#zig zag black and white

[franckpellegrino]

Indianapolis Contemporary Powder Room Example of a small trendy powder room with ceramic tile, porcelain tile, gray flooring, shaker cabinets, a one-piece toilet, white walls, an undermount sink, quartz countertops, and floating vanity in black and white.

[hood-ex]

That's a great cosplay for Dick, his face feels very like him https://vm.tiktok.com/ZGdLf9MTR/

I'm sorry all I could focus on was the fact that he was wearing the Zayn headband.

[timharrold]

Grace the Benign Dictator (30.6-7.4.24)

REPOST! Made slight changes to stanza 4 with slight nod to Robert Frost.

[freedomfireflies]

Overdrive*

Summary: The one where it's 1969 and Harry likes to drive really, really fast.

Word Count: 5.5k

Content Warning: 18+, smut, multiple orgasms, breeding kink, exhibitionism, very brief daddy kink

Five.

The sound of revving engines echoes between the tall, city buildings. Loud enough to startle a nearby flock of birds on a telephone wire as they take off into the dark night to escape the lurid noise. 

Four.

The smell of burning rubber is everywhere. Tires screech against the pavement as the smoke dissipates into the warm summer air and the drivers prepare for that familiar white flag.

Three.

There’s a murmur amongst the crowd. The bets have been placed and the anticipation has set in. They pick their favorite driver, and they hope that somehow, they’ll be able to beat the unbeatable. 

Him.

Two.

You can see your little speed demon just up ahead as he waits patiently in front of the makeshift starting line. He seems relaxed. Confident. One hand is settled on the steering while the other is flipping the bird to the driver beside him. 

One.

The flag waves and the drivers take off. A streak of color flashes across the street as each of the five cars attempt to take their place ahead of the rest. But nobody can seem to get an edge on the black Lamborghini Miura already skidding around the first curve, effortlessly leaving them all behind.

You grin. It’s harder to see the cars now that they’re on the other side of the buildings, but you can hear them. You can hear his engine, specifically. You’d know the sound anywhere. After all, he spent weeks introducing you to the ins and outs of his favorite toy. Showing you exactly how to care for it, with those rough, practiced hands that also happen to care for you, too. 

You catch a glimpse of his vehicle just before it disappears past the drugstore. He shifts gears and accelerates, just before the blue Stingray to his right can gain on him. You hold your breath as both cars drift around the corner onto the next road and the crowd begins to cheer. 

Harry hasn’t lost a race in weeks. You don’t imagine he could lose if he tried. In fact, he could be blindfolded with no brake pedal and a faulty transmission and somehow, he’d still be miles ahead of the competition. 

It’s one of the things you love most about him. The way his eyes light up when he gets behind the wheel. The way the engine purrs in his hands and the way he can bend the road to his will. 

The Stingray veers to the right in order to get ahead of him, but Harry seems to anticipate this attempt. He cuts the other driver off just before he can speed up and your heart jumps into your throat. The only thing you don’t like about his racing is how careless he can be at times.

If you’re in the car, he takes the utmost care to make sure you’re safe. That you’re never put in harm’s way.

But when he’s alone, he’s in a whole other world of his making. He doesn’t consider the consequences or the repercussions. He doesn’t consider you. The way you’d feel if you lost him. 

And you trust his instincts, you do. But you can’t always say you enjoy the show. 

The Stingray slams on his brakes as Harry takes off and slides around the second to last corner. Tire marks are painted across the cement in his wake and the crowd cheers. 

Your stomach twists. He seems to be doing all right, although one of his fatal flaws is that it’s nearly imposable to tell how he’s feeling. He’s eerily stoic when he’s under pressure and perhaps that’s a good thing. 

But that doesn’t exactly help you now as he zigs and zags across the road before finally reaching the last turn that leads into the final stretch.

This is it. You hold your breath as you watch from the edge of the sidewalk, hands twisting in front of your chest as he races across the last few hundred feet. It’ll be close—the Stingray is gaining on him with each passing second—but Harry’s undeterred. He switches into a lower gear and the engine comes alive. Giving the car torque for those last few inches as he flies across the finish line. And the race is over.

The rest of the cars follow shortly after and the growing crowd of onlookers all swarm the street. They cheer and they holler, and they flock to the handsome driver now stepping out of his vehicle, desperate to congratulate him. But those soft green eyes only search for you. 

When he finally finds you squished between the horde of admirers, he grins, and begins to push his way through to you.

The moment you meet, he picks you up, hugs you to his chest, and spins you around. And you squeal giddily, happy to be back in his embrace as you wrap your arms around his neck and hold on for dear life.

“My little lucky clover,” he whispers proudly. “What did I tell you, hm?”

The nickname makes your insides grow warm. He’s called you his lucky clover ever since that first race when the two of you met. He claimed he only won because he saw you standing there watching and was desperate to impress you. And that every race he’s won since has been because of you and your charming presence. 

You aren’t so sure you believe him, but you have to admit it sounds pretty on his tongue.

You laugh as he puts you back down. “I know, I know,” you finally concede. “You were right.”

“Mhm.” He smirks—cocky—before he’s surging forward to kiss you. Soft and slow and with a desire that almost feels scandalous for such a public place. “I always am.”

His tongue brushes against yours while his hand splays across your lower back to tug your body to his and the crowd cheers as you giggle. But you don’t fight the way he loves you. Instead, you cling to his shirt and allow him to take what he wants.

When he finally allows you a moment to breathe, you gaze at him curiously. “How fast were you going?”

“120 on the main stretch. 80 on the curves,” he says, then chuckles at the way you frown. “M’fine, Clover. I promise.”

“You agreed nothing over 100,” you remind him.

“Yeah, but I needed to win.”

“No, you don’t need to win. You need to stay alive.”

“Well, why can’t I do both?”

Unamused, you huff, and lightly slap at his stomach. “Not funny, H.”

However, he merely laughs aagain and pulls you back between his arms. “Come on, sweetheart,” he says softly. “You know I’d never die on you. I’d miss you too much.”

“Let’s hope so.” You push up onto your toes to bring your lips to his once more. “Cause if you die on me…I’ll kill you.”

His smile is smug as he kisses you hard before he leads you back to his car. The large mass follows, anxious to ask him questions or offer their praise. And he listens to dutifully, perching himself on his hood while pulling you between his legs. 

It’s the same after every race. The other drivers try to tease him while his growing group of fans are desperate to be noticed by him. He might not be inherently famous, but he is to this crowd. They love a lot of things about him. His skill, his confidence, his looks. 

And you can’t exactly blame them.

It’s impossible to tell if you want to be him or be with him. You imagine for most people, it’s both. He has a sort of relaxed assurance that seems to make everyone else around him comfortable. And there’s a mystery about him. An intrigue to know more about the man behind the wheel. About who he is outside of these races. What he’s really like. 

He slings an arm around your shoulder and pulls you back into his chest. He talks to the driver of the Stingray and they exchange comments about the almost collision that makes your stomach turn. But when he notices, he presses a quick kiss to your temple and changes the subject. 

However, the rowdy celebration is cut rather short by the sound of sirens as two police cars come slinging around the side of a building with their lights flashing and their microphones on.

Everybody scatters, a collection of wild cheers and hollering voices as the officers step out of their vehicles in order to round up the crowd and instruct everyone to return home.

But Harry is unfazed as he pats your hip and nods his chin up. He’s rather good at his getaway now. After all, you imagine he’d have to be with all the times the police have broken up these races. 

And he’s only been caught once.

You slip inside just as he starts the engine. The radio comes alive, the sound of Jimi Hendrix enough to rival the roar of the motor as places one hand on the back of your seat in order to look behind him before he speeds away from the scene, hangs a sharp left, and takes off down the adjoining road. 

The sound of sirens follow. There’s a cop car on the next street over, attempting to chase after him as Harry weaves in and out between the scarce traffic. He’s good—incredibly good—but they haven’t given up yet. 

They cross over and skid behind him. They’re getting closer and the red and blue lights are bright in the rearview mirror. Still, Harry is calm. Simply shifting gears with ease as the car accelerates and offers a bit more distance before he takes a last-minute right in order to shake them.

The force of the turn slings you against the side of the door and you huff as Harry shoots you a cheeky grin.

“Sorry, baby,” he calls over the music. “You all right?”

With a grimace, you nod and say, “Mhm. Just great.”

He winks before he’s blowing through one red light and then another. Somehow missing the few cars currently crossing the street while the police are forced to slam on their brakes as somebody passes. And once they lose sight of him, he veers into an old, abandoned alley to hide.

Seconds pass before they finally fly by. Oblivious to his plan as they head further into town while Harry takes another right and disappears from the city.

He cheers victoriously and rolls down the windows and you laugh as you gaze at him. Entranced by the way he nods his head to the music as a gentle, summer breeze blows through his curls. 

Freedom tastes better with him. Life is better with him. His hand on your thigh, squeezing, while he sings along to Jimi Hendrix and grins at the open stretch of road ahead of him.

You wouldn’t want to be anywhere else and he seems to bask in your admiration before he finally looks over.

“What do you say, Clover?” he says with a wicked gleam in his eye. “Wanna see what a hundred feels like?”

A bit hesitant, yet wildly curious, you nod. 

He reaches for your hand in order to help you across the car, and you crawl over the console until you can settle onto his lap. Once you’re snug over his thighs, his arms slip beside your middle to keep you safe while he holds onto the steering wheel, and you scoot back into his chest for support. 

And it feels good. Comfortable. Even though the car is going faster and faster with each passing second, you feel protected. You know he’d never let anything happen to you. And there’s hardly any danger out here, along the old, backroads away from the city and traffic.  

The needle on the dash rises higher and higher. 70…80…90. Harry’s grinning against your cheek as the wind dances across your skin. The moon is bright in the sky, illuminating the road even without headlights and it’s exhilarating. Limitless.

“How’s that, hm?” he whispers. He kisses your jaw before dropping his foot against the gas. “You sure you’re ready, sweetheart?”

You nod quickly and brace yourself in his hold. “Mhm.”

The car reaches 100 and it feels like flying. You laugh, giddy, and he grins. The straight stretch of empty street might as well be a runway and the faster you go, the lighter you feel. As though the tires will simply lift off the ground and carry you into the sky. 

He shifts gears and the car jolts forward as the needle jumps to 110. You gasp and squirm excitedly over his lap before he suddenly groans. The sound is low and strained and you recognize the lustful cadence almost immediately.

Amused, you bite the inside of your cheek. “You okay, H?”

He takes one hand from the wheel and places it on your thigh. Squeezing it once. Pointedly. “Don’t stop.”

You don’t. You squirm again, settling into the feel of the hardening bulge beneath your ass and he makes another noise that goes straight to your cunt.

Your lashes flutter. The world blurs and your heart races. Perhaps you shouldn’t be doing this while you’re going so fast but Harry is calm. He trusts himself and you trust him.

The needle rises.

“Harry,” you whisper and his knuckles go white against the steering wheel. “Harry, please—”

“What?” His mouth rests against your cheek and you whine. “What, Clover? What do you need?”

He wants to make you say it. Wants to hear the words on your tongue and you swallow thickly as you intertwine your fingers with his. “H…”

“What, baby girl?” He nips at your skin with his teeth. “M’I making you nervous?”

You nod and he chuckles. A dark, sadistic sound.

“Do you want me to stop?”

There’s a quiet moment of hesitation before you eventually shake your head. Of course you don’t. How could you?

“No?” He squeezes your leg, touch slowly slipping beneath the fabric of your skirt. “Good girl.”

The car begins to go faster. 115…118…120. The same speed he reached during the race and even if you knew it was fast, this feels infinitely faster.  

You gasp and clutch his hand. Terrified and enthralled all in the same moment. And even if you shouldn’t be, you feel insanely aroused. Legs squeezing together as he subtly bucks up into you.

The music is loud and the wind is loud and the sound of your heart pulsing in your ears is loud. 

And then…the needle drops. The car slows. The speedometer goes from 120 to 50 in only a few seconds, and you blink curiously before glancing back at him.

He says nothing. His expression is firm but stoic and it’s not until he pulls off the road and into the dirt that you understand.

He turns the car off, then pats your hip. “Get out.”

You swallow again and swing the door open. Crawling off his lap before obediently trailing your way to the front of the vehicle while he follows.

“Bend over.”

You do. The hood is warm but not hot and it’s almost inviting as you place your hands against the covering to brace yourself in wait.

“Let me see.”

Your breath catches as you move your fingers to the delicate panties beneath your skirt. You pull them down your quivering thighs and the summer air makes you shiver. You feel nervous under his gaze. Under the way he owns you. But it’s thrilling. Addictive. And it leaves no room for questioning as you drop your underwear to your ankles in the middle of the open desert. 

You hear him step closer. Feel his hand on your hip as he pulls the fabric of your outfit up in order to get a proper look. But he’s quiet. Almost too quiet, and you feel a touch warm as you wait for his remark.

“Have you been this wet all night, Clover?” he finally asks.

You nod once. “…yes.”

“Mm.” Another pause while his other hand begins to trail up the back of your leg, slowly pulling it open. “And when were you planning to tell me?”

“I…I figured you already knew.”

