#And ive been trying to get over it for years

[devotedfem]

Isn't a threat a promise? - Part I

Synopsis: Where you're an assassin hired to finish the mysterious and poweful gang of seven eccentric men, but you're oblivious of how unpunishable and untouchable they were. You were bred to kill, but they were bred to rule over the mafia. They will break little by little your mind, reminding you that not even a hired assassin can beat them.

BTS OT7 x f. Reader

4.8K words.

Genre: Mafia and hitman au | Enemies to lovers | yander-ish.

Tags and TW: Organized crime, mafia BTS, hired assassin reader, german reader, hidden identity, a lot of lies, fake identity and name, fierce and intelligent reader, really sassy and brave reader but Bangtang will slowly break her mind and turn her into a fragile mess (you've been warned), adrenaline rush, murder, typical criminal violence, unhealthy relationships, unhealthy coping mechanism, they're all morally ambiguous, a lot of death, past traumas, manipulation, obsessive tendencies.

Series masterlist.

Navigation Masterlist.

Chapters: I, II, III, IV.

FIRST BULLET:

. . . . .

Your heels clicking were the only noise in the huge living room. You hummed a song walking towards the luxurious bathroom, washing the blood off your hands. You always have your nails painted red, so the blood won’t stain under them. And red looks so good on you, so it's like killing two birds with one stone.

You took your phone to make a call, fixing your hair and your maroon lipstick that was smudged on the corner of your lips.

“Yes?” Greeted the husky voice.

“Work’s done, I want my money in cash. I also want to go to Paris this weekend, so I’ll need a new passport.” You said removing your red lipstick, concealer and black eyeliner, putting some gloss on your lips instead.

You look cleaner with your face bare. Less messy, less suspicious. More innocent.

The man at the other side of the phone sighed deeply, as if he was dealing with a spoiled brat.

“Y/n, we can’t give you a new passport every fucking week. You’re too messy and too attention seeker. Learn to be more discreet and you’ll earn your little trips.” The broken English of the man made his words sound angrier.

You snorted at him. Learn to be more discreet? What would be the fun of that?

“Can you not be a boring prick for five minutes? All of my targets always get killed and the police’s incompetence never fail to be on my favor. Doesn’t it?”

You said with your also broken English. You cleaned the doorknobs with isopropyl alcohol, and burned your target’s slit neck with a lighter, to erase any kind of fingerprints. You also cleaned the bathroom sink and the floor where the corpse lay with acid.

You felt like the cleaning lady of the house, vacuuming the floor to collect hair and clothing fibers. Every detail must be taken care of.

“Y/n,” the man warned, with that tone of voice that was supposed to intimidate you, but the both of you know that it never works. “You have a new target, so move your trip to Paris to another day.”

You stopped vacuuming with a gasp.

“You’re giving me more work!? But I just finished killing this one, and he was so annoying,” you whined, looking at the corpse of the old man with disgust. That man was a sexist sexual predator and a pain in your ass.

“Oh but you’d like this one. They’re seven men, a secretive gang, pulling all the strings from the shadows. It took us years to find their whereabouts. They’re a big deal in this business.”

Business. Big deal. That took your attention very quickly.

You said nothing for a couple of seconds. He knew that you were considering it, he knew that you love challenges.

“Prize?” You asked, checking your red nails out.

“Five.”

“Five fucking what? Dollars? Hundredths?”

“Millions.”

Oh. You hummed to yourself.

“How dangerous?”

“Very dangerous. In fact, the odds of killing them are very low. You’re more likely to get killed instead of them.”

You bit your bottom lip trying to stop your mischievous smirk from curling in your lips. You tasted the sweet savor of challenge in your tongue, imagining yourself spending those 5 million on trips in Europe.

“You’re so mean, giving me such a difficult task. You’re not trying to get rid of me, aren’t you Bruderherz?” You purred, grinning like a starve wolf. You took your Birkin bag and switchblade with you, walking out of the mansion towards your sport car.

“Oh, I would never my Schwesterlein. How could I lose my golden star? You’re irreplaceable.”

“Good to know that we’re on the same page, after all, it’s going to cost you more than seven men to get rid of me,” you hummed, lighting a cigarette, driving away. “I want vacations after I finish this target by the way, long vacations.” You made him sigh again.

This is going to be so fun.

|||||||||||||||

NEW YORK STATE

LAST NAME: NOVIKOVA

FIRST NAME: ANN

COUNTRY OF BIRTH: RUSSIA

DATE OF BIRTH: 15 AUG ****

SEX: F

CARD EXPIRES: 05/08/2034

RESIDENT SINCE: 01/12/2024

You pursed your lips reading your new fake id card. He always makes you Russian, you think you can hide very well your broken English, you weren’t that obvious. But in this kind of business, it’s pretty common to see Italians and Russians, no matter how stereotypical it sounds. You were proud of your German roots, but it is in fact stupid to let people know where you came from.

Your targets were Korean, you don’t see a lot of Koreans in this business, they were ruthless. That’s why you have to be even more careful.

You can do a lot of things wrong, like wasting your money in bags and shoes (not in your rent and bills), or playing a little with your targets, testing how quick they found out they’re falling into your trap. But the one thing you prohibit yourself from is to underestimate your prey, oh boy, that’s a huge mistake. You always have in mind the possibility of them outsmarting you. So, you do a long list of 100 ways they could find out who you are, and a quick plan to solve each one of those outcomes.

You weren’t the golden star of your Bruderherz for nothing.

You pin your hair up away from your face, securing it with grips, putting on a short wig that reaches your jaw. Wearing a dark trench coat and red lipstick.

Your new identity this time is a Russian heiress of a gang located in many countries of Eastern Europe. You’re supposed to be rich, spoiled, a little dumb and ruthless. Your daddy’s money gives you all the wonders in the world, even if the money it’s stained in blood.

You’re supposed to meet the Bangtang gang to “talk” about business. Convince them to unite both gangs for their best interest. You wanted to live in New York, but you couldn’t without the protection of your daddy’s men, so you’ll give him a good deal in this city. In your opinion, it’s a good drive for your character.

Your siren’s charm this time won’t be your body. Bangtang were young and rich, used to women throwing themselves at them expecting something in return. This time you’re the one with the golden bait.

The greed for money and power is stronger than temporary lust or infatuation.

That’s what you thought, watching Bangtang’s mansion from the car, the driver leaving you in front of the huge place.

You grinned to yourself, already smelling the scent of the five millions of dollars, in cash of course.

You walked towards the entrance of the mansion with your heels clicking, your chin was up and your gaze fixated on the big doors. You weren’t surprise when three men armed to the teeth and dressed in black stopped you.

“Wait here.” One of them said rudely, making you arch a brow.

“I’m not waiting outside the doors like a fucking dog. I have a business appointment with Bangtang, so if you don’t want to end dissolved in acid, I suggest you to take me inside to them.” It was and order and a threat. Your voice didn’t quiver and your gaze was steady, burning on the man. You were dressed in expensive clothes, all of you screamed luxury and power.

Fear flashed the guard’s face for a moment, nodding at your words and leading you into the mansion.

The decoration and furniture were classic, all here screamed old money; discreet but expensive.

You stopped when the man halt in front of a mahogany door. He looked nervous for a second, but his face turned expressionless again, opening the door and bowing to the men inside of the room.

It was an office, very chic and expensive-looking. You could smell the money.

There were seven men watching you both with frowns, looking almost startled at your presence. A tall man with bulky body and nice clothes looked at you from head to toe, arching a brow and crossing his buff arms.

“Who’s this? And why is she in my office, without my permission? I gave strict orders to make any guest wait.” The man’s jaw was clenched, and his words were grunted between teeth. He looked beyond displeased by your presence.

The guard at your side flinched a little by the cold stare of the other man, clearly intimidated by his boss scold.

“I-I, I uh, i mean, she-she said it was… She looked important…”

You felt a pang of guilt and pity by looking at him, the poor guy was about to piss himself.

“I am indeed, very important. Let me introduce myself; I am Ann Novikova, heiress of the Eastern Europe biggest gang. And please, don’t be hard on the guard, although it isn’t clever to ignore your boss orders, I wasn’t very easy on him either.” You said with a charming smile and a wink towards the guard, standing tall in your spot, watching all of them in their eyes. You can’t show an ounce of insecurity.

They were wolves, but you were a panther, circling their den from the distance.

“You’re fired. Get out of my sight.” Barked the bulky guy, looking straight into your eyes while speaking.

The guard’s face fell, turning around to leave you alone in the wolves’ den.

“You have 5 minutes to explain why you think you’re important enough to come here, to our house, almost breaking in, and clearly uninvited.” Another tall man stands up from a couch, nursing himself a glass of whiskey without averting his gaze from you. He has such plump lips, but an arrogant presence.

“Hurry up!” Thundered another one when you kept silent. His hair was black, curling at the nape, he was so handsome and so fucking rude.

You blinked, clenching your fists with fire rising to your lungs. You never let anyone speak to you in such way, not without consequences. But you have to keep calm, a prize is sweeter with a good chase.

Breathe. Act. Kill. Easy Peasy.

“Important? I have the blood of one of the most powerful and ruthless men of Europe. One call to my daddy and all of you are going to literally war,” you phrased calmly, even when your words were shot to kill. “But I don’t want to. My time is too precious to waste it on war gangs just because. I came here with a proposal, one that will benefit us all.”

And there it was, the golden bait.

The room fell silent for a moment, there was a growing tension and interest.

“Tell me, why a girl like you, that came out of nowhere, that is rich and spoiled would want to make business with us of all people?”

That was a great question, one you anticipated.

“I want to give my daddy a good deal here in New York, a good reason for him to send his men to this city so I can have their protection, he’s very protective of me. You guys are very discreet and also my dad is enemy with half of American gangs, so I don’t have many options.”

There was silence again, and then a giggle from the pretty blonde boy looking at you with mischievous eyes.

“You’re doing all of this just because you want to live in New York? I mean there’s nothing special here. There are a lot of rats though, nothing you don’t have in your homeland.” He sneered, running slowly his eyes on your body from head to toe, but unlike the buff guy, the blonde’s stare glinted with interest.

“Well, what can I say, I like New York and I want to live near my new friends. I’m bored in Russia.” You shrugged, as if your answer was enough reason to convince them.

“It’s so fucking disrespectful to have a spoiled brat thinking she can waste our time.” Growled a deep voice, catching your attention. It came from a cat-eyed man with raven hair. His face was pale and his gaze burned on you, full of contempt.

At least they believe you’re just a spoiled rich girl. That’s good.

“I said I came here with a proposal that will benefit us all. Don’t you want to hear it? If so, I’ll find another gang. Time’s money.” You stand your ground, hoping they fall for your act. It will make your job easier.

Uncomfortable and deep silence surrounded the office again.

“Let the girl speak.” Said gently a man with a heart type of smile. He seemed nice, too nice. You noted to be careful around him in the future.

“Continue.” Ordered the buff man with a sigh.

You started to explain the fake but very well thought out plan. You gestured while explaining the details, pacing around the office as if it belongs to you; as if you were one of them.

But beyond your act, you were scared. Your stomach churned, your heart beat increased and your hands sweat and trembled, that’s why you hid them inside your coat’s pockets. You can’t show them fear, you can’t show them insecurity.

Predators smell fear.

The buff guy’s name was Namjoon. He stared piercingly at you while you were talking, leaning on the edge of the desk. His brows were slightly furrowed in concentration, nodding slowly to himself at your words. The drumming of his fingers on the desk made your heart beat spike.

The other tall man, named Seokjin, has his steady dark eyes fixated on you. He was straddling a chair, with a glass of whiskey in one of his hands. You tried not to look at him for too long, getting distracted by him drinking whiskey and keeping the liquor swimming in his mouth, tasting it slowly, while looking straight into your eyes.

Braced himself against the wall was the handsome boy with dark hair curling on his nape. His name was Taehyung, and he has his arms crossed defensively over his chest, glaring at you with his jaw clenched. You didn’t know why your presence pissed him off so much, he looked like a wolf on the defensive, ready to pounce and kill at any sign of danger.

You were a threat for him, that means that your acting skills aren’t that bad. Because if he knew how powerless you actually were, he would devour you whole.

Jimin, the pretty and mischievous blonde, was sitting cozily on the couch. He looked up at you through his beautiful eyelashes, smirking and tilting his head at your words. He seemed innocent and dangerous at the same time, you knew his kind very well. He’s a snake charmer.

You can’t be charmed by him, or you’ll get eat.

And the cat-eyed man named Yoongi, resembles Taehyung’s posture, although he seemed colder and calmer than the other. He was sitting on the arm chair of the couch, with his arms crossed and his deep and intense gaze studying you. He was just watching you intently, with analyzing eyes drinking in every detail of your posture and choice of words.

You have to be careful with that one, the dullness and lack of shine of his eyes tells you that he has too much experience.

Hoseok. The smiling and gentle guy that was sitting on the edge of the couch beside Jimin, stared at you with his eyes sparkling with curiosity and something else. His elbows rested on his knees, smiling every now and then but never looking away from you.

Something about him made you feel shivers, because his smile felt a little bit fake. You knew damn well that the smiley ones are the most dangerous.

And then, there was Jungkook.

It surprised you how quiet he was, sitting in the desk chair behind Namjoon’s body half hidden from your view. But you observed him in detail anyway. He was a buff guy, not as buff as Namjoon but bulky enough. He has piercings and tattoos all over his arm, dressed in baggy black clothes. He looked like a biker guy, and that didn’t take you by surprise, what you didn’t expect was to see such big doe eyes looking at you with pure innocence sparkling in them.

His eyes took your breath away, and you tried to hide it. It was so rare to find people with clean eyes in this type of business, in this type of world. Everyone has some darkness staining their eyes, but not this one. He looks kind-hearted, not faking it like Hoseok and not using it as a weapon like Jimin. He just seemed genuine.

That’s why you mentally noted to bond with him later, to find out what is he doing here. Maybe he is Bangtang’s weakness. Their Achilles heel.

You finished talking with your hands behind your back, rubbing them in anxiety and adrenaline. You felt your heart beating fast against your ribcage and your senses getting sharp as if you were fighting a dangerous predator. It was just your anxiety talking, but you knew damn well that you were playing with fire.

