#rust and ruin answers

[rustandruin]

The lighthouse is from a game called Dredge

It’s been ages so I had to go actually refresh my memory about this but thank you so much Anon!

I’m-a see if this is something I would want to play!

[croissantlover24]

"No," Nexus replied. "No, this is perfect. You'll be useful."

Nexus when I catch you

"I... What do you mean...?" Copper queried, shifting uncomfortably.

oh sweetie…

Copper decided not to tell the lunar animatronic that she could hear what he was saying.

I hope she kills him

Copper will not be killing anybody… except Moon, maybe. :)

Nexus is about to have a FIELD DAY. He’s going to become a GOD /j

Copper is so confused, haha

[moody-alcoholic]

Part 2 as promised.

Part 1

CW: Dead dove don’t eat, assault, mentions of SA, torture, suicidal thoughts, hurt/comfort.

_____________________

Ghost flicks the ash off his cigarette. 

“Do we know who we’re looking for?" Gaz asks. It's a pointless question. They know who they’re looking for. You’ve been mentioning a guy at work who has been getting a little too handsy. 

You were going to confront him in the new year with your boss. You didn’t want to ruin anyone's Christmas, now yours is ruined. 

People are starting to leave the office building now, it’s just past midnight. They watch in silence concealed in the darkness down an alleyway a few buildings from your workplace. Maybe this was the alley you were found down. It’s dark and cold, the businesses are all closed, it would have been easy to coerce you down, it makes his stomach drop. Someone hurt you, he hurt you. 

“Should have taken care of this sooner.” Gaz says. Ghost just hums watching as the lights in the buildings go off. The last few people are filtering out the building. Ghost straightens up flicking his cigarette but to the floor. 

“That’s him.” Ghost says, blowing out the smoke before reaching up to pull the familiar balaclava down over his face. 

_____________________

When the police arrive you feel somewhat sober. Your body is sore, your head throbbing. Seeing them walk in with all their gear makes you nervous. All of a sudden you feel like you’ve done something wrong. 

Johnny never leaves your side, he holds your hand stroking it with his thumb while the female officer asks you questions you don’t know how to answer. You still can’t remember what happened. You can piece it together though, you can tell by the hushed voices and the somber looks from people. 

The worst is the pain, the ache in your body every time you move, the bruises hurt the most.  Sometimes Johnny runs his fingers over them, his eyes going dark and he lets out a sigh. John stands at the end of the bed still, his gaze never leaves you unless someone enters the room. You just want to go home. 

The most embarrassing part is when they have to take pictures of your injuries. Your swollen eye is now turning black and blue. There’s bruises around your neck, talking hurts, swallowing’s worse. The nurse gives you more painkillers but it just makes you feel sick. 

John talks with the officers and the nurse after they’re done. Johnny tries to keep your attention on him. You feel embarrassed, the nurse said they did a rape kit, you don’t even remember that, the police need to take it for evidence. That makes silent tears come, you can’t stop them. 

“C’mon, none of that love.” Johnny says reaching up to brush them away. 

“I want to go home,” you sob. 

“We’ll be home soon, promise,” he smiles. You want a shower, you want to scrub your body clean. You feel dirty, your stomach is turning as your mind wanders to the unthinkable. You hope you never remember what happened, you fear you won’t be so lucky.

_____________________

Ghost’s fist meets his cheek, his nose is broken, his jaw will be next. Not now though, now they need him to talk. 

“Price says he’s on his way.” Gaz says as he walks back over to him. “Asked you not to kill him.” Ghost just grunts. 

Ryan, that's his name. You never mentioned that to them, you didn’t mention much just that he was making you uncomfortable. Gaz was right they should have dealt with this sooner. They shouldn’t have let you go to the party alone. Even before you left you had reservations. 

Ryan hasn’t said much. He was very drunk when they picked him up. He seems pretty sober now, he’s scared. 

Good, he should be.

Ghost wonders if you were scared, when you were assaulted. It doesn’t seem like you remember much, for your sake he hopes it stays that way. 

The door to the secluded warehouse opens, the sound of slamming metal echoes in the space. John bought this place a few months ago, used to store scrap metal. The place still smells of rust, but it’s outside the city center, it’s quiet and that's all they need. 

Price walks over coming out of the darkness. He doesn’t say a word, just takes in the scene. Ryan looks up, his eyes glued on the new person walking up to him. Price grabs the back of a chair and places it in front of him before sitting down. 

“Ryan, right?” He asks. The man nods. “Had a good night? He doesn’t move. 

“Do you like your job?” He nods again. Price leans forward. “So, let's have a chat about what happened tonight.” 

“Nothing happened tonight,” he says, swallowing hard. Price smiles at him for a second before sitting back up.

“Let’s try that again. What happened at the party?” Ryan looks confused for a second. Blood is still dripping from his nose, Price sighs this is going to be a long night. 

“Wait, is this all about her?” He asks looking up past Price at Ghost. “Look I don’t know what you think happened but she came onto me.” 

Price hums his hands gripping his thighs before getting up and moving the chair away. “Thing is, I just don’t believe you.” Ghost steps back over to him. 

“I’m telling the truth.” He pleads. 

“Nope, try again.” Price says. Ghost’s fist crashes into Ryans face. His head snaps uncomfortably, he spits blood coughing. 

“So what happened at the party?” Price asks again. 

“Who the fuck even are you!?” He shouts looking round at the 3 men standing in front of him.  

“That doesn’t matter.” Price says, Ryan scoffs spitting again. 

“Why do you care?” He asks, looking around at everyone. 

“It’s a simple question.” Price says bending down so his head is level with his face. “We can be here all night. Or you can be honest with us.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He says, there’s a shake in his voice. The adrenaline and alcohol pumping through his system is filling him with confidence. They have to break that first. Price sighs moving back to stand with Gaz. 

This time Ghost’s fist slams into his stomach. He buckles over in pain, crying out as he pants. Price doesn’t wait, striding over to him grabbing his hair, pulling his head back. 

“Okay, okay. But she was drunk!” He shouts, trying to fight Price’s grip. His arms and legs are tied to the chair. Price doesn’t let go of his head holding it back as far as it will go. 

“No. Try again.” Price says through gritted teeth. 

“I didn't do anything!” He says between breaths. Price looks up at Ghost and nods, Ghost unfolds his arms going back over to the car. 

“We can make this very uncomfortable for you. All we need is the truth.” Price says, pulling his head again. 

“I don’t know anything.” There’s a whimper in his voice, a crack in his confidence. They're getting there. Price forces his head straight as Ghost comes back over to them twirling the knife in his hand. Ryans eyes go wide, his arms and legs pulling on the restraints. Price keeps his grip firm on his head forcing him to look at Ghost’s hulking figure moving towards him. 

“Last chance.” Price says. Ryan doesn’t say anything, his eyes still locked onto Ghost. 

“I-I didn't-” He sucks in a breath of air swallowing. “She was drunk!” 

Price sighs, shaking his head. He looks up at Ghost, he can see the disgust behind his lieutenants eyes. 

Ghost plunges the knife into his thigh. Price lets go of Rhyn’s head as he screams.

_____________________

John left almost an hour ago. Johnny recommended a bath instead of a shower, so you could soak and warm up. He gets in the bath with you pulling your back up against his chest as you sit between his legs. The bath was a good idea, the water is almost too hot but you don’t mind. 

It feels good to be in Johnny’s arms. He helps you rub soap over your body. He’s gentle, pressing kisses on your shoulders avoiding your neck. You sigh, relaxing back into him. Your head is still stuffy, it feels like you’ve been run over by a truck. 

“Where is everyone?” You ask. 

“Out, they’ll be back soon don’t worry.” He says his voice is warm in your ear. His arms squeeze you closer to him. The memories of the night seem to be just out of reach, you remember a face though. 

“I know who it was,” you say your voice catches in your throat. 

“Shh, we don’t have to talk about it.” His hand comes to push hair behind your ear. You smile, you don’t want to talk about it but maybe it will help. 

“I have work tomorrow.” Your stomach sinks. The thought of going back to that place with him there. Having to spend the days avoiding him, brushing off his hands as they squeeze your ass or his fingers press against your breasts. You were going to talk to your boss about him in the new year. 

“No you don’t, don’t worry about anything.” He says kissing your shoulder again. You shiver, the water has lost its heat. Johnny shifts pushing you forward. 

“C’mon let’s get you into bed. You’ll feel better after a good sleep.” You don’t know if you believe him but he gets out the bath leaving you alone and cold. You feel dirty, used. You feel panic rising in your chest. As soon as you hear the door to the room open you lay down in the tub closing your eyes and holding your breath. 

Your mind goes back to the alley, it’s like flashes in your vision, the dump trash bin you’re uncomfortably bent over. A hand over your mouth then round your neck. The pain, the pain is unbelievable. You don’t remember how it happened, how you ended up there, the next thing you remember is a party of drunk women finding you. Then the paramedics showed up. 

Your lungs burn but you don’t care. You deserve the pain. Hands grip your arms pulling you up out of the water. 

“Christ love,” Johnny says, holding you against him as you pant sucking in breaths of air. The panting turns to sobbing. He reaches, pulling the plug out the bath and picking you up in his arms. 

“I know, love I know.” He takes you into the bedroom putting you down on the bed. You pull your legs up to your chest. Johnny dries you, rubbing you down while you sob. He brings pyjamas over, he helps you change, pulling the fresh clothes on you. You still feel dirty, maybe it will always be like this. You don’t want it to be like this.

“It hurts.” You say as he climbs into bed behind you. His arms wrap around you pulling your back against his chest. 

“You’re okay lass, you’re safe.” He kisses the top of your head. It’s not, it's not going to be okay. You just hope whatever the others are doing they’re safe. You miss them, you want to see them again. You want everything to go back to normal 

…

Simon crawls into the bed with you and Johnny. You’re asleep on Johnny’s chest. He shuffles up against your back wrapping his arm around you both. His hair is still wet from the shower. He kisses the top of your head. Johnny stirs feeling a hand grip his hip. 

“Did you get him?” Johnny asks, his voice still sleepy. 

“Yeah, we got him.” 

_____________________

[beanlot]

butterfly knife

a tlou canon love story, a collection of ellie's memories, and a butterfly knife.

wc: 4k (fluff + major angst, brief vanilla smut segment)

reader referred to as ‘pretty’ and ‘ma’am’, major character death, mutual masturbation. just a sappy story.

─── ⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰ ───

“how long have you been collecting all this?”

she was astonished, gawking at the collection of daggers, folded knives, dual blades. your first knife, a typical switchblade, laid there neglected and rusty - you refuse to use it, she doesn’t ask why. “since i was.. twelve, maybe.” you answer, your singular karambit swinging back and forth between your fingers. “still waiting for my first butterfly knife.”

“butterfly? yeah.. good luck..” she scoffs, inspecting one of the daggers closely, her fingers gliding alongside the handle’s delicate intricacies. some are brand new, handcrafted with glory.

it was hard enough finding a serrated piece of metal that wasn’t blunt and rusted to shit, never mind a functional butterfly.

its habit, the way the karambit spins in your fingers; you’d spent years collecting knives, learning them until mastery. she watches as the metal swirls around your thumb, hypnotised under its beauty, she’d never seen one in person.

“which knife did you use first.. y’know, for your tricks..?” 

“mm. this one. it’s pretty basic, but.. it’s a good starter knife.” you tap one of the combat knives, and when you do, ellie observes the rugged scars on your hands from practising over the years; the side of your hand littered with slices and morbid consistency.

“been going through infecteds’ pockets and everything.” you mumble, and she releases a breathy laugh under the impression you’re bantering - when she looks up and sees the earnestness in your gaze, her laugh falls flat. “oh.. you’re being serious..” she gawks.

she admired you. the tangible things, from the bruises on your shoulder blades to the indented scar on your collarbone; the intangible things, like how willing you were to clear a corner first incase you needed to bite a bullet, or how you made her stomach ripple whenever you returned a witty remark.

“look at you being a little garden gnome.” you hear her approach from behind. your arms are sunburnt and itchy under the blistering wyoming sun. and so you snap at her, a sour “not in the mood.” through the dehydration and empty stomach. “it’s boiling hot, i can’t breathe in this fucking greenhouse, and there’s spiders everywhere.”

“want me to come join? i can do the cabba-“

”even fucking worse. get out my face.” 

she knew it was your relationship friendship. it was her ‘tsk’ing you teasingly, understanding the sarcastic dynamic between you both. you were partners in crime, rum and cola, two broken people who found comfort in eachother.

winter was nice though. she’d amble into her little cubby in jackson, hanging up her jacket with a spirited hey you when she’d notice your curled figure stirring under a blanket. the ground outside is crunchy with thick snow, the wind whipping against the windows and the wispy air barbaric against your skin.

she’d slide a vhs tape into the tv, gather some more sheets from her bed and cove herself behind you. body warmth intermingling as your back presses against her chest, her arm settling around your collarbone.

she’ll inspect your face, alarmed by the brutish graze on your cheek, fingertips impulsively feathering against the wound. “holy fuck. what’s this?”

“ow! don’t touch it!” you flinch, rolling on your back.

“sorry.. sorry..” she’d whisper yell, before you feel her wintry touch along your jawline, framing the abraded skin. you hear her tut, her verdant globes darting along your cheeks,

down to your lips,

and then to your eyes.

“your pretty face.. all ruined..” she sighs. she’s not sure what she’s doing, how to initiate; all courage in her stomach rotting to doubt when she sees your eyes nailing into her. you look confused, so she decides to play it off. “i’m joking. you’re not even that pretty.”

“ellie.”

“that was also a joke. you are that pretty.”

“ellie.”

“hm?”

“just stop talking, or i’m gonna beat your ass.”

