#rust variables

[mrmeepsmadmind]

SIDESWIPE 💥💥 DONT U TALK BACK TO UR reluctant MOTHER 😡?!??? EVEN THO HE STARTED IT BY BEING RUDE AS FUCK FOR NO REASON!! YOU HURT HIS HEART!!!

HES SO FUCKING SAD ????

[intimate-mirror]

If Google wants me to trust that it's fully on-device, it shouldn't ever ask for network permissions.

This is a general annoyance I have with apps; so many of them ask for permissions they shouldn't need.

hey folks if you have an android phone: google shadow installed a "security app".

I had to go and delete it myself this morning.

[timelord-adjacent]

I take back everything I just said about tea, it was awful. It didn't steep long enough, tasted vaguely of dish soap, and all the honey sunk to the bottom. Have you ever swallowed a mouthful of hot, soapy honey? I can't say I recommend it. Where's Jackie when you need her?

[literaryvein-reblogs]

A List of "Beautiful" Words: Red

for your next poem/story

Cardinal - a brilliant red

Carmine - a vivid red

Carnation - a moderate red

Carnelian - a red or brownish-red

Cerise - a moderate red

Cherry - a variable color averaging a moderate red

Crimson - any of several deep purplish reds

Damask - a grayish red

Erythematous - exhibiting abnormal redness of the skin or mucous membranes due to the accumulation of blood in dilated capillaries (as in inflammation)

Erythrism - a condition marked by exceptional prevalence of red pigmentation (as in hair or feathers)

Ferruginous - resembling iron rust in color

Floridity - tinged with red

Gules - the heraldic color red

Hectic - red, flushed

Laky - a purplish red

Lateritious - of the color of red brick

Lurid - shining with the red glow of fire seen through smoke or cloud

Magenta - a deep purplish red

Maroon - a dark red

Miniate - to paint with red lead or vermilion

Puce - a dark red

Raddle - red ocher

Rouge - a red powder consisting essentially of ferric oxide used in polishing glass, metal, or gems and as a pigment

Rubefaction - the act or process of causing redness

Rubicundity - having a healthy reddish color

Rubor - redness of the skin (as from inflammation)

Rubricity - redness

Ruby - the dark red color of the ruby

Rufescence - a reddish or bronze color

Rufosity - quality of being reddish

Sanguine - a moderate to strong red; bloodred

Scarlet - any of various bright reds

Stammel - archaic: the bright red color of stammel (i.e., obsolete: a coarse woolen clothing fabric usually dyed red and used sometimes for undershirts of penitents)

Vermeil - vermilion (i.e., any of various red pigments)

Vinaceous - of the color of red wine

More: Lists of Beautiful Words ⚜ Word Lists

[homunculovers]

We interrupt the Rusty doom posting with some considerations about Pete.

It’s a common theme to consider him repressed, either sexually (when we consider him in armored closet) or in ambition (likes the idea of fame, never bothers to put in the work). The times when he shows any signs of self expression shit inevitably goes awry: he wants to help Billy and precipitates them both into a scandal; he wants to consolidate his career as a Quizboy when Rust didn’t take them in, and he enters him in the shadiest possible fight; he tries to find Brock and Rust and activates an AI that wants to kill them all; his help in finding Orb is information found on google, that he regurgitates acritically; he comes up with an excellent idea (the silent washing machine), proposes it to someone who is uninterested in home appliances; comes up with generator boots that blow down to goddamn slave labor.

He’s as lowkey a disaster as Rust, his conflict being oddly similar: he wants to show himself, but every time he does so there is one key step that, if unnoticed, turns everything awry.

I think this might be related to his skin. Living in a desert, we might assume he does like the warmth on some level- just not the light. I think he’d love to just bask in the sun without a care, instead of having to go through a million fastidious preppings before going out.

There might be some part of him that just wants to throw caution to the wind and act like everyone else, stepping into the sun; but he knows that would end terribly for him, he’d get literally burned.

He does this when trying to express himself too: he makes grand gestures (like stepping out into the sun), without the protection of considering variables (aka without using sunscreen), and results are consistently terrible (getting bad sunburns).

It’s like he’s magically trying to shake off his disability, without him being fully aware of his behavior. He does know something is wrong, but chalks it down to being a bad person.

There’s more than that.

[heliosunny]

HIIII😘😘😘

Can I get a one shot where Fyodor is in a relationship(not romantic or benefit) where he and the reader (They have a sarcastic and unserious personalty) are using each other for their own plans, and then the reader does something incredibly clever and Fyodor realizes that he is in love with them?

I'll try my best darling🌝

Fyodor x Reader

Fyodor Dostoevsky sat at his desk, his pale fingers skimming over papers filled with cryptic calculations. Across from him, sprawled on an ornate chaise lounge, you twirled a knife lazily between your fingers.

“Really, Fyodor, this whole ‘mastermind’ thing is getting a bit predictable,” you teased, voice dripping with mockery. “Plots within plots within plots. Ever heard of keeping it simple?”

His eyes flicked to you, unimpressed. “Simplicity is for fools who lack the capacity for elegance.”

“Oh, of course,” you shot back, feigning a gasp. “How dare I question the genius of the great Dostoevsky? Please, enlighten me with another monologue about ‘higher ideals’ and ‘human decay.’”

He allowed himself the faintest smirk, returning his attention to his papers. This was your dynamic: a game of verbal sparring where neither side ever truly won. A relationship built on mutual utility and endless tension.

“I have everything in place for tomorrow’s plan” Fyodor said without looking up. “You’ll play your part, as usual.”

“Of course” you drawled. “Why wouldn’t I want to put myself in mortal danger for your little games? It’s not like I value my life or anything.”

“Spare me your dramatics” he replied coolly. “You enjoy the chaos as much as I do.”

You grinned but didn’t deny it. That was the thing about you, your irreverence masked a sharp mind, one that Fyodor had come to rely on more often than he cared to admit. Still, he never let his guard down around you. That would be a mistake.

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

The warehouse was dark, illuminated only by the flickering glow of a single hanging bulb. It smelled of rust, oil, and danger, exactly the kind of setting that suited you and Fyodor Dostoevsky.

You stood on a rickety platform overlooking the scene below: rows of heavily armed men guarding crates filled with contraband, their boss perched smugly at a desk in the center. Fyodor leaned casually against the railing beside you, his expression unreadable as usual.

“So, what’s the plan again?” you asked, pretending to sound bored, though your heart raced in anticipation.

“You’ll take care of the distraction,” Fyodor replied, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’ll handle the rest.”

“A distraction, huh?” You grinned, twirling a smoke grenade in your hand. “You know, ‘handle the rest’ sounds like you’re planning to take all the credit.”

His lips curled into a faint smile. “Only if you fail to make it interesting.”

That was the thing about working with Fyodor: every plan he concocted was meticulously designed, every variable accounted for. But you prided yourself on introducing the one element he couldn’t predict: chaos.

“Alright, genius” you said, tossing the grenade from hand to hand. “Try to keep up.”

Below, the smugglers were on edge. They knew someone was coming, but they didn’t know who or how. You made sure their paranoia hit a peak when the first grenade clattered onto the floor, releasing a thick cloud of purple smoke.

“Intruders!” one of them shouted, drawing his weapon.

You swung down from the platform, landing gracefully amidst the chaos. “Evening, gentlemen,” you said cheerfully, dodging a bullet with a well-timed roll. “Lovely night for a trade-off, isn’t it?”

