Frank Langon who will show you off to his friends, telling them, "watch this, they don't cough" as he holds up his weed pen to your mouth, making eye contact with you as you breath in the drug. He smirks as his friends laugh and compliment you, making your head feel fuzzy.
"Good job" "you did so good" "how did you train them" "mine can barely handle one puff"
Frank smirks, letting his friends have you try their pens, getting you all fuzzy and pliable. Frank maneuvers you to be sitting with your back to his chest, holding your thighs open past his thighs.
"Yeah, got the best pussy, lets me play with it whenever. So wet and loud, wanna show them baby? Show them your needy clit?" Frank chuckles as you whine and nod
"Look at them, they're blushing" his friends tease as he slides your pants and underwear down. He uses his index and middle finger to spread open your lips, strings of slick keeping them connected.
You blush and hide your face in frank hoodie. "Dont be shy baby, youre so wet, I know you like it." Which only makes your hole flutter, begging for more.
"Fuck, their clit is so pretty" his friend said as they lean in, pinching the bud, chuckling as you yelps and your hole oozes slick "Yeah you like that?"
"Noooo" you whine but spread your thighs more
"Dont listen to them, they love it when youre mean to their pussy. Fucking soaked, go on touch them" frank said as he holds your thighs open, for all his friends to see.
His friends waste no time prodding and rubbing your pussy. Pinching your clit before rubbing it fast, giving you no time to rest. You can't tell how many hands are on you. Two guys have fingers in you, watching your tight hole suck them in. It feels like three fingers but another guy puts two more in. You're fucking soaked, they won't stop. One guy spits on your clit before rubbing it fast
"Stoppp, m'gunna cummm" you whine out but frank keeps your thighs open as the guys keep going through your orgasm.
Fingers are replaced with tongues and soon enough guys are making out over your clit, taking puffs from their pens and blowing it on your sensitive clit, laughing as it twitches. One tongue on each side rubbing your bud back and forth back and forth. Fingers spreading your open and tongues licking up the slick falling.
TWs: Mention of murder, oblivious/stupid reader (Azriel knows instantly who they talk about, but they don't seem to notice) , Azriel acts nonchalant (they're NOT)
A/N: first smau so it SUCKS and is prolly unrealistic. Please be Indulgent.
overview: despite your complaints, tylers always too soft in you. if he's not going to take initiative, then it seems like you'll have to.
tws: tyler durden himself, not beta read and written at 4 in the morning, please forgive me if it's garbage anon🙏🥹
the day starts off bland, all things considered. a casual day late into the spring,, some light rain that had already eased up in favor of sunshine and a nice breeze. on a day like this, after a rough night prior, tyler was content in lousing lazily on the couch, a cigarette between his fingers and his eyes fixed onto the cheap tv that sat on top of a barely standing table.
you sat on the other side of the couch, legs crossed at the ankles over his lap. you weren't focusing much on the tv, instead droning off into your own thoughts. lately, you had noticed that tyler seemed to.. baby you, for lack of a better word. compared to how he treated his groupies, friends, whatever they were,, he treated you like glass.
it was sweet, but you could take a little roughhousing too. you didn't want to be treated like a baby. you were a grown pup for crying out loud! it starts out small, unnoticeable at first. lightly poking him with your toe, to which he just gives your leg a light pat without looking away from the tv. it only peeves you more, so you give his thigh a rougher nudge with your foot.
finally, he looks over at you, cocking a brow. "what?" you only shrug. when he looks away, you're back at it again, kicking him harder this time. he grabs you by the ankle, jaw twitching as he looks back at you. your expression finally breaks into a smile. his own expression softens upon seeing it. "you play too soft." you say suddenly.
he blinks at you a moment, chin tilting up slightly as he registers the words. "whaddiya mean?" he cracks a slight grin. the grin falters when you somehow manage to launch yourself ontop of him, eyes wide with a toothy grin. you take the cigarette from between the fingers of his far-hand, stubbing it out in the ashtray on the old coffee table. he watches you with a quizzical smile until you take hold of his shoulders, using all your might to send the couch the two of you are on backwards with the both of you rolling away across the floor.