“.. yes ma’am.”

it’s silent for half an hour, the occasional rubbing your legs against eachother like crickets or her fingers tracing circles on your arm. she wishes she could settle her hand on your waist, or your hip. but she struggles with establishing boundaries, the mere handshake or high-five is too awkward for her.

“have you ever liked someone?” you hear her murmur, her breath fluttering against your neck. you think for a little, eyes glued to the tv screen. “i guess.”

“did you ever tell them?” her nails are delicately feathering against your bicep, soothing patterns that heat your stomach with vim. you tell her a simple no, rolling to your back and maintaining eye contact with her.

she studies you, much like you study her. her cheeks are florid, peppered with subtle freckles that could be counted up close, pupils dilated and pooled with something you could only describe as adoration. “same..” she whispers, eyes mesmerised when they scan your lips. “sometimes, i wonder if i should’ve said something.”

you’re not stupid. and she knows you’re not stupid. you’re piecing the puzzle together, analysing the way her gaze softens with vulnerability, a sweetness which is such a stark contrast to her usual hostility.

“ellie..” you clear your throat, breaking her trance. it’s like she’s asking you, wanting your guidance, your permission. “if you want to kiss me, then do it. stop being such a pus-“ you’re interrupted as she leans in, tilting her head and swallowing your words.

her lips are weightless against yours, a years-in-the-making kiss, longing yet patient with you. her hands hold her up, one by your head and the other beside your waist; she parts her lips again, inviting you to connect with her, deepening it experimentally.

she wants to dart her tongue out and taste you, but the unknown boundaries of.. whatever this is.. is suspenseful and terrifying to her. so she’ll let you take initiative, her lips only smooching at yours with yearning, tilting her head to ease into it.

when you do part, her eyes are brimming with intimacy, as if she’s savouring you in this moment. you rub your lips together, and tastes like coffee, which makes sense. considering it has been all she’d been drinking this morning.

“.. ew..” you whisper, your hands cupping her jaw. she rolls her eyes, and she’s about to say something, but you pull her down towards you; your lips brushing together, feather-light and exploratory, before she kisses at the corner of your lips.

“m sorry-“ peck. “you’re just-“ peck. “too fucking-“ peck. “pretty-“

her kisses dot around your jaw, mindful of your tormented cheek, spreading to your neck. she was nurturing, taking your hand in hers, bringing it to her graceful lips and kissing each knuckle; each scar, each rugged slice.

the verdant shade in her eyes reminds you of the outside, the earth, the soil and the overgrowth; her pupils dilate as you maintain eye contact, bleaching that infected overgrowth with adoration. “can i..?” she whispers, fingers tracing the dips of your hips, dusting your stomach in circular motions.

“no. those are places you can’t touch.” you whisper, jokingly. but when she looks at you with soft brows and convincing eyes, you feel like siren bait.

“places i can’t touch.. yet?” she whispers back, genuine softness in her voice that seeps out like caring silk.

she’s a little bit of a loser. but it’s okay, because you’re wanting it just as much when you look down and see her slender fingers, admiring veins around her knuckles.

your legs subconsciously part at it, accepting her, inviting her. she takes the hint, manipulative fingers dipping under the fabric of your torn sweatpants.

it was essentially lovemaking, her obsessively pecking at your lips as your hands are nested into eachother’s underwear, mutually masturbating. you provided for eachother, blossoming pleasure when you feel her finger tease your swollen clit.

“feel good, baby?” she’d whisper against your cheek, lips lazily grazing your skin, breath hitching when you’d circle her clit.

at first, it was being careful around the edges, tracing each other precisely; then it was hips rutting against each other’s hands messily, the silent room filled with your heavy breaths and your thighs walloping sloppily against her hand as she’d fuck you with her fingers.

“fuck, more up. more up.” you’d whimper, core tightening as her dilated pupils look at you.

you wish you could make sense to her, but the stimulation is forcing your words to melt into difficult blether. “more up? like this?” she whispers, and you feel her fingers curl more, your clit pulsing with its own heartbeat as she does so.

“holy shit, you’re so good.. so fucking good, ellie.” your head would fall back, legs quivering as her fingers would twine inside and rock into you how she learnt you like it.

“that.. that was-fuck, you.. you’re incredible..” she’d swallow, trying to regulate her breathing, feeling your clit throbbing under her palm; your tight core and clenched hips relaxing post-orgasm. “you-you came so quick..” you hum, your hand gliding out from between her legs, her cum glossing your fingers seductively.

“can you blame me? you’re in my ear going mmph.. mm-mhm, mmphm..” she would mimic your whines, because your relationship friendship situationship was teasing. you’d roll your eyes, nudging her shoulder from embarrassment.

she loved you, to pieces.

but those pieces started to crumble after joel.

“didn’t mean to wake you..” you hear her mumble as she zips her bag up, consumed by grief. she’d been packing as you slept, which wasn’t totally out of character - ellie’s always been sneaky. “what are you doing?” you sit up, scanning the puce bruise under her eye through your blurry vision, framing her bloodshot and revenge-driven pupils.

she’s silent for a little, as you rub your eyes and try to regain consciousness from your heavy sleep. she’s wondering if she should tell you this truth, but she knows you’re not stupid.

“i have to find her..”

she seems cold, distant, too numb to remember everything you had both built. it’s hard to see her go down this route, this isn’t your ellie.

“so.. you were gonna.. what? sneak out?” you slowly rise to your feet, tilting your head in challenging. “you were gonna leave me here? i’ll be waiting here for months.. when i could just go with you?”

i think this was the first time where ellie found something she hated about you. your ambition, your selflessness, your urges to wrap her in cotton wool. she wished you could just.. listen.. please listen. even though she knew you were so capable, you took charge of the ground you were on, domesticated it.

but her gut feeling told her something was off. you can’t come with her.

“i just.. no offence, but.. you haven’t exactly been the most helpful recently.” she mumbles, and she hopes you don’t hear. she can’t bear to look at you, your narrowed eyes hammering into her relentlessly. “what are you saying?” you contest, “you think everything revolves around you, ellie.”

and it was a spiteful comment from you, you know that. but it gives ellie some courage to look back at you, eyes of conflict. “you’re not like me, you don’t have to do all this shit. you have nobody.”

you bite back your malicious words, eyes shutting to adjust your temper. “i’ve done this, ellie. i was just asking to go wi-“

“i don’t want you with me.” she interrupts, and it’s then that you find something you hate about her. ellie’s always blinded by rage, she likes getting her point across, cutting you off. “it’s just gonna slow everything down, i’ll be here qu-“

“slow you down? me?”

“fuck me. this is the thing, you think you’re something special because you’ve done this and that-“

“woah, i do not think i’m-“

“yes, you do! i see through all of..” she gestures to your body, and you look down at the scars on your arms, the slices on your hands. “all of that. you think it’s made you all strong and mighty, you aren’t shit.”

“ellie, respectively, you’d struggle making it there alone even if you had five hands and six legs.”

and when the insults bounced back and forth, you decided to sit out on the porch. it’s quiet, an owl hooting amongst the stifled streets of jackson, snowflakes settling on the ground.

after half an hour, you hear the door open, her bag shuffling against the wooden floor as she sits beside you. she’s not good with apologies, and you’d find it cute if she hadn’t annihilated your self-esteem just now.

her eyes are fixed to an invisible point in the floor, and she’s testing the waters, her breath misty with every exhale. you feel her reluctant eyes on you, as she bites her lip out of newfound anxiety. “i wanted to say sorry.. i said some nasty things..” she mumbles, looking ahead at the streetlights and the hushed streets of jackson. “you deserve the world. i wish.. i could give it to you..”

you look at her, feeling your insides marshmallow up inside with her endearing and sincere words. her eyes are overflowing with apology, and you nod at her, grateful. “i’m sorry, too. i didn’t.. mean anything i said.”

she processes your words, eyebrows peaked, as if she’s melting with your apology. “i know..” she whispers, shuffling beside you and her lips planting a remorseful kiss on your shoulder. “i love you..”

you feel sedated under her touch, your lids low as she brings her lips from your shoulder to your forehead, pecking it fondly. and so you whisper back that you love her too. it feels like home to her, confirmation that the relationship between you is okay.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · · · · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · · · · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

idaho falls was stop number one. it’s hard to believe tommy had made his way through it alone.

ellie was focused on eastlake, that was the golden ticket. although she was affectionate enough to put her hand on your waist on horseback, or send you quick reassuring nods, she was rather inanimate. you can’t blame her, you’d be the same.

“bastard things..” you huff, trudging through the disarray of infected corpses, trying to retrieve your knife, lodged deep inside a clicker’s shroomy neck.

you’re both blood-soaked, heavy breathing from the ambush. you’d gotten used to shivving through large groups like this, but it was game over when you’d set off nail bombs. it was as if the whole town had came alive and started sprinting at you, screeching and cackling.

“what are you doing?” ellie mumbles when she sees you look through a dusty bag that had seemingly fused into the clicker. “there’s no way you’re actually looking.” she releases a breathy laugh, wiping her eyes with her sleeve.

“you never know, it’s how i found one of my daggers.” you look at her defensively, fingers carefully diving into the bag, only to find a crumpled letter and a lighter. “i mean.. these guys used to be people, ellie. with hobbies, and memories and people who cared about them.” you mumble under your breath, “if someone ever found me like this, they’d have a fucking field day going through my pockets.”

“don’t say that.” she sighs, eyes softening as you rise to your feet. she’s trying not to imagine it. “besides, remember your whole i don’t die talk yesterday? if anything, it’s your ego that’ll get you killed.” she smirks, and you’re a little surprised. because it’s the first time in a while ellie’s taking intuition to lighten the mood with some playful banter between you.

you return a subtle smile when you remember the conversation from yesterday, wiping your knife clean against your shirt, watching the muddy blood smear the fabric.

e: “if you die, i’m gonna be so fucking furious with yo-“

“i don’t die.”

e: “whatever, fine. don’t disappear on me then.”

“yeah, i don’t disappear either.”

fuck, she loved you so bad. even the cockiness, the snark, the things that made you such a smartass. but as she watches you wipe the blood off the knife, her smile just.. suddenly drops. her usual barbaric eyes are blank and cluelessly staring at you all of a sudden.

you think she’s daydreaming, or maybe thought of a bad memory.

“what’s with you?” she thinks she’s seeing wrong, because it’s not possible. there’s no way.

denial.

“ellie..? what is it..?” you watch as her eyes start brimming, a glassy reflection of sorrow pinned to your hands. she approaches reluctantly, before she takes it in hers, and tilts it. whilst she’s used to seeing your usual scars and slashes, she’s not used to the fresh bite mark, fungal teeth that have torn your skin.

you stare, your hand piping hot and starting to tremor. because there’s not much for her to imagine anymore, it’s reality.

it’s nobody’s fault. you didn’t feel it, the adrenaline helped block it out. you hadn’t even realised one had gotten that close to you. “i didn’t.. but i didn’t feel it..” you blink in refusal, trying to remember if you’d felt it, when you’d felt it.

“i told you. i fucking told you to stay. and you just, don’t fucking listen.” her voice cracks, hands clenching into wrathful fists. she can’t believe you’ve been bulletproof all these years, untouchable, survived wounds from the neck; the head, every limb. yet a measly bite was all it took.

anger.

maybe you’re immune, you’re like her. maybe it’s a mistake, you didn’t get bitten at all. maybe if she’d fucking knocked you unconscious and left before you had woken up, you’d be okay.

bargaining.

“ellie. listen.. it’s not your fault.” you state bluntly to her, cupping her face in your hands. she struggles to hear through the stressful ringing in her ears, it’s as if she’s already screaming on the inside. “ellie.. can you hear me?” you ask when you notice her eyes go blank for a second, eyebrows furrowing with confusion. it feels as if she’s exiting her body, pretending it’s not real.

“ellie.. listen. i don’t know when this shit is gonna kick in, but when it does. i need you to think straight.. okay..” you explain to her, noticing the life in her eyes revive only slightly as she reads your lips. “you need to think straight, because i won’t be.”

and she slowly nods, blinking through the tears.

she decided to wait it out with you, she’s not sure why, it’s not like you were going to get better. by the second hour, your vision was pixelated, violet blurs that you try to blink away as you look at the sculptures around you.

it’s a museum, and you smile slightly.

“always wanted to visit one of these.” you slump into the leather chair, head aching and eyes feeling as though they’re being hammered from the inside. ellie kept her distance for the first hour, regretful eyes that scan you - your skin is glistening with sweat, and she doesn’t think you notice how your limbs keep twitching.

you look at her, eyebrows arched as you spin your karambit between your fingers. “talk to me.. please, ellie..” you plead quietly, noticing she hasn’t said a single word. she’s void, a mourning shell.

she ambles towards you, hands out as she delicately takes your arm, tilting your hand to inspect the wound. “let me look..” she whispers, as if she’s still trying to convince herself it isn’t real. but how can she, when your hand is ice cold, stripped of its usual warmth?

by the third hour, ellie could tell you were really struggling. really struggling. you had kept asking her to repeat what she said, when she hadn’t said anything - you’re hallucinating, it feels like you’re going crazy.

“baby..” you hear her murmur through the deafening ring in your ears. “please.. please tell me it’s a joke.. you’re fucking with me..?” she clears her throat, releasing a breathy laugh. “please.. i’m fucking begging you, say you’re just messing with me..”

her fingers intertwined with yours as she kneels infront of you, on her knees, helpless. “i.. don’t make me do this.. i can’t.” she can’t see through the puddles in her eyes, it feels like she’s talking to herself.

because she knows she has to stop this, your misery, your suffering. she has to walk away and make peace with the fact she did it for you.

“you’re gonna be fine, ellie. people like you always are..” you whisper breathlessly, your lungs feel useless, paralysed by something growing inside.

