#net's brain dumps

[rockingego]

maybe I'll draw searchlai for valentines day,,

[rockingego]

I am indeed always tired and never get bored with the same food

I eat grass is that why I'm grass

You are what you eat i guess

I need everyone to take this quiz right now and reblog what element they get

[leatherjacketed]

You either get it or you don't. Sam and Dean had to pack lightly. They couldn't get too attached to anything. At a moment's notice, they might've had to drop everything and run. There's an army man Sam wedged into the ashtray of the Impala. Lego blocks Dean jammed into the vents. They're not there because they were boys being boys trashing their dad's old whip. If Sam and Dean loved something, really loved it, the only way to keep it was to make it a part of the one thing that went with them everywhere. It's not one or the other. Both long to be strong enough to possess something, protect it, and fend off those that would steal it away. Both of them are still the same kids that had to leave behind something they didn't want to when Dad said, "let's skedaddle." They both still ache with pangs for all they've left behind over the years. They both still wallow in the unfairness.

It's not as simple as refusing to allow death to take the other away. Not so simple as staying by each other's side. Sam and Dean are fused. That's the only way they know how to keep something they love. They're tired of being helpless little kids crying about how life or death isn't fair. They retaliate against any oppositional force that might separate them with the vindictive wrath of a child bereaved and denied one too many times. If you pull something away from the hands of a child enough, the grip they have as adults will be ironclad. Sam and Dean hold onto each other with iron hands. They make any who would dare attempt to keep them apart taste their steel.

They used to be scared of the things that would take them away from each other. Now, the things that would take them away from each other are scared of them. Look, you either get it or you don't. 🤷

[willow-thicket]

Nicolas Gatien made an excellent instructional video on creating your own "antinet" or analog zettelkasten. (Follow his channel, too. He's aiming for 1000 & currently has just 26 to go!) Awesome learning tool/note taking system. I kinda like this better than the commonplace book strategy. Well, I guess this is like a commonplace book, but unbound & sortable.

[reality-detective]

FLORIDA DECLARES WAR ON CHEMTRAILS — GEOENGINEERING IS NOW A FELONY

As of May 12, 2025, Florida has made WEATHER WARFARE ILLEGAL. Senate Bill 56 is on Governor DeSantis’ desk, turning geoengineering into a THIRD-DEGREE FELONY. For the first time in U.S. history, spraying chemicals into the sky to modify weather, sunlight, or temperature is a CRIMINAL ACT.

This is not politics. This is a counterstrike. Trump’s return to power isn’t just symbolic — it’s operational. The Deep State has used the skies as a silent battlefield, dumping aluminum, barium, and strontium over entire populations. Now, Florida is striking back.

SB 56 doesn’t just ban geoengineering — it forces every airport in Florida to REPORT any aircraft outfitted for weather manipulation. If they don’t comply, they lose state funding. That’s not regulation — that’s WARFARE PROTOCOL.

The Florida DEP is now BANNED from even studying weather modification. Why? Because it’s already happening. Because it was never “theory.” Because the state knows and is finally cutting ties with the coverup.

An online reporting portal is being launched. Citizens will now have state-backed power to report chemtrail operations and trigger real investigations. The people are the surveillance net. The hunters become the hunted.

These aren’t just contrails. They are bio-weaponized aerosols. Aluminum attacks your brain. Barium weakens your heart. Strontium poisons your bones. All sprayed above schools, homes, crops. Your DNA is under attack.

But the chemicals are only part of the operation. EMFs are being used to weaponize the weather itself — steering storms, disrupting emotions, targeting regions. Remember Hurricane Ian? It didn’t move naturally. It was redirected. A warning shot to Florida’s resistance.

This bill doesn’t just expose crimes — it marks the start of takedown operations. Stand for Health Freedom, Friends of the Earth, and other groups are backing SB 56. Over 100,000 patriots flooded the state with demands: TAKE BACK OUR SKIES.

This is what Trump meant when he said the people would reclaim power. This is biological sovereignty. Environmental warfare accountability. A mass awakening.

Florida has just TORN UP THE GLOBALIST SKY AGENDA.

Other states: Are you watching? Because Trump is.

The firewall has collapsed. The weather war has started. 🤔

[ratbastardz]

BLOCKY 90s COMPUTER – NPT / ID PACK — ★

System names: The Error Codes, The Windows, The Personal Computer, The Hard Drive, The Glitches, The Cursor Collective, Screen Death, Core Dump, Fatal System Error, Hardware Reset, The Computer Collective, The Dialup System, The Internet, Collective Digitality

Names: Cirrus, Colossus, Sia, Athena, Raven, Ditz, Crash, Syntax, Static, Glitch, Error, Digital, Digi, Pixel, Exe, Megabyte, Terabyte, Gigabyte, Byte, PC, Com, Cube, Cubic, Cubix, Internet, Net, Data, Cyber, Google, Alexa, Siri, Linux, Mac, Apple, Cloud

Pronouns: they/them, it/its, zero/zeros, one/ones, 0101/1010s, voi/void, glitch/glitchs, error/errors, block/blocks, bluescreen/bluescreens, byte/bytes, tech/techs, windows/windows, 365/365s, PC/PCs, mouse/mouses, computer/computers, data/datas, tech/techs, tech/technical, internet/internet, net/nets, web/webs, disc/discs, .exe/.exes, exe/exes, 404/404s, ctrl/ctrl, shift/shifts, alt/alts, del/dels, caplock/caplocks, .com/.coms, .org/.orgs, .net/.nets, hack/hacks, HTML/HTMLs, JPEG/JPEGs, PNG/PNGs, ZIP/ZIPs, key/keys, hardware/hardwares, software/softwares, RAM/RAMs, 🌐/🌐s, 🔌/🔌s, 📀/📀s, 💽/💽s, 💾/💾s, 🖱️/🖱️s, ⌨️/⌨️s, 🖥️/🖥️s, 💿/💿s, 🖨️/🖨️s, 🔈/🔈s, 🔉/🔉s, 🔊/🔊s, 🔇/🔇s, 🖲️/🖲️s, 🛜/🛜s, 📁/📁s, 📂/📂s, 🗃️/🗃️s

Titles: The windows shutdown, The task manager, It who controls the cursor, It who cannot backup your information, It who has 1GB of brain space, It who runs games, It who whirrs when powered on, It who needs a cord, It who feeds on electricity and laughter, It who makes others smile, It who glitches, It who is disconnected, It who processes, The blue screen of death, It who is completely digital, It who has infinite functions, It who is limitless, The sentient computer

Labels: ancianaldern, computypen, robotthing, glitchlexic, techbodiment, aiwarix, cyberthing, bytegender, virtulonogia, techthing, Y10Kglitchic, technarian, phostechial, oldwebcitian, techrobai presentations, mechakeyboardic, keyboardsoundic, HTMLgender, hackgender, guy.exeic, genderprogram, gendercodex, errowebic, webot, webicoded, edgywebaesic, compuvior, compuvesil, computerredacted, computergender, computerkin, computergender², comphonum, codestelic, virtualexic, digitalexic, glitchsilly, 🌐💾emojic, virtualthing, webirus, webcorething, digiminalwebic, computergender³, webcoric, abstratechgender, techrobai, gendersoftware, gendervirtual, genderhacker, artificial intelligence, glitchgender, androidgender, youareanidiotvirusic

System roles: database, techie

Requested by: anon

[muletia]

I don’t why but I can see swimming with Mer Knockout to be a very intimate thing for him. Not even in a sexual way just generally affectionate 

Mer knockout being amused at watching the way you’re swimming about in the water, you’re not a bad swimmer per say, but watching your insufficient human limbs move as you dive under the surface of the water and peer down at him happily he finds oddly cute. You’re in no way fit for swimming with those little legs and arms, but you’re trying anyway 

Swimming out into deeper water cuz you have a big red handsome safety net constantly circling you, but Knockout also being that guy that mysteriously dives under the water, only to poke at your feet or sides without warning and it makes you squeal before you try to “attack” him, aka, you splash water at him when he resurfaces 

Also related to the deception merformer ask, after Megatron gives his mate that love bite I can see them being so petty about it because dammit now their neck/shoulder is sore. They’re wearing like a scarf/jumper to keep the bite hidden because otherwise people will think they’ve been mauled or something, but Megatron isn’t having that. Mostly because Megatron wants to be an annoying shit, but also, his mate covering up his love bite? Not on his fucking watch 

He snatches the scarf off them with a single clawed finger/rips the jumper collar with a single clawed finger, Que him smugly smirking at his mates red face as they angrily squawk at him  

Very big brained, anon <3

Awhhh Knockout fluff, how much I needed you <3 I think Knockout would also be fascinated by different swimming styles! If you know a few, he’d absolutely ask you to demonstrate them and then hold a contest to judge which one he thinks is the most elegant or simply the most pleasing to the optic.

And if, by some miracle, you managed to get your hands on a boat and decided to skip swimming with him that day, he’d be deeply displeased that you just dumped HIM in favor of that disgusting excuse for a transportation method. What do you mean you don’t want to swim with him today? Are you trying to break up with him or something?! And for the rest of the day, you’d be stuck dealing with his grumpy, overdramatic aft…

Megatron tearing your clothes off in one swift servo motion is making me feel things...

Mer!Megs would take leaving love bites on you very seriously, mostly because it’s his love language/courting ritual. He literally just confessed his love to you, and you’re trying to hide from him? In human terms, it’s like he kissed you and you wiped your mouth with the back of your hand. And he is having none of that... Next time, he’ll leave an even bigger mark. Even deeper. Maybe even a few? Just to make sure no piece of clothing can hide his declarations of love.

[rockingego]

Oh yeah Sunao you uh

Your real world counterpart

Hes uh

Hes umm

He's doing just fine

[causenessus]

new grounds

part 0.13. HIGH STAKES . . . 2.16.2024

PLAYING IN THE CAFE . . . it only takes a moment by jerry herman

the last game had been nerve-wracking and was dragging on forever. both teams had won one set and this final one had been bouncing back between the teams. they had long since passed the 25 point mark and neither team could seem to get two points ahead of the other. the crowd had started out vocal and had slowly quieted over time. not because anyone was becoming disinterested in the match–it was quite the opposite.

the stadium had almost become silent as everyone watched in anticipation, ears perking at every squeak of the shoe and grunt from a player. cheers erupted when points were scored, but quickly hushed again. 

she had been squeezing keiji’s hand tightly, knee bouncing erratically. her plan was nothing big, it wasn’t even that hard or embarrassing, yet she was nervous to go through with it if his team won. even with how the points were bouncing back between teams, though, she was confident they would win. perhaps she was biased, but it was what she believed.

she’d make it casual and hug bokuto first, maybe hug hinata, and then hug him. just as a congratulations, and to test out the waters. everything relied on him winning today. if things went well today, she would bring up the flowers soon, perhaps on a day they worked together if she was feeling confident. 

he had already looked at her countless times, and every single time their eyes met her heart skipped a beat. it felt like a good sign that he looked her way so much, and it helped to calm her nerves a little but the moment he looked away they were in a frenzy again. 

with how this last game was going, he had become too busy to look towards her, which was fine. she wanted him to focus on the game. currently, his team was leading. they had scored one point when he had dumped the ball over the net last second, sending everyone to their feet in roars as the ball hit the ground. but now that he had used up that trick, this last point would have to be won with a long, arduous volley. 

she had watched games before; keiji, yachi and her had gone to many of bokuto’s games in high school. even those were stressful to watch, especially during the finals but those felt like nothing compared to this game. she cringed everytime the libero dived and just barely kept the ball from hitting the crowd, and her stomach twisted, watching the opposing team’s blockers anticipate their moves and set up a block.

