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smother // daughter
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( intothehellfire )
ANGER burns at the corner of the mouth, inside of his gums, at the very end of his fingertips. Patience is a virtue that he has cultivated over the years, working oh so hard to be cool and collected even in the face of BRATTISH behavior, but Bradley is pushing him too far this time. He does not strike him - although he wants to. He never found PAIN to be an effective motivator for Bradley, since The Boy likes it far too much for his own good.
If only he could make the boy UNDERSTAND.
He is ready to make yet another rebuttal, angry words barely held back through clenched teeth, when the words bite me spill from the boy’s lips. His jaw drops open at the boy turns his back on him, and that is all it takes. The final straw, as it were. It only takes him three long, silent strides to come up behind him, and with one hand GRABBING his shoulder with painful strength, he yanks Bradley back, his other hand finding a fistful of hair.
“How many times to I have to tell you to THINK CAREFULLY about what you say?”
He obliges the boy’s statement then - although he was well aware that the remark was one of SASS rather than a genuine request - and sinks his teeth into the soft flesh of Bradley’s neck, his bite much harder than is truly called for.
For a childish moment, he thinks to himself he started it.
Bradley is yanked back by the carefully demonstrated force of Claude’s hand, fingers like a VICE as they press into the flesh of his shoulder. He hadn’t expected this to end well, but he could not have predicted this. He pulls his hair and Bradley gasps, a hundred mutterings of I’m sorry and please and harder in his throat when he hears his voice in his ear. It is not a NEW sensation, the way fear mixes with arousal and heightens both until it OVERWHELMS him.
Teeth sink into flesh and Bradley cries out in pain and shock, but something else, too. He LIKES it, the sick fuck! He finds himself hoping it will leave a mark on his smooth skin, one RED & PRETTY.
“Fuck!” He twists his body away from him, but Claude’s grip is TIGHT. He’s not going anywhere. Not yet. His breath comes harder and he can see his chest rise and fall underneath the fabric of his shirt. He tries to look back at Claude, but is FROZEN. “Did you seriously just bite me? It’s an expression, not an invitation.” He swallows hard. “Let go of me.”
OUT OF WOODS ;;
Not dead. Not going inactive. Just busy af. Thank you all for being patient!
( @intothehellfire. )
inspired by this post. only for you, bruv.
It’s no secret that Claude HATES messes. Specifically, Bradley’s messes. The man is inhumanly tidy, and truth be told, it drives Bradley INSANE. Why does everything have to be so clean and perfect? Why does everything have to be just so? The next time Claude demands he clean up after himself, Bradley finally SNAPS. That was 20 minutes ago. They’re still arguing.
“What the hell is it with you?” He pouts, arms crossed over his chest in what he knows is a defensive posture, but he can’t be bothered to mind his body language at a time like this. “What did you expect when you said I could move in?” Of course, he hadn’t EXACTLY said he could move in in the first place, but it was what he wanted, wasn’t it? Wasn’t that what he had been trying to tell him? “You know what? I’m over this.” He looks at Claude with dagger eyes.
“BITE ME.” is the last thing he says before turning away.
on loving a wounded boy:
there will be days when his smile is so bright
that it blinds you.
do not shield your eyes from him;
instead, kiss the smile from his lips
and taste the heat there,
the love,
the ashes.
he will taste of sunshine and ruin.
let him.
there will be days when his arms
are a crime scene of his own design,
taped off and untouchable.
there will be days you come home
to find him bleeding heavily onto the bathroom floor
and he will stain the tile with every
regret
sorrow
guilt
and he will call it his own private sin.
bandage him; press your mouth
to the cotton dryness of the cloth
and feel the warmth of blood beneath.
remind yourself that this is not who he is.
remind him that he is more than the sum
of every wrong done to him.
there will be days when his mouth tastes
of saccharine
instead of sugar.
do not call him on his mistakes.
drink this bitter-sweet sorrow
down to the dregs.
there will be nights when his eyes
are the color of bruises
and his sobs will keep you awake no matter how
he tries to silence them.
pull him into your arms,
but say nothing.
if he wants to tell you, he will.
there will be mornings when he traces his fingers
up your leg
as you eat your breakfast.
he will not ask for anything more
than just the comfort of your presence in the room.
give that to him.
there will be midnights that his legs kick out
in fear
and he will sweat his nightmares out like fever.
there will be some kisses that taste like
every childhood summer you’ve ever had,
and other kisses that taste like sweat-salt
and the dampness of tears.
there will be times that he asks too much of you,
or times you give too little.
there will be times that he hisses threats between his teeth
and every word feels like a dagger.
and there will be apologies, eventually.
soft words and silences that blanket you in comfort
and the knowledge that above all else,
his love is genuine.
these moments will warm you from the inside out.
more than anything,
there will be moments when he looks at you
like you alone put the sun in the sky,
and his sigh against your lips
will be a supernova and an autumn wind
all at once.
kiss him once.
kiss him again.
kiss him until he forgets he’s broken,
and kiss him until you forget
that you’re broken
too.