“ellie..” your lids are low, eyes morbidly rolling to her, feeling heavy and strenuous. you’re so fatigued, seeing ellie’s bloodshot eyes and her cheeks raw and worn from the constant rubbing of her tears. she maintains eye contact, shuffling closer until her forehead presses against yours.

her lashes are dark and thick, and she closes her bleary eyes. you used to cup her face when she’d press her forehead against yours, but you’re so cold, and limp, and lifeless.

“give those bastards hell.”

and it took until the fifth hour - until you were unresponsive, until you’d start begging her with pained tears to end it - that she’d muster up the courage to let go of your hands, give you a graceful kiss on the forehead,

“i love you..” she’d choke back a sob, lips against your forehead, “you.. you are.. the most magnificent person.. i have ever met..”

and shakily aim at your head, pistol quivering in her hand as her finger rests along the trigger.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · · · · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · · · · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

jackson, wyoming. blissful summer, two years later, the grass dehydrated.

she’d be kicking at the dry ground, scraping her converse against the cracked mud simmering under the heat. she needed air, time to think, to dilute her thoughts. she’d cut her hair recently, it hurt. you fucking loved the half-up half-down, and she knew it.

it feels like she’s erasing you, which aggravates her. it wasn’t just the hair, or the sound the scissors made when she cut the tiny ponytail off, or watching the strands streamline down the sink. it was dina’s confession, and constantly taking out the roll bag you kept your knives in when she felt strong enough, only to quickly roll it back up and hide it in her drawers when she realised she wasn’t.

but she’s done well recently, she’s sleeping more, dreaming less; eating bigger portions, and she’s able to look people in the eyes. her dead rabbit lays beside the stream, bow slung over her lanky shoulders.

she kicks against something solid, slowly kneeling when she realises it’s caved in the ruptures of the ground. there’s a metallic glint as she tilts her head, digging into the parched earth and slowly dragging it out.

“still waiting for my first butterfly knife.”

“butterfly? yeah.. good luck..”

it clicks in her hand, her fingers trying to rub off stains of mud, and she sighs. she sees your face, pretty lashes fanning your cheeks, the echo of your laughter when she’d kiss at the ticklish areas of your body.

“so.. how does this work?” she looks at you, knife in hand.

“you see that red thing right there? you throw the knife at it.” you point at the target on the wall, crossing your arms as you inspect her.

“wow.. so helpful, baby..” she murmurs under her breath, before she adjusts her shot, and throws the knife at the wall. it lands beside the red bullseye, a decent throw.

“wow. that was..” you start, eyebrows arched as if you’re impressed. she feels a gratified smile pull her cheeks upwards as you walk towards the wall, clutching at the knife’s handle before pulling it out. “ass. go again.”

you were beautiful. she’ll never love like that again.

and so she slowly tucks the knife back into the ground, respectively concealing it in the soil, it feels as if she’s burying you within these meadows - letting go of you a final time.

acceptance.

[max1461]

I guess the other thing about Dark Souls is. I know this is gonna sound weird. Who maintains those elevators? There's all these elevators with clearly rested metal chains, right, in the... forgotten... realm of the old lords, or whatever the fuck, where everything is in ruins and clearly nobody is maintaining shit. It takes a long time for stone castles to fall to ruin like that, and a lot less time for exposed steel to rust away!

I know this "doesn't matter", but I'm not merely nitpicking realism here. I guess it's like... to me, I'm a conlang-head and shit, I'm algebraic according to @fruityyamenrunner, there's something about this that bothers me very deeply. Not every "unrealistic detail" in fiction bothers me, but some do, and this one does. I don't know exactly what makes the difference.

But Dark Souls' world feels very, it feels very themepark, from what I've seen of it, there's a lot of shit that doesn't track. There's all these knights and shit sitting around in the ruins on these like, high plateaus. The environment is like that for obvious game design reasons: Dark Souls isn't open world, and it's not meant to be, so you have to constrain the player's path, and ruined castles on high plateaus with gaping cliffs next to them provide an environment where such limited paths make sense. I get this and don't disprove of it. But the problem, as I said, is all these wandering knights or whatever sitting around in the ruined castles on high plateaus: what do they eat? Do they forage? There isn't anything to forage. There aren't any animals to hunt. It's just rocks and zombies.

Again, this is the kind of detail that like. I don't need games to answer this, and if a piece of fiction is explicitly going for something more dreamlike I'm even ok with a setup as above. But the way Dark Souls presents itself... I need to at least be able to come up with a plausible idea about what these guys eat. You see?

I don't know. Suspension of disbelief troubles me. Fiction is not natural to me.

[thebomb-thebird-andtheburntbitch]

a/n: 2.3k - boothill finds you digging around in junk and then offers you a gift he hopes you won't refuse... [plsdontflopplsdontflopplsdont-]

the heavy metal clinking of boothill's foot steps clank their way to your shop's door. an all too familiar door he'd always find himself going up to whenever he was in need of repair- big or small. the swiveling security camera you keep at your entrance blinks with red-lit life and moves to start following his movements as soon as he enters it's field of vision.

who knows if you're ever actually paying attention to the camera feed or not though. you can be careless like that. sometimes you're just out- couldn't be bothered or could care less about the remote feed linked directly to your phone. other times, you're so focused on some project you neglect it entirely.

based on the sign hanging on your shop's door he was familiar with- it seemed that this time in particular you were out.

boothill didn't need to know how to write- much less read well- to take a wild gander as to where you had wondered off to. putting his spring loaded and metal jointed hands on his slim waist, his chin dips with an amused chuckle and shake of his head. the cowboy lifts the toe of his mechanical boot and twists his body fully 'round; his spurs scrapping across the ground during his lazy about-face. with one foot in front of the other and thumbs hooked through the hollow crops of his trousers, the galaxy ranger makes his way towards the junk yard.

it would never occur to the standard person to spend their free time digging around a scrap yard filled with junk thrown out for a reason- but you were anything but standard. if you weren't tinkering around in your shop or finishing up a repair or commission, you were scrounging around the grounds for material or 'hidden treasure'... which was key for just slightly more valuable junk.

a typical haul for you would be a few pieces of scrap metal you could use for wielding, the rare unstripped screw or loose gaggle of bolts, and all sorts of wire. if it saved you a few credits by finding material instead of buying them, you weren't one to argue with free trash.

passing under the wire-metal gate leading into the fenced-off territory, his thumbs still tucked into his pant legs, his ears stay sharp. listening for any sound of you digging around in some heap while his head swivels back and forth to try and catch a glimpse of you.

"ey, sugar, you around!" boothill shouts, one of his hands detaching from his hips to cup around his mouth. he wanders further in, gets more ground, before calling out the same sentence a second time. shaking his head in bewilderment on how far in you had gone digging, he goes even further still and tries calling out a third time.

"here!" you finally answer back. your voice echoes around him, bouncing off the scrap metal and spooking the rats and other critters that call the junk yard home. his head turns in the direction of your voice, the way his body leans towards it before his feet start carrying him that way never took notice in his own mind.

eventually, he makes it to you. squat down to the ground, under the rusty remains of some poor saps long eroded escape pod from whatever solar system they crashed in from. he crosses his arms, then his ankles, leaning his metal shoulder on the ruined dome you were digging under.

the ranger had no idea how long you had been out here, but judging by the half full bag you kept on your shoulder and the grease sticking to your neck and exposed skin he could guess it's been a bit. he chuckles when you dig out a rusted, broken pipe of... something, before tossing it over your shoulder with a disappointed click of your tongue and looking up at him. your cheeks had some gunk on it too, probably from you wiping the back of your gloves on it.

"fancy diggin' around in junk?"

"it's not all junk."

"the fudge it aint," he scoffs. to him, it absolutely was all junk. "this aint called the dang junk yard for nothin, sugar."

"it's a scrap yard."

"stubborn-bottom." you move to stand up, clapping your gloved hands together before taking them off so you could use your hands more freely. "good to see ya took my advice and startin' wearing some forkin' gloves around here." he eyes around at all the rust and sharp metal. "gonna get tetanus or somethin', and we can't have that."

"im liable to get tetanus from you before anything else," you joke so straight-faced it didn't feel like a joke. his crossed arms drop along with his jaw and his stance straightens as he uncrosses his ankles.

"ey', i aint as forkin' filthy as you pretend i am, and you know it." you shrug with a half smirk that was so dismissive he was tempted to keep arguing. you push the goggles you were wearing over your eyes to avoid getting anything in them and possible irritation onto your forehead. seeing the contrast between your sweaty, grease and dirt marked skin and the clean skin that was protected under the goggles had him scoff. "yer filthier than i am, by the look of things."

you roll your eyes and move to climb out of the rusty treasure trove of junk you had deemed no longer having anything of value. reaching out, boothill offers you his hand. you take it easily as he starts pulling you up and out to stand in front of him. your hand drops from his when you stand safely in his bubble, and he isn't sure if you know how close you are or not.

your nose is always so focused in tinkering around or messing with work that you can't always... read the room so to speak. its endearing, until it gets frustrating anyway.

"so, what're you here for this time? need something fixed again- i swear if you already burned through that new servo i replaced a month ago, im going to take off your arm and you won't get it back for a week."

"well, that's awful sweet of you." you knew by his dry tone and sneered lips that exposed his sharp teeth that the word sweet was definitely supposed to be a different five-letter word starting with 's'. one that his broken beacon (which you refuse to fix out of entertainment) wouldn't allow him to say.

"seems like an appropriate consequence to me, considering i don't charge you for repairs."

"i ain't here for not goose-dud repair," he hisses. "i had planned on givin' ya somethin', but based on your sweet attitude i aint so sure about it now."

"you brought me something?" he nods. "from a different solar planet?" he could see the curiosity start to ignite in your eyes. he nods again. you stuff your gloves into a pouch in your pants that he swears you've sewed another pocket into, before you're marching away from him and towards the entrance he had marched from at the beginning of this search. "well come on, let's get a moving!" you shout over your shoulder.

his synthetic voice chuckles at your back. eagerly waltzing after you.

boothill soon finds himself sitting with his knees apart and comfortably lounging with his arms on the back of your worn-down, two-cushioned couch the moment you two got back to the shop. he had taken himself to your quote- reception room, as he waited for you to unload your finds from the junkyard (meaning you just took your bag, flipped it upside and let its content spill out unceremoniously onto your worktable before you would eventually sort through it at a later time).

the tapping of his metal toes against your floor echoed dully against the rug under the sofa as you soon made your way to stand in front of him, hands on your hips and an expectant look in your eyes. flicking the brim of his hat cheekily to get a better look up at you, he lifted his chin.

"my attention is yours," you dramatically sigh, hands flaring to your sides before bouncing back against your legs.

"im flattered, sugar," he jests back. still, he shifts. the small pouch he had strung to his belt that was home to his array of extra fire rounds was soon detached from him. the string of which was used to tie it to him previously, hangs lazily from his metal fingertips. with a raised, semi-skeptical brow, you carefully take it off his hands.

"if this is some sort of prank," you warn. his hands raise in the air with his elbows still resting comfortably on the back of the cushions he was leaning against, gesturing that he meant no harm.

slowly- cautiously- you pull open the bag and remove two different items that had been nestled safely inside.

tossing the now empty bag onto the couch next to boothill's leg, you took each item into one hand and looked between them. one was a small crystal that was no larger than the center of your palm. shining a swirling color of green and blue, you could only imagine that it would look even prettier properly polished and with a light shining behind it. in the other was a small box, one that could be opened with a rusty lid. giving it a small rattle revealed something to be inside. doing so revealed a small robot that had been covered in rust, missing a robotic arm and wires spilling out from under the cracked and broken screen that would most definitely have acted as it's face.

"what's all this?" you ask softly. boothill stands from his lackadaisical lounging on your sofa to come and waltz up to your side. he pointed at the robot sitting sadly in the container he had brought him in first.

"i found this lil fella and thought you'd have a gas fixin' him right up. as for that," he points to the crystal of dual-swirling shades next, "accordin' to my scanners, that there's a pretty dadgum power source." boothill takes the small crystal from your palm and hovers it just above the robot. "it suits him, don't it?" he chuckles.

in truth, the slightly dingy looking crystal shard was too magnificent compared to the busted and rusted robot. but, with a bit of work, repair and love, perhaps the color of the crystal really would look nice against polished sheet metal.

"i figure givin' you somethin' else to tinker with would be more... enriching than just your usual forkin' machines." and it could keep you company, but he didn't say that out loud.

when you would get it working like he knew you could, maybe you'd stop and think about him while he was away chasing his reality out as a galaxy ranger. if you could just spare a single thought towards him every day because of a small robot and shiny rock? he'd be tickled pink.

"he's cute," you whisper gently and boothill wonders if you know you said it out loud at all. he chuckles, bringing his hand up to cup the designed dents atop his cowboy hat. taking it off his head, he gently drops it onto yours, gaining your attention back from the gifts he had given you.

the way you lift your eyes to look at him- filled with something akin to excitement and fondness- and gently cradle the small rusty robot with his hat now shadowing your face, he could almost hear the wires in his chest running on turbo. he'd had to cool down asap before he overheated or crashed.

taking a step back- for his own sake- he leaves his hat on your head before patting your back.