The smugglers swarmed toward you, leaving Fyodor to slip unnoticed along the shadows. He moved like a ghost, weaving through the chaos as if it were all a choreographed ballet. While you kept their attention firmly on you, tossing smoke grenades, flipping tables, and generally being an irritating whirlwind of destruction, eventually, Fyodor reached the crates.

He opened one with practiced precision, revealing stacks of falsified government documents, the key to dismantling this entire operation. With a swift movement, he swapped the documents with fakes of his own creation, ones that would incriminate not him but their most dangerous rival organization.

Meanwhile, you were running out of tricks. A particularly burly smuggler had cornered you, his fist raised. “You’re dead, you little-”

Before he could finish, you slid under his legs, grabbing the pistol from his holster and aiming it at his foot. “Careful,” you said with a wink. “I’m fragile.”

The shot rang out, sending him stumbling back, howling in pain.

“Enough!” the smugglers’ boss bellowed, his patience snapping. He turned toward the crates, his hand reaching for the documents but Fyodor was already standing there, holding one of them aloft.

“Looking for this?” Fyodor asked, his voice as cold and sharp as a winter wind.

The boss froze. “Who are you?”

“The one who ends you.” Fyodor replied simply, tossing the document into the air. Before anyone could react, you shot it mid-fall, the bullet igniting a tiny incendiary charge Fyodor had embedded inside. The document went up in flames, taking their entire operation with it.

As the room erupted into chaos, the two of you slipped away into the night, leaving the smugglers to deal with the fallout.

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

Back in your safehouse, you leaned against the wall, catching your breath. “You know” you said, tossing your last grenade onto the table, “you could’ve warned me about the explosive documents. I nearly burned my eyebrows off.”

Fyodor didn’t look up from the ledger he’d taken as a trophy. “I knew you’d adapt.”

You scoffed, though you couldn’t help but smirk. “One of these days, your overconfidence is going to backfire.”

He finally glanced at you, a glimmer of amusement in his dark eyes. “And yet, here you are, alive and victorious, thanks to my overconfidence.”

“Touché” you admitted, collapsing onto the sofa.

That was the thing about you two. No matter how dangerous the game, no matter how high the stakes, you always made it out together. The line between trust and rivalry blurred with every scheme, every shared victory.

Neither of you would admit it yet, but there was no denying it anymore: you were equals in this mad, intricate dance.

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

“Where is the ledger?” he asked, his voice dangerously calm. A key piece of evidence that should have fallen into his hands was gone. His brow furrowed as he turned to you, standing nonchalantly by a shattered window.

You held up a small, leather-bound book, your grin as sharp as the blade you still carried. “Oh, this? I figured I’d hold onto it for now. You know, as insurance.”

His eyes narrowed. “Insurance?”

“Come on, Fyodor,” you said, stepping closer. “Did you really think I’d let you have all the power? You might be the devil incarnate, but even the devil needs a check and balance. Consider this my way of evening the scales.”

It was brilliant, really. You’d executed his plan perfectly, then added your own twist, ensuring that you held the upper hand. For the first time in years, Fyodor felt a flicker of surprise, a rare, exhilarating sensation. But more than that, he felt… something else.

As you met his gaze, your smirk fading into something more serious, Fyodor realized what it was: admiration. No, more than that. Love. The realization hit him like a thunderclap. He’d never intended to feel this way about anyone, least of all someone as infuriatingly clever and unpredictable as you. Yet here he was, watching you outmaneuver him with the kind of brilliance that could rival his own.

“You’re playing a dangerous game” he said softly, a hint of something unspoken in his tone.

“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” you replied, your grin returning.

For the first time, Fyodor found himself wondering if you were his greatest asset or his greatest weakness. Either way, he knew one thing for certain: he couldn’t let you go.

And so the game continued, the stakes higher than ever. Only now, Fyodor wasn’t sure if he was playing to win or if he’d already lost.

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

The morning after your clever maneuver, Fyodor sat at his desk, his dark eyes fixated on the small details of his latest plan. You, perched on the window ledge with the stolen ledger still in your possession, were as insufferable as ever.

“You know,” you said, flipping through the pages idly“this little book has enough dirt to sink a dozen empires. I bet I could make a fortune selling it to the highest bidder.”

“You won’t.” Fyodor replied without looking up, his voice carrying the kind of certainty that sent chills down spines.

“Oh? And why not?” You grinned, leaning forward as if daring him to challenge you.

“Because,” he said, finally lifting his gaze, “you don’t betray me. You enjoy this too much.”

There it was again, that unspoken tension that neither of you dared to acknowledge. But before you could respond with your usual wit, a loud crash echoed from downstairs. The sound of boots thundering up the staircase followed.

“Looks like someone found us~” you remarked, sliding off the ledge with practiced ease.

Fyodor’s lips twitched into a dangerous smile. “It seems our enemies are growing bold.”

The two of you moved in tandem, slipping through the shadows like predators. The intruders, likely remnants of the organization Fyodor had dismantled, stormed in, armed to the teeth. What they didn’t anticipate was the chaos you brought to every fight. While Fyodor’s mind orchestrated the situation like a symphony, your unorthodox methods added unpredictability. Together, you were a force they couldn’t counter.

“Behind you!” Fyodor warned sharply, his hand darting to neutralize a threat near him.

But you were already moving. With a quick feint, you disarmed the attacker and sent him sprawling. “What, worried about me?” you teased.

His eyes darkened. “Always.”

The words slipped out before he could stop them, but there was no time to dwell. The fight ended as swiftly as it began, leaving the room littered with unconscious bodies. You exhaled, brushing dust from your sleeves.

“Well, that was fun.” you quipped, though your heart still raced from the adrenaline.

Fyodor stepped closer, his presence suffocating yet electrifying. His dark eyes bore into yours, unrelenting. “You put yourself in unnecessary danger” he said, his voice quiet but cutting.

You raised an eyebrow. “I handled myself just fine, thank you.”

“That’s not the point.” He reached out, his hand brushing against your wrist. It wasn’t an affectionate gesture, more like a warning, a reminder of the power he wielded. “You belong to me, whether you like it or not.”

You froze, surprised by the vehemence in his tone. “Fyodor, you don’t own me” you said, your voice steady despite the fire in his gaze.

His lips curled into a faint smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Don’t I?” His fingers tightened just enough to make you aware of the weight behind his words. “You might think you’re playing your own game, but every move you make brings you closer to me. You can deny it, fight it, but in the end, you’ll realize the truth.”

“And what truth is that?” you asked, your voice softer now, almost a whisper.

“That you’re mine” he said simply, his grip loosening as his hand fell away. “And I’m yours, though I doubt you’ll appreciate that as much as you should.”

The confession hung between you, heavy and unexpected. For once, you were at a loss for words. Fyodor, the calculating genius who trusted no one, had just laid his cards on the table. And despite your instincts screaming at you to run, to laugh it off, you couldn’t deny the flicker of something dangerously close to affection in your chest.

But you weren’t ready to let him win, not yet.

“Big words for someone whose plans I just hiịacked.” you said, smirking as you held up the ledger. “Maybe I’ll stick around… if only to keep you on your toes.”

Fyodor’s smile returned, colder but no less genuine. “Do as you wish. Just remember: no one else will ever understand you the way I do.”

And with that, the game between you continued, though the stakes had irrevocably changed. What had once been a battle of wits was now a dance of hearts, neither willing to admit defeat but both unwilling to walk away.