“On Loving a Wounded Boy,” by dimepoetry (via dimepoetry)
OUT OF WOODS ;;
Over the next few days, I’m going to be making a few upgrades to this blog. I am going to be making a lot of icons for my personal use ( Pax tries to make icons !! Much wow !! Such excite !! ), and I’m going to overhaul my tagging system to make things more concise and easier to navigate. I will do my best to juggle these modifications, setting up another indie, and doing more replies I owe, but I just wanted to make a little PSA in case things slow. I may also be rewriting a few pages, but I will post about any major/important changes.
twitterpxted-blog reblogged
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( springsprincess )
❧ @twitterpxted
Being a child of Zeus, Persephone has many sisters.
On this particular day, one her better days spent in the sunlight of the upper world, one of her sisters has taken her out into the woods to learn a thing or two about hunting. Or so she HOPES. Persephone finds the practice confusing and wholly unnecessary.
BUT she plays along.
She is strolling, bow clutched like the beginner that she is, when she stops suddenly. A buck – she can’t remember that POINT system her sister explained – stands TALL and proud in the sunlight.
She feels no desire to raise her bow.
Instead, she approaches him as quietly as she can, on careful feet as she looks for any sign of her sister. There is none.
“You there.” she says and expects no response. “Shoo, you’re in danger. There’s a hunter here and she never misses. You must go now.”
Bambi feels a disturbance in the FOREST. As soon as godly splendor makes contact with the spring grass within his domain, he lifts his mighty head and snuffs the air.
SHE is here.
He has picked up her scent before, but there is another scent this time, an unfamiliar scent. A STRANGER.
With silent steps, he makes his way out from the underbrush and into the morning LIGHT. The meadow is bare, the trees empty. It is a day that all things that dwell in the forest are familiar with after centuries of Her grace.
On the days when SHE comes, they are NOWHERE to be found.
But there is another !! And She is what Bambi sought as he follows her scent, carried on the breeze by a gentle gust of summer air. At last he finds her, and she is BREATHTAKING.
When she SPEAKS, Bambi stands and LISTENS.
Turning to her, he stamps his hoof in the dirt and lifts his head, showing her the long curve of his graceful, muscular neck. It smacks of a challenge, and that is precisely what it is.
SHE will not kill him.
This is not how he DIES.
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( morpheum )
“ but why would anyone want to steal other people’s things? that’s sad. was that supposed to be funny? because now i’m a little sad. i wouldn’t ever want anyone to have their things stolen. “ she draws in her lower lip, mewls and suppresses a pout. head canting, she kicks her feet at the ground. somehow extraordinarily moody, the joke wracked her into a lulled MELANCHOLY.
“Oh, uh, I mean, it was supposed to be funny, but I guess it doesn’t... y’know, HAVE to be. Here, let me try again. I didn’t mean you make you sad. Okay, how about this one? How does NASA organize their company parties?” He watches her with eyes wide & sparkling. then blurts out the punchline with a downright childish level of enthusiasm. “They PLANET!”
twitterpxted-blog reblogged
( intothehellfire )
Claude lets out a SATISFIED hum as the creature walks over to him without pause, OBEDIENCE in its every step.
He does so like having a PET that cannot talk back.
He strokes the top of Bambi’s head briefly before setting down his father’s Bible and patting his thigh, a WELCOMING gesture.
“Come sit. Where did we leave off? Corinthians?”
Bambi closes his eyes, content with the contact, until it ENDS abruptly. He looks up at Him. He is not looking back, rather he is intently focused on the dusty book. He likes that book. These days, it is rare that Bambi see him without it in hand.
He pats his leg invitingly, and the beast’s head cants in confusion before he is able to remember what was expected of him.
Nimble leg prods gracelessly at the Man until he makes his mark, and again with the other, until both hooves rest in his lap. He looks up with pleading eyes and gives a bleat of impatience. He feels as though he may DIE if he cannot be at His side.
The words mean NOTHING to him.
But without His attention, he is LOST.
twitterpxted-blog reblogged
❝ There’s no word for what he is. ❞
Independent Dr. Hannibal Lecter. Book Canon with Show Influences. Mun & Muse 20+.
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"You're too old to be so shy."
Perhaps in another room, at another time, with another boy, those words would have stung him. For one with an ego that has been constructed and hardened over years of men with sharper teeth gnawing away at it, little makes him HURT.
But he does feel a gnawing of something self-conscious.
His hands pause in their work, and he looks up, slowly, eyes roaming over the lines of Bradley’s body. He is delicate and frightening, and Claude thinks for a moment that The Boy likening himself to Lucifer is perhaps not uncalled for.
You were the seal of perfection, full of wisdom and perfect in beauty.