"get to it," he softly tells you. you mutely nod, an excited smile breaking out over your lips as you trot towards a different room. it was a small private work space you retreated to for personal projects. boothill was one that was usually allowed inside since this room was where he would get his tune ups most times.

with boothill following your back, he watches you trot to your work bench. you gently set the robot's box down and remove it from inside. the crystal you submerged in a bowl that you soon fill with polish to let it soak. it took all of ten minutes before you're surrounded by tools and wires and equipment made for digital repairs. all the while boothill remade his comfort in a worn-down rocker you kept in the corner, content on staying put until he was forced to leave. whether it by your or by his next bounty.

he couldn't very well leave you with his hat either, even if it looked better on you than him.

the next time boothill comes into your shop after that gift drop off, it wasn't a visit but a proper repair. running out of cooling agent for his internal hardware was just waiting for a disaster to happen. his synthetic-coded laugh burst into the room jollily as when he sat down on the stool he always planted his ass in for repairs, a small, shiny robot- with the cutest digital expressions and a small blue-green swirling crystal placed in the center of its chest- was waddling across your work bench. a vile of blue cooling agent the near size of his small metal body grasped tightly in its robotic arms.

it chirped happily with a digital reverb when you thank it for bringing the coolant over.

boothill was indeed tickled as pink could get seeing you already attached to the lil fella. he wondered what you named it.

a/n: smol robot go beep-boop (i love the idea of mechanic!reader just having a cute lil guy to follow them around like a puppy :(( [big thanks to @/birinboom and my partner for letting me pick their brain on what gifts boothill ended up giving to the reader bc i had no idea lol smooches <3]

[sharkenedfangs]

— ☆ “SWEET LIKE NECTAR.”

— #. synopsis. because to whitney, there’s nothing prettier, downright satisfying to gaze upon the rosy cheeks you adopt in response to the invasive questioning, that pride of yours so amusing to patiently chip away at, piece by piece. in fact, if you could, you’d evade it altogether though that would mean defeat, wouldn’t it? and there’s nothing you detest more in this shitty world than to fucking lose.

— #. content warning! step-cest, dub-con, anal fucking, nipple sucking, some light degradation here and there as in the use of ‘slut’ and ‘whore’ , referring to whitney’s chest as ‘tits’ , big brother whitney being a bitch, loser male reader being an even bigger one in that respect and fuck, did I forget anything else?

— #. word count? 5.2k, if I remember correctly. this is a repost.

— #. something more to say, asher? : “I couldn’t help myself. had to bring back the classic onto here, y’know. ruining whitney’s slutty hole never gets old, specially big brother.”

Moreover, you should’ve probably have expected this one measly question to slip past your older brother’s lips, leering gaze openly taking your conflicted expression in as if taunting you to properly answer. You wouldn’t lie to me, would you? ‘Course not, like you could anyway. He’d see right past it like he usually does, testing the waters — he’d call it, laying out the fresh bait for your conscious little self to latch onto immediately.

Because to Whitney, there’s nothing prettier, downright satisfying to gaze upon the rosy cheeks you adopt in response to the invasive questioning, that pride of yours so amusing to patiently chip away at, piece by piece. In fact, if you could, you’d evade it altogether though that would mean defeat, wouldn’t it?

And there’s nothing you detest more in this shitty world than to fucking lose.

Especially to this one bastard. Too damn nosy to discreetly mind his own business, y’know? Always the one to hover too close for comfort, bated breath feathering delicately against the soft skin of your flushed ear, to keep you tightly on edge. Long past that, it’s starting to get on your nerves how self-assured he is in his flawed reasoning, simply since he had you sloppily suck him off once on the worn couch and now, it’s what? Only natural to drag you around like some sort of thoughtless puppy? Shamelessly refer to you as his trained, little bitch who’ll get on his knees for the right price?

Gotta be fucking kidding then.

It was the alcohol. Nothing, but the intoxicating substance drumming along your veins that had you act in such a debauched manner, had your painfully hard cock straining against the front of your pants. Yeah. Right? That’s all there was to it. Nothing more.

At least, that’s what you keep insistently reminding yourself of despite the growing, churning heat in your stomach, the not-so-subtle twitching of your hardening cock stirring beneath your ripped jeans or the individual droplets of sweat gently trickling down the navel of your slouched back. Alright, keep fucking lying to yourself then. Surely that’ll help you with your current predicament that you’ve stuck yourself into, muddied foot deep within the shallow trenches and a solid grasp firmly placed around your ankle, threatening to snap your dignity in half.

“Well?” Visibly irritated by your lack of answer, it’s Whitney’s increasingly impatient, snappy voice that unfortunately draws you back from your spiralling calculations — whether to respond with the humiliating truth or not. Can’t let it go, can he? Hence why he so nonchalantly has you sat on his used bed, the rusted springs hidden beneath the dusty mattress alerting your every subtle movement with a distinct creak reverberating through the thin walls.

“Well, what?” Idiot, you know very damn well what he’s getting at, it’s not like you suffer from some sort of amnesiac disease to utilise cluelessness and have him fooled with such blatant tactics.

“You’re a virgin, aren’t you?” Should be wiping that snide, awful smirk that instantly appears on his face as he carelessly articulates the question once more. Shameless in his pursuit, hungrily eyeing you up and down like an untouched piece of meat to greedily feast upon, sink his pearly, white fangs into.

Oh, thank the heavens that you weren’t consuming any sort of liquid right this moment because it would’ve been shot straight out of your throat, maybe your nose even considering the absurd sentence from your very own brother — step-brother, to be exact. Still in denial that you two could potentially call each other family, far too homely of a term than the puzzling relationship you both share. Speaking of, you haven’t replied to his question yet and by the looks of it, he isn’t looking too pleased with you if you were to stretch this on any further than it should be.

“N-No, I’ve actually fucked my fair share of girls.” Oh yeah, he’s definitely believing you with that stuttering, the uncertainty all too evident in your tone that only a complete, utter moron would’ve fallen for it. Fucking liar. It wasn’t as though you were entirely lying though, having indeed fucked a girl before, but does it really count if that same person were to be your younger sister, Kylar? At most, you’ve had your decent amount of experiences with others, dated a few girls here and there which is to be acceptable for the average boy of your age. However, beyond the intimate acts of holding hands and bashful kissing, you remained oblivious to the process of well, sex — save for the over the top, raunchy porn you’d occasionally watch and that sole encounter with Kylar that taught you far more than any cheap film ever could.

So, it’s still reasonable, is it not? Though this is Whitney you’re directly dealing with and you know better than to assume he’d take plain ‘no’ for an answer, often brash in his selfish desires. No, more like every time whenever he does act, it leads up to the very same, repetitive situation you’ve familiarized yourself to. You, beneath him. You, helpless in the face of his cruel actions.

Not this time though — fuck, that nasty, little scheme of yours slowly, but ever so surely lurking within the depths of your working mind, grateful for the blonde’s clear ignorance of the shit you were ready to commit to regain that minuscule shred of dignity back. None the wiser, preferring it’d remain that way.

And he can only sharply scoff back to your half-assed attempt at muttering obvious falsehoods. Too cunning of a bastard and god, does it mess with you. “Bullshit. You think I’d believe that? Fuckin’ cmon, admit it. You’ve never really fucked a girl before, huh?” That sickening, creeping nausea steadily filling the depths of your guts from the way he so arrogantly taunts you through his ‘light-hearted’ insults, inadvertently painting you as some sort of virgin loser that never so much as had the slightest chance of growing affectionate with another woman. Fucked your goddamn sister so that’s a one-up on you, huh? Hell, you know better than to let such an obscene admission escape you — since she’s your sister now too, that innocence you so greedily stripped away that one faithful evening within the four corners of her room.

Rather not indulge in such sinful thoughts at the moment, not when your prolonged silence is only confirming his self-righteous suspicions to which he so stubbornly convinced himself of. Knowing better than to reason with your older brother, it’s merely when you do finally relent with a reluctant nod of your head — still maintaining a thin layer of deceit, mind you — that his smug grin widens considerably in return. “So you’re an unused slut, basically.” Choice of words never was the delinquent’s forte, but his crude, frank vocabulary certainly is as he so eloquently puts it. “Hah — I fuckin’ knew it. Wouldn’t be cumming so quickly if you weren’t.” He huffs back in amusement at the sight of your apparent fluster, always so damn squirmy whenever he playfully pokes fun at one of your concealed insecurities. Oh, you really don’t know the dizzying effect you have on him, do you?

The numerous nights spent lazily fisting the base of his cock underneath the woollen covers placed over his bare, sweating body to at the very least obscure his depraved actions — not that he cared much whether he was scandalously caught or not. Much so, he’d prefer if it were you to coincidentally’ walk in on him mid-jerk off session, land a helping hand to big brother and let him use you however he saw fit. Fuck, yeah. That’d aid him in his ever growing lust for you, borderline animalistic in how he addictively sought you out as expected, like a sweet, sweet drug longing to be taken. A sweet nectar freshly ripe for the taking, plucked free from the gracious buds of the tree to gratefully sink his fangs into and savour the refreshing taste lingering on his tongue.

Feels so right to defile your prudish self, doesn’t it? So, don’t blame him then. Don’t blame him when he suggests— no, coldly orders you to strip off your damn pants which prompts another gaping stare of yours to the sudden command. Handsome, but so, so clueless, aren’t you? Needs to tell you to do everything for your sluggish brain to eventually catch up to his ever approaching rhythm, cocky grin plastered onto his lips signalling that your step-brother is indeed not kidding around as per usual.

“What’re you waitin’ for? I said, strip.” It’s not a gentle reminder nor a well-intentioned push in the right direction, it’s a repeated warning of his thinly veiled frustrations peeking its way through, past the useless restraints he placed onto himself when he could easily be given what he’s wanted. Not without force, though that is in Whitney’s nature to be as rough as possible, having grown accustomed to things going his way whenever he inevitably turned to bloodied brutality. After all, the bully doubts so himself that you don’t furtively desire this all the same too, conflicted movements headed towards the leathered loop of your belt as you willingly comply as tasked to. Good boy, knew you had it in y’a.

“Do I really gotta do this?” If it weren’t for the pretty, pink flush adorning the entirety of your face right now, your older brother would’ve definitely snapped back with a snarky remark of his own, however the sight itself is enough to let him have your dumb self uselessly hope a little further. What does it look like, little brother? Has Whitney ever backtracked on his truthful words?

“Yeah, you gotta cuz’ I told you to. Now just fuckin’ do it already, slut. I don’t got all day.”

“..Fine.” Having fully predicted such a response, heavy shoulders slouching lazily in defeat from the refusal, you shyly carry on with the clumsy strip tease of yours. Can never get your way with him, can y’a?

Goddamn it, shamefully reprimanding yourself for even following suit to his harsh retort though, can you really blame yourself? He’s got you — fucking, trained you like a dog. That’s what it is, a stupid, dumb mutt that can’t help but intrinsically cave in to its depraved instincts as his rightful owner happily taught him to, mindlessly huffing and wagging its fluffy tail to the sugary sweet praise whispered to him. Conditioning you to his every whim as a promising, rewarding treat awaits in exchange for your dutiful obedience, not bothering to keep your remaining underwear either. Big brother knows best, huh? Look at that pitiful expression etched along your features, averting gaze straying away from his piercing own that’s settled precisely on the drooling tip of your fat, twitching cock dribbling out an alarming amount of pre-cum. How you resist the underlying temptation to automatically press your legs together, denying Whitney of that upfront, perverted view of your spread thighs. So damn easy to get you riled up in a matter of seconds when a tight, warm hole is involved in the filthy equation.

As ensured, you’ll receive as you wish, pup. Only natural to fulfill what you so gravely desire when you’ve been so good so far, right? Offer you the bearing fruits of your well-earned efforts in return while you thoughtlessly salivate over the mere idea, yeah?

“Whitney, this is kinda embarrassing..” Kinda? Practically humiliating to display yourself so lewdly like this, however not as if you hadn’t experienced this rarely either in the past few weeks that steadily transpired. Should’ve grown used to it by now, actually. Still, the lingering shyness of brazenly exposing yourself like this was too much to bear at times, especially with the other’s daunting ogling. Really has to unabashedly eye-fuck you every single time or something. It’s.. somewhat flattering to be throughly appreciated like this despite instinctively knowing it’s out of pure, utter objectification.

Aimlessly losing yourself in the middle of your straying thoughts, it’s the recurring shuffling of fabric carelessly being thrown onto the wooden, creaking floor that draws you back to the hazy reality before you. Fuck, a wet dream is a far more suitable term with how this is stereotypically playing out, the confident, sure movements of your older brother’s calloused hands busying themselves with the hem of his waistband and — oh, he’s surely tugging his sweats down, okay. His.. fucking dick, god — how didn’t you conveniently notice how rock hard his cock was beneath that cotton thin material? Leaving you to breathlessly gawk at the free view of Whitney’s drooling tip roughly smacking against the tensed muscles of his stomach, briefly connecting strings of pre-cum to meld with his cooling sweat. Retaking that relaxed, slouched position along the single bed as if he isn’t currently stark naked in front of your unmoving eyes. That distracting to you, huh? Horny mutt.

“Like what you see, slut?” That fucking conceited tone of his makes you want to respond with anything but an affirmative yes, though through the thick lump you swallow down your throat, it’s the muted nod of your head that further serves him to grin widely in satisfaction. Wanna prove him wrong so badly, so damn so. Yet, how can you when he’s shown you all the reasons not to?

Should’ve been paying closer attention then, baby brother. How your brain immediately shuts off in a haze of confusion, numbing static prickling at your empty mind once the blonde instead settles himself comfortably onto your awaiting lap. “Fuckin’ nice seat.” Would’ve been a more comedic remark if it weren’t for the provoking press of his bare ass flush against your pulsing cock, questionably twitching in approval from the brief physical contact. Christ, get a grip on yourself, you moron but, oh — Fuck. You could just.. fucking slip it in and it wouldn’t hurt to let Whitney take the lead as predicted, greedily relish in the slippery warmth fervently welcoming you? Since at the end of the day, you’re just a man, no? A simple man with stupidly horny urges and needs to gratefully sink his cock into the nearest wet hole that merely happens to be his big brother’s whorish one.

Still, that portion of your mind beckons you to reason along with the weirdly alluring pull of plainly muttering out fuck it, shove it in and— and, do the nastiest shit possible, y’know? Yeah, you should do it. Actually, no. No way in fucking hell should you proceed with it. Uselessly humping your hips upwards with a sickening jolt that draws a relieving sigh from the both of you. Stop it, you pervert. You’ve become no better than him, have you?