There was silence. Deep, uncomfortable silence.

And then Seokjin stands up from the chair, walking towards you with his squared shoulders and firm steps. You hold his gaze, not showing fear.

You got your gun hidden in your hip, ready to risk it all if you’re forced to.

He stood inches from your body, making you look up at him. His eyes dropped heavily on your lips and then back up to your eyes again, watching you intently.

“I like you. And that’s worse than my dislike. I supposed your daddy already warned you about big bad guys like us, but I’ll warn you anyway; you better not be disloyal to us, because you’ll wish to die before getting into our bad side.” He threatened lowly and fiercely, curling a lock of your hair in his finger, staring down at you like you were an insignificant bug under his shoe.

But you knew you weren’t harmless, and he knew it too despite his indifferent façade. They will have their eyes on you, watching your every move.

“Don’t worry, I’m more than used to threats,” you hummed, smiling at him and holding your head high.

Seokjin widened his eyes for a second, and then he clenched his jaw, getting out of the office without another word.

You watched Namjoon, Yoongi and Hoseok walking towards you, feeling a rush of distrust.

“You heard him loud and clear, don’t test us, and you’ll stay with all of your limbs intact. We don’t care about your daddy’s power, as long as you’re working with us, under this roof, you’ll follow our rules.” Said calmly Namjoon, with his hands in his pockets, watching your every expression.

“Guys come on, stop being so dense with the poor girl. I mean, she has more balls than all of our guards and enemies together, she came here alone looking so… strong and pretty,” Hoseok paused to drop his gaze on your body, and then he looked up at your eyes with a smile, “I must say that you took me by surprise, I like your boldness.”

“You mean audacity.” Interrupted Yoongi with his arms crossed. His cat eyes were calculating over you. “I don’t know if your little act it’s brave, stupid or suspicious, but I do know that you have a hidden intention, and it better don’t affect us, or you’ll pay the price.”

Yoongi’s voice was deep, and his gaze dull of light. He knew you were hidden something; he has the experience of a veteran written on his face. But he doesn’t know what you’re hiding exactly, so his wariness didn’t bother you too much, at least not for now.

“If I were you, I’d be unsure too. I promise that the only person I want to bother it’s my daddy, with a new penthouse on New York,” you grinned mischievous.

“God, I love her,” purred Jimin behind the three of them, devouring you with his gaze.

The four of them walked away towards the door, but Jimin stopped at your side, leaning close to your ear, as if he was about to tell you a secret.

“Be careful little bunny, I can see right through your tough girl act.” He mouthed lowly and quietly near your ear, chuckling before getting away from you, disappearing as smoke air.

You blinked, gulping your anger and fear.

Fear? You never felt fear in your life. You were ruthless, your Bruderherz teach you better than to let some gang guys get into your head. You had face worse than them.

You were alone with Taehyung and Jungkook, the latter walked towards the door but you stopped him.

“Hey, what was your name again?” You faked confusion, making Jungkook bite his inner cheek.

“Jungkook,” he said, his voice deep but quiet.

He seemed pretty shy.

“You didn’t say much while I was talking about my plan, what do you think about it?” You asked with a soft smile and gentle tone.

Jungkook stared at your smile before looking up into your eyes, something glints in them.

“I’m not sure what are your… intentions, but if my hyungs agreed to your plan, then you must worth the… risk, I guess. They know better,” he shrugged, throwing glances at the door.

“Right, can I have your number? Just in case Namjoon doesn’t pick up his phone so I can speak with one of you in an emergency.”

Jungkook raised his eyebrows taken aback, closing and opening his mouth, looking unsure if it was okay to give you his phone number.

“You’re quite direct, aren’t you?” He said with a timid smile, giving you his number.

“What can I say? You look trustworthy,” you smiled triumphant.

“Let’s hope I don’t disappoint you,” he muttered before walking away, leaving you puzzled by his words.

Your gaze followed Jungkook’s body walking away, frowning by his cryptic response. Maybe you were misjudging him?

You startled when you turned around facing Taehyung’s body too close for your comfort. He was staring at you with narrowed eyes.

“Don’t let Jungkookie fool you, he’s not that innocent.” He remarked, stepping closer to you, inches from your face. You can feel the warmth of his body and his hot breath brushing your cheek.

“I think you’re too close for my like,” you said about to move away but he didn’t let you, gripping your waist with his hands and pulling you roughly against his chest. You gasped with surprise, not knowing if you should laugh at his audacity or punch him in his face.

But before you could do anything, he put his hand inside your coat, with his fingers brushing and running slowly your hips. You stayed freeze in his grip, with your heart beating wild.

His hand found your gun, taking it away and putting it in his pocket.

Your mouth was parted and your heart was pounding in your ears, you look up at him with fury. He didn’t release his grip on your waist, tightening it instead.

“Give me back my gun, and let go of me,” you warned, but your voice quivered a little, making Taehyung smirk like a wolf.

“Or what? In this house, our guests aren’t allowed to carry weapons,” his lips were too close to your face. You felt his hot breath brushing your lips.

You broke free from his grip, leaving a big space between you two.

“You don’t want to get on my bad side so quickly, Taehyung,” you said, trying to compose yourself.

“Oh, isn’t this your bad side already? I think you’re not that scary.”

His mocking words made your heart stop, you didn’t like how this conversation was going.

“No. But my daddy is, so watch your mouth,” you spat before walking away from the office, feeling Taehyung’s gaze burning on your back.

Your phone rang in your pocket, you looked at both sides before answering it.

“Y/n?” Asked your Bruderherz.

You bit a smile at the sound of his voice, finding it comforting after dealing with wolves.

“Who’s that? I’m Ann Novikova, remember?” You teased, getting out of the mansion to wait for your driver to pick you up.

You heard a laugh on the other side of the phone.

“Did you convince them?”

“Did it,” you crooned lightly, breaking a proud smile on your face.

A muffle sound took your attention from the call. You frowned watching your surrounds with your senses heightening.

“Make the driver hurry,” you ordered before hanging up the phone.

You followed the odd noise coming from behind a bush.

And then, your heart stopped and your eyes widened at the sight before you.

The fired guard lay on the floor with his neck slit, drowning in his own puddle of blood. But that didn’t disturb you, you were used to death. What you didn’t expect was the perpetrator behind the kill.

Jungkook looked at you with his face sprinkled with blood.

“I-“ you didn’t know what to say. You were taken aback.

Jungkook grinned with his nose wrinkling, resembling a bunny.

“Why you look so… surprise? Doesn’t your dad kill in front of you?” He asked with his head tilted to the side, frowning at your shocked expression.

There it was again, that glint of innocence flashing his doe eyes. But the fact that those eyes belong to a murderer, fucked up a little your mind. But it shouldn’t surprise you that much, after all, he was part of a criminal organization.

But still, it was confusing.

“No, you’re right, I am… used to death,” you said, watching the guard’s eyes lose the spark of life.

“Did I disappoint you?” Jungkook’s desperate voice startled you. He walked towards you with crazed and worried eyes, making you take some steps back.

Before you could say or do anything, Namjoon’s voice stopped Jungkook from coming closer to you.

“Jungkook, get inside. You did a good job,” he dismissed the bunny boy.

Jungkook glance between you two, looking indecisive. But he chose to follow Namjoon’s orders and leave you two alone.

“Do you need a ride?” Asked Namjoon, making you blink.

“No, my driver is on the way. Thank you though,” you said, averting your eyes towards the gates when you heard a car nearby. “And there he is, goodbye Namjoon, it was a pleasure to meet you.”

Before you could turn around to leave, he stopped you grabbing you by your arm.

“Are you sure you want to do this? You can change your mind right now, because the moment you’re out of those gates, there will be no turning back.” His eyes were intense and fixated on you, expecting an answer.

You won’t dare to say that he was worried about you, because you were a stranger to him, one that can even be considered a threat. But a tiny bit of concern did flash his gaze. Maybe because you looked like a naive woman, one that acted like a spoiled kid, not mature enough for this world and for this deal.

He didn’t know you, but you knew him well.

“I am sure, don’t worry about me,” you said smiling at him, holding his gaze.

He blinked taken aback, and then his grip on your arm tighten.

“I have this odd feeling since you came to our office, that my boys will bond with you very quickly, they already like you too much. That’s why you better not play with their trust, no tricks or games. Am I being clear?” He growled lowly, his features hardening at the thought of you betraying them.

The driver honked the car’s horn behind you, you glanced back at him and then back at Namjoon again, grinning wider.

“And you?”

Namjoon frowned at your words.

“What about me?”

“Do you trust me? Would you ever bond with me like your friends?” You asked leaning towards him, biting your bottom lip with Namjoon’s dark and heavy gaze following the movement.

He let go of your arm as if the touch of it burned his hand.

“I don’t trust you, not now and sure not ever. You can keep your performative charms to yourself when you’re with me, I won’t fall that easy.” He said lowly, like a promise, like a threat.

Excitement and adrenaline rushed to your veins. That sounded like a challenge.

“You said it; not that easy but not that impossible either, let’s see what happens Namjoonie,” you purred, turning around to walk towards the car. Feeling Namjoon’s eyes burning on your back.

You watched from the car Namjoon standing tall at the entrance of the mansion, with his hands in his pockets and the breeze moving his hair.

You recognized that glint in his eyes, he saw a challenge, he saw a threat, but also a chance to success in this business.

He bit the bait, as you planned.

But you felt something odd too, a little voice at the back of your head whispering a warning.

You’re playing with fire, says the voice, you’re not in a wolves’ den; you’re in a nest of starved python snakes.

But a catch is sweeter with a dangerous chase, isn’t it?

You want to read the next chapter right away? Click here to early access. The second chapter will be posted on 3 weeks on time.

Taglist:

@demonshauntingthedoves @pynkgothicka @itlover8000 @monochromaticfawn @devilzliaison @11thenightwemet11 @deluluisdasolulu @shailari @queenc22x

[beachbunnyofficial]

musings on announce

Lately I’ve been feeling hopeless, not just hopeless but numb. The state of the world is horrendous and I’ve been consumed with the news, practically swallowed whole. We just announced our third album I should be thrilled - I’m not. I’m just going through the motions. From a personal standpoint I worry about how I’ll find my footing. I use to be so confident in what I was writing, now it just feels like creativity is pointless - maybe everything feels pointless (I know that’s not true). I’ve been comparing myself a lot lately to numbers and career moves. No matter what achievements I cross off it feels like I’m always chasing something bigger than myself, a feeling? Maybe I’m expecting to feel something I’ve never felt before. Maybe you don’t feel new emotions at a certain point. Is the excitement I felt winning a trophy in gradeschool the same excitement I felt headlining a fest? Hard to say. I worry my audience is slipping away even though they sellout shows and send me love letters. I feel anxious about how songs are performing when my label, manager, and booking agent all assure me “everything looks great”. My mom told me the other day when you’re at your peak it’s easy to see how far you could fall - maybe that’s what this is. I had no control over my Initial virality and now I’m trying to hold on with white knuckles. I feel guilty - guilty for being ungrateful, guilty for whining, guilty for getting jealous, guilty for not being excited - so many people would kill to be in this position. I think above all else, I’m afraid. I can’t control what’s happening to the world & maybe I’m projecting that unease onto my career - something Ive convinced myself I can micromanage. My ego’s in the drivers seat. If I tune out that could make me complacent. The discomforts a good thing… right?

I worry if you the reader - if you’ll like this album - we’re old friends meeting up for coffee after a couple years of radio silence. It’s awkward because from my end it seems like we had a falling out, but on your end maybe it feels like we’re just picking up where we left off? I can’t tell. Are you mad that I changed? Are you upset that I was distant for a couple years? Do you understand I needed some time to work on myself? Do you wish I would go back to the old me? It’s embarrassing to be insecure…I’m not always like this. But my goal is to capture how I’m feeling authentically, and as of February 15th, a week after announcing Tunnel Vision, I’m not feeling like my best self

I wrote a lot about these worries on the record - lack of control, overthinking, letting go, jealousy. I thought if I could capture those emotions in a song I could exorcise them from my body. I need to remind myself I am not my emotions, I am not my career, I am not a machine. Just a girl in Chicago trying to make some artwork about the complexity of the mind and the hardness of world. I thought at this point in my career the jealousy and comparison would be over and done with. I hope I can convince myself this body of work is important, I hope I can stop checking in, I want to not care about how it’s received. I wish I didn’t care what you think.

