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charliemwrites · 4 months

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Government Asset Soap! This is half of the last part (the smut got too long and I wanted to post this dammit).

Original concept comes from @ceilidho’s military asset Soap. Further inspiration came from @391780’s Nikto version “The Summons”. Both are very good and you should definitely check out!!

Content: Post-trauma coping, Non-Con Touching and Kissing, Violence (mentioned), Unstable Soap

It’s probably a fire hazard, the candles. They’re sprinkled across your little cabin like fireflies, feeble but steady heartbeats of a home you’re failing to build. Too many of them, likely. Two, sometimes three, per room. Tiny tealights, smokeless soy, scented pine. It would be easier, safer, to just turn on the lamps you foolishly invested in.

You can’t bear anything brighter than golden halogen anymore, though. The glare drags you back to a tiny cell bisected by cruel metal, holding back an even crueler fate. No, you’d much rather wade through pools of shadow and firelight, fire code be damned.

It’s a small cabin, but you’ve already cluttered it up with furniture and rugs, a theme for each room. Yellow and blue for the kitchen. Purple and cream for the den. Green and brown for your bedroom. Nooks to hide in, spaces to squeeze into, big shapes to huddle behind. You’ll never be caught out in a cold, barren room ever again.

Your days are long regardless of the time of year. Get groceries in town every day, making a point to be friendly and seen so that someone might notice if you suddenly stop coming. Clean incessantly, so many surfaces to dust. Pick hobbies like daisies. Knitting and crocheting, different paint styles, felting. You’re contemplating carpentry, would like to build shelves for all the books stacked up in the den. Keep a dream journal by your bed that you neglect for weeks at a time.

You draw out the nights until you can count the hours until dawn on one hand. Stay up baking, making homemade ink, learning new ways to style your hair, anything, anything, anything—

It’s not the sleeping – or at least that’s not the worst of it. It’s the waking.

Laswell suggested a cat.

You told her to stop suggesting pussy to unstable people.

But it’s still not a bad idea. Another living thing to keep you accountable; the plants are pretty and time-consuming, but not good company.

You talk yourself out of it every time, knowing the worst-case scenario. It’s not catastrophizing if it actually happens, and you can feel an invisible time weighing on your shoulders like another gravity. Tick, tick, tick. Heavier, heavier, heavier. It’s hard to breathe beneath the wait.

The military doesn’t do apologies. It does platitudes at best. Well wishes and good intentions are painted in brushstrokes of blood. Victory flags are planted on bodies, living or otherwise. Laswell apologized. She swore that if there had been another way – any other way…

She didn’t promise to leave you alone. Didn’t assure you that you’d never see her or her goons again.

If you thought it would do any good, you’d tip one of the candles over and set it all aflame. Rebirth through fire. But you never did figure yourself for a phoenix. And besides, a phoenix is still itself, even when the ash falls away.

So, you spool out your time like picking at tapestry threads, one thin string at time.

Tonight, it’s bread. Cinnamon chocolate babka, to be specific. You were craving something sweet. Are debating the merits of some sort of cream cheese icing while you shower off the long, ever-busy day.

Have decided on an optimistic why not as you slip out to begin your overly complicated self-care routine. Moisturizers, hair oils, lotion. An unexpected benefit of overloading yourself, you suppose. Even when you first got out of the military, you didn’t take such good care of yourself. You have a jogging route now. You’re handling your trauma every possible way except therapy. (And sleeping.) Better than nothing, you figure.

The candles have gone out in your bedroom. You click your tongue in annoyance, trying to remember where you left the matches this time. Bedside table?

You pad across the soft carpet, using the edge of the bed as a guide in the pitch black. The only other problem with candles is that their humble light doesn’t reach very far. But you know this house and keep the floors tidy enough that you’re confident you won’t trip.

Make it to the nightstand without incident and pat around. Knock the side of your hand into the little carton and only just catch it before it hits the deck. Let out a little huff and start to fumble it open.

“Nice catch, bonnie.”

You gasp, but your voice doesn’t get any farther than the back of your tongue. The box slips from your numb fingers, matchsticks scattering across the floor. He tsks.

“Shame that. We’ll get ‘em later.”

You can’t move. Can barely breathe. You’re just frozen, heart thundering with a sudden storm of fear and confusion. Hands still aloft in front of you, spine rigid, knees locked.

You feel more than hear movement behind you, and then the warmth of his body seeping into your naked skin. Not quite touching. Not yet.

“Missed you, little bird,” he rasps in your ear.

You always thought that in a moment like this you would scream. Kick and elbow and fight, damn your certain loss. But when it comes down to it, survival drowns out all those stupid, haughty ideas about pride and dignity. So you don’t curse and shout like you always fancied you would.

