#rust and ruin answers

[rustandruin]

The lighthouse is from a game called Dredge

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

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

[croissantlover24]

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

Nexus when I catch you

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

oh sweetie…

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

I hope she kills him

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

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

Copper is so confused, haha

[ice-man-goes-bwoah]

Thank god someone else sees the potential of remmick’s sub side bc 👀 that man has been looking for connection for centuries - if you were kind to him I think he’d be putty in your hands and it would be glorious. I’d love for you to explore this in your writing - I know you’d kill it and leave me screaming into a pillow haha

Let me be soft with you||Remmick x reader

Summary — remmick has never known an act of kindness in his life until he met you.

Warning smut dom!reader sub!remmick p in v reader rides remmick

Word count—1017

A/n— I LOVE SUB REMMICK AND I NEED MORE

Tagging @abriefnirvana @fuckoffbard

The wind outside howls, brushing dead leaves across the rotting windowsill. The cabin creaks around you—old wood, brittle bones, shadows so thick they feel alive. This place is half-forgotten, sunken into the ribs of the forest like a wound no one wants to reopen. No one comes here. Not anymore.

Not since he made it his own.

You shouldn’t be here.

And yet, Remmick can’t look away from you.

You’re warm. Real. Grounded in a way that mocks the rotting walls and the ghost-thick air. You stand there like you belong, unshaken by the stink of old blood or the teeth of the cold. All soft curves, steady breath, and those kind, quiet eyes that haven’t flinched once—not even when you stepped over the threshold and saw him bare-chested, blood-drenched, wild-eyed.

“You should’ve run,” he rasps, back pressed to the wall like he thinks you might burn him. “Should’ve screamed.”

You tilt your head, like you’re studying a puzzle rather than a predator. “Why would I scream? You haven’t hurt me.”

His jaw flexes. His fingers twitch. There’s blood dried like rust across his collarbone, a streak of it trailing down toward the edge of his sternum. The chain around his neck catches the firelight—dull gold, heavy. Worn not for style, but like penance. Like ownership.

“You don’t know what I am,” he growls. There’s something raw under it. Not menace—shame.

“I do.” You step closer, slow and sure. “And I think you’re tired.”

He flinches like you slapped him.

It’s the kind of answer he doesn’t know how to fight. Not judgment. Not fear. Just truth, laid bare between you. And you, offering it so gently he could scream.

“I’ve done terrible things,” he mutters, voice fraying.

“I know.”

You’re right in front of him now. He could reach you. He could snap your neck. Drain you. Feed on you until the blood runs down his chin. But he doesn’t move. His hands stay clenched at his sides, trembling with effort, nails biting into his palms.

You press your palm to his chest.

His dead heart stutters. Not a beat, not life—but something. Recognition. Longing. Ache.

“You don’t scare me, Remmick.”

And something inside him—something old and ruined—breaks.

He doesn’t remember his knees hitting the floor. Doesn’t feel the pain of it. Just the cotton-soft thump of surrender as he folds, head bowed, hands gripping the hem of your shirt like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. His forehead presses into the warmth of your stomach, desperate, reverent.

“Please,” he breathes, voice so quiet it trembles. “Don’t be cruel.”

“I’m not,” you whisper. Your fingers find his hair, slow and soothing, and his whole body shudders like the simple touch is too much. “Let me be soft with you.”

He makes a sound—low, ragged, almost animal. A wounded thing trying not to bleed out in front of you. It tears out of him like a confession. Like a prayer.

You don’t stop. You hold him through it. You let him kneel. You let him need.

“I’m not good,” he says, mouth still pressed to your belly like he’s trying to hide in you. “Not clean. Not… worthy of this.”

“You don’t have to be good,” you say, gentler still. You tug on his hair, tilting his head up until his eyes meet yours—stormy, wide, afraid. “You just have to be mine.”

His breath catches.

God. He wants that.

He wants to belong. To be claimed, even if he doesn’t deserve it. Wants to forget every name he’s ever taken, every throat he’s ever torn open, every night he’s spent drowning in the dark and trying not to feel.

He surges forward, hands sliding up your waist like he’s starving for you—and you let him. You don’t flinch, don’t falter. You hold his face in your hands, and he leans into the touch like it’s holy.

Like you’re holy.

Like if he lets go, he might never find this again.

You guide him to the bed.

He goes willingly, crawling back on the creaking mattress while watching you with wide, desperate eyes. You undress without shame, your full body bathed in the flicker of firelight—and he stares like he’s witnessing a miracle. Not hunger. Worship.

“You’re beautiful,” he breathes.

You smile. “You always look at me like that.”

“Because it never stops killing me.”

You climb over him slowly, pressing him down. His breath catches when your thigh settles between his legs, when your weight blankets him. He doesn’t feel crushed. He feels safe.

“Is this okay?” you ask, fingertips brushing his cheek.

He nods, too fast. “Please. I—I don’t want to think. Just tell me what to do.”

You kiss him. He sighs against your lips like he’s never been kissed soft before. Like the world always demanded he take, and you’re the first to give.

“You don’t have to do anything,” you murmur, grinding your hips just slightly. His head thumps back. “Just feel.”

He’s already hard beneath you, hips jerking helplessly, chain cold against your chest as you lean in. You drag your lips down his throat, over the metal links, to the spot above his unbeating heart.

When you rock your hips again, he moans.

“You’re so good for me, Remmick,” you whisper. “So sweet like this.”

His eyes flutter shut. “No one’s ever called me sweet.”

“Then they weren’t paying attention.”

You ride him slow, holding his wrists above his head, letting him tremble under you while his thighs shake and his whimpers fall like prayers. The praise is steady, like rain—washing him clean, softening him where he thought he was stone.

“You take me so well.”

“You’re doing so good.”

“You’re mine, baby.”

“Yours,” he gasps, tears slipping from the corners of his eyes as his orgasm builds. “Yours, yours, please don’t stop—”

You don’t. You stay with him through the high, through the cries and shudders and pleading. When he comes, he falls apart completely—back arching, mouth falling open in silent reverence, body shaking as you ride him through it, gently coaxing him to give more.

And afterward, when you lower yourself to lay on top of him, he wraps his arms around you like a lifeline.

“I don’t deserve you,” he murmurs, voice hoarse.

“You deserve everything,” you whisper back. “Especially this.”

You stroke his hair until he falls asleep.

For once in his long, dark life, Remmick dreams of peace.

[moody-alcoholic]

Part 2 as promised.

Part 1

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

_____________________

Ghost flicks the ash off his cigarette. 

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

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

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

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

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

_____________________

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I want to go home,” you sob. 

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

_____________________

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

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

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

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

Good, he should be.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m telling the truth.” He pleads. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_____________________

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

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

“Where is everyone?” You ask. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…

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

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

“Yeah, we got him.” 

_____________________

[littlejoels]

you’re already halfway out the truck, facing the empty and abandoned gas station before joel even cuts the engine, heels clicking on the cracked concrete, that playful sway in your hips. your skirt flutters indecent with every step, barely skimming the bottom curve of your ass. you don’t fix it, you kinda like knowing he’s staring.

“joel, baby, i want snacks,” you call over your shoulder.

his boots hit the ground behind you, in a familiar rhythm; you don’t even have to look—his eyes are crawling up your legs, his jaw clicking, fingers flexing like he’s trying really hard not to grab you right here in the lot. “ain’t no snacks left, darlin’. this place’s picked clean.”

you know the shelves’ll be bare, the air stale and hot, every cooler warm and humming useless, their contents long expired or long gone. doesn’t stop you from pushing open the door, bell above it long dead, just a dusty jingle of chain. inside smelled like heat and baked plastic, motor oil and cigarettes. your flipflops slap across the tile, the hem of your tee lifting.

you hum to yourself. “i’m gonna find a magazine. something about fashion or porn.” joel chuckles behind you, that low gravelled sound that melts straight down your spine.

