#slimy sawdust looking man

[smewduck]

tumblr this is eagleclaw

I hate him

[dilutedconfusion]

A Moth to a Flame

Eustass x F!Reader (Part 2)

I’m literally SO happy that ya’ll seemed to enjoy the first chapter of this. Like I’m microscopically close to jumping through the screen and giving ya’ll big consensual forehead smooches. Hopefully ya’ll like where I’m taking this story cause I’m super EXCITED.

Summary: You are still waiting at the docks on your small island in hopes that your intuition was right and something big was about to happen. Regardless of Kid’s freshly amputated arm, curtesy of Benn Beckman, he is hopeful he can find some semblance of rest on your island because everyone knows he needs it. You don’t though and will prove to be a thorn in his side.

Warnings: Light mention of torture

Word Count: 5.5k

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5

Tags: @tremendoushorsepatrolgoth @st4rfevrr (If anyone else wants to be tagged for each new chapter just let me know in the comments<3)

You had just finished up the last page of sketches covered in whatever came to your mind. Tulips of course followed by a cicada you’d seen earlier and a few hands for the sake of anatomy practice.

The sun was getting lower in the sky and a web of clouds was rolling in. The original bright blue and hazy sky now cast in puffy gray clouds.

Must’ve rolled in with the wind. You thought, chewing the inside of your cheek and feeling the temperature drop around you by at least a few degrees. Another summer lighting storm.

You started gathering up your supplies. Shoving them back into your satchel in preparation for the downpour that could very well happen. The shipyard nearby was quieting down. The small town you lived in far to laid back to work into the late hours of the afternoon. Each person leaving with the scent of raw sawdust and a little slicker for the incoming rain.

You didn’t really want to go, despite the old man's warnings to keep yourself warm and out of harm's way. You leaned back on the dock with your hands. Looking up at the clouds as you sloshed around the water below with your feet. Feeling a piece of slimy seaweed brush against your calf you kicked it away in disgust. More in love with the feeling of cold water and less with the feeling of clammy plant life.

Eye unfocusing you just stared out.

Maybe I was wrong. Maybe nothing is coming. Doubt was starting to creep into your thoughts. This deep root of obsession curling around the base of your spine though this feeling was becoming more and more misplaced.

Or maybe I’m a human weather reporter. Should've guessed my feeling was about some goddamn rain. You let out a weak little chuckle at that. Feeling rather stupid for being so engrossed by something that wasn’t even happening.

Your eyes naturally drifted back down to the horizon. Staring at the distant hazy line and tracing it with your eyes.

Until of course your body froze up and you paused.

Eyes narrowing and body naturally leaning forward you looked out. A speck of something in the distance. Floating at a seemingly even pace towards your humble island.

What the-

You cut yourself off mid-thought. Noticing of course that speck was a ship. Some strange yellow shape at the front of its hull. Black sails raised and thrown forward with the wind.

“Is…is that?” You said to yourself, voice hoarse from disuse. You almost couldn’t believe what you were seeing. The ship is a grand distance away making your eyes struggle to pick out any noticeable details. Everything blurring into a strange mix of colors and shapes.

There’s a flash of purple at the bottom. Strange…red marks at the top of the white. Blue…and yellow squares? You thought, trying to make out the sail.

Pirates. It has to be pirates.

This realization hit you like a train. Hitting your core first before reverberating through your body. Stomach swelling with an almost unmanageable feeling.

This must be it. The feeling. I knew something was coming.

It was relatively normal for pirates to visit your island but for some reason this felt different. It felt new.

“Goddamn it I was right!” You yelled, bolts of electricity shooting up and down your spine. A big bright smile tugging at the corners of your lips. It was strange to be happy over the arrival of pirates but the joy you felt wasn’t something you could swallow down and force yourself to be ashamed of. Sliding your ass off the dock to stand, you continued to stare out at the ever approaching boat.

Turning your head you looked behind you and out onto the island. The docks and shipyard are now void of human life except for yourself. The village, which was a good distance up the trail, had nothing but warm lantern lights and the distant shadows of buildings. The streets barren as people headed for shelter from the incoming storm.

I’m alone. You thought, that feeling crawling on your skin like a slug. It was both terrifying and exhilarating the prospect of being alone.

But what happens when those pirates get here? Who knows what they want? Most just come to restock but…maybe this feeling in my gut is telling me otherwise.

Like something bad is going to happen.

Now here you were, caught between a rock and a hard place. Technically you should go inform somebody about this. There was a few men that guarded this village, one of them being your father.

He’s not going to like this. You thought, knowing all two well how protective that man was.

I mean it makes sense…he knows how a pirates mind works after all.

But on the other hand…you didn’t want to say anything. Not ruin the sanctity of what the village had for the night. Give these pirates the benefit of the doubt just like you had to for the other pirates that came ashore.

Sure…they’re criminals but what’s so wrong about that? Not all criminals are bad. I know that. You told yourself, feeling conflicting morals and pressures on you. You’ve always hated the world government and the marines. You had your personal reasons but in general authority usually didn’t sit right with you. Being close to criminals but not actively being one was a main prospect of your life. Though your father also told you stay clear of anyone you didn’t know. That he wasn’t going to let you get hurt again.

Goddamn it. You were starting to feel a bit guilty that you were even considering staying. To just stand here and put yourself in danger.

Your hands were shaking at your side. Not out of fear but this strange tugging feeling you had on your body. Eyes gliding across the space between you, the sea, and that boat. Willing you towards it. A siren’s call of the wind forcing you to stay.

The boat’s features were becoming more and more defined. You noticed now that the strange yellow blob at its hull was actually a skull. Huge sharp teeth cast in deep shadow from the overcast. It looked like it could easily swallow you whole. Staring into its gaping mouth expecting to see the souls of the damn.

But instead you saw the shape of a man.

Is that a…red puffball?

You squinted your eyes and leaned forward. Placing your hands on your knees trying to decipher what the hell you were looking at.

If I stay here…does that just mean they're going to float on up and dock, only to find a random girl staring at them? That’s…a bad idea for sure. Maybe I should…watch from a distance? Hide maybe?

As you thought this over the boat was only approaching more and more. Its looming height and huge hull cast deep ripples in the sea. It was amazing. The Jolly Roger one you could’ve sworn you’d seen before. Maybe on a newspaper or bounty. But either way the gothic aesthetic was a dark sheen that melded with the gray clouds above. Deep green tones, purples, and the warm glow of lanterns making the whole ship so ominous and captivating.

Your skin prickled with goosebumps, something alluring you towards it. Nearly making you want to jump into the sea to swim towards the boat. You hadn’t been on a boat like that in a long time. Waves of nostalgia wafting over you.

I can’t just stay here on this dock and look like an idiot waiting to get captured. What am I supposed to do? Say “Ahoy there mateys,” and pretend that’s normal?!

But no matter how much you tried, you just wouldn’t move. To get off this dock and hide in the nearby brush was your best bet. Yet you were stuck in place as if your own two feet were deciding your destiny.

So you waited like a petrified stone. Staring out at the boat right on the edge of the dock. Ready to greet whoever was aboard.

__________

Well there's a total idiot within cannon fire distance.

Kid thought, a scowl melded to his face as he stared at a random girl standing at the edge of the dock. He still hasn’t moved from his spot next to the helm. Eyes glued to the island until the moment he noticed a person just standing there.

It had caught him off guard. Scanning the rest of the docks and shipyard with keen eyes to spot no other signs of life. Wondering exactly why she seemed to just be staring at them.

Is she petrified from fear? He thought, gaining a small pleased grin at the corners of his lips. But as they approached closer she didn’t look scared. Her face covered in a small smile though it had a nervous curl around its edges.

Oh, so she is just stupid. He thought with a little grunt, going back to that same scowl. His lack of eyebrow raising in mild confusion.

“Who is that?” Heat muttered still softly guiding the ship towards the dock. The wood groaned a bit at the smooth meandering pace.

“Don’t know. Maybe she’s here to greet us. Offer up chocolates and a warm towel.” Kid grumbled out, turning around in one swift motion to head towards the door back onto the main deck. Heat let out a little chuckle at that as he stroked back his blue locks. Taking note of his Captain leaving with tracing eyes.

“Want me to dock right next to her?” Heat asked, knowing full well there were three docks he could choose from. Each with enough space to hold their mass of a ship.

Kid paused, his boots stopping in place as he barely turned his head to look back at Heat. His face quizzical for only a moment, eyes rolling as he faced forward once more. “Go ahead.” He murmured, finally grabbing the door handle and stepping out of the room.

The wide expanse of his main deck was thrust upon him. Walking out onto it to find a good number of his crewmates sitting around idly. The sound of playing cards flipping and quiet conversation floating across the deck.

Kid sauntered towards his first mate, who was standing by the banister at the edge of the Victoria. His back leaned up against it and a small notebook in hand.

“Did you give everyone their lists?” Kid asked, sliding up next to Killer. His single hand grabbing onto the banister as he stared out at sea.

“Yep. Everyone knows what to get. We’ll be fully stocked in at least two days most likely.” Killer’s voice sounded a bit raspy, using his free hand to clip the pen he was holding to the notebook before sliding it in his back pocket.

Kid let out a low grunt of an answer. Still stuck on staring out at the incoming island. That figure of a woman making his stomach churn for whatever reason. Killer silently watched Kid next to him. Staring at him through the holes of his mask.

“Quit staring.” Kid glanced at Killer, not even moving his head before looking back at sea. Killer’s body shifted in response, turning his body out towards the sea to mirror Kids.

Killer didn’t speak for a moment, not willing to apologize considering there was a pretty good reason to be staring.

Killer could see the slightly more purple and deep bags under Kids eyes. Or the way his skin seemed just a few shades paler than usual. No matter how much he tried, Kid hadn’t been eating or drinking consistently. Too concerned to concoct a blueprint for his perfect prosthetic arm. That paired with a huge gaping wound and a decent amount of scars would not prove well. Killer knew that and had talked to Kid about it. Kid had gotten angry and shut himself in his workshop for a whole day.

So though Killer wanted to pester him he decided against it. Instead he glanced at that girl. Watching how Kids eyes glided to her.

“Strange isn’t it? We never have anyone to greet us.” Killer finally spoke, breaking the silence between them.

Kid didn’t reply, eyes narrowed in that usual scowl he often held. So Killer spoke once more, “Doesn’t look like a marine. But either way it doesn’t matter.”

Kid finally glanced at Killer, eyes tracing his partner's mask a tiny bit before responding. “I’ll kill her myself if she’s a problem. That’s why it doesn't matter.”

__________

OH shit here we go.

This was it. Or at least it felt like it was.

The boat was fucking huge. That looming presence almost became suffocating as it floated towards your dock. The huge mast touching the clouds from your perspective as your chin was forced to tilt upwards. It wasn’t the biggest boat you’ve seen. But it's the biggest boat to dock on your humble island in a while.

The waves crashing against the docks and splashing up on you just a tiny bit. A loud clunking noise was heard, drawing your attention to the lower side of the hull to spot a huge anchor. Sinking down into the sea with a loud splash, the chain wider than your arm.

So enamored by the ship you didn’t notice the two men watching you at first. Their eyes fixed on your presence as they stared down at you. Eerie shadows cast on the hills and bumps of their features.

Eventually you did glance up at them, turning your body more to face the boat as it groaned and settled next to your dinky dock. A bright blush and a twitchy smile smearing across your face.

Should I say something? You thought, panic flooding your veins as the two men leered at you. The one on the right was unfamiliar. His blue and white striped mask was a bit demeaning as you couldn’t tell the expression he was making. Tan arms crossed over his wide chest. One, you noticed, covered in some kind of scars.

The other man must’ve been the one before. That red puffball you saw was actually his fur coat hanging loosely on his shoulders. His hair spiked red, helping with the fluff ball illusion. It was nerve wracking to make eye-contact with him considering he was giving one hard scowl. Those low amber eyes of his nearly poking holes through your soul. But when you caught a glimpse of his arm, or moreover lack of arm, your eyes softened.

Pirates. Always getting hurt aren’t they? You thought to yourself before deciding it was best not to stare and just say something. Even if you sounded stupid.

“Hello!” You yelled, making sure they could hear you from their height. Your voice is a tiny bit higher than usual from the nerves.

The one in the mask didn’t move an inch, showing no indication he even heard what you had said. But his partner clearly did, the skin of his eyebrows knitting in confusion.

“What the fuck do you want?” He yelled out, his voice so low you could’ve sworn you felt the dock shake. It made you blush up more. Both his rudeness and voice catch you off guard.

Your mouth went agape to speak but you didn’t say anything right away. Taking a second to try and concoct something that sounded half-way normal.

“Uhh…nothing. Nothing from you. Just an onlooker. Here to greet you.” You tried to explain, fiddling with your hands a tiny bit.

An onlooker? Seriously? That’s the best you can come up with? You scold yourself. It was true but you really didn’t want to admit you were just standing here out of morbid curiosity.

The redhead gaze only got more annoyed. Jaw visibly tightening a bit. “Well we’re not a fucking zoo and we don’t need your greeting. Go stare at somebody else.” He said, his words sounding more like a command set in stone.

He abruptly turned around and walked away from your line of sight. Going deeper on deck as you heard a loud rousing of multiple people’s footsteps.

Right. There’s a whole lot of people up there. Not just two scary men. You chewed your lip, looking down at the sea before glancing back up. The masked man surprisingly was still staring down at you. Quiet as a mouse but clearly studying you for whatever reason. It made your body tense up, hoping he would stop whatever he was doing and thankfully he did.