You whisper, “Soap.”

He hums but it sounds like a growl in your panicked state. “Missed me too, aye? You’re already naked fer me.”

His hands are searing when they settle on your waist like they belong there. He pulls you back against him; in the dark he’s bigger, broader than you remember. At least, you think, he’s fully clothed for now.

“What are you… how are you here?” you ask.

He barks a laugh, mean and rough. “Was only a matter of time after that shite they pulled.”

You squeeze your eyes shut and see it recreated in the phosphenes behind your lids.

Soap buried balls deep inside of you, murmuring a constant stream of filth as he got harder and harder inside you. Filling you up as you twitched around him, oversensitive and teary, afraid of what would come next.

Then the lights flashed, flicked red. An alarm sounded, Laswell’s voice ordering Soap away from you. But he just snarled and hunched over you, hips snapping to bury himself right back inside while you cried out.

The locked door swung in, armed guards swarming in. Yanked Soap off you while you scrambled to cover yourself. Someone grabbing your arm none too gently to pull you from the room. Soap wild-eyed and snarling like something possessed, until he was overtaken by struggling guards and you were trembling naked in that damned hallway.

“Was mad at you, at first, cannae lie,” he says, almost conversational. Your eyes snap open, though you know it’ll do you no good. “But I’ve had time to think on it. Wasnae yer fault, was it? Saw them drag you out.”

An awful relief floods you. Fuck dignity, fuck honesty. This is Soap right behind you, completely unrestrained and unsupervised.

“Yeah,” you answer, voice small. “I didn’t know they would do that. What… um. What happened to you?”

He presses his face into your damp hair, pressing closer, snaking his arms to squeeze you against him.

“Sent me off on some shite mission,” he explains, “probably hoped I’d die out there. You smell so good, lass.”

You shiver as his breath ghosts over the sensitive skin of your neck. Hot, humid.

“And… and then what?” you insist, trying to stall.

You’re not sure what you’re stalling for. There will be no miraculous saves here – not that you really got any last time. It’s not like there’s any real plan to be made here, either. None that you’d be confident enough to risk his wrath on.

“Disappeared. Took care of business. Came to get my pretty little bird.”

A rough hand trails over the curve of your hip, brush the neat curls of your mound. You suck in a breath, hands twitching with the urge to stop him but not sure of putting up resistance when you’re still unsure of his mental state.

“And what about you, hm?” he rumbles. “Been a good girl while I’ve been away?”

His fingers dart down towards your entrance, not nearly prepared for anything. Least of all his thick digits.

“Y-yes!” you yelp, grabbing at his wrist. Relief makes you dizzy when you manage to stop him. “I-I’ve been good. Which means I’m not… I can’t just take you. I need… I need prep.”

He huffs, nips at the tender spot beneath your ear. The thrill that shoots through your stomach is terrifying.

“That’s what these are for, bonnie.”

And to your horror, he starts to push past your resistance like your staying hands aren’t there at all.

“John!”

He freezes. You shudder air into your burning lungs, feeling dizzy on panic.

You can get through this without pain, just think.

“I haven’t even got to see you,” you stutter, voice shaky. Can’t quite inject the disappointment you’re trying for, but hopefully it’ll work. “And I bet you’re all dirty from travel.”

He grumbles. “So what?”

You scramble to think of a satisfactory response. “S-so let’s get reacquainted in the shower, yeah? That way I can see your handsome face, at least.”

He chuckles, grazes his teeth “playfully” across your cheek. “Bossy thing.”

“You like it.”

And to your shock, he agrees with an amused huff. Hauls you up in his arms and walks you back to the still muggy bathroom. You’re set on your feet and spun around, chin jerked up to receive a savage kiss. All tongue and teeth, no finesse. He’s just licking into your mouth, hungry and animalistic, spit dribbling down your chin.

When he finally pulls away, you blink spots from your vision. Finally focus on his smug features and make a soft, horrified noise when you register the splatter of crimson across them.

“Och, that? My little bird had watchers.”

Of course you did. The horror ebbs a bit. Resentment has made you indiscriminately bitter.

“Oh,” you say, “th-thank you. Definitely glad we’re showering first, then.”

“Squeamish?”

You’d like to know when the world turned upside down and John fucking “Soap” MacTavish began teasing you about the blood on his face.

“A bit,” you admit.

“Poor dear,” he coos. “Hard to believe we were made for each other sometimes, aye? Complementary, we are.”

Is that what he thinks? Christ.

You turn to start the shower again, spine prickling with the weight of his eyes on your back. The water rushes down and then he’s crowding you against the cold wall beneath the (thankfully) warm spray.

