny's creation which I placed in front of him with an overdone flourish, as if he were a genuine customer. "Pancakes?" he said, gleefully, looking up at me. "I love pancakes." "Ahh, but these are special…." He dove in and then discovered that these were no ordinary pancakes, but were in fact filled with rich cream cheese that had been whipped with the nutmeg maple syrup, such that, as he cut into them, the filling oozed out obscenely and released a very intense fragrance of sugar and spice and everything nice. The effect of it on him was as planned: here was a dude slung up somewhere between a San Pablo trailer park and the dog races, a guy who had undoubtedly come of age eating nothing but cheap, packaged, microwave dinners and snacks from jars, bottles and boxes, whose most far-out idea of the "high life" was to party with his tweaker buds and do shooters at Hooters. And now, thanks to the magnanimity of none other than the critically acclaimed Berkeley restaurant Au Pied de Cochon inspired by world-renowned California cuisinière Alyssa Wadders, our boy from the sticks was being acquainted with the way that food could be so much, much more to him, a path to the good life where things were clean, tasteful, civilized, and friendly; a harmless way of exercising his sensuality in the form of that big greedy appetite for pleasure which had gotten him into trouble in the first place, but which here at the table, centered on the food, on the eating of food, on the joy that food gave him, could now be indulged without any serious problems. Never had post-incarceration rehabilitation been so elegant, so gustatorily enticing, nor—I quivered with the thought--so potentially lethal to that waistline or the numbers on his bathroom scale. He took one bite of the stuffed pancake, a big bite dripping with milkfat, nutmeg and surreptitious encouragement, and he groaned deeply with satisfaction. Saying nothing, he took his time, spooning in another and another, eyes half-shut from a sugar climax, whimpering like a weaning shoat as he took a long, lingering time to clean his plate, mouthful after mouthful after revelatory mouthful. "Oh god…I've never tasted anything like this." I smiled down at him, watching him let go, shirt creasing carelessly around the folds of his fleshy torso, belly soft and slack, ready to make room for more, fat ass cushioned with a comfort that made it easy to stay there. "So they're good," I said, matter-of-factly. He chuckled and looked up. "Way good. Like having a pancake, cream-filled donut and cheese danish all at the same time. It's blowing my circuits." And your belt buckle, I thought. "So it's not too bad being a guinea pig, huh?" Every last part of me wanted to slide right in there next to him, at that moment, gently grab that flab of his, fresh, new and jiggly, call him "squeegee," "guinea piggy," "piggyfeet's newest piggy-feeder," reinforce what I knew I would be successful at turning him into over time. But I didn't. I did instead what needed to be done for now: I went back into the kitchen and brought out another six of these stuffed pancakes, their starchy, intoxicating perfume hitting Byron full in the face and he moaned helplessly, eyes bright with foodlust and even a little bit of fear. "You told me you liked that nutmeg syrup...so…" He winced and let his eyes alternate between the irresistible temptation on front of him, the high pile of food that he soon would be wearing on his hips and soft, low-slung Buddha-belly, and my own expression of implacable, unruffled, determined bonhomie. And as he spoke his piece to me, "Don't get me wrong, they are really great, but maybe I could finish a couple more of them, you could help, I dunno, someone in the kitchen…." it was impossible not to notice how his hand reached for the big spoon automatically, how he scooped up yet another enormous mouthful, how without thinking, like a natural porker, he began to feed, unable to stop himself because he wasn't even aware he was doing it, and once he started tucking it in, Round Two of stuffed pancakes, there were no more words, just gentle grunts, the smacking of buttery lips, and occasionally the sound of the cushions shifting, as he leaned back to catch his breath but only for a second until the draw of the table made him lean forward again, bench creaking, jockeying those overfed thighs and fattening ass into position so he could continue to pamper himself, sucking down the pleasure, the guiltless pleasure of what I was going to make sure was his incurable new compulsion. I swear by the end his sweat smelled like cream cheese and nutmeg. Where was it coming from? The plate was empty, a gooey mess of smeared feeding, and I thought long and hard about whether or not to do this next thing, but he was practically passed out with the overwhelming, nearly endless gorging that he had just given into, body flaccid and bulging, food-stupid expression on him, the way they get toward the