But as soon as he turned around, a plank slid down off the edge of the banister of the ship. Your body jumped at the sudden loud sound and you instinctively clutched your chest. Your habit of getting jump-scared easily kicking in.

The plank was towards the middle of the dock whilst you stood at the end. Feeling awkward you backed up a tiny bit, just waiting for somebody to stride down and rip you to shreds.

That same spiked fluff of red hair walked down first. It suddenly clicked in your brain that he must be the Captain. The Jolly Roger a dead give away now that you actually put two and two together. He eyed you as he finally stepped down on the dock, his crew members following behind but walking past him towards the island.

“Did you even hear what I said? Get lost!” Kid stated, his teeth snarling a bit as his frustration rose.

You blinked at him in almost genuine surprise. He clearly wanted nothing to do with you. Which was a reasonable feeling yes but the fact that he was being so upfront about it rubbed you the wrong way. Especially since you wanted to be nothing but kind and didn’t even bother to go warn anyone of their arrival.

Your eyes narrowed in annoyance as you spoke,“I’m not doing anything wrong. I just got curious.”

“Well you and you’re stupid curiousity can get fucked.” Kid spat, not even taking a second to try and understand what you had just said. It was very apparent to you that he viewed you as a nuisance. Making you cringe in near defeat.

But something else boiled inside you. Not appreciating one bit that a man was talking to you like that. You were timid at times, sure. But you were also a total bitch. Putting your hands on your hip and furrowing your brows you glared at him.

“Excuse me? I clearly think this is interesting if I’m standing here in the line of fire. I live on this island and have every right to eye anyone who washes up on shore. So if you have such a problem with that then you need to check yourself, buddy. You don’t get to tell me what to do.” You spat back at him with a lot more force.

The sudden change in your tone made the redhead freeze. Red painted lips turning to a thin line as he just stared at you. Clearly thinking over what to say or whether he should just knock you out.

This was really testing his patience. In all honesty all he wanted to do was get inland, find a bar, drink until his brain buzzed and then go back to his ship to pass out.

So he paused, willing his exhausted brain to actually try to break down what you said. Hearing that you were stroking his ego by finding ‘this interesting’ was enticing. But that attitude written all over the way you acted was something he’d like to wipe off with your own blood. But when he thought past his urges and felt how his stump was starting to ache, he backtracked. Deeming you not worth his time.

“Whatever. Touch my ship and you're dead. I don’t even want to fucking look at you so back off.” Kid grumbled out, turning away from you to start heading down the dock.

A bolt of pain shot through his arm. Like a headache in the most inconvenient place ever. Forcing him to grunt and stumble just a tiny bit as he walked. The man in the mask followed suit after the redhead. Turning his mask to give you a sparing glance before walking in stride with his companion.

You stood there dumbfounded. Fists clenching at your sides by the way he just brushed you off. Sure he had every right to. You were just being nosy after all but that didn’t mean he needed to treat you like that.

Is a little human fucking decency too much to ask for?

You really didn’t know what to do. Looking up to notice the spare glance from a rather large man with a combed back mohawk. He was standing up on the deck as he grabbed the plank off the dock and slid it back into the ship. Small beady eyes glaring at you in a defensive manner. “Move along,” he said with a slight snarl.

Your lips turned into a soft frown and you just started walking. Not willing to put up with the guard dogs they had for the ship. You could still see the redhead and blondie walking ahead. Meandering down the cobblestone pathway towards your village in the valley.

Walking along the same path it started to feel more and more like you were following them. Their long ass legs nearly walking at your average jogging speed so they were creating more and more distance between you. Watching with keen eyes as that huge fur coat billowed in the chill breeze. You could still feel that magnetic feeling in your core. Intuition or what some would call your psychotic brain urging you to keep your eyes planted on him. Or maybe both of them? Or maybe just interesting pirates in general? You didn’t want to assume your facinatation was with such a rude man.

I crave danger. Yeah, that’s all it is. He’s the Captain so he’s the source of it all.

You were so lost in your mind that you hadn’t even seen the redhead turn around and look at you. He halted instinctively when he sensed you trailing behind him. His jaw so tight it could nearly snap. “Are you following us?!”

Your eyes shot up from the ground. One foot mid step so it hit the ground with some extra force as you suddenly halted. The pair were about 50 feet ahead of you so maybe he had to shout so you could hear him over the wind. Or maybe he was just angry.

Yeah…that sounds more likely. You rolled your eyes a bit, taking a deep breath before responding.

“I wasn’t just to be clear but can I at least get your name?” You asked, taking a few more cautious steps towards him. Technically you were sort of following him but you weren’t going to verbally admit that.

Kids’ eyes turned to small slits. Judging you with utmost intensity. The blondie next to him surprisingly spoke or at least you think he did. Mask turned towards his companion but the wind was too strong and his voice was too quiet for you to hear anything. The redhead glanced at him, eyes twitching like a madman but something in him became noticeably more relaxed. Despite this though he still looked back at you, not holding anything back in terms of emotional regulation.

“How about instead of following people around like lost a puppy you go read a newspaper for once? You’ll find my name there, fuck-face!” He yelled, his tone sharp and quick. Proceeding to turn around and start up that same brisk walk they were at earlier.

Again you frowned softly. Face hardening in annoyance but you controlled your urges to just go up to him and give him a piece of your mind. Standing there in the middle of the trail, watching the pair get hidden by the green brush of the trees.

He says something like that again and I’m going ape shit on that cocky bastard. You thought, your mind mirroring the sky as it brooded and swirled with a storm. A rather stupid thought came to mind. One that was probably a bad idea but…it sounded fun.

You know what? Who cares about meeting these pirates in a normal way. Maybe my intuition was right and they really are just bad news.

And if that’s the case then…why not mess with them a bit? Bad people deserve bad things right?

You’ve escaped death a good handful of times. Dealt with pirates who were once foe and now friend. Or who wanted to kill you but you poked at them regardless. Who said these pirates had to be any different?

It’s my civic duty anyways. To keep an eye on them. I’ve got nothing better to do anyways. You thought, a devilish smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

The wind hit your spine and you shivered hard. Tugging on your jacket a bit tighter to keep it snug against your skin. A bright shock of light split the sky in the distance. The lightning danced for one moment before disappearing abruptly until eventually the thunder made it to you, nearly vibrating your ear canals.

You kept a good distance behind the rowdy group of pirates. Watching them as they split off into different shops that still happened to be open. Along with puffball and blondie walking into the only bar in town.

It was a well built brick building but showed clear signs of age. The old rickety sign fluttering in the wind on squeaky chains. A warm glow emitting from the few windows that lined the building. You hesitated for only a moment. Not wanting to walk in with them at the front of the bar. You hoped they would sit down somewhere. Give you time to think about what you wanted from a distance.

So you adjusted your clothes and hair a bit, willing your confidence to take the helms before you finally stepped through the wooden door, letting it creak open loudly before swinging shut. Eyes flickering over your surroundings with quick succession.

There was a fireplace off to your right hand side. You eyed it for a moment watching the low crackle of a small fire caught within the hearth. A few plush lounge chairs surrounded it with small tables covered in ashtrays and magazines. The bar was in the center of the large room. You noticed the dark oak bar looked freshly polished as you made your way up to it. The glass bottles lining the shelves behind it were glistening in the low warm lighting of the room. Booths were lined up on all the walls and even went behind the bar. A step or two leading down into the more private area in the back.

There was a decent sized crowd lingering in the seats but the overall vibe was quiet as per usual for your island. You weren’t used to going into bars so the culture and mannerisms were a bit foreign to you. But you tried your best as you eased down on a barstool. Focusing on getting a drink and settling in before you’d let your eyes wander to find the men of the hour. A short and stout woman on the other side of the bar walked over to you. Offering a curt smile before leaning forward attentively.

“Whaddya having?” She asked softly, swiping the edge of her blonde bob behind her ear. You searched your brain realizing you hadn’t a clue what you wanted to drink. Landing on the first thing that popped in your mind you responded, “Can I get a daiquiri?”

“Coming right up.” She gave you another quick nod and started walking off towards the other end of the bar. You didn’t want to look too suspicious staring around at the room but it was rather dimly lit in most places. Turning your head slightly to look behind you as you traced over the booths you made out a few old men sharing a pitcher of beer and a couple loners like yourself.

Other than that there was no duo to be seen.

Goddamn it. They must be in the back room.

The bartender walked back over towards you. A rounded glass with a medium sized stem sliding across the wood. The edge rimmed with sugar and a sliver of lime floating on the edge. “Thank you.” You mumbled looking between her and the drink before grabbing it.

She simply just smiled and started to walk away again. But before she could leave you spoke up. “Can I ask you a question?” She turned her head back towards you, eyes a bit wide but polite regardless.

“Sure, what is it?”

“Do you happen to keep some newspapers on hand? I didn’t see anywhere I could buy one.” You asked her, thumb absentmindedly rubbing across your glass.

“Ooh sorry, must’ve forgot to pull out the newspaper stand out today.” She said politely, quickly bounding over to a small chest on the floor. You watched her and leaned forward a bit to see over the edge of the bar as she squatted down. She pulled open the chest and inside was stacks upon stacks of newspapers lined up neatly.

“What date were you looking for? I keep all the recent newspapers on hand for customers.” She asked, looking back up at you. You chewed your lip for a second, a bit unsure exactly what to ask for.

“Well umm I’m looking for any headline about pirates. Anything within the last two weeks maybe? I can look so you don’t have to.” You told her, feeling a bit bad that this woman seemed so adamant about flipping around through some newspapers for you.

She simply shook her head and grinned once more. “It’s not biggie. I don’t mind taking a minute or two to look. Pirates you say? I think I remember seeing a newspaper with a headline about pirates a while ago actually.” She started flipping through the newspapers, keeping her eyes on them as she spoke to you. “What pirates are you thinking of though?”

“I’m not too sure. Well I know who but I don’t know their names. You…might’ve served them? They came into the bar not too long after I showed up.”

When you said that her head immediately perked up, looking up and over at you as if you were a ghost. “That redhead? Yeah I served him.” She said before looking away and back down at the newspapers. Her fingers made quick work to find what you were looking for. “I guess I was…right about them being pirates. I see a lot of pirate folk in this bar…but that redhead seemed different. Like his britches were a bit bigger than the rookies that usually roll through here.”

You didn’t respond to what she had said. She was right of course. Lots of pirates rolled through here but most just stocked up and left quicker than they came. The noble town up north on your island is filled with marines who didn’t bat an eye when one of the people in your village died.

Your town was nice but if there was ever a day you didn’t give the pirates exactly what they wanted. Or even worse someone actually tried to fight back when they stole. Things would get ugly fast until eventually someone had to step in and in most cases it was your father. Yet this village was just a pit-stop so most pirates were too wide-eyed and excited about facing the New World to stick around.

“Oh here we go,” the bartender whispered out, holding a newspaper gently between her hands and looking it over. “Huh. Kid Pirates. Funny name for a man so large.” She mumbled out, standing up and turning around to hand you the newspaper. You grabbed it and gave her a weak smile. “Thank you.”

“No problem. Hopefully it has what you’re looking for.” She started down to the other end of the bar to help out customers. Leaving you alone with the newspaper and the faint quiet crackle of the fire. You were a bit hesitant to look at it. Feeling like you might see something that would change your mind about messing with them. So you took a sip of your drink first, feeling the sweet and sour rum slide down your throat and land like lead in your stomach.

You flipped open the newspaper and pitched it between your hands. Eyes gliding over way too much information at once.

It was a picture of the redhead front and center. Or moreover two pictures of him. One where he looked just a bit younger and the other more akin to what you had seen earlier though he still had his other arm. The newer picture was him standing on the coast of an island. A small town behind him that was…on fire. Tall hellish flames and pitch black smoke rising up and out of shot.

Well…that doesn’t seem good. You thought, swallowing hard. Though surprisingly that picture didn’t freak you too much. But the other one sure did.

He looked younger and a little thinner. His smooth coat and loose pants were a mismatch of colors and patterns. Bare chested and two armed he stood within what looked like a street. The amount of jewelry and off putting ‘swagger’ made you nearly giggle. But when you saw what you could only assume were citizens tied up and nailed to a cross you did in fact, not giggle.

So he’s into torture and wore fugly clothing is basically what I’m getting from this.

You pinched the bridge of your nose. Letting one half of the newspaper fall before picking it up again. Not exactly surprised but not pleased either.

The headline was “The Kid Pirates reemerged into the New World: Slaughtering civilians once again.”

Well shit.

A/N: HOPE YOU LIKED THIS LONG ASS CHAPTER <3 I feel like we all just want Kid and Y/N to like…talk more. Believe me they will of course I just really need to set the scene. Plus Kid is grumpy and in pain so he doesn’t feel like interacting with anyone so it makes sense. But the next chapter THEY WILL TALK and something BAD MIGHT HAPPEN. So uhhh…strap in boys it’s getting bumpy after this one. ALSO PEEP THE Y/N LORE HINTS.

[synesthete-culture-is]

synesthete culture is having one (1) synesthetic friend and comparing your things bc i associate songs with textures and he associates them with colors and being fascinated by the similarities. Like i feel one song as being a void, no texture at all, and he sees it as black. or a song feels slippery slimy like a frog and it looks green. or it feels like sawdust and it looks orangy-tan. fuckin wild man

.

