#maybe one in the junkyard

[adriel-the-unfortunate]

POV: You're being heated up in the microwave (It hasn't been cleaned since the chicken parmesan incident of '09)

[solradguy]

All of the officially licensed Order Sol merch ever made because Arc System Works hates me. Some of these don't have source links because the source is me and my Epson Perfection v39.

[clock x] [mouse pad x] [button x] [acrylic block x] [poster] [telephone card x - x - x] [telephone card x] [broccoli tcg x] [asura tcg x] [poster] [telephone card 1, 2] [sega aimee card sticker] [poster] [poster]

[demodoggonetired]

Post S3. Steve — inspired by how out of shape the kids were, knowing they're about to enter highschool territory and will need even better stamina to protect themselves from bullies, and it's just good for them — harasses the party into doing morning cross-country style runs. 

At first they obviously try to get out of it. But once Steve starts withholding their chauffeur privileges for a week per run they miss and proves that he means it, they begrudgingly go along with it.

Steve’s not mean about it. He doesn’t push them to run particularly fast or for excruciatingly long distances. As long as they keep themselves moving, he’s happy about it. 

Of course even better are the few days where he’s able to convince Max to join them — usually through promised milkshakes afterwards. 

She never jogs with them, instead skateboarding either behind them all or taunting them from in front. Which again — Steve’s just happy she’s out in the sun with them. And if the boys are too out of breath to try and strike up any kind of conversation with her when she’s not in the mood for it, then it’s all the better.  

- -

Robin’s a special case. She is, of course, her own adult (as much as you can be at their age, anyway) and Steve loves her like no other, his Platonic Soulmate capital ‘P’. But Steve’s now finished his third round of Upside Down dealings, and he’ll be damned if he leaves her to deal with the aftermath all on her own. (Like he may have felt back in the beginning, but he doesn’t often like to acknowledge those particular feelings).

So when the Underground Bunker and Torture flavored nightmares finally start to make their appearance, Steve knows just the solution. 

Much like the kids, it takes some convincing. Especially considering it’s nearly the middle of the night. 

But Robin’s much more willing to indulge his jock tendencies. And once they get going, having snuck out Robin’s thankfully ground-floor window, she starts to see the benefit. Simultaneously releasing the body of its flight-or-fight adrenaline rush and helping to get them out of their heads.

She still hates the actual running part of it. Bemoans every time they come back covered in sweat (okay so mainly just Robin, Steve’s only “lightly damp” by his own words). 

Yet Robin is the one to suggest moving their runs to the daytime as they slowly recover from Starcourt. Slowly able to get a proper night’s rest again. 

Eventually it almost just becomes habit to quick change, grab their drinks, and go for a lap around the downtown shops if they both get off shift before the sun sets. 

And if a certain unsuspecting metalhead happens to keep almost walking into signposts whenever the two of them jog past, well, Robin’s entitled to a little free entertainment. ;)

[dragoneyes618]

Young Harry: C'mon, CJ! You can do it! I'm right here! I'll catch you, I promise! Young Harriet, holding toddler CJ on top of the slide: It's not happening. Harry: What's wrong? Harriet: Maybe she's finally wising up. Harry: This time I won't get distracted by the ice cream truck!

[bulletbilltime]

The world is so cruel giving me animatics in the brain and no ability to follow through on them disease

[godnattakatta]

here is a silly little oc in question - her name is Shoudana and she's a demelonzo kitten

[seat-safety-switch]

"Aren't you worried about your brand?" asks Josh, the prototypical hominid who was formed in a vat this very morning. Even though scientists have conclusively proven they don't have souls, it is still not okay to commit violence upon their unpersons.

Back on my first cycle, society actually used real humans as internet marketing experts. It was cruel, for sure, but we had no other options. Initial experiments in training dogs to do it had raised the ire of every animal-rights group from here to Baltimore (inclusive,) but you can always find someone desperate enough to work a dirty, demeaning job. A job like search-engine optimization.

"Can you hop on a call to discuss your content strategy?" begs Josh, possibly out of fear. Judging from the look of his skin, he is probably at most six hours old, and nobody has told him what is going on. Sure, maybe he heard from a couple of the older clones in the back of the U-Haul® on their way to my neighbourhood. Just rumour and innuendo, like a schoolyard gossip mill. If I agreed, he wouldn't know how to hop on a call, or even what one was.

Believe me, I've tried talking to them before. Although annoying, I genuinely am confident that the protos are a lifeform that deserves respect. Same reason I try to help earthworms back onto the lawn after a rainstorm. All life is valuable, and unlike previous generations, none of these synthetic non-people asked to go into such a horrific industry.

Josh can tell that he is losing me. He has never experienced failure before, not since he came out of the basic education creche in the factory. He begins to weep, which is honestly pretty brave of him because I hadn't thought they worked out the bugs with that whole system yet. I am nothing if not sympathetic, so I offer him a way out.

"Do you want to go to the junkyard with me? You can hold the flashlight," I ask. He responds with a tearful look of pure glee. It's always easy getting these suckers to do what you want. Tonight, I'll let Josh sleep in the backyard, but not out in the open. Don't want the neighbours thinking that I'm starting up some kind of e-commerce scam.

[steviewashere]

Thinking about a fic idea right now where Steve comes out (maybe with a little Steddie...maybe; might be best to start them pre-relationship in this). Walk with me here.

Steve Harrington who has always been a huge Wham! fan. And then eventually a huge George Michael fan. He's got all their albums. Collects magazines with interviews in them (y'know, if there's a U.S. release). So, he's pretty much up to date with all news, music info; that kind of thing. He's always on the money about when interviews are.

George Michael who comes out publicly in 1998 after his arrest. Which, you can watch the clip from the interview here. He's thirty-four at the time, had been private about his sexuality and romantic life up until then.

Steve who's freshly in his thirties.

He's thirty-one. He's had some thoughts in regards to his sexuality for years now. Since Robin came out to him in 1985, he's thought about little things. The way certain guys walked that caught his attention, maybe the plushness of their lips, how they styled their hair. She's introduced him to queer culture at the time—pride parades & protests, some lingo, the handkerchief code, etc. So, he's well aware of a lot of things before the CNN interview airs. He hasn't made any hard connections between his sexuality and the thoughts in his head; maybe he's had a few, soft, questioning moments like: Am I gay? Am I bisexual? Is this what I really think or am I searching for something I don't actually want? Am I just being too observant?

(Okay, thinking about pre-Steddie now. And a lot of platonic soulmates Stobin. Also, I totally (accidentally) half-wrote a fic. Stay with me here.)

Eddie's been a part of Steve's life since 1986. Somehow he survives (don't ask me the fine details, I don't know). And Steve tries his hand at being Eddie's friend because he kind of—no, really—wants a guy friend who's around his age. Cue their shenanigans: the chaos they cause together, the pranks they pull on their other friends, the shit Eddie makes Steve get into (drag racing (cars), stealing scrap from the junkyard, throwing rocks over the quarry to guess the impact they made, other little town shit). Eddie who learns that Steve's a true ally to Robin, so he comes out to Steve, too. They all form a very great, deep bond of solidarity. Become roommates outside of Hawkins, somewhere a little more progressive. They protect each other. Listen to each other.

Cue the day in 1998 when the CNN interview is being aired live, unseen up until then. Steve's already ready to watch, having taken up the middle cushion on the couch. Robin's on his left, criss-cross and making a set of beaded bracelets for the three of them. Eddie's on Steve's right, uncapping a couple bottles of beer to pass over. And they're watching with Steve because Steve likes George Michael and, well, they like Steve and his interests. So they're all there when George Michael comes out. They're all there when the words are said live.

Robin and Eddie are wide-eyed, then laughing something a bit triumphant, high-fiving over Steve's head, maybe chanting something: "One of us! One of us!" Maybe becoming huge George Michael fans as they speak. But, Steve's silent. He's sitting on the edge of his cushion, palms down on his thighs, staring off into nothing. All the celebration stops as the interview continues, words being missed. And Robin and Eddie share an odd glance, a questioning one. Until, finally, Robin asks, "Steve-O? You OD over there?"

Steve blinks back into existence. Mutters, "Did George Michael just come out on live TV?" Eddie answers him truthfully, voice a bit soft and concerned. Steve licks his lips, doesn't move his eyes from his socked feet. "...He knew for a little while," he comments. "Right? He knew for a while."

"Sure, Steve," Eddie answers again. "He probably knew about himself for a long time. Probably...Honestly, probably while he was still in Wham."

Maybe Steve nods at that. Maybe he just stays kind of stoic, thinking too hard. "He's thirty-four," Steve points out.

"That he is," Robin answers this time. "Thirty-four and proudly out."

Steve hums some sort of acknowledgement and then goes back to watching the TV, moment drifting away. He sort of watches in a daze. Up until he turns in for the night. Well after Robin has slumped over on the couch and Eddie's gone to bed earlier—because he has work, or so Eddie's said. And Steve maybe sits in his bedroom, up at his headboard, looking down at his albums. At his Wham! and George Michael albums. Turning the tapes over in his hands, reading the track lists, maybe tracing the edges of the cases with his thumbs. Thinking about how George had said he was telling his life story, even through some of his earlier solo work. He's thinking about how successful George Michael has been. And then he thinks about how George Michael came out later in his life. In his thirties, not in his twenties, not in his teens. Sure, yes, it was definitely more negatively criticized to do so, but it means something to Steve. To be thirty-four and freshly out. And he thinks, too, about being thirty-one and things clicking into shiny clarity—he's into guys, too. He's into women, but he's into guys. That word, "bisexual" looking like the final jigsaw piece. To be thirty-one and proudly out, too.

And he's comforted in that thought, as he drifts off to sleep.

And when he wakes up in the morning, he bustles around Eddie and Robin in the kitchen. They make a shared breakfast of scrambled eggs and sausage and toast with jam. They sit at the dining table, forks against plates, shooting the shit back and forth.

Steve cuts a slice of sausage, puts it in his mouth, eats as usual. And just as the conversation is beginning to drift again, he finally speaks what's on his mind. "I'm bisexual," he's able to proudly state.

Maybe Eddie and Robin cheer, too for that. They ask him for his taste in guys. Maybe they tease him a little. Maybe Eddie realizes he fits the bill a little; maybe he waits a little bit before taking a shot, but he still does eventually.

And right before they head off for their respective, regular lives outside of the comfortable space of their apartment, Robin knocks their shoulders together. "Proud of you," she states. "Thirty-one and proudly out. How does it feel?"