“W-What’re you doing..?” Is all you can pathetically muster to his blatantly obvious actions, knowing full well what he’s truly doing. Riling you up. Teasing along the edges of your withering limits till it collapses fully onto the ground. It’s what he does best, driving you insane on the daily from school, to outside, to home and his room you frequently pay visits to at night.

“What does it look like I’m doin’? I’m about to fuck your cute cock, pretty boy.” Pretty. Ah, that shouldn’t be your main focus with how he announces it so casually, essentially admitting he’s planning to ride you. Struggling to grasp onto the foreign concept of him, well— being on the receiving end of sex. Doesn’t he like, usually prefer to be the one in the dominant position? In fact, you wouldn’t have been surprised if he had selfishly decided to fuck your ass next, fill it to the brim with his seed. Yet, here he is, contently rubbing himself on your flushed, oozing tip, swearing gently as it barely grazes his puckered hole, thoughtlessly clenching around practically nothing. “Don’t get the wrong idea. I’m only doing this to stake my claim on you, alright? Not fuckin’ fair if some bitch gets to fuck your virgin dick first so, hah— I’m making you into a proper slut. My slut.”

Very convincing, Whitney. Not so much so when he’s shuddering eagerly above you like a man about to be given the slightest taste of heaven itself, namely your cock it seems. Hot. Shit, it is a pretty hot sight, you’ve gotta admit.

So, is this purely a flimsy excuse of his to fuck himself stupid on your dick? Need that much to blindly persuade you he isn’t some sort of drooling cockwhore deep down? Nice try, big brother. Well, you can effortlessly see through his nonchalant act, the barely discernible, rosy flush dusting along his cheeks confirming his secretive, depraved and filthy desires simmering deeply within his core.

“Fuckin’ — ah, help me put it in already.” The resounding gasp escaping him is so breathy, so unlike the dominant, assertive Whitney you’ve familiarized yourself with that your lethargic brain hardly registers his direct order, sounding more like a frantic plea than anything else. Put it in? The little, stuck-up bastard is having difficulty sliding it in, resorting to your aid to lend a helping hand to his futile struggles? That’s cute. The indiscernable trace of a smirk beginning to form onto your lips from his uncharacteristically submissive demeanour, still withholding a decent amount of control in this situation here. Ah, what’re you even saying? He’s given you full leverage to wreck his tight, little hole as you happily please, fuck yourself deeper in that wet warmth you’ve been subconsciously seeking out. You’re the one cupping him within the palm of your hand, oddly contented with this newfound revelation, this switch of power dynamics.

“Can’t you put it in yourself then. It’s not that hard, is it? You’re the one always wanting to everything so I think it’s only fair you do it.” Indulging in the scowl that appears shortly on his straining features only to dissolve under another one of his tough exteriors. “Fuck, you want me to? Can’t put it in yourself, huh?” He counters snidely, grasping for the bottle of lube conveniently placed on the night dresser nearby, accompanied by barking out a sharp huff of laughter as you cuss out loud a fuck! from the cooling, sticky mixture squirted plainly onto your cock.

“Shit! That’s cold! Why’d you pour it on me? Aren’t you supposed to put it in your— y’know? Your—“ Pausing bashfully in your tracks, immaturity running so deeply you couldn’t even properly stammer out the term if you wished to.

“My what? My ass? I’m not putting that in there, I can fuck myself on your cock just fine without that crap.” Lewd. That’s so lewd how he outwardly states it, blazing face hidden behind your cupped palms as though such a gesture would make this alright, make whatever he’s doing — smoothly grinding on the tip of your lubed, quivering length, how his hole teasingly snatches onto your flushed, leaking cock head only to disappointingly let go again. Fuck, fuck — Fuck. Doing this on purpose, isn’t he? Intent on driving you mad before he even manages to shove it in.

But, as previously stated before, there’s nothing you hate more than to lose, don’t you?

Really, he should be the one blaming himself for your rash and impulsive movements, shouldn’t be letting out that surprised yelp, silenced by a high-pitched gasp as you finally have had enough of his provoking mockery to mutter out a sharp fuck it and drive your increasingly impatient cock right in. Head stupidly thrown back in sheer shock from the unfamiliar yet admittedly pleasurable sensation of having his tight, virgin hole stuffed full of your cock right about now. Clear outline of your entire length pulsing deep within him by the noticeable quivering of his toned tummy, which you don’t hesitate to firmly plant your palm against to draw another satisfying, strangled whimper past his lips. Whore.

“Ah, fucking shit— You’re so fucking tight. Relax a bit for me or I can’t move.” Might as well be snapping your dick in half from the unbearable clenching of his unused insides, warm insides that you’re pervertedly staining white with every glide of your forceful thrusts, every harsh slam of your hips against his ass. Can’t stop yourself though — God, no. Not when the addictive heat of his hole envelops you so damn fucking well, rendering you both to mindlessly cling onto each other, entangled bodies slick with hot sweat trickling steadily down the navel of your arched backs. Namely his. And oh, he really does feel so good. Never mind all the shit he’s done, the stingy tugs of his fists deep within your messied hair, urging you to fuck yourself deeper into his trembling frame. This is the sweet taste of revenge you’ll so dearly savour, hungrily imprinting every choked moan to memory for later reminiscing.

Isn’t he so cute too? Tightening fingertips digging harshly into your shoulders for proper stability, an immediate roll of his eyes to the back of his skull whenever you angle your hips to hit that overly sensitive spot that sends a sickening jolt up his spine. Bound to be leaving marks, though that’s the least of your concerns with how goddamn pretty he looks when fucked stupid, fucked utterly brainless to match the feverish haze of his glazed over eyes. “See? I think you secretly enjoy it, Whitney. I think you— hah, fuck — enjoy that I’m taking the lead for once. ‘S that it? You like havin’ my cock inside you, huh? Like it when your little brother fucks you?” No matter how many times he may blatantly refuse and deny it, through the clawing of his nails, etching bloodied scars into your back that are sure to reside in your skin later on— You fucking know by the squeeze of his slutty hole, ring of cream having settled nicely around the base of your cock.

“F-Fuckin’—“ Big brother having trouble speaking? “Bastard, shut— ah! up!” The pitiful whine echoing deeply from his throat almost makes you want to cease your endless blabbering, but y’know what? Fuck that. May as well endure the severe consequences of his actions, from the second you had arrived here, it was bound to end solely in one conclusion. You, balls deep in his ass. You, stupidly drunk off the mere act of ruthlessly fucking your older brother cuz’ shit, does it feel so amazingly good. “If you keep looking at me like that, it only— hah, makes things harder for me here. God, Whitney.. Don’t fucking stop squeezing me, ‘kay?” Not really doing any better than him either, any semblance of control within you possibly thrown out the window with every pleasurable stroke of your cock being sucked so sloppily by his stretched out hole. One thing the delinquent was right about — You being the equivalent of a dumb mutt. A dumb, drooling mutt huffing over his bare chest, depraved instincts kicking in to suck on whatever happens to be nearest and that consequently leads to your dazed gaze zeroing in on his swollen nipples.

Pretty, so fucking pretty. It’s not fair.

Deserving of every torturous inch his tight hole greedily swallows up, the sight of his neglected, puffy nipples almost too much to bear for your watering mouth.

A little taste wouldn’t hurt, would it?

How careless of you to overlook such an area that so desperately needs your loving attention too. Bad little brother you are for that, huh? “Promise to make you feel so good.” Sighing out a guttural groan as the softened pad of your thumbs find home to idly flick at the erect glands, eliciting another strangled curse from the delinquent once again. Sensitive here, isn’t he? “Shit.. Every time I touch your tits here, you tighten up like crazy, hah. Want me to suck on ‘em too?” It’s more of a fervent heads up for your upcoming actions than a polite request, pink tongue curiously poking out to glide along the sheen of sweat settled thickly on the rosy buds. “M-Motherfucker.. Don’t you fuckin’ dare— hmph!” Hastily cut off by the palm of his own hand clasped upon his mouth, he can’t help but to cave in at your perverted antics, specifically that weird obsession of yours with his chest or tits as you so obscenely call ‘em. Shivering lightly at the rhythmic lapping at his nipples which is soon followed by the roll of your tongue against the sensitive flesh, fully latching onto on of them to appreciatively suckle on. The things you do to him, a full on body shock simply from having his pretty tits toyed with, his nipples coyly sucked on by the moist engulf of your warm mouth. “W—What?? Stop, ah, that!” How the fuck do you get to him like this every damn time?

And why the hell does it have to feel so fuckin’ good too?

Screw you, really.

Having managed to get past his carefully placed barriers he put upon himself, a means of protection for his fragile pride that you so selfishly tear away. Because it’s fun to, an absolute power rush to intently observe your slutty older brother fall apart on your fat cock, split his ass open while you’re at it. Teary eyes threatening to spill free more droplets down the length of his scarlet cheeks, bitten lips oozing fresh blood from your nipping teeth and tongue to gently suckle at as a well-deserved reward. Golden locks becoming increasingly more disheveled from every bounce on your cock, the guidance of your hands locked firmly onto his hips to witness the disappearance and reemergence of your leaking tip to reach that one single spot deep inside him.

And it’s real adorable when you draw your hips further only to be halted by the weight of his legs wrapped securely around your waist to prevent you from pulling all the way out, so stubbornly too. “Oh, want me to cum inside?” The derisive pitch of your laughter has the blonde simmering in his humiliating position, too caught up in the intoxicating pleasure of being fucked so mercilessly like this to bother uttering out a curse of denial. Fangs bared, seething glare shot solely towards you, its you. Of course, it’s you who has the final say, the upper hand regardless. As always. “I-I swear to fuckin’ god, if you pull out now— I’m going to fucking kill you, asshole.” He threatens as per usual, but the shaky incoherence of his speech riddled with whiny moans discredits his shitty attempt at intimidation, coaxing you to readily follow suit to his orders.

Ah, look at him. Fucking bitch in heat.

Can’t say no to that face, can you?

“Wasn’t planning on it anyway, Whitney.” You mutter out soothingly in the shell of his ear, slightly unsettled by the softening tone you’ve taken on to address him. Is it due to the pathetic appearance he’s took on from your relentless bullying? ‘S not fair he gets to look all cute and pouty while you’re struggling to keep up here, stuttering hips clumsily humping forward to make up for the messy pace because ah— fuck, you’re nearing your fill and so is Whitney, by the looks of it. “You can’t—“ Cutting himself off in a soundless gasp as your balls heavily smack against his ass, mind gone completely blank from the sheer euphoria of having his hole filled to the brim. Can’t? Sure, he can handle just a little more, can’t he? Cmon, he can do better than that. Drool dripping freely from his parted lips for yours to plant sloppy kisses against, stifling his open moans. Drawing your hips one last time to relish in the tight warmth of his wet insides— really, you’ll miss it, fuck— you barely get to process the thick ropes of cum spurting out of his bobbing cock, accompanied by your own climax shortly after. “S-Sorry, oh my god— I’m so sorry, you feel too good. I can’t—“ You sputter out uselessly, a hollow excuse when you continue on with your sloppy thrusts, burying yourself to the hilt to shoot your thick load into. Staining his walls white with your seed since your hips can’t stop themselves from fucking your cum deeper till the both of you tirelessly settle down in a heap of bodies on the creaking mattress.

Alright, so maybe you did end up going a tad bit too far this time, but it’s not like he didn’t ask for it. Or so you mumble to yourself to soothe your ever growing worries of where this may lead after the shortly lived, euphoric high you’ve just experienced. Nervously lifting your gaze to seek his as you’re greeted with.. ah, it seems you did fuck up. If anything, you’ve dug yourself a hole so steep you couldn’t possibly climb out of it now. Okay, he looks pissed. Doesn’t mean you don’t have time to mend things, right between the two of you, right? It’s as you finally muster up a foolish smile to meet his sour expression, that his frown significantly deepens in return.

“..So, uh. Did you like it?”

You’ve got a death wish, don’t you?

Should’ve probably expected this one. The shockingly loud slam of the wooden door closed shut on your face, promptly interrupting your frantic pleas and apologies. Heaps of dirty clothes thrown right into your arms for you to awkwardly pick up from the floor soon after. “Whitney, don’t be like that. Whitney, c’mon. I’m sorry—“ You’re not actually all that sorry, it’s just he looks too cute when angry, really.

“Fuck off!!”

Stubborn as ever, huh? At least, you’ve got to imprint those slutty sounds to memory for later use, having gotten your answer to leave him be for the time being. And oh, glancing down to be met with the sight of your still-hard, neglected cock tented pitifully against the front of your jeans. Seriously? Didn’t you just cum too?

..Well, you’ve always got the bathroom to take care of that.

[with-my-calamitous-love]

THINKIN’ ALL LOVE EVER DOES IS BREAK, AND BURN, AND END… ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

eijiro kirishima x reader

after possibly the worst heartbreak of your entire life, you finally get to begin again with a certain redhead. for his birthday <3

for @satirediary who said i remind them of kirishima 🤍

inspired by begin again

you take a deep breath in the mirror.

after adjusting your outfit for what feels like the millionth time, the anxiety sets in. you wonder if this guy, who you’ve never met before, is gonna like your outfit. the last guy sure didn’t, especially those high heels. but you do, and thats what should matter. right?

when you get to the cafe, you honestly expect him to be late. but to your surprise, he’s early, waving at you and pulling out your chair. you thank him, but he’s a gentleman at heart. “you look nice.” he says, his sharp toothy grin being just odd enough to be cute. you smile, brushing off your shirt and trying not to make the blush on your face so obvious. this is your first actual date since your previous relationship, after all.

you and monoma went down in flames. for a minute there, he ruined you for every other guy. he left you so sad and so heartbroken you weren’t sure if you could bring yourself to love someone else. but after mina’s third insistence on meeting this great guy, you finally go.