[arotechno]

The Heartless: Chapter 2

Read on Inkitt

Prev | Next

Chapter II: in which plans are made

The following day, I dodged further confrontation with Bertrand with practiced ease and crept out of the house and down to the local bowyer’s shop down the road with my proverbial tail between my legs, in the mood to sulk. The shop always smelled faintly of sawdust and freshly cut wood, and Marley always had some new project sprawled across her battered workbench. Many years ago, she had been the one to make me my bow, after I wouldn’t stop showing up at her door asking to see what she was working on. Its strong and sturdy construction still held firm today, something she always told me was the mark of a true craftsman. I had helped her cut the wood myself, barely tall enough to see over the top of the workbench and having to stand on a crate to properly reach the saw.

At the sound of the door, Marley emerged from the back room, wiping sweat from her brow with the back of her arm.

“Ace, what a pleasant surprise!”

She came around to lean back against the counter while I made myself at home in the chair by the front door.

“What’s troubling you?” she asked.

I looked up to see a knowing smile on Marley’s face and grimaced.

“How did you know something was troubling me?” I questioned.

Marley chuckled. “Please, it’s written all over your face!”

Hastily, I attempted to neutralize my expression, but based on the amused look that flashed across Marley’s face, it likely only made things worse.

“Well, spill,” she commanded, wiping her hands on her work apron. “You’ve already waltzed in like you own the place, so out with it.”

Ignoring her usual taunts, I sighed and rested my elbows on my knees.

“I ran into a little trouble last night,” I began hesitantly.

Marley’s eyebrows jumped into her hairline, revealing the wrinkles that were beginning to take shape on her forehead. “Oh? Do tell.”

I launched into a retelling of the previous night, from the moment I woke up after supper until my squabble with Bertrand, leaving out the specific details of my dream. Throughout the tale, Marley listened intently, nodding along.

“It sounds like you were in the right place at the right time,” she commented when I had finished. “But just be glad it was just a couple of kids looking for trouble, and nothing more than that.”

“That’s all it ever is, Marley,” I countered. “And the fact that it’s just some kids says nothing about the potential danger.”

“Well, of course. But there’s a marked difference between a few stray troublemakers and a planned attack.”

“You don’t realize what kids are capable of. Someone could have died.”

“I know, Ace.” Marley held up a hand to halt my anxious rambling. “You’re always on edge, always anticipating some danger that isn’t sure to ever come. Is that Bertrand’s influence on you?”

I shook my head. “Bertrand doesn’t get it. All he cares about is breaking the curse.”

Marley sighed. “He’s an old man, set in his ways. Heaven knows what he’s been put through in his life. You’re the only person who ever talks to him.”

I shrugged glumly. “We don’t quite understand each other.”

“Well, understanding takes a lot of work. We all know that better than anyone.” Marley pushed off the counter and gestured to the back room. “You want to help me sand down some wood for a while? You can’t sulk if you’re working.”

I smiled. “Sure,” I responded, and rose from my chair to follow Marley into the back of the shop.

* * *

Over the next few weeks, the rift between me and Bertrand grew steadily wider, and the little old house buzzed with static whenever both of us were in it. We rarely spoke, save for a few muttered pleasantries in the mornings and at supper. Every night, I crept up to the big oak tree down the road and perched there, watching for Petra, and sometimes I saw her dart out of the woods with another sack full of looted food. Sometimes she saw me up in the tree and paused, raising a finger to her lips before running onward.

Knife Boy never followed her. Sometimes I wished he would.

The weather was growing warmer and the days longer, which only gave me more time to think and Bertrand more time to agonize over breaking a centuries-old curse. Throughout all this time, the nightmares never ceased. Knife Boy’s smug, slimy grin eventually faded, unmasking the demons I had kept under lock and key for years. Some of them were creations of my own mind, but by far the most harrowing ones were true.

“And then,” Basil whispered, pausing for effect, “when they turned the corner, the whole village had disappeared!”

There was silence. Basil looked back and forth around the circle, anticipating a reaction. Finally, Carita spoke up next to me.

“That wasn’t very scary,” she complained, rolling her eyes. “Why would a village just disappear?”

I saw Basil stare at me out of the corner of his eye and smirk. “I don’t know, Carita,” he replied. “Ace seemed pretty scared to me.”

I felt my face heat up as several pairs of eyes landed on me. I couldn’t be sure if my expression really betrayed my fear, or if Basil was just pretending so the other children would think he was a good storyteller. “D-Did not!” I cried.

“It doesn’t matter, I have a scarier story,” announced Marcus, “And this one’s true.” A chorus of gasps rang out from around the circle. I resisted the urge to roll my eyes--I was never Marcus’ biggest fan--but I quickly sobered up as he began his tale. “It happened hundreds of years ago. There’s a legend that says there was once an evil, terrible wizard who put a curse on our entire kingdom. For the rest of time, there would be children born in the kingdom without hearts.” He paused for dramatic effect, to striking results. “Most people think they’re really out there, probably living at the edge of the kingdom somewhere.”

“I-Is that true?” someone piped up from somewhere across the circle. I sat mostly frozen, combatting feelings of otherness and plucking blades of grass out of the dirt absentmindedly so Marcus would think I was simply uninterested.

Marcus scoffed, “Of course it’s true. My grandpa told it to me. But he said they don’t feel any emotions, so it’s dangerous to go there.”

Hesitantly, I stole a glance across the circle at Basil and was surprised to find him staring at his feet out in front of him, mouth set in a deep frown. It was the quietest he’d ever been.

  I woke up with a familiar crick in my neck and an ache in my hip from sleeping curled up on the uncomfortable cot. I could hear Bertrand tinkering away in his study, where he had likely been all night for what had to be at least the fourth day in a row. My nightclothes were soaked with sweat, so after a humble breakfast of a slice of old bread and some jam, I peeled them off and wrung them through the wash before hanging them outside on the line to dry.

It was still early, just after sunrise, so the Village of the Heartless was quiet, with just a few people outside tending their gardens that had been pillaged overnight by groundhogs and squirrels. Dawn was as serene as the Village ever got, after the danger of night had lifted but before most people awoke. I stood there outside the house for a long time, soaking in some much needed peace. Outside, the tension between me and Bertrand could not reach me, and neither could the nightmares that plagued my sleep.

Nevertheless, my lingering thoughts followed me all the way from the front door to the back garden behind the house. Dewdrops clung to the heads of lettuce that had continued to sprout overnight, and against the wall grew the selection of herbs that Bertrand kept for his potions. I walked amongst the rows and filled in holes dug by chipmunks with the toe of my shoe, grumbling all the while.

“Ace!” Came the call of a familiar voice from down the road. I turned to see Petra jogging up to the fence, oozing with her usual enthusiasm and zest for life. She came to a screeching halt at the garden gate and shot me a grin.

“You’re up and about early,” I remarked.

“I could say the same to you.” Petra stepped up between the wooden slats of the fence and leaned over the edge. “You said we could have target practice this morning, don’t you remember?”

Realization sprouted within me. Ever since I first caught Petra sneaking around and getting into trouble, I’d resolved to teach her to shoot a bow and arrow, for self-defense purposes. If she was going to run around committing petty theft throughout the kingdom despite my warnings, I couldn’t exactly let her do so undefended. However, my dream had caused our plans for that morning to completely slip my mind.

Our chosen practice area was a secluded grove at the forest’s edge, just a brief walk from the far end of town furthest from the village gates. There, the trees grew sturdy and untouched by agriculture, perfect for hanging up targets I had drawn onto old sheets of burlap. When we arrived that morning, I passed Petra my bow and arrow and took several deliberate steps back.

My body was present in the clearing, but my mind drifted elsewhere, wandering back to some distant meadow that now lived only in my subconscious. Each day, the nightmares became harder to shake, and the gnawing feeling in my gut became harder to ignore.

"Ace? Are you paying attention?”

I snapped back to the target range, my eyes darting around the clearing until they found purchase; Petra was staring at me incredulously over her shoulder, bow hanging limp at her side.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you. Did you say something?” I inquired, trying to make my voice sound casual.

Petra frowned. “I asked if my form was better that time, but you were spacing out again.” She paused and turned her body to face me properly. “Are you alright?”

I was unsure how to answer. I’d never told Petra very much about Basil, or anyone in my home village for that matter--my stories were always intentionally vague, leaving out names and other personal details to avoid revealing too much. But it became clear to me now that as Petra got older and I grew more visibly pensive, the mystery became far more frustrating than enthralling.

“I’m alright, just thinking.” I dropped down and sat cross-legged in the dirt.

Petra seemed unconvinced.

“Thinking?” she questioned, coming to sit beside me. “What about?”

“I’ve been having quite a lot of dreams lately, mostly of home.” I paused, letting the truth roll around on my tongue for a few moments. Even amongst fellow Heartless, I still was not used to sharing the grittier details of my childhood, although I knew I was likely to be understood.

“I had a friend,” I started. “Basil. I haven’t spoken to him since the day I left. I’m not too sure he’s still alive.”

“Oh,” Petra whispered, seeming to sink into herself ever so slightly. “You’ve never spoken about him.”

I shrugged. “I don’t like to talk about what happened. He was like a brother to me.”

Petra hummed softly in understanding. She picked a small twig up off the ground and began drawing patterns in the dirt. A few moments passed in companionable silence before she tilted her head to look at me again and mused, “You should come with me next time I go into town. You know as well as I do that there is more to the world than what the Village has to offer.”

“I don’t know about that.” I offered her a watery smile, chuckling under my breath. “You do remember me telling you to stop doing that, don’t you?”

“Well, we don’t have to steal anything.” Petra returned to drawing in the soil. “Just to take your mind off things, you know?”

For a moment, I hesitated. I had never left the Village or its woods in the seven years since my arrival, and the thought of entering back into a world that had long ago driven me away struck a fearful chord in me, ghoulish fingers plucking my bones like the strings of a skeletal guitar. However, the kingdom of Amistadia was large, and the chances of me being recognized at its southern limits were slim.

“Fine,” I eventually conceded. Petra gaped at me in surprise. “But only on the condition that we restrict our travel to the south and east, as my home village, Swallow’s Point, is in the north.”

Petra leapt to her feet. “Yes! Of course! We’ll go wherever you want!”

“Right, not so fast.” I stood up and dusted the dirt from my pants, then pointed at my bow, which lay discarded on the ground where Petra had been sitting. “First, show me your form again. This time, I’ll pay attention.”

Petra beamed. “Promise?”

“I promise.”

[spookyspaghettisundae]

Not Killing Him

Orion Crown sat in his big, mean-looking SUV in the old parking lot. The dry heat of Vegas had ripped up the asphalt here over the past years, leaving it pockmarked and littered with potholes. His own car and one other vehicle in the lot were the only ones parked there, immobile, like silent steel corpses, cooling in the shadow of some abandoned warehouse.

The thick windows shielded him from the noise of traffic in the distance, so Orion sat in a weirdly muffled silence. Staring at the entrance of the derelict warehouse with its crooked, ajar doors. He felt sick to his stomach because he had slept little more than a few hours per night and his forehead was burning up.

He picked up his phone from the passenger seat, snatching it from where it was resting next to a loaded semi-automatic pistol. He thumbed through the display, checking his recent direct messages on your social media platform of choice.

Orion Crown, social media darling and super-giant of the statusphere. He flipped through business proposal messages from other influencers, something marginally important from his YouTube video editor, and an array of annoyed passive-aggressive texts from his producer-slash-partner. He let the list slide to a stop, with this finger hovering over the display. Hovering just over the message from “The Glass King” with the preview field only saying that it contained a GIF.

The internet star dithered. He could refuse to walk into that warehouse and refuse to use that gun. His career and life would be over, though.

The alternative was sucking it up, gripping the cold metal of the pistol in his palm, walking in there, and blasting away. Didn’t matter who it was. Didn’t know, didn’t care.

Even though seeing the message’s contents disturbed him every time he reviewed it, his thumb descended in slow motion. Like time almost ground to a halt, like the universe was trying to stop him from watching it again.

He tapped the message and it flicked onto full display on his screen.

The animated GIF flashed with disturbing imagery, all of it cut so quickly and abruptly that it became impossible to take it all in. Words and symbols displayed for fractions of seconds so that the mind could not really grasp what it read, and video footage that may or may not contain clipped recordings of overt violence. Violence he, himself, had authored.

The glare of his phone reflected in Orion’s glassy eyes, pupils dilating with dread and disassociation. Knowing that he recognized some of the things presented here so subliminally and viscerally, feeling guilt even though he had always rationalized the terrible things he had done in the past.

How was anybody better? How could anybody be better?

I am not a bad person, Orion thought. Nobody is.

After watching the animated GIF loop countless times, glued to the phone’s display as if bound in a trance, he put the phone back down onto the passenger seat, a hand’s breadth away from the gun. He barely registered the words that followed far down below the window of animation.

The threats. The instructions.

The sentences that had brought him to the locker where he obtained the gun. The address of this warehouse. And his mission, to kill anybody he saw inside this place.

Why didn’t this “Glass King” person just ask for money? Why this? How did the Glass King even get that footage? It had been destroyed long ago.

None of it made any sense.

No matter how many times he mulled it over, Orion Crown—born with the more unglamorous name of Kyle Howard—his sense of self-preservation, greed, and existential dread always won out. Always looped him back to doing as he was told as long as it served his own purposes. To get this over with, and walk away, and never let anybody know of his dirty secrets.

If the Glass King put any of that out—if they aired out any of Orion Crown’s dirty laundry—then he would be out of the game. Done. Probably also in prison.

Orion looked over to the gun. Stared at it, taking in every hard and unforgiving edge and angle of its sleek industrial design.