For Fyodor, it wasn’t just about winning anymore, it was about keeping you close, no matter the cost.

----------

Idk why but my feed is full of Fyodor's fics now ahaha.

[secretlovesoftheheart]

oops Mouthwashing incorrect quotes part 2 I have no self control

Anya: The results are in, I’m afraid you have updog… Jimmy: What’s updog? Anya: Daisuke! Get in here, I told you I could do it!

Curly: We’ve found the person who stole your identity and was impersonating you. Jimmy: Where were they? Curly: Eating cheetos and crying in their car. Jimmy, impressed: Damn, they really went for it.

Daisuke: If I run and leap at Swansea, he will most certainly catch me in their arms. Daisuke, running towards Swansea: Coming in! Swansea: No! I’m holding coffee! Swansea: Drops coffee and catches Daisuke

Jimmy: I WOULD DESTROY THE WORLD FOR YOU! Curly: Okay, can you do the dishes? Jimmy: No!

Police Officer: You have the right to remain silent. Jimmy: I choose to waive that right! Jimmy: screaming

Curly: Do you take constructive criticism? Jimmy: No, only cash or credit.

Curly: What do we say when life disappoints us? Anya: Called it! Curly: No.

Anya: You’re not ascending to godhood, you’re just dehydrated. Curly: Outta my way, gaygirl! I’m about to liberate myself from this mortal shell! later Curly, texting Anya: hopital

Anya: Whoa, Jimmy, what’s up with that angry face? Jimmy: Daisuke won’t stop talking about how “Ancient Egyptians were furries”. Daisuke: But they were! Just looks at all their gods- Jimmy: Oh my god, SHUT UP!

Curly: What is the one thing I told you not to do? Jimmy: Burn the house down. Curly: And what did you do? Jimmy: I made dinner. Curly: Jimmy: Curly: Jimmy: And burnt the house down.

Jimmy, holding a toy lightsaber: I’m Darth Vader! Swansea: I’m done with everyone’s bullshit.

Jimmy: Wow, they really hate us. Curly: Yes, perhaps they’re homophobic. Jimmy: But we’re not gay, Curly. Curly: Jimmy: Curly: We’re not?

Curly: Oh man, you have any shaving cream? Daisuke: No, I don't like the way that it tastes. Curly: Wait… you eat shaving cream? Daisuke: No. Why would I eat it if I don't like the taste.

Swansea: A sprite is anything not static. Daisuke: A sprite is a variable object, be it 2d or 3d. Curly: A sprite is a fucking soda. Curly: You god damn geekass bastards.

Anya: Coca Cola can remove rust from metal, imagine what it’s doing to your body. Daisuke: Pfff, getting rid of the rust, idiot. Anya: THAT'S NOT HOW IT WORKS! Swansea: Hmm… I've been drinking soda and my body's rust free… not sure where you're getting your facts from…

Curly: Are you alright? Anya: Short answer or long answer? Curly: Short? Anya: No. Curly: Long? Anya: Nooooooo.

Jimmy: You have Crayons? Daisuke: Yes, I have— Jimmy: You're— how old are you? Daisuke: YES I AM AN ADULT AND I HAVE CRAYONS, I HAVE A BOX OF EMERGENCY CRAYONS IN THE CABINET UNDER THE TV BECAUSE EVERYBODY NEEDS CRAYONS SOMETIMES, OKAY? EVERYBODY NEEDS CRAYONS.

Daisuke: That sounds super! Doesn’t that sound super, Swansea? Swansea: No. Daisuke: I think I speak for Swansea when I say it sounds really super.

Swansea: What the hell is wrong with you? Jimmy: I have this weird self-esteem issue where I hate myself but still think I’m better than everyone else.

Daisuke: Wow, this parking is as straight as I am. Jimmy: I know I should be focused on the fact that you just came out, but HOW DARE YOU INSULT MY PARKING!

Jimmy: I feel awful about killing you. Curly: Jimmy: Even though technically you never even died, so I don’t know what you’re bitching about.

Daisuke: I have a bad feeling about this… Jimmy: What do you mean? Daisuke: Don't you ever get that little voice in your head that tells you if you're going to get into trouble? Jimmy: No? Swansea: That actually explains so much.

Daisuke: How are you so calm?! Anya: I’ve passed beyond “stressed”, beyond “hysteria”, into the gray misty indifference of complete shutdown of all but emergency services in my brain.

Curly: Jimmy's first detention, I'm so proud. Anya: Whoa, back up. Why did they get detention? Swansea: Because they're an idiot. Daisuke, terrified: They can do that??

Anya, Entering Curly's room: Jimmy did it again. Curly: Peace disturbance? Anya: What no- Curly: Arson..? Anya: NO, JESUS CHRIST, HOW MANY- Curly: uh….Attempted murder? Anya: NO, HE ATE ALL THE FOOD IN THE FRIDGE, BUT WHAT THE FU-

Curly: Can you please just apologize to Anya? Jimmy: Fine, but I have to warn you that this may make me a nicer, better person and that is not who you feel in love with.

Swansea: Where’s Daisuke? Jimmy: Around. Swansea: Around? Swansea: You don’t have any idea, do you? Daisuke, dropping down from above: Did you know there’s a space above the ceiling?

Daisuke: Adulting is hard. Daisuke: How do I quit? Swansea: Time travel. Jimmy: Die.

Swansea: Daisuke, what does IDK, ILY, and TTYL mean? Daisuke: I don’t know, I love you, talk to you later. Swansea: Alright, I love you too, I'll ask Anya. Daisuke: Wait- Swansea, no-

Swansea: Can you keep a secret? Anya: Do you know anything about my life? Swansea: No, I don't. Good point.

Jimmy: Punch me in the face. Swansea: …Punch you? Jimmy: Yes, punch me, didn’t you hear me? Swansea: I always hear ‘punch me in the face’ while you’re speaking but it’s usually just subtext.

Swansea: All of your existences are confusing. The Squad: How so? Swansea: Your presence is annoying, but the thought of anything bad happening to any of you upsets me.

Daisuke: shoves their hand in the slot of a toaster Swansea: … Daisuke: …I get confused sometimes. Swansea: Me too.

Curly: What’s something you guys are better than Jimmy at? Daisuke: Mario Kart. Anya: Yeah, video games. Swansea: Emotional vulnerability.

Jimmy: Just trust me. Have I ever put you in an unsafe or uncomfortable situation? Anya: All the time. Jimmy: Then you should be used to it by now.

Jimmy: Be careful, I thrive on negative attention.

Curly: Look, Anya, it's the third time this week you had a mental breakdown and its Monday.

Jimmy: Would I rather be feared or loved? Easy. Both. I want people to fear how much they love me.

Daisuke: I’ve never smoked marijuana. I ate a brownie once at a party. It was intense. It was kind of indescribable. I felt like I was floating. Turns out there was no pot in the brownie. It was just an insanely good brownie.

Swansea: I would never say that my partner is a bitch and I don’t don’t like them. That’s not true… My partner is a bitch and I like them so much!

Jimmy: Things will get better! The Squad: Jimmy: Okay, maybe they won’t. Jimmy: But they will be terrible in new and interesting ways!

[of-sinners-and-seas]

A Song of Spirits

OF SINNERS AND SEAS - BOOK ONE

A WIP INTRO

From the minds of @isabellebissonrouthier and @lady-grace-pens !

GENRE: adult. high fantasy. dark fantasy. dark romance.

POV: third person limited. past tense.