although she liked to prize herself that she had come to understand kageyama’s brain more, it would be years before she would be able to read his moves and what his plans might be during a volleyball game. she couldn’t tell who he would set to as three hitters came running towards the net. she knew it would be bokuto or hinata, but which one would it be? he liked to rely on hinata as an element of surprise; he was speedy and unpredictable, and the two of them together made her head spin. reading his body language, she was sure he was going to set forward to hinata who was already jumping, but she watched last second as he slightly arched back, practically teleporting the ball from the point above his hands right to bokuto’s point of impact.

the ball flew unevenly off of the arms of one of the opposing team’s players and hit the floor. it was silent for a moment before the crowd exploded into cheers for a final time, shouting and clapping as many rose to their feet.

keiji’s hand was still in hers when yachi grabbed her other hand in an instant as the three of them stood up. “let’s go!” she urged, leading the way out of their seats.

their footsteps were loud as the three of them pounded through the halls, running as fast as they could to meet the team. she saw bokuto first, being one of the taller men on the team and with his white and black hair that was recognizable from miles away.

she exclaimed as she ran at him, jumping into his arms as he twirled her around. “you did amazing!” she praised as he put her back down. “that last point–” she started, turning to face both bokuto and kageyama, who had kept himself nearby. here it went. she let go of bokuto’s hands which she had been holding together between her own, “that was so cool, but god, was i nervous trying to predict what you guys were going to do. i wasn’t excepting what you pulled at all,” she quickly threw her arms around kageyama, giving him a quick hug. he froze and she pulled away before he could even try and hug her back, trying her best to remain at least a little composed as well, “i thought for sure you were going to set to hinata, but you both did great!”

kageyama stammered, mouth slightly dropped open and surprise while bokuto puffed his chest proudly, "even i’m not sure what’ll happen, i just go for it and hope the ball’s coming my way in moments like those and then everyone cheers for me!” he ruffled her hair slightly, "thank you for coming, y/n."

“th…ank you…” kageyama slowly followed up, averting his eyes to the floor and rubbing the back of his neck. his face was red and he looked as if he was slightly pouting.

she watched an orange haired boy drag his feet towards them with his head hung low, “i thought for sure that last ball was coming my way too…i literally swung my arm through the air at full power it was so embarrassing…” he pouted as well.

“hey, all that matters if that we won, and that’s the best kind of confusion you can provide, isn’t it? when even you think the ball will be coming your way, those guys catch onto your confidence, even if you're being misled,” bokuto patted him on the back. “it all worked out in the end, didn’t it? everyone’s gotten a happy ending,” bokuto grinned, cocking his head towards kageyama who was chugging water with a still-red face a few feet away.

“it did,” she agreed, watching the boy try and cool his face with a towel. she’d gotten him to lose his usual calm demeanor, and that was a good sign that perhaps he did like her a little bit as well. she’d have to talk to him soon.

prev. | m.list | next

extras <3

one chapter left!!!!!!

bokuto's actually okay keeping secrets, he'll only share them with people he trusts and knows won't spread the word but he forgot that he was sharing a secret about y/n with the people that were involved in the secret

yachi is the only one who has serious beef with the manager and no one knows why like yeah she sucks but y/n still feels a little bad sometimes when she has to work alone

when y/n gets nervous she tends to talk and ramble more so her private acc exploded for like 10 minutes after kags' team won the game

kageyama wears his kneepads under his normal clothing sometimes to "get in the zone"

kags stayed in the locker room an extra 10 minutes just frozen and trying to process what just happened <3

all of his teammates slapped him on the back congratulating him "on the girl" and teased him which did not help

the gamblers had a bet about what y/n's plan was and yams won; hinata thought she was gonna kiss kags and tsukki thought yn was going to give him like flowers back

sometimes hinata complains that kageyama has given him trust issues "because of the amount of times you've used me as a decoy >:("

taglist: @ncitygreen @lvrlamp @cherrypieyourface @mimi3lover @lees-chaotic-brain @frootloopscos @0moonii @cr4yolaas @eggyrocks @pinkiscool @httpakkeiji @localgaytrainwreck @lunaviee @kitty-m30w @lixie-phoria @aliruuiz @corvid007 @iluv-ace @yvjitadori @k8nicole @ryeyeyer @thechaosoflonging @kettlepop @r0seandth0rns @rinheartshyunlix @lucky-chars @par4disee @vixx-11 @luvkvni @does-directions (form to be added to taglist! <3)

[evanchantingpeters]

How I met Evan Peters (Fanfic - Part 3)

Pairings ─ Evan Peters x Y/N (fem reader)

Genre ─ Smut/fluff, Romance

Summary ─ Just as Y/N thought she had it all figured out in LA, her world spins out of control when Evan Peters storms in like a tornado. Their electrifying hook-up leaves her reeling, but waking up alone, she fears the worst. Then, a note appears—his number and an invitation to a date teasing her with a chance. What starts as a romantic evening quickly spirals into a frenzy of hide-and-seek and sex.

Warnings ─ Swearing, semi-public, oral (both receiving), doggy, shower sex, overstimulation, fingering, nipple teasing, spanking, vaginal sex, extra smutty—you savvy pros, you know the game inside out ;)

Read Part 1 here and Part 2 here.

Word count ─ 5K

18+ This is ADULT content. I’m not your mummy to supervise your net access. If you’re a minor, do NOT read!

@evanchantingpeters — All rights reserved. Please do not modify, translate, or plagiarise my content.

You stir awake, blinking sleep away and squinting against the sunlight that streams through your curtains. A lazy smile curves your lips as you stretch, reaching out for...empty sheets. Mmhh, you just love the taste of nothing.

Evan’s not here... Emotional damage, even if what you had was an agreed one-off fling.

A soft groan escapes you as you fumble for your phone, the bright screen momentarily blinding you. 9:30. As you bury your nose into his pillowcase, you inhale deeply, catching a generous whiff of his essence’s sweet residue. You sigh deeply as your eyes land on the bedside table. His missing keys solidify the reality that he’s bounced, and you can’t help but frown.

“I feel like his side hoe when I should be the main character,” you think aloud, grumbling, and it’s giving trauma dumping and anxious attachment. What a refreshing concoction of disaster.

But what really puzzles you is the extra blanket draped over your duvet like a surprise guest. You wrack your brain, trying to recall if you snuggled up in it during the night, but it’s as hazy as trying to piece together a fuzzy Freudian dream.

With a resigned sigh, you roll out of bed, already craving his warmth. Mindlessly scrolling through your phone, you distract yourself with social media updates, news snippets, and the day’s weather forecast while you shuffle to the kitchen for your morning caffeine fix. A pang of disappointment hangs around like a lost sock in the dryer, but you refuse to let it dim your day and activate your female rage.

Or so you tell yourself.

Podcast blaring in the background, you tiptoe your way to the bathroom, facing your reflection in the mirror. You impulsively retrace the invisible path of Evan’s touch on you—from lips to chin, jawline, and neck down your cleavage and stomach. Each sensation has left its mark, and you can’t get enough of the sweet echoes. You sniff through your hair and arms in a desperate attempt to capture his scent on you—a tantalising hint of cinnamon and the musk of his natural oils that never fails to make your knees go weak.

You hop into the shower, letting the scalding water wash away your frustrations. Emerging revitalised and ready to conquer the day, you hastily throw on your work clothes and toss your keys and lanyard into your bag.

And that’s when you spot it by the entrance door—the note board. That bold black marker circling today’s 9 pm to 6 am time slot on your shift calendar, an arrow pointing directly to a message, practically winking at you, “Dinner and quality time with Evan. Text this number for more details.” Your heart somersaults with joy as you read the note over and over again, a goofy grin spreading across your face like wildfire.

You press a quick kiss to the note, folding it carefully and tucking it away as if it holds all the secrets of the universe. With a sense of anticipation bubbling in your chest, you dash out the door, already fashionably late.

On the subway, you retrieve the scrap of paper, tracing your fingers over his elegant handwriting with a soft smile. With a sarcastic tonality, you already craft your message, “I thought ghosts just floated around, they don’t ask you out.”

Within seconds, his response lights up your screen. “Morning to you too. Slept well? I’m the upgraded phantom version. Meet your Casper tonight at 9?”

You can’t help but giggle at his wit. Another text pops up, complete with coordinates to the restaurant he’s inviting you. The excitement builds inside you like a shaken soda bottle, and you’re practically fizzing with anticipation to see what the night has in store.

Time seems to trudge along at a sloth’s pace as you grind through your shift at the boutique. You flash your best retail smile as you serve customers on the cash register. Though, your mind is a million miles away, replaying the reel of moments with Evan; those moments when you convinced yourself that your insides were gonna spill out while he was going to town on you.

Half-heartedly, you tidy up the shop floor, picking up stray items and straightening displays. But let’s be real, your fingers move mechanically, and your brain is on autopilot as your thoughts wander back to the anticipation of tonight’s date. The enthusiasm is buzzing through you like a sugar rush, making it damn near impossible to focus on folding clothes or rearranging racks.

Each interaction with a customer is a blur as you absentmindedly tackle the fitting room. They might as well be talking to a mannequin for all you care. Your mind is firmly planted in Evan-land, where every moment is hot and heavy, and you’re too busy mentally undressing him for the umpteenth time.

“Girl, let me in your bubble, would you?” The voice of Trisha, your department’s jokester, slices through your daydreaming like a ninja with a chainsaw.

You blink, momentarily disoriented, before bursting into laughter at her impeccable timing. “Trish!” you exclaim, relishing in her knack to crack you up with her quirky humour. “Sorry, this bubble is strictly reserved for someone today.”

Her giggle rings out like music in the store as she playfully rolls her eyes. “Fine, fine! You do you, boo. Just make sure to save some of that magic for the rest of us in Stylista Gine, deal?”

With a saucy wink, she sashays off to attend to her own tasks, leaving you to shake off your giggles. The minutes tick by, and eventually, your shift mercifully comes to an end. With a sigh of relief and a bounce in your step, you clock out, knowing that soon you’ll be back in Evan’s arms (and on his dick).

You hastily trod along Sunset Boulevard, your sleek dark coat swinging with each step, and your little black dress add an extra sway to your stride. You’re practically power-walking in heels, like you’re in a race against time and your destination is the finish line.

Arriving at the hotel he’s staying at, you adjust the strap of your black stilettos around your ankle, ensuring no wardrobe malfunctions with your stocking will disrupt your night. With your heart thudding, you breeze through the sliding doors and past the reception. 

The tantalising scent of watermelon cocktail teases your senses as you strut in the bar restaurant, scoping out the room with mounting anticipation.

“Hi there, reservation for Peters?” you inquire, shooting a charming smile at the host, your racing emotions briefly receding.

Reciprocating with a polite grin, he quickly checks his tablet before nodding in confirmation. “Got it! Table 8. Right this way, miss,” he affirms, extending his arm in a welcoming gesture. 

Following the host, you can’t help but feel a surge of excitement as you round the corner and spot Evan’s back at the table. He looks effortlessly handsome in his blazer, like he’s just stepped out of a magazine spread, making your stomach churn with blissful nerves.

“Looks like my date’s here, thanks,” you note quietly with a soft smile.

“Awesome! Enjoy,” the host replies cheerfully, heading back to his post.

As you approach Evan, you lean in and give his shoulder a cheeky squeeze—a silent yet affectionate greeting that speaks volume. His gaze lights up with recognition, and he practically jumps from his chair, his grin widening as he’s eyeing you from top to bottom.

“Hey!” he exclaims, his voice laced with enthusiasm. “My eyes needed a bit of a warning for this stunner. Your fit’s so sleek, it looks tailor-made,” he adds shortly after, beaming, as you flow in a warm hug, his arms clinging around you like he never wants to let go.