He hums and you can only imagine his smirk. “Is that right?”

“Yes.”

“Is that what you were waiting for, then? For me to do something about it?”

“…yes.”

The tip of his finger drags its way through your folds and the sudden sensation makes you whimper.

“Then why didn’t you ask, sweetheart?” His tone is soft but condescending and you make another noise as you attempt to glance back at him. “Uh-uh. Eyes down, Clove.”

With a huff, you drop your chin to your chest and anxiously wait for more.

“Why didn’t you ask?” he repeats. “Thought I taught you better than that.”

 When your only answer is a needy mewl, he lands his palm against your ass in a sharp smack.

“Speak,” he murmurs. “When I ask you a question, I expect you to use your words and answer me. Is that understood?”

“Yes…yes, I’m sorry.”

“So why didn’t you ask?”

“Was…nervous,” you admit, glancing off into the dark night to hide the shame in your expression. “Didn’t want to bother you.”

He steps closer and his touch becomes gentler. “You were nervous, baby girl?”

“Mm. Knew you were busy and…and didn’t wanna be greedy.”

“Oh, my sweet girl,” he exhales before he’s grabbing onto the cheeks of your ass to pull you open. Allowing him an even better view of the way you drip. “Can always be greedy with me, you know that? Don’t have to be nervous. All I wanna do is take care of you. My time is yours.”

You release a stuttered breath before your eyes fall shut. You love the way he touches you. The way he cares for you. The way he humiliates you, even out here where nobody can see. 

“Look at you,” he whispers and you feel yourself clench around nothing. “Look at how pretty your little hole is when it’s so empty.”

The pad of his thumb brushes through your folds and he ignores the way you gasp his name.

“Think I should fix that?” he asks. “Think I should fill you up? Make it better?”

“Yes,” you pant. “Yes, please—”

“D’you need me to stretch you open? Hm? Play with your little cunny till you’re coming all over my cock?”

The dirty words inside his gentle voice feel criminal. Your mind turns to mush and you can do nothing more than press your chest into the hood as you excitedly wiggle our ass further into his hand.

He laughs, amused by your desperation in a way that only pushes you further toward the endless edge. “Is that a yes, Clover?”

You nod quickly. Your cheek rubbing against the car until you finally—finally—hear the sound of his belt flicking undone. 

The metal clink is music to your ears and you release a deep moan at the thought of the leather against your skin. Of his cock as it brushes against your clit, mindlessly teasing you past the point of no return.

“Easy,” he says. “Give me your hands, sweetheart.”

Slowly, you pull your arms behind you until he captures them in his hand. He wraps the length of the belt around your wrists until he can securely bind them to the small of your back, and once your mobility is gone, you simper.

“There you go,” he coos. “You okay, honey?”

Another nod. “Yes.”

“Gonna tell me if it’s too much, yeah? If I hurt you?”

“Yes…”

“Know it’s a tight fit, baby, but m’gonna make it work. Promise.”

And this vow makes your heart thumb against the inside of your chest before you feel him disappear from behind you.

And then…his tongue.

He’s dropped into a crouch in order to taste you, fingers locked around your wrists to keep you still while his lips suck on your pussy. 

“H,” you inhale, already undone by his technique. “I…”

He says nothing but the noise of wet licking echoes between your ears. His other hand pushes your leg away, creating more room for his head as he mouths at you. He flicks your clit with the tip of his tongue and you steel yourself against the hood, almost as though to get away.

“Careful,” he warns again. He smacks your thigh. “M’having so much fun. Don’t ruin it.”

And you try to be good. Try to stay still so he can do with you as he pleases. But it becomes increasingly harder when he nips at your cunt like he means to feast on you. 

Your fingers wiggle about the air, desperate to grab him. To clutch onto his curls or yank on his arm. But he keeps you restrained, keeps you compliant. And you are nothing but a toy for him to play with now.

You hear the sounds of the world around you. The crickets, the owls, the flock of birds flying overhead. You’re reminded yet again that anybody could drive by, even out here in the middle of nowhere. They could find you, bent over the hood of a Lamborghini as you get tongue fucked by the handsome man on his knees.

And yet…you don’t care. In fact, you almost hope somebody does pass. Because you know Harry wouldn’t stop even if they did. He’d keep going until you were unraveling in his hands as you whimpered his name.

As if to prove this, he adds a finger in beside his devious lips. “Gotta make sure you can take me,” he says in a low grunt. “S’too tight in here, Clove. Don’t think I’ll fit.”

You whine louder and angle your ass closer. Desperate to get his finger in as far as it’ll go. “I’ll take it,” you promise. “I will. Always do.”

“Always do,” he repeats in a soft chuckle. “That’s right, you do. Treat my cock right, don’t you, sweetheart?”

Nearly purring, you allow the subtle thrust of his hand to drag you closer to that blinding pleasure. 

“Do anything I ask. Even have my babies, wouldn’t you?”

The thought nearly does you in. Your tummy all swollen and full of him. Tits leaking milk that he’d eagerly lap up. The way he’d still treat your body like a temple. A prize to behold. Because you were carrying what he gave you. He fucked you so hard and so deep that you became a vessel for him. 

And even past that, you’ve always wanted to be a mother. Always wanted to start a family with him because you know he’d be a wonderful father. He’d take them to races and hold them on his shoulders so they could watch. He’d kiss all over their little cheeks and tuck them into bed. And your kids would know nothing but love. Because they’d look up to the two of you.

It makes you smile.

“What do you say, hm?” he whispers between kitten licks to your pussy. “You wanna have my babies? Wanna make me a daddy?”

He adds a second finger and begins to scissor them almost immediately until you cry out. Loud enough to startle a bird from a nearby branch and this proves to be answer enough for him.

“Okay,” he decides. “Okay, I’ll fuck your little pussy and get it all nice and full. Give you all I’ve got. And you’ll take it, won’t you? Hold it in your little belly like a good mama.”

You cum. Suddenly and without warning as the intensity of the orgasm explodes behind your eyelids like stars in the sky. You cum and you don’t get a chance to warn him or prepare or even hold off as you feel yourself drip down his hand. 

“God, H,” you moan. You sound pitiful. Voice hoarse from the way you’ve been wailing and arms sore from the way he keeps them behind you. Still, you don’t mind. The pain is pleasure in and of itself. “I…m’so…”

“Yeah.” He stands up and tugs his pants down. “I know, baby. I am, too.”

The tip of his cock drags through your soaked and sensitive pussy before he pushes in. He’s right, it is a tight fit. Even with the way you attempt to relax your muscles and draw him in. But it’s always snug with him and truth be told, you almost prefer it this way.

“There you go,” he breathes, dipping down to kiss your shoulder before drawing back his hips. “Just like that. Fucking hell, Clove, I wish you could see. Wish you could fucking see the way you look taking me right now.”

You wish you could, too. As it is, the feeling is enough to make your eyes roll back and send sparks of electricity up the length of your spine.

He keeps your wrists in his hand as he fucks into you. Sharp thrusts that sound sloppy and uncoordinated but feel like heaven. And there’s an urgency here. A desolate need to feel you unravel. He cares for you and he uses you all with the same technique. 

He grabs your leg and forces it up onto the hood. Giving him more room and a deeper angle just to hear you moan. And you hate that you can’t see him. Because you know how pretty he looks when he’s in control. His adrenaline high and his eyes alive with the possibilities of what he could do to you.

Instead, you choose to imagine. The way a few rogue curls must be sweeping across his forehead, unable to stay constrained beneath the sticky gel he likes to put in his hair. His chest is probably heaving, offering peeks of his tattoos beneath the white shirt clinging to his sweaty torso. His thighs will be flexing with each thrust. The muscles rippling in such a way that would surely make you drool. 

You understand why every woman you pass on the street tends to fawn over him. You know they’d do anything to take him home. Cook for him, clean for him, be good for him. Anything to earn his affection.

But you also know, his affection belongs to you. You’ve seen it, time and time again. He doesn’t even glance their way. He doesn’t notice when they giggle over him or when they try to call to him with their eyes. 

Because his eyes are always on you.

“You’re beautiful,” you hear him whisper. It’s soft—restrained. Almost as though he doesn’t mean for you to hear it. But you do and you nearly sink into the car in bliss. “Fucking hell, sweetheart. You’re perfect.”

A fervent heat rushes through your body from his praise and subsequently has you clenching around him. The feeling makes him groan and you’re proud of the way you can still care for him. Even if you can’t see him. Even if he’s the one with all the power.

“This sweet little pussy takes such good care of me,” he says and reaches around your tummy in order to press his palm against the subtle bulge there. “Every…fucking…time.”

You careen forward, cheek squished into the hood, skin dewy from the way your body shakes with pleasure. It’s always this close and somehow, he keeps you there. As though reminding you not to cum until he says so.

The hand on your stomach moves down until his fingers find your sensitive clit. He rubs and he plucks and he plays with your body with the same precision and skill he uses when he drives. Because no matter how much he loves to race, he loves you more. And winning you will always be infinitely better than winning some goddamn race.

“What do you say, hm?” he mumbles from behind you, rubbing the swollen nerves while pistoning his hips to yours. Dragging you closer and closer and closer. “You gonna cum for me? Gonna let me feel it?”

You nod and when you start to waver over that edge, he chuckles.

“Okay,” he agrees. “Okay, baby, cum.”

You do. Again. Harder this time. Louder. It’s almost cruel how easily your body breaks beneath him but before you can indulge in the feel of the way he follows…he’s pulling out. 

He guides you away from the hood and turns you both around. He sits in the spot you once were and he lets you see him. Because this is what you needed. The intimacy, the eye-contact. The beautiful look on his face.

He guides you closer with his hold on your bound wrists before pulling you onto his lap as best he can. He helps you place one leg back on the hood while his other hand moves to guide his cock between your overstimulated folds. Then, he brushes his swollen tip through, just to tease himself, before he’s pushing in.

And you can see him now. Can see the fucked-out expression on his face. The way his vision becomes hazy and his teeth grit together in ecstasy. 

You whimper, whine, cry out. You want to hold him. Want to wrap your arms around his neck and curl yourself into his beautiful, broad chest. 

But you can’t this time. In fact, he uses his grip on the belt to help roll you over his cock. A soft smile on his face as he whispers, “Just one more, sweetheart. Give me one more.”

He’s insatiable and greedy and you love it. Because you’d fuck yourself on his cock for the rest of time if you could. Even out here in the open.

“Wanna watch,” he whispers, then slips his other hand around the back of your neck to bring you down for a kiss. “Wanna watch the way I fill you all full of my babies.”

You make a rather pitiful noise against his mouth and he smirks. 

“You want that, too, don’t you, Clove?”

You nod, although you imagine it should be obvious. You’d do anything for him. 

“This little pussy was made to have my babies, wasn’t it?” he says and kisses the corner of your lips before moving down your neck. “Just made to be fucked by me. Perfect tummy to carry my kids. You’ll be so good, mama. Know you will.”

Your lashes flutter shut. The nickname breeds something new in your chest, a blossoming sort of urgency that almost makes it hard to breathe.

“Harry,” you plead. You nudge your nose against his temple. “Harry, please—”

“Shh.” His voice is soft. Still mischievous but kind. “I’ve got you. Yeah? M’right here. Just let me take care of you.”

And he does. He moves his hand from your neck to your shirt, slipping underneath until he can find your tits and give them a squeeze. 

“There you go,” he coos. “Oh, baby girl. Do anything for you, you know that? Just to keep you.”

He moves from your chest to your clit, and you know the second his fingers make contact, you’ll be gone. You squirm in anticipation, and he grins against your cheek before kissing you hard. Tongues and teeth colliding as he sucks on your lip and murmurs, “Can I cum in your pretty pussy, mama? Will you let me? Please?”

You nod so quick and so hard, your head aches. But it doesn’t matter because nothing else will ever compare to the feel of his hand on your body and his cock in your cunt. Releasing the warm, sticky offering that means infinitely more now than it did before.

He thrusts up into you a time or two, milking himself with your pussy before he drops back down and pulls you with him.

You’re both panting. Heavy, hard. Depleted of all energy as he holds you as close to his heart as he can.

Eventually, he frees you, tugging on the belt with one, easy pull as it comes loose from around your wrists. And the moment your arms are returned to you, you use them to grab onto his shoulders and bury yourself in his embrace.

He laughs. A delicate sound that makes you feel just as warm as his cock does. And you stay there for as long as you can until he finally nips at your earlobe and says, “Need to get you home, Clove. Don’t want you to get cold out here.”

“M’not cold,” you pout. “And we can’t leave until it works.”

“Until what works?”

You look down and he looks, too.

Then, he grins. A big, giddy grin that’s all teeth and dimples. “Oh,” he murmurs. “Can’t leave until you’re pregnant, huh?”

“Mhm.”

“I see.” He squeezes your hips and kisses your neck. “Gonna have to hold me in there, aren’t you? Keep me all snug?”

“Mhm.”

“All right, mama,” he says and you giggle. “We’ll stay until you’re all nice and pregnant. And then I’m gonna take you home and fuck you again. Just to make sure.”

Your stomach flips.

