#it was hardly legible

[wonjns]

just had to go back and fix so many typos on that haowin fic… geez ion even know how u guys read the bs i be posting 😭

no more writing past 2 am for me

[meamiki]

[reverse entry AU]

so glad the work week is over!

no more meetings!

what do you mean its only tuesday.

[hana-bobo-finch]

i randomly thought of this yesterday but it seemed in character so

warren. dingo’s new nickname is warren

[fruitsyrups]

peeby

[of-pale]

After the twins return from the Underworld, Vergil needs time to acclimatise himself to living a somewhat normal life. One of the skills he’s forced to relearn is basic writing; the guy literally hasn't held a pen in decades! Without a doubt Vergil gets extremely frustrated while practising writing again since his handwriting does not meet the ‘good’ or ‘acceptable’ standard he's set for himself. Still it's probably miles better than Dante's handwriting.

Vergil: “Anyone with a foot could forge the scrawl that passes as your signature.”

Dante: “Then forge away, I don't care.”

Vergil: “I won't allow you to shirk your responsibilities. Now sign these papers before you actually have to use your foot to do so.”

[dermyartsz]

Noone!

So, recently, I listened to the Sounds of Nightmares podcast (a little late, I know, but still better than never) and I have become obsessed.

(P.s. If you're wondering what the scrawls read, I was just speculating what hair-do Noone carries. In the end, I do think they're pigtails but I drew her with short hair because it's recognisable.)

Also side note, when do you guys think the podcast is set?

-The modern-day or perhaps sometime during the 1900s...

[butchkaramazov]

what even is this

[arachnoheaux]