STATUS: writing.

CW: gore. strong language. explicit sexual content.

VIBES: ruby hearts and obsidian eyes. crashing waves and thundering skies. the bile of regret. the seduction of sin. tired eyes. heavy sighs. old photographs. tarot cards whose edges are worn by love. a broken body in a black room. clashing swords. a dusty throne. secrets exchanged in a back alley where the only judges are the street lamps that blind the stars above. pearls. jazz. rusted bars of a once-gilded cage. self-proclaimed godhood. bruises from lips that used to berate you. fresh ink from a letter scrawled in the dead of night. hidden longings. confessions. voices in the wind uttering words of destiny.

clotted emotions. a journal in tatters. flashes of light in the corner of your gaze. a pair of stilettos echoing down a rain-slick street. the stench of death. creaking wood. weapons that belong in your hands. the ache of nostalgia. the weight of the present. the sharp cracking of autumn leaves. milking blood from a wound that won’t heal.

THEMES: fate vs dreams. loyalty vs betrayal. history. secrets. self-worth. loneliness. mysticism and fortune telling. power and control. what do you want and how far will you go to get it? where will chasing it land you? In a better or worse position? Could you even handle it? How can you be sure?

SYNOPSIS:

Seven pirates. Seven thrones. Seven deadly sins.

All vie for dominance over their fantastical world, thinking themselves to be as close to immortal as could be. But the question of what, exactly, they are remains elusive, as is the reason why they crave a seat atop the world’s throne, battling to be the most dangerous sin of them all.

Some long for power. Some lust for a sense of identity. Others simply chase the thrill of the war they’ve locked themselves into.

Is not the root of all clashing swords a wretched cry for one’s own purpose?

It is for Katty, mistress of Envy. Her interest in the eternal war has been waning, and the figures roaming the streets of Eiffel have captured her attention more and more.

Families. Friends. Couples unscathed by the tests of time.

Her presence on her own pirate ship has become a rarity. Her lover, Delvan of Greed, has waxed on about his disapproval of her flippant desires, stressing the importance of what truly matters in their lives.

Fortune. Power. Status.

Katty knows this. And yet, she aches for more.

When the cards of fate unfold for her a passionate affair with the prince of Pride, Braven, behind the backs of their allies, Katty remembers the spark that being Envy once carried for her.

It’s only natural she chose him to accompany her on a secret mission to infiltrate the ship of Gluttony, also known as Flint. While Braven seeks information regarding Flint’s relentless search for who they are, Katty seeks a chest of personal valuables he’d stolen from her. More than either of them bargained for, Braven is captured and Katty is filled with regret. Sooner than she could even think to fall back on her own allies for aid, Flint captures them, too.

Katty must rescue them. And she must rely on Braven’s twin sister, wretched Morannah of Lust, in order to stand a chance against that giant, hulking man.

When the girls invade, cruel revelations are sparked: one calls into question the sins’ immortality, and the other permanently alters the nature of their war.

After all, what is an ally worth when all ends in betrayal?

•••

Pinterest Board | YouTube Playlist

INTRO TO THE SERIES

MEET THE SINS:

Envy | Pride | Lust | Greed | Wrath | Gluttony | Sloth

EXPLORE THE WORLDS:

Eiffel | Polarys & Lorallyn | Geldour | Valoma | Guisse | The Desolate

MEET THE FIRST MATES:

Gigi | Mikael | Désirée | Alusia | Marigold

•••

TAGLIST: @the-inkwell-variable @fifis-corner

[noinoi10101010]

My top 5 favorite Sams couples

I will list my top 5 favorite couples in the Sams. Wither it be it the most cute / wholesome or the most interesting or tragic these couple are great to down right amazing.

5.- moonie and staffø - Normally in the femmenaf The ship that is most focused on is rockglitter ( aka sunny x roxas) but Moonie and staffø are pretty good too (and yes you heard me correctly Moonie fell in love with a staff bot welcome to the TSBS ) it's not amazing but it's really cute. The fact Moonie loved staffø cause they actually had their own personality and stood up for her is really cute. And from what Moonie said they seem to be doing well in there relationship meaning the two relationship is probably as healthy as sunny and roxas is. I think these two are really underrated and deserve more love.

4. Ballora x molly - these two are adorable. I will stand by this until the day I die these two are gay idiots in love and I mean that with the most love ever. I really like that there kinda of a parallel to theater golf to me as it could have been similar to how these two relationship was if thing went differently. I mean in Charlie turns into a baby they already brought up having a kid and ruin also wanted a kid with rusted ( if Davis saying that in the discord is true) but back to them I just think there a really cute and fun couple in the show.

3. Roxas x sunny - ok now we getting into the couple I am now starting to love. Roxas and sunny are just so adorable. the fact that this the first and only time a sun and a Roxanne of the dimension got together is so rewarding as each and every time something makes them break up or something else goes wrong but with here it doesn't. Sunny is so supportive of roxas and even gets extremely pissed at how fazbear treat roxas and his his gender identity just shows she loves and accepts him. And roxas is shown To be just as protective of her anytime someone insults her or when he is extremely worried when she Moonie clipsy and Eleanor went to go get more info about fazbear. There also one of the few couples to actively flirt with each other ( well roxas is) And it shows a more loveing side none of the other couples do. Sunny was there for and comforting roxas when he needed and was one of the first person to accept them so it's no wonder roxas loves her so much.

2. Monty x earth - As yes the classic. What is to not day about these two. Well for starters Monty was one of the very few people earth was variable above her problems. In earth needs therapy he reassures saying she doesn't have to be perfect and he loves her for her and with the consent times he shows earth that you can see he is not lieing and keep in mind earth has a history with people lieing to her the creator Nexus ect. So saying something this sweet to her and actually mean it by his actions must mean a lot to earth and probably one of the many reasons she loves him. And when monty father died who was there almost immediately after it happened earth and immediately tried to comfort him. And not only that earth made Monty a better person cause let's be honest Monty was an asshole at the beginning and him falling in love with earth made him want to be better for this one person and he does. It's no reason these two are as loved as they are.

Ruin x rusted - this is my opinion the perfect couple in this show. It is absolutely tragic and I love it all for it. It is the perfect example of what could have been. It the virus didn't happen ruin and rusted would have been happy together. And even after ruin left rusted in his dimension without saving he still loved him ruin despite rusted being absolutely awful to him while infected still loved him. The two love each other unconditionally and are extremely loyal and dedicated to each other. It can both be an extremely angst story about how both sides hurt each other while not wanting to or it could be a fluffing story about how they were before the virus happened and how the two wither or not by dumb luck or a flat or miracle they get together in the end after a long tiring journey of trauma recovery and reconciling of love. It's a ship that can be almost anything you want while the characters involved are incredible on their own. It's a fantastic couple in a fantastic show

[crying-fantasies]

omg i cant wait for number 7...!!!! 😳

OMG! @dundeey it's been a while!

This one is for all the Prowl enthusiastic group, because he can't have peace if he ever gets together with a human.

I mean, apart from the cosmic rust disease and some other things cybertronians don't have to really be weary of a lot of diseases, and sad enough those were things that in the past had cure, but after being used and upgraded during the war, well, those are real threatening now.

So after seeing my coworker keep on insisting that she was "fine" while almost coughing out a lung and having to call her family to take her home, well, out of all the mechs only one would try to fight with strategies a literal virus and fail miserable, because no matter how much water or good diet you get, that little microscopic thing will find you, Hook is also the most likely to declare war to that thing while Bonecrusher and Mixmaster are the first ones to enter in anger induced panic, Scavenger is lying on the floor leaking cleansing fluid from his optics.