end of a good, solid, satisfying binge, and I figured it couldn't be anything more outrageous than what he had in all likelihood seen and done in jail. So I went for it: I ran my index finger along the plate, wiping up a big mound of the sweetened filling still left and put it up to his lips. "We clean our plates around here at Piggyfeet." Given how south it all could have gone, that singular pause, as he looked at me from below, lasted an eternity. I didn't know him well enough yet to be able to tell whether it was relief, sullen resentment, or just plain, mindless, male lust that animated his glance at me in that moment, but whatever it was, I didn't get slugged. On the contrary, my instincts proved correct and instead, he closed his eyes, parted his big lips, and, with that soft and yielding tongue of his, suckled the cream off my finger, every last little bit. From that moment onward, an unspoken understanding had been reached between us, or perhaps better to say the unspoken understanding, for in my experience with the obese-to-be, it is always the same understanding and there is really no need to talk about it. In fact, better not to talk about it. Better, far better, far more exciting in some ways, to keep it unstated, below the radar of anyone who might guess, and simply let the inexorable process take its course. And take its course it did with Squeegee, who soon began to "stop by to say hi" even on the mornings when he wasn't scheduled to be working, especially when he realized that the culinary generosity of PiggyFeet would be supplemented on those days by my own personal assurance of a "nice big solid breakfast to start the day." Sometimes that was in the form of a flat of fresh pastries from La Farine, at others a sizable sack of cinnamon-sugar doughnuts right out of the fryer from Cruller Corner, warm, comforting, oily, and then there were those morning when I picked up a couple of piping hot breakfast burritos from La Picante down the street, served up with the pretense that I was going to have a bit of nosh myself, the reality being, of course, that all the sausage, potatoes, cheese and tortilla mostly made their way into Byron's capacious gullet, especially once I got him all jacked up on coffee and sugar. Once a stimulant junkie, always a stimulant junkie. Even with this special touch of my own added to hasten the undermining of whatever remnant of faltering will power he still had, it didn't escape anyone's notice that Byron always seemed to enjoyed the good home-cooking of our own kitchen best, and as long as I kept Renny's palm greased with the green, luscious morning meals kept coming out from out kitchen with a regularity that was blimping our Squeegee into a full-fledged, well-rounded gourmand. Cream-cheese stuffed pancakes were followed by an "experiment" of savory French toast stuffed with bacon, ham and pancetta that Byron was the first to taste and gobbled up with gluttonous approval. And more experiments followed, rich fattening morning meals the recipes for which our kitchen never got a chance to try out, since we only opened for lunch: crêpes thick with cream, folded over a wide variety of filling created from the previous nights leftovers---roast beef hash with sage gravy, chicken pomodoro adorned with slabs of melted provolone, seafood gumbo over rice. The guinea piggy had a real carbo jones, and I swear after a couple of weeks I caught him literally drooling as he made his way to our doorstep, big chops licking in anticipation. But even old standards need to be livened with variety and I was determined to expand Byron's greed into new areas. So, glossy omelettes grew by the day from three- to four- and eventually to six eggs, the size of dinnerplates, accompanied by towers of buttered bread, rich cream biscuits, and pots of jam, with occasional mixed grill thrown in, different house-made sausages—chicken, turkey, lamb—lined up like soldiers on a battlefield andmowed down with relish before he waddled off for the rest of his work day. A measure of how primed he was, how eminently plump-able, was obvious in how quickly his new, luxurious breakfast habits resulted in what I had wanted to see from the first day: in three weeks, Byron went from pleasantly chunky to distinctly, inarguably lard-assed, cheeks puffy, chin thick, soft and lushly larded, once broad shoulders now even broader and sloping over man-breasts that shook lasciviously, abundantly, under voluminous XXL T-shirts that made his transition from beefy boy to lard-ass slob clear and present. As his body sought to find new places to store the blubber that his greatly increased intake was creating as stores for a famine that I would make sure he would never experience, rolls of fat grew under his arms, popped out nice and jiggly around his waist, and widened out the top of his thighs so that his pants cut into deep, thickly creased chub all around. Most amazing, though, was his belly that pushed