as the two of you come to a halt, his hand is already tucked under your head to keep it from hitting the floor too hard. it was sweet, once you noticed it. but you're quick to refocus yourself, rolling over to straddle him. "you're too easy with me." you complain again. tyler's brows raise slightly, smile remaining easily in place. "what're you on about, huh?" he questions, giving you a light poke in the ribs, to which you squirm slightly.
you grimace, giving his hand a light swat. "I mean, I wanna actually wrestle!" you puff. "without you babying me so much." you declare. tyler snorts at that. "wrestle you?" he began, bringing a hand up to your cheek, thumb swiping underneath your eyes. "aren't you a little too soft for that? your pretty skin'll bruise all nasty." he teased, giving your cheek a light pinch to which your expression contorts yet again. "I'm serious!" you growl, despite how unintimdating you appear. just how could he refuse when you make such cute faces?
in reality, as pretty as he thinks you'd look covered in bruises, especially from him, he can't help being concerned. he tends to get too into fighting sometimes, living proof wandering around the streets right now, on about their normal lives despite their broken bones or busted lips. he didn't want to get in too deep and actually hurt you like that. but you didn't seem like you were backing down anytime soon. he exhaled a loud sigh, the corners of his lips twitching up briefly.
"alright, alright fine. so long as it's just play." he relents with a grin, watching how your eyes shine with excitement. you don't wait much longer than that. no sooner than the words leave his lips, the two of you are rolling all about, elbows pushed into sides with a gentle undertone, palms shoved in faces to make the others head hit the ground. a battle for dominance, a sublte whisper feeds your thoughts, triggering an instinct once dormant.
your eyes flash, and he notices how your movements grow rougher, your hits getting sharper. he's immediately concerned, and goes to say as much, but the moment of weakness becomes your advantage. in the blink of an eye, you've got your legs wrangling his, halfway leaned onto one of his arms with one hand holding down his free wrist, and the other holding his head against the ground. it's an awkward, honestly uncomfortable position, but you maintain it. chest heaving, eyes wide to match his own.
rationality catches back up to you as your grip softens up, hands moving to rest on either side of his head. he grins slightly, and you can already hear his teasing words before he speaks them into existence. "must've been waiting to do that for awhile, huh?" your nose scrunched slightly before relaxing, an awkward smile twisting your lips. "sorry.. I didn't hurt you too bad, did I??" you're quick to start looking him over, pupils shrinking just slightly.
he shook his head with a snort. "I should be asking you that. I'm just fine, baby. promise." he reassures you, the muscles in your shoulders relaxing. after that it's quiet for a few long moments, just the two of you staring at eachother. finally, he brings his hands up to your cheeks, cupping them. you blink once, twice as you watch him close. he tilts your head down slightly, giving you a soft kiss on the forehead.
you smile to yourself a second, that expression immediately replaced with surprise as you jolt back. "you bit me!" you yelp, eyes wide. he snickered. "what, like it's the first time?" he teased, hands moving to rest on your waist. "my forehead, you bit my forehead!" you're absolutely baffled. your reaction only causes him to laugh more, your cheeks flustering as a low growl leaves you.
"weirdo." your grumble in complaint. his laughter eases up into a light grin, shifting slightly underneath. "alright, cmon, down boy!" he jokingly commands. "I'm squished under here." he complains, despite easily lifting you up off of him as he sits up. "yeah, yeah." your reply, equally sassy as you pull yourself up off the ground, him standing beside you a moment later. you intertwine your fingers with his and he pulls you close, ruffling your hair because he knows it gets on your nerves only to give you a small peck on the side of your face afterwards.