With a crooked smirk, you blurt out with a touch of sarcasm, “Thanks. I picked it up with you in mind.”

His eyes widen in surprise, his grin expanding by the second. “Seriously?” he squeaks, visually delighted by the notion. 

You giggle, shaking your head. “Nah, but imagine if I did,” you fire back, your hearty laughter dancing in the air like confetti.

Before you know it, an electric tension fills the space between you as you stand mere inches apart, locked in a silent yet smouldering gaze.

“Are we on a ‘try not to kiss’ challenge?” he spills out, his voice an alluring murmur as his minty breath pleasantly prickles your skin.

A sly smile tugs at your lips. “Let’s see who caves and closes the gap first,” you hum as you flicker between his lips and his eyes. He feels the tension coil in his gut but forces it down with a hard gulp. 

Leaning in closer, his breath mingles with yours as he whispers, “You gotta give your best shot not to kiss me, then,” his tone carrying a seductive undertone that sends a delicious thrill rushing through you.

“You wish. No chance I’m smudging my tinted lip balm,” you retort and playfully pinch his nose, punctuating your mocking banter with a wink.

With a graceful flip of your hair and a coy smile, you ease into your chair, feeling the heat of his gaze on you, all self-assured about the sensual spell you’ve cast over him. 

He’s practically eye-fucking you right now, and you’re loving it.

“If that’s your idea of payback for sneaking out this morning, Y/N, I’ve been running errands and exploring new job prospects for next year,” he explains earnestly, handing you a straw for your cocktail and cutlery for your appetisers.

“And I may or may not have picked up a little something for you,” he announces next, pulling out a wrapped box from his blazer pocket, mischief sparkling in his eyes.

Your playful vibe evaporates, replaced by a whirlwind of shock and emotion. “Shut the…front door, no way,” you utter sheepishly as you cautiously reach for the unexpected gift.

With a throaty chuckle at your reaction, he jerks his eyebrows upwards, silently encouraging you to dive into the gift.

You eagerly rip open the packaging, gasping in disbelief. “Roland Barthes, Mythologies…Oh my days,” you cry out, unable to believe your luck. Your eyes flit to the curious glances from other patrons in the corner, and you swiftly tone your enthusiasm down a notch.

He nods in understanding, smiling fondly at you. “Yep, saw his Lover’s Discourse on your bedside table, and the bookmark was dangling on the final pages,” he justifies, a knowing twinkle in his gaze.

Overwhelmed with emotion, you slide the book in your bag and rise from your seat. “Ugh, Evan! Thanks a ton, you’re the best,” you gush, your voice thick with gratitude as you move closer to him.

He stands up too, his eyes fixed on yours, soft with affection. Stepping closer, his dark eyes dart from your lips to your eyes, as if he’s wordlessly asking for permission. Instead, he reaches out to pull you into a hug, but you gently lift his chin and crane your neck, sealing his plush, pink lips in a brief yet tender peck.

As you break the kiss, Evan blinks in surprise, seemingly caught off guard by the sudden shift in energy. His eyes search yours, silently questioning the unspoken feelings that hover between you, his own heart pounding with anticipation.

“Why did that take so long today?” he sighs against your ear, softly touching his lips. His voice, like honey dripping from velvet, resounds in your ears like a melody as he delicately brushes a strand of hair behind your ear. His eyes—the colour of rich black chocolate—are glued on yours, and the gravitational pull of his euphoric visual abyss draws you in.

Your heart flutters at the intensity of his gaze, feeling the heat expand through you. “It took long for momentum,” you retort, your tone light with playful teasing as you flash him a coy smile and sit back down.

The buffalo cauliflower bites aren’t the only thing heating up at your table; your conversation’s spicier than a jalapeño popper and with more layers than a double-decker with extra cheese. One minute you’re debating the perfect burrito toppings, embarrassing childhood nicknames, weird dreams, European cinema and 80s bands, and the next, you’re digging into careers, beliefs, goals, and life’s deepest truths.

It’s like a game of emotional Jenga—one block, or in this case, one topic leads to another, and before you could utter ‘Evan, eat me,’ you’ve both laid your souls bare without even realising it.

Fully immersed in the flirtatious banter, Evan beckons invitingly to the seat beside him with a subtle tilt of his head. “Why don’t you slide here, so I can properly admire your outfit?” he mumbles in a husky timbre, his eyes ablaze with desire.

But just as the tension between you ignites like a volcano lava, the waiter interrupts with his timely arrival. “What can I get for you both?” he interjects, shattering the moment. 

With a mischievous glint in your eye, you gesture Evan to go first, shooting him a ‘hold up, let me cook,’ look. With a bold move, you slip off your shoe under the table and discreetly brush your foot against his pant leg.

You feel him stiffen as he places his order, his composure wearing out. Stifling a giggle, you almost sadistically enjoy his flustered state as he clumsily fumbles and drops his menu, the clatter against the plate resonating like a thunderbolt. 

He’s a ten, but he stumbles over his words and over-apologises when aroused in the most inappropriate settings. Take my money, that bumps him up to a solid thirty.  

“Would you like extra cheese with that?” the waiter chimes in, oblivious to the charged atmosphere crackling between you.

Evan nods, swallowing thickly as your foot ventures higher up his thigh, stoking the flames of his growing hardness.

“And you, miss?”

“Eh? Umm, double everything, please. I’ll have what he’s having. Thanks,” you mutter with a half smile, your leg rubbing against his throbbing erection to a fever pitch.

As the waiter marches to the kitchen, Evan clenches his jaw, frustration painted all over his stormy gaze. He bunches his cloth napkin from his lap and tosses it onto his plate, blowing out a sharp, exasperated breath.

“Evan,” you call out with an apologetic expression, watching him push his chair with the backs of his knees and storm off to the bathroom.

You shoulder the heavy door and step into the empty men’s bathroom, your insides wounding themselves in knots. You scan the room, hunting for any trace of Evan, until your gaze lands on the locked door at the end. Curiosity gnaws at you, nudging you to investigate.

With a hesitant knock, you signal your presence. Before you can react, the door swings open, and Evan’s dark eyes greet you from the other side as he pulls you into the room.

The door clicks shut behind you as you quickly take in the gold-hued surroundings: a lavish toilet, a gleaming sink, and a long bench strewn with plush towels and designer toiletries. The place gives you a babushka-esque feel—a mini, fully-equipped restroom within the main one, and it’s like stepping into a VIP sanctuary.

Though, as you register Evan’s proximity, his body pressed flush against yours, your thoughts scatter like marbles on a polished floor, and pleasure sparks sizzle through your veins like a live wire.

“Hey,” you bleat, feeling the tension twist in your gut as you swallow hard, trying to steady yourself. 

His strong arms cradle your waist. He draws you into a tight embrace until you’re cocooned on his lap, the heat of his body searing into your skin.

You cross your legs as he closes the distance between you, his veiny hands fondling and squeezing your thighs greedily and possessively. 

“Evan,” you croak out, clearing your throat to ground yourself as he strokes your cheek with his knuckle. “I realise that might have been a bit much for public display…and I’m sorry,” you mumble, flashing him an apologetic look before averting your gaze.

But his expression remains stern, a furrow creasing his brow as he lets out an exaggerated huff—eyes hooded and mouth set in a grim line. “That won’t fix it, I’m afraid. I’m still hurt and embarrassed.” 

You quirk a brow at him, a hint of defiance in your gaze as you meet his unwavering stare. “And what do you suggest now?” you challenge with a sly smirk, a daring spark igniting in your face.

His lips curl into a sinister smile as he leans in, his scorching breath against your ear sending a tremor down your backbone. “Get on your knees, and use this beautiful mouth of yours to show me just how sorry you are,” he whispers as he’s massaging your tits, his words like an electric current buzzing through you at a high voltage.

You snort, your hand weaving through his silky hair as you draw him closer. “Oh, you think you’ve won? I’d be more than happy to suck you up—day and night, overtime included,” you purr, your voice husky with longing as you sink to your knees.

Positioned between his legs, you look up at him with a mischievous smile. “Someone’s suffering in there,” you coo and outline his stiff shaft with your tongue, feeling him twitch beneath the smooth fabric, aching for freedom.

Pinned against the wall, he sucks in a breath through gritted teeth, his hips buckling forward in desperate response.

The button of his slacks loosely holds on, barely containing his throbbing beast from bursting it open. Gripping the cold metal of his zipper between your teeth, you drag it down slowly, your pussy dripping as his low growl rumbles from his chest like distant thunder when he finally finds release.

You reach up, flipping down the elastic waistband of his boxers so you can slip your hand in, dragging your fingers along his pulsing crimson tip.

“Suck it, don’t tease,” he commands, his tone rigid and thick with desire. You comply without hesitation, eagerly licking off the subtle traces of his seed off the tip, twirling your tongue around it.

Your mouth is immediately slick with his precum, the thick fluid coating the corners of your lips. The heady scent drives you wild as you savour every drop of his essence. You keep using your tongue to smear some of it to the underside of the head, teasing at the ridges and pressing into the squishy flesh of his head.

He bites down on his lips, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he battles to muffle his grunts, his body quivering with need.  

When you finally close your lips around his painfully hard cock, he reacts with a sharp intake of breath. His fingers thread through your hair as he breathlessly whines your name like a fervent prayer. From that angle, his dimples appear as dark slits along his cheeks, adding to his rugged allure.

You meet his gaze with a sultry mewl of pleasure, giving your throat more room to take him in harder and deeper into your mouth. Flattening your tongue, you glide lower on him as you hold onto his pelvis until his head crushes the back of your throat, testing your gag reflex.

Challenge accepted; you handle him like a pro.

“Y/N, you’re… oh, fuck… No,” he sputters out with an intense shudder, rubbing his eyes as he fights the overwhelming tide of his impending orgasm.

“Load me,” you exhale teasingly as you pull him out of your mouth only to pump him back down with renewed hunger. He intertwines his fingers with yours, guiding your movements as you kick off a slow, torturous rhythmic ordeal just to gauge his reaction.

With a choked moan, he tightens his grip, sticking his convulsing cock all the way down with urgency, thrusting in your mouth with a ruthless pace.

His move and the resonance of his deep voice send a surge of heat to your core that consumes you, tripling the moisture in your panties.

You want him in ways that will add new sins to the bible.

Each time you rise, you suck his tip with fervour before slamming back down on his throbbing length. The symphony of moans he’s emitting are almost sinful—you’ve never gotten soaking wet just from hearing a man groan. He’s gonna be the death of your ovaries.

As you steal a gaze upwards, his abs glistening with a sheen of sweat, you watch his head fall back. “No,” he breathes out repetitively, his chest heaving and his Adam’s apple bobbing—a tell-tale sign that he’s on the brink of letting his load spray onto anything in the room.

His balls tighten, cock pulsing as his thrusts into your mouth turn sloppy and messy. Blinded by pleasure, his mind goes blank as he teeters on the edge.

Still panting, he hauls you off him more forcefully, his fingers hooking onto the hem of your stockings. You notice his nose scrunch up in clear disapproval as he glares at your lips—swollen and shining with wetness—immediately stripping you off your undergarments with raw intensity.

Flipping you over so your upper body’s bent over the wooden bench, he gropes your ass cheek before slapping it harshly, making you squeal with excitement. “Why do I have to say no twice?” he growls, his voice ringing with dominance as he claims you as his own.

You’re ovulating, so your audacity and inhibitions are thrown to the wind, acting like you’ve been dick-deprived your entire life. “I wanna tick you off so much you show no mercy. Just take me already,” you demand, your voice heavy with despair.

With a guttural groan, he obliges, rutting his hips as he lines up his leaking tip with your entrance. The moment he meets your wet folds, you both gasp in unison as he plunges in you. The sensation of him filling you up sparks fireworks as he humps you in long, steady thrusts, his velvet plush head bumping against your swollen clit with a delicious friction.