The constructicons are horrified by the whole display, because Prowl can't do something, the fleshy doctors can't do something, no one can do slag and you've to stay in bed suffering and doing horrible painful sounds not alike a dying mech as everything Long Haul can do to help is hold your tiny hand on his digits because what do you mean it can tear open a line of life fluid if you cough or sneeze too hard? Doctor, doc, what do you mean that some variables of this microscopic scrap can kill a human? What do you mean you don't know if this one is the deadly one or not? What do you mean it can mutate to something worse?! Doctor? DOCTOR!

[lord-squiggletits]

Actually Pharma couldn't have set off the Red Rust on the DJD base himself because

1. He's a doctor, not a trained and seasoned aerial combatant. Whether he tried to drop it off like a payload or just kamikaze straight into them, he literally does not have the flying skills to pull off that kind of maneuver unless he's like, flying in heavy snow for cover (and how would he be guaranteed to survive that) or literally just zooms in a straight line hoping for the best

2. The DJD are some of the best killers the Decepticons have to offer so if he somehow gets into a confrontation with them without being able to set off the bomb yet, he's cooked

3. Wouldn't the DJD have some sort of surveillance or defense to see Pharma coming? They're seasoned killers that literally can hunt down and kill phase sixers, it's not like Pharma would be able to approach without them finding out and being there waiting for him to show up

4. Pharma would be not only killing himself, but also betting the lives of everyone in Delphi on the assumption that he can get to the DJD and set off the bomb and kill them with the rust. Because if he just flies up and they shoot him down either while he's trying to dive bomb OR when Pharma is trying to talk his way through them, Tarn would take that as betrayal of the deal, so after Pharma is dead he and his crew would proceed to destroy Delphi.

5. Would Pharma even know where the DJD are??? Presumably Sonic and Boom might be able to tell him, but they also might not out of fear of them telling Pharma, Pharma tries to kill the DJD and fails, the DJD extract from him how he got their location, the DJD come and murder Sonic and Boom. So they probably wouldn't tell Pharma, which means Pharma has no way of finding the DJD short of just... trying to scout himself? Do intel on his own? And again, as a doctor who has zero training in combat flying, spying, or espionage, how exactly is he supposed to get that?

~

I don't even care any more man, Pharma literally could not have done any better than setting off the virus inside of Delphi. Sure, it would've been better with fewer Autobot casualties if Pharma had tried to set it off near the DJD, but the odds of Pharma actually pulling that off IN REALITY are slim to none. Setting off the virus in Delphi and hoping for an evac order was the best option Pharma had to stop Autobot deaths by escaping the deal that he could actually, feasibly pull off successfully.

A shitty plan that leads to some deaths on the Autobot side, but ultimately is likely to result in an evacuation order that takes them off Messatine and thus free of Tarn's/the DJD's grip (meaning Pharma no longer has to kill people and thus lives are spared in the future) is better than a plan that would only kill the DJD (and Pharma), but has like a <1% chance of being executed correctly.

And Pharma is the kind of analytical, controlling person where he would never choose a plan with so many variables unknown/outside of his control in enemy territory where he'd likely perish before finishing his mission. He would pick the plan on his own territory (Delphi) where he can spare at least some people (First Aid and Ambulon, who can't/don't transform), and where he can pull off the plan without being found out.

Because his own comrades' reaction to finding out was to call him a piece of shit person, leave him for dead, harvest his organs, and then leave without even checking he was dead. So yeah Pharma was 10000000% justified in not wanting anyone to know what he did if it meant that he'd escape a living hell only for the Autobots to turn on him for 'not doing better' alkdsfjlsdkfsl.

[briarplant]

the rust compiler is all like. oh you wanted to use The Variable? You Fool. You gave it to a function and the function fucking ate it. Gobbled the whole thing up. It's gone now. You Absolute Goddamned Fool. This is all your fault. How Dare You expect me to compile your terrible code. Jail for programmer.

then the c compiler is like yeahhh sure whatever you say man. and then you run the code and it's like whoopsie there has been a segmentation fault.

[frondere]

FBR actually introduced me to the song so now whenever i hear it i am plagued by visions (sad brothers) (who kiss)

AHHHHH anon im so glad to plague you with heartache<3 i miss FBR dearly so have a draft of some teen stans i wrote while writing black water lilies :3

The scent of bleach and old mop water clung to the air, thick and biting, as Ford adjusted his glasses and carefully laid out his homework across the dingy floor. The janitorial closet was small, the kind of small that made it impossible to breathe without feeling like the walls were pressing in. Shelves lined the space, crammed with rusting cans of floor wax, half-used bottles of ammonia, and an assortment of grimy rags that looked like they’d been repurposed one too many times. Somewhere in the corner, a slow, rhythmic drip echoed, like a clock ticking down the minutes until their inevitable release.

Ford had expected to be here. This wasn’t his first time locked in the school’s basement closet. It wouldn’t be his last.

But Stanley?

Stan was a new variable.

Ford stole a glance at him—his twin, his mirror image, except where Ford was wiry, sharp angles and slouched shoulders, Stan was solid. Strong. He was still jiggling the door handle, cursing under his breath, jaw set, hair mussed from the scuffle. His lip was split, his knuckles raw, bruises already beginning to bloom on his cheekbone. Ford took a mental note to make sure he iced those later.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

Stan was never around for it. His brother had boxing practice, which gave Ford the perfect cover—if he got home late, he could just say he’d been at the library. He’d perfected the lie, worn it in like a well-loved sweater. But today, of all days, Stan had cut practice early. Just needed to hit the bathroom, he’d said. And that’s when he’d caught sight of Ford being dragged toward the basement by a pack of meat-headed morons with letterman jackets and an apparent grudge against kids who could spell "Pythagorean theorem" without stuttering.

Stan had fought. Of course, he had. Five-on-one was unfair, even for Stan, and even worse when he’d already exhausted himself running drills. They’d left him bruised for the trouble before shoving him in alongside Ford and slamming the door shut.

Trapped.

The only light came from a grimy, small window set high on the wall, barely enough to cast more than a few weak streaks of sunlight against the linoleum floor.

“Stan, just leave it,” Ford sighed, adjusting his grip on his pencil as he started scribbling in his notebook. “We’re gonna be here a while.”

Stan twisted to glare at him, his face flushed from exertion, his knuckles already bruising from the fight.

“Ma and Pa are gonna kill us if we’re gone all night,” Stan muttered.

 Ford checked his watch. “Realistically, we’ll be out by 5:45. That’s when Tony—the janitor—usually comes by to grab his supplies.”

Stan stilled, then turned slowly, squatting down in front of him with a considering look. His foot landed on one of Ford’s papers, and Ford made an irritated sound, yanking it out from under him before it could get smudged.

 Stan just grinned like an idiot and, without missing a beat, poked Ford square in the forehead. “How d’you know that?”

Ford froze.

Right. Stan didn’t know.

Didn’t know this had been happening for a while. Didn’t know how many times Ford had been shoved into this exact closet, left to sit and wait, tracing the patterns of mildew creeping up the walls while he kept his head down and his mouth shut.

Ford cleared his throat, backpedaling. “It’s just an assumption.”

Stan snorted, loudly, with all the grace of a pig choking on its own spit. “Oh, yeah? You don’t do assumptions.”