again, sorry if this is super bad!! I wasn't sure if you wanted like hybrid!reader or just like, puppycoded!reader, and I also didnt know which version of tyler you meant so I went most popular.. realizing now I could've asked before writing but what's done is done.. 🥹
Saw a clip of Djo crawling on the floor while on stage . . . Now I can’t stop thinking about Kurt crawling on the floor whimpering while staring at your heat, you’re on his bed, legs spread wide displaying your most intimate parts. Kurt is crawling towards you, shirt off, hair messy, drool pooling at his lips, once he breaches you he flops down in-front of your crotch, nestling his face into your thigh seeking comfort from you. You lean down and rub the side of his face-petting your sickeningly sweet boy. Kurt whines as he rubs his face on you, his tongue darts out to lick your thigh up and down. You moan under his tongue calling him a good boy. Kurt finally reaches down to your crotch licking slow strokes onto your heat.
Idk, should I make this an entire oneshot orrrrr. . .
Ghosts in Our Faces
(Harry Wells x Nonbinary Reader)
Request from Infinity77
It’s the staring that gets to you. Not the barbed comments, the irritation in his voice, or him recoiling from your presence. It’s when he thinks you’re not looking, so he stares.
It must be the body, something in the brain. Thawne had done it too. You hadn’t thought much of it then, knowing how he let his own thoughts simmer in that time. But now…It makes your skin crawl.
You can’t help but snap back at Harry. The tension of those moments builds, every extended second he stares, simmering under the surface. It’s not like he’s overly rude to you in comparison to the others. But there’s an added distance, which somehow hurts more.
Part of you wants to ask him why he stares. Why he hates everything so much. But the other part of you knows doing so will unearth something sharp and painful. So, you ignore it.
You bring him coffee the way he likes, and he seems surprised the first time you do. But at the same time…not surprised at all. He bites out something about you standing around like an idiot, and the moment passes.
One night, you have to turn back to the lab after realizing you forgot your phone. The halls are dark. You hear music playing faintly ahead. It stops you in your tracks. The song is familiar, something Harry had once called “grating noise.” You creep into the lab entrance and peer inside.
There, working by the light of a desk lamp, sits Harry Wells. It wasn’t your imagination. He’s listening to that song you’ve been playing on repeat for the past month. You smile and creep away.
Searching the rest of the place for your phone turns out to be futile. You sweat a little as you realize you’ll have to check the lab Harry’s in. Upon returning, you linger in the doorway for another moment, putting off the inevitable awkwardness. You don’t know why, but going in there feels more intimate than what you’re prepared for.
Before you can so much as clear your throat, Harry holds up your phone without turning around.
“Forgetting something?”
Awkward. “Yeah, thanks,” you answer, striding over to take it.
He still doesn’t move even as it leaves his hand. Silence stretches between you.
Something pushes you to ask, finally, “Did I do something to piss you off?”
Harry pauses and turns his head a fraction to look at you from the side. “Did you do something to piss me off?” he parrots, tone near incredulous. “No. Now get out of here and go home.” He goes back to his work like that’s the end of the conversation.
Irritation flares in your chest. “Who says I’m going home?” you ask.
He doesn’t acknowledge your words, but you see him stiffen up. You push again.
“I have other things to do besides going from work to home and home to work.”
Harry finally responds, setting his tool on the table with a little too much force. “It would be stupid not to go home considering what we’re facing.” He turns to face you. You feel a spark of victory, consequences be damned.
“We’re always facing something. I can’t stop living for every threat,” you shoot back.
That seems to strike a nerve. Harry shoots to his feet. He tries to compose himself, holding his hands out like a plea, then covering his mouth. He fails and grabs both your arms.
“You will. You will if we don’t get Zoom. Why don’t you understand?” He shakes you once, like maybe that’ll get the idea through. “He will kill you.”
You stare at him in shock. Never has Harry willingly made contact with you. “He could kill any of us,” you answer.
Something flickers in Harry’s eyes. He shakes his head, the smallest of movements. “No, it’s not—” He releases you but keeps looking at your face like he’ll find an answer there. Moments pass without anything being said. Harry finally seems to realize the answer he’s searching for doesn't exist. He turns and falls back into his seat. Another moment, then—
“You knew me. In my world, you knew me.”