I should be proud I made something I truly like, with messages I still stand by, and songs I think are cool. That has always been my philosophy, where’s that now? Where did she go? I feel whole when I’m in community, when I’m watching a show I enjoy, when I’m listening to Lana and eating a bagel, I feel whole when I’m praying before I fall asleep, I feel whole when I sing karaoke, or play a gig, or when I make a new friend, or when I get to reconnect with a loved one. I feel whole when mimzy sleeps on my head and eats my hair, or I’m hugged so tight all the air leaves my lungs, I feel whole when I drink a glass of water and put on sunscreen. Checking doesn’t make me feel full, it empties me out, lowers my vibration, casts a shadow on my confidence. I need to let the art exist without holding a gun to it, I need to let myself relax without assuming the world is ending

xoxo beach bunny

[mayoshifts]

how i manifested the greatest academic comeback

tldr: nerd starts tweaking over the possibility of failing a class and starts trying to manifest it away. it worked

alright guys it’s the end of the grading period and let me say, i CLUTCHED 💪🏽💪🏽

so for my grades, 3 weeks ago my geometry grade was a 28. NOW BEFORE YOU JUDGE, lemmie explain how it got that way ☺️

last december i got into a car accident and injured my right shoulder. bcs of that i’ve had procedures done and physical therapy every tuesday and thursday (sometimes friday). so i always leave school in the middle of my geometry class to make it to my appointments.

i can’t skip phys therapy bcs there’s a whole legal case and all that stuff (i’ll tell that story once everything is settled 🤫) but basically if i skip too many times, then it can be used against me legally so i literally gotta go.

anyways considering i always leave early in geometry, my grade was COOKED bcs i was missing dols (demonstration of learning, basically a 5 question quiz where you answer questions pertaining to what we learned) and i missed a test.

i was real stressed out bcs i’m an honor roll student. like the only time ive ever gotten a failing grade was freshman year in PE. if that doesn’t show the extent of my nerdiness idk what will. and y’all, i genuinely could not live in a world where i failed MATH, that would have been my 13th reason on top of everything else going on rn.

so because of that, i used my little trick (affirming and persisting) in order to fix my grade. i affirmed that i would not fail, and i wouldn’t get anything less than an 80 on my report card. i’ve also been using that distraction method with the void and stuff.

fast forward to about 3 weeks of trying to fix my grade and make everything up, i was still sitting at a 68 (around 3-4 days ago). at that point i had started saying that i would have around a 70 if i made everything up. i was literally calculating what i had to get on the next 2 grading cycles and final in order to have an 80 for the semester.

then, out of nowhere, my teacher put in some random assignments that i had done and a binder check, with a high weight on the grade since it was categorized as a test. for the binder check and random assignments i got 100%. i also had a quiz yesterday that i got an 83 on, which was also a test grade.

so my 68 turned into an 85. i was content with having an 85 but i still had a few dols to make up so i stayed afterschool today and finished them.

now i have a 90🎉🎉🎉 i’m so happy, id like to thank my peers on this beautiful app for showing me my true potential and myself for being open minded and willing to explore. guys i swear, ALL YOU HAVE TO DO IS PERSIST AND BELIEVE IN YOURSELF. if your conscious mind and 3d starts telling you differently from your desires, correct it. you write your story, not anything else. towards the end i was losing hope of my gpa being so high but my constant work in writing my story and has led me to be great

once again😄

[1queasycrow]

Why I think it makes sense to lock Lucanis’ romance behind the city choice but not Neve’s

Alright Ive been sitting on this for a while now, it might piss some people off, such is the way of opinions.

Fair warning, this may not cast a flattering light over many peoples favourite Antivan prince. I am not intentionally bashing him, rather observing things about his character through his words, actions and the in-game lore we receive.

Alright, here we go.

On their upbringing

Since he was young Lucanis has been told he is special, he is important, he means something, his needs should be attended, yes it is in service to a position he does not want but that doesn't change the fact that Lucanis has always been told he matters.

Neve has been a blemish on the family, she has been told and shown that she does not matter, her whole quest asks you to tell her what she means to Minrathous (Dock Town). The city that itself constantly “stabs her in the back”. It has been driven into her that she should not expect more because she does not deserve it and and even if she did, people would not give it.

Here we have two very different characters starting points so one can see why, though Neve may be more vocal about it, Lucanis is 'worse' off if you do not save Treviso.

His needs, his city were not ‘important’ (perhaps not for the first time but still, very few times has this been the case). So it hits Lucanis harder.

With the exception of a Shadow Dragon Rook, Neve does not expect you to come to Minrathous, so when you don’t it is not a surprise, perhaps a disappointment but not one she wasn’t expecting.

On their state upon meeting Rook.

When we first meet Lucanis, it is in a prison which he has been tortured in for the past year, this is not a prime mental state to start any serious relationship (we will get to Lucanis/Neve later). Then when he gets home it is to news that his favoured relative (Catarina) has just been murdered. Add to the fact that he is likely taking in this new information, that he is not the Center of the world, and poor boy's head is probably spinning so fast it's liable to come off.

Contrast this with Neve’s world at the start of the game which could probably be best summed up with ‘same shit different day’; the venatori are zealots, the shadows are trying their damnedest yet still loosing and Dock Town remains its same old tragic neglected self.

On Neve/Lucanis if you save Minrathous

Disclaimer, I don't like Lucanis/Neve, it aint my jam and I think Neve deserves better. Not the point here because I am actually in support of the idea that this ship is wholly plausible even if you lock out Lucanis/Rook.

I think, that the reasons stated above are enough to put anyone off a romance but if you save Treviso Lucanis a) doesn't have to deal with some of them and b) isn't mad at Rook for the same reasons. So given that, it makes sense he would gravitate to someone else with a shared grief. He might have wanted Rook to save Treviso but he would never ask that of Neve, as one can surely see it would be akin to asking him to save Minrathous. Therefore it is logical that he would not be as upset with her. Can I guarantee their romance would be the same as Lucanis/Rook? No of course not, they're different people and that's how the world works, but that is a post for another day.

All of this is to caution against being accidentally bigoted towards the best damn detective in Thedas.

Thank you for coming to my THED Talk.

[angelflms]

oh boy. guess i have something to say about CK after all. get ready. it's gonna be a fucking doozy because ima bout to piss off so many people.

yall cared wayyyy too much about robby (this is coming from a robby lover).

for a cheesy, straightforward show, some of y'all didn't understand its tropes at all. or at least what it was trying to tell you, especially when it comes to the roles miguel and robby are supposed to be in.

miguel has been and always will be the show's karate kid. he was supposed to be the daniel of the story, hell even GQ just said it in an article about the show recently. robby was always supposed to be a johnny-like foil to miguel. the thing is that the show tries to bamboozle you into thinking otherwise because of who's training them, how they're trained, and how they act because of the type of training they're initially recieved.

yes, miguel acts very similar to johnny in the show. yes most of the og TKK call backs they make with him are in relation to johnny, but he is the underdog character. you know how everyone expected johnny to win in TKK because he was a fucking champ and such. it's almost like how we as an audience for awhile assume that robby is gonna be the final end all champ of the series. but just like with johnny, we're proven wrong. it's just that the bullet was in a different gun this time. it's the one in the ck gi who won this time.

idk why people get so mad over miguel's victories when it was always supposed to be him that was gonna win. the show is called cobra kai for a reason, therefore, the final winner of the show is gonna be someone from that dojo. it only makes sense. and since the main karate kid that started off the show was a ck member originally, surprise! he's gonna be the final victor of the show.

---

now im seeing a lot of hatred towards johnny's character, again because of robby. now yes, johnny was a fucking horrible dad. and as a girl who's bio dad is a piece of shit like johnny was and has never been in my life (even started a business similar in the world as johnny's), i understand robby's dad pain a lot, even more so than miguel's.

but what you don't understand is that cobra kai is a show about generational pain. generational trauma. generational grief. generational hurt. the whole story revolves around pain that started 30 years prior (even further if you bring up kreese). the show also is about breaking the cycle once brought upon you to better the future for those who look up to you.

johnny is close to miguel because he was his second chance at being a better father figure to him. he didn't expect that he would get robby back in his life the way he did (robby literally told him to rightfully stay away) so he focused heavily on miguel and his family. now once he and robby reconciled, it was a huge breaking the circle moment because johnny lawrence is a victim of physical and verbal child abuse from both his step-dad, sid and his father figure, kreese. kreese was to johnny what he is to robby, but less abusive. and robby was to kenny what johnny was to him, but robby eventually broke the cycle, something that johnny was able to eventually do himself.

that emotional scene between johnny and kreese wasn't just emotional but kreese's final moment of realization that he was a horrible man and father figure to johnny. he hurt him so bad that he couldn't be a normal human being, which in turn caused him to be an absentee parent to robby. not saying that it's okay but it's understandable. not getting that johnny is a broken person just ruins the whole point of the show's point of generational pain, something the show is nearly spoon feeding the audience to.

yes johnny is horrible as a father, but damn it the man didn't have a father figure as a model. all of his figures were abusive, absentee drunks who never saw his potential. that was a norm for him.

---

ive said many times that y'all talk wayyyyy too much shit about miguel for no reason. and the way this season ended and how much y'all are upset, im starting to look at a lot of you in a side-eyed way. like his character arc is poorly written but that's not his fault. the writers hate him i feel. look i love robby and i hated the way he went out but at the end of the day, you need to understand that he wasn't gonna be the final guy. maybe i think too much in terms of the nuances of shows but i'd like to think this was the most straightforward show about fighting out there. like there wasn't much of a hidden message as they told you what they were. maybe yall are too lost in the fact that y'all care so much about robby that you don't care. maybe im missing something as i have only been in the fandom for over a year. or maybe y'all just subconsciously racist atp because the hatred miguel and xolo get for no reason is beyond me.

but i will give everyone this: the show's writing sucks.

they didn't know how to write certain characters and i feel like it was due to wanting to please everyone because i remember the death threats this fandom threw towards so many people during the lockdown days. but the show genuinely can go past surface level shit and it sucks. i wrote a whole thing dedicated to how miguel's storyline should've went post-coma because honestly they fucked his character up BIG time. but at the end of the day, i do think, even with good writing, he deserved that ending. i just wished everyone else agreed.

[cartoonghosts]

everything is terrible actually

[bunnyboy-juice]

NO MORE ASSOCIATING THINGS WITH FEMMES ONLY BECAUSE THEY ARE PINK!HYPERFEM FEMMES ARE GREAT AND I LOVE YOU CAMPY FEMMES WHO EMBODY PINK BUT ALSO JESUS CHRIST CAN YOU GUYS NOT GO MORE THAN ONE DAY W/O TRYING TO SHOEHORN FEMMES INTO BEING ONLY PINK UWU BABIES. I AM FEMME AS IN GRASS AS IN DIRT AS IN TREE BARK AS IN WEEDS SPROUTING THROUGH THE SIDEWALK CEMENT. FEMME AS IN GENDER NONCONFORMITY AS IN FUCK YOU MY FEMININITY IS WHAT *I* SAY IT IS. FEMME AS IN DEPTH AND DARKNESS AND WARMTH AND TERROR. FEMME AS IN CAVES. FEMME AS IN LIGHTNING. FEMME AS IN AN AMALGAMATION OF TRAITS THAT I HAVE DECIDED ARE FEMININE REGARDLESS OF WHAT SOCIETY SAYS. FUCK IS IT THAT HARD TO UNDERSTAND?!???

[sil-te-plait-tue-moi]

My heart is a bloodhound!

PART 1 ★ PART 2

Quick summary: It happens again, when the year festers into August again and leaves the two of you raw and vulnerable like open wounds.

Word count: 15K… 🤓

Warnings: canon-typical mentions of death, violence and injury (there is mention of like eating people but idk); grief; misogyny; Rust's personality; semi-public SMUTT T-T (MINORS DNI); same level of pretentiousness, maybe a little more, as the first part.

A/N: Holy fuck this sucked the soul out of me (wish Rust Cohle would suck the soul out of I MEAN WHAT), i am super proud of this though!! Went through many iterations and this was the least shit! 🎀🎀🎀 This is technically part two to The idler wheel but can be read by itself too. May or may not write other things for this guy but for the time being, I need a cleanse 😭 BUT please please enjoy and please please interact, i love reading comments and so many lovely people commented on the first part, im gonna do my best to respond to any/all this time 🤘MWAH MWAH

***

It’s difficult to differentiate between the thrill of being left alone here with him and the slow-sinking dread of the implications of that.

With the return of the musk of the summer, those three ruthless, windless, unrelenting months that would seem to drag on for several lifetimes when I was a kid, the memory of where I was last year—and the year before that, and the one before that—hangs brightly in my mind. Stale, not quite dead – so bright. Crawling with mildew.

Stepping into the bar had felt like entering another dimension. Maybe it was the suits that gave it away – every single God-haunted patron—the truckers, the farmers, even the old dog lying at a man’s feet—had turned, sensing foreigners as acutely as the immune system registers a bodily threat. I knew Johansson felt it: that dark pull over the back of the neck. But under Marty’s overconfident, swaggering lead, that winning smile, we soon assimilated. Skin swallowing a bullet.

God forbid you ever leave the town you grew up in. Shame on you if you don’t, though. How sanctimonious of me to change my mind and return after earning a spot amongst the lucky few escapees.

Something in this place still irks me.

At least, in Brooklyn, there was always noise: cries of a baby in the apartment over, the discord of traffic bursting through the streets below, the rush of a crowd, the overlap and slur of private conversations. At least the badness would stare you right in the face; at least people were evil to be evil. At least there were corners where things could hide, where it made sense for shadows to exist: all to explain the paranoia that stalked me.

But here?—it seems so open. Like, if a rare, hot wind would blow through a Louisiana town, it could do so in one straight path, through walls, through people, without ever getting disrupted. Everything is so light in the blazing sun, you can practically hear it: the hum of rays passing over every surface. Nothing should be able to hide. And, at night, with no sun, no rays, there is no noise. Maybe a dog. And ghosts. But perhaps it’s just the area in which I live. 

When Marty started drinking, flirting with the twenty-one-year-old barkeep, Johansson’s face had stiffened. He himself had never even touched a bottle of beer – devil stuff. We shared a look once the blond detective started gabbin’ like an idiot.

“Know what Maggie thinks?” he had laughed, slumping over the sticky table of the booth, big, sweaty palm choking out his drink. “She thinks you might be pissed at me.”

Johansson blinked hard to keep his nose from wrinkling, but, even then, he couldn’t keep from physically cringing away. “Who?” he asked, confused by those hazy, unfocused eyes.

Marty cracked a toothy grin – there was that slight gap between those front two, which had been charming at first and only managed to thoroughly disgust me now in moments like these – and pointed his finger right at me, accusing. “You.”

My stomach churned dangerously at the sight of him.

“Marty,” his partner had drawled, a low warning.

Waved away like a fly.

“Naw, it’s like—you’re on your high fuckin’ horse or somethin’.”

The words were spoken through a laugh, but I knew there was meat behind that so-called good mood. He was one of those people that tended to overcompensate. A mistake, an ill feeling. He liked to point out how I was alone, and often, too, poorly disguised as a passing joke, complete with one of those shit-eating grins that seemed to come so easy to him.

Shouldn’t he have been happy? Not only had he gotten our case, by then, but we’d handed it over with smiles on our damn faces. Nice enough to walk them through the original crime scene, introduce them to the key witnesses. Complicated. We didn’t have to do shit for ‘em, but we did. Hell, even that beer he was clutching to his chest was paid for out of the goodness of my own fuckin’ heart. Who was he to moan about the situation? He was the one who insisted on staying in the middle of butt-fuck nowhere, brushing off any and all pointed questions on whether his family would be missing him at dinner.