“you got a whole stack in the backseat already, sugar puss. ain’t enough to keep that pretty head of yours busy?”

you bend lowly under the faded rack of dusty paperbacks and old celebrity mags, ass tipped high in the air. joel's presence was a fiery heat at your back and when you weren't paying attention, his hand lands square on your ass, the sound loud in the dead space of the station, echoing off empty aisles. your breath catches, eyes wide as you whip your head around with a scandalized gasp. “joel!”

he’s grins, ardor feeling his eyes. “you bend like that again, and we ain’t makin’ it back to the truck, sweetheart.”

you straighten up, legs now a little weaker than they were two minutes ago. you pull a magazine from the rack—something with a half-naked man on the cover, water-streaked abs and dead eyes—and hold it up like a prize. “i found one, i love it.”

joel’s already wandering down a different aisle, fingers brushing dusty cans and half-torn wrappers. nothing edible, nothing useful, all ruin.

you trail after him, still sipping from the cherry soda you brought with you; the coolness of it pops sharp on your tongue, sugary and cloying, and you suck it slow, letting the bottle linger between your lips just to see the tick in joel’s jaw when he turns and catches the show.

“you’re a menace,” he mutters eyes glued to your mouth.“i know,” you sing, batting your lashes. “but you like it, baby. don't forget. that part”

his hand finds your waist before you even notice, thumb grazing your skin as he presses you into the empty shelf. “you tryin’ to rile me up out here in the middle of nowhere?”

you glance up at him through your lashes, lips glossy, teeth catching on your bottom one. “maybe i’m bored. maybe i need a distraction.” joel’s hand dips lower, gripping you. “let’s find somewhere quiet,” you whisper, wrapping your fingers around his wrist, dragging his palm down the front of your skirt. "so i can read to you."

he groans loudly as you press your lips to his neck, breath ghosting over his skin.

“you like my stories, don’t you, baby?” joel’s hand fists in your hair. “i like your mouth.”

the station has a bathroom in back, door hanging crooked on broken hinges, floor cracked, mirror spiderwebbed and rust-flecked, the usual in an abandoned gas station.

you toss your magazine onto the cracked sink, already reaching for the hem of your shirt, peeling it up slow, bra catching and lifting your tits high and round, begging to be touched. you then hop up on the counter, spread your leg allowing your short skirt to bunch around your waist, the glint of your panties .

“you gonna read this one with me?” you ask, curling a finger at him. “or do you want me to read it to you while you’re busy?”

he doesn’t even answer—just starts undoing his belt. well, that’s answer enough for how you’ll be spending the rest of the trip, isn’t it?

special tags: @inbred-eater , @carmysdoll , @lowrisemiller, @bluemerakis

[pandapetals]

Soo.. What abt Joel Miller x Reader. Where not only Joel gets beaten up by Abby but also reader,

But then Reader looks dead but isn't and Joel will live yk but they take Joel back to jackson and not reader bc they think shes dead but then someone (Tommy?) Is there to collect her body but then realises she's still alive and she's conscouis but wasnt able to move AND STILL LAYS IN THE EXACT SPOT and shes feels like she wasnt important or smt and she gets like really sad or something :)

Thank you<3

What’s Left of Us

Pairing: joel miller x fem!reader

Content warnings: established relationship, angst, mentions of blood and death, guilt, joel survives - but at what cost, trauma, needles, no fluff

Word Count: 2k

A/N: Thank you for the request. Okay, so this is my take on a fix-it fic? I'm not sure; I honestly don't know how I feel about this one.

Distant shouts bled through the fog, clinging to your mind. Gunshots cracked like thunder in the distance, sharp and disorienting, each one tugging at the frayed edges of your consciousness. You couldn’t move — your limbs were heavy, your body a leaden weight pressed against the cold, blood-slick floor.

Somewhere beyond the ringing in your ears, a voice cut through the chaos.

"Joel!"

Ellie. You knew that voice, raw and desperate, but it sounded like it was calling from underwater, from another world entirely.

You tried to turn your head to find him, but darkness clung to the corners of your vision. You caught a glimpse of him slumped against the floor, blood painting his face, chest rising in shallow, labored breaths.

Another voice. Deeper, steadier, though laced with alarm.

"We got 'em—fuck, we got 'em. Joel! Hey, stay with me, brother!"

Bootsteps pounded against broken glass. The air smelled of rust and old wood, the metallic tang of blood thick in your throat. You wanted to call out, to tell them you were still here, but your lips wouldn’t part. The words snagged in your throat, trapped behind a wall of pain and exhaustion.

The last thing you saw before the darkness claimed you was Joel’s bloodied hand twitching toward you, and Ellie dropping to her knees beside him.

Cold. It bit into your skin, gnawed at your bones. Something rough scraped against your back — the sensation of being dragged. Every jolt sent a new ripple of pain through your body, but your limbs refused to answer, dead weight tethered to a body you could no longer command.

Your breath hitched, shallow and ragged. The fabric beneath your fingertips was damp, clinging to your skin like a second, suffocating layer. You tried to move, to claw at whatever held you, but your hands wouldn’t close. Wouldn’t lift.

Your mind spiraled, grasping at half-formed thoughts.

Joel.

A flash of him, crumpled on the floor, blood slicking the wood beneath him like spilled oil. His face a ruin, his chest barely rising. The memory seared itself into you, a cruel brand you couldn’t blink away.

A broken sound escaped your throat, more breath than voice.

Then… nothing.

The world tilted. Darkness gathered at the edges of your vision, thick and suffocating. It dragged you under before you could anchor yourself to anything real, before you could call out. Another memory tried to surface, but it slipped through your fingers like smoke.

You woke with a scream — a raw, broken sound that clawed its way up your throat, shredding your voice as it came out. The air around you was cold, thick with the scent of blood, antiseptic, and something sour. Your hands shot out, clawing at rough fabric draped over your face. It felt like a burial shroud.

“Whoa, hey—hey!”

A rough voice cracking with panic called.

Strong hands pressed you back down against something cold and unyielding — a wooden table. The chill of it seeped through your skin, anchoring you in place as your mind scrambled to make sense of anything.

Your eyes snapped open, vision swimming in the dim, flickering light. Shapes blurred into focus: motionless figures covered in bloodstained sheets, the still air heavy with death.

Tommy’s face hovered above yours, washed out and streaked with grime, sweat clinging to his brow. His eyes were red-rimmed and glassy, the kind of grief you’d only seen in men who’d already lost too much.

“Christ… it’s alright,” he breathed, more to himself than you. “You’re okay… fuck, you’re okay.”

You tried to sit up, but the pain hit you like a wave, and his hands guided you back down.

“What—” your voice came out as a rasp, splintered and weak.

Tommy fumbled for a glass of water, his hands shaking as he brought it to your lips. You sipped, the lukewarm liquid stinging your parched throat. It tasted like copper and dust.

“I’m so sorry,” Tommy said, voice thick, words stumbling out in a rush. “I�� we thought you were gone. You weren’t breathing… Ellie and I— we were so focused on Joel, we… we didn’t even…” His voice cracked, trailing off, guilt warping every syllable.

Joel.

His name was a phantom in your mind, a tether to the last memory you had — his broken body crumpled on the floor, blood pooling like ink.

You shoved the water away, fingers trembling. “Is he—”

Tommy swallowed hard, eyes wet. “He’s okay. Barely, but… he’s alive.”

Something inside you splintered then, sharp and aching. You looked past him, to the other still forms in the room, covered in white, and a bitter truth settled in your chest.

You were meant to be one of them, and no one noticed you weren’t.

“I’m sorry—” Tommy started, his voice rough and frayed at the edges.

You shook your head before he could finish, a sharp, desperate motion that sent a spike of pain through your skull. Tears stung your eyes, blurring the world around you.

“No, it’s fine,” you croaked, the words scraping out of your throat like broken glass. It wasn’t fine. It was a lie, brittle and cruel, and it hung there between you like a jagged thing neither of you could touch.

Tommy flinched, like he could hear everything you weren’t saying.

“I wanna see him,” you whispered, the words trembling as they left you. Not a request. A plea. A tether to something still breathing in a world that felt otherwise dead.

Tommy’s jaw clenched, his gaze dropping for a heartbeat before he forced himself to meet your eyes. “You need to be checked out first,” he said, though it sounded more like a habit than a conviction, the words empty, already fraying at the seams.

“I don’t care,” you rasped, fresh tears sliding down your dirt-smeared cheeks. “I need to see him. Now.”

He hesitated, and in that pause, the silence screamed. The weight of what had almost been. Of how easily you’d been left behind, mistaken for one of the dead. It pressed in on your chest. 

Tommy scrubbed a hand down his face, his fingers leaving streaks in the grime. “Alright,” he muttered, voice cracking. “Alright, let’s get you to him.”

You never made it to Joel.

Somewhere between the hallway and the infirmary, the world slipped away again. The last thing you remembered was the feel of Tommy’s arms around you, his voice a distant, desperate murmur you couldn’t hold onto. The darkness came easily that time. 