“mina’s told me a lot about you.” you smile, watching as the redhead nods, urging you to go own. you list off all the great things she’s said about him, leaving out the comments on his hot body and his apparently large package.

he honestly doesn’t know why you’re coming off shy as you share stories. at one point, he just watches you talk, loving your your rambles and anecdotes. his friends told him that first dates are awkward, but you two talk like old friends. no rust on telephones or reservations on jokes. he doesn’t get how someone as pretty and as kind as you would ever be nervous telling jokes or stories. but you do.

this guy isn’t your ex boyfriend, evident by his genuine interest in you. he laughs along with you, listening to everything you say. you can tell by his red eyes on yours, actually answering your questions and asking you follow ups. seemingly, he cares about what you have to say. he doesn’t know how nice that is, but you do.

“i saw you on tv once.” you giggle, on your second cup of coffee. neither of you wanna leave each other’s presences right now. “it was years ago, when your class was at that forest training camp.”

“oh yeah? did i look good?” he says, playfully flexing his arm muscles because he loves that pink blush on your face. god, he’s built like he was sculpted. but you’re not gonna let him know that, even though you subconsciously place your hand on his bicep, feeling the firmness of his muscles.

“you know, anabolic steroids are terrible for you.” you quip as he feigns offence. its the first time you’ve genuinely laughed in months. theres probably smile lines on your face now.

he throws his head back laughing like a little kid. its honestly strange to you how funny he finds you- you never really thought you were before. you’ve spent the last 8 months questioning your self worth, wondering if all love ever does is break your heart. but now, in some cafe you can’t remember, with a guy your best friend set you up with, you get to begin again.

the date evolves into walking down the block. you do a mental backflip when he finally works up the courage to hold your hand, the chilled autumn air no match for his big, warm hands. his fingers intertwine with yours lime they’re meant to be there. funny how monoma’s hands never did that.

just at that thought, you almost bring him up. the thought of him now still makes that feeling in your chest arise. how he never liked your heels, how he never found you funny, and how he’d never walk you to your car like kirishima was doing now.

either he senses your anxiety, or is just a ray of sunshine, but he eases your worries with a squeeze to your hand and a continuing of his anecdotes from earlier. “my family watches spirited away every christmas, because its my moms favourite movie. without fail.”

its a minute detail, but you wonder if he brought that up because he remembered you mentioning studio ghibli hours ago. its enough to ease your worries.

“i love that movie.” you utter, heart still racing from the close contact. “oh, i- uh, said that already. sorry.”

but he doesn’t hold it to you for reusing that fact. “don’t apologize, i think its cute.”

and for the first time, you wanna hear what he says. you hope he tells you about the movies his family watches, about his hot-headed best friend and the hero agency he works at. you urge him on as he rambles about the weed brownies denki makes, or the time he almost got expelled from UA. they’re dumb anecdotes, but it feels more genuine than anything else you’ve ever felt.

picturing a future with kirishima, no matter how naive or wishful it may be, brings a smile to your face. for the first time, maybe ever, its something you want. he’s effortless, his affection towards you easy for him. maybe you were never hard to love after all. maybe you just had to wait for the right guy.

when you reach your car, you almost don’t want the date to end. “i had a nice time.” you smile. though its what you always say at the end of a date, this time you mean it.

“me too.” he the redhead says, still holding your hand. “next time i’ll come pick you up. it’ll be easier for both of us.”

there, you blush again, a fond smile on your lips. “next time?”

now, he’s the one flustered, realizing his slip up. he rambles out apologies for assuming, his cheeks matching the red of his hair. after all, he’s just a person to. he’s experienced heartbreak like you have. this is likely a new beginning for him, as well.

you stay silent, but you do press a kiss to his cheek before letting go and heading into your car. he pretends the little happy dance you do before starting up and driving back home.

he’ll definitely tease you for that next date.

[bookofthegear]

“THAT” room is way too interesting a description for a bold adventurer like yourself to pass up. You stride confidently down the ramp. Jimmy’s claws tighten on your shoulder.

There’s some kind of mural on the passage wall, but you can’t make it out, and anyway it looks to have more to do with giant flaming avocados than with, say, wealth and glory. (And a spirit of scientific inquiry, naturally. It’s just that if, in plumbing the depths of the concrete maze, you happen to find some wealth that no one is using…well. Y’know.)

You’re honestly more concerned with what looks like high water marks in the room upstairs. Granted, it had dried out, but it is a basic rule of Dungeoneering not to get trapped by unexpected rising water, and the best way to do that is to know exactly when and how the water rises, and to arrange to be elsewhere. Jimmy, sadly, doesn’t have an answer.

“I’ve never seen it flooded…not personally…but I spend most of my time outside. Between, um, adventurers, I mean. Sometimes that takes weeks. It could flood then, and I’d never know.”

You’d rather like to know how many adventurers he’s worked with, but then you arrive at THAT room. It’s a largely featureless concrete box of a room, with two large pipes, one on top of the other, in the east wall. The pipes dribble rust and the occasional drop of water down the cement, and a metal grill of clear antiquity covers the bottom one.

The hobo sign for “danger,” three stacked diagonal lines, has been chalked beside the upper pipe.

There is also a thing on the floor. It is about four feet long, damp looking, and of a color one might generously call brownish. It has a certain…organic…lumpiness to it. The sort that usually involves time spent in a digestive tract.

You are not a biologist, but you’ve been in enough ruins to recognize an owl pellet when you see one.

You poke it a few times with the point of your walking stick. Bits of fabric and strands of hair fall away, revealing a gleam of bone. You poke again. Oh hey, they wore a retainer. Neat.

“He stuck his head in the pipe,” says Jimmy, sounding deeply discouraged. “That might have been ok, but then he said he saw something and crawled in, and…well. I couldn’t see what happened, but there was a lot of thrashing and screaming and what looked like bone hooks. It’s safe now, though!” he hastens to add. “It hasn’t ever come out of the pipe while I’ve been here. Err. I mean, I probably wouldn’t want to sleep here, though.”

“Fascinating,” you murmur. “What does it live on, I wonder? When it can’t get idiot?”

“Frogs, I think,” Jimmy says. “Big red ones. They’re all over.” He adds reluctantly, “Err…you’re not gonna try to fight it, are you?”

[gxr25256]

The Ruins of Earth - Seekers x reader

🌵 Tranformers (Post-Apocalyptic AU).

🌵 The Decepticons have conquered Earth, leaving humanity in ruins.

🌵I'll try this for a bit. Remember: I'm not very good at it 👀.

-------------------------------

The sky was a smudged gray, casting a cold, washed-out light over what remained of the city. Buildings stood like jagged tombstones, their edges crumbling, splintered, and silent. Some days, the wind would send a loose piece of metal skittering down the cracked roads or rattle the empty cars left to rust. Otherwise, everything was still.

Below the surface, in the belly of a half-fallen office building, you crouched among scattered papers, their edges yellowed, flaked, and cracked from dust. The basement was littered with remnants of a world you barely recognized anymore. You had been lucky enough to find this hideout after wandering the ruined streets, and here you had managed to carve out some semblance of a life.

The ceiling is cracked, tangled with exposed electrical wires, and the single window on the far wall had long since shattered. Every now and then, a patch of sunlight filtered through, glinting off dust motes that swirled lazily in the stale air. It reminded you of better times—a stark, painful reminder of a past life that felt both close and impossibly far away.

You settled down on the cold concrete, setting your pack beside you. Inside were your treasures: a faded family photograph, a pocket watch, and a collection of scraps—small things you’d managed to scavenge that had kept you going. Some days, you’d sift through these items, each one tugging you back to memories that hurt as much as they comforted.

You stared down at the photo, feeling a pang in your chest. It was taken on a summer evening just a few months before they had come, when you and your family had still gathered in the garden to laugh and share stories under the stars. You remembered the warmth of your father’s arm around you, the way your mother had laughed, and how the smallest things—a shared meal, a joke, a sunset—had seemed so ordinary back then. Now, those were the moments you clung to like lifelines.

But here, in the darkened shell of a building, they were ghosts that haunted you. The faces stared up at you from the photo, as if asking, How much longer?

You didn’t know how to answer. Each day felt like a small miracle that you were still alive. They had laid waste to everything, turning cities into rubble, hunting down humans with a relentless efficiency. Survival required caution, silence, and instinct. Your hideout, tucked in a labyrinthine part of the city, had been a haven so far. But each passing day felt like playing a game of Russian roulette, and you knew that eventually, luck would run out.

The floor creaked—a sound you’d grown used to, but still one that made your muscles tense instinctively. Any sound outside the room was dangerous. You rose, carefully checking the faint tripwire traps you’d set by the entrances, crude but effective. Your heart thudded faster at the thought of one snapping. If it did, it would mean they were close.

They. The Decepticons. Machines built for one purpose: total, merciless domination. You shuddered as your mind dredged up flashes of their patrols: enormous metal bodies moving with purpose through the streets, the deadly glow of their optics as they scanned the ruins for any sign of life. You’d watched from hiding as they tore through buildings, shredding walls like paper. They were ruthless in their search for survivors, sparing nothing and no one.

They didn’t just kill; they hunted. The knowledge of that, of being part of a vanishing species in the face of such a brutal enemy, wrapped around you like a cold, crushing weight.

The wind howled outside, sending a shiver through you. You’d learned to navigate the city’s ruinous maze, moving with the shadows, slipping through alleyways, always watching your back. But every day, the Decepticons seemed to draw closer, tightening the noose with their relentless patrols.

The last human you’d spoken to was a scavenger named Mira. She’d been tough, gritty, with a quiet intensity that had made you think she could survive anything. She’d warned you about the Decepticons’ latest tactics, their setting traps to lure out survivors, their growing patrols in this area of the city. But that had been weeks ago. You hadn’t seen her since. Her face lingered in your mind as yet another ghost.

The hum of an airplane engine broke the silence, sending a jolt of adrenaline through you. You froze, every sense heightened, listening intently. It was distant—likely a patrol passing through the streets above—but even so, the familiarity of it triggered an instinctive wave of fear. You’d heard that sound too many times. Each instance had ended with a building being leveled or a life snuffed out.

Your heart pounded as you crouched low, moving silently through the office wall to peek through the cracked window. Outside, the city lay in shattered silence, but a faint glimmer of metal caught your eye, just visible through the haze. A Decepticon, its massive form standing out from anything else around the ruins. It moved methodically, its gaze sweeping the rubble as if it could sniff out human life in the air itself.

You crawled away from the window, slipping back into the shadows of the room, praying that the dim light and debris would keep you hidden. Your heartbeat roared in your ears as you crouched, body tense, waiting. Minutes stretched on, stretching into an eternity as you listened for any hint that the Decepticon had moved on.

But the silence persisted, thick and oppressive. Part of you wanted to risk a glance, but your instincts screamed otherwise. That was the problem now; you’d lived in silence for so long that sometimes, even the slightest noise felt like a gunshot. Every step, every creak, every breath seemed like it could betray you.

As you tried to steady your breathing, your gaze drifted to a pile of old papers strewn across the floor. One caught your eye—a page from an old newspaper, yellowed and faded. The headline read, Hope for Tomorrow: Humanity’s Technological Golden Age. You almost laughed at the bitter irony. The hope they’d once touted had been torn away, replaced by cold metal giants who knew nothing of mercy or compassion.

A loud clang from outside startled you, pulling you back to the present with a fearful jolt. You remained still, barely daring to breathe. The footsteps outside were getting louder, a heavy, ominous rhythm. You recognized the sound: The unmistakable footsteps of the Decepticons, its weight causing the building to shudder faintly. They were close—too close.

The footsteps paused, and your heart seemed to stop with them. The faint hum of machinery echoed down, accompanied by the cold, mechanical sound of a voice you couldn’t quite make out. Your mind raced, considering your options. Running wasn’t possible; any movement risked drawing their attention. And yet, staying still felt like sitting in a cage, waiting for the predator to find you.

The Decepticon’s steps resumed, slower this time, each one punctuated by a metallic creak that reverberated through the building.

And the footsteps halted again, this time right on the other side of the wall you're leaning against, and you froze, body taut with fear. The building groaned under the heavy weight of machinery, dust drifting down in fine particles that tickled your face.The walls around you seemed to close in, your hiding place shrinking as the footsteps grew louder, closer. As if the Decepticon was zeroing in on your location, as if it were playing with your fears.

Then, with a metallic clang, you heard the Decepticon move again. Just when you thought the danger had passed, a deafening explosion ripped through the building, and the entire roof blew off with a force that sent you sprawling. A cry escaped your lips as you hit the ground, pain radiating through you.

Gasping, you struggled to your feet, but as you looked up, a chill gripped your heart. Through the swirling dust and debris, a pair of red optics glowed, locked directly onto you. Fear surged through your veins, and before you could even think, a scream tore from your throat.

Maybe your luck has run out.

----------------------------------

[rustandruin]

I need you to know i specifically blocked op of everyone of those 'god i miss the days when you could go up to a stranger's farm and be like, 'gee mister',' posts and now you have put them all on my dash at once.

I’m so sorry Anon! I hope this has since passed for you and that you’re being spammed with other things!

[croissantlover24]

I hear there’s also a ruins of rust au? Is there a fic for that one too and can I have the link please?

There is! It’s all on Tumblr, though:

[mental69er]

Post Kill Yandere Victoria Neuman

setting: you set the president elect off the rails and now you're in for it

content: yandere victoria, mentions of head popping, blood, jealous and possessive victoria, fem reader who is very into feral victoria, mutually assured destruction i guess, slight choking, quips about politics, morally gray reader

"Look what you made me do, baby," Victoria crooned darkly, shoving back the wet mass of her soaked hair to keep it out of her eyes. It remained slicked back, weighed down by the blood that stained it and dribbled down her face. Crimson soaked the front of her clothes, forever ruining the white shirt, and the baby blue suit that you loved so much.