Your cries threaten to spill out, but his hand clamps gently over your mouth to shush you, his dark eyes flashing with warning. “We have to be quiet, baby,” he rasps, his voice tinged with lust. You turn over your shoulder and nod underneath his grasp, your half-lidded eyes glazing with pleasure.

A muffled yelp roars against his palm as he drills his aching cock deeper inside of you. You grip the edge of the bench tightly, and the sound of it banging against the wall echoes through the room, adding a primal rhythm to your ecstasy. The sensation of your slithery walls stretching to accommodate his thick dick is nothing short of mind-blowing for both of you.

Using the bench for leverage, he thrusts harder, his hand trailing up to caress the curve of your ribs as you writhe beneath him. “Fuck, I love your wet little pussy,” he hisses with primitive desire. “Cum for me, Y/N, all over my dick.”

“I’m getting there, baby. I wanna drown in your juices,” you moan, feeling his jaw slacken against your back as your walls pulse around his throbbing cock.

Just as the bench keeps bashing against the concrete wall in sync with your rising orgasms, a sudden crash breaks the intensity of the moment. The yellow paint plastic box from above the shelf tumbles down—its contents splattering over both of you and the wall, creating an impromptu abstract masterpiece in the spur of the moment.

You both freeze, paint trickling down your bodies, adding vibrant hues to your flushed skin. Evan blinks in surprise, his hands still gripping your hips as he takes in the colourful chaos engulfing you.

“Well, we certainly went hard on the paint,” he quips, trying to lighten the mood despite the unexpected interruption.

You chuckle nervously as you survey the lively mess. “Looks like we got more than we bargained for tonight,” you shoot back, your voice filled with playful mischief.

With a wicked smirk, Evan swipes paint off your cheek, leaving a colourful streak between you two as you embrace. “We’ve got a cleanup on our hands before we can get back to what we—” His words are abruptly cut off by approaching footsteps.

Though the intoxicating passion still clouds your mind, one detail arises with sobering clarity: You’re screwed (literally). 

“You hit it off with the first three cubicles, I’ll handle the ones from the end, and we’ll meet in the middle,” a deep man’s voice echoes from outside, sending a jolt of panic through both of you. 

Evan winces and involuntarily grabs your hand. Your body stiffens as you lace your clammy fingers with his, the paint already forming a small puddle at your feet.

Acting on pure instinct, he ushers you deeper into the toilet, using his foot to discreetly slide the torn condom wrapper closer to your hiding spot.

“What’s the plan now?” you mouth. Your palms are raised in a questioning gesture, fingers wiggling subtly, as your breath comes in shallow, shaky huffs.

Evan shrugs. “That was a plot twist, didn’t see it coming,” he replies, barely audible in his hushed response.

You hang onto his shirt for dear life, your face taking a ghost-like pale complexion as you weigh the consequences of the trouble you’re about to get in. “The door’s locked, but there’s a little slot under it. Shall I wait up here until they’re gone?” you pantomime your words, attempting to convey your plan to Evan with the finesse of a silent movie star. But as you try to hoist yourself up and chamber onto the toilet seat, you slip, almost tumbling backward.

Evan swoops in to catch you like a superhero, his forehead wrinkled by worry lines, eyes wide with alarm. “You good?” he whispers urgently, pressing a finger to his lips in a frantic plea for silence.

You nod vigorously, gesturing toward the door with exaggerated motions, communicating your escape plan like you’re on the charades: “Let’s go check if we’re clear, then sneak out.”

Nodding in silent agreement, he unlocks the door with a flick of his wrist. Poking his head out, he peers cautiously into the corridor. You stretch up on your tiptoes, craning your neck to peek out over his shoulder, scanning the corridor for any sign of movement.

Finding no one in sight, you both spring into action with the speed and stealth of seasoned spies. You snatch up as much toilet roll as you can, using it to hastily wipe away the evidence of your paint mishap. The paper becomes saturated with soap and water as you scrub your life away, determined to leave no trace behind.

Before you know it, Evan seizes your hand, purse and shoes, and you skitter out of the bathroom like you’re escaping a high-security prison. You zip past the slightly open doors of the other stalls, and as you weave the maze of hallways, you catch a glimpse of the two cleaning men hard at work—one wielding a toilet spray like a weapon on the lead, while the other, two doors ahead, diligently mops the floor.

 

You burst out of the bathroom, hearts racing and adrenaline pumping, feeling like you just pulled off the heist of the century. In the dimly lit corridor between the toilets and the restaurant, you exchange triumphant grins, basking in the rush of your daring gateway. With a quick, victorious high five, you’re both ready for the next phase of your adventure.

But before you can catch your breath, Evan pulls you close, his lips crashing against yours in a fiery kiss that sets you on fire. His tongue dances with yours, igniting a fierce passion between you. As his hands start to wander along your ass and clit, you can’t resist and melt into his touch, a soft moan slipping off you.

Reality hits you like a freight train, and you protest against his lips, reluctantly swatting his hands away and pushing him back gently. “You can’t waltz back to your table looking like nuggets dipped in mayo, and I don’t have a spare wardrobe stashed in my purse,” you whine. With a determined swipe, you rub off a scuff mark from his cheek, your thumb tracing the contours of his face as he nods in understanding.

“Okay, let’s go,” he says, and without missing a beat, he takes your hand and leads you in the direction of the toilet. But as you reach the door, he steers you towards the emergency door instead. Throwing yourselves outside, you’re met with the frigid night air, an uninviting shock after the warmth of the restaurant.

The cold bites at your skin, raising goosebumps along your arms. But Evan is quick to replace your coat, which still hangs off your table chair, and envelops you in an embrace, rubbing your arms to warm you up.

You cling to him, his body heat a comforting embrace as he cups your hands in his, blowing warm breath into them. The moon casts a soft glow over a secluded pond before you, tucked away from the hustle and bustle of the hotel.

“I’ve got good and bad news,” Evan chirps, his voice tinged with a mischievous undertone. You raise an eyebrow, curiosity piqued as you lean closer to him, flakes of paint dropping off your arms as he intensifies his rubbing.

“Spill the good news first. Enough shocks for today, I wanna buy myself some time.” 

“The good news is,” he begins, a grin spreading across his face, “my rented place is over there,” he reveals and points behind you. You follow his gaze to the tall complex of flats that extend from the main hotel.

You hum in acknowledgment, planting a quick peck on his lips. “Alright… and what’s the bad news?” you inquire, already bracing yourself for whatever curveball he’s about to throw your way.

“The bad news is that if we wanna keep the prying eyes at bay,” he continues, his eyes fixed on you in mounting suspense, “we’ve got some climbing to do.”

The grass crunches under your feet as you wade through the greenery, your heels sinking into the mud with each step. You duck under the low archway in the middle and reach the towering fence.

“Damn, that’s taller than I thought,” he mutters, eyeing the fence with a furrowed brow.

“Piece of cake,” you counter with a coy smile, tossing your heels on the other end. You make the first move by planting your toes on a cracked piece in the wall, gripping the hurdle tightly to propel yourself upwards.

As he gives you an extra push, his hands boldly grazing your ass, a mischievous sparkle gleams in his eyes. “Speaking of cakes,” he cheers, squeezing your curves as his eyes linger on the enticing view of your cunt beneath your dress, his grin broad and cocky.

“Stay focused, dude,” you hiss, playfully waving him away as you divert your attention back to the task at hand.

With a hint of concern in his voice, Evan watches you climb, ready to catch you if you falter. “Take it slow, Y/N. With this velocity, you gotta use one leg at a time...” he advises, his arms poised to assist you.

Rolling your eyes, you brush off his instruction. “The mansplaining’s redundant, Peters. I’ve got this,” you scold jokingly, confidently manoeuvring over the obstacles.

“It’s hard... oh, mind your head on the branches…” he mumbles, absentmindedly repeating “it’s hard” as he observes your every move with a mix of awe and disbelief.

When you safely tumble over to the other side, he can’t help but chuckle nervously, astonished by your agility. “Oh, that was easy…it was really easy, actually” he mumbles with a shake of his head, mouth agape, still processing your swift ascent.

“Come on, slowpoke,” you taunt, your voice laced with playful challenge. You dust off your hands, the thrill of the escape still coursing through your veins.

“I’m just taking my time,” he defends as he carefully navigates his way over the fence. 

“Says the guy who played Quicksilver,” you mock, giggling, and run your tongue along your teeth with a cheeky smile.

As Evan finally makes it over the fence, he stumbles on a loose stone, his footing giving way beneath him. You gasp, lunging forward to catch him as he starts to fall backward, his arms flailing wildly as he tries to regain his balance.

“Watch out!” you cry out, and you manage to pull him back from the brink of spraining his ankle on the way down. 

He winces in pain, clutching his leg as he tries to stand. “Ouch, that was close,” he groans, his breath hitched. 

Concern floods through you as you help him to his feet, supporting him as he tests his injured ankle. “You okay?” you ask, worry evident in your voice.

Evan nods, his expression strained. “I think so,” he replies, clenching his jaw against the discomfort.

You sigh, realising that your adventure may have taken an unexpected turn. “Maybe we should take it easy for now, old man,” you suggest once you realise he’s fine, suppressing a laugh as you guide him back to safety.

As you playfully rib Evan with the “old man” label, he retaliates by tickling you, his fingers sending ripples of loud laughter down your spine. You squirm and wriggle, trying to escape his teasing grasp, but he’s relentless.

“Alright, alright, I give up!” you yell, breathless from both laughter and excitement. But Evan doesn’t stop there. With a mischievous glint in his eyes, he picks you up into his arms, his lips hammering against yours in a passionate kiss, his tongue swirling with yours. 

“Let me show you who’s the old man,” he murmurs against your lips, his voice dripping with desire and challenge as he carries you off.

The reception area lies deserted, and the dull glow of an overhead light seeps through the crack at the bottom of the slightly ajar cleaning storage door. 

“Anyone here?” he calls out, testingly, but there’s no response. Without wasting any time, you make a beeline for the elevator. The ding of the lift makes you jump, you launch your bodies up the stairs, bounding them up like a panther on the prowl, your feet padding down on the carpeted floor.

You creep into his room, edging the door shut until the latch clicks into place, and you pause to laugh at the yellow patches on your body. “I feel like I’ve just wrestled a pig in a mud pit.” 

“I’ve got the best way to clean it all up?” he mumbles sloppily into your lips, his arms folded around your waist, massaging your ass.

Hot water spurts out of the shower faucet, raining down marvellously on the tiled floor. You smile, holding your hand up to it and watching the paint, mostly dried now, run off your legs before landing on the ground and swirling around the drain. The temperature is heavenly, able to ease even the deepest aching of your shoulders, and your smile widens.

“Tell me what you want,” he murmurs, planting a few teasing kisses along your exposed collarbone.

You bite down your lip at the sensation. “Finger-fuck while you kiss me, first. I need it,” you huff in despair, eyes imploring.

“You wish, I deliver, baby,” he breathes out, suckling on your pulse as you lightly pump his erect shaft in your hand in your fluid motion. He seems way too horny and too into you to say no.

He grunts and grounds his hips against your inner thigh. Against the wall, his fingers dip in, gathering some of your warm, slithery wetness and splotching it over your shiny folds. His free hand claws on your face, dragging you for a breathless kiss.

“Gosh,” you moan chokingly, an exhilarating lilt in your words. Your back arches as you feel that knot in your stomach beginning to snap. The pad of his middle finger keeps tapping and circling your clit, and you feel the escalating climb of your orgasm. Your legs start to twitch, and once he realises this, his fingers slowly drift away from your weeping cunt, his slick fingers gripping your thigh.

“Wh-why?” you protest in frustration.