When you woke, the room was empty. No voices, no hands reaching for you. Just the steady, artificial hum of a light overhead and the soft, infuriating beep of a monitor keeping count of a heart you weren’t sure should’ve kept beating.

Hours had passed. You could tell by the way the light outside the narrow window had shifted, from gray to the muted gold of late afternoon. An IV line tugged at the crook of your elbow, a plastic tether to a life you hadn’t asked for.

You lay there, staring at the ceiling, the weight of the room pressing in on you. The sheets were stiff, the pillow thin and unforgiving beneath your head. Everything smelled like bleach and dried blood.

Almost dead.

The thought circled in your mind, relentless. It wasn’t even a whisper — it was a fact. A cold, brutal truth that settled somewhere deep in your chest. You’d been so close they’d laid you among the dead and left you there.

Forgotten.

A knot tightened in your throat, but no tears came this time. There was a strange numbness spreading through you, heavier than the ache in your battered limbs. You should’ve felt angry. Should’ve wanted to scream, to tear out the IV and demand answers.

But all you could do was lie there and wonder if anyone had even noticed when they’d pulled you from that room. If it hadn’t been for Tommy, would anyone have known you weren’t gone?

Would Joel have known?

Your fingers twitched against the blanket, the only part of you willing to move. The memory of Joel’s bloodied hand reaching for you flickered in your mind, cruel and sharp.

You closed your eyes, and the thought came again.

Almost dead.

The silence was thick, heavy enough to smother, when the door creaked open.

Ellie stepped inside, her figure framed by the dim light spilling in from the hallway. She looked rough. A swollen bruise darkened the skin beneath her eye, dried blood crusted along a few shallow cuts on her arm. 

But she was walking, talking…alive.

Unlike you, still tethered to machines, a needle in your arm, skin waxy against the white sheets.

“Hey,” she said, voice low, almost unsure. She kept her gaze fixed on the floor, on the IV stand, on the window — anywhere but you.

You swallowed hard, throat raw and dry. “Hey.”

It came out awkward, thin, the word brittle between your teeth. Your body ached in places you couldn’t name, every inch of you heavy and unfamiliar, like you didn’t quite belong to it anymore. You didn’t want to know what you looked like, but judging by the flicker of guilt in Ellie’s eyes, it wasn’t good.

She edged closer, stopping at the foot of the bed, hands shoved deep into the pockets of a jacket too big for her.

“Look—” she started, her voice breaking around the word like it physically hurt to get it out.

You didn’t say anything. The air between you was thick with everything neither of you wanted to touch — fear, guilt, anger, the ache of what almost was.

Ellie scrubbed a hand down her face, wincing when her fingers brushed the bruise. “I… I didn’t know. I swear to god, I didn’t. We thought you were…” She trailed off, the word unspoken but unmistakable.

Dead.

You let out a breath, something between a laugh and a sob, your chest tight. “Yeah,” you rasped, your voice quieter than before. “Me too.”

The words hung there, and for the first time, Ellie met your eyes. Hers were bloodshot, rimmed with something that might’ve been tears if either of you were the kind of people who let them fall.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

God, you wanted to say it was fine. That it didn’t matter, that you understood, but it wasn’t fine. So you looked away instead, your fingers curling weakly into the blanket, and let the silence fill the room again.

“Joel’s awake,” Ellie said, her voice barely a whisper, like speaking it too loud might undo it. She rubbed the back of her neck, eyes fixed on a crack in the floor. “Been asking for you. Muttering your name when he drifts off.”

The words lodged in your chest, sharp and heavy all at once. You swallowed against the lump in your throat, forcing your voice out.

“Well,” you muttered, the bitterness bleeding through before you could stop it, “it’s not like I can move.” The moment the words left you, regret twisted in your stomach. “I’m sorry—”

Ellie flinched like she’d been slapped, and the look on her face stopped you cold. Guilt etched into every line of her expression, in the way her jaw clenched and her eyes stayed rooted to the floor.

“No,” she said hoarsely, shaking her head. “I deserve it. All of it. I just… I dunno.” Her voice cracked around the words. “You know, Joel and I weren’t exactly… good. And seeing him like that…all fucked up and broken and barely breathing — it was…”

She trailed off, swallowing hard, her fingers trembling at her sides.

Without thinking, you reached out, your hand moving with more instinct than strength, brushing against hers. The contact was light, but Ellie froze like it was enough to break her.

“I know,” you whispered.

Every jagged, complicated piece of it. The anger. The love. The regret. Seeing someone you weren’t sure you forgave bleeding out on a floor could still shatter something in you.

Ellie’s shoulders slumped, and she let out a breath that sounded like it’d been held for days. Her hand turned in yours, fingers curling hesitantly around yours in a fragile, unspoken truce.

“Anyway…” Ellie started, her voice barely cutting through the heavy quiet between you. She gave a dry, humorless laugh, scratching at the back of her neck. “Tommy’s trying to find a wheelchair. So you can, uh… go see Joel.”

The words landed like a stone in your chest. You closed your eyes for a moment, feeling the sting behind your eyelids, then gave the smallest nod. Your fingers tightened weakly around Ellie’s, more a twitch than a squeeze, but she felt it.

“Good,” you murmured.

Ellie let out a breath, her hand lingering in yours a beat longer than either of you expected. There was something fragile in the way she held on, like neither of you knew how to let go.

The door opened with a soft creak, and Tommy stepped inside, his face a map of exhaustion and grief. New lines had carved themselves into his skin, and the dark circles under his eyes spoke of sleepless nights.

“You’re awake,” he said softly, though his voice cracked around the edges. He cleared his throat, trying to gather himself. “Been out for two days.”

Your stomach twisted. Two days lost to the dark, to a world moving on without you.

Tommy stepped closer, his eyes flicking to Ellie’s hand still clutching yours before settling on your face. “Joel’s stable now. Finally. He’s awake, but…” He hesitated, the words catching in his throat like splinters. “He’s in bad shape. Got a long road ahead. Broken ribs, leg’s busted, nerve damage. Mood’s… all over the place. Can’t move right. Doc says he’s lucky to be alive.”

The room seemed to tilt slightly, your heart clenching so hard it hurt. You nodded slowly, swallowing the knot of emotion lodged in your throat.

“I wanna see him,” you whispered.

Tommy managed a tired, crooked smile. “Soon as I get that chair, we’ll take you down.”

He lingered for a moment like he wanted to say more. An apology or a promise, but in the end, he just gave your shoulder a gentle squeeze before stepping out.

Ellie gave your hand one last squeeze before letting go, and then slipped out the door after Tommy.

The hallway felt impossibly long, every turn of the wheelchair an unbearable wait you could hardly endure. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a fragile, panicked thing. Tommy said nothing as he pushed you, his grip tight on the handles, jaw clenched, grief carved deep into his face.

When he finally stopped, he didn’t look at you. Just gave your shoulder a light squeeze and quietly slipped out, leaving you alone with the low hum of machines and the suffocating weight of everything you’d been afraid to face.

Your breath hitched the moment your eyes found Joel.

A broken, battered shell of the man you knew. His face was unrecognizable — bruises blooming in deep purples and sickly yellows, his jaw swollen, one eye sealed shut beneath split, bloodied skin. Only one eye remained open, dull and glassy, staring toward the ceiling. He was propped against a stack of stiff, hospital-issued pillows, the thin blanket barely covering the broad frame that had once felt unmovable, indestructible.

A soft, strangled sob tore from your throat before you could stop it. The sound felt too loud in the sterile room, but you couldn’t swallow it down.

This wasn’t how you were supposed to see him.

Your fingers trembled against the rough fabric of the blanket pooled in your lap. You wanted to reach out, to take his hand, to feel some warmth, some proof of life, but your body felt too heavy, your heart too splintered.

You bit down hard on your lip, the taste of copper sharp against your tongue, trying to steady yourself. But nothing about this was steady. Nothing about it was fair.

A thousand memories crashed through you in a heartbeat. His gruff laugh, the way he called your name when you lagged behind on patrol, the feel of his hand steadying you when the world felt too sharp. And now… this.

“Joel,” you whispered, the word catching on a sob, your voice cracking under the weight of it.

The good eye shifted, slowly, until it met yours.

The machines filled the room with their steady, heartless beeping. His gaze was unfocused, cloudy with pain, but there was something in it—the faintest flicker of recognition.