He had before, and he pondered it again, now: to just pick it up and stick the nuzzle right into his own mouth. Pull the trigger and end it right now.

But his vanity and pride, masked with religious guilt and eclipsed by copious amounts of doublethink, led him to believe that this was the only way.

He grabbed the gun and weighed it in his hand. Orion licked his lips and they felt funny. Not chapped, but uneven. Slimy. He bit his lip and chewed without realizing it, while his gaze swept up and down the crumbling building of this damned warehouse.

In one fluid motion, he got out of his car, slammed the door shut, and walked towards the entrance of the warehouse. The heat outside his car, even here in the shade—combined with the inexplicable fever he was running—made his head swim as if he had been drinking nonstop for the past day and night.

He gripped that pistol in his fist like his life depended on it. And as far as Orion was concerned, it did.

The rusted hinges on the big metal double doors squealed and he cringed at the sound of it, freezing in place. His heart raced, his pulse thundering in his ears. Eyes darted back and forth, looking for a sign of anybody in there. Whoever had parked the other car had to be in here, and Orion’s job was to gun them down.

Something heavy, like a brick hitting a pile of rubble, echoed through the decrepit and dingy halls.

Orion’s hand jerked and he pointed the gun out in front of himself, aiming at every dark corner and little thing he could perceive. With nobody in sight, the adrenaline pumped through his body, suffusing him with a quiet rage and driving the sweat to erupt from his pores, clouding his senses and sapping his reason.

He sidled through the entrance and crept through the abandoned place, twitching at any possible sound he thought he heard and any shadow he saw in the corner of his eyes, expecting someone, anybody, to jump out at him.

Something chugged and sputtered, causing him to freeze once more. He continued sneaking on when he recognized those sounds to be coming from a gas-powered generator, hidden somewhere deeper within the warehouse’s bowels.

He kind of hoped that someone would jump out at him from a blind spot. Thinking it would be much easier to pull the trigger if it felt like self defense.

Instead, he found a large, wide, pillared hall, awaiting him at the end of a long twisting and turning through claustrophobia-inducing corridors.

Someone had arranged seven door frames in a perfect circle, bolted down with plywood feet to support their weight, sawdust and power tools littering the dirty floors, and that distinct smell of freshly cut wood hanging in the air.

Each door frame held a door, closed and looking far too new to fit into this warehouse. An array of four construction site spotlights illuminated the doors from their center, connected to a tangle of bright orange power cord extensions, leading his sweeping gaze to the generator he had been hearing chug away all this time.

The doors were just standing there, out in the open, connected to no walls. Leading nowhere.

Orion gripped the pistol in both hands, holding it outstretched far in front of himself. He had never fired a gun before in his life. Without realizing it, he both wanted the thing to be as far away as possible from himself, but also wanted to use it and for things to be over fast.

But nobody was here. Right?

Wrong.

Arriving in the center of the seven doors, he blinked and inspected a small pile of objects heaped up in between the four spotlights.

A bunch of broken smartphones, a black wig, a small cracked hand mirror, a pile of about twenty credit cards that had been sloppily cut in half, a bunch of different keys that looked far too old to fit the locks on the doors here, and all of the objects rested on top of a local city map that someone had drawn all over with a black magic marker.

A pebble crunched underneath a boot. But not Orion’s shoe. He swiveled, almost getting dizzy at his own speed as he pointed the gun at the source of the noise.

Standing only steps away from the other person, he held the pistol out and swallowed. No matter how many times he had tried to mentally prepare for this moment, he hesitated and his index finger trembled instead of squeezing around the trigger.

Nobody jumping out at him. Just standing there.

She stared into the barrel of his gun for a split second and then met his gaze. A woman in her twenties, dressed like a man. Or—at second glance—androgynous, like she was in some sort of getup for a rock or punk band from the 1990s. Clad in a ratty leather jacket and dark jeans; covered in studs on her clothing, a chain hanging from her belt, and spikes protruding from a choker around her neck; way too much makeup on her face; and a poorly-cut hair-do of shaved sides and long top that could constitute as a fashion crime.

More distracting, however, was the hand she held in her hand. Orion did a double take on that before he fully absorbed what he saw there. A waxen hand with candlewicks sticking out from the fingertips, gripped firmly in her slender hand.

“Who the fuck are you?” she asked Orion. She squinted at him.

He squeezed the trigger. It didn’t work. The fucking gun refused to work.

Orion turned it over and looked at it and realized that it had a safety setting which he had forgotten to take care of before walking into the building.

Clink. Snap.

The woman flicked a lighter on and guided it to the waxen hand in her hand and he had flicked the safety and pointed the gun at her and the next thing Orion knew, his wrists hurt. And so did his neck. And his lower back.

Chafing against exposed skin, coarse rope and the smell of burnt candles still filled his nostrils. He began thrashing but found that his limbs did not obey his instinct to struggle against his bonds because of how tightly he was tied down. He scraped his skin against something like rough rock or rusty metal behind him.

Blinking and fighting the fever back down, the taste of iron clung to his tongue. His vision blurred here and there and reality caught back up to him with disjointed delay. She had tied him to something in sight of the circle of seven doors.

The woman crouched in front of one of the doors, her back turned to him.

With a loud PLOP, she opened something in her hands and whatever she was doing, it resulted in the door being splattered with something dark and red.

Hoarse, the words croaked out of his throat and left him sounding more like a toad. “Hey,” Orion emitted. “Let me go!”

The woman whispered something and it dawned on him that it was no response to him.

“What the fuck are you doing? You’re gonna get into so much trouble if you don’t let me go,” he said. But it really was just pathetic pleading, masquerading as feeble threats. “Police’ll be all over your ass, lady.”

She continued whispering and splashed more of the dark crimson liquid over the next door, to its left.

Something crunched. It drew both Orion’s attention, and that of the woman. They both stared at the thing crawling into the large hall, emerging from the corridors he had entered from. The way they paused, paralyzed with disbelief—and the failure of the human mind’s capability to process what they were looking at—took in the thing moving along the floor.

It looked like a pile of trash, like someone had kicked over a garbage can and the contents of four weeks of refuse had spilled out over the ground. With a stench to match. But parts of it looked fleshy, or sponge-like. Wobbling but staying whole, like a block of jello. Other bits, like stalks, or tentacles, tiny and too many to count, coiling and recoiling and almost like they were looking in every direction, but seeing without any discernible eyes.

Death and evil incarnate, crawling over the filthy floors. Hungry, but slow. Creeping. Part of the world’s abandoned things, coalesced and fused into something awful, something trapped in between the realm of the living and the realm of non-existence; a vessel to something worse, something spawned in the darkest recesses and the deepest abyss of human sin. Crawling, and more than one. Another pile of living muck and vomit-inducing presence followed. And another. And another.

Rejects.

They headed towards the seven doors with painful slowness. But one of them began veering away from the rest, inching closer towards Orion.

Thwuck. Shlack. Scrape.

Orion wanted to throw up. He started wriggling, thrashing, fighting against his bonds, but none of it helped. He looked back at the woman in desperation.

She breathed through her teeth, “Shit.”

Haste colored her every movement now and she haphazardly sprayed more liquid onto the doors. One by one. She whispered all the while, though the whispers had made way to hectic chanting. Orion had no chance in understanding it, for the words sounded nothing like any language he had ever heard before.

Almost matching the sounds made by the Rejects, creeping forth.

Scrape. Flesh. Shlef. Thwuck.

The Reject crawled closer. Ever closer to him.

Tears welled up in the corners of his eyes, first blurring his sight a little, and then a lot. Orion had no time or space to realize how that might have been better, he only felt the deep-rooted dread in his stomach. The certainty of death by this abomination, crawling up to him. Only an arm’s length away from his kicking feet.

The stench intensified as the thing got closer, robbing him of any speech, making him wretch.

Images of the GIF on his phone flashed in his mind. The violence he had inflicted, captured on camera—his own recordings, not meant for public consumption—sent to him by the Glass King.

Just like these monsters had been sent by the Glass King.

Orion screamed for help.

A figure in a long black duster emerged from the corridors, standing still at the edge of the large hall, staring at the seven doors. Orion screamed for help from him, now. But within just a few beats of his heart, pounding so hard that it wanted to burst from his chest, he knew deep down that this man was the master of the Rejects.

No—this man was the Glass King, and he cared nothing for Orion’s plight. Hell, he probably enjoyed it. Orion sensed that just much malice from the presence of his man, and his imagination ran wild in response to the evil emanating from his body, hitting his entire being like a truck.

“Will you even be you when you return from that place? If you return from the house?” asked the man, directing his words at the woman by the doors.

Cold and uncaring about Orion, who was now screaming at the top of his lungs. Because something cold and wet and slimy slapped against the bottom of his shoe. And slithered up it, tugging at shoe laces, wrapping around the leg of his pants by his ankle, and applying pressure. Pulling itself upwards.

Onto him.

The woman never stopped chanting, flinging blood at those doors and then sticking something white and misshapen into the keyhole of one of the brass knobs, exposed by the glaring cone of light from one of the spots. She stopped chanting.

“You can’t stop change. Everything changes. That’s all you’re really afraid of, isn’t it?” she shouted. Anger making her voice tremble. Also something insecure. Or fear.

She ripped the door open and ran through it and slammed it shut behind her, but she didn’t emerge from the other side.

Just gone. Vanished into thin air.

Orion had neither eyes nor mind for this phenomenon, however. He only felt the many tiny tendrils of trash touching, feeling, finding their way up his limbs. A path of disgusting discovery, exploring his body like an alien creature trying to figure out human anatomy, but in reality just so depraved and sinister that it pretended to be doing so when it fed on his festering dread and despair.

Was this what it was like to be helpless? To be used, and chewed out?

To cry for help, but be ignored?

He had no capacity left for clean, deep thoughts. Only terror filled his being. The Reject crawled up over him, exerting the weight of a full-grown person, pinning him down and amplifying his sense of helplessness.

Some part of him expected to feel tiny teeth from tiny mouths chewing away at him, but the slithering and worming motions only reflected the darkness in his own heart, mirroring the corruption that had always haunted him. His screaming died down, petering out into a hoarse unintelligible something that transformed into whimpering.

The man in the duster—the Glass King—clicked his tongue but ignored Orion, approaching the seven doors.

“You didn’t answer my question, Kimmy. You fear the answer, or you’d say it out loud,” muttered the Glass King.

Orion expected the sensation of cold metal to be cutting his flesh, but the wet something was more like saliva dispersed from tongues, oozing across his skin. He expected for those rubber bands and spongy stalks to wrap around his neck and choke the life out of him, but they only squeezed a little bit. Just enough to be uncomfortable, and just enough for the Reject to enjoy it.

It breathed on him. The Reject engulfed him, not killing him.

The man in the duster turned on his heels.

Eyes wide open, stricken with unnatural knowing accumulated from a thousand lives and a deep-seated and all-devouring madness—staring into Orion’s eyes. The Glass King’s stare reached deep inside, prying away at his secrets like a lunatic ripping away at the fabric padding lining the walls of a forgotten cell, for those crazy eyes had seen the same GIF as he had. Knew what he knew. Knew his every dirty secret.

Much worse was the grin plastered across his face. Toothy, sadistic, and stretched far too wide to look fun or what was natural for that human face.

“Oh, Kyle, my boy,” said the Glass King, with the grin never wiping itself off his face. “You had one job and you bungled it. But no worries, I still have use for you. Your name, your reputation—your face. Enough mojo there for me to milk for a far greater purpose. Good on you for at least coming here, huh?”

The Glass King took a few steps closer towards Orion. Neared. Menace echoing with each step of his boots thumping against the dirty floor.

Orion wasn’t even whimpering anymore. Before a sheet of paper with something cold and wet and fleshy clinging to its underside had fully crept up the side of his face and covered it—before he closed his eyes and lost sight—he wanted to protest.

But he had no words.

Some part of him, matched only by his urge to vomit, knew he deserved this. Every second of it.

The Reject breathed on him, hot and damp and unpleasant. It almost entirely engulfed him, satisfied with the almost.

Not killing him.

—Submitted by Wratts

[reader-rabbit]

Celestial Music: Chapter Three

A/N: Here’s chapter three! Sorry it’s a little late today, life happened, and then more life happened, and then more life happened. As it does. But here it is! I’ll link the other chapters later, but if you want to catch up, you can track the tag #celestial music on my blog or in general, or you can check it out on Wattpad, where all the chapters are in one place here. I hope you guys enjoy this one!

Warnings: none, really, except danger at sea

___________

The sea was as relentless as the gnawing in Marysa’s stomach. True to their leader’s words, the invaders had passed her by when the rest of the prisoners got rations of stale bread and a sip of water at dusk. Waves rocked and rolled the boat, battered by the force of winds that Marysa could not have imagined in her little village hugged by a behemoth forest. Thick clouds hovered low over the water with the menacing promise of a late autumn storm. The sight of that alone would have made her stomach riot with worry, had it not been empty from the night before, but the stark silhouettes of tall black dorsal fins that still tracked with the boat made her throat clench with fear.

The whales had somehow kept pace with the invaders’ ships, and there were more of them than Marysa knew were in the pod that lived near her village. Somehow, the group had gone from eight adult whales to over thirty. They kept pace with the long ship, which surged on the steady strokes of twenty oars, each manned by two fierce-faced invaders.