Without uttering a single syllable, he snatches the detachable shower head, a smirk playing on his lips as he winds the cable around his wrist. He cranks the setting to its highest level and kneels down, parting your slopping folds with a confident touch. His lips curve in a devilish smile as he takes sight of your pulsating pussy clenching around nothing, giggling as he realises he’s edged you so badly.

As he positions the shower head near your throbbing clit, you instinctively clamp your hand over your mouth, stifling the shrill whimper that threatens to escape. The sensation of the water hitting your sensitive bud forces your breath out in punchy, laboured gasps as you feel the vibrations bringing your high closer.

He laps at your cunt like it’s a melting ice cream cone, and it doesn’t take long for your sweet cream to leak out along his mouth. Your chest rises and falls rapidly, eyelids fluttering as you’re consumed by the tsunami of your looming orgasm. Each flick of his tongue sends tremors through your thighs, the wet, slick sounds filling the room.

His tongue flattens out against your clit and you let out a needy whine, your hips instinctively bucking against his mouth. He presses his face deeper into your wet folds, tongue jerking at the underside of your clit. As he licks at your entrance, he sinks his tongue into your soaking hole, you cum on his tongue, grinding his face, moaning his name in heavy, ragged pants.

As the aftershocks of your orgasm ripple through you, he stands up straight, his hands gently caressing your waistband in a soothing gesture. But you’re not done yet. With a hungry urgency, you pull him into a kiss, your lips melding together.

He backs you against the wall, hiking up your thighs and wrapping them tightly around his waist. You wrap your hand around the base of his cock, guiding him to your dripping entrance. As he slams into you, the world around you fades away, and your head lolls back in ecstasy.

“Fuck, you’re so hot,” he grunts as he pounds harsher and faster in you, his balls slapping against your ass cheeks.

Your slick is trickling down his cock, creating a slippery mess on his thighs as he drives into you relentlessly. His breathing picks up pace, the air thick with the heady scent of sex and steam. You almost had him, until his hands forces your hips down onto his cock as far as they would go, his tip nudging against your cervix.

A scream tears from your lips as you squirm against his ruthless assault and bruising force. The tip of his cock brushes against that spongy spot inside you time and time again, the lewd squelching sounds of your poor, swollen cunt only a faint indicator that you were close.

In the misty haze of the shower, you catch him smirk crookedly, pleased with the visual above him. Your tits bounce tantalisingly in front of him, a tempting feast he can’t resist as he reaches out to grab them in his mouth, eager to taste every inch of your trembling body.

As the unbearably tight, hot coil in your abdomen snaps, you’re unable to contain the set of moans that spill from your lips. A tingling heat spreads across your body, your muscles contracting and burning with the intensity of your release.

His face contorts in pleasure, his brows knitting together as his jaw drops in awe. His breaths come out in hurried, choppy huffs as he pumps inside you, warm, white strings of cum painting your walls as if he marks his territory and you as his own.

��Ugh, I’m dizzy...and l look like shit,” you huff out, your voice laced with giggles. Evan stays still for a moment, burying his face into the crook of you neck.

“You’re dizzy but beautiful,” he rasps, chuckling breathlessly, and you feel your cheeks flushing. He strokes your face, his touch tender and loving as he presses soft kisses against your lips. Your tongues dance together in a sweet and intimate exchange as soft moans escape both of you.

Slowly, he pulls out. A mix of your juices coats his tip as it drips from your hole in a seductive display of your shared ecstasy.

“I want cuddles on the bed now,” he says, his voice soft and pleading, a hint of a pout playing on his lips as he gazes at you with adoration.

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Taglist: sillysillygyal, junkie4weezer, frankiesweird, divinerulerz, nickrhodeslittledarling

@evanchantingpeters — All rights reserved. Please do not modify, translate, or plagiarise my content.

[rockingego]

happy thursday

happy thursday

[senka-mesecine]

What would happen if reader tried escape from hills!Barnes and she thought she had made it out, unknowing that Barnes had been following her the entire time?

That Dog Don't Hunt.

Robert Barnes x Reader.

----

wonderful gif by @woman-with-no-name

----

Meaning; Hound not taking part in a hunt. Apparently originating from the southern United States, the phrase may refer to a hunting dog that refuses to do its job. Something won't fulfil its intended purpose, or a plan or scheme will fail. 

⚫

You take one final look at the mountainous forest perimeters left behind you and you think to yourself 'Thank god. Never again.'

With every step taken closer to civilization, at least faint, ramshackle signs of it in the form of an occasional roadside diner, an old, semi-defunct gas station, a semi-abandoned lonely trailer park or a neglected settlement partially swallowed up by nature you felt one step away further from Barnes, at least in a subjective sense, some lizard part of your brain convinced against all logic, that by the time you'll make it to the nearest city, perhaps Knoxville, Gatlinburg or even going as far as Nashville, the embrace of all those buildings, the bustle of people, the cars, the shops, the traffic, you would've been safe from him, like someone having gone to a place he couldn't follow, repelled and left outside not unlike a vampire that needed an invitation to come inside from the cold and the wilderness; an invitation you wouldn't extend. According to an old Summer proverb, a dog understood 'Take it', but it didn't understand 'Put it down.' Barnes was much like that in a sense; he refused to comprehend letting anyone or anything go, the concept of break ups practically nonexistent in his vocabulary. A man could be only a couple of things in that regard in his opinion that consisted only of polar extremes; widowed, legally hitched or both dead and neither you or him were any of those three respectively.

That's why you needed to run.

Go as far as your legs would take you.

For the time being, that began and ended with hitchhiking.

But, so long as you were on the move, you had some vestige of consolation.

That so long as you moved, you'd be fine.

It would be fine because it beat him or you being buried rather than parted.

The highway snakes through the Appalachians like a circuit and the man who picked you up from putting up your thumb on the side of the road was a mercifully elderly one; a typical senior, fishing rods, buckets and nets in the back of his truck --- someone back from a pensioner's fishing trip judging by a quick deduction --- living with Robert made you careful by proxy --- all of his vigilance, long silences, instincts for danger and scrutinizing stares rubbing off on you like a second nature. Made you hellbent on details. You came to profile people and sizing them up without even intending to, neatly classifying them inside of your head into distinct categories. Safe and not safe. Friend or foe. Enemy or ally. You'd chuckle bitterly if you could, seated beside the greying man with a cap on his head combined with faded jeans overalls that seemed like they were exposed to too many days in the sun and rubber boots that were very well loved by the looks of them. Nobody was as unsafe as Barnes, so the point was moot in trying to analyze this situation to the extent you were unwittingly doing so. -"Fancy findin' anyone out here all on their lonesome. I thought you was a ghost when I first saw'ya by the interstate."- The grandpa remarks with some humor, not unkindly, curious eyes travelling between you on the passenger seat and the road, his coincidental usage of the word 'lonesome' immediately causing a shiver to run down your spine. -"You out here all by yourself?"- He asks, voice peppered with worry in the most paternal sense possible; sure, you realized you must've seemed demented walking beside the edges of the forest, stopping vehicles whose drivers could just as easily rape you and dump you in the nearest ditch instead of giving you a ride anywhere, but you supposed desperation caused people to do crazy things; you were like a wild animal in that sense. Felt like it too. Caught in a trap and willing to gnaw your foot off to limp free and bleed out somewhere where you could be left alone so long as it meant you'd have a moment of liberty. You give the old man a tentative look. You don't know why you decide against coming up with a creative lie, but the truth slithers forth before you can stop it.

-"I've left my husband. Ran away."-

You admit.

You find the old man's wrinkle framed eyes immediately widening.

Mouth agape.

What were you gonna say where untruths were concerned anyway?

That you were a lost hiker mysteriously separated of all their equipment and their group against all odds and now taking a ride in the opposite direction for no discernable reason? That you've been abducted by aliens and dropped off in the middle of the mountains? That you had a curious case of total amnesia? Honesty. Honesty was the best policy in the long run. People could feel honesty. They could sympathize with it on a primal level the way they never could with blatant, made up bullshit. You focus on the rearview mirror in front of you and the pine air freshener along with a picture of a woman in a plastic pouch hanging off a colored string, dangling as the old Ford moved --- old timer was a family man. Maybe a widower killing time by fishing. You weren't going faster than seventy miles an hour but that was good enough.

-"I haven't got a cent on me and I need to get as least as far as Gatlinburg. Please."-

You explain, not too proud to plead a little, semi expecting the obvious.

That he tell you to alert the police.

If the police headed back up those hills, thing is, they wouldn't be coming back.

-"He a bad man?"-

You're asked, with some semblance of familial worry on the driver's part, wrinkled, pale fingers having a vice grip on the steering wheel. Yeah, Barnes was a bad man. You felt you didn't even need to answer that one; the fisherman could just about read the truth off your heavy silence, no doubt. There were some good people in this world. Good people who'd understand even without you saying a single thing. -"Been puttin' hands on'ya?"- He eggs on and no, no, you mutely shake your head at that one, staring at your own lap. Problem was, Barnes was always ready to put this hands on everyone else. One time at a nearby bar at the foot of the mountain that also doubled as a hunter's lodge on occasion he held a knife to a man's neck just because he decided to vaguely chat you up and then look at you for longer than Bob liked; in the aftermath, the whole place was trashed and Barnes had the poor sob by the collar of the shirt, sobbing on the floor, pissing leaking through his trousers and you never stopped feeling guilty since, the whole situation leaving you with the ingrained fear that one of these days someone would get killed over a mere nicety of yours and that you'd have to live with that notion for the rest of your days. You weren't one of those girls. Who felt thrilled and titillated by the prospect of their man hurting others for them. If anything, once the knot that's been settled in your stomach for months after the incident started unwinding, you unwinded right along with it and hit the road, believing that with you gone, perhaps Barnes's incentive to bring harm would internalize itself too, his jealousy ceasing to have a reason to exist. -"No. It's more complicated than that."- You manage sincerely, trying for vagueness, feeling your own voice weak and faint, watching the road ahead disappear into dusk of the Great Smokies, the forest behind you seeming dark and distant, like a dream you couldn't place, relief washing over you slowly, like a caressing wave, the tension in your shoulders dissolving, so much so you hardly minded your lack of luggage or things, save for the ID and some small cash you could get your hands on tucked into your bra. You hoped Robert would've found the meal you left in the kitchen for him by now as a last farewell.

This was for his own good too, even if he didn't know it yet.

---

You had a total of twelve dollars to your name.

Now twenty, with the addition of what you were given.

The last money an old man's kindness could give you before he drove away.

Pushed it into the palm of your hand before you could protest, not that you could find it in you to, alone at night in Gatlinburg with just enough for one night at a room on a basic motel. You didn't get far, but it was still far enough. Better than nothing; the comfort almost instant --- the twinkling lights, the pedestrians and the honking of the moving vehicles like a bubble of humanity far away from the fray -"A room for one, please?"- You manage, out of breath at the counter of the first motel you spotted straight off the parking lot; whichever seemed on the cheaper side, aptly called The Roadside. Truth of the matter was, you were no soldier and you were no Barnes. You tended to get tired. Tended to need your rest like any person. You slide the money across the counter with all the hope in the world. The woman with the sharply penciled on eyebrows and the beehive eyes you speculatively. -"We've only doubles."- She retorts, seemingly bored, like she's spent the better part of her shift explaining this very same bit of information to dozens of people before you. Funny how that worked; if Barnes was here with you now, you'd get a room booked. Fact that he wasn't only complicated everything. The minute you detached yourself from him it's like the whole world conspired to keep you at bay and make things difficult for you. -"Can you please find something? Please? I really need this."- You halfway whimper, met with nothing but the cold scrutiny of the counter attendant; a radio playing behind her on a shelf. Sonny and Cher's I Got You, Babe. How ironic considering she didn't in fact, have you. Or your back. Then again, she was only doing her job. -"No singles."- She insists. Man, you really needed to get off the streets and under a roof somewhere. You still weren't out of danger. There wasn't a single information's board displayed anywhere detailing the prices and by the general look of the woman's disposition, you concluded she didn't want to book you on the basis she must've concluded you were a vagrant. You were, in a sense. -"What if I came back later? Would there be free spaces then, do you think?"- You try for pleasantries and she shrugs her shoulders as you grabbed your money from the counter. The nametag pinned to her dress revealing the name to be Debra. Jesus, Debra, help a person out. -"Yeah, maybe in an hour or two or ---"- She cordially blows you off and your legs are on the move. Yeah, you couldn't afford to waste time in a place called The Roadside; if anything, Barnes would look some place just like this first. In any case, you tried. Nobody could say you didn't try. -"Okay, thanks! Thanks a lot!"-

You respond, breathless, rushing out the door before Debra could even retort.