He even mispronounced it—"assump-tins"—and Ford clenched his jaw against the immediate urge to correct him. It would’ve been funny, if Ford weren’t currently feeling like he’d been caught smuggling contraband.

Ford pressed his lips together.

“This ain’t your first time in the ‘closet of the damned,’ huh?”

Ford said nothing.

“Multiple times…?”

Still, Ford didn’t answer.

Stan inhaled through his nose, exhaling slow and long, like a guy trying real hard not to yell at someone. “Y’know what? Lucky for you, I’m too tired to chew you out for not tellin’ me.” He cracked his neck, rolling his shoulders. “But we’re not sittin’ here ‘til six.”

Ford pinched the bridge of his nose. “The door can’t be opened from the inside, Stanley. There’s no way out.”

“There’s always a way,” Stan shot back, determination setting in his face like stone.

Ford shook his head. “I can just tell Ma I was at the library—”

“Yeah? And what am I supposed to say?” Stan interrupted, arms crossed. “I get home before you. You think they’re gonna believe I wasn’t involved? They’ll think I got us both into trouble.”

Ford pursed his lips, but Stan wasn’t finished.

“And you think it’s fair?” Stan jabbed a finger at him. “You get to sit here in your own personal study hall—”

“This is hardly an adequate space to do homework,” Ford interjected, adjusting his glasses. “It’s just convenient.”

“—And I get stuck listening to Ma and Aunt Irina bitchin’ about God knows what all evenin’?”

Ford chuckled at that. “You really think Ma’s gossip is worse than being locked in here?”

“Yes!” Stan threw his arms up. “You don’t know what it’s like! You left me in the trenches, Ford! Irina’s a freakin’ yenta, man!”

Ford laughed,  shaking his head. “You can’t just call her that.”

Stan smirked, giving him a light shove. “Try an’ stop me.”

Ford swatted at him in return, the brotherly back-and-forth breaking through the stagnant air of the room.

Then Stan stood up, stretching, his arms reaching above his head, his muscles shifting beneath his thin, sweat-damp shirt. Ford’s eyes followed without meaning to, tracking the movement, the subtle roll of his shoulders.  Then he started pushing things aside—shoving a mop bucket, shifting a couple shelves, moving a stack of dustpans like it weighed nothing.

“We can probably get out through the window,” he muttered, mostly to himself.

Ford stared. “You’re joking.”

Stan turned, cocking an eyebrow at him. “Do I look like I’m jokin’?”

“Yes.”

Stan rolled his eyes. “C’mon, Poindexter, get off your ass and help me move this crap. We got an escape plan.”

Ford sighed, collecting his papers with quick, meticulous hands. “I can’t believe this is my life.”

“Better than bein’ stuck listenin’ to Irina’s third retelling of that time she got thrown outta Macy’s.”

Ford groaned as he stood. “Point taken.”

Stan grinned. “That’s what I thought. Now help me lift this.”

Ford will not admit that Stan was right. He absolutely, categorically, in no uncertain terms, will not admit it.

That would mean admitting that their ridiculous makeshift staircase—haphazardly constructed from precariously stacked paint cans, overturned buckets, and a few wooden crates—actually worked. That it reached the window with just enough height for them both to crawl through. That, hypothetically, they could squeeze out and land on solid ground in one piece.

Moving around, however, was another ordeal entirely. The closet wasn’t made for two teenage boys, let alone two teenage boys maneuvering around each other. It meant bumping elbows, brushing against shoulders, and being uncomfortably aware of the way Stan smelled—sweat and cigarettes, the sharp musk of exertion, but also something lighter, something floral and lingering.

Carla’s perfume. God, that perfume.

It had been giving him a headache for weeks, ever since Stan had started seeing her. Or—more accurately—ever since Ford had started noticing why it bothered him so much.

Being locked in a closet with Stan was one thing. Being locked in a closet with Stan while Ford was knee-deep in questioning the nature of their relationship was an entirely different kind of torture.

He would not think about it now.

Instead, he latched onto the only thing keeping his brain from spiraling: the efficiency. The teamwork. The problem-solving. Yes. Good things.

They were working well together, moving with an almost practiced rhythm. Stan was standing back now, hands on his hips, chest puffed out as he admired their work. He flashed Ford a grin, raising both arms with a triumphant, "Ta-da!"

Ford crossed his arms, eyeing the unstable structure with suspicion. “It hardly seems… stable.” He pressed his fingers against the top paint can, which wobbled slightly, tilting downward at an unsettling angle.

Stan blew a raspberry. “It’s perfect. You’re just mad my big dumb caveman brain thought of it first.”

Ford rolled his eyes. “That is not what I said.”

Stan snickered and stepped onto the lowest shelf, testing his weight before climbing higher. The shelving creaked under him, but held. He reached the window ledge, fingers fumbling against the frame, and Ford could see at least a million and one ways this was going to go horribly wrong.

Stan could lose his footing, come crashing down onto the paint cans, split his skull open—Ford braced himself for impact, fingers twitching, heart climbing up his throat.

But then, a soft click—a creak—and a gust of icy winter air swept into the closet.

A gust of frigid air swept through the cramped closet, sharp and biting against Ford’s exposed skin. Stan exhaled triumphantly. “Woulda been frozen shut if we waited any longer,” he muttered. Then, with an awkward shimmy, he hoisted himself up, sticking his head out like a groundhog emerging from its burrow.

He turned, hair wind-mussed, looking down at Ford. “You just gonna sit there, genius?”

Ford sighed, shoved their bags up first, and squared his shoulders. Stan extended his arm, and Ford hesitated—only for a second—before gripping his brother’s hand.

He had just enough upper body strength to haul himself up. His occasional, reluctant participation in Stan’s boxing lessons hadn’t been completely for nothing, apparently. He scrambled up onto the ledge, feeling the strong pull of Stan’s grip, the muscle flex under his fingers.

But what he hadn’t accounted for—

Was the ice.

Or the fact that Stan had pulled just a little too hard.

Or the undeniable, inarguable momentum of it all.

His sneakers skidded the second they hit the frozen ground. The momentum of Stan pulling him out was just strong enough that instead of landing cleanly, he crashed right into his brother.

Thud.

For a second, he didn’t understand. His brain blanked, skipping like a broken record, stuttering over the scene in front of him.

Then he looked down.

Oh.

He was straddling Stan.

His knees were planted on either side of Stan’s hips, hands braced beside his head in the frost-dusted grass. The press of their bodies was unavoidable, warmth bleeding through layers of winter clothes. Stan was looking up at him, wide-eyed, his cheeks darkened—probably from the cold, right?

Ford could feel the heat pooling in his stomach, coiling like something hungry, something dangerous.

This was doing horrible things to his brain. His logical, analytical, very intelligent brain, which had, at this moment, decided to betray him completely by memorizing this position. Burning it into his mind like a red-hot brand.

They were staring at each other.

Neither of them moved. Neither of them spoke.

Ford could feel the way Stan’s chest rose and fell beneath him, fast, uneven.

Could feel the way their hips—

Stan coughed.

The sound was rough, a little strained. His voice came next, also rough, and Ford could swear he was struggling to get the words out.

“Uh. You… gonna get off, or what?”

"Right—yes—"  Ford scrambled so fast to untangle himself that he nearly slipped again. “Yep. Off. Definitely off."

His knee knocked into Stan’s side as he jerked back, and Stan sucked in a sharp breath.

No. No.

