Thomas cries a lot.
He's always been sensitive, every since he was a kid. The names other kids and hell, even adults called him cut deep every time he heard them.
Idiot.
Monster.
Freak.
Tears pluck at his brown eyes harshly as the majority of the schoolyard torments him, the teachers turning blind eyes to the mistreatment, too busy making their own comments about his mother and family to intervene.
"S-Stop--!" He hiccups, hands desperately covering his face as he shakes against the metal fence, "G-Give it back!"
"Come get it, Freak!" The little boy taunts him, holding the mask Thomas' mother made for him high in the air, the group of children around him erupting in laughter.
"HEY! What the hell's goin' on over here!?" Hoyt hollers as he yanks the bully up by his wrist, the kids mocking laughter interrupted as they scatter, "What the hell's wrong with you, boy!? Did your Daddy raise you to take shit that ain't yours!?"
Hoyt plucks the mask from the kid's hand as he shakes his head, wide eyed and scared at being caught red handed.
"That's what I thought, so why don't you scatter before I give him a call and tell him what the hell you've been doin'."
"Yes, sir!" The kid darts as soon as Hoyt lets him go.
"Little shit." Hoyt mutters, kneeling down to help Thomas put his mask back on, "Now, I done told you, Tommy, you can't cry everytime one of those little bastards says some shit to you. Man up, you're too damn old for all that whinin'..."
Thomas nods, wiping the tears from his red eyes as Hoyt takes him back to the truck.
Man up...
Man up...
That's what Hoyt and Monty always told him, their words not much kinder and cutting even deeper as they picked at him everytime he cried.
Over the years the tears eventually turned to anger, and isolation. Hiding himself away from everyone and everything around him, protecting himself from from harsh world around him.
...And then there was you.
Sweet, excitable, gentle you.
"...Tommy...!" Your voice is tired and sweet, clearly having just woken up when Thomas came in the room.
He watches as you stretch, waking up a bit more as you look up at him, a small smile on your face.
He's tired. It's written on his face, eyes droopy and shoulders slumping, standing over the bed, looking down at you.
"C'mere." You reach for him, hands grasping as you gesture for him to climb in bed.
He does as he's told, climbing under the covers and into your arms, melting into your warmth as he lays on top of you.
"Mmm..." You hum, relaxing as your arms wrap around him, your hands running up and down his back, sending shivers up his spine, "...My Thomas..."
He sighs at your words, melting even further against you as your hands gain rhythm and begin rubbing his aching muscles, working up and down his shoulders and back as he buries his face in your neck.
You lean your head against his, the smell of the shampoo you bought for him filling your nose as you continue rubbing his back, "...I love you..."
The arms around your waist tighten as he presses further into you, completely engulfing you in his presence.
How?
How is it possible for you to love him so incredibly, and so deeply that he doesn't even need to hear those words to know their truth? How could you possibly break down every piece of him, every broken part and hideous truth and still make him feel like the only thing that matters in the world?
You can feel him start to shake. He's been working so hard, for so long. He's exhausted, and worn down. His body is scarred and calloused. His mind is weary and weak.
And every insult, every hit, every bad thing that he's ever gone through was worth it, if it means he can feel this loved for the rest of his life.
You feel his tears before you see them, the quiver in his shoulders, the hiccups in your ear as he tries to hold it back.
"Oh, Tommy..." You mutter, kissing his hair as you rub his back, "It's okay, sweetheart, you can cry, I've got you..."
And for the first time in a long time, he does.
He cries into your shoulder, a shaking and sobbing mess as you patiently hold him through it, running your hands through his hair and rubbing his back as you coax him.
"There we go..." You coo as he pulls back, holding his face in your hands while you kiss his tear stained cheeks, his mask long forgotten before he climbed into bed, "Do you feel better, love?"
He nods, letting out a deep sigh as he relaxes against you again, feeling more relief than he has in years.
"Good..."
...Thomas cries a lot. After years of believing he was never good enough to be loved, of believing his place was being locked away in the basement, forever shielding himself from the world that hated him, he was proven wrong by a single person who loves him more than every good thing put together.
And that thought alone brings tears to his eyes.
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I'm thinking about His Dark Materials again. Specifically the societal quirks that Lyra's world has as a result of everyone having their soul manifested outside their body in the form of dæmons. It's one of the most fascinating examples of worldbuilding I've come across tbh
Some of my most favourite tidbits:
Dæmons are named by the dæmons of the child's parents
It's taboo to touch another person's dæmon, but this is learnt, not instinctual
Children often settle arguments through their dæmons, with one accepting the dominance of the other (eg. Pan hissing at Annie's fox daemon in the first book to get her to back down)
The fact that people can tell when someone lacks a daemon even though they can be hidden out of sight (like a mouse in your pocket)
To the inhabitants of Lyra's world, looking at someone without a dæmon is like looking at someone without a head
These extra pieces of lore just make the world seem so magical but believable at the same time
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Thinking about Dream/ the Endless and their shitty parents and it got me thinking about some absurd situation where Dream somehow gets turned into a literal child. He gets dropped on Hob's doorstep while other folks look for a solution, and Hob is over the goddamn moon to see tiny Dream, but he learns very quickly that tiny Dream is, in fact, a menace. But not for the reasons he would have suspected.
Dream is very much a neglected child. Hob constantly finds him climbing up dangerous surfaces to get something he wants because it doesn't even occur to him to ask Hob for help. He hoards anything he can get his tiny hands on because best case scenario he'll never be given anything ever again and worst case scenario it'll be taken away from him. He gets upset when Hob pays attention to him because he doesn't know what to DO, he knows how to take care of himself, he knows how to be ignored, he knows how to be scolded or punished, but Hob just sits with him and asks him questions or offers to play and Dream is so confused it makes his child emotions go haywire.
Hob is very sad, and loves Dream very much, so he spends a few days pouring all his love and care into this child, and then once he has adult Dream back he keeps doing it, because that little kid is still in there somewhere, and he needs all the hugs he can get and Hob is more than happy to give it to him.
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