Next to Marysa, the blacksmith’s wife cradled a crust of bread in her hands. She was looking at it with the big, mournful eyes that wondered when her next meal would be. The woman’s eyes kept flickering between Marysa’s face and that chunk of bread in pitying indecision, though she said nothing. The boy on Marysa’s other side had swallowed the last of his meal long ago, and curled into her side with the slow, easy breaths of deep sleep.

When she could take the weight of the blacksmith’s wife’s pity no longer, Marysa sighed, turned, and shook her head at the blacksmith’s wife. With a flick of her gaze between the crust, no more than two mouthfuls left, and Marysa’s knowing expression, the fair-haired woman smiled guiltily and took one more bite of her bread.

The guilt would do her no good, but it was nice to know that someone had compassion for Marysa. The rest of the captive villagers had avoided her gaze, a difficult thing to do in the close quarters of the ship, and most of the invaders ignored her the way they did the other prisoners, as if they were all blades of grass, unworthy of notice even as they trampled upon them. There were a few fellow prisoners, though, whose eyes darted in her direction with a mix of curiosity and raw understanding that made Marysa’s skin itch.

It was too much, that constant interchange of scrutiny and studied oblivion to her existence. One was oil and one was water, one clinging and slimy on her skin, the other washing away any dignity she had left. The strange mixture flowed over her until she felt she might drown in it.

Her father would have told her to stop being dramatic, that she had called this upon herself when she spoke up and painted a target on her back. He would have said it with pride shining in his amber-brown eyes.

But this was his fault, too. Somehow, being Aryn Blársverð’s daughter meant something to these people. They knew her father, or knew of him. They treated that black sword with reverence born of fearful familiarity. If his name was not hers, if his amber eyes did not live on in her face, then she might not have been taken.

Or she could have been attacked and left for dead.

This was doing Marysa no good. She was proud to be her father’s daughter, and blaming him for her own stupidity and the cruelty of other men would not change her circumstances. Her mother, despite her otherwise quiet and gentle, never stood for Marysa blaming someone else for her own problems, or for problems that were out of her control. That was one of the few things her parents had in common: their practicality. Marysa needed some of that now.

The sea still splashed about like water sloshing over the side of a bucket, except this was all inside out. The wooden bucket of the ship had saltwater splashing around it. But the sky had turned that menacing dark that came before a thorough storm, and the wind still battered Marysa, pulling her hair free from its tired braid and whipping her cheeks and eyes with it.

In the dark, a tall figure rose from the back of the boat and danced his way down the center of the boat, balancing on the board like a cat along a fence. The boat see-sawed on the waves like child’s toy in the bath, and this man was tall and broad in the sturdy manner of a tree, but his feet were light and nimble as he made his way to the bow of the boat. He passed Marysa as he went, his murky shadow in the dim light sliding over her.

She went still as he approached, watching him carefully. The blacksmith’s wife’s figure next to her went taut, too. The boy slept on, drooling on Marysa’s coat sleeve, and she wondered how a shepherd’s son could sleep through a storm as a prisoner on an invader ship.

The man rested his hands on the sides of the boat, leaning into the bow beneath a scrollwork dragon that charged forward through the waves. He was close enough that the edge of his cloak grazed Marysa’s bare toes, which she could see but not feel. The cold salt air and cruel wind had numbed them, and she knew she needed to warm them soon, but she did not want to shift and wake the shepherd’s son.

A soft thud startled her, one that she felt more than saw in the shadows. Something grazed the side of her foot, and rolled toward her. It must have fallen from the invader, dropped from his pocket or slipped from his hand. Marysa edged her foot forward, finding the object to be flat and round. It yielded beneath her foot. Not a weapon, then. Marysa ignored the sharp disappointment at that realization, but risked edging the thing closer to her under her foot. Her eyes stayed fixed on the invader, who seemed impossibly tall from her place on the floor of the longboat, while his stayed fixed on that rocking horizon that promised a brutal storm.

Her heel came to the base of her seat, the item beneath it. With steady slowness, Marysa reached for it and slipped it from under her foot. Only then did she glance down to find a disk of flat bread in her hand.

Hunger flared to life in her belly, irresistible in the face of something that might sate it, if only for a moment. Marysa must have made a small desperate sound, a soft groan or low gasp of dismay, for the invader turned his head, tilted it down, and faced her. It was the steady-eyed invader from the inn, the one who had questioned the leader. His eyes were still steady, even as they glinted in the low light, and he looked relaxed. His face was broad and angular, with a prominent nose that leaned slightly to the right. He was handsome, she could admit, though something in his masculine features looked worn beyond the exposure of weather. His knowing eyes moved silently from Marysa’s face to the bread she clutched, then back again. He smiled softly.

Marysa’s heart jumped. That was the smile of a friend, one who saw suffering and meant to ease it. It was also the smile of a cat bringing a mouse to the doorstep, and knows he will have a taste of cream later. That was what made her heart jump, Marysa told herself. Not the way the smile transformed his face from handsome stranger to a conspiring friend, one that could draw her in with thoughtful gifts and gentle words only to ruin her later.

No, he was an invader. She was only afraid, and that fear caused her heart to race.

The invader said nothing. He did not move. He did not raise a hand to strike her, or to take back his little round bread. He merely watched her, as if a storm was not imminent, as if the boat beneath his feet were solid rock, as if time did not exist.

“Einar! Koma brott!” The leader shouted from the back of the boat.

The steady invader spun on his heel and stalked down the middle of the boat, shouting something in that rolling language to his leader. Marysa waited, heart pounding, for the leader to come to her, take the bread, and punish her again. But he and the tall invader with the grace of a cat were in conversation, shouting over the wind and waves to be heard, pointing at the storm. For the moment, they were not interested in her.

Seizing the only opportunity she might have to eat, Marysa wolfed down the piece of bread, not minding how it stuck in her throat like sawdust. She was too grateful to have something in her throat at all to complain. When she finished, the bread sat heavy and hollow in her stomach, as if she had dropped a pebble into an echoing cave. Still, it was food, and it would have to be enough.

The waves continued their relentless battering, and the storm hit with all the wrathful force it could muster. Marysa had thought the winds alone were overwhelming, but this storm was like something out of a fairy tale, where a prince is tossed overboard only to be rescued by a beautiful sea siren. Her mother would have loved this storm, the way the ship was tossed about effortlessly between peaks and swells of unfathomable blue and foamy white. Marysa, however, was terrified. Her white-knuckle grip on the side of the boat did little to soothe that heart-stopping fear, but she was not willing to give it up.

The shepherd’s son was finally awake and clutching as tightly to Marysa as she did the boat, his eyes wide and face pale in terror. His name was Coryn, which Marysa had learned when the blacksmith’s wife had shouted it to wake him. The invaders lit metal lanterns when the rain started, the little orange glow enclosed in wavy, clear glass that distorted the light as it emerged. But it was light enough to see the vague figures around her in the boat, and it was enough light for the invaders to see their leader’s face as he shouted orders, which their swooping oars and busy hands rushed to obey.

Marysa was amazed that, the invaders had kept the boat afloat thus far, as rough as the sea was in this storm. But they were still sailing into the heart of the storm, and its bluster had yet to relent. It was too dark to see far beyond the edges of the boat, and waves taller than the boat’s mast began to take the invaders by surprise. They would rush to steer away from the rising wave with their oars, the sail already rolled up and tied out of the way, as the invaders who were free to walk the boat would brace for impact and lean against the tug of the sea. Marysa caught flashes of their determined expressions in the dim glow of the lanterns and the flickering brightness of lightning overhead. Not at all like the expression she, Coryn, and the other captives were wearing. The invaders were calm, as if they had seen seas like this before and conquered them, and were sure they would do it again.

Behind the force of her awe at the storm’s fierceness, Marysa dimly realized that they would not have a ship like this if they were not prepared for challenging seas and great journeys. They moved with casual efficiency, even if their tasks were completed with the urgency of the knowledge that the task might mean the difference between life and death. They were practiced, prepared, and calm; even the leader’s bellowing voice over the noise of the storm had the same tone of practiced, casual command her father had used when he led the village’s celebratory boar hunt at the beginning of spring.

Who were these people?

But she knew the answer already. They were people like her father. Maybe her father had once been one of them, and that was how they knew his sword. For him to be a legend among such hardened, cruel people, though… her father must have had to do some very cruel things.

It should have been a surprise, that thought. Marysa’s father had always had gentle sternness in his eyes, and a careful way about him, but when he trained Marysa with a blade, there was always something raw in the way he moved. It was that same careful ease that the invaders expressed in every movement, with that same underlying urgency. She had always known, somehow, that her father was capable of violence. But at imagining her father moving among these people, trading passing orders on their tongues with her village’s blood on their hands and the same braids swinging over his shoulders, a shudder crawled down her spine and loosened her hold on the side of the ship.

At the same instant, a wave hit the boat broadside, gushing over the deck and back into the sea. It left Marysa’s clutching hands empty as it hurled her into the thrashing water. It happened so quickly that she had no time to cry out, and by the time she did, it was swallowed by the black water surrounding her. All sound ceased, and in the blink of an eye the world went achingly silent.

Marysa’s open mouth and panicked lungs let in a gulp of salty water. It burned in her chest, in her nose, in her throat. She could not focus on that, though; she had to find the surface so she could breathe air again. Fighting panic, her legs surged in the swimming motion her mother had taught her when she was young, in case she went too far on the beach or fell into the water. When her mind caught up to her legs, her arms followed, and she strained against the current, which felt impossibly strong. What progress she made might not have been in the right direction. The wave had flipped her head over heels when it took her under, and she could not be sure which way was up. She hoped she was swimming upward. Her ears popped, and she was coughing the water, with nothing but water to take back in.

It was a vicious cycle, struggling against blackness for some way out. All Marysa could think was that she had to get out, out, out.

Her arms were tiring, and her legs were giving out. The pain in her chest gave way to blurry numbness, and she knew that was not a good sign. In one desperate launch forward, her head turned and she caught sight of a flash of lightning illuminating the water on her right through the loose strands of hair that had tangled in front of her eyes.

She was swimming sideways.

A burst of despair washed over her, and Marysa went limp. All that effort, and she had been going the wrong way. She fought the despair. She could not give up. She would not give up like her mother had.

Like her father had.

She struggled to swim again, but her strokes were weaker. Marysa was honestly surprised it had taken so long. Still, she fought the sensation, turning her body toward the surface.

Another flash of purple-white lightning brightened the fathomless darkness around her, but this time, it silhouetted a huge black shape that moved steadily toward her.

Garbled sounds and a stream of bubbles left Marysa’s mouth in the water, as panic overtook her. She could not die like this. She had survived her parents’ deaths, she had survived capture by invaders, she would not be eaten by some sea monster. Blindly, she struck out with her right fist, but it moved impossibly slow in the water, and the behemoth came alongside her in the dark.

That behemoth had a deep brown eye in a patch of white that streaked along its head. The ocean was no longer silent; it echoed with clicks and whistles and sighing moans that shuddered within her. For some reason, the tune of her little song flooded her mind, in time with those questioning clicks. She mouthed the last line of it, her eyes closing against her will, as the creature took her coat in its teeth and hauled her upward.

[wolffyluna]

A Ferdinand/Claude fic, for @ferdinands-love-club/ @stag-of-almyra.

I’m going to be open for Ferdinand rare pair requests for the next week or so, so feel free to send some in!

Ferdinand knew horses. He’d grown up around them, and learned to ride them as soon as his parents felt confidant he wouldn’t immediately fall off. He knew how horses thought—their love of their herd, their mixed curiosity and fear at new things, they way they responded to fright and treats and leg pressure. He understood them.

He knew dogs, too. To a lesser extent then horses, but he could read their body language well enough to recognise fear and joy and prey-lust and excited obedience.

He did not know wyverns. He knew they were ridden, like horses. He knew they were predators, like dogs. So it seemed reasonable enough to assume they were half way between horses and dogs, until he found any differences. And it was a duty of a noble to give it all your all in your assigned tasks, and to show initiative, and so he went to retrieve the wyvern he would be riding for this week’s assignment by himself. He knew which stable she lived in, and had enough instruction to know how to tighten her girth strap and lead her out, and that was, in theory, all he needed to do.

He felt prepared.

It was, unfortunately, a false sense of preparedness.

He had walked in, tried to tighten her girth strap, and immediately gotten bitten and backed into a corner for his trouble.

A noble did not call out for help needlessly, so he was a bit stuck. Only a little, of course. Once he worked out how to approach her, without her attempted to puncture his flesh again , he would be set.

He stared at her. It was how he had cowed his father’s guard dogs, who forgot they should not try to menace their master’s son. Assuming wyverns were doggish horses had in some ways gotten him into this mess, but it was his best idea for how to get out of it.

She stared back.

“Well, you seem a little stuck.” Claude leaned over the stable gate, hands dangling into the stable itself (courageously close to the snapping jaws of an enraged wyvern, by Ferdinand’s read.)

“Only momentarily—”

“You’ve been there ten minutes. Petra’s been waiting.” He paused, and looked at Ferdinand’s arm. “Also, you’re bleeding.”

Ferdinand conceded his staring contest to look down at his own arm. “So I am,” he said, somewhat puzzled. He’d felt the scrape of her teeth, but he had assumed it was merely that, a scrape, and that she had not broken skin. …he hoped that the scent of blood did not make wyverns go strange, as it did for horses and dogs.

“You’d better get that checked out, wyvern bites are nasty.” He opened the door, and strode in nonchalantly. “And considering you’ve been bitten, I’d better help a pal out.”

“It really is not necessary—” he said, vainly trying to save face.