“Y-you’re still dressed!” you protest between sharp nips to your collarbone.

“Fix it, then,” he snarls.

You claw his shirt up his back, get momentarily distracted by the impressive display of muscle hidden beneath. Draw your palms over his chest and feel him shudder.

“Fuckin’ heavenly, love,” he purrs. “Missed this.”

A vague memory comes back to you, him gripping you close because he felt you naked against him for the first time. Him admitting he hasn’t had affectionate touch in a while.

This… this you could work with.

#cod #my writing #fanfiction #reader fic #dark fic #asset soap #asset john soap mactavish #dub con #non con #rape

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lynne-monstr · 2 years

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Writer’s Month Day 29: Animal Hybrids

The King’s Avatar, yuhuang, claws and wings

Most people learn to control their aspect at an early age. It would be embarrassing to bark during a meeting, or to have one’s wingspan sweep the papers off a cluttered desk. Especially in crowded places, it’s considered rude to take up extra space.

That goes double when your aspect is dangerous.

Yu Wenzhou’s bear claws aren’t overly large, but he learned young never to reveal them in public. His parents enrolled him in a special school for children with dangerous aspects, where the habit was drilled into him long before he could talk. And so he concentrates every moment of every day to ensure his fingers stay soft and blunt.

He never minded the extra effort. Not until the day he joined Blue Rain’s training camp. The claws held him back and it wasn’t fair. He still remembers the first time he forgot himself. He was training late at night, the only person in the training room. And it’s a good thing, because one moment his hands were flying across the keyboard in time with the speed-training program. And the next, the keyboard was sitting in shredded pieces on the desk, utterly destroyed.

From that day forward, Yu Wenzhou made sure to control his speed. He couldn’t afford to slip up ever again.

“Why am I like this?” he asks his grandmother late one night, after a particularly grueling round of elimination challenges. He passed, but barely, and he can still hear the whispers of the other trainees mocking him. “Why can’t I be normal?”

He flexes his fingers, watching them change from blunt nails into razor-sharp claws and back again.

“Who wants to be normal?” His grandmother retorts with an offended huff. “Is anyone bothering you? I can give them a good smack.” The rough gravel of her voice is soothing. Yu Wenzhou can imagine her sitting in her favorite chair with her crochet, her fluffy tail idly swishing around her.

“It’s fine,” Yu Wenzhou says. He doesn’t think it’s very convincing, but his grandmother must be taking pity on him because she doesn’t call him out on it.

Later that week, he receives a care package in the mail. A set of handmade mittens designed to look like bear paws. The little note that accompanies it reads, If anyone bothers you, rip them to shreds.

Yu Wenzhou has no intention of doing such a thing, but when Huang Shaotian once again insults his hands, he spends the rest of the day imagining what it would be like to flash his claws in Huang Shaotian’s noisy face. Maybe he’d yap like a scared little puppy, or piss himself on the rug.

Yu Wenzhou doesn’t know what Huang Shaotian’s aspect is, but he’s certain it isn’t a match for his claws.

Several years later.

“I used to fantasize about this,” Yu Wenzhou says, trailing a lazy claw down Huang Shaotian’s back. “Though I admit, never quite like this.”

From his position draped over Yu Wenzhou’s thighs, Huang Shaotian gives a happy sigh, careful to remain completely still. His bright yellow shirt sits in a heap on the floor. “Really? Tell me, tell me. I bet this is going to be good.” His voice is barely more than a mumble but still manages to sound enthusiastic.

Yu Wenzhou laughs, trailing the tip of his claw along the top ridge of Huang Shaotian’s sparrow wings. They’re so very delicate and yet Huang Shaotian doesn’t flinch at the danger hovering so close. If anything, he snuggles deeper into Yu Wenzhou’s lap. The tawny brown of his wings glint in the dim light, a perfect match to his dyed hair.

“It was a long time ago.” Yu Wenzhou leans against the headboard and continues his idle stroking. He doesn’t have any sensory input from his claws, but he likes to watch the way Huang Shaotian’s bare skin pebbles up each time Yu Wenzhou rakes gentle lines through his wings. “The real thing is better,” he admits. “I like this more.”

“Are you going to tell me?” Huang Shaotian’s voice dips low, the way it always does when he senses Yu Wenzhou’s mood going serious.

Saying it out loud is a little embarrassing, but Huang Shaotian looks so happy and relaxed sprawled on his stomach, with Yu Wenzhou’s claws playing over his skin and his wings. It’s hard to deny him anything. So Yu Wenzhou shrugs and tells him.