Your throat ached as you forced out a breath. “I’m here.”

Tears blurred your vision, your chest tight enough that it felt like it might cave in. You reached out, fingers barely brushing his hand where it rested, bruised and slack, against the bed.

His fingers twitched.

And that was enough to shatter you.

You bent forward as far as your battered body would allow, resting your forehead against the edge of the mattress, your shoulders shaking as silent, broken sobs wracked through you.

You didn’t care how you looked. Didn’t care about the pain or the machines or the thick scent of antiseptic. He was alive. And it was somehow worse than death.

You weren’t sure either of you would come back from this.

taglist: @starmurdock

[juliettejwnewinesa]

Hiii I recently found your page and it’s so good I had an idea for seongje x shy reader: seongje is crazy and the reader strangely finds that attractive, after he gets into a fight the reader is in his lap completely flustered while teasing her and praising her while he smokes and it leads to eventual smut. (Request) have a good night <3💜

Title: “Like You Like This” Pairing: Kim Seongje x shy!Reader Word Count: ~6,500 Tags: post-fight tension, lap-sitting, smoking, possessive Seongje, teasing, praise kink, shy reader, slow build to smut, soft dom vibes, public-to-private tension, established feelings (barely admitted)

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

💥 PART I – Blood on His Hands, Stars in His Eyes

The first time Y/N sees Seongje fight, really fight, it’s horrifying. She shouldn’t be this calm watching someone get pummeled into the concrete, but something about the way he moves—fluid and brutal, like a beautiful disaster—makes her freeze.

The fight’s over before anyone can step in. One guy’s groaning on the floor, another is crawling back toward the alley exit.

Seongje just wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, spitting blood onto the ground like it’s nothing. His knuckles are red and split, and he doesn't even look tired.

Then he turns around, eyes wild, and finds her.

“You stayed,” he says, walking toward her. She blinks.

“I—yeah.”

His lip twitches. “Didn’t think you would.”

“I shouldn’t have,” she murmurs, voice so small he almost misses it.

But she doesn’t leave.

And that tells him more than any confession.

🚬 PART II – In His Lap, In His Grip

Later, it’s just the two of them behind an abandoned gym, sitting on a rusted-out bench. She’s perched beside him, cheeks burning.

“Come here,” Seongje says lowly, tugging her closer with two bloodied fingers curling into her waistband. “Sit.”

She obeys before her brain catches up.

One second she’s beside him, the next she’s in his lap, thighs over his, her heart racing like it might give out. He lights a cigarette lazily, eyes never leaving her face.

"You always blush like that?" he asks with a crooked grin, voice thick with amusement.

She hides her face in his chest. It smells like smoke, sweat, and something uniquely Seongje—danger wrapped in warmth.

“I-I didn’t think you’d want me close right now…”

“Why not?”

“You just fought two guys. You should rest.”

“I feel fine.” He exhales a thick plume of smoke, fingers tapping ash off the end. “Actually, I feel great.”

He leans forward, mouth brushing her ear. “You like it when I get like that, don’t you?”

She jerks back instinctively. “What?! N-No—”

“Liar.” His hand finds her waist, sliding slowly down her back until his palm is resting just above her ass. “You were shaking while you watched. Not scared. Excited.”

"I w-was just—worried about you."

"Mmhm." His other hand slips under her jaw, tilting her face up. “But your thighs are clenched. You know how I know?”

She makes a strangled sound.

He smirks. “Because I can feel it. You’re sitting right on me, baby.”

🔥 PART III – Fire Under Skin

“Still shy?” he murmurs.

Y/N can’t answer. Her body is frozen, burning. She’s never sat like this before, never this close, never with anyone like him. Her face is buried in his shoulder, but Seongje's grip on her hips holds her steady. There's no escape.

And she doesn’t really want to run, not from him.

“Look at me.”

She finally does—and the look on his face nearly ruins her.

He’s studying her like she’s art. Like she’s something worth wrecking gently.

“You don’t have to hide it,” he whispers, voice dark and sweet. “I know what you want. And I like that you like me like this.”

He takes a slow drag, exhales through his nose. The smoke curls between them. Then he stubs the cigarette out and tosses it away like it’s served its purpose.

"Don’t look away now. You wanted this, right?"

“I d-didn’t say that,” she stammers.

“You didn’t have to.”

His hand trails up her thigh, slow and teasing.

“Seongje…”

“You watched me lose my mind and then climbed into my lap like a good girl. What am I supposed to think, huh?”

She gasps when he pushes her hips forward—right into the hard bulge in his jeans. “Oh my god—”

He grins, teeth gleaming. “Nah. Not God. Just me.”

🛏️ PART IV – In the Dark, All Her Walls Come Down

They don’t make it to her house.

He pulls her into a nearby apartment he crashes at sometimes—bare mattress, busted lights, clothes on the floor. His mouth is on hers before the door’s even shut, fast and deep and possessive. Her breath hitches as he lifts her by the thighs, carrying her like she weighs nothing, tossing her onto the bed.

"You're so cute when you’re flustered," he whispers, crawling over her. “All shy and polite, but look at you now. Spreading those legs for me like you need it.”

She covers her face with both hands.

He chuckles, gently pulling them away. “Don’t hide. I want to see what I do to you.”

He kisses down her neck, her collarbone, her stomach. Every touch sends sparks up her spine. His fingers slip beneath her waistband, toying with the edge of her panties.

“You’re soaked already,” he says, voice husky. “Told you, didn’t I? You like me like this. Bloody hands, sharp mouth, all of it.”

“S-Shut up—”

“Make me,” he growls—and slides two fingers into her, slow and deep.

She gasps, thighs tightening around his wrist. He pumps them gently, curling them just right.

“You gonna come on my fingers just from this?” he teases. “So desperate for me you can’t even talk?”

“Seongje—!”

“Say my name again,” he whispers. “Say it like that.”

🔞 PART V – Raw, Rough, Real

Her clothes are gone before she realizes. His too. His body is warm, strong, scarred. He settles between her legs and just stares for a moment, drinking her in.

"You sure?" he asks, voice suddenly softer.

She nods quickly. "Please."

That’s all he needs.

He pushes in slowly, watching every twitch of her expression, every whimper. He goes slow at first—almost too slow—but once he’s fully inside her, all bets are off.

He fucks like he fights—relentless, all-consuming. But he worships her too, kissing her between thrusts, murmuring filthy praise against her skin.

“Such a tight pussy for such a shy girl.”

“Fuck, you feel perfect.”

“I could stay inside you forever.”

Her fingers dig into his back. Her breath stutters as he pounds into her, hips snapping, deeper and deeper.

"You like this? Being fucked by the guy you just watched beat the shit out of two assholes?"

She moans.

"Yeah. You do. I can feel how much you like it. You’re clenching around me."

She whimpers something incoherent.

He bites down on her shoulder. “I’m not stopping ‘til you come again. And maybe not even then.”

💞 PART VI – Afterglow

They lie tangled afterward, her head on his chest, their bodies still humming.

He lights another cigarette, breathes it in, then offers her the unlit end. “Want a taste?”

She takes it shyly, lips brushing where his just were.

“Next time,” he says after a while, “I’ll try not to fight. But if I do—”

She looks up at him.

“Will you still want me after?”

She nods.

He grins, triumphant. “Then I’ll bleed for you anytime, baby.”

[max1461]

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

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

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

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

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

[thebomb-thebird-andtheburntbitch]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"fancy diggin' around in junk?"

"it's not all junk."

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

"it's a scrap yard."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[leighsartworks216]

Wedding Jitters

Sylus x fem!Reader

I am not big on weddings but I just love this trope so goddamn much and who better than with the big bad bossman himself

Warnings: fluff, wedding fluff, wedding, anxiety, comfort, forehead kisses, soft Sylus

Word Count: 1,127

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You're freaking out. You try not to - take deep breaths, drink some water. Your feet carry you in an anxious circle while you play with your dress's fabric. You can't cry, can't run your fingers through your hair; the stylists spent so much time on them, you'd hate to ruin it.

You glance at the time. In half an hour, you'll be walking down the aisle and getting married to the love of your life. In front of your friends and family and the twins and- God you can't breathe.

There's a gentle knock on the door. "Sweetie? Are you alright?"

Just hearing his voice soothes most of the nerves. You can't help letting out a strained laugh as you wander over to the door. You lean your shoulder against it. Rest your temple on the wood. You wonder if he's doing the same on the other side.