Your heart drops at his confession. Knew. Past tense.
“I’m dead there.”
He winces, squeezes his eyes shut. You both let the words hang.
At last, you know what has to be said.
“It wasn’t me. Like you’re not this world’s Wells or…” You hesitate. “Or Thawne.”
He looks up. “Oh, but you are. In pieces at least. I’m sure I’m like this world’s Wells in pieces too.”
You can’t deny that.
“Their ghost looks at me through your eyes,” he says, and an arrow seems to pierce your heart. You know the feeling. The lingering looks, Wells—Thawne—haunting the room.
You let out a long breath and nod, propping yourself up against the table next to Harry. “I see ghosts too.”
Harry folds over, head in his hands. You aren’t sure what to do, so you awkwardly place a hand on his shoulder and squeeze. A minute or two passes. He finally lifts his head, and you see his face is damp.
“You’re right,” he says suddenly. “They would’ve told me that things would be okay. You know better.”
You let your hand fall from his shoulder, mulling that over. Finally, you respond, “Things can be okay. I have to believe that. But…I won’t try to comfort you for my own sake.”
Harry stares at you, appearing to have a revelation. “You won’t try to save me?” he asks.
You blink. Oh. Oh. So that’s what happened.
You fix him with a level look. “I can’t save you if I can’t save myself, Harry.”
The tension finally frees itself from his body. He leans back, for the first time, looking at you like he actually wants to. You give him a tired smile. Understanding at last.
Another beat passes. “You know,” he begins. “If I hadn’t met my wife, I might have accepted your proposal.”
“Aaaaand, that’s deeper than I want to go,” you say, putting up a pretense of disinterest for both your sakes. Harry turns around to hide the small quirk of his mouth.
“Good. Now go,” he says, shooing you off. You leave with a spring in your step.
At least nothing changed too much between you. You strongly suspect Harry was joking about the proposal. He did that thing he does with his voice whenever he’s taking the piss. Still…you can’t deny that the idea of proposing to him…well.
Additional Tags: AFAB | Assigned Female at Birth Reader-Insert, Nonbinary Reader-Insert, Human Alastor (Hazbin Hotel), Serial Killer Alastor (Hazbin Hotel), Age Difference, Alastor is on the Asexuality Spectrum (Hazbin Hotel), Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Sexism, 1940s, Misgendering, Gender Dysphoria, No Use of Y/N for Reader-Insert, POV Second Person, Reader has a complicated relationship with faith, No beta as author isn’t sure where you find one, Prequel Other Additional Tags to Be Added.
Language: English
Ao3 Link Prev Chapter
Taglist: @hsjdhehsjssj [I wasn't sure If you wanted to be tagged in the prequel, if not please tell me and I'll remove it!]
Chapter 2: Stepping Stone
At times when you recall the night of your great escape, the chill lingers, raising goosebumps on your skin.
Maybe that’s why you rode the line until it was sweltering, unbearably so.
Until it was so vastly different from that bitter, dark place, that the memory could fade into a warm haze.
Louisiana was a warm place, so warm, so unbearably warm. Humidity so thick that sweat clings like a second skin.
Yet you adore it, warmth, all you’ve ever wanted was warmth. Warm indeed, you’ve settled in a warm place, New Orleans.
A city of warmth, of drinks that burn the throat, of music that sounds through the streets. It’s a sensory overload at times, but somewhere, you prefer it.
In your mind, where shadowed thoughts were better locked in little boxes. This city that shined like the sun in the night, became noise you were grateful for.
Leaving everything you’ve ever known with little more than five dollars and half a loaf of bread?
Definitely not advisable in most situations, but necessary given the circumstances.
There was little planning for your impromptu exit. Surprisingly, you left filling out the details as you went.
Two years. It had been two years since you’d arrived in New Orleans. It was a rough go of it at first, and yet, somehow it still proved easier than home.
Be it by keeping your head down, taking whatever work you could get, something resembling a little life started to form.