“I wanted to scare you. This was back in training camp, naturally. No one knew my slow hands were because of my aspect, and I thought maybe if I showed you all, it would be a bit of fun for me.”

To his credit, Huang Shaotian only laughs a little, and it isn’t malicious. Yu Wenzhou knows him well enough to know it without a doubt. He likes that about Huang Shaotian, that he can always find the fun in things.

“I kind of wish you had,” Huang Shaotian says, once he’s finished his giggling. “I would have deserved it.”

Yu Wenzhou dips his head to place a kiss on Huang Shaotian’s wing, right where his claws were a moment ago. “As I said, I like this better.”

Huang Shaotian shivers and spreads his wings wider. “Me too.”

Yu Wenzhou takes the hint and strokes his claws deeper into the mass of feathers.

#WritersMonth2022 #the king's avatar #yuhuang #tka fanfic #yu wenzhou #huang shaotian #lynne writes fic #i am never giving up on yu wenzhou with claws lol

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sweaterproducer · 5 months

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eatbreathewrite · 5 years

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The Adventures of Todd and Granny

(Alternatively: “I Saw Granny Ethel with the Devil”)

Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV | Part V

Luck

The first time this colorful group entered the town’s local bingo hall, it hadn’t been the best of days.

The host had difficulties overcoming Todd the Demon’s hulking presence and couldn’t call out numbers without shaking and stuttering, and eventually just ran from the building altogether mid-game with a gaggle of players right behind him, and there’s no playing bingo when there’s no one else around.

There still aren’t any other players around when the group decides to drop by today.

But the new host is blind as a bat save for whatever is a foot directly in front of him and he drones on without a care, calling out numbers without lifting his eyes from the computer screen that lotteries out the next. And the next. And the next.

Now, it’s the final round of the day.

Todd, sitting at the small round table that seats four (and only four, in the center of the large room with a dozen other abandoned tables around it), holds the tiny card marker in his large claws, stamping down a neon green dot on B-5—the only successful spot on his card, so far, in any round.

Granny Ethel, though, is on fire. Only two diagonal squares away from her third solid BINGO and focusing intently, awaiting the host to call out O-8 and I-23 so she can claim that nice floral area rug sitting pretty on the grand prize table.

Sam and Todd have already agreed between themselves to help Granny Ethel get whichever prizes she wants if they happen to get a BINGO first.

Her only obstacle in this is Theodore—who only needs one more space to land his second BINGO for the day. Unlike Granny Ethel, his eyes are set on a shiny new tablet and he’s intent on claiming it.

Of course it’s all randomized and comes down to luck, but he could do a little better to be a team player. Especially after the lawnmower incident.

Todd could be mistaken, but he doesn’t think he is—Theodore has yet to earnestly apologize to Granny Ethel, and almost an entire month has gone by since then. Honestly. It’s as if he thinks everyone will forget if he just never brings it up again and it will all go away. Well—the salvaged lantana cuttings are sprouting speckled orange and yellow, at least, but it will take a while before they can be transplanted and grow back to their full glory again.

Maybe Todd will be lenient, and give Theodore until then to deliver said apology.

Maybe not.

Granny Ethel gives a little cheer as the next number called lands her another spot on her diagonal almost-BINGO. One more to go!

The same number is on Sam’s card, too, but he’s dozing off and already dropped the card marker back onto the table. Todd nudges aside one of his brown arms and puts a green dot on the center top row for him. He’s closer to a BINGO than Todd is.

The caller clears his throat, taking a moment to cough hoarsely into a polka-dotted handkerchief—then cough again, and once more, before squinting down at the computer screen and doling out the next number.

“Oh! Bingo! Bingo!” Granny Ethel yells, shooting up from her seat and waving her card in the air, moving faster than Todd has ever seen her move (she does, really and truly, get absorbed in the competition).

Her shout rouses Sam from his nap and he sits up, rubbing at his eyes. “Nice job, Granny. That flower carpet is totally yours. Hope it fits in the car, though… Well, if it doesn’t, we can just walk and carry it home for you.”

A big, happy smile spreads across her face as she shimmies around the table and darts forward to the host with card in hand, moving so fast she’s a blue blur in her loose, long-skirted lilac-print dress.

Theodore crosses his arms and pouts, huffing an extremely audible sigh. Always a sore loser, that one.

But, well, it’s their final game of the week, and it’s only fitting that Granny Ethel’s win ends it. The host approves her BINGO and waves her along to the prize table, where she collects her new floral rug in her arms with an elated, toothy smile. It’s a bit much for her to carry, taller even than the white poofs of hair on her head, so Todd holds out his hands and she passes the bundle over to him with thanks.