Stan wasn’t—he wasn’t, right?

Ford did not have time to think about it.

Not when Stan abruptly reached for his duffle bag, very deliberately positioning it over his lap. Not when his cheeks were still pink, and his eyes were darting anywhere but at Ford. Not when, after a beat of tense silence, Stan suddenly fished something out of his bag and chucked it at Ford’s head.

A scarf.

Ford barely caught it in time, his fingers clenching around the soft wool. “Oh,” he blurted. His voice came out high, too high, and he had to clear his throat before managing a stiff, “Uh. Thanks.”

Stan nodded. Nodded.

Didn’t say anything.

Just adjusted his sweater. Lowered it slightly.

Then, finally, mercifully, changed the subject.

“C’mon, nerd. Let’s get home before we both freeze.”

The walk home was surprisingly easy.

Their legs were stiff from the cold, their breath puffing white into the evening air, but neither of them brought up what happened. Not the janitor’s closet. Not the window. And definitely not—

Ford swallowed hard, tugging his scarf tighter around his neck.

By the time they got home, Ford had convinced himself things were normal.

Normal enough, anyway.

Sure, he had to sit through Aunt Irina’s latest tirade—this time about their cousin Eugene, who was apparently ruining his life again doing God-knows-what. Their mother balanced the phone between her shoulder and ear, her expression flat with practiced patience as Irina’s screeching rang through the receiver.

Stan, meanwhile, had made a beeline for the fruit basket.

He grabbed an apple, bit into it with a loud crunch, and locked eyes with Ford across the kitchen. Then, without missing a beat, he mouthed yenta at him.

Ford snorted, biting back a laugh.

This felt normal.

Except they weren’t.

Because later, during dinner, Ford found himself staring blankly at his plate, his fork resting uselessly against his palm. He blinked—and suddenly, he was back in the snow. On top of Stan.

His heart kicked against his ribs, a flash of heat rolling through his gut as the image burned fresh in his mind.

His weight pressing Stan down. His hands caging Stan in. The frozen air thick with silence, with heat, with….something that coiled tight between them.

Ford swallowed hard, shifting in his seat, gripping his fork like it might anchor him to reality. He wished—God help him, he wished—the position had been reversed.

His appetite vanished.

And it didn’t stop.

Not when they finished eating, not when they cleaned up, not even when Stan stepped out of the shower, his skin damp, hair mussed, smelling like—

Himself.

Not smoke, not sweat, not artificial strawberry, or any other trace of Carla. Just Stan.

Ford gritted his teeth against the thought, burying himself in his work, ignoring the way his pulse felt too heavy, too loud. It didn’t help that Stan was right there.

Not in any meaningful way—he wasn’t hovering, wasn’t watching Ford, wasn’t doing anything suspicious—but Ford was still hyper-aware of him.

Stan sat cross-legged on his bunk, surprisingly doing his homework, head bent over his notebook, twirling a pencil between his fingers.

He shifted slightly, watching Stan through the metal reflection of their pencil sharpener. The soft glow of the bedside lamp cast warm shadows over his face, highlighting the bruise still darkening along his cheekbone.

Ford frowned.

Without thinking, he got up, padding quietly to the kitchen.

Their father had already retired to bed, which was a relief—less chance of him asking questions. Their mother, still half-distracted by her soaps, didn’t even glance up as Ford dug around in the freezer until he found—aha.

Two Italian ices. Lemon and Cherry.

He was fairly certain they’d been in there since two summers ago, but they’d serve their purpose.

He grabbed them both, heading back to their room. Without a word, he tossed one at Stan, who caught it with a raised brow.

“For your cheek,” Ford muttered, settling back at his desk and tearing the lid off his own.

Stan chuckled, pressing the frozen treat against his face. “What, no bag of peas?”

“Would you prefer the bag of peas?”

“Nah,” Stan grinned. “This one’s got flavor.”

They both sat in comfortable silence, scraping their wooden spoons against the ice, the occasional skrrk the only sound between them.

Then—“Why didn’t you tell me?” Stan’s voice was even, but there was an edge to it—something quiet, simmering just beneath the surface.

Ford didn’t look at him. He stared at his Italian ice, willing himself to sound neutral. “Tell you what?”

Stan gave him a look. 

“Didn’t need you worrying about it,” Ford said eventually, keeping his voice even. “It only just started happening.”

Stan gave him a flat look. “Bullshit.”

Ford clenched his jaw.

“Being shoved around is one thing, ” Stan continued, voice low. “ But getting left there?” He shook his head. “That ain’t right.”

“That isn’t right.”

Stan shot him a sharp, unimpressed glare.

“God, you’re insufferable,” Stan muttered, shaking his head before taking another bite of his ice.

“There wouldn’t have been any way to tell you, anyway,” Ford continued. “You have practice. You’re always busy.”

Stan raised an eyebrow. “Busy with what, exactly?”

Ford’s spoon scraped his ice just a bit harder. “I don’t know,” he muttered. “Maybe Carla or something.”

“Sure,” Stan said, drawing lazy circles against the plastic cup with his thumb. “But you know you’re my priority, right?”

Ford nearly dropped his ice.

His breath caught—his pulse hammered—his whole body locked up for a fraction of a second, his fingers stiff around the frozen plastic. He forced himself not to react. Not to think about what that meant. Not to want it to mean something it didn’t.

Stan stretched his arms, the muscles in his back flexing slightly beneath his shirt. “Not like I even see Carla that much anyway. She’s got French lessons, clarinet crap—” He made a vague gesture. “She’s been on my ass a lot lately. Annoyin’.”

Ford bristled before he could stop himself. His grip tightened around his spoon, but he forced himself to keep his tone even. “She’s probably just—” he cleared his throat, “—invested. Just give her time.”

God, what else was he supposed to say? What was he supposed to think?

Carla wasn’t even—she wasn’t a bad person.

She was smart. She was capable.

If Ford had any sense, he’d be interested in someone like her.

But the thought of her expecting something from Stan, of wanting something from him that Ford couldn’t even acknowledge wanting—

He hadn’t even realized Stan was looking at him until he turned his head slightly, catching the faintest trace of something unreadable in his brother’s eyes.

Stan searched his face for a second—long enough that Ford felt like he was waiting for something, some kind of reaction, some kind of tell—but whatever he was looking for, he must not have found it.

Because after a second, he just shrugged.

“Yeah,” he muttered, dropping his gaze back to his homework. “She’s pretty okay, I guess.”

[literaryvein-reblogs]

A List of "Beautiful" Words: Green

for your next poem/story

Aerugo - the rust of a metal and especially brass or copper; verdigris

Chartreuse - a variable color averaging a brilliant yellow green

Chloremia - chlorosis (i.e., an iron-deficiency anemia especially of adolescent girls that may impart a greenish tint to the skin); called also greensickness

Emerald - brightly or richly green

Glaucous - of a pale yellow-green color

Jade - a light bluish green

Loden - a variable color averaging a dull grayish green

Olivaceous - olive (i.e., of the color olive or olive green)

Patina - a usually green film formed naturally on copper and bronze by long exposure or artificially (as by acids) and often valued aesthetically for its color

Smaragdine - emerald

Verdancy - green in tint or color

Verdigris - a green or greenish-blue poisonous pigment resulting from the action of acetic acid on copper and consisting of one or more basic copper acetates

Verdure - the greenness of growing vegetation

Virescence - the state or condition of becoming green

Viridescent - slightly green; greenish

More: Lists of Beautiful Words ⚜ Word Lists

[toyybox]

Spiderwebs #48: Rust

Masterlist

content: bludgeoning, gore, murder

· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·

It was so cold. All over, Jackie felt numb. His head was ringing. It was a high-pitched whine, like the keening of a machine. He was aware, vaguely, of a voice, of rushing water, but it was all so far away. All the world was one step removed. It was a strange dream, but any dream was welcome. Any escape from reality, from concrete walls and floors.

