my girl had her pups! this litter was two and half years in the making. theres only about 500 kai ken in the country at the moment, and numbers are dwindling in japan, so to get to help preserve this breed has been so fulfilling.
I am so proud of her đ from the pregnancy to the birthing, she was an absolute Rockstar. sweet as pie and loving every minute of the extra attention. i very much over prepared, but she knew exactly what to do. other than helping her clean the babies, I pretty much just sat back and watched her do her thing. she is an incredibly attentative mother
im so stoked to be able to contribute to this rare breed and be apart of its awesome community. im incredibly lucky to have the connections and resources i do. kai ken are so special to me and this has been my dream for as long as i can remember
if anyone is interested in following my dogs and this litter, or you just wanna learn more about rare/primitive breeds, follow my kennel page â¤ď¸
reblogs + tags/replies will make my entire day as i put a lot of effort into this :)!
want to support me? hereâs my ko-fi!
--- Something else happens that day. At night, actually. Piotr canât explain it, he isnât even sure if you could, either.Â
The glorious sun has long since tucked itself into the beds of the horizon and gave way to the endless dark sky. The mansion is quiet as he languidly strolls through the halls, still riding the high of earlier that afternoon, and he tries (fails) to make it not outwardly obvious that you have clouded his thoughts since the day you arrived.Â
Itâs only natural. Itâs a good thing, really, to be so attentive. To wonder what your favorite meal may be so he can surprise you, or wonder about your favorite weather. Whether you were a morning or night person.Â
What your powers were.Â
Yeah. Attentive. Thatâs what he tells himself at least. After all, look where itâs gotten you. All wonderful progress, a greater step taken by the day. You were unrecognizable from the broken little body heâd hauled from that facility so many weeks ago. If only you could see that, too.Â
The carpet swallows the weight of him as he silently treks up the stairs, around the bend, and routes himself to the hallway his room belonged to. This is his second trip now, more monitor than tenant, only just then shaking off the strange nag to double check the integrity of the night before he truly settled down. All the same as the first, the mansion is quiet. And now that heâs right and satisfied with that answer, thereâs a steaming cup of tea on his nightstand, a book left open waiting to be read.Â
You accompany him every step he takes, eating up the vacant space of his mind. Mostly this morning. A smile over your face, the first time your voice had left you without a shake to the tone. There was a real you parting through all that thick, fearful smog. A blurry reflection in the water that seemed to grow clearer by the day.Â
Lost in thought, the hallway dark with the lateness of the night, he almost missed the fracture of a shadow among the darkness amidst the low lights. He freezes, but he knows who it is before the alarm could truly strike him.
Youâre standing in front of his room. Not moving, facing the tall wooden door like you could somehow see through it. For a moment, he almost wonders if you can. X-ray vision wouldnât be so uncommon. The doors cracked open just a fraction, but you donât attempt to open it. From here he canât see your expression, but something in your posture feels⌠Vulnerable. And just as heâs about to call out to you, worried perhaps something is wrong, he watches you lift your right arm. It hushes him. Balling your hand into a fist, hovering mere inches before the thick wood, unmoving once more.Â
Though you make no sound, Piotr senses it anyway. A cry for attention.Â
You were coming to visit him.Â
But the tightness of your fist never raps away at his door. You donât quite manage to close the gap. Hesitation sticks around for far too long and he swears he could see the internal battle, the way you try to work through all the chaos inhibiting that mind of yours.Â
Now, Piotr is no stranger to your night explorations. He lets you think youâre sneaky. Lets you meander about under the cover of dim lamps and the comfortable blanket of silence. You scamper the night away like a mouse, finding all the cracks and crevices, all the places you could see yourself trusting enough to relax in. He hears it- he swears he can feel it- like somehow the mansion was a part of him, breathing as one, feeling as one.Â
Of course, naturally, he wished you would sleep better. It was the most important factor for healing after all. That and making sure you met all your daily nutrition, but he digresses. You were doing well enough, and you were eating hearty breakfasts and protein rich dinners. Compared to when youâd first arrived with near narcoleptic sleeping patterns, this was just a part of the journey, he was sure.
There had been an undeniable rush of excitement that ran through him the first night you found the courage to saunter out of your room. So much so, that he abandoned his better senses and left his book behind to greet you at the end of the stairway. Every intention within him had been to encourage you. A tour of the mansion, maybe. But the moment he threw his door open he was met with the immediate and brutal reality that was you hauling ass back to your room so quickly that all that was left of your trail were the echoes of your footsteps.Â
So, no tour. And the next night he heard you toeing your way about, he kept himself tucked in bed. Really, even the knowledge that youâd grown comfortable enough to even want to explore was enough for him to be satisfied. The tour could always come later. You were making wonderful progress- no reason to ruin that now. No matter how much he anticipated it.Â
Now, at least, even though you remained glued to the sidelines, you were present.Â
Tonight throws him off, though. Tonight you sought him out entirely out of your own accord even when you lacked the true strength to fulfill the deed. You reel back, ready to knock, and Piotrâs heart does an involuntary flip. All the times youâd gone out of your avoid him and yet here you were. For a moment he waits to hear the soft sound of your knuckles against the door, even disappointed that he wasnât within his room to answer you, but the sound never comes.Â
And then your hand falls limp to your side, unballing, loose where it hangs. Shame, or guilt, becomes a palpable pressure that weighs on your shoulders as they slump down. He doesnât need to see your face to see the drawn lines, the downcast expression. You merely stare down at your feet before taking a meager step away.Â
Ah. It all made sense now. That nagging, incessant urge to double check what heâd already routinely accomplished- the universe needed him to see this moment. Bear witness to the fact that you were moving far further than heâd believed whether he was there to see it or not. You were flourishing right before his eyes, yes, the universe surely had wanted him to see this, to see you, and appreciate all that had come to pass. To feel the fruits of his and your labors. A gift. A reminder.Â
The brief thought crosses him that this may not be the first time. He wonders how many times youâve been out here like this, standing before his rooms, unable to bring yourself to just bridge that divide. The amount of times youâd let your eyes fall to the rugged floor as you crept back to your room, leaving no trace, more ghost than person.