They're in the kitchen, washing and drying the dishes because Eddie left for work already with a promise to bring home pizza for dinner. They're in the kitchen, the lights a little fluorescent like the Starcourt bathroom. They're in the kitchen, in each other's orbits, two friends who've seen it all and will continue to see the world together.

"It feels...I feel good. Excited."

Robin smiles at him, something soft and understanding. And as his focus goes back to the plate he's about to hand off, she snorts. "So, Eddie, huh?" And he scoffs, rolling his eyes. She just laughs to herself. Then, when she's calmed a little bit, she states, "He kind of looks like Rowlf. You and I have a thing for Muppets, Stevie. Muppets."

And after their laughter dies down and they live out the rest of the day, Steve thinks about how he can send a letter of thanks to George Michael. And maybe he cherishes those albums a little closer. And he is confident in himself for the first time in a while, all because the representation he didn't know he was seeking, is finally right in his face.

Sorry that got long. But I'm just thinking about Steve who comes out later in his life. Maybe he couldn't make those connections because he didn't have the safe atmosphere to do so; feared the worst if his parents ever realized he didn't care too much about women sometimes, if his eyes drifted to men a little too much, fearing that they'd catch his contemplation. Maybe he found his safe space through Robin and Eddie, but needed a little more of a push and he just didn't find it yet. Up until now.

[geraldmariaivo]

What does he do? Does he write articles? Does he edit? Does he take a good hard look at some of them and go “you’re going to get shot if you report this, give it to Lane.”? Is he the department’s liaison for whenever Lois brings back a story that falls into their jurisdiction (often) and can’t stand management for their spineless nonsense? Is he aware that the Country Bumpkin two floors up is Superman? Does he give a shit?

Do he and Clark sometimes get into conversations where they end up speaking in Midwestern for their entire lunch break?

The idea of Dan Phantom working in the politics sector of the Daily Planet is haunting my brain and it won’t leaveee

[oneforthemunny]

how you like them apples |cowboy!eddie munson x reader|

prompt: you surprise eddie with his favorite fall treat, and, oh, is he surprised.

since i'm feeling so fall, i decided to write a ficlet around my love cowboy!eddie. also follows the lore that sweet girl is not the best cook lmao. super fluffy. genuinely nothing but the sweetest fluff and love.

Your head turned at the rumble of the truck, moving slowly down the gravel driveway towards the house. Eddie always drove much slower than you, always on to you about speeding down the gravel, flinging it everywhere. 

The red truck’s bed was filled with lumber, left over from the recent renovations the Ives’ family had done to their new fence, just up the road- well, that’s what Eddie always said, it was more like a good ten miles away. Irvine Ives had called Eddie up last night, asked him if he wanted it before he took it to the junkyard. He knew Eddie was repairing a patch in the fence a Bronco he was training had kicked out. 

“Back so soon?” You grinned, pressing a hand over your brows to shield you from the September sun. Not as bright as it was in June, but still unforgiving in the middle of the day. 

“Yep, wasn’t much, but I think I got what I needed.” Eddie hummed, turning the key and killing the ignition, cigarette still lit between his fingers. “Think I got enough to patch it though. Just gonna need to repaint it since it’s not the same kinda wood.” 

Your brows raised, walking over towards the driver’s side, leaning in towards the window. “I can help you with that.” You hummed, breathing in the cloud of smoke he exhaled with a content sigh. “I love to paint.” 

Eddie grinned back at you, a soft crease in his dimples that made your body buzz with excitement. “Yeah? We can go to town tomorrow if I get this done. Pick out a color.” 

“That sounds like fun.” You beam. “I was going to say we need to go to the grocery anyways, so that works out.” You hum, a large brown bag catching your attention, nestled beside Eddie in the passenger seat. 

“What’s that?” You ask, leaning on the door to see. “Apples?” 

“Yeah, Mrs. Ives insisted I take a few. Said their trees were overflowin’ with ‘em.” Eddie nodded towards the bag, lightly tapping your hand to move, opening the truck’s door. “Figure I’d give a few to Medusa. Try to do something with the rest, maybe.” 

You nodded slowly, wheels in your mind already spinning with an idea. Eddie handed you the apples, cradling the bottom until you got your grip on the heavy bag. “‘M gonna go start on this. Try to get it done today.” 

“Ok,” You hummed, hugging the apples to your chest. “Have fun, baby.” 

Eddie snorted in laughter, head ducking down, stealing a quick kiss from you. “I shouldn’t be too long.” He looked back at you, eyes narrowing in suspicion as you simply nodded, pulling the screen door open and slipping in the kitchen. 

Normally, you’d offer to come help him, sit with him and talk about nothing in particular, and hand him the tools while he worked. Not this time. You didn’t seem mad, or upset- really, you seemed perfectly happy. Which left him a little suspicious. 

The clanging of a large, steel pot falling on the floor soothed his worries, left him grinning to himself in humor as he started off to the barn. 

“Sift? What does- like move it around?” You muttered, brows pinched in concentration that was teetering on annoyance. Your eyes squinted in concentration, trying to decipher the loopy, old school cursive on the faded, yellowed recipe card in front of you. 

The first time you found the recipe box, it was buried under piles of other things, lost in the mess that was Eddie’s bachelor pad before you moved in- really, before you were in his life. His Mamaw Munson’s recipes, all her best dishes, all in one tin box. He sat in the kitchen with you between his legs, he’d poured over each one, told you which ones were his favorite, sometimes even added a little anecdote that had you beaming with joy. 

“Oh, this one was one of my favorites, baby,” Eddie had said, eyes lighting as they scanned over the card. 

“Apple Cobbler. She’d bake it in this cast iron skillet so it’d stay hot, and we’d put vanilla ice cream over it- holy shit, it was so good.” Eddie swallowed his drool, he could practically taste it still. “She used to have an apple tree before it got blown away by this bad tornado one year. But she’d go and pick them every fall when they were ripe, and she’d always make it for us. It was my favorite thing.” 

Looking at the recipe in front of you, you could see why Eddie loved it so much. It did sound really good. 

It was just very complicated. 

“Take your peeled- shit,” You looked at the sliced apples, still with the skin on, in the bowl in front of you. “Why wouldn’t you say that before I added the other stuff, Mamaw?” You huffed, pulling the drawer open for the whittling knife. 

The kitchen was a disaster, sticky and flour filled, bowls piling high in the sink; and you hadn’t even gotten halfway through the recipe. Grabbing a handful of the butter and sugar rolled apples, you placed them on the counter’s free space, carefully carving around the edge where the skin was. 

This isn’t too bad, not taking as long as I thought it would, You thought to yourself, finally in a grove of cutting around the skin, tossing the apple back in the mixture. 

A smoky, sugary, thick smell alerted your senses on your last few apples. Turning, you saw the filling that was supposed to be simmering, now bubbling with thick, burnt globs in the pot. You grabbed the handle with a panic, shoving it to the free stove eye, turning the hot one off. 

The mixture, which was supposed to be a light caramel brown, was a deep dark molasses shade. You lifted the whisk, cringing at the toughness of the gooey substance. “It’s ok,” You shook your head lightly, looking at the clock. “That’s- whatever. It’ll bake and soften in the oven.” 

Pulling out the pan, you shoved the now skinless apples to the bottom, scraping the hardened filling mixture on top. The wooden spoon nearly broke trying to mix it in, sticking out of the cemented filling. 

You could see Eddie through the small window over the sink, down to the last stake in the fence, already beginning the wiring. He’d be done soon, this had to cook for forty-five minutes, and the kitchen was a disaster. 

“It’s fine, it’ll be fine.” You muttered to yourself, pouring the batter on top, not bothering to smooth it out like the instructions said- there was no time for that Mamaw. Instead, you slid it in the oven, turning the timer. 

Eddie came in just as you’d finished putting your last dish away. Your body surged with excited heat, smug that you might actually get away with your little surprise- well, as long as he didn’t go to the back porch, where the burnt filling was in the pan, cemented in. 

“Mm,” Eddie sniffed the air, sugary and a little… smoky? “Smells good in here, baby.” He gave you a dazzling smile, hoping you wouldn’t pick up the hesitancy in his tone. 

It was no secret that you weren’t exactly the best cook. Not that Eddie cared, but after you almost burnt the house down making lasagna, he was a little weary when you’d cook. 

“Does it?” Your eyes lit up, filled with excitement that he wouldn’t dare take from you. Whatever you’d made, no matter how charred or inedible it was, he’d scarf it down with a grin if it’d make you happy. Even if it gave him food poisoning like the chicken ala king did. 

“Yeah, what’re you makin’?” Eddie reached for the oven’s handle. 

You pushed it closed with a click of your tongue, smacking his hands away. “Don’t.” You shook your head. “It’s a surprise.” 

And you were true to your word. It certainly was a surprise. 

When you placed the concoction in front of Eddie, grinning so big, so proudly, he couldn’t bring himself to do anything but grin back. “Wow, you, uh, you made this for me, sweetheart?” He smiled, eyeing the plate in front of him. 

“Yes,” You giggled, topping the runny dough on top with a scoop of ice cream. “You said it was your favorite, and when you brought the apples home, I just thought I’d surprise you.” You chirped, sliding him a spoon. “I followed your Mamaw’s recipe.”

“You spoil me, sweet thing. You know that?” Eddie smiled, heart swelling at the sentiment. You really did spoil him, were too good and too sweet to him- even if you’re cooking wasn’t as good. 

“Try it.” You sat next to him, bursting with excitement. “I know it won’t be as good as hers, but I think I did a good job on it.” 

Eddie looked down at the plate, swallowing the dread building in his throat. He dug his spoon, sawing it through the thick middle until it finally came out in a clean cut. Taking a large scoop of ice cream, hoping it would mask the flavor, he took a bite. 

“Is it good?” You leaned forward, eyes rounded in hopefulness, scanning his features eagerly. 

Eddie hummed, his teeth cemented together from the filling, sure his crown might pop out from the material. The filling was tough, the dough undercooked and lacked something that made it rise, but the apples were delicious- just like his Mamaw’s except…

“Oh,” Eddie winced before he could help it, finger digging in his mouth. He pulled out the hard thing that was wedged in his molar, turning it with a brow raised. “Is that- is that a seed?” 

Your face fell, looking at the seed back at Eddie. “Well, yeah, from the apples.” You said, heart skinning in your chest. “I didn’t- it didn’t say to take them out or anything, so I just left them in.”