“Oh, this will look just lovely in my bedroom!” she says brightly, hands clasped together as she shuffles along beside him. “Sam, dear, do you think we have time to redecorate before you give us all a macramé lesson?”

“Definitely! There’s always time to help you out, Granny.” Sam nods pleasantly as they approach his car, which beeps as he unlocks it with his key fob. “I don’t think I’ve seen your room before. It’s the one at the back of the house, right?” He pops the trunk and looks over his shoulder at the carpet in Todd’s hands, and nods again. “Yep; it’ll fit.”

“That’s right. I’m afraid it’s become a bit cluttered—I don’t even let Todd clean it on chore days.”

“No way—Granny, are you a hoarder?”

“Haven’t you seen her house?” Theodore grunts as Todd’s sharp elbow bumps into him, but all he does is roll his eyes in response and skulk to his usual place in the back seat of Sam’s old, half-painted, half-sanded sedan from a year Todd isn’t even sure he remembers. Not bothering to help.

Well, that’s typical Theodore.

Todd finagles the rolled-up carpet into the trunk space, making sure not to crumple or cram it, careful not to upset Sam’s menagerie of old sneakers, a lumpy gym bag, and pile of wadded-up shirts, and closes the trunk securely over it all, satisfied. Then he escorts Granny Ethel to the other side of the car and helps her climb into the back seat opposite her grandson.

He’d let her take shotgun, but there are only a few places he can rightly fit in the small car, and that just so happens to be the front passenger seat. It’s low enough that he only has to hunker down and bow his head and horns just so that they don’t scrape the top and not uncomfortably fold himself up like he would in the back.

Ah, if only Sam had a convertible.

Thankfully, the bingo hall isn’t too far from Granny Ethel’s house—nothing is, really, in this small town, where the edge is only a ten minute car ride in any direction, but when they travel in such a large group, and when Sam offers, some days it’s just easier to drive. Especially when the grey clouds hanging overhead droop and sag, heavy with rain ready to fall at any moment.

(Sometimes Granny Ethel’s bones ache on days like this, too—she never says it, but they all know.)

They hurry into the house, with bingo prize in hand, and Granny Ethel’s first stop is the kitchen, because everyone is parched and in need of a celebratory midday snack. She and Todd had mixed up a nice pitcher of peach tea the day before, and it’s just wonderful on ice, garnished even with tiny lemon slices on the glass rims. That morning, Sam brought iced donuts along, and half of the box still remains for snack time.

Todd tucks the rolled-up rug safely into a corner and sits down to enjoy a chocolate-iced donut while Granny Ethel chatters on about which TV programs they’re set to watch today, and about how she’s always considered trying macramé but just never had the chance. Sam, though, is a pro, and has been practicing it since his mom taught him when he was young. Apparently he is a master at weaving hanging basket cradles for plants.

Theodore, sitting crammed between Todd and Sam’s broad shoulders (though one set broader than the other) broods in silence, barely touching even a single rainbow sprinkle on his pink-frosted donut. Barely touching his peach iced tea.

The small, round kitchen table has become quite cramped with their new population.

Moving through the halls is just as cramped, now, with two fully-grown men and a hulking demon trying to make their way through. It doesn’t help that the hallways are narrow, but at least the bedrooms are bigger and easier to navigate.

Granny Ethel’s room is the largest in the house. Quaint and cozy, with a full-sized bed set against the center of the far wall, between two curtained, arched windows.

And hanging above said bed, on said wall, is a sight Todd thought he’d seen the last of: the old, rusted scythe from the back yard.

Hung up like a trophy, or a prized possession even—only, it’s no longer rusted. It’s clean and polished, with its metal blade shining under the ceiling light, sharp and dangerous as a new cutlery knife. Totally out of place among the knitted and crocheted throw blankets and covered pillows and tapestries and embroideries dotted around the room. Completely out of place among the precious miniature porcelain trinkets crammed along the tops of dressers and shelves, and the decorative plates lining the highest shelves up near the ceiling.

It draws all of their attention except Granny Ethel’s, who doesn’t seem to mind, who overlooks it as another decoration among many.

“I think that rug will look just wonderful in the center of the room, don’t you think, dears?” She perches daintily on the edge of her bed, one hand on her lower back, and smiles at the space of carpet in front of her slippered feet. “The florals match the wallpaper!”

Todd meets Sam’s eyes for a moment, and the message passes through despite the communication barrier, though at times Todd thinks Sam has telepathy for how in-tune he is to most of his thoughts.

But now, the thought is plain as day. Theodore’s eyes, gleaming with that strange little light that mean he’s plotting, always plotting, linger on that scythe for an uncomfortable stretch of time, and though they’d both agreed to keep a close eye on the man, they decide to keep an even closer watch on him while in this room.