Piotr canât let this moment go to waste. He swallows once, evens his voice, and calls out to you.
âGood evening.â
You nearly jump clean out from your skin. He forgives it, doesnât take it personally either when your large doe-like eyes swallow him whole. Moonlight pours in from the window, the outline of you nearly glowing, expression reading nothing but pure bewilderment. He even forgives it when you canât seem to gather yourself enough to respond. Instead you merely gape at him much like a child caught red-handed.Â
One careful, tentative step forward, Piotr wishes to close the divide. Shockingly, you donât take that instinctual step back.Â
âCannot sleep?â He asks, voice carrying through the gap while you wring your fingers together in front of you. Your gaze falls to the floor. Then, in some sort of haphazard shrug, your shoulders languidly rise and fall sluggishly.Â
Now thereâs a line to toe. On one hand he could send you back to the safety of your room. Youâd meander away and shut yourself out, stay up til the sun breached horizon. On the other hand, and it's a risky handâŚÂ
Piotr takes a leap of faith he hopes youâre prepared for. Pushes just a bit- after all, he liked to think he had a knack for these types of things, knowing when the right moment to nudge someone in the right direction. The idea was that should he be the hand that extends, youâd take it, act on your wants, courage or not. So he approaches you, this tiny little thing damn near statue-still before him, and stops just before you. You donât shy away. He takes that inch and runs for the mile.Â
Piotr reaches over your head and pushes his door open.Â
âI can stay up with you.â He starts, gentle as a breeze. âYou may come in, if you need.â
In total honesty, thereâs a nagging suspension that youâd pivot on your heel and dash back to your room. That or shrug him away, opt instead to exploring the mansion all in your lonesome. Without waiting for an answer, he keeps his cool, lets the ball roll through your court as he passes you by and strides inside. The tea waiting for him is still, in fact, steaming. Itâs a beautiful sight. His book calls to him like a spectre in the night, laying open on his comforter.Â
All forgotten when he hears the quiet pitter patter of your feet following him in.Â
Oh, god, how it makes him feel a million shades of giddy. How every agonizing stretch of silence, of each moment rejected, came to fruition and he only hardly found the will to mask the joy within that calm, all-knowing exterior. Casually he sinks into one of the two arms chairs facing the massive window, the only divider a quaint table. Over his shoulder he notes you just⌠Waiting. Standing there awkwardly half taking in the contents of his room and half unsure of what to do with yourself now that youâve taken this plunge.Â
If thereâs one thing that Piotrâs noticed, itâs that the more you opened up, the more you seemed to become this amalgamation of gauche and anticipation. Every emotion a broadcast- like someone who never learned the art of a facade.Â
You look almost comically small in his room. You look uncomfortable. Vulnerable, and for a brief second, Piotr thinks maybe this had been a bad call. Whilst you busy yourself wringing your hands and slouching your shoulder to fold in on your own frame, he thinks perhaps heâd pushed you a bit too far from the island. Or, god forbid, took advantage of your uncertainty.Â
Straightening his back, he calls out to you from his spot when you seem to intentionally refuse to meet his gaze.
âWould you like to sit?â
The steps to the chair across from him are few, but you make the space feel as though it's a mile. Every inch forward is tentative. Every breath is guarded, always as though you're waiting to turn tail and run at any given moment. Regardless, you make it, and you too let yourself curl up in the chair all shifty-eyed and cautious. Kneeâs hiked up to your chest, chin planted firm over the caps, doing all you physically can to block yourself in. Or, block Piotr out.Â
It strikes him that this may have cost him something. That if you had followed him simply because you felt like you had to, or out of fear, passivity. This could certainly come with repercussions. Hindsight is a strange thing. Makes him second guess himself, the monument of a man he is. Maybe the right thing to do would have been to let you go along with your night, even if it meant sinking further into your isolation. Let you come to him (as if you hadnât already) and ask for more.Â
Quote literally anything else except invite you in your moment of weakness into his damn bedroom.Â
He almost throws the whole moment away and admits heâd jumped the gun. But then, you sigh deep and long. Chest rising, falling, slow and sure as the sound evens out. Tension huffs out from your shoulders. Eyes fall half lidded, always finding the window.Â
Relief.