But you did always find red to be a complimentary color on Victoria.

She turned to face you, breathing slightly heavy, white fading from her vision. There was a feral look in her eyes- the adrenaline of a satisfying kill.

The alleyway was dark and otherwise deserted, the contents of a man's head exploded across the brick walls, body slumped by the trash bags.

The noise from the bar seemed dull, the heavy metal door you had left through unable to be opened from this side. Victoria had seen to shoving a dumpster in the way so she couldn't be interupted from this.

You said nothing, heart pounding in your chest, little clouds fogging the air in front of you. You hadn't brought your jacket with you, and the wind cut through the skimpy gold top you wore, sending goosebumps rippling up your near naked thighs, only adorned with a mini skirt.

Victoria approached you, tsking. "Is this what you wanted?" she asked. The smell of rust rose off of her, the blood cooling down and drying on her skin. "Are you happy now?" she paused in front of you, that familar anger swirling under her skin. "Happy that you ran off to some skeazy joint, picked up a sleazebag to make out with, and made me kill him?"

You said nothing, knees almost knocking together.

Victoria's lips bared back in a snarl and she reached for your throat, applying just enough pressure to tighten it. To make it feel a bit harder to breathe. You knew she could snap your neck with ease.

She wouldn't.

"Answer me," she said, biting her words.

"You didn't have to hurt him," you managed to choke out and her grip tightened more. You lifted up on your tip toes to alleviate some of the pressure.

"His hands were all over you, and so was his disgusting mouth," she growled out.

"You were busy," you shot back.

"I was at work."

"You couldn't answer my texts?"

"It's very hectic right now with the campaign. One that you're making me risk if it gets out that I killed someone."

"You didn't have to do it," you repeated.

"You're mine," she said, pushing you back into the wall. The harsh brick scratched at your exposed skin. "I don't care how busy I am, I want you to remember that."

"All talk and no action, typical politician type," you sneered at her, refusing to show her how nervous you were.

Her face hardened in anger before she attacked your mouth. The kiss was rough, with a clank of teeth that sent a jolt of pain through you. Your cry of pain was muffled, the taste of blood heavy on your tongue.

Victoria did not let up the kiss, devouring your mouth, sucking your tongue into hers, nipping at your bottom lip til it turned red. You tried to catch your breath when she pulled away, glaring at you.

"When will you learn, you can't keep goading me like this," she hissed at you, though it didn't look like she had quite minded.

"You smiled as he died," you shot back at her. "I know it was good stress relief." Your hands laid over the one on your throat holding you down. "I can be good stress relief too, Vicky."

She pushed right into you for another bruising kiss, this time her hand going too tight on your throat. Air supply was starting to be cut off, white sparking in front of your eyes.

As it was about to become too much she let go, allowing you to suck in lungfuls of air. She took the time to unbutton your shorts, and to slip a hand up your shirt.

Her hand thumbed at your breast, flicking your pert nipple. You let out a groan at the sensation, that only doubled when her other hand dove under your underwear to find the spot between your thighs that dripped for her.

"This wet for me? In an alleyway with a dead body in it?" she poised and you let your arms wrap around her neck, drawing her closer.

"As if you're not soaking wet from what you did," you countered. "At least I only get this wet from you." You faked pouted. "You let yourself get wet from him."

She roughly pushed into your entrance at that, stretching you out with three fingers.

"I only care for you," she said, tone offended. "You're the only one I would burn this world down for. You have no idea how often you run through my head. I can't stop thinking about you, even when I should be thinking of work. Yet there you are, infecting my thoughts everyday." The hand under your shirt pinched your nipple roughly, puncutating her point.

You gasped out at her words and the press of her fingers deep inside you. She moved hard and fast, leaving your head spinning as your chest heaved for air.

"The things I think of doing to you," she chuckled darkly, "no woman should think of."

"Oh fuck," you moaned, body flushing with intense heat as more wetness slipped down your thighs, at the idea of what depraved thoughts were running in her head about you.

Your hips canted up into her palm, sinking in deep on her fingers.

"You drive me crazy, you drive me to kill," she confessed, voice growing breathier as she watched you unfold under her. She swallowed thickly. "Sometimes it feels like I'm the headless one."

"Vicky, fuck!" you exclaimed, not bothering to be quiet. There was no one around to hear you. Your nails sunk into her skin, wanting to mark and brand her.

Her tough demeanor from before was melting as she watched you on the verge of an orgasm, fucking yourself so well against her, slinging up one leg to hoist over her hip.

"Like that, baby, just like that," she purred, knocking her forehead into yours, the blood sticking to your skin. Your eyes fluttered shut and then you came, stilling your body as you filled Victoria's palm with sticky heat.

She pressed kisses up and down the side of your face, quietly praising you for doing such a good job.

You slumped into her, wincing lightly at the sting of your skin. You were probably rubbed raw. A reminder for next time, to be better prepared for a fucking in the alleyway. She pulled her fingers out of you and sucked the liquid off of them, moaning at their taste.

The feral energy was still in her eyes, but it had softened into something else with your release. You knew it was time to leave this place, and take her back to bed where you could help her work out all her frustrations by letting her fuck you until morning came.

"You're a little shit, you know that," she said, catching her breath. "Don't think I don't know what you're up to."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," you shrugged innocently, batting your long lashes at her.

"You love riling me up. Do you have a thing for me popping heads?" she asked and you giggled lightly before tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear.

"Let's just say I did my research beforehand and this guy really deserved his head getting popped off. The courts wouldn't punish him for what he did, but you could. And if I could get a two for one with you killing him and fucking me, well," you shrugged again. "Worth it."

"You're worse than a career politician." Victoria buried a smile and chuckle into your shoulder.

[superblysubpar]

eddie munson x you

921 words

warnings: minor pain medication, blood and injury descriptions | this is a part of a larger story that hasn't been released yet, so you might not get a lot that's going on, Eddie calls you Lucky because of Lucky Strike cigarettes | a little angst, okay a lot. We're a big asshole to Eddie in this - I told you freak wasn't always gonna be slutty, guys (don't hate me)

a blurb for the "Trick or Treat, Freak?" event - don't forget to vote for tomorrow's fic at the bottom of this blurb

Your hand shakes as you lift it to his eye, warm cloth stained with stark red and rust from earlier, the bleeding still hasn’t stopped.

His fingers circle your wrist, a thumb swipes over your racing pulse as he stops you from touching his skin with the rag again.

“Wanna tell me what the fuck happened back there?”

Eddie’s question isn’t asked cruelly, his tone isn’t hard or angry and god you wish it were. You wish it was jagged and sharp and could cut you like you know you deserve.

Instead, it’s a little broken, a little soft, like he already knows the answer, he just wants to hear you say it out loud.

Your shoulders lift up, bare, aside from the flimsy straps of your silk camisole, all that you had underneath the pink sweater that was now cushioning your knees and ruined, covered in sticky coca-cola and your best friend’s blood. It was the only thing you could think to do, to stop the bleeding from his swollen nose as you drove his van back to his trailer. Your hands gripped his steering wheel as Eddie blinked rapidly, and your voice strained to sound normal, to keep him talking, so he’d stay awake.

Maybe it would have been better if he’d have passed out.

Fingers catch under your jaw, blues and purples blunt and calling your attention against his pale fingers as they tilt your chin, so you have to look at him.

Look at the big, brown, blinking eyes that shine with something you tell yourself aren’t tears.

“Lucky,” Eddie’s voice cracks, “Tell me you’re not dating that fucking guy. Tell me.”

You don’t have to tell him, because you know he knows. Knows from the way your nose scrunches to fight off tears and your chin wobbles beneath his thumb and your hands reach for his jaw and he fucking knows, because it’s Eddie and he knows you.

His face pales, somehow, even more white, the fresh and drying blood surrounding his eye, his nose, his lip stark against the skin that looks like he’s just seen a ghost. It’s like all the color except the injuries that are your fault drains from his eyes and face, so you have no choice but to acknowledge the direct result of your actions.

“I-I told you I wanted to have the movie night here, Eddie,” you try to argue, to make it so it’s not your fault, but your voice shakes and it comes out a little angry.

Eddie recoils at your excuse, almost falling into the green tub behind him, resting on the lip of it as you knelt in between his knees. He shakes his head and presses his palms to his eyes, wincing at the pain of his wounds, but not caring it seems, since he leaves them there while he talks.

“God,” he laughs, bitterly, biting words you’d just wished for slapping across your skin, “I knew it. I fucking knew it.”

His hands drop, and his eyes aren’t glass anymore, they’re hard, sharp.

Cold.

“What’s your cover, huh? Tutoring me? The freak is so dumb, and he gives you free weed for helping him pass trig?”

He waits for you to argue with it, to correct him, to apologize, all of which you want to do, but instead you get just as angry. Your hands shove at his knees as you stand and you start slamming first aid kit supplies back into the case with shaking hands and a rising volume.

Your head moves back and forth, a sharp and universal ‘no’, avoiding his gaze, “Not all of us can take the road less traveled and deal with the doubt and assumptions and cruelty with raised heads and fake shields or whatever bullshit you wanna try and spew at those, let’s face it, losers, who follow you around, okay? Some of us have to keep up appearances, and we’re just trying to get out of high school with a good reputation so we can get out-“

“Losers?!” Eddie’s standing now, his volume covering up yours as the room gets smaller, his broad shoulders taking up the narrow space. He throws his hands out at you and then to the dingy mirror, the bottle of aspirin you’d opened for him falls to the ground, pills scattered across the tile as he shouts, “Sweetheart, you’re not just keeping up appearances, fuck, you’re in it and you have no desire to get out. You can lie to yourself but you can’t lie to me!”

“Shut up!” The yell is pathetic, it’s not even a yell, it’s this sob, this beg for him to leave it be. A plea to go back in time before you left his trailer and begged him not to go to The Hawk, to turn around and just watch VHS tapes all night with you at home. Your whole body is practically vibrating now, angry, scared.

Eddie’s shoulders fall as he watches you look anywhere but him, watches your face scrunch in pain so you don’t cry in front of him. His voice lowers, defeated, sad that he’s not shocked when he doesn’t ask, but says, “You’re not gonna even break up with him, are you.”

Your body flinches as a sob breaks free from your chest and your hand covers your mouth, eyes filling with tears and spilling down your cheeks as you run out of his bathroom.

For the first time, but not the last, Eddie Munson doesn’t follow you.

depending on which one wins, it'll be more dad/husband steve or dad/husband eddie focused, but their AU's run together/both will be mentioned 🥰

*voting will close at 10am CST tomorrow, 10/5

[httpscomexe]

Forbidden Secret Desire 2

Summary: He tries so hard to take you out of your comfort space, and you try so hard to co-operate. Only forgetting a majority of the day as the time ticks by. But when you finally get to bed, you immediately relax. Now the only thing that annoys you is this weird sound.

(Find What I’m currently writing by checking my pinned post)

Parings: Logan Howlett x Reader

Warnings: (Individual warnings per chapter) Manipulation, anxiety, social dissociation, hidden cameras, a lot of awkwardness. THIS is going to be a dark one. If you are not into non-con fics, then I suggest you don’t get too attached. There will be VERY detailed descriptions in the near future.

Word Count: 3285 (Find all chapters here) Chapter 3

Tags: @remmyj10 @sammyluvsfics

P.S. If you’d like to be tagged, ask in the comments, you also have permission to send an ask, but make sure it is NOT anonymous, so I know your username, don’t worry, I’m scared of confrontation too. But this is a SAFE SPACE where I will not judge. Thank you again.

“Guys, meet Y/N.”

You hated it already. I was forcing you to meet people, and everyone he introduced you to gave you the side eye. Some didn’t even say hi. Except Kurt.

“Oh, hey Y/N.” Kurt was the first one to step away from the small group of kids, then he outstretched his arms to hug you, causing you to have to uncross your arms and embrace it. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Yea, I’ve been busy.” You tell him quietly, not wanting anyone else to hear you.

“Well these are my other friends.” He nods towards the small group of people. “Storm, Jane, Havok, and Cyclops.” They awkwardly wave towards you, but the one named “Havok” smirks down at you. Charming. You roll your eyes a little.

“You don’t have to call me Havok, Alex works too.” He tells you, reaching his hand out and letting you shake it.

“We’re going to the mall later, would you like to come with us?” Kurt asks you, but instead of answering, you turn your head to look towards Logan.

“Her and I have plans, maybe another day. I was gonna show her around, she hasn’t really gotten to go anywhere so I figured I’d take her out.” He reaches his hand up, and gently places his palm on your shoulder.

“Oh okay, maybe another time then.” Kurt sounded disappointed, but you paid no mind to it. You could finally go out in public without being stared at or hated.

“Well, it’s nice seeing you youngins, but she and I are gonna get going.” Logan looks back down at you and you smile softly, still feeling awkward.

After saying some goodbyes and exchanging a few more words, the two of you finally turned around to leave and then you weren’t so sure you’d be able to socially enjoy yourself outside the mansion anyways. But Logan seemed excited, and you didn’t want to ruin that.

Now he was standing outside of your room, waiting for you to get ready for the day. You weren’t exactly sure what style was popular, you had been stuck in the mansion for over two years now after all, so you just threw on whatever you felt would be acceptable for going to the mall.

Just a simple grey sweater and your favourite black short skirt, then you threw your hair up into a messy bun before shoving your phone in your pocket. You don’t have a pocket though. You bite your lip with some frustration as you realise your skirt didn’t have a pocket. “Damnit.” You mumble. You didn’t have a purse either since you never expected to leave the mansion anytime soon. You can do without your phone for the day. You tell yourself, opening a drawer and stuffing your phone inside before closing it and checking yourself in the mirror.

“All ready?” You nod, then begin walking down the hall with him to the entrance of the mansion. “We're just gonna go out shopping a little then we’ll get some snacks and come back, shouldn’t take too long.” He tells you.