Not swift enough to where you could be suspicious.

But, still fast enough as not to waste time and lollygag, as Barnes would put it.

C'mon, now, Gatlinburg had to have someone to bunk for the night.

Somewhere beneath the bracket of twenty bucks.

Leaving you just enough change to eat literally anything.

Catch a bus or a train afterwards; in any direction but back from whence you came.

The crowded streets are dark, splattered with the light of the orange electrical poles melting into the moist pavement and the footsteps of people huddled around corner stores, the odd bar, drugstore, motor lodge, family diner packed with patrons --- you welcomed the crowd, feeling you could get lost in it. Out in nature there was only ever you and Barnes. Hiding being an impossible task. Always in his crosshairs. Like the prey of a hunter who knew his trade all too well. Even now, you could feel his phantom gaze on you, occasionally throwing careful glances behind you as you walked, checking if he was behind you, undoubtedly seeming unhinged or slightly unstable to whatever outside might've been looking in. A crazy woman rushing down the street, eyes darting around, looking for any place that had a plaque that said rooms on display, bypassing a motel decked out in Confederate memorabilia called The Rebel Corner. Nope. No way in hell. You couldn't do that one. It felt too prophetic; you could almost imagine him finding you there of all places and being so infinitely smug about it you would never live it down, hating yourself for being a choosy beggar like this as you sped up your pace, hope being alive and well once you stumble upon a small establishment, tucked in between two unassuming buildings, a blinking neon sign displaying the Dogwood Motel; working hours from 0-24h. Fair enough. Seemed both seedy enough and yet open and touristy enough to prevent it from being unsafe --- the garish yellow gingham wallpaper of the lobby hitting you like a sobering slap across the face. Yeah. You could stay here. Something about it seemed aggressively cheerful and friendly, right alongside the man attending the counter in a matching yellow wool turtleneck, a well manicured mustache and bushy sideburns. His trousers and the belt buckle it was fastened with tall on his waistline, shirt tucked in around it. You either spent too long in the woods or the world has gone more strangely surreal when you weren't looking. -"Good evening. Are there any vacancies?"- Feeling like an overly eager puppy, you practically prop yourself up your toes asking the question. -"Sure. There's an empty one on the third floor. Let me write'ya up."- He drawls, all fidgety and fingers, looking through his books, something regretful about his gaunt expression; he looked like an infinitely skinnier version of Burt Reynolds from Smokey and the Bandit, minus the hat, of course. -"Problem, though. The particular room has no windows, bit of an architectural fluke, so ---"- He starts and you instantly perk up, like a meerkat.

No windows!?

No place someone could crawl in? Break in!? Ambush you? Watch you!?

-"I'll take it!"-

You interject before the poor man could even finish your sentence.

Heart thumping fast in your chest.

He gives you an almost pitiable, concerned look, like he couldn't believe he actually successfully booked that one to someone.

You, for one, couldn't be happier. Oh, god bless the Dogwood Motel.

You borderline started fantasizing about something straight out of a movie scene; you mysteriously sliding the man a controversially large sum of money to hide the fact anyone by the surname of Barnes was staying here in the off chance anyone inquired, the fantasy remaining nothing but a fantasy. You barely had for food. You were nonetheless momentarily overtaken by the drug called hope, filling you with newfound euphoria.

-"That comes with a discount then. Five bucks a night. ID, please?"-

He explains, vehemently scratching the side of his face.

You slide him the plastic bit of identification of along with the cash for the evening.

Nearly bouncing up and down on your heel anticipating the key he gives you.

It's neon yellow, matching the rest of the interior decoration.

-"Alright, Mrs. Barnes. Room 307. Enjoy your stay."-

All pleasantries aside once he took one look at your ID, and the fact that being called Mrs. Barnes had the hairs standing up on the back of your neck, you don't remember when was the last time you grabbed something so fast in your life, squeezing the key and it's chain in the palm of your hand like someone would steal it from you, practically making a b-line for the nearby staircase, sauntering in wide steps up the third floor until you could practically feel your chest could explode with the pressure, sweat pooling your forehead; when you reach the room intended to be yours, pushing the key into it's allotted keyhole, you're entirely out of breath, huddling into the entirely womb-like, dark room with fingers searching hastily for the light switch and flicking it on to produce a dim, orange light stemming from the overhead chandelier, revealing a bed covered with rust colored Ogee patterned bedsheets and very loud, basketweave brown wallpapers lining the walls, enough to induce some measure of claustrophobia in just about anyone, semi expecting this to be an ambush for Bob to be waiting for you in some corner, deciding to jump out of the bathroom while your back is turned. The air is somewhat stale; the inability to air out and ventilate properly clearly taking its toll overtime. No matter. You wouldn't stay here forever. This was good. This was only temporary and meant to be a cheap shelter to help you recover from the ordeal it took you to get here in the first place. Next stop would be Knoxville via Pigeon Forge and Sevierville and from there, hopefully Nashville and the first plane out of the country, although how you'd get the money for the ticket eluded you. You'd think about that, you figured, when the time comes, in stride, deciding to focus more on moving than the future details. You turn the second interior room lock of your front door and you collapse on the squeaky, colorful bed that smelled like lavender detergent and accumulated dust, partially fearing that the moment you close your eyes, he'll be there, collecting you in his arms like a vice grip, meaty, thick, calloused fingers coiling around your neck.

You dreamlessly sleep without even removing your clothes like a train's just hit you.

'Works on paper', you remember him musing before you heavy eyelids flutter shut.

'You runnin' away. But that dog don't hunt.'

He'd gloat, warning.

Promising.

---

He was a man of immense self control.

So, when he decided to hurt someone, it was never an accident or a mere slip up.

It was a cold, deliberate, well-measured choice.

That's why you couldn't justify him. Robert E. Lee Barnes always knew precisely what he was doing; never his temperament winning out of him or something clouding his judgement, making him behave irrationally. His cruelty was finely oiled and tuned, almost like clockwork, with the punctuality of a Swiss watch; he's been threading the certain route of killing for you and because of you before and you knew it was for you and because of you in equal measure because he told you so. Quietly lorded it over you like a trophy. Held your chin over it, both literally and figuratively, making you witness it. Was only a matter of time, you knew, before he does it again and you'd wake up to something harrowing, like someone's skull on the mantlepiece serving as a reminder and a decoration, him leaning his whole arm over it while he smugly smoked after lunch with his legs up on a stool. You couldn't live like that. That was madness. Worse yet, it was purposefully evil. You loved him and you were assured he loved you too, in some sick, obsessive, dark, rotten, Barnes-ian way of his, but in equal measure getting away from him was the only sane choice that existed on God's green Earth, every other leading further back off the precipice of calculated, machine-like insanity that would sooner eat you alive than let you off the hook.

You ponder the whole idea out on a supply run, crack of dawn.

While the city still more or less slept.

First in line at the grocery counter, first to get out, first to be off the street, needing to start vacating the rented one-night room and return your key by nine in the morning, buying a reusable cheap rucksack, pastries in brown paper bags, some bottled water, more so for the bottle you can fill later rather than the actual fluid inside; another lesson you learned from Robert directly --- sometimes the canteen itself was more valuable than what was inside, because a canteen was always valuable all on its own --- figured there was something bittersweet there. Using the skills he pass on to you to escape him. Bypassing a Smoky Sky Lift billboard, you think about the prospect of catching a train out of here, hopefully the first one, refusing to stall or procrastinate; maybe hit the next town over. Get a job. Any job so long as it was honest and legal. Lay low for a while. Accumulate more money. Move on. Keep moving. Always moving. Disappear in some town, some city, maybe even some other State somewhere. Divorce wasn't what you were after. Just separation. Bringing Barnes to a divorce court feeling inherently absurdist. You could vividly imagine him being served the papers by whatever poor, long suffering postman would be forced to climb up the hill where your and his house stood and Barnes silently showing up to the court date with a sowed off shotgun.

You shiver at the thought.

What if he just got bored, you think in stride, looking both ways crossing the street?

What if his pride got so irrevocably injured by this, he wouldn't follow?

Was that possible?

Would he be capable accepting loss? Losing?

Would he retaliate for retaliation's sake? Would you ever be able to rest easy?

Set down your head on some pillow, god knows how far from here, and be assured that he wouldn't be looming at your front door one night? Would he ever throw in the towel and say, shit, I give up?

No.

Not Robert.

You knew him.

He'd follow you to the ends of the earth.

He never gives up, even at the cost of his own life, it simply wasn't in his nature, you solemnly conclude, settling back into the hallowed safety of your windowless room, plastic grocery bags in tow, re-packed into your backpack in the off chance you needed to get a move on quickly with no time to waste, taking a moment to look at a photo of him you brought with you as a keepsake; a rare sentimentality for sentimentality's sake, a reminder to yourself you could still care for someone, carry them with you and want to get away, locking the door behind you, using the leftover hour or two you had left in here to take a warm shower and wash the stink and sweat off of you.

God only knew when would be the next time you'd have the opportunity.

---

You board the ten thirty train northwest, heading towards Nashville.

With a transfer and a quick stop in Knoxville.

Funny. Part of you expected him to have caught you by now. Expect him to catch you day one, while you were still hitchhiking along the ADHS. The fact you were still out here and free to move about as you pleased, well, filled you with some semblance of unspoken terror and unease, like a calm before the storm or the deep breath taken before a dive. Where was he? Was it oxymoronic to ask that of yourself? This wasn't like him. Wasn't like Barnes to be seen when he hunts either, your subconsciousness tells you. The point you couldn't observe him tracking you was the whole point. A trick, to think you've gotten away. Outsmarted him. Ensure you let you guard down and then when you felt most assured in your safety he ---

The train tracks disappear beneath the rushing train in a blur.

You spent the last of your money on a one-way ticket, with literally fifty cents leftover, sharing a coupe with a mother, her newborn and two men; who they were to each other hard to asses but you welcomed the crowd. You were safer in a crowd. You might just slip away if you continuously surrounded yourself with people even if your situation started resembling a comedy sketch; you were travelling with a group off to protest the unveiling of a Civil War canon or other up in Nashville and judging by their colorful attire, lack of discernable luggage and the long hair, you could only assume they were drop-outs, beatniks and possibly homeless, like yourself. Degenerate scum, as Barnes would call them. You sigh sadly at the moniker. One irony compounds another. He would blow a fuse if he knew who you were bunking with. That or you were focusing way too much on the thoughts and the possible margins of approval to disapproval of a man you were hellbent leaving behind.

He was still your husband, not just some random man, you remind yourself.

He was a killer, another voice reminds icily.

But then again, you always knew that. He never hid it from you.

You knew that about him before you even married.