A winding smile forms over Piotrâs lips. It looks good on you- relaxation- even if you never truly allowed yourself the means to really get comfortable. A dozen times over heâd seen this process from start to finish, but somehow here, with you, it felt different. Felt pure. Right.Â
âWhat troubles you?â He asks, voice carrying through the silence, far too casual for someone who was so familiar to the onslaught of struggles youâd been battling since day one. And though he expects silence, you surprise him all over again, speaking for the second time today, albeit plain, and timid.Â
âCanât sleep.âÂ
âWhy is that?â
A slow, languid shrug. Then hardly audible, you murmur, â...Worried.â
âYou are worried about something?â Of course you are. He isnât a fool- of course youâre still riding the fence stuck somewhere between distrust and foolish hope, desperate to believe this was all real. Smart enough to know it may not be. It seems your eyes grow further away by the second as you stare outside.
Still though, you answer. âYeah.â
âWhat worries you?â
Another empty shrug.Â
Itâs like pulling teeth, trying to gather answers from you that arenât these vague motions or one-word responses. Even so, this is good. Piotr reminds himself of that every time frustration knocks at the door. This is great, actually, and far more than he initially believed heâd get. Presence alone had been the goal which you met with flying colors.Â
After all, youâd confided in him. Talked to him in unpracticed sentences, remembering what it was like to hold a conversion. So he pulls those teeth one by one and leans back in his chair, following your line of sight to the starry sky. A thousand questions beg to be answered- most notably the glaring obvious: what powers do you possess?Â
He refrains. He has to. That sort of question would have to come at a later time. For now he pulls another tooth.Â
âWhat is most worrying?âÂ
Your voice is farther away now. Disconnected. Your expression matches, void of anything specific beyond true neutrality. âGoing back.âÂ
That bothers Piotr. Thick brows pull together in a tight knit, he canât stop himself from cocking his head. âYou are not going back.â
â...None of this feels real.â
âIt is very real.âÂ
â...â
Piotr notes that youâre still breathing good and slow, even despite your concerns. He sighs. âYou must not live in past. You are here, now. Safe.â
It doesn't comfort you. But, it draws you in. Quick as it may, a blink-and-youâll-miss-it moment, you turn to find his glance and you⌠Youâre there. Right there, focused, searching for the cracks on his facade. Crickets chirp. The moon and stars spark with twinkling light. There is no hesitation to be found in Piotr words, nor his resolve, even when he can physically feel you mapping him out. He lets you, hopes that youâll finally realize there is no end game.Â
Maybe you do. Maybe you donât.Â
Regardless, you turn your attention back to the outside world. You watch the trees, the breeze, for the thousandth time. Another long, drawn breath escapes you and carries away most of the tensions with it.Â
Piotr has a selfish thought, then, because he is human after all. He thinks to himself, you are so beautiful, like this.Â
But then he shakes those pestering thoughts away before they get the chance to truly take root. Only to rear their heads a moment later as you settle even further into the chair, letting your legs fall to the side. Then, as if kissed by an angel, your eyes slip shut.Â
It takes all but a few minutes for you to doze off into a gentle slumber. In a single moment, he rejoices in the notion that youâve finally accepted him. Deemed him safe, fit to watch over, to share your fears and uncertainties with. The ground beneath your unsteady feet. There, in the quiet, he makes your peace his own. The weight of what may be the world slips from his tired shoulders. Though his tea grows cold, the twirl of steam long since diminished, he hardly minds.Â
For a long while, Piotr stays just like that. The moon glides over the long, drawn sky, hiding in the few pockets of clouds rolling by. A part of him wishes this moment could linger forever, but time is hardly understanding, and when he can no longer spare anymore slumber, he brings himself to his feet. You are impossibly small, and curled into the crook of the chair. Picking you up into his arms is like handling the finest of china, slipping one arm under your upper back and the other below the bend of your knees. Although heâd like to credit himself a gentle handler, heâs almost sure that the reason you do not stir is because you haven't slept quite this deeply in some time now. Every breath is full, every exhale is slow.
Your room welcomes you like an old friend. As he lays you upon the nest of blankets, he thinks of the first time heâd carried you, this frightened, beaten thing too afraid to even breathe properly in his presence.Â
Now sleep murmurs from your lips, and you subconsciously curl into the softness of the sheets. Now, as he stands in the doorway and glances over his shoulder one final time, you are bathed in beautiful moonlight. He sees it- a glimpse of the future. A life you deserved so close within reach, the person he knew you could become.Â
Selfish thoughts return. They demand, even, until Piotr forces himself out into the hall and shuts the door behind him.Â
--
The next morning, Piotr wakes with the full moon just before dawn. Thereâs no profound reason he rises, just simply stares up at the ceiling in darkness until he forfeits the remainder of his slumber. 5 AM, the digital clock reads. That cold cup of earl grey stares back as he sits, swings his feet around the bed. An early start to his day could do him well, he thinks, and a nice hot shower confirms it in the end.Â
Downstairs, breaching the kitchen and pouring the contents of the cup down the drain, he lingers in the soft flicker of a lamp resting beside him on the counter. He gazes out the massive window overlooking the long, green yard. Watches the sky turn from deep black into the faintest blue. At first, the only movement to really capture his attention is the intricate dance of fireflies- but then, off to the far, far right towards the grand doors of the mansion, he notices movement.Â
There you are.Â
Youâre simply standing there at the front steps, face tilted up towards the sky.