" Ẏ̷̛̛̛̽̀̈̅̏̋̓͐̐͐̿̄͂̋̉̈̆̈͊̆͛̊̄͂̀̊̎̇̍̅̄͌̓͌̎̈͂͂̌̎̈́̾̇͑͑̋̇̉̋͌͛̅̾͐̒̽͆͒̎͊̍̈̀̽̐͆̾̂͛̈́̇͊̐̐̈͑͆̂̈́͋̄̎̆̋̽̊̊̄̊̿̂͊́͑̑͂̃̇̀̊̀̉̌̍̒̔́̈́̌͛̈́̐͆͆̅̐͑̐̉̆̋͊̈́̃͋̈́́̄̑̾́̀͌͗̾͌̚̚̕̕̕̚̕̕̕͘͝͝͝͠͝͝͝͝͝͝͝͝͝��̡̡̛̘̮͈̘̖͔̙̫͙̞̭̤̗̜̭̩͔͖͉̳̰͇͚͉͍͓͙̦͉̈̓̂̾͆͗͐́͂̿̈̔̓͂̆̈́̂̉̔̏͂̈͐͆̾͗̀̀̍͆͆̉̏͗̒͐̂̿̐̇̍̀̃̕̚̚͘͘̚͠͝͠͝͝͠͝͝ͅǫ̷̡̨̧̨̨̢̨̨̨̧̧̨̡̡̨̧̨̢͉̻͚̻̠̗̬̤͙̘͖̦̰͍̬̹̝̞̞͍̼̩͚̟͙̖͈̻̩̼͇̜̼͉̘̦͔͚͖̪̳̺̟͉̝̥͔͕̹̰̘͖̞͉̭̥̖̭̮̰̠̮͖̺̳̫̮̪̰̮̺̝͇̟̙͈̞̰͕̹̠̲̙̮̜̖̹̥̩̮̤̼̫̝̖̦̩͉̣͚̞͕͇̖̰̮̠͓͎͔̰̠̝̱̞̟̼̳̫̻̩̫̘̬̩̥̯̥̜̫͙̺̭͙̦͔̟͇͚̹͕̣̣͈̖̠̺̬̪̟̭͉̟͎̻͇̼͎̖̲̠͈̠̮͍̟̩͓̣͇͖̯̯̟̗͖̪̹̺̙̺̱̘̺̗͕̦͇̜̗̗̟̪̮̜̥̰͙̟̬̬̟̥͖̺̦̞̳̝̦̯͈̣̭̩̰̠̯̙̮̤̜̹͈̮̯̟̫͈͔̻̠̜̹̥̤͙̹̹̺̬̈͛͆͑̉̉̾̊̎̃̑̇̏̆̾̆̓̔̒̽̈́̅̃̒̓̈̊̽́̀̓̍̅̃͂͆̐̓̐́͗̽̊͌͛́̈́͂̊́͆̈́̍̾̔̐̄̑̒̋̚̚̕͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͠͝͠͝ͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅų̷̨̨̢̧̧̢̢̧̛̛̛̛̲͚̹̞͈̟̣̙͇̜͉̯̺͕̯̝̤̩̘̱͈̤̙̰͙̭̤̱̻͓͇͖͇̪͔̭͚̮̥̮͈͖̳͎͚̭͔̹̜͖̦̬̟̬͙̖̘̭͕͐̏̽̉͂̎̉̾́̎̋̑͋̾̔̒̊̈́̄̉̑̈́̑̒̓̒̉͊̎̐̏͑͐̓̊͊̈̈̎̂͒̔͂̔̿̃̐̀̈̎̏̓̈́̾̈̉͗͂͒̐́̏͛͒̈́̈̏̑̀̈́͌̈́̾̌̑͆̅͌̃̿͊̊̉̀̎͐̈́͂̍̽̎͌̑̾̿̔̐̿̆͛̿̂̍̎̓̍͒̃̊̀͂̔͋̐͊̀͑͐̎̽̊̉͆̐̓̇̀̚͘̚̚͘̕̚̚͘͘͝͠͝͠͠͝͠͝͝͠͠ ̸̨̨̨̨̛̙̤̩̜̝̟̲̞͉̭͚̞̜̘̭̤̙͓̱̻̖͍̲͓̱͓̦͔̙̗̘̭̺͖͙̭̜͉̙̬̗̫̜͍̠͇̺̹̯͓̘̣̼͇̥͙̖̹̫̞̹̲̘̺̯̠̹̼̩̈̏̓͂̾̋́̈́̀̀͌̿͆̈́͛͊̋͗̄̈̈́͗̎́̕͘͜͜͝W̵̡̧̧̛̛̛̛̺͓͚͎͇͈̳̰͎̟̗̱̙̜̟̣̗̖͎̬͖͙̩̥̪̣̟̣̟̜̙̘̲̦̝̫̭̥̹͔̲̲͇̓̂̄͆̽̈̈́̎͗̇̃͒̉͑̂̍̒̋̅̔̎́͛̏̀̈́̊́̂́̏͊͒̄͌̊̅̔̐̿͂͐͆͗̊͂̔̏̏͂̀̓̾̃́̒́͆̎̊̃̅͐̈́̿̈́̑̉̽̂́͒͋͐͋̾̊̌̃̈̉̒̓̃̏͗̒̐̂̈́̊͐̄̆͒̈́̓̋́͌́̀̾͛̿̏̄͆̈́̇̉͂͊̒̽͆͒͑͗͆́̈̋̇̇̆̑̓̄͐̾̄̒̓̌̉̊̔͑̎̀̋̒̈́̀̓̅̔͊̃̈́̂̿͊̕̚̕̕̚̕͘͘͘̕͘͘͘̕͜͠͝͝͝͠͝͠͠͠͝͝͝͠ͅͅH̷̛͎͈̺̻̝̙͇͈̳͚̘͎̺̓̇̏̿̈͛͒̔̇͛̀̒̉̔̆̽̈́̈́̾͌̔̐͛͊͒͊͆̍̄̈́̈́̑̓̋̅̏̀́̃͐̂̇͋̿̀͂̽̈̊́̀͌̓̓̽́̾̽͊̉̒̓͑̋̅̊͐͌͆͐̾͂̿̓̓͊̀͒̃̀̐̄̾̿͗̀͛̏̊͂̎͆́̄̇́̇̒̍͒͗͑̈́̂͌̍͋͒̃͐̒͊͂̓̅͌̀̀̽̉̾̓̋̄̉̓͋͐̌͑̇͗̀̔̕͘͘̕͘͘͘̚̕͠͠͝͠͝͠͠͝͠͠͠͝͝͝ͅ��̢̡̧̨̢̨̡̧̡̨̨̢̢̢̧̢̡̡̢̨̢̡̧̢̢̧͓͖̩̪͕͔̫̳͈̻͉͚͇̥̞̜̪̯̩͈̮͎̖̗͈͓͚̩̬̯͙͕̱̭͈͙͈͍̭̳͓͙̜̫͚͖͖̲͉̼̖̤͕̯̘̰͚̹̬̤̘̻̥̣̙̭̣̺̮̫̯͕̟̞̯̭̰̬̖͔̰̱̘̙͎̹̼̹͔̭̠͎͚̙̩̤̗̖͇͓̫͍̥̱͔̲̮͇͙̖͈̞͓͍̮̩͉͔̦̤̭̰͇̹̳̥͇̱̣͎̩̱̺̞̙̝̮̞̟̻͕̰̪̮͈̬̹̞̣̗̩̬̘̭̩͎̖̥̯͔͈͓̫̫͇̯͎̮̝͈͖͍̥̼̞̬̱̭͚͎̟̟̮̪̟̣̰̦̫̰̣͈͍̬̫͓̲̖̱̙̠̠͔̯͇̠͙̱̣͓̜̫̙̜̬̻̫̟̼̯͔̰̦̲̦͚̪̝̖̙̠͇͜͜͜͜͜ͅͅͅͅͅͅA̵̡̢̡̧̡̧̢̢̠̤̜̼͍̟̞̘̮͙̲̘̻̜̞͓̘̯̩͈̲̜̱̱̳̮̥͖͍̹̥͎̦̤͙̠͎͈̯͔͚͍̮̩̭͓͍̤̮͕̳̰̪͍̠͔͚̭̪̼͓̻̠͖̟̭̙̫͖̤͖͉̗̺͇̥̰̩̜̭̤͕̠̭̝̩͓̺̪̮͖͙̠̝̺̖̬̲̻͉͈̘͂͋̆͐̾̋̑̇̈̆̍̏̑̽̍̊̂̾́̆̑̈͛̓͜͜͜͜͜͜͠͝ͅͅͅT̶̢̡̢̧̧̢̡̧̨̢̡̡̢̢̡̡̨̡̧̛̛̛̛̛̳̳̝̙̞̪̟̮̠̰͎̹̣̲͕̹̪̰̣̼͕͉̘̟̝̩̯̤̳̻͙̜̫̟̗͖̭͈̭̘̜̝͉͔͍̦͖͍̯̘͕̟̻͖͚͎̖̳͙̺̭̲͉͉̲̟̻̝͔̤̹̺̹̪̮̙̠̝̖̼͓͍̬̲̗͚̫͔̥̹͓̼͙̦͔̞̦̭̩̙̙͓̦̹̘̭͇̺̟̗͖̦͔̗̠͕͇͇̟̺̠͓̼͇̠͔̫͎̟̟̯̯̝̖͉̎͊̀̃̓́̊͗̒̔̎́̀̀̎̇̿̈́͆̑̑̓̾̋̌͋̓̂̿͐̆͐̇̽͌̂̇̌̓̂́̓̆̓̌͂̅͊̿̅͆̆͒̃́͂͛̆̓͒̒̊̾͐̐̿̈́̈́̒̈́͗̄̄̾̅̉̊̂̽̊͊̇̅͛͐̈͑͛̎̐̈͐̅͊͂̑̀͊̓̔̃͐͊̈̉̐̉̊̒̓̔̀̂̓̏̔͋̎̀̓͑͌͐̔̅͛̐̋̋̇̎͆̋̓̀͌́̔͑̓̅̋̆̃̅̏̋̈́̈́̑̾̎͗͗̀̽̎̈̀́͐͌̂͐́͊̈́̅̈̆͌̏́̉͋͆͌̌͑̂̾̽̌̔͂̍͛̓͛̾̋̓͂̊̏̽̄̔̋͂̌́̉́͂̌͘̕̕̕͘̚͘̕̕͘̚̕̕̚͜͜͝͠͠͝͠͝͝͝͝͠͠͝͝͠͠͠͝͠ͅͅͅ?̴̨̧̧̧̡̡̢̧̨̨̡̨̛̛̛̛̛̛̣͍͖̦̼͙͙͖͈̯̝̻̬͉̳̹̰͍̞̣̝͓̭̻̳̤̫̯̳̙͎̜̫̫̰̞̗̹͚̥͈̻̬͔̞̳̹͕̜͚̝̩̗̣̳̭̫͙͍̝͎̹͓̳̠̮͕̳̦̗̞̠̝̳̣̺̦͉͇͙͇̻̺̯̫̘͓̙͕̤͓̠͍̼͎̤̺͍̐̔́̾̂̐̔̓̅̂̍͗̈́͗̓̀͒̏͐̋͂͂̈̽̌̊̊̿͐̍͐̓̊͆͛̈́̿̅͂͂̾̅͑̔͆̉̒̈͒͐͆̀̎̏̓̎̉͂͒͊̃̒̍̕̚̕̕̚̚̕͘̕͜͝͝͝͝͝͝͠ͅ!̶̡̨̡̨̨̢̡̡̧̢̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̻͓̻̗̹̫͓̪̰̜̜͉̹̼̥̱̺̝̦͈̦͓͓͔̺̹̠͙̯̜̦̥͈̭͕̰̗͎͈͕̥̤̦̱̗̬̻̹̺̪̖͎̮͈͓̟̖̱̯̩͔̜̻͓̫̰̳̗̫̮͚̝͚̣̭̦̪̻̘̠̮̥̞̻̜͔͇̝͙̪̻̘͕͍̠̼̪̣̫̹͚̘̖̪̮̦̮̥̯̝̜͓̝͓̪̫̞̠̱͎̥̻͉̼͎̼̪̼̞͉͍͎̪̠̼̭̣͎̜̮̺̖͔̺͊̑͒̌̓̋̎̈́̈́̃͛͑̾̂̓̃͒̍̒̀͒̃̉́̍͒̃̉̋̑̈́̅͊́́̓̂͛́̆̆̃̈́͑͌̑̈́̄̉̓̉́̎̽̅̿̓̃̎̾́͛̈̏̔̈́͒͆̈̀̍͒͗̿́͊̉̃͂͊̆̇̒́͗͗̿͂̽̒̊̌̆̔͋̒̀̇̀͆͆̏̅̽̉̎̑̑̒̈́͑̉̆͛̈́̆̏͒͛̔̂̈́̓̎̐̉̿̿̄̕͘͘͘͘͘̕̕͘͜͝͠͠͝͝͝͝͠͠ͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅ"