Eddie swallowed, stomach turning lightly at the bite. “No, it’s- I mean, it’s good, baby. Some people take them out, but- no, this is, it’s really good.” He nodded, smiling at you gently. “‘S really good.” 

“Really?” You squeaked. “Better than the muffins?” 

“Yes,” Eddie said truthfully, whole heartedly. That was the truth, this was so much better than the mess that was the blueberry muffins. “So much better. This is really good, sweetheart. You really surprised me. Too sweet of ya to do this.” 

You squealed, hugging him tightly, legs straddling his waist in the chair, lips pressing kisses over his cheeks, his chin, his lips. Eddie’s arms wrapped around you, squeezing you into him, playfully nipping at your jaw to hear you squeal, before his lips caught yours, pulling you into a heated kiss. He’d eat all your burnt cobblers if it meant you’d be happy like this, if it made you this happy. 

[yaespook]

Run 4 - In Progress.

✧ Room Content: Dom! GN! Reader x Yan! Sub! Android! Wanderer, no gendered terms used for reader, no actual penetration, unhealthy obsessive and possessive relationship from Wanderer, memory manipulation. Leave a note if anything was missed out. ✧ Retrieved Notes: If possible, use the InteractiveFics extension to change the phrase “My name” (without the quotation marks) to the name given to your Wanderer.

There’s an unfamiliar android sitting atop your worktable.

You must have picked him up two or three weeks ago, when he was still worse for wear. In your memory, he was in pretty bad shape when the two of you first met, his main panel wrenched open leaving his circuitry a mess and rough scrapes all over his superficial layer.

Now, with your constant repairs, he’s been more lively, tailing you around the house as you go about your day. While fussing about, dusting off a muzzle laying on a fur pelt, you sense a presence lingering outside your room.

"You know, I don't recall androids being quite so clingy." In return, you get a light huff from behind the door frame. 

"And you’ve come across other androids? I didn’t know you run a junkyard here,” the eye roll in his tone is audible.

His feet pad into the room and his gaze hones in on the clerical collar placed on a nearby shelf, glaring at it. Clicking his tongue, he crosses his hands on his chest.

“Whatever, what you do is mostly up to you anyway. Do you think you’re almost done cleaning? I think there’s an internal problem again, I’ll wait for you at the worktable,” the android saunters off nonchalantly, throwing you a light wave over his shoulder.

Sighing, you quickly finish up your task at hand before complying to his request, briskly making your way over to the worktable where he's already perched smugly on, his gaze expectant. 

You easily go through the rehearsed motions of plugging him up to your computer, your muscle memory kicking in as you boot up the required softwares before gingerly prying the main panel located on the front of his torso to gain access to his internal workings. Over time, you've gradually figured out the parts that make up the android sitting before you, growing used to the sight of the lengths of wiring and cables running throughout his body, the faint low mechanical whirring of motors and cooling systems. 

Most importantly, you now understand how sensitive his central core is. Nestled securely in a latched transparent casing, his core is what powers and sustains him. It emits a constant turquoise light and is also reflected in the glowing markings that lay beneath his synthetic skin that occasionally activate. (Although, you haven't quite gotten an answer for what makes them light up yet.) 

“So what's your problem today?” You ask, tearing your eyes away from him as you go over to your computer to check if any bugs have been identified.

“I think that cable all the way at the back came undone and got tangled with the rest.” 

You shoot him a pointed look, “Again? Didn’t we just fix that same cable last week?” Shifting your chair so you’re seated before him, poised to conduct your repairs, you make a passing remark, “Maybe taking you to another mechanic might be the better choice, get everything checked out, you know?”

How long have you kept at your task of finally fixing him up to tiptop condition? It’s almost daily when he reports back to you with a new disconnected wire or another loose joint somewhere on him. Diligently, you’ve been trying to repair him but the android is like a never-ending to-do list. And it’s only natural to be concerned if the constant damage stems from a more serious underlying issue that you haven’t managed to discover. The only next logical step would be to get another pair of eyes to help discern the root cause in case anything takes a turn for the worse.

But the reaction you get from him is one unexpected. His head snaps to face you, a scowl evident on his face. 

“So you’re handing me off like an unfinished project to someone else now?”

You know how snippy he can get however, this is on a different level from his previous behaviour. Maybe something left over from the days before you found him. It’ll be a good idea to look into his past logs to diagnose any present problems, you make a mental note of it.

“I’m just worried for you, that’s all. What if there’s an urgent issue I can’t fix alone? And we both know I can’t leave you as is.”

His expression mellows to an annoyed pout, looking away as his core glows faintly along with the patterns under his skin, he mumbles, “I’ll be fine.” (“I just need you.”) (“I'm the only one for you.”) (“No one else deserves you.”)

He allows you to work without another complaint, silently watching as your hands venture into his chest, a focused air to you while you look for the problematic cable. He senses your touch when you make contact with it, sucking in a sharp breath as you grip it between your fingers, twisting it around to free it from the surrounding wires before you finally connect and plug it into its rightful place. 

“That’s it for your cable issue. Anything else?” He quickly shakes his head.

Giving it a few light cursory pulls to make sure it’s finally secured, (if you weren’t mistaken, his core brightened in time with your tugs), you spare the rest of his parts one last look over. Then, shutting the panel, you unplug him from the computer.

Immediately, he scampers off the worktable with a clipped “thank you” and runs into his room. You hear the door to his room close before its lock clicks. 

The next few days prove to be better, the repair requests for any troubles that seem to have cropped up overnight growing more and more infrequent. Perhaps, bit by bit, the end of the repairs start to come into sight. 

Although, you have noted that his internal temperatures have been hiking recently whenever you have his chest panel open to patch him up. 

This time, you have him lying on the worktable on his back to access the further areas in him. He’s positioned facing upwards but his eyes are darting everywhere, unable to meet your gaze. Once again, the programme open on your computer screen shows how his temperatures are quickly rising even though there are no obvious reasons for such a sudden change. It records the recurrence into its troubleshooting log like before, more times than you can remember.

He’s panting lightly, the android’s chest moving up and down as your ears pick up the sound of his inner fans whir louder, his pre-programmed functions activating to try to cool him down. With no clue as to what could cause this issue, you reach in to look for a fault. Yet, the more you poke and prod around, the higher the warmth within him rises. 

Left with more questions than answers, you turn to his core for a closer look. When your fingers brush against the transparent casing, a moan slips out from him, and instantly his head whips to look at you dumbfounded.

An artificial blush takes over his face, a low pink glow blooming from beneath the synthetic layer. A beat passes before he cracks his lips apart, voicebox working as he pleads.

“...Again.”

Gently, you let your fingertips dance over the clasp hinging the casing shut and his response is instant. A shudder rolls through him, as real as it can be, and a shaky exhale leaves him. The android’s back arches up slightly, hastily chasing after your touch when you remove your hand.

Your caress returns when your hand dips deeper into his circuitry, where you hook two fingers underneath his thicker cables, attentively stroking them between your thumb and fingers, before tugging on them forcefully enough to elicit a reaction from him. 

His eyes fly open at your ministrations, a greed for more overtaking his processors. You’ve always been so gentle with him when he’s opened up for you, when you have access to the deepest parts of him, when he’s at his most vulnerable. So, to have you toy around with him, show him the indulgence of human flesh, can you really fault him for falling for you?

The tips of your fingers ghost along the length of his metal spine, and the android keens from under you.

“Please, more, I can take it!”

Taking his cue, your hand encircles his spine, grinding the heel of your palm against the ridges of the sensitive metal elements as you pump up and down. 

“Sss- so good! Hah…!” He can’t control how he behaves when you treat him so well, like he’s the only one worthy of your attention. He shakes under your touch, trembling as the addictive pleasure overrides his programmed commands.

“No more blubbering, just focus on me.” Your other hand goes to cup his chin, and obediently, he parts his lips for you, allowing you to slip your thumb into his mouth. You can feel his tongue work and when you press down, he jolts suddenly. A gag reflex? In an android? How amusing.

When you stop stroking him, he whines pitifully, muffled moans and begging for you to continue but his complaints stop when he feels you unlatch the lid of his core casing.

“Would you let me?” And the flurry of nods from him confirms his enthusiasm.

With bated breath, he counts the seconds before you make contact with his core. And when he senses your caress on his glowing core in his exposed chest cavity, he breathes out a gasp, as if he requires the intake of air. None of this is written into the basis of his behaviour, not fed into the dataset that makes up how he’s supposed to act, so everything he feels for you must be real.

His eyes go unfocused as his neural network is flooded with the raw pleasure of being enveloped with love and lust down to his literal core. Desire burns within him, evident from the fans whirring even louder than before to bring down his temperatures. It’s just so much for the android’s computations to handle. Broken moans leave him as he tries to vocalise his love for you (as best as he can with his thumb in your mouth). 

And when you press a kiss to his unprotected core, his vision whites out.

Eyes wrenched shut, his whole mechanical body jerks upwards, back arching off the worktable as his body propels himself to sit up, his limbs trying to ensnare you in his embrace, to keep you with him as long as he can. Every command in his system is overwritten to hone in on all the sensations of you on him, your touch, your warmth.

The patterns under his skin glow with a pulse, akin to a human’s heartbeat and when his eyes open again, glimmering faux tears roll down his face. His chest heaves as you close the distance between the two of you, cupping his face with both your hands and kissing his tears away.

The android breaks the intimate silence as he quietly asks you, “Can you give me a name?”

When you whisper a name into his ear, he breaks into sobs in your hands.

The days pass by, uneventful, and the time for a final cursory check before deeming him fully repaired comes. He’s poised on the worktable like any other previous session, a bored expression on his face as you flit back and forth between him and the software on your computer.

“You really are a clingy case,” you say and get a huff in return, “But a welcome one.”

Remembering your mental note from before about accessing his past logs, you access it from your computer, pulling up the window with his stored recorded data. The log operates in the background constantly, one of the built-in functions of the android and a quick glance over just to make sure everything is in order should do.

However, the logs prove to be worrying in a completely different way.

[Log: Day 10 - Run 1 - Failed. Werewolf. They’re with that mangy mutt. I don’t know what they see in him. I still remember the care they showed me. There’s always the next run.]

[Log: Day 20 - Run 2 - Failed. It seems I’m too late this time around. That vile selkie captured them first. How irritating. I need to stop hesitating. It’s my love on the line after all.]

[Log: Day 30 - Run 3 - Failed. Incubus. That damn priest and incubus. I can feel my temper reaching its breaking point.]