Everything seems to seize up all at once. A moment captured in a bottle as he realizes the doors had certainly been shut as he may his way to the kitchen. Something coils in his lower belly, a feeling he truly canât stand. Uncertainty.Â
How long have you been out here, like this? When you had been sleeping so soundlessly not mere hours ago? Lingering out in the chill of night, feeling the cold over the skin and through your hair.Â
Piotr runs through your conversations. He combs every word and peeks between the lines. Had it changed something within you? Or had you simply realized this was not the place youâd want to call home? A part of him worries youâd thought you were better off alone, trusting no one other than your own self.Â
A part of him could not blame you for such a thing. Months of sleeping between blinks, months of watching you struggle to even allow yourself to breathe properly. The potential was there and sure, you were coming around by the very day, but Piotr would be lying to himself to say he didnât feel the draw. This incessant pull you fought time and time again.Â
If you truly wanted away from all this, from him, he would let you, because itâs your life. Because he could not force this on you.Â
Because you were not his prisoner.Â
Doesnât stop the knee-jerk reaction, though. Nor does it ease the twist in his stomach as you take a tentative step forward to the second step, and then the third.Â
He tells himself to trust this. To trust you.Â
But the faucet continued to run until water has gathered at the rim of the cup and spills around his hand like a waterfall.Â
The universe rewards his patience yet again. With a broad yawn, you stretch high and wide, and then paw tired from the corners of your eyes. You walk right back into the mansion. Heavy doors open, close, and Piotr scrambles to turn off the running water in time to watch you patter into the kitchen.Â
He witnesses the exact moment you realize heâs there. He witnesses the freeze, the bristle, your doe-like eyes blinking up at him from the illuminated entrance. For a long couple seconds neither of you speak. For the first time, Piotr can not conjure up anything beyond silence.Â
âOh,â you murmur, wringing your fingers together. â...Sorry.âÂ
The trance breaks. Piotr turns, sets his cup in the sink. âFresh air is good for you.â
âFor waking you up.âÂ
That actually makes him laugh. A deep chuckle rumbling in his chest as he opens the fridge and rummanages through. âYou did not wake me.â
âThen⌠Iâm sorry for keeping you up last night.â
âThat I forgive.â He drags out his usual suspects: eggs, bacon, bread.Â
He can feel you standing there in the doorway while he cooks, unsure what to do with yourself, lingering like a ghost caught in the frame. Still though, heâs pleased as punch you haven't left. He glances over his shoulder and motions for you to sit at the table, and of course, you hesitate. A quick flicker of your eyes he followed to the table then back up to his own. Then you shuffle forwards and hop into the seat on the far edge.Â
Itâs impossible not to smile as he works. He can hear the weight of the seat shift under you as you get comfortable, hear the sound of your boney elbows knocking against the wood of the table whilst you lean forward. A palpable silence mingles with the sizzle of bacon, but itâs hardly uncomfortable. He doesnât ask if youâd like a plate, just simply sets it down in front of you and watches the way you pick at it.
If the chair groaned under the weight of you, his chair damn near screamed under the weight of him. Old wood supporting him, the legs creaking to accommodate. He clears nearly half his plate before youâve even started to pick away at your eggs. He hates to nag, butâŚ
âYou are not hungry?â
âI am.â A soft pause, the faintest sound of your fork poking the plate. Every word that leaves you is guarded, low. Monotone even when he knows youâre feeling anything but. â...Thanks for making this for me.â
Piotr nods and smiles. Finally, as if the acknowledgement had been the permission you seeked, you pluck a long strip of bacon and pop it into your mouth. Slow, careful, you almost seem to have to force it down.Â
âIf you are not tired, I can show you the rest of the mansion.â Itâs a simple offer, one you could easily refuse. You blink up at him, then gaze back down at your meal. He swallows, then adds, âIt would be good for you.â
âWhy.âÂ
It catches him off guard, and he leans back in his seat. âYou are one of us. One of many. You should be familiar with your home.â
Home makes your expression deepen just enough to notice. The lines settle, not quite a frown, nowhere near a smile. Sometimes it kills him in a way, watching you refuse the extending branch. Sometimes he wants to reach out and take you by the shoulders, shake out all those doubts and nightmares until youâre empty.Â
He sighs, leans back in his chair and shakes his head.Â
âYou must let this pain, this⌠Fear, go. I know you are afraid. You think this is set-up, or this is not real. When I first became X-Man, I was afraid also.â You perk at his words, eyes widening just a fraction. âEven I was afraid. Even when I am made of steel, and can take hit, I was afraid. Trust is a frightening thing, yes?â
Your gaze falling downwards is the only confirmation he needs.Â
âBut listen to me. You are strong. Even stronger than you realize. You are not broken thing you think you are. And I- We, are not enemy you think we are.â Slowly, he leans back towards you. âYou must stop telling yourself that you are alone.â
For a moment he thinks you may be ignoring him. Nothing but an empty stare into the food growing colder by the second. But then, he sees how the light reflects in the whites of your eyes. How your nose grows tinted red, how your lower lip quivers. It takes everything in you to swallow down the boulder in your throat, but you do. And you nod once. Twice.Â
Piotr lets you gather yourself. When youâre whole again, you blink away the wetness of your lashes and stare up at him.Â
âYou can, uhâŚâ Another hard swallow as you speak, voice warped with the strain. âYou can show me around. After I eat.â
âGood,â He breathes. âGood.â
When you take another bite, it isnât missed on him how you donât hesitate. You sink your teeth into your toast and chew like itâs your last chance. Real hunger cries with demands and finally you indulge. Every nibble, every swallow, is success in his eyes.Â
Soon the rest of the house would rise with the morning sun and the halls would light to life. He would show you the rooms youâd already explored, this time washed in light, and you would act as though it was the first time. But at this moment he too lets himself indulge.Â
Especially now, as he sat beside you in the dim light, now enjoying the mundane comfort of the crunch of toast, quiet scuffing of silverware on a platter, and the harmony of crickets baying within the stretch of lawn beyond the window.