“You know, I’d rather you were pissed,” he continued, where, really, I should have just smothered him into silence.

Rust was staring into the side of his flushed face, iron-grey eyes like a drill, like he was thinking the same thing.

“Look, you’re smilin’ at me now, but I sure as hell don’t trust it, buck. You wanna bite my head off, don’t ye?”

Like I ever could have done that.

Though the familiar weight of rage curdled in my chest, I would never admit it to the likes of Martin Hart. When he got like this—jealous, insecure, whiny—I wondered whether it was just a temporary lapse, or if this him, this true him, just lay under the surface all the time.

It wasn’t that fucking hard to plaster on a smile and take what you fucking got – I did it all the time. He could dream of a different life, but this was the one we were dealt. Fact that his grown ass hadn’t accepted that by now twisted violently in my gut. Between the two of us, I was the one that knew this – so why did he get myfucking case?

In my head, I’d let Salter have it, too. How could I ever admit I had an ego? How could I ever admit I had a mind to wrench the teeth out of the sheriff’s fucking gums? 

But I have plenty of practice acting like things don’t bother me, which is why it was so easy to plaster on my amiable smile and laugh, “C’mon, man, you know it’s only ‘cause o’ the workload.” Not that you could comprehend that, lazy fuck. To Marty, my kind’s natural state was amiable—anything otherwise would be a defect—so I’d expected to convince him. “You’ll do right by it, ‘m sure.” 

If he were sober, I know he would’ve bought it – he could convince himself that the way of the world was right and I was only being sweet to be sweet, because he deserved it. 

But Marty was drunk. Piss-drunk, loud drunk. His mind was clumsier than usual, unable to muster the energy to jump points, ignore the evidence, like he did daily. I hoped I had the power—if I had to let the case go, I wanted to at least retain an into its goings-on—but there was only one way to really have power over men like Marty when they were drunk, and I had had no interest in being one of his girls. 

My partner twitched beside me, picking at some spongy, yellow fluff protruding from a thin split in the chocolate-brown fake leather of the booth. He was just as furious as I was beneath his fort of calm.

Marty took a swig of his beer. “She wants you over soon. Maggie. Barbecue or some shit.”

“Maybe you should go home,” Johansson interjected, sharper than intended. If I were him, with his body, with his life, I’d have hit the fucker—long time ago, too. I couldn’t, but Johansson wouldn’t. He didn’t lack the temperament for brutality—I’m not sure anybody does—but, rather, couldn’t justify it to a necessary degree in his head. “I’m going home,” he’d reasoned kindly – he made it sound so easy. “Just let me take you. It’s on my way.”

Itching to leave, to return to the comfort of his wife and his little daughter. Marty had always found Johansson’s fondness of them disingenuous, had disliked my partner as long as they’d worked in the same office. He complained to me once that none of his stories seemed complete. When I asked him what he meant by that, he couldn’t answer—but I knew.

Breath short in my chest, I had half-expected Marty to lunge over the table, scratch Johansson’s eyes out. Only, Rust leaned over, dipping his head down to mutter something quietly into his partner’s ear, which was all flushed red. 

And then he went willingly into Johansson’s car, stumbling through the still, open night into the backseat.

My partner had squeezed my shoulder goodbye – I’m not sure why I didn’t leave with him. Now, I was doomed to leave with Rust. 

There, he sits across from me, smearing the ashy tar of his half-smoked, flaking cigarette over the mottled glass ashtray dragged over to his side of the table, little circles, waves, absent-minded art. Has me transfixed, some hypnotist.

If I look down like this, if I sacrifice the opportunity to look at him, I earn his careful attention: this sits in the back of my idle mind. I’ve been taking advantage of it more and more since summer broke through the sweetness of spring, which has since curdled like milk, sour. His stare drags over my face like fingers – I can almost feel his touch pressing into the softness of my cheek, dragging over the ridge of the orbital bone. 

“You’re okay?” he asks after a couple slowed heartbeats, pulling me out of the honey-pit of my thoughts.

I dart my eyes up, breaking the spell – his observation retreats, clouds, and drifts away to fix on the broken clock on the wall, the one that reads one forty-five at eleven o’ clock.

Primarily, his question irritates me. Nobody asks “are you alright?” imploringly, not unless it concerns themselves and their own wants. Salter had asked me that, right after telling me he was pulling me from my case, and, then, I had thought about crying, just to unsettle him. But what good would that have done? He’d only asked “are you alright?” to test the waters, to see if there was a future possibility of letting him pull the rug out from under me with zero consequences. Again. I couldn’t win. 

But Rust doesn’t want much from me. He doesn’t even want the case, really, which just twists the knife even further. 

“You—you know I’m good in there, right? In the box.” I carve a jagged thumbnail into this message in the table, twisting the characters wider, or taller, risking splinters.

Why should I have to give it up? And to a fucking idiot? Marty wasn’t the one who stayed all those late nights alone at the office, wasn’t the one scoured over heaps of files under low light, wasn’t the one who took the fucking beating when the suspect fought against arrest. Marty was not the one who conducted an interview like that.

My mouth thins into a hard line, but I know the words will come out whether I let them voluntarily or not. Around Rust, it’s that way. I should’ve left when I could. 

“It’s just that—it was so weird,” I continue, my head pulsing with the unwanted memory of that cabin. Marty didn’t have to experience it, Rust didn’t have to experience it—but I did. “Not jus’ wrong, or sad. Makes me feel strange, thinking about it.” 

Often, the suspects underestimate me. Johansson’s broad shoulders and tough-set jaw come off as offensive—nothing like my voice, low and gentle, and my eyes, sympathetic and warm. I’m the mother who will never judge, who is spilling over with unconditional love.

Beneath this, though, I am good at the maths of the job, the connections. Though all detectives technically develop the same constituent skills—close attention to body language tells and other biological betrayals—I ain’t sure most understand the sensitivity and strength required to confront shit like this head-on. To not avert your eyes at the mutilated woman on the bed. To inspect her eunuched boyfriend’s severed appendage, to have steady hands when photographing the scene—with flash, of course, to highlight every detail with sufficient clarity—for evidence, which must be returned to and examined again and again, each time with greater fervour still. 

I could name a few who’d joke about a thing like that, to ease the burn of that image in their heads, to sleep better at night, to leave behind the uninvited, vicarious sensation of a knife teasing over the meat of their dick. 

But the boyfriend’s corpse, we eventually located separately in a cabin in the woods, laid into the basement freezer, so peaceful, such a brutal image. Pretty parts of him preserved for mauling.

And Salter has the fucking audacity to take it away. He wasn’t the one to see something like that, to feel sick to his very stomach, to gag and have to turn away, to cringe and writhe like his skin suddenly wasn’t his, like he ought to pick himself out. I’ve been reeling with that image for weeks, living with motion sickness, and have been denied the relief of vomiting. 

“So, you need me to get that confession.”

Rust comes back into focus, perfectly still.

I nod, the back of my neck prickling with mean goosebumps. “Campbell, his DNA was all over the bodies. He was proud of it, even.” My ribs still glow with the phantom-sensation of his brutal kick there when we located him. Stomach clenching, I struggle to remain level. “But there ain’t no way in hell she wasn’t involved. He denies it, but the house is registered under her name. Maiden name, Phelps.”

“I read,” he confirms. 

I tremble in frustration – I almost wish he hadn’t. 

“It’s just—this lady’s tough.”

Eyes darting over to the dim-lit bar, scouring the scuffed hardwood floor, I can feel my face growing hot with indignation. Christ, it sounds pathetic, like a whiny kid insisting on continuing a task all wrong in order to protect their damaged pride. 

“You know Johansson: once she starts with the tears, he can’t see past ‘em. Southern manners ‘n’ all: a crying woman is a delicate thing not for a man to understand but to comfort. But, with me, it ain’t the same. She doesn’t respect me.”

“What d’you mean ‘respect ’? Don’t need respect in this game.”

I scoff, which would’ve been a dire mistake with anyone else. “Y’wouldn’t know what I’m on about,” I tease through an easy smile, though I’m not feeling so funny at the moment.

He inclines his head down to me, an invitation to elaborate.

My boot feverishly taps against the floor, thrumming light like a jackrabbit on the run. 

I sigh, mouth twisting. “She keeps asking me if I’ve slept,” I confess. “Says I look like her daughter.”

For all my mothering, here comes a perp who’s desperate to play me at my own game.

I can see how intelligent she is: some hollow glint in her eyes with nothing behind; past that gleaming screen of kindness, something black, like a cherry pit.

Sitting across from her, it felt like looking into a mirror. Not just physically—though her skin is a similar shade to mine, her nails bitten and splitting like mine, and she looks close to what I imagine my own mother could’ve grown into. It was in the way that, when I smiled, she smiled. When I took a sip of my coffee, she would drink some tea. At times, it would even seem like she would speak in my voice: the pitch, the intonations, the phrasing all far too similar. I was reluctant to tell her my name. It reminded me of this folk tale, of these tall, dark creatures who only required your name to speak like you, to look like you, to replace you in your own life. Its victim would die—in some way or another. Wander the woods, eaten alive.

A harrowing feeling had crept over me, winter pressing against the two-way mirror – I was sure Johansson, on the other side, would pick up on it. Only, when I confessed my worries to him, he’d given me this doubtful look, and I really wasalone then.

“She’s playin’ you,” Rust states simply, tracing his fingers over his mouth like some pseudo-cigarette. 

“Yeah.” I grind my teeth together. Under the table, where he cannot see, my fingers curl into a tight fist, trembling with my secret violence. “And now Salter wants Marty to have it? Bull.” 

I should’ve socked him right in his dumb, slack fuckin’ jaw. One day, I will. 

“He don’t want Marty to have it,” Rust retorts smartly, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. His eyes are warm in the dark – I should’ve taken my chances, raced to meet ‘em, but I’m too late. “He wants me to have it.” 

Yeah, well, I wish what was mine would stay mine.

Even if I’m inclined to be pissed off at Rust by proxy, I just can’t be. The difference between him and Marty is that he actually pays attention, real attention, not the selfish kind. Just by watching, I can tell he knows exactly what he could say, how he could act, in order to appeal to somebody—which is why I find it so odd that he chooses not to. I sacrifice my damn dignity to keep myself palatable. He does not. As a result, he is not well-liked at the office – people tend to feel caught out by him; they don’t like to feel observed, known.

When did being seen become a threat? I thought it was intimate. Though, I suppose, a piece of shit never wants to believe they’re a piece of shit.

Everyone’s the hero of their own story. 

Rust slides Marty’s half-empty beer across the table to me, which I receive with a crooked smile and a quick hand.

“Sure I won’t catch whatever he had?” 

He shrugs. “Y’ain’t as deadbeat as the rest of ’em. Oughta drag you down to their level.” 

I snort. “What, you don’t think you’re deadbeat?”

He huffs. “I’m worse.” 

Bitter, the beer washes over my tongue, leaves that funny aftertaste I never really liked, not the first time, not the last. I don’t suppose I’ll ever turn one down though, not if it was offered to me: I’d accept it if only to win points with whoever it was, points I could spend at a later date. 

“Maybe,” I start, “if you were a little more deadbeat, you’d be popular. Go out with the boys.”

When he meets my eyes momentarily, smirking, I have to grip my hand over my knee, fingertips digging into bone, and consciously remind myself via mantra not to let my face freeze. He hums, voice smooth and low like liquor, “What, like youdo?”

I should be pissed off, really. Maybe I will be. Instead, though, I choke on the smart retort I had meticulously configured in my head, some quip that would’ve maybe interested him based on what caught him before. 

I don’t know whether it would have been worse pretending like it never happened. That’s my strong point: pretending. It’s his, too, when he wants it to be. Maybe we could’ve outlasted it – all we needed was stamina.

But, instead, it’s this. Looking across at each other and knowing exactly what’s going on in the other’s head. I can see exactly how he thinks of me, what he wants to do. When he tilts his head ever so slightly, my neck glows with a promise, like the movement was mine in the first place. When I would bite at the pendant of my necklace, he used to narrow his eyes, like he ought to yank the chain off my neck. But now, he looks on softly, so unlike him, his own fingers at his own lips. I know what it feels like – I’ve kissed him there, too. 

“Don’t give me that. At least Geraci would stop shit-talkin’ ye,” I manage, tearing myself away. “Swear he’s stuck at sixteen or somethin’. But—you don’t mind it, do you?”

He shakes his head. “‘f he was smarter, maybe I would. Jus’ likes the sound of his own voice.” 

The clock has replaced me as his focal point – I can’t help but feel jealous. 

“S’why I like you,” I mumble from behind my beer. “First time I met you, I thought you’d make me feel stupid.

That seems to get him. 

He blinks, a barely noticeable twitch. “Do I? I don’t mean to.”

Can I spin this? I’m sure, if I were a little more awake, I’d be able to spin this. 

Some evil part of me hopes to make him feel guilty, to trick him into feeling tenderness for me, though I know the pursuit of that would be in vain. The type of men I know how to work—creatures of habit that take the exact path you want them to, to believe that they’re the real seducers—Rust seems entirely separate from that. He can sniff out rehearsal and practice, that robotism, like a dog – he sees it enough in criminals, doesn’t he? That’s why he’s called in for favours across state police departments.

When I met him the first time, I shook his hand, smiled, friendly-like, only to be met with rigidity and stoicism. No trouble, of course: some people just are that way. Wild horses on the highway. But his quietness?—now, that had set alarm bells off in my head. Boys at the precinct were loud – you couldn’t pay ‘em to shut up about their weekends, their football, their college years, their fuckin’ yards. When I was first exposed to it, I thought I’d gain a lot of friends. But then I realised they weren’t so much talking with me as they were talking at me. It’s why they’re so easy to read: they just tell you everything you want to know right off the bat. Even their secrets are bursting at the seams of their fat mouths, begging to be released. 

But Rust?—doesn’t talk until he finds it necessary. It’s impressive. Before that, though, the trait was enviable. I had—have—no comparable method. Even though, at first, it can seem blunt, even cold, his eloquence is refreshing. Never running in circles – only determinedly forward. So intimidating, almost like a freight train – I have to consciously keep myself from jerking back and out of the way. 