No life lives without its hiccups, but where it’s warm, well, you might just subsist. Get lost in the swing of things, forget what you are, even if for just a moment.
A wrong woman, in that regard, this place isn’t much different. There are still eyes, always eyes, with their darkened glances.
Less now, after all, still a lot, but less that could actually do anything about it. For now, in some sense, they tolerated you.
Turns out when you have a labor shortage of young men, you’re forced to hire whoever remains.
Yes, you think you wouldn’t have gotten this opportunity otherwise. Standing here, old pine paneling in this man’s office, while he rambles on.
You’re sure he had a point between explaining what you’d be doing as a technician and his disparaging comments toward those of the fairer sex.
“Now, have you got all that sweetheart? We run a tight ship around here.” It hadn’t been noticeable before, but boy howdy, what a punchable face this guy had.
“For the most part,” noncommittal and even less convincing apparently, Mr. Anderson remains unimpressed.
Mr. Anderson, what can you say about the station owner? He’s entirely unremarkable, an aging man in an ill-fitting suit.
You think he sort of resembles one of those art deco lamps. Large and round in the middle, with a skinny base, big feet.
There’s a smile, it takes little to call one upon your lips. What a fun image. It makes one wonder if the boring bastard glows a soft red like an incandescent lightbulb when he’s flustered.
“I’m going out on a limb, hiring you. You best do your job and don’t interrupt the men. You keep out of sight, out of mind. I want not a peep outta you.”
Eyes would be rolling if he wasn’t watching you like a hawk. Slowly, with a nod of your head, he seemed satisfied.
Following your dismissal from the big man’s office, you exhaled. Quite the feat, not getting fired yet, a new personal best!
How rude, first day on the job and you’re already being hit with the glass ceiling. When the war started two years ago, things changed.
Before, if you’d been wearing trousers, some god-fearing churchgoer probably would have called for a public stoning.
You’re exaggerating a bit. After all, it was never god, if he did exist, that you had an issue with. At least, in theory, religion has and quite really never will be your thing.
Upon arriving two years ago, for the first time in your 20 years on earth, 2 decades, you wore a pair of trousers.
It was love. If there was any definition of love, it would be you and that dusty, unflattering pair of trousers you put on.
Priests had the word of god, politicians had their lies, you had a pair of trousers. Seriously, if the war ever ends no one, and you mean no one, will ever put you back in a skirt.
The current establishment can pull them from your cold, dead corpse. It was instant, like a soothing hug after years and years of isolation.
Changes in acceptable clothing aside, you had a station to learn front to back. Instructions clearly laid out, keep your head down, shut up, stay out of their way.
It’s entirely too bad that fate seemed to have it out for you the moment you stepped foot into his orbit.
He came into your life, wings fluttering softly, like a butterfly. An interaction so faint, so small, one couldn’t fathom the effect there and then.
Alastor.
It must have been half past midnight, bleeding into one when you met the ‘Toast of New Orleans’.
Hunched over a mic, shoulders stiff, foot tapping a number you’d heard earlier. Never were much of a musical talent, with a voice that could make flowers wilt.
Even still, a voice hummed, a foot tapped. A mic and a quiet space as your audience. At least, what you thought had been the quiet, until the quiet spoke back.
“How strange, I don’t believe we’ve met, and who might you be?” A voice that envelops the room, demands, no compels it to listen.
Listen it did, as your head tilted ever so slightly up, to meet the warmest eyes. Eyes that you could swear burned, scalded your skin, almost painfully.
Warm, burning brown eyes, hidden behind round silver frames. Eyes that you stared back into, frozen solid, for nearly 10 minutes straight.
Something akin to a chuckle rumbled out of his chest, as a face came far too close to yours.
“Now my dear, I promise I don’t bite, not the new hires, anyway.” He lits in a patronizing fashion, as two fingers pushed up under your chin, closing your jaw.
Briefly heat builds up at the base of your neck, embarrassment crossing clear as day. You really just dropped your jaw at a random man, goodness.
“I’m not from down here...” It’s choked out, face still slightly warm.