its clear you care about him tonsâ¤ď¸!! ofc take as much time as you need, were wishing you the best :]!
he really is my world
for a hot minute the vets were not confident about recovery with his diagnosis but so far he seems like hes on the up and up.
ive pretty much been on house arrest watching him (they gave me a laundry list of shit to watch for and id have to rush him to the ER) so my brain i genuinely fried
Hii you donât need to reply to this or anything I just wanted to say I hope youâre doing okay â¤ď¸đ
I was not in fact doing ok LOL tysm for checking in on me! its been a rough few weeks. sometimes it feels like the moment i get through one wall, im faced with another haha
havnt posted in a hot minute đ I havnt even written in weeks. my dog had to go into emergency surgery after a solid three weeks of refusing to eat, refusing to potty, and having constant nausea/stomach pains. he dropped 13lbs and poor dude just felt like shit all the time. no answers, thousands of dollars in vet bills. we finally got some answers last monday and he needed intestinal surgery (he has Intussusception for anyone curious).
its a nasty surgery and hes been struggling eith recovery but thankfully it seems like were on the road to recovery. ive had to keep a nonstop eye on him and the stress has been insane on both of us lol fingers crossed no more emergencies!!!
pic of the stinky boy in question. napping off the sedatives and fighting to hold food down. mommies favorite money pit â¤ď¸
ă âŚpiotr rasputin (colossus)/reader ⌠ă
tags: sfw // hurt/comfort, colossus is the best, mentions of past abus3
a/n: FINALLY I DID IT RAAAHHH part 2 to this baby right here!!!! i hope all 10 of you guys enjoy this ilusm
reblogs + tags/replies will make my entire day as i put a lot of effort into this :)!
want to support me? hereâs my ko-fi!
You didnât remember arriving here. Wherever here was, anyways. Somewhere mild, and quiet. Warm. A total pivot from where youâd grown and blossomed from a frightened mutant child into the emptied shell of a mutant woman.Â
In more ways than one, waking up to somewhere so quaint feels like a dream, or like some fantasy your brain had concocted to trudge you onward another day. No distant cries, no incoherent shouting youâd taught yourself to drown out. Just stillness. Peace, even, if you could still understand the meaning of the word.Â
Itâs an illusion. You knew it was- but you were unsure whether it had been your own creation or a twisted plot to make you lower your guard. All there was to do was wait. And wait, wait, wait, until the fantasy died away to reveal what youâd come to accept as your life. Let the reality slip back in, then out, as you pretended to be far, far away.Â
Passivity became defense. Tolerance became armor.Â
The day you stopped fighting them, it got easier, you found. To become numb became the most comforting thing youâd ever known. Even when they strapped you down, filled IVâs dug snug into your veins with a thousand different concoctions. Even when theyâd throw you into the bellows of metal darkness with nothing but your empty thoughts and spray you down with a hose harsh enough to nearly skin you alive right there. But you endured. You laid there and let them move and strip and build and destroy you. Sometimes in that order- sometimes not.Â
So numb, in fact, and so perfectly docile that you hardly realized it at all when you were enveloped into arms of metal and carried away.Â
And yet, waking up to nothing was somehow far more terrifying than back in the lab. The silence felt uncanny. Smothering, even. You waited with baited breath for it to start. To feel the zap of a prong, or the long drag of a needle searching for a vein. But it never came, and that was the worst torture of all, because you knew deep in your heart it would eventually. When was the question- and whenever it came, you would be ready.Â
Even though the bed was comfortable, and the sun peeked in through the drawn curtains, you knew it would come. By the time you really started taking in the homely environment, the weary dread only grew. Laughter echoed down the halls and seeped from under the crack of the door. The scent of food always lingered either from somewhere deeper within the facility or from the nightstand. But you wouldnât be fooled.Â
A man larger than life found his way into the room you were kept in like clockwork, usually the harbinger of said food. Heâd stay around only long enough to offer faux kind words of encouragement before leaving you to yourself. Always so careful, and sweet, and never once demanding. The perfect hand that fed.Â
It was horrifying. Every time heâd step into the room, ducking under the frame not built to accommodate the sheer size of him, you thought to yourself, today is the day. Today would be the day it all makes sense, and whatever test this was would have run its course and youâd be crammed back into somewhere familiar.Â
Sleep felt expensive- like when youâd crack your eyes open, youâd be somewhere entirely new all over again. Safety felt downright impossible. You had to be ready to endure it all again. Survive. But the man⌠He never even touched you. Hardly even breathed as he reared close and set the plate down on your nightstand. He came day after day, night after night, like you were an old friend. Or a pet, maybe. Something to take care of or study.