out over his shorts, forcing the waistband to sling low like a sweet hammock over an unexpectedly symmetrical sphere, navel smack in the center of his shirt, bouncing gently, seductively at the slightest movement. I thought he would widen and droop, he just looked like the type to me, a sloppy-fat gainer-tub, but I was wrong. The extra forty pounds that first month came on him nice and firm, and by the end, he had blossomed into more of a rolypoly, a Michelin man, overstuffed, upholstered with sexy manfat that would show itself off now and then as his shirt rode up during a feeding or as his cotton shorts flashed the back of his shaking ass cheeks on his way off to work. Gratifying as it was to achieve this kind of success, I couldn't help wondering whether or not more might be possible, given the ease with which Byron had given himself over to the morning feeding routine and the sensual fattening he was capable of achieving in such a short time. Just as his own appetite was grew hand-in-hand with his excess poundage, each day making that delightfully vicious cycle of lowered metabolism and increase consumption more and more his way of life, conditioning him to a life of obesity, my own desire to push the limits with him were similarly increasing. The more he showed up obediently expecting to be stuffed, the less able to restrain his piggishness in front of me (to the point of even grunting and snorting toward the end of an exceptionally delicious meal), the more lard he piled on, the more it made me think that what had begun a diversion, as an exploration, might well be taken to another level. Why shouldn't I get something permanently, deeply, personally satisfying out of all my hard work, too? As he sat there, day after day, spreading out, fatter and fatter, more and more hoggish, burying himself in the excess, was it really so unrealistic to think that he was giving it up so easy because deep down he wanted me to go to the next step? I'd occasionally catch him looking at me, eyes bright above food-swollen cheeks, looking at me with an expression that I began to realize was actually a request he didn't know, didn't have the words, to make. Easy to find out. So on a day when I knew the dinner rush would be light, the Sunday of July 4th weekend, when everyone was either out of town or barbecuing in their own backyards, I let him dab his lips with the napkin after finishing a sumptuous load of creamed chipped beef served on two sour-cream laden baked potatoes, shift his nearly 300-pound bulk around enough to give the vast balloon of his paunch the room to digest in peace with a soft belch, and then asked him what his plans were for the evening. He sniggered a little. "Plans. I got no plans. Never have no plans." He put a plump hand on his belly and rested it, wheezing a little, looking back at me with an unformed question dancing about in his bovine gaze. "Got no friends now that I'm not using or dealing. And sure ain't got no girlfriend at this fucking size." He laughed in a self-deprecating way and picked up the remnants of potato skins with a fork. "I got my eats, and that's just about it." "Well, then, why don't you stop by here tonight? It's doing to be d-e-a-d. And we're all just going to be kicking back, you know." A little smile crept over his face, double chins flushing with a scoot of the hips. "Bet you have a dynamite dessert menu." What was I thinking? This fatty had been around the block. "Menu? We have a platter the size of Missouri," I said, giving back as good as I was getting. And sure enough, even after plowing through breakfast enough for six, he sat there, drooling just at the thought, . "Good as the rest of the food?" My turn to snigger, which I did, wickedly. "Three different pies, chocolate decadence torte, two different cheesecakes, caramel pudding, cookie plate….It's always such a shame that we put it all out on a display tray for the evening and then at the end, just throw out all the samples." He had tried a couple of times to rouse himself from his laziness and shift his tonnage into gear head off to work, but there was nothing like a low center of fatboy gravity to make that difficult. So I reached out my hand and gave him a lift, pulling him forward with a good strong hand and letting him stand real close as he got his balance, the crest of his 48" gut grazing my arm. "I'm so here tonight," he said softly. Was it my imagination or did I hear in his voice a note of relief and see in his body a kind of yielding, yielding to all of his appetites, even the ones that he had kept secret up to now, secret even to himself? "Tell you what…" I matched his sotto voce. "Don’t rush. Clean-up won't be done till midnight and then we'll have all the time in the world." Midnight it was, indeed, when he came by, which made me happy, because there are few things I like better in a fatboy than the ability to take direction. But Squeegee had gone one better, he had slipped on