[the-drayster]

2. Show us the handwriting right now.

Translation this says

"I am trying so hard"

and

"I am not trying anymore"

[mizukisdaycare]

catching up on event stories and finally reread stray bad dog and aaa akito bby,,, i need little akito in my life

i think what arata said the first night they met really got to him and was on the verge of slipping the whole time he went off…toya could sense something was wrong as akitos words were coming out ever so stilted and if akito wasnt already on the verge then toya steeping between them and holding his hand definitely did it

i also think akito dropped HARD after they faced arata at the livehouse…he was just the tiniest and super clingy i dont make the rules i just follow them— this has gotta be the first time the rest of vbs has ever seen him so small so what better is there to do than an impromptu sleepover? An mainly organized it to make sure akito gets some proper sleep for the first time in like 2 weeks but also theyve gotta spend as much time with the baby because who knows when the next time he’ll get so small will be??

sadly for the rest of vbs, akito stayed up a solid 30mins before falling asleep with his head in kohanes lap…

[coffeecats900]

ᴳᵉᵗ ʷᵉˡˡ ˢᵒᵒⁿ :}

That’s one way to say that, who are you?? Satan????!?!?

[birdiepaws]

soulmate au where its the same but the words (either scentence or name or whatever) is in their handwriting

[lunchboxart]

Long time no daily comic. Featuring my work pals pencil and wireless headphones.

[godzexperiment]

nix 'you can't catch me talking about my past, what even is heaven' vs his joking about it- but an third secret (result stemming from his past) 'oh wow that's the most legible writing he might ever have accomplished' about the markings

[stilessflannel]

if there was a stereotype for athena's children, that would be you. smart, strategic, quick witted, always ten steps ahead of everyone else - that is, when you're not being completely wrecked by percy jackson.

every brush of his tip against your cervix turned your legs and normally reliable brain to mush. you didn't know what to focus on - the way he was setting a brutal pace of fucking you so hard that moans were pushed out of your chest with every thrust, the way his fingers rubbed your overstimulated clit at ungodly speed yet it felt so good, or the sight of the finest demigod to possibly ever exist above you shirtless and panting with effort.

"im...ahh!~...so close.... perce..." you babbled, tv static filling your brain and pushing every legible thought out except that you needed him faster, harder, and closer.

percy grinned, seeing the state you were in under him. after years of growing up together with you always having a witty comment on the tip of your tongue or always being several steps ahead of him, to being counsellors and watching you melt like putty into his hands was making him pound you harder - making him feral.

"yeah? y'gonna come for me?" he asked, pressing a kiss to the top of your forehead as he moved his hands under your body and up to the back of your thighs, throwing them over his shoulders. the new angle had you seeing stars - and praying to the gods that you would stay quiet least you wake up someone surrounding cabin three.

he intertwines his fingers with yours, never letting up his pace as his forehead meets yours. "crazy how the smartest daughter of athena can hardly string a sentence together." you roll your eyes and are about to bite back with a remark when he moves his hands to in between your thighs, circling your clit so fast that your orgasm hits you like a freight train.

as you thrash and lose control of your body, eyes rolling so far back into your head you see stars, percy can't help but fuck you harder, seeing how dumb he's made you.

taglist: @izzieluvsdelusion @spideysimposdiblegirl join the taglist here

[lovebugism]

✶ ┄ LOVE AND MERCY !

summary: you're more stubborn than the apocalypse. eric is the personification of a sad, wet dog. your world's collide when the world as you know it ends. (6.3k)

pairing: eric (a quiet place day one) / f!reader

contents: strangers to friends to lovers, a couple of losers in love, apocalyptic setting, angst, hurt/comfort cw for mentions of grief and anxiety, brief mentions of injuries, and smut 18+

You wake up that morning in a bed that is not yours, in a room that does not belong to you, in an abandoned cabin you turned into a safe house three weeks ago.