“S’that sound good, Clover?” he asks, and you bring your eyes to his in order to see him fully.

You smile.

“That sounds perfect, Daddy.”

For a more immersive experience, feel free to play All Along the Watchtower by Jimi Hendrix during the chase hehe

Beautiful divider by @firefly-graphics 💞

Taglist: @walkingintheheartbreaksatellite @keepdrivingkisses @swiftmendeshoran @tiredinwinter @straightontilmornin @justlemmeadoreyou @harrysdaydreams @tiaamberxx @myfavfanficsever @littlenatilda @vamprry @fdl305 @ssaama @indierockgirrl @likeapplejuicenpeach @lukesaprince @closureesny @lc-fics @0nlythrowharrybeaux @hannahdressedasabanana @dylanobandposts21 @butdaddyilovehim-hs @floral-recs @itjustkindahappenedreally @samanddeaninatrenchcoat

[heartkaji]

WINBRE BOYS + THIRSTY TWEETS !

inc : sakura haruka, suo hayato , ren kaji, togame jo contains explicit language + celeb au

SAKURA HARUKA !

“ume’s left ballsack says : do you think sakura’s pubes are white or black or are they divided into both like his hair ?”

kill sakura now.

he’s a red cheeked mess of sweat & nervous system shivers. he’s practically hyperventilating as you laugh beside him, melting into a puddle of molten blush cheeks & ultraviolet bone. he shakes at a frequency not unlike ultrasound.

“oh my fucking god sakura—well ? what do you have to say to the fans ?”

you elbow the quivering boy. if you were any less of the devil you are you’d forcefully refuse the question or at least answer it in his place—you did know the truth firsthand after all. but you’re the serpent in the garden & seeing sakura squirm is like an apple down your throat. sakura is still blinking eyes & flushing nose & palms bleeding sweat bullets so you’ve had to grab the phone from his hands in fear it might fall from the way they quake & quiver.

“ what the fuck kind of question is this ? where are your parents ? guardians—?”

“baby, that question could apply to you too.”

“shut up !”

SUO HAYATO !

“slut4suo69 says : i need to know what’s under suo’s eyepatch. is he blind ? does he have some cool sexy scar ? does he have no eye at all ? not that i care. i’d fuck the shit out of his empty eye socket — three holes are better than two !”

“oh.”

you burst out laughing. this is the first time you’ve seen dagger mouthed suo hayato speechless. his mouth is hung agape as he seizes the phone from your hands & reads the tweet over & over again as if it’ll cause the digital ink to melt off & fly away. each time he reads his mouth gets drier & you swear you can see blisters bruling on his tongue.

“this is the most vulgar thing i’ve ever seen.”

“so true ! now answer it.”

you tuck your hair & dip your head over suo’s shoulders to get one last look at the tweet before facing the camera.

“though i can’t match your freak with the whole eye fucking thing, i too, slut4suo69, would absolutely love to know what’s under my boyfriend’s eyepatch.” you bat your lashes at the bedazzled brunette & loop an arm around his elbow. “the fans & i wanna know, suo. do tell.”

“i’m pretty sure i’ve told you this before, angel—“

“aht aht ! no thousand year old dragon bullshit, hayato. we promised to answer all the questions truthfully, remember ?”

suo heaves a sigh, breath heavy & chest tight as you rest your head on his arm. his thumb traces lazy swirls & zig zags over your knuckles.

“i see. if the fans wanna know, who am i to refuse, hm?”

REN KAJI !

“isagi solos your fave says : i need kaji to suck me the way he sucks his lollipops. hear me out y’all—his tongue swirling over your clit, teeth grazing your folds as he—“

“aight that’s enough,”

you giggle as kaji pulls out the phone between your palms. you reach over his lap for it, pathetic attempts to grab the device from his hands while kaji raises it higher & higher. his palm burns against your stomach to keep you away.

“i fucking hate the internet, bro. don’t y’all have hobbies ? friends ? occupations ?”

you’re giggling & snorting as kaji cusses out the camera. “and i swear, word to my mother that whoever wrote this is is like, twelve. what in the wattpad is this ?”

kaji pulls out the cherry red sucker resting in his cheek. “this shit don’t even taste sweet anymore, man.” he flings the candy angrily into a silver can sitting across the set.

you bury your head in the sleeve of his jacket, a red nosed, puffy faced mess of sweltering eyes & plum heavy cheeks. your snorts are muffled in the linen of his sleeves. “heaven knows i love my fans but fuck, i cannot wait for some of you to rot in hell.”

“god ren,” you clap your hands in between teary eyed giggles. “i’m trying to breathe baby please stop..!”

“fuck no. you horny bitches need to be euthanized. eradicated. like hello ? is this what our lord and savior jesus christ died for ? are these the kind of sins he repeatedly has to forgive ? he’s better than me for real cuz i can’t take this anymore.”

kaji walks off the set but you’re too busy wiping tears & sniffling nose to follow. “somebody ! tell him to come back..!”

TOGAME JO !

“kubzscouts is my wifey says : fellas is it gay to want togame jo to slide into you slowly, teasing your entrance with light strokes as he whispers sweet nothings in your ear like ‘you can take it baby, that’s a good girl’ as his big fat coochie crusher69 slips into—jo i don’t want to read this anymore.”

you look up at him with pretty peach painted lips bent into a pout. his palm stops teasing at your thigh momentarily before picking up again, “m’ not quite sure i want you to read it either, pretty.”

you report the account without even waiting for togame’s approval. he cracks a smile when he notices your cherry drenched cheeks & red dyed ears.

“someone seems jealous.”

“and i know that someone isn’t me jo, so which of your other a-b-c-d looking ass bitches are you talking about ?”

togame whistles playfully, palms trailing further up your thigh. his touch is a ghost burying your nerves in sap & soil. you pretend your skin doesn’t ache from the way he draws hearts on your knee.

“now, now. i think we both know i’m a loyal man, yeah ?”

“who’s we ? kubzscouts over here is describing bedroom you with awful precision.”

he lets out a boyish laugh. “she missed a few things, though. don’t i always kiss it first ?”

© ─ heartkaji ; do not steal, copy, edit, translate or reupload

[sleepynegress]

*sigh* Featurism...

So, I woke up to this shit on the Twit app and I've only hit on this issue before, but today I'm digging in. Colorism is something that is not addressed often enough, but intersected within that and even more rarely spoken about, is the issue of featurism. The young actress above just got cast as Juliet in the latest big staged prestige production of Romeo and Juliet, opposite Tom Holland. And as usual the blue-checks, everybody else including "black", and even Black regulars are all-in on the cruelty.

...But I want to breakdown a nuance that is too often skipped over when this happens. The two people named with her, give away the featurism game, here; a particularly nasty form of often internalized racism. I guarantee if the young actress looked like this?

She'd definitely still get racist attacks, but the particularly nasty shit I'm seeing attacking her looks wouldn't come. In fact, I could see some people thinking they are defending her with "but she's pretty!" or more specific... "obviously she's mixed" comments. -Something pretty much every Black woman with features that don't align with a narrow perception of blackness hear often (and we'll get to why I specified women in a minute). And don't get it twisted...

These aren't exclusively nor standard white features either (see: the many ethnic features w/in white ethnic groups that also get hit to a lesser and non-racialized degree such as large "hook" and/or Romanesque noses for example, which is definitely about anti-semitism, anti-Romani sentiment, and other disparaged/discriminated against ethnic minorities in Europe) and yes, blue eyes are naturally occurring within non-mixed and dark-skinned Black people due to a mutation called Waardenburg syndrome. But there is a REASON why fetishizing even certain ethnic features within the African continental diaspora has been a thing for a long time...i.e. "the dopest Ethiopian" from the Tribe Called Quest lyric is pictured as this:

and this:

and not this:

...despite them all being Ethiopians of various tribal ethnicities.

A wide-nose, a tighter curl, coil, or zig-zag pattern of hair, fuller lips and often, but not always (because I've given examples above where features "mitigate" skin color) darker skin. Zendaya is grouped with Tracey and Francesca Amewudah-Rivers, despite being both lighter in skin color and having a Black parent and a white parent because her nose isn't what has become the standard surgical look...that too many celebs have. This includes the ones who got so-called "ethnic" work or just a slight 'refinement'. No, her nose is born w/it, made for that good African air, as I call it. Nostrils prominent, nose bridge wide:

I went make-up free as well, because even make-up practices these days, go for that narrowing highlight technique i.e. just below it's subtle.

Sza is a an example of it taken to extremes, even with the Hollywood standard "ethnic" refinement she did get.

The thing is... I don't blame or attack her for that. Because you see above that is just a taste of what happens. Lil' Kim was relentlessly bullied by the men in her life for her ethnic features for her whole life...and that is why she is off-limits to this day for me when it comes to all the work she's had done.

...And this is where I explain why I specified men being mostly exempt. It's because "Blackness" including all the physical features associated with it, is by default masculinized. ...Which is why Idris Elba is considered one of the most handsome men in the world, w/o the caveats that even Lupita Nyong'o often gets. Nobody calls Samuel L. Jackson ugly. He is even idolized and fetishized by a specifically white male gaze for how culturally "Black" he is perceived to be for all the wrong reasons, his signature "motherfucka" for example (and I could go off on a whole other tangent here, but digressing). All this to say... Featurism sucks. It's not talked about enough. Blackness in all variations is Beautiful. Tracy Chapman looking as young she does?? Hell, mark it down to both her dark skin (a natural UV protector) and not messing with her given features (and being a lesbian, men will age you. lol -I got jokes-):

P.S. THANK GOODNESS for Tems and her rising prominence as a beauty as well:

P.P.S. Even Jay-Z the billionaire rapper has had the comments over the years about his lips and nose, hence that lyric in Beyonce's Formation.

[aashiqeddiediaz]

put me back together and take my heart i never thought that I could love this hard

[ID: two black and white gifs from 911 4.13. the gifs are overlaid with text from Shivers by Ed Sheeran. Between both gifs is a continuous, red, transparent line that connects the text.

GIF 1: Eddie stands shellshocked in front of Buck off-screen, having just been shot in the shoulder. The lyric reads, "i took an arrow to the heart." The text is arranged in a zig zag formation, with "heart" written in a cursive font.

GIF 2: Buck reeling back as Eddie's blood splatters on his face. The lyric reads, "I never kissed a mouth that tastes like yours". The text is arranged in a zig-zag formation, with "mouth" written in cursive font.

/end ID]

[itsaspectrumcomic]

Hello! I have recently noticed that it is Disability pride month, and I was wondering if it was appropriate to celebrate autism during this month, since I am not sure wether disability pride month is focused towards more mental or physical disabilities, or is accommodating of both. Additionally, if it is acceptable to celebrate for disability pride month, do you have any suggestions as to what to wear? I was thinking maybe a ring with a gold colored infinity symbol on it? (I apologize if the wording is stiff and impersonal, i am nervous)

You can definitely celebrate autism during Disability Pride Month! This month is about all disabilities, and neurodiversity is even represented in a stripe on the flag:

Green is for sensory disabilities.

Blue represents emotional and psychiatric disabilities.

White stands for non-visible and undiagnosed disabilities.

Gold is for neurodiversity.

Red represents physical disabilities.

The black background commemorates and mourns disabled people who have died.

A gold infinity symbol ring is perfect for representing autism! There's also the rainbow infinity symbol which represents neurodiversity overall, or you could wear the Disability Pride flag itself in some way, such as on a badge.

The flag was designed to be mindful of those with photosensitivity and sensory issues (eg muted colours, the zig zag from the old flag was replaced with a straight diagonal) so you could take that into consideration when choosing what to wear as well.

Happy Disability Pride Month ❤️

[essentiallyleaf]

day 20. cockwarming. with. jisoo.

1105 words.

tags.

kinktober ‘23, idol x male reader, cockwarming, angst, i don’t even know anymore, possibly the coldest cockwarming fic to ever exist, so much angst and for what.

notes.

short and a little rushed. sounds just like every day of my life. exhaustedly, leaf.

You plop down on the bed, barely able to take your black dress pants off before the dizziness gets the best of you. Jisoo is there, laying still, facing away from you and towards the cloud-shielded moon outside of the open window, like she always is. You can’t really tell if she’s awake or not, and the alcohol certainly doesn’t help.

This must be what they mean when they talk about magnetic fields. We’re immersed in them all the time, but we can’t see it, something about a wavelength our eyes are not tuned to. It’s like even when it’s past your bedtime (which on a weekend night like tonight is at least three hours after your regular bedtime), the sky completely starless, when you zig-zag through the streets and keeping your balance requires a voluntary effort, when your white shirt has more than one almost fully dried Bordeaux stain on it, you don’t know why or how, but your red needle always points back home, back to her.

You always manage to find your way to your shared bed, well, shared right in this moment, but often, too often one could easily argue, the bed feels hollow and freezing as Jisoo’s in it alone. Maybe that’s why the first thing she does when you lie down on it, is take your strong arm and wrap it around her waist to hold her close and share some of your alcohol-boosted warmth, and keep her own arm over it as if to ask you to never let go, never leave her again. She’s awake. Your natural response is to use your other hand to brush her long, silky black hair and watch it flow through your fingers, but as she feels your breath caress her shoulders, she knows that you can’t promise much more than that.