a nice, extra-wide pair of cotton sweat shorts and a bright colored Hawaiian shirt that sported itsy-bitsy ice cream cones of various flavors. Smelling freshly showered, he slipped into the door way as I unlocked it, and right inside, heplayfully pointed out the design of his shirt, saying, "I thought I'd dress for dessert." The pattern of the fabric wasn't what I was checking out, though, in that the shirt was open with lots and lots of Byron was shaking free and easy in the dim lights of the restaurant. "Cute," I said, and assuming the officious air of restaurant host I affected on a nightly basis here, I simply walked toward the rear of the house where a small alcove of a dining space flickered with candles, hidden with view. As promised, our dessert tray of the evening beckoned. "They are just left overs, I know…." It's always amazing to see the effect of the food on them, and it's all in their eyes, an intensity, a focus, a sheer, naked greediness takes over, the tunnel vision of a man destined to have his life run by his unrestrained love of eating. He wasted no time and slid his bulk into the big padded chair, gawking for a bit at the array before him, spoiled for choice. "I've died and gone to heaven, haven't I?" I stood over the table, as I would for any honored guest, and tapped his hand as he reached for his first selection. "I believe you would like to hear what we have here, wouldn't you? So, going clockwise—coconut crème caramel pie with a macadamia nut crust and meringue topping, drizzled with honey; pecan rum pie served with fresh zabaglione; chocolate-bottom mud pie in a pool of caramel sauce." He began to lean forward, smelling the air, and with that, I decided to do as I had intended, gently cupping the large soft mantit that hung forward and tenderly rolling the swollen nipple in my fingers, as I continued, voice calm and business-like. "Then we have the house specialty, triple chocolate decadence torte, bitter sweet chocolate mousse.." I plucked a little and he moaned "…layered with semi-sweet ganache…" I plucked a little harder still and he moaned a little louder, "topped with Valrhona shavings and of course mocha whipped cream," and with that, I bounced the handful of fat playfully until he giggled and reached for his breasts with his own chubby hands to stop my teasing. "If you don't like chocolate, we have fresh Santa Rosa plum-topped cheesecake and Meyer Lemon cheesecake. Both very fattening…" I unobtrusively sat down and let my hand deftly slide across his broad circumference, overheated blubbery lovehandles, loose underbelly, the slightly damp tittyfold and meandering down to the sweet, sensitive fatty bulging around his navel. His eyelids fluttered half-shut and when his mouth opened in a wordless gasp, I finished off. "Naturally we have crème brûlée, served with anisette-flavored Mexican wedding cookies, and if you so desire, we can always prepare a hot fudge sundae for you, vanilla, chocolate and coffee ice cream on hand." As the impact of it all sunk in and I found myself slowly moving into his bulk, pressing up against his flanks, letting my lips play against his jowls, he was breathing so heavily from desire that his voice was nothing more than a hoarse whisper. "You understand, don't you?" I grasped the large spoon beside the platter, started with what I knew he would like best, the chocolate decadence, and lifted a sumptuous mouthful of it up to his face with one hand as my other hand reached beneath the table and began to pleasure him as no one had ever pleasured this fatboy before, and in two bites, my newest conquest enjoyed a climax that stunned even me, a powerful, bucking cum that shook the table and which, I swear to God, lasted an exquisitely long time, long enough for me to feed him the entire slab of lusciousness off the plate, his eyes closed, whimpering with wave after wave of pleasure.. "Yeah, Squeegee, I understand. I understand so many things." Bite of the coconut pie, gasp for breath. "That you are going to have a wonderful time from here on." Bite of the pecan, gasp for breath. "That you are going to feed to your heart's content and never really care how big you get, ever again." Large spoonful of crème brûlée, gasp for breath. "That you'll wonder now and then if this is a good thing, maybe when you are 350, maybe again when you are 450, or 500, but in the end…." Oversized piece of mud-pie, whipped cream drooling down his chin, helpless groan. "You'll remember tonight and you'll know what you already know about yourself." His lids opened slightly and he nodded passively. "Yeah, I know, I've always known. I don't have much choice. I am what I am." And with that, he picked up the fork himself and began, on his own, to do what he knew he needed to do, feed contentedly on the remains of the decadence in front of us. "And Squeegee," I said with a little squeeze of his belly, "We have all the time in the world. All the time in the world."