A brow raised, a hand offered out, which you take him up on. Pulled to your feet, he spins you round, nodding to himself.
“I haven’t seen you up here either!” Oh, you’re going to clobber this man, once you get your bearings.
Eyes crinkled at the corners, boyish smile in full view...you put off clobbering him. Even as something about this perfect stranger screams danger, you can’t help but feel, almost disoriented?
“Now, jokes aside, I’m Alastor, one of the hosts! Who might you be darlin’? I could have sworn I met all the secretaries!”
Instantly, any charm you felt toward the man died, as you’re reminded, of course, that he’s a man. Although, retrospectively, most women employed here were in fact working clerical positions, so it wasn’t like he intended it that way.
Sure as hell didn’t stop you from taking offense though. He seemed to pick up on the shift, blinking slowly.
“I’m sensing I made an error of some kind. Would you correct me then, dear?” Taking on a softer tone, Alastor moves back a hare to give you space.
“The new technician... I’m — I’m the new technician, I mean.” It’s rough, comes out in broken sentences.
You’re not even sure why, something about this bastard just makes your stomach feel nervous. It’s like his eyes follow your every movement, like you’re being peeled back layer by layer.
The host gets a look in his eyes, amusement crossed with the thinnest veil of sadism. A sense of mortal dread curls up in your chest like a dead rat stuck in the wall.
“So you’re the little mouse that’s been scurrying around!” Again with that warm rumble from his chest, faint scent of cinnamon and something spiced.
Alastor steps close again, arm casually coming round your shoulder. “I was wondering why my new tech hadn’t dropped by. Oh darlin’, Anderson probably scared you off, didn’t he? Old bastard, and I’m old, but him? He’s a real piece of work!”
You’re walking, he’s walking, you’re being lead. This should raise alarms, but you just follow anyway.
The older man chats your ear off, regretfully you aren’t listening, given your heads in dreamland. Entirely too many things are happening, from his touch, to his voice, to his smell.
Too much, it’s too much, you need—
“Oh my, are you alright dear?”
Upon the sudden stop, you ram straight into his back. A pained wheeze leaves him, hand coming to rub the lower half.
“Fuck — I’m sorry,“ a hiss, then a choked noise that sounded like a decompressing balloon, because yes, you just cursed at your boss.
He stiffens, glancing back at you over his shoulder, before biting his cheek. It’s subtle, his shoulders shaking as he brings a hand to cover his mouth.
“PfT...pftttt...ha...dear lord, aren’t we both a mess today?” Wheezing, let the moment pass with that gentle snicker, you can’t help but join.
“Alright, Alright, at least let this old man seem a LITTLE professional in the workplace. If you keep cracking me up this badly, I might have to file a complaint with HR!” Alastor huffed, all in good fun, as he tugged the lapels of his striped suit jacket straight.
Rating:
Mature
Archive Warning:
No Archive Warnings Apply
Categories:
GenM/MF/M
Fandom:
Hazbin Hotel (Cartoon)
Relationships:
Alastor (Hazbin Hotel)/ReaderAlastor (Hazbin Hotel) & Reader
Characters:
Alastor (Hazbin Hotel)Reader
Additional Tags:
AFAB | Assigned Female at Birth Reader-InsertNonbinary Reader-InsertHuman Alastor (Hazbin Hotel)Serial Killer Alastor (Hazbin Hotel)Age DifferenceAlastor is on the Asexuality Spectrum (Hazbin Hotel)Period Typical AttitudesPeriod-Typical Sexism1940sMisgenderingGender DysphoriaNo Use of Y/N for Reader-InsertPOV Second PersonReader has a complicated relationship with faithNo beta as author isn’t sure where you find onePrequelOther Additional Tags to Be Added
Language:English
Ao3 Link Next Chapter!
Taglist: @hsjdhehsjssj [I wasn't sure If you wanted to be tagged in the prequel, if not please tell me and I'll remove it!]