Everything around you is foreign. Including the world outside these rotted walls, which turned entirely on its head in a blink. A blink that somehow turned into three months gone.

The only thing familiar to you now is the stranger lying in the bed beside you — on the right side that he has wordlessly claimed as his own. Before Eric was a guy you shared beds with, he was a guy you found in the rain. A boy with big, wet, puppy dog eyes who followed you like a stray after the world fell.

That was all he was to you for a month straight. A burden. Deadweight. An ever-anxious being that had nearly gotten you killed more times than you could count. You never saw him any differently until you almost died — a certain death involving you, an old beartrap, several aliens with uber-sensitive hearing, and a stupid boy who was too dumb to leave you behind. 

“I can’t leave you,” Eric blubbered through tears, whimpering in faint whispers so the blind monsters wouldn’t hear. “I won’t.”

“Then you won’t make it at all, you idiot,” you spat through gritted teeth, eyes wide and stern and glittering. You wouldn’t let yourself cry, not even with your leg all but torn to shreds, but Eric’s sudden stubbornness scared you. Why now? Of all times? you thought to yourself, Why does he have to be so stubborn now?

“I wouldn’t want to,” Eric promised, bloodied hands trembling where they gripped your arms. “I wouldn’t want to make it without you.”

That was a month or so ago, but you carry the horrors of that day still. 

In the vivid nightmares that rattle your bones. In the marred skin of your ankle, hidden beneath bandages, slowly healing with each passing day. And in the strange boy with puppy dog eyes who still hasn’t left your side.

Let me check your leg, Eric scribbles on a notepad. 

His handwriting is slanted and small and hardly legible — fitting for a man whose mind is always racing faster than he can keep up. 

The marker is fading slowly, too, dying from excessive use because the majority of your conversations are spoken through written words on a page. You’ve gone through a notebook or three already.

You snatch the notepad from his grip to write a response of your own. Eric peels the tattered blanket from your body to survey the gauze around your ankle. He peeks beneath the bandage, and his chest pinches at the sight — not because of his sensitive stomach, but because of the harsh reminder of the day he almost lost you.

The paper swishes faintly when you turn the notebook back to him. Okay, Dr. Eric :P, you’ve written in sloppy cursive. The boy grins at the mischievous look in your eyes.

“That’s Doctor Eric Esquire to you,” he corrects in a whisper that makes his accent sound more posh than usual. He smooths the gauze back into place with a gentle hand and says, “You’re healing fine, I think. I’ll have to go out and scavenge for more bandages soon, but these should last for another…”

The sounds of your rapid scribbling fill the quiet cabin. Eric trails off in wait, wide eyes darting from the marker in your hand to the pinched look of concentration on your face. 

He sees a strange sort of giddiness sparking in your otherwise serious features that makes him fearful. Intrigued, yes, but still distantly fearful. All your ideas tend to get him into trouble.

The notebook turns to him again. His stomach does a backflip.

Wanna go on an adventure?

“This is… Not what I was expecting,” Eric muses beneath the sounds of a rushing waterfall. 

His words echo slightly in the expanse of the dank cave. It’s the first time you’ve heard his voice in full volume, deep and accented and smooth. His pretty whispering annoyed you to no end back when he was just a stranger with exactly zero survival instincts. Now, you never want him to stop talking.

“Well, that’s why it’s an adventure,” you lilt, wiping water from your brow with the neck of your t-shirt. 

Your clothes stick to you in places where the waterfall had splashed you on your way underneath it. The still air of the cave, strangely cool compared to the humid air outside of it, makes you fight back a shiver.

Eric eyes you from a distance, features swirled in a quiet concern. It’s impossible to relish in this little ounce of peace when you have the kind of mind he does — the kind of mind that’s always anxious and always filled with thoughts of you. 

He cares so much for you, far more than he planned to, that it’s made him chronically fearful. He’s grown to realize, since he met you, that the two words are rather synonymous. You can’t have love without fear — and what is there to be fearful for, if not for the ones you love?

“Your bandages really shouldn’t be getting wet, you know?”

You scoff and limp further into the damp hollow. The quiet sound of your steps reverberates within the stone walls, along with the subtle scuffing of your bad foot. “You said I was healing okay, remember?” you huff and drop the basket in your elbow onto the cobblestone.

“I said you were healing fine,” Eric chuckles, crossing his arms over his chest. “There’s a difference.”

“Not really,” you shrug with a scrunched nose, flashing him a fleeting glance over your shoulder. You turn away again and wince at the distant ache in your ankle when you crouch. 

Sometimes the scars hurt like they’re still fresh, still weeping scarlet and throbbing like a new wound. Eric’s not a doctor, but he tells you that it’ll probably be that way forever. “Phantom pains, I think they call it,” he says in a posh accent that makes him sound more official than he really is. You’re inclined to believe him, anyway.

The boy watches as you sort through the wicker basket you stole — or borrowed, as you claim, “’cause it’s not like the owner’s coming back for it anytime soon.” It’s full of stuff you wouldn’t let him see, like it was some kind of big secret. 

He grimaces when you squat, putting unnecessary weight on a barely healing leg. He knows it hurts, even when you pretend it doesn’t — especially when you pretend it doesn’t. His chest pinches like the ache is his own. Like sympathy pains or something. He worries so much for you that you’ve given him fucking sympathy pains.

“We shouldn’t have left,” Eric agonizes, wiping a pair of anxious hands down his face. He swipes his fingers through his hair and finds the chestnut curls now partially damp. “I shouldn’t have let you leave. I mean, what if we have to run, huh? What if we have to—”

“We won’t,” you groan as you stand to full height again. You hold an old quilt in one arm and gesture wildly with the other. “That’s what the waterfall is for. They can’t hear us under here. Nothing’s coming.”