How low he must really think of me then, to see me like this. And I know he does: he sees. Everything I might have done to prevent it perhaps even had the opposite effect. I hate, I burn, I curse: it’s ugly. I cry over cases I would’ve left behind in two months tops, anyways, onto the next. I obsess over just another woman in the box. I think about him almost constantly. 

“You don’t,” I mumble, wondering if I ought to be wishing myself far away. “Make me feel dumb, that is. Not me. Others, I can’t speak for.”

We’ll have to leave soon – no doubt, this local bar is used to slow days and early nights, a blissful routine rudely disrupted by two outsiders who haven’t even really shown them good business. I glance over at the barkeep, slumped over the scuffed wooden counter and flatly watching the football up on the boxy TV set, and I recall my first job. Then, too, I’d let men twice my age buy me drinks, flirted with them. Was worth the tip money. 

Rust hums, though I really wish he wouldn’t speak at all. “Don’t pay mind to what Marty said.”

My neck prickles. 

He’s not trying to console me, is he? No, that’s not like him. Besides, it’s not like any amount of coddling could reverse the merciless truths I’m constantly reminded of in this line of work – if I’ve learned anything about sympathy, it’s that it doesn’t fix shit. If anything, it’s just another complication. It can seem beautiful, but, really, it isn’t. I can miss it, miss its warmth, miss the kind, sweet nothings my husband would whisper into my hair on the hardest nights, but it never changed the fact that I would have to get up in the morning and do it again. Rust knows this, has maybe lived this, so he’s not trying to console me. 

Maybe he’s trying to defend Marty.

Sharp and sure, that anger comes lurching up in my throat, slashing and snarling. 

The sensible part of me—what I hope is the larger part of me—knows this is not possible. Rust understands Marty’s faults better than anyone, even himself, even his wife. 

“Thing is,” I mumble bitterly, “he really means it, don’t he? He just don’t show it.” I trace the warm, smooth rim of the bottle with a light finger, though my mind is currently toying with the idea of jamming it violently down the opening. “Maybe it means more that he does keep it hidden – at least some part of him knows it’s wrong.”

Placid in the periphery of my vision, Rust shrugs. “‘s what separates us from our killers. Feelin’ it ain’t the problem. Resistance is where strength is tested.” 

“Ego,” I chuckle darkly. 

He hums. “Fragile ego.”

Underneath my smile lies an uneasiness stirred by his criticism.

Rust is not gentle with his opinions – I don’t suppose that’ll ever change. Resistance is a losing game – not even he is immune to the impermanence of these things. I’m sure he said that to me once, on a night like this. 

I’ve never been very good at refraining from things. Even from an early age, I just couldn’t say no. Teenage years: alcohol, drugs, sex. If it was tossed my way, I’d take it, anything I could get, hungry to experience something. 

Ha!—maybe I actually am more like Marty Hart than I’d like to admit. He’s trying to be an adult, albeit really, really poorly. As long as he believes he’s a good, family man, then his reality is protected. But I know I’m rotten, really. One of the boys at the precinct will call me pretty—in that sick way somewhere between the unchecked lust of a man and his paternal right to claim—but, below, I know I’ve got sickness swimming through my veins. Not blood. Something accumulated over the years, maybe from pretending all the time. 

I feel like I want to cut things, break them. Told myself to hang on until I retire, but I don’t see that happening any time soon. I’ll break. What will Rust think of me then? 

Maybe I was his low point: that fault in resistance. 

Some awful, gnawing feeling collects at the pit of my stomach, like black tar. Must be all those cigarettes. 

“Wha’s in that head?” he probes suddenly, stealing razor-sharp, fleeting glances.

I shrug, swallowing down a bout of nausea. “I dunno.” And I really don’t. Behind the surface tension, I don’t know what I feel, only that I do, and it’s so, so much. “It kinda—makes me happy to see him like that: jealous. ‘Cause he knows I’m good, and he’s wondering why he’s finishing what I started. He knows he don’t deserve it. Not like I do.” 

My confession lingers in the air like smoke – I have mind to reach a hand up and wave it all away, or suck it down, deep, erasing reality. Fuck. I’ve always been a little off when reading into Rust’s quiet – with that tightrope he seems to have mastered, I know I should avoid any step at all—it could just as easily miss its mark—but I can never seem to help myself. 

I stare at him—and I think it makes him uncomfortable, though there’s nothing there, not any normal human reaction, in his face for me to draw from. That’s fine. In my gut, I’m pretty sure I’ve got it down.

“You want to be seen as competent,” he finally says, a simple-enough statement. 

I scrunch my nose up distastefully. “No, I want to be competent.”

“Well, what good is bein’ somethin’ if there’s no-one there to witness it?” 

Unable to press down an exasperated sigh, I close my eyes, roll them with all the subtlety I can manage.

Foul words push under my tongue, like vomit. 

I don’t know if I’m in the mood for this tonight: smart conversation. What feels like debate. Maybe if he hadn’t been given my case, I’d take him up on the challenge, but I’ve already lost. 

I eye him, try to figure out his game. 

“I dunno, Rust,” I tell him flatly. “I think that’s called having an identity issue.”

He cocks an eyebrow. “Most people do.”

My chest burns. “This isn’t a go at me, is it?”

Slow, he draws the ashtray towards him from across the table, as if the grind of the glass against the wood is a noise that ought to be savoured. 

I could be deaf, but reading his lips would be easy: “And how’d this be about you exactly?” 

I’m able to fight off the initial instinct to wince, the way in which he delivers the words, calm and deliberate, stinging like a slap to the face. What’s worse is the growing impression that he’s as bored of me as I am. 

With a furrowed brow, I watch him, heartbeat thrumming in my ears. 

“I ain’t out to get you, s’you can quit lookin’ at me like I kicked you or somethin’.”

Frowning shallowly and trying to pretend like I’m not, I glance away and commit to rearranging my face—but at the glimpse of that twitch at the corner of his mouth in my periphery, I know I’m only digging a deeper grave for myself. The noticeable heat of my embarrassment must please him.

Playing with the food. 

And I’ve got nothing to say to him—not a single word or phrase up to par, nothing to measure up to Rust’s clinical detachment, let alone destabilise him. He might’ve been reciting the coroner’s report. There’s nothing I can say to scathe him—and fuck, I want to leave a mark, prove to him that I can. I scan him for weakness, but either I’m still too stunned to see it or there is none. I have no plan of attack and no line of defence. 

Rust seems to soften in the knowledge of this. 

“I mean,” he begins, knowing now that I’m really listening, “identity ain’t fixed – it’s not permanent. I don’t scrutinise my appearance. I don’t mind my body, and my body don’t mind me. My personality hardly feels under my control – ‘s just somethin’ that is and will be���‘n’, I guess, will change, but only against my will, never because of it. Feels pointless to feel insecure about that.”

Is this supposed to be some fucked-up attempt at advice?

My priorities changed, but this place never has, never does, never will. So, it’s all dumb and the people are dumb and this bar is dumb and the boys at the precinct are dumb and, fuck, I wish Rust were dumb, too. I feel pathetic, and he does not alleviate that feeling at all. If he were dumb, I could laugh at him and make myself feel better. I could laugh at myself for sleeping with a dumb man. Instead, I think of him religiously and crave his approval. Afflicted with the knowledge that he needs to be corrupted to want me, that I’m awful enough to want it enough to corrupt him again. Tainted waters. It would be so much more comfortable if I could look down on him.

My skin writhes and ripples, and I know the only thing that would soothe it is if he touched me. Jesus and the sick man—or some polluted version of that.

My world swings under a bout of nausea as it begins to spiral – the beer does not help. 

Maybe he’s waiting it out, like I’m trying to. Forgetting is the wisest decision anyone could make, the most fortunate outcome. Though, my efforts are paradoxical: I think so, so much about not thinking about it all. 

“Sure seems like y’think about yourself a good deal, too, s’don’t you criticise me,” I mumble, clumsy. It’s a mistake to even open my mouth again – he’ll use it all against me eventually. 

Rust hums again, low, some muscle twitching in his jaw, like his body has no clue what to do when not blindly occupied with a cigarette. “Never said I don’t think about myself,” he rectifies, staring at the sweaty palms I’m wringing together tightly against the lip of the table. 

I allow my mouth to pool with saliva, trying to combat the increasing dryness of my mouth. 

“Guess the thinkin’ part is where insecurity comes from in the first place,” I add after swallowing.

When my eyes dart up to look at him, his are on my throat.

Immediately, I look away.

Maybe this is the bad kind of intimacy.

The intensity of his attention is looming, sifting through my thoughts like sand.

Sometimes, I think he has me figured out but just couldn’t care less about what he’s found. He’s feeling the power of my burning desire for him – maybe it amuses him. Maybe he’s waiting to mechanise it, letting me sit idle while a use for me finds him (if ever). Maybe I know things. Maybe I can break things open. Maybe he can take my cases from me. Maybe I can tire him out, put him to sleep. 

It’s almost worse that he hasn’t put me to work yet. 

Maybe it really was just something in the water. Maybe all I need is to visit somebody close to me. 

“Ever heard o’ that theory? ‘bout internal monologue?” Rust asks softly, leaning in and tipping his head down like only I’m worthy of hearing this here. 

My leg jerks and I can’t place why. I nod, face hot. 

“I think ‘s bullshit—‘bout some not having one. Think everybody’s got that voice in their heads.” He pauses, squints. “Mm, maybe that’s a little generous.” 

I laugh – I hope it makes him feel good. In truth, I know he couldn’t care less. 

“What d’you think it’d be like? No voice.”

The world seems so close right now, wrapping its fuzzy arms tight around us, buzzing in my ears, shadows fur-soft over my face. What does he want me to say? I wish he’d tell me, offer me respite. 

I shrug, and it’s honest, my resignation. “No voice don’t mean no thought.”

“Alrigh’. Then, what about no thought?”

I shrug again. “I like thinking.”

He huffs, angling himself back away from me. Have I disappointed him? Somewhere deep in the pit of my tummy, there��s that fleck of worry, something that tastes an awful lot like vomit. 

I expect him to finally stop talking. 

But “I get tired of it,” is what he says instead. “In between cases, or these—moments where I feel like I could burn a hole through myself ‘f I spent ’nough thought on it. ‘s heavy, like they weigh me down.” He pushes the ashtray away, his fingers the only part of him moving. 

Swept up in the rising tide of your own life, hurting around you in some never-ending circle or spiral of which you happen to be the centre. Swimming with black-eyed angels. I know how he feels – I used to feel that way. Maybe I still do, sometimes. Clinging on to the tenderness my husband used to have for me like it could save me from the guilt I would feel when I moved on. No-one would pull me out: that much was true enough. That memory of stability, of the good times, only depressed me, moving from Brooklyn back to Louisiana. Feeling small in my own life, like a piece on a chessboard, with no semblance of control, only duty, chasing this idea of who I used to be. Hunting down the bad men, wondering what upper hand is driving them across the squares, contemplating the carpenter that fashioned the pieces. Too big of a big picture can be detrimental. The fact that I know this to be true doesn’t make me an exception. 

“I think you’re tired of the things you think about,” I muse, a headache beginning to expand between my temples – perhaps the heat has finally gotten to my head. “Space better occupied by other shit.” 

I’m careful not to pay attention to Rust’s reaction, if there even is one, since the weight of his interest is pressing over my face where I really wish his lips would.

“Like what?” he challenges. 

His eyes glint with curiosity, a blade’s sharp edge. 

I bite my tongue. 

“You think you know me?” It’s more a statement than a question.

I shrug. “You think you know me, don’t ye?”

Though, he kinda does. I think he’s proud that he can read me, but maybe that’s me overcomplicating things. Maybe I’m just another person to him. I wonder if he thinks I’m predictable. Boring, negligible, painfully average. Good for one thing, and that one thing was a mistake, anyway. 

Look at him, now: his eyes have dropped to elsewhere, but there’s a soft smirk that curls up on his face, the hint of a pink tongue that traces lightly over his teeth. 

Geraci always talks shit about that look whenever Rust closes yet another case, securing a tough confession. “So fuckin’ up ‘imself, ain’t he? Jesus.” Sure, he pisses me off—for different reasons. I’ve long since come to the conclusion that he’s worthy of admiration. 

He smiles to himself – I don’t trust it. “You’re calling me arrogant.”

“Are you?” I press, gnawing at the inside of my cheek. I’m surprised at the tepidity of my voice, considering how I’m covered in boils and burns in my head. 

He doesn’t have anything to say to that, only hums in response, seemingly amused. 

“Doesn’t have to be a bad thing,” I murmur. “People are scared of bein’ known, so nobody really tries no more.”

“I don’t observe people for intimacy purposes.”

Then why does he fucking look at me like that? 

A year ago, I’d have put it down to my own desires warping my perception of reality. Really, he wasn’t interested; he was only paying me my due amount of scrutiny in order to keep his mental file of me up to date. Really, he didn’t want to touch me; really, he was just someone who fiddled with his own hands, maybe to remind himself that he could be his own from time to time. Lust is such a dangerous thing – any deeper than surface level, and it has the very strong potential to kill you. If you want something against your better judgement, do you really even want it? The haze of having Rust come so close to me is dampened by such doubts.

But at this point, he either wants me, or I’m crazy. Shit, maybe I’d rather be just that. I’ve seen his eyes like this—dark and bottomless—when hands were unzipping my skirt, or dragging over my skin. To deny intimacy? Now that’s arrogance. Anddelusion. Shit, and I thought he was so above all that stuff. Does he think I can’t figure him out?

Surely his opinion of me can’t be that poor. 

My hand cramps up as I punch down the instinct to pinch the bridge of my nose. 

“Sure you do,” I press. And I’m right. I hope I’m right. 

His stare thickens into something different, what I think might be a black, molten form of gratification. Then, it hardens, cools in a split second into these tough, jaw-breaker pellets. I’d say it was confrontational, but then his eyes flutter just as he happens to swallow thickly. Is that his pulse in his throat? 

I rub at my puffy eyes with a stiff set of fingers.