Claude tightened her girth strap in one move, and the wyvern merely squinted in annoyance. “Don’t worry about it, they always give the first-timers trouble.” He left with a jaunty wave. “Good luck!”

Ferdinand paused for a second, before he realised the thing he had forgotten to do. “Thank you very much for your assistance!” he called out.

Claude didn’t seem to notice. (Or maybe he did, and felt no need to react? Ferdinand had the trick for reading horses and dogs. He hadn’t found the trick for wyverns, and he was not sure he had found the trick for Claude.)  

 ***

 Ferdinand walked back to the wyvern stables after breakfast the next morning, bandage tight around his arm, and Manuela’s admonishment still ringing in his ears (“Don’t ride with an injury like that! And certainly don’t leave a wyvern bite untended for hours, their mouths are nasty things—“)

Claude caught up with him, and handed him a bowl. “Here you go: a bribe.”

Ferdinand took it automatically, and looked down. It was bowl of old sausages from yesterday’s breakfast, that didn’t smell like they had turned yet, though he was reluctant to put them to the test in his stomach. He blinked at them, and paused. What was the most polite way to say to your better “Please do not bribe me, it is unbecoming conduct for a noble to accept a bribe” and “Please do not bribe me, I do not want old sausages”?

Claude saw his confusion. “For the wyvern.  Their just like people: quickest way to their hearts is through their stomachs.” He winked.

“Thank you once again for your assist—”

“Don’t mention it. I’m just paying it forward, pal.”

 ***

 Claude and Ferdinand saw each other at the wyvern stables more and more. Ferdinand seemed quite taken with the creatures, after his unfortunate first impression. Claude couldn’t blame him—they were strong willed, and independent, and generally only took suggestions instead of commands, but they were lovely animals.

Over time Ferdinand, went from someone he merely called ‘friend’ or ‘pal,’ to an actual one. He was loyal and driven, and his noble ideal was much less “I am better than everyone” and more “I should strive to be better than everyone,” which, while an odd philosophy, was one Claude could respect.

They gave advice to each other on assignments, Claude teaching him about wyverns, and Ferdinand imparting horse-y wisdom.  

(Claude sat on the arena’s sawdust floor, hip still sore from his fall, after his mount spooked at a wall they had ridden past twenty times before with no incident. “I don’t quite see what you seen them.” He shook his head. “They’re far too flighty.”

Ferdinand hopped off his horse, to lend him a hand up. “That could be true,” he said. “But once they trust you, once you are part of their herd—that loyalty, that partnership, is like little else in this world.”

He took the hand, and brushed the dirt off his pants once he was upright. “I don’t mind my partners not listening to me, from time to time, if they didn’t throw me off when they get scared.” )

When they had free time, they shared tea together, and discussed politics and history and philosophy and duty and riding.

It was a good friendship. And it would stay like that: friendship. Nothing more.

Even if Ferdinand had some interest in him, his noble ideal did seem to involve marrying someone and having as many Crest-bearing babies as possible. He’d said as much, even if not directly about himself. Spoke while sipping his bergamot about the duty of Crest bearers to protect those he did not have them, and to protect future generations of those lacking Crests by making future generations of bearers.

And, well, that wasn’t going to happen between the two of them. Better save the heartbreak there and then.

Plus, even if Ferdinand was speaking in general, rather than specifically about his own duties—when he wasn’t chasing after the noble ideal, he was chasing after the ideal of Edelgard. Which maybe wasn’t super healthy, but Claude wasn’t going to judge. But he could see all the little ways he could twist it, point Ferdinand’s ideals at him, make himself the object of that idealistic devotion with just a few words here and there over tea and cleaning wyvern tack. Ferdinand thrived on goals and ideals and it would be so simple to just change the direction he pointed ever so slightly--

It was tempting. The idea made him feel slimy. So he put that plan in the “don’t” bucket and tried to forget he’d ever thought about it.

And then Edelgard went and made that temptation a moot point, and his and Ferdinand’s friendship too. Maybe some people could stay friends with the person who drove them out of a monastery, and made a serious attempt to do kill them, but he was pretty sure he wasn’t that person.

It was a shame, really.

 ***

4 years later.

 Claude stared through a palace window.

A messenger skidded to a halt next to him, panting. “My lord, there is someone in the courtyard who insists on seeing you.”

That didn’t surprise him. He’d just seen a wyvern rider coming in, hard and fast—not wearing Leicester colours, a skilled flier, but still having trouble dodging the arrows and wyvern riding guards aiming for him and—well, it wasn’t like Fódlan lacked for red heads, but he still had a quiver of hope in his heart. (He hoped that that was who was demanding an audience. When the strange wyvern rider dropped out of the sky, he could not tell if it was to land, or because they had been struck in the heart by an arrow.)

He walked to the courtyard as fast as he could.

Standing on the tiles, an old wyvern, battle scarred and with the brand of Garreg Mach on her shoulder, scratched her head. In front of her, stood a warrior in Black Eagles colours, but with every bit of insignia painstakingly seam-ripped out, and long red hair. Ferdinand. He looked different. Not just older, but older—having the bearing of someone who had seen some shit, if he had the liberty of being vulgar in his own head.

(He wondered if he looked older to Ferdinand, too. The beard would help.)

Ferdinand sank to one knee, formal and courtly and like an example illustration from an etiquette book. “My liege,” he said.

“I’m not your liege.” Because he wasn’t. Ferdinand was the Duke of Aegir, so his liege was Edelgard nigh definitionally. And he had followed her to war, and if that didn’t count as vassalage then nothing did—Even discounting that, he wasn’t going to point that devotion at himself deliberately if he could help it. Not now.

Ferdinand looked up at him—a breach of etiquette, and it surprised Claude that Ferdinand didn’t seem to care. He spoke fast, a shake of adrenaline and twinge of desperation in his voice. “Yes. Yes, you are. I am making—I am formally requesting to be your vassal.”

Claude lifted him up by the shoulders, and looked him in the eyes. If asked, he’d say it was to try and read Ferdinand’s intention, see if he was lying—but he didn’t need to. Ferdinand was a man of honour. If there was anything he would not play false on, it was matters of lieges and vassals and duties and loyalties. He’d only admit it to himself, but he was just looking at Ferdinand’s face, trying to map what had changed and what had stayed. (It was definitely Ferdinand. He was older, less bright—but he was Ferdinand.)

He stared back—ready for rebuke, but determined to stay at Claude’s side.

How could he say no? He embraced Ferdinand, and clapped him on the back. “It’s good to have you back, pal.”

[writinggeisha]

According to Thomas Fuller, the devil lies brooding in the miser’s chest. Rod Stewart said that a person has to have a burning desire in the chest to succeed. And then there’s Erma Bombeck, who quipped, “What’s with you men? Would hair stop growing on your chest if you asked directions somewhere?”

An overweight man or out-of-shape bodybuilder might have pecs that move and look like flabby breasts. A female stevedore or competitive swimmer might develop a muscular torso that appears more masculine than feminine.

In several areas of this post I created separate headings for chests and breasts. However, you might prefer to apply words differently, sometimes for comedic effect.

When considering descriptors, pay attention to opinion adjectives and how they affect point of view.

Emotion Beats

Before reviewing the following beats, note that he crossed his arms across his chest can be shortened to he crossed his arms.

Many readers will associate a puffed-out chest with aggression or arrogance, but they might not see a clear association with delight or determination. Ensure suitable context for vague emotion beats.

Aggression Puffed-out chest

Aggrievement, distress Shoulders slumped inward over chest Chest, neck, and face flush and feel hot

Agitation, nervousness Clutching papers against chest

Amazement Holding a hand against chest

Anger Thrusting chest forward, fists propped on hips

Anticipation Holding a hand against chest

Anxiety Tightness in the chest

Arrogance Puffed-out chest

Confidence, scorn, smugness Puffed-out chest Light feeling in the chest

Conflict Tightness in the chest

Confusion Tightness in the chest

Contempt Puffed-out chest

Defeat, desperation, discouragement When emotion is intense: chest pains or numbness accompanied by thumping heart

Defensiveness Pressing chin against chest Holding both hands over chest, shoulders hunched inward

Delight, euphoria Puffed-out chest Heart drumming in chest

Depression Hollow sensation in chest

Desire Heart fluttering in chest

Determination Puffed-out chest

Disappointment Tightness in chest

Dread, fear, terror Chest pains Clutching chest with one or both hands Heavy sensation, tingling in chest Closed posture, arms and fists pulled into chest

Embarrassment Tightness in chest Drooping posture, chest pulled inward

Envy, jealousy Heartburn burbling up into chest

Excitement Chest-bumping with another person or persons

Frustration, irritation Tightness in chest

Gratitude Placing one hand over chest (heart)

Guilt, shame Tightness in chest Lowering chin to chest

Happiness Placing both hands over chest

Hatred Tightness in chest When emotion is intense: chest pains or numbness accompanied by thumping heart

Hopefulness Placing both hands over chest Humiliation Tightness and pain in chest

Insecurity Holding a familiar item of comfort against the chest (stuffed animal, lucky charm, photo of a loved one, etc.)

Overwhelm Sitting or sleeping in fetal position, with knees drawn close to chest

Pride Puffed-out chest

Regret Tightness in chest Massaging shoulder or chest

Resentment Tightness in chest

Sadness Tightness in chest Heavy sensation in chest Massaging shoulder or chest

Satisfaction Puffed-out chest

Sexual attraction Embracing someone, with full chest-to-chest contact

Shame Tightness in chest Shoulders hunched forward over chest

Shock, surprise Quickly clutching chest with one or both hands

Sympathy Crossing hands over chest and curling shoulders inward

Adjectives, Both Chests and Breasts

A to C Abnormal, adolescent, amazing, ample, armored, athletic, bare, beautiful, blood-caked, bloodied, bloodstained, boyish, brazen, bristly, bruised, bulging, bulky, bushy, childish, chubby, clean, cold, compact

D and E Damp, defined, deformed, delicate, developed, developing, diminutive, divine, effeminate, elongated, emaciated, empty, enchanting, enormous

F and G Fabulous, fat, feminine, fevered, flat, flawless, fleshy, fragile, frail, frosty, frozen, full, furry, gleaming, glossy, glowing, gorgeous, grimy, grizzled

H to M Hairless, hairy, hard, healthy, hideous, hirsute, hot, icy, ideal, immense, impressive, inflamed, insubstantial, iridescent, leathery, magnificent, marvelous, massive, meager, motionless

N to R Naked, narrow, outstanding, painful, perfect, phenomenal, prodigious, prominent, proud, puny, raw, repugnant, resilient, rock-hard

S Sexy, shaggy, shallow, shapely, shiny, shirtless, shrunken, slack, slender, slimy, slippery, smooth, sodden, sopping, sore, splendid, sticky, stunning, superb, sweaty

T to V Tempting, titanic, T-shirted, unattractive, underdeveloped, unimpressive, unprotected, unremarkable, unusual, veined, velvety, voluminous

W to Y Warm, well-defined, well-fleshed, well-proportioned, wet, wondrous, wrinkled, wrinkly, young, youthful

Adjectives Breasts Only

A to D Akimbo, alert, alluring, ample, barren, blubbery, bold, braless, budding, buoyant, busty, buxom, chaste, chesty, conspicuous, dainty, delectable, delicate, diminutive, dry

E to L Empty, enchanting, enlarged, exuberant, fake, firm, flabby, flaccid, free, generous, gigantic, girlish, heavy, high, huge, immature, jaunty, large, little, lopsided, lovely, lumpy, luscious, lush

M to R Maternal, mature, miniscule, modest, monstrous, nascent, numb, oversized, padded, pendulous, perky, pert, plump, pretty, ripe, rotund

S Saggy, sensitive, shriveled, small, smallish, soft, succulent, sweet, swollen

U to W Unbound, unencumbered, unfettered, upright, upstanding, useless, virginal, voluptuous, well-endowed, withered

Adjectives, Chests only

A to F Angular, athletic, bearish, beefy, bony, brawny, broad, buff, built, bullish, burly, cadaverous, carved, chiseled, clear, confident, congested, deep, expansive, frail

G to O Gangly, gaunt, handsome, hard, haughty, hench, Herculean, hollow, hulking, lean, male, mammoth, manly, masculine, matted, meaty, mighty, musclebound, muscular, obdurate, overdeveloped

P to R Powerful, puffed-out, rasping, raspy, resonant, ribbed, rickety, rigid, robust, rugged

S Scrawny, sculpted, serviceable, sinewy, skeletal, skinny, sleek, slick, solid, sonorous, strapping, streamlined, strong, stubbly, sturdy, sunken

T to W Taut, thick, thin, tight, tough, unyielding, valiant, vast, weak, well-muscled, wheezy, wide

Similes and Metaphors

Rather than copy any of the following, leverage them as ideas for your own phrasing.

Breasts like twin doorknobs

Breasts like twin watermelons

Breasts more wrinkled than last year’s apple crop

Breasts that bounce like water balloons

Chest as blocky as a chest of drawers

Chest flatter than a smushed bug

Chest hairier than a barber’s floor

Desire that burns like a wildfire in his chest

Fear cinched her chest tighter than any corset ever could

Grief—an anvil crushing his chest

Heart beating in her chest like a butterfly trapped in a net

Shock pierced his chest like a lightning bolt

Upper body like a bulldog’s chest

Colors

Torsos that spend hours bared in the sun will mirror the color and tone of a character’s neck and face.

If a character keeps the upper body covered most of the time, it will be lighter in color—humor fodder for Canadian or Icelandic protagonists, perhaps?