"Sy, you shouldn't be here."

He chuckles softly, like it's only meant for you to hear. "Mephisto said you were pacing. I was worried."

You smile privately to yourself. Of course that bird was keeping an eye on you.

"Are you alright?" Sylus asks again.

You sigh. "I'm nervous. I knew I would be, it's just..." you trail off. You force a laugh. "I know it's silly-"

"Don't belittle your emotions, sweetheart," he chastises gently. "You have every right to be nervous."

"I know... Are you nervous?"

"... A little," he admits honestly.

"You're handling it much better than me."

He chuckles. "Not much better. The stylists got onto me for messing with my hair too much."

You laugh. "I wish I could've seen it."

"I'm sure one of the twins recorded it."

"It's not every day they see the big boss man get chastened."

You try to imagine it. Sylus pacing around like you were. Running his hands through his hair, scratching the back of his neck, fiddling with his clothes in the mirror. And then being scolded by the stylist, getting onto him for messing up their work.

A silence lulls. The peace you built in his company starts rusting over with nerves once more. You trace and pick at the wood of the door, staring blankly at the knob's brassy gleam. You're scared to look at the clock. Scared to see just how quickly time is slipping away.

"Can I come in?" Sylus asks.

"It's bad luck," you warn with a grin.

You can imagine the smile on his face as he takes hold of the knob and gently opens the door, giving you time to step away. You position yourself against the wall, blocked by the door until it's closed again. He's haloed by the sunlight pouring in from the large floor-to-ceiling windows. Silver hair warmed with golden light. White suit shining. You can't help staring. He's so beautiful.

He's staring, too. Breath caught in his chest as his eyes soak in the vision you are. It's his first time seeing the dress. You feel bashful under his attention, but you don't want to hide from it. You reach out to him, and he answers like it's second nature, placing his hand in yours and crowding you against the wall.

His voice is breathless and reverent, awestruck by you. "You're beautiful," he whispers. He lightly brushes some of your hair behind your ear, fingertips barely brushing your skin. "You're glowing."

You scoff lightly, laughter choked in your chest for all the love filling it. "You look good in white," you whisper back.

He smiles that devastating smile. The smile that makes your heart race and your soul feel light. The smile that shows the true Sylus underneath his carefully crafted facade. The smile he reserves for you and you alone.

He cups your cheek in tender hand, like you're some precious thing only he has the honor of holding. His other hand holds yours, hovering just over the skirt of your dress, like touching it could mean even more bad luck. And that easily, your anxiety is pulled from you. It drifts from your mind, from the restless motions of your hands. You feel like you can breathe again. So you wrap an arm around his waist, palm running along soft satin, and pull him closer so you can breathe him in. Breathe in the warm scent that's long soaked into your pillows and blankets and home. He ducks his head down, shutting out more of the room, of the wedding, of time. His forehead nearly touching yours, noses almost brushing.

You close your eyes. The thought of going out there, being seen by all those people, watched by friends and family, is bearable. It's a weight you can carry. So long as he's there, standing at the end of the long carpet, standing tall and smiling brightly under the altar - you can do it.

You laugh quietly, suddenly. Open eyes starting to water as you look up into his. They're starting to water, too. "If my mother knows you've snuck in here, she'll kill you before we can exchange rings."

He chuckles deeply, but he doesn't move to leave yet. You hold on tighter. His thumb strokes your cheek, careful not to mess up your makeup. A cool spring breeze brushes past the gauzy curtains in the windows. He presses a lingering kiss against your forehead.

"I'll be waiting for you," he whispers, lips ghosting your hairline. "Just keep your eyes on me. I won't let you fall."

You smile. "I love you."

"I love you, too, sweetheart."

He steps away, almost reluctantly. Your hand slips from around his waist. His hand falls from your cheek. The last connecting thread between you is broken when your hands separate. It's only temporary, you remind yourself.

His smile turns to a devilish smirk as he puts his ear to the door, listening for footsteps or commotion, eyes still watching you. It's quiet in the hall. Still, he turns the knob slowly and peeks out through a crack, just to make sure. You have to keep from laughing; it feels like you have a secret boyfriend over and now he has to sneak back out without alerting your parents. You suppose it's not completely off the mark.

He glances at you one last time. Squeezes his huge frame out of the door and shuts it behind him with a soft click and a playful wink.

You stay pressed up against the wall a while longer. Watch the curtains swish in the breeze and breathe in the floral air. Smooth out the skirt of your dress. Listen to the starting notes of an all too familiar melody and the knock of the person set to walk you down the aisle.

You take a deep breath.

And open the door.

---

Tag List:

@the-golden-jhope @armycaratlover @sylusfluffymeow @cheesemachine44 @nyx2021 @angel-jupiter @thelittlebutton @pikachuzhc @pomegranatepip @cordidy @an-ever-angry-bi @thejysemongko @deusfoundry @that-lost-one @always-just-red @22carolina08 @lunaizhere @sine-nomine0 @beautifulthingsiadore @lalaluch @nothankyew @terriblesoup @jeleryyy @nezuswritingdesk @anaathxma @ssushi @mina7820 @monophobix @mentaltrouble2201 @mskaylacharite @nerrivm @ichosesparklingtorment @schnittled @animegamerfox @flamedancer13 @rebloggingislove @moonlight-inthe-sea @persepolys @satorubabee @sleepykittycx @moon-inthe-sea @perla-drg @leiakitty

[rustandruin]

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

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

[croissantlover24]

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

There is! It’s all on Tumblr, though:

[brookghaib-blog]

Silence between hearts ( preview )

Pairing: Robert ‘Bob’ Reynolds x reader

Summary: After Project SENTRY fails, Robert Reynolds is declared dead and sealed in a glass coffin to be hidden by O.X.E. Y/N, a doctor who secretly fell in love with him after a complicated path between them, refuses to believe he’s gone—fighting to save what’s left of him while grief and denial consume her, the path to look for him would ruin her, but to what extreme.

Note: I’m testing ideas and I came up with one, I’m mostly posting this already for you guys feedback, the first chapter will take a few days to be posted, I am working on my dissertation, but you guys understand.

—

The glass was thicker than it needed to be. Reinforced, sealed with polymer layers, and bolted into an alloy cradle designed to survive a small war. But none of that mattered to Y/N. All she could see was him inside it.

Bob.

Still.

Cold.

Lying there like a man who’d simply fallen asleep with no promise of waking.

The O.X.E. lab—once bright, bustling, and full of scientific ambition—now reeked of sterilizer and silence. They were shutting everything down. His project had failed, they said. Too unstable. Too dangerous. Too powerful. And now—too dead.

“Project SENTRY has been terminated. Containment protocol 6X is in effect,” droned a voice over the speakers. The kind of voice that never wavered. Not for ethics. Not for grief. Not even for love.

Y/N stood frozen as technicians fastened the final clamps onto the glass coffin. Her coat, still stained with dried blood from trying to stabilize him, hung limp around her. Her hands trembled. Her face was pale. Her lips parted, as if to speak, but no sound came out.

Two security guards hovered behind her.

“Dr. L/N,” one of them said gently. “You need to let them take him.”

She didn’t answer.

Instead, she stepped forward, eyes locked on the body within. Bob’s chest didn’t rise. His face was pale, serene—eerily calm for a man who had been made of light and rage. His golden hair framed a face that once radiated warmth, now drained of it entirely.

“No,” she whispered. Her voice cracked like splintered glass. “You don’t get to box him up. You don’t get to just erase him.”

“Doctor—”

“He’s not dead!” she snapped, finally spinning on the guards. Her voice echoed through the corridor, sharp and broken. “He’s not dead, he’s not—he’s not—”

But her knees buckled before her words could finish. She collapsed to the floor, her hands catching her barely an inch above the cold tile. Her breath came in shallow gasps, each one scraping her throat like rusted nails.

The guards hesitated, unsure whether to comfort her or restrain her.

Valentina didn’t.

Her heels clicked against the floor as she approached—always polished, always calculated. “This isn’t a romantic tragedy, Doctor,” she said, arms crossed. “This is containment. He was compromised. If you’d like to keep your clearance and your career, I suggest you walk away now.”

Y/N lifted her head slowly, tears streaking her face.

“I don’t care about clearance,” she hissed. “I cared about him.”

Valentina’s expression didn’t change. “Then you’re a liability.”