[Log: Day ??? - Run 4 - In progress. Please. Please. Please. Please. Please. Please. Please. Please. Please. Please.]

Your eyes rake across a multitude of grainy snapshots of yourself, all with different people that you can’t find the ability to recall, your mind pounding from the discovery. 

He’s gazing expectantly when you look back up at him from the screen. A grin twists its way across his face, canines glinting under the dizzying harsh lighting.

“So now you’ve seen how much I love you, even if you don’t remember it.” There’s a sick obsession dripping in his tone, an uncanny level of emotion that androids normally shouldn’t be able to replicate, one that sends a heavy uneasiness through your whole being, one that roots you to the ground. 

When he doesn’t get the adoring reaction from you he expects, the proud expression on his face falls instantly. 

He’s despondent, despairing as he tears the connecting cables off of him, launching himself off the worktable, lunging across for you, frenzied, pure scorching mania surging through him. 

“You… even after all these runs. You’ve always given me the same thing. My name. I thought this time- You-” 

Voice shaky, “It’s a shame this run didn’t work out either.” 

He steels himself, hand outstretched, “No matter.”

You blink.

There’s an unfamiliar android sitting atop your worktable.

Thank you kindly for reading. Consider supporting on kofi if you enjoyed this or visit the other doors.

[sidekickjoey]

Somethin' 'Bout a Truck

Rating: T | WC: 3,070 | Tags: Steve's new truck, pushing canon aside using S5 spoilers, Eddie Munson is stressed | read on Ao3

AN: RIP Eddie Munson, you would've loved Steve's new pickup truck.

Eddie first saw it on a lazy Saturday morning.

He was perched up top one of the new leather barstools in his and Wayne's brand-new house, idly plucking the strings of an acoustic guitar to drain the day away. Wayne was sat a little bit nearby, lounging on the couch with his eyes poured into the day's paper, his cup of coffee dutifully placed nearby. They'd both grown accustomed to mornings like this since moving in, when life finally quieted down and not as many people figured Eddie to be the spawn of Satan. They were nice. Peaceful.

Peace and quiet was not on the menu that morning, however, courtesy of the unmistakable rumble of an engine approaching just outside.

It sounded nothing like Eddie's old van, which wheezed with every breath, or Wayne's discount truck he snagged from the junkyard and refurbished after Eddie's fell through a portal to hell. This was deeper, heavier. Newer, and maybe built with better parts. Eddie set his guitar to the side.

"You expecting someone, ol' man?" He asked in the general direction of Wayne, sitting up more and trying to crane his neck toward the window. Wayne shook his head, his brow furrowed.

"Nope. It's Saturday. See people every other day."

"Great." Eddie frowned. "Juuuust great. And I'm guessing it's up to me then to waltz out and check then, huh? Get to see if it's some fiesty little jock rolling up to finish what the bats started? Maybe a sweet old lady with a pitchfork or two?"

Wayne rolled his eyes but said nothing, giving him a little gruff grumble for good luck and to quit the dramatics, maybe. Waving him off with his hand, Eddie grabbed the bat he kept by the door -- an ironic choice, but a reliable one at that, he's come to learn -- and stepped past him to go outside. There, he was met with the sun glaring off a baby-blue and white truck parked right in the driveway. It was a brand-new Silverado, if he had to guess, with its engine still ticking as it cooled.

"What in the hell..." Eddie muttered to himself, stalking toward the vehicle. He got around almost to the passenger side when suddenly, the driver's door opened and stopped him short. To his absolute shock, awe, and dismay, none other than Steve Harrington popped out, his hair perfectly done up but completely outshined by an obscenely purple pattered top and the tightest jeans known to man.

"...Harrington?"

Steve’s grin was sheepish as he leaned against the doorframe. "Hey, Munson."

"I- What are you even doing here right now? And what is going on with that yee-haw looking truck of yours? Is it even yours? Don't tell me your folks got you another car out of the goodness of their hearts and wallets. I don't think I could be seen around you if that's the case."

Steve’s smile turned rueful. "Beemer's dead, actually. Got this one with my, uh, hush-hush money? Thought about replacing the old gal, but figured something more practical was probably the better choice for me now. Besides, the kids are like, way less likely to guilt me into driving their asses around town in this."

Eddie's fingers tightened on the bat. He raised his brow. "Practical, huh? How so, exactly? 'Cause as far as I know," he raised his brow and gently tapped the bat against one of the truck's tires, "this thing doesn't look so practical for your type of needs."

Face scrunching up, Steve kicked Eddie's bat away from the tire. "My needs?"

"You do realize you can’t get so hot and heavy in one of those, right?" Eddie gestured to the back of the truck. "Only two seats. That sounds like it'd go against your entire Steve Harrington code of conduct, no? Cause a little trouble with the ladies?"

Eddie's words dawning on him, Steve's smirk widened. He shrugged and leaned back against the doorframe, tossing a hand through his hair for good measure.

"I dunno about that. But, you’d be surprised what you can do with a flatbed, Munson."

Indeed, he would be surprised -- was, as a matter of fact, if the way his brain immediately turned to static was any indicator. If it wasn't, well, all of the thoughts his imagination quickly supplied soon after of how Steve could use a flatbed surely did the trick.

Like a damn cartoon, Eddie audibly gulped.

"Y-Yeah, okay Harrington," he dashingly replied back, tone sounding no different for a second than his thirteen-year-old self when he first inhaled helium from a baloon. "Whatever you say. Now, did you come here to tell me something, or did you just come over here to flaunt your amazing truck at me?"

Steve huffed, only to look down at his feet and give a small kick to his tire, too. He was wearing loafers, Eddie realized then. Freakin nerd.

"Wanna' hang later today? I'll bring snacks."

"Sure, sure," Eddie shrugged, casually waving his hand in the air like the thought didn't send him into hysterics. "Tempt me from my dungeon with your snacks and promises of company after waving your new treasure in my face, oh Lord of Hair."

Steve snorted shook his head. "I'm taking whatever that was as a yes and getting outta' here before I have to hear any more. See ya' later, man."

With one last incredulous look back, Steve slid right back into his truck, turned his key in the ignition, and drove off from whence he came in his new baby blue ride.

Eddie, he's proud to admit, waited all the way until he turned the corner out of sight to scream and barrel past Wayne's cozy setup over to his room.

Wayne sighed, his morning over.

Later that night, Eddie took Wayne's place on the couch.

He had realized moments after his sheer panic in his bedroom earlier that he and Steve never quite mentioned a time for when they would hang. To stop himself from cringing at how stupid that was, and how nervous not knowing when the guy would show up was going to make him, he'd moseyed on over to Wayne's usual spot and thrown on the TV. He flipped through anything to help get him by -- infomercials, the news, even those static channels that make the TV screen feel weird. Whatever worked and got Steve out of his head, he was determined to find it.

He'd just gotten through his third channel playing reruns of Andy Griffith when a knock at the door startled him.

It was Steve. It just had to be him -- no bat needed.

Shutting off the TV, Eddie scampered to the door to meet him. He allowed himself ten seconds of panicking some more and checking his hair in the hall mirror before finally being a big, grown man and opening the door to face his friend.

Opening it, he quickly realized he should've taken much, much more time than ten seconds. There was Steve Harrington, looking insufferably confident in his outfit from earlier, holding a picnic basket in one hand and a blanket in another. It was a sight worthy of cardiac arrest. Eddie gulped, fearing that fate to soon fall upon him.

"Harrington," he said slowly. "What...are you doing?"

Steve held up the basket. "Proving a point."

"A point about what, exactly?"

"The truck," Steve said simply, stepping backward toward the driveway. "C'mon, I'll show you."

Bewildered, Eddie followed him out and over to the truck. There, Steve jumped into the flatbed ahead of Eddie and made quick work to spread out the blanket he brought there for him. Eddie's heart did a little involuntary flip at it once he saw it all spread out, as well as when Steve began pulling out entire candles to light up the place, their soft glow casting shadows on the sides of the truck and his stupid, perfect face.

"You’re insane," he lamented, despite putting no heat into it. He climbed in to join Steve then, sitting cross-legged on the blanket as the guy unpacked sandwiches, fruit, and what looked like homemade cookies from his little basket. Upon further inspection, Eddie's heart lurched to see they were his favorite kind -- snickerdoodle.

"See?" Steve said, handing Eddie a sandwich. "Perfectly practical and useful. Very romantic too, no?"

Eddie took the sandwich, unable to stop himself from shaking his head with a small grin. "Are you sure you didn't get hit in the head again when giving the Beemer a good ol' Viking funeral, Harrington?"

"Nope," Steve affirmed, popping the p and diving in for a mouthful of sandwich -- PB&J, if Eddie's eyes didn't deceive him again in the candlelight. "Very open head, clear thoughts."

"If only your mouth was that open."

Eddie paused, watching the mouthful of PB&J Steve had slow to a stop. Embarrassed, he quickly looked away, ears burning hot. Steve swallowed and let out a laugh, one of those big, booming ones stifled only by a few coughs here and there.

"That did not come out right."

"See, told ya'. Lots of game to still be had in the back of a flatbed."

Eddie's blush deepened. Nervous, he reached for one of the cookies, making quick work to smash it in his mouth and keep himself from making any other stupid comments. It was good timing too, because Steve proceeded right then and there to turn things up a notch a thousand fold, humming one of Eddie's favorite songs at the moment and making so many noises of approval between bites of his sandwich.

Finally, snickerdoodle gone and his mouth threatening to water, Eddie let out an exasperated huff and threw his hands in the air.

"Okay, fine! You've shown me the light, Harrington! You can wine and dine someone here! You don't have to keep being all...like that anymore."

Steve titled his head, his gaze steady. "Like what, Eddie?"

"Like what, he says." Eddie laughed, beside himself. "Did you not hear yourself eating, man? I've heard actual couples sound less satisfied. That was borderline illegal. My ears are scandalized, thoroughly."

Amused, Steve set aside his sandwich. "That all?"

"That ALL? What about the way you're out here singing my favorite songs, making my favorite cookies? I'm proved, okay! You don't need to keep trying to win me over, it's fine. Your truck hasn't completely rendered your game useless. Or groove, I guess." Eddie winced. "Whatever your types call it these days."

Steve nodded, contemplative. Then, he shifted closer, the playful confidence he'd been sported suddenly replaced with something softer, yet somehow more sinister. Eddie's heart rate picked up.

"If you're done, there's one other thing you forgot that I still need to test."