Claude shivers, holding his partially unbuttoned shirt closer around him. He is so very BEAUTIFUL. Carefully sculpted, the mysterious twinkle in his big eyes and the cheekiness in his easy smile - all white teeth so perfectly straight, ready to devour him whole. It makes him want to weep. How could such a beautiful creature bathed in God’s light want him, such a vile, ugly beast of the earth? How could he desire such a hypocrite, such a corrupt monster?
Bradley is one who deserves to be Claude only deserves the ash and decorated with the richest jewels dust which he cultivates with and ores that God’s earth has to offer. wicked fingers.
He lets out a shuddering breath, disguising his disquiet with a confident smirk, and he returns to unbuttoning his shirt. Let Bradley GAZE upon the softening of his body, the slight building of fat in his abdomen, the weakness of his limbs. Let him see what his tightly buttoned cassock normally hides, the decrepit man wrapped in the trappings of his authoritarian position, His dogma spoken through thin lips and crooked teeth. Let him behold and feel only DISGUST. Let him choose a path that does not cause him to FALL from God’s grace.
“And you are too YOUNG to dictate how I should feel.” The words are too condescending, and they are out before he has a chance to think them through. He hopes that Bradley will forgive him, as he knows that GOD will not.
If God will not bless him and his desirefor the physical LOVE that he cannot give to him,perhaps LUCIFER will be more generous to his wicked soul.
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( springsprincess )
“You are NO fun.” she states simply and lets her lip move into a clear and decided pout. “That doesn’t sound familiar to me. Here, I’ve got one.”
She FINALLY obeys his instruction to sit up, a downright cheeky grin on her face now. She eyes him like a kitten would a new toy. He IS something of a new toy after all, she barely knows him and she likes to push buttons, just to see how far she can go. Play with the flames to see how long it would be before she was BURNED.
“Once upon a time, there was a GRUMPY little boy who wouldn’t make friendly conversation with someone who was oh-so-kindly paying him, and so she left and he ate Hot Pockets for a month.” she giggled at her own joke. “They don’t make an apple cobbler one.”
Her expression changed when she processed something he had said a minute ago. Nothing happened to me. She hadn’t said that aloud, had she? She supposed it was only a small leap from what she had said, but she had thought those words exactly. One of those little coincidences that always seemed to follow her around.
“I like apple cobbler. I prefer peach though. It’s more summery. That’s my favorite season, summer. I HATE it when it’s cold out. All that snow and wind and dead flowers.” the kitten’s eyes glinted bright. “What about you, Hirschal? You like summer?”
“Kindness has nothing to do with it.” He tells her, blushing. “You PAID me for my services. The payment isn’t an optional courtesy, it’s a requirement. A boy’s got to EAT, and I refuse to live off of Hot Pockets, or any other frozen junk. You could have gone to any number of artists who work for commissions in this city, but you chose ME. I do realize that.”
He begins to turn in his seat to LOOK at her, but he stops himself. His gift is amplified by touch, not sight, but her eyes. Oh God, how those EYES were all too much to bear !!
“It’s because I do something that no one else can. My art, it’s... AUTHENTIC. It’s true. What you’re paying me for, it’s not a painting, it’s a look at your true self. Don’t you understand?”
She doesn’t. How could she? He feels waves of emotion, leisurely, against her champagne pink shores. She’s PLAYING with him, and he can see that. Little does she know the PRIDE she had earned. He NEVER talks this much to strangers. He looks at paint stained hands.
“I’m not a little boy.”
A breathy mumble for his ears only.
It’s taken away by the silence.
A SACRIFICE.
He cannot ignore how the paintbrush on the
table beside him twitches. Fate draws closer.
“I prefer the SPRING.” He tells her, refocusing himself on the canvas. “I like warmer weather. There’s a certain BRUTALITY to winter. I think there’s something unforgiving about the cold.”
He pauses in his movements, then glances at her out of the corner of his eye while she gets distracted by a ROBIN at the window.
“It’s BRADLEY. You can call me Bradley.”
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desensitiised-deactivated201602
full of P R I D E !!!
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❝ Understand this: there are two Londons. There’s LONDON ABOVE –that’s where you lived – and then there’s LONDON BELOW – the Underside – inhabited by the people who fell through the c r a c k s in the world.
Now you’re one of them. ❞
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( ofhotheads )
@twitterpxted
“I don’t know what choices and circumstances led to where you are – but if you care an ounce for Gail, keep her out of it. I don’t want my daughter hurt.”
"Why? What do you mean? What did she tell you?” Bradley thinks that it’s really not an unreasonable request for a MOTHER to make, and she had probably smelled TROUBLE on him a mile away. “Mrs. Rubens, I promise, it’s not my intention to hurt anyone, least of all Gail.” He holds a breath in his throat when he wants to tell her that he does care about her daughter, because really, that’s a whole other can of worms he’s not remotely ready to OPEN here.