This shouldn't work. Well, to be fair, it isn’t working. But throwing stuff away, whether it’s dropping old photos in the fireplace, or leaving an entire relationship behind you to possibly never see your special person again, that hurts. It’s not just about the value of it, no, if that was the case, if that thing you’re throwing away still brought value to you, then you wouldn't be getting rid of it, right? It’s about admitting that something went wrong along the road, that things didn’t work out, that a wrong turn was taken, and that maybe, you were the one who took it. So the only thing you can do is turn away, keep going down that road, and if you ever happen to look back in a moment of accidental lucidity, justify your own mistakes.

So Jisoo reaches back and starts rubbing the outer side of your naked thigh, slowly traveling up to your ass as you lay a trail of quick kisses on her shoulder. Once she starts fiddling with the hem of your boxers and pushing her own butt back towards you, you get the message. You take your underwear off and stroke your dick a couple times before her nightgown is hiked up and her cheeks fully envelop your length. Your pecks take a trip up to her neck while both of you start shifting your hips up and down, back and forth against one another’s, a couple of low moans leaving your mouth.

It was your fault, but what if it wasn’t? What if that girl, what was her name even, hadn’t asked you for a lighter? What if she hadn’t looked at you all night with those warm brown eyes, what if she hadn’t asked you for a ride home? Any of those would’ve fixed this. The nights of yelling at each other’s faces and the nights of dead silence, the feeling of unbridgeable distance even when holding hands, the cool air of beach days in the middle of August. Maybe invisible walls are the best solution in some cases, and fuck it if they break some people’s immersion, as long as you can see the sun rise in the distance, you can live with not being able to touch it.

Jisoo suddenly stops her motion just to raise her thigh a little, suggesting you to enter. You align yourself with her slit and penetrate her warmth, her slick coating easing you through her walls and quickly letting you bottom out inside her, but as soon as you try to retreat, she puts a hand on your hip, halting its movement. She just places her thigh back down and stays still for a few seconds. A few seconds that enclose some kind of understanding, or, a feeling of understanding, at the very least. Most of the times when you have a revelation, an epiphany, you have no idea what the fuck is being revealed to you, you only see the light bulb turn on. Your kisses get wetter and longer, traveling from her upper neck to her ear and to her jaw, your hand finds itself on her soft, perfectly sized mound. She starts contracting her abdominal muscles repeatedly and rhythmically, squeezing your shaft between her tight walls, your pelvis still fixed in its place. You see her skin glow more than usual under the faint moonlight, and you think you taste a little salt as your tongue brushes her cheek, which you can’t help but groan on every time Jisoo tenses around you.

Invisible walls are not meant to be broken. They’re meant to disengage, to discourage. What does it say about us when they manage to do what they’re meant to? Is it sad, disheartening? Does it speak about our sense of agency as a whole? What if you did something different, what if it was your fault? You can’t go back, so what can you do about it now? Another night of getting drunk, another night of having sex, in each other’s embrace but miles away.

Your hand feels up her thigh as hers reaches between your legs from the back and starts massaging your testicles. You can’t hold back anymore. Her abs contract once, twice. You stop counting, she feels too good. Your thigh wraps around hers as you cum inside, letting out multiple guttural moans right next to her ear. You drop load after load of white paint onto her walls and into her womb.

You think you hear a little sniffle. Again, the only response is to caress her hair and leave one long kiss on the back of her head. Not more. Sometimes we hurt people that love us, love people that hurt us. And if it’s true that opposites attract, then likes must also repel.

-

footnotes.

sorry if this is depressing. how can i help you get back to horny, the superior mood? lunatically, leaf.

[cosmossystem]

running list of things i've learned from making my patch pants:

if you use canvas for your patches, the edges will start to fray. this is inevitable. i'm sure there is some way around this but i haven't figured it out yet. i'm thinking maybe a glue stick or fray check along the edges right after cutting the patch could work. of course, that might be part of the look you're going for, so it might not bother you too much (personally idc lol)

don't bother with fabric markers. they bleed and they won't show up on black fabric and they look like shit. acrylic paint markers are a GODSEND, use them. some are better than others, so try around to see what works for your fabric. i use top notch in white and it works for me.

also, if you use acrylic markers, be careful of it seeping through your material and onto the surface behind. i've ruined my desk this way.

no markers? try just regular ol' acrylic paints. works pretty good too, just keep in mind that it will make your patches stiffer and crack a lot more. also might not be waterproof--but who cares, really.

don't want to freehand all that text? USE STENCILS!!! you can make your own with tape and an exacto knife (apparently, i've never tried) or you can do what my lazy ass does and just buy a bunch of premade letter stencils. it also makes working with acrylic markers much easier.

if your material is black, or if you have a lot of black areas, you can use a sharpie to fix any mistakes. i usually do this to make my edges sharper. go over the area several times if you need to. it smells horrible but it works.

your patches will inevitably start to come off, especially around areas that crease (for pants, that's hips and knees.) that's part of life. there's a few things you can do to make them last longer. if you use a sewing machine, try using something other than a straight stitch, like a zig-zag stitch. if you stitch by hand, try doubling up your thread or double-sewing the edges using a combination of different stitches. i've had the best luck with a very close whipstitch. of course if the patch is beyond repair, you could always just take it off and replace it with something different (ship of theseus that thang!) you could also maybe get away with using embroidery thread but depending on your patch material, it may make it harder to work with.

also, i know this is kind of cheating, but you don't have to just decorate with patches. i added a bunch of safety pins and it adds a bit of Flare. that also means i have a free safety pin whenever i need it! (often)

these rules are not set in stone and you should experiment to see what works for you!!!

if you have anything to add on please feel free :)

edit for the love of GOD stop mentioning hemming in the notes. like i said, i specifically didn't want to include it in this post because hemming is A) a pain in the ass, and B) not accessible to everyone. i mentioned alternatives to hemming in my reblog, but here they are again:

a lighter or fray check (be careful with this and make sure you won't accidentally ruin your material or set something on fire. also please research how to do this correctly. don't blame me if you set your jacket on fire)

glue stick or liquid glue (this one might depend on what kind of glue and fabric you use as well)

interfacing (thank you to someone in the notes for mentioning this because i totally forgot about it and interfacing isn't my specialty)

liquid stitch or other forms of fabric glue (i actually had no idea this existed, thank you to the notes again)

again, stitching the patches on very closely. i use a close whipstitch for mine.

similarly, a blanket stitch on the edges before sewing the patch on (technically this is a form of hemming, but i'll allow it)

[wynnibee]

hi sorry this is so late!!! @sup-its-cat i was your secret skeleton dsklfdfk i hope you like it i put a lot of work into this <33

[id in alt and under the cut!]

[id: a fully lined, colored and shaded piece of sup-its-cat’s Mind Roommates AU with (from top to bottom) Eclipse, Moon, Sun and then their halloween-ified sona. Eclipse is in the top right corner, with its arms held out and a wide grin on its face as it looks down at Moon. Eclipse is entirely pink-magenta, with two rows of rays; large white ones and small light light pink ones. It has puffy sleeves on its arms, one with wavy stripes, and the other with stars. Each sleeve ends with a small bow on the wrist. Large ruffles sit around its neck, and its torso is a single, solid color. Its eyes have a darker magenta outer iris, an inner light pink iris, and then a white heart shaped pupil. It has large eyelashes, with the right eye having a long curly-q lash. Jester stripes cut through its eyes onto its cheeks and eyebrows. Eclipse has a long “tail” barely visible swirling around and behind it. The tail starts at the base of its body, and swirls across the entire canvas down to Sun. Eclipse is covered in glitch effects, with a majority of them surrounding its rays and the rest on its ghostly tail. Eclipse’s entire body is glowing a bright pink and it’s semi-transparent, with one arm fading off the canvas. Next is Moon, in the middle left. He’s floating in a partially reclined position, arms held around him loosely. He has a concerned expression on his face as he looks up at Eclipse. His face is white on his crescent side and a medium blue on his shadowed side. He’s wearing his blue nightcap, with a very fluffy white band, and light purple stars. The end is shredded and missing its poof/bell. He’s wearing a light brown hoodie with dark brown zig-zag stripes at the end of the sleeves and a box pattern with a star in the center on his chest. He’s also wearing brown gloves and simple blue pants. Moon’s legs slowly turn into his ghost “tail”, though his is a bright blue and more opaque than Eclipse’s. It’s full of sparkles and a small amount of glitch effects. It curls around behind him as it swirls down the canvas towards Sun. Moon’s colors are very light, having a blue-ish hue to his entire palette. His eyes are mismatched, with blue sclera on his crescent side and red sclera on his shadowed side. He has white rings for irises. He also has large eyelashes with a curly-q lash on the right side of his face. Jester stripes cut through his eyes as well. He has sharp, pointy teeth. Then Sun, who’s standing hunched over with his arms and hands held up in clawed poses with a large, slightly snarled smile on his face as he glares at the viewer. He has a single row of large, orange rays. A couple of his rays are chipped. Sun’s wearing the same clothes as Moon is; a large brown hoodie, blue pants, and brown gloves. He has glowing white eyes and is entirely backlit with blue and pink light. He has large eyelashes, with a curly-q lash on his right side and jester stripes that cut through his eyes.  Lastly is sup-its-cat’s sona, an anthromorphic pink cat wearing a suit. It also has a snarled smile on its face, exposing sharp teeth as it glares at the viewer. It has two large horns forming a heart shape on the top of its head, and long fluffy cheeks and ears. It has a purple cravat around its neck with a bow, held together in the center with a diamond shaped purple gem. Its pink suit has exaggerated lapels that curl under themselves. Its shirt is a dark, almost black pink with ruffles around the buttons and a wrinkled waistband. Its holding its long, three clawed fingers up on either side of itself, and its long, fluffy tail curls up behind it. The cat has glowing green eyes with dark pink sclera. The cat, like Sun, is also backlit with blue and pink light. The background is a simple dark blue to magenta gradient, with a white border that has a glitching effect to it. End id.]

[123puppy]

I'd like to thank this precious video for giving me the mental image of Alastor's suffering~

-------

Cute.

It's a word Lucifer cannot seem to stop thinking about when it comes to The Radio Demon. For this, it's beyond his expectations. And a beautiful discovery he never thought possible.

Alastor lays flat on his back, arms barely staying near his head as he struggles to contain, and fail, the giggles that spill from between his teeth, face twisted into the sheets in a futile attempt to hide, flustered.

He forgoes his red-striped coat, sleeves rolled up along with the bottom hem of his light red shirt exposing his stomach and small waist, white strips almost zig-zagging his ashen skin.

A choked sound comes out of the man, unable to keep one of his arms in place, bringing said arm down to cover his mouth, grin growing bigger with a wobbly edge as his eyes pop open.

Long black claws dance gently over Alastor's lower tummy. It's been like this for over a minute, but Alastor is falling apart at the seams at the display, his other arm dragging itself down, red claws easily slicing through the crimson sheets in a slow 'rrrrRRRiiiip' and finding itself over his other hand to stop the giggles as they reach a slightly higher pitch, accompanied by a ringing, pitched with distressed deer noises.

Lucifer has a smile on his own face as he continues to tease the deer with no hope of stopping unless the sinner voices it. He's praying Alastor doesn't end it too soon, because for all that is holy, this has got to be the cutest and wholesome moment he's seen since Charlie's birth.

Another minute goes by. It could have been eons for all Al knows.

The sinner cannot keep still the longer this goes on. One long leg pulls itself up and scrapes along the sheets as he fights to keep from squirming about. But Lucifer, the little shit, has been discreetly pushing his shirt up little by little, then he would drag his nails down back to where they started. The sporadic reaction is a feat, the younger man fighting his instinct to curl forward even when the Angel pressed the pads of fingers into his hips. The tears welling within the corners of his eyes don't give him hope of enduring this much longer.

Alastor had been holding out for as long as he could, to the point that his death mark began to glow, until he broke when one of his lowest ribs gets grazed.

He slams his elbows down and twists his body onto its side, ears flat against his skull, "That's enough!" His voice cracks. His actual voice, no filters. He yelps when a devilish finger finds his belly button and twists away, choking back a squeal, "LUCIFER!"

Lucifer pulls his hands back, "I'm done I'm done!" He laughs, "Still, that was a lot of fun, and your skin, or fur, is so soft," He cages Alastor and grins at the withering look the demon gives him but doesn't miss how he tensed at being 'trapped'.

"Fuck off."

Lucifer raised his hands in mock surrender, laughing, "Not my fault you're sensitive. I didn't go full Tickle Monster on you like I do with Charlie." He wiggles his fingers over Alastor and the demon flinched, slapping his hands away.

Blood-red eyes turn into dials, locked on the smaller man, grin exposing all his teeth.

"I haven't forgotten how sensitive you are, Your Highness."

"Now let's not get ahead of ourselves-" Lucifer shrieks as Alastor pounces.