Eddie faltered, swearing he saw Steve's eyes flicker down to his lips and a hint of mischief enter his gaze. God help him. He was so doomed. Utterly, put-him-in-a-casket doomed.

"H-Huh?"

"I mean, sure, you approve of the setting," he continued, looking around at the little setup he'd prepared for them. "You seem to approve of the food. But I believe you said something about getting hot and heavy. What about that?"

Eddie’s breath caught. His usual bravado scrambled to make an appearance, only to get sumo-smashed and kicked in the ribs by the absolute fluttering monster that was his anxiety. "I-I was just being a piece of shit."

"Your point still stands though," Steve replied after a moment to consider, shrugging a little. "Maybe I want us to find out what this baby's capable of together."

To Eddie's absolute shock and dismay, it was in that second that Steve chose to lean closer and rest his hand lightly on Eddie's knee. How a feather-light touch such as this managed to hold so much magnitude and heat, Eddie'd never know. What he did know, though, was that Steve's face was coming closer to his at a rapid pace, and he had about two seconds to act before the guy did something he most certainly would regret with him for the sake of a stupid car and a stupid comment and a stupid, stupid boy.

Quickly, ungracefully, Eddie jumped back and out of the way. A few of the candles nearly fell in the process, making for a lovely near-heart attack. He didn't dare look at him, but Eddie could hear Steve mumble something confused at his side as Eddie scrambled to right them all in place.

"Hold up!" he stammered out, holding up his hands once every candle was accounted for. "Hold the fuck up! Ha ha ha, no. Look, Harrington, I appreciate your all-in bravado here and commitment to the bit. I really do, trust me. That kind of shit gets the twerps leagues ahead in campaigns. But I know we both don’t need you doing something you really don’t want to do just to prove some dumb point about a truck. Seriously, I'll take whatever rumor you want me to make about this baby and run with it. I'll swear up and down that it is the hottest spot for couples next to goddamn Vegas if you'd like. Name your price, I'll pay it."

Steve looked at him for a long beat. Then, fixing his hair a bit, he cornered Eddie with a hell of a gaze and asked, completely serious, "Did I say that?"

Eddie froze.

"Excuse me?"

Steve inched closer again, his voice low and steady. "Did I say I didn't want to do anything? Because I don't exactly remember that."

Eddie shook his head. "N-No, you didn't, but you aren't...but I'm not... girls!"

Steve huffed. "Girls?"

"You like them," Eddie blurted out back, heart stuttering. "I'm not one. The, uh- the test mentioned girls. I mentioned girls. Faulty logic. No can do."

"You only mentioned them after your little test," Steve replied, damn him, "but even then. Eddie, look at me."

Eddie did, only to be hit with a massive sucker-punch of feelings by the sudden intensity in Steve's eyes.

"Think about all this for a sec. Take two seconds, and think with me," he said, way-too-calm about it for Eddie's liking. "I showed up at your house. I asked to hang out, which you agreed to. I then made you a picnic in the back of my truck with your favorite snacks, like you said, and hummed some of your favorite music. I lit candles for you. Does it sound like I'd be opposed to something more after that? Like I'm not serious?"

Eddie short-circuited. "I-I thought that was for the truck test."

"Partly, yeah, but maybe also I've been looking for an excuse to do something like this for a while, maybe take you somewhere and see where things went, and the truck was the perfect way to work up some nerve to do it. Ever think about that?"

Eddie’s brain did the equivalent of twenty somersaults in two seconds in response. Verbally, all he could muster was a very shaky, very unsure, "You… you’re serious?"

"Dead serious," Steve said, his hand now gently cupping Eddie’s cheek. "But if you don’t want that, i-if I've read this and the last however many stupid months of us going back and forth completely wrong, just say the word and I’ll stop. I'll back off and we can just eat the rest of this stuff. Maybe have a laugh about this sometime later. Get high. I dunno. I'll have Robin think something up for me."

The funny thing was, Eddie wanted exactly none of that. It took all but three seconds of thought for him to come to that conclusion too, when Steve was looking at him with those big chocolatey eyes of his and offering to literally make his dreams come true with no conditions attached. Sure, he'd probably have to have others swear up and down for him that he didn't dream this up, or have Steve sign documents and shit to prove he won't turn around and use this against him as some big 'gotcha' moment, but right then and there? Eddie was happy to comply. Dammit, he would comply.

Before he could overthink it, he grabbed Steve by the shirt collar and closed the gap between them. The resulting kiss was electric, if not a bit sloppy at first because of the suddenness of it all and Steve's surprise. When Steve settled in though, and when Eddie felt himself finally gaining a bit of confidence too, it turned positively electric. It was all heat and tenderness and Steve, Steve, Steve rolled into one, far surpassing any of Eddie's previous dreams of the guy.

His hands soon found a home on Steve's shoulders, gripping tightly as the world titled off its axis around him. Steve lips responded in kind, soft but insistent and trying their damnedest to live up to their hype.

When they finally pulled apart, Eddie stared at Steve, his chest heaving and his mind absolutely blown. Steve, the bastard, grinned back at him with flushed cheeks and loads of confidence. Eddie wanted to kiss it out of him. Instead, he leaned back and released him from his grasp with a laugh.

"Okay," he conceded, holding his hands up again. "Fine. Fuck. The truck passes."

Steve let out an adorable giggle, tossing his head back. "You're ridiculous."

"And you're the freakin weirdo who used his new pickup truck as a goddamn pickup line on me," Eddie fired back, full of mirth. "Who told you to make that play? Robin? Wait, no, scratch that. She'd never do something like this. She's smarter than that."

"Hey!"

"I mean, you give a guy leagues worth of material, nerd shit and catalogues of music, and he goes for the freakin' car-"

"It worked, didn't it?"

Eddie met Steve's gaze. For good measure, he flicked at Steve's nose, earning him a tiny yelp and -- friendly -- shove his way. ''You tell anyone it did, and I'll never let you hear the end of it. Okay? I'll tell the kids, the Bird, everyone."

Impossibly fond, Steve recovers and flashes one of his signature all-too-caring smiles. "Fine, you have yourself a deal. IF, that is, you stay and finish up this meal with me."

Reaching for another snickerdoodle, Eddie grinned and tapped it against Steve's cheek. "Make me more of these and I'll stay here forever, big boy. Car or no car."

The End.

[thebomb-thebird-andtheburntbitch]

a/n- 3.5k: boothill comes back to you for a tune up, but instead of his body, it's his heart that needs tending to after you scare the hell out of him [minor boothill story spoilers if you're not caught up on that jazz, but nothing major!]

warning(s)!: boothill is implied to have an artificial tech!eye and he takes it out (not descriptive tho!)

the last time boothill saw you, he was in for a cooling agent refill. it was also during that last visit when he saw that you had fixed up the small robot he had picked up on a distant planet and brought back as a gift. with your affinity for tinkering with things, he knew you'd like it. and he wasn't wrong.

it's been a month, maybe, and while that shouldn't be considered a very long time away considering his goal steeped in revenge would eventually require him to be gone for far longer- or even not come back at all- he damn missed you.

that, and the censor inside his eye has been on the fritz and well... if he can't see, he can't exactly shoot straight. he didn't need to be discharging bullets like a psychopath- he's a galaxy ranger, not some low-ringed IPC lacky who's a bit too trigger happy.

luckily, his eye wasn’t so fudged up that he couldn't see at all. the world around him was all blurs if he moves to quickly, but given the time to adjust, he's able to more or less make out what was in front of him. just don’t ask him to read anything... not that he was stellar in that department to begin with. it's like the crosshair infused with his artificial eye was out of focus or something.

boothill knows the path to your shop- that acts also as your home- like the back of his hand. someone could pluck his eye right out of his head, yet he'd still navigate his way to where you are. it was one of the few roads he has taken time and time again. he hope's it'll stay a place he can keep coming back to in health or otherwise.

stepping off his small, single-man ship after landing it near the junkyard you usually dig around in, he stumbles out of it onto the ground with a censored curse. he wishes he could land the thing closer to your shop, but he had once come in with too much a gusto and scorched a section of your lawn. once was all you needed to prohibit him from landing anywhere near the building again.

the walk from junkyard to the shop wasn't a treacherous one, hardly even a workout. still, the back of his neck just at his hair line breaks out into a cold sweat. it isn't brought on by exertion, but by the engraved instinct that something... wasn't right. something in his gut was telling him something was wrong.

boothill's learned to trust his gut.

his leisurely pace picks up to a more urgent gait and he can smell the 'something wrong' before his unfocused eye can try and see it.

it smells like smoke.

his steps falter at the disgustingly familiar scent- the smell that brings back memories he forces himself remember. memories that push him towards his goal of revenge- his goal in finding oswaldo. memories of his ruined home. he swallows thickly but it does nothing for his throat that's sudden too dry.

boothill hated fire. he's hated fire since his original name died with his family... with his daughter. since he chose to become "boothill" altogether he's abhorred fire.

he's familiar with fire. with its destruction. with its color. with its smell and heat and ruthlessness. its lack of mercy and greedy nature to swallow up anything in its path that can scorch.

the billows of smoke he could barely make out once his long, mechanical legs took him running to your shop could only be explained by fire. where was it? was it large? contained? were you inside? were you hurt? the cowboy didn't see any flames from outside, so it must not be that bad yet. you're fine. you're fine. you have to be.

all formality is left at his heels when he barges through your shop's doors. there's not much smoke in front of the shop when he enters.

"y/n! are you in here!" you don't respond to his shouts. "fudge!" god, boothill wishes he could properly curse right now. screw his synthesia beacon to hell.

the dim lights make it harder to navigate the area around him with the addition of his already busted vision, but just like the path leading him here- boothill is familiar with the inside of your home. he could walk it blindfolded and deaf.

boothill follows his nose. the smell of smoke got stronger the further back into the shop he goes. the ranger starts hearing commotion along with his narrowing down of where the fire was coming from.

clanging. some bangs. you're coughing. you're cursing.

boothill pushes open the metal door that leads into the main workshop with his shoulder. the room is always filled with all sorts of scrap metals, wiring, wielding tools, normal tools, and all sorts of other gadgets and knobs that he's sure you keep cluttered in different drawers and corners.

the smoke he saw outside floods the workshop, filtering out through the windows you had thrown open and up the chimney you don't ever use unless you need to melt down metal. the grey, sooty gas lingers high towards the ceiling. wafting around his head as soon as he enters the workshop, causing him to choke on it before his mechanical insides whirl into filtering it all out of his system.

sometimes being mostly robotic had it's perks. not choking to death on smog was always a plus.