“They do match, Granny,” Sam agrees with a little smile, taking one end of the rolled-up rug to help Todd set it down on the floor. “That’s some theme you’ve got going on in here.”

“Charles picked out the florals. I wasn’t always so fond of them, you know. He brought so much color and beauty into my life, and now I can’t bear to get rid of it…” She toys with the fine, silver band around her left ring finger, eyes looking far, far away, seeing something other than the two men and one demon through her thick lenses.

It isn’t often she speaks of Charles, and they all, every one of them, know better than to bring up the subject. It’s an unspoken rule that only Granny Ethel is allowed to speak of him.

The little floral area rug fits perfectly on the floor, not covering too much, not covering too little. None of the edges hit the bed or the dresser, but they do curl up from being rolled for so long. Todd stamps his hooves on the ends to flatten them down—and it works better than steam roller.

Sam brushes his hands clean of imaginary dust, job well done, and claps. “Alright! How’s that look, Granny?”

“Oh, it’s perfect! Thank you so much for helping, dears. It’s such a lovely design I might just have to find a matching one for the sitting room. The one we have there now is looking a bit threadbare these days. But I digress. Today is a macramé day! Oh, I’ve never done that kind of craft before. What are we making?”

“I was thinking we could make hanging baskets for the lantanas. Y’know, before we transplant them back into the garden. I brought rope and beads and all kinds of stuff to make some cool hangers! Plenty of black for you, too, Todd.”

And so, they continue their day by learning macramé, courtesy of Sam and his unexpected talents.

It’s when night falls, when all are safely tucked away in bed (Sam included, because it’s the weekend, and weekends allow for sleepovers Granny Ethel is more than enthusiastic to host, because she’d missed having a full house), that Todd realizes Theodore had snuck away at some point during their weaving lessons—even just for a bathroom break, letting him out of their sight was a mistake.

Now, certainly, he’s snoozing away at the top of the bunk bed they share, and Sam is tucked away in the far corner of the room with a plushy sleeping bag, but all jolt awake when a thump and a startled cry ring out through the house.

Todd is the first to reach her room. He hesitates at the closed door, just for a split-second, if only to steel himself for what he might see (because that scythe did look stable, where it hung, but what if—what if someone did something to it and—?) before barreling through it with every ounce of bravery he possesses.

The scythe had fallen.

Its sharp tip lay embedded in the soft pillows where Granny Ethel’s head most certainly might have rested, once. Cut right through, as easy as a hot knife sinks through butter.

“Granny—!” Sam gasps out.

But Granny Ethel’s head is not there—and neither is her body. In fact, she’s standing safe and sound, with both hands pressed against her mouth, just beside the bed. Fully intact. Safe.

Safe.

“Oh,” she pauses, hands falling away from her face, but hovering in front of it, still, before falling to her heart. “I was certain I’d placed it up on that wall securely.” She blinks, eyes moving from the fallen scythe to the brackets on the wall—one of which had snapped off and lay useless on top of the soft and numerous blankets covering her bed—then to the three gathered at the door, two mostly concealed behind Todd’s large body.

Todd doesn’t waste a moment. His hand finds the back of Theodore’s neck, grips his shirt collar, and he propels him forward, into the room like a badly behaved animal made to stand before its mistake.

“I didn’t—” he starts to say, squirming like a kitten held by the scruff of its neck, feet barely touching the ground, but Todd won’t hear it. He drops him heavy to the floor and points at the scene, eyes livid, feeling a bubbling, frothing rage that heated him like the fire and brimstone of hell—for the first time in quite a while.

“I-I really didn’t do it!” Theodore hisses, shrinking in on himself as Todd’s hulking form blocks the exit, and Granny Ethel’s small form boxes him on from the other side. “I—”

She clears her throat before anything more could be said.

“Dears,” she says in her soft voice, and no matter how soft it is, it always catches their attention as clear as a blaring horn. She leaves it at that, for a moment, as they all three freeze and look to her, obedient, watching as she picks up the scythe by its handle and eases it out of the downy feathers and cotton, holding it between her fingers like it’s made of delicate glass.

“You never have to worry about me. You see, I am blessed with incredible luck. Please, go on back to bed. I’ll take care of this.” A small, serene smile crosses her face—as kind as any of the others, but hiding something underneath.

Something like a secret Todd knows he has to uncover before anything like this ever happens again.

#Todd and granny #original #original writing #it really has been a while so thanks for waiting patiently!#hope you enjoy the latest installment to the series

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heartslogos · 6 years

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newfragile yellows [313]

Ellana leans forward in the backseat of the car, bracing her hand on the front passenger seat as she looks ahead of them.