[evediamonte44]

How you dress according to your Venus sign✨

Aries Venus: Aries Venus: BOLD!!! Dramatic & eye catching outfits. Look best in daring & dominating outfits & colors ( dressy button up shirts, ripped jeans, asymmetrically cut clothing “RED” ,outfits that show skin)

Note: Aries mars women tend to make brave fashion statements. Since Aries is ruled by mars it’s not uncommon to see Aries mars women in suits or dressed in a tomboyish fashion.

Taurus Venus: classy!!! Mainly dressed in earthy and neutral tones. Often an equal balance of chill and demure at the same time.

Gemini Venus: Vibrant colors & patterns (stripes polka dots, zig zags) tend to be very versatile & fun. Looks great in yellow.

Cancer Venus: calm & comfort seeking style cancer venus natives look best in soft & mellow colors palettes

Leo Venus: glamorous & dramatic. Leo Venus natives mainly look best in animal prints, solar colors, & gold. Cat eyes offten suit their appearance.

Virgo Venus: Earthy palette with a minimalistic undertone. Virgo venus native often look very clean and polished & dress in a simple fashion.

Libra Venus: Doesn’t matter what their wearing it always looks put together somehow. soft tones that flow together, nothing to loud about what their wearing everything FLOWS.

Scorpio Venus: sultry and serene style with a dash of mystery. They look best in darker shades( dark purples blacks, burgundy).

Sagittarius Venus: eye catching & free spirited. Sagittarius Venus natives style themselves with no filter or restrictions & can tend to be over the top (which there is nothing wrong with). Can be fond of the bohemian aesthetic wearing earthy patterns & firefly color palettes.

Capricorn Venus:💵💸💵 looks best when dressed in a classic & timeless fashion. Think old money aesthetic. Looks great in well put together sets. A great palette for Capricorn Venus natives is ( black, white earthy tones, beige)

Aquarius Venus: unique, eccentric, rebellious! Aquarius Venus natives look best when they are genuinely trying to stand out and be different with their fashion choices. Think odd pattern combinations, mixing different clothing textures together, intriguing color choices & combos.

Pisces Venus: ethereal serene and hypnotic. Looks best in flowy, tops, skirts, jackets & beautifully calm pastels. Looks great in silk & materials that move with them like ocean waves.

[nightmaretour]

I hate to do this, and it's a long shot I know, but things are getting desperate and it seems like I'm going to be waiting WAY longer than I should be for something that's fairly urgent.

I'm a disabled trans man living in the UK. Recently I was found to have severe anemia, and came up with my FIT test (gastrointestinal cancer screening) a few months ago, and was referred for a colonoscopy to find out the cause, since it looks like I'm having a slow but constant bleed through my GI tract. However, my referral has been awaiting review for over three months now. I'm not even on the waiting list, I'm waiting for someone to decide if I need to be on the waiting list. Since then I've started having GI symptoms such as pain, intermittent loss of appetite, etc. as well as my anemia worsening significantly.

This is of course pretty urgent, but it looks like I'll be waiting months longer once I finally get on the waiting list too. I really have no choice but to get it done through a private hospital, because of the time sensitive nature of, you know, potentially having cancer. I managed to put some money away out of the backpay I got from PIP, but it's not enough.

[ID: A screenshot of an email that's says:

Dear Mr (name blocked out in red),

Thank you for your website inquiry. For your information, the cost of an initial consultation with one of our consultant gastroenterologists is £280."

It then lists the names of 3 doctors as links, all blocked out in red. The email continues,

"The guide price for a colonoscopy is £2,339. For further information, including appointment availability, please don't hesitate to contact the medical secretaries (followed by three names redacted in red) directly on (phone number redacted in red) or call the private patient team on (phone number redacted in red). End ID]

Currently I have around £1,400 stashed away from PIP backpay I got after they royally fucked things up (however I may need to dip into this at points if I find myself struggling). Together the consultation plus the colonoscopy will cost £2,619, which leaves me about £1220 behind. I know I'm most likely not going to get that much from this, but I honestly have no choice but to try my luck here. I really don't know what else I can do.

I really don't like asking for money from people for nothing, but I have a Ko-fi store where I sell handmade screen printed patches, and I'll be adding more designs to it over the coming weeks when I have the time and energy to make new screens. I'm also offering commissions for custom band patches! (Due to Kofi's TOS I can't officially offer patches for bands without their permission.). Below are a few examples of my work:

[ID: 5 images of patches printed in white on black fabric, all sewn onto a worn looking black denim jacket. All are sewn on roughly in red floss, aside from the last one. The first says "only dates I want are tour dates". The words "dates" and "tour dates" are larger than the other text. All of the letter As are replaced with spade symbols. The second is the logo of the band Cop/Out, which is the band name with rough, jagged edges. The third is the logo for The Prodigy, which is the band name in sharp. Zig-zagging letters. The fourth is the logo for the band Subhumans, a stylised skull shouting into a microphone. The fourth is the horizontal silhouette of a crutch. With the words "Talk shit" above it and "get hit" below it. Unlike the rest it is sewn on in black, and the edge of an embroidered back patch is visible just above it. End ID]

I know a lot of people aren't doing well financially right now, and that there are people in far, far more dire situations who probably need your help far more than I do, but I would appreciate any purchases of patches or help you can offer so, so much. Even just sharing the post would be enormously appreciated.

Current progress:

£115/£1220

And of course as pet tax, here's Cynder :)

[ID: A photo of a female wild type leopard gecko laying spread out on a smooth rounded rock in a glass fronted tank. Her head is sideways and raised, looking at the camera with one eye. She looks relaxed and curious. Behind her a large piece of thick tree bark and a plastic cave can be seen. End ID]

[cario55555]

COTL FANFIC COMING SOON YA RAT BASTARDS.

PREVIEW UNDER THE CUT, OHHHH SHIT!

Blood tastes a lot like iron. How did they know that? They never quite took the time to wonder how they could recognize the taste of iron, and this seemed like a perfectly good time. They wouldn't get another chance, after all, they were about to die. The battle was a blur. They remembered landing a few good blows on the archer, or was it the guardian? Yes… It's coming back to them now. It was definitely the archer. The arrow pierced their shoulder, and they tore it out and shoved it into the archer's… As the Lamb attempted to recall the scuffle, their thoughts were interrupted by a sudden pain in their throat. They began to hack and cough, spitting blood into the pool of murky water in front of them. They watched as the blood trickled into the water, spreading throughout the inky black liquid… And they saw something. Someone? They hesitantly approached the water. .elddup eht sdrawot depael yehT They slowly sunk their hand in, attempting to grab onto anything. .gnihtyna otno psarg ot gniyrt yletarepsed ,loop eht otni dnah rieht detloj yehT Something grabbed them. .meht debbarg gnihtemoS Something began tugging them beneath the water, and they tried to resist. .ecnatsiser dnuof tub ,retaw eht evoba gnidloh erew yeht revetahw gard ot deirt yehT They dug their stumpen feet into the ground, and tugged on whatever lied beneath the water. .retaw eht otni deknay eb ot sevlesmeht dewolla yehT .noitpo rehto on saw ereht taht dezilaer yehT And it joined them on the other side. It was drenched in the grimy water of the pool, and it thrashed back and forward to sling the water off of themselves. It was only then that the Lamb got a decent look at the creature. First, they saw the bandages. Wrapped around their feet, mirroring their own, but stained in dark purple. Then, they saw their cloak. A royal purple, with white zig zag outlines along the rim. Small symbols followed each tip of the lines. After that, a bell with the moon's reflection glimmering on its silver sheen. Soon, yellow tinted and sharp teeth with bizarrely shaped pupils met their gaze. And lying atop the shaggy, unkept fur? A crown with a purple crossed out pupil. That's not right. That's not right at all. But as the Lamb tried to get something, ANYTHING, to leave their lips… "…You seem like the familiar sort." It spoke. "You fancy yourself a swordsman, eh?" It pointed towards the Lamb's blade. "Bit banged up for me likin', though." It tugged the Lamb's arm to bring them closer, then shoved their torso to knock them onto the floor. "Tell ya what, I'll deal with these blokes, you stay there and sit all pretty like, aye?" The Lamb stammered, and finally managed to say something. "What are you?" It turned around, its back facing the lamb, as it grabbed its crown and violently contorted it into an axe. "Isn't it obvious? I'm a Goat."

[urcursebreaker]

burning body waiting (ellie williams x fem!reader)

read chapters one and two here

warnings for this chapter— graphic blood/gore, alcohol, overall adult content | word count: 8.8k

chapter 3: animal instinct

WINTER

2 years ago

Burgundy and pink wax dripped poignantly down the slender candles, pattering on the grimy, unfinished wood floor. The winter wind howled ominously, whistling through the cracks of the deteriorating shack, the battered, peeling Hole poster you half-heartedly pinned up fluttering with it.

Hot tears trailed down your cheeks, warming your wind-numbed face. You adjusted your mother's lavender cardigan over your shoulders, her lingering scent growing fainter alongside the memories of her voice as the days without her pressed on, ceaselessly. The Cranberries blared disjointedly through your staticky headphones, your shaky fingers drumming to the beat against your walkman.

Do you know you made me cry?

Do you know you made me die?

It is the lovely thing

The animal, the animal instinct

You squeezed your damp eyes shut and craned your head back, resting it against your mounted wall of sketches, humming softly to yourself. The cold had raked phantom talons through your spine, chilling you to the core.

The dim candlelight flickered as the shack door abruptly, forcefully swept open. You deliberately disregarded the pulsing presence occupying the threshold, the snow billowing in fiercely around his broad, heaving frame.

Zander hollered something incoherent over your boisterous music, the shack walls vibrating at the intensity of his voice.

You swiveled away sulkily, somberly tucking your knees to your chest, staring out the splintered window. Snow fell gracefully like an all-white hour glass, plodding and dense. Snow that you spent hours fumbling through in search of him.

He grabbed you, shaking your shoulders rapturously, your teeth clattering at the violent judder, panic contorting his features. You shredded off your headphones and shot him a withering glower, swatting him away. "What?" You sniped heartily, lip curled.

Your brother's mutilated, gauged eyes were concealed by a strand of fabric you'd cut from your sheets, enveloped around his head in a makeshift blindfold. Recovery was torturously slow. The wounds were open and gaping for weeks, baring soulless, fleshy caverns to the world. The memory of those black pits penetrating through you blankly sent a shudder of repulsion trickling up your spine.

Blood still oozed from the punctures in the delicate, healing flesh. It'd been months.

Then again, it had been months, and you were still waiting to wake up from the nightmare; to burst out of your tucked sheets, your mothers tender smile illuminated by the morning sun, as she smoothed back the hairs from your forehead and murmured a reassuring, "Just a dream, baby. It was all just a dream."

Your dad would be planted on the porch, sipping his scalding black coffee. Zander would be in one piece, zig-zagging through the fields of corn, chasing you with a laugh.

"Don't do that!" Zander bellowed in outrage, his severe, deep voice extracting you from the depths of your memories and reverberating through your shack, one of the candles winking out from the gust of his harsh breath. "Don't what me, fuck ass! I couldn't fucking find you!"

His hands vehemently patted your features, before pinching each of your numb cheeks. "Ow! Asshole!" You exclaimed, thrashing your head out of his unyielding grip, slapping his hands.

"I thought something happened to you. I know you're pissed off at me, but you cannot do that!" His voice had magically escalated, spit lurching through his barred teeth.

"Where else would I go, Zan?" You drawled acidly, rolling your eyes, heedlessly flicking off your walkman and popping out the cassette tape you found crammed under your parents bed, labeled in fraying marker: "OUR MIX."

"I can't see you," Zander breathed raggedly, dismay lancing through his tone, as he braced both hands on your shoulders. The pain in his voice gave you pause. "I can't see. I had no idea where you went..."

Guilt bloomed and sprouted in your chest, bubbling up your throat. You uncomfortably gulped down the apology simmering at the tip of your tongue, steeling your resolve. The thought of him flailing absently, desperately through the snow, screaming for you in terror, blind to the treacherous scenery and any potential harm.

All because he'd left without telling you.

Fresh tears surfaced in your eyes— not from the paralyzing remorse that mental image ignites, but from the reminder that he had left.

You seethed out a trembling breath, belligerently shoving him off of you. "And who's fault is that." You speared accusingly, glaring at him, a pit of dread yawning open in your stomach.

All you wanted was your brother. He was all you had left. All your friends had left you. Your parents were dead. He was the only remaining scrap of your untethered family.

And you thought he'd left you.

It'd been a cruel, unforgiving winter, snow knee-high, wind glacial and penetrating. Every day a cutting, bone-chilling cold. The furious flurries of snow so dense and strenuous, only the few feet ahead of you were visible if you dared trek the winter plains. You and Zander promised one another to never, ever leave the house without notifying the other, for safety reasons. Made an effort not to leave alone at all.

Yet you awoke that morning to a creeping silence. The wind rattling the bones of the hollow houses vacant carcass, the beams groaning emptily.

And a note. Tucked into the dry-rotting pages of your leather-bound notebook in a nearly unintelligible scrawl, reading vaguely:

Don't look for me.

You'd spent hours enduring the vicious blizzard, feet and hands plump and swollen and pulsating with frostbite, in search of him. Rummaging through all the snow-sunken debris within a three mile radius of the old house you were squatting at.