But why? What could you possibly offer that he couldnât just take himself?
All the time you spent before longing to escape, longing for better, only to find yourself truly afraid of the unknown. The possibilities were endless. And worst of all, days later, you were slowly getting used to the nothingness. Sight, feel, scent, it was all coming back to you. Taking note of your environment, admiring the architecture, fuck, this bed alone was enough to make you feel something you hadnât felt in a long, long time.
Gratitude. Blessed be, to feel your weight shift over something so perfectly warm. To breathe in and smell food, to drink from a cup by choice.Â
It reminded you just how terrible it was going to be when this all fell away to shit.Â
You were out of your element, nearly out of your mind. Weaker than youâd ever felt in your life. A part of you wanted- no, hoped that youâd die there in that room before it could be taken from you. Die staring up at the sun youâd missed so dearly, the last beautiful thing youâd ever known, feeling warmth on your skin and watching the wind run through the leaves like fingers through hair.Â
You almost did die, you think. The man saw it too. Although you werenât sure just how long it had been, you could hear and feel his concerns rising. A slight uptick to the octave of his voice. A bit more pleading, a touch more exasperated.Â
It has been days, heâd said, far more forlorn that youâd heard thus far. You must eat something.Â
A long, slow sigh of defeat when you hardly even stirred. The plate he sets down on the table is the same as every day before, eggs and toast, a glass of water. And when he left you to yourself, you couldnât help but wonder just why he cared so much. To try and keep you kicking like this, surely there was something you were necessary for, but for what you could not even hope to guess. All morning you mulled it over, asking a million questions, thinking harder than you had for years. It was like the gears started moving again, cobwebs and dust included.Â
You arenât sure what changed that morning. But something did.Â
Breakfast smelled so fucking good. Downright irresistible. You couldnât recall a time you felt real hunger in your belly but there it was, churning and begging and longing for a bite. Just one. You drank the glass water down to nothing, but found yourself unsatisfied. You plucked the toast from the plate and nibbled at the rigid edge, but you wanted more. More, more, more. Your stomach cried something awful and demanding and before you knew it you were sinking your teeth into anything they could find. Bread, eggs, fuck, you could eat the the entire plate, you think. It was agony, too, retching food down your throat that had become a stranger to solids, but you mawed it down anyways even when your defenses rose in tandem with the primal hunger.
This is how they get you, they cried, muffled by the wonderful mundanity of breakfast. This is how it happens.Â
But you couldnât help yourself. You emptied that plate into the bellows of your body and it felt good. To feel full, warmed from the inside out and tired, it was like a dream. Too good to be true. Especially so when you carefully set the plate back down onto the nightstand and slinked back into the blankets. Real blankets, and clean sheets, and then you pulled the curtains back and watched birds gather at the front lawn.Â
Oh, how beautiful, to witness clouds lazily drag through the broad blue sky.Â
You thought to yourself that maybe you did die. Maybe this was heaven.Â
When the man breached back into your room that afternoon, you were weirdly shamed to feel your body tremble in response. As if the very being of another person could harm you, despite the way you tucked yourself away, and despite the fact that the man hadnât so much as even asked you your name. He got his reward for his efforts, though. He hummed and sighed in relief, grabbing the plate and glass from the table, allowing you to continue hiding yourself away among the thick comforter.Â
Silence.
You hated the feeling in your chest when he clicked the door shut. You hated feeling anything other than nothing. Most of all, you hated that when this all inevitably came crashing down, youâd have to suffer all over again.
At dinner, though you donât eat the soup youâre offered, he tells you his name even when he knows you wonât offer yours.Â
Piotr.
--
Little and timid as you were, you truly think you may have shocked him.Â
On a random Tuesday morning almost three weeks after youâd arrived, Piotr meandered down the winding stairs to the main room dressed and ready to face the day. You heard him before you saw him as he worked his rounds, ensuring all is well and right before the day begins. Itâs monotonous, habitual. The instinct of a true protector.Â
The rounds stopped dead in their tracks when he spotted you.Â
To be fair, you were equally as surprised youâd found the inner courage (or, perhaps, curiosity) to extend the confines of your world to the outside of the bedroom earlier that week. Comfortable as the bedroom was, and fearful as you may be, it began to feel like you were more rotting than living. Waiting for the worst to come was a given, but in the meantime, you could at the very least learn your environment. Get to know the laughter and the heavy footsteps that echoed throughout all hours of the day. Maybe even get to know a thing or two about the metal man- Piotr- and what he expected of you.
The change of scenery was just as much welcomed as it was frightening. One step after another, it felt like leaving your net, dragging your palm down the old-money walls as if they would keep you anchored. It had been hardly dark with lowly lit lamps guiding your way through the winding halls. Every step was careful. Every breath deliberate as you crept halfway down the stairs that seemed to go on forever.Â
It was confusing, the effort put in to lull its inhabitants into a sense of safety. You expected to find something- anything- that would remind you to never let your guard down. A lab, something sterile and sharp, hell, there werenât even any guards. Nothing but clean floors, expensive furniture, and art.Â
You let your foot dangle off the last step of the stairway, toe grazing the main floor.Â
Thatâs as far as you made it that night.Â
Somewhere far deeper than you could see, an echo of a door opening, shutting, rattled the foundations of your bones and you on blind instinct alone tore all the way back to your room. You launched into bed and blankets became walls, a cocoon, a nest, like the mounting fabrics would protect you. You stayed there in your shaken apprehension for the rest of the day.