-"It's a history of oppression, of bloodshed, of violence, and they unveilin' that shit for the whole world to see!"- One of your fellow coupe passengers rants to the other while you gave yourself the brief leeway of closing your eyes, hugging your rucksack around your body, leaning the side of your head against the vibrating glass of the train window, the thinning forest bypassing the cornered edges of your eyesight in a blur. In everything went well, you'd be in Nashville in some three hours give or take. You internally curse yourself for not having a wristwatch on you --- then again, how could you, when he kept everything under lock and key? When he was always watching, like a hawk? You flutter your eyes open briefly, catching sight of the man's faded, ripped jeans vest riddled with badges and pins, turning your head away once you spot one saying Ban the Bomb and another that said Give Piece a Chance. Why did you feel haunted? By everything? -"Now, tell me how we can move on as a society with crap like that goin' on in our own backyard, man!"- The other one, with a long ponytail retorts, impassioned and you feel the sweat pool along the surface of your scalp, anxiety bubbling up in your gut once the baby in the woman's arms seated next to the pair hiccups itself awake, no doubt alerted by all the noise, whimpering in its swaddling cloth; its mother immediately grabbing the hem of her long, flowing blouse embroidered with the odd floral pattern peppered with tassels and frills, giving the child the nipple to suckle on. -"You'll wake the baby, asshole."- She whispers, slapping one of the men across the shoulder in a manner that could be considered playful, softly but with enough force to be considered a reprimand, cooing her crying kid. Her head leaning down in consolation, smooth, long hair falling around her face like a curtain; it must've been below her back, spilling all around her train seat like a veil. -"Shh, shh, Robbie, it's alright."- She mutters and it's like every instinct in your body fires and flares up, on alert. Robbie? As in Robert? Her baby was named Robert? Why wouldn't he be? It was a common name. You don't even remember when you excuse yourself, hastily exiting the coupe to get as much fresh air in the hallway, leaning against the nearest cabin wall to calm yourself down, feeling your own chest heave with tension. Would life always be like this, you wonder, hyperventilating, using your backpack as a comfort, embracing it like a shield around your body, protecting what exceedingly few belongings in the world you had left --- you running away and Robert always chasing you and catching up with you, in some shape, way or form, even if through reminders if nothing else?

The train screeches and you conclude you had to have been paranoid.

These were growing pains, nothing else; you anticipated this when you ran.

There was nothing more natural than being afraid when you were out surviving.

The whole hallway trashes and you feel every movement in your bones.

Causing you to hug your bag even tighter, like a life raft.

The baby's crying intensifies.

A pair of people smoking in the corridor stumble, one nearly falling over.

What the ---

A moment of silence later, the train sluggishly jumps, only to slow down.

Coming a complete halt.

You stop breathing, tears goddamn nearly welling in your eyes once the uniformed, heavy set, red faced Conductor slams the corridor door open, sauntering inside, pushing past the bewildered smoking couple sporting a matching pair of tan sunglasses. -"Get out of the hallway! Out of the hallway! Evacuate the train!"- He orders, pointing outside and you mutely shake your head once he spots you standing alone, grazing you with his finger from afar to signify that included you too, the threesome and their newborn peeking their heads out of the coupe through the sliding door, alerted by the commotion, looking at each other in confusion and then at you; the collective so distraught you figured nobody even noticed your cheeks were wet by now. The wispy, long-haired mousey woman with the baby looks at you square on, appearing like the spitting image of Olivia Hussey under this light; just as wide eyed, fae-like and lost. -"What's goin' on?"- She asks you and then repeats the same question to nobody in particular, staring down her two companions who seemed equally perplexed. -"What's happenin'?"- One of them echoes the inquiry and you stopped. Everything stop. You weren't moving anymore and that was the worst thing that could happen right about now. You needed to keep going. If you started running into obstacles now, all of this would've turned out to be in vein. You're practically soundlessly crying by the time the Conductor arrives to wrangle the four of you forward. You feel yourself grabbed by the elbow and pushed to move; unwillingly, you do. Like someone sleepwalking and having no control over it. No, no, no. This was a temporary setback, is all. Temporary setback. Temporary setback. -"The tracks have been de-railed. We can't get a move on 'till it's fixed."- You hear the Conductor shout and if there was a way for fear to feel painful inside of a human body, it does with you there and then; you sense the dread shooting through you like an electrical current. The forests around the train thick and deep; like someone who moved in a circle you were right where you started. And he could be out there. Waiting. -"Hey, what about a refund for our tickets, man! Shit! We paid our way fair'n'square! Ain' right, man!"- You hear the beatnik argue his case and whatever the surly Conductor responds back fades into background noise, some deeper instinct inside of you rendering you blind and deaf as you walked with the certain knowledge that he did this.

He singlehandedly sabotaged the fucking train.

-"No, we can't go outside."-

You whimper, aggrieved once you feel the Conductor's heavy hand on your back.

Ushering you down the steps in your unwillingness to get out, holding up the line behind you, like an animal led to the slaughter. You weren't being deliberately difficult; you were just...so scared. So scared.

-"Ma'am."-

Are the last words you're cordially give once you're practically shoved down the metal train steps, landing on the grass on your own two feet, right beside the train tracks that stood askew, the footboard, wheel and breaks stuck between what seemed like several planks dislodged from their place on first amateur glance; was honestly a shock the impact of the crash wasn't more severe. That it didn't send you and everyone thumbling headfirst down the floor. You look around, finding the scattered passengers confused, your companions from the coupe already walking down the train tracks on foot, the two men in cowboy boots and flaring bell bottoms still arguing among themselves, no doubt on the subject of the injustices of the railway system this time around, the woman and the baby between them, her long skirt fluttering after her in the breeze. Was nice, some yearning voice inside of you whispers, reproaching. To have a family. You had one too. Until you left it. No. That was just your intrusive irrationality throwing a wedge into your plans --- you could still make it, even though you cursed the fact that the nearest highway had the closest shortcut led through the surrounding woods, but then again, for all of Robert's faults, he was only human too and this fear; it was only skin deep. You'd make it to the road and simply hitchhike, the way you did before. If you could do it once, you could do it twice. This was only over if you believed it to be. Now wasn't the time for despair. Now was the time for action. You turn on your heel, seeing the Interstate from here, through the tree line of pines, making a dash for it, leaving the collective of befuddled, aggrieved passengers behind, practically running, the trees rushing past you in a haze leading you down a steep slope, accelerating your movements, nearly causing you to stumble forward, branches getting caught into your clothes, your hair, scratching against the skin, leaving you under the impression the painful, sudden impact drew blood and you were certain by the time you sprinted out of here you'd look like someone who's just taken a beating. Nobody was chasing you, you think feverishly, gripping your backpacking, you were just spazzing out all on your own. How ridiculous you must've looked. The pines close in around you and you falter, catching your balance of your footing at the last moment, the blur of adrenaline taking over and you barely spotting the untouched campsite in the forest clearing in front of you.

An extended hand holding a match to a piled on stack of woods.

Holding the flame there until the planks lit up under a pillar of thin smoke.

You...no.

It was him.

Crouching on the ground, lighting disemboweled bits of the train tracks on fire.

A metal crowbar, a hammer and a shovel leaned on a nearby tree.

You recognize him by the bush of curly hair.

Robert lifts his head up slowly, blue eyes calm, meeting yours.

Something about his voice infinitely pleased, humming in contentment.

You stand paralyzed, feeling the blood rush into your brain.

-"Mhmm-hmm! You ever get to Nashville?"-

Laced with soft spoken sarcasm, he tilts his head to the side, taking the half smoked cigarette out of his mouth, balancing it between his index finger and thumb, right before chucking it into the newly formed, fledgling campfire, letting it crackle; you take a step back instinctively once he slowly stands up, dusting his knees off with all the casualness in the world while you were here, with your eyesight dotted back in distress, causing you to feel faint and lightheaded. Shortness of breath overtaking all survival instinct as the distant sounds of slamming, shouting and clanking echoed from further back up the hill; repairs on the train no doubt already commencing. You weren't ambushed. You practically ran into a trap. -"Bob, I ---"- You try, desperately glancing between the point of where you came and where you winded up, wondering if you should try your luck and run back or not, finding your own words cracking midway through your pathetic attempt at a sentence. The train tracks were burning and he stood in front of you, rifle slung over one shoulder, fingers gripping the leather belt strap. His words come into mind; That dog don't hunt. And it was just as he said; it didn't. If this ever winded up in the newspapers, which you knew it never would, it would be one of those things where truth was stranger than fiction --- you could already see the article title; Vietnam Veteran involved in brigandry, deliberately causing an accident and highway sabotage to circumvent his wife from dumping him. More on page six! In a second of inappropriate self-indulgence you envision the hippies headed for Nashville getting their hands on a periodical and recognizing you on the front page. The gulp in your throat is heavy, glutaral. You were so embarrassed you could die. You open your mouth to say something to him, perhaps something meaningful, groundbreaking, witty, something of a verbal checkmate, but before you can, you feel yourself grow limp, nostrils filled with the pungent stench of vapor and smoke, all endurance fading once he's entirely too close for comfort, causing you to go collapsing into the familiar prison of his arms where you've been countless times before, the forest closing in around you, like the jaw of a flesh eating plant around an insect.

The campfire crackles on, swallowing the wood, leaving no traces behind.

The whole world goes thumbling on its head and everything goes black.

[brainrotcharacters]

Actually...?

Redacted characters and what volleyball positions I think they'd take:

Damien the setter who dumps strategically. He's a neurotic asshole! (/aff) He's stereotyped to take up a hitter position because of his intense attitude, but at his core, he thrives when he gets to know the plan and execute the plan. Setting and being in charge of tactics that is associated with setting soothes his anxiety.

Huxley is a blocker and the first to apologize when his blocks cause facials. He's a big guy in height and weight but he'd quickly duck down the net to check on any opponent that kissed a volleyball because he was too good about blocking.

Gavin is a libero with one flaw that he's not loud/brazen enough. Often, the team forgets that he's in rotation because he doesn't interact as actively. But it also comes with the opponent team forgetting that Gavin is in, and being frustrated when he saves so well. He's a flexible whore (thanks Freelancer) he's bending and twisting and playing with momentum in an infuriatingly graceful way that only an Incubus familiar with his body can do.

Freelancer the libero that's too much. Their team and the opponent team know whenever the rotation puts Freelancer back in. Just as flexible as their boyfriend, but a mouth on them that makes anyone slightly thankful that Gavin is more reticent. Freelancer makes a big deal of acrobatic saves, even the smallest rolls just to save balls. They aren't as graceful as Gavin, yes, but their ferocity compensates.

Lasko is a hitter HEAR ME OUT he's so jittery and flaky that it becomes a genius technique. He has that type of anxiety that lets him observe his team and the opponent team so so well! He'll be in midair and not claiming a ball but when he sees the other hitters' body language he's going to eat it up pls. He'll be in midair and claiming the ball but Hux is going to be beside him already poised for it and he'll back off it'll be clever gameplay pls I swear it's true I'm the net

Dear is also a hitter! They're the quiet precise type. They're the shadow you always know is attached to the others, little good that knowing it will do when they do decoy plays. Petty, too. What do y'all know about Tsukishima Kei in season 3.

Milo is the controversially short hitter. And he's always brutal about his swings. That motherfucker flying, especially out of spite against talks of him being better off with any other position. The cackle you'll hear from him when his spikes rocket past three players and land in is so reminiscent of a bird screech you'd be surprised that he's a werewolf.

Sweetheart is in the same tier as Dear during decoy attacks. High stealth and high perception makes an incredibly infuriating volleyball opponent, nevermind that Sweetheart celebrates as prematurely as Milo. But they duck so low behind the spikers that it's genuinely terrifying to realize that those eyes belong to a hidden spiker that's going to fuck up your set in five seconds.