She knows these roads.

Ellana has never been here before - not. Not since the attic. No. But she’s been here. She’s dreamed - remembered this place.

And it was her memory.

Not June’s, not Falon’din’s, or Mythal’s, or anyone else’s. It was her memory.

This is the main road the goes to her house.

Ellana knows this. She knows this deeper than anything. She can feel this road, as this car driven by a woman named Cassandra Pentaghast, shortens and turns and Ellana’s head turns before the car does because she knows - she knows.

If you turn on this street it’s faster even if it’s side roads, but the side roads are always empty and there’s always some sort of jam-up about two stops down because of left turns and poor timing on the intersection’s signals.

Ellana’s head turns before the car does and she feels her heart beating faster in her chest.

The handcuffs around her wrists buzz against her skin with magical suppression, but she can feel her soul coming alive in a way she doesn’t think she could ever have anticipated, wanted, dreamed of.

Is this what everyone wanted her to come back to this entire time?

If she had known that this feeling, that this resurrection of her soul, was waiting for her she would have abandoned the others to their destruction long ago.

(That is a lie, it is a lie she desperately wants to be true, because she wants this. She wants what lies four more turns, two stop signs, and a cul-de-sac away from this point in space. She wants it so much that her eyes sting and her heart pounds with the promise of memory, at last. Peace. Possibly.)

If Ellana had known that her home - the home of Ellana, the person she is, was, should be - was waiting for her, so close, so easily found by surrender, she thinks she would have…

She would have done something. Maybe.

And there it is.

The yard is a little overgrown, but not terribly.

She has hydrangeas. Ellana’s hands remember pulling them stubbornly from the pots she bought them in - light brown, flimsy plastic, two and a half feet deep - and she remembers spacing them out with measured string. Her body remembers the sun on her shoulders.

There is no car in the driveway.

Ellana gets out of the car after the man named Blackwall, who steadies her arm as she gets out of the truck. Ellana breathes in and she swears that the air itself breezes through her lungs, her mind, and leaves her stunned. Refreshed. Renewed. Remembering.

Behind her she can hear Montilyet and Cassandra get out of the car. The man who was sitting on her other side - Rylen - says something to them but she can’t quite focus on the words. Her mind is full of buzzing static-y excitement. It’s like her throat is going to close.

It’s like she’s going to cry.

How could she not have known she needed this so much? That she missed this so much?

Ellana didn’t know until she saw that street sign about five or six (eight minutes, forty five seconds. That is the time it takes to get from Valley Boulevard to here on a Tuesday past ten in the morning) minutes ago and her heart started to remember for her head.

Rylen unlocks and removes her handcuffs.

Ellana moves forward, pulling her arm from Blackwall’s hand as she walks up the path to the front door. Up the steps of the porch and right up to the screen door.

She turns to the side and there’s the flower pot with the jade plant, shaded from the sun, she reaches just underneath he curved lip of the pot and her fingers find the key waiting for her.

You have to push the screen door up just a little as you’re opening it.

And then there’s the house door itself. The key slides in easily and Ellana opens the door to the house that was waiting for her and her vision swims with tears her heart didn’t know it was waiting for.

Ellana pockets the key and walks into the house she is now remembering she was supposed to be missing this entire time.

She turns to the first entry in the hallway and there’s the living room she dreamed - remembered. And she turns to her right and there on the other side of the hallway is the kitchen where the man she was missing was making coffee or tea or something.

Ellana rushes up the stairs, feet knowing which parts of the stairs to rest on because the other parts creak, and she throws open the door to the first room on her right.

Empty.

Ellana blinks, staring into the room with the windows that look over the front yard and the green-blue curtains and the white crochet blanket folded on the foot of the bed and the mostly empty desk and the pressed dried flowers on paper on the walls.

She turns when she hears the creak of the stairs and the words come to her mouth from her heart - that remembers - instead of her head - which can’t.

“Where is Cole?”

She turns back to the empty room - the stuffed nug and the much repaired rabbit are missing from the book case. The small collection of hats, gone from the hooks hung on the right side wall. Ellana walks into the room and the air is stale and there’s a layer of dust on everything.

She quickly opens a drawer - empty. Another drawer. Empty. The closet. Empty.