Rust drops his eyes, brushes his hand over the side of his blazer where his cigarettes are sitting warm and ready beneath. 

“What, you—lonely again or some shit?” he asks. 

I almost recoil at the sudden bitterness of his tone. 

I snort good-heartedly, but, really, the comment stings just right—he knows where to press—all the breath knocked out of my chest. “O-kay, Rust. That an accusation?”

“No. ’S an observation. Thought you jus’ loved those,” he combats flatly.

Chest burning, I have to save myself, jump ship, and look away. My mouth tastes like grainy bile. 

“You were lonely last summer. That’s why you came to me.”

The dim light above us flickers, his face phasing in and out of shadow before me like a candle in the wind. 

I roll my jaw. 

Does he look back on it with disdain? 

“No,” I snap instinctively, instantly burned by the satisfaction that crosses his eyes. 

My breath hitches plaintively. Every fibre of my body trembles and burns to defend myself. There’s not a single word that could repair his opinion of me.

“Or—yeah.” Shut up. 

I rub at my temple, desperate for relief – do they have pills for this shit? – which does not come. If he feels any pity for me, it certainly doesn’t show. 

The harsh line of my mouth trembles. “I just thought you understood me. Or made an attempt to, at least, but maybe that part was self-projection. ‘Cause nobody ‘round here’s like you. I know you think that’s stupid and I was being naïve or—” I swallow though my throat is dry as ever, “—or dumb, or somethin’, but that’s what I felt. At the time.”

His gaze is fixed on my neck.

“At the time,” he echoes. It’s a question, I realise after a couple moments.

“Yeah. Fuck y'want me to say, asshole? 'm not—I’m not gonna embarrass myself with you, Rust. That what you want me to do? Show you just how dumb I can get—?”

“Sure like to speak for me, hm?” he bites back quietly, making it so damn easy to run right over him, to feverishly stamp out that insufferable fucking softness to his voice. Shit, I wish he’d just raise it and yell at me already.

“—Yeah, whatever. You like this shit, don’t you? Y’think you deserve a fight?—well, I’ll give you one. That what you want? ‘Cause what?—what, you get to ignore me, pretend I don’t exist, act like you’re above fuckin’ me—” his eyes flit away, bringing my roiling frustration to a crest, “—No, don’t you fuckin’ look away,” I scold, a bite, jutting a crooked finger into his space. 

He obeys, but that look in his pale eyes is so hollow, it almost makes me feel bad for saying anything at all. Almost. 

I try to press down my anger, but it’s spilling over, now, far beyond things so trivial as control. I clasp my hands together in a prayer that they will finally listen to me and not move again. 

“Fact that you feel anything at all makes you feel like shit, huh?”

His expression has glazed over, cool and smooth.

Half-expecting him to walk out and rightfully abandon me here, I stare hard at him, like I might chip into that exterior. If I managed it, I’d slip it in my pockets as proof. Silently, I beg him to prove me right. 

“Sorry,” I snap. No, I’m not. I hope it cuts at him. “You do what you want, I don’t fuckin’ care. But, please, do not patronise me like that again, Rust.” 

God offers no help with the silent plea I send Him. He does not care, so I shouldn’t care, and that’s the end of things. I’ve survived worse natural disasters than him. He’s just a man, and this is just what happens with them. Still, the disappointment floods like poison under my skin. I’m a stupid girl, really. 

“I understand if you regret things, but you don’t have to say it out loud. It’s mean. But, fuck, I dunno, maybe you mean to be.” 

I take a moment to untangle the knot in my throat. He watches it all, quiet again, his eyeline sitting heavy over where the skin shifts and stretches over my neck. 

I adjust the collar of my shirt, fiddle with the gold necklace that sits hot over the contour of bone. Rust stares as I wedge the small pendant tightly in the vice of my thumb and forefinger. 

“Feels like you don’t even fuckin’ like me half the time. All the time.”

Christ, I should’ve left with Johansson. 

My heart is racing like a wild mustang – it’s a surprise, really, that that old hunting dog lying over by the bar hasn’t noticed, singled me out as something to chase, to kill. My belly’s exposed, soft and ripe and asking for it. I forget, sometimes, that there are things out there that kill things that kill, too. 

He doesn’t plan on giving me a break; I wouldn’t deserve it, anyway. “Wha's it matter to you if I like you or not?”

My cheeks burn furiously. 

I stare at that bone-bird tattoo that fledges from the nest of his sleeve. With the way my head’s spinning, it almost looks like its skeleton wings are actually moving, unfurling and ready for pilgrimage. 

“It don’t.” It’s a disgrace to myself to answer that god-awful question, but what’s more pathetic is the way I shrink into myself when Rust’s attention crowds in over my face. “I jus’ thought you knew me almost as well as I did.” 

“And currently?” he asks.

The moment hangs. 

“Just answer. I already know – just wanna see if you’ll lie again.” 

I close my eyes a second—mistake—and breathe, breathe in and then breathe out, shaky but slow. It’s no use. 

“Same.”

He nods. “Not better?”

I shake my head. “No, never better.”

Furrowing his brow, Rust tilts his head down slightly, a soft curl falling gentle over his tense forehead. “But you wanted intimacy.”

So it is intimacy to him? 

Maybe this should count as a win for me, but it certainly don’t feel like it. This isn’t the slow slip and slide of last summer’s end – though the heat had swallowed whole everything from here to the other side of the Mississippi, there was something so clipped about the words that left me, left him. I’m sure I was more drunk then than now, but, even so, my mind had been so level, like I’d done it all in my sleep. Now, here, I have done it in my sleep. I’ve revisited him a hundred times in my daydreams, but all that practice has left me for dead. I would’ve killed for an opportunity like this a month ago – it’s like he’s taunting me. It should be easy. 

Rust is smart enough to make me wonder if he wants me to feel this way. 

Intimacy is planned and eventual, whether that’s due to his power or some cosmic fate. Everyone knows the decision they’re going to make, somewhere in their brains, deep inside. People only ask for advice to condone their decisions, to spread out the responsibility, which, at the end of the day, still remains solely with them. Shit, he’s rubbing off on me: I sound like a fuckin’ asshole. 

No, all this thinking won’t save him from the sensation of human feeling, emotions. No amount of planning prepares you for skin-to-skin touch. No time spent evaluating can undo it either, and I’ve tried so hard. His way doesn’t work. 

“Everyone wants intimacy,” I end up rambling, voice thin and dry and brittle. “Even folks that don’t want intimacy want intimacy. ’s not love or sex, really, I don’t think, though those are good, too. It’s not a way to find yourself. It’s jus’ trust. Or companionship—”

“And that’s what you want?”

Carefully, I rake my eyes over his face. Does he ever flush from the heat? 

Hopeless and too muddled to bother with concealing it, I try to assess whether he’s displeased with me. I try to memorise this moment, so I’ll be able to turn it over in my head later, just another one of my crime scene photographs. 

“Dunno yet,” I confess quietly. “I’ve had partners. And partners. When I was younger, I thought I’d have this life packed chock full of amazing relationships, and these—connections.”

The soft, disappointed eyes of my husband come to mind, which haunt all my relationships. I’m so hungry for another body, for connection. Why does it seem so easy for other people? 

“Truth is, it don’t happen all that much. To me, at least. You?”

Surly and bone-tired, Rust shakes his head. “Didn’t have much hope for it growin’ up,” he admits. 

“But you wanted it,” I press, clumsy and clinging to the sag of his voice. Of course, he’ll pick up on the trace of hopeful, aimless, false victory that undercuts my words; he’s the only one who ever could. 

For a moment, though, I second-guess myself. 

It’s pathetic, really: I’d give almost anything to walk as him for a day, though, even then, I’m not sure I’d understand him any better.

Sometimes, my imagination runs away from me: in my dreams, I do. I wake under the impression that we’re one and the same, that, just maybe, he, similarly, is dreaming as me. It’s a pulsing obsession, difficult to conceal. Whenever a moment becomes still, I think about it: at night, he is transported; in his dreams, he touches with my hands, sighs with my voice, tastes with my mouth. Then, at least, that would explain these funny sensations I get in the morning: so weathered and worn, a strange ache in my muscles, like I’ve been sleepwalking.

How else could he know me so well? 

Or maybe I’ve really fucking lost it. Somewhere along the way – maybe after seeing that half-eaten body swaddled in thin cotton in its freezer cradle – I think something else took the wheel. Why that thing is racing towards him, I have no idea. It’s laughable, really.

Rust blinks calmly down at his hands. “Reckon the deniers are dumb?” he murmurs. 

Squeezing the bridge of my nose, I do my best to press back against the foul memory of dismembered limbs. Whoever had eaten the man—who was now beyond recognition—did they feel satisfied? Comforted with how forever close he was to them now? When I was small, I used to think sex was crawling into another person's body, like a cave, and letting all of their insides warm you, love you, wrap you tight. 

I swallow thickly. 

“Your words, not mine,” I reply through a tight smile. “Reckon it’s easy to find a distraction.”

"Have you given up?" he asks. “Finding a distraction?”

I don’t entertain him with a proper answer to that – I merely shrug and scratch at my scalp, tucking loose strands of sweaty hair back into the loops of my braid. Rust must be frustrated with me. To want a companion, to want the good life. Rivalling Marty in my delusion. 

He slides his hands into his lap, continuing: “Distraction is the way to peace?”

I shrug again – I think it’s starting to piss him off. “For a time, I guess.” 

“So, ‘s that how you’re takin’ quittin’? Think about other stuff whenever you want a smoke? Occupy yourself?”

Once I realise my leg is going dead, fuzzy from sitting still so long in this dark booth, I flex my thigh, flex my hands under the table, wide-open and then tight-shut, processing the blank slate of his gaunt face. I press my fingers into the sticky vinyl, delight in the interrupted drag of them up, up, up as they curl to fists, my shoulders up to my ears. 

When he says things like that, it makes it so hard to dislike him. I almost wish he’d ignore me, like he did the first couple weeks before it became clear to the both of us that it couldn’t be undone: his back constantly to me, sending messages only through Marty, refusing to look in my direction, like I might tempt him again into being a version of him he hated. At least, before, his coldness hadn’t been directed at me specifically. Then, it was a retaliation, a wall meant to keep me out. Where were his books on philosophy then?—to tell him that attachment leads to desire leads to suffering? That kind of suffering would be better than this kind. 

This is worse. This is so much worse. I’d rather not have something at all than have it toy with me like this. 

It takes a considerable amount of co-ordination to fabricate the apathy in my posture, my eyes, my expression, to compensate for the unease that pulses like a new artery in my throat – though, at the silvery glint that flickers in his eyes, I know it’s all for nothing. He’s already seen the hurt that, really, I can’t pin on anyone but myself. He’s raking his eyes slowly over my face. It’s fucking mean. Do me the favour of a mercy-killing, God.

I never even told him I was trying to quit.

“What,” I begin, concentrating very hard on keeping myself from stammering and from slurring, from crying and from grasping at his hand, “like that association thing?” 

I’ve heard of it, obviously. I know every trick at this point: old wives’ tales to the latest research papers at the state university library. It’s psychological: whenever you want something, instead, think of awful, gross, repulsive things, and make yourself hate it. I’ve tried it before, but it doesn’t always work. How can you convince yourself that one thing is disgusting when it’s undeniable how good it really was?

Rust nods.

“I mean, I tried it,” I tell him lowly. 

Overstatement: I tried it for approximately three days and two nights before I caved, unlocking the drawer in my study with shaky, desperate hands, hungry.

“But I’m always thinkin’ about it.”

Shit. He seems to have regained a nerve: Rust stares calmly ahead at me—not through me or just past me; at me. This is what I wanted, isn’t it?

He leans his weight over his forearms upon the table, on offence. Is this how he works his suspects? Well, shit, I’ve studied his methods from the privacy of the other side of the false mirror enough times to be able to answer that, actually: this is how he works his suspects. Initially, at least, to gauge their personality, their wants, their fears, what they need him to be. 

Thing is, I can’t pin down his intention with me. Is it just the satisfaction of the kill? Or maybe revenge for what I did to him last August. I broke down his walls: an unforgivable sin. I condemned him to the effort of building them back up, of shoving me out—if I ever managed to intrude in the first place. Maybe I deserve this. 

With his sleeves folded back, the dark lines of Rust’s tattoo jut out, growing along his tawny, leather-tan skin like lichen. I try not to stare.

His eyes complete a pre-emptive scan of my face, and, really, I know I should not let him see any change there in my expression, though my mouth twitches to frown. I try to gather my forces. I try to prepare myself for it, for that inevitable intrusion.

“‘f you’re so desperate for it, why’re you fightin’ back?” he asks, unblinking and cruel. 

My mouth twists, and I let it fall into the frown it wants. “‘Cause I wanted to feel better.”

It sounds dumb because it is dumb, even though it’s true. 

Low, he hums. He straightens, softens, and finally leans away. It’s like the vacuum around me leaves with him, and, there, now, it’s easier to breathe. 

He must note the way my chest rises and falls so stiffly, like there’s a weight resting over my heart. 

“Withdrawal’s a breeze, ain’t it?”

“You’re not fuckin’ funny,” I scoff, digging my nails punishingly into my palm. He smokes and drinks like he welcomes cancer, or hopes for it, so I don’t think we’re on a level playing field.

He quirks his head. “Well, do you?”

“Do I what, Rusty?” 

Amused, he rolls his jaw. Good – I hope I’ve provoked him. 

“Do you feel better?” 

I run my tongue over my teeth. “Sometimes,” I reply truthfully. “Not right now.”

He searches my face. 

“I can give you a ride home,” he offers. 

Fuck, and what will that be like? Ten times worse than this. I’ll come away the husk of a woman, worn down by his disapproval. My own fault for wanting anything from him in the first place, really. 

Teeth gritted together, I shake my head, ready to pull a muscle in my damn neck. “Didn’t mean anythin’ by it. Sorry.” 

No, I’m not. I ought to slap him, and then run away, back home, or back to my house, or to a brand new city. Or he could finally cuss me out, save me the wondering. Then, I could lick my wounds and they would finally stop reopening. 

I scratch at my scalp. 