The moment stretched like wire pulled too tight.

And then, Valentina gave a cold nod.

“Seal it,” she ordered.

Technicians obeyed.

Y/N watched as a final hiss of hydraulic steam sealed the edges of the glass. The lighting inside dimmed, bathing Bob in a faint blue glow, like he was being buried beneath a glacier.

They strapped the coffin to a magnetic dolly, preparing to roll him out—out of the lab, out of history, out of her reach. Like he’d never existed. Like the nights they’d spent in quiet corners of the lab, whispering about the sky and everything he’d forgotten about being human, had never happened.

Like she hadn’t kissed his trembling hands after his first breakdown.

Like he hadn’t told her he was scared of the darkness inside him.

Like he hadn’t looked at her the night before the meltdown and said, “If I lose myself, don’t let them lock me away. Just tell me you loved me once. That it mattered.”

She scrambled up, stumbling toward the coffin, arms outstretched.

“Wait!” she cried.

The guards tried to intercept her, but she ducked around them, slamming her palms against the glass.

Her voice cracked as she spoke, forehead resting against the cold surface. “Bob. I’m here. I didn’t leave. I—I couldn’t save you, I’m sorry. But I remember you. Do you hear me? I remember everything. I do love you.”

No response.

She pressed her hand over his heart, her eyes tracing the shape of his closed eyelids, the curve of his lips. She could almost believe he was sleeping. Almost.

“Please,” she whispered, softer now. “Please come back. Just open your eyes. Just—just breathe. I’ll take the Void. I’ll take all of it. Just come back to me.”

Silence.

Valentina made a gesture. The guards pulled her away, gently but firmly.

“NO!” Y/N screamed, kicking and fighting. “You don’t get to take him! He’s not—he’s not a thing! He’s a person! He was mine!”

But Bob remained still, and the glass began to fog slightly with the temperature shift as the containment unit rolled toward the freight elevator.

Valentina didn’t look back.

And Y/N—struggling in the arms of men who didn’t know who Bob was, what he had become, what he meant—finally went limp.

Her voice, barely a breath now, rasped, “Please don’t leave me here without you…”

The elevator closed with a heavy clang.

Then he was gone.

[sideblogtointeract]

Theseus' Guide to Ruining a Perfectly Good Ship in a Bottle

A list made on the loosest association of words, with an even looser tie to this fanfiction

Stan

Give him an Amati model kit and he is happy as a clam. He's moded several already and resold them as "ghost ships" in bottles and "wreckage of a ghost ship" in a bottle for the ones Soos or Mabel drop.

Mabel

Lego model of ship in a bottle. After its built she'll change out vingettes/scenery. Soos, Wendy, and Stan are deeply invested in the unfolding soap opera Mabel crafts with it.

Dipper

Is really excited to make his first ship in a bottle, and he'll make one! Just as soon as he finishes reading a book on how to do it, and reads the other three he asked for his birthday. Maybe he'll go to the library to checkout the books the books he got used in the citation. He's going to build the ship, believe you me, he really isn't going to move onto something else in t minus 4 months. This ship? Getting built.

Ford

"Oh you meant as in an actual ship? Hah!" Ford has been maintaining an excellent example of Darwin's "Beagle in a Bottle" experiment for years now NOT a replica of the HMS Beagle in a bottle you silly.

Bill

It's the 1940s, your run is just beginning but already you feel like your life is over because prom is in two weeks and you just know Arch is going to ask Beronica not you to go with him. Can you blame him? You're just good ol’ dependable Vetty, girl next door Arch's on again off again no-on again “let's not put labels on this” girlfriend. Beronica is everything you're not she wears short skirts which you also wear but it's different. She's cheer captain and you're… also cheer captain — sometimes your co-captain it depends on the issue. Anyways she's rich, and beautiful, and perfect, and wonderful, and if it wasn't for the fact she was a brunette you'd have nothing on her.

“Oh Pops! What am I going to do?” You whine to the man working the bar at the soda shop.

“Well it's as I always tell you crazy kids, answers aren't found at the bottom of an Egg Cream.”

“But they sure are delicious!” Your longtime friend Bottlehead — wearer of cool hats and, more recently, cooler shades —  stops eating table napkins long enough to quip.

“And how!” All three of you laugh before Bottlehead goes back to slurping down  plastic straws like they're spaghetti. 

“If you want Arch to take you to the dance, just ask him yourself.” Pops suggests, like an out of touch square.

“This is the prom, Pops, not Sadie Hawkins!” You complain, pushing your half finished Egg Cream away. 

“Besides, I tried. I think he’s avoiding me.” You add, sinking into your seat.

“Say! Why don't you go ask that cursed fortune telling machine at the abandoned fairgrounds?” Bottlehead suggests, reaching for your abandoned drink.

“Golly that's a great idea! Bottlehead, if your mouth wasn't full of glass I could kiss you!!!” Bottlehead suffers a hug from you instead as he continues to consume your discarded order. cup and all.

You sock hop out of the establishment and cross the street to the abandoned fairgrounds.

Hopping over the rusted turnstile and side stepping some police tape you make your way to the culturally insensitive but period accurate fortune telling machine. Feeding it one of your hard earned and always valuable pennies the automata jolts to life. 

The words are garbled over the loud clacking of the doll's mouth, out of sync with the tinny audio. Which is fine, the opening number is an offensive milieu of ethnic stereotyping. The real magic is when you press the button with your wish in mind and the machine prints out the most accurate supernatural reading it can.

You know it's accurate because, unlike biological fortune tellers, machines don't care about sparing your feelings from the celestial forces that rule over you. Just the facts. 

“Please tell me how to get Arch to ask me to the dance.” You whisper your wish before slapping your hand onto the golden glowing button and watch as your destiny is printed onto gold backed ticketape.

For a brief second you hear a faint whimsical giggle as you rip off your printed fortune.  Looking around you see no one in the abandoned fairgrounds.  It’s just you, the chalk outline you're standing on, the automaton with its outstretched hand to shake, and the police tape surrounding you.

“That’s odd,” you muse. “When did you move?” You ask but the better question is how did it move?  Because aside from the rudimentary motions reserved for nutcrackers the machine’s body was a plaster mold that had no joints to move.

Yet here it is, hand out in greeting.  No. Not greeting, a deal and if you keep over-analysing I am going to take it back.

“What?” You ask as the internal narrative becomes as structurally unsound as the White House during this time period — look it up.

You turn to go to the Daleriver Library — now certified communist book free — to do just that, then are reminded by the text that you still need to read your fortune for our readers!

“If you want to be with your one true… loves?” You pause to puzzle at this but not for any longer than it takes to read this sentence.  “... forever. Then shake my hand.” You Continue.

“Your friend, Bill?” You don’t know who that is but you bet he is really keen and neato to have a name like that. You feel really embarrassed that you don’t remember having a friend like that. It would be really rude to leave a pal hanging, especially when they went through all this trouble for you.

So you shake the cold hand of the automaton before you. You don’t register that the glass pane wasn’t there, that the hard resin arm moves like flesh— no, all your focus is on the bright gold cat eyes looking back at you and the return of a giggle that grows into an outright cackle.  

Wind whips around you, police tape flying like ribbons caught in a tornado, and you stand still in the eye of it.

“Hiya Vetty,” The automaton greets, jaw held open like a snake— or like a smile, let’s not be rude.  “long time fan first time crossover. You and I have got a lot in common.” The machine continues but the tin from its voice box layers with the voice in the wind that has stopped laughing and now talks in sync with it. 

You don’t try to speak, you want to, but I don’t need to write around your wants anymore.

“Both of our fandoms question our interest in men and we share the same banana yellow pantone. Me for my body, you for your hair and… eyes?” The voice coming from all around, you guess correctly that this is Bill — smarty that you are, that earns you a free can of brown meat! — finishes. You don’t know what he looks like exactly but from the description he sounds like a real dream boat.

“My eyes aren't —” You hold that thought and pop a squat in front of the fortune telling machine. You jimmy open the front and reach inside it.

“Bet you weren’t expecting so much organ meat?” You ask yourself but you're not the one talking.

You pull your red stained arm out of the warm pulsing mass before you to free a pristine glass bottle. In its reflection you see your mouth split into a painfully wide grin scrunching your now golden eyes, a mirror image to the automaton leering over you; below that you see a tiny version of Arch banging his fist against his transparent prison. 

“Ever Dream of Jeannie kid?” Asks your new best friend, still borrowing your body and voice.