3 notes · View notes

samstree · 2 years

Text

Be Here

Geralt notices something in a few steps.

Or, another fix-it attempt. Also on AO3.

“Here,” Geralt calls out before taking a candle off the shelf and lighting it with Igni. Jaskier turns around with a hum, rubbing his eyes. He’s already half-asleep after a whole day’s cleaning, and the hallways are dark enough for humans to trip over nothing and crack open a skull. Shaking his head, Geralt grabs the bard’s hand and shoves the candle holder into it. “Take this one—”

A sudden yelp cuts him off and both the metal plate and the candle are knocked to the ground by Jaskier’s surprising force. Luckily the floor is damp from their earlier scrubbing so the flame dies immediately.

Geralt looks up at Jaskier with a confused frown, only to see the bard blanching, eyes wide with panic.

“Oh, I—” Jaskier stammers, letting out a choked laugh. “It’s, um, slippery. That is…the floor. With all the blood and soap and mopping. Phew! Lucky we didn’t catch on fire then. Have you seen the state of this place? Even you witchers can’t salvage that!”

“And the floor made your hand slip?” Geralt asks, shaking his head. The bard has not become less whimsical in his absence, and perhaps he never will.

“Ah, right.”

Jaskier is still holding his hands close to his chest as Geralt lights the candle again to hand it over. Strangely, instead of taking it, the bard is only eyeing at the flame nervously, the thrumming of his heartbeat picking up by the second.

“Jaskier?” Concern rises in Geralt’s throat when the tiniest hint of fear hits him, but just before he can open his mouth, Jaskier takes the candle in one swift motion and shoulders past him like he’s being chased by a demon.

And he wasn’t this fast while being chased by an actual one.

“Right, see you tomorrow!”

“What is wrong—”

Quick footsteps turn the corner within one heartbeat and the next and Jaskier is swallowed by the dark, but the sound of a candle being blown out is unmistakable. So is the thump of a person walking into a wall and the muffled groan that follows.

Geralt stands there for a few more moments, still frowning.

“Here,” Geralt holds out the torch, but Jaskier makes no move to take it. He only crosses his arms tighter under the thick winter coat.

“I don’t need one, Geralt,” Jaskier says, flinching when the fire dances in the wind.

“Don’t be daft. The basement is dark.”

But Jaskier only shakes his head and starts down the stairs, and Geralt is near the end of his patience now. He lets out a frustrated grunt before someone smacks him on his back.

“I’ll take that,” Yennefer appears out of nowhere and plucks the torch away, before walking before Jaskier. The light is just enough for her to lead the two of them into the basement. At the end of it, they share a long, meaningful look, and there’s a ghost of a smile at the corners of Jaskier’s lips.

“Hmm,” Geralt hums, but the moment is broken before long.

He tries to ask Yen about it, but she deflects all three times.

“Here.”

Jaskier is so clearly struggling to get the ladder in place and the screws are only giving him more trouble. Geralt notices his fingers are already turning red from trying to loosen those bolts, so he steps in and removes Jaskier’s hand before securing all the bolts.

“My big, strong witcher,” Jaskier teases, patting Geralt on the chest in thanks, before climbing to the top shelf for the old bestiary. Apparently, Vesemir promised him that he can look through anything he wants in the library. Hmm, when did Jaskier make friends with everyone? Geralt must not be paying attention.

“I’ve been meaning to ask—” Geralt gestures at where the bard is clutching at the hardcover of the book tightly, his skin rubbed red from all the effort at unscrewing a few bolts, and failing. “—are you okay? Yen said something, but she’s all…weird about it.”

“Ah, you know her,” Jaskier answers with a flourish, aiming for nonchalance, but there’s something in his eyes that tells a different story, “always the dramatic one.”