"sugar!" he calls that familiar endearment over all the noise you're causing. the normally sweet, yet playful, nickname he's been calling you since he discovered your unbelievable sweet tooth feels sour coming out of his mouth this time. your coughing is muffled, and he can only assume it's because you're covering your mouth with a cloth or something. you better be, he hisses internally to himself.

"boothill?!" your shock is as muffled as your cough. "hold- gahk! son of a- hold on a second!" he can hear you rushing around the shop's concrete floor. "ore, did you get to the switch!" you direct your attention away from the unanticipated arrival of boothill. instead, you steer it towards the aforementioned, small robot you refurbished into new, mech-life. you had named it ore after the piece of unknown gem used as his power source.

small beeps of affirmation filter through the soot and smoke and you cough three more times into the cloth you're holding over your mouth and nose.

"flick it left!" you instruct ore. another set of beeps before the shop is bombarded with a force that's almost enough to knock boothill off his feet. the smoke was gathered quickly into a vacuum of air that soon collected all of it up then sequency shot it up and out the of chimney.

the room was basically clear now. all that's left after ore flips the switch back to the right to halt at vacuum assault is the mist of remnants that would soon find their way out the windows you intend to keep open for a good, long while.

you lower the rag from your mouth that had been used to keep smoke from invading your lungs and grimace at it. you had been previously using that rag to wipe oil from a machine you were working on. the very same machine that you had kicked a bit too roughly, causing some faulty wiring inside to shift and ignite. that bucket of broken bits was what led to this predicament in the first place!

finally, you look towards boothill. you hardly get a chance to acknowledge him properly since the moment you turn towards the doors he had come through; he was already at you.

crossing the room with urgent, quick strides, his metal arms clad in his cropped jacket and hanging red scarf wrap around your shoulders. one of his hands push against the back of your head and he doesn't care if the threads of your hair tangle into the groves of his fingers. his chin drips to rest his cheek against your crown.

his head dips so low, cheek and face pushing against your head so closely that the brim of his cowboy hat dents against your skull before falling off to the floor. it falls upside down with a soft thwomp and he can't seem to care.

"hey," you whisper in shock as you curl your arms upwards, bringing your hands to rest concerningly against his shoulders. his scarf was soft against your palm. your fingers thread through parts of his long, white and black hair that rest over his hunched back.

you've never seen him like this. not ever. you were certain that if he were completely human with a full body of flesh and blood, he'd be shaking like a leave. "boothill," you call, trying to get him to hear you.

he doesn't answer you. not verbally.

boothill shakes his head in two small shakes, somehow pushing his cheek further against the top of your head. he was taking deep breaths, taking in the smell of oil and rust and work that you always seem to be coated in. the arm around your shoulders holds you hostage and the one behind your head doesn't let your face pull even a single inch away from his neck where he keeps you.

his eye is still blurry and he still can't see properly. he needs to keep you against his body so his censors can make sure you're alive.

boothill can't 'feel' anything anymore from the neck down. the metal frame he calls his body is just that- metal. a shell that doesn't allow him to feel pain externally. so, he needs to anchor your body to him, so that all his internal do-dads can verify to his malfunction vision that you were okay.

you don't know how long boothill keeps you still like this. you don't keep track of the time. ore beeps confused and concerned once it finds its way back to the nearest tabletop closest to both of you. it's digital face with two oval, pixeled eyes that slice in half like a cartoon character's paint the expression clearly. there's even a small dash of pixeled sweat at the corner of it's 'face' that shows just how distressed it is.

eventually, boothill uncurls his arms from you, and you wince at the small strands of your hair that do end up snagged in his hands and knuckles. when you finally get away enough, you look up at him.

his face is down turned and anxious. there's a cold sweat on his cheek that's come from his hairline and slides past his ear (did he still have sweat glands?). he looks empty without his hat on, even though you should be good and well used to the sight. he often gives it to you to wear when he comes by- for whatever reason.

looking at him longer, you notice something off. with squinted eyes, you reach up and touch his cheek.

"hey, is your eye-" the cowboy jolts at the feel of your hand against his flesh and you wonder if he's sensitive to skin-to-skin contact since this small space is all he has left to experience the sensation. you go to pull your hand away, not wanting to make him uncomfortable.

boothill feels you pull away and quickly stops you. his metal palm that's still warm with the heat of your body pushes against the back of your hand as he leans his face into your warm, soft palm. his bullet earring is cool against the tip of your fingers that he isn't engulfing with his hand. the eye you're so used to looking at shuts at the sensation.

"boothill?" you try again now that you've both had time to calm down. you really have never seen him act like this way. was this really the same haughty, galaxy ranger who waltzes in every few months or so because he keeps jamming his arm gun, or running low on coolant, or just to bug you?

"the fire," he says. you look behind you at the scorched pile of metal that was the sole perpetrator for the whole kit and caboodle. "are you hurt?" the synthetic twinge to his voice is more noticeable when he speaks lowly you notice.

you shake your head before answering. "no. i'm okay."

"swear it." he doesn't ask.

"i swear i'm not hurt. i didn't even inhale all that much smoke." your thumb skates under his eye as he reopens it. you almost go to your toes to look closer at it. it looks different than usual. like something about it is... wrong? "is your eye okay?"

"what caused the fire?" he completely ignores your question in lieu of his own and if he wasn't so distraught right now, you would've let him have a piece of your mind. but you don't. you can circle back around to his eye once he feels satisfied.

"an old rig i found in the junk yard. i thought if i could fix it up, it'd make a decent heater for the winter months. but, i messed it up and it blew up in my face." you pout at the loss of a project since you weren't willing to go through another fire 101 lesson any time soon. you'd dissembled the hunk of junk and place it back in the junkyard where you found it.

"so that's what is was," he sighs. hearing your explanation, his shoulders deflate, and you swear you hear his body hiss out tension. "dadgummit," he curses. "scared me shirtless. don't do that, sugar." he was calming down. thank goodness.

"sorry about that," you chuckle humorlessly, "i wasn't expecting you, so i'm sorry you had to see that."

you don't know much about boothill's past. he's told you bits and pieces, but you've never take the initiative to actively pry into it. you can tell it hurts him to recall, so you just leave it be. you know he doesn't like fire. he hates the ipc- some guy named oswaldo you think it was? he lost his family on his home planet. that's the extent of the man before 'boothill' you know for the most part.

but you were able to put two and two together. the idea of someone dying and homes being scorched must scare him.

you pull you hand from his cheek and raise it so your fingers invade the right side of his hairline. the black curtain of bangs shift with your movement as you comb through the treases once, then twice before dropping your hand again. his bangs return to their black cloaking nature to his face's right side.

"it's all okay now. isn't that right, ore?" you look over your shoulder to your small assistant robot. its concerned expression it has been favoring shifts into jolted delight as its square head nods with a series of affirmative beeps. a bright green, pixelated thumbs-up pops up on its face before disappearing into curved eyes that blink open reassuringly.

you take both of boothill's arms gently and lead him to the small sofa that's full of mismatched patches of fabric from all the patching up and repairing it's needed over the years. you let him sink into the cushions first before following, you knee touching his.

your hands find themselves in your lap, finally disconnected from boothill and he's just about sad over it. but, he was calming down. and he didn't need to cling to you like that- honestly, he's almost embarrassed over it. acting like a scared dog like that? god, he wishes he could overheat into a full system meltdown.

"feeling better?" you ask. he takes a deep breath and can taste the lingering smoke in the air. still, he nods.

"yeah," he sighs. "yeah, i am." the sound of small metal taps rush around before coming closer. looking down, ore had taken it upon itself to jump from the worktable to the floor. grabbing the brim of boothill's fallen hat, it began the mission of dragging it all the way back to its rightful owner. ore's digital eyes curve up again when boothill and you look down at it from the sofa.

you chuckle before leaning down and offering your hand with your palm up. ore steps backwards up your fingers, dragging the hat that is five times its size and hanging onto the brim as you lift it and the hat into the air. ore offers the hat back to boothill with a smile he can see better now that the little guy is closer to eye level.

the galaxy ranger accepts his hat back, flipping it over and dusting the top of it off. he didn't need his eye to work to know it was probably covered in dust from ore dragging it across the concrete floor you most certainly haven't swept yet.

"thanks, lil buddy." ore chirps happily at the praise.

you lift your arm to let ore rest on your shoulder where it takes the small carabiner you fashioned onto a small guard you wear in the shop and clasps it to his back. you made this so the robot wouldn't constantly be falling off your shoulder since it often makes itself comfortable there.

"so," you clear your throat, "about your eye." you try and get down to business now that the situation has passed. "does it need refocused?"

"sure does." if memory serves, you have a machine for autofocusing equipment around here somewhere. you lean over the back of the sofa, snagging your laptop you keep behind it on a roll away desk that way it doesn't get harmed by all your other tools or dirty by a strong pump of oil or something.

you unclasp ore from your shoulder carabiner. "could you go and find the adjustment scanner? i think it's in the toolbox drawer, top right. if not there, try two rows over." ore chirps and slides down your arm to your lap, then down your leg to the floor.

boothill can't see but can hear the little metal steps run off across the room.

"how does it get onto your tables?" he's asking partially to fill the silence, but also because he's genuinely curious. "figured you'd be cartin' the fella around everywhere."

"i usually do," you admit. "but, i did install small pully lifts with extra wiring and metal pieces i had laying around." you open your laptop and open the screen to unlock the device. "once on one of the metal pieces, ore can pull himself up manually with the designated wire."

the man chuckles at the image of you macgyvering something like that up. "you're dang cute," he chides. he can imagine you sitting on the floor, eyes squinted and leaning in so far, your spine would scream while installing those things. you don't respond. you usually don't to his passing words of flirtatious intention. whether deliberately or obliviously, he doesn't know.

soon, ore returns and hands you the piece of tech you need. hooking the scanner into your laptop, boothill can hear it whirring as the fan of your laptop kicks on to prevent any overheated crashes.

"alright," you let ore back on your shoulder and the robot hooks itself on safely via that carabiner. "let's see what's wrong."

you stare at boothill's unfocused eye. boothill looks back at the blurry image of you. you huff after a solid fifteen seconds of still silence.