He knows you’re right, but it doesn’t worry him any less.

“How’d you even know this was out here?”

You falter for a moment. A mere blink of a second. But Eric catches it immediately because there isn’t anything about you he doesn’t instantly notice. He’s rarely ever seen you, his silver-tongued girl, so ambivalent. And something about it frightens him.

“I was… on a walk one day… while you were out scavenging—” you answer slowly, shrugging like it isn’t a big deal at all, though you immediately follow it with, “—Don’t get angry.”

Eric’s pink mouth falls softly agape, opening and closing like a fish’s might, while he tries to find the words to say. To shout. To scream. 

“Y-You... You— You left without me?” he stammers, voice booming. 

The words ring across the expanse of the shallow cave, bouncing off the damp stone walls. It’s the loudest he’s heard himself talk since the world ended, and the notion startles him. Like a dog just learning how to bark.

Eric’s breath hitches in his throat as his dark eyes widen in fear. He waits instinctively for the screeching of far-off monsters and their booming footsteps — prepares for an adrenaline rush that’ll give his weak arms the strength to carry both of you to safety.

It never comes. 

The sounds of the waterfall shield you from the war raging outside of it. 

When the panic passes, the anger resumes.

“Do you have any idea how dangerous that is?” Eric agonizes, quieter now, though the corner of his lip twitches with withheld anger. 

You keep your back to the boy and lay out the contents of the wicker basket. A floral quilt to cushion the stone flooring, two bottles of wine to share between you, several bags of stale chips, and one MP3 player that’s somehow stronger than the end of the world. You pay Eric no mind as he continues to rant behind you.

“What if you’d gotten killed? What if— What if you got lost and I couldn’t find you—?!”

“Don’t shout!” you gripe despite your own booming voice. 

“Why not?” Eric questions with a cynical laugh. “I thought nothing could hear us under here?”

You spin back around to face him, grimacing slightly when your healing wounds start to burn. You tilt your chin in a look of defiance, though your eyes sparkle faintly in the dim natural light — something mischievous and strangely shy. 

“I don’t want you to shout because I put a lot of effort into this,” you answer in a steady voice, lips quirking in a distant smile. “And we can’t enjoy it if you’re gonna be grumpy the entire time.”

Eric blinks at you for several long moments, brown eyes wide like an owl. Only then does he notice what you’d set up for him in the brief minutes he’d been blinded by his anger. A picnic of sorts — fashioned with a moth-eaten quilt, dusty wine bottles, and snacks you’d scavenged and seemingly stashed like a squirrel. It’s about as fancy as you can get in an apocalypse.

His mouth opens and closes again, this time in a quiet sort of shock. “Wh… What?”

“Well, you kinda spent your entire birthday taking care of me, so… I figured we were past due for a celebration.”

Eric’s brows pinch together. A furrow of deep thought settles between them. 

He realizes he hadn’t thought twice about his birthday till now. Hadn’t thought twice about turning another year older, just like he hadn’t thought twice about needing to be repaid for taking care of you. He did both things without thinking. He can’t control his urge to dote on you like he can’t control the existential dread of getting older.

“How’d you know it was my birthday?”

“‘Cause you told me once,” you shrug. “And I keep track of the days in my calendar, so—”

“So, you’re saying that… That you did all this...” the man laughs, gesturing to the cave and the waterfall and the wine. “For me?”

A similar-sounding laugh sputters from your own mouth ‘cause you do it all for him. From going on stupid picnics to fighting monsters from another planet. Everything you’ve done up until this point, you realize now, you’ve done for Eric. You keep on living despite the unfavorable odds for Eric.

“Of course I did. It’s not that big of a deal,” you scoff, crossing your arms over your chest to shield your bleeding heart. “I mean, you kinda saved my life. The least I can do is take you on a stupid fucking picnic.”

When you turn around again to ease yourself onto the blanket, Eric tries to make out the words to thank you. Not just for what you’ve done here, but for what you’ve done all the days since he found you. Because you’ve saved his life too, more times than he could count, actually — ‘cause that’s just what you do. You save each other and don’t think twice about it because that’s what you do when you care for someone.

He forgot all about birthdays and picnics and what it meant to be alive before he found you. And now that you’re here, you spend every single day reminding him of everything the end of the world begs him to forget.

“I’m— I’m sorry… I’m sorry for shouting at you,” Eric stammers in a sheepish murmur, scratching awkwardly at the back of his neck.

“I know,” you nod, smiling as you pat the spare spot beside you. “Now stop being weird and come sit down.”

The wine is warm, the chips are stale, and the quilt just barely cushions the hard ground beneath you — but everything’s still somehow perfect. Your MP3 player is almost as old as you are and cracked down the middle, but the music plays just perfectly from its headphones, anyway. 

Maybe it’s perfect ‘cause it’s not perfect. 

Or maybe it’s perfect because you’re here.

You sit side-by-side on the handmade blanket, legs crossed and knees brushing, as you share an earbud between you. Conversation ebbs and flows between snacking. Music fills the silence.

I was sittin’ in a crummy movie with my hands on my chin,

All the violence that occurs, seems like we never win...

Eric tips his head back to down the rest of the cheesy crumbs in the package he holds in a pale fist. His scruffy cheeks jut like a chipmunk as he chews through the mouthful. “I missed this, you know?” he mumbles.

You set the wine bottle beside you after taking a lengthy sip, licking the bitter-sweet grape from your lips. “What?” you wonder aloud. “The wine? The Cheetos? The music?”

The boy goes quiet as he ponders the question. He figures he was talking about you, mostly — this sort of connection between humans, this sort of comfort, this sort of normalcy. The music answers your question in his silence.

—Love and mercy, that’s what you need tonight…

So love and mercy, to you and your friends tonight…

He nods anyway. “All of the above, actually…”

“You know what I miss?” you wonder beneath the rustling of the Scooby Snacks you dig your hand into. You chuck a cartoon bone into your mouth and find the graham-cracker components have gone soft with time. “I miss driving down backroads… going way faster than what’s probably allowed… with the windows down and the radio all the way up…”

Eric watches the far-off look in your eyes as you stare, unblinking, at the waterfall ahead of you. Clear water rushes from the mountain and falls hard onto the cobbles and the still water below. Rogue drops splatter inside the shallow cave, occasionally splashing you with fat droplets.