“Of course you don't! That's not for another 20 years!” Your hands uncork the top of the bottle.

The soft “tink” of glass tapping concrete reverberates in the abandoned fairground.  A moment passes in silence. 

Then you see shoes.

“Two down,” Bottlehead says, bending down to grab you. If he hears you and Arch’s pleas he doesn’t care as he gently returns your bottle prison back into its warm nest of organs. Gold eyes look over slick sunglasses and give you a wink. “... one to go.”

[ii11y]

tethered in red - dazai x reader

bound by a deepening obsession, the story follows a mission gone wrong—an ambush laced with betrayal, bloodshed, and the terrifying possibility of loss. as the world around you burns, dazai holds you like it’s the last time—loving you with a desperation only born from death. its raw. its unhinged. its the kind of love that destroys and saves at the same time.

warnings: 18+ explicit content, graphic violence,injury, blood, obsessive love, breakdowns, nsfw, angst, betrayal, possessiveness, mentions of death.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

the cigarette between chuuyas fingers burned low, the ash hanging off the end like a whisper away from collapse. you were sitting on a rooftop just outside the port mafias southern compound, the wind stirring strands of your hair across your face, the dying sun bleeding out behind the yokohama skyline.

your back ached. your ribs were still sore from last week’s assignment. but that wasn’t what made you uneasy.

it was him.

dazai sat beside you on the ledge, one leg dangling, the other pulled to his chest, his chin resting atop it. his eyes were fixed on the city, but you knew he wasn’t seeing it. he was far away. somewhere in the dark, fucked-up parts of his mind that not even you were allowed to follow.

chuuya flicked the ash off his cigarette, exhaling a long drag. “he’s been like that since yesterday,” he muttered, nodding toward dazai. “ever since Mori called you in.”

your stomach twisted. you knew the pattern. the summons. the silence. dazai always shut down right before something bad.

you reached for him anyway.

“osamu.”

his eyes didn’t move. but he answered.

“hmm?”

“is something wrong?"

a pause.

and then, softly, “no.”

⸻

the elevator to moris private chambers always felt like a descent into the underworld. your stomach dropped as the lift sank below the normal levels, into the depths where sunlight and mercy couldn’t reach.

the hallway outside his office was cold. clean. the kind of sterile that hospitals tried to mimic but never quite captured. like a morgue pretending to be a sanctuary.

you knocked once.

the door opened itself.

inside, mori sat behind his desk, tea steaming gently beside an untouched chessboard. elise stood nearby in her doll-like form, eyes unblinking, mouth curled into a cruel half-smile. the air tasted faintly of antiseptic and copper—like blood scrubbed just a little too late.

“come in,” mori said, gesturing.

dazai walked ahead of you. his shoulders were tight, his hands buried in his pockets. you followed in silence, every instinct screaming at you to turn around.

“you’re both here because i trust you,” mori said, steepling his fingers. “there’s a traitor. a former associate named yanagi. he’s been leaking intel to the government. we believe he’ll be at a decommissioned shipyard tonight. the location is secure, minimal risk.”

you frowned. “then why us?”

mori smiled, and it made your skin crawl.

“because i want to be absolutely certain he doesn’t walk away.”

that was the first red flag.

the second came when dazai asked, “you said minimal risk. you're sure?”

mori didn’t blink.

“positive.”

but dazai didn’t believe him.

you could see it in the way his fingers flexed. in the flicker in his eyes. in the silence that followed.

“fine,” dazai said at last, before adding on coldly, “but if anything happens to her, ill ensure you regret it."

moris smile never changed.

"oh. i'd expect nothing less.”

⸻

the docks were drowning in mist. the air was wet, thick with salt and steel. you and dazai moved like shadows through the decaying ruins of what used to be a shipping port — cranes long dead, containers left to rust like forgotten coffins.

something felt wrong.

the silence was too complete.

your heart thudded in your chest as you scanned the area. “we are being watched,” you whispered.

dazai didn’t answer.

then the fog shifted.

masked figures on the rooftops. behind the crates. lurking in the shadows.

too many.

far too many.

it was a setup.

you didn’t have time to shout before the first bullet shattered a pipe beside your head, spraying steam and fire. dazai tackled you to the ground as a barrage of gunfire tore through the air.

then came the knives.

the screaming.

the blood.

⸻

the world erupted into hell.

bullets split the fog, hot lead searing through steel and air. your body moved on instinct—rolling behind a rusted crate, your breathing ragged, ribs screaming. dazai was already on his feet, two guns drawn, eyes wild like a cornered wolf. not a strategist. not a trickster. a killer

you counted eight, then ten.

too many.

this wasn’t a takedown.

It was an execution.

your fingers shook as you reloaded. “they knew we were coming,” you hissed, throat raw.

“no,” Dazai spat, his voice lower than you’d ever heard it. “mori knew.”

that truth tasted worse than blood.

the first wave came fast—black masks, gleaming knives, footfalls like thunder on wet steel. dazai moved like water, bullets slicing through skulls, a knife in his off-hand spinning a man’s body into the air like a ragdoll. blood sprayed across your cheek—warm, thick, coppery.

you didnt have time to think.

you stabbed upward into a chest, felt the rib crack. pulled free. kicked. shot. the violence was mindless, primal. you didn’t know who you were killing anymore. only that it was you or them.

and then it happened.

a blade slid into your side.

you gasped—eyes wide—as warmth flooded your ribs.

you turned, instinct firing too slow, too late.

the masked man grinned behind blood-stained teeth—his knife lifting again.

but dazai screamed.

the kind of scream that tears through your spine and nestles in your bones.

it was raw. animalistic. like something in him snapped.

he was on the man in seconds. tackled him. pinned him. punched him. over..

and over.

and over.

blood coated dazai’s knuckles like war paint. the man’s skull caved in before he was even dead.

and dazai didn’t stop.

you reached out, voice trembling. “osamu—stop—”

but his eyes were gone.

gone.

lost in a place no one could reach.

you had to grab his wrist to pull him back to the surface.

he blinked.

breathed.

his chest heaved like he’d been drowning.

and then he saw you. really saw you.

the blood at your waist.

the pain in your eyes.

his hands were shaking.

“oh god,” he whispered, “you’re bleeding—you’re bleeding—”

you collapsed into him, darkness curling at the edges of your vision.

⸻

you came to in the back of a black sedan, the engine roaring like a beast through the night.

rain lashed against the windshield in violent slashes, the sky sobbing above Yokohama.

dazai was holding you, cradling you.

one hand pressed against your side, the other brushing your damp hair back from your face.

he was covered in blood.

yours. theirs. his own.

you blinked, throat dry. “…are we dead?”

chuuya barked a laugh from the front seat. “not yet. almost wrecked my car picking your dumbasses up, though.”

you tried to sit up. dazai stopped you with a gentle but firm hand.

“don’t move,” he whispered. his voice was wrecked. hoarse. strained. “you’re still bleeding.”

you looked at him.

really looked.

his eyes were wild. his pupils too wide, his jaw clenched tight.

you reached for his face. “you saved me.”

his hands tightened on you like he was scared you’d vanish. “no. i failed you. i let him send us into that trap. i didn’t see it. i should’ve known.”

your vision blurred again—not from pain this time, but the sheer weight of his guilt.

“it’s not your fault,” you murmured.

but he didn’t answer.

just held you tighter.

⸻

The Safehouse — 3:02 a.m.

the room was warm.

quiet.

the chaos was gone, but it lived inside your skin now.

the safehouse was nothing more than an old warehouse in the outskirts of the city—converted into a loft with makeshift walls, one bloodstained couch, a mattress on the floor, and a single bulb casting soft yellow light.

you lay on that mattress, wrapped in clean bandages, sweat still clinging to your skin from the fever. your side ached like hell.

dazai sat beside you, shirtless, arms slicked in dried blood and fresh bruises. he hadn’t left your side in hours.

“why are you still here?” you whispered.

his head tilted, eyes tired. “where else would I go?”

you looked at each other

and in that silence, something broke.

he leaned down—slow, unsure at first—until his forehead pressed against yours.

“i thought i lost you,” he whispered, his voice so quiet it cracked. “i thought you were dying in my arms and i couldn’t do anything.”

his lips brushed your brow. your temple. your nose.

“i wanted to kill them all. i did. and it wasn’t enough.”

your hand rose to cup his jaw. “i'm still here.”

his eyes closed.

and when they opened—something unhinged glowed behind them.