You tried again a few nights later, this time making it down to the very end of the stairwell. The carpet was warm against your toes, the rails cold against your fingers. It took a moment to pry yourself away from them, afloat without something to hang onto, but you did it. Padded down the long drawn carpet along the way, peeking around the bend of every corner like a prey-animal until you spotted what looked like some sort of living area.Â
Familiar. Like something youâd seen a dream, maybe, or an old memory. Couches. A sturdy, dark table planted in the center. A window larger than life itself draped with thick curtains blocking out the night. You arenât sure why it lured you in so wholly, but you found yourself perching upon the farthest couch, grazing your fingers along those softness of the drapes.Â
In one swift move, you reeled a curtain back, and awed at the marvel of the clear sky. On the main floor the view was so entirely different- the moon in broad display, fireflies dancing at the edges of the window pane as if inviting you out to greet them.Â
You had forgotten night could be so⌠Beautiful.
When you wandered back to your room that night, it had been entirely out of your choice. You watched the moon dance across the sky until it disappeared behind the mansion, the sun taking its throne in the open sky and dusting hot-ember red over the shimmering stars. When the birds began to sing, you finally peeled yourself from the couch, let the curtains fall back, and left as quietly as youâd came.
One morning you decided to give it some more time, to watch the world come to life. Deep red melted into baby blues. The trees shook to life, birds and bees gathered at the flowers sprouting from the stretches of well trimmed hedges. You even, despite your screaming judgement, stayed put as you heard heavy steps down the staircase. Of course you knew who it was. You knew him by sound alone.Â
Piotr stopped in the archway of the entrance and watched you. You pretended not to notice him, letting your eyes follow clouds rolling past the stretch of sky offered through the window. When he did speak, it was quieter than youâd hear thus far.
âGood morning.âÂ
You glanced at him momentarily. An acknowledgement- one that you were sure heâd been waiting for. He took the opportunity and approached.
âIt is good to see you out,â he started, both unsure and entirely pleased, trying to maintain whatever casualty he could clutch onto. âBreakfast will be ready soon. Try to eat some today. It is most important meal of day.â
Never had you thought kindness could be so disarming. Never had you thought something so gentle could come from something so⌠Giant. You told yourself you shouldnât answer him, and a part of you knew he wasnât expecting you to. But you nodded. Once. And he smiled, even when you wouldnât meet his line of sight longer than a few seconds. Then he left you to it, let you linger as long as you wanted.Â
You didnât realize it, but watching him disappear around the bend, you started to think you could keep⌠Doing this. Staying here.Â
You watched the clouds, and the breeze, and let life continue around you as mutants filled the halls and rooms. Eventually even filling the gaps of the couch while chatting amongst themselves. You only had to try a little to ignore the stares, the way they moved around you like you were glass. The way they scolded each other when someone grew too rowdy. It became the perfect backtrack as you decompressed, tried to feel like you were never this beaten, caged creature at all.
Morning became your favorite part of the day. Every morning after that, too, until before you knew it you had been living lavishly for an entire month.Â
Awaiting breakfast turns into picking at lunch, into even allowing yourself to take up a space at the dinner table, keeping to yourself more often than not. Partly because you still couldnât find it within yourself to truly trust these people. But mostlyâŚ. Mostly because surrounded by laughter and ceaseless conversations, you discovered just how fucking hard mingling is. The few times you allowed someone to draw you into any form of conversation, you floundered in the spotlight, unsure when you talk, when to shut your mouth. It was like you forgot how to be human at all. They gave you passes though, and much to your surprise, shrugged off your uncanny ability to shrink back into yourself. Almost like they understood.Â
Your social skills had turned to dust long, long ago. Stripped bare along with the rest of whatever made you you as pure survival took over. Everything other than making it day by day felt pointless. Anything other than feeling cold, empty, nothing was just asking to hurt all over again.Â
So while you were far better equipped to tune it all out, you were now stuck wondering just how to navigate this new cushy life. How to even begin to tell yourself that you were safe here, with them. That Piotr didnât harbor an ulterior motive waiting to strike at any moment, like a snake hiding through brush, waiting for you to just take one wrong step.Â
But yet, even despite that, strength grew within you, an indescribable feeling you weren't sure how to understand after so long. Trembles became stillness. The sound of Piotrâs voice found you perking from your bed and throwing your feet around the edge, skittering to the door to crack it open before he had the chance to knock.Â
Today you are exactly where he expects you- curled up on the couch at the earliest strike of morning, waiting to see the magic of the day begin. Familiar, heavy steps thump through long winding hallways until they stop directly beside you. Craning your neck up, you offer a simple nod, goodmorning.Â
Just like every other time you cower before him like a nervous, feral animal, guilt eats away at whatâs becoming of your conscience. There was no reason for you to tense up like this, nor reason for your heart to race so suddenly in your ears. Beat, beat, beat, so quickly it floods your cheeks and your entire body with sticky, itchy heat. As if the man hadnât quite literally plucked you from the pits of hell and planted you in what may as well be heaven.Â