The running waterfall cast fleeting shadows over your face, littered now with faint scars. Your features are much softer than he’s used to in the natural light.

“I miss college parties,” he confesses, wiping his palms on his knees.

You wash the dry graham cracker out with another sip of wine and try not to laugh as you swallow it down.

“Why’s that funny?” Eric wonders through his own chuckle, only partially offended.

“I don’t know… I guess I just didn’t take you for a partier.”

“I wasn’t really…” he concedes with a shy shrug, gaze averted and cheeks pink. “But I was a really big fan of karaoke.”

“Well, that makes a lot more sense.”

“Doesn’t it?” Eric humors with a scrunched nose.

You tilt your head back to laugh — a pretty, airy sound that echoes within the cobbled walls, only partially drowned out beneath the rushing waterfall. You shift closer toward him when you’re upright again, probably without realizing, but Eric notices. He can’t help but notice everything you do. And he can’t help but lean instinctively closer to you, too.

He can smell the natural scent of you beneath the various surrounding ones — of freshwater, pine, and whatever cologne was spritzed on your shirt before you found it. He can smell the sweet wine on your breath, too, and he quickly realizes that you’re close enough to kiss. If only he weren’t so chicken shit.

The proximity makes his cheeks flush, though you’re not nearly as fazed by it.

“I forgot what that felt like…” you muse in a quiet voice of disbelief.

Eric smiles so hard his eyes squint. “What?”

“I don’t know… just, like, happiness? I guess?” you laugh. “I used to think that was impossible before now.”

“Yeah… Me too.” 

The conversation lulls for a moment. The music playing in your ears takes over: 

—I was standing at a bar and watching all the people there…

All the loneliness in this world, well, it’s just not fair…

You cage your smile between your teeth in a feeble attempt to conceal how wide it’s grown. Your eyes are wide and sparkling, likely from the wine, as they flit between both of his darker ones. Eric exhales a breathy chuckle in response, all giddy and nervous for a reason he can’t name (probably from the wine, too, if he had to guess).

He feels himself leaning in to kiss you before he realizes it. He only catches himself when you pull unknowingly away, reaching again for the glass bottle at your side. His heart drops to his swirling stomach as his cheeks flare a deep pink.

“I’m glad you followed me like a creep for a week straight, you know that?” you confess with a teasing squint in your eyes as you bring the lip of the bottle to your mouth.

Eric scoffs at the memory, which feels like yesterday and ancient history all at once.

He was by himself when the world first fell — a stranger in a strange country, and the loneliest he’d ever been in his life. And, perhaps, the most scared, too. 

Then, all of a sudden, he sees this girl rush out of an alleyway and into a monster-infested street to save a dog from an otherwise unavoidable death. Eric watched from a distance as you returned the scared pup to its owners — a very young couple cowering behind a car, not that much older than you. 

You pointed them in the direction of a military base setting up camps for civilians then went the opposite way. Away from guaranteed protection. Like the safest hands were your own. 

Eric made the quick decision to follow you as you went. He figured if you were brave enough to save some dog that wasn’t yours, and stare death directly in the face while you did it, then you could do just about anything.

He didn’t know, then, that he was making the best decision he’d ever made in his life.

“Well, I’m glad you didn’t pummel me in the face for following you like a creep.”

“I should’ve,” you quip. “But I liked your company too much, I guess…”

“Liked?” the boy parrots, laughing loudly at the turn of phrase. “Is this your way of saying you’re finally tired of me?”

You roll your eyes and hide your smirk behind the neck of the wine bottle. “Do you think I would’ve done all this shit if I wasn’t the least bit fond of you, Eric?”

The question is rhetorical, but you expect a lighthearted quip from the British boy anyway. Your words seem to settle something heavy on him, though. It’s the very first time you’ve admitted out loud, without a shred of sarcasm, how much you really care for him. 

Eric forgets to say anything at all. The cave fills with a loud silence. The steady drumming of the waterfall and the whisper of rustling trees. Strangely peaceful for the end of the world. 

“Wanna know something wild?” he asks you after a few long moments. His accent makes the words sound heavy on his tongue. Your brows raise to egg him on, and he continues, stumbling over himself in the process. “I’m… I’m not happy the world ended, but… I am— I am glad that it brought me you.”

Your breath catches. It’s the most profound thing anyone’s ever said to you, you think. Way deeper than any measly ‘I love you.’ And how are you meant to respond to that? To his confession that the end of the world was worth finding you? There’s no string of words in the English language that could possibly compare to that.

Eric waits for your response with bated breath. He hopes for an affirmation of your similar affection, of course, but a rejection would be better than nothing at all. He blinks at you with hopeful chocolate eyes, then flinches away when you laugh.

“You’re such a sap,” you say, giggling, as you reach suddenly for his face.

You cradle his scruffy jaw between warm and gently calloused hands, pulling him into you with an admirable effortlessness. You kiss him like it’s natural to you — like he was never just a stranger — like you’ve spent entire lifetimes kissing him.

You take the breath from his lungs with little effort. Eric tips his head back and sighs when you swipe your tongue along his chapped bottom lip. The exhaled breath fans across your cupid’s bow, and you smile against his mouth as you clamor gracelessly into his lap — straddling his lean hips and pressing your beating heart to his. 

The earbuds fall carelessly to the ground, and the fading song plays muffedly from beside you:

—Love and mercy, that’s what you need tonight…

So love and mercy, to you and your friends tonight…

Your mouths click when they part, a subtle sound beneath the drumming waterfall behind you. Your eyes are heavy and lidding as they fall to Eric’s kissed mouth — now a rosier shade, gently swollen, and shining with your spit. A stamp of ownership, almost, that makes your chest swell with pride.

Eric looks up at you with big, wet eyes as his hands fidget on either side of your waist. “I’ve been waiting for that for ages,” he confesses in a low murmur.