Rust eyes my hand like he’d like to rip the bad habit away from my body. For a moment, I think he will—the tendons in his hand flex and writhe under the skin—but, no, he only brushes a thumb against the valley between his nose and cheek, and he holds his tongue for once. 

“Wasn’t offended,” he corrects firmly. “I’ll take you home.”  

Flashing with annoyance, my eyes dart up viciously to penalise him. “And what?” I hiss. 

He sits back, doesn’t answer the question.  

Jaw clenched, I wait to see if he’ll look away, but he doesn’t. 

My irritation soon fizzles through, condenses to a low, simmering understanding, steadily tended to by the intensity of his steadfast gaze. 

Oh. 

My eyes soften. 

Oh – I have him, don’t I?

He shows no signs of the tentativeness he had displayed last time—if Rust could ever be tentative. His eyes do not shift and scuttle around me; they meet mine, challenging my comfort. He does not tuck himself into a corner; he remains leaned over the table, just like that. How could I have known? 

I stare back, brow pinched in confusion. 

In the heat of last August, I’d peeled away from him knowing exactly how I’d convinced him he wanted me. Maybe I was evil for it – a good person wouldn’t use somebody’s faults against them, would they? And maybe that’s what it was: selfish. If he hates me, he’d be right to. 

Which is why I’m so puzzled that he doesn’t. Or rather, indifference was the baseline. Hell. And this? I don’t know. 

Swelling dangerously with the well-loved memory of his delirious mouthings over my skin, I grow rigid.

My temples throb and ache, the threat of tears still very real.

“Mind?” he asks – I watch, wide-eyed, as he pulls a pack of Camels from his pocket. 

Trembling slightly, I shake my head, though saliva is already pooling over the pit of my tongue, warm and soft, just like my desire. Luckily, he’s too preoccupied with his lighter to see it: how my body ripples at the scrape of his voice. 

The promise of nicotine dances like a phantom in the mouth, just from watching him place a cigarette between his lips. When he flicks open his Zippo, the sharp, shuddering candle of it taunts me, and I finally understand what they say about moths and flames.

I watch him take a long drag.

That all-consuming hunger lurches up in me again, and I swallow the warm spit that’s steadily been filling my mouth. 

Oh, Christ. This can’t be real. Desire shouldn’t be this bloody. Desire shouldn’t be the thing with teeth and claws, the ugly thing that tips into violence. Or obsession. With how often my thoughts return to us in the summer, I’ve wondered obsession as a possibility. The difference between myself and those who commit crimes of passion is control. Rust is dangerous for me. What is he thinking? What’s in his head? I ache to pry it open and explore, to swim close to him, for my skin to melt into his, to consume and be consumed. Not a moment’s peace, and that’s what I’m chasing, isn’t it? Peace and quiet?

I don’t have to say anything – he can read it all, mulling over the fine changes in my expression, the softening of my body, some pre-emptive instinct. Will he touch me tonight? 

With a cautious hand, ready to jolt back if met with teeth, I reach out to him and remove the cigarette from his pinched fingers—which he allows—then bringing it to my mouth, taking a drag myself, nice and slow, good and deep, a sigh, like home.

He watches me.  

“Don’t say anything.”  

And he doesn’t. He just watches, watches, watches as I take another drag. He shivers, and I feel it reverberate through my bones.

“What are you thinkin’ about?” I ask him softly, pressing down a quivering breath, smoking his cigarette. I’ve never mustered the courage to ask before.  

For once, though, I really don’t have to: I know exactly where his head is. Where else? He’s back in that room, infected by the drowse and drunken fever of August, with me, living it again. Where I’d coaxed him into the temptation, wicked as the snake in the garden. He should’ve pushed me to leave with Johansson and Marty – of course, I would’ve stayed. I’m a rotten thing, and my heart is a bloodhound. He’s the better of the two of us. I’ll take whatever of him I can get – anything. 

He meets my eyes directly, so hopeless, so raw. Is he asking? He shouldn’t be. 

But what will he have me do? I’m at his disposal, really.

“And?” I ask, throat dry. 

When he moves to speak, the words that leave him are low and slow: “You did something to me,” he manages. 

I scoff. 

“S’that a good or bad thing?” I ask.

Rust huffs like what I said was funny. More likely, though, it’s the way my eyes are so wide, the way my hand is pressed between my thighs, that amuses him. “Can’t decide.”

My mouth trembles as my eyes scrape over his neck, which I know, I remember, to be hot and alive, thick with it over the pulse. I was so high off of it: his warmth, his weight, his press. 

I indulge in one last drag, using the last scraps of my energy to conjure the pungent stench of rotting flesh in the cruel sunshine, the pick of eager flies and their cacophonous buzzing, the churn of vomit in the stomach. I look at Rust and try to do the same: the months of silence, his back decidedly turned to me, him accepting my case, and his arrogance and his apathy and his severity. He is a harrowing connection that I should rather not have made.

The technique doesn’t work. I don’t know why I thought, even for a minute, that this time would be different from the last. 

With him staring calmly at me, like I deserve it—the trap, the squirming sensation over my spine, the hopeless, unavoidable heat that claims my face—it’s just another arrow pointing to the same conclusion. Maybe we should just let August have its way with us again. Twin plagues.

Trembling ever so slightly, blood so warm, so thick, I flick ashes out into the tray between us. 

“I should put this out,” I mumble, though my hand yearns to return it to my mouth. 

“’s my cigarette,” Rust mutters.

“Sorry.” I offer my hand to him. “Want it back?”

I know what I must look like to him, pupils dark, the size of the moon, like a plate. Here, in the darkest part of the dark bar, I open myself to him, warm, molten, inviting. And God, this must be a dream—because I know what he wants, and I know that he’ll accept me. How we got here doesn’t matter anymore. Maybe he’s thought about it for some time, and only now, in a moment of stillness with him, have I even noticed. Too caught up in the fine details of a painting to think of the artist’s intention, which is always more important.

Silent, stare inexorable, he accepts the cigarette, only touching my fingers quick, like I’d burn him. Maybe I will. Serves him right: he was always going to haunt me either way. I ought to get mine while I still can.

The hunger laps at me.

I want to coax him open-wide. I want to peel away his demeanour and wrap myself close to him. Body heat is the best way to keep warm, isn’t it? I’m sure I read about that somewhere. It’s still fresh in my mind, like a cut. I can’t manage a day without playing it over at least once. I want it again: I want to breathe him in and let him sit in my chest and seep into every cell and let him be part of me that way, at least until the next breath.

He can see it in my eyes: the freneticism of my thoughts, racing like a storm, desires like bullets like rain.

“You ever think about what you want?” I try asking him, voice strained tight over my heart in my throat. 

“People only ever think about what they want,” he parries, batting away any trace of diffidence. He secures his cigarette between his lips, shifting. “Let’s leave.”

At his first movement, I slide out of the booth. 

Sometime during our conversation, the place emptied out. It must have been around when I finished Marty’s leftover beer that the weight of the locals’ beady stares—which had already faded to the back of my mind, in the same way that a dark alleyway can still make you uneasy though you know nothing would ever happen to you there—finally left me. There are no witnesses left to see me following after Rust like a dog, my body thrumming like the lone bug zapper out on the porch, which cracks! just as we exit. 

The broken clock reads three o’clock when we leave, but I know that, really, it’s only midnight.

Fortunately, the heat has cracked for once, like old, beat-up, splitting leather. Stepping out onto that night path, the breeze is warm and fragrant, dancing over my cheeks, playing gently with the loose threads of my hair. It’s a clear, blue, never-ending night – the dirt road which accompanies us is a long, winding, indigo river that spills unseen over the far, far horizon. The neighbouring fields—one a rolling stretch of grass; the other of wheat—are alive in the wind, flung one way on exhale, drawn the other upon inhale. 

Thank God for the noise of it: their rustling whispers, in a language we can’t understand; the soft whistle of a passing gust of air; the firm, crisp crunch of dry mud and dust under my boots. Thank God for the sway of things: the cradle of humidity; the press of my arm to Rust’s, which he permits only for a second, with his face angled away. Then, he slows, coming to walk just behind me, still parallel.

Flickering strands of long-grass brush my knuckles – I grab onto one, pull the seeds off it in an easy swipe, and scatter them as we go, one by one. 

Briefly, I glance over my shoulder. Sure enough, his eyes are fixed on me, on my every movement, like he’s making sure I’m actually real. The corner of my mouth twitches up into a smile. 

Rust’s cigarette flares between his lips. 

I scratch gently at my wrist, reminded of the flowing of my blood just beneath the skin, hot and thick.

You get nowhere in life just hoping things will fall into your lap like this—and, anyway, what good is getting something that you didn’t work for? Where’s the gratification? It’s artificial, feeble as plastic. Christ, it was even a struggle to get my head around Johansson and his propensity to dole out favours. I understood a write-up – won’t pretend I’m above ass-kissing – but tidying up the office kitchen and keeping quiet about it? I thought it was stupid: letting people reap the rewards of your own effort, and for what?

So, the buzz of earning Rust’s touch that first time?—shit, nothing compared. No drug, no high; nothing. I really thought I did something. Satisfied some secret ambition I didn’t know I held. To have him like that. To be able to replay that night, swallow it like a pill. To look at him and know what was underneath his clothes and his skin, and perhaps further inside, too. Shit, I took so much from him, but the mental gymnastics of the effort justified it, right? And, now, he’s going to give it all up again. Wants it, even.

Haven’t I played this out a thousand times in my head? I’ve seen the future—a number of futures—where I’m able to argue for his affection. Fight for your love – that’s what my daddy used to tell me whenever he was feeling sentimental after yelling.

I’ve had endless conversations with him in my head, edited accordingly as time passed, as he changed, as I changed, as the air between us changed. Possible flirtation seemed silly, futile, after a week. Sex appeal would go unnoticed by him – wasn’t like he looked, anyway. Not the type to chase tail. I found myself longing for him to please linger uncomfortably in doorways to rooms I was in, to leave things near me and come and collect them just after I was gone so that, maybe, he’d still feel the warmth of my presence and understand it was only ever warm that way for him. The idea of genuine confession always sprung up during the quiet nights alone together in the bullpen, but I was always able to talk myself out of it when he wouldn’t so much as glance at me after two, three hours.

It must be a million threads of conversation up in my head, which is why I guess it’s so hard to untangle the great knot and retrieve just one, because, now, there are no words that come to mind when it matters. Or maybe it doesn’t matter: I don’t think he needs convincing at all.

“What you so quiet for?” he asks faintly. 

When I look back, he’s stark against the brooding sky like some shadow-man. His outline hums like he’s pulling away into his own silhouette. 

I can’t seem to smile. “Nothin’.” 

He won’t push—at least, not on this—and I’m glad for it. 

Rust’s beat-up semi is all lonely sat in a dip up in the road, waiting for us. Same semi he’d driven me home in from work this one week I was getting my car fixed up, in which a series of slow, mutual interrogations would take place along the light-streaked highway. In the office, you were lucky to drag a full sentence out of Rust, but, alone, it wasn’t so hard to get him to talk at all.

Maybe I had just wanted to be better than him, to learn how he worked, how he was such a good interrogator, and bleed him dry. That was why I couldn’t look away: every choice in his demeanour could help me surpass him.

Even then, I learned to be careful with my looks. I had the feeling he’d morph into something else if I stared long enough, the way the shadow in the corner of your bedroom changes shape when you’re bone-tired. Sometimes, he would. And on the Thursday night of that week, when he had pulled over and thrown up, shaking, into the dark thrush, I hadn’t uttered a word as he climbed back into the driver’s seat. But, as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, I’d stared at him with the filmy eyes of a hungry nocturnal animal.

Then, at least, the curiosity wasn’t a burden. Not like it became when I drove myself home come that morning after.

I could tell it was different the moment I shifted awake, feigning a sleep for just a couple more minutes.

Dressed again and putting on a pot of coffee, his back was to me. I had shuffled up, pulled on my clothes, and I knew the stupor of the night had faded. So, really, when I stepped past him and he closed the door behind me without a word, I shouldn’t have been upset. 

When I reach the pick-up first, I twist to look at him. 

Rust has slowed to finish his cigarette at a safe distance, eyeing me warily.

He crushes the stub into the dirt, then glancing out into the long night. 

“Straight home?” he asks. 

I shake my head, and the rigid line of him gives just a little. It’s so dangerous to be seduced by your own influence, but the realisation that I’ve had any at all is fuel enough to the plea in my wide eyes.

Rust advances haltingly. If I move, I’m sure he’ll flinch and bolt. So, I test the theory: better to weed out what’s already decayed.

I angle myself towards him, open like a door. He tosses his jacket into the bed of his pickup, stepping through.

The heat seeps back between us, slow and thick like a flood of molasses, and it becomes very clear, suddenly, that we never should’ve tried to barricade ourselves. Pretty sure Rust’s known this a while, anyways: he’s the one who leans in for me, kisses me slow.

This time, his hands are quick to curl around my body, where the tension in that tight cord all down his spine has snapped. Or just eased up on him—but that’s unlikely. And unimportant. With his firm touch petting up my spine, climbing each rung, it’s all unimportant.

A pulse of arousal strikes me like an electric current as Rust pulls the blouse out of my skirt, his face close to me.

His tongue pushes into my mouth again, and I hum over the husk of nicotine. It’s a haze in the brain, one I’ve missed. My skin tingles and my thoughts warp in this leer, like a nic rush, only I haven’t had one of those in years and years.

I can’t exactly call what I’m feeling satisfaction. There’s no win to this. My teeth sunk into him so sweet last time, and the thrill of getting him, of tripping him up with his own desire, was almost as good as the actual feeling of him inside me. But it’s different now: so obvious, it’s funny. Though my first instinct is to doubt and pry apart, maybe want is the most trustworthy thing a person can feel. It’s animal and instinctive, and it’s inevitable, so it’s always true. Ugly, sometimes, but always there. There’s no room to question his want, because I can taste it on his tongue, I can feel it pressing over my stomach, I can hear it in the way he hums at the sear of my skin. 