Thinking the worse. Thinking he'd took it a step further from impairing himself to deflect the harrowing scene he'd been bestowed. His eyes may be gone, however, the haunting memories did not die with his sight.

They plagued his slumber every night. He screamed and thrashed and begged the God's for peace.

Unfortunately for him, God abandoned them a long, long time ago.

Zander's hands fell dejectedly to his sides, wind-chapped fists clenching stiffly. He was silent, his lips pursed, chest heaving. Knuckles white. He composed himself before muttering regretfully, "You didn't see what I saw," he mused your name grimly, "and I am so thankful for that."

His fists unfurled, then closed. Wound back into taut balls. Opened, flexed. Closed. Sweat glistened on his calloused palms despite winters unapologetic chill. "If I had to go back, I'd see them and lose my eyes all over again, just so you don't have to see what I saw."

A deep frown transformed your face, a furrow stippling between your brows. You staggered toward him, planting an anchoring hand on his shoulder. The physical contact, the palpable confirmation that you were there, hearing him, seemed to alleviate his trepidation, a deep breath dispersing from his peeling lips.

"Zander..." you began cautiously, surveying the flakes of melting snow clinging to the front of his corduroy jacket in a shameful attempt to avoid the blindfold that ominously concealed the evidence of the terrors he'd witnessed, and the horrific truth that coincides with it. That they're gone. It's just you and him now. "I need you. I... I don't know how to do this on my own," your voice broke on a hideous, gurgling sob at the admission.

Zander's face crumpled. He leaned in to scoop you into an embrace, which you stealthily side-stepped, sniffling in disdain at the audacity. "Don't touch me. Were you really going to leave me without a fucking word?"

He swallowed ruefully, staying silent. You prompted him with an exasperated, biting, "Zander."

"I left a note," he muttered sheepishly in response, cheeks a chagrined flush. You scoffed bitterly as he crammed his hands into his pockets and continued, "It wasn't meant to happen that way. I- I wasn't leaving you. I would never, ever leave you. Ever." He swore faithfully and with enough conviction to ease your apprehension.

You would have never believed he'd leave you, before he did. It seemed reasonable he'd decide having a little sister to protect was a gamble with survival; no logical person wanted an extra mouth to feed, let alone a snarky, combative teenager to provide for.

"Really?" You blurted dumbly, tearily, voice hoarse with misuse, earlier's frantic screaming and sobs straining your vocal cords. Feeling smaller under the weight of all the uproaring emotions than you would've liked to. "Why did you go?" You croaked, using the sleeve of your sweater to smudge off the snot accumulating at the tip of your nose, mustering an ounce of dignity.

He didn't respond. He fumbled for you and enveloped your shivering frame with his big arms, crushing you to his chest; this time, you didn't protest, sinking into the damp, familiar fabric of his coat and hiccuping body-wracking sobs into him, letting him whisper false, ferocious promises.

Later, you come to find out, where he was heading to so cryptically. For a month prior to his sudden departure, he'd been sneaking off in the night to convene with a band of soldiers based on the outskirts of the deserted neighborhood you were residing in.

They told him they were part of an even larger organized group. They told him they had space for two more, plenty of supplies to spare.

And they told him they call themselves the Washington Liberation Front.

• • •

MID-SPRING

NOW

Rain patters down fiercely, thunderously, the heavens spewing an angry, roaring down pour. You grimace at the enormous crater splitting through the earth, a rigid canyon dividing the road, a public transit half-submerged in the mucky water. Obstructing your path.

"Fucking Washington," you mutter vexedly to yourself, craning your head back to examine the encompassing, collapsed buildings, squinting against the harsh rainfall.

You spot a rope dangling from the edge of a shattered window, mumbling reproachfully as you mount a concrete barrier and leap for it. Grunts flea from your pursed lips as you hoist yourself up to the dilapidated second-floor of an old commerce building.

Breathing labored, you plant yourself in one of the rusted office chairs, spinning around with a breathy chuckle. You rotate the chair back around to survey the shadow-shrouded view from the gaping hole in the wall, everything desolate and soggy.

This morning, the sun had blazed bright and true, gleaming through the window, illuminating the warm room you and Ellie had refurbished.

Now it seems the weather went to shit shortly after you noticed her absence, because now, you're drenched head to toe in glacial rain water, teeth clattering, nose tingling— and cripplingly alone.

You ignore the pain clanging through your chest at the passing thought, jarred by the solitude, the supposition of her abandonment. Is abandonment not a common practice? One shared despite religion or ones unspoken personal devotion? Something we all unite in? Snakes shed skin. People move on.

Will you keep pushing and pushing, begging to be worth fighting for? Will you keep proving yourself to people who've already decided you are nothing? It seems your life is an unabashed, consistent cycle of disappointing people. Over and over. Until they leave.

Ellie is no exception. You spent the morning over-analyzing every interaction you had with her, reflecting on every word you uttered, every ghost of a touch against her skin, down to every expression you donned, trying to pinpoint precisely where you went wrong. What you did to scare her off.

You chalked it up to her deeming you helpless. She had to save you numerous times. Had to haul your unconscious body across an active battlefield. Did sweeps of the building while you languished. Did most of the killing where infected were involved. Maybe she tired of your incapability, your inefficiency.

Maybe she got the relief she needed, and now you were useless to her, a worn toy casted aside.

You suppress the doleful thought. Force the notion that you're only insulted because she left you after sex; when in actuality, you'd be hurt either way. It feels like no matter what you do— the joy you sacrifice, the strength you wield, the precious parts of you that you bare without reluctance— it's never enough to make anyone stay.

Your mother taught you that kindness was a weapon in itself. If you wield it against your enemies, they'll falter at a glimpse of tenderness.

But you understand now that she was spoon feeding you morality; there's no home for altruism in this world. Violence is the true conqueror. The only way to survive, is to instill fear in those who cross your path.

Being soft in the face of brutality, honest in a web of lies, and tender-hearted at the end of a vengeful bullet has gotten you nowhere. You've been met with nothing but heartbreak and wrath. Snarls and gunfire. Skepticism and punishment.

One good beating heart is not enough to mend the fragility of this corrupted world.

Ellie had shown glimpses of herself, where the good festered underneath the thick layers of indestructibility she'd built around herself. You had a lick of it and now you wanted to rid her of it all, peel the sharp edges and rough plains from her one by one, learn the hurt that made a monster. Nestle yourself beneath her skin, coil around her bones, live in the casing of her ribcage.

The disturbing thought infiltrates your mind, looming like a dark, depraved shadow. You grit your teeth, massaging your temples, trying to banish the deranged image out of your head. It's always been either absolute disinterest or full blown, disabling obsession for you.

You're teetering toward the ladder.

Her brutality had captivated you. And that tongue...

You rapidly shake your head to banish the obscene thoughts. "Focus." You drawl to yourself slowly, examining the view. The forward operating base was around five miles onward. The only way left to go was back. Back to your brother. Back to the WLF.

You sigh heavily and study the jilted office, in search of anything that could be useful in getting you across your barricaded path. When you find nothing, you bravely measure up the distance between you and the neighboring building.

Close enough.

You wind up, hefting a placating breath, before leaping for the building. You narrowly make it. Your brain rattles with the force of the collision as your stomach slams into the crumbling ledge, soot and rubble clattering to the battered concrete below. "Fuck," you breathe hoarsely, weakly lifting your body up, wrists wobbling feebly.

You allow yourself to lay there for a moment, eyes closed, rain misting your face.

When you open your eyes, your body lurches in terror at the veiny spattering of spores curving up the wall and over the ceiling.

And the distinctive blood-chilling clacking of a clicker.

• • •

The waning evening sun peaks shyly through the overcast clouds, dimly illuminating the sprawling field before you. Wildflowers sway clemently with the breeze, soggy moss cushioning your hitched steps from earlier's relentless rain. Small, white butterflies flutter along the long, wisping coils of grass, their presence a promising sight.

But the dewy meadows damp, whimsical beauty could not outweigh the ugliness you felt rotting inside.

You try not to think about the excruciating pain lancing up your side. Disregard the blood gushing rapidly from your abdomen, the deep, dire crimson seeping through multiple layers of clothing.

Your fingers are drenched a thick, dooming red where you apply significant pressure to the oozing wound, limping aimlessly for the ivy-swathed, overgrown watchtower, sitting dilapidated at the edge of the clearing. Hoping you can preserve enough energy to make it to the top, where you can rest and get an adequate view of where you need to head at dawn.

You're nearing the splintered ladder when a whispered crunch sends you whirling in alarm. Your gun is nimbly drawn from it's holster, stance broad, the hairs raising stiffly on the back of your neck.

The drumming of your heart slows, blood roaring tumultuously in your ears at the freckled face staring back at you.

Ellie is frozen in place, arms up defensively, battered features contorted in authentic shock. Her muddy blue eyes are bright with consternation, flickering over you uncertainly.

Surprise, surprise, you think gratingly.

She startles when her gaze lands on the harrowing blood stain exuding from your jacket. "What happened—"

She cuts herself off when you flip the safety switch.

"You scared the shit out of me, you know. I thought you were one of those creepy fuckers," she quips breathily, her arms still raised, a hesitant smirk tugging on her mouth.

You don't smile back. You drag your gaze over her analytically, blankly, rage simmering low in your gut.

That untamable anger must bubble to the surface, glimmer darkly in your eyes, for Ellie's expression changes— you watch the light-hearted but uneasy amusement dwindle and leech from her face, a veil of vigilance draping over her.

"Easy, now," she murmurs cooly, warningly, carefully dropping her hands.

"Don't move!" You demand viciously, lurching forward, the gun a hazardous few inches from her face.

Her throat bobs with a swallow, hands half-lowered. "Hey," she whispers softly, though the warning in her tone was withstanding.

The gentle delicacy in her tone only ignites the already festering fury. "Stop talking." Your voice disperses from your lips with cold, lethal calm. Unfamiliar, that quiet violence rolling off your tongue.

It tastes good.

Her eyes dart between yours dubiously; regret tinges her cheeks a faint flush. She utters your name gently, taking a reluctant step forward. You let her, the gun trained on her forehead.

"It's just me," she says feather-lightly. As if one wrong breath would blow you off the edge, send you plunging to the deep end.

Maybe she was right to heed you like a rabid animal, uncaged. You feel like a dog downed, sick and trembling with want, deserted by its owner. Tail tucked and ears perked, belly down on the porch, waiting for the screech of tires on gravelly tarmac.

It takes you back to the day Zander disappeared. The memory so potent, so painful, you can presently feel the bite of winters bitter cold carving into your bones.

As your thoughts drifted, a hollowness creeping into your eyes, Ellie had inched closer without you realizing. She hovers only a couple precarious feet away, her fingers grazing the barrel of your gun. Your grip shakes violently, lip quivering.

"It's me." She repeats firmly, urging you to lower the gun. Your muscles naturally comply to the movement, until the gun is hanging limply at your side.

"I know," you respond dully, words ringing hollow, even to yourself. "I know."

She stares at you contemplatively for a moment, before her gaze droops to the gleaning wound. "Need some help with that?"

"I need to get going," you mumble absently in reply, pivoting away from her, her honed attention spearing through your back. Exhaustion was gradually, heavily weighing on you from the blood loss. The emotional turmoil from the memory of your brother, who's absence is growing palpable and leaden, like a boulder smothering your lungs, was making pressing on increasingly difficult.

You need to get back.

"Let me look at that first." She nods toward the blooming, shapeless stain.

You glance down at the wound indifferently. The blood is pouring out of you in heaps, flim and clots dribbling down your pant leg. "What the fuck," you gasp out, staggering, blood-blemished hand cradling the pools of crimson. Dots speckle your vision, and you plummet unsteadily to your ass, inching back as Ellie approaches, concern etched across her face. The tall grass engulfs you, it's embrace crisp and prickling.

"Fuck, am I gonna die?" You blurt, eyebrows furrowed, as you lift your faltering fingers and examine the near-black blood coating them.

Ellie is a looming shadow as the setting sun descends tranquilly behind her, rays radiating off her fraying ridges, the light off-setting the grim lines of her face. You squint up at her, and she crouches at your side, throwing off her backpack, fervently rummaging through it.

She fishes out a roll of gauze and a near empty bottle of alcohol. "Lay back for me," she directs in earnest, a hand on your shoulder carefully leaning you back, your body bolstered by plush, uncut grass.

You watch her silently, heavy-lidded, disorientation a dull drumming throughout your skull. The grizzly flesh around the wound is numb to the prodding of her insistent fingers.

She abruptly freezes, blood coating her calloused hands.

"What?" You rasp, fright gripping your heart and seizing at the look of dismay tainting her face.

She's silent for an imperative moment. Time ticks tediously, a shadow of fear contouring her expression.

"What?" You repeat breathlessly.

"Are you infected?" She asks after a long, apprehensive pause, attentively studying your injury. Blind to the scratch marring your shoulder.

Her composure bewilders you. If she truly believed you were infected, wouldn't she be scrambling away? Terrified you'd turn at any moment and take her down with you?