A small smile quirks faintly at the edges of your mouth. “Could you maybe say something that’s not super cliché?” you tease.

“How about… I really, really want to kiss you again?” Eric offers in a honeyed tone that makes his accent heavier. He swallows hard, adam’s apple bobbing. “And that I… I wanna make you feel good?”

You cage your bottom lip between your teeth to hide your smile. Your fingertips are calloused and cold as they toy with the curls at the nape of his neck — tiny chestnut strands coiled in perfect ringlets. Eric fights back a shiver.

“Then I’d say that…” you begin with a mischievous lilt to your voice, wild eyes flitting from his pink lips to his watery eyes. “I’ve been waiting for that for ages.”

You part from him then, taking the warmth of your body with you as you sit on your knees across from him. The rugged ground is hardly cushioned by the thin quilt. You can vaguely feel small rocks digging into your skin, but your need for him is much louder. 

You cross your arms in front of yourself to swipe your t-shirt over your head. You toss the discarded fabric carelessly beside you, then work at the buttons of your jeans — also borrowed, and just a half-size too big for you. 

Eric watches with his heart in his throat. It’s the most naked you’ve ever been in front of him before. The sight of your bare skin, covered now only in the sports bra you’ve had since the world ended, makes his head swim. It takes him a moment too long to realize he should be undressing, too, and he rushes to catch up.

The two of you undress yourselves in relative silence. The sight is hardly as sexy as you’d expect — full of fumbling limbs far too eager to be graceful. Eric’s shirt gets stuck on his chin. Your jeans get caught at your ankle. The tense lull between you ebbs into a symphony of entwining giggles.

With your clothes scattered in abandoned piles, you lay back against the blanket. Eric settles on top of you with a strange sort of effortlessness — like it’s muscle memory to him, even though neither of you has done this for a long, long while — much less with each other. 

The weight of his body is warm and heavy over yours. You slide your hands under his arms and curl them over his freckled shoulders, digging your nails softly into his pale skin to pull him further into you. 

You watch with heavily lidded eyes as Eric brings his hand to his mouth. He slides his pointer and middle finger between his lips, wetting the pads of them with his tongue. You exhale a deep breath when the limbs come out again, glittering in the low light. 

He studies your features with a dark and unwavering stare as he slips his fingers between the lips of your pussy — tracing the velvety lips for a moment before easing them slowly inside. Your eyes flutter shut at the foreign feeling. Eric smiles to himself, wrist flexing, as he explores your silky cunt with his fingers. 

“Please fuck me,” you sigh when his palm bumps your swollen clit. Your head tips back as your hips buck upward, all but melting under his touch. “Please.”

It takes Eric a moment or more to formulate a response. You’ve never been so subservient like this before, so needy for him. This must be the eighth wonder of the world, he thinks to himself, as he continues to work you open with unworthy hands.

“Have to get you ready for me first,” he tells you, voice and low gritty, as he exhales a breathy chuckle that fans across your jaw. “Don’t wanna break you, honey.”

You manage a scoff in response. “Well, that’s very presumptuous of you— oh…”

Eric crooks his fingers until the tips of them brush a spongy depth inside you. Your mouth falls agape at the feeling, so foreignly full beneath him. His spit-slick lips curl into a lazy smirk. “That shut you up, didn’t it?”

You would’ve spit a snide remark back at him if his thumb hadn’t pressed so mercilessly to your delicate clit then. The words dissolve like dust on your tongue and escape only as a breathy moan. 

Eric continues his relentless pursuit with nothing but two of his fingers. Relentless, you think,because he’s hardly trying to make you cum now. You’re not sure if he’s just oblivious to how good he’s making you feel, or if he’s pushing you to the edge and jerking you back on purpose. It’s agony either way.

He only stops when his pointer and middle finger start to prune, the pads of them softly wrinkled from your honey. He wipes them off on the quilt like a total barbarian. You would’ve said something about that, too, if you weren’t still trying to catch your breath.

Eric rises to his knees. His bare chest, dusted with sparse hair over the sternum, rises and falls with uneven pants. His cock hangs heavy between his spread thighs — half-hard, glowing red, and leaking faintly at the tip. His wide hands are softer than your own as they smooth up and down the length of your thighs. His thumbs rub soothingly over the supple insides of them — with a touch almost as gentle as the melted chocolate gaze he looks at you with. 

“Are you alright?” he wonders, all quiet and suddenly shy, like you aren’t all but dripping for him now.

“You’re so annoying,” you gripe with a scoffed-out laugh, rolling your eyes because you’re certain he’s teasing you. Your stomach sinks when the genuine glimmer in his eyes doesn’t waver. You squirm beneath him and his unyielding gaze. “I’m okay, Eric,” you murmur sheepishly, never easily serious.

He nods to himself and swallows hard, still visibly unsure. It makes you wonder if he’s second-guessing. “Stop staring and kiss me, you asshole,” you grouse with a forced laugh, tightening your grip on his shoulders.

Eric’s mouth quirks in an absentminded smile. “Just let me look at you for a second…” he whispers, squeezing the outsides of your thighs with warm hands.

“We don’t have to whisper anymore, dummy,” you tease in a hushed tone of your own.

His grin widens until his eyes wrinkle at the edges and his tongue pokes softly through his teeth. He laughs despite himself and grips his heavy cock in his fist. “You’re so mean, you know that?” he asks, folding your knee back with his free hand. You’re not sure if he’s expecting a real response, but he slips into you before you can give him one.

He fucks into you slow — bitterly, painfully, and agonizingly slow — forcing you to feel every inch of him. His cock is of average length, but girthy enough to stretch you open. You’re suddenly grateful he thought to use his fingers on you despite your impatience, but the two of them alone hardly equate to how thick he is.

Both of you inhale sharply when he’s fully sheathed inside of you, neither exactly used to the feeling. Eric allows you a moment or more to adjust before sliding out again. You exhale softly together in entwining moans that get lost beneath the sounds of a raging waterfall.