Babe is the meticulous setter. Their own anxiety and neuroticism makes them as lethal in chess as they'd probably be in volleyball. Long term planning that manifests in setting up both teams to follow their mental map into a good play or a good hit. Every spiker in Babe's team adores them. Asher hates when they get pitted against each other. A handful probably know that Babe is obsessed over both Kageyama and Oikawa's ability to adjust to their setters.

Asher the spiker whose one flaw is shadowing David. It makes him predictable. Get David out of rotation and Asher will spend the next three points or so scattered before he locks in. And I did say David is his one flaw; when something clicks in Asher's brain, he becomes this chaotically organized hitter who annoys both his own team (affectionately) and the opponent team (genuinely). Asher's team adjusts to his adjustment the same way Fukurodani did for Bokuto, in the spirit that they know he's a powerhouse as soon as he locks in. He just needs momentum.

Angel is a libero, what with that unsettled, unsettlingly sharp energy that digs balls so so beautifully. They grin hella wide when the ball comes their way, regardless if it swerves or turns out to be a facial. Angel enjoys contorting their physical body just to save balls. If they stop moving, it's suspicious and usually means they're coming down with an illness. It's true I'm the floor. We kiss a lot.

David defends. He holds down the fort against the strongest servers and has crazy endurance. He's better when both Angel and Asher are in rotation, but he's already spectacular. Thighs and ass of the gods. His spikes echo. He consistently calls out commands and signs he picks up on. Everybody is drained by 25% when he's out of rotation. He scolds them about it, but they all know he likes when they depend on him.

Guy is the stupidly cool libero with the impossible saves. Me personally he reeks of adhd and autism; the volleyball court becomes his little bitch. He either doesn't focus at all, or he focuses so much that he laser focuses like a madman. He twitches seconds before saving a curveball. He sings/hums under his breath. He giggles when he does libero toss. When he's in rotation with Honey, he kisses them silly regardless if they win or lose points. When Honey is out, he sends flying kisses all the time.

Honey the intense setter who makes it their life's purpose to adjust to their hitters. An argument could be made that they should reel back the grumpy focus, and they often do when Guy is in rotation with them. It's the kind of intensity that becomes predictable from the pov of the opposing team, but Honey has grid vision the same way Kageyama does in season 4. The fact that they don't celebrate openly could be mistaken as snobbiness but when you pay attention as much as their partner does, you'll see the passionate spark in Honey's eyes when they see the ball they carefully set land in.

The others tba

[cheshire-wink]

*screaming* I have been distracted by this ALL DAY. Writing brain is back!! (Did I just write a shot ficlet for someone's comment? It isn't the first time and won't be the last lol) This comment was left by user Bodldops on Jin Zixuan Fixes Things.

‧⋆ ✧˚₊‧⋆. ✧˚₊‧⋆‧

May Jiang unlocked her apartment door with a yawn, stepping into the soft faint light of the entry and dropped her bag on the side table before kicking off her shoes. She let out a small huff of annoyance at herself at the light spilling down the short entry hall. She must have forgotten to turn off a lamp when she left early that morning. She stretched her hands over her head and walked toward the small kitchen. Another exhausting day of work done and she was looking forward to collapsing on the couch with the leftovers from yesterday's meet up with a few friends and the next few episodes of her latest favorite show.

Not bothering to flick on the overhead light, she opened the refrigerator door to pull out the takeout container and used the interior light to see by as she reached into the cabinet for a plate. Once the food had been dumped onto it and placed in the microwave to heat, she reached back into the refrigerator for a bottle of water before shutting the door with another yawn and turning to lean against it and watch the humming microwave, the kitchen lit only by the machine's interior light and the soft glow from the apartment's small living room.

When the microwave gave its little ding she gathered her plate, blindly fished out a fork, hooked a finger around the neck of the water bottle and shuffled to the living room couch, dropping onto it with an exaggerated groan.

She set the water bottle between her legs, took a bite of her food and reached for her laptop, laying on the couch’s other seat. Mindless entertainment here she comes.

"Noooo!" she moaned when the laptop displayed a system update screen instead of the cheerful background of the login window. Shoving another bite of food into her mouth, and resisting the urge to pull out her phone, she glanced over at the source of the light in the room, admiring the delicate glass bauble that hung from the small potted tree in the corner. And then she froze.

When May had graduated from high school her parents had taken her to visit her dad's parents in Wuhan. During that visit she had found the little shop selling the glass balls with their traditional yellow paper talismans dangling from the bottom of their intricately structured silk nets, and thought they were pretty enough to buy one. When she had showed it to her Yeye later that evening he had told her that they were supposed to be made with some old Jiang family technique, based on an ancient "cultivation" method. While May considered herself too rational to believe that people in the past had been able to fly on swords or use magic the way they did in xianxia movies, her grandfather was proud of the family's supposed descent from such people and had been happy to explain the belief behind the glass balls. Apparently, they were supposed to glow when there were malicious spirits around. May had just smiled and thanked him and refrained from rolling her eyes in disbelief. She just bought the thing because it was pretty.

It managed to survive the flight back home, through four years of college dorm life, the long drive to her first apartment after graduation when she had been eager to step out on her own in a place far from where she had grown up, and finally to this new apartment only a few months ago. And not once had it been anything other than a simple glass ball in a delicate net of now-faded purple silken cord, with a small piece of travel-wrinkled yellow paper with a fancy unreadable talisman design on it hanging from the bottom of the net. Nothing more than a pretty bauble that commemorated the fantasy side of her family's history.

The glass ball was now glowing bright enough that she had mistaken it for her lamp.

[oblivionbladetd]

Probably a weird suggestion - but have you ever considered talking to Sai and explaining why you think/feel using the word “retarted” as an isult is ableist?

I honestly don’t think she’s unreasonable like Lily, she explained in one of her streams that the reason she uses the “r word” is because it was something that she and her friends said all the time in their youth, and she mentions how Idiot, Moron and Dumb all used to be medical terms back in the day too (dump used to mean physiologically mute).

I'll say that it's mostly that I don't disagree with their reasoning that forbidding the word has given it far more power than it's ever had before. It was once a common playground insult and a medical diagnosis. Now it's the grim harbinger of ableism to come? Nah. I mean, somehow, it's found it's way there.

Now, being a vet of the net like Sai, I have broken it down like this. Who really benefits from the word "retard" being banned from use ever? I'm sure there's plenty of people legitimately and validly triggered by the word... but at that same time for every one of them, there's three perfectly able people who are rubbing their mitts together in delight at their new magic bullet. If there's even one thing I've learned following the Lorch discourse, that no matter the field and its purity of purpose or lack thereof, there will always be a few rats and snakes.

Looping it back, who really benefits from banning the word "retarded"? The person that probably doesn't have much business entrenching themselves in uncivil discourse, or the three guys with a zero effort gotcha?

Anyway, that is my way overly long explanation on why I ain't about to wokescold a purple imp for using power word "poo brain" at people just as awful if not worse than her.

[bcdrawsandwrites]

Day 15: Experimentation / Muzzle / Transformation Characters: Caligosto Loboto, Morceau Oleander, Linda the Hideous Hulking Lungfish of Lake Oblongata Warnings: (Canonical) animal abuse Summary: Linda had heard about humans. She never imagined that her first encounter with them would be as permanently life-altering as it was.

The last thing Linda had expected was getting caught.

Humans didn't usually fish here, and besides, she knew not to fall for it when they did. She hadn't even been out of her mucus bubble when it happened—she'd merely been watching something on her mini-TV when the bubble abruptly popped.

That never happened before, but whatever was going on, she knew it couldn't be good. Though she briefly mourned the loss of her TV, she scrambled to swim away from whatever had ruined her home. One moment she was swimming forward, the next, she was scooped out of the water by a tangle of strings. And then she saw...

Abruptly she curled up on herself.

She'd forgotten how gigantic humans were. The one who had managed to grab her was impossibly tall with bright, gleaming eyes, and she could sense another shorter—but still huge—human just behind him. Sam had once told her that humans could be friendly, but these two looked anything but.

"Aha! A perfect specimen!" the tall one cried, holding her up in the net like a deranged trophy.

"Well, glad that's done with," the other said. "Still don't really get how we plan to use this thing."

Use?! Linda thought, and shook her tail, sending her voice out to the tall man. Unhand me! I am not to be used!

To her surprise, her voice seemed to bounce right off of the human's gigantic head. What—?!

"Of course you don't! That's why this part's my job." He lifted the net up higher, and she wriggled. "With this lungfish, we'll get these little kid-shaped piles of gobbledygook!"

"You'd better be right, Cal."

None of this made any sense to Linda, but it definitely didn't sound good. Again she wriggled, preparing to flip out of the net. Just as she jumped, however, a rubbery human hand seized her tail, sending a jolt of pain down her spine.

"Stay still!" the tall man hissed before flinging her toward the shorter human.

"AUGH!" the human cried, scrambling to keep a hold of her as she desperately flailed for freedom.

"Hold onto that thing, will ya?"

"But you said—"

"You want those brains or not?"

"I—ugh."

Linda struggled against the man's grip, but he squeezed her against his chest.

Seeming to sense her anger, he glanced down at her. "Look, buddy, I don't like this any more than you do," he grumbled.

I doubt that.

The man jumped, nearly losing his grip on her.

"Morry!" the tall man growled.

Before Linda could say anything more, she found herself in a small, green, floating bubble. The shorter man somehow dragged this bubble over to where their boat floated at the edge of the water, and from there, they carried her far, far across the lake.

—-

After carrying her up what seemed like an enormous mountain, they finally arrived... somewhere. Just as Linda felt her scales were starting to dry out, the bubble she was in disappeared (without popping, somehow), dumping her into an insultingly small, transparent bowl of water.

Unhand me! she thought, splashing in the bowl. I will not dwell in this habitation!

The tall man reached into the bowl to grab her—to stop her, she assumed, until she felt multiple things like the suckers on an octopus being shoved onto her body. Finally an enormous something—like half of a clam shell—was shoved onto her head, and finally the man backed off. Linda braced herself against the bottom of the bowl, struggling to lift herself, but the strange devices attached to her made it hard to move. What... is going on?

"This better work," the shorter man said.

"Oh, it will! Behold!"

The tall man pulled on something, and—

Linda's body seized.

It was like she was being attacked by an eel, but a hundred times worse. The electricity coursed through her again and again and again, sending her body into convulsions. Her frame was wracked in pain, and abruptly she felt that the bowl, already too small, had shrunk, and was pressing down on her on all sides. With a surge of panic she lashed her tail—or perhaps it did so on its own—and her prison shattered.

It was very difficult to remember what happened immediately after that. All she could remember was her entire body being in pain, worse than drying out, worse than being electrocuted, and being absolutely exhausted, and suddenly becoming aware of the tall human—who had shrunk considerably—attaching various plates to her, and to something on her side. What, she wasn't sure, and though she was unbearably tired, she turned her gaze to look.

There was something next to her, like the arm of a salamander, but much larger and covered in fins, and, oddly, the same color as her scales. The tall man was finishing up attaching a plate to it. The pain it was causing whatever creature this appendage belonged to was so profound that it affected Linda herself, and she tried to move, to pull the creature away from this human.

The arm moved in response.

It took her a few moments of puzzling out why the arm of this other creature would move when she, herself, tried to move, to realize: this was her arm.

The bowl and the humans and the setting around her had not shrunken—she had grown enormously, and changed.

Seized with horror, she let out a deep, guttural wail that she hadn't even known herself capable of making. She lashed her tail, and flailed her arms, until she felt something faintly touch the lumpy flesh between her eyes. All at once her exhaustion hit her again, accompanied by a deep sleepiness. The last thing she saw before losing consciousness was the terrified—but determined—look of the shorter human as he stared up at her, one hand on his temple.