Water splashed over his face. He spluttered and gasped. His eyes snapped open.

White ceramic and the scent of citrus, the light bright enough to make him squint—he recognized this place. It was the inside of Heather’s bathroom. That meant…

I’m out. Out of the basement. He could have wept at that thought. Oh God. Oh my God… 

“Finally. You’re awake. Stop gaping like a fish and look at me.”

And he would recognize that curt, cold tone anywhere. Heather! Although terror ran incessant claws up his insides, he was happy to see her. Unreasonably happy, to the point his chest ached. He could have died at that sight. Perhaps he would. She didn’t seem too pleased.

He looked up at Heather, to where she was standing.

“Sit up,” she said.

With another shiver, he sat up. Water dripped down his sleeves—water? He was in the bathtub. What a strange sort of baptism. He was waist-deep in freezing water. The shower curtain hung down at his left, creased up on the metal rod, the sheets plastic and pale gray. 

 “What—” He shifted, which made the water splash. “Why are we here?”

“You'll see.” She then patted his damp, dripping hair. “Sit tight. Don’t move. Understood?”

He nodded. 

"Good." She walked away, out the bathroom door. It shut behind her. Silence followed.

Jackie took this moment to study his surroundings. The tap was still running. He shut it off, though it took a great deal of effort. By now, the tub was just over half-full. 

Cold water. To wake me up, I guess. Jackie had fainted, hadn’t he? That was the last thing he remembered: his vision going white, and the pale certainty that he would pay for his exhaustion. 

Above him, he saw the shower head. In front of him, to the right, he saw the sink and cabinet-mirror. And so much light. Once, he believed nothing could replace sunshine in his heart, but now he was grateful for any method of sight. It was so dark in the basement. The lights had quickly burnt out. For the first time in weeks, even months, he could see his hands. His palms, his arms. The curls falling over his eyes. The damp gray-white of his shirt. Colors and shapes. 

The door opened with a whine. He lifted his head. 

Before he saw the rusty length of pipe, he heard the sound of grating metal. It dragged against the smooth floor. Scraping against it. He shivered again. 

Heather stood above him, poised with the pipe. “Get ready.”

He could not take his eyes off the rusting metal. His voice was painfully small. “Ready? For what?”

She just reared the pipe back. Up above her head. Aimed at him.

Even in his current state, Jackie knew that it was a lost cause. She had lost it. It, that undefinable variable that kept everyone glued together. His brief defiance had been the last straw—or this was simply an inevitable thing running its course, a spinning spool of thread well on its way to unraveling.

But none of those pretty words would save Jackie now. He stared, past the pipe, at the tiles behind it. There was a design, fleur-de-lis and ferns in a blue accent. He tried to focus on that instead. It would all be over soon. 

She took a step forward.

He held his breath.

“Jackie?”

He didn’t reply. Just focused on his breathing, on the blue design, anything but Heather.

“Look up,” she said. 

And there—just above his head, just barely above him—there was a sharp crack, as the pipe slammed down on the wall. A sound louder than any gun, that split the air in half. 

Jackie flinched. Now his stare was on the pipe. He couldn’t help it. Right above him, copper-red splotches on silver. There was a crack in the wall, a starburst across the ceramic. That could have been his skull. He was shaking badly.

“I should kill you,” Heather said, in between heavy breaths. “I should. I should give you a proper punishment. Something you'll remember."

The pipe lifted, then slammed down, fracturing another tile. The sound of crashing metal was closer than before. A shard of ceramic fell into the water. Jackie shut his eyes and let his nerves wind down, trying to get his heart to stop stuttering, keeping as still as he could. He felt such a wild, sharp fear that it was nearly enough to make him faint again.

"I should do it. Maybe I will. Maybe." There was a long pause. Her breathing slowed, slightly. "I suppose it doesn't matter. Right, Jackie? I know you still don't understand what I'm telling you. You never learn."

The pipe didn't land again. Carefully, he opened his eyes, and saw it motionless by Heather's side.

"I'm giving you another chance," she said. "We can move on and pretend none of this ever happened.”

He nodded quickly.

“Fine. That's enough. Now—”

They both looked towards the door. A cane tapped against the tiles.

Even Heather seemed to be caught off-guard.  “Callaghan?”

Yes, it was professor Callaghan—or doctor Callaghan, if you wanted to be perfectly accurate—in the doorway, still professionally dressed. There was an air of remarkable calmness about him. His expression was simply bewildered, nothing more. 

“Miss Rodriguez,” said the professor with pleasant serenity, as if she wasn’t holding a heavy metal pipe. “Are you alright? You haven’t answered my calls—or anyone’s calls, in fact—for several months. It was good that you left that window open. I was starting to think that something unfortunate had happened.”

“N—no, I'm fine, professor." Her expression was blank, however.

Callaghan frowned, this time. “Miss Rodriguez, I must insist you put that…” He glanced at the pipe and finally noticed it was there. “That piece of metal down. There are more dignified methods, I’m sure.”

“Methods? For what?”

He scrutinized Jackie, who stared back. “I assume you wish to dispose of him?”

“Who? Jackie?” Her voice was more than just startled. Urgency was seeping into it. “No, it’s not like that at all.”

“Miss Rodri—”

“Please. Just leave.”

“Heather, it’s alright. I’m here to help you. You’re in ill health. Sit down. And if this is really such a pressing matter, I would recommend using a firearm, if not the anesthetic we discussed. I don’t understand how this is safe or hygienic.”

She raised the pipe once more. “A gun? That’s it?” 

Callaghan nodded.

Jackie tensed. He pulled himself further away, sinking deeper into the water. 

Heather reared her weapon.

Then the pipe swung in the other direction, away from Jackie. The sound of metal against flesh split the air.

Professor Callaghan dropped to the ground. His body thudded against the tiles. It was a low, soft sound, heavy and damp on top of the solidly smooth floor. It was an unnatural sound. It didn’t feel right. Something snapped—he heard it, quietly, like a twig, like cartilage.

They waited. The seconds dragged on. The professor did not move. 

“You killed him,” Jackie whispered.

“Quiet.” She stepped back. “He’s not dead.”

No, he was definitely dead. The professor’s skull was cleaved in two. There was a great crater of split-cherry red in between. The one eye that wasn’t crushed to jelly looked sightlessly to the floor. His jaw hung limp and open. There was blood everywhere. On the ground, on the pipe, splattered on her face, smeared against the tub’s edge. Dripping down from Heather’s hands in thick clumps. 

Jackie whimpered, his stare fixed on the professor, and sank even deeper into the bathtub. 

It happened so quickly. Callaghan’s shoulder was flush to the tub, his mangled head just inches away. There was a wet mass that might have been his brain. Some of it had splattered against the tiles, pink and soft. 

Heather dropped the pipe. It banged on the floor, then rolled under a cabinet, leaving a spotted trail. Although the sound gave Jackie a start, the professor did not react to it. Perhaps Heather was hoping he would.

Still, she waited a few more minutes before turning away from his body, her eyes vacant all the while.

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