“Uh, okay.” You twiddle your thumbs in front of you nervously. “Sounds good.” You chuckle awkwardly, then follow him to one of the cars in the parking lot.

It was a rusted old ford pickup truck. You honestly hadn’t expected anything more from him, you definitely didn’t expect some Honda Civic or more clean and collected car. HillBilly it is.

He uses his key to open the driver's door and as you pull on the handle to the passenger side it doesn’t open and your cheeks heat up in embarrassment. Then he reaches for the door from the driver's side and unlocks it for you before you step in and sit down. The seat was hot from the truck sitting in the sun all day. “What kind of music do you like?” He asks you, turning on the engine. “Or do you prefer the quiet?”

This literally couldn’t feel any more awkward for you as you felt your chest tighten up, like you were already doing something wrong. “Nothing really in specific.” You tell him, and he turns a radio dial on the dash until some country music starts playing. Fuck this is so awkward.

The ride was awkward. There were maybe a total of ten words spoken. There was so much traffic. And one of the roads was closed, adding about an extra twenty minutes of awkward silence. It literally could not get any worse. You tell yourself as he finally pulls into the parking lot at the mall, somehow managing to find a spot near the front, surprising you considering how damned busy it was just on the sidewalks.

You both stepped out of his truck, and you immediately went to his side, staying by him like a child who’s reliant on their dad to keep them safe. You see him smile out of the corner of your eye before he hangs his arm around the back of your neck, leading you to the front of the mall. You figured it couldn’t be THAT bad, right? Oh my fucking God why are there so many people holy shit bring me home. Was the very first thought that ran rampant in your mind. The moment the automatic doors opened they welcomed you into a living and breathing hot and sweaty circus of hell.

There were people who didn’t bother you so much, they were just walking with a few bags in their hands and minding their own business. Then there were families which honestly only raised the body heat in the building as they ran around trying to catch up to their sons and daughters. But the most annoying of all were the little stands in the middle of the mall and next to the escalators that were blasting music as they sold little simple things like fidget spinners or Mario plushies that looked like they had been through war.

It was only when someone got in your face with a coupon that you finally broke and stopped, then stared up at Logan. “I don’t like it, I wanna-”

“It’s a lot busier than usual.” He tells you, shoving his hands in his pockets. He knew you wanted to leave, and that it was a lot. But he was determined to walk you through the mall. “So what store should we go into first? Maybe we can get you something? Do you like jewellery? Or a purse maybe?” He throws some ideas at you, attempting to distract you from your inner turmoil.

And of course, it works.

“Uh yea, sure. I mean, I don’t really know any stores, I honestly wouldn't know where to go.”

“Okay, well let's start with something simple, there's a clothing store just down there.” He tells you, nodding his head past you, in the previous direction you were walking in.

“Okay…” You whisper, then step back to his side as you two continue your walk down to the store he was talking about. You hated it, but he was trying so hard to make you feel included.

“Excuse me ma’am, would you like a free sample?” A man asked you, holding a large silver pizza plate in front of you just as you had begun your walk. “It’s sweet, and everyone does say you are what you eat!” He says excitedly and you can’t help but think he sounds like a clown from a movie.

“Uh, no-”

“What is it?” Logan steps forward, letting go of your hand which you hadn’t even realised he was holding, to grab two of the little cups, handing you one.

“They’re cinnamon rolls. Just like the normal ones, but they’re mini.” He tells you both. Watching as Logan takes a bite out of his, and you hesitate at first but then take a small bite out of yours.

“Good?” Logan asks you, and he stares as you use your tongue to lick some of the icing off of your lip. He seemed hypnotised before you nodded your head to answer his question.

“If you’d like to buy the bigger version, you can get two for $7 if you go to Jackie's Pastries on the second floor.” The other man tells you, then swiftly walks away to a family, offering each of them a sample and he laughs as a younger child takes three.

“Wanna get some? They’re good?” He grabs your hand gently again, but you notice this time, of course, you don’t say anything about it.

“Sure, they taste good.”

“Good, I’ll lead the way.” He tells you before taking small steps to match your speed and he makes his way to an escalator. God did you hate escalators and elevators.

“Are there no normal stairs?” You ask him nervously.

“No, they’re becoming more modern as we speak.” He tells you before stepping onto the next stair that comes out of the track, and you make an anxious and quick step forward with him, putting you both on the same stair, causing you to sort of mush against his side as his hand gently squeezes yours a little tighter. You clench your jaw in embarrassment, you’ve never felt more exposed and awkward in your life.

“So what would you like?” He asks you, as you both wait in line, by the time you were behind the last five people, you had unconsciously held his right hand with both of your hands, but you still hadn’t even noticed it. “Just the cinnamon rolls, or something else?”

“Uh…” You take a deep breath in, and look up at the sign above the workers as one of the people ahead of you order icecream and waffle cones, drizzled with chocolate syrup. “Yea, I think?”

“You think?” He chuckles a little, looking down at his hand wrapped in both of yours as you unconsciously pick at his skin. Another thing you would feel ashamed of if you noticed. “How about we get you a cinnamon joy bowl.” He tells you. “It’s got cookie dough ice cream, a cinnamon bun on top, and 3 french toast sticks on the side all drizzled with vanilla icing.” He tells you. Sounds like a heart attack waiting to happen. 

“Sure.” End me faster you delicious snack. You both step forward as you’re next in line.

“Anything to drink?” You shrug. “How about just some water.” You nod, and he sighs a little, then the people ahead of you finish ordering as well, leaving you both in line now. “Hey, can we get a cinnamon bowl with two scoops of icecream and then water? Thank you.” He tells the cashier up front, then he pays and you both step away, letting the person behind you order next as you both stand waiting for his name to be called, and you continue to unconsciously pick at his hand with your thumb.

“So after this, we can stop by a toy store I think you’ll love?”

“Uh, okay.”

“Are you still nervous?”

“What? What makes you think I’m nervous?” You chuckle, and he looks down at your hands. “Oh, oh I’m so sorry…” You apologise quickly as you move your hands and see the little red spot you’ve created on the back of his hand. “I didn’t even realise I was-”

“It’s okay, bub.” He laughs lightly, then swings his arm around you again and pulls you in close to his side. “I’ve had much worse.” He jokes, making you laugh a little. Why would you laugh at that? He’s literally been shot!

“Logan?” A voice says, bringing your attention to the worker behind the counter holding the bowl of sweets, and Logan drops his arm to hold your hand again and pulls you with him to retrieve it.

“Thank you ma’am.” Then he takes you away from the counter, constantly leading you around, knowing you’d stand like a sitting duck if he wasn’t by your side this entire time.

“Try it. Any good?” He asks you, walking over to a metal table with two seats, dragging a chair back for you to sit in.

“Thank you. Yes, it’s good.” You tell him, sitting down and placing the little bowl on the table in the middle, handing him the second spoon and watching him as he takes the plastic off of his spoon.

You both relaxed for about thirty minutes, just shoving your mouth with sweets. You don’t even notice how he takes small bites, letting you take the bigger bites to make sure you eat at least some of it. And you eat a lot of it, not even noticing how he lets you have the majority. He knew it would for sure brighten your mood to have some food and sweets in your body.

As soon as you were both done,he stood up and threw the empty bowl in the trash. Ugh… This is so awkward. You keep telling yourself it’ll get better, but of course, it doesn’t.

The entire trip to the mall, from getting into his truck to leaving the mall in the late afternoon was nothing but awkward for you. Your anxiety got the best of you, and you felt like you couldn’t breathe at times. The only time you actually were excited was when he took you to a little shop called “Build a Bear.”

It was stressful. To the point where you wouldn’t be able to recollect the memories even if you wanted to. As you both returned to the truck, you finally started coming back to your head. With your arms crossed you watched as he put a few bags worth of items on the back seats. There had been a few conversations on the way back, which you had brainlessly answered, not a single actual thought had been on your mind, you were just so emotionally exhausted and your brain only registered a few moments. But the last conversation to end the trip was the most conversation you think you’d had.

“You like that bear huh?” He chuckles a little as he puts the truck in park and looks down at your lap, the little brown build a bear wearing a tutu sitting on your legs.

“Yea…” You say quietly, then look up at him.

“You okay, bub?” He asks, reaching over and resting his hand on the seat behind your head.

“Yea, why?”

“You seem… I don’t know…”

“Sorry… I’m just really tired… We were out for a while.” You say nervously, leaning back in your seat and playing with the little bear by moving his hands a little.

“It’s alright.” He smiles softly, then gently pushes some of your hair behind your ear that had fallen in your face from looking down. “Lets get inside, it’s getting dark out.” He grunts a little as he gets out of the truck and you get out a moment after.

He walks you to your room and sets the bags down for you. “Thank you.” You mumble.

“Of course.” He looks back down at you, still holding the bear in your hands as you stared mindlessly at the floor where the bags were. “Well, I hope you sleep well tonight. Sorry if I put too much on you.”

“Oh, no. You didn’t put too much on me, I had fun. Plus I needed to get out.” You laugh a little and he smiles, something you realised he does only when you’re smiling or laughing.

“Good, good. Well, I’ll see you tomorrow, in class. I’m substituting for Xavier so you’ll have two classes with me.” He sighs a little.

“Oh, okay. Then yea, see you tomorrow.”

“Goodnight, bub.” He hugs you from the side, and you only lean into the hug, then he starts walking to your door to leave your room, but stops with his hand on the doorknob. “Oh, one more thing, can I ask you something?” He turns around, his hand falling from the knob.

“Uh yea, of course what’s up?”

“Do you have any zip ties?” He tilts his head a little in question. “I know that’s a weird question, I was just curious.” He adds.

“Uh yea, they’re in my closet somewhere, hold on.” You tell him, placing you bear on your bed for a moment to walk into your closet.

You checked some shelves and drawers, not finding anything. But you knew you had some in your closet. Where did I put you..? You ask yourself, then your hand comes across a bag of long green zip ties, you remember you had used them for some projects since they were easier to notice than plain white or black ties.

“Does it matter what… colour they are?” You ask him, stepping out of your closet and closing the closet door slowly as you see him holding your bear. “I uh, have these green ones but that’s it.” You tell him, and he sets your bear up on your desk, facing the room.

“Nah, colour doesn't matter. I should only need like six though.” He says, noticing you were holding a bag of about thirty ties.

“Oh okay here.” You count as you take them out of the bag, only six, and then hand them to him. “What do you need them for?” You laugh a little, what could he possibly need zip ties for?

“Oh well I have my own home away from the mansion, I just needed something to be tied up.” He tells you nonchalantly. “Anyways, thank you darlin’, I appreciate it. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.” You smiled softly up at him, his eyes looked almost black as he stared down at you.

“See you tomorrow.”

Then he leaves, closing the door behind him which you promptly lock so nothing else can bother you for the rest of the day, while you were going to be sleeping. Taking one look at the bags of items he purchased for you, you quickly decided you would deal with it tomorrow.

You reached behind you and took the back of your shirt in your hands before pulling it over your head, then removed your little skirt and discarded both clothes items in your little basket of dirty laundry. Then you reach behind you to unclasp your bra, which you threw on top of your sweater and skirt before walking over to your desk, reaching for one of the washed tank tops in your clean laundry pile just sitting on your chair, but a quiet clicking sound catches your attention. You look up, and see nothing, so you assume your neighbours are doing something, then you begin to put your top on, reaching up to get it on, and you hear another click. What is that stupid sound? You wonder, looking over at your desk. Then you realise it’s probably your phone, which you just remember you had shoved into your desk before leaving this morning. So you stop freaking out, and take the phone out, immediately going to silence it, but it was already silenced. You assume it was just a glitch, then turn all of your lights out and finally crawl under the covers of your bed.

“What a long day.” A long sigh comes from your lips as you lie your head back on the pillow, then you remember your bear was still sitting on your desk. You immediately push past the thought of getting up to bring it to bed with you, you were too damned tired, so you just block out everything, your room completely silent as you stare at the ceiling. A faint whirring sound coming from across the room, and your bear staring at you while you sleep…

[seat-safety-switch]

What's your least favourite part of a car? I bet you answered "brakes." Our high-friction foes cost money, rust up whenever your back is turned, ruin friendships in order to bleed, and don't do anything other than slow you down. And, unfortunately, you can't really skip it. At some point, no matter how carefully you drive, you'll have to stop driving in a way that doesn't involve aiming for the nearest snow drift and hoping for the best.

Dealing with brakes has been a bête noire of my entire life. That's French for "pain in the ass." To avoid the hassle of having to free up broken components, grease slide pins, and spend an afternoon spilling hydraulic fluid all over my pants, I'll often drive for long periods of time trying not to use the brakes at all. They'll last way longer this way, you see. This challenge is made somewhat easier by the fact that none of my cars make enough power to quickly reach a dangerous speed.

Even so, I'm not dumb enough to be paying big money to Big Stop when I do finally have to refresh some of my precious friction material. You'll find me at the junkyard, scrabbling half-consumed pads out of crashed cars that look like they might fit mine. This is because I still need good brakes to deal with all of your bullshit. Yeah. It's not my fault people keep popping out in front of me in traffic, especially when trying to pass on the wrong side of the road on blind mountain corners. I've had to learn to be what the drivers-education mafia calls "a defensive driver," pre-emptively anticipating trouble and making sure never to touch that middle pedal when it does eventually rear its head.

When I see people in the left lane dragging their brakes, or flashing their tail lights at me in the middle of a corner, I just frown. Not only are they inconveniencing me by using up my precious fuel-saving momentum, but they're forcing me to take money out of my pocket to pay for brake pads later. I'm practically being robbed, I once complained to a police officer. He responded by using his brakes no less than five times leaving my community after responding to "a more important call." Don't be like him. Stop using your brakes so often, and we can free humanity of the misery of fixing brakes forever.