âHow was your sleep?â The chair across from you groans as he sits down, unfolds a newspaper and leans back, casual as could be.Â
All you offer in return is a shrug. Itâs the only thing you can give him, even though youâre starting to wish you could give him much more. Settling your chin against your knees, you watch his gaze flit between you and the paper unfurled in his lap. Then you peer outside, watch the ways cut through the trees.Â
Maybe he senses the longing of your stare. Or maybe he finds itâs about time you get some real fresh air, because he re-folds his morning paper and sets it on the coffee table before leaning forward.Â
âWould you like to go outside?â He suddenly asks. When your brows knit together, eyeing him skeptically, that expression of his doesnât falter. If anything grows softer, genuine. So sincere you wonder if he was even capable of violence at all. âYes?â
Go outside. God, you canât remember the last time you felt grass. Or a breeze over your skin that didn't come from factorial vents. Real sunlight unfiltered through thick, spotless glass. You swallow once, open your mouth, clamp it back shut.Â
When you nod, yes, his lips hook upwards into a smile. Despite the monstrous size of him, it was growing harder to not feel pacified by his presence. He took great care of his impression, somehow always making himself seem smaller than he was. Slowly, his hand outstretches towards you, left lingering for far too long to be comfortable whilst you stare at the open palm.Â
Would he really just let you out like that? Open those broad, heavy doors and let you flee out into the day? Maybe this was the trick. Maybe this was the moment, the single defining moment where you were sorely reminded of your place in this world. But he nudges his hand towards you again and stands effortlessly still. Either gauging, or hoping, or something worse, you weren't sure.Â
But he looks honest. And his voice is smooth, and low, when he says, âI will help you.â
Everything youâve ever learned has taught you to run. Apprehension thatâs grown dormant by the day stirs and wakes in your belly. Something among it though- something else entirely. Foreign and intrusive, a strange draw, or urge, to trust this man. For a moment you dissect the feeling. You realize that itâs almost like hope.Â
Real hope. The kind that makes you want to believe him. It tells you in coos that you should reach out, take his hand. Choose to let him help you just this one time. You owed him that.Â
So, with a shake to the very bones, you drop your hand in his palm. Broad fingers curl in and cover yours entirely, then gently, like you may break if he pulled too hard, tugs you to your feet. Nerve wracking would be an understatement as you stood toe to toe with him, having to step back just to get a good look at his face.Â
Youâve never been this close to him. Youâve certainly never touched him. His hands feel just as cold as they looked, but they are merciful. They are more human than anything youâve ever felt. Piotr doesnât push it further than that, and lets you go, takes a step back to create comfortable space between your bodies.Â
âCome.â He says. âFollow me.â
You do. You follow close enough to be his shadow, heart rising in your throat, both in fear and anticipation. Outside air, hearing birds sing, you could remember it all so faintly, replaced by endless memories of dark, cold, corners. Even the idea alone of experiencing such perfect novelties felt far away then, but here you were, watching him reach for the massive brass knobs.Â
It almost feels like youâre dreaming. Especially so when Piotr pulls the doors open and suddenly the span of your vision is flooded with pure light. Warm wind brushes against your skin, ruffles through your hair. Though you squint as you step out, the moment you're outside bare footed and all, itâs like a new world entirely. Your brain short circuits, your mind blanks, all else gone as you suck in lungfulls of clean, crisp air for what feels like the first time.Â
Blue sky, the same heavy, draped clouds youâd been watching through the window. The hedges create a maze-like design, visited by the birds and the butterflies youâve come to know. Itâs more than you thought you deserved. Miles above anything you thought youâd ever have again, the simplicity of nature. For the first time in years, you think you could cry.Â
Oh, look at that, you are crying. Tears are biting at the waterlines of your eyes and you blink them away, cursing the fact that your view of the front yard is now obscured with a film of misty blur. You strain through the fog to watch the grass sway, the sun paint the old bricks of the mansion in beautiful gold. Itâs so all-consuming that you nearly forget Piotr is there at all until he speaks again.Â
âIt is beautiful day.â
You donât realize that this is the first time you hadnât twitched at the sound of his voice, or hid away from his side. Everything loosens at once, your lungs full, your face warmed by the early sun. You donât even realize that youâre smiling, but Piotr does.Â
âHow does it feel?â He asks, watching you all but melt into a puddle right there on the front steps.Â
You breathe in once, twice, slow, like every inhale could be your last.Â
I LOVE LOVE LOVE Graze the Fire! Please do give yourself flowers because this story has me on a roller coaster of emotions (in the best way!). The gut wrenching angst is TOO good. Like ofc Nathan would right outside of her window only hearing bits and pieces at that exact moment then crashing out in the most extreme way possible đ. Also you made the reader so so strong despite the turmoil, I would have transferred within a week LMAO. I am so frustrated with Nathan but I love him too much đ. Enough of my rambling, this is amazing and you are amazing <3
IM SO GLAD UR ENJOYINGGG
i love torturing my muses and unfortunately nathan is my favorite one so yes, of course hes right outside that window ready to give it all and then boom. LMAO i just cant help myself
i hope you liked the most recent chapter!!! i think we all needed that bandaid