"if you expect me to pop your eye out myself, guess again cowboy."

for the first time since he got there, boothill barks in laughter. oh what a mental sight that would be! it's slightly horrifying to picture having the person he's so infatuated with pluck out his eyeball thought.

boothill turns his back, a series of hisses and deep breaths later, he turns around and with his empty eye socket closed, offers you the tech eye he was installed with when he underwent his initial cyborg transformation.

it took 20 minutes and some light jabs from you- 'how did you uncalibrate it this badly?'- before the scans show a recalibrated and refocused eye. you hand it back to him before he's reconnecting it with his socket. the wires hiss and attach into place nicely.

"now that's better!" he cheers when he blinks and is able to see clearly again. he looks at you for the first real time in a month and he's never been happier to see the soot covering your nose and cheeks. oh, you're too cute.

the hat he's kept on his lap the whole process is relocated to your head the moment he could see your face and recognize it again. it plops over your skull and you sigh as- once again, he's making you wear his oh so precious hat.

"if i ask," -you flick the brim of his hat on your head- "will you tell me why you insist i wear this thing every time you're here?"

"nope," he pops his p before lifting his arms to rest his elbows on the back of your sofa. finally getting comfortable. he stares up at your ceiling. "it's a secret."

the fire made a sooty mess up there. it'll be a bitch to clean no doubt.

the hatless cowboy chuckles to himself as he hears you huff with an eyeroll. "naturally."

a/n pt.2: okay wow. this got a bit outta control. whoops? also, i didn't want to gender Ore so hopefully reading the lil guy as 'it' isn't as confusing as i think lol

[vi-tamine]

hey!! would you write vi with childhood crush!reader and they've spent years liking each other but were too oblivious/insecure to confess, then vi gets with caitlyn in s1 leaving reader heartbroken but then they break up so vi and reader finally get together? like a angst to fluff... only if you dont mind obviously!!

after the storm (vi x reader)

words: 2,7k (oh... my god...)

genre(s): fluff and angst

warnings: kind of drunk vi, vi x childhood crush!reader

n/a: maybe I've gone a little overboard with this request but omg I had such a good time writing about my girl…. little reminder that english isnt my first language, im sorry if there are spelling or grammar mistakes <3 hope u enjoy!

When you were younger, you frequented the famous The Last Drop in the undercity, where you became friends with a small group of somewhat brothers. You frequented that bar because, apart from the fact that they had a delicious tomato juice that you had never tasted anywhere else, there was a certain pinkhead girl who had accepted you into the group and integrated you into it as if you had always been part of it. 

You both had very different personalities, while she was hard, determined and direct, you were more quiet and reserved in certain aspects. And yet, you complemented each other perfectly.  You admired her a lot, or so you thought. 

Little by little, you both grew to trust each other. You frequented her space, she invited you on adventures with her group and she told you things she couldn't tell her younger sister or her brothers. 

You wanted to mentally beat yourself up when you realized that you no longer saw Vi as a friend, but that you were beginning to feel a certain attraction to her. They were confusing feelings for you at the age you were. You never said anything because you finally had a friend you felt you could count on and you didn't want to spoil your friendship with those silly feelings you were sure you could ignore.

One day, the subway city seemed to go to hell and was covered in mourning. Vander passed away and you never heard from the boys, Powder or Vi again. 

.

You attended to one last customer as you escorted him to the door, said goodbye in a light whisper and closed the door as you turned the Closed sign. After your mother's passing, leaving you completely alone in the undercity, you took over your business, a humble junkyard frequented, as far as you knew, by some of Silco's henchmen. 

Leaning on the counter, you noticed that one of the shelves was missing a few knick-knacks, and frowning you realized that the wretch had stolen them. You cursed to yourself as you lightly tapped the counter. Since that day had been hard days for you, you were facing the world all alone. You knew that Powder, or Jinx, as she now called herself, was “fine”, but you still knew nothing about the others, not even Ekko, with whom you had exchanged a few words.

You heard knocking at the door. “Closed, it says so on the sign” you shouted from inside the shop as you finished packing up. Still, the knocking did not stop. 

Snorting, you headed for the door, opening it in complete anger. “It's closed! Don't you know how-” you shut up when you saw the person in front of you. That totally unmistakable pink hair, the freckles on her nose and her powder blue eyes staring straight at you. “Vi?” you muttered in a whisper. You felt her arms wrap around you tightly, and you still confused, it took you a little while to return her embrace. 

You felt the warmth of her body against yours hit you full on, and you definitely felt like you were going to burst into tears. She was so beautiful, grown up, more grown up, stronger, more everything. 

“Where were you all this time?” you mumbled asking into the crook of her neck, still not letting go of her arms. “Stillwater” she replied in a whisper, still wrapping her arms around you. You stood for a while longer holding each other, you had needed this for a long time, and to be honest, you had to hold back the urge you had to cry. 

“You're... so changed” she murmured once she broke away, looking you up and down, ending up in your eyes. You let out a giggle. 

“Not you, you look the same. You have the same punk face you had seven years ago” you joked with her while you gave a light tap on her arm, noticing how stiff it was. Seeing her made you feel strange, you felt the same as when you were little, you still had that feeling towards her, but it was possible that having seen her again after so many years, had increased those feelings.  “How did you get out of jail? And why did they arrest you in the first place?” in Zaun the word was spreading fast, but from that day on you shut yourself away from taking care of your mother and the store, you didn't know anything about what had happened. Vi gave you a brief summary, told you everything that happened that day and how it all went. You couldn't believe what you were hearing, a piece inside you shattered as you learned of your friends' passing. 

“And about how I got out...let's just say  the council got me out” you arched an eyebrow at her response. What would the council want her for? 

The door burst open. A girl, who looked about your age, blue hair and slanted sky coloured eyes, appeared in this one. You frowned, for she did not look like someone proper from Zaun, despite her robes. 

“Vi? You got it?” the girl spoke to the girl. Confused, you looked at her.

“Have what?” you asked, looking at your once friend. She looked at you, you watched as she swallowed, and when she was about to speak, the taller one cut her off.

“Information. About Jinx” your gaze shifted to the stranger. Her gaze towards you, while trying to be neutral, you could sense a bit of distaste in it. You didn't understand anything, but what you did seem to understand was that they knew each other. 

“Give me a few minutes, cupcake” you felt something inside you snap a little more. the taller one snorted and walked out of the store again, slamming the door behind her. What's wrong with her? you asked yourself, still staring at the door.

“Who is she?” you asked in a whisper. 

“Caitlyn Kiramman, the officer who pulled me out of Stillwater” Vi replied as she shrugged her shoulders. You mumbled lightly. You had a lot of questions. 

“Cupcake?” you asked in a mocking tone, though to be honest, you hadn't been the least bit amused.  A few years ago it had been you she called in that nickname, “because you were so sweet, like a cupcake” she had once told you. “Are you with a piltoverian?” you asked, this time, raising your voice a little higher than you would have liked.

“What?” Vi shrugged. “What's your problem? It's not like you released me from prison, honey” she teased wryly as she looked directly at you. At this point, you got the feeling that Vi had forgotten her entire past, or at least a past where you belonged in her life. Years ago you thought she might reciprocate your feelings, perhaps. Now it was clear that had never been the case for her. 

“Go away. I don't have any information from Jinx. Ask somewhere else” you spoke softly. You really were out of strength to fight. You didn't want to, at least not with her. Taking her by the shoulder you accompanied her to the door, and opening it, without saying goodbye, you slammed the door once she set foot on the street. You closed the door with every possible lock. 

“Anything?” ”Nothing. Never mind, we'll ask at the brothel” after those murmurs on the other side of the wall, you couldn't help but feel your tears start to fall one after the other more and more abundantly. You felt a pressure in your chest, you felt full of guilt. You were alone again, with your heart hanging in your hands. 

You thought maybe you had overreacted, that you shouldn't have treated Vi like that after not having seen her for so many years, but your feelings got the better of you.

And once again, you decided to disengage from the issue and whatever happened from that point on. 

.

One more day in your routine, you closed the store once the last customer of the day had already walked through the door to go out into the street. As usual, you swore on the sign indicating that the store was closed to the public, and began to sweep and tidy up the shop to have it ready for the next day first thing in the morning. 

The last six months had been an odyssey for you. You did not stop hearing everywhere you went about the return of Vi, about everything that was happening in the city above and especially what was happening with Jinx. You stayed on the sidelines, even though wherever you went you were gathering information.

You had been thinking a lot during this time, thinking about the pinkhead and how everything could have been different if only the Piltover girl had not been there. You didn't blame Vi, you knew she had every right to hang out with whomever she wanted, but you couldn't help but feel angry and jealous at the slightest thought that she would never be with you. 

You heard a knock at the door. You sighed, you were not in the mood for this kind of nonsense. You ignored the knocking, the sign was clear, they would notice. Even though you kept sweeping and cleaning, the knocking didn't stop and your patience was limited. Just as you were about to say something to the person who kept insisting, the sound of the door opening startled you. You turned to complain, but you saw her.

She was significantly changed. Her pink hair was badly dyed a very dark black color, and her eyes were made up in a totally disastrous way. She was dressed in black and several bandages covered various parts of her body. You frowned at the sight of her looking like that.

“Did you fall in a puddle of oil?” you asked as you went back to your work. You heard her snort. Glancing sideways at her you noticed she was wobbling a bit, and taking a couple of steps forward, she looked like she was almost going to fall, leaning against the counter. You put the broom aside and approached her, the smell of alcohol becoming more and more present. “Have you been drinking?” you asked. She simply nodded. You snorted a little and bit your tongue. 

You slipped one of her arms over your shoulder, and holding her by the waist, guided her to the back of the store to go upstairs to your apartment. She stumbled over her own feet as she walked, making your steps clumsy as you climbed the stairs. She mumbled things you couldn't understand, but she seemed hurt, for some reason. 

Once you got up to the apartment, you directed her to the living room to sit her carefully on the couch. She looked at everything with curiosity, and in silence, you went to the kitchen to bring her a glass of water. You held the glass out to her and she, with a murmur of thanks, took a sip.

“It hasn't changed a bit...” she murmured still observing the humble decor of your living room. “And your mother? How is she?” he asked awkwardly. You didn't answer, didn't even look at her, just shrugged. Vi got the message right away. “I'm sorry, I shouldn't- fuck, sorry” she mumbled setting aside the glass. 

“Why did you drink so much?” you asked leaning against the back of the couch. Vi did the same, settled back and let out a sigh. She even seemed to find it hard to speak. “Drink water” you took the glass again and held it out to her. She heeded and took another sip. 

“Things aren't going well...” she muttered. You knew what she was talking about, nothing was right when a war between two cities was about to explode. 