B to W Bronzed, coppery, creamy, crimson, dark, fair, freckled, lily-white, milky, orange, pale, pallid, patchy, pink, rosy, sallow, salt-and-pepper, snow-white, snowy, speckled, swarthy, tanned, tawny, white-haired

See also the Color/Tone section of 300+ Words to Describe Skin.

Scents

Exposure to many substances will cause a person’s chest to retain the aroma, often affecting first impressions.

If a woman, who has referred to herself as a “single virgin” in a matchmaking app, arrives with the smells of baby powder and spit-up emanating from her cleavage, her prospective date might suspect she isn’t telling the truth. A CEO whose chest smells like wet dog might trigger a sneezing fit and subsequent avoidance by a prospective investor.

A to D Almonds, antiseptic, baby oil, baby powder, bacon bits, a bakery, barfed-up booze, bat guano, the beach, body wash, burnt flesh, C4, camphor oil, cat food, chocolate milk, coffee grounds, cookie dough, depilatory, diaper cream, dirty socks, dog breath

E to R Egg salad, a forest glen, formaldehyde, goose grease, Grandma’s kitchen, gunpowder, halitosis, honey, kerosene, K-Y Jelly, lamp oil, lemon frosting, maple syrup, musty beard, old books, a one-night stand, orange peels, peppermint tea, pilfered doughnuts, pipe tobacco, rancid coconut oil, road kill, rotten cheese, salad dressing

S to W Sandalwood, sawdust, shampoo, a skunk, soap, a sour dishrag, sour milk, a spice rack, spit-up, stinky towels, strawberries, sunblock, sweat, talcum powder, tar, tent canvas, too much cologne, vanilla, wet dog

Shapes

Many shapes in this short list can refer to both chests and breasts.

A to W Asymmetrical, barrel-chested, bell-shaped, blocky, concave, conical, convex, domed, flat, misshapen, pear-shaped, pigeon-chested, pointed, pointy, round(ed), shapeless, teardrop, triangular, wedge-shaped, well-rounded

Verbs (1) Transitive

These verbs take direct objects. A character’s chest might burn with desire, fill with air, or strain against shackles.

A to S Ache (from, with), brush (against), burn with, engorge with, fill with, heave (against, into), peek out of, press against, resemble, rub (against), scrape against, slam (into), strain against, support

Verbs (2) Intransitive

The verbs in this section don’t require an object. A chest might balloon, congest, or expand. Period.

A to G Ache, appear, balloon, bead with, bleed, bounce, bulge, burn, clog (up), collapse, congest, constrict, dangle, deflate, distend, drip, expand, freeze, gleam, glisten, glitter, glow

H to T Hang, hurt, itch, jut, leak, perspire, prickle, protrude, rattle, relax, ripple, sag, shine, shrink, sink, spasm, strain, sweat, tickle, tighten

Verbs (3): Verbs that Take Chest/Breast or Chests/Breasts as an Object

Examples:

Serafina bandaged her chest with strips torn from her petticoat.

Brad thumped his chest. “Nobody tells me what to do.”

An arrow pierced the knight’s chest.

A to H Adorn with, bandage, bare, batter, beat (at, on), blanket with, claw at, clutch, compress, cover, crush, cut, decorate with, display, draw on, expand, expose, feel, flash, hold, hug

I to S Inflate, lacerate, massage, paint, palpate, pierce, poke, press (against), puff (out, up), punch, push, shake, shave, slash, slather with, slice, squeeze, stab, strike, swath (in, with)

T to W Thrust out, thump, touch, uncover, unveil, wax, wound

Nouns, Both Chests and Breasts

N to T Nipples, pecs, pectorals, thorax

Refer to the next two sections as well for suitable nouns.

Nouns, Chests Only

You might (usually in poetry or older works) find breast used as a replacement for chest, as in: He beat upon his breast.

Compared to the plethora of slang and vulgar terms coined by authors for breast(s), I discovered a dearth of similar words for chest. Prompt for an opinion editorial, perhaps?

B to T Breast, Chewbacca sweater, gorilla torso, lung carpet, man boobs, manpelt, manssier-stuffer, muscleini, rib cage, thorax, torso, trunk

Find more words by googling slang terms for chest.

Nouns, Breasts Only

If your character is an uncouth jerk, you might be able to get away with using some of the rude words of this section in dialogue. Otherwise, you’ll invite the ire of readers. As Shakespeare’s Falstaff said, “Discretion is the better part of valor.”

If you need more offensive words, google derogatory terms for breasts or offensive names for breasts.

B to F Bazookas, boobs, bosom, bra stuffers, breast-o-raunts, bust, buzzums, casabas, chesticles, chi-chis, cleavage, Daddy’s playground, double-Ds, flotation devices

G to X The girls, healthy lungs, hooters, jugs, knockers, mammary glands, mammas, mammilla, melons, milk tanks, mosquito bites, num-nums, ta-tas, teats, tits, twins, wardrobe malfunctions, XL lungs

Props

Props augment a story or twist it in new directions. Try some of these to add humor, pathos, or intrigue.

A to I Angina, beard that reaches to or covers the chest, broken rib, cancer, chest cold, COPD, cough, CPR, crumbs, emphysema, extra nipple, glitter, honey, huge nipples, inflammation

L to W Laceration, mastectomy, mastitis, measuring tape, missing nipple, muscle shirt, nipple piercing, pneumonia, scabs, scar, sequins, tattoos, wart

Clichés and Idioms

Chest … chest … chest … breast … breast … breast …

Excessive repetition? Maybe you’ve incorporated too many clichés and idioms. Try these replacements.

Bare one’s breast [verb]: admit/show vulnerability

Beat (on, upon) one’s chest/breast [verb]: bewail, lament, mourn, regret

Close to one’s chest [adj]: confidential, hush-hush, secret

Get off one’s chest [verb]: admit, confess, reveal

Make a clean breast of it [verb]: admit, confess, reveal

Strong enough to put hair on one’s chest [adj]: powerful, pungent

Take a spear in the chest [verb]: admit, concede, confess

Thump one’s chest [verb]: bluster, boast, brag, swagger

[quatschmachen]

Irritations

Etienne has an adventure getting home after the camp experience.

XXXX

It was an insult that the only flight home ended up with a six hour layover in Toronto. Hell, he could have taken the train home from this stupid fucking city and gotten home earlier.

But of course when Emma had rebooked since she had not been the one flying she had not checked into the layovers – just gone into the cheapest option.

Etienne wanted to just be home in his onesie with a bottle of wine and a pizza. Sadly, he was stuck in a city he hated fuming over some badly made fast food.

The worst part was the flight connection was at such a time he was unable to take a bus or a train or even a well priced automobile home, so he was trapped in the middle of this airport.

Here he was sitting slumped over the bar, a bottle of wine and a horribly dry sandwich in front of him. He had made the mistake to take a bite out of the six-dollar sandwich, only to discover the bread to crumble like sawdust and meld into a glue paste in his mouth, followed by the taste of acrid mayonnaise gone sour. Hunger drove him on. Swilling the taste out with some cheap merlot, he decided to take another bite.

The slimy sensation of the bologna was tempered by the dry chalky Havarti that merged into the bread goo. Another swill of wine, and another bite, this time where he decided that perhaps mustard was added because mayonnaise usually was not this terrible. The lone tomato slice made its soppy appearance nestled in the limp lettuce leaf; he physically shuddered eating it as it slid down like a small slug.

He was 99% sure that he was going to get food poisoning from this sandwich and he drank some more merlot.

“What are you doing here?”

The voice came out of nowhere causing him to spurt wine from his nose.

Slowly, sadly holding a napkin to his nose and dabbing in an attempt to look less like a mess, Etienne squinted towards his enemy, the headache throbbing more. He had been looking forward to going home to get some glasses since his only pair got broken. The constant squinting had been causing a throbbing to occur in the frontal lobe of his brain and hearing the voice of his enemy seemed to intensify it into a cluster headache.

Managing to finish cleaning himself up, Etienne swallowed and replied, “I am in the airport waiting for an airplane. What a shocking turn of events. Who would have thought that I would be in an airport for an airplane. Or perhaps the real reason is I am sitting here eating this shitty sandwich and bad wine for the enjoyable atmosphere? Ah yes… I love this dirty airport and this city known for its… well whatever it is known for… Map-leh l-eeevuhs?”

Lucas raised his eyebrows, casually sliding into the seat next to Etienne. “You are drunk.”

“Oh, what another shock! I nearly fall out of my seat at that pronouncement! When did you become so psychic, no, that’s not the word, observant?”

Ignoring the dripping sarcasm, Lucas opened up a newspaper, “I meant it is not often you grace yourself with a transfer to my airport.”

“If it was up to me I would not be here, but someone else booked and here I am trapped like a fish in a bowl attempting to figure the date of when this unfortunate imitator of a sandwich was constructed. However now my concern is why the hell are you sitting beside me at this time of the evening?”

Lucas rustled the newspaper before replying, “I am also waiting for a flight, and I saw you so I figured might as well wait with someone I know.”

“Charmed. What a joy that you have decided to sit beside me and spend the time, the joy in my breast is leaping like a small rabbit that has no teeth.”

“Perhaps curiosity?”

“Wow. Curiosity satisfied… now you can fuck off so I can wait for my flight in silence.”

“Tsk tsk Etienne, no need to be so rude. You look like hell, why are you scratched up with black eyes, and squinting? Where are your glasses? Did you get mugged?”

“No… went camping… minor cities meet.”

“Ahh… that does not explain the black eyes.”

Etienne finished the wine, wondering if he really cared to answer.

“Perhaps some things are better left a mystery,” came his response.

“Hmmmnnn. I doubt it. Did you piss off someone?”

“No, these are love black eyes.”

“Hmmm minor cities meet, someone punching you… can’t be Emma… who else would punch you…” Lucas lowered the paper as if in deep concentration, brow furrowed, “I mean you are annoying but it is not like people are lining up to punch you so… hmmm… perhaps… no way. Doesn’t make sense, he is usually well behaved but you do know how to punch buttons… No… but there are two black eyes…”

Etienne stared at him blankly, wondering what the hell he was musing.

“Was it perhaps… Calvin?”

The half eaten sandwich fell onto the plate, the shred of lettuce managing to spill out. “How did you-?”

“Oh wow, it was him! Wow, you must have really pissed him off, geez.” Lucas smirked, “But I’m sure you deserved it.”

The initial response of how he did not seemed to die upon his tongue, the retort too false to even spew out. Instead, he picked up the sandwich and took another bite.

“Air Canada flight 4343 to Montreal is ready to board.” A cool lady’s voice announced followed by the French announcement.

Grateful, Etienne stood up, tossing the rest of the sandwich into the garbage, and grabbed his bag. He didn’t even bother to say goodbye to Lucas as he headed towards his flight, just happy that he could escape. He didn’t even look back as he settled down into his seat and closed his eyes for the brief nap he could get while on the flight. Just happy to finally be on the last leg home.

XXXXXX

Getting off the airplane, Etienne was surprised as he exited into the meeting area to see his sister. He was fairly certain he had not told Elyse his flight details, nor was it customary for her to meet him in such instances. However, seeing her face brightened his mood and he lifted his hand in a wave. However Elyse looked right past him as if she didn’t even see him. Her eyes brightened in a way that usually did not happen when she looked at him.

Frowning, he decided to glance back and he felt his blood run cold. Lucas was a few paces behind him apparently not seeing him, instead looking directly at Elyse with a bright smile upon his face. What… the… hell?

Hanging back, he watched as the two greeted each other, clearly good friends. He watched as Elyse placed a peck upon Lucas’ cheek, the action making his blood boil.

As they turned away, Lucas slid his arm around Elyse’s waist, and Etienne felt his mind go blank with rage as he strode forward.

“What the hell, Elyse?”

Startled the two jumped, but not apart, instead Elyse gave him a cool look. “Etienne… so nice of you to show up.”

“What the hell is the meaning of …this?!”

Quirking her eyebrow in a manner that always managed to infuriate him, she responded, “Of what?”

“What are you doing with… him?” he spat the word out like it was a contaminated slime. “Are you two fucking!?”

“I… can hear you, you know… I am right here… listening to this conversation.” Lucas interjected. However, he went ignored.

“Oh please.” Elyse sighed, “Etienne, why is everything fucking with you?”

“Answer the question!”

“Even if I was, I don’t think I need your permission.”

“How dare you! You know how I feel, why are you sleeping with the enemy?!”

“Just because you hate him does not mean I have to. Your irrational grudge is so stupid Etienne, especially for something he could not control! You are being ridiculous.”

“R—Ridiculous? How long has this… this… assignation been going on?”

“Uhmm longer than you would like to know. Anyways if you’re done having a ~meltdown~ in the middle of the airport, we have an Uber to catch.”

With that she turned away from him, and with Lucas in tow coolly walked away from the sputtering, indignant Etienne.

Etienne wondered if his day could get any worse.

And it did.

He managed to just miss the train and had to wait another thirty minutes before managing to catch it. What made this event worse was after snagging the window seat an extremely smelly person sat beside him and passed out, trapping him.

After nearly passing out himself the entire trip, he finally managed to escape off the train. Deciding it would be faster to take the bus, he stepped outside and a few steps towards the bus managed to get splashed by a car whizzing by.

His entire back was soaked with mud, and of course the moment he tried crossing the road the wheel on his luggage broke forcing him to half drag it the rest of the way to his apartment. Reaching the building, he felt extremely relieved, until he entered and realized the elevator was broken. Giving a long-suffering sigh and just wanting to get inside and bathe and once more become human, he painstakingly took the stairs, awkwardly holding his carry on bag and suitcase, slowly bumping up each step and gasping on each landing.