Nothing about Jaskier makes sense these days. Those months in between seem to have cracked the ground open between them, and one person has to take the first step to close it. A few years ago, Geralt might have waited for Jaskier to be that person, but now…

Now, it’s his turn.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says gently, carefully, and steps into Jaskier’s space, taking the heavy book and putting it on the nearest desk. The bard tries to look away, but Geralt stills him with both hands on his shoulders, which only makes Jaskier fidget with his fingers more. He does that a lot lately. “Will you talk to me?”

The keep is quiet and Geralt waits patiently in silence, until a blush creeps up on Jaskier’s cheeks, until he meets Geralt’s gaze with nothing but sincerity.

“It’s…a burn.” Jaskier spreads his palm, revealing ragged scars along his right forefinger. “A mage found me in Oxenfurt. It’s silly, for something so small to bother me so much. He didn’t even have me for that long before your witch showed up and saved my life, but…”

Jaskier trails off before a shudder runs down his spine, and the realization makes Geralt’s blood boil. If He—or gods forbid, Yen—ever crosses paths with the fire mage again, the guy will certainly see the last spark in his life.

“But it does bother you.”

A simple nod is all Geralt needs, and he sighs, swallowing all the anger to make sure his touch is gentle. It’s a lesson he’s been trying to teach Ciri, that rage never heals wounds, only gentleness.

So he runs his palms down Jaskier’s arm in a soothing motion before reaching his wrists. Jaskier watches the entire time, allowing his hands to be cradled between Geralt’s equally scarred ones. Those burn marks are still new, the skin tender from Jaskier’s carelessness.

“We have a salve. It helps with the pain.”

“What?” Jaskier looks up in surprise. “No, there’s no need. It must look like nothing compared to what you’ve gone through, and really, it’s fine.” he lies, voice just a smidge too high-pitched. “It doesn’t even hurt that much anymore. Truly, Geralt, it doesn’t matter.”

Geralt’s heart breaks a little, and he deserves it.

“You matter, Jaskier,” he answers with all the softness he can muster. “Let me help you now?”

It’s been too long since Geralt realized Jaskier will not refuse anything he asks, and the power used to make him want to run, to lash out, to hide so the loyalty of the bard didn’t stir up something deep within his ribcage that the witcher mutation had long buried. And yet, Jaskier is still here, unwavering, caring Jaskier, and Geralt no longer wishes to run.

That power only makes him want to do better.

“Fine. If you insist.”

A tiny smile curves Jaskier’s lips, and Geralt returns it in equal measure.

They find the potion room together, bestiary forgotten and still covered in dust, so Geralt can apply the minty salve for Jaskier. He tries to keep his touch gentle, blowing at the sensitive skin from time to time.

Jaskier sniffles a little at the end, his eyes glistening in the dim light, but neither of them mentions it.

“Here,” Geralt says, holding out the gloves, “yours.”

Jaskier takes them tentatively, confusion knitting his brows together, so Geralt takes them back again and promptly begins putting them over Jaskier’s cold hands himself.

“Holy—that is soft,” Jaskier exclaims.

“It’s our best yarn.” Geralt cocks an eyebrow. “Only have enough for two pairs. One for Ciri, one for you.”

“Oh,” Jaskier lets out an amazed sound, watching as Geralt ties up the laces at his wrist. “How should I thank you?”

“Stay warm?”

“Ha! A good one!”

Except it’s not a joke, Geralt thinks as he finishes with the other glove and holds Jaskier’s hands between his as the heat returns slowly; it’s a painstaking process. If Jaskier won’t get close to the fireplace, and the coldness irritates his scars, hand-knitted gloves seem like the only option.

“Don’t lose them then.”

If the appreciative glint in Jaskier’s eyes is any indication, he’s determined not to.

“Here.”

Jaskier takes the cup of water, his head leaning back against the pillows, and a sheen of sweat gathers on his forehead, soaking the hair by his eyes. Geralt sets himself down on the bed, worry churning in his stomach.

“Don’t look so constipated,” Jaskier says between sips. “It’s only a dream.”

“It’s the fourth night in a row.”

“Well, fourth night I’ve seen you shirtless in a row. It can’t be all bad.”

Jaskier winks, but Geralt isn’t smiling. “Have you even gotten any sleep?”