"No," you whisper, shaking your head, eyelashes fluttering in extortion. The hidden wound on your shoulder throbs perniciously at the lie. Your hand fumbles for hers, both grimed and caked in thick coats of drying blood, working in tandem to apply pressure to the wound. "I-I fell."

Her expectant stare roams over your paling face, urging you on. You swear her grip tightens imperceptibly on your hand— maybe in comfort— though it was likely just the excessive blood loss and trauma of the brutal injury warping your senses.

It hurt to speak, breaths leaving you in sharp, uncontrolled spurts. "I- there was a- a clicker," the words wheeze out of you. Instead of fleeing at the mention of your implied encounter, Ellie positions herself closer, draping over you almost protectively, holding a hand to the wound while the other cradled the back of your neck, propping you upward. "I tried t- to run. Jumped to another building but I- I missed, landed on a pipe."

That part is true. You left out the part where the clicker's talon-like hand scraped down your shoulder, grazing the flesh— enough to leave a scar. Enough to potentially inject venom.

She nods curtly, jaw set in determination, the warmth of her hand momentarily abandoning you as she picked up the alcohol and popped the cork.

She soaks a grimy cloth with it, casting you a fleeting, nearly apologetic glance before urging your hand aside and bunching it against the wound. You seethe, burning agony searing through your side, but you don't look away. You watch your blood soak the fabric, the alcohol tainted red, dribbling down.

"Why did you leave?" You ask deliriously, head lulling, words slurring. The pain almost doesn't register anymore. Neither does the shame the pathetic question should've brought.

She says nothing, not a flicker of emotion passing through her face, as she holds the wet cloth to your skin and stridently tears the medical tape with her teeth. She sloppily patches the cloth to you, hands swift and brutal, expression bleak and thoughtless.

"Alright. Lift your arms for me," she murmurs gravelly, a thick husk in her tone, fingers edging the bloodied hem of your camisole. You comply, a shudder wracking through you at that low voice, the one that had talked you through your shared obscene acts. Ordered you to ride her thigh, praised your dripping pussy...

"Good," Ellie drawls, leisurely, deliberately hiking your shirt up to avoid disturbing the wound. Her pale eyes probe yours, dissecting the rage and hurt that froths there in tumultuous waves, crashing against the surface, pooling there even with your effort to hide it.

She slips the shirt off of you, tossing it aside. Her eyes drag to your heaving breasts, as if an anchor of temptation was towing her gaze down. Her nostrils flare with her stuttered breath, mouth parting, as if in memory of how it felt to seal her lips around your budding nipples.

You arch your back under her attentive stare, your breasts grazing her front. Her eyes close briefly at the sensation, a breath stealing out of her. Her hand slithers up your waist, pausing before it reaches your tit, thumb smoothing over your hot skin.

"Don't move," she directs hoarsely, the bristle of the surrounding grass reducing her tight voice to a faint whisper.

She tilts you back further to examine the wound, and you whimper at the movement. "I know. I know," she murmurs distractedly, securely wrapping the bandage around your waist, the rough pads of her fingers dancing across your exposed skin, igniting a distant wave of pleasure in the pit of your stomach.

The wind escalates, whipping your hair out of your face, unveiling the pulsating mark on your shoulder. You forgot that you were supposed to be concealing it when she was looking at you like that; like you were a tempting meal and she was a person emaciated. Something delectable to be devoured.

Fuck.

Fuck fuck fuck—

Your stomach roils with dread at the very moment she sees it. The ravaged, torn flesh is upturned and caked with blood, a golden, poisonous liquid seeping from the scratch, glimmering under the sun.

She's shell-shocked, unmoving.

"Ellie," you start hesitantly, fear creeping into your tone, as you rigidly sit up using your uninjured arm.

To your surprise, she doesn't stagger off. She slumps back defeatedly, studying you.

"It was just a scratch. I didn't think..."

She leans in, inspecting it. Solemnity twinkles in her eyes.

They dart back to your face, and the sadness there scares you for the first time since the encounter, the thought of your fragile mortality a lurking, creeping presence, clouding your mind.

You could die.

You open your mouth, tears brimming your own eyelashes, when Ellie forcefully cradles your neck and jerks your head to the side, baring the fizzing mark. "Stay still," she demands coldly, and you do, stiff with terror under her harsh hands. Half expecting her to put you out of your misery right then and there.

Her mouth unexpectedly connects with the wound, lapping up the blood, a startled moan squealing out of you at the intrusion of her tongue upon the tingling claw mark. "W-what are you doing—" the words tumble out of you in abject horror and confusion, your shaking hands planting on her shoulders, attempting to wrestle her away.

She suckles on the tenderized flesh, another moan hiccuping out of you, as she slides her fingers into your tousled hair and cranes your head further, licking ferociously.

"What the fuck!" You exclaim boisterously, mustering all your might to shove her away. She stumbles back, raking in a deep breath, crimson staining her lips, dribbling down her chin, venom glistening.

She flinches as she spits it out, her face rigid with determination. "I need to suck the venom out," she breathes, blood dotting her nose, smeared gruesomely around her mouth.

Understanding dawns on you, infiltrating the fear coursing through you. You nod reluctantly, permissibly, and she smiles, blood brimming the crevices of her teeth. She tucks a tendril of hair behind your ear, leaning in, her lips hovering a breath away from yours, watching the way they twitch at her nearness.

Earlier's resolve and resentment fade away as she peppers slow, ghoulish kisses down your jaw, your throat, the seam where your neck meets your shoulder. Her hot breaths skate across the injury, and you cup her head, shifting your shoulder to allow her better access. Her lips graze the wound, the brush of them nearly intimate, as they rove it over before latching onto a spool of gold-laced blood, suckling it in greedily.

"Shit," you whisper shakily, fighting the desire out of your voice, pain and pleasure coinciding at the warm sensation.

"Mm. Almost done," she mumbles into your skin dully, hand languidly slithering out of your hair and down your chest. You mewl, squirming when her thumb tweaks your aching nipple on its descent to your waist, holding you in place.

She shouldn't be doing this.

You know, by not only touching the venom but drinking it in, she's risking her own life to potentially save yours.

Which is so at odds with the way she left you without word just that morning.

She pulls away, spitting a thick wad of spit to the side, slowly running her sleeve across her tainted mouth. Blood blemishes the fabric, but she doesn't look at it, her eyes trained on yours.

You stare back, navally breaths spurting out of you, your cheeks buzzing at her attention, nipples hardened at the chill. It was nearly dark, dusk swathing the sky in subdued, swirling purples, the sun an amber pin-needle stabbing through the shadow-shrouded treeline. The darkness paints the blood marring her lips a near black, her breaths equally as heavy, unmeasured.

Crickets begin to chirp, the weeds undulating with nights restless creatures. Everything is quiet. Tranquil.

But not the storm brewing in Ellie's watchful eyes. Staring into them is turbulent and enrapturing; they beckon like a sea at night, moonlit and inviting, the air thick with electricity, waves battering a mean cliffside.

You tentatively extend your hand, thumb delicately plodding her bottom lip, ridding the blood there. She observes you closely, a smirk on her lips, and you scoot forward, hand dropping to her jaw.

"Ellie..." her name comes out a fragile whisper; concerned. "What if... what if you're... infected too, now?"

Her jaw clenched, the tendons flexing under your hand. Her eyebrows furrow, and she lightly shakes her head. "That's not possible," she whispers stoically back.

When you say nothing, confusion contorting your face, she scrunches up the sleeve of her jacket and leisurely lifts her tattooed arm between you, the winding moth design dark and elaborate.

The dense layer of ink did not conceal what lie underneath. The raised, marred skin expanding across her forearm, frail and wrinkled. You don't know how you never noticed before.

"What happened?" You mumble plaintively, caressing a gentle finger down the length of the rigid scar, speaking soft and cautious, afraid one wrong move would send her bolting, like a feeble, knobby-legged fawn caught in headlights.

She gulps audibly, breaking eye contact, eyes falling to your mercifully stroking hand. "I got bit. When I was 14," she informs callously, with a lack of emotion that did not equate her dismal words.

She traces a pensive finger over the scar, your hands brushing, an electric current hissing to life at the incidental contact. "So did my best friend," she continues bleakly, heartlessly, "Except she turned. And I never did."

You store the sacred information in a pocket of your brain; taking the tenuous piece of herself she willfully offered and handling it preciously, like an artifact to be glassed and admired, acknowledged from afar and with reverence. Knowing it's monumental and a rare, fortunate token in your treasure trove.

Grief for a little, less-scathed Ellie shades your heart. The thought of her harboring such a ghastly, horrific past; witnessing her friend transform into a beast she could not fathom.

You choose your next words carefully, not wanting to bestow a worthless apology. Sorry won't bring her friend back; won't mend the fractured pieces losing her had shattered. "You are very strong," you comment meaningfully, inching your hand off her pulsing wrist, splaying it upon her racketing heart. "Such a strong girl."

She swallows again, effortfully, as if forcing down the lump that had gathered there. "It's nothing," she says tightly, clearing her throat, stroking a thumb across your hand, where it rests gingerly on her chest. She remains silent for awhile, and you let her; whether the silence be to mull over her thoughts and meticulously craft her next words, or just as a space to exist in the quiet, in the now.

A loan bird soars overhead, the shadow of its feathery, nimble body spanning across the grass. It caws distantly, as if responding to the singing insects, the night breeze.

"I forget about it sometimes." She mutters suddenly, scratching the scar sheepishly. You see it now, the solemnity that her tone was void of— the despair kindled in her eyes, faint but flickering, like dying embers in the snow. As if she was just now remembering, the pain born anew, unsheathed from a hidden holster.

"I forget the worst things, too," you share benignly, honestly, removing your hand from her and tucking it under your chin timidly. It doesn't scare you to admit this to her; even though usually, there's a nagging voice, a phantom at your side, tittering that it's all going to be used against you, your own dull truths sharpened into blades aimed for your back.

"Until they spring up unexpectedly and ruin that moment. I can never fully escape it," you continue, shrugging.

Ellie stares at you a moment, that foundation of grief crumbling, reconstructed with hardened fury. One old and bone-deep. One that had resided in her, fed off her for some time. A slash of silver vengeance strikes through her eyes.

"It wasn't one of the worst things. Not even close," she declares without the malice you expected. Stated purely as a tragic wrong she had every intention of correcting.

She possesses an air of anger, even when she's placid, calm. You sensed it when you met her. When she was nothing but an eclipsed figure, disguised by the blood of her victims and the roaring of the flame she tamed. There was a darkness that leered over her shoulder, a honed presence waiting to strike, something hungry for violence. An itching lodged beneath her skin, only sated by bloodshed.

You can feel it now, the violence a living, breathing part of her. Even if it's tucked soundly into sleep, in the caverns of her soul. Even if right now she's looking at you like you hung the moon, like you are a temple to be honored, there's still that kill-switch, an inclination to snap and destroy. People ruin beautiful things all the time.

"Stop looking at me like that," Ellie insists softly, brushing a loose lock of hair out of your face.

"Like what?" you mumble absentmindedly, watching her bloodied lips quirk into a half-smirk. She leans in close, close enough you can count the freckles spattering her cheeks, her response a breath ghosting your lips.

"Like you fucking want me."

Your lips crash together in a symphony of need, your body awake and alive with desire, regardless of the wounds. You bask in the soft groan that grumbles out of her and into you, patiently, gingerly drawing your lips together. The metallic tang of your own blood violates your tastebuds as your tongues move ardently in tandem, slow and savoring, deep and searching.

Her arm envelops your waist, steering you nearer, and you melt into her firm embrace, chests constricted, hips aligned, the kiss long and languid, mouths leeching and hands claiming.

It feels right in the wrongest way. Like home, where the household is neglectful and thrumming with darkness under its floorboards, evil thriving behind closed doors; but still home. Where you're meant to be, where you feel you belong, even when you're petrified.

You straddle her hips and maneuver her backward, until she's laying on her back. The tall, coiling grass tickles your arms as you plant your hands on either side of her head, lips foraging. You roll your hips and she hisses a muffled curse when you grind your pelvis against hers, her hands roaming up your waist, masterfully avoiding your sealed wound.

It was instinct to move your body in time with hers. To get lost in the plush warmth of her mouth, that addictive, kindling pleasure between your legs.

But there was another instinct, humming to life in your core, slinking through your bones; one that came with living in this world, where danger lurks in every shadow.

That instinct must flare to life in Ellie, too, for her lips detach from yours, head canting. A faint crunch rings from the towering grass, and both of you are up in a minute, her gun drawn. You hurriedly tug your top back on, grimacing as you incidentally chafe your injury.

Stars speckle your vision, a migraine splitting your skull at the sudden shift of position.

"We should get inside," Ellie states breathily, sweeping a cautionary gaze over the dark meadow, before lowering her gun and pivoting to face you.

Dried patches of blood smirch her face as she scans you. "You good?"

You nod wearily, exhaustion ricocheting through your body. She must see your ailing face, for she hoists your unblemished arm over her shoulder and drawls, "I got you," partially alleviating the straining of your abdominal wound.

"Thanks," you grumble, slumping your weight into her. Allowing her to aid you across the lumpy field, toward a rusting twist of warped, wired fence, a hole yawning open in the center.