“you don’t understand,” he murmured, “i need you. if you ever die, i die with you.”

you shivered.

not from fear.

but from knowing he meant it.

⸻

dazai hadn’t stopped touching you since the moment chuuya dropped you off. he hadn’t let you stand, hadn’t let you breathe without his hand ghosting your skin like he needed confirmation that you were still real.

his fingers trembled where they rested on your hip, just above the edge of the bandage that wrapped your ribs. he looked down at you like you were a dying star, burning too hot—too bright—and about to vanish.

you saw it in his eyes.

that brittle kind of love that turns to ruin if it’s not touched back.

you shifted, your palm brushing over his bare chest. "osamu,” you whispered. “im here.”

that’s all it took.

he kissed you.

not gently.

this wasn’t a kiss, it was a collapse.

a collision of everything unsaid—all the times he didn’t say he loved you because he thought he’d lose you anyway. his lips bruised yours, frantic and deep, his body already pressing you down into the mattress like he needed you to anchor him to earth.

his voice was hoarse against your mouth. “i need you. i need you right now.”

You nodded silently.

that was all the permission he needed.

⸻

nsfw

touch like prayer.

dazai stripped you slowly, even though his hands were shaking. he pulled your shirt over your head like he was peeling back armor, revealing battle wounds he blamed himself for.

his fingers ghosted along your side, where the gauze clung tight. his lips followed, kissing everything except the wound. reverent. careful. like if he touched it, it would kill him.

“i almost lost you,” he murmured, breath hot against your ribs. “and I haven’t even—god, i haven’t loved you enough yet.”

you cupped his face. “then love me.”

and oh. he did.

he kissed your neck like it was sacred. bit lightly beneath your ear, then soothed it with his tongue. he pressed his mouth to your shoulder, down your collarbone, until your skin was flushed and trembling beneath his touch.

and then—your back.

he guided you onto your stomach with a tenderness that broke you.

his mouth followed the line of your spine.

one kiss at a time.

vertebrae by vertebrae.

a trail of heat and worship.

“you don’t understand,” he whispered, voice shaking, “you are the only thing in this world that makes me want to stay.”

and when he pushed inside you—it wasn’t slow.

it was urgent.

raw. desperate.

his breath hitched in your ear, hands digging into your hips like he was holding on for dear life.you gasped, body arching into him, feeling everything.

the stretch. the fullness. the emotion.

he moved like he was memorizing you.

“you feel so fucking good,” he groaned. “perfect. i don’t deserve this— i don’t deserve you.”

your hand reached back to find him, to tangle in his hair, to ground him.

“'samu” you whispered. “please. i need all of you.”

he lost it.

thrust harder. deeper.

your breath caught with every snap of his hips, every low, desperate moan he pressed against your skin. he worshipped every inch of you—your back, your neck, the shell of your ear—like he was imprinting himself onto your body.

abd you—you burned.

your body sang for him, trembled beneath him, opened to him like he was the only thing that ever made you feel whole.

when the first wave hit, it shattered you.

you sobbed his name, nails clawing at the sheets, as your orgasm ripped through you—hot, sharp, endless.

but he didn’t stop.

he couldn’t.

bot when he was this close to losing everything.

he flipped you gently, kissed the tears from your cheeks, slid back inside while you were still sensitive and trembling.

round two was even worse.

even deeper. slower. but devastating.

he looked into your eyes the whole time.

watched you come undone again.

held you while you cried into his mouth.

and still—he didn’t stop.

your legs shook. your throat was raw from moaning his name. yoy couldn’t think anymore—couldn’t speak. you just felt.

he finally came with a gasp like a man dying.

your name on his tongue like a last prayer.

he held you after. breathless. sweating. shaking.

his voice cracked against your neck. “youre mine. i don’t care if it’s selfish—i need you to be mine.”

you nodded.

“always.”

and in the silence that followed—he kissed you again.

softer this time.

but no less desperate.

⸻

thank u for reading!! if u made it this far lmk what u thought as this is the first fic ive ever wrote 🙏🙏

[theesirenteller]

Bone Marrow.

𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭: 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐎𝐧𝐞 : 𝐈 𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐰𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐮𝐩 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐮𝐭

New Orleans, 1998

The wound never healed right.

Even after Stack died—after the bite, the blood, the rebirth—that scar stayed. A crescent-shaped chunk of missing flesh near his ribs, where Savannah had sunk her teeth in and ripped. A fevered act of lust, madness, or something older, something sacred. Vampirism should have erased it. Should’ve knitted it shut, neat and clean like the rest. But no. That scar remained.

Mary noticed it the first time she undressed him.

"What did this?" she had asked, voice low, fingers brushing the torn skin.

He didn’t answer. Wouldn’t. Her hands were cold, and her breath smelled like iron. Even with Mary—especially with Mary—Stack couldn’t speak Savannah’s name without something ancient clawing up his throat.

Mary never asked again. But she remembered. And Stack felt the shift after that—how she started watching him closer, how she’d dig her nails into that scar during sex like she was trying to tear it wider. Like she was trying to bleed her out of him.

Then one night, Mary vanished.

Savannah was gone too.

That was months ago.

The nights since had been long and wet. Stack haunted the city like a curse, hungry and aimless. He fed only when he had to. He didn’t keep company. Didn’t keep names. The vampire world buzzed with news of Mary—the mad one, the blood-artist, the butcher-bitch poet of the Crescent. Bodies arranged like constellations. Teeth left in teacups. Smiles carved into skin.

And now, whispers.

Of something worse.

A woman. Not like Mary. Slower. Cleaner. A predator who disappeared into the fog after every kill. Who smiled as she ate. Who didn’t run, didn’t beg. Who left nothing behind but the bones.

Stack knew before they said her name.

Savannah.

He found her at a dive bar just off Elysian Fields. The kind of place with warped wood floors, a jukebox that never stopped humming, and locals who knew how to mind their business. The sign above the door had long since peeled away, leaving only rust and shadow.

She was at the bar, nursing a beer. Long fingers wrapped around the bottle, lips glossy and slow around the glass. Her eyes were half-lidded, her braid trailing down her back, bones threaded through like tiny white warnings. She didn’t look at him when he walked in.

But he saw her.

And smelled her.

Stack stopped cold.

Mary’s rot was on her. That stench — old blood, ruined flesh, the sour tang of rage. It clung to Savannah’s skin like perfume. But it wasn’t just that. It was her. Alive. Human.

Savannah should be Sammy’s age. Seventy-five. Maybe older. But she didn’t look a day over thirty-five. Her face had thinned, her eyes deeper set, but that same wicked curve to her mouth remained. That same impossible gravity.

She didn’t turn to him. Not right away.

Just raised the bottle and took another sip.

“You gonna stare all night?” she asked, voice smooth, untouched by time.

Stack swallowed something hard.

“You pos' ta be dead.”

She finally looked at him. And smiled.

“You too, suga.”

Stack leaned back in the booth, jaw tight, his gold tooth catching the dim bar light. He’d been quiet since she let slip Mary had come for her — but now, his voice dropped low, thick with that Mississippi drawl, the kind that curled like smoke in the air.

“You knew what she was, huh?” he muttered, eyes never leaving her face. “Knew she wasn’t no regular gal, and you still let her close? What she do to you, Vannah? What you do to her?”

Savannah tilted her head, that lazy smile playing on her lips again. She licked the rim of her bottle slow before answering, her voice velvet but bone-deep cold.

“Ate her up,” she purred, giggling like she’d said something sweet. “And spat that heffa her out.”

Stack blinked. She kept going.

“Her flesh was rotten, Stack. White and filthy. Like chewin’ on mildew and maggot dreams. It stuck to my teeth — I can still feel it on my tongue sometimes. Made my mouth taste like grave water. But I ain’t swallow none. Not her.”

She tapped the bottle against her lip, then whispered, grinning wider;

“You ever tasted somethin’ so foul it make your stomach remember who you used to be?”

Stack stared at her, blood roaring in his ears. He didn’t know whether to kiss her or kill her. That’s the thing with Savannah — she never gave you just one reason to stay, and never gave you any to leave.

tagged; @bxrbie1 @unvswrld @belleofthefloor @voydess @nubiagurllll @whysoceerious @soursourapple @thebumbqueen @queenofklonnie22 @rosaaverse @lovedlover @toxicsalami23 @milesf4vg1rl