Chapter 1: Freight
Louisiana was a stark contrast to the north, with the clinging humidity and perpetual sunshine. Trade a lifetime of that New England grey, for something thrumming, colorful with every exhale.
You would be glad if you never had oysters again, overjoyed.
Even something as mundane as washing dishes, it was you who chose to cut the water on, you who meticulously dried and organized each piece.
Steps taken, all your own, the destination, yours to define. Every intoxicating choice, entirely up to you. What a novel concept, as though for once, only you had a say in your life.
Two years, two years since uncertainty spread across the nation. War had a way of uniting the populace behind a star-spangled banner of patriotism.
Ironically, strife gave way to incredibly fleeting opportunities. Which is how a unruly, dull ‘thing’ like you slipped through the cracks.
Certainly, you were told you were a woman, you don’t feel like one. What, 22 odd years, and it still feels as though you were a head stitched onto a stranger's body.
Life on autopilot, never quite daring to linger in one moment too long. Time overstayed invited thoughts that you thought were better shoved into locked, little boxes.
Too many questions brought the ire of strangers, eyes dark, blurred with a single-minded hatred toward the unknown.
A life spent lying, two faces, one for the world; one for the pages inbetween. Written in the margins, so one might remember they ever existed at all.
It festered quietly at first, nothing more than a shadow licking at your heels. Slowly, each year, that shadow crept up and up till it consumed. Centipedes scurrying under your skin, writhing, in the wrongness of it all.
You were told, told so many times, that you were a woman. It was biological, you were made this way, it was god’s design. All your answers could be found in the battered, bound leather of a preacher's bible.
Wrong, you were a wrong woman. No one would vocalize it, oh how they wouldn’t dare, but hushed whispers and your mother’s tears said enough.
To little reprimanding in your youth, ‘how could you let her play in mud so long?’. Clearly, it was because your upbringing was too relaxed, too much freedom, not enough direction, ‘the poor girl was socialized like a man, how could we blame her?’.
Talks, lectures, interventions, nothing seemed set to save your soul. Truly a great sin, to be a woman playing at being a man.
Talks turned into counseling, hosted in the chilly, sterile smelling office of a man who looked like a caricature of Freud.
Hours passing like trying to escape quicksand. Each answer given seemed to sink you deeper into the black hole of his questions.
Flipping, treating the sessions like criminal interrogations one moment, before whipping around and speaking as though you were a helpless child.
Often, the only thing he left you with was a growing sense of frustration, simmering low in your stomach.
He never provided a name for what was ‘wrong’ with you, though, happily he’d already signed the order to have you institutionalized.
Devastated, your mother had been inconsolable. Whispers turned to pitying condolences, swathes of ‘The poor darling’ or ‘I can’t imagine’.
Pity, you quickly learned; you hated even more than loathing.
Loathing implied you were a person worth hating, an individual. Pity, you likened, was being reduced to a thought, in and out of a mind as quickly as it came.
You were no passing thought, no fleeting ember to be dumped in a house of horrors. For every wrong woman, every unfortunate child, every soul that would meet that fate, you promised you’d do your worst.
Winter was bad that year, bitter with a windchill that set bone deep. Clutching the coat to your chest did little to help, but there were more pressing matters.
Dead of night, darker than tar, foot falls crunching fresh snow into mud under foot. You ran, ran like hell through the backwoods behind what had never been home.
Didn’t matter how many times branches caught that coat, how many times thorns dug into skin. Blindly, you ran like life on earth depended on it.
Trains crossed frequently, more than ever since the war had started. Fate, laid in the railroad's tracks, if they’d bless you with an evening freight.
Freedom would be the pitch black interior of a metal cargo container, on a ride where there was no defined end destination.
It came down the line, hollering, louder than nails on a chalkboard. Deafening, all senses lost; you ran aside yourself, taking that leap despite the risks.
Safety, the first relative safety you’d felt in years, came in the form of that pitch-black cargo container.
For all the bitter cold and bone deep chills, you were safe.
Safe, safe in the emptiness of a moving train that surged onward, to a destination unknown.