Eric thrusts into you again with gritted teeth, trying not to whimper too loudly when your pussy clenches around him. He bends at the waist to hide his face in your neck and exhales all his pathetic moans there. 

He keeps one hand clenched into a fist on the blanket to prop up his weight; his other slides beneath your head to cushion your skull from the hard ground. You grip the boy by his flexing biceps, digging your nails into the skin every time he thrusts into you. Jaw clenched, nose scrunched, eyes squinted — you take his cock without complaint despite the very loud feeling that it’s all too much for you.

Eric is everywhere, and the notion alone overwhelms you. He’s in you, on top of you, all over you. Like the air you breathe. You need him just the same. Not because he’s your friend but because you’re scared you might seriously die without him. 

It’s dramatic at best. At worst, it’s the exact opposite feeling you should have for anyone in the apocalypse, where death is essentially promised for both of you.

Tears prick your eyes at the thought, though you’d rather blame them on Eric’s merciless thrusts. They’re sloppy and unmeasured as he struggles to find a rhythm. He’s similarly overwhelmed by the pleasure. You can tell by the way his body trembles over yours, and the way he buries loud moans into your pulsepoint. You can feel the vibrations of each moan in your veins. 

The way you’re pinned beneath him cages your clit between your bodies. Every time Eric’s lean hips thrust upward and back again, the coarse thatch of hair above his cock brushes your sensitive button. You couldn’t free yourself from it if you tried. You’re not sure if you even want to.

“This is good for you, right?” Eric wonders through heavy pants, voice wavering under the weight of his pleasure. “Please tell me this is good for you.”

Any other time, you would’ve laughed at him, but now you only nod. Rapidly and with your jaw clenched tight. Just as pathetic as he is. 

“’S good,” you promise through gritted teeth as the coil in the pit of your stomach starts to tighten. “It’s so good, Eric. Feels so fuckin’ good.”

The affirmation makes him moan. Loudly. Enough for you to be momentarily grateful for the cover of the rumbling waterfall. Eric buckles down over you and strengthens his rapid, irregularly timed thrusts with a feeble cry. 

Your own whine rumbles in your throat, falling from your mouth like honey. Your warm skin, now slick with a layer of sweat, begins to buzz. The need for release builds like a dam within you — somewhere deep, right where the tip of Eric’s cock fucks into you. 

Your thighs start to tremble on either side of his waist. Your hips begin to buck despite yourself. You can’t be sure if you’re running from the pleasure now, or chasing it entirely.

“You gotta cum, baby,” Eric tells you through a pitiful whine, face still tucked into your neck. He licks his lips and starts to babble: “I can’t— I’m too close— I need you to cum before I do, baby— Need you to cum right now— Fuck.”

“Is your idea of dirty talk always this pathetic?” you would’ve joked if you weren’t already cumming for him. 

Your mouth falls agape in a silent moan as your head tips back into his palm. Your back arches as you reach the height of your pleasure, pussy fluttering through every wave of it. 

Eric fucks you the entire way through your orgasm — despite your nails biting crescent shapes into his shoulders, despite your velvety cunt tightening around him, despite the very overwhelming feeling that he might burst entirely.

Only when your body goes lax does he pull out of you. 

The empty feeling makes you whimper. Your weeping pussy clenches around nothing while Eric jerks himself off. You can’t see him, but you can feel his wrist moving in rapid motions between your legs. 

A groan rumbles deep in his throat as he tenses on top of you. His still body goes rigid. Something warm and wet spits on your inner thigh a second later — a heavy load of his pearly white cum, which he gives you three of before he’s milked himself dry.

Eric collapses on top of you when he’s officially spent. He forgets to hold up his weight, and you deliberately decide not to remind him. You let the man soak in the waves of his pleasure while you strain to reach the wicker basket at your side — struggling for a moment to find the handful of napkins at the very bottom, then using them to wipe up the mess on your thigh.

“Ah, shit,” Eric curses when he notices (his mess or his weight, you can’t quite tell). He sniffles and rolls off of you. “Sorry…”

Your head whips in his direction. You find his face all flushed, glowing red along the apples of his cheeks and the very tip of his nose. His eyes are big and wet, too, glassy like he might cry. 

Buzzing with concern, you rise to your knees, watching intently as Eric reaches for your discarded pile of clothes. You set them aside when he passes them to you and hold his face in your hands instead. His stubble scratches at your delicate palms. Your wide eyes sparkle with concern as they dart over his teary features.

“Hey… Hey, what happened?” you agonize. “Are you okay?”

Eric laughs at himself, then sniffles again as he wipes his nose with the back of his hand. “Yeah… So much for not being cliché, right?” he jokes.

“What happened?” you repeat, giggling this time at his crooked smile.

“Nothing,” he assures, shrugging his freckled shoulders. “I just… I’m just really happy, I guess…”

Your tight chest deflates with a sigh of relief as you nod in response. “Yeah… I am, too.”

Eric’s grin widens at your confession. His cheeks speckle a rosy color, like he’s pleasantly surprised by the response — as if his softening cock isn’t still sparkling with a mixture of your cum. 

You meet his smile with a scowl, rolling your eyes as you shove playfully at his shoulder. “Don’t look at me like that,” you grumble and turn away from him, reaching for your clothes. 

Your body looms over him as you stand, putting very little weight on your scarred leg. You bend at the waist to tug your underwear up your thighs.

Eric shoves his boxers on with a cheeky grin. “I’m really glad I found you, you know that, right? Even though you’re mean to me all the time?”

You scoff and drag your sports bra over your torso, yanking it at the hem to pull it over your breasts. “I’m happy you found me, too, stalker,” you respond in a monotone that would otherwise suggest the opposite. But Eric catches you smiling when you reach beside him for your shirt and knows you really mean it. 

“You love me,” he insists playfully, right before stealing a kiss from you. 

His lips only manage to brush the corner of your mouth in his haste, but he grins wide about it anyway. Your face screws like you weren’t begging him to fuck you ten minutes ago, as you wipe your cheek with the back of your hand.

“You’re disgusting…” he hears you mumbling as you turn away, tugging your shirt over your head. 

But he knows what you really mean.