Reaching his floor, sides and calves burning from the exertion, and with him thinking that perhaps he should give up smoking, he pushed open the door into the hallway.

What greeted him was yellow safety tape blocking the hallway and men in white suits.

“What?”

A man approached, “Sorry this floor is closed today due to fumigation, you will have to find other accommodations. The notice went out last week. We are currently exterminating bed bugs.”

“But…”

“Sorry, no passage.”

And with that Etienne found himself back on the street, wondering what the fuck he could do. Bitterly he decided to splurge on an Uber himself, and after a strange look from the driver, rode over to Elyse’s.

He simply did not care anymore that she was betraying him, hell, as he opened up the door of her swanky townhouse (for of course much to her consternation he had a spare key to her place), he half hoped he could walk in on her getting fucked by Lucas so he could legitimately take his sour mood out on her.

Stomping into the front hall, he did not hear any sounds of passionate sex. Instead it was silent. Apparently, they had gone out. Maybe for a fancy meal; at the thought, his stomach growled, and lazily leaving his suitcase in the hallway, he immediately stripped down and went into the bathroom to clean himself.

After a steaming hot shower and a brushing of his teeth, Etienne, wrapped in a towel, wandered over to the kitchen, his stomach growling, unsatisfied from that disgusting sandwich.

Rifling through her fridge, he pulled out the mascarpone and butter. Putting some bread into the toaster, he could feel his mood improving. Elyse always had food in the fridge, which was a bonus. Opening the container of mascarpone his mood soured as he noticed that the tiniest of teaspoons and crumby scrapings were all that were left to him, but he decided that at least it wasn’t mouldy. After ten minutes of scraping he managed to get enough onto his toast.

Settling down on her couch, toast in hand with a nice cold glass of milk, he turned the TV on, surprised that she still had cable. Elyse must be rolling in it… But then again, he usually forgot to pay cable bills… so…

Switching to the cooking channel he munched on the toast, his mood relaxing as his stomach filled. Perhaps Elyse had a good explanation for ushering his enemy into the city. Maybe there was legitimate business going on.

Putting his dish into the washer, he cleaned up the mess in the kitchen, past memories of his sister yelling at him for being a slob clear in his mind, and picked up his luggage and moved it into the room he usually stayed in. Thankfully he didn’t see any luggage there from his enemy, and to blissfully pass out on the bed.

Or that is what he would have liked to have done. The moment he closed his eyes he felt wide awake. The past few days rattling around in his mind like some sort of freight train. The irritating sexual chemistry that seemed to develop between him and that idiot Calvin seeming to come to life in his body, causing him to toss and turn uncomfortably. He kept questioning his decisions.  What really had driven him to hit on Calvin to be honest, due to having been drinking all week to try to blot out the entire camp experience, he had built up a tolerance. He could have stopped if he wanted to, but he wanted to push it. Memories of previous experiences warm in his mind. God… while Calvin was an idiot, he was a rather ok fuck… there was this raw animality about him that really turned him on. It was just the conflicting feelings of hatred and wanting to fuck him that seemed to twist around on his insides. Absolute hatred for taking Ed away from him… but then again that wasn’t even true, was it? Calvin did try to offer an option where he could have access to Ed still… that lame duck attempt at polyamory.

What would have happened if he had spoken up when Ed confessed to him in the kitchen? Would everything be different? Would… would they have worked out in some odd trio? The idea seemed unfathomable to him. Conflicting feelings where all along he knew he had been sharing Ed with whoever, but that person having the face and annoying personality of Calvin Baconbit Mcwatchacallit… Etienne frowned. He felt like he was remembering the name wrong, but decided he didn’t care enough to check. However, after a minute of informing himself he did not care enough to check, he was on his phone, checking the social media. Now then… he wasn’t friends with him on Facebook so the obvious answer was to peek at Ed’s page (which he hated to admit he did probably too often for a man who claimed he did not care about him anymore) to see the name.

Oddly Ed’s name did not appear immediately. Perhaps he had screwed up entering it? Feeling a small panic in his heart he tried again, only to discover that… Ed had unfriended him on all social media platforms. Every. Single. One.

Staring at it in disbelief he checked again, and once this was confirmed he set the phone down, the panic turning into that leaden feeling sinking from the sore spot in his chest to the gnawing in the pit of his stomach. Why had Ed randomly unfriended him? Like sure this would make sense after the whole scenario, but why wait and do it now? What the fuck? He thought that maybe they could after a while pick up as you know sort of friends… who didn’t fuck… but…

Turning on his side he ignored the burning in his eyes. He did not care. Time had passed. Ed had made his choice, he was over it. Over it. Over it.

He had his entire life before him to go out and fuck other people and do the things he always loved doing. He did not care that one of the people he used to talk to was just not even accessible anymore…

Rolling over, he texted Emma. He had many other friends and there was no use being a pathetic blob.

-What inspired such a long delay in the centre of the world? The food was terrible thought I was going to die-

After a few moments his phone buzzed with her reply.

-Cheapest flight.-

-No considerations of my feelings?-

-What feelings?-

-Haha. Did you plan it so that I would meet His Royal Asshole? –

-Wait you met Lucas?-

-HRA was there in person-

-Well maybe… maybe not! …Actually I didn’t mean that. Guess things do work out!-

-You call seeing him working out?-

-Please. You two need to fuck and call spade a spade. Everyone is tired of your enmity-

-Oh please. You know that is not the answer. I’m sleeping now.-

Placing his phone down, he did not feel any better. Was everyone expecting him to leap in bed with Lucas? Did his feelings mean nothing? Was he viewed to be that much of a whore he would even sleep with his worst enemy? Why did he have such sucky friends? came the rebellious thought.

Closing his eyes he attempted to clear his mind. He was tired. Let sleep come.

Instead everything he had ever done wrong concerning Lucas and Ed seemed to swirl together in his mind like some sort of angry vortex, until he was unable to breathe. Sitting up, he decided that instead of laying there he could perhaps get a glass of water or something.

Getting out of bed, he tossed on his boxers and left the room not bothering to turn on the lights.

Squinting at the clock on the oven, he realized more time had passed than he expected, as he poured himself some water. Where were Elyse and Lucas? Having fun out on the town? God their secret relationship really pissed him off. Like at least be open about being with him.

Sitting down on the couch, he grumpily drank the water and turned on the TV hoping that the late-night shows would calm down the noise in his head. Tucking his feet underneath him, he tuned in to some bad detective show, eventually falling asleep.

XXXXXXX

“What an idiot to think we are dating!”

“Oh my god I know, he just seems to have sex on the brain all the time!”

Loud voices rudely awoke him, as well as the slam of a door as the two culprits entered the townhouse.

It took a moment to figure out who the voices belonged to and why he was so cold, until he realized he had fallen asleep on the couch. He quickly turned off the TV and lay there, his heart pounding as he listened to their conversation. Shit, why the fuck was Lucas actually staying with Elyse? Were they actually fucking?

Torn between wanting to confront and hide, he decided he did not want to deal with whatever it was in his boxers. Sliding off the couch, he listened to their voices carefully, it seemed like they had been out to drink and have dinner? Their conversation seemed to have shifted from calling someone an idiot to something rather boring like pothole maintenance. From what he could tell, they were in the kitchen. If he timed it right he could sneak to his room and hide in there until they went to bed, then he could escape.

Slinking down the hall, he felt like he was going to make it when he heard the voices getting louder. Shit shit shit they were going to go to the room he just vacated. Panicking, he quickly hid in the nearest place, which happened to be the broom cupboard.

Intimately bound up next to the broom, his foot hit the mop bucket, and he heard an ominous sloshing above his head. Staying as still as possible, enraged at the loudness of his pounding heart, he listened to hear when they passed by so he could make his escape. He could barely hear what they were talking about now, and thinking it was safe to go he opened the cupboard open a crack.

That was when he heard a distant tinkle of something hitting the floor and breaking, a shout of surprise from the other room, and the voice of his enemy say “oh no, I will get it, it’s my fault anyway.”

Get what? Sweating bullets Etienne firmly pulled the door shut hoping that it was not what he thought it would be. How often did Lucas stay here? Obviously the dustpan and brush were in the kitchen and he certainly would not…

There was a tug on the door. Panicking Etienne continued to hold it shut, the sirens in his mind blaring, what the fuck was he supposed to do if he got caught? His mind whirling, he felt the door give way as his enemy gave a mighty big tug, and suddenly he felt motion as the door slammed open with him shuttling forward and crashing into Lucas, shoving him into the wall and making a dent in it.

Screaming. He was not sure who was screaming more, Lucas with a look of terrified confusion, Elyse over the fact that her wall had a dent, or Etienne himself as he attempted to untangle from the pile of limbs in order to bolt to his room. Somehow in the frackas his boxers got pulled down, which resulted in him finally escaping and dashing down the hall bare-ass to his room. Slamming the door, he put a chair under it so no one could open it, and dove into the bed hiding under a pile of blankets, head under the pillow and wanting to die.

It was only moments until Elyse was banging at the door and swearing at him in French.

“What are you doing here?! Why are you putting dents in my walls!?! ETIENNE, COME OUT HERE YOU FOOL.” (This is the PG version of what she said)

With a shove, she managed to open the door; marching over to the bed she punched the lump, managing to hit his ass. “Get out of bed.”

“No!” Etienne shouted from underneath the covers.

Angrily peeling off the blankets from his face she revealed his sulky expression. “Get up, we are going to have a small chat in the living room.”

He refused to look at her, and under much duress, with a blanket swaddled around him for hiding and modesty, he was dragged out to the living room to sit awkwardly across from a rather amused looking Lucas. He absolutely hated looking a fool in front of Lucas and with Elyse very angry in front of him, scolding him like a small child, Etienne just wanted to sink into the floor and be melted into the molten core of the earth.

“Etienne, I am tired of your childish behaviour! Why are you hiding in closets? What the hell are you doing here, are you spying on me now? Are you so concerned over your sister’s sex life you have to hide in a closet to spy on me?”

Sullenly Etienne stared down at the floor, knowing if he hid his face she would wrench the blanket away from him.

“God, I wish you would grow up instead of acting like some sort of rebellious teenager,” rubbing her forehead, a sign that she was feeling a migraine coming on, she paced around the living room.

After a few moments of awkward silence, Etienne managed to eject with as much venom as possible, “why is /he/ here?”

“Hmm? Lucas? Oh I wonder why… let’s see, your theory is we are secret lovers fucking behind your back in order to betray you and ruin your life… Since obviously we spend all of our time thinking how to ruin your life because you are apparently not already doing such a fantastic job of being a giant fuckup! Maybe I should just leave it at that?” she frostily replied as she sat down with a thunk.

“Hey now, you don’t need to be so harsh,” Lucas intervened mildly, very obviously enjoying the scenario, “Etienne isn’t that much of a fuckup. I mean… he still exists… even with… language laws.”

Apparently bringing up language laws was the wrong move as Lucas received two simultaneous death glares.

Shrinking back into his seat, desperately thinking of how much he did not want to die, Lucas shut up.

After another silence, Etienne finally managed to ask, “If… if that’s not the case… why is he here?”

Glaring at him, Elyse hissed out, “Because I am not a baby and am a good hostess and have been the one dealing with city business with him for years behind your back because you. Are. A. Whiny. Baby.”

This news felt like a slap in the face, causing him to sit up straight.

“You mean this has been going on for years?”

“Someone had to be an adult about the situation, and knowing how you are a fucked up whiney brat I knew it sure as hell was not going to be you.”

“Why is he in your place?”

“BECAUSE I AM A GOOD HOSTESS AND HAVE A GUEST ROOM.” She shouted, her face going red and splotchy in her anger. “Oh my god, Etienne! Just because you spend seventy percent of your life fucking anything that moves does not mean I do!”

Standing up, hands fisted in rage, she took some calming breaths before in a decisive voice she said, “Anyways, I am going to wake you up tomorrow so you can go to the fucking meeting and discuss potholes with our lovely guest here. I need a day off.” She marched out of the room presumably to go to bed.

Feeling like the world was upside down, Etienne sat there in confusion until he realized he was alone in the room with his enemy. Giving him a dirty look, he quickly escaped back to his room in order to try to sleep. Lucas sighed as he went to the guest room. With Etienne things always seemed to get more complicated than necessary.

Sleep which continued to evade him. All too soon, Elyse was shaking him awake and forcing some food into his face, before shoving him out the door hissing at him that he needed to be polite and not a baby during the meeting.

Sitting in the Uber next to Lucas, Etienne sulkily looked out the window. How the hell was he supposed to be polite? Deciding that the best policy was to be silent, he was thankful that Lucas did not try any chitchat. Arriving at their destination, Etienne spent an awkward day attempting to ignore the other’s presence while simultaneously having to acknowledge it in order to participate in the boring pothole conference.

He thought arriving home from camp was supposed to be relaxing, instead as he sipped some acidic coffee that tasted like the dregs of a hobo’s asshole, he found himself missing the time he spent with Calvin. Another thought swirled in his mind about how much Ed would laugh when he told him about the shitty time he was currently having, and he smiled at the thought until he remembered that they didn’t speak anymore.

Finally the day was over, the torment done. Phoning the stand-in building manager, he determined his apartment was once more livable. Unceremoniously, he grabbed his stuff from Elyse’s and without a word left her place, figuring that he would not talk to her for at least a week to demonstrate his pure displeasure at her.