She turns and pushes past Rylen and to the door on the other side of the stairs, the door with the handle that’s different from all the other doors because when they first moved in the door got stuck and they decided to replace the entire thing but they couldn’t find matching handles to the rest of the house and they were too lazy to replace all the handles so they just have this one mis-matched door. The door that, beyond it, she knows there are three large windows that overlook the right side of the house and the back yard. The door that conceals a large king sized bed with five fluffy pillows and a huge dresser filled with sweaters and sweatpants and shirts and pajamas and underwear. A door that hides behind it a myriad of memories that include the argument about the rug they put on the floor and how it was unnecessary but also it gets cold in the mornings and who wants to deal with cold feet? And the argument about whether they need two alarm clocks in the room just because they each wake up at different times and you most certainly cannot eat potato chips in this room. And of course whether or not the oil painting of the Storm Coast should stay - it didn’t.

Ellana, afterwards, moved it out of their room because she didn’t want him to have to look at it and bite his tongue and bear it just because she wasn’t ready to let go. But she didn’t destroy it. She didn’t throw it away. She kept it.

Ellana throws the door open and her heart crashes because it’s empty.

Bare. Stripped away. Gone.

“This is your house,” Montilyet says and Ellana turns and sees that Montilyet is standing at the top of the stairs, hand resting on the banister, eyes filled with caution and worry and concern. “We thought it would be best if you were to recover here.”

“No,” Ellana says, voice small and shaking because this isn’t her house. She can see it now. Dust on everything. Pictures missing off of walls. “This isn’t - this isn’t my house.”

The things that made it her house are gone.

Their house.

“Where are they?” Ellana asks. “Where is my family?”

#heartsfic #gather your party and venture forth

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5x7chestnutrug-blog · 7 years

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Best Places For A Light Brown Rug

The skin of a young mature polar bear can be made into beautiful rugs. Polar bear skin rugs are perfectly designed rugs which usually have an open mouth, mounted head, and contain numerous flashing teeth. It is extremely thick and appropriate for cold weather. Polar bear rugs magnificent designs are perfect for your library or study and even in your living room. Simona Ganea has given information on Unconventional bear skin rug.

Everybody knows the original bear skin rug. As the name says, it’s a rug made from an actual bear skin. The problem was exactly that. Bear are no longer as numerous as they used to be so they have become an endangered species. Even if they weren’t it was still cruel to kill a beautiful polar bear just to take its skin and make a rug that people walk on. Fortunately, French designer Lise Lefebvre has found a simple solution for that that will make both humans and bears happy. Home Dit

Polar white bears are considered the largest bear among the family of bears with distinct characteristics. They live in the Northern Artic spending their time mostly on icy floors. The adult male average height is 8.5 feet and weighs up to 900 pounds while the adult female's average height is 6.5 feet and weighs up to 500 pounds. These polar bears have plenty of unique adaptations when dealing with the colds of the Artic. On this above article, Simona Ganea gave provided Unconventional bear skin rug. Learn more about best places for a light brown 5 x 7 rug. Polar white bear skin rugs are ideal for animal enthusiasts and hunters. It could probably serve as their first trophy for hunting. For people who wanted to own one must be ready to pay its price because it is not at all cheap. The price ranges from 500 to 1700 dollars or can be higher. Only make sure that its padding is thick and the real bear skin was professionally tanned and skinned. Wallis Snowdon has said about Bare skin rug: Edmonton man loses Burt Reynolds wager, wins Movember.

In 1972, Cosmopolitan Magazine published the iconic image of the hairy heartthrob stretched out across a full three full pages of its centrefold. The revealing image was a hit at the time, and it's having a similar effect for an Edmonton man with a certain resemblance to the Hollywood star. Pierce Brindza has recreated the photograph to a tee, including a plush bear skin rug, thick mustache, complete nudity and a general lack of "manscaping. CBC

If you are a hunter, if you love the wide world, a bear skin rug can be a perfect rug for your living room. But a nice bear skin rug isn't cheap at all. You must be prepared to pay a good price for it. But it deserves its price. For those who are searching for an attractive and unusual rug, this is the perfect choice. The grizzly bear rugs are larger than the black bear rugs. They can have black or cinnamon shade; sometimes you can find a rare blond grizzly bear skin rug. From Canada can come even the rare write color bear skin rug; but its price is really high. There are hunters or designers who really appreciate and need this king of bear skin rug. These rugs are realistic and their quality isn't sacrificed for the price. LYNN told us about Bear Skin Rug for Barbie-Crochet.

Looks like Barbie headed to the ski lodge for a little after holiday relaxation-lucky girl. I found this silly yarn in the $1 bin at AC Moore a while ago. While it doesn't really look like fur (it's more of a chenille) for some reason crocheting a Bear Skin Rug for Barbie was the first thing that popped into my mind, so that's what I made. Hppier Than Piginmud

Watch this video for more information about Bear Skin Rugs from Bear Skin World:

youtube

#light brown 5 x 7 rug #light brown rugs #5x7 brown rugs

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