A heavy sigh, and the water is placed on the counter with a thud. The lightness of Jaskier’s features disappears, and all Geralt can see are the bruises under his eyes.

“It seems apt,” Jaskier says, “that he used fire.”

Geralt tilts his head at the non sequitur and rests a hand over the bard’s forearm, squeezing encouragingly.

Jaskier lets out a chuckle. “For that song. I guess…what goes around comes around,” he pauses. “I’m sorry. I should have said a while ago.”

The world seems to stop, and Geralt almost cannot breathe through the guilt weighing down on his stomach. After all this time, after everything they’ve been through, Jaskier must know.

“I don’t blame you,” Geralt says. “I’m the one who should apologize.”

“You have.”

“Not enough.”

The sound of Jaskier’s screams at night will haunt both of them yet, and all Geralt can do is be there for him. He wonders if that’ll be enough, or is losing Jaskier only a matter of time? Even the idea makes dread rise, so Geralt rests his forehead against Jaskier in an attempt to stifle it. He isn’t sure which one of them he’s trying to comfort anymore.

“Will you stay?”

Jaskier’s question comes out in a whisper, their breaths mixing, and Geralt sags with relief.

“All you need is ask, Jaskier.”

Their gazes meet, before moving down to the other’s mouth. They come together in a gentle hum, the kiss kept sweet and lazy, and it’s over in a second. Geralt lingers, the nebulous tingling still on his lips, before pulling away.

“Later, perhaps,” Jaskier breathes, eyes bleary. “I don’t think I’m ready yet.”

No, Geralt agrees, they are not ready yet.

“I’ll wait.”

When Geralt finally climbs into the mountain of covers on Jaskier’s bed and takes him into an embrace, it’s the same promise that he murmurs into the night.

He’ll wait.

For Jaskier, he’ll wait.

“Here!” Jaskier beams, shoving his freezing hands into the collar of Geralt’s shirt, almost making him curse out loud.

Wait, Ciri isn’t there.

“Fuck, Jaskier. Where have you been?” He has half a mind to scold the bard, if not for the way Jaskier splutters indignantly. No doubt he will act all innocent and pathetic until he gets what he wants.

“I’ll have you know I’ve been nowhere, witcher! It’s the winter storm in these thrice-damned mountains! Seriously, why couldn’t the first witchers build it somewhere slightly more forgiving? Fear of a pleasant vacation time?”

“Fear of being found by trouble-seekers—” Geralt wraps Jaskier’s hands in his and blows at them gently. “—such as you.”

The defiant look on Jaskier’s face that says and yet here I am softens something in Geralt, and he refocuses on his task of being a walking furnace.

“Hurts today?”

“A bit,” Jaskier answers quietly. “It’s truly the storm. And it itches, you know?”

“Hmm.” Geralt does know. After all, he’s had intimate knowledge about scars and old wounds, so he presses a kiss to Jaskier’s forefinger where the proof of his love resides. “Better?”

“One more?” Jaskier bats his lashes cheekily, and Geralt kisses it again.

“Now?”

Warmth comes back to Jaskier slowly, spreading under Geralt’s care. The way their bodies press together has ceased to be a novel experience, but Geralt revels in it anyway.

“Now, be here with me,” Jaskier asks. “Be here, just a little longer, and I’ll be alright.”

And Geralt does.

Know that I write everything out of rage these days. All softness is accidental.

Tagging: @wanderlust-t @rockysstupidity @alllthequeenshorses @mothmanismyuncle @percy-jackson-is-sexy- @constantlytiredpigeon @behonesthowsmysinging @kitcatkim3 @endless-whump @rey-a-nonbinary-bisexual @llamasdumpsterfire @dapandapod @kuripon @holymotherwolf @theamazingdevilgivesmehope @julek @glows-n-the-dark

Please feel free to tell me if you want to be removed or added to the list <3

#geraskier #geraskier fic #hurt/comfort #post season 2 #coda #s2 spoilers #the witcher season 2 spoilers #first kiss #fix-it #geralt x jaskier #past torture #or at least fix-it attempt

688 notes · View notes