“Something I heard” you simply mentioned. Vi looked at you. The only thing she thought when she looked at you was that the dim light coming through the window really fell in a very angelic way on your body. She always thought you were a jewel in the rough,  someone who didn't have to belong to this city, someone who deserved better from everything life had given her. “Your girlfriend? All good with her?” when she heard those words come out of your mouth she frowned and growled. 

“No,” she replied. She didn't add anything else. You didn't want to ask either, you supposed that also added to things not going well. 

“I'm sorry” you mumbled. You weren't sorry. If you had to be honest, you were kind of glad it hadn't worked out with that girl. The atmosphere was starting to feel tense as you weren't talking anymore. You listened to Vi take sip after sip of water. She started to sit up a bit, you took it for granted that she was starting to sober up and become more aware of the situation. 

 Still silent, you felt her head rest on your shoulder. “You don't know how much i've missed you all these years” she murmured. You felt her hair brush against your cheek, and you couldn't help but fall into nostalgia, letting your cheek rest against her head. “I've missed you so much too, Vi...” you felt her hand brush against yours before taking her fingers in yours. Her hand was warm, unlike yours, which always had cold fingers. You enjoyed the warmth her body emanated, closing your eyes slightly, enjoying the company you both gave each other.

For her part, Vi during her stay in Stillwater, always dreamed of a scenario similar to this, without the alcohol and tragedies in between. Just you and her sharing such a sweet moment as you were doing at that moment. Ever since she was little she had always felt a certain attraction to you, you were always so sweet and positive that she felt you two complemented each other perfectly. You could say that her heart melted a little more when, that same night, instead of kicking her out of your tent, you offered her your help and shelter. 

“Thank you, for everything” she murmured still leaning against you, stroking the back of your hand with her thumb. You felt, hearing her voice so calm, your heart skip a beat. 

“You don't have to give them away. I wasn't going to let you down, you're my Vi” you murmured back. The girl couldn't help but smile. Your Vi. She was yours. 

“And you're my cupcake” you rolled your eyes, letting out a chuckle. 

“That's not so clear to me, cutie” you joked, referencing that it was the same nickname she had used with her ex.

“You’re mine too” Vi sat up on the couch, both of them very close to each other. Her eyes connected with yours and you both became lost in each other's gaze. Placing her hand on your chin, she brought her lips to yours, leaving a small kiss on them. You felt a slight shiver run down your spine. You had just experienced what you always wanted, and in such a sweet way, that you could only think you were dreaming. But when Vi started kissing you one after another, feeling her lips on yours, you knew it was real. You reciprocated each of the kisses Vi gave you sweetly, and as you parted, you both looked at each other and laughed lightly.

“You don't know how long I wanted to do this,” Vi said leaning her head back against the back of the couch, looking directly at you as she kept smiling, her cheeks rosy. 

“You don't know how long I've waited for you to do this” you leaned against her, leaving a kiss on her cheek. “I've always liked you, you know? These years have been torture...to think you could have been-” Vi stopped you when you felt her hand on your cheek, caressing it in the sweetest way possible.

“Time has passed, and I'm already here. And I'm not going to move from your side.” you smiled at the girl's words. You took it as a correspondence. 

After the storm you were finally starting to see the sun. 

[violettwrites]

crush — trailer park!daryl

a/n: hi guys!! so sorry it’s been a little while since i last posted something for you all to read, but i finally had a bit of time and i’ve got this for you! thank you nonnie for requesting and i hope you enjoy!!!

if you did enjoy this, please don’t forget to give me a like, reblog, and/or comment ! i always appreciate the support.

summary: making out with daryl dixon in the middle of a thunderstorm 🫶🏻

requested: anon requested — hello!!! I absolutely love you tp!daryl dixon works and I was thinking of a scenario where reader and Daryl make out in a stolen car or something, I always think about something like this when I listen to Crush by Ethel Cain for example and I would love to see how you could interpret it in your writing !!

warnings: making out

word count: 1,041

resources: divider by @/adornedwithlight

➵ masterlist

➵ ask box (currently closed for requests)

the wind howled outside as the storm rolled in. lightning lit up the sky in quick flashes, followed by cracks of thunder so loud they made your heart race. you could barely hear the rain over the pounding of your pulse as it drummed against the roof of the old abandoned car where you and daryl were hiding.

the seat was small and uncomfortable, but you didn’t care. when the first heavy drops started to fall, you and daryl had slipped out of the trailer park, sneaking into the junkyard where the beat-up car sat abandoned. now, the windows were fogged, the air thick with humidity and the charged energy of the storm.

daryl’s lips were on yours—rough, but somehow gentle in that way only he could manage. his hands were everywhere—one steadying himself on your waist, the other ghosting over your back, tugging at your shirt like he couldn’t get close enough. his breath was hot against your neck as he pulled back for a moment, eyes dark with hunger.

“you sure about this?” his voice was low, but there was a tenderness hidden under the roughness.

the rain poured harder, drowning out everything but the sound of your breathing. you reached up, fingers brushing through his damp hair before pulling him back to you, closing the gap again. his lips crashed into yours, mirroring the storm outside—wild, consuming, reckless.

“i’m sure,” you murmured against his lips, your hands gripping the collar of his jacket, pulling him closer. the warmth of his body sent a shiver down your spine, a sharp contrast to the chill creeping through the cracks of the old car.

daryl let out a low growl, his hand sliding up your thigh, making you gasp. the kiss deepened, more urgent now, as if the storm outside only fueled the intensity. each roll of thunder seemed to echo the thudding of your heart, each flash of lightning casting his face in stark, beautiful light.

his calloused fingers tangled in your hair as he kissed you like it was the last time he ever would, like he was memorizing how you felt in his arms. every touch, every brush of his lips, felt electric.

outside, the wind rattled the car, cocooning the two of you in your own little world. maybe you were. here, in this stolen car with daryl, nothing else mattered—not the storm, not the trailer park, not whatever trouble tomorrow would bring. it was just you, him, and the raw connection neither of you could resist.

his hands cupped your face, his thumb brushing over your cheek as he leaned back to catch his breath. you were both panting, your chests heaving, but you couldn’t help smiling at him. the storm raged on, but in that moment, you felt safe in daryl’s arms.

“guess the storm ain’t the only wild thing tonight,” he muttered, a smirk tugging at his lips.

you laughed at his dumb little joke, tracing the line of his jaw with your fingers. “no, it’s not.” you shook your head, admiring how beautiful he looked in the dark, the shadows playing across his features, making them sharper, more defined.

his smirk widened, and his breath ghosted over your skin as he leaned in for another kiss. his hand slid down your side, fingers grazing the hem of your shirt, teasing it upward, but there was no rush now. the storm might’ve been wild, but daryl’s touch was deliberate, sure.

“yer somethin’ else, y’know that?” he murmured, his voice deep and gravelly. his fingers traced patterns along your waist, sending jolts of electricity through you, more potent than the lightning flashing outside.

you couldn’t help but smile as you cupped his face, thumbs brushing over the stubble on his cheeks. “only with you, dixon,” you teased, leaning in to brush your lips against his once more. he groaned softly, pulling you closer, his hands roaming freely.

the air in the car was thick, almost stifling, but it only added to the heat between you. you could feel every inch of him, the hard muscle of his chest rising and falling with each labored breath, the way his hands gripped your hips, grounding you even as your head spun.

his lips pressed against your neck, the scrape of his stubble making you gasp. rough around the edges, but tender when it mattered, he knew how to make you feel like the only person in the world.

you tugged gently at his hair, and he responded with a growl, his grip on your waist tightening as he nipped at the sensitive skin below your ear. “yer gonna be the death of me, sweetheart,” he muttered against your skin, but his voice held a smile, like he wouldn’t have it any other way.

the car creaked as you shifted, the weight of the moment heavy between you. the storm outside seemed to fuel something untamed within you both, the air charged with raw, unspoken intensity.

“daryl…” you whispered, the sound barely audible over the wind, but he heard it. his eyes met yours, and for a moment, everything stilled. his rough hand cupped your face, thumb brushing over your bottom lip as he studied you, like he was committing every detail to memory.

“yeah?” he asked softly, the tension between you crackling like static before a lightning strike.

“i think i—” you swallowed, and he squeezed your thigh gently, urging you to continue. “i think i kinda like you,” you confessed, your voice soft but certain. this was more than just a storm, more than a stolen moment. it was him—the way he looked at you, the way he made you feel safe and wild all at once.

daryl let out a quiet laugh, his lips curving into a rare, soft smile. “’bout time you figured that out,” he teased, leaning in to kiss you again, slower this time. less frantic, but no less intense. his hand slid to the back of your neck, pulling you closer, as if he didn’t want the moment to end.

maybe it didn’t have to. in this old, stolen car with the storm raging around you, maybe you could have this—something real, something wild, something that was just yours and daryl’s.

[seat-safety-switch]

Every car has at least one job that's a miserable grind. It's just the nature of the beast. They're impossibly complex machines made up of several subsystems that have to get jammed into pretty close to the same physical space. Eventually, some engineer is going to compromise on "can you actually reach this" in order to actually get the thing out the door.

Similarly, every mechanic can name a job in which they lost all hope for the future. German cars, especially, are quite bad for this. They have even more complexity than a normal car, which means they had to find even more silly places to stuff that complexity. Timing chains behind the engine? That's just the tip of the iceberg, and that's part of why your local Audi mechanic charges enough to buy a new car and drinks constantly at work. They had to put that shit somewhere, and it turns out that "in your wallet" worked as good as any other answer.

That's why the junkyard is so freeing. At the junkyard, you can just go get the part you want, even if it means breaking a lot of other parts in the process. The car's already going to get crushed, so who cares if it enters oblivion with all of its major organs cleanly removed?

On your actual car, you really don't want to, say, smash the power steering bottle into a million pieces with a hammer just to get at the pump tensioner, since you'll need it later. At the yard, the only thing keeping you from doing this is your innate decency: will the next person need this part? If so, maybe just Sawzall right through the power steering hose and throw the rest of it in the trunk. They should give you the key to the city, hero.

In fact, with a morbid enough mentality, you can see all the mistakes of the past. One quick entry ticket buys you a morgue's full of auto bodies to dismantle and see just how hard a prospective shitbox is to work on. If it seems easy, you can go get a running example to serve as your next car. It's hard to understand why everyone doesn't do this. Why visit the used car dealership, take test drives, when you could simply gaze into what the car looks like after you've rammed it into a bus while flaming out on meth?