It must be a favour to me: the blatancy of it all. For however direct he may be, I’ve always felt that Rust has these plans within plans. Nothing is as it is on the surface: you have to dig to get to the good stuff. It’s disorienting, having it all laid out for me. And I’ll take anything he gives me.

I don’t want to leave any room for doubt in his mind either. 

So, I clutch at him hungrily, so drunk on his warmth, and thump my back against the door he opens for me to close it again.

I don’t ask, and I’m glad that he doesn’t make me, only presses my body flush against the cool surface of his side-door, until the only part of me free to move are the fingers that curl over his arms, as if they could sink through the fabric and then the flesh underneath. There’s only dogs and ghosts out at this hour, anyway; eyes in the long-grass. No-one but them and him to see my hips jerk against the precise hand under my skirt. 

He hadn’t looked at me this much before. Even when my eyes go glassy and I have to blink hard to try and regain my smarts, to not finish too quickly, I know he’s staring at me like a scientist.

When the next needy noise is drawn from me, I bury my face into his neck to save myself the embarrassment of being seen like this, even though it’s pointless. His fingers are dragging aside the damp fabric of my underwear anyway, sliding through my silky desire. When his knee shoves between my legs to keep apart, he changes the pressure of his hand, circles tightly over where shame does not apply. Restraint is a man-made practice that never prevails over biology. I should know this. Still, though, my face is hot as I whine into his shoulder. 

Rust doesn’t ask me to look at him, not yet, and I’m so grateful for it. I bite into the meat of him at the push of one finger, then keen all the way to my toes at the hook of two, rocking against his palm thoughtlessly as he fucks the both of them in deep.

The clink of his belt buckle barely processes through the smoke of sticky eyes and open mouths and the press of his body. But the absence of his hand from my hip, of it working between us?—that’s what ushers normal sensation back into me. I recover from the limp slump against him, but not quickly enough to understand or resist him guiding my hand to wrap around his swollen cock, coated with spit. 

He grunts as he tightens my grip around him, coaxes my hand how he wants it. In the back of my mind, though, of course I remember. Only, his fingers are so far inside that my head is spinning, teetering on the precipice of another thought I know I’ll lose, one that dissolves at the slight scrape of nail, one that would never matter as much as the soft then firm press of him against my cervix. My eyes water, and there licking at me is only a faint, abstract impression of embarrassment when Rust grips over my jaw, calloused heel of his palm heavy on my neck, and hauls me away from the hiding spaces of his body’s crevices.

“What, you fuckin’ shy now? You wanted it, so look,” he mumbles, digging his fingers into the soft parts of my face a little more, like there’s some hidden button beneath the surface that can make my droopy eyes fly back open. There must be because, somehow, it works. He angles my face by the scruff of my neck.

I can only stand to look between us for a few jumpy heartbeats before my eyes settle on the comfort of his even face, which he seems to accept readily, breath hitching. He does not blink. The intensity of his observations hounds me, lights me up like points on a star, even when my vision smears and melts at the dizzying curl of his fingers. Lucky for my weak knees he’s got his hand over the nape of my neck, his thighs pinning my own. I shake against him, some pathetic thing, and tremble when he keeps massaging there deep inside.

“Don’t go dumb on me, girl,” Rust scolds quietly when my hand loosens around him, his own having to leave the heat of my neck and come down to correct the pressure, the pull. My head lolls without the support of his hand. “Ain’t gon’ say nothin’?” 

Words spill uselessly into a pool before me, slipping through my fingers. My pulse slams in my throat, lower, too, against his touch, each beat meeting him as he works me over again. 

What I manage is a choked noise, all clogged up inside. I have little to do with it: just a body, a heartbeat and a compulsion to be near, nearer, nearest to him. Half a mind that’s lagging worse than the computers at work, that realises far too late that the body is curling into itself again, so tight, so wet, and fuck, fuck. 

He removes his fingers, that slow drag, and tells me to turn. When I don’t—completely without, dull and aching—Rust twists and shoves me against the window, which goes cloudy at the breathy moan pushed up from my slack stomach. 

Slow-like, a cold hand snakes under my shirt, smooths up my burning spine, all the way up, all the way down, hooking in the waistband of my skirt, knuckles burrowing into the soft dimples in my back. My whole body shivers as he slides his palm over the back of my neck—a comfort for which I’m desperate to become familiar—and squeezes gently. If I keep my eyes open, all I can see of him is that black silhouette in the window, a reflection. A homogenous mass, humming at the edges, devoid of the detail of things: can’t see the way he drags his thumb up along the line of my spine, traces where it meets the skull; nor the way he steps forward, teases the air out of my lungs, enjoys it, tugs my hips closer to him by the gusset of the underwear webbed between my thighs; nor the way the cool metal buckle presses red lines into flesh. 

The sight of Rust doesn’t matter so much as the understanding that it’s him behind me, that it’s his truck my cheek is being pressed into, that it’s his—fuck—that it’s him sliding through the heat of me, so close. The tip notches and makes it all the easier for my eyes to flutter shut. It helps with the vertigo that follows the rough push of him inside. 

My fingers grasp for the little ridges in the door. Best place for them ends up to be under my mouth, though, to keep my head on my shoulders, to muffle the noises I was sure only animals made. My knee jerks sharply against the truck at the first white-hot pulse of pleasure – I hiss, smearing the drool at the edge of my mouth with the back of my hand, so glad he isn’t in clear enough line of sight to chastise me with his tendency to notice and never forget. 

But he knows—he must fucking know by now—because the heavy hand clasped over my scruff curls around my face, and Rust forces two fingers into my parted mouth, presses over my soft tongue. 

He pulls himself out just to feel the total length of me taking him again, so painfully slow. Feel the initial resistance, the spongy give, the sweet slip, the drag, all of it. So full, I feel sick with it. Overindulgence. Knocks me weak, doesn’t mind it when I bite down on his fingers to take most of the weight out of my sob. What I take from him, he takes from me—we’re even that way—so Rust, already with his nose flirting with the crook of my sweaty neck, nips over my erratic pulse, pushes his tongue over where I’m sure he can see the skin throbbing with the violence of it. Vampire. He could draw blood and I wouldn’t mind: he knows I need bloodletting. 

So fucking dumb to think for a second it could be sated by just one time. I needed it again before it even ended – I knew it in the split second he touched me. The grief of closure was as adamant as a shadow. Stupid. He must think it, too, because, shit, the snap of his hips is mean. Punishment: you should’ve known. 

“We ought’a be in your bed. I should be fuckin’ you through your bed,” he complains gruffly, his mouth dragging over hinge of my jaw.

I moan around the fingers in my mouth, which hook together with his thumb to pinch the fleshy inside of my cheek, challenging my lost focus. No matter. There’s nothing we can do now. 

The seize of my body doesn’t take him by surprise at all, not that I expected it to, and the words that follow are easy, like he’s been thinkin’ of them as loud and clear as day as it would be to speak ‘em: “Shit, that feels good, sweet girl, huh? Tha’s it, just take it. That’s good.” And he lets the warmth gush out before stuffing it back in. “You’ll take one more.”

I stare at the endless field to the side of us, melted over the curve of his door, shivering despite the humidity that always finds you around here. I choke more on my own tongue than his fingers as Rust fucks me slow, like I deserve it.

“Need it s’bad, huh?” he drawls into the shell of my ear. “Why you gone all quiet on me, baby?—thought y’wanted it.” 

He drags his fingers out of my mouth, daring me to speak. He slides his hand between my stomach and the side-door, gliding down between the thighs, smearing my dripping arousal over the skin. 

My toes curl tight again as he pushes deeper than before, sits there like he knows my mind will do the rest of the work. The grate of his zipper as he shifts draws a mangled sound from the pit of me, not hidden by the brace of my trembling arm. 

He zeros in on my clit, all sticky, and circles tight. I shudder. 

“Give in,” he says to me in a voice so low and soft that it barely reaches me above the high frequency splitting through my skull. He rolls that bright pearl between his finger and thumb. “You feel it?” 

Mindless and eyes all milky, I still manage a nod, grateful for the mean pin of his knees against my shaking thighs. 

He hums. “So give in.” 

Fuck, this is absurd. The mind can just about string two and two together when Rust lends a forearm beside my head for me to rest on, to grip over: so he’s pictured this, wanted this, for how long? I knew the stagnancy was a front, swallowed something else, but—my mouth goes wet and slack over his forearm at the languid roll of his hips—but it wasn’t realistic to imagine it was this. Rust struck me as someone incapable of reconciling himself with his wants. Shame over acceptance because he thinks it’s atonement. Should’ve known better than to think Rust believed in redemption. 

The silhouette in the window is looking over the empty road, scanning for cars that won’t ever come—but his hand is warm under the tent of my shirt, easing over my waist, slow, as everything clamps up, trembling, again. Body and a heartbeat, he tugs my hips back to him, again and again, until he’s a hot, shuddering line all through me, face in my neck, crushing the fight out of my lungs. 

His nose presses over my cheek, and his breath is coarse there, too, panting, when he lifts his heavy head. My throat goes so loose and open, greedily drinking in the sweet-sticky scent of him. 

“C’mon, now,” he says to me once he’s pulled my underwear back up, dragging the cool, damp gusset against the mess of me for good measure. He pinches my hip, then over my thigh, like that might get me to quit shuddering. “Time to go.” 

When I don’t move, he smooths a hand gently over my hair. Tucks a loose chunk of it back into the mess of my braid before deciding it’s best if he lets it loose completely. 

Rust winds down the window as he holds open the door for me to clamber onto the bench.

“Y’can sleep ‘f you want,” he mumbles once he’s got me curled up on the seat, leaning through the frame. He tilts his head – the shadows have always hidden his eyes, but I like how the pinch in his brow has melted away at least.

If I had half a mind, I’d use it to shove his face out my goddamn way. Instead, I settle for the narrowing of my eyes and a decided huff. “Won’t.”

Lie. I fall asleep like anything, mellowed by the sweet rush of wind over marshland, the spirit of it weaving inside, and the weight of Rust’s hand tucked in the tight bend of my knee.

[quirinah]

ummmmmmm guys this dungeons looking a little dark here..........................ummmm..... hello??? guys??

[duketectivecomics]

‘Jason was Duke’s robin’ ‘tim was dukes robin’ YOURE ALL FOOLS

Steph as dukes most formative robin is RIGHT THERE

[ratatatastic]

"Is [Barkov] a normal dude? Meaning like—is he just like, you're having a cheeseburger some day and he's like 'Oh, no, no, no! I need this, I need the superfoods,' like is he kind-of... is he a normal guy?" "'Is that Wagyu or no?'" "'I need, you know, the best of the best,' Like how is he?" "He's undercover really funny, especially when you get to know him. I don't think he said much for the first 3 to 5 years. But I always joke with him I've never been invited to his house and we've played together for 10 years." "Dude, Brandon Montour said the same thing! We had him on last year! He's like, 'Dude, he's never had us over! We're always like—' But he doesn't live by all you guys, right? He kind-of lives a little further out?" "Yeah, he lives 20-30 minutes away in Boca [Raton.] But, yeah, no I—Listen, it's just his personality. It's who he is, and we respect him for it. Like I said, he's a really funny guy when you get to know him, and sometimes he's got those one-liners. And, you know, he's one of those perfect humans, right? You know, one of the guys we all strive to be, and we'll all come short forever, but—yeah, he's a good person."

The Cam & Strick Podcast | 7.30.24 (x)

i hope this bit never ends if not for the fact that each time ekky has to say it he has to add another year to it which adds to the comedy of it all

"Hey, who's got the best setup on your team with the Panthers? When all the boys get together, 'We're going to your crib. We're gettin' on the jet skis,' whatever. Who's got the best setup?" "Yeah, um—Aaron [Ekblad]'s probably...I mean, Aaron's been there the longest. Hopefully, Barkov hears this! He's been there the longest, but he never invites the boys over to his house!" "Oh~ Barky!" "Is he cheap?" "I'm gonna call Barky out right now, and see if he can invite the whole team over next year..." "Is he cheap? Is he cheap? What is it?" "Will he do it?" "Oh, he's up in 9 East—obviously, like quiet, unbelievable guy, but he's the only up in Boca [Raton.] So I don't know if anybody wants to even drive up to Boca..." "Oh, Fancyland Zone..." "What do you mean? How far is that away from where you are? Like, and everybody else?" "Yeah, we're all in Ft. Lauderdale, Las Olas—within probably... you know some families are in Parkland by the arena, but we're all within probably 10 minutes away and he's up 30, 40 minutes away so."

The Cam & Strick Podcast | 7.25.23 (x)

the boys ribbing sasha for living so far away and never inviting them to his house but still going btw hes amazing and incredible and perfect and sososo good we say this to tease him but like this is just who he is as a person and we accept that so please dont misconstrue this into something its not this is a joke and we dont take it to heart

and on that topic its really a shame that NA media doesnt know how fucking funny and how absolutely unserious he can be. I understand the notion of diligent no-nonsense captain is a prevalent idea (which he is lets make that clear he takes hockey so seriously) but especially since this season hes said hes cut down on weight so he could skate faster (and the results show) so i understand where the questions are coming from knowing the track record but also

we've won a cup and hes ramped it up its fantastic and this is one of my favourite examples of it of how quippy he can be

happy to talk about my cappy!!! happy to tease my cappy!!!

"and you know hes one of those perfect humans right? you know one of the guys we all strive to be, and we'll all come short forever but yeah he's a good person" do you also cry about how terribly fond and sincere ekky gets about sasha

[gomzdrawfr]

Bam bing bong, summary of my doodles in 2024

[ironicsoap]

see you people at ANW i mostly got her done in time 😏

[slurpyboii]

Drew my bbg <3

[johannesbellerophon]

continued under cut ↓

[bobacupcake]

i advocate for tech art a lot when people ask about it since i do think as big a learning curve it can have there's ways of making it approachable but i do feel like it would be irresponsible to not mention that the videogame industry right now is kind of uh, Not Having A Great Time. there have been a lot of layoffs with no sign of stopping, so theres a lot of people looking for work and not a ton of open positions. and publishers are being a lottt more stingy about giving money to indiegames right now too. it is Rough Out There, and hopefully, it will get better over time, but, just setting the tone for how things are rn