You're about to cross it when a dim orb shimmers before you. It twinkles, off and on, drifting by.

"A firefly," you whisper tenderly, smiling at the sight, despite the creaking of your bones, the misery lugging on your limbs.

Ellie starts to smile, too.

But she's not smiling at the firefly.

• • •

You stare into the steely face of the Bull, it's gold-encrusting fading. Vines dangle in snared tendrils from its protruding horns, the eroding, bleached bronze Bull overlooking the once country-themed bar. It was preserved due to being welded out of pure iron, withstanding the worlds fatalities, surviving the bombs and disease.

It's hollow slits for eyes leer right back at you, a cold, inhospitable welcome.

You waltz inside, disregarding it's looming heed, giddy at the indication of alcohol. You could knock back a few shots right now. To numb the now mellowing pain ambushing your body, and to calm your swarming mind.

You couldn't stop thinking about what Ellie told you. That she was bit— and lived. At the cost of carrying a heavy, harrowing memory through life with her.

Your mind wanders to Zander. Images of the now sealed over craters of his missing eyes flashing through your head. The way the blood had poured from him in alarming, unbelievable heaps that day, his eyes dangling from cords of tissue, hanging against his cheeks.

How could a person bleed out their body weight and miraculously survive?

How could a person get bitten and never turn?

You glance at Ellie uncertainly from over your impaired shoulder. She creeps into the bar with less enthusiasm, hand instinctively relaxing on her holster, thoughtfully scanning the place.

Tattered, dirt-blemished Texan flags hang from the low ceiling, dancing with the breeze whistling through the glassless windows. The walls are paneled with polished, dark oak, dusty black and white portraits either lining the walls or cracked on the unfinished wood floor. Depicting an array of Southern-America scenes, ranging from bull-riders to mane-flowing horses to western movie posters, pistols blazing, hats high.

You smile subconsciously, running your fingers over a painting of a girl about your age, wedged onto a stool, gloved hands milking a cow, a long, golden braid sloping down her back, her mischievous face craned toward the viewer. Her bell-bottom jeans hang low on her hips, gleaming red cowboy boots toeing the dirt.

You wriggle your toes in your own boots, the cowboy boots wearing and scuffed— a pair that belonged to your mother. "This place is in really good condition," you state aloud, eyes sweeping over the floor-to-ceiling bar, where bottles tipped and half-full and some broken, edged the shelves.

A lone cowboy hat, caked in grime, sits on the debris littered counter.

You gasp, swiftly shaking it off, wood chips clattering to the floor. You secure it on your head, the brim minutely misshapen. You adjust it and exclaim, "How do I look?" Sweeping your arms in an inelegant flourish, grinning crookedly at Ellie, who shakes her head in light amusement.

It reminds you of when Zander and you were little. He would force you to play a game where he was the deputy and you were the zombie that violated the Western town. He'd tackle you to the ground and bind your wrists with tethering thread, until you screamed and pouted to your dad, who scolded him for being rough.

"That's our baby, son," he'd tell Zander, always gentle in his authority, patting his shoulder paternally. Pointing to where you crouched in the grass, hopping in chase of a frantic butterfly, grinning ear to ear, the game forgotten— your cheeks still glistening with tears.

Zander would turn away at night in your shared bed, grumpy, furious that you ratted him out. Until you'd scoot closer and whisper into the balmy room, "Bubby, what's wrong?"

He would always ignore you. And you always scooched even closer, unruffled by his anger, sucking on Blue Bear's ear, resting your head on Zander's arm. You'd fall asleep there, chewing noisily on his bear, tiny body draped across him.

And you'd wake up back on your side of the bed, his face smashed into the pillow near your head, arm slung across you, as if naturally protecting you in his sleep.

The fond memory blooms and withers as soon as it sprouts. Zander always took care of you; even blinded, he put you above all else. You can't even stomach the thought of his worry at the news you were missing.

Glass crunches poignantly under your boot as you round the bar and pick up the nearest bottle of Vodka; nearly full. "Well, shit," you snort, popping the cap, taking a brisk swig straight from the bottle, wincing as it burns your throat on the way down. You spin around to Ellie, who was leaning against an intricately-carved wood pillar, watching you. "Want some?"

She contemplates your offer, before snatching it brazenly out of your hands, taking a controlled sip. Her head tilts as she surveys you. "You almost died today, and you're here, smiling like an idiot."

You shrug half-heartedly, stealing the bottle back, gulping down greedily. You smile uneasily at the repulsive, stinging taste overwhelming your tastebuds. "Happy to be alive, I guess."

"It's not a life worth living," she teases plainly, gesturing wide, emphatically to the sickened world.

You eye her diligently, tracking the sharp edges and soft planes of her face. "I disagree," you say quietly, crooking a knowing smile, sauntering off, swaying your hips.

The entrance gives way to an expansive saloon, a second, broader bar lining the back wall, tables dotting the spacious room. Fraying murals of rolling, sweeping mountains of Montana paint the perishing walls. In the center of the space is a mechanical bull, buffered by a barred platform.

"Oh my god!" You blurt animatedly, flailing for the bull, vodka splattering out of the bottle as you run with little consideration of your injuries.

You leap over the encompassing ring and size up the off-kilter bull before hoisting yourself onto it, flinching at the shooting pain careening up your side. "Zander always wanted to ride one of these! He was obsessed with the whole cowboy thing when we were kids."

You turn to face Ellie only to find her gone, a swirl of dust lingering where she once stood. "Ellie?" You holler, concern lacing your tone, tongue dry.

As if in response, the string lights overhead flicker and buzz raucously, illuminating the dark, decimated space. It's only a second later when the bull beneath you whirs to life, jerking suddenly, a clamorous sound emitting from you as you lurch for the handle on the synthetic saddle, gripping your hat to steady it in place.

Ellie emerges from a half-door leading to a dim back room, her face gleaming under the warm-hued lights. "I didn't think it would actually work," she admits, strolling over and leaning her hands on the railing, watching with a smirk as you struggle to maintain balance.

The bull is choppy and delayed due to age and unuse, yet it's belligerent movements are still sharp and undulating, the lag not enough to anchor you down without exploit. You shift your hips and bare your weight down, encasing your legs around the sides, wires and metal protruding from the matted, faux fur.

"That's it. Look at you," Ellie chuckles huskily, clapping, the praise in her tone awakening a string of tingles up your curved spine. Those sparks erupt into a raging hot flame when she drawls just loud enough for you to hear, "Ride it just like that."

Your head tips back on a dramatic groan, hips grinding into the jilting bull. "Fuck, what are you trying to do to me?" You giggle jubilantly, coyly, one hand planted on your hat, her unwavering attention spearing through you.

The bull screeches to a halt, it's rusted mechanics boisterous, the abrupt motion sending you careening off its back. You collapse to the matted floor with a thump, seething at the agony rocketing up your stomach, a faint dollop of crimson blooming through the bandage. "Ouch," you sulk, rubbing it half-hazardously, propping yourself on your elbows. Vodka still in hand.

The brim of your new hat obscures Ellie's impending figure as she heaves herself over the railing and stands over you. Her smirk is roguish, a formless dimple surfacing on her cheek. She rinsed earlier's blood away, but a nearly unintelligible crimson stain discolored the skin adjoining her mouth.

"Come here," you instruct softly. She's undeniable under the waning, golden lights, her mussed brown hair gleaming an auburn red, her eyes as blue and incandescent as you'd ever seen them, like ocean spray on a desolate beach.

She lowers herself just enough to suspend over your reclined frame, one knee planted between your spread legs, arms pinned on either side of your hips, caging you in her company. The imprisonment of her arms was a desirable iniquity; a preferred confine.

"Kiss me," you purr airily, as she crawls across you, descending her wanting lips onto yours on the cusp of your request.

You writhe beneath her, canting your chin to meet the divine ferocity of her desperate, animalistic kiss, your delighted moan muffled into her mouth.

Her lips detach from you just as swiftly as they had met yours. "Does that need re-bandaged?" She nods to the blood leaking through your top, a flush rising to her cheeks, as if fevered by the taste of your spit saturating her lips.

You snort. If you didn't know any better, you'd think she was flustered, your unabashed need for her making her shy. "No. I hardly feel it," you assure with a wispy laugh, wiping the dampness from her mouth.

She lingers there a moment, seemingly relishing in your nearness, before she ascends to her feet and extends a hand.

"Come on," she clasps your forearm and hauls you strongly to your feet, her hot breath reeking of liquor and something promised as it fanned your alcohol-warmed face.

You hover close, smiling mindlessly, looking at those damn lips. Imagining them snaking down your body, kissing you in forbidden places, eliciting unspeakable, ballooning pleasure within you.

That faint scar twitches upward under your amorous observation. "What?" She rasps, hand still encasing your wrist, the veins in her forearm fluttering.

You press a pliant, affectionate kiss to her lips and snake your arm out of her lenient grasp. "Nothin'," you muse blissfully, cheeks taut and sore from the strength of your grin, as you slither out of her residence.

She watches you slink away, rooted in place, as if frozen in disbelief by your easy display of endearment.

You hoist yourself onto the bar, all loose-limbed and unflappable, swinging your legs. "So what's our next move, then?"

She trails after you pensively, positioning herself between your legs. She sizes you up, from the shape of your thighs filling out your soiled Levi's, to the cleavage heaving at her from the brim of your dirty, lace-embellished top.

"What is it you think you want from me," she husks, craning her head with predatory calculation. "You want me to play with this pussy again?" Her hand slithers up between your legs and cups your clenching cunt through your jeans, sending you arching back in surprise. "Or is there more?"

Your heart drums mercilessly. Of course it's more. It's beyond her conception; the animal instinct that claws ravenously up your body and demands control whenever she's near, voracious for a sinking of teeth, a swallowing of her whole.

Of course you cannot tell her that when she's around, there's an incurable hunger, festering in the depths of your belly, chanting, I am hungry I am hungry I am hungry, for a taste of your darkness, a glimpse of its creator.

Of course you cannot say she is the catalyst and the maker of the peace you fabricated falsely for yourself. And that you want her to keep ruining all the ruined things you've built yourself upon.

So all you can you say, voice shaky with resolve, is, "I want you."

A grim understanding overtakes her face, varnished by varying shades of disappointment. Like you just asked her for the one thing she could never give you.

She takes a telling step back, distancing herself not only physically— imperishable walls of iron erect around her mind, barricading you, powerless and wailing on the other side.

"We should find somewhere to rest for the night."

She's gone before you're even off the counter, her shift in demeanor churning the alcohol sizzling in your gut.

That night, in the shadows of a grass-swept 7-Eleven, she sleeps with her back to you, her silence a skewering condemnation, prying open the scab of the wound her abandonment from that morning had opened.

Leaving you confused and, once again, wondering where you went wrong this time.

Maybe it's better this way.

You have to get back to Zander. Back to the base.

You don't have time to mull over what you said wrong.

You're in your own sleeping bag a few feet from her, watching her back inflate with unconscious, frantic breaths— like she's drowning in her sleep. You extend your arm across the space separating you, toying with a tendril of grass, circling it around your finger until the tip purples.

Sleep never graces you with its presence. You lay like that for hours, the tall crass whispering outside the broken window, the buildings groaning, Ellie's breathing labored but soft, the only noise the occasional bristle of her sleeping bag as she twitched and squirmed.

Until, with a suddenness that dropped your heart, she lurched up with a painful gasp, wretched, snotty sobs hiccuping out of her. She fumbles for the oversized, creased leather jacket she had draped over her as she slept, cradling it to her chest, unleashing ghastly cries into the fabric, covering her tear-slicked face.

Her back heaves with the force of her weeps as she bends over the jacket, rasping out hideous, wounded-animal like noises. You stare in horror, pain twinging in your heart at her palpable grief— wanting to comfort her, but being too coward to disrupt her unchained emotions.

She's nearly smothering herself with the jacket at that point, and you're about to intervene, jump up and rip it from her reddened face, when she comes up for air, gulping down hitched breaths.

You close your eyes in alarm, not wanting her to know you were awake, witnessing her meltdown.

"I'm sorry," she whimpers shakily, the hopelessness in her tone saved for the solitude of night, the unjudging eyes of the moon.

For a moment, you fear she's apologizing to you for the punishing silent treatment, so you crack open a heavy-lidded eye to peak at her.

She's thumbing the collar of the jacket, whispering into the flannel-liner inside, inhaling deeply. "I am so sorry. I am so sorry," she tips her forehead against the tag, rocking back and forth, muttering an indiscernible name, like a forgotten prayer.

She bows over it for so long, her tears muffled by the fabric, you wonder if she fell asleep while sitting up.

Just as the thought passes through your mind, she lays back down, cuddling the jacket to her chest, breathing harshly, appearing smaller than you'd ever seen her.

This time, instead of letting exhaustion cast you under its spell, you lay awake in the night, ready to face whatever dawn may bring— an empty bed, a lost companion; or a kinder tomorrow.

One that didn't tear you apart the way Ellie seemed to be torn as of now, her broken pieces discarded on the floor, unsalvageable— forged into an anger blazing like a loaded pistol.

Ready to load off at any given moment.